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diff --git a/old/53993-h/53993-h.htm b/old/53993-h/53993-h.htm deleted file mode 100644 index 6fac90f..0000000 --- a/old/53993-h/53993-h.htm +++ /dev/null @@ -1,15446 +0,0 @@ -<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> - -<!DOCTYPE html - PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" - "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > - -<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> - <head> - <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=UTF-8" /> - <title>At The Gate Of Samaria, by William J. 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Locke - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - -Title: At The Gate Of Samaria - -Author: William J. Locke - -Release Date: January 18, 2017 [EBook #53993] -Last Updated: March 12, 2018 - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA *** - - - - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by the Internet Archive - - - - - - -</pre> - - <div style="height: 8em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h1> - AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA - </h1> - <h2> - By William J. Locke - </h2> - <h4> - London - </h4> - <h4> - William Heinemann - </h4> - <h3> - 1895 - </h3> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <h3> - TO ONE WHOSE WORK IT IS AS MUCH AS MINE - </h3> - <h3> - I INSCRIBE THIS BOOK. - </h3> - <h3> - AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA. - </h3> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - <b>CONTENTS</b> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XIV. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER XV. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER XVI. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER XVII. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER XVIII. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER XIX. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER XX. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER XXI. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0022"> CHAPTER XXII. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER XXIV. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0024"> CHAPTER XXV. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0025"> CHAPTER XXVI. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0026"> CHAPTER XXVII. </a> - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER I. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t was a severe - room, scrupulously neat. Along one side ran a bookcase, with beaded glass - doors, containing, as one might see by peering through the spaces, the - collected, unread literature of two stern generations. A few old prints, - placed in bad lights, hung on the walls. In the centre of the room was a - leather-covered library table, with writing materials arranged in painful - precision. A couch was lined along one wall, in the draught of the door. - On either side of the fireplace were ranged two stiff leather armchairs. - </p> - <p> - In one of these chairs sat an old man, in the other a faded woman just - verging upon middle age. The old man was looking at a picture which he - supported on his knees-a narrow, oblong strip of canvas nailed on to a - rough wooden frame. The woman eyed him with some interest, as if awaiting - a decision. - </p> - <p> - They were father and daughter, and bore a strange family resemblance to - each other. Both faces were pale, their foreheads high and narrow, marked - by faint horizontal lines, their eyes gray and cold, their upper lips long - and thin, setting tightly, without mobility, upon the lower. The only - essential point of difference was that the father's chin was weakly - pointed, the daughter's squarer and harder. Both faces gave one the - impression of negativeness, joylessness, seeming to lack the power of - strong emotive expression. One can see such, minus the refinement of - gentle birth and social amenities, in the pews of obscure dissenting - chapels, testifying that they have been led thither not by strong - convictions, but by the force of mild circumstance. - </p> - <p> - Indeed, as is the case with hundreds of our upper middle-class families, - the Davenants had descended from a fierce old Puritan stock, and though - the reality of their Puritanism had gradually lost itself in the current - of more respectable orthodoxy, its shadow hung over them still. The - vigorous enthusiasm that spurred the Puritan on to lofty action was gone; - the vague dread of sin that kept him in moral and mental inactivity alone - remained. Perhaps it is this survival amongst us of the negative element - of Puritanism that produces in England the curious anomaly of education - without enlightenment. It has dulled our perception of life as an art, - whose “great incidents,” as Fielding finely says, “are no more to be - considered as mere accidents than the several members of a fine statue or - a noble poem.” It has caused us to live in a perpetual twilight in which - the possibilities of existence loom fantastic and indistinct. The - Davenants were gentlefolk, holding a good position in the small country - town of Durdleham; they visited among the county families, and, on - ordinary, conventional grounds, considered themselves to belong to the - cultured classes. They were the curious yet familiar product of the - old-fashioned, high-church Toryism impregnated with the Puritan taint. - </p> - <p> - The light was fading through the French window behind the old man's chair. - He laid down the canvas on his lap and looked in a puzzled way at the - fire. Then he raised it nearer to his eyes for further examination. - </p> - <p> - “This is really very dreadful,” he said at last, looking at his daughter. - </p> - <p> - “Something will have to be done soon,” replied the latter. - </p> - <p> - “It is so horribly vulgar, Grace,” said the old man; “look at that boy's - nose—and that drunken man—his face is a nightmare of evil. I - really must begin to talk seriously to Clytie.” - </p> - <p> - Mrs. Blather smiled somewhat pityingly. Since the earliest days of her - long widowhood she had undertaken the charge of her father's house and the - care of her two younger sisters, Janet and Clytie. Her familiarity, - therefore, with the seamy side of Clytie's nature had been of long - duration. - </p> - <p> - “You might as well talk to that fender, papa,” she said. “Clytie has got - it into her head that she is going to be an artist, and no amount of - talking will get it out.” - </p> - <p> - “It's all through her visiting those friends of hers, the Farquharsons. - They are not nice people for her to know. I shall not let her go there - again.” - </p> - <p> - “If she goes on like this there is no knowing what will happen.” - </p> - <p> - “Where did the child get these repulsive and ungirlish notions from?” the - old man asked querulously. - </p> - <p> - The conception of the picture was not that of a young girl, and though the - execution was crude and untrained, there was a bold cruelty of touch that - saved it from being amateurish. The canvas was divided into two panels. On - the one was painted a tiny bully of a boy with his arm rounded across his - throat, about to strike a weakly, poverty-stricken little girl. They were - children of the poorest classes, the boy realistically, offensively dirty—the - <i>petit morveux</i> in its absolute sense. Behind them was the open - doorway of a red-brick, jerry-built cottage, showing a strip of torn and - dirty matting along the passage that lost itself in the gloom beyond. On - the other panel was the corner of a public house in a low slum, the window - lights and a gas-lamp throwing a lurid glare upon wet pavement and the - figures of a woman and a drunken man. The faces were those of the children - in the first picture, and the eternal tragedy was repeating itself. The - man's face was loathsome in its sodden ferocity; the woman, with a child - in her arms, was reeling from the blow. The evident haste in which the - panels had been painted, the glaring, unsoftened colouring, heightened as - if by impressionist design the coarse realism of the effect. Above was - written the legend, “<i>La joie de vivre</i>” and in the left-hand bottom - corner, “<i>Clytie Davenant pinxit</i>.” - </p> - <p> - “She has certainly grown much worse of late,” sighed Mrs. Blather, holding - out her thin, short hand to shield her face from the fire. - </p> - <p> - There was a pause of some moments. Mr. Davenant ceased nursing the picture - and stood it on the floor. - </p> - <p> - “Have you quite made up your mind, papa,” said Mrs. - Blather at length, “not to let Clytie go to the Slade School in London?” - </p> - <p> - “It is out of the question,” replied the old man. - </p> - <p> - “I don't think so, papa. It would perhaps do her good. A year or so's hard - work would take all these silly ideas out of her.” - </p> - <p> - “I question it,” said Mr. Davenant. “They are not silly ideas. They are - debased, degraded ideas.” - </p> - <p> - “My dear papa, they are only fads. All young girls have them. Look how - crazy Janet was to join the cookery classes. We let her join, and now she - hates the sight of a pie-dish. With Clytie it is quite the same, only she - wants to daub.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, let her daub in a decent way at home,” replied the old man testily. - </p> - <p> - Mrs. Blather shrugged her lean shoulders. - </p> - <p> - “We have tried that and it hasn't succeeded, apparently,” she said drily. - “You seldom come in her way; you don't know how unpleasant things are for - Janet and myself. What do you think she had the impertinence to tell me - this morning? She said that we were not real people. We were machines or - abstractions based, I think she said, on a formula, or something of that - sort. She was pining to live amongst living human beings. And then she is - so rude to visitors. What do you think she said to the vicar, who came, at - Janet's request, to talk to her about her shameful neglect of her - religious duties? She said, if he was a pillar of the Church, she saw no - reason why she should be a seat-cushion.” - </p> - <p> - “Tut, tut,” said the old man angrily. He was vicar's churchwarden, and a - power in the parish. - </p> - <p> - “And then,” continued Mrs. Blather, “when I scolded her for her rudeness, - she said that if she had been a man she would have sworn at him for his - impertinence. Really people will soon be afraid of coming to the house.” - </p> - <p> - “They will indeed,” said Mr. Davenant. - </p> - <p> - Like a wise woman, Mrs. Blather did not press her point. She knew she had - thoroughly alarmed her father and had shown him but one way out of the - difficulty. His taking it, if left to himself, was only a question of - time. She rang the bell for the servant to come and light Mr. Davenant's - gas, and then she left him to his reflections. - </p> - <p> - Mr. Davenant possessed some landed property, which he had occupied his - life in mismanaging. Fortunately for him, his wife had brought him a small - fortune which sufficed to keep up a position, modest when compared with - that of the Davenants of former days, but still high enough to satisfy the - social aspirations of his family. He had lived a colourless life, severe - and respectable. Even his university days had passed in a dull uniformity, - leaving no glamour behind them. He had walked honourably and blindly in - the paths his parents had indicated, and, now that he was nearing the end - of the journey, thanked God for having given him the grace not to err from - them. He had married when still fairly young, and he had loved his wife in - a gentlemanly, passionless way. She, poor thing, had filled up so small a - space in life that she had faded out of it almost unnoticed—even by - himself. He had no storms of joy or sorrow to look back upon. His - thoughts, as he brooded over the fireside, generally wandered back to - trifling incidents: ancient municipal interests, the mortgages on his - estate, the boundary quarrels with the old earl, his neighbour. - </p> - <p> - But lately he had been thinking anxiously over his daughter Clytie. She - had suddenly developed out of a naughty, rebellious child into a problem. - He assumed as a matter of course that he bore her the ordinary - well-regulated parental affection, but in his heart of hearts he never - really loved her. Until lately it had not occurred to him to think of her - as anything but a child of his with a singularly unfortunate disposition - which time would modify. But time, on the contrary, was accentuating it, - and he realised at last that Clytie had a distinct individuality. His - philosophy had left many things in heaven and earth undreamed of. He was - mystified, puzzled. How could he and his delicate wife have brought this - bright-haired, full-blooded, impulsive creature into existence? Her - sisters were gentle, quiet women, possessing the virtues inculcated in his - conception of life. Clytie seemed to possess none of them. The peasant - woman in the legend could not have wondered more over her changeling. How - could a daughter of his and a sister of Janet's scoff at sacred things, - defy social rules, and have an imagination that ran riot in scenes of - drunkenness and outcast life? - </p> - <p> - Physiology might grant a solution to the old man's problem in the law of - the alternation of heredity. His father's youngest brother had been a - family black sheep, and being the only one of the generation who had led - an eventful career, was naturally never mentioned by his relations, and - the record of his life perished with him. But it is possible that the - positive enthusiastic principle of Clytie's Puritan descent, reasserting - itself once in every other generation, to the horror of the negative - principle that otherwise ran through the race continuously, came out in - her with all its strength and vigour. It brought her eager, panting up to - the brink of our surging nineteenth century life, imperiously bidding her - plunge in and take her part in the tumult. - </p> - <p> - She was now nineteen, an age when girls try to realise themselves. She - discovered that she was a greater problem to herself than to her sisters. - They simply looked upon her as odd, eccentric, unpleasant to live with, - and if she had not been their sister would have almost gathered up their - skirts around them as they passed her by. But she was conscious of a - craving within her that did not proceed from mere wilful caprice. In her - earlier girlhood she had thought long and humbly over her shortcomings. - Why could she not be as contented and dutiful as Janet? Why could not the - interests that satisfied her sisters' life satisfy hers? Often and often - an impulse of scorn and ridicule at the littleness of Durdleham would - overmaster her, and then would follow a passionate fit of remorse and - repentance, received with coldness and ruffled dignity on her sisters' - part, that would send her back humiliated and rebellious to her room. From - what springs of desire did all this proceed? Whither were these impulses - tending? - </p> - <p> - Ever since she could hold a pencil she had been able to draw. She had - received lessons in painting later on, and had covered canvas after canvas - with the graceful futilities the Durdleham art teacher suggested. He was a - landscape painter, and Clytie had little or no feeling for landscape. - Bright colour, vivid contrast, sharp tone, attracted her, but the quiet - grays and faint blues of our English scenery came out dull and mechanical - when she tried to paint them. At last she gave up her lessons in despair, - much to the wonderment of Janet, who improved greatly under instruction, - and turned out neat, complacent little water-colours which she sold at - bazaars or distributed among her friends. For months Clytie never touched - a brush. Art of this sort revolted her. It was soulless, futile. But by - degrees, as the breach between herself and her sisters widened, her power - of painting became a source of ineffable consolation—a means of - self-commune. She could give external expression to the voices that - haunted her. She read books with the eagerness only exhibited by the young - girl craving for self-development; and the pictures they vividly impressed - on her young imaginative brain she transferred to paper or canvas—not - lovingly, tenderly, with the pure artistic delight of gradual creation, - but hurriedly, feverishly, longing to see the thing done, the impression - realised in a way in which she could understand it. When finished, or - rather as soon as it had reached an impressionist stage of artistic - completeness, she would feast her heart upon it for a day or two, and then - throw it away, or let it lie about in a corner disregarded and forgotten. - </p> - <p> - Until she was nearly eighteen Mrs. Blather had scrupulously supervised her - reading, and Clytie, chafing with irritation, had been compelled either to - submit or to smuggle condemned books into the house and read them - surreptitiously. But at last her angry impatience at the impeccable - literature that satisfied her sisters' needs burst its restraints, and - resisted vehemently and finally all censorship on the part of Mrs. - Blather. - </p> - <p> - It was not wholesome, this solitary, emotional, imaginative life. Her - health showed signs of giving way. They called in a doctor, who prescribed - rest and a change of air. One of her aunts, who lived in London, happened - to want a companion for a tour on the Continent, and with many misgivings - undertook to take Clytie with her. To the girl the trip was an endless - succession of delight. Impressions followed each other too fast for her to - realise them. The superficial features of continental life, familiar and - commonplace enough to the ordinary traveller, were new to her. Groups at - street corners, strangely attired soldiers, odd un-English-looking shops, - the very waiters hurrying along through the intricacies of café tables - with their fantastically laden trays, all excited her, filled her with the - exhilaration of life and movement. Her aunt, who had hitherto shared the - family opinion of Clytie, wondered greatly at the transformation. It never - occurred to her that this was the natural Clytie filling her heart at last - with the emotions it had hungered for. - </p> - <p> - It was during this time, at a pension in Dresden, that she formed the - acquaintance of the Farquharsons. Miss Davenant discovered that they and - herself had common acquaintances in London, and that she had heard of Mr. - Farquharson as an archæologist of some repute. - </p> - <p> - The acquaintance thus formed developed quickly into a pleasant intimacy of - travel. Mrs. Farquharson, a bright, clever woman of forty, was attracted - toward Clytie, who, for her part, found in her new friend a natural - sympathy that touched her heart. So far did their sudden friendship go, - that before they parted Clytie had conditionally accepted an invitation to - visit the archæologist and his wife in Harley Street. - </p> - <p> - When Mr. Davenant's permission was asked he at first demurred. He had the - country-bred man's distrust of strangers; but when his sister vouched for - the social position of the Farquharsons he reluctantly consented. Clytie - paid her promised visit the following winter. This was one of the turning - points of her life. For the first time she found herself in an - intellectual, artistic society. It was a glimpse of another world. At - Durdleham young men seldom came to the house. When they did, they avoided - her and talked platitudes to her sisters. At dinner parties the men - remained in the dining-room long after the ladies had left. They seemed to - regard them as somewhat picturesque but wearisome household adjuncts, - whose absence their masculine intellects unreservedly welcomed; - conversation with their partner was a dinner incident to be got through, - like shaving or putting on their white ties beforehand. And the Durdleham - ladies seemed to take this as a matter of course, and were equally happy - to get by themselves and gossip mildly. - </p> - <p> - But in Harley Street Clytie found a different order of things. Men and - women seemed to have interests in common and to discuss them on a basis of - perfect equality. She found, too, women speaking authoritatively on - certain subjects and listened to with deference by men. All, young and - old, talked to her as if she were as much absorbed in life as themselves. - No one made her rage with humiliation by tolerating her with an air of - languid or pompous condescension. Even the frivolities and platitudes of - everyday conversation were treated in a way new to her experience. The - talk was keen, incisive, exaggerated. Everyone could say what he wished - without fear of springing some mine of prejudice or prudery. The - atmosphere of the house breathed freedom of thought and action. She beheld - others putting into form her own vague aspirations. She saw people who - wrote, painted, acted, living fully and intensely every day. Even the - professed idlers whom she met seemed to hold their fingers on the throb of - life around them. - </p> - <p> - In the streets—she had been but little in London before—she - saw things strange and fascinating—things she had read about, - dreamed of, painted, and yet not understood. She was appalled by her - ignorance, the narrow gauge of her sympathies. What did all this restless - life in the great city mean, its wild cries and passions that struck upon - her tightly strung nerves with a deep, mysterious resonance? - </p> - <p> - She filled a sketch-book with the vivid impressions each day brought her, - seeking, as her way was, to realise them by tearing them out of herself, - and giving them objectivity. A royal academician picked up the book from - the corner of a table in the drawing-room, where Clytie, falling easily - into the careless ways of the household, had thrown it. He was turning - over the pages when Clytie perceived him, and rushed impulsively to him - across the room. - </p> - <p> - “Oh! you mustn't look at that, Mr. Redgrave. Please don't!” - </p> - <p> - He looked up at her amusedly. - </p> - <p> - “Why not? It is rather interesting. Why don't you learn to draw?” - </p> - <p> - “What would be the good?” she said. “This suits my purpose.” - </p> - <p> - The other shrugged his shoulders good-humouredly. - </p> - <p> - “That all depends upon what your purpose is,” he replied. “If you want to - become an artist you must train properly for it.” - </p> - <p> - Become an artist! The words haunted her all that night. They opened up - before her infinite vistas of possibilities, life in the midst of the - world, the knowledge of its greatnesses and its mysteries. - </p> - <p> - In the morning she wrote to him. He invited her to come to his studio and - talk over the matter. She asked Mrs. Farquharson to accompany her, but her - hostess was engaged at the hour in question. Clytie looked disappointed. - The home traditions asserted themselves and prevented her from thinking it - possible to go unchaperoned. Mrs. Farquharson divined this and laughed in - her bright way. - </p> - <p> - “Goodness gracious, my dear,” she said, “the man isn't going to eat you!” - </p> - <p> - So Clytie went alone to the studio to learn her destiny. - </p> - <p> - “You have great talent,” said the artist, “but it needs cultivation. After - two or three years' severe training you may do something.” - </p> - <p> - Then Clytie asked him the question that had been burning her heart for two - days. - </p> - <p> - “Do you think I shall ever be able to earn my own living?” - </p> - <p> - “You might do that now, if you chose, and had patience,” he replied. - </p> - <p> - “How?” - </p> - <p> - “By book illustrating.” - </p> - <p> - “But I want to become a great artist.” - </p> - <p> - “Doubtless. Most of us do. You may if you try hard, and love art for art's - sake. But,” he added, looking at her keenly—“there always is a - 'but,' Miss Davenant.” - </p> - <p> - “Why do you say that?” she asked quickly. - </p> - <p> - “<i>Parce que</i>, as the French say—begging your pardon.” - </p> - <p> - And that was practically the end of the conversation. - </p> - <p> - All this had happened to Clytie three months before Mrs. Blather had - discovered the offending picture in Clytie's attic studio and had carried - it to her father. After this foretaste of life the girl wearied more than - ever of Durdleham with its soullessness, its stagnation, its prim - formulas. A dangerous reaction of spirit set in, leading her to long - spells of hopeless melancholy, alternating with outbursts of passionate - rebellion. She would stand for hours in the recess of her window gazing - over the flat stretch of country, and dreaming strange dreams of the world - that lay beyond the dreary horizon—dreams in which sharp - reminiscence mingled with fancy in vague, weird shapes. But still she was - beginning to realise herself, her needs, her vague cravings. Her - passionate desires now flowed into some definite channel—to escape - at all costs from Durdleham, and consequently to enter that free world of - art the glimpse of which had enchanted her. - </p> - <p> - The scenes between her sisters and herself were of daily occurrence. The - narrower, gentler women were shocked at her wilfulnesses, her unladylike - behaviour; she was revolted to her soul at the pettiness and sordidness of - the disputes. Existence at Durdleham had become impossible. - </p> - <p> - “For God's sake, Gracie, let me go away from here,” she cried one day, “or - I shall hate you—and I want to love you if I can. Let me go to - London. Auntie will take me in. Oh, my God! I shall go mad in this place - among you.” - </p> - <p> - And Mrs. Blather, for the sake of her own tranquillity and the reputation - of the family, made up her mind that Clytie should have her desire and - that Durdleham should know her no more. And in the end Mrs. Blather gained - her father's consent to the arrangement; but the old man looked upon - Clytie almost as a lost soul. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER II. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>hen the eager - young soul starts out unaided to solve the riddle of life, it meets with - many paradoxes that admit of no solution, and many sordid simplicities - that only unfamiliarity made it regard as enigmas. Despair in the one - instance and disgust in the other not unfrequently drive it into a - hopeless pessimism, in which inaction seems to be the least pain. Or else - the soul bruises itself in vain against the mocking bars, shrinks in - loathing from the disveiled corruption, and flies back to the unavailing - aids that it spurned aforetime. It is cast in the valley of the shadow of - death which only the stout-hearted can pass through unshaken. - </p> - <p> - The multitude stands by the formulas that profess to solve the eternal - problem. It follows them blindly, like the schoolboy who cares not whether - they are right or wrong, or whether the answer is conclusive. So long as - there is an answer of some sort its mind is easy. But there are earnester - inquirers whom these formulas do not satisfy—who see that they are - followed for their own sake, that they never can lead to any conclusions. - The soul, now of a people, now of an individual, rebels; it rejects the - formulas; it starts from the first principles of being, asserting fiercely - its individuality, its inalienable right to seek after truth according to - its own methods. These are prejudiced. All great action must be. Because a - system is rotten and incomplete the perfervid spirit judges that every - factor must be false. It misses the fact that every great human system - contains elemental truths of vital importance, without which it must fall - in its struggle. And at last, when the forces of endeavour are well nigh - spent, it finds the key of the great enigma inwrapped in a greater one - still, in the eternal tragedy of things. - </p> - <p> - It was with this burning protest against formulas that - Clytie entered into the world. They had been presented to her in their - smug complacency as solving all mysteries human and divine. She had seen - them worshipped as fetiches, and her soul revolted against the futile - idolatry. She was too young to examine them carefully, to see that the - sacrosanctity of some was miserably justified by human experience. She - spurned them all, and she plunged into the waters of Life, a rudderless - bark in search of the unknown. - </p> - <p> - She spent two years in study at the Slade School in University College, - living under the protection of her aunt, who had a house in Russell - Square. The training was severe and at times irksome. But she learned - strict academical rules of drawing, in spite of her repugnance to the - stern coldness of the antique. After her term of hard training was over - she went for a year into a painter's studio and learned colour and - painting from the live model. - </p> - <p> - They were years of probation, as Clytie well knew, and they brought her - lessons in self-restraint, both in art and in the conduct of life. Her - aunt, Miss Davenant, was shrewder and broader-minded than her brother, - having lived more in the whirl of humanity, but the formulas of Durdleham - were ranged as household gods upon her hearthstone, and Clytie, out of - pure self-interest, was bound to show them outward respect. To compensate, - however, for this, Clytie found in her student life many experiences, as - she had found during her continental trip, with which she could fill her - heart without violating her aunt's Lares and Penates. - </p> - <p> - She seldom went to Durdleham. She had an odd feeling that she was in - disgrace there for having wished to leave it. Besides, both Mrs. Blather - and Janet, as is the inconsequent way of such women, spoke tauntingly of - her gay life in town, and contrasted it enviously with their country - dulness. And then, too, her father was always querulous, complaining, not - of her absence from home, but of her dissimilarity to her sisters. - </p> - <p> - “My dear papa,” she said one day, “I could no more be like them than they - could be like me.” - </p> - <p> - “You might if you had tried,” said the old man. - </p> - <p> - Clytie looked hopelessly out of window. What possible reply could be made? - </p> - <p> - The happiest, most expansive hours that Clytie spent during these three - years were in Harley Street with the Farquharsons. At first her aunt was - rather averse to a continuance of the intimacy. Although she had kept up a - visiting acquaintance with the Farquharsons since their return from - Switzerland, and liked them both personally, she was conscious of an - unfamiliar atmosphere in their house. The instinctive shrinking from the - unknown made her seek to draw Clytie back with her towards the security of - her own accustomed circle. But eventually, when she saw that the girl, to - whom she had grown sincerely attached, found real happiness in going to - Harley Street, she withdrew her tentative restrictions altogether. Perhaps - she read deeper into the girl's heart than either was conscious of, and - realised that in the Farquharsons' society Clytie found a relief from the - strain of everyday life with her, which otherwise might have been - unbearable. - </p> - <p> - The conditions of the household in Harley Street were favourable to the - development of unceremonious intimacy. Mrs. Farquharson herself was bred - in that strange London world we call Bohemia. Her father, long since dead, - had been a journalist, a hack story-writer, a maker of plays, sometimes - editor of a smart weekly, at others acting manager of a provincial - company. Like most men of his type he spent his money as fast as he earned - it, and when work came to a temporary standstill drew upon the prospects - of his next success. His daughter Caroline had grown up in cheerful - familiarity with this hand to mouth, makeshift existence. She had been - called upon so often from her earliest childhood to condone the faults of - her father and those of his intimates, who were men of much the same mould - as himself, that a general habit of indulgence became natural to her. - Folly seemed so inherent a quality in humanity that not to smile - tolerantly, even though reprovingly, upon it was with her an - impossibility. The lowering of moral tone that might have resulted from - this mental attitude, and from a continuance of the same conditions of - life, was prevented by her early marriage with a man of assured income and - position. Her father died shortly afterwards and her connection with the - seamy side of Bohemianism was thoroughly broken off. But the ingrained - habits of freedom and carelessness still remained. She could never learn - to be methodical, systematic. She had an inherited dread of account-books, - household rules, fixed hours for meals, and appointed places for every - domestic article. It was fortunate for her that she had married a man who - worshipped her, and himself shared her distaste for rigidly organised - life. His means had placed him beyond the necessity of working for his - livelihood, and so the free life in a home where he could work, idle, eat, - and receive his friends at any hour of the day or night was as much to his - own taste as to that of his wife. - </p> - <p> - It was impossible that such a house should not possess a charm for those - to whom the Farquharsons gave their friendship. The absence of formality - encouraged expansiveness and individuality. There was a tacit - understanding that one had a right not only to oneself, but to the - appreciation of oneself by the host and hostess. It was this that Clytie - had felt during her first visit, and it attracted her more and more to - them as time went on. Gradually the house became a second home to her, and - Mrs. Farquharson a friend such as she had never known before. She could go - to her for strength and comfort during her fits of depression when the - time seemed out of joint, and she did not in the least seem called upon to - set it right. The restraints of strict draughtsmanship, academic modelling - and grouping, chafed her as her simple arithmetic had done at school. She - longed to throw them off and to plunge back into her old artistic - wilfulnesses. But these occasions generally coincided with fresh - sensations of restraint in her home life, and she was wise enough to - appreciate the fact. - </p> - <p> - During this period an incident occurred in her life, giving it fresh - colour and helping her to realise herself more fully. Her girlhood had - been far removed from the lax sphere of idle flirtation in which many - girls are brought up. The young men of Durdleham, who might have been - attracted towards her by her beauty, were frozen by her scarcely veiled - impatience at their society. - </p> - <p> - The dominant impulse towards active search after life had swayed her to - the exclusion of any less powerful motive, and it had scarcely yet - occurred to her that her personality might interest and possibly influence - others. She was too absorbed in her work, in her dimly shadowed yet - ever-haunting plans for the future, in the individualities round her, in - the foretaste of that full sense of living, in the stirring objectivity of - London life, to dwell at all earnestly on subjective matters and to devote - much attention to self-analysis. It is only when the question, “How do - others affect me?” ceases to interest that the other question, “How does - my personality affect others?” begins to assume a paramount importance. - The possibility of a man falling in love with her was a factor as yet - absent from her scheme of practical life. - </p> - <p> - She learned that such an event had occurred from Mrs. Farquharson. She had - gone to her one Monday morning, depressed, out of tune, to seek - consolation. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, why am I not a man?” she exclaimed petulantly. “Why can't I live by - myself, go where I like, and see what I want to see?” - </p> - <p> - Her friend laughed good-humouredly. - </p> - <p> - “You want to do too much at once, my dear. The world's your oyster, as - ancient Pistol said, and you would force it open with one wrench. As for - wishing to be a man, you are by no means original. Lots of girls say that, - but when they grow older they think it's just as well for them that they - are women.” - </p> - <p> - “What on earth's the good of being a <i>woman?</i>” asked Clytie, with - rather unnecessary emphasis. - </p> - <p> - One of her studio companions had asked her to join a party at a theatre, - and her aunt had demurred on the ground that ladies ought not to go to - that particular house. It showed a certain knowledge of the world on the - old lady's part, but Clytie did not realise it, and although she accepted - the decision with good grace, it fretted her. These trivial things fret - even the wisest amongst us quite as much as the important ones do. - </p> - <p> - Mrs. Farquharson did not reply, but continued placidly her usual Monday - morning's occupation of putting her music in order, while Clytie watched - her from the long rocking-chair where she was sitting, her hands clasped - behind her head. - </p> - <p> - “What's the good of being a woman when one has to pass half one's life - shut up in darkness? It's bad enough being a human being as it is, and - having to sleep the other half.” - </p> - <p> - “How old are you, my dear?” asked Mrs. Farquharson, looking at a song. - </p> - <p> - “You know,” replied Clytie. “Twenty.” - </p> - <p> - “Then how would you like to be a young man of twenty—or even - two-and-twenty? How would you like to be young Beaumont, for instance? Do - you think he knows so very much more than you do?” - </p> - <p> - “He's such a boy,” said Clytie. - </p> - <p> - “And you, my dear, are such a girl,” said Mrs. Farquharson, coming up - behind her chair and smoothing her cheeks. “But you are many years older - than he is—and likely to remain so. Do you know why we women like to - be women? Because we see so many things that men would give the eyes of - their heads to know. Hasn't it ever struck you that we are familiar with a - side of life that is almost forever hidden from men? And as for that - particular side that men have exclusively to themselves, it is neither - very pretty nor comfortful.” - </p> - <p> - “I suppose that is why men stop talking when one goes into the - smoking-room,” said Clytie. “You hear shouts of laughter outside the door, - and you think they must be having an awfully good time, and when you - appear in the doorway they seem to pull themselves together, and one or - two always look red and sheepish.” - </p> - <p> - “I should advise you to read the story of Bluebeard,” said Mrs. - Farquharson. - </p> - <p> - “You are just as bad as the rest,” cried Clytie, half laughing and half - vexed. “I never thought it of you. That's what I have always been told: - Never try to find out what you don't know. Always remain in a state of - blissful ignorance. Men are superior beings, and a good little girl ought - to accept her position with meekness.” - </p> - <p> - “I could a tale unfold,” said her friend, “but I won't. It is too early - for you. If you want to make experiments on your own account there is - young Beaumont for you. He will tell you the sum total of his knowledge in - ten minutes.” - </p> - <p> - “Do you know, I like him,” said Clytie, leaving the main track of the - conversation. “He always looks so clean, and his clothes fit him so well, - and he is so serviceable. He always seems to be trying to make the best of - himself, since God has done so little for him. And it's very plucky of him - to try to improve on the Almighty.” - </p> - <p> - “I would not like him too much.” - </p> - <p> - “Why?” - </p> - <p> - “My poor Clytie! You haven't even got the elements of woman's knowledge - yet. Can't you see why Beaumont wears those very chaste ties and those - wonderfully shiny boots, and does errands all over London for you? Oh, - dear!” - </p> - <p> - “Do you mean that he——?” - </p> - <p> - Mrs. Farquharson looked at her quizzically and nodded. - </p> - <p> - “Therefore I would not like him too much.” - </p> - <p> - Obeying a first impulse, Clytie burst out laughing. It seemed so - ridiculous. Beaumont was a good-looking, fresh-faced young fellow of - two-and-twenty, a distant relation of the Farquharsons, and a habitué of - the house. She had met him there many times and had begun to feel quite - friendly towards him. Besides, he had fetched and carried for her in the - most useful way. She had never thought of his falling in love with her. As - he was the last man she herself would have thought of falling in love - with, she found the event ludicrous. - </p> - <p> - She stopped laughing suddenly, and crimsoned to her hair; then rushed - impulsively up to Mrs. Farquharson, and put her arm round her waist. - </p> - <p> - “I am sorry; forgive me. What must you think of me! I could not help it, - indeed I couldn't. You put me in such a new light before myself. And, dear - Mrs. Farquharson, I do so want you to see the best side of me.” - </p> - <p> - “My dear girl,” said her friend, “you don't suppose that with your face - and your nature you are going to pass through life without having men - falling in love with you! You see what a lot you have to learn. You want - to have a man's experiences before you have passed through the elementary - ones of a woman.” - </p> - <p> - “And Mr. Beaumont—what shall I do?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh! don't fret yourself about him. He will get over it. He has no end of - this sort of thing to go through before his life is up. It will do him - good.” Clytie had not much time to map out any fixed plan of treatment of - her would-be lover, for he met her an afternoon or two afterwards outside - University College, where he had been waiting for her, and pleaded that - she would walk a little way up towards the Regent's Park, as the afternoon - was fine. - </p> - <p> - Clytie looked at him and hesitated. - </p> - <p> - “Only just a little way. I have something I must tell you.” - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps you had best never tell it,” said Clytie. - </p> - <p> - The red-waistcoated gate porter behind them beamed on them smilingly. He - had seen something of youthful love in his professional career. - </p> - <p> - “I must, whatever happens,” replied the young fellow. “I know it's wrong - to ask you to walk in the street with me, but I don't know when I shall - get another chance.” - </p> - <p> - “I don't see anything wrong about it,” said Clytie. “I will go with you - wherever you wish.” - </p> - <p> - So they wandered up Gower Street and the Euston Road into the park, and - there, for the first time in her life, Clytie heard a man confess his love - for her and ask her to marry him. He was only a boy after all, but he was - in great earnest. Clytie felt humbled, almost guilty, and yet a great, - unknown pleasure thrilled through her. Although she knew that the sooner - and more summarily the interview was brought to an end the better for both - herself and him, she could scarcely resist the temptation of allowing him - to pour out the fulness of his boyish love for her. - </p> - <p> - She suddenly found herself listening to the sound but not the meaning of - his words, her senses filled with the sweetness of the new sensations and - the pure May sunlight that flooded the trees and the gay flower-bed - opposite the bench where they were sitting. Then she realised her - situation, and in a few kind words, harder to speak than she would have - expected, dismissed him. - </p> - <p> - And that was the end of the matter. He went off whither young men in his - predicament generally betake themselves, and Clytie returned slowly home - to Russell Square. - </p> - <p> - When she had reached her own room she went deliberately up to the glass - and scanned her features. Then she laughed a strange, contented little - laugh, and taking off her hat and gloves, went downstairs to tea. She had - advanced several steps along the road to knowledge. - </p> - <p> - Three years! How quickly they passed! How sure yet dimly working were - their influences! If they were years of probation and self-restraint for - Clytie, they also brought with them softening influences. Hitherto her - life had been one of revolt and harsh, crude judgments that had turned - away friendship and had left her solitary. Mutual misconception and - misunderstanding had crushed sisterly love. Her heart had never been - touched by real affection. Now she had friends, real ones, in the - Farquharsons whom she could love for their own sakes, and pleasant, - sympathetic ones in her companions at the Slade School and at the studio. - She learned, too, the sweetness of active protection and helpfulness. Her - aunt, though somewhat stronger-fibred than the rest of the Davenants, - possessed their essential physical characteristics. Her health, which had - been failing for some years, gradually gave way altogether. During the few - months of her last illness she depended entirely upon Clytie for care and - tenderness. It was a new, strange experience for the girl. She learned to - love the faded elderly lady who bore her sufferings so calmly, so - cheerfully. Both Mrs. Blather and Janet offered to come and nurse her, but - Miss Davenant would have none but Clytie. If this period of selflessness - and sacrifice had lasted, who knows what sweet effacement of individuality - might have resulted? Who knows into what channels of pity and sublime - endeavours of mercy the girl's full, ardent nature might have been - directed? But the high gods had ordained otherwise. Miss Davenant died, - and Clytie again found herself with the unknown destiny before her that - had to be worked out unaided. - </p> - <p> - It was only after the first outburst of grief that she realised this - fully. She had gone back to Durdleham, with a new range of feelings - freshly revealed. Her sisters she found were gentle, quiet women like her - aunt, narrower perhaps, with thin currents of old prejudice still running - through them, but still lovable and sympathetic in her sorrow. They - welcomed her back like a lost sheep to the fold. Never had her home life - seemed so peaceful, comfortful; London was scarcely mentioned, and her - sisters agreed between themselves that Clytie's absence from home was an - episode of the past, never to recur. - </p> - <p> - But time wears and effaces the deepest intaglio of impression, even that - of a young girl's first knowledge of death and eternal loss. Gradually the - quietude of eventless life, as the need for it wore away, grew wearisome, - oppressive, and the old restless cravings began to gnaw at her heart. The - breach that death had closed slowly widened again, so gradually that not - till it was fully appreciable did the sisters recognise it. The formulas - seemed narrower, more lifeless than ever. She had viewed dimly the - potentialities of life, and her soul burned within her with a fiercer - hunger. Almost against her will she revolted finally. - </p> - <p> - “What is this that Janet has been telling me,” said Mrs. Blather one - morning, “about your wanting to go back to London? You cannot be in - earnest, Clytie?” - </p> - <p> - Clytie looked at her sister rather sadly, tears springing into her eyes. - </p> - <p> - “You have been very good to me since I have come back, Gracie, and I have - learned to love you more than I did before—much more. But can't you - understand, dear, that if I am to go on loving you I must go away?” - </p> - <p> - “I can't see it at all,” replied Mrs. Blather. “If we have got on so - nicely together these last few months, why can't we continue? Janet and I - are willing to give you all in our power to make you happy.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah! but don't you see that what I want is out of your power to give?” - said Clytie. “Don't think I am wicked and ungrateful. If a man wants five - pounds, he is grateful to anyone who gives him one; but that does not - lessen his need of the other four. Now the other four pounds are not to be - got in Durdleham, Gracie, and I must have them.” - </p> - <p> - “You should learn content, Clytie,” said her sister. “We have all to put - up with our lot in life.” - </p> - <p> - Clytie checked an impulse of impatience at the platitude, and answered - with great gentleness of voice and manner: - </p> - <p> - “This is not my lot in life, dear. It is quite different. You and Janet - can bear it, because your natures crave this tranquillity. Mine craves - movement, excitement, strange faces. Oh, Gracie, it is no use talking—I - must go away, or I shall begin to hate Durdleham as I used to do. There is - nothing for me to do here. I am too bad for it, perhaps. I don't know. I - can't explain it to you; you have never felt it.” - </p> - <p> - “My dear Clytie, that is all nonsense,” said Mrs. Blather, who prided - herself, above all things, on being a woman of common sense. “As a matter - of fact, you can't go to London, because you would have no one to live - with, and you would only have your hundred a year to support you, as papa - has lost a great deal of money lately and can hardly afford to give you an - allowance. When your aunt was alive it was a different thing. The whole - idea of going to live alone in London is silly. So there's an end of it.” - </p> - <p> - Mrs. Blather went on with her sewing, with mingled feelings of content at - having done her duty and disappointment in the failure of promise of - reform in Clytie. She would have judged her sister mercifully had she been - able. She was naturally a gentle woman, full of kindness. But her canons - of duty would not allow her to encourage or condone wilfulness, caprice, - and a tendency to wrong-doing. She earnestly believed it was for Clytie's - good to stay in Durdleham. The girl's wider needs she could not - understand. - </p> - <p> - Clytie turned from the hearthrug, where she had been standing, to the - drawing-room window, and looked out blankly at the rain. Her young face - was set rather hard; her lips quivered a little; her heart beat quicker - than usual. A struggle was taking place within her—the struggle - between the girl and the woman. She felt that the great moment of her life - had come. She must choose. Which should it be: the dazzling light with its - weird shadows of things unseen, or the gray, easeful glimmer in which the - familiar realities cast no shadow? Which should it be: daughterly duty and - maidenly retirement, or the sundering of home ties forever and going out, - one woman, to battle with the world? - </p> - <p> - She turned away from the window at last and called to her sister. The - latter looked up and was filled with foreboding as she saw the girl's pale - face. - </p> - <p> - “Yes. What is the matter, Clytie?” - </p> - <p> - “I have made up my mind, Gracie,” she said a little huskily. “I am going - to London to live by myself. I can share lodgings with one of the girls I - know at the Slade School. There will be no difficulty. I can earn money; I - have already earned a little. As for mamma's money, I am of age now, and - it is my own to do what I like with it—as you and Janet do. Let this - be an end of the discussion, Gracie. I am going.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER III. