diff options
| author | nfenwick <nfenwick@pglaf.org> | 2025-02-06 20:38:57 -0800 |
|---|---|---|
| committer | nfenwick <nfenwick@pglaf.org> | 2025-02-06 20:38:57 -0800 |
| commit | 15a1759fbc91f3ec0aef030e25e6546a2f078dd9 (patch) | |
| tree | 55c3327e47b5dbdb060ea59f079b7ea801e57fbb | |
| parent | c7c899c67f1d079dd8645a3a038347cc99f64dfc (diff) | |
| -rw-r--r-- | .gitattributes | 4 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | LICENSE.txt | 11 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | README.md | 2 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/53993-0.txt | 12941 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/53993-0.zip | bin | 261940 -> 0 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/53993-h.zip | bin | 276248 -> 0 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/53993-h/53993-h.htm | 15446 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/old/53993-h.htm.2018-08-20 | 15445 |
8 files changed, 17 insertions, 43832 deletions
diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..51e8668 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #53993 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/53993) diff --git a/old/53993-0.txt b/old/53993-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 0c9947c..0000000 --- a/old/53993-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,12941 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of At The Gate Of Samaria, by William J. Locke - -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: At The Gate Of Samaria - -Author: William J. Locke - -Release Date: January 18, 2017 [EBook #53993] -Last Updated: March 12, 2018 - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA *** - - - - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by the Internet Archive - - - - - - - - -AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA - -By William J. Locke - -London - -William Heinemann - -1895 - -TO ONE WHOSE WORK IT IS AS MUCH AS MINE - -I INSCRIBE THIS BOOK. - -AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. - - - - -CHAPTER I. - -It was a severe room, scrupulously neat. Along one side ran a bookcase, -with beaded glass doors, containing, as one might see by peering through -the spaces, the collected, unread literature of two stern generations. -A few old prints, placed in bad lights, hung on the walls. In the centre -of the room was a leather-covered library table, with writing materials -arranged in painful precision. A couch was lined along one wall, in the -draught of the door. On either side of the fireplace were ranged two -stiff leather armchairs. - -In one of these chairs sat an old man, in the other a faded woman just -verging upon middle age. The old man was looking at a picture which he -supported on his knees-a narrow, oblong strip of canvas nailed on to -a rough wooden frame. The woman eyed him with some interest, as if -awaiting a decision. - -They were father and daughter, and bore a strange family resemblance -to each other. Both faces were pale, their foreheads high and narrow, -marked by faint horizontal lines, their eyes gray and cold, their upper -lips long and thin, setting tightly, without mobility, upon the lower. -The only essential point of difference was that the father's chin was -weakly pointed, the daughter's squarer and harder. Both faces gave one -the impression of negativeness, joylessness, seeming to lack the power -of strong emotive expression. One can see such, minus the refinement -of gentle birth and social amenities, in the pews of obscure dissenting -chapels, testifying that they have been led thither not by strong -convictions, but by the force of mild circumstance. - -Indeed, as is the case with hundreds of our upper middle-class families, -the Davenants had descended from a fierce old Puritan stock, and though -the reality of their Puritanism had gradually lost itself in the current -of more respectable orthodoxy, its shadow hung over them still. The -vigorous enthusiasm that spurred the Puritan on to lofty action -was gone; the vague dread of sin that kept him in moral and mental -inactivity alone remained. Perhaps it is this survival amongst us of -the negative element of Puritanism that produces in England the curious -anomaly of education without enlightenment. It has dulled our perception -of life as an art, whose “great incidents,” as Fielding finely says, -“are no more to be considered as mere accidents than the several -members of a fine statue or a noble poem.” It has caused us to live in -a perpetual twilight in which the possibilities of existence loom -fantastic and indistinct. The Davenants were gentlefolk, holding a good -position in the small country town of Durdleham; they visited among -the county families, and, on ordinary, conventional grounds, considered -themselves to belong to the cultured classes. They were the curious yet -familiar product of the old-fashioned, high-church Toryism impregnated -with the Puritan taint. - -The light was fading through the French window behind the old man's -chair. He laid down the canvas on his lap and looked in a puzzled way at -the fire. Then he raised it nearer to his eyes for further examination. - -“This is really very dreadful,” he said at last, looking at his -daughter. - -“Something will have to be done soon,” replied the latter. - -“It is so horribly vulgar, Grace,” said the old man; “look at that boy's -nose--and that drunken man--his face is a nightmare of evil. I really -must begin to talk seriously to Clytie.” - -Mrs. Blather smiled somewhat pityingly. Since the earliest days of her -long widowhood she had undertaken the charge of her father's house and -the care of her two younger sisters, Janet and Clytie. Her familiarity, -therefore, with the seamy side of Clytie's nature had been of long -duration. - -“You might as well talk to that fender, papa,” she said. “Clytie has -got it into her head that she is going to be an artist, and no amount of -talking will get it out.” - -“It's all through her visiting those friends of hers, the Farquharsons. -They are not nice people for her to know. I shall not let her go there -again.” - -“If she goes on like this there is no knowing what will happen.” - -“Where did the child get these repulsive and ungirlish notions from?” - the old man asked querulously. - -The conception of the picture was not that of a young girl, and though -the execution was crude and untrained, there was a bold cruelty of touch -that saved it from being amateurish. The canvas was divided into two -panels. On the one was painted a tiny bully of a boy with his arm -rounded across his throat, about to strike a weakly, poverty-stricken -little girl. They were children of the poorest classes, the boy -realistically, offensively dirty--the _petit morveux_ in its absolute -sense. Behind them was the open doorway of a red-brick, jerry-built -cottage, showing a strip of torn and dirty matting along the passage -that lost itself in the gloom beyond. On the other panel was the corner -of a public house in a low slum, the window lights and a gas-lamp -throwing a lurid glare upon wet pavement and the figures of a woman -and a drunken man. The faces were those of the children in the first -picture, and the eternal tragedy was repeating itself. The man's face -was loathsome in its sodden ferocity; the woman, with a child in her -arms, was reeling from the blow. The evident haste in which the panels -had been painted, the glaring, unsoftened colouring, heightened as if by -impressionist design the coarse realism of the effect. Above was written -the legend, “_La joie de vivre_” and in the left-hand bottom corner, -“_Clytie Davenant pinxit_.” - -“She has certainly grown much worse of late,” sighed Mrs. Blather, -holding out her thin, short hand to shield her face from the fire. - -There was a pause of some moments. Mr. Davenant ceased nursing the -picture and stood it on the floor. - -“Have you quite made up your mind, papa,” said Mrs. Blather at length, -“not to let Clytie go to the Slade School in London?” - -“It is out of the question,” replied the old man. - -“I don't think so, papa. It would perhaps do her good. A year or so's -hard work would take all these silly ideas out of her.” - -“I question it,” said Mr. Davenant. “They are not silly ideas. They are -debased, degraded ideas.” - -“My dear papa, they are only fads. All young girls have them. Look how -crazy Janet was to join the cookery classes. We let her join, and now -she hates the sight of a pie-dish. With Clytie it is quite the same, -only she wants to daub.” - -“Well, let her daub in a decent way at home,” replied the old man -testily. - -Mrs. Blather shrugged her lean shoulders. - -“We have tried that and it hasn't succeeded, apparently,” she said -drily. “You seldom come in her way; you don't know how unpleasant things -are for Janet and myself. What do you think she had the impertinence -to tell me this morning? She said that we were not real people. We -were machines or abstractions based, I think she said, on a formula, -or something of that sort. She was pining to live amongst living human -beings. And then she is so rude to visitors. What do you think she said -to the vicar, who came, at Janet's request, to talk to her about her -shameful neglect of her religious duties? She said, if he was a pillar -of the Church, she saw no reason why she should be a seat-cushion.” - -“Tut, tut,” said the old man angrily. He was vicar's churchwarden, and a -power in the parish. - -“And then,” continued Mrs. Blather, “when I scolded her for her -rudeness, she said that if she had been a man she would have sworn at -him for his impertinence. Really people will soon be afraid of coming to -the house.” - -“They will indeed,” said Mr. Davenant. - -Like a wise woman, Mrs. Blather did not press her point. She knew she -had thoroughly alarmed her father and had shown him but one way out of -the difficulty. His taking it, if left to himself, was only a question -of time. She rang the bell for the servant to come and light Mr. -Davenant's gas, and then she left him to his reflections. - -Mr. Davenant possessed some landed property, which he had occupied his -life in mismanaging. Fortunately for him, his wife had brought him a -small fortune which sufficed to keep up a position, modest when compared -with that of the Davenants of former days, but still high enough to -satisfy the social aspirations of his family. He had lived a colourless -life, severe and respectable. Even his university days had passed in -a dull uniformity, leaving no glamour behind them. He had walked -honourably and blindly in the paths his parents had indicated, and, now -that he was nearing the end of the journey, thanked God for having given -him the grace not to err from them. He had married when still fairly -young, and he had loved his wife in a gentlemanly, passionless way. She, -poor thing, had filled up so small a space in life that she had faded -out of it almost unnoticed--even by himself. He had no storms of joy or -sorrow to look back upon. His thoughts, as he brooded over the fireside, -generally wandered back to trifling incidents: ancient municipal -interests, the mortgages on his estate, the boundary quarrels with the -old earl, his neighbour. - -But lately he had been thinking anxiously over his daughter Clytie. -She had suddenly developed out of a naughty, rebellious child into a -problem. He assumed as a matter of course that he bore her the ordinary -well-regulated parental affection, but in his heart of hearts he never -really loved her. Until lately it had not occurred to him to think -of her as anything but a child of his with a singularly unfortunate -disposition which time would modify. But time, on the contrary, was -accentuating it, and he realised at last that Clytie had a distinct -individuality. His philosophy had left many things in heaven and earth -undreamed of. He was mystified, puzzled. How could he and his delicate -wife have brought this bright-haired, full-blooded, impulsive creature -into existence? Her sisters were gentle, quiet women, possessing the -virtues inculcated in his conception of life. Clytie seemed to possess -none of them. The peasant woman in the legend could not have wondered -more over her changeling. How could a daughter of his and a sister -of Janet's scoff at sacred things, defy social rules, and have an -imagination that ran riot in scenes of drunkenness and outcast life? - -Physiology might grant a solution to the old man's problem in the law -of the alternation of heredity. His father's youngest brother had been a -family black sheep, and being the only one of the generation who had led -an eventful career, was naturally never mentioned by his relations, and -the record of his life perished with him. But it is possible that the -positive enthusiastic principle of Clytie's Puritan descent, reasserting -itself once in every other generation, to the horror of the negative -principle that otherwise ran through the race continuously, came out in -her with all its strength and vigour. It brought her eager, panting up -to the brink of our surging nineteenth century life, imperiously bidding -her plunge in and take her part in the tumult. - -She was now nineteen, an age when girls try to realise themselves. -She discovered that she was a greater problem to herself than to her -sisters. They simply looked upon her as odd, eccentric, unpleasant -to live with, and if she had not been their sister would have almost -gathered up their skirts around them as they passed her by. But she was -conscious of a craving within her that did not proceed from mere wilful -caprice. In her earlier girlhood she had thought long and humbly over -her shortcomings. Why could she not be as contented and dutiful as -Janet? Why could not the interests that satisfied her sisters' life -satisfy hers? Often and often an impulse of scorn and ridicule at the -littleness of Durdleham would overmaster her, and then would follow a -passionate fit of remorse and repentance, received with coldness -and ruffled dignity on her sisters' part, that would send her back -humiliated and rebellious to her room. From what springs of desire did -all this proceed? Whither were these impulses tending? - -Ever since she could hold a pencil she had been able to draw. She had -received lessons in painting later on, and had covered canvas after -canvas with the graceful futilities the Durdleham art teacher suggested. -He was a landscape painter, and Clytie had little or no feeling for -landscape. Bright colour, vivid contrast, sharp tone, attracted her, but -the quiet grays and faint blues of our English scenery came out dull and -mechanical when she tried to paint them. At last she gave up her lessons -in despair, much to the wonderment of Janet, who improved greatly under -instruction, and turned out neat, complacent little water-colours which -she sold at bazaars or distributed among her friends. For months Clytie -never touched a brush. Art of this sort revolted her. It was soulless, -futile. But by degrees, as the breach between herself and her -sisters widened, her power of painting became a source of ineffable -consolation--a means of self-commune. She could give external expression -to the voices that haunted her. She read books with the eagerness -only exhibited by the young girl craving for self-development; and -the pictures they vividly impressed on her young imaginative brain she -transferred to paper or canvas--not lovingly, tenderly, with the pure -artistic delight of gradual creation, but hurriedly, feverishly, longing -to see the thing done, the impression realised in a way in which she -could understand it. When finished, or rather as soon as it had reached -an impressionist stage of artistic completeness, she would feast her -heart upon it for a day or two, and then throw it away, or let it lie -about in a corner disregarded and forgotten. - -Until she was nearly eighteen Mrs. Blather had scrupulously supervised -her reading, and Clytie, chafing with irritation, had been compelled -either to submit or to smuggle condemned books into the house and read -them surreptitiously. But at last her angry impatience at the impeccable -literature that satisfied her sisters' needs burst its restraints, -and resisted vehemently and finally all censorship on the part of Mrs. -Blather. - -It was not wholesome, this solitary, emotional, imaginative life. -Her health showed signs of giving way. They called in a doctor, who -prescribed rest and a change of air. One of her aunts, who lived in -London, happened to want a companion for a tour on the Continent, and -with many misgivings undertook to take Clytie with her. To the girl the -trip was an endless succession of delight. Impressions followed each -other too fast for her to realise them. The superficial features of -continental life, familiar and commonplace enough to the ordinary -traveller, were new to her. Groups at street corners, strangely attired -soldiers, odd un-English-looking shops, the very waiters hurrying along -through the intricacies of café tables with their fantastically laden -trays, all excited her, filled her with the exhilaration of life and -movement. Her aunt, who had hitherto shared the family opinion of -Clytie, wondered greatly at the transformation. It never occurred to -her that this was the natural Clytie filling her heart at last with the -emotions it had hungered for. - -It was during this time, at a pension in Dresden, that she formed the -acquaintance of the Farquharsons. Miss Davenant discovered that they and -herself had common acquaintances in London, and that she had heard of -Mr. Farquharson as an archæologist of some repute. - -The acquaintance thus formed developed quickly into a pleasant intimacy -of travel. Mrs. Farquharson, a bright, clever woman of forty, was -attracted toward Clytie, who, for her part, found in her new friend -a natural sympathy that touched her heart. So far did their sudden -friendship go, that before they parted Clytie had conditionally accepted -an invitation to visit the archæologist and his wife in Harley Street. - -When Mr. Davenant's permission was asked he at first demurred. He -had the country-bred man's distrust of strangers; but when his sister -vouched for the social position of the Farquharsons he reluctantly -consented. Clytie paid her promised visit the following winter. This -was one of the turning points of her life. For the first time she -found herself in an intellectual, artistic society. It was a glimpse -of another world. At Durdleham young men seldom came to the house. When -they did, they avoided her and talked platitudes to her sisters. At -dinner parties the men remained in the dining-room long after the -ladies had left. They seemed to regard them as somewhat picturesque but -wearisome household adjuncts, whose absence their masculine intellects -unreservedly welcomed; conversation with their partner was a dinner -incident to be got through, like shaving or putting on their white ties -beforehand. And the Durdleham ladies seemed to take this as a matter of -course, and were equally happy to get by themselves and gossip mildly. - -But in Harley Street Clytie found a different order of things. Men and -women seemed to have interests in common and to discuss them on a basis -of perfect equality. She found, too, women speaking authoritatively on -certain subjects and listened to with deference by men. All, young -and old, talked to her as if she were as much absorbed in life as -themselves. No one made her rage with humiliation by tolerating her with -an air of languid or pompous condescension. Even the frivolities and -platitudes of everyday conversation were treated in a way new to her -experience. The talk was keen, incisive, exaggerated. Everyone could -say what he wished without fear of springing some mine of prejudice or -prudery. The atmosphere of the house breathed freedom of thought and -action. She beheld others putting into form her own vague aspirations. -She saw people who wrote, painted, acted, living fully and intensely -every day. Even the professed idlers whom she met seemed to hold their -fingers on the throb of life around them. - -In the streets--she had been but little in London before--she saw things -strange and fascinating--things she had read about, dreamed of, painted, -and yet not understood. She was appalled by her ignorance, the narrow -gauge of her sympathies. What did all this restless life in the great -city mean, its wild cries and passions that struck upon her tightly -strung nerves with a deep, mysterious resonance? - -She filled a sketch-book with the vivid impressions each day brought -her, seeking, as her way was, to realise them by tearing them out of -herself, and giving them objectivity. A royal academician picked up -the book from the corner of a table in the drawing-room, where Clytie, -falling easily into the careless ways of the household, had thrown it. -He was turning over the pages when Clytie perceived him, and rushed -impulsively to him across the room. - -“Oh! you mustn't look at that, Mr. Redgrave. Please don't!” - -He looked up at her amusedly. - -“Why not? It is rather interesting. Why don't you learn to draw?” - -“What would be the good?” she said. “This suits my purpose.” - -The other shrugged his shoulders good-humouredly. - -“That all depends upon what your purpose is,” he replied. “If you want -to become an artist you must train properly for it.” - -Become an artist! The words haunted her all that night. They opened up -before her infinite vistas of possibilities, life in the midst of the -world, the knowledge of its greatnesses and its mysteries. - -In the morning she wrote to him. He invited her to come to his studio -and talk over the matter. She asked Mrs. Farquharson to accompany -her, but her hostess was engaged at the hour in question. Clytie looked -disappointed. The home traditions asserted themselves and prevented her -from thinking it possible to go unchaperoned. Mrs. Farquharson divined -this and laughed in her bright way. - -“Goodness gracious, my dear,” she said, “the man isn't going to eat -you!” - -So Clytie went alone to the studio to learn her destiny. - -“You have great talent,” said the artist, “but it needs cultivation. -After two or three years' severe training you may do something.” - -Then Clytie asked him the question that had been burning her heart for -two days. - -“Do you think I shall ever be able to earn my own living?” - -“You might do that now, if you chose, and had patience,” he replied. - -“How?” - -“By book illustrating.” - -“But I want to become a great artist.” - -“Doubtless. Most of us do. You may if you try hard, and love art for -art's sake. But,” he added, looking at her keenly--“there always is a -'but,' Miss Davenant.” - -“Why do you say that?” she asked quickly. - -“_Parce que_, as the French say--begging your pardon.” - -And that was practically the end of the conversation. - -All this had happened to Clytie three months before Mrs. Blather had -discovered the offending picture in Clytie's attic studio and had -carried it to her father. After this foretaste of life the girl wearied -more than ever of Durdleham with its soullessness, its stagnation, its -prim formulas. A dangerous reaction of spirit set in, leading her -to long spells of hopeless melancholy, alternating with outbursts of -passionate rebellion. She would stand for hours in the recess of her -window gazing over the flat stretch of country, and dreaming strange -dreams of the world that lay beyond the dreary horizon--dreams in which -sharp reminiscence mingled with fancy in vague, weird shapes. But still -she was beginning to realise herself, her needs, her vague cravings. Her -passionate desires now flowed into some definite channel--to escape at -all costs from Durdleham, and consequently to enter that free world of -art the glimpse of which had enchanted her. - -The scenes between her sisters and herself were of daily occurrence. The -narrower, gentler women were shocked at her wilfulnesses, her unladylike -behaviour; she was revolted to her soul at the pettiness and sordidness -of the disputes. Existence at Durdleham had become impossible. - -“For God's sake, Gracie, let me go away from here,” she cried one day, -“or I shall hate you--and I want to love you if I can. Let me go to -London. Auntie will take me in. Oh, my God! I shall go mad in this place -among you.” - -And Mrs. Blather, for the sake of her own tranquillity and the -reputation of the family, made up her mind that Clytie should have her -desire and that Durdleham should know her no more. And in the end Mrs. -Blather gained her father's consent to the arrangement; but the old man -looked upon Clytie almost as a lost soul. - - - - -CHAPTER II. - -When the eager young soul starts out unaided to solve the riddle of -life, it meets with many paradoxes that admit of no solution, and many -sordid simplicities that only unfamiliarity made it regard as enigmas. -Despair in the one instance and disgust in the other not unfrequently -drive it into a hopeless pessimism, in which inaction seems to be the -least pain. Or else the soul bruises itself in vain against the mocking -bars, shrinks in loathing from the disveiled corruption, and flies back -to the unavailing aids that it spurned aforetime. It is cast in the -valley of the shadow of death which only the stout-hearted can pass -through unshaken. - -The multitude stands by the formulas that profess to solve the eternal -problem. It follows them blindly, like the schoolboy who cares not -whether they are right or wrong, or whether the answer is conclusive. So -long as there is an answer of some sort its mind is easy. But there are -earnester inquirers whom these formulas do not satisfy--who see that -they are followed for their own sake, that they never can lead to any -conclusions. The soul, now of a people, now of an individual, rebels; -it rejects the formulas; it starts from the first principles of being, -asserting fiercely its individuality, its inalienable right to seek -after truth according to its own methods. These are prejudiced. All -great action must be. Because a system is rotten and incomplete the -perfervid spirit judges that every factor must be false. It misses the -fact that every great human system contains elemental truths of vital -importance, without which it must fall in its struggle. And at last, -when the forces of endeavour are well nigh spent, it finds the key -of the great enigma inwrapped in a greater one still, in the eternal -tragedy of things. - -It was with this burning protest against formulas that Clytie entered -into the world. They had been presented to her in their smug complacency -as solving all mysteries human and divine. She had seen them worshipped -as fetiches, and her soul revolted against the futile idolatry. She was -too young to examine them carefully, to see that the sacrosanctity of -some was miserably justified by human experience. She spurned them all, -and she plunged into the waters of Life, a rudderless bark in search of -the unknown. - -She spent two years in study at the Slade School in University College, -living under the protection of her aunt, who had a house in Russell -Square. The training was severe and at times irksome. But she learned -strict academical rules of drawing, in spite of her repugnance to the -stern coldness of the antique. After her term of hard training was -over she went for a year into a painter's studio and learned colour and -painting from the live model. - -They were years of probation, as Clytie well knew, and they brought her -lessons in self-restraint, both in art and in the conduct of life. Her -aunt, Miss Davenant, was shrewder and broader-minded than her brother, -having lived more in the whirl of humanity, but the formulas of -Durdleham were ranged as household gods upon her hearthstone, and -Clytie, out of pure self-interest, was bound to show them outward -respect. To compensate, however, for this, Clytie found in her student -life many experiences, as she had found during her continental trip, -with which she could fill her heart without violating her aunt's Lares -and Penates. - -She seldom went to Durdleham. She had an odd feeling that she was in -disgrace there for having wished to leave it. Besides, both Mrs. Blather -and Janet, as is the inconsequent way of such women, spoke tauntingly -of her gay life in town, and contrasted it enviously with their country -dulness. And then, too, her father was always querulous, complaining, -not of her absence from home, but of her dissimilarity to her sisters. - -“My dear papa,” she said one day, “I could no more be like them than -they could be like me.” - -“You might if you had tried,” said the old man. - -Clytie looked hopelessly out of window. What possible reply could be -made? - -The happiest, most expansive hours that Clytie spent during these three -years were in Harley Street with the Farquharsons. At first her aunt was -rather averse to a continuance of the intimacy. Although she had kept -up a visiting acquaintance with the Farquharsons since their return from -Switzerland, and liked them both personally, she was conscious of an -unfamiliar atmosphere in their house. The instinctive shrinking from the -unknown made her seek to draw Clytie back with her towards the security -of her own accustomed circle. But eventually, when she saw that the -girl, to whom she had grown sincerely attached, found real happiness -in going to Harley Street, she withdrew her tentative restrictions -altogether. Perhaps she read deeper into the girl's heart than either -was conscious of, and realised that in the Farquharsons' society -Clytie found a relief from the strain of everyday life with her, which -otherwise might have been unbearable. - -The conditions of the household in Harley Street were favourable to the -development of unceremonious intimacy. Mrs. Farquharson herself was bred -in that strange London world we call Bohemia. Her father, long since -dead, had been a journalist, a hack story-writer, a maker of plays, -sometimes editor of a smart weekly, at others acting manager of a -provincial company. Like most men of his type he spent his money as fast -as he earned it, and when work came to a temporary standstill drew upon -the prospects of his next success. His daughter Caroline had grown up in -cheerful familiarity with this hand to mouth, makeshift existence. She -had been called upon so often from her earliest childhood to condone the -faults of her father and those of his intimates, who were men of much -the same mould as himself, that a general habit of indulgence became -natural to her. Folly seemed so inherent a quality in humanity that not -to smile tolerantly, even though reprovingly, upon it was with her an -impossibility. The lowering of moral tone that might have resulted from -this mental attitude, and from a continuance of the same conditions of -life, was prevented by her early marriage with a man of assured income -and position. Her father died shortly afterwards and her connection -with the seamy side of Bohemianism was thoroughly broken off. But the -ingrained habits of freedom and carelessness still remained. She could -never learn to be methodical, systematic. She had an inherited dread -of account-books, household rules, fixed hours for meals, and appointed -places for every domestic article. It was fortunate for her that she had -married a man who worshipped her, and himself shared her distaste for -rigidly organised life. His means had placed him beyond the necessity -of working for his livelihood, and so the free life in a home where he -could work, idle, eat, and receive his friends at any hour of the day or -night was as much to his own taste as to that of his wife. - -It was impossible that such a house should not possess a charm for those -to whom the Farquharsons gave their friendship. The absence of -formality encouraged expansiveness and individuality. There was a tacit -understanding that one had a right not only to oneself, but to the -appreciation of oneself by the host and hostess. It was this that Clytie -had felt during her first visit, and it attracted her more and more to -them as time went on. Gradually the house became a second home to her, -and Mrs. Farquharson a friend such as she had never known before. She -could go to her for strength and comfort during her fits of depression -when the time seemed out of joint, and she did not in the least seem -called upon to set it right. The restraints of strict draughtsmanship, -academic modelling and grouping, chafed her as her simple arithmetic had -done at school. She longed to throw them off and to plunge back into her -old artistic wilfulnesses. But these occasions generally coincided with -fresh sensations of restraint in her home life, and she was wise enough -to appreciate the fact. - -During this period an incident occurred in her life, giving it fresh -colour and helping her to realise herself more fully. Her girlhood had -been far removed from the lax sphere of idle flirtation in which many -girls are brought up. The young men of Durdleham, who might have been -attracted towards her by her beauty, were frozen by her scarcely veiled -impatience at their society. - -The dominant impulse towards active search after life had swayed her -to the exclusion of any less powerful motive, and it had scarcely -yet occurred to her that her personality might interest and possibly -influence others. She was too absorbed in her work, in her dimly -shadowed yet ever-haunting plans for the future, in the individualities -round her, in the foretaste of that full sense of living, in the -stirring objectivity of London life, to dwell at all earnestly on -subjective matters and to devote much attention to self-analysis. It is -only when the question, “How do others affect me?” ceases to interest -that the other question, “How does my personality affect others?” begins -to assume a paramount importance. The possibility of a man falling in -love with her was a factor as yet absent from her scheme of practical -life. - -She learned that such an event had occurred from Mrs. Farquharson. She -had gone to her one Monday morning, depressed, out of tune, to seek -consolation. - -“Oh, why am I not a man?” she exclaimed petulantly. “Why can't I live by -myself, go where I like, and see what I want to see?” - -Her friend laughed good-humouredly. - -“You want to do too much at once, my dear. The world's your oyster, as -ancient Pistol said, and you would force it open with one wrench. As -for wishing to be a man, you are by no means original. Lots of girls -say that, but when they grow older they think it's just as well for them -that they are women.” - -“What on earth's the good of being a _woman?_” asked Clytie, with rather -unnecessary emphasis. - -One of her studio companions had asked her to join a party at a theatre, -and her aunt had demurred on the ground that ladies ought not to go to -that particular house. It showed a certain knowledge of the world on -the old lady's part, but Clytie did not realise it, and although she -accepted the decision with good grace, it fretted her. These trivial -things fret even the wisest amongst us quite as much as the important -ones do. - -Mrs. Farquharson did not reply, but continued placidly her usual Monday -morning's occupation of putting her music in order, while Clytie watched -her from the long rocking-chair where she was sitting, her hands clasped -behind her head. - -“What's the good of being a woman when one has to pass half one's life -shut up in darkness? It's bad enough being a human being as it is, and -having to sleep the other half.” - -“How old are you, my dear?” asked Mrs. Farquharson, looking at a song. - -“You know,” replied Clytie. “Twenty.” - -“Then how would you like to be a young man of twenty--or even -two-and-twenty? How would you like to be young Beaumont, for instance? -Do you think he knows so very much more than you do?” - -“He's such a boy,” said Clytie. - -“And you, my dear, are such a girl,” said Mrs. Farquharson, coming up -behind her chair and smoothing her cheeks. “But you are many years older -than he is--and likely to remain so. Do you know why we women like to -be women? Because we see so many things that men would give the eyes of -their heads to know. Hasn't it ever struck you that we are familiar with -a side of life that is almost forever hidden from men? And as for that -particular side that men have exclusively to themselves, it is neither -very pretty nor comfortful.” - -“I suppose that is why men stop talking when one goes into the -smoking-room,” said Clytie. “You hear shouts of laughter outside the -door, and you think they must be having an awfully good time, and when -you appear in the doorway they seem to pull themselves together, and one -or two always look red and sheepish.” - -“I should advise you to read the story of Bluebeard,” said Mrs. -Farquharson. - -“You are just as bad as the rest,” cried Clytie, half laughing and half -vexed. “I never thought it of you. That's what I have always been told: -Never try to find out what you don't know. Always remain in a state -of blissful ignorance. Men are superior beings, and a good little girl -ought to accept her position with meekness.” - -“I could a tale unfold,” said her friend, “but I won't. It is too early -for you. If you want to make experiments on your own account there is -young Beaumont for you. He will tell you the sum total of his knowledge -in ten minutes.” - -“Do you know, I like him,” said Clytie, leaving the main track of the -conversation. “He always looks so clean, and his clothes fit him so -well, and he is so serviceable. He always seems to be trying to make -the best of himself, since God has done so little for him. And it's very -plucky of him to try to improve on the Almighty.” - -“I would not like him too much.” - -“Why?” - -“My poor Clytie! You haven't even got the elements of woman's knowledge -yet. Can't you see why Beaumont wears those very chaste ties and those -wonderfully shiny boots, and does errands all over London for you? Oh, -dear!” - -“Do you mean that he----?” - -Mrs. Farquharson looked at her quizzically and nodded. - -“Therefore I would not like him too much.” - -Obeying a first impulse, Clytie burst out laughing. It seemed so -ridiculous. Beaumont was a good-looking, fresh-faced young fellow of -two-and-twenty, a distant relation of the Farquharsons, and a habitué of -the house. She had met him there many times and had begun to feel quite -friendly towards him. Besides, he had fetched and carried for her in the -most useful way. She had never thought of his falling in love with her. -As he was the last man she herself would have thought of falling in love -with, she found the event ludicrous. - -She stopped laughing suddenly, and crimsoned to her hair; then rushed -impulsively up to Mrs. Farquharson, and put her arm round her waist. - -“I am sorry; forgive me. What must you think of me! I could not help it, -indeed I couldn't. You put me in such a new light before myself. And, -dear Mrs. Farquharson, I do so want you to see the best side of me.” - -“My dear girl,” said her friend, “you don't suppose that with your face -and your nature you are going to pass through life without having men -falling in love with you! You see what a lot you have to learn. You -want to have a man's experiences before you have passed through the -elementary ones of a woman.” - -“And Mr. Beaumont--what shall I do?” - -“Oh! don't fret yourself about him. He will get over it. He has no end -of this sort of thing to go through before his life is up. It will -do him good.” Clytie had not much time to map out any fixed plan of -treatment of her would-be lover, for he met her an afternoon or two -afterwards outside University College, where he had been waiting -for her, and pleaded that she would walk a little way up towards the -Regent's Park, as the afternoon was fine. - -Clytie looked at him and hesitated. - -“Only just a little way. I have something I must tell you.” - -“Perhaps you had best never tell it,” said Clytie. - -The red-waistcoated gate porter behind them beamed on them smilingly. He -had seen something of youthful love in his professional career. - -“I must, whatever happens,” replied the young fellow. “I know it's wrong -to ask you to walk in the street with me, but I don't know when I shall -get another chance.” - -“I don't see anything wrong about it,” said Clytie. “I will go with you -wherever you wish.” - -So they wandered up Gower Street and the Euston Road into the park, and -there, for the first time in her life, Clytie heard a man confess his -love for her and ask her to marry him. He was only a boy after all, but -he was in great earnest. Clytie felt humbled, almost guilty, and yet a -great, unknown pleasure thrilled through her. Although she knew that the -sooner and more summarily the interview was brought to an end the better -for both herself and him, she could scarcely resist the temptation of -allowing him to pour out the fulness of his boyish love for her. - -She suddenly found herself listening to the sound but not the meaning -of his words, her senses filled with the sweetness of the new sensations -and the pure May sunlight that flooded the trees and the gay flower-bed -opposite the bench where they were sitting. Then she realised her -situation, and in a few kind words, harder to speak than she would have -expected, dismissed him. - -And that was the end of the matter. He went off whither young men in his -predicament generally betake themselves, and Clytie returned slowly home -to Russell Square. - -When she had reached her own room she went deliberately up to the glass -and scanned her features. Then she laughed a strange, contented little -laugh, and taking off her hat and gloves, went downstairs to tea. She -had advanced several steps along the road to knowledge. - -Three years! How quickly they passed! How sure yet dimly working were -their influences! If they were years of probation and self-restraint for -Clytie, they also brought with them softening influences. Hitherto her -life had been one of revolt and harsh, crude judgments that had turned -away friendship and had left her solitary. Mutual misconception and -misunderstanding had crushed sisterly love. Her heart had never been -touched by real affection. Now she had friends, real ones, in the -Farquharsons whom she could love for their own sakes, and pleasant, -sympathetic ones in her companions at the Slade School and at the -studio. She learned, too, the sweetness of active protection and -helpfulness. Her aunt, though somewhat stronger-fibred than the rest of -the Davenants, possessed their essential physical characteristics. -Her health, which had been failing for some years, gradually gave way -altogether. During the few months of her last illness she depended -entirely upon Clytie for care and tenderness. It was a new, strange -experience for the girl. She learned to love the faded elderly lady -who bore her sufferings so calmly, so cheerfully. Both Mrs. Blather and -Janet offered to come and nurse her, but Miss Davenant would have none -but Clytie. If this period of selflessness and sacrifice had lasted, who -knows what sweet effacement of individuality might have resulted? Who -knows into what channels of pity and sublime endeavours of mercy the -girl's full, ardent nature might have been directed? But the high gods -had ordained otherwise. Miss Davenant died, and Clytie again found -herself with the unknown destiny before her that had to be worked out -unaided. - -It was only after the first outburst of grief that she realised this -fully. She had gone back to Durdleham, with a new range of feelings -freshly revealed. Her sisters she found were gentle, quiet women like -her aunt, narrower perhaps, with thin currents of old prejudice still -running through them, but still lovable and sympathetic in her sorrow. -They welcomed her back like a lost sheep to the fold. Never had her home -life seemed so peaceful, comfortful; London was scarcely mentioned, and -her sisters agreed between themselves that Clytie's absence from home -was an episode of the past, never to recur. - -But time wears and effaces the deepest intaglio of impression, even that -of a young girl's first knowledge of death and eternal loss. Gradually -the quietude of eventless life, as the need for it wore away, grew -wearisome, oppressive, and the old restless cravings began to gnaw at -her heart. The breach that death had closed slowly widened again, -so gradually that not till it was fully appreciable did the sisters -recognise it. The formulas seemed narrower, more lifeless than ever. She -had viewed dimly the potentialities of life, and her soul burned within -her with a fiercer hunger. Almost against her will she revolted finally. - -“What is this that Janet has been telling me,” said Mrs. Blather one -morning, “about your wanting to go back to London? You cannot be in -earnest, Clytie?” - -Clytie looked at her sister rather sadly, tears springing into her eyes. - -“You have been very good to me since I have come back, Gracie, and I -have learned to love you more than I did before--much more. But can't -you understand, dear, that if I am to go on loving you I must go away?” - -“I can't see it at all,” replied Mrs. Blather. “If we have got on so -nicely together these last few months, why can't we continue? Janet and -I are willing to give you all in our power to make you happy.” - -“Ah! but don't you see that what I want is out of your power to give?” - said Clytie. “Don't think I am wicked and ungrateful. If a man wants -five pounds, he is grateful to anyone who gives him one; but that does -not lessen his need of the other four. Now the other four pounds are not -to be got in Durdleham, Gracie, and I must have them.” - -“You should learn content, Clytie,” said her sister. “We have all to put -up with our lot in life.” - -Clytie checked an impulse of impatience at the platitude, and answered -with great gentleness of voice and manner: - -“This is not my lot in life, dear. It is quite different. You and Janet -can bear it, because your natures crave this tranquillity. Mine craves -movement, excitement, strange faces. Oh, Gracie, it is no use talking--I -must go away, or I shall begin to hate Durdleham as I used to do. There -is nothing for me to do here. I am too bad for it, perhaps. I don't -know. I can't explain it to you; you have never felt it.” - -“My dear Clytie, that is all nonsense,” said Mrs. Blather, who prided -herself, above all things, on being a woman of common sense. “As a -matter of fact, you can't go to London, because you would have no one to -live with, and you would only have your hundred a year to support you, -as papa has lost a great deal of money lately and can hardly afford -to give you an allowance. When your aunt was alive it was a different -thing. The whole idea of going to live alone in London is silly. So -there's an end of it.” - -Mrs. Blather went on with her sewing, with mingled feelings of content -at having done her duty and disappointment in the failure of promise of -reform in Clytie. She would have judged her sister mercifully had she -been able. She was naturally a gentle woman, full of kindness. But her -canons of duty would not allow her to encourage or condone wilfulness, -caprice, and a tendency to wrong-doing. She earnestly believed it was -for Clytie's good to stay in Durdleham. The girl's wider needs she could -not understand. - -Clytie turned from the hearthrug, where she had been standing, to the -drawing-room window, and looked out blankly at the rain. Her young face -was set rather hard; her lips quivered a little; her heart beat quicker -than usual. A struggle was taking place within her--the struggle between -the girl and the woman. She felt that the great moment of her life had -come. She must choose. Which should it be: the dazzling light with its -weird shadows of things unseen, or the gray, easeful glimmer in which -the familiar realities cast no shadow? Which should it be: daughterly -duty and maidenly retirement, or the sundering of home ties forever and -going out, one woman, to battle with the world? - -She turned away from the window at last and called to her sister. The -latter looked up and was filled with foreboding as she saw the girl's -pale face. - -“Yes. What is the matter, Clytie?” - -“I have made up my mind, Gracie,” she said a little huskily. “I am going -to London to live by myself. I can share lodgings with one of the girls -I know at the Slade School. There will be no difficulty. I can earn -money; I have already earned a little. As for mamma's money, I am of age -now, and it is my own to do what I like with it--as you and Janet do. -Let this be an end of the discussion, Gracie. I am going.” - - - - -CHAPTER III. - -Few people, in an outburst of enthusiasm, would select the King's -Road, Chelsea, as an ideal locality to reside in. It is an important -thoroughfare, no doubt, but it lacks nobility and distinction. There are -isolated, quiet spots in it, with houses lying back from the road; and -from the upper windows of favoured residences one can obtain a view over -Yeitch's or Bull's extensive hothouses, and catch dim shadows of great -tropical palms and a mellowed dash of brilliant red and yellow. There -are others which look over Portman Square or St. Luke's Churchyard. -But on the other hand, there are long stretches of dreary shops and -factories, grit and general uncomeliness. Without being squalid, it has -a careworn, untidy appearance, as if it was far too much harassed with -the petty worries and strain of workaday life to think of cheerful -adornment. Few people, except errand boys whose sense either of -aesthetics or duty is usually undeveloped, saunter casually along the -King's Road. A stranger tries to get out of it as fast as he can; a -frequenter has his business to attend to. Fashion does not pass along -it, except on tearing drags bound for Hurlingham. It is essentially a -small bourgeois part of London, with all the small bourgeois unpretence -and honest, if somewhat dismal, solidity. - -It was in the middle of such a dreary stretch of the road, some half -mile west of Sloane Square, that Clytie found a lodging. The fact that -a green-grocer's shop, owned by the landlord of the house, occupied the -ground floor was compensated, in a measure, by the existence of a small -studio at the back, on the first floor, originally constructed by a -struggling photographer, who had since worked his way upwards into -a more fashionably perfumed atmosphere. One of Clytie's favourite -fellow-students, Winifred Marchpane, who lived in Lower Sloane Street, -and whose family obtained their potatoes and salads from Mr. Gurkins, -had recommended the establishment, and offered to share with her the -expenses of the studio. The cheapness of the rooms suited Clytie's -modest purse, and the prospect of pleasant companionship in the studio -was an additional attraction. It is true that the acrid smell of the -potatoes, when the side door from the shop on to the private entrance -lobby was left open, ascended the stairs, together with a vague odour of -cooking, bearing upwards, as it were, on savoury breath the disputes -of Mrs. Gurkins with the shopboy and the cries of her apparently -ever-youthful progeny. The incessant rumble, too, of omnibuses, drays, -and furniture vans, and the peculiarly aggressive rattle of tradesmen's -carts, shook the floor and the windows and shivered the lustres of -the chandelier. There were many drawbacks to elegant life, but Clytie, -borrowing some philosophy from a talk with Mrs. Farquharson, proceeded -to disregard those she could not eliminate. The sitting-room, when the -door was shut and the curtains drawn of an evening, was cosy enough. The -pictures, nicknacks, hangings, and other minor accessories of furnished -apartments Clytie had returned to Mrs. Gurkins' keeping, on the plea -that she scarcely had room for her own--which was true; and, by some -miraculous art of persuasion, she had induced Mr. Gurkins to remove the -nerve-shattering chandelier, on the ground that she could not work by -gaslight--which was not true. She hung thick curtains over the door -to keep out noise and odour, broke up the rigidity of the furniture by -screens, small tables, and plants, and painted a long panel for the old -cottage piano that made it look fresh and companionable. When all the -arrangements were completed the room appeared dainty and homelike, -bearing, however, here and there, in bold notes of colour, folds of -drapery, and odd bits of semi-impressionist painting, a peculiar impress -of its tenant's personality. - -She was living at last the life she had so passionately longed -for. There was not a human being to control her actions, not a -conventionality to check the utterance of her thoughts. During her -early days here she almost felt tempted to hang up her latchkey over the -mantelpiece as a glorious symbol of liberty. It seemed not only to serve -to give her entrance to her own modest home, but to be the power that -would unlock the heart of the great London that lay before her. - -From the first she had little difficulty in finding work. Dealers -bought small pictures and gave her orders. She also pleased a firm -of publishers to whom she had gone with letters of introduction and -specimens of her draughtsmanship, and obtained work in the way of book -and magazine illustrating. Her earnings were not large, but there was -the promise of success to come. At the end of two years her income was -large enough to have enabled her to move from the King's Road into a -more refined locality; but she had grown accustomed to its noise and -rattle, and to the hurried, joyless stream of life that flowed along it -day by day. And Mrs. Gurkins understood her tastes and habits, a quality -in a landlady appreciated by women as well as men. So she stayed on. - -She read widely during these years, learned much. Between the ages of -twenty-two and twenty-four a woman is capable of vast assimilation of -ideas. They can flow into the freshly opened, unpolluted channels of her -being, as yet unclogged by the refuse of sorrows and wearinesses. Her -rejection of the old formulas, and the paramount necessity of gaining -knowledge wherewith to provide herself substitutes, checked in her -any impulse towards moral or artistic idealism. She read deeply, -instinctively seeking after the roots of life, the elemental passions -that shake our nature, be its superstructure never so delicately -complex. The dawning knowledge half frightened, half attracted her. -The barbaric feminine in her struggled to escape into solitude. With -fluttering eyelids downcast it recoiled from the idea of passion as yet -unawakened responsively within her. But the higher needs of modernity -constrained her to a just, resolute system of inquiry. She learned that -there are deeper laws regulating our being than those which could -be enunciated at Durdleham tea-tables, where the ingrained habit of -non-recognition of them restricted life within narrowest limits, and -put, as it were, a prohibition tax upon exoteric sympathy. - -At four-and-twenty Clytie was a woman--emotional, impulsive, eager -to taste of any new experience. The old rebellious habit of mind had -developed into a frank independence. Her step was elastic, her bearing -confident. Her life was full and happy. - -“I am glad I am a woman now,” she said to Mrs. Farquharson. “I seem to -have all the advantages of both sexes.” - -“Wait till you're married, my dear,” replied her friend. - -Mrs. Farquharson was fond of the use of affectionate irritants. They are -often valuable preservatives of friendship. - -Clytie laughed. - -“I suppose I shall marry some day. I don't want to end up by leading -half a life; but I want to have two or three years more of this. I must -play at being a man a little longer.” - -“A pretty sort of man!” said Mrs. Farquharson, resting her chin on -her hand and looking at Clytie with amused eyes. “You are the most -deliciously feminine young woman I know. Look at your frock and your -hair.” - -Judging by outward appearances Mrs. Farquharson's criticism was correct. -Clytie had the artistic sense in dress. It was like most of her other -artistic impulses, with the personal note dominant--soft textures, -falling easily into folds, quiet in tone, dark grays, subdued half -shades of yellows, suddenly brightened by a small, daring flash of -colour at throat or bosom. Lace, with its creamy, clinging softness -delighted her, and she wore it defiantly, with a certain sense of -triumph that she was perhaps the only girl in England who could wear it -with faultless taste. - -She was of medium height, but her slender, fully formed figure and its -erect carriage gave her an air of tallness. Her head set well on her -shoulders, and a habit of holding it back, with the chin pointing -upwards, free of the throat, added to the impression of young, fearless -womanhood. Her eyes were dark blue, wide apart, yet sunk in finely -moulded orbits. A light of humour playing in their depths, together -with a soft modelling of the nose contours beneath them, atoned for an -impression of hardness and sensuousness that would have been given by -the ripe, full lips with their little curl of disdain. Her face was -rounded delicately--that much she inherited from the Davenants--but a -faint flush of colour showed the buoyant young blood within, just as her -deep red hair, with a thousand lights dancing in it, attested the -rich, vigorous strain that had asserted itself in her. She was proud, -womanlike, of this hair, and had a way of dressing it in bewildering -confusion. - -Her Slade School friend, Winifred Marchpane, continued to share the -studio with her. At first she had been a little afraid of Clytie, whose -bold judgments and fearless expression of opinion were not qualified -always to attract a timorous, shrinking nature. But gradually the -stronger personality had overpowered the weaker and bound it to itself -by unbreakable bonds. A great friendship had thus arisen between the -girls, based on Winifred's side on enthusiastic admiration, almost -worship, and on Clytie's on a tender feeling of love and protection. - -Winifred was one of a large family, her father, a retired officer in the -army with limited income. Two of her sisters were governesses, earning -their livelihood miles away from home. Another one took charge of the -smaller members of the household. Winifred, who had a dainty talent for -the painting of still life, supported herself, living at home and paying -her share of the household expenses. She was a little, gentle creature, -with dark hair, and with a rich colour showing beneath a brown -cheek. Her deep brown eyes had a doglike trustfulness in them, and a -steadfastness withal such as makes the heroine. A girl of few moods, few -caprices. Her work was always beautifully, conscientiously finished. She -always loved it, always found in it the same quiet charm. There was no -element of passion in it to set jarring the strings of futile endeavour. -A fine sense of colour and gradation and subtle curve, a supreme -delicacy of touch--that was her sole artistic stock in trade, and she -never sought to stray beyond the limits imposed. She had had a little -picture accepted at the Academy, hung in a far, far corner--a bunch of -Maréchal Niel roses, full-blown, in a Venetian glass vase of exquisitely -veined transparencies--a perfect little picture, sweet and pure, like -herself. - -It was a cold March day. The sun shone cheerfully through the drawn -white blinds of the studio skylight, but an east wind blowing outside -came in through the cracks and defied the blaze of the fire in the -stove. - -“You are quite blue with cold,” said Winifred, laying down mahl-stick -and palette. “Here, put on this wrap. Why don't you take more care of -yourself?” - -“I never thought of it,” said Clytie, shivering a little and accepting -contentedly the wrap and a caress. “I was sketching out quite a history -of that boy who has just left.” - -Winifred drew a stool to Clytie's chair near the fire and took up her -position upon it--a favourite one with her, as she could have both the -moral solace of sitting at Clytie's feet, and the physical comfort of -resting her head in Clytie's lap. - -“I hope he won't bring all kinds of horrible people into the -house--burglars, you know, like Oliver Twist,” she added vaguely. - -“I suppose it is rather rash picking up a model out of the streets. But -he is just the boy I wanted to give character to the group. I was going -to paint in one out of my own head.” - -“I don't know how you get all those street types out of your head, -Clytie. I wish I could do it.” - -“I would like to see you try, you silly child,” said Clytie, laughing. -“Your street arabs would look like stray Cupids hastily huddled up in -old clothes by a shocked and modest policeman!” - -“I did not mean that; you know I didn't. What I meant was--I wish I -could paint without models. I don't think I could paint a common flat -leaf without having it before me. As for painting that”--and she pointed -to a basket standing by her easel, overflowing with anemones, -snowdrops, and violets obtained that morning by Mr. Gurkins from Covent -Garden--“without a copy, I might just as soon think of flying.” - -“You are an artist, Winnie, and love your art for its own sake. I am not -quite so sure that I do, now. To have to finish all the thousand little -convolutions of those bells would drive me raving mad. I should like to -have a ghost as sculptors do, only mine would do the finishing and put -in all the nuisance of detail. That's why I can get on without models. -It saves time. I can bring home a face with me from the streets, and I -can paint it in rapidly, and then I am done. I suppose I oughtn't to be, -but Burrowes seems satisfied. He says he has got quite a 'line' in my -pictures--the correct ones--and is thinking of raising the price. I am -sure that man has been a linen-draper.” - -“If you could remember the boy's face why do you bring him here?” asked -Winifred. “I only want to know why you want him so particularly, dear,” - she added, raising her chin and looking upwards at Clytie. - -The boy had been ragged and uncared-for, not exactly a street urchin, -but on a vague borderland of respectability, between the newspaper arab -and the errand boy.--a hybrid with the vices of many strains. - -“Do you really want to know, Winnie?” said Clytie. “Perhaps you'll be -shocked. However, you'll have to know sooner or later: I am going -to make a picture of him on my own account, just a little bit more -fantastic than he is, and call him a--an--oh, dear! what shall I call -him?” - -“An elf?” - -“Good gracious, no. What have I to do with elves and fairies and that -sort of thing? He is the son of Cophetua--supposing the king had not -married the beggar maid.” - -“Then why not the son of any other king?” - -“Why not, indeed?” said Clytie drily. “Or of any other beggar maid?” - -“Oh!” said Winifred, looking into the fire. - -And then after a pause: - -“What makes you think that?” - -“Did you see his mother? I did. Such a stupid-looking, red-faced woman. I -think she said she was a charwoman by profession. There are generations -of drudgery in her face, whereas in Jack's there is vigour and -intelligence--something so different; he must have some better strain -of blood in him than she and a husband of her class can have given him. -Don't you think so, dear?” - -“He's a very pretty boy,” replied Winifred, “but, oh, he is so dirty -and”--with a shudder--“so animal.” - -“Well, he fascinates me,” said Clytie meditatively. “I am going to paint -one of my wildest pictures--all for my own self--and a bit for you if -you like, Winnie.” Winnie accepted this tribute of affection with a -little flush of pleasure, although Clytie's “own” pictures seldom gave -her unqualified æsthetic delight, and turned her face towards Clytie, -who laughed in her frank way. - -“Don't look at me with those great eyes of yours, child! You make me -angry for you. They are just the sort of eyes that make women miserable. -You must not trust in people like that, believe me.” - -“I trust them when they are good like you, dear.” - -“Oh, but you mustn't. Don't you know I am the wickedest girl -going--always thinking of the most dreadful things? Look at the wall. -How can you love anybody that can do these silly things?” - -She pointed to a series of grotesque charcoal caricatures on the studio -wall. She had been dissatisfied a day or two back with a picture she had -been engaged on for a month, and in a fit of wilfulness had daubed it -out and then proceeded to make a cruel, fantastic travesty of it on the -wall. - -“You wanted your tea, dear, just as you do now,” replied Winifred. - -This tea hour was Winifred's great delight. At home, on account of the -children, they had to sit round the dining table and butter their own -thick slices of bread and drink out of substantial breakfast cups. -In the studio the girls had provided a dainty little afternoon tea -equipage, and Mrs. Gurkins always cut thin bread and butter from a -fancy loaf. Generally it was Winifred who poured out the tea, but to-day -Clytie busied herself with the cups, thus making some slight amends, -perhaps, for having shocked Winifred. Women are full of these odd -feminine impulses, and other women understand them. Men don't. - -They sat talking, as they usually did, over their tea, and long -afterwards, until it was time for Winifred to go home. As they were -taking leave of each other on the landing a man sprang up the stairs, -checked himself, and raised a slouch hat as he passed them and vanished -up the next flight. He was a fresh-faced man, with a brown and tawny -beard; tawny ends, too, to his moustaches; bright gray eyes flashing -humourously as he passed the girls. His dress was careless, loose and -unfashionable, yet it was marked with a certain individuality. - -“Who is that?” Winifred whispered when the last foot of the ascending -figure had disappeared. - -“That's another protest,” said Clytie--“a better one. He has the courage -of his convictions.” - -“What do you mean, Clytie?” - -“Well, can't you recognise a protest when you see one?” - -“Oh, Clytie, don't tease and puzzle me,” cried Winifred, giving her -friend's arm a little shake. “Do you know him?” - -“Of course not. How should I? But Mrs. Gurkins was telling me about him -only this morning. His name is Kent. He seems to frighten the life out -of her, and therefore I say he is a protest. Now you know, so run away -home.” - -When Winifred had reached the street door Clytie leaned over the -banisters and called after her. - -“Winnie! I must have been in a sweet temper this afternoon.” - -“Of course, dear. Why do you say so?” - -“Because you have left your basket of anemones for me to take care of!” - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - -When Winifred had gone Clytie took an omnibus to Cheyne Walk, where -some friends of hers lived, and after her visit returned to her solitary -dinner. It argued some strength of mind in Clytie that she did not give -way, as many lonely women do, to a distaste for ordinary food, and a -corresponding craving for the miscellaneous and not over wholesome -meal denominated high tea. She had not reached the stage of feminine -depression and sense of helplessness when inchoate banqueting on -bread and butter and penny buns seems to bring cheerless solace. Her -temperament seemed almost virile in its vigour, and although she had her -sex's antipathy to gastronomy, she nevertheless found it reasonable -that she should be provided with a decently served dinner. Besides, Mrs. -Gurkins, who was professionally interested in food stuffs, held solid -views on the subject. She herself had a good appetite, and her little -girl children ate everything they could lay their little white teeth to; -she did not believe in not being hungry. It was one of her grievances -that her other lodger, Mr. Kent upstairs, cooked his own victuals -scramblingly, and would not allow her to see that his wants were duly -satisfied. Accordingly she bestowed extra care upon Clytie. - -After the cloth was removed Clytie continued the book she had been -reading during the meal, and at last flung it aside. She rose and walked -about the room, somewhat restless. She felt lonely--vaguely desirous -of action, and yet idle. Was it a dumb premonition of fate, this -restlessness? At any rate it led her to perform a trivial action which -set in motion the currents of her future life. - -She sat down at her writing table that stood in the recess between the -fireplace and the light-curtained window and lit a couple of candles, -whose pretty red paper shades threw a rosy glow around the corner of the -room. It was only a simple note that she scribbled, hastily, boldly, -as was her wont. Then she left the candles burning, and returned to her -armchair by the fire and gave herself up to meditation. - -The boy model she had engaged that morning interested' her powerfully. -She shrank from an insistence upon the solution of the little problem -she had offered to Winifred during the afternoon, hovering over and -away from it. Her sense of type and personality was too acute not to be -profoundly struck by the difference between his mother and himself. On -the one hand was dulness, commonness, a coarse-fibred nature responsive -to the stirrings of neither hope nor despair, a dull, uncomplaining -drudge; on the other hand a quick, fiery temperament, showing itself in -flashing black eyes, delicate nostrils, wiry, curly brown hair--all made -picturesque by unqualified dirt. And yet, despite this refinement of -feature, there was cruelty, brutality even, written on the childish -face. That might be the fault of his upbringing, thought Clytie. But -his beauty--where did it come from? She smiled as she thought of King -Cophetua. It was the beggar maiden's grace that had won the king's -heart, and grace was a quality that Jack's mother most distinctly -lacked. Clytie felt dimly conscious of being on the verge of an -appalling discovery. Her reading had been catholic enough, and her -independent acquaintance with life sufficiently broad, to render the -fact familiar to her that kings and beggar maidens if they fall in love -with each other usually dispense with the ceremony of marriage. But then -love pardons all--a formula in Clytie's new theory of social statics, -perhaps wisely not accepted in Durdleham--and all the sorrow in -lawlessness that had come within Clytie's small experience had been in -her eyes sanctified by love. Yet who could have loved this woman? She -was not more than three-and-thirty now--young enough to show that she -had never possessed the mere attraction of comeliness. The boy remained, -however, a living proof. - -She thought of Winifred, and sighed a little. Why should she be forever -craving after this strange hidden knowledge, after the taste of things -bitter, when there was so much sweetness in life? The thought of -Winifred's pure, gentle touch in flowers and delicate bloom of fruit and -calm, transparent glass came over her like a rebuke. And then she smiled -again, remembering how Winifred had coaxed her once to try and paint a -bunch of roses, and how dismayed she had been at the egregious failure. -No; the cobbler must not go beyond his last. - -“I don't suppose I am very wicked after all,” she said to herself. - -She rested her chin upon her hand and let her thoughts wander idly, -building up a romance for Jack. He was a foundling, of noble parents, -and Mrs. Burmester was only his foster mother. Then she roused herself -with a little exclamation of disgust: - -“What a perfectly Durdleham solution!” - -The next moment, with an instinct common to folks whether at Durdleham -or London, she sprang from her chair and cried: - -“There's something burning!” - -The room in fact was full of thin smoke, and, as Clytie rose, a snake of -red flame ran up the curtains by the writing-desk. She rushed to them, -but as soon as she had touched them, the folds being shaken out, the -whole burst into a blaze. She fled to the door about to scream “Fire!” - at the top of her voice. - -What happened next neither she nor John Kent could afterwards exactly -explain. He was on his way downstairs when the door was suddenly thrown -open and a stream of light burst on to the gloomy landing. Clytie ran -almost into his arms crying, “My room is on fire!” and then he was -tearing down blazing, fiery curtains, smothering them with rugs, and -stamping out glowing masses of drapery amid much smoke and confusion. It -did not take very long to extinguish the flames, but the struggle while -it lasted was fierce and exciting. Clytie stood by watching him, her -hand at her throat. It was a new sensation to her to have a man acting -for her in an emergency. She had failed. She saw by the man's energy, -his fearless dealing with the blazing mass, his strength, his violence, -that she never could have succeeded. She admired him, was angry at it; -felt herself a helpless woman, was angry at that too; wished that the -danger had been a little greater, at which she was more angry than ever. - -However, when the last traces of the fire were extinguished, and the -man stood before her, somewhat out of breath, wiping his forehead, this -little train of emotions came to an end. She gazed piteously at her -curtainless windows and scorched wainscoting. He turned and opened -the window, whence the damp, gusty wind whirled the smoke in billowing -drifts about the room. - -“There!” he said, with a breath of relief. - -“Oh, how can I thank you?” said Clytie. + “Don't,” he replied with -cheerful laconism. “I am glad I was handy--for your sake as well as my -own. I live upstairs.” - -“I know; I have seen you come in and out. In fact, you passed us to-day. -But still you have saved the whole house, and I thank you very, very -much!” - -“How did it all happen?” he asked, removing for the first time his white -slouch hat and disclosing a shock of brown curly hair. - -“The candle-shade on the desk; do you see? It must have caught fire and -toppled over on to the curtains. I was sitting here and forgot I had -left the candles alight; and then I smelled something burning and saw -the curtains in a blaze. Then I ran out to call somebody.” - -“That was very stupid,” said Kent, pushing back the desk from the middle -of the room, where he had wheeled it; “by opening the door you made the -things burn quicker. All you had to do was to drag down the curtains and -cover them with the hearthrug. And then it is very silly to use paper -candle-shades. They are no good, and they are always causing accidents. -I hope you are not going to get any more.” - -The assured paternal air with which Kent delivered himself of this -little speech did away with its apparent rudeness. Clytie, who at first -looked rather resentfully at her rebuker, laughed. - -They bent down together to restore order among the singed rugs. Beneath -them was Kent's waterproof, on to which he had thrown the blazing -curtains. It was very badly burned and of course rendered useless. - -“It is utterly ruined!” exclaimed Clytie, examining the holes with a -helpless expression of regret on her face. - -And then her eyes suddenly fell upon a great ugly red splash upon his -hand. He withdrew it hastily, but she caught the sleeve of his coat. The -stuff came away between her fingers. - -“You have burned yourself horribly. Oh, what can I do?” - -“It's nothing,” said Kent. “It doesn't hurt. I'll go and put something -on it. Please don't trouble. Goodnight.” - -He moved towards the door, with his hat and burned waterproof in his -hand. But Clytie could not let him leave in this way. The woman in her -was moved. - -“Oh, please don't go until I have seen what harm you have got. I should -feel so unhappy about it. I may be able to dress it for you--until you -can see a doctor.” - -She spoke so sincerely, so frankly, and looked at him with such genuine -concern, that he surrendered with a good grace. He came forward to -the table where the big lamp was burning and put out his arm for her -inspection. It was really injured, and was beginning to be exceedingly -painful. - -“What can I do for it?” she asked rather helplessly. - -“Oh, some olive oil and a bit of rag will be the best.” - -Clytie produced some cotton wool and some oil from a cruet in the -sideboard and then sought after some linen to bandage with. Kent noticed -that she did not ask him for his handkerchief, nor did she use her own, -but went rather impulsively to a workbasket and tore off a strip of soft -material that was lying on the top. It was very expensive stuff, and the -whole piece of work of which it was to form a part was spoiled. It was -characteristic of her. Another woman would have remembered where she had -stored some odds and ends of old linen. - -Kent watched her curiously as she was bending over his hand. He had -often seen her before, but his life went on so far outside the sphere of -women that he had scarcely given her a thought as he had passed her by. -He had never even inquired her name. From the mere fact of her renting -the studio it had come involuntarily to his knowledge that she followed -pursuits more or less artistic; but his curiosity had never been -aroused. Now that he had been suddenly thrown into close contact with -her he was interested. He smiled at himself for the unwonted pleasure -he found in watching the lights dancing through her hair, the brows -contracted ever so little in the absorption of her occupation, the long -nervous fingers, set on the broad palm, deftly arranging the cotton -wool, the scrap of old lace at her throat and wrists. She was pretty, -striking, to look upon, but he had not formed a very high impression of -her otherwise. It was just the sort of thing a woman would do, to run -out of the room when it was on fire, to give up thinking for herself in -any emergency and trust blindly in Providence--or a man. It is a strange -thing that those men who see least of women know most concerning them. - -As she raised her head after pinning the bandage she caught the -expression of amusement on his face. He was quick to note the little -shadow of resentment that passed over hers. - -“I was thinking what a mess I should have made of it by myself,” he said -with a tact that surprised him. “Thank you very much.” - -“It was the least I could do,” replied Clytie. “I feel so guilty about -it all--and your poor waterproof too.” - -“It's a very old one,” he replied good-humouredly, holding the garment -out for inspection. “My friends will be delighted. They have threatened -to cut me in the streets if they saw me in it again. So you see you have -secured my friendship for me. And I shall get on much better with an -umbrella to-night.” - -“But you're surely not going out to-night!” cried Clytie, moving to the -window and shutting it, as if he were intending to escape through it. -“It is pouring wet, and you would catch cold in your hand--it would get -inflamed, or something dreadful. It is stupid of people not to take care -of themselves. It's hurting fearfully, isn't it? Tell me.” - -She looked at him so frankly, her head thrown back a little, and spoke -with such a faint touch of imperiousness in her voice, that Kent checked -his impulse of retreat. “Of course it hurts. But I don't mind. If one -minded all the little pains of this life, one would have no time for -anything else. Besides, I am used to rough it a bit. It is my own -choice, more or less, and I like it.” - -Clytie remembered the strange stories Mrs. Gurkins had told her about -Kent's way of life. She had listened to them with idle interest, never -imagining that Kent and herself would ever become acquainted. Now that -he alluded to his habits she felt bound to confess her share in the -gossip, which she did somewhat rebelliously, checking certain more -timorous promptings of silence. - -“So you see I know all about you,” she said in conclusion. “When people -are eccentric they become, as it were, public characters. Now if you -were to talk to Mrs. Gurkins----” - -“Heavens forbid!” cried Kent with much warmth. “I was fleeing from her -this afternoon when I nearly knocked you down.” - -“Why?” asked Clytie, laughing. - -“I don't know--instinct, I suppose. Perhaps I have been wrong. Otherwise -I might have known something more of you. It's a bad compliment, I am -aware, but I have been here a whole year and I have never seen or heard -your name. Might I know whom I have had the pleasure of assisting? I did -not in the least care before, but now it is different.” - -There was an honesty and directness in his voice that pleased Clytie. -She felt glad he had asked her. There is a touch of susceptible vanity -even in the most emancipated of women. - -“My name is Davenant, and I am by way of being an artist--that is to -say, I gain my living by it.” - -Her eyes wandered unconsciously round the room hung with many of her -half-finished sketches. Kent followed her glance, and then crossed to -the wall and examined one or two of the pictures. - -“Are these yours?” he asked, turning round quickly. - -They were charcoal sketches of street scenes, direct and daring. Kent -received Clytie's nod of assent, and glanced at the pictures and then at -her again, as if trying to reconcile the two. - -“Is all your work of this kind?” - -“Mostly. Sometimes I draw it milder,” she added, with a smile, “when -definite orders come in; but I feel more at home with this sort of -thing.” - -Kent returned to the centre of the room, where he had been standing -before. - -“I am not an artist myself,” he said, “but I have been brought up in -an atmosphere of art and I love it. My father was Rupert Kent, -painter-etcher; he did that little thing over your mantelpiece.” - -“Isn't it a perfect little piece of work?” said Clytie, looking round at -it. “I am very fond of it.” - -“So was my father. Well, you see, I am not a Philistine in art matters, -and when I say your work interests me I mean it. I should like to look -at some more of it. Where is it to be found?” - -“You can come anytime to my studio if you like. It is my place of -business, you know, and perhaps you may get me some orders. Art is -terribly mercenary in these days.” - -“I want to see the things you do for yourself,” said Kent bluntly, -ignoring the little hedge wherewith she had fenced her invitation. “It -will be very kind of you to let me come.” - -Clytie held out her hand to him as he bade her goodnight and thanked him -for his help. - -“And now that we know each other,” she said, “I hope--I hope you won't -cut me on the stairs.” - -When he had gone Clytie looked ruefully at the damage that had been -done. Her pretty inside curtains were destroyed; the heavy outer ones -burned into great charred holes. The carpet and hearthrug were badly -scorched, and the side of her writing-table warped and blistered. As she -gazed at the wreck she went over the little scene in her mind. Why had -she stood still, leaving the whole of the work to Kent? What must he -have thought of her? - -If he had been any ordinary man of her acquaintance she would have been -still angry with herself for her helplessness, and her anger would have -reflected itself on him. But now she put the question to herself more -through curiosity than irritation. There was a simplicity about the man -that attracted her. His words had been blunt, almost rude sometimes, but -his voice had been kind, his manner protective, straightforward. She -had signally marked her approbation for him by asking him to visit -her studio, a privilege she only accorded to a few tried and very -sympathetic men friends. Kent interested her, and yet she had not the -slightest desire to transfer her impression of him to canvas. - -The next morning she gave Winifred an account of the last evening's -incidents, confessing her own impressions in her wilful, half-cynical -way. Her friend listened meekly, wondering at her earnestness. The -curtains had caught fire, a gentleman had come opportunely to her aid, -had burned his hand, which she had tended in common courtesy. It was -all so very natural. As for feeling humiliated at being helped by a man, -what are women put in the world for except to yield and give way before -men? - -But Winifred did not say this to Clytie. - - - - -CHAPTER V. - -John Kent, antiquarian, scientist, Bohemian, and assistant curator -in the British Museum, dwelt in the attics, far above the limit of the -stair carpet. By the time you had reached them you had lost all sound of -the thoroughfare below, and even when you looked out of the windows -all sense of locality was lost. Nothing could be seen but roofs and -chimney-pots, except on very clear days, when, through an accidental -vista of streets, the tops of the trees in Chelsea Hospital were dimly -visible. But in Kent's rooms no one cared to look out of window. In -the first place, it was difficult of access, and in the second, the -extraordinary appearance of the apartment riveted one's attention -entirely to things within. - -On the floor was neither carpet nor rug. The place of a fender was -supplied by three large iron tripods, waifs from some dismantled -chemical laboratory, which, when they were not otherwise engaged as -footstools, served to support a kettle, a saucepan, and a glue-pot. All -around the walls, with just one space for the door, ran a broad deal -dresser that did duty for several tables, and below it, here and there, -were cunningly contrived cupboards. Above, every inch of wall was -covered: one side completely with books, the others with pictures, -mostly old engravings, little masters such as Cranach and Behm, a frame -of perfect little Aldegravers, a Prince Rupert mezzo, two Woolmers with -their exquisite wavy lines, Bewicks, and a magnificent modern Jacquemart -etching of a Sèvres vase. The intermediate spaces were filled up with a -heterogeneous assortment of curios. The dresser-table was likewise -laden with books, coin cases, scientific specimens, strange weapons, old -axe-heads, Japanese sword hilts cunningly carved, newspapers, journals, -pamphlets, and papers innumerable. There were only two fairly clear -spaces around the whole extent: one where Kent worked, and another where -he took such meals as he had in his lodgings. Save for one solitary -leather writing-chair, the centre of the large room was absolutely -empty; but in a corner, on the floor, were piled up a set of canvas -deck-chairs which Kent brought out and opened whenever he had visitors. - -All the fixtures in the room he had made with his own hands. Manual -labour was a delight to him. He also cooked his own food and cleaned out -the room. The latter operation consisted in raking out the ashes -from his grate and laying the fire afresh. No peace-destroying woman -disturbed the precincts with broom and duster. When the dust grew so -thick that it interfered with his breathing and clouded the lens of his -microscope he went round with an old towel flicking and flapping -with great energy, and then he watered the floor out of an old -bronchitis-kettle. - -Kent was a happy man. He had convictions, enthusiasms; manifold -interests in life for his lighter moments, one great absorbing work for -his serious hours. His slender income sufficed amply for all his wants, -and there was always a margin over for the purchase of an occasional -rare edition or print or curio. Whenever his salary was increased that -margin was greater. His mode of life never changed, for the simple -reason that he considered it to be the most delightful one possible. -Purple, fine linen, and sumptuous fare had no charms for him. It was -always with much groaning of spirit that he put on dress clothes when -he went out into the world. He cared not for the high places in the -synagogues. Provided he had not to wait outside the doors, the pit of a -theatre was a place as desirable as the stalls. - -In his friends too he was happy--a few men different from himself and -from each other--and to these he clung loyally. But the conditions of -his life removed him from feminine influences. Beyond those girls in -his immediate family circle, whom he called by their Christian names and -treated with an old-fashioned, brotherly protection, scolding them when -they did foolish things, such as wearing light shoes in wet weather, -performing little services for them when they behaved themselves nicely, -he never troubled his head about womankind. - -On the night when Clytie's curtains caught fire he had been on his way -to visit a coterie of three bachelor friends who shared a house in South -Kensington. They were accustomed to his nocturnal appearances, and -the worse the night and the later it grew the more likely was Kent to -present himself at the sitting-room door, a dripping, ruddy apparition, -his cheeks and beard glistening with raindrops. And then he would throw -off his mackintosh, call for slippers, and join the circle round the -fire. The thoughts of the dreary tramp home between two and three never -seemed to dismay him. Cheerlessness of environment in no way affected -his happiness. - -They formed the chief part of his social life, these three friends, -tried by the changes in fibre, tastes, affinities, that over half -a score of years effect. There was Fairfax, the doctor, ruddy, -full-blooded, magnetic with health and vitality, whose brass plate shone -huge on the front door, inviting confidence; Greene, the solicitor, -shrewd, hard-headed, a speaker of few words; and Wither, the civil -servant, the little gnomelike man, full of strange sayings, whimsical, -non-moral, a man of boyish, elfin beauty, trusted by men, petted by -women. Of the three Kent loved Wither best. Wither saw deeper into the -world's mysteries than he, but his own sturdy honest sense had kept the -other from many an abyss. - -After bidding Clytie good-night, Kent stood irresolute on the landing. -Should he wrap the remains of his waterproof around him, and still go -whither his truest happiness had hitherto always led him? Considerations -of the chill, sleeting night and the throbbing pain in his hand went -for nothing in his decision. The girl who had tended the burn had -almost besought him not to go out. To disregard her would be an act -of discourtesy. Thus thought honest Kent as he turned on his heel and -slowly mounted the stair. But his evening had been spoiled, he told -his briarwood pipe, with a consoling sense of martyrdom, and the cause -thereof was feminine. - -“It is just the silly sort of thing that Agatha would do,” he said to -himself. - -Agatha was his sister, whom he pitied intensely for being a woman. He -thought of Clytie's pictures, the signs of virility in them, and he -began to pity Clytie too. Yet there was a difference of kind in -his sentiments. He pitied his sister for being constrained to -ambitionless-ness and futility; he was sorry for the handicap of sex to -Clytie's ambitions. - -In some such attitude of mind towards her he knocked at the studio -door the following afternoon. It is true that a warning throb of the -bourgeois in him, that still sometimes mutely guided the Bohemian along -certain tracks, had made him consider for a vague moment the correctness -of calling so immediately upon Clytie; but the directness and simplicity -of his nature disregarded it. It was only natural that Clytie should -like to know how his burned hand was faring. - -He found the girls busily painting, Winifred at the side, with her -basket of flowers near her, Clytie standing at her easel, in the middle -of the room, her back to the door, her face turned half round to see who -would enter in response to her call. - -On the floor by the fireside sprawled Jack, the model, eating an -orange. His face was still dirty, his curly hair matted. Winifred had -pathetically besought Clytie to have him washed. Why should his poor -little face be all over dirt? - -“Because it could not exist without it,” Clytie had answered. “It was so -before he was born.” - -Winifred had given her one of her appealing looks from swimming brown -eyes, and Clytie, remorseful, had run impulsively up and caressed and -kissed her. But she had not washed Jack's face. He scrambled to his feet -and looked defiantly, like a young animal, at Kent when he entered. - -The ground-glass roof, the white walls scored over with Clytie's -fantasies, and the bright red curtain at the back behind the stove gave -a singular setting to the picture. - -Clytie's eyes brightened. She threw a cloth over the picture she was -engaged on. - -“How good of you to come--and the hand?” - -“A trifle. It will be quite well in a few days; I thought you would -not mind my coming to tell you how your doctoring had succeeded. I am -keeping it in a sling--so; otherwise I should be always trying to use -it. You are none the worse, Miss Davenant?” - -“I? Why should I?” - -“Oh, nerves, shock, headache--and all that. My mother, I know, would -have been upset for a week.” - -Clytie laughed; a gay little laugh. She pierced through the words to the -simplicity that lay behind them. - -“I have never cultivated nerves, Mr. Kent. They sadly interfere with -practical life. How do you think Miss Marchpane and I would get on with -this sort of thing”--and she nodded towards Jack--“if we had nerves? -Winifred, this is Mr. Kent, who put out my fire last night. Miss -Marchpane and I share the studio together, you know.” - -“You work on very different lines,” said Kent after a while, leaning -back in his chair so as to catch a glimpse of Winifred's tiny canvas. -“What a strange thing temperament is! I suppose neither of you does -landscape.” - -“Oh, yes, Winifred. Dainty little bits of meadow and stream. I can't; -I always want to put legs and arms to my trees, and make the branches -twist and writhe about, like Gustave Doré in the 'Wandering Jew.'” - -“You scarcely look like a painter of the weird,” said Kent. - -“You think I have not enough strength of imagination?” - -“You have too much strength of mind,” returned Kent judiciously. “You -hanker too much after the real. I can only judge,” he hastily added by -way of explanation, “by what I can see of your work around me.” - -“You will get into difficulties,” said Clytie, laughing. “One moment you -accuse me of nerves, and the next of strong-mindedness. Which is right, -Winnie?” - -“I should be telling too much or too little if I were to say,” replied -Winifred. “Mr. Kent will have to judge for himself. We had better show -him something to go by.” - -They turned to an exhibition of Clytie's paintings; small stacks of -canvases were ranged on the floor, along the walls; here and there one -hanging or standing on a table or on an easel. Clytie stood by in -her nonchalant, professional way, giving a word or two of necessary -explanation as Winifred placed them one by one upon an easel for Kent's -inspection. Painters, sculptors, musicians and actors have a moral -advantage over poets and novelists, in that they are not ashamed of -their work. An artist shows you his picture frankly and hopes you will -like it; if a poet reads you a sonnet, he has an all-devouring dread -lest you may deem him a prig. And the strange part of it is that you do; -whereas you think the painter rather a good fellow. A little problem in -sociological aesthetics. - -As Kent looked at the pictures he lost his sense of Clytie's Agatha-like -behaviour of the previous evening. He forgot even to pity her. He -expressed genuine admiration for her work, interspersing his remarks -with outspoken criticism which Clytie recognised as deeper than that of -the mere virtuoso. It was qualified, too, by the supreme attribute of -simple common sense. He judged the pictures on their merits; he judged -Clytie as a woman of genius, strong mind, out of the ordinary run of -women. The inner promptings and cravings that had thus found artistic -expression it was beyond his philosophy to suspect. Nor did Clytie think -of enlightening him. - -“I like your realism,” he said. “It is straightforward. There's always a -great danger of this sort of thing degenerating into morbidness. But if -you can keep it true, it's healthy; it means sober, honest work, and not -an intermittent fever. I see you work off your superfluous energy on the -walls.” - -“Oh, I forgot them,” cried Clytie somewhat shamefacedly. “You must not -look at them, please. They are not part of the show. Miss Marchpane gets -tired of flowers and peach-bloom, and sometimes----” - -“Clytie!” cried Winifred reproachfully. - -Clytie laughed; and Kent with her. The light jest brought them nearer -together. - -“No; I do that when I feel wicked,” said Clytie. “I paint a nice, -correct little picture for the nice, correct people who are going to buy -it, and then I grow angry with them and feel I should like to shock -them, take the stiffening out of them, reduce them to elemental bits of -humanity. Look at this group of street urchins. I am doing that on order -for my dealer. Here is Jack--look at him now staring into the stove with -the unreasoning content of a young dog. Doesn't he seem nice and -conventional in the picture? You can hear the young lady of the -house saying to the curate, 'Aren't these little street children too -delightful?' Now if they were shown the real Jack, it would give them to -think, as the French say--and they hate doing that. This is _my_ idea of -the real Jack.” - -She whisked the cloth off the easel and showed Kent the charcoal -_ébauche_ of her own particular study of the urchin. - -She had worked rapidly that day, with the feverishness that Kent -deprecated. Whether she would convert the sketch into a finished picture -she did not know. She had desired to fix the haunting impression of -Jack's possible history. - -Kent was somewhat startled by the suddenness of the presentation. There -was the boy, refined, delicate in feature, great-eyed, curly-haired, but -repulsive with cruelty and animalism; in a degraded attitude, head bent -forward, knees bent, lips parted in a sneer. - -“He does not look like that now,” said Kent, comparing the original with -the copy. - -“Wait,” said Clytie. Then imperiously to the urchin: “Jack, what are you -thinking of?” - -He turned, looked up at her shiftingly. - -“Dunno.” - -“Weren't you thinking of the nice little story of the cat you told me -this morning?” - -No answer. - -“It's about a stray cat that came into his mother's house half dead, you -know, and this boy was so kind to it--like a dear little girl----” - -“Yer lie!” cried the boy, starting to his feet. “Oi told yer Oi -killed 'er. I lammed her bloomin' 'ed open with a chopper. I 'ates cats!” - -“_Voilà!_” said Clytie. “That's the real Jack. That's the Jack I'd like -to startle Peckham Rye with.” - -And then turning to the boy: - -“That will do for to-day, Jack. Here's your shilling; give it to your -mother.” - -“Shan't,” said Jack. - -“Oh, but you must,” said Winifred; “look how hard your poor mother has -to work to keep you, Jack.” - -“She's bloomin' well got ter,” said Jack. “I aint going to give 'er no -money. She never gives me none.” - -“But your mother will beat you,” said Clytie. - -“Wot do I care?” - -“And your father, you sweet boy?” asked Kent. - -“Aint got none.” - -“Never had one?” continued Kent. - -“No; mother aint that sort. Blamed glad.” - -“Here, you'd better run away,” said Clytie hurriedly. “Keep your -shilling and make yourself as ill as you like with it. Come the day -after to-morrow--Friday. Can you remember? It's unnecessary to request -you not to wash between then and now. Go on. Good-bye. Out you get.” - -The boy took up the remains of his cap and went, with an air of relief, -out of the room. - -“What a little brute!” said Kent. “Why don't you try to reform him--make -him human?” - -“He is human,” cried Clytie with some warmth. “That's why I cultivate -him. Delightfully human! Refreshing! As for reforming him”--with a shrug -of her shoulders--“I am not a Sunday-school teacher. I have nothing to -do with the submerged tenth; let the good respectable folks who have -submerged them raise them with their polite and respectable hands. I -am an artist--a student of life--what you will. Each one to his trade. -Perhaps when I have got what I want out of Jack it may amuse me to show -him the desirability of not 'lamming cats' bloomin' 'eds open with -a chopper.' I don't know--I'm not altogether devoid of moral sense. -Winifred's tender heart may be touched, and between the two of us we may -turn him out a mild-eyed journeyman carpenter, a member of the Y. M. C. -A., a model of all the virtues. But I very much doubt it. He has vice in -his blood. But perhaps I am wounding some of your susceptibilities, Mr. -Kent? You may be a social reformer, and keener than I on these matters. -If so, pardon me. We artists are privileged, you know, to view life from -our own standpoint.” - -Kent threw up his hand and dropped it--a little gesture of deprecation. -He, too, had large views on humanity and its needs. He was even then -sacrificing comfort, fame, ease, such as other men understand them, so -as to serve it. But it was according to his own capabilities. It was a -darling scientific work, that on the most modest computation would -take him twenty years to complete--an unthankful task; his name to be -remembered with reverential gratitude by some half dozen workers, to -perish unheard of by the remaining millions of mankind. But these half -dozen would use the result of his life's energies to the advancement of -human prosperity, and that thought glowed within Kent's heart. Still a -man has not time for all things. He honestly disclaimed pretensions to -being a social reformer. He was also artistically sympathetic enough to -appreciate Clytie's attitude as regards Jack. He was nearer to her in -spirit than Winifred, who was pained at Clytie's speech. She would have -cried out with the sharpness of the pain had it not been for Kent's -presence. And she would have been revolted at the cynical callousness -had it not been for the blind adoration with which she bowed before -Clytie. Whatever Clytie did was right, she told herself, and she was a -poor little body who could not understand these things. But her heart -bled for Jack, and she wondered why Clytie's did not bleed also. - -“I spoke idly,” said Kent. “I am sorry. If all artists set about -reforming their models, their hands would be too full for art. But he -is a little brute all the same, and, as you say, Peckham Rye would be -startled by him. But why do you want to shock Philistia?” - -“Would _you_ like to live in it, be of it, and worship at comfortably -timed intervals in its correctly appointed temple of Dagon?” - -“No,” laughed Kent. “They wouldn't have me in it. I think they could -stand less of me than I of them. They are God's creatures after all, you -know. If you prick them, they bleed--and so forth. If they admire your -little pictures, which I too admire vastly, there must be some saving -grace in the Philistines.” - -Clytie shrugged her shoulders. - -“But why should I be obliged to paint in their way, and not in my way? -That is what irritates me.” - -“Have you tried them with your way, as you call it?” - -Even Winifred could scarcely forbear flashing at Clytie a little smile -of tender malice. - -“God bless my soul!” she whispered softly, and the two broke into -unconstrained laughter. - -“Winifred is quoting, Mr. Kent. It was an elderly gentleman, stout, -florid, lots of watch-chain--one of my patrons. He had bought one of my -pictures at the dealer's, and came for another. Burrowes showed him one -of my own own things. Winifred and I happened to be at the back of the -shop at the time. The old gentleman put on his spectacles, looked at the -picture, gave such a jump, held it in the light, and then gasped out: -'God bless my soul, Burrowes, has the young woman taken to drink?'” - -“What did you do?” - -“I don't know what I should have done if Winnie had not held me back.” - As it was, Burrowes whispered to him that the artist was overhearing the -conversation. - -“'Well, it will do her good,' says the old gentleman, and he went out -storming. Then Burrowes came to me and complained that I had lost him a -customer. He has the soul of a pork-butcher, that man!” - -Then turning to Kent, her cheeks still flushed with anecdotal animation: - -“That's how it is, you see!” - -“Well,” said Kent, “perhaps you have reason to owe Philistia a grudge. -I haven't. If it shuts its respectable doors on me, I shrug my shoulders -and set up my wigwam outside, where I can smoke my pipe in peace. It is -better not to care for the world--or anything, for that matter, if one -has work to do. One's keenness on life ought to leave one no time for -hating one's fellow-creatures.” - -Winifred looked at Clytie, expecting to see her resent the implied -rebuke. But Clytie only laughed softly to herself, leaning back in her -chair, looking at her finger tips. - -“You are by way of being a tonic, Mr. Kent,” she said, without looking -at him. - -Kent was disconcerted, could not find a reply. He stroked his tawny -beard and moustache with his free hand, and looked at her somewhat -puzzled. He had uttered his own robust faith, and she had seized a -personal reference with which she appeared not displeased. - -At last he said: - -“I don't mean to imply that you are cynical, Miss Davenant. But you -are a little vindictive. I, too, often think of that passage in 'Sartor -Resartus' where Carlyle strips the clothes off the courtiers at St. -James's and leaves them bare, with their bowings and scrapings--do you -remember? Well, it would be a very good thing for them. You would come -down to pure humanity and find it really a very lovable, great-hearted -thing after all.” - -“Then, for goodness' sake, let us begin to strip the clothes off them at -once!” cried Clytie, changing her attitude, with her usual suddenness. -“That's what I want to do. I want real men, real women; that's why I -take human nature in the rough”--making a comprehensive sweep with her -hand round the studio--“The clothes these things wear don't matter; you -can see the passions working through the rents and tears.” - -“Umph!” said Kent. “You may see something that will frighten you one of -these days. There's plenty of good in humanity, but there's plenty of -bad. You had better get hold of what is good first. It will give you a -foundation.” - -Shortly afterwards Kent took his leave. He had paid a longer visit than -he had anticipated. He found himself pitying Clytie again upon new, less -definable grounds. He was much struck by her work, her frankness, her -independence. She was a novelty to him, different from the few other -women he knew. She seemed to have everything calculated to make a woman -happy and her life full, and yet he was sorry for her. Why, he could not -tell. - -He went up to his attics, and prepared to spend his usual working -evening. Afterwards, towards half-past eleven, he might walk across -to South Kensington. He took from one of the cupboards beneath the -dresser-table plates, knife and fork, a half-finished tin of sardines, -bread and butter. This, together with a bottle of beer, formed his -frugal evening meal. His midday dinner he took at an Italian restaurant -near the Museum. He ate standing, walking about his room between the -mouthfuls, selecting the books he would require for his work, and -pausing now and then over an idly opened volume. His meal finished, he -collected the soiled utensils and stacked them on the landing outside -his door for Mrs. Gurkins to remove, wash, and return to the same place -in the morning. Then he lit his pipe, and settled down to his long -evening's work. - -Thoughts of burned hand, new-found friends, occupied him not. The crisp -whisk of the leaves of his reference-books, the rapid whirr of his quill -pen, the occasional bubble of his green-shaded reading-lamp, were the -only signs of external life of which he was conscious. The rest of the -bare-floored room, with its oddly covered walls, was deep in shadow. But -the light shone in a circle upon the pile of books and papers on which -he was engaged, and lit up strongly his honest, resolute face, with its -intent gray eyes and its kindly mouth half hidden in the moustache and -beard. Kent was happy. The darling work, that served him as mistress, -religion, ambition--over which he had never known a heartache--held him -in its enchantment. And the wet slips grew in number around him. - - - - -CHAPTER VI. - -You are going to spend a dismal evening, my dear,” said Mrs. -Farquharson, with a sigh. - -They were sitting on either side of the drawing-room fire, awaiting -dinner guests. - -“Why?” asked Clytie. - -“Oh, the crowd that's coming--fossilised London, with figures like -amphoras and faces like old coins. It's the principle of assimilation, I -suppose. And they'll talk as if there were nothing new under the sun.” - -“There isn't much.” - -“Isn't there? Wait till you have lived a little longer. At any rate -there are murders and divorces and new pictures and the latter end of -the nineteenth century. Why people choose to live a couple of thousand -years before their time I can't make out. You'll see. They'll all look -as if they had been excavated--except George, and he looks as if they -had never taken the trouble to bury him. Thank goodness, they have all -got weak digestions and don't dine out much, or else we should have them -here every week.” - -“But the wives are coming too,” said Clytie by way of consolation. - -“Poor things! They all look weary with many proof-sheets crammed with -circumflexes over impossible letters, and wrong-headed pictures of birds -and beasts. All archaeologists are not like George, you know.” - -“But then no one is like George.” - -“That's a mercy,” said Mrs. Farquharson settling herself with much -comfort among the cushions of her chair. “Don't you get married, my -dear; stay independent. Do you know, one of the beings is going to read -a paper. Pity me.” - -“It seems as if I am to be pitied too,” remarked Clytie. - -“Ah! but you are young and can make fun out of them. I can't.” - -The occasion was a meeting of Mr. Farquharson's archaeological set. The -inner circle dined at each other's houses in turn once a month, and the -outer circle came in later, for the “conversazione,” as Mrs. Farquharson -called it, with a little shudder. A paper was usually read, followed -by a discussion, from which the more flippant seceded and gossipped -casually in odd corners. Clytie had never been to one of these strangely -homogeneous reunions. The people she generally met at her friends' house -were miscellaneous, and the talk danced about upon all subjects under -heaven, wreathed in blue curls of cigarette smoke. Mrs. Farquharson had -begged her to come and support her--“to strike a note of colour among -the gray ruins.” Clytie looked forward to the incongruous formalism of -the evening with an anticipation of amusement. - -She hinted as much to Mr. Farquharson when he came into the -drawing-room. He laughed, bowed his long, ungainly figure, hoped that -Miss Davenant had come to be instructed. Professor Petherick was to read -a paper on an aureus of Geta of the type Cohen No. 11,--Clytie and her -hostess communed with each other dumbly,--and many rare coins were to -be exhibited. He trusted that Miss Davenant would be appreciative and -on her best behaviour. Numismatics was not a subject that lent itself to -flippancy. - -“My wife can turn the house into a bear-garden every Sunday evening, -more shame to her, though she does sit and smile in her superior way. -But twice a year I assert my individuality and this house becomes sober -and respectable. So no cigarettes to-night, Miss Davenant. When I put on -these dress-clothes I am rigid.” - -“You look very nice,” said Clytie. - -He looked down at himself complacently, accepting the flattery; such is -man. He always insisted upon wearing very square-toed kid boots, a high -buttoned waistcoat with a chain made of old coins banded across it, a -deep velvet collar to his dress-coat, and a shirt-collar, with two long -ends that served as a tie, beneath his beard. - -“I like him better in his velvet jacket,” said Mrs. Farquharson. “Go and -put it on, George.” - -But George shook his head sadly. He must be properly attired to discuss -an aureus of Geta. - -The guests arrived, seven in number, and they went down to the -dining-room. Clytie sat between Professor Petherick, a little rosy man -with a bald head and gastronomic appreciation, and a young clergyman -who had taken her in to dinner. She had been for so long a time outside -Church influences that a strange little Durdleham qualm come over her. -He looked stern, overworked, dreadfully in earnest, she thought, not -likely to sympathise with the Thelemite joyousness of life of the house -whose motto was, “_Fays ce que vouldras_.” He was the only bachelor -among the guests. The six others, including the professor, consisted of -three married couples, middle-aged, respectable. Mr. Vansittart was a -great Egyptologist. It was of his wife, a faded, weary-looking woman, -that Mrs. Farquharson had so pathetically spoken with reference to the -correction of proof-sheets. Mrs. Petherick was literary, fond of lions. -Her talk was a catalogue raisonné of her menagerie. Mr. Farquharson -listened politely and went on with his dinner. The remaining couple -were the Chowders, retired Anglo-Indians, who found only late in life -an opportunity of gratifying their ruling passions--on her part -an undisturbed warm bath of domesticity; on his, archaeological -dilettanteism. She was florid and buxom; he bronzed and shrivelled. -Both talked on their pet subjects. The Rev. Victor Treherne was a keen -numismatist. “A recognised authority,” Farquharson had whispered to -Clytie. “Will give Petherick beans if he goes wrong.” Clytie knew -nothing of numismatics. She did not know the difference between a moidur -and a bezant, nor did she seek enlightenment from her neighbour. She -questioned him as to his environment--North London, a large parish, -chiefly poor. The conversation languished, then it brightened up through -common effort. Each had a King Charles the First's head to keep in the -background, feeling it to be distasteful to the other. Treherne had -left his parish behind, and had brought no other interests with him save -those circling round the famous aureus, a matter of supreme indifference -to Clytie, who, for her part, had been cautioned to act as the superior -Ki-Pi-Yu, friend of Confucius, did on certain occasions--roll her -principles up and keep them in her breast. Each, too, divined dimly -the other's personality, and they talked eagerly, seeking to like and -interest one another through a current of mutual antipathy. - -The professor and Mrs. Farquharson were talking less unreservedly on the -question of female disabilities. He had theories on the sacredness of -woman's mission. Mrs. Farquharson's views were more materialistic. Her -early training had disabused her of the oak and ivy illusion, which the -professor still entertained. - -“No, it's no use, professor,” she said. “A man has got to go his way and -a woman hers. If their ways lie together, so much the better--they can -help each other; if they lie apart, so much the worse. Besides, I cannot -conceive anything more irritating to a man than to be followed all about -by his wife--like a dog. No wonder some men beat their wives.” - -Treherne had caught the speech. He turned to Clytie. “Do you believe -that?” - -“Of course. Mrs. Farquharson and I are sworn sisters. We hold advanced -views concerning ourselves. I hope you don't think we have a mission! -Have you ever thought how distressing it is to try to live up to a false -ideal, and somebody else's into the bargain?” - -“We all have to live up to an ideal. This one may be false; I don't -know. At any rate it is a high one, and worth aiming at.” - -“That is Jesuitical. What is to become of a woman's self-respect when -she knows all the time she is a humbug, although a sublime one?” - -“By seeking to inspire others with faith in her she will at length -acquire faith in herself.” - -“Don't you think that's rather vicious?” - -“I don't know. The same principle obtains in my own calling. Many a man -enters the Church who is not really fit for it. But the professional -effort he has to make to raise others in most cases raises himself.” - -“That may be quite true,” said Clytie, “but it does not prove the -principle to be right. Besides, the cases are different. You undertake, -when you enter the Church, to do certain things. Now when a woman enters -the world she does not undertake to do anything, any more than a man -does. They both clamour to assert themselves as human beings. They may -go about it in different ways,--it is merely the difference of sex,--but -their ultimate end is the same.” - -“And what is this?” - -“To get as much out of life as possible.” - -“That's scarcely orthodox.” - -The accompanying smile was a touch of the curb on Clytie. She paused. -There was an interval of dining. Then she turned to reply to a remark -of the professor. Mrs. Farquharson, who hitherto had steered skilfully -through the shoals of antiquity, was run aground by Colonel Chowder. -Clytie was astonished to hear her friend talking learnedly of coins and -Latin inscriptions. She ran discursively over the points of George's -collection, toning her speech with a light counterpoint of mockery, -so that its echo should reach Clytie's ears. Mrs. Chowder bubbled -domesticity over the Egyptologist; spoke of her sons, the difficulty -of army examinations. She was bent upon their getting into the -service, also upon their marrying young. The reconciliation of these -incongruities was the problem offered for Mr. Vansittart's solution. - -Clytie again turned to Mr. Treherne. - -“Do you often come here? I am almost of the house and I have never met -you.” - -“Once before, on a similar occasion--almost the same circle. A common -hobby brings the most divergent people together.” - -“It is a pity you and I have not got one,” said Clytie, flashing a -malicious glance at him. - -“Perhaps we have. What do you mostly do?” - -“Paint--for my living.” - -“An artist! What is your line?” - -“Anything human--they call it _genre_--street life--the very poor.” - -“The poor? Then we have a common hobby after all!” - -“Perhaps,” replied Clytie. “But I am afraid we ride it in opposite -directions.” - -“Do you know much of their lives--go among them?” - -“Not much; I see them only externally, from an artist's point of view. I -should like to see deeper.” - -A light burned for a moment in the young clergyman's gray eyes. - -“Would you care for work among them?” - -“As a student, perhaps; as a reformer, no!” - -“One generally leads to the other.” - -“In that case I'll not run the risk,” she replied laughing. - -An hour later the drawing-room was filled with the evening guests, -mostly men. Women archaeologists are scarce. The sentiment with which -they inwrap relics of the past harms the pure scientific spirit of -inquiry. Thus Mr. Farquharson to Clytie, briefly explanative. She -laughed, reminded him how lately in a sentimental mood he had accused -women of lack of imagination; she reproached him for inconsistency. - -“Inconsistency is a principle of the art of living,” he replied -epigrammatically, moving away. - -The men stood in groups about the room chatting on personalities, -examining the display of coin-cases arranged here and there upon the -tables, each under the soothing light of a shaded lamp. The professor -stood by himself on the hearthrug, hemming irritably, anxious to read -his paper. The talk was subdued, attitudes formal, a contrast to -the ordinary easy abandonment of that drawing-room. The men were of a -different type, mostly elderly, sedate. Mrs. Farquharson rested for a -moment from her exertions as hostess by Clytie's side. - -“Now for a minute's peace. I wish the men would smoke, they all look so -woebegone; but George says they mustn't. Now, then, my dear, I haven't -seen you for ages, except for those five minutes before dinner; what -have you been doing lately?” - -“Nothing much--working. Oh! yes, I have, though. I have found a new -chum.” - -“What is she like?” - -“It isn't a she, it's a he.” - -“Where does he come from?” asked Mrs. Farquharson, arching her -eyebrows. - -“From the skies, apparently: in the first case to put out a fire in my -room--he lives over me in the attics----” - -“Clytie! You must be careful. Who is he? What's his name?” - -“Caroline,” said her husband's deep voice behind her chair, “I don't -think you know Mr. Kent.” - -Clytie started round violently at the shock of the coincidence. Kent -was standing by her side, looking odd, changed, a bit Philistine in his -evening dress. He wore a glove over his burned hand. - -They talked, explained their meeting. He had had a numismatic -acquaintance with Mr. Farquharson for a long time past. Had received -his invitation at the Museum, his private address not being known to -his host. Clytie described her own privileged position in the household, -speaking frankly, vivaciously. She felt a little thrill of pleasure at -seeing him there. He seemed, more than the other guests, in harmony with -the traditions of the house. They had not time for much conversation, -social exigencies separating them. Besides, a general buzz and a -subsiding into chairs or restful attitudes sounded the warning that -Professor Petherick was about to read his paper. - -He described the coin that had come into his possession,--previously it -had been passed round for the inspection of the guests,--claiming it to -be a finer specimen than the one in the Caylus collection. The figure of -Castor beside his horse, without the pileus, on the reverse, he argued -was a portrait of the unfortunate young co-emperor. The legend on the -obverse proclaimed that it was a coin of Geta. He took this as the text -for a learned disquisition upon the aureus, tracing its origin, the -variations in its weight, to the time of Justinian, who fixed it as a -limit stake for a throw of the dice. He quoted Pitiscus, Eckhel, many -learned authorities. He read in a bland, easy tone, confident of his -facts and his deductions. - -Clytie felt relieved when he had finished. Across the room she had now -and then caught Kent's eye, which had a humourous twinkle in it. She, -who an hour before had been scoffing at the dry-as-dust nature of -numismatics as a pursuit, now felt a consciousness of inferiority, of -being relegated to the tribe feminine, who are not expected to care for -intellectual matters. She nourished a seed of resentment against Kent -and all archaeologists. But when the usual discussion on the paper began -she set an example of interest in it to Mr. Vansittart, who had come -over and sat down by her side. Really, she was curious to see what part -Kent would take in the discussion. He seemed to find many acquaintances -in the room, and an appreciative welcome from each. She experienced -a strange sense of satisfaction at the dispelling of an unformulated -apprehension lest he might be unknown, insignificant. She had seen him -several times since his visit to the studio; once they had met at -Sloane Square station and had walked home together. The acquaintance was -ripening into friendliness. Now she was interested at seeing him in a -new environment. Our conception of people changes very much according -to the conditions with which we associate them. But Kent in the -drawing-room, despite his unfamiliar attire, seemed much the same as -Kent in the studio, his manner towards the men she saw him talking with -much the same as his manner towards her. Presently he rose, broke into -the discussion. The principal participators listened with apparent -respect to his remarks, few in number, but apt. - -“Well, Mr. Kent is an authority,” said the professor, surrendering a -particular point with a certain grace. - -The little tribute fell gratefully on Clytie's ears. Suddenly she became -conscious that her pleasure was greater than the occasion warranted. She -turned round quickly to Mr. Vansittart, who was taking but mild interest -in the affair, and somewhat abruptly opened a conversation. The Rev. Mr. -Treherne joined them soon afterwards, asking permission to introduce a -friend. Thus it came about that Clytie had a small group around her, and -her interest in Kent's proceedings was checked for a time. - -Meanwhile Mrs. Farquharson had threaded her way through the crowd of -black coats, and taken Kent off with her to an undisturbed corner. She -was curious to examine Clytie's new “chum.” - -“So you live in the same house as Clytie Davenant. You rescued her from -the flames, didn't you? She told me something about it. What happened, -exactly?” - -Kent sketched briefly the little scene with the blazing curtains, and -mentioned his visit next day and his subsequent meetings with Clytie. He -politely expressed his agreeable surprise at meeting her to-night. - -“And what do you think of her?” asked Mrs. Farquharson confidentially. -“I dare say it's an odd question, but if you will come and see us again, -you will find we are given to saying odd things.” - -“Like Miss Davenant?” - -“You have found that out already? Well, come, what do you think of her?” - -“Honestly, or conventionally?” - -“If I meant conventionally, I should not ask you the question.” - -Kent waited for a moment, stroking his beard. He was scarcely prepared -with an answer even to satisfy himself. - -“I don't know. She is a bit too complicated to be defined in a phrase -like a term in Euclid. She is nearer to a man than any woman I know.” - -Mrs. Farquharson smiled inwardly, noting the phrase, yet liking him -for it. It was so deliciously wrong, so absurdly off the track. She -contemplated him from the empyrean of feminine wisdom, and from that -moment took him under her protection. To blunder honestly in things -feminine is one of the ways to a woman's pity, thence often to her -heart. She encouraged him, however, instead of correcting him. - -“Why do you say that?” - -“For one reason, because I can talk to her as I would to a man. She has -ideas and is not afraid of expressing them. In fact, she is different -from the ordinary women one meets.” - -“Oh, yes! she is that,” Mrs. Farquharson granted. “She is all for _le -nouveau jeu_. When I want to tease her I tell her she will find it -_le vieux jeu_ all the time, but she won't believe it.” Then suddenly, -“Don't you think she is very pretty?” - -“Pretty?” echoed Kent in some confusion. “Really, yes, I suppose she is. -I hardly thought about it,” and leaning his body aside, so as to catch a -distant glimpse of Clytie between the forms of the little circle of men -round her, he added, “she is very pretty.” - -And truly it was a fair picture that his eye fell upon. She was wearing -a simple dress of ivory-coloured silk, falling in soft, straight folds -to her feet. Her low-cut bodice was relieved only by a ruffle of old -lace along the top, and the sole ornament she wore, a necklet of antique -silver, brought out the delicate modelling of her shapely neck, as -she sat talking animatedly, her chin pointing upwards. Her rich, vivid -colouring compensated for any lack of relief in her costume. The intense -blue of her eyes, the many glints in her auburn hair, twisted in a -careless knot at the back of her small, shapely head, and kept in place -by a broad silver arrow, would of themselves have supplied the place of -any ornament. - -“She is very pretty indeed--striking!” repeated Kent. - -Mrs. Farquharson looked at him amusedly. - -“You must be an original, Mr. Kent. Fancy knowing Clytie Davenant -without thinking of her looks!” - -“I am a great bear,” replied Kent. “My sister says so, and brothers -and sisters generally speak the truth to each other. Of course I have -thought of Miss Davenant's looks, in a way--admired her artistically; -but I have never realised in her society that I have been talking to a -pretty girl--one consciously so. She does not seem to expect you to be -impressed with her looks. That's one thing that I like about her.” - -Mrs. Farquharson carried on the conversation a little further and then -directed it into other channels. She was pleased with Kent, and made a -mental note to see more of him. A man who could like Clytie and yet -not reflect upon her personal attractiveness was, as she had said, an -oddity, and Mrs. Farquharson made oddities rather a speciality. - -It was growing late and there was a perceptible thinning in the numbers -of the guests. A few enthusiasts lingered fondly over the showcases, -comparing their contents with specimens in their own or other -collections. Among these was Treherne, by himself, deeply cogitative. -He arrested Kent, who was passing by to speak to Clytie, whom he had -scarcely seen during the evening, as he had felt bound to take an honest -and practical interest in the proceedings. The question that Treherne -desired Kent's help in solving was a knotty one, and the two men bent -over the table absorbed in deciphering an obliterated obverse. When the -matter was settled Kent looked around for Clytie, but she had already -disappeared. There was nothing left for him to do but to take his leave. - -“If you care for a Bohemian Sunday evening scramble, when everyone talks -inconsequent nonsense--quite a different thing from to-night,” said Mrs. -Farquharson, shaking hands--“we shall be very glad to see you.” - -In the hall he was pleased to see Clytie, fur cloaked, waiting for a -cab. She gave him a frank smile of recognition. With his white slouch -hat and waterproof--a new one--his figure seemed to her very familiar. -He talked to her for a moment or two, until the cab was announced. - -“How are you going home?” she said when they were on the pavement. - -“Walk,” he replied briefly. - -“But it's raining hard--would you accept a lift?” - -He opened the swing doors for her, shielding her dress from the muddy -wheels as she entered, and then hesitated a moment. He had in fact been -intending to pay one of his midnight visits to his South Kensington -friends, but Clytie thought his hesitation was due to considerations of -propriety. She laughed with a little thrill of defiance as she settled -herself comfortably in a corner. The touch of rebelliousness let loose -an unwonted shaft of coquetry. - -“Of course if you think it would do you more good to walk in the rain -than drive dry with me----” - -The interval between her two remarks had been very short, taken up -entirely with the process of Clytie's seating herself in the cab, but -still Kent felt he had been somewhat unchivalrous. - -“If you really don't mind, I shall be very grateful,” he said by way of -making amends as he took his seat by her side. - -After all, driving with Clytie was not unpleasant, he reflected, and he -could see Wither and Fairfax any day. That Clytie should have made her -offer did not seem unnatural. He frankly informed her of the cause of -his hesitation. - -“I paid you the compliment of being mistaken,” said Clytie. - -“What do you mean?” he asked, catching a glimpse of her face in the -swift gleam of a gas-lamp. She was smiling, in good humour. - -“Oh! if you are mystified, so much the better,” she exclaimed, “It will -be my little revenge.” - -And that was all the explanation she vouchsafed him. - -However, that drive spun a thread of intimacy between them. There are -few conditions of companionship so favourable as those in a hansom cab. -The driver is practically non-existent; the three sides and roof of the -vehicle form a temporary home, a _chez soi_. The outside world lies in -front of one, very near, and yet one is out of it. Even the desolate -squares, with their occasional lamps blinking through the mist, and -their wet, sooty trees rustling reluctantly as the wind passes through -them, and their gaunt houses, each grimly and jealously guarding its -household, giving the sense of the awful isolation of souls, fail to -depress as they invariably depress the sensitive pedestrian. There is -again the cheerful rattle which precludes sustained conversation, but -encourages disjointed, intimate talk. The rush of the air, the whirling -past of figures and objects, is exhilarating even in the vilest -of weather and in the dreariest of neighbourhoods. The rapid night -glimpses, too, of coffee-stalls, their lamps glaring upon the -surrounding idlers; public houses, with the sudden babel of voices -issuing from an opened door; walkers of the pavement forlornly standing -with white, indistinguishable faces, 'buses steaming and labouring -with their somnolent fares; every 'bus-load the counterpart of the last; -swifter still, the glimpses of the occupants of other cabs that pass, -stimulating the imagination; a phantasmagoria of life, almost unreal, -yet bringing into play some of the lighter elemental forces of nature. - -Clytie was almost sorry when the cab stopped at the familiar side-door -next to the shop where the legend of “Gurkins, green-grocer,” was dimly -visible through the gloom. Much of the mere woman in her had risen to -the surface, obscuring the artist, the hater of formulas, the restless -seeker after the mysteries of life. She had felt childish, frivolous, -thus appearing in a new light to Kent, not without a certain charm, -although he wondered to himself whether she, after all, was not like the -rest of womankind--“fundamentally silly.” This was a famous dictum of -his. - -But when the door closed behind them, and the narrow, ill-lighted, -close-smelling passage leading to the gloomy staircase struck upon her -senses, the realities of life came sharply before her, and her usual -independence of thought and action reasserted itself. Otherwise, when -she had said good-night to Kent on the landing and had found her room in -darkness, she would not have called him back to light her lamp for her, -and, that done, have asked him to remain for a short chat. He was struck -by the change to her usual frank tones, and seeking half unconsciously -for a reason, attributed his late impression to an illusion on his part -caused by the darkness and dispelled by the light, by which he could see -her face. - -“You smoke, I know,” she said, throwing her wraps on to the sofa. “You -must be dying for some tobacco. What do you smoke?” - -“Oh! a pipe,” he replied with much fervour, instantly seeking for it in -his pocket. - -Clytie turned to poke the fire. It was black and sulky, and her efforts -were of not much avail. - -“Let me try,” said Kent, bending down with her on the hearthrug; “this -is a thing not generally known.” - -He threw a lighted match on to the fire, the escaping gases burst into -flame, and cheerfulness was established in the grate. - -A trivial incident, but it was recognised by them both in after years as -having served to cement their comradeship. - - - - -CHAPTER VII. - -The friendship between them ripened imperceptibly. Each day brought its -tiny thread linking them together, so gradually, so subtly, that it was -not until long afterwards that they realised the immense strength of -the bond. At first it was mere honest liking on both sides, a pleasant -consciousness of discovery, an ordinary attraction between two natures, -distinct, yet more or less complementary. Clytie found it written in her -Book of New Formulas that the loyal friendship between a man and a woman -was a strengthening element of existence. In her fierce pride and young -vigour she would not allow that each supplied what the other lacked, -according to the popular theory--the man strength, the woman grace--but -asserted strenuously the truth that each could lend the other elements -of strength the same in degree, but different in kind, owing to the -difference of sex. If it had been suggested to her that her weaker -woman's nature instinctively, in spite of perfect emancipation and proud -independence, sought the man's protecting fibre, the whole amazon within -her would have been up in arms. She found in Kent a man whom she could -meet upon a ground of perfect equality--perfectly even, neither blocked -by prejudices and social barriers nor haunted by sexual spectres. She -was woman enough, however, to perceive intuitively certain shynesses in -Kent, resulting from a half knowledge of her, that would have kept him -aloof in spite of a very sensible attraction towards her; and in -showing him, therefore, that this attraction was mutual she felt no -compunction,--rather pride, on the contrary, in reaching a superior -plane in which conduct was measured by superior standards. - -And thus it came about that the eternal feminine once more deceived -itself, mistaking nature for what it called the Fine Art of Life. - -Kent, for his part, did not attempt to realise the charm that made his -fingers close daily on the handle of the studio door. He accepted the -offered friendship, and returned it as frankly as it was given. It -became as natural to stop at the studio, before mounting to his -attics on his return home from the Museum, as to burst into the South -Kensington “monastery” for a midnight rubber. Variety, fresh interests, -were brought into his life, vivid as it was with darling hopes and full -working energies. It was refreshing to come once again into the sphere, -familiar and dear to him during his father's lifetime, of practical art. -It was something for him to look forward to, during his tramp home--the -stage nearer completeness effected during a day's work in an artistic -creation. Gradually, in his blunt, paternal way, he constituted himself -the censor of Clytie's work, criticising irregularities, suggesting -treatment. There grew within him, too, a brotherly kindness towards -Winifred, who looked forward also to his afternoon visit, when she would -shyly uncover the small canvas and receive with a gratified flush his -meed of appreciation. - -He arrived after the tea-things had been cleared away, when the day's -work was over, in the twilight hour, outstaying Winifred a short while, -whose evening family meal was half an hour before Clytie's dinner. -It was in these short periods of companionship, when they were alone -together, that, unconsciously to themselves, the finer touches were -added to the broader intimacy that the previous half hour had brought -one step further in development. Piece by piece, by means of a reference -here, a petulant outburst there, he grew familiar with the ambitions -and struggles of her past life. He was quick to catch a certain note -of disappointment. She had not yet become a great artist, was defiantly -certain that she could never be one. - -“Of course you won't if you use your art as a stepping-stone to life,” - he said one day. - -She marked the saying, resolving, however, half rebelliously to make -him belie his words in the days to come. She, too, gathered from him -the nature of his hope and aspirations, wondered at the cheerful -selflessness with which he contemplated the work that would bring him -neither name nor fame, nor the things that many men desire. - -One day he took Clytie and Winifred up to his attic museum, pleased as a -boy to show them his treasures. Winifred praised the bright neatness of -his arrangements. He confessed guiltily that he had been “tidying up”--a -process that had cost him the whole of the previous Sunday. Many of his -pictures had been left him by his father, particularly his collection of -Aldegravers, over which he fondly lingered, lamenting that the old days -of pure design were over, and railing at the mercenary spirit of modern -art. He counselled Clytie to study the little masters for her book -illustrating. She would learn restraint, abstraction. - -“But it's no good preaching Dürer and Behm in these days,” he added -pathetically, with the resignation of the collector who does not expect -his hobby to be understood. - -Clytie laughed softly, sympathetic with his enthusiasms. No real artist -can help loving the little masters. But Clytie's artistic impulses -warred with each other, with circumstance, and with herself. So she -refused to sit, for practical purposes, at the foot of Aldegraver. She -ran over the titles of books, borrowed a couple, which he recommended, -from the general literature section, stood in some dismay before the -scientific specialist's library, and asked to see what was visible of -the great work. He gave her some bundles of manuscript, which she turned -over helplessly and handed back without a word. They were evidences of -a world of infinite toil and devotion not yet intelligible to her. She -gazed around the picturesque walls of the room that contrasted strangely -with the carpetless floor and the fenderless grate. The absence of -the minor softnesses of material life struck her vividly. There were -evidences of a high love for art, but art in a too rarefied atmosphere -for her nature. She would have liked to curtain the windows,--they were -even destitute of blinds,--to put rugs about the floor, to soften the -room with drapery, plants, flowers; even an armchair beside the -fire would have been aesthetically as well as physically reposeful. -Winifred's simpler feminine impulses struck the true chord. - -“Why doesn't your sister make you some pretty things for your room?” - -“She does--heaps of things.” - -“Where are they, then?” - -Kent looked at her with humorous shamefacedness. - -“I am afraid I have a drawer full of them somewhere,” he replied. - -“Well, your room is very much like yourself,” she said in a low voice, -and hesitating a little. “You both lack the same thing.” - -And blundering John Kent misread the oracle, accepting it as a reproach -for brotherly unkindness. - -Meanwhile Clytie's “own” picture of the model Jack was developing into a -more finished and more ambitious work than she had originally intended. -On Kent's suggestion she had toned down some of its brutality without -rendering less vivid the presentation of the problem. She thought of -trying to exhibit the picture when it was completed; Jack therefore -continued to appear in the studio at irregular intervals. Winifred -encouraged him now, trying to humanise him with picture-books, stories, -and simple talk, but Clytie shook her head at her gentle friend's -efforts, conceiving them, with her fuller and more materialistic -knowledge, to be entirely futile. Still Winifred obtained from him more -details of what Clytie called his private life than she herself could -do. With both of them he was fierce and sullen, but with Winifred he -was more cynically expansive. These details only supplemented the data -afforded by his own personality. Sometimes he went to the board school, -where he was in the third standard; oftener he stayed away. He slept in -his mother's room, ate his desultory food there with the fierceness of a -young wolf; but his real home was in the street. Once he had been given -a situation as satellite to a thriving costermonger, but the restraints -of regular employment had chafed him into resignation of his post. -Besides, his employer had thrashed him unmercifully. As for his -parentage, he was entirely ignorant; he did not care. To his mind it -was a merciful dispensation of Providence that he only had one parent -to irritate and annoy him. He liked to come to the studio because it was -warm and comfortable, besides which he obtained a shilling at the end -of the day to be expended on inferior tobacco when together with his -playmates. - -One morning, earlier than usual, he slouched up the stairs and, contrary -to custom, found the studio door open and the apartment empty. He -entered, swinging the door with him, which, being caught by the draught -from an open skylight, slammed with sudden violence. If he had heard -the quick rattle of a falling door-knob, his subsequent conduct would -doubtless have been modified. He was alone in the studio; he waited -idly, lying in front of the stove; but as no one came, he began to -feel restless. He rose to his feet, wandered about, shut the skylight, -examined the contents of the studio. He found a packet of cigarettes -lying about, which he pocketed; an investigation of the cupboard in -the wall rewarded him with some lumps of sugar and some sweet biscuits. -Still no one came, which was not extraordinary, as his employer had not -yet thought of breakfasting. No further resources being offered to his -predatory instincts, he proceeded to look at the pictures, with which he -had already a contemptuous familiarity. The only one for which he had -a genuine admiration, or rather the barbarian's feeling of awe at any -counterfeit presentment of himself, was his own portrait. At this he -seldom tired of looking. - -He took down from the wall a little painted mirror, and, sitting on the -stool in front of the picture, proceeded to compare the original and the -portrait. He saw that the resemblance was not quite perfect, and like -a monkey he grimaced into the looking-glass until he had reproduced the -expression that Clytie had fixed upon the canvas. Then he laughed in -great glee, scratched his black curly head, and went in quest of further -occupation. He crossed over to Winifred's easel and took off the cloth. -He had no great idea of “the other one's” picture. It did not interest -him. But, unfortunately, in his simian mood, an idea shot through his -mind. Why should he not try to paint too? - -He mounted upon Winifred's seat, took her palette in his hand as he had -seen her hold it, with his small, dirty thumb through the hole in the -white porcelain, gathered the little sheaf of brushes, arranged the -mahl-stick imitatively, and, dipping a brush into the remains of some -Chinese white, tried to fill in some anemones. They were only splotches -of white paint, but the occupation absorbed him. In a very few moments -the whole canvas was starred with Jack's white dabs. Then, growing tired -of the monotony of white,--the colours on the palette did not attract -him,--he fetched Clytie's, which was more richly prepared, and painted -in strokes of crimson and yellow. The delight of colour fascinated him. -He obliterated all the white, daubed the canvas over and over with heavy -streaks, laughing aloud with the spirit of diabolical mischief. Then, -with a fox terrier's or a monkey's instinct of destruction, he took up -the palette-knife and stabbed holes through the canvas. - -He contemplated his work for a moment, and then, the very human -anticipation of consequences occurring to his mind, he bethought himself -of flight. But, to his dismay, he found the door-handle had fallen off -when the door had slammed, and that he was a prisoner until someone -should open it from outside. He paused for a moment in the middle of -the room, reflecting. Then he covered up his handiwork carefully with -a cloth, scrupulously replaced the palettes and brushes, and curled -himself up in his usual doglike attitude by the stove, there to await -events. - -After a time there came a rattle of the knob-screw being fitted into the -vacant hole in the lock, which made his heart beat, and Clytie entered -the room humming a song. She was surprised to find him there, and -elicited a monosyllabic explanation of his presence. She was in a good -humour and talked lightly to him as she moved about the studio, changing -the water of some flowers. The errand-boy from the shop below came up -with Winnie's anemones that had been put in a cool place over night -to keep them fresh one day longer. Clytie set them on the stand beside -Winifred's easel. Jack watched her, looked at the door, measuring the -distance. - -“Where are you going?” Clytie asked sharply as she turned round and -caught him stealing across the room. - -He was terribly afraid of her. Those great dark blue eyes seemed to -command him. He never could meet them with his own. He relapsed doggedly -into his position by the stove. Clytie touched the anemones daintily, -picking some faded leaves, still humming her song. In lightness of heart -she took off the cloth to look at Winnie's work, and then fell back with -a cry of horror and anger. A swift glance at Jack brought her knowledge. - -“You little fiend!” she cried with eyes aflame, and catching the -cowering, sullen urchin by the collar of shirt and jacket, she dragged -him out of the studio, on to the landing. - -Kent happened to have just gone down the stairs on his way out. The -noise of the scuffle reached him in the entrance passage and brought him -up to the studio door. - -“What is the matter?” he asked, taking the boy from Clytie's grasp into -his own. - -“The matter? Go inside. I must call Winnie. Winnie!” - -She opened the sitting-room door. Winifred ran out, holding her gloves, -which she had just taken off, in her hand. - -“That boy--that little devil!” cried Clytie, and they both ran into the -studio. - -Kent had just entered, and was standing before the mutilated picture -holding the boy, who in Kent's hands was struggling violently. Winifred -looked at it for a moment blankly, scarcely understanding. Then the -sickening truth rose to her brain, and she leaned, very white, against -the wall, looking at the others. - -“For God's sake take the little brute out and kill him, Mr. Kent!” - Clytie broke out fiercely. “Murder him! break every bone in his body! To -have done such a thing as that! It is not human.” - -“I'll give him a thundering hiding,” said Kent wrathfully, dragging him -towards the door. - -But Winifred rose quickly, moved her neck, cleared her throat, and laid -her hand on Kent's arm. - -“Don't beat him--I couldn't bear it.” - -“Nonsense, Winnie! sit down,” cried Clytie. “Take him away Mr. Kent, or -I'll do him some mischief myself!” - -Kent shook the urchin till his teeth chattered and his evil little face -grew red. Winifred still clung to his arm. - -“Don't! you shan't do it! He is no better than an animal! He did not -know what he was doing. Nothing you could do to him would give me back -my picture. It would be simple vengeance. Oh, send him away! Send him -away!” and turning from Kent, she burst into tears and clung to Clytie, -sobbing. - -“Miss Marchpane is right,” said Kent slowly and looking at Clytie. “Let -the little brute go. Here, you, go! If ever I see you near the place, I -will give you to a policeman!” - -Visions of the lowering blue storm-cloud, ever seeming to the children -of the streets ready to burst upon their heads, loomed before the little -outcast's imagination. He shivered, shrunk away from Kent's relaxed -grasp, darted a keen, swift look of malignity at Clytie, and disappeared -like a flash through the open door. - -Clytie held Winifred protectingly with one arm, soothing her, mingling -words of comfort with outbursts of self-reproach and unrighteous -indignation. As Jack slipped away she made an impulsive movement -forward, but Winifred restrained her. - -“How dare you let him go?” she exclaimed, turning her anger upon Kent. -“If it had not been for you I would have given him a lesson he'd have -remembered all his life. To do a work of devilry like that and not be -punished! I'll set the police upon him!” - -“No, no!” murmured Winifred. - -“I will. What are reformatories for? Go and call a policeman, Mr. Kent. -It is the least you can do!” - -“I shall leave him alone,” replied Kent. “It would not do him any good -and it would not do Miss Marchpane any good. He'll never come here -again, and I should advise you not to introduce any more of his sort -into your studio. When a child of the flesh and the devil gets hold of a -thing of the spirit, the spiritual suffers.” - -“I do not wish to be lectured,” said Clytie stonily. - -“I am sorry if I have offended you, Miss Davenant,” replied Kent. “I -have the sincerest sympathy with Miss Marchpane for her loss, and I -would do anything in the world to help her or you; and so--good-morning.” - -Kent worked hard that day at the Museum. He was troubled over the -morning's occurrence. He was conscious that he had acted rightly -in acquiescing in Winifred's counsel of mercy, but he had a vague, -inarticulate regret that he had not pleased Clytie. He resolutely set -himself to forget everything in his work and finished earlier than -usual. On his way out he met his friend Wither in the great hall. - -“I have come to carry you off to the club to dine and there to reason -with you,” said the small, gnomelike man. “They are spring-cleaning at -home and the place reeks of freshness and innocence. Greene and Fairfax -like it; they say it's healthy. I prefer the accumulated and mellowed -deposit of winter. It's as bad as washing a meerschaum. Anyhow, it's got -to get coloured a bit, and until it does I clear out and you are coming -to clear with me.” - -“Very well,” replied Kent; “I will waste part of an evening upon you--to -prevent you wasting it yourself more sinfully. You were lucky to catch -me; I was just going.” - -The policeman at the door saluted Kent as he passed out. - -“That ought to have been for me,” said Wither. “I am far the more -reputable-looking of the two.” - -Kent laughed good-humouredly and grasped his ash stick sturdily in his -gloveless hands. The contrast between the dandified elegance of Wither's -dress and his own careless, loose attire appealed to his sense of the -humorous. - -“I'll walk a few yards behind you if you like,” he said, repeating a -familiar and time-honoured jest between them. - -They walked down the great flight of steps and across the courtyard, -where the pigeons were fluttering joyfully in the afternoon sunshine. -When they had arrived at the railings, whose gilt spear-points caught -the sun, Wither turned and looked for a moment at the frowning mass of -the edifice. - -“This always suggests the brain of London, immeasurable in this ugly -poll of a Bloomsbury, with its watery eyes and dejected face, that seems -to be perpetually meditating on death and influenza. I am going to work -up the idea one of these days and turn it into copy.” - -“It certainly does not look promising in the crude state,” observed Kent -by way of encouragement. - -They walked along Oxford Street and down Shaftesbury Avenue. Here, while -passing in front of a photographer's window, their eyes were caught by -a group of complacent people of both sexes--“with superior smiles and -inferior clothes,” as Wither said--described by a legend printed on -the mount as the “Parnassus House Mutual Improvement Society.” Wither -entered the shop and purchased a copy, as a “monument of the stupendous -fatuity of man.” In the comfortable smoking-room of the Junior -Cosmopolitan, St. James's Square, Wither held the photograph out on his -knees before him and discoursed upon it. - -“Look at them,” he said, half hidden in the great armchair. “Dear old -Philistia! When is the Almighty going to redeem his promise and -triumph over it? Mutual improvement!--on the principle of Mark Twain's -islanders, who eked out a precarious livelihood by taking in each -other's washing! This pathetic kind of person belongs to home reading -societies. Do you know what they are? I was staying with the Brownes -last summer; asked the youngest to come and play tennis. She replied -with awful solemnity that she was going to read her 'half hour.' I was -impressed; good girl, I said, and pictured her to myself conducting -her devotional exercises over St. Thomas à Kempis or St. Augustine's -'Confessions' in the sanctity of her maiden chamber. Next day I found -her reading the report of an agricultural commission for the year 1831. -Asked her what the deuce she was reading that for. She replied she was -reading her 'half hour'; it was the only 'solid' book she could find -downstairs! Novels and poetry and magazines were tabooed. I asked her -whether she thought George Meredith or Dante flippant. She could not -exactly say--but they were not solid. God help us!” - -“You are as bad as my friend Miss Davenant,” said Kent, laughing. “She -is always railing at Philistia. You might lend me the photograph to show -her; it would amuse her--perhaps it might teach her something.” - -Wither gave him the photograph, but after a short pause Kent returned -it. - -“I'll take it some other time. I don't quite know at present how we are -going to stand to one another; we had a bit of a scene this morning.” - -Wither raised his eyebrows and turned his head lazily, looking at Kent. - -“You interest me, friend John. Is Saul also among the prophets? -Expound.” - -Kent roughly sketched the morning's episode in the studio. - -“So, you see, there's something in the nature of a split,” he added. - -“She will come round all right,” said Wither, “if she cares about you. -If she doesn't, she is not worth caring about. Never you mind. There is -nothing does women so much good as a little wholesome neglect. _Crede -experto_. As for the matter in question, of course you were wrong. You -should have thrashed the little devil's life out. But with a woman, -having right or wrong on her side has nothing to do with it.” - -“That may be true in the case of the woman you like to philander with, -Teddy, but Clytie Davenant's different.” - -“Bah, my dear old boy, they are all the same, every one of them.” - -“You have never met one of them whom you could treat in the ordinary -straightforward way--make a friend of as if she were a man.” - -“No, old chap, nor do I want to. If you've got to treat a woman as if -she were a man, what the devil's the good of her being a woman?” - -“You are talking for the sake of talking, Teddy,” said Kent with some -earnestness. “You know it's all nonsense. Women generally are foolish -enough, God knows, but the sole end of their being is not to be fooled -about with in flirtations and love-makings and such sickening nonsense. -And when one does come across a girl with an intelligence above the -ordinary and instincts above bazaars and the river, one likes her and is -exceedingly sorry to have any row with her.” - -“Ah me!” murmured the little man, examining his trim finger nails with -intent brow, “whether we cultivate the 'languor and lilies of virtue,' -or the 'roses and raptures of vice,' it doesn't matter--the trail of the -petticoat's over us all. Come and have a 'hundred up' before dinner.” - -Kent did not carry home the ridiculous portrait, and Wither, to avoid -the trouble of taking with him the awkwardly sized parcel that would not -fit into his pocket, very characteristically posted it to himself. As -Kent passed Clytie's door he noticed that it was ajar and that the room -was dark. Evidently she had gone out. If she had retired early to -bed, she would have shut the door, as her bedroom opened into the -sitting-room. He felt a certain sense of loss, he did not know why, for -even if the little streak of light beneath the door had announced her -presence within, he certainly would not have sought admittance. He went -upstairs more slowly than usual, thinking of her and of the morning's -scene. By the dim gas on his landing he perceived an unframed picture -leaning, face-hidden, against his door, and on the ground a letter. -This was addressed to him in the bold, rounded handwriting which he -recognised as Clytie's. He opened it and read: - -You were right. I am sorry. Keep the picture as a token. - -C. D. - -Kent turned the canvas round. It was the exhibition picture of Jack. - -He took it in with him, and placed it on his dresser-table. It formed -a strange contrast to the calm-faced Woolmer cavalier that was hanging -above; a strange contrast, too, with its colour, its modernity, its -realism, to the cold classicism of the pale, pure relics of the past -that lined the walls. Troubled by the discord, he turned its face to -the wall, but immediately, ashamed of the impulse and calling himself -a fool, he turned it again. Then, after lighting his reading-lamp -and turning out the gas, he sat down at the writing space on his -dresser-table. - -The room door was open. The house was perfectly still, save for the -occasional creak of the stairs and banisters near the attics. From the -street outside, far beneath, came the faint, ghostlike rumble of passing -vehicles. Kent had never realised what absolute silence reigned at night -in that quiet household. A cuckoo-clock in the bedroom below struck -with a suddenness and clearness that startled him. It was only twelve -o'clock. Clytie would be back soon if she had gone out to spend the -evening with friends or at a theatre. He proceeded with some mechanical -work, docketing papers, his ear expectant of the sudden drag of a hansom -at the street door. Several times he was deceived and went out on the -landing to listen for the sounds announcing Clytie's arrival. Then he -resumed his occupation. Perhaps she was indoors and asleep all the time, -he thought; but the open door surely betokened her absence. He persuaded -himself into this belief, desiring intensely to see her. The immediate -fulfilment of Wither's prognostications troubled him. Had it not been -for his friend's bantering remarks he would have judged Clytie's -frank confession by the touchstone of his own simplicity, and found it -natural, prompted by no other motives than kindliness and common sense. -But what if it proceeded from the “fundamental silliness” of woman, that -he himself pitied and Wither professed to hold in contempt? - -At last an unmistakable pause in the dimly heard rattle of a hansom made -him rise again and go on to the landing. Someone entered the house. -He heard the far distant creak of the stairs and the vague rustle of -skirts. It was Clytie. In the deathlike stillness of the house he heard -the sharp striking of a match. He waited for a moment or two and then -went down. - -Clytie, in her hat and cloak, was reading, by the light of her bedroom -candle, a letter that had arrived by the last post. - -“May I come in for one minute?” - -“Of course--for two if you like. Do you know, I had an idle fancy that I -should see you when I got home?” - -“Did you? I am very glad; it assures me that you don't think me--what -shall I say?--presumptuous in waiting for you to come in and then -intruding.” - -“Did you listen for me? You are good. I am scarcely worth it.” - -“I felt I must thank you for your little note--and the picture.” - -“Well? And are we going to make friends again, Mr. Kent?” - -She looked him in the face proudly, yet laughingly, and held out her -ungloved hand. - -“There!” she added. “I behaved very badly to you this morning, and you -must thank Winifred for bringing me to a sense of decency; but really -when I saw the dear child's work done to death by my own fault I was not -mistress of myself. I suppose it is best when one is in the wrong to own -it--to one's friends.” - -“It is sensible,” said Kent, “and I am very proud of your reckoning me -among your friends.” - -She looked at him, a strange little smile playing round the corner of -her lips as she put up both hands to withdraw her hat-pin--a graceful -attitude, instinct with femininity. The look and the attitude -disconcerted Kent for a moment. However, her next words reassured him. - -“I judged you by myself, you know. I had found our friendship a pleasant -thing, and felt that you did so, too, and I was sorry lest anything -should break it; otherwise I should not have taken the trouble to 'climb -down,' as they say.” - -“Let us say no more about it,” replied Kent magnanimously. “If we pride -ourselves on being superior to certain conventionalities of habit, we -ought to extend our conventionalities of sentiment. I have been very -troubled all day, Miss Davenant, I must confess, and I can't tell you -how touched I was by your message. It's not every woman by a long way -that would have sent it.” - -“And I would not have written it to every man,” returned Clytie; “of -that you may be quite certain.” - -And so they parted for the night. - -Thus the breach between them was quite covered over and their relations -strengthened by a newer impression of mutual dependence, a more active -sense of comradeship. They laughed frankly at the Great -Conventionalities, and went about together to theatres, concerts, -picture-shows. Kent accompanied her to Mrs. Farquharson's Sunday -evenings, where he found a ready welcome from the artistic and literary -circle, to whom his father had been well known. Mrs. Farquharson called -them “Orestia and Pylades,” by this time recognising their -companionship as a social fact. They always went back together, -generally for a great part of the way on foot when the weather grew warm -and the nights were dry and clear. On the weekday evenings, when Clytie -was at home, Kent would bring down his work and his reference-books to -Clytie's room, and write there, while she drew or read or busied herself -with odds and ends of needlework. It had all the outward seeming of -friendship--nothing more. For hours they would sit together without -exchanging a word--a real test. But Clytie grew interested in the -progress of Kent's work, gradually obtained a clear idea of its scope -and proportion, and could speak intimately to him concerning it, -although its matter was as incomprehensible to her as to any other -non-specialist. It gave the girl, too, a sense of rest and strength to -see him sitting there, patiently, serenely working. She began to have -doubts as to the completeness of her own scheme of life, its worthiness, -satisfaction. Hitherto the sense of independence, freedom, accumulating -knowledge of that whose foreshadowings had filled her girlish heart with -unrest, had almost satisfied her. Now she began to look beyond. With her -young being as yet untouched by passion, she did not realise the fulness -that love must bring into life. She vaguely speculated upon it, faint, -elusive gleams of perception passing rapidly through her into the -darkness, but that was all. The secret of life, she thought, could only -be wrested from the tangle of the labyrinth by single-minded endeavour, -sacrifice, devotion. Was not Kent right when he accused her of making -her art a stepping-stone instead of an end? - -Kent, manlike, and honester, too, than most men, was unconscious of this -self-abasement. Since the day of that fierce struggle with herself which -had resulted in her sending him the missive of submission he had vaguely -felt that she was dependent on him for many things; but he had helped -her in his frank, unquestioning way, feeling pleased, warmed by the -flame of a newly kindled spark of vanity. He preached to her his simple -doctrine. - -“Work while work pleases you. Love it for its own sake. Set a great -end before you; but the attaining it is the delight, not the ultimate -attainment. If you think of nothing but the end, the reaching it is all -feverish unrest and toil.” - -She listened, rebelled, submitted, without loss of her proud -fearlessness. Yes; it was common sense, she agreed. No one can be -humiliated by giving in to common sense and acting in accordance with -it. Kent persuaded her to finish the picture of Jack. - -“It is the best thing you have done. There is more work in it--real -work. It will not take long to finish. Then send it for exhibition.” - -He appealed to Winifred, who added her soft note of encouragement. The -picture was painted. Kent stonily refused to keep it as his possession. -There was a heated argument. He valued her gift and her friendship; he -valued her fame and life-interest more. He would not refuse a replica. -In the end she acquiesced. The picture was accepted by the hanging -committee of the exhibition, made a stir, was sold for £120. Clytie was -launched.. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. - -The summer came. Clytie went abroad with the Farquharsons, through the -old towns of Normandy and Brittany. Kent joined them at St. Malo, and -spent his month's holiday with them. This was such a departure from his -usual habit of solitary pedestrian travel in the rough wilds of -Norway, whither he went every year, with little else than a stick and a -knapsack, that Wither had been quite alarmed. - -“You'll be taking a holiday with me next,” he had said. - -But knowing the terms of intimacy between his friend and Clytie, and -knowing Clytie herself,--he had accompanied Kent to the studio, at first -out of curiosity to see what kind of “being feminine” Kent had made -a friend of, and afterwards because he liked to go there,--whatever -sceptical imaginings might have exercised him, he forbore to give them -expression. He had only looked at Kent, on saying good-bye, in his odd, -half-mocking way, and had chuckled noiselessly to himself when the door -had closed upon Kent's broad shoulders. - -Kent did not regret Norway. A charm, unknown to him before, filled all -the days. The Farquharsons were perfect travelling companions: -Caroline bright, satirical, helpful, learned in the ways of men; George -easy-going, happy either to lounge in the sun with a pipe and bandy -chaff with his wife, whilst Kent and Clytie went their own ways, or to -spend an antiquarian afternoon with Kent in some old Keltic village. -Clytie seemed also to him to expand under the sunny cheerful influences, -to grow more feminine, without falling in his estimation. No; he did -not regret Norway. He half formulated an intention of abandoning it -permanently and substituting Brittany as his habitual tramping-ground. -From the first morning, when his boat steamed slowly through the narrow -St. Malo docks, and he saw Clytie waiting there to meet him, he felt -friendly towards it. The high ramparted wall, with just the top-story -row of green shutters and roofs peeping above it, and beyond them the -spire of the cathedral; the glimpse through the sentry-guarded gate -up the narrow cobble-paved street, gaudy with blue blouses, red -handkerchiefs, and yellow oilskins exposed all along at shop doors; on -the quay itself the stalls of the hucksters under the lee of the -wall, and the busy crowd of swarthy Breton sailors, porters, and green -uniformed _douaniers_; and Clytie standing, fresh in her pure colouring -heightened by the light summer dress, in the midst of this mellow -setting--all the picture fixed itself as a whole indelibly upon his -mind, and caused a strange little thrill of pleasure to run through him. - -They sat on the sands--the finest in the world, perhaps, when the tide -is low--that run in a broad, golden sweep from crag-bastioned, grim old -St. Malo to the white houses of Parame, amid the babel of bathers -and visitors, watching the types Parisian and English, Kent smoking -contentedly, while Clytie filled her sketch-book with oddities of -personality and costume. Three days slipped away there very pleasantly. - -In spite of its banality as a pleasure resort there is a grim charm -about St. Malo that is never quite forgotten by those who have once -known it. It has an air of stability, of defiance. It is out of the -reach of the improver, extender, and suburb-maker. Its great walls guard -it as jealously on three sides as the sea does on the other. Almost -alone of populous cities, it can never grow. As he left with the party -to continue the tour Kent felt this charm, although his associations -with the city had been of the lighter kind. They idled through the old -towns: Dol, with its dark granite cathedral, looking rather hewn out of -the rock than built; Dinan on its granite steep above the Rance, where -the heart of du Guesclin is enshrined; Brieux, Paimpol, over which -Pierre Loti has thrown the glamour of his sentiment; Morlaix, and so to -Brest, with its great harbour and strong sea breeze from the Atlantic. -For Kent this journey was an uninterrupted pleasure. No country is -richer in things old, worn by weather and time, than Brittany: here an -old chapel built of rough unhewn granite; here a shapeless wayside cross -erected by some pious crusader on the ragged hill slope, railed round to -prevent the encroachments of the broom and heather; here a Druidic mass -of boulders; in the cottages curious smoke-dried strips of old Breton -work, ancestral oak carvings, rude brass repousée platters--a thousand -antiquarian interests in this gray land. But it is a bright one withal. -The fields of yellow colza stretch over the landscape in broad patches -of glory; the red-cheeked cider apples glow in the orchards. The -chestnut-trees in the grounds of the old feudal château, its fleched -gables dimly visible, hang gratefully over the high bounding wall, -above the roadway. The peasants still wear the picturesque Breton dress, -tasselled hats, embroidered short jackets, and knee-breeches for the -men, great white caps and elaborate kirtles for the women. Along the -coast the surf beats in a line of angry light upon the rocks, and shows -white, in the midst of the blue, around the islets out at sea. And the -old fishing villages look as if they were but flotsam and jetsam cast up -by Providence around the gray, weather-worn church that has taken them -to its bosom. - -For a few days after they left Dinan Kent noticed a change in Clytie. -She was reserved, thoughtful. It was not until she appeared to have -thrown off the weight of an obsessing idea that she grew buoyant and -frank again. An incident unknown to him had occurred at Dinan, shaking -the girl's heart to its depths. - -Her bedroom in the hotel opened, like the others on the same floor, on -to a small balcony, the spaces in front of each room being separated by -a light iron bar. She was dressing one morning when her attention was -aroused by voices in the next room, near the balcony. Her own French -window was open. The air was sunny and still, and the voices struck -clear. - -“And that is your last word?” asked a woman's voice in French. She used -the familiar _ton_. Her accents were tearful and pleading. - -“Yes,” replied a man's voice brutally. “There, there! Do not make any -scenes. I go because it is my good pleasure. What have you to say -against it?” - -“But I love you, I love you, Armand!” - -“Bah!” laughed the man, “they say that always. Here are the thousand -francs.” - -Clytie, who had involuntarily overheard this scrap of the conversation, -hastened to shut the window. The sounds died away into murmurs dimly -perceptible through the partition wall. Then she heard the room door -slam violently and a heavy step tramp down the passage. - -Some two hours later she was sitting in the salon of the hotel, reading -the papers and looking idly out upon the market-booths in the little -_place_. Kent and Farquharson had gone out together to devote a -scientific forenoon to the monuments of the town, and Caroline was -writing letters in her own room. Clytie was alone. Suddenly the -door opened and a woman, scarcely more than a girl, appeared on the -threshold. She made a step forward, but perceiving Clytie by the window, -she hesitated, irresolute whether to advance or retire. Clytie looked up -quickly, caught a glance which she interpreted as one of appeal. - -“Oh, enter, mademoiselle,” she said, with a smile. - -The newcomer murmured a “_Merci_,” entered, closed the door, and sitting -down on the faded sofa by the wall, commenced turning over the pages of -an old illustrated paper. Clytie went on with her _Figaro_. Presently -her ear caught a little sniffling sob. She turned round. Her companion -was squeezing a wet rag of a handkerchief in her hand, her head turned -away towards the paper; she was crying. Clytie rose, moved softly across -the room. But as she was going through the doorway she saw the girl, -abandoning herself to her misery, bury her face upon the sofa cushion. -Clytie was touched. She went back to the girl, laid her hand softly on -her shoulder. - -“Mademoiselle!” - -The girl started, raised a pretty, tear-stained face, looked at Clytie -wistfully out of her light blue eyes, her lips quivering. - -“You are in trouble,” said Clytie. - -“Oh, mademoiselle, you are very good,” cried the other--“_oui; je suis -bien malheureuse_. But you must leave me. You are a young girl well -brought up, whilst I----_Merci_, mademoiselle; you can do nothing.” - -The voice struck a chord of association. Where had she heard it -recently? Quickly it flashed upon her, the scrap of dialogue she had -overheard that morning. The girl again hid her face. The low-cut dress, -beloved by Frenchwomen, disclosed a shapely neck, on which clustered -coquettishly a few tiny madcap curls below the smooth, upbrushed, fair -hair. Her figure was young and graceful, relaxed now in the attitude of -abandonment. - -Clytie looked down upon her wonderingly, her heart beating. Her -maidenhood urged her to fly; a higher sense of life bade her stay a -moment by the sobbing figure. She had never, to her knowledge, been near -to one of the great unclassed--still less spoken. She remembered the few -cynical words of the man; they seemed to give her a pain at the heart -akin to nausea. She remembered the pleading tones: “_Je t'aime Je t'aime -bien!_” and her pity went forth upon the woman. - -“I don't ask you to tell me,” she said very gently. “But we may talk -a little, mayn't we? Perhaps it may ease you--a woman--the same -age,”--Clytie stumbled in the foreign language,--“and perhaps not so -well brought up--after all, a woman.” - -“Oh, mademoiselle, you do not understand. This life!” her shoulders -shivered expressively. “After all, it is bearable; but when, with all -that, one loves--ah!” - -“He is not worth it,” cried Clytie. “He is a scoundrel--I know what he -is!” - -The girl raised her face quickly. - -“You know him? You know Armand? Ah, no; you spoke at random. Yes, he is -base, cruel, but that does not prevent it. Mademoiselle, you are good, -you are sweet. It is not many who would have spoken. You will let me sit -here near you for a little? Ah, _mon Dieu_,” she went on rapidly, “you -cannot imagine what it is--never, never to talk to a woman whom one can -respect, and who may not betray you; and then the only persons one can -respect are the men, who despise one. And even they--one can love them, -but they are cowardly, hard, selfish!” - -“There are some good men,” observed Clytie. - -“That may be,” returned the other, finally drying her eyes, and putting -up her hand to her hair in tidying touches--“that may be, but we don't -often see them. Oh, mademoiselle, I know well that I should be ashamed -of showing you what I am, but when you touched my shoulder it was like -a good sister of the convent,”--Clytie smiled in spite of herself at the -comparison,--“and it touched my heart.” - -“And I too have a confession to make,” said Clytie, gently interrupting. -“This morning--I overheard--my room is next to yours----” - -“Ah, it was you who shut the window?” - -“Yes. So I know, mademoiselle--at least I can judge. And are you quite -alone now?” - -The girl shrugged her shoulders. - -“What would you have? He has gone, and I must go too. One does not amuse -oneself here alone.” - -“And where are you going?” - -“To Paris. In the middle of summer. It is not gay. Everyone will know -_qu'il via plantée là_. But one must live. Ah! you are happy, you other -honest women!” She talked on, in half-cynical, half-artless confidence, -as is the way of her race, forgetting in her need of expansion that her -hearer was the English girl well brought up. She dilated on her present -trouble, her life in Paris, her creditors, the spitefulness of women, -the brutality of men. Clytie listened with mingled feelings of horror -and pity. She was so young, this girl, so fresh for all the soil of -Paris, and yet taking, from use, the whole horror of her life as a -matter of course, realising it only in rare emotional moments. Here was -a rejecter of formulas, of a race that has thrown off convention ever -since Rahab harboured the spies! Too fragile, delicate she looked for -this social warfare. Whither was she tending? Clytie had a supreme, -lurid moment of introspection. Only two or three such come in a -lifetime. - -At last the girl rose from the sofa in the quick French way. - -“Forgive me, mademoiselle, for talking like this. I had forgotten. You -see well that you could not have helped me otherwise than you have -done by sitting by my side. I must not encroach upon your time. Adieu, -mademoiselle, and thank you; oh, a thousand times, thanks. I shall not -forget you.” - -She was going. Clytie rose and went towards her, her face a little -flushed, but kindness in her eyes. - -“You will shake hands, _à l'Anglaise?_” she said. - -The girl looked her quickly in the face, and then impulsively seized the -proffered hand in both hers and kissed it twice rapidly. Then she ran -from the room. - -Clytie went back to her seat by the window and looked out upon the -market-sellers. But she did not see much, as tears stood in her eyes and -rolled down her cheeks. - -She did not tell Mrs. Farquharson of this incident, but kept it in her -heart as a secret and strange revelation of life--something precious, -mysterious, awful. During her drive with the others in the afternoon she -was strangely silent. Kent rallied her on her depression in his bluff, -kind-hearted manner. She smiled absently, complained of a headache, then -shivered with a wave of recollection. For days the spectre haunted her, -sometimes looking at her through the light blue eyes of the girl, and -sometimes taking a dual form, in which the coarse drudge features of the -mother of Jack, the model, were dimly visible. And a question hummed in -her ears: “Was this the aspect of life that men kept so jealously hidden -from women?” - -But Clytie was young and vigorous, with fresh bright blood leaping in -her veins. The thrill of the salt breeze and the whole-hearted laughter -of her friends soon prevented these imaginings from becoming morbid, -and gradually the first sharp impression dulled more or less down to the -level of her other experiences of things. She gave herself up again to -the freedom and gaiety of the trip, to the unfeigned delight of Kent, -who had been beginning to wonder whether, for unknown reasons, some -coolness had arisen between them. - -He forbore to allude to the subject until the night when they were all -returning together from St. Malo to Southampton. He had found her -a sheltered corner of the upper deck, rigged up a screen of rugs, -comfortably established her in a canvas chair with many wraps. Most of -the passengers had gone below. They were almost alone. The voices of -two men in an opposite corner came vaguely out of the darkness. All -was still save for the continuous rattle and wash, which at sea forms a -strange kind of silence in itself. - -“Aren't you sorry it is over?” asked Clytie from the dimness of her -wraps. “We did nothing very wonderful, but it has been very pleasant--a -thing to look back upon.” - -“'A garnered joy for after-time.'” - -“You are waxing poetical.” - -“Oh, that's Wither. He was poetical in his youth. You would hardly think -it of him. I have always thought that line rather pretty. Anyhow, it is -true in the present case.” - -“And we haven't quarrelled,” said Clytie, “in spite of the maxim, 'If -you want to lose a friend, travel with him.' But I don't think I could -quarrel with you. You wrap yourself round with such imperturbable -superiority.” - -“The metaphor is mixed, but proceed,” interrupted Kent. - -“Well, it's not worth while playing to such a bad house.” - -“I don't see what we should have to quarrel about,” returned Kent, -laughing. “We each give the other credit for independent opinions; and -as for action, if you wanted to go to the right and I to the left, -I suppose I should give in and let you have your way--if it were not -contrary to common sense.” - -“And if it were? If it were simply idiotic?” - -“Perhaps I should go with you then, to keep you out of harm's way.” - -“Thank you,” murmured Clytie rather touched, looking up restfully at the -stars. - -There was a little silence. Kent puffed at his pipe. The glow attracted -George Farquharson, who had just come up on the deck and was groping -about for them in the darkness. - -“Going to stay here all night?” he asked. - -“Most of it,” replied Clytie. - -“Kent making you comfortable?” - -Clytie murmured an easeful affirmative, and Farquharson, nodding a -good-night, disappeared into the darkness. - -“Apropos of quarrelling,” said Kent after a while. “Do you know, -I thought once, for a few days, you were vexed with me for -something--after we left Dinan. Were you?” - -Clytie felt the words like a touch of ice. Why had Kent blundered so -tactlessly? - -“Oh, why do you mention that?” she cried. “The only painful thing in -all the trip. Something that I saw at Dinan--I was put out. Was I very -disagreeable? It did not refer to you in any way, dear friend.” - -“Pardon me if I have touched on a sore place,” replied Kent. “I find I -have a good deal to learn in these matters. Will you make a compact -with me to tell me if ever I offend you? Your friendship has grown so -valuable and dear a thing to me that the idea of running the risk of -losing it makes me--what shall I say? Well, I couldn't bear it. I don't -often talk like this,--sentiment comes out of me very awkwardly,--but -when I do say anything of the sort I mean it. Believe me.” - -Clytie put out her gloved hand and touched him lightly on the arm. -She, too, felt that she had certain need of him. A little thrill of -tenderness passed through her as she turned her head towards him to -reply. - -“Didn't I call you 'dear friend' just now? And I meant it, too. You are -too honest, too single-hearted, ever to offend me, as you say. If I am -ever rebellious with you it will be my own fault, and I shall know it. -And as I really have got some common sense, I shall be sorry for it. But -you won't expect me to tell you so every time, will you? You will have -to take it for granted.” - -“You always make yourself out worse than you are,” replied Kent. “Very -few people know you. The Farquharsons, myself, Winifred, do. I should -like to go with you wherever you go, and tell folks not to believe you, -to prove to them what a----” - -“Oh, stop! stop!” cried Clytie, with a little laugh. “This sojourn in -the land of compliments has infected you. Oh, no; I am ordinary; not -bad, not good. You see, if I had had anybody to care for specially, and -who cared for me, I might have shown up differently. I have hardly had a -chance of seeming otherwise than selfish. Opportunity makes the saint as -much as it makes the thief.” - -Kent meditated, framing a reply. The right words would not come until -it seemed that too long an interval had elapsed. There was another -silence--one of those pleasant ones between friends when they feel in -sympathy. Clytie at last broke it. - -“Would you have had such a conversation as this with a man friend?” - -“No--at least--well, no. Why?” - -“Oh, nothing. The idea occurred to me,” replied Clytie. - - - - -CHAPTER IX. - -The long autumn months rolled on, bringing little new to Clytie or to -Kent. Clytie continued to paint her small _genre_ pictures, but with -a more certain touch, a restraint which a deeper insight into life -compelled. They did not satisfy her now, however, as they used to. She -had more articulate longings after an art which should be higher, more -comprehensive, more responsive to certain subtler and at the same time -more stirring impulses within her. - -“I want to paint something that may live,” she said to Kent, “something -I can throw my whole soul into, something I can look at when it is -finished and say: 'There, that is final; that expresses consummately -everything I have ever felt and dreamed.'” - -“If you can ever say that, you will cease to be an artist,” he replied -in his matter-of-fact way. - -“Perhaps so. But I must try. And the subject, the subject?” - -“Wait,” said Kent. “If it ever comes, it will do so of itself.” - -Clytie waited, but the subject did not come. Meanwhile she had her hands -full with orders, both for pictures and for magazine illustrations. Her -life was full, as far as work could make it. Winifred came regularly -to the studio, as usual, cheering her with sweet companionship. She had -spent her summer holiday at the seaside, treating out of her own -purse her two little brothers to a holiday. She came back with glowing -reminiscences of her adventures, the humorous naughtinesses of the -children, the odds and ends of character she had met with. Her only -regret was that her dear Clytie had not been there too. - -“I should have thrown those horrid children, Reggie and Arthur, into the -sea!” exclaimed Clytie. - -“Oh, no, you wouldn't. They simply adore you. They are nice children, -aren't they, now?” - -“You little goose!” cried Clytie, kissing the warm brown cheek. “They -are like you, the sweetest little children in the world. When are they -coming to tea?” - -These teas in the studio were red-letter days for Winifred's brothers -and sisters. They worshipped Clytie, who had keen sympathy with the -unconventionalities of childhood. She made grotesque caricatures of -them, at which they screamed with laughter, or sat on the hearthrug with -them and talked the nonsense that bright children love. Their joy -was complete if Kent came in. They called him “Kent,” took complete -possession of him, presented him to Clytie as a pet trifle they carried -about with them. He, too, was fond of these debauches, and seldom missed -attending them if he could leave the Museum in time. He loved to see -Clytie take her part in them. She seemed to him even more sweet and -womanly than Winifred when she had a child on her lap, and her dark red -hair was touching the black ruffled curls. He told her so one day, and -the colour came into her cheeks as she laughed. - -Another occasional visitor in the studio was Treherne, the young -clergyman whom Clytie had met at the Farquharson's numismatic -dinner-party. Kent and herself had run across him at a Bond Street -gallery where some paintings by the impressionists Degas and Monet -were on view. He was looking ill and overworked. He replied to their -inquiries that he had been forced to give up his North London parish and -take lighter duties near Victoria. As he lived in her neighbourhood, he -hoped that Clytie would allow him to call one day and see her pictures; -“Jack” at the exhibition had aroused his admiration. Clytie readily gave -him her “day,” when Miss Marchpane and herself were at home to their -friends, and hoped he would come. He called, found a certain charm in -the bright talk of the studio, exhilarating after the dull rounds among -his parishioners, and soon became a constant visitor. Perhaps the charm -of a pair of soft brown eyes attracted him more than he thought of -confessing. Towards the end of the year, however, he bought, through a -dealer, two of Winifred's dainty pictures. - -The days shortened, the painting light grew less and less, and the time -came for Clytie to pay her Christmas visit to Durdleham. She had not -been there for a year, and her heart longed at times for the familiar -faces and the voices of her own kith and kin. She thought that, perhaps, -now she had grown older, her father and sisters would think her mode -of life less unnatural, less likely to result in moral shipwreck. The -letters, too, she had been receiving from them lately were kinder, more -affectionate in tone. Mrs. Blather longed to have her dear Clytie back -amongst them once more, and Janet wrote touchingly of the vacant chair -at the dinner table. Clytie anticipated much quiet pleasure from her -visit. The need of an attitude of rebellion was past, and she could -throw herself lovingly, with no fear of compromising her independence, -into all the mild interests of the household. There were times when -a tenderer, softer chord vibrated in her heart, suggesting sadly the -sweetness of home and loved family ties. She was human, with the foolish -human craving for things that are not. She could not abandon her free -artistic life; but if she could fill it with gentler, softer graces! In -these moods she clung to Winifred, loving her for this element of sweet -womanliness she brought into the rooms in the King's Road that were her -home. It was with this range of feelings uppermost in her heart that she -went to Durdleham. - -For the first few days after Clytie's departure Kent laboured honestly -and doggedly in his old way. But gradually he began to feel a lack of -interest in his pursuits, to be vaguely conscious that the conditions of -things were upset, and then he wished that Clytie had not gone. - -One evening he was sitting in his room with a litter of proof-sheets -lying idly before him. He felt depressed. It was a new sensation. It -puzzled him, annoyed him, made him angry with himself, like a man's -first unsuspected attack of the gout. He rose and walked about. His fire -had nearly gone out, his lamp had been flaring and the room was filled -with its acrid smoke. He could not open the window, for the sleet and -rain were beating against the panes. He stopped for a moment watching -the water dribble outside down the glass. Then he turned away -impatiently, seeking solace from his book-backs and pictures. But they -seemed to look back upon him unsympathetically, as if reproaching him -for the bare floor, the untidy dresser, and the cheerless hearth. He -rekindled his fire, filled a pipe, and sat down to think. - -Kent was not given to introspection. His external interests in life were -too engrossing for him to think deeply or continuously about himself. -Such a habit of mind he used vehemently to deprecate as morbid, -egotistical. But now this strange depression, this vague sense of loss, -compelled him to account for it to his reason. He began in a sober, -materialistic way to review his general health (there are philosophers -amongst us who refer all moods to the liver, not looking upon it, -however, like the ancients, as the seat of the affections!), to question -some little disappointments he had had with regard to his great work, -and to dwell upon the futility of existence--the suggestion of which he -should have been logical enough to see was the result and not the cause -of his state of mind. But he was not logical. Few men are when the great -facts of inner life are in question; for in the course of logic “none of -us would see salvation,” as far as this world's happiness is -concerned. Gradually a truth dawned upon him. He missed the ever-ready -companionship he had enjoyed for nearly a year. He missed Clytie. He -found that for the first time in his life since he was a baby he had -been depending for something on a woman. He had never realised until -then the strength of that unknown subtle influence, the withdrawal of -which left him so weak, so unable to put forth all his powers. At -first he thought that it was merely the abrupt interruption of pleasant -habits, the sudden jerk out of a well-oiled groove. Telling himself he -was satisfied with this solution, he resolutely went back to his writing -and began to correct his proof-sheets. But gradually his attention -wandered again. These sudden impulses to work against the grain soon -spend themselves out and produce greater lassitude than before. - -He tossed down his pencil in disgust and swung round towards the fire. -It was Clytie herself, then, that he missed. He missed her in spite of -her being a woman, he told himself. And yet the picture rose before his -mind of Clytie's dainty room and Clytie sitting there opposite to him, -her hand, with falling lace at wrist, pressed into the softness of her -hair. Why had she not written a line to him? - -Yes, he missed her. But why should that make his work distasteful? -He was puzzled. One thing alone was clear, his loneliness was growing -intolerable. He threw on his waterproof, and, leaving his work, trudged -through the rain to the “monastery,” at South Kensington. - -Wither was alone. Fairfax and Greene were dining out. The little man -had been too lazy and sybaritic to face the cold and wet outside. He -had clad himself in pyjamas and dressing-gown, and was reading a French -novel on the couch drawn up in front of the fire. His diminutive -figure looked absurdly small and wizened in his loose wrap. He nodded -affectionately at Kent, explained briefly the fact of his being alone, -and, while Kent was hunting in a familiar corner for the pair of -slippers always there in readiness for his use, went on with his -reading. - -“Get me some whiskey, old chap,” he said without looking up. “I have -been dying for some this last hour and I have been too lazy to stir off -the sofa.” - -Kent, as usual, supplied Wither's wants and poured out a glass for -himself. - -“Lazy little beggar,” he said kindly as he sat down in the great -saddle-bag chair. “How do you manage to get through your work?” - -Wither laughed. - -“I thought you knew better than to ask me that.” - -It was a tradition in the “monastery” that Wither never did any work. -They paid him at his office for lending it a gentlemanly tone. As a -matter of fact, like most clever, lazy men, he generally did an ordinary -man's day's work in a few hours. - -He stretched himself out luxuriously and lit a cigarette. - -“Have you ever read this?” he asked, holding up his novel. It was -Bourget's “Cruelle Enigme.” - -Kent nodded. - -“I skimmed it through here one night while waiting for you. I have no -patience with that sort of thing.” - -“Possibly not,” remarked Wither, “but that's a fact about yourself, and -not about the book.” - -“I don't believe it is human life,” replied Kent. “People can't make -animal passion the keynote of their lives nowadays.” - -“Why not nowadays?” - -“The conditions of life prevent it. The savage has furious brute -instincts, which he gratifies occasionally, when his mind is not -taken up with fighting and hunting for his food. It may be the guiding -principle in a splendid barbarism like some Eastern courts, where men -have little else to think of. But in our modern civilisation there are -other interests too absorbing. The hurry of life is too great.” - -“What about the empty-minded women you are always railing at?” - -“They are all absorbed in their futilities--at least most of them,” he -added, correcting himself; “but even when idle they are not beasts. Now -this woman you are reading about is a beast.” - -Wither eyed him curiously. - -“You are talking nonsense, old chap. If she had been simply that, she -would not have been a problem to the psychologist. The enigma was the -sudden burst into animalism in the midst of a love that was almost -idyllic.” - -“Bosh!” said Kent. “It was the same old hideous adultery.” - -“Oh, well! if you go on those lines, I am done,” replied Wither, -shrugging his shoulders. “I thought we were a little more advanced in -our ideas in this establishment.” - -“You know I don't mean that,” said Kent, puffing violently at his pipe. -“The legality of the connection has nothing to do with it. It is the -eternal coupling of the male and the female that revolts me. Pah! They -might as well write a novel on the loves of the pastures.” - -“If I could write French, I should like to try it,” said Wither. “It -would be interesting.” - -“There is too much of that sort of thing written and talked about,” said -Kent. “It's sickening. It's degradation of humanity.” - -“Well, it's not uncommon,” said Wither, with a sphinxlike smile playing -round the corners of his mouth as he gazed upwards at the cigarette -smoke. - -“Look here, Wither,” said Kent; “I have a higher faith in humanity. You -profess to be a cynic, a man of the world, and you delight in calling -yourself nonmoral. That's all foolishness, I know. You are the kindest -hearted little chap in the world. But can you, as a man of intellectual -tastes, sympathise with all this animalism?” - -Wither threw away his cigarette, and bending forward laid his hand on -Kent's knee. - -“My dear old boy,” he said, with more earnestness than he generally -displayed, “I do call myself a man of the world, for I'm in it and I -love it, and I have a very decent bowing acquaintance as well with -its pals, the Flesh and the Devil. I know something of men, and as for -women, it has been my lot to have been petted by a good few--my -size lends itself to that sort of thing. In fact, Gulliver with the -Brobdingnag maids of honour is not in it with me. I know all about 'em; -and I tell you, old chap, that the Beast, sometimes with a big B and -sometimes in diamond type, lies in the nature of us all. There is not a -living being with pure blood in his or her veins who is not overmastered -at times by the principle of sex. You scoff at Bourget as a writer of -morbid and impossible fiction. Look at your daily papers. Don't you -see parsons of hitherto blameless lives running off with their cooks, -virtuous women ruining their lives and their husbands' for the sake of -some Hercules of a scoundrel--just as the patrician ladies in Rome went -mad over the charioteers in the circus! Man alive! it is the Beast, the -Beast that may slumber in an old maid's bosom until she is sixty and -then drive her into the arms of her footman. How otherwise have you -accounted for these things?” - -“I have not tried,” replied Kent simply. “They have not interested me. -They are diseases of the brain, for the physiologist to study, like -suicide and murder. I don't believe in them in normal everyday life.” - -There was a long pause, broken only by Wither's request that Kent should -put some coals on the fire, and the rattling of the operation. Wither -resumed his reading and Kent pulled at his pipe in silence. At last the -former looked up and said suddenly: - -“Why do you think people marry?” - -“That's funny,” replied Kent, with a slight start. “I was just wondering -myself. I don't know: money, companionship, family, idiocy--God knows -what.” - -“It has always struck me that you would be the first of us to go,” said -the other in pure, idle maliciousness. - -“I?” cried Kent, with a gesture of disgust. “I marry! give up my work, -procreate children I couldn't support! Have to kiss and pet and fondle a -woman----” - -“Well, you need not do that unless you like,” replied Wither, laughing -in his gnomelike way. “She might expect it, but she would be soon -consoled by the blessedness of pure spirituality.” - -Kent's reply was interrupted by the return of the absentees, Fairfax, -the doctor, and Greene. - -“I am so glad you fellows have come back,” said Kent; “Wither has been -drivelling on his favourite topic until I was beginning to loathe him.” - -“He's an immoral little wretch,” said the doctor, throwing his greatcoat -on Wither's curled-up body--“a pocket Mephistopheles. We keep him here -as a kind of Familiar. Oh, what rot dining out is!” he added, with a -yawn and a stretch as he seated his burly form on the foot of the couch. -“I wish I had stayed at home.” - -“I wish you had,” said Kent. “Let us have just one rubber before I go. -There is time.” - -But Kent walked home that night with a new trouble at his heart that -kept him awake a great part of the night. - -Meanwhile Clytie was not enjoying herself at Durdleham. At first there -were eager embraces, trifling tendernesses and solicitudes. The dear -prodigal had returned, but the fatted calf was killed discreetly, lest -it should convey a husk-flavoured reproach. Grace and Janet bubbled over -with light Durdleham gossip, seeking to interest, and Clytie earnestly -and sympathetically sought to be in touch with her surroundings. It -was a real heartfelt effort on both sides towards harmony. But it soon -became patent that these efforts were unavailing. Clytie saw the old -prejudices barring her at every turn. She recognised with the bitterness -of disillusionment that she was the bit of grit in the family machinery, -stopping the smoothness of its working. As long as she identified -herself with Durdleham interests things went well; but as soon as she, -in her turn, ventured to sketch the bright incidents in her town life -she felt a check in the current of mutual sympathy. If she was reserved, -her sisters complained. They ought to know something of her friends, her -occupations. When she was expansive they shrank cold and crablike into -their mail of prejudice. - -Her intimacy with a strange Bohemian man was a thorn in the side of -the family. Mr. Davenant considered it extremely injudicious, and Mrs. -Blather whispered to him that she scarcely thought it moral. Janet was -too horrified to allude directly to the circumstance. But, in her neat, -prim bedchamber, she prayed to the Almighty to lead her erring sister -out of the paths of temptation. She duly informed Clytie of this act of -piety, and when Clytie burst into laughter that was nearer to tears than -to merriment, left the room in virtuous indignation. - -Clytie could not help confessing to herself that she longed for Kent's -companionship, with its broader sympathies and inspiring influences, -but the view the household took of it pained her with a sense of aching -discomfort, and made her feel a strange diffidence in writing to him as -she had promised. She at last addressed him a short little note, stiff -and constrained, which reached him the morning after his conversation -with Wither and did not help to cheer him. Too proud to wait for an -opportunity of posting this letter herself, she placed it on the hall -slab together with the rest of the outgoing correspondence of the -family. Although a hundred letters might have lain there for post -without any one of them attracting Mrs. Blather's attention,--she -was too pure-minded a gentlewoman for idle curiosity to be one of -her failings,--it was too good an opportunity for the imps who seem -sometimes to regulate human affairs to let slip, and as a matter of -course Mrs. Blather's eye fell upon the address. - -“So you are keeping up a violent correspondence with that man,” she -remarked acidly to Clytie. It is the way of some women to exaggerate. - -Clytie bit her lip, cheeking an impulsive answer. What was the use of a -retort? - -Women of broad, liberal education, with interests beyond the nursery, -still-room, and the afternoon-tea table, are known to live together, -like men, in comparative harmony. They have learned the lesson the -higher, broader life teaches of rising or declining instinctively to -another being's plane of thought or feeling. It is hardly a fault of sex -that women are petty, spiteful, and intolerant. When the conditions of -life are narrow and illiberal any human being, man or woman, runs the -risk of being shaped by them. And that is why Mrs. Blather and Janet, -good, upright women according to their lights, subordinated their -affection to their principles, and stood away shocked from their sister. -Their traditional ideals of femininity had been sinned against. The -crime was all but unpardonable. It was always present with them, always -assuming fresh, distorted shapes. They were on a different plane from -Clytie, and viewed all her actions in a false perspective. - -Clytie was hurt, wounded in her womanly pride. She knew that there -was much clay in her composition, and often felt with chastening -self-abasement how much nearer the angels Winifred was than herself. -Yet she was accustomed to live in an atmosphere free from reproach. -Winifred, Kent, the Farquharsons, and others of her friends might touch -with light, tender finger on here and there an imperfection in her -character or conduct; for this she was grateful, knowing the deeper -feelings of esteem and respect that prompted. But to move in a circle -where she was looked upon as a black sheep, as a girl on the path -to unutterable abysses, galled her to the quick, sent the hot blood -mounting in stinging waves to her cheek, leaving the heart cold. Yet -she had learned not to blame her sisters over much. She had lost her -militant scorn of Jacob. Kent had taught her that although Esau might -possess the higher birthright which no bartering of pottage could -alienate, there was still saving grace in the stolen birthright which -Jacob guarded so jealously. But this knowledge did not make her heart -less sore. - -The happiest time in this Christmas visit was when she could get away -into the old lumber-attic in which she had dreamed so many girlish -dreams. It had long been dismantled of the Liberty curtains, Persian -rugs, and cheap Japaneseries that had lent it the suggestion of artistic -atmosphere the girl of eighteen had craved. It was bare now, except for -a table and chair and a few odds and ends of artist's materials, but a -fire could be laid in the grate to make things look cheery, and there -was still the deeply recessed attic-window where she could stand and -look out over the same drear landscape. It was only the ordinary midland -succession of fields, now black with winter, and pastures through -which the river ran, its course only indicated by the fringing line -of pollards and willows. Away on the slope to the west rose a clump -of trees from which peeped a few houses and a church spire, the little -village of Wexwith. In the foreground ran the highroad skirted with new -red-brick cottages, a touch of sordidness added by man to the ungenerous -dreariness of nature. Once this had affected Clytie with a sense of the -unutterable melancholy of things. The young are prone to be so affected. -They are rather proud when they realise it; it is a kind of youthful -vanity. But Clytie, like the wiser among us, sought brightness as she -grew older, and although she could not consider the landscape cheerful, -looked at it only through the memories of five years. Every spot had -associations for her. There was the cottage where she had seen the -little bully strike his playmate, the original conception of the picture -that had helped to cause her welcome banishment from home. Next to it -used to live the old beldame who threw out of doors the custards and -jellies that Janet with angelic perseverance used to take her. -What cruel mockery she used to make of Janet in those days! Now she -submissively helped to carry the custards. Behind the swelling uplands -over the village the sun set, a red ball in the wintry sky. For how many -wild fantastic daubs had not that formed a background! - -It was during these reveries that the picture subject she craved -commenced to haunt her as it gradually shaped itself into definiteness. -Since her singular interview with the French girl at Dinan a lurid gleam -streamed from the gates ajar of mysteries that had baffled her. She had -read widely and deeply; but books are only the gloss of life, they are -not the text. Its secrets must be read in the living world, with much -pain and sleeplessness and wearied eyes. The throbbing page had been -presented to Clytie for one sharp moment, blazing, the while, in letters -of flame. Such knowledge changes lingering girlhood into womanhood -without the aid of passion. It changes sex-pride into sex-sorrow--in -higher natures, be it understood. And this sex-sorrow runs in channels -hollowed out by ever-varying circumstance and temperament. It flows -in the patient, all-enduring devotion of the sister labouring among -outcasts, in the militant enthusiasm of the social reformer. It quivers -in the hearts of teachers like George Eliot and Elizabeth Barrett -Browning. It lives in the souls of some mothers who tremulously watch -the shaping of their daughter's destiny. With Clytie it ran confluent -with her artistic impulses. It had influenced them vaguely, dimly, -hauntingly for months, but now, at last, stirringly, proclaiming itself, -insistently demanding expression. - -The subject was found: Faustina in her innocent maidenhood. The problem: -how to manifest the foreshadowings of passion on the young, clear face? - -Clytie spent hours in her attic trying to fix the summer lightnings of -features that flashed elusively before her mind. She wished she were in -London, to go abroad in the highways seeking after a face. It seemed -to her that in the great city she would find the one she wanted, in -the park, at the theatre, perhaps among the subdued black rows of -women--lines of suppressed volcanic workings--in some great shop. But in -Durdleham volcanoes were extinct or regulated by formula to erupt -with mild propriety. She began to feel the frenzied weariness of -helplessness. If only she could talk to someone--to Kent. - -One day Mrs. Blather came into the attic. Clytie was dreaming before -incoherent charcoal streaks. The fire had burned low and the draught of -the opening door made her shiver. - -“Why, Clytie, child, you are blue with cold,” said her sister, wrapping -her gray woollen shawl more tightly round her thin shoulders. “Why do -you mope up here?” - -“I am not moping, Gracie,” replied Clytie; “I am only -working--conceiving a picture, that's all.” - -“Oh, but you oughtn't to do any work. Have you not come down for a -holiday? What's the good of burning the candle at both ends? Come down -to the drawing-room and talk to the Howatsons; they are inquiring after -you.” - -“But I am in such a mess!” laughed Clytie, showing her blackened finger -tips. - -“Well, come down and tidy yourself in my room; there is a fire, and you -can warm yourself for a few minutes.” Clytie followed her sister down -the stairs to the latter's bedroom, where a cheerful fire warmed the -cold clean chintz of the hangings. Mrs. Blather sat down by the hearth, -while Clytie washed her hands and touched her hair. - -“Why don't you tell us more of your work, Clytie?” she said -propitiatingly. “Here you are being criticised in the newspapers, quite -like a famous person, and we at home know nothing of it.” - -“Why, Gracie, I thought it did not interest you much.” - -“We would take an interest if you would only let us.” - -“But, you see, I paint such queer pictures. I don't think they are your -style. And then pictures are not portable like books. If I wrote poetry, -you could be deluged with presentation copies; but even we ourselves -lose all the result of our work when the picture is sold.” - -“Of course, but you might write and talk more. And with regard to the -'queer' pictures, don't you think, if you made us your confidantes, -the pictures might be a little less--'queer'? You see, Clytie, you are -young, and it is your nature to run into extremes. If you were just a -little bit restrained by older folks, would you not get what you are so -fond of talking about--'truth'--in your work?” - -Clytie was somewhat puzzled at Mrs. Blather's conciliatory tone. Was -this an effort towards a better understanding, or was it a disguised -lecture? She finished her hasty toilet and went and stood by the fire -near her sister, her foot on the fender. - -“Thank you very much, Gracie,” she said, “but would you always -understand? Perhaps,” she added, smiling, after a pause, “you would want -to restrain too much--and where would the picture be?” - -“Well, why not try? What is the picture to be about that you are working -at now?” - -The blood rushed to Clytie's cheeks, which, bent down, caught the added -glow of the fire--a contrast, with her rich colour, to the clear, waxen, -negative face of her sister. She broke suddenly into a nervous laugh. - -“There! Even from the beginning I couldn't discuss it with you, Gracie. -It is only a girl's face--I can't tell you anything more about it.” - -“Well, that's what I complain of,” said Mrs. Blather with growing -acidity. “You keep your own sisters in ignorance of your life, and -confide everything to this Mr. Kent, who is nothing to you.” - -“How do you know I have told Mr. Kent about this picture?” - -“I was not referring to this one, though by your manner I see you have.” - -“Well, yes, I have,” said Clytie, “because--because--he has the artistic -temperament--and he can seize an idea--in fact--why are you saying this -to me, Gracie?” - -“Because you are not going the right way, Clytie; and it is my duty as -your elder sister, who has looked after you since you were so high, to -make a last effort to bring you within some restraining influences. -We don't like your intimacy with Mr. Kent. It is not what we have been -taught to think right. I know you look down upon us as narrow-minded at -Durdleham. I think it is better for us. We are shut in, perhaps, between -high walls, but the high walls keep us safe.” - -They were silent for a few moments, then Clytie said: “Gracie, don't you -think this subject has been enough discussed? It is wasting words and -spoiling good intentions. Suppose we go down to the Howatsons.” - - - - -CHAPTER X. - -One day, about this time, Kent was walking home from the Museum. His -spirits had by no means lightened since his conversation with Wither, -and he strode along moodily, trying to fix his attention on the -arrangement of that evening's portion of the great work. He had gone -back to it resolutely and doggedly, and was conscious that it was -progressing not badly, but at the same time he had a troubling sense -that he was treating it less as an aim than as a cure for existence. -Fairfax, the doctor, told him he was overdoing himself, that the strain -of double work was telling, advised total idleness, and if possible a -change of air. Kent gave the prescription a trial, and went down to the -Isle of Wight for a week-end, where he tramped himself utterly tired -during the day and bored himself exquisitely during the evening. Then -he came back rather worse than when he went. No; he was suffering from -change, and not from the want of it. - -London was in a pitiable condition. It had snowed, then thawed into -slush, and now a hard black frost had set in, rendering the roadways -like glass. Already during his walk home Kent had seen four horses down. -On the first two occasions he had lent a helping hand. After that it -began to grow monotonous, and he hurried past the accidents, anxious to -get home out of the sullen iron-bound streets. At the corner of Sloane -Square and the King's Road he saw a familiar girlish figure coming -towards him. It was Winifred, her dark cheeks glowing with the exercise -of walking; but he noticed a look of trouble in her eyes. - -“I am so glad to have met you, Mr. Kent,” she said; “I want to speak to -you. Can you walk a little way with me?” - -“Of course, as long as you like. What is the matter? You are not -yourself.” - -“No. I have been upset, so upset; you would hardly think it. Come and I -will tell you.” - -They crossed the road and went on down Lower Sloane Street. - -“It's about Jack--Jack, the model, you remember. He has been run over! -Oh, it's horrible!” - -“And you are going to him?” asked Kent, noticing for the first time a -little basket hanging over her arm. “Give me that,” he added, taking -the basket, which she out of habit surrendered to him. “And these are -jellies and what not for him?” - -“Yes. Will you come with me and see him, see what can be done for him, -rather? His mother is so harsh, so stupid.” - -“How did you come to hear of the accident?” - -Winifred's cheek paled a little and she turned her head from him. - -“I saw it myself. Oh, I shall never, never forget it! just outside -Sloane Square station; I was coming home, yesterday. The ground was just -as slippery as it is now. Oh, how can I tell you! It makes me shudder to -think of it!” - -“Take your time,” said Kent good-naturedly. - -She was silent for a few steps. Then, nerving herself, she went on with -more coherence. - -“He was just in front of me when I came out, and as he saw me he ran -away, frightened--like a little scared animal; you know his ways. And -crossing the road, not looking where he was going, he turned his head -round as if to see I was not following him, and then he slipped--oh-h! -under the hoofs of a horse--in a hansom. And the driver tried to pull up -sharp, and the horse came down too--on top of Jack!” - -“Good God!” said Kent. - -“A crowd at once collected. I rushed through--I must have screamed a -little and cried that I knew him, for the people made way for me. It all -seemed like a horrid dream. I can't tell what happened, except that I -found myself kneeling on the ground with the poor little mite's head on -my lap. Then someone was talking to me, who said he was a doctor, and -began to examine the boy's injuries.” - -“Is he badly hurt?” - -“The doctor does not know yet. No bones are broken--the injuries are -internal.” - -“Is he at the hospital?” - -“No. At his own home. I gave them the address, and told them his mother -would care for him--why, I don't know. And then they got a stretcher -from the police-station and carried him home, and I went with them and -broke it to his mother. But, oh! Mr. Kent, almost the most awful part of -it is that it seems as if I was the cause of it.” - -“Nonsense, my dear child,” said Kent in rough earnestness. - -“Oh, yes, it is. If it hadn't been for me he would not have run across -the road in a fright. Oh! I can see it now--the horse plunging, his -hoofs over the child--and then the collapse, and the child hidden under -the horse!” - -They turned down a side street and then another, sinking into the -squalour that still remains in that vague river district between Pimlico -Pier and Milbank. - -“Poor little chap! Punishment has come at last,” said Kent. “It has a -kind of way of doing so. What does Clytie think of it? Have you told -her?” - -“I only wrote to her yesterday. This morning I got a telegram. I think I -have it with me. It is Clytie all over!” - -She opened the purse she was carrying inside her muff and drew from it a -crumpled telegram. It ran: - -Dreadfully distressed. Get the best of everything, nurse, doctor. Find -money to go on with in drawer at once. I must feel that I am doing -something. Will write. - -“Yes, it is like her,” said Kent, with a smile, as he handed it back to -her. - -“I wonder whether you would mind doing something for me, Mr. Kent?” said -Winnie after a pause. “Get the money out of Clytie's drawer for me. -I have been so busy all day. Reggie is in bed with a bad cold and the -house is upside down--and of course I have to come here. You see, I -must use the money, or else Clytie would be hurt; it seems to me to be a -matter of conscience.” - -“Or a matter of Clytie's telling you?” said Kent. - -“Well, perhaps it's that. One always does what Clytie says. So do you, -Mr. Kent. Anyhow, I should like to have the money for the sake of -obeying her wishes. Could you get it for me?” - -“Of course, if you will tell me how.” - -“Oh, that's easy. I have the key of her secretaire in my purse. She -keeps her cash-box there. You can let me have it as it is. Will you?” - -“Of course. I will bring it round to-night.” - -The early winter twilight had fallen and scared shivering indoors the -brood of unwashed children that possess these gray, sordid streets. Here -and there women stood at the doors, their hands folded in their -aprons, with little ones clinging to their skirts, chaffering with a -costermonger, or exchanging shrill confidences with a neighbour. Most -of the front parlours on the ground floor were lightless, with drawn -blinds. Here and there a public-house beer-can gleamed white upon the -railing spikes. Workmen lurched heavily along, now and then followed by -shawled, bare-armed wives, vituperative. For it was Saturday afternoon, -when the businesslike wife looks after her husband. Here and there from -a suddenly opened doorway came the smell of many weeks' cooking. The -poorer classes despise fresh air in their rooms--perhaps because they -get it for nothing. - -Winifred stopped with Kent at a dark-fronted, dingy house, the facsimile -of the forty other houses in the dingy row and of the forty opposite -across the narrow roadway. A little girl answered her knock. - -“Mrs. Burmester in, my dear? Come, Mr. Kent, if you don't mind. I know -the way.” - -Kent followed her up two flights of stairs, and into Mrs. Burmester's -room. It was less squalid than he had imagined. A fire was burning in -the grate, with a saucepan simmering. There were fairly substantial -chairs, a table, and the ragged remains of a carpet. On a big bed by -the side of the wall, not uncomfortable-looking nor unclean, lay Jack, -tossing his wild elf head in delirium. By the side of the bed sat a -nurse, whom the doctor had sent. Mrs. Burmester was spreading out the -tea-things on the table. Her red, heavy face brightened momentarily when -Winnie entered. - -“How is he now?” - -“Oh, mortal bad, miss. He hasn't had his senses all day.” - -“And the doctor--does he say anything?” - -“He said he would like a consultation,” replied the nurse, “but he did -not know exactly whom to refer to.” - -“Why, to me, of course!” replied Winnie. “He knows my name and address. -If you see him before I do, say I authorise him to do anything he thinks -right. We are willing to--that is, he need not be hindered by questions -of expense.” - -Winnie turned to Mrs. Burmester with the basket, which she had taken -from Kent's hand. The mother thanked her, almost monosyllabically. She -was too dull for emotions of any kind. Kent watched her with interest, -for Clytie had often spoken of her, hinting at her own puzzle. - -There was a lull in Jack's ravings as Winifred and Kent stood over the -bed looking at him. The expression of sullen ferocity had gone from his -face, which now seemed refined and gentle. He smiled at Winifred, not -recognising her, murmured something incoherent about arithmetic. His -mind had wandered back to his earlier school-days. He had been fond of a -teacher there, his mother explained. Her name was Miss Jones. She wished -he was fond of anybody now. He was a sore trial to her. The floodgates -of dull speech were opened and a slow stream of joyless anecdote poured -forth--a jeremiad of Jack's iniquities. Winnie stopped her gently. - -“We must not think of that now, Mrs. Burmester,” she said. “We have to -get him round again; and then we will see whether we can't make a good -boy of him for you.” - -“Ah! You won't do that. He is too much like his father.” - -They stayed a little longer, talking. Then they went, as Winifred had to -be back among her own family responsibilities. - -“By the way,” said Kent as they were walking homewards, “this must be -Treherne's parish--in fact, I am sure of it. Has it not struck you?” - -“No, it never occurred to me.” - -“Well, he ought to know. I'll send him a line. He knows all about this -sort of thing.” - -He walked with her as far as the door of her own house. There she gave -him the key of Clytie's secretaire. Mrs. Gurkins kept the room key. -He left her and turned homewards, striding along rather fast, eager to -execute Clytie's commission. He was filled with a foolish pleasure at -her impulsive telegram; touched also at Winifred's implicit obedience -and confidence. - -“She's a queen among women!” - -The silly phrase passed through his mind and he caught himself repeating -it with his lips, half aloud. - -“Bosh!” he added with some impatience. And he stopped to look in at -a shop-window to divert his mind. It was a boot-shop. He ran his eye -mechanically over the rows of commonplace, cheap boots, and then it -fell upon a little pair of tan shoes, with broad silk laces. Before he -realised how his mind was working, a picture rose before him of Clytie -wearing a similar pair during the summer trip abroad. He remembered -bending down one day when a knot had slipped and retying it for her. - -“I am becoming a positive ass!” he said to himself, with an angry jerk -away from the window. Then he redoubled his pace, as if in defiance, but -the silly phrase rang in his ears: - -“She's a queen among women!” - -He obtained the key from Mrs. Gurkins, and entered the tenantless room. -The blinds were down, the curtains undrawn. It was just dark. He lit -the piano candles and looked about him. How dreary the room seemed! The -fireless grate, the coverless table (the cloth had been thriftily put -away by Mrs. Gurkins), the absence of the feminine litter with which -Clytie was wont to strew the room--all made his heart sink for a moment -beneath the weight of a great longing. He remembered, too, the room by -that dim light--on the evening of Clytie's submission. He saw her again -lift her arms to unpin her hat from behind, the proud young figure -standing out free as she looked at him half playfully, half seriously, -her ripe, full lips parted in a smile. His breath came quickly as a -flood of self-knowledge swept over him. He had felt puzzled then--at -vague inarticulate desires. Now they were gathering a terribly real, -objective shape. He grew dizzy, hot and cold, half terrified at himself. - -With shaking fingers he fitted the key in the lock of the secretaire. -In the drawer was a heterogeneous collection of odds and ends--letters, -keys, ball-programmes, receipted bills--which he had to thrust aside -so as to withdraw the little japanned cash-box. As he lifted it out a -handkerchief came with it, caught by its lace edge, and after dangling -a little fell at his feet. He picked it up, kept it in his hand, soothed -at the softness. A faint odour of perfume rose from it, subtle and -delicate--the well-known perfume that Clytie always used. It was like -an emanation from herself. It grew over his highly strung senses like -a breath of her own personality, sweet, intoxicating, overpowering. His -brain swam. With a kind of groan he staggered to the sofa, threw himself -upon it, burying his face in the little handkerchief, kissing it madly. - -Now all was clear, waves of lightning flashing the truth through him. He -loved her, passionately, desired her with a passion all the fiercer for -its long restraint. Yet he could not think coherently. One thought, one -utter realisation, overpowered all others. At last this great surging -sex-tumult was sweeping through his veins. - -“Oh, my God, I love her! Oh, my God, I love her!” That was all that he -could groan out as he lay upon the sofa. - -The creak of the door made him start up. On the threshold stood one of -Mrs. Gurkins's curly-headed little children. She looked for a moment, -rather frightened, at his haggard face, and then ran away. Thus aroused -to a sense of external things, he locked up the secretaire and went out, -taking the cash-box and handkerchief with him. - -On the slab outside his rooms he found a letter in Clytie's familiar -handwriting. He went into his room, and sitting down before his writing -space, spread the letter out before him. It ran as follows: - -My Dear Friend Kent: - -If you ask me why I have not written to you for such a long time, I must -shrink within my shell of femininity and refuse to give you reasons. -For I have them, and they are compounded from a recipe handed down from -Mother Eve. Well, I write to you now because I must. That reason I make -you a present of. - -I want to be in town again, in the King's Road, and to see you by the -fireside, ready to be asked questions and to answer them, and to comfort -your erratic friend Clytie with your kindliness and wisdom. She is -looked upon as a bad girl here, and pines for someone who thinks her -human, and who also thinks her art human, and can help her in it. - -Listen, now; I have got _the_ subject at last; it is eating my heart out -almost, I have to keep it hidden so to myself. I must tell you--for -the sake's sake. “Faustina as a young, innocent girl, with the -foreshadowings of passion on her face.” There! Now you know. What do you -think of it? - -Do you remember my depression at Dinan? Well, I think it was there I -got the conception. I can't tell you more. But it is haunting me. I feel -what I want to do, but I can't get a face. What shall I do? Tell me. You -know, dear Kent, in our talks, we have often disregarded principles that -move the world pretty potently. But as an artist I am bound to recognise -the part that passion plays in the tragedy of things. - - “These things are life: - - And life, some think, is worthy of the Muse,” - -as Meredith says in “Modern Love.” (Do you remember our reading it -together?) - -I can't write properly about it. I long for a talk with you. I shall -break away soon and come for it. So be prepared with all your sympathy. - -Do you miss me just a little bit? I often fancy my perverseness must -give a little wholesome irritation to your life, and you are very good -not to mind it. I always seem to be coming to you for help and sympathy. -When can I ever do anything for you? You must tell me, dear friend, when -the time comes. - -I should like to tell you to give Winnie a kiss for me, but that is -idiotic, isn't it? Yet you know what I mean. See that the dear child is -not wearing herself out. There! I am asking you to do something else -for me. Do write a long letter, full of yourself, with just a paragraph -about the needs, artistic and otherwise, of - -Your friend, - -C. D. - -Kent took some time to read this. The letters swam a little before his -eyes. Then he laid his head upon his arms and thought, in dumb agony. -Clytie's letter, sisterly and trustful, soothed and goaded him at once. -“The part that passion plays in the tragedy of things!” God! Had a -fleeting thought never struck her what a part it might play in their -lives' tragedy? How could he answer that letter, addressed to a friend, -received by a lover in the hot flush of newly awakened realisation? How -could he meet her bright, frank look with this burning demon within him? -It was base, horrible. His mind wandered to a German print he had -seen somewhere, a goat-footed satyr kneeling and leering at Psyche. He -shuddered. - -It is given but to few men to know this terror of love: only to those -who, like Kent, have hitherto expended vast animal and moral energies -in non-sexual enthusiasms, and have rebelled with almost passionate -repulsion against the assertion of the sexual principle. To some men -love dawns like a sweet, fair star--the storm comes later on. To such -as Kent it comes in terrific forked lightnings and crash of thunder, -overwhelming the soul with terror. To Kent's excited fancy it seemed -that the Beast, such as Wither had spoken of, had entered into him. He -had betrayed the compact of friendship, her sisterly trust in him. Fool -that he had been! Why had he not recognised it before? Now all was over -between them. The future seemed nothing but black, rolling darkness. - -The solitary gas-jet that he had lit on entering flared high and -strident over the mantelpiece above the blackening fire, and Kent lay -with his hands on his arms, his morbid brain at death-grapple with love, -he himself heedful of nothing external--not even of a gay whistle and a -quick, springing tread on the uncarpeted stairs. The door burst suddenly -open. - -“Come out, you fusty old hermit----” - -Then Wither stopped. Kent raised a drawn, rather ghastly face and stared -at him stupidly. - -“My dear old chap, in the name of Heaven, what's the matter?” cried -Wither, putting down his hat and stick and coming towards him. - -“Oh, nothing!” said Kent, who pulled himself together with an effort, -rose, and broke into a forced laugh. - -Wither looked at him steadily while he slowly drew off his gloves. - -“That's nonsense!” he said quietly. - -Then his sharp glance fell on the little crumpled handkerchief that lay -beside the open letter on the table. His quick sense, aided by certain -opinions he had formed long since, grasped the main feature of the -situation. - -He went over to where Kent was standing by the fireplace, and laid his -hand on his shoulder. - -“Never mind, dear old man, it will all come right.” - -“It will never come right,” groaned Kent absently. - -“It must. She must care for you in time.” - -“How do you know what I am thinking of?” Kent burst out rather fiercely. - -“I guessed. Besides--the handkerchief. It is not your own. Yours are a -little more businesslike.” - -“Oh, well!” said Kent a little huskily, and throwing his head back with -a gesture of impatience, “I can't hide it. What would be the good? I -have found out that she is a friend no longer, that what you were saying -the other night is true--and I feel a brute! My God, what a brute I -feel!” - -Wither's mental balance was for a moment upset. He righted it after a -moment with considerations of his friend's character. In many fragile, -nervous bodies there is a delicacy of perception which often remains all -the keener when protected by a shell of cynicism. - -“You want to be reasoned with gently, friend John,” he said. “You must -not feel a brute when you love a woman as a man like you can love. It's -the best and holiest thing on God's earth, believe me.” - -“But, Teddy, she is so frank, so trustful, so proud of our -friendship--it can never be the same again--if I should tell her, she -would hate me----” - -“You can bet your life she wouldn't!” murmured Wither. - -“She would go out of my life in indignation, and she would be right,” - Kent went on. “She would scorn me for the feelings that I know now I -have had all along for 'her. No; it is all over, all over. I can't meet -her again. I think I shall go mad! I shall throw up everything and go -away.” - -“You dear, foolish old chap,” said Wither, “can't you see that very -little would make her in love with you, if she is not so already? Why -should you two not get married?” - -“I marry!” gasped Kent, as if struck by a new idea. “I ask Clytie -Davenant, with her beauty and intellect and genius, to come -and share--this! Clytie Davenant marry me! Why, the idea is -ludicrous--preposterous!” - -“If I were she, I should not think so,” said Wither affectionately. - -Kent shook his head gloomily, and kicked the smouldering coal into a -fitful blaze. - -“No. Until she shows me unmistakably--which can be never--that she cares -for me in that way, I would sooner bite my tongue out than tell her.” - -“Until she asks you to marry her, in fact! John Kent, you are two years -older than I am, and three times as big. But verily you are a little -child! And if you weren't,” he added impulsively, with a soft glitter -in his elfin eyes, “you would not be the lovable old chap that you are! -Good-bye!” - -“Oh, stay a little, Teddy!” cried Kent. “I'm not much company, but -I----” - -“Come round with me and have some dinner, then,” interrupted Wither. “It -will occupy your body--if not your mind. And it will be better for you -than the bottled beer and sardines which you usually feast upon. I shall -be quite alone and you can do some work for me.” - -“All right!” replied Kent dejectedly. “It does not matter what I do.” - -Wither turned his face to the fire, while Kent prepared to go out. -When he turned round Kent was holding the cash-box in his hand. The -handkerchief and letter were gone from the table, and Wither smiled -inwardly. He had himself disposed of many such trifles in a similar way. -Men are very much alike in several matters. - - - - -CHAPTER XI. - -The atmosphere of Durdleham was uninspiring. Clytie could make no -progress with her picture, and at last she laid it aside in despair. She -had set her heart upon painting it, and the thoughts of it worried her, -prevented her from sleeping. Not only would it give her fame, satisfy -her ambition, stimulated by the success of “Jack,” but it would satisfy -certain cravings of her soul. And yet she was conscious that only when -these cravings found articulate utterance could the haunting shadows -be fixed. The lack, therefore, seemed to lie in herself: whether in her -spiritual nature or in her material experience of the world she could -not tell; perhaps it was a subtle combination of the two. She could not -bring her lens of introspection to a focus. What she saw through it was -blurred and inchoate. - -She had looked forward to Kent's reply to her letter. His sympathetic -common sense might help her. When his answer did come, after some days' -interval, it was strangely cold and dispiriting, just two sides of -note-paper barely filled with sententious enigma. - -“If the painting of it will bring you joy, paint. If not, you are -grasping at shadows.” - -That was the gist of it. What did it mean? Clytie was inclined to be -indignant. Her own letter had been written out of the friendliness and -needs of her heart, and the reply seemed almost like a rebuff. She did -not know that the writing of it had caused Kent two hours' perplexed -wretchedness. Even the finest feminine perception cannot pierce through -a millstone. The little feeling of resentment towards Kent took the -keenness of edge from her anticipated pleasure of seeing him again; at -least so she told herself when she packed her boxes at the end of her -visit to Durdleham. But as the train brought her nearer to London her -spirits rose. She was free once more to live her own life, without fear -of comment or criticism. It was simple, laborious, and innocent enough, -and she desired little more at present; but there was the exhilarating -sense of freedom, of perfect liberty to be outrageous, reckless, if -such was her good pleasure, wherein lies much of the sweetness of -independence. - -She found her sitting-room tidied, neatly arranged, looking as nearly as -possible as if it had never been vacated, and Winifred, a transforming -fairy in the midst of it, eagerly awaiting her. Clytie sighed a little -as she listened to Winnie's gossip. The latter looked at her with -reproachful inquiry. - -“I was only thinking, dear, that this is more my home than the house at -Durdleham, and you are dearer to me than anyone there.” - -Winifred stroked her friend's hand in girlish fashion and turned away -her head. She knew Clytie too well to make any reply. Then she spoke of -Jack, who was in a fair way towards recovery. She had been very glad -of Clytie's money, she confessed, with a deep blush, because things -at home--well, Clytie knew. And Mr. Treherne, with whom Kent had -communicated, had been very kind and helpful. He went round to Mrs. -Burmester's every afternoon to cheer up the invalid. - -“And I suppose you go round pretty often?” said Clytie. - -“Of course--every afternoon,” replied Winifred simply. - -And Clytie, as she smoothed the shapely head lying in her lap, smiled to -herself a little mysterious smile. - -Mr. Kent, too, Winifred continued, had been invaluable to her. He had -brought the boy picture-books, toys--had sat up with him one night -whilst the nurse rested, the mother being quite helpless, and sleeping -in an adjoining room which they had rented for the time between them. -Never had street arab been so petted, so preciously guarded. He was -growing quite human under the treatment. Kent and Treherne had managed -to get him a nomination to a decent school-home, which would assure him -an honest career in after life. Winifred was enthusiastic. She had never -known before what a good, beautiful world it was, how filled with good -and beautiful people! - -In reply to a question of Clytie's she said that she had seen little of -Kent lately; that he looked overworked, worried, on the rare occasions -when she had exchanged a few words with him. - -“He is doing too much. I must speak to him about it this evening,” said -Clytie. - -She took it for granted that he would come, if not at the present hour, -while they were sitting over the teacups, at any rate after dinner, to -discuss in cheery, familiar fashion the events of the past month. But -the moments slipped by and his footstep was not heard on the stairs. - -“Are you sure that he knew I was coming back to-day?” asked Clytie. - -“Of course. He inquired twice of me,” replied Winifred. - -Winnie went away, and Clytie dined, took up a book, and waited. But -Kent did not come. Clytie felt hurt. If he had been engaged, he might -at least have left her a word of welcome. It was unfriendly, unlike him. -Surely she could not have offended him in any way. She grew interested -in her book, sat up till a late hour finishing it. As she neared the -end she heard the well-known footstep coming up the stairs. She laid her -book down, expecting to see the door open, but though she thought she -detected a faint pause outside on the landing, the sound of the tread -did not cease, but continued up the next flight until it was lost. Then -she went to bed, somewhat angry. - -She was in her studio betimes in the morning setting things straight. -Orders had come in for a couple of small street-urchin pictures. She had -to make arrangements for setting to work upon them at once. Her mind was -intent upon the matter when she heard Kent pass down the stairs on his -way to the Museum. Ordinarily he was accustomed, if he was not pressed -for time, to thrust his head in at the studio door as he passed, nod -good-morning, and perhaps receive some small commission to execute at -the colour man's in Oxford Street. - -“Perhaps he has grown tired of our intimacy,” thought Clytie, “and is -taking this opportunity of breaking it off.” The thought was a whip to -her pride. It sent the blood rushing in fierce waves to her cheeks. -She was alone, an angry woman, not fit company for herself. She felt -humiliated, insulted, and encouraged herself in the feeling, baring her -shoulders to the lash. It scarcely occurred to her then to inquire -into the justice of the suggestion--the mere fact of the suggestion -presenting itself was sufficient to make her burn with indignation. - -After lunch she took a cab and drove to Piccadilly to look at the -shops and the people. Town was filling again, the afternoon sun shone -brightly. Clytie's spirits rose. She went with light, defiant tread down -the Burlington Arcade, flashing a contemptuous glance upon admiring -loungers, bought herself gloves and odds and ends of millinery, crossed -over to Bond Street, looked in at Dowdeswell's to see a picture on view -in the gallery, and then, after an interview with Burrowes, the dealer, -in Oxford Street, she turned into Regent Street, prepared to enjoy the -contemplation of the miscellaneous crowd forever moving up and down its -broad pavement. Perhaps the wished-for face would meet her there, she -thought, smiling to herself; in which case she determined that she would -stop, pass it and repass it, fixing its features in her memory. She -amused herself thus for some time, scanning the faces of the passers-by, -inventing rapid histories to account, here for the after-light of -laughter in a young girl's eyes, and there for the lines of pain round -the corners of an older woman's lips. She paused before a shop-window -to observe a ragged little arab who was flattening a nose, already -much snubbed by previous applications, against the glass. To gratify a -whimsical artistic fancy she entered the shop on a trivial pretext so -as to obtain from the other side of the pane the aspect of the urchin's -face. Then, after making a mental note of it for future use, she went -on her way. It was exhilarating, this bright London, with its manifold -variegation, after the dull uniformity of Durdleham. This perpetual -stimulus was necessary to her art, which drooped helpless in the quiet -country town. And with the thrill of artistic quickening came the -buoyant, vigorous pulsation of youth. Her tread was elastic, her cheeks -and eyes animated. She had forgotten her irritation of the morning in -the sense of vitality and enjoyment. It was a good thing to be young, -with a purpose in life and the freedom and strength to carry it out. -Clytie tasted a rare happiness that afternoon, one of which the high -gods are very sparing. - -Suddenly she felt a touch on her arm, and a voice exclaimed: - -“My dear Clytie! What are you wandering about here for?” - -She turned round. The speaker was Mrs. Farquharson, merry and smiling. -They shook hands and walked leisurely down the street together. - -“When did you get away from that dreadful place, and why haven't you -been to see us?” - -“This is my first day of freedom,” replied Clytie, “and I was just -thinking of coming round to Harley Street.” - -“That's right! You will come round with me when I have finished my -shopping. I was wishing for you. I have a little--no, a big treat for -you.” - -“Is it nice to eat? I looked in longingly at Charbonnel's as I passed -down Bond Street, and I am hungry.” - -“It's Thornton--at last,” said Mrs. Farquharson with a little air of -triumph. - -Clytie was interested, and forgot Charbonnel's. - -“When did he come?” - -“He has been in England some weeks, but only a few days in London. Do -you know, he is going to settle down. Won't that be delightful? I do -hope you will like him.” - -“And he is going to give up fighting and exploring and all that?” asked -Clytie. - -“So he says. But I don't believe it. He will get seized with the fever -after a time and then off he will go again. That has always been his -way. But at any rate we will have him with us for a season.” - -“Is he staying with you?” - -“Oh, dear, no! We wanted him to, but he is too wild a creature. Besides, -he knows the half of London, and is in demand everywhere. He is quite a -personage.” - -“Then where does the treat come in?” asked Clytie, laughing. - -“Why, he comes to Harley Street this afternoon for tea, you obtuse -girl,” cried Mrs. Farquharson. “And that is why we had better make haste -to get back, as it is growing late.” - -Clytie had often heard Mrs. Farquharson speak of this cousin, Thornton -Hammerdyke, and was half doubtful whether to allow herself to be -infected with her enthusiasm or to prepare herself to find him -commonplace, as one generally does find the particular heroes of our -intimate friends. Caroline was never tired of talking of him. He was -a hero, a latter-day berserker. She was proud of him, treasured up -paragraphs in the newspapers in which his name was mentioned, wove a -woman's web of romance around his brilliant exploits. She had often -waxed eloquent over his fame, his personal charm, his physical strength -and beauty. - -“But all this can't be contained in one poor mortal,” Clytie would say -sometimes, teasingly. - -And Mrs. Farquharson would reply, without any of the banter that -generally characterised her personal gossip: - -“Wait until you have seen him, my dear.” - -To the imaginative there was much that was heroic and romantic in the -record of the active life of Thornton Hammerdyke. He had entered the -army shortly after leaving school, but, wearying after a couple of -years of the dulness of a garrison life, had resigned his commission. -An exploring party to Thibet was afoot. He joined it, quickly became its -leading spirit, and when the chief of the expedition was incapacitated -through illness he undertook the command. This brought him into public -notice. When the Soudan War broke out he joined Lord Wolseley as a -volunteer, and made himself conspicuous by his daring and his marvellous -feats of bodily strength. His name was known all through the army. -He courted danger, especially where it took the form of hand to hand -fighting. An eye-witness of the scene had told Caroline how once, when -attacked by three gigantic Soudanese, he had shorn one clean through the -body, lost his sword, leaped from his horse, wrenched the spear from -one of the others with a force that made the man's arm snap like a twig, -turn on the other--while the broken-armed savage leaped upon his back -and tried to throttle him--and how before there was time to follow his -movements both were lying dead at his feet. He had fought side by side -with Burnaby in the rash conflict when the author of the “Ride to Khiva” - fell pierced with Soudanese spears. He had been in evidence in every -skirmish. When the war was over he remained in Africa, on the Soudan -frontier, in command of some Egyptian cavalry, maintaining a guerrilla -warfare until the troops were recalled. And then he plunged into the -interior, exploring on his own account, with a nominal authority from -the Belgian government. And it was on this part of his career that his -reputation chiefly rested. Certainly ugly stories against him of undue -harshness, even ferocity, were afloat at one time. But he laughed at -these rumours on his return to England, and sarcastically observed in a -letter to the _Times_ that, given a community consisting of a judge, a -prisoner, and a hundred howling, savage maniacs, it was a matter of some -difficulty to form an impartial jury. - -When Mrs. Farquharson and Clytie arrived at Harley Street the short -January day had nearly drawn to a close. In the drawing-room the gas -had not been lighted, and by the dull glow of the fire objects were only -dimly visible. Two men rose from either side of the hearth as the ladies -entered. The long ungainly figure Clytie recognised as Mr. Farquharson, -the other as Thornton Hammerdyke, from Caroline's description of his -great powerful frame. His face she could not distinguish; only a large, -finely shaped head, and white teeth gleaming under a heavy moustache as -he exchanged laughing greetings with his cousin. - -Mrs. Farquharson performed the little ceremony of introduction. Then tea -was brought in. - -“You will excuse this outer darkness, Clytie,” said Caroline. “George -thinks it soothing. You know his ways. You see what a poor woman has to -put up with!” - -“I agree with him,” said Clytie. “It is cosy, and it seems to sanction -foolish gossip.” - -“Did you ever hear me gossip?” asked Mr. Farquharson severely. “I like -it, Miss Davenant, because it induces a meditative frame of mind.” - -“And slumber,” murmured his wife as she dispensed the tea. - -The talk continued light and easy, on the topics of the day, the -studios, Thornton's plans for the enjoyment of civilised life. He spoke -brightly, in a deep, resonant voice, that of a man assured of himself -and of the interest afforded to others by reference to his own doings. -Although the subject was trivial, the others listened amusedly, carried -away by the influence of a strong personality. Clytie glanced at -him from time to time, trying to measure him, to sum him up in the -instinctive feminine way. But he was sitting far back from the fire, in -the gloom, and she could only gather a general impression of physical -size and vitality. She was conscious too, that, as she was sitting with -her face in the direct glow, she was visible to him, and that he was -looking at her quietly as he smoked his cigarette and talked. She picked -up a newspaper from a little table by her side, and held it before -her face as a screen. His glance, which she felt rather than met, -embarrassed her, she scarcely knew why. Gradually the talk drifted into -a slight discussion between the two men. Mrs. Farquharson took advantage -of it to draw her chair near to Clytie. - -“And all this time I have scarcely asked you a question about yourself. -Come, account to me for the six weeks you have been away.” - -Clytie dutifully went over the main incidents of her stay in Durdleham, -making light, in her pleasure at being in London again, of the little -wearinesses and depressions of the past. A faint cloud came over her -gaiety when Mrs. Farquharson asked her suddenly: - -“And Kent? What has become of him?” - -“He is still alive,” said Clytie. - -“Do you know, he has not been near us all the time you have been away. -He has treated us very badly. You must scold him for me. What has he to -say for himself?” - -“I don't know; I haven't seen him yet, and I have scarcely heard -from him. I shall have to scold him on my own account,” she added, -brightening. - -“That's odd of him,” said Caroline. “You are such inseparables that I -thought he would have been waiting for you with a bouquet in each hand -when you entered the house.” - -Clytie laughed at the idea of Kent waiting for her with Covent Garden -tributes. - -“I would just as soon think of him reading me a sonnet. But I did expect -him to come down to tell me I had been wasting my time, and to draw out -a scheme for the better occupation of it.” - -“Take care that he has not gone and fallen in love with somebody whilst -he has been left to his own devices,” said Caroline teasingly. - -“Oh, how can you say such wicked things?” cried Clytie. “Of course he -hasn't!” - -“One never knows, my dear. Men are the most unreasonable beings in the -world. With a woman, now, if you know just the least little bit about -her,--it isn't everybody, of course, that does,--you can always tell -what she is likely to do. But with a man--never. Do you think I know -whether that husband of mine is going to be pleased with his dinner -to-night? No, not one scrap. And Kent's a man--just like the rest of -them.” - -“Are you talking about Kent?” interposed Mr. Farquharson. “I saw him the -other night at the meeting of the Numismatic Society.” - -“There, now! How like a man! And you knew I wanted to know what had -become of him. What had he to say for himself?” - -“That most of the rude coins marked with the name of Alfred were in -reality imitations made by the vikings during their periodical visits to -this country. His remarks were very interesting, my dear.” - -“Thornton,” said Mrs. Farquharson in her blandest tones, “would you be -so very kind as to light the gas?” Her husband chuckled to himself, and -Hammerdyke rose to comply with her request. During the operation all the -three mechanically watched his movements. - -“There!” he said, turning to face them, “I think that is better; we -shall be able to see one another.” - -As the full blaze fell upon him Clytie could not repress a little -feminine thrill of surprise. Seen in the vague darkness she had imagined -him quite different. He seemed to spring out of it a perfect type of -physical manhood. He bore with him an atmosphere of splendid animalism. -The artist in Clytie, trained to detect beauties of limb and set and -fall of muscle, scanned him for a second with involuntary admiration. -Although he was dressed with a fashionable tailor's perfection of fit, -which generally gives suave uniformity to strong and puny, his clothes -could not conceal the evidences of a magnificent strength--deep chest, -arms that seemed to fit tightly the coat-sleeves, broad, massive -shoulders, thick, powerful neck. He held his head high, commandingly, -which gave him the appearance of tallness, although he was not much -above medium height. Shortcut brown hair, clinging close to his head in -crisp waves, a broad forehead with two thick vertical veins, added to -this impression of strength. In spite of his thirty-four years the blood -showed beneath his bronzed skin, on which there were few lines. His -features, although on a large scale, were saved from coarseness by -regularity. His under jaw was slightly heavy, but in keeping with the -massiveness of his limbs. His eyes were dark and lustrous, with a light -burning in their depths; his teeth white and even. - -“When Hammerdyke is fighting he is all eyes and teeth,” was a saying -that had come to Mrs. Farquharson's ears; she had repeated it long -since to Clytie, who remembered it now as she beheld this hero of -Caroline's for the first time. He was not fighting now, but laughing, -talking with a certain daring charm of manner, almost boyish sometimes. -The time passed quickly. When the little clock in the corner struck six -Clytie rose in some confusion. She had promised to spend the evening -with Winifred and the children. She took her leave hurriedly. - -A little later she was sitting in the Marchpanes' drawing-room, with the -children clinging around her, a block of paper and a pencil, as usual, -in her hand. And led away by a sudden fancy she drew pictures for them -of the wild deeds that she had heard tell of Thornton Hammerdyke. This -was quite a novelty to the children, who were accustomed to street -arabs and grotesque caricatures. They were delighted, hung on her lap, -demanded more pictures of soldiers and camels and a great man in a -helmet killing savages. To satisfy them she had to draw extensively -upon her imagination, sometimes upon theirs. Winifred's suggestions were -scouted as being too mild. The final picture was a great triumph. It -represented the same man in the helmet dancing upon a struggling heap of -savages, transfixing one with a spear held in his left hand, whilst -with a sword in his right he clove another in twain. Nothing is so -fascinating to children as the grotesquely horrible; Clytie herself was -carried away by their enthusiasm. - -Meanwhile the subject of this picture history had remained at Harley -Street for a short time after Clytie's departure. - -“So that is the Clytie you used to write to me about in Africa?” he -said. “No wonder you like having such a splendid thing about the place, -as a kind of intermittent fixture.” - -“I am so glad you like her,” said Caroline. - -“I didn't say I liked her. I don't give myself away so soon as that. -But, by Jove! I liked looking at her. Where is she generally to be -found?” - -“Either here or, if you make yourself very civil to her, she may let you -go round to her studio--on her day, you know.” - -“Oh, she runs a day, does she? These young women are getting very -emancipated.” - -“They are,” said George Farquharson, lighting his pipe. “So much the -better.” - -“I don't know so much about that,” replied Hammerdyke. “If they are too -emancipated, they get an idea that their own way is everything in the -world, and grow devilish hard in the mouth when the time comes for them -to be pulled up.” - -“What a contradictory creature!” cried Caroline. “Only yesterday you -were railing at the well brought up drawing-room young ladies you were -having to take in to dinner.” - -“I should think so: the things that draw, recite, and play the fiddle, -and rush about to lectures. I am getting a bit too old for that kind of -young animal. I'd sooner spend a week with the wife of a camel driver -than with any one of them. She would be just