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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. 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