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">F</span>ew people, in an - outburst of enthusiasm, would select the King's Road, Chelsea, as an ideal - locality to reside in. It is an important thoroughfare, no doubt, but it - lacks nobility and distinction. There are isolated, quiet spots in it, - with houses lying back from the road; and from the upper windows of - favoured residences one can obtain a view over Yeitch's or Bull's - extensive hothouses, and catch dim shadows of great tropical palms and a - mellowed dash of brilliant red and yellow. There are others which look - over Portman Square or St. Luke's Churchyard. But on the other hand, there - are long stretches of dreary shops and factories, grit and general - uncomeliness. Without being squalid, it has a careworn, untidy appearance, - as if it was far too much harassed with the petty worries and strain of - workaday life to think of cheerful adornment. Few people, except errand - boys whose sense either of aesthetics or duty is usually undeveloped, - saunter casually along the King's Road. A stranger tries to get out of it - as fast as he can; a frequenter has his business to attend to. Fashion - does not pass along it, except on tearing drags bound for Hurlingham. It - is essentially a small bourgeois part of London, with all the small - bourgeois unpretence and honest, if somewhat dismal, solidity. - </p> - <p> - It was in the middle of such a dreary stretch of the road, some half mile - west of Sloane Square, that Clytie found a lodging. The fact that a - green-grocer's shop, owned by the landlord of the house, occupied the - ground floor was compensated, in a measure, by the existence of a small - studio at the back, on the first floor, originally constructed by a - struggling photographer, who had since worked his way upwards into a more - fashionably perfumed atmosphere. One of Clytie's favourite - fellow-students, Winifred Marchpane, who lived in Lower Sloane Street, and - whose family obtained their potatoes and salads from Mr. Gurkins, had - recommended the establishment, and offered to share with her the expenses - of the studio. The cheapness of the rooms suited Clytie's modest purse, - and the prospect of pleasant companionship in the studio was an additional - attraction. It is true that the acrid smell of the potatoes, when the side - door from the shop on to the private entrance lobby was left open, - ascended the stairs, together with a vague odour of cooking, bearing - upwards, as it were, on savoury breath the disputes of Mrs. Gurkins with - the shopboy and the cries of her apparently ever-youthful progeny. The - incessant rumble, too, of omnibuses, drays, and furniture vans, and the - peculiarly aggressive rattle of tradesmen's carts, shook the floor and the - windows and shivered the lustres of the chandelier. There were many - drawbacks to elegant life, but Clytie, borrowing some philosophy from a - talk with Mrs. Farquharson, proceeded to disregard those she could not - eliminate. The sitting-room, when the door was shut and the curtains drawn - of an evening, was cosy enough. The pictures, nicknacks, hangings, and - other minor accessories of furnished apartments Clytie had returned to - Mrs. Gurkins' keeping, on the plea that she scarcely had room for her own—which - was true; and, by some miraculous art of persuasion, she had induced Mr. - Gurkins to remove the nerve-shattering chandelier, on the ground that she - could not work by gaslight—which was not true. She hung thick - curtains over the door to keep out noise and odour, broke up the rigidity - of the furniture by screens, small tables, and plants, and painted a long - panel for the old cottage piano that made it look fresh and companionable. - When all the arrangements were completed the room appeared dainty and - homelike, bearing, however, here and there, in bold notes of colour, folds - of drapery, and odd bits of semi-impressionist painting, a peculiar - impress of its tenant's personality. - </p> - <p> - She was living at last the life she had so passionately longed for. There - was not a human being to control her actions, not a conventionality to - check the utterance of her thoughts. During her early days here she almost - felt tempted to hang up her latchkey over the mantelpiece as a glorious - symbol of liberty. It seemed not only to serve to give her entrance to her - own modest home, but to be the power that would unlock the heart of the - great London that lay before her. - </p> - <p> - From the first she had little difficulty in finding work. Dealers bought - small pictures and gave her orders. She also pleased a firm of publishers - to whom she had gone with letters of introduction and specimens of her - draughtsmanship, and obtained work in the way of book and magazine - illustrating. Her earnings were not large, but there was the promise of - success to come. At the end of two years her income was large enough to - have enabled her to move from the King's Road into a more refined - locality; but she had grown accustomed to its noise and rattle, and to the - hurried, joyless stream of life that flowed along it day by day. And Mrs. - Gurkins understood her tastes and habits, a quality in a landlady - appreciated by women as well as men. So she stayed on. - </p> - <p> - She read widely during these years, learned much. Between the ages of - twenty-two and twenty-four a woman is capable of vast assimilation of - ideas. They can flow into the freshly opened, unpolluted channels of her - being, as yet unclogged by the refuse of sorrows and wearinesses. Her - rejection of the old formulas, and the paramount necessity of gaining - knowledge wherewith to provide herself substitutes, checked in her any - impulse towards moral or artistic idealism. She read deeply, instinctively - seeking after the roots of life, the elemental passions that shake our - nature, be its superstructure never so delicately complex. The dawning - knowledge half frightened, half attracted her. The barbaric feminine in - her struggled to escape into solitude. With fluttering eyelids downcast it - recoiled from the idea of passion as yet unawakened responsively within - her. But the higher needs of modernity constrained her to a just, resolute - system of inquiry. She learned that there are deeper laws regulating our - being than those which could be enunciated at Durdleham tea-tables, where - the ingrained habit of non-recognition of them restricted life within - narrowest limits, and put, as it were, a prohibition tax upon exoteric - sympathy. - </p> - <p> - At four-and-twenty Clytie was a woman—emotional, impulsive, eager to - taste of any new experience. The old rebellious habit of mind had - developed into a frank independence. Her step was elastic, her bearing - confident. Her life was full and happy. - </p> - <p> - “I am glad I am a woman now,” she said to Mrs. Farquharson. “I seem to - have all the advantages of both sexes.” - </p> - <p> - “Wait till you're married, my dear,” replied her friend. - </p> - <p> - Mrs. Farquharson was fond of the use of affectionate irritants. They are - often valuable preservatives of friendship. - </p> - <p> - Clytie laughed. - </p> - <p> - “I suppose I shall marry some day. I don't want to end up by leading half - a life; but I want to have two or three years more of this. I must play at - being a man a little longer.” - </p> - <p> - “A pretty sort of man!” said Mrs. Farquharson, resting her chin on her - hand and looking at Clytie with amused eyes. “You are the most deliciously - feminine young woman I know. Look at your frock and your hair.” - </p> - <p> - Judging by outward appearances Mrs. Farquharson's criticism was correct. - Clytie had the artistic sense in dress. It was like most of her other - artistic impulses, with the personal note dominant—soft textures, - falling easily into folds, quiet in tone, dark grays, subdued half shades - of yellows, suddenly brightened by a small, daring flash of colour at - throat or bosom. Lace, with its creamy, clinging softness delighted her, - and she wore it defiantly, with a certain sense of triumph that she was - perhaps the only girl in England who could wear it with faultless taste. - </p> - <p> - She was of medium height, but her slender, fully formed figure and its - erect carriage gave her an air of tallness. Her head set well on her - shoulders, and a habit of holding it back, with the chin pointing upwards, - free of the throat, added to the impression of young, fearless womanhood. - Her eyes were dark blue, wide apart, yet sunk in finely moulded orbits. A - light of humour playing in their depths, together with a soft modelling of - the nose contours beneath them, atoned for an impression of hardness and - sensuousness that would have been given by the ripe, full lips with their - little curl of disdain. Her face was rounded delicately—that much - she inherited from the Davenants—but a faint flush of colour showed - the buoyant young blood within, just as her deep red hair, with a thousand - lights dancing in it, attested the rich, vigorous strain that had asserted - itself in her. She was proud, womanlike, of this hair, and had a way of - dressing it in bewildering confusion. - </p> - <p> - Her Slade School friend, Winifred Marchpane, continued to share the studio - with her. At first she had been a little afraid of Clytie, whose bold - judgments and fearless expression of opinion were not qualified always to - attract a timorous, shrinking nature. But gradually the stronger - personality had overpowered the weaker and bound it to itself by - unbreakable bonds. A great friendship had thus arisen between the girls, - based on Winifred's side on enthusiastic admiration, almost worship, and - on Clytie's on a tender feeling of love and protection. - </p> - <p> - Winifred was one of a large family, her father, a retired officer in the - army with limited income. Two of her sisters were governesses, earning - their livelihood miles away from home. Another one took charge of the - smaller members of the household. Winifred, who had a dainty talent for - the painting of still life, supported herself, living at home and paying - her share of the household expenses. She was a little, gentle creature, - with dark hair, and with a rich colour showing beneath a brown cheek. Her - deep brown eyes had a doglike trustfulness in them, and a steadfastness - withal such as makes the heroine. A girl of few moods, few caprices. Her - work was always beautifully, conscientiously finished. She always loved - it, always found in it the same quiet charm. There was no element of - passion in it to set jarring the strings of futile endeavour. A fine sense - of colour and gradation and subtle curve, a supreme delicacy of touch—that - was her sole artistic stock in trade, and she never sought to stray beyond - the limits imposed. She had had a little picture accepted at the Academy, - hung in a far, far corner—a bunch of Maréchal Niel roses, - full-blown, in a Venetian glass vase of exquisitely veined transparencies—a - perfect little picture, sweet and pure, like herself. - </p> - <p> - It was a cold March day. The sun shone cheerfully through the drawn white - blinds of the studio skylight, but an east wind blowing outside came in - through the cracks and defied the blaze of the fire in the stove. - </p> - <p> - “You are quite blue with cold,” said Winifred, laying down mahl-stick and - palette. “Here, put on this wrap. Why don't you take more care of - yourself?” - </p> - <p> - “I never thought of it,” said Clytie, shivering a little and accepting - contentedly the wrap and a caress. “I was sketching out quite a history of - that boy who has just left.” - </p> - <p> - Winifred drew a stool to Clytie's chair near the fire and took up her - position upon it—a favourite one with her, as she could have both - the moral solace of sitting at Clytie's feet, and the physical comfort of - resting her head in Clytie's lap. - </p> - <p> - “I hope he won't bring all kinds of horrible people into the house—burglars, - you know, like Oliver Twist,” she added vaguely. - </p> - <p> - “I suppose it is rather rash picking up a model out of the streets. But he - is just the boy I wanted to give character to the group. I was going to - paint in one out of my own head.” - </p> - <p> - “I don't know how you get all those street types out of your head, Clytie. - I wish I could do it.” - </p> - <p> - “I would like to see you try, you silly child,” said Clytie, laughing. - “Your street arabs would look like stray Cupids hastily huddled up in old - clothes by a shocked and modest policeman!” - </p> - <p> - “I did not mean that; you know I didn't. What I meant was—I wish I - could paint without models. I don't think I could paint a common flat leaf - without having it before me. As for painting that”—and she pointed - to a basket standing by her easel, overflowing with anemones, snowdrops, - and violets obtained that morning by Mr. Gurkins from Covent Garden—“without - a copy, I might just as soon think of flying.” - </p> - <p> - “You are an artist, Winnie, and love your art for its own sake. I am not - quite so sure that I do, now. To have to finish all the thousand little - convolutions of those bells would drive me raving mad. I should like to - have a ghost as sculptors do, only mine would do the finishing and put in - all the nuisance of detail. That's why I can get on without models. It - saves time. I can bring home a face with me from the streets, and I can - paint it in rapidly, and then I am done. I suppose I oughtn't to be, but - Burrowes seems satisfied. He says he has got quite a 'line' in my pictures—the - correct ones—and is thinking of raising the price. I am sure that - man has been a linen-draper.” - </p> - <p> - “If you could remember the boy's face why do you bring him here?” asked - Winifred. “I only want to know why you want him so particularly, dear,” - she added, raising her chin and looking upwards at Clytie. - </p> - <p> - The boy had been ragged and uncared-for, not exactly a street urchin, but - on a vague borderland of respectability, between the newspaper arab and - the errand boy.—a hybrid with the vices of many strains. - </p> - <p> - “Do you really want to know, Winnie?” said Clytie. “Perhaps you'll be - shocked. However, you'll have to know sooner or later: I am going to make - a picture of him on my own account, just a little bit more fantastic than - he is, and call him a—an—oh, dear! what shall I call him?” - </p> - <p> - “An elf?” - </p> - <p> - “Good gracious, no. What have I to do with elves and fairies and that sort - of thing? He is the son of Cophetua—supposing the king had not - married the beggar maid.” - </p> - <p> - “Then why not the son of any other king?” - </p> - <p> - “Why not, indeed?” said Clytie drily. “Or of any other beggar maid?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh!” said Winifred, looking into the fire. - </p> - <p> - And then after a pause: - </p> - <p> - “What makes you think that?” - </p> - <p> - “Did you see his mother? I did. Such a stupid-looking, red-faced woman. I - think she said she was a charwoman by profession. There are generations of - drudgery in her face, whereas in Jack's there is vigour and intelligence—something - so different; he must have some better strain of blood in him than she and - a husband of her class can have given him. Don't you think so, dear?” - </p> - <p> - “He's a very pretty boy,” replied Winifred, “but, oh, he is so dirty and”—with - a shudder—“so animal.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, he fascinates me,” said Clytie meditatively. “I am going to paint - one of my wildest pictures—all for my own self—and a bit for - you if you like, Winnie.” Winnie accepted this tribute of affection with a - little flush of pleasure, although Clytie's “own” pictures seldom gave her - unqualified æsthetic delight, and turned her face towards Clytie, who - laughed in her frank way. - </p> - <p> - “Don't look at me with those great eyes of yours, child! You make me angry - for you. They are just the sort of eyes that make women miserable. You - must not trust in people like that, believe me.” - </p> - <p> - “I trust them when they are good like you, dear.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, but you mustn't. Don't you know I am the wickedest girl going—always - thinking of the most dreadful things? Look at the wall. How can you love - anybody that can do these silly things?” - </p> - <p> - She pointed to a series of grotesque charcoal caricatures on the studio - wall. She had been dissatisfied a day or two back with a picture she had - been engaged on for a month, and in a fit of wilfulness had daubed it out - and then proceeded to make a cruel, fantastic travesty of it on the wall. - </p> - <p> - “You wanted your tea, dear, just as you do now,” replied Winifred. - </p> - <p> - This tea hour was Winifred's great delight. At home, on account of the - children, they had to sit round the dining table and butter their own - thick slices of bread and drink out of substantial breakfast cups. In the - studio the girls had provided a dainty little afternoon tea equipage, and - Mrs. Gurkins always cut thin bread and butter from a fancy loaf. Generally - it was Winifred who poured out the tea, but to-day Clytie busied herself - with the cups, thus making some slight amends, perhaps, for having shocked - Winifred. Women are full of these odd feminine impulses, and other women - understand them. Men don't. - </p> - <p> - They sat talking, as they usually did, over their tea, and long - afterwards, until it was time for Winifred to go home. As they were taking - leave of each other on the landing a man sprang up the stairs, checked - himself, and raised a slouch hat as he passed them and vanished up the - next flight. He was a fresh-faced man, with a brown and tawny beard; tawny - ends, too, to his moustaches; bright gray eyes flashing humourously as he - passed the girls. His dress was careless, loose and unfashionable, yet it - was marked with a certain individuality. - </p> - <p> - “Who is that?” Winifred whispered when the last foot of the ascending - figure had disappeared. - </p> - <p> - “That's another protest,” said Clytie—“a better one. He has the - courage of his convictions.” - </p> - <p> - “What do you mean, Clytie?” - </p> - <p> - “Well, can't you recognise a protest when you see one?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, Clytie, don't tease and puzzle me,” cried Winifred, giving her - friend's arm a little shake. “Do you know him?” - </p> - <p> - “Of course not. How should I? But Mrs. Gurkins was telling me about him - only this morning. His name is Kent. He seems to frighten the life out of - her, and therefore I say he is a protest. Now you know, so run away home.” - </p> - <p> - When Winifred had reached the street door Clytie leaned over the banisters - and called after her. - </p> - <p> - “Winnie! I must have been in a sweet temper this afternoon.” - </p> - <p> - “Of course, dear. Why do you say so?” - </p> - <p> - “Because you have left your basket of anemones for me to take care of!” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER IV. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>hen Winifred had - gone Clytie took an omnibus to Cheyne Walk, where some friends of hers - lived, and after her visit returned to her solitary dinner. It argued some - strength of mind in Clytie that she did not give way, as many lonely women - do, to a distaste for ordinary food, and a corresponding craving for the - miscellaneous and not over wholesome meal denominated high tea. She had - not reached the stage of feminine depression and sense of helplessness - when inchoate banqueting on bread and butter and penny buns seems to bring - cheerless solace. Her temperament seemed almost virile in its vigour, and - although she had her sex's antipathy to gastronomy, she nevertheless found - it reasonable that she should be provided with a decently served dinner. - Besides, Mrs. Gurkins, who was professionally interested in food stuffs, - held solid views on the subject. She herself had a good appetite, and her - little girl children ate everything they could lay their little white - teeth to; she did not believe in not being hungry. It was one of her - grievances that her other lodger, Mr. Kent upstairs, cooked his own - victuals scramblingly, and would not allow her to see that his wants were - duly satisfied. Accordingly she bestowed extra care upon Clytie. - </p> - <p> - After the cloth was removed Clytie continued the book she had been reading - during the meal, and at last flung it aside. She rose and walked about the - room, somewhat restless. She felt lonely—vaguely desirous of action, - and yet idle. Was it a dumb premonition of fate, this restlessness? At any - rate it led her to perform a trivial action which set in motion the - currents of her future life. - </p> - <p> - She sat down at her writing table that stood in the recess between the - fireplace and the light-curtained window and lit a couple of candles, - whose pretty red paper shades threw a rosy glow around the corner of the - room. It was only a simple note that she scribbled, hastily, boldly, as - was her wont. Then she left the candles burning, and returned to her - armchair by the fire and gave herself up to meditation. - </p> - <p> - The boy model she had engaged that morning interested' her powerfully. She - shrank from an insistence upon the solution of the little problem she had - offered to Winifred during the afternoon, hovering over and away from it. - Her sense of type and personality was too acute not to be profoundly - struck by the difference between his mother and himself. On the one hand - was dulness, commonness, a coarse-fibred nature responsive to the - stirrings of neither hope nor despair, a dull, uncomplaining drudge; on - the other hand a quick, fiery temperament, showing itself in flashing - black eyes, delicate nostrils, wiry, curly brown hair—all made - picturesque by unqualified dirt. And yet, despite this refinement of - feature, there was cruelty, brutality even, written on the childish face. - That might be the fault of his upbringing, thought Clytie. But his beauty—where - did it come from? She smiled as she thought of King Cophetua. It was the - beggar maiden's grace that had won the king's heart, and grace was a - quality that Jack's mother most distinctly lacked. Clytie felt dimly - conscious of being on the verge of an appalling discovery. Her reading had - been catholic enough, and her independent acquaintance with life - sufficiently broad, to render the fact familiar to her that kings and - beggar maidens if they fall in love with each other usually dispense with - the ceremony of marriage. But then love pardons all—a formula in - Clytie's new theory of social statics, perhaps wisely not accepted in - Durdleham—and all the sorrow in lawlessness that had come within - Clytie's small experience had been in her eyes sanctified by love. Yet who - could have loved this woman? She was not more than three-and-thirty now—young - enough to show that she had never possessed the mere attraction of - comeliness. The boy remained, however, a living proof. - </p> - <p> - She thought of Winifred, and sighed a little. Why should she be forever - craving after this strange hidden knowledge, after the taste of things - bitter, when there was so much sweetness in life? The thought of - Winifred's pure, gentle touch in flowers and delicate bloom of fruit and - calm, transparent glass came over her like a rebuke. And then she smiled - again, remembering how Winifred had coaxed her once to try and paint a - bunch of roses, and how dismayed she had been at the egregious failure. - No; the cobbler must not go beyond his last. - </p> - <p> - “I don't suppose I am very wicked after all,” she said to herself. - </p> - <p> - She rested her chin upon her hand and let her thoughts wander idly, - building up a romance for Jack. He was a foundling, of noble parents, and - Mrs. Burmester was only his foster mother. Then she roused herself with a - little exclamation of disgust: - </p> - <p> - “What a perfectly Durdleham solution!” - </p> - <p> - The next moment, with an instinct common to folks whether at Durdleham or - London, she sprang from her chair and cried: - </p> - <p> - “There's something burning!” - </p> - <p> - The room in fact was full of thin smoke, and, as Clytie rose, a snake of - red flame ran up the curtains by the writing-desk. She rushed to them, but - as soon as she had touched them, the folds being shaken out, the whole - burst into a blaze. She fled to the door about to scream “Fire!” at the - top of her voice. - </p> - <p> - What happened next neither she nor John Kent could afterwards exactly - explain. He was on his way downstairs when the door was suddenly thrown - open and a stream of light burst on to the gloomy landing. Clytie ran - almost into his arms crying, “My room is on fire!” and then he was tearing - down blazing, fiery curtains, smothering them with rugs, and stamping out - glowing masses of drapery amid much smoke and confusion. It did not take - very long to extinguish the flames, but the struggle while it lasted was - fierce and exciting. Clytie stood by watching him, her hand at her throat. - It was a new sensation to her to have a man acting for her in an - emergency. She had failed. She saw by the man's energy, his fearless - dealing with the blazing mass, his strength, his violence, that she never - could have succeeded. She admired him, was angry at it; felt herself a - helpless woman, was angry at that too; wished that the danger had been a - little greater, at which she was more angry than ever. - </p> - <p> - However, when the last traces of the fire were extinguished, and the man - stood before her, somewhat out of breath, wiping his forehead, this little - train of emotions came to an end. She gazed piteously at her curtainless - windows and scorched wainscoting. He turned and opened the window, whence - the damp, gusty wind whirled the smoke in billowing drifts about the room. - </p> - <p> - “There!” he said, with a breath of relief. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, how can I thank you?” said Clytie. + “Don't,” he replied with - cheerful laconism. “I am glad I was handy—for your sake as well as - my own. I live upstairs.” - </p> - <p> - “I know; I have seen you come in and out. In fact, you passed us to-day. - But still you have saved the whole house, and I thank you very, very - much!” - </p> - <p> - “How did it all happen?” he asked, removing for the first time his white - slouch hat and disclosing a shock of brown curly hair. - </p> - <p> - “The candle-shade on the desk; do you see? It must have caught fire and - toppled over on to the curtains. I was sitting here and forgot I had left - the candles alight; and then I smelled something burning and saw the - curtains in a blaze. Then I ran out to call somebody.” - </p> - <p> - “That was very stupid,” said Kent, pushing back the desk from the middle - of the room, where he had wheeled it; “by opening the door you made the - things burn quicker. All you had to do was to drag down the curtains and - cover them with the hearthrug. And then it is very silly to use paper - candle-shades. They are no good, and they are always causing accidents. I - hope you are not going to get any more.” - </p> - <p> - The assured paternal air with which Kent delivered himself of this little - speech did away with its apparent rudeness. Clytie, who at first looked - rather resentfully at her rebuker, laughed. - </p> - <p> - They bent down together to restore order among the singed rugs. Beneath - them was Kent's waterproof, on to which he had thrown the blazing - curtains. It was very badly burned and of course rendered useless. - </p> - <p> - “It is utterly ruined!” exclaimed Clytie, examining the holes with a - helpless expression of regret on her face. - </p> - <p> - And then her eyes suddenly fell upon a great ugly red splash upon his - hand. He withdrew it hastily, but she caught the sleeve of his coat. The - stuff came away between her fingers. - </p> - <p> - “You have burned yourself horribly. Oh, what can I do?” - </p> - <p> - “It's nothing,” said Kent. “It doesn't hurt. I'll go and put something on - it. Please don't trouble. Goodnight.” - </p> - <p> - He moved towards the door, with his hat and burned waterproof in his hand. - But Clytie could not let him leave in this way. The woman in her was - moved. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, please don't go until I have seen what harm you have got. I should - feel so unhappy about it. I may be able to dress it for you—until - you can see a doctor.” - </p> - <p> - She spoke so sincerely, so frankly, and looked at him with such genuine - concern, that he surrendered with a good grace. He came forward to the - table where the big lamp was burning and put out his arm for her - inspection. It was really injured, and was beginning to be exceedingly - painful. - </p> - <p> - “What can I do for it?” she asked rather helplessly. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, some olive oil and a bit of rag will be the best.” - </p> - <p> - Clytie produced some cotton wool and some oil from a cruet in the - sideboard and then sought after some linen to bandage with. Kent noticed - that she did not ask him for his handkerchief, nor did she use her own, - but went rather impulsively to a workbasket and tore off a strip of soft - material that was lying on the top. It was very expensive stuff, and the - whole piece of work of which it was to form a part was spoiled. It was - characteristic of her. Another woman would have remembered where she had - stored some odds and ends of old linen. - </p> - <p> - Kent watched her curiously as she was bending over his hand. He had often - seen her before, but his life went on so far outside the sphere of women - that he had scarcely given her a thought as he had passed her by. He had - never even inquired her name. From the mere fact of her renting the studio - it had come involuntarily to his knowledge that she followed pursuits more - or less artistic; but his curiosity had never been aroused. Now that he - had been suddenly thrown into close contact with her he was interested. He - smiled at himself for the unwonted pleasure he found in watching the - lights dancing through her hair, the brows contracted ever so little in - the absorption of her occupation, the long nervous fingers, set on the - broad palm, deftly arranging the cotton wool, the scrap of old lace at her - throat and wrists. She was pretty, striking, to look upon, but he had not - formed a very high impression of her otherwise. It was just the sort of - thing a woman would do, to run out of the room when it was on fire, to - give up thinking for herself in any emergency and trust blindly in - Providence—or a man. It is a strange thing that those men who see - least of women know most concerning them. - </p> - <p> - As she raised her head after pinning the bandage she caught the expression - of amusement on his face. He was quick to note the little shadow of - resentment that passed over hers. - </p> - <p> - “I was thinking what a mess I should have made of it by myself,” he said - with a tact that surprised him. “Thank you very much.” - </p> - <p> - “It was the least I could do,” replied Clytie. “I feel so guilty about it - all—and your poor waterproof too.” - </p> - <p> - “It's a very old one,” he replied good-humouredly, holding the garment out - for inspection. “My friends will be delighted. They have threatened to cut - me in the streets if they saw me in it again. So you see you have secured - my friendship for me. And I shall get on much better with an umbrella - to-night.” - </p> - <p> - “But you're surely not going out to-night!” cried Clytie, moving to the - window and shutting it, as if he were intending to escape through it. “It - is pouring wet, and you would catch cold in your hand—it would get - inflamed, or something dreadful. It is stupid of people not to take care - of themselves. It's hurting fearfully, isn't it? Tell me.” - </p> - <p> - She looked at him so frankly, her head thrown back a little, and spoke - with such a faint touch of imperiousness in her voice, that Kent checked - his impulse of retreat. “Of course it hurts. But I don't mind. If one - minded all the little pains of this life, one would have no time for - anything else. Besides, I am used to rough it a bit. It is my own choice, - more or less, and I like it.” - </p> - <p> - Clytie remembered the strange stories Mrs. Gurkins had told her about - Kent's way of life. She had listened to them with idle interest, never - imagining that Kent and herself would ever become acquainted. Now that he - alluded to his habits she felt bound to confess her share in the gossip, - which she did somewhat rebelliously, checking certain more timorous - promptings of silence. - </p> - <p> - “So you see I know all about you,” she said in conclusion. “When people - are eccentric they become, as it were, public characters. Now if you were - to talk to Mrs. Gurkins——” - </p> - <p> - “Heavens forbid!” cried Kent with much warmth. “I was fleeing from her - this afternoon when I nearly knocked you down.” - </p> - <p> - “Why?” asked Clytie, laughing. - </p> - <p> - “I don't know—instinct, I suppose. Perhaps I have been wrong. - Otherwise I might have known something more of you. It's a bad compliment, - I am aware, but I have been here a whole year and I have never seen or - heard your name. Might I know whom I have had the pleasure of assisting? I - did not in the least care before, but now it is different.” - </p> - <p> - There was an honesty and directness in his voice that pleased Clytie. She - felt glad he had asked her. There is a touch of susceptible vanity even in - the most emancipated of women. - </p> - <p> - “My name is Davenant, and I am by way of being an artist—that is to - say, I gain my living by it.” - </p> - <p> - Her eyes wandered unconsciously round the room hung with many of her - half-finished sketches. Kent followed her glance, and then crossed to the - wall and examined one or two of the pictures. - </p> - <p> - “Are these yours?” he asked, turning round quickly. - </p> - <p> - They were charcoal sketches of street scenes, direct and daring. Kent - received Clytie's nod of assent, and glanced at the pictures and then at - her again, as if trying to reconcile the two. - </p> - <p> - “Is all your work of this kind?” - </p> - <p> - “Mostly. Sometimes I draw it milder,” she added, with a smile, “when - definite orders come in; but I feel more at home with this sort of thing.” - </p> - <p> - Kent returned to the centre of the room, where he had been standing - before. - </p> - <p> - “I am not an artist myself,” he said, “but I have been brought up in an - atmosphere of art and I love it. My father was Rupert Kent, - painter-etcher; he did that little thing over your mantelpiece.” - </p> - <p> - “Isn't it a perfect little piece of work?” said Clytie, looking round at - it. “I am very fond of it.” - </p> - <p> - “So was my father. Well, you see, I am not a Philistine in art matters, - and when I say your work interests me I mean it. I should like to look at - some more of it. Where is it to be found?” - </p> - <p> - “You can come anytime to my studio if you like. It is my place of - business, you know, and perhaps you may get me some orders. Art is - terribly mercenary in these days.” - </p> - <p> - “I want to see the things you do for yourself,” said Kent bluntly, - ignoring the little hedge wherewith she had fenced her invitation. “It - will be very kind of you to let me come.” - </p> - <p> - Clytie held out her hand to him as he bade her goodnight and thanked him - for his help. - </p> - <p> - “And now that we know each other,” she said, “I hope—I hope you - won't cut me on the stairs.” - </p> - <p> - When he had gone Clytie looked ruefully at the damage that had been done. - Her pretty inside curtains were destroyed; the heavy outer ones burned - into great charred holes. The carpet and hearthrug were badly scorched, - and the side of her writing-table warped and blistered. As she gazed at - the wreck she went over the little scene in her mind. Why had she stood - still, leaving the whole of the work to Kent? What must he have thought of - her? - </p> - <p> - If he had been any ordinary man of her acquaintance she would have been - still angry with herself for her helplessness, and her anger would have - reflected itself on him. But now she put the question to herself more - through curiosity than irritation. There was a simplicity about the man - that attracted her. His words had been blunt, almost rude sometimes, but - his voice had been kind, his manner protective, straightforward. She had - signally marked her approbation for him by asking him to visit her studio, - a privilege she only accorded to a few tried and very sympathetic men - friends. Kent interested her, and yet she had not the slightest desire to - transfer her impression of him to canvas. - </p> - <p> - The next morning she gave Winifred an account of the last evening's - incidents, confessing her own impressions in her wilful, half-cynical way. - Her friend listened meekly, wondering at her earnestness. The curtains had - caught fire, a gentleman had come opportunely to her aid, had burned his - hand, which she had tended in common courtesy. It was all so very natural. - As for feeling humiliated at being helped by a man, what are women put in - the world for except to yield and give way before men? - </p> - <p> - But Winifred did not say this to Clytie. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER V. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">J</span>ohn Kent, - antiquarian, scientist, Bohemian, and assistant curator in the British - Museum, dwelt in the attics, far above the limit of the stair carpet. By - the time you had reached them you had lost all sound of the thoroughfare - below, and even when you looked out of the windows all sense of locality - was lost. Nothing could be seen but roofs and chimney-pots, except on very - clear days, when, through an accidental vista of streets, the tops of the - trees in Chelsea Hospital were dimly visible. But in Kent's rooms no one - cared to look out of window. In the first place, it was difficult of - access, and in the second, the extraordinary appearance of the apartment - riveted one's attention entirely to things within. - </p> - <p> - On the floor was neither carpet nor rug. The place of a fender was - supplied by three large iron tripods, waifs from some dismantled chemical - laboratory, which, when they were not otherwise engaged as footstools, - served to support a kettle, a saucepan, and a glue-pot. All around the - walls, with just one space for the door, ran a broad deal dresser that did - duty for several tables, and below it, here and there, were cunningly - contrived cupboards. Above, every inch of wall was covered: one side - completely with books, the others with pictures, mostly old engravings, - little masters such as Cranach and Behm, a frame of perfect little - Aldegravers, a Prince Rupert mezzo, two Woolmers with their exquisite wavy - lines, Bewicks, and a magnificent modern Jacquemart etching of a Sèvres - vase. The intermediate spaces were filled up with a heterogeneous - assortment of curios. The dresser-table was likewise laden with books, - coin cases, scientific specimens, strange weapons, old axe-heads, Japanese - sword hilts cunningly carved, newspapers, journals, pamphlets, and papers - innumerable. There were only two fairly clear spaces around the whole - extent: one where Kent worked, and another where he took such meals as he - had in his lodgings. Save for one solitary leather writing-chair, the - centre of the large room was absolutely empty; but in a corner, on the - floor, were piled up a set of canvas deck-chairs which Kent brought out - and opened whenever he had visitors. - </p> - <p> - All the fixtures in the room he had made with his own hands. Manual labour - was a delight to him. He also cooked his own food and cleaned out the - room. The latter operation consisted in raking out the ashes from his - grate and laying the fire afresh. No peace-destroying woman disturbed the - precincts with broom and duster. When the dust grew so thick that it - interfered with his breathing and clouded the lens of his microscope he - went round with an old towel flicking and flapping with great energy, and - then he watered the floor out of an old bronchitis-kettle. - </p> - <p> - Kent was a happy man. He had convictions, enthusiasms; manifold interests - in life for his lighter moments, one great absorbing work for his serious - hours. His slender income sufficed amply for all his wants, and there was - always a margin over for the purchase of an occasional rare edition or - print or curio. Whenever his salary was increased that margin was greater. - His mode of life never changed, for the simple reason that he considered - it to be the most delightful one possible. Purple, fine linen, and - sumptuous fare had no charms for him. It was always with much groaning of - spirit that he put on dress clothes when he went out into the world. He - cared not for the high places in the synagogues. Provided he had not to - wait outside the doors, the pit of a theatre was a place as desirable as - the stalls. - </p> - <p> - In his friends too he was happy—a few men different from himself and - from each other—and to these he clung loyally. But the conditions of - his life removed him from feminine influences. Beyond those girls in his - immediate family circle, whom he called by their Christian names and - treated with an old-fashioned, brotherly protection, scolding them when - they did foolish things, such as wearing light shoes in wet weather, - performing little services for them when they behaved themselves nicely, - he never troubled his head about womankind. - </p> - <p> - On the night when Clytie's curtains caught fire he had been on his way to - visit a coterie of three bachelor friends who shared a house in South - Kensington. They were accustomed to his nocturnal appearances, and the - worse the night and the later it grew the more likely was Kent to present - himself at the sitting-room door, a dripping, ruddy apparition, his cheeks - and beard glistening with raindrops. And then he would throw off his - mackintosh, call for slippers, and join the circle round the fire. The - thoughts of the dreary tramp home between two and three never seemed to - dismay him. Cheerlessness of environment in no way affected his happiness. - </p> - <p> - They formed the chief part of his social life, these three friends, tried - by the changes in fibre, tastes, affinities, that over half a score of - years effect. There was Fairfax, the doctor, ruddy, full-blooded, magnetic - with health and vitality, whose brass plate shone huge on the front door, - inviting confidence; Greene, the solicitor, shrewd, hard-headed, a speaker - of few words; and Wither, the civil servant, the little gnomelike man, - full of strange sayings, whimsical, non-moral, a man of boyish, elfin - beauty, trusted by men, petted by women. Of the three Kent loved Wither - best. Wither saw deeper into the world's mysteries than he, but his own - sturdy honest sense had kept the other from many an abyss. - </p> - <p> - After bidding Clytie good-night, Kent stood irresolute on the landing. - Should he wrap the remains of his waterproof around him, and still go - whither his truest happiness had hitherto always led him? Considerations - of the chill, sleeting night and the throbbing pain in his hand went for - nothing in his decision. The girl who had tended the burn had almost - besought him not to go out. To disregard her would be an act of - discourtesy. Thus thought honest Kent as he turned on his heel and slowly - mounted the stair. But his evening had been spoiled, he told his briarwood - pipe, with a consoling sense of martyrdom, and the cause thereof was - feminine. - </p> - <p> - “It is just the silly sort of thing that Agatha would do,” he said to - himself. - </p> - <p> - Agatha was his sister, whom he pitied intensely for being a woman. He - thought of Clytie's pictures, the signs of virility in them, and he began - to pity Clytie too. Yet there was a difference of kind in his sentiments. - He pitied his sister for being constrained to ambitionless-ness and - futility; he was sorry for the handicap of sex to Clytie's ambitions. - </p> - <p> - In some such attitude of mind towards her he knocked at the studio door - the following afternoon. It is true that a warning throb of the bourgeois - in him, that still sometimes mutely guided the Bohemian along certain - tracks, had made him consider for a vague moment the correctness of - calling so immediately upon Clytie; but the directness and simplicity of - his nature disregarded it. It was only natural that Clytie should like to - know how his burned hand was faring. - </p> - <p> - He found the girls busily painting, Winifred at the side, with her basket - of flowers near her, Clytie standing at her easel, in the middle of the - room, her back to the door, her face turned half round to see who would - enter in response to her call. - </p> - <p> - On the floor by the fireside sprawled Jack, the model, eating an orange. - His face was still dirty, his curly hair matted. Winifred had pathetically - besought Clytie to have him washed. Why should his poor little face be all - over dirt? - </p> - <p> - “Because it could not exist without it,” Clytie had answered. “It was so - before he was born.” - </p> - <p> - Winifred had given her one of her appealing looks from swimming brown - eyes, and Clytie, remorseful, had run impulsively up and caressed and - kissed her. But she had not washed Jack's face. He scrambled to his feet - and looked defiantly, like a young animal, at Kent when he entered. - </p> - <p> - The ground-glass roof, the white walls scored over with Clytie's - fantasies, and the bright red curtain at the back behind the stove gave a - singular setting to the picture. - </p> - <p> - Clytie's eyes brightened. She threw a cloth over the picture she was - engaged on. - </p> - <p> - “How good of you to come—and the hand?” - </p> - <p> - “A trifle. It will be quite well in a few days; I thought you would not - mind my coming to tell you how your doctoring had succeeded. I am keeping - it in a sling—so; otherwise I should be always trying to use it. You - are none the worse, Miss Davenant?” - </p> - <p> - “I? Why should I?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, nerves, shock, headache—and all that. My mother, I know, would - have been upset for a week.” - </p> - <p> - Clytie laughed; a gay little laugh. She pierced through the words to the - simplicity that lay behind them. - </p> - <p> - “I have never cultivated nerves, Mr. Kent. They sadly interfere with - practical life. How do you think Miss Marchpane and I would get on with - this sort of thing”—and she nodded towards Jack—“if we had - nerves? Winifred, this is Mr. Kent, who put out my fire last night. Miss - Marchpane and I share the studio together, you know.” - </p> - <p> - “You work on very different lines,” said Kent after a while, leaning back - in his chair so as to catch a glimpse of Winifred's tiny canvas. “What a - strange thing temperament is! I suppose neither of you does landscape.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, yes, Winifred. Dainty little bits of meadow and stream. I can't; I - always want to put legs and arms to my trees, and make the branches twist - and writhe about, like Gustave Doré in the 'Wandering Jew.'” - </p> - <p> - “You scarcely look like a painter of the weird,” said Kent. - </p> - <p> - “You think I have not enough strength of imagination?” - </p> - <p> - “You have too much strength of mind,” returned Kent judiciously. “You - hanker too much after the real. I can only judge,” he hastily added by way - of explanation, “by what I can see of your work around me.” - </p> - <p> - “You will get into difficulties,” said Clytie, laughing. “One moment you - accuse me of nerves, and the next of strong-mindedness. Which is right, - Winnie?” - </p> - <p> - “I should be telling too much or too little if I were to say,” replied - Winifred. “Mr. Kent will have to judge for himself. We had better show him - something to go by.” - </p> - <p> - They turned to an exhibition of Clytie's paintings; small stacks of - canvases were ranged on the floor, along the walls; here and there one - hanging or standing on a table or on an easel. Clytie stood by in her - nonchalant, professional way, giving a word or two of necessary - explanation as Winifred placed them one by one upon an easel for Kent's - inspection. Painters, sculptors, musicians and actors have a moral - advantage over poets and novelists, in that they are not ashamed of their - work. An artist shows you his picture frankly and hopes you will like it; - if a poet reads you a sonnet, he has an all-devouring dread lest you may - deem him a prig. And the strange part of it is that you do; whereas you - think the painter rather a good fellow. A little problem in sociological - aesthetics. - </p> - <p> - As Kent looked at the pictures he lost his sense of Clytie's Agatha-like - behaviour of the previous evening. He forgot even to pity her. He - expressed genuine admiration for her work, interspersing his remarks with - outspoken criticism which Clytie recognised as deeper than that of the - mere virtuoso. It was qualified, too, by the supreme attribute of simple - common sense. He judged the pictures on their merits; he judged Clytie as - a woman of genius, strong mind, out of the ordinary run of women. The - inner promptings and cravings that had thus found artistic expression it - was beyond his philosophy to suspect. Nor did Clytie think of enlightening - him. - </p> - <p> - “I like your realism,” he said. “It is straightforward. There's always a - great danger of this sort of thing degenerating into morbidness. But if - you can keep it true, it's healthy; it means sober, honest work, and not - an intermittent fever. I see you work off your superfluous energy on the - walls.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I forgot them,” cried Clytie somewhat shamefacedly. “You must not - look at them, please. They are not part of the show. Miss Marchpane gets - tired of flowers and peach-bloom, and sometimes——” - </p> - <p> - “Clytie!” cried Winifred reproachfully. - </p> - <p> - Clytie laughed; and Kent with her. The light jest brought them nearer - together. - </p> - <p> - “No; I do that when I feel wicked,” said Clytie. “I paint a nice, correct - little picture for the nice, correct people who are going to buy it, and - then I grow angry with them and feel I should like to shock them, take the - stiffening out of them, reduce them to elemental bits of humanity. Look at - this group of street urchins. I am doing that on order for my dealer. Here - is Jack—look at him now staring into the stove with the unreasoning - content of a young dog. Doesn't he seem nice and conventional in the - picture? You can hear the young lady of the house saying to the curate, - 'Aren't these little street children too delightful?' Now if they were - shown the real Jack, it would give them to think, as the French say—and - they hate doing that. This is <i>my</i> idea of the real Jack.” - </p> - <p> - She whisked the cloth off the easel and showed Kent the charcoal <i>ébauche</i> - of her own particular study of the urchin. - </p> - <p> - She had worked rapidly that day, with the feverishness that Kent - deprecated. Whether she would convert the sketch into a finished picture - she did not know. She had desired to fix the haunting impression of Jack's - possible history. - </p> - <p> - Kent was somewhat startled by the suddenness of the presentation. There - was the boy, refined, delicate in feature, great-eyed, curly-haired, but - repulsive with cruelty and animalism; in a degraded attitude, head bent - forward, knees bent, lips parted in a sneer. - </p> - <p> - “He does not look like that now,” said Kent, comparing the original with - the copy. - </p> - <p> - “Wait,” said Clytie. Then imperiously to the urchin: “Jack, what are you - thinking of?” - </p> - <p> - He turned, looked up at her shiftingly. - </p> - <p> - “Dunno.” - </p> - <p> - “Weren't you thinking of the nice little story of the cat you told me this - morning?” - </p> - <p> - No answer. - </p> - <p> - “It's about a stray cat that came into his mother's house half dead, you - know, and this boy was so kind to it—like a dear little girl——” - </p> - <p> - “Yer lie!” cried the boy, starting to his feet. “Oi told yer Oi killed - 'er. I lammed her bloomin' 'ed open with a chopper. I 'ates cats!” - </p> - <p> - “<i>Voilà!