as intelligent, somewhat -funnier, and the advantage would be that you could lick her into shape -without alarming absurd prejudices. No; the drawing-room young lady is -distinctly 'off,' just as much as the over-emancipated.” - -“Well, what kind of a young woman are you looking out for?” - -“I never look out for anything, my dear Caroline. I take what comes--if -it pleases me.” - -“Then I hope Clytie will please you, Thornton. She is quite different -from any other girl I know. And it's just her little airs of -emancipation that give her charm, I wish there were more like her.” - -“So do I, by Jove! There would be some pleasure in looking around a -theatre or a ball-room.” - -“Yet I should think that was rather a relief after Central Africa.” - -Thornton broke into a gay laugh. - -“Unsophisticated woman has her good points, you know!” - -“Um!” said Farquharson, pulling at his pipe. - -They chatted for a little while longer. Then Hammerdyke pulled out his -watch. - -“I must go and dress for dinner.” - -“Oh, by the way, Thornton,” said Caroline, “did you not tell me you had -an appointment at six? I hope we haven't kept you from it.” - -“Oh, yes,” he replied cheerfully as he gathered up his hat and stick. -“It's only Field. I dare say he's waiting for me now. I shan't turn up -at the club, though. He can rip. When he is tired of kicking his heels -and drinking small whiskeys he can curse the waiter and go. I must be -off now. Let me know when Clytie is on view again and I'll throw over -anybody.” - -Mrs. Farquharson smiled indulgently. In her eyes there was no one like -Thornton. - -“Thornton is a bit of an egotist,” said George mildly to his wife, later -in the evening, when they were alone together. He was not addicted to -the hyperbolic, like Caroline. - -“Oh, but, George, he is such a dear good fellow--and such a splendid -man!” - -“'Quem sese ore ferens! quam forti pectore et armis!'” murmured her -husband. - -Now George Farquharson knew that if there was one thing his wife -disliked it was that he should quote Latin at her. It generally -occasioned a distraction. If it failed, he translated. The effects of -that were certain. This time Mrs. Farquharson was content to allow his -remark to remain “veiled in the obscurity of a learned language.” - - - - -CHAPTER XII. - -I do wish you would cheer up, old chap,” said Wither sympathetically. -“You are getting uncomfortable--like Mr. Mantalini's body, in the midst -of our joyousness.” - -He was lying curled up, as usual, on the sofa, smoking a cigarette. -Kent was brooding over the fire. Fairfax had been rallying him from a -doctor's point of view, and he had answered vaguely, striving not to let -his friend's rough kindness jar too unbearably. He felt relieved when -the doctor was called out to see a patient, and Wither and himself were -left alone together. - -“I suppose I am making an ass of myself. I have never felt miserable -before in all my life, and it must be that I am unused to it----” - -“It gets in your way like a man's court-sword on the first time of -wearing,” said Wither. - -“Somewhat,” replied Kent, with a short laugh. He did not mind Wither's -jesting. It came spontaneously from the small, bright-eyed man--was in -fact his natural language. “Perhaps it does. I'll get over it some day.” - -“It will be all right when she comes back.” - -“She has come back.” - -“When?” - -“Nearly a week ago.” - -“And how are matters going between you?” - -“I haven't seen her yet,” said Kent moodily, staring into the fire. -“That is to say, I have seen her. I have lain in wait for her, so as to -catch a glimpse of her as she passed by. But I have not met her.” - -“And when do you propose going to see her?” - -“God knows! I don't.” - -“I don't know whether this is _fin de siècle_ or whether it belongs to -the glacial epoch,” said Wither, drawing a breath of bewilderment. “At -any rate, has it never struck you, friend John, that being in love with -a woman is no reason why you should be rude to her?” - -“I have scarcely thought of that.” - -“Then, by Jove, the sooner you can get it into your muddled head, the -better. What have you been doing with yourself these evenings?” - -“Anything to keep away. A meeting of the Geological, another of the -Numismatic--a theatre, where there was just such another ass as myself. -I couldn't stand it, so I went out and turned into the Empire and tried -to find comfort in performing dogs. I have also dined out.” - -“You must have been a cheerful lot. What did you say to your partner?” - -“Nothing. She wanted to babble on, and I let her babble. Curse the whole -thing!” he cried, smiting a block of coal with the poker, so hard that -the chips flew over the hearthrug; “To think that it should be my fate -to meet the only woman in the whole world who doesn't babble!” - -“I should consider it in the light of a privilege,” said Wither. - -The next morning, after a night's agony of indecision, he plucked up -courage and tapped at the studio door. He entered. Clytie was alone, -busily preparing her palette. She paused with the half-squeezed tube -in her hand, and looked up at him without rising, her brows slightly -knitted. He remained motionless, too, on the threshold, after -mechanically shutting the door behind him. He tried to utter the little -address of lame excuses which he had framed, but the words stuck, -somehow, in his throat. He was only conscious that she was there, in the -same room with him again, looking bewilderingly fresh and beautiful in -her dark dress, with its dainty painting-apron, too simple almost for -the rich colour of her eyes and hair and the stately bend of her neck. -Yet even then he noticed she was a trifle paler than usual. - -“I meant to have come to see you before,” he stammered. - -“Why didn't you? I rather expected you,” she replied calmly. - -She finished squeezing her tube, and taking up her palette-knife, went -on with her occupation. Kent, instinctively conscious that it is a -disadvantage to stand, when morally wrong, before a sitting person who -is in the right, drew Winifred's painting-stool away from the easel and -sat down. - -“You might have come in, if only for five minutes,” said Clytie, as he -made no reply. The hand holding the palette-knife trembled a little. - -“I wanted to,” replied Kent, finding words with difficulty. “But I -couldn't. I am very, very sorry if I have been rude. I am always doing -things of this sort.” - -“It is not very pleasant for your friends; and I suppose we have been -friends.” - -“Yes, we have been friends,” he replied, “and I hope we shall continue -so--if you will forgive me.” - -His voice sounded strange in his own ears. In Clytie's it sounded cold -and formal. She was puzzled. - -“Oh, of course I forgive you! You have made your apology.” - -“Believe me--things have happened. I could not come before, indeed I -could not.” - -“I never doubted your word, Kent,” said Clytie, with a touch of her old -soft manner towards him. “Only it seemed strange not to see you. One -gets into a certain groove, and a change from it jars. You see how easy -it is to become a Philistine. You are much more a child of the light -than I am, in that you have got out of the groove quite easily.” - -“You have no right to say that,” said Kent, rising. - -“Well, perhaps I have not,” said Clytie, bending intently over her -palette. “Anyhow, the fact remains that we parted friends before -Christmas, and now that I have come back you are changed. I am very -sorry--sorrier than I can say. I have valued your friendship and the -help it has given me--I am unchanged, I think so--and, to be franker -than my sex generally is, I may say, I am hurt.” - -Kent misunderstood. He could not help it. He thought she was grieved at -his friendship having changed to love, which the tone in her voice told -him could not be returned. All had happened just as he had anticipated. -She spoke more in sorrow than in anger; that was the only difference. - -“If you would prefer that I did not see you again--or so often,” he -said, twisting the brim of his hat. - -The words estranged them still further. They were pathetic in their -ludicrous inappositeness. - -“That you must please yourself about,” replied Clytie, with a quick -flush. “I have said all that my pride will let me say in the matter. If -you prefer to break off our intercourse, well--so be it!” - -“You know that I don't wish to do that,” he said in a low voice. “Let me -see you sometimes. Could I see you this evening, for instance?” - -“No; I am sorry, I am going--I am dining out. Some other time. You know -my hours.” - -He stepped forward and shook hands with her to say good-bye, thus -breaking through an established custom between them of non-handshaking. -He reflected on this a moment afterward. It seemed an omen of the -dissolution of their friendship. - -When he had gone Clytie felt as if she would like to cry. What did it -all mean? Why did Kent wish to break with her? She put down her palette -and sat in her chair near the stove. She felt unhappy, lonely. She was -in that strange state of uncertainty about the present, which -often takes the form, with women especially in certain moods, of a -presentiment of future trouble. “I wish Winnie would come,” she half -repeated to herself. But almost on top of the thought entered one of -Mrs. Gurkins's curly-haired children bringing her a note. It was from -Winifred, who was suddenly called out of town on business and could not -come on that day to the studio. Clytie mechanically tore up the note -and scattered the pieces over the coals. She was not subject to fits of -personal depression--independent entirely of the artistic side of her -life. But the air seemed charged with disturbing, conflicting elements. - -Soon she roused herself and went over to her easel, where for some time -she worked steadily. A lay-figure clad in a child's ragged frock stood -near by and she painted in the lights of the skirt, with mechanical -precision of touch. But her thoughts were far away. Then the face that -she had painted attracted her attention. It was that of a child--merry -and smiling--but with the little London street girl's precocious wisdom. -It was cleverly executed. Clytie had seized the suggestion of the -everlasting feminine in the face, accentuating it ever so little. It -seemed to laugh mockingly at her, out of the canvas, as who should -say--“Look at me. Child as I am, I am as old as the world, and I can -tell you secrets that you know not of.” - -“You wise little witch,” said Clytie, after a while, standing back, with -head inclined in critical surveyal of her work. “I wish you could tell -me what is the matter with Kent.” - -And then for the first time Mrs. Farquharson's idle, jesting words came -into her mind: - -“Take care that he has not gone and fallen in love with somebody!” - -And the child's old face seemed to add a mocking confirmation. - -This would explain all: his sudden change, the stiffness of his letter; -his shrinking from seeing her; the awkwardness of his apology; the vague -phrase, “things have happened,” which had puzzled her. The more she -thought of it the more probable did this solution seem. It caused her a -little heaviness of heart. Certain strange imaginings had come to her, -too, this week. She needed the strength of Kent's friendship. - -There are no persons harder to read and easier to misunderstand than -those of whom we are fondest. There are two common causes of mutual -miscomprehension. First we take it too much for granted that we can -read the heart of another human being; and secondly, we are too apt to -conclude that affinities sharpen perception to such an extent that the -unexpressed becomes luminously expressive. This is a curious fact, too -little recognised in our minor problems in social statics. Clytie had -fallen into the one error, Kent into the other. - -For the first time in her life Clytie felt afraid. The sense of what was -missing in her life dawned, half shadowy, before her. She was different -from other girls of her age, more advanced, as the phrase goes. For the -majority of women come in ignorance to emotion; they feel, before they -realise that they are learning. But Clytie in her eager search after the -roots of existence had learned much, with feelings as yet untried. In -this knowledge, if as yet there was no sorrow, there was fear. If Kent -had come to her at this moment with a passionate avowal of his love, -she would have yielded to him. Her fear would have melted away into -joyousness, the rich springs of her nature would have been opened, and -her destiny would have been accomplished. But neither of them knew this. -He was engaged in the humorous task of trying to kill love, and she was -half consciously tending along a path strangely diverging from his. - -She dined that evening at the Farquharsons'. Hammerdyke was the only -other guest. It was a bright, cosy meal, and Clytie soon forgot her -depression of the morning. Caroline was at her merriest, proud of her -three companions--of each in an especial manner. George was mildly -satirical, as usual. He wore his velvet jacket, in which he found more -happiness than in his ceremonial dress-coat. His dry touch of humour -was pleasantly antagonistic to Hammerdyke's stronger personality and -downright views of life. The latter laughed heartily, almost boyishly -at his rebuker, like one who is accustomed to indulgence on the part of -others for caprices of action and language. These, coming from a lesser -man, might have been repugnant to the sensitive; but from him they -seemed to bear a physical justification. - -As he sat opposite her, talking in off-hand, picturesque fashion of -incidents in his adventurous life, Clytie could not help looking with a -feeling somewhat akin to awe at the man who had gone through such things -and could speak of them so lightly. She listened, interposed a question -here and there, wondered what it would feel like to treat those memories -in so familiar a fashion. A new page of life seemed to lie open before -her, quivering with sensations beyond her ken. - -“Didn't you ever feel horribly afraid?” asked Caroline, while he was -sketching some of his more recent exploring experiences. - -“I did so,” he confessed frankly, “but I had my devils well under -control. I had the power to string a mutineer up on the nearest tree or -to pot him with my revolver, and somehow they rather funked me. If it -had entered their woolly heads to go for me all together they would have -made short work of me--but no one liked to take the initiative.” - -“Did you ever try kindness, on these expeditions--by way of experiment?” - asked Farquharson. - -“Not much. You can't afford to fool away your life for the sake of an -experiment. Oh, no! my dear sir, the noble savage does not swarm -much round about the slave tracks in Central Africa. The Zulus may be -different. I don't know--I've never seen much of them--but Fuzzywuz and -his neighbours can only understand brute force.” - -“I don't quite see, now, how you got all that power,” said Farquharson. -“Did you establish yourself as a little king--or what?” - -“Oh, no!” returned Hammerdyke, laughing. “When I had finished with the -Soudan I wanted to while away a few months in the interior, and as the -Belgians wanted a road made through the forest I offered to see things -were done straight for them. As for the authority--judicial and that -sort of thing--one takes that as a matter of course. The niggers don't -know anything about it, except that there is a white man bossing them. -They think it's all right, so what does it matter?” - -“Then you hire a set of woolly-headed navvies, and if they lapse from -your standard of virtue, you shoot them--is that the idea?” - -“Somewhat. In mere slips one employs the _argumentum ad bacculinum_. It -isn't pleasant, but it's the only way.” - -“You are not going back again, are you, Thornton?” Caroline asked, -wishing to turn the conversation. She believed in Thornton, in his -power by divine right to blow all the tribes of Central Africa from the -cannon's mouth if it so pleased him, but she saw that George was not -sympathetic. It was a sore little point with her that her husband did -not share all her enthusiasm for Thornton. “You are going to settle down -now, really?” she added. - -“Who knows?” he replied. “All things become monotonous after a -time--even playing potentate. That's why I am here--with the intention -of giving civilisation a chance. Some fine morning I may wake up and -think that it would be nice to have a little excitement, and then I may -pack up my things and start for No Man's Land again.” - -“It must be a stirring life,” said Clytie half aloud, with a quick -glance at Hammerdyke. - -“It is the best life. Action, excitement, keen enjoyment of everything! -You should take a turn at it, George.” - -But George shook his head. - -“I have a wife dependent upon me. Otherwise you may be sure I would -leave this effete and effeminate civilisation and start to-morrow.” - -“I don't think you would do much good out there,” said Mrs. Farquharson -candidly. - -They finished dinner early and went up to the drawing-room, which -not long afterwards was filled with the heterogeneous crowd that the -Farquharsons loved to gather round them. This reception was instead of -the ordinary Sunday one, and was in Thornton's honour, although it was -not unusual for Caroline thus to change her evening, scattering warning -post-cards the day before. Kent, being on the list, had received one -that morning, and before he saw Clytie had been half wondering whether -he should go to Harley Street. So he had put his question as to Clytie's -evening engagement tentatively. Her somewhat evasive reply had decided -him. He would not inflict his society upon her. As Clytie's eye wandered -over the familiar figures in the drawing-room, she involuntarily sought -for Kent's. It seemed strange that he should not be there, for during -the autumn he had scarcely missed a Sunday. One or two friends came up -and asked after him. On the occasion of one inquiry, Mrs. Farquharson -and Thornton were standing by her. - -“Who is Kent that everybody is talking about--if I may ask?” said -Hammerdyke. - -“Kent?” interposed Caroline. “Oh if you know Clytie, you must know Kent. -They are a kind of Mentor and Egeria combination.” - -“That's lucid,” said Hammerdyke, laughing. “I hope you will present -me to him one of these days, Miss Davenant.” Clytie replied with a -commonplace, smiling absently. She was sad at heart about Kent. - -Soon Redgrave, the R. A. who had given Clytie her first encouragement in -her art, came up to talk with her. He had been following her career with -some interest. Since the exhibition of “Jack” he had not seen her, and -he took the opportunity of offering his congratulations, criticising the -picture favourably. Then he inquired after its successor. - -“But I don't think you will ever become a great artist, if you keep to -that semi-impressionist style.” - -Being a portrait-painter of exquisite finish, Redgrave was prejudiced -against the school of Degas. He mentioned his name with some acerbity. - -“Talking treason again, Redgrave?” asked a thin, wiry man in gold -spectacles, who had overheard. “Don't listen to him, Miss Davenant. -He is archaic and eating his soul out with jealousy. There's no one in -England who can touch you in your particular line. You stick to it!” - -“You are quoting the rubbish you wrote in your paper, French,” said -Redgrave, laughing. “Now, whom are you going to believe, this newspaper -man or me?” - -“Whoever will help me best to sell my pictures,” laughed Clytie. - -“Then leave your future with me,” said Mr. French, rubbing his hands as -he moved away. - -“You didn't mean that?” asked Redgrave. - -“A little. One must live. Higher art, to use the cant phrase, would -satisfy one's soul's needs better--but it would not those of the body.” - -Redgrave looked at her for a moment, as if meditating over her rich -colouring and fine vitality. A body such as hers had its needs. He -smiled a little sadly and shook his head. - -“You would not sacrifice your life for your art?” - -“No,” replied Clytie, with quick frankness, “I wouldn't. The fuller -one's life, the fuller one's art. The one is a reflection of the other. -At least it is so with me.” - -“I'll paint your portrait one of these days for nothing,” said Redgrave -somewhat irrelevantly. - -Clytie flushed a little at the compliment. - -“What are you going to put into me?” - -“The question whether even the most emancipated of young women ever has -art in her soul,” said Redgrave, with a quiet smile. - -“I am going to paint a picture some day that will astonish you,” replied -Clytie, with a laugh. - -“Ah! So is everyone. When will that some day be? I hardly know a painter -or a writer or a musician that has not something he is going to do -some day--a three-act drama all ready, bar transcription on paper--a -masterpiece all complete, bar the mechanical transference to canvas.” - -“Oh, Mr. Redgrave, if you are going to moralise like that, I'll report -you to Mr. Farquharson. You had much better sit down and take me round -the studios.” - -But Redgrave was carried off before he had time to begin, and Clytie -joined a large group standing and sitting round the fire. They were -the younger, less responsible members of the company, and were talking -nonsense. Singleton, a clean-shaven, red-faced man and a minor poet, was -explaining what he called the Physical Basis of Life. Professor Huxley, -by the way, has treated the subject differently. - -“The man who cannot dine,” Mr. Singleton was saying, “cannot feel. -He has not his proper equipment of senses. He is an imperfection, a -waster.” - -“That does not apply to women, I hope,” said Mrs. Tredegar, a languid, -well-preserved woman, who was suspected of hankerings after a long -defunct æstheticism. “I have been feeling all my life--and I can't -remember to have ever dined.” - -“I did once--at the Café Anglais. By Jove, it was good!” interpolated -a fair-haired youth, who leaped eagerly at objectivities in the -conversation. - -“Your enthusiasm does you credit!” said Singleton. “You'll die yet, of a -hopeless passion.” - -Then, turning to Mrs. Tredegar: - -“Of course it applies to women. _La femme qui dîne, aime_. Put it into -French, and you see the force of it at once.” - -“Ah, but if you put it the other way about. _La femme qui aime_----It is -horrible; it takes all the romance away,” said Mrs. Tredegar. - -“Oh, dear!” sighed Mr. Singleton, clasping his little plump hands -resignedly. “Are we still to adore the well-conducted person who goes on -cutting bread and butter? Oh, believe me, Edwin Smith and Angelina -Brown can't love, any more than they can appreciate Château-Mouton. -They possess for each other a faint current of sexual attraction, which -produces between them a mild excess of amiability. A lot of vanity -comes in, as they like to parade the possession of each other before -the envious. They call themselves lovers, and follow the traditions they -have been taught in the novels they have misunderstood and the hints -they have received from observance of their friends. The furthest they -can go is to clasp hands limply under a sofa-cushion, when they think no -one is looking.” - -“That's humbug,” said the youth. “I have been in love myself.” - -“Precisely,” said Mr. Singleton, “and you know nothing at all about it. -Cultivate all your senses first, my young friend, and then you may fit -yourself for falling in love.” - -“And how is one to begin?” asked Mrs. Tredegar. - -“Well, first cultivate a choice taste in food, wine, and cigarettes. -Then disabuse yourself of the idea that the angelic, either in man or -woman, is in any way desirable; purge yourself of that clog to all true -appreciation of sensation--that interfering bugbear which still survives -with an effete superstition--known as a conscience; get into an Hellenic -state of mind by joyous perception of the beautiful, and realise -that the supreme cultivation of the _ego_ is the _ultima ratio_ of -existence.” - -“But then we should only love ourselves,” observed a dissentient. - -“As self-knowledge is the beginning of all wisdom, so is self-love the -beginning of all passion,” returned Mr. Singleton oracularly. - -During the frivolous chorus that followed this remark, Hammerdyke -crossed the room and sat down by Clytie's side. -“You seem to be very merry over here. What is it all about?” he asked. - -“It's only Mr. Singleton trying to play with paradoxes,” Clytie replied, -laughing. “He is a chartered libertine, and nobody minds him.” - -“That always strikes me as so odd when I get back to civilised life--the -tremendous amount of talking one has to get through--and no one seems to -get any further with it. Everybody seems bound to provide himself with -a theory of life, as they call it--either sincere or paradoxical. Why do -they do it?” - -He had pulled his chair a little aside, so that, when Clytie turned -round, they were cut off from the main group close by. She replied -laughingly to his question, and the conversation took a light, personal -turn. - -“I seem to have known you so long,” he said after a while, “and yet this -is the first time I have been able to say a word to you by yourself. I -used to hear of you, you know, in Africa, when Caroline sent me a budget -of news. I used quite to wonder what you were like.” - -“Caroline and I are great friends,” she replied. “She has been very, -very kind to me.” - -“Yes--a good sort, isn't she? She used to keep me posted up in all -kinds of things, as I say--you amongst them. At last I built up a little -romance about you!” - -“What a crash it must have come down with!” - -“I am not so sure of that. Time will show. It was just after one of her -letters that I read the story of 'Marjorie Daw,' which some good people -sent me down with a package of books from Cairo. Do you know it?” - -“I have read it, but forgotten it,” replied Clytie. - -Now, she remembered it very well. The words had come almost -involuntarily. She was a little angry with herself. But it was pleasant -to lean back in the armchair, amidst the babel of voices and heavy cloud -of cigarette smoke, and be talked to thus pleasantly. - -“It's a pretty little tale,” said Thornton. “A man writes letters to -amuse a sick friend--broken leg, I think--and describes an imaginary -young lady living opposite him. And the broken-legged man falls -violently in love with this Marjorie Daw and starts off to see her as -soon as he is well--and is moved to much wrath when he finds out the -truth. Well, I am afraid I must confess that I made a kind of Marjorie -Daw out of you--although I haven't exactly come over in search of you. -So you see that we are old acquaintances--on one side, at least.” - -“Caroline must have been saying very foolish things about me,” said -Clytie. “I remember Marjorie Daw now. I am not the least bit like her.” - -“I never said you were,” he returned, looking at her boldly, a smile -playing about the corners of his mouth. “I did not think so then, -either. And since I am in for a kind of confession, I may as well say -it did not occur to me that I should ever meet you. Now that we have -met--under my cousin's wing, so to speak--I hope we shall make friends.” - -“You speak as if we had quarrelled,” said Clytie. - -“Well, I thought perhaps you might have been a little vexed at my -confession. Are you?” - -“No,” said Clytie, looking at him in her quick, frank way. “Why should -I?” - -Hammerdyke did not reply, but smiled and shrugged his shoulders a -little. - -“Well, since you are so particular as to the wording, let us _be_ -friends. For Caroline's sake,” he added after a short pause. - -“Very well, for Caroline's sake,” repeated Clytie. “Only, you know I am -a very humble person.” - -“Oh, no! I know too much about you. You are by way of becoming a great -artist--and it would be a privilege for an uncultivated barbarian like -me. Tell me, how could we begin being friends?” - -“Well, suppose you tell me some of the wonders you have seen.” - -“'Anthropophagi, or men whose heads do grow beneath their shoulders'? -Very well--and you shall show me your pictures. Will you let me come and -see them sometime or the other? Do!” - -He spoke low, with a touch of softness in his voice. Clytie felt -flattered, touched. It was a little tribute to her womanhood to be -pleaded with, especially by a man who, in the eyes of the world, was a -recognised heroic figure. There was a latent light, too, in the depths -of his dark eyes, a sign of reserved power and strange, unknown forces, -that pleased her strangely. All the day she had felt sore, ill at -ease, with a little aching, chafing sense of loss. The time had seemed -woefully out of joint, and the setting of it right again utterly beyond -her powers. But now the world's equilibrium seemed more stable. - -“I am not sure whether you would care for my pictures,” she said. - -“Oh, I have seen those that Caroline has,” he replied. “I made her show -them to me. I don't know what your art word is--but they seem to me to -have a grip upon life that I like.” - -He could not have chosen words more flattering to Clytie. They summed up -bluntly the whole of her ambitions. - -“You see, I like real things,” he went on. “Something I can catch -hold of. All this talk of Art with a capital A, and metaphysical -preciousness, is so much froth--at any rate to me. But perhaps you put a -capital to it?” - -“I do, sometimes.” - -“Well, then, you will teach me what it means. Will you? It will be a way -of teaching me something about yourself.” - -“Oh, I am not worth your learning,” replied Clytie, with a laugh. “But -you can come and see my pictures, if you like.” - -“Thank you,” said Hammerdyke, as he rose in obedience to a beckoning -glance from Mr. Farquharson, who was sitting on the other side of the -room. “I will come as soon as you will let me. To-morrow, can I?” - -He looked at her pleadingly, admiringly. Clytie was suddenly brought in -contact with a new force, against which she felt powerless. - -“Yes, you can come to-morrow,” she said - - - - -CHAPTER XIII. - -It was an evening in mid-February that Clytie went to a dance given by -the Redgraves in their large house in St. John's Wood. Redgrave met her -almost as soon as she arrived in the dancing-room. - -“So you have come at last--we had almost despaired of seeing you. I -think there are a good many men you know--all dying to dance with you.” - -“Oh, give me a little breathing time,” laughed Clytie. “You have had -time to fix on your cap and bells, let me adjust mine.” - -“Don't touch yourself or you would spoil the effect,” said Redgrave, -mixing the metaphor for the sake of an opportunity of expressing his -admiration of her beauty. “I wish I could paint that portrait of you -now: 'Clytie, woman and artist.' There is one advantage about that -combination--it assures perfect taste in dress.” - -He looked her up and down critically, stroking his long gray beard. - -“I am glad you like me,” said Clytie. “It cost me sleepless nights, I -assure you. Didn't you know it was my serious occupation in life?” - -“Well, my dear, I hope you will have your reward,” replied Redgrave, -laughing--“only you won't find anybody who admires you and your genius -half as heartily as I do.” - -He nodded, smiled, and left her as one or two men came up to her, -programme in hand. She gave them the dances they requested, and took -a seat near the door by the side of some ladies of her acquaintance, -watching animatedly the waltz that was in progress. - -“Good-evening, Miss Davenant,” said a voice, deep and resonant, that -made her start and the colour mount into her cheeks. - -It was Thornton Hammerdyke. - -“You see I procured the invitation, and here I am. Where is your -programme?” - -He took her card attached with its bit of silk to her fan, and scribbled -recklessly. - -“You have nearly filled it all up!” she exclaimed. - -“Naturally,” he replied. “Let us dance out the fag-end of this.” - -She took his arm gaily, and with him entered the whirl of dancers. - -“You are looking dazzling to-night,” he said. “What witchery have you to -make your eyes so blue and your hair so glorious?” - -She shook her head and smiled half inwardly, thinking of Redgrave's late -compliment and differentiating it from this. Each man was honest, in his -own way. - -“I put myself down for all those dances,” he went on, “because there is -not a woman in the room fit to look at after you. I couldn't dance -with them, and I should have been bored and irritated with standing and -watching you dancing with other people. Then we can get away and sit by -ourselves.” - -“But what are all the men to do, to whom I have to be polite?” - -“They must give way to the man to whom you are always fascinating. I -scarcely saw you at all yesterday. Now is my chance, and I am going to -make the most of it.” - -“Yes, but there are the sacred conventionalities.” - -“I thought you went in for being superior to them.” - -“So I am in a general way; I attach no intrinsic value to them--but they -are useful as counters in one's dealings.” - -He laughed; pressed the fingers that he held in his left hand. - -“To-night no checks are taken! It must be all solid gold--the true, real -Clytie. As for people talking, you are glorious enough in your beauty to -defy them. What can you and I care for idle gossip?” - -The words thrilled through her. Womanlike she had humbled herself before -his greatness. To be raised thus by him to his empyrean, whence they -could look down upon the rest of earth-bound mortality, in common -grandeur, made her heart swell with a not ignoble pride. - -“We shall do whatever you like,” she whispered. - -To this pitch of intimacy had the past three weeks brought them--a long -enough period for an infinite number of things to happen--none the less -real for being subjective. Nothing had changed in their external -lives. Hammerdyke went into society, read a paper here and there on his -travels, digested many bad dinners and worse flattery, played cards, -smoked, and drank with his fellows. Clytie painted assiduously, read, -exchanged visits with her friends. Kent was missing from her life. -She saw him rarely, at odd moments, when they talked commonplaces -and avoided by tacit consent the subject of their disunion. They were -“league-sundered by the silent gulf between.” He told her that he was -thinking of accepting an offer privately made to him by one of the heads -of his department, of leave of absence for three months for the purpose -of studying the numismatic collections of certain foreign capitals. The -prospect was enticing, as he could thus have the run of the continental -libraries, whereby his own great work could be considerably advanced. - -Clytie listened kindly, wished him good luck. He went from her sad at -heart, and she was angry with herself and humiliated at feeling somewhat -relieved at the idea of his absence. It was not that she regretted the -old life less. Its memories were still precious. But Kent's departure -would clear the way to a better understanding of herself. - -Much had happened during the past three weeks--the discovery of a new -world for Clytie in which all was strange, beset with vague dangers, -vibrating with a tremulous joy akin to terror. She had been lifted off -her feet, hurried against her will into a whirl of new sensations. At -first she resisted with fierce virgin pride; then gradually she began to -close her eyes for a short sweet spell and allow herself to be drifted -by the current; finally she gave up struggling. The history of most -women at their first contact with passion. - -The story of this period is very simple. In its first developments love -is usually not ultra complex. Given a man and a woman and conditions -for meeting freely alone; further, a sudden overmastering passion on -the part of the man, a half known, unfulfilled need in the woman; given -these premises, and a child can deduce the result. It is the fundamental -law of sex. Only when the sentimentalities and more delicate affinities -come into play, when the needs of the finer animal man begin to cry -after their satisfying, does love leave its simple phase and gird itself -with its infinite many-coloured web of complexities. At first the mind -may see the web glimmering in a far-away twilight--but heeds it not as -long as the sense is held captive. - -Two remarkable personalities had met, Thornton Hammerdyke and Clytie. -With the intensity of a strong animal nature he had fallen in love with -her, with her beauty, charm, and directness. Her magnificent vitality -drew him, compelled him. He shut his eyes to every other interest. The -sense that he wanted her was sufficient justification for setting all -else aside. He never even thought of marriage in the first flush of his -passion. But that was the result of habit. Passion is a very different -thing from the serene considerations that, according to the Book -of Common Prayer, induce people to enter into the holy state of -matrimony--and Thornton was quite free from any considerations of -the kind. So that when marriage dawned upon his mind as a necessary -condition, he accepted it, as a reckless sacrifice, as a means to an -end, not as an end in itself. He was a man whose life had been passed -in hot, headstrong action. Desire imperiously compelled immediate -gratification. Since loving Clytie entailed marriage, he resolved to -marry her forthwith. - -He informed Mrs. Farquharson of the fact, in his masterful manner. - -“I am going to marry Clytie--so get yourself a wedding garment.” Mrs. -Farquharson jumped up, clapped her hands. She would not have been -a woman had the possibilities of this match not occurred to her -seductively. The announcement, however, anticipated her hopes. - -“Oh, Thornton,” she cried, “I am so glad! I have been longing for it. -You two are made for each other. I must go down and see Clytie this -afternoon!” - -“Better not,” said Thornton. “I'm going. Besides, I don't think Clytie -knows it yet.” - -Caroline's face fell a little. “Oh! I thought you meant you were -engaged, and that sort of thing.” - -“That's a detail--it doesn't matter. She's going to marry me, and you'll -come and dance at the wedding.” - -Caroline kept her counsel, but she worked steadily in Thornton's cause, -sang his praises to Clytie, invented many occasions for bringing them -together. She believed with all the fervent loyalty of her nature that -this marriage was an ideal one for her cousin and her friend, and had at -heart equally the interests of each. - -Thornton very quickly constituted himself a factor in Clytie's life. She -saw him almost every day in Harley Street, at home, or at the houses of -common acquaintances. His influence grew strong upon her. Glimpses of -the physical joy of life flashed before her like revelations. For the -first time she doubted the possibilities of the artistic life. They -seemed shadowy, unsatisfying. - -From Thornton seemed to come realisation that something stronger, more -real, positive lay beyond them--the delight of living in pulse and nerve -and bodily fibre. Yet, unlike a man, a woman cannot live by sense alone. -Sentiment invariably plays its part. This in Clytie's case was fed by -the glamour of Thornton's heroic history, so different from that -of ordinary men, whose lives, compared with his, seemed tame and -colourless. The glow of his personality bathed magically all his -actions, all his words. In his superb manhood he stood before her eyes -as the incarnation of physical force, the victorious protest against the -shams of art, culture, and other pale shades of our morbid civilisation. -When she was lifted high with him in this triumph, sense and sentiment -were fused together and she was wholly at his mercy. Thornton had -come into her life at the most delicately critical moment of a woman's -career, when the current of her nature, checked at the turning-point -between friendship and love, struggles tumultuously for some other -channel into which to empty itself. - -“We shall do whatever you like,” she said to Thornton, during their -waltz. It was the first definite surrender she had made to him. She was -surprised that it cost her so little, seemed so sweet and natural. - -“Then you and I will defy the world!” he replied. - -They paused to rest for a moment, leaning against the wall. An elderly -man came up, shook hands with her, and opened a desultory conversation -with Thornton. Clytie looked amusedly at the animated scene, tabulating -mentally, by force of habit, the types that passed and repassed -before her. Seldom had it struck her before so forcibly how few of her -fellow-creatures possessed the secret of the joy of life. How many of -the couples circling round, backing, glissading in that dizzying mass of -motion were really gladdened by what they were doing? Stout men puffed -around with a serious air of responsibility. Tall men, with drooping -moustaches, paced languidly in time, scarcely heeding their partners, -who expressionlessly suffered themselves to be guided hither and thither -through the throng. The robust youth of either sex seemed to look upon -dancing as an athletic exercise, and waltzed with the intent fervour of -tennis players on their mettle before a big gallery. Only here and there -did a girl, safe in the arms of a good dancer, half close her eyes and -surrender herself to the sensuous charm of motion in perfect time with -the throbs of music. Mankind is astonishingly ignorant of the essential -qualities of many of its habitual pleasures. So thought Clytie, in the -thrill of her new knowledge. The orchestra began the opening bars of the -_coda_. Thornton turned away from the elderly gentleman, and putting -his arm round Clytie's waist led her away, without a word, to finish the -waltz. - -“How delightful it is to dance with someone who is not bored by it!” she -said, when the music stopped and they were pushing their way through the -crowd towards the door. - -He laughed in his boyish way, throwing back his head. - -“I had better not answer that remark,” he replied. - -“Why?” - -She looked askance at him as she asked, just as any little peasant girl -would have done. Certain conditions bring all humanity to one level. He -pressed the hand that was on his arm lightly against his side. - -“Let us get away by ourselves, and I will tell you,” he said. - -But this opportunity did not occur. Thornton was captured by his hostess -for introducing purposes, Clytie waylaid by brother artists for dances. -When Thornton and herself were able to find seats the music struck up -the prelude of the next waltz, and Clytie was discovered and led off by -her partner. Only three men, exclusive of Thornton, had been fortunate -enough to find places on her programme. - -The hours passed away swiftly. She forgot her life, her -responsibilities, her needs. During the three dances with the -fortunate--which were early in the evening--she flashed with wit and -merriment, her partners thinking with masculine self-esteem that they -were the fine steel that had caused these scintillations. But more -than one woman there that night observed how Clytie's eyes ever and anon -caught those of Thornton, who was standing by the doorway. When the two -danced together, men watched them curiously. - -“If the principle of natural selection could always be carried out like -that!” said French, the journalist, to Redgrave. - -“Physically, yes; but----” - -“But what? If the human race sprang exclusively from such parents, what -a glorious race it would be!” - -“It might be a very good thing for the race,” replied Redgrave drily; -“but I was thinking of the parents--at least of one of them.” - -“Nonsense! a marriage like that would be ideal,” said French. - -Redgrave shook his head. - -“I doubt it,” he said, with some earnestness. “I know a little of Clytie -Davenant. I may claim to have discovered her. She has the blood of life -in her, it is true--but she has the finer artistic temperament as well. -Mark my words, French; if she marries that man she will lose her art -clean--clean; and not another 'Jack' will she ever be able to paint. -Many of us men artists are ruined by marriage. A woman artist, to whom -it means fifty times more, runs fifty times more risk.” - -“Well, perhaps we are a bit previous,” said French laughing, and turned -the conversation. - -Later in the evening Thornton and Clytie came out of the dancing-room. -She was flushed, dazed with the music, the noise, the electric light and -the heavy scent of cut flowers; confused, too, by Thornton's presence, -by the after-pressure of his arm around her waist, overwrought a little -by his personal magnetism. - -They threaded their way through the crowd that lined the passage and the -stairs, went through the brilliantly lit studio with its polished oak -floor and wealth of hangings and costly decoration, into the models' -dressing-room beyond, that had been turned into a small boudoir for the -occasion. Many couples were wandering about the studio, examining the -pictures and the china, but the dressing-room had escaped notice. - -“This is soothing after the glare,” said Clytie, sitting down restfully -on a divan. - -Great palms screened the door, the room was hung with dark, heavy -drapery, and between them shaded electric lamps shed a subdued light. -Thornton sat down by her side. After a while the steps and talking in -the adjacent studio ceased, and there rose from below the faint strains -of the music and the dull rhythmic thud of the dancers. - -“What were we talking about? I forget,” said Clytie, after a short -silence, and then, meeting his eyes fixed upon her, she turned away her -head: - -“Don't! I can't bear it,” she murmured involuntarily. - -Then he caught her hand: “Clytie, you are adorable, glorious, -bewitching!” he cried, and kissed her quickly, twice, on the corner of -her lips. She snatched her hand away and started to her feet, pale and -trembling, her eyes blazing. - -“Why did you do that? You have no right to do that!” - -He rose, went to her, caught her wrists again--but this time she was -powerless to withdraw them, and he spoke in a quick, deep voice: - -“I have the right to kiss you--to kiss you and kiss you till the world's -end--for I love you--and I would sacrifice all I have got--my life -itself, for one kiss from you--I loved you, wanted you, from the first -time I saw you--when the suddenly lit light revealed your beauty to me, -and you sprang glorious, bewildering out of the darkness.” - -“Let me go, let me go!” she murmured, faintly struggling. - -“Not until you tell me that I have the right to kiss you--I know you -will give it, you must! Clytie, I am stronger than most men, and my love -is stronger than most men's and will not be denied--I will make you, -force you to love me as passionately as I love you. Look at me. Speak! -say just a word!” - -She flashed a swift, sidelong glance at him, and met his eyes with the -light burning in their dark depths. His passion intoxicated her. - -“You know,” she murmured. The words came almost without volition. - -He released her hands. She remained standing for a moment, motionless -with downcast eyes. Then she lifted them once more shyly, met his, and -uttered a short gasping cry as he caught her in his arms and kissed her -passionately. - -“You will be my wife, and let our whole lives be one long kiss?” - -“Yes,” she said, below her breath. - -A little later Thornton put her into a cab, and she drove home. The cold -night air invigorated her relaxed body, but seemed to benumb her mind. -She could not think--only feel Thornton's kisses upon her. The rest of -the subjective and objective universe was a blank. Only when the -cab stopped and the driver asked the number of her house through the -trap-door in the roof, was she conscious of external things. Then she -found that he had driven a long way past the familiar door. As he turned -round grumblingly, she was aware of being chilled through from her drive -across London, and longed to get indoors. - -It was not until she told Winifred the next morning that she realised -the great change that had come over her life. - -“I am going to marry Mr. Hammerdyke.” - -The commonplace statement, thus uttered for the first time, seemed like -a cold decree of fate, inevitable, irresistible. Winifred cried a little -at the thought of losing her. - -“But you will be happy, my darling,” she said, smiling through her -tears. “He is so brave and strong and handsome, and he must love you -better than his life.” - -“Yes, dear,” said Clytie, gently stroking her friend's brown hair -(Winifred was sitting at her feet) and looking tenderly at her pure, -upturned face. But her own, bent down, was aflame with reminiscence. - -“When is it to be? Not for a long, long time, I hope,” said Winifred. - -“Almost immediately--he wants it--there is no particular reason for -waiting.” - -“I felt it was coming some day,” said Winifred; “but I did not expect it -so soon.” - -“It is best,” said Clytie--“best that it should be at once; the interval -between the old life and the new would be too trying if it were drawn -out.” - -“You always do what is best, dear,” whispered Winifred in her trustful -way. “Oh! you must be happy, very, very happy, Clytie dear.” - -Clytie leaned back in her chair, caressing her friend's cheek with the -back of her hand, and looked around the studio. It came almost as a -shock to her to realise that in a short, short time she would have to -bid farewell to all that had grown up around her artistic life. The -grotesque caricatures on the walls stared at her like meaningless -shadows. Her palette, brushes, and paraphernalia of rags and turpentine -bottles lay strewn about like the properties of a forgotten comedy. The -unfinished pictures on easels and stands lost their fascination. -Only Winifred's little study on the other side of the studio seemed -unchanged--retaining its virginal freshness and purity. But the sound of -a step on the landing outside, buoyant, elastic, dispelled all wistful -regrets. She sprang to her feet as Winifred rose, and listened, -transformed into a radiant woman, with quivering depths in her dark blue -eyes, her red lips parted in a half smile, her chin raised showing the -full neck. - -A moment or two afterwards Mrs. Gurkins appeared at the studio door. - -“Mr. Hammerdyke, miss. I have shown him into the sitting-room,” she -said, and then retired. - -“I knew it was he,” said Clytie. - -“Go, dear,” said Winifred, putting her arm round Clytie's waist and -moving with her across the studio to the door. - -Clytie kissed her laughingly and disappeared. But two tears rolled down -Winifred's cheek as she went back to the chair by the stove; and then -she flung herself down where she had been sitting, and burying her face -in her arm, began to cry bitterly. - -“I don't like him, I don't like him; he will spoil my darling,” she -moaned. - -Sometimes knowledge is given to those who seek after it least. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV. - -The unexpected always happens, often inopportunely. Winifred had risen -from the ground by the stove and was standing miserably before her easel -when a knock was heard at the studio door. She cried, “Come in!” and -Kent entered. He was looking rather pale and worn out, his beard sinking -ever so little into his cheeks; his eyes were tired. On seeing him -Winifred could not restrain a start of surprise. - -“Why, Mr. Kent! you here at this hour of the day!” - -“Yes; I have just come back from the Museum. I went up to tell them I -wasn't coming, as they say in Ireland. The fact is I am feeling lazy and -want a few days' slackness.” - -“You have been overworking yourself, that's what you have been doing,” - said Winifred with kind severity. “Come and sit down by the stove and -rest yourself. You want someone to look after you.” - -She pulled the chair that Clytie had been occupying a little forward, by -way of invitation. - -“What a good little creature you are, Winifred,” he said as he sat down. -“You always think of other people. Men don't seem able to do it; they -are too much wrapped up in themselves. How are you all--you and the -children? You must make them invite me to tea soon. I have not seen them -for ages.” - -“Oh, they are quite well again,” replied Winifred, brightening, “and -they have been clamouring for Kent, as they call you. I'll tell them -to send you an 'At Home' card. And it must be soon, for you are going -abroad. When do you think of starting?” - -Kent sighed and looked into the fire. - -“I don't quite know yet; I wanted to see Clytie first. Where is she?” - -“She has a visitor--in her sitting-room,” replied Winifred somewhat -shortly. - -But Kent was too absorbed in his own affairs to notice the change of -tone. - -“Will she be engaged long?” - -“Probably.” - -“I wanted so much to see her.” - -Winifred looked at him for a moment and then came and put her hand -lightly on his shoulder. - -“You seem so unhappy. Is it about Clytie? You and she have quarrelled or -had some difference,--she has not told me what it is,--and I have been -so grieved. If I knew, perhaps I might bring things straight.” - -“Would you, Winifred?” said Kent eagerly. - -“Of course. Don't I love Clytie better than anybody else--and haven't -you been a good kind friend to me? I haven't asked her--nor you--why -you have stopped being friends, because one shrinks from asking such -questions, but I have seen it, and I have been so, so sorry.” - -The gentle sympathy touched him. The realisation of the feminine had -come to him of late powerfully enough to have overset his old one-sided -theories. He knew the value now of a tender word from a woman, and his -nature hungered for it. - -“Winifred,” he said, half turning in the chair and looking up at her in -his honest way, “do you think Clytie could ever care for me--not as a -friend--as something nearer?” - -Winifred fell back, looked at him aghast, unable to speak, as the light -dawned upon her. He mistook her movement, rose, and began to speak -hurriedly, pacing the room. - -“I couldn't help it--how could I help it? I have struggled against it -with all my might. I know I am a fool to think that she can love me, -and you are surprised and dismayed, as she was when she saw that I loved -her. I would have bit my tongue out then rather than tell her, but I saw -she guessed--and that is why our friendship has been broken. I have kept -away from her to spare her the pain of it. But it has nearly driven me -mad. I can't go abroad with the weight of it upon me. I must see her -and let her know everything. Tell me, Winifred, you who are so fine and -delicate, I did not wrong her and our friendship by growing to love her -better than anything life has. She won't think me unworthy of the trust -she gave me, and despise me?” - -“Oh, no, no, no!” said Winifred half chokingly. “Your love would honour -any girl. Oh, why did you not tell her and plead with her before?” - -“Then do you think, Winifred----” began Kent with a sudden joy in his -eyes. - -“Oh, don't!” cried the girl, interrupting him; “I can't bear it. It is -too late! I hate to stab you like this, but you must know it. Clytie is -engaged to be married.” - -There was a long silence, during which neither looked at the other. Kent -was stunned, dazed. He had come prepared for a refusal, but not for such -an absolute shattering of all his hopes. He grew very white and stood -with his hand on the back of a chair, as if steadying himself. - -“How long has she----” he said, at length, huskily. - -“Only last night. She told me of it this morning.” - -“And the man?” - -“Mr. Hammerdyke--Mrs. Farquharson's cousin.” - -She went up to him, took his hand, and turned her pure face up to his, -the tears standing in her eyes. - -“I won't say you will find someone more worthy of you, because you -couldn't.” - -“I am not fit to tie her shoe-strings. I know that very well,” said poor -Kent. - -“Oh, that is foolish,” she said, with a wan smile. “But there isn't -another girl like Clytie in the world; and you will always think kindly -of her, and help her if she wants help, won't you? You won't turn from -her and hate her, as I have heard men often do--for I don't think you -are like such men.” - -“I would give up everything I had in life to save her one hour's pain,” - said Kent. “I have been a fool,--I see it now,--oh! not in having loved -her--not that. It is a blessed privilege--I can't explain, for you would -not understand. I shall always love her, Winifred; no other woman can -be to me what Clytie has been--and might have been. I shall leave by the -early boat tomorrow morning, so you will not see me for three or four -months. When I return--perhaps you'll let me come and talk to you a -little sometimes.” - -“Oh, it will comfort me,” said Winifred, “for am I not losing her too?” - -He bade her good-bye, exacting before he left a promise that she would -not let Clytie know of what had passed between them. - -He went downstairs, anxious to escape from the house, to get into the -open air. In the entrance passage the side door leading into the shop -was open and Mrs. Gurkins was standing by the threshold. Kent stopped -for a moment to acquaint her with the fact of his sudden departure next -day. He would keep on the rooms, which must be scrupulously locked -up during his absence. Since his first intimacy with Clytie he had -imperceptibly grown more amenable to feminine interference in his -domestic arrangements, and Mrs. Gurkins no longer had her former terror -of invading his domain. But she was still in enough awe of him to -promise faithfully to execute his desires. To talk on these trivial -matters was a relief from the terrible strain of the last few moments, -although he wondered a little how he could lend them coherent attention. -He was listening with waning interest to some final irrelevancies on the -part of his landlady when a man ran down the stairs and strode quickly -past him in the passage. A glance was sufficient to tell Kent who -Clytie's visitor was--it had not occurred to him before to conjecture. -His heart sank as he realised the splendid physique and proud, masterful -bearing of his rival. Ordinarily the least observant of men in such -matters, Kent noted the careless ease with which he wore his faultless -attire. The patent-leather boots, the new silk hat, the well-cut -frock-coat with an orchid in the buttonhole, the new gray Suède gloves -grasped along with a gold-mounted malacca--all seemed to belong to the -man naturally, to be the world's fit adjuncts to the gifts of nature. -Smiling to himself and humming a song, he seemed the personification of -the joy and strength, the success and luxury of life. - -“I am not that man's match,” thought Kent bitterly, thus falling, as all -men must do at times, a little below himself. - -The front door slammed behind Hammerdyke. Kent waited for a moment, gave -a few vague general directions, and then went out into the street. He -felt stronger now that he had to struggle against real and tangible -trouble instead of the intangible doubts and fears that had set him off -his balance. The single-hearted loyalty of his nature, that had caused -him to regard his love for Clytie as treason against her unsuspecting -friendship, and had thus placed him in the weakness of a false position, -now gave him strength to face fearlessly life and its responsibilities. -But time alone could assuage the pain and bitterness of it all. He -strung himself together and walked briskly through the bright, frosty -air towards the home of his mother and sister in Notting Hill. There -was sincere affection between mother and son, sister and brother; -but neither of the quiet, contented women knew much of his life or -sympathised with his ambitions. Mrs. Kent's hopeless wish was that he -would marry some good, sensible girl who would keep his house tidy, -provide him with decent meals, and bring bright children's faces around -his knee. This conception bounded her horizon of a man's happiness; as -she knew that her son would never appear within it, she regarded him -with wistful, unhelpful affection. Agatha, with the younger generation's -superior grasp of things, looked upon him as a soft-hearted eccentric -who deserved to be humoured. For many years, therefore, Kent had ceased -to share with them any of his inner life, not because he loved them less -than during his boyhood, but because their mental attitudes precluded -confidence. They were women, they could not understand. When he entered -the house he left his own interests outside and plunged, in his rough, -hearty way, into theirs. He gave his whole attention to accounts of -Cousin Henrietta's baby, Uncle William's gout, the leakages of the -cistern, and the turpitudes of the cook. In matters such as the cistern -he gave practical help; in others, such as the baby, he overflowed with -sympathetic though alarming suggestions. His own life was seldom touched -upon. With finer natures--Clytie, Winifred, Wither--that divined the -strong purpose underlying his eccentricities, and met him halfway with -their sympathy, he was generous in his confidence; but to others, proud, -shy, and reserved. So Mrs. Kent and Agatha knew nothing of Clytie, -little of his scientific work, and only vaguely of his duties at the -Museum. - -He walked up Sloane Street and through the park, thinking of his great -loss, trying to scheme out his future, in which Clytie would only be a -memory. When he arrived at his mother's house he paused for a moment, as -if literally to unstrap the burden of care from his shoulders and leave -it outside the front door. Then he entered and greeted his mother and -sister in his bluff, cheery way. He remained with them a couple of -hours, during which he performed a few odd jobs about the house which -he had promised to attend to, and then took his leave. Mrs. Kent was -solicitous as to his health, besought him not to work too hard nor to -come back with a German wife. She could not quite see the reason of his -sudden departure. Why the country should waste its money in sending him -abroad to study old coins she, in her placid utilitarianism, could not -imagine. However, she bade him a motherly farewell, hoped from her heart -that he would have a pleasant holiday, although she could not refrain -from expressing a regret that he would not return in time to superintend -the spring-cleaning. - -When the door closed behind him he picked up his burden and walked -doggedly away with it, mechanically, not heeding his direction. He -suddenly found that he had come, contrary to his intention, diagonally -across the park to Hyde Park Corner. It was past five o'clock. Wither -would be in his club. He would go and say good-bye, for Wither was very -dear to him. - -The little man was giving some directions to the hall porter when Kent -appeared. - -“My dear, good creature!” he cried, “what have you been doing to -yourself? You are as white as a ghost. You want some whiskey or brandy, -probably both. Come down to the smoking-room and have some.” - -“I am a bit overdone,” replied Kent, “and perhaps I have been walking -too much to-day. But I don't want any brandy.” - -“Oh, but you've got to,” said Wither, and entering the smoking-room, he -gave the order to a waiter. - -“I have come to say good-bye, Teddy,” said Kent as soon as they were -seated in a quiet corner. “I am off to-morrow morning.” - -“The deuce you are! Well, so much the better. A sound friend abroad is -more comfortable for all parties than a sick friend at home. Have they -given you your three months?” - -“Yes--on full pay.” - -“Lucky dog. And while you are flirting around the capitals of Europe -we poor devils will have to be slaving away in this grimy and sooty -metropolis. In the good fortune of one's friends there is always -something devilishly obnoxious. Why is the eternal order of things so -mismanaged that you should have a good time and I not? Here is your -brandy. Drink it and look more human.” - -Kent did as he was bidden. The stimulant, which he needed, revived him. -Wither guessed that something untoward had occurred. He had a woman's -intuition, this bright-eyed, cynical little being, and he rattled on in -his light way to save Kent the strain of making conversation. - -“Have a cigarette?” he asked, taking out his case. “No? Well, smoke your -pipe. I can't understand how anyone but a horny-palated son of toil can -smoke a pipe. By the way, what do you think a girl sent me by way of a -present this morning?” - -“I don't know,” said Kent. “A hymn book?” - -“No; a cigarette holder--mouthpiece, you know. I wrote and told her it -was very pretty and I would keep it in memory of her to my dying day; -but as for using it, I should just as soon think of kissing her through -a respirator.” - -“That was unkind,” said Kent, laughing in spite of himself, tickled at -the idea. - -“Lord bless you, no,” replied Wither oracularly from the depths of his -armchair. “It is wholesome to check this frenzy of profusion now and -then. When a woman once begins to give she never knows where to stop. -When she has exhausted her imagination she gives away herself. It's -embarrassing sometimes, for one can't put half a dozen women away in -a drawer with the rest of the odds and ends. Oh, no; a little fatherly -repression does a world of good to the ingenuous and enthusiastic. I -don't pretend to be moral, but I am not without kindly instincts.” - -He chuckled sardonically and began to turn over the pages of _Punch_. -Kent smoked on in silence, cheered a little by the familiar chatter. - -“Teddy,” he said at last, “you seem to hear all the gossip about town; -do you know anything about a man called Hammerdyke?” - -“Thornton Hammerdyke--man from Africa--explorer?” - -“Yes.” - -“Yes, rather. One of the greatest devils unhung,” replied Wither -cheerfully. - -“What do you mean?” cried Kent in an agitated voice, starting forward -and gripping the arms of his chair. “Take care what you are saying. It -is a matter of life and death to--to somebody. What do you know about -him? Tell me.” - -Wither arched his eyebrows in surprise, and became serious. Then his -quick intuition supplied him with the reason for Kent's agitation. - -“I only spoke idle gossip,” he said, “and I have the misfortune to be -hyperbolical at times. The man has had some dealings with our office and -that is how I come to know anything about him. Don't you remember he got -into a row for wholesale slaughter of niggers on one of his -expeditions? He cleared himself all right, of course, by proving mutiny, -self-defence, and that sort of thing.” - -“I remember the incident now,” said Kent. “It was in the papers.” - -“Well, his public character is cleared,” said Wither, “and he is a good -deal of a lion these days; but fellows who have served with him take the -niggers' side of the question, and wonder how he remained a day among -them without being torn to pieces. That's all I know about him, which -you see is not much. My dear old boy,” he continued earnestly as Kent -sat silent, staring in front of him, “is that the reason why you are -starting so suddenly? Is it all fixed up? No chance?” - -Kent nodded moodily. - -“I suppose not. I was going to ask her this morning when I learned she -had engaged herself--only last night--to this man. And I have seen him. -Devil or not, he is a man.” - -Wither bit his lip. For the moment he was at a loss for an expression of -sympathy, somewhat uneasy as to the line he should adopt. What was the -use of making Kent more miserable by telling him other ugly stories he -had heard concerning Hammerdyke if either were powerless to prevent the -marriage from taking place? Besides, it was only idle gossip after -all, and in the serious affairs of life Wither was honourable and -conscientious. - -Suddenly Kent broke out: - -“Oh, my God, Teddy, I don't care a little damn about myself,--I can -worry along, as I did before--better, for it is something to have loved -her,--if only she is happy. But if this man is not fit for her, if this -horrible gossip of yours is true, she will be entering into a life of -misery,--I know her,--and I shall feel as if I had not put out my hand -to stop her.” - -“Everyone must dree his own weird, my dear old boy,” said Wither. “And -while he's doing it neither you nor anyone else can interfere with much -profit. Make your mind easy about yourself and your responsibilities. -You could not go to her and say, 'I hear the man you are going to marry -is a blackguard; have me instead.' In the first place, your pride would -not allow you, and in the second, if she cared about him, she wouldn't -believe you, but would marry him all the sooner to prove her faith in -him. It is the way of women when they are worth anything.” - -“Yes; Clytie would do just that,” said Kent. “I think even a man would, -if he loved a woman.” - -“Well,” said Wither, “it is no use making yourself miserable about it. -The wise man guards against indulgence in things that upset his moral -as well as his physical digestion. But wisdom was never much your forte, -friend John.” - -Kent stayed and dined with Wither and then returned alone to the King's -Road. He had already made certain preparations for travel; the few final -arrangements did not take long. As he passed by Clytie's sitting-room -door he noticed that it was ajar, a sign that she was out. In the old -days,--less than two months ago, but far away for all that,--he had -been accustomed to run down on such occasions, at about half-past ten -or eleven, and stir up the fire. Since her return from Durdleham this -little token of intimacy had gone with the rest. But on this evening the -desire came over him to perform this service for her once more, for the -last time. He crept down the stairs on tip-toe, in case she should have -come in without his knowledge. But the door was still ajar, the room was -vacant. The fire had burned down very low, only a few glowing coals at -the bottom of the grate. He returned to his own rooms and fetched some -wood and paper, and kneeling down, built up a satisfactory fire. At -first, however, the wood would not burn; it had to be dried by repeated -conflagrations of paper, and the blaze had to be induced by much cunning -coaxing. It was just beginning to flare merrily up the chimney when -the sudden slam of the street door below aroused him to a sense of his -position. He left the room and fled quickly up the stairs. Outside his -door he listened. It was Clytie, arriving home somewhat early. He was -disappointed, a little humiliated. The freshness had gone from his sad -little pleasure, for he had not wished her to guess that he had been -down. Now the act seemed clumsy, in bad taste, as if he had been forcing -his attentions on her. He went into his sitting-room with a heart -heavier than before, and continued his preparations for departure. He -had packed up his portmanteau and was now stowing away his papers and -valuable odds and ends that he wished to remain under lock and key -during his absence. - -Suddenly a step was heard on the stair that made his heart stand still, -and Clytie appeared at the door. - -“Can I come in?” - -He could scarcely find words to greet her. Now that their good -comradeship was at an end, above all, now that she was lifted beyond his -sphere, she held a different position in his eyes. She looked beautiful, -queenly. Her rich hair and colouring, the pale blue of her dress, struck -a note of exquisite brightness in the gloomy, half-dismantled room. He -removed some books from his writing-chair and pulled it towards her. - -“How good of you to come!” was all he could say. - -“How good of you to look after my fire!” said Clytie. - -“I did not want you to know----” - -“Why not?” - -“Oh, a sentiment,” he replied. “We are governed a great deal by such -things.” - -“It touched me so,” said Clytie. “I could not help coming up to thank -you, as you are going away early in the morning.” - -“Ah! Winifred told you?” - -“Yes; she said you had come to bid good-bye.” - -Kent felt bound to fall in with Winifred's friendly fable, although his -honesty shrank a little from accepting what was not its due. - -“There is always something sad in leave-taking,” said Clytie. - -The remark was trite and commonplace; but so is a kiss or a grasp of the -hand or the words “Good-bye, dear,” themselves. The original generally -brings more titillation than comfort. - -“This leave-taking is sadder than most--to me,” said Kent. - -“And to me too,” said Clytie. “It marks the end of the old life--a very -pleasant one. Kent,” she went on after a short reflective pause, “I -want to tell you something: I reproached you a little in my heart--last -month. I don't now. I haven't the right. Winifred said she had let you -know of my engagement. If our parting had not come from you, it would -have come now from me.” - -“I see now; it was bound to come sooner or later,” replied Kent, much -moved. “Oh, my God! what puppets we are. But I wish you happiness, -from my heart, in your new life. You will always be to me the one woman -whom”--he was going to add, “I could love,” but he checked himself and -quickly substituted, “who has taught me what there is in women.” - -“Ah, my dear Kent,” returned Clytie with a touch of her brightness and -charm, “there will be someone nicer than I who will teach you better. -You, too, must have happiness, you know. You will marry soon----” - -“I marry!” cried Kent, wheeling round to face her. “How can you say -that!” - -They looked at one another, each misunderstanding. He was wounded at -her treating his love as a thing of no account. She was puzzled at his -implied contradiction of her theory. - -“I thought I had discovered the reason for your wishing to break off our -intimacy--but I find I was wrong.” - -“I don't understand,” said Kent, agitated. “I acted foolishly, very -foolishly and rudely. Yet I only did it to save you pain. To break with -you cost me the dearest thing I had in the world. Surely you must be -aware of that.” - -“You did not break it because you suddenly--during my absence--wished to -form other ties?” - -A light broke upon Kent, like a flash of lightning over a desolate -wilderness. All of this heart-burning, then, was for nothing. She had -never suspected that he loved her. A sense of the futility of things -crushed him for a moment. - -“I am not a man to fall in love readily,” he replied in a low voice. - -“Then,” said Clytie earnestly, “I am at fault. Why did you not answer -my letter? Why did you shun me? Why were you so constrained when we met? -Why did you tear yourself out of my daily life?” - -Kent turned away his face, so that she should not see him as he fought -out within himself a great battle. Had these words only been spoken -a day or two ago he would have poured out his love to her in all its -honesty and strength. But now she was bound to another irrevocably--now -indeed it would give her pain to hear what he foolishly thought -would have given her pain to hear before. Then he was restrained by -misinterpretation of the meaning of the passion that had come surging -into his blood. Now he was held back by finer feelings, ignorant -perhaps, quixotic, but such as work in man to the shaping of his -nobleness. - -“It was something I would rather not speak of,” he said at -last--“something in my own life. I might have told you then; I was wrong -not to; I did it for the best. I can't now. This seems like a cheap way -of making mysteries,--perhaps it is one, not very big,--but it is better -that it should be one to you. It was no fault of mine, believe me. You -do believe me, Clytie, when I say that it was bitter for me to give up -your friendship, don't you?” - -“Yes, Kent,” exclaimed Clytie, “I do believe that you are everything -that is true and tender and loyal. You don't know what strength and -comfort your sympathy and your brave, frank way of looking at things -have been to me. I have wronged you--forgive me.” - -She rose, held out her hand to him. He took it and raised it to his lips -very gently. Her eyes grew a little moist. - -“You are treating me like a foolish woman, and not _en bon camarade_,” - she said in a low voice. - -“You are no longer my _bon camarade_,” he replied. “You are my very dear -lady, whom I will serve till the hour of my death.” - -A moment or two afterwards she was gone. The next morning Kent left -England. - - - - -CHAPTER XV. - -A great writer has remarked, that between the acting of a dreadful -thing and the first motion, all the interim is like a phantasma or a -hideous dream, and that the state of man under those circumstances, like -to a little kingdom, suffers the nature of an insurrection. Although the -step that Clytie was about to take was not of the character that Brutus -contemplated, it was sufficiently serious for the interval between -her engagement and her marriage to be a time of great mental and moral -upheaval. Her “genius and mortal instruments” had periods of fierce -council, in which the latter always obtained turbulent victory. Dreading -these inner conflicts, she shrank from introspection. When doubts began -to creep over her she shook them off, and sat down and wrote letters -to Thornton which she burned an hour or two afterwards. But it was only -when she was alone in the studio hastily finishing the orders she had -in hand, or during the few lonely evenings that she passed in her -sitting-room, that these torturing misgivings arose. When Thornton was -near she forgot that any had ever come to her. He overpowered her will -and her senses, dominated her with a caressing word, a touch of the -hand, a glance from the depths of his dark eyes. In the lucid intervals -between these periods of dizzying surrender she did not recognise -herself. It was almost as if some Morgan le Fay had cast around her a -spell of woven paces, and changed her into she knew not what, while she -saw the old Clytie fading like a dream-shape away. To women of finer -temperament marriage looms shadowy, formless, a great enchanter that -will change all things, deliver into their keeping the secrets of pain -and delight. But to Clytie it was something less and something more. -Its material responsibilities were less of a mystery to her than to most -girls of her age, owing to the peculiarities of her self-training; but -its spiritual and moral results were hidden from her in a cloud, denser, -more lurid, more extensive. She loved Hammerdyke, not indeed as she -would have loved Kent had he made one little effort to turn the wavering -friendship into love--for then passion would have been finely tempered -with tenderness, trust, and generous sympathy; but still certain chords -of her nature vibrated fully in response to the touch of the man she was -about to marry. The one might have, as it were, awakened the full organ, -but the single diapason that was pulled rang out none the less true. - -During the short period of their engagement Hammerdyke was unceasing -in tokens of his love. It was the nature of the man to throw his whole -being into the delight or danger of the moment. Many a woman who cares -lukewarmly, perhaps reluctantly, is fired with a gratitude akin to love -by unending, passionate devotion. All the more responsive is the woman -of full blood and emotional temperament who already cares greatly. -Thornton gave Clytie no reason to doubt his affection; if anything, -he frightened her by its excess. She yielded to him in all things, -sometimes half dreamily, indifferently, without regret and without -sweetness; sometimes the surrender was infinite joy. - -In one matter, however, she was called upon to exercise her will: -Thornton did not care how or where the marriage was performed. A man -loathes weddings, particularly his own. It is only the barbarian that -lingers, as people say, in the heart of woman that demands ceremonies -and pomps and vanities; a man, finer in some things, strangely enough, -sees a certain indelicacy in the brazen publicity of the wedding rites. -True, this view never presented itself to Thornton, who merely wanted to -call Clytie his own and looked upon the formality of the marriage bond -as a necessary nuisance, but it came vividly to Clytie, and caused her, -as she was called upon to decide in the matter, to choose as quiet a -wedding as possible. She shrank with repugnance from the meaningless -ordeal of bridesmaids, favours, and a wedding-breakfast. It was only in -deference to Durdleham susceptibilities that she did not entertain the -idea of a civil marriage before a registrar. - -The announcement of her engagement caused a flutter of excitement in the -family. Mrs. Blather and Janet could not understand a girl's art life, -but they could understand a wedding. They settled it between themselves -that Clytie and her _fiancé_ should come down to Durdleham to be there -married in the orthodox fashion. They had already drawn up a list of -guests and a scheme of wedding arrangements when a letter arrived from -Clytie saying that she was to be married almost immediately, and that on -no account could the ceremony take place at Durdleham. The sisters were -disappointed. Mrs. Blather remonstrated, adding arguments and entreaties -that brought tears of desperation to Clytie's eyes. She hated the -thought of willingly giving pain to her father and sisters, but a -family ceremony was more than she could bear. By trying to explain -the inexplicable she made matters worse. If Mrs. Blather and Janet had -failed to understand her simple needs of a free, untrammelled girlish -life, how could they unravel the tangled complexities involving her -repugnance to their proposals? At last she wrote that the day was -definitely fixed, and that if her sisters would not come to town, no one -but her friends the Farquharsons and Winifred would be present at the -ceremony. To journey up to London for the purpose of standing in a -bleak, empty church on a dismal March morning just to see Clytie -married in a travelling dress was a prospect not pleasing enough to -be entertained. The sisters resigned themselves with a sigh to -circumstances and to a catalogue of Clytie's eccentricities from her -earliest years. Mrs. Blather sent Clytie a pair of silver candlesticks, -Janet sent her a tea-service, and old Mr. Davenant, who had been -courteously addressed by Hammerdyke on the subject of the marriage, sent -her a check for one hundred pounds. And that ended the matter. - -Winifred spent the night before the marriage with Clytie. - -“Do come, Winnie dear,” the latter had said. “I shall be so lonely and -miserable.” - -So Winnie came like a spirit of peace, and the two girls cried a little -in each other's arms, and it was the weaker who comforted the stronger. - -“I shall keep on the studio,” said Winifred,--“I am getting quite rich, -you know,--and then you can come sometimes and take off your things and -make believe to be back again. And I shall come and see you in your big -house--if you will tell your big husband not to frighten me away.” - -“You will always be my own sweet Winnie,” said Clytie tenderly, “and -you will always get the very best out of me even if I change utterly to -everybody else.” - -“But how can you change, dear?” asked Winifred in her simple faith. For -she had lost her first instinctive distrust of Hammerdyke in the glamour -of Clytie's love for him. “How can you ever be different from what you -are and what you have always been?” - -“Oh, I may grow very, very wicked and selfish one of these days, and not -care for simple things any longer; and then you might be hurt, and you -would know how unworthy I was that you should care for me, and you would -shrink from me.” - -“Oh, Clytie, darling!” cried Winifred, throwing her arms about her neck, -“how can you say such things?” - -“It is silly, I know,” said Clytie; “but I sometimes feel that I might -do something very wicked without much compunction before I die.” - -“But you are going to lead a splendid, beautiful life!” said Winnie. -“You will live in a great house, and have at your command the most -brilliant society in London, all the clever, artistic people--just what -you like. And you won't have to paint for orders, so you need never have -to cramp your genius, dear. Oh, Clytie, you will simply be overflowing -with happiness all your life long.” Clytie sighed. The independence of -her half-Bohemian life was very dear to her. This was the last night -on which, if it so pleased her, she could go forth into the streets, -uncontrolled, whither she would. Henceforward her actions would have to -be referred to an authority. To-morrow she would even change her -name; be transformed from the Clytie Davenant whom she knew into Mrs. -Hammerdyke, a vague, mysterious entity, with whose nature she was -unfamiliar. No matter how glorious the future, there is always some -regret in leaving forever a past phase of life: - - At leaving even the most unpleasant people And places, one keeps -looking at the steeple. - -But this was a pleasant place Clytie was about to quit, and she looked -back upon its associations with a sigh. - -In the morning a commissionnaire sent by Thornton came and fetched away -her trunks, for the newly married pair were to start for the Continent -immediately after the ceremony. When these were despatched Clytie stood -for a moment before her glass, adjusted the clasp of her cape and the -set of her broad gray beaver hat, and turning to Winifred, said quietly: -“Let us go, dear.” - -They drove together in a hansom to St. Luke's Church, close by, where -Thornton and the Farquharsons were waiting for them, in the porch. It -was a bright morning, warm for the time of year, and the sparrows and a -stray thrush plucked up heart of grace and twittered cheerily from the -trees in the churchyard. Two little street children, with arms about -each other's necks, stood by a near gravestone and looked at the little -group with somewhat disappointed eyes. They had expected a bride in -a long white veil and orange-blossoms, a costume always mysteriously -fascinating to the unsophisticated. Perhaps it was only a christening -after all, one remarked to the other. But where was the baby? The -interior of the empty church was more cheerful than empty Protestant -churches are wont to be. The slanting sunlight streamed many-coloured -through the stained windows across the nave, and a broad shaft poured in -from the open south door upon the vacant pews in the aisle. From outside -came faintly the hum and rattle of the King's Road. The influences -were peaceful, encouraging, and Clytie, sensitive to impressions, felt -grateful. The two little children, with their eyes on the verger, peeped -in through the door and satisfied themselves that it was a wedding after -all. - -They whispered together with many smiles and nods, guessing at the -_dramatis personæ_. Clytie noticed them, smiled back and nodded. It was -as if a bit of her past life had come to bid her be of good cheer. The -party stood for a while in the body of the church, talking gaily in low -tones. Mrs. Farquharson was radiant at the prospective accomplishment of -a dear wish. - -“You must be proud of your bride,” she said to Thornton. “Is she not -looking beautiful?” - -And she whispered to Clytie: - -“You must be proud of your husband. Have you ever seen a man to compare -with him?” - -Thornton held his head erect as he gave Clytie his arm and walked up to -the communion rail. He was proud of her. The quiet gray of her broad hat -and her cloak threw into relief the rich colouring of her hair and -eyes and lips. The past two years had completed her womanly beauty. -Irregularities of contour below the eyes had been toned down, the -delicacy of modelling of her face had been accentuated, and the new -emotions of the past three weeks had filled her great dark blue eyes -with a new, mysterious light. Thornton pressed her hand against his -side, and whispered, “My darling,” so close to her that she felt his -breath warm upon her ear. She looked at him for a moment, her full lips -quivering ever so slightly. - -“I should like to kiss you,” he whispered again. “You are so beautiful.” - -In a few moments it was over. The words compromising a lifetime had been -said. The wedding ring gleamed upon her finger. As she passed with the -others into the vestry she looked down at it in a daze. There it was and -there it must remain till death parted them, a token of submission and -obedience. In the vestry there were embraces, congratulations. Thornton -kissed her after the gallant fashion of a man who can afford to wait for -a warmer caress. Winifred threw her arms round her neck, weeping. Mrs. -Farquharson kissed her in her affectionate, motherly way. George kissed -her gravely on the forehead and dipped the pen in the ink for her to -sign “Clytie Davenant” for the last time. Then they found themselves in -the porch again, saying farewell. Caroline laughingly called her “Mrs. -Hammerdyke” as they finally parted. And then the little knot of three -waved their handkerchiefs as the cab drove off that took her husband and -herself towards Victoria. - -“You are mine now, my darling,” he said, taking her hand. “All that is -most mine.” - -“I am glad,” she murmured, returning his pressure. “Yours for always.” - -The commissionnaire met them at the station. He had taken their tickets, -settled their luggage, engaged a carriage. A bouquet of violets lay upon -the seat. Clytie flashed a quick glance at her husband. - -“Thank you for thinking. I love them so much.” - -He arranged her hot-water can and her rugs and sat down by her side, -thrusting up the dividing arms impatiently. As soon as the train had -moved out of the station he put his arms around her and kissed her, and -spoke to her in tender, passionate words. The stop at Croydon broke the -continuity of this first wedded embrace. On the platform outside -the carriage window a loud altercation was in progress between the -ticket-collector and a young couple who objected to pay for the ticket -of a tiny terrier the woman was carrying. They were of the lower middle -class, both in their Sunday clothes. She was a fair, delicate woman of -some refinement; but the husband was coarse, vulgar, with the stamp -of sensuality on his sharp, somewhat handsome face. Moreover, he -was slightly intoxicated, and used a foul expression to qualify the -collector after the official had departed. A flush rose to the young -woman's forehead. - -“Don't, John,” she pleaded. “He's in his rights.” - -But the cad consigned his rights to perdition, and moved off vulgarly -proclaiming his own. - -Clytie had heard this small scene in a life's drama and she vividly -constructed the miserable tragedy. When the train moved on again she -shivered, with a nameless, indefinable sense of fear. Three months ago -she would have noted the scene for vigorous transference to canvas. Now -the woman more than the artist was stirred. - -“Please don't talk--just for a little, Thornton,” she said as he began -to speak. - -He looked at her somewhat reproachfully. She drew off her glove and put -her hand into his. - -“You can't understand--it all seems so strange. Let me gather myself -together for a moment--darling.” - -She trembled on the last word. It was the first time she had used it to -him. - -He pressed her hand and leaned back on the cushions. Clytie looked out -of the window at the telegraph poles and trees and broad fields swaying -past. Whither was this tearing train carrying her? Out of her life into -a new, strange world whose habits and customs and laws and speech were -all foreign to her? She was married. She no longer belonged to herself. -Her independence was gone. She had promised to love, honour, and obey -this man by her side until death should part them. That would be a long -time--many, many years. The thought frightened her. Until then she had -scarce realised what married life meant, in this respect. Why had she -married this man? As this question passed through her mind her husband -raised the hand he held to his lips. The blood rushed hot to her cheeks, -she did not finish the mental question, but turning quickly, looked at -him for a moment, and falling under the spell of his eyes, yielded to -his arm, forgetting all things. He had the power of drowning in a more -lurid blaze those glimmerings of self-revelation. She whispered so to -him laughingly, and he accepted it as a man generally does accept such -things--not seeing that it was of deeper significance than a woman's -ordinary tribute of tenderness. - -“You are my beautiful Clytie,” he said, kissing her, and for a season -she was content with the response. - -There was a lover's silence between them, which she broke at length by -saying: - -“Don't you think it would have been much nicer if we could have had one -another on trial--say for six months?” > - -“So that you could all the time be thinking whether you should repent of -your bargain? Oh, dear, no!” - -“Ah! you say that; but would it not have been better, if we grew to -hate each other, to be able to shake hands and say good-bye? For we may -quarrel dreadfully, you know.” - -He answered her with tender assurances, laughed at her fears. - -“We shall never quarrel if you are a good little girl and do as you are -told,” he said. - -Clytie laughed, seeing only jesting in the remark. - -“And we shall never quarrel if you let me go where I like and do what I -like and say what I like.” - -“But you will always want to go and do and say as I like, darling,” said -Thornton. “So we shall never quarrel.” - -“Then you will never want me to be severely respectable?” asked Clytie, -with a touch of insistence. - -“I shan't allow you to flirt with any and everybody, if you mean that,” - he replied, showing his white teeth as he smiled. - -“I didn't mean that--for the simple reason that I have a certain amount -of brains.” - -“There have been many coquettes with magnificent intellects.” - -She made no reply. Then, seeing that he had ruffled her, he adroitly -turned their talk into less dangerous channels. - -They stayed in Paris a couple of days and then continued their journey -to the Riviera. It was Clytie's own desire. In the first flush of his -passion all places were alike to Thornton, provided she were with him. -But she longed to get away from England, to cut herself adrift for -a while from all old associations, to surround herself with new -conditions, so that nothing should disturb the wonder of this new love. -And when, with a lover's hyperbole, he had bidden her choose any spot on -the whole terrestrial globe for the passing of their honeymoon, she had -selected the Mediterranean. - -They went to the little Italian town of Bordighera, hidden away at the -foot of the mountains amidst its palms and olive trees. Besides being -one of the most beautiful spots on that beautiful coast, it has the -charm of quiet. There is no casino at Bordighera, no public garden, -no municipal band. It holds out to visitors no attractions but its own -loveliness--hence the absence of the banal, the rococo. A few villas -are dotted round it, away from the sea. One long, straggling street -of shops, narrowing gradually, leads up to the old, picturesque, -evil-smelling town on the hill. And this with its narrow sunless streets -flanked by high, dingy, gray houses, between which the sky above seems -a narrow strip of Prussian blue ribbon, its crooked byways and basement -loggie of cool malodour, its cobble pavements on which great entrance -gateways gape like dark, noisome caverns, offers few attractions other -than those of quaintness and curiosity to any but its own inhabitants. -It is a quiet place, devoid of the cosmopolitan _tohubohu_ of Mentone or -Cannes. An index of this is the fact that, save the commoner qualities -of the Italian _regie_, cigarettes are not to be bought for love -or money in Bordighera, and these in the greasiest ramshackle shop -imaginable. If you want civilised shops you must go to San Remo. - -Thornton and Clytie spent the earlier portion of their honeymoon here -in unbroken happiness. Beyond casual gossip with their table d'hôte -neighbours they held intercourse with no one. All fears, doubts, -flutterings of regret, vanished from Clytie's heart, together with all -sense of subjective life. She was tasting the physical joy of existence -as it came to her in the passion, sunlight, colour, warmth, and scents -of the south. She had chosen with unconscious wisdom. The intensity of -the beauty of the Mediterranean, its positivism, its splendid denial -of the melancholic and mysterious, held her being in tone with the -love with which Thornton had inspired her. It intoxicated her with a -complementary passion. - -They drove one day from Bordighera through Ventimiglia to Mentone. -Halfway they stopped at a wayside inn, and breakfasted under a trellis -of grape-vine. On the one side was the dazzling white road, flanked by -the terraced hill of olive-trees, the white underparts of their leaves -flashing like silver; on the other, below, the gold sand and the purple -sea. And the sun streamed through the vine, checkering the table and -their hands and faces. The fare was poor and the Asti none of the best, -but the wine sparkled and bubbled in the thick tumbler they used in -common, and brought a keener sparkle into Clytie's eyes, and a more -joyous abandonment into her laugh. When they had resumed their drive, -and a turn of the road brought them into sight of Mentone, her heart -leaped at the suddenness with which the blaze of colour was revealed. -Below, over a declining foreground of olive and orange gardens, lay the -white town in a setting of bright green foliage, stretching from horn to -horn of the bay. Behind the eastern horn projected dark and bold the -promontory of Monaco with the flashing white of its castle. Behind the -town rose the two bare peaks of the Berceau standing out in deep -blue-gray against the intense violet sky. Before it swept the broad belt of -yellow sand, on which lapped, in little idle waves whose ebb left a -delicate fringe of white, a still, unbroken sea of lapis lazuli, melting -through infinite gradations of blue streaked with arbitrary purples into -the deep ultramarine that met the paler sky far away on the horizon. The -burst of intense colour of sky and sea and land, glowing as far as the -eye could sweep, drowned Clytie's being in a sensuous flood. It was, as -it were, the projection of physical passion into something visible, thus -baring to the eyes its wonderful beauty. She uttered a little -inarticulate gasp, a catching of the breath. They were quite alone, the -coachman half asleep in the sun on his box. Thornton put his arm round -her and drew her to him. She turned, closed her eyes. All creation, from -the world of wonder before her to the tiniest quivering fibre within -her, vibrated with an intoxicating thrill of delight. She caught his -hand, drew his arm tighter, and lifted her lips to his in a long, long -kiss. - -Thenceforward her stay on the Riviera was one uninterrupted delight. -It was a dream in which the mind lay subject to the sense. She was in -a blue mist, which hid impenetrably past and future, and informed the -visible area about her feet with unutterable sweetness. “Don't expect -me to write letters,” she said in a hastily scribbled note to Caroline. -“This is a land in which words have no part. You might as well expect -me to talk the 'Moonlight Sonata' to you.” And Caroline, being a wise -woman, smiled. Yet, after all, her wisdom had nothing to do with it--for -anything feminine would have divined. The days flew on wings of fire. -She never read, never worked; her sketch-book remained empty. Often they -sat at their sitting-room window, looking out on to the Strada Romana, -hand in hand, without speaking, save for a murmured caress, for an hour -together. Or they walked up between the olives, past the famous high -wall with its gorgeous coat of mesembryanthemum, through the narrow, -crooked town, down the rugged descent to the surf-beaten shore, where -the great white solitary _casa_ stands, and there sat down in the shade -of the big rocks and watched the glowing “countless laughter” of the -sea. Often they rambled through the cool, sunless olive gardens, rising -terrace after terrace apparently into the deep violet sky. The scent -of the rosemary and wild thyme beneath their feet rose penetrating and -filled the blood, and Thornton would pick a handful, and laughingly hold -it between them above their lips as he kissed her. And when they reached -the top of the hill they sat under a tree, and Clytie rested her head -on his shoulder, and let her eye wander over the low-lying ridges of -the Maritime Alps rising in endless soft-rounded undulations, like the -many-breasted mother of men, in each bosom nestling a compact white -townlet gathered around the slated cupola of its church; and the soft -sunlight lay over all, transfused through the blue atmosphere. Then -she would say: “Don't let us talk, Thornton,” but there was a different -meaning to the words from that which they had when she uttered them in -the train as it left Croydon. - -Sometimes they went away from Bordighera for two or three days; visited -Nice, Cannes, Monte Carlo. At Monte Carlo Clytie won three or four -hundred francs at the roulette tables. Gambling had never come before -within her experience of things. She plunged into it with childish -recklessness, looking round with glowing face and laughter in her eyes -at her husband when she won, and drawing a short little breath of dismay -when the croupier raked in her stake. The game, the intensity of -the strange faces, seen nowhere else,--faces which bore the stamp of -combinations of the seven deadly sins taken from two to half a dozen -together,--the subtle working in that great, glittering room of all -the passions under heaven, attracted her, fascinated her. The artistic -temperament caught the impressions, instinctively, unconsciously -registered them, thus widening and deepening her conception of life. It -was a luxury of sense to leave the babel passion of the Casino and to -walk arm in arm on the terrace or in the grounds. There the music came -faintly and mingled with the far-off splash of the sea away below them -and the rustle of the palms and drachinas. On the right stretched out -Monaco, clustering like a group of fireflies below the white bastioned -castle. Behind them rose the black mass of the Maritime Alps with the -Mont Agel towering distinct above. The air was soft and warm, recovering -from the sudden shock of sundown. What they said to one another matters -little. He saw that she was beautiful and filled with the sense of -his love, and he was happy. To Clytie life meant unutterable things. - -On the third morning of their stay at Monte Carlo Thornton returned from -a short stroll and came into their room. - -“A man I know has just come by the train and I fled from him,” he said; -“let us go somewhere else.” - -Clytie was pleased. - -“I am glad you still want us to be quite, quite alone,” she replied. -“But you are sure you are not a little bit weary of me?” - -He answered as many millions of men more or less sincere have answered. -And Clytie thought neither of believing nor of disbelieving him, as many -millions of women have done. The subjective is apt to crop up afterwards -and it generally causes trouble. But in the passion of a kiss woman, -being, like man, of flesh and blood, and not an abstraction, does not -calculate remote psychological contingencies; if she does, the kissing -is all a mistake. Once, towards the end of their honeymoon, Clytie did -touch upon the subjective. They were sitting by the ruined tower on the -hill above the Strada Romana. Clytie was heated and had taken off her -hat, and the breeze ruffled her hair as she leaned against the trunk of -a tree. Thornton sprawled by her side, resting his chin on his hand and -looking at her. - -“I always grudge your wearing a hat,” he said. “Your beautiful hair -ought not to be hidden. You look much lovelier now that it is free for -the wind to kiss.” - -She laughed a contented little laugh, throwing her chin up, according to -her way. - -“Do you know, Thornton,” she said with a little hesitation, in which -there was much charm, “being called beautiful every day is one of the -great novelties of the situation. I always knew I was good to look upon, -and sometimes I really was very pleased to behold myself. But before I -knew you, dear, it never made anything of a factor in my daily life. And -now I almost begin to think it's the only quality I have.” - -“Given that, you can let all the others go----” He waved his hand -vaguely, consigning them to the _Ewigkeit_. “But that's not all that you -love me for, is it, dear?” An idle question, with an unsuspected fear -lurking in its heart. - -“I don't know why I love you. It has never occurred to me to investigate -the matter.” - -“Well, try. It will be like playing the game, 'I love my love with an -A'!” - -Thornton shook his head boyishly, and laughed. - -“It would spoil it all!” he said--“to go worrying about what lies under -that sweet face of yours. Can't you understand, darling? What do your -qualities matter to me? Provided I can take you in my arms and kiss you -as much as I like, what concern is it of mine whether you are acquainted -with the cookery book or spell art with a capital A? Don't you think -it's more satisfactory to lie here and look into your great blue eyes, -and your hair with the sun and wind playing hide and seek in it, -and your bosom rising and falling, than to speculate whether you are -even-tempered or vindictive or ambitious or fond of Adelaide Proctor's -poetry?” - -“What a boy you are!” she cried light-heartedly, stretching out her hand -so as to run her fingers over his crisp brown hair. “So my face has been -my fortune!” - -“And your figure,” he remarked critically. “The whole of you!” - -“Tell me,” she continued, “what would you have done if I hadn't married -you?” - -He started up to a sitting posture, and his eyes flashed. “I should have -gone straight back to Africa and played the very devil there! But you -were bound to marry me, you know; and if you had been already a married -woman, I should have got to you somehow. I have been hit before in my -time, over and over, but never till I met you did I think a woman worth -the marriage service. But you're a witch, Clytie,” he added, resuming -his former attitude, “the Belle Dame sans Merci.” - -“Poor fellow,” said Clytie, “poor knight-at-arms! And you do look 'so -haggard and so woe-begone,' don't you?” - -She laughed as she looked at his great frame lying at her feet, and his -strong, handsome dark face, with its health and masterfulness. Then she -continued in the lightness of her heart: - -“But seriously, now, Thornton, very seriously. You do want me to be -a little help to you in your life--in other ways--don't you? In your -ambitions, your work in the world generally. We must begin to talk about -such things soon, you know.” - -Thornton laughed lazily as he lit a cigarette. - -“My work in the world is to love you, my dear, and I'll promise to let -you help me in that as much as you like.” - -But Clytie insisted. Sometimes the subjective gets too much for a woman. - -“Ah, Thornton dear,” she said. “I want to feel that we are much more -than lovers. That will wear off after a time. Oh, yes! don't tell me -it won't; a woman learns things all with a rush, you see. And I want to -feel that we are one in everything, in all our sympathies and views of -life, our ambitions, in all the high and great things that lie before -you. I want to be in touch with everything you do and think--to be a -real helpmeet for you.” - -He took her hand and kissed it, laughing. - -“I have got a lot to learn in the way of connubial responsibilities,” he -said. “You'll have to train me, my dear. But allow me to remark that the -sun is just going to dip over there by the Nervia, and if we want to get -in by sunset we shall have to run like the deuce!” - -As this was a serious matter,--on the Riviera it is one of the grave -responsibilities of life,--Clytie let herself be lifted to her feet, put -on her hat quickly, and holding her husband's hand, ran merrily with him -down the hill. The exercise and the laughter drove things subjective out -of her head for a season. But in the after-time the ghost of this little -conversation came and sat at the head of her bed, making mock at a -few others who sat on the foot-rail. A thing does not require to be as -objective as a murdered monk to have a little ghost all to itself. - - - - -CHAPTER XVI. - -Perhaps if they had remained in Bordighera the intoxication would have -lasted longer. But as our lives are hemmed in by infinite possibilities, -to each of which is strung its infinite ramification of consequences, -it is somewhat rash to predicate _ex hypothesi_. At any rate so long as -they were at Bordighera there seemed to be no reason that the continuity -of the charm should be broken; whereas it did suffer a change during the -railway journey from Bordighera to Paris. And this railway journey was a -kind of neutral ground in their married life, separating the dream from -the reality. On entering the train they were lovers. On leaving it they -were a married couple. Wherein lies somewhat of a difference. They were -not conscious of the change. Realisation of this mysterious operation -is fortunately denied to human beings, seeing that they turn their eyes -inwards rather too much as it is already. Nor do they recognise what has -happened until some time afterwards, as the old influences still remain -lingeringly; but then they can generally look back to the point of -transition, and set it up as a forlorn landmark in their lives. - -Why they did not remain longer in the south they themselves could -scarcely explain. They had arranged to spend a month there, and then -to proceed to Paris to wait indefinitely until their new house in the -Cromwell Road should be ready to receive them. There is nothing so -irrefragable as an arbitrary programme. Even the most emancipated -enslave themselves to it sometimes, as in the present case did Thornton -and Clytie They possibly lost a good deal,--the flowers of life seldom -grow along the beaten track,--but they never thought of attributing it -to the fixity of their programme. They were in Paris, then, living under -totally fresh conditions. Thornton found there a succession of friends -and acquaintances, and was pleased rather than otherwise to meet them. -At Monte Carlo he fled from Carteret of the Hussars; on the Boulevard -des Capucines he greeted him heartily and carried him off into the -American Bar. Besides discovering acquaintances daily in the hotel list, -Thornton was not unknown in general Parisian society. His name could -procure him admission into most circles that he cared to enter. He was -put up at a couple of clubs and received invitation cards by the dozen. - -To please him Clytie went with him a little into society. He was proud -of his beautiful wife, loved to watch the effect produced as she entered -a drawing-room upon his arm, and the eager admiration on the faces of -the men who crowded round her chair. In fact, Clytie had a small social -success--and a paragraph in the _Figaro_. It was a new sensation -for her; but in these early days of her married life she would have -preferred a quieter, less conspicuous existence. But Thornton, just as -he had sought in the south to keep her and her beauty to himself, now -seemed to wish to exhibit it abroad. - -“I seem to wear you like a decoration, darling,” he said once. - -At first Clytie flushed with pleasure at the little flattery. Then she -thought over it for a bit, and it did not please her so much. But she -did not confide this to her husband. She had already begun to discover -that for the safekeeping of many little matters her own heart was the -best place. - -They had a set of rooms in a hotel in the Champs Elysées with a balcony -overlooking the Grande Avenue. Clytie loved to sit there with Thornton -in the quiet half hour before dinner watching the stream of vehicles, -fine and vague far away by the Arc de Triomphe, then gradually -broadening, till fashionable Paris returning from the Bois blazed -beneath her in its movement and gaiety. They seemed to her so alone up -there, above the whirl and the glitter and falseness. It was a return of -the hours of the month in the south, and happiness fluttered tremulously -around her--like a butterfly, ever so elusively. When she leaned over -the balcony by his side many people looked up admiringly at them. When -she saw one woman twitch the arm of her companion in a victoria, and -both shoot swift feminine glances up at the balcony, she could not help -feeling a little thrill of pride in her husband. And then she would -remember the morning's solitary ramble among the sculpture of the -Louvre (Thornton and herself were less dependent upon each other now for -entertainment), and reflect, with a sense of pleasure, that she had seen -no antique ideal that could compare with him in splendid manhood. He, -too, had done heroic deeds, she would think, and she would move nearer -to his side and be glad that he was there. Yet the butterfly happiness -was just beyond her grasp. - -Some such thoughts were passing through her mind one afternoon as they -stood together on the balcony. He broke a short silence by saying: - -“We are getting quite an old married couple, Clytie!” - -“What made you say that?” she asked, smiling. - -“Oh! I hardly know. I have got so used to having you by me. It seems as -if I had been married ever since I was born.” - -“It does seem a long, long time ago that we first passed through Paris. -But I can't say I am quite used to matrimony yet. Do you know, I have -sometimes hoped that I never should be.” - -“Why?” - -“Can't you guess? At present, dear, it is all glamour and mystery, -and when you get too familiar with the glamour it turns into -the commonplace. That's why I am just a little bit sorry we left -Bordighera.” - -“It was certainly very jolly,” he assented reflectively. “But we are -having as good a time here, aren't we?” - -“Well, I like these little half hours best,” said Clytie, “when we are -alone together. When we are parted it seems as if I am suddenly called -upon to live as an individual and do not quite know how to begin. You -see, when I am alone with you I know how to behave as Clytie Hammerdyke, -but not yet when I am by myself or with other people.” - -Thornton laughed, as a man in love laughs when he thinks he is replying -to an idle, pretty remark. - -“You have always Clytie Davenant to fall back upon,” he said. - -“Have I? That's just the question I have been putting to myself. But I -can't explain it to you. I don't think you would understand.” - -“Of course I understand!” he cried quickly. “You have to mix with people -as a married woman, and you are a bit shy at first. But you'll pull -through all right, dear. Why, as it is, you are superb.” - -“Oh, come,” she said, laughing. “I can talk to people without blushing -and morally biting the corner of my apron. I meant something a little -more subtle than that. You see, after all, you don't understand. I can -never, never be Clytie Davenant again. She was buried for good and all -at Bordighera.” - -“And my sweet phoenix has arisen out of her ashes,” said Thornton. - -“If you like--and the phoenix hasn't quite got the sense of her -environment yet.” - -“All this is very pretty, my dear,” said Thornton, with a laugh. “But I -can't quite see what we are driving at.” - -“Have I been talking such great nonsense, then? Perhaps it all tended to -express the fact that when I am with you I don't think of myself; when -we are apart I am confronted with myself, and feel embarrassed. You see, -Thornton dear,” she went on, “I have lived a queer kind of life, full -of such different hopes and dreams. I scarcely thought about marriage -in those days. I knew that love would come to me some time or the other, -but then it seemed as if it would all be mixed up with my art, whereas -now----Oh, you can't see how different it is!” - -There was no tone of sadness or regret in her voice as she said this, -but a touch of tenderness, a tribute, as it were, to his influence. - -“But there's nothing to hinder you from amusing yourself with painting -pictures, is there?” asked her husband lightly. “You have no call now to -earn a livelihood, but you can paint all day if you like, my dear.” - -“Of course I shall paint--I could not live without it--except perhaps -such a month as last. But, don't you see, my art was once the guiding -principle of my life. Now I have my art and my love, and they seem to -have nothing to do with each other. They are on different planes, so to -speak. It is all that that makes me feel I don't quite realise myself -yet when I have to leave the love plane for a little.” - -“Don't leave it,” said Thornton. - -“Ah! we have done that by going away from Bordighera, and leading this -dissipated life here,” she replied, laughing. “But we can get on and off -whenever we like, you know. That is one comfort.” - -“Well,” said Thornton, lighting a cigarette, and speaking between the -first few whiffs, “marriage must make some difference. You have lived -a free and easy, emancipated life among artistic people, and now you -belong to somebody else--a wild barbarian, who could no more tell you -how to paint a picture than how to cut out a dress. Of course it makes -a difference in your way of viewing things. It has made a difference in -mine too, by Jove! When a yearning for Africa comes over me I have to -say: No; I have a wife, with her arms,--the roundest in the world, my -dear,--about my neck. And so I have got to settle down to politics and -domesticity in the Cromwell Road.” - -“But you don't regret it, do you, Thornton?” she asked, womanlike. - -“Look at me and see if I do,” he said. - -Clytie obeyed him, half shyly, feeling, as she always did since her -return to Paris, the fascination, half pleasant, half painful, of his -eyes. He loved her. There was no doubt of that. Yet the nature of his -love sometimes frightened her a little if she strayed for a moment -off the “love plane.” Her own responsiveness she never questioned, -preferring to shut her eyes and let the current of his love carry her -whither it would. But at times now, during her solitary walks through -the Louvre, the thought obtruded, What would the new life be like? -Not these early days, which were holidays from the seriousnesses of -existence, but the life in the years that lay before her, of whose -responsibilities she had as yet but vague premonitions. How would her -art be affected? - -Would it lose or gain in that breadth and insight that it needed? Would -she continue to reckon herself an artist at all, or would she only -degenerate into the amateur--painting little meaningless pictures for -amusement? And at the end of a year would she not stand face to face -with a new Clytie, paler, more shadowy, and therefore less insistently -demanding self-expression? Even these few weeks had changed her: what -would she be at the end of one year, two years, twenty years? Happier, -with all her old cravings satisfied, with her individuality worked out -to its fullest, with the riddle of life joyously solved? Or else----She -scarcely dared think of it. She looked at what had been written in -her Book of New Formulas, and found that the marriage service had been -omitted. It merely said that marriage was unformularisable, an easy way -of curving a contumelious lip at the old formulas which she had rebelled -against, but scarcely satisfactory in her present position. Now, in the -Old Formulas, marriage was minutely, scrupulously regulated by the -most definite of rules. Although they broke up the poem of life into a -disjointed copy-book, or at best into a collection of elegant extracts, -still they presented a homogeneous scheme. Should she at last have -to accept this, confess to Mrs. Blather smiling complacently that the -Durdleham philosophy was the only one? But then she would look at her -husband and take a measure of comfort. Such a man could not come out of -Durdleham. - -That was her consolation in the perplexities that the problem of her -married life caused her. She took refuge from herself, her thoughts, -her forebodings, in his grand strength and personal magnetism. It was -intermittent intoxication, this long Paris after-honeymoon, rather than -continuous charm, and the intervals of soberness had their wearinesses. -She had thrown her cap over the windmills. Sometimes she regretted it. - -On the evening after the above conversation they went to the opera, -where they had taken a box with the Claverings, army people with whom -Thornton had been intimate in Cairo. Clytie had met them only for a -moment the day before, and had not been favourably impressed. However, -they were Thornton's friends, and it behoved her to appreciate them. -Mrs. Clavering passed for being a clever woman by virtue of a plain face -and a vivacious manner; also because she ruled her husband and had a -cultivated taste in sherry. - -Thornton had admired her some years before. Mammas with marriageable -daughters put it in that way; those who could afford to be independent -put it in another. Whichever way they put it in no wise affected the -parties concerned. Mrs. Clavering was too superior a woman to allow idle -gossip to influence her or her husband. Now she was eight-and-thirty, -she had seen the world and had preserved few illusions, least of all -any respecting Thornton Hammerdyke. She met him with a cynical -encouragement, which to some men is flattering. - -Clytie was quick to notice her manner towards Thornton, and resented -it. There was a touch of banal familiarity, too, in his talk with Mrs. -Clavering that jarred upon her. The tone was undignified, suggestive of -the falser strata of regimental society, in which frankness stands for -scarcely veiled mutual contempt. - -He was sitting behind Mrs. Clavering, who smiled in a superior, -half-patronising way at his remarks. Clytie listened to the music -absently, wished they had come alone. The house was crowded, and the air -was stifling. She found the opera, “La Juive,” uninteresting. - -“I am going to carry off your husband to the terrace, Mrs. Hammerdyke,” - said Mrs. Clavering at the end of the second act, “and I leave you mine -in pledge. I hope he will take good care of you.” - -He was a heavy but honest Briton, who idolised his wife, his dinner, and -the British Constitution. As neither the opera nor Clytie came within -this area of adoration, he treated them with a polite though somewhat -embarrassed indifference. Still he acquitted himself of his charge -satisfactorily and entertained Clytie during the _entr'acte_. After a -tour round the house he found a seat for her in the Salle des Pas Perdus -and talked with solemn fitfulness. Then it occurred to him that it was -oppressive indoors and he took her out upon the terrace. Clytie did not -wish to stay there long--only for a moment to get a breath of fresh air. -She remained for a little leaning on the broad balustrade and looking at -the scene in front of her--the broad _place_ below with the continuous -passing to and fro of vehicles crossing each other in all directions, -the Café de la Paix on the right with its crowded tables far out on the -pavement and trayladen waiters hurrying between them, the glittering -vista of lights in the Avenue de l'Opera, the duller line of lamps in -the Rue de la Paix with the Vendôme column towering high in the -dim moonlight. It was so instinct with gaiety and movement and the -brightness of life that a little thrill of its gladness passed through -her, ending in a strange kind of sob that filled her throat. She took -her companion's arm, and went across through the stream of loungers back -into the heavy air of the Salle des Pas Perdus. - -Meanwhile Thornton and Mrs. Clavering had established themselves in a -corner at the end of the terrace. - -“It seems like old times--on the veranda--at a regimental dance,” she -said. “At least that is what you were going to say, I suppose. I never -yet met an old admirer but what he made some remark of the kind. So I -have saved you from the commonplace.” - -“I was meditating some politeness of the sort,” replied Thornton -carelessly. “I thought you would expect it.” - -“I hope you will always have the same delicate consideration for others, -Mr. Hammerdyke. How long are you going to be good and domestic?” - -“Always, I suppose. I am going to run politics and that sort of show.” - -Mrs. Clavering laughed lightly. - -“Ha! When I see you at it I'll believe it--unless you have changed -extraordinarily since I last knew you. And you don't look much changed. -Perhaps matrimony will work the miracle. Ha! ha! Pardon my laughing, but -it seems so ridiculous to see you, of all people, married.” - -“I suppose I have human attributes somewhere about me,” he said. - -“Too vastly human, my poor friend; that is where the danger lies. To -err is human, you know. I hope your wife will do the divine part of the -business, as women generally do, and forgive. By the way, I have not -made you my compliment, as they say in this country. I think your wife -simply perfect.” - -“We agree there for once,” replied Thornton drily. - -“Tell me all about it. Can't you see I am dying to know? That is why I -brought you out here. Who is she? Where did you meet her? Were you long -engaged? And I know you too are dying to talk to someone about her. You -may as well gratify the craving while you still have it.” - -“I believe you are madly jealous, Clara. Pardon my frankness. But you -and I always went in for being frank with one another.” - -“Call it amiable brutality--it would be better.” - -“As you like. I never went in for splitting hairs. I suppose it's brutal -to say you are jealous.” - -“It is simply idiotic. Therefore I bear you no ill will for your saying -so. I honestly admire your wife, and think you have got very much more -than you deserve, and I am femininely curious. Now perhaps you will tell -me.” - -“Well, I met her at a cousin's house. She is, or rather was, an artist.” - -“I appreciate the distinction. Proceed.” - -Thornton threw himself back with a great laugh against the balustrade, -his elbows resting upon it, his hands in his pockets. - -“I think you are just a little bit jealous,” he said. “Well--to finish -my story. She is of an old Buckinghamshire family, and we were engaged -about a month. And then we were married. But tell me, by way of changing -the conversation----” - -“Which may be painful.” - -“Precisely. How long are you going to stay in Paris?” - -“I don't know. As long as Paris pleases me. Am I going to see you any -more, or are you too much engrossed? I don't want to take you away from -your duties.” - -“I don't think you are likely to, Clara.” - -“Possibly not. Your wife will keep a tight rein upon you. She looks that -sort. But I don't know why we should be talking in this strain the first -time we have had a word together for--how many years? Four? Five? We -have quickly dropped into old ways. But then you were a fire-eater, a -chartered libertine, independent, a bird of freedom. Whereas now--my -poor friend!” - -“By George!” cried Thornton, starting forward, with some excitement in -his eyes that glowed in the dimness, “don't fall into any delusion. If -you think I am going the way of another poor friend of ours who can't -call his soul his own, you are devilishly mistaken. I married because it -happened to strike me that I wanted to do so. But I run the concern, and -my wife's a sensible woman and recognises the fact. And whatever I want -to do I am going to do. I have generally done it, and don't see why I -should break through my habit now.” - -“And your wife?” - -“How--my wife?” - -“Is she going to enjoy a beautiful independence likewise?” - -“No. It isn't good for women.” - -“Thank you. You always were a delicate judge in things feminine. Did -you ever read 'As You Like It'? 'Lock the door on your wife's wit and it -will out at the casement.' Have a care, my friend. I am about the only -woman you have tried to make a fool of and haven't succeeded, and so -you perhaps have a kind of respect for my intelligence, and I give you -warning.” - -“I burned some of your letters the other day,” said Thornton cynically. - -“That was wise. Suppose we go in. The act must be about commencing.” - -The curtain was already up. Major Clavering was scanning the house -drearily through a pair of opera glasses. Clytie was looking at the -stage and thinking of her husband, wishing he would come in. When the -door behind opened she turned round, and with an eye trained to -catch fleeting expression, noticed a look upon Thornton's face,--the -after-light, as it were, of a sneer, before the features had time to -reset,--that she had never observed there before. The change from -this to his usual gay smile was so rapid that she thought she had been -mistaken, and attributed it to an illusion produced by the shadow at -the back of the box. But the impression of it remained and it was -unpleasant. - -During the next _entr'acte_ the men went out, leaving Clytie and Mrs. -Clavering alone together. Either through the mere social desire to -please or through a feeling of compassion proceeding from conscious -superiority, the elder woman sought to make an agreeable impression upon -the young wife. But Clytie had wrapped herself up in a strange veil of -reserve and her attitude was unpropitiatory. Mrs. Clavering's falsetto -voice struck upon her nerves, the confident air of patronage irritated -her. She longed to be away from the heavy, acrid atmosphere, the -artificiality of the opera, the society of Mrs. Clavering. She felt -self-conscious, was angry with herself. She had the keen feminine sense -of a false position and longed for extrication. She was glad when her -husband and Major Clavering returned. - -“I have been telling Mrs. Hammerdyke about old times in Cairo, and -singing your praises,” said Mrs. Clavering. “Are you not grateful to -me?” - -“I am flattered,” said Thornton somewhat ironically. - -“That is always the way to make a man grateful.” - -“It is the same with us. I don't suppose there is much difference in -that respect between men and women,” said Clytie, for the sake of saying -something. - -“I am not so sure of that,” replied Mrs. Clavering; “women can generally -sift the grain from the chaff--only, poor things, they too often take -the chaff by preference.” - -“I hope you are not alluding to me, my dear,” said the major, who was -given to saying stupid things by way of showing that he followed the -thread of his wife's conversation. - -Thornton chimed in with his deep laugh. - -“That is one for you, Clavering. Perhaps one for me too. Anyhow, the -curtain is going up and that saves us. Make room for me by you, Clytie, -and tell me about what's going on.” - -He edged in his chair between Clytie and Mrs. Clavering. The major -lounged behind, with his hands in his pockets, very much bored. He was -hoping to escape soon. - -“Are you enjoying it?” whispered Thornton to Clytie. - -“Moderately. It is a dull opera. And it is so unbearably hot.” - -“It is not entrancingly interesting. Would you like to clear out after -this act? I should.” - -“And the Claverings?” - -“They are a bit tired of it. Shall we all go back together to the hotel -and have supper?” - -“I'd sooner we were alone together, Thornton dear--this evening.” - -He made a little gesture of impatience. - -“Of course we won't ask them if you don't want to. But then we must stay -this thing out.” - -He leaned back in his chair and looked at the mass of heads in the -opposite tiers, vague in the dimness, and drummed with his fingers on -the rails of his chair. - -“Sh!” said Mrs. Clavering. “That's one of your old tricks. You never -seem to think that people have nerves.” - -Clytie caught the words, although they were whispered. She turned her -head round quickly and stared at the stage for the rest of the act. - -When it was over Mrs. Clavering solved the question of departure. - -“I think we all want to go,” she said, rising. “My husband is suffering -acutely, and yours I know is not very musical. When shall we see you -again, Mrs. Hammerdyke? Will you come and dine with us some evening, -quietly--when we can talk better? I'll let you know what evenings we -are free. Will that do? That is your wife's cloak, not mine, Mr. -Hammerdyke.” - -A few minutes later Thornton and Clytie were driving back to their -hotel in the pleasant Paris victoria. It seemed a superb night. A -slight breeze had risen, and the leaves in the Champs Elysées rustled -pleasantly. Clytie leaned back with a sense of relief, physical and -moral. They had both been rather silent since they left the opera house. - -“Don't let us go in,” said Clytie suddenly. “Let us drive about a -little, along the quays--anywhere.” - -“I was just going to suggest it,” said Thornton. - -He gave the order to the coachman, who turned back through the Place de -la Concorde and took them past the Tuileries and the great mass of the -Louvre and along the quays in the direction of Auteuil. - -“What do you think of the Clavering woman?” asked Thornton. “Not much, -eh?” - -“I can't say that I like her. Perhaps I oughtn't to say it, as she is a -friend of yours, but--she doesn't please me.” - -“Well, I can't say that she does me now. She never was a beauty, but she -has sadly fallen off the last few years. She thinks herself so deuced -superior. And she isn't, by Jove! Still she is amusing, you know, and -that is a quality that covers a multitude of sins. But other women can't -understand her. She was loathed by them all in Cairo, so you are not -alone in your antipathy.” - -There was a long silence. Thornton drew her closer to his side and took -her hand in his. Clytie felt somewhat hurt. It was not flattering to be -grouped with the other women in Cairo, however estimable they may have -been in their non-appreciation of Mrs. Clavering. They drove on, and -began to talk of different subjects, disconnectedly, without much -interest. Finally Thornton came back to the Claverings. - -“By the way, I suppose you'll dine with them, as they were civil enough -to ask us.” - -“Certainly, if you wish it and it gives you any pleasure. Perhaps I may -like her better when I know more of her.” - -“You see, you can't drop people because you don't happen to take a -violent fancy to them,” he said rather lamely. And then he added: - -“I wish you had let me ask them to supper.” - -“Why?” - -“It would have livened us up a little.” - -“Perhaps it would,” answered Clytie almost wearily. “I half wish you -had.” - -The evanescent charm had gone from the drive. The weather, too, had -changed. Clouds, that had imperceptibly gathered, covered the moon. The -quay looked desolate, the water black and lifeless, on the other -side the great buildings loomed forbidding in the darkness. An air of -disenchantment was over all things. - -“Will monsieur turn back? It is going to rain,” said the cabman, -lounging sideways and looking down at them. - -They turned off through the narrow streets, on the nearest way back to -the hotel. The cab horse was tired and jogged on painfully, indifferent -to the loud-cracking whip and the “_hue's_” addressed to him in the -driver's raucous voice. Clytie shivered a little at the sudden fall in -the temperature. She was chilled too--ever so little--at her heart. She -drew away slightly from her husband, who held her hand mechanically. -When she withdrew it he did not seem to notice. He had discovered that -he was annoyed about the supper. - -Suddenly the horse, overdriven, stumbled, tried to recover himself, and -then crashed down helpless, snapping the shaft. The victoria lurched -violently on the side where Clytie was sitting. To save herself she -jumped out quickly, but her foot slipped on the kerb and she nearly -fell. Thornton sprang out and raised her, and then turned to the -coachman in a sudden frenzy of passion. He stood there moving his arms -about and cursed him in English. Clytie was shocked to the heart. She -was thankful that she could see his face but dimly in the bad gaslight. -The cabman shrugged his shoulders as he bent down to loosen the traces. -Some people came up, chiefly from a small _brasserie_ whose few tables -were just visible some yards further along the street. Another cab -arrived and paused, interested and expectant, watching the scene: the -little group round the fallen horse; the stately figure of the girl in -white dress and rich opera-cloak standing by the upset cab; the great -figure of the man, stamping with rage, pouring forth a torrent of oaths. -It all happened very quickly. - -Clytie touched her husband's arm quietly. - -“Stop, Thornton,” she said. “He does not even understand you.” - -Thornton looked at her for a moment, then at the group. Then he burst -into a loud laugh, pulled a ten-franc piece from his pocket and threw it -to the cabman, who picked it up with an ironical, “_Merci, bourgeois_.” - -They entered the other cab and drove quickly homewards. Thornton seemed -to have forgotten his rage, for he laughed in high spirits over the -incident. He apologised gaily for his loss of temper and language. He -was still infected with his years of savagery, he pleaded. He had been -so accustomed to rule men by terror that he forgot himself sometimes. -Often he had been the only white man among hundreds of fierce, lawless -savages, over whom he had despotic authority of life and death. If they -had not feared his rage and violence, his life would not have been worth -a moment's purchase. - -He had regained his old manner, the daring personal charm that had swept -her along in spite of herself into marrying him. The glamour of his -fame, his power, his heroism came over her and hid the sordid scenes of -the evening. When they reached the hotel they were lovers once more. - -As Clytie alighted from the cab her foot gave way beneath her. It -had been hurting her since her slip on the kerb, but she had scarcely -noticed the pain. Now she found that she could not walk. She had -sprained her ankle. She limped into the hotel with Thornton's aid. Then -she stood at the foot of the stairs and looked at them helplessly. It -was an old-fashioned hotel, without a lift, and their rooms were on the -third story. - -“I'll carry you up,” said Thornton. - -He took her up in his arms, and mounted the stairs with a step as light -and springy as if he had no burden to carry. Until then Clytie had not -realised his marvellous strength. - -“I feel like the fairy princess being carried off by the giant,” she -whispered. - - - - -CHAPTER XVII. - -Clytie was confined several days to her room through her sprained -ankle. It was not an unqualified affliction, as it solved the question -of her dining with the Claverings. - -Thornton went alone, carrying with him his wife's excuses and regrets, -and returned to her in high spirits. When she was able to get about -again the Claverings had left Paris for Homburg, where they were going -to stay for a few weeks. “And when they return to London we can see just -as much or as little of them as we like,” said Thornton. - -The forced confinement also brought Clytie a little more solitude than -usual. Thornton found a race meeting or two to go to, and a nominally -bachelor supper party, and he laughed, in his gay manner, at this -resumption of bachelor habits. Clytie was rather glad, on the whole, -to be left to her own society for a little. She was gradually awakening -from the dream, realising herself. Very often in the ordinary, sober -moments of life Thornton jarred upon her. His absence often was a -relief. She hated herself when this unwelcome and unbidden thought came -into her mind; but it came for all her hating. The sprained ankle marked -definitely the end of this second or false honeymoon in Paris, whose -glamour was the lingering twilight glow of the real one in Bordighera. -It was then that Clytie first thought of the railway journey as a -landmark. After her recovery Thornton continued his bachelor habits as -a matter of course, and as a matter of course discontinued his playful -apologies. Still he took Clytie whithersoever she expressed a desire to -go, and gladly, proud of having his beautiful wife by his side. Only, -if she elected to remain at home, he went out equally cheerfully by -himself. - -Occasionally they drove in the Bois in a neat phaeton and pair which he -hired for her from a livery-stable, and he would point out to her the -celebrities whom they passed by. Some of these she had herself met -or seen at the various social functions to which they had received -invitations. They themselves, too, had become known and were pointed -out with some curiosity,--_le beau couple_, as the phrase went,--even -by those who were unacquainted with their name or position. Thornton was -always in his gayest humour on these occasions as he sat by his wife's -side and guided his pair through the crush of magnificent equipages; and -she felt glad too and elated, pleased by the vivid flashes of colouring -in dresses and parasols, and the vague perfumes that filled the air, and -the half-caught scraps of conversation and laughter. Her girlish delight -at the gladness of life came back to her fresh and untainted. She -indulged her old habit of speculation on the life that lay beneath -individual faces, which she stored up in her memory for rapid sketching -when at leisure, and she would draw Thornton into her vein, and then -there were arguments without end. These were some of her happiest -moments in Paris, when she recovered her old self, bright, satirical, -paradoxical, and felt no cold hand on her heart. - -One day, towards the end of their stay in Paris, they had drawn up -in the block of carriages by the side of the promenade. The sun was -powerful, and the glaring colours in the carriages contrasted with the -cool tones of white and gray in the deep shade under the chestnut-trees. -Clytie was animatedly observing the bright scene when her eyes met -those of a woman, quietly though expensively dressed, seated in an open -carriage quite close by. For a moment they looked at one another in -silent inquiry, and then came a flash of mutual recognition. It was the -girl whom Clytie had met the summer before in the hotel at Dinan. The -scene, with its mingled associations of wonder and pity, came back -to her, and moved by a strong impulse she smiled and moved her head -slightly. A look of eager wonderment came over the other's face as she -returned Clytie's greeting. And then she turned quickly away to talk to -a man who had just come up to the side of the carriage. - -“Confound it, Clytie!” cried Thornton, setting the horses in motion, -“you must really make sure who people are before you bow to them. Do you -know who that woman is?” - -“Yes,” said Clytie, “that is to say, I know what she is. I don't know -her name.” - -“She is one of the most notorious women in Paris, Loulou Mendès. You -mustn't go playing the fool like this! What did you bow to her for?” - -“Because I know her--a little.” - -“You--know--her?” - -“Oh, yes, Thornton dear; it is somewhat of a story. I met her -accidentally last year in Dinan. She was in trouble, and I took a fancy -for her, and seeing her suddenly here, I showed her that I recognised -her.” - -“I sincerely hope you won't do such a thing again,” he said shortly, -giving a vicious cut to the horses that sent them spinning down the -_allée_. “And please to remember that you are not an amateur Bohemian -any longer, but my wife.” - -“Oh, Thornton, you mustn't say things like that!” said Clytie, with a -queer little catch at her throat. “They hurt me!” - -“Well, you mustn't deserve them,” replied Thornton. And then, mollifying -at the sight of her distress: “You don't understand these things, little -wife.” - -“Well, never mind, dear,” said Clytie. “Perhaps it was foolish of me. I -ought to have considered you; I didn't think of it. She kissed my hand -the last time I saw her, and it would have seemed base and hypocritical -to have cut her dead to-day. It seemed such a little matter. Why hurt -the girl's feelings? That's why I did it.” - -“Feelings?” echoed Thornton, with a laugh. “Bah! my good child, you are -talking nonsense. She put her feelings up the spout years ago to get -herself champagne and diamonds and the rest of it. With her soul sold -to the devil and her body to men, what the deuce is she going to do with -feelings?” - -“What I saw of her was very human, Thornton. And if such women are -brutes, it is men who make them so. If men were only kinder and -tenderer----” - -“Like the sentimental idiot in 'Jenny.' That's a poem about it, you -know.” - -“Yes--Rossetti; I am very fond of it,” she replied, with a half smile, -wondering somewhat at his explanation. Then she added: “But surely -there's humanity in every human being.” - -“That's a very sweet, innocent belief, and you had better keep to it, my -dear.” - -“Oh, Thornton, I'm not an ignorant little schoolgirl,” she said, with -hurt vanity. “I have learned something of the world. Perhaps I have been -too eager to acquaint myself with things.” - -“Anyhow, you can't know much about them,” he replied shortly. “Leave -such things alone. They don't concern you, so what's the good of prying -into them?” - -“They have concerned me,” she insisted. “Believe me, Thornton, it was -something deeper than ordinary morbid curiosity that led me to them.” - -“But I can't see what the deuce the Social Question has to do with -girls,” he said. “That is what licks me. What the dickens has it got to -do with your life?” - -“But you mistake, Thornton,” she replied eagerly, with a return of her -old earnestness. “It is not the Social Question. Indeed not. I -never have any call to look at things in that aspect. I am neither a -sociologist nor a reformer. I am an artist. I have to express certain -truths about human beings,--the little talent I have lies entirely that -way,--and in order to express the truths I had to set to work to learn -them. How all this corruption affects society, how it is to be done -away with and so on, does not come within my province. But to get to -the hearts and inner feelings of individuals, to see how society affects -them, what justification they have in their struggle with it, how they -contemplate life, what elements of emotion, or passion, or weariness, or -what not form essential parts of their beings that do not form essential -parts of mine--to try to do that, Thornton, _has_ been my business, and, -till I knew you, was the dearest motive of my life. Don't you see?” - -“And when you have done it what good will it do to yourself or anybody -else?” - -“To answer you I should have to appear conceited. It would be answering -the question, What is the good of art at all?” - -“Well, all said and done, what is the good of it? To make pretty and -amusing things to look at. All the rest is cant and humbug--including -your desire to scrape acquaintance with loose women for artistic -purposes. Look here, little wife”--and he turned round, with a sharp -smile that showed his white teeth more than usual--“I didn't fall in -love with you because you were an artist and held highfalutin' theories -about artistic ideals and so forth, but because you were the woman whose -loveliness appealed to me and always fascinated me. And now you are my -wife you have other things to think about.” - -“I know that, Thornton,” she replied, staring a little wistfully in -front of her. “Tell me. What is our new life going to be like? You speak -so little of it that I scarcely know.” - -“Oh! what's the good of worrying yourself about it yet? I'll tell you -when the time comes. You'll have our position in society to look after, -keep things going straight for me in quarters where a woman can wheedle -out more in an hour than a man in a twelvemonth. I have definitely taken -up politics, you know. Things were settled this morning.” - -“Oh, why didn't you tell me before?” she cried involuntarily. - -“I never thought of it, my dear. Well, Hernshawe has asked me whether I -would care to be his private secretary. His present man is in the Civil -Service and is resigning owing to some office promotion, so when the -House meets after the Whitsuntide recess Hernshawe will be free to take -me.” - -“I don't quite understand,” said Clytie, to whom these details were all -new. She was vaguely aware that Thornton had intentions of aiming at a -parliamentary career, but as he had volunteered no confidences, she had -shrunk from soliciting them. - -“I don't understand,” she repeated, “why you should take a -private-secretaryship. You want to enter Parliament.” - -“Of course. But I am so out of things that I want to get into training, -so to speak. I shall be this session, perhaps next, with Hernshawe and -learn all the ropes, and then he will run me for a suitable vacancy. -It is as simple as good-morning, as they say in this country. I must do -something, and politics seem about the only mildly exciting thing to -go in for in this severely flat and respectable continent. But beyond -looking after the society side of the matter, I don't see why you need -worry your pretty head about it.” - -“Then don't you want me to become a bit of a politician, so as to help -you, and understand you in your career?” - -“Oh, of course, to a certain extent,” he replied with cheerful -offhandedness. “But for God's sake, my dear child, don't become a -political woman. If there's one kind of a woman I bar more than another, -its the female politician. Of course you'll have to go round canvassing -for votes at the election, and to humbug people in society, but all that -is rather sport than otherwise? Never mind, little wife; you'll have a -ripping good time in London when the show begins.” - -He laughed, in gay good humour again. Clytie echoed with a faint smile. - -“Thornton,” she said after a short pause, “I don't want to bother you -about politics if you don't like it”--she felt now a strange hesitation -in speaking to him--“but you know you'll have to convert me, dear. It -has been on my mind for some time. You are a Tory, you know, and I have -been a Radical hitherto in feelings and sympathies.” - -He burst out laughing at her little air of seriousness. Perhaps if -he had known how he hurt her, he would not have treated the matter so -cavalierly. This difference in political views had been a question of -some concern to Clytie, who was aware of old-fashioned Tory prejudices. -And Thornton took her Radicalism as a jest, attributing no importance to -the difference of opinion. - -“You'll change when we get back and become a shining light in the -Primrose League.” - -She was too depressed by the whole of the foregoing conversation to -pursue the subject any further. Thornton started the lighter topic of -personal criticism of their new acquaintances in Paris, and rattled on -in great spirits. He had forgotten entirely the argument that Clytie's -somewhat unconventional action had occasioned, and was as boyishly gay -as ever. But men forget things much more easily than women, especially -when they have no object in remembering, nor any reminiscent twinge of -susceptibility. - -That evening Clytie spent alone. Thornton was dining at the Café des -Ambassadeurs with some men from the Embassy. He had kissed her before -he started, called himself a selfish brute for condemning her to a dull -evening, and went away humming a café-concert air. She did not mind his -leaving her, took it now as a matter of course that each should be to -a certain extent independent of the other; for the glamour of the -south had departed, and the practicalities of life had begun to assert -themselves. But it was the first wretched evening of her married life. -She would have liked to cry, but as she was not of those who cry easily, -she sat with eyes all the more painful for being strained and tearless. -She had received a great shock. Ever since she had rebelled against -the Durdleham formula that men were to descend from their intellectual -sublimity when they spoke to women, lest like Semele the latter should -be consumed in the Jovian blaze, she had been accustomed to meet men -freely on an intellectual level. To find herself in a society where this -particular formula was unknown had been one of the earliest joys of her -emancipated life. She had very little vanity in the matter of her own -attainments, but she took it for granted that her associates should -recognise in her a woman of ordinary culture, capable of forming -rational opinions. Her intelligence was keen, her judgment fine. She -had read, thought, observed. Her art was to a certain extent a matter -of intellect as well as of instinctive feeling, and in this respect had -been stimulated by her intercourse with Kent. In the glow of her young, -ardent nature she had committed many extravagances, but they all had -borne the indubitable stamp of a mind strenuous in its endeavours. None -but fools had ever thought of condescending to Clytie because she was a -woman. - -And now for the first time she was coolly shown that she was a woman, -that her opinions were not worth serious consideration, that she must -not trouble her pretty-head about things that were too deep for her. And -by the man, above all, whose life she shared. They were hours of dull, -dazed humiliation that she spent alone that evening; hours that were not -lost even in the pain of her after life. Over the absence of sympathy -with her own pursuits she was only a little regretful. It would have -been nicer if Thornton had been able to take a pleasure in her art. But -she was too large-natured not to be able to bridge over this small gap -between them. She was ready to sacrifice her art entirely to her love, -was eager to throw herself into his interests and ambitions. But she -demanded a full, vigorous share. To live an empty life was with her an -impossibility. And to this life Thornton, in his good-natured contempt -for her powers, was condemning her. She was puzzled, humiliated, -frightened. - -There is a vague mystery of woe in the dawn of a dreary day. - -Meanwhile Thornton was enjoying himself amazingly. The dinner was one -which, as Heine says, “ought to be partaken of kneeling,” and the wine -was excellent; the party well chosen, the talk essentially, broadly -masculine. There is a certain type of man whose conversation is wholly -made up of sport in its various aspects, women, shop, and crude personal -gossip--a type which numbers its tens of thousands in English society. -It can be met with, to utter weariness of the soul, in any heterogeneous -gathering of upper- and middle-class Britons. They are God's creatures, -it is true; many of them are possessed of estimable qualities, some of -them have performed deeds of heroism. But as a type they are a glaring -satire upon the vaunted culture and refinement of our civilisation. -And it is a remarkable thing how little their power and influence are -recognised by writers in their analysis of the spirit of this dying -nineteenth century. This vast overwhelming type does not read, does not -think, does not care for art or music, has no power of penetration to -the heart of delicate things. It is dull, brawny, selfish, and a pillar -of the Church and State. Its main subjective characteristic is the -brutality of its views concerning women--varying from the kindly disdain -of its highest members to the degraded brutality of its lowest. - -Of this type, with all his physical charm, his brilliant personality and -splendid capacities for action, was Thornton Hammerdyke. The man whose -magnetism had drawn Clytie irresistibly, headlong into his arms was -only, after all, a representative of this ignoble, commonplace order of -men. The love that had flooded Clytie's being with wild surging tumult -was only, after all, the commonplace, ignoble passion of his type. There -are some things so elementary that analysis quickly comes to an end. Put -in a strip of litmus paper and it is done. - -He was honestly glad to be free of Clytie. With unconscious cynicism he -never sought to disguise it from himself. With Carteret of the Hussars -and Swithin and Holyoake of the Embassy he was in his proper sphere. -They were of the type. He had interests in common with them. The fact -that he was a man of high distinction was neither here nor there. Over -the fish and _entrées_ they talked of racing and shooting; over the game -they wandered along the upper galleries of the Cloaca Maxima of Paris; -over the peaches and Château-Mouton they told foul stories. An ignoble, -commonplace dinner party. - -And Clytie was alone in her room at the hotel staring at an unknown -future. - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII. - -The last three days of their stay in Paris were marked by a return -on the part of Thornton to his old devotion. He declined invitations -ruthlessly, spent almost the whole of his time with his wife. In all -outward and visible signs they were lovers again, but the inward and -spiritual grace was a bit vapoury. They went on excursions together, to -Fontainebleau, Melun, Passy. One day they wandered about the forest -of Vincennes and he kissed her beneath the trees as he used to do at -Bordighera. They had gay, laughing meals together at little riverside -restaurants. He was passionate in his expressions of endearment and in -his delight at her beauty. With the negative tact of passion, he avoided -all subjects that could jar upon her. For three days he was the Thornton -of their honeymoon. - -Clytie at first could not understand this sudden change. She asked him -the reason tremulously. - -“Can't you see, you silly girl,” he replied with masterful frankness, -“that I love you and we have only three more days' idleness?” - -And then she let the spell come over her again and surrendered herself -to his mood. But now, instead of entering with spontaneous joy a world -of laughter whose magic gates lay open before her, she crossed the -threshold with deliberate step. She had to choose whether to laugh or -cry. She was young, she wanted to love her husband; so she chose to -laugh. It was an act of reason. But woe to love when reason has to find -its argument! - -By Whitsuntide they were in London, installed in their house in -the Cromwell Road. The three days' passion had cooled down, and the -atmosphere was colder than before. But Clytie for several weeks was -so busy that she had not time for much consideration of troubling -questions. First, the house required her attention. There was much -supplementary furniture to be chosen, many minor schemes of decoration -to be carried out in accordance with her own artistic tastes. - -Thornton gave her a free hand in these matters, and, beyond taking it -for granted that the house should be fitly arranged, never troubled -himself about details. He attended two or three picture sales with -Clytie, where he bought a few pictures on her recommendation, ordered -some great leather armchairs for his smoking-room, and then transferred -his attention to concerns of more serious interest. So Clytie, left -unhampered, succeeded in arranging the house to her own satisfaction. -This occupied a great portion of her time; the rest was almost entirely -devoted to her social duties. - -She found herself in some small position in society, as the artistic -wife of a distinguished soldier of fortune with a considerable income, -and it was Thornton's special ambition for the time being that this -position should be maintained and secured, in furtherance of his own -personal projects. Whilst contemplating marriage, or rather after he -had, in his fierce impetuous way, decided upon it, he had sought around -after some practical interest in his new life. He had forsworn Africa, -with a virtuous sense of self-sacrifice. What remained worthy of a man's -serious attention? He did not consult Clytie. It scarcely occurred to -him that the subject concerned her. Of the few careers that presented -themselves he selected two, the turf and politics, and wavered for some -time in his choice. At last he tossed up for it, as he had often done at -the fork of two paths in the forest. The coin came down with the Queen's -head uppermost--and that meant politics. He was a Tory of the fiercer -school. Even if family and professional tradition had not influenced -him, a lengthy course of despotic authority enforced by the halter and -the butt end of a musket is not favourable to the cultivation of Liberal -suavities and amenities. And again, the “type” is almost always Tory. -He was even out of touch with the broader Conservativism of our -day, between which and modern Liberalism he failed to appreciate the -distinction. In fact his political ideals, such as they were, belonged -to the beginning instead of the end of the century, but he expressed -them with a fervour that left no doubt as to their genuineness. - -He had no difficulty in setting at work the machinery of social -influence, and the result was the offer of a private-secretaryship on -the part of an under-secretary of state. He accepted it. It would not -only afford him an insight into the practical working of politics, but -would give him an opportunity of making himself known to the chiefs of -the Conservative party and securing their influence when he should seek -to enter Parliament. When everything was settled he informed Clytie -casually in Paris of his new ambitions. She, too, had wondered what -outlet this man of restless action would find for his energies, and, -shrinking from inquiry, had been filled with vague uneasiness. Now -she felt that he had made a worthy choice and in spite of dubious -encouragement strove to identify herself with his interests. True, she -contemplated with a little dismay the abandonment of her own pet -social theories, which tended towards an advanced and somewhat inchoate -Radicalism, and the espousal of a cause forming part of a scheme of life -against which she had so passionately rebelled. But she wilfully, almost -desperately, shut her eyes against all this. She would give her heart -and soul to Thornton's glory, and the sacrifice of principle on her part -would only accentuate the triumph. But this sacrifice Thornton did not -concern himself to realise. Very few men ever do. As we have seen, he -laughed at it. - -He entered upon his political duties as soon as they returned to London, -led a busy life of work and pleasure, throwing into both the energy of -his strong vitality. He was not a man to wait. Social position, power, -must be wrested from the world by force of arms. The sooner the struggle -began and the fiercer it was fought the sooner would come success. It -behoved Clytie, therefore, to enter upon it with him at once. Before she -could realise herself as mistress of a large house, as cut off from the -old habits that had invested London with earnest charm, as sundered from -Kent and Winifred, as deprived of her art and her dreams and ambition, -she found herself caught up in the whirl of London society, bidden to -cultivate its conventions, flatter its weaknesses, intrigue, gossip, -dance, drive, rush, without a moment's pause to think. - -And thus began her new life. It was not the one she had dreamed of. In -fact she hardly recognised herself in her deliberate subordination to a -nature dominating hers. She let herself drift, abandoning herself to -the current, clutching hold of her love towards her husband as the only -plank saving her from destruction. - -Winifred she saw occasionally. She had no time for anything beyond a -half hour's gossip, and then she forgot her own hopes and fears in the -happiness of her friend, who had just become engaged to Treherne. She -saw nothing of Kent. A feeling she could not analyse restrained her -from writing to him, ever so formally. It was analogous to the whimsical -shrinking from sketching his portrait when she had first met him. She -heard of him, however, through Winifred. He came down to the studio -still occasionally, and chatted over the teacups--“chiefly about you, -dear,” said Winifred, “and the old days and your present life.” - -“And is he changed at all?” asked Clytie. “It seems centuries since -those same old days. I feel almost like asking whether he has a gray -head and carries his years well!” - -“It does seem a long time,” said Winifred reflectively. “But it really -isn't, you know, and Kent is just the same as ever. His trip abroad -has done him so much good. Do you know, dear, except Victor--and Mr. -Hammerdyke, of course--I think he is the best man in all the world.” - -Her brown cheeks flushed as she spoke, and Clytie bent down and kissed -them. - -“Oh, Winnie darling, I wish everybody were as true and loyal as you,” - she said. - -A great sob was in her heart, and she would have given much to have -buried her face in Winnie's lap and let the tears come how they would. -But she mastered herself, and before the other had time to hear the echo -of the chord that was struck she went on: - -“Tell me, Winnie, how is his great work getting on?” - -“Rapidly, I believe,” answered Winifred. “He seems to have nothing else -to live for now. I think he misses you, dear, and plunges into it as a -kind of consolation. He has had a great compliment paid him--have you -heard? He met a great Austrian scientist, Herr --------, I can't -remember his name--it doesn't matter. Anyhow, he showed this professor -his work, and talked to him about the difficulties of publishing, -expense, and all that, and a few days ago he received an offer from the -University of Vienna to translate what was already done into German and -publish it there. He says it is a most distinguished honour.” - -“I am so glad, dear,” said Clytie. “I feel proud of him, and I wish I -could see him--to give him my congratulations. You will tell him that I -asked after him, won't you, Winnie?” - -“Why, of course!” said Winifred. “Don't we always talk of you?” - -Mrs. Blather was anxious that Clytie and her husband should come to -Durdleham to stay there after the season in town was over. But Clytie -replied evasively to the affectionate invitation. She shrank from -Durdleham even more than from herself. Mrs. Blather, now that the -soreness as regards the wedding had worn off, was delighted at the -brilliant match--just the very marriage one could have wished for -Clytie, as she remarked over the Durdleham tea tables. Besides, it -was definite settling down for Clytie, saving them from that shadow of -scandal that had always seemed liable to be cast over them through her -unprincipled behaviour. There were no longer any fears. And Mrs. Blather -had her own little triumph in another way. She remembered now she had -prophesied years ago that Clytie's desire to live her art life in London -was a craze that would not last long--like Janet's transient enthusiasm -for cookery classes. Both Janet and herself took it for granted that -Clytie viewed her past errors with the same indulgent retrospective -smile, and wrote her complacent letters based on this assumption. And -Clytie found it harder than ever to write to them naturally, to answer -these letters in the same tone. If her sisters had failed to understand -her when to her her young, earnest self was brightly intelligible, how -could they do it now when she saw herself vaguely, dimly, wrapped in -impenetrable vapours? A visit to Durdleham, under the circumstances, -seemed almost an ordeal. Yet Thornton's presence there might make some -difference. - -She spoke to him very little on the subject. He broached it himself one -day at breakfast, almost the only time now, except late at night, that -she saw him alone. It was nearing the end of July and the session of -Parliament was on the eve of closing. - -“When are you going to see your people, Clytie?” he asked, looking over -his paper. - -“I thought I had told you. They want us to come for a week as soon as we -can leave town.” - -“Us?” - -“Yes; won't you come?” - -“Oh, no, thanks. It would not suit me at all. You go and make an excuse -for me.” - -“Things are not gay there, I know,” said Clytie, “but I should like you -to come with me.” - -“It can't be done, my dear,” replied Thornton. “You had better have a -quiet time there by yourself, while I go up to Scotland----” - -“I thought you would have liked me to go to Scotland with you--we have -seen so little of each other lately. You don't want to stay up there all -the autumn without me?” she added half pathetically. - -“Why, my dear Clytie, you can come if you like,” said her husband, -drawing back his chair from the table. “Only you won't find much fun in -a little shooting-box in the middle of a glen in the Highlands. Look: -you go and see your people for a month, and then, if you like, you can -come and join me there--that is to say, if Carteret has any of his women -folks staying in the house, which does not seem to be quite settled yet. -If he hasn't, naturally you can't come.” - -“In that case I shall not go to Durdleham--I couldn't. You would not -understand why. I shall stay in London, and mind the house.” - -“I should not like you to do that,” said Thornton. - -“Why not?” - -“Because I had rather you did not,” he repeated, with a gathering frown. - -“How long do you contemplate being away?” asked Clytie quietly. - -“August and September, perhaps--I can't quite tell yet.” - -“Do you propose, then, that I should go and stay in Durdleham for two -months with my people?” - -He had not contemplated it, but he was irritated at her show of -opposition. He lost his temper and said sharply: - -“Yes. Or with any other friends you like. I am not going to have you -remain here all by yourself.” - -“Will you tell me your reasons, Thornton?” asked Clytie. - -He crumpled up his paper angrily and thumped it on the table. The veins -in his forehead stood out. His face grew ugly. - -“When I say a thing is to be done I mean it,” he cried, “and I am not -accustomed to be asked for my reasons!” - -“I shall leave you until you have recovered yourself,” said Clytie with -dignity, and she left the room. - -This was the first real quarrel between them. The blood had often rushed -hot through Clytie's veins and set her pulses tingling, but hitherto -she had restrained herself, feeling that the first revolt would mark the -beginning of the end. - -She passed a miserable day. When Thornton came home in the afternoon to -dress for dinner he was in one of his light-hearted moods. He had backed -an outsider some weeks back at very long odds. The race had been run -that day and the outsider had won, bringing him a couple of -thousand pounds--a windfall that relieved him of certain temporary -embarrassments. Hence his buoyancy that afternoon. He had apparently -forgotten the morning's difference, and called Clytie “little wife” - again, and promised her a victoria to supplement the modest brougham -with which they had begun. He put his arm round her and kissed her, -praised her beautiful hair, the roundness of her arms, her dress. He -told her the gossip of the day in his bright off-hand manner, made her -laugh in spite of her weariness. But when he kissed her she shrank a -little. In the elation of his victory he did not notice her lack of -responsiveness; besides, he was not over-sensitive at any time. When -they returned home at night from the dinner-party to which they had gone -together, Thornton was still in pleasant mood. Nothing more was said -respecting the plans for August and September. - -The reconciliation did not last long. Clytie strove with an earnestness -that was torture to keep the peace between them, but sometimes her -nature clamoured within her and broke out in self-assertion. Only four -months married, and already the breach between them was perceptible, -slowly widening. And it was Clytie that drifted away from her husband. -If she had been a lesser nature, she might have retained the love on -both sides. A woman of a lower type would have been able to flatter, -soothe, cajole, yield, and thus have kept Thornton at her feet. The -patronising contempt for her own needs, which lashed Clytie to the soul, -she would have treated lightly, as the natural and foolish vanity of the -superior being; and she would have found in a sudden demonstration of -passion full compensation for previous indifference. But Clytie was -not only unversed herself in the arts of seduction, but despised them -fiercely in other women. And she began also to dread Thornton's fits of -affection as much as his fits of anger. - -He left her one morning quivering with mortification and suppressed -bitterness. He himself was not conscious of the slight he had inflicted, -and he went away in gay spirits. Their talk had turned upon a Cabinet -Minister named Godderich, whose influence Thornton was anxious to -acquire. Now it had so happened that this same Godderich had succeeded -in making himself vastly obnoxious to Clytie. She told her husband this, -giving him the reasons. - -“I have not been accustomed to that kind of admiration,” she said, “and -I don't like it.” - -But Thornton laughed his great laugh, called her “his unconventional -prude,” and went on to show her what an invaluable ally Godderich was. - -“You must swallow your dislike, Clytie,” he said. “Why, God bless my -soul, if ninety-nine women out of a hundred had that chance, they would -get the eyes out of his head.” - -“Would you so much desire me to be like ninety-nine women out of a -hundred, then, Thornton?” - -“Oh, nonsense, Clytie; you know what I mean. Come! Don't you see that -here's a way of pushing things on a bit? What does it matter if the ass -is attentive? You can laugh at him. But keep him in hand a bit until we -want to let him loose. Do you see? Of course I trust you, and all that -sort of thing.” - -“I thank you for your confidence,” she replied. “But I don't think you -will need to exercise it much.” - -“What do you mean?” - -“Oh, never mind. Do you really want me, Thornton, to encourage this man -to make love to me, so as to get a hold on him for other purposes?” - -“I never saw anyone like you for the dotting of i's,” said Thornton, -amused. “But that's about the size of it. Don't you see what an infernal -ass we can make of him? Well, think it over, little wife. Good-bye.” - -He opened the front door,--this little conversation had taken place in -the hall,--and ran down the steps very well pleased with himself. - -But Clytie's heart turned from him and she passed a wretched day--all -the more trying as she felt in honour bound to sing antistrophe of -praise of Thornton to the strophe of Mrs. Farquharson, with whom she was -lunching. - -In the evening they were going out together. He came home late from -Westminster, dressed hurriedly, and went down to the drawing-room, where -Clytie was waiting. She was wearing a low-cut dress. Her arms were bare. -A tiny diamond clasp to a thin gold chain flashed on her bosom. - -“By Jove! You're looking lovelier than ever!” he cried. “Come, let me -kiss you.” - -He drew her to him, kissed the upper part of her arm, and then her lips. -But she made no response. She shrank, and this time he noted it. His arm -still round her waist, he held back his head and looked at her. - -“Clytie!” - -He spoke with loverlike reproach, and kissed her again, and again she -shrank. And then he cast her aside roughly, and stamped his foot. - -“Damn it! Clytie,” he exclaimed, showing his teeth, “you are a perfect -icicle!” - -Clytie made no reply, but turned to the window and buttoned her glove. -Thornton rang the bell violently, and when the footman appeared asked -him why the devil the carriage had not come round. Then he flung himself -into a chair and turned over a book. And thus they remained without -speaking until the brougham was announced. On their way to their -dinner-party they did not speak. He was in a fit of furious sulks, and -Clytie's heart was too heavy. Afterwards he went off to his club and she -drove home by herself. - -And this at the end of only four months' wedded life. What would it be -at the end of four years, fourteen? Clytie strove for a little to blame -herself for supersensitiveness, egotism, coldness. But her self rose in -arms against this charge. For, like the unfolding of a horrible story, -the nature of Thornton's love for her, the nature of the place she -really occupied in his estimation, gradually broke upon her. The meaning -of light remarks, trivial jests, careless actions; the meaning of -caresses now half contemptuous, now passionate--all came to her in full -light, in all their crudity, out of the gray darkness in which she had -instinctively kept it hidden from herself. She stared at it--not in -ignorant surmise as she had done in Paris, but with a ghastly sickening -of soul. - -Oh, the degradation of it! What was she to her husband but a possession, -a toy, a woman, to suffer his caresses when it so pleased him to bestow -them, a mistress whom he had taken it into his head to bind legally to -himself, so that she might serve certain purposes of his in society? -What little better was she to him than the women whom men buy,--Loulou -Mendès, for instance,--save that he reckoned,--he had told her so,--on -her fidelity to him? Things she had tried to ascribe to the careless -familiarity of love blazed insultingly before her, scorching her, making -her writhe in her abasement. - -Naturally satiety had come to him. He was indifferent whether he saw -her or not for a season. Only in his absence she was to obey blindly his -caprices. If only she was his wife, she thought bitterly, in the humdrum -Durdleham way, where at least she would have had the conventional -position in their conjugal relations! Either that or the wild -independence of a Loulou Mendès, carrying her will in her hand, free to -choose her own way among the groves of the satyrs. For even there the -free path smells sweeter than the one of servitude. - -Just before the session ended Clytie came to a definite understanding -with her husband. It is surprising what pain can underlie this mutual -adjustment of two intelligences. - -The scene was again the breakfast-room. Each was reading the morning's -correspondence. Thornton tossed a letter across the table. - -“Carteret's women folk can't come,” he said. “Devilish sensible -women--they don't see the fun of it. So it's settled. I go up as soon as -this wretched grind is over.” - -“Very well,” said Clytie calmly. “I hope you will have a good time.” - -“Thanks,” he replied in his careless way. “It will be like old times -again. And you will put in a good, quiet couple of months with your -people.” - -Clytie bit her lip. Her heart beat a little faster. She was going to set -herself in opposition to him. She glanced at him before she spoke; he -hardly seemed to expect an answer, but continued reading another letter. -He looked kind and frank, she thought, a husband for any woman to be -proud of. In his morning freshness, clean-shaven, groomed, trimmed, -he seemed handsomer than ever. His close brown hair had not a touch of -gray; scarcely a line showed on his forehead or beneath his eyes; and -the dark rich colour was visible beneath the bronze on his cheek. He -broke into a laugh, buoyant and careless, over his letter, and looked up -at Clytie. Then, his glance meeting hers, his face grew more serious. - -“What are you gazing at me for with those great blue eyes of yours, -Clytie?” - -She bent forward, rested her cheek on her hand. - -“In regard to what you have just said--my going to Durdleham--I am not -going for many reasons. I told you so, Thornton, the other day.” - -“I am quite aware of it,” said Thornton. “But you are going.” - -He looked her full in the face, and she returned his gaze calmly and -unflinchingly. - -“Don't let us quarrel, Thornton,” she said. “It is so sordid and petty. -Let us try quietly to understand one another.” - -His glance fell first, and he threw himself back in his chair with a -laugh and unfolded his paper. - -“All right--we'll bar scenes. Only don't say anything too severe or -you'll spoil my breakfast.” - -“Thornton,” she said, not changing her attitude, “I think I know what -my duty is towards you, and I try to perform it. Has it ever struck you -that you may have some duties towards me?” - -“I can't say it has,” he replied. - -“I don't think you understand me, Thornton. I will try to make it -clearer to you. As far as you will let me take an interest in your -life, I do so. I am more than willing to make any sacrifices--to give -up everything for you. But when you do not want me, as this autumn, I -surely may remember that I have a life of my own to lead.” - -“And suppose that life does not suit me?” - -“That is the point, Thornton. If you wished me, out of love for you, to -do anything, I would do it. But this is a matter in which love has no -place. Provided I am scrupulous in all my duties towards you, I have -a right to my own life, to my own antipathies, to my own favourite -pursuits--in fact to myself as an individual, and it is your duty -towards me to recognise it.” - -“I don't quite see what you are driving at,” said Thornton. “You can -dislike sweet champagne and paint pictures and read Schopenhauer if you -like. Who is preventing you? But in certain matters, as you are my wife, -you have got to do what I tell you.” - -“To take an extreme case, by way of argument: Suppose the fancy seized -you to order me to remain in my bedroom all day--you would expect me to -obey you?” - -“By God! I should think I would!” cried Thornton, starting to his feet, -with blazing eyes and the veins standing out on his forehead. - -“It seems, Thornton,” she said very quietly, “you have married the wrong -woman.” - -Then she rose, too, from the table, moved towards him, and laid her hand -on his arm. He shook it off with an impatient oath, and turned away, -fuming, to stare out of the window. She was too well accustomed to his -fits of passion to resent the indignity. She mechanically picked off -some withering leaves from some flowers on the mantelpiece, and waited -for him to speak. At last he turned round again, and asked her sullenly: - -“Have you any other pretty remarks to make?” - -“If you will listen to them quietly.” - -“Well, what do you want? I grant I was a fool to marry you. Let me hear -the consequences of my folly.” - -His face was set in a sneer, an ugly expression. She had seen it several -times since that evening at the opera in Paris. The tears sprang into -her eyes as she glanced at him. - -“Oh, don't speak and look like that!” she cried. “I cannot bear it. I -did not intend to say anything hard just now. I only meant that you -had mistaken me, and my needs, and my nature. I have tried to look upon -marriage from your point of view for four months, and I can't do it -any longer. You say I must obey you blindly in everything, even your -arbitrary fancies, subordinate myself absolutely to you. Thornton, -believe me, where your interests or love are concerned I will do it; but -where they are not I can't, and it will be happier for both of us that I -should tell you so frankly. If you go your way alone, I must go mine.” - -“That means you set yourself in defiance to my wishes?” - -Clytie checked an impulse of impatience. - -“If you won't understand me, and insist on putting it that way--yes.” - -They looked at each other for some time. And then Thornton ground his -teeth and glared at her. - -“You can go your own way if you like, but I warn you one of these days -there will be the devil to pay!” - -And he strode out of the room, cursing, and slammed the door behind him. - -Clytie sat down by the window. The tears would come in spite of her -pride. She had gained the victory. But there are some victories that -have all the aching sense of defeat. - - - - -CHAPTER XIX. - -On the day after this conversation Clytie was surprised by an -announcement from Durdleham that Mrs. Blather and Janet were suddenly -coming to town and would avail themselves of her often repeated -invitation to pay her a visit in her new home. Janet had been ailing for -some time past. The over-refined Davenant blood had never been vivifying -at any time, and now, as there were sudden dangers of a grave kind, -their Durdleham doctor had advised her consulting a London specialist. -They hurried to catch the great man before he left for his summer -holidays. That was their apology to Clytie for the shortness of their -notice. Ordinarily on their rare visits to town they put up at Durfey's -Hotel in Albany Street. Their father and grandfather had put up -there from time immemorial, and they spoke of Durfey's with solemn -familiarity, as if it were the one hotel of London. On this occasion, -however, they came and stayed with Clytie. - -Their presence in the house was a relief to her, even though it was by -way of counter-irritation. Thornton showed himself in the light of a -charming host and delighted his sisters-in-law. They could not find -enough felicitations to bestow upon Clytie. They forgot the old -misunderstandings, took it for granted that Clytie had finally settled, -was happy, without any ulterior desires. They went round the house, Mrs. -Blather manifesting mild enthusiasm over the more solid arrangements in -the way of furniture and domestic appurtenances, Janet going into little -ecstasies over the decorations. - -“I never thought you had such a talent for house management,” said Mrs. -Blather after an inspection of the linen-cupboards and china-closets. - -“I hardly think it requires absolute genius,” replied Clytie, “to see -that sheets are folded up properly and that plates are not put away -dirty.” - -“Ah!” said her sister, with a philosophic sigh. “So many young wives are -so inexperienced.” - -It was a delight to Mrs. Blather to see Clytie in this aspect. She could -talk to her now on common ground; Clytie had become an ordinary sensible -woman, who could discuss the things that fill the ordinary sensible -woman's life: housemaids, fancywork, and the price of fish. Mrs. Blather -knew that Hammerdyke was fairly well off, but she thought it her duty -to give Clytie many valuable hints as to household expenditure, to which -Clytie listened with suave distraction. She also gave her recipes for -cooking, and the washing of lace, and infallible methods for removing -wine stains from tablecloths; also neat little formulas for the -management of a husband. - -“But yours is simply perfect,” she added, with reference to this last. -“Oh, Clytie, you are a lucky girl!” - -To Clytie there was something pathetically humorous in the aspect she -presented to her sisters; in finding herself, for the first time in her -life, perfect in their eyes; in their changed relations. It was amusing -to be the lady of the house, and to make plans for Gracie and Janet's -entertainment. She brightened under the sense of it, and though many -a misconception on their part caused her a sharp twinge of pain, she -allowed them to purr on contentedly, taking a small measure of enjoyment -from the comfort thereof. Besides, she felt that it would not last -long. Their stay was limited to three days. A week of it would have -been intolerable. For this reason she declined to accompany them back -to Durdleham. At first Mrs. Blather was rather hurt at her refusal; -but Clytie gently smoothed over the matter, tactfully avoiding to give -specific reasons. - -Although Thornton was amenity itself in his intercourse with Clytie when -they met in her sisters' presence, in their private relations he showed -a certain soreness--the result of the process of understanding. -She tried to heal this, to win back from him, if not love, at least -gentleness and courtesy. - -“I must thank you, Thornton, for being so nice to my sisters,” she said -once. - -“I suppose I know how to behave myself in my own house,” he replied -coldly, and Clytie retired, and listened, with an ache in her heart, to -Mrs. Blather's epithalamion. - -Still it comforted her to see Thornton his old bright self again, as she -had known him before her marriage, even though she knew his brow would -darken on the departure of her guests. It gladdened her to hear him talk -animatedly to Janet of the wonders of the forest and the romance of war. -The hall, the staircase, and the walls of his smoking room were lined -with curiosities of travel: spears and skin-covered shields, swords, -wooden maces--a whole armoury of savage weapons. There were feathered -headdresses, great rings roughly wrought of virgin gold, strange -garments, some stained with blood. On the landing above the hall stairs -hung an evil wooden yoke with pendent chains which he had lifted from -the necks of two dead slaves, left by the caravan to die and rot by the -way; and, flanking it, two great lions' heads glared defiantly. To each -relic a history was attached, now commonplace, now ghastly. Clytie knew -them all, but she accompanied her sisters as Thornton took them round, -a perfect cicerone, and she was pleased to see his face light up and his -eyes glow with the reminiscence of dangers and brave deeds. It brought -her a glad memory of the past and a little hope for the future. She was -grateful, too, to Thornton for thus effectually hiding from her sisters -any signs of their recent differences and divergencies. She could -receive their congratulations with a sense of grim humour. Anything -approaching pity, with whatever delicate sympathy it might be conveyed, -would have made her wince with pain. Even Mrs. Farquharson, who had -sharp eyes and many kindly affinities with her, shared Mrs. Blather's -unquestioning belief in the happiness of her lot. Before others Thornton -was still the gallant lover and courteous husband, and Clytie was not -unthankful. When questioned as to Thornton's plans for the autumn she -answered vaguely. The session had worn him out. He was going up to -Scotland for the grouse shooting. She herself was going to take care of -the house until his return. She preferred staying in London in August to -going anywhere without him. And Mrs. Blather, quite satisfied, paid her -a little compliment on her wifeliness, and suggested various household -improvements to occupy her time during her grass-widowhood. - -So Mrs. Blather and Janet went back to Durdleham, to raise a flutter of -excitement at the Durdleham tea tables over their accounts of Clytie's -moral and material prosperity and her husband's manifold perfections. -But the old man, Mr. Davenant, shook his head and sighed. Slow to -receive fresh impressions, he could not conceive Clytie other than -wilful and paradoxical. And he was suspicious of the brilliant soldier -of fortune. He would much have preferred his daughter to have married a -steady-going country gentleman or professional man. Still no fault could -be found with Hammerdyke, who had treated him with every courtesy. - -Before Thornton's departure for Scotland a kind of reconciliation was -patched up between them. The first overtures had come from Clytie. After -all, he was her husband. They were bound together, for better or worse, -till death parted them. It was only common sense to struggle that it -should be for better. She humbled herself, then, a little, confessed -that she had been unreasonable in some things. He happened to be in a -softer mood, and encouraged her to tell him she was sorry if she -had been cold and selfish. Unconsciously she made him feel quite -magnanimous. He kissed her gaily, bade her think no more about it, and -even condescended to say with regard to the main point at issue: - -“Well, perhaps you are about right in not caring to go to Durdleham. -Your sisters are not rapid.” - -A remark which, although it jarred somewhat on Clytie's strung nerves, -she nevertheless accepted as a token of peace. - -This was the second time in her life that she had deliberately humbled -herself before a man. She thought of it with a queer little pang. When -she had put down her young pride so as to retain Kent's friendship and -esteem, on the day that Jack had destroyed Winifred's picture, it had -been all gladness and triumph. She remembered how happily she had gone -to sleep that night, in pleasant subconsciousness of certain feminine -workings. It had been a joy to surrender then. But now? She shrugged her -shoulders, tried to dismiss it from her mind. - -In the middle of August she found herself alone in the great house, -enjoying the leisure and solitude, the independence, the freedom from -friction. She devoted most of her time to her painting, which had been -sadly neglected since her marriage. Her studio was a pleasant room, with -a good light. It had not the severe, businesslike air of the one in -the King's Road; it was warmer, heavier with velvet hangings, richer in -quaint furniture. Instead of the whitewashed walls scrawled over with -grotesque caricatures, it had a delicately toned Morris paper. The floor -was polished, strewn with thick rugs; a great white bearskin lay before -the hearth. The piles of canvases stretched upon rough wooden backs that -used to lie stacked up in odd corners Thornton had had framed for her, -as a surprise to greet her on her home-coming, and now the best of them -were hung round the room. Some of her cherished possessions found a -place--the etching by Rupert Kent, two or three of Winifred's delicate -studies, and an exquisite Jacquemart that Kent had given her long -ago. But otherwise all was new, luxurious, separating her from the old -associations of her art life. - -Whilst searching for a subject she took out her studies for the Faustina -picture. But she put them aside with a shudder. She was painting merely -for amusement, to gratify the artistic impulse that urged her to create. -But the hope, by which she had been gradually rising towards the goal -of her ambition, the hope of fame and full accomplishment, was gone, -apparently beyond recall; and she mused upon it sadly. This sense of -finality is characteristic of youth--its one governing pessimism. Yet -she was cheerful enough, glad to feel the brush between her fingers -again, and to smell the familiar odour of turpentine, and to see -her fancies take visible form under her touch. The artist within her -asserted itself, though vaguely, as from some depth where it lay buried. -It was undergoing a subtle change, and its weak, inchoate manifestations -were those of a period of transition. But Clytie knew it not. - -The Farquharsons returned to town towards the end of the month, and -Winifred also, after her annual seaside holiday with the children. And -many of Clytie's other friends remained in London, and welcomed her back -among them. It was like a return to her old life. Only Kent was absent -from her circle. She missed him, sighing a little for the impossible. - -Thornton wrote from Scotland with affectionate brevity. He did not know -that he could have missed her so much. He had bagged so many brace that -morning. He longed to see her. He thought he might as well stay on with -Carteret so long as there was any sport forward. His letters, dashed -off with a broad quill pen in a great, bold hand, covered four sides -of notepaper, and came once a week. Clytie had no reason to complain of -lack of attention on the part of her husband. Consequently she looked -forward to less troubled days when they should lead their common life -together again. - -An occasional visitor that she had during these weeks was the boy Jack. -He had been for a term at the industrial school to which Treherne and -Kent had procured him admittance, and now passed as a reformed character -amongst his enthusiasts. The teachers at the school, with vivid memories -of stormy scenes, might have demurred at this opinion; but they were -miles away holiday-making, and for the time blissfully oblivious of -Jack. Four months over a spelling-book and a carpenter's bench, even -though the latter may be situated amid pleasant fields, are not long -enough to purify the blood from the wildness of London streets; and a -lifetime so spent cannot wash out hereditary taint; but they can teach -the use of soap and water and a suitable adjustment of garments. And -Jack was clean, and his wild elf locks were cropped into compulsory -smugness, and his clothes conformed to a strictly conventional order. -This external revolution was so startling that an accompanying moral -reform seemed unquestionable. Even his mother's dull pessimism was -affected by it. When she returned from her work she bribed him with -bread and treacle to sit in a chair where she could admire him, instead -of sending him out of her way into the streets as she had been wont -to do. But Jack ate the bread and treacle and then sauntered into the -street of his own accord. He did not admire his mother, and only heeded -her blandishments when they assumed an objective form. He admired one -person, and that was Winifred. With her the young animal was tame, -almost docile. It was merely owing to lack of special instinct that he -did not lick her hand. He was often in the studio, where he had been -constituted general factotum during his holidays. He swept the floor, -cleaned the windows, set the brushes and paints in order before Winifred -arrived, ran messages for her, and whenever she permitted would sprawl -on the ground by her side, following her movements with his great brown -eyes. To prevent him from wasting his time and energies in this passive -adoration, Winifred often invented commissions for him which he executed -with proud despatch, disregarding all allurements to eat the lotus of -the gutter and holding his person sacred as Winifred's messenger. It was -in consequence of this that he found his way to Clytie's house, acting -as postman for his patroness. At first he was shy. He had not lost the -feeling of awe with which Clytie inspired him, nor had he forgotten the -dread picture of her anger on that day when she had summarily dismissed -him from her service. It was only his devotion to Winifred that had -induced him to put, as it seemed to him, his head in the lion's mouth. -But when he found that the lion was kind and roared as gently as his own -dove, and further, gave him various unimaginable dainties to eat and odd -shillings to spend in surreptitious tobacco, the house in the Cromwell -Road became invested with pleasant associations. - -It was after Clytie had had two or three visits from him that the idea -occurred to her to paint the portrait of the reformed Jack. The sittings -continued long after the necessity for them had ceased. Jack came of his -own accord. At last one day he astonished her by refusing the shilling -that she held out to him. - -“I didn't come for that,” he said bluntly. “I come to see you.” - -Clytie and the urchin in industrial school corduroys looked steadily -for some seconds at one another, and both in their respective ways were -conscious of having added to their sum of knowledge. Then they became -real friends. Clytie looked upon him with a new interest, taking herself -severely to task for having summed him up in the past with such scornful -superficiality. She atoned for it now by seeking to interest herself -in his life, to give herself a little place in it, whereby it should -receive some individual colour. This was all the easier now, as Winifred -had smoothed down many of Jack's social asperities. Albeit not refined -of speech, he no longer used profane language in the studio, nor did he -entertain her with sanguinary details of cat murder. When the time came -for him to return to school Clytie felt quite sorry. - - - - -CHAPTER XX. - -Thornton returned in due time. The autumn session began. The weeks and -months passed. Their relations remained the same as when they had parted -in the summer. Towards Clytie he manifested a kindly indifference, so -long as she obeyed his wishes. When she went counter to them he flared -up, showed his teeth, and swore; on which occasions Clytie would draw -herself up, and, with her chin in the air, leave the room and retire -into her studio. Then, after two or three days of evil sullenness, the -fancy would take him to kiss her, and lightly swear that she was -the loveliest woman in the world. But Clytie had lost all responsive -feeling. She met him not wholly unaffectionately, but calmly, presenting -an obedient, passionless cheek. Thereupon he would either storm again or -laugh, reminding her of a time when her lips sought his, asking her why -she had frozen, where was the Clytie of their bridal month. And if he -pleaded gently, womanlike, she would relent a little, yield to him, -striving to blot out the objects that met her sight as she looked back -towards the past. Then there would recur the season of indifference, -which Clytie had grown to welcome. - -The daily life went on, she scarce knew how. Visiting, entertaining, -painting, filled her days. And she dreamed wistful little dreams. - -And then there came to Clytie a great calm, a new, strange happiness, -in the midst of the life she had thought to be broken. She would sit by -herself and think, with a smile playing round the corners of her lips, -and a light in her eyes. Again the order of things seemed changed. Again -a newer life, with newer hopes and responsibilities, lay before her. -For the time her art, her needs, were forgotten. Trifling, dainty -occupations absorbed her as she sat in the solitude of the studio on the -chilly autumn days, her feet luxuriously buried in the bearskin before -the great fire. Sometimes Mrs. Farquharson would come and help her, -with a yearning hunger in her eyes that Clytie knew the meaning of; for -Caroline was a childless woman. And then Clytie would kiss her silently -and Caroline would shake her head and laugh, and talk in her bright way -of the wonder that would be. - -Only at times did a wave of bitterness pass over her. If all that had -happened in her married life since the train had carried her out of -Bordighera station had been different! If only she could see her husband -as she saw him that day, by the ruined tower, when she passed her hand -over his hair and thought him all that could suffice a woman's needs! -Sometimes she looked at him now, furtively, when his face was in repose. -He seemed the same, handsome, brave, ideally perfect in manhood. Why had -not the glamour lasted? Why should the “dream be better than the drink”? -And then she would turn away and the thought would rise: - -“Why did I not continue blind? Would to God this knowledge of him had -never come!” - -He grew a little kinder to her, however. It was a rough, patronising -tenderness, it is true, but yet Clytie felt grateful. A little act of -forethought and consideration softened her towards him much more than it -warranted. Perhaps in spite of all he might have won her to him again, -and brought her lips to his in a kiss of rare meaning--for at certain -times there are wondrous tendernesses and wondrous powers of forgiveness -in woman. But Thornton lost the golden chance, being busy with his -muck-rake. - -He came home one afternoon, in an evil humour. Clytie, prepared to -welcome him, looked up kindly from her lounge-chair as he came into -the studio, but as she saw the blackness of his face, her heart sank. -A footstool came in his way, and he sent it, with a kick, sliding along -the polished floor. - -“Why do you litter up the place with these infernal traps, Clytie?” he -asked crossly as he came up to the fire to warm his hands. - -Clytie, like a wise woman, held her peace. Silence is a very good friend -sometimes. But as he remained there moodily, without saying a word, and -the silence was growing uncomfortable, she asked him what was amiss. - -“Everything's amiss!” he replied roughly--“all through your silly folly. -Read that!” - -He drew a letter from his pocket book and threw it into her lap. It ran: - -Dear Hernshawe: - -As I think Simmons would be a more satisfactory man for Burchester -than Hammerdyke, I have suggested the former to the local Conservative -association. As they seem rather at a loss for a suitable candidate, I -think they will accept my nominee. - -Yours truly, - -E. Godderich. - -“I am sorry, Thornton,” said Clytie, laying the letter down on the -afternoon tea table by her side. “But you hardly expected to have a -chance so soon.” - -“Do you suppose I am going to slave away at this hack's work for two or -three years?” - -“No; but this is only the second or third vacancy that has occurred.” - -“What does that matter? Godderich promised to run me as soon as he saw -an opening. Hernshawe was amazed at this letter this morning. Don't -talk of what you know nothing about. It's simply infernal spite on -Godderich's part! Who is Simmons? A damned cheesemonger with a jubilee -knighthood, and as much brains as a double Glo'ster! Godderich has the -reputation for this sort of thing. That was why I wanted to keep in with -him. If you had taken a ha'porth of interest in the matter, it would -not have happened. You have treated the man in your confounded icy -don't-address-me-or-I'll-petrify-you kind of way, and you have put his -back up against us!” - -“I always treated him courteously,” said Clytie. - -“Yes, by Jove, I know what that means!” sneered Thornton. “And now you -can have the satisfaction of seeing how your courtesy has played the -fool with my plans.” - -“I can't understand you, Thornton,” she replied wearily. “I should have -thought you of all people would have preferred to win your own battles.” - -“So I shall in future. I shall take jolly good care not to ask you -to help me any more! After all your fine professions of identifying -yourself with my life and that sort of rot I really thought you would be -willing to help me--in about the only way a woman can.” - -“By a silly, ignoble flirtation? Would you really hope to win success by -your wife's dishonour?” - -“Oh, rot!” cried Thornton savagely. “Who the devil talked about -dishonour?” - -“Well, then, we don't see things in the same light,” said Clytie -quietly. “And I am very glad you have lost Godderich's influence, if -that is what it depended upon.” - -He turned and faced her, in one of his blind rages. - -“Why don't you say at once you don't care a little damn about me? It -would be nearer the truth. What the deuce did I marry you for, when -there are thousands of better women in the world who are to be had for -the asking? About the only thing I have ever asked you to do for me was -to employ a little womanly tact, and then you get up on the high horse, -damme! and talk about dishonour! One would have thought you had been -bred in a nunnery instead of the disreputable gutter in the King's Road -I found you in!” - -“Oh, stop!” said Clytie, rising. “If I were well, perhaps I might be -angry and amuse you with a row. But I am not equal to it at present, -believe me. I'll see you at dinner.” - -She walked towards the door, but Thornton intercepted her with three or -four quick strides. - -“I'm hanged if you do!” he said. “I have too much respect for my -digestion. I'm not going to stay in the house with you!” - -And he strode out of the studio, slamming the door. - -“Thank God!” said Clytie to herself. - -And so the film of reconciliation that new circumstances had begun to -spread was rudely torn asunder, and the breach between them grew greater -than before. For several days Clytie suffered. Then she resigned herself -to the inevitable, and in her thoughts drifted away from her husband. -For they were sweet thoughts, full of unspeakable consolation. And the -weeks wore on, and the evenings grew shorter and shorter, and the little -pile of dainty needlework grew higher in the press. Thornton rarely -disturbed her; the time that he could spare from his official duties he -passed as a man about town idles the hours away. A man with the least -domestic tastes in the world, he found no especial pleasures in his -house. His wife did not amuse him; the cooking at his club was more -to his taste than that which awaited him at home. There was no earthly -reason why he should use the house for any other purpose than -sleeping, breakfasting, and the occasional entertainment, which was -now discontinued for a season. He lived his own life, more or less -satisfactory to himself, and left Clytie to her own devices. Wherefore -she not unfrequently thanked the Almighty. She lived practically alone. -Winifred came to see her from time to time. Mrs. Farquharson was often -with her. The shrewd eyes of Caroline saw that there was something wrong -in the marriage of which she had augured such fair fruits. But as Clytie -proudly kept all her troubles to herself, Caroline could do no more than -surround Clytie with her mute sympathy. This gradual discovery was a -shock to her faith in human nature. One of the two had failed; which -one was it? Her instinct told her that it was not Clytie; her husband -unequivocally affirmed that it was Hammerdyke. When her instinct and -her husband differed she sometimes trusted to one and sometimes to the -other, by way of giving a certain variety to life. When they coincided -she had no option but to believe. So, although giving up her hero cost -her a great pang, her heart went out more than ever to her friend. - -It was a period of strange new happiness for Clytie. It showed itself -outwardly in her art. No one but herself has ever seen the pictures -that she painted during this time--not even Caroline. They were all -unfinished, sketched in the hurried, semi-impressionist manner with -which from her early girlhood she had been wont to give objectivity -to her cravings and imaginings; but they were dainty, laughing, tender -things, a world of waxen touches and sweet hopes. It would be hard to -say how many small panels she covered with the promises of this new -life. Sometimes, when she was quite alone, she would lock the door and -take them out and arrange them along the wall on the ledge above the -dado, and gladden her heart with them. After which she would collect -them hastily and lock them up, with a smile at her own foolishness. She -meditated now and then, before the fire, with closed eyes, turning -over the leaves of her Book of New Formulas, which had grown somewhat -tear-stained and dusty; but she found in it nothing relating to present -things, and she laughed quietly at the omission, resolving to rectify it -by and by. It was strange that she had not included this in her scheme -of life. And yet, after all, was it so strange? She could not quite -decide. But the future she never questioned. The evolution of her -own individuality seemed in no wise to concern her. She had projected -herself into another life. And she looked at the world, and again she -saw it fair; and peace rested on her eyelids as she slept. And the weeks -went on. - -One evening in the middle of December Thornton and herself were alone -together. They had finished dinner and he was smoking a cigar with his -coffee in the dining-room. Relations between them were beginning to grow -kindlier again. That is to say, he curbed his temper, inquired after her -health, and occasionally spent an evening at home. They had not spoken -much during the meal. Now that they had so few interests in common, -their conversation was generally desultory. The one great and precious -bond that was to be between them was rarely mentioned. It was too deeply -rooted in the holiest place of Clytie's soul for her to discuss it in -the commonplace interviews she had with her husband, and his interest -in the matter did not go much beyond a rather irritating sense of -responsibility. Some feeling of the sort prompted him on this evening to -allude to the subject. - -“I heard from the Claverings this morning,” he said, knocking off his -cigar ash into the fender. “They want us to go and spend Christmas with -them in their new place in Hampshire.” - -“Oh?” said Clytie politely. - -She had seen Mrs. Clavering several times during the summer in town, and -further acquaintance had only increased the antipathy she had conceived -in Paris. Thornton, however, had been pretty intimate with them during -the latter part of the season, and he had met Major Clavering again in -Scotland. Hence the invitation. - -“Well,” asked Thornton, “what shall I do? Of course your going is out of -the question.” - -“Naturally,” replied Clytie, glad that that point was settled without -any discussion. “Why do you ask me?” - -“To know what your wishes are as regards myself. Clavering has got some -good shooting, I believe, and his wife always keeps a decent house. I -don't see what good I should be here; but still, if you would like me to -stay on and see you through, I don't mind a bit.” - -He meant to be magnanimous. Perhaps he expected his wife to be duly -grateful; as it was she only replied somewhat wearily: - -“You must do whatever you think best, Thornton. I should not like to -keep you here on my account, while you might be having a good time with -your friends.” - -“Oh! it's all the same to me,” he said. “It's just as you like.” - -Clytie shook her head despondently. If there could have been any -pleasure to either of them in his staying, these questions would have -been impossible. It was love and not politeness that should have kept -him by her side. - -“You are very kind to think of it, Thornton,” she said, “and I thank you -for asking me; but you couldn't do much if you stayed, you know.” - -“I think I should be somewhat in the way,” he said good-temperedly. -“That sort of thing is not much in my line. However, I did not like to -accept without asking you. Are you sure you don't mind?” - -“Oh, quite sure!” said Clytie suavely. - -So the point was amicably settled, and Thornton went down to Hampshire -to shoot Clavering's pheasants and to be led cynically captive by -Clavering's wife. To avoid giving the latter a gratuitous loophole for -sarcastic attack, he forbore to hint at the cause that prevented Clytie -from accompanying him. He said vaguely that she was with her people. -Mrs. Clavering did not press the point in any way, as she reciprocated -Clytie's dislike, and was perfectly indifferent as to what became of -her. In fact she was greatly relieved when Thornton announced that he -was coming alone. Him she could manage as she liked--or thought she -could, which comes to the same thing. - -The house which the Claverings had taken for the winter was one that -appealed to the quieter tastes of a man like Thornton. There was good -hunting in the neighbourhood, and the stables were well filled with -hunters, some of which Major Clavering had hired for the season. Over -the estate attached to the house was excellent partridge shooting, -and the covers were stocked with pheasants. The house itself was -straggling--as a country house should be--roomy, and capable of -accommodating comfortably the large party that was assembled for -Christmas. It contained two billiard tables, a concert room staged for -private theatricals, and a magnificent club-furnished smoking-room with -a specially made baccarat table. Among the party the masculine element -greatly preponderated, but the few women who were there had been -carefully selected by the hostess to maintain a nice equilibrium. The -major invited the men, and his wife, running over the list, had settled -upon the women. She was doubly grateful that Clytie had thought fit to -decline. - -On the evening of his arrival Thornton came down early after dressing -and found Mrs. Clavering alone in the drawing-room, reclining -luxuriously before the blaze under the great marble chimney-piece. - -“Clavering must have come into a pot of money in order to run this,” he -said, parting his coat tails. “I have just been round the place. I had -no idea it was such an extensive development.” - -“Yes. It's better than soldiering. Tom's looking out for a place of -his own something after the style of this. The Dynevors wanted to go to -Australia, and so they have let it to us cheap.” - -He nodded, not very interested, and twirled his moustache in silence. - -“You are not making a very good start by way of being amusing,” said -Mrs. Clavering. “How is your wife?” - -“Oh, very well. But I don't see how that topic could amuse you. -Matrimony isn't very funny.” - -“Glad to get out of the toils, I suppose.” - -“Passably. It leaves me free in the society of the only woman I have -reasonably cared for,” he said, without changing his attitude. - -“Have you come down to play at that sort of thing again?” she asked, -arching her eyebrows, with a little supercilious curl on her thin lips. - -“That's what you wanted me here for, I suppose.” - -“You came to shoot little birds on the invitation of my adoring -husband.” - -“Perhaps the motives were mixed. You wouldn't believe me if I told you -I had come to see you. That was my main inducement. I suppose I ought to -have begun better and told you of my longing and despair. Let me make my -declaration now, Clara.” - -“Bah! my friend. What is the meaning of all this?” she said cynically. -“You don't care a straw for me--you told me yourself I had gone off -lamentably. And I don't rate you a halfpenny above your worth. You are a -fine-looking man with impulses and animal passions instead of brains and -heart; and if you were to die to-morrow, my delicate appreciation of my -dinner would not be impaired. So why in the name of common sense have we -revived this miserable farce?” - -“It's a kind of absinthe. We like it.” - -“If I could pump up any enthusiasm about you,” she went on, not heeding -his epigram, “I could understand it. But you are bad all through. You -would not even be moderately faithful to me--as you are not to your -wife.” - -“What the devil do you mean?” asked Thornton quickly, showing his teeth. -But Mrs. Clavering laughed. - -“Do you take me for a fool, or a woman of the world, my friend? I have -eyes and I have ears. I'll go into particulars if you like.” - -“That would scarcely be interesting,” he said. - -He looked at her for some moments and then burst out into his -resonant laugh, expecting boyish indulgence for his peccadilloes. His -whole-hearted animal laughter was irresistible. The woman joined in. - -“I don't know which is the worse of us two,” she said. “Perhaps I. I -forgive you.” - -The piquant cynicism of this revived liaison attracted Thornton, was -an enjoyable complement to the essentially masculine side of that -country-house life. He was a keen, brilliant sportsman, a famous shot, -a perfect though reckless rider, standing out in all physical qualities -far above the other men of his type who were his fellow-guests. By them -he was flattered, in an honest British way, his acts were applauded, and -his opinions received with respect. In the slaying of creatures, -brute or human, he was an indubitable authority. And although he was -accustomed to a certain shade of deference from his associates, it -never failed to gratify his somewhat barbarous nature. Much of him had -remained undeveloped. Small things pleased and captivated him. To be the -central figure in this tiny world of sport was unalloyed pleasure to the -man of fierce passions and heroic courage. And the bitter philandering -in his relations with Mrs. Clavering amused, stimulated, irritated, -and fascinated him. In his own way, therefore, he was enjoying himself -exceedingly. Beyond writing Clytie a hurried note on the second day -after his arrival, he scarcely recalled to himself her existence. When -he did it was with petulant annoyance. He wished to God he had not been -such a fool as to marry. And now what the deuce was the point of having -children? But that was his wife's concern after all, for which he -cordially thanked the wise contriver of the human mechanism. - -Christmas came, was celebrated with much festivity. On Boxing Day there -was a big partridge drive over a distant corner of the estate. It -had been carefully saved for this one day's sport and the birds were -accordingly plentiful. The best portion of it--a field sloping from -a ridge and skirting a pine wood and then merging into a wide -gorse-covered pasture tract--was reserved till after lunch. But the -sport was good in the outlying approaches to this, and it was not -without some irritation that Thornton tore open a telegram which a -breathless messenger brought up. It announced the birth of a son. -Thornton went on with the line across the wet, ploughed fields, but -until they halted for lunch luck did not come his way. - -Mrs. Clavering and the other ladies had walked over with the -luncheon-baskets. The day was warm and relaxing. They lingered over the -meal longer than they had intended. When a keeper came up and suggested -that if they wanted to shoot the slope before dusk they had better be -starting, the men sprang up in a hurry and betook themselves thither. -Thornton was the extreme man, on the right, near the pine wood, which -was being beaten. His ill-success in the morning had piqued his vanity. -He was not accustomed to be second or third in matters of prowess. After -he had brought down his first brace his whole frame was kindled with the -desire to slay. Even partridges he could not kill calmly. Covey after -covey was driven out of the wood, and as he had the first chance, his -bag increased speedily. They had thus proceeded halfway down the long, -straggling slope. The keeper by Thornton's side had just handed him his -gun, and was watching the wood with intent, outstretched hand. A covey -was being driven. At that moment another messenger, a boy, ran down the -slope and put a telegram into Thornton's hand. With an impatient oath he -stuffed it into the pocket of his shooting-coat, just in time to be able -to fire his two barrels into the whirring flight of birds. The next man -to him fired simultaneously. Two birds fell. The warm dispute that arose -caused Thornton to forget the existence of the telegram in his pocket. -And the continuance of the drive kept his mind entirely from it. - -But when the party arrived home, and were standing for a moment in the -hall, Mrs. Clavering came up to him and asked whether he had received -his second telegram safely. Then he remembered. He drew it out, read it. - -“Damn!” he muttered under his breath, and crumpling the flimsy sheet -into a ball, threw it with a gesture of impatience into the fireplace. -Then he turned and talked with Mrs. Clavering until he went upstairs to -change. - -As chance willed, the crumpled telegram had not fallen into the blazing -wood fire, but had struck upon a log and dropped on its unkindled side. -And chance willed that Mrs. Clavering should have noticed this. Women -of her type are cynically unscrupulous. As soon as the hall was clear of -men she picked up the telegram and read it. Her face, which when she -was by herself was somewhat faded, grew a little grayer. She put the -telegram in her pocket. - -Chance willed also that Thornton and Mrs. Clavering should find -themselves alone for a long spell after dinner in the little -withdrawing-room, where smoking was permitted. Most of the men were -tired. One or two of the women had gone up to their rooms. The rest -were playing billiards. Thornton was in gay spirits, talking recklessly, -giving her openings for sarcasms, and then closing in upon her with a -brutality. It was an amusing game. - -Suddenly she asked him irrelevantly: - -“When are you going back to London?” - -“You're a wise woman,” he replied, leaning back in his chair. “But what -do you mean?” - -“I asked you a question--a simple one. Are you going to London -to-morrow?” - -“No; why should I?--unless you are getting sentimental over me, and -would prefer the illusion of my absence to the disenchantment of my -bodily presence. If you mean it as a hint, of course I'll go.” - -“I do mean it as a hint,” she said with a hard kind of drawl. “I didn't -know you were quite such an unreasoning brute. Hadn't it occurred to -you that it was only common decency to go off and help bury your newborn -child?” - -She rose, and gathering up her skirts, left him before he had time to -recover. - - - - -CHAPTER XXI. - -Thus it had happened with Clytie during Thornton's absence. There came -a morning at the end of the Old Year when the snow and sleet dashing -against the window could be dimly heard in the heavily curtained room, -and Clytie feebly whispered: “Give me the child.” Gently they told her -that the life had merely fluttered on the threshold and passed back into -the silence whence it came. And she sank back on her pillows, struck to -the heart with a dumb, hopeless heartsickness. - -Recovery was slow. Clytie lay for many days quite listless, the tears -rolling down her cheeks, physical weakness aiding to make her feel a -great self-pity. The long waiting, the fear, the pain, all had been -counted as nothing if at the close there could have lain in her arms a -little child--one whose touch would draw all pain from her heart, make -her forget every sorrow. And the passionate child hunger, begotten of -the pangs of maternity, woke within her and cried for satisfaction. - -The whole weight of the world's misery crushed down upon her. She awoke -to a gray world. Its glory had departed. There was nothing left to live -for, and a great despair came over her. What was the use of dragging out -this broken, colourless existence until the time,--hopelessly remote -it seemed to her, now that the blood ran again strongly through her -veins,--should come for her to die? She passed through the phase common -to all strong natures in supreme moments of weariness, when death -seemed the only solution. One little draught out of a phial, an agonised -convulsion, perhaps, and then eternal nothingness. She did not fear the -annihilation which her materialism had taught her was the end of things. -She had no eschatological sentimentality. But the full-pulsed animal's -instinctive clutching after life held her back; the fit passed off, and -she decided to live through another act of the dreary tragedy. - -All feelings of tenderness, trust, common confidence in her husband, -were swept away forever. The faintest breath of the old attraction -caused her to shiver with repulsion. Henceforward they were mere -acquaintances, who subsisted from a common fund, lived under the same -roof, and performed certain conventional actions in common, for the sake -of their own relations with a society that demands a certain outward -show of harmony between husband and wife. Thornton had come to town from -Hampshire in the vilest of tempers. For a day or two he positively -hated Clytie. Then the seriousness of her illness had awakened in him a -superficial sympathy. But as soon as she was out of danger he regarded -her with cold dislike. She had abruptly terminated his pleasant holiday. -She had gravely endangered his liaison with the only woman by whom he -had been otherwise than purely sensually attracted, wherein lay an odd -fascination, and in thus compelling him to her side she had sharply -reminded him that a married man, if he wishes to keep in with the -world, must not parade himself too conspicuously as his own master. And -Thornton had his own reasons for not wishing to openly outrage society. - -As soon as she was able to travel Clytie went to Durdleham, for the -first time since her marriage. The quiet, easy life soothed her for a -while. She was in that condition of hopelessness when inaction seems -the highest good. Mrs. Blather attributed her dejection to the objective -cause, and sympathised with her as one woman can with another, and -strove to cheer her; but still she privately thought this long brooding -somewhat morbid. Clytie always went to extremes. But although she -naturally was unconscious of the subtleties of dreariness in the -causation of her sister's state, she was none the less helpful with -her sympathy--and sympathy very often is all the stronger from the -narrowness of the channel in which it flows. - -February and March passed in the quiet, monotonous Durdleham way. But -as the spring grew into her blood Clytie felt the tingling of life -once again, and the period of inactivity was over. She was not of the -temperament to sit long with folded hands and lament over the futility -of things. The old restlessness of her girlhood, though strangely -modified, again urged her towards a fuller, more vivid existence. -Again she looked out upon the world and its mysteries with a knowledge -begotten of sorrow, and again vague longings took possession of her. She -faced the new condition of things bravely, resolved to struggle towards -a newer, better content. If the short dream had come true, she would -have found happiness in the guidance of another life; but the high gods -had ordained otherwise. As before her marriage, her only problem was the -working out of her own individuality; for henceforward Thornton would be -her husband only in name. In what direction should she carry herself so -as to prevent the fulfilling of her needs from developing into ignoble -egoism? As a girl she had studied life eagerly, had painted from -artistic impulses, from desire for fame, and from material necessity. -Her enthusiasms, the intimacy of her odd social life with Kent and -Winifred, had kept her pure and fresh. Now all was changed. She was -alone. She had learned many things: the touch of the fire of passion, -the taste of the waters of bitterness. Definite enthusiasms seemed to -be wanting; only the artistic impulse urging creation remained to -her--together with mechanical skill. How was she to occupy her life to a -fair and noble purpose? She tried to solve the problem calmly, was wise -enough to smile when she discovered that she failed. One cannot range a -row of potential enthusiasms in front of one, like oranges, and select -in cold blood. So Clytie determined to have faith - - “... large in time, - - And that which shapes it to some end.” - -As soon as she had arrived at this decision she threw off her moodiness -and became bright again, to the great joy of Mrs. Blather, who was -sighing for her to join in such Easter dissipations as Durdleham society -offered. In obedience to her sister, therefore, Clytie burst upon -Durdleham like a revelation. During her girlhood Durdleham had regarded -her as odd, refused to accept her as conducive to social amenities. Now -it worshipped her with dazzled eyes--the whirligig of time thus bringing -in its revenges. The irony of the position amused her, but at the same -time it brought out in her much that was good and whole-hearted. She -saw, perhaps for the first time, that much of the decorous dulness -that had once chafed her to frenzy proceeded from an almost childlike -ignorance of the possibilities of enjoyment. For a wild moment the idea -entered her head to convert Durdleham to epicureanism. Janet, to whom -she confided this visionary scheme, stared at her open-mouthed, and -Clytie burst out into genuine mirth. Durdleham was willing to be -amused, eager to be brightened by a brilliant woman; but it would not -be convinced. It held by its principles, would not yield an iota in a -single formula. Still it could be brought to treat a paradox as a joke -instead of brooding over it with the stolidity of a hen sitting on a -china nest-egg. And that much Clytie did accomplish during the short -season of her social triumph. - -In the middle of April she was requested by Thornton to return to -London. He had thrown up the private-secretaryship, as his purpose in -accepting it had been already served. By dint of self-assertion he had -identified himself with the non-parliamentary chiefs of the Tory party, -and during the early spring had rendered efficient electioneering -services. His chance of a candidature was therefore only a question -of time. But as he wished to neglect no means of keeping himself -in evidence, he still felt bound to call upon his wife to aid him -socially--that is to say, to preside at his table and receive his -guests. This Clytie was not disinclined to do, especially as his summons -was couched in pleasant and courteous terms. So she bade farewell to -Durdleham and returned to London. - -When her train arrived at Euston she was surprised at seeing Thornton -on the platform. He wore a gray frock-coat with a dark rose in the -buttonhole, and lavender kid gloves. He came forward and greeted her, -raising his hat before he shook hands. - -“Have you had a tiring journey? You are looking very well. As I was -paying a call near Primrose Hill,--ghastly place to live in, isn't -it?--I thought I might as well pick you up here with the brougham.” - -“That was very kind of you, Thornton,” she said. - -They talked of indifferent subjects during the long drive to South -Kensington: the theatres, odds and ends of gossip. When they got home he -accompanied her into the drawing-room and drank a cup of tea. - -“You're a deuced lovely woman, you know, Clytie,” he said, his great -bulk sprawling over a small drawing-room chair, his hands in his pockets. -“I have half a mind to fall in love with you again. If you had not -turned into absolute ice, perhaps I should. You've got that same -devilish witchery in your skin that made me go wild over you a year -ago.” - -“Oh, please don't talk of that, Thornton. It is the past,” she said, -with a tremor. - -“Well, upon my soul!” he said, gathering himself together. “I don't see -why it might not be the present. I was going to unfold to you a little -scheme by which we might live politely together, but, by Jove! now -I look at you and reflect that you are my wife after all--you're so -gloriously beautiful, Clytie!” - -He rose, but she was on her feet before him, having sprung up with a -beating heart. She looked at him with a fearful surmise in her glance, -and as he made a stride towards her she recoiled in a terror she had not -known before. - -“Oh, no, no, no! For God's sake!” she cried, catching at her breath, -instinctively putting out her hands to keep him off. “That is all over. -We loved one another once. A horrible mockery of it is more than I can -bear.” - -“Confound it, Clytie!” he exclaimed, clenching his hands and showing his -teeth, “you're my wife, and, by the Lord! I'll kiss you if I choose!” - -The flash of his brown eyes that had once overpowered her will now made -her shudder. She stiffened into a woman of iron, with bloodless cheeks. -Standing up perfectly rigid, she closed her eyes, and hung her hands -against her sides. - -“Kiss me, then, since you claim the right,” she said in a choked voice. - -For a moment or two he stood looking at her. Then with a loud laugh he -flung himself back in his chair. - -Clytie with shame and horror in her heart rushed from the room. - -It was not an encouraging home-coming. The incident, though not -repeated, upset many of her plans for the reconstitution of her -existence. It added a new dread. For she had counted upon the -continuance of the entire indifference with which Thornton had grown -to regard her. A sudden outburst like this had not occurred for many -months. What guarantee had she that this was not the beginning of a -series of spasmodic rekindlings of a fire she had thought dead? For some -days anxiety lay heavy on her mind. But human nature is very elastic; -if it were not so, God help us all! After a while she recovered and -was able to talk calmly to Thornton, who began by treating her with -an ironical politeness, and then relapsed into his usual cheerful -indifference. Once while discussing their mutual relations she broached -the subject of separation. - -“I won't consent,” he replied. “As we can't be lovers, we may as well be -friends. You would gain very little by it. Besides, people would talk, -and for me that is an important consideration.” - -“It hardly concerns me,” she said, with a touch of cynicism that was new -to her. “Still, if you wish it very much, I will remain.” - -“I do wish it, Clytie,” he said in a softened voice. “You can go your -way, I will go mine. But we must live together as far as the world sees -us.” - -Clytie yielded with some misgivings, and set herself to work to discover -interests in life. - -The society life of London, in which she was free to play an important -part, did not satisfy her. She saw too deep below the surface of things -to be guilty of the silly cynicism that finds society hollow, its -aims futile, and its morals corrupt. There is earnestness even among -cultivated men and women. But society is formal, conventional, and in -the external rules of life differs only in degree from Durdleham. True, -it has a far wider intellectual scope. Contrary to Durdleham, it permits -the possession of ideas, but it is just as punctilious as to their -correct expression. The elaborate ceremonial of society weighed upon -Clytie. She preferred a simpler, directer life. There were so many -wrappings of convention to be pierced through before she could get to -the heart of a thing or a person, and they wearied, irritated her. And -now, as Thornton seemed to care very little whether she placed herself -in evidence or not, beyond playing the part of hostess in his house, she -consulted merely her own desires in her acceptance of invitations. But -as the circle from which these mainly proceeded was that into which her -husband's reputation, tastes, and political aspirations had led her, she -did not find in it the interests which particularly affected her. It was -beyond her power either to feel or to simulate an interest in Thornton's -ambitions. Nor did she feel called upon now to profess the tenets of -Thornton's political creed. She was a solitary, unconventional Radical -in the midst of the most uncompromising Torydom, which is an unenviable -position even for the least rabid politician. The political section, -therefore, of her social circle she studiously avoided. The purely -fashionable, frivolous element, that goes to Hurlingham and Ascot, and -makes itself merry over material things, had attracted her the previous -year with its graceful epicureanism. She had still been proud of her -husband and his boyish zest in amusement, and she had caught from him -the spirit of laughing Babylon. But now it was pain to be with him -when he chatted and jested with pretty girls and idle young men. His -light-hearted gaiety jarred upon her. She saw that men and women were -affected by his charm, and she had half longings to tell them it was a -lie. So she withdrew herself from their midst as much as possible. By -this process of elimination Clytie's circle became conveniently limited. -She was sick at heart, and she turned more and more to the friends of -her girlhood. - -Mrs. Farquharson's Sunday evenings became pleasant spots in her barren -week. She went there alone, as in the old days. Nothing was changed -there: the same faces, the same bright, eager talk, the same welcome. -Clytie became her old self, was astonished to find how many enthusiasms -she still retained. She almost forgot that she was married, and had said -farewell to theories of life and such like vanities. Only at times, when -her own art came within the range of a friendly arrow, did she wince and -remember with a pang that Clytie Davenant was dead. Redgrave, whom she -occasionally met, forbore, with a portrait painter's intuitive delicacy, -to question her upon the progress of her art under its new conditions. -He divined that his prophecies had been correct, and he was sad; because -he had had great hopes of Clytie. In a tentative way he spoke of it to -Mrs. Farquharson, who confided to him her own surmises as to the dubious -success of the marriage. Then Redgrave brightened, and declared that -there was hope yet. - -“What do you mean?” cried Caroline with a touch of indignation; whereat -Redgrave smiled in his serene way. - -“I mean that hitherto she has tried to look at life through her art. Now -she will be able to look at art through her life.” - -“Then her art will be very feeble and miserable!” - -“Clytie's life has never been feeble and miserable,” he replied. “I -feared it was going to be so--in a special sense, you know; I feared -that she would be overpowered by the physical element her husband -would bring into her atmosphere, and that she would develop into -the fashionable married woman, and thus, at the same time, suffer in -spirituality and lose her grip upon the subjects that form her artistic -range.” - -“I can't see how an unhappy married life can help her,” said Caroline. -“If such a deterioration is possible, it has taken place already.” - -“Doubtless it has,” Redgrave replied earnestly. “But it is not final. -If she lives within herself again, she will recover spirituality and -grip--both strengthened by experience and suffering. That is the most -precious knowledge, Mrs. Farquharson, which we have bought with sorrow.” - -“Then mine must be very worthless,” cried Caroline. “And I'm very glad -of it. I would rather be ignorant and happy than wise and sad. And -I could wish the same for poor Clytie. I can understand the good and -beautiful things of this world as well as most people, but I don't -believe in art to all that extent. I may be a Philistine,--God forbid -it, but perhaps I am,--and I like to see people happy.” - -“That depends upon what you call happiness,” said Redgrave. - -But Caroline was not to be led into an argument. She had her views and -expounded them. - -“I mean common, all-round human happiness,” she said, “that makes you -laugh to yourself when there's no particular reason for it. And I'd -sooner Clytie have that and never touch a brush than paint the most -world-convulsing pictures and be wretched.” - -“But if she painted world-convulsing pictures, as you call them, she -would be happy--much happier than under the other conditions.” - -“Oh, no, she wouldn't!” she replied, with a conclusive nod. “You are -quite wrong, my dear good friend. It is a secondary consideration to a -woman whether she convulses the world or not. It might amuse and gratify -her to do it _en passant_, but it is only _en passant_. Believe me. I -don't give my sex away as a general rule, but I make you a present of -that! So if you're glad,” she added with triumphant feminine logic, -“that Clytie has made an unhappy marriage, I think it is simply -detestable of you!” - -So Redgrave, routed, retired in confusion; but he took his own ideas -with him. - -One Sunday evening, early in July, Mrs. Farquharson ran into the room -where Clytie, just arrived, was taking off her wraps. - -“I have been waiting by the window ever so long, watching for your -carriage. You are quite late. I wanted to see you before you came into -the drawing-room. Who do you think is here? Guess!” - -Clytie saw at once by Caroline's face. A little thrill of gladness sent -the colour to her cheeks and caused her eyes to sparkle as she paused -with one glove half off and looked quickly at her friend. - -“Kent?” - -Caroline nodded, glad at seeing that Clytie was pleased. - -“I wanted to drop you a line, but how could I on Sunday in this postless -town? George only condescended to tell me last night that he was coming. -If we had as little sense as men, I wonder how on earth we should get -on! He met him out a week ago and persuaded him.” - -“It will be quite like an old evening, dear,” said Clytie. “I shall be -so glad to see him.” - -“It is strange you should not have met,” said Caroline; and then she -added reflectively: “Well, perhaps it isn't.” - -She had her own theories on the subject. And to say a woman has her own -theories is to say a good deal. - -“But I don't see why he should have let us almost lose sight of him,” - she continued. - -“What reason does he give?” - -“Oh, the reason that makes one so helpless, you know. A man you like -comes to you and says: 'I have sinned against you without any cause -whatever. It was just my own badness, and nothing else, and now I am -humble and repentant'--and what are you to do but forgive him? He's very -penitent now and vows amendment.” - -Clytie completed her little toilet arrangements and went downstairs with -Caroline. On their way Caroline asked her where Thornton was. - -“He's at Goodwood, staying with some people there. He went down -yesterday for the races.” - -“Wouldn't it have brightened you up to have gone too?” asked Caroline -with deliberate tactlessness, darting a quick feminine side glance. But -Clytie broke into a laugh. - -“Oh! good gracious, no! I didn't even know he was going till yesterday, -when Roberts asked me about something he was to do during the master's -absence. We are quite old married people now, Caroline, and we each go -more or less our own way. It saves a lot of trouble. You see, he knew -I wouldn't care for Goodwood and the set he's in with there--the -Claverings and such like.” - -“Yes, I think you are better off here,” said Caroline. - -“I know I am,” replied Clytie, taking her arm. And then they went into -the drawing-room. - -Clytie's first impulse on entering was to look round for Kent. She met -his eyes fixed upon her from the other side of the rather crowded room, -and she gave him a little nod of greeting. He rose and joined the knot -of people who were surrounding her. Both were self-conscious to the -extent of knowing that, as they had once been a familiar couple in that -company, it would be inexpedient to allow it to be noticed that -their meeting was an event to them. They shook hands, with a friendly -commonplace, and joined in the general conversation. Redgrave, French, -the journalist, Mr. Singleton, Mrs. Tredegar, were there--most of the -old faces, a few new ones. To see Kent's among them was a joy to Clytie. -She had never understood why he had broken from her. Now and then the -true solution passed through her mind, but she rejected it. It was -incongruous with his action. Love begets wants, and it is the nature -of man to clamour for them. This was her hasty conclusion. But she had -avoided thinking very deeply upon the subject, instinctively deeming it -wiser to refrain. - -He had not changed, she thought; and wondered whether he would notice -any change in her. She found herself listening again to him as he -talked, in his downright, earnest way, quickly noting familiar turns of -thought and expression, admiring the thoroughness of his unconventional -enthusiasm. The old contented humility of spirit came back to her. How -much more real than hers was his life! How much she had learned and -could learn from him! And for a short, swift moment the laughter and -talk sounded dull in her ears, and all the objects around, all the faces -save one, melted away into the blue cigarette smoke, and that one face -remained--sitting at a table opposite to her, the lamp between them--and -the brows were intent on the sheet over which a quill pen was scratching -assiduously; and the surroundings shaped themselves into her old rooms -in the King's Road. Then, just as swiftly as it had come, the dream -vanished, and Clytie sighed. The talk languished a little. Kent looked -somewhat wistfully at her. She leaned forward and beckoned him with a -smile and a little upward movement of her chin. - -“Come down and give me some supper,” she said. “I did not eat anything -before coming out.” - -“That was foolish of you,” he said involuntarily. - -Then they both laughed. - -“You are just the same as ever,” she said. And they went downstairs. - -It was a tradition in Harley Street that on Sunday evenings a cold -supper should be laid in the dining-room from half-past eight onward, so -that guests could go down whenever it so pleased them. To break up the -continuity of the evening by a formal gathering around a supper table -was opposed to Caroline's notions. Besides, irregularities in meals were -one of the features of the house. You need never be in time, and there -was always food when you wanted it. To the erratic and unregulated -visitor it was paradise. Caroline paid her servants extra wages to -insure satisfaction in this respect. So Clytie's little manouvre was -quite in accordance with the recognised order of things. - -They found the dining-room unoccupied. She sat down near the end of the -table, while Kent, a little way off, gravely carved some chicken, which -he brought to her together with some salad and a jug of claret-cup. Then -he sat down by her, at the corner. - -“But aren't you going to eat anything yourself?” she asked, laughing. - -“I am not hungry.” - -“Oh, that doesn't matter. Do go and get something, to keep me in -countenance. How can I eat when you are sitting watching me like that, -with your elbow on the table?” - -“I have done it so often before. It seemed natural to sit by you -while you had your meal. I was forgetting. You see my manners have not -improved. However----” - -He rose for the purpose of helping himself to some food, but Clytie -stopped him, made him sit down again. - -“There! It was silly of me,” she said. “I did not think of it. Don't be -any different from what you used to be. Let us imagine that this evening -is one of the old Sunday evenings here. Ah! If you only knew how glad I -am to see you. What an eternity it has been since we met.” - -“Eighteen months,” said Kent laconically. “The longest eighteen months I -have ever lived.” - -“Why?” - -“Don't you think I have missed you?” - -“So much as that?” - -“Yes; so much as that.” - -“My poor Kent!” said Clytie, troubled. “I wish I could do something for -you.” - -“Ah, _es ist vorbei_,” he said, puckering his brows, as he watched the -rings he was making in the damask with an inverted wineglass. Then his -forehead suddenly cleared, and he looked up with his frank laugh. - -“You see I am just as much of a bear as ever. Instead of telling you -what a delight it is to be with you again, I come to you complaining, -and I ought to have every reason not to rail at fortune.” - -“You are doing great things, I hear,” said Clytie. “Tell me about them.” - -“Oh, they are neither great nor much worth telling. The _opus_ is being -translated into German, and part of it will be soon published by the -University of Vienna.” - -“That is a feather in your cap.” - -“A big one. I don't think I am given to running after notoriety and -that sort of thing, but it is gratifying to be recognised a little. It -encourages one.” - -“Ah, it does!” said Clytie with more meaning than she intended. - -“So I have been working away at it harder than ever.” - -“I wish I had your enthusiasm,” she said. “And your power of work. Do -you remember your lectures?” They talked a little about the old days, -half sadly, half tenderly. Those memories were very pleasant. Then they -came back to the present. - -“Winnie tells me you are a great man now at the Museum. I am so glad.” - -Kent waved his hand deprecatingly and laughed. “Winifred is quite an -Iris,” he replied. “For she comes down to earth sometimes and tells me -things about you. Yes, I am quite a man of affluence these days. I am -the head of the department. I have got so much money I don't know what -to do with it.” - -“I hope you employ some of it in giving yourself proper meals,” said -Clytie. “Or do you still have your extraordinary suppers?” - -“Oh, I live just the same,” said Kent. “If I began to be respectable in -one thing, I should gradually become so in all.” - -“And the rooms are just the same as ever?” - -“A few more pictures and odds and ends. And I have got a carpet. That's -Wither's doing. He came to see me in the winter and caught a cold, due -to the bare boards, so he said. When he had recovered he made me go -and buy a thick Turkey square. After that I had serious designs of -forbidding him the rooms lest he should turn them into a boudoir -altogether.” - -They laughed over this idea. Clytie asked him whether he still kept the -tripods before the fireplace, and whether the paraffin oil can in the -corner harmonised well with the carpet. It was like a breath of fresh -air to meet Kent again. - -Suddenly he pointed to her plate. - -“You are not eating anything.” - -“I am not hungry,” said Clytie with some demureness. - -“But if you have not had your evening meal, you'll get faint. What did -you come down for, if you merely wanted to pick at the wing of a chicken -and to put hardly any of it into your mouth?” - -Then Clytie burst out into merry laughter. He was so downright and -honest. Just the same as ever. - -“Oh, you foolish Kent! I should have thought even you could have -invented that.” - -“Did you really want to see me?” he asked, brightening. - -“Why, of course! Do you suppose I am devoid of human attributes?” - -This brought them nearer than they had been since the time that Kent -realised he loved her. To Kent this meeting was enchantment. To see her -sitting by him, bright, laughing, her old self, was enough to make him -lose sense of the past eighteen months of hopeless longing. He thought -to himself that it was better she had not learned, since her ignorance -gave him this sweet half hour. - -“I suppose we must be going upstairs soon,” she said, with a little -wistful wrinkling of her forehead. “When shall I see you again?” - -Kent started at the question. It troubled him. He did not know what -answer to make. - -“Within less than another year, I hope,” he said. - -“Oh, yes, Kent. We mustn't be strangers any more. It's not good for us. -Would you care about seeing me very often?” - -“I am not coming to call upon you,” he replied bluntly. - -The actual words were ungracious. But there was a flash of eager longing -in his eyes that lent the words a subtle meaning. And Clytie rose from -the table with a little gasp of pain as the truth burst upon her. - -“Oh, Kent, Kent!” she cried, greatly moved. - -Their eyes met, and this time there was no mistake. He knew that she had -guessed. But with a great effort he evaded the appeal. - -“No; I can't come to your house to see you,” he said huskily. “There -you are Mrs. Hammerdyke, and I shouldn't know you. Your home is full of -interests and associations in which I could only be a stranger and an -intruder. To me you are Clytie, the Clytie whose daily life I used to -share--and only as Clytie can I bear to see you.” - -“Would it help you to see me as Clytie?” she asked. - -“Yes, dearly,” he said. - -“Then you can always come in to the studio when I am with Winifred, and -I shall always be here on Sunday evenings. Don't you think I want to see -you too--as Clytie!” - -“Thank you. Thank you,” he said in a low voice, taking her hand. “Now it -is time for us to go upstairs.” - - - - -CHAPTER XXII. - -Each lay awake that night, thinking. To Clytie the revelation of Kent's -love was dazing. The sense of her own dulness in never having pierced -the heart of his mystery was even more confounding. Why should she have -divined suddenly the meaning of the light in his eyes, on this first -meeting after their eighteen months of separation, when she had been -blind to it before? She only half guessed as yet why he had not told -her, but she saw that it must have arisen from a rare, strange delicacy -in his nature differentiating him from all other men that she had known. -Her heart went out in pity for him. - -“How he must have suffered!” she repeated over and over to herself. And -then scenes between them came before her mind and became clear in the -light of this revelation: the strange suppressed interview after her -arrival from Durdleham; the last evening he had spent in London before -going abroad, when he had lit her fire, and she had gone up to bid him -farewell. How had her ears been so dull as not to detect the tremor in -his voice when, after kissing her hand, he had said: “You are my very -dear lady whom I will serve to the hour of my death”? - -And then a little hissing snake of a thought formed itself into a -reply; and she shrank up together with a slight convulsive shiver as if -something foul had touched her. - -After that she could not sleep. She got up, lit her candle, and took -a book at random from her shelves. It was her well-worn, girlish Globe -Shakespeare, one of the books she had surreptitiously procured when the -family Bowdler was included in the category of formulas against which -she revolted. She took it back to bed with her and commenced reading -where it had chanced to open. The first words that met her eye seemed -like a voice from the other world: - - Such harmony is in immortal souls; - - But while this muddy vesture of decay - - Doth grossly clothe it in, we cannot hear it. - -They followed so closely on the track of her own shuddering thought that -she could read no more. She blew out her candle, and remained awake, -staring into the darkness, until the gray dawn filtered through the -blinds, and she fell asleep. - -Nor was Kent more restful. He had battled with his love, and with a -strong man's will had brought it under subjection, making it minister to -his happiness in spite of torturing longings instead of allowing it to -darken his life. It had awakened him to a sense of a world of beautiful -things, given him a deeper understanding and a wider sympathy than -he had before. For him truly might it be said that to love her was a -liberal education. It gave him the key to the knowledge and appreciation -of women, drew him from his seclusion into the general society he -had formerly avoided. A feminine conclusion which he would once have -pooh-poohed as weak and illogical struck him now with its intuitive -subtlety and delicacy of point. He learned that what the essentially -feminine mind lacks in breadth it gains in fineness, and he was -amazed to discover what a sensitive touch upon life is possessed by -a cultivated woman. And mingled with this new charm was another of an -esoteric kind. No woman he met had all the fascinations of Clytie, but -every woman seemed to possess one of them. He confided this once in a -roundabout way to Wither, who laughed, and told him he was growing too -susceptible and would find himself married one of these days. But Kent -shook his head. “I could only find a Clytie among them by marrying the -whole sex and making an extract of it,” he said with conviction. For not -only did the higher qualities of woman's nature manifest themselves to -him, but the minor graces of manner and appearance appealed to that side -of his aesthetic temperament that had hitherto been under a cloud. It -occurred to him then that he had been living with half his faculties. -Accordingly he felt a peculiar satisfaction in his new powers of -perception. - -It had cost him a pang to forego the pleasure of the bright society that -Mrs. Farquharson gathered round her. At first he had given up going to -Harley Street through fear of meeting Clytie, for he shrank from meeting -her under the new conditions. Then as time passed on, and he accustomed -himself to the idea of Clytie as a married woman of fashion, he wished -to go, but shyness held him back. It would look strange to resume -visiting suddenly after his apparent rudeness and neglect. Probably the -Farquharsons would never have seen him again had not George met him at -a learned society's meeting, and given him a hearty and pressing -invitation. - -But there was a large though somewhat scattered society in which, -although the rarest of visitors, he had always been welcome. And now -he not only mixed assiduously in this, thereby causing many laughing -conjectures as to the reason of his social reformation, but he -volunteered occasionally to go out with Wither, whose circle of -acquaintance, like Sam Weller's knowledge of London, was extensive and -peculiar. A revolution was thus effected in Kent's habits, and to a -certain extent in his mode of thought. A new zest was given to life in -this enlargement of his horizon. And all through his love of Clytie. -The awakening of the dormant sex principle had strengthened his nature, -extended his humanity in depth and breadth. In spite of a hopeless, -passionate love Kent was still a happy man. - -And now this spell of her influence was broken, or at least modified. -He had seen her, felt the softness of her voice, the kindliness of her -eyes. And he had unwittingly betrayed his secret. She knew that he loved -her. She pitied him, promised that he should see her frequently on the -basis of the old friendship. It was kind and generous, he thought, to -step down from the height of her wedded felicity to comfort him with her -friendship and sympathy. An unexpected happiness was in store for him. -Perhaps, after all, his loyalty and devotion might be of some use to -her. - -But strong, loyal man as he was, this sudden meeting troubled him. If -only he had spoken at once, before the other had come upon the scene, -she might have been won to love him. The old torturing regrets came upon -him, and he tossed sleeplessly on his bed. The love which, through its -very hopelessness, had all these months given him peace and a measure -of happiness now burst forth again tumultuously. It became a miserable -farce to lie awake in the darkness. He rose, went into his sitting-room -and lit the gas. Then he sat down at his writing space, and, burying his -face in his hands, remained for some time in great pain of thought. -At last his eye fell upon some notepaper lying invitingly on his -blotting-pad. An idea struck him. He would write to her. He covered -four sides with a passionate outburst of his love, writing wildly, -unthinkingly, as men must write in moments of overpowering emotion. -Then he tore up the sheet and began afresh. The summer morning light was -streaming into the room through the curtainless window, mingling oddly -with the yellow gas, when Kent enclosed and addressed the first letter -to Clytie in which he told her of his love. He got up, stiff from his -long sitting and somewhat exhausted, and going to bed, slept the sleep -of the just until it was his usual hour for rising. - -The next afternoon when Clytie returned from a drive she found the -letter awaiting her. She took it up to her room, and there, sitting -on the edge of the bed, read it with conflicting feelings. It ran as -follows: - -My Dear Clytie: - -You know my secret. I think so. I saw it in your face. But if I was -mistaken, let me tell it to you in so many words; and as I bring to you -what is best and truest in me, it will neither dishonour me to tell it -nor you to hear it. And as you in your goodness offer me a resumption of -the old friendship, I must say it once and for all. I love you, Clytie, -with all the strength of a man who has allowed women to take up very -little part in his life. I loved you long before I knew it. It grew -up gradually during our intercourse, and only one day when you were at -Durdleham a little, little chance circumstance revealed to me that you -were not only the grand, sweet friend, but the woman that I passionately -loved. And I could not tell you for fear of paining you and destroying -our friendship--for what was I to love you? And I dreaded lest you -should think me disloyal to the trust between us. And at last I came, -resolved to speak, and it was too late. Winifred can tell you. - -From that time I have carried my love with me as the vivifying principle -of my life. I thought you would never know, but now I have betrayed -myself. - -Will it not pain you too much in your present happiness to see me under -this new guise? Ah, Clytie! tell me frankly as you always used to do. - -I shall never, never willingly trouble the serenity of your life. I love -you too sincerely, too devotedly; and my love makes me myself too happy. -If you will meet me now and again after this, freely, at the houses -of our common friends, you shall only see the old Kent who now and then -scolded you, sometimes helped you, and who always held you dearer and -higher and grander than all other women; and yet you must let yourself -be loved--that I cannot help. It is fused into my being, and it gives -me happiness in my own way. I am an oddity, you know, Clytie, as you -yourself have called me, and oddities have their little privileges, and -if you know that it makes my happiness, and does not grudge you yours, -you will not find it hard to be loved. - -If you were a woman of ordinary conventional ideas, I could not tell you -this. You would misunderstand it. - -There seems but little I could do for you--and I would do so much. But -life is full of strange chances, and perhaps my chance of serving you -may come, and would then I could die for you to save you an hour's pain. - -Yours in all devotion, - -Kent. - -Clytie read the letter over several times. At first the tears came into -her eyes and a lump rose in her throat. This simple, unrequiring love -soothed her and smote her at once. The largeness and tenderness of the -man's nature came to her almost as a revelation. What was there in her -worthy of this sacrifice? How could she tell him, she thought in her -broken pride, that she had failed miserably, wretchedly, that she had -forsaken the higher for the lower, that this selfless love of his was as -far above the sudden intoxication that had degraded her as the spirit is -above the flesh? She had thrown away the best, like the shepherd in -the German legend, who, in the sensuous heart-leap at the sight of the -glittering treasure, disregarded the voice, “Forget not the best,” and -dropped and trampled underfoot the little blue flower that opened the -enchanted hillside. How could she tell him that? - -Then, too, the note of unconscious irony in his letter jarred through -her painfully. “Her present happiness!” - -“Oh, my God!” she cried at last. “If he only knew how much need I have -of happiness!” - -And then the strength that had kept the tears back for all these latter -months of weariness and disillusion suddenly forsook her, and turning as -she sat, she threw herself on the bed in a great agony of sobbing. - -A little later she wrote Kent the following reply: - -My Dear Friend Kent: - -I am not worthy of such devotion. I can only wonder at it and accept -it humbly and gratefully. Words like these of yours I never could -misunderstand, Kent. If it is a pleasure to you to see me, you need not -shun me any more. Clytie. - -Kent went into the studio on Monday to tell Winifred of the meeting; on -Tuesday, with a vague hope of seeing Clytie; on Wednesday, when Winifred -herself expected her, but she did not come. On Thursday, however, he -heard her voice from outside the studio door, and his heart gave a great -throb. He entered and found himself once more in her presence. Neither -spoke of the letters that had passed between them, but the faintest -pressure of the hand and a glance from her eyes told him that she -understood. - -After that they met frequently--on Sunday evenings at the Farquharsons', -during the week in the studio, where for some months Clytie had taken -to coming very frequently for the comfort of seeing Winifred. Clytie -maintained her usual habits; Kent, as far as was possible, resumed his -old ones. Sometimes it was strangely like the old days. With a little -longing, perhaps, to add to the illusion, and also to give herself some -employment while Winifred worked, Clytie began a picture, choosing in a -humorous tenderness to take Winnie as her model. The picture never -was completed, for Clytie had not the temperament to do justice to the -slender figure in its quiet summer dress, and to the soft, dark face -bent so earnestly over the palette and sheaf of brushes. But while -the painting of it lasted it gave a comfortable air of reality to the -revival. It was new life to Kent to come in on his return and once -more receive Clytie's friendly nod as she stood by the easel, a -painting-apron over her dainty dress, and her hands smudged with -charcoal or daubs of paint. He did not think much of the portrait, and -he told her so with laughing frankness. But he divined why she was -doing it, and while criticising, encouraged her to proceed. His arrival, -however, as it always had been, was a signal for the cessation of -work. Then Winifred cleaned the brushes and put them in the trays, -and gathered up the tubes and rags which Clytie, with less sense of -tidiness, had strewed around her, and Clytie drew out the basket-table -and rang the bell for Mrs. Gurkins to bring up the tea. Clytie had -left behind her all her small domestic articles for Winnie's use in the -studio. So there was the familiar tea-service, the Crown-Derby cups -and apostle spoons,--a piece of wicked extravagance on Clytie's part in -times gone by,--the gray Japanese teapot whose wicker handle had still -to be delicately fingered, and the little glass sugar-bowl that looked -so plebeian beside the aristocratic porcelain. Scarcely anything in the -studio had been changed. The charcoal caricatures on the walls were as -sacred in Winifred's eyes as if they had been frescoes by old Italian -masters, and she had issued strict injunctions to spring-cleaners to -leave them intact. Even Clytie's easel was there now. Kent lived for -these afternoons. - -One day Kent was going to dine with Wither and Fairfax. As his road to a -certain point was the same as Clytie's, they walked along together. This -was almost the first occasion on which they were quite alone together. -He reminded her casually of the fact. - -“Yes,” she replied. “And I have been wanting to see you by yourself. I -have not thanked you for your letter. But you do see that I appreciate -it, don't you?” - -“There is nothing to thank me for, since I pleased myself in writing it. -The thanks are from me to you for treating it as you have done.” - -“Oh, no,” said Clytie, shaking her head and looking before her. “You -can't understand,--and perhaps it is better you shouldn't,--what a -letter like that means to a woman. Well, it meant a great deal to me. To -tell you so is the only return I can make you.” - -“Don't let us talk of it,” said Kent. “I could not bear to have you as a -friend under false pretences.” - -After they had walked a few steps in silence she continued the subject. - -“Don't you think it would be better for you to forget all about me, and -look around for someone who can make you happy--really happy?” - -“I'd have to live till the day of judgment to find her,” said Kent -bluntly. - -“That's ridiculous, Kent. But can't you feel that it sometimes pains me -to see you sacrificing your life for me?” - -“I am not sacrificing my life,” he answered cheerfully. “Besides, I -don't quite see what it has got to do with you--in one sense. I love -you, and I couldn't love anybody else for all the joys in creation. -Thank God, you are broad-minded enough to let me tell you this without -any chance of misconstruction.” - -“Ah! That's all very well,” she said, with a little sigh. “If I were -a saint, I might placidly accept it as my due. Being only a woman, and -that none of the best, it seems such a waste of good love, Kent, and -love is a rare, rare thing in the world.” - -“But it would go a-begging if you did not have it,” he replied, -laughing. “Come, don't let us say anything more about it. You are happy -with your own home and interests, and I am happy in seeing you and -having your friendship. Of course I have suffered a bit, but it's all -over now.” - -“Ah!” she said. “Life seems to be made up of that.” - -“Of what?” - -“Suffering.” - -He waved an energetic protest with his ash stick. - -“Since when have _you_ grown a pessimist? I don't believe in it. Life -is made up of responsibilities and interests. There's suffering in it -of course; but there are alleviations. It's like cold and frost. If you -stood up without a rag on in the snow you'd think the world was made of -nothing else but frost. But you put on warm clothing and defy it.” - -“But the poor, ill-clad, shivering wretches--what about them?” - -“I'm talking of people with average material wealth,” he replied. -“That's just it. So can the people of ordinary moral wealth clothe -themselves against suffering. I don't like the morbid view of things. It -doesn't do any good. Do you remember a passage in Longfellow's -'Hyperion'--a criticism of two German poets--'melancholy gentlemen to -whom life was only a dismal swamp, upon whose margin they walked with -cambric handkerchiefs in their hands, sobbing and sighing, and making -signals to Death to come and ferry them over the lake'? It's a bit -fierce on your pessimists; but it's a wholesome little passage to -remember.” - -A little while after this they parted. Kent walked on, swinging his -stick, convinced of Clytie's happiness, yet wondering at her unusual -note of pessimism, and Clytie called a cab, as she was late, and drove -home with a world of strange and troubling thoughts. - -On the 1st of August Clytie received a visit from the boy Jack, who had -just come to London for his summer holiday. He had grown greatly during -the past year, had filled out. The taint of the street had gone from -him and he was becoming civilised. Clytie leaned back in her chair and -looked at him curiously as he sat, in all the self-consciousness of a -newly awakened sense of propriety, upon the edge of his seat, twirling -his glengarry cap. As an artistic object he had deteriorated. The motive -of his worth in that respect had gone with the picturesqueness of his -old garments and dirt and wild elf locks; but he was handsome in spite -of his cropped brown hair and the severity of his attire. Indeed there -was something incongruous in the corduroy uniform and the refinement of -his face, with its bright dark eyes and finely cut lips that disclosed -a perfect row of white, even teeth. And yet there was cruelty around -the mouth, the sublimated essence of the fierce savagery that Clytie -had impressed upon her famous picture. He had been transformed from the -animal into the human being, it is true; but that does not necessarily -imply that the human being does not retain many of the passions of the -animal. With the old Jack the untamable was degradingly confused -with lowness, but it shone out all the clearer now by reason of the -humanising of his face. Clytie noted all this as they talked together. - -“You are getting quite a man,” she said. “When are you leaving school?” - -“Mr. Kent says I'm to stay there another year,” replied Jack. “Then I'm -to be 'prenticed.” - -“To a joiner?” - -“I suppose so,” said Jack. And after he had scraped a little with his -toe on the ground he looked up and added: “Do you think I needn't be a -joiner if I didn't want to?” - -“I don't see why you shouldn't be what you like, Jack.” - -“Really!” and his face brightened. “I have been thinking I should like -to be something else.” - -“What is that?” - -“A carver and gilder,” said Jack bashfully. - -“Where do the especial charms of that trade come in?” asked Clytie, -laughing. - -“I dunno,” said Jack; “I only thought it.” - -There was a touch of pique in his voice. Clytie noticed it, saw that she -had wounded susceptibilities. - -“Tell me, Jack, why you want to be a carver and gilder.” - -“I could make all the picture-frames for you and Miss Marchpane,” he -replied. - -“Thank you, Jack,” said Clytie, touched at the boyish idea. “But perhaps -we'll make you something better than a carver or gilder. I don't know -what you could be. What could we make of you?” - -A vague idea of raising Jack above the artisan level had occurred to her -during her scrutiny of his face. He was not an ordinary creature. That -he should spend his life in the dull, commonplace atmosphere of the -British workman seemed a waste of possibilities. There are millions who -possess just the qualifications for hewers of wood and drawers of water. -Why should a finer organisation not be cultivated, trained, put into an -environment where there are conditions for free development? But whether -the boy was a potential admiral, Lord Chancellor, or novelist she could -not determine. That was why she asked the question, “What could we make -of you?” somewhat pathetically. Jack shook his head in reply. He -had learned at school that life was a serious thing terminating in -apprenticeship. - -“I've got to learn a trade,” he replied after a little, “and I'd sooner -be a carver and gilder than anything else.” - -“But suppose a good fairy were to come, Jack,” persisted Clytie, “and -say that you were not to learn a trade, or that, if you did begin, you -would work your way out of it, and become a great man, and do glorious -things in the world--suppose you were able to choose to be anything -you liked--what do you think you would be? Tell me--something great and -bright and noble!” - -She had grown animated with her enthusiasm, and leaned forward, with her -chin raised and lips parted--her attitude in moments of exaltation. The -boy looked at her for a few seconds, catching her spirit. Something -was at work within him too, for his eyes glowed, and his breath came -quickly. - -“There is something, Jack. Tell me what it is!” - -“I'd like to be a soldier like my father,” he said in a low voice, the -extravagant, glowing fancies that had haunted him for six months thus -finding half-choked expression. - -“Your father?” asked Clytie, taken aback, and diverging into the side -track of her astonishment. “I never knew you had--I mean, I thought -you did not know anything at all about him. You used not to tell me the -truth, then, Jack.” - -“Oh! but I did not know then!” he cried eagerly. “It was only when I -come here at Christmas, and you was ill, so I couldn't tell you. He -was a soldier, my father, an orficer. And I would like to be an orficer -too.” - -“Really, Jack, this is very interesting,” said Clytie. “Aren't you -pleased to have a father you can be proud of? Was he a very brave man?” - -“He had a sword,” said Jack proudly, as if that was proof positive of -valour. - -“Come and sit down in your old place on the hearthrug and tell me all -about him.” - -The boy did as he was bidden, sinking somewhat shyly at first on to the -great bearskin at Clytie's feet. But after a while he huddled himself up -in his old posture. - -“Mother didn't tell me much,” he said in answer to a question of -Clytie's. “I was looking in a chest of drawers of mother's, and I see -a photograph--an orficer--all over strings and buttons and a sword and -great big moustaches. And I come to mother and says: 'Who's this?' and -she says: 'That's your father.' And then she snatched it out of my hand -and hit me a clout on the head for going to her drawer. She wouldn't -tell me no mere; but I know he was an orficer because he's got a star on -his collar. I think I knows orficers when I sees them,” he added, with -the ci-devant street urchin's knowledge of life. “And I go and look at -him now when mother isn't by.” - -“But you shouldn't go to your mother's private drawers,” said Clytie by -way of moral precept. - -“I've got as much right to look at my father as she has,” replied Jack -in an injured tone, whereat Clytie laughed a little. - -“You are an odd youth. I wish I could make you an officer right away. -But I am afraid I can't.” - -“I believe you could,” said Jack. - -There was a world of childish faith in the remark and the manner in -which it was delivered. Clytie was both touched and saddened. She -regretted that she had raised hopes in the boy that from the nature of -things were doomed to disappointment. The overpowering difficulties in -the way of her sudden visionary aspirations for Jack's future ranged -themselves before her mind. So it was with a sigh she answered his -outburst of faith. - -“I am afraid I can't, Jack,” she repeated. “But you yourself can do a -great deal. If you like, one of these days when you are much older, you -can enlist in the army, and then throw your soul into your duties, and -keep before you at every minute of the day the words, 'I am going to be -an officer,' and if you do this intensely, and never lose sight of it, -you will succeed. That's the only way. They call it getting a commission -through the ranks. But between now and then there are a great many -years, and I'll do all I can for you, Jack. Yet, perhaps, after all, -you'd be a happier and more useful man as a carver and gilder. Who -knows!” - -Jack did not heed the pessimism of the peroration. His mind was aflame -with the possibilities of becoming an officer and he took his leave in -high spirits. - -Clytie sat for a little musing over the solution of the problem that had -troubled her in the first days of her acquaintance with Jack. She was -gratified at her intuitions having proved correct. But there was still -much that was dark to her. The physiological side of the question, -however, was shadowed at present by more practical considerations. Why -could she not find a means of giving Jack a chance in life? She looked -ahead at the years to come, as she often had done since that dark -December morning, and a pain came at her heart as she beheld their -blankness. And now fate had thrown across her path this drifting spar of -humanity. Jack was hers if she chose to claim him. No one would dispute -with her the privilege. - -After luncheon she walked to the King's Road and sat with Winifred, in -the hope that Kent would look in on his way upstairs. She wanted to take -counsel with him. His sturdy common sense would help her. She did not -confide her vague scheme to Winifred, because Winifred would have called -her a darling, and put her arms round her neck, and made her feel as if -she were meditating something peculiarly noble. So she waited for Kent's -sobering presence. - -He came in at his customary hour, bearing a paper bag of peaches which -he had brought for Winifred. He had carried them from some distance -through the streets, and there were little wet stains on the paper. But -when the fruit was put on a plate beside the bread and butter on a flap -of the wickerwork afternoon tea table it looked fresh and inviting. This -sudden return of their old intimacy was delightful to all three of them, -and they chatted during tea as if nothing had happened to break it. - -Then Clytie propounded her case, and they formed themselves into a -committee to consider it. - -“I don't like social experiments,” said Kent. “It's constituting one's -self a Providence without Providence's resources. If one bit of the -machinery fails, the whole thing is apt to go wrong.” - -“But I don't want to experiment!” cried Clytie. “It's quite wicked of -you to say so.” - -“How can it be otherwise?” asked Kent. “You want to put an industrial -school boy of the most unconventional type and upbringing into the most -caste-bound, conventional profession under the sun. It's like putting -a bit of metallic sodium into water. A pretty experiment, though rather -common; but the result is an explosion.” - -“But he must be trained and made a gentleman first,” cried Winifred, -coming to Clytie's assistance. - -“Of course,” said Clytie. “Should he ever be able to get into the army, -he will be by that time quite a different being to what he is now.” - -“Then you'll have to give him a rigid, conventional training, and so -spoil him,” said Kent. - -“It wouldn't spoil him to learn to speak the Queen's English and the use -of his knife and, fork,” said Clytie a little defiantly. - -“He'd have to learn more than that. Besides, how is he to be taught?” - -“That's what I've come to you for advice about.” - -Kent mused for a moment and stroked his beard. - -“Are you very much bent upon this?” he asked. - -“Yes.” - -“Then I can only see one way.” - -“Well--and that?” - -“Adopt him,” said Kent. “An industrial school boy can be run by a -committee--the experiment is not very dangerous, but a conventional -gentleman must have conventional references.” - -His first words struck the chord she had shrunk from striking herself. -It was the formulated suggestion of a vague desire. She was silent for -a little. Then Winifred in response to a business summons went out on to -the landing, and Kent and Clytie were left alone. - -“I am afraid I have been too downright and have hurt you,” he said -concernedly. - -She shook her head and glanced at him smilingly. - -“I came to you for common sense. You have given it me. And your -conclusion is one that I dared not come to myself.” - -“That you should adopt him? A _reductio ad absurdum!