</i>” said Clytie. “That's the real Jack. That's the Jack I'd - like to startle Peckham Rye with.” - </p> - <p> - And then turning to the boy: - </p> - <p> - “That will do for to-day, Jack. Here's your shilling; give it to your - mother.” - </p> - <p> - “Shan't,” said Jack. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, but you must,” said Winifred; “look how hard your poor mother has to - work to keep you, Jack.” - </p> - <p> - “She's bloomin' well got ter,” said Jack. “I aint going to give 'er no - money. She never gives me none.” - </p> - <p> - “But your mother will beat you,” said Clytie. - </p> - <p> - “Wot do I care?” - </p> - <p> - “And your father, you sweet boy?” asked Kent. - </p> - <p> - “Aint got none.” - </p> - <p> - “Never had one?” continued Kent. - </p> - <p> - “No; mother aint that sort. Blamed glad.” - </p> - <p> - “Here, you'd better run away,” said Clytie hurriedly. “Keep your shilling - and make yourself as ill as you like with it. Come the day after to-morrow—Friday. - Can you remember? It's unnecessary to request you not to wash between then - and now. Go on. Good-bye. Out you get.” - </p> - <p> - The boy took up the remains of his cap and went, with an air of relief, - out of the room. - </p> - <p> - “What a little brute!” said Kent. “Why don't you try to reform him—make - him human?” - </p> - <p> - “He is human,” cried Clytie with some warmth. “That's why I cultivate him. - Delightfully human! Refreshing! As for reforming him”—with a shrug - of her shoulders—“I am not a Sunday-school teacher. I have nothing - to do with the submerged tenth; let the good respectable folks who have - submerged them raise them with their polite and respectable hands. I am an - artist—a student of life—what you will. Each one to his trade. - Perhaps when I have got what I want out of Jack it may amuse me to show - him the desirability of not 'lamming cats' bloomin' 'eds open with a - chopper.' I don't know—I'm not altogether devoid of moral sense. - Winifred's tender heart may be touched, and between the two of us we may - turn him out a mild-eyed journeyman carpenter, a member of the Y. M. C. - A., a model of all the virtues. But I very much doubt it. He has vice in - his blood. But perhaps I am wounding some of your susceptibilities, Mr. - Kent? You may be a social reformer, and keener than I on these matters. If - so, pardon me. We artists are privileged, you know, to view life from our - own standpoint.” - </p> - <p> - Kent threw up his hand and dropped it—a little gesture of - deprecation. He, too, had large views on humanity and its needs. He was - even then sacrificing comfort, fame, ease, such as other men understand - them, so as to serve it. But it was according to his own capabilities. It - was a darling scientific work, that on the most modest computation would - take him twenty years to complete—an unthankful task; his name to be - remembered with reverential gratitude by some half dozen workers, to - perish unheard of by the remaining millions of mankind. But these half - dozen would use the result of his life's energies to the advancement of - human prosperity, and that thought glowed within Kent's heart. Still a man - has not time for all things. He honestly disclaimed pretensions to being a - social reformer. He was also artistically sympathetic enough to appreciate - Clytie's attitude as regards Jack. He was nearer to her in spirit than - Winifred, who was pained at Clytie's speech. She would have cried out with - the sharpness of the pain had it not been for Kent's presence. And she - would have been revolted at the cynical callousness had it not been for - the blind adoration with which she bowed before Clytie. Whatever Clytie did - was right, she told herself, and she was a poor little body who could not - understand these things. But her heart bled for Jack, and she wondered why - Clytie's did not bleed also. - </p> - <p> - “I spoke idly,” said Kent. “I am sorry. If all artists set about reforming - their models, their hands would be too full for art. But he is a little - brute all the same, and, as you say, Peckham Rye would be startled by him. - But why do you want to shock Philistia?” - </p> - <p> - “Would <i>you</i> like to live in it, be of it, and worship at comfortably - timed intervals in its correctly appointed temple of Dagon?” - </p> - <p> - “No,” laughed Kent. “They wouldn't have me in it. I think they could stand - less of me than I of them. They are God's creatures after all, you know. - If you prick them, they bleed—and so forth. If they admire your - little pictures, which I too admire vastly, there must be some saving - grace in the Philistines.” - </p> - <p> - Clytie shrugged her shoulders. - </p> - <p> - “But why should I be obliged to paint in their way, and not in my way? - That is what irritates me.” - </p> - <p> - “Have you tried them with your way, as you call it?” - </p> - <p> - Even Winifred could scarcely forbear flashing at Clytie a little smile of - tender malice. - </p> - <p> - “God bless my soul!” she whispered softly, and the two broke into - unconstrained laughter. - </p> - <p> - “Winifred is quoting, Mr. Kent. It was an elderly gentleman, stout, - florid, lots of watch-chain—one of my patrons. He had bought one of - my pictures at the dealer's, and came for another. Burrowes showed him one - of my own own things. Winifred and I happened to be at the back of the - shop at the time. The old gentleman put on his spectacles, looked at the - picture, gave such a jump, held it in the light, and then gasped out: 'God - bless my soul, Burrowes, has the young woman taken to drink?'” - </p> - <p> - “What did you do?” - </p> - <p> - “I don't know what I should have done if Winnie had not held me back.” As - it was, Burrowes whispered to him that the artist was overhearing the - conversation. - </p> - <p> - “'Well, it will do her good,' says the old gentleman, and he went out - storming. Then Burrowes came to me and complained that I had lost him a - customer. He has the soul of a pork-butcher, that man!” - </p> - <p> - Then turning to Kent, her cheeks still flushed with anecdotal animation: - </p> - <p> - “That's how it is, you see!” - </p> - <p> - “Well,” said Kent, “perhaps you have reason to owe Philistia a grudge. I - haven't. If it shuts its respectable doors on me, I shrug my shoulders and - set up my wigwam outside, where I can smoke my pipe in peace. It is better - not to care for the world—or anything, for that matter, if one has - work to do. One's keenness on life ought to leave one no time for hating - one's fellow-creatures.” - </p> - <p> - Winifred looked at Clytie, expecting to see her resent the implied rebuke. - But Clytie only laughed softly to herself, leaning back in her chair, - looking at her finger tips. - </p> - <p> - “You are by way of being a tonic, Mr. Kent,” she said, without looking at - him. - </p> - <p> - Kent was disconcerted, could not find a reply. He stroked his tawny beard - and moustache with his free hand, and looked at her somewhat puzzled. He - had uttered his own robust faith, and she had seized a personal reference - with which she appeared not displeased. - </p> - <p> - At last he said: - </p> - <p> - “I don't mean to imply that you are cynical, Miss Davenant. But you are a - little vindictive. I, too, often think of that passage in 'Sartor - Resartus' where Carlyle strips the clothes off the courtiers at St. - James's and leaves them bare, with their bowings and scrapings—do - you remember? Well, it would be a very good thing for them. You would come - down to pure humanity and find it really a very lovable, great-hearted - thing after all.” - </p> - <p> - “Then, for goodness' sake, let us begin to strip the clothes off them at - once!” cried Clytie, changing her attitude, with her usual suddenness. - “That's what I want to do. I want real men, real women; that's why I take - human nature in the rough”—making a comprehensive sweep with her - hand round the studio—“The clothes these things wear don't matter; - you can see the passions working through the rents and tears.” - </p> - <p> - “Umph!” said Kent. “You may see something that will frighten you one of - these days. There's plenty of good in humanity, but there's plenty of bad. - You had better get hold of what is good first. It will give you a - foundation.” - </p> - <p> - Shortly afterwards Kent took his leave. He had paid a longer visit than he - had anticipated. He found himself pitying Clytie again upon new, less - definable grounds. He was much struck by her work, her frankness, her - independence. She was a novelty to him, different from the few other women - he knew. She seemed to have everything calculated to make a woman happy - and her life full, and yet he was sorry for her. Why, he could not tell. - </p> - <p> - He went up to his attics, and prepared to spend his usual working evening. - Afterwards, towards half-past eleven, he might walk across to South - Kensington. He took from one of the cupboards beneath the dresser-table - plates, knife and fork, a half-finished tin of sardines, bread and butter. - This, together with a bottle of beer, formed his frugal evening meal. His - midday dinner he took at an Italian restaurant near the Museum. He ate - standing, walking about his room between the mouthfuls, selecting the - books he would require for his work, and pausing now and then over an idly - opened volume. His meal finished, he collected the soiled utensils and - stacked them on the landing outside his door for Mrs. Gurkins to remove, - wash, and return to the same place in the morning. Then he lit his pipe, - and settled down to his long evening's work. - </p> - <p> - Thoughts of burned hand, new-found friends, occupied him not. The crisp - whisk of the leaves of his reference-books, the rapid whirr of his quill - pen, the occasional bubble of his green-shaded reading-lamp, were the only - signs of external life of which he was conscious. The rest of the - bare-floored room, with its oddly covered walls, was deep in shadow. But - the light shone in a circle upon the pile of books and papers on which he - was engaged, and lit up strongly his honest, resolute face, with its - intent gray eyes and its kindly mouth half hidden in the moustache and - beard. Kent was happy. The darling work, that served him as mistress, - religion, ambition—over which he had never known a heartache—held - him in its enchantment. And the wet slips grew in number around him. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER VI. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">Y</span>ou are going to - spend a dismal evening, my dear,” said Mrs. Farquharson, with a sigh. - </p> - <p> - They were sitting on either side of the drawing-room fire, awaiting dinner - guests. - </p> - <p> - “Why?” asked Clytie. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, the crowd that's coming—fossilised London, with figures like - amphoras and faces like old coins. It's the principle of assimilation, I - suppose. And they'll talk as if there were nothing new under the sun.” - </p> - <p> - “There isn't much.” - </p> - <p> - “Isn't there? Wait till you have lived a little longer. At any rate there - are murders and divorces and new pictures and the latter end of the - nineteenth century. Why people choose to live a couple of thousand years - before their time I can't make out. You'll see. They'll all look as if - they had been excavated—except George, and he looks as if they had - never taken the trouble to bury him. Thank goodness, they have all got - weak digestions and don't dine out much, or else we should have them here - every week.” - </p> - <p> - “But the wives are coming too,” said Clytie by way of consolation. - </p> - <p> - “Poor things! They all look weary with many proof-sheets crammed with - circumflexes over impossible letters, and wrong-headed pictures of birds - and beasts. All archaeologists are not like George, you know.” - </p> - <p> - “But then no one is like George.” - </p> - <p> - “That's a mercy,” said Mrs. Farquharson settling herself with much comfort - among the cushions of her chair. “Don't you get married, my dear; stay - independent. Do you know, one of the beings is going to read a paper. Pity - me.” - </p> - <p> - “It seems as if I am to be pitied too,” remarked Clytie. - </p> - <p> - “Ah! but you are young and can make fun out of them. I can't.” - </p> - <p> - The occasion was a meeting of Mr. Farquharson's archaeological set. The - inner circle dined at each other's houses in turn once a month, and the - outer circle came in later, for the “conversazione,” as Mrs. Farquharson - called it, with a little shudder. A paper was usually read, followed by a - discussion, from which the more flippant seceded and gossipped casually in - odd corners. Clytie had never been to one of these strangely homogeneous - reunions. The people she generally met at her friends' house were - miscellaneous, and the talk danced about upon all subjects under heaven, - wreathed in blue curls of cigarette smoke. Mrs. Farquharson had begged her - to come and support her—“to strike a note of colour among the gray - ruins.” Clytie looked forward to the incongruous formalism of the evening - with an anticipation of amusement. - </p> - <p> - She hinted as much to Mr. Farquharson when he came into the drawing-room. - He laughed, bowed his long, ungainly figure, hoped that Miss Davenant had - come to be instructed. Professor Petherick was to read a paper on an - aureus of Geta of the type Cohen No. 11,—Clytie and her hostess - communed with each other dumbly,—and many rare coins were to be - exhibited. He trusted that Miss Davenant would be appreciative and on her - best behaviour. Numismatics was not a subject that lent itself to - flippancy. - </p> - <p> - “My wife can turn the house into a bear-garden every Sunday evening, more - shame to her, though she does sit and smile in her superior way. But twice - a year I assert my individuality and this house becomes sober and - respectable. So no cigarettes to-night, Miss Davenant. When I put on these - dress-clothes I am rigid.” - </p> - <p> - “You look very nice,” said Clytie. - </p> - <p> - He looked down at himself complacently, accepting the flattery; such is - man. He always insisted upon wearing very square-toed kid boots, a high - buttoned waistcoat with a chain made of old coins banded across it, a deep - velvet collar to his dress-coat, and a shirt-collar, with two long ends - that served as a tie, beneath his beard. - </p> - <p> - “I like him better in his velvet jacket,” said Mrs. Farquharson. “Go and - put it on, George.” - </p> - <p> - But George shook his head sadly. He must be properly attired to discuss an - aureus of Geta. - </p> - <p> - The guests arrived, seven in number, and they went down to the - dining-room. Clytie sat between Professor Petherick, a little rosy man - with a bald head and gastronomic appreciation, and a young clergyman who - had taken her in to dinner. She had been for so long a time outside Church - influences that a strange little Durdleham qualm come over her. He looked - stern, overworked, dreadfully in earnest, she thought, not likely to - sympathise with the Thelemite joyousness of life of the house whose motto - was, “<i>Fays ce que vouldras</i>.” He was the only bachelor among the - guests. The six others, including the professor, consisted of three - married couples, middle-aged, respectable. Mr. Vansittart was a great - Egyptologist. It was of his wife, a faded, weary-looking woman, that Mrs. - Farquharson had so pathetically spoken with reference to the correction of - proof-sheets. Mrs. Petherick was literary, fond of lions. Her talk was a - catalogue raisonné of her menagerie. Mr. Farquharson listened politely and - went on with his dinner. The remaining couple were the Chowders, retired - Anglo-Indians, who found only late in life an opportunity of gratifying - their ruling passions—on her part an undisturbed warm bath of - domesticity; on his, archaeological dilettanteism. She was florid and - buxom; he bronzed and shrivelled. Both talked on their pet subjects. The - Rev. Victor Treherne was a keen numismatist. “A recognised authority,” - Farquharson had whispered to Clytie. “Will give Petherick beans if he goes - wrong.” Clytie knew nothing of numismatics. She did not know the - difference between a moidur and a bezant, nor did she seek enlightenment - from her neighbour. She questioned him as to his environment—North - London, a large parish, chiefly poor. The conversation languished, then it - brightened up through common effort. Each had a King Charles the First's - head to keep in the background, feeling it to be distasteful to the other. - Treherne had left his parish behind, and had brought no other interests - with him save those circling round the famous aureus, a matter of supreme - indifference to Clytie, who, for her part, had been cautioned to act as the - superior Ki-Pi-Yu, friend of Confucius, did on certain occasions—roll - her principles up and keep them in her breast. Each, too, divined dimly - the other's personality, and they talked eagerly, seeking to like and - interest one another through a current of mutual antipathy. - </p> - <p> - The professor and Mrs. Farquharson were talking less unreservedly on the - question of female disabilities. He had theories on the sacredness of - woman's mission. Mrs. Farquharson's views were more materialistic. Her - early training had disabused her of the oak and ivy illusion, which the - professor still entertained. - </p> - <p> - “No, it's no use, professor,” she said. “A man has got to go his way and a - woman hers. If their ways lie together, so much the better—they can - help each other; if they lie apart, so much the worse. Besides, I cannot - conceive anything more irritating to a man than to be followed all about - by his wife—like a dog. No wonder some men beat their wives.” - </p> - <p> - Treherne had caught the speech. He turned to Clytie. “Do you believe - that?” - </p> - <p> - “Of course. Mrs. Farquharson and I are sworn sisters. We hold advanced - views concerning ourselves. I hope you don't think we have a mission! Have - you ever thought how distressing it is to try to live up to a false ideal, - and somebody else's into the bargain?” - </p> - <p> - “We all have to live up to an ideal. This one may be false; I don't know. - At any rate it is a high one, and worth aiming at.” - </p> - <p> - “That is Jesuitical. What is to become of a woman's self-respect when she - knows all the time she is a humbug, although a sublime one?” - </p> - <p> - “By seeking to inspire others with faith in her she will at length acquire - faith in herself.” - </p> - <p> - “Don't you think that's rather vicious?” - </p> - <p> - “I don't know. The same principle obtains in my own calling. Many a man - enters the Church who is not really fit for it. But the professional - effort he has to make to raise others in most cases raises himself.” - </p> - <p> - “That may be quite true,” said Clytie, “but it does not prove the - principle to be right. Besides, the cases are different. You undertake, - when you enter the Church, to do certain things. Now when a woman enters - the world she does not undertake to do anything, any more than a man does. - They both clamour to assert themselves as human beings. They may go about - it in different ways,—it is merely the difference of sex,—but - their ultimate end is the same.” - </p> - <p> - “And what is this?” - </p> - <p> - “To get as much out of life as possible.” - </p> - <p> - “That's scarcely orthodox.” - </p> - <p> - The accompanying smile was a touch of the curb on Clytie. She paused. - There was an interval of dining. Then she turned to reply to a remark of - the professor. Mrs. Farquharson, who hitherto had steered skilfully - through the shoals of antiquity, was run aground by Colonel Chowder. - Clytie was astonished to hear her friend talking learnedly of coins and - Latin inscriptions. She ran discursively over the points of George's - collection, toning her speech with a light counterpoint of mockery, so - that its echo should reach Clytie's ears. Mrs. Chowder bubbled domesticity - over the Egyptologist; spoke of her sons, the difficulty of army - examinations. She was bent upon their getting into the service, also upon - their marrying young. The reconciliation of these incongruities was the - problem offered for Mr. Vansittart's solution. - </p> - <p> - Clytie again turned to Mr. Treherne. - </p> - <p> - “Do you often come here? I am almost of the house and I have never met - you.” - </p> - <p> - “Once before, on a similar occasion—almost the same circle. A common - hobby brings the most divergent people together.” - </p> - <p> - “It is a pity you and I have not got one,” said Clytie, flashing a - malicious glance at him. - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps we have. What do you mostly do?” - </p> - <p> - “Paint—for my living.” - </p> - <p> - “An artist! What is your line?” - </p> - <p> - “Anything human—they call it <i>genre</i>—street life—the - very poor.” - </p> - <p> - “The poor? Then we have a common hobby after all!” - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps,” replied Clytie. “But I am afraid we ride it in opposite - directions.” - </p> - <p> - “Do you know much of their lives—go among them?” - </p> - <p> - “Not much; I see them only externally, from an artist's point of view. I - should like to see deeper.” - </p> - <p> - A light burned for a moment in the young clergyman's gray eyes. - </p> - <p> - “Would you care for work among them?” - </p> - <p> - “As a student, perhaps; as a reformer, no!” - </p> - <p> - “One generally leads to the other.” - </p> - <p> - “In that case I'll not run the risk,” she replied laughing. - </p> - <p> - An hour later the drawing-room was filled with the evening guests, mostly - men. Women archaeologists are scarce. The sentiment with which they inwrap - relics of the past harms the pure scientific spirit of inquiry. Thus Mr. - Farquharson to Clytie, briefly explanative. She laughed, reminded him how - lately in a sentimental mood he had accused women of lack of imagination; - she reproached him for inconsistency. - </p> - <p> - “Inconsistency is a principle of the art of living,” he replied - epigrammatically, moving away. - </p> - <p> - The men stood in groups about the room chatting on personalities, - examining the display of coin-cases arranged here and there upon the - tables, each under the soothing light of a shaded lamp. The professor - stood by himself on the hearthrug, hemming irritably, anxious to read his - paper. The talk was subdued, attitudes formal, a contrast to the ordinary - easy abandonment of that drawing-room. The men were of a different type, - mostly elderly, sedate. Mrs. Farquharson rested for a moment from her - exertions as hostess by Clytie's side. - </p> - <p> - “Now for a minute's peace. I wish the men would smoke, they all look so - woebegone; but George says they mustn't. Now, then, my dear, I haven't - seen you for ages, except for those five minutes before dinner; what have - you been doing lately?” - </p> - <p> - “Nothing much—working. Oh! yes, I have, though. I have found a new - chum.” - </p> - <p> - “What is she like?” - </p> - <p> - “It isn't a she, it's a he.” - </p> - <p> - “Where does he come from?” asked Mrs. Farquharson, arching her eyebrows. - </p> - <p> - “From the skies, apparently: in the first case to put out a fire in my - room—he lives over me in the attics——” - </p> - <p> - “Clytie! You must be careful. Who is he? What's his name?” - </p> - <p> - “Caroline,” said her husband's deep voice behind her chair, “I don't think - you know Mr. Kent.” - </p> - <p> - Clytie started round violently at the shock of the coincidence. Kent was - standing by her side, looking odd, changed, a bit Philistine in his - evening dress. He wore a glove over his burned hand. - </p> - <p> - They talked, explained their meeting. He had had a numismatic acquaintance - with Mr. Farquharson for a long time past. Had received his invitation at - the Museum, his private address not being known to his host. Clytie - described her own privileged position in the household, speaking frankly, - vivaciously. She felt a little thrill of pleasure at seeing him there. He - seemed, more than the other guests, in harmony with the traditions of the - house. They had not time for much conversation, social exigencies - separating them. Besides, a general buzz and a subsiding into chairs or - restful attitudes sounded the warning that Professor Petherick was about - to read his paper. - </p> - <p> - He described the coin that had come into his possession,—previously - it had been passed round for the inspection of the guests,—claiming - it to be a finer specimen than the one in the Caylus collection. The - figure of Castor beside his horse, without the pileus, on the reverse, he - argued was a portrait of the unfortunate young co-emperor. The legend on - the obverse proclaimed that it was a coin of Geta. He took this as the - text for a learned disquisition upon the aureus, tracing its origin, the - variations in its weight, to the time of Justinian, who fixed it as a - limit stake for a throw of the dice. He quoted Pitiscus, Eckhel, many - learned authorities. He read in a bland, easy tone, confident of his facts - and his deductions. - </p> - <p> - Clytie felt relieved when he had finished. Across the room she had now and - then caught Kent's eye, which had a humourous twinkle in it. She, who an - hour before had been scoffing at the dry-as-dust nature of numismatics as - a pursuit, now felt a consciousness of inferiority, of being relegated to - the tribe feminine, who are not expected to care for intellectual matters. - She nourished a seed of resentment against Kent and all archaeologists. - But when the usual discussion on the paper began she set an example of - interest in it to Mr. Vansittart, who had come over and sat down by her - side. Really, she was curious to see what part Kent would take in the - discussion. He seemed to find many acquaintances in the room, and an - appreciative welcome from each. She experienced a strange sense of - satisfaction at the dispelling of an unformulated apprehension lest he - might be unknown, insignificant. She had seen him several times since his - visit to the studio; once they had met at Sloane Square station and had - walked home together. The acquaintance was ripening into friendliness. Now - she was interested at seeing him in a new environment. Our conception of - people changes very much according to the conditions with which we - associate them. But Kent in the drawing-room, despite his unfamiliar - attire, seemed much the same as Kent in the studio, his manner towards the - men she saw him talking with much the same as his manner towards her. - Presently he rose, broke into the discussion. The principal participators - listened with apparent respect to his remarks, few in number, but apt. - </p> - <p> - “Well, Mr. Kent is an authority,” said the professor, surrendering a - particular point with a certain grace. - </p> - <p> - The little tribute fell gratefully on Clytie's ears. Suddenly she became - conscious that her pleasure was greater than the occasion warranted. She - turned round quickly to Mr. Vansittart, who was taking but mild interest - in the affair, and somewhat abruptly opened a conversation. The Rev. Mr. - Treherne joined them soon afterwards, asking permission to introduce a - friend. Thus it came about that Clytie had a small group around her, and - her interest in Kent's proceedings was checked for a time. - </p> - <p> - Meanwhile Mrs. Farquharson had threaded her way through the crowd of black - coats, and taken Kent off with her to an undisturbed corner. She was - curious to examine Clytie's new “chum.” - </p> - <p> - “So you live in the same house as Clytie Davenant. You rescued her from - the flames, didn't you? She told me something about it. What happened, - exactly?” - </p> - <p> - Kent sketched briefly the little scene with the blazing curtains, and - mentioned his visit next day and his subsequent meetings with Clytie. He - politely expressed his agreeable surprise at meeting her to-night. - </p> - <p> - “And what do you think of her?” asked Mrs. Farquharson confidentially. “I - dare say it's an odd question, but if you will come and see us again, you - will find we are given to saying odd things.” - </p> - <p> - “Like Miss Davenant?” - </p> - <p> - “You have found that out already? Well, come, what do you think of her?” - </p> - <p> - “Honestly, or conventionally?” - </p> - <p> - “If I meant conventionally, I should not ask you the question.” - </p> - <p> - Kent waited for a moment, stroking his beard. He was scarcely prepared - with an answer even to satisfy himself. - </p> - <p> - “I don't know. She is a bit too complicated to be defined in a phrase like - a term in Euclid. She is nearer to a man than any woman I know.” - </p> - <p> - Mrs. Farquharson smiled inwardly, noting the phrase, yet liking him for - it. It was so deliciously wrong, so absurdly off the track. She - contemplated him from the empyrean of feminine wisdom, and from that - moment took him under her protection. To blunder honestly in things - feminine is one of the ways to a woman's pity, thence often to her heart. - She encouraged him, however, instead of correcting him. - </p> - <p> - “Why do you say that?” - </p> - <p> - “For one reason, because I can talk to her as I would to a man. She has - ideas and is not afraid of expressing them. In fact, she is different from - the ordinary women one meets.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, yes! she is that,” Mrs. Farquharson granted. “She is all for <i>le - nouveau jeu</i>. When I want to tease her I tell her she will find it <i>le - vieux jeu</i> all the time, but she won't believe it.” Then suddenly, - “Don't you think she is very pretty?” - </p> - <p> - “Pretty?” echoed Kent in some confusion. “Really, yes, I suppose she is. I - hardly thought about it,” and leaning his body aside, so as to catch a - distant glimpse of Clytie between the forms of the little circle of men - round her, he added, “she is very pretty.” - </p> - <p> - And truly it was a fair picture that his eye fell upon. She was wearing a - simple dress of ivory-coloured silk, falling in soft, straight folds to - her feet. Her low-cut bodice was relieved only by a ruffle of old lace - along the top, and the sole ornament she wore, a necklet of antique - silver, brought out the delicate modelling of her shapely neck, as she sat - talking animatedly, her chin pointing upwards. Her rich, vivid colouring - compensated for any lack of relief in her costume. The intense blue of her - eyes, the many glints in her auburn hair, twisted in a careless knot at - the back of her small, shapely head, and kept in place by a broad silver - arrow, would of themselves have supplied the place of any ornament. - </p> - <p> - “She is very pretty indeed—striking!” repeated Kent. - </p> - <p> - Mrs. Farquharson looked at him amusedly. - </p> - <p> - “You must be an original, Mr. Kent. Fancy knowing Clytie Davenant without - thinking of her looks!” - </p> - <p> - “I am a great bear,” replied Kent. “My sister says so, and brothers and - sisters generally speak the truth to each other. Of course I have thought - of Miss Davenant's looks, in a way—admired her artistically; but I - have never realised in her society that I have been talking to a pretty - girl—one consciously so. She does not seem to expect you to be - impressed with her looks. That's one thing that I like about her.” - </p> - <p> - Mrs. Farquharson carried on the conversation a little further and then - directed it into other channels. She was pleased with Kent, and made a - mental note to see more of him. A man who could like Clytie and yet not - reflect upon her personal attractiveness was, as she had said, an oddity, - and Mrs. Farquharson made oddities rather a speciality. - </p> - <p> - It was growing late and there was a perceptible thinning in the numbers of - the guests. A few enthusiasts lingered fondly over the showcases, - comparing their contents with specimens in their own or other collections. - Among these was Treherne, by himself, deeply cogitative. He arrested Kent, - who was passing by to speak to Clytie, whom he had scarcely seen during - the evening, as he had felt bound to take an honest and practical interest - in the proceedings. The question that Treherne desired Kent's help in - solving was a knotty one, and the two men bent over the table absorbed in - deciphering an obliterated obverse. When the matter was settled Kent - looked around for Clytie, but she had already disappeared. There was - nothing left for him to do but to take his leave. - </p> - <p> - “If you care for a Bohemian Sunday evening scramble, when everyone talks - inconsequent nonsense—quite a different thing from to-night,” said - Mrs. Farquharson, shaking hands—“we shall be very glad to see you.” - </p> - <p> - In the hall he was pleased to see Clytie, fur cloaked, waiting for a cab. - She gave him a frank smile of recognition. With his white slouch hat and - waterproof—a new one—his figure seemed to her very familiar. - He talked to her for a moment or two, until the cab was announced. - </p> - <p> - “How are you going home?” she said when they were on the pavement. - </p> - <p> - “Walk,” he replied briefly. - </p> - <p> - “But it's raining hard—would you accept a lift?” - </p> - <p> - He opened the swing doors for her, shielding her dress from the muddy - wheels as she entered, and then hesitated a moment. He had in fact been - intending to pay one of his midnight visits to his South Kensington - friends, but Clytie thought his hesitation was due to considerations of - propriety. She laughed with a little thrill of defiance as she settled - herself comfortably in a corner. The touch of rebelliousness let loose an - unwonted shaft of coquetry. - </p> - <p> - “Of course if you think it would do you more good to walk in the rain than - drive dry with me——” - </p> - <p> - The interval between her two remarks had been very short, taken up - entirely with the process of Clytie's seating herself in the cab, but - still Kent felt he had been somewhat unchivalrous. - </p> - <p> - “If you really don't mind, I shall be very grateful,” he said by way of - making amends as he took his seat by her side. - </p> - <p> - After all, driving with Clytie was not unpleasant, he reflected, and he - could see Wither and Fairfax any day. That Clytie should have made her - offer did not seem unnatural. He frankly informed her of the cause of his - hesitation. - </p> - <p> - “I paid you the compliment of being mistaken,” said Clytie. - </p> - <p> - “What do you mean?” he asked, catching a glimpse of her face in the swift - gleam of a gas-lamp. She was smiling, in good humour. - </p> - <p> - “Oh! if you are mystified, so much the better,” she exclaimed, “It will be - my little revenge.” - </p> - <p> - And that was all the explanation she vouchsafed him. - </p> - <p> - However, that drive spun a thread of intimacy between them. There are few - conditions of companionship so favourable as those in a hansom cab. The - driver is practically non-existent; the three sides and roof of the - vehicle form a temporary home, a <i>chez soi</i>. The outside world lies - in front of one, very near, and yet one is out of it. Even the desolate - squares, with their occasional lamps blinking through the mist, and their - wet, sooty trees rustling reluctantly as the wind passes through them, and - their gaunt houses, each grimly and jealously guarding its household, - giving the sense of the awful isolation of souls, fail to depress as they - invariably depress the sensitive pedestrian. There is again the cheerful - rattle which precludes sustained conversation, but encourages disjointed, - intimate talk. The rush of the air, the whirling past of figures and - objects, is exhilarating even in the vilest of weather and in the - dreariest of neighbourhoods. The rapid night glimpses, too, of - coffee-stalls, their lamps glaring upon the surrounding idlers; public - houses, with the sudden babel of voices issuing from an opened door; - walkers of the pavement forlornly standing with white, indistinguishable - faces, 'buses steaming and labouring with their somnolent fares; every - 'bus-load the counterpart of the last; swifter still, the glimpses of the - occupants of other cabs that pass, stimulating the imagination; a - phantasmagoria of life, almost unreal, yet bringing into play some of the - lighter elemental forces of nature. - </p> - <p> - Clytie was almost sorry when the cab stopped at the familiar side-door - next to the shop where the legend of “Gurkins, green-grocer,” was dimly - visible through the gloom. Much of the mere woman in her had risen to the - surface, obscuring the artist, the hater of formulas, the restless seeker - after the mysteries of life. She had felt childish, frivolous, thus - appearing in a new light to Kent, not without a certain charm, although he - wondered to himself whether she, after all, was not like the rest of - womankind—“fundamentally silly.” This was a famous dictum of his. - </p> - <p> - But when the door closed behind them, and the narrow, ill-lighted, - close-smelling passage leading to the gloomy staircase struck upon her - senses, the realities of life came sharply before her, and her usual - independence of thought and action reasserted itself. Otherwise, when she - had said good-night to Kent on the landing and had found her room in - darkness, she would not have called him back to light her lamp for her, - and, that done, have asked him to remain for a short chat. He was struck - by the change to her usual frank tones, and seeking half unconsciously for - a reason, attributed his late impression to an illusion on his part caused - by the darkness and dispelled by the light, by which he could see her - face. - </p> - <p> - “You smoke, I know,” she said, throwing her wraps on to the sofa. “You - must be dying for some tobacco. What do you smoke?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh! a pipe,” he replied with much fervour, instantly seeking for it in - his pocket. - </p> - <p> - Clytie turned to poke the fire. It was black and sulky, and her efforts - were of not much avail. - </p> - <p> - “Let me try,” said Kent, bending down with her on the hearthrug; “this is - a thing not generally known.” - </p> - <p> - He threw a lighted match on to the fire, the escaping gases burst into - flame, and cheerfulness was established in the grate. - </p> - <p> - A trivial incident, but it was recognised by them both in after years as - having served to cement their comradeship. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER VII. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he friendship - between them ripened imperceptibly. Each day brought its tiny thread - linking them together, so gradually, so subtly, that it was not until long - afterwards that they realised the immense strength of the bond. At first - it was mere honest liking on both sides, a pleasant consciousness of - discovery, an ordinary attraction between two natures, distinct, yet more - or less complementary. Clytie found it written in her Book of New Formulas - that the loyal friendship between a man and a woman was a strengthening - element of existence. In her fierce pride and young vigour she would not - allow that each supplied what the other lacked, according to the popular - theory—the man strength, the woman grace—but asserted - strenuously the truth that each could lend the other elements of strength - the same in degree, but different in kind, owing to the difference of sex. - If it had been suggested to her that her weaker woman's nature - instinctively, in spite of perfect emancipation and proud independence, - sought the man's protecting fibre, the whole amazon within her would have - been up in arms. She found in Kent a man whom she could meet upon a ground - of perfect equality—perfectly even, neither blocked by prejudices - and social barriers nor haunted by sexual spectres. She was woman enough, - however, to perceive intuitively certain shynesses in Kent, resulting from - a half knowledge of her, that would have kept him aloof in spite of a very - sensible attraction towards her; and in showing him, therefore, that this - attraction was mutual she felt no compunction,—rather pride, on the - contrary, in reaching a superior plane in which conduct was measured by - superior standards. - </p> - <p> - And thus it came about that the eternal feminine once more deceived - itself, mistaking nature for what it called the Fine Art of Life. - </p> - <p> - Kent, for his part, did not attempt to realise the charm that made his - fingers close daily on the handle of the studio door. He accepted the - offered friendship, and returned it as frankly as it was given. It became - as natural to stop at the studio, before mounting to his attics on his - return home from the Museum, as to burst into the South Kensington - “monastery” for a midnight rubber. Variety, fresh interests, were brought - into his life, vivid as it was with darling hopes and full working - energies. It was refreshing to come once again into the sphere, familiar - and dear to him during his father's lifetime, of practical art. It was - something for him to look forward to, during his tramp home—the - stage nearer completeness effected during a day's work in an artistic - creation. Gradually, in his blunt, paternal way, he constituted himself - the censor of Clytie's work, criticising irregularities, suggesting - treatment. There grew within him, too, a brotherly kindness towards - Winifred, who looked forward also to his afternoon visit, when she would - shyly uncover the small canvas and receive with a gratified flush his meed - of appreciation. - </p> - <p> - He arrived after the tea-things had been cleared away, when the day's work - was over, in the twilight hour, outstaying Winifred a short while, whose - evening family meal was half an hour before Clytie's dinner. It was in - these short periods of companionship, when they were alone together, that, - unconsciously to themselves, the finer touches were added to the broader - intimacy that the previous half hour had brought one step further in - development. Piece by piece, by means of a reference here, a petulant - outburst there, he grew familiar with the ambitions and struggles of her - past life. He was quick to catch a certain note of disappointment. She had - not yet become a great artist, was defiantly certain that she could never - be one. - </p> - <p> - “Of course you won't if you use your art as a stepping-stone to life,” he - said one day. - </p> - <p> - She marked the saying, resolving, however, half rebelliously to make him - belie his words in the days to come. She, too, gathered from him the - nature of his hope and aspirations, wondered at the cheerful selflessness - with which he contemplated the work that would bring him neither name nor - fame, nor the things that many men desire. - </p> - <p> - One day he took Clytie and Winifred up to his attic museum, pleased as a - boy to show them his treasures. Winifred praised the bright neatness of - his arrangements. He confessed guiltily that he had been “tidying up”—a - process that had cost him the whole of the previous Sunday. Many of his - pictures had been left him by his father, particularly his collection of - Aldegravers, over which he fondly lingered, lamenting that the old days of - pure design were over, and railing at the mercenary spirit of modern art. - He counselled Clytie to study the little masters for her book - illustrating. She would learn restraint, abstraction. - </p> - <p> - “But it's no good preaching Dürer and Behm in these days,” he added - pathetically, with the resignation of the collector who does not expect - his hobby to be understood. - </p> - <p> - Clytie laughed softly, sympathetic with his enthusiasms. No real artist - can help loving the little masters. But Clytie's artistic impulses warred - with each other, with circumstance, and with herself. So she refused to - sit, for practical purposes, at the foot of Aldegraver. She ran over the - titles of books, borrowed a couple, which he recommended, from the general - literature section, stood in some dismay before the scientific - specialist's library, and asked to see what was visible of the great work. - He gave her some bundles of manuscript, which she turned over helplessly - and handed back without a word. They were evidences of a world of infinite - toil and devotion not yet intelligible to her. She gazed around the - picturesque walls of the room that contrasted strangely with the - carpetless floor and the fenderless grate. The absence of the minor - softnesses of material life struck her vividly. There were evidences of a - high love for art, but art in a too rarefied atmosphere for her nature. - She would have liked to curtain the windows,—they were even - destitute of blinds,—to put rugs about the floor, to soften the room - with drapery, plants, flowers; even an armchair beside the fire would have - been aesthetically as well as physically reposeful. Winifred's simpler - feminine impulses struck the true chord. - </p> - <p> - “Why doesn't your sister make you some pretty things for your room?” - </p> - <p> - “She does—heaps of things.” - </p> - <p> - “Where are they, then?” - </p> - <p> - Kent looked at her with humorous shamefacedness. - </p> - <p> - “I am afraid I have a drawer full of them somewhere,” he replied. - </p> - <p> - “Well, your room is very much like yourself,” she said in a low voice, and - hesitating a little. “You both lack the same thing.” - </p> - <p> - And blundering John Kent misread the oracle, accepting it as a reproach - for brotherly unkindness. - </p> - <p> - Meanwhile Clytie's “own” picture of the model Jack was developing into a - more finished and more ambitious work than she had originally intended. On - Kent's suggestion she had toned down some of its brutality without - rendering less vivid the presentation of the problem. She thought of - trying to exhibit the picture when it was completed; Jack therefore - continued to appear in the studio at irregular intervals. Winifred - encouraged him now, trying to humanise him with picture-books, stories, - and simple talk, but Clytie shook her head at her gentle friend's efforts, - conceiving them, with her fuller and more materialistic knowledge, to be - entirely futile. Still Winifred obtained from him more details of what - Clytie called his private life than she herself could do. With both of - them he was fierce and sullen, but with Winifred he was more cynically - expansive. These details only supplemented the data afforded by his own - personality. Sometimes he went to the board school, where he was in the - third standard; oftener he stayed away. He slept in his mother's room, ate - his desultory food there with the fierceness of a young wolf; but his real - home was in the street. Once he had been given a situation as satellite to - a thriving costermonger, but the restraints of regular employment had - chafed him into resignation of his post. Besides, his employer had - thrashed him unmercifully. As for his parentage, he was entirely ignorant; - he did not care. To his mind it was a merciful dispensation of Providence - that he only had one parent to irritate and annoy him. He liked to come to - the studio because it was warm and comfortable, besides which he obtained - a shilling at the end of the day to be expended on inferior tobacco when - together with his playmates. - </p> - <p> - One morning, earlier than usual, he slouched up the stairs and, contrary - to custom, found the studio door open and the apartment empty. He entered, - swinging the door with him, which, being caught by the draught from an - open skylight, slammed with sudden violence. If he had heard the quick - rattle of a falling door-knob, his subsequent conduct would doubtless have - been modified. He was alone in the studio; he waited idly, lying in front - of the stove; but as no one came, he began to feel restless. He rose to - his feet, wandered about, shut the skylight, examined the contents of the - studio. He found a packet of cigarettes lying about, which he pocketed; an - investigation of the cupboard in the wall rewarded him with some lumps of - sugar and some sweet biscuits. Still no one came, which was not - extraordinary, as his employer had not yet thought of breakfasting. No - further resources being offered to his predatory instincts, he proceeded - to look at the pictures, with which he had already a contemptuous - familiarity. The only one for which he had a genuine admiration, or rather - the barbarian's feeling of awe at any counterfeit presentment of himself, - was his own portrait. At this he seldom tired of looking. - </p> - <p> - He took down from the wall a little painted mirror, and, sitting on the - stool in front of the picture, proceeded to compare the original and the - portrait. He saw that the resemblance was not quite perfect, and like a - monkey he grimaced into the looking-glass until he had reproduced the - expression that Clytie had fixed upon the canvas. Then he laughed in great - glee, scratched his black curly head, and went in quest of further - occupation. He crossed over to Winifred's easel and took off the cloth. He - had no great idea of “the other one's” picture. It did not interest him. - But, unfortunately, in his simian mood, an idea shot through his mind. Why - should he not try to paint too? - </p> - <p> - He mounted upon Winifred's seat, took her palette in his hand as he had - seen her hold it, with his small, dirty thumb through the hole in the - white porcelain, gathered the little sheaf of brushes, arranged the - mahl-stick imitatively, and, dipping a brush into the remains of some - Chinese white, tried to fill in some anemones. They were only splotches of - white paint, but the occupation absorbed him. In a very few moments the - whole canvas was starred with Jack's white dabs. Then, growing tired of - the monotony of white,—the colours on the palette did not attract - him,—he fetched Clytie's, which was more richly prepared, and - painted in strokes of crimson and yellow. The delight of colour fascinated - him. He obliterated all the white, daubed the canvas over and over with - heavy streaks, laughing aloud with the spirit of diabolical mischief. - Then, with a fox terrier's or a monkey's instinct of destruction, he took - up the palette-knife and stabbed holes through the canvas. - </p> - <p> - He contemplated his work for a moment, and then, the very human - anticipation of consequences occurring to his mind, he bethought himself - of flight. But, to his dismay, he found the door-handle had fallen off - when the door had slammed, and that he was a prisoner until someone should - open it from outside. He paused for a moment in the middle of the room, - reflecting. Then he covered up his handiwork carefully with a cloth, - scrupulously replaced the palettes and brushes, and curled himself up in - his usual doglike attitude by the stove, there to await events. - </p> - <p> - After a time there came a rattle of the knob-screw being fitted into the - vacant hole in the lock, which made his heart beat, and Clytie entered the - room humming a song. She was surprised to find him there, and elicited a - monosyllabic explanation of his presence. She was in a good humour and - talked lightly to him as she moved about the studio, changing the water of - some flowers. The errand-boy from the shop below came up with Winnie's - anemones that had been put in a cool place over night to keep them fresh - one day longer. Clytie set them on the stand beside Winifred's easel. Jack - watched her, looked at the door, measuring the distance. - </p> - <p> - “Where are you going?” Clytie asked sharply as she turned round and caught - him stealing across the room. - </p> - <p> - He was terribly afraid of her. Those great dark blue eyes seemed to - command him. He never could meet them with his own. He relapsed doggedly - into his position by the stove. Clytie touched the anemones daintily, - picking some faded leaves, still humming her song. In lightness of heart - she took off the cloth to look at Winnie's work, and then fell back with a - cry of horror and anger. A swift glance at Jack brought her knowledge. - </p> - <p> - “You little fiend!” she cried with eyes aflame, and catching the cowering, - sullen urchin by the collar of shirt and jacket, she dragged him out of - the studio, on to the landing. - </p> - <p> - Kent happened to have just gone down the stairs on his way out. The noise - of the scuffle reached him in the entrance passage and brought him up to - the studio door. - </p> - <p> - “What is the matter?” he asked, taking the boy from Clytie's grasp into - his own. - </p> - <p> - “The matter? Go inside. I must call Winnie. Winnie!” - </p> - <p> - She opened the sitting-room door. Winifred ran out, holding her gloves, - which she had just taken off, in her hand. - </p> - <p> - “That boy—that little devil!” cried Clytie, and they both ran into - the studio. - </p> - <p> - Kent had just entered, and was standing before the mutilated picture - holding the boy, who in Kent's hands was struggling violently. Winifred - looked at it for a moment blankly, scarcely understanding. Then the - sickening truth rose to her brain, and she leaned, very white, against the - wall, looking at the others. - </p> - <p> - “For God's sake take the little brute out and kill him, Mr. Kent!” Clytie - broke out fiercely. “Murder him! break every bone in his body! To have - done such a thing as that! It is not human.” - </p> - <p> - “I'll give him a thundering hiding,” said Kent wrathfully, dragging him - towards the door. - </p> - <p> - But Winifred rose quickly, moved her neck, cleared her throat, and laid - her hand on Kent's arm. - </p> - <p> - “Don't beat him—I couldn't bear it.” - </p> - <p> - “Nonsense, Winnie! sit down,” cried Clytie. “Take him away Mr. Kent, or - I'll do him some mischief myself!” - </p> - <p> - Kent shook the urchin till his teeth chattered and his evil little face - grew red. Winifred still clung to his arm. - </p> - <p> - “Don't! you shan't do it! He is no better than an animal! He did not know - what he was doing. Nothing you could do to him would give me back my - picture. It would be simple vengeance. Oh, send him away! Send him away!” - and turning from Kent, she burst into tears and clung to Clytie, sobbing. - </p> - <p> - “Miss Marchpane is right,” said Kent slowly and looking at Clytie. “Let - the little brute go. Here, you, go! If ever I see you near the place, I - will give you to a policeman!” - </p> - <p> - Visions of the lowering blue storm-cloud, ever seeming to the children of - the streets ready to burst upon their heads, loomed before the little - outcast's imagination. He shivered, shrunk away from Kent's relaxed grasp, - darted a keen, swift look of malignity at Clytie, and disappeared like a - flash through the open door. - </p> - <p> - Clytie held Winifred protectingly with one arm, soothing her, mingling - words of comfort with outbursts of self-reproach and unrighteous - indignation. As Jack slipped away she made an impulsive movement forward, - but Winifred restrained her. - </p> - <p> - “How dare you let him go?” she exclaimed, turning her anger upon Kent. “If - it had not been for you I would have given him a lesson he'd have - remembered all his life. To do a work of devilry like that and not be - punished! I'll set the police upon him!” - </p> - <p> - “No, no!” murmured Winifred. - </p> - <p> - “I will. What are reformatories for? Go and call a policeman, Mr. Kent. It - is the least you can do!” - </p> - <p> - “I shall leave him alone,” replied Kent. “It would not do him any good and - it would not do Miss Marchpane any good. He'll never come here again, and - I should advise you not to introduce any more of his sort into your - studio. When a child of the flesh and the devil gets hold of a thing of - the spirit, the spiritual suffers.” - </p> - <p> - “I do not wish to be lectured,” said Clytie stonily. - </p> - <p> - “I am sorry if I have offended you, Miss Davenant,” replied Kent. “I have - the sincerest sympathy with Miss Marchpane for her loss, and I would do - anything in the world to help her or you; and so—good-morning.” - </p> - <p> - Kent worked hard that day at the Museum. He was troubled over the - morning's occurrence. He was conscious that he had acted rightly in - acquiescing in Winifred's counsel of mercy, but he had a vague, - inarticulate regret that he had not pleased Clytie. He resolutely set - himself to forget everything in his work and finished earlier than usual. - On his way out he met his friend Wither in the great hall. - </p> - <p> - “I have come to carry you off to the club to dine and there to reason with - you,” said the small, gnomelike man. “They are spring-cleaning at home and - the place reeks of freshness and innocence. Greene and Fairfax like it; - they say it's healthy. I prefer the accumulated and mellowed deposit of - winter. It's as bad as washing a meerschaum. Anyhow, it's got to get - coloured a bit, and until it does I clear out and you are coming to clear - with me.” - </p> - <p> - “Very well,” replied Kent; “I will waste part of an evening upon you—to - prevent you wasting it yourself more sinfully. You were lucky to catch me; - I was just going.” - </p> - <p> - The policeman at the door saluted Kent as he passed out. - </p> - <p> - “That ought to have been for me,” said Wither. “I am far the more - reputable-looking of the two.” - </p> - <p> - Kent laughed good-humouredly and grasped his ash stick sturdily in his - gloveless hands. The contrast between the dandified elegance of Wither's - dress and his own careless, loose attire appealed to his sense of the - humorous. - </p> - <p> - “I'll walk a few yards behind you if you like,” he said, repeating a - familiar and time-honoured jest between them. - </p> - <p> - They walked down the great flight of steps and across the courtyard, where - the pigeons were fluttering joyfully in the afternoon sunshine. When they - had arrived at the railings, whose gilt spear-points caught the sun, - Wither turned and looked for a moment at the frowning mass of the edifice. - </p> - <p> - “This always suggests the brain of London, immeasurable in this ugly poll - of a Bloomsbury, with its watery eyes and dejected face, that seems to be - perpetually meditating on death and influenza. I am going to work up the - idea one of these days and turn it into copy.” - </p> - <p> - “It certainly does not look promising in the crude state,” observed Kent - by way of encouragement. - </p> - <p> - They walked along Oxford Street and down Shaftesbury Avenue. Here, while - passing in front of a photographer's window, their eyes were caught by a - group of complacent people of both sexes—“with superior smiles and - inferior clothes,” as Wither said—described by a legend printed on - the mount as the “Parnassus House Mutual Improvement Society.” Wither - entered the shop and purchased a copy, as a “monument of the stupendous - fatuity of man.” In the comfortable smoking-room of the Junior - Cosmopolitan, St. James's Square, Wither held the photograph out on his - knees before him and discoursed upon it. - </p> - <p> - “Look at them,” he said, half hidden in the great armchair. “Dear old - Philistia! When is the Almighty going to redeem his promise and triumph - over it? Mutual improvement!—on the principle of Mark Twain's - islanders, who eked out a precarious livelihood by taking in each other's - washing! This pathetic kind of person belongs to home reading societies. - Do you know what they are? I was staying with the Brownes last summer; - asked the youngest to come and play tennis. She replied with awful - solemnity that she was going to read her 'half hour.' I was impressed; - good girl, I said, and pictured her to myself conducting her devotional - exercises over St. Thomas à Kempis or St. Augustine's 'Confessions' in the - sanctity of her maiden chamber. Next day I found her reading the report of - an agricultural commission for the year 1831. Asked her what the deuce she - was reading that for. She replied she was reading her 'half hour'; it was - the only 'solid' book she could find downstairs! Novels and poetry and - magazines were tabooed. I asked her whether she thought George Meredith or - Dante flippant. She could not exactly say—but they were not solid. - God help us!” - </p> - <p> - “You are as bad as my friend Miss Davenant,” said Kent, laughing. “She is - always railing at Philistia. You might lend me the photograph to show her; - it would amuse her—perhaps it might teach her something.” - </p> - <p> - Wither gave him the photograph, but after a short pause Kent returned it. - </p> - <p> - “I'll take it some other time. I don't quite know at present how we are - going to stand to one another; we had a bit of a scene this morning.” - </p> - <p> - Wither raised his eyebrows and turned his head lazily, looking at Kent. - </p> - <p> - “You interest me, friend John. Is Saul also among the prophets? Expound.” - </p> - <p> - Kent roughly sketched the morning's episode in the studio. - </p> - <p> - “So, you see, there's something in the nature of a split,” he added. - </p> - <p> - “She will come round all right,” said Wither, “if she cares about you. If - she doesn't, she is not worth caring about. Never you mind. There is - nothing does women so much good as a little wholesome neglect. <i>Crede - experto</i>. As for the matter in question, of course you were wrong. You - should have thrashed the little devil's life out. But with a woman, having - right or wrong on her side has nothing to do with it.” - </p> - <p> - “That may be true in the case of the woman you like to philander with, - Teddy, but Clytie Davenant's different.” - </p> - <p> - “Bah, my dear old boy, they are all the same, every one of them.” - </p> - <p> - “You have never met one of them whom you could treat in the ordinary - straightforward way—make a friend of as if she were a man.” - </p> - <p> - “No, old chap, nor do I want to. If you've got to treat a woman as if she - were a man, what the devil's the good of her being a woman?” - </p> - <p> - “You are talking for the sake of talking, Teddy,” said Kent with some - earnestness. “You know it's all nonsense. Women generally are foolish - enough, God knows, but the sole end of their being is not to be fooled - about with in flirtations and love-makings and such sickening nonsense. - And when one does come across a girl with an intelligence above the - ordinary and instincts above bazaars and the river, one likes her and is - exceedingly sorry to have any row with her.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah me!” murmured the little man, examining his trim finger nails with - intent brow, “whether we cultivate the 'languor and lilies of virtue,' or - the 'roses and raptures of vice,' it doesn't matter—the trail of the - petticoat's over us all. Come and have a 'hundred up' before dinner.” - </p> - <p> - Kent did not carry home the ridiculous portrait, and Wither, to avoid the - trouble of taking with him the awkwardly sized parcel that would not fit - into his pocket, very characteristically posted it to himself. As Kent - passed Clytie's door he noticed that it was ajar and that the room was - dark. Evidently she had gone out. If she had retired early to bed, she - would have shut the door, as her bedroom opened into the sitting-room. He - felt a certain sense of loss, he did not know why, for even if the little - streak of light beneath the door had announced her presence within, he - certainly would not have sought admittance. He went upstairs more slowly - than usual, thinking of her and of the morning's scene. By the dim gas on - his landing he perceived an unframed picture leaning, face-hidden, against - his door, and on the ground a letter. This was addressed to him in the - bold, rounded handwriting which he recognised as Clytie's. He opened it - and read: - </p> - <p> - You were right. I am sorry. Keep the picture as a token. - </p> - <h3> - C. D. - </h3> - <p> - Kent turned the canvas round. It was the exhibition picture of Jack. - </p> - <p> - He took it in with him, and placed it on his dresser-table. It formed a - strange contrast to the calm-faced Woolmer cavalier that was hanging - above; a strange contrast, too, with its colour, its modernity, its - realism, to the cold classicism of the pale, pure relics of the past that - lined the walls. Troubled by the discord, he turned its face to the wall, - but immediately, ashamed of the impulse and calling himself a fool, he - turned it again. Then, after lighting his reading-lamp and turning out the - gas, he sat down at the writing space on his dresser-table. - </p> - <p> - The room door was open. The house was perfectly still, save for the - occasional creak of the stairs and banisters near the attics. From the - street outside, far beneath, came the faint, ghostlike rumble of passing - vehicles. Kent had never realised what absolute silence reigned at night - in that quiet household. A cuckoo-clock in the bedroom below struck with a - suddenness and clearness that startled him. It was only twelve o'clock. - Clytie would be back soon if she had gone out to spend the evening with - friends or at a theatre. He proceeded with some mechanical work, docketing - papers, his ear expectant of the sudden drag of a hansom at the street - door. Several times he was deceived and went out on the landing to listen - for the sounds announcing Clytie's arrival. Then he resumed his - occupation. Perhaps she was indoors and asleep all the time, he thought; - but the open door surely betokened her absence. He persuaded himself into - this belief, desiring intensely to see her. The immediate fulfilment of - Wither's prognostications troubled him. Had it not been for his friend's - bantering remarks he would have judged Clytie's frank confession by the - touchstone of his own simplicity, and found it natural, prompted by no - other motives than kindliness and common sense. But what if it proceeded - from the “fundamental silliness” of woman, that he himself pitied and - Wither professed to hold in contempt? - </p> - <p> - At last an unmistakable pause in the dimly heard rattle of a hansom made - him rise again and go on to the landing. Someone entered the house. He - heard the far distant creak of the stairs and the vague rustle of skirts. - It was Clytie. In the deathlike stillness of the house he heard the sharp - striking of a match. He waited for a moment or two and then went down. - </p> - <p> - Clytie, in her hat and cloak, was reading, by the light of her bedroom - candle, a letter that had arrived by the last post. - </p> - <p> - “May I come in for one minute?” - </p> - <p> - “Of course—for two if you like. Do you know, I had an idle fancy - that I should see you when I got home?” - </p> - <p> - “Did you? I am very glad; it assures me that you don't think me—what - shall I say?—presumptuous in waiting for you to come in and then - intruding.” - </p> - <p> - “Did you listen for me? You are good. I am scarcely worth it.” - </p> - <p> - “I felt I must thank you for your little note—and the picture.” - </p> - <p> - “Well? And are we going to make friends again, Mr. Kent?” - </p> - <p> - She looked him in the face proudly, yet laughingly, and held out her - ungloved hand. - </p> - <p> - “There!” she added. “I behaved very badly to you this morning, and you - must thank Winifred for bringing me to a sense of decency; but really when - I saw the dear child's work done to death by my own fault I was not - mistress of myself. I suppose it is best when one is in the wrong to own - it—to one's friends.” - </p> - <p> - “It is sensible,” said Kent, “and I am very proud of your reckoning me - among your friends.” - </p> - <p> - She looked at him, a strange little smile playing round the corner of her - lips as she put up both hands to withdraw her hat-pin—a graceful - attitude, instinct with femininity. The look and the attitude disconcerted - Kent for a moment. However, her next words reassured him. - </p> - <p> - “I judged you by myself, you know. I had found our friendship a pleasant - thing, and felt that you did so, too, and I was sorry lest anything should - break it; otherwise I should not have taken the trouble to 'climb down,' - as they say.” - </p> - <p> - “Let us say no more about it,” replied Kent magnanimously. “If we pride - ourselves on being superior to certain conventionalities of habit, we - ought to extend our conventionalities of sentiment. I have been very - troubled all day, Miss Davenant, I must confess, and I can't tell you how - touched I was by your message. It's not every woman by a long way that - would have sent it.” - </p> - <p> - “And I would not have written it to every man,” returned Clytie; “of that - you may be quite certain.” - </p> - <p> - And so they parted for the night. - </p> - <p> - Thus the breach between them was quite covered over and their relations - strengthened by a newer impression of mutual dependence, a more active - sense of comradeship. They laughed frankly at the Great Conventionalities, - and went about together to theatres, concerts, picture-shows. Kent - accompanied her to Mrs. Farquharson's Sunday evenings, where he found a - ready welcome from the artistic and literary circle, to whom his father - had been well known. Mrs. Farquharson called them “Orestia and Pylades,” - by this time recognising their companionship as a social fact. They always - went back together, generally for a great part of the way on foot when the - weather grew warm and the nights were dry and clear. On the weekday - evenings, when Clytie was at home, Kent would bring down his work and his - reference-books to Clytie's room, and write there, while she drew or read - or busied herself with odds and ends of needlework. It had all the outward - seeming of friendship—nothing more. For hours they would sit - together without exchanging a word—a real test. But Clytie grew - interested in the progress of Kent's work, gradually obtained a clear idea - of its scope and proportion, and could speak intimately to him concerning - it, although its matter was as incomprehensible to her as to any other - non-specialist. It gave the girl, too, a sense of rest and strength to see - him sitting there, patiently, serenely working. She began to have doubts - as to the completeness of her own scheme of life, its worthiness, - satisfaction. Hitherto the sense of independence, freedom, accumulating - knowledge of that whose foreshadowings had filled her girlish heart with - unrest, had almost satisfied her. Now she began to look beyond. With her - young being as yet untouched by passion, she did not realise the fulness - that love must bring into life. She vaguely speculated upon it, faint, - elusive gleams of perception passing rapidly through her into the - darkness, but that was all. The secret of life, she thought, could only be - wrested from the tangle of the labyrinth by single-minded endeavour, - sacrifice, devotion. Was not Kent right when he accused her of making her - art a stepping-stone instead of an end? - </p> - <p> - Kent, manlike, and honester, too, than most men, was unconscious of this - self-abasement. Since the day of that fierce struggle with herself which - had resulted in her sending him the missive of submission he had vaguely - felt that she was dependent on him for many things; but he had helped her - in his frank, unquestioning way, feeling pleased, warmed by the flame of a - newly kindled spark of vanity. He preached to her his simple doctrine. - </p> - <p> - “Work while work pleases you. Love it for its own sake. Set a great end - before you; but the attaining it is the delight, not the ultimate - attainment. If you think of nothing but the end, the reaching it is all - feverish unrest and toil.” - </p> - <p> - She listened, rebelled, submitted, without loss of her proud fearlessness. - Yes; it was common sense, she agreed. No one can be humiliated by giving - in to common sense and acting in accordance with it. Kent persuaded her to - finish the picture of Jack. - </p> - <p> - “It is the best thing you have done. There is more work in it—real - work. It will not take long to finish. Then send it for exhibition.” - </p> - <p> - He appealed to Winifred, who added her soft note of encouragement. The - picture was painted. Kent stonily refused to keep it as his possession. - There was a heated argument. He valued her gift and her friendship; he - valued her fame and life-interest more. He would not refuse a replica. In - the end she acquiesced. The picture was accepted by the hanging committee - of the exhibition, made a stir, was sold for £120. Clytie was launched.. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER VIII. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he summer came. - Clytie went abroad with the Farquharsons, through the old towns of - Normandy and Brittany. Kent joined them at St. Malo, and spent his month's - holiday with them. This was such a departure from his usual habit of - solitary pedestrian travel in the rough wilds of Norway, whither he went - every year, with little else than a stick and a knapsack, that Wither had - been quite alarmed. - </p> - <p> - “You'll be taking a holiday with me next,” he had said. - </p> - <p> - But knowing the terms of intimacy between his friend and Clytie, and - knowing Clytie herself,—he had accompanied Kent to the studio, at - first out of curiosity to see what kind of “being feminine” Kent had made - a friend of, and afterwards because he liked to go there,—whatever - sceptical imaginings might have exercised him, he forbore to give them - expression. He had only looked at Kent, on saying good-bye, in his odd, - half-mocking way, and had chuckled noiselessly to himself when the door - had closed upon Kent's broad shoulders. - </p> - <p> - Kent did not regret Norway. A charm, unknown to him before, filled all the - days. The Farquharsons were perfect travelling companions: Caroline - bright, satirical, helpful, learned in the ways of men; George easy-going, - happy either to lounge in the sun with a pipe and bandy chaff with his - wife, whilst Kent and Clytie went their own ways, or to spend an - antiquarian afternoon with Kent in some old Keltic village. Clytie seemed - also to him to expand under the sunny cheerful influences, to grow more - feminine, without falling in his estimation. No; he did not regret Norway. - He half formulated an intention of abandoning it permanently and - substituting Brittany as his habitual tramping-ground. From the first - morning, when his boat steamed slowly through the narrow St. Malo docks, - and he saw Clytie waiting there to meet him, he felt friendly towards it. - The high ramparted wall, with just the top-story row of green shutters and - roofs peeping above it, and beyond them the spire of the cathedral; the - glimpse through the sentry-guarded gate up the narrow cobble-paved street, - gaudy with blue blouses, red handkerchiefs, and yellow oilskins exposed - all along at shop doors; on the quay itself the stalls of the hucksters - under the lee of the wall, and the busy crowd of swarthy Breton sailors, - porters, and green uniformed <i>douaniers</i>; and Clytie standing, fresh - in her pure colouring heightened by the light summer dress, in the midst - of this mellow setting—all the picture fixed itself as a whole - indelibly upon his mind, and caused a strange little thrill of pleasure to - run through him. - </p> - <p> - They sat on the sands—the finest in the world, perhaps, when the - tide is low—that run in a broad, golden sweep from crag-bastioned, - grim old St. Malo to the white houses of Parame, amid the babel of bathers - and visitors, watching the types Parisian and English, Kent smoking - contentedly, while Clytie filled her sketch-book with oddities of - personality and costume. Three days slipped away there very pleasantly. - </p> - <p> - In spite of its banality as a pleasure resort there is a grim charm about - St. Malo that is never quite forgotten by those who have once known it. It - has an air of stability, of defiance. It is out of the reach of the - improver, extender, and suburb-maker. Its great walls guard it as - jealously on three sides as the sea does on the other. Almost alone of - populous cities, it can never grow. As he left with the party to continue - the tour Kent felt this charm, although his associations with the city had - been of the lighter kind. They idled through the old towns: Dol, with its - dark granite cathedral, looking rather hewn out of the rock than built; - Dinan on its granite steep above the Rance, where the heart of du Guesclin - is enshrined; Brieux, Paimpol, over which Pierre Loti has thrown the - glamour of his sentiment; Morlaix, and so to Brest, with its great harbour - and strong sea breeze from the Atlantic. For Kent this journey was an - uninterrupted pleasure. No country is richer in things old, worn by - weather and time, than Brittany: here an old chapel built of rough unhewn - granite; here a shapeless wayside cross erected by some pious crusader on - the ragged hill slope, railed round to prevent the encroachments of the - broom and heather; here a Druidic mass of boulders; in the cottages - curious smoke-dried strips of old Breton work, ancestral oak carvings, - rude brass repousée platters—a thousand antiquarian interests in - this gray land. But it is a bright one withal. The fields of yellow colza - stretch over the landscape in broad patches of glory; the red-cheeked - cider apples glow in the orchards. The chestnut-trees in the grounds of - the old feudal château, its fleched gables dimly visible, hang gratefully - over the high bounding wall, above the roadway. The peasants still wear - the picturesque Breton dress, tasselled hats, embroidered short jackets, - and knee-breeches for the men, great white caps and elaborate kirtles for - the women. Along the coast the surf beats in a line of angry light upon - the rocks, and shows white, in the midst of the blue, around the islets - out at sea. And the old fishing villages look as if they were but flotsam - and jetsam cast up by Providence around the gray, weather-worn church that - has taken them to its bosom. - </p> - <p> - For a few days after they left Dinan Kent noticed a change in Clytie. She - was reserved, thoughtful. It was not until she appeared to have thrown off - the weight of an obsessing idea that she grew buoyant and frank again. An - incident unknown to him had occurred at Dinan, shaking the girl's heart to - its depths. - </p> - <p> - Her bedroom in the hotel opened, like the others on the same floor, on to - a small balcony, the spaces in front of each room being separated by a - light iron bar. She was dressing one morning when her attention was - aroused by voices in the next room, near the balcony. Her own French - window was open. The air was sunny and still, and the voices struck clear. - </p> - <p> - “And that is your last word?” asked a woman's voice in French. She used - the familiar <i>ton</i>. Her accents were tearful and pleading. - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” replied a man's voice brutally. “There, there! Do not make any - scenes. I go because it is my good pleasure. What have you to say against - it?” - </p> - <p> - “But I love you, I love you, Armand!” - </p> - <p> - “Bah!” laughed the man, “they say that always. Here are the thousand - francs.” - </p> - <p> - Clytie, who had involuntarily overheard this scrap of the conversation, - hastened to shut the window. The sounds died away into murmurs dimly - perceptible through the partition wall. Then she heard the room door slam - violently and a heavy step tramp down the passage. - </p> - <p> - Some two hours later she was sitting in the salon of the hotel, reading - the papers and looking idly out upon the market-booths in the little <i>place</i>. - Kent and Farquharson had gone out together to devote a scientific forenoon - to the monuments of the town, and Caroline was writing letters in her own - room. Clytie was alone. Suddenly the door opened and a woman, scarcely - more than a girl, appeared on the threshold. She made a step forward, but - perceiving Clytie by the window, she hesitated, irresolute whether to - advance or retire. Clytie looked up quickly, caught a glance which she - interpreted as one of appeal. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, enter, mademoiselle,” she said, with a smile. - </p> - <p> - The newcomer murmured a “<i>Merci</i>,” entered, closed the door, and - sitting down on the faded sofa by the wall, commenced turning over the - pages of an old illustrated paper. Clytie went on with her <i>Figaro</i>. - Presently her ear caught a little sniffling sob. She turned round. Her - companion was squeezing a wet rag of a handkerchief in her hand, her head - turned away towards the paper; she was crying. Clytie rose, moved softly - across the room. But as she was going through the doorway she saw the - girl, abandoning herself to her misery, bury her face upon the sofa - cushion. Clytie was touched. She went back to the girl, laid her hand - softly on her shoulder. - </p> - <p> - “Mademoiselle!” - </p> - <p> - The girl started, raised a pretty, tear-stained face, looked at Clytie - wistfully out of her light blue eyes, her lips quivering. - </p> - <p> - “You are in trouble,” said Clytie. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, mademoiselle, you are very good,” cried the other—“<i>oui; je - suis bien malheureuse</i>. But you must leave me. You are a young girl - well brought up, whilst I——<i>Merci</i>, mademoiselle; you can - do nothing.” - </p> - <p> - The voice struck a chord of association. Where had she heard it recently? - Quickly it flashed upon her, the scrap of dialogue she had overheard that - morning. The girl again hid her face. The low-cut dress, beloved by - Frenchwomen, disclosed a shapely neck, on which clustered coquettishly a - few tiny madcap curls below the smooth, upbrushed, fair hair. Her figure - was young and graceful, relaxed now in the attitude of abandonment. - </p> - <p> - Clytie looked down upon her wonderingly, her heart beating. Her maidenhood - urged her to fly; a higher sense of life bade her stay a moment by the - sobbing figure. She had never, to her knowledge, been near to one of the - great unclassed—still less spoken. She remembered the few cynical - words of the man; they seemed to give her a pain at the heart akin to - nausea. She remembered the pleading tones: “<i>Je t'aime Je t'aime bien!</i>” - and her pity went forth upon the woman. - </p> - <p> - “I don't ask you to tell me,” she said very gently. “But we may talk a - little, mayn't we? Perhaps it may ease you—a woman—the same - age,”—Clytie stumbled in the foreign language,—“and perhaps - not so well brought up—after all, a woman.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, mademoiselle, you do not understand. This life!” her shoulders - shivered expressively. “After all, it is bearable; but when, with all - that, one loves—ah!” - </p> - <p> - “He is not worth it,” cried Clytie. “He is a scoundrel—I know what - he is!” - </p> - <p> - The girl raised her face quickly. - </p> - <p> - “You know him? You know Armand? Ah, no; you spoke at random. Yes, he is - base, cruel, but that does not prevent it. Mademoiselle, you are good, you - are sweet. It is not many who would have spoken. You will let me sit here - near you for a little? Ah, <i>mon Dieu</i>,” she went on rapidly, “you - cannot imagine what it is—never, never to talk to a woman whom one - can respect, and who may not betray you; and then the only persons one can - respect are the men, who despise one. And even they—one can love - them, but they are cowardly, hard, selfish!” - </p> - <p> - “There are some good men,” observed Clytie. - </p> - <p> - “That may be,” returned the other, finally drying her eyes, and putting up - her hand to her hair in tidying touches—“that may be, but we don't - often see them. Oh, mademoiselle, I know well that I should be ashamed of - showing you what I am, but when you touched my shoulder it was like a good - sister of the convent,”—Clytie smiled in spite of herself at the - comparison,—“and it touched my heart.” - </p> - <p> - “And I too have a confession to make,” said Clytie, gently interrupting. - “This morning—I overheard—my room is next to yours——” - </p> - <p> - “Ah, it was you who shut the window?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes. So I know, mademoiselle—at least I can judge. And are you - quite alone now?” - </p> - <p> - The girl shrugged her shoulders. - </p> - <p> - “What would you have? He has gone, and I must go too. One does not amuse - oneself here alone.” - </p> - <p> - “And where are you going?” - </p> - <p> - “To Paris. In the middle of summer. It is not gay. Everyone will know <i>qu'il - via plantée là</i>. But one must live. Ah! you are happy, you other honest - women!” She talked on, in half-cynical, half-artless confidence, as is the - way of her race, forgetting in her need of expansion that her hearer was - the English girl well brought up. She dilated on her present trouble, her - life in Paris, her creditors, the spitefulness of women, the brutality of - men. Clytie listened with mingled feelings of horror and pity. She was so - young, this girl, so fresh for all the soil of Paris, and yet taking, from - use, the whole horror of her life as a matter of course, realising it only - in rare emotional moments. Here was a rejecter of formulas, of a race that - has thrown off convention ever since Rahab harboured the spies! Too - fragile, delicate she looked for this social warfare. Whither was she - tending? Clytie had a supreme, lurid moment of introspection. Only two or - three such come in a lifetime. - </p> - <p> - At last the girl rose from the sofa in the quick French way. - </p> - <p> - “Forgive me, mademoiselle, for talking like this. I had forgotten. You see - well that you could not have helped me otherwise than you have done by - sitting by my side. I must not encroach upon your time. Adieu, - mademoiselle, and thank you; oh, a thousand times, thanks. I shall not - forget you.” - </p> - <p> - She was going. Clytie rose and went towards her, her face a little - flushed, but kindness in her eyes. - </p> - <p> - “You will shake hands, <i>à l'Anglaise?</i>” she said. - </p> - <p> - The girl looked her quickly in the face, and then impulsively seized the - proffered hand in both hers and kissed it twice rapidly. Then she ran from - the room. - </p> - <p> - Clytie went back to her seat by the window and looked out upon the - market-sellers. But she did not see much, as tears stood in her eyes and - rolled down her cheeks. - </p> - <p> - She did not tell Mrs. Farquharson of this incident, but kept it in her - heart as a secret and strange revelation of life—something precious, - mysterious, awful. During her drive with the others in the afternoon she - was strangely silent. Kent rallied her on her depression in his bluff, - kind-hearted manner. She smiled absently, complained of a headache, then - shivered with a wave of recollection. For days the spectre haunted her, - sometimes looking at her through the light blue eyes of the girl, and - sometimes taking a dual form, in which the coarse drudge features of the - mother of Jack, the model, were dimly visible. And a question hummed in - her ears: “Was this the aspect of life that men kept so jealously hidden - from women?” - </p> - <p> - But Clytie was young and vigorous, with fresh bright blood leaping in her - veins. The thrill of the salt breeze and the whole-hearted laughter of her - friends soon prevented these imaginings from becoming morbid, and - gradually the first sharp impression dulled more or less down to the level - of her other experiences of things. She gave herself up again to the - freedom and gaiety of the trip, to the unfeigned delight of Kent, who had - been beginning to wonder whether, for unknown reasons, some coolness had - arisen between them. - </p> - <p> - He forbore to allude to the subject until the night when they were all - returning together from St. Malo to Southampton. He had found her a - sheltered corner of the upper deck, rigged up a screen of rugs, - comfortably established her in a canvas chair with many wraps. Most of the - passengers had gone below. They were almost alone. The voices of two men - in an opposite corner came vaguely out of the darkness. All was still save - for the continuous rattle and wash, which at sea forms a strange kind of - silence in itself. - </p> - <p> - “Aren't you sorry it is over?” asked Clytie from the dimness of her wraps. - “We did nothing very wonderful, but it has been very pleasant—a - thing to look back upon.” - </p> - <p> - “'A garnered joy for after-time.'” - </p> - <p> - “You are waxing poetical.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, that's Wither. He was poetical in his youth. You would hardly think - it of him. I have always thought that line rather pretty. Anyhow, it is - true in the present case.” - </p> - <p> - “And we haven't quarrelled,” said Clytie, “in spite of the maxim, 'If you - want to lose a friend, travel with him.' But I don't think I could quarrel - with you. You wrap yourself round with such imperturbable superiority.” - </p> - <p> - “The metaphor is mixed, but proceed,” interrupted Kent. - </p> - <p> - “Well, it's not worth while playing to such a bad house.” - </p> - <p> - “I don't see what we should have to quarrel about,” returned Kent, - laughing. “We each give the other credit for independent opinions; and as - for action, if you wanted to go to the right and I to the left, I suppose - I should give in and let you have your way—if it were not contrary - to common sense.” - </p> - <p> - “And if it were? If it were simply idiotic?” - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps I should go with you then, to keep you out of harm's way.” - </p> - <p> - “Thank you,” murmured Clytie rather touched, looking up restfully at the - stars. - </p> - <p> - There was a little silence. Kent puffed at his pipe. The glow attracted - George Farquharson, who had just come up on the deck and was groping about - for them in the darkness. - </p> - <p> - “Going to stay here all night?” he asked. - </p> - <p> - “Most of it,” replied Clytie. - </p> - <p> - “Kent making you comfortable?” - </p> - <p> - Clytie murmured an easeful affirmative, and Farquharson, nodding a - good-night, disappeared into the darkness. - </p> - <p> - “Apropos of quarrelling,” said Kent after a while. “Do you know, I thought - once, for a few days, you were vexed with me for something—after we - left Dinan. Were you?” - </p> - <p> - Clytie felt the words like a touch of ice. Why had Kent blundered so - tactlessly? - </p> - <p> - “Oh, why do you mention that?” she cried. “The only painful thing in all - the trip. Something that I saw at Dinan—I was put out. Was I very - disagreeable? It did not refer to you in any way, dear friend.” - </p> - <p> - “Pardon me if I have touched on a sore place,” replied Kent. “I find I - have a good deal to learn in these matters. Will you make a compact with - me to tell me if ever I offend you? Your friendship has grown so valuable - and dear a thing to me that the idea of running the risk of losing it - makes me—what shall I say? Well, I couldn't bear it. I don't often - talk like this,—sentiment comes out of me very awkwardly,—but - when I do say anything of the sort I mean it. Believe me.” - </p> - <p> - Clytie put out her gloved hand and touched him lightly on the arm. She, - too, felt that she had certain need of him. A little thrill of tenderness - passed through her as she turned her head towards him to reply. - </p> - <p> - “Didn't I call you 'dear friend' just now? And I meant it, too. You are - too honest, too single-hearted, ever to offend me, as you say. If I am - ever rebellious with you it will be my own fault, and I shall know it. And - as I really have got some common sense, I shall be sorry for it. But you - won't expect me to tell you so every time, will you? You will have to take - it for granted.” - </p> - <p> - “You always make yourself out worse than you are,” replied Kent. “Very few - people know you. The Farquharsons, myself, Winifred, do. I should like to - go with you wherever you go, and tell folks not to believe you, to prove - to them what a——” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, stop! stop!” cried Clytie, with a little laugh. “This sojourn in the - land of compliments has infected you. Oh, no; I am ordinary; not bad, not - good. You see, if I had had anybody to care for specially, and who cared - for me, I might have shown up differently. I have hardly had a chance of - seeming otherwise than selfish. Opportunity makes the saint as much as it - makes the thief.” - </p> - <p> - Kent meditated, framing a reply. The right words would not come until it - seemed that too long an interval had elapsed. There was another silence—one - of those pleasant ones between friends when they feel in sympathy. Clytie - at last broke it. - </p> - <p> - “Would you have had such a conversation as this with a man friend?” - </p> - <p> - “No—at least—well, no. Why?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, nothing. The idea occurred to me,” replied Clytie. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER IX. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he long autumn - months rolled on, bringing little new to Clytie or to Kent. Clytie - continued to paint her small <i>genre</i> pictures, but with a more - certain touch, a restraint which a deeper insight into life compelled. - They did not satisfy her now, however, as they used to. She had more - articulate longings after an art which should be higher, more - comprehensive, more responsive to certain subtler and at the same time - more stirring impulses within her. - </p> - <p> - “I want to paint something that may live,” she said to Kent, “something I - can throw my whole soul into, something I can look at when it is finished - and say: 'There, that is final; that expresses consummately everything I - have ever felt and dreamed.'” - </p> - <p> - “If you can ever say that, you will cease to be an artist,” he replied in - his matter-of-fact way. - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps so. But I must try. And the subject, the subject?” - </p> - <p> - “Wait,” said Kent. “If it ever comes, it will do so of itself.” - </p> - <p> - Clytie waited, but the subject did not come. Meanwhile she had her hands - full with orders, both for pictures and for magazine illustrations. Her - life was full, as far as work could make it. Winifred came regularly to - the studio, as usual, cheering her with sweet companionship. She had spent - her summer holiday at the seaside, treating out of her own purse her two - little brothers to a holiday. She came back with glowing reminiscences of - her adventures, the humorous naughtinesses of the children, the odds and - ends of character she had met with. Her only regret was that her dear - Clytie had not been there too. - </p> - <p> - “I should have thrown those horrid children, Reggie and Arthur, into the - sea!” exclaimed Clytie. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, no, you wouldn't. They simply adore you. They are nice children, - aren't they, now?” - </p> - <p> - “You little goose!” cried Clytie, kissing the warm brown cheek. “They are - like you, the sweetest little children in the world. When are they coming - to tea?” - </p> - <p> - These teas in the studio were red-letter days for Winifred's brothers and - sisters. They worshipped Clytie, who had keen sympathy with the - unconventionalities of childhood. She made grotesque caricatures of them, - at which they screamed with laughter, or sat on the hearthrug with them - and talked the nonsense that bright children love. Their joy was complete - if Kent came in. They called him “Kent,” took complete possession of him, - presented him to Clytie as a pet trifle they carried about with them. He, - too, was fond of these debauches, and seldom missed attending them if he - could leave the Museum in time. He loved to see Clytie take her part in - them. She seemed to him even more sweet and womanly than Winifred when she - had a child on her lap, and her dark red hair was touching the black - ruffled curls. He told her so one day, and the colour came into her cheeks - as she laughed. - </p> - <p> - Another occasional visitor in the studio was Treherne, the young clergyman - whom Clytie had met at the Farquharson's numismatic dinner-party. Kent and - herself had run across him at a Bond Street gallery where some paintings - by the impressionists Degas and Monet were on view. He was looking ill and - overworked. He replied to their inquiries that he had been forced to give - up his North London parish and take lighter duties near Victoria. As he - lived in her neighbourhood, he hoped that Clytie would allow him to call - one day and see her pictures; “Jack” at the exhibition had aroused his - admiration. Clytie readily gave him her “day,” when Miss Marchpane and - herself were at home to their friends, and hoped he would come. He called, - found a certain charm in the bright talk of the studio, exhilarating after - the dull rounds among his parishioners, and soon became a constant - visitor. Perhaps the charm of a pair of soft brown eyes attracted him more - than he thought of confessing. Towards the end of the year, however, he - bought, through a dealer, two of Winifred's dainty pictures. - </p> - <p> - The days shortened, the painting light grew less and less, and the time - came for Clytie to pay her Christmas visit to Durdleham. She had not been - there for a year, and her heart longed at times for the familiar faces and - the voices of her own kith and kin. She thought that, perhaps, now she had - grown older, her father and sisters would think her mode of life less - unnatural, less likely to result in moral shipwreck. The letters, too, she - had been receiving from them lately were kinder, more affectionate in - tone. Mrs. Blather longed to have her dear Clytie back amongst them once - more, and Janet wrote touchingly of the vacant chair at the dinner table. - Clytie anticipated much quiet pleasure from her visit. The need of an - attitude of rebellion was past, and she could throw herself lovingly, with - no fear of compromising her independence, into all the mild interests of - the household. There were times when a tenderer, softer chord vibrated in - her heart, suggesting sadly the sweetness of home and loved family ties. - She was human, with the foolish human craving for things that are not. She - could not abandon her free artistic life; but if she could fill it with - gentler, softer graces! In these moods she clung to Winifred, loving her - for this element of sweet womanliness she brought into the rooms in the - King's Road that were her home. It was with this range of feelings - uppermost in her heart that she went to Durdleham. - </p> - <p> - For the first few days after Clytie's departure Kent laboured honestly and - doggedly in his old way. But gradually he began to feel a lack of interest - in his pursuits, to be vaguely conscious that the conditions of things - were upset, and then he wished that Clytie had not gone. - </p> - <p> - One evening he was sitting in his room with a litter of proof-sheets lying - idly before him. He felt depressed. It was a new sensation. It puzzled - him, annoyed him, made him angry with himself, like a man's first - unsuspected attack of the gout. He rose and walked about. His fire had - nearly gone out, his lamp had been flaring and the room was filled with - its acrid smoke. He could not open the window, for the sleet and rain were - beating against the panes. He stopped for a moment watching the water - dribble outside down the glass. Then he turned away impatiently, seeking - solace from his book-backs and pictures. But they seemed to look back upon - him unsympathetically, as if reproaching him for the bare floor, the - untidy dresser, and the cheerless hearth. He rekindled his fire, filled a - pipe, and sat down to think. - </p> - <p> - Kent was not given to introspection. His external interests in life were - too engrossing for him to think deeply or continuously about himself. Such - a habit of mind he used vehemently to deprecate as morbid, egotistical. - But now this strange depression, this vague sense of loss, compelled him - to account for it to his reason. He began in a sober, materialistic way to - review his general health (there are philosophers amongst us who refer all - moods to the liver, not looking upon it, however, like the ancients, as - the seat of the affections!), to question some little disappointments he - had had with regard to his great work, and to dwell upon the futility of - existence—the suggestion of which he should have been logical enough - to see was the result and not the cause of his state of mind. But he was - not logical. Few men are when the great facts of inner life are in - question; for in the course of logic “none of us would see salvation,” as - far as this world's happiness is concerned. Gradually a truth dawned upon - him. He missed the ever-ready companionship he had enjoyed for nearly a - year. He missed Clytie. He found that for the first time in his life since - he was a baby he had been depending for something on a woman. He had never - realised until then the strength of that unknown subtle influence, the - withdrawal of which left him so weak, so unable to put forth all his - powers. At first he thought that it was merely the abrupt interruption of - pleasant habits, the sudden jerk out of a well-oiled groove. Telling - himself he was satisfied with this solution, he resolutely went back to - his writing and began to correct his proof-sheets. But gradually his - attention wandered again. These sudden impulses to work against the grain - soon spend themselves out and produce greater lassitude than before. - </p> - <p> - He tossed down his pencil in disgust and swung round towards the fire. It - was Clytie herself, then, that he missed. He missed her in spite of her - being a woman, he told himself. And yet the picture rose before his mind - of Clytie's dainty room and Clytie sitting there opposite to him, her - hand, with falling lace at wrist, pressed into the softness of her hair. - Why had she not written a line to him? - </p> - <p> - Yes, he missed her. But why should that make his work distasteful? He was - puzzled. One thing alone was clear, his loneliness was growing - intolerable. He threw on his waterproof, and, leaving his work, trudged - through the rain to the “monastery,” at South Kensington. - </p> - <p> - Wither was alone. Fairfax and Greene were dining out. The little man had - been too lazy and sybaritic to face the cold and wet outside. He had clad - himself in pyjamas and dressing-gown, and was reading a French novel on - the couch drawn up in front of the fire. His diminutive figure looked - absurdly small and wizened in his loose wrap. He nodded affectionately at - Kent, explained briefly the fact of his being alone, and, while Kent was - hunting in a familiar corner for the pair of slippers always there in - readiness for his use, went on with his reading. - </p> - <p> - “Get me some whiskey, old chap,” he said without looking up. “I have been - dying for some this last hour and I have been too lazy to stir off the - sofa.” - </p> - <p> - Kent, as usual, supplied Wither's wants and poured out a glass for - himself. - </p> - <p> - “Lazy little beggar,” he said kindly as he sat down in the great - saddle-bag chair. “How do you manage to get through your work?” - </p> - <p> - Wither laughed. - </p> - <p> - “I thought you knew better than to ask me that.” - </p> - <p> - It was a tradition in the “monastery” that Wither never did any work. They - paid him at his office for lending it a gentlemanly tone. As a matter of - fact, like most clever, lazy men, he generally did an ordinary man's day's - work in a few hours. - </p> - <p> - He stretched himself out luxuriously and lit a cigarette. - </p> - <p> - “Have you ever read this?” he asked, holding up his novel. It was - Bourget's “Cruelle Enigme.” - </p> - <p> - Kent nodded. - </p> - <p> - “I skimmed it through here one night while waiting for you. I have no - patience with that sort of thing.” - </p> - <p> - “Possibly not,” remarked Wither, “but that's a fact about yourself, and - not about the book.” - </p> - <p> - “I don't believe it is human life,” replied Kent. “People can't make - animal passion the keynote of their lives nowadays.” - </p> - <p> - “Why not nowadays?” - </p> - <p> - “The conditions of life prevent it. The savage has furious brute - instincts, which he gratifies occasionally, when his mind is not taken up - with fighting and hunting for his food. It may be the guiding principle in - a splendid barbarism like some Eastern courts, where men have little else - to think of. But in our modern civilisation there are other interests too - absorbing. The hurry of life is too great.” - </p> - <p> - “What about the empty-minded women you are always railing at?” - </p> - <p> - “They are all absorbed in their futilities—at least most of them,” - he added, correcting himself; “but even when idle they are not beasts. Now - this woman you are reading about is a beast.” - </p> - <p> - Wither eyed him curiously. - </p> - <p> - “You are talking nonsense, old chap. If she had been simply that, she - would not have been a problem to the psychologist. The enigma was the - sudden burst into animalism in the midst of a love that was almost - idyllic.” - </p> - <p> - “Bosh!” said Kent. “It was the same old hideous adultery.