_” - -“Yes, I feel it. I am not my own mistress now There are difficulties. -Oh, Kent, don't let me talk of them! You see, I came to you for help--to -no one else.” - -“I don't quite understand you, Clytie,” said Kent, anxious at her sudden -agitation. - -She recovered herself, womanlike, and forced a laugh. - -“If I were a rich, lonely old woman, I might be able,” she said, “but, -you see, I'm not. No, no, I can't adopt Jack; and we'll have to run him -by a committee, whatever happens to him.” - -“Well, what have you decided?” asked Winifred, coming into the room. - -“That it will be fairer to Jack to let him work out his own salvation,” - said Kent. “Let him work his way through the ranks. If there is anything -in him it will come out. You don't think me unkind, do you, Clytie?” - -Whereat Clytie laughed honestly and Kent received much consolation. - -They talked a little longer, on indifferent subjects, and then at -Winifred's hour of departure they all rose together. Winifred went to -the back of the studio and put on her hat; Clytie and Kent moved slowly -in the direction of the door. Kent sighed a little. - -“I only seem to have seen you for five minutes,” he said, “and I have -told you nothing, but given you commonplace advice.” - -“Had you so much to tell me?” she asked, smiling, as his unformulated -wish echoed within herself. “There is no reason for us to go away -because Winifred does. Would you really like to stay a little and talk -to me?” - -Before Kent spoke Clytie had not the faintest thought of doing this. -But in a flash came before her the long evening she was to spend in -the great lonely house. Thornton rarely came home for dinner. He even -dressed at his club. Often he slept there. On such occasions the first -notice Clytie received of his absence was from the inscrutable butler, -who would come into the studio in the morning with: “The commissionnaire -for master's letters, ma'am.” Occasionally three days passed without -their meeting. When they did pass an hour in each other's company -sometimes there was calm and sometimes storm. It depended upon his mood. -As a general rule he was polite, even bright and entertaining, and life -with him under these conditions was just bearable. But now the thought -came with some bitterness: What did it matter whether she was at home -by seven or eight--or twelve, for that matter? Why should she not have a -cheery hour with Kent? - -His face brightened as she made her smiling offer to stay. - -“It is too good of you. Of course I should like to have a talk with you. -But you--can you----” - -“Oh, yes,” she interrupted lightly. “I am not due home at any hour. -I want to chat with you myself. Winnie dear, we are going to remain a -little. Give me the key and I'll hand it to Mrs. Gurkins as I go down. -I haven't asked you, but I suppose we can?” - -“Why, of course, darling,” said Winnie, coming up and giving her a -farewell kiss. “I hate to think the studio isn't yours.” - -So Winifred went away and they remained as in the old days. The sudden -association gave Clytie a pang. A reaction from her enthusiasm about -Jack to weariness of spirit made her sink back listlessly in her chair. - -“What is the matter?” asked Kent, filling his pipe. “You are not looking -yourself. It is this steaming London. Why don't you go and get some -country air?” - -“Oh, one place is just the same as another. It isn't London and it isn't -the weather. It is the world that is out of joint, somehow. I am afraid -I have been moping. I think I shall invest in a cat. Then I can pour out -my grievances to it. That's the best of a cat: it never mopes. It goes -on purring cheerfully so long as it's warm and well fed, and when you -feel paradoxical it never worries you to explain yourself. Do you like -cats? I forget.” - -“What are you moping about?” he asked between the first few puffs of his -kindling pipe. - -“Oh, don't talk in that aggressively cheerful tone, Kent. I have come on -all over moods, and I want comforting.” - -“You should work,” replied Kent with some self-restraint. “You have -hardly touched a brush in earnest this year. It is the claims of that -part of your nature that cry out if they are not satisfied. Why don't -you go on painting? What has the fact of your not having to make your -living got to do with your art?” - -“Everything, in a way,” she murmured. - -“I can't believe it,” said Kent earnestly. “You are not the woman to -neglect your art out of pure idleness. Come, Clytie, rouse yourself and -paint a great picture. The 'Faustina'--what has become of that?” - -“Oh, don't, don't!” she cried, putting her hands up before her face. “I -can't do that now--can't think of it. Years hence, perhaps, when I am -a middle-aged woman, if I find it good enough to live till then, I may -try--but not now.” - -Kent laid down his pipe and drew his chair near to her. He was pained -and troubled. He saw that her nerves were a little unstrung; but the -Clytie he knew was the last woman in the world to give way to attacks of -this kind. And then a dreary conjecture dawned upon him, and his heart -sank. - -“My poor Clytie!” he said in his kind way. “You seem unhappy. I wish I -could do something to help you.” - -“Ah! it's too late now,” she said impulsively, scarcely heeding the -purport of her words. “You might have done it eighteen months ago--if -you had not been quixotic.” - -“What do you mean?” he asked, more and more troubled and at fault. -“Eighteen months ago? How could I have helped you? I loved you and hid -it from you. I could only have caused you pain. I love you now. I don't -hide it. Why should I? I am ready to help you if I can. I am stronger, -wiser now than I was then. How could I have helped you then?” - -The simplicity of his short, reiterative sentences and the sincerity of -his tone went to her heart, “You could have helped me then by not hiding -it.” - -“I don't understand,” he said. “How could the knowledge that I loved you -have helped you, unless you cared for me?” - -“Perhaps I might have cared for you,” she said wearily. - -“Oh, God, Clytie! don't say that. It is cruel!” he cried, starting to -his feet in great agitation. “I know I acted like a fool, but it was -with true motives. Don't twit me with them. It is more than I can bear.” - -Only then did Clytie clearly realise what she had been saying. The fit -of supreme dejection passed off as suddenly as it had come, and she felt -keenly the justice of his words. - -“Oh, Kent, Kent, forgive me!” she cried, with starting tears. “I hardly -knew what I was saying. You are so noble and true-hearted that you must -forgive me. Sometimes when a woman is wretched she has not control over -herself, and I am sometimes very, very wretched, Kent. I was thinking of -myself more than of you when I said the thing that pained you. Tell me -that you forgive me.” - -The appeal was too human, too unreserved, to be rejected by Kent's -tender nature. He sat down again by her and took her hand and kissed it -gently. - -“I have never seen you like this before,” he said. “I wish I could -comfort you.” - -He knew that it was no passing irritation or weariness that forced -the confession from Clytie's proud nature. It was something deep and -final--something impossible in her married life. Her wretchedness made -him forget his own longing in the desire to be of use to her and lighten -her lot. He let go her hand, which she allowed to lie on her lap as it -fell, with the palms lightly upwards. - -“I don't know why I have told you this to-day,” she said, not meeting -his eyes. “I have never breathed it or hinted it to a living being, and -it came upon me unawares. Don't despise me, Kent.” - -“Clytie!” - -“Oh, yes. I know what any outsider would say. I was posing as the _femme -incomprise_. I was casting away my womanly pride. Of all persons in the -world _you_ ought not to have been my confidant. Judged by conventional -canons I am to be despised, for what can the world say of a woman who -tells a man that still loves her that she regrets she did not marry him? -Oh, don't interrupt me. I may as well speak out my true self once and -for all to you. You yourself once remarked that if we were superior to -conventionalities of habit, we ought to extend our unconventionalities -to sentiment. You are loyal and staunch. You can help me by being my -friend, for I have no one else to turn to. My life is a dreary mistake. -My art does not satisfy me, because I have no hopes. One must have -enthusiasms to be an artist, and all mine are dead. Now you know.” - -There was a certain fierce pleasure in this self-abasement. It was like -the vengeance of her higher nature upon her lower, the whip of scorn -applied by the spirit to the flesh. - -He did not answer, but looked at her with inexpressible sadness in his -eyes. She added a few more words. - -“If you despise me for telling you, let me know at once. It would be -better.” - -“God forbid!” he said in a low voice. “I shall never apply to you the -conventional canons of misjudgment. I take what you have said to me as a -sacred trust, and thank you from my heart for thinking well enough of me -to give me your confidence. You must never ask me such a question again, -Clytie, for it would wound me.” - -“I believe you, Kent,” she said, raising her eyes to his in her frank -manner. “And I was wrong to say you _might_ have helped me, for you can -now. And you will?” - -“With my last breath,” said Kent simply. “It has been the torturing -regret of the last eighteen months that, much as I wished, I could never -do a hand's turn for you.” - -“But what can I do for you in repayment, my poor Kent?” - -“Be your own bright, eager self again. Throw yourself into your -painting, and the result I will take as my reward. It will be my -influence gleaming through your genius, and it will be sweet to me. Oh, -Clytie! you are wrong. A life is seldom so wrecked that it cannot be -reconstructed, for that implies the utter loss of faith. A grain of -faith in anything can move mountains; if one hasn't it, then it is time -to put an end to life altogether, it becomes one's duty not to live.” - -“I came within an ace of that at the beginning of the year,” said -Clytie, with a sad retrospective smile. “Some time I may tell you why. I -thought of dying, but then it seemed cowardly. Perhaps it was I had more -curiosity to go on seeing how the world went on than I was aware of. And -now, Kent, you have put things in a new light before me, and how can I -thank you for all your goodness?” - -“I have told you,” he replied, with a smile. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIV. - -The next morning, after writing her letters and attending to her -household duties, Clytie went into her studio with the praiseworthy -intention of stimulating the artistic impulse that had been flagging for -so long. Kent was right, she thought. Her life could be reconstructed. -She would begin her laborious art life again, resume it seriously as a -profession, put her pictures into the market once more. Amid the many -confusing thoughts and emotions resulting from her conversation with -Kent, one idea had sprung in connection with Jack. She could not adopt -the boy. That was a wild feminine craving, somewhat selfish, springing -out of a bitter hour when fairer hopes were crushed. It cost her a sigh -to resign; but she trusted to Kent's judgment, and her mind was so far -at rest. Yet if it could lie in her power to help Jack materially in -after years, when a little capital would be worth all the world to him, -she felt that she would have wrought some good for one human creature -at least in her somewhat self-centred life. And then Kent's advice as -to her art mingled and combined with these thoughts, and the outcome was -the sudden idea that the proceeds of the sale of her pictures would, -in course of time, form a very considerable fund. She clapped her hands -with delight when this occurred to her. A mountain of weariness seemed -removed. In the spontaneity of new workings she scribbled a hasty line -to Kent and had it posted with the address scarcely dry. - -“I am going to paint _seriously_, and _sell_ my pictures, and devote the -proceeds to a fund for Jack. Shall I?” - -She was in bright spirits this morning, having discovered an object in -life. The future has generally much more to do with our present moods -than the past. Yet, notwithstanding this broad truth, the immediate past -had a certain influence on Clytie's humour. Whilst she was driving home -the afternoon before, the gravity of the fact of her confession to -Kent had somewhat weighed upon her. She had spent the lonely evening -grappling with a truth that had been taking half-reluctant shape in her -consciousness for the last two months, and now rose clear and sharply -defined. She had even written to Kent the following portion of a letter -which she straightway tore up into the finest of pieces. In fact her -intention of sending it to him was from the first of the very remotest. -“My dear Kent,” ran this singularly feminine effusion. “My words to-day -were true. If you had told me you loved me eighteen months ago, I -should have realised myself and what it was that I felt towards you. The -knowledge of her own heart does not come to a woman with the easy grace -that your sentimentalists make out. It is somewhat of a fierce process, -Kent. There is no royal road to it. Well, I know my own heart now, and I -have bought the knowledge with agonies of suffering. Oh, Kent, my true, -loyal Kent! I am tired, tired of hiding facts from myself, of acting -in a wilful dream, in defiance of the promptings of my reason. I am a -woman, and I ought not to confess things to myself, let alone to you. -So people say--and people are so wise, aren't they? I love you, Kent. -There, I write it down in black and white. It looks odd, grotesque, -horrible, and yet wonderfully comforting. I love you, Kent. Why should -I deceive myself any longer? God knows whether it is for my happiness -in the future or my misery; but now that the beauty of it is upon me it -makes me wonderfully happy. Yes, wonderfully, wonderfully, wonderfully -happy.” - -And then she threw down her pen and shredded the paper with frenzied -zeal. But her heart was lighter. The world seemed a clearer, pleasanter -place. Her cheeks burned like fire at the thought of Kent ever knowing -of this feeling. She arranged in her mind the tenderest and most elusive -of relations between Kent and herself. He, a declared lover, should -give her all the comfort and kind counsel of a friend; she, his declared -friend, would find delicate, subtle ways of colouring and softening -his life with her love. A new paradise of exquisite emotion opened its -evanescent portals. For the first time in her life came the romance -of delicate sentiment, tinged with an innocent pink like the buds in -spring. It is true these same buds, to continue the analogy, burst into -gorgeous, riotous bloom under the summer sun; but while the tenderer air -of spring keeps them closed they have a grace peculiarly their own. - -Clytie moved about the studio singing, a sign with her of great content. -The window was open and the morning sun streamed in, filling the large -and somewhat heavily tapestried room with gay light. It glorified Clytie -as she passed across the patch of sunlight, falling upon her hair in a -thousand scintillations and revealing the deep sea-blue of her eyes. -She wore a soft cream morning gown, a golden tasselled girdle round her -waist, an edging of old lace round the somewhat open neck. The wide, -drooping sleeves she had caught up a little for convenience in working, -and her arms were bare to the elbow. The skirt clung around her as she -walked quickly about the room, with her old elastic tread, making a soft -frou-frou that pleased her, she did not know why. She was happy again, -filled with a double sense of the meaning of life. At last she sat down -before a small easel, on which was put the board with its fair sheet of -Whatman paper ready for the first sketch. In her rapid, eager way she -commenced to indicate the motive of the picture that had flashed like -an inspiration upon her. In the middle distance on the left a pair of -lovers, the woman looking with upturned face at the man, whose arm was -round her waist. In the foreground, peeping at them from behind a clump -of bushes, a girl of about seventeen, with a letter in her hand. The -contrast between the two female faces was the motive--the fulfilment of -knowledge on the one, the dawning revelation on the other. The title had -come with the conception: “Maiden and Woman.” Clytie worked on steadily -with her _ébauche_, keen, sure of herself, tingling once again with the -excitement of inspiration. She knew she could put that in their faces -which would raise the picture above the narrative prettiness of Sant and -his school. The accessories were to be severe to austerity. No elaborate -detail in tree painting, no subtle effects of light and shade. The -principle of abstraction to be as uncompromisingly carried out as in one -of Seymour Haden's etchings. The whole artistic force of the picture was -to be concentrated in the awakened and awakening souls. - -She was absorbed in her work when, after a tap at the door, Jack came -in. Clytie looked up with a smile. - -“You here again, Jack! That is good of you. But I can't say a word -to you--positively. I am so busy. Sit down somewhere until I have -finished.” - -The boy, used to these fits of absorption in his two artist patronesses, -sat down for a little and let his eyes wander round the studio, -looking at the pictures and nicknacks. Then he got up to make a closer -examination of vases and photographs, and walked about on tiptoe, trying -to still the noise of his iron-shod boots against the hard, polished -floor. At last he discovered on the bookshelves an illustrated History -of England, with which he retired to his favourite place on the -hearthrug. And so they remained for half an hour without saying -a word--Clytie bending over her study, Jack curled up with his -picture-book. It was quite still. A stray bumble-bee looked in now and -then at the window, buzzing querulously, as if he had lost his way in -London, and then darted off again. From the servants' hall came the just -perceptible voice of one of the maids singing a hymn-tune, and from -far, far away came the tinkling treble of a piano-organ. And these few -sounds, so faint yet so clear, accentuated the summer stillness. - -When Clytie had put the last few touches on the portion of her work that -demanded all her concentration, she gave a little sigh of relief. - -“What do you think of that, Jack?” she said, leaning back with her -head critically aslant. “Don't you think that is going to make a famous -picture?” - -Jack jumped up promptly, leaving his book open on the hearthrug, -and came up to her side. He was not a connoisseur, in spite of his -associations with art, so he said nothing, but grinned appreciatively, -rubbing the calf of one leg with the instep of the other. - -“Well,” asked Clytie, “why don't you admire?” - -“You aint given them no faces,” said Jack. - -“Ah! This is to be one face,” she said, pointing to a kind of _remarque_ -at the foot of the sheet. “Or something like it. Now just use your -imagination, Jack. This face is to go there--the woman whose whole -nature has been awakened, and is shining out of her eyes, and quivering -on her lips, and is vibrating all through her frame--all of which is -Greek and Chaldee to you, my good Jack; but I may as well explain. And -now I have got to fix a face for this one. What kind of face do you -think I am going to give her?” - -“I dunno,” murmured Jack. And then after a slight pause: “And what's the -man going to be like?” - -“Ah!” said Clytie with a mock sigh. “What a little Philistine you are! -The man can be any kind of creature on two legs. What does it matter -about the man? He is a nuisance. I have a good mind to make him awfully -ugly with a face like a rhinoceros. See, like this.” - -She made a few rapid strokes with her charcoal in the oval left for the -man's face, and the result was a picturesque monster with a long nose, -Mephistophelian eyebrows, and a moustache curling up to his ears. Then -they both burst out laughing. - -“Let me draw some funny men for you,” she said in the light-hearted -buoyancy of her mood. “Run and get me that sheet of paper over there.” - -She pinned the sheet that Jack brought her on to the board and began to -draw caricatures. - -“You shall choose one for me to put in the picture, Jack.” - -It was a long, long time since she had indulged this freakish side of -her genius. It ran riot now in grotesque exuberance. Here a head with -wide, leering mouth and pointed ears, like the devil that looks over -Lincoln; there a snouted monster with cat's whiskers, an eyeglass, and -a silk hat; a lean, cadaverous, equine face with a terrible squint; a -masher, indicated by three or four little dots and lines. Jack looked -on in rapture. She had never drawn pictures for him before. He broke out -now and then into breathless exclamations. - -“Lord, he's an ugly one! Give him a long nose--longer than that; and, my -eye! that's a wart upon it. One of the teachers at school has a wart on -his nose. That's just like him! And where's this one's 'ed?--he's all -body and legs!” - -And then he jumped and clapped his hands when the head was seen to -emerge from between the knees after the fashion of the boneless wonders. - -When she had filled up the last space on the sheet she tossed the -charcoal into the tray, and rose from her seat. - -“There, Jack! There's nothing like going absolutely mad on occasions. -Now if you'd like to keep these pictures and show them to the boys at -school, you can.” - -She rolled up the stiff piece of drawing paper, slipped an elastic band -round it in her hasty way, and gave it to Jack, who could only look his -delighted thanks. - -“Now I must go and wash my hands and get decent for lunch. Go downstairs -and tell Mrs. Pawkins to give you something to eat. Stay--you had better -leave that roll up here; come in for it before you go.” - -She took it from him, and laid it on a little table near the door. She -did not desire that the inquisitive eyes in the servants' hall should -witness the mistress's frivolity. Jack understood her more or less, but -Mrs. Pawkins and Mary and John would have questioned her sanity. - -Jack lingered for a moment on the threshold, and then drew shyly from -his handkerchief pocket a dingy, whitey-brown packet. - -“I came to show you this,” he said, putting it into her hand. “I prigged -it from mother's drawer this morning. You'll give it me back, won't -you?” - -“I have a good mind not to,” said Clytie severely. “If your mother knew, -she would be very angry, and you would catch it. Still, as you have been -a good boy, I'll look at it and give it you back. Run away, now.” - -Jack did as he was bid, and Clytie, after a few turns about the room, -putting things more or less straight, unfolded the dirty wrapper of -Jack's packet, with an amused curiosity as to the features of Jack's -father. - -But in another second all her curiosity, amusement, idle interest, -were fled, and her whole emotive force concentrated into a short, -irrepressible gasp of astonishment. It was a photograph of Thornton, -her husband. There was no mistaking it. She had the fellow to it in her -album. One day long ago she had seen it among his odds and ends, and had -begged for it, loving it for all that it was so many years old, taken -when he was still in the army. He looked so stalwart, soldierly, -magnificent in his uniform. It was perhaps the likeness of him that she -had cherished most--only too familiar. For a moment she could hardly -understand--the shock was so sudden and unexpected. Then with the quick -reaction she realised what it meant. Thornton was Jack's father, Mrs. -Burmester was his mother. With a shudder of disgust she threw the -photograph on the table. - -The riddle of Jack's parentage was solved in a way she had not looked -for; the mystery that had lain hidden in strange, unknown depths of -passion was now clear to her in all its unlovely nakedness. Her soul -sickened at the truth. She had not come to her husband with the helpless -ignorance of a young girl. The knowledge of good and evil, to employ the -somewhat meaningless euphemism, had come to her through her intelligence -by means of books, through her contact with real life. She had grasped -the fact of the existence of the Loulou Mendès type with whom love is a -trade. That a man should have had a liaison with such a woman she could -have understood. In fact she never at any one moment had fancied that -Thornton had brought to her the pure ardour of a virgin soul. To have -been revolted at the discovery of a mere antenuptial infidelity on the -part of her husband would have been to her impossible. It was not noble, -it is true; but it was intelligible. There was certainly for a lower -nature a charm, witchery, fascination, in the fleshly beauty of the -courtesan. She had heard of many men falling victims to it, and sinking -very little into degradation. If Jack's mother had been such a woman, -she would have felt little more than the shock of coincidence, a sense -of strangeness in her relations with the boy. But Jack's mother was not -of this type. She never had charm, witchery, or fascination. She had -never even passable good looks. A poor, stolid, dull, animal drudge. - -The truth had come upon Clytie; the truth that had touched her now -and then with its bat wings, making her shiver; the horrible, -soul-nauseating truth of the eternal _beast_ in man. She knew Thornton -now as he was, and her indifference passed into loathing. In Thornton's -feelings what difference had there been between this boy's mother and -herself? - -She walked swiftly up and down the studio, with clenched white hands, -her shoulders rising now and then in an involuntary heave of disgust. -The glory had gone out of the day. A foul shadow overspread it. - -Suddenly Thornton himself appeared with eager face, a telegram in his -hand. He had just come in from riding in the Park, and according to the -modern fashion out of the season, was dressed in tweed suit and gaiters. -He carried a silver-headed riding whip jauntily under his arm. He waved -the telegram exultingly. - -“They have asked me to put up for Witherby!” he said. “I'll have some -lunch on the strength of it. I suppose there's some going.” - -“I believe lunch is at the usual hour,” said Clytie, not looking at him. - -He lingered a little, flicking his legs with his whip. - -“You might as well congratulate me, if only for the sake of politeness,” - he said in an injured tone. - -“Oh, yes; I congratulate you,” she replied. - -Her voice sounded strange in her own ears. She felt an almost -irresistible impulse to burst forth into a torrent of speech, to say -out finally all the bitterness and loathing that were in her heart. She -restrained herself, but the effort gave a queer guttural resonance to -her words. She turned and looked out of the window. - -“What the devil's the matter?” he asked impatiently. “I came in, 'pon my -soul, thinking you'd be pleased. It's a safe seat. I'm dead certain to -knock the confounded Radical into a cocked hat. Just the moment when -I've got what I've been sweating for the last eighteen months, confound -it all, I did think you'd be civil for once in a way. But it's just like -you; I might have expected it. Well, perhaps it's the truth to say you -don't care a damn one way or the other.” - -He walked to and fro for a little, fuming. Then his eyes falling on the -photograph that lay on the table, he picked it up, as an angry man will -do, looked at it absently for a moment, and pitched it sharply to the -other side of the room. Clytie, startled by the slight click of the -cardboard striking against the wall, turned half round and met his eyes -fixed loweringly upon her. Each held the other spellbound for a few -seconds. Then the door opened and Jack came into the studio, checking -his motion forward as he saw Thornton. - -“What the deuce is this?” cried the latter. - -With a swift, instinctive glance Clytie compared the two faces. They -were astonishingly alike. The same finely moulded features, dark lucent -eyes, brown crisp hair, white evenly set teeth; the same lines of -cruelty at the corners of the lips. Strange that, much as she had -studied Jack's physiognomy, the likeness had never suggested itself. At -Thornton's petulant question the boy looked at him half frightened, and -then at Clytie, and was about to shrink back. But she called him in. - -“Don't go away without your drawing, Jack. This,” she said coldly to -Thornton, “is a _protégé_ of mine. He was once my model--for my picture -'Jack.' Here, Jack, take your drawing. Run home. Thank you for coming to -see me.” - -“And--and the photograph. You said you'd give it me back.” - -Clytie went to the table where she had thrown it. Not seeing it, she -remembered the sound that had startled her, and turning round, perceived -the photograph lying face upwards on the floor. She gave a little start -of dismay. The situation threatened to become dramatic, and she was -unprepared. In her hurry to dismiss the boy she had forgotten the -photograph. Now he had called attention to it, and she felt bound to -restore it to him to save the poor little urchin's honour and most -probably his back. And Thornton was leaning against the mantelpiece, -with his hands in his pockets, frowningly surveying the scene. With -outward calm, but with a beating heart, she picked up the photograph, -wrapped it in the dirty covering, and put it into Jack's hand. Thornton, -who had watched her movements with gathering surprise, strode forward -with an oath. - -“What the devil----” - -But Clytie quickly interposed herself between him and the boy. - -“Run away!” she said in a hasty whisper, and Jack, accustomed from his -childhood to sudden dartings, disappeared like a flash. Clytie put her -back against the door and looked at her husband with strange eyes. It -had been done with the speed of a conjuring trick. - -“What on earth is the meaning of all this?” asked Thornton; “and what -are you giving away my photographs for? Upon my soul, I think you are -taking leave of your senses. You'll have to drop this sort of thing. I'm -damned if I am going to have my photographs given away to all the street -urchins in London. Play the fool yourself if you like, but I'll trouble -you to keep me and my things out of it. Have you been giving me away any -more?” - -“Oh, God! Thornton, you have given yourself away!” she cried, echoing -his slang phrase half unconsciously in her bitterness. “I'll tell you, -if you like. The photograph belongs to the boy's mother. He is your -child.” - -“What!” cried Thornton in a voice of thunder, showing his teeth -savagely. - -“Yes, your child,” she went on, striving to be calm. “His mother's name -is Burmester. You gave her the picture yourself years ago. I had just -made the discovery when you came in. Ah--h!” she cried, putting her -hands suddenly before her face, “it is horrible, horrible!” - -“Ha!” retorted Thornton fiercely. “You are in one of your damned -high-horse moods. Well, I did give one of my father's kitchen-maids a -photograph, and she did have a child, and I paid her for her trouble, -and, damme! what that's got to do with you now is more than I can see. -Besides, you never were such a fool as to imagine you were marrying an -infernal saint.” - -“Oh, stop! stop!” she cried. “Don't say anything more. You will -brutalise me as well as yourself. I never thought you a saint--even when -I cared for you. I know what you are, and, oh, God! this is the end of -it. If you had betrayed a sweet, innocent girl, you would have been -a villain, but not necessarily a brute--someone charming, pretty, -attractive--I could have understood it; but a poor stupid drudge--a -kitchen-maid--little better than an animal----” - -Thornton rushed forward and caught her by her shoulder. - -“By the Lord God! if you don't hold your tongue, I'll strike you!” - -She saw that she had aroused the devil in him. She had meant to be calm, -to tell him plainly the facts of the case and to say that it would be -better that they should live apart. But an irrepressible shudder had -come over her, and then the brutal cynicism of his confession had caused -her the loss of her self-control. As she saw the blazing eyes and white -glittering teeth in front of her and felt the grip on her shoulder, she -regretted that she had been, in a way, to blame; but she was no coward, -and the threat awakened the fierce old Puritan courage in her nature. -She did not flinch, but looked him directly in the face. - -“Your striking me would only add to your other brutalities.” - -“Damn you!” he cried in blind fury; and swinging her round, he struck -her with the riding whip with all his huge strength, cutting the back -of the thin morning gown, that flew open at the gap, showing her bare -shoulders. Then he hurled her from him and rushed out of the room. - -With an almost superhuman effort of will Clytie sprang to her feet, -stood for a moment dazed, stunned, on fire with agony, then staggered -forward and threw herself upon the bearskin rug, with the illustrated -History of England, open as Jack had left it, beneath her face. - - - - -CHAPTER XXV. - -Suddenly Clytie rose to her feet and left the studio. As she moved a -strange weight seemed to lie upon her limbs. It was a physical effort to -drag herself up the stairs to her bedroom. Her heart seemed to be burned -through, a fiery sword to have been thrust through her temples. It was -the supreme moment of the horror and abasement of her married life. One -intense thought possessed her; to fly from the house, to escape from -the area of Thornton's influence, to bury herself somewhere far away. -Mechanically she changed her things, choosing one of the simple morning -dresses she had retained since the days before her marriage, and bathed -her feverish face and hands. The cold water refreshed her, restored -adjustment to her quivering nerves, and she was able to think, form a -coherent plan. - -She would go forthwith to her old rooms in the King's Road, which she -knew to be vacant. There she would live again as Clytie Davenant, -and shut out of her memory the nightmare of the past months. The plan -conceived, she hurried to put it into execution. She would have liked to -open the street door there and then, to cross its threshold for the last -time. But the practical side of life asserts itself in the midst of the -intensest emotions. She would have to pack her boxes, select what -things she would take with her. The aid, too, of the servants would be -necessary. After a swift look at the glass she composed her features, -summoned her maid, gave her orders in a calm, equable voice, as if she -were going on an ordinary visit in the country. - -While the servants packed the articles she designated, she went down to -the studio in order to collect a few of the portable objects that were -dear to her: Rupert Kent's etching, the Jacquemart that Kent had given -her, a book or two, a favourite box of oil-tubes. All the rest she would -leave behind, together with everything that Thornton had ever given her. -The maid, an excellently trained servant, packed quickly, but to Clytie -she seemed unutterably slow. It was an effort of control to refrain -from urging the girl on, from snatching the articles from her hands -and stowing them away anyhow, haphazard. Every moment that she lingered -seemed an eternity of degradation. In after days she wondered that she -had never reflected how far Thornton's possible presence in the house -might have affected the ease of her escape. As it happened, he had flung -out of doors as soon as he had left her stricken upon the floor; but -she, in the fixity of her idea, never concerned herself as to his -whereabouts. - -At last, when the boxes were packed and locked, the maid, dangling the -keys in her hand, asked Clytie when she should order the brougham. - -“I shall go in a four-wheeled cab with the luggage,” said Clytie. - -“Go and order one round at once.” - -The maid retired wonderingly, and Clytie was left alone. She put on her -bonnet and sat down on the edge of the bed to draw on her gloves. Then -for the first time her eye fell consciously upon her wedding-ring, -and thereupon came over her the sense of all that her present action -implied: the final renunciation of the marriage-tie, the assertion of -her own individuality, the beginning of another life. And yet, in spite -of her repudiation, the tie remained, indissoluble except by death, and -this little circlet of gold was the symbol. With a twinge of pain she -wrenched it off, for it was tightly fitting, and went and threw it in a -jewel box containing the jewellery that Thornton had given her. At any -rate, she could spare herself the hourly misery of this visible bond. It -was a poor kind of relief to leave it there with the other tokens of her -wifehood. - -Then, as she waited, her crushed pride rose a few degrees. Whatever -subsequent steps Thornton might take, her departure should at least -not have the indignity of flight. A scribbled line would save her -self-respect. When the servants came into the room to take down the -boxes to the cab she had written the note. - -“I am leaving your house. I go back to my old rooms in the King's Road, -where I shall resume the life I led before I knew you.” - -Then only did it occur to her to inquire of the footman whether Mr. -Hammerdyke was in. The man, who was accustomed to the separation between -the lives of his master and mistress, replied, without manifesting any -surprise at the question, that Mr. Hammerdyke had gone out just before -lunch. - -“Put this note in his room for him,” said Clytie. “I shall be away some -time.” - -In a few moments she had started. With a little convulsive moan, wrung -involuntarily from her lips by her agony of body and soul, she leaned -her head against the rusty cushions of the ramshackle vehicle and closed -her eyes. The day was still glorious, London bathed in sunlight, the -streets filled with life and motion. For all the world but her the -promise of the morning was kept. As the cab slackened its pace on -crossing the Fulham Road she opened her eyes for a moment, and looked -vacantly, as if in a dream, out of the window. Then she relapsed into -her darkness. - -“And I was so happy this morning,” she murmured to herself. “I could -have lived the better life--with Kent's help!” - -Kent! She started, as a wave of blood rushed to her cheeks. She was -going to Kent now, to live under the same roof with him once more, to -see him daily, to take him more intimately than ever into her life. -Until now she had not realised this coherently. Vague thoughts of him -had passed through her mind, but she had been too dazed, too sickened, -too much possessed by the overpowering longing for freedom, escape -from the house of bondage, to connect him definitely with her immediate -future. And in the unconscious sequence of ideas a little self-reproach -came into her mind, bringing with it a sense of soothing. Why had she -not thought of Kent at first, of the true, loyal friend and lover, on -whom she could rely for strength and comfort? How could she have been so -much wrapped up in herself and her wrongs as never to have given him -a place in her plans? And then the tide of feeling ebbed back again, -leaving her heart quite cold and sad. How could she meet him? How could -she tell him? The eternal woman in her shrank from the confession. If he -had been to her but a friend, it had been easy. But she loved him. -Had not her heart sung within her that very morning, only a few hours -before, at the grace and tenderness of her at last awakened love? -And she fought, womanlike, against she scarce knew what, striving -to disentwine herself like Laocoon from the coils that love and -circumstance had wound, in subtle intricacy of convolution, about her -heart. But for all her shrinking she longed for Kent. If only he could -understand it all without her telling! If only he could come that -evening and sit by her side and hold her hand in strong, mute sympathy! -Well, she would conquer her woman's diffidence, and tell him bravely. -She felt she owed him a little reparation. The inherent delight in -putting itself in the wrong is perhaps one of the most elusive traits of -a woman's nature. - -The cab stopped before the familiar side door. Mrs. Gurkins, standing -beneath the awning of the shop between the stalls of cabbage and -fruit, gave a gasp of bewilderment as she saw Clytie alight from the -luggage-laden vehicle. She ran round through the connecting passage and -opened the front door. - -“You are not coming to stay here, miss?” she asked. - -It was only in moments of calm reflection that she could bring herself -to address Clytie more decorously as “ma'am.” - -“Yes, I am,” replied Clytie in her decisive way. “Can I have my old -rooms?” - -“Of course, miss--but----” - -“Well, have my boxes taken up and get things straight for me, Mrs. -Gurkins. You know what an erratic creature I am, don't you? I think I am -going to stay a very long time. I'll go and see Miss Marchpane while you -do all that is necessary. You'll forgive me for putting you to all this -trouble?” - -“La, miss--ma'am, I'm that glad to have you back! But Miss Marchpane -left early to-day--about an hour ago. You can go up to the sitting-room. -I was cleaning it out only yesterday.” - -Clytie went upstairs to the familiar room, and took off her bonnet -and gloves. In a few moments the boxes were brought up. When she had -unpacked these and arranged their contents, and eaten as much as she -could of the meal that Mrs. Gurkins prepared for her, the glorious -afternoon had melted into night. She sat by the open window and looked -out upon the hurrying street below. It was a Saturday evening. The whole -population of the district was astir buying their Sunday provisions -or their Sunday headaches. Bands of the youth of both sexes clattered -noisily past, singing hoarsely or darting from pavement to roadway in -loud, dissonant gaiety. Along the kerb stretched the line of costers' -barrows with flaming naphtha torches, and the faces of the sellers -and buyers stood out clear in the glare. A babel of sounds arose: the -confused murmur of private conversations pitched in the discordant key -of the unrefined, the raucous cries of the costers offering their wares, -the shrill “Buy! buy!” of the butcher a few yards away and the rapid -click of his steel, the doleful nasal dirge of a tramp woman holding a -vague bundle looking like a baby in her arms, the continuous scraping of -feet, the roar of the 'buses and carts in the roadway. - -Clytie had often before sat on Saturday evenings at her window, lost -in the wonder of speculation upon the individualities of the units that -composed this hurrying, bawling, laughing, cursing crowd. And now she -felt the old fascination creep over her. The noise and movement acted as -a counter-stimulus to the fierce whirl of emotions through which she had -passed during the day. She lost for the time the sense of loneliness, -soul-sickness, and bodily prostration in this external world of tumult. -What did it all mean, this hurry and strain? Looked at as a whole, -it seemed to indicate that life was intense, earnest, throbbing with -infinite variety of passions, an end in itself, to be carried on, -because it was life, to all eternity. It seemed real, practical, -objective, obeying inscrutable, immutable laws. The planets circle round -the sun; our solar system circles round another focal sphere. It is -great, it is glorious, serving some great and glorious end; yet what -that end is no man knoweth. And so with the collective life that surged -beneath Clytie's window, yielding blindly to the unchanging laws that -direct the cosmos. If this movement was meaningless and vain, then did -the stars wander futilely in their courses. Sin and shame and misery, -love and laughter and happiness, what did they matter in the progress of -collective life? They are internal forces affecting its resistless march -as little as the incessant motion of men affects the rotation of the -earth. - -But the individuals, when detached from the conglomerate mass of -humanity--what was this life to them? How far was it a gracious thing -to yonder bawling cheap-jack, with his red, sodden face? And the factory -girl, with her feathered hat and deep fringe overshadowing pinched, -soulless features, looking hungrily at his Brummagem wares; the fat, -unintelligent workman's wife gossiping loudly of sickness, death, and -funerals; the besotted navvy stumbling along in the grip of a soberer -friend--how far were they intellectually, spiritually, cognisant of -life? Again as of old these questions presented themselves to Clytie. -During these latter months she had been too closely confronted with the -problems of her own personality to interest herself in that of others. -But now a newly awakened self-knowledge had given her a key to mysteries -to the elucidation of which she had once devoted all her artistic -powers. She had arrived at the truth of the relativity of individual -life. There was no such thing as absolute fulness of existence. -Everyone--coster, factory girl, statesman, poet--was striving, each -in his way, after a completer life, but the ideal of completeness -was limited by each individual's capacity for action, sensation, and -thought. Hence yonder factory girl's life might be relatively as full -as her own, the hunger for the unknown that would complete it as loudly -clamourous. Clytie was glad for the moment, almost happy. New artistic -stirrings seemed to be at work within her soul. Heretofore she had -sought a solution for the problems of life through her art. Might not -this newer knowledge and more extensive sympathy enable her to present -finely perceived truths, thus making her art less self-centred, more -universal? - -This train of thought was working through her mind as she sat by the -window, resting her cheek on her arm. - -Gradually, however, the thoughts confused themselves into a medley of -dim associations, which in their turn became lost in drowsiness. Worn -out by the physical strain of the day, she fell asleep in the midst of -the uproar that arose from the hurrying street. - -Suddenly she became conscious of a presence beside her in the room, and, -starting up, beheld Kent looking down upon her. - -“You'll get cold or a stiff neck or something sleeping by the open -window like that,” he said in his kindly way. “And yet I did not like to -wake you.” - -“I do feel a little cramped,” said Clytie, rising. “But the night is -hot. Bring another chair and sit down. I shall not go to sleep again.” - -Kent did as she bade him, and they sat on either side of the window, -Clytie with face half averted looking into the street, Kent leaning -forward, gazing at her with troubled eyes. For some moments neither -spoke. At last Kent broke the silence. - -“Clytie!” - -“Yes?” - -“Was I wrong to come in? Do you want to be alone? Tell me frankly and I -will go.” - -“No; stay,” replied Clytie slowly, without turning her head. “I wanted -you to come. I don't know why. How did you find out I was here?” - -“Mrs. Gurkins caught me in the passage. She said you were staying some -time. I knocked at your door, but you did not answer, so I looked in, -saw you asleep there. I could not resist the temptation of coming nearer -so as to see your face. You look so done up, you must go to bed early -and have a good night's rest.” - -“Ah, Kent! How like you!” said Clytie, looking quickly round at him. -Womanlike, she was pleased that he had not expressed wonderment at her -presence in the house, and beset her with abrupt questions, but tried -instead with delicate sympathy to put her at her ease. - -“Can you guess why I am here, Kent?” she asked in a low voice. - -“I dare not try,” he replied. - -“I have finally parted from my husband.” - -“Good God! Clytie, what do you mean?” he cried, with a leap at his -heart, followed by a feeling of great pity for the woman he loved, an -aching sense of the irony of things. “It has been a misunderstanding. It -will all be cleared up in time,” he continued unsteadily. - -Clytie shook her head. - -“No; thank God, this is the end. See my hand: that which was there I -drew off to-day for the first time. It shall never be there again.” - -“Clytie, my dear friend Clytie!” said Kent, very much moved. “What can I -say to you? My heart aches for all that you must have suffered. You told -me yesterday your life was not what I thought it to be, for I fancied -you happy, with all around you to make the world bright and glorious. I -do not know what to think now. Is there no hope for your happiness?” - -“Oh, no, Kent, not that way. Let me tell you at once what I can. Don't -judge me severely. I did what lay in my nature to do. I bore things that -nearly drove me mad, although perhaps many other women would not have -looked on them as burdens. But my marriage was a mistake--for both of -us. And then--oh, how can I tell you? Something happened to-day, the -climax, rendering further life there impossible. Oh, I can't speak or -even think of it!” - -Her voice ended in a moan and a shivering catch of her breath, and she -covered her face with her hands. Kent leaped to his feet quivering with -a sudden intuition. - -“Clytie, you have been wronged far more than by mere misunderstanding. -Did he dare----” - -“Yes--yes. Don't think of it. It's all over.” - -“But I must think of it. It is like a red-hot iron in my heart. I -can't bear it. All last night I lay awake thinking of your unhappiness, -tortured by regrets, hating the man who made your life a weariness to -you. I never thought of this. The coward! The brute! Oh, my God!” - -And as he strode up and down the room, with set lips and clenched hands, -Clytie looked at him half-wonderingly. She had never seen her calm, -strong Kent so moved by passion. She went up to him, with natural -impulse, and put her hand on his shoulder and looked into his face. - -“You need never speak or think of this again, Kent. It is all over, -buried. For nearly a year we have lived almost as separated as we shall -do henceforward. I have come to be Clytie Davenant once again, to lead -the old life of work and happiness with you and Winifred. I can blot -out the past eighteen months like an evil dream in which I have suffered -much and learned much. We can work together as we used to do, Kent, and -you will find me, I hope, a better, gentler woman, dear. Now forget all -about it, as I shall do. Remember what you said yesterday--that no life -was so wrecked as to be incapable of reconstruction. You cannot tell -what comfort you gave me. And I cannot tell you what happiness I passed -through this morning--before--ah, well----Oh, Kent, my true, loyal -Kent! I am a very weak woman, and I want your goodness and help and -tenderness. You can do nothing to help or avenge what has passed. You -can do all for me in the future if you will.” - -“What I can do is small enough, God knows!” replied Kent. - -“Do you know what you can do for me?” - -“Tell me.” - -“Let me forget myself and my selfish wants in trying to bring some -help and gladness into your life. I wronged you deeply once--I wronged -myself; let me make reparation.” - -Kent turned aside and passed his hand across his forehead. - -“You must not think of me,” he said in a low voice. “I am rough and -strong, with no particular burdens to bear. Some day or the other, when -you are happy, I will come to you with my little griefs for the sake of -having them charmed away by your sympathy; but until then let me think -of you--help you if I can. If I can't, Heaven knows it will not be for -want of longing to do so.” - -“Kent,” said Clytie very softly, unconsciously moving nearer to him, “I -am happy now. Can't you see that I am?” - -Kent's heart beat like a sledge hammer; a wave of passionate love swept -through his veins, thrilling him to the finger tips. He was conscious -that if he turned his face the hair on her forehead would brush his -cheek. Never before had a woman spoken to him in that strange tone. The -world stood still for a moment. Then in a blinding daze of light, in -which all things in heaven and earth were drowned, he turned, caught her -to him, and kissed her. - -Slowly Clytie freed herself, held out a restraining hand, and, with -steps strangely faltering, moved across the room to the couch, where -she sat down and hid her face in the cushions. Kent paused for a moment, -steadying his senses still reeling from the shock of the first kiss of -love he had ever given to woman. Then he went and stood by her side. - -“Forgive me, Clytie. It was base of me. But it was something beyond -my will that acted. You forget that I love you. I have wronged you, my -queen, my life! If you can ever trust me again, I will devote myself -to making you forget that I have dared to love you. I ask your pardon, -Clytie.” - -He stayed for a moment looking at her bowed figure. Then, as she gave no -sign that she was moved by his appeal, he left her, and with a strange -mingling of death and gladness in his heart walked lingeringly to the -door. But just as his hand was on the knob Clytie rose impulsively from -the couch, and with hair ruffled and her cheeks glowing came up to him, -and it was she who opened the door. - -“You are pardoned, dear, for I love you.” - -A moment later she was alone. And she resumed her position by the open -window, and looked out upon the busy scene. But she heeded it not. Her -sight was directed to the mysteries of an invisible world. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVI. - -Clytie's last words rang in Kent's ears all night. She loved him. She -had surrendered herself to his kiss, she had told him her heart in -plain, unequivocal language. In the first blaze of this happiness he did -not perceive the gloomy background of their love. All that he could feel -was that Clytie had left the life to which he had been a stranger, that -she had come back to live in his daily company in the old helpful way, -that, furthermore, her simple friendship had changed into something -unutterably sweeter. He looked into the future and found it glowing with -many rose tints of beauty. He saw Clytie and himself carrying out to its -fullest his brave gospel of work--to its fullest because of their belief -and trust in one another. He saw Clytie painting noble pictures, drawing -strength and confidence from his sympathy--himself stimulated to great -achievement, the prose of life transmuted into sonorous epic, lyrical -gladness, elegiac grace. The fever in his blood kept him awake as image -after image passed before his fancy. But whether the vision was of -Clytie walking by his side through the gaslit streets, or of Clytie's -glorious head strained back to view the effect of brush strokes he had -suggested, or of Clytie sitting by the table as he worked, the lamp -between them, it ended always with the warm touch of Clytie's lips -beneath his, and the low, clear voice, “I love you.” - -This exaltation is common to most men when a strong love comes to them. -But to Kent it was all the intenser through the peculiarities of his -nature. He had lived without the sphere of women. The passionateness of -his temperament had thrown itself utterly into another channel. His work -had been his love, his wife, the centre of all his energies, all his -hopes. The craving for the unknown complement of existence had -found satisfaction in the added line upon line, the growing bulk of -manuscript, the builder's thrill when the creation of his own brain is -materialising itself course by course into a majestic edifice. Besides, -action, whether it was spending hours in a musty library in the exciting -search after a reference, or tramping for miles in the keen mountain air -of Norway, always fascinated him and compelled the entire energy of his -being. He beheld the earth after his wholesome fashion and saw that it -was good. To him life was complete. Things, therefore, not contained -within his sphere he looked upon as superfluities. Woman was a -superfluity; the impulses of sex repugnant. The very intensity of -his nature made him shrink all the more strenuously from the sexual -principle upon which love is built. When, however, love came to him, -in spite of himself, he was dazed with it, terrified. On that January -morning when he buried his face in the faint perfume of Clytie's -handkerchief he felt himself overcome with a kind of horror. The fierce -consciousness that he would give his soul to hold her in his arms and -kiss her hair and eyes and lips was to him a torture of debasement. This -morbidness was due only to the violence of the reaction. It lasted but -a short while, and toned down into a feeling of disloyalty to Clytie's -friendship in daring to love her. But time at last adjusted his moral -balance, when it was too late, and Clytie was lost to him. And then his -love was purified into a deep, passionate devotion that was its own joy -and recompense. If circumstances had remained unchanged, Kent would have -carried this deeper than romantic love with him to the grave. It had -grown into his inmost heart, informing that subconsciousness that makes -a man's individual life. Even during the last few months, when they were -meeting in frank, friendly fashion, his love had altered very little in -kind. He believed her to be a happy wife, loving her husband, with whom -in a moment of bitterness he had once silently measured himself. The -precious boon of her friendship was regained, nothing more, and it was -given to him, under no false pretences on his part, but all the more -tenderly because she knew of his devotion. Secure in the impression of -her happiness, he would never have wavered in word or thought from his -straightforward, simple loyalty, and his days would have passed in quiet -contentment, saddened a little, perhaps, by regrets for what might have -been, but never tormented by longings for the impossible. - -But conditions were no longer the same. Clytie had renounced her married -life. Except as a memory of bitterness it had no place in her thoughts. -Except by a legal fiction she was her own mistress once more, free to -go and come, think and act. Even in name she would be Clytie Davenant -again, and she had spoken to him in that strange tone he had never heard -before, and had come nearer to him as her touch lay upon his arm. The -whole pent up passion of Kent's life had gone forth into that kiss. For -Kent the world was changed, and the night a dream of unutterable things. -But by the morning it had brought counsel. This love, acknowledged on -both sides--whither would it tend? A great problem. So great a one, -indeed, that Kent was tempted to shirk grappling with it. Courage and a -stout heart, he said to himself, and all would be well. But one cannot -rid one's self in this easy way of responsibilities. If you shake them -from your shoulders, they shackle themselves about your feet. Kent felt -thus fettered as he lay awake. Moreover, his early misgivings concerning -Hammerdyke came, like the curses in the proverb, home to roost. If he -had spoken to Clytie then, before her marriage, possibly she might have -been spared all this suffering. He wished that he had obtained from -Wither all the particulars of the ugly rumours that had been afloat, -investigated them, confronted Clytie bravely with the truth, and so -saved her from wrecking her life. And yet he felt that he could not -have done so. Well, what was past was past. The present and the future -contained enough matter to engage his attention. He lay for some time in -bed trying to solve these perplexities. At last, at half-past nine, he -rose, dressed, and went into his sitting-room to prepare his breakfast. -This was a simple process. On a couple of gas-stoves, connected by -india-rubber piping with the two gas-jets in his room, he placed a -kettle and a saucepan, the latter containing eggs. Then he spread a -little cloth on a clear space of his dresser-table, and brought out his -crockery and other breakfast requisites from one of the under-cupboards. -A ham somewhat cut into, butter, and marmalade he procured from a safe -in a third little room on the landing which he used as a combined larder -and lumber-room. For years Kent had enjoyed the simple Bohemianism of -this Sunday morning meal. He could linger over it easefully without the -weekday glance at his watch, when time was short. There was the Sunday -paper, a weekly review or two, the long, undisturbed after-breakfast -pipe. It was a time when he could release himself with free conscience -from his busy life and enjoy his leisure. But this morning the eggs -seemed stale, the ham tasteless, the journals dull, and he found himself -looking at his watch. He would go down and see Clytie at eleven, an hour -which he had himself arbitrarily fixed upon, and he was counting the -minutes. It is surprising how long minutes are when you count sixty of -them. - -At last eleven o'clock came and Kent descended the stairs. But Clytie -was out. Mrs. Gurkins, who answered his ring on Clytie's bell, informed -him that Miss Davenant would not be in for lunch. Perhaps she would be -back during the afternoon. So Kent went upstairs again, disappointed, -and, after vainly trying to occupy himself, seized his hat and went out -for a long tramp through Putney and Wimbledon. His heart was full -of strange emotions that beset him for many hours, making them seem -hopelessly long. Of the two Clytie passed by far the happier day. - -In the afternoon, on his return, he heard voices in the studio. He -knocked and entered. Clytie was there with Winifred. - -“Can I come in?” - -“Of course,” said Clytie. “Why do you ask? We have been expecting you -ever so long. In fact we have kept tea waiting for you.” - -He put down his hat and stick, nodded as usual to Winifred, and -advanced, through force of later habit, with outstretched hand, to -Clytie. She laid her fingers in his slowly, looked up at him from her -chair by the stove, and laughed. - -“You forget I am no longer a visitor, Kent,” she said rebukingly. - -“Only this once, then,” he answered, “to welcome you back among us.” - -“Where have you learned to make pretty speeches?” asked Clytie. - -She was pleased with the words and gave his hand a sudden pressure. - -Kent brought a chair up to where Clytie and Winifred were sitting, tried -to talk lightly, and failed. A silence came over the little party. Tea -caused a distraction, and they fell to discussing indifferent subjects, -odds and ends of gossip, but in a desultory fashion that each found -strange. At last Clytie rose, cut the Gordian knot in her impulsive way. - -“I am going to do one or two things in the sitting-room,” she said. “You -two have a talk until I come back.” - -Kent opened the door for her. On the threshold she turned and whispered -to him: “Talk to Winifred a little. You will do each other good.” - -He closed the door after her and went back to Winifred. - -“So we have her with us again.” - -“Yes,” she replied gently, “and I don't know whether to feel sorry or -glad.” - -“Did you know--had you any idea that she was unhappy? I never knew till -yesterday--or the day before.” - -“I think I knew--before--perhaps because I am a woman. It made my heart -ache.” - -“But she is not unhappy now,” said Kent. “Therefore you ought to be -glad.” - -Winifred glanced at him swiftly. In spite of the brown softness of her -eyes they were woman's eyes, capable of quick, subtle perceptions. - -“But will she be happy, Kent?” she asked, bending down over her -needlework. As she had not been able to paint, she had taken in hand, by -way of feminine comfort, some sewing for Clytie. - -“What do you mean?” he asked, with a man's preference to answer a -concrete question rather than a delicately hinted suggestion. - -“Will not this tie that cannot be loosed hamper her all through her -life?” - -“God knows!” he said gloomily. And then, brightening, he added: “But we -have her with us for always, Winifred, and we who love her can try to -make her forget it.” - -“Ah, can we, my dear Kent?” she said, putting her work and both hands in -her lap and looking at him. “You love her, but you can't love her as -I do. Oh, no, no,” she added as he smiled and shook his head. “You may -think you do, but it is not possible. You have found faults in Clytie -and scolded her--oh, very kindly and sympathetically, I know, but still -in your eyes Clytie can do wrong. In mine she can't--and there is the -difference. Clytie is not like other girls. She is like no one in the -world. Everything must give way to her. If Clytie were to do something -you would think _dreadful_--commit a murder--I feel that she would be -justified in doing it, and I should love her all the more tenderly and -dearly.” - -“God bless your loving little heart!” cried Kent. “Love like yours could -make the most miserable creature on earth happy.” - -“Ah, no, Kent. What could I do for her? Listen: I was a poor, -friendless, ignorant, uninteresting little girl when I first met Clytie. -And she was kind to me. She seemed so brave and strong and clever and -beautiful, I quite shrank from her. I felt so small and humble beside -her. And she singled me out from among all the rest of the girls at the -Slade School, and made me her friend. I never could tell what she found -in me.” - -“She can tell, and I can, too,” exclaimed Kent with abrupt -enthusiasm--“the purest, tenderest flower of a soul that ever breathed!” - -“Oh, Kent!” said Winifred as the colour rose to her dark cheeks. “You -must not say things like that. Clytie has done everything for me, -everything--and I----” - -“You have helped Clytie as no one else could have done,” said Kent, “and -you are doing it now.” - -“Am I?” - -“Yes; don't you see how bright and happy you have made her?” - -“She is brighter than I should have thought,” said Winifred musingly. -“But will it last?” - -“We must try to make it lasting, you and I,” said Kent softly. - -He pondered for a moment over the love in each of their hearts, the -girl's and the man's. How exquisitely pure and selfless hers seemed to -be! He could not realise it in all its beauty, but his perceptions had -been refined enough for him to be profoundly touched. - -“You have taught me something, Winifred,” he said after a pause, during -which she had quietly resumed her sewing. “I am happier than I have been -all day.” - -Clytie returned soon afterwards. She looked curiously at the faces of -her two friends, and then, divining, perhaps, something of what had -passed between them, went up to Winifred and kissed her. After this they -talked more freely--of old habits, plans for the future. The latter were -vague, for Winifred's marriage with Treherne was fixed for the early -part of the next year, and the studio without Winifred was unrealisable. -Still the plans were food for much intimate gossip, which some may liken -to the very salt of life. - -When Winifred had gone, Kent went with Clytie into the sitting-room, -where, furnished with hammer and nails, he hung the few pictures that -Clytie had brought with her, together with some that had been lying -about the studio. It was a delight to him to perform this little service -for her, and she too felt the woman's happiness of being surrendered to -a man's helpfulness. He fetched from his own rooms a bookstand, which -he secured against the wall, a few curios, and an armful of the dainty -cushions, chair backs, and curtain sashes with which his sister Agatha -in misguided zeal had years ago supplied his drawers and cupboards. - -“They are not as artistic as your odds and ends, you know,” he said by -way of apology. “But until you can get some together they will be more -cheerful to look at than Mrs. Gurkins's efforts.” - -He had just completed his scheme of decoration when Mrs. Gurkins came -up to lay the cloth for Clytie's dinner. Clytie detained him as he was -about to go. - -“Won't you stay and dine with me?” she said half timidly. - -She felt that she could not dismiss him. To do so on conventional -grounds would be the silliest prudery. Besides, a sense of helplessness -had come over her, and she wanted him by her side, longed for him to -think and act for her. The touch of any incident bordering ever so -slightly on the dramatic would at that moment have sufficed to free -the spring of feminine reserve and loosen passionate expression of her -longing for his presence. But the simple commonplace of the situation -saved her. Kent's eyes brightened at the invitation. - -“And we can have a long evening afterwards?” he asked half pleadingly. - -“Of course,” said Clytie, with an inward smile. - -On Monday morning Kent, as he was starting for the Museum, put his head -in at Clytie's sitting-room door. She was at breakfast, having risen -rather later than usual. By her side was an open letter. As Kent entered -she pushed back her chair and looked up at him, a gleam of gladness -eclipsing in her eyes a late expression of pain. Kent noticed the sudden -change. - -“You have been sad, Clytie,” he said in his rough tenderness. “That is -not right. Did you not promise me last evening that you would be happy, -very happy?” - -“So I shall be,” she answered, taking his hand in hers and turning away -her head. “Only there are things that cut one to the heart. You are a -man; you can't understand a woman--no man can, no matter how he loves -her. Look, read that--the end of the sordid story of my latter life. Oh, -Kent, I am not worth your love! This thing has degraded me enough, and -this last insult----Oh, read it and see. It would be better that you -should know of how little account I really am.” - -Kent took the letter which she thrust into his hand, and, without having -read it, tore it into tiny pieces which he scattered through the open -window to the four winds. Then he came and put one arm around her. - -“Because one man insults you, dear, it is all the more reason that I -should love and shield you. That part of your life is dead now. You said -yourself this letter was the end. Let it be so, Clytie.” - -His delicacy and tenderness moved her very deeply. Womanlike, she had -wanted him to read the paper, and yet loved him all the more for not -having done so. The letter was her own note to Thornton, which he had -returned with “You can go to the devil!” scrawled across it. The sheer -brutality had made her lose, as it were, her self-respect, had presented -her to her own eyes as a thing of naught, unworthy of the reverential -love that Kent brought her. How could she honestly be to him the -brightest and noblest of women with that scrawled thing dragging her -down? Accordingly his actions and words gladdened her. She looked up at -him, and he read as in some magical book the spell of tenderness that -swam in her eyes. Then he threw himself on his knees before her and -buried his face in her lap. - -“Oh, my love, my love!” - -And, stirred to her depths with a passionate thrill that was like a -great pain, she threw her arms round his neck and kissed him. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVII. - -Two years passed, outwardly uneventful, yet momentous in the -development of inner life. Her marriage sometimes appeared to Clytie as -a far-away episode, a kind of dream state in which she had been invested -with a strange, unrealisable personality. Yet influences had remained, -impulses had been awakened, that could not again lie dormant; knowledge -had come to her that could not lapse into oblivion, leaving no trace -behind. In her daily intercourse with Kent her nature expanded. It -lost imperceptibly that vein of hardness which her struggle for -self-development had fostered, and the disillusions and repugnances -of her marriage had gradually been strengthening. Except in a brief -interval of intoxication she had never known the woman's sweetness of -surrender. The great triumph of surrender had never even then been hers. -And this was gradually making itself felt in her heart during the two -years that passed from the time of leaving her husband's roof. - -They contained hours of sweet bitterness, it is true. Although Thornton -had gone out of her life like an evil phantom, yet the legal tie between -them remained unbroken. Mrs. Farquharson, who seldom did things by -halves, after seeing her idol broken trampled it underfoot into a -thousand pieces, and vehemently tried to persuade Clytie to seek after -a divorce. She even insisted upon her taking counsel's opinion on the -matter. But there was no definite evidence obtainable to support an -action at law, and Clytie, sick at heart, was glad to dismiss the -question from her mind forever. Yet in the eyes of the world she was -Hammerdyke's wife, and so she would have to remain until death -parted them. Perhaps when enlightenment sheds a fuller ray upon our -civilisation we shall make radical changes in our marriage laws, for -they are based upon the sad old fallacy that human conduct and human -emotion are indifferently susceptible of regulation. As yet we can -universalise only on material things: security of property, full -stomachs, and warm backs for the poor. The facts of broken lives and -torn hearts we can recognise only in particular instances, as they come -within each man's individual sphere. The universality of spiritual, -moral, and emotional suffering is as yet far from being a national -conception. When this is attained we may hope for social conditions -happier than those under which we struggle at present. - -Thornton had taken the most effectual steps to become an undisturbing -element in Clytie's life. The constituency for which he had intrigued -and striven to be nominated did not return him at the bye-election, -which took place soon after Clytie's departure, but chose instead a -radical lawyer with an insignificant presence and a shakiness as to -aspirates. Thornton was disgusted and humiliated at his defeat. Politics -lost their charm. An offer from the Belgian government to reform the -administration in a wide tract of country whose borders were infested -with Arabs came to him at this juncture, and found him in a mood for -acceptance. He bade Mrs. Clavering a sardonic farewell and replunged -into the wilds out of English ken. - -Winifred only remained in the King's Road for a few months. Early in -the new year she married Treherne, and Clytie was left alone. The studio -seemed very forlorn for some time afterwards, robbed, as it were, of an -inherent tender grace, a softening, refining influence that had always -been dear to Clytie, even in her days of greatest wilfulness. Yet it -gladdened her to know that Winifred was happy--married to a man of fine -fibre who could value the exquisite gift that the high gods had given -him. - -“You are a lucky girl, dear,” she said to the young bride one day when -visiting her in her new home. - -“Of course I am,” replied Winifred enthusiastically. “A man like -Victor----” - -“Oh, yes,” replied Clytie drily. “I know. He is all perfection. But the -man doesn't live who is fit to black your boots, my child. I did not -mean that; I meant that you were a lucky girl in having eluded your -obvious destiny.” - -Winifred looked at her open-eyed. - -“I always used to think somewhat sadly about you,” Clytie went on. “I -seemed to read in your face and eyes that you would marry a man quite -unworthy of you, who would ill treat you, and that you would love him -more as he became worse, that your life would be a dreadful, purposeless -sacrifice. And now you see how you have escaped. Victor is just the -husband I could have picked out for you. So you are a lucky girl.” - -“I wish you were as happy as I am, darling,” said Winifred, looking at -her somewhat wistfully through her own gladness. - -“Perhaps I am,” replied Clytie, with a flush. “Who knows? Utter -completion of existence is not possible in this imperfect world of ours; -and if my life has its gaps that ache a little, yet it has its fulness, -believe me, dear. I am happier now than I have ever been. After all, the -gaps matter very little.” - -“Now you are getting somewhat beyond me,” said Winifred. “I can't quite -follow you.” - -“Ah, you needn't, Winnie dear,” replied Clytie. “Only go on loving and -trusting me. Don't you see that I am happy because I too have a good -man's love?” - -“But if--if you had been--if things were different--you might have -married,” said Winifred hesitatingly. - -“That does not make the love less beautiful and life-giving,” replied -Clytie. - -This and other conversations of a like tenor succeeded finally in -allaying Winifred's doubts as to Clytie's happiness. An uneasy burden -was lifted off her mind, glad as her heart was in the new joy of her -marriage. Henceforth she was content to take Clytie's assurances, and -to trust in her own rooted idea that Clytie's deep, complex nature was -beyond the reach of her simple comprehension, and ungovernable by the -canons that regulated commoner clay. Strong in this faith, she triumphed -in the first little conflict of opinion that arose between herself and -her husband. Fine and generous as his views were, he had, nevertheless, -a strict churchman's regard for the proprieties of life. The recognised -intimacy between Clytie and Kent, harmless as it appeared before -Clytie's marriage, had begun to cause him certain uneasiness. He was -fond of them both, partly for their own sakes, partly on account of his -wife. An unkind thought concerning them hurt his sensitive nature, -and yet, as time went on, such thoughts began painfully to formulate -themselves in his mind. At last his conscience forced him to broach the -subject to Winifred. She listened with a little flush of spirit in her -cheek, and then broke into such a warm torrent of words that Treherne -was fairly amazed. He had never dreamed that his gentle, brown-eyed -wife could be capable of such passionateness. Her logic of devotion -overmastered his scruples, and he was almost converted to Winifred's -unswerving faith. At any rate, from that time forth he was Clytie's firm -friend and ally. - -During these two years Clytie was in some need of friends. The society -in which she had moved during her married life was a world unknown to -her now. Only the circle of her girlhood's acquaintances remained, and -of these some manifested disapprobation at the mode of life she had -adopted. Every staunch adherent was therefore of inestimable value, and -half unconsciously she clung to every hand held out in friendship. - -The resumption of her life with Kent had produced also great tension in -her relations with Durdleham. Finally it snapped them entirely. - -“I don't for a moment suppose,” wrote Mrs. Blather in the last letter -that passed between them, “that everything is not most innocent and -honourable on both sides. But your conduct is grossly imprudent and must -inevitably give rise to most painful scandal. It is your duty both to -the name you bear (painful though the associations connected with it may -be) and to that which you had from papa to put yourself beyond the reach -of calumny by living no longer beneath the same roof as Mr. Kent. Until -you do so papa and Janet and myself will consider that any regard you -may have had either for ourselves personally or for our honour as a -family has entirely gone, and, I grieve to say it, our doors, though not -our hearts, will have to be closed against you.” - -Clytie read her condemnation very sadly. She could not blame her sister. -Mrs. Blather was acting conscientiously, according to the faith and -tradition she had inherited from her Godfearing ancestors. Petty and -futile as many of the formulas were by which she had been trained to -regulate human conduct, yet there were great ones which could not do -otherwise than command respect. “Thou shalt not sin,” is a formula the -obeying or renouncing of which is often a secret for one or two human -hearts alone. Its corollary, “Thou shalt not appear to be sinning,” - is one which must be dealt with openly, under the world's eye. Mrs. -Blather's judgment was based on this latter formula, her position -unassailable. She had no Winifred to shake with the eloquence of love -her faith in the formula's eternal verity. She was supported by the firm -convictions of a lifetime, and by the unhesitating assent of her -father and sister. The letter cut off all Clytie's hopes of ever being -understood by her family. She herself knew their inmost hearts, was -conversant with every principle by which they were guided, and she -could bear them no ill will. But to them she knew she would be forever -inscrutable, and she accepted their judgments with sad resignation. - -In point of common fact, she was called upon to make the old, old choice -that has been offered to woman in all ages, between her family and the -man she loved. Without a moment's hesitation she chose the man, and -severed herself finally from her kin. Kent had become the object of her -life. She had loved him--she knew that now--before her marriage. She -had wronged him, as it seemed to her, by not having realised it, -had received notwithstanding a tender, absolute devotion whose brave -selflessness had been a revelation to her. No sacrifice that she could -make for his happiness was too great for her. She loved him with the -whole strength of her full nature. If any sacrifices on her part were -not made, it was Kent that forbade them. The less he would accept the -more did she find in her heart to offer. That she should remain in what -they had begun to look upon as their common home seemed to be a vital -necessity to his happiness. The mild, affectionate approval of Grace and -Janet could not compensate the great loss that each would sustain in a -rupture of their intercourse. Any appeal to her sister she knew would be -useless. She was firm in the path in which she had elected to walk, and -Mrs. Blather's letter remained unanswered. - -But Kent could not take this comprehensive view of humanity. That Clytie -should be cast off by her family aroused his indignation. - -“They never loved you,” he said one day. “You were always a thorn in -their flesh, and now they have seized an opportunity of plucking you -out.” - -“You are wrong, dear,” replied Clytie. “They loved me in their -unemotional fashion, and if I were to die they would shed many tears and -wear mourning for a whole year. But don't you see that I am of Samaria? -I cannot pray in the temple of Jerusalem, and the houses of Israel are -closed against me. It is of their religion to do so. They believe that -the 'bread of the Samaritan is as the flesh of swine.' We cannot change -their faith. We can only seek in Samaria for freer conditions of life, -and the love of those who are Samaritans at heart.” - -“If I loved you less, I might take up as lofty a position as you,” said -Kent. “But I cannot bear that even a Pharisee of the Pharisees should -presume to judge you.” - -“They have been judging me rightly or wrongly all my life,” said -Clytie, with a smile. “It was my own challenge; I gave it vehemently and -passionately as a girl when life lay before me like a closed book which -they refused to open for me. Now that I have learned some of its -secrets I give the challenge with a calm conviction that I am acting in -accordance with laws higher than theirs. So do not fret about me, dear.” - And then she added in a low voice: - -“You know I would give up all I could have in the world for you, if you -would accept it.” - -Then Kent put his arms around her and kissed her. - -“I accept far too much in my selfishness,” he said. “My old lonely life -was happy, but it could not be so again. So in spite of all, Clytie, I -say, Stay with me.” - -“I should stay whatever you said,” returned Clytie. “Don't fancy that -all the giving is on my side.” - -One sad event marked the mid-time in these two years, robbing Clytie of -an external interest that had grown to be very dear to her. The boy Jack -died. - -The first meeting with him after the terrible scene in her husband's -house was in the studio, whither he had betaken himself on one of his -frequent visits to Winifred. A sensation of pain caught at Clytie's -heart as she marked the lines of Thornton's features wrought in -miniature on the boy's face. It only lasted a few moments, and then it -melted away into a great pity. Jack was Jack, were Thornton twenty times -his father. That he was so parented should make her pity for him all the -greater. She never felt more drawn towards the boy than in that first -interview. She told no one but Kent of the secret of his parentage, not -even Winifred, to whom Jack, in spite of full intentions, never had -an opportunity of showing the photograph. For Mrs. Bur-mester having -discovered that Jack had temporarily abstracted it, had cuffed him -soundly and secreted the coveted treasure in a secure hiding-place. - -Whatever hopes Clytie might have entertained as to Jack's future were -cut short by the change in her circumstances. All she could do was to -contribute towards his training in the sphere in which the high gods, -assisted by Kent and Treherne had placed him. Besides, he had manifested -no particular intellectual bent. His gifts were rather those of action; -books wearied him, except such as dealt with wild exploit and adventure. -And she shrank now from the idea of his entering the army--a feminine -distaste, easily understandable. So she had perforce to concur in the -scheme whereby he should remain another year at the school and then -be apprenticed to a respectable trade. Kent comforted her with his -assurances. If the boy had the fire of success in him, he would rise -out of the common ranks. Life was all before him with its endless -fortuities. With devoted friends watching and guiding him, it would be a -poor world if he did not arrive at ultimate good. And Clytie in her -turn comforted the boy, trying to soften and mould his nature with her -womanly influence. - -It was his last term at the school. He had won for himself the golden -opinions of the authorities. The semi-animal little arab of four years -ago had developed into a bright, self-reliant lad of generous impulses, -subject, it is true, to fits of ungovernable passion, but quick to -forgive, repent, and do penance. Suddenly Clytie received a telegram -that Jack was very ill. She left her work and started immediately for -the school. There she found that diphtheria had broken out among the -boys, and Jack's was the most critical case. Day and night she nursed -him. But it was of no avail. The boy died, and Clytie returned to London -with a cheerless sense of loss. Mrs. Burmester, who came to see her -after the funeral, whimpered a little, and hoped that Clytie would -recommend her to any of her friends who happened to be in need of a -charwoman. And then Clytie looked at the mother, thought of the -father. After all, if the laws of heredity had anything to do with the -controlling of human destinies, were it not better for Jack to be dead? -When the woman had gone she went and stood before the replica of her -famous picture which she had painted for Kent, and shook her head sadly. - -“What I have painted there,” she said to Kent, “the cruelty and -animalism that seemed to have gone out of his face latterly, would -always have remained. Human nature is a palimpsest, dear. What is -written is written forever, though it seem obliterated, and may be -called up to the surface at any moment. I call Jack happy, being dead.” - -With the exception of this episode the weeks and months passed in -peaceful uneventfulness. Clytie worked assiduously at her art. At first -the studio seemed lonely and dispiriting without Winifred. But other -influences compensated her loss. As soon as it became known that she had -resumed her profession, orders came in plentifully and kept her busy. -And then perhaps Winifred's absence brought her nearer to Kent. If she -worked hard all day and failed to reach her artistic ideal, it was deep -comfort to know that Kent's whole-hearted encouragement would soon come -and cheer her and save her from depression. They had learned to depend -much upon each other in their work. In every mood they were constant -companions, never weary of each other. Instead of walking home from the -Museum, as he had done for years, Kent would hurry back by train from -Charing Cross to Sloane Square, so as to shorten her loneliness by half -an hour. A cup of tea, a talk over the day's work, perhaps a stroll -along the Embankment, dinner, and then the long quiet evening as in the -old days--such was the ordinary routine. Certain changes had naturally -occurred in Kent's habits--changes for his distinct good, as Clytie -used to declare laughingly. He rarely used the attic sitting-room. His -scratch Bohemian meals were things of the past. What law of God or man -forbade them to eat together? Clytie asked once in the early days when -they were talking of household trifles. And then Kent bluntly insisted -upon an arrangement whereby they divided equally the rent of the rooms -they inhabited. It was not fair, he maintained, that he should give -her sitting-room all that wear and tear without helping to pay for it. -Clytie yielded, not unpleasurably, seeing that he was bent upon it, but -she reserved the studio as her own especial sanctum. - -The charm of the life grew daily upon Kent, with its infinite grace of -little things. He told her this often, with awkward sincerity, as a -man can only tell the woman he loves deeply. And Clytie would laugh -contentedly and say: - -“But you'll soon get tired of these organised meals and long for your -freedom again. Don't you ever crave to be swallowing your coffee as -you brush your hair in the mornings? And doesn't it chafe you all the -afternoon at the Museum to think that there is a regular dinner awaiting -you when you get back?” - -“No; somehow I like it,” he would reply, laughing. “I believe I am -developing into respectability.” - -Combining their resources they were able to entertain in a modest way -those of their friends who perfectly understood their relations--the -Farquharsons, the Trehernes, Wither. On these occasions Mrs. Gurkins's -husband, a lean, self-effacive man, would wait at table in the severest -of black and lend immense dignity to the meal. Wither was a constant -visitor. The “monastery” was broken up; Fairfax had taken a practice in -a large country town, Green had taken a wife. Wither complained -bitterly, railing at them both for their disgusting selfishness. Clytie -learned to love the bright-eyed, gnomelike little being, his cynical, -paradoxical talk, his large-heartedness which he was ever anxious to -conceal from the world. Often when life seemed to weigh a little heavy, -the future to loom somewhat sad, and Kent and Clytie had been sitting -alone, a spell of wistful silence over them, Wither would come in -unexpectedly, and, with his subtle feminine perception piercing to the -heart of their mood, would exert himself to extra brilliancy and -dissipate their cloud in laughter. A man by no means requires delicate -tact to win a woman's love, but no man who displays it towards a woman -can fail of winning a little of the overflow of her heart. Clytie was -grateful to Wither. Once, when bidding him good-night,--Kent had gone -into the passage,--she added impulsively, “and thank you.” - -He looked at her in his odd way, with a smile playing around his lips. - -“What for? For being miserable and lonely and making use of you to cure -myself?” - -But they understood one another, and he was touched by Clytie's little -tribute. And Clytie had spoken out of her heart. - -For, in spite of the helpfulness and comfort of their life together, -there were gaps in its plenitude which, as she had said to Winifred, -ached a little at times. Kent was tenderness, manly sympathy itself: he -would have cut his tongue out rather than formulate a longing that -could not be satisfied. But moments came when the irony of life seemed -somewhat bitterly mocking, and caused a veil of sadness to be drawn -between them. And like people who love deeply each was sensitive to -the variations in the other's mood. Then Clytie would yearn for the -impossible: to fix forever the light she loved to see in his eyes, to -cling to his arm and be acknowledged his wife before all the world. Thus -through the midst of their happy, earnest life ran a vein of sorrow. - -But the years that had passed, with their manifold emotions, -experiences, and disillusions, with their awakenings of passion, with -their plentiful gift of tears, with their later gift of an almost holy -communion of souls, had completed the woman and the artist. One hunger -remained to her--one that had had no place in her girlish cravings--a -woman's hunger that is as a thing sacred, and wondrously softens her -nature. An infinite compassion took within her the place of scorn. Her -eyes had learned the trick of tenderness which illuminated her bright, -fearless face. Her judgments became less harsh, gained in breadth what -they lost in brilliance. She “saw life steadily and saw it whole.” Many -of its mysteries had been revealed to her, and she had learned the road -to the heart of others. The great lesson that Kent in the years before -had suggested to her she grasped in its entirety, and it revolutionised -her artistic career. No longer was her art a stepping-stone, a -magic-lantern sheet on which to project life in order to realise its -meaning. It was no longer the objective form of a vague craving, but -the idealised record of an experience. When she painted the wistful, -old-world look in a waif's eyes it was no longer with the impatient, -fretful hope that its significance would be taught her from her own -canvas; her awakened sight gazed with the sorrow of knowledge into the -young soul, and she used her art to bear witness to the world of -what was there. In a dim way she was conscious of this change of -attitude--seeking within herself for the reason of the deeper, intenser, -calmer feeling with which she approached her work. There came, too, -a sense of responsibility, the necessity of perfecting whatever she -painted in its presentation of truth. As her genius expanded the inner -interpretation of the formula, “Art for art's sake,” dawned upon her in -the realisation of the “sorrowful great gift” whereby the artist has -the privilege of piercing through the media of sense and intellect and -touching the naked soul of man. - -She went, as of old, into the streets for her models, choosing the side -of life least understanded of Philistia, sublimating that which was -spiritual, eternal in abject and outcast, beggar and courtesan. Strange -were the walks of Kent and herself about the great city, by day and by -night, and strange the spars and fragments of humanity they picked up in -these rambles, who found their way afterwards to Clytie's studio. They -went together to East End music halls, bank holiday gatherings, thieves' -kitchens, night clubs in the West End, where ladies are admitted free -on a member's introduction, Kent paying his subscription almost at the -door. It was towards women that Clytie's sympathy flowed the strongest. -Her first contact with one of _ces autres_ in the hotel at Dinan had set -a chord vibrating within her that now rang out full and true. She could -paint these women, young, withered, children on the lurid threshold, -old women with charred and blackened past. It is the moralist's part to -condemn, evolve the moral; the artist on the higher plane disintegrates -the spiritual from the animal and presents it in the form of Truth. From -the comedy of misery, the tragedy of sex, the never ending drama of vice -and crime, the one draws groans, the other tears. Each has his place -in the cosmos. Thus Clytie, artist and woman, walked through the -abomination of desolation and opened the eyes of the world to the -glimmering spiritual rays that shot across it. - -Once more she took out the studies she had made for the “Faustina” - picture. This time she could look on them without a shudder, only sadly. -The picture would never be painted. She was no longer in feverish, -passionate search after mysteries that had baffled her. The picture now -had no artistic reason for existence. It would be a cruel, despairing -work, a tragedy of cynicism. Knowledge of the world had given her -knowledge of self; she knew now how blent were the foreshadowings of -passion in her own soul with those that she had hungered to express on -the young face of Faustina. In those days she could have found a model -in her own mirror, and then the personal note dominating the picture -would have saved it from heartlessness. For the complete woman to paint -it would be the presentation of the damnation of a young soul. But the -contemplation of her earlier work suggested vividly the converse of -the subject--a Faustina swept away by the whirl of passion with the -after-light of innocence in her soul's depths. The conception grew -within her, took form, awoke the full artist in the ripe woman. With a -throbbing sense of mastery, a quivering thrill of inspiration, new to -her as the first love kiss on a young girl's lips, she betook herself to -her task. - -It was the 5th of August, two years after Clytie had resumed her -artistic life with Kent. The afternoon was hot and oppressive. Clytie -was tired and lay back on the couch by the window, for she had worked -unceasingly all through the summer and the strain was beginning to tell -on her. - -They had just returned from the West End Gallery, where Clytie's picture -had been exhibited during the season. This was the closing day, and they -had gone to see the picture for the last time. A wealthy American had -purchased it for the art museum of his native city, and to-morrow it -would be packed up and sent over seas. - -“It's like parting forever from the child that is dearest to you,” she -said with a little touch of melancholy. “That is the worst of painting. -A poet or a musician--even an etcher can keep his work by him, but a -painter loses all. Doesn't it seem hard?” - -Kent acquiesced, comforted her, spoke with vague cheeriness of the law -of sacrifice which we must all obey. On the other hand, she must think -of all that the picture had brought her, the public fame, the homage of -those whose opinion was dear to her. - -“Yes; in all that I have succeeded beyond my wildest hopes,” said -Clytie. “But what is it? At the Redgraves' the other afternoon crowds of -people stared at me, whispered each other requests to be introduced to -Clytie Davenant. The men praised all the wrong points in my picture, and -the women tried to get at the way I did my hair. I know it's flattering -to one's vanity, dear, and I like it. I honestly like it. But it is a -superficial little gratification. Now it is all over I begin to think of -what that picture has cost, what has gone to the making of it. Neither -money nor fame can pay me back.” - -“It has cost you hours of work in which you have found happiness,” said -Kent. “You must not overlook that.” - -“Oh, Kent!” cried Clytie, not seeing for the moment that he had -deliberately avoided the deeper elements in her thought. “Don't you -know what I mean? You who have been just now preaching to me the law -of sacrifice! Don't you know that to be the woman to paint that picture -there were sacrificed the traditions and formulas of my home--there were -sacrificed the first pure flush of a girl's love, the illusions of a -wife, the joy of motherhood, the dignity of a proud woman?” - -She raised herself impulsively on her elbow and continued with flashing -eyes: - -“Don't you see that? And you of all men who have shared with such -bitterness in the sacrifice! Yes, you, my dearest, my best, my love! -Your life has been sacrificed, your love, your devotion, your nobleness. -For once in the world the man has paid, and not the woman. For two long -years we have lived together, eating at the same table, living a common -life, which, had one great fact been non-existent would have crowned our -days with happiness. I am of Samaria--I don't care. I have offered to -you to defy the world, to live openly together, to bear your name. You -have said 'No,' for my sake sacrificing yourself. Can this life -last forever? Have not the past two years been filled with longings, -restraints, bitternesses, regrets, all silently working--you too loyal -to utter them, I dreading lest the utterance of them on my part should -render you unhappier?” - -“I have been happy,” said Kent. “A thousandth part of what you have -given me would have made me more than happy.” - -“But your due is a thousand times more!” cried Clytie. “I have given you -little enough, but I have drawn from you the breath by which I live, the -strength, the passion, the will by which I have reached my poor success. -It can't be so any longer; it would be unjust, cruel!” - -“Stop, my darling!” exclaimed Kent, greatly agitated. I am a man, and -you are saying things a man cannot bear from the woman he loves. Let -us finish this before it is too late, and I lose mastery over myself. I -have thought over it all--with the fiercest hunger in my heart--even -in moments of our love that have been worth a century of misery. I -have thought over it all ways. What was impossible two years ago is -impossible now. I will not wreck your life by condemning you to scorn -and ostracism and the loss of all that the outside world can give you.” - -Clytie did not reply, but turned her face towards the open window, -looking with knitted brow into the patch of blue heaven that was just -visible over the tops of the opposite houses. A great, great longing -possessed her, an infinite tenderness towards the man who could speak -and act so selflessly. She longed to be able to say three little words, -summing up the yearning of her heart: “For my sake.” But they seemed -unutterable at that hour. Perhaps at another time, in a moment of less -vehement tone, when he was unawares, the words could be whispered in his -ear. She sank deep into the thought--utter woman. - -A long, long silence, which Kent, uncomprehensive, like a man, did not -dare to break. A thought had seized him too, a troubling doubt. Would he -always be as strong? - -At last he drew mechanically out of his pocket an evening paper that he -had bought on the way home, and as mechanically opened it and began to -skim the contents. - -Suddenly he leaped to his feet with a loud cry: - -“Clytie!” - -She sprang up, startled, and saw him standing with white cheeks and -shaking hand, holding out the paper. - -“Read--he--he--read!” - -Clytie took the paper from him, and her eyes instinctively fell upon the -paragraph: - -A telegram from Loango announces the death of Mr. Thornton Hammerdyke, -the well-known explorer, in a skirmish with some Arab slave-traders. -Later particulars will be given in our next edition. - -The newspaper fell from her hand, and they remained for some moments -facing each other, trembling. Then she lowered her eyes and went to him -humbly. - - -THE END. - - - - - - - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's At The Gate Of Samaria, by William J. Locke - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA *** - -***** This file should be named 53993-0.txt or 53993-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/3/9/9/53993/ - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by the Internet Archive - - -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. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm -concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, -and may not be used if you charge for the eBooks, unless you receive -specific permission. If you do not charge anything for copies of this -eBook, complying with the rules is very easy. You may use this eBook -for nearly any purpose such as creation of derivative works, reports, -performances and research. They may be modified and printed and given -away--you may do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks -not protected by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the -trademark license, especially commercial redistribution. - -START: FULL LICENSE - -THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE -PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK - -To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free -distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work -(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project -Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full -Project Gutenberg-tm License available with this file or online at -www.gutenberg.org/license. - -Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works - -1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to -and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property -(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all -the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or -destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your -possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a -Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound -by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the -person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph -1.E.8. - -1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be -used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who -agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few -things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works -even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See -paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this -agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below. - -1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the -Foundation" or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection -of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual -works in the collection are in the public domain in the United -States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the -United States and you are located in the United States, we do not -claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, -displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as -all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope -that you will support the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting -free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm -works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the -Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with the work. You can easily -comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the -same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg-tm License when -you share it without charge with others. - -1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern -what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are -in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, -check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this -agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, -distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any -other Project Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no -representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any -country outside the United States. - -1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: - -1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other -immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear -prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work -on which the phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the -phrase "Project Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, -performed, viewed, copied or distributed: - - 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. - -1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is -derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not -contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the -copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in -the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are -redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase "Project -Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply -either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or -obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg-tm -trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. - -1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted -with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution -must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any -additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms -will be linked to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works -posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the -beginning of this work. - -1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm -License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this -work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. - -1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this -electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without -prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with -active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project -Gutenberg-tm License. - -1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, -compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including -any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access -to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format -other than "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official -version posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site -(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense -to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means -of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original "Plain -Vanilla ASCII" or other form. Any alternate format must include the -full Project Gutenberg-tm License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. - -1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, -performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works -unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. - -1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing -access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works -provided that - -* You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from - the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method - you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed - to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he has - agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project - Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid - within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are - legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty - payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project - Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in - Section 4, "Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg - Literary Archive Foundation." - -* You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies - you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he - does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm - License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all - copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue - all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg-tm - works. - -* You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of - any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the - electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of - receipt of the work. - -* You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free - distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. - -1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic work or group of works on different terms than -are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing -from both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and The -Project Gutenberg Trademark LLC, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm -trademark. Contact the Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. - -1.F. - -1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable -effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread -works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project -Gutenberg-tm collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may -contain "Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate -or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other -intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or -other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or -cannot be read by your equipment. - -1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right -of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project -Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all -liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal -fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT -LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE -PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE -TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE -LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR -INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH -DAMAGE. - -1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a -defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can -receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a -written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you -received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium -with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you -with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in -lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person -or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second -opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If -the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing -without further opportunities to fix the problem. - -1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth -in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS', WITH NO -OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT -LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. - -1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied -warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of -damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement -violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the -agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or -limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or -unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the -remaining provisions. - -1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the -trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone -providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in -accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the -production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, -including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of -the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this -or any Project Gutenberg-tm work, (b) alteration, modification, or -additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any -Defect you cause. - -Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm - -Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of -electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of -computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It -exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations -from people in all walks of life. - -Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the -assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's -goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will -remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure -and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future -generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see -Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at -www.gutenberg.org Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg -Literary Archive Foundation - -The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit -501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the -state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal -Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification -number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by -U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. - -The Foundation's principal office is in Fairbanks, Alaska, with the -mailing address: PO Box 750175, Fairbanks, AK 99775, but its -volunteers and employees are scattered throughout numerous -locations. Its business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, Salt -Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up to -date contact information can be found at the Foundation's web site and -official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact - -For additional contact information: - - Dr. Gregory B. Newby - Chief Executive and Director - gbnewby@pglaf.org - -Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg -Literary Archive Foundation - -Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide -spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of -increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be -freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest -array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations -($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt -status with the IRS. - -The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating -charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United -States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a -considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up -with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations -where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND -DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular -state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate - -While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we -have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition -against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who -approach us with offers to donate. - -International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make -any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from -outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. - -Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation -methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other -ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To -donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate - -Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works. - -Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project -Gutenberg-tm concept of a library of electronic works that could be -freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and -distributed Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of -volunteer support. - -Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed -editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in -the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not -necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper -edition. - -Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search -facility: www.gutenberg.org - -This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, -including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to -subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. - diff --git a/old/53993-0.zip b/old/53993-0.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 0300dcd..0000000 --- a/old/53993-0.zip +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/53993-h.zip b/old/53993-h.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 8221464..0000000 --- a/old/53993-h.zip +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/53993-h/53993-h.htm b/old/53993-h/53993-h.htm deleted file mode 100644 index 6fac90f..0000000 --- a/old/53993-h/53993-h.htm +++ /dev/null @@ -1,15446 +0,0 @@ -<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> - -<!DOCTYPE html - PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" - "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > - -<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> - <head> - <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=UTF-8" /> - <title>At The Gate Of Samaria, by William J. Locke</title> - <meta content="pg2html (binary v0.17)" /> - <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> - - body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} - P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .50em; margin-bottom: .50em; } - H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } - hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} - .foot { margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%; text-align: justify; font-size: 80%; font-style: italic;} - blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} - .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} - .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} - .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} - .xx-small {font-size: 60%;} - .x-small {font-size: 75%;} - .small {font-size: 85%;} - .large {font-size: 115%;} - .x-large {font-size: 130%;} - .indent5 { margin-left: 5%;} - .indent10 { margin-left: 10%;} - .indent15 { margin-left: 15%;} - .indent20 { margin-left: 20%;} - .indent30 { margin-left: 30%;} - .indent40 { margin-left: 40%;} - div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } - div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } - .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} - .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} - .pagenum {position: absolute; right: 1%; font-size: 0.6em; - font-variant: normal; font-style: normal; - text-align: right; background-color: #FFFACD; - border: 1px solid; padding: 0.3em;text-indent: 0em;} - .side { float: left; font-size: 75%; width: 15%; padding-left: 0.8em; - border-left: dashed thin; text-align: left; - text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; - font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;} - .head { float: left; font-size: 90%; width: 98%; padding-left: 0.8em; - border-left: dashed thin; text-align: center; - text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; - font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;} - p.pfirst, p.noindent {text-indent: 0} - span.dropcap { float: left; margin: 0 0.1em 0 0; line-height: 0.8 } - pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} - -</style> - </head> - <body> - - -<pre> - -The Project Gutenberg EBook of At The Gate Of Samaria, by William J. Locke - -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: At The Gate Of Samaria - -Author: William J. Locke - -Release Date: January 18, 2017 [EBook #53993] -Last Updated: March 12, 2018 - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA *** - - - - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by the Internet Archive - - - - - - -</pre> - - <div style="height: 8em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h1> - AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA - </h1> - <h2> - By William J. Locke - </h2> - <h4> - London - </h4> - <h4> - William Heinemann - </h4> - <h3> - 1895 - </h3> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <h3> - TO ONE WHOSE WORK IT IS AS MUCH AS MINE - </h3> - <h3> - I INSCRIBE THIS BOOK. - </h3> - <h3> - AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. - </h3> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - <b>CONTENTS</b> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XIV. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER XV. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER XVI. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER XVII. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER XVIII. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER XIX. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER XX. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER XXI. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0022"> CHAPTER XXII. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER XXIV. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0024"> CHAPTER XXV. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0025"> CHAPTER XXVI. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0026"> CHAPTER XXVII. </a> - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER I. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t was a severe - room, scrupulously neat. Along one side ran a bookcase, with beaded glass - doors, containing, as one might see by peering through the spaces, the - collected, unread literature of two stern generations. A few old prints, - placed in bad lights, hung on the walls. In the centre of the room was a - leather-covered library table, with writing materials arranged in painful - precision. A couch was lined along one wall, in the draught of the door. - On either side of the fireplace were ranged two stiff leather armchairs. - </p> - <p> - In one of these chairs sat an old man, in the other a faded woman just - verging upon middle age. The old man was looking at a picture which he - supported on his knees-a narrow, oblong strip of canvas nailed on to a - rough wooden frame. The woman eyed him with some interest, as if awaiting - a decision. - </p> - <p> - They were father and daughter, and bore a strange family resemblance to - each other. Both faces were pale, their foreheads high and narrow, marked - by faint horizontal lines, their eyes gray and cold, their upper lips long - and thin, setting tightly, without mobility, upon the lower. The only - essential point of difference was that the father's chin was weakly - pointed, the daughter's squarer and harder. Both faces gave one the - impression of negativeness, joylessness, seeming to lack the power of - strong emotive expression. One can see such, minus the refinement of - gentle birth and social amenities, in the pews of obscure dissenting - chapels, testifying that they have been led thither not by strong - convictions, but by the force of mild circumstance. - </p> - <p> - Indeed, as is the case with hundreds of our upper middle-class families, - the Davenants had descended from a fierce old Puritan stock, and though - the reality of their Puritanism had gradually lost itself in the current - of more respectable orthodoxy, its shadow hung over them still. The - vigorous enthusiasm that spurred the Puritan on to lofty action was gone; - the vague dread of sin that kept him in moral and mental inactivity alone - remained. Perhaps it is this survival amongst us of the negative element - of Puritanism that produces in England the curious anomaly of education - without enlightenment. It has dulled our perception of life as an art, - whose “great incidents,” as Fielding finely says, “are no more to be - considered as mere accidents than the several members of a fine statue or - a noble poem.” It has caused us to live in a perpetual twilight in which - the possibilities of existence loom fantastic and indistinct. The - Davenants were gentlefolk, holding a good position in the small country - town of Durdleham; they visited among the county families, and, on - ordinary, conventional grounds, considered themselves to belong to the - cultured classes. They were the curious yet familiar product of the - old-fashioned, high-church Toryism impregnated with the Puritan taint. - </p> - <p> - The light was fading through the French window behind the old man's chair. - He laid down the canvas on his lap and looked in a puzzled way at the - fire. Then he raised it nearer to his eyes for further examination. - </p> - <p> - “This is really very dreadful,” he said at last, looking at his daughter. - </p> - <p> - “Something will have to be done soon,” replied the latter. - </p> - <p> - “It is so horribly vulgar, Grace,” said the old man; “look at that boy's - nose—and that drunken man—his face is a nightmare of evil. I - really must begin to talk seriously to Clytie.” - </p> - <p> - Mrs. Blather smiled somewhat pityingly. Since the earliest days of her - long widowhood she had undertaken the charge of her father's house and the - care of her two younger sisters, Janet and Clytie. Her familiarity, - therefore, with the seamy side of Clytie's nature had been of long - duration. - </p> - <p> - “You might as well talk to that fender, papa,” she said. “Clytie has got - it into her head that she is going to be an artist, and no amount of - talking will get it out.” - </p> - <p> - “It's all through her visiting those friends of hers, the Farquharsons. - They are not nice people for her to know. I shall not let her go there - again.” - </p> - <p> - “If she goes on like this there is no knowing what will happen.” - </p> - <p> - “Where did the child get these repulsive and ungirlish notions from?” the - old man asked querulously. - </p> - <p> - The conception of the picture was not that of a young girl, and though the - execution was crude and untrained, there was a bold cruelty of touch that - saved it from being amateurish. The canvas was divided into two panels. On - the one was painted a tiny bully of a boy with his arm rounded across his - throat, about to strike a weakly, poverty-stricken little girl. They were - children of the poorest classes, the boy realistically, offensively dirty—the - <i>petit morveux</i> in its absolute sense. Behind them was the open - doorway of a red-brick, jerry-built cottage, showing a strip of torn and - dirty matting along the passage that lost itself in the gloom beyond. On - the other panel was the corner of a public house in a low slum, the window - lights and a gas-lamp throwing a lurid glare upon wet pavement and the - figures of a woman and a drunken man. The faces were those of the children - in the first picture, and the eternal tragedy was repeating itself. The - man's face was loathsome in its sodden ferocity; the woman, with a child - in her arms, was reeling from the blow. The evident haste in which the - panels had been painted, the glaring, unsoftened colouring, heightened as - if by impressionist design the coarse realism of the effect. Above was - written the legend, “<i>La joie de vivre</i>” and in the left-hand bottom - corner, “<i>Clytie Davenant pinxit</i>.” - </p> - <p> - “She has certainly grown much worse of late,” sighed Mrs. Blather, holding - out her thin, short hand to shield her face from the fire. - </p> - <p> - There was a pause of some moments. Mr. Davenant ceased nursing the picture - and stood it on the floor. - </p> - <p> - “Have you quite made up your mind, papa,” said Mrs. - Blather at length, “not to let Clytie go to the Slade School in London?” - </p> - <p> - “It is out of the question,” replied the old man. - </p> - <p> - “I don't think so, papa. It would perhaps do her good. A year or so's hard - work would take all these silly ideas out of her.” - </p> - <p> - “I question it,” said Mr. Davenant. “They are not silly ideas. They are - debased, degraded ideas.” - </p> - <p> - “My dear papa, they are only fads. All young girls have them. Look how - crazy Janet was to join the cookery classes. We let her join, and now she - hates the sight of a pie-dish. With Clytie it is quite the same, only she - wants to daub.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, let her daub in a decent way at home,” replied the old man testily. - </p> - <p> - Mrs. Blather shrugged her lean shoulders. - </p> - <p> - “We have tried that and it hasn't succeeded, apparently,” she said drily. - “You seldom come in her way; you don't know how unpleasant things are for - Janet and myself. What do you think she had the impertinence to tell me - this morning? She said that we were not real people. We were machines or - abstractions based, I think she said, on a formula, or something of that - sort. She was pining to live amongst living human beings. And then she is - so rude to visitors. What do you think she said to the vicar, who came, at - Janet's request, to talk to her about her shameful neglect of her - religious duties? She said, if he was a pillar of the Church, she saw no - reason why she should be a seat-cushion.” - </p> - <p> - “Tut, tut,” said the old man angrily. He was vicar's churchwarden, and a - power in the parish. - </p> - <p> - “And then,” continued Mrs. Blather, “when I scolded her for her rudeness, - she said that if she had been a man she would have sworn at him for his - impertinence. Really people will soon be afraid of coming to the house.” - </p> - <p> - “They will indeed,” said Mr. Davenant. - </p> - <p> - Like a wise woman, Mrs. Blather did not press her point. She knew she had - thoroughly alarmed her father and had shown him but one way out of the - difficulty. His taking it, if left to himself, was only a question of - time. She rang the bell for the servant to come and light Mr. Davenant's - gas, and then she left him to his reflections. - </p> - <p> - Mr. Davenant possessed some landed property, which he had occupied his - life in mismanaging. Fortunately for him, his wife had brought him a small - fortune which sufficed to keep up a position, modest when compared with - that of the Davenants of former days, but still high enough to satisfy the - social aspirations of his family. He had lived a colourless life, severe - and respectable. Even his university days had passed in a dull uniformity, - leaving no glamour behind them. He had walked honourably and blindly in - the paths his parents had indicated, and, now that he was nearing the end - of the journey, thanked God for having given him the grace not to err from - them. He had married when still fairly young, and he had loved his wife in - a gentlemanly, passionless way. She, poor thing, had filled up so small a - space in life that she had faded out of it almost unnoticed—even by - himself. He had no storms of joy or sorrow to look back upon. His - thoughts, as he brooded over the fireside, generally wandered back to - trifling incidents: ancient municipal interests, the mortgages on his - estate, the boundary quarrels with the old earl, his neighbour. - </p> - <p> - But lately he had been thinking anxiously over his daughter Clytie. She - had suddenly developed out of a naughty, rebellious child into a problem. - He assumed as a matter of course that he bore her the ordinary - well-regulated parental affection, but in his heart of hearts he never - really loved her. Until lately it had not occurred to him to think of her - as anything but a child of his with a singularly unfortunate disposition - which time would modify. But time, on the contrary, was accentuating it, - and he realised at last that Clytie had a distinct individuality. His - philosophy had left many things in heaven and earth undreamed of. He was - mystified, puzzled. How could he and his delicate wife have brought this - bright-haired, full-blooded, impulsive creature into existence? Her - sisters were gentle, quiet women, possessing the virtues inculcated in his - conception of life. Clytie seemed to possess none of them. The peasant - woman in the legend could not have wondered more over her changeling. How - could a daughter of his and a sister of Janet's scoff at sacred things, - defy social rules, and have an imagination that ran riot in scenes of - drunkenness and outcast life? - </p> - <p> - Physiology might grant a solution to the old man's problem in the law of - the alternation of heredity. His father's youngest brother had been a - family black sheep, and being the only one of the generation who had led - an eventful career, was naturally never mentioned by his relations, and - the record of his life perished with him. But it is possible that the - positive enthusiastic principle of Clytie's Puritan descent, reasserting - itself once in every other generation, to the horror of the negative - principle that otherwise ran through the race continuously, came out in - her with all its strength and vigour. It brought her eager, panting up to - the brink of our surging nineteenth century life, imperiously bidding her - plunge in and take her part in the tumult. - </p> - <p> - She was now nineteen, an age when girls try to realise themselves. She - discovered that she was a greater problem to herself than to her sisters. - They simply looked upon her as odd, eccentric, unpleasant to live with, - and if she had not been their sister would have almost gathered up their - skirts around them as they passed her by. But she was conscious of a - craving within her that did not proceed from mere wilful caprice. In her - earlier girlhood she had thought long and humbly over her shortcomings. - Why could she not be as contented and dutiful as Janet? Why could not the - interests that satisfied her sisters' life satisfy hers? Often and often - an impulse of scorn and ridicule at the littleness of Durdleham would - overmaster her, and then would follow a passionate fit of remorse and - repentance, received with coldness and ruffled dignity on her sisters' - part, that would send her back humiliated and rebellious to her room. From - what springs of desire did all this proceed? Whither were these impulses - tending? - </p> - <p> - Ever since she could hold a pencil she had been able to draw. She had - received lessons in painting later on, and had covered canvas after canvas - with the graceful futilities the Durdleham art teacher suggested. He was a - landscape painter, and Clytie had little or no feeling for landscape. - Bright colour, vivid contrast, sharp tone, attracted her, but the quiet - grays and faint blues of our English scenery came out dull and mechanical - when she tried to paint them. At last she gave up her lessons in despair, - much to the wonderment of Janet, who improved greatly under instruction, - and turned out neat, complacent little water-colours which she sold at - bazaars or distributed among her friends. For months Clytie never touched - a brush. Art of this sort revolted her. It was soulless, futile. But by - degrees, as the breach between herself and her sisters widened, her power - of painting became a source of ineffable consolation—a means of - self-commune. She could give external expression to the voices that - haunted her. She read books with the eagerness only exhibited by the young - girl craving for self-development; and the pictures they vividly impressed - on her young imaginative brain she transferred to paper or canvas—not - lovingly, tenderly, with the pure artistic delight of gradual creation, - but hurriedly, feverishly, longing to see the thing done, the impression - realised in a way in which she could understand it. When finished, or - rather as soon as it had reached an impressionist stage of artistic - completeness, she would feast her heart upon it for a day or two, and then - throw it away, or let it lie about in a corner disregarded and forgotten. - </p> - <p> - Until she was nearly eighteen Mrs. Blather had scrupulously supervised her - reading, and Clytie, chafing with irritation, had been compelled either to - submit or to smuggle condemned books into the house and read them - surreptitiously. But at last her angry impatience at the impeccable - literature that satisfied her sisters' needs burst its restraints, and - resisted vehemently and finally all censorship on the part of Mrs. - Blather. - </p> - <p> - It was not wholesome, this solitary, emotional, imaginative life. Her - health showed signs of giving way. They called in a doctor, who prescribed - rest and a change of air. One of her aunts, who lived in London, happened - to want a companion for a tour on the Continent, and with many misgivings - undertook to take Clytie with her. To the girl the trip was an endless - succession of delight. Impressions followed each other too fast for her to - realise them. The superficial features of continental life, familiar and - commonplace enough to the ordinary traveller, were new to her. Groups at - street corners, strangely attired soldiers, odd un-English-looking shops, - the very waiters hurrying along through the intricacies of café tables - with their fantastically laden trays, all excited her, filled her with the - exhilaration of life and movement. Her aunt, who had hitherto shared the - family opinion of Clytie, wondered greatly at the transformation. It never - occurred to her that this was the natural Clytie filling her heart at last - with the emotions it had hungered for. - </p> - <p> - It was during this time, at a pension in Dresden, that she formed the - acquaintance of the Farquharsons. Miss Davenant discovered that they and - herself had common acquaintances in London, and that she had heard of Mr. - Farquharson as an archæologist of some repute. - </p> - <p> - The acquaintance thus formed developed quickly into a pleasant intimacy of - travel. Mrs. Farquharson, a bright, clever woman of forty, was attracted - toward Clytie, who, for her part, found in her new friend a natural - sympathy that touched her heart. So far did their sudden friendship go, - that before they parted Clytie had conditionally accepted an invitation to - visit the archæologist and his wife in Harley Street. - </p> - <p> - When Mr. Davenant's permission was asked he at first demurred. He had the - country-bred man's distrust of strangers; but when his sister vouched for - the social position of the Farquharsons he reluctantly consented. Clytie - paid her promised visit the following winter. This was one of the turning - points of her life. For the first time she found herself in an - intellectual, artistic society. It was a glimpse of another world. At - Durdleham young men seldom came to the house. When they did, they avoided - her and talked platitudes to her sisters. At dinner parties the men - remained in the dining-room long after the ladies had left. They seemed to - regard them as somewhat picturesque but wearisome household adjuncts, - whose absence their masculine intellects unreservedly welcomed; - conversation with their partner was a dinner incident to be got through, - like shaving or putting on their white ties beforehand. And the Durdleham - ladies seemed to take this as a matter of course, and were equally happy - to get by themselves and gossip mildly. - </p> - <p> - But in Harley Street Clytie found a different order of things. Men and - women seemed to have interests in common and to discuss them on a basis of - perfect equality. She found, too, women speaking authoritatively on - certain subjects and listened to with deference by men. All, young and - old, talked to her as if she were as much absorbed in life as themselves. - No one made her rage with humiliation by tolerating her with an air of - languid or pompous condescension. Even the frivolities and platitudes of - everyday conversation were treated in a way new to her experience. The - talk was keen, incisive, exaggerated. Everyone could say what he wished - without fear of springing some mine of prejudice or prudery. The - atmosphere of the house breathed freedom of thought and action. She beheld - others putting into form her own vague aspirations. She saw people who - wrote, painted, acted, living fully and intensely every day. Even the - professed idlers whom she met seemed to hold their fingers on the throb of - life around them. - </p> - <p> - In the streets—she had been but little in London before—she - saw things strange and fascinating—things she had read about, - dreamed of, painted, and yet not understood. She was appalled by her - ignorance, the narrow gauge of her sympathies. What did all this restless - life in the great city mean, its wild cries and passions that struck upon - her tightly strung nerves with a deep, mysterious resonance? - </p> - <p> - She filled a sketch-book with the vivid impressions each day brought her, - seeking, as her way was, to realise them by tearing them out of herself, - and giving them objectivity. A royal academician picked up the book from - the corner of a table in the drawing-room, where Clytie, falling easily - into the careless ways of the household, had thrown it. He was turning - over the pages when Clytie perceived him, and rushed impulsively to him - across the room. - </p> - <p> - “Oh! you mustn't look at that, Mr. Redgrave. Please don't!” - </p> - <p> - He looked up at her amusedly. - </p> - <p> - “Why not? It is rather interesting. Why don't you learn to draw?” - </p> - <p> - “What would be the good?” she said. “This suits my purpose.” - </p> - <p> - The other shrugged his shoulders good-humouredly. - </p> - <p> - “That all depends upon what your purpose is,” he replied. “If you want to - become an artist you must train properly for it.” - </p> - <p> - Become an artist! The words haunted her all that night. They opened up - before her infinite vistas of possibilities, life in the midst of the - world, the knowledge of its greatnesses and its mysteries. - </p> - <p> - In the morning she wrote to him. He invited her to come to his studio and - talk over the matter. She asked Mrs. Farquharson to accompany her, but her - hostess was engaged at the hour in question. Clytie looked disappointed. - The home traditions asserted themselves and prevented her from thinking it - possible to go unchaperoned. Mrs. Farquharson divined this and laughed in - her bright way. - </p> - <p> - “Goodness gracious, my dear,” she said, “the man isn't going to eat you!” - </p> - <p> - So Clytie went alone to the studio to learn her destiny. - </p> - <p> - “You have great talent,” said the artist, “but it needs cultivation. After - two or three years' severe training you may do something.” - </p> - <p> - Then Clytie asked him the question that had been burning her heart for two - days. - </p> - <p> - “Do you think I shall ever be able to earn my own living?” - </p> - <p> - “You might do that now, if you chose, and had patience,” he replied. - </p> - <p> - “How?” - </p> - <p> - “By book illustrating.” - </p> - <p> - “But I want to become a great artist.” - </p> - <p> - “Doubtless. Most of us do. You may if you try hard, and love art for art's - sake. But,” he added, looking at her keenly—“there always is a - 'but,' Miss Davenant.” - </p> - <p> - “Why do you say that?” she asked quickly. - </p> - <p> - “<i>Parce que</i>, as the French say—begging your pardon.” - </p> - <p> - And that was practically the end of the conversation. - </p> - <p> - All this had happened to Clytie three months before Mrs. Blather had - discovered the offending picture in Clytie's attic studio and had carried - it to her father. After this foretaste of life the girl wearied more than - ever of Durdleham with its soullessness, its stagnation, its prim - formulas. A dangerous reaction of spirit set in, leading her to long - spells of hopeless melancholy, alternating with outbursts of passionate - rebellion. She would stand for hours in the recess of her window gazing - over the flat stretch of country, and dreaming strange dreams of the world - that lay beyond the dreary horizon—dreams in which sharp - reminiscence mingled with fancy in vague, weird shapes. But still she was - beginning to realise herself, her needs, her vague cravings. Her - passionate desires now flowed into some definite channel—to escape - at all costs from Durdleham, and consequently to enter that free world of - art the glimpse of which had enchanted her. - </p> - <p> - The scenes between her sisters and herself were of daily occurrence. The - narrower, gentler women were shocked at her wilfulnesses, her unladylike - behaviour; she was revolted to her soul at the pettiness and sordidness of - the disputes. Existence at Durdleham had become impossible. - </p> - <p> - “For God's sake, Gracie, let me go away from here,” she cried one day, “or - I shall hate you—and I want to love you if I can. Let me go to - London. Auntie will take me in. Oh, my God! I shall go mad in this place - among you.” - </p> - <p> - And Mrs. Blather, for the sake of her own tranquillity and the reputation - of the family, made up her mind that Clytie should have her desire and - that Durdleham should know her no more. And in the end Mrs. Blather gained - her father's consent to the arrangement; but the old man looked upon - Clytie almost as a lost soul. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER II. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>hen the eager - young soul starts out unaided to solve the riddle of life, it meets with - many paradoxes that admit of no solution, and many sordid simplicities - that only unfamiliarity made it regard as enigmas. Despair in the one - instance and disgust in the other not unfrequently drive it into a - hopeless pessimism, in which inaction seems to be the least pain. Or else - the soul bruises itself in vain against the mocking bars, shrinks in - loathing from the disveiled corruption, and flies back to the unavailing - aids that it spurned aforetime. It is cast in the valley of the shadow of - death which only the stout-hearted can pass through unshaken. - </p> - <p> - The multitude stands by the formulas that profess to solve the eternal - problem. It follows them blindly, like the schoolboy who cares not whether - they are right or wrong, or whether the answer is conclusive. So long as - there is an answer of some sort its mind is easy. But there are earnester - inquirers whom these formulas do not satisfy—who see that they are - followed for their own sake, that they never can lead to any conclusions. - The soul, now of a people, now of an individual, rebels; it rejects the - formulas; it starts from the first principles of being, asserting fiercely - its individuality, its inalienable right to seek after truth according to - its own methods. These are prejudiced. All great action must be. Because a - system is rotten and incomplete the perfervid spirit judges that every - factor must be false. It misses the fact that every great human system - contains elemental truths of vital importance, without which it must fall - in its struggle. And at last, when the forces of endeavour are well nigh - spent, it finds the key of the great enigma inwrapped in a greater one - still, in the eternal tragedy of things. - </p> - <p> - It was with this burning protest against formulas that - Clytie entered into the world. They had been presented to her in their - smug complacency as solving all mysteries human and divine. She had seen - them worshipped as fetiches, and her soul revolted against the futile - idolatry. She was too young to examine them carefully, to see that the - sacrosanctity of some was miserably justified by human experience. She - spurned them all, and she plunged into the waters of Life, a rudderless - bark in search of the unknown. - </p> - <p> - She spent two years in study at the Slade School in University College, - living under the protection of her aunt, who had a house in Russell - Square. The training was severe and at times irksome. But she learned - strict academical rules of drawing, in spite of her repugnance to the - stern coldness of the antique. After her term of hard training was over - she went for a year into a painter's studio and learned colour and - painting from the live model. - </p> - <p> - They were years of probation, as Clytie well knew, and they brought her - lessons in self-restraint, both in art and in the conduct of life. Her - aunt, Miss Davenant, was shrewder and broader-minded than her brother, - having lived more in the whirl of humanity, but the formulas of Durdleham - were ranged as household gods upon her hearthstone, and Clytie, out of - pure self-interest, was bound to show them outward respect. To compensate, - however, for this, Clytie found in her student life many experiences, as - she had found during her continental trip, with which she could fill her - heart without violating her aunt's Lares and Penates. - </p> - <p> - She seldom went to Durdleham. She had an odd feeling that she was in - disgrace there for having wished to leave it. Besides, both Mrs. Blather - and Janet, as is the inconsequent way of such women, spoke tauntingly of - her gay life in town, and contrasted it enviously with their country - dulness. And then, too, her father was always querulous, complaining, not - of her absence from home, but of her dissimilarity to her sisters. - </p> - <p> - “My dear papa,” she said one day, “I could no more be like them than they - could be like me.” - </p> - <p> - “You might if you had tried,” said the old man. - </p> - <p> - Clytie looked hopelessly out of window. What possible reply could be made? - </p> - <p> - The happiest, most expansive hours that Clytie spent during these three - years were in Harley Street with the Farquharsons. At first her aunt was - rather averse to a continuance of the intimacy. Although she had kept up a - visiting acquaintance with the Farquharsons since their return from - Switzerland, and liked them both personally, she was conscious of an - unfamiliar atmosphere in their house. The instinctive shrinking from the - unknown made her seek to draw Clytie back with her towards the security of - her own accustomed circle. But eventually, when she saw that the girl, to - whom she had grown sincerely attached, found real happiness in going to - Harley Street, she withdrew her tentative restrictions altogether. Perhaps - she read deeper into the girl's heart than either was conscious of, and - realised that in the Farquharsons' society Clytie found a relief from the - strain of everyday life with her, which otherwise might have been - unbearable. - </p> - <p> - The conditions of the household in Harley Street were favourable to the - development of unceremonious intimacy. Mrs. Farquharson herself was bred - in that strange London world we call Bohemia. Her father, long since dead, - had been a journalist, a hack story-writer, a maker of plays, sometimes - editor of a smart weekly, at others acting manager of a provincial - company. Like most men of his type he spent his money as fast as he earned - it, and when work came to a temporary standstill drew upon the prospects - of his next success. His daughter Caroline had grown up in cheerful - familiarity with this hand to mouth, makeshift existence. She had been - called upon so often from her earliest childhood to condone the faults of - her father and those of his intimates, who were men of much the same mould - as himself, that a general habit of indulgence became natural to her. - Folly seemed so inherent a quality in humanity that not to smile - tolerantly, even though reprovingly, upon it was with her an - impossibility. The lowering of moral tone that might have resulted from - this mental attitude, and from a continuance of the same conditions of - life, was prevented by her early marriage with a man of assured income and - position. Her father died shortly afterwards and her connection with the - seamy side of Bohemianism was thoroughly broken off. But the ingrained - habits of freedom and carelessness still remained. She could never learn - to be methodical, systematic. She had an inherited dread of account-books, - household rules, fixed hours for meals, and appointed places for every - domestic article. It was fortunate for her that she had married a man who - worshipped her, and himself shared her distaste for rigidly organised - life. His means had placed him beyond the necessity of working for his - livelihood, and so the free life in a home where he could work, idle, eat, - and receive his friends at any hour of the day or night was as much to his - own taste as to that of his wife. - </p> - <p> - It was impossible that such a house should not possess a charm for those - to whom the Farquharsons gave their friendship. The absence of formality - encouraged expansiveness and individuality. There was a tacit - understanding that one had a right not only to oneself, but to the - appreciation of oneself by the host and hostess. It was this that Clytie - had felt during her first visit, and it attracted her more and more to - them as time went on. Gradually the house became a second home to her, and - Mrs. Farquharson a friend such as she had never known before. She could go - to her for strength and comfort during her fits of depression when the - time seemed out of joint, and she did not in the least seem called upon to - set it right. The restraints of strict draughtsmanship, academic modelling - and grouping, chafed her as her simple arithmetic had done at school. She - longed to throw them off and to plunge back into her old artistic - wilfulnesses. But these occasions generally coincided with fresh - sensations of restraint in her home life, and she was wise enough to - appreciate the fact. - </p> - <p> - During this period an incident occurred in her life, giving it fresh - colour and helping her to realise herself more fully. Her girlhood had - been far removed from the lax sphere of idle flirtation in which many - girls are brought up. The young men of Durdleham, who might have been - attracted towards her by her beauty, were frozen by her scarcely veiled - impatience at their society. - </p> - <p> - The dominant impulse towards active search after life had swayed her to - the exclusion of any less powerful motive, and it had scarcely yet - occurred to her that her personality might interest and possibly influence - others. She was too absorbed in her work, in her dimly shadowed yet - ever-haunting plans for the future, in the individualities round her, in - the foretaste of that full sense of living, in the stirring objectivity of - London life, to dwell at all earnestly on subjective matters and to devote - much attention to self-analysis. It is only when the question, “How do - others affect me?” ceases to interest that the other question, “How does - my personality affect others?” begins to assume a paramount importance. - The possibility of a man falling in love with her was a factor as yet - absent from her scheme of practical life. - </p> - <p> - She learned that such an event had occurred from Mrs. Farquharson. She had - gone to her one Monday morning, depressed, out of tune, to seek - consolation. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, why am I not a man?” she exclaimed petulantly. “Why can't I live by - myself, go where I like, and see what I want to see?” - </p> - <p> - Her friend laughed good-humouredly. - </p> - <p> - “You want to do too much at once, my dear. The world's your oyster, as - ancient Pistol said, and you would force it open with one wrench. As for - wishing to be a man, you are by no means original. Lots of girls say that, - but when they grow older they think it's just as well for them that they - are women.” - </p> - <p> - “What on earth's the good of being a <i>woman?</i>” asked Clytie, with - rather unnecessary emphasis. - </p> - <p> - One of her studio companions had asked her to join a party at a theatre, - and her aunt had demurred on the ground that ladies ought not to go to - that particular house. It showed a certain knowledge of the world on the - old lady's part, but Clytie did not realise it, and although she accepted - the decision with good grace, it fretted her. These trivial things fret - even the wisest amongst us quite as much as the important ones do. - </p> - <p> - Mrs. Farquharson did not reply, but continued placidly her usual Monday - morning's occupation of putting her music in order, while Clytie watched - her from the long rocking-chair where she was sitting, her hands clasped - behind her head. - </p> - <p> - “What's the good of being a woman when one has to pass half one's life - shut up in darkness? It's bad enough being a human being as it is, and - having to sleep the other half.” - </p> - <p> - “How old are you, my dear?” asked Mrs. Farquharson, looking at a song. - </p> - <p> - “You know,” replied Clytie. “Twenty.” - </p> - <p> - “Then how would you like to be a young man of twenty—or even - two-and-twenty? How would you like to be young Beaumont, for instance? Do - you think he knows so very much more than you do?” - </p> - <p> - “He's such a boy,” said Clytie. - </p> - <p> - “And you, my dear, are such a girl,” said Mrs. Farquharson, coming up - behind her chair and smoothing her cheeks. “But you are many years older - than he is—and likely to remain so. Do you know why we women like to - be women? Because we see so many things that men would give the eyes of - their heads to know. Hasn't it ever struck you that we are familiar with a - side of life that is almost forever hidden from men? And as for that - particular side that men have exclusively to themselves, it is neither - very pretty nor comfortful.” - </p> - <p> - “I suppose that is why men stop talking when one goes into the - smoking-room,” said Clytie. “You hear shouts of laughter outside the door, - and you think they must be having an awfully good time, and when you - appear in the doorway they seem to pull themselves together, and one or - two always look red and sheepish.” - </p> - <p> - “I should advise you to read the story of Bluebeard,” said Mrs. - Farquharson. - </p> - <p> - “You are just as bad as the rest,” cried Clytie, half laughing and half - vexed. “I never thought it of you. That's what I have always been told: - Never try to find out what you don't know. Always remain in a state of - blissful ignorance. Men are superior beings, and a good little girl ought - to accept her position with meekness.” - </p> - <p> - “I could a tale unfold,” said her friend, “but I won't. It is too early - for you. If you want to make experiments on your own account there is - young Beaumont for you. He will tell you the sum total of his knowledge in - ten minutes.” - </p> - <p> - “Do you know, I like him,” said Clytie, leaving the main track of the - conversation. “He always looks so clean, and his clothes fit him so well, - and he is so serviceable. He always seems to be trying to make the best of - himself, since God has done so little for him. And it's very plucky of him - to try to improve on the Almighty.” - </p> - <p> - “I would not like him too much.” - </p> - <p> - “Why?” - </p> - <p> - “My poor Clytie! You haven't even got the elements of woman's knowledge - yet. Can't you see why Beaumont wears those very chaste ties and those - wonderfully shiny boots, and does errands all over London for you? Oh, - dear!” - </p> - <p> - “Do you mean that he——?” - </p> - <p> - Mrs. Farquharson looked at her quizzically and nodded. - </p> - <p> - “Therefore I would not like him too much.” - </p> - <p> - Obeying a first impulse, Clytie burst out laughing. It seemed so - ridiculous. Beaumont was a good-looking, fresh-faced young fellow of - two-and-twenty, a distant relation of the Farquharsons, and a habitué of - the house. She had met him there many times and had begun to feel quite - friendly towards him. Besides, he had fetched and carried for her in the - most useful way. She had never thought of his falling in love with her. As - he was the last man she herself would have thought of falling in love - with, she found the event ludicrous. - </p> - <p> - She stopped laughing suddenly, and crimsoned to her hair; then rushed - impulsively up to Mrs. Farquharson, and put her arm round her waist. - </p> - <p> - “I am sorry; forgive me. What must you think of me! I could not help it, - indeed I couldn't. You put me in such a new light before myself. And, dear - Mrs. Farquharson, I do so want you to see the best side of me.” - </p> - <p> - “My dear girl,” said her friend, “you don't suppose that with your face - and your nature you are going to pass through life without having men - falling in love with you! You see what a lot you have to learn. You want - to have a man's experiences before you have passed through the elementary - ones of a woman.” - </p> - <p> - “And Mr. Beaumont—what shall I do?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh! don't fret yourself about him. He will get over it. He has no end of - this sort of thing to go through before his life is up. It will do him - good.” Clytie had not much time to map out any fixed plan of treatment of - her would-be lover, for he met her an afternoon or two afterwards outside - University College, where he had been waiting for her, and pleaded that - she would walk a little way up towards the Regent's Park, as the afternoon - was fine. - </p> - <p> - Clytie looked at him and hesitated. - </p> - <p> - “Only just a little way. I have something I must tell you.” - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps you had best never tell it,” said Clytie. - </p> - <p> - The red-waistcoated gate porter behind them beamed on them smilingly. He - had seen something of youthful love in his professional career. - </p> - <p> - “I must, whatever happens,” replied the young fellow. “I know it's wrong - to ask you to walk in the street with me, but I don't know when I shall - get another chance.” - </p> - <p> - “I don't see anything wrong about it,” said Clytie. “I will go with you - wherever you wish.” - </p> - <p> - So they wandered up Gower Street and the Euston Road into the park, and - there, for the first time in her life, Clytie heard a man confess his love - for her and ask her to marry him. He was only a boy after all, but he was - in great earnest. Clytie felt humbled, almost guilty, and yet a great, - unknown pleasure thrilled through her. Although she knew that the sooner - and more summarily the interview was brought to an end the better for both - herself and him, she could scarcely resist the temptation of allowing him - to pour out the fulness of his boyish love for her. - </p> - <p> - She suddenly found herself listening to the sound but not the meaning of - his words, her senses filled with the sweetness of the new sensations and - the pure May sunlight that flooded the trees and the gay flower-bed - opposite the bench where they were sitting. Then she realised her - situation, and in a few kind words, harder to speak than she would have - expected, dismissed him. - </p> - <p> - And that was the end of the matter. He went off whither young men in his - predicament generally betake themselves, and Clytie returned slowly home - to Russell Square. - </p> - <p> - When she had reached her own room she went deliberately up to the glass - and scanned her features. Then she laughed a strange, contented little - laugh, and taking off her hat and gloves, went downstairs to tea. She had - advanced several steps along the road to knowledge. - </p> - <p> - Three years! How quickly they passed! How sure yet dimly working were - their influences! If they were years of probation and self-restraint for - Clytie, they also brought with them softening influences. Hitherto her - life had been one of revolt and harsh, crude judgments that had turned - away friendship and had left her solitary. Mutual misconception and - misunderstanding had crushed sisterly love. Her heart had never been - touched by real affection. Now she had friends, real ones, in the - Farquharsons whom she could love for their own sakes, and pleasant, - sympathetic ones in her companions at the Slade School and at the studio. - She learned, too, the sweetness of active protection and helpfulness. Her - aunt, though somewhat stronger-fibred than the rest of the Davenants, - possessed their essential physical characteristics. Her health, which had - been failing for some years, gradually gave way altogether. During the few - months of her last illness she depended entirely upon Clytie for care and - tenderness. It was a new, strange experience for the girl. She learned to - love the faded elderly lady who bore her sufferings so calmly, so - cheerfully. Both Mrs. Blather and Janet offered to come and nurse her, but - Miss Davenant would have none but Clytie. If this period of selflessness - and sacrifice had lasted, who knows what sweet effacement of individuality - might have resulted? Who knows into what channels of pity and sublime - endeavours of mercy the girl's full, ardent nature might have been - directed? But the high gods had ordained otherwise. Miss Davenant died, - and Clytie again found herself with the unknown destiny before her that - had to be worked out unaided. - </p> - <p> - It was only after the first outburst of grief that she realised this - fully. She had gone back to Durdleham, with a new range of feelings - freshly revealed. Her sisters she found were gentle, quiet women like her - aunt, narrower perhaps, with thin currents of old prejudice still running - through them, but still lovable and sympathetic in her sorrow. They - welcomed her back like a lost sheep to the fold. Never had her home life - seemed so peaceful, comfortful; London was scarcely mentioned, and her - sisters agreed between themselves that Clytie's absence from home was an - episode of the past, never to recur. - </p> - <p> - But time wears and effaces the deepest intaglio of impression, even that - of a young girl's first knowledge of death and eternal loss. Gradually the - quietude of eventless life, as the need for it wore away, grew wearisome, - oppressive, and the old restless cravings began to gnaw at her heart. The - breach that death had closed slowly widened again, so gradually that not - till it was fully appreciable did the sisters recognise it. The formulas - seemed narrower, more lifeless than ever. She had viewed dimly the - potentialities of life, and her soul burned within her with a fiercer - hunger. Almost against her will she revolted finally. - </p> - <p> - “What is this that Janet has been telling me,” said Mrs. Blather one - morning, “about your wanting to go back to London? You cannot be in - earnest, Clytie?” - </p> - <p> - Clytie looked at her sister rather sadly, tears springing into her eyes. - </p> - <p> - “You have been very good to me since I have come back, Gracie, and I have - learned to love you more than I did before—much more. But can't you - understand, dear, that if I am to go on loving you I must go away?” - </p> - <p> - “I can't see it at all,” replied Mrs. Blather. “If we have got on so - nicely together these last few months, why can't we continue? Janet and I - are willing to give you all in our power to make you happy.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah! but don't you see that what I want is out of your power to give?” - said Clytie. “Don't think I am wicked and ungrateful. If a man wants five - pounds, he is grateful to anyone who gives him one; but that does not - lessen his need of the other four. Now the other four pounds are not to be - got in Durdleham, Gracie, and I must have them.” - </p> - <p> - “You should learn content, Clytie,” said her sister. “We have all to put - up with our lot in life.” - </p> - <p> - Clytie checked an impulse of impatience at the platitude, and answered - with great gentleness of voice and manner: - </p> - <p> - “This is not my lot in life, dear. It is quite different. You and Janet - can bear it, because your natures crave this tranquillity. Mine craves - movement, excitement, strange faces. Oh, Gracie, it is no use talking—I - must go away, or I shall begin to hate Durdleham as I used to do. There is - nothing for me to do here. I am too bad for it, perhaps. I don't know. I - can't explain it to you; you have never felt it.” - </p> - <p> - “My dear Clytie, that is all nonsense,” said Mrs. Blather, who prided - herself, above all things, on being a woman of common sense. “As a matter - of fact, you can't go to London, because you would have no one to live - with, and you would only have your hundred a year to support you, as papa - has lost a great deal of money lately and can hardly afford to give you an - allowance. When your aunt was alive it was a different thing. The whole - idea of going to live alone in London is silly. So there's an end of it.” - </p> - <p> - Mrs. Blather went on with her sewing, with mingled feelings of content at - having done her duty and disappointment in the failure of promise of - reform in Clytie. She would have judged her sister mercifully had she been - able. She was naturally a gentle woman, full of kindness. But her canons - of duty would not allow her to encourage or condone wilfulness, caprice, - and a tendency to wrong-doing. She earnestly believed it was for Clytie's - good to stay in Durdleham. The girl's wider needs she could not - understand. - </p> - <p> - Clytie turned from the hearthrug, where she had been standing, to the - drawing-room window, and looked out blankly at the rain. Her young face - was set rather hard; her lips quivered a little; her heart beat quicker - than usual. A struggle was taking place within her—the struggle - between the girl and the woman. She felt that the great moment of her life - had come. She must choose. Which should it be: the dazzling light with its - weird shadows of things unseen, or the gray, easeful glimmer in which the - familiar realities cast no shadow? Which should it be: daughterly duty and - maidenly retirement, or the sundering of home ties forever and going out, - one woman, to battle with the world? - </p> - <p> - She turned away from the window at last and called to her sister. The - latter looked up and was filled with foreboding as she saw the girl's pale - face. - </p> - <p> - “Yes. What is the matter, Clytie?” - </p> - <p> - “I have made up my mind, Gracie,” she said a little huskily. “I am going - to London to live by myself. I can share lodgings with one of the girls I - know at the Slade School. There will be no difficulty. I can earn money; I - have already earned a little. As for mamma's money, I am of age now, and - it is my own to do what I like with it—as you and Janet do. Let this - be an end of the discussion, Gracie. I am going.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER III. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">F</span>ew people, in an - outburst of enthusiasm, would select the King's Road, Chelsea, as an ideal - locality to reside in. It is an important thoroughfare, no doubt, but it - lacks nobility and distinction. There are isolated, quiet spots in it, - with houses lying back from the road; and from the upper windows of - favoured residences one can obtain a view over Yeitch's or Bull's - extensive hothouses, and catch dim shadows of great tropical palms and a - mellowed dash of brilliant red and yellow. There are others which look - over Portman Square or St. Luke's Churchyard. But on the other hand, there - are long stretches of dreary shops and factories, grit and general - uncomeliness. Without being squalid, it has a careworn, untidy appearance, - as if it was far too much harassed with the petty worries and strain of - workaday life to think of cheerful adornment. Few people, except errand - boys whose sense either of aesthetics or duty is usually undeveloped, - saunter casually along the King's Road. A stranger tries to get out of it - as fast as he can; a frequenter has his business to attend to. Fashion - does not pass along it, except on tearing drags bound for Hurlingham. It - is essentially a small bourgeois part of London, with all the small - bourgeois unpretence and honest, if somewhat dismal, solidity. - </p> - <p> - It was in the middle of such a dreary stretch of the road, some half mile - west of Sloane Square, that Clytie found a lodging. The fact that a - green-grocer's shop, owned by the landlord of the house, occupied the - ground floor was compensated, in a measure, by the existence of a small - studio at the back, on the first floor, originally constructed by a - struggling photographer, who had since worked his way upwards into a more - fashionably perfumed atmosphere. One of Clytie's favourite - fellow-students, Winifred Marchpane, who lived in Lower Sloane Street, and - whose family obtained their potatoes and salads from Mr. Gurkins, had - recommended the establishment, and offered to share with her the expenses - of the studio. The cheapness of the rooms suited Clytie's modest purse, - and the prospect of pleasant companionship in the studio was an additional - attraction. It is true that the acrid smell of the potatoes, when the side - door from the shop on to the private entrance lobby was left open, - ascended the stairs, together with a vague odour of cooking, bearing - upwards, as it were, on savoury breath the disputes of Mrs. Gurkins with - the shopboy and the cries of her apparently ever-youthful progeny. The - incessant rumble, too, of omnibuses, drays, and furniture vans, and the - peculiarly aggressive rattle of tradesmen's carts, shook the floor and the - windows and shivered the lustres of the chandelier. There were many - drawbacks to elegant life, but Clytie, borrowing some philosophy from a - talk with Mrs. Farquharson, proceeded to disregard those she could not - eliminate. The sitting-room, when the door was shut and the curtains drawn - of an evening, was cosy enough. The pictures, nicknacks, hangings, and - other minor accessories of furnished apartments Clytie had returned to - Mrs. Gurkins' keeping, on the plea that she scarcely had room for her own—which - was true; and, by some miraculous art of persuasion, she had induced Mr. - Gurkins to remove the nerve-shattering chandelier, on the ground that she - could not work by gaslight—which was not true. She hung thick - curtains over the door to keep out noise and odour, broke up the rigidity - of the furniture by screens, small tables, and plants, and painted a long - panel for the old cottage piano that made it look fresh and companionable. - When all the arrangements were completed the room appeared dainty and - homelike, bearing, however, here and there, in bold notes of colour, folds - of drapery, and odd bits of semi-impressionist painting, a peculiar - impress of its tenant's personality. - </p> - <p> - She was living at last the life she had so passionately longed for. There - was not a human being to control her actions, not a conventionality to - check the utterance of her thoughts. During her early days here she almost - felt tempted to hang up her latchkey over the mantelpiece as a glorious - symbol of liberty. It seemed not only to serve to give her entrance to her - own modest home, but to be the power that would unlock the heart of the - great London that lay before her. - </p> - <p> - From the first she had little difficulty in finding work. Dealers bought - small pictures and gave her orders. She also pleased a firm of publishers - to whom she had gone with letters of introduction and specimens of her - draughtsmanship, and obtained work in the way of book and magazine - illustrating. Her earnings were not large, but there was the promise of - success to come. At the end of two years her income was large enough to - have enabled her to move from the King's Road into a more refined - locality; but she had grown accustomed to its noise and rattle, and to the - hurried, joyless stream of life that flowed along it day by day. And Mrs. - Gurkins understood her tastes and habits, a quality in a landlady - appreciated by women as well as men. So she stayed on. - </p> - <p> - She read widely during these years, learned much. Between the ages of - twenty-two and twenty-four a woman is capable of vast assimilation of - ideas. They can flow into the freshly opened, unpolluted channels of her - being, as yet unclogged by the refuse of sorrows and wearinesses. Her - rejection of the old formulas, and the paramount necessity of gaining - knowledge wherewith to provide herself substitutes, checked in her any - impulse towards moral or artistic idealism. She read deeply, instinctively - seeking after the roots of life, the elemental passions that shake our - nature, be its superstructure never so delicately complex. The dawning - knowledge half frightened, half attracted her. The barbaric feminine in - her struggled to escape into solitude. With fluttering eyelids downcast it - recoiled from the idea of passion as yet unawakened responsively within - her. But the higher needs of modernity constrained her to a just, resolute - system of inquiry. She learned that there are deeper laws regulating our - being than those which could be enunciated at Durdleham tea-tables, where - the ingrained habit of non-recognition of them restricted life within - narrowest limits, and put, as it were, a prohibition tax upon exoteric - sympathy. - </p> - <p> - At four-and-twenty Clytie was a woman—emotional, impulsive, eager to - taste of any new experience. The old rebellious habit of mind had - developed into a frank independence. Her step was elastic, her bearing - confident. Her life was full and happy. - </p> - <p> - “I am glad I am a woman now,” she said to Mrs. Farquharson. “I seem to - have all the advantages of both sexes.” - </p> - <p> - “Wait till you're married, my dear,” replied her friend. - </p> - <p> - Mrs. Farquharson was fond of the use of affectionate irritants. They are - often valuable preservatives of friendship. - </p> - <p> - Clytie laughed. - </p> - <p> - “I suppose I shall marry some day. I don't want to end up by leading half - a life; but I want to have two or three years more of this. I must play at - being a man a little longer.” - </p> - <p> - “A pretty sort of man!” said Mrs. Farquharson, resting her chin on her - hand and looking at Clytie with amused eyes. “You are the most deliciously - feminine young woman I know. Look at your frock and your hair.” - </p> - <p> - Judging by outward appearances Mrs. Farquharson's criticism was correct. - Clytie had the artistic sense in dress. It was like most of her other - artistic impulses, with the personal note dominant—soft textures, - falling easily into folds, quiet in tone, dark grays, subdued half shades - of yellows, suddenly brightened by a small, daring flash of colour at - throat or bosom. Lace, with its creamy, clinging softness delighted her, - and she wore it defiantly, with a certain sense of triumph that she was - perhaps the only girl in England who could wear it with faultless taste. - </p> - <p> - She was of medium height, but her slender, fully formed figure and its - erect carriage gave her an air of tallness. Her head set well on her - shoulders, and a habit of holding it back, with the chin pointing upwards, - free of the throat, added to the impression of young, fearless womanhood. - Her eyes were dark blue, wide apart, yet sunk in finely moulded orbits. A - light of humour playing in their depths, together with a soft modelling of - the nose contours beneath them, atoned for an impression of hardness and - sensuousness that would have been given by the ripe, full lips with their - little curl of disdain. Her face was rounded delicately—that much - she inherited from the Davenants—but a faint flush of colour showed - the buoyant young blood within, just as her deep red hair, with a thousand - lights dancing in it, attested the rich, vigorous strain that had asserted - itself in her. She was proud, womanlike, of this hair, and had a way of - dressing it in bewildering confusion. - </p> - <p> - Her Slade School friend, Winifred Marchpane, continued to share the studio - with her. At first she had been a little afraid of Clytie, whose bold - judgments and fearless expression of opinion were not qualified always to - attract a timorous, shrinking nature. But gradually the stronger - personality had overpowered the weaker and bound it to itself by - unbreakable bonds. A great friendship had thus arisen between the girls, - based on Winifred's side on enthusiastic admiration, almost worship, and - on Clytie's on a tender feeling of love and protection. - </p> - <p> - Winifred was one of a large family, her father, a retired officer in the - army with limited income. Two of her sisters were governesses, earning - their livelihood miles away from home. Another one took charge of the - smaller members of the household. Winifred, who had a dainty talent for - the painting of still life, supported herself, living at home and paying - her share of the household expenses. She was a little, gentle creature, - with dark hair, and with a rich colour showing beneath a brown cheek. Her - deep brown eyes had a doglike trustfulness in them, and a steadfastness - withal such as makes the heroine. A girl of few moods, few caprices. Her - work was always beautifully, conscientiously finished. She always loved - it, always found in it the same quiet charm. There was no element of - passion in it to set jarring the strings of futile endeavour. A fine sense - of colour and gradation and subtle curve, a supreme delicacy of touch—that - was her sole artistic stock in trade, and she never sought to stray beyond - the limits imposed. She had had a little picture accepted at the Academy, - hung in a far, far corner—a bunch of Maréchal Niel roses, - full-blown, in a Venetian glass vase of exquisitely veined transparencies—a - perfect little picture, sweet and pure, like herself. - </p> - <p> - It was a cold March day. The sun shone cheerfully through the drawn white - blinds of the studio skylight, but an east wind blowing outside came in - through the cracks and defied the blaze of the fire in the stove. - </p> - <p> - “You are quite blue with cold,” said Winifred, laying down mahl-stick and - palette. “Here, put on this wrap. Why don't you take more care of - yourself?” - </p> - <p> - “I never thought of it,” said Clytie, shivering a little and accepting - contentedly the wrap and a caress. “I was sketching out quite a history of - that boy who has just left.” - </p> - <p> - Winifred drew a stool to Clytie's chair near the fire and took up her - position upon it—a favourite one with her, as she could have both - the moral solace of sitting at Clytie's feet, and the physical comfort of - resting her head in Clytie's lap. - </p> - <p> - “I hope he won't bring all kinds of horrible people into the house—burglars, - you know, like Oliver Twist,” she added vaguely. - </p> - <p> - “I suppose it is rather rash picking up a model out of the streets. But he - is just the boy I wanted to give character to the group. I was going to - paint in one out of my own head.” - </p> - <p> - “I don't know how you get all those street types out of your head, Clytie. - I wish I could do it.” - </p> - <p> - “I would like to see you try, you silly child,” said Clytie, laughing. - “Your street arabs would look like stray Cupids hastily huddled up in old - clothes by a shocked and modest policeman!” - </p> - <p> - “I did not mean that; you know I didn't. What I meant was—I wish I - could paint without models. I don't think I could paint a common flat leaf - without having it before me. As for painting that”—and she pointed - to a basket standing by her easel, overflowing with anemones, snowdrops, - and violets obtained that morning by Mr. Gurkins from Covent Garden—“without - a copy, I might just as soon think of flying.” - </p> - <p> - “You are an artist, Winnie, and love your art for its own sake. I am not - quite so sure that I do, now. To have to finish all the thousand little - convolutions of those bells would drive me raving mad. I should like to - have a ghost as sculptors do, only mine would do the finishing and put in - all the nuisance of detail. That's why I can get on without models. It - saves time. I can bring home a face with me from the streets, and I can - paint it in rapidly, and then I am done. I suppose I oughtn't to be, but - Burrowes seems satisfied. He says he has got quite a 'line' in my pictures—the - correct ones—and is thinking of raising the price. I am sure that - man has been a linen-draper.” - </p> - <p> - “If you could remember the boy's face why do you bring him here?” asked - Winifred. “I only want to know why you want him so particularly, dear,” - she added, raising her chin and looking upwards at Clytie. - </p> - <p> - The boy had been ragged and uncared-for, not exactly a street urchin, but - on a vague borderland of respectability, between the newspaper arab and - the errand boy.—a hybrid with the vices of many strains. - </p> - <p> - “Do you really want to know, Winnie?” said Clytie. “Perhaps you'll be - shocked. However, you'll have to know sooner or later: I am going to make - a picture of him on my own account, just a little bit more fantastic than - he is, and call him a—an—oh, dear! what shall I call him?” - </p> - <p> - “An elf?” - </p> - <p> - “Good gracious, no. What have I to do with elves and fairies and that sort - of thing? He is the son of Cophetua—supposing the king had not - married the beggar maid.” - </p> - <p> - “Then why not the son of any other king?” - </p> - <p> - “Why not, indeed?” said Clytie drily. “Or of any other beggar maid?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh!” said Winifred, looking into the fire. - </p> - <p> - And then after a pause: - </p> - <p> - “What makes you think that?” - </p> - <p> - “Did you see his mother? I did. Such a stupid-looking, red-faced woman. I - think she said she was a charwoman by profession. There are generations of - drudgery in her face, whereas in Jack's there is vigour and intelligence—something - so different; he must have some better strain of blood in him than she and - a husband of her class can have given him. Don't you think so, dear?” - </p> - <p> - “He's a very pretty boy,” replied Winifred, “but, oh, he is so dirty and”—with - a shudder—“so animal.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, he fascinates me,” said Clytie meditatively. “I am going to paint - one of my wildest pictures—all for my own self—and a bit for - you if you like, Winnie.” Winnie accepted this tribute of affection with a - little flush of pleasure, although Clytie's “own” pictures seldom gave her - unqualified æsthetic delight, and turned her face towards Clytie, who - laughed in her frank way. - </p> - <p> - “Don't look at me with those great eyes of yours, child! You make me angry - for you. They are just the sort of eyes that make women miserable. You - must not trust in people like that, believe me.” - </p> - <p> - “I trust them when they are good like you, dear.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, but you mustn't. Don't you know I am the wickedest girl going—always - thinking of the most dreadful things? Look at the wall. How can you love - anybody that can do these silly things?” - </p> - <p> - She pointed to a series of grotesque charcoal caricatures on the studio - wall. She had been dissatisfied a day or two back with a picture she had - been engaged on for a month, and in a fit of wilfulness had daubed it out - and then proceeded to make a cruel, fantastic travesty of it on the wall. - </p> - <p> - “You wanted your tea, dear, just as you do now,” replied Winifred. - </p> - <p> - This tea hour was Winifred's great delight. At home, on account of the - children, they had to sit round the dining table and butter their own - thick slices of bread and drink out of substantial breakfast cups. In the - studio the girls had provided a dainty little afternoon tea equipage, and - Mrs. Gurkins always cut thin bread and butter from a fancy loaf. Generally - it was Winifred who poured out the tea, but to-day Clytie busied herself - with the cups, thus making some slight amends, perhaps, for having shocked - Winifred. Women are full of these odd feminine impulses, and other women - understand them. Men don't. - </p> - <p> - They sat talking, as they usually did, over their tea, and long - afterwards, until it was time for Winifred to go home. As they were taking - leave of each other on the landing a man sprang up the stairs, checked - himself, and raised a slouch hat as he passed them and vanished up the - next flight. He was a fresh-faced man, with a brown and tawny beard; tawny - ends, too, to his moustaches; bright gray eyes flashing humourously as he - passed the girls. His dress was careless, loose and unfashionable, yet it - was marked with a certain individuality. - </p> - <p> - “Who is that?” Winifred whispered when the last foot of the ascending - figure had disappeared. - </p> - <p> - “That's another protest,” said Clytie—“a better one. He has the - courage of his convictions.” - </p> - <p> - “What do you mean, Clytie?” - </p> - <p> - “Well, can't you recognise a protest when you see one?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, Clytie, don't tease and puzzle me,” cried Winifred, giving her - friend's arm a little shake. “Do you know him?” - </p> - <p> - “Of course not. How should I? But Mrs. Gurkins was telling me about him - only this morning. His name is Kent. He seems to frighten the life out of - her, and therefore I say he is a protest. Now you know, so run away home.” - </p> - <p> - When Winifred had reached the street door Clytie leaned over the banisters - and called after her. - </p> - <p> - “Winnie! I must have been in a sweet temper this afternoon.” - </p> - <p> - “Of course, dear. Why do you say so?” - </p> - <p> - “Because you have left your basket of anemones for me to take care of!” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER IV. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>hen Winifred had - gone Clytie took an omnibus to Cheyne Walk, where some friends of hers - lived, and after her visit returned to her solitary dinner. It argued some - strength of mind in Clytie that she did not give way, as many lonely women - do, to a distaste for ordinary food, and a corresponding craving for the - miscellaneous and not over wholesome meal denominated high tea. She had - not reached the stage of feminine depression and sense of helplessness - when inchoate banqueting on bread and butter and penny buns seems to bring - cheerless solace. Her temperament seemed almost virile in its vigour, and - although she had her sex's antipathy to gastronomy, she nevertheless found - it reasonable that she should be provided with a decently served dinner. - Besides, Mrs. Gurkins, who was professionally interested in food stuffs, - held solid views on the subject. She herself had a good appetite, and her - little girl children ate everything they could lay their little white - teeth to; she did not believe in not being hungry. It was one of her - grievances that her other lodger, Mr. Kent upstairs, cooked his own - victuals scramblingly, and would not allow her to see that his wants were - duly satisfied. Accordingly she bestowed extra care upon Clytie. - </p> - <p> - After the cloth was removed Clytie continued the book she had been reading - during the meal, and at last flung it aside. She rose and walked about the - room, somewhat restless. She felt lonely—vaguely desirous of action, - and yet idle. Was it a dumb premonition of fate, this restlessness? At any - rate it led her to perform a trivial action which set in motion the - currents of her future life. - </p> - <p> - She sat down at her writing table that stood in the recess between the - fireplace and the light-curtained window and lit a couple of candles, - whose pretty red paper shades threw a rosy glow around the corner of the - room. It was only a simple note that she scribbled, hastily, boldly, as - was her wont. Then she left the candles burning, and returned to her - armchair by the fire and gave herself up to meditation. - </p> - <p> - The boy model she had engaged that morning interested' her powerfully. She - shrank from an insistence upon the solution of the little problem she had - offered to Winifred during the afternoon, hovering over and away from it. - Her sense of type and personality was too acute not to be profoundly - struck by the difference between his mother and himself. On the one hand - was dulness, commonness, a coarse-fibred nature responsive to the - stirrings of neither hope nor despair, a dull, uncomplaining drudge; on - the other hand a quick, fiery temperament, showing itself in flashing - black eyes, delicate nostrils, wiry, curly brown hair—all made - picturesque by unqualified dirt. And yet, despite this refinement of - feature, there was cruelty, brutality even, written on the childish face. - That might be the fault of his upbringing, thought Clytie. But his beauty—where - did it come from? She smiled as she thought of King Cophetua. It was the - beggar maiden's grace that had won the king's heart, and grace was a - quality that Jack's mother most distinctly lacked. Clytie felt dimly - conscious of being on the verge of an appalling discovery. Her reading had - been catholic enough, and her independent acquaintance with life - sufficiently broad, to render the fact familiar to her that kings and - beggar maidens if they fall in love with each other usually dispense with - the ceremony of marriage. But then love pardons all—a formula in - Clytie's new theory of social statics, perhaps wisely not accepted in - Durdleham—and all the sorrow in lawlessness that had come within - Clytie's small experience had been in her eyes sanctified by love. Yet who - could have loved this woman? She was not more than three-and-thirty now—young - enough to show that she had never possessed the mere attraction of - comeliness. The boy remained, however, a living proof. - </p> - <p> - She thought of Winifred, and sighed a little. Why should she be forever - craving after this strange hidden knowledge, after the taste of things - bitter, when there was so much sweetness in life? The thought of - Winifred's pure, gentle touch in flowers and delicate bloom of fruit and - calm, transparent glass came over her like a rebuke. And then she smiled - again, remembering how Winifred had coaxed her once to try and paint a - bunch of roses, and how dismayed she had been at the egregious failure. - No; the cobbler must not go beyond his last. - </p> - <p> - “I don't suppose I am very wicked after all,” she said to herself. - </p> - <p> - She rested her chin upon her hand and let her thoughts wander idly, - building up a romance for Jack. He was a foundling, of noble parents, and - Mrs. Burmester was only his foster mother. Then she roused herself with a - little exclamation of disgust: - </p> - <p> - “What a perfectly Durdleham solution!” - </p> - <p> - The next moment, with an instinct common to folks whether at Durdleham or - London, she sprang from her chair and cried: - </p> - <p> - “There's something burning!” - </p> - <p> - The room in fact was full of thin smoke, and, as Clytie rose, a snake of - red flame ran up the curtains by the writing-desk. She rushed to them, but - as soon as she had touched them, the folds being shaken out, the whole - burst into a blaze. She fled to the door about to scream “Fire!” at the - top of her voice. - </p> - <p> - What happened next neither she nor John Kent could afterwards exactly - explain. He was on his way downstairs when the door was suddenly thrown - open and a stream of light burst on to the gloomy landing. Clytie ran - almost into his arms crying, “My room is on fire!” and then he was tearing - down blazing, fiery curtains, smothering them with rugs, and stamping out - glowing masses of drapery amid much smoke and confusion. It did not take - very long to extinguish the flames, but the struggle while it lasted was - fierce and exciting. Clytie stood by watching him, her hand at her throat. - It was a new sensation to her to have a man acting for her in an - emergency. She had failed. She saw by the man's energy, his fearless - dealing with the blazing mass, his strength, his violence, that she never - could have succeeded. She admired him, was angry at it; felt herself a - helpless woman, was angry at that too; wished that the danger had been a - little greater, at which she was more angry than ever. - </p> - <p> - However, when the last traces of the fire were extinguished, and the man - stood before her, somewhat out of breath, wiping his forehead, this little - train of emotions came to an end. She gazed piteously at her curtainless - windows and scorched wainscoting. He turned and opened the window, whence - the damp, gusty wind whirled the smoke in billowing drifts about the room. - </p> - <p> - “There!” he said, with a breath of relief. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, how can I thank you?” said Clytie. + “Don't,” he replied with - cheerful laconism. “I am glad I was handy—for your sake as well as - my own. I live upstairs.” - </p> - <p> - “I know; I have seen you come in and out. In fact, you passed us to-day. - But still you have saved the whole house, and I thank you very, very - much!” - </p> - <p> - “How did it all happen?” he asked, removing for the first time his white - slouch hat and disclosing a shock of brown curly hair. - </p> - <p> - “The candle-shade on the desk; do you see? It must have caught fire and - toppled over on to the curtains. I was sitting here and forgot I had left - the candles alight; and then I smelled something burning and saw the - curtains in a blaze. Then I ran out to call somebody.” - </p> - <p> - “That was very stupid,” said Kent, pushing back the desk from the middle - of the room, where he had wheeled it; “by opening the door you made the - things burn quicker. All you had to do was to drag down the curtains and - cover them with the hearthrug. And then it is very silly to use paper - candle-shades. They are no good, and they are always causing accidents. I - hope you are not going to get any more.” - </p> - <p> - The assured paternal air with which Kent delivered himself of this little - speech did away with its apparent rudeness. Clytie, who at first looked - rather resentfully at her rebuker, laughed. - </p> - <p> - They bent down together to restore order among the singed rugs. Beneath - them was Kent's waterproof, on to which he had thrown the blazing - curtains. It was very badly burned and of course rendered useless. - </p> - <p> - “It is utterly ruined!” exclaimed Clytie, examining the holes with a - helpless expression of regret on her face. - </p> - <p> - And then her eyes suddenly fell upon a great ugly red splash upon his - hand. He withdrew it hastily, but she caught the sleeve of his coat. The - stuff came away between her fingers. - </p> - <p> - “You have burned yourself horribly. Oh, what can I do?” - </p> - <p> - “It's nothing,” said Kent. “It doesn't hurt. I'll go and put something on - it. Please don't trouble. Goodnight.” - </p> - <p> - He moved towards the door, with his hat and burned waterproof in his hand. - But Clytie could not let him leave in this way. The woman in her was - moved. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, please don't go until I have seen what harm you have got. I should - feel so unhappy about it. I may be able to dress it for you—until - you can see a doctor.” - </p> - <p> - She spoke so sincerely, so frankly, and looked at him with such genuine - concern, that he surrendered with a good grace. He came forward to the - table where the big lamp was burning and put out his arm for her - inspection. It was really injured, and was beginning to be exceedingly - painful. - </p> - <p> - “What can I do for it?” she asked rather helplessly. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, some olive oil and a bit of rag will be the best.” - </p> - <p> - Clytie produced some cotton wool and some oil from a cruet in the - sideboard and then sought after some linen to bandage with. Kent noticed - that she did not ask him for his handkerchief, nor did she use her own, - but went rather impulsively to a workbasket and tore off a strip of soft - material that was lying on the top. It was very expensive stuff, and the - whole piece of work of which it was to form a part was spoiled. It was - characteristic of her. Another woman would have remembered where she had - stored some odds and ends of old linen. - </p> - <p> - Kent watched her curiously as she was bending over his hand. He had often - seen her before, but his life went on so far outside the sphere of women - that he had scarcely given her a thought as he had passed her by. He had - never even inquired her name. From the mere fact of her renting the studio - it had come involuntarily to his knowledge that she followed pursuits more - or less artistic; but his curiosity had never been aroused. Now that he - had been suddenly thrown into close contact with her he was interested. He - smiled at himself for the unwonted pleasure he found in watching the - lights dancing through her hair, the brows contracted ever so little in - the absorption of her occupation, the long nervous fingers, set on the - broad palm, deftly arranging the cotton wool, the scrap of old lace at her - throat and wrists. She was pretty, striking, to look upon, but he had not - formed a very high impression of her otherwise. It was just the sort of - thing a woman would do, to run out of the room when it was on fire, to - give up thinking for herself in any emergency and trust blindly in - Providence—or a man. It is a strange thing that those men who see - least of women know most concerning them. - </p> - <p> - As she raised her head after pinning the bandage she caught the expression - of amusement on his face. He was quick to note the little shadow of - resentment that passed over hers. - </p> - <p> - “I was thinking what a mess I should have made of it by myself,” he said - with a tact that surprised him. “Thank you very much.” - </p> - <p> - “It was the least I could do,” replied Clytie. “I feel so guilty about it - all—and your poor waterproof too.” - </p> - <p> - “It's a very old one,” he replied good-humouredly, holding the garment out - for inspection. “My friends will be delighted. They have threatened to cut - me in the streets if they saw me in it again. So you see you have secured - my friendship for me. And I shall get on much better with an umbrella - to-night.” - </p> - <p> - “But you're surely not going out to-night!” cried Clytie, moving to the - window and shutting it, as if he were intending to escape through it. “It - is pouring wet, and you would catch cold in your hand—it would get - inflamed, or something dreadful. It is stupid of people not to take care - of themselves. It's hurting fearfully, isn't it? Tell me.” - </p> - <p> - She looked at him so frankly, her head thrown back a little, and spoke - with such a faint touch of imperiousness in her voice, that Kent checked - his impulse of retreat. “Of course it hurts. But I don't mind. If one - minded all the little pains of this life, one would have no time for - anything else. Besides, I am used to rough it a bit. It is my own choice, - more or less, and I like it.” - </p> - <p> - Clytie remembered the strange stories Mrs. Gurkins had told her about - Kent's way of life. She had listened to them with idle interest, never - imagining that Kent and herself would ever become acquainted. Now that he - alluded to his habits she felt bound to confess her share in the gossip, - which she did somewhat rebelliously, checking certain more timorous - promptings of silence. - </p> - <p> - “So you see I know all about you,” she said in conclusion. “When people - are eccentric they become, as it were, public characters. Now if you were - to talk to Mrs. Gurkins——” - </p> - <p> - “Heavens forbid!” cried Kent with much warmth. “I was fleeing from her - this afternoon when I nearly knocked you down.” - </p> - <p> - “Why?” asked Clytie, laughing. - </p> - <p> - “I don't know—instinct, I suppose. Perhaps I have been wrong. - Otherwise I might have known something more of you. It's a bad compliment, - I am aware, but I have been here a whole year and I have never seen or - heard your name. Might I know whom I have had the pleasure of assisting? I - did not in the least care before, but now it is different.” - </p> - <p> - There was an honesty and directness in his voice that pleased Clytie. She - felt glad he had asked her. There is a touch of susceptible vanity even in - the most emancipated of women. - </p> - <p> - “My name is Davenant, and I am by way of being an artist—that is to - say, I gain my living by it.” - </p> - <p> - Her eyes wandered unconsciously round the room hung with many of her - half-finished sketches. Kent followed her glance, and then crossed to the - wall and examined one or two of the pictures. - </p> - <p> - “Are these yours?” he asked, turning round quickly. - </p> - <p> - They were charcoal sketches of street scenes, direct and daring. Kent - received Clytie's nod of assent, and glanced at the pictures and then at - her again, as if trying to reconcile the two. - </p> - <p> - “Is all your work of this kind?” - </p> - <p> - “Mostly. Sometimes I draw it milder,” she added, with a smile, “when - definite orders come in; but I feel more at home with this sort of thing.” - </p> - <p> - Kent returned to the centre of the room, where he had been standing - before. - </p> - <p> - “I am not an artist myself,” he said, “but I have been brought up in an - atmosphere of art and I love it. My father was Rupert Kent, - painter-etcher; he did that little thing over your mantelpiece.” - </p> - <p> - “Isn't it a perfect little piece of work?” said Clytie, looking round at - it. “I am very fond of it.” - </p> - <p> - “So was my father. Well, you see, I am not a Philistine in art matters, - and when I say your work interests me I mean it. I should like to look at - some more of it. Where is it to be found?” - </p> - <p> - “You can come anytime to my studio if you like. It is my place of - business, you know, and perhaps you may get me some orders. Art is - terribly mercenary in these days.” - </p> - <p> - “I want to see the things you do for yourself,” said Kent bluntly, - ignoring the little hedge wherewith she had fenced her invitation. “It - will be very kind of you to let me come.” - </p> - <p> - Clytie held out her hand to him as he bade her goodnight and thanked him - for his help. - </p> - <p> - “And now that we know each other,” she said, “I hope—I hope you - won't cut me on the stairs.” - </p> - <p> - When he had gone Clytie looked ruefully at the damage that had been done. - Her pretty inside curtains were destroyed; the heavy outer ones burned - into great charred holes. The carpet and hearthrug were badly scorched, - and the side of her writing-table warped and blistered. As she gazed at - the wreck she went over the little scene in her mind. Why had she stood - still, leaving the whole of the work to Kent? What must he have thought of - her? - </p> - <p> - If he had been any ordinary man of her acquaintance she would have been - still angry with herself for her helplessness, and her anger would have - reflected itself on him. But now she put the question to herself more - through curiosity than irritation. There was a simplicity about the man - that attracted her. His words had been blunt, almost rude sometimes, but - his voice had been kind, his manner protective, straightforward. She had - signally marked her approbation for him by asking him to visit her studio, - a privilege she only accorded to a few tried and very sympathetic men - friends. Kent interested her, and yet she had not the slightest desire to - transfer her impression of him to canvas. - </p> - <p> - The next morning she gave Winifred an account of the last evening's - incidents, confessing her own impressions in her wilful, half-cynical way. - Her friend listened meekly, wondering at her earnestness. The curtains had - caught fire, a gentleman had come opportunely to her aid, had burned his - hand, which she had tended in common courtesy. It was all so very natural. - As for feeling humiliated at being helped by a man, what are women put in - the world for except to yield and give way before men? - </p> - <p> - But Winifred did not say this to Clytie. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER V. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">J</span>ohn Kent, - antiquarian, scientist, Bohemian, and assistant curator in the British - Museum, dwelt in the attics, far above the limit of the stair carpet. By - the time you had reached them you had lost all sound of the thoroughfare - below, and even when you looked out of the windows all sense of locality - was lost. Nothing could be seen but roofs and chimney-pots, except on very - clear days, when, through an accidental vista of streets, the tops of the - trees in Chelsea Hospital were dimly visible. But in Kent's rooms no one - cared to look out of window. In the first place, it was difficult of - access, and in the second, the extraordinary appearance of the apartment - riveted one's attention entirely to things within. - </p> - <p> - On the floor was neither carpet nor rug. The place of a fender was - supplied by three large iron tripods, waifs from some dismantled chemical - laboratory, which, when they were not otherwise engaged as footstools, - served to support a kettle, a saucepan, and a glue-pot. All around the - walls, with just one space for the door, ran a broad deal dresser that did - duty for several tables, and below it, here and there, were cunningly - contrived cupboards. Above, every inch of wall was covered: one side - completely with books, the others with pictures, mostly old engravings, - little masters such as Cranach and Behm, a frame of perfect little - Aldegravers, a Prince Rupert mezzo, two Woolmers with their exquisite wavy - lines, Bewicks, and a magnificent modern Jacquemart etching of a Sèvres - vase. The intermediate spaces were filled up with a heterogeneous - assortment of curios. The dresser-table was likewise laden with books, - coin cases, scientific specimens, strange weapons, old axe-heads, Japanese - sword hilts cunningly carved, newspapers, journals, pamphlets, and papers - innumerable. There were only two fairly clear spaces around the whole - extent: one where Kent worked, and another where he took such meals as he - had in his lodgings. Save for one solitary leather writing-chair, the - centre of the large room was absolutely empty; but in a corner, on the - floor, were piled up a set of canvas deck-chairs which Kent brought out - and opened whenever he had visitors. - </p> - <p> - All the fixtures in the room he had made with his own hands. Manual labour - was a delight to him. He also cooked his own food and cleaned out the - room. The latter operation consisted in raking out the ashes from his - grate and laying the fire afresh. No peace-destroying woman disturbed the - precincts with broom and duster. When the dust grew so thick that it - interfered with his breathing and clouded the lens of his microscope he - went round with an old towel flicking and flapping with great energy, and - then he watered the floor out of an old bronchitis-kettle. - </p> - <p> - Kent was a happy man. He had convictions, enthusiasms; manifold interests - in life for his lighter moments, one great absorbing work for his serious - hours. His slender income sufficed amply for all his wants, and there was - always a margin over for the purchase of an occasional rare edition or - print or curio. Whenever his salary was increased that margin was greater. - His mode of life never changed, for the simple reason that he considered - it to be the most delightful one possible. Purple, fine linen, and - sumptuous fare had no charms for him. It was always with much groaning of - spirit that he put on dress clothes when he went out into the world. He - cared not for the high places in the synagogues. Provided he had not to - wait outside the doors, the pit of a theatre was a place as desirable as - the stalls. - </p> - <p> - In his friends too he was happy—a few men different from himself and - from each other—and to these he clung loyally. But the conditions of - his life removed him from feminine influences. Beyond those girls in his - immediate family circle, whom he called by their Christian names and - treated with an old-fashioned, brotherly protection, scolding them when - they did foolish things, such as wearing light shoes in wet weather, - performing little services for them when they behaved themselves nicely, - he never troubled his head about womankind. - </p> - <p> - On the night when Clytie's curtains caught fire he had been on his way to - visit a coterie of three bachelor friends who shared a house in South - Kensington. They were accustomed to his nocturnal appearances, and the - worse the night and the later it grew the more likely was Kent to present - himself at the sitting-room door, a dripping, ruddy apparition, his cheeks - and beard glistening with raindrops. And then he would throw off his - mackintosh, call for slippers, and join the circle round the fire. The - thoughts of the dreary tramp home between two and three never seemed to - dismay him. Cheerlessness of environment in no way affected his happiness. - </p> - <p> - They formed the chief part of his social life, these three friends, tried - by the changes in fibre, tastes, affinities, that over half a score of - years effect. There was Fairfax, the doctor, ruddy, full-blooded, magnetic - with health and vitality, whose brass plate shone huge on the front door, - inviting confidence; Greene, the solicitor, shrewd, hard-headed, a speaker - of few words; and Wither, the civil servant, the little gnomelike man, - full of strange sayings, whimsical, non-moral, a man of boyish, elfin - beauty, trusted by men, petted by women. Of the three Kent loved Wither - best. Wither saw deeper into the world's mysteries than he, but his own - sturdy honest sense had kept the other from many an abyss. - </p> - <p> - After bidding Clytie good-night, Kent stood irresolute on the landing. - Should he wrap the remains of his waterproof around him, and still go - whither his truest happiness had hitherto always led him? Considerations - of the chill, sleeting night and the throbbing pain in his hand went for - nothing in his decision. The girl who had tended the burn had almost - besought him not to go out. To disregard her would be an act of - discourtesy. Thus thought honest Kent as he turned on his heel and slowly - mounted the stair. But his evening had been spoiled, he told his briarwood - pipe, with a consoling sense of martyrdom, and the cause thereof was - feminine. - </p> - <p> - “It is just the silly sort of thing that Agatha would do,” he said to - himself. - </p> - <p> - Agatha was his sister, whom he pitied intensely for being a woman. He - thought of Clytie's pictures, the signs of virility in them, and he began - to pity Clytie too. Yet there was a difference of kind in his sentiments. - He pitied his sister for being constrained to ambitionless-ness and - futility; he was sorry for the handicap of sex to Clytie's ambitions. - </p> - <p> - In some such attitude of mind towards her he knocked at the studio door - the following afternoon. It is true that a warning throb of the bourgeois - in him, that still sometimes mutely guided the Bohemian along certain - tracks, had made him consider for a vague moment the correctness of - calling so immediately upon Clytie; but the directness and simplicity of - his nature disregarded it. It was only natural that Clytie should like to - know how his burned hand was faring. - </p> - <p> - He found the girls busily painting, Winifred at the side, with her basket - of flowers near her, Clytie standing at her easel, in the middle of the - room, her back to the door, her face turned half round to see who would - enter in response to her call. - </p> - <p> - On the floor by the fireside sprawled Jack, the model, eating an orange. - His face was still dirty, his curly hair matted. Winifred had pathetically - besought Clytie to have him washed. Why should his poor little face be all - over dirt? - </p> - <p> - “Because it could not exist without it,” Clytie had answered. “It was so - before he was born.” - </p> - <p> - Winifred had given her one of her appealing looks from swimming brown - eyes, and Clytie, remorseful, had run impulsively up and caressed and - kissed her. But she had not washed Jack's face. He scrambled to his feet - and looked defiantly, like a young animal, at Kent when he entered. - </p> - <p> - The ground-glass roof, the white walls scored over with Clytie's - fantasies, and the bright red curtain at the back behind the stove gave a - singular setting to the picture. - </p> - <p> - Clytie's eyes brightened. She threw a cloth over the picture she was - engaged on. - </p> - <p> - “How good of you to come—and the hand?” - </p> - <p> - “A trifle. It will be quite well in a few days; I thought you would not - mind my coming to tell you how your doctoring had succeeded. I am keeping - it in a sling—so; otherwise I should be always trying to use it. You - are none the worse, Miss Davenant?” - </p> - <p> - “I? Why should I?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, nerves, shock, headache—and all that. My mother, I know, would - have been upset for a week.” - </p> - <p> - Clytie laughed; a gay little laugh. She pierced through the words to the - simplicity that lay behind them. - </p> - <p> - “I have never cultivated nerves, Mr. Kent. They sadly interfere with - practical life. How do you think Miss Marchpane and I would get on with - this sort of thing”—and she nodded towards Jack—“if we had - nerves? Winifred, this is Mr. Kent, who put out my fire last night. Miss - Marchpane and I share the studio together, you know.” - </p> - <p> - “You work on very different lines,” said Kent after a while, leaning back - in his chair so as to catch a glimpse of Winifred's tiny canvas. “What a - strange thing temperament is! I suppose neither of you does landscape.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, yes, Winifred. Dainty little bits of meadow and stream. I can't; I - always want to put legs and arms to my trees, and make the branches twist - and writhe about, like Gustave Doré in the 'Wandering Jew.'” - </p> - <p> - “You scarcely look like a painter of the weird,” said Kent. - </p> - <p> - “You think I have not enough strength of imagination?” - </p> - <p> - “You have too much strength of mind,” returned Kent judiciously. “You - hanker too much after the real. I can only judge,” he hastily added by way - of explanation, “by what I can see of your work around me.” - </p> - <p> - “You will get into difficulties,” said Clytie, laughing. “One moment you - accuse me of nerves, and the next of strong-mindedness. Which is right, - Winnie?” - </p> - <p> - “I should be telling too much or too little if I were to say,” replied - Winifred. “Mr. Kent will have to judge for himself. We had better show him - something to go by.” - </p> - <p> - They turned to an exhibition of Clytie's paintings; small stacks of - canvases were ranged on the floor, along the walls; here and there one - hanging or standing on a table or on an easel. Clytie stood by in her - nonchalant, professional way, giving a word or two of necessary - explanation as Winifred placed them one by one upon an easel for Kent's - inspection. Painters, sculptors, musicians and actors have a moral - advantage over poets and novelists, in that they are not ashamed of their - work. An artist shows you his picture frankly and hopes you will like it; - if a poet reads you a sonnet, he has an all-devouring dread lest you may - deem him a prig. And the strange part of it is that you do; whereas you - think the painter rather a good fellow. A little problem in sociological - aesthetics. - </p> - <p> - As Kent looked at the pictures he lost his sense of Clytie's Agatha-like - behaviour of the previous evening. He forgot even to pity her. He - expressed genuine admiration for her work, interspersing his remarks with - outspoken criticism which Clytie recognised as deeper than that of the - mere virtuoso. It was qualified, too, by the supreme attribute of simple - common sense. He judged the pictures on their merits; he judged Clytie as - a woman of genius, strong mind, out of the ordinary run of women. The - inner promptings and cravings that had thus found artistic expression it - was beyond his philosophy to suspect. Nor did Clytie think of enlightening - him. - </p> - <p> - “I like your realism,” he said. “It is straightforward. There's always a - great danger of this sort of thing degenerating into morbidness. But if - you can keep it true, it's healthy; it means sober, honest work, and not - an intermittent fever. I see you work off your superfluous energy on the - walls.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I forgot them,” cried Clytie somewhat shamefacedly. “You must not - look at them, please. They are not part of the show. Miss Marchpane gets - tired of flowers and peach-bloom, and sometimes——” - </p> - <p> - “Clytie!” cried Winifred reproachfully. - </p> - <p> - Clytie laughed; and Kent with her. The light jest brought them nearer - together. - </p> - <p> - “No; I do that when I feel wicked,” said Clytie. “I paint a nice, correct - little picture for the nice, correct people who are going to buy it, and - then I grow angry with them and feel I should like to shock them, take the - stiffening out of them, reduce them to elemental bits of humanity. Look at - this group of street urchins. I am doing that on order for my dealer. Here - is Jack—look at him now staring into the stove with the unreasoning - content of a young dog. Doesn't he seem nice and conventional in the - picture? You can hear the young lady of the house saying to the curate, - 'Aren't these little street children too delightful?' Now if they were - shown the real Jack, it would give them to think, as the French say—and - they hate doing that. This is <i>my</i> idea of the real Jack.” - </p> - <p> - She whisked the cloth off the easel and showed Kent the charcoal <i>ébauche</i> - of her own particular study of the urchin. - </p> - <p> - She had worked rapidly that day, with the feverishness that Kent - deprecated. Whether she would convert the sketch into a finished picture - she did not know. She had desired to fix the haunting impression of Jack's - possible history. - </p> - <p> - Kent was somewhat startled by the suddenness of the presentation. There - was the boy, refined, delicate in feature, great-eyed, curly-haired, but - repulsive with cruelty and animalism; in a degraded attitude, head bent - forward, knees bent, lips parted in a sneer. - </p> - <p> - “He does not look like that now,” said Kent, comparing the original with - the copy. - </p> - <p> - “Wait,” said Clytie. Then imperiously to the urchin: “Jack, what are you - thinking of?” - </p> - <p> - He turned, looked up at her shiftingly. - </p> - <p> - “Dunno.” - </p> - <p> - “Weren't you thinking of the nice little story of the cat you told me this - morning?” - </p> - <p> - No answer. - </p> - <p> - “It's about a stray cat that came into his mother's house half dead, you - know, and this boy was so kind to it—like a dear little girl——” - </p> - <p> - “Yer lie!” cried the boy, starting to his feet. “Oi told yer Oi killed - 'er. I lammed her bloomin' 'ed open with a chopper. I 'ates cats!” - </p> - <p> - “<i>Voilà!</i>” said Clytie. “That's the real Jack. That's the Jack I'd - like to startle Peckham Rye with.” - </p> - <p> - And then turning to the boy: - </p> - <p> - “That will do for to-day, Jack. Here's your shilling; give it to your - mother.” - </p> - <p> - “Shan't,” said Jack. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, but you must,” said Winifred; “look how hard your poor mother has to - work to keep you, Jack.” - </p> - <p> - “She's bloomin' well got ter,” said Jack. “I aint going to give 'er no - money. She never gives me none.” - </p> - <p> - “But your mother will beat you,” said Clytie. - </p> - <p> - “Wot do I care?” - </p> - <p> - “And your father, you sweet boy?” asked Kent. - </p> - <p> - “Aint got none.” - </p> - <p> - “Never had one?” continued Kent. - </p> - <p> - “No; mother aint that sort. Blamed glad.” - </p> - <p> - “Here, you'd better run away,” said Clytie hurriedly. “Keep your shilling - and make yourself as ill as you like with it. Come the day after to-morrow—Friday. - Can you remember? It's unnecessary to request you not to wash between then - and now. Go on. Good-bye. Out you get.” - </p> - <p> - The boy took up the remains of his cap and went, with an air of relief, - out of the room. - </p> - <p> - “What a little brute!” said Kent. “Why don't you try to reform him—make - him human?” - </p> - <p> - “He is human,” cried Clytie with some warmth. “That's why I cultivate him. - Delightfully human! Refreshing! As for reforming him”—with a shrug - of her shoulders—“I am not a Sunday-school teacher. I have nothing - to do with the submerged tenth; let the good respectable folks who have - submerged them raise them with their polite and respectable hands. I am an - artist—a student of life—what you will. Each one to his trade. - Perhaps when I have got what I want out of Jack it may amuse me to show - him the desirability of not 'lamming cats' bloomin' 'eds open with a - chopper.' I don't know—I'm not altogether devoid of moral sense. - Winifred's tender heart may be touched, and between the two of us we may - turn him out a mild-eyed journeyman carpenter, a member of the Y. M. C. - A., a model of all the virtues. But I very much doubt it. He has vice in - his blood. But perhaps I am wounding some of your susceptibilities, Mr. - Kent? You may be a social reformer, and keener than I on these matters. If - so, pardon me. We artists are privileged, you know, to view life from our - own standpoint.” - </p> - <p> - Kent threw up his hand and dropped it—a little gesture of - deprecation. He, too, had large views on humanity and its needs. He was - even then sacrificing comfort, fame, ease, such as other men understand - them, so as to serve it. But it was according to his own capabilities. It - was a darling scientific work, that on the most modest computation would - take him twenty years to complete—an unthankful task; his name to be - remembered with reverential gratitude by some half dozen workers, to - perish unheard of by the remaining millions of mankind. But these half - dozen would use the result of his life's energies to the advancement of - human prosperity, and that thought glowed within Kent's heart. Still a man - has not time for all things. He honestly disclaimed pretensions to being a - social reformer. He was also artistically sympathetic enough to appreciate - Clytie's attitude as regards Jack. He was nearer to her in spirit than - Winifred, who was pained at Clytie's speech. She would have cried out with - the sharpness of the pain had it not been for Kent's presence. And she - would have been revolted at the cynical callousness had it not been for - the blind adoration with which she bowed before Clytie. Whatever Clytie did - was right, she told herself, and she was a poor little body who could not - understand these things. But her heart bled for Jack, and she wondered why - Clytie's did not bleed also. - </p> - <p> - “I spoke idly,” said Kent. “I am sorry. If all artists set about reforming - their models, their hands would be too full for art. But he is a little - brute all the same, and, as you say, Peckham Rye would be startled by him. - But why do you want to shock Philistia?” - </p> - <p> - “Would <i>you</i> like to live in it, be of it, and worship at comfortably - timed intervals in its correctly appointed temple of Dagon?” - </p> - <p> - “No,” laughed Kent. “They wouldn't have me in it. I think they could stand - less of me than I of them. They are God's creatures after all, you know. - If you prick them, they bleed—and so forth. If they admire your - little pictures, which I too admire vastly, there must be some saving - grace in the Philistines.” - </p> - <p> - Clytie shrugged her shoulders. - </p> - <p> - “But why should I be obliged to paint in their way, and not in my way? - That is what irritates me.” - </p> - <p> - “Have you tried them with your way, as you call it?” - </p> - <p> - Even Winifred could scarcely forbear flashing at Clytie a little smile of - tender malice. - </p> - <p> - “God bless my soul!” she whispered softly, and the two broke into - unconstrained laughter. - </p> - <p> - “Winifred is quoting, Mr. Kent. It was an elderly gentleman, stout, - florid, lots of watch-chain—one of my patrons. He had bought one of - my pictures at the dealer's, and came for another. Burrowes showed him one - of my own own things. Winifred and I happened to be at the back of the - shop at the time. The old gentleman put on his spectacles, looked at the - picture, gave such a jump, held it in the light, and then gasped out: 'God - bless my soul, Burrowes, has the young woman taken to drink?'” - </p> - <p> - “What did you do?” - </p> - <p> - “I don't know what I should have done if Winnie had not held me back.” As - it was, Burrowes whispered to him that the artist was overhearing the - conversation. - </p> - <p> - “'Well, it will do her good,' says the old gentleman, and he went out - storming. Then Burrowes came to me and complained that I had lost him a - customer. He has the soul of a pork-butcher, that man!” - </p> - <p> - Then turning to Kent, her cheeks still flushed with anecdotal animation: - </p> - <p> - “That's how it is, you see!” - </p> - <p> - “Well,” said Kent, “perhaps you have reason to owe Philistia a grudge. I - haven't. If it shuts its respectable doors on me, I shrug my shoulders and - set up my wigwam outside, where I can smoke my pipe in peace. It is better - not to care for the world—or anything, for that matter, if one has - work to do. One's keenness on life ought to leave one no time for hating - one's fellow-creatures.” - </p> - <p> - Winifred looked at Clytie, expecting to see her resent the implied rebuke. - But Clytie only laughed softly to herself, leaning back in her chair, - looking at her finger tips. - </p> - <p> - “You are by way of being a tonic, Mr. Kent,” she said, without looking at - him. - </p> - <p> - Kent was disconcerted, could not find a reply. He stroked his tawny beard - and moustache with his free hand, and looked at her somewhat puzzled. He - had uttered his own robust faith, and she had seized a personal reference - with which she appeared not displeased. - </p> - <p> - At last he said: - </p> - <p> - “I don't mean to imply that you are cynical, Miss Davenant. But you are a - little vindictive. I, too, often think of that passage in 'Sartor - Resartus' where Carlyle strips the clothes off the courtiers at St. - James's and leaves them bare, with their bowings and scrapings—do - you remember? Well, it would be a very good thing for them. You would come - down to pure humanity and find it really a very lovable, great-hearted - thing after all.” - </p> - <p> - “Then, for goodness' sake, let us begin to strip the clothes off them at - once!” cried Clytie, changing her attitude, with her usual suddenness. - “That's what I want to do. I want real men, real women; that's why I take - human nature in the rough”—making a comprehensive sweep with her - hand round the studio—“The clothes these things wear don't matter; - you can see the passions working through the rents and tears.” - </p> - <p> - “Umph!” said Kent. “You may see something that will frighten you one of - these days. There's plenty of good in humanity, but there's plenty of bad. - You had better get hold of what is good first. It will give you a - foundation.” - </p> - <p> - Shortly afterwards Kent took his leave. He had paid a longer visit than he - had anticipated. He found himself pitying Clytie again upon new, less - definable grounds. He was much struck by her work, her frankness, her - independence. She was a novelty to him, different from the few other women - he knew. She seemed to have everything calculated to make a woman happy - and her life full, and yet he was sorry for her. Why, he could not tell. - </p> - <p> - He went up to his attics, and prepared to spend his usual working evening. - Afterwards, towards half-past eleven, he might walk across to South - Kensington. He took from one of the cupboards beneath the dresser-table - plates, knife and fork, a half-finished tin of sardines, bread and butter. - This, together with a bottle of beer, formed his frugal evening meal. His - midday dinner he took at an Italian restaurant near the Museum. He ate - standing, walking about his room between the mouthfuls, selecting the - books he would require for his work, and pausing now and then over an idly - opened volume. His meal finished, he collected the soiled utensils and - stacked them on the landing outside his door for Mrs. Gurkins to remove, - wash, and return to the same place in the morning. Then he lit his pipe, - and settled down to his long evening's work. - </p> - <p> - Thoughts of burned hand, new-found friends, occupied him not. The crisp - whisk of the leaves of his reference-books, the rapid whirr of his quill - pen, the occasional bubble of his green-shaded reading-lamp, were the only - signs of external life of which he was conscious. The rest of the - bare-floored room, with its oddly covered walls, was deep in shadow. But - the light shone in a circle upon the pile of books and papers on which he - was engaged, and lit up strongly his honest, resolute face, with its - intent gray eyes and its kindly mouth half hidden in the moustache and - beard. Kent was happy. The darling work, that served him as mistress, - religion, ambition—over which he had never known a heartache—held - him in its enchantment. And the wet slips grew in number around him. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER VI. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">Y</span>ou are going to - spend a dismal evening, my dear,” said Mrs. Farquharson, with a sigh. - </p> - <p> - They were sitting on either side of the drawing-room fire, awaiting dinner - guests. - </p> - <p> - “Why?” asked Clytie. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, the crowd that's coming—fossilised London, with figures like - amphoras and faces like old coins. It's the principle of assimilation, I - suppose. And they'll talk as if there were nothing new under the sun.” - </p> - <p> - “There isn't much.” - </p> - <p> - “Isn't there? Wait till you have lived a little longer. At any rate there - are murders and divorces and new pictures and the latter end of the - nineteenth century. Why people choose to live a couple of thousand years - before their time I can't make out. You'll see. They'll all look as if - they had been excavated—except George, and he looks as if they had - never taken the trouble to bury him. Thank goodness, they have all got - weak digestions and don't dine out much, or else we should have them here - every week.” - </p> - <p> - “But the wives are coming too,” said Clytie by way of consolation. - </p> - <p> - “Poor things! They all look weary with many proof-sheets crammed with - circumflexes over impossible letters, and wrong-headed pictures of birds - and beasts. All archaeologists are not like George, you know.” - </p> - <p> - “But then no one is like George.” - </p> - <p> - “That's a mercy,” said Mrs. Farquharson settling herself with much comfort - among the cushions of her chair. “Don't you get married, my dear; stay - independent. Do you know, one of the beings is going to read a paper. Pity - me.” - </p> - <p> - “It seems as if I am to be pitied too,” remarked Clytie. - </p> - <p> - “Ah! but you are young and can make fun out of them. I can't.” - </p> - <p> - The occasion was a meeting of Mr. Farquharson's archaeological set. The - inner circle dined at each other's houses in turn once a month, and the - outer circle came in later, for the “conversazione,” as Mrs. Farquharson - called it, with a little shudder. A paper was usually read, followed by a - discussion, from which the more flippant seceded and gossipped casually in - odd corners. Clytie had never been to one of these strangely homogeneous - reunions. The people she generally met at her friends' house were - miscellaneous, and the talk danced about upon all subjects under heaven, - wreathed in blue curls of cigarette smoke. Mrs. Farquharson had begged her - to come and support her—“to strike a note of colour among the gray - ruins.” Clytie looked forward to the incongruous formalism of the evening - with an anticipation of amusement. - </p> - <p> - She hinted as much to Mr. Farquharson when he came into the drawing-room. - He laughed, bowed his long, ungainly figure, hoped that Miss Davenant had - come to be instructed. Professor Petherick was to read a paper on an - aureus of Geta of the type Cohen No. 11,—Clytie and her hostess - communed with each other dumbly,—and many rare coins were to be - exhibited. He trusted that Miss Davenant would be appreciative and on her - best behaviour. Numismatics was not a subject that lent itself to - flippancy. - </p> - <p> - “My wife can turn the house into a bear-garden every Sunday evening, more - shame to her, though she does sit and smile in her superior way. But twice - a year I assert my individuality and this house becomes sober and - respectable. So no cigarettes to-night, Miss Davenant. When I put on these - dress-clothes I am rigid.” - </p> - <p> - “You look very nice,” said Clytie. - </p> - <p> - He looked down at himself complacently, accepting the flattery; such is - man. He always insisted upon wearing very square-toed kid boots, a high - buttoned waistcoat with a chain made of old coins banded across it, a deep - velvet collar to his dress-coat, and a shirt-collar, with two long ends - that served as a tie, beneath his beard. - </p> - <p> - “I like him better in his velvet jacket,” said Mrs. Farquharson. “Go and - put it on, George.” - </p> - <p> - But George shook his head sadly. He must be properly attired to discuss an - aureus of Geta. - </p> - <p> - The guests arrived, seven in number, and they went down to the - dining-room. Clytie sat between Professor Petherick, a little rosy man - with a bald head and gastronomic appreciation, and a young clergyman who - had taken her in to dinner. She had been for so long a time outside Church - influences that a strange little Durdleham qualm come over her. He looked - stern, overworked, dreadfully in earnest, she thought, not likely to - sympathise with the Thelemite joyousness of life of the house whose motto - was, “<i>Fays ce que vouldras</i>.” He was the only bachelor among the - guests. The six others, including the professor, consisted of three - married couples, middle-aged, respectable. Mr. Vansittart was a great - Egyptologist. It was of his wife, a faded, weary-looking woman, that Mrs. - Farquharson had so pathetically spoken with reference to the correction of - proof-sheets. Mrs. Petherick was literary, fond of lions. Her talk was a - catalogue raisonné of her menagerie. Mr. Farquharson listened politely and - went on with his dinner. The remaining couple were the Chowders, retired - Anglo-Indians, who found only late in life an opportunity of gratifying - their ruling passions—on her part an undisturbed warm bath of - domesticity; on his, archaeological dilettanteism. She was florid and - buxom; he bronzed and shrivelled. Both talked on their pet subjects. The - Rev. Victor Treherne was a keen numismatist. “A recognised authority,” - Farquharson had whispered to Clytie. “Will give Petherick beans if he goes - wrong.” Clytie knew nothing of numismatics. She did not know the - difference between a moidur and a bezant, nor did she seek enlightenment - from her neighbour. She questioned him as to his environment—North - London, a large parish, chiefly poor. The conversation languished, then it - brightened up through common effort. Each had a King Charles the First's - head to keep in the background, feeling it to be distasteful to the other. - Treherne had left his parish behind, and had brought no other interests - with him save those circling round the famous aureus, a matter of supreme - indifference to Clytie, who, for her part, had been cautioned to act as the - superior Ki-Pi-Yu, friend of Confucius, did on certain occasions—roll - her principles up and keep them in her breast. Each, too, divined dimly - the other's personality, and they talked eagerly, seeking to like and - interest one another through a current of mutual antipathy. - </p> - <p> - The professor and Mrs. Farquharson were talking less unreservedly on the - question of female disabilities. He had theories on the sacredness of - woman's mission. Mrs. Farquharson's views were more materialistic. Her - early training had disabused her of the oak and ivy illusion, which the - professor still entertained. - </p> - <p> - “No, it's no use, professor,” she said. “A man has got to go his way and a - woman hers. If their ways lie together, so much the better—they can - help each other; if they lie apart, so much the worse. Besides, I cannot - conceive anything more irritating to a man than to be followed all about - by his wife—like a dog. No wonder some men beat their wives.” - </p> - <p> - Treherne had caught the speech. He turned to Clytie. “Do you believe - that?” - </p> - <p> - “Of course. Mrs. Farquharson and I are sworn sisters. We hold advanced - views concerning ourselves. I hope you don't think we have a mission! Have - you ever thought how distressing it is to try to live up to a false ideal, - and somebody else's into the bargain?” - </p> - <p> - “We all have to live up to an ideal. This one may be false; I don't know. - At any rate it is a high one, and worth aiming at.” - </p> - <p> - “That is Jesuitical. What is to become of a woman's self-respect when she - knows all the time she is a humbug, although a sublime one?” - </p> - <p> - “By seeking to inspire others with faith in her she will at length acquire - faith in herself.” - </p> - <p> - “Don't you think that's rather vicious?” - </p> - <p> - “I don't know. The same principle obtains in my own calling. Many a man - enters the Church who is not really fit for it. But the professional - effort he has to make to raise others in most cases raises himself.” - </p> - <p> - “That may be quite true,” said Clytie, “but it does not prove the - principle to be right. Besides, the cases are different. You undertake, - when you enter the Church, to do certain things. Now when a woman enters - the world she does not undertake to do anything, any more than a man does. - They both clamour to assert themselves as human beings. They may go about - it in different ways,—it is merely the difference of sex,—but - their ultimate end is the same.” - </p> - <p> - “And what is this?” - </p> - <p> - “To get as much out of life as possible.” - </p> - <p> - “That's scarcely orthodox.” - </p> - <p> - The accompanying smile was a touch of the curb on Clytie. She paused. - There was an interval of dining. Then she turned to reply to a remark of - the professor. Mrs. Farquharson, who hitherto had steered skilfully - through the shoals of antiquity, was run aground by Colonel Chowder. - Clytie was astonished to hear her friend talking learnedly of coins and - Latin inscriptions. She ran discursively over the points of George's - collection, toning her speech with a light counterpoint of mockery, so - that its echo should reach Clytie's ears. Mrs. Chowder bubbled domesticity - over the Egyptologist; spoke of her sons, the difficulty of army - examinations. She was bent upon their getting into the service, also upon - their marrying young. The reconciliation of these incongruities was the - problem offered for Mr. Vansittart's solution. - </p> - <p> - Clytie again turned to Mr. Treherne. - </p> - <p> - “Do you often come here? I am almost of the house and I have never met - you.” - </p> - <p> - “Once before, on a similar occasion—almost the same circle. A common - hobby brings the most divergent people together.” - </p> - <p> - “It is a pity you and I have not got one,” said Clytie, flashing a - malicious glance at him. - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps we have. What do you mostly do?” - </p> - <p> - “Paint—for my living.” - </p> - <p> - “An artist! What is your line?” - </p> - <p> - “Anything human—they call it <i>genre</i>—street life—the - very poor.” - </p> - <p> - “The poor? Then we have a common hobby after all!” - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps,” replied Clytie. “But I am afraid we ride it in opposite - directions.” - </p> - <p> - “Do you know much of their lives—go among them?” - </p> - <p> - “Not much; I see them only externally, from an artist's point of view. I - should like to see deeper.” - </p> - <p> - A light burned for a moment in the young clergyman's gray eyes. - </p> - <p> - “Would you care for work among them?” - </p> - <p> - “As a student, perhaps; as a reformer, no!” - </p> - <p> - “One generally leads to the other.” - </p> - <p> - “In that case I'll not run the risk,” she replied laughing. - </p> - <p> - An hour later the drawing-room was filled with the evening guests, mostly - men. Women archaeologists are scarce. The sentiment with which they inwrap - relics of the past harms the pure scientific spirit of inquiry. Thus Mr. - Farquharson to Clytie, briefly explanative. She laughed, reminded him how - lately in a sentimental mood he had accused women of lack of imagination; - she reproached him for inconsistency. - </p> - <p> - “Inconsistency is a principle of the art of living,” he replied - epigrammatically, moving away. - </p> - <p> - The men stood in groups about the room chatting on personalities, - examining the display of coin-cases arranged here and there upon the - tables, each under the soothing light of a shaded lamp. The professor - stood by himself on the hearthrug, hemming irritably, anxious to read his - paper. The talk was subdued, attitudes formal, a contrast to the ordinary - easy abandonment of that drawing-room. The men were of a different type, - mostly elderly, sedate. Mrs. Farquharson rested for a moment from her - exertions as hostess by Clytie's side. - </p> - <p> - “Now for a minute's peace. I wish the men would smoke, they all look so - woebegone; but George says they mustn't. Now, then, my dear, I haven't - seen you for ages, except for those five minutes before dinner; what have - you been doing lately?” - </p> - <p> - “Nothing much—working. Oh! yes, I have, though. I have found a new - chum.” - </p> - <p> - “What is she like?” - </p> - <p> - “It isn't a she, it's a he.” - </p> - <p> - “Where does he come from?” asked Mrs. Farquharson, arching her eyebrows. - </p> - <p> - “From the skies, apparently: in the first case to put out a fire in my - room—he lives over me in the attics——” - </p> - <p> - “Clytie! You must be careful. Who is he? What's his name?” - </p> - <p> - “Caroline,” said her husband's deep voice behind her chair, “I don't think - you know Mr. Kent.” - </p> - <p> - Clytie started round violently at the shock of the coincidence. Kent was - standing by her side, looking odd, changed, a bit Philistine in his - evening dress. He wore a glove over his burned hand. - </p> - <p> - They talked, explained their meeting. He had had a numismatic acquaintance - with Mr. Farquharson for a long time past. Had received his invitation at - the Museum, his private address not being known to his host. Clytie - described her own privileged position in the household, speaking frankly, - vivaciously. She felt a little thrill of pleasure at seeing him there. He - seemed, more than the other guests, in harmony with the traditions of the - house. They had not time for much conversation, social exigencies - separating them. Besides, a general buzz and a subsiding into chairs or - restful attitudes sounded the warning that Professor Petherick was about - to read his paper. - </p> - <p> - He described the coin that had come into his possession,—previously - it had been passed round for the inspection of the guests,—claiming - it to be a finer specimen than the one in the Caylus collection. The - figure of Castor beside his horse, without the pileus, on the reverse, he - argued was a portrait of the unfortunate young co-emperor. The legend on - the obverse proclaimed that it was a coin of Geta. He took this as the - text for a learned disquisition upon the aureus, tracing its origin, the - variations in its weight, to the time of Justinian, who fixed it as a - limit stake for a throw of the dice. He quoted Pitiscus, Eckhel, many - learned authorities. He read in a bland, easy tone, confident of his facts - and his deductions. - </p> - <p> - Clytie felt relieved when he had finished. Across the room she had now and - then caught Kent's eye, which had a humourous twinkle in it. She, who an - hour before had been scoffing at the dry-as-dust nature of numismatics as - a pursuit, now felt a consciousness of inferiority, of being relegated to - the tribe feminine, who are not expected to care for intellectual matters. - She nourished a seed of resentment against Kent and all archaeologists. - But when the usual discussion on the paper began she set an example of - interest in it to Mr. Vansittart, who had come over and sat down by her - side. Really, she was curious to see what part Kent would take in the - discussion. He seemed to find many acquaintances in the room, and an - appreciative welcome from each. She experienced a strange sense of - satisfaction at the dispelling of an unformulated apprehension lest he - might be unknown, insignificant. She had seen him several times since his - visit to the studio; once they had met at Sloane Square station and had - walked home together. The acquaintance was ripening into friendliness. Now - she was interested at seeing him in a new environment. Our conception of - people changes very much according to the conditions with which we - associate them. But Kent in the drawing-room, despite his unfamiliar - attire, seemed much the same as Kent in the studio, his manner towards the - men she saw him talking with much the same as his manner towards her. - Presently he rose, broke into the discussion. The principal participators - listened with apparent respect to his remarks, few in number, but apt. - </p> - <p> - “Well, Mr. Kent is an authority,” said the professor, surrendering a - particular point with a certain grace. - </p> - <p> - The little tribute fell gratefully on Clytie's ears. Suddenly she became - conscious that her pleasure was greater than the occasion warranted. She - turned round quickly to Mr. Vansittart, who was taking but mild interest - in the affair, and somewhat abruptly opened a conversation. The Rev. Mr. - Treherne joined them soon afterwards, asking permission to introduce a - friend. Thus it came about that Clytie had a small group around her, and - her interest in Kent's proceedings was checked for a time. - </p> - <p> - Meanwhile Mrs. Farquharson had threaded her way through the crowd of black - coats, and taken Kent off with her to an undisturbed corner. She was - curious to examine Clytie's new “chum.” - </p> - <p> - “So you live in the same house as Clytie Davenant. You rescued her from - the flames, didn't you? She told me something about it. What happened, - exactly?” - </p> - <p> - Kent sketched briefly the little scene with the blazing curtains, and - mentioned his visit next day and his subsequent meetings with Clytie. He - politely expressed his agreeable surprise at meeting her to-night. - </p> - <p> - “And what do you think of her?” asked Mrs. Farquharson confidentially. “I - dare say it's an odd question, but if you will come and see us again, you - will find we are given to saying odd things.” - </p> - <p> - “Like Miss Davenant?” - </p> - <p> - “You have found that out already? Well, come, what do you think of her?” - </p> - <p> - “Honestly, or conventionally?” - </p> - <p> - “If I meant conventionally, I should not ask you the question.” - </p> - <p> - Kent waited for a moment, stroking his beard. He was scarcely prepared - with an answer even to satisfy himself. - </p> - <p> - “I don't know. She is a bit too complicated to be defined in a phrase like - a term in Euclid. She is nearer to a man than any woman I know.” - </p> - <p> - Mrs. Farquharson smiled inwardly, noting the phrase, yet liking him for - it. It was so deliciously wrong, so absurdly off the track. She - contemplated him from the empyrean of feminine wisdom, and from that - moment took him under her protection. To blunder honestly in things - feminine is one of the ways to a woman's pity, thence often to her heart. - She encouraged him, however, instead of correcting him. - </p> - <p> - “Why do you say that?” - </p> - <p> - “For one reason, because I can talk to her as I would to a man. She has - ideas and is not afraid of expressing them. In fact, she is different from - the ordinary women one meets.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, yes! she is that,” Mrs. Farquharson granted. “She is all for <i>le - nouveau jeu</i>. When I want to tease her I tell her she will find it <i>le - vieux jeu</i> all the time, but she won't believe it.” Then suddenly, - “Don't you think she is very pretty?” - </p> - <p> - “Pretty?” echoed Kent in some confusion. “Really, yes, I suppose she is. I - hardly thought about it,” and leaning his body aside, so as to catch a - distant glimpse of Clytie between the forms of the little circle of men - round her, he added, “she is very pretty.” - </p> - <p> - And truly it was a fair picture that his eye fell upon. She was wearing a - simple dress of ivory-coloured silk, falling in soft, straight folds to - her feet. Her low-cut bodice was relieved only by a ruffle of old lace - along the top, and the sole ornament she wore, a necklet of antique - silver, brought out the delicate modelling of her shapely neck, as she sat - talking animatedly, her chin pointing upwards. Her rich, vivid colouring - compensated for any lack of relief in her costume. The intense blue of her - eyes, the many glints in her auburn hair, twisted in a careless knot at - the back of her small, shapely head, and kept in place by a broad silver - arrow, would of themselves have supplied the place of any ornament. - </p> - <p> - “She is very pretty indeed—striking!” repeated Kent. - </p> - <p> - Mrs. Farquharson looked at him amusedly. - </p> - <p> - “You must be an original, Mr. Kent. Fancy knowing Clytie Davenant without - thinking of her looks!” - </p> - <p> - “I am a great bear,” replied Kent. “My sister says so, and brothers and - sisters generally speak the truth to each other. Of course I have thought - of Miss Davenant's looks, in a way—admired her artistically; but I - have never realised in her society that I have been talking to a pretty - girl—one consciously so. She does not seem to expect you to be - impressed with her looks. That's one thing that I like about her.” - </p> - <p> - Mrs. Farquharson carried on the conversation a little further and then - directed it into other channels. She was pleased with Kent, and made a - mental note to see more of him. A man who could like Clytie and yet not - reflect upon her personal attractiveness was, as she had said, an oddity, - and Mrs. Farquharson made oddities rather a speciality. - </p> - <p> - It was growing late and there was a perceptible thinning in the numbers of - the guests. A few enthusiasts lingered fondly over the showcases, - comparing their contents with specimens in their own or other collections. - Among these was Treherne, by himself, deeply cogitative. He arrested Kent, - who was passing by to speak to Clytie, whom he had scarcely seen during - the evening, as he had felt bound to take an honest and practical interest - in the proceedings. The question that Treherne desired Kent's help in - solving was a knotty one, and the two men bent over the table absorbed in - deciphering an obliterated obverse. When the matter was settled Kent - looked around for Clytie, but she had already disappeared. There was - nothing left for him to do but to take his leave. - </p> - <p> - “If you care for a Bohemian Sunday evening scramble, when everyone talks - inconsequent nonsense—quite a different thing from to-night,” said - Mrs. Farquharson, shaking hands—“we shall be very glad to see you.” - </p> - <p> - In the hall he was pleased to see Clytie, fur cloaked, waiting for a cab. - She gave him a frank smile of recognition. With his white slouch hat and - waterproof—a new one—his figure seemed to her very familiar. - He talked to her for a moment or two, until the cab was announced. - </p> - <p> - “How are you going home?” she said when they were on the pavement. - </p> - <p> - “Walk,” he replied briefly. - </p> - <p> - “But it's raining hard—would you accept a lift?” - </p> - <p> - He opened the swing doors for her, shielding her dress from the muddy - wheels as she entered, and then hesitated a moment. He had in fact been - intending to pay one of his midnight visits to his South Kensington - friends, but Clytie thought his hesitation was due to considerations of - propriety. She laughed with a little thrill of defiance as she settled - herself comfortably in a corner. The touch of rebelliousness let loose an - unwonted shaft of coquetry. - </p> - <p> - “Of course if you think it would do you more good to walk in the rain than - drive dry with me——” - </p> - <p> - The interval between her two remarks had been very short, taken up - entirely with the process of Clytie's seating herself in the cab, but - still Kent felt he had been somewhat unchivalrous. - </p> - <p> - “If you really don't mind, I shall be very grateful,” he said by way of - making amends as he took his seat by her side. - </p> - <p> - After all, driving with Clytie was not unpleasant, he reflected, and he - could see Wither and Fairfax any day. That Clytie should have made her - offer did not seem unnatural. He frankly informed her of the cause of his - hesitation. - </p> - <p> - “I paid you the compliment of being mistaken,” said Clytie. - </p> - <p> - “What do you mean?” he asked, catching a glimpse of her face in the swift - gleam of a gas-lamp. She was smiling, in good humour. - </p> - <p> - “Oh! if you are mystified, so much the better,” she exclaimed, “It will be - my little revenge.” - </p> - <p> - And that was all the explanation she vouchsafed him. - </p> - <p> - However, that drive spun a thread of intimacy between them. There are few - conditions of companionship so favourable as those in a hansom cab. The - driver is practically non-existent; the three sides and roof of the - vehicle form a temporary home, a <i>chez soi</i>. The outside world lies - in front of one, very near, and yet one is out of it. Even the desolate - squares, with their occasional lamps blinking through the mist, and their - wet, sooty trees rustling reluctantly as the wind passes through them, and - their gaunt houses, each grimly and jealously guarding its household, - giving the sense of the awful isolation of souls, fail to depress as they - invariably depress the sensitive pedestrian. There is again the cheerful - rattle which precludes sustained conversation, but encourages disjointed, - intimate talk. The rush of the air, the whirling past of figures and - objects, is exhilarating even in the vilest of weather and in the - dreariest of neighbourhoods. The rapid night glimpses, too, of - coffee-stalls, their lamps glaring upon the surrounding idlers; public - houses, with the sudden babel of voices issuing from an opened door; - walkers of the pavement forlornly standing with white, indistinguishable - faces, 'buses steaming and labouring with their somnolent fares; every - 'bus-load the counterpart of the last; swifter still, the glimpses of the - occupants of other cabs that pass, stimulating the imagination; a - phantasmagoria of life, almost unreal, yet bringing into play some of the - lighter elemental forces of nature. - </p> - <p> - Clytie was almost sorry when the cab stopped at the familiar side-door - next to the shop where the legend of “Gurkins, green-grocer,” was dimly - visible through the gloom. Much of the mere woman in her had risen to the - surface, obscuring the artist, the hater of formulas, the restless seeker - after the mysteries of life. She had felt childish, frivolous, thus - appearing in a new light to Kent, not without a certain charm, although he - wondered to himself whether she, after all, was not like the rest of - womankind—“fundamentally silly.” This was a famous dictum of his. - </p> - <p> - But when the door closed behind them, and the narrow, ill-lighted, - close-smelling passage leading to the gloomy staircase struck upon her - senses, the realities of life came sharply before her, and her usual - independence of thought and action reasserted itself. Otherwise, when she - had said good-night to Kent on the landing and had found her room in - darkness, she would not have called him back to light her lamp for her, - and, that done, have asked him to remain for a short chat. He was struck - by the change to her usual frank tones, and seeking half unconsciously for - a reason, attributed his late impression to an illusion on his part caused - by the darkness and dispelled by the light, by which he could see her - face. - </p> - <p> - “You smoke, I know,” she said, throwing her wraps on to the sofa. “You - must be dying for some tobacco. What do you smoke?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh! a pipe,” he replied with much fervour, instantly seeking for it in - his pocket. - </p> - <p> - Clytie turned to poke the fire. It was black and sulky, and her efforts - were of not much avail. - </p> - <p> - “Let me try,” said Kent, bending down with her on the hearthrug; “this is - a thing not generally known.” - </p> - <p> - He threw a lighted match on to the fire, the escaping gases burst into - flame, and cheerfulness was established in the grate. - </p> - <p> - A trivial incident, but it was recognised by them both in after years as - having served to cement their comradeship. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER VII. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he friendship - between them ripened imperceptibly. Each day brought its tiny thread - linking them together, so gradually, so subtly, that it was not until long - afterwards that they realised the immense strength of the bond. At first - it was mere honest liking on both sides, a pleasant consciousness of - discovery, an ordinary attraction between two natures, distinct, yet more - or less complementary. Clytie found it written in her Book of New Formulas - that the loyal friendship between a man and a woman was a strengthening - element of existence. In her fierce pride and young vigour she would not - allow that each supplied what the other lacked, according to the popular - theory—the man strength, the woman grace—but asserted - strenuously the truth that each could lend the other elements of strength - the same in degree, but different in kind, owing to the difference of sex. - If it had been suggested to her that her weaker woman's nature - instinctively, in spite of perfect emancipation and proud independence, - sought the man's protecting fibre, the whole amazon within her would have - been up in arms. She found in Kent a man whom she could meet upon a ground - of perfect equality—perfectly even, neither blocked by prejudices - and social barriers nor haunted by sexual spectres. She was woman enough, - however, to perceive intuitively certain shynesses in Kent, resulting from - a half knowledge of her, that would have kept him aloof in spite of a very - sensible attraction towards her; and in showing him, therefore, that this - attraction was mutual she felt no compunction,—rather pride, on the - contrary, in reaching a superior plane in which conduct was measured by - superior standards. - </p> - <p> - And thus it came about that the eternal feminine once more deceived - itself, mistaking nature for what it called the Fine Art of Life. - </p> - <p> - Kent, for his part, did not attempt to realise the charm that made his - fingers close daily on the handle of the studio door. He accepted the - offered friendship, and returned it as frankly as it was given. It became - as natural to stop at the studio, before mounting to his attics on his - return home from the Museum, as to burst into the South Kensington - “monastery” for a midnight rubber. Variety, fresh interests, were brought - into his life, vivid as it was with darling hopes and full working - energies. It was refreshing to come once again into the sphere, familiar - and dear to him during his father's lifetime, of practical art. It was - something for him to look forward to, during his tramp home—the - stage nearer completeness effected during a day's work in an artistic - creation. Gradually, in his blunt, paternal way, he constituted himself - the censor of Clytie's work, criticising irregularities, suggesting - treatment. There grew within him, too, a brotherly kindness towards - Winifred, who looked forward also to his afternoon visit, when she would - shyly uncover the small canvas and receive with a gratified flush his meed - of appreciation. - </p> - <p> - He arrived after the tea-things had been cleared away, when the day's work - was over, in the twilight hour, outstaying Winifred a short while, whose - evening family meal was half an hour before Clytie's dinner. It was in - these short periods of companionship, when they were alone together, that, - unconsciously to themselves, the finer touches were added to the broader - intimacy that the previous half hour had brought one step further in - development. Piece by piece, by means of a reference here, a petulant - outburst there, he grew familiar with the ambitions and struggles of her - past life. He was quick to catch a certain note of disappointment. She had - not yet become a great artist, was defiantly certain that she could never - be one. - </p> - <p> - “Of course you won't if you use your art as a stepping-stone to life,” he - said one day. - </p> - <p> - She marked the saying, resolving, however, half rebelliously to make him - belie his words in the days to come. She, too, gathered from him the - nature of his hope and aspirations, wondered at the cheerful selflessness - with which he contemplated the work that would bring him neither name nor - fame, nor the things that many men desire. - </p> - <p> - One day he took Clytie and Winifred up to his attic museum, pleased as a - boy to show them his treasures. Winifred praised the bright neatness of - his arrangements. He confessed guiltily that he had been “tidying up”—a - process that had cost him the whole of the previous Sunday. Many of his - pictures had been left him by his father, particularly his collection of - Aldegravers, over which he fondly lingered, lamenting that the old days of - pure design were over, and railing at the mercenary spirit of modern art. - He counselled Clytie to study the little masters for her book - illustrating. She would learn restraint, abstraction. - </p> - <p> - “But it's no good preaching Dürer and Behm in these days,” he added - pathetically, with the resignation of the collector who does not expect - his hobby to be understood. - </p> - <p> - Clytie laughed softly, sympathetic with his enthusiasms. No real artist - can help loving the little masters. But Clytie's artistic impulses warred - with each other, with circumstance, and with herself. So she refused to - sit, for practical purposes, at the foot of Aldegraver. She ran over the - titles of books, borrowed a couple, which he recommended, from the general - literature section, stood in some dismay before the scientific - specialist's library, and asked to see what was visible of the great work. - He gave her some bundles of manuscript, which she turned over helplessly - and handed back without a word. They were evidences of a world of infinite - toil and devotion not yet intelligible to her. She gazed around the - picturesque walls of the room that contrasted strangely with the - carpetless floor and the fenderless grate. The absence of the minor - softnesses of material life struck her vividly. There were evidences of a - high love for art, but art in a too rarefied atmosphere for her nature. - She would have liked to curtain the windows,—they were even - destitute of blinds,—to put rugs about the floor, to soften the room - with drapery, plants, flowers; even an armchair beside the fire would have - been aesthetically as well as physically reposeful. Winifred's simpler - feminine impulses struck the true chord. - </p> - <p> - “Why doesn't your sister make you some pretty things for your room?” - </p> - <p> - “She does—heaps of things.” - </p> - <p> - “Where are they, then?” - </p> - <p> - Kent looked at her with humorous shamefacedness. - </p> - <p> - “I am afraid I have a drawer full of them somewhere,” he replied. - </p> - <p> - “Well, your room is very much like yourself,” she said in a low voice, and - hesitating a little. “You both lack the same thing.” - </p> - <p> - And blundering John Kent misread the oracle, accepting it as a reproach - for brotherly unkindness. - </p> - <p> - Meanwhile Clytie's “own” picture of the model Jack was developing into a - more finished and more ambitious work than she had originally intended. On - Kent's suggestion she had toned down some of its brutality without - rendering less vivid the presentation of the problem. She thought of - trying to exhibit the picture when it was completed; Jack therefore - continued to appear in the studio at irregular intervals. Winifred - encouraged him now, trying to humanise him with picture-books, stories, - and simple talk, but Clytie shook her head at her gentle friend's efforts, - conceiving them, with her fuller and more materialistic knowledge, to be - entirely futile. Still Winifred obtained from him more details of what - Clytie called his private life than she herself could do. With both of - them he was fierce and sullen, but with Winifred he was more cynically - expansive. These details only supplemented the data afforded by his own - personality. Sometimes he went to the board school, where he was in the - third standard; oftener he stayed away. He slept in his mother's room, ate - his desultory food there with the fierceness of a young wolf; but his real - home was in the street. Once he had been given a situation as satellite to - a thriving costermonger, but the restraints of regular employment had - chafed him into resignation of his post. Besides, his employer had - thrashed him unmercifully. As for his parentage, he was entirely ignorant; - he did not care. To his mind it was a merciful dispensation of Providence - that he only had one parent to irritate and annoy him. He liked to come to - the studio because it was warm and comfortable, besides which he obtained - a shilling at the end of the day to be expended on inferior tobacco when - together with his playmates. - </p> - <p> - One morning, earlier than usual, he slouched up the stairs and, contrary - to custom, found the studio door open and the apartment empty. He entered, - swinging the door with him, which, being caught by the draught from an - open skylight, slammed with sudden violence. If he had heard the quick - rattle of a falling door-knob, his subsequent conduct would doubtless have - been modified. He was alone in the studio; he waited idly, lying in front - of the stove; but as no one came, he began to feel restless. He rose to - his feet, wandered about, shut the skylight, examined the contents of the - studio. He found a packet of cigarettes lying about, which he pocketed; an - investigation of the cupboard in the wall rewarded him with some lumps of - sugar and some sweet biscuits. Still no one came, which was not - extraordinary, as his employer had not yet thought of breakfasting. No - further resources being offered to his predatory instincts, he proceeded - to look at the pictures, with which he had already a contemptuous - familiarity. The only one for which he had a genuine admiration, or rather - the barbarian's feeling of awe at any counterfeit presentment of himself, - was his own portrait. At this he seldom tired of looking. - </p> - <p> - He took down from the wall a little painted mirror, and, sitting on the - stool in front of the picture, proceeded to compare the original and the - portrait. He saw that the resemblance was not quite perfect, and like a - monkey he grimaced into the looking-glass until he had reproduced the - expression that Clytie had fixed upon the canvas. Then he laughed in great - glee, scratched his black curly head, and went in quest of further - occupation. He crossed over to Winifred's easel and took off the cloth. He - had no great idea of “the other one's” picture. It did not interest him. - But, unfortunately, in his simian mood, an idea shot through his mind. Why - should he not try to paint too? - </p> - <p> - He mounted upon Winifred's seat, took her palette in his hand as he had - seen her hold it, with his small, dirty thumb through the hole in the - white porcelain, gathered the little sheaf of brushes, arranged the - mahl-stick imitatively, and, dipping a brush into the remains of some - Chinese white, tried to fill in some anemones. They were only splotches of - white paint, but the occupation absorbed him. In a very few moments the - whole canvas was starred with Jack's white dabs. Then, growing tired of - the monotony of white,—the colours on the palette did not attract - him,—he fetched Clytie's, which was more richly prepared, and - painted in strokes of crimson and yellow. The delight of colour fascinated - him. He obliterated all the white, daubed the canvas over and over with - heavy streaks, laughing aloud with the spirit of diabolical mischief. - Then, with a fox terrier's or a monkey's instinct of destruction, he took - up the palette-knife and stabbed holes through the canvas. - </p> - <p> - He contemplated his work for a moment, and then, the very human - anticipation of consequences occurring to his mind, he bethought himself - of flight. But, to his dismay, he found the door-handle had fallen off - when the door had slammed, and that he was a prisoner until someone should - open it from outside. He paused for a moment in the middle of the room, - reflecting. Then he covered up his handiwork carefully with a cloth, - scrupulously replaced the palettes and brushes, and curled himself up in - his usual doglike attitude by the stove, there to await events. - </p> - <p> - After a time there came a rattle of the knob-screw being fitted into the - vacant hole in the lock, which made his heart beat, and Clytie entered the - room humming a song. She was surprised to find him there, and elicited a - monosyllabic explanation of his presence. She was in a good humour and - talked lightly to him as she moved about the studio, changing the water of - some flowers. The errand-boy from the shop below came up with Winnie's - anemones that had been put in a cool place over night to keep them fresh - one day longer. Clytie set them on the stand beside Winifred's easel. Jack - watched her, looked at the door, measuring the distance. - </p> - <p> - “Where are you going?” Clytie asked sharply as she turned round and caught - him stealing across the room. - </p> - <p> - He was terribly afraid of her. Those great dark blue eyes seemed to - command him. He never could meet them with his own. He relapsed doggedly - into his position by the stove. Clytie touched the anemones daintily, - picking some faded leaves, still humming her song. In lightness of heart - she took off the cloth to look at Winnie's work, and then fell back with a - cry of horror and anger. A swift glance at Jack brought her knowledge. - </p> - <p> - “You little fiend!” she cried with eyes aflame, and catching the cowering, - sullen urchin by the collar of shirt and jacket, she dragged him out of - the studio, on to the landing. - </p> - <p> - Kent happened to have just gone down the stairs on his way out. The noise - of the scuffle reached him in the entrance passage and brought him up to - the studio door. - </p> - <p> - “What is the matter?” he asked, taking the boy from Clytie's grasp into - his own. - </p> - <p> - “The matter? Go inside. I must call Winnie. Winnie!” - </p> - <p> - She opened the sitting-room door. Winifred ran out, holding her gloves, - which she had just taken off, in her hand. - </p> - <p> - “That boy—that little devil!” cried Clytie, and they both ran into - the studio. - </p> - <p> - Kent had just entered, and was standing before the mutilated picture - holding the boy, who in Kent's hands was struggling violently. Winifred - looked at it for a moment blankly, scarcely understanding. Then the - sickening truth rose to her brain, and she leaned, very white, against the - wall, looking at the others. - </p> - <p> - “For God's sake take the little brute out and kill him, Mr. Kent!” Clytie - broke out fiercely. “Murder him! break every bone in his body! To have - done such a thing as that! It is not human.” - </p> - <p> - “I'll give him a thundering hiding,” said Kent wrathfully, dragging him - towards the door. - </p> - <p> - But Winifred rose quickly, moved her neck, cleared her throat, and laid - her hand on Kent's arm. - </p> - <p> - “Don't beat him—I couldn't bear it.” - </p> - <p> - “Nonsense, Winnie! sit down,” cried Clytie. “Take him away Mr. Kent, or - I'll do him some mischief myself!” - </p> - <p> - Kent shook the urchin till his teeth chattered and his evil little face - grew red. Winifred still clung to his arm. - </p> - <p> - “Don't! you shan't do it! He is no better than an animal! He did not know - what he was doing. Nothing you could do to him would give me back my - picture. It would be simple vengeance. Oh, send him away! Send him away!” - and turning from Kent, she burst into tears and clung to Clytie, sobbing. - </p> - <p> - “Miss Marchpane is right,” said Kent slowly and looking at Clytie. “Let - the little brute go. Here, you, go! If ever I see you near the place, I - will give you to a policeman!” - </p> - <p> - Visions of the lowering blue storm-cloud, ever seeming to the children of - the streets ready to burst upon their heads, loomed before the little - outcast's imagination. He shivered, shrunk away from Kent's relaxed grasp, - darted a keen, swift look of malignity at Clytie, and disappeared like a - flash through the open door. - </p> - <p> - Clytie held Winifred protectingly with one arm, soothing her, mingling - words of comfort with outbursts of self-reproach and unrighteous - indignation. As Jack slipped away she made an impulsive movement forward, - but Winifred restrained her. - </p> - <p> - “How dare you let him go?” she exclaimed, turning her anger upon Kent. “If - it had not been for you I would have given him a lesson he'd have - remembered all his life. To do a work of devilry like that and not be - punished! I'll set the police upon him!” - </p> - <p> - “No, no!” murmured Winifred. - </p> - <p> - “I will. What are reformatories for? Go and call a policeman, Mr. Kent. It - is the least you can do!” - </p> - <p> - “I shall leave him alone,” replied Kent. “It would not do him any good and - it would not do Miss Marchpane any good. He'll never come here again, and - I should advise you not to introduce any more of his sort into your - studio. When a child of the flesh and the devil gets hold of a thing of - the spirit, the spiritual suffers.” - </p> - <p> - “I do not wish to be lectured,” said Clytie stonily. - </p> - <p> - “I am sorry if I have offended you, Miss Davenant,” replied Kent. “I have - the sincerest sympathy with Miss Marchpane for her loss, and I would do - anything in the world to help her or you; and so—good-morning.” - </p> - <p> - Kent worked hard that day at the Museum. He was troubled over the - morning's occurrence. He was conscious that he had acted rightly in - acquiescing in Winifred's counsel of mercy, but he had a vague, - inarticulate regret that he had not pleased Clytie. He resolutely set - himself to forget everything in his work and finished earlier than usual. - On his way out he met his friend Wither in the great hall. - </p> - <p> - “I have come to carry you off to the club to dine and there to reason with - you,” said the small, gnomelike man. “They are spring-cleaning at home and - the place reeks of freshness and innocence. Greene and Fairfax like it; - they say it's healthy. I prefer the accumulated and mellowed deposit of - winter. It's as bad as washing a meerschaum. Anyhow, it's got to get - coloured a bit, and until it does I clear out and you are coming to clear - with me.” - </p> - <p> - “Very well,” replied Kent; “I will waste part of an evening upon you—to - prevent you wasting it yourself more sinfully. You were lucky to catch me; - I was just going.” - </p> - <p> - The policeman at the door saluted Kent as he passed out. - </p> - <p> - “That ought to have been for me,” said Wither. “I am far the more - reputable-looking of the two.” - </p> - <p> - Kent laughed good-humouredly and grasped his ash stick sturdily in his - gloveless hands. The contrast between the dandified elegance of Wither's - dress and his own careless, loose attire appealed to his sense of the - humorous. - </p> - <p> - “I'll walk a few yards behind you if you like,” he said, repeating a - familiar and time-honoured jest between them. - </p> - <p> - They walked down the great flight of steps and across the courtyard, where - the pigeons were fluttering joyfully in the afternoon sunshine. When they - had arrived at the railings, whose gilt spear-points caught the sun, - Wither turned and looked for a moment at the frowning mass of the edifice. - </p> - <p> - “This always suggests the brain of London, immeasurable in this ugly poll - of a Bloomsbury, with its watery eyes and dejected face, that seems to be - perpetually meditating on death and influenza. I am going to work up the - idea one of these days and turn it into copy.” - </p> - <p> - “It certainly does not look promising in the crude state,” observed Kent - by way of encouragement. - </p> - <p> - They walked along Oxford Street and down Shaftesbury Avenue. Here, while - passing in front of a photographer's window, their eyes were caught by a - group of complacent people of both sexes—“with superior smiles and - inferior clothes,” as Wither said—described by a legend printed on - the mount as the “Parnassus House Mutual Improvement Society.” Wither - entered the shop and purchased a copy, as a “monument of the stupendous - fatuity of man.” In the comfortable smoking-room of the Junior - Cosmopolitan, St. James's Square, Wither held the photograph out on his - knees before him and discoursed upon it. - </p> - <p> - “Look at them,” he said, half hidden in the great armchair. “Dear old - Philistia! When is the Almighty going to redeem his promise and triumph - over it? Mutual improvement!—on the principle of Mark Twain's - islanders, who eked out a precarious livelihood by taking in each other's - washing! This pathetic kind of person belongs to home reading societies. - Do you know what they are? I was staying with the Brownes last summer; - asked the youngest to come and play tennis. She replied with awful - solemnity that she was going to read her 'half hour.' I was impressed; - good girl, I said, and pictured her to myself conducting her devotional - exercises over St. Thomas à Kempis or St. Augustine's 'Confessions' in the - sanctity of her maiden chamber. Next day I found her reading the report of - an agricultural commission for the year 1831. Asked her what the deuce she - was reading that for. She replied she was reading her 'half hour'; it was - the only 'solid' book she could find downstairs! Novels and poetry and - magazines were tabooed. I asked her whether she thought George Meredith or - Dante flippant. She could not exactly say—but they were not solid. - God help us!” - </p> - <p> - “You are as bad as my friend Miss Davenant,” said Kent, laughing. “She is - always railing at Philistia. You might lend me the photograph to show her; - it would amuse her—perhaps it might teach her something.” - </p> - <p> - Wither gave him the photograph, but after a short pause Kent returned it. - </p> - <p> - “I'll take it some other time. I don't quite know at present how we are - going to stand to one another; we had a bit of a scene this morning.” - </p> - <p> - Wither raised his eyebrows and turned his head lazily, looking at Kent. - </p> - <p> - “You interest me, friend John. Is Saul also among the prophets? Expound.” - </p> - <p> - Kent roughly sketched the morning's episode in the studio. - </p> - <p> - “So, you see, there's something in the nature of a split,” he added. - </p> - <p> - “She will come round all right,” said Wither, “if she cares about you. If - she doesn't, she is not worth caring about. Never you mind. There is - nothing does women so much good as a little wholesome neglect. <i>Crede - experto</i>. As for the matter in question, of course you were wrong. You - should have thrashed the little devil's life out. But with a woman, having - right or wrong on her side has nothing to do with it.” - </p> - <p> - “That may be true in the case of the woman you like to philander with, - Teddy, but Clytie Davenant's different.” - </p> - <p> - “Bah, my dear old boy, they are all the same, every one of them.” - </p> - <p> - “You have never met one of them whom you could treat in the ordinary - straightforward way—make a friend of as if she were a man.” - </p> - <p> - “No, old chap, nor do I want to. If you've got to treat a woman as if she - were a man, what the devil's the good of her being a woman?” - </p> - <p> - “You are talking for the sake of talking, Teddy,” said Kent with some - earnestness. “You know it's all nonsense. Women generally are foolish - enough, God knows, but the sole end of their being is not to be fooled - about with in flirtations and love-makings and such sickening nonsense. - And when one does come across a girl with an intelligence above the - ordinary and instincts above bazaars and the river, one likes her and is - exceedingly sorry to have any row with her.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah me!” murmured the little man, examining his trim finger nails with - intent brow, “whether we cultivate the 'languor and lilies of virtue,' or - the 'roses and raptures of vice,' it doesn't matter—the trail of the - petticoat's over us all. Come and have a 'hundred up' before dinner.” - </p> - <p> - Kent did not carry home the ridiculous portrait, and Wither, to avoid the - trouble of taking with him the awkwardly sized parcel that would not fit - into his pocket, very characteristically posted it to himself. As Kent - passed Clytie's door he noticed that it was ajar and that the room was - dark. Evidently she had gone out. If she had retired early to bed, she - would have shut the door, as her bedroom opened into the sitting-room. He - felt a certain sense of loss, he did not know why, for even if the little - streak of light beneath the door had announced her presence within, he - certainly would not have sought admittance. He went upstairs more slowly - than usual, thinking of her and of the morning's scene. By the dim gas on - his landing he perceived an unframed picture leaning, face-hidden, against - his door, and on the ground a letter. This was addressed to him in the - bold, rounded handwriting which he recognised as Clytie's. He opened it - and read: - </p> - <p> - You were right. I am sorry. Keep the picture as a token. - </p> - <h3> - C. D. - </h3> - <p> - Kent turned the canvas round. It was the exhibition picture of Jack. - </p> - <p> - He took it in with him, and placed it on his dresser-table. It formed a - strange contrast to the calm-faced Woolmer cavalier that was hanging - above; a strange contrast, too, with its colour, its modernity, its - realism, to the cold classicism of the pale, pure relics of the past that - lined the walls. Troubled by the discord, he turned its face to the wall, - but immediately, ashamed of the impulse and calling himself a fool, he - turned it again. Then, after lighting his reading-lamp and turning out the - gas, he sat down at the writing space on his dresser-table. - </p> - <p> - The room door was open. The house was perfectly still, save for the - occasional creak of the stairs and banisters near the attics. From the - street outside, far beneath, came the faint, ghostlike rumble of passing - vehicles. Kent had never realised what absolute silence reigned at night - in that quiet household. A cuckoo-clock in the bedroom below struck with a - suddenness and clearness that startled him. It was only twelve o'clock. - Clytie would be back soon if she had gone out to spend the evening with - friends or at a theatre. He proceeded with some mechanical work, docketing - papers, his ear expectant of the sudden drag of a hansom at the street - door. Several times he was deceived and went out on the landing to listen - for the sounds announcing Clytie's arrival. Then he resumed his - occupation. Perhaps she was indoors and asleep all the time, he thought; - but the open door surely betokened her absence. He persuaded himself into - this belief, desiring intensely to see her. The immediate fulfilment of - Wither's prognostications troubled him. Had it not been for his friend's - bantering remarks he would have judged Clytie's frank confession by the - touchstone of his own simplicity, and found it natural, prompted by no - other motives than kindliness and common sense. But what if it proceeded - from the “fundamental silliness” of woman, that he himself pitied and - Wither professed to hold in contempt? - </p> - <p> - At last an unmistakable pause in the dimly heard rattle of a hansom made - him rise again and go on to the landing. Someone entered the house. He - heard the far distant creak of the stairs and the vague rustle of skirts. - It was Clytie. In the deathlike stillness of the house he heard the sharp - striking of a match. He waited for a moment or two and then went down. - </p> - <p> - Clytie, in her hat and cloak, was reading, by the light of her bedroom - candle, a letter that had arrived by the last post. - </p> - <p> - “May I come in for one minute?” - </p> - <p> - “Of course—for two if you like. Do you know, I had an idle fancy - that I should see you when I got home?” - </p> - <p> - “Did you? I am very glad; it assures me that you don't think me—what - shall I say?—presumptuous in waiting for you to come in and then - intruding.” - </p> - <p> - “Did you listen for me? You are good. I am scarcely worth it.” - </p> - <p> - “I felt I must thank you for your little note—and the picture.” - </p> - <p> - “Well? And are we going to make friends again, Mr. Kent?” - </p> - <p> - She looked him in the face proudly, yet laughingly, and held out her - ungloved hand. - </p> - <p> - “There!” she added. “I behaved very badly to you this morning, and you - must thank Winifred for bringing me to a sense of decency; but really when - I saw the dear child's work done to death by my own fault I was not - mistress of myself. I suppose it is best when one is in the wrong to own - it—to one's friends.” - </p> - <p> - “It is sensible,” said Kent, “and I am very proud of your reckoning me - among your friends.” - </p> - <p> - She looked at him, a strange little smile playing round the corner of her - lips as she put up both hands to withdraw her hat-pin—a graceful - attitude, instinct with femininity. The look and the attitude disconcerted - Kent for a moment. However, her next words reassured him. - </p> - <p> - “I judged you by myself, you know. I had found our friendship a pleasant - thing, and felt that you did so, too, and I was sorry lest anything should - break it; otherwise I should not have taken the trouble to 'climb down,' - as they say.” - </p> - <p> - “Let us say no more about it,” replied Kent magnanimously. “If we pride - ourselves on being superior to certain conventionalities of habit, we - ought to extend our conventionalities of sentiment. I have been very - troubled all day, Miss Davenant, I must confess, and I can't tell you how - touched I was by your message. It's not every woman by a long way that - would have sent it.” - </p> - <p> - “And I would not have written it to every man,” returned Clytie; “of that - you may be quite certain.” - </p> - <p> - And so they parted for the night. - </p> - <p> - Thus the breach between them was quite covered over and their relations - strengthened by a newer impression of mutual dependence, a more active - sense of comradeship. They laughed frankly at the Great Conventionalities, - and went about together to theatres, concerts, picture-shows. Kent - accompanied her to Mrs. Farquharson's Sunday evenings, where he found a - ready welcome from the artistic and literary circle, to whom his father - had been well known. Mrs. Farquharson called them “Orestia and Pylades,” - by this time recognising their companionship as a social fact. They always - went back together, generally for a great part of the way on foot when the - weather grew warm and the nights were dry and clear. On the weekday - evenings, when Clytie was at home, Kent would bring down his work and his - reference-books to Clytie's room, and write there, while she drew or read - or busied herself with odds and ends of needlework. It had all the outward - seeming of friendship—nothing more. For hours they would sit - together without exchanging a word—a real test. But Clytie grew - interested in the progress of Kent's work, gradually obtained a clear idea - of its scope and proportion, and could speak intimately to him concerning - it, although its matter was as incomprehensible to her as to any other - non-specialist. It gave the girl, too, a sense of rest and strength to see - him sitting there, patiently, serenely working. She began to have doubts - as to the completeness of her own scheme of life, its worthiness, - satisfaction. Hitherto the sense of independence, freedom, accumulating - knowledge of that whose foreshadowings had filled her girlish heart with - unrest, had almost satisfied her. Now she began to look beyond. With her - young being as yet untouched by passion, she did not realise the fulness - that love must bring into life. She vaguely speculated upon it, faint, - elusive gleams of perception passing rapidly through her into the - darkness, but that was all. The secret of life, she thought, could only be - wrested from the tangle of the labyrinth by single-minded endeavour, - sacrifice, devotion. Was not Kent right when he accused her of making her - art a stepping-stone instead of an end? - </p> - <p> - Kent, manlike, and honester, too, than most men, was unconscious of this - self-abasement. Since the day of that fierce struggle with herself which - had resulted in her sending him the missive of submission he had vaguely - felt that she was dependent on him for many things; but he had helped her - in his frank, unquestioning way, feeling pleased, warmed by the flame of a - newly kindled spark of vanity. He preached to her his simple doctrine. - </p> - <p> - “Work while work pleases you. Love it for its own sake. Set a great end - before you; but the attaining it is the delight, not the ultimate - attainment. If you think of nothing but the end, the reaching it is all - feverish unrest and toil.” - </p> - <p> - She listened, rebelled, submitted, without loss of her proud fearlessness. - Yes; it was common sense, she agreed. No one can be humiliated by giving - in to common sense and acting in accordance with it. Kent persuaded her to - finish the picture of Jack. - </p> - <p> - “It is the best thing you have done. There is more work in it—real - work. It will not take long to finish. Then send it for exhibition.” - </p> - <p> - He appealed to Winifred, who added her soft note of encouragement. The - picture was painted. Kent stonily refused to keep it as his possession. - There was a heated argument. He valued her gift and her friendship; he - valued her fame and life-interest more. He would not refuse a replica. In - the end she acquiesced. The picture was accepted by the hanging committee - of the exhibition, made a stir, was sold for £120. Clytie was launched.. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER VIII. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he summer came. - Clytie went abroad with the Farquharsons, through the old towns of - Normandy and Brittany. Kent joined them at St. Malo, and spent his month's - holiday with them. This was such a departure from his usual habit of - solitary pedestrian travel in the rough wilds of Norway, whither he went - every year, with little else than a stick and a knapsack, that Wither had - been quite alarmed. - </p> - <p> - “You'll be taking a holiday with me next,” he had said. - </p> - <p> - But knowing the terms of intimacy between his friend and Clytie, and - knowing Clytie herself,—he had accompanied Kent to the studio, at - first out of curiosity to see what kind of “being feminine” Kent had made - a friend of, and afterwards because he liked to go there,—whatever - sceptical imaginings might have exercised him, he forbore to give them - expression. He had only looked at Kent, on saying good-bye, in his odd, - half-mocking way, and had chuckled noiselessly to himself when the door - had closed upon Kent's broad shoulders. - </p> - <p> - Kent did not regret Norway. A charm, unknown to him before, filled all the - days. The Farquharsons were perfect travelling companions: Caroline - bright, satirical, helpful, learned in the ways of men; George easy-going, - happy either to lounge in the sun with a pipe and bandy chaff with his - wife, whilst Kent and Clytie went their own ways, or to spend an - antiquarian afternoon with Kent in some old Keltic village. Clytie seemed - also to him to expand under the sunny cheerful influences, to grow more - feminine, without falling in his estimation. No; he did not regret Norway. - He half formulated an intention of abandoning it permanently and - substituting Brittany as his habitual tramping-ground. From the first - morning, when his boat steamed slowly through the narrow St. Malo docks, - and he saw Clytie waiting there to meet him, he felt friendly towards it. - The high ramparted wall, with just the top-story row of green shutters and - roofs peeping above it, and beyond them the spire of the cathedral; the - glimpse through the sentry-guarded gate up the narrow cobble-paved street, - gaudy with blue blouses, red handkerchiefs, and yellow oilskins exposed - all along at shop doors; on the quay itself the stalls of the hucksters - under the lee of the wall, and the busy crowd of swarthy Breton sailors, - porters, and green uniformed <i>douaniers</i>; and Clytie standing, fresh - in her pure colouring heightened by the light summer dress, in the midst - of this mellow setting—all the picture fixed itself as a whole - indelibly upon his mind, and caused a strange little thrill of pleasure to - run through him. - </p> - <p> - They sat on the sands—the finest in the world, perhaps, when the - tide is low—that run in a broad, golden sweep from crag-bastioned, - grim old St. Malo to the white houses of Parame, amid the babel of bathers - and visitors, watching the types Parisian and English, Kent smoking - contentedly, while Clytie filled her sketch-book with oddities of - personality and costume. Three days slipped away there very pleasantly. - </p> - <p> - In spite of its banality as a pleasure resort there is a grim charm about - St. Malo that is never quite forgotten by those who have once known it. It - has an air of stability, of defiance. It is out of the reach of the - improver, extender, and suburb-maker. Its great walls guard it as - jealously on three sides as the sea does on the other. Almost alone of - populous cities, it can never grow. As he left with the party to continue - the tour Kent felt this charm, although his associations with the city had - been of the lighter kind. They idled through the old towns: Dol, with its - dark granite cathedral, looking rather hewn out of the rock than built; - Dinan on its granite steep above the Rance, where the heart of du Guesclin - is enshrined; Brieux, Paimpol, over which Pierre Loti has thrown the - glamour of his sentiment; Morlaix, and so to Brest, with its great harbour - and strong sea breeze from the Atlantic. For Kent this journey was an - uninterrupted pleasure. No country is richer in things old, worn by - weather and time, than Brittany: here an old chapel built of rough unhewn - granite; here a shapeless wayside cross erected by some pious crusader on - the ragged hill slope, railed round to prevent the encroachments of the - broom and heather; here a Druidic mass of boulders; in the cottages - curious smoke-dried strips of old Breton work, ancestral oak carvings, - rude brass repousée platters—a thousand antiquarian interests in - this gray land. But it is a bright one withal. The fields of yellow colza - stretch over the landscape in broad patches of glory; the red-cheeked - cider apples glow in the orchards. The chestnut-trees in the grounds of - the old feudal château, its fleched gables dimly visible, hang gratefully - over the high bounding wall, above the roadway. The peasants still wear - the picturesque Breton dress, tasselled hats, embroidered short jackets, - and knee-breeches for the men, great white caps and elaborate kirtles for - the women. Along the coast the surf beats in a line of angry light upon - the rocks, and shows white, in the midst of the blue, around the islets - out at sea. And the old fishing villages look as if they were but flotsam - and jetsam cast up by Providence around the gray, weather-worn church that - has taken them to its bosom. - </p> - <p> - For a few days after they left Dinan Kent noticed a change in Clytie. She - was reserved, thoughtful. It was not until she appeared to have thrown off - the weight of an obsessing idea that she grew buoyant and frank again. An - incident unknown to him had occurred at Dinan, shaking the girl's heart to - its depths. - </p> - <p> - Her bedroom in the hotel opened, like the others on the same floor, on to - a small balcony, the spaces in front of each room being separated by a - light iron bar. She was dressing one morning when her attention was - aroused by voices in the next room, near the balcony. Her own French - window was open. The air was sunny and still, and the voices struck clear. - </p> - <p> - “And that is your last word?” asked a woman's voice in French. She used - the familiar <i>ton</i>. Her accents were tearful and pleading. - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” replied a man's voice brutally. “There, there! Do not make any - scenes. I go because it is my good pleasure. What have you to say against - it?” - </p> - <p> - “But I love you, I love you, Armand!” - </p> - <p> - “Bah!” laughed the man, “they say that always. Here are the thousand - francs.” - </p> - <p> - Clytie, who had involuntarily overheard this scrap of the conversation, - hastened to shut the window. The sounds died away into murmurs dimly - perceptible through the partition wall. Then she heard the room door slam - violently and a heavy step tramp down the passage. - </p> - <p> - Some two hours later she was sitting in the salon of the hotel, reading - the papers and looking idly out upon the market-booths in the little <i>place</i>. - Kent and Farquharson had gone out together to devote a scientific forenoon - to the monuments of the town, and Caroline was writing letters in her own - room. Clytie was alone. Suddenly the door opened and a woman, scarcely - more than a girl, appeared on the threshold. She made a step forward, but - perceiving Clytie by the window, she hesitated, irresolute whether to - advance or retire. Clytie looked up quickly, caught a glance which she - interpreted as one of appeal. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, enter, mademoiselle,” she said, with a smile. - </p> - <p> - The newcomer murmured a “<i>Merci</i>,” entered, closed the door, and - sitting down on the faded sofa by the wall, commenced turning over the - pages of an old illustrated paper. Clytie went on with her <i>Figaro</i>. - Presently her ear caught a little sniffling sob. She turned round. Her - companion was squeezing a wet rag of a handkerchief in her hand, her head - turned away towards the paper; she was crying. Clytie rose, moved softly - across the room. But as she was going through the doorway she saw the - girl, abandoning herself to her misery, bury her face upon the sofa - cushion. Clytie was touched. She went back to the girl, laid her hand - softly on her shoulder. - </p> - <p> - “Mademoiselle!” - </p> - <p> - The girl started, raised a pretty, tear-stained face, looked at Clytie - wistfully out of her light blue eyes, her lips quivering. - </p> - <p> - “You are in trouble,” said Clytie. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, mademoiselle, you are very good,” cried the other—“<i>oui; je - suis bien malheureuse</i>. But you must leave me. You are a young girl - well brought up, whilst I——<i>Merci</i>, mademoiselle; you can - do nothing.” - </p> - <p> - The voice struck a chord of association. Where had she heard it recently? - Quickly it flashed upon her, the scrap of dialogue she had overheard that - morning. The girl again hid her face. The low-cut dress, beloved by - Frenchwomen, disclosed a shapely neck, on which clustered coquettishly a - few tiny madcap curls below the smooth, upbrushed, fair hair. Her figure - was young and graceful, relaxed now in the attitude of abandonment. - </p> - <p> - Clytie looked down upon her wonderingly, her heart beating. Her maidenhood - urged her to fly; a higher sense of life bade her stay a moment by the - sobbing figure. She had never, to her knowledge, been near to one of the - great unclassed—still less spoken. She remembered the few cynical - words of the man; they seemed to give her a pain at the heart akin to - nausea. She remembered the pleading tones: “<i>Je t'aime Je t'aime bien!</i>” - and her pity went forth upon the woman. - </p> - <p> - “I don't ask you to tell me,” she said very gently. “But we may talk a - little, mayn't we? Perhaps it may ease you—a woman—the same - age,”—Clytie stumbled in the foreign language,—“and perhaps - not so well brought up—after all, a woman.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, mademoiselle, you do not understand. This life!” her shoulders - shivered expressively. “After all, it is bearable; but when, with all - that, one loves—ah!” - </p> - <p> - “He is not worth it,” cried Clytie. “He is a scoundrel—I know what - he is!” - </p> - <p> - The girl raised her face quickly. - </p> - <p> - “You know him? You know Armand? Ah, no; you spoke at random. Yes, he is - base, cruel, but that does not prevent it. Mademoiselle, you are good, you - are sweet. It is not many who would have spoken. You will let me sit here - near you for a little? Ah, <i>mon Dieu</i>,” she went on rapidly, “you - cannot imagine what it is—never, never to talk to a woman whom one - can respect, and who may not betray you; and then the only persons one can - respect are the men, who despise one. And even they—one can love - them, but they are cowardly, hard, selfish!” - </p> - <p> - “There are some good men,” observed Clytie. - </p> - <p> - “That may be,” returned the other, finally drying her eyes, and putting up - her hand to her hair in tidying touches—“that may be, but we don't - often see them. Oh, mademoiselle, I know well that I should be ashamed of - showing you what I am, but when you touched my shoulder it was like a good - sister of the convent,”—Clytie smiled in spite of herself at the - comparison,—“and it touched my heart.” - </p> - <p> - “And I too have a confession to make,” said Clytie, gently interrupting. - “This morning—I overheard—my room is next to yours——” - </p> - <p> - “Ah, it was you who shut the window?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes. So I know, mademoiselle—at least I can judge. And are you - quite alone now?” - </p> - <p> - The girl shrugged her shoulders. - </p> - <p> - “What would you have? He has gone, and I must go too. One does not amuse - oneself here alone.” - </p> - <p> - “And where are you going?” - </p> - <p> - “To Paris. In the middle of summer. It is not gay. Everyone will know <i>qu'il - via plantée là</i>. But one must live. Ah! you are happy, you other honest - women!” She talked on, in half-cynical, half-artless confidence, as is the - way of her race, forgetting in her need of expansion that her hearer was - the English girl well brought up. She dilated on her present trouble, her - life in Paris, her creditors, the spitefulness of women, the brutality of - men. Clytie listened with mingled feelings of horror and pity. She was so - young, this girl, so fresh for all the soil of Paris, and yet taking, from - use, the whole horror of her life as a matter of course, realising it only - in rare emotional moments. Here was a rejecter of formulas, of a race that - has thrown off convention ever since Rahab harboured the spies! Too - fragile, delicate she looked for this social warfare. Whither was she - tending? Clytie had a supreme, lurid moment of introspection. Only two or - three such come in a lifetime. - </p> - <p> - At last the girl rose from the sofa in the quick French way. - </p> - <p> - “Forgive me, mademoiselle, for talking like this. I had forgotten. You see - well that you could not have helped me otherwise than you have done by - sitting by my side. I must not encroach upon your time. Adieu, - mademoiselle, and thank you; oh, a thousand times, thanks. I shall not - forget you.” - </p> - <p> - She was going. Clytie rose and went towards her, her face a little - flushed, but kindness in her eyes. - </p> - <p> - “You will shake hands, <i>à l'Anglaise?</i>” she said. - </p> - <p> - The girl looked her quickly in the face, and then impulsively seized the - proffered hand in both hers and kissed it twice rapidly. Then she ran from - the room. - </p> - <p> - Clytie went back to her seat by the window and looked out upon the - market-sellers. But she did not see much, as tears stood in her eyes and - rolled down her cheeks. - </p> - <p> - She did not tell Mrs. Farquharson of this incident, but kept it in her - heart as a secret and strange revelation of life—something precious, - mysterious, awful. During her drive with the others in the afternoon she - was strangely silent. Kent rallied her on her depression in his bluff, - kind-hearted manner. She smiled absently, complained of a headache, then - shivered with a wave of recollection. For days the spectre haunted her, - sometimes looking at her through the light blue eyes of the girl, and - sometimes taking a dual form, in which the coarse drudge features of the - mother of Jack, the model, were dimly visible. And a question hummed in - her ears: “Was this the aspect of life that men kept so jealously hidden - from women?” - </p> - <p> - But Clytie was young and vigorous, with fresh bright blood leaping in her - veins. The thrill of the salt breeze and the whole-hearted laughter of her - friends soon prevented these imaginings from becoming morbid, and - gradually the first sharp impression dulled more or less down to the level - of her other experiences of things. She gave herself up again to the - freedom and gaiety of the trip, to the unfeigned delight of Kent, who had - been beginning to wonder whether, for unknown reasons, some coolness had - arisen between them. - </p> - <p> - He forbore to allude to the subject until the night when they were all - returning together from St. Malo to Southampton. He had found her a - sheltered corner of the upper deck, rigged up a screen of rugs, - comfortably established her in a canvas chair with many wraps. Most of the - passengers had gone below. They were almost alone. The voices of two men - in an opposite corner came vaguely out of the darkness. All was still save - for the continuous rattle and wash, which at sea forms a strange kind of - silence in itself. - </p> - <p> - “Aren't you sorry it is over?” asked Clytie from the dimness of her wraps. - “We did nothing very wonderful, but it has been very pleasant—a - thing to look back upon.” - </p> - <p> - “'A garnered joy for after-time.'” - </p> - <p> - “You are waxing poetical.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, that's Wither. He was poetical in his youth. You would hardly think - it of him. I have always thought that line rather pretty. Anyhow, it is - true in the present case.” - </p> - <p> - “And we haven't quarrelled,” said Clytie, “in spite of the maxim, 'If you - want to lose a friend, travel with him.' But I don't think I could quarrel - with you. You wrap yourself round with such imperturbable superiority.” - </p> - <p> - “The metaphor is mixed, but proceed,” interrupted Kent. - </p> - <p> - “Well, it's not worth while playing to such a bad house.” - </p> - <p> - “I don't see what we should have to quarrel about,” returned Kent, - laughing. “We each give the other credit for independent opinions; and as - for action, if you wanted to go to the right and I to the left, I suppose - I should give in and let you have your way—if it were not contrary - to common sense.” - </p> - <p> - “And if it were? If it were simply idiotic?” - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps I should go with you then, to keep you out of harm's way.” - </p> - <p> - “Thank you,” murmured Clytie rather touched, looking up restfully at the - stars. - </p> - <p> - There was a little silence. Kent puffed at his pipe. The glow attracted - George Farquharson, who had just come up on the deck and was groping about - for them in the darkness. - </p> - <p> - “Going to stay here all night?” he asked. - </p> - <p> - “Most of it,” replied Clytie. - </p> - <p> - “Kent making you comfortable?” - </p> - <p> - Clytie murmured an easeful affirmative, and Farquharson, nodding a - good-night, disappeared into the darkness. - </p> - <p> - “Apropos of quarrelling,” said Kent after a while. “Do you know, I thought - once, for a few days, you were vexed with me for something—after we - left Dinan. Were you?” - </p> - <p> - Clytie felt the words like a touch of ice. Why had Kent blundered so - tactlessly? - </p> - <p> - “Oh, why do you mention that?” she cried. “The only painful thing in all - the trip. Something that I saw at Dinan—I was put out. Was I very - disagreeable? It did not refer to you in any way, dear friend.” - </p> - <p> - “Pardon me if I have touched on a sore place,” replied Kent. “I find I - have a good deal to learn in these matters. Will you make a compact with - me to tell me if ever I offend you? Your friendship has grown so valuable - and dear a thing to me that the idea of running the risk of losing it - makes me—what shall I say? Well, I couldn't bear it. I don't often - talk like this,—sentiment comes out of me very awkwardly,—but - when I do say anything of the sort I mean it. Believe me.” - </p> - <p> - Clytie put out her gloved hand and touched him lightly on the arm. She, - too, felt that she had certain need of him. A little thrill of tenderness - passed through her as she turned her head towards him to reply. - </p> - <p> - “Didn't I call you 'dear friend' just now? And I meant it, too. You are - too honest, too single-hearted, ever to offend me, as you say. If I am - ever rebellious with you it will be my own fault, and I shall know it. And - as I really have got some common sense, I shall be sorry for it. But you - won't expect me to tell you so every time, will you? You will have to take - it for granted.” - </p> - <p> - “You always make yourself out worse than you are,” replied Kent. “Very few - people know you. The Farquharsons, myself, Winifred, do. I should like to - go with you wherever you go, and tell folks not to believe you, to prove - to them what a——” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, stop! stop!” cried Clytie, with a little laugh. “This sojourn in the - land of compliments has infected you. Oh, no; I am ordinary; not bad, not - good. You see, if I had had anybody to care for specially, and who cared - for me, I might have shown up differently. I have hardly had a chance of - seeming otherwise than selfish. Opportunity makes the saint as much as it - makes the thief.” - </p> - <p> - Kent meditated, framing a reply. The right words would not come until it - seemed that too long an interval had elapsed. There was another silence—one - of those pleasant ones between friends when they feel in sympathy. Clytie - at last broke it. - </p> - <p> - “Would you have had such a conversation as this with a man friend?” - </p> - <p> - “No—at least—well, no. Why?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, nothing. The idea occurred to me,” replied Clytie. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER IX. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he long autumn - months rolled on, bringing little new to Clytie or to Kent. Clytie - continued to paint her small <i>genre</i> pictures, but with a more - certain touch, a restraint which a deeper insight into life compelled. - They did not satisfy her now, however, as they used to. She had more - articulate longings after an art which should be higher, more - comprehensive, more responsive to certain subtler and at the same time - more stirring impulses within her. - </p> - <p> - “I want to paint something that may live,” she said to Kent, “something I - can throw my whole soul into, something I can look at when it is finished - and say: 'There, that is final; that expresses consummately everything I - have ever felt and dreamed.'” - </p> - <p> - “If you can ever say that, you will cease to be an artist,” he replied in - his matter-of-fact way. - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps so. But I must try. And the subject, the subject?” - </p> - <p> - “Wait,” said Kent. “If it ever comes, it will do so of itself.” - </p> - <p> - Clytie waited, but the subject did not come. Meanwhile she had her hands - full with orders, both for pictures and for magazine illustrations. Her - life was full, as far as work could make it. Winifred came regularly to - the studio, as usual, cheering her with sweet companionship. She had spent - her summer holiday at the seaside, treating out of her own purse her two - little brothers to a holiday. She came back with glowing reminiscences of - her adventures, the humorous naughtinesses of the children, the odds and - ends of character she had met with. Her only regret was that her dear - Clytie had not been there too. - </p> - <p> - “I should have thrown those horrid children, Reggie and Arthur, into the - sea!” exclaimed Clytie. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, no, you wouldn't. They simply adore you. They are nice children, - aren't they, now?” - </p> - <p> - “You little goose!” cried Clytie, kissing the warm brown cheek. “They are - like you, the sweetest little children in the world. When are they coming - to tea?” - </p> - <p> - These teas in the studio were red-letter days for Winifred's brothers and - sisters. They worshipped Clytie, who had keen sympathy with the - unconventionalities of childhood. She made grotesque caricatures of them, - at which they screamed with laughter, or sat on the hearthrug with them - and talked the nonsense that bright children love. Their joy was complete - if Kent came in. They called him “Kent,” took complete possession of him, - presented him to Clytie as a pet trifle they carried about with them. He, - too, was fond of these debauches, and seldom missed attending them if he - could leave the Museum in time. He loved to see Clytie take her part in - them. She seemed to him even more sweet and womanly than Winifred when she - had a child on her lap, and her dark red hair was touching the black - ruffled curls. He told her so one day, and the colour came into her cheeks - as she laughed. - </p> - <p> - Another occasional visitor in the studio was Treherne, the young clergyman - whom Clytie had met at the Farquharson's numismatic dinner-party. Kent and - herself had run across him at a Bond Street gallery where some paintings - by the impressionists Degas and Monet were on view. He was looking ill and - overworked. He replied to their inquiries that he had been forced to give - up his North London parish and take lighter duties near Victoria. As he - lived in her neighbourhood, he hoped that Clytie would allow him to call - one day and see her pictures; “Jack” at the exhibition had aroused his - admiration. Clytie readily gave him her “day,” when Miss Marchpane and - herself were at home to their friends, and hoped he would come. He called, - found a certain charm in the bright talk of the studio, exhilarating after - the dull rounds among his parishioners, and soon became a constant - visitor. Perhaps the charm of a pair of soft brown eyes attracted him more - than he thought of confessing. Towards the end of the year, however, he - bought, through a dealer, two of Winifred's dainty pictures. - </p> - <p> - The days shortened, the painting light grew less and less, and the time - came for Clytie to pay her Christmas visit to Durdleham. She had not been - there for a year, and her heart longed at times for the familiar faces and - the voices of her own kith and kin. She thought that, perhaps, now she had - grown older, her father and sisters would think her mode of life less - unnatural, less likely to result in moral shipwreck. The letters, too, she - had been receiving from them lately were kinder, more affectionate in - tone. Mrs. Blather longed to have her dear Clytie back amongst them once - more, and Janet wrote touchingly of the vacant chair at the dinner table. - Clytie anticipated much quiet pleasure from her visit. The need of an - attitude of rebellion was past, and she could throw herself lovingly, with - no fear of compromising her independence, into all the mild interests of - the household. There were times when a tenderer, softer chord vibrated in - her heart, suggesting sadly the sweetness of home and loved family ties. - She was human, with the foolish human craving for things that are not. She - could not abandon her free artistic life; but if she could fill it with - gentler, softer graces! In these moods she clung to Winifred, loving her - for this element of sweet womanliness she brought into the rooms in the - King's Road that were her home. It was with this range of feelings - uppermost in her heart that she went to Durdleham. - </p> - <p> - For the first few days after Clytie's departure Kent laboured honestly and - doggedly in his old way. But gradually he began to feel a lack of interest - in his pursuits, to be vaguely conscious that the conditions of things - were upset, and then he wished that Clytie had not gone. - </p> - <p> - One evening he was sitting in his room with a litter of proof-sheets lying - idly before him. He felt depressed. It was a new sensation. It puzzled - him, annoyed him, made him angry with himself, like a man's first - unsuspected attack of the gout. He rose and walked about. His fire had - nearly gone out, his lamp had been flaring and the room was filled with - its acrid smoke. He could not open the window, for the sleet and rain were - beating against the panes. He stopped for a moment watching the water - dribble outside down the glass. Then he turned away impatiently, seeking - solace from his book-backs and pictures. But they seemed to look back upon - him unsympathetically, as if reproaching him for the bare floor, the - untidy dresser, and the cheerless hearth. He rekindled his fire, filled a - pipe, and sat down to think. - </p> - <p> - Kent was not given to introspection. His external interests in life were - too engrossing for him to think deeply or continuously about himself. Such - a habit of mind he used vehemently to deprecate as morbid, egotistical. - But now this strange depression, this vague sense of loss, compelled him - to account for it to his reason. He began in a sober, materialistic way to - review his general health (there are philosophers amongst us who refer all - moods to the liver, not looking upon it, however, like the ancients, as - the seat of the affections!), to question some little disappointments he - had had with regard to his great work, and to dwell upon the futility of - existence—the suggestion of which he should have been logical enough - to see was the result and not the cause of his state of mind. But he was - not logical. Few men are when the great facts of inner life are in - question; for in the course of logic “none of us would see salvation,” as - far as this world's happiness is concerned. Gradually a truth dawned upon - him. He missed the ever-ready companionship he had enjoyed for nearly a - year. He missed Clytie. He found that for the first time in his life since - he was a baby he had been depending for something on a woman. He had never - realised until then the strength of that unknown subtle influence, the - withdrawal of which left him so weak, so unable to put forth all his - powers. At first he thought that it was merely the abrupt interruption of - pleasant habits, the sudden jerk out of a well-oiled groove. Telling - himself he was satisfied with this solution, he resolutely went back to - his writing and began to correct his proof-sheets. But gradually his - attention wandered again. These sudden impulses to work against the grain - soon spend themselves out and produce greater lassitude than before. - </p> - <p> - He tossed down his pencil in disgust and swung round towards the fire. It - was Clytie herself, then, that he missed. He missed her in spite of her - being a woman, he told himself. And yet the picture rose before his mind - of Clytie's dainty room and Clytie sitting there opposite to him, her - hand, with falling lace at wrist, pressed into the softness of her hair. - Why had she not written a line to him? - </p> - <p> - Yes, he missed her. But why should that make his work distasteful? He was - puzzled. One thing alone was clear, his loneliness was growing - intolerable. He threw on his waterproof, and, leaving his work, trudged - through the rain to the “monastery,” at South Kensington. - </p> - <p> - Wither was alone. Fairfax and Greene were dining out. The little man had - been too lazy and sybaritic to face the cold and wet outside. He had clad - himself in pyjamas and dressing-gown, and was reading a French novel on - the couch drawn up in front of the fire. His diminutive figure looked - absurdly small and wizened in his loose wrap. He nodded affectionately at - Kent, explained briefly the fact of his being alone, and, while Kent was - hunting in a familiar corner for the pair of slippers always there in - readiness for his use, went on with his reading. - </p> - <p> - “Get me some whiskey, old chap,” he said without looking up. “I have been - dying for some this last hour and I have been too lazy to stir off the - sofa.” - </p> - <p> - Kent, as usual, supplied Wither's wants and poured out a glass for - himself. - </p> - <p> - “Lazy little beggar,” he said kindly as he sat down in the great - saddle-bag chair. “How do you manage to get through your work?” - </p> - <p> - Wither laughed. - </p> - <p> - “I thought you knew better than to ask me that.” - </p> - <p> - It was a tradition in the “monastery” that Wither never did any work. They - paid him at his office for lending it a gentlemanly tone. As a matter of - fact, like most clever, lazy men, he generally did an ordinary man's day's - work in a few hours. - </p> - <p> - He stretched himself out luxuriously and lit a cigarette. - </p> - <p> - “Have you ever read this?” he asked, holding up his novel. It was - Bourget's “Cruelle Enigme.” - </p> - <p> - Kent nodded. - </p> - <p> - “I skimmed it through here one night while waiting for you. I have no - patience with that sort of thing.” - </p> - <p> - “Possibly not,” remarked Wither, “but that's a fact about yourself, and - not about the book.” - </p> - <p> - “I don't believe it is human life,” replied Kent. “People can't make - animal passion the keynote of their lives nowadays.” - </p> - <p> - “Why not nowadays?” - </p> - <p> - “The conditions of life prevent it. The savage has furious brute - instincts, which he gratifies occasionally, when his mind is not taken up - with fighting and hunting for his food. It may be the guiding principle in - a splendid barbarism like some Eastern courts, where men have little else - to think of. But in our modern civilisation there are other interests too - absorbing. The hurry of life is too great.” - </p> - <p> - “What about the empty-minded women you are always railing at?” - </p> - <p> - “They are all absorbed in their futilities—at least most of them,” - he added, correcting himself; “but even when idle they are not beasts. Now - this woman you are reading about is a beast.” - </p> - <p> - Wither eyed him curiously. - </p> - <p> - “You are talking nonsense, old chap. If she had been simply that, she - would not have been a problem to the psychologist. The enigma was the - sudden burst into animalism in the midst of a love that was almost - idyllic.” - </p> - <p> - “Bosh!” said Kent. “It was the same old hideous adultery.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, well! if you go on those lines, I am done,” replied Wither, shrugging - his shoulders. “I thought we were a little more advanced in our ideas in - this establishment.” - </p> - <p> - “You know I don't mean that,” said Kent, puffing violently at his pipe. - “The legality of the connection has nothing to do with it. It is the - eternal coupling of the male and the female that revolts me. Pah! They - might as well write a novel on the loves of the pastures.” - </p> - <p> - “If I could write French, I should like to try it,” said Wither. “It would - be interesting.” - </p> - <p> - “There is too much of that sort of thing written and talked about,” said - Kent. “It's sickening. It's degradation of humanity.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, it's not uncommon,” said Wither, with a sphinxlike smile playing - round the corners of his mouth as he gazed upwards at the cigarette smoke. - </p> - <p> - “Look here, Wither,” said Kent; “I have a higher faith in humanity. You - profess to be a cynic, a man of the world, and you delight in calling - yourself nonmoral. That's all foolishness, I know. You are the kindest - hearted little chap in the world. But can you, as a man of intellectual - tastes, sympathise with all this animalism?” - </p> - <p> - Wither threw away his cigarette, and bending forward laid his hand on - Kent's knee. - </p> - <p> - “My dear old boy,” he said, with more earnestness than he generally - displayed, “I do call myself a man of the world, for I'm in it and I love - it, and I have a very decent bowing acquaintance as well with its pals, - the Flesh and the Devil. I know something of men, and as for women, it has - been my lot to have been petted by a good few—my size lends itself - to that sort of thing. In fact, Gulliver with the Brobdingnag maids of - honour is not in it with me. I know all about 'em; and I tell you, old - chap, that the Beast, sometimes with a big B and sometimes in diamond - type, lies in the nature of us all. There is not a living being with pure - blood in his or her veins who is not overmastered at times by the - principle of sex. You scoff at Bourget as a writer of morbid and - impossible fiction. Look at your daily papers. Don't you see parsons of - hitherto blameless lives running off with their cooks, virtuous women - ruining their lives and their husbands' for the sake of some Hercules of a - scoundrel—just as the patrician ladies in Rome went mad over the - charioteers in the circus! Man alive! it is the Beast, the Beast that may - slumber in an old maid's bosom until she is sixty and then drive her into - the arms of her footman. How otherwise have you accounted for these - things?” - </p> - <p> - “I have not tried,” replied Kent simply. “They have not interested me. - They are diseases of the brain, for the physiologist to study, like - suicide and murder. I don't believe in them in normal everyday life.” - </p> - <p> - There was a long pause, broken only by Wither's request that Kent should - put some coals on the fire, and the rattling of the operation. Wither - resumed his reading and Kent pulled at his pipe in silence. At last the - former looked up and said suddenly: - </p> - <p> - “Why do you think people marry?” - </p> - <p> - “That's funny,” replied Kent, with a slight start. “I was just wondering - myself. I don't know: money, companionship, family, idiocy—God knows - what.” - </p> - <p> - “It has always struck me that you would be the first of us to go,” said - the other in pure, idle maliciousness. - </p> - <p> - “I?” cried Kent, with a gesture of disgust. “I marry! give up my work, - procreate children I couldn't support! Have to kiss and pet and fondle a - woman——” - </p> - <p> - “Well, you need not do that unless you like,” replied Wither, laughing in - his gnomelike way. “She might expect it, but she would be soon consoled by - the blessedness of pure spirituality.” - </p> - <p> - Kent's reply was interrupted by the return of the absentees, Fairfax, the - doctor, and Greene. - </p> - <p> - “I am so glad you fellows have come back,” said Kent; “Wither has been - drivelling on his favourite topic until I was beginning to loathe him.” - </p> - <p> - “He's an immoral little wretch,” said the doctor, throwing his greatcoat - on Wither's curled-up body—“a pocket Mephistopheles. We keep him - here as a kind of Familiar. Oh, what rot dining out is!” he added, with a - yawn and a stretch as he seated his burly form on the foot of the couch. - “I wish I had stayed at home.” - </p> - <p> - “I wish you had,” said Kent. “Let us have just one rubber before I go. - There is time.” - </p> - <p> - But Kent walked home that night with a new trouble at his heart that kept - him awake a great part of the night. - </p> - <p> - Meanwhile Clytie was not enjoying herself at Durdleham. At first there - were eager embraces, trifling tendernesses and solicitudes. The dear - prodigal had returned, but the fatted calf was killed discreetly, lest it - should convey a husk-flavoured reproach. Grace and Janet bubbled over with - light Durdleham gossip, seeking to interest, and Clytie earnestly and - sympathetically sought to be in touch with her surroundings. It was a real - heartfelt effort on both sides towards harmony. But it soon became patent - that these efforts were unavailing. Clytie saw the old prejudices barring - her at every turn. She recognised with the bitterness of disillusionment - that she was the bit of grit in the family machinery, stopping the - smoothness of its working. As long as she identified herself with - Durdleham interests things went well; but as soon as she, in her turn, - ventured to sketch the bright incidents in her town life she felt a check - in the current of mutual sympathy. If she was reserved, her sisters - complained. They ought to know something of her friends, her occupations. - When she was expansive they shrank cold and crablike into their mail of - prejudice. - </p> - <p> - Her intimacy with a strange Bohemian man was a thorn in the side of the - family. Mr. Davenant considered it extremely injudicious, and Mrs. Blather - whispered to him that she scarcely thought it moral. Janet was too - horrified to allude directly to the circumstance. But, in her neat, prim - bedchamber, she prayed to the Almighty to lead her erring sister out of - the paths of temptation. She duly informed Clytie of this act of piety, - and when Clytie burst into laughter that was nearer to tears than to - merriment, left the room in virtuous indignation. - </p> - <p> - Clytie could not help confessing to herself that she longed for Kent's - companionship, with its broader sympathies and inspiring influences, but - the view the household took of it pained her with a sense of aching - discomfort, and made her feel a strange diffidence in writing to him as - she had promised. She at last addressed him a short little note, stiff and - constrained, which reached him the morning after his conversation with - Wither and did not help to cheer him. Too proud to wait for an opportunity - of posting this letter herself, she placed it on the hall slab together - with the rest of the outgoing correspondence of the family. Although a - hundred letters might have lain there for post without any one of them - attracting Mrs. Blather's attention,—she was too pure-minded a - gentlewoman for idle curiosity to be one of her failings,—it was too - good an opportunity for the imps who seem sometimes to regulate human - affairs to let slip, and as a matter of course Mrs. Blather's eye fell - upon the address. - </p> - <p> - “So you are keeping up a violent correspondence with that man,” she - remarked acidly to Clytie. It is the way of some women to exaggerate. - </p> - <p> - Clytie bit her lip, cheeking an impulsive answer. What was the use of a - retort? - </p> - <p> - Women of broad, liberal education, with interests beyond the nursery, - still-room, and the afternoon-tea table, are known to live together, like - men, in comparative harmony. They have learned the lesson the higher, - broader life teaches of rising or declining instinctively to another - being's plane of thought or feeling. It is hardly a fault of sex that - women are petty, spiteful, and intolerant. When the conditions of life are - narrow and illiberal any human being, man or woman, runs the risk of being - shaped by them. And that is why Mrs. Blather and Janet, good, upright - women according to their lights, subordinated their affection to their - principles, and stood away shocked from their sister. Their traditional - ideals of femininity had been sinned against. The crime was all but - unpardonable. It was always present with them, always assuming fresh, - distorted shapes. They were on a different plane from Clytie, and viewed - all her actions in a false perspective. - </p> - <p> - Clytie was hurt, wounded in her womanly pride. She knew that there was - much clay in her composition, and often felt with chastening - self-abasement how much nearer the angels Winifred was than herself. Yet - she was accustomed to live in an atmosphere free from reproach. Winifred, - Kent, the Farquharsons, and others of her friends might touch with light, - tender finger on here and there an imperfection in her character or - conduct; for this she was grateful, knowing the deeper feelings of esteem - and respect that prompted. But to move in a circle where she was looked - upon as a black sheep, as a girl on the path to unutterable abysses, - galled her to the quick, sent the hot blood mounting in stinging waves to - her cheek, leaving the heart cold. Yet she had learned not to blame her - sisters over much. She had lost her militant scorn of Jacob. Kent had - taught her that although Esau might possess the higher birthright which no - bartering of pottage could alienate, there was still saving grace in the - stolen birthright which Jacob guarded so jealously. But this knowledge did - not make her heart less sore. - </p> - <p> - The happiest time in this Christmas visit was when she could get away into - the old lumber-attic in which she had dreamed so many girlish dreams. It - had long been dismantled of the Liberty curtains, Persian rugs, and cheap - Japaneseries that had lent it the suggestion of artistic atmosphere the - girl of eighteen had craved. It was bare now, except for a table and chair - and a few odds and ends of artist's materials, but a fire could be laid in - the grate to make things look cheery, and there was still the deeply - recessed attic-window where she could stand and look out over the same - drear landscape. It was only the ordinary midland succession of fields, - now black with winter, and pastures through which the river ran, its - course only indicated by the fringing line of pollards and willows. Away - on the slope to the west rose a clump of trees from which peeped a few - houses and a church spire, the little village of Wexwith. In the - foreground ran the highroad skirted with new red-brick cottages, a touch - of sordidness added by man to the ungenerous dreariness of nature. Once - this had affected Clytie with a sense of the unutterable melancholy of - things. The young are prone to be so affected. They are rather proud when - they realise it; it is a kind of youthful vanity. But Clytie, like the - wiser among us, sought brightness as she grew older, and although she - could not consider the landscape cheerful, looked at it only through the - memories of five years. Every spot had associations for her. There was the - cottage where she had seen the little bully strike his playmate, the - original conception of the picture that had helped to cause her welcome - banishment from home. Next to it used to live the old beldame who threw - out of doors the custards and jellies that Janet with angelic perseverance - used to take her. What cruel mockery she used to make of Janet in those - days! Now she submissively helped to carry the custards. Behind the - swelling uplands over the village the sun set, a red ball in the wintry - sky. For how many wild fantastic daubs had not that formed a background! - </p> - <p> - It was during these reveries that the picture subject she craved commenced - to haunt her as it gradually shaped itself into definiteness. Since her - singular interview with the French girl at Dinan a lurid gleam streamed - from the gates ajar of mysteries that had baffled her. She had read widely - and deeply; but books are only the gloss of life, they are not the text. - Its secrets must be read in the living world, with much pain and - sleeplessness and wearied eyes. The throbbing page had been presented to - Clytie for one sharp moment, blazing, the while, in letters of flame. Such - knowledge changes lingering girlhood into womanhood without the aid of - passion. It changes sex-pride into sex-sorrow—in higher natures, be - it understood. And this sex-sorrow runs in channels hollowed out by - ever-varying circumstance and temperament. It flows in the patient, - all-enduring devotion of the sister labouring among outcasts, in the - militant enthusiasm of the social reformer. It quivers in the hearts of - teachers like George Eliot and Elizabeth Barrett Browning. It lives in the - souls of some mothers who tremulously watch the shaping of their - daughter's destiny. With Clytie it ran confluent with her artistic - impulses. It had influenced them vaguely, dimly, hauntingly for months, - but now, at last, stirringly, proclaiming itself, insistently demanding - expression. - </p> - <p> - The subject was found: Faustina in her innocent maidenhood. The problem: - how to manifest the foreshadowings of passion on the young, clear face? - </p> - <p> - Clytie spent hours in her attic trying to fix the summer lightnings of - features that flashed elusively before her mind. She wished she were in - London, to go abroad in the highways seeking after a face. It seemed to - her that in the great city she would find the one she wanted, in the park, - at the theatre, perhaps among the subdued black rows of women—lines - of suppressed volcanic workings—in some great shop. But in Durdleham - volcanoes were extinct or regulated by formula to erupt with mild - propriety. She began to feel the frenzied weariness of helplessness. If - only she could talk to someone—to Kent. - </p> - <p> - One day Mrs. Blather came into the attic. Clytie was dreaming before - incoherent charcoal streaks. The fire had burned low and the draught of - the opening door made her shiver. - </p> - <p> - “Why, Clytie, child, you are blue with cold,” said her sister, wrapping - her gray woollen shawl more tightly round her thin shoulders. “Why do you - mope up here?” - </p> - <p> - “I am not moping, Gracie,” replied Clytie; “I am only working—conceiving - a picture, that's all.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, but you oughtn't to do any work. Have you not come down for a - holiday? What's the good of burning the candle at both ends? Come down to - the drawing-room and talk to the Howatsons; they are inquiring after you.” - </p> - <p> - “But I am in such a mess!” laughed Clytie, showing her blackened finger - tips. - </p> - <p> - “Well, come down and tidy yourself in my room; there is a fire, and you - can warm yourself for a few minutes.” Clytie followed her sister down the - stairs to the latter's bedroom, where a cheerful fire warmed the cold - clean chintz of the hangings. Mrs. Blather sat down by the hearth, while - Clytie washed her hands and touched her hair. - </p> - <p> - “Why don't you tell us more of your work, Clytie?” she said - propitiatingly. “Here you are being criticised in the newspapers, quite - like a famous person, and we at home know nothing of it.” - </p> - <p> - “Why, Gracie, I thought it did not interest you much.” - </p> - <p> - “We would take an interest if you would only let us.” - </p> - <p> - “But, you see, I paint such queer pictures. I don't think they are your - style. And then pictures are not portable like books. If I wrote poetry, - you could be deluged with presentation copies; but even we ourselves lose - all the result of our work when the picture is sold.” - </p> - <p> - “Of course, but you might write and talk more. And with regard to the - 'queer' pictures, don't you think, if you made us your confidantes, the - pictures might be a little less—'queer'? You see, Clytie, you are - young, and it is your nature to run into extremes. If you were just a - little bit restrained by older folks, would you not get what you are so - fond of talking about—'truth'—in your work?” - </p> - <p> - Clytie was somewhat puzzled at Mrs. Blather's conciliatory tone. Was this - an effort towards a better understanding, or was it a disguised lecture? - She finished her hasty toilet and went and stood by the fire near her - sister, her foot on the fender. - </p> - <p> - “Thank you very much, Gracie,” she said, “but would you always understand? - Perhaps,” she added, smiling, after a pause, “you would want to restrain - too much—and where would the picture be?” - </p> - <p> - “Well, why not try? What is the picture to be about that you are working - at now?” - </p> - <p> - The blood rushed to Clytie's cheeks, which, bent down, caught the added - glow of the fire—a contrast, with her rich colour, to the clear, - waxen, negative face of her sister. She broke suddenly into a nervous - laugh. - </p> - <p> - “There! Even from the beginning I couldn't discuss it with you, Gracie. It - is only a girl's face—I can't tell you anything more about it.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, that's what I complain of,” said Mrs. Blather with growing acidity. - “You keep your own sisters in ignorance of your life, and confide - everything to this Mr. Kent, who is nothing to you.” - </p> - <p> - “How do you know I have told Mr. Kent about this picture?” - </p> - <p> - “I was not referring to this one, though by your manner I see you have.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, yes, I have,” said Clytie, “because—because—he has the - artistic temperament—and he can seize an idea—in fact—why - are you saying this to me, Gracie?” - </p> - <p> - “Because you are not going the right way, Clytie; and it is my duty as - your elder sister, who has looked after you since you were so high, to - make a last effort to bring you within some restraining influences. We - don't like your intimacy with Mr. Kent. It is not what we have been taught - to think right. I know you look down upon us as narrow-minded at - Durdleham. I think it is better for us. We are shut in, perhaps, between - high walls, but the high walls keep us safe.” - </p> - <p> - They were silent for a few moments, then Clytie said: “Gracie, don't you - think this subject has been enough discussed? It is wasting words and - spoiling good intentions. Suppose we go down to the Howatsons.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER X. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">O</span>ne day, about this - time, Kent was walking home from the Museum. His spirits had by no means - lightened since his conversation with Wither, and he strode along moodily, - trying to fix his attention on the arrangement of that evening's portion - of the great work. He had gone back to it resolutely and doggedly, and was - conscious that it was progressing not badly, but at the same time he had a - troubling sense that he was treating it less as an aim than as a cure for - existence. Fairfax, the doctor, told him he was overdoing himself, that - the strain of double work was telling, advised total idleness, and if - possible a change of air. Kent gave the prescription a trial, and went - down to the Isle of Wight for a week-end, where he tramped himself utterly - tired during the day and bored himself exquisitely during the evening. - Then he came back rather worse than when he went. No; he was suffering - from change, and not from the want of it. - </p> - <p> - London was in a pitiable condition. It had snowed, then thawed into slush, - and now a hard black frost had set in, rendering the roadways like glass. - Already during his walk home Kent had seen four horses down. On the first - two occasions he had lent a helping hand. After that it began to grow - monotonous, and he hurried past the accidents, anxious to get home out of - the sullen iron-bound streets. At the corner of Sloane Square and the - King's Road he saw a familiar girlish figure coming towards him. It was - Winifred, her dark cheeks glowing with the exercise of walking; but he - noticed a look of trouble in her eyes. - </p> - <p> - “I am so glad to have met you, Mr. Kent,” she said; “I want to speak to - you. Can you walk a little way with me?” - </p> - <p> - “Of course, as long as you like. What is the matter? You are not - yourself.” - </p> - <p> - “No. I have been upset, so upset; you would hardly think it. Come and I - will tell you.” - </p> - <p> - They crossed the road and went on down Lower Sloane Street. - </p> - <p> - “It's about Jack—Jack, the model, you remember. He has been run - over! Oh, it's horrible!” - </p> - <p> - “And you are going to him?” asked Kent, noticing for the first time a - little basket hanging over her arm. “Give me that,” he added, taking the - basket, which she out of habit surrendered to him. “And these are jellies - and what not for him?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes. Will you come with me and see him, see what can be done for him, - rather? His mother is so harsh, so stupid.” - </p> - <p> - “How did you come to hear of the accident?” - </p> - <p> - Winifred's cheek paled a little and she turned her head from him. - </p> - <p> - “I saw it myself. Oh, I shall never, never forget it! just outside Sloane - Square station; I was coming home, yesterday. The ground was just as - slippery as it is now. Oh, how can I tell you! It makes me shudder to - think of it!” - </p> - <p> - “Take your time,” said Kent good-naturedly. - </p> - <p> - She was silent for a few steps. Then, nerving herself, she went on with - more coherence. - </p> - <p> - “He was just in front of me when I came out, and as he saw me he ran away, - frightened—like a little scared animal; you know his ways. And - crossing the road, not looking where he was going, he turned his head - round as if to see I was not following him, and then he slipped—oh-h! - under the hoofs of a horse—in a hansom. And the driver tried to pull - up sharp, and the horse came down too—on top of Jack!” - </p> - <p> - “Good God!” said Kent. - </p> - <p> - “A crowd at once collected. I rushed through—I must have screamed a - little and cried that I knew him, for the people made way for me. It all - seemed like a horrid dream. I can't tell what happened, except that I - found myself kneeling on the ground with the poor little mite's head on my - lap. Then someone was talking to me, who said he was a doctor, and began - to examine the boy's injuries.” - </p> - <p> - “Is he badly hurt?” - </p> - <p> - “The doctor does not know yet. No bones are broken—the injuries are - internal.” - </p> - <p> - “Is he at the hospital?” - </p> - <p> - “No. At his own home. I gave them the address, and told them his mother - would care for him—why, I don't know. And then they got a stretcher - from the police-station and carried him home, and I went with them and - broke it to his mother. But, oh! Mr. Kent, almost the most awful part of - it is that it seems as if I was the cause of it.” - </p> - <p> - “Nonsense, my dear child,” said Kent in rough earnestness. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, yes, it is. If it hadn't been for me he would not have run across the - road in a fright. Oh! I can see it now—the horse plunging, his hoofs - over the child—and then the collapse, and the child hidden under the - horse!” - </p> - <p> - They turned down a side street and then another, sinking into the squalour - that still remains in that vague river district between Pimlico Pier and - Milbank. - </p> - <p> - “Poor little chap! Punishment has come at last,” said Kent. “It has a kind - of way of doing so. What does Clytie think of it? Have you told her?” - </p> - <p> - “I only wrote to her yesterday. This morning I got a telegram. I think I - have it with me. It is Clytie all over!” - </p> - <p> - She opened the purse she was carrying inside her muff and drew from it a - crumpled telegram. It ran: - </p> - <p> - Dreadfully distressed. Get the best of everything, nurse, doctor. Find - money to go on with in drawer at once. I must feel that I am doing - something. Will write. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, it is like her,” said Kent, with a smile, as he handed it back to - her. - </p> - <p> - “I wonder whether you would mind doing something for me, Mr. Kent?” said - Winnie after a pause. “Get the money out of Clytie's drawer for me. I have - been so busy all day. Reggie is in bed with a bad cold and the house is - upside down—and of course I have to come here. You see, I must use - the money, or else Clytie would be hurt; it seems to me to be a matter of - conscience.” - </p> - <p> - “Or a matter of Clytie's telling you?” said Kent. -</p> - <p> -“Well, perhaps it's - that. One always does what Clytie says. So do you, Mr. Kent. Anyhow, I - should like to have the money for the sake of obeying her wishes. Could - you get it for me?” - </p> - <p> - “Of course, if you will tell me how.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, that's easy. I have the key of her secretaire in my purse. She keeps - her cash-box there. You can let me have it as it is. Will you?” - </p> - <p> - “Of course. I will bring it round to-night.” - </p> - <p> - The early winter twilight had fallen and scared shivering indoors the - brood of unwashed children that possess these gray, sordid streets. Here - and there women stood at the doors, their hands folded in their aprons, - with little ones clinging to their skirts, chaffering with a costermonger, - or exchanging shrill confidences with a neighbour. Most of the front - parlours on the ground floor were lightless, with drawn blinds. Here and - there a public-house beer-can gleamed white upon the railing spikes. - Workmen lurched heavily along, now and then followed by shawled, - bare-armed wives, vituperative. For it was Saturday afternoon, when the - businesslike wife looks after her husband. Here and there from a suddenly - opened doorway came the smell of many weeks' cooking. The poorer classes - despise fresh air in their rooms—perhaps because they get it for - nothing. - </p> - <p> - Winifred stopped with Kent at a dark-fronted, dingy house, the facsimile - of the forty other houses in the dingy row and of the forty opposite - across the narrow roadway. A little girl answered her knock. - </p> - <p> - “Mrs. Burmester in, my dear? Come, Mr. Kent, if you don't mind. I know the - way.” - </p> - <p> - Kent followed her up two flights of stairs, and into Mrs. Burmester's - room. It was less squalid than he had imagined. A fire was burning in the - grate, with a saucepan simmering. There were fairly substantial chairs, a - table, and the ragged remains of a carpet. On a big bed by the side of the - wall, not uncomfortable-looking nor unclean, lay Jack, tossing his wild - elf head in delirium. By the side of the bed sat a nurse, whom the doctor - had sent. Mrs. Burmester was spreading out the tea-things on the table. - Her red, heavy face brightened momentarily when Winnie entered. - </p> - <p> - “How is he now?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, mortal bad, miss. He hasn't had his senses all day.” - </p> - <p> - “And the doctor—does he say anything?” - </p> - <p> - “He said he would like a consultation,” replied the nurse, “but he did not - know exactly whom to refer to.” - </p> - <p> - “Why, to me, of course!” replied Winnie. “He knows my name and address. If - you see him before I do, say I authorise him to do anything he thinks - right. We are willing to—that is, he need not be hindered by - questions of expense.” - </p> - <p> - Winnie turned to Mrs. Burmester with the basket, which she had taken from - Kent's hand. The mother thanked her, almost monosyllabically. She was too - dull for emotions of any kind. Kent watched her with interest, for Clytie - had often spoken of her, hinting at her own puzzle. - </p> - <p> - There was a lull in Jack's ravings as Winifred and Kent stood over the bed - looking at him. The expression of sullen ferocity had gone from his face, - which now seemed refined and gentle. He smiled at Winifred, not - recognising her, murmured something incoherent about arithmetic. His mind - had wandered back to his earlier school-days. He had been fond of a - teacher there, his mother explained. Her name was Miss Jones. She wished - he was fond of anybody now. He was a sore trial to her. The floodgates of - dull speech were opened and a slow stream of joyless anecdote poured forth—a - jeremiad of Jack's iniquities. Winnie stopped her gently. - </p> - <p> - “We must not think of that now, Mrs. Burmester,” she said. “We have to get - him round again; and then we will see whether we can't make a good boy of - him for you.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah! You won't do that. He is too much like his father.” - </p> - <p> - They stayed a little longer, talking. Then they went, as Winifred had to - be back among her own family responsibilities. - </p> - <p> - “By the way,” said Kent as they were walking homewards, “this must be - Treherne's parish—in fact, I am sure of it. Has it not struck you?” - </p> - <p> - “No, it never occurred to me.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, he ought to know. I'll send him a line. He knows all about this - sort of thing.” - </p> - <p> - He walked with her as far as the door of her own house. There she gave him - the key of Clytie's secretaire. Mrs. Gurkins kept the room key. He left - her and turned homewards, striding along rather fast, eager to execute - Clytie's commission. He was filled with a foolish pleasure at her - impulsive telegram; touched also at Winifred's implicit obedience and - confidence. - </p> - <p> - “She's a queen among women!” - </p> - <p> - The silly phrase passed through his mind and he caught himself repeating - it with his lips, half aloud. - </p> - <p> - “Bosh!” he added with some impatience. And he stopped to look in at a - shop-window to divert his mind. It was a boot-shop. He ran his eye - mechanically over the rows of commonplace, cheap boots, and then it fell - upon a little pair of tan shoes, with broad silk laces. Before he realised - how his mind was working, a picture rose before him of Clytie wearing a - similar pair during the summer trip abroad. He remembered bending down one - day when a knot had slipped and retying it for her. - </p> - <p> - “I am becoming a positive ass!” he said to himself, with an angry jerk - away from the window. Then he redoubled his pace, as if in defiance, but - the silly phrase rang in his ears: - </p> - <p> - “She's a queen among women!” - </p> - <p> - He obtained the key from Mrs. Gurkins, and entered the tenantless room. - The blinds were down, the curtains undrawn. It was just dark. He lit the - piano candles and looked about him. How dreary the room seemed! The - fireless grate, the coverless table (the cloth had been thriftily put away - by Mrs. Gurkins), the absence of the feminine litter with which Clytie was - wont to strew the room—all made his heart sink for a moment beneath - the weight of a great longing. He remembered, too, the room by that dim - light—on the evening of Clytie's submission. He saw her again lift - her arms to unpin her hat from behind, the proud young figure standing out - free as she looked at him half playfully, half seriously, her ripe, full - lips parted in a smile. His breath came quickly as a flood of - self-knowledge swept over him. He had felt puzzled then—at vague - inarticulate desires. Now they were gathering a terribly real, objective - shape. He grew dizzy, hot and cold, half terrified at himself. - </p> - <p> - With shaking fingers he fitted the key in the lock of the secretaire. In - the drawer was a heterogeneous collection of odds and ends—letters, - keys, ball-programmes, receipted bills—which he had to thrust aside - so as to withdraw the little japanned cash-box. As he lifted it out a - handkerchief came with it, caught by its lace edge, and after dangling a - little fell at his feet. He picked it up, kept it in his hand, soothed at - the softness. A faint odour of perfume rose from it, subtle and delicate—the - well-known perfume that Clytie always used. It was like an emanation from - herself. It grew over his highly strung senses like a breath of her own - personality, sweet, intoxicating, overpowering. His brain swam. With a - kind of groan he staggered to the sofa, threw himself upon it, burying his - face in the little handkerchief, kissing it madly. - </p> - <p> - Now all was clear, waves of lightning flashing the truth through him. He - loved her, passionately, desired her with a passion all the fiercer for - its long restraint. Yet he could not think coherently. One thought, one - utter realisation, overpowered all others. At last this great surging - sex-tumult was sweeping through his veins. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, my God, I love her! Oh, my God, I love her!” That was all that he - could groan out as he lay upon the sofa. - </p> - <p> - The creak of the door made him start up. On the threshold stood one of - Mrs. Gurkins's curly-headed little children. She looked for a moment, - rather frightened, at his haggard face, and then ran away. Thus aroused to - a sense of external things, he locked up the secretaire and went out, - taking the cash-box and handkerchief with him. - </p> - <p> - On the slab outside his rooms he found a letter in Clytie's familiar - handwriting. He went into his room, and sitting down before his writing - space, spread the letter out before him. It ran as follows: - </p> - <p> - My Dear Friend Kent: - </p> - <p> - If you ask me why I have not written to you for such a long time, I must - shrink within my shell of femininity and refuse to give you reasons. For I - have them, and they are compounded from a recipe handed down from Mother - Eve. Well, I write to you now because I must. That reason I make you a - present of. - </p> - <p> - I want to be in town again, in the King's Road, and to see you by the - fireside, ready to be asked questions and to answer them, and to comfort - your erratic friend Clytie with your kindliness and wisdom. She is looked - upon as a bad girl here, and pines for someone who thinks her human, and - who also thinks her art human, and can help her in it. - </p> - <p> - Listen, now; I have got <i>the</i> subject at last; it is eating my heart - out almost, I have to keep it hidden so to myself. I must tell you—for - the sake's sake. “Faustina as a young, innocent girl, with the - foreshadowings of passion on her face.” There! Now you know. What do you - think of it? - </p> - <p> - Do you remember my depression at Dinan? Well, I think it was there I got - the conception. I can't tell you more. But it is haunting me. I feel what - I want to do, but I can't get a face. What shall I do? Tell me. You know, - dear Kent, in our talks, we have often disregarded principles that move - the world pretty potently. But as an artist I am bound to recognise the - part that passion plays in the tragedy of things. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent30"> - “These things are life: - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - And life, some think, is worthy of the Muse,” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - as Meredith says in “Modern Love.” (Do you remember our reading it - together?) - </p> - <p> - I can't write properly about it. I long for a talk with you. I shall break - away soon and come for it. So be prepared with all your sympathy. - </p> - <p> - Do you miss me just a little bit? I often fancy my perverseness must - give a little wholesome irritation to your life, and you are very good not - to mind it. I always seem to be coming to you for help and sympathy. When - can I ever do anything for you? You must tell me, dear friend, when the - time comes. - </p> - <p> - I should like to tell you to give Winnie a kiss for me, but that is - idiotic, isn't it? Yet you know what I mean. See that the dear child is - not wearing herself out. There! I am asking you to do something else for - me. Do write a long letter, full of yourself, with just a paragraph about - the needs, artistic and otherwise, of - </p> - <p> - Your friend, - </p> - <h3> - C. D. - </h3> - <p> - Kent took some time to read this. The letters swam a little before his - eyes. Then he laid his head upon his arms and thought, in dumb agony. - Clytie's letter, sisterly and trustful, soothed and goaded him at once. - “The part that passion plays in the tragedy of things!” God! Had a - fleeting thought never struck her what a part it might play in their - lives' tragedy? How could he answer that letter, addressed to a friend, - received by a lover in the hot flush of newly awakened realisation? How - could he meet her bright, frank look with this burning demon within him? - It was base, horrible. His mind wandered to a German print he had seen - somewhere, a goat-footed satyr kneeling and leering at Psyche. He - shuddered. - </p> - <p> - It is given but to few men to know this terror of love: only to those who, - like Kent, have hitherto expended vast animal and moral energies in - non-sexual enthusiasms, and have rebelled with almost passionate repulsion - against the assertion of the sexual principle. To some men love dawns like - a sweet, fair star—the storm comes later on. To such as Kent it - comes in terrific forked lightnings and crash of thunder, overwhelming the - soul with terror. To Kent's excited fancy it seemed that the Beast, such - as Wither had spoken of, had entered into him. He had betrayed the compact - of friendship, her sisterly trust in him. Fool that he had been! Why had - he not recognised it before? Now all was over between them. The future - seemed nothing but black, rolling darkness. - </p> - <p> - The solitary gas-jet that he had lit on entering flared high and strident - over the mantelpiece above the blackening fire, and Kent lay with his - hands on his arms, his morbid brain at death-grapple with love, he himself - heedful of nothing external—not even of a gay whistle and a quick, - springing tread on the uncarpeted stairs. The door burst suddenly open. - </p> - <p> - “Come out, you fusty old hermit——” - </p> - <p> - Then Wither stopped. Kent raised a drawn, rather ghastly face and stared - at him stupidly. - </p> - <p> - “My dear old chap, in the name of Heaven, what's the matter?” cried - Wither, putting down his hat and stick and coming towards him. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, nothing!” said Kent, who pulled himself together with an effort, - rose, and broke into a forced laugh. - </p> - <p> - Wither looked at him steadily while he slowly drew off his gloves. - </p> - <p> - “That's nonsense!” he said quietly. - </p> - <p> - Then his sharp glance fell on the little crumpled handkerchief that lay - beside the open letter on the table. His quick sense, aided by certain - opinions he had formed long since, grasped the main feature of the - situation. - </p> - <p> - He went over to where Kent was standing by the fireplace, and laid his - hand on his shoulder. - </p> - <p> - “Never mind, dear old man, it will all come right.” - </p> - <p> - “It will never come right,” groaned Kent absently. - </p> - <p> - “It must. She must care for you in time.” - </p> - <p> - “How do you know what I am thinking of?” Kent burst out rather fiercely. - </p> - <p> - “I guessed. Besides—the handkerchief. It is not your own. Yours are - a little more businesslike.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, well!” said Kent a little huskily, and throwing his head back with a - gesture of impatience, “I can't hide it. What would be the good? I have - found out that she is a friend no longer, that what you were saying the - other night is true—and I feel a brute! My God, what a brute I - feel!” - </p> - <p> - Wither's mental balance was for a moment upset. He righted it after a - moment with considerations of his friend's character. In many fragile, - nervous bodies there is a delicacy of perception which often remains all - the keener when protected by a shell of cynicism. - </p> - <p> - “You want to be reasoned with gently, friend John,” he said. “You must not - feel a brute when you love a woman as a man like you can love. It's the - best and holiest thing on God's earth, believe me.” - </p> - <p> - “But, Teddy, she is so frank, so trustful, so proud of our friendship—it - can never be the same again—if I should tell her, she would hate me——” - </p> - <p> - “You can bet your life she wouldn't!” murmured Wither. - </p> - <p> - “She would go out of my life in indignation, and she would be right,” Kent - went on. “She would scorn me for the feelings that I know now I have had - all along for 'her. No; it is all over, all over. I can't meet her again. - I think I shall go mad! I shall throw up everything and go away.” - </p> - <p> - “You dear, foolish old chap,” said Wither, “can't you see that very little - would make her in love with you, if she is not so already? Why should you - two not get married?” - </p> - <p> - “I marry!” gasped Kent, as if struck by a new idea. “I ask Clytie - Davenant, with her beauty and intellect and genius, to come and share—this! - Clytie Davenant marry me! Why, the idea is ludicrous—preposterous!” - </p> - <p> - “If I were she, I should not think so,” said Wither affectionately. - </p> - <p> - Kent shook his head gloomily, and kicked the smouldering coal into a - fitful blaze. - </p> - <p> - “No. Until she shows me unmistakably—which can be never—that - she cares for me in that way, I would sooner bite my tongue out than tell - her.” - </p> - <p> - “Until she asks you to marry her, in fact! John Kent, you are two years - older than I am, and three times as big. But verily you are a little - child! And if you weren't,” he added impulsively, with a soft glitter in - his elfin eyes, “you would not be the lovable old chap that you are! - Good-bye!” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, stay a little, Teddy!” cried Kent. “I'm not much company, but I——” - </p> - <p> - “Come round with me and have some dinner, then,” interrupted Wither. “It - will occupy your body—if not your mind. And it will be better for - you than the bottled beer and sardines which you usually feast upon. I - shall be quite alone and you can do some work for me.” - </p> - <p> - “All right!” replied Kent dejectedly. “It does not matter what I do.” - </p> - <p> - Wither turned his face to the fire, while Kent prepared to go out. When he - turned round Kent was holding the cash-box in his hand. The handkerchief - and letter were gone from the table, and Wither smiled inwardly. He had - himself disposed of many such trifles in a similar way. Men are very much - alike in several matters. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XI. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he atmosphere of - Durdleham was uninspiring. Clytie could make no progress with her picture, - and at last she laid it aside in despair. She had set her heart upon - painting it, and the thoughts of it worried her, prevented her from - sleeping. Not only would it give her fame, satisfy her ambition, - stimulated by the success of “Jack,” but it would satisfy certain cravings - of her soul. And yet she was conscious that only when these cravings found - articulate utterance could the haunting shadows be fixed. The lack, - therefore, seemed to lie in herself: whether in her spiritual nature or in - her material experience of the world she could not tell; perhaps it was a - subtle combination of the two. She could not bring her lens of - introspection to a focus. What she saw through it was blurred and - inchoate. - </p> - <p> - She had looked forward to Kent's reply to her letter. His sympathetic - common sense might help her. When his answer did come, after some days' - interval, it was strangely cold and dispiriting, just two sides of - note-paper barely filled with sententious enigma. - </p> - <p> - “If the painting of it will bring you joy, paint. If not, you are grasping - at shadows.” - </p> - <p> - That was the gist of it. What did it mean? Clytie was inclined to be - indignant. Her own letter had been written out of the friendliness and - needs of her heart, and the reply seemed almost like a rebuff. She did not - know that the writing of it had caused Kent two hours' perplexed - wretchedness. Even the finest feminine perception cannot pierce through a - millstone. The little feeling of resentment towards Kent took the keenness - of edge from her anticipated pleasure of seeing him again; at least so she - told herself when she packed her boxes at the end of her visit to - Durdleham. But as the train brought her nearer to London her spirits rose. - She was free once more to live her own life, without fear of comment or - criticism. It was simple, laborious, and innocent enough, and she desired - little more at present; but there was the exhilarating sense of freedom, - of perfect liberty to be outrageous, reckless, if such was her good - pleasure, wherein lies much of the sweetness of independence. - </p> - <p> - She found her sitting-room tidied, neatly arranged, looking as nearly as - possible as if it had never been vacated, and Winifred, a transforming - fairy in the midst of it, eagerly awaiting her. Clytie sighed a little as - she listened to Winnie's gossip. The latter looked at her with reproachful - inquiry. - </p> - <p> - “I was only thinking, dear, that this is more my home than the house at - Durdleham, and you are dearer to me than anyone there.” - </p> - <p> - Winifred stroked her friend's hand in girlish fashion and turned away her - head. She knew Clytie too well to make any reply. Then she spoke of Jack, - who was in a fair way towards recovery. She had been very glad of Clytie's - money, she confessed, with a deep blush, because things at home—well, - Clytie knew. And Mr. Treherne, with whom Kent had communicated, had been - very kind and helpful. He went round to Mrs. Burmester's every afternoon - to cheer up the invalid. - </p> - <p> - “And I suppose you go round pretty often?” said Clytie. - </p> - <p> - “Of course—every afternoon,” replied Winifred simply. - </p> - <p> - And Clytie, as she smoothed the shapely head lying in her lap, smiled to - herself a little mysterious smile. - </p> - <p> - Mr. Kent, too, Winifred continued, had been invaluable to her. He had - brought the boy picture-books, toys—had sat up with him one night - whilst the nurse rested, the mother being quite helpless, and sleeping in - an adjoining room which they had rented for the time between them. Never - had street arab been so petted, so preciously guarded. He was growing - quite human under the treatment. Kent and Treherne had managed to get him - a nomination to a decent school-home, which would assure him an honest - career in after life. Winifred was enthusiastic. She had never known - before what a good, beautiful world it was, how filled with good and - beautiful people! - </p> - <p> - In reply to a question of Clytie's she said that she had seen little of - Kent lately; that he looked overworked, worried, on the rare occasions - when she had exchanged a few words with him. - </p> - <p> - “He is doing too much. I must speak to him about it this evening,” said - Clytie. - </p> - <p> - She took it for granted that he would come, if not at the present hour, - while they were sitting over the teacups, at any rate after dinner, to - discuss in cheery, familiar fashion the events of the past month. But the - moments slipped by and his footstep was not heard on the stairs. - </p> - <p> - “Are you sure that he knew I was coming back to-day?” asked Clytie. - </p> - <p> - “Of course. He inquired twice of me,” replied Winifred. - </p> - <p> - Winnie went away, and Clytie dined, took up a book, and waited. But Kent - did not come. Clytie felt hurt. If he had been engaged, he might at least - have left her a word of welcome. It was unfriendly, unlike him. Surely she - could not have offended him in any way. She grew interested in her book, - sat up till a late hour finishing it. As she neared the end she heard the - well-known footstep coming up the stairs. She laid her book down, - expecting to see the door open, but though she thought she detected a - faint pause outside on the landing, the sound of the tread did not cease, - but continued up the next flight until it was lost. Then she went to bed, - somewhat angry. - </p> - <p> - She was in her studio betimes in the morning setting things straight. - Orders had come in for a couple of small street-urchin pictures. She had - to make arrangements for setting to work upon them at once. Her mind was - intent upon the matter when she heard Kent pass down the stairs on his way - to the Museum. Ordinarily he was accustomed, if he was not pressed for - time, to thrust his head in at the studio door as he passed, nod - good-morning, and perhaps receive some small commission to execute at the - colour man's in Oxford Street. - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps he has grown tired of our intimacy,” thought Clytie, “and is - taking this opportunity of breaking it off.” The thought was a whip to her - pride. It sent the blood rushing in fierce waves to her cheeks. She was - alone, an angry woman, not fit company for herself. She felt humiliated, - insulted, and encouraged herself in the feeling, baring her shoulders to - the lash. It scarcely occurred to her then to inquire into the justice of - the suggestion—the mere fact of the suggestion presenting itself was - sufficient to make her burn with indignation. - </p> - <p> - After lunch she took a cab and drove to Piccadilly to look at the shops - and the people. Town was filling again, the afternoon sun shone brightly. - Clytie's spirits rose. She went with light, defiant tread down the - Burlington Arcade, flashing a contemptuous glance upon admiring loungers, - bought herself gloves and odds and ends of millinery, crossed over to Bond - Street, looked in at Dowdeswell's to see a picture on view in the gallery, - and then, after an interview with Burrowes, the dealer, in Oxford Street, - she turned into Regent Street, prepared to enjoy the contemplation of the - miscellaneous crowd forever moving up and down its broad pavement. Perhaps - the wished-for face would meet her there, she thought, smiling to herself; - in which case she determined that she would stop, pass it and repass it, - fixing its features in her memory. She amused herself thus for some time, - scanning the faces of the passers-by, inventing rapid histories to - account, here for the after-light of laughter in a young girl's eyes, and - there for the lines of pain round the corners of an older woman's lips. - She paused before a shop-window to observe a ragged little arab who was - flattening a nose, already much snubbed by previous applications, against - the glass. To gratify a whimsical artistic fancy she entered the shop on a - trivial pretext so as to obtain from the other side of the pane the aspect - of the urchin's face. Then, after making a mental note of it for future - use, she went on her way. It was exhilarating, this bright London, with - its manifold variegation, after the dull uniformity of Durdleham. This - perpetual stimulus was necessary to her art, which drooped helpless in the - quiet country town. And with the thrill of artistic quickening came the - buoyant, vigorous pulsation of youth. Her tread was elastic, her cheeks - and eyes animated. She had forgotten her irritation of the morning in the - sense of vitality and enjoyment. It was a good thing to be young, with a - purpose in life and the freedom and strength to carry it out. Clytie - tasted a rare happiness that afternoon, one of which the high gods are - very sparing. - </p> - <p> - Suddenly she felt a touch on her arm, and a voice exclaimed: - </p> - <p> - “My dear Clytie! What are you wandering about here for?” - </p> - <p> - She turned round. The speaker was Mrs. Farquharson, merry and smiling. - They shook hands and walked leisurely down the street together. - </p> - <p> - “When did you get away from that dreadful place, and why haven't you been - to see us?” - </p> - <p> - “This is my first day of freedom,” replied Clytie, “and I was just - thinking of coming round to Harley Street.” - </p> - <p> - “That's right! You will come round with me when I have finished my - shopping. I was wishing for you. I have a little—no, a big treat for - you.” - </p> - <p> - “Is it nice to eat? I looked in longingly at Charbonnel's as I passed - down Bond Street, and I am hungry.” - </p> - <p> - “It's Thornton—at last,” said Mrs. Farquharson with a little air of - triumph. - </p> - <p> - Clytie was interested, and forgot Charbonnel's. - </p> - <p> - “When did he come?” - </p> - <p> - “He has been in England some weeks, but only a few days in London. Do you - know, he is going to settle down. Won't that be delightful? I do hope you - will like him.” - </p> - <p> - “And he is going to give up fighting and exploring and all that?” asked - Clytie. - </p> - <p> - “So he says. But I don't believe it. He will get seized with the fever - after a time and then off he will go again. That has always been his way. - But at any rate we will have him with us for a season.” - </p> - <p> - “Is he staying with you?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, dear, no! We wanted him to, but he is too wild a creature. Besides, - he knows the half of London, and is in demand everywhere. He is quite a - personage.” - </p> - <p> - “Then where does the treat come in?” asked Clytie, laughing. - </p> - <p> - “Why, he comes to Harley Street this afternoon for tea, you obtuse girl,” - cried Mrs. Farquharson. “And that is why we had better make haste to get - back, as it is growing late.” - </p> - <p> - Clytie had often heard Mrs. Farquharson speak of this cousin, Thornton - Hammerdyke, and was half doubtful whether to allow herself to be infected - with her enthusiasm or to prepare herself to find him commonplace, as one - generally does find the particular heroes of our intimate friends. - Caroline was never tired of talking of him. He was a hero, a latter-day - berserker. She was proud of him, treasured up paragraphs in the newspapers - in which his name was mentioned, wove a woman's web of romance around his - brilliant exploits. She had often waxed eloquent over his fame, his - personal charm, his physical strength and beauty. - </p> - <p> - “But all this can't be contained in one poor mortal,” Clytie would say - sometimes, teasingly. - </p> - <p> - And Mrs. Farquharson would reply, without any of the banter that generally - characterised her personal gossip: - </p> - <p> - “Wait until you have seen him, my dear.” - </p> - <p> - To the imaginative there was much that was heroic and romantic in the - record of the active life of Thornton Hammerdyke. He had entered the army - shortly after leaving school, but, wearying after a couple of years of the - dulness of a garrison life, had resigned his commission. An exploring - party to Thibet was afoot. He joined it, quickly became its leading - spirit, and when the chief of the expedition was incapacitated through - illness he undertook the command. This brought him into public notice. - When the Soudan War broke out he joined Lord Wolseley as a volunteer, and - made himself conspicuous by his daring and his marvellous feats of bodily - strength. His name was known all through the army. He courted danger, - especially where it took the form of hand to hand fighting. An eye-witness - of the scene had told Caroline how once, when attacked by three gigantic - Soudanese, he had shorn one clean through the body, lost his sword, leaped - from his horse, wrenched the spear from one of the others with a force - that made the man's arm snap like a twig, turn on the other—while - the broken-armed savage leaped upon his back and tried to throttle him—and - how before there was time to follow his movements both were lying dead at - his feet. He had fought side by side with Burnaby in the rash conflict - when the author of the “Ride to Khiva” fell pierced with Soudanese spears. - He had been in evidence in every skirmish. When the war was over he - remained in Africa, on the Soudan frontier, in command of some Egyptian - cavalry, maintaining a guerrilla warfare until the troops were recalled. - And then he plunged into the interior, exploring on his own account, with - a nominal authority from the Belgian government. And it was on this part - of his career that his reputation chiefly rested. Certainly ugly stories - against him of undue harshness, even ferocity, were afloat at one time. - But he laughed at these rumours on his return to England, and - sarcastically observed in a letter to the <i>Times</i> that, given a - community consisting of a judge, a prisoner, and a hundred howling, savage - maniacs, it was a matter of some difficulty to form an impartial jury. - </p> - <p> - When Mrs. Farquharson and Clytie arrived at Harley Street the short - January day had nearly drawn to a close. In the drawing-room the gas had - not been lighted, and by the dull glow of the fire objects were only dimly - visible. Two men rose from either side of the hearth as the ladies - entered. The long ungainly figure Clytie recognised as Mr. Farquharson, - the other as Thornton Hammerdyke, from Caroline's description of his great - powerful frame. His face she could not distinguish; only a large, finely - shaped head, and white teeth gleaming under a heavy moustache as he - exchanged laughing greetings with his cousin. - </p> - <p> - Mrs. Farquharson performed the little ceremony of introduction. Then tea - was brought in. - </p> - <p> - “You will excuse this outer darkness, Clytie,” said Caroline. “George - thinks it soothing. You know his ways. You see what a poor woman has to - put up with!” - </p> - <p> - “I agree with him,” said Clytie. “It is cosy, and it seems to sanction - foolish gossip.” - </p> - <p> - “Did you ever hear me gossip?” asked Mr. Farquharson severely. “I like it, - Miss Davenant, because it induces a meditative frame of mind.” - </p> - <p> - “And slumber,” murmured his wife as she dispensed the tea. - </p> - <p> - The talk continued light and easy, on the topics of the day, the studios, - Thornton's plans for the enjoyment of civilised life. He spoke brightly, - in a deep, resonant voice, that of a man assured of himself and of the - interest afforded to others by reference to his own doings. Although the - subject was trivial, the others listened amusedly, carried away by the - influence of a strong personality. Clytie glanced at him from time to - time, trying to measure him, to sum him up in the instinctive feminine - way. But he was sitting far back from the fire, in the gloom, and she - could only gather a general impression of physical size and vitality. She - was conscious too, that, as she was sitting with her face in the direct - glow, she was visible to him, and that he was looking at her quietly as he - smoked his cigarette and talked. She picked up a newspaper from a little - table by her side, and held it before her face as a screen. His glance, - which she felt rather than met, embarrassed her, she scarcely knew why. - Gradually the talk drifted into a slight discussion between the two men. - Mrs. Farquharson took advantage of it to draw her chair near to Clytie. - </p> - <p> - “And all this time I have scarcely asked you a question about yourself. - Come, account to me for the six weeks you have been away.” - </p> - <p> - Clytie dutifully went over the main incidents of her stay in Durdleham, - making light, in her pleasure at being in London again, of the little - wearinesses and depressions of the past. A faint cloud came over her - gaiety when Mrs. Farquharson asked her suddenly: - </p> - <p> - “And Kent? What has become of him?” - </p> - <p> - “He is still alive,” said Clytie. - </p> - <p> - “Do you know, he has not been near us all the time you have been away. He - has treated us very badly. You must scold him for me. What has he to say - for himself?” - </p> - <p> - “I don't know; I haven't seen him yet, and I have scarcely heard from him. - I shall have to scold him on my own account,” she added, brightening. - </p> - <p> - “That's odd of him,” said Caroline. “You are such inseparables that I - thought he would have been waiting for you with a bouquet in each hand - when you entered the house.” - </p> - <p> - Clytie laughed at the idea of Kent waiting for her with Covent Garden - tributes. - </p> - <p> - “I would just as soon think of him reading me a sonnet. But I did expect - him to come down to tell me I had been wasting my time, and to draw out a - scheme for the better occupation of it.” - </p> - <p> - “Take care that he has not gone and fallen in love with somebody whilst he - has been left to his own devices,” said Caroline teasingly. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, how can you say such wicked things?” cried Clytie. “Of course he - hasn't!” - </p> - <p> - “One never knows, my dear. Men are the most unreasonable beings in the - world. With a woman, now, if you know just the least little bit about her,—it - isn't everybody, of course, that does,—you can always tell what she - is likely to do. But with a man—never. Do you think I know whether - that husband of mine is going to be pleased with his dinner to-night? No, - not one scrap. And Kent's a man—just like the rest of them.” - </p> - <p> - “Are you talking about Kent?” interposed Mr. Farquharson. “I saw him the - other night at the meeting of the Numismatic Society.” - </p> - <p> - “There, now! How like a man! And you knew I wanted to know what had become - of him. What had he to say for himself?” - </p> - <p> - “That most of the rude coins marked with the name of Alfred were in - reality imitations made by the vikings during their periodical visits to - this country. His remarks were very interesting, my dear.” - </p> - <p> - “Thornton,” said Mrs. Farquharson in her blandest tones, “would you be so - very kind as to light the gas?” Her husband chuckled to himself, and - Hammerdyke rose to comply with her request. During the operation all the - three mechanically watched his movements. - </p> - <p> - “There!” he said, turning to face them, “I think that is better; we shall - be able to see one another.” - </p> - <p> - As the full blaze fell upon him Clytie could not repress a little feminine - thrill of surprise. Seen in the vague darkness she had imagined him quite - different. He seemed to spring out of it a perfect type of physical - manhood. He bore with him an atmosphere of splendid animalism. The artist - in Clytie, trained to detect beauties of limb and set and fall of muscle, - scanned him for a second with involuntary admiration. Although he was - dressed with a fashionable tailor's perfection of fit, which generally - gives suave uniformity to strong and puny, his clothes could not conceal - the evidences of a magnificent strength—deep chest, arms that seemed - to fit tightly the coat-sleeves, broad, massive shoulders, thick, powerful - neck. He held his head high, commandingly, which gave him the appearance - of tallness, although he was not much above medium height. Shortcut brown - hair, clinging close to his head in crisp waves, a broad forehead with two - thick vertical veins, added to this impression of strength. In spite of - his thirty-four years the blood showed beneath his bronzed skin, on which - there were few lines. His features, although on a large scale, were saved - from coarseness by regularity. His under jaw was slightly heavy, but in - keeping with the massiveness of his limbs. His eyes were dark and - lustrous, with a light burning in their depths; his teeth white and even. - </p> - <p> - “When Hammerdyke is fighting he is all eyes and teeth,” was a saying that - had come to Mrs. Farquharson's ears; she had repeated it long since to - Clytie, who remembered it now as she beheld this hero of Caroline's for - the first time. He was not fighting now, but laughing, talking with a - certain daring charm of manner, almost boyish sometimes. The time passed - quickly. When the little clock in the corner struck six Clytie rose in - some confusion. She had promised to spend the evening with Winifred and - the children. She took her leave hurriedly. - </p> - <p> - A little later she was sitting in the Marchpanes' drawing-room, with the - children clinging around her, a block of paper and a pencil, as usual, in - her hand. And led away by a sudden fancy she drew pictures for them of the - wild deeds that she had heard tell of Thornton Hammerdyke. This was quite - a novelty to the children, who were accustomed to street arabs and - grotesque caricatures. They were delighted, hung on her lap, demanded more - pictures of soldiers and camels and a great man in a helmet killing - savages. To satisfy them she had to draw extensively upon her imagination, - sometimes upon theirs. Winifred's suggestions were scouted as being too - mild. The final picture was a great triumph. It represented the same man - in the helmet dancing upon a struggling heap of savages, transfixing one - with a spear held in his left hand, whilst with a sword in his right he - clove another in twain. Nothing is so fascinating to children as the - grotesquely horrible; Clytie herself was carried away by their enthusiasm. - </p> - <p> - Meanwhile the subject of this picture history had remained at Harley - Street for a short time after Clytie's departure. - </p> - <p> - “So that is the Clytie you used to write to me about in Africa?” he said. - “No wonder you like having such a splendid thing about the place, as a - kind of intermittent fixture.” - </p> - <p> - “I am so glad you like her,” said Caroline. - </p> - <p> - “I didn't say I liked her. I don't give myself away so soon as that. But, - by Jove! I liked looking at her. Where is she generally to be found?” - </p> - <p> - “Either here or, if you make yourself very civil to her, she may let you - go round to her studio—on her day, you know.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, she runs a day, does she? These young women are getting very - emancipated.” - </p> - <p> - “They are,” said George Farquharson, lighting his pipe. “So much the - better.” - </p> - <p> - “I don't know so much about that,” replied Hammerdyke. “If they are too - emancipated, they get an idea that their own way is everything in the - world, and grow devilish hard in the mouth when the time comes for them to - be pulled up.” - </p> - <p> - “What a contradictory creature!” cried Caroline. “Only yesterday you were - railing at the well brought up drawing-room young ladies you were having - to take in to dinner.” - </p> - <p> - “I should think so: the things that draw, recite, and play the fiddle, and - rush about to lectures. I am getting a bit too old for that kind of young - animal. I'd sooner spend a week with the wife of a camel driver than with - any one of them. She would be just as intelligent, somewhat funnier, and - the advantage would be that you could lick her into shape without alarming - absurd prejudices. No; the drawing-room young lady is distinctly 'off,' - just as much as the over-emancipated.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, what kind of a young woman are you looking out for?” - </p> - <p> - “I never look out for anything, my dear Caroline. I take what comes—if - it pleases me.” - </p> - <p> - “Then I hope Clytie will please you, Thornton. She is quite different from - any other girl I know. And it's just her little airs of emancipation that - give her charm, I wish there were more like her.” - </p> - <p> - “So do I, by Jove! There would be some pleasure in looking around a - theatre or a ball-room.” - </p> - <p> - “Yet I should think that was rather a relief after Central Africa.” - </p> - <p> - Thornton broke into a gay laugh. - </p> - <p> - “Unsophisticated woman has her good points, you know!” - </p> - <p> - “Um!” said Farquharson, pulling at his pipe. - </p> - <p> - They chatted for a little while longer. Then Hammerdyke pulled out his - watch. - </p> - <p> - “I must go and dress for dinner.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, by the way, Thornton,” said Caroline, “did you not tell me you had an - appointment at six? I hope we haven't kept you from it.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, yes,” he replied cheerfully as he gathered up his hat and stick. - “It's only Field. I dare say he's waiting for me now. I shan't turn up at - the club, though. He can rip. When he is tired of kicking his heels and - drinking small whiskeys he can curse the waiter and go. I must be off now. - Let me know when Clytie is on view again and I'll throw over anybody.” - </p> - <p> - Mrs. Farquharson smiled indulgently. In her eyes there was no one like - Thornton. - </p> - <p> - “Thornton is a bit of an egotist,” said George mildly to his wife, later - in the evening, when they were alone together. He was not addicted to the - hyperbolic, like Caroline. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, but, George, he is such a dear good fellow—and such a splendid - man!” - </p> - <p> - “'Quem sese ore ferens! quam forti pectore et armis!'” murmured her - husband. - </p> - <p> - Now George Farquharson knew that if there was one thing his wife disliked - it was that he should quote Latin at her. It generally occasioned a - distraction. If it failed, he translated. The effects of that were - certain. This time Mrs. Farquharson was content to allow his remark to - remain “veiled in the obscurity of a learned language.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XII. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> do wish you would - cheer up, old chap,” said Wither sympathetically. “You are getting - uncomfortable—like Mr. Mantalini's body, in the midst of our - joyousness.” - </p> - <p> - He was lying curled up, as usual, on the sofa, smoking a cigarette. Kent - was brooding over the fire. Fairfax had been rallying him from a doctor's - point of view, and he had answered vaguely, striving not to let his - friend's rough kindness jar too unbearably. He felt relieved when the - doctor was called out to see a patient, and Wither and himself were left - alone together. - </p> - <p> - “I suppose I am making an ass of myself. I have never felt miserable - before in all my life, and it must be that I am unused to it——” - </p> - <p> - “It gets in your way like a man's court-sword on the first time of - wearing,” said Wither. - </p> - <p> - “Somewhat,” replied Kent, with a short laugh. He did not mind Wither's - jesting. It came spontaneously from the small, bright-eyed man—was - in fact his natural language. “Perhaps it does. I'll get over it some - day.” - </p> - <p> - “It will be all right when she comes back.” - </p> - <p> - “She has come back.” - </p> - <p> - “When?” - </p> - <p> - “Nearly a week ago.” - </p> - <p> - “And how are matters going between you?” - </p> - <p> - “I haven't seen her yet,” said Kent moodily, staring into the fire. “That - is to say, I have seen her. I have lain in wait for her, so as to catch a - glimpse of her as she passed by. But I have not met her.” - </p> - <p> - “And when do you propose going to see her?” - </p> - <p> - “God knows! I don't.” - </p> - <p> - “I don't know whether this is <i>fin de siècle</i> or whether it belongs - to the glacial epoch,” said Wither, drawing a breath of bewilderment. “At - any rate, has it never struck you, friend John, that being in love with a - woman is no reason why you should be rude to her?” - </p> - <p> - “I have scarcely thought of that.” - </p> - <p> - “Then, by Jove, the sooner you can get it into your muddled head, the - better. What have you been doing with yourself these evenings?” - </p> - <p> - “Anything to keep away. A meeting of the Geological, another of the - Numismatic—a theatre, where there was just such another ass as - myself. I couldn't stand it, so I went out and turned into the Empire and - tried to find comfort in performing dogs. I have also dined out.” - </p> - <p> - “You must have been a cheerful lot. What did you say to your partner?” - </p> - <p> - “Nothing. She wanted to babble on, and I let her babble. Curse the whole - thing!” he cried, smiting a block of coal with the poker, so hard that the - chips flew over the hearthrug; “To think that it should be my fate to meet - the only woman in the whole world who doesn't babble!” - </p> - <p> - “I should consider it in the light of a privilege,” said Wither. - </p> - <p> - The next morning, after a night's agony of indecision, he plucked up - courage and tapped at the studio door. He entered. Clytie was alone, - busily preparing her palette. She paused with the half-squeezed tube in - her hand, and looked up at him without rising, her brows slightly knitted. - He remained motionless, too, on the threshold, after mechanically shutting - the door behind him. He tried to utter the little address of lame excuses - which he had framed, but the words stuck, somehow, in his throat. He was - only conscious that she was there, in the same room with him again, - looking bewilderingly fresh and beautiful in her dark dress, with its - dainty painting-apron, too simple almost for the rich colour of her eyes - and hair and the stately bend of her neck. Yet even then he noticed she - was a trifle paler than usual. - </p> - <p> - “I meant to have come to see you before,” he stammered. - </p> - <p> - “Why didn't you? I rather expected you,” she replied calmly. - </p> - <p> - She finished squeezing her tube, and taking up her palette-knife, went on - with her occupation. Kent, instinctively conscious that it is a - disadvantage to stand, when morally wrong, before a sitting person who is - in the right, drew Winifred's painting-stool away from the easel and sat - down. - </p> - <p> - “You might have come in, if only for five minutes,” said Clytie, as he made - no reply. The hand holding the palette-knife trembled a little. - </p> - <p> - “I wanted to,” replied Kent, finding words with difficulty. “But I - couldn't. I am very, very sorry if I have been rude. I am always doing - things of this sort.” - </p> - <p> - “It is not very pleasant for your friends; and I suppose we have been - friends.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, we have been friends,” he replied, “and I hope we shall continue so—if - you will forgive me.” - </p> - <p> - His voice sounded strange in his own ears. In Clytie's it sounded cold and - formal. She was puzzled. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, of course I forgive you! You have made your apology.” - </p> - <p> - “Believe me—things have happened. I could not come before, indeed I - could not.” - </p> - <p> - “I never doubted your word, Kent,” said Clytie, with a touch of her old - soft manner towards him. “Only it seemed strange not to see you. One gets - into a certain groove, and a change from it jars. You see how easy it is - to become a Philistine. You are much more a child of the light than I am, - in that you have got out of the groove quite easily.” - </p> - <p> - “You have no right to say that,” said Kent, rising. - </p> - <p> - “Well, perhaps I have not,” said Clytie, bending intently over her - palette. “Anyhow, the fact remains that we parted friends before - Christmas, and now that I have come back you are changed. I am very sorry—sorrier - than I can say. I have valued your friendship and the help it has given me—I - am unchanged, I think so—and, to be franker than my sex generally - is, I may say, I am hurt.” - </p> - <p> - Kent misunderstood. He could not help it. He thought she was grieved at - his friendship having changed to love, which the tone in her voice told - him could not be returned. All had happened just as he had anticipated. - She spoke more in sorrow than in anger; that was the only difference. - </p> - <p> - “If you would prefer that I did not see you again—or so often,” he - said, twisting the brim of his hat. - </p> - <p> - The words estranged them still further. They were pathetic in their - ludicrous inappositeness. - </p> - <p> - “That you must please yourself about,” replied Clytie, with a quick flush. - “I have said all that my pride will let me say in the matter. If you - prefer to break off our intercourse, well—so be it!” - </p> - <p> - “You know that I don't wish to do that,” he said in a low voice. “Let me - see you sometimes. Could I see you this evening, for instance?” - </p> - <p> - “No; I am sorry, I am going—I am dining out. Some other time. You - know my hours.” - </p> - <p> - He stepped forward and shook hands with her to say good-bye, thus breaking - through an established custom between them of non-handshaking. He - reflected on this a moment afterward. It seemed an omen of the dissolution - of their friendship. - </p> - <p> - When he had gone Clytie felt as if she would like to cry. What did it all - mean? Why did Kent wish to break with her? She put down her palette and - sat in her chair near the stove. She felt unhappy, lonely. She was in that - strange state of uncertainty about the present, which often takes the - form, with women especially in certain moods, of a presentiment of future - trouble. “I wish Winnie would come,” she half repeated to herself. But - almost on top of the thought entered one of Mrs. Gurkins's curly-haired - children bringing her a note. It was from Winifred, who was suddenly - called out of town on business and could not come on that day to the - studio. Clytie mechanically tore up the note and scattered the pieces over - the coals. She was not subject to fits of personal depression—independent - entirely of the artistic side of her life. But the air seemed charged with - disturbing, conflicting elements. - </p> - <p> - Soon she roused herself and went over to her easel, where for some time - she worked steadily. A lay-figure clad in a child's ragged frock stood - near by and she painted in the lights of the skirt, with mechanical - precision of touch. But her thoughts were far away. Then the face that she - had painted attracted her attention. It was that of a child—merry - and smiling—but with the little London street girl's precocious - wisdom. It was cleverly executed. Clytie had seized the suggestion of the - everlasting feminine in the face, accentuating it ever so little. It - seemed to laugh mockingly at her, out of the canvas, as who should say—“Look - at me. Child as I am, I am as old as the world, and I can tell you secrets - that you know not of.” - </p> - <p> - “You wise little witch,” said Clytie, after a while, standing back, with - head inclined in critical surveyal of her work. “I wish you could tell me - what is the matter with Kent.” - </p> - <p> - And then for the first time Mrs. Farquharson's idle, jesting words came - into her mind: - </p> - <p> - “Take care that he has not gone and fallen in love with somebody!” - </p> - <p> - And the child's old face seemed to add a mocking confirmation. - </p> - <p> - This would explain all: his sudden change, the stiffness of his letter; - his shrinking from seeing her; the awkwardness of his apology; the vague - phrase, “things have happened,” which had puzzled her. The more she - thought of it the more probable did this solution seem. It caused her a - little heaviness of heart. Certain strange imaginings had come to her, - too, this week. She needed the strength of Kent's friendship. - </p> - <p> - There are no persons harder to read and easier to misunderstand than those - of whom we are fondest. There are two common causes of mutual - miscomprehension. First we take it too much for granted that we can read - the heart of another human being; and secondly, we are too apt to conclude - that affinities sharpen perception to such an extent that the unexpressed - becomes luminously expressive. This is a curious fact, too little - recognised in our minor problems in social statics. Clytie had fallen into - the one error, Kent into the other. - </p> - <p> - For the first time in her life Clytie felt afraid. The sense of what was - missing in her life dawned, half shadowy, before her. She was different - from other girls of her age, more advanced, as the phrase goes. For the - majority of women come in ignorance to emotion; they feel, before they - realise that they are learning. But Clytie in her eager search after the - roots of existence had learned much, with feelings as yet untried. In this - knowledge, if as yet there was no sorrow, there was fear. If Kent had come - to her at this moment with a passionate avowal of his love, she would have - yielded to him. Her fear would have melted away into joyousness, the rich - springs of her nature would have been opened, and her destiny would have - been accomplished. But neither of them knew this. He was engaged in the - humorous task of trying to kill love, and she was half consciously tending - along a path strangely diverging from his. - </p> - <p> - She dined that evening at the Farquharsons'. Hammerdyke was the only other - guest. It was a bright, cosy meal, and Clytie soon forgot her depression - of the morning. Caroline was at her merriest, proud of her three - companions—of each in an especial manner. George was mildly - satirical, as usual. He wore his velvet jacket, in which he found more - happiness than in his ceremonial dress-coat. His dry touch of humour was - pleasantly antagonistic to Hammerdyke's stronger personality and downright - views of life. The latter laughed heartily, almost boyishly at his - rebuker, like one who is accustomed to indulgence on the part of others - for caprices of action and language. These, coming from a lesser man, - might have been repugnant to the sensitive; but from him they seemed to - bear a physical justification. - </p> - <p> - As he sat opposite her, talking in off-hand, picturesque fashion of - incidents in his adventurous life, Clytie could not help looking with a - feeling somewhat akin to awe at the man who had gone through such things - and could speak of them so lightly. She listened, interposed a question - here and there, wondered what it would feel like to treat those memories - in so familiar a fashion. A new page of life seemed to lie open before - her, quivering with sensations beyond her ken. - </p> - <p> - “Didn't you ever feel horribly afraid?” asked Caroline, while he was - sketching some of his more recent exploring experiences. - </p> - <p> - “I did so,” he confessed frankly, “but I had my devils well under control. - I had the power to string a mutineer up on the nearest tree or to pot him - with my revolver, and somehow they rather funked me. If it had entered - their woolly heads to go for me all together they would have made short - work of me—but no one liked to take the initiative.” - </p> - <p> - “Did you ever try kindness, on these expeditions—by way of - experiment?” asked Farquharson. - </p> - <p> - “Not much. You can't afford to fool away your life for the sake of an - experiment. Oh, no! my dear sir, the noble savage does not swarm much - round about the slave tracks in Central Africa. The Zulus may be - different. I don't know—I've never seen much of them—but - Fuzzywuz and his neighbours can only understand brute force.” - </p> - <p> - “I don't quite see, now, how you got all that power,” said Farquharson. - “Did you establish yourself as a little king—or what?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, no!” returned Hammerdyke, laughing. “When I had finished with the - Soudan I wanted to while away a few months in the interior, and as the - Belgians wanted a road made through the forest I offered to see things - were done straight for them. As for the authority—judicial and that - sort of thing—one takes that as a matter of course. The niggers - don't know anything about it, except that there is a white man bossing - them. They think it's all right, so what does it matter?” - </p> - <p> - “Then you hire a set of woolly-headed navvies, and if they lapse from your - standard of virtue, you shoot them—is that the idea?” - </p> - <p> - “Somewhat. In mere slips one employs the <i>argumentum ad bacculinum</i>. - It isn't pleasant, but it's the only way.” - </p> - <p> - “You are not going back again, are you, Thornton?” Caroline asked, wishing - to turn the conversation. She believed in Thornton, in his power by divine - right to blow all the tribes of Central Africa from the cannon's mouth if - it so pleased him, but she saw that George was not sympathetic. It was a - sore little point with her that her husband did not share all her - enthusiasm for Thornton. “You are going to settle down now, really?” she - added. - </p> - <p> - “Who knows?” he replied. “All things become monotonous after a time—even - playing potentate. That's why I am here—with the intention of giving - civilisation a chance. Some fine morning I may wake up and think that it - would be nice to have a little excitement, and then I may pack up my - things and start for No Man's Land again.” - </p> - <p> - “It must be a stirring life,” said Clytie half aloud, with a quick glance - at Hammerdyke. - </p> - <p> - “It is the best life. Action, excitement, keen enjoyment of everything! - You should take a turn at it, George.” - </p> - <p> - But George shook his head. - </p> - <p> - “I have a wife dependent upon me. Otherwise you may be sure I would leave - this effete and effeminate civilisation and start to-morrow.” - </p> - <p> - “I don't think you would do much good out there,” said Mrs. Farquharson - candidly. - </p> - <p> - They finished dinner early and went up to the drawing-room, which not long - afterwards was filled with the heterogeneous crowd that the Farquharsons - loved to gather round them. This reception was instead of the ordinary - Sunday one, and was in Thornton's honour, although it was not unusual for - Caroline thus to change her evening, scattering warning post-cards the day - before. Kent, being on the list, had received one that morning, and before - he saw Clytie had been half wondering whether he should go to Harley - Street. So he had put his question as to Clytie's evening engagement - tentatively. Her somewhat evasive reply had decided him. He would not - inflict his society upon her. As Clytie's eye wandered over the familiar - figures in the drawing-room, she involuntarily sought for Kent's. It seemed - strange that he should not be there, for during the autumn he had scarcely - missed a Sunday. One or two friends came up and asked after him. On the - occasion of one inquiry, Mrs. Farquharson and Thornton were standing by - her. - </p> - <p> - “Who is Kent that everybody is talking about—if I may ask?” said - Hammerdyke. - </p> - <p> - “Kent?” interposed Caroline. “Oh if you know Clytie, you must know Kent. - They are a kind of Mentor and Egeria combination.” - </p> - <p> - “That's lucid,” said Hammerdyke, laughing. “I hope you will present me to - him one of these days, Miss Davenant.” Clytie replied with a commonplace, - smiling absently. She was sad at heart about Kent. - </p> - <p> - Soon Redgrave, the R. A. who had given Clytie her first encouragement in - her art, came up to talk with her. He had been following her career with - some interest. Since the exhibition of “Jack” he had not seen her, and he - took the opportunity of offering his congratulations, criticising the - picture favourably. Then he inquired after its successor. - </p> - <p> - “But I don't think you will ever become a great artist, if you keep to - that semi-impressionist style.” - </p> - <p> - Being a portrait-painter of exquisite finish, Redgrave was prejudiced - against the school of Degas. He mentioned his name with some acerbity. - </p> - <p> - “Talking treason again, Redgrave?” asked a thin, wiry man in gold - spectacles, who had overheard. “Don't listen to him, Miss Davenant. He is - archaic and eating his soul out with jealousy. There's no one in England - who can touch you in your particular line. You stick to it!” - </p> - <p> - “You are quoting the rubbish you wrote in your paper, French,” said - Redgrave, laughing. “Now, whom are you going to believe, this newspaper - man or me?” - </p> - <p> - “Whoever will help me best to sell my pictures,” laughed Clytie. - </p> - <p> - “Then leave your future with me,” said Mr. French, rubbing his hands as he - moved away. - </p> - <p> - “You didn't mean that?” asked Redgrave. - </p> - <p> - “A little. One must live. Higher art, to use the cant phrase, would - satisfy one's soul's needs better—but it would not those of the - body.” - </p> - <p> - Redgrave looked at her for a moment, as if meditating over her rich - colouring and fine vitality. A body such as hers had its needs. He smiled - a little sadly and shook his head. - </p> - <p> - “You would not sacrifice your life for your art?” - </p> - <p> - “No,” replied Clytie, with quick frankness, “I wouldn't. The fuller one's - life, the fuller one's art. The one is a reflection of the other. At least - it is so with me.” - </p> - <p> - “I'll paint your portrait one of these days for nothing,” said Redgrave - somewhat irrelevantly. - </p> - <p> - Clytie flushed a little at the compliment. - </p> - <p> - “What are you going to put into me?” - </p> - <p> - “The question whether even the most emancipated of young women ever has - art in her soul,” said Redgrave, with a quiet smile. - </p> - <p> - “I am going to paint a picture some day that will astonish you,” replied - Clytie, with a laugh. - </p> - <p> - “Ah! So is everyone. When will that some day be? I hardly know a painter - or a writer or a musician that has not something he is going to do some - day—a three-act drama all ready, bar transcription on paper—a - masterpiece all complete, bar the mechanical transference to canvas.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, Mr. Redgrave, if you are going to moralise like that, I'll report you - to Mr. Farquharson. You had much better sit down and take me round the - studios.” - </p> - <p> - But Redgrave was carried off before he had time to begin, and Clytie - joined a large group standing and sitting round the fire. They were the - younger, less responsible members of the company, and were talking - nonsense. Singleton, a clean-shaven, red-faced man and a minor poet, was - explaining what he called the Physical Basis of Life. Professor Huxley, by - the way, has treated the subject differently. - </p> - <p> - “The man who cannot dine,” Mr. Singleton was saying, “cannot feel. He has - not his proper equipment of senses. He is an imperfection, a waster.” - </p> - <p> - “That does not apply to women, I hope,” said Mrs. Tredegar, a languid, - well-preserved woman, who was suspected of hankerings after a long defunct - æstheticism. “I have been feeling all my life—and I can't remember - to have ever dined.” - </p> - <p> - “I did once—at the Café Anglais. By Jove, it was good!” interpolated - a fair-haired youth, who leaped eagerly at objectivities in the - conversation. - </p> - <p> - “Your enthusiasm does you credit!” said Singleton. “You'll die yet, of a - hopeless passion.” - </p> - <p> - Then, turning to Mrs. Tredegar: - </p> - <p> - “Of course it applies to women. <i>La femme qui dîne, aime</i>. Put it - into French, and you see the force of it at once.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah, but if you put it the other way about. <i>La femme qui aime</i>——It - is horrible; it takes all the romance away,” said Mrs. Tredegar. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, dear!” sighed Mr. Singleton, clasping his little plump hands - resignedly. “Are we still to adore the well-conducted person who goes on - cutting bread and butter? Oh, believe me, Edwin Smith and Angelina Brown - can't love, any more than they can appreciate Château-Mouton. They possess - for each other a faint current of sexual attraction, which produces - between them a mild excess of amiability. A lot of vanity comes in, as - they like to parade the possession of each other before the envious. They - call themselves lovers, and follow the traditions they have been taught in - the novels they have misunderstood and the hints they have received from - observance of their friends. The furthest they can go is to clasp hands - limply under a sofa-cushion, when they think no one is looking.” - </p> - <p> - “That's humbug,” said the youth. “I have been in love myself.” - </p> - <p> - “Precisely,” said Mr. Singleton, “and you know nothing at all about it. - Cultivate all your senses first, my young friend, and then you may fit - yourself for falling in love.” - </p> - <p> - “And how is one to begin?” asked Mrs. Tredegar. - </p> - <p> - “Well, first cultivate a choice taste in food, wine, and cigarettes. Then - disabuse yourself of the idea that the angelic, either in man or woman, is - in any way desirable; purge yourself of that clog to all true appreciation - of sensation—that interfering bugbear which still survives with an - effete superstition—known as a conscience; get into an Hellenic - state of mind by joyous perception of the beautiful, and realise that the - supreme cultivation of the <i>ego</i> is the <i>ultima ratio</i> of - existence.” - </p> - <p> - “But then we should only love ourselves,” observed a dissentient. - </p> - <p> - “As self-knowledge is the beginning of all wisdom, so is self-love the - beginning of all passion,” returned Mr. Singleton oracularly. - </p> - <p> - During the frivolous chorus that followed this remark, - Hammerdyke crossed the room and sat down by Clytie's side. - “You seem to be very merry over here. What is it all about?” he asked. - </p> - <p> - “It's only Mr. Singleton trying to play with paradoxes,” Clytie replied, - laughing. “He is a chartered libertine, and nobody minds him.” - </p> - <p> - “That always strikes me as so odd when I get back to civilised life—the - tremendous amount of talking one has to get through—and no one seems - to get any further with it. Everybody seems bound to provide himself with - a theory of life, as they call it—either sincere or paradoxical. Why - do they do it?” - </p> - <p> - He had pulled his chair a little aside, so that, when Clytie turned round, - they were cut off from the main group close by. She replied laughingly to - his question, and the conversation took a light, personal turn. - </p> - <p> - “I seem to have known you so long,” he said after a while, “and yet this - is the first time I have been able to say a word to you by yourself. I - used to hear of you, you know, in Africa, when Caroline sent me a budget - of news. I used quite to wonder what you were like.” - </p> - <p> - “Caroline and I are great friends,” she replied. “She has been very, very - kind to me.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes—a good sort, isn't she? She used to keep me posted up in all - kinds of things, as I say—you amongst them. At last I built up a - little romance about you!” - </p> - <p> - “What a crash it must have come down with!” - </p> - <p> - “I am not so sure of that. Time will show. It was just after one of her - letters that I read the story of 'Marjorie Daw,' which some good people - sent me down with a package of books from Cairo. Do you know it?” - </p> - <p> - “I have read it, but forgotten it,” replied Clytie. - </p> - <p> - Now, she remembered it very well. The words had come almost involuntarily. - She was a little angry with herself. But it was pleasant to lean back in - the armchair, amidst the babel of voices and heavy cloud of cigarette - smoke, and be talked to thus pleasantly. - </p> - <p> - “It's a pretty little tale,” said Thornton. “A man writes letters to amuse - a sick friend—broken leg, I think—and describes an imaginary - young lady living opposite him. And the broken-legged man falls violently - in love with this Marjorie Daw and starts off to see her as soon as he is - well—and is moved to much wrath when he finds out the truth. Well, I - am afraid I must confess that I made a kind of Marjorie Daw out of you—although - I haven't exactly come over in search of you. So you see that we are old - acquaintances—on one side, at least.” - </p> - <p> - “Caroline must have been saying very foolish things about me,” said - Clytie. “I remember Marjorie Daw now. I am not the least bit like her.” - </p> - <p> - “I never said you were,” he returned, looking at her boldly, a smile - playing about the corners of his mouth. “I did not think so then, either. - And since I am in for a kind of confession, I may as well say it did not - occur to me that I should ever meet you. Now that we have met—under - my cousin's wing, so to speak—I hope we shall make friends.” - </p> - <p> - “You speak as if we had quarrelled,” said Clytie. - </p> - <p> - “Well, I thought perhaps you might have been a little vexed at my - confession. Are you?” - </p> - <p> - “No,” said Clytie, looking at him in her quick, frank way. “Why should I?” - </p> - <p> - Hammerdyke did not reply, but smiled and shrugged his shoulders a little. - </p> - <p> - “Well, since you are so particular as to the wording, let us <i>be</i> - friends. For Caroline's sake,” he added after a short pause. - </p> - <p> - “Very well, for Caroline's sake,” repeated Clytie. “Only, you know I am a - very humble person.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, no! I know too much about you. You are by way of becoming a great - artist—and it would be a privilege for an uncultivated barbarian - like me. Tell me, how could we begin being friends?” - </p> - <p> - “Well, suppose you tell me some of the wonders you have seen.” - </p> - <p> - “'Anthropophagi, or men whose heads do grow beneath their shoulders'? Very - well—and you shall show me your pictures. Will you let me come and - see them sometime or the other? Do!” - </p> - <p> - He spoke low, with a touch of softness in his voice. Clytie felt - flattered, touched. It was a little tribute to her womanhood to be pleaded - with, especially by a man who, in the eyes of the world, was a recognised - heroic figure. There was a latent light, too, in the depths of his dark - eyes, a sign of reserved power and strange, unknown forces, that pleased - her strangely. All the day she had felt sore, ill at ease, with a little - aching, chafing sense of loss. The time had seemed woefully out of joint, - and the setting of it right again utterly beyond her powers. But now the - world's equilibrium seemed more stable. - </p> - <p> - “I am not sure whether you would care for my pictures,” she said. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I have seen those that Caroline has,” he replied. “I made her show - them to me. I don't know what your art word is—but they seem to me - to have a grip upon life that I like.” - </p> - <p> - He could not have chosen words more flattering to Clytie. They summed up - bluntly the whole of her ambitions. - </p> - <p> - “You see, I like real things,” he went on. “Something I can catch hold of. - All this talk of Art with a capital A, and metaphysical preciousness, is - so much froth—at any rate to me. But perhaps you put a capital to - it?” - </p> - <p> - “I do, sometimes.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, then, you will teach me what it means. Will you? It will be a way - of teaching me something about yourself.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I am not worth your learning,” replied Clytie, with a laugh. “But you - can come and see my pictures, if you like.” - </p> - <p> - “Thank you,” said Hammerdyke, as he rose in obedience to a beckoning - glance from Mr. Farquharson, who was sitting on the other side of the - room. “I will come as soon as you will let me. To-morrow, can I?” - </p> - <p> - He looked at her pleadingly, admiringly. Clytie was suddenly brought in - contact with a new force, against which she felt powerless. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, you can come to-morrow,” she said - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XIII. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t was an evening - in mid-February that Clytie went to a dance given by the Redgraves in - their large house in St. John's Wood. Redgrave met her almost as soon as - she arrived in the dancing-room. - </p> - <p> - “So you have come at last—we had almost despaired of seeing you. I - think there are a good many men you know—all dying to dance with - you.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, give me a little breathing time,” laughed Clytie. “You have had time - to fix on your cap and bells, let me adjust mine.” - </p> - <p> - “Don't touch yourself or you would spoil the effect,” said Redgrave, - mixing the metaphor for the sake of an opportunity of expressing his - admiration of her beauty. “I wish I could paint that portrait of you now: - 'Clytie, woman and artist.' There is one advantage about that combination—it - assures perfect taste in dress.” - </p> - <p> - He looked her up and down critically, stroking his long gray beard. - </p> - <p> - “I am glad you like me,” said Clytie. “It cost me sleepless nights, I - assure you. Didn't you know it was my serious occupation in life?” - </p> - <p> - “Well, my dear, I hope you will have your reward,” replied Redgrave, - laughing—“only you won't find anybody who admires you and your - genius half as heartily as I do.” - </p> - <p> - He nodded, smiled, and left her as one or two men came up to her, - programme in hand. She gave them the dances they requested, and took a - seat near the door by the side of some ladies of her acquaintance, - watching animatedly the waltz that was in progress. - </p> - <p> - “Good-evening, Miss Davenant,” said a voice, deep and resonant, that made - her start and the colour mount into her cheeks. - </p> - <p> - It was Thornton Hammerdyke. - </p> - <p> - “You see I procured the invitation, and here I am. Where is your - programme?” - </p> - <p> - He took her card attached with its bit of silk to her fan, and scribbled - recklessly. - </p> - <p> - “You have nearly filled it all up!” she exclaimed. - </p> - <p> - “Naturally,” he replied. “Let us dance out the fag-end of this.” - </p> - <p> - She took his arm gaily, and with him entered the whirl of dancers. - </p> - <p> - “You are looking dazzling to-night,” he said. “What witchery have you to - make your eyes so blue and your hair so glorious?” - </p> - <p> - She shook her head and smiled half inwardly, thinking of Redgrave's late - compliment and differentiating it from this. Each man was honest, in his - own way. - </p> - <p> - “I put myself down for all those dances,” he went on, “because there is - not a woman in the room fit to look at after you. I couldn't dance with - them, and I should have been bored and irritated with standing and - watching you dancing with other people. Then we can get away and sit by - ourselves.” - </p> - <p> - “But what are all the men to do, to whom I have to be polite?” - </p> - <p> - “They must give way to the man to whom you are always fascinating. I - scarcely saw you at all yesterday. Now is my chance, and I am going to - make the most of it.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, but there are the sacred conventionalities.” - </p> - <p> - “I thought you went in for being superior to them.” - </p> - <p> - “So I am in a general way; I attach no intrinsic value to them—but - they are useful as counters in one's dealings.” - </p> - <p> - He laughed; pressed the fingers that he held in his left hand. - </p> - <p> - “To-night no checks are taken! It must be all solid gold—the true, - real Clytie. As for people talking, you are glorious enough in your beauty - to defy them. What can you and I care for idle gossip?” - </p> - <p> - The words thrilled through her. Womanlike she had humbled herself before - his greatness. To be raised thus by him to his empyrean, whence they could - look down upon the rest of earth-bound mortality, in common grandeur, made - her heart swell with a not ignoble pride. - </p> - <p> - “We shall do whatever you like,” she whispered. - </p> - <p> - To this pitch of intimacy had the past three weeks brought them—a - long enough period for an infinite number of things to happen—none - the less real for being subjective. Nothing had changed in their external - lives. Hammerdyke went into society, read a paper here and there on his - travels, digested many bad dinners and worse flattery, played cards, - smoked, and drank with his fellows. Clytie painted assiduously, read, - exchanged visits with her friends. Kent was missing from her life. She saw - him rarely, at odd moments, when they talked commonplaces and avoided by - tacit consent the subject of their disunion. They were “league-sundered by - the silent gulf between.” He told her that he was thinking of accepting an - offer privately made to him by one of the heads of his department, of - leave of absence for three months for the purpose of studying the - numismatic collections of certain foreign capitals. The prospect was - enticing, as he could thus have the run of the continental libraries, - whereby his own great work could be considerably advanced. - </p> - <p> - Clytie listened kindly, wished him good luck. He went from her sad at - heart, and she was angry with herself and humiliated at feeling somewhat - relieved at the idea of his absence. It was not that she regretted the old - life less. Its memories were still precious. But Kent's departure would - clear the way to a better understanding of herself. - </p> - <p> - Much had happened during the past three weeks—the discovery of a new - world for Clytie in which all was strange, beset with vague dangers, - vibrating with a tremulous joy akin to terror. She had been lifted off her - feet, hurried against her will into a whirl of new sensations. At first - she resisted with fierce virgin pride; then gradually she began to close - her eyes for a short sweet spell and allow herself to be drifted by the - current; finally she gave up struggling. The history of most women at - their first contact with passion. - </p> - <p> - The story of this period is very simple. In its first developments love is - usually not ultra complex. Given a man and a woman and conditions for - meeting freely alone; further, a sudden overmastering passion on the part - of the man, a half known, unfulfilled need in the woman; given these - premises, and a child can deduce the result. It is the fundamental law of - sex. Only when the sentimentalities and more delicate affinities come into - play, when the needs of the finer animal man begin to cry after their - satisfying, does love leave its simple phase and gird itself with its - infinite many-coloured web of complexities. At first the mind may see the - web glimmering in a far-away twilight—but heeds it not as long as - the sense is held captive. - </p> - <p> - Two remarkable personalities had met, Thornton Hammerdyke and Clytie. With - the intensity of a strong animal nature he had fallen in love with her, - with her beauty, charm, and directness. Her magnificent vitality drew him, - compelled him. He shut his eyes to every other interest. The sense that he - wanted her was sufficient justification for setting all else aside. He - never even thought of marriage in the first flush of his passion. But that - was the result of habit. Passion is a very different thing from the serene - considerations that, according to the Book of Common Prayer, induce people - to enter into the holy state of matrimony—and Thornton was quite - free from any considerations of the kind. So that when marriage dawned - upon his mind as a necessary condition, he accepted it, as a reckless - sacrifice, as a means to an end, not as an end in itself. He was a man - whose life had been passed in hot, headstrong action. Desire imperiously - compelled immediate gratification. Since loving Clytie entailed marriage, - he resolved to marry her forthwith. - </p> - <p> - He informed Mrs. Farquharson of the fact, in his masterful manner. - </p> - <p> - “I am going to marry Clytie—so get yourself a wedding garment.” Mrs. - Farquharson jumped up, clapped her hands. She would not have been a woman - had the possibilities of this match not occurred to her seductively. The - announcement, however, anticipated her hopes. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, Thornton,” she cried, “I am so glad! I have been longing for it. You - two are made for each other. I must go down and see Clytie this - afternoon!” - </p> - <p> - “Better not,” said Thornton. “I'm going. Besides, I don't think Clytie - knows it yet.” - </p> - <p> - Caroline's face fell a little. “Oh! I thought you meant you were engaged, - and that sort of thing.” - </p> - <p> - “That's a detail—it doesn't matter. She's going to marry me, and - you'll come and dance at the wedding.” - </p> - <p> - Caroline kept her counsel, but she worked steadily in Thornton's cause, - sang his praises to Clytie, invented many occasions for bringing them - together. She believed with all the fervent loyalty of her nature that - this marriage was an ideal one for her cousin and her friend, and had at - heart equally the interests of each. - </p> - <p> - Thornton very quickly constituted himself a factor in Clytie's life. She - saw him almost every day in Harley Street, at home, or at the houses of - common acquaintances. His influence grew strong upon her. Glimpses of the - physical joy of life flashed before her like revelations. For the first - time she doubted the possibilities of the artistic life. They seemed - shadowy, unsatisfying. - </p> - <p> - From Thornton seemed to come realisation that something stronger, more - real, positive lay beyond them—the delight of living in pulse and - nerve and bodily fibre. Yet, unlike a man, a woman cannot live by sense - alone. Sentiment invariably plays its part. This in Clytie's case was fed - by the glamour of Thornton's heroic history, so different from that of - ordinary men, whose lives, compared with his, seemed tame and colourless. - The glow of his personality bathed magically all his actions, all his - words. In his superb manhood he stood before her eyes as the incarnation - of physical force, the victorious protest against the shams of art, - culture, and other pale shades of our morbid civilisation. When she was - lifted high with him in this triumph, sense and sentiment were fused - together and she was wholly at his mercy. Thornton had come into her life - at the most delicately critical moment of a woman's career, when the - current of her nature, checked at the turning-point between friendship and - love, struggles tumultuously for some other channel into which to empty - itself. - </p> - <p> - “We shall do whatever you like,” she said to Thornton, during their waltz. - It was the first definite surrender she had made to him. She was surprised - that it cost her so little, seemed so sweet and natural. - </p> - <p> - “Then you and I will defy the world!” he replied. - </p> - <p> - They paused to rest for a moment, leaning against the wall. An elderly man - came up, shook hands with her, and opened a desultory conversation with - Thornton. Clytie looked amusedly at the animated scene, tabulating - mentally, by force of habit, the types that passed and repassed before - her. Seldom had it struck her before so forcibly how few of her - fellow-creatures possessed the secret of the joy of life. How many of the - couples circling round, backing, glissading in that dizzying mass of - motion were really gladdened by what they were doing? Stout men puffed - around with a serious air of responsibility. Tall men, with drooping - moustaches, paced languidly in time, scarcely heeding their partners, who - expressionlessly suffered themselves to be guided hither and thither - through the throng. The robust youth of either sex seemed to look upon - dancing as an athletic exercise, and waltzed with the intent fervour of - tennis players on their mettle before a big gallery. Only here and there - did a girl, safe in the arms of a good dancer, half close her eyes and - surrender herself to the sensuous charm of motion in perfect time with the - throbs of music. Mankind is astonishingly ignorant of the essential - qualities of many of its habitual pleasures. So thought Clytie, in the - thrill of her new knowledge. The orchestra began the opening bars of the - <i>coda</i>. Thornton turned away from the elderly gentleman, and putting - his arm round Clytie's waist led her away, without a word, to finish the - waltz. - </p> - <p> - “How delightful it is to dance with someone who is not bored by it!” she - said, when the music stopped and they were pushing their way through the - crowd towards the door. - </p> - <p> - He laughed in his boyish way, throwing back his head. - </p> - <p> - “I had better not answer that remark,” he replied. - </p> - <p> - “Why?” - </p> - <p> - She looked askance at him as she asked, just as any little peasant girl - would have done. Certain conditions bring all humanity to one level. He - pressed the hand that was on his arm lightly against his side. - </p> - <p> - “Let us get away by ourselves, and I will tell you,” he said. - </p> - <p> - But this opportunity did not occur. Thornton was captured by his hostess - for introducing purposes, Clytie waylaid by brother artists for dances. - When Thornton and herself were able to find seats the music struck up the - prelude of the next waltz, and Clytie was discovered and led off by her - partner. Only three men, exclusive of Thornton, had been fortunate enough - to find places on her programme. - </p> - <p> - The hours passed away swiftly. She forgot her life, her responsibilities, - her needs. During the three dances with the fortunate—which were - early in the evening—she flashed with wit and merriment, her - partners thinking with masculine self-esteem that they were the fine steel - that had caused these scintillations. But more than one woman there that - night observed how Clytie's eyes ever and anon caught those of Thornton, - who was standing by the doorway. When the two danced together, men watched - them curiously. - </p> - <p> - “If the principle of natural selection could always be carried out like - that!” said French, the journalist, to Redgrave. - </p> - <p> - “Physically, yes; but——” - </p> - <p> - “But what? If the human race sprang exclusively from such parents, what a - glorious race it would be!” - </p> - <p> - “It might be a very good thing for the race,” replied Redgrave drily; “but - I was thinking of the parents—at least of one of them.” - </p> - <p> - “Nonsense! a marriage like that would be ideal,” said French. - </p> - <p> - Redgrave shook his head. - </p> - <p> - “I doubt it,” he said, with some earnestness. “I know a little of Clytie - Davenant. I may claim to have discovered her. She has the blood of life in - her, it is true—but she has the finer artistic temperament as well. - Mark my words, French; if she marries that man she will lose her art clean—clean; - and not another 'Jack' will she ever be able to paint. Many of us men - artists are ruined by marriage. A woman artist, to whom it means fifty - times more, runs fifty times more risk.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, perhaps we are a bit previous,” said French laughing, and turned - the conversation. - </p> - <p> - Later in the evening Thornton and Clytie came out of the dancing-room. She - was flushed, dazed with the music, the noise, the electric light and the - heavy scent of cut flowers; confused, too, by Thornton's presence, by the - after-pressure of his arm around her waist, overwrought a little by his - personal magnetism. - </p> - <p> - They threaded their way through the crowd that lined the passage and the - stairs, went through the brilliantly lit studio with its polished oak - floor and wealth of hangings and costly decoration, into the models' - dressing-room beyond, that had been turned into a small boudoir for the - occasion. Many couples were wandering about the studio, examining the - pictures and the china, but the dressing-room had escaped notice. - </p> - <p> - “This is soothing after the glare,” said Clytie, sitting down restfully on - a divan. - </p> - <p> - Great palms screened the door, the room was hung with dark, heavy drapery, - and between them shaded electric lamps shed a subdued light. Thornton sat - down by her side. After a while the steps and talking in the adjacent - studio ceased, and there rose from below the faint strains of the music - and the dull rhythmic thud of the dancers. - </p> - <p> - “What were we talking about? I forget,” said Clytie, after a short - silence, and then, meeting his eyes fixed upon her, she turned away her - head: - </p> - <p> - “Don't! I can't bear it,” she murmured involuntarily. - </p> - <p> - Then he caught her hand: “Clytie, you are adorable, glorious, bewitching!” - he cried, and kissed her quickly, twice, on the corner of her lips. She - snatched her hand away and started to her feet, pale and trembling, her - eyes blazing. - </p> - <p> - “Why did you do that? You have no right to do that!” - </p> - <p> - He rose, went to her, caught her wrists again—but this time she was - powerless to withdraw them, and he spoke in a quick, deep voice: - </p> - <p> - “I have the right to kiss you—to kiss you and kiss you till the - world's end—for I love you—and I would sacrifice all I have - got—my life itself, for one kiss from you—I loved you, wanted - you, from the first time I saw you—when the suddenly lit light - revealed your beauty to me, and you sprang glorious, bewildering out of - the darkness.” - </p> - <p> - “Let me go, let me go!” she murmured, faintly struggling. - </p> - <p> - “Not until you tell me that I have the right to kiss you—I know you - will give it, you must! Clytie, I am stronger than most men, and my love - is stronger than most men's and will not be denied—I will make you, - force you to love me as passionately as I love you. Look at me. Speak! say - just a word!” - </p> - <p> - She flashed a swift, sidelong glance at him, and met his eyes with the - light burning in their dark depths. His passion intoxicated her. - </p> - <p> - “You know,” she murmured. The words came almost without volition. - </p> - <p> - He released her hands. She remained standing for a moment, motionless with - downcast eyes. Then she lifted them once more shyly, met his, and uttered - a short gasping cry as he caught her in his arms and kissed her - passionately. - </p> - <p> - “You will be my wife, and let our whole lives be one long kiss?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” she said, below her breath. - </p> - <p> - A little later Thornton put her into a cab, and she drove home. The cold - night air invigorated her relaxed body, but seemed to benumb her mind. She - could not think—only feel Thornton's kisses upon her. The rest of - the subjective and objective universe was a blank. Only when the cab - stopped and the driver asked the number of her house through the trap-door - in the roof, was she conscious of external things. Then she found that he - had driven a long way past the familiar door. As he turned round - grumblingly, she was aware of being chilled through from her drive across - London, and longed to get indoors. - </p> - <p> - It was not until she told Winifred the next morning that she realised the - great change that had come over her life. - </p> - <p> - “I am going to marry Mr. Hammerdyke.” - </p> - <p> - The commonplace statement, thus uttered for the first time, seemed like a - cold decree of fate, inevitable, irresistible. Winifred cried a little at - the thought of losing her. - </p> - <p> - “But you will be happy, my darling,” she said, smiling through her tears. - “He is so brave and strong and handsome, and he must love you better than - his life.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, dear,” said Clytie, gently stroking her friend's brown hair - (Winifred was sitting at her feet) and looking tenderly at her pure, - upturned face. But her own, bent down, was aflame with reminiscence. - </p> - <p> - “When is it to be? Not for a long, long time, I hope,” said Winifred. - </p> - <p> - “Almost immediately—he wants it—there is no particular reason - for waiting.” - </p> - <p> - “I felt it was coming some day,” said Winifred; “but I did not expect it - so soon.” - </p> - <p> - “It is best,” said Clytie—“best that it should be at once; the - interval between the old life and the new would be too trying if it were - drawn out.” - </p> - <p> - “You always do what is best, dear,” whispered Winifred in her trustful - way. “Oh! you must be happy, very, very happy, Clytie dear.” - </p> - <p> - Clytie leaned back in her chair, caressing her friend's cheek with the - back of her hand, and looked around the studio. It came almost as a shock - to her to realise that in a short, short time she would have to bid - farewell to all that had grown up around her artistic life. The grotesque - caricatures on the walls stared at her like meaningless shadows. Her - palette, brushes, and paraphernalia of rags and turpentine bottles lay - strewn about like the properties of a forgotten comedy. The unfinished - pictures on easels and stands lost their fascination. Only Winifred's - little study on the other side of the studio seemed unchanged—retaining - its virginal freshness and purity. But the sound of a step on the landing - outside, buoyant, elastic, dispelled all wistful regrets. She sprang to - her feet as Winifred rose, and listened, transformed into a radiant woman, - with quivering depths in her dark blue eyes, her red lips parted in a half - smile, her chin raised showing the full neck. - </p> - <p> - A moment or two afterwards Mrs. Gurkins appeared at the studio door. - </p> - <p> - “Mr. Hammerdyke, miss. I have shown him into the sitting-room,” she said, - and then retired. - </p> - <p> - “I knew it was he,” said Clytie. - </p> - <p> - “Go, dear,” said Winifred, putting her arm round Clytie's waist and moving - with her across the studio to the door. - </p> - <p> - Clytie kissed her laughingly and disappeared. But two tears rolled down - Winifred's cheek as she went back to the chair by the stove; and then she - flung herself down where she had been sitting, and burying her face in her - arm, began to cry bitterly. - </p> - <p> - “I don't like him, I don't like him; he will spoil my darling,” she - moaned. - </p> - <p> - Sometimes knowledge is given to those who seek after it least. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XIV. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he unexpected - always happens, often inopportunely. Winifred had risen from the ground by - the stove and was standing miserably before her easel when a knock was - heard at the studio door. She cried, “Come in!” and Kent entered. He was - looking rather pale and worn out, his beard sinking ever so little into - his cheeks; his eyes were tired. On seeing him Winifred could not restrain - a start of surprise. - </p> - <p> - “Why, Mr. Kent! you here at this hour of the day!” - </p> - <p> - “Yes; I have just come back from the Museum. I went up to tell them I - wasn't coming, as they say in Ireland. The fact is I am feeling lazy and - want a few days' slackness.” - </p> - <p> - “You have been overworking yourself, that's what you have been doing,” - said Winifred with kind severity. “Come and sit down by the stove and rest - yourself. You want someone to look after you.” - </p> - <p> - She pulled the chair that Clytie had been occupying a little forward, by - way of invitation. - </p> - <p> - “What a good little creature you are, Winifred,” he said as he sat down. - “You always think of other people. Men don't seem able to do it; they are - too much wrapped up in themselves. How are you all—you and the - children? You must make them invite me to tea soon. I have not seen them - for ages.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, they are quite well again,” replied Winifred, brightening, “and they - have been clamouring for Kent, as they call you. I'll tell them to send - you an 'At Home' card. And it must be soon, for you are going abroad. When - do you think of starting?” - </p> - <p> - Kent sighed and looked into the fire. - </p> - <p> - “I don't quite know yet; I wanted to see Clytie first. Where is she?” - </p> - <p> - “She has a visitor—in her sitting-room,” replied Winifred somewhat - shortly. - </p> - <p> - But Kent was too absorbed in his own affairs to notice the change of tone. - </p> - <p> - “Will she be engaged long?” - </p> - <p> - “Probably.” - </p> - <p> - “I wanted so much to see her.” - </p> - <p> - Winifred looked at him for a moment and then came and put her hand lightly - on his shoulder. - </p> - <p> - “You seem so unhappy. Is it about Clytie? You and she have quarrelled or - had some difference,—she has not told me what it is,—and I - have been so grieved. If I knew, perhaps I might bring things straight.” - </p> - <p> - “Would you, Winifred?” said Kent eagerly. - </p> - <p> - “Of course. Don't I love Clytie better than anybody else—and haven't - you been a good kind friend to me? I haven't asked her—nor you—why - you have stopped being friends, because one shrinks from asking such - questions, but I have seen it, and I have been so, so sorry.” - </p> - <p> - The gentle sympathy touched him. The realisation of the feminine had come - to him of late powerfully enough to have overset his old one-sided - theories. He knew the value now of a tender word from a woman, and his - nature hungered for it. - </p> - <p> - “Winifred,” he said, half turning in the chair and looking up at her in - his honest way, “do you think Clytie could ever care for me—not as a - friend—as something nearer?” - </p> - <p> - Winifred fell back, looked at him aghast, unable to speak, as the light - dawned upon her. He mistook her movement, rose, and began to speak - hurriedly, pacing the room. - </p> - <p> - “I couldn't help it—how could I help it? I have struggled against it - with all my might. I know I am a fool to think that she can love me, and - you are surprised and dismayed, as she was when she saw that I loved her. - I would have bit my tongue out then rather than tell her, but I saw she - guessed—and that is why our friendship has been broken. I have kept - away from her to spare her the pain of it. But it has nearly driven me - mad. I can't go abroad with the weight of it upon me. I must see her and - let her know everything. Tell me, Winifred, you who are so fine and - delicate, I did not wrong her and our friendship by growing to love her - better than anything life has. She won't think me unworthy of the trust - she gave me, and despise me?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, no, no, no!” said Winifred half chokingly. “Your love would honour - any girl. Oh, why did you not tell her and plead with her before?” - </p> - <p> - “Then do you think, Winifred——” began Kent with a sudden joy - in his eyes. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, don't!” cried the girl, interrupting him; “I can't bear it. It is too - late! I hate to stab you like this, but you must know it. Clytie is - engaged to be married.” - </p> - <p> - There was a long silence, during which neither looked at the other. Kent - was stunned, dazed. He had come prepared for a refusal, but not for such - an absolute shattering of all his hopes. He grew very white and stood with - his hand on the back of a chair, as if steadying himself. - </p> - <p> - “How long has she——” he said, at length, huskily. - </p> - <p> - “Only last night. She told me of it this morning.” - </p> - <p> - “And the man?” - </p> - <p> - “Mr. Hammerdyke—Mrs. Farquharson's cousin.” - </p> - <p> - She went up to him, took his hand, and turned her pure face up to his, the - tears standing in her eyes. - </p> - <p> - “I won't say you will find someone more worthy of you, because you - couldn't.” - </p> - <p> - “I am not fit to tie her shoe-strings. I know that very well,” said poor - Kent. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, that is foolish,” she said, with a wan smile. “But there isn't - another girl like Clytie in the world; and you will always think kindly of - her, and help her if she wants help, won't you? You won't turn from her - and hate her, as I have heard men often do—for I don't think you are - like such men.” - </p> - <p> - “I would give up everything I had in life to save her one hour's pain,” - said Kent. “I have been a fool,—I see it now,—oh! not in - having loved her—not that. It is a blessed privilege—I can't - explain, for you would not understand. I shall always love her, Winifred; - no other woman can be to me what Clytie has been—and might have - been. I shall leave by the early boat tomorrow morning, so you will not - see me for three or four months. When I return—perhaps you'll let me - come and talk to you a little sometimes.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, it will comfort me,” said Winifred, “for am I not losing her too?” - </p> - <p> - He bade her good-bye, exacting before he left a promise that she would not - let Clytie know of what had passed between them. - </p> - <p> - He went downstairs, anxious to escape from the house, to get into the open - air. In the entrance passage the side door leading into the shop was open - and Mrs. Gurkins was standing by the threshold. Kent stopped for a moment - to acquaint her with the fact of his sudden departure next day. He would - keep on the rooms, which must be scrupulously locked up during his - absence. Since his first intimacy with Clytie he had imperceptibly grown - more amenable to feminine interference in his domestic arrangements, and - Mrs. Gurkins no longer had her former terror of invading his domain. But - she was still in enough awe of him to promise faithfully to execute his - desires. To talk on these trivial matters was a relief from the terrible - strain of the last few moments, although he wondered a little how he could - lend them coherent attention. He was listening with waning interest to - some final irrelevancies on the part of his landlady when a man ran down - the stairs and strode quickly past him in the passage. A glance was - sufficient to tell Kent who Clytie's visitor was—it had not occurred - to him before to conjecture. His heart sank as he realised the splendid - physique and proud, masterful bearing of his rival. Ordinarily the least - observant of men in such matters, Kent noted the careless ease with which - he wore his faultless attire. The patent-leather boots, the new silk hat, - the well-cut frock-coat with an orchid in the buttonhole, the new gray - Suède gloves grasped along with a gold-mounted malacca—all seemed to - belong to the man naturally, to be the world's fit adjuncts to the gifts - of nature. Smiling to himself and humming a song, he seemed the - personification of the joy and strength, the success and luxury of life. - </p> - <p> - “I am not that man's match,” thought Kent bitterly, thus falling, as all - men must do at times, a little below himself. - </p> - <p> - The front door slammed behind Hammerdyke. Kent waited for a moment, gave a - few vague general directions, and then went out into the street. He felt - stronger now that he had to struggle against real and tangible trouble - instead of the intangible doubts and fears that had set him off his - balance. The single-hearted loyalty of his nature, that had caused him to - regard his love for Clytie as treason against her unsuspecting friendship, - and had thus placed him in the weakness of a false position, now gave him - strength to face fearlessly life and its responsibilities. But time alone - could assuage the pain and bitterness of it all. He strung himself - together and walked briskly through the bright, frosty air towards the - home of his mother and sister in Notting Hill. There was sincere affection - between mother and son, sister and brother; but neither of the quiet, - contented women knew much of his life or sympathised with his ambitions. - Mrs. Kent's hopeless wish was that he would marry some good, sensible girl - who would keep his house tidy, provide him with decent meals, and bring - bright children's faces around his knee. This conception bounded her - horizon of a man's happiness; as she knew that her son would never appear - within it, she regarded him with wistful, unhelpful affection. Agatha, - with the younger generation's superior grasp of things, looked upon him as - a soft-hearted eccentric who deserved to be humoured. For many years, - therefore, Kent had ceased to share with them any of his inner life, not - because he loved them less than during his boyhood, but because their - mental attitudes precluded confidence. They were women, they could not - understand. When he entered the house he left his own interests outside - and plunged, in his rough, hearty way, into theirs. He gave his whole - attention to accounts of Cousin Henrietta's baby, Uncle William's gout, - the leakages of the cistern, and the turpitudes of the cook. In matters - such as the cistern he gave practical help; in others, such as the baby, - he overflowed with sympathetic though alarming suggestions. His own life - was seldom touched upon. With finer natures—Clytie, Winifred, Wither—that - divined the strong purpose underlying his eccentricities, and met him - halfway with their sympathy, he was generous in his confidence; but to - others, proud, shy, and reserved. So Mrs. Kent and Agatha knew nothing of - Clytie, little of his scientific work, and only vaguely of his duties at - the Museum. - </p> - <p> - He walked up Sloane Street and through the park, thinking of his great - loss, trying to scheme out his future, in which Clytie would only be a - memory. When he arrived at his mother's house he paused for a moment, as - if literally to unstrap the burden of care from his shoulders and leave it - outside the front door. Then he entered and greeted his mother and sister - in his bluff, cheery way. He remained with them a couple of hours, during - which he performed a few odd jobs about the house which he had promised to - attend to, and then took his leave. Mrs. Kent was solicitous as to his - health, besought him not to work too hard nor to come back with a German - wife. She could not quite see the reason of his sudden departure. Why the - country should waste its money in sending him abroad to study old coins - she, in her placid utilitarianism, could not imagine. However, she bade - him a motherly farewell, hoped from her heart that he would have a - pleasant holiday, although she could not refrain from expressing a regret - that he would not return in time to superintend the spring-cleaning. - </p> - <p> - When the door closed behind him he picked up his burden and walked - doggedly away with it, mechanically, not heeding his direction. He - suddenly found that he had come, contrary to his intention, diagonally - across the park to Hyde Park Corner. It was past five o'clock. Wither - would be in his club. He would go and say good-bye, for Wither was very - dear to him. - </p> - <p> - The little man was giving some directions to the hall porter when Kent - appeared. - </p> - <p> - “My dear, good creature!” he cried, “what have you been doing to yourself? - You are as white as a ghost. You want some whiskey or brandy, probably - both. Come down to the smoking-room and have some.” - </p> - <p> - “I am a bit overdone,” replied Kent, “and perhaps I have been walking too - much to-day. But I don't want any brandy.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, but you've got to,” said Wither, and entering the smoking-room, he - gave the order to a waiter. - </p> - <p> - “I have come to say good-bye, Teddy,” said Kent as soon as they were - seated in a quiet corner. “I am off to-morrow morning.” - </p> - <p> - “The deuce you are! Well, so much the better. A sound friend abroad is - more comfortable for all parties than a sick friend at home. Have they - given you your three months?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes—on full pay.” - </p> - <p> - “Lucky dog. And while you are flirting around the capitals of Europe we - poor devils will have to be slaving away in this grimy and sooty - metropolis. In the good fortune of one's friends there is always something - devilishly obnoxious. Why is the eternal order of things so mismanaged - that you should have a good time and I not? Here is your brandy. Drink it - and look more human.” - </p> - <p> - Kent did as he was bidden. The stimulant, which he needed, revived him. - Wither guessed that something untoward had occurred. He had a woman's - intuition, this bright-eyed, cynical little being, and he rattled on in - his light way to save Kent the strain of making conversation. - </p> - <p> - “Have a cigarette?” he asked, taking out his case. “No? Well, smoke your - pipe. I can't understand how anyone but a horny-palated son of toil can - smoke a pipe. By the way, what do you think a girl sent me by way of a - present this morning?” - </p> - <p> - “I don't know,” said Kent. “A hymn book?” - </p> - <p> - “No; a cigarette holder—mouthpiece, you know. I wrote and told her - it was very pretty and I would keep it in memory of her to my dying day; - but as for using it, I should just as soon think of kissing her through a - respirator.” - </p> - <p> - “That was unkind,” said Kent, laughing in spite of himself, tickled at the - idea. - </p> - <p> - “Lord bless you, no,” replied Wither oracularly from the depths of his - armchair. “It is wholesome to check this frenzy of profusion now and then. - When a woman once begins to give she never knows where to stop. When she - has exhausted her imagination she gives away herself. It's embarrassing - sometimes, for one can't put half a dozen women away in a drawer with the - rest of the odds and ends. Oh, no; a little fatherly repression does a - world of good to the ingenuous and enthusiastic. I don't pretend to be - moral, but I am not without kindly instincts.” - </p> - <p> - He chuckled sardonically and began to turn over the pages of <i>Punch</i>. - Kent smoked on in silence, cheered a little by the familiar chatter. - </p> - <p> - “Teddy,” he said at last, “you seem to hear all the gossip about town; do - you know anything about a man called Hammerdyke?” - </p> - <p> - “Thornton Hammerdyke—man from Africa—explorer?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, rather. One of the greatest devils unhung,” replied Wither - cheerfully. - </p> - <p> - “What do you mean?” cried Kent in an agitated voice, starting forward and - gripping the arms of his chair. “Take care what you are saying. It is a - matter of life and death to—to somebody. What do you know about him? - Tell me.” - </p> - <p> - Wither arched his eyebrows in surprise, and became serious. Then his quick - intuition supplied him with the reason for Kent's agitation. - </p> - <p> - “I only spoke idle gossip,” he said, “and I have the misfortune to be - hyperbolical at times. The man has had some dealings with our office and - that is how I come to know anything about him. Don't you remember he got - into a row for wholesale slaughter of niggers on one of his expeditions? - He cleared himself all right, of course, by proving mutiny, self-defence, - and that sort of thing.” - </p> - <p> - “I remember the incident now,” said Kent. “It was in the papers.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, his public character is cleared,” said Wither, “and he is a good - deal of a lion these days; but fellows who have served with him take the - niggers' side of the question, and wonder how he remained a day among them - without being torn to pieces. That's all I know about him, which you see - is not much. My dear old boy,” he continued earnestly as Kent sat silent, - staring in front of him, “is that the reason why you are starting so - suddenly? Is it all fixed up? No chance?” - </p> - <p> - Kent nodded moodily. - </p> - <p> - “I suppose not. I was going to ask her this morning when I learned she had - engaged herself—only last night—to this man. And I have seen - him. Devil or not, he is a man.” - </p> - <p> - Wither bit his lip. For the moment he was at a loss for an expression of - sympathy, somewhat uneasy as to the line he should adopt. What was the use - of making Kent more miserable by telling him other ugly stories he had - heard concerning Hammerdyke if either were powerless to prevent the - marriage from taking place? Besides, it was only idle gossip after all, - and in the serious affairs of life Wither was honourable and - conscientious. - </p> - <p> - Suddenly Kent broke out: - </p> - <p> - “Oh, my God, Teddy, I don't care a little damn about myself,—I can - worry along, as I did before—better, for it is something to have - loved her,—if only she is happy. But if this man is not fit for her, - if this horrible gossip of yours is true, she will be entering into a life - of misery,—I know her,—and I shall feel as if I had not put - out my hand to stop her.” - </p> - <p> - “Everyone must dree his own weird, my dear old boy,” said Wither. “And - while he's doing it neither you nor anyone else can interfere with much - profit. Make your mind easy about yourself and your responsibilities. You - could not go to her and say, 'I hear the man you are going to marry is a - blackguard; have me instead.' In the first place, your pride would not - allow you, and in the second, if she cared about him, she wouldn't believe - you, but would marry him all the sooner to prove her faith in him. It is - the way of women when they are worth anything.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes; Clytie would do just that,” said Kent. “I think even a man would, if - he loved a woman.” - </p> - <p> - “Well,” said Wither, “it is no use making yourself miserable about it. The - wise man guards against indulgence in things that upset his moral as well - as his physical digestion. But wisdom was never much your forte, friend - John.” - </p> - <p> - Kent stayed and dined with Wither and then returned alone to the King's - Road. He had already made certain preparations for travel; the few final - arrangements did not take long. As he passed by Clytie's sitting-room door - he noticed that it was ajar, a sign that she was out. In the old days,—less - than two months ago, but far away for all that,—he had been - accustomed to run down on such occasions, at about half-past ten or - eleven, and stir up the fire. Since her return from Durdleham this little - token of intimacy had gone with the rest. But on this evening the desire - came over him to perform this service for her once more, for the last - time. He crept down the stairs on tip-toe, in case she should have come in - without his knowledge. But the door was still ajar, the room was vacant. - The fire had burned down very low, only a few glowing coals at the bottom - of the grate. He returned to his own rooms and fetched some wood and - paper, and kneeling down, built up a satisfactory fire. At first, however, - the wood would not burn; it had to be dried by repeated conflagrations of - paper, and the blaze had to be induced by much cunning coaxing. It was - just beginning to flare merrily up the chimney when the sudden slam of the - street door below aroused him to a sense of his position. He left the room - and fled quickly up the stairs. Outside his door he listened. It was - Clytie, arriving home somewhat early. He was disappointed, a little - humiliated. The freshness had gone from his sad little pleasure, for he - had not wished her to guess that he had been down. Now the act seemed - clumsy, in bad taste, as if he had been forcing his attentions on her. He - went into his sitting-room with a heart heavier than before, and continued - his preparations for departure. He had packed up his portmanteau and was - now stowing away his papers and valuable odds and ends that he wished to - remain under lock and key during his absence. - </p> - <p> - Suddenly a step was heard on the stair that made his heart stand still, - and Clytie appeared at the door. - </p> - <p> - “Can I come in?” - </p> - <p> - He could scarcely find words to greet her. Now that their good comradeship - was at an end, above all, now that she was lifted beyond his sphere, she - held a different position in his eyes. She looked beautiful, queenly. Her - rich hair and colouring, the pale blue of her dress, struck a note of - exquisite brightness in the gloomy, half-dismantled room. He removed some - books from his writing-chair and pulled it towards her. - </p> - <p> - “How good of you to come!” was all he could say. - </p> - <p> - “How good of you to look after my fire!” said Clytie. - </p> - <p> - “I did not want you to know——” - </p> - <p> - “Why not?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, a sentiment,” he replied. “We are governed a great deal by such - things.” - </p> - <p> - “It touched me so,” said Clytie. “I could not help coming up to thank you, - as you are going away early in the morning.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah! Winifred told you?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes; she said you had come to bid good-bye.” - </p> - <p> - Kent felt bound to fall in with Winifred's friendly fable, although his - honesty shrank a little from accepting what was not its due. - </p> - <p> - “There is always something sad in leave-taking,” said Clytie. - </p> - <p> - The remark was trite and commonplace; but so is a kiss or a grasp of the - hand or the words “Good-bye, dear,” themselves. The original generally - brings more titillation than comfort. - </p> - <p> - “This leave-taking is sadder than most—to me,” said Kent. - </p> - <p> - “And to me too,” said Clytie. “It marks the end of the old life—a - very pleasant one. Kent,” she went on after a short reflective pause, “I - want to tell you something: I reproached you a little in my heart—last - month. I don't now. I haven't the right. Winifred said she had let you - know of my engagement. If our parting had not come from you, it would have - come now from me.” - </p> - <p> - “I see now; it was bound to come sooner or later,” replied Kent, much - moved. “Oh, my God! what puppets we are. But I wish you happiness, from my - heart, in your new life. You will always be to me the one woman whom”—he - was going to add, “I could love,” but he checked himself and quickly - substituted, “who has taught me what there is in women.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah, my dear Kent,” returned Clytie with a touch of her brightness and - charm, “there will be someone nicer than I who will teach you better. You, - too, must have happiness, you know. You will marry soon——” - </p> - <p> - “I marry!” cried Kent, wheeling round to face her. “How can you say that!” - </p> - <p> - They looked at one another, each misunderstanding. He was wounded at her - treating his love as a thing of no account. She was puzzled at his implied - contradiction of her theory. - </p> - <p> - “I thought I had discovered the reason for your wishing to break off our - intimacy—but I find I was wrong.” - </p> - <p> - “I don't understand,” said Kent, agitated. “I acted foolishly, very - foolishly and rudely. Yet I only did it to save you pain. To break with - you cost me the dearest thing I had in the world. Surely you must be aware - of that.” - </p> - <p> - “You did not break it because you suddenly—during my absence—wished - to form other ties?” - </p> - <p> - A light broke upon Kent, like a flash of lightning over a desolate - wilderness. All of this heart-burning, then, was for nothing. She had - never suspected that he loved her. A sense of the futility of things - crushed him for a moment. - </p> - <p> - “I am not a man to fall in love readily,” he replied in a low voice. - </p> - <p> - “Then,” said Clytie earnestly, “I am at fault. Why did you not answer my - letter? Why did you shun me? Why were you so constrained when we met? Why - did you tear yourself out of my daily life?” - </p> - <p> - Kent turned away his face, so that she should not see him as he fought out - within himself a great battle. Had these words only been spoken a day or - two ago he would have poured out his love to her in all its honesty and - strength. But now she was bound to another irrevocably—now indeed it - would give her pain to hear what he foolishly thought would have given her - pain to hear before. Then he was restrained by misinterpretation of the - meaning of the passion that had come surging into his blood. Now he was - held back by finer feelings, ignorant perhaps, quixotic, but such as work - in man to the shaping of his nobleness. - </p> - <p> - “It was something I would rather not speak of,” he said at last—“something - in my own life. I might have told you then; I was wrong not to; I did it - for the best. I can't now. This seems like a cheap way of making - mysteries,—perhaps it is one, not very big,—but it is better - that it should be one to you. It was no fault of mine, believe me. You do - believe me, Clytie, when I say that it was bitter for me to give up your - friendship, don't you?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, Kent,” exclaimed Clytie, “I do believe that you are everything that - is true and tender and loyal. You don't know what strength and comfort - your sympathy and your brave, frank way of looking at things have been to - me. I have wronged you—forgive me.” - </p> - <p> - She rose, held out her hand to him. He took it and raised it to his lips - very gently. Her eyes grew a little moist. - </p> - <p> - “You are treating me like a foolish woman, and not <i>en bon camarade</i>,” - she said in a low voice. - </p> - <p> - “You are no longer my <i>bon camarade</i>,” he replied. “You are my very - dear lady, whom I will serve till the hour of my death.” - </p> - <p> - A moment or two afterwards she was gone. The next morning Kent left - England. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XV. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span> great writer has - remarked, that between the acting of a dreadful thing and the first - motion, all the interim is like a phantasma or a hideous dream, and that - the state of man under those circumstances, like to a little kingdom, - suffers the nature of an insurrection. Although the step that Clytie was - about to take was not of the character that Brutus contemplated, it was - sufficiently serious for the interval between her engagement and her - marriage to be a time of great mental and moral upheaval. Her “genius and - mortal instruments” had periods of fierce council, in which the latter - always obtained turbulent victory. Dreading these inner conflicts, she - shrank from introspection. When doubts began to creep over her she shook - them off, and sat down and wrote letters to Thornton which she burned an - hour or two afterwards. But it was only when she was alone in the studio - hastily finishing the orders she had in hand, or during the few lonely - evenings that she passed in her sitting-room, that these torturing - misgivings arose. When Thornton was near she forgot that any had ever come - to her. He overpowered her will and her senses, dominated her with a - caressing word, a touch of the hand, a glance from the depths of his dark - eyes. In the lucid intervals between these periods of dizzying surrender - she did not recognise herself. It was almost as if some Morgan le Fay had - cast around her a spell of woven paces, and changed her into she knew not - what, while she saw the old Clytie fading like a dream-shape away. To - women of finer temperament marriage looms shadowy, formless, a great - enchanter that will change all things, deliver into their keeping the - secrets of pain and delight. But to Clytie it was something less and - something more. Its material responsibilities were less of a mystery to - her than to most girls of her age, owing to the peculiarities of her - self-training; but its spiritual and moral results were hidden from her in - a cloud, denser, more lurid, more extensive. She loved Hammerdyke, not - indeed as she would have loved Kent had he made one little effort to turn - the wavering friendship into love—for then passion would have been - finely tempered with tenderness, trust, and generous sympathy; but still - certain chords of her nature vibrated fully in response to the touch of - the man she was about to marry. The one might have, as it were, awakened - the full organ, but the single diapason that was pulled rang out none the - less true. - </p> - <p> - During the short period of their engagement Hammerdyke was unceasing in - tokens of his love. It was the nature of the man to throw his whole being - into the delight or danger of the moment. Many a woman who cares - lukewarmly, perhaps reluctantly, is fired with a gratitude akin to love by - unending, passionate devotion. All the more responsive is the woman of - full blood and emotional temperament who already cares greatly. Thornton - gave Clytie no reason to doubt his affection; if anything, he frightened - her by its excess. She yielded to him in all things, sometimes half - dreamily, indifferently, without regret and without sweetness; sometimes - the surrender was infinite joy. - </p> - <p> - In one matter, however, she was called upon to exercise her will: Thornton - did not care how or where the marriage was performed. A man loathes - weddings, particularly his own. It is only the barbarian that lingers, as - people say, in the heart of woman that demands ceremonies and pomps and - vanities; a man, finer in some things, strangely enough, sees a certain - indelicacy in the brazen publicity of the wedding rites. True, this view - never presented itself to Thornton, who merely wanted to call Clytie his - own and looked upon the formality of the marriage bond as a necessary - nuisance, but it came vividly to Clytie, and caused her, as she was called - upon to decide in the matter, to choose as quiet a wedding as possible. - She shrank with repugnance from the meaningless ordeal of bridesmaids, - favours, and a wedding-breakfast. It was only in deference to Durdleham - susceptibilities that she did not entertain the idea of a civil marriage - before a registrar. - </p> - <p> - The announcement of her engagement caused a flutter of excitement in the - family. Mrs. Blather and Janet could not understand a girl's art life, but - they could understand a wedding. They settled it between themselves that - Clytie and her <i>fiancé</i> should come down to Durdleham to be there - married in the orthodox fashion. They had already drawn up a list of - guests and a scheme of wedding arrangements when a letter arrived from - Clytie saying that she was to be married almost immediately, and that on - no account could the ceremony take place at Durdleham. The sisters were - disappointed. Mrs. Blather remonstrated, adding arguments and entreaties - that brought tears of desperation to Clytie's eyes. She hated the thought - of willingly giving pain to her father and sisters, but a family ceremony - was more than she could bear. By trying to explain the inexplicable she - made matters worse. If Mrs. Blather and Janet had failed to understand her - simple needs of a free, untrammelled girlish life, how could they unravel - the tangled complexities involving her repugnance to their proposals? At - last she wrote that the day was definitely fixed, and that if her sisters - would not come to town, no one but her friends the Farquharsons and - Winifred would be present at the ceremony. To journey up to London for the - purpose of standing in a bleak, empty church on a dismal March morning - just to see Clytie married in a travelling dress was a prospect not - pleasing enough to be entertained. The sisters resigned themselves with a - sigh to circumstances and to a catalogue of Clytie's eccentricities from - her earliest years. Mrs. Blather sent Clytie a pair of silver - candlesticks, Janet sent her a tea-service, and old Mr. Davenant, who had - been courteously addressed by Hammerdyke on the subject of the marriage, - sent her a check for one hundred pounds. And that ended the matter. - </p> - <p> - Winifred spent the night before the marriage with Clytie. - </p> - <p> - “Do come, Winnie dear,” the latter had said. “I shall be so lonely and - miserable.” - </p> - <p> - So Winnie came like a spirit of peace, and the two girls cried a little in - each other's arms, and it was the weaker who comforted the stronger. - </p> - <p> - “I shall keep on the studio,” said Winifred,—“I am getting quite - rich, you know,—and then you can come sometimes and take off your - things and make believe to be back again. And I shall come and see you in - your big house—if you will tell your big husband not to frighten me - away.” - </p> - <p> - “You will always be my own sweet Winnie,” said Clytie tenderly, “and you - will always get the very best out of me even if I change utterly to - everybody else.” - </p> - <p> - “But how can you change, dear?” asked Winifred in her simple faith. For - she had lost her first instinctive distrust of Hammerdyke in the glamour - of Clytie's love for him. “How can you ever be different from what you are - and what you have always been?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I may grow very, very wicked and selfish one of these days, and not - care for simple things any longer; and then you might be hurt, and you - would know how unworthy I was that you should care for me, and you would - shrink from me.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, Clytie, darling!” cried Winifred, throwing her arms about her neck, - “how can you say such things?” - </p> - <p> - “It is silly, I know,” said Clytie; “but I sometimes feel that I might do - something very wicked without much compunction before I die.” - </p> - <p> - “But you are going to lead a splendid, beautiful life!” said Winnie. “You - will live in a great house, and have at your command the most brilliant - society in London, all the clever, artistic people—just what you - like. And you won't have to paint for orders, so you need never have to - cramp your genius, dear. Oh, Clytie, you will simply be overflowing with - happiness all your life long.” Clytie sighed. The independence of her - half-Bohemian life was very dear to her. This was the last night on which, - if it so pleased her, she could go forth into the streets, uncontrolled, - whither she would. Henceforward her actions would have to be referred to - an authority. To-morrow she would even change her name; be transformed - from the Clytie Davenant whom she knew into Mrs. Hammerdyke, a vague, - mysterious entity, with whose nature she was unfamiliar. No matter how - glorious the future, there is always some regret in leaving forever a past - phase of life: - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - At leaving even the most unpleasant people <br /> <br /> <br /> And - places, one keeps looking at the steeple. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - But this was a pleasant place Clytie was about to quit, and she looked - back upon its associations with a sigh. - </p> - <p> - In the morning a commissionnaire sent by Thornton came and fetched away - her trunks, for the newly married pair were to start for the Continent - immediately after the ceremony. When these were despatched Clytie stood - for a moment before her glass, adjusted the clasp of her cape and the set - of her broad gray beaver hat, and turning to Winifred, said quietly: “Let - us go, dear.” - </p> - <p> - They drove together in a hansom to St. Luke's Church, close by, where - Thornton and the Farquharsons were waiting for them, in the porch. It was - a bright morning, warm for the time of year, and the sparrows and a stray - thrush plucked up heart of grace and twittered cheerily from the trees in - the churchyard. Two little street children, with arms about each other's - necks, stood by a near gravestone and looked at the little group with - somewhat disappointed eyes. They had expected a bride in a long white veil - and orange-blossoms, a costume always mysteriously fascinating to the - unsophisticated. Perhaps it was only a christening after all, one remarked - to the other. But where was the baby? The interior of the empty church was - more cheerful than empty Protestant churches are wont to be. The slanting - sunlight streamed many-coloured through the stained windows across the - nave, and a broad shaft poured in from the open south door upon the vacant - pews in the aisle. From outside came faintly the hum and rattle of the - King's Road. The influences were peaceful, encouraging, and Clytie, - sensitive to impressions, felt grateful. The two little children, with - their eyes on the verger, peeped in through the door and satisfied - themselves that it was a wedding after all. - </p> - <p> - They whispered together with many smiles and nods, guessing at the <i>dramatis - personæ</i>. Clytie noticed them, smiled back and nodded. It was as if a - bit of her past life had come to bid her be of good cheer. The party stood - for a while in the body of the church, talking gaily in low tones. Mrs. - Farquharson was radiant at the prospective accomplishment of a dear wish. - </p> - <p> - “You must be proud of your bride,” she said to Thornton. “Is she not - looking beautiful?” - </p> - <p> - And she whispered to Clytie: - </p> - <p> - “You must be proud of your husband. Have you ever seen a man to compare - with him?” - </p> - <p> - Thornton held his head erect as he gave Clytie his arm and walked up to the - communion rail. He was proud of her. The quiet gray of her broad hat and - her cloak threw into relief the rich colouring of her hair and eyes and - lips. The past two years had completed her womanly beauty. Irregularities - of contour below the eyes had been toned down, the delicacy of modelling - of her face had been accentuated, and the new emotions of the past three - weeks had filled her great dark blue eyes with a new, mysterious light. - Thornton pressed her hand against his side, and whispered, “My darling,” - so close to her that she felt his breath warm upon her ear. She looked at - him for a moment, her full lips quivering ever so slightly. - </p> - <p> - “I should like to kiss you,” he whispered again. “You are so beautiful.” - </p> - <p> - In a few moments it was over. The words compromising a lifetime had been - said. The wedding ring gleamed upon her finger. As she passed with the - others into the vestry she looked down at it in a daze. There it was and - there it must remain till death parted them, a token of submission and - obedience. In the vestry there were embraces, congratulations. Thornton - kissed her after the gallant fashion of a man who can afford to wait for a - warmer caress. Winifred threw her arms round her neck, weeping. Mrs. - Farquharson kissed her in her affectionate, motherly way. George kissed - her gravely on the forehead and dipped the pen in the ink for her to sign - “Clytie Davenant” for the last time. Then they found themselves in the - porch again, saying farewell. Caroline laughingly called her “Mrs. - Hammerdyke” as they finally parted. And then the little knot of three - waved their handkerchiefs as the cab drove off that took her husband and - herself towards Victoria. - </p> - <p> - “You are mine now, my darling,” he said, taking her hand. “All that is - most mine.” - </p> - <p> - “I am glad,” she murmured, returning his pressure. “Yours for always.” - </p> - <p> - The commissionnaire met them at the station. He had taken their tickets, - settled their luggage, engaged a carriage. A bouquet of violets lay upon - the seat. Clytie flashed a quick glance at her husband. - </p> - <p> - “Thank you for thinking. I love them so much.” - </p> - <p> - He arranged her hot-water can and her rugs and sat down by her side, - thrusting up the dividing arms impatiently. As soon as the train had moved - out of the station he put his arms around her and kissed her, and spoke to - her in tender, passionate words. The stop at Croydon broke the continuity - of this first wedded embrace. On the platform outside the carriage window - a loud altercation was in progress between the ticket-collector and a - young couple who objected to pay for the ticket of a tiny terrier the - woman was carrying. They were of the lower middle class, both in their - Sunday clothes. She was a fair, delicate woman of some refinement; but the - husband was coarse, vulgar, with the stamp of sensuality on his sharp, - somewhat handsome face. Moreover, he was slightly intoxicated, and used a - foul expression to qualify the collector after the official had departed. - A flush rose to the young woman's forehead. - </p> - <p> - “Don't, John,” she pleaded. “He's in his rights.” - </p> - <p> - But the cad consigned his rights to perdition, and moved off vulgarly - proclaiming his own. - </p> - <p> - Clytie had heard this small scene in a life's drama and she vividly - constructed the miserable tragedy. When the train moved on again she - shivered, with a nameless, indefinable sense of fear. Three months ago she - would have noted the scene for vigorous transference to canvas. Now the - woman more than the artist was stirred. - </p> - <p> - “Please don't talk—just for a little, Thornton,” she said as he - began to speak. - </p> - <p> - He looked at her somewhat reproachfully. She drew off her glove and put - her hand into his. - </p> - <p> - “You can't understand—it all seems so strange. Let me gather myself - together for a moment—darling.” - </p> - <p> - She trembled on the last word. It was the first time she had used it to - him. - </p> - <p> - He pressed her hand and leaned back on the cushions. Clytie looked out of - the window at the telegraph poles and trees and broad fields swaying past. - Whither was this tearing train carrying her? Out of her life into a new, - strange world whose habits and customs and laws and speech were all - foreign to her? She was married. She no longer belonged to herself. Her - independence was gone. She had promised to love, honour, and obey this man - by her side until death should part them. That would be a long time—many, - many years. The thought frightened her. Until then she had scarce realised - what married life meant, in this respect. Why had she married this man? As - this question passed through her mind her husband raised the hand he held - to his lips. The blood rushed hot to her cheeks, she did not finish the - mental question, but turning quickly, looked at him for a moment, and - falling under the spell of his eyes, yielded to his arm, forgetting all - things. He had the power of drowning in a more lurid blaze those - glimmerings of self-revelation. She whispered so to him laughingly, and he - accepted it as a man generally does accept such things—not seeing - that it was of deeper significance than a woman's ordinary tribute of - tenderness. - </p> - <p> - “You are my beautiful Clytie,” he said, kissing her, and for a season she - was content with the response. - </p> - <p> - There was a lover's silence between them, which she broke at length by - saying: - </p> - <p> - “Don't you think it would have been much nicer if we could have had one - another on trial—say for six months?” > - </p> - <p> - “So that you could all the time be thinking whether you should repent of - your bargain? Oh, dear, no!” - </p> - <p> - “Ah! you say that; but would it not have been better, if we grew to hate - each other, to be able to shake hands and say good-bye? For we may quarrel - dreadfully, you know.” - </p> - <p> - He answered her with tender assurances, laughed at her fears. - </p> - <p> - “We shall never quarrel if you are a good little girl and do as you are - told,” he said. - </p> - <p> - Clytie laughed, seeing only jesting in the remark. - </p> - <p> - “And we shall never quarrel if you let me go where I like and do what I - like and say what I like.” - </p> - <p> - “But you will always want to go and do and say as I like, darling,” said - Thornton. “So we shall never quarrel.” - </p> - <p> - “Then you will never want me to be severely respectable?” asked Clytie, - with a touch of insistence. - </p> - <p> - “I shan't allow you to flirt with any and everybody, if you mean that,” he - replied, showing his white teeth as he smiled. - </p> - <p> - “I didn't mean that—for the simple reason that I have a certain - amount of brains.” - </p> - <p> - “There have been many coquettes with magnificent intellects.” - </p> - <p> - She made no reply. Then, seeing that he had ruffled her, he adroitly - turned their talk into less dangerous channels. - </p> - <p> - They stayed in Paris a couple of days and then continued their journey to - the Riviera. It was Clytie's own desire. In the first flush of his passion - all places were alike to Thornton, provided she were with him. But she - longed to get away from England, to cut herself adrift for a while from - all old associations, to surround herself with new conditions, so that - nothing should disturb the wonder of this new love. And when, with a - lover's hyperbole, he had bidden her choose any spot on the whole - terrestrial globe for the passing of their honeymoon, she had selected the - Mediterranean. - </p> - <p> - They went to the little Italian town of Bordighera, hidden away at the - foot of the mountains amidst its palms and olive trees. Besides being one - of the most beautiful spots on that beautiful coast, it has the charm of - quiet. There is no casino at Bordighera, no public garden, no municipal - band. It holds out to visitors no attractions but its own loveliness—hence - the absence of the banal, the rococo. A few villas are dotted round it, - away from the sea. One long, straggling street of shops, narrowing - gradually, leads up to the old, picturesque, evil-smelling town on the - hill. And this with its narrow sunless streets flanked by high, dingy, - gray houses, between which the sky above seems a narrow strip of Prussian - blue ribbon, its crooked byways and basement loggie of cool malodour, its - cobble pavements on which great entrance gateways gape like dark, noisome - caverns, offers few attractions other than those of quaintness and - curiosity to any but its own inhabitants. It is a quiet place, devoid of - the cosmopolitan <i>tohubohu</i> of Mentone or Cannes. An index of this is - the fact that, save the commoner qualities of the Italian <i>regie</i>, - cigarettes are not to be bought for love or money in Bordighera, and these - in the greasiest ramshackle shop imaginable. If you want civilised shops - you must go to San Remo. - </p> - <p> - Thornton and Clytie spent the earlier portion of their honeymoon here in - unbroken happiness. Beyond casual gossip with their table d'hôte - neighbours they held intercourse with no one. All fears, doubts, - flutterings of regret, vanished from Clytie's heart, together with all - sense of subjective life. She was tasting the physical joy of existence as - it came to her in the passion, sunlight, colour, warmth, and scents of the - south. She had chosen with unconscious wisdom. The intensity of the beauty - of the Mediterranean, its positivism, its splendid denial of the - melancholic and mysterious, held her being in tone with the love with - which Thornton had inspired her. It intoxicated her with a complementary - passion. - </p> - <p> - They drove one day from Bordighera through Ventimiglia to Mentone. Halfway - they stopped at a wayside inn, and breakfasted under a trellis of - grape-vine. On the one side was the dazzling white road, flanked by the - terraced hill of olive-trees, the white underparts of their leaves - flashing like silver; on the other, below, the gold sand and the purple - sea. And the sun streamed through the vine, checkering the table and their - hands and faces. The fare was poor and the Asti none of the best, but the - wine sparkled and bubbled in the thick tumbler they used in common, and - brought a keener sparkle into Clytie's eyes, and a more joyous abandonment - into her laugh. When they had resumed their drive, and a turn of the road - brought them into sight of Mentone, her heart leaped at the suddenness - with which the blaze of colour was revealed. Below, over a declining - foreground of olive and orange gardens, lay the white town in a setting of - bright green foliage, stretching from horn to horn of the bay. Behind the - eastern horn projected dark and bold the promontory of Monaco with the - flashing white of its castle. Behind the town rose the two bare peaks of - the Berceau standing out in deep blue-gray against the intense violet sky. - Before it swept the broad belt of yellow sand, on which lapped, in little - idle waves whose ebb left a delicate fringe of white, a still, unbroken - sea of lapis lazuli, melting through infinite gradations of blue streaked - with arbitrary purples into the deep ultramarine that met the paler sky - far away on the horizon. The burst of intense colour of sky and sea and - land, glowing as far as the eye could sweep, drowned Clytie's being in a - sensuous flood. It was, as it were, the projection of physical passion - into something visible, thus baring to the eyes its wonderful beauty. She - uttered a little inarticulate gasp, a catching of the breath. They were - quite alone, the coachman half asleep in the sun on his box. Thornton put - his arm round her and drew her to him. She turned, closed her eyes. All - creation, from the world of wonder before her to the tiniest quivering - fibre within her, vibrated with an intoxicating thrill of delight. She - caught his hand, drew his arm tighter, and lifted her lips to his in a - long, long kiss. - </p> - <p> - Thenceforward her stay on the Riviera was one uninterrupted delight. It - was a dream in which the mind lay subject to the sense. She was in a blue - mist, which hid impenetrably past and future, and informed the visible - area about her feet with unutterable sweetness. “Don't expect me to write - letters,” she said in a hastily scribbled note to Caroline. “This is a - land in which words have no part. You might as well expect me to talk the - 'Moonlight Sonata' to you.” And Caroline, being a wise woman, smiled. Yet, - after all, her wisdom had nothing to do with it—for anything - feminine would have divined. The days flew on wings of fire. She never - read, never worked; her sketch-book remained empty. Often they sat at - their sitting-room window, looking out on to the Strada Romana, hand in - hand, without speaking, save for a murmured caress, for an hour together. - Or they walked up between the olives, past the famous high wall with its - gorgeous coat of mesembryanthemum, through the narrow, crooked town, down - the rugged descent to the surf-beaten shore, where the great white - solitary <i>casa</i> stands, and there sat down in the shade of the big - rocks and watched the glowing “countless laughter” of the sea. Often they - rambled through the cool, sunless olive gardens, rising terrace after - terrace apparently into the deep violet sky. The scent of the rosemary and - wild thyme beneath their feet rose penetrating and filled the blood, and - Thornton would pick a handful, and laughingly hold it between them above - their lips as he kissed her. And when they reached the top of the hill - they sat under a tree, and Clytie rested her head on his shoulder, and let - her eye wander over the low-lying ridges of the Maritime Alps rising in - endless soft-rounded undulations, like the many-breasted mother of men, in - each bosom nestling a compact white townlet gathered around the slated - cupola of its church; and the soft sunlight lay over all, transfused - through the blue atmosphere. Then she would say: “Don't let us talk, - Thornton,” but there was a different meaning to the words from that which - they had when she uttered them in the train as it left Croydon. - </p> - <p> - Sometimes they went away from Bordighera for two or three days; visited - Nice, Cannes, Monte Carlo. At Monte Carlo Clytie won three or four hundred - francs at the roulette tables. Gambling had never come before within her - experience of things. She plunged into it with childish recklessness, - looking round with glowing face and laughter in her eyes at her husband - when she won, and drawing a short little breath of dismay when the - croupier raked in her stake. The game, the intensity of the strange faces, - seen nowhere else,—faces which bore the stamp of combinations of the - seven deadly sins taken from two to half a dozen together,—the - subtle working in that great, glittering room of all the passions under - heaven, attracted her, fascinated her. The artistic temperament caught the - impressions, instinctively, unconsciously registered them, thus widening - and deepening her conception of life. It was a luxury of sense to leave - the babel passion of the Casino and to walk arm in arm on the terrace or - in the grounds. There the music came faintly and mingled with the far-off - splash of the sea away below them and the rustle of the palms and - drachinas. On the right stretched out Monaco, clustering like a group of - fireflies below the white bastioned castle. Behind them rose the black - mass of the Maritime Alps with the Mont Agel towering distinct above. The - air was soft and warm, recovering from the sudden shock of sundown. What - they said to one another matters little. He saw that she was beautiful and - filled with the sense of his love, and he was happy. To Clytie life meant - unutterable things. - </p> - <p> - On the third morning of their stay at Monte Carlo Thornton returned from a - short stroll and came into their room. - </p> - <p> - “A man I know has just come by the train and I fled from him,” he said; - “let us go somewhere else.” - </p> - <p> - Clytie was pleased. - </p> - <p> - “I am glad you still want us to be quite, quite alone,” she replied. “But - you are sure you are not a little bit weary of me?” - </p> - <p> - He answered as many millions of men more or less sincere have answered. - And Clytie thought neither of believing nor of disbelieving him, as many - millions of women have done. The subjective is apt to crop up afterwards - and it generally causes trouble. But in the passion of a kiss woman, - being, like man, of flesh and blood, and not an abstraction, does not - calculate remote psychological contingencies; if she does, the kissing is - all a mistake. Once, towards the end of their honeymoon, Clytie did touch - upon the subjective. They were sitting by the ruined tower on the hill - above the Strada Romana. Clytie was heated and had taken off her hat, and - the breeze ruffled her hair as she leaned against the trunk of a tree. - Thornton sprawled by her side, resting his chin on his hand and looking at - her. - </p> - <p> - “I always grudge your wearing a hat,” he said. “Your beautiful hair ought - not to be hidden. You look much lovelier now that it is free for the wind - to kiss.” - </p> - <p> - She laughed a contented little laugh, throwing her chin up, according to - her way. - </p> - <p> - “Do you know, Thornton,” she said with a little hesitation, in which there - was much charm, “being called beautiful every day is one of the great - novelties of the situation. I always knew I was good to look upon, and - sometimes I really was very pleased to behold myself. But before I knew - you, dear, it never made anything of a factor in my daily life. And now I - almost begin to think it's the only quality I have.” - </p> - <p> - “Given that, you can let all the others go——” He waved his - hand vaguely, consigning them to the <i>Ewigkeit</i>. “But that's not all - that you love me for, is it, dear?” An idle question, with an unsuspected - fear lurking in its heart. - </p> - <p> - “I don't know why I love you. It has never occurred to me to investigate - the matter.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, try. It will be like playing the game, 'I love my love with an A'!” - </p> - <p> - Thornton shook his head boyishly, and laughed. - </p> - <p> - “It would spoil it all!” he said—“to go worrying about what lies - under that sweet face of yours. Can't you understand, darling? What do - your qualities matter to me? Provided I can take you in my arms and kiss - you as much as I like, what concern is it of mine whether you are - acquainted with the cookery book or spell art with a capital A? Don't you - think it's more satisfactory to lie here and look into your great blue - eyes, and your hair with the sun and wind playing hide and seek in it, and - your bosom rising and falling, than to speculate whether you are - even-tempered or vindictive or ambitious or fond of Adelaide Proctor's - poetry?” - </p> - <p> - “What a boy you are!” she cried light-heartedly, stretching out her hand - so as to run her fingers over his crisp brown hair. “So my face has been - my fortune!” - </p> - <p> - “And your figure,” he remarked critically. “The whole of you!” - </p> - <p> - “Tell me,” she continued, “what would you have done if I hadn't married - you?” - </p> - <p> - He started up to a sitting posture, and his eyes flashed. “I should have - gone straight back to Africa and played the very devil there! But you were - bound to marry me, you know; and if you had been already a married woman, - I should have got to you somehow. I have been hit before in my time, over - and over, but never till I met you did I think a woman worth the marriage - service. But you're a witch, Clytie,” he added, resuming his former - attitude, “the Belle Dame sans Merci.” - </p> - <p> - “Poor fellow,” said Clytie, “poor knight-at-arms! And you do look 'so - haggard and so woe-begone,' don't you?” - </p> - <p> - She laughed as she looked at his great frame lying at her feet, and his - strong, handsome dark face, with its health and masterfulness. Then she - continued in the lightness of her heart: - </p> - <p> - “But seriously, now, Thornton, very seriously. You do want me to be a - little help to you in your life—in other ways—don't you? In - your ambitions, your work in the world generally. We must begin to talk - about such things soon, you know.” - </p> - <p> - Thornton laughed lazily as he lit a cigarette. - </p> - <p> - “My work in the world is to love you, my dear, and I'll promise to let you - help me in that as much as you like.” - </p> - <p> - But Clytie insisted. Sometimes the subjective gets too much for a woman. - </p> - <p> - “Ah, Thornton dear,” she said. “I want to feel that we are much more than - lovers. That will wear off after a time. Oh, yes! don't tell me it won't; - a woman learns things all with a rush, you see. And I want to feel that we - are one in everything, in all our sympathies and views of life, our - ambitions, in all the high and great things that lie before you. I want to - be in touch with everything you do and think—to be a real helpmeet - for you.” - </p> - <p> - He took her hand and kissed it, laughing. - </p> - <p> - “I have got a lot to learn in the way of connubial responsibilities,” he - said. “You'll have to train me, my dear. But allow me to remark that the - sun is just going to dip over there by the Nervia, and if we want to get - in by sunset we shall have to run like the deuce!” - </p> - <p> - As this was a serious matter,—on the Riviera it is one of the grave - responsibilities of life,—Clytie let herself be lifted to her feet, - put on her hat quickly, and holding her husband's hand, ran merrily with - him down the hill. The exercise and the laughter drove things subjective - out of her head for a season. But in the after-time the ghost of this - little conversation came and sat at the head of her bed, making mock at a - few others who sat on the foot-rail. A thing does not require to be as - objective as a murdered monk to have a little ghost all to itself. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XVI. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">P</span>erhaps if they had - remained in Bordighera the intoxication would have lasted longer. But as - our lives are hemmed in by infinite possibilities, to each of which is - strung its infinite ramification of consequences, it is somewhat rash to - predicate <i>ex hypothesi</i>. At any rate so long as they were at - Bordighera there seemed to be no reason that the continuity of the charm - should be broken; whereas it did suffer a change during the railway - journey from Bordighera to Paris. And this railway journey was a kind of - neutral ground in their married life, separating the dream from the - reality. On entering the train they were lovers. On leaving it they were a - married couple. Wherein lies somewhat of a difference. They were not - conscious of the change. Realisation of this mysterious operation is - fortunately denied to human beings, seeing that they turn their eyes - inwards rather too much as it is already. Nor do they recognise what has - happened until some time afterwards, as the old influences still remain - lingeringly; but then they can generally look back to the point of - transition, and set it up as a forlorn landmark in their lives. - </p> - <p> - Why they did not remain longer in the south they themselves could scarcely - explain. They had arranged to spend a month there, and then to proceed to - Paris to wait indefinitely until their new house in the Cromwell Road - should be ready to receive them. There is nothing so irrefragable as an - arbitrary programme. Even the most emancipated enslave themselves to it - sometimes, as in the present case did Thornton and Clytie They possibly - lost a good deal,—the flowers of life seldom grow along the beaten - track,—but they never thought of attributing it to the fixity of - their programme. They were in Paris, then, living under totally fresh - conditions. Thornton found there a succession of friends and - acquaintances, and was pleased rather than otherwise to meet them. At - Monte Carlo he fled from Carteret of the Hussars; on the Boulevard des - Capucines he greeted him heartily and carried him off into the American - Bar. Besides discovering acquaintances daily in the hotel list, Thornton - was not unknown in general Parisian society. His name could procure him - admission into most circles that he cared to enter. He was put up at a - couple of clubs and received invitation cards by the dozen. - </p> - <p> - To please him Clytie went with him a little into society. He was proud of - his beautiful wife, loved to watch the effect produced as she entered a - drawing-room upon his arm, and the eager admiration on the faces of the men - who crowded round her chair. In fact, Clytie had a small social success—and - a paragraph in the <i>Figaro</i>. It was a new sensation for her; but in - these early days of her married life she would have preferred a quieter, - less conspicuous existence. But Thornton, just as he had sought in the - south to keep her and her beauty to himself, now seemed to wish to exhibit - it abroad. - </p> - <p> - “I seem to wear you like a decoration, darling,” he said once. - </p> - <p> - At first Clytie flushed with pleasure at the little flattery. Then she - thought over it for a bit, and it did not please her so much. But she did - not confide this to her husband. She had already begun to discover that - for the safekeeping of many little matters her own heart was the best - place. - </p> - <p> - They had a set of rooms in a hotel in the Champs Elysées with a balcony - overlooking the Grande Avenue. Clytie loved to sit there with Thornton in - the quiet half hour before dinner watching the stream of vehicles, fine - and vague far away by the Arc de Triomphe, then gradually broadening, till - fashionable Paris returning from the Bois blazed beneath her in its - movement and gaiety. They seemed to her so alone up there, above the whirl - and the glitter and falseness. It was a return of the hours of the month - in the south, and happiness fluttered tremulously around her—like a - butterfly, ever so elusively. When she leaned over the balcony by his side - many people looked up admiringly at them. When she saw one woman twitch - the arm of her companion in a victoria, and both shoot swift feminine - glances up at the balcony, she could not help feeling a little thrill of - pride in her husband. And then she would remember the morning's solitary - ramble among the sculpture of the Louvre (Thornton and herself were less - dependent upon each other now for entertainment), and reflect, with a - sense of pleasure, that she had seen no antique ideal that could compare - with him in splendid manhood. He, too, had done heroic deeds, she would - think, and she would move nearer to his side and be glad that he was - there. Yet the butterfly happiness was just beyond her grasp. - </p> - <p> - Some such thoughts were passing through her mind one afternoon as they - stood together on the balcony. He broke a short silence by saying: - </p> - <p> - “We are getting quite an old married couple, Clytie!” - </p> - <p> - “What made you say that?” she asked, smiling. - </p> - <p> - “Oh! I hardly know. I have got so used to having you by me. It seems as if - I had been married ever since I was born.” - </p> - <p> - “It does seem a long, long time ago that we first passed through Paris. - But I can't say I am quite used to matrimony yet. Do you know, I have - sometimes hoped that I never should be.” - </p> - <p> - “Why?” - </p> - <p> - “Can't you guess? At present, dear, it is all glamour and mystery, and - when you get too familiar with the glamour it turns into the commonplace. - That's why I am just a little bit sorry we left Bordighera.” - </p> - <p> - “It was certainly very jolly,” he assented reflectively. “But we are - having as good a time here, aren't we?” - </p> - <p> - “Well, I like these little half hours best,” said Clytie, “when we are - alone together. When we are parted it seems as if I am suddenly called - upon to live as an individual and do not quite know how to begin. You see, - when I am alone with you I know how to behave as Clytie Hammerdyke, but - not yet when I am by myself or with other people.” - </p> - <p> - Thornton laughed, as a man in love laughs when he thinks he is replying to - an idle, pretty remark. - </p> - <p> - “You have always Clytie Davenant to fall back upon,” he said. - </p> - <p> - “Have I? That's just the question I have been putting to myself. But I - can't explain it to you. I don't think you would understand.” - </p> - <p> - “Of course I understand!” he cried quickly. “You have to mix with people - as a married woman, and you are a bit shy at first. But you'll pull - through all right, dear. Why, as it is, you are superb.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, come,” she said, laughing. “I can talk to people without blushing and - morally biting the corner of my apron. I meant something a little more - subtle than that. You see, after all, you don't understand. I can never, - never be Clytie Davenant again. She was buried for good and all at - Bordighera.” - </p> - <p> - “And my sweet phoenix has arisen out of her ashes,” said Thornton. - </p> - <p> - “If you like—and the phoenix hasn't quite got the sense of her - environment yet.” - </p> - <p> - “All this is very pretty, my dear,” said Thornton, with a laugh. “But I - can't quite see what we are driving at.” - </p> - <p> - “Have I been talking such great nonsense, then? Perhaps it all tended to - express the fact that when I am with you I don't think of myself; when we - are apart I am confronted with myself, and feel embarrassed. You see, - Thornton dear,” she went on, “I have lived a queer kind of life, full of - such different hopes and dreams. I scarcely thought about marriage in - those days. I knew that love would come to me some time or the other, but - then it seemed as if it would all be mixed up with my art, whereas now——Oh, - you can't see how different it is!” - </p> - <p> - There was no tone of sadness or regret in her voice as she said this, but - a touch of tenderness, a tribute, as it were, to his influence. - </p> - <p> - “But there's nothing to hinder you from amusing yourself with painting - pictures, is there?” asked her husband lightly. “You have no call now to - earn a livelihood, but you can paint all day if you like, my dear.” - </p> - <p> - “Of course I shall paint—I could not live without it—except - perhaps such a month as last. But, don't you see, my art was once the - guiding principle of my life. Now I have my art and my love, and they seem - to have nothing to do with each other. They are on different planes, so to - speak. It is all that that makes me feel I don't quite realise myself yet - when I have to leave the love plane for a little.” - </p> - <p> - “Don't leave it,” said Thornton. - </p> - <p> - “Ah! we have done that by going away from Bordighera, and leading this - dissipated life here,” she replied, laughing. “But we can get on and off - whenever we like, you know. That is one comfort.” - </p> - <p> - “Well,” said Thornton, lighting a cigarette, and speaking between the - first few whiffs, “marriage must make some difference. You have lived a - free and easy, emancipated life among artistic people, and now you belong - to somebody else—a wild barbarian, who could no more tell you how to - paint a picture than how to cut out a dress. Of course it makes a - difference in your way of viewing things. It has made a difference in mine - too, by Jove! When a yearning for Africa comes over me I have to say: No; - I have a wife, with her arms,—the roundest in the world, my dear,—about - my neck. And so I have got to settle down to politics and domesticity in - the Cromwell Road.” - </p> - <p> - “But you don't regret it, do you, Thornton?” she asked, womanlike. - </p> - <p> - “Look at me and see if I do,” he said. - </p> - <p> - Clytie obeyed him, half shyly, feeling, as she always did since her return - to Paris, the fascination, half pleasant, half painful, of his eyes. He - loved her. There was no doubt of that. Yet the nature of his love - sometimes frightened her a little if she strayed for a moment off the - “love plane.” Her own responsiveness she never questioned, preferring to - shut her eyes and let the current of his love carry her whither it would. - But at times now, during her solitary walks through the Louvre, the - thought obtruded, What would the new life be like? Not these early days, - which were holidays from the seriousnesses of existence, but the life in - the years that lay before her, of whose responsibilities she had as yet - but vague premonitions. How would her art be affected? - </p> - <p> - Would it lose or gain in that breadth and insight that it needed? Would - she continue to reckon herself an artist at all, or would she only - degenerate into the amateur—painting little meaningless pictures for - amusement? And at the end of a year would she not stand face to face with - a new Clytie, paler, more shadowy, and therefore less insistently - demanding self-expression? Even these few weeks had changed her: what - would she be at the end of one year, two years, twenty years? Happier, - with all her old cravings satisfied, with her individuality worked out to - its fullest, with the riddle of life joyously solved? Or else——She - scarcely dared think of it. She looked at what had been written in her - Book of New Formulas, and found that the marriage service had been - omitted. It merely said that marriage was unformularisable, an easy way of - curving a contumelious lip at the old formulas which she had rebelled - against, but scarcely satisfactory in her present position. Now, in the - Old Formulas, marriage was minutely, scrupulously regulated by the most - definite of rules. Although they broke up the poem of life into a - disjointed copy-book, or at best into a collection of elegant extracts, - still they presented a homogeneous scheme. Should she at last have to - accept this, confess to Mrs. Blather smiling complacently that the - Durdleham philosophy was the only one? But then she would look at her - husband and take a measure of comfort. Such a man could not come out of - Durdleham. - </p> - <p> - That was her consolation in the perplexities that the problem of her - married life caused her. She took refuge from herself, her thoughts, her - forebodings, in his grand strength and personal magnetism. It was - intermittent intoxication, this long Paris after-honeymoon, rather than - continuous charm, and the intervals of soberness had their wearinesses. - She had thrown her cap over the windmills. Sometimes she regretted it. - </p> - <p> - On the evening after the above conversation they went to the opera, where - they had taken a box with the Claverings, army people with whom Thornton - had been intimate in Cairo. Clytie had met them only for a moment the day - before, and had not been favourably impressed. However, they were - Thornton's friends, and it behoved her to appreciate them. Mrs. Clavering - passed for being a clever woman by virtue of a plain face and a vivacious - manner; also because she ruled her husband and had a cultivated taste in - sherry. - </p> - <p> - Thornton had admired her some years before. Mammas with marriageable - daughters put it in that way; those who could afford to be independent put - it in another. Whichever way they put it in no wise affected the parties - concerned. Mrs. Clavering was too superior a woman to allow idle gossip to - influence her or her husband. Now she was eight-and-thirty, she had seen - the world and had preserved few illusions, least of all any respecting - Thornton Hammerdyke. She met him with a cynical encouragement, which to - some men is flattering. - </p> - <p> - Clytie was quick to notice her manner towards Thornton, and resented it. - There was a touch of banal familiarity, too, in his talk with Mrs. - Clavering that jarred upon her. The tone was undignified, suggestive of - the falser strata of regimental society, in which frankness stands for - scarcely veiled mutual contempt. - </p> - <p> - He was sitting behind Mrs. Clavering, who smiled in a superior, - half-patronising way at his remarks. Clytie listened to the music - absently, wished they had come alone. The house was crowded, and the air - was stifling. She found the opera, “La Juive,” uninteresting. - </p> - <p> - “I am going to carry off your husband to the terrace, Mrs. Hammerdyke,” - said Mrs. Clavering at the end of the second act, “and I leave you mine in - pledge. I hope he will take good care of you.” - </p> - <p> - He was a heavy but honest Briton, who idolised his wife, his dinner, and - the British Constitution. As neither the opera nor Clytie came within this - area of adoration, he treated them with a polite though somewhat - embarrassed indifference. Still he acquitted himself of his charge - satisfactorily and entertained Clytie during the <i>entr'acte</i>. After a - tour round the house he found a seat for her in the Salle des Pas Perdus - and talked with solemn fitfulness. Then it occurred to him that it was - oppressive indoors and he took her out upon the terrace. Clytie did not - wish to stay there long—only for a moment to get a breath of fresh - air. She remained for a little leaning on the broad balustrade and looking - at the scene in front of her—the broad <i>place</i> below with the - continuous passing to and fro of vehicles crossing each other in all - directions, the Café de la Paix on the right with its crowded tables far - out on the pavement and trayladen waiters hurrying between them, the - glittering vista of lights in the Avenue de l'Opera, the duller line of - lamps in the Rue de la Paix with the Vendôme column towering high in the - dim moonlight. It was so instinct with gaiety and movement and the - brightness of life that a little thrill of its gladness passed through - her, ending in a strange kind of sob that filled her throat. She took her - companion's arm, and went across through the stream of loungers back into - the heavy air of the Salle des Pas Perdus. - </p> - <p> - Meanwhile Thornton and Mrs. Clavering had established themselves in a - corner at the end of the terrace. - </p> - <p> - “It seems like old times—on the veranda—at a regimental - dance,” she said. “At least that is what you were going to say, I suppose. - I never yet met an old admirer but what he made some remark of the kind. - So I have saved you from the commonplace.” - </p> - <p> - “I was meditating some politeness of the sort,” replied Thornton - carelessly. “I thought you would expect it.” - </p> - <p> - “I hope you will always have the same delicate consideration for others, - Mr. Hammerdyke. How long are you going to be good and domestic?” - </p> - <p> - “Always, I suppose. I am going to run politics and that sort of show.” - </p> - <p> - Mrs. Clavering laughed lightly. - </p> - <p> - “Ha! When I see you at it I'll believe it—unless you have changed - extraordinarily since I last knew you. And you don't look much changed. - Perhaps matrimony will work the miracle. Ha! ha! Pardon my laughing, but - it seems so ridiculous to see you, of all people, married.” - </p> - <p> - “I suppose I have human attributes somewhere about me,” he said. - </p> - <p> - “Too vastly human, my poor friend; that is where the danger lies. To err - is human, you know. I hope your wife will do the divine part of the - business, as women generally do, and forgive. By the way, I have not made - you my compliment, as they say in this country. I think your wife simply - perfect.” - </p> - <p> - “We agree there for once,” replied Thornton drily. - </p> - <p> - “Tell me all about it. Can't you see I am dying to know? That is why I - brought you out here. Who is she? Where did you meet her? Were you long - engaged? And I know you too are dying to talk to someone about her. You - may as well gratify the craving while you still have it.” - </p> - <p> - “I believe you are madly jealous, Clara. Pardon my frankness. But you and - I always went in for being frank with one another.” - </p> - <p> - “Call it amiable brutality—it would be better.” - </p> - <p> - “As you like. I never went in for splitting hairs. I suppose it's brutal - to say you are jealous.” - </p> - <p> - “It is simply idiotic. Therefore I bear you no ill will for your saying - so. I honestly admire your wife, and think you have got very much more - than you deserve, and I am femininely curious. Now perhaps you will tell - me.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, I met her at a cousin's house. She is, or rather was, an artist.” - </p> - <p> - “I appreciate the distinction. Proceed.” - </p> - <p> - Thornton threw himself back with a great laugh against the balustrade, his - elbows resting upon it, his hands in his pockets. - </p> - <p> - “I think you are just a little bit jealous,” he said. “Well—to - finish my story. She is of an old Buckinghamshire family, and we were - engaged about a month. And then we were married. But tell me, by way of - changing the conversation——” - </p> - <p> - “Which may be painful.” - </p> - <p> - “Precisely. How long are you going to stay in Paris?” - </p> - <p> - “I don't know. As long as Paris pleases me. Am I going to see you any - more, or are you too much engrossed? I don't want to take you away from - your duties.” - </p> - <p> - “I don't think you are likely to, Clara.” - </p> - <p> - “Possibly not. Your wife will keep a tight rein upon you. She looks that - sort. But I don't know why we should be talking in this strain the first - time we have had a word together for—how many years? Four? Five? We - have quickly dropped into old ways. But then you were a fire-eater, a - chartered libertine, independent, a bird of freedom. Whereas now—my - poor friend!” - </p> - <p> - “By George!” cried Thornton, starting forward, with some excitement in his - eyes that glowed in the dimness, “don't fall into any delusion. If you - think I am going the way of another poor friend of ours who can't call his - soul his own, you are devilishly mistaken. I married because it happened - to strike me that I wanted to do so. But I run the concern, and my wife's - a sensible woman and recognises the fact. And whatever I want to do I am - going to do. I have generally done it, and don't see why I should break - through my habit now.” - </p> - <p> - “And your wife?” - </p> - <p> - “How—my wife?” - </p> - <p> - “Is she going to enjoy a beautiful independence likewise?” - </p> - <p> - “No. It isn't good for women.” - </p> - <p> - “Thank you. You always were a delicate judge in things feminine. Did you - ever read 'As You Like It'? 'Lock the door on your wife's wit and it will - out at the casement.' Have a care, my friend. I am about the only woman - you have tried to make a fool of and haven't succeeded, and so you perhaps - have a kind of respect for my intelligence, and I give you warning.” - </p> - <p> - “I burned some of your letters the other day,” said Thornton cynically. - </p> - <p> - “That was wise. Suppose we go in. The act must be about commencing.” - </p> - <p> - The curtain was already up. Major Clavering was scanning the house - drearily through a pair of opera glasses. Clytie was looking at the stage - and thinking of her husband, wishing he would come in. When the door - behind opened she turned round, and with an eye trained to catch fleeting - expression, noticed a look upon Thornton's face,—the after-light, as - it were, of a sneer, before the features had time to reset,—that she - had never observed there before. The change from this to his usual gay - smile was so rapid that she thought she had been mistaken, and attributed - it to an illusion produced by the shadow at the back of the box. But the - impression of it remained and it was unpleasant. - </p> - <p> - During the next <i>entr'acte</i> the men went out, leaving Clytie and Mrs. - Clavering alone together. Either through the mere social desire to please - or through a feeling of compassion proceeding from conscious superiority, - the elder woman sought to make an agreeable impression upon the young - wife. But Clytie had wrapped herself up in a strange veil of reserve and - her attitude was unpropitiatory. Mrs. Clavering's falsetto voice struck - upon her nerves, the confident air of patronage irritated her. She longed - to be away from the heavy, acrid atmosphere, the artificiality of the - opera, the society of Mrs. Clavering. She felt self-conscious, was angry - with herself. She had the keen feminine sense of a false position and - longed for extrication. She was glad when her husband and Major Clavering - returned. - </p> - <p> - “I have been telling Mrs. Hammerdyke about old times in Cairo, and singing - your praises,” said Mrs. Clavering. “Are you not grateful to me?” - </p> - <p> - “I am flattered,” said Thornton somewhat ironically. - </p> - <p> - “That is always the way to make a man grateful.” - </p> - <p> - “It is the same with us. I don't suppose there is much difference in that - respect between men and women,” said Clytie, for the sake of saying - something. - </p> - <p> - “I am not so sure of that,” replied Mrs. Clavering; “women can generally - sift the grain from the chaff—only, poor things, they too often take - the chaff by preference.” - </p> - <p> - “I hope you are not alluding to me, my dear,” said the major, who was - given to saying stupid things by way of showing that he followed the - thread of his wife's conversation. - </p> - <p> - Thornton chimed in with his deep laugh. - </p> - <p> - “That is one for you, Clavering. Perhaps one for me too. Anyhow, the - curtain is going up and that saves us. Make room for me by you, Clytie, - and tell me about what's going on.” - </p> - <p> - He edged in his chair between Clytie and Mrs. Clavering. The major lounged - behind, with his hands in his pockets, very much bored. He was hoping to - escape soon. - </p> - <p> - “Are you enjoying it?” whispered Thornton to Clytie. - </p> - <p> - “Moderately. It is a dull opera. And it is so unbearably hot.” - </p> - <p> - “It is not entrancingly interesting. Would you like to clear out after - this act? I should.” - </p> - <p> - “And the Claverings?” - </p> - <p> - “They are a bit tired of it. Shall we all go back together to the hotel - and have supper?” - </p> - <p> - “I'd sooner we were alone together, Thornton dear—this evening.” - </p> - <p> - He made a little gesture of impatience. - </p> - <p> - “Of course we won't ask them if you don't want to. But then we must stay - this thing out.” - </p> - <p> - He leaned back in his chair and looked at the mass of heads in the - opposite tiers, vague in the dimness, and drummed with his fingers on the - rails of his chair. - </p> - <p> - “Sh!” said Mrs. Clavering. “That's one of your old tricks. You never seem - to think that people have nerves.” - </p> - <p> - Clytie caught the words, although they were whispered. She turned her head - round quickly and stared at the stage for the rest of the act. - </p> - <p> - When it was over Mrs. Clavering solved the question of departure. - </p> - <p> - “I think we all want to go,” she said, rising. “My husband is suffering - acutely, and yours I know is not very musical. When shall we see you - again, Mrs. Hammerdyke? Will you come and dine with us some evening, - quietly—when we can talk better? I'll let you know what evenings we - are free. Will that do? That is your wife's cloak, not mine, Mr. - Hammerdyke.” - </p> - <p> - A few minutes later Thornton and Clytie were driving back to their hotel - in the pleasant Paris victoria. It seemed a superb night. A slight breeze - had risen, and the leaves in the Champs Elysées rustled pleasantly. Clytie - leaned back with a sense of relief, physical and moral. They had both been - rather silent since they left the opera house. - </p> - <p> - “Don't let us go in,” said Clytie suddenly. “Let us drive about a little, - along the quays—anywhere.” - </p> - <p> - “I was just going to suggest it,” said Thornton. - </p> - <p> - He gave the order to the coachman, who turned back through the Place de la - Concorde and took them past the Tuileries and the great mass of the Louvre - and along the quays in the direction of Auteuil. - </p> - <p> - “What do you think of the Clavering woman?” asked Thornton. “Not much, - eh?” - </p> - <p> - “I can't say that I like her. Perhaps I oughtn't to say it, as she is a - friend of yours, but—she doesn't please me.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, I can't say that she does me now. She never was a beauty, but she - has sadly fallen off the last few years. She thinks herself so deuced - superior. And she isn't, by Jove! Still she is amusing, you know, and that - is a quality that covers a multitude of sins. But other women can't - understand her. She was loathed by them all in Cairo, so you are not alone - in your antipathy.” - </p> - <p> - There was a long silence. Thornton drew her closer to his side and took - her hand in his. Clytie felt somewhat hurt. It was not flattering to be - grouped with the other women in Cairo, however estimable they may have - been in their non-appreciation of Mrs. Clavering. They drove on, and began - to talk of different subjects, disconnectedly, without much interest. - Finally Thornton came back to the Claverings. - </p> - <p> - “By the way, I suppose you'll dine with them, as they were civil enough to - ask us.” - </p> - <p> - “Certainly, if you wish it and it gives you any pleasure. Perhaps I may - like her better when I know more of her.” - </p> - <p> - “You see, you can't drop people because you don't happen to take a violent - fancy to them,” he said rather lamely. And then he added: - </p> - <p> - “I wish you had let me ask them to supper.” - </p> - <p> - “Why?” - </p> - <p> - “It would have livened us up a little.” - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps it would,” answered Clytie almost wearily. “I half wish you had.” - </p> - <p> - The evanescent charm had gone from the drive. The weather, too, had - changed. Clouds, that had imperceptibly gathered, covered the moon. The - quay looked desolate, the water black and lifeless, on the other side the - great buildings loomed forbidding in the darkness. An air of - disenchantment was over all things. - </p> - <p> - “Will monsieur turn back? It is going to rain,” said the cabman, lounging - sideways and looking down at them. - </p> - <p> - They turned off through the narrow streets, on the nearest way back to the - hotel. The cab horse was tired and jogged on painfully, indifferent to the - loud-cracking whip and the “<i>hue's</i>” addressed to him in the driver's - raucous voice. Clytie shivered a little at the sudden fall in the - temperature. She was chilled too—ever so little—at her heart. - She drew away slightly from her husband, who held her hand mechanically. - When she withdrew it he did not seem to notice. He had discovered that he - was annoyed about the supper. - </p> - <p> - Suddenly the horse, overdriven, stumbled, tried to recover himself, and - then crashed down helpless, snapping the shaft. The victoria lurched - violently on the side where Clytie was sitting. To save herself she jumped - out quickly, but her foot slipped on the kerb and she nearly fell. - Thornton sprang out and raised her, and then turned to the coachman in a - sudden frenzy of passion. He stood there moving his arms about and cursed - him in English. Clytie was shocked to the heart. She was thankful that she - could see his face but dimly in the bad gaslight. The cabman shrugged his - shoulders as he bent down to loosen the traces. Some people came up, - chiefly from a small <i>brasserie</i> whose few tables were just visible - some yards further along the street. Another cab arrived and paused, - interested and expectant, watching the scene: the little group round the - fallen horse; the stately figure of the girl in white dress and rich - opera-cloak standing by the upset cab; the great figure of the man, - stamping with rage, pouring forth a torrent of oaths. It all happened very - quickly. - </p> - <p> - Clytie touched her husband's arm quietly. - </p> - <p> - “Stop, Thornton,” she said. “He does not even understand you.” - </p> - <p> - Thornton looked at her for a moment, then at the group. Then he burst into - a loud laugh, pulled a ten-franc piece from his pocket and threw it to the - cabman, who picked it up with an ironical, “<i>Merci, bourgeois</i>.” - </p> - <p> - They entered the other cab and drove quickly homewards. Thornton seemed to - have forgotten his rage, for he laughed in high spirits over the incident. - He apologised gaily for his loss of temper and language. He was still - infected with his years of savagery, he pleaded. He had been so accustomed - to rule men by terror that he forgot himself sometimes. Often he had been - the only white man among hundreds of fierce, lawless savages, over whom he - had despotic authority of life and death. If they had not feared his rage - and violence, his life would not have been worth a moment's purchase. - </p> - <p> - He had regained his old manner, the daring personal charm that had swept - her along in spite of herself into marrying him. The glamour of his fame, - his power, his heroism came over her and hid the sordid scenes of the - evening. When they reached the hotel they were lovers once more. - </p> - <p> - As Clytie alighted from the cab her foot gave way beneath her. It had been - hurting her since her slip on the kerb, but she had scarcely noticed the - pain. Now she found that she could not walk. She had sprained her ankle. - She limped into the hotel with Thornton's aid. Then she stood at the foot - of the stairs and looked at them helplessly. It was an old-fashioned - hotel, without a lift, and their rooms were on the third story. - </p> - <p> - “I'll carry you up,” said Thornton. - </p> - <p> - He took her up in his arms, and mounted the stairs with a step as light - and springy as if he had no burden to carry. Until then Clytie had not - realised his marvellous strength. - </p> - <p> - “I feel like the fairy princess being carried off by the giant,” she - whispered. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XVII. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">C</span>lytie was confined - several days to her room through her sprained ankle. It was not an - unqualified affliction, as it solved the question of her dining with the - Claverings. - </p> - <p> - Thornton went alone, carrying with him his wife's excuses and regrets, and - returned to her in high spirits. When she was able to get about again the - Claverings had left Paris for Homburg, where they were going to stay for a - few weeks. “And when they return to London we can see just as much or as - little of them as we like,” said Thornton. - </p> - <p> - The forced confinement also brought Clytie a little more solitude than - usual. Thornton found a race meeting or two to go to, and a nominally - bachelor supper party, and he laughed, in his gay manner, at this - resumption of bachelor habits. Clytie was rather glad, on the whole, to be - left to her own society for a little. She was gradually awakening from the - dream, realising herself. Very often in the ordinary, sober moments of - life Thornton jarred upon her. His absence often was a relief. She hated - herself when this unwelcome and unbidden thought came into her mind; but - it came for all her hating. The sprained ankle marked definitely the end - of this second or false honeymoon in Paris, whose glamour was the - lingering twilight glow of the real one in Bordighera. It was then that - Clytie first thought of the railway journey as a landmark. After her - recovery Thornton continued his bachelor habits as a matter of course, and - as a matter of course discontinued his playful apologies. Still he took - Clytie whithersoever she expressed a desire to go, and gladly, proud of - having his beautiful wife by his side. Only, if she elected to remain at - home, he went out equally cheerfully by himself. - </p> - <p> - Occasionally they drove in the Bois in a neat phaeton and pair which he - hired for her from a livery-stable, and he would point out to her the - celebrities whom they passed by. Some of these she had herself met or seen - at the various social functions to which they had received invitations. - They themselves, too, had become known and were pointed out with some - curiosity,—<i>le beau couple</i>, as the phrase went,—even by - those who were unacquainted with their name or position. Thornton was - always in his gayest humour on these occasions as he sat by his wife's - side and guided his pair through the crush of magnificent equipages; and - she felt glad too and elated, pleased by the vivid flashes of colouring in - dresses and parasols, and the vague perfumes that filled the air, and the - half-caught scraps of conversation and laughter. Her girlish delight at - the gladness of life came back to her fresh and untainted. She indulged - her old habit of speculation on the life that lay beneath individual - faces, which she stored up in her memory for rapid sketching when at - leisure, and she would draw Thornton into her vein, and then there were - arguments without end. These were some of her happiest moments in Paris, - when she recovered her old self, bright, satirical, paradoxical, and felt - no cold hand on her heart. - </p> - <p> - One day, towards the end of their stay in Paris, they had drawn up in the - block of carriages by the side of the promenade. The sun was powerful, and - the glaring colours in the carriages contrasted with the cool tones of - white and gray in the deep shade under the chestnut-trees. Clytie was - animatedly observing the bright scene when her eyes met those of a woman, - quietly though expensively dressed, seated in an open carriage quite close - by. For a moment they looked at one another in silent inquiry, and then - came a flash of mutual recognition. It was the girl whom Clytie had met - the summer before in the hotel at Dinan. The scene, with its mingled - associations of wonder and pity, came back to her, and moved by a strong - impulse she smiled and moved her head slightly. A look of eager wonderment - came over the other's face as she returned Clytie's greeting. And then she - turned quickly away to talk to a man who had just come up to the side of - the carriage. - </p> - <p> - “Confound it, Clytie!” cried Thornton, setting the horses in motion, “you - must really make sure who people are before you bow to them. Do you know - who that woman is?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” said Clytie, “that is to say, I know what she is. I don't know her - name.” - </p> - <p> - “She is one of the most notorious women in Paris, Loulou Mendès. You - mustn't go playing the fool like this! What did you bow to her for?” - </p> - <p> - “Because I know her—a little.” - </p> - <p> - “You—know—her?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, yes, Thornton dear; it is somewhat of a story. I met her accidentally - last year in Dinan. She was in trouble, and I took a fancy for her, and - seeing her suddenly here, I showed her that I recognised her.” - </p> - <p> - “I sincerely hope you won't do such a thing again,” he said shortly, - giving a vicious cut to the horses that sent them spinning down the <i>allée</i>. - “And please to remember that you are not an amateur Bohemian any longer, - but my wife.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, Thornton, you mustn't say things like that!” said Clytie, with a - queer little catch at her throat. “They hurt me!” - </p> - <p> - “Well, you mustn't deserve them,” replied Thornton. And then, mollifying - at the sight of her distress: “You don't understand these things, little - wife.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, never mind, dear,” said Clytie. “Perhaps it was foolish of me. I - ought to have considered you; I didn't think of it. She kissed my hand the - last time I saw her, and it would have seemed base and hypocritical to - have cut her dead to-day. It seemed such a little matter. Why hurt the - girl's feelings? That's why I did it.” - </p> - <p> - “Feelings?” echoed Thornton, with a laugh. “Bah! my good child, you are - talking nonsense. She put her feelings up the spout years ago to get - herself champagne and diamonds and the rest of it. With her soul sold to - the devil and her body to men, what the deuce is she going to do with - feelings?” - </p> - <p> - “What I saw of her was very human, Thornton. And if such women are brutes, - it is men who make them so. If men were only kinder and tenderer——” - </p> - <p> - “Like the sentimental idiot in 'Jenny.' That's a poem about it, you know.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes—Rossetti; I am very fond of it,” she replied, with a half - smile, wondering somewhat at his explanation. Then she added: “But surely - there's humanity in every human being.” - </p> - <p> - “That's a very sweet, innocent belief, and you had better keep to it, my - dear.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, Thornton, I'm not an ignorant little schoolgirl,” she said, with hurt - vanity. “I have learned something of the world. Perhaps I have been too - eager to acquaint myself with things.” - </p> - <p> - “Anyhow, you can't know much about them,” he replied shortly. “Leave such - things alone. They don't concern you, so what's the good of prying into - them?” - </p> - <p> - “They have concerned me,” she insisted. “Believe me, Thornton, it was - something deeper than ordinary morbid curiosity that led me to them.” - </p> - <p> - “But I can't see what the deuce the Social Question has to do with girls,” - he said. “That is what licks me. What the dickens has it got to do with - your life?” - </p> - <p> - “But you mistake, Thornton,” she replied eagerly, with a return of her old - earnestness. “It is not the Social Question. Indeed not. I never have any - call to look at things in that aspect. I am neither a sociologist nor a - reformer. I am an artist. I have to express certain truths about human - beings,—the little talent I have lies entirely that way,—and - in order to express the truths I had to set to work to learn them. How all - this corruption affects society, how it is to be done away with and so on, - does not come within my province. But to get to the hearts and inner - feelings of individuals, to see how society affects them, what - justification they have in their struggle with it, how they contemplate - life, what elements of emotion, or passion, or weariness, or what not form - essential parts of their beings that do not form essential parts of mine—to - try to do that, Thornton, <i>has</i> been my business, and, till I knew - you, was the dearest motive of my life. Don't you see?” - </p> - <p> - “And when you have done it what good will it do to yourself or anybody - else?” - </p> - <p> - “To answer you I should have to appear conceited. It would be answering - the question, What is the good of art at all?” - </p> - <p> - “Well, all said and done, what is the good of it? To make pretty and - amusing things to look at. All the rest is cant and humbug—including - your desire to scrape acquaintance with loose women for artistic purposes. - Look here, little wife”—and he turned round, with a sharp smile that - showed his white teeth more than usual—“I didn't fall in love with - you because you were an artist and held highfalutin' theories about - artistic ideals and so forth, but because you were the woman whose - loveliness appealed to me and always fascinated me. And now you are my - wife you have other things to think about.” - </p> - <p> - “I know that, Thornton,” she replied, staring a little wistfully in front - of her. “Tell me. What is our new life going to be like? You speak so - little of it that I scarcely know.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh! what's the good of worrying yourself about it yet? I'll tell you when - the time comes. You'll have our position in society to look after, keep - things going straight for me in quarters where a woman can wheedle out - more in an hour than a man in a twelvemonth. I have definitely taken up - politics, you know. Things were settled this morning.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, why didn't you tell me before?” she cried involuntarily. - </p> - <p> - “I never thought of it, my dear. Well, Hernshawe has asked me whether I - would care to be his private secretary. His present man is in the Civil - Service and is resigning owing to some office promotion, so when the House - meets after the Whitsuntide recess Hernshawe will be free to take me.” - </p> - <p> - “I don't quite understand,” said Clytie, to whom these details were all - new. She was vaguely aware that Thornton had intentions of aiming at a - parliamentary career, but as he had volunteered no confidences, she had - shrunk from soliciting them. - </p> - <p> - “I don't understand,” she repeated, “why you should take a - private-secretaryship. You want to enter Parliament.” - </p> - <p> - “Of course. But I am so out of things that I want to get into training, so - to speak. I shall be this session, perhaps next, with Hernshawe and learn - all the ropes, and then he will run me for a suitable vacancy. It is as - simple as good-morning, as they say in this country. I must do something, - and politics seem about the only mildly exciting thing to go in for in - this severely flat and respectable continent. But beyond looking after the - society side of the matter, I don't see why you need worry your pretty - head about it.” - </p> - <p> - “Then don't you want me to become a bit of a politician, so as to help - you, and understand you in your career?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, of course, to a certain extent,” he replied with cheerful - offhandedness. “But for God's sake, my dear child, don't become a - political woman. If there's one kind of a woman I bar more than another, - its the female politician. Of course you'll have to go round canvassing - for votes at the election, and to humbug people in society, but all that - is rather sport than otherwise? Never mind, little wife; you'll have a - ripping good time in London when the show begins.” - </p> - <p> - He laughed, in gay good humour again. Clytie echoed with a faint smile. - </p> - <p> - “Thornton,” she said after a short pause, “I don't want to bother you - about politics if you don't like it”—she felt now a strange - hesitation in speaking to him—“but you know you'll have to convert - me, dear. It has been on my mind for some time. You are a Tory, you know, - and I have been a Radical hitherto in feelings and sympathies.” - </p> - <p> - He burst out laughing at her little air of seriousness. Perhaps if he had - known how he hurt her, he would not have treated the matter so cavalierly. - This difference in political views had been a question of some concern to - Clytie, who was aware of old-fashioned Tory prejudices. And Thornton took - her Radicalism as a jest, attributing no importance to the difference of - opinion. - </p> - <p> - “You'll change when we get back and become a shining light in the Primrose - League.” - </p> - <p> - She was too depressed by the whole of the foregoing conversation to pursue - the subject any further. Thornton started the lighter topic of personal - criticism of their new acquaintances in Paris, and rattled on in great - spirits. He had forgotten entirely the argument that Clytie's somewhat - unconventional action had occasioned, and was as boyishly gay as ever. But - men forget things much more easily than women, especially when they have - no object in remembering, nor any reminiscent twinge of susceptibility. - </p> - <p> - That evening Clytie spent alone. Thornton was dining at the Café des - Ambassadeurs with some men from the Embassy. He had kissed her before he - started, called himself a selfish brute for condemning her to a dull - evening, and went away humming a café-concert air. She did not mind his - leaving her, took it now as a matter of course that each should be to a - certain extent independent of the other; for the glamour of the south had - departed, and the practicalities of life had begun to assert themselves. - But it was the first wretched evening of her married life. She would have - liked to cry, but as she was not of those who cry easily, she sat with - eyes all the more painful for being strained and tearless. She had - received a great shock. Ever since she had rebelled against the Durdleham - formula that men were to descend from their intellectual sublimity when - they spoke to women, lest like Semele the latter should be consumed in the - Jovian blaze, she had been accustomed to meet men freely on an - intellectual level. To find herself in a society where this particular - formula was unknown had been one of the earliest joys of her emancipated - life. She had very little vanity in the matter of her own attainments, but - she took it for granted that her associates should recognise in her a - woman of ordinary culture, capable of forming rational opinions. Her - intelligence was keen, her judgment fine. She had read, thought, observed. - Her art was to a certain extent a matter of intellect as well as of - instinctive feeling, and in this respect had been stimulated by her - intercourse with Kent. In the glow of her young, ardent nature she had - committed many extravagances, but they all had borne the indubitable stamp - of a mind strenuous in its endeavours. None but fools had ever thought of - condescending to Clytie because she was a woman. - </p> - <p> - And now for the first time she was coolly shown that she was a woman, that - her opinions were not worth serious consideration, that she must not - trouble her pretty-head about things that were too deep for her. And by - the man, above all, whose life she shared. They were hours of dull, dazed - humiliation that she spent alone that evening; hours that were not lost - even in the pain of her after life. Over the absence of sympathy with her - own pursuits she was only a little regretful. It would have been nicer if - Thornton had been able to take a pleasure in her art. But she was too - large-natured not to be able to bridge over this small gap between them. - She was ready to sacrifice her art entirely to her love, was eager to - throw herself into his interests and ambitions. But she demanded a full, - vigorous share. To live an empty life was with her an impossibility. And - to this life Thornton, in his good-natured contempt for her powers, was - condemning her. She was puzzled, humiliated, frightened. - </p> - <p> - There is a vague mystery of woe in the dawn of a dreary day. - </p> - <p> - Meanwhile Thornton was enjoying himself amazingly. The dinner was one - which, as Heine says, “ought to be partaken of kneeling,” and the wine was - excellent; the party well chosen, the talk essentially, broadly masculine. - There is a certain type of man whose conversation is wholly made up of - sport in its various aspects, women, shop, and crude personal gossip—a - type which numbers its tens of thousands in English society. It can be met - with, to utter weariness of the soul, in any heterogeneous gathering of - upper- and middle-class Britons. They are God's creatures, it is true; - many of them are possessed of estimable qualities, some of them have - performed deeds of heroism. But as a type they are a glaring satire upon - the vaunted culture and refinement of our civilisation. And it is a - remarkable thing how little their power and influence are recognised by - writers in their analysis of the spirit of this dying nineteenth century. - This vast overwhelming type does not read, does not think, does not care - for art or music, has no power of penetration to the heart of delicate - things. It is dull, brawny, selfish, and a pillar of the Church and State. - Its main subjective characteristic is the brutality of its views - concerning women—varying from the kindly disdain of its highest - members to the degraded brutality of its lowest. - </p> - <p> - Of this type, with all his physical charm, his brilliant personality and - splendid capacities for action, was Thornton Hammerdyke. The man whose - magnetism had drawn Clytie irresistibly, headlong into his arms was only, - after all, a representative of this ignoble, commonplace order of men. The - love that had flooded Clytie's being with wild surging tumult was only, - after all, the commonplace, ignoble passion of his type. There are some - things so elementary that analysis quickly comes to an end. Put in a strip - of litmus paper and it is done. - </p> - <p> - He was honestly glad to be free of Clytie. With unconscious cynicism he - never sought to disguise it from himself. With Carteret of the Hussars and - Swithin and Holyoake of the Embassy he was in his proper sphere. They were - of the type. He had interests in common with them. The fact that he was a - man of high distinction was neither here nor there. Over the fish and <i>entrées</i> - they talked of racing and shooting; over the game they wandered along the - upper galleries of the Cloaca Maxima of Paris; over the peaches and - Château-Mouton they told foul stories. An ignoble, commonplace dinner - party. - </p> - <p> - And Clytie was alone in her room at the hotel staring at an unknown - future. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XVIII. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he last three days - of their stay in Paris were marked by a return on the part of Thornton to - his old devotion. He declined invitations ruthlessly, spent almost the - whole of his time with his wife. In all outward and visible signs they - were lovers again, but the inward and spiritual grace was a bit vapoury. - They went on excursions together, to Fontainebleau, Melun, Passy. One day - they wandered about the forest of Vincennes and he kissed her beneath the - trees as he used to do at Bordighera. They had gay, laughing meals - together at little riverside restaurants. He was passionate in his - expressions of endearment and in his delight at her beauty. With the - negative tact of passion, he avoided all subjects that could jar upon her. - For three days he was the Thornton of their honeymoon. - </p> - <p> - Clytie at first could not understand this sudden change. She asked him the - reason tremulously. - </p> - <p> - “Can't you see, you silly girl,” he replied with masterful frankness, - “that I love you and we have only three more days' idleness?” - </p> - <p> - And then she let the spell come over her again and surrendered herself to - his mood. But now, instead of entering with spontaneous joy a world of - laughter whose magic gates lay open before her, she crossed the threshold - with deliberate step. She had to choose whether to laugh or cry. She was - young, she wanted to love her husband; so she chose to laugh. It was an - act of reason. But woe to love when reason has to find its argument! - </p> - <p> - By Whitsuntide they were in London, installed in their house in the - Cromwell Road. The three days' passion had cooled down, and the atmosphere - was colder than before. But Clytie for several weeks was so busy that she - had not time for much consideration of troubling questions. First, the - house required her attention. There was much supplementary furniture to be - chosen, many minor schemes of decoration to be carried out in accordance - with her own artistic tastes. - </p> - <p> - Thornton gave her a free hand in these matters, and, beyond taking it for - granted that the house should be fitly arranged, never troubled himself - about details. He attended two or three picture sales with Clytie, where - he bought a few pictures on her recommendation, ordered some great leather - armchairs for his smoking-room, and then transferred his attention to - concerns of more serious interest. So Clytie, left unhampered, succeeded - in arranging the house to her own satisfaction. This occupied a great - portion of her time; the rest was almost entirely devoted to her social - duties. - </p> - <p> - She found herself in some small position in society, as the artistic wife - of a distinguished soldier of fortune with a considerable income, and it - was Thornton's special ambition for the time being that this position - should be maintained and secured, in furtherance of his own personal - projects. Whilst contemplating marriage, or rather after he had, in his - fierce impetuous way, decided upon it, he had sought around after some - practical interest in his new life. He had forsworn Africa, with a - virtuous sense of self-sacrifice. What remained worthy of a man's serious - attention? He did not consult Clytie. It scarcely occurred to him that the - subject concerned her. Of the few careers that presented themselves he - selected two, the turf and politics, and wavered for some time in his - choice. At last he tossed up for it, as he had often done at the fork of - two paths in the forest. The coin came down with the Queen's head - uppermost—and that meant politics. He was a Tory of the fiercer - school. Even if family and professional tradition had not influenced him, - a lengthy course of despotic authority enforced by the halter and the butt - end of a musket is not favourable to the cultivation of Liberal suavities - and amenities. And again, the “type” is almost always Tory. He was even - out of touch with the broader Conservativism of our day, between which and - modern Liberalism he failed to appreciate the distinction. In fact his - political ideals, such as they were, belonged to the beginning instead of - the end of the century, but he expressed them with a fervour that left no - doubt as to their genuineness. - </p> - <p> - He had no difficulty in setting at work the machinery of social influence, - and the result was the offer of a private-secretaryship on the part of an - under-secretary of state. He accepted it. It would not only afford him an - insight into the practical working of politics, but would give him an - opportunity of making himself known to the chiefs of the Conservative - party and securing their influence when he should seek to enter - Parliament. When everything was settled he informed Clytie casually in - Paris of his new ambitions. She, too, had wondered what outlet this man of - restless action would find for his energies, and, shrinking from inquiry, - had been filled with vague uneasiness. Now she felt that he had made a - worthy choice and in spite of dubious encouragement strove to identify - herself with his interests. True, she contemplated with a little dismay - the abandonment of her own pet social theories, which tended towards an - advanced and somewhat inchoate Radicalism, and the espousal of a cause - forming part of a scheme of life against which she had so passionately - rebelled. But she wilfully, almost desperately, shut her eyes against all - this. She would give her heart and soul to Thornton's glory, and the - sacrifice of principle on her part would only accentuate the triumph. But - this sacrifice Thornton did not concern himself to realise. Very few men - ever do. As we have seen, he laughed at it. - </p> - <p> - He entered upon his political duties as soon as they returned to London, - led a busy life of work and pleasure, throwing into both the energy of his - strong vitality. He was not a man to wait. Social position, power, must be - wrested from the world by force of arms. The sooner the struggle began and - the fiercer it was fought the sooner would come success. It behoved - Clytie, therefore, to enter upon it with him at once. Before she could - realise herself as mistress of a large house, as cut off from the old - habits that had invested London with earnest charm, as sundered from Kent - and Winifred, as deprived of her art and her dreams and ambition, she - found herself caught up in the whirl of London society, bidden to - cultivate its conventions, flatter its weaknesses, intrigue, gossip, - dance, drive, rush, without a moment's pause to think. - </p> - <p> - And thus began her new life. It was not the one she had dreamed of. In - fact she hardly recognised herself in her deliberate subordination to a - nature dominating hers. She let herself drift, abandoning herself to the - current, clutching hold of her love towards her husband as the only plank - saving her from destruction. - </p> - <p> - Winifred she saw occasionally. She had no time for anything beyond a half - hour's gossip, and then she forgot her own hopes and fears in the - happiness of her friend, who had just become engaged to Treherne. She saw - nothing of Kent. A feeling she could not analyse restrained her from - writing to him, ever so formally. It was analogous to the whimsical - shrinking from sketching his portrait when she had first met him. She - heard of him, however, through Winifred. He came down to the studio still - occasionally, and chatted over the teacups—“chiefly about you, - dear,” said Winifred, “and the old days and your present life.” - </p> - <p> - “And is he changed at all?” asked Clytie. “It seems centuries since those - same old days. I feel almost like asking whether he has a gray head and - carries his years well!” - </p> - <p> - “It does seem a long time,” said Winifred reflectively. “But it really - isn't, you know, and Kent is just the same as ever. His trip abroad has - done him so much good. Do you know, dear, except Victor—and Mr. - Hammerdyke, of course—I think he is the best man in all the world.” - </p> - <p> - Her brown cheeks flushed as she spoke, and Clytie bent down and kissed - them. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, Winnie darling, I wish everybody were as true and loyal as you,” she - said. - </p> - <p> - A great sob was in her heart, and she would have given much to have buried - her face in Winnie's lap and let the tears come how they would. But she - mastered herself, and before the other had time to hear the echo of the - chord that was struck she went on: - </p> - <p> - “Tell me, Winnie, how is his great work getting on?” - </p> - <p> - “Rapidly, I believe,” answered Winifred. “He seems to have nothing else to - live for now. I think he misses you, dear, and plunges into it as a kind - of consolation. He has had a great compliment paid him—have you - heard? He met a great Austrian scientist, Herr ————, - I can't remember his name—it doesn't matter. Anyhow, he showed this - professor his work, and talked to him about the difficulties of - publishing, expense, and all that, and a few days ago he received an offer - from the University of Vienna to translate what was already done into - German and publish it there. He says it is a most distinguished honour.” - </p> - <p> - “I am so glad, dear,” said Clytie. “I feel proud of him, and I wish I - could see him—to give him my congratulations. You will tell him that - I asked after him, won't you, Winnie?” - </p> - <p> - “Why, of course!” said Winifred. “Don't we always talk of you?” - </p> - <p> - Mrs. Blather was anxious that Clytie and her husband should come to - Durdleham to stay there after the season in town was over. But Clytie - replied evasively to the affectionate invitation. She shrank from - Durdleham even more than from herself. Mrs. Blather, now that the soreness - as regards the wedding had worn off, was delighted at the brilliant match—just - the very marriage one could have wished for Clytie, as she remarked over - the Durdleham tea tables. Besides, it was definite settling down for - Clytie, saving them from that shadow of scandal that had always seemed - liable to be cast over them through her unprincipled behaviour. There were - no longer any fears. And Mrs. Blather had her own little triumph in - another way. She remembered now she had prophesied years ago that Clytie's - desire to live her art life in London was a craze that would not last long—like - Janet's transient enthusiasm for cookery classes. Both Janet and herself - took it for granted that Clytie viewed her past errors with the same - indulgent retrospective smile, and wrote her complacent letters based on - this assumption. And Clytie found it harder than ever to write to them - naturally, to answer these letters in the same tone. If her sisters had - failed to understand her when to her her young, earnest self was brightly - intelligible, how could they do it now when she saw herself vaguely, - dimly, wrapped in impenetrable vapours? A visit to Durdleham, under the - circumstances, seemed almost an ordeal. Yet Thornton's presence there - might make some difference. - </p> - <p> - She spoke to him very little on the subject. He broached it himself one - day at breakfast, almost the only time now, except late at night, that she - saw him alone. It was nearing the end of July and the session of - Parliament was on the eve of closing. - </p> - <p> - “When are you going to see your people, Clytie?” he asked, looking over - his paper. - </p> - <p> - “I thought I had told you. They want us to come for a week as soon as we - can leave town.” - </p> - <p> - “Us?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes; won't you come?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, no, thanks. It would not suit me at all. You go and make an excuse - for me.” - </p> - <p> - “Things are not gay there, I know,” said Clytie, “but I should like you to - come with me.” - </p> - <p> - “It can't be done, my dear,” replied Thornton. “You had better have a - quiet time there by yourself, while I go up to Scotland——” - </p> - <p> - “I thought you would have liked me to go to Scotland with you—we - have seen so little of each other lately. You don't want to stay up there - all the autumn without me?” she added half pathetically. - </p> - <p> - “Why, my dear Clytie, you can come if you like,” said her husband, drawing - back his chair from the table. “Only you won't find much fun in a little - shooting-box in the middle of a glen in the Highlands. Look: you go and - see your people for a month, and then, if you like, you can come and join - me there—that is to say, if Carteret has any of his women folks - staying in the house, which does not seem to be quite settled yet. If he - hasn't, naturally you can't come.” - </p> - <p> - “In that case I shall not go to Durdleham—I couldn't. You would not - understand why. I shall stay in London, and mind the house.” - </p> - <p> - “I should not like you to do that,” said Thornton. - </p> - <p> - “Why not?” - </p> - <p> - “Because I had rather you did not,” he repeated, with a gathering frown. - </p> - <p> - “How long do you contemplate being away?” asked Clytie quietly. - </p> - <p> - “August and September, perhaps—I can't quite tell yet.” - </p> - <p> - “Do you propose, then, that I should go and stay in Durdleham for two - months with my people?” - </p> - <p> - He had not contemplated it, but he was irritated at her show of - opposition. He lost his temper and said sharply: - </p> - <p> - “Yes. Or with any other friends you like. I am not going to have you - remain here all by yourself.” - </p> - <p> - “Will you tell me your reasons, Thornton?” asked Clytie. - </p> - <p> - He crumpled up his paper angrily and thumped it on the table. The veins in - his forehead stood out. His face grew ugly. - </p> - <p> - “When I say a thing is to be done I mean it,” he cried, “and I am not - accustomed to be asked for my reasons!” - </p> - <p> - “I shall leave you until you have recovered yourself,” said Clytie with - dignity, and she left the room. - </p> - <p> - This was the first real quarrel between them. The blood had often rushed - hot through Clytie's veins and set her pulses tingling, but hitherto she - had restrained herself, feeling that the first revolt would mark the - beginning of the end. - </p> - <p> - She passed a miserable day. When Thornton came home in the afternoon to - dress for dinner he was in one of his light-hearted moods. He had backed - an outsider some weeks back at very long odds. The race had been run that - day and the outsider had won, bringing him a couple of thousand pounds—a - windfall that relieved him of certain temporary embarrassments. Hence his - buoyancy that afternoon. He had apparently forgotten the morning's - difference, and called Clytie “little wife” again, and promised her a - victoria to supplement the modest brougham with which they had begun. He - put his arm round her and kissed her, praised her beautiful hair, the - roundness of her arms, her dress. He told her the gossip of the day in his - bright off-hand manner, made her laugh in spite of her weariness. But when - he kissed her she shrank a little. In the elation of his victory he did - not notice her lack of responsiveness; besides, he was not over-sensitive - at any time. When they returned home at night from the dinner-party to - which they had gone together, Thornton was still in pleasant mood. Nothing - more was said respecting the plans for August and September. - </p> - <p> - The reconciliation did not last long. Clytie strove with an earnestness - that was torture to keep the peace between them, but sometimes her nature - clamoured within her and broke out in self-assertion. Only four months - married, and already the breach between them was perceptible, slowly - widening. And it was Clytie that drifted away from her husband. If she had - been a lesser nature, she might have retained the love on both sides. A - woman of a lower type would have been able to flatter, soothe, cajole, - yield, and thus have kept Thornton at her feet. The patronising contempt - for her own needs, which lashed Clytie to the soul, she would have treated - lightly, as the natural and foolish vanity of the superior being; and she - would have found in a sudden demonstration of passion full compensation - for previous indifference. But Clytie was not only unversed herself in the - arts of seduction, but despised them fiercely in other women. And she - began also to dread Thornton's fits of affection as much as his fits of - anger. - </p> - <p> - He left her one morning quivering with mortification and suppressed - bitterness. He himself was not conscious of the slight he had inflicted, - and he went away in gay spirits. Their talk had turned upon a Cabinet - Minister named Godderich, whose influence Thornton was anxious to acquire. - Now it had so happened that this same Godderich had succeeded in making - himself vastly obnoxious to Clytie. She told her husband this, giving him - the reasons. - </p> - <p> - “I have not been accustomed to that kind of admiration,” she said, “and I - don't like it.” - </p> - <p> - But Thornton laughed his great laugh, called her “his unconventional - prude,” and went on to show her what an invaluable ally Godderich was. - </p> - <p> - “You must swallow your dislike, Clytie,” he said. “Why, God bless my soul, - if ninety-nine women out of a hundred had that chance, they would get the - eyes out of his head.” - </p> - <p> - “Would you so much desire me to be like ninety-nine women out of a - hundred, then, Thornton?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, nonsense, Clytie; you know what I mean. Come! Don't you see that - here's a way of pushing things on a bit? What does it matter if the ass is - attentive? You can laugh at him. But keep him in hand a bit until we want - to let him loose. Do you see? Of course I trust you, and all that sort of - thing.” - </p> - <p> - “I thank you for your confidence,” she replied. “But I don't think you - will need to exercise it much.” - </p> - <p> - “What do you mean?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, never mind. Do you really want me, Thornton, to encourage this man to - make love to me, so as to get a hold on him for other purposes?” - </p> - <p> - “I never saw anyone like you for the dotting of i's,” said Thornton, - amused. “But that's about the size of it. Don't you see what an infernal - ass we can make of him? Well, think it over, little wife. Good-bye.” - </p> - <p> - He opened the front door,—this little conversation had taken place - in the hall,—and ran down the steps very well pleased with himself. - </p> - <p> - But Clytie's heart turned from him and she passed a wretched day—all - the more trying as she felt in honour bound to sing antistrophe of praise - of Thornton to the strophe of Mrs. Farquharson, with whom she was - lunching. - </p> - <p> - In the evening they were going out together. He came home late from - Westminster, dressed hurriedly, and went down to the drawing-room, where - Clytie was waiting. She was wearing a low-cut dress. Her arms were bare. A - tiny diamond clasp to a thin gold chain flashed on her bosom. - </p> - <p> - “By Jove! You're looking lovelier than ever!” he cried. “Come, let me kiss - you.” - </p> - <p> - He drew her to him, kissed the upper part of her arm, and then her lips. - But she made no response. She shrank, and this time he noted it. His arm - still round her waist, he held back his head and looked at her. - </p> - <p> - “Clytie!” - </p> - <p> - He spoke with loverlike reproach, and kissed her again, and again she - shrank. And then he cast her aside roughly, and stamped his foot. - </p> - <p> - “Damn it! Clytie,” he exclaimed, showing his teeth, “you are a perfect - icicle!” - </p> - <p> - Clytie made no reply, but turned to the window and buttoned her glove. - Thornton rang the bell violently, and when the footman appeared asked him - why the devil the carriage had not come round. Then he flung himself into - a chair and turned over a book. And thus they remained without speaking - until the brougham was announced. On their way to their dinner-party they - did not speak. He was in a fit of furious sulks, and Clytie's heart was - too heavy. Afterwards he went off to his club and she drove home by - herself. - </p> - <p> - And this at the end of only four months' wedded life. What would it be at - the end of four years, fourteen? Clytie strove for a little to blame - herself for supersensitiveness, egotism, coldness. But her self rose in - arms against this charge. For, like the unfolding of a horrible story, the - nature of Thornton's love for her, the nature of the place she really - occupied in his estimation, gradually broke upon her. The meaning of light - remarks, trivial jests, careless actions; the meaning of caresses now half - contemptuous, now passionate—all came to her in full light, in all - their crudity, out of the gray darkness in which she had instinctively - kept it hidden from herself. She stared at it—not in ignorant - surmise as she had done in Paris, but with a ghastly sickening of soul. - </p> - <p> - Oh, the degradation of it! What was she to her husband but a possession, a - toy, a woman, to suffer his caresses when it so pleased him to bestow - them, a mistress whom he had taken it into his head to bind legally to - himself, so that she might serve certain purposes of his in society? What - little better was she to him than the women whom men buy,—Loulou - Mendès, for instance,—save that he reckoned,—he had told her - so,—on her fidelity to him? Things she had tried to ascribe to the - careless familiarity of love blazed insultingly before her, scorching her, - making her writhe in her abasement. - </p> - <p> - Naturally satiety had come to him. He was indifferent whether he saw her - or not for a season. Only in his absence she was to obey blindly his - caprices. If only she was his wife, she thought bitterly, in the humdrum - Durdleham way, where at least she would have had the conventional position - in their conjugal relations! Either that or the wild independence of a - Loulou Mendès, carrying her will in her hand, free to choose her own way - among the groves of the satyrs. For even there the free path smells - sweeter than the one of servitude. - </p> - <p> - Just before the session ended Clytie came to a definite understanding with - her husband. It is surprising what pain can underlie this mutual - adjustment of two intelligences. - </p> - <p> - The scene was again the breakfast-room. Each was reading the morning's - correspondence. Thornton tossed a letter across the table. - </p> - <p> - “Carteret's women folk can't come,” he said. “Devilish sensible women—they - don't see the fun of it. So it's settled. I go up as soon as this wretched - grind is over.” - </p> - <p> - “Very well,” said Clytie calmly. “I hope you will have a good time.” - </p> - <p> - “Thanks,” he replied in his careless way. “It will be like old times - again. And you will put in a good, quiet couple of months with your - people.” - </p> - <p> - Clytie bit her lip. Her heart beat a little faster. She was going to set - herself in opposition to him. She glanced at him before she spoke; he - hardly seemed to expect an answer, but continued reading another letter. - He looked kind and frank, she thought, a husband for any woman to be proud - of. In his morning freshness, clean-shaven, groomed, trimmed, he seemed - handsomer than ever. His close brown hair had not a touch of gray; - scarcely a line showed on his forehead or beneath his eyes; and the dark - rich colour was visible beneath the bronze on his cheek. He broke into a - laugh, buoyant and careless, over his letter, and looked up at Clytie. - Then, his glance meeting hers, his face grew more serious. - </p> - <p> - “What are you gazing at me for with those great blue eyes of yours, - Clytie?” - </p> - <p> - She bent forward, rested her cheek on her hand. - </p> - <p> - “In regard to what you have just said—my going to Durdleham—I - am not going for many reasons. I told you so, Thornton, the other day.” - </p> - <p> - “I am quite aware of it,” said Thornton. “But you are going.” - </p> - <p> - He looked her full in the face, and she returned his gaze calmly and - unflinchingly. - </p> - <p> - “Don't let us quarrel, Thornton,” she said. “It is so sordid and petty. - Let us try quietly to understand one another.” - </p> - <p> - His glance fell first, and he threw himself back in his chair with a laugh - and unfolded his paper. - </p> - <p> - “All right—we'll bar scenes. Only don't say anything too severe or - you'll spoil my breakfast.” - </p> - <p> - “Thornton,” she said, not changing her attitude, “I think I know what my - duty is towards you, and I try to perform it. Has it ever struck you that - you may have some duties towards me?” - </p> - <p> - “I can't say it has,” he replied. - </p> - <p> - “I don't think you understand me, Thornton. I will try to make it clearer - to you. As far as you will let me take an interest in your life, I do so. - I am more than willing to make any sacrifices—to give up everything - for you. But when you do not want me, as this autumn, I surely may - remember that I have a life of my own to lead.” - </p> - <p> - “And suppose that life does not suit me?” - </p> - <p> - “That is the point, Thornton. If you wished me, out of love for you, to do - anything, I would do it. But this is a matter in which love has no place. - Provided I am scrupulous in all my duties towards you, I have a right to - my own life, to my own antipathies, to my own favourite pursuits—in - fact to myself as an individual, and it is your duty towards me to - recognise it.” - </p> - <p> - “I don't quite see what you are driving at,” said Thornton. “You can - dislike sweet champagne and paint pictures and read Schopenhauer if you - like. Who is preventing you? But in certain matters, as you are my wife, - you have got to do what I tell you.” - </p> - <p> - “To take an extreme case, by way of argument: Suppose the fancy seized you - to order me to remain in my bedroom all day—you would expect me to - obey you?” - </p> - <p> - “By God! I should think I would!” cried Thornton, starting to his feet, - with blazing eyes and the veins standing out on his forehead. - </p> - <p> - “It seems, Thornton,” she said very quietly, “you have married the wrong - woman.” - </p> - <p> - Then she rose, too, from the table, moved towards him, and laid her hand - on his arm. He shook it off with an impatient oath, and turned away, - fuming, to stare out of the window. She was too well accustomed to his - fits of passion to resent the indignity. She mechanically picked off some - withering leaves from some flowers on the mantelpiece, and waited for him - to speak. At last he turned round again, and asked her sullenly: - </p> - <p> - “Have you any other pretty remarks to make?” - </p> - <p> - “If you will listen to them quietly.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, what do you want? I grant I was a fool to marry you. Let me hear - the consequences of my folly.” - </p> - <p> - His face was set in a sneer, an ugly expression. She had seen it several - times since that evening at the opera in Paris. The tears sprang into her - eyes as she glanced at him. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, don't speak and look like that!” she cried. “I cannot bear it. I did - not intend to say anything hard just now. I only meant that you had - mistaken me, and my needs, and my nature. I have tried to look upon - marriage from your point of view for four months, and I can't do it any - longer. You say I must obey you blindly in everything, even your arbitrary - fancies, subordinate myself absolutely to you. Thornton, believe me, where - your interests or love are concerned I will do it; but where they are not - I can't, and it will be happier for both of us that I should tell you so - frankly. If you go your way alone, I must go mine.” - </p> - <p> - “That means you set yourself in defiance to my wishes?” - </p> - <p> - Clytie checked an impulse of impatience. - </p> - <p> - “If you won't understand me, and insist on putting it that way—yes.” - </p> - <p> - They looked at each other for some time. And then Thornton ground his - teeth and glared at her. - </p> - <p> - “You can go your own way if you like, but I warn you one of these days - there will be the devil to pay!” - </p> - <p> - And he strode out of the room, cursing, and slammed the door behind him. - </p> - <p> - Clytie sat down by the window. The tears would come in spite of her pride. - She had gained the victory. But there are some victories that have all the - aching sense of defeat. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XIX. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">O</span>n the day after - this conversation Clytie was surprised by an announcement from Durdleham - that Mrs. Blather and Janet were suddenly coming to town and would avail - themselves of her often repeated invitation to pay her a visit in her new - home. Janet had been ailing for some time past. The over-refined Davenant - blood had never been vivifying at any time, and now, as there were sudden - dangers of a grave kind, their Durdleham doctor had advised her consulting - a London specialist. They hurried to catch the great man before he left - for his summer holidays. That was their apology to Clytie for the - shortness of their notice. Ordinarily on their rare visits to town they - put up at Durfey's Hotel in Albany Street. Their father and grandfather - had put up there from time immemorial, and they spoke of Durfey's with - solemn familiarity, as if it were the one hotel of London. On this - occasion, however, they came and stayed with Clytie. - </p> - <p> - Their presence in the house was a relief to her, even though it was by way - of counter-irritation. Thornton showed himself in the light of a charming - host and delighted his sisters-in-law. They could not find enough - felicitations to bestow upon Clytie. They forgot the old - misunderstandings, took it for granted that Clytie had finally settled, - was happy, without any ulterior desires. They went round the house, Mrs. - Blather manifesting mild enthusiasm over the more solid arrangements in - the way of furniture and domestic appurtenances, Janet going into little - ecstasies over the decorations. - </p> - <p> - “I never thought you had such a talent for house management,” said Mrs. - Blather after an inspection of the linen-cupboards and china-closets. - </p> - <p> - “I hardly think it requires absolute genius,” replied Clytie, “to see that - sheets are folded up properly and that plates are not put away dirty.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah!” said her sister, with a philosophic sigh. “So many young wives are - so inexperienced.” - </p> - <p> - It was a delight to Mrs. Blather to see Clytie in this aspect. She could - talk to her now on common ground; Clytie had become an ordinary sensible - woman, who could discuss the things that fill the ordinary sensible - woman's life: housemaids, fancywork, and the price of fish. Mrs. Blather - knew that Hammerdyke was fairly well off, but she thought it her duty to - give Clytie many valuable hints as to household expenditure, to which - Clytie listened with suave distraction. She also gave her recipes for - cooking, and the washing of lace, and infallible methods for removing wine - stains from tablecloths; also neat little formulas for the management of a - husband. - </p> - <p> - “But yours is simply perfect,” she added, with reference to this last. - “Oh, Clytie, you are a lucky girl!” - </p> - <p> - To Clytie there was something pathetically humorous in the aspect she - presented to her sisters; in finding herself, for the first time in her - life, perfect in their eyes; in their changed relations. It was amusing to - be the lady of the house, and to make plans for Gracie and Janet's - entertainment. She brightened under the sense of it, and though many a - misconception on their part caused her a sharp twinge of pain, she allowed - them to purr on contentedly, taking a small measure of enjoyment from the - comfort thereof. Besides, she felt that it would not last long. Their stay - was limited to three days. A week of it would have been intolerable. For - this reason she declined to accompany them back to Durdleham. At first - Mrs. Blather was rather hurt at her refusal; but Clytie gently smoothed - over the matter, tactfully avoiding to give specific reasons. - </p> - <p> - Although Thornton was amenity itself in his intercourse with Clytie when - they met in her sisters' presence, in their private relations he showed a - certain soreness—the result of the process of understanding. She - tried to heal this, to win back from him, if not love, at least gentleness - and courtesy. - </p> - <p> - “I must thank you, Thornton, for being so nice to my sisters,” she said - once. - </p> - <p> - “I suppose I know how to behave myself in my own house,” he replied - coldly, and Clytie retired, and listened, with an ache in her heart, to - Mrs. Blather's epithalamion. - </p> - <p> - Still it comforted her to see Thornton his old bright self again, as she - had known him before her marriage, even though she knew his brow would - darken on the departure of her guests. It gladdened her to hear him talk - animatedly to Janet of the wonders of the forest and the romance of war. - The hall, the staircase, and the walls of his smoking room were lined with - curiosities of travel: spears and skin-covered shields, swords, wooden - maces—a whole armoury of savage weapons. There were feathered - headdresses, great rings roughly wrought of virgin gold, strange garments, - some stained with blood. On the landing above the hall stairs hung an evil - wooden yoke with pendent chains which he had lifted from the necks of two - dead slaves, left by the caravan to die and rot by the way; and, flanking - it, two great lions' heads glared defiantly. To each relic a history was - attached, now commonplace, now ghastly. Clytie knew them all, but she - accompanied her sisters as Thornton took them round, a perfect cicerone, - and she was pleased to see his face light up and his eyes glow with the - reminiscence of dangers and brave deeds. It brought her a glad memory of - the past and a little hope for the future. She was grateful, too, to - Thornton for thus effectually hiding from her sisters any signs of their - recent differences and divergencies. She could receive their - congratulations with a sense of grim humour. Anything approaching pity, - with whatever delicate sympathy it might be conveyed, would have made her - wince with pain. Even Mrs. Farquharson, who had sharp eyes and many kindly - affinities with her, shared Mrs. Blather's unquestioning belief in the - happiness of her lot. Before others Thornton was still the gallant lover - and courteous husband, and Clytie was not unthankful. When questioned as - to Thornton's plans for the autumn she answered vaguely. The session had - worn him out. He was going up to Scotland for the grouse shooting. She - herself was going to take care of the house until his return. She - preferred staying in London in August to going anywhere without him. And - Mrs. Blather, quite satisfied, paid her a little compliment on her - wifeliness, and suggested various household improvements to occupy her - time during her grass-widowhood. - </p> - <p> - So Mrs. Blather and Janet went back to Durdleham, to raise a flutter of - excitement at the Durdleham tea tables over their accounts of Clytie's - moral and material prosperity and her husband's manifold perfections. But - the old man, Mr. Davenant, shook his head and sighed. Slow to receive - fresh impressions, he could not conceive Clytie other than wilful and - paradoxical. And he was suspicious of the brilliant soldier of fortune. He - would much have preferred his daughter to have married a steady-going - country gentleman or professional man. Still no fault could be found with - Hammerdyke, who had treated him with every courtesy. - </p> - <p> - Before Thornton's departure for Scotland a kind of reconciliation was - patched up between them. The first overtures had come from Clytie. After - all, he was her husband. They were bound together, for better or worse, - till death parted them. It was only common sense to struggle that it - should be for better. She humbled herself, then, a little, confessed that - she had been unreasonable in some things. He happened to be in a softer - mood, and encouraged her to tell him she was sorry if she had been cold - and selfish. Unconsciously she made him feel quite magnanimous. He kissed - her gaily, bade her think no more about it, and even condescended to say - with regard to the main point at issue: - </p> - <p> - “Well, perhaps you are about right in not caring to go to Durdleham. Your - sisters are not rapid.” - </p> - <p> - A remark which, although it jarred somewhat on Clytie's strung nerves, she - nevertheless accepted as a token of peace. - </p> - <p> - This was the second time in her life that she had deliberately humbled - herself before a man. She thought of it with a queer little pang. When she - had put down her young pride so as to retain Kent's friendship and esteem, - on the day that Jack had destroyed Winifred's picture, it had been all - gladness and triumph. She remembered how happily she had gone to sleep - that night, in pleasant subconsciousness of certain feminine workings. It - had been a joy to surrender then. But now? She shrugged her shoulders, - tried to dismiss it from her mind. - </p> - <p> - In the middle of August she found herself alone in the great house, - enjoying the leisure and solitude, the independence, the freedom from - friction. She devoted most of her time to her painting, which had been - sadly neglected since her marriage. Her studio was a pleasant room, with a - good light. It had not the severe, businesslike air of the one in the - King's Road; it was warmer, heavier with velvet hangings, richer in quaint - furniture. Instead of the whitewashed walls scrawled over with grotesque - caricatures, it had a delicately toned Morris paper. The floor was - polished, strewn with thick rugs; a great white bearskin lay before the - hearth. The piles of canvases stretched upon rough wooden backs that used - to lie stacked up in odd corners Thornton had had framed for her, as a - surprise to greet her on her home-coming, and now the best of them were - hung round the room. Some of her cherished possessions found a place—the - etching by Rupert Kent, two or three of Winifred's delicate studies, and - an exquisite Jacquemart that Kent had given her long ago. But otherwise - all was new, luxurious, separating her from the old associations of her - art life. - </p> - <p> - Whilst searching for a subject she took out her studies for the Faustina - picture. But she put them aside with a shudder. She was painting merely - for amusement, to gratify the artistic impulse that urged her to create. - But the hope, by which she had been gradually rising towards the goal of - her ambition, the hope of fame and full accomplishment, was gone, - apparently beyond recall; and she mused upon it sadly. This sense of - finality is characteristic of youth—its one governing pessimism. Yet - she was cheerful enough, glad to feel the brush between her fingers again, - and to smell the familiar odour of turpentine, and to see her fancies take - visible form under her touch. The artist within her asserted itself, - though vaguely, as from some depth where it lay buried. It was undergoing - a subtle change, and its weak, inchoate manifestations were those of a - period of transition. But Clytie knew it not. - </p> - <p> - The Farquharsons returned to town towards the end of the month, and - Winifred also, after her annual seaside holiday with the children. And - many of Clytie's other friends remained in London, and welcomed her back - among them. It was like a return to her old life. Only Kent was absent - from her circle. She missed him, sighing a little for the impossible. - </p> - <p> - Thornton wrote from Scotland with affectionate brevity. He did not know - that he could have missed her so much. He had bagged so many brace that - morning. He longed to see her. He thought he might as well stay on with - Carteret so long as there was any sport forward. His letters, dashed off - with a broad quill pen in a great, bold hand, covered four sides of - notepaper, and came once a week. Clytie had no reason to complain of lack - of attention on the part of her husband. Consequently she looked forward - to less troubled days when they should lead their common life together - again. - </p> - <p> - An occasional visitor that she had during these weeks was the boy Jack. He - had been for a term at the industrial school to which Treherne and Kent - had procured him admittance, and now passed as a reformed character - amongst his enthusiasts. The teachers at the school, with vivid memories - of stormy scenes, might have demurred at this opinion; but they were miles - away holiday-making, and for the time blissfully oblivious of Jack. Four - months over a spelling-book and a carpenter's bench, even though the - latter may be situated amid pleasant fields, are not long enough to purify - the blood from the wildness of London streets; and a lifetime so spent - cannot wash out hereditary taint; but they can teach the use of soap and - water and a suitable adjustment of garments. And Jack was clean, and his - wild elf locks were cropped into compulsory smugness, and his clothes - conformed to a strictly conventional order. This external revolution was - so startling that an accompanying moral reform seemed unquestionable. - Even his mother's dull pessimism was affected by it. When she returned - from her work she bribed him with bread and treacle to sit in a chair - where she could admire him, instead of sending him out of her way into the - streets as she had been wont to do. But Jack ate the bread and treacle and - then sauntered into the street of his own accord. He did not admire his - mother, and only heeded her blandishments when they assumed an objective - form. He admired one person, and that was Winifred. With her the young - animal was tame, almost docile. It was merely owing to lack of special - instinct that he did not lick her hand. He was often in the studio, where - he had been constituted general factotum during his holidays. He swept the - floor, cleaned the windows, set the brushes and paints in order before - Winifred arrived, ran messages for her, and whenever she permitted would - sprawl on the ground by her side, following her movements with his great - brown eyes. To prevent him from wasting his time and energies in this - passive adoration, Winifred often invented commissions for him which he - executed with proud despatch, disregarding all allurements to eat the - lotus of the gutter and holding his person sacred as Winifred's messenger. - It was in consequence of this that he found his way to Clytie's house, - acting as postman for his patroness. At first he was shy. He had not lost - the feeling of awe with which Clytie inspired him, nor had he forgotten - the dread picture of her anger on that day when she had summarily - dismissed him from her service. It was only his devotion to Winifred that - had induced him to put, as it seemed to him, his head in the lion's mouth. - But when he found that the lion was kind and roared as gently as his own - dove, and further, gave him various unimaginable dainties to eat and odd - shillings to spend in surreptitious tobacco, the house in the Cromwell - Road became invested with pleasant associations. - </p> - <p> - It was after Clytie had had two or three visits from him that the idea - occurred to her to paint the portrait of the reformed Jack. The sittings - continued long after the necessity for them had ceased. Jack came of his - own accord. At last one day he astonished her by refusing the shilling - that she held out to him. - </p> - <p> - “I didn't come for that,” he said bluntly. “I come to see you.” - </p> - <p> - Clytie and the urchin in industrial school corduroys looked steadily for - some seconds at one another, and both in their respective ways were - conscious of having added to their sum of knowledge. Then they became real - friends. Clytie looked upon him with a new interest, taking herself - severely to task for having summed him up in the past with such scornful - superficiality. She atoned for it now by seeking to interest herself in - his life, to give herself a little place in it, whereby it should receive - some individual colour. This was all the easier now, as Winifred had - smoothed down many of Jack's social asperities. Albeit not refined of - speech, he no longer used profane language in the studio, nor did he - entertain her with sanguinary details of cat murder. When the time came - for him to return to school Clytie felt quite sorry. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XX. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>hornton returned - in due time. The autumn session began. The weeks and months passed. Their - relations remained the same as when they had parted in the summer. Towards - Clytie he manifested a kindly indifference, so long as she obeyed his - wishes. When she went counter to them he flared up, showed his teeth, and - swore; on which occasions Clytie would draw herself up, and, with her chin - in the air, leave the room and retire into her studio. Then, after two or - three days of evil sullenness, the fancy would take him to kiss her, and - lightly swear that she was the loveliest woman in the world. But Clytie - had lost all responsive feeling. She met him not wholly unaffectionately, - but calmly, presenting an obedient, passionless cheek. Thereupon he would - either storm again or laugh, reminding her of a time when her lips sought - his, asking her why she had frozen, where was the Clytie of their bridal - month. And if he pleaded gently, womanlike, she would relent a little, - yield to him, striving to blot out the objects that met her sight as she - looked back towards the past. Then there would recur the season of - indifference, which Clytie had grown to welcome. - </p> - <p> - The daily life went on, she scarce knew how. Visiting, entertaining, - painting, filled her days. And she dreamed wistful little dreams. - </p> - <p> - And then there came to Clytie a great calm, a new, strange happiness, in - the midst of the life she had thought to be broken. She would sit by - herself and think, with a smile playing round the corners of her lips, and - a light in her eyes. Again the order of things seemed changed. Again a - newer life, with newer hopes and responsibilities, lay before her. For the - time her art, her needs, were forgotten. Trifling, dainty occupations - absorbed her as she sat in the solitude of the studio on the chilly autumn - days, her feet luxuriously buried in the bearskin before the great fire. - Sometimes Mrs. Farquharson would come and help her, with a yearning hunger - in her eyes that Clytie knew the meaning of; for Caroline was a childless - woman. And then Clytie would kiss her silently and Caroline would shake - her head and laugh, and talk in her bright way of the wonder that would - be. - </p> - <p> - Only at times did a wave of bitterness pass over her. If all that had - happened in her married life since the train had carried her out of - Bordighera station had been different! If only she could see her husband - as she saw him that day, by the ruined tower, when she passed her hand - over his hair and thought him all that could suffice a woman's needs! - Sometimes she looked at him now, furtively, when his face was in repose. - He seemed the same, handsome, brave, ideally perfect in manhood. Why had - not the glamour lasted? Why should the “dream be better than the drink”? - And then she would turn away and the thought would rise: - </p> - <p> - “Why did I not continue blind? Would to God this knowledge of him had - never come!” - </p> - <p> - He grew a little kinder to her, however. It was a rough, patronising - tenderness, it is true, but yet Clytie felt grateful. A little act of - forethought and consideration softened her towards him much more than it - warranted. Perhaps in spite of all he might have won her to him again, and - brought her lips to his in a kiss of rare meaning—for at certain - times there are wondrous tendernesses and wondrous powers of forgiveness - in woman. But Thornton lost the golden chance, being busy with his - muck-rake. - </p> - <p> - He came home one afternoon, in an evil humour. Clytie, prepared to welcome - him, looked up kindly from her lounge-chair as he came into the studio, - but as she saw the blackness of his face, her heart sank. A footstool came - in his way, and he sent it, with a kick, sliding along the polished floor. - </p> - <p> - “Why do you litter up the place with these infernal traps, Clytie?” he - asked crossly as he came up to the fire to warm his hands. - </p> - <p> - Clytie, like a wise woman, held her peace. Silence is a very good friend - sometimes. But as he remained there moodily, without saying a word, and - the silence was growing uncomfortable, she asked him what was amiss. - </p> - <p> - “Everything's amiss!” he replied roughly—“all through your silly - folly. Read that!” - </p> - <p> - He drew a letter from his pocket book and threw it into her lap. It ran: - </p> - <p> - Dear Hernshawe: - </p> - <p> - As I think Simmons would be a more satisfactory man for Burchester than - Hammerdyke, I have suggested the former to the local Conservative - association. As they seem rather at a loss for a suitable candidate, I - think they will accept my nominee. - </p> - <p> - Yours truly, - </p> - <p> - E. Godderich. - </p> - <p> - “I am sorry, Thornton,” said Clytie, laying the letter down on the - afternoon tea table by her side. “But you hardly expected to have a chance - so soon.” - </p> - <p> - “Do you suppose I am going to slave away at this hack's work for two or - three years?” - </p> - <p> - “No; but this is only the second or third vacancy that has occurred.” - </p> - <p> - “What does that matter? Godderich promised to run me as soon as he saw an - opening. Hernshawe was amazed at this letter this morning. Don't talk of - what you know nothing about. It's simply infernal spite on Godderich's - part! Who is Simmons? A damned cheesemonger with a jubilee knighthood, and - as much brains as a double Glo'ster! Godderich has the reputation for this - sort of thing. That was why I wanted to keep in with him. If you had taken - a ha'porth of interest in the matter, it would not have happened. You have - treated the man in your confounded icy - don't-address-me-or-I'll-petrify-you kind of way, and you have put his - back up against us!” - </p> - <p> - “I always treated him courteously,” said Clytie. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, by Jove, I know what that means!” sneered Thornton. “And now you can - have the satisfaction of seeing how your courtesy has played the fool with - my plans.” - </p> - <p> - “I can't understand you, Thornton,” she replied wearily. “I should have - thought you of all people would have preferred to win your own battles.” - </p> - <p> - “So I shall in future. I shall take jolly good care not to ask you to help - me any more! After all your fine professions of identifying yourself with - my life and that sort of rot I really thought you would be willing to help - me—in about the only way a woman can.” - </p> - <p> - “By a silly, ignoble flirtation? Would you really hope to win success by - your wife's dishonour?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, rot!” cried Thornton savagely. “Who the devil talked about - dishonour?” - </p> - <p> - “Well, then, we don't see things in the same light,” said Clytie quietly. - “And I am very glad you have lost Godderich's influence, if that is what - it depended upon.” - </p> - <p> - He turned and faced her, in one of his blind rages. - </p> - <p> - “Why don't you say at once you don't care a little damn about me? It would - be nearer the truth. What the deuce did I marry you for, when there are - thousands of better women in the world who are to be had for the asking? - About the only thing I have ever asked you to do for me was to employ a - little womanly tact, and then you get up on the high horse, damme! and - talk about dishonour! One would have thought you had been bred in a - nunnery instead of the disreputable gutter in the King's Road I found you - in!” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, stop!” said Clytie, rising. “If I were well, perhaps I might be angry - and amuse you with a row. But I am not equal to it at present, believe me. - I'll see you at dinner.” - </p> - <p> - She walked towards the door, but Thornton intercepted her with three or - four quick strides. - </p> - <p> - “I'm hanged if you do!” he said. “I have too much respect for my - digestion. I'm not going to stay in the house with you!” - </p> - <p> - And he strode out of the studio, slamming the door. - </p> - <p> - “Thank God!” said Clytie to herself. - </p> - <p> - And so the film of reconciliation that new circumstances had begun to - spread was rudely torn asunder, and the breach between them grew greater - than before. For several days Clytie suffered. Then she resigned herself - to the inevitable, and in her thoughts drifted away from her husband. For - they were sweet thoughts, full of unspeakable consolation. And the weeks - wore on, and the evenings grew shorter and shorter, and the little pile of - dainty needlework grew higher in the press. Thornton rarely disturbed her; - the time that he could spare from his official duties he passed as a man - about town idles the hours away. A man with the least domestic tastes in - the world, he found no especial pleasures in his house. His wife did not - amuse him; the cooking at his club was more to his taste than that which - awaited him at home. There was no earthly reason why he should use the - house for any other purpose than sleeping, breakfasting, and the - occasional entertainment, which was now discontinued for a season. He - lived his own life, more or less satisfactory to himself, and left Clytie - to her own devices. Wherefore she not unfrequently thanked the Almighty. - She lived practically alone. Winifred came to see her from time to time. - Mrs. Farquharson was often with her. The shrewd eyes of Caroline saw that - there was something wrong in the marriage of which she had augured such - fair fruits. But as Clytie proudly kept all her troubles to herself, - Caroline could do no more than surround Clytie with her mute sympathy. - This gradual discovery was a shock to her faith in human nature. One of - the two had failed; which one was it? Her instinct told her that it was - not Clytie; her husband unequivocally affirmed that it was Hammerdyke. - When her instinct and her husband differed she sometimes trusted to one - and sometimes to the other, by way of giving a certain variety to life. - When they coincided she had no option but to believe. So, although giving - up her hero cost her a great pang, her heart went out more than ever to - her friend. - </p> - <p> - It was a period of strange new happiness for Clytie. It showed itself - outwardly in her art. No one but herself has ever seen the pictures that - she painted during this time—not even Caroline. They were all - unfinished, sketched in the hurried, semi-impressionist manner with which - from her early girlhood she had been wont to give objectivity to her - cravings and imaginings; but they were dainty, laughing, tender things, a - world of waxen touches and sweet hopes. It would be hard to say how many - small panels she covered with the promises of this new life. Sometimes, - when she was quite alone, she would lock the door and take them out and - arrange them along the wall on the ledge above the dado, and gladden her - heart with them. After which she would collect them hastily and lock them - up, with a smile at her own foolishness. She meditated now and then, - before the fire, with closed eyes, turning over the leaves of her Book of - New Formulas, which had grown somewhat tear-stained and dusty; but she - found in it nothing relating to present things, and she laughed quietly at - the omission, resolving to rectify it by and by. It was strange that she - had not included this in her scheme of life. And yet, after all, was it so - strange? She could not quite decide. But the future she never questioned. - The evolution of her own individuality seemed in no wise to concern her. - She had projected herself into another life. And she looked at the world, - and again she saw it fair; and peace rested on her eyelids as she slept. - And the weeks went on. - </p> - <p> - One evening in the middle of December Thornton and herself were alone - together. They had finished dinner and he was smoking a cigar with his - coffee in the dining-room. Relations between them were beginning to grow - kindlier again. That is to say, he curbed his temper, inquired after her - health, and occasionally spent an evening at home. They had not spoken - much during the meal. Now that they had so few interests in common, their - conversation was generally desultory. The one great and precious bond that - was to be between them was rarely mentioned. It was too deeply rooted in - the holiest place of Clytie's soul for her to discuss it in the - commonplace interviews she had with her husband, and his interest in the - matter did not go much beyond a rather irritating sense of responsibility. - Some feeling of the sort prompted him on this evening to allude to the - subject. - </p> - <p> - “I heard from the Claverings this morning,” he said, knocking off his - cigar ash into the fender. “They want us to go and spend Christmas with - them in their new place in Hampshire.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh?” said Clytie politely. - </p> - <p> - She had seen Mrs. Clavering several times during the summer in town, and - further acquaintance had only increased the antipathy she had conceived in - Paris. Thornton, however, had been pretty intimate with them during the - latter part of the season, and he had met Major Clavering again in - Scotland. Hence the invitation. - </p> - <p> - “Well,” asked Thornton, “what shall I do? Of course your going is out of - the question.” - </p> - <p> - “Naturally,” replied Clytie, glad that that point was settled without any - discussion. “Why do you ask me?” - </p> - <p> - “To know what your wishes are as regards myself. Clavering has got some - good shooting, I believe, and his wife always keeps a decent house. I - don't see what good I should be here; but still, if you would like me to - stay on and see you through, I don't mind a bit.” - </p> - <p> - He meant to be magnanimous. Perhaps he expected his wife to be duly - grateful; as it was she only replied somewhat wearily: - </p> - <p> - “You must do whatever you think best, Thornton. I should not like to keep - you here on my account, while you might be having a good time with your - friends.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh! it's all the same to me,” he said. “It's just as you like.” - </p> - <p> - Clytie shook her head despondently. If there could have been any pleasure - to either of them in his staying, these questions would have been - impossible. It was love and not politeness that should have kept him by - her side. - </p> - <p> - “You are very kind to think of it, Thornton,” she said, “and I thank you - for asking me; but you couldn't do much if you stayed, you know.” - </p> - <p> - “I think I should be somewhat in the way,” he said good-temperedly. “That - sort of thing is not much in my line. However, I did not like to accept - without asking you. Are you sure you don't mind?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, quite sure!” said Clytie suavely. - </p> - <p> - So the point was amicably settled, and Thornton went down to Hampshire to - shoot Clavering's pheasants and to be led cynically captive by Clavering's - wife. To avoid giving the latter a gratuitous loophole for sarcastic - attack, he forbore to hint at the cause that prevented Clytie from - accompanying him. He said vaguely that she was with her people. Mrs. - Clavering did not press the point in any way, as she reciprocated Clytie's - dislike, and was perfectly indifferent as to what became of her. In fact - she was greatly relieved when Thornton announced that he was coming alone. - Him she could manage as she liked—or thought she could, which comes - to the same thing. - </p> - <p> - The house which the Claverings had taken for the winter was one that - appealed to the quieter tastes of a man like Thornton. There was good - hunting in the neighbourhood, and the stables were well filled with - hunters, some of which Major Clavering had hired for the season. Over the - estate attached to the house was excellent partridge shooting, and the - covers were stocked with pheasants. The house itself was straggling—as - a country house should be—roomy, and capable of accommodating - comfortably the large party that was assembled for Christmas. It contained - two billiard tables, a concert room staged for private theatricals, and a - magnificent club-furnished smoking-room with a specially made baccarat - table. Among the party the masculine element greatly preponderated, but - the few women who were there had been carefully selected by the hostess to - maintain a nice equilibrium. The major invited the men, and his wife, - running over the list, had settled upon the women. She was doubly grateful - that Clytie had thought fit to decline. - </p> - <p> - On the evening of his arrival Thornton came down early after dressing and - found Mrs. Clavering alone in the drawing-room, reclining luxuriously - before the blaze under the great marble chimney-piece. - </p> - <p> - “Clavering must have come into a pot of money in order to run this,” he - said, parting his coat tails. “I have just been round the place. I had no - idea it was such an extensive development.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes. It's better than soldiering. Tom's looking out for a place of his - own something after the style of this. The Dynevors wanted to go to - Australia, and so they have let it to us cheap.” - </p> - <p> - He nodded, not very interested, and twirled his moustache in silence. - </p> - <p> - “You are not making a very good start by way of being amusing,” said Mrs. - Clavering. “How is your wife?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, very well. But I don't see how that topic could amuse you. Matrimony - isn't very funny.” - </p> - <p> - “Glad to get out of the toils, I suppose.” - </p> - <p> - “Passably. It leaves me free in the society of the only woman I have - reasonably cared for,” he said, without changing his attitude. - </p> - <p> - “Have you come down to play at that sort of thing again?” she asked, - arching her eyebrows, with a little supercilious curl on her thin lips. - </p> - <p> - “That's what you wanted me here for, I suppose.” - </p> - <p> - “You came to shoot little birds on the invitation of my adoring husband.” - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps the motives were mixed. You wouldn't believe me if I told you I - had come to see you. That was my main inducement. I suppose I ought to - have begun better and told you of my longing and despair. Let me make my - declaration now, Clara.” - </p> - <p> - “Bah! my friend. What is the meaning of all this?” she said cynically. - “You don't care a straw for me—you told me yourself I had gone off - lamentably. And I don't rate you a halfpenny above your worth. You are a - fine-looking man with impulses and animal passions instead of brains and - heart; and if you were to die to-morrow, my delicate appreciation of my - dinner would not be impaired. So why in the name of common sense have we - revived this miserable farce?” - </p> - <p> - “It's a kind of absinthe. We like it.” - </p> - <p> - “If I could pump up any enthusiasm about you,” she went on, not heeding - his epigram, “I could understand it. But you are bad all through. You - would not even be moderately faithful to me—as you are not to your - wife.” - </p> - <p> - “What the devil do you mean?” asked Thornton quickly, showing his teeth. - But Mrs. Clavering laughed. - </p> - <p> - “Do you take me for a fool, or a woman of the world, my friend? I have - eyes and I have ears. I'll go into particulars if you like.” - </p> - <p> - “That would scarcely be interesting,” he said. - </p> - <p> - He looked at her for some moments and then burst out into his resonant - laugh, expecting boyish indulgence for his peccadilloes. His whole-hearted - animal laughter was irresistible. The woman joined in. - </p> - <p> - “I don't know which is the worse of us two,” she said. “Perhaps I. I - forgive you.” - </p> - <p> - The piquant cynicism of this revived liaison attracted Thornton, was an - enjoyable complement to the essentially masculine side of that - country-house life. He was a keen, brilliant sportsman, a famous shot, a - perfect though reckless rider, standing out in all physical qualities far - above the other men of his type who were his fellow-guests. By them he was - flattered, in an honest British way, his acts were applauded, and his - opinions received with respect. In the slaying of creatures, brute or - human, he was an indubitable authority. And although he was accustomed to - a certain shade of deference from his associates, it never failed to - gratify his somewhat barbarous nature. Much of him had remained - undeveloped. Small things pleased and captivated him. To be the central - figure in this tiny world of sport was unalloyed pleasure to the man of - fierce passions and heroic courage. And the bitter philandering in his - relations with Mrs. Clavering amused, stimulated, irritated, and - fascinated him. In his own way, therefore, he was enjoying himself - exceedingly. Beyond writing Clytie a hurried note on the second day after - his arrival, he scarcely recalled to himself her existence. When he did it - was with petulant annoyance. He wished to God he had not been such a fool - as to marry. And now what the deuce was the point of having children? But - that was his wife's concern after all, for which he cordially thanked the - wise contriver of the human mechanism. - </p> - <p> - Christmas came, was celebrated with much festivity. On Boxing Day there - was a big partridge drive over a distant corner of the estate. It had been - carefully saved for this one day's sport and the birds were accordingly - plentiful. The best portion of it—a field sloping from a ridge and - skirting a pine wood and then merging into a wide gorse-covered pasture - tract—was reserved till after lunch. But the sport was good in the - outlying approaches to this, and it was not without some irritation that - Thornton tore open a telegram which a breathless messenger brought up. It - announced the birth of a son. Thornton went on with the line across the - wet, ploughed fields, but until they halted for lunch luck did not come - his way. - </p> - <p> - Mrs. Clavering and the other ladies had walked over with the - luncheon-baskets. The day was warm and relaxing. They lingered over the - meal longer than they had intended. When a keeper came up and suggested - that if they wanted to shoot the slope before dusk they had better be - starting, the men sprang up in a hurry and betook themselves thither. - Thornton was the extreme man, on the right, near the pine wood, which was - being beaten. His ill-success in the morning had piqued his vanity. He was - not accustomed to be second or third in matters of prowess. After he had - brought down his first brace his whole frame was kindled with the desire - to slay. Even partridges he could not kill calmly. Covey after covey was - driven out of the wood, and as he had the first chance, his bag increased - speedily. They had thus proceeded halfway down the long, straggling slope. - The keeper by Thornton's side had just handed him his gun, and was - watching the wood with intent, outstretched hand. A covey was being - driven. At that moment another messenger, a boy, ran down the slope and - put a telegram into Thornton's hand. With an impatient oath he stuffed it - into the pocket of his shooting-coat, just in time to be able to fire his - two barrels into the whirring flight of birds. The next man to him fired - simultaneously. Two birds fell. The warm dispute that arose caused - Thornton to forget the existence of the telegram in his pocket. And the - continuance of the drive kept his mind entirely from it. - </p> - <p> - But when the party arrived home, and were standing for a moment in the - hall, Mrs. Clavering came up to him and asked whether he had received his - second telegram safely. Then he remembered. He drew it out, read it. - </p> - <p> - “Damn!” he muttered under his breath, and crumpling the flimsy sheet into - a ball, threw it with a gesture of impatience into the fireplace. Then he - turned and talked with Mrs. Clavering until he went upstairs to change. - </p> - <p> - As chance willed, the crumpled telegram had not fallen into the blazing - wood fire, but had struck upon a log and dropped on its unkindled side. - And chance willed that Mrs. Clavering should have noticed this. Women of - her type are cynically unscrupulous. As soon as the hall was clear of men - she picked up the telegram and read it. Her face, which when she was by - herself was somewhat faded, grew a little grayer. She put the telegram in - her pocket. - </p> - <p> - Chance willed also that Thornton and Mrs. Clavering should find themselves - alone for a long spell after dinner in the little withdrawing-room, where - smoking was permitted. Most of the men were tired. One or two of the women - had gone up to their rooms. The rest were playing billiards. Thornton was - in gay spirits, talking recklessly, giving her openings for sarcasms, and - then closing in upon her with a brutality. It was an amusing game. - </p> - <p> - Suddenly she asked him irrelevantly: - </p> - <p> - “When are you going back to London?” - </p> - <p> - “You're a wise woman,” he replied, leaning back in his chair. “But what do - you mean?” - </p> - <p> - “I asked you a question—a simple one. Are you going to London - to-morrow?” - </p> - <p> - “No; why should I?—unless you are getting sentimental over me, and - would prefer the illusion of my absence to the disenchantment of my bodily - presence. If you mean it as a hint, of course I'll go.” - </p> - <p> - “I do mean it as a hint,” she said with a hard kind of drawl. “I didn't - know you were quite such an unreasoning brute. Hadn't it occurred to you - that it was only common decency to go off and help bury your newborn - child?” - </p> - <p> - She rose, and gathering up her skirts, left him before he had time to - recover. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XXI. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>hus it had - happened with Clytie during Thornton's absence. There came a morning at - the end of the Old Year when the snow and sleet dashing against the window - could be dimly heard in the heavily curtained room, and Clytie feebly - whispered: “Give me the child.” Gently they told her that the life had - merely fluttered on the threshold and passed back into the silence whence - it came. And she sank back on her pillows, struck to the heart with a - dumb, hopeless heartsickness. - </p> - <p> - Recovery was slow. Clytie lay for many days quite listless, the tears - rolling down her cheeks, physical weakness aiding to make her feel a great - self-pity. The long waiting, the fear, the pain, all had been counted as - nothing if at the close there could have lain in her arms a little child—one - whose touch would draw all pain from her heart, make her forget every - sorrow. And the passionate child hunger, begotten of the pangs of - maternity, woke within her and cried for satisfaction. - </p> - <p> - The whole weight of the world's misery crushed down upon her. She awoke to - a gray world. Its glory had departed. There was nothing left to live for, - and a great despair came over her. What was the use of dragging out this - broken, colourless existence until the time,—hopelessly remote it - seemed to her, now that the blood ran again strongly through her veins,—should - come for her to die? She passed through the phase common to all strong - natures in supreme moments of weariness, when death seemed the only - solution. One little draught out of a phial, an agonised convulsion, - perhaps, and then eternal nothingness. She did not fear the annihilation - which her materialism had taught her was the end of things. She had no - eschatological sentimentality. But the full-pulsed animal's instinctive - clutching after life held her back; the fit passed off, and she decided to - live through another act of the dreary tragedy. - </p> - <p> - All feelings of tenderness, trust, common confidence in her husband, were - swept away forever. The faintest breath of the old attraction caused her - to shiver with repulsion. Henceforward they were mere acquaintances, who - subsisted from a common fund, lived under the same roof, and performed - certain conventional actions in common, for the sake of their own - relations with a society that demands a certain outward show of harmony - between husband and wife. Thornton had come to town from Hampshire in the - vilest of tempers. For a day or two he positively hated Clytie. Then the - seriousness of her illness had awakened in him a superficial sympathy. But - as soon as she was out of danger he regarded her with cold dislike. She - had abruptly terminated his pleasant holiday. She had gravely endangered - his liaison with the only woman by whom he had been otherwise than purely - sensually attracted, wherein lay an odd fascination, and in thus - compelling him to her side she had sharply reminded him that a married - man, if he wishes to keep in with the world, must not parade himself too - conspicuously as his own master. And Thornton had his own reasons for not - wishing to openly outrage society. - </p> - <p> - As soon as she was able to travel Clytie went to Durdleham, for the first - time since her marriage. The quiet, easy life soothed her for a while. She - was in that condition of hopelessness when inaction seems the highest - good. Mrs. Blather attributed her dejection to the objective cause, and - sympathised with her as one woman can with another, and strove to cheer - her; but still she privately thought this long brooding somewhat morbid. - Clytie always went to extremes. But although she naturally was unconscious - of the subtleties of dreariness in the causation of her sister's state, - she was none the less helpful with her sympathy—and sympathy very - often is all the stronger from the narrowness of the channel in which it - flows. - </p> - <p> - February and March passed in the quiet, monotonous Durdleham way. But as - the spring grew into her blood Clytie felt the tingling of life once - again, and the period of inactivity was over. She was not of the - temperament to sit long with folded hands and lament over the futility of - things. The old restlessness of her girlhood, though strangely modified, - again urged her towards a fuller, more vivid existence. Again she looked - out upon the world and its mysteries with a knowledge begotten of sorrow, - and again vague longings took possession of her. She faced the new - condition of things bravely, resolved to struggle towards a newer, better - content. If the short dream had come true, she would have found happiness - in the guidance of another life; but the high gods had ordained otherwise. - As before her marriage, her only problem was the working out of her own - individuality; for henceforward Thornton would be her husband only in - name. In what direction should she carry herself so as to prevent the - fulfilling of her needs from developing into ignoble egoism? As a girl she - had studied life eagerly, had painted from artistic impulses, from desire - for fame, and from material necessity. Her enthusiasms, the intimacy of - her odd social life with Kent and Winifred, had kept her pure and fresh. - Now all was changed. She was alone. She had learned many things: the touch - of the fire of passion, the taste of the waters of bitterness. Definite - enthusiasms seemed to be wanting; only the artistic impulse urging - creation remained to her—together with mechanical skill. How was she - to occupy her life to a fair and noble purpose? She tried to solve the - problem calmly, was wise enough to smile when she discovered that she - failed. One cannot range a row of potential enthusiasms in front of one, - like oranges, and select in cold blood. So Clytie determined to have faith - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent30"> - “... large in time, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - And that which shapes it to some end.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - As soon as she had arrived at this decision she threw off her moodiness - and became bright again, to the great joy of Mrs. Blather, who was sighing - for her to join in such Easter dissipations as Durdleham society offered. - In obedience to her sister, therefore, Clytie burst upon Durdleham like a - revelation. During her girlhood Durdleham had regarded her as odd, refused - to accept her as conducive to social amenities. Now it worshipped her with - dazzled eyes—the whirligig of time thus bringing in its revenges. - The irony of the position amused her, but at the same time it brought out - in her much that was good and whole-hearted. She saw, perhaps for the - first time, that much of the decorous dulness that had once chafed her to - frenzy proceeded from an almost childlike ignorance of the possibilities - of enjoyment. For a wild moment the idea entered her head to convert - Durdleham to epicureanism. Janet, to whom she confided this visionary - scheme, stared at her open-mouthed, and Clytie burst out into genuine - mirth. Durdleham was willing to be amused, eager to be brightened by a - brilliant woman; but it would not be convinced. It held by its principles, - would not yield an iota in a single formula. Still it could be brought to - treat a paradox as a joke instead of brooding over it with the stolidity - of a hen sitting on a china nest-egg. And that much Clytie did accomplish - during the short season of her social triumph. - </p> - <p> - In the middle of April she was requested by Thornton to return to London. - He had thrown up the private-secretaryship, as his purpose in accepting it - had been already served. By dint of self-assertion he had identified - himself with the non-parliamentary chiefs of the Tory party, and during - the early spring had rendered efficient electioneering services. His - chance of a candidature was therefore only a question of time. But as he - wished to neglect no means of keeping himself in evidence, he still felt - bound to call upon his wife to aid him socially—that is to say, to - preside at his table and receive his guests. This Clytie was not - disinclined to do, especially as his summons was couched in pleasant and - courteous terms. So she bade farewell to Durdleham and returned to London. - </p> - <p> - When her train arrived at Euston she was surprised at seeing Thornton on - the platform. He wore a gray frock-coat with a dark rose in the - buttonhole, and lavender kid gloves. He came forward and greeted her, - raising his hat before he shook hands. - </p> - <p> - “Have you had a tiring journey? You are looking very well. As I was paying - a call near Primrose Hill,—ghastly place to live in, isn't it?—I - thought I might as well pick you up here with the brougham.” - </p> - <p> - “That was very kind of you, Thornton,” she said. - </p> - <p> - They talked of indifferent subjects during the long drive to South - Kensington: the theatres, odds and ends of gossip. When they got home he - accompanied her into the drawing-room and drank a cup of tea. - </p> - <p> - “You're a deuced lovely woman, you know, Clytie,” he said, his great bulk - sprawling over a small drawing-room chair, his hands in his pockets. “I - have half a mind to fall in love with you again. If you had not turned - into absolute ice, perhaps I should. You've got that same devilish - witchery in your skin that made me go wild over you a year ago.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, please don't talk of that, Thornton. It is the past,” she said, with - a tremor. - </p> - <p> - “Well, upon my soul!” he said, gathering himself together. “I don't see - why it might not be the present. I was going to unfold to you a little - scheme by which we might live politely together, but, by Jove! now I look - at you and reflect that you are my wife after all—you're so - gloriously beautiful, Clytie!” - </p> - <p> - He rose, but she was on her feet before him, having sprung up with a - beating heart. She looked at him with a fearful surmise in her glance, and - as he made a stride towards her she recoiled in a terror she had not known - before. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, no, no, no! For God's sake!” she cried, catching at her breath, - instinctively putting out her hands to keep him off. “That is all over. We - loved one another once. A horrible mockery of it is more than I can bear.” - </p> - <p> - “Confound it, Clytie!” he exclaimed, clenching his hands and showing his - teeth, “you're my wife, and, by the Lord! I'll kiss you if I choose!” - </p> - <p> - The flash of his brown eyes that had once overpowered her will now made - her shudder. She stiffened into a woman of iron, with bloodless cheeks. - Standing up perfectly rigid, she closed her eyes, and hung her hands - against her sides. - </p> - <p> - “Kiss me, then, since you claim the right,” she said in a choked voice. - </p> - <p> - For a moment or two he stood looking at her. Then with a loud laugh he - flung himself back in his chair. - </p> - <p> - Clytie with shame and horror in her heart rushed from the room. - </p> - <p> - It was not an encouraging home-coming. The incident, though not repeated, - upset many of her plans for the reconstitution of her existence. It added - a new dread. For she had counted upon the continuance of the entire - indifference with which Thornton had grown to regard her. A sudden - outburst like this had not occurred for many months. What guarantee had - she that this was not the beginning of a series of spasmodic rekindlings - of a fire she had thought dead? For some days anxiety lay heavy on her - mind. But human nature is very elastic; if it were not so, God help us - all! After a while she recovered and was able to talk calmly to Thornton, - who began by treating her with an ironical politeness, and then relapsed - into his usual cheerful indifference. Once while discussing their mutual - relations she broached the subject of separation. - </p> - <p> - “I won't consent,” he replied. “As we can't be lovers, we may as well be - friends. You would gain very little by it. Besides, people would talk, and - for me that is an important consideration.” - </p> - <p> - “It hardly concerns me,” she said, with a touch of cynicism that was new - to her. “Still, if you wish it very much, I will remain.” - </p> - <p> - “I do wish it, Clytie,” he said in a softened voice. “You can go your way, - I will go mine. But we must live together as far as the world sees us.” - </p> - <p> - Clytie yielded with some misgivings, and set herself to work to discover - interests in life. - </p> - <p> - The society life of London, in which she was free to play an important - part, did not satisfy her. She saw too deep below the surface of things to - be guilty of the silly cynicism that finds society hollow, its aims - futile, and its morals corrupt. There is earnestness even among cultivated - men and women. But society is formal, conventional, and in the external - rules of life differs only in degree from Durdleham. True, it has a far - wider intellectual scope. Contrary to Durdleham, it permits the possession - of ideas, but it is just as punctilious as to their correct expression. - The elaborate ceremonial of society weighed upon Clytie. She preferred a - simpler, directer life. There were so many wrappings of convention to be - pierced through before she could get to the heart of a thing or a person, - and they wearied, irritated her. And now, as Thornton seemed to care very - little whether she placed herself in evidence or not, beyond playing the - part of hostess in his house, she consulted merely her own desires in her - acceptance of invitations. But as the circle from which these mainly - proceeded was that into which her husband's reputation, tastes, and - political aspirations had led her, she did not find in it the interests - which particularly affected her. It was beyond her power either to feel or - to simulate an interest in Thornton's ambitions. Nor did she feel called - upon now to profess the tenets of Thornton's political creed. She was a - solitary, unconventional Radical in the midst of the most uncompromising - Torydom, which is an unenviable position even for the least rabid - politician. The political section, therefore, of her social circle she - studiously avoided. The purely fashionable, frivolous element, that goes - to Hurlingham and Ascot, and makes itself merry over material things, had - attracted her the previous year with its graceful epicureanism. She had - still been proud of her husband and his boyish zest in amusement, and she - had caught from him the spirit of laughing Babylon. But now it was pain to - be with him when he chatted and jested with pretty girls and idle young - men. His light-hearted gaiety jarred upon her. She saw that men and women - were affected by his charm, and she had half longings to tell them it was - a lie. So she withdrew herself from their midst as much as possible. By - this process of elimination Clytie's circle became conveniently limited. - She was sick at heart, and she turned more and more to the friends of her - girlhood. - </p> - <p> - Mrs. Farquharson's Sunday evenings became pleasant spots in her barren - week. She went there alone, as in the old days. Nothing was changed there: - the same faces, the same bright, eager talk, the same welcome. Clytie - became her old self, was astonished to find how many enthusiasms she still - retained. She almost forgot that she was married, and had said farewell to - theories of life and such like vanities. Only at times, when her own art - came within the range of a friendly arrow, did she wince and remember with - a pang that Clytie Davenant was dead. Redgrave, whom she occasionally met, - forbore, with a portrait painter's intuitive delicacy, to question her - upon the progress of her art under its new conditions. He divined that his - prophecies had been correct, and he was sad; because he had had great - hopes of Clytie. In a tentative way he spoke of it to Mrs. Farquharson, - who confided to him her own surmises as to the dubious success of the - marriage. Then Redgrave brightened, and declared that there was hope yet. - </p> - <p> - “What do you mean?” cried Caroline with a touch of indignation; whereat - Redgrave smiled in his serene way. - </p> - <p> - “I mean that hitherto she has tried to look at life through her art. Now - she will be able to look at art through her life.” - </p> - <p> - “Then her art will be very feeble and miserable!” - </p> - <p> - “Clytie's life has never been feeble and miserable,” he replied. “I feared - it was going to be so—in a special sense, you know; I feared that - she would be overpowered by the physical element her husband would bring - into her atmosphere, and that she would develop into the fashionable - married woman, and thus, at the same time, suffer in spirituality and lose - her grip upon the subjects that form her artistic range.” - </p> - <p> - “I can't see how an unhappy married life can help her,” said Caroline. “If - such a deterioration is possible, it has taken place already.” - </p> - <p> - “Doubtless it has,” Redgrave replied earnestly. “But it is not final. If - she lives within herself again, she will recover spirituality and grip—both - strengthened by experience and suffering. That is the most precious - knowledge, Mrs. Farquharson, which we have bought with sorrow.” - </p> - <p> - “Then mine must be very worthless,” cried Caroline. “And I'm very glad of - it. I would rather be ignorant and happy than wise and sad. And I could - wish the same for poor Clytie. I can understand the good and beautiful - things of this world as well as most people, but I don't believe in art to - all that extent. I may be a Philistine,—God forbid it, but perhaps I - am,—and I like to see people happy.” - </p> - <p> - “That depends upon what you call happiness,” said Redgrave. - </p> - <p> - But Caroline was not to be led into an argument. She had her views and - expounded them. - </p> - <p> - “I mean common, all-round human happiness,” she said, “that makes you - laugh to yourself when there's no particular reason for it. And I'd sooner - Clytie have that and never touch a brush than paint the most - world-convulsing pictures and be wretched.” - </p> - <p> - “But if she painted world-convulsing pictures, as you call them, she would - be happy—much happier than under the other conditions.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, no, she wouldn't!” she replied, with a conclusive nod. “You are quite - wrong, my dear good friend. It is a secondary consideration to a woman - whether she convulses the world or not. It might amuse and gratify her to - do it <i>en passant</i>, but it is only <i>en passant</i>. Believe me. I - don't give my sex away as a general rule, but I make you a present of - that! So if you're glad,” she added with triumphant feminine logic, “that - Clytie has made an unhappy marriage, I think it is simply detestable of - you!” - </p> - <p> - So Redgrave, routed, retired in confusion; but he took his own ideas with - him. - </p> - <p> - One Sunday evening, early in July, Mrs. Farquharson ran into the room - where Clytie, just arrived, was taking off her wraps. - </p> - <p> - “I have been waiting by the window ever so long, watching for your - carriage. You are quite late. I wanted to see you before you came into the - drawing-room. Who do you think is here? Guess!” - </p> - <p> - Clytie saw at once by Caroline's face. A little thrill of gladness sent - the colour to her cheeks and caused her eyes to sparkle as she paused with - one glove half off and looked quickly at her friend. - </p> - <p> - “Kent?” - </p> - <p> - Caroline nodded, glad at seeing that Clytie was pleased. - </p> - <p> - “I wanted to drop you a line, but how could I on Sunday in this postless - town? George only condescended to tell me last night that he was coming. - If we had as little sense as men, I wonder how on earth we should get on! - He met him out a week ago and persuaded him.” - </p> - <p> - “It will be quite like an old evening, dear,” said Clytie. “I shall be so - glad to see him.” - </p> - <p> - “It is strange you should not have met,” said Caroline; and then she added - reflectively: “Well, perhaps it isn't.” - </p> - <p> - She had her own theories on the subject. And to say a woman has her own - theories is to say a good deal. - </p> - <p> - “But I don't see why he should have let us almost lose sight of him,” she - continued. - </p> - <p> - “What reason does he give?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, the reason that makes one so helpless, you know. A man you like comes - to you and says: 'I have sinned against you without any cause whatever. It - was just my own badness, and nothing else, and now I am humble and - repentant'—and what are you to do but forgive him? He's very - penitent now and vows amendment.” - </p> - <p> - Clytie completed her little toilet arrangements and went downstairs with - Caroline. On their way Caroline asked her where Thornton was. - </p> - <p> - “He's at Goodwood, staying with some people there. He went down yesterday - for the races.” - </p> - <p> - “Wouldn't it have brightened you up to have gone too?” asked Caroline with - deliberate tactlessness, darting a quick feminine side glance. But Clytie - broke into a laugh. - </p> - <p> - “Oh! good gracious, no! I didn't even know he was going till yesterday, - when Roberts asked me about something he was to do during the master's - absence. We are quite old married people now, Caroline, and we each go - more or less our own way. It saves a lot of trouble. You see, he knew I - wouldn't care for Goodwood and the set he's in with there—the - Claverings and such like.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, I think you are better off here,” said Caroline. - </p> - <p> - “I know I am,” replied Clytie, taking her arm. And then they went into the - drawing-room. - </p> - <p> - Clytie's first impulse on entering was to look round for Kent. She met his - eyes fixed upon her from the other side of the rather crowded room, and - she gave him a little nod of greeting. He rose and joined the knot of - people who were surrounding her. Both were self-conscious to the extent of - knowing that, as they had once been a familiar couple in that company, it - would be inexpedient to allow it to be noticed that their meeting was an - event to them. They shook hands, with a friendly commonplace, and joined - in the general conversation. Redgrave, French, the journalist, Mr. - Singleton, Mrs. Tredegar, were there—most of the old faces, a few - new ones. To see Kent's among them was a joy to Clytie. She had never - understood why he had broken from her. Now and then the true solution - passed through her mind, but she rejected it. It was incongruous with his - action. Love begets wants, and it is the nature of man to clamour for - them. This was her hasty conclusion. But she had avoided thinking very - deeply upon the subject, instinctively deeming it wiser to refrain. - </p> - <p> - He had not changed, she thought; and wondered whether he would notice any - change in her. She found herself listening again to him as he talked, in - his downright, earnest way, quickly noting familiar turns of thought and - expression, admiring the thoroughness of his unconventional enthusiasm. - The old contented humility of spirit came back to her. How much more real - than hers was his life! How much she had learned and could learn from him! - And for a short, swift moment the laughter and talk sounded dull in her - ears, and all the objects around, all the faces save one, melted away into - the blue cigarette smoke, and that one face remained—sitting at a - table opposite to her, the lamp between them—and the brows were - intent on the sheet over which a quill pen was scratching assiduously; and - the surroundings shaped themselves into her old rooms in the King's Road. - Then, just as swiftly as it had come, the dream vanished, and Clytie - sighed. The talk languished a little. Kent looked somewhat wistfully at - her. She leaned forward and beckoned him with a smile and a little upward - movement of her chin. - </p> - <p> - “Come down and give me some supper,” she said. “I did not eat anything - before coming out.” - </p> - <p> - “That was foolish of you,” he said involuntarily. - </p> - <p> - Then they both laughed. - </p> - <p> - “You are just the same as ever,” she said. And they went downstairs. - </p> - <p> - It was a tradition in Harley Street that on Sunday evenings a cold supper - should be laid in the dining-room from half-past eight onward, so that - guests could go down whenever it so pleased them. To break up the - continuity of the evening by a formal gathering around a supper table was - opposed to Caroline's notions. Besides, irregularities in meals were one - of the features of the house. You need never be in time, and there was - always food when you wanted it. To the erratic and unregulated visitor it - was paradise. Caroline paid her servants extra wages to insure - satisfaction in this respect. So Clytie's little manouvre was quite in - accordance with the recognised order of things. - </p> - <p> - They found the dining-room unoccupied. She sat down near the end of the - table, while Kent, a little way off, gravely carved some chicken, which he - brought to her together with some salad and a jug of claret-cup. Then he - sat down by her, at the corner. - </p> - <p> - “But aren't you going to eat anything yourself?” she asked, laughing. - </p> - <p> - “I am not hungry.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, that doesn't matter. Do go and get something, to keep me in - countenance. How can I eat when you are sitting watching me like that, - with your elbow on the table?” - </p> - <p> - “I have done it so often before. It seemed natural to sit by you while you - had your meal. I was forgetting. You see my manners have not improved. - However——” - </p> - <p> - He rose for the purpose of helping himself to some food, but Clytie - stopped him, made him sit down again. - </p> - <p> - “There! It was silly of me,” she said. “I did not think of it. Don't be - any different from what you used to be. Let us imagine that this evening - is one of the old Sunday evenings here. Ah! If you only knew how glad I am - to see you. What an eternity it has been since we met.” - </p> - <p> - “Eighteen months,” said Kent laconically. “The longest eighteen months I h - I have ever lived.” - </p> - <p> - “Why?” - </p> - <p> - “Don't you think I have missed you?” - </p> - <p> - “So much as that?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes; so much as that.” - </p> - <p> - “My poor Kent!” said Clytie, troubled. “I wish I could do something for - you.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah, <i>es ist vorbei</i>,” he said, puckering his brows, as he watched - the rings he was making in the damask with an inverted wineglass. Then his - forehead suddenly cleared, and he looked up with his frank laugh. - </p> - <p> - “You see I am just as much of a bear as ever. Instead of telling you what - a delight it is to be with you again, I come to you complaining, and I - ought to have every reason not to rail at fortune.” - </p> - <p> - “You are doing great things, I hear,” said Clytie. “Tell me about them.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, they are neither great nor much worth telling. The <i>opus</i> is - being translated into German, and part of it will be soon published by the - University of Vienna.” - </p> - <p> - “That is a feather in your cap.” - </p> - <p> - “A big one. I don't think I am given to running after notoriety and that - sort of thing, but it is gratifying to be recognised a little. It - encourages one.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah, it does!” said Clytie with more meaning than she intended. - </p> - <p> - “So I have been working away at it harder than ever.” - </p> - <p> - “I wish I had your enthusiasm,” she said. “And your power of work. Do you - remember your lectures?” They talked a little about the old days, half - sadly, half tenderly. Those memories were very pleasant. Then they came - back to the present. - </p> - <p> - “Winnie tells me you are a great man now at the Museum. I am so glad.” - </p> - <p> - Kent waved his hand deprecatingly and laughed. “Winifred is quite an - Iris,” he replied. “For she comes down to earth sometimes and tells me - things about you. Yes, I am quite a man of affluence these days. I am the - head of the department. I have got so much money I don't know what to do - with it.” - </p> - <p> - “I hope you employ some of it in giving yourself proper meals,” said - Clytie. “Or do you still have your extraordinary suppers?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I live just the same,” said Kent. “If I began to be respectable in - one thing, I should gradually become so in all.” - </p> - <p> - “And the rooms are just the same as ever?” - </p> - <p> - “A few more pictures and odds and ends. And I have got a carpet. That's - Wither's doing. He came to see me in the winter and caught a cold, due to - the bare boards, so he said. When he had recovered he made me go and buy a - thick Turkey square. After that I had serious designs of forbidding him - the rooms lest he should turn them into a boudoir altogether.” - </p> - <p> - They laughed over this idea. Clytie asked him whether he still kept the - tripods before the fireplace, and whether the paraffin oil can in the - corner harmonised well with the carpet. It was like a breath of fresh air - to meet Kent again. - </p> - <p> - Suddenly he pointed to her plate. - </p> - <p> - “You are not eating anything.” - </p> - <p> - “I am not hungry,” said Clytie with some demureness. - </p> - <p> - “But if you have not had your evening meal, you'll get faint. What did you - come down for, if you merely wanted to pick at the wing of a chicken and - to put hardly any of it into your mouth?” - </p> - <p> - Then Clytie burst out into merry laughter. He was so downright and honest. - Just the same as ever. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, you foolish Kent! I should have thought even you could have invented - that.” - </p> - <p> - “Did you really want to see me?” he asked, brightening. - </p> - <p> - “Why, of course! Do you suppose I am devoid of human attributes?” - </p> - <p> - This brought them nearer than they had been since the time that Kent - realised he loved her. To Kent this meeting was enchantment. To see her - sitting by him, bright, laughing, her old self, was enough to make him - lose sense of the past eighteen months of hopeless longing. He thought to - himself that it was better she had not learned, since her ignorance gave - him this sweet half hour. - </p> - <p> - “I suppose we must be going upstairs soon,” she said, with a little - wistful wrinkling of her forehead. “When shall I see you again?” - </p> - <p> - Kent started at the question. It troubled him. He did not know what answer - to make. - </p> - <p> - “Within less than another year, I hope,” he said. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, yes, Kent. We mustn't be strangers any more. It's not good for us. - Would you care about seeing me very often?” - </p> - <p> - “I am not coming to call upon you,” he replied bluntly. - </p> - <p> - The actual words were ungracious. But there was a flash of eager longing - in his eyes that lent the words a subtle meaning. And Clytie rose from the - table with a little gasp of pain as the truth burst upon her. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, Kent, Kent!” she cried, greatly moved. - </p> - <p> - Their eyes met, and this time there was no mistake. He knew that she had - guessed. But with a great effort he evaded the appeal. - </p> - <p> - “No; I can't come to your house to see you,” he said huskily. “There you - are Mrs. Hammerdyke, and I shouldn't know you. Your home is full of - interests and associations in which I could only be a stranger and an - intruder. To me you are Clytie, the Clytie whose daily life I used to - share—and only as Clytie can I bear to see you.” - </p> - <p> - “Would it help you to see me as Clytie?” she asked. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, dearly,” he said. - </p> - <p> - “Then you can always come in to the studio when I am with Winifred, and I - shall always be here on Sunday evenings. Don't you think I want to see you - too—as Clytie!” - </p> - <p> - “Thank you. Thank you,” he said in a low voice, taking her hand. “Now it - is time for us to go upstairs.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XXII. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">E</span>ach lay awake that - night, thinking. To Clytie the revelation of Kent's love was dazing. The - sense of her own dulness in never having pierced the heart of his mystery - was even more confounding. Why should she have divined suddenly the - meaning of the light in his eyes, on this first meeting after their - eighteen months of separation, when she had been blind to it before? She - only half guessed as yet why he had not told her, but she saw that it must - have arisen from a rare, strange delicacy in his nature differentiating - him from all other men that she had known. Her heart went out in pity for - him. - </p> - <p> - “How he must have suffered!” she repeated over and over to herself. And - then scenes between them came before her mind and became clear in the - light of this revelation: the strange suppressed interview after her - arrival from Durdleham; the last evening he had spent in London before - going abroad, when he had lit her fire, and she had gone up to bid him - farewell. How had her ears been so dull as not to detect the tremor in his - voice when, after kissing her hand, he had said: “You are my very dear - lady whom I will serve to the hour of my death”? - </p> - <p> - And then a little hissing snake of a thought formed itself into a reply; - and she shrank up together with a slight convulsive shiver as if something - foul had touched her. - </p> - <p> - After that she could not sleep. She got up, lit her candle, and took a - book at random from her shelves. It was her well-worn, girlish Globe - Shakespeare, one of the books she had surreptitiously procured when the - family Bowdler was included in the category of formulas against which she - revolted. She took it back to bed with her and commenced reading where it - had chanced to open. The first words that met her eye seemed like a voice - from the other world: - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Such harmony is in immortal souls; - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - But while this muddy vesture of decay - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Doth grossly clothe it in, we cannot hear it. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - They followed so closely on the track of her own shuddering thought that - she could read no more. She blew out her candle, and remained awake, - staring into the darkness, until the gray dawn filtered through the - blinds, and she fell asleep. - </p> - <p> - Nor was Kent more restful. He had battled with his love, and with a strong - man's will had brought it under subjection, making it minister to his - happiness in spite of torturing longings instead of allowing it to darken - his life. It had awakened him to a sense of a world of beautiful things, - given him a deeper understanding and a wider sympathy than he had before. - For him truly might it be said that to love her was a liberal education. - It gave him the key to the knowledge and appreciation of women, drew him - from his seclusion into the general society he had formerly avoided. A - feminine conclusion which he would once have pooh-poohed as weak and - illogical struck him now with its intuitive subtlety and delicacy of - point. He learned that what the essentially feminine mind lacks in breadth - it gains in fineness, and he was amazed to discover what a sensitive touch - upon life is possessed by a cultivated woman. And mingled with this new - charm was another of an esoteric kind. No woman he met had all the - fascinations of Clytie, but every woman seemed to possess one of them. He - confided this once in a roundabout way to Wither, who laughed, and told - him he was growing too susceptible and would find himself married one of - these days. But Kent shook his head. “I could only find a Clytie among - them by marrying the whole sex and making an extract of it,” he said with - conviction. For not only did the higher qualities of woman's nature - manifest themselves to him, but the minor graces of manner and appearance - appealed to that side of his aesthetic temperament that had hitherto been - under a cloud. It occurred to him then that he had been living with half - his faculties. Accordingly he felt a peculiar satisfaction in his new - powers of perception. - </p> - <p> - It had cost him a pang to forego the pleasure of the bright society that - Mrs. Farquharson gathered round her. At first he had given up going to - Harley Street through fear of meeting Clytie, for he shrank from meeting - her under the new conditions. Then as time passed on, and he accustomed - himself to the idea of Clytie as a married woman of fashion, he wished to - go, but shyness held him back. It would look strange to resume visiting - suddenly after his apparent rudeness and neglect. Probably the Farquharsons - would never have seen him again had not George met him at a learned - society's meeting, and given him a hearty and pressing invitation. - </p> - <p> - But there was a large though somewhat scattered society in which, although - the rarest of visitors, he had always been welcome. And now he not only - mixed assiduously in this, thereby causing many laughing conjectures as to - the reason of his social reformation, but he volunteered occasionally to - go out with Wither, whose circle of acquaintance, like Sam Weller's - knowledge of London, was extensive and peculiar. A revolution was thus - effected in Kent's habits, and to a certain extent in his mode of thought. - A new zest was given to life in this enlargement of his horizon. And all - through his love of Clytie. The awakening of the dormant sex principle had - strengthened his nature, extended his humanity in depth and breadth. In - spite of a hopeless, passionate love Kent was still a happy man. - </p> - <p> - And now this spell of her influence was broken, or at least modified. He - had seen her, felt the softness of her voice, the kindliness of her eyes. - And he had unwittingly betrayed his secret. She knew that he loved her. - She pitied him, promised that he should see her frequently on the basis of - the old friendship. It was kind and generous, he thought, to step down - from the height of her wedded felicity to comfort him with her friendship - and sympathy. An unexpected happiness was in store for him. Perhaps, after - all, his loyalty and devotion might be of some use to her. - </p> - <p> - But strong, loyal man as he was, this sudden meeting troubled him. If only - he had spoken at once, before the other had come upon the scene, she might - have been won to love him. The old torturing regrets came upon him, and he - tossed sleeplessly on his bed. The love which, through its very - hopelessness, had all these months given him peace and a measure of - happiness now burst forth again tumultuously. It became a miserable farce - to lie awake in the darkness. He rose, went into his sitting-room and lit - the gas. Then he sat down at his writing space, and, burying his face in - his hands, remained for some time in great pain of thought. At last his - eye fell upon some notepaper lying invitingly on his blotting-pad. An idea - struck him. He would write to her. He covered four sides with a passionate - outburst of his love, writing wildly, unthinkingly, as men must write in - moments of overpowering emotion. Then he tore up the sheet and began - afresh. The summer morning light was streaming into the room through the - curtainless window, mingling oddly with the yellow gas, when Kent enclosed - and addressed the first letter to Clytie in which he told her of his love. - He got up, stiff from his long sitting and somewhat exhausted, and going - to bed, slept the sleep of the just until it was his usual hour for - rising. - </p> - <p> - The next afternoon when Clytie returned from a drive she found the letter - awaiting her. She took it up to her room, and there, sitting on the edge - of the bed, read it with conflicting feelings. It ran as follows: - </p> - <p> - My Dear Clytie: - </p> - <p> - You know my secret. I think so. I saw it in your face. But if I was - mistaken, let me tell it to you in so many words; and as I bring to you - what is best and truest in me, it will neither dishonour me to tell it nor - you to hear it. And as you in your goodness offer me a resumption of the - old friendship, I must say it once and for all. I love you, Clytie, with - all the strength of a man who has allowed women to take up very little - part in his life. I loved you long before I knew it. It grew up gradually - during our intercourse, and only one day when you were at Durdleham a - little, little chance circumstance revealed to me that you were not only - the grand, sweet friend, but the woman that I passionately loved. And I - could not tell you for fear of paining you and destroying our friendship—for - what was I to love you? And I dreaded lest you should think me disloyal to - the trust between us. And at last I came, resolved to speak, and it was - too late. Winifred can tell you. - </p> - <p> - From that time I have carried my love with me as the vivifying principle - of my life. I thought you would never know, but now I have betrayed - myself. - </p> - <p> - Will it not pain you too much in your present happiness to see me under - this new guise? Ah, Clytie! tell me frankly as you always used to do. - </p> - <p> - I shall never, never willingly trouble the serenity of your life. I love - you too sincerely, too devotedly; and my love makes me myself too happy. - If you will meet me now and again after this, freely, at the houses of our - common friends, you shall only see the old Kent who now and then scolded - you, sometimes helped you, and who always held you dearer and higher and - grander than all other women; and yet you must let yourself be loved—that - I cannot help. It is fused into my being, and it gives me happiness in my - own way. I am an oddity, you know, Clytie, as you yourself have called me, - and oddities have their little privileges, and if you know that it makes - my happiness, and does not grudge you yours, you will not find it hard to - be loved. - </p> - <p> - If you were a woman of ordinary conventional ideas, I could not tell you - this. You would misunderstand it. - </p> - <p> - There seems but little I could do for you—and I would do so much. - But life is full of strange chances, and perhaps my chance of serving you - may come, and would then I could die for you to save you an hour's pain. - </p> - <p> - Yours in all devotion, - </p> - <p> - Kent. - </p> - <p> - Clytie read the letter over several times. At first the tears came into - her eyes and a lump rose in her throat. This simple, unrequiring love - soothed her and smote her at once. The largeness and tenderness of the - man's nature came to her almost as a revelation. What was there in her - worthy of this sacrifice? How could she tell him, she thought in her - broken pride, that she had failed miserably, wretchedly, that she had - forsaken the higher for the lower, that this selfless love of his was as - far above the sudden intoxication that had degraded her as the spirit is - above the flesh? She had thrown away the best, like the shepherd in the - German legend, who, in the sensuous heart-leap at the sight of the - glittering treasure, disregarded the voice, “Forget not the best,” and - dropped and trampled underfoot the little blue flower that opened the - enchanted hillside. How could she tell him that? - </p> - <p> - Then, too, the note of unconscious irony in his letter jarred through her - painfully. “Her present happiness!” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, my God!” she cried at last. “If he only knew how much need I have of - happiness!” - </p> - <p> - And then the strength that had kept the tears back for all these latter - months of weariness and disillusion suddenly forsook her, and turning as - she sat, she threw herself on the bed in a great agony of sobbing. - </p> - <p> - A little later she wrote Kent the following reply: - </p> - <p> - My Dear Friend Kent: - </p> - <p> - I am not worthy of such devotion. I can only wonder at it and accept it - humbly and gratefully. Words like these of yours I never could - misunderstand, Kent. If it is a pleasure to you to see me, you need not - shun me any more. Clytie. - </p> - <p> - Kent went into the studio on Monday to tell Winifred of the meeting; on - Tuesday, with a vague hope of seeing Clytie; on Wednesday, when Winifred - herself expected her, but she did not come. On Thursday, however, he heard - her voice from outside the studio door, and his heart gave a great throb. - He entered and found himself once more in her presence. Neither spoke of - the letters that had passed between them, but the faintest pressure of the - hand and a glance from her eyes told him that she understood. - </p> - <p> - After that they met frequently—on Sunday evenings at the - Farquharsons', during the week in the studio, where for some months Clytie - had taken to coming very frequently for the comfort of seeing Winifred. - Clytie maintained her usual habits; Kent, as far as was possible, resumed - his old ones. Sometimes it was strangely like the old days. With a little - longing, perhaps, to add to the illusion, and also to give herself some - employment while Winifred worked, Clytie began a picture, choosing in a - humorous tenderness to take Winnie as her model. The picture never was - completed, for Clytie had not the temperament to do justice to the slender - figure in its quiet summer dress, and to the soft, dark face bent so - earnestly over the palette and sheaf of brushes. But while the painting of - it lasted it gave a comfortable air of reality to the revival. It was new - life to Kent to come in on his return and once more receive Clytie's - friendly nod as she stood by the easel, a painting-apron over her dainty - dress, and her hands smudged with charcoal or daubs of paint. He did not - think much of the portrait, and he told her so with laughing frankness. - But he divined why she was doing it, and while criticising, encouraged her - to proceed. His arrival, however, as it always had been, was a signal for - the cessation of work. Then Winifred cleaned the brushes and put them in - the trays, and gathered up the tubes and rags which Clytie, with less - sense of tidiness, had strewed around her, and Clytie drew out the - basket-table and rang the bell for Mrs. Gurkins to bring up the tea. - Clytie had left behind her all her small domestic articles for Winnie's - use in the studio. So there was the familiar tea-service, the Crown-Derby - cups and apostle spoons,—a piece of wicked extravagance on Clytie's - part in times gone by,—the gray Japanese teapot whose wicker handle - had still to be delicately fingered, and the little glass sugar-bowl that - looked so plebeian beside the aristocratic porcelain. Scarcely anything in - the studio had been changed. The charcoal caricatures on the walls were as - sacred in Winifred's eyes as if they had been frescoes by old Italian - masters, and she had issued strict injunctions to spring-cleaners to leave - them intact. Even Clytie's easel was there now. Kent lived for these - afternoons. - </p> - <p> - One day Kent was going to dine with Wither and Fairfax. As his road to a - certain point was the same as Clytie's, they walked along together. This - was almost the first occasion on which they were quite alone together. He - reminded her casually of the fact. - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” she replied. “And I have been wanting to see you by yourself. I - have not thanked you for your letter. But you do see that I appreciate it, - don't you?” - </p> - <p> - “There is nothing to thank me for, since I pleased myself in writing it. - The thanks are from me to you for treating it as you have done.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, no,” said Clytie, shaking her head and looking before her. “You can't - understand,—and perhaps it is better you shouldn't,—what a - letter like that means to a woman. Well, it meant a great deal to me. To - tell you so is the only return I can make you.” - </p> - <p> - “Don't let us talk of it,” said Kent. “I could not bear to have you as a - friend under false pretences.” - </p> - <p> - After they had walked a few steps in silence she continued the subject. - </p> - <p> - “Don't you think it would be better for you to forget all about me, and - look around for someone who can make you happy—really happy?” - </p> - <p> - “I'd have to live till the day of judgment to find her,” said Kent - bluntly. - </p> - <p> - “That's ridiculous, Kent. But can't you feel that it sometimes pains me to - see you sacrificing your life for me?” - </p> - <p> - “I am not sacrificing my life,” he answered cheerfully. “Besides, I don't - quite see what it has got to do with you—in one sense. I love you, - and I couldn't love anybody else for all the joys in creation. Thank God, - you are broad-minded enough to let me tell you this without any chance of - misconstruction.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah! That's all very well,” she said, with a little sigh. “If I were a - saint, I might placidly accept it as my due. Being only a woman, and that - none of the best, it seems such a waste of good love, Kent, and love is a - rare, rare thing in the world.” - </p> - <p> - “But it would go a-begging if you did not have it,” he replied, laughing. - “Come, don't let us say anything more about it. You are happy with your - own home and interests, and I am happy in seeing you and having your - friendship. Of course I have suffered a bit, but it's all over now.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah!” she said. “Life seems to be made up of that.” - </p> - <p> - “Of what?” - </p> - <p> - “Suffering.” - </p> - <p> - He waved an energetic protest with his ash stick. - </p> - <p> - “Since when have <i>you</i> grown a pessimist? I don't believe in it. Life - is made up of responsibilities and interests. There's suffering in it of - course; but there are alleviations. It's like cold and frost. If you stood - up without a rag on in the snow you'd think the world was made of nothing - else but frost. But you put on warm clothing and defy it.” - </p> - <p> - “But the poor, ill-clad, shivering wretches—what about them?” - </p> - <p> - “I'm talking of people with average material wealth,” he replied. “That's - just it. So can the people of ordinary moral wealth clothe themselves - against suffering. I don't like the morbid view of things. It doesn't do - any good. Do you remember a passage in Longfellow's 'Hyperion'—a - criticism of two German poets—'melancholy gentlemen to whom life was - only a dismal swamp, upon whose margin they walked with cambric - handkerchiefs in their hands, sobbing and sighing, and making signals to - Death to come and ferry them over the lake'? It's a bit fierce on your - pessimists; but it's a wholesome little passage to remember.” - </p> - <p> - A little while after this they parted. Kent walked on, swinging his stick, - convinced of Clytie's happiness, yet wondering at her unusual note of - pessimism, and Clytie called a cab, as she was late, and drove home with a - world of strange and troubling thoughts. - </p> - <p> - On the 1st of August Clytie received a visit from the boy Jack, who had - just come to London for his summer holiday. He had grown greatly during - the past year, had filled out. The taint of the street had gone from him - and he was becoming civilised. Clytie leaned back in her chair and looked - at him curiously as he sat, in all the self-consciousness of a newly - awakened sense of propriety, upon the edge of his seat, twirling his - glengarry cap. As an artistic object he had deteriorated. The motive of - his worth in that respect had gone with the picturesqueness of his old - garments and dirt and wild elf locks; but he was handsome in spite of his - cropped brown hair and the severity of his attire. Indeed there was - something incongruous in the corduroy uniform and the refinement of his - face, with its bright dark eyes and finely cut lips that disclosed a - perfect row of white, even teeth. And yet there was cruelty around the - mouth, the sublimated essence of the fierce savagery that Clytie had - impressed upon her famous picture. He had been transformed from the animal - into the human being, it is true; but that does not necessarily imply that - the human being does not retain many of the passions of the animal. With - the old Jack the untamable was degradingly confused with lowness, but it - shone out all the clearer now by reason of the humanising of his face. - Clytie noted all this as they talked together. - </p> - <p> - “You are getting quite a man,” she said. “When are you leaving school?” - </p> - <p> - “Mr. Kent says I'm to stay there another year,” replied Jack. “Then I'm to - be 'prenticed.” - </p> - <p> - “To a joiner?” - </p> - <p> - “I suppose so,” said Jack. And after he had scraped a little with his toe - on the ground he looked up and added: “Do you think I needn't be a joiner - if I didn't want to?” - </p> - <p> - “I don't see why you shouldn't be what you like, Jack.” - </p> - <p> - “Really!” and his face brightened. “I have been thinking I should like to - be something else.” - </p> - <p> - “What is that?” - </p> - <p> - “A carver and gilder,” said Jack bashfully. - </p> - <p> - “Where do the especial charms of that trade come in?” asked Clytie, - laughing. - </p> - <p> - “I dunno,” said Jack; “I only thought it.” - </p> - <p> - There was a touch of pique in his voice. Clytie noticed it, saw that she - had wounded susceptibilities. - </p> - <p> - “Tell me, Jack, why you want to be a carver and gilder.” - </p> - <p> - “I could make all the picture-frames for you and Miss Marchpane,” he - replied. - </p> - <p> - “Thank you, Jack,” said Clytie, touched at the boyish idea. “But perhaps - we'll make you something better than a carver or gilder. I don't know what - you could be. What could we make of you?” - </p> - <p> - A vague idea of raising Jack above the artisan level had occurred to her - during her scrutiny of his face. He was not an ordinary creature. That he - should spend his life in the dull, commonplace atmosphere of the British - workman seemed a waste of possibilities. There are millions who possess - just the qualifications for hewers of wood and drawers of water. Why - should a finer organisation not be cultivated, trained, put into an - environment where there are conditions for free development? But whether - the boy was a potential admiral, Lord Chancellor, or novelist she could - not determine. That was why she asked the question, “What could we make of - you?” somewhat pathetically. Jack shook his head in reply. He had learned - at school that life was a serious thing terminating in apprenticeship. - </p> - <p> - “I've got to learn a trade,” he replied after a little, “and I'd sooner be - a carver and gilder than anything else.” - </p> - <p> - “But suppose a good fairy were to come, Jack,” persisted Clytie, “and say - that you were not to learn a trade, or that, if you did begin, you would - work your way out of it, and become a great man, and do glorious things in - the world—suppose you were able to choose to be anything you liked—what - do you think you would be? Tell me—something great and bright and - noble!” - </p> - <p> - She had grown animated with her enthusiasm, and leaned forward, with her - chin raised and lips parted—her attitude in moments of exaltation. - The boy looked at her for a few seconds, catching her spirit. Something - was at work within him too, for his eyes glowed, and his breath came - quickly. - </p> - <p> - “There is something, Jack. Tell me what it is!” - </p> - <p> - “I'd like to be a soldier like my father,” he said in a low voice, the - extravagant, glowing fancies that had haunted him for six months thus - finding half-choked expression. - </p> - <p> - “Your father?” asked Clytie, taken aback, and diverging into the side - track of her astonishment. “I never knew you had—I mean, I thought - you did not know anything at all about him. You used not to tell me the - truth, then, Jack.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh! but I did not know then!” he cried eagerly. “It was only when I come - here at Christmas, and you was ill, so I couldn't tell you. He was a - soldier, my father, an orficer. And I would like to be an orficer too.” - </p> - <p> - “Really, Jack, this is very interesting,” said Clytie. “Aren't you pleased - to have a father you can be proud of? Was he a very brave man?” - </p> - <p> - “He had a sword,” said Jack proudly, as if that was proof positive of - valour. - </p> - <p> - “Come and sit down in your old place on the hearthrug and tell me all - about him.” - </p> - <p> - The boy did as he was bidden, sinking somewhat shyly at first on to the - great bearskin at Clytie's feet. But after a while he huddled himself up - in his old posture. - </p> - <p> - “Mother didn't tell me much,” he said in answer to a question of Clytie's. - “I was looking in a chest of drawers of mother's, and I see a photograph—an - orficer—all over strings and buttons and a sword and great big - moustaches. And I come to mother and says: 'Who's this?' and she says: - 'That's your father.' And then she snatched it out of my hand and hit me a - clout on the head for going to her drawer. She wouldn't tell me no mere; - but I know he was an orficer because he's got a star on his collar. I - think I knows orficers when I sees them,” he added, with the ci-devant - street urchin's knowledge of life. “And I go and look at him now when - mother isn't by.” - </p> - <p> - “But you shouldn't go to your mother's private drawers,” said Clytie by - way of moral precept. - </p> - <p> - “I've got as much right to look at my father as she has,” replied Jack in - an injured tone, whereat Clytie laughed a little. - </p> - <p> - “You are an odd youth. I wish I could make you an officer right away. But - I am afraid I can't.” - </p> - <p> - “I believe you could,” said Jack. - </p> - <p> - There was a world of childish faith in the remark and the manner in which - it was delivered. Clytie was both touched and saddened. She regretted that - she had raised hopes in the boy that from the nature of things were doomed - to disappointment. The overpowering difficulties in the way of her sudden - visionary aspirations for Jack's future ranged themselves before her mind. - So it was with a sigh she answered his outburst of faith. - </p> - <p> - “I am afraid I can't, Jack,” she repeated. “But you yourself can do a - great deal. If you like, one of these days when you are much older, you - can enlist in the army, and then throw your soul into your duties, and - keep before you at every minute of the day the words, 'I am going to be an - officer,' and if you do this intensely, and never lose sight of it, you - will succeed. That's the only way. They call it getting a commission - through the ranks. But between now and then there are a great many years, - and I'll do all I can for you, Jack. Yet, perhaps, after all, you'd be a - happier and more useful man as a carver and gilder. Who knows!” - </p> - <p> - Jack did not heed the pessimism of the peroration. His mind was aflame - with the possibilities of becoming an officer and he took his leave in - high spirits. - </p> - <p> - Clytie sat for a little musing over the solution of the problem that had - troubled her in the first days of her acquaintance with Jack. She was - gratified at her intuitions having proved correct. But there was still - much that was dark to her. The physiological side of the question, - however, was shadowed at present by more practical considerations. Why - could she not find a means of giving Jack a chance in life? She looked - ahead at the years to come, as she often had done since that dark December - morning, and a pain came at her heart as she beheld their blankness. And - now fate had thrown across her path this drifting spar of humanity. Jack - was hers if she chose to claim him. No one would dispute with her the - privilege. - </p> - <p> - After luncheon she walked to the King's Road and sat with Winifred, in the - hope that Kent would look in on his way upstairs. She wanted to take - counsel with him. His sturdy common sense would help her. She did not - confide her vague scheme to Winifred, because Winifred would have called - her a darling, and put her arms round her neck, and made her feel as if - she were meditating something peculiarly noble. So she waited for Kent's - sobering presence. - </p> - <p> - He came in at his customary hour, bearing a paper bag of peaches which he - had brought for Winifred. He had carried them from some distance through - the streets, and there were little wet stains on the paper. But when the - fruit was put on a plate beside the bread and butter on a flap of the - wickerwork afternoon tea table it looked fresh and inviting. This sudden - return of their old intimacy was delightful to all three of them, and they - chatted during tea as if nothing had happened to break it. - </p> - <p> - Then Clytie propounded her case, and they formed themselves into a - committee to consider it. - </p> - <p> - “I don't like social experiments,” said Kent. “It's constituting one's - self a Providence without Providence's resources. If one bit of the - machinery fails, the whole thing is apt to go wrong.” - </p> - <p> - “But I don't want to experiment!” cried Clytie. “It's quite wicked of you - to say so.” - </p> - <p> - “How can it be otherwise?” asked Kent. “You want to put an industrial - school boy of the most unconventional type and upbringing into the most - caste-bound, conventional profession under the sun. It's like putting a - bit of metallic sodium into water. A pretty experiment, though rather - common; but the result is an explosion.” - </p> - <p> - “But he must be trained and made a gentleman first,” cried Winifred, - coming to Clytie's assistance. - </p> - <p> - “Of course,” said Clytie. “Should he ever be able to get into the army, he - will be by that time quite a different being to what he is now.” - </p> - <p> - “Then you'll have to give him a rigid, conventional training, and so spoil - him,” said Kent. - </p> - <p> - “It wouldn't spoil him to learn to speak the Queen's English and the use - of his knife and, fork,” said Clytie a little defiantly. - </p> - <p> - “He'd have to learn more than that. Besides, how is he to be taught?” - </p> - <p> - “That's what I've come to you for advice about.” - </p> - <p> - Kent mused for a moment and stroked his beard. - </p> - <p> - “Are you very much bent upon this?” he asked. - </p> - <p> - “Yes.” - </p> - <p> - “Then I can only see one way.” - </p> - <p> - “Well—and that?” - </p> - <p> - “Adopt him,” said Kent. “An industrial school boy can be run by a - committee—the experiment is not very dangerous, but a conventional - gentleman must have conventional references.” - </p> - <p> - His first words struck the chord she had shrunk from striking herself. It - was the formulated suggestion of a vague desire. She was silent for a - little. Then Winifred in response to a business summons went out on to the - landing, and Kent and Clytie were left alone. - </p> - <p> - “I am afraid I have been too downright and have hurt you,” he said - concernedly. - </p> - <p> - She shook her head and glanced at him smilingly. - </p> - <p> - “I came to you for common sense. You have given it me. And your conclusion - is one that I dared not come to myself.” - </p> - <p> - “That you should adopt him? A <i>reductio ad absurdum!</i>” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, I feel it. I am not my own mistress now There are difficulties. Oh, - Kent, don't let me talk of them! You see, I came to you for help—to - no one else.” - </p> - <p> - “I don't quite understand you, Clytie,” said Kent, anxious at her sudden - agitation. - </p> - <p> - She recovered herself, womanlike, and forced a laugh. - </p> - <p> - “If I were a rich, lonely old woman, I might be able,” she said, “but, you - see, I'm not. No, no, I can't adopt Jack; and we'll have to run him by a - committee, whatever happens to him.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, what have you decided?” asked Winifred, coming into the room. - </p> - <p> - “That it will be fairer to Jack to let him work out his own salvation,” - said Kent. “Let him work his way through the ranks. If there is anything - in him it will come out. You don't think me unkind, do you, Clytie?” - </p> - <p> - Whereat Clytie laughed honestly and Kent received much consolation. - </p> - <p> - They talked a little longer, on indifferent subjects, and then at - Winifred's hour of departure they all rose together. Winifred went to the - back of the studio and put on her hat; Clytie and Kent moved slowly in the - direction of the door. Kent sighed a little. - </p> - <p> - “I only seem to have seen you for five minutes,” he said, “and I have told - you nothing, but given you commonplace advice.” - </p> - <p> - “Had you so much to tell me?” she asked, smiling, as his unformulated wish - echoed within herself. “There is no reason for us to go away because - Winifred does. Would you really like to stay a little and talk to me?” - </p> - <p> - Before Kent spoke Clytie had not the faintest thought of doing this. But - in a flash came before her the long evening she was to spend in the great - lonely house. Thornton rarely came home for dinner. He even dressed at his - club. Often he slept there. On such occasions the first notice Clytie - received of his absence was from the inscrutable butler, who would come - into the studio in the morning with: “The commissionnaire for master's - letters, ma'am.” Occasionally three days passed without their meeting. - When they did pass an hour in each other's company sometimes there was - calm and sometimes storm. It depended upon his mood. As a general rule he - was polite, even bright and entertaining, and life with him under these - conditions was just bearable. But now the thought came with some - bitterness: What did it matter whether she was at home by seven or eight—or - twelve, for that matter? Why should she not have a cheery hour with Kent? - </p> - <p> - His face brightened as she made her smiling offer to stay. - </p> - <p> - “It is too good of you. Of course I should like to have a talk with you. - But you—can you——” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, yes,” she interrupted lightly. “I am not due home at any hour. I want - to chat with you myself. Winnie dear, we are going to remain a little. - Give me the key and I'll hand it to Mrs. Gurkins as I go down. I haven't - asked you, but I suppose we can?” - </p> - <p> - “Why, of course, darling,” said Winnie, coming up and giving her a - farewell kiss. “I hate to think the studio isn't yours.” - </p> - <p> - So Winifred went away and they remained as in the old days. The sudden - association gave Clytie a pang. A reaction from her enthusiasm about Jack - to weariness of spirit made her sink back listlessly in her chair. - </p> - <p> - “What is the matter?” asked Kent, filling his pipe. “You are not looking - yourself. It is this steaming London. Why don't you go and get some - country air?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, one place is just the same as another. It isn't London and it isn't - the weather. It is the world that is out of joint, somehow. I am afraid I - have been moping. I think I shall invest in a cat. Then I can pour out my - grievances to it. That's the best of a cat: it never mopes. It goes on - purring cheerfully so long as it's warm and well fed, and when you feel - paradoxical it never worries you to explain yourself. Do you like cats? I - forget.” - </p> - <p> - “What are you moping about?” he asked between the first few puffs of his - kindling pipe. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, don't talk in that aggressively cheerful tone, Kent. I have come on - all over moods, and I want comforting.” - </p> - <p> - “You should work,” replied Kent with some self-restraint. “You have hardly - touched a brush in earnest this year. It is the claims of that part of - your nature that cry out if they are not satisfied. Why don't you go on - painting? What has the fact of your not having to make your living got to - do with your art?” - </p> - <p> - “Everything, in a way,” she murmured. - </p> - <p> - “I can't believe it,” said Kent earnestly. “You are not the woman to - neglect your art out of pure idleness. Come, Clytie, rouse yourself and - paint a great picture. The 'Faustina'—what has become of that?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, don't, don't!” she cried, putting her hands up before her face. “I - can't do that now—can't think of it. Years hence, perhaps, when I am - a middle-aged woman, if I find it good enough to live till then, I may try—but - not now.” - </p> - <p> - Kent laid down his pipe and drew his chair near to her. He was pained and - troubled. He saw that her nerves were a little unstrung; but the Clytie he - knew was the last woman in the world to give way to attacks of this kind. - And then a dreary conjecture dawned upon him, and his heart sank. - </p> - <p> - “My poor Clytie!” he said in his kind way. “You seem unhappy. I wish I - could do something to help you.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah! it's too late now,” she said impulsively, scarcely heeding the - purport of her words. “You might have done it eighteen months ago—if - you had not been quixotic.” - </p> - <p> - “What do you mean?” he asked, more and more troubled and at fault. - “Eighteen months ago? How could I have helped you? I loved you and hid it - from you. I could only have caused you pain. I love you now. I don't hide - it. Why should I? I am ready to help you if I can. I am stronger, wiser - now than I was then. How could I have helped you then?” - </p> - <p> - The simplicity of his short, reiterative sentences and the sincerity of - his tone went to her heart, “You could have helped me then by not hiding - it.” - </p> - <p> - “I don't understand,” he said. “How could the knowledge that I loved you - have helped you, unless you cared for me?” - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps I might have cared for you,” she said wearily. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, God, Clytie! don't say that. It is cruel!” he cried, starting to his - feet in great agitation. “I know I acted like a fool, but it was with true - motives. Don't twit me with them. It is more than I can bear.” - </p> - <p> - Only then did Clytie clearly realise what she had been saying. The fit of - supreme dejection passed off as suddenly as it had come, and she felt - keenly the justice of his words. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, Kent, Kent, forgive me!” she cried, with starting tears. “I hardly - knew what I was saying. You are so noble and true-hearted that you must - forgive me. Sometimes when a woman is wretched she has not control over - herself, and I am sometimes very, very wretched, Kent. I was thinking of - myself more than of you when I said the thing that pained you. Tell me - that you forgive me.” - </p> - <p> - The appeal was too human, too unreserved, to be rejected by Kent's tender - nature. He sat down again by her and took her hand and kissed it gently. - </p> - <p> - “I have never seen you like this before,” he said. “I wish I could comfort - you.” - </p> - <p> - He knew that it was no passing irritation or weariness that forced the - confession from Clytie's proud nature. It was something deep and final—something - impossible in her married life. Her wretchedness made him forget his own - longing in the desire to be of use to her and lighten her lot. He let go - her hand, which she allowed to lie on her lap as it fell, with the palms - lightly upwards. - </p> - <p> - “I don't know why I have told you this to-day,” she said, not meeting his - eyes. “I have never breathed it or hinted it to a living being, and it - came upon me unawares. Don't despise me, Kent.” - </p> - <p> - “Clytie!” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, yes. I know what any outsider would say. I was posing as the <i>femme - incomprise</i>. I was casting away my womanly pride. Of all persons in the - world <i>you</i> ought not to have been my confidant. Judged by - conventional canons I am to be despised, for what can the world say of a - woman who tells a man that still loves her that she regrets she did not - marry him? Oh, don't interrupt me. I may as well speak out my true self - once and for all to you. You yourself once remarked that if we were - superior to conventionalities of habit, we ought to extend our - unconventionalities to sentiment. You are loyal and staunch. You can help - me by being my friend, for I have no one else to turn to. My life is a - dreary mistake. My art does not satisfy me, because I have no hopes. One - must have enthusiasms to be an artist, and all mine are dead. Now you - know.” - </p> - <p> - There was a certain fierce pleasure in this self-abasement. It was like - the vengeance of her higher nature upon her lower, the whip of scorn - applied by the spirit to the flesh. - </p> - <p> - He did not answer, but looked at her with inexpressible sadness in his - eyes. She added a few more words. - </p> - <p> - “If you despise me for telling you, let me know at once. It would be - better.” - </p> - <p> - “God forbid!” he said in a low voice. “I shall never apply to you the - conventional canons of misjudgment. I take what you have said to me as a - sacred trust, and thank you from my heart for thinking well enough of me - to give me your confidence. You must never ask me such a question again, - Clytie, for it would wound me.” - </p> - <p> - “I believe you, Kent,” she said, raising her eyes to his in her frank - manner. “And I was wrong to say you <i>might</i> have helped me, for you - can now. And you will?” - </p> - <p> - “With my last breath,” said Kent simply. “It has been the torturing regret - of the last eighteen months that, much as I wished, I could never do a - hand's turn for you.” - </p> - <p> - “But what can I do for you in repayment, my poor Kent?” - </p> - <p> - “Be your own bright, eager self again. Throw yourself into your painting, - and the result I will take as my reward. It will be my influence gleaming - through your genius, and it will be sweet to me. Oh, Clytie! you are - wrong. A life is seldom so wrecked that it cannot be reconstructed, for - that implies the utter loss of faith. A grain of faith in anything can - move mountains; if one hasn't it, then it is time to put an end to life - altogether, it becomes one's duty not to live.” - </p> - <p> - “I came within an ace of that at the beginning of the year,” said Clytie, - with a sad retrospective smile. “Some time I may tell you why. I thought - of dying, but then it seemed cowardly. Perhaps it was I had more curiosity - to go on seeing how the world went on than I was aware of. And now, Kent, - you have put things in a new light before me, and how can I thank you for - all your goodness?” - </p> - <p> - “I have told you,” he replied, with a smile. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XXIV. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he next morning, - after writing her letters and attending to her household duties, Clytie - went into her studio with the praiseworthy intention of stimulating the - artistic impulse that had been flagging for so long. Kent was right, she - thought. Her life could be reconstructed. She would begin her laborious - art life again, resume it seriously as a profession, put her pictures into - the market once more. Amid the many confusing thoughts and emotions - resulting from her conversation with Kent, one idea had sprung in - connection with Jack. She could not adopt the boy. That was a wild - feminine craving, somewhat selfish, springing out of a bitter hour when - fairer hopes were crushed. It cost her a sigh to resign; but she trusted - to Kent's judgment, and her mind was so far at rest. Yet if it could lie - in her power to help Jack materially in after years, when a little capital - would be worth all the world to him, she felt that she would have wrought - some good for one human creature at least in her somewhat self-centred - life. And then Kent's advice as to her art mingled and combined with these - thoughts, and the outcome was the sudden idea that the proceeds of the - sale of her pictures would, in course of time, form a very considerable - fund. She clapped her hands with delight when this occurred to her. A - mountain of weariness seemed removed. In the spontaneity of new workings - she scribbled a hasty line to Kent and had it posted with the address - scarcely dry. - </p> - <p> - “I am going to paint <i>seriously</i>, and <i>sell</i> my pictures, and - devote the proceeds to a fund for Jack. Shall I?” - </p> - <p> - She was in bright spirits this morning, having discovered an object in - life. The future has generally much more to do with our present moods than - the past. Yet, notwithstanding this broad truth, the immediate past had a - certain influence on Clytie's humour. Whilst she was driving home the - afternoon before, the gravity of the fact of her confession to Kent had - somewhat weighed upon her. She had spent the lonely evening grappling with - a truth that had been taking half-reluctant shape in her consciousness for - the last two months, and now rose clear and sharply defined. She had even - written to Kent the following portion of a letter which she straightway - tore up into the finest of pieces. In fact her intention of sending it to - him was from the first of the very remotest. “My dear Kent,” ran this - singularly feminine effusion. “My words to-day were true. If you had told - me you loved me eighteen months ago, I should have realised myself and - what it was that I felt towards you. The knowledge of her own heart does - not come to a woman with the easy grace that your sentimentalists make - out. It is somewhat of a fierce process, Kent. There is no royal road to - it. Well, I know my own heart now, and I have bought the knowledge with - agonies of suffering. Oh, Kent, my true, loyal Kent! I am tired, tired of - hiding facts from myself, of acting in a wilful dream, in defiance of the - promptings of my reason. I am a woman, and I ought not to confess things - to myself, let alone to you. So people say—and people are so wise, - aren't they? I love you, Kent. There, I write it down in black and white. - It looks odd, grotesque, horrible, and yet wonderfully comforting. I love - you, Kent. Why should I deceive myself any longer? God knows whether it is - for my happiness in the future or my misery; but now that the beauty of it - is upon me it makes me wonderfully happy. Yes, wonderfully, wonderfully, - wonderfully happy.” - </p> - <p> - And then she threw down her pen and shredded the paper with frenzied zeal. - But her heart was lighter. The world seemed a clearer, pleasanter place. - Her cheeks burned like fire at the thought of Kent ever knowing of this - feeling. She arranged in her mind the tenderest and most elusive of - relations between Kent and herself. He, a declared lover, should give her - all the comfort and kind counsel of a friend; she, his declared friend, - would find delicate, subtle ways of colouring and softening his life with - her love. A new paradise of exquisite emotion opened its evanescent - portals. For the first time in her life came the romance of delicate - sentiment, tinged with an innocent pink like the buds in spring. It is - true these same buds, to continue the analogy, burst into gorgeous, - riotous bloom under the summer sun; but while the tenderer air of spring - keeps them closed they have a grace peculiarly their own. - </p> - <p> - Clytie moved about the studio singing, a sign with her of great content. - The window was open and the morning sun streamed in, filling the large and - somewhat heavily tapestried room with gay light. It glorified Clytie as - she passed across the patch of sunlight, falling upon her hair in a - thousand scintillations and revealing the deep sea-blue of her eyes. She - wore a soft cream morning gown, a golden tasselled girdle round her waist, - an edging of old lace round the somewhat open neck. The wide, drooping - sleeves she had caught up a little for convenience in working, and her - arms were bare to the elbow. The skirt clung around her as she walked - quickly about the room, with her old elastic tread, making a soft - frou-frou that pleased her, she did not know why. She was happy again, - filled with a double sense of the meaning of life. At last she sat down - before a small easel, on which was put the board with its fair sheet of - Whatman paper ready for the first sketch. In her rapid, eager way she - commenced to indicate the motive of the picture that had flashed like an - inspiration upon her. In the middle distance on the left a pair of lovers, - the woman looking with upturned face at the man, whose arm was round her - waist. In the foreground, peeping at them from behind a clump of bushes, a - girl of about seventeen, with a letter in her hand. The contrast between - the two female faces was the motive—the fulfilment of knowledge on - the one, the dawning revelation on the other. The title had come with the - conception: “Maiden and Woman.” Clytie worked on steadily with her <i>ébauche</i>, - keen, sure of herself, tingling once again with the excitement of - inspiration. She knew she could put that in their faces which would raise - the picture above the narrative prettiness of Sant and his school. The - accessories were to be severe to austerity. No elaborate detail in tree - painting, no subtle effects of light and shade. The principle of - abstraction to be as uncompromisingly carried out as in one of Seymour - Haden's etchings. The whole artistic force of the picture was to be - concentrated in the awakened and awakening souls. - </p> - <p> - She was absorbed in her work when, after a tap at the door, Jack came in. - Clytie looked up with a smile. - </p> - <p> - “You here again, Jack! That is good of you. But I can't say a word to you—positively. - I am so busy. Sit down somewhere until I have finished.” - </p> - <p> - The boy, used to these fits of absorption in his two artist patronesses, - sat down for a little and let his eyes wander round the studio, looking at - the pictures and nicknacks. Then he got up to make a closer examination of - vases and photographs, and walked about on tiptoe, trying to still the - noise of his iron-shod boots against the hard, polished floor. At last he - discovered on the bookshelves an illustrated History of England, with - which he retired to his favourite place on the hearthrug. And so they - remained for half an hour without saying a word—Clytie bending over - her study, Jack curled up with his picture-book. It was quite still. A - stray bumble-bee looked in now and then at the window, buzzing - querulously, as if he had lost his way in London, and then darted off - again. From the servants' hall came the just perceptible voice of one of - the maids singing a hymn-tune, and from far, far away came the tinkling - treble of a piano-organ. And these few sounds, so faint yet so clear, - accentuated the summer stillness. - </p> - <p> - When Clytie had put the last few touches on the portion of her work that - demanded all her concentration, she gave a little sigh of relief. - </p> - <p> - “What do you think of that, Jack?” she said, leaning back with her head - critically aslant. “Don't you think that is going to make a famous - picture?” - </p> - <p> - Jack jumped up promptly, leaving his book open on the hearthrug, and came - up to her side. He was not a connoisseur, in spite of his associations - with art, so he said nothing, but grinned appreciatively, rubbing the calf - of one leg with the instep of the other. - </p> - <p> - “Well,” asked Clytie, “why don't you admire?” - </p> - <p> - “You aint given them no faces,” said Jack. - </p> - <p> - “Ah! This is to be one face,” she said, pointing to a kind of <i>remarque</i> - at the foot of the sheet. “Or something like it. Now just use your - imagination, Jack. This face is to go there—the woman whose whole - nature has been awakened, and is shining out of her eyes, and quivering on - her lips, and is vibrating all through her frame—all of which is - Greek and Chaldee to you, my good Jack; but I may as well explain. And now - I have got to fix a face for this one. What kind of face do you think I am - going to give her?” - </p> - <p> - “I dunno,” murmured Jack. And then after a slight pause: “And what's the - man going to be like?” - </p> - <p> - “Ah!” said Clytie with a mock sigh. “What a little Philistine you are! The - man can be any kind of creature on two legs. What does it matter about the - man? He is a nuisance. I have a good mind to make him awfully ugly with a - face like a rhinoceros. See, like this.” - </p> - <p> - She made a few rapid strokes with her charcoal in the oval left for the - man's face, and the result was a picturesque monster with a long nose, - Mephistophelian eyebrows, and a moustache curling up to his ears. Then - they both burst out laughing. - </p> - <p> - “Let me draw some funny men for you,” she said in the light-hearted - buoyancy of her mood. “Run and get me that sheet of paper over there.” - </p> - <p> - She pinned the sheet that Jack brought her on to the board and began to - draw caricatures. - </p> - <p> - “You shall choose one for me to put in the picture, Jack.” - </p> - <p> - It was a long, long time since she had indulged this freakish side of her - genius. It ran riot now in grotesque exuberance. Here a head with wide, - leering mouth and pointed ears, like the devil that looks over Lincoln; - there a snouted monster with cat's whiskers, an eyeglass, and a silk hat; - a lean, cadaverous, equine face with a terrible squint; a masher, - indicated by three or four little dots and lines. Jack looked on in - rapture. She had never drawn pictures for him before. He broke out now and - then into breathless exclamations. - </p> - <p> - “Lord, he's an ugly one! Give him a long nose—longer than that; and, - my eye! that's a wart upon it. One of the teachers at school has a wart on - his nose. That's just like him! And where's this one's 'ed?—he's all - body and legs!” - </p> - <p> - And then he jumped and clapped his hands when the head was seen to emerge - from between the knees after the fashion of the boneless wonders. - </p> - <p> - When she had filled up the last space on the sheet she tossed the charcoal - into the tray, and rose from her seat. - </p> - <p> - “There, Jack! There's nothing like going absolutely mad on occasions. Now - if you'd like to keep these pictures and show them to the boys at school, - you can.” - </p> - <p> - She rolled up the stiff piece of drawing paper, slipped an elastic band - round it in her hasty way, and gave it to Jack, who could only look his - delighted thanks. - </p> - <p> - “Now I must go and wash my hands and get decent for lunch. Go downstairs - and tell Mrs. Pawkins to give you something to eat. Stay—you had - better leave that roll up here; come in for it before you go.” - </p> - <p> - She took it from him, and laid it on a little table near the door. She did - not desire that the inquisitive eyes in the servants' hall should witness - the mistress's frivolity. Jack understood her more or less, but Mrs. - Pawkins and Mary and John would have questioned her sanity. - </p> - <p> - Jack lingered for a moment on the threshold, and then drew shyly from his - handkerchief pocket a dingy, whitey-brown packet. - </p> - <p> - “I came to show you this,” he said, putting it into her hand. “I prigged - it from mother's drawer this morning. You'll give it me back, won't you?” - </p> - <p> - “I have a good mind not to,” said Clytie severely. “If your mother knew, - she would be very angry, and you would catch it. Still, as you have been a - good boy, I'll look at it and give it you back. Run away, now.” - </p> - <p> - Jack did as he was bid, and Clytie, after a few turns about the room, - putting things more or less straight, unfolded the dirty wrapper of Jack's - packet, with an amused curiosity as to the features of Jack's father. - </p> - <p> - But in another second all her curiosity, amusement, idle interest, were - fled, and her whole emotive force concentrated into a short, irrepressible - gasp of astonishment. It was a photograph of Thornton, her husband. There - was no mistaking it. She had the fellow to it in her album. One day long - ago she had seen it among his odds and ends, and had begged for it, loving - it for all that it was so many years old, taken when he was still in the - army. He looked so stalwart, soldierly, magnificent in his uniform. It was - perhaps the likeness of him that she had cherished most—only too - familiar. For a moment she could hardly understand—the shock was so - sudden and unexpected. Then with the quick reaction she realised what it - meant. Thornton was Jack's father, Mrs. Burmester was his mother. With a - shudder of disgust she threw the photograph on the table. - </p> - <p> - The riddle of Jack's parentage was solved in a way she had not looked for; - the mystery that had lain hidden in strange, unknown depths of passion was - now clear to her in all its unlovely nakedness. Her soul sickened at the - truth. She had not come to her husband with the helpless ignorance of a - young girl. The knowledge of good and evil, to employ the somewhat - meaningless euphemism, had come to her through her intelligence by means - of books, through her contact with real life. She had grasped the fact of - the existence of the Loulou Mendès type with whom love is a trade. That a - man should have had a liaison with such a woman she could have understood. - In fact she never at any one moment had fancied that Thornton had brought - to her the pure ardour of a virgin soul. To have been revolted at the - discovery of a mere antenuptial infidelity on the part of her husband - would have been to her impossible. It was not noble, it is true; but it - was intelligible. There was certainly for a lower nature a charm, - witchery, fascination, in the fleshly beauty of the courtesan. She had - heard of many men falling victims to it, and sinking very little into - degradation. If Jack's mother had been such a woman, she would have felt - little more than the shock of coincidence, a sense of strangeness in her - relations with the boy. But Jack's mother was not of this type. She never - had charm, witchery, or fascination. She had never even passable good - looks. A poor, stolid, dull, animal drudge. - </p> - <p> - The truth had come upon Clytie; the truth that had touched her now and - then with its bat wings, making her shiver; the horrible, soul-nauseating - truth of the eternal <i>beast</i> in man. She knew Thornton now as he was, - and her indifference passed into loathing. In Thornton's feelings what - difference had there been between this boy's mother and herself? - </p> - <p> - She walked swiftly up and down the studio, with clenched white hands, her - shoulders rising now and then in an involuntary heave of disgust. The - glory had gone out of the day. A foul shadow overspread it. - </p> - <p> - Suddenly Thornton himself appeared with eager face, a telegram in his - hand. He had just come in from riding in the Park, and according to the - modern fashion out of the season, was dressed in tweed suit and gaiters. - He carried a silver-headed riding whip jauntily under his arm. He waved - the telegram exultingly. - </p> - <p> - “They have asked me to put up for Witherby!” he said. “I'll have some - lunch on the strength of it. I suppose there's some going.” - </p> - <p> - “I believe lunch is at the usual hour,” said Clytie, not looking at him. - </p> - <p> - He lingered a little, flicking his legs with his whip. - </p> - <p> - “You might as well congratulate me, if only for the sake of politeness,” - he said in an injured tone. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, yes; I congratulate you,” she replied. - </p> - <p> - Her voice sounded strange in her own ears. She felt an almost irresistible - impulse to burst forth into a torrent of speech, to say out finally all - the bitterness and loathing that were in her heart. She restrained - herself, but the effort gave a queer guttural resonance to her words. She - turned and looked out of the window. - </p> - <p> - “What the devil's the matter?” he asked impatiently. “I came in, 'pon my - soul, thinking you'd be pleased. It's a safe seat. I'm dead certain to - knock the confounded Radical into a cocked hat. Just the moment when I've - got what I've been sweating for the last eighteen months, confound it all, - I did think you'd be civil for once in a way. But it's just like you; I - might have expected it. Well, perhaps it's the truth to say you don't care - a damn one way or the other.” - </p> - <p> - He walked to and fro for a little, fuming. Then his eyes falling on the - photograph that lay on the table, he picked it up, as an angry man will - do, looked at it absently for a moment, and pitched it sharply to the - other side of the room. Clytie, startled by the slight click of the - cardboard striking against the wall, turned half round and met his eyes - fixed loweringly upon her. Each held the other spellbound for a few - seconds. Then the door opened and Jack came into the studio, checking his - motion forward as he saw Thornton. - </p> - <p> - “What the deuce is this?” cried the latter. - </p> - <p> - With a swift, instinctive glance Clytie compared the two faces. They were - astonishingly alike. The same finely moulded features, dark lucent eyes, - brown crisp hair, white evenly set teeth; the same lines of cruelty at the - corners of the lips. Strange that, much as she had studied Jack's - physiognomy, the likeness had never suggested itself. At Thornton's - petulant question the boy looked at him half frightened, and then at - Clytie, and was about to shrink back. But she called him in. - </p> - <p> - “Don't go away without your drawing, Jack. This,” she said coldly to - Thornton, “is a <i>protégé</i> of mine. He was once my model—for my - picture 'Jack.' Here, Jack, take your drawing. Run home. Thank you for - coming to see me.” - </p> - <p> - “And—and the photograph. You said you'd give it me back.” - </p> - <p> - Clytie went to the table where she had thrown it. Not seeing it, she - remembered the sound that had startled her, and turning round, perceived - the photograph lying face upwards on the floor. She gave a little start of - dismay. The situation threatened to become dramatic, and she was - unprepared. In her hurry to dismiss the boy she had forgotten the - photograph. Now he had called attention to it, and she felt bound to - restore it to him to save the poor little urchin's honour and most - probably his back. And Thornton was leaning against the mantelpiece, with - his hands in his pockets, frowningly surveying the scene. With outward - calm, but with a beating heart, she picked up the photograph, wrapped it - in the dirty covering, and put it into Jack's hand. Thornton, who had - watched her movements with gathering surprise, strode forward with an - oath. - </p> - <p> - “What the devil——” - </p> - <p> - But Clytie quickly interposed herself between him and the boy. - </p> - <p> - “Run away!” she said in a hasty whisper, and Jack, accustomed from his - childhood to sudden dartings, disappeared like a flash. Clytie put her - back against the door and looked at her husband with strange eyes. It had - been done with the speed of a conjuring trick. - </p> - <p> - “What on earth is the meaning of all this?” asked Thornton; “and what are - you giving away my photographs for? Upon my soul, I think you are taking - leave of your senses. You'll have to drop this sort of thing. I'm damned - if I am going to have my photographs given away to all the street urchins - in London. Play the fool yourself if you like, but I'll trouble you to - keep me and my things out of it. Have you been giving me away any more?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, God! Thornton, you have given yourself away!” she cried, echoing his - slang phrase half unconsciously in her bitterness. “I'll tell you, if you - like. The photograph belongs to the boy's mother. He is your child.” - </p> - <p> - “What!” cried Thornton in a voice of thunder, showing his teeth savagely. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, your child,” she went on, striving to be calm. “His mother's name is - Burmester. You gave her the picture yourself years ago. I had just made - the discovery when you came in. Ah—h!” she cried, putting her hands - suddenly before her face, “it is horrible, horrible!” - </p> - <p> - “Ha!” retorted Thornton fiercely. “You are in one of your damned - high-horse moods. Well, I did give one of my father's kitchen-maids a - photograph, and she did have a child, and I paid her for her trouble, and, - damme! what that's got to do with you now is more than I can see. Besides, - you never were such a fool as to imagine you were marrying an infernal - saint.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, stop! stop!” she cried. “Don't say anything more. You will brutalise - me as well as yourself. I never thought you a saint—even when I - cared for you. I know what you are, and, oh, God! this is the end of it. - If you had betrayed a sweet, innocent girl, you would have been a villain, - but not necessarily a brute—someone charming, pretty, attractive—I - could have understood it; but a poor stupid drudge—a kitchen-maid—little - better than an animal——” - </p> - <p> - Thornton rushed forward and caught her by her shoulder. - </p> - <p> - “By the Lord God! if you don't hold your tongue, I'll strike you!” - </p> - <p> - She saw that she had aroused the devil in him. She had meant to be calm, - to tell him plainly the facts of the case and to say that it would be - better that they should live apart. But an irrepressible shudder had come - over her, and then the brutal cynicism of his confession had caused her - the loss of her self-control. As she saw the blazing eyes and white - glittering teeth in front of her and felt the grip on her shoulder, she - regretted that she had been, in a way, to blame; but she was no coward, - and the threat awakened the fierce old Puritan courage in her nature. She - did not flinch, but looked him directly in the face. - </p> - <p> - “Your striking me would only add to your other brutalities.” - </p> - <p> - “Damn you!” he cried in blind fury; and swinging her round, he struck her - with the riding whip with all his huge strength, cutting the back of the - thin morning gown, that flew open at the gap, showing her bare shoulders. - Then he hurled her from him and rushed out of the room. - </p> - <p> - With an almost superhuman effort of will Clytie sprang to her feet, stood - for a moment dazed, stunned, on fire with agony, then staggered forward - and threw herself upon the bearskin rug, with the illustrated History of - England, open as Jack had left it, beneath her face. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XXV. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">S</span>uddenly Clytie - rose to her feet and left the studio. As she moved a strange weight seemed - to lie upon her limbs. It was a physical effort to drag herself up the - stairs to her bedroom. Her heart seemed to be burned through, a fiery - sword to have been thrust through her temples. It was the supreme moment - of the horror and abasement of her married life. One intense thought - possessed her; to fly from the house, to escape from the area of - Thornton's influence, to bury herself somewhere far away. Mechanically she - changed her things, choosing one of the simple morning dresses she had - retained since the days before her marriage, and bathed her feverish face - and hands. The cold water refreshed her, restored adjustment to her - quivering nerves, and she was able to think, form a coherent plan. - </p> - <p> - She would go forthwith to her old rooms in the King's Road, which she knew - to be vacant. There she would live again as Clytie Davenant, and shut out - of her memory the nightmare of the past months. The plan conceived, she - hurried to put it into execution. She would have liked to open the street - door there and then, to cross its threshold for the last time. But the - practical side of life asserts itself in the midst of the intensest - emotions. She would have to pack her boxes, select what things she would - take with her. The aid, too, of the servants would be necessary. After a - swift look at the glass she composed her features, summoned her maid, gave - her orders in a calm, equable voice, as if she were going on an ordinary - visit in the country. - </p> - <p> - While the servants packed the articles she designated, she went down to - the studio in order to collect a few of the portable objects that were - dear to her: Rupert Kent's etching, the Jacquemart that Kent had given - her, a book or two, a favourite box of oil-tubes. All the rest she would - leave behind, together with everything that Thornton had ever given her. - The maid, an excellently trained servant, packed quickly, but to Clytie - she seemed unutterably slow. It was an effort of control to refrain from - urging the girl on, from snatching the articles from her hands and stowing - them away anyhow, haphazard. Every moment that she lingered seemed an - eternity of degradation. In after days she wondered that she had never - reflected how far Thornton's possible presence in the house might have - affected the ease of her escape. As it happened, he had flung out of doors - as soon as he had left her stricken upon the floor; but she, in the fixity - of her idea, never concerned herself as to his whereabouts. - </p> - <p> - At last, when the boxes were packed and locked, the maid, dangling the - keys in her hand, asked Clytie when she should order the brougham. - </p> - <p> - “I shall go in a four-wheeled cab with the luggage,” said Clytie. - </p> - <p> - “Go and order one round at once.” - </p> - <p> - The maid retired wonderingly, and Clytie was left alone. She put on her - bonnet and sat down on the edge of the bed to draw on her gloves. Then for - the first time her eye fell consciously upon her wedding-ring, and - thereupon came over her the sense of all that her present action implied: - the final renunciation of the marriage-tie, the assertion of her own - individuality, the beginning of another life. And yet, in spite of her - repudiation, the tie remained, indissoluble except by death, and this - little circlet of gold was the symbol. With a twinge of pain she wrenched - it off, for it was tightly fitting, and went and threw it in a jewel box - containing the jewellery that Thornton had given her. At any rate, she - could spare herself the hourly misery of this visible bond. It was a poor - kind of relief to leave it there with the other tokens of her wifehood. - </p> - <p> - Then, as she waited, her crushed pride rose a few degrees. Whatever - subsequent steps Thornton might take, her departure should at least not - have the indignity of flight. A scribbled line would save her - self-respect. When the servants came into the room to take down the boxes - to the cab she had written the note. - </p> - <p> - “I am leaving your house. I go back to my old rooms in the King's Road, - where I shall resume the life I led before I knew you.” - </p> - <p> - Then only did it occur to her to inquire of the footman whether Mr. - Hammerdyke was in. The man, who was accustomed to the separation between - the lives of his master and mistress, replied, without manifesting any - surprise at the question, that Mr. Hammerdyke had gone out just before - lunch. - </p> - <p> - “Put this note in his room for him,” said Clytie. “I shall be away some - time.” - </p> - <p> - In a few moments she had started. With a little convulsive moan, wrung - involuntarily from her lips by her agony of body and soul, she leaned her - head against the rusty cushions of the ramshackle vehicle and closed her - eyes. The day was still glorious, London bathed in sunlight, the streets - filled with life and motion. For all the world but her the promise of the - morning was kept. As the cab slackened its pace on crossing the Fulham - Road she opened her eyes for a moment, and looked vacantly, as if in a - dream, out of the window. Then she relapsed into her darkness. - </p> - <p> - “And I was so happy this morning,” she murmured to herself. “I could have - lived the better life—with Kent's help!” - </p> - <p> - Kent! She started, as a wave of blood rushed to her cheeks. She was going - to Kent now, to live under the same roof with him once more, to see him - daily, to take him more intimately than ever into her life. Until now she - had not realised this coherently. Vague thoughts of him had passed through - her mind, but she had been too dazed, too sickened, too much possessed by - the overpowering longing for freedom, escape from the house of bondage, to - connect him definitely with her immediate future. And in the unconscious - sequence of ideas a little self-reproach came into her mind, bringing with - it a sense of soothing. Why had she not thought of Kent at first, of the - true, loyal friend and lover, on whom she could rely for strength and - comfort? How could she have been so much wrapped up in herself and her - wrongs as never to have given him a place in her plans? And then the tide - of feeling ebbed back again, leaving her heart quite cold and sad. How - could she meet him? How could she tell him? The eternal woman in her - shrank from the confession. If he had been to her but a friend, it had - been easy. But she loved him. Had not her heart sung within her that very - morning, only a few hours before, at the grace and tenderness of her at - last awakened love? And she fought, womanlike, against she scarce knew - what, striving to disentwine herself like Laocoon from the coils that love - and circumstance had wound, in subtle intricacy of convolution, about her - heart. But for all her shrinking she longed for Kent. If only he could - understand it all without her telling! If only he could come that evening - and sit by her side and hold her hand in strong, mute sympathy! Well, she - would conquer her woman's diffidence, and tell him bravely. She felt she - owed him a little reparation. The inherent delight in putting itself in - the wrong is perhaps one of the most elusive traits of a woman's nature. - </p> - <p> - The cab stopped before the familiar side door. Mrs. Gurkins, standing - beneath the awning of the shop between the stalls of cabbage and fruit, - gave a gasp of bewilderment as she saw Clytie alight from the - luggage-laden vehicle. She ran round through the connecting passage and - opened the front door. - </p> - <p> - “You are not coming to stay here, miss?” she asked. - </p> - <p> - It was only in moments of calm reflection that she could bring herself to - address Clytie more decorously as “ma'am.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, I am,” replied Clytie in her decisive way. “Can I have my old - rooms?” - </p> - <p> - “Of course, miss—but——” - </p> - <p> - “Well, have my boxes taken up and get things straight for me, Mrs. - Gurkins. You know what an erratic creature I am, don't you? I think I am - going to stay a very long time. I'll go and see Miss Marchpane while you - do all that is necessary. You'll forgive me for putting you to all this - trouble?” - </p> - <p> - “La, miss—ma'am, I'm that glad to have you back! But Miss Marchpane - left early to-day—about an hour ago. You can go up to the - sitting-room. I was cleaning it out only yesterday.” - </p> - <p> - Clytie went upstairs to the familiar room, and took off her bonnet and - gloves. In a few moments the boxes were brought up. When she had unpacked - these and arranged their contents, and eaten as much as she could of the - meal that Mrs. Gurkins prepared for her, the glorious afternoon had melted - into night. She sat by the open window and looked out upon the hurrying - street below. It was a Saturday evening. The whole population of the - district was astir buying their Sunday provisions or their Sunday - headaches. Bands of the youth of both sexes clattered noisily past, - singing hoarsely or darting from pavement to roadway in loud, dissonant - gaiety. Along the kerb stretched the line of costers' barrows with flaming - naphtha torches, and the faces of the sellers and buyers stood out clear - in the glare. A babel of sounds arose: the confused murmur of private - conversations pitched in the discordant key of the unrefined, the raucous - cries of the costers offering their wares, the shrill “Buy! buy!” of the - butcher a few yards away and the rapid click of his steel, the doleful - nasal dirge of a tramp woman holding a vague bundle looking like a baby in - her arms, the continuous scraping of feet, the roar of the 'buses and - carts in the roadway. - </p> - <p> - Clytie had often before sat on Saturday evenings at her window, lost in - the wonder of speculation upon the individualities of the units that - composed this hurrying, bawling, laughing, cursing crowd. And now she felt - the old fascination creep over her. The noise and movement acted as a - counter-stimulus to the fierce whirl of emotions through which she had - passed during the day. She lost for the time the sense of loneliness, - soul-sickness, and bodily prostration in this external world of tumult. - What did it all mean, this hurry and strain? Looked at as a whole, it - seemed to indicate that life was intense, earnest, throbbing with infinite - variety of passions, an end in itself, to be carried on, because it was - life, to all eternity. It seemed real, practical, objective, obeying - inscrutable, immutable laws. The planets circle round the sun; our solar - system circles round another focal sphere. It is great, it is glorious, - serving some great and glorious end; yet what that end is no man knoweth. - And so with the collective life that surged beneath Clytie's window, - yielding blindly to the unchanging laws that direct the cosmos. If this - movement was meaningless and vain, then did the stars wander futilely in - their courses. Sin and shame and misery, love and laughter and happiness, - what did they matter in the progress of collective life? They are internal - forces affecting its resistless march as little as the incessant motion of - men affects the rotation of the earth. - </p> - <p> - But the individuals, when detached from the conglomerate mass of humanity—what - was this life to them? How far was it a gracious thing to yonder bawling - cheap-jack, with his red, sodden face? And the factory girl, with her - feathered hat and deep fringe overshadowing pinched, soulless features, - looking hungrily at his Brummagem wares; the fat, unintelligent workman's - wife gossiping loudly of sickness, death, and funerals; the besotted navvy - stumbling along in the grip of a soberer friend—how far were they - intellectually, spiritually, cognisant of life? Again as of old these - questions presented themselves to Clytie. During these latter months she - had been too closely confronted with the problems of her own personality - to interest herself in that of others. But now a newly awakened - self-knowledge had given her a key to mysteries to the elucidation of - which she had once devoted all her artistic powers. She had arrived at the - truth of the relativity of individual life. There was no such thing as - absolute fulness of existence. Everyone—coster, factory girl, - statesman, poet—was striving, each in his way, after a completer - life, but the ideal of completeness was limited by each individual's - capacity for action, sensation, and thought. Hence yonder factory girl's - life might be relatively as full as her own, the hunger for the unknown - that would complete it as loudly clamourous. Clytie was glad for the - moment, almost happy. New artistic stirrings seemed to be at work within - her soul. Heretofore she had sought a solution for the problems of life - through her art. Might not this newer knowledge and more extensive - sympathy enable her to present finely perceived truths, thus making her - art less self-centred, more universal? - </p> - <p> - This train of thought was working through her mind as she sat by the - window, resting her cheek on her arm. - </p> - <p> - Gradually, however, the thoughts confused themselves into a medley of dim - associations, which in their turn became lost in drowsiness. Worn out by - the physical strain of the day, she fell asleep in the midst of the uproar - that arose from the hurrying street. - </p> - <p> - Suddenly she became conscious of a presence beside her in the room, and, - starting up, beheld Kent looking down upon her. - </p> - <p> - “You'll get cold or a stiff neck or something sleeping by the open window - like that,” he said in his kindly way. “And yet I did not like to wake - you.” - </p> - <p> - “I do feel a little cramped,” said Clytie, rising. “But the night is hot. - Bring another chair and sit down. I shall not go to sleep again.” - </p> - <p> - Kent did as she bade him, and they sat on either side of the window, - Clytie with face half averted looking into the street, Kent leaning - forward, gazing at her with troubled eyes. For some moments neither spoke. - At last Kent broke the silence. - </p> - <p> - “Clytie!” - </p> - <p> - “Yes?” - </p> - <p> - “Was I wrong to come in? Do you want to be alone? Tell me frankly and I - will go.” - </p> - <p> - “No; stay,” replied Clytie slowly, without turning her head. “I wanted you - to come. I don't know why. How did you find out I was here?” - </p> - <p> - “Mrs. Gurkins caught me in the passage. She said you were staying some - time. I knocked at your door, but you did not answer, so I looked in, saw - you asleep there. I could not resist the temptation of coming nearer so as - to see your face. You look so done up, you must go to bed early and have a - good night's rest.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah, Kent! How like you!” said Clytie, looking quickly round at him. - Womanlike, she was pleased that he had not expressed wonderment at her - presence in the house, and beset her with abrupt questions, but tried - instead with delicate sympathy to put her at her ease. - </p> - <p> - “Can you guess why I am here, Kent?” she asked in a low voice. - </p> - <p> - “I dare not try,” he replied. - </p> - <p> - “I have finally parted from my husband.” - </p> - <p> - “Good God! Clytie, what do you mean?” he cried, with a leap at his heart, - followed by a feeling of great pity for the woman he loved, an aching - sense of the irony of things. “It has been a misunderstanding. It will all - be cleared up in time,” he continued unsteadily. - </p> - <p> - Clytie shook her head. - </p> - <p> - “No; thank God, this is the end. See my hand: that which was there I drew - off to-day for the first time. It shall never be there again.” - </p> - <p> - “Clytie, my dear friend Clytie!” said Kent, very much moved. “What can I - say to you? My heart aches for all that you must have suffered. You told - me yesterday your life was not what I thought it to be, for I fancied you - happy, with all around you to make the world bright and glorious. I do not - know what to think now. Is there no hope for your happiness?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, no, Kent, not that way. Let me tell you at once what I can. Don't - judge me severely. I did what lay in my nature to do. I bore things that - nearly drove me mad, although perhaps many other women would not have - looked on them as burdens. But my marriage was a mistake—for both of - us. And then—oh, how can I tell you? Something happened to-day, the - climax, rendering further life there impossible. Oh, I can't speak or even - think of it!” - </p> - <p> - Her voice ended in a moan and a shivering catch of her breath, and she - covered her face with her hands. Kent leaped to his feet quivering with a - sudden intuition. - </p> - <p> - “Clytie, you have been wronged far more than by mere misunderstanding. Did - he dare——” - </p> - <p> - “Yes—yes. Don't think of it. It's all over.” - </p> - <p> - “But I must think of it. It is like a red-hot iron in my heart. I can't - bear it. All last night I lay awake thinking of your unhappiness, tortured - by regrets, hating the man who made your life a weariness to you. I never - thought of this. The coward! The brute! Oh, my God!” - </p> - <p> - And as he strode up and down the room, with set lips and clenched hands, - Clytie looked at him half-wonderingly. She had never seen her calm, strong - Kent so moved by passion. She went up to him, with natural impulse, and - put her hand on his shoulder and looked into his face. - </p> - <p> - “You need never speak or think of this again, Kent. It is all over, - buried. For nearly a year we have lived almost as separated as we shall do - henceforward. I have come to be Clytie Davenant once again, to lead the - old life of work and happiness with you and Winifred. I can blot out the - past eighteen months like an evil dream in which I have suffered much and - learned much. We can work together as we used to do, Kent, and you will - find me, I hope, a better, gentler woman, dear. Now forget all about it, - as I shall do. Remember what you said yesterday—that no life was so - wrecked as to be incapable of reconstruction. You cannot tell what comfort - you gave me. And I cannot tell you what happiness I passed through this - morning—before—ah, well——Oh, Kent, my true, loyal - Kent! I am a very weak woman, and I want your goodness and help and - tenderness. You can do nothing to help or avenge what has passed. You can - do all for me in the future if you will.” - </p> - <p> - “What I can do is small enough, God knows!” replied Kent. - </p> - <p> - “Do you know what you can do for me?” - </p> - <p> - “Tell me.” - </p> - <p> - “Let me forget myself and my selfish wants in trying to bring some help - and gladness into your life. I wronged you deeply once—I wronged - myself; let me make reparation.” - </p> - <p> - Kent turned aside and passed his hand across his forehead. - </p> - <p> - “You must not think of me,” he said in a low voice. “I am rough and - strong, with no particular burdens to bear. Some day or the other, when - you are happy, I will come to you with my little griefs for the sake of - having them charmed away by your sympathy; but until then let me think of - you—help you if I can. If I can't, Heaven knows it will not be for - want of longing to do so.” - </p> - <p> - “Kent,” said Clytie very softly, unconsciously moving nearer to him, “I am - happy now. Can't you see that I am?” - </p> - <p> - Kent's heart beat like a sledge hammer; a wave of passionate love swept - through his veins, thrilling him to the finger tips. He was conscious that - if he turned his face the hair on her forehead would brush his cheek. - Never before had a woman spoken to him in that strange tone. The world - stood still for a moment. Then in a blinding daze of light, in which all - things in heaven and earth were drowned, he turned, caught her to him, and - kissed her. - </p> - <p> - Slowly Clytie freed herself, held out a restraining hand, and, with steps - strangely faltering, moved across the room to the couch, where she sat - down and hid her face in the cushions. Kent paused for a moment, steadying - his senses still reeling from the shock of the first kiss of love he had - ever given to woman. Then he went and stood by her side. - </p> - <p> - “Forgive me, Clytie. It was base of me. But it was something beyond my - will that acted. You forget that I love you. I have wronged you, my queen, - my life! If you can ever trust me again, I will devote myself to making - you forget that I have dared to love you. I ask your pardon, Clytie.” - </p> - <p> - He stayed for a moment looking at her bowed figure. Then, as she gave no - sign that she was moved by his appeal, he left her, and with a strange - mingling of death and gladness in his heart walked lingeringly to the - door. But just as his hand was on the knob Clytie rose impulsively from - the couch, and with hair ruffled and her cheeks glowing came up to him, - and it was she who opened the door. - </p> - <p> - “You are pardoned, dear, for I love you.” - </p> - <p> - A moment later she was alone. And she resumed her position by the open - window, and looked out upon the busy scene. But she heeded it not. Her - sight was directed to the mysteries of an invisible world. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0025" id="link2HCH0025"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XXVI. - </h2> - <p> - Clytie's last words rang in Kent's ears all night. She loved him. She had - surrendered herself to his kiss, she had told him her heart in plain, - unequivocal language. In the first blaze of this happiness he did not - perceive the gloomy background of their love. All that he could feel was - that Clytie had left the life to which he had been a stranger, that she - had come back to live in his daily company in the old helpful way, that, - furthermore, her simple friendship had changed into something unutterably - sweeter. He looked into the future and found it glowing with many rose - tints of beauty. He saw Clytie and himself carrying out to its fullest his - brave gospel of work—to its fullest because of their belief and - trust in one another. He saw Clytie painting noble pictures, drawing - strength and confidence from his sympathy—himself stimulated to - great achievement, the prose of life transmuted into sonorous epic, - lyrical gladness, elegiac grace. The fever in his blood kept him awake as - image after image passed before his fancy. But whether the vision was of - Clytie walking by his side through the gaslit streets, or of Clytie's - glorious head strained back to view the effect of brush strokes he had - suggested, or of Clytie sitting by the table as he worked, the lamp - between them, it ended always with the warm touch of Clytie's lips beneath - his, and the low, clear voice, “I love you.” - </p> - <p> - This exaltation is common to most men when a strong love comes to them. - But to Kent it was all the intenser through the peculiarities of his - nature. He had lived without the sphere of women. The passionateness of - his temperament had thrown itself utterly into another channel. His work - had been his love, his wife, the centre of all his energies, all his - hopes. The craving for the unknown complement of existence had found - satisfaction in the added line upon line, the growing bulk of manuscript, - the builder's thrill when the creation of his own brain is materialising - itself course by course into a majestic edifice. Besides, action, whether - it was spending hours in a musty library in the exciting search after a - reference, or tramping for miles in the keen mountain air of Norway, - always fascinated him and compelled the entire energy of his being. He - beheld the earth after his wholesome fashion and saw that it was good. To - him life was complete. Things, therefore, not contained within his sphere - he looked upon as superfluities. Woman was a superfluity; the impulses of - sex repugnant. The very intensity of his nature made him shrink all the - more strenuously from the sexual principle upon which love is built. When, - however, love came to him, in spite of himself, he was dazed with it, - terrified. On that January morning when he buried his face in the faint - perfume of Clytie's handkerchief he felt himself overcome with a kind of - horror. The fierce consciousness that he would give his soul to hold her - in his arms and kiss her hair and eyes and lips was to him a torture of - debasement. This morbidness was due only to the violence of the reaction. - It lasted but a short while, and toned down into a feeling of disloyalty - to Clytie's friendship in daring to love her. But time at last adjusted - his moral balance, when it was too late, and Clytie was lost to him. And - then his love was purified into a deep, passionate devotion that was its - own joy and recompense. If circumstances had remained unchanged, Kent - would have carried this deeper than romantic love with him to the grave. - It had grown into his inmost heart, informing that subconsciousness that - makes a man's individual life. Even during the last few months, when they - were meeting in frank, friendly fashion, his love had altered very little - in kind. He believed her to be a happy wife, loving her husband, with whom - in a moment of bitterness he had once silently measured himself. The - precious boon of her friendship was regained, nothing more, and it was - given to him, under no false pretences on his part, but all the more - tenderly because she knew of his devotion. Secure in the impression of her - happiness, he would never have wavered in word or thought from his - straightforward, simple loyalty, and his days would have passed in quiet - contentment, saddened a little, perhaps, by regrets for what might have - been, but never tormented by longings for the impossible. - </p> - <p> - But conditions were no longer the same. Clytie had renounced her married - life. Except as a memory of bitterness it had no place in her thoughts. - Except by a legal fiction she was her own mistress once more, free to go - and come, think and act. Even in name she would be Clytie Davenant again, - and she had spoken to him in that strange tone he had never heard before, - and had come nearer to him as her touch lay upon his arm. The whole pent - up passion of Kent's life had gone forth into that kiss. For Kent the - world was changed, and the night a dream of unutterable things. But by the - morning it had brought counsel. This love, acknowledged on both sides—whither - would it tend? A great problem. So great a one, indeed, that Kent was - tempted to shirk grappling with it. Courage and a stout heart, he said to - himself, and all would be well. But one cannot rid one's self in this easy - way of responsibilities. If you shake them from your shoulders, they - shackle themselves about your feet. Kent felt thus fettered as he lay - awake. Moreover, his early misgivings concerning Hammerdyke came, like the - curses in the proverb, home to roost. If he had spoken to Clytie then, - before her marriage, possibly she might have been spared all this - suffering. He wished that he had obtained from Wither all the particulars - of the ugly rumours that had been afloat, investigated them, confronted - Clytie bravely with the truth, and so saved her from wrecking her life. - And yet he felt that he could not have done so. Well, what was past was - past. The present and the future contained enough matter to engage his - attention. He lay for some time in bed trying to solve these perplexities. - At last, at half-past nine, he rose, dressed, and went into his - sitting-room to prepare his breakfast. This was a simple process. On a - couple of gas-stoves, connected by india-rubber piping with the two - gas-jets in his room, he placed a kettle and a saucepan, the latter - containing eggs. Then he spread a little cloth on a clear space of his - dresser-table, and brought out his crockery and other breakfast requisites - from one of the under-cupboards. A ham somewhat cut into, butter, and - marmalade he procured from a safe in a third little room on the landing - which he used as a combined larder and lumber-room. For years Kent had - enjoyed the simple Bohemianism of this Sunday morning meal. He could - linger over it easefully without the weekday glance at his watch, when - time was short. There was the Sunday paper, a weekly review or two, the - long, undisturbed after-breakfast pipe. It was a time when he could - release himself with free conscience from his busy life and enjoy his - leisure. But this morning the eggs seemed stale, the ham tasteless, the - journals dull, and he found himself looking at his watch. He would go down - and see Clytie at eleven, an hour which he had himself arbitrarily fixed - upon, and he was counting the minutes. It is surprising how long minutes - are when you count sixty of them. - </p> - <p> - At last eleven o'clock came and Kent descended the stairs. But Clytie was - out. Mrs. Gurkins, who answered his ring on Clytie's bell, informed him - that Miss Davenant would not be in for lunch. Perhaps she would be back - during the afternoon. So Kent went upstairs again, disappointed, and, - after vainly trying to occupy himself, seized his hat and went out for a - long tramp through Putney and Wimbledon. His heart was full of strange - emotions that beset him for many hours, making them seem hopelessly long. - Of the two Clytie passed by far the happier day. - </p> - <p> - In the afternoon, on his return, he heard voices in the studio. He knocked - and entered. Clytie was there with Winifred. - </p> - <p> - “Can I come in?” - </p> - <p> - “Of course,” said Clytie. “Why do you ask? We have been expecting you ever - so long. In fact we have kept tea waiting for you.” - </p> - <p> - He put down his hat and stick, nodded as usual to Winifred, and advanced, - through force of later habit, with outstretched hand, to Clytie. She laid - her fingers in his slowly, looked up at him from her chair by the stove, - and laughed. - </p> - <p> - “You forget I am no longer a visitor, Kent,” she said rebukingly. - </p> - <p> - “Only this once, then,” he answered, “to welcome you back among us.” - </p> - <p> - “Where have you learned to make pretty speeches?” asked Clytie. - </p> - <p> - She was pleased with the words and gave his hand a sudden pressure. - </p> - <p> - Kent brought a chair up to where Clytie and Winifred were sitting, tried - to talk lightly, and failed. A silence came over the little party. Tea - caused a distraction, and they fell to discussing indifferent subjects, - odds and ends of gossip, but in a desultory fashion that each found - strange. At last Clytie rose, cut the Gordian knot in her impulsive way. - </p> - <p> - “I am going to do one or two things in the sitting-room,” she said. “You - two have a talk until I come back.” - </p> - <p> - Kent opened the door for her. On the threshold she turned and whispered to - him: “Talk to Winifred a little. You will do each other good.” - </p> - <p> - He closed the door after her and went back to Winifred. - </p> - <p> - “So we have her with us again.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” she replied gently, “and I don't know whether to feel sorry or - glad.” - </p> - <p> - “Did you know—had you any idea that she was unhappy? I never knew - till yesterday—or the day before.” - </p> - <p> - “I think I knew—before—perhaps because I am a woman. It made - my heart ache.” - </p> - <p> - “But she is not unhappy now,” said Kent. “Therefore you ought to be glad.” - </p> - <p> - Winifred glanced at him swiftly. In spite of the brown softness of her - eyes they were woman's eyes, capable of quick, subtle perceptions. - </p> - <p> - “But will she be happy, Kent?” she asked, bending down over her - needlework. As she had not been able to paint, she had taken in hand, by - way of feminine comfort, some sewing for Clytie. - </p> - <p> - “What do you mean?” he asked, with a man's preference to answer a concrete - question rather than a delicately hinted suggestion. - </p> - <p> - “Will not this tie that cannot be loosed hamper her all through her life?” - </p> - <p> - “God knows!” he said gloomily. And then, brightening, he added: “But we - have her with us for always, Winifred, and we who love her can try to make - her forget it.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah, can we, my dear Kent?” she said, putting her work and both hands in - her lap and looking at him. “You love her, but you can't love her as I do. - Oh, no, no,” she added as he smiled and shook his head. “You may think you - do, but it is not possible. You have found faults in Clytie and scolded - her—oh, very kindly and sympathetically, I know, but still in your - eyes Clytie can do wrong. In mine she can't—and there is the - difference. Clytie is not like other girls. She is like no one in the - world. Everything must give way to her. If Clytie were to do something you - would think <i>dreadful</i>—commit a murder—I feel that she - would be justified in doing it, and I should love her all the more - tenderly and dearly.” - </p> - <p> - “God bless your loving little heart!” cried Kent. “Love like yours could - make the most miserable creature on earth happy.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah, no, Kent. What could I do for her? Listen: I was a poor, friendless, - ignorant, uninteresting little girl when I first met Clytie. And she was - kind to me. She seemed so brave and strong and clever and beautiful, I - quite shrank from her. I felt so small and humble beside her. And she - singled me out from among all the rest of the girls at the Slade School, - and made me her friend. I never could tell what she found in me.” - </p> - <p> - “She can tell, and I can, too,” exclaimed Kent with abrupt enthusiasm—“the - purest, tenderest flower of a soul that ever breathed!” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, Kent!” said Winifred as the colour rose to her dark cheeks. “You must - not say things like that. Clytie has done everything for me, everything—and - I——” - </p> - <p> - “You have helped Clytie as no one else could have done,” said Kent, “and - you are doing it now.” - </p> - <p> - “Am I?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes; don't you see how bright and happy you have made her?” - </p> - <p> - “She is brighter than I should have thought,” said Winifred musingly. “But - will it last?” - </p> - <p> - “We must try to make it lasting, you and I,” said Kent softly. - </p> - <p> - He pondered for a moment over the love in each of their hearts, the girl's - and the man's. How exquisitely pure and selfless hers seemed to be! He - could not realise it in all its beauty, but his perceptions had been - refined enough for him to be profoundly touched. - </p> - <p> - “You have taught me something, Winifred,” he said after a pause, during - which she had quietly resumed her sewing. “I am happier than I have been - all day.” - </p> - <p> - Clytie returned soon afterwards. She looked curiously at the faces of her - two friends, and then, divining, perhaps, something of what had passed - between them, went up to Winifred and kissed her. After this they talked - more freely—of old habits, plans for the future. The latter were - vague, for Winifred's marriage with Treherne was fixed for the early part - of the next year, and the studio without Winifred was unrealisable. Still - the plans were food for much intimate gossip, which some may liken to the - very salt of life. - </p> - <p> - When Winifred had gone, Kent went with Clytie into the sitting-room, - where, furnished with hammer and nails, he hung the few pictures that - Clytie had brought with her, together with some that had been lying about - the studio. It was a delight to him to perform this little service for - her, and she too felt the woman's happiness of being surrendered to a - man's helpfulness. He fetched from his own rooms a bookstand, which he - secured against the wall, a few curios, and an armful of the dainty - cushions, chair backs, and curtain sashes with which his sister Agatha in - misguided zeal had years ago supplied his drawers and cupboards. - </p> - <p> - “They are not as artistic as your odds and ends, you know,” he said by way - of apology. “But until you can get some together they will be more - cheerful to look at than Mrs. Gurkins's efforts.” - </p> - <p> - He had just completed his scheme of decoration when Mrs. Gurkins came up - to lay the cloth for Clytie's dinner. Clytie detained him as he was about - to go. - </p> - <p> - “Won't you stay and dine with me?” she said half timidly. - </p> - <p> - She felt that she could not dismiss him. To do so on conventional grounds - would be the silliest prudery. Besides, a sense of helplessness had come - over her, and she wanted him by her side, longed for him to think and act - for her. The touch of any incident bordering ever so slightly on the - dramatic would at that moment have sufficed to free the spring of feminine - reserve and loosen passionate expression of her longing for his presence. - But the simple commonplace of the situation saved her. Kent's eyes - brightened at the invitation. - </p> - <p> - “And we can have a long evening afterwards?” he asked half pleadingly. - </p> - <p> - “Of course,” said Clytie, with an inward smile. - </p> - <p> - On Monday morning Kent, as he was starting for the Museum, put his head in - at Clytie's sitting-room door. She was at breakfast, having risen rather - later than usual. By her side was an open letter. As Kent entered she - pushed back her chair and looked up at him, a gleam of gladness eclipsing - in her eyes a late expression of pain. Kent noticed the sudden change. - </p> - <p> - “You have been sad, Clytie,” he said in his rough tenderness. “That is not - right. Did you not promise me last evening that you would be happy, very - happy?” - </p> - <p> - “So I shall be,” she answered, taking his hand in hers and turning away - her head. “Only there are things that cut one to the heart. You are a man; - you can't understand a woman—no man can, no matter how he loves her. - Look, read that—the end of the sordid story of my latter life. Oh, - Kent, I am not worth your love! This thing has degraded me enough, and - this last insult——Oh, read it and see. It would be better that - you should know of how little account I really am.” - </p> - <p> - Kent took the letter which she thrust into his hand, and, without having - read it, tore it into tiny pieces which he scattered through the open - window to the four winds. Then he came and put one arm around her. - </p> - <p> - “Because one man insults you, dear, it is all the more reason that I - should love and shield you. That part of your life is dead now. You said - yourself this letter was the end. Let it be so, Clytie.” - </p> - <p> - His delicacy and tenderness moved her very deeply. Womanlike, she had - wanted him to read the paper, and yet loved him all the more for not - having done so. The letter was her own note to Thornton, which he had - returned with “You can go to the devil!” scrawled across it. The sheer - brutality had made her lose, as it were, her self-respect, had presented - her to her own eyes as a thing of naught, unworthy of the reverential love - that Kent brought her. How could she honestly be to him the brightest and - noblest of women with that scrawled thing dragging her down? Accordingly - his actions and words gladdened her. She looked up at him, and he read as - in some magical book the spell of tenderness that swam in her eyes. Then - he threw himself on his knees before her and buried his face in her lap. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, my love, my love!” - </p> - <p> - And, stirred to her depths with a passionate thrill that was like a great - pain, she threw her arms round his neck and kissed him. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0026" id="link2HCH0026"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XXVII. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>wo years passed, - outwardly uneventful, yet momentous in the development of inner life. Her - marriage sometimes appeared to Clytie as a far-away episode, a kind of - dream state in which she had been invested with a strange, unrealisable - personality. Yet influences had remained, impulses had been awakened, that - could not again lie dormant; knowledge had come to her that could not - lapse into oblivion, leaving no trace behind. In her daily intercourse - with Kent her nature expanded. It lost imperceptibly that vein of hardness - which her struggle for self-development had fostered, and the disillusions - and repugnances of her marriage had gradually been strengthening. Except - in a brief interval of intoxication she had never known the woman's - sweetness of surrender. The great triumph of surrender had never even then - been hers. And this was gradually making itself felt in her heart during - the two years that passed from the time of leaving her husband's roof. - </p> - <p> - They contained hours of sweet bitterness, it is true. Although Thornton - had gone out of her life like an evil phantom, yet the legal tie between - them remained unbroken. Mrs. Farquharson, who seldom did things by halves, - after seeing her idol broken trampled it underfoot into a thousand pieces, - and vehemently tried to persuade Clytie to seek after a divorce. She even - insisted upon her taking counsel's opinion on the matter. But there was no - definite evidence obtainable to support an action at law, and Clytie, sick - at heart, was glad to dismiss the question from her mind forever. Yet in - the eyes of the world she was Hammerdyke's wife, and so she would have to - remain until death parted them. Perhaps when enlightenment sheds a fuller - ray upon our civilisation we shall make radical changes in our marriage - laws, for they are based upon the sad old fallacy that human conduct and - human emotion are indifferently susceptible of regulation. As yet we can - universalise only on material things: security of property, full stomachs, - and warm backs for the poor. The facts of broken lives and torn hearts we - can recognise only in particular instances, as they come within each man's - individual sphere. The universality of spiritual, moral, and emotional - suffering is as yet far from being a national conception. When this is - attained we may hope for social conditions happier than those under which - we struggle at present. - </p> - <p> - Thornton had taken the most effectual steps to become an undisturbing - element in Clytie's life. The constituency for which he had intrigued and - striven to be nominated did not return him at the bye-election, which took - place soon after Clytie's departure, but chose instead a radical lawyer - with an insignificant presence and a shakiness as to aspirates. Thornton - was disgusted and humiliated at his defeat. Politics lost their charm. An - offer from the Belgian government to reform the administration in a wide - tract of country whose borders were infested with Arabs came to him at - this juncture, and found him in a mood for acceptance. He bade Mrs. - Clavering a sardonic farewell and replunged into the wilds out of English - ken. - </p> - <p> - Winifred only remained in the King's Road for a few months. Early in the - new year she married Treherne, and Clytie was left alone. The studio - seemed very forlorn for some time afterwards, robbed, as it were, of an - inherent tender grace, a softening, refining influence that had always - been dear to Clytie, even in her days of greatest wilfulness. Yet it - gladdened her to know that Winifred was happy—married to a man of - fine fibre who could value the exquisite gift that the high gods had given - him. - </p> - <p> - “You are a lucky girl, dear,” she said to the young bride one day when - visiting her in her new home. - </p> - <p> - “Of course I am,” replied Winifred enthusiastically. “A man like Victor——” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, yes,” replied Clytie drily. “I know. He is all perfection. But the - man doesn't live who is fit to black your boots, my child. I did not mean - that; I meant that you were a lucky girl in having eluded your obvious - destiny.” - </p> - <p> - Winifred looked at her open-eyed. - </p> - <p> - “I always used to think somewhat sadly about you,” Clytie went on. “I - seemed to read in your face and eyes that you would marry a man quite - unworthy of you, who would ill treat you, and that you would love him more - as he became worse, that your life would be a dreadful, purposeless - sacrifice. And now you see how you have escaped. Victor is just the - husband I could have picked out for you. So you are a lucky girl.” - </p> - <p> - “I wish you were as happy as I am, darling,” said Winifred, looking at her - somewhat wistfully through her own gladness. - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps I am,” replied Clytie, with a flush. “Who knows? Utter completion - of existence is not possible in this imperfect world of ours; and if my - life has its gaps that ache a little, yet it has its fulness, believe me, - dear. I am happier now than I have ever been. After all, the gaps matter - very little.” - </p> - <p> - “Now you are getting somewhat beyond me,” said Winifred. “I can't quite - follow you.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah, you needn't, Winnie dear,” replied Clytie. “Only go on loving and - trusting me. Don't you see that I am happy because I too have a good man's - love?” - </p> - <p> - “But if—if you had been—if things were different—you - might have married,” said Winifred hesitatingly. - </p> - <p> - “That does not make the love less beautiful and life-giving,” replied - Clytie. - </p> - <p> - This and other conversations of a like tenor succeeded finally in allaying - Winifred's doubts as to Clytie's happiness. An uneasy burden was lifted - off her mind, glad as her heart was in the new joy of her marriage. - Henceforth she was content to take Clytie's assurances, and to trust in - her own rooted idea that Clytie's deep, complex nature was beyond the - reach of her simple comprehension, and ungovernable by the canons that - regulated commoner clay. Strong in this faith, she triumphed in the first - little conflict of opinion that arose between herself and her husband. - Fine and generous as his views were, he had, nevertheless, a strict - churchman's regard for the proprieties of life. The recognised intimacy - between Clytie and Kent, harmless as it appeared before Clytie's marriage, - had begun to cause him certain uneasiness. He was fond of them both, - partly for their own sakes, partly on account of his wife. An unkind - thought concerning them hurt his sensitive nature, and yet, as time went - on, such thoughts began painfully to formulate themselves in his mind. At - last his conscience forced him to broach the subject to Winifred. She - listened with a little flush of spirit in her cheek, and then broke into - such a warm torrent of words that Treherne was fairly amazed. He had never - dreamed that his gentle, brown-eyed wife could be capable of such - passionateness. Her logic of devotion overmastered his scruples, and he - was almost converted to Winifred's unswerving faith. At any rate, from - that time forth he was Clytie's firm friend and ally. - </p> - <p> - During these two years Clytie was in some need of friends. The society in - which she had moved during her married life was a world unknown to her - now. Only the circle of her girlhood's acquaintances remained, and of - these some manifested disapprobation at the mode of life she had adopted. - Every staunch adherent was therefore of inestimable value, and half - unconsciously she clung to every hand held out in friendship. - </p> - <p> - The resumption of her life with Kent had produced also great tension in - her relations with Durdleham. Finally it snapped them entirely. - </p> - <p> - “I don't for a moment suppose,” wrote Mrs. Blather in the last letter that - passed between them, “that everything is not most innocent and honourable - on both sides. But your conduct is grossly imprudent and must inevitably - give rise to most painful scandal. It is your duty both to the name you - bear (painful though the associations connected with it may be) and to - that which you had from papa to put yourself beyond the reach of calumny - by living no longer beneath the same roof as Mr. Kent. Until you do so - papa and Janet and myself will consider that any regard you may have had - either for ourselves personally or for our honour as a family has entirely - gone, and, I grieve to say it, our doors, though not our hearts, will have - to be closed against you.” - </p> - <p> - Clytie read her condemnation very sadly. She could not blame her sister. - Mrs. Blather was acting conscientiously, according to the faith and - tradition she had inherited from her Godfearing ancestors. Petty and - futile as many of the formulas were by which she had been trained to - regulate human conduct, yet there were great ones which could not do - otherwise than command respect. “Thou shalt not sin,” is a formula the - obeying or renouncing of which is often a secret for one or two human - hearts alone. Its corollary, “Thou shalt not appear to be sinning,” is one - which must be dealt with openly, under the world's eye. Mrs. Blather's - judgment was based on this latter formula, her position unassailable. She - had no Winifred to shake with the eloquence of love her faith in the - formula's eternal verity. She was supported by the firm convictions of a - lifetime, and by the unhesitating assent of her father and sister. The - letter cut off all Clytie's hopes of ever being understood by her family. - She herself knew their inmost hearts, was conversant with every principle - by which they were guided, and she could bear them no ill will. But to - them she knew she would be forever inscrutable, and she accepted their - judgments with sad resignation. - </p> - <p> - In point of common fact, she was called upon to make the old, old choice - that has been offered to woman in all ages, between her family and the man - she loved. Without a moment's hesitation she chose the man, and severed - herself finally from her kin. Kent had become the object of her life. She - had loved him—she knew that now—before her marriage. She had - wronged him, as it seemed to her, by not having realised it, had received - notwithstanding a tender, absolute devotion whose brave selflessness had - been a revelation to her. No sacrifice that she could make for his - happiness was too great for her. She loved him with the whole strength of - her full nature. If any sacrifices on her part were not made, it was Kent - that forbade them. The less he would accept the more did she find in her - heart to offer. That she should remain in what they had begun to look upon - as their common home seemed to be a vital necessity to his happiness. The - mild, affectionate approval of Grace and Janet could not compensate the - great loss that each would sustain in a rupture of their intercourse. Any - appeal to her sister she knew would be useless. She was firm in the path - in which she had elected to walk, and Mrs. Blather's letter remained - unanswered. - </p> - <p> - But Kent could not take this comprehensive view of humanity. That Clytie - should be cast off by her family aroused his indignation. - </p> - <p> - “They never loved you,” he said one day. “You were always a thorn in their - flesh, and now they have seized an opportunity of plucking you out.” - </p> - <p> - “You are wrong, dear,” replied Clytie. “They loved me in their unemotional - fashion, and if I were to die they would shed many tears and wear mourning - for a whole year. But don't you see that I am of Samaria? I cannot pray in - the temple of Jerusalem, and the houses of Israel are closed against me. - It is of their religion to do so. They believe that the 'bread of the - Samaritan is as the flesh of swine.' We cannot change their faith. We can - only seek in Samaria for freer conditions of life, and the love of those - who are Samaritans at heart.” - </p> - <p> - “If I loved you less, I might take up as lofty a position as you,” said - Kent. “But I cannot bear that even a Pharisee of the Pharisees should - presume to judge you.” - </p> - <p> - “They have been judging me rightly or wrongly all my life,” said Clytie, - with a smile. “It was my own challenge; I gave it vehemently and - passionately as a girl when life lay before me like a closed book which - they refused to open for me. Now that I have learned some of its secrets I - give the challenge with a calm conviction that I am acting in accordance - with laws higher than theirs. So do not fret about me, dear.” And then she - added in a low voice: - </p> - <p> - “You know I would give up all I could have in the world for you, if you - would accept it.” - </p> - <p> - Then Kent put his arms around her and kissed her. - </p> - <p> - “I accept far too much in my selfishness,” he said. “My old lonely life - was happy, but it could not be so again. So in spite of all, Clytie, I - say, Stay with me.” - </p> - <p> - “I should stay whatever you said,” returned Clytie. “Don't fancy that all - the giving is on my side.” - </p> - <p> - One sad event marked the mid-time in these two years, robbing Clytie of an - external interest that had grown to be very dear to her. The boy Jack - died. - </p> - <p> - The first meeting with him after the terrible scene in her husband's house - was in the studio, whither he had betaken himself on one of his frequent - visits to Winifred. A sensation of pain caught at Clytie's heart as she - marked the lines of Thornton's features wrought in miniature on the boy's - face. It only lasted a few moments, and then it melted away into a great - pity. Jack was Jack, were Thornton twenty times his father. That he was so - parented should make her pity for him all the greater. She never felt more - drawn towards the boy than in that first interview. She told no one but - Kent of the secret of his parentage, not even Winifred, to whom Jack, in - spite of full intentions, never had an opportunity of showing the - photograph. For Mrs. Bur-mester having discovered that Jack had - temporarily abstracted it, had cuffed him soundly and secreted the coveted - treasure in a secure hiding-place. - </p> - <p> - Whatever hopes Clytie might have entertained as to Jack's future were cut - short by the change in her circumstances. All she could do was to - contribute towards his training in the sphere in which the high gods, - assisted by Kent and Treherne had placed him. Besides, he had manifested - no particular intellectual bent. His gifts were rather those of action; - books wearied him, except such as dealt with wild exploit and adventure. - And she shrank now from the idea of his entering the army—a feminine - distaste, easily understandable. So she had perforce to concur in the - scheme whereby he should remain another year at the school and then be - apprenticed to a respectable trade. Kent comforted her with his - assurances. If the boy had the fire of success in him, he would rise out - of the common ranks. Life was all before him with its endless fortuities. - With devoted friends watching and guiding him, it would be a poor world if - he did not arrive at ultimate good. And Clytie in her turn comforted the - boy, trying to soften and mould his nature with her womanly influence. - </p> - <p> - It was his last term at the school. He had won for himself the golden - opinions of the authorities. The semi-animal little arab of four years ago - had developed into a bright, self-reliant lad of generous impulses, - subject, it is true, to fits of ungovernable passion, but quick to - forgive, repent, and do penance. Suddenly Clytie received a telegram that - Jack was very ill. She left her work and started immediately for the - school. There she found that diphtheria had broken out among the boys, and - Jack's was the most critical case. Day and night she nursed him. But it - was of no avail. The boy died, and Clytie returned to London with a - cheerless sense of loss. Mrs. Burmester, who came to see her after the - funeral, whimpered a little, and hoped that Clytie would recommend her to - any of her friends who happened to be in need of a charwoman. And then - Clytie looked at the mother, thought of the father. After all, if the laws - of heredity had anything to do with the controlling of human destinies, - were it not better for Jack to be dead? When the woman had gone she went - and stood before the replica of her famous picture which she had painted - for Kent, and shook her head sadly. - </p> - <p> - “What I have painted there,” she said to Kent, “the cruelty and animalism - that seemed to have gone out of his face latterly, would always have - remained. Human nature is a palimpsest, dear. What is written is written - forever, though it seem obliterated, and may be called up to the surface - at any moment. I call Jack happy, being dead.” - </p> - <p> - With the exception of this episode the weeks and months passed in peaceful - uneventfulness. Clytie worked assiduously at her art. At first the studio - seemed lonely and dispiriting without Winifred. But other influences - compensated her loss. As soon as it became known that she had resumed her - profession, orders came in plentifully and kept her busy. And then perhaps - Winifred's absence brought her nearer to Kent. If she worked hard all day - and failed to reach her artistic ideal, it was deep comfort to know that - Kent's whole-hearted encouragement would soon come and cheer her and save - her from depression. They had learned to depend much upon each other in - their work. In every mood they were constant companions, never weary of - each other. Instead of walking home from the Museum, as he had done for - years, Kent would hurry back by train from Charing Cross to Sloane Square, - so as to shorten her loneliness by half an hour. A cup of tea, a talk over - the day's work, perhaps a stroll along the Embankment, dinner, and then - the long quiet evening as in the old days—such was the ordinary - routine. Certain changes had naturally occurred in Kent's habits—changes - for his distinct good, as Clytie used to declare laughingly. He rarely - used the attic sitting-room. His scratch Bohemian meals were things of the - past. What law of God or man forbade them to eat together? Clytie asked - once in the early days when they were talking of household trifles. And - then Kent bluntly insisted upon an arrangement whereby they divided - equally the rent of the rooms they inhabited. It was not fair, he - maintained, that he should give her sitting-room all that wear and tear - without helping to pay for it. Clytie yielded, not unpleasurably, seeing - that he was bent upon it, but she reserved the studio as her own especial - sanctum. - </p> - <p> - The charm of the life grew daily upon Kent, with its infinite grace of - little things. He told her this often, with awkward sincerity, as a man - can only tell the woman he loves deeply. And Clytie would laugh - contentedly and say: - </p> - <p> - “But you'll soon get tired of these organised meals and long for your - freedom again. Don't you ever crave to be swallowing your coffee as you - brush your hair in the mornings? And doesn't it chafe you all the - afternoon at the Museum to think that there is a regular dinner awaiting - you when you get back?” - </p> - <p> - “No; somehow I like it,” he would reply, laughing. “I believe I am - developing into respectability.” - </p> - <p> - Combining their resources they were able to entertain in a modest way - those of their friends who perfectly understood their relations—the - Farquharsons, the Trehernes, Wither. On these occasions Mrs. Gurkins's - husband, a lean, self-effacive man, would wait at table in the severest of - black and lend immense dignity to the meal. Wither was a constant visitor. - The “monastery” was broken up; Fairfax had taken a practice in a large - country town, Green had taken a wife. Wither complained bitterly, railing - at them both for their disgusting selfishness. Clytie learned to love the - bright-eyed, gnomelike little being, his cynical, paradoxical talk, his - large-heartedness which he was ever anxious to conceal from the world. - Often when life seemed to weigh a little heavy, the future to loom - somewhat sad, and Kent and Clytie had been sitting alone, a spell of - wistful silence over them, Wither would come in unexpectedly, and, with - his subtle feminine perception piercing to the heart of their mood, would - exert himself to extra brilliancy and dissipate their cloud in laughter. A - man by no means requires delicate tact to win a woman's love, but no man - who displays it towards a woman can fail of winning a little of the - overflow of her heart. Clytie was grateful to Wither. Once, when bidding - him good-night,—Kent had gone into the passage,—she added - impulsively, “and thank you.” - </p> - <p> - He looked at her in his odd way, with a smile playing around his lips. - </p> - <p> - “What for? For being miserable and lonely and making use of you to cure - myself?” - </p> - <p> - But they understood one another, and he was touched by Clytie's little - tribute. And Clytie had spoken out of her heart. - </p> - <p> - For, in spite of the helpfulness and comfort of their life together, there - were gaps in its plenitude which, as she had said to Winifred, ached a - little at times. Kent was tenderness, manly sympathy itself: he would have - cut his tongue out rather than formulate a longing that could not be - satisfied. But moments came when the irony of life seemed somewhat - bitterly mocking, and caused a veil of sadness to be drawn between them. - And like people who love deeply each was sensitive to the variations in - the other's mood. Then Clytie would yearn for the impossible: to fix - forever the light she loved to see in his eyes, to cling to his arm and be - acknowledged his wife before all the world. Thus through the midst of - their happy, earnest life ran a vein of sorrow. - </p> - <p> - But the years that had passed, with their manifold emotions, experiences, - and disillusions, with their awakenings of passion, with their plentiful - gift of tears, with their later gift of an almost holy communion of souls, - had completed the woman and the artist. One hunger remained to her—one - that had had no place in her girlish cravings—a woman's hunger that - is as a thing sacred, and wondrously softens her nature. An infinite - compassion took within her the place of scorn. Her eyes had learned the - trick of tenderness which illuminated her bright, fearless face. Her - judgments became less harsh, gained in breadth what they lost in - brilliance. She “saw life steadily and saw it whole.” Many of its - mysteries had been revealed to her, and she had learned the road to the - heart of others. The great lesson that Kent in the years before had - suggested to her she grasped in its entirety, and it revolutionised her - artistic career. No longer was her art a stepping-stone, a magic-lantern - sheet on which to project life in order to realise its meaning. It was no - longer the objective form of a vague craving, but the idealised record of - an experience. When she painted the wistful, old-world look in a waif's - eyes it was no longer with the impatient, fretful hope that its - significance would be taught her from her own canvas; her awakened sight - gazed with the sorrow of knowledge into the young soul, and she used her - art to bear witness to the world of what was there. In a dim way she was - conscious of this change of attitude—seeking within herself for the - reason of the deeper, intenser, calmer feeling with which she approached - her work. There came, too, a sense of responsibility, the necessity of - perfecting whatever she painted in its presentation of truth. As her - genius expanded the inner interpretation of the formula, “Art for art's - sake,” dawned upon her in the realisation of the “sorrowful great gift” - whereby the artist has the privilege of piercing through the media of - sense and intellect and touching the naked soul of man. - </p> - <p> - She went, as of old, into the streets for her models, choosing the side of - life least understanded of Philistia, sublimating that which was - spiritual, eternal in abject and outcast, beggar and courtesan. Strange - were the walks of Kent and herself about the great city, by day and by - night, and strange the spars and fragments of humanity they picked up in - these rambles, who found their way afterwards to Clytie's studio. They - went together to East End music halls, bank holiday gatherings, thieves' - kitchens, night clubs in the West End, where ladies are admitted free on a - member's introduction, Kent paying his subscription almost at the door. It - was towards women that Clytie's sympathy flowed the strongest. Her first - contact with one of <i>ces autres</i> in the hotel at Dinan had set a - chord vibrating within her that now rang out full and true. She could - paint these women, young, withered, children on the lurid threshold, old - women with charred and blackened past. It is the moralist's part to - condemn, evolve the moral; the artist on the higher plane disintegrates - the spiritual from the animal and presents it in the form of Truth. From - the comedy of misery, the tragedy of sex, the never ending drama of vice - and crime, the one draws groans, the other tears. Each has his place in - the cosmos. Thus Clytie, artist and woman, walked through the abomination - of desolation and opened the eyes of the world to the glimmering spiritual - rays that shot across it. - </p> - <p> - Once more she took out the studies she had made for the “Faustina” - picture. This time she could look on them without a shudder, only sadly. - The picture would never be painted. She was no longer in feverish, - passionate search after mysteries that had baffled her. The picture now - had no artistic reason for existence. It would be a cruel, despairing - work, a tragedy of cynicism. Knowledge of the world had given her - knowledge of self; she knew now how blent were the foreshadowings of - passion in her own soul with those that she had hungered to express on the - young face of Faustina. In those days she could have found a model in her - own mirror, and then the personal note dominating the picture would have - saved it from heartlessness. For the complete woman to paint it would be - the presentation of the damnation of a young soul. But the contemplation - of her earlier work suggested vividly the converse of the subject—a - Faustina swept away by the whirl of passion with the after-light of - innocence in her soul's depths. The conception grew within her, took form, - awoke the full artist in the ripe woman. With a throbbing sense of - mastery, a quivering thrill of inspiration, new to her as the first love - kiss on a young girl's lips, she betook herself to her task. - </p> - <p> - It was the 5th of August, two years after Clytie had resumed her artistic - life with Kent. The afternoon was hot and oppressive. Clytie was tired and - lay back on the couch by the window, for she had worked unceasingly all - through the summer and the strain was beginning to tell on her. - </p> - <p> - They had just returned from the West End Gallery, where Clytie's picture - had been exhibited during the season. This was the closing day, and they - had gone to see the picture for the last time. A wealthy American had - purchased it for the art museum of his native city, and to-morrow it would - be packed up and sent over seas. - </p> - <p> - “It's like parting forever from the child that is dearest to you,” she - said with a little touch of melancholy. “That is the worst of painting. A - poet or a musician—even an etcher can keep his work by him, but a - painter loses all. Doesn't it seem hard?” - </p> - <p> - Kent acquiesced, comforted her, spoke with vague cheeriness of the law of - sacrifice which we must all obey. On the other hand, she must think of all - that the picture had brought her, the public fame, the homage of those - whose opinion was dear to her. - </p> - <p> - “Yes; in all that I have succeeded beyond my wildest hopes,” said Clytie. - “But what is it? At the Redgraves' the other afternoon crowds of people - stared at me, whispered each other requests to be introduced to Clytie - Davenant. The men praised all the wrong points in my picture, and the - women tried to get at the way I did my hair. I know it's flattering to - one's vanity, dear, and I like it. I honestly like it. But it is a - superficial little gratification. Now it is all over I begin to think of - what that picture has cost, what has gone to the making of it. Neither - money nor fame can pay me back.” - </p> - <p> - “It has cost you hours of work in which you have found happiness,” said - Kent. “You must not overlook that.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, Kent!” cried Clytie, not seeing for the moment that he had - deliberately avoided the deeper elements in her thought. “Don't you know - what I mean? You who have been just now preaching to me the law of - sacrifice! Don't you know that to be the woman to paint that picture there - were sacrificed the traditions and formulas of my home—there were - sacrificed the first pure flush of a girl's love, the illusions of a wife, - the joy of motherhood, the dignity of a proud woman?” - </p> - <p> - She raised herself impulsively on her elbow and continued with flashing - eyes: - </p> - <p> - “Don't you see that? And you of all men who have shared with such - bitterness in the sacrifice! Yes, you, my dearest, my best, my love! Your - life has been sacrificed, your love, your devotion, your nobleness. For - once in the world the man has paid, and not the woman. For two long years - we have lived together, eating at the same table, living a common life, - which, had one great fact been non-existent would have crowned our days - with happiness. I am of Samaria—I don't care. I have offered to you - to defy the world, to live openly together, to bear your name. You have - said 'No,' for my sake sacrificing yourself. Can this life last forever? - Have not the past two years been filled with longings, restraints, - bitternesses, regrets, all silently working—you too loyal to utter - them, I dreading lest the utterance of them on my part should render you - unhappier?” - </p> - <p> - “I have been happy,” said Kent. “A thousandth part of what you have given - me would have made me more than happy.” - </p> - <p> - “But your due is a thousand times more!” cried Clytie. “I have given you - little enough, but I have drawn from you the breath by which I live, the - strength, the passion, the will by which I have reached my poor success. - It can't be so any longer; it would be unjust, cruel!” - </p> - <p> - “Stop, my darling!” exclaimed Kent, greatly agitated. I am a man, and you - are saying things a man cannot bear from the woman he loves. Let us finish - this before it is too late, and I lose mastery over myself. I have thought - over it all—with the fiercest hunger in my heart—even in - moments of our love that have been worth a century of misery. I have - thought over it all ways. What was impossible two years ago is impossible - now. I will not wreck your life by condemning you to scorn and ostracism - and the loss of all that the outside world can give you.” - </p> - <p> - Clytie did not reply, but turned her face towards the open window, looking - with knitted brow into the patch of blue heaven that was just visible over - the tops of the opposite houses. A great, great longing possessed her, an - infinite tenderness towards the man who could speak and act so selflessly. - She longed to be able to say three little words, summing up the yearning - of her heart: “For my sake.” But they seemed unutterable at that hour. - Perhaps at another time, in a moment of less vehement tone, when he was - unawares, the words could be whispered in his ear. She sank deep into the - thought—utter woman. - </p> - <p> - A long, long silence, which Kent, uncomprehensive, like a man, did not - dare to break. A thought had seized him too, a troubling doubt. Would he - always be as strong? - </p> - <p> - At last he drew mechanically out of his pocket an evening paper that he - had bought on the way home, and as mechanically opened it and began to - skim the contents. - </p> - <p> - Suddenly he leaped to his feet with a loud cry: - </p> - <p> - “Clytie!” - </p> - <p> - She sprang up, startled, and saw him standing with white cheeks and - shaking hand, holding out the paper. - </p> - <p> - “Read—he—he—read!” - </p> - <p> - Clytie took the paper from him, and her eyes instinctively fell upon the - paragraph: - </p> - <p> - A telegram from Loango announces the death of Mr. Thornton Hammerdyke, the - well-known explorer, in a skirmish with some Arab slave-traders. Later - particulars will be given in our next edition. - </p> - <p> - The newspaper fell from her hand, and they remained for some moments - facing each other, trembling. Then she lowered her eyes and went to him - humbly. - </p> - <h3> - THE END. - </h3> - <div style="height: 6em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's At The Gate Of Samaria, by William J. Locke - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA *** - -***** This file should be named 53993-h.htm or 53993-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/3/9/9/53993/ - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by the Internet Archive - - -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. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm -concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, -and may not be used if you charge for the eBooks, unless you receive -specific permission. If you do not charge anything for copies of this -eBook, complying with the rules is very easy. You may use this eBook -for nearly any purpose such as creation of derivative works, reports, -performances and research. They may be modified and printed and given -away--you may do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks -not protected by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the -trademark license, especially commercial redistribution. - -START: FULL LICENSE - -THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE -PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK - -To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free -distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work -(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project -Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full -Project Gutenberg-tm License available with this file or online at -www.gutenberg.org/license. - -Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works - -1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to -and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property -(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all -the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or -destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your -possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a -Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound -by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the -person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph -1.E.8. - -1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be -used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who -agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few -things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works -even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See -paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this -agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below. - -1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the -Foundation" or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection -of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual -works in the collection are in the public domain in the United -States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the -United States and you are located in the United States, we do not -claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, -displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as -all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope -that you will support the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting -free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm -works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the -Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with the work. You can easily -comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the -same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg-tm License when -you share it without charge with others. - -1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern -what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are -in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, -check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this -agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, -distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any -other Project Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no -representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any -country outside the United States. - -1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: - -1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other -immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear -prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work -on which the phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the -phrase "Project Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, -performed, viewed, copied or distributed: - - 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. - -1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is -derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not -contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the -copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in -the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are -redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase "Project -Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply -either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or -obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg-tm -trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. - -1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted -with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution -must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any -additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms -will be linked to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works -posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the -beginning of this work. - -1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm -License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this -work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. - -1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this -electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without -prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with -active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project -Gutenberg-tm License. - -1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, -compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including -any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access -to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format -other than "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official -version posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site -(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense -to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means -of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original "Plain -Vanilla ASCII" or other form. Any alternate format must include the -full Project Gutenberg-tm License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. - -1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, -performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works -unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. - -1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing -access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works -provided that - -* You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from - the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method - you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed - to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he has - agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project - Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid - within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are - legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty - payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project - Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in - Section 4, "Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg - Literary Archive Foundation." - -* You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies - you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he - does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm - License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all - copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue - all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg-tm - works. - -* You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of - any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the - electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of - receipt of the work. - -* You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free - distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. - -1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic work or group of works on different terms than -are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing -from both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and The -Project Gutenberg Trademark LLC, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm -trademark. Contact the Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. - -1.F. - -1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable -effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread -works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project -Gutenberg-tm collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may -contain "Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate -or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other -intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or -other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or -cannot be read by your equipment. - -1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right -of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project -Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all -liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal -fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT -LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE -PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE -TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE -LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR -INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH -DAMAGE. - -1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a -defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can -receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a -written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you -received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium -with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you -with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in -lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person -or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second -opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If -the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing -without further opportunities to fix the problem. - -1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth -in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS', WITH NO -OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT -LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. - -1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied -warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of -damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement -violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the -agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or -limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or -unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the -remaining provisions. - -1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the -trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone -providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in -accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the -production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, -including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of -the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this -or any Project Gutenberg-tm work, (b) alteration, modification, or -additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any -Defect you cause. - -Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm - -Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of -electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of -computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It -exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations -from people in all walks of life. - -Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the -assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's -goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will -remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure -and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future -generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see -Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at -www.gutenberg.org Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg -Literary Archive Foundation - -The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit -501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the -state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal -Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification -number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by -U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. - -The Foundation's principal office is in Fairbanks, Alaska, with the -mailing address: PO Box 750175, Fairbanks, AK 99775, but its -volunteers and employees are scattered throughout numerous -locations. Its business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, Salt -Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up to -date contact information can be found at the Foundation's web site and -official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact - -For additional contact information: - - Dr. Gregory B. Newby - Chief Executive and Director - gbnewby@pglaf.org - -Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg -Literary Archive Foundation - -Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide -spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of -increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be -freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest -array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations -($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt -status with the IRS. - -The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating -charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United -States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a -considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up -with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations -where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND -DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular -state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate - -While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we -have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition -against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who -approach us with offers to donate. - -International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make -any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from -outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. - -Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation -methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other -ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To -donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate - -Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works. - -Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project -Gutenberg-tm concept of a library of electronic works that could be -freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and -distributed Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of -volunteer support. - -Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed -editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in -the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not -necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper -edition. - -Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search -facility: www.gutenberg.org - -This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, -including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to -subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. - - - -</pre> - - </body> -</html> diff --git a/old/old/53993-h.htm.2018-08-20 b/old/old/53993-h.htm.2018-08-20 deleted file mode 100644 index 53fa559..0000000 --- a/old/old/53993-h.htm.2018-08-20 +++ /dev/null @@ -1,15445 +0,0 @@ -<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?>
-
-<!DOCTYPE html
- PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
- "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" >
-
-<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en">
- <head>
- <title>At The Gate Of Samaria, by William J. Locke</title>
- <meta content="pg2html (binary v0.17)" />
- <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve">
-
- body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify}
- P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .50em; margin-bottom: .50em; }
- H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; }
- hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;}
- .foot { margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%; text-align: justify; font-size: 80%; font-style: italic;}
- blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;}
- .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;}
- .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;}
- .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;}
- .xx-small {font-size: 60%;}
- .x-small {font-size: 75%;}
- .small {font-size: 85%;}
- .large {font-size: 115%;}
- .x-large {font-size: 130%;}
- .indent5 { margin-left: 5%;}
- .indent10 { margin-left: 10%;}
- .indent15 { margin-left: 15%;}
- .indent20 { margin-left: 20%;}
- .indent30 { margin-left: 30%;}
- .indent40 { margin-left: 40%;}
- div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; }
- div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; }
- .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;}
- .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;}
- .pagenum {position: absolute; right: 1%; font-size: 0.6em;
- font-variant: normal; font-style: normal;
- text-align: right; background-color: #FFFACD;
- border: 1px solid; padding: 0.3em;text-indent: 0em;}
- .side { float: left; font-size: 75%; width: 15%; padding-left: 0.8em;
- border-left: dashed thin; text-align: left;
- text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;
- font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;}
- .head { float: left; font-size: 90%; width: 98%; padding-left: 0.8em;
- border-left: dashed thin; text-align: center;
- text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;
- font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;}
- p.pfirst, p.noindent {text-indent: 0}
- span.dropcap { float: left; margin: 0 0.1em 0 0; line-height: 0.8 }
- pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;}
-
-</style>
- </head>
- <body>
-
-
-<pre>
-
-The Project Gutenberg EBook of At The Gate Of Samaria, by William J. Locke
-
-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: At The Gate Of Samaria
-
-Author: William J. Locke
-
-Release Date: January 18, 2017 [EBook #53993]
-Last Updated: March 12, 2018
-
-Language: English
-
-Character set encoding: UTF-8
-
-*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA ***
-
-
-
-
-Produced by David Widger from page images generously
-provided by the Internet Archive
-
-
-
-
-
-
-</pre>
-
- <div style="height: 8em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h1>
- AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA
- </h1>
- <h2>
- By William J. Locke
- </h2>
- <h4>
- London
- </h4>
- <h4>
- William Heinemann
- </h4>
- <h3>
- 1895
- </h3>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <h3>
- TO ONE WHOSE WORK IT IS AS MUCH AS MINE
- </h3>
- <h3>
- I INSCRIBE THIS BOOK.
- </h3>
- <h3>
- AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA.
- </h3>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <p>
- <b>CONTENTS</b>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I. </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II. </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III. </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV. </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V. </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI. </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII. </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII. </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX. </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X. </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI. </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII. </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII. </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XIV. </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER XV. </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER XVI. </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER XVII. </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER XVIII. </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER XIX. </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER XX. </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER XXI. </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0022"> CHAPTER XXII. </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER XXIV. </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0024"> CHAPTER XXV. </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0025"> CHAPTER XXVI. </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0026"> CHAPTER XXVII. </a>
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER I.
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t was a severe
- room, scrupulously neat. Along one side ran a bookcase, with beaded glass
- doors, containing, as one might see by peering through the spaces, the
- collected, unread literature of two stern generations. A few old prints,
- placed in bad lights, hung on the walls. In the centre of the room was a
- leather-covered library table, with writing materials arranged in painful
- precision. A couch was lined along one wall, in the draught of the door.
- On either side of the fireplace were ranged two stiff leather armchairs.
- </p>
- <p>
- In one of these chairs sat an old man, in the other a faded woman just
- verging upon middle age. The old man was looking at a picture which he
- supported on his knees-a narrow, oblong strip of canvas nailed on to a
- rough wooden frame. The woman eyed him with some interest, as if awaiting
- a decision.
- </p>
- <p>
- They were father and daughter, and bore a strange family resemblance to
- each other. Both faces were pale, their foreheads high and narrow, marked
- by faint horizontal lines, their eyes gray and cold, their upper lips long
- and thin, setting tightly, without mobility, upon the lower. The only
- essential point of difference was that the father's chin was weakly
- pointed, the daughter's squarer and harder. Both faces gave one the
- impression of negativeness, joylessness, seeming to lack the power of
- strong emotive expression. One can see such, minus the refinement of
- gentle birth and social amenities, in the pews of obscure dissenting
- chapels, testifying that they have been led thither not by strong
- convictions, but by the force of mild circumstance.
- </p>
- <p>
- Indeed, as is the case with hundreds of our upper middle-class families,
- the Davenants had descended from a fierce old Puritan stock, and though
- the reality of their Puritanism had gradually lost itself in the current
- of more respectable orthodoxy, its shadow hung over them still. The
- vigorous enthusiasm that spurred the Puritan on to lofty action was gone;
- the vague dread of sin that kept him in moral and mental inactivity alone
- remained. Perhaps it is this survival amongst us of the negative element
- of Puritanism that produces in England the curious anomaly of education
- without enlightenment. It has dulled our perception of life as an art,
- whose “great incidents,” as Fielding finely says, “are no more to be
- considered as mere accidents than the several members of a fine statue or
- a noble poem.” It has caused us to live in a perpetual twilight in which
- the possibilities of existence loom fantastic and indistinct. The
- Davenants were gentlefolk, holding a good position in the small country
- town of Durdleham; they visited among the county families, and, on
- ordinary, conventional grounds, considered themselves to belong to the
- cultured classes. They were the curious yet familiar product of the
- old-fashioned, high-church Toryism impregnated with the Puritan taint.
- </p>
- <p>
- The light was fading through the French window behind the old man's chair.
- He laid down the canvas on his lap and looked in a puzzled way at the
- fire. Then he raised it nearer to his eyes for further examination.
- </p>
- <p>
- “This is really very dreadful,” he said at last, looking at his daughter.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Something will have to be done soon,” replied the latter.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It is so horribly vulgar, Grace,” said the old man; “look at that boy's
- nose—and that drunken man—his face is a nightmare of evil. I
- really must begin to talk seriously to Clytie.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Mrs. Blather smiled somewhat pityingly. Since the earliest days of her
- long widowhood she had undertaken the charge of her father's house and the
- care of her two younger sisters, Janet and Clytie. Her familiarity,
- therefore, with the seamy side of Clytie's nature had been of long
- duration.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You might as well talk to that fender, papa,” she said. “Clytie has got
- it into her head that she is going to be an artist, and no amount of
- talking will get it out.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It's all through her visiting those friends of hers, the Farquharsons.
- They are not nice people for her to know. I shall not let her go there
- again.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “If she goes on like this there is no knowing what will happen.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Where did the child get these repulsive and ungirlish notions from?” the
- old man asked querulously.
- </p>
- <p>
- The conception of the picture was not that of a young girl, and though the
- execution was crude and untrained, there was a bold cruelty of touch that
- saved it from being amateurish. The canvas was divided into two panels. On
- the one was painted a tiny bully of a boy with his arm rounded across his
- throat, about to strike a weakly, poverty-stricken little girl. They were
- children of the poorest classes, the boy realistically, offensively dirty—the
- <i>petit morveux</i> in its absolute sense. Behind them was the open
- doorway of a red-brick, jerry-built cottage, showing a strip of torn and
- dirty matting along the passage that lost itself in the gloom beyond. On
- the other panel was the corner of a public house in a low slum, the window
- lights and a gas-lamp throwing a lurid glare upon wet pavement and the
- figures of a woman and a drunken man. The faces were those of the children
- in the first picture, and the eternal tragedy was repeating itself. The
- man's face was loathsome in its sodden ferocity; the woman, with a child
- in her arms, was reeling from the blow. The evident haste in which the
- panels had been painted, the glaring, unsoftened colouring, heightened as
- if by impressionist design the coarse realism of the effect. Above was
- written the legend, “<i>La joie de vivre</i>” and in the left-hand bottom
- corner, “<i>Clytie Davenant pinxit</i>.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “She has certainly grown much worse of late,” sighed Mrs. Blather, holding
- out her thin, short hand to shield her face from the fire.
- </p>
- <p>
- There was a pause of some moments. Mr. Davenant ceased nursing the picture
- and stood it on the floor.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Have you quite made up your mind, papa,” said Mrs.
- Blather at length, “not to let Clytie go to the Slade School in London?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It is out of the question,” replied the old man.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don't think so, papa. It would perhaps do her good. A year or so's hard
- work would take all these silly ideas out of her.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I question it,” said Mr. Davenant. “They are not silly ideas. They are
- debased, degraded ideas.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “My dear papa, they are only fads. All young girls have them. Look how
- crazy Janet was to join the cookery classes. We let her join, and now she
- hates the sight of a pie-dish. With Clytie it is quite the same, only she
- wants to daub.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, let her daub in a decent way at home,” replied the old man testily.
- </p>
- <p>
- Mrs. Blather shrugged her lean shoulders.
- </p>
- <p>
- “We have tried that and it hasn't succeeded, apparently,” she said drily.
- “You seldom come in her way; you don't know how unpleasant things are for
- Janet and myself. What do you think she had the impertinence to tell me
- this morning? She said that we were not real people. We were machines or
- abstractions based, I think she said, on a formula, or something of that
- sort. She was pining to live amongst living human beings. And then she is
- so rude to visitors. What do you think she said to the vicar, who came, at
- Janet's request, to talk to her about her shameful neglect of her
- religious duties? She said, if he was a pillar of the Church, she saw no
- reason why she should be a seat-cushion.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Tut, tut,” said the old man angrily. He was vicar's churchwarden, and a
- power in the parish.
- </p>
- <p>
- “And then,” continued Mrs. Blather, “when I scolded her for her rudeness,
- she said that if she had been a man she would have sworn at him for his
- impertinence. Really people will soon be afraid of coming to the house.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “They will indeed,” said Mr. Davenant.
- </p>
- <p>
- Like a wise woman, Mrs. Blather did not press her point. She knew she had
- thoroughly alarmed her father and had shown him but one way out of the
- difficulty. His taking it, if left to himself, was only a question of
- time. She rang the bell for the servant to come and light Mr. Davenant's
- gas, and then she left him to his reflections.
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr. Davenant possessed some landed property, which he had occupied his
- life in mismanaging. Fortunately for him, his wife had brought him a small
- fortune which sufficed to keep up a position, modest when compared with
- that of the Davenants of former days, but still high enough to satisfy the
- social aspirations of his family. He had lived a colourless life, severe
- and respectable. Even his university days had passed in a dull uniformity,
- leaving no glamour behind them. He had walked honourably and blindly in
- the paths his parents had indicated, and, now that he was nearing the end
- of the journey, thanked God for having given him the grace not to err from
- them. He had married when still fairly young, and he had loved his wife in
- a gentlemanly, passionless way. She, poor thing, had filled up so small a
- space in life that she had faded out of it almost unnoticed—even by
- himself. He had no storms of joy or sorrow to look back upon. His
- thoughts, as he brooded over the fireside, generally wandered back to
- trifling incidents: ancient municipal interests, the mortgages on his
- estate, the boundary quarrels with the old earl, his neighbour.
- </p>
- <p>
- But lately he had been thinking anxiously over his daughter Clytie. She
- had suddenly developed out of a naughty, rebellious child into a problem.
- He assumed as a matter of course that he bore her the ordinary
- well-regulated parental affection, but in his heart of hearts he never
- really loved her. Until lately it had not occurred to him to think of her
- as anything but a child of his with a singularly unfortunate disposition
- which time would modify. But time, on the contrary, was accentuating it,
- and he realised at last that Clytie had a distinct individuality. His
- philosophy had left many things in heaven and earth undreamed of. He was
- mystified, puzzled. How could he and his delicate wife have brought this
- bright-haired, full-blooded, impulsive creature into existence? Her
- sisters were gentle, quiet women, possessing the virtues inculcated in his
- conception of life. Clytie seemed to possess none of them. The peasant
- woman in the legend could not have wondered more over her changeling. How
- could a daughter of his and a sister of Janet's scoff at sacred things,
- defy social rules, and have an imagination that ran riot in scenes of
- drunkenness and outcast life?
- </p>
- <p>
- Physiology might grant a solution to the old man's problem in the law of
- the alternation of heredity. His father's youngest brother had been a
- family black sheep, and being the only one of the generation who had led
- an eventful career, was naturally never mentioned by his relations, and
- the record of his life perished with him. But it is possible that the
- positive enthusiastic principle of Clytie's Puritan descent, reasserting
- itself once in every other generation, to the horror of the negative
- principle that otherwise ran through the race continuously, came out in
- her with all its strength and vigour. It brought her eager, panting up to
- the brink of our surging nineteenth century life, imperiously bidding her
- plunge in and take her part in the tumult.
- </p>
- <p>
- She was now nineteen, an age when girls try to realise themselves. She
- discovered that she was a greater problem to herself than to her sisters.
- They simply looked upon her as odd, eccentric, unpleasant to live with,
- and if she had not been their sister would have almost gathered up their
- skirts around them as they passed her by. But she was conscious of a
- craving within her that did not proceed from mere wilful caprice. In her
- earlier girlhood she had thought long and humbly over her shortcomings.
- Why could she not be as contented and dutiful as Janet? Why could not the
- interests that satisfied her sisters' life satisfy hers? Often and often
- an impulse of scorn and ridicule at the littleness of Durdleham would
- overmaster her, and then would follow a passionate fit of remorse and
- repentance, received with coldness and ruffled dignity on her sisters'
- part, that would send her back humiliated and rebellious to her room. From
- what springs of desire did all this proceed? Whither were these impulses
- tending?
- </p>
- <p>
- Ever since she could hold a pencil she had been able to draw. She had
- received lessons in painting later on, and had covered canvas after canvas
- with the graceful futilities the Durdleham art teacher suggested. He was a
- landscape painter, and Clytie had little or no feeling for landscape.
- Bright colour, vivid contrast, sharp tone, attracted her, but the quiet
- grays and faint blues of our English scenery came out dull and mechanical
- when she tried to paint them. At last she gave up her lessons in despair,
- much to the wonderment of Janet, who improved greatly under instruction,
- and turned out neat, complacent little water-colours which she sold at
- bazaars or distributed among her friends. For months Clytie never touched
- a brush. Art of this sort revolted her. It was soulless, futile. But by
- degrees, as the breach between herself and her sisters widened, her power
- of painting became a source of ineffable consolation—a means of
- self-commune. She could give external expression to the voices that
- haunted her. She read books with the eagerness only exhibited by the young
- girl craving for self-development; and the pictures they vividly impressed
- on her young imaginative brain she transferred to paper or canvas—not
- lovingly, tenderly, with the pure artistic delight of gradual creation,
- but hurriedly, feverishly, longing to see the thing done, the impression
- realised in a way in which she could understand it. When finished, or
- rather as soon as it had reached an impressionist stage of artistic
- completeness, she would feast her heart upon it for a day or two, and then
- throw it away, or let it lie about in a corner disregarded and forgotten.
- </p>
- <p>
- Until she was nearly eighteen Mrs. Blather had scrupulously supervised her
- reading, and Clytie, chafing with irritation, had been compelled either to
- submit or to smuggle condemned books into the house and read them
- surreptitiously. But at last her angry impatience at the impeccable
- literature that satisfied her sisters' needs burst its restraints, and
- resisted vehemently and finally all censorship on the part of Mrs.
- Blather.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was not wholesome, this solitary, emotional, imaginative life. Her
- health showed signs of giving way. They called in a doctor, who prescribed
- rest and a change of air. One of her aunts, who lived in London, happened
- to want a companion for a tour on the Continent, and with many misgivings
- undertook to take Clytie with her. To the girl the trip was an endless
- succession of delight. Impressions followed each other too fast for her to
- realise them. The superficial features of continental life, familiar and
- commonplace enough to the ordinary traveller, were new to her. Groups at
- street corners, strangely attired soldiers, odd un-English-looking shops,
- the very waiters hurrying along through the intricacies of café tables
- with their fantastically laden trays, all excited her, filled her with the
- exhilaration of life and movement. Her aunt, who had hitherto shared the
- family opinion of Clytie, wondered greatly at the transformation. It never
- occurred to her that this was the natural Clytie filling her heart at last
- with the emotions it had hungered for.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was during this time, at a pension in Dresden, that she formed the
- acquaintance of the Farquharsons. Miss Davenant discovered that they and
- herself had common acquaintances in London, and that she had heard of Mr.
- Farquharson as an archæologist of some repute.
- </p>
- <p>
- The acquaintance thus formed developed quickly into a pleasant intimacy of
- travel. Mrs. Farquharson, a bright, clever woman of forty, was attracted
- toward Clytie, who, for her part, found in her new friend a natural
- sympathy that touched her heart. So far did their sudden friendship go,
- that before they parted Clytie had conditionally accepted an invitation to
- visit the archæologist and his wife in Harley Street.
- </p>
- <p>
- When Mr. Davenant's permission was asked he at first demurred. He had the
- country-bred man's distrust of strangers; but when his sister vouched for
- the social position of the Farquharsons he reluctantly consented. Clytie
- paid her promised visit the following winter. This was one of the turning
- points of her life. For the first time she found herself in an
- intellectual, artistic society. It was a glimpse of another world. At
- Durdleham young men seldom came to the house. When they did, they avoided
- her and talked platitudes to her sisters. At dinner parties the men
- remained in the dining-room long after the ladies had left. They seemed to
- regard them as somewhat picturesque but wearisome household adjuncts,
- whose absence their masculine intellects unreservedly welcomed;
- conversation with their partner was a dinner incident to be got through,
- like shaving or putting on their white ties beforehand. And the Durdleham
- ladies seemed to take this as a matter of course, and were equally happy
- to get by themselves and gossip mildly.
- </p>
- <p>
- But in Harley Street Clytie found a different order of things. Men and
- women seemed to have interests in common and to discuss them on a basis of
- perfect equality. She found, too, women speaking authoritatively on
- certain subjects and listened to with deference by men. All, young and
- old, talked to her as if she were as much absorbed in life as themselves.
- No one made her rage with humiliation by tolerating her with an air of
- languid or pompous condescension. Even the frivolities and platitudes of
- everyday conversation were treated in a way new to her experience. The
- talk was keen, incisive, exaggerated. Everyone could say what he wished
- without fear of springing some mine of prejudice or prudery. The
- atmosphere of the house breathed freedom of thought and action. She beheld
- others putting into form her own vague aspirations. She saw people who
- wrote, painted, acted, living fully and intensely every day. Even the
- professed idlers whom she met seemed to hold their fingers on the throb of
- life around them.
- </p>
- <p>
- In the streets—she had been but little in London before—she
- saw things strange and fascinating—things she had read about,
- dreamed of, painted, and yet not understood. She was appalled by her
- ignorance, the narrow gauge of her sympathies. What did all this restless
- life in the great city mean, its wild cries and passions that struck upon
- her tightly strung nerves with a deep, mysterious resonance?
- </p>
- <p>
- She filled a sketch-book with the vivid impressions each day brought her,
- seeking, as her way was, to realise them by tearing them out of herself,
- and giving them objectivity. A royal academician picked up the book from
- the corner of a table in the drawing-room, where Clytie, falling easily
- into the careless ways of the household, had thrown it. He was turning
- over the pages when Clytie perceived him, and rushed impulsively to him
- across the room.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh! you mustn't look at that, Mr. Redgrave. Please don't!”
- </p>
- <p>
- He looked up at her amusedly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why not? It is rather interesting. Why don't you learn to draw?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “What would be the good?” she said. “This suits my purpose.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The other shrugged his shoulders good-humouredly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “That all depends upon what your purpose is,” he replied. “If you want to
- become an artist you must train properly for it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Become an artist! The words haunted her all that night. They opened up
- before her infinite vistas of possibilities, life in the midst of the
- world, the knowledge of its greatnesses and its mysteries.
- </p>
- <p>
- In the morning she wrote to him. He invited her to come to his studio and
- talk over the matter. She asked Mrs. Farquharson to accompany her, but her
- hostess was engaged at the hour in question. Clytie looked disappointed.
- The home traditions asserted themselves and prevented her from thinking it
- possible to go unchaperoned. Mrs. Farquharson divined this and laughed in
- her bright way.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Goodness gracious, my dear,” she said, “the man isn't going to eat you!”
- </p>
- <p>
- So Clytie went alone to the studio to learn her destiny.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You have great talent,” said the artist, “but it needs cultivation. After
- two or three years' severe training you may do something.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Then Clytie asked him the question that had been burning her heart for two
- days.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Do you think I shall ever be able to earn my own living?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You might do that now, if you chose, and had patience,” he replied.
- </p>
- <p>
- “How?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “By book illustrating.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But I want to become a great artist.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Doubtless. Most of us do. You may if you try hard, and love art for art's
- sake. But,” he added, looking at her keenly—“there always is a
- 'but,' Miss Davenant.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why do you say that?” she asked quickly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “<i>Parce que</i>, as the French say—begging your pardon.”
- </p>
- <p>
- And that was practically the end of the conversation.
- </p>
- <p>
- All this had happened to Clytie three months before Mrs. Blather had
- discovered the offending picture in Clytie's attic studio and had carried
- it to her father. After this foretaste of life the girl wearied more than
- ever of Durdleham with its soullessness, its stagnation, its prim
- formulas. A dangerous reaction of spirit set in, leading her to long
- spells of hopeless melancholy, alternating with outbursts of passionate
- rebellion. She would stand for hours in the recess of her window gazing
- over the flat stretch of country, and dreaming strange dreams of the world
- that lay beyond the dreary horizon—dreams in which sharp
- reminiscence mingled with fancy in vague, weird shapes. But still she was
- beginning to realise herself, her needs, her vague cravings. Her
- passionate desires now flowed into some definite channel—to escape
- at all costs from Durdleham, and consequently to enter that free world of
- art the glimpse of which had enchanted her.
- </p>
- <p>
- The scenes between her sisters and herself were of daily occurrence. The
- narrower, gentler women were shocked at her wilfulnesses, her unladylike
- behaviour; she was revolted to her soul at the pettiness and sordidness of
- the disputes. Existence at Durdleham had become impossible.
- </p>
- <p>
- “For God's sake, Gracie, let me go away from here,” she cried one day, “or
- I shall hate you—and I want to love you if I can. Let me go to
- London. Auntie will take me in. Oh, my God! I shall go mad in this place
- among you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- And Mrs. Blather, for the sake of her own tranquillity and the reputation
- of the family, made up her mind that Clytie should have her desire and
- that Durdleham should know her no more. And in the end Mrs. Blather gained
- her father's consent to the arrangement; but the old man looked upon
- Clytie almost as a lost soul.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER II.
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>hen the eager
- young soul starts out unaided to solve the riddle of life, it meets with
- many paradoxes that admit of no solution, and many sordid simplicities
- that only unfamiliarity made it regard as enigmas. Despair in the one
- instance and disgust in the other not unfrequently drive it into a
- hopeless pessimism, in which inaction seems to be the least pain. Or else
- the soul bruises itself in vain against the mocking bars, shrinks in
- loathing from the disveiled corruption, and flies back to the unavailing
- aids that it spurned aforetime. It is cast in the valley of the shadow of
- death which only the stout-hearted can pass through unshaken.
- </p>
- <p>
- The multitude stands by the formulas that profess to solve the eternal
- problem. It follows them blindly, like the schoolboy who cares not whether
- they are right or wrong, or whether the answer is conclusive. So long as
- there is an answer of some sort its mind is easy. But there are earnester
- inquirers whom these formulas do not satisfy—who see that they are
- followed for their own sake, that they never can lead to any conclusions.
- The soul, now of a people, now of an individual, rebels; it rejects the
- formulas; it starts from the first principles of being, asserting fiercely
- its individuality, its inalienable right to seek after truth according to
- its own methods. These are prejudiced. All great action must be. Because a
- system is rotten and incomplete the perfervid spirit judges that every
- factor must be false. It misses the fact that every great human system
- contains elemental truths of vital importance, without which it must fall
- in its struggle. And at last, when the forces of endeavour are well nigh
- spent, it finds the key of the great enigma inwrapped in a greater one
- still, in the eternal tragedy of things.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was with this burning protest against formulas that
- Clytie entered into the world. They had been presented to her in their
- smug complacency as solving all mysteries human and divine. She had seen
- them worshipped as fetiches, and her soul revolted against the futile
- idolatry. She was too young to examine them carefully, to see that the
- sacrosanctity of some was miserably justified by human experience. She
- spurned them all, and she plunged into the waters of Life, a rudderless
- bark in search of the unknown.
- </p>
- <p>
- She spent two years in study at the Slade School in University College,
- living under the protection of her aunt, who had a house in Russell
- Square. The training was severe and at times irksome. But she learned
- strict academical rules of drawing, in spite of her repugnance to the
- stern coldness of the antique. After her term of hard training was over
- she went for a year into a painter's studio and learned colour and
- painting from the live model.
- </p>
- <p>
- They were years of probation, as Clytie well knew, and they brought her
- lessons in self-restraint, both in art and in the conduct of life. Her
- aunt, Miss Davenant, was shrewder and broader-minded than her brother,
- having lived more in the whirl of humanity, but the formulas of Durdleham
- were ranged as household gods upon her hearthstone, and Clytie, out of
- pure self-interest, was bound to show them outward respect. To compensate,
- however, for this, Clytie found in her student life many experiences, as
- she had found during her continental trip, with which she could fill her
- heart without violating her aunt's Lares and Penates.
- </p>
- <p>
- She seldom went to Durdleham. She had an odd feeling that she was in
- disgrace there for having wished to leave it. Besides, both Mrs. Blather
- and Janet, as is the inconsequent way of such women, spoke tauntingly of
- her gay life in town, and contrasted it enviously with their country
- dulness. And then, too, her father was always querulous, complaining, not
- of her absence from home, but of her dissimilarity to her sisters.
- </p>
- <p>
- “My dear papa,” she said one day, “I could no more be like them than they
- could be like me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You might if you had tried,” said the old man.
- </p>
- <p>
- Clytie looked hopelessly out of window. What possible reply could be made?
- </p>
- <p>
- The happiest, most expansive hours that Clytie spent during these three
- years were in Harley Street with the Farquharsons. At first her aunt was
- rather averse to a continuance of the intimacy. Although she had kept up a
- visiting acquaintance with the Farquharsons since their return from
- Switzerland, and liked them both personally, she was conscious of an
- unfamiliar atmosphere in their house. The instinctive shrinking from the
- unknown made her seek to draw Clytie back with her towards the security of
- her own accustomed circle. But eventually, when she saw that the girl, to
- whom she had grown sincerely attached, found real happiness in going to
- Harley Street, she withdrew her tentative restrictions altogether. Perhaps
- she read deeper into the girl's heart than either was conscious of, and
- realised that in the Farquharsons' society Clytie found a relief from the
- strain of everyday life with her, which otherwise might have been
- unbearable.
- </p>
- <p>
- The conditions of the household in Harley Street were favourable to the
- development of unceremonious intimacy. Mrs. Farquharson herself was bred
- in that strange London world we call Bohemia. Her father, long since dead,
- had been a journalist, a hack story-writer, a maker of plays, sometimes
- editor of a smart weekly, at others acting manager of a provincial
- company. Like most men of his type he spent his money as fast as he earned
- it, and when work came to a temporary standstill drew upon the prospects
- of his next success. His daughter Caroline had grown up in cheerful
- familiarity with this hand to mouth, makeshift existence. She had been
- called upon so often from her earliest childhood to condone the faults of
- her father and those of his intimates, who were men of much the same mould
- as himself, that a general habit of indulgence became natural to her.
- Folly seemed so inherent a quality in humanity that not to smile
- tolerantly, even though reprovingly, upon it was with her an
- impossibility. The lowering of moral tone that might have resulted from
- this mental attitude, and from a continuance of the same conditions of
- life, was prevented by her early marriage with a man of assured income and
- position. Her father died shortly afterwards and her connection with the
- seamy side of Bohemianism was thoroughly broken off. But the ingrained
- habits of freedom and carelessness still remained. She could never learn
- to be methodical, systematic. She had an inherited dread of account-books,
- household rules, fixed hours for meals, and appointed places for every
- domestic article. It was fortunate for her that she had married a man who
- worshipped her, and himself shared her distaste for rigidly organised
- life. His means had placed him beyond the necessity of working for his
- livelihood, and so the free life in a home where he could work, idle, eat,
- and receive his friends at any hour of the day or night was as much to his
- own taste as to that of his wife.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was impossible that such a house should not possess a charm for those
- to whom the Farquharsons gave their friendship. The absence of formality
- encouraged expansiveness and individuality. There was a tacit
- understanding that one had a right not only to oneself, but to the
- appreciation of oneself by the host and hostess. It was this that Clytie
- had felt during her first visit, and it attracted her more and more to
- them as time went on. Gradually the house became a second home to her, and
- Mrs. Farquharson a friend such as she had never known before. She could go
- to her for strength and comfort during her fits of depression when the
- time seemed out of joint, and she did not in the least seem called upon to
- set it right. The restraints of strict draughtsmanship, academic modelling
- and grouping, chafed her as her simple arithmetic had done at school. She
- longed to throw them off and to plunge back into her old artistic
- wilfulnesses. But these occasions generally coincided with fresh
- sensations of restraint in her home life, and she was wise enough to
- appreciate the fact.
- </p>
- <p>
- During this period an incident occurred in her life, giving it fresh
- colour and helping her to realise herself more fully. Her girlhood had
- been far removed from the lax sphere of idle flirtation in which many
- girls are brought up. The young men of Durdleham, who might have been
- attracted towards her by her beauty, were frozen by her scarcely veiled
- impatience at their society.
- </p>
- <p>
- The dominant impulse towards active search after life had swayed her to
- the exclusion of any less powerful motive, and it had scarcely yet
- occurred to her that her personality might interest and possibly influence
- others. She was too absorbed in her work, in her dimly shadowed yet
- ever-haunting plans for the future, in the individualities round her, in
- the foretaste of that full sense of living, in the stirring objectivity of
- London life, to dwell at all earnestly on subjective matters and to devote
- much attention to self-analysis. It is only when the question, “How do
- others affect me?” ceases to interest that the other question, “How does
- my personality affect others?” begins to assume a paramount importance.
- The possibility of a man falling in love with her was a factor as yet
- absent from her scheme of practical life.
- </p>
- <p>
- She learned that such an event had occurred from Mrs. Farquharson. She had
- gone to her one Monday morning, depressed, out of tune, to seek
- consolation.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, why am I not a man?” she exclaimed petulantly. “Why can't I live by
- myself, go where I like, and see what I want to see?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Her friend laughed good-humouredly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You want to do too much at once, my dear. The world's your oyster, as
- ancient Pistol said, and you would force it open with one wrench. As for
- wishing to be a man, you are by no means original. Lots of girls say that,
- but when they grow older they think it's just as well for them that they
- are women.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “What on earth's the good of being a <i>woman?</i>” asked Clytie, with
- rather unnecessary emphasis.
- </p>
- <p>
- One of her studio companions had asked her to join a party at a theatre,
- and her aunt had demurred on the ground that ladies ought not to go to
- that particular house. It showed a certain knowledge of the world on the
- old lady's part, but Clytie did not realise it, and although she accepted
- the decision with good grace, it fretted her. These trivial things fret
- even the wisest amongst us quite as much as the important ones do.
- </p>
- <p>
- Mrs. Farquharson did not reply, but continued placidly her usual Monday
- morning's occupation of putting her music in order, while Clytie watched
- her from the long rocking-chair where she was sitting, her hands clasped
- behind her head.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What's the good of being a woman when one has to pass half one's life
- shut up in darkness? It's bad enough being a human being as it is, and
- having to sleep the other half.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “How old are you, my dear?” asked Mrs. Farquharson, looking at a song.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You know,” replied Clytie. “Twenty.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Then how would you like to be a young man of twenty—or even
- two-and-twenty? How would you like to be young Beaumont, for instance? Do
- you think he knows so very much more than you do?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “He's such a boy,” said Clytie.
- </p>
- <p>
- “And you, my dear, are such a girl,” said Mrs. Farquharson, coming up
- behind her chair and smoothing her cheeks. “But you are many years older
- than he is—and likely to remain so. Do you know why we women like to
- be women? Because we see so many things that men would give the eyes of
- their heads to know. Hasn't it ever struck you that we are familiar with a
- side of life that is almost forever hidden from men? And as for that
- particular side that men have exclusively to themselves, it is neither
- very pretty nor comfortful.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I suppose that is why men stop talking when one goes into the
- smoking-room,” said Clytie. “You hear shouts of laughter outside the door,
- and you think they must be having an awfully good time, and when you
- appear in the doorway they seem to pull themselves together, and one or
- two always look red and sheepish.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I should advise you to read the story of Bluebeard,” said Mrs.
- Farquharson.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You are just as bad as the rest,” cried Clytie, half laughing and half
- vexed. “I never thought it of you. That's what I have always been told:
- Never try to find out what you don't know. Always remain in a state of
- blissful ignorance. Men are superior beings, and a good little girl ought
- to accept her position with meekness.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I could a tale unfold,” said her friend, “but I won't. It is too early
- for you. If you want to make experiments on your own account there is
- young Beaumont for you. He will tell you the sum total of his knowledge in
- ten minutes.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Do you know, I like him,” said Clytie, leaving the main track of the
- conversation. “He always looks so clean, and his clothes fit him so well,
- and he is so serviceable. He always seems to be trying to make the best of
- himself, since God has done so little for him. And it's very plucky of him
- to try to improve on the Almighty.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I would not like him too much.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “My poor Clytie! You haven't even got the elements of woman's knowledge
- yet. Can't you see why Beaumont wears those very chaste ties and those
- wonderfully shiny boots, and does errands all over London for you? Oh,
- dear!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Do you mean that he——?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Mrs. Farquharson looked at her quizzically and nodded.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Therefore I would not like him too much.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Obeying a first impulse, Clytie burst out laughing. It seemed so
- ridiculous. Beaumont was a good-looking, fresh-faced young fellow of
- two-and-twenty, a distant relation of the Farquharsons, and a habitué of
- the house. She had met him there many times and had begun to feel quite
- friendly towards him. Besides, he had fetched and carried for her in the
- most useful way. She had never thought of his falling in love with her. As
- he was the last man she herself would have thought of falling in love
- with, she found the event ludicrous.
- </p>
- <p>
- She stopped laughing suddenly, and crimsoned to her hair; then rushed
- impulsively up to Mrs. Farquharson, and put her arm round her waist.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am sorry; forgive me. What must you think of me! I could not help it,
- indeed I couldn't. You put me in such a new light before myself. And, dear
- Mrs. Farquharson, I do so want you to see the best side of me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “My dear girl,” said her friend, “you don't suppose that with your face
- and your nature you are going to pass through life without having men
- falling in love with you! You see what a lot you have to learn. You want
- to have a man's experiences before you have passed through the elementary
- ones of a woman.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And Mr. Beaumont—what shall I do?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh! don't fret yourself about him. He will get over it. He has no end of
- this sort of thing to go through before his life is up. It will do him
- good.” Clytie had not much time to map out any fixed plan of treatment of
- her would-be lover, for he met her an afternoon or two afterwards outside
- University College, where he had been waiting for her, and pleaded that
- she would walk a little way up towards the Regent's Park, as the afternoon
- was fine.
- </p>
- <p>
- Clytie looked at him and hesitated.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Only just a little way. I have something I must tell you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Perhaps you had best never tell it,” said Clytie.
- </p>
- <p>
- The red-waistcoated gate porter behind them beamed on them smilingly. He
- had seen something of youthful love in his professional career.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I must, whatever happens,” replied the young fellow. “I know it's wrong
- to ask you to walk in the street with me, but I don't know when I shall
- get another chance.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don't see anything wrong about it,” said Clytie. “I will go with you
- wherever you wish.”
- </p>
- <p>
- So they wandered up Gower Street and the Euston Road into the park, and
- there, for the first time in her life, Clytie heard a man confess his love
- for her and ask her to marry him. He was only a boy after all, but he was
- in great earnest. Clytie felt humbled, almost guilty, and yet a great,
- unknown pleasure thrilled through her. Although she knew that the sooner
- and more summarily the interview was brought to an end the better for both
- herself and him, she could scarcely resist the temptation of allowing him
- to pour out the fulness of his boyish love for her.
- </p>
- <p>
- She suddenly found herself listening to the sound but not the meaning of
- his words, her senses filled with the sweetness of the new sensations and
- the pure May sunlight that flooded the trees and the gay flower-bed
- opposite the bench where they were sitting. Then she realised her
- situation, and in a few kind words, harder to speak than she would have
- expected, dismissed him.
- </p>
- <p>
- And that was the end of the matter. He went off whither young men in his
- predicament generally betake themselves, and Clytie returned slowly home
- to Russell Square.
- </p>
- <p>
- When she had reached her own room she went deliberately up to the glass
- and scanned her features. Then she laughed a strange, contented little
- laugh, and taking off her hat and gloves, went downstairs to tea. She had
- advanced several steps along the road to knowledge.
- </p>
- <p>
- Three years! How quickly they passed! How sure yet dimly working were
- their influences! If they were years of probation and self-restraint for
- Clytie, they also brought with them softening influences. Hitherto her
- life had been one of revolt and harsh, crude judgments that had turned
- away friendship and had left her solitary. Mutual misconception and
- misunderstanding had crushed sisterly love. Her heart had never been
- touched by real affection. Now she had friends, real ones, in the
- Farquharsons whom she could love for their own sakes, and pleasant,
- sympathetic ones in her companions at the Slade School and at the studio.
- She learned, too, the sweetness of active protection and helpfulness. Her
- aunt, though somewhat stronger-fibred than the rest of the Davenants,
- possessed their essential physical characteristics. Her health, which had
- been failing for some years, gradually gave way altogether. During the few
- months of her last illness she depended entirely upon Clytie for care and
- tenderness. It was a new, strange experience for the girl. She learned to
- love the faded elderly lady who bore her sufferings so calmly, so
- cheerfully. Both Mrs. Blather and Janet offered to come and nurse her, but
- Miss Davenant would have none but Clytie. If this period of selflessness
- and sacrifice had lasted, who knows what sweet effacement of individuality
- might have resulted? Who knows into what channels of pity and sublime
- endeavours of mercy the girl's full, ardent nature might have been
- directed? But the high gods had ordained otherwise. Miss Davenant died,
- and Clytie again found herself with the unknown destiny before her that
- had to be worked out unaided.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was only after the first outburst of grief that she realised this
- fully. She had gone back to Durdleham, with a new range of feelings
- freshly revealed. Her sisters she found were gentle, quiet women like her
- aunt, narrower perhaps, with thin currents of old prejudice still running
- through them, but still lovable and sympathetic in her sorrow. They
- welcomed her back like a lost sheep to the fold. Never had her home life
- seemed so peaceful, comfortful; London was scarcely mentioned, and her
- sisters agreed between themselves that Clytie's absence from home was an
- episode of the past, never to recur.
- </p>
- <p>
- But time wears and effaces the deepest intaglio of impression, even that
- of a young girl's first knowledge of death and eternal loss. Gradually the
- quietude of eventless life, as the need for it wore away, grew wearisome,
- oppressive, and the old restless cravings began to gnaw at her heart. The
- breach that death had closed slowly widened again, so gradually that not
- till it was fully appreciable did the sisters recognise it. The formulas
- seemed narrower, more lifeless than ever. She had viewed dimly the
- potentialities of life, and her soul burned within her with a fiercer
- hunger. Almost against her will she revolted finally.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What is this that Janet has been telling me,” said Mrs. Blather one
- morning, “about your wanting to go back to London? You cannot be in
- earnest, Clytie?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Clytie looked at her sister rather sadly, tears springing into her eyes.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You have been very good to me since I have come back, Gracie, and I have
- learned to love you more than I did before—much more. But can't you
- understand, dear, that if I am to go on loving you I must go away?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I can't see it at all,” replied Mrs. Blather. “If we have got on so
- nicely together these last few months, why can't we continue? Janet and I
- are willing to give you all in our power to make you happy.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ah! but don't you see that what I want is out of your power to give?”
- said Clytie. “Don't think I am wicked and ungrateful. If a man wants five
- pounds, he is grateful to anyone who gives him one; but that does not
- lessen his need of the other four. Now the other four pounds are not to be
- got in Durdleham, Gracie, and I must have them.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You should learn content, Clytie,” said her sister. “We have all to put
- up with our lot in life.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Clytie checked an impulse of impatience at the platitude, and answered
- with great gentleness of voice and manner:
- </p>
- <p>
- “This is not my lot in life, dear. It is quite different. You and Janet
- can bear it, because your natures crave this tranquillity. Mine craves
- movement, excitement, strange faces. Oh, Gracie, it is no use talking—I
- must go away, or I shall begin to hate Durdleham as I used to do. There is
- nothing for me to do here. I am too bad for it, perhaps. I don't know. I
- can't explain it to you; you have never felt it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “My dear Clytie, that is all nonsense,” said Mrs. Blather, who prided
- herself, above all things, on being a woman of common sense. “As a matter
- of fact, you can't go to London, because you would have no one to live
- with, and you would only have your hundred a year to support you, as papa
- has lost a great deal of money lately and can hardly afford to give you an
- allowance. When your aunt was alive it was a different thing. The whole
- idea of going to live alone in London is silly. So there's an end of it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Mrs. Blather went on with her sewing, with mingled feelings of content at
- having done her duty and disappointment in the failure of promise of
- reform in Clytie. She would have judged her sister mercifully had she been
- able. She was naturally a gentle woman, full of kindness. But her canons
- of duty would not allow her to encourage or condone wilfulness, caprice,
- and a tendency to wrong-doing. She earnestly believed it was for Clytie's
- good to stay in Durdleham. The girl's wider needs she could not
- understand.
- </p>
- <p>
- Clytie turned from the hearthrug, where she had been standing, to the
- drawing-room window, and looked out blankly at the rain. Her young face
- was set rather hard; her lips quivered a little; her heart beat quicker
- than usual. A struggle was taking place within her—the struggle
- between the girl and the woman. She felt that the great moment of her life
- had come. She must choose. Which should it be: the dazzling light with its
- weird shadows of things unseen, or the gray, easeful glimmer in which the
- familiar realities cast no shadow? Which should it be: daughterly duty and
- maidenly retirement, or the sundering of home ties forever and going out,
- one woman, to battle with the world?
- </p>
- <p>
- She turned away from the window at last and called to her sister. The
- latter looked up and was filled with foreboding as she saw the girl's pale
- face.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes. What is the matter, Clytie?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I have made up my mind, Gracie,” she said a little huskily. “I am going
- to London to live by myself. I can share lodgings with one of the girls I
- know at the Slade School. There will be no difficulty. I can earn money; I
- have already earned a little. As for mamma's money, I am of age now, and
- it is my own to do what I like with it—as you and Janet do. Let this
- be an end of the discussion, Gracie. I am going.”
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER III.
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">F</span>ew people, in an
- outburst of enthusiasm, would select the King's Road, Chelsea, as an ideal
- locality to reside in. It is an important thoroughfare, no doubt, but it
- lacks nobility and distinction. There are isolated, quiet spots in it,
- with houses lying back from the road; and from the upper windows of
- favoured residences one can obtain a view over Yeitch's or Bull's
- extensive hothouses, and catch dim shadows of great tropical palms and a
- mellowed dash of brilliant red and yellow. There are others which look
- over Portman Square or St. Luke's Churchyard. But on the other hand, there
- are long stretches of dreary shops and factories, grit and general
- uncomeliness. Without being squalid, it has a careworn, untidy appearance,
- as if it was far too much harassed with the petty worries and strain of
- workaday life to think of cheerful adornment. Few people, except errand
- boys whose sense either of aesthetics or duty is usually undeveloped,
- saunter casually along the King's Road. A stranger tries to get out of it
- as fast as he can; a frequenter has his business to attend to. Fashion
- does not pass along it, except on tearing drags bound for Hurlingham. It
- is essentially a small bourgeois part of London, with all the small
- bourgeois unpretence and honest, if somewhat dismal, solidity.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was in the middle of such a dreary stretch of the road, some half mile
- west of Sloane Square, that Clytie found a lodging. The fact that a
- green-grocer's shop, owned by the landlord of the house, occupied the
- ground floor was compensated, in a measure, by the existence of a small
- studio at the back, on the first floor, originally constructed by a
- struggling photographer, who had since worked his way upwards into a more
- fashionably perfumed atmosphere. One of Clytie's favourite
- fellow-students, Winifred Marchpane, who lived in Lower Sloane Street, and
- whose family obtained their potatoes and salads from Mr. Gurkins, had
- recommended the establishment, and offered to share with her the expenses
- of the studio. The cheapness of the rooms suited Clytie's modest purse,
- and the prospect of pleasant companionship in the studio was an additional
- attraction. It is true that the acrid smell of the potatoes, when the side
- door from the shop on to the private entrance lobby was left open,
- ascended the stairs, together with a vague odour of cooking, bearing
- upwards, as it were, on savoury breath the disputes of Mrs. Gurkins with
- the shopboy and the cries of her apparently ever-youthful progeny. The
- incessant rumble, too, of omnibuses, drays, and furniture vans, and the
- peculiarly aggressive rattle of tradesmen's carts, shook the floor and the
- windows and shivered the lustres of the chandelier. There were many
- drawbacks to elegant life, but Clytie, borrowing some philosophy from a
- talk with Mrs. Farquharson, proceeded to disregard those she could not
- eliminate. The sitting-room, when the door was shut and the curtains drawn
- of an evening, was cosy enough. The pictures, nicknacks, hangings, and
- other minor accessories of furnished apartments Clytie had returned to
- Mrs. Gurkins' keeping, on the plea that she scarcely had room for her own—which
- was true; and, by some miraculous art of persuasion, she had induced Mr.
- Gurkins to remove the nerve-shattering chandelier, on the ground that she
- could not work by gaslight—which was not true. She hung thick
- curtains over the door to keep out noise and odour, broke up the rigidity
- of the furniture by screens, small tables, and plants, and painted a long
- panel for the old cottage piano that made it look fresh and companionable.
- When all the arrangements were completed the room appeared dainty and
- homelike, bearing, however, here and there, in bold notes of colour, folds
- of drapery, and odd bits of semi-impressionist painting, a peculiar
- impress of its tenant's personality.
- </p>
- <p>
- She was living at last the life she had so passionately longed for. There
- was not a human being to control her actions, not a conventionality to
- check the utterance of her thoughts. During her early days here she almost
- felt tempted to hang up her latchkey over the mantelpiece as a glorious
- symbol of liberty. It seemed not only to serve to give her entrance to her
- own modest home, but to be the power that would unlock the heart of the
- great London that lay before her.
- </p>
- <p>
- From the first she had little difficulty in finding work. Dealers bought
- small pictures and gave her orders. She also pleased a firm of publishers
- to whom she had gone with letters of introduction and specimens of her
- draughtsmanship, and obtained work in the way of book and magazine
- illustrating. Her earnings were not large, but there was the promise of
- success to come. At the end of two years her income was large enough to
- have enabled her to move from the King's Road into a more refined
- locality; but she had grown accustomed to its noise and rattle, and to the
- hurried, joyless stream of life that flowed along it day by day. And Mrs.
- Gurkins understood her tastes and habits, a quality in a landlady
- appreciated by women as well as men. So she stayed on.
- </p>
- <p>
- She read widely during these years, learned much. Between the ages of
- twenty-two and twenty-four a woman is capable of vast assimilation of
- ideas. They can flow into the freshly opened, unpolluted channels of her
- being, as yet unclogged by the refuse of sorrows and wearinesses. Her
- rejection of the old formulas, and the paramount necessity of gaining
- knowledge wherewith to provide herself substitutes, checked in her any
- impulse towards moral or artistic idealism. She read deeply, instinctively
- seeking after the roots of life, the elemental passions that shake our
- nature, be its superstructure never so delicately complex. The dawning
- knowledge half frightened, half attracted her. The barbaric feminine in
- her struggled to escape into solitude. With fluttering eyelids downcast it
- recoiled from the idea of passion as yet unawakened responsively within
- her. But the higher needs of modernity constrained her to a just, resolute
- system of inquiry. She learned that there are deeper laws regulating our
- being than those which could be enunciated at Durdleham tea-tables, where
- the ingrained habit of non-recognition of them restricted life within
- narrowest limits, and put, as it were, a prohibition tax upon exoteric
- sympathy.
- </p>
- <p>
- At four-and-twenty Clytie was a woman—emotional, impulsive, eager to
- taste of any new experience. The old rebellious habit of mind had
- developed into a frank independence. Her step was elastic, her bearing
- confident. Her life was full and happy.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am glad I am a woman now,” she said to Mrs. Farquharson. “I seem to
- have all the advantages of both sexes.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Wait till you're married, my dear,” replied her friend.
- </p>
- <p>
- Mrs. Farquharson was fond of the use of affectionate irritants. They are
- often valuable preservatives of friendship.
- </p>
- <p>
- Clytie laughed.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I suppose I shall marry some day. I don't want to end up by leading half
- a life; but I want to have two or three years more of this. I must play at
- being a man a little longer.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “A pretty sort of man!” said Mrs. Farquharson, resting her chin on her
- hand and looking at Clytie with amused eyes. “You are the most deliciously
- feminine young woman I know. Look at your frock and your hair.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Judging by outward appearances Mrs. Farquharson's criticism was correct.
- Clytie had the artistic sense in dress. It was like most of her other
- artistic impulses, with the personal note dominant—soft textures,
- falling easily into folds, quiet in tone, dark grays, subdued half shades
- of yellows, suddenly brightened by a small, daring flash of colour at
- throat or bosom. Lace, with its creamy, clinging softness delighted her,
- and she wore it defiantly, with a certain sense of triumph that she was
- perhaps the only girl in England who could wear it with faultless taste.
- </p>
- <p>
- She was of medium height, but her slender, fully formed figure and its
- erect carriage gave her an air of tallness. Her head set well on her
- shoulders, and a habit of holding it back, with the chin pointing upwards,
- free of the throat, added to the impression of young, fearless womanhood.
- Her eyes were dark blue, wide apart, yet sunk in finely moulded orbits. A
- light of humour playing in their depths, together with a soft modelling of
- the nose contours beneath them, atoned for an impression of hardness and
- sensuousness that would have been given by the ripe, full lips with their
- little curl of disdain. Her face was rounded delicately—that much
- she inherited from the Davenants—but a faint flush of colour showed
- the buoyant young blood within, just as her deep red hair, with a thousand
- lights dancing in it, attested the rich, vigorous strain that had asserted
- itself in her. She was proud, womanlike, of this hair, and had a way of
- dressing it in bewildering confusion.
- </p>
- <p>
- Her Slade School friend, Winifred Marchpane, continued to share the studio
- with her. At first she had been a little afraid of Clytie, whose bold
- judgments and fearless expression of opinion were not qualified always to
- attract a timorous, shrinking nature. But gradually the stronger
- personality had overpowered the weaker and bound it to itself by
- unbreakable bonds. A great friendship had thus arisen between the girls,
- based on Winifred's side on enthusiastic admiration, almost worship, and
- on Clytie's on a tender feeling of love and protection.
- </p>
- <p>
- Winifred was one of a large family, her father, a retired officer in the
- army with limited income. Two of her sisters were governesses, earning
- their livelihood miles away from home. Another one took charge of the
- smaller members of the household. Winifred, who had a dainty talent for
- the painting of still life, supported herself, living at home and paying
- her share of the household expenses. She was a little, gentle creature,
- with dark hair, and with a rich colour showing beneath a brown cheek. Her
- deep brown eyes had a doglike trustfulness in them, and a steadfastness
- withal such as makes the heroine. A girl of few moods, few caprices. Her
- work was always beautifully, conscientiously finished. She always loved
- it, always found in it the same quiet charm. There was no element of
- passion in it to set jarring the strings of futile endeavour. A fine sense
- of colour and gradation and subtle curve, a supreme delicacy of touch—that
- was her sole artistic stock in trade, and she never sought to stray beyond
- the limits imposed. She had had a little picture accepted at the Academy,
- hung in a far, far corner—a bunch of Maréchal Niel roses,
- full-blown, in a Venetian glass vase of exquisitely veined transparencies—a
- perfect little picture, sweet and pure, like herself.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was a cold March day. The sun shone cheerfully through the drawn white
- blinds of the studio skylight, but an east wind blowing outside came in
- through the cracks and defied the blaze of the fire in the stove.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You are quite blue with cold,” said Winifred, laying down mahl-stick and
- palette. “Here, put on this wrap. Why don't you take more care of
- yourself?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I never thought of it,” said Clytie, shivering a little and accepting
- contentedly the wrap and a caress. “I was sketching out quite a history of
- that boy who has just left.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Winifred drew a stool to Clytie's chair near the fire and took up her
- position upon it—a favourite one with her, as she could have both
- the moral solace of sitting at Clytie's feet, and the physical comfort of
- resting her head in Clytie's lap.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I hope he won't bring all kinds of horrible people into the house—burglars,
- you know, like Oliver Twist,” she added vaguely.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I suppose it is rather rash picking up a model out of the streets. But he
- is just the boy I wanted to give character to the group. I was going to
- paint in one out of my own head.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don't know how you get all those street types out of your head, Clytie.
- I wish I could do it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I would like to see you try, you silly child,” said Clytie, laughing.
- “Your street arabs would look like stray Cupids hastily huddled up in old
- clothes by a shocked and modest policeman!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I did not mean that; you know I didn't. What I meant was—I wish I
- could paint without models. I don't think I could paint a common flat leaf
- without having it before me. As for painting that”—and she pointed
- to a basket standing by her easel, overflowing with anemones, snowdrops,
- and violets obtained that morning by Mr. Gurkins from Covent Garden—“without
- a copy, I might just as soon think of flying.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You are an artist, Winnie, and love your art for its own sake. I am not
- quite so sure that I do, now. To have to finish all the thousand little
- convolutions of those bells would drive me raving mad. I should like to
- have a ghost as sculptors do, only mine would do the finishing and put in
- all the nuisance of detail. That's why I can get on without models. It
- saves time. I can bring home a face with me from the streets, and I can
- paint it in rapidly, and then I am done. I suppose I oughtn't to be, but
- Burrowes seems satisfied. He says he has got quite a 'line' in my pictures—the
- correct ones—and is thinking of raising the price. I am sure that
- man has been a linen-draper.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “If you could remember the boy's face why do you bring him here?” asked
- Winifred. “I only want to know why you want him so particularly, dear,”
- she added, raising her chin and looking upwards at Clytie.
- </p>
- <p>
- The boy had been ragged and uncared-for, not exactly a street urchin, but
- on a vague borderland of respectability, between the newspaper arab and
- the errand boy.—a hybrid with the vices of many strains.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Do you really want to know, Winnie?” said Clytie. “Perhaps you'll be
- shocked. However, you'll have to know sooner or later: I am going to make
- a picture of him on my own account, just a little bit more fantastic than
- he is, and call him a—an—oh, dear! what shall I call him?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “An elf?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Good gracious, no. What have I to do with elves and fairies and that sort
- of thing? He is the son of Cophetua—supposing the king had not
- married the beggar maid.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Then why not the son of any other king?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why not, indeed?” said Clytie drily. “Or of any other beggar maid?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh!” said Winifred, looking into the fire.
- </p>
- <p>
- And then after a pause:
- </p>
- <p>
- “What makes you think that?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Did you see his mother? I did. Such a stupid-looking, red-faced woman. I
- think she said she was a charwoman by profession. There are generations of
- drudgery in her face, whereas in Jack's there is vigour and intelligence—something
- so different; he must have some better strain of blood in him than she and
- a husband of her class can have given him. Don't you think so, dear?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “He's a very pretty boy,” replied Winifred, “but, oh, he is so dirty and”—with
- a shudder—“so animal.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, he fascinates me,” said Clytie meditatively. “I am going to paint
- one of my wildest pictures—all for my own self—and a bit for
- you if you like, Winnie.” Winnie accepted this tribute of affection with a
- little flush of pleasure, although Clytie's “own” pictures seldom gave her
- unqualified æsthetic delight, and turned her face towards Clytie, who
- laughed in her frank way.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Don't look at me with those great eyes of yours, child! You make me angry
- for you. They are just the sort of eyes that make women miserable. You
- must not trust in people like that, believe me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I trust them when they are good like you, dear.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, but you mustn't. Don't you know I am the wickedest girl going—always
- thinking of the most dreadful things? Look at the wall. How can you love
- anybody that can do these silly things?”
- </p>
- <p>
- She pointed to a series of grotesque charcoal caricatures on the studio
- wall. She had been dissatisfied a day or two back with a picture she had
- been engaged on for a month, and in a fit of wilfulness had daubed it out
- and then proceeded to make a cruel, fantastic travesty of it on the wall.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You wanted your tea, dear, just as you do now,” replied Winifred.
- </p>
- <p>
- This tea hour was Winifred's great delight. At home, on account of the
- children, they had to sit round the dining table and butter their own
- thick slices of bread and drink out of substantial breakfast cups. In the
- studio the girls had provided a dainty little afternoon tea equipage, and
- Mrs. Gurkins always cut thin bread and butter from a fancy loaf. Generally
- it was Winifred who poured out the tea, but to-day Clytie busied herself
- with the cups, thus making some slight amends, perhaps, for having shocked
- Winifred. Women are full of these odd feminine impulses, and other women
- understand them. Men don't.
- </p>
- <p>
- They sat talking, as they usually did, over their tea, and long
- afterwards, until it was time for Winifred to go home. As they were taking
- leave of each other on the landing a man sprang up the stairs, checked
- himself, and raised a slouch hat as he passed them and vanished up the
- next flight. He was a fresh-faced man, with a brown and tawny beard; tawny
- ends, too, to his moustaches; bright gray eyes flashing humourously as he
- passed the girls. His dress was careless, loose and unfashionable, yet it
- was marked with a certain individuality.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Who is that?” Winifred whispered when the last foot of the ascending
- figure had disappeared.
- </p>
- <p>
- “That's another protest,” said Clytie—“a better one. He has the
- courage of his convictions.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “What do you mean, Clytie?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, can't you recognise a protest when you see one?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, Clytie, don't tease and puzzle me,” cried Winifred, giving her
- friend's arm a little shake. “Do you know him?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Of course not. How should I? But Mrs. Gurkins was telling me about him
- only this morning. His name is Kent. He seems to frighten the life out of
- her, and therefore I say he is a protest. Now you know, so run away home.”
- </p>
- <p>
- When Winifred had reached the street door Clytie leaned over the banisters
- and called after her.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Winnie! I must have been in a sweet temper this afternoon.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Of course, dear. Why do you say so?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Because you have left your basket of anemones for me to take care of!”
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER IV.
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>hen Winifred had
- gone Clytie took an omnibus to Cheyne Walk, where some friends of hers
- lived, and after her visit returned to her solitary dinner. It argued some
- strength of mind in Clytie that she did not give way, as many lonely women
- do, to a distaste for ordinary food, and a corresponding craving for the
- miscellaneous and not over wholesome meal denominated high tea. She had
- not reached the stage of feminine depression and sense of helplessness
- when inchoate banqueting on bread and butter and penny buns seems to bring
- cheerless solace. Her temperament seemed almost virile in its vigour, and
- although she had her sex's antipathy to gastronomy, she nevertheless found
- it reasonable that she should be provided with a decently served dinner.
- Besides, Mrs. Gurkins, who was professionally interested in food stuffs,
- held solid views on the subject. She herself had a good appetite, and her
- little girl children ate everything they could lay their little white
- teeth to; she did not believe in not being hungry. It was one of her
- grievances that her other lodger, Mr. Kent upstairs, cooked his own
- victuals scramblingly, and would not allow her to see that his wants were
- duly satisfied. Accordingly she bestowed extra care upon Clytie.
- </p>
- <p>
- After the cloth was removed Clytie continued the book she had been reading
- during the meal, and at last flung it aside. She rose and walked about the
- room, somewhat restless. She felt lonely—vaguely desirous of action,
- and yet idle. Was it a dumb premonition of fate, this restlessness? At any
- rate it led her to perform a trivial action which set in motion the
- currents of her future life.
- </p>
- <p>
- She sat down at her writing table that stood in the recess between the
- fireplace and the light-curtained window and lit a couple of candles,
- whose pretty red paper shades threw a rosy glow around the corner of the
- room. It was only a simple note that she scribbled, hastily, boldly, as
- was her wont. Then she left the candles burning, and returned to her
- armchair by the fire and gave herself up to meditation.
- </p>
- <p>
- The boy model she had engaged that morning interested' her powerfully. She
- shrank from an insistence upon the solution of the little problem she had
- offered to Winifred during the afternoon, hovering over and away from it.
- Her sense of type and personality was too acute not to be profoundly
- struck by the difference between his mother and himself. On the one hand
- was dulness, commonness, a coarse-fibred nature responsive to the
- stirrings of neither hope nor despair, a dull, uncomplaining drudge; on
- the other hand a quick, fiery temperament, showing itself in flashing
- black eyes, delicate nostrils, wiry, curly brown hair—all made
- picturesque by unqualified dirt. And yet, despite this refinement of
- feature, there was cruelty, brutality even, written on the childish face.
- That might be the fault of his upbringing, thought Clytie. But his beauty—where
- did it come from? She smiled as she thought of King Cophetua. It was the
- beggar maiden's grace that had won the king's heart, and grace was a
- quality that Jack's mother most distinctly lacked. Clytie felt dimly
- conscious of being on the verge of an appalling discovery. Her reading had
- been catholic enough, and her independent acquaintance with life
- sufficiently broad, to render the fact familiar to her that kings and
- beggar maidens if they fall in love with each other usually dispense with
- the ceremony of marriage. But then love pardons all—a formula in
- Clytie's new theory of social statics, perhaps wisely not accepted in
- Durdleham—and all the sorrow in lawlessness that had come within
- Clytie's small experience had been in her eyes sanctified by love. Yet who
- could have loved this woman? She was not more than three-and-thirty now—young
- enough to show that she had never possessed the mere attraction of
- comeliness. The boy remained, however, a living proof.
- </p>
- <p>
- She thought of Winifred, and sighed a little. Why should she be forever
- craving after this strange hidden knowledge, after the taste of things
- bitter, when there was so much sweetness in life? The thought of
- Winifred's pure, gentle touch in flowers and delicate bloom of fruit and
- calm, transparent glass came over her like a rebuke. And then she smiled
- again, remembering how Winifred had coaxed her once to try and paint a
- bunch of roses, and how dismayed she had been at the egregious failure.
- No; the cobbler must not go beyond his last.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don't suppose I am very wicked after all,” she said to herself.
- </p>
- <p>
- She rested her chin upon her hand and let her thoughts wander idly,
- building up a romance for Jack. He was a foundling, of noble parents, and
- Mrs. Burmester was only his foster mother. Then she roused herself with a
- little exclamation of disgust:
- </p>
- <p>
- “What a perfectly Durdleham solution!”
- </p>
- <p>
- The next moment, with an instinct common to folks whether at Durdleham or
- London, she sprang from her chair and cried:
- </p>
- <p>
- “There's something burning!”
- </p>
- <p>
- The room in fact was full of thin smoke, and, as Clytie rose, a snake of
- red flame ran up the curtains by the writing-desk. She rushed to them, but
- as soon as she had touched them, the folds being shaken out, the whole
- burst into a blaze. She fled to the door about to scream “Fire!” at the
- top of her voice.
- </p>
- <p>
- What happened next neither she nor John Kent could afterwards exactly
- explain. He was on his way downstairs when the door was suddenly thrown
- open and a stream of light burst on to the gloomy landing. Clytie ran
- almost into his arms crying, “My room is on fire!” and then he was tearing
- down blazing, fiery curtains, smothering them with rugs, and stamping out
- glowing masses of drapery amid much smoke and confusion. It did not take
- very long to extinguish the flames, but the struggle while it lasted was
- fierce and exciting. Clytie stood by watching him, her hand at her throat.
- It was a new sensation to her to have a man acting for her in an
- emergency. She had failed. She saw by the man's energy, his fearless
- dealing with the blazing mass, his strength, his violence, that she never
- could have succeeded. She admired him, was angry at it; felt herself a
- helpless woman, was angry at that too; wished that the danger had been a
- little greater, at which she was more angry than ever.
- </p>
- <p>
- However, when the last traces of the fire were extinguished, and the man
- stood before her, somewhat out of breath, wiping his forehead, this little
- train of emotions came to an end. She gazed piteously at her curtainless
- windows and scorched wainscoting. He turned and opened the window, whence
- the damp, gusty wind whirled the smoke in billowing drifts about the room.
- </p>
- <p>
- “There!” he said, with a breath of relief.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, how can I thank you?” said Clytie. + “Don't,” he replied with
- cheerful laconism. “I am glad I was handy—for your sake as well as
- my own. I live upstairs.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I know; I have seen you come in and out. In fact, you passed us to-day.
- But still you have saved the whole house, and I thank you very, very
- much!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “How did it all happen?” he asked, removing for the first time his white
- slouch hat and disclosing a shock of brown curly hair.
- </p>
- <p>
- “The candle-shade on the desk; do you see? It must have caught fire and
- toppled over on to the curtains. I was sitting here and forgot I had left
- the candles alight; and then I smelled something burning and saw the
- curtains in a blaze. Then I ran out to call somebody.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That was very stupid,” said Kent, pushing back the desk from the middle
- of the room, where he had wheeled it; “by opening the door you made the
- things burn quicker. All you had to do was to drag down the curtains and
- cover them with the hearthrug. And then it is very silly to use paper
- candle-shades. They are no good, and they are always causing accidents. I
- hope you are not going to get any more.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The assured paternal air with which Kent delivered himself of this little
- speech did away with its apparent rudeness. Clytie, who at first looked
- rather resentfully at her rebuker, laughed.
- </p>
- <p>
- They bent down together to restore order among the singed rugs. Beneath
- them was Kent's waterproof, on to which he had thrown the blazing
- curtains. It was very badly burned and of course rendered useless.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It is utterly ruined!” exclaimed Clytie, examining the holes with a
- helpless expression of regret on her face.
- </p>
- <p>
- And then her eyes suddenly fell upon a great ugly red splash upon his
- hand. He withdrew it hastily, but she caught the sleeve of his coat. The
- stuff came away between her fingers.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You have burned yourself horribly. Oh, what can I do?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It's nothing,” said Kent. “It doesn't hurt. I'll go and put something on
- it. Please don't trouble. Goodnight.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He moved towards the door, with his hat and burned waterproof in his hand.
- But Clytie could not let him leave in this way. The woman in her was
- moved.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, please don't go until I have seen what harm you have got. I should
- feel so unhappy about it. I may be able to dress it for you—until
- you can see a doctor.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She spoke so sincerely, so frankly, and looked at him with such genuine
- concern, that he surrendered with a good grace. He came forward to the
- table where the big lamp was burning and put out his arm for her
- inspection. It was really injured, and was beginning to be exceedingly
- painful.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What can I do for it?” she asked rather helplessly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, some olive oil and a bit of rag will be the best.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Clytie produced some cotton wool and some oil from a cruet in the
- sideboard and then sought after some linen to bandage with. Kent noticed
- that she did not ask him for his handkerchief, nor did she use her own,
- but went rather impulsively to a workbasket and tore off a strip of soft
- material that was lying on the top. It was very expensive stuff, and the
- whole piece of work of which it was to form a part was spoiled. It was
- characteristic of her. Another woman would have remembered where she had
- stored some odds and ends of old linen.
- </p>
- <p>
- Kent watched her curiously as she was bending over his hand. He had often
- seen her before, but his life went on so far outside the sphere of women
- that he had scarcely given her a thought as he had passed her by. He had
- never even inquired her name. From the mere fact of her renting the studio
- it had come involuntarily to his knowledge that she followed pursuits more
- or less artistic; but his curiosity had never been aroused. Now that he
- had been suddenly thrown into close contact with her he was interested. He
- smiled at himself for the unwonted pleasure he found in watching the
- lights dancing through her hair, the brows contracted ever so little in
- the absorption of her occupation, the long nervous fingers, set on the
- broad palm, deftly arranging the cotton wool, the scrap of old lace at her
- throat and wrists. She was pretty, striking, to look upon, but he had not
- formed a very high impression of her otherwise. It was just the sort of
- thing a woman would do, to run out of the room when it was on fire, to
- give up thinking for herself in any emergency and trust blindly in
- Providence—or a man. It is a strange thing that those men who see
- least of women know most concerning them.
- </p>
- <p>
- As she raised her head after pinning the bandage she caught the expression
- of amusement on his face. He was quick to note the little shadow of
- resentment that passed over hers.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I was thinking what a mess I should have made of it by myself,” he said
- with a tact that surprised him. “Thank you very much.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It was the least I could do,” replied Clytie. “I feel so guilty about it
- all—and your poor waterproof too.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It's a very old one,” he replied good-humouredly, holding the garment out
- for inspection. “My friends will be delighted. They have threatened to cut
- me in the streets if they saw me in it again. So you see you have secured
- my friendship for me. And I shall get on much better with an umbrella
- to-night.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But you're surely not going out to-night!” cried Clytie, moving to the
- window and shutting it, as if he were intending to escape through it. “It
- is pouring wet, and you would catch cold in your hand—it would get
- inflamed, or something dreadful. It is stupid of people not to take care
- of themselves. It's hurting fearfully, isn't it? Tell me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She looked at him so frankly, her head thrown back a little, and spoke
- with such a faint touch of imperiousness in her voice, that Kent checked
- his impulse of retreat. “Of course it hurts. But I don't mind. If one
- minded all the little pains of this life, one would have no time for
- anything else. Besides, I am used to rough it a bit. It is my own choice,
- more or less, and I like it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Clytie remembered the strange stories Mrs. Gurkins had told her about
- Kent's way of life. She had listened to them with idle interest, never
- imagining that Kent and herself would ever become acquainted. Now that he
- alluded to his habits she felt bound to confess her share in the gossip,
- which she did somewhat rebelliously, checking certain more timorous
- promptings of silence.
- </p>
- <p>
- “So you see I know all about you,” she said in conclusion. “When people
- are eccentric they become, as it were, public characters. Now if you were
- to talk to Mrs. Gurkins——”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Heavens forbid!” cried Kent with much warmth. “I was fleeing from her
- this afternoon when I nearly knocked you down.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why?” asked Clytie, laughing.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don't know—instinct, I suppose. Perhaps I have been wrong.
- Otherwise I might have known something more of you. It's a bad compliment,
- I am aware, but I have been here a whole year and I have never seen or
- heard your name. Might I know whom I have had the pleasure of assisting? I
- did not in the least care before, but now it is different.”
- </p>
- <p>
- There was an honesty and directness in his voice that pleased Clytie. She
- felt glad he had asked her. There is a touch of susceptible vanity even in
- the most emancipated of women.
- </p>
- <p>
- “My name is Davenant, and I am by way of being an artist—that is to
- say, I gain my living by it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Her eyes wandered unconsciously round the room hung with many of her
- half-finished sketches. Kent followed her glance, and then crossed to the
- wall and examined one or two of the pictures.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Are these yours?” he asked, turning round quickly.
- </p>
- <p>
- They were charcoal sketches of street scenes, direct and daring. Kent
- received Clytie's nod of assent, and glanced at the pictures and then at
- her again, as if trying to reconcile the two.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Is all your work of this kind?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Mostly. Sometimes I draw it milder,” she added, with a smile, “when
- definite orders come in; but I feel more at home with this sort of thing.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Kent returned to the centre of the room, where he had been standing
- before.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am not an artist myself,” he said, “but I have been brought up in an
- atmosphere of art and I love it. My father was Rupert Kent,
- painter-etcher; he did that little thing over your mantelpiece.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Isn't it a perfect little piece of work?” said Clytie, looking round at
- it. “I am very fond of it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “So was my father. Well, you see, I am not a Philistine in art matters,
- and when I say your work interests me I mean it. I should like to look at
- some more of it. Where is it to be found?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You can come anytime to my studio if you like. It is my place of
- business, you know, and perhaps you may get me some orders. Art is
- terribly mercenary in these days.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I want to see the things you do for yourself,” said Kent bluntly,
- ignoring the little hedge wherewith she had fenced her invitation. “It
- will be very kind of you to let me come.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Clytie held out her hand to him as he bade her goodnight and thanked him
- for his help.
- </p>
- <p>
- “And now that we know each other,” she said, “I hope—I hope you
- won't cut me on the stairs.”
- </p>
- <p>
- When he had gone Clytie looked ruefully at the damage that had been done.
- Her pretty inside curtains were destroyed; the heavy outer ones burned
- into great charred holes. The carpet and hearthrug were badly scorched,
- and the side of her writing-table warped and blistered. As she gazed at
- the wreck she went over the little scene in her mind. Why had she stood
- still, leaving the whole of the work to Kent? What must he have thought of
- her?
- </p>
- <p>
- If he had been any ordinary man of her acquaintance she would have been
- still angry with herself for her helplessness, and her anger would have
- reflected itself on him. But now she put the question to herself more
- through curiosity than irritation. There was a simplicity about the man
- that attracted her. His words had been blunt, almost rude sometimes, but
- his voice had been kind, his manner protective, straightforward. She had
- signally marked her approbation for him by asking him to visit her studio,
- a privilege she only accorded to a few tried and very sympathetic men
- friends. Kent interested her, and yet she had not the slightest desire to
- transfer her impression of him to canvas.
- </p>
- <p>
- The next morning she gave Winifred an account of the last evening's
- incidents, confessing her own impressions in her wilful, half-cynical way.
- Her friend listened meekly, wondering at her earnestness. The curtains had
- caught fire, a gentleman had come opportunely to her aid, had burned his
- hand, which she had tended in common courtesy. It was all so very natural.
- As for feeling humiliated at being helped by a man, what are women put in
- the world for except to yield and give way before men?
- </p>
- <p>
- But Winifred did not say this to Clytie.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER V.
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">J</span>ohn Kent,
- antiquarian, scientist, Bohemian, and assistant curator in the British
- Museum, dwelt in the attics, far above the limit of the stair carpet. By
- the time you had reached them you had lost all sound of the thoroughfare
- below, and even when you looked out of the windows all sense of locality
- was lost. Nothing could be seen but roofs and chimney-pots, except on very
- clear days, when, through an accidental vista of streets, the tops of the
- trees in Chelsea Hospital were dimly visible. But in Kent's rooms no one
- cared to look out of window. In the first place, it was difficult of
- access, and in the second, the extraordinary appearance of the apartment
- riveted one's attention entirely to things within.
- </p>
- <p>
- On the floor was neither carpet nor rug. The place of a fender was
- supplied by three large iron tripods, waifs from some dismantled chemical
- laboratory, which, when they were not otherwise engaged as footstools,
- served to support a kettle, a saucepan, and a glue-pot. All around the
- walls, with just one space for the door, ran a broad deal dresser that did
- duty for several tables, and below it, here and there, were cunningly
- contrived cupboards. Above, every inch of wall was covered: one side
- completely with books, the others with pictures, mostly old engravings,
- little masters such as Cranach and Behm, a frame of perfect little
- Aldegravers, a Prince Rupert mezzo, two Woolmers with their exquisite wavy
- lines, Bewicks, and a magnificent modern Jacquemart etching of a Sèvres
- vase. The intermediate spaces were filled up with a heterogeneous
- assortment of curios. The dresser-table was likewise laden with books,
- coin cases, scientific specimens, strange weapons, old axe-heads, Japanese
- sword hilts cunningly carved, newspapers, journals, pamphlets, and papers
- innumerable. There were only two fairly clear spaces around the whole
- extent: one where Kent worked, and another where he took such meals as he
- had in his lodgings. Save for one solitary leather writing-chair, the
- centre of the large room was absolutely empty; but in a corner, on the
- floor, were piled up a set of canvas deck-chairs which Kent brought out
- and opened whenever he had visitors.
- </p>
- <p>
- All the fixtures in the room he had made with his own hands. Manual labour
- was a delight to him. He also cooked his own food and cleaned out the
- room. The latter operation consisted in raking out the ashes from his
- grate and laying the fire afresh. No peace-destroying woman disturbed the
- precincts with broom and duster. When the dust grew so thick that it
- interfered with his breathing and clouded the lens of his microscope he
- went round with an old towel flicking and flapping with great energy, and
- then he watered the floor out of an old bronchitis-kettle.
- </p>
- <p>
- Kent was a happy man. He had convictions, enthusiasms; manifold interests
- in life for his lighter moments, one great absorbing work for his serious
- hours. His slender income sufficed amply for all his wants, and there was
- always a margin over for the purchase of an occasional rare edition or
- print or curio. Whenever his salary was increased that margin was greater.
- His mode of life never changed, for the simple reason that he considered
- it to be the most delightful one possible. Purple, fine linen, and
- sumptuous fare had no charms for him. It was always with much groaning of
- spirit that he put on dress clothes when he went out into the world. He
- cared not for the high places in the synagogues. Provided he had not to
- wait outside the doors, the pit of a theatre was a place as desirable as
- the stalls.
- </p>
- <p>
- In his friends too he was happy—a few men different from himself and
- from each other—and to these he clung loyally. But the conditions of
- his life removed him from feminine influences. Beyond those girls in his
- immediate family circle, whom he called by their Christian names and
- treated with an old-fashioned, brotherly protection, scolding them when
- they did foolish things, such as wearing light shoes in wet weather,
- performing little services for them when they behaved themselves nicely,
- he never troubled his head about womankind.
- </p>
- <p>
- On the night when Clytie's curtains caught fire he had been on his way to
- visit a coterie of three bachelor friends who shared a house in South
- Kensington. They were accustomed to his nocturnal appearances, and the
- worse the night and the later it grew the more likely was Kent to present
- himself at the sitting-room door, a dripping, ruddy apparition, his cheeks
- and beard glistening with raindrops. And then he would throw off his
- mackintosh, call for slippers, and join the circle round the fire. The
- thoughts of the dreary tramp home between two and three never seemed to
- dismay him. Cheerlessness of environment in no way affected his happiness.
- </p>
- <p>
- They formed the chief part of his social life, these three friends, tried
- by the changes in fibre, tastes, affinities, that over half a score of
- years effect. There was Fairfax, the doctor, ruddy, full-blooded, magnetic
- with health and vitality, whose brass plate shone huge on the front door,
- inviting confidence; Greene, the solicitor, shrewd, hard-headed, a speaker
- of few words; and Wither, the civil servant, the little gnomelike man,
- full of strange sayings, whimsical, non-moral, a man of boyish, elfin
- beauty, trusted by men, petted by women. Of the three Kent loved Wither
- best. Wither saw deeper into the world's mysteries than he, but his own
- sturdy honest sense had kept the other from many an abyss.
- </p>
- <p>
- After bidding Clytie good-night, Kent stood irresolute on the landing.
- Should he wrap the remains of his waterproof around him, and still go
- whither his truest happiness had hitherto always led him? Considerations
- of the chill, sleeting night and the throbbing pain in his hand went for
- nothing in his decision. The girl who had tended the burn had almost
- besought him not to go out. To disregard her would be an act of
- discourtesy. Thus thought honest Kent as he turned on his heel and slowly
- mounted the stair. But his evening had been spoiled, he told his briarwood
- pipe, with a consoling sense of martyrdom, and the cause thereof was
- feminine.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It is just the silly sort of thing that Agatha would do,” he said to
- himself.
- </p>
- <p>
- Agatha was his sister, whom he pitied intensely for being a woman. He
- thought of Clytie's pictures, the signs of virility in them, and he began
- to pity Clytie too. Yet there was a difference of kind in his sentiments.
- He pitied his sister for being constrained to ambitionless-ness and
- futility; he was sorry for the handicap of sex to Clytie's ambitions.
- </p>
- <p>
- In some such attitude of mind towards her he knocked at the studio door
- the following afternoon. It is true that a warning throb of the bourgeois
- in him, that still sometimes mutely guided the Bohemian along certain
- tracks, had made him consider for a vague moment the correctness of
- calling so immediately upon Clytie; but the directness and simplicity of
- his nature disregarded it. It was only natural that Clytie should like to
- know how his burned hand was faring.
- </p>
- <p>
- He found the girls busily painting, Winifred at the side, with her basket
- of flowers near her, Clytie standing at her easel, in the middle of the
- room, her back to the door, her face turned half round to see who would
- enter in response to her call.
- </p>
- <p>
- On the floor by the fireside sprawled Jack, the model, eating an orange.
- His face was still dirty, his curly hair matted. Winifred had pathetically
- besought Clytie to have him washed. Why should his poor little face be all
- over dirt?
- </p>
- <p>
- “Because it could not exist without it,” Clytie had answered. “It was so
- before he was born.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Winifred had given her one of her appealing looks from swimming brown
- eyes, and Clytie, remorseful, had run impulsively up and caressed and
- kissed her. But she had not washed Jack's face. He scrambled to his feet
- and looked defiantly, like a young animal, at Kent when he entered.
- </p>
- <p>
- The ground-glass roof, the white walls scored over with Clytie's
- fantasies, and the bright red curtain at the back behind the stove gave a
- singular setting to the picture.
- </p>
- <p>
- Clytie's eyes brightened. She threw a cloth over the picture she was
- engaged on.
- </p>
- <p>
- “How good of you to come—and the hand?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “A trifle. It will be quite well in a few days; I thought you would not
- mind my coming to tell you how your doctoring had succeeded. I am keeping
- it in a sling—so; otherwise I should be always trying to use it. You
- are none the worse, Miss Davenant?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I? Why should I?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, nerves, shock, headache—and all that. My mother, I know, would
- have been upset for a week.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Clytie laughed; a gay little laugh. She pierced through the words to the
- simplicity that lay behind them.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I have never cultivated nerves, Mr. Kent. They sadly interfere with
- practical life. How do you think Miss Marchpane and I would get on with
- this sort of thing”—and she nodded towards Jack—“if we had
- nerves? Winifred, this is Mr. Kent, who put out my fire last night. Miss
- Marchpane and I share the studio together, you know.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You work on very different lines,” said Kent after a while, leaning back
- in his chair so as to catch a glimpse of Winifred's tiny canvas. “What a
- strange thing temperament is! I suppose neither of you does landscape.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, yes, Winifred. Dainty little bits of meadow and stream. I can't; I
- always want to put legs and arms to my trees, and make the branches twist
- and writhe about, like Gustave Doré in the 'Wandering Jew.'”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You scarcely look like a painter of the weird,” said Kent.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You think I have not enough strength of imagination?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You have too much strength of mind,” returned Kent judiciously. “You
- hanker too much after the real. I can only judge,” he hastily added by way
- of explanation, “by what I can see of your work around me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You will get into difficulties,” said Clytie, laughing. “One moment you
- accuse me of nerves, and the next of strong-mindedness. Which is right,
- Winnie?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I should be telling too much or too little if I were to say,” replied
- Winifred. “Mr. Kent will have to judge for himself. We had better show him
- something to go by.”
- </p>
- <p>
- They turned to an exhibition of Clytie's paintings; small stacks of
- canvases were ranged on the floor, along the walls; here and there one
- hanging or standing on a table or on an easel. Clytie stood by in her
- nonchalant, professional way, giving a word or two of necessary
- explanation as Winifred placed them one by one upon an easel for Kent's
- inspection. Painters, sculptors, musicians and actors have a moral
- advantage over poets and novelists, in that they are not ashamed of their
- work. An artist shows you his picture frankly and hopes you will like it;
- if a poet reads you a sonnet, he has an all-devouring dread lest you may
- deem him a prig. And the strange part of it is that you do; whereas you
- think the painter rather a good fellow. A little problem in sociological
- aesthetics.
- </p>
- <p>
- As Kent looked at the pictures he lost his sense of Clytie's Agatha-like
- behaviour of the previous evening. He forgot even to pity her. He
- expressed genuine admiration for her work, interspersing his remarks with
- outspoken criticism which Clytie recognised as deeper than that of the
- mere virtuoso. It was qualified, too, by the supreme attribute of simple
- common sense. He judged the pictures on their merits; he judged Clytie as
- a woman of genius, strong mind, out of the ordinary run of women. The
- inner promptings and cravings that had thus found artistic expression it
- was beyond his philosophy to suspect. Nor did Clytie think of enlightening
- him.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I like your realism,” he said. “It is straightforward. There's always a
- great danger of this sort of thing degenerating into morbidness. But if
- you can keep it true, it's healthy; it means sober, honest work, and not
- an intermittent fever. I see you work off your superfluous energy on the
- walls.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, I forgot them,” cried Clytie somewhat shamefacedly. “You must not
- look at them, please. They are not part of the show. Miss Marchpane gets
- tired of flowers and peach-bloom, and sometimes——”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Clytie!” cried Winifred reproachfully.
- </p>
- <p>
- Clytie laughed; and Kent with her. The light jest brought them nearer
- together.
- </p>
- <p>
- “No; I do that when I feel wicked,” said Clytie. “I paint a nice, correct
- little picture for the nice, correct people who are going to buy it, and
- then I grow angry with them and feel I should like to shock them, take the
- stiffening out of them, reduce them to elemental bits of humanity. Look at
- this group of street urchins. I am doing that on order for my dealer. Here
- is Jack—look at him now staring into the stove with the unreasoning
- content of a young dog. Doesn't he seem nice and conventional in the
- picture? You can hear the young lady of the house saying to the curate,
- 'Aren't these little street children too delightful?' Now if they were
- shown the real Jack, it would give them to think, as the French say—and
- they hate doing that. This is <i>my</i> idea of the real Jack.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She whisked the cloth off the easel and showed Kent the charcoal <i>ébauche</i>
- of her own particular study of the urchin.
- </p>
- <p>
- She had worked rapidly that day, with the feverishness that Kent
- deprecated. Whether she would convert the sketch into a finished picture
- she did not know. She had desired to fix the haunting impression of Jack's
- possible history.
- </p>
- <p>
- Kent was somewhat startled by the suddenness of the presentation. There
- was the boy, refined, delicate in feature, great-eyed, curly-haired, but
- repulsive with cruelty and animalism; in a degraded attitude, head bent
- forward, knees bent, lips parted in a sneer.
- </p>
- <p>
- “He does not look like that now,” said Kent, comparing the original with
- the copy.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Wait,” said Clytie. Then imperiously to the urchin: “Jack, what are you
- thinking of?”
- </p>
- <p>
- He turned, looked up at her shiftingly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Dunno.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Weren't you thinking of the nice little story of the cat you told me this
- morning?”
- </p>
- <p>
- No answer.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It's about a stray cat that came into his mother's house half dead, you
- know, and this boy was so kind to it—like a dear little girl——”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yer lie!” cried the boy, starting to his feet. “Oi told yer Oi killed
- 'er. I lammed her bloomin' 'ed open with a chopper. I 'ates cats!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “<i>Voilà!</i>” said Clytie. “That's the real Jack. That's the Jack I'd
- like to startle Peckham Rye with.”
- </p>
- <p>
- And then turning to the boy:
- </p>
- <p>
- “That will do for to-day, Jack. Here's your shilling; give it to your
- mother.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Shan't,” said Jack.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, but you must,” said Winifred; “look how hard your poor mother has to
- work to keep you, Jack.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “She's bloomin' well got ter,” said Jack. “I aint going to give 'er no
- money. She never gives me none.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But your mother will beat you,” said Clytie.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Wot do I care?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And your father, you sweet boy?” asked Kent.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Aint got none.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Never had one?” continued Kent.
- </p>
- <p>
- “No; mother aint that sort. Blamed glad.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Here, you'd better run away,” said Clytie hurriedly. “Keep your shilling
- and make yourself as ill as you like with it. Come the day after to-morrow—Friday.
- Can you remember? It's unnecessary to request you not to wash between then
- and now. Go on. Good-bye. Out you get.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The boy took up the remains of his cap and went, with an air of relief,
- out of the room.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What a little brute!” said Kent. “Why don't you try to reform him—make
- him human?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “He is human,” cried Clytie with some warmth. “That's why I cultivate him.
- Delightfully human! Refreshing! As for reforming him”—with a shrug
- of her shoulders—“I am not a Sunday-school teacher. I have nothing
- to do with the submerged tenth; let the good respectable folks who have
- submerged them raise them with their polite and respectable hands. I am an
- artist—a student of life—what you will. Each one to his trade.
- Perhaps when I have got what I want out of Jack it may amuse me to show
- him the desirability of not 'lamming cats' bloomin' 'eds open with a
- chopper.' I don't know—I'm not altogether devoid of moral sense.
- Winifred's tender heart may be touched, and between the two of us we may
- turn him out a mild-eyed journeyman carpenter, a member of the Y. M. C.
- A., a model of all the virtues. But I very much doubt it. He has vice in
- his blood. But perhaps I am wounding some of your susceptibilities, Mr.
- Kent? You may be a social reformer, and keener than I on these matters. If
- so, pardon me. We artists are privileged, you know, to view life from our
- own standpoint.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Kent threw up his hand and dropped it—a little gesture of
- deprecation. He, too, had large views on humanity and its needs. He was
- even then sacrificing comfort, fame, ease, such as other men understand
- them, so as to serve it. But it was according to his own capabilities. It
- was a darling scientific work, that on the most modest computation would
- take him twenty years to complete—an unthankful task; his name to be
- remembered with reverential gratitude by some half dozen workers, to
- perish unheard of by the remaining millions of mankind. But these half
- dozen would use the result of his life's energies to the advancement of
- human prosperity, and that thought glowed within Kent's heart. Still a man
- has not time for all things. He honestly disclaimed pretensions to being a
- social reformer. He was also artistically sympathetic enough to appreciate
- Clytie's attitude as regards Jack. He was nearer to her in spirit than
- Winifred, who was pained at Clytie's speech. She would have cried out with
- the sharpness of the pain had it not been for Kent's presence. And she
- would have been revolted at the cynical callousness had it not been for
- the blind adoration with which she bowed before Clytie. Whatever Clytie did
- was right, she told herself, and she was a poor little body who could not
- understand these things. But her heart bled for Jack, and she wondered why
- Clytie's did not bleed also.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I spoke idly,” said Kent. “I am sorry. If all artists set about reforming
- their models, their hands would be too full for art. But he is a little
- brute all the same, and, as you say, Peckham Rye would be startled by him.
- But why do you want to shock Philistia?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Would <i>you</i> like to live in it, be of it, and worship at comfortably
- timed intervals in its correctly appointed temple of Dagon?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No,” laughed Kent. “They wouldn't have me in it. I think they could stand
- less of me than I of them. They are God's creatures after all, you know.
- If you prick them, they bleed—and so forth. If they admire your
- little pictures, which I too admire vastly, there must be some saving
- grace in the Philistines.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Clytie shrugged her shoulders.
- </p>
- <p>
- “But why should I be obliged to paint in their way, and not in my way?
- That is what irritates me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Have you tried them with your way, as you call it?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Even Winifred could scarcely forbear flashing at Clytie a little smile of
- tender malice.
- </p>
- <p>
- “God bless my soul!” she whispered softly, and the two broke into
- unconstrained laughter.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Winifred is quoting, Mr. Kent. It was an elderly gentleman, stout,
- florid, lots of watch-chain—one of my patrons. He had bought one of
- my pictures at the dealer's, and came for another. Burrowes showed him one
- of my own own things. Winifred and I happened to be at the back of the
- shop at the time. The old gentleman put on his spectacles, looked at the
- picture, gave such a jump, held it in the light, and then gasped out: 'God
- bless my soul, Burrowes, has the young woman taken to drink?'”
- </p>
- <p>
- “What did you do?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don't know what I should have done if Winnie had not held me back.” As
- it was, Burrowes whispered to him that the artist was overhearing the
- conversation.
- </p>
- <p>
- “'Well, it will do her good,' says the old gentleman, and he went out
- storming. Then Burrowes came to me and complained that I had lost him a
- customer. He has the soul of a pork-butcher, that man!”
- </p>
- <p>
- Then turning to Kent, her cheeks still flushed with anecdotal animation:
- </p>
- <p>
- “That's how it is, you see!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well,” said Kent, “perhaps you have reason to owe Philistia a grudge. I
- haven't. If it shuts its respectable doors on me, I shrug my shoulders and
- set up my wigwam outside, where I can smoke my pipe in peace. It is better
- not to care for the world—or anything, for that matter, if one has
- work to do. One's keenness on life ought to leave one no time for hating
- one's fellow-creatures.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Winifred looked at Clytie, expecting to see her resent the implied rebuke.
- But Clytie only laughed softly to herself, leaning back in her chair,
- looking at her finger tips.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You are by way of being a tonic, Mr. Kent,” she said, without looking at
- him.
- </p>
- <p>
- Kent was disconcerted, could not find a reply. He stroked his tawny beard
- and moustache with his free hand, and looked at her somewhat puzzled. He
- had uttered his own robust faith, and she had seized a personal reference
- with which she appeared not displeased.
- </p>
- <p>
- At last he said:
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don't mean to imply that you are cynical, Miss Davenant. But you are a
- little vindictive. I, too, often think of that passage in 'Sartor
- Resartus' where Carlyle strips the clothes off the courtiers at St.
- James's and leaves them bare, with their bowings and scrapings—do
- you remember? Well, it would be a very good thing for them. You would come
- down to pure humanity and find it really a very lovable, great-hearted
- thing after all.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Then, for goodness' sake, let us begin to strip the clothes off them at
- once!” cried Clytie, changing her attitude, with her usual suddenness.
- “That's what I want to do. I want real men, real women; that's why I take
- human nature in the rough”—making a comprehensive sweep with her
- hand round the studio—“The clothes these things wear don't matter;
- you can see the passions working through the rents and tears.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Umph!” said Kent. “You may see something that will frighten you one of
- these days. There's plenty of good in humanity, but there's plenty of bad.
- You had better get hold of what is good first. It will give you a
- foundation.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Shortly afterwards Kent took his leave. He had paid a longer visit than he
- had anticipated. He found himself pitying Clytie again upon new, less
- definable grounds. He was much struck by her work, her frankness, her
- independence. She was a novelty to him, different from the few other women
- he knew. She seemed to have everything calculated to make a woman happy
- and her life full, and yet he was sorry for her. Why, he could not tell.
- </p>
- <p>
- He went up to his attics, and prepared to spend his usual working evening.
- Afterwards, towards half-past eleven, he might walk across to South
- Kensington. He took from one of the cupboards beneath the dresser-table
- plates, knife and fork, a half-finished tin of sardines, bread and butter.
- This, together with a bottle of beer, formed his frugal evening meal. His
- midday dinner he took at an Italian restaurant near the Museum. He ate
- standing, walking about his room between the mouthfuls, selecting the
- books he would require for his work, and pausing now and then over an idly
- opened volume. His meal finished, he collected the soiled utensils and
- stacked them on the landing outside his door for Mrs. Gurkins to remove,
- wash, and return to the same place in the morning. Then he lit his pipe,
- and settled down to his long evening's work.
- </p>
- <p>
- Thoughts of burned hand, new-found friends, occupied him not. The crisp
- whisk of the leaves of his reference-books, the rapid whirr of his quill
- pen, the occasional bubble of his green-shaded reading-lamp, were the only
- signs of external life of which he was conscious. The rest of the
- bare-floored room, with its oddly covered walls, was deep in shadow. But
- the light shone in a circle upon the pile of books and papers on which he
- was engaged, and lit up strongly his honest, resolute face, with its
- intent gray eyes and its kindly mouth half hidden in the moustache and
- beard. Kent was happy. The darling work, that served him as mistress,
- religion, ambition—over which he had never known a heartache—held
- him in its enchantment. And the wet slips grew in number around him.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER VI.
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">Y</span>ou are going to
- spend a dismal evening, my dear,” said Mrs. Farquharson, with a sigh.
- </p>
- <p>
- They were sitting on either side of the drawing-room fire, awaiting dinner
- guests.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why?” asked Clytie.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, the crowd that's coming—fossilised London, with figures like
- amphoras and faces like old coins. It's the principle of assimilation, I
- suppose. And they'll talk as if there were nothing new under the sun.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “There isn't much.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Isn't there? Wait till you have lived a little longer. At any rate there
- are murders and divorces and new pictures and the latter end of the
- nineteenth century. Why people choose to live a couple of thousand years
- before their time I can't make out. You'll see. They'll all look as if
- they had been excavated—except George, and he looks as if they had
- never taken the trouble to bury him. Thank goodness, they have all got
- weak digestions and don't dine out much, or else we should have them here
- every week.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But the wives are coming too,” said Clytie by way of consolation.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Poor things! They all look weary with many proof-sheets crammed with
- circumflexes over impossible letters, and wrong-headed pictures of birds
- and beasts. All archaeologists are not like George, you know.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But then no one is like George.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That's a mercy,” said Mrs. Farquharson settling herself with much comfort
- among the cushions of her chair. “Don't you get married, my dear; stay
- independent. Do you know, one of the beings is going to read a paper. Pity
- me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It seems as if I am to be pitied too,” remarked Clytie.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ah! but you are young and can make fun out of them. I can't.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The occasion was a meeting of Mr. Farquharson's archaeological set. The
- inner circle dined at each other's houses in turn once a month, and the
- outer circle came in later, for the “conversazione,” as Mrs. Farquharson
- called it, with a little shudder. A paper was usually read, followed by a
- discussion, from which the more flippant seceded and gossipped casually in
- odd corners. Clytie had never been to one of these strangely homogeneous
- reunions. The people she generally met at her friends' house were
- miscellaneous, and the talk danced about upon all subjects under heaven,
- wreathed in blue curls of cigarette smoke. Mrs. Farquharson had begged her
- to come and support her—“to strike a note of colour among the gray
- ruins.” Clytie looked forward to the incongruous formalism of the evening
- with an anticipation of amusement.
- </p>
- <p>
- She hinted as much to Mr. Farquharson when he came into the drawing-room.
- He laughed, bowed his long, ungainly figure, hoped that Miss Davenant had
- come to be instructed. Professor Petherick was to read a paper on an
- aureus of Geta of the type Cohen No. 11,—Clytie and her hostess
- communed with each other dumbly,—and many rare coins were to be
- exhibited. He trusted that Miss Davenant would be appreciative and on her
- best behaviour. Numismatics was not a subject that lent itself to
- flippancy.
- </p>
- <p>
- “My wife can turn the house into a bear-garden every Sunday evening, more
- shame to her, though she does sit and smile in her superior way. But twice
- a year I assert my individuality and this house becomes sober and
- respectable. So no cigarettes to-night, Miss Davenant. When I put on these
- dress-clothes I am rigid.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You look very nice,” said Clytie.
- </p>
- <p>
- He looked down at himself complacently, accepting the flattery; such is
- man. He always insisted upon wearing very square-toed kid boots, a high
- buttoned waistcoat with a chain made of old coins banded across it, a deep
- velvet collar to his dress-coat, and a shirt-collar, with two long ends
- that served as a tie, beneath his beard.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I like him better in his velvet jacket,” said Mrs. Farquharson. “Go and
- put it on, George.”
- </p>
- <p>
- But George shook his head sadly. He must be properly attired to discuss an
- aureus of Geta.
- </p>
- <p>
- The guests arrived, seven in number, and they went down to the
- dining-room. Clytie sat between Professor Petherick, a little rosy man
- with a bald head and gastronomic appreciation, and a young clergyman who
- had taken her in to dinner. She had been for so long a time outside Church
- influences that a strange little Durdleham qualm come over her. He looked
- stern, overworked, dreadfully in earnest, she thought, not likely to
- sympathise with the Thelemite joyousness of life of the house whose motto
- was, “<i>Fays ce que vouldras</i>.” He was the only bachelor among the
- guests. The six others, including the professor, consisted of three
- married couples, middle-aged, respectable. Mr. Vansittart was a great
- Egyptologist. It was of his wife, a faded, weary-looking woman, that Mrs.
- Farquharson had so pathetically spoken with reference to the correction of
- proof-sheets. Mrs. Petherick was literary, fond of lions. Her talk was a
- catalogue raisonné of her menagerie. Mr. Farquharson listened politely and
- went on with his dinner. The remaining couple were the Chowders, retired
- Anglo-Indians, who found only late in life an opportunity of gratifying
- their ruling passions—on her part an undisturbed warm bath of
- domesticity; on his, archaeological dilettanteism. She was florid and
- buxom; he bronzed and shrivelled. Both talked on their pet subjects. The
- Rev. Victor Treherne was a keen numismatist. “A recognised authority,”
- Farquharson had whispered to Clytie. “Will give Petherick beans if he goes
- wrong.” Clytie knew nothing of numismatics. She did not know the
- difference between a moidur and a bezant, nor did she seek enlightenment
- from her neighbour. She questioned him as to his environment—North
- London, a large parish, chiefly poor. The conversation languished, then it
- brightened up through common effort. Each had a King Charles the First's
- head to keep in the background, feeling it to be distasteful to the other.
- Treherne had left his parish behind, and had brought no other interests
- with him save those circling round the famous aureus, a matter of supreme
- indifference to Clytie, who, for her part, had been cautioned to act as the
- superior Ki-Pi-Yu, friend of Confucius, did on certain occasions—roll
- her principles up and keep them in her breast. Each, too, divined dimly
- the other's personality, and they talked eagerly, seeking to like and
- interest one another through a current of mutual antipathy.
- </p>
- <p>
- The professor and Mrs. Farquharson were talking less unreservedly on the
- question of female disabilities. He had theories on the sacredness of
- woman's mission. Mrs. Farquharson's views were more materialistic. Her
- early training had disabused her of the oak and ivy illusion, which the
- professor still entertained.
- </p>
- <p>
- “No, it's no use, professor,” she said. “A man has got to go his way and a
- woman hers. If their ways lie together, so much the better—they can
- help each other; if they lie apart, so much the worse. Besides, I cannot
- conceive anything more irritating to a man than to be followed all about
- by his wife—like a dog. No wonder some men beat their wives.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Treherne had caught the speech. He turned to Clytie. “Do you believe
- that?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Of course. Mrs. Farquharson and I are sworn sisters. We hold advanced
- views concerning ourselves. I hope you don't think we have a mission! Have
- you ever thought how distressing it is to try to live up to a false ideal,
- and somebody else's into the bargain?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “We all have to live up to an ideal. This one may be false; I don't know.
- At any rate it is a high one, and worth aiming at.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That is Jesuitical. What is to become of a woman's self-respect when she
- knows all the time she is a humbug, although a sublime one?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “By seeking to inspire others with faith in her she will at length acquire
- faith in herself.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Don't you think that's rather vicious?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don't know. The same principle obtains in my own calling. Many a man
- enters the Church who is not really fit for it. But the professional
- effort he has to make to raise others in most cases raises himself.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That may be quite true,” said Clytie, “but it does not prove the
- principle to be right. Besides, the cases are different. You undertake,
- when you enter the Church, to do certain things. Now when a woman enters
- the world she does not undertake to do anything, any more than a man does.
- They both clamour to assert themselves as human beings. They may go about
- it in different ways,—it is merely the difference of sex,—but
- their ultimate end is the same.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And what is this?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “To get as much out of life as possible.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That's scarcely orthodox.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The accompanying smile was a touch of the curb on Clytie. She paused.
- There was an interval of dining. Then she turned to reply to a remark of
- the professor. Mrs. Farquharson, who hitherto had steered skilfully
- through the shoals of antiquity, was run aground by Colonel Chowder.
- Clytie was astonished to hear her friend talking learnedly of coins and
- Latin inscriptions. She ran discursively over the points of George's
- collection, toning her speech with a light counterpoint of mockery, so
- that its echo should reach Clytie's ears. Mrs. Chowder bubbled domesticity
- over the Egyptologist; spoke of her sons, the difficulty of army
- examinations. She was bent upon their getting into the service, also upon
- their marrying young. The reconciliation of these incongruities was the
- problem offered for Mr. Vansittart's solution.
- </p>
- <p>
- Clytie again turned to Mr. Treherne.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Do you often come here? I am almost of the house and I have never met
- you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Once before, on a similar occasion—almost the same circle. A common
- hobby brings the most divergent people together.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It is a pity you and I have not got one,” said Clytie, flashing a
- malicious glance at him.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Perhaps we have. What do you mostly do?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Paint—for my living.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “An artist! What is your line?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Anything human—they call it <i>genre</i>—street life—the
- very poor.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “The poor? Then we have a common hobby after all!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Perhaps,” replied Clytie. “But I am afraid we ride it in opposite
- directions.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Do you know much of their lives—go among them?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Not much; I see them only externally, from an artist's point of view. I
- should like to see deeper.”
- </p>
- <p>
- A light burned for a moment in the young clergyman's gray eyes.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Would you care for work among them?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “As a student, perhaps; as a reformer, no!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “One generally leads to the other.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “In that case I'll not run the risk,” she replied laughing.
- </p>
- <p>
- An hour later the drawing-room was filled with the evening guests, mostly
- men. Women archaeologists are scarce. The sentiment with which they inwrap
- relics of the past harms the pure scientific spirit of inquiry. Thus Mr.
- Farquharson to Clytie, briefly explanative. She laughed, reminded him how
- lately in a sentimental mood he had accused women of lack of imagination;
- she reproached him for inconsistency.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Inconsistency is a principle of the art of living,” he replied
- epigrammatically, moving away.
- </p>
- <p>
- The men stood in groups about the room chatting on personalities,
- examining the display of coin-cases arranged here and there upon the
- tables, each under the soothing light of a shaded lamp. The professor
- stood by himself on the hearthrug, hemming irritably, anxious to read his
- paper. The talk was subdued, attitudes formal, a contrast to the ordinary
- easy abandonment of that drawing-room. The men were of a different type,
- mostly elderly, sedate. Mrs. Farquharson rested for a moment from her
- exertions as hostess by Clytie's side.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Now for a minute's peace. I wish the men would smoke, they all look so
- woebegone; but George says they mustn't. Now, then, my dear, I haven't
- seen you for ages, except for those five minutes before dinner; what have
- you been doing lately?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Nothing much—working. Oh! yes, I have, though. I have found a new
- chum.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “What is she like?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It isn't a she, it's a he.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Where does he come from?” asked Mrs. Farquharson, arching her eyebrows.
- </p>
- <p>
- “From the skies, apparently: in the first case to put out a fire in my
- room—he lives over me in the attics——”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Clytie! You must be careful. Who is he? What's his name?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Caroline,” said her husband's deep voice behind her chair, “I don't think
- you know Mr. Kent.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Clytie started round violently at the shock of the coincidence. Kent was
- standing by her side, looking odd, changed, a bit Philistine in his
- evening dress. He wore a glove over his burned hand.
- </p>
- <p>
- They talked, explained their meeting. He had had a numismatic acquaintance
- with Mr. Farquharson for a long time past. Had received his invitation at
- the Museum, his private address not being known to his host. Clytie
- described her own privileged position in the household, speaking frankly,
- vivaciously. She felt a little thrill of pleasure at seeing him there. He
- seemed, more than the other guests, in harmony with the traditions of the
- house. They had not time for much conversation, social exigencies
- separating them. Besides, a general buzz and a subsiding into chairs or
- restful attitudes sounded the warning that Professor Petherick was about
- to read his paper.
- </p>
- <p>
- He described the coin that had come into his possession,—previously
- it had been passed round for the inspection of the guests,—claiming
- it to be a finer specimen than the one in the Caylus collection. The
- figure of Castor beside his horse, without the pileus, on the reverse, he
- argued was a portrait of the unfortunate young co-emperor. The legend on
- the obverse proclaimed that it was a coin of Geta. He took this as the
- text for a learned disquisition upon the aureus, tracing its origin, the
- variations in its weight, to the time of Justinian, who fixed it as a
- limit stake for a throw of the dice. He quoted Pitiscus, Eckhel, many
- learned authorities. He read in a bland, easy tone, confident of his facts
- and his deductions.
- </p>
- <p>
- Clytie felt relieved when he had finished. Across the room she had now and
- then caught Kent's eye, which had a humourous twinkle in it. She, who an
- hour before had been scoffing at the dry-as-dust nature of numismatics as
- a pursuit, now felt a consciousness of inferiority, of being relegated to
- the tribe feminine, who are not expected to care for intellectual matters.
- She nourished a seed of resentment against Kent and all archaeologists.
- But when the usual discussion on the paper began she set an example of
- interest in it to Mr. Vansittart, who had come over and sat down by her
- side. Really, she was curious to see what part Kent would take in the
- discussion. He seemed to find many acquaintances in the room, and an
- appreciative welcome from each. She experienced a strange sense of
- satisfaction at the dispelling of an unformulated apprehension lest he
- might be unknown, insignificant. She had seen him several times since his
- visit to the studio; once they had met at Sloane Square station and had
- walked home together. The acquaintance was ripening into friendliness. Now
- she was interested at seeing him in a new environment. Our conception of
- people changes very much according to the conditions with which we
- associate them. But Kent in the drawing-room, despite his unfamiliar
- attire, seemed much the same as Kent in the studio, his manner towards the
- men she saw him talking with much the same as his manner towards her.
- Presently he rose, broke into the discussion. The principal participators
- listened with apparent respect to his remarks, few in number, but apt.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, Mr. Kent is an authority,” said the professor, surrendering a
- particular point with a certain grace.
- </p>
- <p>
- The little tribute fell gratefully on Clytie's ears. Suddenly she became
- conscious that her pleasure was greater than the occasion warranted. She
- turned round quickly to Mr. Vansittart, who was taking but mild interest
- in the affair, and somewhat abruptly opened a conversation. The Rev. Mr.
- Treherne joined them soon afterwards, asking permission to introduce a
- friend. Thus it came about that Clytie had a small group around her, and
- her interest in Kent's proceedings was checked for a time.
- </p>
- <p>
- Meanwhile Mrs. Farquharson had threaded her way through the crowd of black
- coats, and taken Kent off with her to an undisturbed corner. She was
- curious to examine Clytie's new “chum.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “So you live in the same house as Clytie Davenant. You rescued her from
- the flames, didn't you? She told me something about it. What happened,
- exactly?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Kent sketched briefly the little scene with the blazing curtains, and
- mentioned his visit next day and his subsequent meetings with Clytie. He
- politely expressed his agreeable surprise at meeting her to-night.
- </p>
- <p>
- “And what do you think of her?” asked Mrs. Farquharson confidentially. “I
- dare say it's an odd question, but if you will come and see us again, you
- will find we are given to saying odd things.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Like Miss Davenant?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You have found that out already? Well, come, what do you think of her?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Honestly, or conventionally?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “If I meant conventionally, I should not ask you the question.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Kent waited for a moment, stroking his beard. He was scarcely prepared
- with an answer even to satisfy himself.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don't know. She is a bit too complicated to be defined in a phrase like
- a term in Euclid. She is nearer to a man than any woman I know.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Mrs. Farquharson smiled inwardly, noting the phrase, yet liking him for
- it. It was so deliciously wrong, so absurdly off the track. She
- contemplated him from the empyrean of feminine wisdom, and from that
- moment took him under her protection. To blunder honestly in things
- feminine is one of the ways to a woman's pity, thence often to her heart.
- She encouraged him, however, instead of correcting him.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why do you say that?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “For one reason, because I can talk to her as I would to a man. She has
- ideas and is not afraid of expressing them. In fact, she is different from
- the ordinary women one meets.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, yes! she is that,” Mrs. Farquharson granted. “She is all for <i>le
- nouveau jeu</i>. When I want to tease her I tell her she will find it <i>le
- vieux jeu</i> all the time, but she won't believe it.” Then suddenly,
- “Don't you think she is very pretty?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Pretty?” echoed Kent in some confusion. “Really, yes, I suppose she is. I
- hardly thought about it,” and leaning his body aside, so as to catch a
- distant glimpse of Clytie between the forms of the little circle of men
- round her, he added, “she is very pretty.”
- </p>
- <p>
- And truly it was a fair picture that his eye fell upon. She was wearing a
- simple dress of ivory-coloured silk, falling in soft, straight folds to
- her feet. Her low-cut bodice was relieved only by a ruffle of old lace
- along the top, and the sole ornament she wore, a necklet of antique
- silver, brought out the delicate modelling of her shapely neck, as she sat
- talking animatedly, her chin pointing upwards. Her rich, vivid colouring
- compensated for any lack of relief in her costume. The intense blue of her
- eyes, the many glints in her auburn hair, twisted in a careless knot at
- the back of her small, shapely head, and kept in place by a broad silver
- arrow, would of themselves have supplied the place of any ornament.
- </p>
- <p>
- “She is very pretty indeed—striking!” repeated Kent.
- </p>
- <p>
- Mrs. Farquharson looked at him amusedly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You must be an original, Mr. Kent. Fancy knowing Clytie Davenant without
- thinking of her looks!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am a great bear,” replied Kent. “My sister says so, and brothers and
- sisters generally speak the truth to each other. Of course I have thought
- of Miss Davenant's looks, in a way—admired her artistically; but I
- have never realised in her society that I have been talking to a pretty
- girl—one consciously so. She does not seem to expect you to be
- impressed with her looks. That's one thing that I like about her.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Mrs. Farquharson carried on the conversation a little further and then
- directed it into other channels. She was pleased with Kent, and made a
- mental note to see more of him. A man who could like Clytie and yet not
- reflect upon her personal attractiveness was, as she had said, an oddity,
- and Mrs. Farquharson made oddities rather a speciality.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was growing late and there was a perceptible thinning in the numbers of
- the guests. A few enthusiasts lingered fondly over the showcases,
- comparing their contents with specimens in their own or other collections.
- Among these was Treherne, by himself, deeply cogitative. He arrested Kent,
- who was passing by to speak to Clytie, whom he had scarcely seen during
- the evening, as he had felt bound to take an honest and practical interest
- in the proceedings. The question that Treherne desired Kent's help in
- solving was a knotty one, and the two men bent over the table absorbed in
- deciphering an obliterated obverse. When the matter was settled Kent
- looked around for Clytie, but she had already disappeared. There was
- nothing left for him to do but to take his leave.
- </p>
- <p>
- “If you care for a Bohemian Sunday evening scramble, when everyone talks
- inconsequent nonsense—quite a different thing from to-night,” said
- Mrs. Farquharson, shaking hands—“we shall be very glad to see you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- In the hall he was pleased to see Clytie, fur cloaked, waiting for a cab.
- She gave him a frank smile of recognition. With his white slouch hat and
- waterproof—a new one—his figure seemed to her very familiar.
- He talked to her for a moment or two, until the cab was announced.
- </p>
- <p>
- “How are you going home?” she said when they were on the pavement.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Walk,” he replied briefly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “But it's raining hard—would you accept a lift?”
- </p>
- <p>
- He opened the swing doors for her, shielding her dress from the muddy
- wheels as she entered, and then hesitated a moment. He had in fact been
- intending to pay one of his midnight visits to his South Kensington
- friends, but Clytie thought his hesitation was due to considerations of
- propriety. She laughed with a little thrill of defiance as she settled
- herself comfortably in a corner. The touch of rebelliousness let loose an
- unwonted shaft of coquetry.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Of course if you think it would do you more good to walk in the rain than
- drive dry with me——”
- </p>
- <p>
- The interval between her two remarks had been very short, taken up
- entirely with the process of Clytie's seating herself in the cab, but
- still Kent felt he had been somewhat unchivalrous.
- </p>
- <p>
- “If you really don't mind, I shall be very grateful,” he said by way of
- making amends as he took his seat by her side.
- </p>
- <p>
- After all, driving with Clytie was not unpleasant, he reflected, and he
- could see Wither and Fairfax any day. That Clytie should have made her
- offer did not seem unnatural. He frankly informed her of the cause of his
- hesitation.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I paid you the compliment of being mistaken,” said Clytie.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What do you mean?” he asked, catching a glimpse of her face in the swift
- gleam of a gas-lamp. She was smiling, in good humour.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh! if you are mystified, so much the better,” she exclaimed, “It will be
- my little revenge.”
- </p>
- <p>
- And that was all the explanation she vouchsafed him.
- </p>
- <p>
- However, that drive spun a thread of intimacy between them. There are few
- conditions of companionship so favourable as those in a hansom cab. The
- driver is practically non-existent; the three sides and roof of the
- vehicle form a temporary home, a <i>chez soi</i>. The outside world lies
- in front of one, very near, and yet one is out of it. Even the desolate
- squares, with their occasional lamps blinking through the mist, and their
- wet, sooty trees rustling reluctantly as the wind passes through them, and
- their gaunt houses, each grimly and jealously guarding its household,
- giving the sense of the awful isolation of souls, fail to depress as they
- invariably depress the sensitive pedestrian. There is again the cheerful
- rattle which precludes sustained conversation, but encourages disjointed,
- intimate talk. The rush of the air, the whirling past of figures and
- objects, is exhilarating even in the vilest of weather and in the
- dreariest of neighbourhoods. The rapid night glimpses, too, of
- coffee-stalls, their lamps glaring upon the surrounding idlers; public
- houses, with the sudden babel of voices issuing from an opened door;
- walkers of the pavement forlornly standing with white, indistinguishable
- faces, 'buses steaming and labouring with their somnolent fares; every
- 'bus-load the counterpart of the last; swifter still, the glimpses of the
- occupants of other cabs that pass, stimulating the imagination; a
- phantasmagoria of life, almost unreal, yet bringing into play some of the
- lighter elemental forces of nature.
- </p>
- <p>
- Clytie was almost sorry when the cab stopped at the familiar side-door
- next to the shop where the legend of “Gurkins, green-grocer,” was dimly
- visible through the gloom. Much of the mere woman in her had risen to the
- surface, obscuring the artist, the hater of formulas, the restless seeker
- after the mysteries of life. She had felt childish, frivolous, thus
- appearing in a new light to Kent, not without a certain charm, although he
- wondered to himself whether she, after all, was not like the rest of
- womankind—“fundamentally silly.” This was a famous dictum of his.
- </p>
- <p>
- But when the door closed behind them, and the narrow, ill-lighted,
- close-smelling passage leading to the gloomy staircase struck upon her
- senses, the realities of life came sharply before her, and her usual
- independence of thought and action reasserted itself. Otherwise, when she
- had said good-night to Kent on the landing and had found her room in
- darkness, she would not have called him back to light her lamp for her,
- and, that done, have asked him to remain for a short chat. He was struck
- by the change to her usual frank tones, and seeking half unconsciously for
- a reason, attributed his late impression to an illusion on his part caused
- by the darkness and dispelled by the light, by which he could see her
- face.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You smoke, I know,” she said, throwing her wraps on to the sofa. “You
- must be dying for some tobacco. What do you smoke?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh! a pipe,” he replied with much fervour, instantly seeking for it in
- his pocket.
- </p>
- <p>
- Clytie turned to poke the fire. It was black and sulky, and her efforts
- were of not much avail.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Let me try,” said Kent, bending down with her on the hearthrug; “this is
- a thing not generally known.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He threw a lighted match on to the fire, the escaping gases burst into
- flame, and cheerfulness was established in the grate.
- </p>
- <p>
- A trivial incident, but it was recognised by them both in after years as
- having served to cement their comradeship.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER VII.
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he friendship
- between them ripened imperceptibly. Each day brought its tiny thread
- linking them together, so gradually, so subtly, that it was not until long
- afterwards that they realised the immense strength of the bond. At first
- it was mere honest liking on both sides, a pleasant consciousness of
- discovery, an ordinary attraction between two natures, distinct, yet more
- or less complementary. Clytie found it written in her Book of New Formulas
- that the loyal friendship between a man and a woman was a strengthening
- element of existence. In her fierce pride and young vigour she would not
- allow that each supplied what the other lacked, according to the popular
- theory—the man strength, the woman grace—but asserted
- strenuously the truth that each could lend the other elements of strength
- the same in degree, but different in kind, owing to the difference of sex.
- If it had been suggested to her that her weaker woman's nature
- instinctively, in spite of perfect emancipation and proud independence,
- sought the man's protecting fibre, the whole amazon within her would have
- been up in arms. She found in Kent a man whom she could meet upon a ground
- of perfect equality—perfectly even, neither blocked by prejudices
- and social barriers nor haunted by sexual spectres. She was woman enough,
- however, to perceive intuitively certain shynesses in Kent, resulting from
- a half knowledge of her, that would have kept him aloof in spite of a very
- sensible attraction towards her; and in showing him, therefore, that this
- attraction was mutual she felt no compunction,—rather pride, on the
- contrary, in reaching a superior plane in which conduct was measured by
- superior standards.
- </p>
- <p>
- And thus it came about that the eternal feminine once more deceived
- itself, mistaking nature for what it called the Fine Art of Life.
- </p>
- <p>
- Kent, for his part, did not attempt to realise the charm that made his
- fingers close daily on the handle of the studio door. He accepted the
- offered friendship, and returned it as frankly as it was given. It became
- as natural to stop at the studio, before mounting to his attics on his
- return home from the Museum, as to burst into the South Kensington
- “monastery” for a midnight rubber. Variety, fresh interests, were brought
- into his life, vivid as it was with darling hopes and full working
- energies. It was refreshing to come once again into the sphere, familiar
- and dear to him during his father's lifetime, of practical art. It was
- something for him to look forward to, during his tramp home—the
- stage nearer completeness effected during a day's work in an artistic
- creation. Gradually, in his blunt, paternal way, he constituted himself
- the censor of Clytie's work, criticising irregularities, suggesting
- treatment. There grew within him, too, a brotherly kindness towards
- Winifred, who looked forward also to his afternoon visit, when she would
- shyly uncover the small canvas and receive with a gratified flush his meed
- of appreciation.
- </p>
- <p>
- He arrived after the tea-things had been cleared away, when the day's work
- was over, in the twilight hour, outstaying Winifred a short while, whose
- evening family meal was half an hour before Clytie's dinner. It was in
- these short periods of companionship, when they were alone together, that,
- unconsciously to themselves, the finer touches were added to the broader
- intimacy that the previous half hour had brought one step further in
- development. Piece by piece, by means of a reference here, a petulant
- outburst there, he grew familiar with the ambitions and struggles of her
- past life. He was quick to catch a certain note of disappointment. She had
- not yet become a great artist, was defiantly certain that she could never
- be one.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Of course you won't if you use your art as a stepping-stone to life,” he
- said one day.
- </p>
- <p>
- She marked the saying, resolving, however, half rebelliously to make him
- belie his words in the days to come. She, too, gathered from him the
- nature of his hope and aspirations, wondered at the cheerful selflessness
- with which he contemplated the work that would bring him neither name nor
- fame, nor the things that many men desire.
- </p>
- <p>
- One day he took Clytie and Winifred up to his attic museum, pleased as a
- boy to show them his treasures. Winifred praised the bright neatness of
- his arrangements. He confessed guiltily that he had been “tidying up”—a
- process that had cost him the whole of the previous Sunday. Many of his
- pictures had been left him by his father, particularly his collection of
- Aldegravers, over which he fondly lingered, lamenting that the old days of
- pure design were over, and railing at the mercenary spirit of modern art.
- He counselled Clytie to study the little masters for her book
- illustrating. She would learn restraint, abstraction.
- </p>
- <p>
- “But it's no good preaching Dürer and Behm in these days,” he added
- pathetically, with the resignation of the collector who does not expect
- his hobby to be understood.
- </p>
- <p>
- Clytie laughed softly, sympathetic with his enthusiasms. No real artist
- can help loving the little masters. But Clytie's artistic impulses warred
- with each other, with circumstance, and with herself. So she refused to
- sit, for practical purposes, at the foot of Aldegraver. She ran over the
- titles of books, borrowed a couple, which he recommended, from the general
- literature section, stood in some dismay before the scientific
- specialist's library, and asked to see what was visible of the great work.
- He gave her some bundles of manuscript, which she turned over helplessly
- and handed back without a word. They were evidences of a world of infinite
- toil and devotion not yet intelligible to her. She gazed around the
- picturesque walls of the room that contrasted strangely with the
- carpetless floor and the fenderless grate. The absence of the minor
- softnesses of material life struck her vividly. There were evidences of a
- high love for art, but art in a too rarefied atmosphere for her nature.
- She would have liked to curtain the windows,—they were even
- destitute of blinds,—to put rugs about the floor, to soften the room
- with drapery, plants, flowers; even an armchair beside the fire would have
- been aesthetically as well as physically reposeful. Winifred's simpler
- feminine impulses struck the true chord.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why doesn't your sister make you some pretty things for your room?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “She does—heaps of things.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Where are they, then?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Kent looked at her with humorous shamefacedness.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am afraid I have a drawer full of them somewhere,” he replied.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, your room is very much like yourself,” she said in a low voice, and
- hesitating a little. “You both lack the same thing.”
- </p>
- <p>
- And blundering John Kent misread the oracle, accepting it as a reproach
- for brotherly unkindness.
- </p>
- <p>
- Meanwhile Clytie's “own” picture of the model Jack was developing into a
- more finished and more ambitious work than she had originally intended. On
- Kent's suggestion she had toned down some of its brutality without
- rendering less vivid the presentation of the problem. She thought of
- trying to exhibit the picture when it was completed; Jack therefore
- continued to appear in the studio at irregular intervals. Winifred
- encouraged him now, trying to humanise him with picture-books, stories,
- and simple talk, but Clytie shook her head at her gentle friend's efforts,
- conceiving them, with her fuller and more materialistic knowledge, to be
- entirely futile. Still Winifred obtained from him more details of what
- Clytie called his private life than she herself could do. With both of
- them he was fierce and sullen, but with Winifred he was more cynically
- expansive. These details only supplemented the data afforded by his own
- personality. Sometimes he went to the board school, where he was in the
- third standard; oftener he stayed away. He slept in his mother's room, ate
- his desultory food there with the fierceness of a young wolf; but his real
- home was in the street. Once he had been given a situation as satellite to
- a thriving costermonger, but the restraints of regular employment had
- chafed him into resignation of his post. Besides, his employer had
- thrashed him unmercifully. As for his parentage, he was entirely ignorant;
- he did not care. To his mind it was a merciful dispensation of Providence
- that he only had one parent to irritate and annoy him. He liked to come to
- the studio because it was warm and comfortable, besides which he obtained
- a shilling at the end of the day to be expended on inferior tobacco when
- together with his playmates.
- </p>
- <p>
- One morning, earlier than usual, he slouched up the stairs and, contrary
- to custom, found the studio door open and the apartment empty. He entered,
- swinging the door with him, which, being caught by the draught from an
- open skylight, slammed with sudden violence. If he had heard the quick
- rattle of a falling door-knob, his subsequent conduct would doubtless have
- been modified. He was alone in the studio; he waited idly, lying in front
- of the stove; but as no one came, he began to feel restless. He rose to
- his feet, wandered about, shut the skylight, examined the contents of the
- studio. He found a packet of cigarettes lying about, which he pocketed; an
- investigation of the cupboard in the wall rewarded him with some lumps of
- sugar and some sweet biscuits. Still no one came, which was not
- extraordinary, as his employer had not yet thought of breakfasting. No
- further resources being offered to his predatory instincts, he proceeded
- to look at the pictures, with which he had already a contemptuous
- familiarity. The only one for which he had a genuine admiration, or rather
- the barbarian's feeling of awe at any counterfeit presentment of himself,
- was his own portrait. At this he seldom tired of looking.
- </p>
- <p>
- He took down from the wall a little painted mirror, and, sitting on the
- stool in front of the picture, proceeded to compare the original and the
- portrait. He saw that the resemblance was not quite perfect, and like a
- monkey he grimaced into the looking-glass until he had reproduced the
- expression that Clytie had fixed upon the canvas. Then he laughed in great
- glee, scratched his black curly head, and went in quest of further
- occupation. He crossed over to Winifred's easel and took off the cloth. He
- had no great idea of “the other one's” picture. It did not interest him.
- But, unfortunately, in his simian mood, an idea shot through his mind. Why
- should he not try to paint too?
- </p>
- <p>
- He mounted upon Winifred's seat, took her palette in his hand as he had
- seen her hold it, with his small, dirty thumb through the hole in the
- white porcelain, gathered the little sheaf of brushes, arranged the
- mahl-stick imitatively, and, dipping a brush into the remains of some
- Chinese white, tried to fill in some anemones. They were only splotches of
- white paint, but the occupation absorbed him. In a very few moments the
- whole canvas was starred with Jack's white dabs. Then, growing tired of
- the monotony of white,—the colours on the palette did not attract
- him,—he fetched Clytie's, which was more richly prepared, and
- painted in strokes of crimson and yellow. The delight of colour fascinated
- him. He obliterated all the white, daubed the canvas over and over with
- heavy streaks, laughing aloud with the spirit of diabolical mischief.
- Then, with a fox terrier's or a monkey's instinct of destruction, he took
- up the palette-knife and stabbed holes through the canvas.
- </p>
- <p>
- He contemplated his work for a moment, and then, the very human
- anticipation of consequences occurring to his mind, he bethought himself
- of flight. But, to his dismay, he found the door-handle had fallen off
- when the door had slammed, and that he was a prisoner until someone should
- open it from outside. He paused for a moment in the middle of the room,
- reflecting. Then he covered up his handiwork carefully with a cloth,
- scrupulously replaced the palettes and brushes, and curled himself up in
- his usual doglike attitude by the stove, there to await events.
- </p>
- <p>
- After a time there came a rattle of the knob-screw being fitted into the
- vacant hole in the lock, which made his heart beat, and Clytie entered the
- room humming a song. She was surprised to find him there, and elicited a
- monosyllabic explanation of his presence. She was in a good humour and
- talked lightly to him as she moved about the studio, changing the water of
- some flowers. The errand-boy from the shop below came up with Winnie's
- anemones that had been put in a cool place over night to keep them fresh
- one day longer. Clytie set them on the stand beside Winifred's easel. Jack
- watched her, looked at the door, measuring the distance.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Where are you going?” Clytie asked sharply as she turned round and caught
- him stealing across the room.
- </p>
- <p>
- He was terribly afraid of her. Those great dark blue eyes seemed to
- command him. He never could meet them with his own. He relapsed doggedly
- into his position by the stove. Clytie touched the anemones daintily,
- picking some faded leaves, still humming her song. In lightness of heart
- she took off the cloth to look at Winnie's work, and then fell back with a
- cry of horror and anger. A swift glance at Jack brought her knowledge.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You little fiend!” she cried with eyes aflame, and catching the cowering,
- sullen urchin by the collar of shirt and jacket, she dragged him out of
- the studio, on to the landing.
- </p>
- <p>
- Kent happened to have just gone down the stairs on his way out. The noise
- of the scuffle reached him in the entrance passage and brought him up to
- the studio door.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What is the matter?” he asked, taking the boy from Clytie's grasp into
- his own.
- </p>
- <p>
- “The matter? Go inside. I must call Winnie. Winnie!”
- </p>
- <p>
- She opened the sitting-room door. Winifred ran out, holding her gloves,
- which she had just taken off, in her hand.
- </p>
- <p>
- “That boy—that little devil!” cried Clytie, and they both ran into
- the studio.
- </p>
- <p>
- Kent had just entered, and was standing before the mutilated picture
- holding the boy, who in Kent's hands was struggling violently. Winifred
- looked at it for a moment blankly, scarcely understanding. Then the
- sickening truth rose to her brain, and she leaned, very white, against the
- wall, looking at the others.
- </p>
- <p>
- “For God's sake take the little brute out and kill him, Mr. Kent!” Clytie
- broke out fiercely. “Murder him! break every bone in his body! To have
- done such a thing as that! It is not human.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I'll give him a thundering hiding,” said Kent wrathfully, dragging him
- towards the door.
- </p>
- <p>
- But Winifred rose quickly, moved her neck, cleared her throat, and laid
- her hand on Kent's arm.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Don't beat him—I couldn't bear it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Nonsense, Winnie! sit down,” cried Clytie. “Take him away Mr. Kent, or
- I'll do him some mischief myself!”
- </p>
- <p>
- Kent shook the urchin till his teeth chattered and his evil little face
- grew red. Winifred still clung to his arm.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Don't! you shan't do it! He is no better than an animal! He did not know
- what he was doing. Nothing you could do to him would give me back my
- picture. It would be simple vengeance. Oh, send him away! Send him away!”
- and turning from Kent, she burst into tears and clung to Clytie, sobbing.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Miss Marchpane is right,” said Kent slowly and looking at Clytie. “Let
- the little brute go. Here, you, go! If ever I see you near the place, I
- will give you to a policeman!”
- </p>
- <p>
- Visions of the lowering blue storm-cloud, ever seeming to the children of
- the streets ready to burst upon their heads, loomed before the little
- outcast's imagination. He shivered, shrunk away from Kent's relaxed grasp,
- darted a keen, swift look of malignity at Clytie, and disappeared like a
- flash through the open door.
- </p>
- <p>
- Clytie held Winifred protectingly with one arm, soothing her, mingling
- words of comfort with outbursts of self-reproach and unrighteous
- indignation. As Jack slipped away she made an impulsive movement forward,
- but Winifred restrained her.
- </p>
- <p>
- “How dare you let him go?” she exclaimed, turning her anger upon Kent. “If
- it had not been for you I would have given him a lesson he'd have
- remembered all his life. To do a work of devilry like that and not be
- punished! I'll set the police upon him!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No, no!” murmured Winifred.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I will. What are reformatories for? Go and call a policeman, Mr. Kent. It
- is the least you can do!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I shall leave him alone,” replied Kent. “It would not do him any good and
- it would not do Miss Marchpane any good. He'll never come here again, and
- I should advise you not to introduce any more of his sort into your
- studio. When a child of the flesh and the devil gets hold of a thing of
- the spirit, the spiritual suffers.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I do not wish to be lectured,” said Clytie stonily.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am sorry if I have offended you, Miss Davenant,” replied Kent. “I have
- the sincerest sympathy with Miss Marchpane for her loss, and I would do
- anything in the world to help her or you; and so—good-morning.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Kent worked hard that day at the Museum. He was troubled over the
- morning's occurrence. He was conscious that he had acted rightly in
- acquiescing in Winifred's counsel of mercy, but he had a vague,
- inarticulate regret that he had not pleased Clytie. He resolutely set
- himself to forget everything in his work and finished earlier than usual.
- On his way out he met his friend Wither in the great hall.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I have come to carry you off to the club to dine and there to reason with
- you,” said the small, gnomelike man. “They are spring-cleaning at home and
- the place reeks of freshness and innocence. Greene and Fairfax like it;
- they say it's healthy. I prefer the accumulated and mellowed deposit of
- winter. It's as bad as washing a meerschaum. Anyhow, it's got to get
- coloured a bit, and until it does I clear out and you are coming to clear
- with me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Very well,” replied Kent; “I will waste part of an evening upon you—to
- prevent you wasting it yourself more sinfully. You were lucky to catch me;
- I was just going.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The policeman at the door saluted Kent as he passed out.
- </p>
- <p>
- “That ought to have been for me,” said Wither. “I am far the more
- reputable-looking of the two.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Kent laughed good-humouredly and grasped his ash stick sturdily in his
- gloveless hands. The contrast between the dandified elegance of Wither's
- dress and his own careless, loose attire appealed to his sense of the
- humorous.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I'll walk a few yards behind you if you like,” he said, repeating a
- familiar and time-honoured jest between them.
- </p>
- <p>
- They walked down the great flight of steps and across the courtyard, where
- the pigeons were fluttering joyfully in the afternoon sunshine. When they
- had arrived at the railings, whose gilt spear-points caught the sun,
- Wither turned and looked for a moment at the frowning mass of the edifice.
- </p>
- <p>
- “This always suggests the brain of London, immeasurable in this ugly poll
- of a Bloomsbury, with its watery eyes and dejected face, that seems to be
- perpetually meditating on death and influenza. I am going to work up the
- idea one of these days and turn it into copy.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It certainly does not look promising in the crude state,” observed Kent
- by way of encouragement.
- </p>
- <p>
- They walked along Oxford Street and down Shaftesbury Avenue. Here, while
- passing in front of a photographer's window, their eyes were caught by a
- group of complacent people of both sexes—“with superior smiles and
- inferior clothes,” as Wither said—described by a legend printed on
- the mount as the “Parnassus House Mutual Improvement Society.” Wither
- entered the shop and purchased a copy, as a “monument of the stupendous
- fatuity of man.” In the comfortable smoking-room of the Junior
- Cosmopolitan, St. James's Square, Wither held the photograph out on his
- knees before him and discoursed upon it.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Look at them,” he said, half hidden in the great armchair. “Dear old
- Philistia! When is the Almighty going to redeem his promise and triumph
- over it? Mutual improvement!—on the principle of Mark Twain's
- islanders, who eked out a precarious livelihood by taking in each other's
- washing! This pathetic kind of person belongs to home reading societies.
- Do you know what they are? I was staying with the Brownes last summer;
- asked the youngest to come and play tennis. She replied with awful
- solemnity that she was going to read her 'half hour.' I was impressed;
- good girl, I said, and pictured her to myself conducting her devotional
- exercises over St. Thomas à Kempis or St. Augustine's 'Confessions' in the
- sanctity of her maiden chamber. Next day I found her reading the report of
- an agricultural commission for the year 1831. Asked her what the deuce she
- was reading that for. She replied she was reading her 'half hour'; it was
- the only 'solid' book she could find downstairs! Novels and poetry and
- magazines were tabooed. I asked her whether she thought George Meredith or
- Dante flippant. She could not exactly say—but they were not solid.
- God help us!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You are as bad as my friend Miss Davenant,” said Kent, laughing. “She is
- always railing at Philistia. You might lend me the photograph to show her;
- it would amuse her—perhaps it might teach her something.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Wither gave him the photograph, but after a short pause Kent returned it.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I'll take it some other time. I don't quite know at present how we are
- going to stand to one another; we had a bit of a scene this morning.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Wither raised his eyebrows and turned his head lazily, looking at Kent.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You interest me, friend John. Is Saul also among the prophets? Expound.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Kent roughly sketched the morning's episode in the studio.
- </p>
- <p>
- “So, you see, there's something in the nature of a split,” he added.
- </p>
- <p>
- “She will come round all right,” said Wither, “if she cares about you. If
- she doesn't, she is not worth caring about. Never you mind. There is
- nothing does women so much good as a little wholesome neglect. <i>Crede
- experto</i>. As for the matter in question, of course you were wrong. You
- should have thrashed the little devil's life out. But with a woman, having
- right or wrong on her side has nothing to do with it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That may be true in the case of the woman you like to philander with,
- Teddy, but Clytie Davenant's different.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Bah, my dear old boy, they are all the same, every one of them.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You have never met one of them whom you could treat in the ordinary
- straightforward way—make a friend of as if she were a man.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No, old chap, nor do I want to. If you've got to treat a woman as if she
- were a man, what the devil's the good of her being a woman?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You are talking for the sake of talking, Teddy,” said Kent with some
- earnestness. “You know it's all nonsense. Women generally are foolish
- enough, God knows, but the sole end of their being is not to be fooled
- about with in flirtations and love-makings and such sickening nonsense.
- And when one does come across a girl with an intelligence above the
- ordinary and instincts above bazaars and the river, one likes her and is
- exceedingly sorry to have any row with her.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ah me!” murmured the little man, examining his trim finger nails with
- intent brow, “whether we cultivate the 'languor and lilies of virtue,' or
- the 'roses and raptures of vice,' it doesn't matter—the trail of the
- petticoat's over us all. Come and have a 'hundred up' before dinner.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Kent did not carry home the ridiculous portrait, and Wither, to avoid the
- trouble of taking with him the awkwardly sized parcel that would not fit
- into his pocket, very characteristically posted it to himself. As Kent
- passed Clytie's door he noticed that it was ajar and that the room was
- dark. Evidently she had gone out. If she had retired early to bed, she
- would have shut the door, as her bedroom opened into the sitting-room. He
- felt a certain sense of loss, he did not know why, for even if the little
- streak of light beneath the door had announced her presence within, he
- certainly would not have sought admittance. He went upstairs more slowly
- than usual, thinking of her and of the morning's scene. By the dim gas on
- his landing he perceived an unframed picture leaning, face-hidden, against
- his door, and on the ground a letter. This was addressed to him in the
- bold, rounded handwriting which he recognised as Clytie's. He opened it
- and read:
- </p>
- <p>
- You were right. I am sorry. Keep the picture as a token.
- </p>
- <h3>
- C. D.
- </h3>
- <p>
- Kent turned the canvas round. It was the exhibition picture of Jack.
- </p>
- <p>
- He took it in with him, and placed it on his dresser-table. It formed a
- strange contrast to the calm-faced Woolmer cavalier that was hanging
- above; a strange contrast, too, with its colour, its modernity, its
- realism, to the cold classicism of the pale, pure relics of the past that
- lined the walls. Troubled by the discord, he turned its face to the wall,
- but immediately, ashamed of the impulse and calling himself a fool, he
- turned it again. Then, after lighting his reading-lamp and turning out the
- gas, he sat down at the writing space on his dresser-table.
- </p>
- <p>
- The room door was open. The house was perfectly still, save for the
- occasional creak of the stairs and banisters near the attics. From the
- street outside, far beneath, came the faint, ghostlike rumble of passing
- vehicles. Kent had never realised what absolute silence reigned at night
- in that quiet household. A cuckoo-clock in the bedroom below struck with a
- suddenness and clearness that startled him. It was only twelve o'clock.
- Clytie would be back soon if she had gone out to spend the evening with
- friends or at a theatre. He proceeded with some mechanical work, docketing
- papers, his ear expectant of the sudden drag of a hansom at the street
- door. Several times he was deceived and went out on the landing to listen
- for the sounds announcing Clytie's arrival. Then he resumed his
- occupation. Perhaps she was indoors and asleep all the time, he thought;
- but the open door surely betokened her absence. He persuaded himself into
- this belief, desiring intensely to see her. The immediate fulfilment of
- Wither's prognostications troubled him. Had it not been for his friend's
- bantering remarks he would have judged Clytie's frank confession by the
- touchstone of his own simplicity, and found it natural, prompted by no
- other motives than kindliness and common sense. But what if it proceeded
- from the “fundamental silliness” of woman, that he himself pitied and
- Wither professed to hold in contempt?
- </p>
- <p>
- At last an unmistakable pause in the dimly heard rattle of a hansom made
- him rise again and go on to the landing. Someone entered the house. He
- heard the far distant creak of the stairs and the vague rustle of skirts.
- It was Clytie. In the deathlike stillness of the house he heard the sharp
- striking of a match. He waited for a moment or two and then went down.
- </p>
- <p>
- Clytie, in her hat and cloak, was reading, by the light of her bedroom
- candle, a letter that had arrived by the last post.
- </p>
- <p>
- “May I come in for one minute?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Of course—for two if you like. Do you know, I had an idle fancy
- that I should see you when I got home?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Did you? I am very glad; it assures me that you don't think me—what
- shall I say?—presumptuous in waiting for you to come in and then
- intruding.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Did you listen for me? You are good. I am scarcely worth it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I felt I must thank you for your little note—and the picture.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well? And are we going to make friends again, Mr. Kent?”
- </p>
- <p>
- She looked him in the face proudly, yet laughingly, and held out her
- ungloved hand.
- </p>
- <p>
- “There!” she added. “I behaved very badly to you this morning, and you
- must thank Winifred for bringing me to a sense of decency; but really when
- I saw the dear child's work done to death by my own fault I was not
- mistress of myself. I suppose it is best when one is in the wrong to own
- it—to one's friends.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It is sensible,” said Kent, “and I am very proud of your reckoning me
- among your friends.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She looked at him, a strange little smile playing round the corner of her
- lips as she put up both hands to withdraw her hat-pin—a graceful
- attitude, instinct with femininity. The look and the attitude disconcerted
- Kent for a moment. However, her next words reassured him.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I judged you by myself, you know. I had found our friendship a pleasant
- thing, and felt that you did so, too, and I was sorry lest anything should
- break it; otherwise I should not have taken the trouble to 'climb down,'
- as they say.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Let us say no more about it,” replied Kent magnanimously. “If we pride
- ourselves on being superior to certain conventionalities of habit, we
- ought to extend our conventionalities of sentiment. I have been very
- troubled all day, Miss Davenant, I must confess, and I can't tell you how
- touched I was by your message. It's not every woman by a long way that
- would have sent it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And I would not have written it to every man,” returned Clytie; “of that
- you may be quite certain.”
- </p>
- <p>
- And so they parted for the night.
- </p>
- <p>
- Thus the breach between them was quite covered over and their relations
- strengthened by a newer impression of mutual dependence, a more active
- sense of comradeship. They laughed frankly at the Great Conventionalities,
- and went about together to theatres, concerts, picture-shows. Kent
- accompanied her to Mrs. Farquharson's Sunday evenings, where he found a
- ready welcome from the artistic and literary circle, to whom his father
- had been well known. Mrs. Farquharson called them “Orestia and Pylades,”
- by this time recognising their companionship as a social fact. They always
- went back together, generally for a great part of the way on foot when the
- weather grew warm and the nights were dry and clear. On the weekday
- evenings, when Clytie was at home, Kent would bring down his work and his
- reference-books to Clytie's room, and write there, while she drew or read
- or busied herself with odds and ends of needlework. It had all the outward
- seeming of friendship—nothing more. For hours they would sit
- together without exchanging a word—a real test. But Clytie grew
- interested in the progress of Kent's work, gradually obtained a clear idea
- of its scope and proportion, and could speak intimately to him concerning
- it, although its matter was as incomprehensible to her as to any other
- non-specialist. It gave the girl, too, a sense of rest and strength to see
- him sitting there, patiently, serenely working. She began to have doubts
- as to the completeness of her own scheme of life, its worthiness,
- satisfaction. Hitherto the sense of independence, freedom, accumulating
- knowledge of that whose foreshadowings had filled her girlish heart with
- unrest, had almost satisfied her. Now she began to look beyond. With her
- young being as yet untouched by passion, she did not realise the fulness
- that love must bring into life. She vaguely speculated upon it, faint,
- elusive gleams of perception passing rapidly through her into the
- darkness, but that was all. The secret of life, she thought, could only be
- wrested from the tangle of the labyrinth by single-minded endeavour,
- sacrifice, devotion. Was not Kent right when he accused her of making her
- art a stepping-stone instead of an end?
- </p>
- <p>
- Kent, manlike, and honester, too, than most men, was unconscious of this
- self-abasement. Since the day of that fierce struggle with herself which
- had resulted in her sending him the missive of submission he had vaguely
- felt that she was dependent on him for many things; but he had helped her
- in his frank, unquestioning way, feeling pleased, warmed by the flame of a
- newly kindled spark of vanity. He preached to her his simple doctrine.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Work while work pleases you. Love it for its own sake. Set a great end
- before you; but the attaining it is the delight, not the ultimate
- attainment. If you think of nothing but the end, the reaching it is all
- feverish unrest and toil.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She listened, rebelled, submitted, without loss of her proud fearlessness.
- Yes; it was common sense, she agreed. No one can be humiliated by giving
- in to common sense and acting in accordance with it. Kent persuaded her to
- finish the picture of Jack.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It is the best thing you have done. There is more work in it—real
- work. It will not take long to finish. Then send it for exhibition.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He appealed to Winifred, who added her soft note of encouragement. The
- picture was painted. Kent stonily refused to keep it as his possession.
- There was a heated argument. He valued her gift and her friendship; he
- valued her fame and life-interest more. He would not refuse a replica. In
- the end she acquiesced. The picture was accepted by the hanging committee
- of the exhibition, made a stir, was sold for £120. Clytie was launched..
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER VIII.
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he summer came.
- Clytie went abroad with the Farquharsons, through the old towns of
- Normandy and Brittany. Kent joined them at St. Malo, and spent his month's
- holiday with them. This was such a departure from his usual habit of
- solitary pedestrian travel in the rough wilds of Norway, whither he went
- every year, with little else than a stick and a knapsack, that Wither had
- been quite alarmed.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You'll be taking a holiday with me next,” he had said.
- </p>
- <p>
- But knowing the terms of intimacy between his friend and Clytie, and
- knowing Clytie herself,—he had accompanied Kent to the studio, at
- first out of curiosity to see what kind of “being feminine” Kent had made
- a friend of, and afterwards because he liked to go there,—whatever
- sceptical imaginings might have exercised him, he forbore to give them
- expression. He had only looked at Kent, on saying good-bye, in his odd,
- half-mocking way, and had chuckled noiselessly to himself when the door
- had closed upon Kent's broad shoulders.
- </p>
- <p>
- Kent did not regret Norway. A charm, unknown to him before, filled all the
- days. The Farquharsons were perfect travelling companions: Caroline
- bright, satirical, helpful, learned in the ways of men; George easy-going,
- happy either to lounge in the sun with a pipe and bandy chaff with his
- wife, whilst Kent and Clytie went their own ways, or to spend an
- antiquarian afternoon with Kent in some old Keltic village. Clytie seemed
- also to him to expand under the sunny cheerful influences, to grow more
- feminine, without falling in his estimation. No; he did not regret Norway.