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, well! if you go on those lines, I am done,” replied Wither, shrugging - his shoulders. “I thought we were a little more advanced in our ideas in - this establishment.” - </p> - <p> - “You know I don't mean that,” said Kent, puffing violently at his pipe. - “The legality of the connection has nothing to do with it. It is the - eternal coupling of the male and the female that revolts me. Pah! They - might as well write a novel on the loves of the pastures.” - </p> - <p> - “If I could write French, I should like to try it,” said Wither. “It would - be interesting.” - </p> - <p> - “There is too much of that sort of thing written and talked about,” said - Kent. “It's sickening. It's degradation of humanity.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, it's not uncommon,” said Wither, with a sphinxlike smile playing - round the corners of his mouth as he gazed upwards at the cigarette smoke. - </p> - <p> - “Look here, Wither,” said Kent; “I have a higher faith in humanity. You - profess to be a cynic, a man of the world, and you delight in calling - yourself nonmoral. That's all foolishness, I know. You are the kindest - hearted little chap in the world. But can you, as a man of intellectual - tastes, sympathise with all this animalism?” - </p> - <p> - Wither threw away his cigarette, and bending forward laid his hand on - Kent's knee. - </p> - <p> - “My dear old boy,” he said, with more earnestness than he generally - displayed, “I do call myself a man of the world, for I'm in it and I love - it, and I have a very decent bowing acquaintance as well with its pals, - the Flesh and the Devil. I know something of men, and as for women, it has - been my lot to have been petted by a good few—my size lends itself - to that sort of thing. In fact, Gulliver with the Brobdingnag maids of - honour is not in it with me. I know all about 'em; and I tell you, old - chap, that the Beast, sometimes with a big B and sometimes in diamond - type, lies in the nature of us all. There is not a living being with pure - blood in his or her veins who is not overmastered at times by the - principle of sex. You scoff at Bourget as a writer of morbid and - impossible fiction. Look at your daily papers. Don't you see parsons of - hitherto blameless lives running off with their cooks, virtuous women - ruining their lives and their husbands' for the sake of some Hercules of a - scoundrel—just as the patrician ladies in Rome went mad over the - charioteers in the circus! Man alive! it is the Beast, the Beast that may - slumber in an old maid's bosom until she is sixty and then drive her into - the arms of her footman. How otherwise have you accounted for these - things?” - </p> - <p> - “I have not tried,” replied Kent simply. “They have not interested me. - They are diseases of the brain, for the physiologist to study, like - suicide and murder. I don't believe in them in normal everyday life.” - </p> - <p> - There was a long pause, broken only by Wither's request that Kent should - put some coals on the fire, and the rattling of the operation. Wither - resumed his reading and Kent pulled at his pipe in silence. At last the - former looked up and said suddenly: - </p> - <p> - “Why do you think people marry?” - </p> - <p> - “That's funny,” replied Kent, with a slight start. “I was just wondering - myself. I don't know: money, companionship, family, idiocy—God knows - what.” - </p> - <p> - “It has always struck me that you would be the first of us to go,” said - the other in pure, idle maliciousness. - </p> - <p> - “I?” cried Kent, with a gesture of disgust. “I marry! give up my work, - procreate children I couldn't support! Have to kiss and pet and fondle a - woman——” - </p> - <p> - “Well, you need not do that unless you like,” replied Wither, laughing in - his gnomelike way. “She might expect it, but she would be soon consoled by - the blessedness of pure spirituality.” - </p> - <p> - Kent's reply was interrupted by the return of the absentees, Fairfax, the - doctor, and Greene. - </p> - <p> - “I am so glad you fellows have come back,” said Kent; “Wither has been - drivelling on his favourite topic until I was beginning to loathe him.” - </p> - <p> - “He's an immoral little wretch,” said the doctor, throwing his greatcoat - on Wither's curled-up body—“a pocket Mephistopheles. We keep him - here as a kind of Familiar. Oh, what rot dining out is!” he added, with a - yawn and a stretch as he seated his burly form on the foot of the couch. - “I wish I had stayed at home.” - </p> - <p> - “I wish you had,” said Kent. “Let us have just one rubber before I go. - There is time.” - </p> - <p> - But Kent walked home that night with a new trouble at his heart that kept - him awake a great part of the night. - </p> - <p> - Meanwhile Clytie was not enjoying herself at Durdleham. At first there - were eager embraces, trifling tendernesses and solicitudes. The dear - prodigal had returned, but the fatted calf was killed discreetly, lest it - should convey a husk-flavoured reproach. Grace and Janet bubbled over with - light Durdleham gossip, seeking to interest, and Clytie earnestly and - sympathetically sought to be in touch with her surroundings. It was a real - heartfelt effort on both sides towards harmony. But it soon became patent - that these efforts were unavailing. Clytie saw the old prejudices barring - her at every turn. She recognised with the bitterness of disillusionment - that she was the bit of grit in the family machinery, stopping the - smoothness of its working. As long as she identified herself with - Durdleham interests things went well; but as soon as she, in her turn, - ventured to sketch the bright incidents in her town life she felt a check - in the current of mutual sympathy. If she was reserved, her sisters - complained. They ought to know something of her friends, her occupations. - When she was expansive they shrank cold and crablike into their mail of - prejudice. - </p> - <p> - Her intimacy with a strange Bohemian man was a thorn in the side of the - family. Mr. Davenant considered it extremely injudicious, and Mrs. Blather - whispered to him that she scarcely thought it moral. Janet was too - horrified to allude directly to the circumstance. But, in her neat, prim - bedchamber, she prayed to the Almighty to lead her erring sister out of - the paths of temptation. She duly informed Clytie of this act of piety, - and when Clytie burst into laughter that was nearer to tears than to - merriment, left the room in virtuous indignation. - </p> - <p> - Clytie could not help confessing to herself that she longed for Kent's - companionship, with its broader sympathies and inspiring influences, but - the view the household took of it pained her with a sense of aching - discomfort, and made her feel a strange diffidence in writing to him as - she had promised. She at last addressed him a short little note, stiff and - constrained, which reached him the morning after his conversation with - Wither and did not help to cheer him. Too proud to wait for an opportunity - of posting this letter herself, she placed it on the hall slab together - with the rest of the outgoing correspondence of the family. Although a - hundred letters might have lain there for post without any one of them - attracting Mrs. Blather's attention,—she was too pure-minded a - gentlewoman for idle curiosity to be one of her failings,—it was too - good an opportunity for the imps who seem sometimes to regulate human - affairs to let slip, and as a matter of course Mrs. Blather's eye fell - upon the address. - </p> - <p> - “So you are keeping up a violent correspondence with that man,” she - remarked acidly to Clytie. It is the way of some women to exaggerate. - </p> - <p> - Clytie bit her lip, cheeking an impulsive answer. What was the use of a - retort? - </p> - <p> - Women of broad, liberal education, with interests beyond the nursery, - still-room, and the afternoon-tea table, are known to live together, like - men, in comparative harmony. They have learned the lesson the higher, - broader life teaches of rising or declining instinctively to another - being's plane of thought or feeling. It is hardly a fault of sex that - women are petty, spiteful, and intolerant. When the conditions of life are - narrow and illiberal any human being, man or woman, runs the risk of being - shaped by them. And that is why Mrs. Blather and Janet, good, upright - women according to their lights, subordinated their affection to their - principles, and stood away shocked from their sister. Their traditional - ideals of femininity had been sinned against. The crime was all but - unpardonable. It was always present with them, always assuming fresh, - distorted shapes. They were on a different plane from Clytie, and viewed - all her actions in a false perspective. - </p> - <p> - Clytie was hurt, wounded in her womanly pride. She knew that there was - much clay in her composition, and often felt with chastening - self-abasement how much nearer the angels Winifred was than herself. Yet - she was accustomed to live in an atmosphere free from reproach. Winifred, - Kent, the Farquharsons, and others of her friends might touch with light, - tender finger on here and there an imperfection in her character or - conduct; for this she was grateful, knowing the deeper feelings of esteem - and respect that prompted. But to move in a circle where she was looked - upon as a black sheep, as a girl on the path to unutterable abysses, - galled her to the quick, sent the hot blood mounting in stinging waves to - her cheek, leaving the heart cold. Yet she had learned not to blame her - sisters over much. She had lost her militant scorn of Jacob. Kent had - taught her that although Esau might possess the higher birthright which no - bartering of pottage could alienate, there was still saving grace in the - stolen birthright which Jacob guarded so jealously. But this knowledge did - not make her heart less sore. - </p> - <p> - The happiest time in this Christmas visit was when she could get away into - the old lumber-attic in which she had dreamed so many girlish dreams. It - had long been dismantled of the Liberty curtains, Persian rugs, and cheap - Japaneseries that had lent it the suggestion of artistic atmosphere the - girl of eighteen had craved. It was bare now, except for a table and chair - and a few odds and ends of artist's materials, but a fire could be laid in - the grate to make things look cheery, and there was still the deeply - recessed attic-window where she could stand and look out over the same - drear landscape. It was only the ordinary midland succession of fields, - now black with winter, and pastures through which the river ran, its - course only indicated by the fringing line of pollards and willows. Away - on the slope to the west rose a clump of trees from which peeped a few - houses and a church spire, the little village of Wexwith. In the - foreground ran the highroad skirted with new red-brick cottages, a touch - of sordidness added by man to the ungenerous dreariness of nature. Once - this had affected Clytie with a sense of the unutterable melancholy of - things. The young are prone to be so affected. They are rather proud when - they realise it; it is a kind of youthful vanity. But Clytie, like the - wiser among us, sought brightness as she grew older, and although she - could not consider the landscape cheerful, looked at it only through the - memories of five years. Every spot had associations for her. There was the - cottage where she had seen the little bully strike his playmate, the - original conception of the picture that had helped to cause her welcome - banishment from home. Next to it used to live the old beldame who threw - out of doors the custards and jellies that Janet with angelic perseverance - used to take her. What cruel mockery she used to make of Janet in those - days! Now she submissively helped to carry the custards. Behind the - swelling uplands over the village the sun set, a red ball in the wintry - sky. For how many wild fantastic daubs had not that formed a background! - </p> - <p> - It was during these reveries that the picture subject she craved commenced - to haunt her as it gradually shaped itself into definiteness. Since her - singular interview with the French girl at Dinan a lurid gleam streamed - from the gates ajar of mysteries that had baffled her. She had read widely - and deeply; but books are only the gloss of life, they are not the text. - Its secrets must be read in the living world, with much pain and - sleeplessness and wearied eyes. The throbbing page had been presented to - Clytie for one sharp moment, blazing, the while, in letters of flame. Such - knowledge changes lingering girlhood into womanhood without the aid of - passion. It changes sex-pride into sex-sorrow—in higher natures, be - it understood. And this sex-sorrow runs in channels hollowed out by - ever-varying circumstance and temperament. It flows in the patient, - all-enduring devotion of the sister labouring among outcasts, in the - militant enthusiasm of the social reformer. It quivers in the hearts of - teachers like George Eliot and Elizabeth Barrett Browning. It lives in the - souls of some mothers who tremulously watch the shaping of their - daughter's destiny. With Clytie it ran confluent with her artistic - impulses. It had influenced them vaguely, dimly, hauntingly for months, - but now, at last, stirringly, proclaiming itself, insistently demanding - expression. - </p> - <p> - The subject was found: Faustina in her innocent maidenhood. The problem: - how to manifest the foreshadowings of passion on the young, clear face? - </p> - <p> - Clytie spent hours in her attic trying to fix the summer lightnings of - features that flashed elusively before her mind. She wished she were in - London, to go abroad in the highways seeking after a face. It seemed to - her that in the great city she would find the one she wanted, in the park, - at the theatre, perhaps among the subdued black rows of women—lines - of suppressed volcanic workings—in some great shop. But in Durdleham - volcanoes were extinct or regulated by formula to erupt with mild - propriety. She began to feel the frenzied weariness of helplessness. If - only she could talk to someone—to Kent. - </p> - <p> - One day Mrs. Blather came into the attic. Clytie was dreaming before - incoherent charcoal streaks. The fire had burned low and the draught of - the opening door made her shiver. - </p> - <p> - “Why, Clytie, child, you are blue with cold,” said her sister, wrapping - her gray woollen shawl more tightly round her thin shoulders. “Why do you - mope up here?” - </p> - <p> - “I am not moping, Gracie,” replied Clytie; “I am only working—conceiving - a picture, that's all.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, but you oughtn't to do any work. Have you not come down for a - holiday? What's the good of burning the candle at both ends? Come down to - the drawing-room and talk to the Howatsons; they are inquiring after you.” - </p> - <p> - “But I am in such a mess!” laughed Clytie, showing her blackened finger - tips. - </p> - <p> - “Well, come down and tidy yourself in my room; there is a fire, and you - can warm yourself for a few minutes.” Clytie followed her sister down the - stairs to the latter's bedroom, where a cheerful fire warmed the cold - clean chintz of the hangings. Mrs. Blather sat down by the hearth, while - Clytie washed her hands and touched her hair. - </p> - <p> - “Why don't you tell us more of your work, Clytie?” she said - propitiatingly. “Here you are being criticised in the newspapers, quite - like a famous person, and we at home know nothing of it.” - </p> - <p> - “Why, Gracie, I thought it did not interest you much.” - </p> - <p> - “We would take an interest if you would only let us.” - </p> - <p> - “But, you see, I paint such queer pictures. I don't think they are your - style. And then pictures are not portable like books. If I wrote poetry, - you could be deluged with presentation copies; but even we ourselves lose - all the result of our work when the picture is sold.” - </p> - <p> - “Of course, but you might write and talk more. And with regard to the - 'queer' pictures, don't you think, if you made us your confidantes, the - pictures might be a little less—'queer'? You see, Clytie, you are - young, and it is your nature to run into extremes. If you were just a - little bit restrained by older folks, would you not get what you are so - fond of talking about—'truth'—in your work?” - </p> - <p> - Clytie was somewhat puzzled at Mrs. Blather's conciliatory tone. Was this - an effort towards a better understanding, or was it a disguised lecture? - She finished her hasty toilet and went and stood by the fire near her - sister, her foot on the fender. - </p> - <p> - “Thank you very much, Gracie,” she said, “but would you always understand? - Perhaps,” she added, smiling, after a pause, “you would want to restrain - too much—and where would the picture be?” - </p> - <p> - “Well, why not try? What is the picture to be about that you are working - at now?” - </p> - <p> - The blood rushed to Clytie's cheeks, which, bent down, caught the added - glow of the fire—a contrast, with her rich colour, to the clear, - waxen, negative face of her sister. She broke suddenly into a nervous - laugh. - </p> - <p> - “There! Even from the beginning I couldn't discuss it with you, Gracie. It - is only a girl's face—I can't tell you anything more about it.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, that's what I complain of,” said Mrs. Blather with growing acidity. - “You keep your own sisters in ignorance of your life, and confide - everything to this Mr. Kent, who is nothing to you.” - </p> - <p> - “How do you know I have told Mr. Kent about this picture?” - </p> - <p> - “I was not referring to this one, though by your manner I see you have.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, yes, I have,” said Clytie, “because—because—he has the - artistic temperament—and he can seize an idea—in fact—why - are you saying this to me, Gracie?” - </p> - <p> - “Because you are not going the right way, Clytie; and it is my duty as - your elder sister, who has looked after you since you were so high, to - make a last effort to bring you within some restraining influences. We - don't like your intimacy with Mr. Kent. It is not what we have been taught - to think right. I know you look down upon us as narrow-minded at - Durdleham. I think it is better for us. We are shut in, perhaps, between - high walls, but the high walls keep us safe.” - </p> - <p> - They were silent for a few moments, then Clytie said: “Gracie, don't you - think this subject has been enough discussed? It is wasting words and - spoiling good intentions. Suppose we go down to the Howatsons.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER X. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">O</span>ne day, about this - time, Kent was walking home from the Museum. His spirits had by no means - lightened since his conversation with Wither, and he strode along moodily, - trying to fix his attention on the arrangement of that evening's portion - of the great work. He had gone back to it resolutely and doggedly, and was - conscious that it was progressing not badly, but at the same time he had a - troubling sense that he was treating it less as an aim than as a cure for - existence. Fairfax, the doctor, told him he was overdoing himself, that - the strain of double work was telling, advised total idleness, and if - possible a change of air. Kent gave the prescription a trial, and went - down to the Isle of Wight for a week-end, where he tramped himself utterly - tired during the day and bored himself exquisitely during the evening. - Then he came back rather worse than when he went. No; he was suffering - from change, and not from the want of it. - </p> - <p> - London was in a pitiable condition. It had snowed, then thawed into slush, - and now a hard black frost had set in, rendering the roadways like glass. - Already during his walk home Kent had seen four horses down. On the first - two occasions he had lent a helping hand. After that it began to grow - monotonous, and he hurried past the accidents, anxious to get home out of - the sullen iron-bound streets. At the corner of Sloane Square and the - King's Road he saw a familiar girlish figure coming towards him. It was - Winifred, her dark cheeks glowing with the exercise of walking; but he - noticed a look of trouble in her eyes. - </p> - <p> - “I am so glad to have met you, Mr. Kent,” she said; “I want to speak to - you. Can you walk a little way with me?” - </p> - <p> - “Of course, as long as you like. What is the matter? You are not - yourself.” - </p> - <p> - “No. I have been upset, so upset; you would hardly think it. Come and I - will tell you.” - </p> - <p> - They crossed the road and went on down Lower Sloane Street. - </p> - <p> - “It's about Jack—Jack, the model, you remember. He has been run - over! Oh, it's horrible!” - </p> - <p> - “And you are going to him?” asked Kent, noticing for the first time a - little basket hanging over her arm. “Give me that,” he added, taking the - basket, which she out of habit surrendered to him. “And these are jellies - and what not for him?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes. Will you come with me and see him, see what can be done for him, - rather? His mother is so harsh, so stupid.” - </p> - <p> - “How did you come to hear of the accident?” - </p> - <p> - Winifred's cheek paled a little and she turned her head from him. - </p> - <p> - “I saw it myself. Oh, I shall never, never forget it! just outside Sloane - Square station; I was coming home, yesterday. The ground was just as - slippery as it is now. Oh, how can I tell you! It makes me shudder to - think of it!” - </p> - <p> - “Take your time,” said Kent good-naturedly. - </p> - <p> - She was silent for a few steps. Then, nerving herself, she went on with - more coherence. - </p> - <p> - “He was just in front of me when I came out, and as he saw me he ran away, - frightened—like a little scared animal; you know his ways. And - crossing the road, not looking where he was going, he turned his head - round as if to see I was not following him, and then he slipped—oh-h! - under the hoofs of a horse—in a hansom. And the driver tried to pull - up sharp, and the horse came down too—on top of Jack!” - </p> - <p> - “Good God!” said Kent. - </p> - <p> - “A crowd at once collected. I rushed through—I must have screamed a - little and cried that I knew him, for the people made way for me. It all - seemed like a horrid dream. I can't tell what happened, except that I - found myself kneeling on the ground with the poor little mite's head on my - lap. Then someone was talking to me, who said he was a doctor, and began - to examine the boy's injuries.” - </p> - <p> - “Is he badly hurt?” - </p> - <p> - “The doctor does not know yet. No bones are broken—the injuries are - internal.” - </p> - <p> - “Is he at the hospital?” - </p> - <p> - “No. At his own home. I gave them the address, and told them his mother - would care for him—why, I don't know. And then they got a stretcher - from the police-station and carried him home, and I went with them and - broke it to his mother. But, oh! Mr. Kent, almost the most awful part of - it is that it seems as if I was the cause of it.” - </p> - <p> - “Nonsense, my dear child,” said Kent in rough earnestness. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, yes, it is. If it hadn't been for me he would not have run across the - road in a fright. Oh! I can see it now—the horse plunging, his hoofs - over the child—and then the collapse, and the child hidden under the - horse!” - </p> - <p> - They turned down a side street and then another, sinking into the squalour - that still remains in that vague river district between Pimlico Pier and - Milbank. - </p> - <p> - “Poor little chap! Punishment has come at last,” said Kent. “It has a kind - of way of doing so. What does Clytie think of it? Have you told her?” - </p> - <p> - “I only wrote to her yesterday. This morning I got a telegram. I think I - have it with me. It is Clytie all over!” - </p> - <p> - She opened the purse she was carrying inside her muff and drew from it a - crumpled telegram. It ran: - </p> - <p> - Dreadfully distressed. Get the best of everything, nurse, doctor. Find - money to go on with in drawer at once. I must feel that I am doing - something. Will write. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, it is like her,” said Kent, with a smile, as he handed it back to - her. - </p> - <p> - “I wonder whether you would mind doing something for me, Mr. Kent?” said - Winnie after a pause. “Get the money out of Clytie's drawer for me. I have - been so busy all day. Reggie is in bed with a bad cold and the house is - upside down—and of course I have to come here. You see, I must use - the money, or else Clytie would be hurt; it seems to me to be a matter of - conscience.” - </p> - <p> - “Or a matter of Clytie's telling you?” said Kent. -</p> - <p> -“Well, perhaps it's - that. One always does what Clytie says. So do you, Mr. Kent. Anyhow, I - should like to have the money for the sake of obeying her wishes. Could - you get it for me?” - </p> - <p> - “Of course, if you will tell me how.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, that's easy. I have the key of her secretaire in my purse. She keeps - her cash-box there. You can let me have it as it is. Will you?” - </p> - <p> - “Of course. I will bring it round to-night.” - </p> - <p> - The early winter twilight had fallen and scared shivering indoors the - brood of unwashed children that possess these gray, sordid streets. Here - and there women stood at the doors, their hands folded in their aprons, - with little ones clinging to their skirts, chaffering with a costermonger, - or exchanging shrill confidences with a neighbour. Most of the front - parlours on the ground floor were lightless, with drawn blinds. Here and - there a public-house beer-can gleamed white upon the railing spikes. - Workmen lurched heavily along, now and then followed by shawled, - bare-armed wives, vituperative. For it was Saturday afternoon, when the - businesslike wife looks after her husband. Here and there from a suddenly - opened doorway came the smell of many weeks' cooking. The poorer classes - despise fresh air in their rooms—perhaps because they get it for - nothing. - </p> - <p> - Winifred stopped with Kent at a dark-fronted, dingy house, the facsimile - of the forty other houses in the dingy row and of the forty opposite - across the narrow roadway. A little girl answered her knock. - </p> - <p> - “Mrs. Burmester in, my dear? Come, Mr. Kent, if you don't mind. I know the - way.” - </p> - <p> - Kent followed her up two flights of stairs, and into Mrs. Burmester's - room. It was less squalid than he had imagined. A fire was burning in the - grate, with a saucepan simmering. There were fairly substantial chairs, a - table, and the ragged remains of a carpet. On a big bed by the side of the - wall, not uncomfortable-looking nor unclean, lay Jack, tossing his wild - elf head in delirium. By the side of the bed sat a nurse, whom the doctor - had sent. Mrs. Burmester was spreading out the tea-things on the table. - Her red, heavy face brightened momentarily when Winnie entered. - </p> - <p> - “How is he now?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, mortal bad, miss. He hasn't had his senses all day.” - </p> - <p> - “And the doctor—does he say anything?” - </p> - <p> - “He said he would like a consultation,” replied the nurse, “but he did not - know exactly whom to refer to.” - </p> - <p> - “Why, to me, of course!” replied Winnie. “He knows my name and address. If - you see him before I do, say I authorise him to do anything he thinks - right. We are willing to—that is, he need not be hindered by - questions of expense.” - </p> - <p> - Winnie turned to Mrs. Burmester with the basket, which she had taken from - Kent's hand. The mother thanked her, almost monosyllabically. She was too - dull for emotions of any kind. Kent watched her with interest, for Clytie - had often spoken of her, hinting at her own puzzle. - </p> - <p> - There was a lull in Jack's ravings as Winifred and Kent stood over the bed - looking at him. The expression of sullen ferocity had gone from his face, - which now seemed refined and gentle. He smiled at Winifred, not - recognising her, murmured something incoherent about arithmetic. His mind - had wandered back to his earlier school-days. He had been fond of a - teacher there, his mother explained. Her name was Miss Jones. She wished - he was fond of anybody now. He was a sore trial to her. The floodgates of - dull speech were opened and a slow stream of joyless anecdote poured forth—a - jeremiad of Jack's iniquities. Winnie stopped her gently. - </p> - <p> - “We must not think of that now, Mrs. Burmester,” she said. “We have to get - him round again; and then we will see whether we can't make a good boy of - him for you.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah! You won't do that. He is too much like his father.” - </p> - <p> - They stayed a little longer, talking. Then they went, as Winifred had to - be back among her own family responsibilities. - </p> - <p> - “By the way,” said Kent as they were walking homewards, “this must be - Treherne's parish—in fact, I am sure of it. Has it not struck you?” - </p> - <p> - “No, it never occurred to me.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, he ought to know. I'll send him a line. He knows all about this - sort of thing.” - </p> - <p> - He walked with her as far as the door of her own house. There she gave him - the key of Clytie's secretaire. Mrs. Gurkins kept the room key. He left - her and turned homewards, striding along rather fast, eager to execute - Clytie's commission. He was filled with a foolish pleasure at her - impulsive telegram; touched also at Winifred's implicit obedience and - confidence. - </p> - <p> - “She's a queen among women!” - </p> - <p> - The silly phrase passed through his mind and he caught himself repeating - it with his lips, half aloud. - </p> - <p> - “Bosh!” he added with some impatience. And he stopped to look in at a - shop-window to divert his mind. It was a boot-shop. He ran his eye - mechanically over the rows of commonplace, cheap boots, and then it fell - upon a little pair of tan shoes, with broad silk laces. Before he realised - how his mind was working, a picture rose before him of Clytie wearing a - similar pair during the summer trip abroad. He remembered bending down one - day when a knot had slipped and retying it for her. - </p> - <p> - “I am becoming a positive ass!” he said to himself, with an angry jerk - away from the window. Then he redoubled his pace, as if in defiance, but - the silly phrase rang in his ears: - </p> - <p> - “She's a queen among women!” - </p> - <p> - He obtained the key from Mrs. Gurkins, and entered the tenantless room. - The blinds were down, the curtains undrawn. It was just dark. He lit the - piano candles and looked about him. How dreary the room seemed! The - fireless grate, the coverless table (the cloth had been thriftily put away - by Mrs. Gurkins), the absence of the feminine litter with which Clytie was - wont to strew the room—all made his heart sink for a moment beneath - the weight of a great longing. He remembered, too, the room by that dim - light—on the evening of Clytie's submission. He saw her again lift - her arms to unpin her hat from behind, the proud young figure standing out - free as she looked at him half playfully, half seriously, her ripe, full - lips parted in a smile. His breath came quickly as a flood of - self-knowledge swept over him. He had felt puzzled then—at vague - inarticulate desires. Now they were gathering a terribly real, objective - shape. He grew dizzy, hot and cold, half terrified at himself. - </p> - <p> - With shaking fingers he fitted the key in the lock of the secretaire. In - the drawer was a heterogeneous collection of odds and ends—letters, - keys, ball-programmes, receipted bills—which he had to thrust aside - so as to withdraw the little japanned cash-box. As he lifted it out a - handkerchief came with it, caught by its lace edge, and after dangling a - little fell at his feet. He picked it up, kept it in his hand, soothed at - the softness. A faint odour of perfume rose from it, subtle and delicate—the - well-known perfume that Clytie always used. It was like an emanation from - herself. It grew over his highly strung senses like a breath of her own - personality, sweet, intoxicating, overpowering. His brain swam. With a - kind of groan he staggered to the sofa, threw himself upon it, burying his - face in the little handkerchief, kissing it madly. - </p> - <p> - Now all was clear, waves of lightning flashing the truth through him. He - loved her, passionately, desired her with a passion all the fiercer for - its long restraint. Yet he could not think coherently. One thought, one - utter realisation, overpowered all others. At last this great surging - sex-tumult was sweeping through his veins. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, my God, I love her! Oh, my God, I love her!” That was all that he - could groan out as he lay upon the sofa. - </p> - <p> - The creak of the door made him start up. On the threshold stood one of - Mrs. Gurkins's curly-headed little children. She looked for a moment, - rather frightened, at his haggard face, and then ran away. Thus aroused to - a sense of external things, he locked up the secretaire and went out, - taking the cash-box and handkerchief with him. - </p> - <p> - On the slab outside his rooms he found a letter in Clytie's familiar - handwriting. He went into his room, and sitting down before his writing - space, spread the letter out before him. It ran as follows: - </p> - <p> - My Dear Friend Kent: - </p> - <p> - If you ask me why I have not written to you for such a long time, I must - shrink within my shell of femininity and refuse to give you reasons. For I - have them, and they are compounded from a recipe handed down from Mother - Eve. Well, I write to you now because I must. That reason I make you a - present of. - </p> - <p> - I want to be in town again, in the King's Road, and to see you by the - fireside, ready to be asked questions and to answer them, and to comfort - your erratic friend Clytie with your kindliness and wisdom. She is looked - upon as a bad girl here, and pines for someone who thinks her human, and - who also thinks her art human, and can help her in it. - </p> - <p> - Listen, now; I have got <i>the</i> subject at last; it is eating my heart - out almost, I have to keep it hidden so to myself. I must tell you—for - the sake's sake. “Faustina as a young, innocent girl, with the - foreshadowings of passion on her face.” There! Now you know. What do you - think of it? - </p> - <p> - Do you remember my depression at Dinan? Well, I think it was there I got - the conception. I can't tell you more. But it is haunting me. I feel what - I want to do, but I can't get a face. What shall I do? Tell me. You know, - dear Kent, in our talks, we have often disregarded principles that move - the world pretty potently. But as an artist I am bound to recognise the - part that passion plays in the tragedy of things. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent30"> - “These things are life: - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - And life, some think, is worthy of the Muse,” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - as Meredith says in “Modern Love.” (Do you remember our reading it - together?) - </p> - <p> - I can't write properly about it. I long for a talk with you. I shall break - away soon and come for it. So be prepared with all your sympathy. - </p> - <p> - Do you miss me just a little bit? I often fancy my perverseness must - give a little wholesome irritation to your life, and you are very good not - to mind it. I always seem to be coming to you for help and sympathy. When - can I ever do anything for you? You must tell me, dear friend, when the - time comes. - </p> - <p> - I should like to tell you to give Winnie a kiss for me, but that is - idiotic, isn't it? Yet you know what I mean. See that the dear child is - not wearing herself out. There! I am asking you to do something else for - me. Do write a long letter, full of yourself, with just a paragraph about - the needs, artistic and otherwise, of - </p> - <p> - Your friend, - </p> - <h3> - C. D. - </h3> - <p> - Kent took some time to read this. The letters swam a little before his - eyes. Then he laid his head upon his arms and thought, in dumb agony. - Clytie's letter, sisterly and trustful, soothed and goaded him at once. - “The part that passion plays in the tragedy of things!” God! Had a - fleeting thought never struck her what a part it might play in their - lives' tragedy? How could he answer that letter, addressed to a friend, - received by a lover in the hot flush of newly awakened realisation? How - could he meet her bright, frank look with this burning demon within him? - It was base, horrible. His mind wandered to a German print he had seen - somewhere, a goat-footed satyr kneeling and leering at Psyche. He - shuddered. - </p> - <p> - It is given but to few men to know this terror of love: only to those who, - like Kent, have hitherto expended vast animal and moral energies in - non-sexual enthusiasms, and have rebelled with almost passionate repulsion - against the assertion of the sexual principle. To some men love dawns like - a sweet, fair star—the storm comes later on. To such as Kent it - comes in terrific forked lightnings and crash of thunder, overwhelming the - soul with terror. To Kent's excited fancy it seemed that the Beast, such - as Wither had spoken of, had entered into him. He had betrayed the compact - of friendship, her sisterly trust in him. Fool that he had been! Why had - he not recognised it before? Now all was over between them. The future - seemed nothing but black, rolling darkness. - </p> - <p> - The solitary gas-jet that he had lit on entering flared high and strident - over the mantelpiece above the blackening fire, and Kent lay with his - hands on his arms, his morbid brain at death-grapple with love, he himself - heedful of nothing external—not even of a gay whistle and a quick, - springing tread on the uncarpeted stairs. The door burst suddenly open. - </p> - <p> - “Come out, you fusty old hermit——” - </p> - <p> - Then Wither stopped. Kent raised a drawn, rather ghastly face and stared - at him stupidly. - </p> - <p> - “My dear old chap, in the name of Heaven, what's the matter?” cried - Wither, putting down his hat and stick and coming towards him. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, nothing!” said Kent, who pulled himself together with an effort, - rose, and broke into a forced laugh. - </p> - <p> - Wither looked at him steadily while he slowly drew off his gloves. - </p> - <p> - “That's nonsense!” he said quietly. - </p> - <p> - Then his sharp glance fell on the little crumpled handkerchief that lay - beside the open letter on the table. His quick sense, aided by certain - opinions he had formed long since, grasped the main feature of the - situation. - </p> - <p> - He went over to where Kent was standing by the fireplace, and laid his - hand on his shoulder. - </p> - <p> - “Never mind, dear old man, it will all come right.” - </p> - <p> - “It will never come right,” groaned Kent absently. - </p> - <p> - “It must. She must care for you in time.” - </p> - <p> - “How do you know what I am thinking of?” Kent burst out rather fiercely. - </p> - <p> - “I guessed. Besides—the handkerchief. It is not your own. Yours are - a little more businesslike.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, well!” said Kent a little huskily, and throwing his head back with a - gesture of impatience, “I can't hide it. What would be the good? I have - found out that she is a friend no longer, that what you were saying the - other night is true—and I feel a brute! My God, what a brute I - feel!” - </p> - <p> - Wither's mental balance was for a moment upset. He righted it after a - moment with considerations of his friend's character. In many fragile, - nervous bodies there is a delicacy of perception which often remains all - the keener when protected by a shell of cynicism. - </p> - <p> - “You want to be reasoned with gently, friend John,” he said. “You must not - feel a brute when you love a woman as a man like you can love. It's the - best and holiest thing on God's earth, believe me.” - </p> - <p> - “But, Teddy, she is so frank, so trustful, so proud of our friendship—it - can never be the same again—if I should tell her, she would hate me——” - </p> - <p> - “You can bet your life she wouldn't!” murmured Wither. - </p> - <p> - “She would go out of my life in indignation, and she would be right,” Kent - went on. “She would scorn me for the feelings that I know now I have had - all along for 'her. No; it is all over, all over. I can't meet her again. - I think I shall go mad! I shall throw up everything and go away.” - </p> - <p> - “You dear, foolish old chap,” said Wither, “can't you see that very little - would make her in love with you, if she is not so already? Why should you - two not get married?” - </p> - <p> - “I marry!” gasped Kent, as if struck by a new idea. “I ask Clytie - Davenant, with her beauty and intellect and genius, to come and share—this! - Clytie Davenant marry me! Why, the idea is ludicrous—preposterous!” - </p> - <p> - “If I were she, I should not think so,” said Wither affectionately. - </p> - <p> - Kent shook his head gloomily, and kicked the smouldering coal into a - fitful blaze. - </p> - <p> - “No. Until she shows me unmistakably—which can be never—that - she cares for me in that way, I would sooner bite my tongue out than tell - her.” - </p> - <p> - “Until she asks you to marry her, in fact! John Kent, you are two years - older than I am, and three times as big. But verily you are a little - child! And if you weren't,” he added impulsively, with a soft glitter in - his elfin eyes, “you would not be the lovable old chap that you are! - Good-bye!” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, stay a little, Teddy!” cried Kent. “I'm not much company, but I——” - </p> - <p> - “Come round with me and have some dinner, then,” interrupted Wither. “It - will occupy your body—if not your mind. And it will be better for - you than the bottled beer and sardines which you usually feast upon. I - shall be quite alone and you can do some work for me.” - </p> - <p> - “All right!” replied Kent dejectedly. “It does not matter what I do.” - </p> - <p> - Wither turned his face to the fire, while Kent prepared to go out. When he - turned round Kent was holding the cash-box in his hand. The handkerchief - and letter were gone from the table, and Wither smiled inwardly. He had - himself disposed of many such trifles in a similar way. Men are very much - alike in several matters. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XI. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he atmosphere of - Durdleham was uninspiring. Clytie could make no progress with her picture, - and at last she laid it aside in despair. She had set her heart upon - painting it, and the thoughts of it worried her, prevented her from - sleeping. Not only would it give her fame, satisfy her ambition, - stimulated by the success of “Jack,” but it would satisfy certain cravings - of her soul. And yet she was conscious that only when these cravings found - articulate utterance could the haunting shadows be fixed. The lack, - therefore, seemed to lie in herself: whether in her spiritual nature or in - her material experience of the world she could not tell; perhaps it was a - subtle combination of the two. She could not bring her lens of - introspection to a focus. What she saw through it was blurred and - inchoate. - </p> - <p> - She had looked forward to Kent's reply to her letter. His sympathetic - common sense might help her. When his answer did come, after some days' - interval, it was strangely cold and dispiriting, just two sides of - note-paper barely filled with sententious enigma. - </p> - <p> - “If the painting of it will bring you joy, paint. If not, you are grasping - at shadows.” - </p> - <p> - That was the gist of it. What did it mean? Clytie was inclined to be - indignant. Her own letter had been written out of the friendliness and - needs of her heart, and the reply seemed almost like a rebuff. She did not - know that the writing of it had caused Kent two hours' perplexed - wretchedness. Even the finest feminine perception cannot pierce through a - millstone. The little feeling of resentment towards Kent took the keenness - of edge from her anticipated pleasure of seeing him again; at least so she - told herself when she packed her boxes at the end of her visit to - Durdleham. But as the train brought her nearer to London her spirits rose. - She was free once more to live her own life, without fear of comment or - criticism. It was simple, laborious, and innocent enough, and she desired - little more at present; but there was the exhilarating sense of freedom, - of perfect liberty to be outrageous, reckless, if such was her good - pleasure, wherein lies much of the sweetness of independence. - </p> - <p> - She found her sitting-room tidied, neatly arranged, looking as nearly as - possible as if it had never been vacated, and Winifred, a transforming - fairy in the midst of it, eagerly awaiting her. Clytie sighed a little as - she listened to Winnie's gossip. The latter looked at her with reproachful - inquiry. - </p> - <p> - “I was only thinking, dear, that this is more my home than the house at - Durdleham, and you are dearer to me than anyone there.” - </p> - <p> - Winifred stroked her friend's hand in girlish fashion and turned away her - head. She knew Clytie too well to make any reply. Then she spoke of Jack, - who was in a fair way towards recovery. She had been very glad of Clytie's - money, she confessed, with a deep blush, because things at home—well, - Clytie knew. And Mr. Treherne, with whom Kent had communicated, had been - very kind and helpful. He went round to Mrs. Burmester's every afternoon - to cheer up the invalid. - </p> - <p> - “And I suppose you go round pretty often?” said Clytie. - </p> - <p> - “Of course—every afternoon,” replied Winifred simply. - </p> - <p> - And Clytie, as she smoothed the shapely head lying in her lap, smiled to - herself a little mysterious smile. - </p> - <p> - Mr. Kent, too, Winifred continued, had been invaluable to her. He had - brought the boy picture-books, toys—had sat up with him one night - whilst the nurse rested, the mother being quite helpless, and sleeping in - an adjoining room which they had rented for the time between them. Never - had street arab been so petted, so preciously guarded. He was growing - quite human under the treatment. Kent and Treherne had managed to get him - a nomination to a decent school-home, which would assure him an honest - career in after life. Winifred was enthusiastic. She had never known - before what a good, beautiful world it was, how filled with good and - beautiful people! - </p> - <p> - In reply to a question of Clytie's she said that she had seen little of - Kent lately; that he looked overworked, worried, on the rare occasions - when she had exchanged a few words with him. - </p> - <p> - “He is doing too much. I must speak to him about it this evening,” said - Clytie. - </p> - <p> - She took it for granted that he would come, if not at the present hour, - while they were sitting over the teacups, at any rate after dinner, to - discuss in cheery, familiar fashion the events of the past month. But the - moments slipped by and his footstep was not heard on the stairs. - </p> - <p> - “Are you sure that he knew I was coming back to-day?” asked Clytie. - </p> - <p> - “Of course. He inquired twice of me,” replied Winifred. - </p> - <p> - Winnie went away, and Clytie dined, took up a book, and waited. But Kent - did not come. Clytie felt hurt. If he had been engaged, he might at least - have left her a word of welcome. It was unfriendly, unlike him. Surely she - could not have offended him in any way. She grew interested in her book, - sat up till a late hour finishing it. As she neared the end she heard the - well-known footstep coming up the stairs. She laid her book down, - expecting to see the door open, but though she thought she detected a - faint pause outside on the landing, the sound of the tread did not cease, - but continued up the next flight until it was lost. Then she went to bed, - somewhat angry. - </p> - <p> - She was in her studio betimes in the morning setting things straight. - Orders had come in for a couple of small street-urchin pictures. She had - to make arrangements for setting to work upon them at once. Her mind was - intent upon the matter when she heard Kent pass down the stairs on his way - to the Museum. Ordinarily he was accustomed, if he was not pressed for - time, to thrust his head in at the studio door as he passed, nod - good-morning, and perhaps receive some small commission to execute at the - colour man's in Oxford Street. - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps he has grown tired of our intimacy,” thought Clytie, “and is - taking this opportunity of breaking it off.” The thought was a whip to her - pride. It sent the blood rushing in fierce waves to her cheeks. She was - alone, an angry woman, not fit company for herself. She felt humiliated, - insulted, and encouraged herself in the feeling, baring her shoulders to - the lash. It scarcely occurred to her then to inquire into the justice of - the suggestion—the mere fact of the suggestion presenting itself was - sufficient to make her burn with indignation. - </p> - <p> - After lunch she took a cab and drove to Piccadilly to look at the shops - and the people. Town was filling again, the afternoon sun shone brightly. - Clytie's spirits rose. She went with light, defiant tread down the - Burlington Arcade, flashing a contemptuous glance upon admiring loungers, - bought herself gloves and odds and ends of millinery, crossed over to Bond - Street, looked in at Dowdeswell's to see a picture on view in the gallery, - and then, after an interview with Burrowes, the dealer, in Oxford Street, - she turned into Regent Street, prepared to enjoy the contemplation of the - miscellaneous crowd forever moving up and down its broad pavement. Perhaps - the wished-for face would meet her there, she thought, smiling to herself; - in which case she determined that she would stop, pass it and repass it, - fixing its features in her memory. She amused herself thus for some time, - scanning the faces of the passers-by, inventing rapid histories to - account, here for the after-light of laughter in a young girl's eyes, and - there for the lines of pain round the corners of an older woman's lips. - She paused before a shop-window to observe a ragged little arab who was - flattening a nose, already much snubbed by previous applications, against - the glass. To gratify a whimsical artistic fancy she entered the shop on a - trivial pretext so as to obtain from the other side of the pane the aspect - of the urchin's face. Then, after making a mental note of it for future - use, she went on her way. It was exhilarating, this bright London, with - its manifold variegation, after the dull uniformity of Durdleham. This - perpetual stimulus was necessary to her art, which drooped helpless in the - quiet country town. And with the thrill of artistic quickening came the - buoyant, vigorous pulsation of youth. Her tread was elastic, her cheeks - and eyes animated. She had forgotten her irritation of the morning in the - sense of vitality and enjoyment. It was a good thing to be young, with a - purpose in life and the freedom and strength to carry it out. Clytie - tasted a rare happiness that afternoon, one of which the high gods are - very sparing. - </p> - <p> - Suddenly she felt a touch on her arm, and a voice exclaimed: - </p> - <p> - “My dear Clytie! What are you wandering about here for?” - </p> - <p> - She turned round. The speaker was Mrs. Farquharson, merry and smiling. - They shook hands and walked leisurely down the street together. - </p> - <p> - “When did you get away from that dreadful place, and why haven't you been - to see us?” - </p> - <p> - “This is my first day of freedom,” replied Clytie, “and I was just - thinking of coming round to Harley Street.” - </p> - <p> - “That's right! You will come round with me when I have finished my - shopping. I was wishing for you. I have a little—no, a big treat for - you.” - </p> - <p> - “Is it nice to eat? I looked in longingly at Charbonnel's as I passed - down Bond Street, and I am hungry.” - </p> - <p> - “It's Thornton—at last,” said Mrs. Farquharson with a little air of - triumph. - </p> - <p> - Clytie was interested, and forgot Charbonnel's. - </p> - <p> - “When did he come?” - </p> - <p> - “He has been in England some weeks, but only a few days in London. Do you - know, he is going to settle down. Won't that be delightful? I do hope you - will like him.” - </p> - <p> - “And he is going to give up fighting and exploring and all that?” asked - Clytie. - </p> - <p> - “So he says. But I don't believe it. He will get seized with the fever - after a time and then off he will go again. That has always been his way. - But at any rate we will have him with us for a season.” - </p> - <p> - “Is he staying with you?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, dear, no! We wanted him to, but he is too wild a creature. Besides, - he knows the half of London, and is in demand everywhere. He is quite a - personage.” - </p> - <p> - “Then where does the treat come in?” asked Clytie, laughing. - </p> - <p> - “Why, he comes to Harley Street this afternoon for tea, you obtuse girl,” - cried Mrs. Farquharson. “And that is why we had better make haste to get - back, as it is growing late.” - </p> - <p> - Clytie had often heard Mrs. Farquharson speak of this cousin, Thornton - Hammerdyke, and was half doubtful whether to allow herself to be infected - with her enthusiasm or to prepare herself to find him commonplace, as one - generally does find the particular heroes of our intimate friends. - Caroline was never tired of talking of him. He was a hero, a latter-day - berserker. She was proud of him, treasured up paragraphs in the newspapers - in which his name was mentioned, wove a woman's web of romance around his - brilliant exploits. She had often waxed eloquent over his fame, his - personal charm, his physical strength and beauty. - </p> - <p> - “But all this can't be contained in one poor mortal,” Clytie would say - sometimes, teasingly. - </p> - <p> - And Mrs. Farquharson would reply, without any of the banter that generally - characterised her personal gossip: - </p> - <p> - “Wait until you have seen him, my dear.” - </p> - <p> - To the imaginative there was much that was heroic and romantic in the - record of the active life of Thornton Hammerdyke. He had entered the army - shortly after leaving school, but, wearying after a couple of years of the - dulness of a garrison life, had resigned his commission. An exploring - party to Thibet was afoot. He joined it, quickly became its leading - spirit, and when the chief of the expedition was incapacitated through - illness he undertook the command. This brought him into public notice. - When the Soudan War broke out he joined Lord Wolseley as a volunteer, and - made himself conspicuous by his daring and his marvellous feats of bodily - strength. His name was known all through the army. He courted danger, - especially where it took the form of hand to hand fighting. An eye-witness - of the scene had told Caroline how once, when attacked by three gigantic - Soudanese, he had shorn one clean through the body, lost his sword, leaped - from his horse, wrenched the spear from one of the others with a force - that made the man's arm snap like a twig, turn on the other—while - the broken-armed savage leaped upon his back and tried to throttle him—and - how before there was time to follow his movements both were lying dead at - his feet. He had fought side by side with Burnaby in the rash conflict - when the author of the “Ride to Khiva” fell pierced with Soudanese spears. - He had been in evidence in every skirmish. When the war was over he - remained in Africa, on the Soudan frontier, in command of some Egyptian - cavalry, maintaining a guerrilla warfare until the troops were recalled. - And then he plunged into the interior, exploring on his own account, with - a nominal authority from the Belgian government. And it was on this part - of his career that his reputation chiefly rested. Certainly ugly stories - against him of undue harshness, even ferocity, were afloat at one time. - But he laughed at these rumours on his return to England, and - sarcastically observed in a letter to the <i>Times</i> that, given a - community consisting of a judge, a prisoner, and a hundred howling, savage - maniacs, it was a matter of some difficulty to form an impartial jury. - </p> - <p> - When Mrs. Farquharson and Clytie arrived at Harley Street the short - January day had nearly drawn to a close. In the drawing-room the gas had - not been lighted, and by the dull glow of the fire objects were only dimly - visible. Two men rose from either side of the hearth as the ladies - entered. The long ungainly figure Clytie recognised as Mr. Farquharson, - the other as Thornton Hammerdyke, from Caroline's description of his great - powerful frame. His face she could not distinguish; only a large, finely - shaped head, and white teeth gleaming under a heavy moustache as he - exchanged laughing greetings with his cousin. - </p> - <p> - Mrs. Farquharson performed the little ceremony of introduction. Then tea - was brought in. - </p> - <p> - “You will excuse this outer darkness, Clytie,” said Caroline. “George - thinks it soothing. You know his ways. You see what a poor woman has to - put up with!” - </p> - <p> - “I agree with him,” said Clytie. “It is cosy, and it seems to sanction - foolish gossip.” - </p> - <p> - “Did you ever hear me gossip?” asked Mr. Farquharson severely. “I like it, - Miss Davenant, because it induces a meditative frame of mind.” - </p> - <p> - “And slumber,” murmured his wife as she dispensed the tea. - </p> - <p> - The talk continued light and easy, on the topics of the day, the studios, - Thornton's plans for the enjoyment of civilised life. He spoke brightly, - in a deep, resonant voice, that of a man assured of himself and of the - interest afforded to others by reference to his own doings. Although the - subject was trivial, the others listened amusedly, carried away by the - influence of a strong personality. Clytie glanced at him from time to - time, trying to measure him, to sum him up in the instinctive feminine - way. But he was sitting far back from the fire, in the gloom, and she - could only gather a general impression of physical size and vitality. She - was conscious too, that, as she was sitting with her face in the direct - glow, she was visible to him, and that he was looking at her quietly as he - smoked his cigarette and talked. She picked up a newspaper from a little - table by her side, and held it before her face as a screen. His glance, - which she felt rather than met, embarrassed her, she scarcely knew why. - Gradually the talk drifted into a slight discussion between the two men. - Mrs. Farquharson took advantage of it to draw her chair near to Clytie. - </p> - <p> - “And all this time I have scarcely asked you a question about yourself. - Come, account to me for the six weeks you have been away.” - </p> - <p> - Clytie dutifully went over the main incidents of her stay in Durdleham, - making light, in her pleasure at being in London again, of the little - wearinesses and depressions of the past. A faint cloud came over her - gaiety when Mrs. Farquharson asked her suddenly: - </p> - <p> - “And Kent? What has become of him?” - </p> - <p> - “He is still alive,” said Clytie. - </p> - <p> - “Do you know, he has not been near us all the time you have been away. He - has treated us very badly. You must scold him for me. What has he to say - for himself?” - </p> - <p> - “I don't know; I haven't seen him yet, and I have scarcely heard from him. - I shall have to scold him on my own account,” she added, brightening. - </p> - <p> - “That's odd of him,” said Caroline. “You are such inseparables that I - thought he would have been waiting for you with a bouquet in each hand - when you entered the house.” - </p> - <p> - Clytie laughed at the idea of Kent waiting for her with Covent Garden - tributes. - </p> - <p> - “I would just as soon think of him reading me a sonnet. But I did expect - him to come down to tell me I had been wasting my time, and to draw out a - scheme for the better occupation of it.” - </p> - <p> - “Take care that he has not gone and fallen in love with somebody whilst he - has been left to his own devices,” said Caroline teasingly. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, how can you say such wicked things?” cried Clytie. “Of course he - hasn't!” - </p> - <p> - “One never knows, my dear. Men are the most unreasonable beings in the - world. With a woman, now, if you know just the least little bit about her,—it - isn't everybody, of course, that does,—you can always tell what she - is likely to do. But with a man—never. Do you think I know whether - that husband of mine is going to be pleased with his dinner to-night? No, - not one scrap. And Kent's a man—just like the rest of them.” - </p> - <p> - “Are you talking about Kent?” interposed Mr. Farquharson. “I saw him the - other night at the meeting of the Numismatic Society.” - </p> - <p> - “There, now! How like a man! And you knew I wanted to know what had become - of him. What had he to say for himself?” - </p> - <p> - “That most of the rude coins marked with the name of Alfred were in - reality imitations made by the vikings during their periodical visits to - this country. His remarks were very interesting, my dear.” - </p> - <p> - “Thornton,” said Mrs. Farquharson in her blandest tones, “would you be so - very kind as to light the gas?” Her husband chuckled to himself, and - Hammerdyke rose to comply with her request. During the operation all the - three mechanically watched his movements. - </p> - <p> - “There!” he said, turning to face them, “I think that is better; we shall - be able to see one another.” - </p> - <p> - As the full blaze fell upon him Clytie could not repress a little feminine - thrill of surprise. Seen in the vague darkness she had imagined him quite - different. He seemed to spring out of it a perfect type of physical - manhood. He bore with him an atmosphere of splendid animalism. The artist - in Clytie, trained to detect beauties of limb and set and fall of muscle, - scanned him for a second with involuntary admiration. Although he was - dressed with a fashionable tailor's perfection of fit, which generally - gives suave uniformity to strong and puny, his clothes could not conceal - the evidences of a magnificent strength—deep chest, arms that seemed - to fit tightly the coat-sleeves, broad, massive shoulders, thick, powerful - neck. He held his head high, commandingly, which gave him the appearance - of tallness, although he was not much above medium height. Shortcut brown - hair, clinging close to his head in crisp waves, a broad forehead with two - thick vertical veins, added to this impression of strength. In spite of - his thirty-four years the blood showed beneath his bronzed skin, on which - there were few lines. His features, although on a large scale, were saved - from coarseness by regularity. His under jaw was slightly heavy, but in - keeping with the massiveness of his limbs. His eyes were dark and - lustrous, with a light burning in their depths; his teeth white and even. - </p> - <p> - “When Hammerdyke is fighting he is all eyes and teeth,” was a saying that - had come to Mrs. Farquharson's ears; she had repeated it long since to - Clytie, who remembered it now as she beheld this hero of Caroline's for - the first time. He was not fighting now, but laughing, talking with a - certain daring charm of manner, almost boyish sometimes. The time passed - quickly. When the little clock in the corner struck six Clytie rose in - some confusion. She had promised to spend the evening with Winifred and - the children. She took her leave hurriedly. - </p> - <p> - A little later she was sitting in the Marchpanes' drawing-room, with the - children clinging around her, a block of paper and a pencil, as usual, in - her hand. And led away by a sudden fancy she drew pictures for them of the - wild deeds that she had heard tell of Thornton Hammerdyke. This was quite - a novelty to the children, who were accustomed to street arabs and - grotesque caricatures. They were delighted, hung on her lap, demanded more - pictures of soldiers and camels and a great man in a helmet killing - savages. To satisfy them she had to draw extensively upon her imagination, - sometimes upon theirs. Winifred's suggestions were scouted as being too - mild. The final picture was a great triumph. It represented the same man - in the helmet dancing upon a struggling heap of savages, transfixing one - with a spear held in his left hand, whilst with a sword in his right he - clove another in twain. Nothing is so fascinating to children as the - grotesquely horrible; Clytie herself was carried away by their enthusiasm. - </p> - <p> - Meanwhile the subject of this picture history had remained at Harley - Street for a short time after Clytie's departure. - </p> - <p> - “So that is the Clytie you used to write to me about in Africa?” he said. - “No wonder you like having such a splendid thing about the place, as a - kind of intermittent fixture.” - </p> - <p> - “I am so glad you like her,” said Caroline. - </p> - <p> - “I didn't say I liked her. I don't give myself away so soon as that. But, - by Jove! I liked looking at her. Where is she generally to be found?” - </p> - <p> - “Either here or, if you make yourself very civil to her, she may let you - go round to her studio—on her day, you know.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, she runs a day, does she? These young women are getting very - emancipated.” - </p> - <p> - “They are,” said George Farquharson, lighting his pipe. “So much the - better.” - </p> - <p> - “I don't know so much about that,” replied Hammerdyke. “If they are too - emancipated, they get an idea that their own way is everything in the - world, and grow devilish hard in the mouth when the time comes for them to - be pulled up.” - </p> - <p> - “What a contradictory creature!” cried Caroline. “Only yesterday you were - railing at the well brought up drawing-room young ladies you were having - to take in to dinner.” - </p> - <p> - “I should think so: the things that draw, recite, and play the fiddle, and - rush about to lectures. I am getting a bit too old for that kind of young - animal. I'd sooner spend a week with the wife of a camel driver than with - any one of them. She would be just as intelligent, somewhat funnier, and - the advantage would be that you could lick her into shape without alarming - absurd prejudices. No; the drawing-room young lady is distinctly 'off,' - just as much as the over-emancipated.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, what kind of a young woman are you looking out for?” - </p> - <p> - “I never look out for anything, my dear Caroline. I take what comes—if - it pleases me.” - </p> - <p> - “Then I hope Clytie will please you, Thornton. She is quite different from - any other girl I know. And it's just her little airs of emancipation that - give her charm, I wish there were more like her.” - </p> - <p> - “So do I, by Jove! There would be some pleasure in looking around a - theatre or a ball-room.” - </p> - <p> - “Yet I should think that was rather a relief after Central Africa.” - </p> - <p> - Thornton broke into a gay laugh. - </p> - <p> - “Unsophisticated woman has her good points, you know!” - </p> - <p> - “Um!” said Farquharson, pulling at his pipe. - </p> - <p> - They chatted for a little while longer. Then Hammerdyke pulled out his - watch. - </p> - <p> - “I must go and dress for dinner.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, by the way, Thornton,” said Caroline, “did you not tell me you had an - appointment at six? I hope we haven't kept you from it.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, yes,” he replied cheerfully as he gathered up his hat and stick. - “It's only Field. I dare say he's waiting for me now. I shan't turn up at - the club, though. He can rip. When he is tired of kicking his heels and - drinking small whiskeys he can curse the waiter and go. I must be off now. - Let me know when Clytie is on view again and I'll throw over anybody.” - </p> - <p> - Mrs. Farquharson smiled indulgently. In her eyes there was no one like - Thornton. - </p> - <p> - “Thornton is a bit of an egotist,” said George mildly to his wife, later - in the evening, when they were alone together. He was not addicted to the - hyperbolic, like Caroline. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, but, George, he is such a dear good fellow—and such a splendid - man!” - </p> - <p> - “'Quem sese ore ferens! quam forti pectore et armis!'” murmured her - husband. - </p> - <p> - Now George Farquharson knew that if there was one thing his wife disliked - it was that he should quote Latin at her. It generally occasioned a - distraction. If it failed, he translated. The effects of that were - certain. This time Mrs. Farquharson was content to allow his remark to - remain “veiled in the obscurity of a learned language.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XII. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> do wish you would - cheer up, old chap,” said Wither sympathetically. “You are getting - uncomfortable—like Mr. Mantalini's body, in the midst of our - joyousness.” - </p> - <p> - He was lying curled up, as usual, on the sofa, smoking a cigarette. Kent - was brooding over the fire. Fairfax had been rallying him from a doctor's - point of view, and he had answered vaguely, striving not to let his - friend's rough kindness jar too unbearably. He felt relieved when the - doctor was called out to see a patient, and Wither and himself were left - alone together. - </p> - <p> - “I suppose I am making an ass of myself. I have never felt miserable - before in all my life, and it must be that I am unused to it——” - </p> - <p> - “It gets in your way like a man's court-sword on the first time of - wearing,” said Wither. - </p> - <p> - “Somewhat,” replied Kent, with a short laugh. He did not mind Wither's - jesting. It came spontaneously from the small, bright-eyed man—was - in fact his natural language. “Perhaps it does. I'll get over it some - day.” - </p> - <p> - “It will be all right when she comes back.” - </p> - <p> - “She has come back.” - </p> - <p> - “When?” - </p> - <p> - “Nearly a week ago.” - </p> - <p> - “And how are matters going between you?” - </p> - <p> - “I haven't seen her yet,” said Kent moodily, staring into the fire. “That - is to say, I have seen her. I have lain in wait for her, so as to catch a - glimpse of her as she passed by. But I have not met her.” - </p> - <p> - “And when do you propose going to see her?” - </p> - <p> - “God knows! I don't.” - </p> - <p> - “I don't know whether this is <i>fin de siècle</i> or whether it belongs - to the glacial epoch,” said Wither, drawing a breath of bewilderment. “At - any rate, has it never struck you, friend John, that being in love with a - woman is no reason why you should be rude to her?” - </p> - <p> - “I have scarcely thought of that.” - </p> - <p> - “Then, by Jove, the sooner you can get it into your muddled head, the - better. What have you been doing with yourself these evenings?” - </p> - <p> - “Anything to keep away. A meeting of the Geological, another of the - Numismatic—a theatre, where there was just such another ass as - myself. I couldn't stand it, so I went out and turned into the Empire and - tried to find comfort in performing dogs. I have also dined out.” - </p> - <p> - “You must have been a cheerful lot. What did you say to your partner?” - </p> - <p> - “Nothing. She wanted to babble on, and I let her babble. Curse the whole - thing!” he cried, smiting a block of coal with the poker, so hard that the - chips flew over the hearthrug; “To think that it should be my fate to meet - the only woman in the whole world who doesn't babble!” - </p> - <p> - “I should consider it in the light of a privilege,” said Wither. - </p> - <p> - The next morning, after a night's agony of indecision, he plucked up - courage and tapped at the studio door. He entered. Clytie was alone, - busily preparing her palette. She paused with the half-squeezed tube in - her hand, and looked up at him without rising, her brows slightly knitted. - He remained motionless, too, on the threshold, after mechanically shutting - the door behind him. He tried to utter the little address of lame excuses - which he had framed, but the words stuck, somehow, in his throat. He was - only conscious that she was there, in the same room with him again, - looking bewilderingly fresh and beautiful in her dark dress, with its - dainty painting-apron, too simple almost for the rich colour of her eyes - and hair and the stately bend of her neck. Yet even then he noticed she - was a trifle paler than usual. - </p> - <p> - “I meant to have come to see you before,” he stammered. - </p> - <p> - “Why didn't you? I rather expected you,” she replied calmly. - </p> - <p> - She finished squeezing her tube, and taking up her palette-knife, went on - with her occupation. Kent, instinctively conscious that it is a - disadvantage to stand, when morally wrong, before a sitting person who is - in the right, drew Winifred's painting-stool away from the easel and sat - down. - </p> - <p> - “You might have come in, if only for five minutes,” said Clytie, as he made - no reply. The hand holding the palette-knife trembled a little. - </p> - <p> - “I wanted to,” replied Kent, finding words with difficulty. “But I - couldn't. I am very, very sorry if I have been rude. I am always doing - things of this sort.” - </p> - <p> - “It is not very pleasant for your friends; and I suppose we have been - friends.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, we have been friends,” he replied, “and I hope we shall continue so—if - you will forgive me.” - </p> - <p> - His voice sounded strange in his own ears. In Clytie's it sounded cold and - formal. She was puzzled. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, of course I forgive you! You have made your apology.” - </p> - <p> - “Believe me—things have happened. I could not come before, indeed I - could not.” - </p> - <p> - “I never doubted your word, Kent,” said Clytie, with a touch of her old - soft manner towards him. “Only it seemed strange not to see you. One gets - into a certain groove, and a change from it jars. You see how easy it is - to become a Philistine. You are much more a child of the light than I am, - in that you have got out of the groove quite easily.” - </p> - <p> - “You have no right to say that,” said Kent, rising. - </p> - <p> - “Well, perhaps I have not,” said Clytie, bending intently over her - palette. “Anyhow, the fact remains that we parted friends before - Christmas, and now that I have come back you are changed. I am very sorry—sorrier - than I can say. I have valued your friendship and the help it has given me—I - am unchanged, I think so—and, to be franker than my sex generally - is, I may say, I am hurt.” - </p> - <p> - Kent misunderstood. He could not help it. He thought she was grieved at - his friendship having changed to love, which the tone in her voice told - him could not be returned. All had happened just as he had anticipated. - She spoke more in sorrow than in anger; that was the only difference. - </p> - <p> - “If you would prefer that I did not see you again—or so often,” he - said, twisting the brim of his hat. - </p> - <p> - The words estranged them still further. They were pathetic in their - ludicrous inappositeness. - </p> - <p> - “That you must please yourself about,” replied Clytie, with a quick flush. - “I have said all that my pride will let me say in the matter. If you - prefer to break off our intercourse, well—so be it!” - </p> - <p> - “You know that I don't wish to do that,” he said in a low voice. “Let me - see you sometimes. Could I see you this evening, for instance?” - </p> - <p> - “No; I am sorry, I am going—I am dining out. Some other time. You - know my hours.” - </p> - <p> - He stepped forward and shook hands with her to say good-bye, thus breaking - through an established custom between them of non-handshaking. He - reflected on this a moment afterward. It seemed an omen of the dissolution - of their friendship. - </p> - <p> - When he had gone Clytie felt as if she would like to cry. What did it all - mean? Why did Kent wish to break with her? She put down her palette and - sat in her chair near the stove. She felt unhappy, lonely. She was in that - strange state of uncertainty about the present, which often takes the - form, with women especially in certain moods, of a presentiment of future - trouble. “I wish Winnie would come,” she half repeated to herself. But - almost on top of the thought entered one of Mrs. Gurkins's curly-haired - children bringing her a note. It was from Winifred, who was suddenly - called out of town on business and could not come on that day to the - studio. Clytie mechanically tore up the note and scattered the pieces over - the coals. She was not subject to fits of personal depression—independent - entirely of the artistic side of her life. But the air seemed charged with - disturbing, conflicting elements. - </p> - <p> - Soon she roused herself and went over to her easel, where for some time - she worked steadily. A lay-figure clad in a child's ragged frock stood - near by and she painted in the lights of the skirt, with mechanical - precision of touch. But her thoughts were far away. Then the face that she - had painted attracted her attention. It was that of a child—merry - and smiling—but with the little London street girl's precocious - wisdom. It was cleverly executed. Clytie had seized the suggestion of the - everlasting feminine in the face, accentuating it ever so little. It - seemed to laugh mockingly at her, out of the canvas, as who should say—“Look - at me. Child as I am, I am as old as the world, and I can tell you secrets - that you know not of.” - </p> - <p> - “You wise little witch,” said Clytie, after a while, standing back, with - head inclined in critical surveyal of her work. “I wish you could tell me - what is the matter with Kent.” - </p> - <p> - And then for the first time Mrs. Farquharson's idle, jesting words came - into her mind: - </p> - <p> - “Take care that he has not gone and fallen in love with somebody!” - </p> - <p> - And the child's old face seemed to add a mocking confirmation. - </p> - <p> - This would explain all: his sudden change, the stiffness of his letter; - his shrinking from seeing her; the awkwardness of his apology; the vague - phrase, “things have happened,” which had puzzled her. The more she - thought of it the more probable did this solution seem. It caused her a - little heaviness of heart. Certain strange imaginings had come to her, - too, this week. She needed the strength of Kent's friendship. - </p> - <p> - There are no persons harder to read and easier to misunderstand than those - of whom we are fondest. There are two common causes of mutual - miscomprehension. First we take it too much for granted that we can read - the heart of another human being; and secondly, we are too apt to conclude - that affinities sharpen perception to such an extent that the unexpressed - becomes luminously expressive. This is a curious fact, too little - recognised in our minor problems in social statics. Clytie had fallen into - the one error, Kent into the other. - </p> - <p> - For the first time in her life Clytie felt afraid. The sense of what was - missing in her life dawned, half shadowy, before her. She was different - from other girls of her age, more advanced, as the phrase goes. For the - majority of women come in ignorance to emotion; they feel, before they - realise that they are learning. But Clytie in her eager search after the - roots of existence had learned much, with feelings as yet untried. In this - knowledge, if as yet there was no sorrow, there was fear. If Kent had come - to her at this moment with a passionate avowal of his love, she would have - yielded to him. Her fear would have melted away into joyousness, the rich - springs of her nature would have been opened, and her destiny would have - been accomplished. But neither of them knew this. He was engaged in the - humorous task of trying to kill love, and she was half consciously tending - along a path strangely diverging from his. - </p> - <p> - She dined that evening at the Farquharsons'. Hammerdyke was the only other - guest. It was a bright, cosy meal, and Clytie soon forgot her depression - of the morning. Caroline was at her merriest, proud of her three - companions—of each in an especial manner. George was mildly - satirical, as usual. He wore his velvet jacket, in which he found more - happiness than in his ceremonial dress-coat. His dry touch of humour was - pleasantly antagonistic to Hammerdyke's stronger personality and downright - views of life. The latter laughed heartily, almost boyishly at his - rebuker, like one who is accustomed to indulgence on the part of others - for caprices of action and language. These, coming from a lesser man, - might have been repugnant to the sensitive; but from him they seemed to - bear a physical justification. - </p> - <p> - As he sat opposite her, talking in off-hand, picturesque fashion of - incidents in his adventurous life, Clytie could not help looking with a - feeling somewhat akin to awe at the man who had gone through such things - and could speak of them so lightly. She listened, interposed a question - here and there, wondered what it would feel like to treat those memories - in so familiar a fashion. A new page of life seemed to lie open before - her, quivering with sensations beyond her ken. - </p> - <p> - “Didn't you ever feel horribly afraid?” asked Caroline, while he was - sketching some of his more recent exploring experiences. - </p> - <p> - “I did so,” he confessed frankly, “but I had my devils well under control. - I had the power to string a mutineer up on the nearest tree or to pot him - with my revolver, and somehow they rather funked me. If it had entered - their woolly heads to go for me all together they would have made short - work of me—but no one liked to take the initiative.” - </p> - <p> - “Did you ever try kindness, on these expeditions—by way of - experiment?” asked Farquharson. - </p> - <p> - “Not much. You can't afford to fool away your life for the sake of an - experiment. Oh, no! my dear sir, the noble savage does not swarm much - round about the slave tracks in Central Africa. The Zulus may be - different. I don't know—I've never seen much of them—but - Fuzzywuz and his neighbours can only understand brute force.” - </p> - <p> - “I don't quite see, now, how you got all that power,” said Farquharson. - “Did you establish yourself as a little king—or what?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, no!” returned Hammerdyke, laughing. “When I had finished with the - Soudan I wanted to while away a few months in the interior, and as the - Belgians wanted a road made through the forest I offered to see things - were done straight for them. As for the authority—judicial and that - sort of thing—one takes that as a matter of course. The niggers - don't know anything about it, except that there is a white man bossing - them. They think it's all right, so what does it matter?” - </p> - <p> - “Then you hire a set of woolly-headed navvies, and if they lapse from your - standard of virtue, you shoot them—is that the idea?” - </p> - <p> - “Somewhat. In mere slips one employs the <i>argumentum ad bacculinum</i>. - It isn't pleasant, but it's the only way.” - </p> - <p> - “You are not going back again, are you, Thornton?” Caroline asked, wishing - to turn the conversation. She believed in Thornton, in his power by divine - right to blow all the tribes of Central Africa from the cannon's mouth if - it so pleased him, but she saw that George was not sympathetic. It was a - sore little point with her that her husband did not share all her - enthusiasm for Thornton. “You are going to settle down now, really?” she - added. - </p> - <p> - “Who knows?” he replied. “All things become monotonous after a time—even - playing potentate. That's why I am here—with the intention of giving - civilisation a chance. Some fine morning I may wake up and think that it - would be nice to have a little excitement, and then I may pack up my - things and start for No Man's Land again.” - </p> - <p> - “It must be a stirring life,” said Clytie half aloud, with a quick glance - at Hammerdyke. - </p> - <p> - “It is the best life. Action, excitement, keen enjoyment of everything! - You should take a turn at it, George.” - </p> - <p> - But George shook his head. - </p> - <p> - “I have a wife dependent upon me. Otherwise you may be sure I would leave - this effete and effeminate civilisation and start to-morrow.” - </p> - <p> - “I don't think you would do much good out there,” said Mrs. Farquharson - candidly. - </p> - <p> - They finished dinner early and went up to the drawing-room, which not long - afterwards was filled with the heterogeneous crowd that the Farquharsons - loved to gather round them. This reception was instead of the ordinary - Sunday one, and was in Thornton's honour, although it was not unusual for - Caroline thus to change her evening, scattering warning post-cards the day - before. Kent, being on the list, had received one that morning, and before - he saw Clytie had been half wondering whether he should go to Harley - Street. So he had put his question as to Clytie's evening engagement - tentatively. Her somewhat evasive reply had decided him. He would not - inflict his society upon her. As Clytie's eye wandered over the familiar - figures in the drawing-room, she involuntarily sought for Kent's. It seemed - strange that he should not be there, for during the autumn he had scarcely - missed a Sunday. One or two friends came up and asked after him. On the - occasion of one inquiry, Mrs. Farquharson and Thornton were standing by - her. - </p> - <p> - “Who is Kent that everybody is talking about—if I may ask?” said - Hammerdyke. - </p> - <p> - “Kent?” interposed Caroline. “Oh if you know Clytie, you must know Kent. - They are a kind of Mentor and Egeria combination.” - </p> - <p> - “That's lucid,” said Hammerdyke, laughing. “I hope you will present me to - him one of these days, Miss Davenant.” Clytie replied with a commonplace, - smiling absently. She was sad at heart about Kent. - </p> - <p> - Soon Redgrave, the R. A. who had given Clytie her first encouragement in - her art, came up to talk with her. He had been following her career with - some interest. Since the exhibition of “Jack” he had not seen her, and he - took the opportunity of offering his congratulations, criticising the - picture favourably. Then he inquired after its successor. - </p> - <p> - “But I don't think you will ever become a great artist, if you keep to - that semi-impressionist style.” - </p> - <p> - Being a portrait-painter of exquisite finish, Redgrave was prejudiced - against the school of Degas. He mentioned his name with some acerbity. - </p> - <p> - “Talking treason again, Redgrave?” asked a thin, wiry man in gold - spectacles, who had overheard. “Don't listen to him, Miss Davenant. He is - archaic and eating his soul out with jealousy. There's no one in England - who can touch you in your particular line. You stick to it!” - </p> - <p> - “You are quoting the rubbish you wrote in your paper, French,” said - Redgrave, laughing. “Now, whom are you going to believe, this newspaper - man or me?” - </p> - <p> - “Whoever will help me best to sell my pictures,” laughed Clytie. - </p> - <p> - “Then leave your future with me,” said Mr. French, rubbing his hands as he - moved away. - </p> - <p> - “You didn't mean that?” asked Redgrave. - </p> - <p> - “A little. One must live. Higher art, to use the cant phrase, would - satisfy one's soul's needs better—but it would not those of the - body.” - </p> - <p> - Redgrave looked at her for a moment, as if meditating over her rich - colouring and fine vitality. A body such as hers had its needs. He smiled - a little sadly and shook his head. - </p> - <p> - “You would not sacrifice your life for your art?” - </p> - <p> - “No,” replied Clytie, with quick frankness, “I wouldn't. The fuller one's - life, the fuller one's art. The one is a reflection of the other. At least - it is so with me.” - </p> - <p> - “I'll paint your portrait one of these days for nothing,” said Redgrave - somewhat irrelevantly. - </p> - <p> - Clytie flushed a little at the compliment. - </p> - <p> - “What are you going to put into me?” - </p> - <p> - “The question whether even the most emancipated of young women ever has - art in her soul,” said Redgrave, with a quiet smile. - </p> - <p> - “I am going to paint a picture some day that will astonish you,” replied - Clytie, with a laugh. - </p> - <p> - “Ah! So is everyone. When will that some day be? I hardly know a painter - or a writer or a musician that has not something he is going to do some - day—a three-act drama all ready, bar transcription on paper—a - masterpiece all complete, bar the mechanical transference to canvas.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, Mr. Redgrave, if you are going to moralise like that, I'll report you - to Mr. Farquharson. You had much better sit down and take me round the - studios.” - </p> - <p> - But Redgrave was carried off before he had time to begin, and Clytie - joined a large group standing and sitting round the fire. They were the - younger, less responsible members of the company, and were talking - nonsense. Singleton, a clean-shaven, red-faced man and a minor poet, was - explaining what he called the Physical Basis of Life. Professor Huxley, by - the way, has treated the subject differently. - </p> - <p> - “The man who cannot dine,” Mr. Singleton was saying, “cannot feel. He has - not his proper equipment of senses. He is an imperfection, a waster.” - </p> - <p> - “That does not apply to women, I hope,” said Mrs. Tredegar, a languid, - well-preserved woman, who was suspected of hankerings after a long defunct - æstheticism. “I have been feeling all my life—and I can't remember - to have ever dined.” - </p> - <p> - “I did once—at the Café Anglais. By Jove, it was good!” interpolated - a fair-haired youth, who leaped eagerly at objectivities in the - conversation. - </p> - <p> - “Your enthusiasm does you credit!” said Singleton. “You'll die yet, of a - hopeless passion.” - </p> - <p> - Then, turning to Mrs. Tredegar: - </p> - <p> - “Of course it applies to women. <i>La femme qui dîne, aime</i>. Put it - into French, and you see the force of it at once.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah, but if you put it the other way about. <i>La femme qui aime</i>——It - is horrible; it takes all the romance away,” said Mrs. Tredegar. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, dear!” sighed Mr. Singleton, clasping his little plump hands - resignedly. “Are we still to adore the well-conducted person who goes on - cutting bread and butter? Oh, believe me, Edwin Smith and Angelina Brown - can't love, any more than they can appreciate Château-Mouton. They possess - for each other a faint current of sexual attraction, which produces - between them a mild excess of amiability. A lot of vanity comes in, as - they like to parade the possession of each other before the envious. They - call themselves lovers, and follow the traditions they have been taught in - the novels they have misunderstood and the hints they have received from - observance of their friends. The furthest they can go is to clasp hands - limply under a sofa-cushion, when they think no one is looking.” - </p> - <p> - “That's humbug,” said the youth. “I have been in love myself.” - </p> - <p> - “Precisely,” said Mr. Singleton, “and you know nothing at all about it. - Cultivate all your senses first, my young friend, and then you may fit - yourself for falling in love.” - </p> - <p> - “And how is one to begin?” asked Mrs. Tredegar. - </p> - <p> - “Well, first cultivate a choice taste in food, wine, and cigarettes. Then - disabuse yourself of the idea that the angelic, either in man or woman, is - in any way desirable; purge yourself of that clog to all true appreciation - of sensation—that interfering bugbear which still survives with an - effete superstition—known as a conscience; get into an Hellenic - state of mind by joyous perception of the beautiful, and realise that the - supreme cultivation of the <i>ego</i> is the <i>ultima ratio</i> of - existence.” - </p> - <p> - “But then we should only love ourselves,” observed a dissentient. - </p> - <p> - “As self-knowledge is the beginning of all wisdom, so is self-love the - beginning of all passion,” returned Mr. Singleton oracularly. - </p> - <p> - During the frivolous chorus that followed this remark, - Hammerdyke crossed the room and sat down by Clytie's side. - “You seem to be very merry over here. What is it all about?” he asked. - </p> - <p> - “It's only Mr. Singleton trying to play with paradoxes,” Clytie replied, - laughing. “He is a chartered libertine, and nobody minds him.” - </p> - <p> - “That always strikes me as so odd when I get back to civilised life—the - tremendous amount of talking one has to get through—and no one seems - to get any further with it. Everybody seems bound to provide himself with - a theory of life, as they call it—either sincere or paradoxical. Why - do they do it?” - </p> - <p> - He had pulled his chair a little aside, so that, when Clytie turned round, - they were cut off from the main group close by. She replied laughingly to - his question, and the conversation took a light, personal turn. - </p> - <p> - “I seem to have known you so long,” he said after a while, “and yet this - is the first time I have been able to say a word to you by yourself. I - used to hear of you, you know, in Africa, when Caroline sent me a budget - of news. I used quite to wonder what you were like.” - </p> - <p> - “Caroline and I are great friends,” she replied. “She has been very, very - kind to me.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes—a good sort, isn't she? She used to keep me posted up in all - kinds of things, as I say—you amongst them. At last I built up a - little romance about you!” - </p> - <p> - “What a crash it must have come down with!” - </p> - <p> - “I am not so sure of that. Time will show. It was just after one of her - letters that I read the story of 'Marjorie Daw,' which some good people - sent me down with a package of books from Cairo. Do you know it?” - </p> - <p> - “I have read it, but forgotten it,” replied Clytie. - </p> - <p> - Now, she remembered it very well. The words had come almost involuntarily. - She was a little angry with herself. But it was pleasant to lean back in - the armchair, amidst the babel of voices and heavy cloud of cigarette - smoke, and be talked to thus pleasantly. - </p> - <p> - “It's a pretty little tale,” said Thornton. “A man writes letters to amuse - a sick friend—broken leg, I think—and describes an imaginary - young lady living opposite him. And the broken-legged man falls violently - in love with this Marjorie Daw and starts off to see her as soon as he is - well—and is moved to much wrath when he finds out the truth. Well, I - am afraid I must confess that I made a kind of Marjorie Daw out of you—although - I haven't exactly come over in search of you. So you see that we are old - acquaintances—on one side, at least.” - </p> - <p> - “Caroline must have been saying very foolish things about me,” said - Clytie. “I remember Marjorie Daw now. I am not the least bit like her.” - </p> - <p> - “I never said you were,” he returned, looking at her boldly, a smile - playing about the corners of his mouth. “I did not think so then, either. - And since I am in for a kind of confession, I may as well say it did not - occur to me that I should ever meet you. Now that we have met—under - my cousin's wing, so to speak—I hope we shall make friends.” - </p> - <p> - “You speak as if we had quarrelled,” said Clytie. - </p> - <p> - “Well, I thought perhaps you might have been a little vexed at my - confession. Are you?” - </p> - <p> - “No,” said Clytie, looking at him in her quick, frank way. “Why should I?” - </p> - <p> - Hammerdyke did not reply, but smiled and shrugged his shoulders a little. - </p> - <p> - “Well, since you are so particular as to the wording, let us <i>be</i> - friends. For Caroline's sake,” he added after a short pause. - </p> - <p> - “Very well, for Caroline's sake,” repeated Clytie. “Only, you know I am a - very humble person.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, no! I know too much about you. You are by way of becoming a great - artist—and it would be a privilege for an uncultivated barbarian - like me. Tell me, how could we begin being friends?” - </p> - <p> - “Well, suppose you tell me some of the wonders you have seen.” - </p> - <p> - “'Anthropophagi, or men whose heads do grow beneath their shoulders'? Very - well—and you shall show me your pictures. Will you let me come and - see them sometime or the other? Do!” - </p> - <p> - He spoke low, with a touch of softness in his voice. Clytie felt - flattered, touched. It was a little tribute to her womanhood to be pleaded - with, especially by a man who, in the eyes of the world, was a recognised - heroic figure. There was a latent light, too, in the depths of his dark - eyes, a sign of reserved power and strange, unknown forces, that pleased - her strangely. All the day she had felt sore, ill at ease, with a little - aching, chafing sense of loss. The time had seemed woefully out of joint, - and the setting of it right again utterly beyond her powers. But now the - world's equilibrium seemed more stable. - </p> - <p> - “I am not sure whether you would care for my pictures,” she said. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I have seen those that Caroline has,” he replied. “I made her show - them to me. I don't know what your art word is—but they seem to me - to have a grip upon life that I like.” - </p> - <p> - He could not have chosen words more flattering to Clytie. They summed up - bluntly the whole of her ambitions. - </p> - <p> - “You see, I like real things,” he went on. “Something I can catch hold of. - All this talk of Art with a capital A, and metaphysical preciousness, is - so much froth—at any rate to me. But perhaps you put a capital to - it?” - </p> - <p> - “I do, sometimes.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, then, you will teach me what it means. Will you? It will be a way - of teaching me something about yourself.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I am not worth your learning,” replied Clytie, with a laugh. “But you - can come and see my pictures, if you like.” - </p> - <p> - “Thank you,” said Hammerdyke, as he rose in obedience to a beckoning - glance from Mr. Farquharson, who was sitting on the other side of the - room. “I will come as soon as you will let me. To-morrow, can I?” - </p> - <p> - He looked at her pleadingly, admiringly. Clytie was suddenly brought in - contact with a new force, against which she felt powerless. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, you can come to-morrow,” she said - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XIII. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t was an evening - in mid-February that Clytie went to a dance given by the Redgraves in - their large house in St. John's Wood. Redgrave met her almost as soon as - she arrived in the dancing-room. - </p> - <p> - “So you have come at last—we had almost despaired of seeing you. I - think there are a good many men you know—all dying to dance with - you.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, give me a little breathing time,” laughed Clytie. “You have had time - to fix on your cap and bells, let me adjust mine.” - </p> - <p> - “Don't touch yourself or you would spoil the effect,” said Redgrave, - mixing the metaphor for the sake of an opportunity of expressing his - admiration of her beauty. “I wish I could paint that portrait of you now: - 'Clytie, woman and artist.' There is one advantage about that combination—it - assures perfect taste in dress.” - </p> - <p> - He looked her up and down critically, stroking his long gray beard. - </p> - <p> - “I am glad you like me,” said Clytie. “It cost me sleepless nights, I - assure you. Didn't you know it was my serious occupation in life?” - </p> - <p> - “Well, my dear, I hope you will have your reward,” replied Redgrave, - laughing—“only you won't find anybody who admires you and your - genius half as heartily as I do.” - </p> - <p> - He nodded, smiled, and left her as one or two men came up to her, - programme in hand. She gave them the dances they requested, and took a - seat near the door by the side of some ladies of her acquaintance, - watching animatedly the waltz that was in progress. - </p> - <p> - “Good-evening, Miss Davenant,” said a voice, deep and resonant, that made - her start and the colour mount into her cheeks. - </p> - <p> - It was Thornton Hammerdyke. - </p> - <p> - “You see I procured the invitation, and here I am. Where is your - programme?” - </p> - <p> - He took her card attached with its bit of silk to her fan, and scribbled - recklessly. - </p> - <p> - “You have nearly filled it all up!” she exclaimed. - </p> - <p> - “Naturally,” he replied. “Let us dance out the fag-end of this.” - </p> - <p> - She took his arm gaily, and with him entered the whirl of dancers. - </p> - <p> - “You are looking dazzling to-night,” he said. “What witchery have you to - make your eyes so blue and your hair so glorious?” - </p> - <p> - She shook her head and smiled half inwardly, thinking of Redgrave's late - compliment and differentiating it from this. Each man was honest, in his - own way. - </p> - <p> - “I put myself down for all those dances,” he went on, “because there is - not a woman in the room fit to look at after you. I couldn't dance with - them, and I should have been bored and irritated with standing and - watching you dancing with other people. Then we can get away and sit by - ourselves.” - </p> - <p> - “But what are all the men to do, to whom I have to be polite?” - </p> - <p> - “They must give way to the man to whom you are always fascinating. I - scarcely saw you at all yesterday. Now is my chance, and I am going to - make the most of it.