- He half formulated an intention of abandoning it permanently and
- substituting Brittany as his habitual tramping-ground. From the first
- morning, when his boat steamed slowly through the narrow St. Malo docks,
- and he saw Clytie waiting there to meet him, he felt friendly towards it.
- The high ramparted wall, with just the top-story row of green shutters and
- roofs peeping above it, and beyond them the spire of the cathedral; the
- glimpse through the sentry-guarded gate up the narrow cobble-paved street,
- gaudy with blue blouses, red handkerchiefs, and yellow oilskins exposed
- all along at shop doors; on the quay itself the stalls of the hucksters
- under the lee of the wall, and the busy crowd of swarthy Breton sailors,
- porters, and green uniformed <i>douaniers</i>; and Clytie standing, fresh
- in her pure colouring heightened by the light summer dress, in the midst
- of this mellow setting—all the picture fixed itself as a whole
- indelibly upon his mind, and caused a strange little thrill of pleasure to
- run through him.
- </p>
- <p>
- They sat on the sands—the finest in the world, perhaps, when the
- tide is low—that run in a broad, golden sweep from crag-bastioned,
- grim old St. Malo to the white houses of Parame, amid the babel of bathers
- and visitors, watching the types Parisian and English, Kent smoking
- contentedly, while Clytie filled her sketch-book with oddities of
- personality and costume. Three days slipped away there very pleasantly.
- </p>
- <p>
- In spite of its banality as a pleasure resort there is a grim charm about
- St. Malo that is never quite forgotten by those who have once known it. It
- has an air of stability, of defiance. It is out of the reach of the
- improver, extender, and suburb-maker. Its great walls guard it as
- jealously on three sides as the sea does on the other. Almost alone of
- populous cities, it can never grow. As he left with the party to continue
- the tour Kent felt this charm, although his associations with the city had
- been of the lighter kind. They idled through the old towns: Dol, with its
- dark granite cathedral, looking rather hewn out of the rock than built;
- Dinan on its granite steep above the Rance, where the heart of du Guesclin
- is enshrined; Brieux, Paimpol, over which Pierre Loti has thrown the
- glamour of his sentiment; Morlaix, and so to Brest, with its great harbour
- and strong sea breeze from the Atlantic. For Kent this journey was an
- uninterrupted pleasure. No country is richer in things old, worn by
- weather and time, than Brittany: here an old chapel built of rough unhewn
- granite; here a shapeless wayside cross erected by some pious crusader on
- the ragged hill slope, railed round to prevent the encroachments of the
- broom and heather; here a Druidic mass of boulders; in the cottages
- curious smoke-dried strips of old Breton work, ancestral oak carvings,
- rude brass repousée platters—a thousand antiquarian interests in
- this gray land. But it is a bright one withal. The fields of yellow colza
- stretch over the landscape in broad patches of glory; the red-cheeked
- cider apples glow in the orchards. The chestnut-trees in the grounds of
- the old feudal château, its fleched gables dimly visible, hang gratefully
- over the high bounding wall, above the roadway. The peasants still wear
- the picturesque Breton dress, tasselled hats, embroidered short jackets,
- and knee-breeches for the men, great white caps and elaborate kirtles for
- the women. Along the coast the surf beats in a line of angry light upon
- the rocks, and shows white, in the midst of the blue, around the islets
- out at sea. And the old fishing villages look as if they were but flotsam
- and jetsam cast up by Providence around the gray, weather-worn church that
- has taken them to its bosom.
- </p>
- <p>
- For a few days after they left Dinan Kent noticed a change in Clytie. She
- was reserved, thoughtful. It was not until she appeared to have thrown off
- the weight of an obsessing idea that she grew buoyant and frank again. An
- incident unknown to him had occurred at Dinan, shaking the girl's heart to
- its depths.
- </p>
- <p>
- Her bedroom in the hotel opened, like the others on the same floor, on to
- a small balcony, the spaces in front of each room being separated by a
- light iron bar. She was dressing one morning when her attention was
- aroused by voices in the next room, near the balcony. Her own French
- window was open. The air was sunny and still, and the voices struck clear.
- </p>
- <p>
- “And that is your last word?” asked a woman's voice in French. She used
- the familiar <i>ton</i>. Her accents were tearful and pleading.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes,” replied a man's voice brutally. “There, there! Do not make any
- scenes. I go because it is my good pleasure. What have you to say against
- it?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But I love you, I love you, Armand!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Bah!” laughed the man, “they say that always. Here are the thousand
- francs.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Clytie, who had involuntarily overheard this scrap of the conversation,
- hastened to shut the window. The sounds died away into murmurs dimly
- perceptible through the partition wall. Then she heard the room door slam
- violently and a heavy step tramp down the passage.
- </p>
- <p>
- Some two hours later she was sitting in the salon of the hotel, reading
- the papers and looking idly out upon the market-booths in the little <i>place</i>.
- Kent and Farquharson had gone out together to devote a scientific forenoon
- to the monuments of the town, and Caroline was writing letters in her own
- room. Clytie was alone. Suddenly the door opened and a woman, scarcely
- more than a girl, appeared on the threshold. She made a step forward, but
- perceiving Clytie by the window, she hesitated, irresolute whether to
- advance or retire. Clytie looked up quickly, caught a glance which she
- interpreted as one of appeal.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, enter, mademoiselle,” she said, with a smile.
- </p>
- <p>
- The newcomer murmured a “<i>Merci</i>,” entered, closed the door, and
- sitting down on the faded sofa by the wall, commenced turning over the
- pages of an old illustrated paper. Clytie went on with her <i>Figaro</i>.
- Presently her ear caught a little sniffling sob. She turned round. Her
- companion was squeezing a wet rag of a handkerchief in her hand, her head
- turned away towards the paper; she was crying. Clytie rose, moved softly
- across the room. But as she was going through the doorway she saw the
- girl, abandoning herself to her misery, bury her face upon the sofa
- cushion. Clytie was touched. She went back to the girl, laid her hand
- softly on her shoulder.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Mademoiselle!”
- </p>
- <p>
- The girl started, raised a pretty, tear-stained face, looked at Clytie
- wistfully out of her light blue eyes, her lips quivering.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You are in trouble,” said Clytie.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, mademoiselle, you are very good,” cried the other—“<i>oui; je
- suis bien malheureuse</i>. But you must leave me. You are a young girl
- well brought up, whilst I——<i>Merci</i>, mademoiselle; you can
- do nothing.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The voice struck a chord of association. Where had she heard it recently?
- Quickly it flashed upon her, the scrap of dialogue she had overheard that
- morning. The girl again hid her face. The low-cut dress, beloved by
- Frenchwomen, disclosed a shapely neck, on which clustered coquettishly a
- few tiny madcap curls below the smooth, upbrushed, fair hair. Her figure
- was young and graceful, relaxed now in the attitude of abandonment.
- </p>
- <p>
- Clytie looked down upon her wonderingly, her heart beating. Her maidenhood
- urged her to fly; a higher sense of life bade her stay a moment by the
- sobbing figure. She had never, to her knowledge, been near to one of the
- great unclassed—still less spoken. She remembered the few cynical
- words of the man; they seemed to give her a pain at the heart akin to
- nausea. She remembered the pleading tones: “<i>Je t'aime Je t'aime bien!</i>”
- and her pity went forth upon the woman.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don't ask you to tell me,” she said very gently. “But we may talk a
- little, mayn't we? Perhaps it may ease you—a woman—the same
- age,”—Clytie stumbled in the foreign language,—“and perhaps
- not so well brought up—after all, a woman.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, mademoiselle, you do not understand. This life!” her shoulders
- shivered expressively. “After all, it is bearable; but when, with all
- that, one loves—ah!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “He is not worth it,” cried Clytie. “He is a scoundrel—I know what
- he is!”
- </p>
- <p>
- The girl raised her face quickly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You know him? You know Armand? Ah, no; you spoke at random. Yes, he is
- base, cruel, but that does not prevent it. Mademoiselle, you are good, you
- are sweet. It is not many who would have spoken. You will let me sit here
- near you for a little? Ah, <i>mon Dieu</i>,” she went on rapidly, “you
- cannot imagine what it is—never, never to talk to a woman whom one
- can respect, and who may not betray you; and then the only persons one can
- respect are the men, who despise one. And even they—one can love
- them, but they are cowardly, hard, selfish!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “There are some good men,” observed Clytie.
- </p>
- <p>
- “That may be,” returned the other, finally drying her eyes, and putting up
- her hand to her hair in tidying touches—“that may be, but we don't
- often see them. Oh, mademoiselle, I know well that I should be ashamed of
- showing you what I am, but when you touched my shoulder it was like a good
- sister of the convent,”—Clytie smiled in spite of herself at the
- comparison,—“and it touched my heart.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And I too have a confession to make,” said Clytie, gently interrupting.
- “This morning—I overheard—my room is next to yours——”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ah, it was you who shut the window?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes. So I know, mademoiselle—at least I can judge. And are you
- quite alone now?”
- </p>
- <p>
- The girl shrugged her shoulders.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What would you have? He has gone, and I must go too. One does not amuse
- oneself here alone.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And where are you going?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “To Paris. In the middle of summer. It is not gay. Everyone will know <i>qu'il
- via plantée là</i>. But one must live. Ah! you are happy, you other honest
- women!” She talked on, in half-cynical, half-artless confidence, as is the
- way of her race, forgetting in her need of expansion that her hearer was
- the English girl well brought up. She dilated on her present trouble, her
- life in Paris, her creditors, the spitefulness of women, the brutality of
- men. Clytie listened with mingled feelings of horror and pity. She was so
- young, this girl, so fresh for all the soil of Paris, and yet taking, from
- use, the whole horror of her life as a matter of course, realising it only
- in rare emotional moments. Here was a rejecter of formulas, of a race that
- has thrown off convention ever since Rahab harboured the spies! Too
- fragile, delicate she looked for this social warfare. Whither was she
- tending? Clytie had a supreme, lurid moment of introspection. Only two or
- three such come in a lifetime.
- </p>
- <p>
- At last the girl rose from the sofa in the quick French way.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Forgive me, mademoiselle, for talking like this. I had forgotten. You see
- well that you could not have helped me otherwise than you have done by
- sitting by my side. I must not encroach upon your time. Adieu,
- mademoiselle, and thank you; oh, a thousand times, thanks. I shall not
- forget you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She was going. Clytie rose and went towards her, her face a little
- flushed, but kindness in her eyes.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You will shake hands, <i>à l'Anglaise?</i>” she said.
- </p>
- <p>
- The girl looked her quickly in the face, and then impulsively seized the
- proffered hand in both hers and kissed it twice rapidly. Then she ran from
- the room.
- </p>
- <p>
- Clytie went back to her seat by the window and looked out upon the
- market-sellers. But she did not see much, as tears stood in her eyes and
- rolled down her cheeks.
- </p>
- <p>
- She did not tell Mrs. Farquharson of this incident, but kept it in her
- heart as a secret and strange revelation of life—something precious,
- mysterious, awful. During her drive with the others in the afternoon she
- was strangely silent. Kent rallied her on her depression in his bluff,
- kind-hearted manner. She smiled absently, complained of a headache, then
- shivered with a wave of recollection. For days the spectre haunted her,
- sometimes looking at her through the light blue eyes of the girl, and
- sometimes taking a dual form, in which the coarse drudge features of the
- mother of Jack, the model, were dimly visible. And a question hummed in
- her ears: “Was this the aspect of life that men kept so jealously hidden
- from women?”
- </p>
- <p>
- But Clytie was young and vigorous, with fresh bright blood leaping in her
- veins. The thrill of the salt breeze and the whole-hearted laughter of her
- friends soon prevented these imaginings from becoming morbid, and
- gradually the first sharp impression dulled more or less down to the level
- of her other experiences of things. She gave herself up again to the
- freedom and gaiety of the trip, to the unfeigned delight of Kent, who had
- been beginning to wonder whether, for unknown reasons, some coolness had
- arisen between them.
- </p>
- <p>
- He forbore to allude to the subject until the night when they were all
- returning together from St. Malo to Southampton. He had found her a
- sheltered corner of the upper deck, rigged up a screen of rugs,
- comfortably established her in a canvas chair with many wraps. Most of the
- passengers had gone below. They were almost alone. The voices of two men
- in an opposite corner came vaguely out of the darkness. All was still save
- for the continuous rattle and wash, which at sea forms a strange kind of
- silence in itself.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Aren't you sorry it is over?” asked Clytie from the dimness of her wraps.
- “We did nothing very wonderful, but it has been very pleasant—a
- thing to look back upon.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “'A garnered joy for after-time.'”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You are waxing poetical.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, that's Wither. He was poetical in his youth. You would hardly think
- it of him. I have always thought that line rather pretty. Anyhow, it is
- true in the present case.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And we haven't quarrelled,” said Clytie, “in spite of the maxim, 'If you
- want to lose a friend, travel with him.' But I don't think I could quarrel
- with you. You wrap yourself round with such imperturbable superiority.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “The metaphor is mixed, but proceed,” interrupted Kent.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, it's not worth while playing to such a bad house.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don't see what we should have to quarrel about,” returned Kent,
- laughing. “We each give the other credit for independent opinions; and as
- for action, if you wanted to go to the right and I to the left, I suppose
- I should give in and let you have your way—if it were not contrary
- to common sense.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And if it were? If it were simply idiotic?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Perhaps I should go with you then, to keep you out of harm's way.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Thank you,” murmured Clytie rather touched, looking up restfully at the
- stars.
- </p>
- <p>
- There was a little silence. Kent puffed at his pipe. The glow attracted
- George Farquharson, who had just come up on the deck and was groping about
- for them in the darkness.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Going to stay here all night?” he asked.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Most of it,” replied Clytie.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Kent making you comfortable?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Clytie murmured an easeful affirmative, and Farquharson, nodding a
- good-night, disappeared into the darkness.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Apropos of quarrelling,” said Kent after a while. “Do you know, I thought
- once, for a few days, you were vexed with me for something—after we
- left Dinan. Were you?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Clytie felt the words like a touch of ice. Why had Kent blundered so
- tactlessly?
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, why do you mention that?” she cried. “The only painful thing in all
- the trip. Something that I saw at Dinan—I was put out. Was I very
- disagreeable? It did not refer to you in any way, dear friend.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Pardon me if I have touched on a sore place,” replied Kent. “I find I
- have a good deal to learn in these matters. Will you make a compact with
- me to tell me if ever I offend you? Your friendship has grown so valuable
- and dear a thing to me that the idea of running the risk of losing it
- makes me—what shall I say? Well, I couldn't bear it. I don't often
- talk like this,—sentiment comes out of me very awkwardly,—but
- when I do say anything of the sort I mean it. Believe me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Clytie put out her gloved hand and touched him lightly on the arm. She,
- too, felt that she had certain need of him. A little thrill of tenderness
- passed through her as she turned her head towards him to reply.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Didn't I call you 'dear friend' just now? And I meant it, too. You are
- too honest, too single-hearted, ever to offend me, as you say. If I am
- ever rebellious with you it will be my own fault, and I shall know it. And
- as I really have got some common sense, I shall be sorry for it. But you
- won't expect me to tell you so every time, will you? You will have to take
- it for granted.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You always make yourself out worse than you are,” replied Kent. “Very few
- people know you. The Farquharsons, myself, Winifred, do. I should like to
- go with you wherever you go, and tell folks not to believe you, to prove
- to them what a——”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, stop! stop!” cried Clytie, with a little laugh. “This sojourn in the
- land of compliments has infected you. Oh, no; I am ordinary; not bad, not
- good. You see, if I had had anybody to care for specially, and who cared
- for me, I might have shown up differently. I have hardly had a chance of
- seeming otherwise than selfish. Opportunity makes the saint as much as it
- makes the thief.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Kent meditated, framing a reply. The right words would not come until it
- seemed that too long an interval had elapsed. There was another silence—one
- of those pleasant ones between friends when they feel in sympathy. Clytie
- at last broke it.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Would you have had such a conversation as this with a man friend?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No—at least—well, no. Why?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, nothing. The idea occurred to me,” replied Clytie.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER IX.
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he long autumn
- months rolled on, bringing little new to Clytie or to Kent. Clytie
- continued to paint her small <i>genre</i> pictures, but with a more
- certain touch, a restraint which a deeper insight into life compelled.
- They did not satisfy her now, however, as they used to. She had more
- articulate longings after an art which should be higher, more
- comprehensive, more responsive to certain subtler and at the same time
- more stirring impulses within her.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I want to paint something that may live,” she said to Kent, “something I
- can throw my whole soul into, something I can look at when it is finished
- and say: 'There, that is final; that expresses consummately everything I
- have ever felt and dreamed.'”
- </p>
- <p>
- “If you can ever say that, you will cease to be an artist,” he replied in
- his matter-of-fact way.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Perhaps so. But I must try. And the subject, the subject?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Wait,” said Kent. “If it ever comes, it will do so of itself.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Clytie waited, but the subject did not come. Meanwhile she had her hands
- full with orders, both for pictures and for magazine illustrations. Her
- life was full, as far as work could make it. Winifred came regularly to
- the studio, as usual, cheering her with sweet companionship. She had spent
- her summer holiday at the seaside, treating out of her own purse her two
- little brothers to a holiday. She came back with glowing reminiscences of
- her adventures, the humorous naughtinesses of the children, the odds and
- ends of character she had met with. Her only regret was that her dear
- Clytie had not been there too.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I should have thrown those horrid children, Reggie and Arthur, into the
- sea!” exclaimed Clytie.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, no, you wouldn't. They simply adore you. They are nice children,
- aren't they, now?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You little goose!” cried Clytie, kissing the warm brown cheek. “They are
- like you, the sweetest little children in the world. When are they coming
- to tea?”
- </p>
- <p>
- These teas in the studio were red-letter days for Winifred's brothers and
- sisters. They worshipped Clytie, who had keen sympathy with the
- unconventionalities of childhood. She made grotesque caricatures of them,
- at which they screamed with laughter, or sat on the hearthrug with them
- and talked the nonsense that bright children love. Their joy was complete
- if Kent came in. They called him “Kent,” took complete possession of him,
- presented him to Clytie as a pet trifle they carried about with them. He,
- too, was fond of these debauches, and seldom missed attending them if he
- could leave the Museum in time. He loved to see Clytie take her part in
- them. She seemed to him even more sweet and womanly than Winifred when she
- had a child on her lap, and her dark red hair was touching the black
- ruffled curls. He told her so one day, and the colour came into her cheeks
- as she laughed.
- </p>
- <p>
- Another occasional visitor in the studio was Treherne, the young clergyman
- whom Clytie had met at the Farquharson's numismatic dinner-party. Kent and
- herself had run across him at a Bond Street gallery where some paintings
- by the impressionists Degas and Monet were on view. He was looking ill and
- overworked. He replied to their inquiries that he had been forced to give
- up his North London parish and take lighter duties near Victoria. As he
- lived in her neighbourhood, he hoped that Clytie would allow him to call
- one day and see her pictures; “Jack” at the exhibition had aroused his
- admiration. Clytie readily gave him her “day,” when Miss Marchpane and
- herself were at home to their friends, and hoped he would come. He called,
- found a certain charm in the bright talk of the studio, exhilarating after
- the dull rounds among his parishioners, and soon became a constant
- visitor. Perhaps the charm of a pair of soft brown eyes attracted him more
- than he thought of confessing. Towards the end of the year, however, he
- bought, through a dealer, two of Winifred's dainty pictures.
- </p>
- <p>
- The days shortened, the painting light grew less and less, and the time
- came for Clytie to pay her Christmas visit to Durdleham. She had not been
- there for a year, and her heart longed at times for the familiar faces and
- the voices of her own kith and kin. She thought that, perhaps, now she had
- grown older, her father and sisters would think her mode of life less
- unnatural, less likely to result in moral shipwreck. The letters, too, she
- had been receiving from them lately were kinder, more affectionate in
- tone. Mrs. Blather longed to have her dear Clytie back amongst them once
- more, and Janet wrote touchingly of the vacant chair at the dinner table.
- Clytie anticipated much quiet pleasure from her visit. The need of an
- attitude of rebellion was past, and she could throw herself lovingly, with
- no fear of compromising her independence, into all the mild interests of
- the household. There were times when a tenderer, softer chord vibrated in
- her heart, suggesting sadly the sweetness of home and loved family ties.
- She was human, with the foolish human craving for things that are not. She
- could not abandon her free artistic life; but if she could fill it with
- gentler, softer graces! In these moods she clung to Winifred, loving her
- for this element of sweet womanliness she brought into the rooms in the
- King's Road that were her home. It was with this range of feelings
- uppermost in her heart that she went to Durdleham.
- </p>
- <p>
- For the first few days after Clytie's departure Kent laboured honestly and
- doggedly in his old way. But gradually he began to feel a lack of interest
- in his pursuits, to be vaguely conscious that the conditions of things
- were upset, and then he wished that Clytie had not gone.
- </p>
- <p>
- One evening he was sitting in his room with a litter of proof-sheets lying
- idly before him. He felt depressed. It was a new sensation. It puzzled
- him, annoyed him, made him angry with himself, like a man's first
- unsuspected attack of the gout. He rose and walked about. His fire had
- nearly gone out, his lamp had been flaring and the room was filled with
- its acrid smoke. He could not open the window, for the sleet and rain were
- beating against the panes. He stopped for a moment watching the water
- dribble outside down the glass. Then he turned away impatiently, seeking
- solace from his book-backs and pictures. But they seemed to look back upon
- him unsympathetically, as if reproaching him for the bare floor, the
- untidy dresser, and the cheerless hearth. He rekindled his fire, filled a
- pipe, and sat down to think.
- </p>
- <p>
- Kent was not given to introspection. His external interests in life were
- too engrossing for him to think deeply or continuously about himself. Such
- a habit of mind he used vehemently to deprecate as morbid, egotistical.
- But now this strange depression, this vague sense of loss, compelled him
- to account for it to his reason. He began in a sober, materialistic way to
- review his general health (there are philosophers amongst us who refer all
- moods to the liver, not looking upon it, however, like the ancients, as
- the seat of the affections!), to question some little disappointments he
- had had with regard to his great work, and to dwell upon the futility of
- existence—the suggestion of which he should have been logical enough
- to see was the result and not the cause of his state of mind. But he was
- not logical. Few men are when the great facts of inner life are in
- question; for in the course of logic “none of us would see salvation,” as
- far as this world's happiness is concerned. Gradually a truth dawned upon
- him. He missed the ever-ready companionship he had enjoyed for nearly a
- year. He missed Clytie. He found that for the first time in his life since
- he was a baby he had been depending for something on a woman. He had never
- realised until then the strength of that unknown subtle influence, the
- withdrawal of which left him so weak, so unable to put forth all his
- powers. At first he thought that it was merely the abrupt interruption of
- pleasant habits, the sudden jerk out of a well-oiled groove. Telling
- himself he was satisfied with this solution, he resolutely went back to
- his writing and began to correct his proof-sheets. But gradually his
- attention wandered again. These sudden impulses to work against the grain
- soon spend themselves out and produce greater lassitude than before.
- </p>
- <p>
- He tossed down his pencil in disgust and swung round towards the fire. It
- was Clytie herself, then, that he missed. He missed her in spite of her
- being a woman, he told himself. And yet the picture rose before his mind
- of Clytie's dainty room and Clytie sitting there opposite to him, her
- hand, with falling lace at wrist, pressed into the softness of her hair.
- Why had she not written a line to him?
- </p>
- <p>
- Yes, he missed her. But why should that make his work distasteful? He was
- puzzled. One thing alone was clear, his loneliness was growing
- intolerable. He threw on his waterproof, and, leaving his work, trudged
- through the rain to the “monastery,” at South Kensington.
- </p>
- <p>
- Wither was alone. Fairfax and Greene were dining out. The little man had
- been too lazy and sybaritic to face the cold and wet outside. He had clad
- himself in pyjamas and dressing-gown, and was reading a French novel on
- the couch drawn up in front of the fire. His diminutive figure looked
- absurdly small and wizened in his loose wrap. He nodded affectionately at
- Kent, explained briefly the fact of his being alone, and, while Kent was
- hunting in a familiar corner for the pair of slippers always there in
- readiness for his use, went on with his reading.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Get me some whiskey, old chap,” he said without looking up. “I have been
- dying for some this last hour and I have been too lazy to stir off the
- sofa.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Kent, as usual, supplied Wither's wants and poured out a glass for
- himself.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Lazy little beggar,” he said kindly as he sat down in the great
- saddle-bag chair. “How do you manage to get through your work?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Wither laughed.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I thought you knew better than to ask me that.”
- </p>
- <p>
- It was a tradition in the “monastery” that Wither never did any work. They
- paid him at his office for lending it a gentlemanly tone. As a matter of
- fact, like most clever, lazy men, he generally did an ordinary man's day's
- work in a few hours.
- </p>
- <p>
- He stretched himself out luxuriously and lit a cigarette.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Have you ever read this?” he asked, holding up his novel. It was
- Bourget's “Cruelle Enigme.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Kent nodded.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I skimmed it through here one night while waiting for you. I have no
- patience with that sort of thing.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Possibly not,” remarked Wither, “but that's a fact about yourself, and
- not about the book.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don't believe it is human life,” replied Kent. “People can't make
- animal passion the keynote of their lives nowadays.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why not nowadays?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “The conditions of life prevent it. The savage has furious brute
- instincts, which he gratifies occasionally, when his mind is not taken up
- with fighting and hunting for his food. It may be the guiding principle in
- a splendid barbarism like some Eastern courts, where men have little else
- to think of. But in our modern civilisation there are other interests too
- absorbing. The hurry of life is too great.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “What about the empty-minded women you are always railing at?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “They are all absorbed in their futilities—at least most of them,”
- he added, correcting himself; “but even when idle they are not beasts. Now
- this woman you are reading about is a beast.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Wither eyed him curiously.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You are talking nonsense, old chap. If she had been simply that, she
- would not have been a problem to the psychologist. The enigma was the
- sudden burst into animalism in the midst of a love that was almost
- idyllic.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Bosh!” said Kent. “It was the same old hideous adultery.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, well! if you go on those lines, I am done,” replied Wither, shrugging
- his shoulders. “I thought we were a little more advanced in our ideas in
- this establishment.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You know I don't mean that,” said Kent, puffing violently at his pipe.
- “The legality of the connection has nothing to do with it. It is the
- eternal coupling of the male and the female that revolts me. Pah! They
- might as well write a novel on the loves of the pastures.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “If I could write French, I should like to try it,” said Wither. “It would
- be interesting.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “There is too much of that sort of thing written and talked about,” said
- Kent. “It's sickening. It's degradation of humanity.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, it's not uncommon,” said Wither, with a sphinxlike smile playing
- round the corners of his mouth as he gazed upwards at the cigarette smoke.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Look here, Wither,” said Kent; “I have a higher faith in humanity. You
- profess to be a cynic, a man of the world, and you delight in calling
- yourself nonmoral. That's all foolishness, I know. You are the kindest
- hearted little chap in the world. But can you, as a man of intellectual
- tastes, sympathise with all this animalism?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Wither threw away his cigarette, and bending forward laid his hand on
- Kent's knee.
- </p>
- <p>
- “My dear old boy,” he said, with more earnestness than he generally
- displayed, “I do call myself a man of the world, for I'm in it and I love
- it, and I have a very decent bowing acquaintance as well with its pals,
- the Flesh and the Devil. I know something of men, and as for women, it has
- been my lot to have been petted by a good few—my size lends itself
- to that sort of thing. In fact, Gulliver with the Brobdingnag maids of
- honour is not in it with me. I know all about 'em; and I tell you, old
- chap, that the Beast, sometimes with a big B and sometimes in diamond
- type, lies in the nature of us all. There is not a living being with pure
- blood in his or her veins who is not overmastered at times by the
- principle of sex. You scoff at Bourget as a writer of morbid and
- impossible fiction. Look at your daily papers. Don't you see parsons of
- hitherto blameless lives running off with their cooks, virtuous women
- ruining their lives and their husbands' for the sake of some Hercules of a
- scoundrel—just as the patrician ladies in Rome went mad over the
- charioteers in the circus! Man alive! it is the Beast, the Beast that may
- slumber in an old maid's bosom until she is sixty and then drive her into
- the arms of her footman. How otherwise have you accounted for these
- things?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I have not tried,” replied Kent simply. “They have not interested me.
- They are diseases of the brain, for the physiologist to study, like
- suicide and murder. I don't believe in them in normal everyday life.”
- </p>
- <p>
- There was a long pause, broken only by Wither's request that Kent should
- put some coals on the fire, and the rattling of the operation. Wither
- resumed his reading and Kent pulled at his pipe in silence. At last the
- former looked up and said suddenly:
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why do you think people marry?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That's funny,” replied Kent, with a slight start. “I was just wondering
- myself. I don't know: money, companionship, family, idiocy—God knows
- what.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It has always struck me that you would be the first of us to go,” said
- the other in pure, idle maliciousness.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I?” cried Kent, with a gesture of disgust. “I marry! give up my work,
- procreate children I couldn't support! Have to kiss and pet and fondle a
- woman——”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, you need not do that unless you like,” replied Wither, laughing in
- his gnomelike way. “She might expect it, but she would be soon consoled by
- the blessedness of pure spirituality.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Kent's reply was interrupted by the return of the absentees, Fairfax, the
- doctor, and Greene.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am so glad you fellows have come back,” said Kent; “Wither has been
- drivelling on his favourite topic until I was beginning to loathe him.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “He's an immoral little wretch,” said the doctor, throwing his greatcoat
- on Wither's curled-up body—“a pocket Mephistopheles. We keep him
- here as a kind of Familiar. Oh, what rot dining out is!” he added, with a
- yawn and a stretch as he seated his burly form on the foot of the couch.
- “I wish I had stayed at home.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I wish you had,” said Kent. “Let us have just one rubber before I go.
- There is time.”
- </p>
- <p>
- But Kent walked home that night with a new trouble at his heart that kept
- him awake a great part of the night.
- </p>
- <p>
- Meanwhile Clytie was not enjoying herself at Durdleham. At first there
- were eager embraces, trifling tendernesses and solicitudes. The dear
- prodigal had returned, but the fatted calf was killed discreetly, lest it
- should convey a husk-flavoured reproach. Grace and Janet bubbled over with
- light Durdleham gossip, seeking to interest, and Clytie earnestly and
- sympathetically sought to be in touch with her surroundings. It was a real
- heartfelt effort on both sides towards harmony. But it soon became patent
- that these efforts were unavailing. Clytie saw the old prejudices barring
- her at every turn. She recognised with the bitterness of disillusionment
- that she was the bit of grit in the family machinery, stopping the
- smoothness of its working. As long as she identified herself with
- Durdleham interests things went well; but as soon as she, in her turn,
- ventured to sketch the bright incidents in her town life she felt a check
- in the current of mutual sympathy. If she was reserved, her sisters
- complained. They ought to know something of her friends, her occupations.
- When she was expansive they shrank cold and crablike into their mail of
- prejudice.
- </p>
- <p>
- Her intimacy with a strange Bohemian man was a thorn in the side of the
- family. Mr. Davenant considered it extremely injudicious, and Mrs. Blather
- whispered to him that she scarcely thought it moral. Janet was too
- horrified to allude directly to the circumstance. But, in her neat, prim
- bedchamber, she prayed to the Almighty to lead her erring sister out of
- the paths of temptation. She duly informed Clytie of this act of piety,
- and when Clytie burst into laughter that was nearer to tears than to
- merriment, left the room in virtuous indignation.
- </p>
- <p>
- Clytie could not help confessing to herself that she longed for Kent's
- companionship, with its broader sympathies and inspiring influences, but
- the view the household took of it pained her with a sense of aching
- discomfort, and made her feel a strange diffidence in writing to him as
- she had promised. She at last addressed him a short little note, stiff and
- constrained, which reached him the morning after his conversation with
- Wither and did not help to cheer him. Too proud to wait for an opportunity
- of posting this letter herself, she placed it on the hall slab together
- with the rest of the outgoing correspondence of the family. Although a
- hundred letters might have lain there for post without any one of them
- attracting Mrs. Blather's attention,—she was too pure-minded a
- gentlewoman for idle curiosity to be one of her failings,—it was too
- good an opportunity for the imps who seem sometimes to regulate human
- affairs to let slip, and as a matter of course Mrs. Blather's eye fell
- upon the address.
- </p>
- <p>
- “So you are keeping up a violent correspondence with that man,” she
- remarked acidly to Clytie. It is the way of some women to exaggerate.
- </p>
- <p>
- Clytie bit her lip, cheeking an impulsive answer. What was the use of a
- retort?
- </p>
- <p>
- Women of broad, liberal education, with interests beyond the nursery,
- still-room, and the afternoon-tea table, are known to live together, like
- men, in comparative harmony. They have learned the lesson the higher,
- broader life teaches of rising or declining instinctively to another
- being's plane of thought or feeling. It is hardly a fault of sex that
- women are petty, spiteful, and intolerant. When the conditions of life are
- narrow and illiberal any human being, man or woman, runs the risk of being
- shaped by them. And that is why Mrs. Blather and Janet, good, upright
- women according to their lights, subordinated their affection to their
- principles, and stood away shocked from their sister. Their traditional
- ideals of femininity had been sinned against. The crime was all but
- unpardonable. It was always present with them, always assuming fresh,
- distorted shapes. They were on a different plane from Clytie, and viewed
- all her actions in a false perspective.
- </p>
- <p>
- Clytie was hurt, wounded in her womanly pride. She knew that there was
- much clay in her composition, and often felt with chastening
- self-abasement how much nearer the angels Winifred was than herself. Yet
- she was accustomed to live in an atmosphere free from reproach. Winifred,
- Kent, the Farquharsons, and others of her friends might touch with light,
- tender finger on here and there an imperfection in her character or
- conduct; for this she was grateful, knowing the deeper feelings of esteem
- and respect that prompted. But to move in a circle where she was looked
- upon as a black sheep, as a girl on the path to unutterable abysses,
- galled her to the quick, sent the hot blood mounting in stinging waves to
- her cheek, leaving the heart cold. Yet she had learned not to blame her
- sisters over much. She had lost her militant scorn of Jacob. Kent had
- taught her that although Esau might possess the higher birthright which no
- bartering of pottage could alienate, there was still saving grace in the
- stolen birthright which Jacob guarded so jealously. But this knowledge did
- not make her heart less sore.
- </p>
- <p>
- The happiest time in this Christmas visit was when she could get away into
- the old lumber-attic in which she had dreamed so many girlish dreams. It
- had long been dismantled of the Liberty curtains, Persian rugs, and cheap
- Japaneseries that had lent it the suggestion of artistic atmosphere the
- girl of eighteen had craved. It was bare now, except for a table and chair
- and a few odds and ends of artist's materials, but a fire could be laid in
- the grate to make things look cheery, and there was still the deeply
- recessed attic-window where she could stand and look out over the same
- drear landscape. It was only the ordinary midland succession of fields,
- now black with winter, and pastures through which the river ran, its
- course only indicated by the fringing line of pollards and willows. Away
- on the slope to the west rose a clump of trees from which peeped a few
- houses and a church spire, the little village of Wexwith. In the
- foreground ran the highroad skirted with new red-brick cottages, a touch
- of sordidness added by man to the ungenerous dreariness of nature. Once
- this had affected Clytie with a sense of the unutterable melancholy of
- things. The young are prone to be so affected. They are rather proud when
- they realise it; it is a kind of youthful vanity. But Clytie, like the
- wiser among us, sought brightness as she grew older, and although she
- could not consider the landscape cheerful, looked at it only through the
- memories of five years. Every spot had associations for her. There was the
- cottage where she had seen the little bully strike his playmate, the
- original conception of the picture that had helped to cause her welcome
- banishment from home. Next to it used to live the old beldame who threw
- out of doors the custards and jellies that Janet with angelic perseverance
- used to take her. What cruel mockery she used to make of Janet in those
- days! Now she submissively helped to carry the custards. Behind the
- swelling uplands over the village the sun set, a red ball in the wintry
- sky. For how many wild fantastic daubs had not that formed a background!
- </p>
- <p>
- It was during these reveries that the picture subject she craved commenced
- to haunt her as it gradually shaped itself into definiteness. Since her
- singular interview with the French girl at Dinan a lurid gleam streamed
- from the gates ajar of mysteries that had baffled her. She had read widely
- and deeply; but books are only the gloss of life, they are not the text.
- Its secrets must be read in the living world, with much pain and
- sleeplessness and wearied eyes. The throbbing page had been presented to
- Clytie for one sharp moment, blazing, the while, in letters of flame. Such
- knowledge changes lingering girlhood into womanhood without the aid of
- passion. It changes sex-pride into sex-sorrow—in higher natures, be
- it understood. And this sex-sorrow runs in channels hollowed out by
- ever-varying circumstance and temperament. It flows in the patient,
- all-enduring devotion of the sister labouring among outcasts, in the
- militant enthusiasm of the social reformer. It quivers in the hearts of
- teachers like George Eliot and Elizabeth Barrett Browning. It lives in the
- souls of some mothers who tremulously watch the shaping of their
- daughter's destiny. With Clytie it ran confluent with her artistic
- impulses. It had influenced them vaguely, dimly, hauntingly for months,
- but now, at last, stirringly, proclaiming itself, insistently demanding
- expression.
- </p>
- <p>
- The subject was found: Faustina in her innocent maidenhood. The problem:
- how to manifest the foreshadowings of passion on the young, clear face?
- </p>
- <p>
- Clytie spent hours in her attic trying to fix the summer lightnings of
- features that flashed elusively before her mind. She wished she were in
- London, to go abroad in the highways seeking after a face. It seemed to
- her that in the great city she would find the one she wanted, in the park,
- at the theatre, perhaps among the subdued black rows of women—lines
- of suppressed volcanic workings—in some great shop. But in Durdleham
- volcanoes were extinct or regulated by formula to erupt with mild
- propriety. She began to feel the frenzied weariness of helplessness. If
- only she could talk to someone—to Kent.
- </p>
- <p>
- One day Mrs. Blather came into the attic. Clytie was dreaming before
- incoherent charcoal streaks. The fire had burned low and the draught of
- the opening door made her shiver.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why, Clytie, child, you are blue with cold,” said her sister, wrapping
- her gray woollen shawl more tightly round her thin shoulders. “Why do you
- mope up here?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am not moping, Gracie,” replied Clytie; “I am only working—conceiving
- a picture, that's all.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, but you oughtn't to do any work. Have you not come down for a
- holiday? What's the good of burning the candle at both ends? Come down to
- the drawing-room and talk to the Howatsons; they are inquiring after you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But I am in such a mess!” laughed Clytie, showing her blackened finger
- tips.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, come down and tidy yourself in my room; there is a fire, and you
- can warm yourself for a few minutes.” Clytie followed her sister down the
- stairs to the latter's bedroom, where a cheerful fire warmed the cold
- clean chintz of the hangings. Mrs. Blather sat down by the hearth, while
- Clytie washed her hands and touched her hair.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why don't you tell us more of your work, Clytie?” she said
- propitiatingly. “Here you are being criticised in the newspapers, quite
- like a famous person, and we at home know nothing of it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why, Gracie, I thought it did not interest you much.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “We would take an interest if you would only let us.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But, you see, I paint such queer pictures. I don't think they are your
- style. And then pictures are not portable like books. If I wrote poetry,
- you could be deluged with presentation copies; but even we ourselves lose
- all the result of our work when the picture is sold.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Of course, but you might write and talk more. And with regard to the
- 'queer' pictures, don't you think, if you made us your confidantes, the
- pictures might be a little less—'queer'? You see, Clytie, you are
- young, and it is your nature to run into extremes. If you were just a
- little bit restrained by older folks, would you not get what you are so
- fond of talking about—'truth'—in your work?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Clytie was somewhat puzzled at Mrs. Blather's conciliatory tone. Was this
- an effort towards a better understanding, or was it a disguised lecture?
- She finished her hasty toilet and went and stood by the fire near her
- sister, her foot on the fender.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Thank you very much, Gracie,” she said, “but would you always understand?
- Perhaps,” she added, smiling, after a pause, “you would want to restrain
- too much—and where would the picture be?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, why not try? What is the picture to be about that you are working
- at now?”
- </p>
- <p>
- The blood rushed to Clytie's cheeks, which, bent down, caught the added
- glow of the fire—a contrast, with her rich colour, to the clear,
- waxen, negative face of her sister. She broke suddenly into a nervous
- laugh.
- </p>
- <p>
- “There! Even from the beginning I couldn't discuss it with you, Gracie. It
- is only a girl's face—I can't tell you anything more about it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, that's what I complain of,” said Mrs. Blather with growing acidity.
- “You keep your own sisters in ignorance of your life, and confide
- everything to this Mr. Kent, who is nothing to you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “How do you know I have told Mr. Kent about this picture?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I was not referring to this one, though by your manner I see you have.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, yes, I have,” said Clytie, “because—because—he has the
- artistic temperament—and he can seize an idea—in fact—why
- are you saying this to me, Gracie?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Because you are not going the right way, Clytie; and it is my duty as
- your elder sister, who has looked after you since you were so high, to
- make a last effort to bring you within some restraining influences. We
- don't like your intimacy with Mr. Kent. It is not what we have been taught
- to think right. I know you look down upon us as narrow-minded at
- Durdleham. I think it is better for us. We are shut in, perhaps, between
- high walls, but the high walls keep us safe.”
- </p>
- <p>
- They were silent for a few moments, then Clytie said: “Gracie, don't you
- think this subject has been enough discussed? It is wasting words and
- spoiling good intentions. Suppose we go down to the Howatsons.”
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER X.
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">O</span>ne day, about this
- time, Kent was walking home from the Museum. His spirits had by no means
- lightened since his conversation with Wither, and he strode along moodily,
- trying to fix his attention on the arrangement of that evening's portion
- of the great work. He had gone back to it resolutely and doggedly, and was
- conscious that it was progressing not badly, but at the same time he had a
- troubling sense that he was treating it less as an aim than as a cure for
- existence. Fairfax, the doctor, told him he was overdoing himself, that
- the strain of double work was telling, advised total idleness, and if
- possible a change of air. Kent gave the prescription a trial, and went
- down to the Isle of Wight for a week-end, where he tramped himself utterly
- tired during the day and bored himself exquisitely during the evening.
- Then he came back rather worse than when he went. No; he was suffering
- from change, and not from the want of it.
- </p>
- <p>
- London was in a pitiable condition. It had snowed, then thawed into slush,
- and now a hard black frost had set in, rendering the roadways like glass.
- Already during his walk home Kent had seen four horses down. On the first
- two occasions he had lent a helping hand. After that it began to grow
- monotonous, and he hurried past the accidents, anxious to get home out of
- the sullen iron-bound streets. At the corner of Sloane Square and the
- King's Road he saw a familiar girlish figure coming towards him. It was
- Winifred, her dark cheeks glowing with the exercise of walking; but he
- noticed a look of trouble in her eyes.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am so glad to have met you, Mr. Kent,” she said; “I want to speak to
- you. Can you walk a little way with me?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Of course, as long as you like. What is the matter? You are not
- yourself.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No. I have been upset, so upset; you would hardly think it. Come and I
- will tell you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- They crossed the road and went on down Lower Sloane Street.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It's about Jack—Jack, the model, you remember. He has been run
- over! Oh, it's horrible!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And you are going to him?” asked Kent, noticing for the first time a
- little basket hanging over her arm. “Give me that,” he added, taking the
- basket, which she out of habit surrendered to him. “And these are jellies
- and what not for him?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes. Will you come with me and see him, see what can be done for him,
- rather? His mother is so harsh, so stupid.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “How did you come to hear of the accident?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Winifred's cheek paled a little and she turned her head from him.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I saw it myself. Oh, I shall never, never forget it! just outside Sloane
- Square station; I was coming home, yesterday. The ground was just as
- slippery as it is now. Oh, how can I tell you! It makes me shudder to
- think of it!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Take your time,” said Kent good-naturedly.
- </p>
- <p>
- She was silent for a few steps. Then, nerving herself, she went on with
- more coherence.
- </p>
- <p>
- “He was just in front of me when I came out, and as he saw me he ran away,
- frightened—like a little scared animal; you know his ways. And
- crossing the road, not looking where he was going, he turned his head
- round as if to see I was not following him, and then he slipped—oh-h!
- under the hoofs of a horse—in a hansom. And the driver tried to pull
- up sharp, and the horse came down too—on top of Jack!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Good God!” said Kent.
- </p>
- <p>
- “A crowd at once collected. I rushed through—I must have screamed a
- little and cried that I knew him, for the people made way for me. It all
- seemed like a horrid dream. I can't tell what happened, except that I
- found myself kneeling on the ground with the poor little mite's head on my
- lap. Then someone was talking to me, who said he was a doctor, and began
- to examine the boy's injuries.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Is he badly hurt?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “The doctor does not know yet. No bones are broken—the injuries are
- internal.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Is he at the hospital?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No. At his own home. I gave them the address, and told them his mother
- would care for him—why, I don't know. And then they got a stretcher
- from the police-station and carried him home, and I went with them and
- broke it to his mother. But, oh! Mr. Kent, almost the most awful part of
- it is that it seems as if I was the cause of it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Nonsense, my dear child,” said Kent in rough earnestness.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, yes, it is. If it hadn't been for me he would not have run across the
- road in a fright. Oh! I can see it now—the horse plunging, his hoofs
- over the child—and then the collapse, and the child hidden under the
- horse!”
- </p>
- <p>
- They turned down a side street and then another, sinking into the squalour
- that still remains in that vague river district between Pimlico Pier and
- Milbank.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Poor little chap! Punishment has come at last,” said Kent. “It has a kind
- of way of doing so. What does Clytie think of it? Have you told her?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I only wrote to her yesterday. This morning I got a telegram. I think I
- have it with me. It is Clytie all over!”
- </p>
- <p>
- She opened the purse she was carrying inside her muff and drew from it a
- crumpled telegram. It ran:
- </p>
- <p>
- Dreadfully distressed. Get the best of everything, nurse, doctor. Find
- money to go on with in drawer at once. I must feel that I am doing
- something. Will write.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, it is like her,” said Kent, with a smile, as he handed it back to
- her.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I wonder whether you would mind doing something for me, Mr. Kent?” said
- Winnie after a pause. “Get the money out of Clytie's drawer for me. I have
- been so busy all day. Reggie is in bed with a bad cold and the house is
- upside down—and of course I have to come here. You see, I must use
- the money, or else Clytie would be hurt; it seems to me to be a matter of
- conscience.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Or a matter of Clytie's telling you?” said Kent.
-</p>
- <p>
-“Well, perhaps it's
- that. One always does what Clytie says. So do you, Mr. Kent. Anyhow, I
- should like to have the money for the sake of obeying her wishes. Could
- you get it for me?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Of course, if you will tell me how.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, that's easy. I have the key of her secretaire in my purse. She keeps
- her cash-box there. You can let me have it as it is. Will you?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Of course. I will bring it round to-night.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The early winter twilight had fallen and scared shivering indoors the
- brood of unwashed children that possess these gray, sordid streets. Here
- and there women stood at the doors, their hands folded in their aprons,
- with little ones clinging to their skirts, chaffering with a costermonger,
- or exchanging shrill confidences with a neighbour. Most of the front
- parlours on the ground floor were lightless, with drawn blinds. Here and
- there a public-house beer-can gleamed white upon the railing spikes.
- Workmen lurched heavily along, now and then followed by shawled,
- bare-armed wives, vituperative. For it was Saturday afternoon, when the
- businesslike wife looks after her husband. Here and there from a suddenly
- opened doorway came the smell of many weeks' cooking. The poorer classes
- despise fresh air in their rooms—perhaps because they get it for
- nothing.
- </p>
- <p>
- Winifred stopped with Kent at a dark-fronted, dingy house, the facsimile
- of the forty other houses in the dingy row and of the forty opposite
- across the narrow roadway. A little girl answered her knock.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Mrs. Burmester in, my dear? Come, Mr. Kent, if you don't mind. I know the
- way.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Kent followed her up two flights of stairs, and into Mrs. Burmester's
- room. It was less squalid than he had imagined. A fire was burning in the
- grate, with a saucepan simmering. There were fairly substantial chairs, a
- table, and the ragged remains of a carpet. On a big bed by the side of the
- wall, not uncomfortable-looking nor unclean, lay Jack, tossing his wild
- elf head in delirium. By the side of the bed sat a nurse, whom the doctor
- had sent. Mrs. Burmester was spreading out the tea-things on the table.
- Her red, heavy face brightened momentarily when Winnie entered.
- </p>
- <p>
- “How is he now?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, mortal bad, miss. He hasn't had his senses all day.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And the doctor—does he say anything?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “He said he would like a consultation,” replied the nurse, “but he did not
- know exactly whom to refer to.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why, to me, of course!” replied Winnie. “He knows my name and address. If
- you see him before I do, say I authorise him to do anything he thinks
- right. We are willing to—that is, he need not be hindered by
- questions of expense.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Winnie turned to Mrs. Burmester with the basket, which she had taken from
- Kent's hand. The mother thanked her, almost monosyllabically. She was too
- dull for emotions of any kind. Kent watched her with interest, for Clytie
- had often spoken of her, hinting at her own puzzle.
- </p>
- <p>
- There was a lull in Jack's ravings as Winifred and Kent stood over the bed
- looking at him. The expression of sullen ferocity had gone from his face,
- which now seemed refined and gentle. He smiled at Winifred, not
- recognising her, murmured something incoherent about arithmetic. His mind
- had wandered back to his earlier school-days. He had been fond of a
- teacher there, his mother explained. Her name was Miss Jones. She wished
- he was fond of anybody now. He was a sore trial to her. The floodgates of
- dull speech were opened and a slow stream of joyless anecdote poured forth—a
- jeremiad of Jack's iniquities. Winnie stopped her gently.
- </p>
- <p>
- “We must not think of that now, Mrs. Burmester,” she said. “We have to get
- him round again; and then we will see whether we can't make a good boy of
- him for you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ah! You won't do that. He is too much like his father.”
- </p>
- <p>
- They stayed a little longer, talking. Then they went, as Winifred had to
- be back among her own family responsibilities.
- </p>
- <p>
- “By the way,” said Kent as they were walking homewards, “this must be
- Treherne's parish—in fact, I am sure of it. Has it not struck you?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No, it never occurred to me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, he ought to know. I'll send him a line. He knows all about this
- sort of thing.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He walked with her as far as the door of her own house. There she gave him
- the key of Clytie's secretaire. Mrs. Gurkins kept the room key. He left
- her and turned homewards, striding along rather fast, eager to execute
- Clytie's commission. He was filled with a foolish pleasure at her
- impulsive telegram; touched also at Winifred's implicit obedience and
- confidence.
- </p>
- <p>
- “She's a queen among women!”
- </p>
- <p>
- The silly phrase passed through his mind and he caught himself repeating
- it with his lips, half aloud.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Bosh!” he added with some impatience. And he stopped to look in at a
- shop-window to divert his mind. It was a boot-shop. He ran his eye
- mechanically over the rows of commonplace, cheap boots, and then it fell
- upon a little pair of tan shoes, with broad silk laces. Before he realised
- how his mind was working, a picture rose before him of Clytie wearing a
- similar pair during the summer trip abroad. He remembered bending down one
- day when a knot had slipped and retying it for her.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am becoming a positive ass!” he said to himself, with an angry jerk
- away from the window. Then he redoubled his pace, as if in defiance, but
- the silly phrase rang in his ears:
- </p>
- <p>
- “She's a queen among women!”
- </p>
- <p>
- He obtained the key from Mrs. Gurkins, and entered the tenantless room.
- The blinds were down, the curtains undrawn. It was just dark. He lit the
- piano candles and looked about him. How dreary the room seemed! The
- fireless grate, the coverless table (the cloth had been thriftily put away
- by Mrs. Gurkins), the absence of the feminine litter with which Clytie was
- wont to strew the room—all made his heart sink for a moment beneath
- the weight of a great longing. He remembered, too, the room by that dim
- light—on the evening of Clytie's submission. He saw her again lift
- her arms to unpin her hat from behind, the proud young figure standing out
- free as she looked at him half playfully, half seriously, her ripe, full
- lips parted in a smile. His breath came quickly as a flood of
- self-knowledge swept over him. He had felt puzzled then—at vague
- inarticulate desires. Now they were gathering a terribly real, objective
- shape. He grew dizzy, hot and cold, half terrified at himself.
- </p>
- <p>
- With shaking fingers he fitted the key in the lock of the secretaire. In
- the drawer was a heterogeneous collection of odds and ends—letters,
- keys, ball-programmes, receipted bills—which he had to thrust aside
- so as to withdraw the little japanned cash-box. As he lifted it out a
- handkerchief came with it, caught by its lace edge, and after dangling a
- little fell at his feet. He picked it up, kept it in his hand, soothed at
- the softness. A faint odour of perfume rose from it, subtle and delicate—the
- well-known perfume that Clytie always used. It was like an emanation from
- herself. It grew over his highly strung senses like a breath of her own
- personality, sweet, intoxicating, overpowering. His brain swam. With a
- kind of groan he staggered to the sofa, threw himself upon it, burying his
- face in the little handkerchief, kissing it madly.
- </p>
- <p>
- Now all was clear, waves of lightning flashing the truth through him. He
- loved her, passionately, desired her with a passion all the fiercer for
- its long restraint. Yet he could not think coherently. One thought, one
- utter realisation, overpowered all others. At last this great surging
- sex-tumult was sweeping through his veins.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, my God, I love her! Oh, my God, I love her!” That was all that he
- could groan out as he lay upon the sofa.
- </p>
- <p>
- The creak of the door made him start up. On the threshold stood one of
- Mrs. Gurkins's curly-headed little children. She looked for a moment,
- rather frightened, at his haggard face, and then ran away. Thus aroused to
- a sense of external things, he locked up the secretaire and went out,
- taking the cash-box and handkerchief with him.
- </p>
- <p>
- On the slab outside his rooms he found a letter in Clytie's familiar
- handwriting. He went into his room, and sitting down before his writing
- space, spread the letter out before him. It ran as follows:
- </p>
- <p>
- My Dear Friend Kent:
- </p>
- <p>
- If you ask me why I have not written to you for such a long time, I must
- shrink within my shell of femininity and refuse to give you reasons. For I
- have them, and they are compounded from a recipe handed down from Mother
- Eve. Well, I write to you now because I must. That reason I make you a
- present of.
- </p>
- <p>
- I want to be in town again, in the King's Road, and to see you by the
- fireside, ready to be asked questions and to answer them, and to comfort
- your erratic friend Clytie with your kindliness and wisdom. She is looked
- upon as a bad girl here, and pines for someone who thinks her human, and
- who also thinks her art human, and can help her in it.
- </p>
- <p>
- Listen, now; I have got <i>the</i> subject at last; it is eating my heart
- out almost, I have to keep it hidden so to myself. I must tell you—for
- the sake's sake. “Faustina as a young, innocent girl, with the
- foreshadowings of passion on her face.” There! Now you know. What do you
- think of it?
- </p>
- <p>
- Do you remember my depression at Dinan? Well, I think it was there I got
- the conception. I can't tell you more. But it is haunting me. I feel what
- I want to do, but I can't get a face. What shall I do? Tell me. You know,
- dear Kent, in our talks, we have often disregarded principles that move
- the world pretty potently. But as an artist I am bound to recognise the
- part that passion plays in the tragedy of things.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p class="indent30">
- “These things are life:
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- And life, some think, is worthy of the Muse,”
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p>
- as Meredith says in “Modern Love.” (Do you remember our reading it
- together?)
- </p>
- <p>
- I can't write properly about it. I long for a talk with you. I shall break
- away soon and come for it. So be prepared with all your sympathy.
- </p>
- <p>
- Do you miss me just a little bit? I often fancy my perverseness must
- give a little wholesome irritation to your life, and you are very good not
- to mind it. I always seem to be coming to you for help and sympathy. When
- can I ever do anything for you? You must tell me, dear friend, when the
- time comes.
- </p>
- <p>
- I should like to tell you to give Winnie a kiss for me, but that is
- idiotic, isn't it? Yet you know what I mean. See that the dear child is
- not wearing herself out. There! I am asking you to do something else for
- me. Do write a long letter, full of yourself, with just a paragraph about
- the needs, artistic and otherwise, of
- </p>
- <p>
- Your friend,
- </p>
- <h3>
- C. D.
- </h3>
- <p>
- Kent took some time to read this. The letters swam a little before his
- eyes. Then he laid his head upon his arms and thought, in dumb agony.
- Clytie's letter, sisterly and trustful, soothed and goaded him at once.
- “The part that passion plays in the tragedy of things!” God! Had a
- fleeting thought never struck her what a part it might play in their
- lives' tragedy? How could he answer that letter, addressed to a friend,
- received by a lover in the hot flush of newly awakened realisation? How
- could he meet her bright, frank look with this burning demon within him?
- It was base, horrible. His mind wandered to a German print he had seen
- somewhere, a goat-footed satyr kneeling and leering at Psyche. He
- shuddered.
- </p>
- <p>
- It is given but to few men to know this terror of love: only to those who,
- like Kent, have hitherto expended vast animal and moral energies in
- non-sexual enthusiasms, and have rebelled with almost passionate repulsion
- against the assertion of the sexual principle. To some men love dawns like
- a sweet, fair star—the storm comes later on. To such as Kent it
- comes in terrific forked lightnings and crash of thunder, overwhelming the
- soul with terror. To Kent's excited fancy it seemed that the Beast, such
- as Wither had spoken of, had entered into him. He had betrayed the compact
- of friendship, her sisterly trust in him. Fool that he had been! Why had
- he not recognised it before? Now all was over between them. The future
- seemed nothing but black, rolling darkness.
- </p>
- <p>
- The solitary gas-jet that he had lit on entering flared high and strident
- over the mantelpiece above the blackening fire, and Kent lay with his
- hands on his arms, his morbid brain at death-grapple with love, he himself
- heedful of nothing external—not even of a gay whistle and a quick,
- springing tread on the uncarpeted stairs. The door burst suddenly open.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Come out, you fusty old hermit——”
- </p>
- <p>
- Then Wither stopped. Kent raised a drawn, rather ghastly face and stared
- at him stupidly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “My dear old chap, in the name of Heaven, what's the matter?” cried
- Wither, putting down his hat and stick and coming towards him.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, nothing!” said Kent, who pulled himself together with an effort,
- rose, and broke into a forced laugh.
- </p>
- <p>
- Wither looked at him steadily while he slowly drew off his gloves.
- </p>
- <p>
- “That's nonsense!” he said quietly.
- </p>
- <p>
- Then his sharp glance fell on the little crumpled handkerchief that lay
- beside the open letter on the table. His quick sense, aided by certain
- opinions he had formed long since, grasped the main feature of the
- situation.
- </p>
- <p>
- He went over to where Kent was standing by the fireplace, and laid his
- hand on his shoulder.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Never mind, dear old man, it will all come right.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It will never come right,” groaned Kent absently.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It must. She must care for you in time.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “How do you know what I am thinking of?” Kent burst out rather fiercely.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I guessed. Besides—the handkerchief. It is not your own. Yours are
- a little more businesslike.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, well!” said Kent a little huskily, and throwing his head back with a
- gesture of impatience, “I can't hide it. What would be the good? I have
- found out that she is a friend no longer, that what you were saying the
- other night is true—and I feel a brute! My God, what a brute I
- feel!”
- </p>
- <p>
- Wither's mental balance was for a moment upset. He righted it after a
- moment with considerations of his friend's character. In many fragile,
- nervous bodies there is a delicacy of perception which often remains all
- the keener when protected by a shell of cynicism.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You want to be reasoned with gently, friend John,” he said. “You must not
- feel a brute when you love a woman as a man like you can love. It's the
- best and holiest thing on God's earth, believe me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But, Teddy, she is so frank, so trustful, so proud of our friendship—it
- can never be the same again—if I should tell her, she would hate me——”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You can bet your life she wouldn't!” murmured Wither.
- </p>
- <p>
- “She would go out of my life in indignation, and she would be right,” Kent
- went on. “She would scorn me for the feelings that I know now I have had
- all along for 'her. No; it is all over, all over. I can't meet her again.
- I think I shall go mad! I shall throw up everything and go away.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You dear, foolish old chap,” said Wither, “can't you see that very little
- would make her in love with you, if she is not so already? Why should you
- two not get married?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I marry!” gasped Kent, as if struck by a new idea. “I ask Clytie
- Davenant, with her beauty and intellect and genius, to come and share—this!
- Clytie Davenant marry me! Why, the idea is ludicrous—preposterous!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “If I were she, I should not think so,” said Wither affectionately.
- </p>
- <p>
- Kent shook his head gloomily, and kicked the smouldering coal into a
- fitful blaze.
- </p>
- <p>
- “No. Until she shows me unmistakably—which can be never—that
- she cares for me in that way, I would sooner bite my tongue out than tell
- her.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Until she asks you to marry her, in fact! John Kent, you are two years
- older than I am, and three times as big. But verily you are a little
- child! And if you weren't,” he added impulsively, with a soft glitter in
- his elfin eyes, “you would not be the lovable old chap that you are!
- Good-bye!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, stay a little, Teddy!” cried Kent. “I'm not much company, but I——”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Come round with me and have some dinner, then,” interrupted Wither. “It
- will occupy your body—if not your mind. And it will be better for
- you than the bottled beer and sardines which you usually feast upon. I
- shall be quite alone and you can do some work for me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “All right!” replied Kent dejectedly. “It does not matter what I do.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Wither turned his face to the fire, while Kent prepared to go out. When he
- turned round Kent was holding the cash-box in his hand. The handkerchief
- and letter were gone from the table, and Wither smiled inwardly. He had
- himself disposed of many such trifles in a similar way. Men are very much
- alike in several matters.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER XI.
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he atmosphere of
- Durdleham was uninspiring. Clytie could make no progress with her picture,
- and at last she laid it aside in despair. She had set her heart upon
- painting it, and the thoughts of it worried her, prevented her from
- sleeping. Not only would it give her fame, satisfy her ambition,
- stimulated by the success of “Jack,” but it would satisfy certain cravings
- of her soul. And yet she was conscious that only when these cravings found
- articulate utterance could the haunting shadows be fixed. The lack,
- therefore, seemed to lie in herself: whether in her spiritual nature or in
- her material experience of the world she could not tell; perhaps it was a
- subtle combination of the two. She could not bring her lens of
- introspection to a focus. What she saw through it was blurred and
- inchoate.
- </p>
- <p>
- She had looked forward to Kent's reply to her letter. His sympathetic
- common sense might help her. When his answer did come, after some days'
- interval, it was strangely cold and dispiriting, just two sides of
- note-paper barely filled with sententious enigma.
- </p>
- <p>
- “If the painting of it will bring you joy, paint. If not, you are grasping
- at shadows.”
- </p>
- <p>
- That was the gist of it. What did it mean? Clytie was inclined to be
- indignant. Her own letter had been written out of the friendliness and
- needs of her heart, and the reply seemed almost like a rebuff. She did not
- know that the writing of it had caused Kent two hours' perplexed
- wretchedness. Even the finest feminine perception cannot pierce through a
- millstone. The little feeling of resentment towards Kent took the keenness
- of edge from her anticipated pleasure of seeing him again; at least so she
- told herself when she packed her boxes at the end of her visit to
- Durdleham. But as the train brought her nearer to London her spirits rose.
- She was free once more to live her own life, without fear of comment or
- criticism. It was simple, laborious, and innocent enough, and she desired
- little more at present; but there was the exhilarating sense of freedom,
- of perfect liberty to be outrageous, reckless, if such was her good
- pleasure, wherein lies much of the sweetness of independence.
- </p>
- <p>
- She found her sitting-room tidied, neatly arranged, looking as nearly as
- possible as if it had never been vacated, and Winifred, a transforming
- fairy in the midst of it, eagerly awaiting her. Clytie sighed a little as
- she listened to Winnie's gossip. The latter looked at her with reproachful
- inquiry.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I was only thinking, dear, that this is more my home than the house at
- Durdleham, and you are dearer to me than anyone there.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Winifred stroked her friend's hand in girlish fashion and turned away her
- head. She knew Clytie too well to make any reply. Then she spoke of Jack,
- who was in a fair way towards recovery. She had been very glad of Clytie's
- money, she confessed, with a deep blush, because things at home—well,
- Clytie knew. And Mr. Treherne, with whom Kent had communicated, had been
- very kind and helpful. He went round to Mrs. Burmester's every afternoon
- to cheer up the invalid.
- </p>
- <p>
- “And I suppose you go round pretty often?” said Clytie.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Of course—every afternoon,” replied Winifred simply.
- </p>
- <p>
- And Clytie, as she smoothed the shapely head lying in her lap, smiled to
- herself a little mysterious smile.
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr. Kent, too, Winifred continued, had been invaluable to her. He had
- brought the boy picture-books, toys—had sat up with him one night
- whilst the nurse rested, the mother being quite helpless, and sleeping in
- an adjoining room which they had rented for the time between them. Never
- had street arab been so petted, so preciously guarded. He was growing
- quite human under the treatment. Kent and Treherne had managed to get him
- a nomination to a decent school-home, which would assure him an honest
- career in after life. Winifred was enthusiastic. She had never known
- before what a good, beautiful world it was, how filled with good and
- beautiful people!
- </p>
- <p>
- In reply to a question of Clytie's she said that she had seen little of
- Kent lately; that he looked overworked, worried, on the rare occasions
- when she had exchanged a few words with him.
- </p>
- <p>
- “He is doing too much. I must speak to him about it this evening,” said
- Clytie.
- </p>
- <p>
- She took it for granted that he would come, if not at the present hour,
- while they were sitting over the teacups, at any rate after dinner, to
- discuss in cheery, familiar fashion the events of the past month. But the
- moments slipped by and his footstep was not heard on the stairs.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Are you sure that he knew I was coming back to-day?” asked Clytie.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Of course. He inquired twice of me,” replied Winifred.
- </p>
- <p>
- Winnie went away, and Clytie dined, took up a book, and waited. But Kent
- did not come. Clytie felt hurt. If he had been engaged, he might at least
- have left her a word of welcome. It was unfriendly, unlike him. Surely she
- could not have offended him in any way. She grew interested in her book,
- sat up till a late hour finishing it. As she neared the end she heard the
- well-known footstep coming up the stairs. She laid her book down,
- expecting to see the door open, but though she thought she detected a
- faint pause outside on the landing, the sound of the tread did not cease,
- but continued up the next flight until it was lost. Then she went to bed,
- somewhat angry.
- </p>
- <p>
- She was in her studio betimes in the morning setting things straight.
- Orders had come in for a couple of small street-urchin pictures. She had
- to make arrangements for setting to work upon them at once. Her mind was
- intent upon the matter when she heard Kent pass down the stairs on his way
- to the Museum. Ordinarily he was accustomed, if he was not pressed for
- time, to thrust his head in at the studio door as he passed, nod
- good-morning, and perhaps receive some small commission to execute at the
- colour man's in Oxford Street.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Perhaps he has grown tired of our intimacy,” thought Clytie, “and is
- taking this opportunity of breaking it off.” The thought was a whip to her
- pride. It sent the blood rushing in fierce waves to her cheeks. She was
- alone, an angry woman, not fit company for herself. She felt humiliated,
- insulted, and encouraged herself in the feeling, baring her shoulders to
- the lash. It scarcely occurred to her then to inquire into the justice of
- the suggestion—the mere fact of the suggestion presenting itself was
- sufficient to make her burn with indignation.
- </p>
- <p>
- After lunch she took a cab and drove to Piccadilly to look at the shops
- and the people. Town was filling again, the afternoon sun shone brightly.
- Clytie's spirits rose. She went with light, defiant tread down the
- Burlington Arcade, flashing a contemptuous glance upon admiring loungers,
- bought herself gloves and odds and ends of millinery, crossed over to Bond
- Street, looked in at Dowdeswell's to see a picture on view in the gallery,
- and then, after an interview with Burrowes, the dealer, in Oxford Street,
- she turned into Regent Street, prepared to enjoy the contemplation of the
- miscellaneous crowd forever moving up and down its broad pavement. Perhaps
- the wished-for face would meet her there, she thought, smiling to herself;
- in which case she determined that she would stop, pass it and repass it,
- fixing its features in her memory. She amused herself thus for some time,
- scanning the faces of the passers-by, inventing rapid histories to
- account, here for the after-light of laughter in a young girl's eyes, and
- there for the lines of pain round the corners of an older woman's lips.
- She paused before a shop-window to observe a ragged little arab who was
- flattening a nose, already much snubbed by previous applications, against
- the glass. To gratify a whimsical artistic fancy she entered the shop on a
- trivial pretext so as to obtain from the other side of the pane the aspect
- of the urchin's face. Then, after making a mental note of it for future
- use, she went on her way. It was exhilarating, this bright London, with
- its manifold variegation, after the dull uniformity of Durdleham. This
- perpetual stimulus was necessary to her art, which drooped helpless in the
- quiet country town. And with the thrill of artistic quickening came the
- buoyant, vigorous pulsation of youth. Her tread was elastic, her cheeks
- and eyes animated. She had forgotten her irritation of the morning in the
- sense of vitality and enjoyment. It was a good thing to be young, with a
- purpose in life and the freedom and strength to carry it out. Clytie
- tasted a rare happiness that afternoon, one of which the high gods are
- very sparing.
- </p>
- <p>
- Suddenly she felt a touch on her arm, and a voice exclaimed:
- </p>
- <p>
- “My dear Clytie! What are you wandering about here for?”
- </p>
- <p>
- She turned round. The speaker was Mrs. Farquharson, merry and smiling.
- They shook hands and walked leisurely down the street together.
- </p>
- <p>
- “When did you get away from that dreadful place, and why haven't you been
- to see us?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “This is my first day of freedom,” replied Clytie, “and I was just
- thinking of coming round to Harley Street.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That's right! You will come round with me when I have finished my
- shopping. I was wishing for you. I have a little—no, a big treat for
- you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Is it nice to eat? I looked in longingly at Charbonnel's as I passed
- down Bond Street, and I am hungry.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It's Thornton—at last,” said Mrs. Farquharson with a little air of
- triumph.
- </p>
- <p>
- Clytie was interested, and forgot Charbonnel's.
- </p>
- <p>
- “When did he come?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “He has been in England some weeks, but only a few days in London. Do you
- know, he is going to settle down. Won't that be delightful? I do hope you
- will like him.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And he is going to give up fighting and exploring and all that?” asked
- Clytie.
- </p>
- <p>
- “So he says. But I don't believe it. He will get seized with the fever
- after a time and then off he will go again. That has always been his way.
- But at any rate we will have him with us for a season.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Is he staying with you?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, dear, no! We wanted him to, but he is too wild a creature. Besides,
- he knows the half of London, and is in demand everywhere. He is quite a
- personage.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Then where does the treat come in?” asked Clytie, laughing.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why, he comes to Harley Street this afternoon for tea, you obtuse girl,”
- cried Mrs. Farquharson. “And that is why we had better make haste to get
- back, as it is growing late.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Clytie had often heard Mrs. Farquharson speak of this cousin, Thornton
- Hammerdyke, and was half doubtful whether to allow herself to be infected
- with her enthusiasm or to prepare herself to find him commonplace, as one
- generally does find the particular heroes of our intimate friends.
- Caroline was never tired of talking of him. He was a hero, a latter-day
- berserker. She was proud of him, treasured up paragraphs in the newspapers
- in which his name was mentioned, wove a woman's web of romance around his
- brilliant exploits. She had often waxed eloquent over his fame, his
- personal charm, his physical strength and beauty.
- </p>
- <p>
- “But all this can't be contained in one poor mortal,” Clytie would say
- sometimes, teasingly.
- </p>
- <p>
- And Mrs. Farquharson would reply, without any of the banter that generally
- characterised her personal gossip:
- </p>
- <p>
- “Wait until you have seen him, my dear.”
- </p>
- <p>
- To the imaginative there was much that was heroic and romantic in the
- record of the active life of Thornton Hammerdyke. He had entered the army
- shortly after leaving school, but, wearying after a couple of years of the
- dulness of a garrison life, had resigned his commission. An exploring
- party to Thibet was afoot. He joined it, quickly became its leading
- spirit, and when the chief of the expedition was incapacitated through
- illness he undertook the command. This brought him into public notice.
- When the Soudan War broke out he joined Lord Wolseley as a volunteer, and
- made himself conspicuous by his daring and his marvellous feats of bodily
- strength. His name was known all through the army. He courted danger,
- especially where it took the form of hand to hand fighting. An eye-witness
- of the scene had told Caroline how once, when attacked by three gigantic
- Soudanese, he had shorn one clean through the body, lost his sword, leaped
- from his horse, wrenched the spear from one of the others with a force
- that made the man's arm snap like a twig, turn on the other—while
- the broken-armed savage leaped upon his back and tried to throttle him—and
- how before there was time to follow his movements both were lying dead at
- his feet. He had fought side by side with Burnaby in the rash conflict
- when the author of the “Ride to Khiva” fell pierced with Soudanese spears.
- He had been in evidence in every skirmish. When the war was over he
- remained in Africa, on the Soudan frontier, in command of some Egyptian
- cavalry, maintaining a guerrilla warfare until the troops were recalled.
- And then he plunged into the interior, exploring on his own account, with
- a nominal authority from the Belgian government. And it was on this part
- of his career that his reputation chiefly rested. Certainly ugly stories
- against him of undue harshness, even ferocity, were afloat at one time.
- But he laughed at these rumours on his return to England, and
- sarcastically observed in a letter to the <i>Times</i> that, given a
- community consisting of a judge, a prisoner, and a hundred howling, savage
- maniacs, it was a matter of some difficulty to form an impartial jury.
- </p>
- <p>
- When Mrs. Farquharson and Clytie arrived at Harley Street the short
- January day had nearly drawn to a close. In the drawing-room the gas had
- not been lighted, and by the dull glow of the fire objects were only dimly
- visible. Two men rose from either side of the hearth as the ladies
- entered. The long ungainly figure Clytie recognised as Mr. Farquharson,
- the other as Thornton Hammerdyke, from Caroline's description of his great
- powerful frame. His face she could not distinguish; only a large, finely
- shaped head, and white teeth gleaming under a heavy moustache as he
- exchanged laughing greetings with his cousin.
- </p>
- <p>
- Mrs. Farquharson performed the little ceremony of introduction. Then tea
- was brought in.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You will excuse this outer darkness, Clytie,” said Caroline. “George
- thinks it soothing. You know his ways. You see what a poor woman has to
- put up with!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I agree with him,” said Clytie. “It is cosy, and it seems to sanction
- foolish gossip.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Did you ever hear me gossip?” asked Mr. Farquharson severely. “I like it,
- Miss Davenant, because it induces a meditative frame of mind.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And slumber,” murmured his wife as she dispensed the tea.
- </p>
- <p>
- The talk continued light and easy, on the topics of the day, the studios,
- Thornton's plans for the enjoyment of civilised life. He spoke brightly,
- in a deep, resonant voice, that of a man assured of himself and of the
- interest afforded to others by reference to his own doings. Although the
- subject was trivial, the others listened amusedly, carried away by the
- influence of a strong personality. Clytie glanced at him from time to
- time, trying to measure him, to sum him up in the instinctive feminine
- way. But he was sitting far back from the fire, in the gloom, and she
- could only gather a general impression of physical size and vitality. She
- was conscious too, that, as she was sitting with her face in the direct
- glow, she was visible to him, and that he was looking at her quietly as he
- smoked his cigarette and talked. She picked up a newspaper from a little
- table by her side, and held it before her face as a screen. His glance,
- which she felt rather than met, embarrassed her, she scarcely knew why.
- Gradually the talk drifted into a slight discussion between the two men.
- Mrs. Farquharson took advantage of it to draw her chair near to Clytie.
- </p>
- <p>
- “And all this time I have scarcely asked you a question about yourself.
- Come, account to me for the six weeks you have been away.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Clytie dutifully went over the main incidents of her stay in Durdleham,
- making light, in her pleasure at being in London again, of the little
- wearinesses and depressions of the past. A faint cloud came over her
- gaiety when Mrs. Farquharson asked her suddenly:
- </p>
- <p>
- “And Kent? What has become of him?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “He is still alive,” said Clytie.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Do you know, he has not been near us all the time you have been away. He
- has treated us very badly. You must scold him for me. What has he to say
- for himself?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don't know; I haven't seen him yet, and I have scarcely heard from him.
- I shall have to scold him on my own account,” she added, brightening.
- </p>
- <p>
- “That's odd of him,” said Caroline. “You are such inseparables that I
- thought he would have been waiting for you with a bouquet in each hand
- when you entered the house.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Clytie laughed at the idea of Kent waiting for her with Covent Garden
- tributes.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I would just as soon think of him reading me a sonnet. But I did expect
- him to come down to tell me I had been wasting my time, and to draw out a
- scheme for the better occupation of it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Take care that he has not gone and fallen in love with somebody whilst he
- has been left to his own devices,” said Caroline teasingly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, how can you say such wicked things?” cried Clytie. “Of course he
- hasn't!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “One never knows, my dear. Men are the most unreasonable beings in the
- world. With a woman, now, if you know just the least little bit about her,—it
- isn't everybody, of course, that does,—you can always tell what she
- is likely to do. But with a man—never. Do you think I know whether
- that husband of mine is going to be pleased with his dinner to-night? No,
- not one scrap. And Kent's a man—just like the rest of them.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Are you talking about Kent?” interposed Mr. Farquharson. “I saw him the
- other night at the meeting of the Numismatic Society.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “There, now! How like a man! And you knew I wanted to know what had become
- of him. What had he to say for himself?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That most of the rude coins marked with the name of Alfred were in
- reality imitations made by the vikings during their periodical visits to
- this country. His remarks were very interesting, my dear.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Thornton,” said Mrs. Farquharson in her blandest tones, “would you be so
- very kind as to light the gas?” Her husband chuckled to himself, and
- Hammerdyke rose to comply with her request. During the operation all the
- three mechanically watched his movements.
- </p>
- <p>
- “There!” he said, turning to face them, “I think that is better; we shall
- be able to see one another.”
- </p>
- <p>
- As the full blaze fell upon him Clytie could not repress a little feminine
- thrill of surprise. Seen in the vague darkness she had imagined him quite
- different. He seemed to spring out of it a perfect type of physical
- manhood. He bore with him an atmosphere of splendid animalism. The artist
- in Clytie, trained to detect beauties of limb and set and fall of muscle,
- scanned him for a second with involuntary admiration. Although he was
- dressed with a fashionable tailor's perfection of fit, which generally
- gives suave uniformity to strong and puny, his clothes could not conceal
- the evidences of a magnificent strength—deep chest, arms that seemed
- to fit tightly the coat-sleeves, broad, massive shoulders, thick, powerful
- neck. He held his head high, commandingly, which gave him the appearance
- of tallness, although he was not much above medium height. Shortcut brown
- hair, clinging close to his head in crisp waves, a broad forehead with two
- thick vertical veins, added to this impression of strength. In spite of
- his thirty-four years the blood showed beneath his bronzed skin, on which
- there were few lines. His features, although on a large scale, were saved
- from coarseness by regularity. His under jaw was slightly heavy, but in
- keeping with the massiveness of his limbs. His eyes were dark and
- lustrous, with a light burning in their depths; his teeth white and even.
- </p>
- <p>
- “When Hammerdyke is fighting he is all eyes and teeth,” was a saying that
- had come to Mrs. Farquharson's ears; she had repeated it long since to
- Clytie, who remembered it now as she beheld this hero of Caroline's for
- the first time. He was not fighting now, but laughing, talking with a
- certain daring charm of manner, almost boyish sometimes. The time passed
- quickly. When the little clock in the corner struck six Clytie rose in
- some confusion. She had promised to spend the evening with Winifred and
- the children. She took her leave hurriedly.
- </p>
- <p>
- A little later she was sitting in the Marchpanes' drawing-room, with the
- children clinging around her, a block of paper and a pencil, as usual, in
- her hand. And led away by a sudden fancy she drew pictures for them of the
- wild deeds that she had heard tell of Thornton Hammerdyke. This was quite
- a novelty to the children, who were accustomed to street arabs and
- grotesque caricatures. They were delighted, hung on her lap, demanded more
- pictures of soldiers and camels and a great man in a helmet killing
- savages. To satisfy them she had to draw extensively upon her imagination,
- sometimes upon theirs. Winifred's suggestions were scouted as being too
- mild. The final picture was a great triumph. It represented the same man
- in the helmet dancing upon a struggling heap of savages, transfixing one
- with a spear held in his left hand, whilst with a sword in his right he
- clove another in twain. Nothing is so fascinating to children as the
- grotesquely horrible; Clytie herself was carried away by their enthusiasm.
- </p>
- <p>
- Meanwhile the subject of this picture history had remained at Harley
- Street for a short time after Clytie's departure.
- </p>
- <p>
- “So that is the Clytie you used to write to me about in Africa?” he said.
- “No wonder you like having such a splendid thing about the place, as a
- kind of intermittent fixture.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am so glad you like her,” said Caroline.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I didn't say I liked her. I don't give myself away so soon as that. But,
- by Jove! I liked looking at her. Where is she generally to be found?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Either here or, if you make yourself very civil to her, she may let you
- go round to her studio—on her day, you know.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, she runs a day, does she? These young women are getting very
- emancipated.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “They are,” said George Farquharson, lighting his pipe. “So much the
- better.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don't know so much about that,” replied Hammerdyke. “If they are too
- emancipated, they get an idea that their own way is everything in the
- world, and grow devilish hard in the mouth when the time comes for them to
- be pulled up.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “What a contradictory creature!” cried Caroline. “Only yesterday you were
- railing at the well brought up drawing-room young ladies you were having
- to take in to dinner.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I should think so: the things that draw, recite, and play the fiddle, and
- rush about to lectures. I am getting a bit too old for that kind of young
- animal. I'd sooner spend a week with the wife of a camel driver than with
- any one of them. She would be just as intelligent, somewhat funnier, and
- the advantage would be that you could lick her into shape without alarming
- absurd prejudices. No; the drawing-room young lady is distinctly 'off,'
- just as much as the over-emancipated.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, what kind of a young woman are you looking out for?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I never look out for anything, my dear Caroline. I take what comes—if
- it pleases me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Then I hope Clytie will please you, Thornton. She is quite different from
- any other girl I know. And it's just her little airs of emancipation that
- give her charm, I wish there were more like her.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “So do I, by Jove! There would be some pleasure in looking around a
- theatre or a ball-room.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yet I should think that was rather a relief after Central Africa.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Thornton broke into a gay laugh.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Unsophisticated woman has her good points, you know!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Um!” said Farquharson, pulling at his pipe.
- </p>
- <p>
- They chatted for a little while longer. Then Hammerdyke pulled out his
- watch.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I must go and dress for dinner.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, by the way, Thornton,” said Caroline, “did you not tell me you had an
- appointment at six? I hope we haven't kept you from it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, yes,” he replied cheerfully as he gathered up his hat and stick.
- “It's only Field. I dare say he's waiting for me now. I shan't turn up at
- the club, though. He can rip. When he is tired of kicking his heels and
- drinking small whiskeys he can curse the waiter and go. I must be off now.
- Let me know when Clytie is on view again and I'll throw over anybody.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Mrs. Farquharson smiled indulgently. In her eyes there was no one like
- Thornton.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Thornton is a bit of an egotist,” said George mildly to his wife, later
- in the evening, when they were alone together. He was not addicted to the
- hyperbolic, like Caroline.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, but, George, he is such a dear good fellow—and such a splendid
- man!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “'Quem sese ore ferens! quam forti pectore et armis!'” murmured her
- husband.
- </p>
- <p>
- Now George Farquharson knew that if there was one thing his wife disliked
- it was that he should quote Latin at her. It generally occasioned a
- distraction. If it failed, he translated. The effects of that were
- certain. This time Mrs. Farquharson was content to allow his remark to
- remain “veiled in the obscurity of a learned language.”
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER XII.
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> do wish you would
- cheer up, old chap,” said Wither sympathetically. “You are getting
- uncomfortable—like Mr. Mantalini's body, in the midst of our
- joyousness.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He was lying curled up, as usual, on the sofa, smoking a cigarette. Kent
- was brooding over the fire. Fairfax had been rallying him from a doctor's
- point of view, and he had answered vaguely, striving not to let his
- friend's rough kindness jar too unbearably. He felt relieved when the
- doctor was called out to see a patient, and Wither and himself were left
- alone together.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I suppose I am making an ass of myself. I have never felt miserable
- before in all my life, and it must be that I am unused to it——”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It gets in your way like a man's court-sword on the first time of
- wearing,” said Wither.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Somewhat,” replied Kent, with a short laugh. He did not mind Wither's
- jesting. It came spontaneously from the small, bright-eyed man—was
- in fact his natural language. “Perhaps it does. I'll get over it some
- day.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It will be all right when she comes back.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “She has come back.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “When?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Nearly a week ago.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And how are matters going between you?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I haven't seen her yet,” said Kent moodily, staring into the fire. “That
- is to say, I have seen her. I have lain in wait for her, so as to catch a
- glimpse of her as she passed by. But I have not met her.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And when do you propose going to see her?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “God knows! I don't.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don't know whether this is <i>fin de siècle</i> or whether it belongs
- to the glacial epoch,” said Wither, drawing a breath of bewilderment. “At
- any rate, has it never struck you, friend John, that being in love with a
- woman is no reason why you should be rude to her?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I have scarcely thought of that.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Then, by Jove, the sooner you can get it into your muddled head, the
- better. What have you been doing with yourself these evenings?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Anything to keep away. A meeting of the Geological, another of the
- Numismatic—a theatre, where there was just such another ass as
- myself. I couldn't stand it, so I went out and turned into the Empire and
- tried to find comfort in performing dogs. I have also dined out.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You must have been a cheerful lot. What did you say to your partner?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Nothing. She wanted to babble on, and I let her babble. Curse the whole
- thing!” he cried, smiting a block of coal with the poker, so hard that the
- chips flew over the hearthrug; “To think that it should be my fate to meet
- the only woman in the whole world who doesn't babble!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I should consider it in the light of a privilege,” said Wither.
- </p>
- <p>
- The next morning, after a night's agony of indecision, he plucked up
- courage and tapped at the studio door. He entered. Clytie was alone,
- busily preparing her palette. She paused with the half-squeezed tube in
- her hand, and looked up at him without rising, her brows slightly knitted.
- He remained motionless, too, on the threshold, after mechanically shutting
- the door behind him. He tried to utter the little address of lame excuses
- which he had framed, but the words stuck, somehow, in his throat. He was
- only conscious that she was there, in the same room with him again,
- looking bewilderingly fresh and beautiful in her dark dress, with its
- dainty painting-apron, too simple almost for the rich colour of her eyes
- and hair and the stately bend of her neck. Yet even then he noticed she
- was a trifle paler than usual.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I meant to have come to see you before,” he stammered.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why didn't you? I rather expected you,” she replied calmly.
- </p>
- <p>
- She finished squeezing her tube, and taking up her palette-knife, went on
- with her occupation. Kent, instinctively conscious that it is a
- disadvantage to stand, when morally wrong, before a sitting person who is
- in the right, drew Winifred's painting-stool away from the easel and sat
- down.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You might have come in, if only for five minutes,” said Clytie, as he made
- no reply. The hand holding the palette-knife trembled a little.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I wanted to,” replied Kent, finding words with difficulty. “But I
- couldn't. I am very, very sorry if I have been rude. I am always doing
- things of this sort.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It is not very pleasant for your friends; and I suppose we have been
- friends.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, we have been friends,” he replied, “and I hope we shall continue so—if
- you will forgive me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- His voice sounded strange in his own ears. In Clytie's it sounded cold and
- formal. She was puzzled.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, of course I forgive you! You have made your apology.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Believe me—things have happened. I could not come before, indeed I
- could not.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I never doubted your word, Kent,” said Clytie, with a touch of her old
- soft manner towards him. “Only it seemed strange not to see you. One gets
- into a certain groove, and a change from it jars. You see how easy it is
- to become a Philistine. You are much more a child of the light than I am,
- in that you have got out of the groove quite easily.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You have no right to say that,” said Kent, rising.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, perhaps I have not,” said Clytie, bending intently over her
- palette. “Anyhow, the fact remains that we parted friends before
- Christmas, and now that I have come back you are changed. I am very sorry—sorrier
- than I can say. I have valued your friendship and the help it has given me—I
- am unchanged, I think so—and, to be franker than my sex generally
- is, I may say, I am hurt.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Kent misunderstood. He could not help it. He thought she was grieved at
- his friendship having changed to love, which the tone in her voice told
- him could not be returned. All had happened just as he had anticipated.
- She spoke more in sorrow than in anger; that was the only difference.
- </p>
- <p>
- “If you would prefer that I did not see you again—or so often,” he
- said, twisting the brim of his hat.
- </p>
- <p>
- The words estranged them still further. They were pathetic in their
- ludicrous inappositeness.
- </p>
- <p>
- “That you must please yourself about,” replied Clytie, with a quick flush.
- “I have said all that my pride will let me say in the matter. If you
- prefer to break off our intercourse, well—so be it!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You know that I don't wish to do that,” he said in a low voice. “Let me
- see you sometimes. Could I see you this evening, for instance?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No; I am sorry, I am going—I am dining out. Some other time. You
- know my hours.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He stepped forward and shook hands with her to say good-bye, thus breaking
- through an established custom between them of non-handshaking. He
- reflected on this a moment afterward. It seemed an omen of the dissolution
- of their friendship.
- </p>
- <p>
- When he had gone Clytie felt as if she would like to cry. What did it all
- mean? Why did Kent wish to break with her? She put down her palette and
- sat in her chair near the stove. She felt unhappy, lonely. She was in that
- strange state of uncertainty about the present, which often takes the
- form, with women especially in certain moods, of a presentiment of future
- trouble. “I wish Winnie would come,” she half repeated to herself. But
- almost on top of the thought entered one of Mrs. Gurkins's curly-haired
- children bringing her a note. It was from Winifred, who was suddenly
- called out of town on business and could not come on that day to the
- studio. Clytie mechanically tore up the note and scattered the pieces over
- the coals. She was not subject to fits of personal depression—independent
- entirely of the artistic side of her life. But the air seemed charged with
- disturbing, conflicting elements.
- </p>
- <p>
- Soon she roused herself and went over to her easel, where for some time
- she worked steadily. A lay-figure clad in a child's ragged frock stood
- near by and she painted in the lights of the skirt, with mechanical
- precision of touch. But her thoughts were far away. Then the face that she
- had painted attracted her attention. It was that of a child—merry
- and smiling—but with the little London street girl's precocious
- wisdom. It was cleverly executed. Clytie had seized the suggestion of the
- everlasting feminine in the face, accentuating it ever so little. It
- seemed to laugh mockingly at her, out of the canvas, as who should say—“Look
- at me. Child as I am, I am as old as the world, and I can tell you secrets
- that you know not of.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You wise little witch,” said Clytie, after a while, standing back, with
- head inclined in critical surveyal of her work. “I wish you could tell me
- what is the matter with Kent.”
- </p>
- <p>
- And then for the first time Mrs. Farquharson's idle, jesting words came
- into her mind:
- </p>
- <p>
- “Take care that he has not gone and fallen in love with somebody!”
- </p>
- <p>
- And the child's old face seemed to add a mocking confirmation.
- </p>
- <p>
- This would explain all: his sudden change, the stiffness of his letter;
- his shrinking from seeing her; the awkwardness of his apology; the vague
- phrase, “things have happened,” which had puzzled her. The more she
- thought of it the more probable did this solution seem. It caused her a
- little heaviness of heart. Certain strange imaginings had come to her,
- too, this week. She needed the strength of Kent's friendship.
- </p>
- <p>
- There are no persons harder to read and easier to misunderstand than those
- of whom we are fondest. There are two common causes of mutual
- miscomprehension. First we take it too much for granted that we can read
- the heart of another human being; and secondly, we are too apt to conclude
- that affinities sharpen perception to such an extent that the unexpressed
- becomes luminously expressive. This is a curious fact, too little
- recognised in our minor problems in social statics. Clytie had fallen into
- the one error, Kent into the other.
- </p>
- <p>
- For the first time in her life Clytie felt afraid. The sense of what was
- missing in her life dawned, half shadowy, before her. She was different
- from other girls of her age, more advanced, as the phrase goes. For the
- majority of women come in ignorance to emotion; they feel, before they
- realise that they are learning. But Clytie in her eager search after the
- roots of existence had learned much, with feelings as yet untried. In this
- knowledge, if as yet there was no sorrow, there was fear. If Kent had come
- to her at this moment with a passionate avowal of his love, she would have
- yielded to him. Her fear would have melted away into joyousness, the rich
- springs of her nature would have been opened, and her destiny would have
- been accomplished. But neither of them knew this. He was engaged in the
- humorous task of trying to kill love, and she was half consciously tending
- along a path strangely diverging from his.
- </p>
- <p>
- She dined that evening at the Farquharsons'. Hammerdyke was the only other
- guest. It was a bright, cosy meal, and Clytie soon forgot her depression
- of the morning. Caroline was at her merriest, proud of her three
- companions—of each in an especial manner. George was mildly
- satirical, as usual. He wore his velvet jacket, in which he found more
- happiness than in his ceremonial dress-coat. His dry touch of humour was
- pleasantly antagonistic to Hammerdyke's stronger personality and downright
- views of life. The latter laughed heartily, almost boyishly at his
- rebuker, like one who is accustomed to indulgence on the part of others
- for caprices of action and language. These, coming from a lesser man,
- might have been repugnant to the sensitive; but from him they seemed to
- bear a physical justification.
- </p>
- <p>
- As he sat opposite her, talking in off-hand, picturesque fashion of
- incidents in his adventurous life, Clytie could not help looking with a
- feeling somewhat akin to awe at the man who had gone through such things
- and could speak of them so lightly. She listened, interposed a question
- here and there, wondered what it would feel like to treat those memories
- in so familiar a fashion. A new page of life seemed to lie open before
- her, quivering with sensations beyond her ken.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Didn't you ever feel horribly afraid?” asked Caroline, while he was
- sketching some of his more recent exploring experiences.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I did so,” he confessed frankly, “but I had my devils well under control.
- I had the power to string a mutineer up on the nearest tree or to pot him
- with my revolver, and somehow they rather funked me. If it had entered
- their woolly heads to go for me all together they would have made short
- work of me—but no one liked to take the initiative.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Did you ever try kindness, on these expeditions—by way of
- experiment?” asked Farquharson.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Not much. You can't afford to fool away your life for the sake of an
- experiment. Oh, no! my dear sir, the noble savage does not swarm much
- round about the slave tracks in Central Africa. The Zulus may be
- different. I don't know—I've never seen much of them—but
- Fuzzywuz and his neighbours can only understand brute force.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don't quite see, now, how you got all that power,” said Farquharson.
- “Did you establish yourself as a little king—or what?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, no!” returned Hammerdyke, laughing. “When I had finished with the
- Soudan I wanted to while away a few months in the interior, and as the
- Belgians wanted a road made through the forest I offered to see things
- were done straight for them. As for the authority—judicial and that
- sort of thing—one takes that as a matter of course. The niggers
- don't know anything about it, except that there is a white man bossing
- them. They think it's all right, so what does it matter?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Then you hire a set of woolly-headed navvies, and if they lapse from your
- standard of virtue, you shoot them—is that the idea?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Somewhat. In mere slips one employs the <i>argumentum ad bacculinum</i>.
- It isn't pleasant, but it's the only way.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You are not going back again, are you, Thornton?” Caroline asked, wishing
- to turn the conversation. She believed in Thornton, in his power by divine
- right to blow all the tribes of Central Africa from the cannon's mouth if
- it so pleased him, but she saw that George was not sympathetic. It was a
- sore little point with her that her husband did not share all her
- enthusiasm for Thornton. “You are going to settle down now, really?” she
- added.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Who knows?” he replied. “All things become monotonous after a time—even
- playing potentate. That's why I am here—with the intention of giving
- civilisation a chance. Some fine morning I may wake up and think that it
- would be nice to have a little excitement, and then I may pack up my
- things and start for No Man's Land again.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It must be a stirring life,” said Clytie half aloud, with a quick glance
- at Hammerdyke.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It is the best life. Action, excitement, keen enjoyment of everything!
- You should take a turn at it, George.”
- </p>
- <p>
- But George shook his head.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I have a wife dependent upon me. Otherwise you may be sure I would leave
- this effete and effeminate civilisation and start to-morrow.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don't think you would do much good out there,” said Mrs. Farquharson
- candidly.
- </p>
- <p>
- They finished dinner early and went up to the drawing-room, which not long
- afterwards was filled with the heterogeneous crowd that the Farquharsons
- loved to gather round them. This reception was instead of the ordinary
- Sunday one, and was in Thornton's honour, although it was not unusual for
- Caroline thus to change her evening, scattering warning post-cards the day
- before. Kent, being on the list, had received one that morning, and before
- he saw Clytie had been half wondering whether he should go to Harley
- Street. So he had put his question as to Clytie's evening engagement
- tentatively. Her somewhat evasive reply had decided him. He would not
- inflict his society upon her. As Clytie's eye wandered over the familiar
- figures in the drawing-room, she involuntarily sought for Kent's. It seemed
- strange that he should not be there, for during the autumn he had scarcely
- missed a Sunday. One or two friends came up and asked after him. On the
- occasion of one inquiry, Mrs. Farquharson and Thornton were standing by
- her.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Who is Kent that everybody is talking about—if I may ask?” said
- Hammerdyke.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Kent?” interposed Caroline. “Oh if you know Clytie, you must know Kent.
- They are a kind of Mentor and Egeria combination.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That's lucid,” said Hammerdyke, laughing. “I hope you will present me to
- him one of these days, Miss Davenant.” Clytie replied with a commonplace,
- smiling absently. She was sad at heart about Kent.
- </p>
- <p>
- Soon Redgrave, the R. A. who had given Clytie her first encouragement in
- her art, came up to talk with her. He had been following her career with
- some interest. Since the exhibition of “Jack” he had not seen her, and he
- took the opportunity of offering his congratulations, criticising the
- picture favourably. Then he inquired after its successor.
- </p>
- <p>
- “But I don't think you will ever become a great artist, if you keep to
- that semi-impressionist style.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Being a portrait-painter of exquisite finish, Redgrave was prejudiced
- against the school of Degas. He mentioned his name with some acerbity.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Talking treason again, Redgrave?” asked a thin, wiry man in gold
- spectacles, who had overheard. “Don't listen to him, Miss Davenant. He is
- archaic and eating his soul out with jealousy. There's no one in England
- who can touch you in your particular line. You stick to it!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You are quoting the rubbish you wrote in your paper, French,” said
- Redgrave, laughing. “Now, whom are you going to believe, this newspaper
- man or me?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Whoever will help me best to sell my pictures,” laughed Clytie.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Then leave your future with me,” said Mr. French, rubbing his hands as he
- moved away.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You didn't mean that?” asked Redgrave.
- </p>
- <p>
- “A little. One must live. Higher art, to use the cant phrase, would
- satisfy one's soul's needs better—but it would not those of the
- body.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Redgrave looked at her for a moment, as if meditating over her rich
- colouring and fine vitality. A body such as hers had its needs. He smiled
- a little sadly and shook his head.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You would not sacrifice your life for your art?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No,” replied Clytie, with quick frankness, “I wouldn't. The fuller one's
- life, the fuller one's art. The one is a reflection of the other. At least
- it is so with me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I'll paint your portrait one of these days for nothing,” said Redgrave
- somewhat irrelevantly.
- </p>
- <p>
- Clytie flushed a little at the compliment.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What are you going to put into me?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “The question whether even the most emancipated of young women ever has
- art in her soul,” said Redgrave, with a quiet smile.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am going to paint a picture some day that will astonish you,” replied
- Clytie, with a laugh.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ah! So is everyone. When will that some day be? I hardly know a painter
- or a writer or a musician that has not something he is going to do some
- day—a three-act drama all ready, bar transcription on paper—a
- masterpiece all complete, bar the mechanical transference to canvas.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, Mr. Redgrave, if you are going to moralise like that, I'll report you
- to Mr. Farquharson. You had much better sit down and take me round the
- studios.”
- </p>
- <p>
- But Redgrave was carried off before he had time to begin, and Clytie
- joined a large group standing and sitting round the fire. They were the
- younger, less responsible members of the company, and were talking
- nonsense. Singleton, a clean-shaven, red-faced man and a minor poet, was
- explaining what he called the Physical Basis of Life. Professor Huxley, by
- the way, has treated the subject differently.
- </p>
- <p>
- “The man who cannot dine,” Mr. Singleton was saying, “cannot feel. He has
- not his proper equipment of senses. He is an imperfection, a waster.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That does not apply to women, I hope,” said Mrs. Tredegar, a languid,
- well-preserved woman, who was suspected of hankerings after a long defunct
- æstheticism. “I have been feeling all my life—and I can't remember
- to have ever dined.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I did once—at the Café Anglais. By Jove, it was good!” interpolated
- a fair-haired youth, who leaped eagerly at objectivities in the
- conversation.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Your enthusiasm does you credit!” said Singleton. “You'll die yet, of a
- hopeless passion.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Then, turning to Mrs. Tredegar:
- </p>
- <p>
- “Of course it applies to women. <i>La femme qui dîne, aime</i>. Put it
- into French, and you see the force of it at once.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ah, but if you put it the other way about. <i>La femme qui aime</i>——It
- is horrible; it takes all the romance away,” said Mrs. Tredegar.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, dear!” sighed Mr. Singleton, clasping his little plump hands
- resignedly. “Are we still to adore the well-conducted person who goes on
- cutting bread and butter? Oh, believe me, Edwin Smith and Angelina Brown
- can't love, any more than they can appreciate Château-Mouton. They possess
- for each other a faint current of sexual attraction, which produces
- between them a mild excess of amiability. A lot of vanity comes in, as
- they like to parade the possession of each other before the envious. They
- call themselves lovers, and follow the traditions they have been taught in
- the novels they have misunderstood and the hints they have received from
- observance of their friends. The furthest they can go is to clasp hands
- limply under a sofa-cushion, when they think no one is looking.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That's humbug,” said the youth. “I have been in love myself.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Precisely,” said Mr. Singleton, “and you know nothing at all about it.
- Cultivate all your senses first, my young friend, and then you may fit
- yourself for falling in love.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And how is one to begin?” asked Mrs. Tredegar.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, first cultivate a choice taste in food, wine, and cigarettes. Then
- disabuse yourself of the idea that the angelic, either in man or woman, is
- in any way desirable; purge yourself of that clog to all true appreciation
- of sensation—that interfering bugbear which still survives with an
- effete superstition—known as a conscience; get into an Hellenic
- state of mind by joyous perception of the beautiful, and realise that the
- supreme cultivation of the <i>ego</i> is the <i>ultima ratio</i> of
- existence.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But then we should only love ourselves,” observed a dissentient.
- </p>
- <p>
- “As self-knowledge is the beginning of all wisdom, so is self-love the
- beginning of all passion,” returned Mr. Singleton oracularly.
- </p>
- <p>
- During the frivolous chorus that followed this remark,
- Hammerdyke crossed the room and sat down by Clytie's side.
- “You seem to be very merry over here. What is it all about?” he asked.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It's only Mr. Singleton trying to play with paradoxes,” Clytie replied,
- laughing. “He is a chartered libertine, and nobody minds him.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That always strikes me as so odd when I get back to civilised life—the
- tremendous amount of talking one has to get through—and no one seems
- to get any further with it. Everybody seems bound to provide himself with
- a theory of life, as they call it—either sincere or paradoxical. Why
- do they do it?”
- </p>
- <p>
- He had pulled his chair a little aside, so that, when Clytie turned round,
- they were cut off from the main group close by. She replied laughingly to
- his question, and the conversation took a light, personal turn.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I seem to have known you so long,” he said after a while, “and yet this
- is the first time I have been able to say a word to you by yourself. I
- used to hear of you, you know, in Africa, when Caroline sent me a budget
- of news. I used quite to wonder what you were like.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Caroline and I are great friends,” she replied. “She has been very, very
- kind to me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes—a good sort, isn't she? She used to keep me posted up in all
- kinds of things, as I say—you amongst them. At last I built up a
- little romance about you!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “What a crash it must have come down with!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am not so sure of that. Time will show. It was just after one of her
- letters that I read the story of 'Marjorie Daw,' which some good people
- sent me down with a package of books from Cairo. Do you know it?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I have read it, but forgotten it,” replied Clytie.
- </p>
- <p>
- Now, she remembered it very well. The words had come almost involuntarily.
- She was a little angry with herself. But it was pleasant to lean back in
- the armchair, amidst the babel of voices and heavy cloud of cigarette
- smoke, and be talked to thus pleasantly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It's a pretty little tale,” said Thornton. “A man writes letters to amuse
- a sick friend—broken leg, I think—and describes an imaginary
- young lady living opposite him. And the broken-legged man falls violently
- in love with this Marjorie Daw and starts off to see her as soon as he is
- well—and is moved to much wrath when he finds out the truth. Well, I
- am afraid I must confess that I made a kind of Marjorie Daw out of you—although
- I haven't exactly come over in search of you. So you see that we are old
- acquaintances—on one side, at least.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Caroline must have been saying very foolish things about me,” said
- Clytie. “I remember Marjorie Daw now. I am not the least bit like her.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I never said you were,” he returned, looking at her boldly, a smile
- playing about the corners of his mouth. “I did not think so then, either.
- And since I am in for a kind of confession, I may as well say it did not
- occur to me that I should ever meet you. Now that we have met—under
- my cousin's wing, so to speak—I hope we shall make friends.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You speak as if we had quarrelled,” said Clytie.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, I thought perhaps you might have been a little vexed at my
- confession. Are you?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No,” said Clytie, looking at him in her quick, frank way. “Why should I?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Hammerdyke did not reply, but smiled and shrugged his shoulders a little.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, since you are so particular as to the wording, let us <i>be</i>
- friends. For Caroline's sake,” he added after a short pause.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Very well, for Caroline's sake,” repeated Clytie. “Only, you know I am a
- very humble person.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, no! I know too much about you. You are by way of becoming a great
- artist—and it would be a privilege for an uncultivated barbarian
- like me. Tell me, how could we begin being friends?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, suppose you tell me some of the wonders you have seen.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “'Anthropophagi, or men whose heads do grow beneath their shoulders'? Very
- well—and you shall show me your pictures. Will you let me come and
- see them sometime or the other? Do!”
- </p>
- <p>
- He spoke low, with a touch of softness in his voice. Clytie felt
- flattered, touched. It was a little tribute to her womanhood to be pleaded
- with, especially by a man who, in the eyes of the world, was a recognised
- heroic figure. There was a latent light, too, in the depths of his dark
- eyes, a sign of reserved power and strange, unknown forces, that pleased
- her strangely. All the day she had felt sore, ill at ease, with a little
- aching, chafing sense of loss. The time had seemed woefully out of joint,
- and the setting of it right again utterly beyond her powers. But now the
- world's equilibrium seemed more stable.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am not sure whether you would care for my pictures,” she said.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, I have seen those that Caroline has,” he replied. “I made her show
- them to me. I don't know what your art word is—but they seem to me
- to have a grip upon life that I like.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He could not have chosen words more flattering to Clytie. They summed up
- bluntly the whole of her ambitions.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You see, I like real things,” he went on. “Something I can catch hold of.
- All this talk of Art with a capital A, and metaphysical preciousness, is
- so much froth—at any rate to me. But perhaps you put a capital to
- it?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I do, sometimes.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, then, you will teach me what it means. Will you? It will be a way
- of teaching me something about yourself.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, I am not worth your learning,” replied Clytie, with a laugh. “But you
- can come and see my pictures, if you like.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Thank you,” said Hammerdyke, as he rose in obedience to a beckoning
- glance from Mr. Farquharson, who was sitting on the other side of the
- room. “I will come as soon as you will let me. To-morrow, can I?”
- </p>
- <p>
- He looked at her pleadingly, admiringly. Clytie was suddenly brought in
- contact with a new force, against which she felt powerless.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, you can come to-morrow,” she said
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER XIII.
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t was an evening
- in mid-February that Clytie went to a dance given by the Redgraves in
- their large house in St. John's Wood. Redgrave met her almost as soon as
- she arrived in the dancing-room.
- </p>
- <p>
- “So you have come at last—we had almost despaired of seeing you. I
- think there are a good many men you know—all dying to dance with
- you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, give me a little breathing time,” laughed Clytie. “You have had time
- to fix on your cap and bells, let me adjust mine.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Don't touch yourself or you would spoil the effect,” said Redgrave,
- mixing the metaphor for the sake of an opportunity of expressing his
- admiration of her beauty. “I wish I could paint that portrait of you now:
- 'Clytie, woman and artist.' There is one advantage about that combination—it
- assures perfect taste in dress.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He looked her up and down critically, stroking his long gray beard.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am glad you like me,” said Clytie. “It cost me sleepless nights, I
- assure you. Didn't you know it was my serious occupation in life?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, my dear, I hope you will have your reward,” replied Redgrave,
- laughing—“only you won't find anybody who admires you and your
- genius half as heartily as I do.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He nodded, smiled, and left her as one or two men came up to her,
- programme in hand. She gave them the dances they requested, and took a
- seat near the door by the side of some ladies of her acquaintance,
- watching animatedly the waltz that was in progress.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Good-evening, Miss Davenant,” said a voice, deep and resonant, that made
- her start and the colour mount into her cheeks.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was Thornton Hammerdyke.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You see I procured the invitation, and here I am. Where is your
- programme?”
- </p>
- <p>
- He took her card attached with its bit of silk to her fan, and scribbled
- recklessly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You have nearly filled it all up!” she exclaimed.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Naturally,” he replied. “Let us dance out the fag-end of this.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She took his arm gaily, and with him entered the whirl of dancers.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You are looking dazzling to-night,” he said. “What witchery have you to
- make your eyes so blue and your hair so glorious?”
- </p>
- <p>
- She shook her head and smiled half inwardly, thinking of Redgrave's late
- compliment and differentiating it from this. Each man was honest, in his
- own way.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I put myself down for all those dances,” he went on, “because there is
- not a woman in the room fit to look at after you. I couldn't dance with
- them, and I should have been bored and irritated with standing and
- watching you dancing with other people. Then we can get away and sit by
- ourselves.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But what are all the men to do, to whom I have to be polite?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “They must give way to the man to whom you are always fascinating. I
- scarcely saw you at all yesterday. Now is my chance, and I am going to
- make the most of it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, but there are the sacred conventionalities.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I thought you went in for being superior to them.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “So I am in a general way; I attach no intrinsic value to them—but
- they are useful as counters in one's dealings.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He laughed; pressed the fingers that he held in his left hand.
- </p>
- <p>
- “To-night no checks are taken! It must be all solid gold—the true,
- real Clytie. As for people talking, you are glorious enough in your beauty
- to defy them. What can you and I care for idle gossip?”
- </p>
- <p>
- The words thrilled through her. Womanlike she had humbled herself before
- his greatness. To be raised thus by him to his empyrean, whence they could
- look down upon the rest of earth-bound mortality, in common grandeur, made
- her heart swell with a not ignoble pride.
- </p>
- <p>
- “We shall do whatever you like,” she whispered.
- </p>
- <p>
- To this pitch of intimacy had the past three weeks brought them—a
- long enough period for an infinite number of things to happen—none
- the less real for being subjective. Nothing had changed in their external
- lives. Hammerdyke went into society, read a paper here and there on his
- travels, digested many bad dinners and worse flattery, played cards,
- smoked, and drank with his fellows. Clytie painted assiduously, read,
- exchanged visits with her friends. Kent was missing from her life. She saw
- him rarely, at odd moments, when they talked commonplaces and avoided by
- tacit consent the subject of their disunion. They were “league-sundered by
- the silent gulf between.” He told her that he was thinking of accepting an
- offer privately made to him by one of the heads of his department, of
- leave of absence for three months for the purpose of studying the
- numismatic collections of certain foreign capitals. The prospect was
- enticing, as he could thus have the run of the continental libraries,
- whereby his own great work could be considerably advanced.
- </p>
- <p>
- Clytie listened kindly, wished him good luck. He went from her sad at
- heart, and she was angry with herself and humiliated at feeling somewhat
- relieved at the idea of his absence. It was not that she regretted the old
- life less. Its memories were still precious. But Kent's departure would
- clear the way to a better understanding of herself.
- </p>
- <p>
- Much had happened during the past three weeks—the discovery of a new
- world for Clytie in which all was strange, beset with vague dangers,
- vibrating with a tremulous joy akin to terror. She had been lifted off her
- feet, hurried against her will into a whirl of new sensations. At first
- she resisted with fierce virgin pride; then gradually she began to close
- her eyes for a short sweet spell and allow herself to be drifted by the
- current; finally she gave up struggling. The history of most women at
- their first contact with passion.
- </p>
- <p>
- The story of this period is very simple. In its first developments love is
- usually not ultra complex. Given a man and a woman and conditions for
- meeting freely alone; further, a sudden overmastering passion on the part
- of the man, a half known, unfulfilled need in the woman; given these
- premises, and a child can deduce the result. It is the fundamental law of
- sex. Only when the sentimentalities and more delicate affinities come into
- play, when the needs of the finer animal man begin to cry after their
- satisfying, does love leave its simple phase and gird itself with its
- infinite many-coloured web of complexities. At first the mind may see the
- web glimmering in a far-away twilight—but heeds it not as long as
- the sense is held captive.
- </p>
- <p>
- Two remarkable personalities had met, Thornton Hammerdyke and Clytie. With
- the intensity of a strong animal nature he had fallen in love with her,
- with her beauty, charm, and directness. Her magnificent vitality drew him,
- compelled him. He shut his eyes to every other interest. The sense that he
- wanted her was sufficient justification for setting all else aside. He
- never even thought of marriage in the first flush of his passion. But that
- was the result of habit. Passion is a very different thing from the serene
- considerations that, according to the Book of Common Prayer, induce people
- to enter into the holy state of matrimony—and Thornton was quite
- free from any considerations of the kind. So that when marriage dawned
- upon his mind as a necessary condition, he accepted it, as a reckless
- sacrifice, as a means to an end, not as an end in itself. He was a man
- whose life had been passed in hot, headstrong action. Desire imperiously
- compelled immediate gratification. Since loving Clytie entailed marriage,
- he resolved to marry her forthwith.
- </p>
- <p>
- He informed Mrs. Farquharson of the fact, in his masterful manner.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am going to marry Clytie—so get yourself a wedding garment.” Mrs.
- Farquharson jumped up, clapped her hands. She would not have been a woman
- had the possibilities of this match not occurred to her seductively. The
- announcement, however, anticipated her hopes.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, Thornton,” she cried, “I am so glad! I have been longing for it. You
- two are made for each other. I must go down and see Clytie this
- afternoon!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Better not,” said Thornton. “I'm going. Besides, I don't think Clytie
- knows it yet.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Caroline's face fell a little. “Oh! I thought you meant you were engaged,
- and that sort of thing.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That's a detail—it doesn't matter. She's going to marry me, and
- you'll come and dance at the wedding.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Caroline kept her counsel, but she worked steadily in Thornton's cause,
- sang his praises to Clytie, invented many occasions for bringing them
- together. She believed with all the fervent loyalty of her nature that
- this marriage was an ideal one for her cousin and her friend, and had at
- heart equally the interests of each.
- </p>
- <p>
- Thornton very quickly constituted himself a factor in Clytie's life. She
- saw him almost every day in Harley Street, at home, or at the houses of
- common acquaintances. His influence grew strong upon her. Glimpses of the
- physical joy of life flashed before her like revelations. For the first
- time she doubted the possibilities of the artistic life. They seemed
- shadowy, unsatisfying.
- </p>
- <p>
- From Thornton seemed to come realisation that something stronger, more
- real, positive lay beyond them—the delight of living in pulse and
- nerve and bodily fibre. Yet, unlike a man, a woman cannot live by sense
- alone. Sentiment invariably plays its part. This in Clytie's case was fed
- by the glamour of Thornton's heroic history, so different from that of
- ordinary men, whose lives, compared with his, seemed tame and colourless.
- The glow of his personality bathed magically all his actions, all his
- words. In his superb manhood he stood before her eyes as the incarnation
- of physical force, the victorious protest against the shams of art,
- culture, and other pale shades of our morbid civilisation. When she was
- lifted high with him in this triumph, sense and sentiment were fused
- together and she was wholly at his mercy. Thornton had come into her life
- at the most delicately critical moment of a woman's career, when the
- current of her nature, checked at the turning-point between friendship and
- love, struggles tumultuously for some other channel into which to empty
- itself.
- </p>
- <p>
- “We shall do whatever you like,” she said to Thornton, during their waltz.
- It was the first definite surrender she had made to him. She was surprised
- that it cost her so little, seemed so sweet and natural.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Then you and I will defy the world!” he replied.
- </p>
- <p>
- They paused to rest for a moment, leaning against the wall. An elderly man
- came up, shook hands with her, and opened a desultory conversation with
- Thornton. Clytie looked amusedly at the animated scene, tabulating
- mentally, by force of habit, the types that passed and repassed before
- her. Seldom had it struck her before so forcibly how few of her
- fellow-creatures possessed the secret of the joy of life. How many of the
- couples circling round, backing, glissading in that dizzying mass of
- motion were really gladdened by what they were doing? Stout men puffed
- around with a serious air of responsibility. Tall men, with drooping
- moustaches, paced languidly in time, scarcely heeding their partners, who
- expressionlessly suffered themselves to be guided hither and thither
- through the throng. The robust youth of either sex seemed to look upon
- dancing as an athletic exercise, and waltzed with the intent fervour of
- tennis players on their mettle before a big gallery. Only here and there
- did a girl, safe in the arms of a good dancer, half close her eyes and
- surrender herself to the sensuous charm of motion in perfect time with the
- throbs of music. Mankind is astonishingly ignorant of the essential
- qualities of many of its habitual pleasures. So thought Clytie, in the
- thrill of her new knowledge. The orchestra began the opening bars of the
- <i>coda</i>. Thornton turned away from the elderly gentleman, and putting
- his arm round Clytie's waist led her away, without a word, to finish the
- waltz.
- </p>
- <p>
- “How delightful it is to dance with someone who is not bored by it!” she
- said, when the music stopped and they were pushing their way through the
- crowd towards the door.
- </p>
- <p>
- He laughed in his boyish way, throwing back his head.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I had better not answer that remark,” he replied.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why?”
- </p>
- <p>
- She looked askance at him as she asked, just as any little peasant girl
- would have done. Certain conditions bring all humanity to one level. He
- pressed the hand that was on his arm lightly against his side.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Let us get away by ourselves, and I will tell you,” he said.
- </p>
- <p>
- But this opportunity did not occur. Thornton was captured by his hostess
- for introducing purposes, Clytie waylaid by brother artists for dances.
- When Thornton and herself were able to find seats the music struck up the
- prelude of the next waltz, and Clytie was discovered and led off by her
- partner. Only three men, exclusive of Thornton, had been fortunate enough
- to find places on her programme.
- </p>
- <p>
- The hours passed away swiftly. She forgot her life, her responsibilities,
- her needs. During the three dances with the fortunate—which were
- early in the evening—she flashed with wit and merriment, her
- partners thinking with masculine self-esteem that they were the fine steel
- that had caused these scintillations. But more than one woman there that
- night observed how Clytie's eyes ever and anon caught those of Thornton,
- who was standing by the doorway. When the two danced together, men watched
- them curiously.
- </p>
- <p>
- “If the principle of natural selection could always be carried out like
- that!” said French, the journalist, to Redgrave.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Physically, yes; but——”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But what? If the human race sprang exclusively from such parents, what a
- glorious race it would be!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It might be a very good thing for the race,” replied Redgrave drily; “but
- I was thinking of the parents—at least of one of them.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Nonsense! a marriage like that would be ideal,” said French.
- </p>
- <p>
- Redgrave shook his head.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I doubt it,” he said, with some earnestness. “I know a little of Clytie
- Davenant. I may claim to have discovered her. She has the blood of life in
- her, it is true—but she has the finer artistic temperament as well.
- Mark my words, French; if she marries that man she will lose her art clean—clean;
- and not another 'Jack' will she ever be able to paint. Many of us men
- artists are ruined by marriage. A woman artist, to whom it means fifty
- times more, runs fifty times more risk.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, perhaps we are a bit previous,” said French laughing, and turned
- the conversation.
- </p>
- <p>
- Later in the evening Thornton and Clytie came out of the dancing-room. She
- was flushed, dazed with the music, the noise, the electric light and the
- heavy scent of cut flowers; confused, too, by Thornton's presence, by the
- after-pressure of his arm around her waist, overwrought a little by his
- personal magnetism.
- </p>
- <p>
- They threaded their way through the crowd that lined the passage and the
- stairs, went through the brilliantly lit studio with its polished oak
- floor and wealth of hangings and costly decoration, into the models'
- dressing-room beyond, that had been turned into a small boudoir for the
- occasion. Many couples were wandering about the studio, examining the
- pictures and the china, but the dressing-room had escaped notice.
- </p>
- <p>
- “This is soothing after the glare,” said Clytie, sitting down restfully on
- a divan.
- </p>
- <p>
- Great palms screened the door, the room was hung with dark, heavy drapery,
- and between them shaded electric lamps shed a subdued light. Thornton sat
- down by her side. After a while the steps and talking in the adjacent
- studio ceased, and there rose from below the faint strains of the music
- and the dull rhythmic thud of the dancers.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What were we talking about? I forget,” said Clytie, after a short
- silence, and then, meeting his eyes fixed upon her, she turned away her
- head:
- </p>
- <p>
- “Don't! I can't bear it,” she murmured involuntarily.
- </p>
- <p>
- Then he caught her hand: “Clytie, you are adorable, glorious, bewitching!”
- he cried, and kissed her quickly, twice, on the corner of her lips. She
- snatched her hand away and started to her feet, pale and trembling, her
- eyes blazing.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why did you do that? You have no right to do that!”
- </p>
- <p>
- He rose, went to her, caught her wrists again—but this time she was
- powerless to withdraw them, and he spoke in a quick, deep voice:
- </p>
- <p>
- “I have the right to kiss you—to kiss you and kiss you till the
- world's end—for I love you—and I would sacrifice all I have
- got—my life itself, for one kiss from you—I loved you, wanted
- you, from the first time I saw you—when the suddenly lit light
- revealed your beauty to me, and you sprang glorious, bewildering out of
- the darkness.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Let me go, let me go!” she murmured, faintly struggling.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Not until you tell me that I have the right to kiss you—I know you
- will give it, you must! Clytie, I am stronger than most men, and my love
- is stronger than most men's and will not be denied—I will make you,
- force you to love me as passionately as I love you. Look at me. Speak! say
- just a word!”
- </p>
- <p>
- She flashed a swift, sidelong glance at him, and met his eyes with the
- light burning in their dark depths. His passion intoxicated her.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You know,” she murmured. The words came almost without volition.
- </p>
- <p>
- He released her hands. She remained standing for a moment, motionless with
- downcast eyes. Then she lifted them once more shyly, met his, and uttered
- a short gasping cry as he caught her in his arms and kissed her
- passionately.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You will be my wife, and let our whole lives be one long kiss?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes,” she said, below her breath.
- </p>
- <p>
- A little later Thornton put her into a cab, and she drove home. The cold
- night air invigorated her relaxed body, but seemed to benumb her mind. She
- could not think—only feel Thornton's kisses upon her. The rest of
- the subjective and objective universe was a blank. Only when the cab
- stopped and the driver asked the number of her house through the trap-door
- in the roof, was she conscious of external things. Then she found that he
- had driven a long way past the familiar door. As he turned round
- grumblingly, she was aware of being chilled through from her drive across
- London, and longed to get indoors.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was not until she told Winifred the next morning that she realised the
- great change that had come over her life.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am going to marry Mr. Hammerdyke.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The commonplace statement, thus uttered for the first time, seemed like a
- cold decree of fate, inevitable, irresistible. Winifred cried a little at
- the thought of losing her.
- </p>
- <p>
- “But you will be happy, my darling,” she said, smiling through her tears.
- “He is so brave and strong and handsome, and he must love you better than
- his life.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, dear,” said Clytie, gently stroking her friend's brown hair
- (Winifred was sitting at her feet) and looking tenderly at her pure,
- upturned face. But her own, bent down, was aflame with reminiscence.
- </p>
- <p>
- “When is it to be? Not for a long, long time, I hope,” said Winifred.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Almost immediately—he wants it—there is no particular reason
- for waiting.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I felt it was coming some day,” said Winifred; “but I did not expect it
- so soon.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It is best,” said Clytie—“best that it should be at once; the
- interval between the old life and the new would be too trying if it were
- drawn out.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You always do what is best, dear,” whispered Winifred in her trustful
- way. “Oh! you must be happy, very, very happy, Clytie dear.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Clytie leaned back in her chair, caressing her friend's cheek with the
- back of her hand, and looked around the studio. It came almost as a shock
- to her to realise that in a short, short time she would have to bid
- farewell to all that had grown up around her artistic life. The grotesque
- caricatures on the walls stared at her like meaningless shadows. Her
- palette, brushes, and paraphernalia of rags and turpentine bottles lay
- strewn about like the properties of a forgotten comedy. The unfinished
- pictures on easels and stands lost their fascination. Only Winifred's
- little study on the other side of the studio seemed unchanged—retaining
- its virginal freshness and purity. But the sound of a step on the landing
- outside, buoyant, elastic, dispelled all wistful regrets. She sprang to
- her feet as Winifred rose, and listened, transformed into a radiant woman,
- with quivering depths in her dark blue eyes, her red lips parted in a half
- smile, her chin raised showing the full neck.
- </p>
- <p>
- A moment or two afterwards Mrs. Gurkins appeared at the studio door.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Mr. Hammerdyke, miss. I have shown him into the sitting-room,” she said,
- and then retired.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I knew it was he,” said Clytie.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Go, dear,” said Winifred, putting her arm round Clytie's waist and moving
- with her across the studio to the door.
- </p>
- <p>
- Clytie kissed her laughingly and disappeared. But two tears rolled down
- Winifred's cheek as she went back to the chair by the stove; and then she
- flung herself down where she had been sitting, and burying her face in her
- arm, began to cry bitterly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don't like him, I don't like him; he will spoil my darling,” she
- moaned.
- </p>
- <p>
- Sometimes knowledge is given to those who seek after it least.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER XIV.
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he unexpected
- always happens, often inopportunely. Winifred had risen from the ground by
- the stove and was standing miserably before her easel when a knock was
- heard at the studio door. She cried, “Come in!” and Kent entered. He was
- looking rather pale and worn out, his beard sinking ever so little into
- his cheeks; his eyes were tired. On seeing him Winifred could not restrain
- a start of surprise.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why, Mr. Kent! you here at this hour of the day!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes; I have just come back from the Museum. I went up to tell them I
- wasn't coming, as they say in Ireland. The fact is I am feeling lazy and
- want a few days' slackness.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You have been overworking yourself, that's what you have been doing,”
- said Winifred with kind severity. “Come and sit down by the stove and rest
- yourself. You want someone to look after you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She pulled the chair that Clytie had been occupying a little forward, by
- way of invitation.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What a good little creature you are, Winifred,” he said as he sat down.
- “You always think of other people. Men don't seem able to do it; they are
- too much wrapped up in themselves. How are you all—you and the
- children? You must make them invite me to tea soon. I have not seen them
- for ages.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, they are quite well again,” replied Winifred, brightening, “and they
- have been clamouring for Kent, as they call you. I'll tell them to send
- you an 'At Home' card. And it must be soon, for you are going abroad. When
- do you think of starting?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Kent sighed and looked into the fire.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don't quite know yet; I wanted to see Clytie first. Where is she?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “She has a visitor—in her sitting-room,” replied Winifred somewhat
- shortly.
- </p>
- <p>
- But Kent was too absorbed in his own affairs to notice the change of tone.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Will she be engaged long?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Probably.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I wanted so much to see her.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Winifred looked at him for a moment and then came and put her hand lightly
- on his shoulder.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You seem so unhappy. Is it about Clytie? You and she have quarrelled or
- had some difference,—she has not told me what it is,—and I
- have been so grieved. If I knew, perhaps I might bring things straight.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Would you, Winifred?” said Kent eagerly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Of course. Don't I love Clytie better than anybody else—and haven't
- you been a good kind friend to me? I haven't asked her—nor you—why
- you have stopped being friends, because one shrinks from asking such
- questions, but I have seen it, and I have been so, so sorry.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The gentle sympathy touched him. The realisation of the feminine had come
- to him of late powerfully enough to have overset his old one-sided
- theories. He knew the value now of a tender word from a woman, and his
- nature hungered for it.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Winifred,” he said, half turning in the chair and looking up at her in
- his honest way, “do you think Clytie could ever care for me—not as a
- friend—as something nearer?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Winifred fell back, looked at him aghast, unable to speak, as the light
- dawned upon her. He mistook her movement, rose, and began to speak
- hurriedly, pacing the room.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I couldn't help it—how could I help it? I have struggled against it
- with all my might. I know I am a fool to think that she can love me, and
- you are surprised and dismayed, as she was when she saw that I loved her.
- I would have bit my tongue out then rather than tell her, but I saw she
- guessed—and that is why our friendship has been broken. I have kept
- away from her to spare her the pain of it. But it has nearly driven me
- mad. I can't go abroad with the weight of it upon me. I must see her and
- let her know everything. Tell me, Winifred, you who are so fine and
- delicate, I did not wrong her and our friendship by growing to love her
- better than anything life has. She won't think me unworthy of the trust
- she gave me, and despise me?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, no, no, no!” said Winifred half chokingly. “Your love would honour
- any girl. Oh, why did you not tell her and plead with her before?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Then do you think, Winifred——” began Kent with a sudden joy
- in his eyes.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, don't!” cried the girl, interrupting him; “I can't bear it. It is too
- late! I hate to stab you like this, but you must know it. Clytie is
- engaged to be married.”
- </p>
- <p>
- There was a long silence, during which neither looked at the other. Kent
- was stunned, dazed. He had come prepared for a refusal, but not for such
- an absolute shattering of all his hopes. He grew very white and stood with
- his hand on the back of a chair, as if steadying himself.
- </p>
- <p>
- “How long has she——” he said, at length, huskily.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Only last night. She told me of it this morning.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And the man?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Mr. Hammerdyke—Mrs. Farquharson's cousin.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She went up to him, took his hand, and turned her pure face up to his, the
- tears standing in her eyes.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I won't say you will find someone more worthy of you, because you
- couldn't.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am not fit to tie her shoe-strings. I know that very well,” said poor
- Kent.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, that is foolish,” she said, with a wan smile. “But there isn't
- another girl like Clytie in the world; and you will always think kindly of
- her, and help her if she wants help, won't you? You won't turn from her
- and hate her, as I have heard men often do—for I don't think you are
- like such men.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I would give up everything I had in life to save her one hour's pain,”
- said Kent. “I have been a fool,—I see it now,—oh! not in
- having loved her—not that. It is a blessed privilege—I can't
- explain, for you would not understand. I shall always love her, Winifred;
- no other woman can be to me what Clytie has been—and might have
- been. I shall leave by the early boat tomorrow morning, so you will not
- see me for three or four months. When I return—perhaps you'll let me
- come and talk to you a little sometimes.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, it will comfort me,” said Winifred, “for am I not losing her too?”
- </p>
- <p>
- He bade her good-bye, exacting before he left a promise that she would not
- let Clytie know of what had passed between them.
- </p>
- <p>
- He went downstairs, anxious to escape from the house, to get into the open
- air. In the entrance passage the side door leading into the shop was open
- and Mrs. Gurkins was standing by the threshold. Kent stopped for a moment
- to acquaint her with the fact of his sudden departure next day. He would
- keep on the rooms, which must be scrupulously locked up during his
- absence. Since his first intimacy with Clytie he had imperceptibly grown
- more amenable to feminine interference in his domestic arrangements, and
- Mrs. Gurkins no longer had her former terror of invading his domain. But
- she was still in enough awe of him to promise faithfully to execute his
- desires. To talk on these trivial matters was a relief from the terrible
- strain of the last few moments, although he wondered a little how he could
- lend them coherent attention. He was listening with waning interest to
- some final irrelevancies on the part of his landlady when a man ran down
- the stairs and strode quickly past him in the passage. A glance was
- sufficient to tell Kent who Clytie's visitor was—it had not occurred
- to him before to conjecture. His heart sank as he realised the splendid
- physique and proud, masterful bearing of his rival. Ordinarily the least
- observant of men in such matters, Kent noted the careless ease with which
- he wore his faultless attire. The patent-leather boots, the new silk hat,
- the well-cut frock-coat with an orchid in the buttonhole, the new gray
- Suède gloves grasped along with a gold-mounted malacca—all seemed to
- belong to the man naturally, to be the world's fit adjuncts to the gifts
- of nature. Smiling to himself and humming a song, he seemed the
- personification of the joy and strength, the success and luxury of life.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am not that man's match,” thought Kent bitterly, thus falling, as all
- men must do at times, a little below himself.
- </p>
- <p>
- The front door slammed behind Hammerdyke. Kent waited for a moment, gave a
- few vague general directions, and then went out into the street. He felt
- stronger now that he had to struggle against real and tangible trouble
- instead of the intangible doubts and fears that had set him off his
- balance. The single-hearted loyalty of his nature, that had caused him to
- regard his love for Clytie as treason against her unsuspecting friendship,
- and had thus placed him in the weakness of a false position, now gave him
- strength to face fearlessly life and its responsibilities. But time alone
- could assuage the pain and bitterness of it all. He strung himself
- together and walked briskly through the bright, frosty air towards the
- home of his mother and sister in Notting Hill. There was sincere affection
- between mother and son, sister and brother; but neither of the quiet,
- contented women knew much of his life or sympathised with his ambitions.
- Mrs. Kent's hopeless wish was that he would marry some good, sensible girl
- who would keep his house tidy, provide him with decent meals, and bring
- bright children's faces around his knee. This conception bounded her
- horizon of a man's happiness; as she knew that her son would never appear
- within it, she regarded him with wistful, unhelpful affection. Agatha,
- with the younger generation's superior grasp of things, looked upon him as
- a soft-hearted eccentric who deserved to be humoured. For many years,
- therefore, Kent had ceased to share with them any of his inner life, not
- because he loved them less than during his boyhood, but because their
- mental attitudes precluded confidence. They were women, they could not
- understand. When he entered the house he left his own interests outside
- and plunged, in his rough, hearty way, into theirs. He gave his whole
- attention to accounts of Cousin Henrietta's baby, Uncle William's gout,
- the leakages of the cistern, and the turpitudes of the cook. In matters
- such as the cistern he gave practical help; in others, such as the baby,
- he overflowed with sympathetic though alarming suggestions. His own life
- was seldom touched upon. With finer natures—Clytie, Winifred, Wither—that
- divined the strong purpose underlying his eccentricities, and met him
- halfway with their sympathy, he was generous in his confidence; but to
- others, proud, shy, and reserved. So Mrs. Kent and Agatha knew nothing of
- Clytie, little of his scientific work, and only vaguely of his duties at
- the Museum.
- </p>
- <p>
- He walked up Sloane Street and through the park, thinking of his great
- loss, trying to scheme out his future, in which Clytie would only be a
- memory. When he arrived at his mother's house he paused for a moment, as
- if literally to unstrap the burden of care from his shoulders and leave it
- outside the front door. Then he entered and greeted his mother and sister
- in his bluff, cheery way. He remained with them a couple of hours, during
- which he performed a few odd jobs about the house which he had promised to
- attend to, and then took his leave. Mrs. Kent was solicitous as to his
- health, besought him not to work too hard nor to come back with a German
- wife. She could not quite see the reason of his sudden departure. Why the
- country should waste its money in sending him abroad to study old coins
- she, in her placid utilitarianism, could not imagine. However, she bade
- him a motherly farewell, hoped from her heart that he would have a
- pleasant holiday, although she could not refrain from expressing a regret
- that he would not return in time to superintend the spring-cleaning.
- </p>
- <p>
- When the door closed behind him he picked up his burden and walked
- doggedly away with it, mechanically, not heeding his direction. He
- suddenly found that he had come, contrary to his intention, diagonally
- across the park to Hyde Park Corner. It was past five o'clock. Wither
- would be in his club. He would go and say good-bye, for Wither was very
- dear to him.
- </p>
- <p>
- The little man was giving some directions to the hall porter when Kent
- appeared.
- </p>
- <p>
- “My dear, good creature!” he cried, “what have you been doing to yourself?
- You are as white as a ghost. You want some whiskey or brandy, probably
- both. Come down to the smoking-room and have some.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am a bit overdone,” replied Kent, “and perhaps I have been walking too
- much to-day. But I don't want any brandy.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, but you've got to,” said Wither, and entering the smoking-room, he
- gave the order to a waiter.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I have come to say good-bye, Teddy,” said Kent as soon as they were
- seated in a quiet corner. “I am off to-morrow morning.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “The deuce you are! Well, so much the better. A sound friend abroad is
- more comfortable for all parties than a sick friend at home. Have they
- given you your three months?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes—on full pay.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Lucky dog. And while you are flirting around the capitals of Europe we
- poor devils will have to be slaving away in this grimy and sooty
- metropolis. In the good fortune of one's friends there is always something
- devilishly obnoxious. Why is the eternal order of things so mismanaged
- that you should have a good time and I not? Here is your brandy. Drink it
- and look more human.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Kent did as he was bidden. The stimulant, which he needed, revived him.
- Wither guessed that something untoward had occurred. He had a woman's
- intuition, this bright-eyed, cynical little being, and he rattled on in
- his light way to save Kent the strain of making conversation.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Have a cigarette?” he asked, taking out his case. “No? Well, smoke your
- pipe. I can't understand how anyone but a horny-palated son of toil can
- smoke a pipe. By the way, what do you think a girl sent me by way of a
- present this morning?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don't know,” said Kent. “A hymn book?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No; a cigarette holder—mouthpiece, you know. I wrote and told her
- it was very pretty and I would keep it in memory of her to my dying day;
- but as for using it, I should just as soon think of kissing her through a
- respirator.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That was unkind,” said Kent, laughing in spite of himself, tickled at the
- idea.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Lord bless you, no,” replied Wither oracularly from the depths of his
- armchair. “It is wholesome to check this frenzy of profusion now and then.
- When a woman once begins to give she never knows where to stop. When she
- has exhausted her imagination she gives away herself. It's embarrassing
- sometimes, for one can't put half a dozen women away in a drawer with the
- rest of the odds and ends. Oh, no; a little fatherly repression does a
- world of good to the ingenuous and enthusiastic. I don't pretend to be
- moral, but I am not without kindly instincts.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He chuckled sardonically and began to turn over the pages of <i>Punch</i>.
- Kent smoked on in silence, cheered a little by the familiar chatter.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Teddy,” he said at last, “you seem to hear all the gossip about town; do
- you know anything about a man called Hammerdyke?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Thornton Hammerdyke—man from Africa—explorer?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, rather. One of the greatest devils unhung,” replied Wither
- cheerfully.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What do you mean?” cried Kent in an agitated voice, starting forward and
- gripping the arms of his chair. “Take care what you are saying. It is a
- matter of life and death to—to somebody. What do you know about him?
- Tell me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Wither arched his eyebrows in surprise, and became serious. Then his quick
- intuition supplied him with the reason for Kent's agitation.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I only spoke idle gossip,” he said, “and I have the misfortune to be
- hyperbolical at times. The man has had some dealings with our office and
- that is how I come to know anything about him. Don't you remember he got
- into a row for wholesale slaughter of niggers on one of his expeditions?
- He cleared himself all right, of course, by proving mutiny, self-defence,
- and that sort of thing.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I remember the incident now,” said Kent. “It was in the papers.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, his public character is cleared,” said Wither, “and he is a good
- deal of a lion these days; but fellows who have served with him take the
- niggers' side of the question, and wonder how he remained a day among them
- without being torn to pieces. That's all I know about him, which you see
- is not much. My dear old boy,” he continued earnestly as Kent sat silent,
- staring in front of him, “is that the reason why you are starting so
- suddenly? Is it all fixed up? No chance?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Kent nodded moodily.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I suppose not. I was going to ask her this morning when I learned she had
- engaged herself—only last night—to this man. And I have seen
- him. Devil or not, he is a man.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Wither bit his lip. For the moment he was at a loss for an expression of
- sympathy, somewhat uneasy as to the line he should adopt. What was the use
- of making Kent more miserable by telling him other ugly stories he had
- heard concerning Hammerdyke if either were powerless to prevent the
- marriage from taking place? Besides, it was only idle gossip after all,
- and in the serious affairs of life Wither was honourable and
- conscientious.
- </p>
- <p>
- Suddenly Kent broke out:
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, my God, Teddy, I don't care a little damn about myself,—I can
- worry along, as I did before—better, for it is something to have
- loved her,—if only she is happy. But if this man is not fit for her,
- if this horrible gossip of yours is true, she will be entering into a life
- of misery,—I know her,—and I shall feel as if I had not put
- out my hand to stop her.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Everyone must dree his own weird, my dear old boy,” said Wither. “And
- while he's doing it neither you nor anyone else can interfere with much
- profit. Make your mind easy about yourself and your responsibilities. You
- could not go to her and say, 'I hear the man you are going to marry is a
- blackguard; have me instead.' In the first place, your pride would not
- allow you, and in the second, if she cared about him, she wouldn't believe
- you, but would marry him all the sooner to prove her faith in him. It is
- the way of women when they are worth anything.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes; Clytie would do just that,” said Kent. “I think even a man would, if
- he loved a woman.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well,” said Wither, “it is no use making yourself miserable about it. The
- wise man guards against indulgence in things that upset his moral as well
- as his physical digestion. But wisdom was never much your forte, friend
- John.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Kent stayed and dined with Wither and then returned alone to the King's
- Road. He had already made certain preparations for travel; the few final
- arrangements did not take long. As he passed by Clytie's sitting-room door
- he noticed that it was ajar, a sign that she was out. In the old days,—less
- than two months ago, but far away for all that,—he had been
- accustomed to run down on such occasions, at about half-past ten or
- eleven, and stir up the fire. Since her return from Durdleham this little
- token of intimacy had gone with the rest. But on this evening the desire
- came over him to perform this service for her once more, for the last
- time. He crept down the stairs on tip-toe, in case she should have come in
- without his knowledge. But the door was still ajar, the room was vacant.
- The fire had burned down very low, only a few glowing coals at the bottom
- of the grate. He returned to his own rooms and fetched some wood and
- paper, and kneeling down, built up a satisfactory fire. At first, however,
- the wood would not burn; it had to be dried by repeated conflagrations of
- paper, and the blaze had to be induced by much cunning coaxing. It was
- just beginning to flare merrily up the chimney when the sudden slam of the
- street door below aroused him to a sense of his position. He left the room
- and fled quickly up the stairs. Outside his door he listened. It was
- Clytie, arriving home somewhat early. He was disappointed, a little
- humiliated. The freshness had gone from his sad little pleasure, for he
- had not wished her to guess that he had been down. Now the act seemed
- clumsy, in bad taste, as if he had been forcing his attentions on her. He
- went into his sitting-room with a heart heavier than before, and continued
- his preparations for departure. He had packed up his portmanteau and was
- now stowing away his papers and valuable odds and ends that he wished to
- remain under lock and key during his absence.
- </p>
- <p>
- Suddenly a step was heard on the stair that made his heart stand still,
- and Clytie appeared at the door.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Can I come in?”
- </p>
- <p>
- He could scarcely find words to greet her. Now that their good comradeship
- was at an end, above all, now that she was lifted beyond his sphere, she
- held a different position in his eyes. She looked beautiful, queenly. Her
- rich hair and colouring, the pale blue of her dress, struck a note of
- exquisite brightness in the gloomy, half-dismantled room. He removed some
- books from his writing-chair and pulled it towards her.
- </p>
- <p>
- “How good of you to come!” was all he could say.
- </p>
- <p>
- “How good of you to look after my fire!” said Clytie.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I did not want you to know——”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why not?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, a sentiment,” he replied. “We are governed a great deal by such
- things.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It touched me so,” said Clytie. “I could not help coming up to thank you,
- as you are going away early in the morning.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ah! Winifred told you?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes; she said you had come to bid good-bye.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Kent felt bound to fall in with Winifred's friendly fable, although his
- honesty shrank a little from accepting what was not its due.
- </p>
- <p>
- “There is always something sad in leave-taking,” said Clytie.
- </p>
- <p>
- The remark was trite and commonplace; but so is a kiss or a grasp of the
- hand or the words “Good-bye, dear,” themselves. The original generally
- brings more titillation than comfort.
- </p>
- <p>
- “This leave-taking is sadder than most—to me,” said Kent.
- </p>
- <p>
- “And to me too,” said Clytie. “It marks the end of the old life—a
- very pleasant one. Kent,” she went on after a short reflective pause, “I
- want to tell you something: I reproached you a little in my heart—last
- month. I don't now. I haven't the right. Winifred said she had let you
- know of my engagement. If our parting had not come from you, it would have
- come now from me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I see now; it was bound to come sooner or later,” replied Kent, much
- moved. “Oh, my God! what puppets we are. But I wish you happiness, from my
- heart, in your new life. You will always be to me the one woman whom”—he
- was going to add, “I could love,” but he checked himself and quickly
- substituted, “who has taught me what there is in women.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ah, my dear Kent,” returned Clytie with a touch of her brightness and
- charm, “there will be someone nicer than I who will teach you better. You,
- too, must have happiness, you know. You will marry soon——”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I marry!” cried Kent, wheeling round to face her. “How can you say that!”
- </p>
- <p>
- They looked at one another, each misunderstanding. He was wounded at her
- treating his love as a thing of no account. She was puzzled at his implied
- contradiction of her theory.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I thought I had discovered the reason for your wishing to break off our
- intimacy—but I find I was wrong.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don't understand,” said Kent, agitated. “I acted foolishly, very
- foolishly and rudely. Yet I only did it to save you pain. To break with
- you cost me the dearest thing I had in the world. Surely you must be aware
- of that.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You did not break it because you suddenly—during my absence—wished
- to form other ties?”
- </p>
- <p>
- A light broke upon Kent, like a flash of lightning over a desolate
- wilderness. All of this heart-burning, then, was for nothing. She had
- never suspected that he loved her. A sense of the futility of things
- crushed him for a moment.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am not a man to fall in love readily,” he replied in a low voice.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Then,” said Clytie earnestly, “I am at fault. Why did you not answer my
- letter? Why did you shun me? Why were you so constrained when we met? Why
- did you tear yourself out of my daily life?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Kent turned away his face, so that she should not see him as he fought out
- within himself a great battle. Had these words only been spoken a day or
- two ago he would have poured out his love to her in all its honesty and
- strength. But now she was bound to another irrevocably—now indeed it
- would give her pain to hear what he foolishly thought would have given her
- pain to hear before. Then he was restrained by misinterpretation of the
- meaning of the passion that had come surging into his blood. Now he was
- held back by finer feelings, ignorant perhaps, quixotic, but such as work
- in man to the shaping of his nobleness.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It was something I would rather not speak of,” he said at last—“something
- in my own life. I might have told you then; I was wrong not to; I did it
- for the best. I can't now. This seems like a cheap way of making
- mysteries,—perhaps it is one, not very big,—but it is better
- that it should be one to you. It was no fault of mine, believe me. You do
- believe me, Clytie, when I say that it was bitter for me to give up your
- friendship, don't you?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, Kent,” exclaimed Clytie, “I do believe that you are everything that
- is true and tender and loyal. You don't know what strength and comfort
- your sympathy and your brave, frank way of looking at things have been to
- me. I have wronged you—forgive me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She rose, held out her hand to him. He took it and raised it to his lips
- very gently. Her eyes grew a little moist.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You are treating me like a foolish woman, and not <i>en bon camarade</i>,”
- she said in a low voice.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You are no longer my <i>bon camarade</i>,” he replied. “You are my very
- dear lady, whom I will serve till the hour of my death.”
- </p>
- <p>
- A moment or two afterwards she was gone. The next morning Kent left
- England.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER XV.
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span> great writer has
- remarked, that between the acting of a dreadful thing and the first
- motion, all the interim is like a phantasma or a hideous dream, and that
- the state of man under those circumstances, like to a little kingdom,
- suffers the nature of an insurrection. Although the step that Clytie was
- about to take was not of the character that Brutus contemplated, it was
- sufficiently serious for the interval between her engagement and her
- marriage to be a time of great mental and moral upheaval. Her “genius and
- mortal instruments” had periods of fierce council, in which the latter
- always obtained turbulent victory. Dreading these inner conflicts, she
- shrank from introspection. When doubts began to creep over her she shook
- them off, and sat down and wrote letters to Thornton which she burned an
- hour or two afterwards. But it was only when she was alone in the studio
- hastily finishing the orders she had in hand, or during the few lonely
- evenings that she passed in her sitting-room, that these torturing
- misgivings arose. When Thornton was near she forgot that any had ever come
- to her. He overpowered her will and her senses, dominated her with a
- caressing word, a touch of the hand, a glance from the depths of his dark
- eyes. In the lucid intervals between these periods of dizzying surrender
- she did not recognise herself. It was almost as if some Morgan le Fay had
- cast around her a spell of woven paces, and changed her into she knew not
- what, while she saw the old Clytie fading like a dream-shape away. To
- women of finer temperament marriage looms shadowy, formless, a great
- enchanter that will change all things, deliver into their keeping the
- secrets of pain and delight. But to Clytie it was something less and
- something more. Its material responsibilities were less of a mystery to
- her than to most girls of her age, owing to the peculiarities of her
- self-training; but its spiritual and moral results were hidden from her in
- a cloud, denser, more lurid, more extensive. She loved Hammerdyke, not
- indeed as she would have loved Kent had he made one little effort to turn
- the wavering friendship into love—for then passion would have been
- finely tempered with tenderness, trust, and generous sympathy; but still
- certain chords of her nature vibrated fully in response to the touch of
- the man she was about to marry. The one might have, as it were, awakened
- the full organ, but the single diapason that was pulled rang out none the
- less true.
- </p>
- <p>
- During the short period of their engagement Hammerdyke was unceasing in
- tokens of his love. It was the nature of the man to throw his whole being
- into the delight or danger of the moment. Many a woman who cares
- lukewarmly, perhaps reluctantly, is fired with a gratitude akin to love by
- unending, passionate devotion. All the more responsive is the woman of
- full blood and emotional temperament who already cares greatly. Thornton
- gave Clytie no reason to doubt his affection; if anything, he frightened
- her by its excess. She yielded to him in all things, sometimes half
- dreamily, indifferently, without regret and without sweetness; sometimes
- the surrender was infinite joy.
- </p>
- <p>
- In one matter, however, she was called upon to exercise her will: Thornton
- did not care how or where the marriage was performed. A man loathes
- weddings, particularly his own. It is only the barbarian that lingers, as
- people say, in the heart of woman that demands ceremonies and pomps and
- vanities; a man, finer in some things, strangely enough, sees a certain
- indelicacy in the brazen publicity of the wedding rites. True, this view
- never presented itself to Thornton, who merely wanted to call Clytie his
- own and looked upon the formality of the marriage bond as a necessary
- nuisance, but it came vividly to Clytie, and caused her, as she was called
- upon to decide in the matter, to choose as quiet a wedding as possible.
- She shrank with repugnance from the meaningless ordeal of bridesmaids,
- favours, and a wedding-breakfast. It was only in deference to Durdleham
- susceptibilities that she did not entertain the idea of a civil marriage
- before a registrar.
- </p>
- <p>
- The announcement of her engagement caused a flutter of excitement in the
- family. Mrs. Blather and Janet could not understand a girl's art life, but
- they could understand a wedding. They settled it between themselves that
- Clytie and her <i>fiancé</i> should come down to Durdleham to be there
- married in the orthodox fashion. They had already drawn up a list of
- guests and a scheme of wedding arrangements when a letter arrived from
- Clytie saying that she was to be married almost immediately, and that on
- no account could the ceremony take place at Durdleham. The sisters were
- disappointed. Mrs. Blather remonstrated, adding arguments and entreaties
- that brought tears of desperation to Clytie's eyes. She hated the thought
- of willingly giving pain to her father and sisters, but a family ceremony
- was more than she could bear. By trying to explain the inexplicable she
- made matters worse. If Mrs. Blather and Janet had failed to understand her
- simple needs of a free, untrammelled girlish life, how could they unravel
- the tangled complexities involving her repugnance to their proposals? At
- last she wrote that the day was definitely fixed, and that if her sisters
- would not come to town, no one but her friends the Farquharsons and
- Winifred would be present at the ceremony. To journey up to London for the
- purpose of standing in a bleak, empty church on a dismal March morning
- just to see Clytie married in a travelling dress was a prospect not
- pleasing enough to be entertained. The sisters resigned themselves with a
- sigh to circumstances and to a catalogue of Clytie's eccentricities from
- her earliest years. Mrs. Blather sent Clytie a pair of silver
- candlesticks, Janet sent her a tea-service, and old Mr. Davenant, who had
- been courteously addressed by Hammerdyke on the subject of the marriage,
- sent her a check for one hundred pounds. And that ended the matter.
- </p>
- <p>
- Winifred spent the night before the marriage with Clytie.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Do come, Winnie dear,” the latter had said. “I shall be so lonely and
- miserable.”
- </p>
- <p>
- So Winnie came like a spirit of peace, and the two girls cried a little in
- each other's arms, and it was the weaker who comforted the stronger.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I shall keep on the studio,” said Winifred,—“I am getting quite
- rich, you know,—and then you can come sometimes and take off your
- things and make believe to be back again. And I shall come and see you in
- your big house—if you will tell your big husband not to frighten me
- away.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You will always be my own sweet Winnie,” said Clytie tenderly, “and you
- will always get the very best out of me even if I change utterly to
- everybody else.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But how can you change, dear?” asked Winifred in her simple faith. For
- she had lost her first instinctive distrust of Hammerdyke in the glamour
- of Clytie's love for him. “How can you ever be different from what you are
- and what you have always been?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, I may grow very, very wicked and selfish one of these days, and not
- care for simple things any longer; and then you might be hurt, and you
- would know how unworthy I was that you should care for me, and you would
- shrink from me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, Clytie, darling!” cried Winifred, throwing her arms about her neck,
- “how can you say such things?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It is silly, I know,” said Clytie; “but I sometimes feel that I might do
- something very wicked without much compunction before I die.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But you are going to lead a splendid, beautiful life!” said Winnie. “You
- will live in a great house, and have at your command the most brilliant
- society in London, all the clever, artistic people—just what you
- like. And you won't have to paint for orders, so you need never have to
- cramp your genius, dear. Oh, Clytie, you will simply be overflowing with
- happiness all your life long.” Clytie sighed. The independence of her
- half-Bohemian life was very dear to her. This was the last night on which,
- if it so pleased her, she could go forth into the streets, uncontrolled,
- whither she would. Henceforward her actions would have to be referred to
- an authority. To-morrow she would even change her name; be transformed
- from the Clytie Davenant whom she knew into Mrs. Hammerdyke, a vague,
- mysterious entity, with whose nature she was unfamiliar. No matter how
- glorious the future, there is always some regret in leaving forever a past
- phase of life:
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- At leaving even the most unpleasant people <br /> <br /> <br /> And
- places, one keeps looking at the steeple.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p>
- But this was a pleasant place Clytie was about to quit, and she looked
- back upon its associations with a sigh.
- </p>
- <p>
- In the morning a commissionnaire sent by Thornton came and fetched away
- her trunks, for the newly married pair were to start for the Continent
- immediately after the ceremony. When these were despatched Clytie stood
- for a moment before her glass, adjusted the clasp of her cape and the set
- of her broad gray beaver hat, and turning to Winifred, said quietly: “Let
- us go, dear.”
- </p>
- <p>
- They drove together in a hansom to St. Luke's Church, close by, where
- Thornton and the Farquharsons were waiting for them, in the porch. It was
- a bright morning, warm for the time of year, and the sparrows and a stray
- thrush plucked up heart of grace and twittered cheerily from the trees in
- the churchyard. Two little street children, with arms about each other's
- necks, stood by a near gravestone and looked at the little group with
- somewhat disappointed eyes. They had expected a bride in a long white veil
- and orange-blossoms, a costume always mysteriously fascinating to the
- unsophisticated. Perhaps it was only a christening after all, one remarked
- to the other. But where was the baby? The interior of the empty church was
- more cheerful than empty Protestant churches are wont to be. The slanting
- sunlight streamed many-coloured through the stained windows across the
- nave, and a broad shaft poured in from the open south door upon the vacant
- pews in the aisle. From outside came faintly the hum and rattle of the
- King's Road. The influences were peaceful, encouraging, and Clytie,
- sensitive to impressions, felt grateful. The two little children, with
- their eyes on the verger, peeped in through the door and satisfied
- themselves that it was a wedding after all.
- </p>
- <p>
- They whispered together with many smiles and nods, guessing at the <i>dramatis
- personæ</i>. Clytie noticed them, smiled back and nodded. It was as if a
- bit of her past life had come to bid her be of good cheer. The party stood
- for a while in the body of the church, talking gaily in low tones. Mrs.
- Farquharson was radiant at the prospective accomplishment of a dear wish.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You must be proud of your bride,” she said to Thornton. “Is she not
- looking beautiful?”
- </p>
- <p>
- And she whispered to Clytie:
- </p>
- <p>
- “You must be proud of your husband. Have you ever seen a man to compare
- with him?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Thornton held his head erect as he gave Clytie his arm and walked up to the
- communion rail. He was proud of her. The quiet gray of her broad hat and
- her cloak threw into relief the rich colouring of her hair and eyes and
- lips. The past two years had completed her womanly beauty. Irregularities
- of contour below the eyes had been toned down, the delicacy of modelling
- of her face had been accentuated, and the new emotions of the past three
- weeks had filled her great dark blue eyes with a new, mysterious light.
- Thornton pressed her hand against his side, and whispered, “My darling,”
- so close to her that she felt his breath warm upon her ear. She looked at
- him for a moment, her full lips quivering ever so slightly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I should like to kiss you,” he whispered again. “You are so beautiful.”
- </p>
- <p>
- In a few moments it was over. The words compromising a lifetime had been
- said. The wedding ring gleamed upon her finger. As she passed with the
- others into the vestry she looked down at it in a daze. There it was and
- there it must remain till death parted them, a token of submission and
- obedience. In the vestry there were embraces, congratulations. Thornton
- kissed her after the gallant fashion of a man who can afford to wait for a
- warmer caress. Winifred threw her arms round her neck, weeping. Mrs.
- Farquharson kissed her in her affectionate, motherly way. George kissed
- her gravely on the forehead and dipped the pen in the ink for her to sign
- “Clytie Davenant” for the last time. Then they found themselves in the
- porch again, saying farewell. Caroline laughingly called her “Mrs.
- Hammerdyke” as they finally parted. And then the little knot of three
- waved their handkerchiefs as the cab drove off that took her husband and
- herself towards Victoria.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You are mine now, my darling,” he said, taking her hand. “All that is
- most mine.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am glad,” she murmured, returning his pressure. “Yours for always.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The commissionnaire met them at the station. He had taken their tickets,
- settled their luggage, engaged a carriage. A bouquet of violets lay upon
- the seat. Clytie flashed a quick glance at her husband.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Thank you for thinking. I love them so much.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He arranged her hot-water can and her rugs and sat down by her side,
- thrusting up the dividing arms impatiently. As soon as the train had moved
- out of the station he put his arms around her and kissed her, and spoke to
- her in tender, passionate words. The stop at Croydon broke the continuity
- of this first wedded embrace. On the platform outside the carriage window
- a loud altercation was in progress between the ticket-collector and a
- young couple who objected to pay for the ticket of a tiny terrier the
- woman was carrying. They were of the lower middle class, both in their
- Sunday clothes. She was a fair, delicate woman of some refinement; but the
- husband was coarse, vulgar, with the stamp of sensuality on his sharp,
- somewhat handsome face. Moreover, he was slightly intoxicated, and used a
- foul expression to qualify the collector after the official had departed.
- A flush rose to the young woman's forehead.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Don't, John,” she pleaded. “He's in his rights.”
- </p>
- <p>
- But the cad consigned his rights to perdition, and moved off vulgarly
- proclaiming his own.
- </p>
- <p>
- Clytie had heard this small scene in a life's drama and she vividly
- constructed the miserable tragedy. When the train moved on again she
- shivered, with a nameless, indefinable sense of fear. Three months ago she
- would have noted the scene for vigorous transference to canvas. Now the
- woman more than the artist was stirred.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Please don't talk—just for a little, Thornton,” she said as he
- began to speak.
- </p>
- <p>
- He looked at her somewhat reproachfully. She drew off her glove and put
- her hand into his.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You can't understand—it all seems so strange. Let me gather myself
- together for a moment—darling.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She trembled on the last word. It was the first time she had used it to
- him.
- </p>
- <p>
- He pressed her hand and leaned back on the cushions. Clytie looked out of
- the window at the telegraph poles and trees and broad fields swaying past.
- Whither was this tearing train carrying her? Out of her life into a new,
- strange world whose habits and customs and laws and speech were all
- foreign to her? She was married. She no longer belonged to herself. Her
- independence was gone. She had promised to love, honour, and obey this man
- by her side until death should part them. That would be a long time—many,
- many years. The thought frightened her. Until then she had scarce realised
- what married life meant, in this respect. Why had she married this man? As
- this question passed through her mind her husband raised the hand he held
- to his lips. The blood rushed hot to her cheeks, she did not finish the
- mental question, but turning quickly, looked at him for a moment, and
- falling under the spell of his eyes, yielded to his arm, forgetting all
- things. He had the power of drowning in a more lurid blaze those
- glimmerings of self-revelation. She whispered so to him laughingly, and he
- accepted it as a man generally does accept such things—not seeing
- that it was of deeper significance than a woman's ordinary tribute of
- tenderness.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You are my beautiful Clytie,” he said, kissing her, and for a season she
- was content with the response.
- </p>
- <p>
- There was a lover's silence between them, which she broke at length by
- saying:
- </p>
- <p>
- “Don't you think it would have been much nicer if we could have had one
- another on trial—say for six months?” >
- </p>
- <p>
- “So that you could all the time be thinking whether you should repent of
- your bargain? Oh, dear, no!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ah! you say that; but would it not have been better, if we grew to hate
- each other, to be able to shake hands and say good-bye? For we may quarrel
- dreadfully, you know.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He answered her with tender assurances, laughed at her fears.
- </p>
- <p>
- “We shall never quarrel if you are a good little girl and do as you are
- told,” he said.
- </p>
- <p>
- Clytie laughed, seeing only jesting in the remark.
- </p>
- <p>
- “And we shall never quarrel if you let me go where I like and do what I
- like and say what I like.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But you will always want to go and do and say as I like, darling,” said
- Thornton. “So we shall never quarrel.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Then you will never want me to be severely respectable?” asked Clytie,
- with a touch of insistence.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I shan't allow you to flirt with any and everybody, if you mean that,” he
- replied, showing his white teeth as he smiled.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I didn't mean that—for the simple reason that I have a certain
- amount of brains.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “There have been many coquettes with magnificent intellects.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She made no reply. Then, seeing that he had ruffled her, he adroitly
- turned their talk into less dangerous channels.
- </p>
- <p>
- They stayed in Paris a couple of days and then continued their journey to
- the Riviera. It was Clytie's own desire. In the first flush of his passion
- all places were alike to Thornton, provided she were with him. But she
- longed to get away from England, to cut herself adrift for a while from
- all old associations, to surround herself with new conditions, so that
- nothing should disturb the wonder of this new love. And when, with a
- lover's hyperbole, he had bidden her choose any spot on the whole
- terrestrial globe for the passing of their honeymoon, she had selected the
- Mediterranean.
- </p>
- <p>
- They went to the little Italian town of Bordighera, hidden away at the
- foot of the mountains amidst its palms and olive trees. Besides being one
- of the most beautiful spots on that beautiful coast, it has the charm of
- quiet. There is no casino at Bordighera, no public garden, no municipal
- band. It holds out to visitors no attractions but its own loveliness—hence
- the absence of the banal, the rococo. A few villas are dotted round it,
- away from the sea. One long, straggling street of shops, narrowing
- gradually, leads up to the old, picturesque, evil-smelling town on the
- hill. And this with its narrow sunless streets flanked by high, dingy,
- gray houses, between which the sky above seems a narrow strip of Prussian
- blue ribbon, its crooked byways and basement loggie of cool malodour, its
- cobble pavements on which great entrance gateways gape like dark, noisome
- caverns, offers few attractions other than those of quaintness and
- curiosity to any but its own inhabitants. It is a quiet place, devoid of
- the cosmopolitan <i>tohubohu</i> of Mentone or Cannes. An index of this is
- the fact that, save the commoner qualities of the Italian <i>regie</i>,
- cigarettes are not to be bought for love or money in Bordighera, and these
- in the greasiest ramshackle shop imaginable. If you want civilised shops
- you must go to San Remo.
- </p>
- <p>
- Thornton and Clytie spent the earlier portion of their honeymoon here in
- unbroken happiness. Beyond casual gossip with their table d'hôte
- neighbours they held intercourse with no one. All fears, doubts,
- flutterings of regret, vanished from Clytie's heart, together with all
- sense of subjective life. She was tasting the physical joy of existence as
- it came to her in the passion, sunlight, colour, warmth, and scents of the
- south. She had chosen with unconscious wisdom. The intensity of the beauty
- of the Mediterranean, its positivism, its splendid denial of the
- melancholic and mysterious, held her being in tone with the love with
- which Thornton had inspired her. It intoxicated her with a complementary
- passion.
- </p>
- <p>
- They drove one day from Bordighera through Ventimiglia to Mentone. Halfway
- they stopped at a wayside inn, and breakfasted under a trellis of
- grape-vine. On the one side was the dazzling white road, flanked by the
- terraced hill of olive-trees, the white underparts of their leaves
- flashing like silver; on the other, below, the gold sand and the purple
- sea. And the sun streamed through the vine, checkering the table and their
- hands and faces. The fare was poor and the Asti none of the best, but the
- wine sparkled and bubbled in the thick tumbler they used in common, and
- brought a keener sparkle into Clytie's eyes, and a more joyous abandonment
- into her laugh. When they had resumed their drive, and a turn of the road
- brought them into sight of Mentone, her heart leaped at the suddenness
- with which the blaze of colour was revealed. Below, over a declining
- foreground of olive and orange gardens, lay the white town in a setting of
- bright green foliage, stretching from horn to horn of the bay. Behind the
- eastern horn projected dark and bold the promontory of Monaco with the
- flashing white of its castle. Behind the town rose the two bare peaks of
- the Berceau standing out in deep blue-gray against the intense violet sky.
- Before it swept the broad belt of yellow sand, on which lapped, in little
- idle waves whose ebb left a delicate fringe of white, a still, unbroken
- sea of lapis lazuli, melting through infinite gradations of blue streaked
- with arbitrary purples into the deep ultramarine that met the paler sky
- far away on the horizon. The burst of intense colour of sky and sea and
- land, glowing as far as the eye could sweep, drowned Clytie's being in a
- sensuous flood. It was, as it were, the projection of physical passion
- into something visible, thus baring to the eyes its wonderful beauty. She
- uttered a little inarticulate gasp, a catching of the breath. They were
- quite alone, the coachman half asleep in the sun on his box. Thornton put
- his arm round her and drew her to him. She turned, closed her eyes. All
- creation, from the world of wonder before her to the tiniest quivering
- fibre within her, vibrated with an intoxicating thrill of delight. She
- caught his hand, drew his arm tighter, and lifted her lips to his in a
- long, long kiss.
- </p>
- <p>
- Thenceforward her stay on the Riviera was one uninterrupted delight. It
- was a dream in which the mind lay subject to the sense. She was in a blue
- mist, which hid impenetrably past and future, and informed the visible
- area about her feet with unutterable sweetness. “Don't expect me to write
- letters,” she said in a hastily scribbled note to Caroline. “This is a
- land in which words have no part. You might as well expect me to talk the
- 'Moonlight Sonata' to you.” And Caroline, being a wise woman, smiled. Yet,
- after all, her wisdom had nothing to do with it—for anything
- feminine would have divined. The days flew on wings of fire. She never
- read, never worked; her sketch-book remained empty. Often they sat at
- their sitting-room window, looking out on to the Strada Romana, hand in
- hand, without speaking, save for a murmured caress, for an hour together.
- Or they walked up between the olives, past the famous high wall with its
- gorgeous coat of mesembryanthemum, through the narrow, crooked town, down
- the rugged descent to the surf-beaten shore, where the great white
- solitary <i>casa</i> stands, and there sat down in the shade of the big
- rocks and watched the glowing “countless laughter” of the sea. Often they
- rambled through the cool, sunless olive gardens, rising terrace after
- terrace apparently into the deep violet sky. The scent of the rosemary and
- wild thyme beneath their feet rose penetrating and filled the blood, and
- Thornton would pick a handful, and laughingly hold it between them above
- their lips as he kissed her. And when they reached the top of the hill
- they sat under a tree, and Clytie rested her head on his shoulder, and let
- her eye wander over the low-lying ridges of the Maritime Alps rising in
- endless soft-rounded undulations, like the many-breasted mother of men, in
- each bosom nestling a compact white townlet gathered around the slated
- cupola of its church; and the soft sunlight lay over all, transfused
- through the blue atmosphere. Then she would say: “Don't let us talk,
- Thornton,” but there was a different meaning to the words from that which
- they had when she uttered them in the train as it left Croydon.
- </p>
- <p>
- Sometimes they went away from Bordighera for two or three days; visited
- Nice, Cannes, Monte Carlo. At Monte Carlo Clytie won three or four hundred
- francs at the roulette tables. Gambling had never come before within her
- experience of things. She plunged into it with childish recklessness,
- looking round with glowing face and laughter in her eyes at her husband
- when she won, and drawing a short little breath of dismay when the
- croupier raked in her stake. The game, the intensity of the strange faces,
- seen nowhere else,—faces which bore the stamp of combinations of the
- seven deadly sins taken from two to half a dozen together,—the
- subtle working in that great, glittering room of all the passions under
- heaven, attracted her, fascinated her. The artistic temperament caught the
- impressions, instinctively, unconsciously registered them, thus widening
- and deepening her conception of life. It was a luxury of sense to leave
- the babel passion of the Casino and to walk arm in arm on the terrace or
- in the grounds. There the music came faintly and mingled with the far-off
- splash of the sea away below them and the rustle of the palms and
- drachinas. On the right stretched out Monaco, clustering like a group of
- fireflies below the white bastioned castle. Behind them rose the black
- mass of the Maritime Alps with the Mont Agel towering distinct above. The
- air was soft and warm, recovering from the sudden shock of sundown. What
- they said to one another matters little. He saw that she was beautiful and
- filled with the sense of his love, and he was happy. To Clytie life meant
- unutterable things.
- </p>
- <p>
- On the third morning of their stay at Monte Carlo Thornton returned from a
- short stroll and came into their room.
- </p>
- <p>
- “A man I know has just come by the train and I fled from him,” he said;
- “let us go somewhere else.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Clytie was pleased.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am glad you still want us to be quite, quite alone,” she replied. “But
- you are sure you are not a little bit weary of me?”
- </p>
- <p>
- He answered as many millions of men more or less sincere have answered.
- And Clytie thought neither of believing nor of disbelieving him, as many
- millions of women have done. The subjective is apt to crop up afterwards
- and it generally causes trouble. But in the passion of a kiss woman,
- being, like man, of flesh and blood, and not an abstraction, does not
- calculate remote psychological contingencies; if she does, the kissing is
- all a mistake. Once, towards the end of their honeymoon, Clytie did touch
- upon the subjective. They were sitting by the ruined tower on the hill
- above the Strada Romana. Clytie was heated and had taken off her hat, and
- the breeze ruffled her hair as she leaned against the trunk of a tree.
- Thornton sprawled by her side, resting his chin on his hand and looking at
- her.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I always grudge your wearing a hat,” he said. “Your beautiful hair ought
- not to be hidden. You look much lovelier now that it is free for the wind
- to kiss.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She laughed a contented little laugh, throwing her chin up, according to
- her way.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Do you know, Thornton,” she said with a little hesitation, in which there
- was much charm, “being called beautiful every day is one of the great
- novelties of the situation. I always knew I was good to look upon, and
- sometimes I really was very pleased to behold myself. But before I knew
- you, dear, it never made anything of a factor in my daily life. And now I
- almost begin to think it's the only quality I have.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Given that, you can let all the others go——” He waved his
- hand vaguely, consigning them to the <i>Ewigkeit</i>. “But that's not all
- that you love me for, is it, dear?” An idle question, with an unsuspected
- fear lurking in its heart.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don't know why I love you. It has never occurred to me to investigate
- the matter.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, try. It will be like playing the game, 'I love my love with an A'!”
- </p>
- <p>
- Thornton shook his head boyishly, and laughed.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It would spoil it all!” he said—“to go worrying about what lies
- under that sweet face of yours. Can't you understand, darling? What do
- your qualities matter to me? Provided I can take you in my arms and kiss
- you as much as I like, what concern is it of mine whether you are
- acquainted with the cookery book or spell art with a capital A? Don't you
- think it's more satisfactory to lie here and look into your great blue
- eyes, and your hair with the sun and wind playing hide and seek in it, and
- your bosom rising and falling, than to speculate whether you are
- even-tempered or vindictive or ambitious or fond of Adelaide Proctor's
- poetry?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “What a boy you are!” she cried light-heartedly, stretching out her hand
- so as to run her fingers over his crisp brown hair. “So my face has been
- my fortune!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And your figure,” he remarked critically. “The whole of you!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Tell me,” she continued, “what would you have done if I hadn't married
- you?”
- </p>
- <p>
- He started up to a sitting posture, and his eyes flashed. “I should have
- gone straight back to Africa and played the very devil there! But you were
- bound to marry me, you know; and if you had been already a married woman,
- I should have got to you somehow. I have been hit before in my time, over
- and over, but never till I met you did I think a woman worth the marriage
- service. But you're a witch, Clytie,” he added, resuming his former
- attitude, “the Belle Dame sans Merci.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Poor fellow,” said Clytie, “poor knight-at-arms! And you do look 'so
- haggard and so woe-begone,' don't you?”
- </p>
- <p>
- She laughed as she looked at his great frame lying at her feet, and his
- strong, handsome dark face, with its health and masterfulness. Then she
- continued in the lightness of her heart:
- </p>
- <p>
- “But seriously, now, Thornton, very seriously. You do want me to be a
- little help to you in your life—in other ways—don't you? In
- your ambitions, your work in the world generally. We must begin to talk
- about such things soon, you know.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Thornton laughed lazily as he lit a cigarette.
- </p>
- <p>
- “My work in the world is to love you, my dear, and I'll promise to let you
- help me in that as much as you like.”
- </p>
- <p>
- But Clytie insisted. Sometimes the subjective gets too much for a woman.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ah, Thornton dear,” she said. “I want to feel that we are much more than
- lovers. That will wear off after a time. Oh, yes! don't tell me it won't;
- a woman learns things all with a rush, you see. And I want to feel that we
- are one in everything, in all our sympathies and views of life, our
- ambitions, in all the high and great things that lie before you. I want to
- be in touch with everything you do and think—to be a real helpmeet
- for you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He took her hand and kissed it, laughing.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I have got a lot to learn in the way of connubial responsibilities,” he
- said. “You'll have to train me, my dear. But allow me to remark that the
- sun is just going to dip over there by the Nervia, and if we want to get
- in by sunset we shall have to run like the deuce!”
- </p>
- <p>
- As this was a serious matter,—on the Riviera it is one of the grave
- responsibilities of life,—Clytie let herself be lifted to her feet,
- put on her hat quickly, and holding her husband's hand, ran merrily with
- him down the hill. The exercise and the laughter drove things subjective
- out of her head for a season. But in the after-time the ghost of this
- little conversation came and sat at the head of her bed, making mock at a
- few others who sat on the foot-rail. A thing does not require to be as
- objective as a murdered monk to have a little ghost all to itself.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER XVI.
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">P</span>erhaps if they had
- remained in Bordighera the intoxication would have lasted longer. But as
- our lives are hemmed in by infinite possibilities, to each of which is
- strung its infinite ramification of consequences, it is somewhat rash to
- predicate <i>ex hypothesi</i>. At any rate so long as they were at
- Bordighera there seemed to be no reason that the continuity of the charm
- should be broken; whereas it did suffer a change during the railway
- journey from Bordighera to Paris. And this railway journey was a kind of
- neutral ground in their married life, separating the dream from the
- reality. On entering the train they were lovers. On leaving it they were a
- married couple. Wherein lies somewhat of a difference. They were not
- conscious of the change. Realisation of this mysterious operation is
- fortunately denied to human beings, seeing that they turn their eyes
- inwards rather too much as it is already. Nor do they recognise what has
- happened until some time afterwards, as the old influences still remain
- lingeringly; but then they can generally look back to the point of
- transition, and set it up as a forlorn landmark in their lives.
- </p>
- <p>
- Why they did not remain longer in the south they themselves could scarcely
- explain. They had arranged to spend a month there, and then to proceed to
- Paris to wait indefinitely until their new house in the Cromwell Road
- should be ready to receive them. There is nothing so irrefragable as an
- arbitrary programme. Even the most emancipated enslave themselves to it
- sometimes, as in the present case did Thornton and Clytie They possibly
- lost a good deal,—the flowers of life seldom grow along the beaten
- track,—but they never thought of attributing it to the fixity of
- their programme. They were in Paris, then, living under totally fresh
- conditions. Thornton found there a succession of friends and
- acquaintances, and was pleased rather than otherwise to meet them. At
- Monte Carlo he fled from Carteret of the Hussars; on the Boulevard des
- Capucines he greeted him heartily and carried him off into the American
- Bar. Besides discovering acquaintances daily in the hotel list, Thornton
- was not unknown in general Parisian society. His name could procure him
- admission into most circles that he cared to enter. He was put up at a
- couple of clubs and received invitation cards by the dozen.
- </p>
- <p>
- To please him Clytie went with him a little into society. He was proud of
- his beautiful wife, loved to watch the effect produced as she entered a
- drawing-room upon his arm, and the eager admiration on the faces of the men
- who crowded round her chair. In fact, Clytie had a small social success—and
- a paragraph in the <i>Figaro</i>. It was a new sensation for her; but in
- these early days of her married life she would have preferred a quieter,
- less conspicuous existence. But Thornton, just as he had sought in the
- south to keep her and her beauty to himself, now seemed to wish to exhibit
- it abroad.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I seem to wear you like a decoration, darling,” he said once.
- </p>
- <p>
- At first Clytie flushed with pleasure at the little flattery. Then she
- thought over it for a bit, and it did not please her so much. But she did
- not confide this to her husband. She had already begun to discover that
- for the safekeeping of many little matters her own heart was the best
- place.
- </p>
- <p>
- They had a set of rooms in a hotel in the Champs Elysées with a balcony
- overlooking the Grande Avenue. Clytie loved to sit there with Thornton in
- the quiet half hour before dinner watching the stream of vehicles, fine
- and vague far away by the Arc de Triomphe, then gradually broadening, till
- fashionable Paris returning from the Bois blazed beneath her in its
- movement and gaiety. They seemed to her so alone up there, above the whirl
- and the glitter and falseness. It was a return of the hours of the month
- in the south, and happiness fluttered tremulously around her—like a
- butterfly, ever so elusively. When she leaned over the balcony by his side
- many people looked up admiringly at them. When she saw one woman twitch
- the arm of her companion in a victoria, and both shoot swift feminine
- glances up at the balcony, she could not help feeling a little thrill of
- pride in her husband. And then she would remember the morning's solitary
- ramble among the sculpture of the Louvre (Thornton and herself were less
- dependent upon each other now for entertainment), and reflect, with a
- sense of pleasure, that she had seen no antique ideal that could compare
- with him in splendid manhood. He, too, had done heroic deeds, she would
- think, and she would move nearer to his side and be glad that he was
- there. Yet the butterfly happiness was just beyond her grasp.
- </p>
- <p>
- Some such thoughts were passing through her mind one afternoon as they
- stood together on the balcony. He broke a short silence by saying:
- </p>
- <p>
- “We are getting quite an old married couple, Clytie!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “What made you say that?” she asked, smiling.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh! I hardly know. I have got so used to having you by me. It seems as if
- I had been married ever since I was born.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It does seem a long, long time ago that we first passed through Paris.
- But I can't say I am quite used to matrimony yet. Do you know, I have
- sometimes hoped that I never should be.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Can't you guess? At present, dear, it is all glamour and mystery, and
- when you get too familiar with the glamour it turns into the commonplace.
- That's why I am just a little bit sorry we left Bordighera.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It was certainly very jolly,” he assented reflectively. “But we are
- having as good a time here, aren't we?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, I like these little half hours best,” said Clytie, “when we are
- alone together. When we are parted it seems as if I am suddenly called
- upon to live as an individual and do not quite know how to begin. You see,
- when I am alone with you I know how to behave as Clytie Hammerdyke, but
- not yet when I am by myself or with other people.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Thornton laughed, as a man in love laughs when he thinks he is replying to
- an idle, pretty remark.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You have always Clytie Davenant to fall back upon,” he said.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Have I? That's just the question I have been putting to myself. But I
- can't explain it to you. I don't think you would understand.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Of course I understand!” he cried quickly. “You have to mix with people
- as a married woman, and you are a bit shy at first. But you'll pull
- through all right, dear. Why, as it is, you are superb.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, come,” she said, laughing. “I can talk to people without blushing and
- morally biting the corner of my apron. I meant something a little more
- subtle than that. You see, after all, you don't understand. I can never,
- never be Clytie Davenant again. She was buried for good and all at
- Bordighera.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And my sweet phoenix has arisen out of her ashes,” said Thornton.
- </p>
- <p>
- “If you like—and the phoenix hasn't quite got the sense of her
- environment yet.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “All this is very pretty, my dear,” said Thornton, with a laugh. “But I
- can't quite see what we are driving at.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Have I been talking such great nonsense, then? Perhaps it all tended to
- express the fact that when I am with you I don't think of myself; when we
- are apart I am confronted with myself, and feel embarrassed. You see,
- Thornton dear,” she went on, “I have lived a queer kind of life, full of
- such different hopes and dreams. I scarcely thought about marriage in
- those days. I knew that love would come to me some time or the other, but
- then it seemed as if it would all be mixed up with my art, whereas now——Oh,
- you can't see how different it is!”
- </p>
- <p>
- There was no tone of sadness or regret in her voice as she said this, but
- a touch of tenderness, a tribute, as it were, to his influence.
- </p>
- <p>
- “But there's nothing to hinder you from amusing yourself with painting
- pictures, is there?” asked her husband lightly. “You have no call now to
- earn a livelihood, but you can paint all day if you like, my dear.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Of course I shall paint—I could not live without it—except
- perhaps such a month as last. But, don't you see, my art was once the
- guiding principle of my life. Now I have my art and my love, and they seem
- to have nothing to do with each other. They are on different planes, so to
- speak. It is all that that makes me feel I don't quite realise myself yet
- when I have to leave the love plane for a little.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Don't leave it,” said Thornton.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ah! we have done that by going away from Bordighera, and leading this
- dissipated life here,” she replied, laughing. “But we can get on and off
- whenever we like, you know. That is one comfort.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well,” said Thornton, lighting a cigarette, and speaking between the
- first few whiffs, “marriage must make some difference. You have lived a
- free and easy, emancipated life among artistic people, and now you belong
- to somebody else—a wild barbarian, who could no more tell you how to
- paint a picture than how to cut out a dress. Of course it makes a
- difference in your way of viewing things. It has made a difference in mine
- too, by Jove! When a yearning for Africa comes over me I have to say: No;
- I have a wife, with her arms,—the roundest in the world, my dear,—about
- my neck. And so I have got to settle down to politics and domesticity in
- the Cromwell Road.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But you don't regret it, do you, Thornton?” she asked, womanlike.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Look at me and see if I do,” he said.
- </p>
- <p>
- Clytie obeyed him, half shyly, feeling, as she always did since her return
- to Paris, the fascination, half pleasant, half painful, of his eyes. He
- loved her. There was no doubt of that. Yet the nature of his love
- sometimes frightened her a little if she strayed for a moment off the
- “love plane.” Her own responsiveness she never questioned, preferring to
- shut her eyes and let the current of his love carry her whither it would.
- But at times now, during her solitary walks through the Louvre, the
- thought obtruded, What would the new life be like? Not these early days,
- which were holidays from the seriousnesses of existence, but the life in
- the years that lay before her, of whose responsibilities she had as yet
- but vague premonitions. How would her art be affected?
- </p>
- <p>
- Would it lose or gain in that breadth and insight that it needed? Would
- she continue to reckon herself an artist at all, or would she only
- degenerate into the amateur—painting little meaningless pictures for
- amusement? And at the end of a year would she not stand face to face with
- a new Clytie, paler, more shadowy, and therefore less insistently
- demanding self-expression? Even these few weeks had changed her: what
- would she be at the end of one year, two years, twenty years? Happier,
- with all her old cravings satisfied, with her individuality worked out to
- its fullest, with the riddle of life joyously solved? Or else——She
- scarcely dared think of it. She looked at what had been written in her
- Book of New Formulas, and found that the marriage service had been
- omitted. It merely said that marriage was unformularisable, an easy way of
- curving a contumelious lip at the old formulas which she had rebelled
- against, but scarcely satisfactory in her present position. Now, in the
- Old Formulas, marriage was minutely, scrupulously regulated by the most
- definite of rules. Although they broke up the poem of life into a
- disjointed copy-book, or at best into a collection of elegant extracts,
- still they presented a homogeneous scheme. Should she at last have to
- accept this, confess to Mrs. Blather smiling complacently that the
- Durdleham philosophy was the only one? But then she would look at her
- husband and take a measure of comfort. Such a man could not come out of
- Durdleham.
- </p>
- <p>
- That was her consolation in the perplexities that the problem of her
- married life caused her. She took refuge from herself, her thoughts, her
- forebodings, in his grand strength and personal magnetism. It was
- intermittent intoxication, this long Paris after-honeymoon, rather than
- continuous charm, and the intervals of soberness had their wearinesses.
- She had thrown her cap over the windmills. Sometimes she regretted it.
- </p>
- <p>
- On the evening after the above conversation they went to the opera, where
- they had taken a box with the Claverings, army people with whom Thornton
- had been intimate in Cairo. Clytie had met them only for a moment the day
- before, and had not been favourably impressed. However, they were
- Thornton's friends, and it behoved her to appreciate them. Mrs. Clavering
- passed for being a clever woman by virtue of a plain face and a vivacious
- manner; also because she ruled her husband and had a cultivated taste in
- sherry.
- </p>
- <p>
- Thornton had admired her some years before. Mammas with marriageable
- daughters put it in that way; those who could afford to be independent put
- it in another. Whichever way they put it in no wise affected the parties
- concerned. Mrs. Clavering was too superior a woman to allow idle gossip to
- influence her or her husband. Now she was eight-and-thirty, she had seen
- the world and had preserved few illusions, least of all any respecting
- Thornton Hammerdyke. She met him with a cynical encouragement, which to
- some men is flattering.
- </p>
- <p>
- Clytie was quick to notice her manner towards Thornton, and resented it.
- There was a touch of banal familiarity, too, in his talk with Mrs.
- Clavering that jarred upon her. The tone was undignified, suggestive of
- the falser strata of regimental society, in which frankness stands for
- scarcely veiled mutual contempt.
- </p>
- <p>
- He was sitting behind Mrs. Clavering, who smiled in a superior,
- half-patronising way at his remarks. Clytie listened to the music
- absently, wished they had come alone. The house was crowded, and the air
- was stifling. She found the opera, “La Juive,” uninteresting.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am going to carry off your husband to the terrace, Mrs. Hammerdyke,”
- said Mrs. Clavering at the end of the second act, “and I leave you mine in
- pledge. I hope he will take good care of you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He was a heavy but honest Briton, who idolised his wife, his dinner, and
- the British Constitution. As neither the opera nor Clytie came within this
- area of adoration, he treated them with a polite though somewhat
- embarrassed indifference. Still he acquitted himself of his charge
- satisfactorily and entertained Clytie during the <i>entr'acte</i>. After a
- tour round the house he found a seat for her in the Salle des Pas Perdus
- and talked with solemn fitfulness. Then it occurred to him that it was
- oppressive indoors and he took her out upon the terrace. Clytie did not
- wish to stay there long—only for a moment to get a breath of fresh
- air. She remained for a little leaning on the broad balustrade and looking
- at the scene in front of her—the broad <i>place</i> below with the
- continuous passing to and fro of vehicles crossing each other in all
- directions, the Café de la Paix on the right with its crowded tables far
- out on the pavement and trayladen waiters hurrying between them, the
- glittering vista of lights in the Avenue de l'Opera, the duller line of
- lamps in the Rue de la Paix with the Vendôme column towering high in the
- dim moonlight. It was so instinct with gaiety and movement and the
- brightness of life that a little thrill of its gladness passed through
- her, ending in a strange kind of sob that filled her throat. She took her
- companion's arm, and went across through the stream of loungers back into
- the heavy air of the Salle des Pas Perdus.
- </p>
- <p>
- Meanwhile Thornton and Mrs. Clavering had established themselves in a
- corner at the end of the terrace.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It seems like old times—on the veranda—at a regimental
- dance,” she said. “At least that is what you were going to say, I suppose.
- I never yet met an old admirer but what he made some remark of the kind.
- So I have saved you from the commonplace.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I was meditating some politeness of the sort,” replied Thornton
- carelessly. “I thought you would expect it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I hope you will always have the same delicate consideration for others,
- Mr. Hammerdyke. How long are you going to be good and domestic?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Always, I suppose. I am going to run politics and that sort of show.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Mrs. Clavering laughed lightly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ha! When I see you at it I'll believe it—unless you have changed
- extraordinarily since I last knew you. And you don't look much changed.
- Perhaps matrimony will work the miracle. Ha! ha! Pardon my laughing, but
- it seems so ridiculous to see you, of all people, married.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I suppose I have human attributes somewhere about me,” he said.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Too vastly human, my poor friend; that is where the danger lies. To err
- is human, you know. I hope your wife will do the divine part of the
- business, as women generally do, and forgive. By the way, I have not made
- you my compliment, as they say in this country. I think your wife simply
- perfect.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “We agree there for once,” replied Thornton drily.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Tell me all about it. Can't you see I am dying to know? That is why I
- brought you out here. Who is she? Where did you meet her? Were you long
- engaged? And I know you too are dying to talk to someone about her. You
- may as well gratify the craving while you still have it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I believe you are madly jealous, Clara. Pardon my frankness. But you and
- I always went in for being frank with one another.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Call it amiable brutality—it would be better.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “As you like. I never went in for splitting hairs. I suppose it's brutal
- to say you are jealous.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It is simply idiotic. Therefore I bear you no ill will for your saying
- so. I honestly admire your wife, and think you have got very much more
- than you deserve, and I am femininely curious. Now perhaps you will tell
- me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, I met her at a cousin's house. She is, or rather was, an artist.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I appreciate the distinction. Proceed.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Thornton threw himself back with a great laugh against the balustrade, his
- elbows resting upon it, his hands in his pockets.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I think you are just a little bit jealous,” he said. “Well—to
- finish my story. She is of an old Buckinghamshire family, and we were
- engaged about a month. And then we were married. But tell me, by way of
- changing the conversation——”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Which may be painful.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Precisely. How long are you going to stay in Paris?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don't know. As long as Paris pleases me. Am I going to see you any
- more, or are you too much engrossed? I don't want to take you away from
- your duties.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don't think you are likely to, Clara.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Possibly not. Your wife will keep a tight rein upon you. She looks that
- sort. But I don't know why we should be talking in this strain the first
- time we have had a word together for—how many years? Four? Five? We
- have quickly dropped into old ways. But then you were a fire-eater, a
- chartered libertine, independent, a bird of freedom. Whereas now—my
- poor friend!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “By George!” cried Thornton, starting forward, with some excitement in his
- eyes that glowed in the dimness, “don't fall into any delusion. If you
- think I am going the way of another poor friend of ours who can't call his
- soul his own, you are devilishly mistaken. I married because it happened
- to strike me that I wanted to do so. But I run the concern, and my wife's
- a sensible woman and recognises the fact. And whatever I want to do I am
- going to do. I have generally done it, and don't see why I should break
- through my habit now.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And your wife?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “How—my wife?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Is she going to enjoy a beautiful independence likewise?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No. It isn't good for women.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Thank you. You always were a delicate judge in things feminine. Did you
- ever read 'As You Like It'? 'Lock the door on your wife's wit and it will
- out at the casement.' Have a care, my friend. I am about the only woman
- you have tried to make a fool of and haven't succeeded, and so you perhaps
- have a kind of respect for my intelligence, and I give you warning.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I burned some of your letters the other day,” said Thornton cynically.
- </p>
- <p>
- “That was wise. Suppose we go in. The act must be about commencing.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The curtain was already up. Major Clavering was scanning the house
- drearily through a pair of opera glasses. Clytie was looking at the stage
- and thinking of her husband, wishing he would come in. When the door
- behind opened she turned round, and with an eye trained to catch fleeting
- expression, noticed a look upon Thornton's face,—the after-light, as
- it were, of a sneer, before the features had time to reset,—that she
- had never observed there before. The change from this to his usual gay
- smile was so rapid that she thought she had been mistaken, and attributed
- it to an illusion produced by the shadow at the back of the box. But the
- impression of it remained and it was unpleasant.
- </p>
- <p>
- During the next <i>entr'acte</i> the men went out, leaving Clytie and Mrs.
- Clavering alone together. Either through the mere social desire to please
- or through a feeling of compassion proceeding from conscious superiority,
- the elder woman sought to make an agreeable impression upon the young
- wife. But Clytie had wrapped herself up in a strange veil of reserve and
- her attitude was unpropitiatory. Mrs. Clavering's falsetto voice struck
- upon her nerves, the confident air of patronage irritated her. She longed
- to be away from the heavy, acrid atmosphere, the artificiality of the
- opera, the society of Mrs. Clavering. She felt self-conscious, was angry
- with herself. She had the keen feminine sense of a false position and
- longed for extrication. She was glad when her husband and Major Clavering
- returned.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I have been telling Mrs. Hammerdyke about old times in Cairo, and singing
- your praises,” said Mrs. Clavering. “Are you not grateful to me?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am flattered,” said Thornton somewhat ironically.
- </p>
- <p>
- “That is always the way to make a man grateful.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It is the same with us. I don't suppose there is much difference in that
- respect between men and women,” said Clytie, for the sake of saying
- something.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am not so sure of that,” replied Mrs. Clavering; “women can generally
- sift the grain from the chaff—only, poor things, they too often take
- the chaff by preference.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I hope you are not alluding to me, my dear,” said the major, who was
- given to saying stupid things by way of showing that he followed the
- thread of his wife's conversation.
- </p>
- <p>
- Thornton chimed in with his deep laugh.
- </p>
- <p>
- “That is one for you, Clavering. Perhaps one for me too. Anyhow, the
- curtain is going up and that saves us. Make room for me by you, Clytie,
- and tell me about what's going on.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He edged in his chair between Clytie and Mrs. Clavering. The major lounged
- behind, with his hands in his pockets, very much bored. He was hoping to
- escape soon.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Are you enjoying it?” whispered Thornton to Clytie.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Moderately. It is a dull opera. And it is so unbearably hot.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It is not entrancingly interesting. Would you like to clear out after
- this act? I should.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And the Claverings?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “They are a bit tired of it. Shall we all go back together to the hotel
- and have supper?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I'd sooner we were alone together, Thornton dear—this evening.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He made a little gesture of impatience.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Of course we won't ask them if you don't want to. But then we must stay
- this thing out.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He leaned back in his chair and looked at the mass of heads in the
- opposite tiers, vague in the dimness, and drummed with his fingers on the
- rails of his chair.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Sh!” said Mrs. Clavering. “That's one of your old tricks. You never seem
- to think that people have nerves.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Clytie caught the words, although they were whispered. She turned her head
- round quickly and stared at the stage for the rest of the act.
- </p>
- <p>
- When it was over Mrs. Clavering solved the question of departure.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I think we all want to go,” she said, rising. “My husband is suffering
- acutely, and yours I know is not very musical. When shall we see you
- again, Mrs. Hammerdyke? Will you come and dine with us some evening,
- quietly—when we can talk better? I'll let you know what evenings we
- are free. Will that do? That is your wife's cloak, not mine, Mr.
- Hammerdyke.”
- </p>
- <p>
- A few minutes later Thornton and Clytie were driving back to their hotel
- in the pleasant Paris victoria. It seemed a superb night. A slight breeze
- had risen, and the leaves in the Champs Elysées rustled pleasantly. Clytie
- leaned back with a sense of relief, physical and moral. They had both been
- rather silent since they left the opera house.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Don't let us go in,” said Clytie suddenly. “Let us drive about a little,
- along the quays—anywhere.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I was just going to suggest it,” said Thornton.
- </p>
- <p>
- He gave the order to the coachman, who turned back through the Place de la
- Concorde and took them past the Tuileries and the great mass of the Louvre
- and along the quays in the direction of Auteuil.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What do you think of the Clavering woman?” asked Thornton. “Not much,
- eh?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I can't say that I like her. Perhaps I oughtn't to say it, as she is a
- friend of yours, but—she doesn't please me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, I can't say that she does me now. She never was a beauty, but she
- has sadly fallen off the last few years. She thinks herself so deuced
- superior. And she isn't, by Jove! Still she is amusing, you know, and that
- is a quality that covers a multitude of sins. But other women can't
- understand her. She was loathed by them all in Cairo, so you are not alone
- in your antipathy.”
- </p>
- <p>
- There was a long silence. Thornton drew her closer to his side and took
- her hand in his. Clytie felt somewhat hurt. It was not flattering to be
- grouped with the other women in Cairo, however estimable they may have
- been in their non-appreciation of Mrs. Clavering. They drove on, and began
- to talk of different subjects, disconnectedly, without much interest.
- Finally Thornton came back to the Claverings.
- </p>
- <p>
- “By the way, I suppose you'll dine with them, as they were civil enough to
- ask us.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Certainly, if you wish it and it gives you any pleasure. Perhaps I may
- like her better when I know more of her.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You see, you can't drop people because you don't happen to take a violent
- fancy to them,” he said rather lamely. And then he added:
- </p>
- <p>
- “I wish you had let me ask them to supper.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It would have livened us up a little.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Perhaps it would,” answered Clytie almost wearily. “I half wish you had.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The evanescent charm had gone from the drive. The weather, too, had
- changed. Clouds, that had imperceptibly gathered, covered the moon. The
- quay looked desolate, the water black and lifeless, on the other side the
- great buildings loomed forbidding in the darkness. An air of
- disenchantment was over all things.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Will monsieur turn back? It is going to rain,” said the cabman, lounging
- sideways and looking down at them.
- </p>
- <p>
- They turned off through the narrow streets, on the nearest way back to the
- hotel. The cab horse was tired and jogged on painfully, indifferent to the
- loud-cracking whip and the “<i>hue's</i>” addressed to him in the driver's
- raucous voice. Clytie shivered a little at the sudden fall in the
- temperature. She was chilled too—ever so little—at her heart.
- She drew away slightly from her husband, who held her hand mechanically.
- When she withdrew it he did not seem to notice. He had discovered that he
- was annoyed about the supper.
- </p>
- <p>
- Suddenly the horse, overdriven, stumbled, tried to recover himself, and
- then crashed down helpless, snapping the shaft. The victoria lurched
- violently on the side where Clytie was sitting. To save herself she jumped
- out quickly, but her foot slipped on the kerb and she nearly fell.
- Thornton sprang out and raised her, and then turned to the coachman in a
- sudden frenzy of passion. He stood there moving his arms about and cursed
- him in English. Clytie was shocked to the heart. She was thankful that she
- could see his face but dimly in the bad gaslight. The cabman shrugged his
- shoulders as he bent down to loosen the traces. Some people came up,
- chiefly from a small <i>brasserie</i> whose few tables were just visible
- some yards further along the street. Another cab arrived and paused,
- interested and expectant, watching the scene: the little group round the
- fallen horse; the stately figure of the girl in white dress and rich
- opera-cloak standing by the upset cab; the great figure of the man,
- stamping with rage, pouring forth a torrent of oaths. It all happened very
- quickly.
- </p>
- <p>
- Clytie touched her husband's arm quietly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Stop, Thornton,” she said. “He does not even understand you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Thornton looked at her for a moment, then at the group. Then he burst into
- a loud laugh, pulled a ten-franc piece from his pocket and threw it to the
- cabman, who picked it up with an ironical, “<i>Merci, bourgeois</i>.”
- </p>
- <p>
- They entered the other cab and drove quickly homewards. Thornton seemed to
- have forgotten his rage, for he laughed in high spirits over the incident.
- He apologised gaily for his loss of temper and language. He was still
- infected with his years of savagery, he pleaded. He had been so accustomed
- to rule men by terror that he forgot himself sometimes. Often he had been
- the only white man among hundreds of fierce, lawless savages, over whom he
- had despotic authority of life and death. If they had not feared his rage
- and violence, his life would not have been worth a moment's purchase.
- </p>
- <p>
- He had regained his old manner, the daring personal charm that had swept
- her along in spite of herself into marrying him. The glamour of his fame,
- his power, his heroism came over her and hid the sordid scenes of the
- evening. When they reached the hotel they were lovers once more.
- </p>
- <p>
- As Clytie alighted from the cab her foot gave way beneath her. It had been
- hurting her since her slip on the kerb, but she had scarcely noticed the
- pain. Now she found that she could not walk. She had sprained her ankle.
- She limped into the hotel with Thornton's aid. Then she stood at the foot
- of the stairs and looked at them helplessly. It was an old-fashioned
- hotel, without a lift, and their rooms were on the third story.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I'll carry you up,” said Thornton.
- </p>
- <p>
- He took her up in his arms, and mounted the stairs with a step as light
- and springy as if he had no burden to carry. Until then Clytie had not
- realised his marvellous strength.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I feel like the fairy princess being carried off by the giant,” she
- whispered.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER XVII.
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">C</span>lytie was confined
- several days to her room through her sprained ankle. It was not an
- unqualified affliction, as it solved the question of her dining with the
- Claverings.
- </p>
- <p>
- Thornton went alone, carrying with him his wife's excuses and regrets, and
- returned to her in high spirits. When she was able to get about again the
- Claverings had left Paris for Homburg, where they were going to stay for a
- few weeks. “And when they return to London we can see just as much or as
- little of them as we like,” said Thornton.
- </p>
- <p>
- The forced confinement also brought Clytie a little more solitude than
- usual. Thornton found a race meeting or two to go to, and a nominally
- bachelor supper party, and he laughed, in his gay manner, at this
- resumption of bachelor habits. Clytie was rather glad, on the whole, to be
- left to her own society for a little. She was gradually awakening from the
- dream, realising herself. Very often in the ordinary, sober moments of
- life Thornton jarred upon her. His absence often was a relief. She hated
- herself when this unwelcome and unbidden thought came into her mind; but
- it came for all her hating. The sprained ankle marked definitely the end
- of this second or false honeymoon in Paris, whose glamour was the
- lingering twilight glow of the real one in Bordighera. It was then that
- Clytie first thought of the railway journey as a landmark. After her
- recovery Thornton continued his bachelor habits as a matter of course, and
- as a matter of course discontinued his playful apologies. Still he took
- Clytie whithersoever she expressed a desire to go, and gladly, proud of
- having his beautiful wife by his side. Only, if she elected to remain at
- home, he went out equally cheerfully by himself.
- </p>
- <p>
- Occasionally they drove in the Bois in a neat phaeton and pair which he
- hired for her from a livery-stable, and he would point out to her the
- celebrities whom they passed by. Some of these she had herself met or seen
- at the various social functions to which they had received invitations.
- They themselves, too, had become known and were pointed out with some
- curiosity,—<i>le beau couple</i>, as the phrase went,—even by
- those who were unacquainted with their name or position. Thornton was
- always in his gayest humour on these occasions as he sat by his wife's
- side and guided his pair through the crush of magnificent equipages; and
- she felt glad too and elated, pleased by the vivid flashes of colouring in
- dresses and parasols, and the vague perfumes that filled the air, and the
- half-caught scraps of conversation and laughter. Her girlish delight at
- the gladness of life came back to her fresh and untainted. She indulged
- her old habit of speculation on the life that lay beneath individual
- faces, which she stored up in her memory for rapid sketching when at
- leisure, and she would draw Thornton into her vein, and then there were
- arguments without end. These were some of her happiest moments in Paris,
- when she recovered her old self, bright, satirical, paradoxical, and felt
- no cold hand on her heart.
- </p>
- <p>
- One day, towards the end of their stay in Paris, they had drawn up in the
- block of carriages by the side of the promenade. The sun was powerful, and
- the glaring colours in the carriages contrasted with the cool tones of
- white and gray in the deep shade under the chestnut-trees. Clytie was
- animatedly observing the bright scene when her eyes met those of a woman,
- quietly though expensively dressed, seated in an open carriage quite close
- by. For a moment they looked at one another in silent inquiry, and then
- came a flash of mutual recognition. It was the girl whom Clytie had met
- the summer before in the hotel at Dinan. The scene, with its mingled
- associations of wonder and pity, came back to her, and moved by a strong
- impulse she smiled and moved her head slightly. A look of eager wonderment
- came over the other's face as she returned Clytie's greeting. And then she
- turned quickly away to talk to a man who had just come up to the side of
- the carriage.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Confound it, Clytie!” cried Thornton, setting the horses in motion, “you
- must really make sure who people are before you bow to them. Do you know
- who that woman is?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes,” said Clytie, “that is to say, I know what she is. I don't know her
- name.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “She is one of the most notorious women in Paris, Loulou Mendès. You
- mustn't go playing the fool like this! What did you bow to her for?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Because I know her—a little.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You—know—her?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, yes, Thornton dear; it is somewhat of a story. I met her accidentally
- last year in Dinan. She was in trouble, and I took a fancy for her, and
- seeing her suddenly here, I showed her that I recognised her.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I sincerely hope you won't do such a thing again,” he said shortly,
- giving a vicious cut to the horses that sent them spinning down the <i>allée</i>.
- “And please to remember that you are not an amateur Bohemian any longer,
- but my wife.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, Thornton, you mustn't say things like that!” said Clytie, with a
- queer little catch at her throat. “They hurt me!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, you mustn't deserve them,” replied Thornton. And then, mollifying
- at the sight of her distress: “You don't understand these things, little
- wife.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, never mind, dear,” said Clytie. “Perhaps it was foolish of me. I
- ought to have considered you; I didn't think of it. She kissed my hand the
- last time I saw her, and it would have seemed base and hypocritical to
- have cut her dead to-day. It seemed such a little matter. Why hurt the
- girl's feelings? That's why I did it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Feelings?” echoed Thornton, with a laugh. “Bah! my good child, you are
- talking nonsense. She put her feelings up the spout years ago to get
- herself champagne and diamonds and the rest of it. With her soul sold to
- the devil and her body to men, what the deuce is she going to do with
- feelings?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “What I saw of her was very human, Thornton. And if such women are brutes,
- it is men who make them so. If men were only kinder and tenderer——”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Like the sentimental idiot in 'Jenny.' That's a poem about it, you know.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes—Rossetti; I am very fond of it,” she replied, with a half
- smile, wondering somewhat at his explanation. Then she added: “But surely
- there's humanity in every human being.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That's a very sweet, innocent belief, and you had better keep to it, my
- dear.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, Thornton, I'm not an ignorant little schoolgirl,” she said, with hurt
- vanity. “I have learned something of the world. Perhaps I have been too
- eager to acquaint myself with things.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Anyhow, you can't know much about them,” he replied shortly. “Leave such
- things alone. They don't concern you, so what's the good of prying into
- them?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “They have concerned me,” she insisted. “Believe me, Thornton, it was
- something deeper than ordinary morbid curiosity that led me to them.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But I can't see what the deuce the Social Question has to do with girls,”
- he said. “That is what licks me. What the dickens has it got to do with
- your life?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But you mistake, Thornton,” she replied eagerly, with a return of her old
- earnestness. “It is not the Social Question. Indeed not. I never have any
- call to look at things in that aspect. I am neither a sociologist nor a
- reformer. I am an artist. I have to express certain truths about human
- beings,—the little talent I have lies entirely that way,—and
- in order to express the truths I had to set to work to learn them. How all
- this corruption affects society, how it is to be done away with and so on,
- does not come within my province. But to get to the hearts and inner
- feelings of individuals, to see how society affects them, what
- justification they have in their struggle with it, how they contemplate
- life, what elements of emotion, or passion, or weariness, or what not form
- essential parts of their beings that do not form essential parts of mine—to
- try to do that, Thornton, <i>has</i> been my business, and, till I knew
- you, was the dearest motive of my life. Don't you see?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And when you have done it what good will it do to yourself or anybody
- else?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “To answer you I should have to appear conceited. It would be answering
- the question, What is the good of art at all?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, all said and done, what is the good of it? To make pretty and
- amusing things to look at. All the rest is cant and humbug—including
- your desire to scrape acquaintance with loose women for artistic purposes.