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, but there are the sacred conventionalities.” - </p> - <p> - “I thought you went in for being superior to them.” - </p> - <p> - “So I am in a general way; I attach no intrinsic value to them—but - they are useful as counters in one's dealings.” - </p> - <p> - He laughed; pressed the fingers that he held in his left hand. - </p> - <p> - “To-night no checks are taken! It must be all solid gold—the true, - real Clytie. As for people talking, you are glorious enough in your beauty - to defy them. What can you and I care for idle gossip?” - </p> - <p> - The words thrilled through her. Womanlike she had humbled herself before - his greatness. To be raised thus by him to his empyrean, whence they could - look down upon the rest of earth-bound mortality, in common grandeur, made - her heart swell with a not ignoble pride. - </p> - <p> - “We shall do whatever you like,” she whispered. - </p> - <p> - To this pitch of intimacy had the past three weeks brought them—a - long enough period for an infinite number of things to happen—none - the less real for being subjective. Nothing had changed in their external - lives. Hammerdyke went into society, read a paper here and there on his - travels, digested many bad dinners and worse flattery, played cards, - smoked, and drank with his fellows. Clytie painted assiduously, read, - exchanged visits with her friends. Kent was missing from her life. She saw - him rarely, at odd moments, when they talked commonplaces and avoided by - tacit consent the subject of their disunion. They were “league-sundered by - the silent gulf between.” He told her that he was thinking of accepting an - offer privately made to him by one of the heads of his department, of - leave of absence for three months for the purpose of studying the - numismatic collections of certain foreign capitals. The prospect was - enticing, as he could thus have the run of the continental libraries, - whereby his own great work could be considerably advanced. - </p> - <p> - Clytie listened kindly, wished him good luck. He went from her sad at - heart, and she was angry with herself and humiliated at feeling somewhat - relieved at the idea of his absence. It was not that she regretted the old - life less. Its memories were still precious. But Kent's departure would - clear the way to a better understanding of herself. - </p> - <p> - Much had happened during the past three weeks—the discovery of a new - world for Clytie in which all was strange, beset with vague dangers, - vibrating with a tremulous joy akin to terror. She had been lifted off her - feet, hurried against her will into a whirl of new sensations. At first - she resisted with fierce virgin pride; then gradually she began to close - her eyes for a short sweet spell and allow herself to be drifted by the - current; finally she gave up struggling. The history of most women at - their first contact with passion. - </p> - <p> - The story of this period is very simple. In its first developments love is - usually not ultra complex. Given a man and a woman and conditions for - meeting freely alone; further, a sudden overmastering passion on the part - of the man, a half known, unfulfilled need in the woman; given these - premises, and a child can deduce the result. It is the fundamental law of - sex. Only when the sentimentalities and more delicate affinities come into - play, when the needs of the finer animal man begin to cry after their - satisfying, does love leave its simple phase and gird itself with its - infinite many-coloured web of complexities. At first the mind may see the - web glimmering in a far-away twilight—but heeds it not as long as - the sense is held captive. - </p> - <p> - Two remarkable personalities had met, Thornton Hammerdyke and Clytie. With - the intensity of a strong animal nature he had fallen in love with her, - with her beauty, charm, and directness. Her magnificent vitality drew him, - compelled him. He shut his eyes to every other interest. The sense that he - wanted her was sufficient justification for setting all else aside. He - never even thought of marriage in the first flush of his passion. But that - was the result of habit. Passion is a very different thing from the serene - considerations that, according to the Book of Common Prayer, induce people - to enter into the holy state of matrimony—and Thornton was quite - free from any considerations of the kind. So that when marriage dawned - upon his mind as a necessary condition, he accepted it, as a reckless - sacrifice, as a means to an end, not as an end in itself. He was a man - whose life had been passed in hot, headstrong action. Desire imperiously - compelled immediate gratification. Since loving Clytie entailed marriage, - he resolved to marry her forthwith. - </p> - <p> - He informed Mrs. Farquharson of the fact, in his masterful manner. - </p> - <p> - “I am going to marry Clytie—so get yourself a wedding garment.” Mrs. - Farquharson jumped up, clapped her hands. She would not have been a woman - had the possibilities of this match not occurred to her seductively. The - announcement, however, anticipated her hopes. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, Thornton,” she cried, “I am so glad! I have been longing for it. You - two are made for each other. I must go down and see Clytie this - afternoon!” - </p> - <p> - “Better not,” said Thornton. “I'm going. Besides, I don't think Clytie - knows it yet.” - </p> - <p> - Caroline's face fell a little. “Oh! I thought you meant you were engaged, - and that sort of thing.” - </p> - <p> - “That's a detail—it doesn't matter. She's going to marry me, and - you'll come and dance at the wedding.” - </p> - <p> - Caroline kept her counsel, but she worked steadily in Thornton's cause, - sang his praises to Clytie, invented many occasions for bringing them - together. She believed with all the fervent loyalty of her nature that - this marriage was an ideal one for her cousin and her friend, and had at - heart equally the interests of each. - </p> - <p> - Thornton very quickly constituted himself a factor in Clytie's life. She - saw him almost every day in Harley Street, at home, or at the houses of - common acquaintances. His influence grew strong upon her. Glimpses of the - physical joy of life flashed before her like revelations. For the first - time she doubted the possibilities of the artistic life. They seemed - shadowy, unsatisfying. - </p> - <p> - From Thornton seemed to come realisation that something stronger, more - real, positive lay beyond them—the delight of living in pulse and - nerve and bodily fibre. Yet, unlike a man, a woman cannot live by sense - alone. Sentiment invariably plays its part. This in Clytie's case was fed - by the glamour of Thornton's heroic history, so different from that of - ordinary men, whose lives, compared with his, seemed tame and colourless. - The glow of his personality bathed magically all his actions, all his - words. In his superb manhood he stood before her eyes as the incarnation - of physical force, the victorious protest against the shams of art, - culture, and other pale shades of our morbid civilisation. When she was - lifted high with him in this triumph, sense and sentiment were fused - together and she was wholly at his mercy. Thornton had come into her life - at the most delicately critical moment of a woman's career, when the - current of her nature, checked at the turning-point between friendship and - love, struggles tumultuously for some other channel into which to empty - itself. - </p> - <p> - “We shall do whatever you like,” she said to Thornton, during their waltz. - It was the first definite surrender she had made to him. She was surprised - that it cost her so little, seemed so sweet and natural. - </p> - <p> - “Then you and I will defy the world!” he replied. - </p> - <p> - They paused to rest for a moment, leaning against the wall. An elderly man - came up, shook hands with her, and opened a desultory conversation with - Thornton. Clytie looked amusedly at the animated scene, tabulating - mentally, by force of habit, the types that passed and repassed before - her. Seldom had it struck her before so forcibly how few of her - fellow-creatures possessed the secret of the joy of life. How many of the - couples circling round, backing, glissading in that dizzying mass of - motion were really gladdened by what they were doing? Stout men puffed - around with a serious air of responsibility. Tall men, with drooping - moustaches, paced languidly in time, scarcely heeding their partners, who - expressionlessly suffered themselves to be guided hither and thither - through the throng. The robust youth of either sex seemed to look upon - dancing as an athletic exercise, and waltzed with the intent fervour of - tennis players on their mettle before a big gallery. Only here and there - did a girl, safe in the arms of a good dancer, half close her eyes and - surrender herself to the sensuous charm of motion in perfect time with the - throbs of music. Mankind is astonishingly ignorant of the essential - qualities of many of its habitual pleasures. So thought Clytie, in the - thrill of her new knowledge. The orchestra began the opening bars of the - <i>coda</i>. Thornton turned away from the elderly gentleman, and putting - his arm round Clytie's waist led her away, without a word, to finish the - waltz. - </p> - <p> - “How delightful it is to dance with someone who is not bored by it!” she - said, when the music stopped and they were pushing their way through the - crowd towards the door. - </p> - <p> - He laughed in his boyish way, throwing back his head. - </p> - <p> - “I had better not answer that remark,” he replied. - </p> - <p> - “Why?” - </p> - <p> - She looked askance at him as she asked, just as any little peasant girl - would have done. Certain conditions bring all humanity to one level. He - pressed the hand that was on his arm lightly against his side. - </p> - <p> - “Let us get away by ourselves, and I will tell you,” he said. - </p> - <p> - But this opportunity did not occur. Thornton was captured by his hostess - for introducing purposes, Clytie waylaid by brother artists for dances. - When Thornton and herself were able to find seats the music struck up the - prelude of the next waltz, and Clytie was discovered and led off by her - partner. Only three men, exclusive of Thornton, had been fortunate enough - to find places on her programme. - </p> - <p> - The hours passed away swiftly. She forgot her life, her responsibilities, - her needs. During the three dances with the fortunate—which were - early in the evening—she flashed with wit and merriment, her - partners thinking with masculine self-esteem that they were the fine steel - that had caused these scintillations. But more than one woman there that - night observed how Clytie's eyes ever and anon caught those of Thornton, - who was standing by the doorway. When the two danced together, men watched - them curiously. - </p> - <p> - “If the principle of natural selection could always be carried out like - that!” said French, the journalist, to Redgrave. - </p> - <p> - “Physically, yes; but——” - </p> - <p> - “But what? If the human race sprang exclusively from such parents, what a - glorious race it would be!” - </p> - <p> - “It might be a very good thing for the race,” replied Redgrave drily; “but - I was thinking of the parents—at least of one of them.” - </p> - <p> - “Nonsense! a marriage like that would be ideal,” said French. - </p> - <p> - Redgrave shook his head. - </p> - <p> - “I doubt it,” he said, with some earnestness. “I know a little of Clytie - Davenant. I may claim to have discovered her. She has the blood of life in - her, it is true—but she has the finer artistic temperament as well. - Mark my words, French; if she marries that man she will lose her art clean—clean; - and not another 'Jack' will she ever be able to paint. Many of us men - artists are ruined by marriage. A woman artist, to whom it means fifty - times more, runs fifty times more risk.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, perhaps we are a bit previous,” said French laughing, and turned - the conversation. - </p> - <p> - Later in the evening Thornton and Clytie came out of the dancing-room. She - was flushed, dazed with the music, the noise, the electric light and the - heavy scent of cut flowers; confused, too, by Thornton's presence, by the - after-pressure of his arm around her waist, overwrought a little by his - personal magnetism. - </p> - <p> - They threaded their way through the crowd that lined the passage and the - stairs, went through the brilliantly lit studio with its polished oak - floor and wealth of hangings and costly decoration, into the models' - dressing-room beyond, that had been turned into a small boudoir for the - occasion. Many couples were wandering about the studio, examining the - pictures and the china, but the dressing-room had escaped notice. - </p> - <p> - “This is soothing after the glare,” said Clytie, sitting down restfully on - a divan. - </p> - <p> - Great palms screened the door, the room was hung with dark, heavy drapery, - and between them shaded electric lamps shed a subdued light. Thornton sat - down by her side. After a while the steps and talking in the adjacent - studio ceased, and there rose from below the faint strains of the music - and the dull rhythmic thud of the dancers. - </p> - <p> - “What were we talking about? I forget,” said Clytie, after a short - silence, and then, meeting his eyes fixed upon her, she turned away her - head: - </p> - <p> - “Don't! I can't bear it,” she murmured involuntarily. - </p> - <p> - Then he caught her hand: “Clytie, you are adorable, glorious, bewitching!” - he cried, and kissed her quickly, twice, on the corner of her lips. She - snatched her hand away and started to her feet, pale and trembling, her - eyes blazing. - </p> - <p> - “Why did you do that? You have no right to do that!” - </p> - <p> - He rose, went to her, caught her wrists again—but this time she was - powerless to withdraw them, and he spoke in a quick, deep voice: - </p> - <p> - “I have the right to kiss you—to kiss you and kiss you till the - world's end—for I love you—and I would sacrifice all I have - got—my life itself, for one kiss from you—I loved you, wanted - you, from the first time I saw you—when the suddenly lit light - revealed your beauty to me, and you sprang glorious, bewildering out of - the darkness.” - </p> - <p> - “Let me go, let me go!” she murmured, faintly struggling. - </p> - <p> - “Not until you tell me that I have the right to kiss you—I know you - will give it, you must! Clytie, I am stronger than most men, and my love - is stronger than most men's and will not be denied—I will make you, - force you to love me as passionately as I love you. Look at me. Speak! say - just a word!” - </p> - <p> - She flashed a swift, sidelong glance at him, and met his eyes with the - light burning in their dark depths. His passion intoxicated her. - </p> - <p> - “You know,” she murmured. The words came almost without volition. - </p> - <p> - He released her hands. She remained standing for a moment, motionless with - downcast eyes. Then she lifted them once more shyly, met his, and uttered - a short gasping cry as he caught her in his arms and kissed her - passionately. - </p> - <p> - “You will be my wife, and let our whole lives be one long kiss?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” she said, below her breath. - </p> - <p> - A little later Thornton put her into a cab, and she drove home. The cold - night air invigorated her relaxed body, but seemed to benumb her mind. She - could not think—only feel Thornton's kisses upon her. The rest of - the subjective and objective universe was a blank. Only when the cab - stopped and the driver asked the number of her house through the trap-door - in the roof, was she conscious of external things. Then she found that he - had driven a long way past the familiar door. As he turned round - grumblingly, she was aware of being chilled through from her drive across - London, and longed to get indoors. - </p> - <p> - It was not until she told Winifred the next morning that she realised the - great change that had come over her life. - </p> - <p> - “I am going to marry Mr. Hammerdyke.” - </p> - <p> - The commonplace statement, thus uttered for the first time, seemed like a - cold decree of fate, inevitable, irresistible. Winifred cried a little at - the thought of losing her. - </p> - <p> - “But you will be happy, my darling,” she said, smiling through her tears. - “He is so brave and strong and handsome, and he must love you better than - his life.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, dear,” said Clytie, gently stroking her friend's brown hair - (Winifred was sitting at her feet) and looking tenderly at her pure, - upturned face. But her own, bent down, was aflame with reminiscence. - </p> - <p> - “When is it to be? Not for a long, long time, I hope,” said Winifred. - </p> - <p> - “Almost immediately—he wants it—there is no particular reason - for waiting.” - </p> - <p> - “I felt it was coming some day,” said Winifred; “but I did not expect it - so soon.” - </p> - <p> - “It is best,” said Clytie—“best that it should be at once; the - interval between the old life and the new would be too trying if it were - drawn out.” - </p> - <p> - “You always do what is best, dear,” whispered Winifred in her trustful - way. “Oh! you must be happy, very, very happy, Clytie dear.” - </p> - <p> - Clytie leaned back in her chair, caressing her friend's cheek with the - back of her hand, and looked around the studio. It came almost as a shock - to her to realise that in a short, short time she would have to bid - farewell to all that had grown up around her artistic life. The grotesque - caricatures on the walls stared at her like meaningless shadows. Her - palette, brushes, and paraphernalia of rags and turpentine bottles lay - strewn about like the properties of a forgotten comedy. The unfinished - pictures on easels and stands lost their fascination. Only Winifred's - little study on the other side of the studio seemed unchanged—retaining - its virginal freshness and purity. But the sound of a step on the landing - outside, buoyant, elastic, dispelled all wistful regrets. She sprang to - her feet as Winifred rose, and listened, transformed into a radiant woman, - with quivering depths in her dark blue eyes, her red lips parted in a half - smile, her chin raised showing the full neck. - </p> - <p> - A moment or two afterwards Mrs. Gurkins appeared at the studio door. - </p> - <p> - “Mr. Hammerdyke, miss. I have shown him into the sitting-room,” she said, - and then retired. - </p> - <p> - “I knew it was he,” said Clytie. - </p> - <p> - “Go, dear,” said Winifred, putting her arm round Clytie's waist and moving - with her across the studio to the door. - </p> - <p> - Clytie kissed her laughingly and disappeared. But two tears rolled down - Winifred's cheek as she went back to the chair by the stove; and then she - flung herself down where she had been sitting, and burying her face in her - arm, began to cry bitterly. - </p> - <p> - “I don't like him, I don't like him; he will spoil my darling,” she - moaned. - </p> - <p> - Sometimes knowledge is given to those who seek after it least. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XIV. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he unexpected - always happens, often inopportunely. Winifred had risen from the ground by - the stove and was standing miserably before her easel when a knock was - heard at the studio door. She cried, “Come in!” and Kent entered. He was - looking rather pale and worn out, his beard sinking ever so little into - his cheeks; his eyes were tired. On seeing him Winifred could not restrain - a start of surprise. - </p> - <p> - “Why, Mr. Kent! you here at this hour of the day!” - </p> - <p> - “Yes; I have just come back from the Museum. I went up to tell them I - wasn't coming, as they say in Ireland. The fact is I am feeling lazy and - want a few days' slackness.” - </p> - <p> - “You have been overworking yourself, that's what you have been doing,” - said Winifred with kind severity. “Come and sit down by the stove and rest - yourself. You want someone to look after you.” - </p> - <p> - She pulled the chair that Clytie had been occupying a little forward, by - way of invitation. - </p> - <p> - “What a good little creature you are, Winifred,” he said as he sat down. - “You always think of other people. Men don't seem able to do it; they are - too much wrapped up in themselves. How are you all—you and the - children? You must make them invite me to tea soon. I have not seen them - for ages.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, they are quite well again,” replied Winifred, brightening, “and they - have been clamouring for Kent, as they call you. I'll tell them to send - you an 'At Home' card. And it must be soon, for you are going abroad. When - do you think of starting?” - </p> - <p> - Kent sighed and looked into the fire. - </p> - <p> - “I don't quite know yet; I wanted to see Clytie first. Where is she?” - </p> - <p> - “She has a visitor—in her sitting-room,” replied Winifred somewhat - shortly. - </p> - <p> - But Kent was too absorbed in his own affairs to notice the change of tone. - </p> - <p> - “Will she be engaged long?” - </p> - <p> - “Probably.” - </p> - <p> - “I wanted so much to see her.” - </p> - <p> - Winifred looked at him for a moment and then came and put her hand lightly - on his shoulder. - </p> - <p> - “You seem so unhappy. Is it about Clytie? You and she have quarrelled or - had some difference,—she has not told me what it is,—and I - have been so grieved. If I knew, perhaps I might bring things straight.” - </p> - <p> - “Would you, Winifred?” said Kent eagerly. - </p> - <p> - “Of course. Don't I love Clytie better than anybody else—and haven't - you been a good kind friend to me? I haven't asked her—nor you—why - you have stopped being friends, because one shrinks from asking such - questions, but I have seen it, and I have been so, so sorry.” - </p> - <p> - The gentle sympathy touched him. The realisation of the feminine had come - to him of late powerfully enough to have overset his old one-sided - theories. He knew the value now of a tender word from a woman, and his - nature hungered for it. - </p> - <p> - “Winifred,” he said, half turning in the chair and looking up at her in - his honest way, “do you think Clytie could ever care for me—not as a - friend—as something nearer?” - </p> - <p> - Winifred fell back, looked at him aghast, unable to speak, as the light - dawned upon her. He mistook her movement, rose, and began to speak - hurriedly, pacing the room. - </p> - <p> - “I couldn't help it—how could I help it? I have struggled against it - with all my might. I know I am a fool to think that she can love me, and - you are surprised and dismayed, as she was when she saw that I loved her. - I would have bit my tongue out then rather than tell her, but I saw she - guessed—and that is why our friendship has been broken. I have kept - away from her to spare her the pain of it. But it has nearly driven me - mad. I can't go abroad with the weight of it upon me. I must see her and - let her know everything. Tell me, Winifred, you who are so fine and - delicate, I did not wrong her and our friendship by growing to love her - better than anything life has. She won't think me unworthy of the trust - she gave me, and despise me?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, no, no, no!” said Winifred half chokingly. “Your love would honour - any girl. Oh, why did you not tell her and plead with her before?” - </p> - <p> - “Then do you think, Winifred——” began Kent with a sudden joy - in his eyes. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, don't!” cried the girl, interrupting him; “I can't bear it. It is too - late! I hate to stab you like this, but you must know it. Clytie is - engaged to be married.” - </p> - <p> - There was a long silence, during which neither looked at the other. Kent - was stunned, dazed. He had come prepared for a refusal, but not for such - an absolute shattering of all his hopes. He grew very white and stood with - his hand on the back of a chair, as if steadying himself. - </p> - <p> - “How long has she——” he said, at length, huskily. - </p> - <p> - “Only last night. She told me of it this morning.” - </p> - <p> - “And the man?” - </p> - <p> - “Mr. Hammerdyke—Mrs. Farquharson's cousin.” - </p> - <p> - She went up to him, took his hand, and turned her pure face up to his, the - tears standing in her eyes. - </p> - <p> - “I won't say you will find someone more worthy of you, because you - couldn't.” - </p> - <p> - “I am not fit to tie her shoe-strings. I know that very well,” said poor - Kent. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, that is foolish,” she said, with a wan smile. “But there isn't - another girl like Clytie in the world; and you will always think kindly of - her, and help her if she wants help, won't you? You won't turn from her - and hate her, as I have heard men often do—for I don't think you are - like such men.” - </p> - <p> - “I would give up everything I had in life to save her one hour's pain,” - said Kent. “I have been a fool,—I see it now,—oh! not in - having loved her—not that. It is a blessed privilege—I can't - explain, for you would not understand. I shall always love her, Winifred; - no other woman can be to me what Clytie has been—and might have - been. I shall leave by the early boat tomorrow morning, so you will not - see me for three or four months. When I return—perhaps you'll let me - come and talk to you a little sometimes.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, it will comfort me,” said Winifred, “for am I not losing her too?” - </p> - <p> - He bade her good-bye, exacting before he left a promise that she would not - let Clytie know of what had passed between them. - </p> - <p> - He went downstairs, anxious to escape from the house, to get into the open - air. In the entrance passage the side door leading into the shop was open - and Mrs. Gurkins was standing by the threshold. Kent stopped for a moment - to acquaint her with the fact of his sudden departure next day. He would - keep on the rooms, which must be scrupulously locked up during his - absence. Since his first intimacy with Clytie he had imperceptibly grown - more amenable to feminine interference in his domestic arrangements, and - Mrs. Gurkins no longer had her former terror of invading his domain. But - she was still in enough awe of him to promise faithfully to execute his - desires. To talk on these trivial matters was a relief from the terrible - strain of the last few moments, although he wondered a little how he could - lend them coherent attention. He was listening with waning interest to - some final irrelevancies on the part of his landlady when a man ran down - the stairs and strode quickly past him in the passage. A glance was - sufficient to tell Kent who Clytie's visitor was—it had not occurred - to him before to conjecture. His heart sank as he realised the splendid - physique and proud, masterful bearing of his rival. Ordinarily the least - observant of men in such matters, Kent noted the careless ease with which - he wore his faultless attire. The patent-leather boots, the new silk hat, - the well-cut frock-coat with an orchid in the buttonhole, the new gray - Suède gloves grasped along with a gold-mounted malacca—all seemed to - belong to the man naturally, to be the world's fit adjuncts to the gifts - of nature. Smiling to himself and humming a song, he seemed the - personification of the joy and strength, the success and luxury of life. - </p> - <p> - “I am not that man's match,” thought Kent bitterly, thus falling, as all - men must do at times, a little below himself. - </p> - <p> - The front door slammed behind Hammerdyke. Kent waited for a moment, gave a - few vague general directions, and then went out into the street. He felt - stronger now that he had to struggle against real and tangible trouble - instead of the intangible doubts and fears that had set him off his - balance. The single-hearted loyalty of his nature, that had caused him to - regard his love for Clytie as treason against her unsuspecting friendship, - and had thus placed him in the weakness of a false position, now gave him - strength to face fearlessly life and its responsibilities. But time alone - could assuage the pain and bitterness of it all. He strung himself - together and walked briskly through the bright, frosty air towards the - home of his mother and sister in Notting Hill. There was sincere affection - between mother and son, sister and brother; but neither of the quiet, - contented women knew much of his life or sympathised with his ambitions. - Mrs. Kent's hopeless wish was that he would marry some good, sensible girl - who would keep his house tidy, provide him with decent meals, and bring - bright children's faces around his knee. This conception bounded her - horizon of a man's happiness; as she knew that her son would never appear - within it, she regarded him with wistful, unhelpful affection. Agatha, - with the younger generation's superior grasp of things, looked upon him as - a soft-hearted eccentric who deserved to be humoured. For many years, - therefore, Kent had ceased to share with them any of his inner life, not - because he loved them less than during his boyhood, but because their - mental attitudes precluded confidence. They were women, they could not - understand. When he entered the house he left his own interests outside - and plunged, in his rough, hearty way, into theirs. He gave his whole - attention to accounts of Cousin Henrietta's baby, Uncle William's gout, - the leakages of the cistern, and the turpitudes of the cook. In matters - such as the cistern he gave practical help; in others, such as the baby, - he overflowed with sympathetic though alarming suggestions. His own life - was seldom touched upon. With finer natures—Clytie, Winifred, Wither—that - divined the strong purpose underlying his eccentricities, and met him - halfway with their sympathy, he was generous in his confidence; but to - others, proud, shy, and reserved. So Mrs. Kent and Agatha knew nothing of - Clytie, little of his scientific work, and only vaguely of his duties at - the Museum. - </p> - <p> - He walked up Sloane Street and through the park, thinking of his great - loss, trying to scheme out his future, in which Clytie would only be a - memory. When he arrived at his mother's house he paused for a moment, as - if literally to unstrap the burden of care from his shoulders and leave it - outside the front door. Then he entered and greeted his mother and sister - in his bluff, cheery way. He remained with them a couple of hours, during - which he performed a few odd jobs about the house which he had promised to - attend to, and then took his leave. Mrs. Kent was solicitous as to his - health, besought him not to work too hard nor to come back with a German - wife. She could not quite see the reason of his sudden departure. Why the - country should waste its money in sending him abroad to study old coins - she, in her placid utilitarianism, could not imagine. However, she bade - him a motherly farewell, hoped from her heart that he would have a - pleasant holiday, although she could not refrain from expressing a regret - that he would not return in time to superintend the spring-cleaning. - </p> - <p> - When the door closed behind him he picked up his burden and walked - doggedly away with it, mechanically, not heeding his direction. He - suddenly found that he had come, contrary to his intention, diagonally - across the park to Hyde Park Corner. It was past five o'clock. Wither - would be in his club. He would go and say good-bye, for Wither was very - dear to him. - </p> - <p> - The little man was giving some directions to the hall porter when Kent - appeared. - </p> - <p> - “My dear, good creature!” he cried, “what have you been doing to yourself? - You are as white as a ghost. You want some whiskey or brandy, probably - both. Come down to the smoking-room and have some.” - </p> - <p> - “I am a bit overdone,” replied Kent, “and perhaps I have been walking too - much to-day. But I don't want any brandy.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, but you've got to,” said Wither, and entering the smoking-room, he - gave the order to a waiter. - </p> - <p> - “I have come to say good-bye, Teddy,” said Kent as soon as they were - seated in a quiet corner. “I am off to-morrow morning.” - </p> - <p> - “The deuce you are! Well, so much the better. A sound friend abroad is - more comfortable for all parties than a sick friend at home. Have they - given you your three months?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes—on full pay.” - </p> - <p> - “Lucky dog. And while you are flirting around the capitals of Europe we - poor devils will have to be slaving away in this grimy and sooty - metropolis. In the good fortune of one's friends there is always something - devilishly obnoxious. Why is the eternal order of things so mismanaged - that you should have a good time and I not? Here is your brandy. Drink it - and look more human.” - </p> - <p> - Kent did as he was bidden. The stimulant, which he needed, revived him. - Wither guessed that something untoward had occurred. He had a woman's - intuition, this bright-eyed, cynical little being, and he rattled on in - his light way to save Kent the strain of making conversation. - </p> - <p> - “Have a cigarette?” he asked, taking out his case. “No? Well, smoke your - pipe. I can't understand how anyone but a horny-palated son of toil can - smoke a pipe. By the way, what do you think a girl sent me by way of a - present this morning?” - </p> - <p> - “I don't know,” said Kent. “A hymn book?” - </p> - <p> - “No; a cigarette holder—mouthpiece, you know. I wrote and told her - it was very pretty and I would keep it in memory of her to my dying day; - but as for using it, I should just as soon think of kissing her through a - respirator.” - </p> - <p> - “That was unkind,” said Kent, laughing in spite of himself, tickled at the - idea. - </p> - <p> - “Lord bless you, no,” replied Wither oracularly from the depths of his - armchair. “It is wholesome to check this frenzy of profusion now and then. - When a woman once begins to give she never knows where to stop. When she - has exhausted her imagination she gives away herself. It's embarrassing - sometimes, for one can't put half a dozen women away in a drawer with the - rest of the odds and ends. Oh, no; a little fatherly repression does a - world of good to the ingenuous and enthusiastic. I don't pretend to be - moral, but I am not without kindly instincts.” - </p> - <p> - He chuckled sardonically and began to turn over the pages of <i>Punch</i>. - Kent smoked on in silence, cheered a little by the familiar chatter. - </p> - <p> - “Teddy,” he said at last, “you seem to hear all the gossip about town; do - you know anything about a man called Hammerdyke?” - </p> - <p> - “Thornton Hammerdyke—man from Africa—explorer?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, rather. One of the greatest devils unhung,” replied Wither - cheerfully. - </p> - <p> - “What do you mean?” cried Kent in an agitated voice, starting forward and - gripping the arms of his chair. “Take care what you are saying. It is a - matter of life and death to—to somebody. What do you know about him? - Tell me.” - </p> - <p> - Wither arched his eyebrows in surprise, and became serious. Then his quick - intuition supplied him with the reason for Kent's agitation. - </p> - <p> - “I only spoke idle gossip,” he said, “and I have the misfortune to be - hyperbolical at times. The man has had some dealings with our office and - that is how I come to know anything about him. Don't you remember he got - into a row for wholesale slaughter of niggers on one of his expeditions? - He cleared himself all right, of course, by proving mutiny, self-defence, - and that sort of thing.” - </p> - <p> - “I remember the incident now,” said Kent. “It was in the papers.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, his public character is cleared,” said Wither, “and he is a good - deal of a lion these days; but fellows who have served with him take the - niggers' side of the question, and wonder how he remained a day among them - without being torn to pieces. That's all I know about him, which you see - is not much. My dear old boy,” he continued earnestly as Kent sat silent, - staring in front of him, “is that the reason why you are starting so - suddenly? Is it all fixed up? No chance?” - </p> - <p> - Kent nodded moodily. - </p> - <p> - “I suppose not. I was going to ask her this morning when I learned she had - engaged herself—only last night—to this man. And I have seen - him. Devil or not, he is a man.” - </p> - <p> - Wither bit his lip. For the moment he was at a loss for an expression of - sympathy, somewhat uneasy as to the line he should adopt. What was the use - of making Kent more miserable by telling him other ugly stories he had - heard concerning Hammerdyke if either were powerless to prevent the - marriage from taking place? Besides, it was only idle gossip after all, - and in the serious affairs of life Wither was honourable and - conscientious. - </p> - <p> - Suddenly Kent broke out: - </p> - <p> - “Oh, my God, Teddy, I don't care a little damn about myself,—I can - worry along, as I did before—better, for it is something to have - loved her,—if only she is happy. But if this man is not fit for her, - if this horrible gossip of yours is true, she will be entering into a life - of misery,—I know her,—and I shall feel as if I had not put - out my hand to stop her.” - </p> - <p> - “Everyone must dree his own weird, my dear old boy,” said Wither. “And - while he's doing it neither you nor anyone else can interfere with much - profit. Make your mind easy about yourself and your responsibilities. You - could not go to her and say, 'I hear the man you are going to marry is a - blackguard; have me instead.' In the first place, your pride would not - allow you, and in the second, if she cared about him, she wouldn't believe - you, but would marry him all the sooner to prove her faith in him. It is - the way of women when they are worth anything.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes; Clytie would do just that,” said Kent. “I think even a man would, if - he loved a woman.” - </p> - <p> - “Well,” said Wither, “it is no use making yourself miserable about it. The - wise man guards against indulgence in things that upset his moral as well - as his physical digestion. But wisdom was never much your forte, friend - John.” - </p> - <p> - Kent stayed and dined with Wither and then returned alone to the King's - Road. He had already made certain preparations for travel; the few final - arrangements did not take long. As he passed by Clytie's sitting-room door - he noticed that it was ajar, a sign that she was out. In the old days,—less - than two months ago, but far away for all that,—he had been - accustomed to run down on such occasions, at about half-past ten or - eleven, and stir up the fire. Since her return from Durdleham this little - token of intimacy had gone with the rest. But on this evening the desire - came over him to perform this service for her once more, for the last - time. He crept down the stairs on tip-toe, in case she should have come in - without his knowledge. But the door was still ajar, the room was vacant. - The fire had burned down very low, only a few glowing coals at the bottom - of the grate. He returned to his own rooms and fetched some wood and - paper, and kneeling down, built up a satisfactory fire. At first, however, - the wood would not burn; it had to be dried by repeated conflagrations of - paper, and the blaze had to be induced by much cunning coaxing. It was - just beginning to flare merrily up the chimney when the sudden slam of the - street door below aroused him to a sense of his position. He left the room - and fled quickly up the stairs. Outside his door he listened. It was - Clytie, arriving home somewhat early. He was disappointed, a little - humiliated. The freshness had gone from his sad little pleasure, for he - had not wished her to guess that he had been down. Now the act seemed - clumsy, in bad taste, as if he had been forcing his attentions on her. He - went into his sitting-room with a heart heavier than before, and continued - his preparations for departure. He had packed up his portmanteau and was - now stowing away his papers and valuable odds and ends that he wished to - remain under lock and key during his absence. - </p> - <p> - Suddenly a step was heard on the stair that made his heart stand still, - and Clytie appeared at the door. - </p> - <p> - “Can I come in?” - </p> - <p> - He could scarcely find words to greet her. Now that their good comradeship - was at an end, above all, now that she was lifted beyond his sphere, she - held a different position in his eyes. She looked beautiful, queenly. Her - rich hair and colouring, the pale blue of her dress, struck a note of - exquisite brightness in the gloomy, half-dismantled room. He removed some - books from his writing-chair and pulled it towards her. - </p> - <p> - “How good of you to come!” was all he could say. - </p> - <p> - “How good of you to look after my fire!” said Clytie. - </p> - <p> - “I did not want you to know——” - </p> - <p> - “Why not?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, a sentiment,” he replied. “We are governed a great deal by such - things.” - </p> - <p> - “It touched me so,” said Clytie. “I could not help coming up to thank you, - as you are going away early in the morning.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah! Winifred told you?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes; she said you had come to bid good-bye.” - </p> - <p> - Kent felt bound to fall in with Winifred's friendly fable, although his - honesty shrank a little from accepting what was not its due. - </p> - <p> - “There is always something sad in leave-taking,” said Clytie. - </p> - <p> - The remark was trite and commonplace; but so is a kiss or a grasp of the - hand or the words “Good-bye, dear,” themselves. The original generally - brings more titillation than comfort. - </p> - <p> - “This leave-taking is sadder than most—to me,” said Kent. - </p> - <p> - “And to me too,” said Clytie. “It marks the end of the old life—a - very pleasant one. Kent,” she went on after a short reflective pause, “I - want to tell you something: I reproached you a little in my heart—last - month. I don't now. I haven't the right. Winifred said she had let you - know of my engagement. If our parting had not come from you, it would have - come now from me.” - </p> - <p> - “I see now; it was bound to come sooner or later,” replied Kent, much - moved. “Oh, my God! what puppets we are. But I wish you happiness, from my - heart, in your new life. You will always be to me the one woman whom”—he - was going to add, “I could love,” but he checked himself and quickly - substituted, “who has taught me what there is in women.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah, my dear Kent,” returned Clytie with a touch of her brightness and - charm, “there will be someone nicer than I who will teach you better. You, - too, must have happiness, you know. You will marry soon——” - </p> - <p> - “I marry!” cried Kent, wheeling round to face her. “How can you say that!” - </p> - <p> - They looked at one another, each misunderstanding. He was wounded at her - treating his love as a thing of no account. She was puzzled at his implied - contradiction of her theory. - </p> - <p> - “I thought I had discovered the reason for your wishing to break off our - intimacy—but I find I was wrong.” - </p> - <p> - “I don't understand,” said Kent, agitated. “I acted foolishly, very - foolishly and rudely. Yet I only did it to save you pain. To break with - you cost me the dearest thing I had in the world. Surely you must be aware - of that.” - </p> - <p> - “You did not break it because you suddenly—during my absence—wished - to form other ties?” - </p> - <p> - A light broke upon Kent, like a flash of lightning over a desolate - wilderness. All of this heart-burning, then, was for nothing. She had - never suspected that he loved her. A sense of the futility of things - crushed him for a moment. - </p> - <p> - “I am not a man to fall in love readily,” he replied in a low voice. - </p> - <p> - “Then,” said Clytie earnestly, “I am at fault. Why did you not answer my - letter? Why did you shun me? Why were you so constrained when we met? Why - did you tear yourself out of my daily life?” - </p> - <p> - Kent turned away his face, so that she should not see him as he fought out - within himself a great battle. Had these words only been spoken a day or - two ago he would have poured out his love to her in all its honesty and - strength. But now she was bound to another irrevocably—now indeed it - would give her pain to hear what he foolishly thought would have given her - pain to hear before. Then he was restrained by misinterpretation of the - meaning of the passion that had come surging into his blood. Now he was - held back by finer feelings, ignorant perhaps, quixotic, but such as work - in man to the shaping of his nobleness. - </p> - <p> - “It was something I would rather not speak of,” he said at last—“something - in my own life. I might have told you then; I was wrong not to; I did it - for the best. I can't now. This seems like a cheap way of making - mysteries,—perhaps it is one, not very big,—but it is better - that it should be one to you. It was no fault of mine, believe me. You do - believe me, Clytie, when I say that it was bitter for me to give up your - friendship, don't you?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, Kent,” exclaimed Clytie, “I do believe that you are everything that - is true and tender and loyal. You don't know what strength and comfort - your sympathy and your brave, frank way of looking at things have been to - me. I have wronged you—forgive me.” - </p> - <p> - She rose, held out her hand to him. He took it and raised it to his lips - very gently. Her eyes grew a little moist. - </p> - <p> - “You are treating me like a foolish woman, and not <i>en bon camarade</i>,” - she said in a low voice. - </p> - <p> - “You are no longer my <i>bon camarade</i>,” he replied. “You are my very - dear lady, whom I will serve till the hour of my death.” - </p> - <p> - A moment or two afterwards she was gone. The next morning Kent left - England. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XV. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span> great writer has - remarked, that between the acting of a dreadful thing and the first - motion, all the interim is like a phantasma or a hideous dream, and that - the state of man under those circumstances, like to a little kingdom, - suffers the nature of an insurrection. Although the step that Clytie was - about to take was not of the character that Brutus contemplated, it was - sufficiently serious for the interval between her engagement and her - marriage to be a time of great mental and moral upheaval. Her “genius and - mortal instruments” had periods of fierce council, in which the latter - always obtained turbulent victory. Dreading these inner conflicts, she - shrank from introspection. When doubts began to creep over her she shook - them off, and sat down and wrote letters to Thornton which she burned an - hour or two afterwards. But it was only when she was alone in the studio - hastily finishing the orders she had in hand, or during the few lonely - evenings that she passed in her sitting-room, that these torturing - misgivings arose. When Thornton was near she forgot that any had ever come - to her. He overpowered her will and her senses, dominated her with a - caressing word, a touch of the hand, a glance from the depths of his dark - eyes. In the lucid intervals between these periods of dizzying surrender - she did not recognise herself. It was almost as if some Morgan le Fay had - cast around her a spell of woven paces, and changed her into she knew not - what, while she saw the old Clytie fading like a dream-shape away. To - women of finer temperament marriage looms shadowy, formless, a great - enchanter that will change all things, deliver into their keeping the - secrets of pain and delight. But to Clytie it was something less and - something more. Its material responsibilities were less of a mystery to - her than to most girls of her age, owing to the peculiarities of her - self-training; but its spiritual and moral results were hidden from her in - a cloud, denser, more lurid, more extensive. She loved Hammerdyke, not - indeed as she would have loved Kent had he made one little effort to turn - the wavering friendship into love—for then passion would have been - finely tempered with tenderness, trust, and generous sympathy; but still - certain chords of her nature vibrated fully in response to the touch of - the man she was about to marry. The one might have, as it were, awakened - the full organ, but the single diapason that was pulled rang out none the - less true. - </p> - <p> - During the short period of their engagement Hammerdyke was unceasing in - tokens of his love. It was the nature of the man to throw his whole being - into the delight or danger of the moment. Many a woman who cares - lukewarmly, perhaps reluctantly, is fired with a gratitude akin to love by - unending, passionate devotion. All the more responsive is the woman of - full blood and emotional temperament who already cares greatly. Thornton - gave Clytie no reason to doubt his affection; if anything, he frightened - her by its excess. She yielded to him in all things, sometimes half - dreamily, indifferently, without regret and without sweetness; sometimes - the surrender was infinite joy. - </p> - <p> - In one matter, however, she was called upon to exercise her will: Thornton - did not care how or where the marriage was performed. A man loathes - weddings, particularly his own. It is only the barbarian that lingers, as - people say, in the heart of woman that demands ceremonies and pomps and - vanities; a man, finer in some things, strangely enough, sees a certain - indelicacy in the brazen publicity of the wedding rites. True, this view - never presented itself to Thornton, who merely wanted to call Clytie his - own and looked upon the formality of the marriage bond as a necessary - nuisance, but it came vividly to Clytie, and caused her, as she was called - upon to decide in the matter, to choose as quiet a wedding as possible. - She shrank with repugnance from the meaningless ordeal of bridesmaids, - favours, and a wedding-breakfast. It was only in deference to Durdleham - susceptibilities that she did not entertain the idea of a civil marriage - before a registrar. - </p> - <p> - The announcement of her engagement caused a flutter of excitement in the - family. Mrs. Blather and Janet could not understand a girl's art life, but - they could understand a wedding. They settled it between themselves that - Clytie and her <i>fiancé</i> should come down to Durdleham to be there - married in the orthodox fashion. They had already drawn up a list of - guests and a scheme of wedding arrangements when a letter arrived from - Clytie saying that she was to be married almost immediately, and that on - no account could the ceremony take place at Durdleham. The sisters were - disappointed. Mrs. Blather remonstrated, adding arguments and entreaties - that brought tears of desperation to Clytie's eyes. She hated the thought - of willingly giving pain to her father and sisters, but a family ceremony - was more than she could bear. By trying to explain the inexplicable she - made matters worse. If Mrs. Blather and Janet had failed to understand her - simple needs of a free, untrammelled girlish life, how could they unravel - the tangled complexities involving her repugnance to their proposals? At - last she wrote that the day was definitely fixed, and that if her sisters - would not come to town, no one but her friends the Farquharsons and - Winifred would be present at the ceremony. To journey up to London for the - purpose of standing in a bleak, empty church on a dismal March morning - just to see Clytie married in a travelling dress was a prospect not - pleasing enough to be entertained. The sisters resigned themselves with a - sigh to circumstances and to a catalogue of Clytie's eccentricities from - her earliest years. Mrs. Blather sent Clytie a pair of silver - candlesticks, Janet sent her a tea-service, and old Mr. Davenant, who had - been courteously addressed by Hammerdyke on the subject of the marriage, - sent her a check for one hundred pounds. And that ended the matter. - </p> - <p> - Winifred spent the night before the marriage with Clytie. - </p> - <p> - “Do come, Winnie dear,” the latter had said. “I shall be so lonely and - miserable.” - </p> - <p> - So Winnie came like a spirit of peace, and the two girls cried a little in - each other's arms, and it was the weaker who comforted the stronger. - </p> - <p> - “I shall keep on the studio,” said Winifred,—“I am getting quite - rich, you know,—and then you can come sometimes and take off your - things and make believe to be back again. And I shall come and see you in - your big house—if you will tell your big husband not to frighten me - away.” - </p> - <p> - “You will always be my own sweet Winnie,” said Clytie tenderly, “and you - will always get the very best out of me even if I change utterly to - everybody else.” - </p> - <p> - “But how can you change, dear?” asked Winifred in her simple faith. For - she had lost her first instinctive distrust of Hammerdyke in the glamour - of Clytie's love for him. “How can you ever be different from what you are - and what you have always been?