- Look here, little wife”—and he turned round, with a sharp smile that
- showed his white teeth more than usual—“I didn't fall in love with
- you because you were an artist and held highfalutin' theories about
- artistic ideals and so forth, but because you were the woman whose
- loveliness appealed to me and always fascinated me. And now you are my
- wife you have other things to think about.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I know that, Thornton,” she replied, staring a little wistfully in front
- of her. “Tell me. What is our new life going to be like? You speak so
- little of it that I scarcely know.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh! what's the good of worrying yourself about it yet? I'll tell you when
- the time comes. You'll have our position in society to look after, keep
- things going straight for me in quarters where a woman can wheedle out
- more in an hour than a man in a twelvemonth. I have definitely taken up
- politics, you know. Things were settled this morning.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, why didn't you tell me before?” she cried involuntarily.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I never thought of it, my dear. Well, Hernshawe has asked me whether I
- would care to be his private secretary. His present man is in the Civil
- Service and is resigning owing to some office promotion, so when the House
- meets after the Whitsuntide recess Hernshawe will be free to take me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don't quite understand,” said Clytie, to whom these details were all
- new. She was vaguely aware that Thornton had intentions of aiming at a
- parliamentary career, but as he had volunteered no confidences, she had
- shrunk from soliciting them.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don't understand,” she repeated, “why you should take a
- private-secretaryship. You want to enter Parliament.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Of course. But I am so out of things that I want to get into training, so
- to speak. I shall be this session, perhaps next, with Hernshawe and learn
- all the ropes, and then he will run me for a suitable vacancy. It is as
- simple as good-morning, as they say in this country. I must do something,
- and politics seem about the only mildly exciting thing to go in for in
- this severely flat and respectable continent. But beyond looking after the
- society side of the matter, I don't see why you need worry your pretty
- head about it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Then don't you want me to become a bit of a politician, so as to help
- you, and understand you in your career?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, of course, to a certain extent,” he replied with cheerful
- offhandedness. “But for God's sake, my dear child, don't become a
- political woman. If there's one kind of a woman I bar more than another,
- its the female politician. Of course you'll have to go round canvassing
- for votes at the election, and to humbug people in society, but all that
- is rather sport than otherwise? Never mind, little wife; you'll have a
- ripping good time in London when the show begins.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He laughed, in gay good humour again. Clytie echoed with a faint smile.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Thornton,” she said after a short pause, “I don't want to bother you
- about politics if you don't like it”—she felt now a strange
- hesitation in speaking to him—“but you know you'll have to convert
- me, dear. It has been on my mind for some time. You are a Tory, you know,
- and I have been a Radical hitherto in feelings and sympathies.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He burst out laughing at her little air of seriousness. Perhaps if he had
- known how he hurt her, he would not have treated the matter so cavalierly.
- This difference in political views had been a question of some concern to
- Clytie, who was aware of old-fashioned Tory prejudices. And Thornton took
- her Radicalism as a jest, attributing no importance to the difference of
- opinion.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You'll change when we get back and become a shining light in the Primrose
- League.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She was too depressed by the whole of the foregoing conversation to pursue
- the subject any further. Thornton started the lighter topic of personal
- criticism of their new acquaintances in Paris, and rattled on in great
- spirits. He had forgotten entirely the argument that Clytie's somewhat
- unconventional action had occasioned, and was as boyishly gay as ever. But
- men forget things much more easily than women, especially when they have
- no object in remembering, nor any reminiscent twinge of susceptibility.
- </p>
- <p>
- That evening Clytie spent alone. Thornton was dining at the Café des
- Ambassadeurs with some men from the Embassy. He had kissed her before he
- started, called himself a selfish brute for condemning her to a dull
- evening, and went away humming a café-concert air. She did not mind his
- leaving her, took it now as a matter of course that each should be to a
- certain extent independent of the other; for the glamour of the south had
- departed, and the practicalities of life had begun to assert themselves.
- But it was the first wretched evening of her married life. She would have
- liked to cry, but as she was not of those who cry easily, she sat with
- eyes all the more painful for being strained and tearless. She had
- received a great shock. Ever since she had rebelled against the Durdleham
- formula that men were to descend from their intellectual sublimity when
- they spoke to women, lest like Semele the latter should be consumed in the
- Jovian blaze, she had been accustomed to meet men freely on an
- intellectual level. To find herself in a society where this particular
- formula was unknown had been one of the earliest joys of her emancipated
- life. She had very little vanity in the matter of her own attainments, but
- she took it for granted that her associates should recognise in her a
- woman of ordinary culture, capable of forming rational opinions. Her
- intelligence was keen, her judgment fine. She had read, thought, observed.
- Her art was to a certain extent a matter of intellect as well as of
- instinctive feeling, and in this respect had been stimulated by her
- intercourse with Kent. In the glow of her young, ardent nature she had
- committed many extravagances, but they all had borne the indubitable stamp
- of a mind strenuous in its endeavours. None but fools had ever thought of
- condescending to Clytie because she was a woman.
- </p>
- <p>
- And now for the first time she was coolly shown that she was a woman, that
- her opinions were not worth serious consideration, that she must not
- trouble her pretty-head about things that were too deep for her. And by
- the man, above all, whose life she shared. They were hours of dull, dazed
- humiliation that she spent alone that evening; hours that were not lost
- even in the pain of her after life. Over the absence of sympathy with her
- own pursuits she was only a little regretful. It would have been nicer if
- Thornton had been able to take a pleasure in her art. But she was too
- large-natured not to be able to bridge over this small gap between them.
- She was ready to sacrifice her art entirely to her love, was eager to
- throw herself into his interests and ambitions. But she demanded a full,
- vigorous share. To live an empty life was with her an impossibility. And
- to this life Thornton, in his good-natured contempt for her powers, was
- condemning her. She was puzzled, humiliated, frightened.
- </p>
- <p>
- There is a vague mystery of woe in the dawn of a dreary day.
- </p>
- <p>
- Meanwhile Thornton was enjoying himself amazingly. The dinner was one
- which, as Heine says, “ought to be partaken of kneeling,” and the wine was
- excellent; the party well chosen, the talk essentially, broadly masculine.
- There is a certain type of man whose conversation is wholly made up of
- sport in its various aspects, women, shop, and crude personal gossip—a
- type which numbers its tens of thousands in English society. It can be met
- with, to utter weariness of the soul, in any heterogeneous gathering of
- upper- and middle-class Britons. They are God's creatures, it is true;
- many of them are possessed of estimable qualities, some of them have
- performed deeds of heroism. But as a type they are a glaring satire upon
- the vaunted culture and refinement of our civilisation. And it is a
- remarkable thing how little their power and influence are recognised by
- writers in their analysis of the spirit of this dying nineteenth century.
- This vast overwhelming type does not read, does not think, does not care
- for art or music, has no power of penetration to the heart of delicate
- things. It is dull, brawny, selfish, and a pillar of the Church and State.
- Its main subjective characteristic is the brutality of its views
- concerning women—varying from the kindly disdain of its highest
- members to the degraded brutality of its lowest.
- </p>
- <p>
- Of this type, with all his physical charm, his brilliant personality and
- splendid capacities for action, was Thornton Hammerdyke. The man whose
- magnetism had drawn Clytie irresistibly, headlong into his arms was only,
- after all, a representative of this ignoble, commonplace order of men. The
- love that had flooded Clytie's being with wild surging tumult was only,
- after all, the commonplace, ignoble passion of his type. There are some
- things so elementary that analysis quickly comes to an end. Put in a strip
- of litmus paper and it is done.
- </p>
- <p>
- He was honestly glad to be free of Clytie. With unconscious cynicism he
- never sought to disguise it from himself. With Carteret of the Hussars and
- Swithin and Holyoake of the Embassy he was in his proper sphere. They were
- of the type. He had interests in common with them. The fact that he was a
- man of high distinction was neither here nor there. Over the fish and <i>entrées</i>
- they talked of racing and shooting; over the game they wandered along the
- upper galleries of the Cloaca Maxima of Paris; over the peaches and
- Château-Mouton they told foul stories. An ignoble, commonplace dinner
- party.
- </p>
- <p>
- And Clytie was alone in her room at the hotel staring at an unknown
- future.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER XVIII.
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he last three days
- of their stay in Paris were marked by a return on the part of Thornton to
- his old devotion. He declined invitations ruthlessly, spent almost the
- whole of his time with his wife. In all outward and visible signs they
- were lovers again, but the inward and spiritual grace was a bit vapoury.
- They went on excursions together, to Fontainebleau, Melun, Passy. One day
- they wandered about the forest of Vincennes and he kissed her beneath the
- trees as he used to do at Bordighera. They had gay, laughing meals
- together at little riverside restaurants. He was passionate in his
- expressions of endearment and in his delight at her beauty. With the
- negative tact of passion, he avoided all subjects that could jar upon her.
- For three days he was the Thornton of their honeymoon.
- </p>
- <p>
- Clytie at first could not understand this sudden change. She asked him the
- reason tremulously.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Can't you see, you silly girl,” he replied with masterful frankness,
- “that I love you and we have only three more days' idleness?”
- </p>
- <p>
- And then she let the spell come over her again and surrendered herself to
- his mood. But now, instead of entering with spontaneous joy a world of
- laughter whose magic gates lay open before her, she crossed the threshold
- with deliberate step. She had to choose whether to laugh or cry. She was
- young, she wanted to love her husband; so she chose to laugh. It was an
- act of reason. But woe to love when reason has to find its argument!
- </p>
- <p>
- By Whitsuntide they were in London, installed in their house in the
- Cromwell Road. The three days' passion had cooled down, and the atmosphere
- was colder than before. But Clytie for several weeks was so busy that she
- had not time for much consideration of troubling questions. First, the
- house required her attention. There was much supplementary furniture to be
- chosen, many minor schemes of decoration to be carried out in accordance
- with her own artistic tastes.
- </p>
- <p>
- Thornton gave her a free hand in these matters, and, beyond taking it for
- granted that the house should be fitly arranged, never troubled himself
- about details. He attended two or three picture sales with Clytie, where
- he bought a few pictures on her recommendation, ordered some great leather
- armchairs for his smoking-room, and then transferred his attention to
- concerns of more serious interest. So Clytie, left unhampered, succeeded
- in arranging the house to her own satisfaction. This occupied a great
- portion of her time; the rest was almost entirely devoted to her social
- duties.
- </p>
- <p>
- She found herself in some small position in society, as the artistic wife
- of a distinguished soldier of fortune with a considerable income, and it
- was Thornton's special ambition for the time being that this position
- should be maintained and secured, in furtherance of his own personal
- projects. Whilst contemplating marriage, or rather after he had, in his
- fierce impetuous way, decided upon it, he had sought around after some
- practical interest in his new life. He had forsworn Africa, with a
- virtuous sense of self-sacrifice. What remained worthy of a man's serious
- attention? He did not consult Clytie. It scarcely occurred to him that the
- subject concerned her. Of the few careers that presented themselves he
- selected two, the turf and politics, and wavered for some time in his
- choice. At last he tossed up for it, as he had often done at the fork of
- two paths in the forest. The coin came down with the Queen's head
- uppermost—and that meant politics. He was a Tory of the fiercer
- school. Even if family and professional tradition had not influenced him,
- a lengthy course of despotic authority enforced by the halter and the butt
- end of a musket is not favourable to the cultivation of Liberal suavities
- and amenities. And again, the “type” is almost always Tory. He was even
- out of touch with the broader Conservativism of our day, between which and
- modern Liberalism he failed to appreciate the distinction. In fact his
- political ideals, such as they were, belonged to the beginning instead of
- the end of the century, but he expressed them with a fervour that left no
- doubt as to their genuineness.
- </p>
- <p>
- He had no difficulty in setting at work the machinery of social influence,
- and the result was the offer of a private-secretaryship on the part of an
- under-secretary of state. He accepted it. It would not only afford him an
- insight into the practical working of politics, but would give him an
- opportunity of making himself known to the chiefs of the Conservative
- party and securing their influence when he should seek to enter
- Parliament. When everything was settled he informed Clytie casually in
- Paris of his new ambitions. She, too, had wondered what outlet this man of
- restless action would find for his energies, and, shrinking from inquiry,
- had been filled with vague uneasiness. Now she felt that he had made a
- worthy choice and in spite of dubious encouragement strove to identify
- herself with his interests. True, she contemplated with a little dismay
- the abandonment of her own pet social theories, which tended towards an
- advanced and somewhat inchoate Radicalism, and the espousal of a cause
- forming part of a scheme of life against which she had so passionately
- rebelled. But she wilfully, almost desperately, shut her eyes against all
- this. She would give her heart and soul to Thornton's glory, and the
- sacrifice of principle on her part would only accentuate the triumph. But
- this sacrifice Thornton did not concern himself to realise. Very few men
- ever do. As we have seen, he laughed at it.
- </p>
- <p>
- He entered upon his political duties as soon as they returned to London,
- led a busy life of work and pleasure, throwing into both the energy of his
- strong vitality. He was not a man to wait. Social position, power, must be
- wrested from the world by force of arms. The sooner the struggle began and
- the fiercer it was fought the sooner would come success. It behoved
- Clytie, therefore, to enter upon it with him at once. Before she could
- realise herself as mistress of a large house, as cut off from the old
- habits that had invested London with earnest charm, as sundered from Kent
- and Winifred, as deprived of her art and her dreams and ambition, she
- found herself caught up in the whirl of London society, bidden to
- cultivate its conventions, flatter its weaknesses, intrigue, gossip,
- dance, drive, rush, without a moment's pause to think.
- </p>
- <p>
- And thus began her new life. It was not the one she had dreamed of. In
- fact she hardly recognised herself in her deliberate subordination to a
- nature dominating hers. She let herself drift, abandoning herself to the
- current, clutching hold of her love towards her husband as the only plank
- saving her from destruction.
- </p>
- <p>
- Winifred she saw occasionally. She had no time for anything beyond a half
- hour's gossip, and then she forgot her own hopes and fears in the
- happiness of her friend, who had just become engaged to Treherne. She saw
- nothing of Kent. A feeling she could not analyse restrained her from
- writing to him, ever so formally. It was analogous to the whimsical
- shrinking from sketching his portrait when she had first met him. She
- heard of him, however, through Winifred. He came down to the studio still
- occasionally, and chatted over the teacups—“chiefly about you,
- dear,” said Winifred, “and the old days and your present life.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And is he changed at all?” asked Clytie. “It seems centuries since those
- same old days. I feel almost like asking whether he has a gray head and
- carries his years well!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It does seem a long time,” said Winifred reflectively. “But it really
- isn't, you know, and Kent is just the same as ever. His trip abroad has
- done him so much good. Do you know, dear, except Victor—and Mr.
- Hammerdyke, of course—I think he is the best man in all the world.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Her brown cheeks flushed as she spoke, and Clytie bent down and kissed
- them.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, Winnie darling, I wish everybody were as true and loyal as you,” she
- said.
- </p>
- <p>
- A great sob was in her heart, and she would have given much to have buried
- her face in Winnie's lap and let the tears come how they would. But she
- mastered herself, and before the other had time to hear the echo of the
- chord that was struck she went on:
- </p>
- <p>
- “Tell me, Winnie, how is his great work getting on?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Rapidly, I believe,” answered Winifred. “He seems to have nothing else to
- live for now. I think he misses you, dear, and plunges into it as a kind
- of consolation. He has had a great compliment paid him—have you
- heard? He met a great Austrian scientist, Herr ————,
- I can't remember his name—it doesn't matter. Anyhow, he showed this
- professor his work, and talked to him about the difficulties of
- publishing, expense, and all that, and a few days ago he received an offer
- from the University of Vienna to translate what was already done into
- German and publish it there. He says it is a most distinguished honour.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am so glad, dear,” said Clytie. “I feel proud of him, and I wish I
- could see him—to give him my congratulations. You will tell him that
- I asked after him, won't you, Winnie?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why, of course!” said Winifred. “Don't we always talk of you?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Mrs. Blather was anxious that Clytie and her husband should come to
- Durdleham to stay there after the season in town was over. But Clytie
- replied evasively to the affectionate invitation. She shrank from
- Durdleham even more than from herself. Mrs. Blather, now that the soreness
- as regards the wedding had worn off, was delighted at the brilliant match—just
- the very marriage one could have wished for Clytie, as she remarked over
- the Durdleham tea tables. Besides, it was definite settling down for
- Clytie, saving them from that shadow of scandal that had always seemed
- liable to be cast over them through her unprincipled behaviour. There were
- no longer any fears. And Mrs. Blather had her own little triumph in
- another way. She remembered now she had prophesied years ago that Clytie's
- desire to live her art life in London was a craze that would not last long—like
- Janet's transient enthusiasm for cookery classes. Both Janet and herself
- took it for granted that Clytie viewed her past errors with the same
- indulgent retrospective smile, and wrote her complacent letters based on
- this assumption. And Clytie found it harder than ever to write to them
- naturally, to answer these letters in the same tone. If her sisters had
- failed to understand her when to her her young, earnest self was brightly
- intelligible, how could they do it now when she saw herself vaguely,
- dimly, wrapped in impenetrable vapours? A visit to Durdleham, under the
- circumstances, seemed almost an ordeal. Yet Thornton's presence there
- might make some difference.
- </p>
- <p>
- She spoke to him very little on the subject. He broached it himself one
- day at breakfast, almost the only time now, except late at night, that she
- saw him alone. It was nearing the end of July and the session of
- Parliament was on the eve of closing.
- </p>
- <p>
- “When are you going to see your people, Clytie?” he asked, looking over
- his paper.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I thought I had told you. They want us to come for a week as soon as we
- can leave town.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Us?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes; won't you come?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, no, thanks. It would not suit me at all. You go and make an excuse
- for me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Things are not gay there, I know,” said Clytie, “but I should like you to
- come with me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It can't be done, my dear,” replied Thornton. “You had better have a
- quiet time there by yourself, while I go up to Scotland——”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I thought you would have liked me to go to Scotland with you—we
- have seen so little of each other lately. You don't want to stay up there
- all the autumn without me?” she added half pathetically.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why, my dear Clytie, you can come if you like,” said her husband, drawing
- back his chair from the table. “Only you won't find much fun in a little
- shooting-box in the middle of a glen in the Highlands. Look: you go and
- see your people for a month, and then, if you like, you can come and join
- me there—that is to say, if Carteret has any of his women folks
- staying in the house, which does not seem to be quite settled yet. If he
- hasn't, naturally you can't come.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “In that case I shall not go to Durdleham—I couldn't. You would not
- understand why. I shall stay in London, and mind the house.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I should not like you to do that,” said Thornton.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why not?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Because I had rather you did not,” he repeated, with a gathering frown.
- </p>
- <p>
- “How long do you contemplate being away?” asked Clytie quietly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “August and September, perhaps—I can't quite tell yet.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Do you propose, then, that I should go and stay in Durdleham for two
- months with my people?”
- </p>
- <p>
- He had not contemplated it, but he was irritated at her show of
- opposition. He lost his temper and said sharply:
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes. Or with any other friends you like. I am not going to have you
- remain here all by yourself.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Will you tell me your reasons, Thornton?” asked Clytie.
- </p>
- <p>
- He crumpled up his paper angrily and thumped it on the table. The veins in
- his forehead stood out. His face grew ugly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “When I say a thing is to be done I mean it,” he cried, “and I am not
- accustomed to be asked for my reasons!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I shall leave you until you have recovered yourself,” said Clytie with
- dignity, and she left the room.
- </p>
- <p>
- This was the first real quarrel between them. The blood had often rushed
- hot through Clytie's veins and set her pulses tingling, but hitherto she
- had restrained herself, feeling that the first revolt would mark the
- beginning of the end.
- </p>
- <p>
- She passed a miserable day. When Thornton came home in the afternoon to
- dress for dinner he was in one of his light-hearted moods. He had backed
- an outsider some weeks back at very long odds. The race had been run that
- day and the outsider had won, bringing him a couple of thousand pounds—a
- windfall that relieved him of certain temporary embarrassments. Hence his
- buoyancy that afternoon. He had apparently forgotten the morning's
- difference, and called Clytie “little wife” again, and promised her a
- victoria to supplement the modest brougham with which they had begun. He
- put his arm round her and kissed her, praised her beautiful hair, the
- roundness of her arms, her dress. He told her the gossip of the day in his
- bright off-hand manner, made her laugh in spite of her weariness. But when
- he kissed her she shrank a little. In the elation of his victory he did
- not notice her lack of responsiveness; besides, he was not over-sensitive
- at any time. When they returned home at night from the dinner-party to
- which they had gone together, Thornton was still in pleasant mood. Nothing
- more was said respecting the plans for August and September.
- </p>
- <p>
- The reconciliation did not last long. Clytie strove with an earnestness
- that was torture to keep the peace between them, but sometimes her nature
- clamoured within her and broke out in self-assertion. Only four months
- married, and already the breach between them was perceptible, slowly
- widening. And it was Clytie that drifted away from her husband. If she had
- been a lesser nature, she might have retained the love on both sides. A
- woman of a lower type would have been able to flatter, soothe, cajole,
- yield, and thus have kept Thornton at her feet. The patronising contempt
- for her own needs, which lashed Clytie to the soul, she would have treated
- lightly, as the natural and foolish vanity of the superior being; and she
- would have found in a sudden demonstration of passion full compensation
- for previous indifference. But Clytie was not only unversed herself in the
- arts of seduction, but despised them fiercely in other women. And she
- began also to dread Thornton's fits of affection as much as his fits of
- anger.
- </p>
- <p>
- He left her one morning quivering with mortification and suppressed
- bitterness. He himself was not conscious of the slight he had inflicted,
- and he went away in gay spirits. Their talk had turned upon a Cabinet
- Minister named Godderich, whose influence Thornton was anxious to acquire.
- Now it had so happened that this same Godderich had succeeded in making
- himself vastly obnoxious to Clytie. She told her husband this, giving him
- the reasons.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I have not been accustomed to that kind of admiration,” she said, “and I
- don't like it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- But Thornton laughed his great laugh, called her “his unconventional
- prude,” and went on to show her what an invaluable ally Godderich was.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You must swallow your dislike, Clytie,” he said. “Why, God bless my soul,
- if ninety-nine women out of a hundred had that chance, they would get the
- eyes out of his head.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Would you so much desire me to be like ninety-nine women out of a
- hundred, then, Thornton?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, nonsense, Clytie; you know what I mean. Come! Don't you see that
- here's a way of pushing things on a bit? What does it matter if the ass is
- attentive? You can laugh at him. But keep him in hand a bit until we want
- to let him loose. Do you see? Of course I trust you, and all that sort of
- thing.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I thank you for your confidence,” she replied. “But I don't think you
- will need to exercise it much.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “What do you mean?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, never mind. Do you really want me, Thornton, to encourage this man to
- make love to me, so as to get a hold on him for other purposes?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I never saw anyone like you for the dotting of i's,” said Thornton,
- amused. “But that's about the size of it. Don't you see what an infernal
- ass we can make of him? Well, think it over, little wife. Good-bye.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He opened the front door,—this little conversation had taken place
- in the hall,—and ran down the steps very well pleased with himself.
- </p>
- <p>
- But Clytie's heart turned from him and she passed a wretched day—all
- the more trying as she felt in honour bound to sing antistrophe of praise
- of Thornton to the strophe of Mrs. Farquharson, with whom she was
- lunching.
- </p>
- <p>
- In the evening they were going out together. He came home late from
- Westminster, dressed hurriedly, and went down to the drawing-room, where
- Clytie was waiting. She was wearing a low-cut dress. Her arms were bare. A
- tiny diamond clasp to a thin gold chain flashed on her bosom.
- </p>
- <p>
- “By Jove! You're looking lovelier than ever!” he cried. “Come, let me kiss
- you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He drew her to him, kissed the upper part of her arm, and then her lips.
- But she made no response. She shrank, and this time he noted it. His arm
- still round her waist, he held back his head and looked at her.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Clytie!”
- </p>
- <p>
- He spoke with loverlike reproach, and kissed her again, and again she
- shrank. And then he cast her aside roughly, and stamped his foot.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Damn it! Clytie,” he exclaimed, showing his teeth, “you are a perfect
- icicle!”
- </p>
- <p>
- Clytie made no reply, but turned to the window and buttoned her glove.
- Thornton rang the bell violently, and when the footman appeared asked him
- why the devil the carriage had not come round. Then he flung himself into
- a chair and turned over a book. And thus they remained without speaking
- until the brougham was announced. On their way to their dinner-party they
- did not speak. He was in a fit of furious sulks, and Clytie's heart was
- too heavy. Afterwards he went off to his club and she drove home by
- herself.
- </p>
- <p>
- And this at the end of only four months' wedded life. What would it be at
- the end of four years, fourteen? Clytie strove for a little to blame
- herself for supersensitiveness, egotism, coldness. But her self rose in
- arms against this charge. For, like the unfolding of a horrible story, the
- nature of Thornton's love for her, the nature of the place she really
- occupied in his estimation, gradually broke upon her. The meaning of light
- remarks, trivial jests, careless actions; the meaning of caresses now half
- contemptuous, now passionate—all came to her in full light, in all
- their crudity, out of the gray darkness in which she had instinctively
- kept it hidden from herself. She stared at it—not in ignorant
- surmise as she had done in Paris, but with a ghastly sickening of soul.
- </p>
- <p>
- Oh, the degradation of it! What was she to her husband but a possession, a
- toy, a woman, to suffer his caresses when it so pleased him to bestow
- them, a mistress whom he had taken it into his head to bind legally to
- himself, so that she might serve certain purposes of his in society? What
- little better was she to him than the women whom men buy,—Loulou
- Mendès, for instance,—save that he reckoned,—he had told her
- so,—on her fidelity to him? Things she had tried to ascribe to the
- careless familiarity of love blazed insultingly before her, scorching her,
- making her writhe in her abasement.
- </p>
- <p>
- Naturally satiety had come to him. He was indifferent whether he saw her
- or not for a season. Only in his absence she was to obey blindly his
- caprices. If only she was his wife, she thought bitterly, in the humdrum
- Durdleham way, where at least she would have had the conventional position
- in their conjugal relations! Either that or the wild independence of a
- Loulou Mendès, carrying her will in her hand, free to choose her own way
- among the groves of the satyrs. For even there the free path smells
- sweeter than the one of servitude.
- </p>
- <p>
- Just before the session ended Clytie came to a definite understanding with
- her husband. It is surprising what pain can underlie this mutual
- adjustment of two intelligences.
- </p>
- <p>
- The scene was again the breakfast-room. Each was reading the morning's
- correspondence. Thornton tossed a letter across the table.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Carteret's women folk can't come,” he said. “Devilish sensible women—they
- don't see the fun of it. So it's settled. I go up as soon as this wretched
- grind is over.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Very well,” said Clytie calmly. “I hope you will have a good time.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Thanks,” he replied in his careless way. “It will be like old times
- again. And you will put in a good, quiet couple of months with your
- people.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Clytie bit her lip. Her heart beat a little faster. She was going to set
- herself in opposition to him. She glanced at him before she spoke; he
- hardly seemed to expect an answer, but continued reading another letter.
- He looked kind and frank, she thought, a husband for any woman to be proud
- of. In his morning freshness, clean-shaven, groomed, trimmed, he seemed
- handsomer than ever. His close brown hair had not a touch of gray;
- scarcely a line showed on his forehead or beneath his eyes; and the dark
- rich colour was visible beneath the bronze on his cheek. He broke into a
- laugh, buoyant and careless, over his letter, and looked up at Clytie.
- Then, his glance meeting hers, his face grew more serious.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What are you gazing at me for with those great blue eyes of yours,
- Clytie?”
- </p>
- <p>
- She bent forward, rested her cheek on her hand.
- </p>
- <p>
- “In regard to what you have just said—my going to Durdleham—I
- am not going for many reasons. I told you so, Thornton, the other day.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am quite aware of it,” said Thornton. “But you are going.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He looked her full in the face, and she returned his gaze calmly and
- unflinchingly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Don't let us quarrel, Thornton,” she said. “It is so sordid and petty.
- Let us try quietly to understand one another.”
- </p>
- <p>
- His glance fell first, and he threw himself back in his chair with a laugh
- and unfolded his paper.
- </p>
- <p>
- “All right—we'll bar scenes. Only don't say anything too severe or
- you'll spoil my breakfast.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Thornton,” she said, not changing her attitude, “I think I know what my
- duty is towards you, and I try to perform it. Has it ever struck you that
- you may have some duties towards me?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I can't say it has,” he replied.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don't think you understand me, Thornton. I will try to make it clearer
- to you. As far as you will let me take an interest in your life, I do so.
- I am more than willing to make any sacrifices—to give up everything
- for you. But when you do not want me, as this autumn, I surely may
- remember that I have a life of my own to lead.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And suppose that life does not suit me?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That is the point, Thornton. If you wished me, out of love for you, to do
- anything, I would do it. But this is a matter in which love has no place.
- Provided I am scrupulous in all my duties towards you, I have a right to
- my own life, to my own antipathies, to my own favourite pursuits—in
- fact to myself as an individual, and it is your duty towards me to
- recognise it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don't quite see what you are driving at,” said Thornton. “You can
- dislike sweet champagne and paint pictures and read Schopenhauer if you
- like. Who is preventing you? But in certain matters, as you are my wife,
- you have got to do what I tell you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “To take an extreme case, by way of argument: Suppose the fancy seized you
- to order me to remain in my bedroom all day—you would expect me to
- obey you?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “By God! I should think I would!” cried Thornton, starting to his feet,
- with blazing eyes and the veins standing out on his forehead.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It seems, Thornton,” she said very quietly, “you have married the wrong
- woman.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Then she rose, too, from the table, moved towards him, and laid her hand
- on his arm. He shook it off with an impatient oath, and turned away,
- fuming, to stare out of the window. She was too well accustomed to his
- fits of passion to resent the indignity. She mechanically picked off some
- withering leaves from some flowers on the mantelpiece, and waited for him
- to speak. At last he turned round again, and asked her sullenly:
- </p>
- <p>
- “Have you any other pretty remarks to make?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “If you will listen to them quietly.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, what do you want? I grant I was a fool to marry you. Let me hear
- the consequences of my folly.”
- </p>
- <p>
- His face was set in a sneer, an ugly expression. She had seen it several
- times since that evening at the opera in Paris. The tears sprang into her
- eyes as she glanced at him.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, don't speak and look like that!” she cried. “I cannot bear it. I did
- not intend to say anything hard just now. I only meant that you had
- mistaken me, and my needs, and my nature. I have tried to look upon
- marriage from your point of view for four months, and I can't do it any
- longer. You say I must obey you blindly in everything, even your arbitrary
- fancies, subordinate myself absolutely to you. Thornton, believe me, where
- your interests or love are concerned I will do it; but where they are not
- I can't, and it will be happier for both of us that I should tell you so
- frankly. If you go your way alone, I must go mine.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That means you set yourself in defiance to my wishes?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Clytie checked an impulse of impatience.
- </p>
- <p>
- “If you won't understand me, and insist on putting it that way—yes.”
- </p>
- <p>
- They looked at each other for some time. And then Thornton ground his
- teeth and glared at her.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You can go your own way if you like, but I warn you one of these days
- there will be the devil to pay!”
- </p>
- <p>
- And he strode out of the room, cursing, and slammed the door behind him.
- </p>
- <p>
- Clytie sat down by the window. The tears would come in spite of her pride.
- She had gained the victory. But there are some victories that have all the
- aching sense of defeat.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER XIX.
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">O</span>n the day after
- this conversation Clytie was surprised by an announcement from Durdleham
- that Mrs. Blather and Janet were suddenly coming to town and would avail
- themselves of her often repeated invitation to pay her a visit in her new
- home. Janet had been ailing for some time past. The over-refined Davenant
- blood had never been vivifying at any time, and now, as there were sudden
- dangers of a grave kind, their Durdleham doctor had advised her consulting
- a London specialist. They hurried to catch the great man before he left
- for his summer holidays. That was their apology to Clytie for the
- shortness of their notice. Ordinarily on their rare visits to town they
- put up at Durfey's Hotel in Albany Street. Their father and grandfather
- had put up there from time immemorial, and they spoke of Durfey's with
- solemn familiarity, as if it were the one hotel of London. On this
- occasion, however, they came and stayed with Clytie.
- </p>
- <p>
- Their presence in the house was a relief to her, even though it was by way
- of counter-irritation. Thornton showed himself in the light of a charming
- host and delighted his sisters-in-law. They could not find enough
- felicitations to bestow upon Clytie. They forgot the old
- misunderstandings, took it for granted that Clytie had finally settled,
- was happy, without any ulterior desires. They went round the house, Mrs.
- Blather manifesting mild enthusiasm over the more solid arrangements in
- the way of furniture and domestic appurtenances, Janet going into little
- ecstasies over the decorations.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I never thought you had such a talent for house management,” said Mrs.
- Blather after an inspection of the linen-cupboards and china-closets.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I hardly think it requires absolute genius,” replied Clytie, “to see that
- sheets are folded up properly and that plates are not put away dirty.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ah!” said her sister, with a philosophic sigh. “So many young wives are
- so inexperienced.”
- </p>
- <p>
- It was a delight to Mrs. Blather to see Clytie in this aspect. She could
- talk to her now on common ground; Clytie had become an ordinary sensible
- woman, who could discuss the things that fill the ordinary sensible
- woman's life: housemaids, fancywork, and the price of fish. Mrs. Blather
- knew that Hammerdyke was fairly well off, but she thought it her duty to
- give Clytie many valuable hints as to household expenditure, to which
- Clytie listened with suave distraction. She also gave her recipes for
- cooking, and the washing of lace, and infallible methods for removing wine
- stains from tablecloths; also neat little formulas for the management of a
- husband.
- </p>
- <p>
- “But yours is simply perfect,” she added, with reference to this last.
- “Oh, Clytie, you are a lucky girl!”
- </p>
- <p>
- To Clytie there was something pathetically humorous in the aspect she
- presented to her sisters; in finding herself, for the first time in her
- life, perfect in their eyes; in their changed relations. It was amusing to
- be the lady of the house, and to make plans for Gracie and Janet's
- entertainment. She brightened under the sense of it, and though many a
- misconception on their part caused her a sharp twinge of pain, she allowed
- them to purr on contentedly, taking a small measure of enjoyment from the
- comfort thereof. Besides, she felt that it would not last long. Their stay
- was limited to three days. A week of it would have been intolerable. For
- this reason she declined to accompany them back to Durdleham. At first
- Mrs. Blather was rather hurt at her refusal; but Clytie gently smoothed
- over the matter, tactfully avoiding to give specific reasons.
- </p>
- <p>
- Although Thornton was amenity itself in his intercourse with Clytie when
- they met in her sisters' presence, in their private relations he showed a
- certain soreness—the result of the process of understanding. She
- tried to heal this, to win back from him, if not love, at least gentleness
- and courtesy.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I must thank you, Thornton, for being so nice to my sisters,” she said
- once.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I suppose I know how to behave myself in my own house,” he replied
- coldly, and Clytie retired, and listened, with an ache in her heart, to
- Mrs. Blather's epithalamion.
- </p>
- <p>
- Still it comforted her to see Thornton his old bright self again, as she
- had known him before her marriage, even though she knew his brow would
- darken on the departure of her guests. It gladdened her to hear him talk
- animatedly to Janet of the wonders of the forest and the romance of war.
- The hall, the staircase, and the walls of his smoking room were lined with
- curiosities of travel: spears and skin-covered shields, swords, wooden
- maces—a whole armoury of savage weapons. There were feathered
- headdresses, great rings roughly wrought of virgin gold, strange garments,
- some stained with blood. On the landing above the hall stairs hung an evil
- wooden yoke with pendent chains which he had lifted from the necks of two
- dead slaves, left by the caravan to die and rot by the way; and, flanking
- it, two great lions' heads glared defiantly. To each relic a history was
- attached, now commonplace, now ghastly. Clytie knew them all, but she
- accompanied her sisters as Thornton took them round, a perfect cicerone,
- and she was pleased to see his face light up and his eyes glow with the
- reminiscence of dangers and brave deeds. It brought her a glad memory of
- the past and a little hope for the future. She was grateful, too, to
- Thornton for thus effectually hiding from her sisters any signs of their
- recent differences and divergencies. She could receive their
- congratulations with a sense of grim humour. Anything approaching pity,
- with whatever delicate sympathy it might be conveyed, would have made her
- wince with pain. Even Mrs. Farquharson, who had sharp eyes and many kindly
- affinities with her, shared Mrs. Blather's unquestioning belief in the
- happiness of her lot. Before others Thornton was still the gallant lover
- and courteous husband, and Clytie was not unthankful. When questioned as
- to Thornton's plans for the autumn she answered vaguely. The session had
- worn him out. He was going up to Scotland for the grouse shooting. She
- herself was going to take care of the house until his return. She
- preferred staying in London in August to going anywhere without him. And
- Mrs. Blather, quite satisfied, paid her a little compliment on her
- wifeliness, and suggested various household improvements to occupy her
- time during her grass-widowhood.
- </p>
- <p>
- So Mrs. Blather and Janet went back to Durdleham, to raise a flutter of
- excitement at the Durdleham tea tables over their accounts of Clytie's
- moral and material prosperity and her husband's manifold perfections. But
- the old man, Mr. Davenant, shook his head and sighed. Slow to receive
- fresh impressions, he could not conceive Clytie other than wilful and
- paradoxical. And he was suspicious of the brilliant soldier of fortune. He
- would much have preferred his daughter to have married a steady-going
- country gentleman or professional man. Still no fault could be found with
- Hammerdyke, who had treated him with every courtesy.
- </p>
- <p>
- Before Thornton's departure for Scotland a kind of reconciliation was
- patched up between them. The first overtures had come from Clytie. After
- all, he was her husband. They were bound together, for better or worse,
- till death parted them. It was only common sense to struggle that it
- should be for better. She humbled herself, then, a little, confessed that
- she had been unreasonable in some things. He happened to be in a softer
- mood, and encouraged her to tell him she was sorry if she had been cold
- and selfish. Unconsciously she made him feel quite magnanimous. He kissed
- her gaily, bade her think no more about it, and even condescended to say
- with regard to the main point at issue:
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, perhaps you are about right in not caring to go to Durdleham. Your
- sisters are not rapid.”
- </p>
- <p>
- A remark which, although it jarred somewhat on Clytie's strung nerves, she
- nevertheless accepted as a token of peace.
- </p>
- <p>
- This was the second time in her life that she had deliberately humbled
- herself before a man. She thought of it with a queer little pang. When she
- had put down her young pride so as to retain Kent's friendship and esteem,
- on the day that Jack had destroyed Winifred's picture, it had been all
- gladness and triumph. She remembered how happily she had gone to sleep
- that night, in pleasant subconsciousness of certain feminine workings. It
- had been a joy to surrender then. But now? She shrugged her shoulders,
- tried to dismiss it from her mind.
- </p>
- <p>
- In the middle of August she found herself alone in the great house,
- enjoying the leisure and solitude, the independence, the freedom from
- friction. She devoted most of her time to her painting, which had been
- sadly neglected since her marriage. Her studio was a pleasant room, with a
- good light. It had not the severe, businesslike air of the one in the
- King's Road; it was warmer, heavier with velvet hangings, richer in quaint
- furniture. Instead of the whitewashed walls scrawled over with grotesque
- caricatures, it had a delicately toned Morris paper. The floor was
- polished, strewn with thick rugs; a great white bearskin lay before the
- hearth. The piles of canvases stretched upon rough wooden backs that used
- to lie stacked up in odd corners Thornton had had framed for her, as a
- surprise to greet her on her home-coming, and now the best of them were
- hung round the room. Some of her cherished possessions found a place—the
- etching by Rupert Kent, two or three of Winifred's delicate studies, and
- an exquisite Jacquemart that Kent had given her long ago. But otherwise
- all was new, luxurious, separating her from the old associations of her
- art life.
- </p>
- <p>
- Whilst searching for a subject she took out her studies for the Faustina
- picture. But she put them aside with a shudder. She was painting merely
- for amusement, to gratify the artistic impulse that urged her to create.
- But the hope, by which she had been gradually rising towards the goal of
- her ambition, the hope of fame and full accomplishment, was gone,
- apparently beyond recall; and she mused upon it sadly. This sense of
- finality is characteristic of youth—its one governing pessimism. Yet
- she was cheerful enough, glad to feel the brush between her fingers again,
- and to smell the familiar odour of turpentine, and to see her fancies take
- visible form under her touch. The artist within her asserted itself,
- though vaguely, as from some depth where it lay buried. It was undergoing
- a subtle change, and its weak, inchoate manifestations were those of a
- period of transition. But Clytie knew it not.
- </p>
- <p>
- The Farquharsons returned to town towards the end of the month, and
- Winifred also, after her annual seaside holiday with the children. And
- many of Clytie's other friends remained in London, and welcomed her back
- among them. It was like a return to her old life. Only Kent was absent
- from her circle. She missed him, sighing a little for the impossible.
- </p>
- <p>
- Thornton wrote from Scotland with affectionate brevity. He did not know
- that he could have missed her so much. He had bagged so many brace that
- morning. He longed to see her. He thought he might as well stay on with
- Carteret so long as there was any sport forward. His letters, dashed off
- with a broad quill pen in a great, bold hand, covered four sides of
- notepaper, and came once a week. Clytie had no reason to complain of lack
- of attention on the part of her husband. Consequently she looked forward
- to less troubled days when they should lead their common life together
- again.
- </p>
- <p>
- An occasional visitor that she had during these weeks was the boy Jack. He
- had been for a term at the industrial school to which Treherne and Kent
- had procured him admittance, and now passed as a reformed character
- amongst his enthusiasts. The teachers at the school, with vivid memories
- of stormy scenes, might have demurred at this opinion; but they were miles
- away holiday-making, and for the time blissfully oblivious of Jack. Four
- months over a spelling-book and a carpenter's bench, even though the
- latter may be situated amid pleasant fields, are not long enough to purify
- the blood from the wildness of London streets; and a lifetime so spent
- cannot wash out hereditary taint; but they can teach the use of soap and
- water and a suitable adjustment of garments. And Jack was clean, and his
- wild elf locks were cropped into compulsory smugness, and his clothes
- conformed to a strictly conventional order. This external revolution was
- so startling that an accompanying moral reform seemed unquestionable.
- Even his mother's dull pessimism was affected by it. When she returned
- from her work she bribed him with bread and treacle to sit in a chair
- where she could admire him, instead of sending him out of her way into the
- streets as she had been wont to do. But Jack ate the bread and treacle and
- then sauntered into the street of his own accord. He did not admire his
- mother, and only heeded her blandishments when they assumed an objective
- form. He admired one person, and that was Winifred. With her the young
- animal was tame, almost docile. It was merely owing to lack of special
- instinct that he did not lick her hand. He was often in the studio, where
- he had been constituted general factotum during his holidays. He swept the
- floor, cleaned the windows, set the brushes and paints in order before
- Winifred arrived, ran messages for her, and whenever she permitted would
- sprawl on the ground by her side, following her movements with his great
- brown eyes. To prevent him from wasting his time and energies in this
- passive adoration, Winifred often invented commissions for him which he
- executed with proud despatch, disregarding all allurements to eat the
- lotus of the gutter and holding his person sacred as Winifred's messenger.
- It was in consequence of this that he found his way to Clytie's house,
- acting as postman for his patroness. At first he was shy. He had not lost
- the feeling of awe with which Clytie inspired him, nor had he forgotten
- the dread picture of her anger on that day when she had summarily
- dismissed him from her service. It was only his devotion to Winifred that
- had induced him to put, as it seemed to him, his head in the lion's mouth.
- But when he found that the lion was kind and roared as gently as his own
- dove, and further, gave him various unimaginable dainties to eat and odd
- shillings to spend in surreptitious tobacco, the house in the Cromwell
- Road became invested with pleasant associations.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was after Clytie had had two or three visits from him that the idea
- occurred to her to paint the portrait of the reformed Jack. The sittings
- continued long after the necessity for them had ceased. Jack came of his
- own accord. At last one day he astonished her by refusing the shilling
- that she held out to him.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I didn't come for that,” he said bluntly. “I come to see you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Clytie and the urchin in industrial school corduroys looked steadily for
- some seconds at one another, and both in their respective ways were
- conscious of having added to their sum of knowledge. Then they became real
- friends. Clytie looked upon him with a new interest, taking herself
- severely to task for having summed him up in the past with such scornful
- superficiality. She atoned for it now by seeking to interest herself in
- his life, to give herself a little place in it, whereby it should receive
- some individual colour. This was all the easier now, as Winifred had
- smoothed down many of Jack's social asperities. Albeit not refined of
- speech, he no longer used profane language in the studio, nor did he
- entertain her with sanguinary details of cat murder. When the time came
- for him to return to school Clytie felt quite sorry.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER XX.
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>hornton returned
- in due time. The autumn session began. The weeks and months passed. Their
- relations remained the same as when they had parted in the summer. Towards
- Clytie he manifested a kindly indifference, so long as she obeyed his
- wishes. When she went counter to them he flared up, showed his teeth, and
- swore; on which occasions Clytie would draw herself up, and, with her chin
- in the air, leave the room and retire into her studio. Then, after two or
- three days of evil sullenness, the fancy would take him to kiss her, and
- lightly swear that she was the loveliest woman in the world. But Clytie
- had lost all responsive feeling. She met him not wholly unaffectionately,
- but calmly, presenting an obedient, passionless cheek. Thereupon he would
- either storm again or laugh, reminding her of a time when her lips sought
- his, asking her why she had frozen, where was the Clytie of their bridal
- month. And if he pleaded gently, womanlike, she would relent a little,
- yield to him, striving to blot out the objects that met her sight as she
- looked back towards the past. Then there would recur the season of
- indifference, which Clytie had grown to welcome.
- </p>
- <p>
- The daily life went on, she scarce knew how. Visiting, entertaining,
- painting, filled her days. And she dreamed wistful little dreams.
- </p>
- <p>
- And then there came to Clytie a great calm, a new, strange happiness, in
- the midst of the life she had thought to be broken. She would sit by
- herself and think, with a smile playing round the corners of her lips, and
- a light in her eyes. Again the order of things seemed changed. Again a
- newer life, with newer hopes and responsibilities, lay before her. For the
- time her art, her needs, were forgotten. Trifling, dainty occupations
- absorbed her as she sat in the solitude of the studio on the chilly autumn
- days, her feet luxuriously buried in the bearskin before the great fire.
- Sometimes Mrs. Farquharson would come and help her, with a yearning hunger
- in her eyes that Clytie knew the meaning of; for Caroline was a childless
- woman. And then Clytie would kiss her silently and Caroline would shake
- her head and laugh, and talk in her bright way of the wonder that would
- be.
- </p>
- <p>
- Only at times did a wave of bitterness pass over her. If all that had
- happened in her married life since the train had carried her out of
- Bordighera station had been different! If only she could see her husband
- as she saw him that day, by the ruined tower, when she passed her hand
- over his hair and thought him all that could suffice a woman's needs!
- Sometimes she looked at him now, furtively, when his face was in repose.
- He seemed the same, handsome, brave, ideally perfect in manhood. Why had
- not the glamour lasted? Why should the “dream be better than the drink”?
- And then she would turn away and the thought would rise:
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why did I not continue blind? Would to God this knowledge of him had
- never come!”
- </p>
- <p>
- He grew a little kinder to her, however. It was a rough, patronising
- tenderness, it is true, but yet Clytie felt grateful. A little act of
- forethought and consideration softened her towards him much more than it
- warranted. Perhaps in spite of all he might have won her to him again, and
- brought her lips to his in a kiss of rare meaning—for at certain
- times there are wondrous tendernesses and wondrous powers of forgiveness
- in woman. But Thornton lost the golden chance, being busy with his
- muck-rake.
- </p>
- <p>
- He came home one afternoon, in an evil humour. Clytie, prepared to welcome
- him, looked up kindly from her lounge-chair as he came into the studio,
- but as she saw the blackness of his face, her heart sank. A footstool came
- in his way, and he sent it, with a kick, sliding along the polished floor.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why do you litter up the place with these infernal traps, Clytie?” he
- asked crossly as he came up to the fire to warm his hands.
- </p>
- <p>
- Clytie, like a wise woman, held her peace. Silence is a very good friend
- sometimes. But as he remained there moodily, without saying a word, and
- the silence was growing uncomfortable, she asked him what was amiss.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Everything's amiss!” he replied roughly—“all through your silly
- folly. Read that!”
- </p>
- <p>
- He drew a letter from his pocket book and threw it into her lap. It ran:
- </p>
- <p>
- Dear Hernshawe:
- </p>
- <p>
- As I think Simmons would be a more satisfactory man for Burchester than
- Hammerdyke, I have suggested the former to the local Conservative
- association. As they seem rather at a loss for a suitable candidate, I
- think they will accept my nominee.
- </p>
- <p>
- Yours truly,
- </p>
- <p>
- E. Godderich.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am sorry, Thornton,” said Clytie, laying the letter down on the
- afternoon tea table by her side. “But you hardly expected to have a chance
- so soon.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Do you suppose I am going to slave away at this hack's work for two or
- three years?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No; but this is only the second or third vacancy that has occurred.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “What does that matter? Godderich promised to run me as soon as he saw an
- opening. Hernshawe was amazed at this letter this morning. Don't talk of
- what you know nothing about. It's simply infernal spite on Godderich's
- part! Who is Simmons? A damned cheesemonger with a jubilee knighthood, and
- as much brains as a double Glo'ster! Godderich has the reputation for this
- sort of thing. That was why I wanted to keep in with him. If you had taken
- a ha'porth of interest in the matter, it would not have happened. You have
- treated the man in your confounded icy
- don't-address-me-or-I'll-petrify-you kind of way, and you have put his
- back up against us!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I always treated him courteously,” said Clytie.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, by Jove, I know what that means!” sneered Thornton. “And now you can
- have the satisfaction of seeing how your courtesy has played the fool with
- my plans.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I can't understand you, Thornton,” she replied wearily. “I should have
- thought you of all people would have preferred to win your own battles.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “So I shall in future. I shall take jolly good care not to ask you to help
- me any more! After all your fine professions of identifying yourself with
- my life and that sort of rot I really thought you would be willing to help
- me—in about the only way a woman can.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “By a silly, ignoble flirtation? Would you really hope to win success by
- your wife's dishonour?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, rot!” cried Thornton savagely. “Who the devil talked about
- dishonour?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, then, we don't see things in the same light,” said Clytie quietly.
- “And I am very glad you have lost Godderich's influence, if that is what
- it depended upon.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He turned and faced her, in one of his blind rages.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why don't you say at once you don't care a little damn about me? It would
- be nearer the truth. What the deuce did I marry you for, when there are
- thousands of better women in the world who are to be had for the asking?
- About the only thing I have ever asked you to do for me was to employ a
- little womanly tact, and then you get up on the high horse, damme! and
- talk about dishonour! One would have thought you had been bred in a
- nunnery instead of the disreputable gutter in the King's Road I found you
- in!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, stop!” said Clytie, rising. “If I were well, perhaps I might be angry
- and amuse you with a row. But I am not equal to it at present, believe me.
- I'll see you at dinner.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She walked towards the door, but Thornton intercepted her with three or
- four quick strides.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I'm hanged if you do!” he said. “I have too much respect for my
- digestion. I'm not going to stay in the house with you!”
- </p>
- <p>
- And he strode out of the studio, slamming the door.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Thank God!” said Clytie to herself.
- </p>
- <p>
- And so the film of reconciliation that new circumstances had begun to
- spread was rudely torn asunder, and the breach between them grew greater
- than before. For several days Clytie suffered. Then she resigned herself
- to the inevitable, and in her thoughts drifted away from her husband. For
- they were sweet thoughts, full of unspeakable consolation. And the weeks
- wore on, and the evenings grew shorter and shorter, and the little pile of
- dainty needlework grew higher in the press. Thornton rarely disturbed her;
- the time that he could spare from his official duties he passed as a man
- about town idles the hours away. A man with the least domestic tastes in
- the world, he found no especial pleasures in his house. His wife did not
- amuse him; the cooking at his club was more to his taste than that which
- awaited him at home. There was no earthly reason why he should use the
- house for any other purpose than sleeping, breakfasting, and the
- occasional entertainment, which was now discontinued for a season. He
- lived his own life, more or less satisfactory to himself, and left Clytie
- to her own devices. Wherefore she not unfrequently thanked the Almighty.
- She lived practically alone. Winifred came to see her from time to time.
- Mrs. Farquharson was often with her. The shrewd eyes of Caroline saw that
- there was something wrong in the marriage of which she had augured such
- fair fruits. But as Clytie proudly kept all her troubles to herself,
- Caroline could do no more than surround Clytie with her mute sympathy.
- This gradual discovery was a shock to her faith in human nature. One of
- the two had failed; which one was it? Her instinct told her that it was
- not Clytie; her husband unequivocally affirmed that it was Hammerdyke.
- When her instinct and her husband differed she sometimes trusted to one
- and sometimes to the other, by way of giving a certain variety to life.
- When they coincided she had no option but to believe. So, although giving
- up her hero cost her a great pang, her heart went out more than ever to
- her friend.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was a period of strange new happiness for Clytie. It showed itself
- outwardly in her art. No one but herself has ever seen the pictures that
- she painted during this time—not even Caroline. They were all
- unfinished, sketched in the hurried, semi-impressionist manner with which
- from her early girlhood she had been wont to give objectivity to her
- cravings and imaginings; but they were dainty, laughing, tender things, a
- world of waxen touches and sweet hopes. It would be hard to say how many
- small panels she covered with the promises of this new life. Sometimes,
- when she was quite alone, she would lock the door and take them out and
- arrange them along the wall on the ledge above the dado, and gladden her
- heart with them. After which she would collect them hastily and lock them
- up, with a smile at her own foolishness. She meditated now and then,
- before the fire, with closed eyes, turning over the leaves of her Book of
- New Formulas, which had grown somewhat tear-stained and dusty; but she
- found in it nothing relating to present things, and she laughed quietly at
- the omission, resolving to rectify it by and by. It was strange that she
- had not included this in her scheme of life. And yet, after all, was it so
- strange? She could not quite decide. But the future she never questioned.
- The evolution of her own individuality seemed in no wise to concern her.
- She had projected herself into another life. And she looked at the world,
- and again she saw it fair; and peace rested on her eyelids as she slept.
- And the weeks went on.
- </p>
- <p>
- One evening in the middle of December Thornton and herself were alone
- together. They had finished dinner and he was smoking a cigar with his
- coffee in the dining-room. Relations between them were beginning to grow
- kindlier again. That is to say, he curbed his temper, inquired after her
- health, and occasionally spent an evening at home. They had not spoken
- much during the meal. Now that they had so few interests in common, their
- conversation was generally desultory. The one great and precious bond that
- was to be between them was rarely mentioned. It was too deeply rooted in
- the holiest place of Clytie's soul for her to discuss it in the
- commonplace interviews she had with her husband, and his interest in the
- matter did not go much beyond a rather irritating sense of responsibility.
- Some feeling of the sort prompted him on this evening to allude to the
- subject.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I heard from the Claverings this morning,” he said, knocking off his
- cigar ash into the fender. “They want us to go and spend Christmas with
- them in their new place in Hampshire.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh?” said Clytie politely.
- </p>
- <p>
- She had seen Mrs. Clavering several times during the summer in town, and
- further acquaintance had only increased the antipathy she had conceived in
- Paris. Thornton, however, had been pretty intimate with them during the
- latter part of the season, and he had met Major Clavering again in
- Scotland. Hence the invitation.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well,” asked Thornton, “what shall I do? Of course your going is out of
- the question.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Naturally,” replied Clytie, glad that that point was settled without any
- discussion. “Why do you ask me?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “To know what your wishes are as regards myself. Clavering has got some
- good shooting, I believe, and his wife always keeps a decent house. I
- don't see what good I should be here; but still, if you would like me to
- stay on and see you through, I don't mind a bit.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He meant to be magnanimous. Perhaps he expected his wife to be duly
- grateful; as it was she only replied somewhat wearily:
- </p>
- <p>
- “You must do whatever you think best, Thornton. I should not like to keep
- you here on my account, while you might be having a good time with your
- friends.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh! it's all the same to me,” he said. “It's just as you like.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Clytie shook her head despondently. If there could have been any pleasure
- to either of them in his staying, these questions would have been
- impossible. It was love and not politeness that should have kept him by
- her side.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You are very kind to think of it, Thornton,” she said, “and I thank you
- for asking me; but you couldn't do much if you stayed, you know.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I think I should be somewhat in the way,” he said good-temperedly. “That
- sort of thing is not much in my line. However, I did not like to accept
- without asking you. Are you sure you don't mind?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, quite sure!” said Clytie suavely.
- </p>
- <p>
- So the point was amicably settled, and Thornton went down to Hampshire to
- shoot Clavering's pheasants and to be led cynically captive by Clavering's
- wife. To avoid giving the latter a gratuitous loophole for sarcastic
- attack, he forbore to hint at the cause that prevented Clytie from
- accompanying him. He said vaguely that she was with her people. Mrs.
- Clavering did not press the point in any way, as she reciprocated Clytie's
- dislike, and was perfectly indifferent as to what became of her. In fact
- she was greatly relieved when Thornton announced that he was coming alone.
- Him she could manage as she liked—or thought she could, which comes
- to the same thing.
- </p>
- <p>
- The house which the Claverings had taken for the winter was one that
- appealed to the quieter tastes of a man like Thornton. There was good
- hunting in the neighbourhood, and the stables were well filled with
- hunters, some of which Major Clavering had hired for the season. Over the
- estate attached to the house was excellent partridge shooting, and the
- covers were stocked with pheasants. The house itself was straggling—as
- a country house should be—roomy, and capable of accommodating
- comfortably the large party that was assembled for Christmas. It contained
- two billiard tables, a concert room staged for private theatricals, and a
- magnificent club-furnished smoking-room with a specially made baccarat
- table. Among the party the masculine element greatly preponderated, but
- the few women who were there had been carefully selected by the hostess to
- maintain a nice equilibrium. The major invited the men, and his wife,
- running over the list, had settled upon the women. She was doubly grateful
- that Clytie had thought fit to decline.
- </p>
- <p>
- On the evening of his arrival Thornton came down early after dressing and
- found Mrs. Clavering alone in the drawing-room, reclining luxuriously
- before the blaze under the great marble chimney-piece.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Clavering must have come into a pot of money in order to run this,” he
- said, parting his coat tails. “I have just been round the place. I had no
- idea it was such an extensive development.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes. It's better than soldiering. Tom's looking out for a place of his
- own something after the style of this. The Dynevors wanted to go to
- Australia, and so they have let it to us cheap.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He nodded, not very interested, and twirled his moustache in silence.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You are not making a very good start by way of being amusing,” said Mrs.
- Clavering. “How is your wife?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, very well. But I don't see how that topic could amuse you. Matrimony
- isn't very funny.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Glad to get out of the toils, I suppose.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Passably. It leaves me free in the society of the only woman I have
- reasonably cared for,” he said, without changing his attitude.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Have you come down to play at that sort of thing again?” she asked,
- arching her eyebrows, with a little supercilious curl on her thin lips.
- </p>
- <p>
- “That's what you wanted me here for, I suppose.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You came to shoot little birds on the invitation of my adoring husband.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Perhaps the motives were mixed. You wouldn't believe me if I told you I
- had come to see you. That was my main inducement. I suppose I ought to
- have begun better and told you of my longing and despair. Let me make my
- declaration now, Clara.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Bah! my friend. What is the meaning of all this?” she said cynically.
- “You don't care a straw for me—you told me yourself I had gone off
- lamentably. And I don't rate you a halfpenny above your worth. You are a
- fine-looking man with impulses and animal passions instead of brains and
- heart; and if you were to die to-morrow, my delicate appreciation of my
- dinner would not be impaired. So why in the name of common sense have we
- revived this miserable farce?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It's a kind of absinthe. We like it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “If I could pump up any enthusiasm about you,” she went on, not heeding
- his epigram, “I could understand it. But you are bad all through. You
- would not even be moderately faithful to me—as you are not to your
- wife.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “What the devil do you mean?” asked Thornton quickly, showing his teeth.
- But Mrs. Clavering laughed.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Do you take me for a fool, or a woman of the world, my friend? I have
- eyes and I have ears. I'll go into particulars if you like.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That would scarcely be interesting,” he said.
- </p>
- <p>
- He looked at her for some moments and then burst out into his resonant
- laugh, expecting boyish indulgence for his peccadilloes. His whole-hearted
- animal laughter was irresistible. The woman joined in.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don't know which is the worse of us two,” she said. “Perhaps I. I
- forgive you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The piquant cynicism of this revived liaison attracted Thornton, was an
- enjoyable complement to the essentially masculine side of that
- country-house life. He was a keen, brilliant sportsman, a famous shot, a
- perfect though reckless rider, standing out in all physical qualities far
- above the other men of his type who were his fellow-guests. By them he was
- flattered, in an honest British way, his acts were applauded, and his
- opinions received with respect. In the slaying of creatures, brute or
- human, he was an indubitable authority. And although he was accustomed to
- a certain shade of deference from his associates, it never failed to
- gratify his somewhat barbarous nature. Much of him had remained
- undeveloped. Small things pleased and captivated him. To be the central
- figure in this tiny world of sport was unalloyed pleasure to the man of
- fierce passions and heroic courage. And the bitter philandering in his
- relations with Mrs. Clavering amused, stimulated, irritated, and
- fascinated him. In his own way, therefore, he was enjoying himself
- exceedingly. Beyond writing Clytie a hurried note on the second day after
- his arrival, he scarcely recalled to himself her existence. When he did it
- was with petulant annoyance. He wished to God he had not been such a fool
- as to marry. And now what the deuce was the point of having children? But
- that was his wife's concern after all, for which he cordially thanked the
- wise contriver of the human mechanism.
- </p>
- <p>
- Christmas came, was celebrated with much festivity. On Boxing Day there
- was a big partridge drive over a distant corner of the estate. It had been
- carefully saved for this one day's sport and the birds were accordingly
- plentiful. The best portion of it—a field sloping from a ridge and
- skirting a pine wood and then merging into a wide gorse-covered pasture
- tract—was reserved till after lunch. But the sport was good in the
- outlying approaches to this, and it was not without some irritation that
- Thornton tore open a telegram which a breathless messenger brought up. It
- announced the birth of a son. Thornton went on with the line across the
- wet, ploughed fields, but until they halted for lunch luck did not come
- his way.
- </p>
- <p>
- Mrs. Clavering and the other ladies had walked over with the
- luncheon-baskets. The day was warm and relaxing. They lingered over the
- meal longer than they had intended. When a keeper came up and suggested
- that if they wanted to shoot the slope before dusk they had better be
- starting, the men sprang up in a hurry and betook themselves thither.
- Thornton was the extreme man, on the right, near the pine wood, which was
- being beaten. His ill-success in the morning had piqued his vanity. He was
- not accustomed to be second or third in matters of prowess. After he had
- brought down his first brace his whole frame was kindled with the desire
- to slay. Even partridges he could not kill calmly. Covey after covey was
- driven out of the wood, and as he had the first chance, his bag increased
- speedily. They had thus proceeded halfway down the long, straggling slope.
- The keeper by Thornton's side had just handed him his gun, and was
- watching the wood with intent, outstretched hand. A covey was being
- driven. At that moment another messenger, a boy, ran down the slope and
- put a telegram into Thornton's hand. With an impatient oath he stuffed it
- into the pocket of his shooting-coat, just in time to be able to fire his
- two barrels into the whirring flight of birds. The next man to him fired
- simultaneously. Two birds fell. The warm dispute that arose caused
- Thornton to forget the existence of the telegram in his pocket. And the
- continuance of the drive kept his mind entirely from it.
- </p>
- <p>
- But when the party arrived home, and were standing for a moment in the
- hall, Mrs. Clavering came up to him and asked whether he had received his
- second telegram safely. Then he remembered. He drew it out, read it.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Damn!” he muttered under his breath, and crumpling the flimsy sheet into
- a ball, threw it with a gesture of impatience into the fireplace. Then he
- turned and talked with Mrs. Clavering until he went upstairs to change.
- </p>
- <p>
- As chance willed, the crumpled telegram had not fallen into the blazing
- wood fire, but had struck upon a log and dropped on its unkindled side.
- And chance willed that Mrs. Clavering should have noticed this. Women of
- her type are cynically unscrupulous. As soon as the hall was clear of men
- she picked up the telegram and read it. Her face, which when she was by
- herself was somewhat faded, grew a little grayer. She put the telegram in
- her pocket.
- </p>
- <p>
- Chance willed also that Thornton and Mrs. Clavering should find themselves
- alone for a long spell after dinner in the little withdrawing-room, where
- smoking was permitted. Most of the men were tired. One or two of the women
- had gone up to their rooms. The rest were playing billiards. Thornton was
- in gay spirits, talking recklessly, giving her openings for sarcasms, and
- then closing in upon her with a brutality. It was an amusing game.
- </p>
- <p>
- Suddenly she asked him irrelevantly:
- </p>
- <p>
- “When are you going back to London?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You're a wise woman,” he replied, leaning back in his chair. “But what do
- you mean?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I asked you a question—a simple one. Are you going to London
- to-morrow?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No; why should I?—unless you are getting sentimental over me, and
- would prefer the illusion of my absence to the disenchantment of my bodily
- presence. If you mean it as a hint, of course I'll go.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I do mean it as a hint,” she said with a hard kind of drawl. “I didn't
- know you were quite such an unreasoning brute. Hadn't it occurred to you
- that it was only common decency to go off and help bury your newborn
- child?”
- </p>
- <p>
- She rose, and gathering up her skirts, left him before he had time to
- recover.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER XXI.
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>hus it had
- happened with Clytie during Thornton's absence. There came a morning at
- the end of the Old Year when the snow and sleet dashing against the window
- could be dimly heard in the heavily curtained room, and Clytie feebly
- whispered: “Give me the child.” Gently they told her that the life had
- merely fluttered on the threshold and passed back into the silence whence
- it came. And she sank back on her pillows, struck to the heart with a
- dumb, hopeless heartsickness.
- </p>
- <p>
- Recovery was slow. Clytie lay for many days quite listless, the tears
- rolling down her cheeks, physical weakness aiding to make her feel a great
- self-pity. The long waiting, the fear, the pain, all had been counted as
- nothing if at the close there could have lain in her arms a little child—one
- whose touch would draw all pain from her heart, make her forget every
- sorrow. And the passionate child hunger, begotten of the pangs of
- maternity, woke within her and cried for satisfaction.
- </p>
- <p>
- The whole weight of the world's misery crushed down upon her. She awoke to
- a gray world. Its glory had departed. There was nothing left to live for,
- and a great despair came over her. What was the use of dragging out this
- broken, colourless existence until the time,—hopelessly remote it
- seemed to her, now that the blood ran again strongly through her veins,—should
- come for her to die? She passed through the phase common to all strong
- natures in supreme moments of weariness, when death seemed the only
- solution. One little draught out of a phial, an agonised convulsion,
- perhaps, and then eternal nothingness. She did not fear the annihilation
- which her materialism had taught her was the end of things. She had no
- eschatological sentimentality. But the full-pulsed animal's instinctive
- clutching after life held her back; the fit passed off, and she decided to
- live through another act of the dreary tragedy.
- </p>
- <p>
- All feelings of tenderness, trust, common confidence in her husband, were
- swept away forever. The faintest breath of the old attraction caused her
- to shiver with repulsion. Henceforward they were mere acquaintances, who
- subsisted from a common fund, lived under the same roof, and performed
- certain conventional actions in common, for the sake of their own
- relations with a society that demands a certain outward show of harmony
- between husband and wife. Thornton had come to town from Hampshire in the
- vilest of tempers. For a day or two he positively hated Clytie. Then the
- seriousness of her illness had awakened in him a superficial sympathy. But
- as soon as she was out of danger he regarded her with cold dislike. She
- had abruptly terminated his pleasant holiday. She had gravely endangered
- his liaison with the only woman by whom he had been otherwise than purely
- sensually attracted, wherein lay an odd fascination, and in thus
- compelling him to her side she had sharply reminded him that a married
- man, if he wishes to keep in with the world, must not parade himself too
- conspicuously as his own master. And Thornton had his own reasons for not
- wishing to openly outrage society.
- </p>
- <p>
- As soon as she was able to travel Clytie went to Durdleham, for the first
- time since her marriage. The quiet, easy life soothed her for a while. She
- was in that condition of hopelessness when inaction seems the highest
- good. Mrs. Blather attributed her dejection to the objective cause, and
- sympathised with her as one woman can with another, and strove to cheer
- her; but still she privately thought this long brooding somewhat morbid.
- Clytie always went to extremes. But although she naturally was unconscious
- of the subtleties of dreariness in the causation of her sister's state,
- she was none the less helpful with her sympathy—and sympathy very
- often is all the stronger from the narrowness of the channel in which it
- flows.
- </p>
- <p>
- February and March passed in the quiet, monotonous Durdleham way. But as
- the spring grew into her blood Clytie felt the tingling of life once
- again, and the period of inactivity was over. She was not of the
- temperament to sit long with folded hands and lament over the futility of
- things. The old restlessness of her girlhood, though strangely modified,
- again urged her towards a fuller, more vivid existence. Again she looked
- out upon the world and its mysteries with a knowledge begotten of sorrow,
- and again vague longings took possession of her. She faced the new
- condition of things bravely, resolved to struggle towards a newer, better
- content. If the short dream had come true, she would have found happiness
- in the guidance of another life; but the high gods had ordained otherwise.
- As before her marriage, her only problem was the working out of her own
- individuality; for henceforward Thornton would be her husband only in
- name. In what direction should she carry herself so as to prevent the
- fulfilling of her needs from developing into ignoble egoism? As a girl she
- had studied life eagerly, had painted from artistic impulses, from desire
- for fame, and from material necessity. Her enthusiasms, the intimacy of
- her odd social life with Kent and Winifred, had kept her pure and fresh.
- Now all was changed. She was alone. She had learned many things: the touch
- of the fire of passion, the taste of the waters of bitterness. Definite
- enthusiasms seemed to be wanting; only the artistic impulse urging
- creation remained to her—together with mechanical skill. How was she
- to occupy her life to a fair and noble purpose? She tried to solve the
- problem calmly, was wise enough to smile when she discovered that she
- failed. One cannot range a row of potential enthusiasms in front of one,
- like oranges, and select in cold blood. So Clytie determined to have faith
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p class="indent30">
- “... large in time,
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- And that which shapes it to some end.”
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p>
- As soon as she had arrived at this decision she threw off her moodiness
- and became bright again, to the great joy of Mrs. Blather, who was sighing
- for her to join in such Easter dissipations as Durdleham society offered.
- In obedience to her sister, therefore, Clytie burst upon Durdleham like a
- revelation. During her girlhood Durdleham had regarded her as odd, refused
- to accept her as conducive to social amenities. Now it worshipped her with
- dazzled eyes—the whirligig of time thus bringing in its revenges.
- The irony of the position amused her, but at the same time it brought out
- in her much that was good and whole-hearted. She saw, perhaps for the
- first time, that much of the decorous dulness that had once chafed her to
- frenzy proceeded from an almost childlike ignorance of the possibilities
- of enjoyment. For a wild moment the idea entered her head to convert
- Durdleham to epicureanism. Janet, to whom she confided this visionary
- scheme, stared at her open-mouthed, and Clytie burst out into genuine
- mirth. Durdleham was willing to be amused, eager to be brightened by a
- brilliant woman; but it would not be convinced. It held by its principles,
- would not yield an iota in a single formula. Still it could be brought to
- treat a paradox as a joke instead of brooding over it with the stolidity
- of a hen sitting on a china nest-egg. And that much Clytie did accomplish
- during the short season of her social triumph.
- </p>
- <p>
- In the middle of April she was requested by Thornton to return to London.
- He had thrown up the private-secretaryship, as his purpose in accepting it
- had been already served. By dint of self-assertion he had identified
- himself with the non-parliamentary chiefs of the Tory party, and during
- the early spring had rendered efficient electioneering services. His
- chance of a candidature was therefore only a question of time. But as he
- wished to neglect no means of keeping himself in evidence, he still felt
- bound to call upon his wife to aid him socially—that is to say, to
- preside at his table and receive his guests. This Clytie was not
- disinclined to do, especially as his summons was couched in pleasant and
- courteous terms. So she bade farewell to Durdleham and returned to London.
- </p>
- <p>
- When her train arrived at Euston she was surprised at seeing Thornton on
- the platform. He wore a gray frock-coat with a dark rose in the
- buttonhole, and lavender kid gloves. He came forward and greeted her,
- raising his hat before he shook hands.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Have you had a tiring journey? You are looking very well. As I was paying
- a call near Primrose Hill,—ghastly place to live in, isn't it?—I
- thought I might as well pick you up here with the brougham.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That was very kind of you, Thornton,” she said.
- </p>
- <p>
- They talked of indifferent subjects during the long drive to South
- Kensington: the theatres, odds and ends of gossip. When they got home he
- accompanied her into the drawing-room and drank a cup of tea.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You're a deuced lovely woman, you know, Clytie,” he said, his great bulk
- sprawling over a small drawing-room chair, his hands in his pockets. “I
- have half a mind to fall in love with you again. If you had not turned
- into absolute ice, perhaps I should. You've got that same devilish
- witchery in your skin that made me go wild over you a year ago.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, please don't talk of that, Thornton. It is the past,” she said, with
- a tremor.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, upon my soul!” he said, gathering himself together. “I don't see
- why it might not be the present. I was going to unfold to you a little
- scheme by which we might live politely together, but, by Jove! now I look
- at you and reflect that you are my wife after all—you're so
- gloriously beautiful, Clytie!”
- </p>
- <p>
- He rose, but she was on her feet before him, having sprung up with a
- beating heart. She looked at him with a fearful surmise in her glance, and
- as he made a stride towards her she recoiled in a terror she had not known
- before.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, no, no, no! For God's sake!” she cried, catching at her breath,
- instinctively putting out her hands to keep him off. “That is all over. We
- loved one another once. A horrible mockery of it is more than I can bear.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Confound it, Clytie!” he exclaimed, clenching his hands and showing his
- teeth, “you're my wife, and, by the Lord! I'll kiss you if I choose!”
- </p>
- <p>
- The flash of his brown eyes that had once overpowered her will now made
- her shudder. She stiffened into a woman of iron, with bloodless cheeks.
- Standing up perfectly rigid, she closed her eyes, and hung her hands
- against her sides.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Kiss me, then, since you claim the right,” she said in a choked voice.
- </p>
- <p>
- For a moment or two he stood looking at her. Then with a loud laugh he
- flung himself back in his chair.
- </p>
- <p>
- Clytie with shame and horror in her heart rushed from the room.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was not an encouraging home-coming. The incident, though not repeated,
- upset many of her plans for the reconstitution of her existence. It added
- a new dread. For she had counted upon the continuance of the entire
- indifference with which Thornton had grown to regard her. A sudden
- outburst like this had not occurred for many months. What guarantee had
- she that this was not the beginning of a series of spasmodic rekindlings
- of a fire she had thought dead? For some days anxiety lay heavy on her
- mind. But human nature is very elastic; if it were not so, God help us
- all! After a while she recovered and was able to talk calmly to Thornton,
- who began by treating her with an ironical politeness, and then relapsed
- into his usual cheerful indifference. Once while discussing their mutual
- relations she broached the subject of separation.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I won't consent,” he replied. “As we can't be lovers, we may as well be
- friends. You would gain very little by it. Besides, people would talk, and
- for me that is an important consideration.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It hardly concerns me,” she said, with a touch of cynicism that was new
- to her. “Still, if you wish it very much, I will remain.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I do wish it, Clytie,” he said in a softened voice. “You can go your way,
- I will go mine. But we must live together as far as the world sees us.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Clytie yielded with some misgivings, and set herself to work to discover
- interests in life.
- </p>
- <p>
- The society life of London, in which she was free to play an important
- part, did not satisfy her. She saw too deep below the surface of things to
- be guilty of the silly cynicism that finds society hollow, its aims
- futile, and its morals corrupt. There is earnestness even among cultivated
- men and women. But society is formal, conventional, and in the external
- rules of life differs only in degree from Durdleham. True, it has a far
- wider intellectual scope. Contrary to Durdleham, it permits the possession
- of ideas, but it is just as punctilious as to their correct expression.
- The elaborate ceremonial of society weighed upon Clytie. She preferred a
- simpler, directer life. There were so many wrappings of convention to be
- pierced through before she could get to the heart of a thing or a person,
- and they wearied, irritated her. And now, as Thornton seemed to care very
- little whether she placed herself in evidence or not, beyond playing the
- part of hostess in his house, she consulted merely her own desires in her
- acceptance of invitations. But as the circle from which these mainly
- proceeded was that into which her husband's reputation, tastes, and
- political aspirations had led her, she did not find in it the interests
- which particularly affected her. It was beyond her power either to feel or
- to simulate an interest in Thornton's ambitions. Nor did she feel called
- upon now to profess the tenets of Thornton's political creed. She was a
- solitary, unconventional Radical in the midst of the most uncompromising
- Torydom, which is an unenviable position even for the least rabid
- politician. The political section, therefore, of her social circle she
- studiously avoided. The purely fashionable, frivolous element, that goes
- to Hurlingham and Ascot, and makes itself merry over material things, had
- attracted her the previous year with its graceful epicureanism. She had
- still been proud of her husband and his boyish zest in amusement, and she
- had caught from him the spirit of laughing Babylon. But now it was pain to
- be with him when he chatted and jested with pretty girls and idle young
- men. His light-hearted gaiety jarred upon her. She saw that men and women
- were affected by his charm, and she had half longings to tell them it was
- a lie. So she withdrew herself from their midst as much as possible. By
- this process of elimination Clytie's circle became conveniently limited.
- She was sick at heart, and she turned more and more to the friends of her
- girlhood.
- </p>
- <p>
- Mrs. Farquharson's Sunday evenings became pleasant spots in her barren
- week. She went there alone, as in the old days. Nothing was changed there:
- the same faces, the same bright, eager talk, the same welcome. Clytie
- became her old self, was astonished to find how many enthusiasms she still
- retained. She almost forgot that she was married, and had said farewell to
- theories of life and such like vanities. Only at times, when her own art
- came within the range of a friendly arrow, did she wince and remember with
- a pang that Clytie Davenant was dead. Redgrave, whom she occasionally met,
- forbore, with a portrait painter's intuitive delicacy, to question her
- upon the progress of her art under its new conditions. He divined that his
- prophecies had been correct, and he was sad; because he had had great
- hopes of Clytie. In a tentative way he spoke of it to Mrs. Farquharson,
- who confided to him her own surmises as to the dubious success of the
- marriage. Then Redgrave brightened, and declared that there was hope yet.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What do you mean?” cried Caroline with a touch of indignation; whereat
- Redgrave smiled in his serene way.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I mean that hitherto she has tried to look at life through her art. Now
- she will be able to look at art through her life.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Then her art will be very feeble and miserable!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Clytie's life has never been feeble and miserable,” he replied. “I feared
- it was going to be so—in a special sense, you know; I feared that
- she would be overpowered by the physical element her husband would bring
- into her atmosphere, and that she would develop into the fashionable
- married woman, and thus, at the same time, suffer in spirituality and lose
- her grip upon the subjects that form her artistic range.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I can't see how an unhappy married life can help her,” said Caroline. “If
- such a deterioration is possible, it has taken place already.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Doubtless it has,” Redgrave replied earnestly. “But it is not final. If
- she lives within herself again, she will recover spirituality and grip—both
- strengthened by experience and suffering. That is the most precious
- knowledge, Mrs. Farquharson, which we have bought with sorrow.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Then mine must be very worthless,” cried Caroline. “And I'm very glad of
- it. I would rather be ignorant and happy than wise and sad. And I could
- wish the same for poor Clytie. I can understand the good and beautiful
- things of this world as well as most people, but I don't believe in art to
- all that extent. I may be a Philistine,—God forbid it, but perhaps I
- am,—and I like to see people happy.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That depends upon what you call happiness,” said Redgrave.
- </p>
- <p>
- But Caroline was not to be led into an argument. She had her views and
- expounded them.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I mean common, all-round human happiness,” she said, “that makes you
- laugh to yourself when there's no particular reason for it. And I'd sooner
- Clytie have that and never touch a brush than paint the most
- world-convulsing pictures and be wretched.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But if she painted world-convulsing pictures, as you call them, she would
- be happy—much happier than under the other conditions.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, no, she wouldn't!” she replied, with a conclusive nod. “You are quite
- wrong, my dear good friend. It is a secondary consideration to a woman
- whether she convulses the world or not. It might amuse and gratify her to
- do it <i>en passant</i>, but it is only <i>en passant</i>. Believe me. I
- don't give my sex away as a general rule, but I make you a present of
- that! So if you're glad,” she added with triumphant feminine logic, “that
- Clytie has made an unhappy marriage, I think it is simply detestable of
- you!”
- </p>
- <p>
- So Redgrave, routed, retired in confusion; but he took his own ideas with
- him.
- </p>
- <p>
- One Sunday evening, early in July, Mrs. Farquharson ran into the room
- where Clytie, just arrived, was taking off her wraps.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I have been waiting by the window ever so long, watching for your
- carriage. You are quite late. I wanted to see you before you came into the
- drawing-room. Who do you think is here? Guess!”
- </p>
- <p>
- Clytie saw at once by Caroline's face. A little thrill of gladness sent
- the colour to her cheeks and caused her eyes to sparkle as she paused with
- one glove half off and looked quickly at her friend.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Kent?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Caroline nodded, glad at seeing that Clytie was pleased.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I wanted to drop you a line, but how could I on Sunday in this postless
- town? George only condescended to tell me last night that he was coming.
- If we had as little sense as men, I wonder how on earth we should get on!
- He met him out a week ago and persuaded him.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It will be quite like an old evening, dear,” said Clytie. “I shall be so
- glad to see him.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It is strange you should not have met,” said Caroline; and then she added
- reflectively: “Well, perhaps it isn't.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She had her own theories on the subject. And to say a woman has her own
- theories is to say a good deal.
- </p>
- <p>
- “But I don't see why he should have let us almost lose sight of him,” she
- continued.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What reason does he give?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, the reason that makes one so helpless, you know. A man you like comes
- to you and says: 'I have sinned against you without any cause whatever. It
- was just my own badness, and nothing else, and now I am humble and
- repentant'—and what are you to do but forgive him? He's very
- penitent now and vows amendment.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Clytie completed her little toilet arrangements and went downstairs with
- Caroline. On their way Caroline asked her where Thornton was.
- </p>
- <p>
- “He's at Goodwood, staying with some people there. He went down yesterday
- for the races.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Wouldn't it have brightened you up to have gone too?” asked Caroline with
- deliberate tactlessness, darting a quick feminine side glance. But Clytie
- broke into a laugh.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh! good gracious, no! I didn't even know he was going till yesterday,
- when Roberts asked me about something he was to do during the master's
- absence. We are quite old married people now, Caroline, and we each go
- more or less our own way. It saves a lot of trouble. You see, he knew I
- wouldn't care for Goodwood and the set he's in with there—the
- Claverings and such like.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, I think you are better off here,” said Caroline.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I know I am,” replied Clytie, taking her arm. And then they went into the
- drawing-room.
- </p>
- <p>
- Clytie's first impulse on entering was to look round for Kent. She met his
- eyes fixed upon her from the other side of the rather crowded room, and
- she gave him a little nod of greeting. He rose and joined the knot of
- people who were surrounding her. Both were self-conscious to the extent of
- knowing that, as they had once been a familiar couple in that company, it
- would be inexpedient to allow it to be noticed that their meeting was an
- event to them. They shook hands, with a friendly commonplace, and joined
- in the general conversation. Redgrave, French, the journalist, Mr.
- Singleton, Mrs. Tredegar, were there—most of the old faces, a few
- new ones. To see Kent's among them was a joy to Clytie. She had never
- understood why he had broken from her. Now and then the true solution
- passed through her mind, but she rejected it. It was incongruous with his
- action. Love begets wants, and it is the nature of man to clamour for
- them. This was her hasty conclusion. But she had avoided thinking very
- deeply upon the subject, instinctively deeming it wiser to refrain.
- </p>
- <p>
- He had not changed, she thought; and wondered whether he would notice any
- change in her. She found herself listening again to him as he talked, in
- his downright, earnest way, quickly noting familiar turns of thought and
- expression, admiring the thoroughness of his unconventional enthusiasm.
- The old contented humility of spirit came back to her. How much more real
- than hers was his life! How much she had learned and could learn from him!
- And for a short, swift moment the laughter and talk sounded dull in her
- ears, and all the objects around, all the faces save one, melted away into
- the blue cigarette smoke, and that one face remained—sitting at a
- table opposite to her, the lamp between them—and the brows were
- intent on the sheet over which a quill pen was scratching assiduously; and
- the surroundings shaped themselves into her old rooms in the King's Road.
- Then, just as swiftly as it had come, the dream vanished, and Clytie
- sighed. The talk languished a little. Kent looked somewhat wistfully at
- her. She leaned forward and beckoned him with a smile and a little upward
- movement of her chin.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Come down and give me some supper,” she said. “I did not eat anything
- before coming out.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That was foolish of you,” he said involuntarily.
- </p>
- <p>
- Then they both laughed.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You are just the same as ever,” she said. And they went downstairs.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was a tradition in Harley Street that on Sunday evenings a cold supper
- should be laid in the dining-room from half-past eight onward, so that
- guests could go down whenever it so pleased them. To break up the
- continuity of the evening by a formal gathering around a supper table was
- opposed to Caroline's notions. Besides, irregularities in meals were one
- of the features of the house. You need never be in time, and there was
- always food when you wanted it. To the erratic and unregulated visitor it
- was paradise. Caroline paid her servants extra wages to insure
- satisfaction in this respect. So Clytie's little manouvre was quite in
- accordance with the recognised order of things.
- </p>
- <p>
- They found the dining-room unoccupied. She sat down near the end of the
- table, while Kent, a little way off, gravely carved some chicken, which he
- brought to her together with some salad and a jug of claret-cup. Then he
- sat down by her, at the corner.
- </p>
- <p>
- “But aren't you going to eat anything yourself?” she asked, laughing.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am not hungry.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, that doesn't matter. Do go and get something, to keep me in
- countenance. How can I eat when you are sitting watching me like that,
- with your elbow on the table?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I have done it so often before. It seemed natural to sit by you while you
- had your meal. I was forgetting. You see my manners have not improved.
- However——”
- </p>
- <p>
- He rose for the purpose of helping himself to some food, but Clytie
- stopped him, made him sit down again.
- </p>
- <p>
- “There! It was silly of me,” she said. “I did not think of it. Don't be
- any different from what you used to be. Let us imagine that this evening
- is one of the old Sunday evenings here. Ah! If you only knew how glad I am
- to see you. What an eternity it has been since we met.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Eighteen months,” said Kent laconically. “The longest eighteen months I h
- I have ever lived.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Don't you think I have missed you?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “So much as that?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes; so much as that.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “My poor Kent!” said Clytie, troubled. “I wish I could do something for
- you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ah, <i>es ist vorbei</i>,” he said, puckering his brows, as he watched
- the rings he was making in the damask with an inverted wineglass. Then his
- forehead suddenly cleared, and he looked up with his frank laugh.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You see I am just as much of a bear as ever. Instead of telling you what
- a delight it is to be with you again, I come to you complaining, and I
- ought to have every reason not to rail at fortune.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You are doing great things, I hear,” said Clytie. “Tell me about them.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, they are neither great nor much worth telling. The <i>opus</i> is
- being translated into German, and part of it will be soon published by the
- University of Vienna.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That is a feather in your cap.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “A big one. I don't think I am given to running after notoriety and that
- sort of thing, but it is gratifying to be recognised a little. It
- encourages one.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ah, it does!” said Clytie with more meaning than she intended.
- </p>
- <p>
- “So I have been working away at it harder than ever.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I wish I had your enthusiasm,” she said. “And your power of work. Do you
- remember your lectures?” They talked a little about the old days, half
- sadly, half tenderly. Those memories were very pleasant. Then they came
- back to the present.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Winnie tells me you are a great man now at the Museum. I am so glad.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Kent waved his hand deprecatingly and laughed. “Winifred is quite an
- Iris,” he replied. “For she comes down to earth sometimes and tells me
- things about you. Yes, I am quite a man of affluence these days. I am the
- head of the department. I have got so much money I don't know what to do
- with it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I hope you employ some of it in giving yourself proper meals,” said
- Clytie. “Or do you still have your extraordinary suppers?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, I live just the same,” said Kent. “If I began to be respectable in
- one thing, I should gradually become so in all.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And the rooms are just the same as ever?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “A few more pictures and odds and ends. And I have got a carpet. That's
- Wither's doing. He came to see me in the winter and caught a cold, due to
- the bare boards, so he said. When he had recovered he made me go and buy a
- thick Turkey square. After that I had serious designs of forbidding him
- the rooms lest he should turn them into a boudoir altogether.”
- </p>
- <p>
- They laughed over this idea. Clytie asked him whether he still kept the
- tripods before the fireplace, and whether the paraffin oil can in the
- corner harmonised well with the carpet. It was like a breath of fresh air
- to meet Kent again.
- </p>
- <p>
- Suddenly he pointed to her plate.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You are not eating anything.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am not hungry,” said Clytie with some demureness.
- </p>
- <p>
- “But if you have not had your evening meal, you'll get faint. What did you
- come down for, if you merely wanted to pick at the wing of a chicken and
- to put hardly any of it into your mouth?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Then Clytie burst out into merry laughter. He was so downright and honest.
- Just the same as ever.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, you foolish Kent! I should have thought even you could have invented
- that.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Did you really want to see me?” he asked, brightening.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why, of course! Do you suppose I am devoid of human attributes?”
- </p>
- <p>
- This brought them nearer than they had been since the time that Kent
- realised he loved her. To Kent this meeting was enchantment. To see her
- sitting by him, bright, laughing, her old self, was enough to make him
- lose sense of the past eighteen months of hopeless longing. He thought to
- himself that it was better she had not learned, since her ignorance gave
- him this sweet half hour.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I suppose we must be going upstairs soon,” she said, with a little
- wistful wrinkling of her forehead. “When shall I see you again?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Kent started at the question. It troubled him. He did not know what answer
- to make.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Within less than another year, I hope,” he said.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, yes, Kent. We mustn't be strangers any more. It's not good for us.
- Would you care about seeing me very often?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am not coming to call upon you,” he replied bluntly.
- </p>
- <p>
- The actual words were ungracious. But there was a flash of eager longing
- in his eyes that lent the words a subtle meaning. And Clytie rose from the
- table with a little gasp of pain as the truth burst upon her.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, Kent, Kent!” she cried, greatly moved.
- </p>
- <p>
- Their eyes met, and this time there was no mistake. He knew that she had
- guessed. But with a great effort he evaded the appeal.
- </p>
- <p>
- “No; I can't come to your house to see you,” he said huskily. “There you
- are Mrs. Hammerdyke, and I shouldn't know you. Your home is full of
- interests and associations in which I could only be a stranger and an
- intruder. To me you are Clytie, the Clytie whose daily life I used to
- share—and only as Clytie can I bear to see you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Would it help you to see me as Clytie?” she asked.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, dearly,” he said.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Then you can always come in to the studio when I am with Winifred, and I
- shall always be here on Sunday evenings. Don't you think I want to see you
- too—as Clytie!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Thank you. Thank you,” he said in a low voice, taking her hand. “Now it
- is time for us to go upstairs.”
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER XXII.
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">E</span>ach lay awake that
- night, thinking. To Clytie the revelation of Kent's love was dazing. The
- sense of her own dulness in never having pierced the heart of his mystery
- was even more confounding. Why should she have divined suddenly the
- meaning of the light in his eyes, on this first meeting after their
- eighteen months of separation, when she had been blind to it before? She
- only half guessed as yet why he had not told her, but she saw that it must
- have arisen from a rare, strange delicacy in his nature differentiating
- him from all other men that she had known. Her heart went out in pity for
- him.
- </p>
- <p>
- “How he must have suffered!” she repeated over and over to herself. And
- then scenes between them came before her mind and became clear in the
- light of this revelation: the strange suppressed interview after her
- arrival from Durdleham; the last evening he had spent in London before
- going abroad, when he had lit her fire, and she had gone up to bid him
- farewell. How had her ears been so dull as not to detect the tremor in his
- voice when, after kissing her hand, he had said: “You are my very dear
- lady whom I will serve to the hour of my death”?
- </p>
- <p>
- And then a little hissing snake of a thought formed itself into a reply;
- and she shrank up together with a slight convulsive shiver as if something
- foul had touched her.
- </p>
- <p>
- After that she could not sleep. She got up, lit her candle, and took a
- book at random from her shelves. It was her well-worn, girlish Globe
- Shakespeare, one of the books she had surreptitiously procured when the
- family Bowdler was included in the category of formulas against which she
- revolted. She took it back to bed with her and commenced reading where it
- had chanced to open. The first words that met her eye seemed like a voice
- from the other world:
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- Such harmony is in immortal souls;
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- But while this muddy vesture of decay
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- Doth grossly clothe it in, we cannot hear it.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p>
- They followed so closely on the track of her own shuddering thought that
- she could read no more. She blew out her candle, and remained awake,
- staring into the darkness, until the gray dawn filtered through the
- blinds, and she fell asleep.
- </p>
- <p>
- Nor was Kent more restful. He had battled with his love, and with a strong
- man's will had brought it under subjection, making it minister to his
- happiness in spite of torturing longings instead of allowing it to darken
- his life. It had awakened him to a sense of a world of beautiful things,
- given him a deeper understanding and a wider sympathy than he had before.
- For him truly might it be said that to love her was a liberal education.
- It gave him the key to the knowledge and appreciation of women, drew him
- from his seclusion into the general society he had formerly avoided. A
- feminine conclusion which he would once have pooh-poohed as weak and
- illogical struck him now with its intuitive subtlety and delicacy of
- point. He learned that what the essentially feminine mind lacks in breadth
- it gains in fineness, and he was amazed to discover what a sensitive touch
- upon life is possessed by a cultivated woman. And mingled with this new
- charm was another of an esoteric kind. No woman he met had all the
- fascinations of Clytie, but every woman seemed to possess one of them. He
- confided this once in a roundabout way to Wither, who laughed, and told
- him he was growing too susceptible and would find himself married one of
- these days. But Kent shook his head. “I could only find a Clytie among
- them by marrying the whole sex and making an extract of it,” he said with
- conviction. For not only did the higher qualities of woman's nature
- manifest themselves to him, but the minor graces of manner and appearance
- appealed to that side of his aesthetic temperament that had hitherto been
- under a cloud. It occurred to him then that he had been living with half
- his faculties. Accordingly he felt a peculiar satisfaction in his new
- powers of perception.
- </p>
- <p>
- It had cost him a pang to forego the pleasure of the bright society that
- Mrs. Farquharson gathered round her. At first he had given up going to
- Harley Street through fear of meeting Clytie, for he shrank from meeting
- her under the new conditions. Then as time passed on, and he accustomed
- himself to the idea of Clytie as a married woman of fashion, he wished to
- go, but shyness held him back. It would look strange to resume visiting
- suddenly after his apparent rudeness and neglect. Probably the Farquharsons
- would never have seen him again had not George met him at a learned
- society's meeting, and given him a hearty and pressing invitation.
- </p>
- <p>
- But there was a large though somewhat scattered society in which, although
- the rarest of visitors, he had always been welcome. And now he not only
- mixed assiduously in this, thereby causing many laughing conjectures as to
- the reason of his social reformation, but he volunteered occasionally to
- go out with Wither, whose circle of acquaintance, like Sam Weller's
- knowledge of London, was extensive and peculiar. A revolution was thus
- effected in Kent's habits, and to a certain extent in his mode of thought.
- A new zest was given to life in this enlargement of his horizon. And all
- through his love of Clytie. The awakening of the dormant sex principle had
- strengthened his nature, extended his humanity in depth and breadth. In
- spite of a hopeless, passionate love Kent was still a happy man.
- </p>
- <p>
- And now this spell of her influence was broken, or at least modified. He
- had seen her, felt the softness of her voice, the kindliness of her eyes.
- And he had unwittingly betrayed his secret. She knew that he loved her.
- She pitied him, promised that he should see her frequently on the basis of
- the old friendship. It was kind and generous, he thought, to step down
- from the height of her wedded felicity to comfort him with her friendship
- and sympathy. An unexpected happiness was in store for him. Perhaps, after
- all, his loyalty and devotion might be of some use to her.
- </p>
- <p>
- But strong, loyal man as he was, this sudden meeting troubled him. If only
- he had spoken at once, before the other had come upon the scene, she might
- have been won to love him. The old torturing regrets came upon him, and he
- tossed sleeplessly on his bed. The love which, through its very
- hopelessness, had all these months given him peace and a measure of
- happiness now burst forth again tumultuously. It became a miserable farce
- to lie awake in the darkness. He rose, went into his sitting-room and lit
- the gas. Then he sat down at his writing space, and, burying his face in
- his hands, remained for some time in great pain of thought. At last his
- eye fell upon some notepaper lying invitingly on his blotting-pad. An idea
- struck him. He would write to her. He covered four sides with a passionate
- outburst of his love, writing wildly, unthinkingly, as men must write in
- moments of overpowering emotion. Then he tore up the sheet and began
- afresh. The summer morning light was streaming into the room through the
- curtainless window, mingling oddly with the yellow gas, when Kent enclosed
- and addressed the first letter to Clytie in which he told her of his love.
- He got up, stiff from his long sitting and somewhat exhausted, and going
- to bed, slept the sleep of the just until it was his usual hour for
- rising.
- </p>
- <p>
- The next afternoon when Clytie returned from a drive she found the letter
- awaiting her. She took it up to her room, and there, sitting on the edge
- of the bed, read it with conflicting feelings. It ran as follows:
- </p>
- <p>
- My Dear Clytie:
- </p>
- <p>
- You know my secret. I think so. I saw it in your face. But if I was
- mistaken, let me tell it to you in so many words; and as I bring to you
- what is best and truest in me, it will neither dishonour me to tell it nor
- you to hear it. And as you in your goodness offer me a resumption of the
- old friendship, I must say it once and for all. I love you, Clytie, with
- all the strength of a man who has allowed women to take up very little
- part in his life. I loved you long before I knew it. It grew up gradually
- during our intercourse, and only one day when you were at Durdleham a
- little, little chance circumstance revealed to me that you were not only
- the grand, sweet friend, but the woman that I passionately loved. And I
- could not tell you for fear of paining you and destroying our friendship—for
- what was I to love you? And I dreaded lest you should think me disloyal to
- the trust between us. And at last I came, resolved to speak, and it was
- too late. Winifred can tell you.
- </p>
- <p>
- From that time I have carried my love with me as the vivifying principle
- of my life. I thought you would never know, but now I have betrayed
- myself.
- </p>
- <p>
- Will it not pain you too much in your present happiness to see me under
- this new guise? Ah, Clytie! tell me frankly as you always used to do.
- </p>
- <p>
- I shall never, never willingly trouble the serenity of your life. I love
- you too sincerely, too devotedly; and my love makes me myself too happy.
- If you will meet me now and again after this, freely, at the houses of our
- common friends, you shall only see the old Kent who now and then scolded
- you, sometimes helped you, and who always held you dearer and higher and
- grander than all other women; and yet you must let yourself be loved—that
- I cannot help. It is fused into my being, and it gives me happiness in my
- own way. I am an oddity, you know, Clytie, as you yourself have called me,
- and oddities have their little privileges, and if you know that it makes
- my happiness, and does not grudge you yours, you will not find it hard to
- be loved.
- </p>
- <p>
- If you were a woman of ordinary conventional ideas, I could not tell you
- this. You would misunderstand it.
- </p>
- <p>
- There seems but little I could do for you—and I would do so much.
- But life is full of strange chances, and perhaps my chance of serving you
- may come, and would then I could die for you to save you an hour's pain.
- </p>
- <p>
- Yours in all devotion,
- </p>
- <p>
- Kent.
- </p>
- <p>
- Clytie read the letter over several times. At first the tears came into
- her eyes and a lump rose in her throat. This simple, unrequiring love
- soothed her and smote her at once. The largeness and tenderness of the
- man's nature came to her almost as a revelation. What was there in her
- worthy of this sacrifice? How could she tell him, she thought in her
- broken pride, that she had failed miserably, wretchedly, that she had
- forsaken the higher for the lower, that this selfless love of his was as
- far above the sudden intoxication that had degraded her as the spirit is
- above the flesh? She had thrown away the best, like the shepherd in the
- German legend, who, in the sensuous heart-leap at the sight of the
- glittering treasure, disregarded the voice, “Forget not the best,” and
- dropped and trampled underfoot the little blue flower that opened the
- enchanted hillside. How could she tell him that?
- </p>
- <p>
- Then, too, the note of unconscious irony in his letter jarred through her
- painfully. “Her present happiness!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, my God!” she cried at last. “If he only knew how much need I have of
- happiness!”
- </p>
- <p>
- And then the strength that had kept the tears back for all these latter
- months of weariness and disillusion suddenly forsook her, and turning as
- she sat, she threw herself on the bed in a great agony of sobbing.
- </p>
- <p>
- A little later she wrote Kent the following reply:
- </p>
- <p>
- My Dear Friend Kent:
- </p>
- <p>
- I am not worthy of such devotion. I can only wonder at it and accept it
- humbly and gratefully. Words like these of yours I never could
- misunderstand, Kent. If it is a pleasure to you to see me, you need not
- shun me any more. Clytie.
- </p>
- <p>
- Kent went into the studio on Monday to tell Winifred of the meeting; on
- Tuesday, with a vague hope of seeing Clytie; on Wednesday, when Winifred
- herself expected her, but she did not come. On Thursday, however, he heard
- her voice from outside the studio door, and his heart gave a great throb.
- He entered and found himself once more in her presence. Neither spoke of
- the letters that had passed between them, but the faintest pressure of the
- hand and a glance from her eyes told him that she understood.
- </p>
- <p>
- After that they met frequently—on Sunday evenings at the
- Farquharsons', during the week in the studio, where for some months Clytie
- had taken to coming very frequently for the comfort of seeing Winifred.
- Clytie maintained her usual habits; Kent, as far as was possible, resumed
- his old ones. Sometimes it was strangely like the old days. With a little
- longing, perhaps, to add to the illusion, and also to give herself some
- employment while Winifred worked, Clytie began a picture, choosing in a
- humorous tenderness to take Winnie as her model. The picture never was
- completed, for Clytie had not the temperament to do justice to the slender
- figure in its quiet summer dress, and to the soft, dark face bent so
- earnestly over the palette and sheaf of brushes. But while the painting of
- it lasted it gave a comfortable air of reality to the revival. It was new
- life to Kent to come in on his return and once more receive Clytie's
- friendly nod as she stood by the easel, a painting-apron over her dainty
- dress, and her hands smudged with charcoal or daubs of paint. He did not
- think much of the portrait, and he told her so with laughing frankness.
- But he divined why she was doing it, and while criticising, encouraged her
- to proceed. His arrival, however, as it always had been, was a signal for
- the cessation of work. Then Winifred cleaned the brushes and put them in
- the trays, and gathered up the tubes and rags which Clytie, with less
- sense of tidiness, had strewed around her, and Clytie drew out the
- basket-table and rang the bell for Mrs. Gurkins to bring up the tea.
- Clytie had left behind her all her small domestic articles for Winnie's
- use in the studio. So there was the familiar tea-service, the Crown-Derby
- cups and apostle spoons,—a piece of wicked extravagance on Clytie's
- part in times gone by,—the gray Japanese teapot whose wicker handle
- had still to be delicately fingered, and the little glass sugar-bowl that
- looked so plebeian beside the aristocratic porcelain. Scarcely anything in
- the studio had been changed. The charcoal caricatures on the walls were as
- sacred in Winifred's eyes as if they had been frescoes by old Italian
- masters, and she had issued strict injunctions to spring-cleaners to leave
- them intact. Even Clytie's easel was there now. Kent lived for these
- afternoons.
- </p>
- <p>
- One day Kent was going to dine with Wither and Fairfax. As his road to a
- certain point was the same as Clytie's, they walked along together. This
- was almost the first occasion on which they were quite alone together. He
- reminded her casually of the fact.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes,” she replied. “And I have been wanting to see you by yourself. I
- have not thanked you for your letter. But you do see that I appreciate it,
- don't you?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “There is nothing to thank me for, since I pleased myself in writing it.
- The thanks are from me to you for treating it as you have done.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, no,” said Clytie, shaking her head and looking before her. “You can't
- understand,—and perhaps it is better you shouldn't,—what a
- letter like that means to a woman. Well, it meant a great deal to me. To
- tell you so is the only return I can make you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Don't let us talk of it,” said Kent. “I could not bear to have you as a
- friend under false pretences.”
- </p>
- <p>
- After they had walked a few steps in silence she continued the subject.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Don't you think it would be better for you to forget all about me, and
- look around for someone who can make you happy—really happy?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I'd have to live till the day of judgment to find her,” said Kent
- bluntly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “That's ridiculous, Kent. But can't you feel that it sometimes pains me to
- see you sacrificing your life for me?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am not sacrificing my life,” he answered cheerfully. “Besides, I don't
- quite see what it has got to do with you—in one sense. I love you,
- and I couldn't love anybody else for all the joys in creation. Thank God,
- you are broad-minded enough to let me tell you this without any chance of
- misconstruction.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ah! That's all very well,” she said, with a little sigh. “If I were a
- saint, I might placidly accept it as my due. Being only a woman, and that
- none of the best, it seems such a waste of good love, Kent, and love is a
- rare, rare thing in the world.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But it would go a-begging if you did not have it,” he replied, laughing.
- “Come, don't let us say anything more about it. You are happy with your
- own home and interests, and I am happy in seeing you and having your
- friendship. Of course I have suffered a bit, but it's all over now.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ah!” she said. “Life seems to be made up of that.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Of what?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Suffering.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He waved an energetic protest with his ash stick.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Since when have <i>you</i> grown a pessimist? I don't believe in it. Life
- is made up of responsibilities and interests. There's suffering in it of
- course; but there are alleviations. It's like cold and frost. If you stood
- up without a rag on in the snow you'd think the world was made of nothing
- else but frost. But you put on warm clothing and defy it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But the poor, ill-clad, shivering wretches—what about them?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I'm talking of people with average material wealth,” he replied. “That's
- just it. So can the people of ordinary moral wealth clothe themselves
- against suffering. I don't like the morbid view of things. It doesn't do
- any good. Do you remember a passage in Longfellow's 'Hyperion'—a
- criticism of two German poets—'melancholy gentlemen to whom life was
- only a dismal swamp, upon whose margin they walked with cambric
- handkerchiefs in their hands, sobbing and sighing, and making signals to
- Death to come and ferry them over the lake'? It's a bit fierce on your
- pessimists; but it's a wholesome little passage to remember.”
- </p>
- <p>
- A little while after this they parted. Kent walked on, swinging his stick,
- convinced of Clytie's happiness, yet wondering at her unusual note of
- pessimism, and Clytie called a cab, as she was late, and drove home with a
- world of strange and troubling thoughts.
- </p>
- <p>
- On the 1st of August Clytie received a visit from the boy Jack, who had
- just come to London for his summer holiday. He had grown greatly during
- the past year, had filled out. The taint of the street had gone from him
- and he was becoming civilised. Clytie leaned back in her chair and looked
- at him curiously as he sat, in all the self-consciousness of a newly
- awakened sense of propriety, upon the edge of his seat, twirling his
- glengarry cap. As an artistic object he had deteriorated. The motive of
- his worth in that respect had gone with the picturesqueness of his old
- garments and dirt and wild elf locks; but he was handsome in spite of his
- cropped brown hair and the severity of his attire. Indeed there was
- something incongruous in the corduroy uniform and the refinement of his
- face, with its bright dark eyes and finely cut lips that disclosed a
- perfect row of white, even teeth. And yet there was cruelty around the
- mouth, the sublimated essence of the fierce savagery that Clytie had
- impressed upon her famous picture. He had been transformed from the animal
- into the human being, it is true; but that does not necessarily imply that
- the human being does not retain many of the passions of the animal. With
- the old Jack the untamable was degradingly confused with lowness, but it
- shone out all the clearer now by reason of the humanising of his face.
- Clytie noted all this as they talked together.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You are getting quite a man,” she said. “When are you leaving school?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Mr. Kent says I'm to stay there another year,” replied Jack. “Then I'm to
- be 'prenticed.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “To a joiner?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I suppose so,” said Jack. And after he had scraped a little with his toe
- on the ground he looked up and added: “Do you think I needn't be a joiner
- if I didn't want to?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don't see why you shouldn't be what you like, Jack.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Really!” and his face brightened. “I have been thinking I should like to
- be something else.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “What is that?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “A carver and gilder,” said Jack bashfully.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Where do the especial charms of that trade come in?” asked Clytie,
- laughing.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I dunno,” said Jack; “I only thought it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- There was a touch of pique in his voice. Clytie noticed it, saw that she
- had wounded susceptibilities.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Tell me, Jack, why you want to be a carver and gilder.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I could make all the picture-frames for you and Miss Marchpane,” he
- replied.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Thank you, Jack,” said Clytie, touched at the boyish idea. “But perhaps
- we'll make you something better than a carver or gilder. I don't know what
- you could be. What could we make of you?”
- </p>
- <p>
- A vague idea of raising Jack above the artisan level had occurred to her
- during her scrutiny of his face. He was not an ordinary creature. That he
- should spend his life in the dull, commonplace atmosphere of the British
- workman seemed a waste of possibilities. There are millions who possess
- just the qualifications for hewers of wood and drawers of water. Why
- should a finer organisation not be cultivated, trained, put into an
- environment where there are conditions for free development? But whether
- the boy was a potential admiral, Lord Chancellor, or novelist she could
- not determine. That was why she asked the question, “What could we make of
- you?” somewhat pathetically. Jack shook his head in reply. He had learned
- at school that life was a serious thing terminating in apprenticeship.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I've got to learn a trade,” he replied after a little, “and I'd sooner be
- a carver and gilder than anything else.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But suppose a good fairy were to come, Jack,” persisted Clytie, “and say
- that you were not to learn a trade, or that, if you did begin, you would
- work your way out of it, and become a great man, and do glorious things in
- the world—suppose you were able to choose to be anything you liked—what
- do you think you would be? Tell me—something great and bright and
- noble!”
- </p>
- <p>
- She had grown animated with her enthusiasm, and leaned forward, with her
- chin raised and lips parted—her attitude in moments of exaltation.
- The boy looked at her for a few seconds, catching her spirit. Something
- was at work within him too, for his eyes glowed, and his breath came
- quickly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “There is something, Jack. Tell me what it is!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I'd like to be a soldier like my father,” he said in a low voice, the
- extravagant, glowing fancies that had haunted him for six months thus
- finding half-choked expression.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Your father?” asked Clytie, taken aback, and diverging into the side
- track of her astonishment. “I never knew you had—I mean, I thought
- you did not know anything at all about him. You used not to tell me the
- truth, then, Jack.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh! but I did not know then!” he cried eagerly. “It was only when I come
- here at Christmas, and you was ill, so I couldn't tell you. He was a
- soldier, my father, an orficer. And I would like to be an orficer too.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Really, Jack, this is very interesting,” said Clytie. “Aren't you pleased
- to have a father you can be proud of? Was he a very brave man?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “He had a sword,” said Jack proudly, as if that was proof positive of
- valour.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Come and sit down in your old place on the hearthrug and tell me all
- about him.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The boy did as he was bidden, sinking somewhat shyly at first on to the
- great bearskin at Clytie's feet. But after a while he huddled himself up
- in his old posture.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Mother didn't tell me much,” he said in answer to a question of Clytie's.
- “I was looking in a chest of drawers of mother's, and I see a photograph—an
- orficer—all over strings and buttons and a sword and great big
- moustaches. And I come to mother and says: 'Who's this?' and she says:
- 'That's your father.' And then she snatched it out of my hand and hit me a
- clout on the head for going to her drawer. She wouldn't tell me no mere;
- but I know he was an orficer because he's got a star on his collar. I
- think I knows orficers when I sees them,” he added, with the ci-devant
- street urchin's knowledge of life. “And I go and look at him now when
- mother isn't by.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But you shouldn't go to your mother's private drawers,” said Clytie by
- way of moral precept.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I've got as much right to look at my father as she has,” replied Jack in
- an injured tone, whereat Clytie laughed a little.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You are an odd youth. I wish I could make you an officer right away. But
- I am afraid I can't.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I believe you could,” said Jack.
- </p>
- <p>
- There was a world of childish faith in the remark and the manner in which
- it was delivered. Clytie was both touched and saddened. She regretted that
- she had raised hopes in the boy that from the nature of things were doomed
- to disappointment. The overpowering difficulties in the way of her sudden
- visionary aspirations for Jack's future ranged themselves before her mind.
- So it was with a sigh she answered his outburst of faith.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am afraid I can't, Jack,” she repeated. “But you yourself can do a
- great deal. If you like, one of these days when you are much older, you
- can enlist in the army, and then throw your soul into your duties, and
- keep before you at every minute of the day the words, 'I am going to be an
- officer,' and if you do this intensely, and never lose sight of it, you
- will succeed. That's the only way. They call it getting a commission
- through the ranks. But between now and then there are a great many years,
- and I'll do all I can for you, Jack. Yet, perhaps, after all, you'd be a
- happier and more useful man as a carver and gilder. Who knows!”
- </p>
- <p>
- Jack did not heed the pessimism of the peroration. His mind was aflame
- with the possibilities of becoming an officer and he took his leave in
- high spirits.
- </p>
- <p>
- Clytie sat for a little musing over the solution of the problem that had
- troubled her in the first days of her acquaintance with Jack. She was
- gratified at her intuitions having proved correct. But there was still
- much that was dark to her. The physiological side of the question,
- however, was shadowed at present by more practical considerations. Why
- could she not find a means of giving Jack a chance in life? She looked
- ahead at the years to come, as she often had done since that dark December
- morning, and a pain came at her heart as she beheld their blankness. And
- now fate had thrown across her path this drifting spar of humanity. Jack
- was hers if she chose to claim him. No one would dispute with her the
- privilege.
- </p>
- <p>
- After luncheon she walked to the King's Road and sat with Winifred, in the
- hope that Kent would look in on his way upstairs. She wanted to take
- counsel with him. His sturdy common sense would help her. She did not
- confide her vague scheme to Winifred, because Winifred would have called
- her a darling, and put her arms round her neck, and made her feel as if
- she were meditating something peculiarly noble. So she waited for Kent's
- sobering presence.
- </p>
- <p>
- He came in at his customary hour, bearing a paper bag of peaches which he
- had brought for Winifred. He had carried them from some distance through
- the streets, and there were little wet stains on the paper. But when the
- fruit was put on a plate beside the bread and butter on a flap of the
- wickerwork afternoon tea table it looked fresh and inviting. This sudden
- return of their old intimacy was delightful to all three of them, and they
- chatted during tea as if nothing had happened to break it.
- </p>
- <p>
- Then Clytie propounded her case, and they formed themselves into a
- committee to consider it.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don't like social experiments,” said Kent. “It's constituting one's
- self a Providence without Providence's resources. If one bit of the
- machinery fails, the whole thing is apt to go wrong.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But I don't want to experiment!” cried Clytie. “It's quite wicked of you
- to say so.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “How can it be otherwise?” asked Kent. “You want to put an industrial
- school boy of the most unconventional type and upbringing into the most
- caste-bound, conventional profession under the sun. It's like putting a
- bit of metallic sodium into water. A pretty experiment, though rather
- common; but the result is an explosion.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But he must be trained and made a gentleman first,” cried Winifred,
- coming to Clytie's assistance.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Of course,” said Clytie. “Should he ever be able to get into the army, he
- will be by that time quite a different being to what he is now.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Then you'll have to give him a rigid, conventional training, and so spoil
- him,” said Kent.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It wouldn't spoil him to learn to speak the Queen's English and the use
- of his knife and, fork,” said Clytie a little defiantly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “He'd have to learn more than that. Besides, how is he to be taught?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That's what I've come to you for advice about.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Kent mused for a moment and stroked his beard.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Are you very much bent upon this?” he asked.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Then I can only see one way.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well—and that?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Adopt him,” said Kent. “An industrial school boy can be run by a
- committee—the experiment is not very dangerous, but a conventional
- gentleman must have conventional references.”
- </p>
- <p>
- His first words struck the chord she had shrunk from striking herself. It
- was the formulated suggestion of a vague desire. She was silent for a
- little. Then Winifred in response to a business summons went out on to the
- landing, and Kent and Clytie were left alone.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am afraid I have been too downright and have hurt you,” he said
- concernedly.
- </p>
- <p>
- She shook her head and glanced at him smilingly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I came to you for common sense. You have given it me. And your conclusion
- is one that I dared not come to myself.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That you should adopt him? A <i>reductio ad absurdum!</i>”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, I feel it. I am not my own mistress now There are difficulties. Oh,
- Kent, don't let me talk of them! You see, I came to you for help—to
- no one else.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don't quite understand you, Clytie,” said Kent, anxious at her sudden
- agitation.
- </p>
- <p>
- She recovered herself, womanlike, and forced a laugh.
- </p>
- <p>
- “If I were a rich, lonely old woman, I might be able,” she said, “but, you
- see, I'm not. No, no, I can't adopt Jack; and we'll have to run him by a
- committee, whatever happens to him.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, what have you decided?” asked Winifred, coming into the room.
- </p>
- <p>
- “That it will be fairer to Jack to let him work out his own salvation,”
- said Kent. “Let him work his way through the ranks. If there is anything
- in him it will come out. You don't think me unkind, do you, Clytie?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Whereat Clytie laughed honestly and Kent received much consolation.
- </p>
- <p>
- They talked a little longer, on indifferent subjects, and then at
- Winifred's hour of departure they all rose together. Winifred went to the
- back of the studio and put on her hat; Clytie and Kent moved slowly in the
- direction of the door. Kent sighed a little.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I only seem to have seen you for five minutes,” he said, “and I have told
- you nothing, but given you commonplace advice.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Had you so much to tell me?” she asked, smiling, as his unformulated wish
- echoed within herself. “There is no reason for us to go away because
- Winifred does. Would you really like to stay a little and talk to me?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Before Kent spoke Clytie had not the faintest thought of doing this. But
- in a flash came before her the long evening she was to spend in the great
- lonely house. Thornton rarely came home for dinner. He even dressed at his
- club. Often he slept there. On such occasions the first notice Clytie
- received of his absence was from the inscrutable butler, who would come
- into the studio in the morning with: “The commissionnaire for master's
- letters, ma'am.” Occasionally three days passed without their meeting.
- When they did pass an hour in each other's company sometimes there was
- calm and sometimes storm. It depended upon his mood. As a general rule he
- was polite, even bright and entertaining, and life with him under these
- conditions was just bearable. But now the thought came with some
- bitterness: What did it matter whether she was at home by seven or eight—or
- twelve, for that matter? Why should she not have a cheery hour with Kent?
- </p>
- <p>
- His face brightened as she made her smiling offer to stay.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It is too good of you. Of course I should like to have a talk with you.
- But you—can you——”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, yes,” she interrupted lightly. “I am not due home at any hour. I want
- to chat with you myself. Winnie dear, we are going to remain a little.
- Give me the key and I'll hand it to Mrs. Gurkins as I go down. I haven't
- asked you, but I suppose we can?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why, of course, darling,” said Winnie, coming up and giving her a
- farewell kiss. “I hate to think the studio isn't yours.”
- </p>
- <p>
- So Winifred went away and they remained as in the old days. The sudden
- association gave Clytie a pang. A reaction from her enthusiasm about Jack
- to weariness of spirit made her sink back listlessly in her chair.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What is the matter?” asked Kent, filling his pipe. “You are not looking
- yourself. It is this steaming London. Why don't you go and get some
- country air?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, one place is just the same as another. It isn't London and it isn't
- the weather. It is the world that is out of joint, somehow. I am afraid I
- have been moping. I think I shall invest in a cat. Then I can pour out my
- grievances to it. That's the best of a cat: it never mopes. It goes on
- purring cheerfully so long as it's warm and well fed, and when you feel
- paradoxical it never worries you to explain yourself. Do you like cats? I
- forget.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “What are you moping about?” he asked between the first few puffs of his
- kindling pipe.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, don't talk in that aggressively cheerful tone, Kent. I have come on
- all over moods, and I want comforting.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You should work,” replied Kent with some self-restraint. “You have hardly
- touched a brush in earnest this year. It is the claims of that part of
- your nature that cry out if they are not satisfied. Why don't you go on
- painting? What has the fact of your not having to make your living got to
- do with your art?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Everything, in a way,” she murmured.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I can't believe it,” said Kent earnestly. “You are not the woman to
- neglect your art out of pure idleness. Come, Clytie, rouse yourself and
- paint a great picture. The 'Faustina'—what has become of that?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, don't, don't!” she cried, putting her hands up before her face. “I
- can't do that now—can't think of it. Years hence, perhaps, when I am
- a middle-aged woman, if I find it good enough to live till then, I may try—but
- not now.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Kent laid down his pipe and drew his chair near to her. He was pained and
- troubled. He saw that her nerves were a little unstrung; but the Clytie he
- knew was the last woman in the world to give way to attacks of this kind.
- And then a dreary conjecture dawned upon him, and his heart sank.
- </p>
- <p>
- “My poor Clytie!” he said in his kind way. “You seem unhappy. I wish I
- could do something to help you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ah! it's too late now,” she said impulsively, scarcely heeding the
- purport of her words. “You might have done it eighteen months ago—if
- you had not been quixotic.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “What do you mean?” he asked, more and more troubled and at fault.
- “Eighteen months ago? How could I have helped you? I loved you and hid it
- from you. I could only have caused you pain. I love you now. I don't hide
- it. Why should I? I am ready to help you if I can. I am stronger, wiser
- now than I was then. How could I have helped you then?”
- </p>
- <p>
- The simplicity of his short, reiterative sentences and the sincerity of
- his tone went to her heart, “You could have helped me then by not hiding
- it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don't understand,” he said. “How could the knowledge that I loved you
- have helped you, unless you cared for me?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Perhaps I might have cared for you,” she said wearily.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, God, Clytie! don't say that. It is cruel!” he cried, starting to his
- feet in great agitation. “I know I acted like a fool, but it was with true
- motives. Don't twit me with them. It is more than I can bear.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Only then did Clytie clearly realise what she had been saying. The fit of
- supreme dejection passed off as suddenly as it had come, and she felt
- keenly the justice of his words.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, Kent, Kent, forgive me!” she cried, with starting tears. “I hardly
- knew what I was saying. You are so noble and true-hearted that you must
- forgive me. Sometimes when a woman is wretched she has not control over
- herself, and I am sometimes very, very wretched, Kent. I was thinking of
- myself more than of you when I said the thing that pained you. Tell me
- that you forgive me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The appeal was too human, too unreserved, to be rejected by Kent's tender
- nature. He sat down again by her and took her hand and kissed it gently.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I have never seen you like this before,” he said. “I wish I could comfort
- you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He knew that it was no passing irritation or weariness that forced the
- confession from Clytie's proud nature. It was something deep and final—something
- impossible in her married life. Her wretchedness made him forget his own
- longing in the desire to be of use to her and lighten her lot. He let go
- her hand, which she allowed to lie on her lap as it fell, with the palms
- lightly upwards.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don't know why I have told you this to-day,” she said, not meeting his
- eyes. “I have never breathed it or hinted it to a living being, and it
- came upon me unawares. Don't despise me, Kent.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Clytie!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, yes. I know what any outsider would say. I was posing as the <i>femme
- incomprise</i>. I was casting away my womanly pride. Of all persons in the
- world <i>you</i> ought not to have been my confidant. Judged by
- conventional canons I am to be despised, for what can the world say of a
- woman who tells a man that still loves her that she regrets she did not
- marry him? Oh, don't interrupt me. I may as well speak out my true self
- once and for all to you. You yourself once remarked that if we were
- superior to conventionalities of habit, we ought to extend our
- unconventionalities to sentiment. You are loyal and staunch. You can help
- me by being my friend, for I have no one else to turn to. My life is a
- dreary mistake. My art does not satisfy me, because I have no hopes. One
- must have enthusiasms to be an artist, and all mine are dead. Now you
- know.”
- </p>
- <p>
- There was a certain fierce pleasure in this self-abasement. It was like
- the vengeance of her higher nature upon her lower, the whip of scorn
- applied by the spirit to the flesh.
- </p>
- <p>
- He did not answer, but looked at her with inexpressible sadness in his
- eyes. She added a few more words.
- </p>
- <p>
- “If you despise me for telling you, let me know at once. It would be
- better.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “God forbid!” he said in a low voice. “I shall never apply to you the
- conventional canons of misjudgment. I take what you have said to me as a
- sacred trust, and thank you from my heart for thinking well enough of me
- to give me your confidence. You must never ask me such a question again,
- Clytie, for it would wound me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I believe you, Kent,” she said, raising her eyes to his in her frank
- manner. “And I was wrong to say you <i>might</i> have helped me, for you
- can now. And you will?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “With my last breath,” said Kent simply. “It has been the torturing regret
- of the last eighteen months that, much as I wished, I could never do a
- hand's turn for you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But what can I do for you in repayment, my poor Kent?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Be your own bright, eager self again. Throw yourself into your painting,
- and the result I will take as my reward. It will be my influence gleaming
- through your genius, and it will be sweet to me. Oh, Clytie! you are
- wrong. A life is seldom so wrecked that it cannot be reconstructed, for
- that implies the utter loss of faith. A grain of faith in anything can
- move mountains; if one hasn't it, then it is time to put an end to life
- altogether, it becomes one's duty not to live.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I came within an ace of that at the beginning of the year,” said Clytie,
- with a sad retrospective smile. “Some time I may tell you why. I thought
- of dying, but then it seemed cowardly. Perhaps it was I had more curiosity
- to go on seeing how the world went on than I was aware of. And now, Kent,
- you have put things in a new light before me, and how can I thank you for
- all your goodness?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I have told you,” he replied, with a smile.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER XXIV.
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he next morning,
- after writing her letters and attending to her household duties, Clytie
- went into her studio with the praiseworthy intention of stimulating the
- artistic impulse that had been flagging for so long. Kent was right, she
- thought. Her life could be reconstructed. She would begin her laborious
- art life again, resume it seriously as a profession, put her pictures into
- the market once more. Amid the many confusing thoughts and emotions
- resulting from her conversation with Kent, one idea had sprung in
- connection with Jack. She could not adopt the boy. That was a wild
- feminine craving, somewhat selfish, springing out of a bitter hour when
- fairer hopes were crushed. It cost her a sigh to resign; but she trusted
- to Kent's judgment, and her mind was so far at rest. Yet if it could lie
- in her power to help Jack materially in after years, when a little capital
- would be worth all the world to him, she felt that she would have wrought
- some good for one human creature at least in her somewhat self-centred
- life. And then Kent's advice as to her art mingled and combined with these
- thoughts, and the outcome was the sudden idea that the proceeds of the
- sale of her pictures would, in course of time, form a very considerable
- fund. She clapped her hands with delight when this occurred to her. A
- mountain of weariness seemed removed. In the spontaneity of new workings
- she scribbled a hasty line to Kent and had it posted with the address
- scarcely dry.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am going to paint <i>seriously</i>, and <i>sell</i> my pictures, and
- devote the proceeds to a fund for Jack. Shall I?”
- </p>
- <p>
- She was in bright spirits this morning, having discovered an object in
- life. The future has generally much more to do with our present moods than
- the past. Yet, notwithstanding this broad truth, the immediate past had a
- certain influence on Clytie's humour. Whilst she was driving home the
- afternoon before, the gravity of the fact of her confession to Kent had
- somewhat weighed upon her. She had spent the lonely evening grappling with
- a truth that had been taking half-reluctant shape in her consciousness for
- the last two months, and now rose clear and sharply defined. She had even
- written to Kent the following portion of a letter which she straightway
- tore up into the finest of pieces. In fact her intention of sending it to
- him was from the first of the very remotest. “My dear Kent,” ran this
- singularly feminine effusion. “My words to-day were true. If you had told
- me you loved me eighteen months ago, I should have realised myself and
- what it was that I felt towards you. The knowledge of her own heart does
- not come to a woman with the easy grace that your sentimentalists make
- out. It is somewhat of a fierce process, Kent. There is no royal road to
- it. Well, I know my own heart now, and I have bought the knowledge with
- agonies of suffering. Oh, Kent, my true, loyal Kent! I am tired, tired of
- hiding facts from myself, of acting in a wilful dream, in defiance of the
- promptings of my reason. I am a woman, and I ought not to confess things
- to myself, let alone to you. So people say—and people are so wise,
- aren't they? I love you, Kent. There, I write it down in black and white.
- It looks odd, grotesque, horrible, and yet wonderfully comforting. I love
- you, Kent. Why should I deceive myself any longer? God knows whether it is
- for my happiness in the future or my misery; but now that the beauty of it
- is upon me it makes me wonderfully happy. Yes, wonderfully, wonderfully,
- wonderfully happy.”
- </p>
- <p>
- And then she threw down her pen and shredded the paper with frenzied zeal.
- But her heart was lighter. The world seemed a clearer, pleasanter place.
- Her cheeks burned like fire at the thought of Kent ever knowing of this
- feeling. She arranged in her mind the tenderest and most elusive of
- relations between Kent and herself. He, a declared lover, should give her
- all the comfort and kind counsel of a friend; she, his declared friend,
- would find delicate, subtle ways of colouring and softening his life with
- her love. A new paradise of exquisite emotion opened its evanescent
- portals. For the first time in her life came the romance of delicate
- sentiment, tinged with an innocent pink like the buds in spring. It is
- true these same buds, to continue the analogy, burst into gorgeous,
- riotous bloom under the summer sun; but while the tenderer air of spring
- keeps them closed they have a grace peculiarly their own.
- </p>
- <p>
- Clytie moved about the studio singing, a sign with her of great content.
- The window was open and the morning sun streamed in, filling the large and
- somewhat heavily tapestried room with gay light. It glorified Clytie as
- she passed across the patch of sunlight, falling upon her hair in a
- thousand scintillations and revealing the deep sea-blue of her eyes. She
- wore a soft cream morning gown, a golden tasselled girdle round her waist,
- an edging of old lace round the somewhat open neck. The wide, drooping
- sleeves she had caught up a little for convenience in working, and her
- arms were bare to the elbow. The skirt clung around her as she walked
- quickly about the room, with her old elastic tread, making a soft
- frou-frou that pleased her, she did not know why. She was happy again,
- filled with a double sense of the meaning of life. At last she sat down
- before a small easel, on which was put the board with its fair sheet of
- Whatman paper ready for the first sketch. In her rapid, eager way she
- commenced to indicate the motive of the picture that had flashed like an
- inspiration upon her. In the middle distance on the left a pair of lovers,
- the woman looking with upturned face at the man, whose arm was round her
- waist. In the foreground, peeping at them from behind a clump of bushes, a
- girl of about seventeen, with a letter in her hand. The contrast between
- the two female faces was the motive—the fulfilment of knowledge on
- the one, the dawning revelation on the other. The title had come with the
- conception: “Maiden and Woman.” Clytie worked on steadily with her <i>ébauche</i>,
- keen, sure of herself, tingling once again with the excitement of
- inspiration. She knew she could put that in their faces which would raise
- the picture above the narrative prettiness of Sant and his school. The
- accessories were to be severe to austerity. No elaborate detail in tree
- painting, no subtle effects of light and shade. The principle of
- abstraction to be as uncompromisingly carried out as in one of Seymour
- Haden's etchings. The whole artistic force of the picture was to be
- concentrated in the awakened and awakening souls.
- </p>
- <p>
- She was absorbed in her work when, after a tap at the door, Jack came in.
- Clytie looked up with a smile.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You here again, Jack! That is good of you. But I can't say a word to you—positively.
- I am so busy. Sit down somewhere until I have finished.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The boy, used to these fits of absorption in his two artist patronesses,
- sat down for a little and let his eyes wander round the studio, looking at
- the pictures and nicknacks. Then he got up to make a closer examination of
- vases and photographs, and walked about on tiptoe, trying to still the
- noise of his iron-shod boots against the hard, polished floor. At last he
- discovered on the bookshelves an illustrated History of England, with
- which he retired to his favourite place on the hearthrug. And so they
- remained for half an hour without saying a word—Clytie bending over
- her study, Jack curled up with his picture-book. It was quite still. A
- stray bumble-bee looked in now and then at the window, buzzing
- querulously, as if he had lost his way in London, and then darted off
- again. From the servants' hall came the just perceptible voice of one of
- the maids singing a hymn-tune, and from far, far away came the tinkling
- treble of a piano-organ. And these few sounds, so faint yet so clear,
- accentuated the summer stillness.
- </p>
- <p>
- When Clytie had put the last few touches on the portion of her work that
- demanded all her concentration, she gave a little sigh of relief.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What do you think of that, Jack?” she said, leaning back with her head
- critically aslant. “Don't you think that is going to make a famous
- picture?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Jack jumped up promptly, leaving his book open on the hearthrug, and came
- up to her side. He was not a connoisseur, in spite of his associations
- with art, so he said nothing, but grinned appreciatively, rubbing the calf
- of one leg with the instep of the other.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well,” asked Clytie, “why don't you admire?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You aint given them no faces,” said Jack.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ah! This is to be one face,” she said, pointing to a kind of <i>remarque</i>
- at the foot of the sheet. “Or something like it. Now just use your
- imagination, Jack. This face is to go there—the woman whose whole
- nature has been awakened, and is shining out of her eyes, and quivering on
- her lips, and is vibrating all through her frame—all of which is
- Greek and Chaldee to you, my good Jack; but I may as well explain. And now
- I have got to fix a face for this one. What kind of face do you think I am
- going to give her?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I dunno,” murmured Jack. And then after a slight pause: “And what's the
- man going to be like?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ah!” said Clytie with a mock sigh. “What a little Philistine you are! The
- man can be any kind of creature on two legs. What does it matter about the
- man? He is a nuisance. I have a good mind to make him awfully ugly with a
- face like a rhinoceros. See, like this.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She made a few rapid strokes with her charcoal in the oval left for the
- man's face, and the result was a picturesque monster with a long nose,
- Mephistophelian eyebrows, and a moustache curling up to his ears. Then
- they both burst out laughing.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Let me draw some funny men for you,” she said in the light-hearted
- buoyancy of her mood. “Run and get me that sheet of paper over there.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She pinned the sheet that Jack brought her on to the board and began to
- draw caricatures.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You shall choose one for me to put in the picture, Jack.”
- </p>
- <p>
- It was a long, long time since she had indulged this freakish side of her
- genius. It ran riot now in grotesque exuberance. Here a head with wide,
- leering mouth and pointed ears, like the devil that looks over Lincoln;
- there a snouted monster with cat's whiskers, an eyeglass, and a silk hat;
- a lean, cadaverous, equine face with a terrible squint; a masher,
- indicated by three or four little dots and lines. Jack looked on in
- rapture. She had never drawn pictures for him before. He broke out now and
- then into breathless exclamations.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Lord, he's an ugly one! Give him a long nose—longer than that; and,
- my eye! that's a wart upon it. One of the teachers at school has a wart on
- his nose. That's just like him! And where's this one's 'ed?—he's all
- body and legs!”
- </p>
- <p>
- And then he jumped and clapped his hands when the head was seen to emerge
- from between the knees after the fashion of the boneless wonders.
- </p>
- <p>
- When she had filled up the last space on the sheet she tossed the charcoal
- into the tray, and rose from her seat.
- </p>
- <p>
- “There, Jack! There's nothing like going absolutely mad on occasions. Now
- if you'd like to keep these pictures and show them to the boys at school,
- you can.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She rolled up the stiff piece of drawing paper, slipped an elastic band
- round it in her hasty way, and gave it to Jack, who could only look his
- delighted thanks.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Now I must go and wash my hands and get decent for lunch. Go downstairs
- and tell Mrs. Pawkins to give you something to eat. Stay—you had
- better leave that roll up here; come in for it before you go.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She took it from him, and laid it on a little table near the door. She did
- not desire that the inquisitive eyes in the servants' hall should witness
- the mistress's frivolity. Jack understood her more or less, but Mrs.
- Pawkins and Mary and John would have questioned her sanity.
- </p>
- <p>
- Jack lingered for a moment on the threshold, and then drew shyly from his
- handkerchief pocket a dingy, whitey-brown packet.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I came to show you this,” he said, putting it into her hand. “I prigged
- it from mother's drawer this morning. You'll give it me back, won't you?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I have a good mind not to,” said Clytie severely. “If your mother knew,
- she would be very angry, and you would catch it. Still, as you have been a
- good boy, I'll look at it and give it you back. Run away, now.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Jack did as he was bid, and Clytie, after a few turns about the room,
- putting things more or less straight, unfolded the dirty wrapper of Jack's
- packet, with an amused curiosity as to the features of Jack's father.
- </p>
- <p>
- But in another second all her curiosity, amusement, idle interest, were
- fled, and her whole emotive force concentrated into a short, irrepressible
- gasp of astonishment. It was a photograph of Thornton, her husband. There
- was no mistaking it. She had the fellow to it in her album. One day long
- ago she had seen it among his odds and ends, and had begged for it, loving
- it for all that it was so many years old, taken when he was still in the
- army. He looked so stalwart, soldierly, magnificent in his uniform. It was
- perhaps the likeness of him that she had cherished most—only too
- familiar. For a moment she could hardly understand—the shock was so
- sudden and unexpected. Then with the quick reaction she realised what it
- meant. Thornton was Jack's father, Mrs. Burmester was his mother. With a
- shudder of disgust she threw the photograph on the table.
- </p>
- <p>
- The riddle of Jack's parentage was solved in a way she had not looked for;
- the mystery that had lain hidden in strange, unknown depths of passion was
- now clear to her in all its unlovely nakedness. Her soul sickened at the
- truth. She had not come to her husband with the helpless ignorance of a
- young girl. The knowledge of good and evil, to employ the somewhat
- meaningless euphemism, had come to her through her intelligence by means
- of books, through her contact with real life. She had grasped the fact of
- the existence of the Loulou Mendès type with whom love is a trade. That a
- man should have had a liaison with such a woman she could have understood.
- In fact she never at any one moment had fancied that Thornton had brought
- to her the pure ardour of a virgin soul. To have been revolted at the
- discovery of a mere antenuptial infidelity on the part of her husband
- would have been to her impossible. It was not noble, it is true; but it
- was intelligible. There was certainly for a lower nature a charm,
- witchery, fascination, in the fleshly beauty of the courtesan. She had
- heard of many men falling victims to it, and sinking very little into
- degradation. If Jack's mother had been such a woman, she would have felt
- little more than the shock of coincidence, a sense of strangeness in her
- relations with the boy. But Jack's mother was not of this type. She never
- had charm, witchery, or fascination. She had never even passable good
- looks. A poor, stolid, dull, animal drudge.
- </p>
- <p>
- The truth had come upon Clytie; the truth that had touched her now and
- then with its bat wings, making her shiver; the horrible, soul-nauseating
- truth of the eternal <i>beast</i> in man. She knew Thornton now as he was,
- and her indifference passed into loathing. In Thornton's feelings what
- difference had there been between this boy's mother and herself?
- </p>
- <p>
- She walked swiftly up and down the studio, with clenched white hands, her
- shoulders rising now and then in an involuntary heave of disgust. The
- glory had gone out of the day. A foul shadow overspread it.
- </p>
- <p>
- Suddenly Thornton himself appeared with eager face, a telegram in his
- hand. He had just come in from riding in the Park, and according to the
- modern fashion out of the season, was dressed in tweed suit and gaiters.
- He carried a silver-headed riding whip jauntily under his arm. He waved
- the telegram exultingly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “They have asked me to put up for Witherby!” he said. “I'll have some
- lunch on the strength of it. I suppose there's some going.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I believe lunch is at the usual hour,” said Clytie, not looking at him.
- </p>
- <p>
- He lingered a little, flicking his legs with his whip.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You might as well congratulate me, if only for the sake of politeness,”
- he said in an injured tone.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, yes; I congratulate you,” she replied.
- </p>
- <p>
- Her voice sounded strange in her own ears. She felt an almost irresistible
- impulse to burst forth into a torrent of speech, to say out finally all
- the bitterness and loathing that were in her heart. She restrained
- herself, but the effort gave a queer guttural resonance to her words. She
- turned and looked out of the window.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What the devil's the matter?” he asked impatiently. “I came in, 'pon my
- soul, thinking you'd be pleased. It's a safe seat. I'm dead certain to
- knock the confounded Radical into a cocked hat. Just the moment when I've
- got what I've been sweating for the last eighteen months, confound it all,
- I did think you'd be civil for once in a way. But it's just like you; I
- might have expected it. Well, perhaps it's the truth to say you don't care
- a damn one way or the other.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He walked to and fro for a little, fuming. Then his eyes falling on the
- photograph that lay on the table, he picked it up, as an angry man will
- do, looked at it absently for a moment, and pitched it sharply to the
- other side of the room. Clytie, startled by the slight click of the
- cardboard striking against the wall, turned half round and met his eyes
- fixed loweringly upon her. Each held the other spellbound for a few
- seconds. Then the door opened and Jack came into the studio, checking his
- motion forward as he saw Thornton.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What the deuce is this?” cried the latter.
- </p>
- <p>
- With a swift, instinctive glance Clytie compared the two faces. They were
- astonishingly alike. The same finely moulded features, dark lucent eyes,
- brown crisp hair, white evenly set teeth; the same lines of cruelty at the
- corners of the lips. Strange that, much as she had studied Jack's
- physiognomy, the likeness had never suggested itself. At Thornton's
- petulant question the boy looked at him half frightened, and then at
- Clytie, and was about to shrink back. But she called him in.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Don't go away without your drawing, Jack. This,” she said coldly to
- Thornton, “is a <i>protégé</i> of mine. He was once my model—for my
- picture 'Jack.' Here, Jack, take your drawing. Run home. Thank you for
- coming to see me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And—and the photograph. You said you'd give it me back.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Clytie went to the table where she had thrown it. Not seeing it, she
- remembered the sound that had startled her, and turning round, perceived
- the photograph lying face upwards on the floor. She gave a little start of
- dismay. The situation threatened to become dramatic, and she was
- unprepared. In her hurry to dismiss the boy she had forgotten the
- photograph. Now he had called attention to it, and she felt bound to
- restore it to him to save the poor little urchin's honour and most
- probably his back. And Thornton was leaning against the mantelpiece, with
- his hands in his pockets, frowningly surveying the scene. With outward
- calm, but with a beating heart, she picked up the photograph, wrapped it
- in the dirty covering, and put it into Jack's hand. Thornton, who had
- watched her movements with gathering surprise, strode forward with an
- oath.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What the devil——”
- </p>
- <p>
- But Clytie quickly interposed herself between him and the boy.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Run away!” she said in a hasty whisper, and Jack, accustomed from his
- childhood to sudden dartings, disappeared like a flash. Clytie put her
- back against the door and looked at her husband with strange eyes. It had
- been done with the speed of a conjuring trick.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What on earth is the meaning of all this?” asked Thornton; “and what are
- you giving away my photographs for? Upon my soul, I think you are taking
- leave of your senses. You'll have to drop this sort of thing. I'm damned
- if I am going to have my photographs given away to all the street urchins
- in London. Play the fool yourself if you like, but I'll trouble you to
- keep me and my things out of it. Have you been giving me away any more?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, God! Thornton, you have given yourself away!” she cried, echoing his
- slang phrase half unconsciously in her bitterness. “I'll tell you, if you
- like. The photograph belongs to the boy's mother. He is your child.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “What!” cried Thornton in a voice of thunder, showing his teeth savagely.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, your child,” she went on, striving to be calm. “His mother's name is
- Burmester. You gave her the picture yourself years ago. I had just made
- the discovery when you came in. Ah—h!” she cried, putting her hands
- suddenly before her face, “it is horrible, horrible!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ha!” retorted Thornton fiercely. “You are in one of your damned
- high-horse moods. Well, I did give one of my father's kitchen-maids a
- photograph, and she did have a child, and I paid her for her trouble, and,
- damme! what that's got to do with you now is more than I can see. Besides,
- you never were such a fool as to imagine you were marrying an infernal
- saint.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, stop! stop!” she cried. “Don't say anything more. You will brutalise
- me as well as yourself. I never thought you a saint—even when I
- cared for you. I know what you are, and, oh, God! this is the end of it.
- If you had betrayed a sweet, innocent girl, you would have been a villain,
- but not necessarily a brute—someone charming, pretty, attractive—I
- could have understood it; but a poor stupid drudge—a kitchen-maid—little
- better than an animal——”
- </p>
- <p>
- Thornton rushed forward and caught her by her shoulder.
- </p>
- <p>
- “By the Lord God! if you don't hold your tongue, I'll strike you!”
- </p>
- <p>
- She saw that she had aroused the devil in him. She had meant to be calm,
- to tell him plainly the facts of the case and to say that it would be
- better that they should live apart. But an irrepressible shudder had come
- over her, and then the brutal cynicism of his confession had caused her
- the loss of her self-control. As she saw the blazing eyes and white
- glittering teeth in front of her and felt the grip on her shoulder, she
- regretted that she had been, in a way, to blame; but she was no coward,
- and the threat awakened the fierce old Puritan courage in her nature. She
- did not flinch, but looked him directly in the face.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Your striking me would only add to your other brutalities.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Damn you!” he cried in blind fury; and swinging her round, he struck her
- with the riding whip with all his huge strength, cutting the back of the
- thin morning gown, that flew open at the gap, showing her bare shoulders.
- Then he hurled her from him and rushed out of the room.
- </p>
- <p>
- With an almost superhuman effort of will Clytie sprang to her feet, stood
- for a moment dazed, stunned, on fire with agony, then staggered forward
- and threw herself upon the bearskin rug, with the illustrated History of
- England, open as Jack had left it, beneath her face.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER XXV.
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">S</span>uddenly Clytie
- rose to her feet and left the studio. As she moved a strange weight seemed
- to lie upon her limbs. It was a physical effort to drag herself up the
- stairs to her bedroom. Her heart seemed to be burned through, a fiery
- sword to have been thrust through her temples. It was the supreme moment
- of the horror and abasement of her married life. One intense thought
- possessed her; to fly from the house, to escape from the area of
- Thornton's influence, to bury herself somewhere far away. Mechanically she
- changed her things, choosing one of the simple morning dresses she had
- retained since the days before her marriage, and bathed her feverish face
- and hands. The cold water refreshed her, restored adjustment to her
- quivering nerves, and she was able to think, form a coherent plan.
- </p>
- <p>
- She would go forthwith to her old rooms in the King's Road, which she knew
- to be vacant. There she would live again as Clytie Davenant, and shut out
- of her memory the nightmare of the past months. The plan conceived, she
- hurried to put it into execution. She would have liked to open the street
- door there and then, to cross its threshold for the last time. But the
- practical side of life asserts itself in the midst of the intensest
- emotions. She would have to pack her boxes, select what things she would
- take with her. The aid, too, of the servants would be necessary. After a
- swift look at the glass she composed her features, summoned her maid, gave
- her orders in a calm, equable voice, as if she were going on an ordinary
- visit in the country.
- </p>
- <p>
- While the servants packed the articles she designated, she went down to
- the studio in order to collect a few of the portable objects that were
- dear to her: Rupert Kent's etching, the Jacquemart that Kent had given
- her, a book or two, a favourite box of oil-tubes. All the rest she would
- leave behind, together with everything that Thornton had ever given her.
- The maid, an excellently trained servant, packed quickly, but to Clytie
- she seemed unutterably slow. It was an effort of control to refrain from
- urging the girl on, from snatching the articles from her hands and stowing
- them away anyhow, haphazard. Every moment that she lingered seemed an
- eternity of degradation. In after days she wondered that she had never
- reflected how far Thornton's possible presence in the house might have
- affected the ease of her escape. As it happened, he had flung out of doors
- as soon as he had left her stricken upon the floor; but she, in the fixity
- of her idea, never concerned herself as to his whereabouts.
- </p>
- <p>
- At last, when the boxes were packed and locked, the maid, dangling the
- keys in her hand, asked Clytie when she should order the brougham.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I shall go in a four-wheeled cab with the luggage,” said Clytie.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Go and order one round at once.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The maid retired wonderingly, and Clytie was left alone. She put on her
- bonnet and sat down on the edge of the bed to draw on her gloves. Then for
- the first time her eye fell consciously upon her wedding-ring, and
- thereupon came over her the sense of all that her present action implied:
- the final renunciation of the marriage-tie, the assertion of her own
- individuality, the beginning of another life. And yet, in spite of her
- repudiation, the tie remained, indissoluble except by death, and this
- little circlet of gold was the symbol. With a twinge of pain she wrenched
- it off, for it was tightly fitting, and went and threw it in a jewel box
- containing the jewellery that Thornton had given her. At any rate, she
- could spare herself the hourly misery of this visible bond. It was a poor
- kind of relief to leave it there with the other tokens of her wifehood.
- </p>
- <p>
- Then, as she waited, her crushed pride rose a few degrees. Whatever
- subsequent steps Thornton might take, her departure should at least not
- have the indignity of flight. A scribbled line would save her
- self-respect. When the servants came into the room to take down the boxes
- to the cab she had written the note.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am leaving your house. I go back to my old rooms in the King's Road,
- where I shall resume the life I led before I knew you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Then only did it occur to her to inquire of the footman whether Mr.
- Hammerdyke was in. The man, who was accustomed to the separation between
- the lives of his master and mistress, replied, without manifesting any
- surprise at the question, that Mr. Hammerdyke had gone out just before
- lunch.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Put this note in his room for him,” said Clytie. “I shall be away some
- time.”
- </p>
- <p>
- In a few moments she had started. With a little convulsive moan, wrung
- involuntarily from her lips by her agony of body and soul, she leaned her
- head against the rusty cushions of the ramshackle vehicle and closed her
- eyes. The day was still glorious, London bathed in sunlight, the streets
- filled with life and motion. For all the world but her the promise of the
- morning was kept. As the cab slackened its pace on crossing the Fulham
- Road she opened her eyes for a moment, and looked vacantly, as if in a
- dream, out of the window. Then she relapsed into her darkness.
- </p>
- <p>
- “And I was so happy this morning,” she murmured to herself. “I could have
- lived the better life—with Kent's help!”
- </p>
- <p>
- Kent! She started, as a wave of blood rushed to her cheeks. She was going
- to Kent now, to live under the same roof with him once more, to see him
- daily, to take him more intimately than ever into her life. Until now she
- had not realised this coherently. Vague thoughts of him had passed through
- her mind, but she had been too dazed, too sickened, too much possessed by
- the overpowering longing for freedom, escape from the house of bondage, to
- connect him definitely with her immediate future. And in the unconscious
- sequence of ideas a little self-reproach came into her mind, bringing with
- it a sense of soothing. Why had she not thought of Kent at first, of the
- true, loyal friend and lover, on whom she could rely for strength and
- comfort? How could she have been so much wrapped up in herself and her
- wrongs as never to have given him a place in her plans? And then the tide
- of feeling ebbed back again, leaving her heart quite cold and sad. How
- could she meet him? How could she tell him? The eternal woman in her
- shrank from the confession. If he had been to her but a friend, it had
- been easy. But she loved him. Had not her heart sung within her that very
- morning, only a few hours before, at the grace and tenderness of her at
- last awakened love? And she fought, womanlike, against she scarce knew
- what, striving to disentwine herself like Laocoon from the coils that love
- and circumstance had wound, in subtle intricacy of convolution, about her
- heart. But for all her shrinking she longed for Kent. If only he could
- understand it all without her telling! If only he could come that evening
- and sit by her side and hold her hand in strong, mute sympathy! Well, she
- would conquer her woman's diffidence, and tell him bravely. She felt she
- owed him a little reparation. The inherent delight in putting itself in
- the wrong is perhaps one of the most elusive traits of a woman's nature.
- </p>
- <p>
- The cab stopped before the familiar side door. Mrs. Gurkins, standing
- beneath the awning of the shop between the stalls of cabbage and fruit,
- gave a gasp of bewilderment as she saw Clytie alight from the
- luggage-laden vehicle. She ran round through the connecting passage and
- opened the front door.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You are not coming to stay here, miss?” she asked.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was only in moments of calm reflection that she could bring herself to
- address Clytie more decorously as “ma'am.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, I am,” replied Clytie in her decisive way. “Can I have my old
- rooms?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Of course, miss—but——”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, have my boxes taken up and get things straight for me, Mrs.
- Gurkins. You know what an erratic creature I am, don't you? I think I am
- going to stay a very long time. I'll go and see Miss Marchpane while you
- do all that is necessary. You'll forgive me for putting you to all this
- trouble?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “La, miss—ma'am, I'm that glad to have you back! But Miss Marchpane
- left early to-day—about an hour ago. You can go up to the
- sitting-room. I was cleaning it out only yesterday.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Clytie went upstairs to the familiar room, and took off her bonnet and
- gloves. In a few moments the boxes were brought up. When she had unpacked
- these and arranged their contents, and eaten as much as she could of the
- meal that Mrs. Gurkins prepared for her, the glorious afternoon had melted
- into night. She sat by the open window and looked out upon the hurrying
- street below. It was a Saturday evening. The whole population of the
- district was astir buying their Sunday provisions or their Sunday
- headaches. Bands of the youth of both sexes clattered noisily past,
- singing hoarsely or darting from pavement to roadway in loud, dissonant
- gaiety. Along the kerb stretched the line of costers' barrows with flaming
- naphtha torches, and the faces of the sellers and buyers stood out clear
- in the glare. A babel of sounds arose: the confused murmur of private
- conversations pitched in the discordant key of the unrefined, the raucous
- cries of the costers offering their wares, the shrill “Buy! buy!” of the
- butcher a few yards away and the rapid click of his steel, the doleful
- nasal dirge of a tramp woman holding a vague bundle looking like a baby in
- her arms, the continuous scraping of feet, the roar of the 'buses and
- carts in the roadway.
- </p>
- <p>
- Clytie had often before sat on Saturday evenings at her window, lost in
- the wonder of speculation upon the individualities of the units that
- composed this hurrying, bawling, laughing, cursing crowd. And now she felt
- the old fascination creep over her. The noise and movement acted as a
- counter-stimulus to the fierce whirl of emotions through which she had
- passed during the day. She lost for the time the sense of loneliness,
- soul-sickness, and bodily prostration in this external world of tumult.
- What did it all mean, this hurry and strain? Looked at as a whole, it
- seemed to indicate that life was intense, earnest, throbbing with infinite
- variety of passions, an end in itself, to be carried on, because it was
- life, to all eternity. It seemed real, practical, objective, obeying
- inscrutable, immutable laws. The planets circle round the sun; our solar
- system circles round another focal sphere. It is great, it is glorious,
- serving some great and glorious end; yet what that end is no man knoweth.
- And so with the collective life that surged beneath Clytie's window,
- yielding blindly to the unchanging laws that direct the cosmos. If this
- movement was meaningless and vain, then did the stars wander futilely in
- their courses. Sin and shame and misery, love and laughter and happiness,
- what did they matter in the progress of collective life? They are internal
- forces affecting its resistless march as little as the incessant motion of
- men affects the rotation of the earth.
- </p>
- <p>
- But the individuals, when detached from the conglomerate mass of humanity—what
- was this life to them? How far was it a gracious thing to yonder bawling
- cheap-jack, with his red, sodden face? And the factory girl, with her
- feathered hat and deep fringe overshadowing pinched, soulless features,
- looking hungrily at his Brummagem wares; the fat, unintelligent workman's
- wife gossiping loudly of sickness, death, and funerals; the besotted navvy
- stumbling along in the grip of a soberer friend—how far were they
- intellectually, spiritually, cognisant of life? Again as of old these
- questions presented themselves to Clytie. During these latter months she
- had been too closely confronted with the problems of her own personality
- to interest herself in that of others. But now a newly awakened
- self-knowledge had given her a key to mysteries to the elucidation of
- which she had once devoted all her artistic powers. She had arrived at the
- truth of the relativity of individual life. There was no such thing as
- absolute fulness of existence. Everyone—coster, factory girl,
- statesman, poet—was striving, each in his way, after a completer
- life, but the ideal of completeness was limited by each individual's
- capacity for action, sensation, and thought. Hence yonder factory girl's
- life might be relatively as full as her own, the hunger for the unknown
- that would complete it as loudly clamourous. Clytie was glad for the
- moment, almost happy. New artistic stirrings seemed to be at work within
- her soul. Heretofore she had sought a solution for the problems of life
- through her art. Might not this newer knowledge and more extensive
- sympathy enable her to present finely perceived truths, thus making her
- art less self-centred, more universal?
- </p>
- <p>
- This train of thought was working through her mind as she sat by the
- window, resting her cheek on her arm.
- </p>
- <p>
- Gradually, however, the thoughts confused themselves into a medley of dim
- associations, which in their turn became lost in drowsiness. Worn out by
- the physical strain of the day, she fell asleep in the midst of the uproar
- that arose from the hurrying street.
- </p>
- <p>
- Suddenly she became conscious of a presence beside her in the room, and,
- starting up, beheld Kent looking down upon her.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You'll get cold or a stiff neck or something sleeping by the open window
- like that,” he said in his kindly way. “And yet I did not like to wake
- you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I do feel a little cramped,” said Clytie, rising. “But the night is hot.
- Bring another chair and sit down. I shall not go to sleep again.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Kent did as she bade him, and they sat on either side of the window,
- Clytie with face half averted looking into the street, Kent leaning
- forward, gazing at her with troubled eyes. For some moments neither spoke.
- At last Kent broke the silence.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Clytie!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Was I wrong to come in? Do you want to be alone? Tell me frankly and I
- will go.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No; stay,” replied Clytie slowly, without turning her head. “I wanted you
- to come. I don't know why. How did you find out I was here?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Mrs. Gurkins caught me in the passage. She said you were staying some
- time. I knocked at your door, but you did not answer, so I looked in, saw
- you asleep there. I could not resist the temptation of coming nearer so as
- to see your face. You look so done up, you must go to bed early and have a
- good night's rest.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ah, Kent! How like you!” said Clytie, looking quickly round at him.
- Womanlike, she was pleased that he had not expressed wonderment at her
- presence in the house, and beset her with abrupt questions, but tried
- instead with delicate sympathy to put her at her ease.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Can you guess why I am here, Kent?” she asked in a low voice.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I dare not try,” he replied.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I have finally parted from my husband.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Good God! Clytie, what do you mean?” he cried, with a leap at his heart,
- followed by a feeling of great pity for the woman he loved, an aching
- sense of the irony of things. “It has been a misunderstanding. It will all
- be cleared up in time,” he continued unsteadily.
- </p>
- <p>
- Clytie shook her head.
- </p>
- <p>
- “No; thank God, this is the end. See my hand: that which was there I drew
- off to-day for the first time. It shall never be there again.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Clytie, my dear friend Clytie!” said Kent, very much moved. “What can I
- say to you? My heart aches for all that you must have suffered. You told
- me yesterday your life was not what I thought it to be, for I fancied you
- happy, with all around you to make the world bright and glorious. I do not
- know what to think now. Is there no hope for your happiness?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, no, Kent, not that way. Let me tell you at once what I can. Don't
- judge me severely. I did what lay in my nature to do. I bore things that
- nearly drove me mad, although perhaps many other women would not have
- looked on them as burdens. But my marriage was a mistake—for both of
- us. And then—oh, how can I tell you? Something happened to-day, the
- climax, rendering further life there impossible. Oh, I can't speak or even
- think of it!”
- </p>
- <p>
- Her voice ended in a moan and a shivering catch of her breath, and she
- covered her face with her hands. Kent leaped to his feet quivering with a
- sudden intuition.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Clytie, you have been wronged far more than by mere misunderstanding. Did
- he dare——”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes—yes. Don't think of it. It's all over.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But I must think of it. It is like a red-hot iron in my heart. I can't
- bear it. All last night I lay awake thinking of your unhappiness, tortured
- by regrets, hating the man who made your life a weariness to you. I never
- thought of this. The coward! The brute! Oh, my God!”
- </p>
- <p>
- And as he strode up and down the room, with set lips and clenched hands,
- Clytie looked at him half-wonderingly. She had never seen her calm, strong
- Kent so moved by passion. She went up to him, with natural impulse, and
- put her hand on his shoulder and looked into his face.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You need never speak or think of this again, Kent. It is all over,
- buried. For nearly a year we have lived almost as separated as we shall do
- henceforward. I have come to be Clytie Davenant once again, to lead the
- old life of work and happiness with you and Winifred. I can blot out the
- past eighteen months like an evil dream in which I have suffered much and
- learned much. We can work together as we used to do, Kent, and you will
- find me, I hope, a better, gentler woman, dear. Now forget all about it,
- as I shall do. Remember what you said yesterday—that no life was so
- wrecked as to be incapable of reconstruction. You cannot tell what comfort
- you gave me. And I cannot tell you what happiness I passed through this
- morning—before—ah, well——Oh, Kent, my true, loyal
- Kent! I am a very weak woman, and I want your goodness and help and
- tenderness. You can do nothing to help or avenge what has passed. You can
- do all for me in the future if you will.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “What I can do is small enough, God knows!” replied Kent.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Do you know what you can do for me?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Tell me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Let me forget myself and my selfish wants in trying to bring some help
- and gladness into your life. I wronged you deeply once—I wronged
- myself; let me make reparation.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Kent turned aside and passed his hand across his forehead.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You must not think of me,” he said in a low voice. “I am rough and
- strong, with no particular burdens to bear. Some day or the other, when
- you are happy, I will come to you with my little griefs for the sake of
- having them charmed away by your sympathy; but until then let me think of
- you—help you if I can. If I can't, Heaven knows it will not be for
- want of longing to do so.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Kent,” said Clytie very softly, unconsciously moving nearer to him, “I am
- happy now. Can't you see that I am?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Kent's heart beat like a sledge hammer; a wave of passionate love swept
- through his veins, thrilling him to the finger tips. He was conscious that
- if he turned his face the hair on her forehead would brush his cheek.
- Never before had a woman spoken to him in that strange tone. The world
- stood still for a moment. Then in a blinding daze of light, in which all
- things in heaven and earth were drowned, he turned, caught her to him, and
- kissed her.
- </p>
- <p>
- Slowly Clytie freed herself, held out a restraining hand, and, with steps
- strangely faltering, moved across the room to the couch, where she sat
- down and hid her face in the cushions. Kent paused for a moment, steadying
- his senses still reeling from the shock of the first kiss of love he had
- ever given to woman. Then he went and stood by her side.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Forgive me, Clytie. It was base of me. But it was something beyond my
- will that acted. You forget that I love you. I have wronged you, my queen,
- my life! If you can ever trust me again, I will devote myself to making
- you forget that I have dared to love you. I ask your pardon, Clytie.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He stayed for a moment looking at her bowed figure. Then, as she gave no
- sign that she was moved by his appeal, he left her, and with a strange
- mingling of death and gladness in his heart walked lingeringly to the
- door. But just as his hand was on the knob Clytie rose impulsively from
- the couch, and with hair ruffled and her cheeks glowing came up to him,
- and it was she who opened the door.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You are pardoned, dear, for I love you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- A moment later she was alone. And she resumed her position by the open
- window, and looked out upon the busy scene. But she heeded it not. Her
- sight was directed to the mysteries of an invisible world.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0025" id="link2HCH0025"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER XXVI.
- </h2>
- <p>
- Clytie's last words rang in Kent's ears all night. She loved him. She had
- surrendered herself to his kiss, she had told him her heart in plain,
- unequivocal language. In the first blaze of this happiness he did not
- perceive the gloomy background of their love. All that he could feel was
- that Clytie had left the life to which he had been a stranger, that she
- had come back to live in his daily company in the old helpful way, that,
- furthermore, her simple friendship had changed into something unutterably
- sweeter. He looked into the future and found it glowing with many rose
- tints of beauty. He saw Clytie and himself carrying out to its fullest his
- brave gospel of work—to its fullest because of their belief and
- trust in one another. He saw Clytie painting noble pictures, drawing
- strength and confidence from his sympathy—himself stimulated to
- great achievement, the prose of life transmuted into sonorous epic,
- lyrical gladness, elegiac grace. The fever in his blood kept him awake as
- image after image passed before his fancy. But whether the vision was of
- Clytie walking by his side through the gaslit streets, or of Clytie's
- glorious head strained back to view the effect of brush strokes he had
- suggested, or of Clytie sitting by the table as he worked, the lamp
- between them, it ended always with the warm touch of Clytie's lips beneath
- his, and the low, clear voice, “I love you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- This exaltation is common to most men when a strong love comes to them.
- But to Kent it was all the intenser through the peculiarities of his
- nature. He had lived without the sphere of women. The passionateness of
- his temperament had thrown itself utterly into another channel. His work
- had been his love, his wife, the centre of all his energies, all his
- hopes. The craving for the unknown complement of existence had found
- satisfaction in the added line upon line, the growing bulk of manuscript,
- the builder's thrill when the creation of his own brain is materialising
- itself course by course into a majestic edifice. Besides, action, whether
- it was spending hours in a musty library in the exciting search after a
- reference, or tramping for miles in the keen mountain air of Norway,
- always fascinated him and compelled the entire energy of his being. He
- beheld the earth after his wholesome fashion and saw that it was good. To
- him life was complete. Things, therefore, not contained within his sphere
- he looked upon as superfluities. Woman was a superfluity; the impulses of
- sex repugnant. The very intensity of his nature made him shrink all the
- more strenuously from the sexual principle upon which love is built. When,
- however, love came to him, in spite of himself, he was dazed with it,
- terrified. On that January morning when he buried his face in the faint
- perfume of Clytie's handkerchief he felt himself overcome with a kind of
- horror. The fierce consciousness that he would give his soul to hold her
- in his arms and kiss her hair and eyes and lips was to him a torture of
- debasement. This morbidness was due only to the violence of the reaction.
- It lasted but a short while, and toned down into a feeling of disloyalty
- to Clytie's friendship in daring to love her. But time at last adjusted
- his moral balance, when it was too late, and Clytie was lost to him. And
- then his love was purified into a deep, passionate devotion that was its
- own joy and recompense. If circumstances had remained unchanged, Kent
- would have carried this deeper than romantic love with him to the grave.
- It had grown into his inmost heart, informing that subconsciousness that
- makes a man's individual life. Even during the last few months, when they
- were meeting in frank, friendly fashion, his love had altered very little
- in kind. He believed her to be a happy wife, loving her husband, with whom
- in a moment of bitterness he had once silently measured himself. The
- precious boon of her friendship was regained, nothing more, and it was
- given to him, under no false pretences on his part, but all the more
- tenderly because she knew of his devotion. Secure in the impression of her
- happiness, he would never have wavered in word or thought from his
- straightforward, simple loyalty, and his days would have passed in quiet
- contentment, saddened a little, perhaps, by regrets for what might have
- been, but never tormented by longings for the impossible.
- </p>
- <p>
- But conditions were no longer the same. Clytie had renounced her married
- life. Except as a memory of bitterness it had no place in her thoughts.
- Except by a legal fiction she was her own mistress once more, free to go
- and come, think and act. Even in name she would be Clytie Davenant again,
- and she had spoken to him in that strange tone he had never heard before,
- and had come nearer to him as her touch lay upon his arm. The whole pent
- up passion of Kent's life had gone forth into that kiss. For Kent the
- world was changed, and the night a dream of unutterable things. But by the
- morning it had brought counsel. This love, acknowledged on both sides—whither
- would it tend? A great problem. So great a one, indeed, that Kent was
- tempted to shirk grappling with it. Courage and a stout heart, he said to
- himself, and all would be well. But one cannot rid one's self in this easy
- way of responsibilities. If you shake them from your shoulders, they
- shackle themselves about your feet. Kent felt thus fettered as he lay
- awake. Moreover, his early misgivings concerning Hammerdyke came, like the
- curses in the proverb, home to roost. If he had spoken to Clytie then,
- before her marriage, possibly she might have been spared all this
- suffering. He wished that he had obtained from Wither all the particulars
- of the ugly rumours that had been afloat, investigated them, confronted
- Clytie bravely with the truth, and so saved her from wrecking her life.
- And yet he felt that he could not have done so. Well, what was past was
- past. The present and the future contained enough matter to engage his
- attention. He lay for some time in bed trying to solve these perplexities.
- At last, at half-past nine, he rose, dressed, and went into his
- sitting-room to prepare his breakfast. This was a simple process. On a
- couple of gas-stoves, connected by india-rubber piping with the two
- gas-jets in his room, he placed a kettle and a saucepan, the latter
- containing eggs. Then he spread a little cloth on a clear space of his
- dresser-table, and brought out his crockery and other breakfast requisites
- from one of the under-cupboards. A ham somewhat cut into, butter, and
- marmalade he procured from a safe in a third little room on the landing
- which he used as a combined larder and lumber-room. For years Kent had
- enjoyed the simple Bohemianism of this Sunday morning meal. He could
- linger over it easefully without the weekday glance at his watch, when
- time was short. There was the Sunday paper, a weekly review or two, the
- long, undisturbed after-breakfast pipe. It was a time when he could
- release himself with free conscience from his busy life and enjoy his
- leisure. But this morning the eggs seemed stale, the ham tasteless, the
- journals dull, and he found himself looking at his watch. He would go down
- and see Clytie at eleven, an hour which he had himself arbitrarily fixed
- upon, and he was counting the minutes. It is surprising how long minutes
- are when you count sixty of them.
- </p>
- <p>
- At last eleven o'clock came and Kent descended the stairs. But Clytie was
- out. Mrs. Gurkins, who answered his ring on Clytie's bell, informed him
- that Miss Davenant would not be in for lunch. Perhaps she would be back
- during the afternoon. So Kent went upstairs again, disappointed, and,
- after vainly trying to occupy himself, seized his hat and went out for a
- long tramp through Putney and Wimbledon. His heart was full of strange
- emotions that beset him for many hours, making them seem hopelessly long.
- Of the two Clytie passed by far the happier day.
- </p>
- <p>
- In the afternoon, on his return, he heard voices in the studio. He knocked
- and entered. Clytie was there with Winifred.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Can I come in?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Of course,” said Clytie. “Why do you ask? We have been expecting you ever
- so long. In fact we have kept tea waiting for you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He put down his hat and stick, nodded as usual to Winifred, and advanced,
- through force of later habit, with outstretched hand, to Clytie. She laid
- her fingers in his slowly, looked up at him from her chair by the stove,
- and laughed.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You forget I am no longer a visitor, Kent,” she said rebukingly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Only this once, then,” he answered, “to welcome you back among us.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Where have you learned to make pretty speeches?” asked Clytie.
- </p>
- <p>
- She was pleased with the words and gave his hand a sudden pressure.
- </p>
- <p>
- Kent brought a chair up to where Clytie and Winifred were sitting, tried
- to talk lightly, and failed. A silence came over the little party. Tea
- caused a distraction, and they fell to discussing indifferent subjects,
- odds and ends of gossip, but in a desultory fashion that each found
- strange. At last Clytie rose, cut the Gordian knot in her impulsive way.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am going to do one or two things in the sitting-room,” she said. “You
- two have a talk until I come back.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Kent opened the door for her. On the threshold she turned and whispered to
- him: “Talk to Winifred a little. You will do each other good.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He closed the door after her and went back to Winifred.
- </p>
- <p>
- “So we have her with us again.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes,” she replied gently, “and I don't know whether to feel sorry or
- glad.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Did you know—had you any idea that she was unhappy? I never knew
- till yesterday—or the day before.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I think I knew—before—perhaps because I am a woman. It made
- my heart ache.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But she is not unhappy now,” said Kent. “Therefore you ought to be glad.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Winifred glanced at him swiftly. In spite of the brown softness of her
- eyes they were woman's eyes, capable of quick, subtle perceptions.
- </p>
- <p>
- “But will she be happy, Kent?” she asked, bending down over her
- needlework. As she had not been able to paint, she had taken in hand, by
- way of feminine comfort, some sewing for Clytie.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What do you mean?” he asked, with a man's preference to answer a concrete
- question rather than a delicately hinted suggestion.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Will not this tie that cannot be loosed hamper her all through her life?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “God knows!” he said gloomily. And then, brightening, he added: “But we
- have her with us for always, Winifred, and we who love her can try to make
- her forget it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ah, can we, my dear Kent?” she said, putting her work and both hands in
- her lap and looking at him. “You love her, but you can't love her as I do.
- Oh, no, no,” she added as he smiled and shook his head. “You may think you
- do, but it is not possible. You have found faults in Clytie and scolded
- her—oh, very kindly and sympathetically, I know, but still in your
- eyes Clytie can do wrong. In mine she can't—and there is the
- difference. Clytie is not like other girls. She is like no one in the
- world. Everything must give way to her. If Clytie were to do something you
- would think <i>dreadful</i>—commit a murder—I feel that she
- would be justified in doing it, and I should love her all the more
- tenderly and dearly.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “God bless your loving little heart!” cried Kent. “Love like yours could
- make the most miserable creature on earth happy.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ah, no, Kent. What could I do for her? Listen: I was a poor, friendless,
- ignorant, uninteresting little girl when I first met Clytie. And she was
- kind to me. She seemed so brave and strong and clever and beautiful, I
- quite shrank from her. I felt so small and humble beside her. And she
- singled me out from among all the rest of the girls at the Slade School,
- and made me her friend. I never could tell what she found in me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “She can tell, and I can, too,” exclaimed Kent with abrupt enthusiasm—“the
- purest, tenderest flower of a soul that ever breathed!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, Kent!” said Winifred as the colour rose to her dark cheeks. “You must
- not say things like that. Clytie has done everything for me, everything—and
- I——”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You have helped Clytie as no one else could have done,” said Kent, “and
- you are doing it now.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Am I?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes; don't you see how bright and happy you have made her?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “She is brighter than I should have thought,” said Winifred musingly. “But
- will it last?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “We must try to make it lasting, you and I,” said Kent softly.
- </p>
- <p>
- He pondered for a moment over the love in each of their hearts, the girl's
- and the man's. How exquisitely pure and selfless hers seemed to be! He
- could not realise it in all its beauty, but his perceptions had been
- refined enough for him to be profoundly touched.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You have taught me something, Winifred,” he said after a pause, during
- which she had quietly resumed her sewing. “I am happier than I have been
- all day.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Clytie returned soon afterwards. She looked curiously at the faces of her
- two friends, and then, divining, perhaps, something of what had passed
- between them, went up to Winifred and kissed her. After this they talked
- more freely—of old habits, plans for the future. The latter were
- vague, for Winifred's marriage with Treherne was fixed for the early part
- of the next year, and the studio without Winifred was unrealisable. Still
- the plans were food for much intimate gossip, which some may liken to the
- very salt of life.
- </p>
- <p>
- When Winifred had gone, Kent went with Clytie into the sitting-room,
- where, furnished with hammer and nails, he hung the few pictures that
- Clytie had brought with her, together with some that had been lying about
- the studio. It was a delight to him to perform this little service for
- her, and she too felt the woman's happiness of being surrendered to a
- man's helpfulness. He fetched from his own rooms a bookstand, which he
- secured against the wall, a few curios, and an armful of the dainty
- cushions, chair backs, and curtain sashes with which his sister Agatha in
- misguided zeal had years ago supplied his drawers and cupboards.
- </p>
- <p>
- “They are not as artistic as your odds and ends, you know,” he said by way
- of apology. “But until you can get some together they will be more
- cheerful to look at than Mrs. Gurkins's efforts.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He had just completed his scheme of decoration when Mrs. Gurkins came up
- to lay the cloth for Clytie's dinner. Clytie detained him as he was about
- to go.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Won't you stay and dine with me?” she said half timidly.
- </p>
- <p>
- She felt that she could not dismiss him. To do so on conventional grounds
- would be the silliest prudery. Besides, a sense of helplessness had come
- over her, and she wanted him by her side, longed for him to think and act
- for her. The touch of any incident bordering ever so slightly on the
- dramatic would at that moment have sufficed to free the spring of feminine
- reserve and loosen passionate expression of her longing for his presence.
- But the simple commonplace of the situation saved her. Kent's eyes
- brightened at the invitation.
- </p>
- <p>
- “And we can have a long evening afterwards?” he asked half pleadingly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Of course,” said Clytie, with an inward smile.
- </p>
- <p>
- On Monday morning Kent, as he was starting for the Museum, put his head in
- at Clytie's sitting-room door. She was at breakfast, having risen rather
- later than usual. By her side was an open letter. As Kent entered she
- pushed back her chair and looked up at him, a gleam of gladness eclipsing
- in her eyes a late expression of pain. Kent noticed the sudden change.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You have been sad, Clytie,” he said in his rough tenderness. “That is not
- right. Did you not promise me last evening that you would be happy, very
- happy?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “So I shall be,” she answered, taking his hand in hers and turning away
- her head. “Only there are things that cut one to the heart. You are a man;
- you can't understand a woman—no man can, no matter how he loves her.
- Look, read that—the end of the sordid story of my latter life. Oh,
- Kent, I am not worth your love! This thing has degraded me enough, and
- this last insult——Oh, read it and see. It would be better that
- you should know of how little account I really am.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Kent took the letter which she thrust into his hand, and, without having
- read it, tore it into tiny pieces which he scattered through the open
- window to the four winds. Then he came and put one arm around her.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Because one man insults you, dear, it is all the more reason that I
- should love and shield you. That part of your life is dead now. You said
- yourself this letter was the end. Let it be so, Clytie.”
- </p>
- <p>
- His delicacy and tenderness moved her very deeply. Womanlike, she had
- wanted him to read the paper, and yet loved him all the more for not
- having done so. The letter was her own note to Thornton, which he had
- returned with “You can go to the devil!” scrawled across it. The sheer
- brutality had made her lose, as it were, her self-respect, had presented
- her to her own eyes as a thing of naught, unworthy of the reverential love
- that Kent brought her. How could she honestly be to him the brightest and
- noblest of women with that scrawled thing dragging her down? Accordingly
- his actions and words gladdened her. She looked up at him, and he read as
- in some magical book the spell of tenderness that swam in her eyes. Then
- he threw himself on his knees before her and buried his face in her lap.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, my love, my love!”
- </p>
- <p>
- And, stirred to her depths with a passionate thrill that was like a great
- pain, she threw her arms round his neck and kissed him.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0026" id="link2HCH0026"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER XXVII.
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>wo years passed,
- outwardly uneventful, yet momentous in the development of inner life. Her
- marriage sometimes appeared to Clytie as a far-away episode, a kind of
- dream state in which she had been invested with a strange, unrealisable
- personality. Yet influences had remained, impulses had been awakened, that
- could not again lie dormant; knowledge had come to her that could not
- lapse into oblivion, leaving no trace behind. In her daily intercourse
- with Kent her nature expanded. It lost imperceptibly that vein of hardness
- which her struggle for self-development had fostered, and the disillusions
- and repugnances of her marriage had gradually been strengthening. Except
- in a brief interval of intoxication she had never known the woman's
- sweetness of surrender. The great triumph of surrender had never even then
- been hers. And this was gradually making itself felt in her heart during
- the two years that passed from the time of leaving her husband's roof.
- </p>
- <p>
- They contained hours of sweet bitterness, it is true. Although Thornton
- had gone out of her life like an evil phantom, yet the legal tie between
- them remained unbroken. Mrs. Farquharson, who seldom did things by halves,
- after seeing her idol broken trampled it underfoot into a thousand pieces,
- and vehemently tried to persuade Clytie to seek after a divorce. She even
- insisted upon her taking counsel's opinion on the matter. But there was no
- definite evidence obtainable to support an action at law, and Clytie, sick
- at heart, was glad to dismiss the question from her mind forever. Yet in
- the eyes of the world she was Hammerdyke's wife, and so she would have to
- remain until death parted them. Perhaps when enlightenment sheds a fuller
- ray upon our civilisation we shall make radical changes in our marriage
- laws, for they are based upon the sad old fallacy that human conduct and
- human emotion are indifferently susceptible of regulation. As yet we can
- universalise only on material things: security of property, full stomachs,
- and warm backs for the poor. The facts of broken lives and torn hearts we
- can recognise only in particular instances, as they come within each man's
- individual sphere. The universality of spiritual, moral, and emotional
- suffering is as yet far from being a national conception. When this is
- attained we may hope for social conditions happier than those under which
- we struggle at present.
- </p>
- <p>
- Thornton had taken the most effectual steps to become an undisturbing
- element in Clytie's life. The constituency for which he had intrigued and
- striven to be nominated did not return him at the bye-election, which took
- place soon after Clytie's departure, but chose instead a radical lawyer
- with an insignificant presence and a shakiness as to aspirates. Thornton
- was disgusted and humiliated at his defeat. Politics lost their charm. An
- offer from the Belgian government to reform the administration in a wide
- tract of country whose borders were infested with Arabs came to him at
- this juncture, and found him in a mood for acceptance. He bade Mrs.
- Clavering a sardonic farewell and replunged into the wilds out of English
- ken.
- </p>
- <p>
- Winifred only remained in the King's Road for a few months. Early in the
- new year she married Treherne, and Clytie was left alone. The studio
- seemed very forlorn for some time afterwards, robbed, as it were, of an
- inherent tender grace, a softening, refining influence that had always
- been dear to Clytie, even in her days of greatest wilfulness. Yet it
- gladdened her to know that Winifred was happy—married to a man of
- fine fibre who could value the exquisite gift that the high gods had given
- him.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You are a lucky girl, dear,” she said to the young bride one day when
- visiting her in her new home.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Of course I am,” replied Winifred enthusiastically. “A man like Victor——”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, yes,” replied Clytie drily. “I know. He is all perfection. But the
- man doesn't live who is fit to black your boots, my child. I did not mean
- that; I meant that you were a lucky girl in having eluded your obvious
- destiny.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Winifred looked at her open-eyed.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I always used to think somewhat sadly about you,” Clytie went on. “I
- seemed to read in your face and eyes that you would marry a man quite
- unworthy of you, who would ill treat you, and that you would love him more
- as he became worse, that your life would be a dreadful, purposeless
- sacrifice. And now you see how you have escaped. Victor is just the
- husband I could have picked out for you. So you are a lucky girl.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I wish you were as happy as I am, darling,” said Winifred, looking at her
- somewhat wistfully through her own gladness.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Perhaps I am,” replied Clytie, with a flush. “Who knows? Utter completion
- of existence is not possible in this imperfect world of ours; and if my
- life has its gaps that ache a little, yet it has its fulness, believe me,
- dear. I am happier now than I have ever been. After all, the gaps matter
- very little.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Now you are getting somewhat beyond me,” said Winifred. “I can't quite
- follow you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ah, you needn't, Winnie dear,” replied Clytie. “Only go on loving and
- trusting me. Don't you see that I am happy because I too have a good man's
- love?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But if—if you had been—if things were different—you
- might have married,” said Winifred hesitatingly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “That does not make the love less beautiful and life-giving,” replied
- Clytie.
- </p>
- <p>
- This and other conversations of a like tenor succeeded finally in allaying
- Winifred's doubts as to Clytie's happiness. An uneasy burden was lifted
- off her mind, glad as her heart was in the new joy of her marriage.
- Henceforth she was content to take Clytie's assurances, and to trust in
- her own rooted idea that Clytie's deep, complex nature was beyond the
- reach of her simple comprehension, and ungovernable by the canons that
- regulated commoner clay. Strong in this faith, she triumphed in the first
- little conflict of opinion that arose between herself and her husband.
- Fine and generous as his views were, he had, nevertheless, a strict
- churchman's regard for the proprieties of life. The recognised intimacy
- between Clytie and Kent, harmless as it appeared before Clytie's marriage,
- had begun to cause him certain uneasiness. He was fond of them both,
- partly for their own sakes, partly on account of his wife. An unkind
- thought concerning them hurt his sensitive nature, and yet, as time went
- on, such thoughts began painfully to formulate themselves in his mind. At
- last his conscience forced him to broach the subject to Winifred. She
- listened with a little flush of spirit in her cheek, and then broke into
- such a warm torrent of words that Treherne was fairly amazed. He had never
- dreamed that his gentle, brown-eyed wife could be capable of such
- passionateness. Her logic of devotion overmastered his scruples, and he
- was almost converted to Winifred's unswerving faith. At any rate, from
- that time forth he was Clytie's firm friend and ally.
- </p>
- <p>
- During these two years Clytie was in some need of friends. The society in
- which she had moved during her married life was a world unknown to her
- now. Only the circle of her girlhood's acquaintances remained, and of
- these some manifested disapprobation at the mode of life she had adopted.
- Every staunch adherent was therefore of inestimable value, and half
- unconsciously she clung to every hand held out in friendship.
- </p>
- <p>
- The resumption of her life with Kent had produced also great tension in
- her relations with Durdleham. Finally it snapped them entirely.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don't for a moment suppose,” wrote Mrs. Blather in the last letter that
- passed between them, “that everything is not most innocent and honourable
- on both sides. But your conduct is grossly imprudent and must inevitably
- give rise to most painful scandal. It is your duty both to the name you
- bear (painful though the associations connected with it may be) and to
- that which you had from papa to put yourself beyond the reach of calumny
- by living no longer beneath the same roof as Mr. Kent. Until you do so
- papa and Janet and myself will consider that any regard you may have had
- either for ourselves personally or for our honour as a family has entirely
- gone, and, I grieve to say it, our doors, though not our hearts, will have
- to be closed against you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Clytie read her condemnation very sadly. She could not blame her sister.
- Mrs. Blather was acting conscientiously, according to the faith and
- tradition she had inherited from her Godfearing ancestors. Petty and
- futile as many of the formulas were by which she had been trained to
- regulate human conduct, yet there were great ones which could not do
- otherwise than command respect. “Thou shalt not sin,” is a formula the
- obeying or renouncing of which is often a secret for one or two human
- hearts alone. Its corollary, “Thou shalt not appear to be sinning,” is one
- which must be dealt with openly, under the world's eye. Mrs. Blather's
- judgment was based on this latter formula, her position unassailable. She
- had no Winifred to shake with the eloquence of love her faith in the
- formula's eternal verity. She was supported by the firm convictions of a
- lifetime, and by the unhesitating assent of her father and sister. The
- letter cut off all Clytie's hopes of ever being understood by her family.
- She herself knew their inmost hearts, was conversant with every principle
- by which they were guided, and she could bear them no ill will. But to
- them she knew she would be forever inscrutable, and she accepted their
- judgments with sad resignation.
- </p>
- <p>
- In point of common fact, she was called upon to make the old, old choice
- that has been offered to woman in all ages, between her family and the man
- she loved. Without a moment's hesitation she chose the man, and severed
- herself finally from her kin. Kent had become the object of her life. She
- had loved him—she knew that now—before her marriage. She had
- wronged him, as it seemed to her, by not having realised it, had received
- notwithstanding a tender, absolute devotion whose brave selflessness had
- been a revelation to her. No sacrifice that she could make for his
- happiness was too great for her. She loved him with the whole strength of
- her full nature. If any sacrifices on her part were not made, it was Kent
- that forbade them. The less he would accept the more did she find in her
- heart to offer. That she should remain in what they had begun to look upon
- as their common home seemed to be a vital necessity to his happiness. The
- mild, affectionate approval of Grace and Janet could not compensate the
- great loss that each would sustain in a rupture of their intercourse. Any
- appeal to her sister she knew would be useless. She was firm in the path
- in which she had elected to walk, and Mrs. Blather's letter remained
- unanswered.
- </p>
- <p>
- But Kent could not take this comprehensive view of humanity. That Clytie
- should be cast off by her family aroused his indignation.
- </p>
- <p>
- “They never loved you,” he said one day. “You were always a thorn in their
- flesh, and now they have seized an opportunity of plucking you out.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You are wrong, dear,” replied Clytie. “They loved me in their unemotional
- fashion, and if I were to die they would shed many tears and wear mourning
- for a whole year. But don't you see that I am of Samaria? I cannot pray in
- the temple of Jerusalem, and the houses of Israel are closed against me.
- It is of their religion to do so. They believe that the 'bread of the
- Samaritan is as the flesh of swine.' We cannot change their faith. We can
- only seek in Samaria for freer conditions of life, and the love of those
- who are Samaritans at heart.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “If I loved you less, I might take up as lofty a position as you,” said
- Kent. “But I cannot bear that even a Pharisee of the Pharisees should
- presume to judge you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “They have been judging me rightly or wrongly all my life,” said Clytie,
- with a smile. “It was my own challenge; I gave it vehemently and
- passionately as a girl when life lay before me like a closed book which
- they refused to open for me. Now that I have learned some of its secrets I
- give the challenge with a calm conviction that I am acting in accordance
- with laws higher than theirs. So do not fret about me, dear.” And then she
- added in a low voice:
- </p>
- <p>
- “You know I would give up all I could have in the world for you, if you
- would accept it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Then Kent put his arms around her and kissed her.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I accept far too much in my selfishness,” he said. “My old lonely life
- was happy, but it could not be so again. So in spite of all, Clytie, I
- say, Stay with me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I should stay whatever you said,” returned Clytie. “Don't fancy that all
- the giving is on my side.”
- </p>
- <p>
- One sad event marked the mid-time in these two years, robbing Clytie of an
- external interest that had grown to be very dear to her. The boy Jack
- died.
- </p>
- <p>
- The first meeting with him after the terrible scene in her husband's house
- was in the studio, whither he had betaken himself on one of his frequent
- visits to Winifred. A sensation of pain caught at Clytie's heart as she
- marked the lines of Thornton's features wrought in miniature on the boy's
- face. It only lasted a few moments, and then it melted away into a great
- pity. Jack was Jack, were Thornton twenty times his father. That he was so
- parented should make her pity for him all the greater. She never felt more
- drawn towards the boy than in that first interview. She told no one but
- Kent of the secret of his parentage, not even Winifred, to whom Jack, in
- spite of full intentions, never had an opportunity of showing the
- photograph. For Mrs. Bur-mester having discovered that Jack had
- temporarily abstracted it, had cuffed him soundly and secreted the coveted
- treasure in a secure hiding-place.
- </p>
- <p>
- Whatever hopes Clytie might have entertained as to Jack's future were cut
- short by the change in her circumstances. All she could do was to
- contribute towards his training in the sphere in which the high gods,
- assisted by Kent and Treherne had placed him. Besides, he had manifested
- no particular intellectual bent. His gifts were rather those of action;
- books wearied him, except such as dealt with wild exploit and adventure.
- And she shrank now from the idea of his entering the army—a feminine
- distaste, easily understandable. So she had perforce to concur in the
- scheme whereby he should remain another year at the school and then be
- apprenticed to a respectable trade. Kent comforted her with his
- assurances. If the boy had the fire of success in him, he would rise out
- of the common ranks. Life was all before him with its endless fortuities.
- With devoted friends watching and guiding him, it would be a poor world if
- he did not arrive at ultimate good. And Clytie in her turn comforted the
- boy, trying to soften and mould his nature with her womanly influence.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was his last term at the school. He had won for himself the golden
- opinions of the authorities. The semi-animal little arab of four years ago
- had developed into a bright, self-reliant lad of generous impulses,
- subject, it is true, to fits of ungovernable passion, but quick to
- forgive, repent, and do penance. Suddenly Clytie received a telegram that
- Jack was very ill. She left her work and started immediately for the
- school. There she found that diphtheria had broken out among the boys, and
- Jack's was the most critical case. Day and night she nursed him. But it
- was of no avail. The boy died, and Clytie returned to London with a
- cheerless sense of loss. Mrs. Burmester, who came to see her after the
- funeral, whimpered a little, and hoped that Clytie would recommend her to
- any of her friends who happened to be in need of a charwoman. And then
- Clytie looked at the mother, thought of the father. After all, if the laws
- of heredity had anything to do with the controlling of human destinies,
- were it not better for Jack to be dead? When the woman had gone she went
- and stood before the replica of her famous picture which she had painted
- for Kent, and shook her head sadly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What I have painted there,” she said to Kent, “the cruelty and animalism
- that seemed to have gone out of his face latterly, would always have
- remained. Human nature is a palimpsest, dear. What is written is written
- forever, though it seem obliterated, and may be called up to the surface
- at any moment. I call Jack happy, being dead.”
- </p>
- <p>
- With the exception of this episode the weeks and months passed in peaceful
- uneventfulness. Clytie worked assiduously at her art. At first the studio
- seemed lonely and dispiriting without Winifred. But other influences
- compensated her loss. As soon as it became known that she had resumed her
- profession, orders came in plentifully and kept her busy. And then perhaps
- Winifred's absence brought her nearer to Kent. If she worked hard all day
- and failed to reach her artistic ideal, it was deep comfort to know that
- Kent's whole-hearted encouragement would soon come and cheer her and save
- her from depression. They had learned to depend much upon each other in
- their work. In every mood they were constant companions, never weary of
- each other. Instead of walking home from the Museum, as he had done for
- years, Kent would hurry back by train from Charing Cross to Sloane Square,
- so as to shorten her loneliness by half an hour. A cup of tea, a talk over
- the day's work, perhaps a stroll along the Embankment, dinner, and then
- the long quiet evening as in the old days—such was the ordinary
- routine. Certain changes had naturally occurred in Kent's habits—changes
- for his distinct good, as Clytie used to declare laughingly. He rarely
- used the attic sitting-room. His scratch Bohemian meals were things of the
- past. What law of God or man forbade them to eat together? Clytie asked
- once in the early days when they were talking of household trifles. And
- then Kent bluntly insisted upon an arrangement whereby they divided
- equally the rent of the rooms they inhabited. It was not fair, he
- maintained, that he should give her sitting-room all that wear and tear
- without helping to pay for it. Clytie yielded, not unpleasurably, seeing
- that he was bent upon it, but she reserved the studio as her own especial
- sanctum.
- </p>
- <p>
- The charm of the life grew daily upon Kent, with its infinite grace of
- little things. He told her this often, with awkward sincerity, as a man
- can only tell the woman he loves deeply. And Clytie would laugh
- contentedly and say:
- </p>
- <p>
- “But you'll soon get tired of these organised meals and long for your
- freedom again. Don't you ever crave to be swallowing your coffee as you
- brush your hair in the mornings? And doesn't it chafe you all the
- afternoon at the Museum to think that there is a regular dinner awaiting
- you when you get back?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No; somehow I like it,” he would reply, laughing. “I believe I am
- developing into respectability.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Combining their resources they were able to entertain in a modest way
- those of their friends who perfectly understood their relations—the
- Farquharsons, the Trehernes, Wither. On these occasions Mrs. Gurkins's
- husband, a lean, self-effacive man, would wait at table in the severest of
- black and lend immense dignity to the meal. Wither was a constant visitor.
- The “monastery” was broken up; Fairfax had taken a practice in a large
- country town, Green had taken a wife. Wither complained bitterly, railing
- at them both for their disgusting selfishness. Clytie learned to love the
- bright-eyed, gnomelike little being, his cynical, paradoxical talk, his
- large-heartedness which he was ever anxious to conceal from the world.
- Often when life seemed to weigh a little heavy, the future to loom
- somewhat sad, and Kent and Clytie had been sitting alone, a spell of
- wistful silence over them, Wither would come in unexpectedly, and, with
- his subtle feminine perception piercing to the heart of their mood, would
- exert himself to extra brilliancy and dissipate their cloud in laughter. A
- man by no means requires delicate tact to win a woman's love, but no man
- who displays it towards a woman can fail of winning a little of the
- overflow of her heart. Clytie was grateful to Wither. Once, when bidding
- him good-night,—Kent had gone into the passage,—she added
- impulsively, “and thank you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He looked at her in his odd way, with a smile playing around his lips.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What for? For being miserable and lonely and making use of you to cure
- myself?”
- </p>
- <p>
- But they understood one another, and he was touched by Clytie's little
- tribute. And Clytie had spoken out of her heart.
- </p>
- <p>
- For, in spite of the helpfulness and comfort of their life together, there
- were gaps in its plenitude which, as she had said to Winifred, ached a
- little at times. Kent was tenderness, manly sympathy itself: he would have
- cut his tongue out rather than formulate a longing that could not be
- satisfied. But moments came when the irony of life seemed somewhat
- bitterly mocking, and caused a veil of sadness to be drawn between them.
- And like people who love deeply each was sensitive to the variations in
- the other's mood. Then Clytie would yearn for the impossible: to fix
- forever the light she loved to see in his eyes, to cling to his arm and be
- acknowledged his wife before all the world. Thus through the midst of
- their happy, earnest life ran a vein of sorrow.
- </p>
- <p>
- But the years that had passed, with their manifold emotions, experiences,
- and disillusions, with their awakenings of passion, with their plentiful
- gift of tears, with their later gift of an almost holy communion of souls,
- had completed the woman and the artist. One hunger remained to her—one
- that had had no place in her girlish cravings—a woman's hunger that
- is as a thing sacred, and wondrously softens her nature. An infinite
- compassion took within her the place of scorn. Her eyes had learned the
- trick of tenderness which illuminated her bright, fearless face. Her
- judgments became less harsh, gained in breadth what they lost in
- brilliance. She “saw life steadily and saw it whole.” Many of its
- mysteries had been revealed to her, and she had learned the road to the
- heart of others. The great lesson that Kent in the years before had
- suggested to her she grasped in its entirety, and it revolutionised her
- artistic career. No longer was her art a stepping-stone, a magic-lantern
- sheet on which to project life in order to realise its meaning. It was no
- longer the objective form of a vague craving, but the idealised record of
- an experience. When she painted the wistful, old-world look in a waif's
- eyes it was no longer with the impatient, fretful hope that its
- significance would be taught her from her own canvas; her awakened sight
- gazed with the sorrow of knowledge into the young soul, and she used her
- art to bear witness to the world of what was there. In a dim way she was
- conscious of this change of attitude—seeking within herself for the
- reason of the deeper, intenser, calmer feeling with which she approached
- her work. There came, too, a sense of responsibility, the necessity of
- perfecting whatever she painted in its presentation of truth. As her
- genius expanded the inner interpretation of the formula, “Art for art's
- sake,” dawned upon her in the realisation of the “sorrowful great gift”
- whereby the artist has the privilege of piercing through the media of
- sense and intellect and touching the naked soul of man.
- </p>
- <p>
- She went, as of old, into the streets for her models, choosing the side of
- life least understanded of Philistia, sublimating that which was
- spiritual, eternal in abject and outcast, beggar and courtesan. Strange
- were the walks of Kent and herself about the great city, by day and by
- night, and strange the spars and fragments of humanity they picked up in
- these rambles, who found their way afterwards to Clytie's studio. They
- went together to East End music halls, bank holiday gatherings, thieves'
- kitchens, night clubs in the West End, where ladies are admitted free on a
- member's introduction, Kent paying his subscription almost at the door. It
- was towards women that Clytie's sympathy flowed the strongest. Her first
- contact with one of <i>ces autres</i> in the hotel at Dinan had set a
- chord vibrating within her that now rang out full and true. She could
- paint these women, young, withered, children on the lurid threshold, old
- women with charred and blackened past. It is the moralist's part to
- condemn, evolve the moral; the artist on the higher plane disintegrates
- the spiritual from the animal and presents it in the form of Truth. From
- the comedy of misery, the tragedy of sex, the never ending drama of vice
- and crime, the one draws groans, the other tears. Each has his place in
- the cosmos. Thus Clytie, artist and woman, walked through the abomination
- of desolation and opened the eyes of the world to the glimmering spiritual
- rays that shot across it.
- </p>
- <p>
- Once more she took out the studies she had made for the “Faustina”
- picture. This time she could look on them without a shudder, only sadly.
- The picture would never be painted. She was no longer in feverish,
- passionate search after mysteries that had baffled her. The picture now
- had no artistic reason for existence. It would be a cruel, despairing
- work, a tragedy of cynicism. Knowledge of the world had given her
- knowledge of self; she knew now how blent were the foreshadowings of
- passion in her own soul with those that she had hungered to express on the
- young face of Faustina. In those days she could have found a model in her
- own mirror, and then the personal note dominating the picture would have
- saved it from heartlessness. For the complete woman to paint it would be
- the presentation of the damnation of a young soul. But the contemplation
- of her earlier work suggested vividly the converse of the subject—a
- Faustina swept away by the whirl of passion with the after-light of
- innocence in her soul's depths. The conception grew within her, took form,
- awoke the full artist in the ripe woman. With a throbbing sense of
- mastery, a quivering thrill of inspiration, new to her as the first love
- kiss on a young girl's lips, she betook herself to her task.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was the 5th of August, two years after Clytie had resumed her artistic
- life with Kent. The afternoon was hot and oppressive. Clytie was tired and
- lay back on the couch by the window, for she had worked unceasingly all
- through the summer and the strain was beginning to tell on her.
- </p>
- <p>
- They had just returned from the West End Gallery, where Clytie's picture
- had been exhibited during the season. This was the closing day, and they
- had gone to see the picture for the last time. A wealthy American had
- purchased it for the art museum of his native city, and to-morrow it would
- be packed up and sent over seas.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It's like parting forever from the child that is dearest to you,” she
- said with a little touch of melancholy. “That is the worst of painting. A
- poet or a musician—even an etcher can keep his work by him, but a
- painter loses all. Doesn't it seem hard?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Kent acquiesced, comforted her, spoke with vague cheeriness of the law of
- sacrifice which we must all obey. On the other hand, she must think of all
- that the picture had brought her, the public fame, the homage of those
- whose opinion was dear to her.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes; in all that I have succeeded beyond my wildest hopes,” said Clytie.
- “But what is it? At the Redgraves' the other afternoon crowds of people
- stared at me, whispered each other requests to be introduced to Clytie
- Davenant. The men praised all the wrong points in my picture, and the
- women tried to get at the way I did my hair. I know it's flattering to
- one's vanity, dear, and I like it. I honestly like it. But it is a
- superficial little gratification. Now it is all over I begin to think of
- what that picture has cost, what has gone to the making of it. Neither
- money nor fame can pay me back.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It has cost you hours of work in which you have found happiness,” said
- Kent. “You must not overlook that.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, Kent!” cried Clytie, not seeing for the moment that he had
- deliberately avoided the deeper elements in her thought. “Don't you know
- what I mean? You who have been just now preaching to me the law of
- sacrifice! Don't you know that to be the woman to paint that picture there
- were sacrificed the traditions and formulas of my home—there were
- sacrificed the first pure flush of a girl's love, the illusions of a wife,
- the joy of motherhood, the dignity of a proud woman?”
- </p>
- <p>
- She raised herself impulsively on her elbow and continued with flashing
- eyes:
- </p>
- <p>
- “Don't you see that? And you of all men who have shared with such
- bitterness in the sacrifice! Yes, you, my dearest, my best, my love! Your
- life has been sacrificed, your love, your devotion, your nobleness. For
- once in the world the man has paid, and not the woman. For two long years
- we have lived together, eating at the same table, living a common life,
- which, had one great fact been non-existent would have crowned our days
- with happiness. I am of Samaria—I don't care. I have offered to you
- to defy the world, to live openly together, to bear your name. You have
- said 'No,' for my sake sacrificing yourself. Can this life last forever?
- Have not the past two years been filled with longings, restraints,
- bitternesses, regrets, all silently working—you too loyal to utter
- them, I dreading lest the utterance of them on my part should render you
- unhappier?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I have been happy,” said Kent. “A thousandth part of what you have given
- me would have made me more than happy.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But your due is a thousand times more!” cried Clytie. “I have given you
- little enough, but I have drawn from you the breath by which I live, the
- strength, the passion, the will by which I have reached my poor success.
- It can't be so any longer; it would be unjust, cruel!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Stop, my darling!” exclaimed Kent, greatly agitated. I am a man, and you
- are saying things a man cannot bear from the woman he loves. Let us finish
- this before it is too late, and I lose mastery over myself. I have thought
- over it all—with the fiercest hunger in my heart—even in
- moments of our love that have been worth a century of misery. I have
- thought over it all ways. What was impossible two years ago is impossible
- now. I will not wreck your life by condemning you to scorn and ostracism
- and the loss of all that the outside world can give you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Clytie did not reply, but turned her face towards the open window, looking
- with knitted brow into the patch of blue heaven that was just visible over
- the tops of the opposite houses. A great, great longing possessed her, an
- infinite tenderness towards the man who could speak and act so selflessly.
- She longed to be able to say three little words, summing up the yearning
- of her heart: “For my sake.” But they seemed unutterable at that hour.
- Perhaps at another time, in a moment of less vehement tone, when he was
- unawares, the words could be whispered in his ear. She sank deep into the
- thought—utter woman.
- </p>
- <p>
- A long, long silence, which Kent, uncomprehensive, like a man, did not
- dare to break. A thought had seized him too, a troubling doubt. Would he
- always be as strong?
- </p>
- <p>
- At last he drew mechanically out of his pocket an evening paper that he
- had bought on the way home, and as mechanically opened it and began to
- skim the contents.
- </p>
- <p>
- Suddenly he leaped to his feet with a loud cry:
- </p>
- <p>
- “Clytie!”
- </p>
- <p>
- She sprang up, startled, and saw him standing with white cheeks and
- shaking hand, holding out the paper.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Read—he—he—read!”
- </p>
- <p>
- Clytie took the paper from him, and her eyes instinctively fell upon the
- paragraph:
- </p>
- <p>
- A telegram from Loango announces the death of Mr. Thornton Hammerdyke, the
- well-known explorer, in a skirmish with some Arab slave-traders. Later
- particulars will be given in our next edition.
- </p>
- <p>
- The newspaper fell from her hand, and they remained for some moments
- facing each other, trembling. Then she lowered her eyes and went to him
- humbly.
- </p>
- <h3>
- THE END.
- </h3>
- <div style="height: 6em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-<pre>
-
-
-
-
-
-End of Project Gutenberg's At The Gate Of Samaria, by William J. Locke
-
-*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA ***
-
-***** This file should be named 53993-h.htm or 53993-h.zip *****
-This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:
- http://www.gutenberg.org/5/3/9/9/53993/
-
-Produced by David Widger from page images generously
-provided by the Internet Archive
-
-
-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. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part
-of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project
-Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm
-concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark,
-and may not be used if you charge for the eBooks, unless you receive
-specific permission. If you do not charge anything for copies of this
-eBook, complying with the rules is very easy. You may use this eBook
-for nearly any purpose such as creation of derivative works, reports,
-performances and research. They may be modified and printed and given
-away--you may do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks
-not protected by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the
-trademark license, especially commercial redistribution.
-
-START: FULL LICENSE
-
-THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE
-PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK
-
-To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free
-distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
-(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project
-Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full
-Project Gutenberg-tm License available with this file or online at
-www.gutenberg.org/license.
-
-Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project
-Gutenberg-tm electronic works
-
-1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm
-electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
-and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
-(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all
-the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or
-destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your
-possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a
-Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound
-by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the
-person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph
-1.E.8.
-
-1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be
-used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
-agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few
-things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works
-even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See
-paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project
-Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this
-agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm
-electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.
-
-1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the
-Foundation" or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection
-of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual
-works in the collection are in the public domain in the United
-States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the
-United States and you are located in the United States, we do not
-claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing,
-displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as
-all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope
-that you will support the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting
-free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm
-works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the
-Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with the work. You can easily
-comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the
-same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg-tm License when
-you share it without charge with others.
-
-1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
-what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are
-in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States,
-check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this
-agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing,
-distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any
-other Project Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no
-representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any
-country outside the United States.
-
-1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:
-
-1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other
-immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear
-prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work
-on which the phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the
-phrase "Project Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed,
-performed, viewed, copied or distributed:
-
- 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.
-
-1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is
-derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not
-contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the
-copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in
-the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are
-redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase "Project
-Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply
-either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or
-obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg-tm
-trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
-
-1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted
-with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
-must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any
-additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms
-will be linked to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works
-posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the
-beginning of this work.
-
-1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm
-License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
-work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm.
-
-1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
-electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
-prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
-active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
-Gutenberg-tm License.
-
-1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
-compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including
-any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access
-to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format
-other than "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official
-version posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site
-(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense
-to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means
-of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original "Plain
-Vanilla ASCII" or other form. Any alternate format must include the
-full Project Gutenberg-tm License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.
-
-1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
-performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works
-unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
-
-1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
-access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works
-provided that
-
-* You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
- the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method
- you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed
- to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he has
- agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project
- Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid
- within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are
- legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty
- payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project
- Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in
- Section 4, "Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg
- Literary Archive Foundation."
-
-* You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
- you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
- does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm
- License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all
- copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue
- all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg-tm
- works.
-
-* You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of
- any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
- electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of
- receipt of the work.
-
-* You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
- distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works.
-
-1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project
-Gutenberg-tm electronic work or group of works on different terms than
-are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing
-from both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and The
-Project Gutenberg Trademark LLC, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm
-trademark. Contact the Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.
-
-1.F.
-
-1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
-effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
-works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project
-Gutenberg-tm collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm
-electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may
-contain "Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate
-or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other
-intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or
-other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or
-cannot be read by your equipment.
-
-1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right
-of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
-Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
-Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
-Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
-liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
-fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
-LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
-PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
-TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
-LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
-INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
-DAMAGE.
-
-1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
-defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
-receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
-written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you
-received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium
-with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you
-with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in
-lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person
-or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second
-opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If
-the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing
-without further opportunities to fix the problem.
-
-1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
-in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS', WITH NO
-OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT
-LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.
-
-1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
-warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of
-damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement
-violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the
-agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or
-limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or
-unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the
-remaining provisions.
-
-1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
-trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
-providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in
-accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the
-production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm
-electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses,
-including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of
-the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this
-or any Project Gutenberg-tm work, (b) alteration, modification, or
-additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any
-Defect you cause.
-
-Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm
-
-Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of
-electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of
-computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It
-exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations
-from people in all walks of life.
-
-Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
-assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's
-goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will
-remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project
-Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
-and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future
-generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary
-Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see
-Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at
-www.gutenberg.org Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg
-Literary Archive Foundation
-
-The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit
-501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
-state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
-Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification
-number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary
-Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by
-U.S. federal laws and your state's laws.
-
-The Foundation's principal office is in Fairbanks, Alaska, with the
-mailing address: PO Box 750175, Fairbanks, AK 99775, but its
-volunteers and employees are scattered throughout numerous
-locations. Its business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, Salt
-Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up to
-date contact information can be found at the Foundation's web site and
-official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact
-
-For additional contact information:
-
- Dr. Gregory B. Newby
- Chief Executive and Director
- gbnewby@pglaf.org
-
-Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
-Literary Archive Foundation
-
-Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide
-spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of
-increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
-freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest
-array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations
-($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
-status with the IRS.
-
-The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
-charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
-States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
-considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
-with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations
-where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND
-DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular
-state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate
-
-While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
-have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
-against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
-approach us with offers to donate.
-
-International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
-any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
-outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.
-
-Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation
-methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other
-ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To
-donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate
-
-Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works.
-
-Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project
-Gutenberg-tm concept of a library of electronic works that could be
-freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and
-distributed Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of
-volunteer support.
-
-Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed
-editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in
-the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not
-necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper
-edition.
-
-Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search
-facility: www.gutenberg.org
-
-This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,
-including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
-Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
-subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.
-
-
-
-</pre>
-
- </body>
-</html>
|