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I may grow very, very wicked and selfish one of these days, and not - care for simple things any longer; and then you might be hurt, and you - would know how unworthy I was that you should care for me, and you would - shrink from me.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, Clytie, darling!” cried Winifred, throwing her arms about her neck, - “how can you say such things?” - </p> - <p> - “It is silly, I know,” said Clytie; “but I sometimes feel that I might do - something very wicked without much compunction before I die.” - </p> - <p> - “But you are going to lead a splendid, beautiful life!” said Winnie. “You - will live in a great house, and have at your command the most brilliant - society in London, all the clever, artistic people—just what you - like. And you won't have to paint for orders, so you need never have to - cramp your genius, dear. Oh, Clytie, you will simply be overflowing with - happiness all your life long.” Clytie sighed. The independence of her - half-Bohemian life was very dear to her. This was the last night on which, - if it so pleased her, she could go forth into the streets, uncontrolled, - whither she would. Henceforward her actions would have to be referred to - an authority. To-morrow she would even change her name; be transformed - from the Clytie Davenant whom she knew into Mrs. Hammerdyke, a vague, - mysterious entity, with whose nature she was unfamiliar. No matter how - glorious the future, there is always some regret in leaving forever a past - phase of life: - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - At leaving even the most unpleasant people <br /> <br /> <br /> And - places, one keeps looking at the steeple. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - But this was a pleasant place Clytie was about to quit, and she looked - back upon its associations with a sigh. - </p> - <p> - In the morning a commissionnaire sent by Thornton came and fetched away - her trunks, for the newly married pair were to start for the Continent - immediately after the ceremony. When these were despatched Clytie stood - for a moment before her glass, adjusted the clasp of her cape and the set - of her broad gray beaver hat, and turning to Winifred, said quietly: “Let - us go, dear.” - </p> - <p> - They drove together in a hansom to St. Luke's Church, close by, where - Thornton and the Farquharsons were waiting for them, in the porch. It was - a bright morning, warm for the time of year, and the sparrows and a stray - thrush plucked up heart of grace and twittered cheerily from the trees in - the churchyard. Two little street children, with arms about each other's - necks, stood by a near gravestone and looked at the little group with - somewhat disappointed eyes. They had expected a bride in a long white veil - and orange-blossoms, a costume always mysteriously fascinating to the - unsophisticated. Perhaps it was only a christening after all, one remarked - to the other. But where was the baby? The interior of the empty church was - more cheerful than empty Protestant churches are wont to be. The slanting - sunlight streamed many-coloured through the stained windows across the - nave, and a broad shaft poured in from the open south door upon the vacant - pews in the aisle. From outside came faintly the hum and rattle of the - King's Road. The influences were peaceful, encouraging, and Clytie, - sensitive to impressions, felt grateful. The two little children, with - their eyes on the verger, peeped in through the door and satisfied - themselves that it was a wedding after all. - </p> - <p> - They whispered together with many smiles and nods, guessing at the <i>dramatis - personæ</i>. Clytie noticed them, smiled back and nodded. It was as if a - bit of her past life had come to bid her be of good cheer. The party stood - for a while in the body of the church, talking gaily in low tones. Mrs. - Farquharson was radiant at the prospective accomplishment of a dear wish. - </p> - <p> - “You must be proud of your bride,” she said to Thornton. “Is she not - looking beautiful?” - </p> - <p> - And she whispered to Clytie: - </p> - <p> - “You must be proud of your husband. Have you ever seen a man to compare - with him?” - </p> - <p> - Thornton held his head erect as he gave Clytie his arm and walked up to the - communion rail. He was proud of her. The quiet gray of her broad hat and - her cloak threw into relief the rich colouring of her hair and eyes and - lips. The past two years had completed her womanly beauty. Irregularities - of contour below the eyes had been toned down, the delicacy of modelling - of her face had been accentuated, and the new emotions of the past three - weeks had filled her great dark blue eyes with a new, mysterious light. - Thornton pressed her hand against his side, and whispered, “My darling,” - so close to her that she felt his breath warm upon her ear. She looked at - him for a moment, her full lips quivering ever so slightly. - </p> - <p> - “I should like to kiss you,” he whispered again. “You are so beautiful.” - </p> - <p> - In a few moments it was over. The words compromising a lifetime had been - said. The wedding ring gleamed upon her finger. As she passed with the - others into the vestry she looked down at it in a daze. There it was and - there it must remain till death parted them, a token of submission and - obedience. In the vestry there were embraces, congratulations. Thornton - kissed her after the gallant fashion of a man who can afford to wait for a - warmer caress. Winifred threw her arms round her neck, weeping. Mrs. - Farquharson kissed her in her affectionate, motherly way. George kissed - her gravely on the forehead and dipped the pen in the ink for her to sign - “Clytie Davenant” for the last time. Then they found themselves in the - porch again, saying farewell. Caroline laughingly called her “Mrs. - Hammerdyke” as they finally parted. And then the little knot of three - waved their handkerchiefs as the cab drove off that took her husband and - herself towards Victoria. - </p> - <p> - “You are mine now, my darling,” he said, taking her hand. “All that is - most mine.” - </p> - <p> - “I am glad,” she murmured, returning his pressure. “Yours for always.” - </p> - <p> - The commissionnaire met them at the station. He had taken their tickets, - settled their luggage, engaged a carriage. A bouquet of violets lay upon - the seat. Clytie flashed a quick glance at her husband. - </p> - <p> - “Thank you for thinking. I love them so much.” - </p> - <p> - He arranged her hot-water can and her rugs and sat down by her side, - thrusting up the dividing arms impatiently. As soon as the train had moved - out of the station he put his arms around her and kissed her, and spoke to - her in tender, passionate words. The stop at Croydon broke the continuity - of this first wedded embrace. On the platform outside the carriage window - a loud altercation was in progress between the ticket-collector and a - young couple who objected to pay for the ticket of a tiny terrier the - woman was carrying. They were of the lower middle class, both in their - Sunday clothes. She was a fair, delicate woman of some refinement; but the - husband was coarse, vulgar, with the stamp of sensuality on his sharp, - somewhat handsome face. Moreover, he was slightly intoxicated, and used a - foul expression to qualify the collector after the official had departed. - A flush rose to the young woman's forehead. - </p> - <p> - “Don't, John,” she pleaded. “He's in his rights.” - </p> - <p> - But the cad consigned his rights to perdition, and moved off vulgarly - proclaiming his own. - </p> - <p> - Clytie had heard this small scene in a life's drama and she vividly - constructed the miserable tragedy. When the train moved on again she - shivered, with a nameless, indefinable sense of fear. Three months ago she - would have noted the scene for vigorous transference to canvas. Now the - woman more than the artist was stirred. - </p> - <p> - “Please don't talk—just for a little, Thornton,” she said as he - began to speak. - </p> - <p> - He looked at her somewhat reproachfully. She drew off her glove and put - her hand into his. - </p> - <p> - “You can't understand—it all seems so strange. Let me gather myself - together for a moment—darling.” - </p> - <p> - She trembled on the last word. It was the first time she had used it to - him. - </p> - <p> - He pressed her hand and leaned back on the cushions. Clytie looked out of - the window at the telegraph poles and trees and broad fields swaying past. - Whither was this tearing train carrying her? Out of her life into a new, - strange world whose habits and customs and laws and speech were all - foreign to her? She was married. She no longer belonged to herself. Her - independence was gone. She had promised to love, honour, and obey this man - by her side until death should part them. That would be a long time—many, - many years. The thought frightened her. Until then she had scarce realised - what married life meant, in this respect. Why had she married this man? As - this question passed through her mind her husband raised the hand he held - to his lips. The blood rushed hot to her cheeks, she did not finish the - mental question, but turning quickly, looked at him for a moment, and - falling under the spell of his eyes, yielded to his arm, forgetting all - things. He had the power of drowning in a more lurid blaze those - glimmerings of self-revelation. She whispered so to him laughingly, and he - accepted it as a man generally does accept such things—not seeing - that it was of deeper significance than a woman's ordinary tribute of - tenderness. - </p> - <p> - “You are my beautiful Clytie,” he said, kissing her, and for a season she - was content with the response. - </p> - <p> - There was a lover's silence between them, which she broke at length by - saying: - </p> - <p> - “Don't you think it would have been much nicer if we could have had one - another on trial—say for six months?” > - </p> - <p> - “So that you could all the time be thinking whether you should repent of - your bargain? Oh, dear, no!” - </p> - <p> - “Ah! you say that; but would it not have been better, if we grew to hate - each other, to be able to shake hands and say good-bye? For we may quarrel - dreadfully, you know.” - </p> - <p> - He answered her with tender assurances, laughed at her fears. - </p> - <p> - “We shall never quarrel if you are a good little girl and do as you are - told,” he said. - </p> - <p> - Clytie laughed, seeing only jesting in the remark. - </p> - <p> - “And we shall never quarrel if you let me go where I like and do what I - like and say what I like.” - </p> - <p> - “But you will always want to go and do and say as I like, darling,” said - Thornton. “So we shall never quarrel.” - </p> - <p> - “Then you will never want me to be severely respectable?” asked Clytie, - with a touch of insistence. - </p> - <p> - “I shan't allow you to flirt with any and everybody, if you mean that,” he - replied, showing his white teeth as he smiled. - </p> - <p> - “I didn't mean that—for the simple reason that I have a certain - amount of brains.” - </p> - <p> - “There have been many coquettes with magnificent intellects.” - </p> - <p> - She made no reply. Then, seeing that he had ruffled her, he adroitly - turned their talk into less dangerous channels. - </p> - <p> - They stayed in Paris a couple of days and then continued their journey to - the Riviera. It was Clytie's own desire. In the first flush of his passion - all places were alike to Thornton, provided she were with him. But she - longed to get away from England, to cut herself adrift for a while from - all old associations, to surround herself with new conditions, so that - nothing should disturb the wonder of this new love. And when, with a - lover's hyperbole, he had bidden her choose any spot on the whole - terrestrial globe for the passing of their honeymoon, she had selected the - Mediterranean. - </p> - <p> - They went to the little Italian town of Bordighera, hidden away at the - foot of the mountains amidst its palms and olive trees. Besides being one - of the most beautiful spots on that beautiful coast, it has the charm of - quiet. There is no casino at Bordighera, no public garden, no municipal - band. It holds out to visitors no attractions but its own loveliness—hence - the absence of the banal, the rococo. A few villas are dotted round it, - away from the sea. One long, straggling street of shops, narrowing - gradually, leads up to the old, picturesque, evil-smelling town on the - hill. And this with its narrow sunless streets flanked by high, dingy, - gray houses, between which the sky above seems a narrow strip of Prussian - blue ribbon, its crooked byways and basement loggie of cool malodour, its - cobble pavements on which great entrance gateways gape like dark, noisome - caverns, offers few attractions other than those of quaintness and - curiosity to any but its own inhabitants. It is a quiet place, devoid of - the cosmopolitan <i>tohubohu</i> of Mentone or Cannes. An index of this is - the fact that, save the commoner qualities of the Italian <i>regie</i>, - cigarettes are not to be bought for love or money in Bordighera, and these - in the greasiest ramshackle shop imaginable. If you want civilised shops - you must go to San Remo. - </p> - <p> - Thornton and Clytie spent the earlier portion of their honeymoon here in - unbroken happiness. Beyond casual gossip with their table d'hôte - neighbours they held intercourse with no one. All fears, doubts, - flutterings of regret, vanished from Clytie's heart, together with all - sense of subjective life. She was tasting the physical joy of existence as - it came to her in the passion, sunlight, colour, warmth, and scents of the - south. She had chosen with unconscious wisdom. The intensity of the beauty - of the Mediterranean, its positivism, its splendid denial of the - melancholic and mysterious, held her being in tone with the love with - which Thornton had inspired her. It intoxicated her with a complementary - passion. - </p> - <p> - They drove one day from Bordighera through Ventimiglia to Mentone. Halfway - they stopped at a wayside inn, and breakfasted under a trellis of - grape-vine. On the one side was the dazzling white road, flanked by the - terraced hill of olive-trees, the white underparts of their leaves - flashing like silver; on the other, below, the gold sand and the purple - sea. And the sun streamed through the vine, checkering the table and their - hands and faces. The fare was poor and the Asti none of the best, but the - wine sparkled and bubbled in the thick tumbler they used in common, and - brought a keener sparkle into Clytie's eyes, and a more joyous abandonment - into her laugh. When they had resumed their drive, and a turn of the road - brought them into sight of Mentone, her heart leaped at the suddenness - with which the blaze of colour was revealed. Below, over a declining - foreground of olive and orange gardens, lay the white town in a setting of - bright green foliage, stretching from horn to horn of the bay. Behind the - eastern horn projected dark and bold the promontory of Monaco with the - flashing white of its castle. Behind the town rose the two bare peaks of - the Berceau standing out in deep blue-gray against the intense violet sky. - Before it swept the broad belt of yellow sand, on which lapped, in little - idle waves whose ebb left a delicate fringe of white, a still, unbroken - sea of lapis lazuli, melting through infinite gradations of blue streaked - with arbitrary purples into the deep ultramarine that met the paler sky - far away on the horizon. The burst of intense colour of sky and sea and - land, glowing as far as the eye could sweep, drowned Clytie's being in a - sensuous flood. It was, as it were, the projection of physical passion - into something visible, thus baring to the eyes its wonderful beauty. She - uttered a little inarticulate gasp, a catching of the breath. They were - quite alone, the coachman half asleep in the sun on his box. Thornton put - his arm round her and drew her to him. She turned, closed her eyes. All - creation, from the world of wonder before her to the tiniest quivering - fibre within her, vibrated with an intoxicating thrill of delight. She - caught his hand, drew his arm tighter, and lifted her lips to his in a - long, long kiss. - </p> - <p> - Thenceforward her stay on the Riviera was one uninterrupted delight. It - was a dream in which the mind lay subject to the sense. She was in a blue - mist, which hid impenetrably past and future, and informed the visible - area about her feet with unutterable sweetness. “Don't expect me to write - letters,” she said in a hastily scribbled note to Caroline. “This is a - land in which words have no part. You might as well expect me to talk the - 'Moonlight Sonata' to you.” And Caroline, being a wise woman, smiled. Yet, - after all, her wisdom had nothing to do with it—for anything - feminine would have divined. The days flew on wings of fire. She never - read, never worked; her sketch-book remained empty. Often they sat at - their sitting-room window, looking out on to the Strada Romana, hand in - hand, without speaking, save for a murmured caress, for an hour together. - Or they walked up between the olives, past the famous high wall with its - gorgeous coat of mesembryanthemum, through the narrow, crooked town, down - the rugged descent to the surf-beaten shore, where the great white - solitary <i>casa</i> stands, and there sat down in the shade of the big - rocks and watched the glowing “countless laughter” of the sea. Often they - rambled through the cool, sunless olive gardens, rising terrace after - terrace apparently into the deep violet sky. The scent of the rosemary and - wild thyme beneath their feet rose penetrating and filled the blood, and - Thornton would pick a handful, and laughingly hold it between them above - their lips as he kissed her. And when they reached the top of the hill - they sat under a tree, and Clytie rested her head on his shoulder, and let - her eye wander over the low-lying ridges of the Maritime Alps rising in - endless soft-rounded undulations, like the many-breasted mother of men, in - each bosom nestling a compact white townlet gathered around the slated - cupola of its church; and the soft sunlight lay over all, transfused - through the blue atmosphere. Then she would say: “Don't let us talk, - Thornton,” but there was a different meaning to the words from that which - they had when she uttered them in the train as it left Croydon. - </p> - <p> - Sometimes they went away from Bordighera for two or three days; visited - Nice, Cannes, Monte Carlo. At Monte Carlo Clytie won three or four hundred - francs at the roulette tables. Gambling had never come before within her - experience of things. She plunged into it with childish recklessness, - looking round with glowing face and laughter in her eyes at her husband - when she won, and drawing a short little breath of dismay when the - croupier raked in her stake. The game, the intensity of the strange faces, - seen nowhere else,—faces which bore the stamp of combinations of the - seven deadly sins taken from two to half a dozen together,—the - subtle working in that great, glittering room of all the passions under - heaven, attracted her, fascinated her. The artistic temperament caught the - impressions, instinctively, unconsciously registered them, thus widening - and deepening her conception of life. It was a luxury of sense to leave - the babel passion of the Casino and to walk arm in arm on the terrace or - in the grounds. There the music came faintly and mingled with the far-off - splash of the sea away below them and the rustle of the palms and - drachinas. On the right stretched out Monaco, clustering like a group of - fireflies below the white bastioned castle. Behind them rose the black - mass of the Maritime Alps with the Mont Agel towering distinct above. The - air was soft and warm, recovering from the sudden shock of sundown. What - they said to one another matters little. He saw that she was beautiful and - filled with the sense of his love, and he was happy. To Clytie life meant - unutterable things. - </p> - <p> - On the third morning of their stay at Monte Carlo Thornton returned from a - short stroll and came into their room. - </p> - <p> - “A man I know has just come by the train and I fled from him,” he said; - “let us go somewhere else.” - </p> - <p> - Clytie was pleased. - </p> - <p> - “I am glad you still want us to be quite, quite alone,” she replied. “But - you are sure you are not a little bit weary of me?” - </p> - <p> - He answered as many millions of men more or less sincere have answered. - And Clytie thought neither of believing nor of disbelieving him, as many - millions of women have done. The subjective is apt to crop up afterwards - and it generally causes trouble. But in the passion of a kiss woman, - being, like man, of flesh and blood, and not an abstraction, does not - calculate remote psychological contingencies; if she does, the kissing is - all a mistake. Once, towards the end of their honeymoon, Clytie did touch - upon the subjective. They were sitting by the ruined tower on the hill - above the Strada Romana. Clytie was heated and had taken off her hat, and - the breeze ruffled her hair as she leaned against the trunk of a tree. - Thornton sprawled by her side, resting his chin on his hand and looking at - her. - </p> - <p> - “I always grudge your wearing a hat,” he said. “Your beautiful hair ought - not to be hidden. You look much lovelier now that it is free for the wind - to kiss.” - </p> - <p> - She laughed a contented little laugh, throwing her chin up, according to - her way. - </p> - <p> - “Do you know, Thornton,” she said with a little hesitation, in which there - was much charm, “being called beautiful every day is one of the great - novelties of the situation. I always knew I was good to look upon, and - sometimes I really was very pleased to behold myself. But before I knew - you, dear, it never made anything of a factor in my daily life. And now I - almost begin to think it's the only quality I have.” - </p> - <p> - “Given that, you can let all the others go——” He waved his - hand vaguely, consigning them to the <i>Ewigkeit</i>. “But that's not all - that you love me for, is it, dear?” An idle question, with an unsuspected - fear lurking in its heart. - </p> - <p> - “I don't know why I love you. It has never occurred to me to investigate - the matter.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, try. It will be like playing the game, 'I love my love with an A'!” - </p> - <p> - Thornton shook his head boyishly, and laughed. - </p> - <p> - “It would spoil it all!” he said—“to go worrying about what lies - under that sweet face of yours. Can't you understand, darling? What do - your qualities matter to me? Provided I can take you in my arms and kiss - you as much as I like, what concern is it of mine whether you are - acquainted with the cookery book or spell art with a capital A? Don't you - think it's more satisfactory to lie here and look into your great blue - eyes, and your hair with the sun and wind playing hide and seek in it, and - your bosom rising and falling, than to speculate whether you are - even-tempered or vindictive or ambitious or fond of Adelaide Proctor's - poetry?” - </p> - <p> - “What a boy you are!” she cried light-heartedly, stretching out her hand - so as to run her fingers over his crisp brown hair. “So my face has been - my fortune!” - </p> - <p> - “And your figure,” he remarked critically. “The whole of you!” - </p> - <p> - “Tell me,” she continued, “what would you have done if I hadn't married - you?” - </p> - <p> - He started up to a sitting posture, and his eyes flashed. “I should have - gone straight back to Africa and played the very devil there! But you were - bound to marry me, you know; and if you had been already a married woman, - I should have got to you somehow. I have been hit before in my time, over - and over, but never till I met you did I think a woman worth the marriage - service. But you're a witch, Clytie,” he added, resuming his former - attitude, “the Belle Dame sans Merci.” - </p> - <p> - “Poor fellow,” said Clytie, “poor knight-at-arms! And you do look 'so - haggard and so woe-begone,' don't you?” - </p> - <p> - She laughed as she looked at his great frame lying at her feet, and his - strong, handsome dark face, with its health and masterfulness. Then she - continued in the lightness of her heart: - </p> - <p> - “But seriously, now, Thornton, very seriously. You do want me to be a - little help to you in your life—in other ways—don't you? In - your ambitions, your work in the world generally. We must begin to talk - about such things soon, you know.” - </p> - <p> - Thornton laughed lazily as he lit a cigarette. - </p> - <p> - “My work in the world is to love you, my dear, and I'll promise to let you - help me in that as much as you like.” - </p> - <p> - But Clytie insisted. Sometimes the subjective gets too much for a woman. - </p> - <p> - “Ah, Thornton dear,” she said. “I want to feel that we are much more than - lovers. That will wear off after a time. Oh, yes! don't tell me it won't; - a woman learns things all with a rush, you see. And I want to feel that we - are one in everything, in all our sympathies and views of life, our - ambitions, in all the high and great things that lie before you. I want to - be in touch with everything you do and think—to be a real helpmeet - for you.” - </p> - <p> - He took her hand and kissed it, laughing. - </p> - <p> - “I have got a lot to learn in the way of connubial responsibilities,” he - said. “You'll have to train me, my dear. But allow me to remark that the - sun is just going to dip over there by the Nervia, and if we want to get - in by sunset we shall have to run like the deuce!” - </p> - <p> - As this was a serious matter,—on the Riviera it is one of the grave - responsibilities of life,—Clytie let herself be lifted to her feet, - put on her hat quickly, and holding her husband's hand, ran merrily with - him down the hill. The exercise and the laughter drove things subjective - out of her head for a season. But in the after-time the ghost of this - little conversation came and sat at the head of her bed, making mock at a - few others who sat on the foot-rail. A thing does not require to be as - objective as a murdered monk to have a little ghost all to itself. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XVI. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">P</span>erhaps if they had - remained in Bordighera the intoxication would have lasted longer. But as - our lives are hemmed in by infinite possibilities, to each of which is - strung its infinite ramification of consequences, it is somewhat rash to - predicate <i>ex hypothesi</i>. At any rate so long as they were at - Bordighera there seemed to be no reason that the continuity of the charm - should be broken; whereas it did suffer a change during the railway - journey from Bordighera to Paris. And this railway journey was a kind of - neutral ground in their married life, separating the dream from the - reality. On entering the train they were lovers. On leaving it they were a - married couple. Wherein lies somewhat of a difference. They were not - conscious of the change. Realisation of this mysterious operation is - fortunately denied to human beings, seeing that they turn their eyes - inwards rather too much as it is already. Nor do they recognise what has - happened until some time afterwards, as the old influences still remain - lingeringly; but then they can generally look back to the point of - transition, and set it up as a forlorn landmark in their lives. - </p> - <p> - Why they did not remain longer in the south they themselves could scarcely - explain. They had arranged to spend a month there, and then to proceed to - Paris to wait indefinitely until their new house in the Cromwell Road - should be ready to receive them. There is nothing so irrefragable as an - arbitrary programme. Even the most emancipated enslave themselves to it - sometimes, as in the present case did Thornton and Clytie They possibly - lost a good deal,—the flowers of life seldom grow along the beaten - track,—but they never thought of attributing it to the fixity of - their programme. They were in Paris, then, living under totally fresh - conditions. Thornton found there a succession of friends and - acquaintances, and was pleased rather than otherwise to meet them. At - Monte Carlo he fled from Carteret of the Hussars; on the Boulevard des - Capucines he greeted him heartily and carried him off into the American - Bar. Besides discovering acquaintances daily in the hotel list, Thornton - was not unknown in general Parisian society. His name could procure him - admission into most circles that he cared to enter. He was put up at a - couple of clubs and received invitation cards by the dozen. - </p> - <p> - To please him Clytie went with him a little into society. He was proud of - his beautiful wife, loved to watch the effect produced as she entered a - drawing-room upon his arm, and the eager admiration on the faces of the men - who crowded round her chair. In fact, Clytie had a small social success—and - a paragraph in the <i>Figaro</i>. It was a new sensation for her; but in - these early days of her married life she would have preferred a quieter, - less conspicuous existence. But Thornton, just as he had sought in the - south to keep her and her beauty to himself, now seemed to wish to exhibit - it abroad. - </p> - <p> - “I seem to wear you like a decoration, darling,” he said once. - </p> - <p> - At first Clytie flushed with pleasure at the little flattery. Then she - thought over it for a bit, and it did not please her so much. But she did - not confide this to her husband. She had already begun to discover that - for the safekeeping of many little matters her own heart was the best - place. - </p> - <p> - They had a set of rooms in a hotel in the Champs Elysées with a balcony - overlooking the Grande Avenue. Clytie loved to sit there with Thornton in - the quiet half hour before dinner watching the stream of vehicles, fine - and vague far away by the Arc de Triomphe, then gradually broadening, till - fashionable Paris returning from the Bois blazed beneath her in its - movement and gaiety. They seemed to her so alone up there, above the whirl - and the glitter and falseness. It was a return of the hours of the month - in the south, and happiness fluttered tremulously around her—like a - butterfly, ever so elusively. When she leaned over the balcony by his side - many people looked up admiringly at them. When she saw one woman twitch - the arm of her companion in a victoria, and both shoot swift feminine - glances up at the balcony, she could not help feeling a little thrill of - pride in her husband. And then she would remember the morning's solitary - ramble among the sculpture of the Louvre (Thornton and herself were less - dependent upon each other now for entertainment), and reflect, with a - sense of pleasure, that she had seen no antique ideal that could compare - with him in splendid manhood. He, too, had done heroic deeds, she would - think, and she would move nearer to his side and be glad that he was - there. Yet the butterfly happiness was just beyond her grasp. - </p> - <p> - Some such thoughts were passing through her mind one afternoon as they - stood together on the balcony. He broke a short silence by saying: - </p> - <p> - “We are getting quite an old married couple, Clytie!” - </p> - <p> - “What made you say that?” she asked, smiling. - </p> - <p> - “Oh! I hardly know. I have got so used to having you by me. It seems as if - I had been married ever since I was born.” - </p> - <p> - “It does seem a long, long time ago that we first passed through Paris. - But I can't say I am quite used to matrimony yet. Do you know, I have - sometimes hoped that I never should be.” - </p> - <p> - “Why?” - </p> - <p> - “Can't you guess? At present, dear, it is all glamour and mystery, and - when you get too familiar with the glamour it turns into the commonplace. - That's why I am just a little bit sorry we left Bordighera.” - </p> - <p> - “It was certainly very jolly,” he assented reflectively. “But we are - having as good a time here, aren't we?” - </p> - <p> - “Well, I like these little half hours best,” said Clytie, “when we are - alone together. When we are parted it seems as if I am suddenly called - upon to live as an individual and do not quite know how to begin. You see, - when I am alone with you I know how to behave as Clytie Hammerdyke, but - not yet when I am by myself or with other people.” - </p> - <p> - Thornton laughed, as a man in love laughs when he thinks he is replying to - an idle, pretty remark. - </p> - <p> - “You have always Clytie Davenant to fall back upon,” he said. - </p> - <p> - “Have I? That's just the question I have been putting to myself. But I - can't explain it to you. I don't think you would understand.” - </p> - <p> - “Of course I understand!” he cried quickly. “You have to mix with people - as a married woman, and you are a bit shy at first. But you'll pull - through all right, dear. Why, as it is, you are superb.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, come,” she said, laughing. “I can talk to people without blushing and - morally biting the corner of my apron. I meant something a little more - subtle than that. You see, after all, you don't understand. I can never, - never be Clytie Davenant again. She was buried for good and all at - Bordighera.” - </p> - <p> - “And my sweet phoenix has arisen out of her ashes,” said Thornton. - </p> - <p> - “If you like—and the phoenix hasn't quite got the sense of her - environment yet.” - </p> - <p> - “All this is very pretty, my dear,” said Thornton, with a laugh. “But I - can't quite see what we are driving at.” - </p> - <p> - “Have I been talking such great nonsense, then? Perhaps it all tended to - express the fact that when I am with you I don't think of myself; when we - are apart I am confronted with myself, and feel embarrassed. You see, - Thornton dear,” she went on, “I have lived a queer kind of life, full of - such different hopes and dreams. I scarcely thought about marriage in - those days. I knew that love would come to me some time or the other, but - then it seemed as if it would all be mixed up with my art, whereas now——Oh, - you can't see how different it is!” - </p> - <p> - There was no tone of sadness or regret in her voice as she said this, but - a touch of tenderness, a tribute, as it were, to his influence. - </p> - <p> - “But there's nothing to hinder you from amusing yourself with painting - pictures, is there?” asked her husband lightly. “You have no call now to - earn a livelihood, but you can paint all day if you like, my dear.” - </p> - <p> - “Of course I shall paint—I could not live without it—except - perhaps such a month as last. But, don't you see, my art was once the - guiding principle of my life. Now I have my art and my love, and they seem - to have nothing to do with each other. They are on different planes, so to - speak. It is all that that makes me feel I don't quite realise myself yet - when I have to leave the love plane for a little.” - </p> - <p> - “Don't leave it,” said Thornton. - </p> - <p> - “Ah! we have done that by going away from Bordighera, and leading this - dissipated life here,” she replied, laughing. “But we can get on and off - whenever we like, you know. That is one comfort.” - </p> - <p> - “Well,” said Thornton, lighting a cigarette, and speaking between the - first few whiffs, “marriage must make some difference. You have lived a - free and easy, emancipated life among artistic people, and now you belong - to somebody else—a wild barbarian, who could no more tell you how to - paint a picture than how to cut out a dress. Of course it makes a - difference in your way of viewing things. It has made a difference in mine - too, by Jove! When a yearning for Africa comes over me I have to say: No; - I have a wife, with her arms,—the roundest in the world, my dear,—about - my neck. And so I have got to settle down to politics and domesticity in - the Cromwell Road.” - </p> - <p> - “But you don't regret it, do you, Thornton?” she asked, womanlike. - </p> - <p> - “Look at me and see if I do,” he said. - </p> - <p> - Clytie obeyed him, half shyly, feeling, as she always did since her return - to Paris, the fascination, half pleasant, half painful, of his eyes. He - loved her. There was no doubt of that. Yet the nature of his love - sometimes frightened her a little if she strayed for a moment off the - “love plane.” Her own responsiveness she never questioned, preferring to - shut her eyes and let the current of his love carry her whither it would. - But at times now, during her solitary walks through the Louvre, the - thought obtruded, What would the new life be like? Not these early days, - which were holidays from the seriousnesses of existence, but the life in - the years that lay before her, of whose responsibilities she had as yet - but vague premonitions. How would her art be affected? - </p> - <p> - Would it lose or gain in that breadth and insight that it needed? Would - she continue to reckon herself an artist at all, or would she only - degenerate into the amateur—painting little meaningless pictures for - amusement? And at the end of a year would she not stand face to face with - a new Clytie, paler, more shadowy, and therefore less insistently - demanding self-expression? Even these few weeks had changed her: what - would she be at the end of one year, two years, twenty years? Happier, - with all her old cravings satisfied, with her individuality worked out to - its fullest, with the riddle of life joyously solved? Or else——She - scarcely dared think of it. She looked at what had been written in her - Book of New Formulas, and found that the marriage service had been - omitted. It merely said that marriage was unformularisable, an easy way of - curving a contumelious lip at the old formulas which she had rebelled - against, but scarcely satisfactory in her present position. Now, in the - Old Formulas, marriage was minutely, scrupulously regulated by the most - definite of rules. Although they broke up the poem of life into a - disjointed copy-book, or at best into a collection of elegant extracts, - still they presented a homogeneous scheme. Should she at last have to - accept this, confess to Mrs. Blather smiling complacently that the - Durdleham philosophy was the only one? But then she would look at her - husband and take a measure of comfort. Such a man could not come out of - Durdleham. - </p> - <p> - That was her consolation in the perplexities that the problem of her - married life caused her. She took refuge from herself, her thoughts, her - forebodings, in his grand strength and personal magnetism. It was - intermittent intoxication, this long Paris after-honeymoon, rather than - continuous charm, and the intervals of soberness had their wearinesses. - She had thrown her cap over the windmills. Sometimes she regretted it. - </p> - <p> - On the evening after the above conversation they went to the opera, where - they had taken a box with the Claverings, army people with whom Thornton - had been intimate in Cairo. Clytie had met them only for a moment the day - before, and had not been favourably impressed. However, they were - Thornton's friends, and it behoved her to appreciate them. Mrs. Clavering - passed for being a clever woman by virtue of a plain face and a vivacious - manner; also because she ruled her husband and had a cultivated taste in - sherry. - </p> - <p> - Thornton had admired her some years before. Mammas with marriageable - daughters put it in that way; those who could afford to be independent put - it in another. Whichever way they put it in no wise affected the parties - concerned. Mrs. Clavering was too superior a woman to allow idle gossip to - influence her or her husband. Now she was eight-and-thirty, she had seen - the world and had preserved few illusions, least of all any respecting - Thornton Hammerdyke. She met him with a cynical encouragement, which to - some men is flattering. - </p> - <p> - Clytie was quick to notice her manner towards Thornton, and resented it. - There was a touch of banal familiarity, too, in his talk with Mrs. - Clavering that jarred upon her. The tone was undignified, suggestive of - the falser strata of regimental society, in which frankness stands for - scarcely veiled mutual contempt. - </p> - <p> - He was sitting behind Mrs. Clavering, who smiled in a superior, - half-patronising way at his remarks. Clytie listened to the music - absently, wished they had come alone. The house was crowded, and the air - was stifling. She found the opera, “La Juive,” uninteresting. - </p> - <p> - “I am going to carry off your husband to the terrace, Mrs. Hammerdyke,” - said Mrs. Clavering at the end of the second act, “and I leave you mine in - pledge. I hope he will take good care of you.” - </p> - <p> - He was a heavy but honest Briton, who idolised his wife, his dinner, and - the British Constitution. As neither the opera nor Clytie came within this - area of adoration, he treated them with a polite though somewhat - embarrassed indifference. Still he acquitted himself of his charge - satisfactorily and entertained Clytie during the <i>entr'acte</i>. After a - tour round the house he found a seat for her in the Salle des Pas Perdus - and talked with solemn fitfulness. Then it occurred to him that it was - oppressive indoors and he took her out upon the terrace. Clytie did not - wish to stay there long—only for a moment to get a breath of fresh - air. She remained for a little leaning on the broad balustrade and looking - at the scene in front of her—the broad <i>place</i> below with the - continuous passing to and fro of vehicles crossing each other in all - directions, the Café de la Paix on the right with its crowded tables far - out on the pavement and trayladen waiters hurrying between them, the - glittering vista of lights in the Avenue de l'Opera, the duller line of - lamps in the Rue de la Paix with the Vendôme column towering high in the - dim moonlight. It was so instinct with gaiety and movement and the - brightness of life that a little thrill of its gladness passed through - her, ending in a strange kind of sob that filled her throat. She took her - companion's arm, and went across through the stream of loungers back into - the heavy air of the Salle des Pas Perdus. - </p> - <p> - Meanwhile Thornton and Mrs. Clavering had established themselves in a - corner at the end of the terrace. - </p> - <p> - “It seems like old times—on the veranda—at a regimental - dance,” she said. “At least that is what you were going to say, I suppose. - I never yet met an old admirer but what he made some remark of the kind. - So I have saved you from the commonplace.” - </p> - <p> - “I was meditating some politeness of the sort,” replied Thornton - carelessly. “I thought you would expect it.” - </p> - <p> - “I hope you will always have the same delicate consideration for others, - Mr. Hammerdyke. How long are you going to be good and domestic?” - </p> - <p> - “Always, I suppose. I am going to run politics and that sort of show.” - </p> - <p> - Mrs. Clavering laughed lightly. - </p> - <p> - “Ha! When I see you at it I'll believe it—unless you have changed - extraordinarily since I last knew you. And you don't look much changed. - Perhaps matrimony will work the miracle. Ha! ha! Pardon my laughing, but - it seems so ridiculous to see you, of all people, married.” - </p> - <p> - “I suppose I have human attributes somewhere about me,” he said. - </p> - <p> - “Too vastly human, my poor friend; that is where the danger lies. To err - is human, you know. I hope your wife will do the divine part of the - business, as women generally do, and forgive. By the way, I have not made - you my compliment, as they say in this country. I think your wife simply - perfect.” - </p> - <p> - “We agree there for once,” replied Thornton drily. - </p> - <p> - “Tell me all about it. Can't you see I am dying to know? That is why I - brought you out here. Who is she? Where did you meet her? Were you long - engaged? And I know you too are dying to talk to someone about her. You - may as well gratify the craving while you still have it.” - </p> - <p> - “I believe you are madly jealous, Clara. Pardon my frankness. But you and - I always went in for being frank with one another.” - </p> - <p> - “Call it amiable brutality—it would be better.” - </p> - <p> - “As you like. I never went in for splitting hairs. I suppose it's brutal - to say you are jealous.” - </p> - <p> - “It is simply idiotic. Therefore I bear you no ill will for your saying - so. I honestly admire your wife, and think you have got very much more - than you deserve, and I am femininely curious. Now perhaps you will tell - me.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, I met her at a cousin's house. She is, or rather was, an artist.” - </p> - <p> - “I appreciate the distinction. Proceed.” - </p> - <p> - Thornton threw himself back with a great laugh against the balustrade, his - elbows resting upon it, his hands in his pockets. - </p> - <p> - “I think you are just a little bit jealous,” he said. “Well—to - finish my story. She is of an old Buckinghamshire family, and we were - engaged about a month. And then we were married. But tell me, by way of - changing the conversation——” - </p> - <p> - “Which may be painful.” - </p> - <p> - “Precisely. How long are you going to stay in Paris?” - </p> - <p> - “I don't know. As long as Paris pleases me. Am I going to see you any - more, or are you too much engrossed? I don't want to take you away from - your duties.” - </p> - <p> - “I don't think you are likely to, Clara.” - </p> - <p> - “Possibly not. Your wife will keep a tight rein upon you. She looks that - sort. But I don't know why we should be talking in this strain the first - time we have had a word together for—how many years? Four? Five? We - have quickly dropped into old ways. But then you were a fire-eater, a - chartered libertine, independent, a bird of freedom. Whereas now—my - poor friend!” - </p> - <p> - “By George!” cried Thornton, starting forward, with some excitement in his - eyes that glowed in the dimness, “don't fall into any delusion. If you - think I am going the way of another poor friend of ours who can't call his - soul his own, you are devilishly mistaken. I married because it happened - to strike me that I wanted to do so. But I run the concern, and my wife's - a sensible woman and recognises the fact. And whatever I want to do I am - going to do. I have generally done it, and don't see why I should break - through my habit now.” - </p> - <p> - “And your wife?” - </p> - <p> - “How—my wife?” - </p> - <p> - “Is she going to enjoy a beautiful independence likewise?” - </p> - <p> - “No. It isn't good for women.” - </p> - <p> - “Thank you. You always were a delicate judge in things feminine. Did you - ever read 'As You Like It'? 'Lock the door on your wife's wit and it will - out at the casement.' Have a care, my friend. I am about the only woman - you have tried to make a fool of and haven't succeeded, and so you perhaps - have a kind of respect for my intelligence, and I give you warning.” - </p> - <p> - “I burned some of your letters the other day,” said Thornton cynically. - </p> - <p> - “That was wise. Suppose we go in. The act must be about commencing.” - </p> - <p> - The curtain was already up. Major Clavering was scanning the house - drearily through a pair of opera glasses. Clytie was looking at the stage - and thinking of her husband, wishing he would come in. When the door - behind opened she turned round, and with an eye trained to catch fleeting - expression, noticed a look upon Thornton's face,—the after-light, as - it were, of a sneer, before the features had time to reset,—that she - had never observed there before. The change from this to his usual gay - smile was so rapid that she thought she had been mistaken, and attributed - it to an illusion produced by the shadow at the back of the box. But the - impression of it remained and it was unpleasant. - </p> - <p> - During the next <i>entr'acte</i> the men went out, leaving Clytie and Mrs. - Clavering alone together. Either through the mere social desire to please - or through a feeling of compassion proceeding from conscious superiority, - the elder woman sought to make an agreeable impression upon the young - wife. But Clytie had wrapped herself up in a strange veil of reserve and - her attitude was unpropitiatory. Mrs. Clavering's falsetto voice struck - upon her nerves, the confident air of patronage irritated her. She longed - to be away from the heavy, acrid atmosphere, the artificiality of the - opera, the society of Mrs. Clavering. She felt self-conscious, was angry - with herself. She had the keen feminine sense of a false position and - longed for extrication. She was glad when her husband and Major Clavering - returned. - </p> - <p> - “I have been telling Mrs. Hammerdyke about old times in Cairo, and singing - your praises,” said Mrs. Clavering. “Are you not grateful to me?” - </p> - <p> - “I am flattered,” said Thornton somewhat ironically. - </p> - <p> - “That is always the way to make a man grateful.” - </p> - <p> - “It is the same with us. I don't suppose there is much difference in that - respect between men and women,” said Clytie, for the sake of saying - something. - </p> - <p> - “I am not so sure of that,” replied Mrs. Clavering; “women can generally - sift the grain from the chaff—only, poor things, they too often take - the chaff by preference.” - </p> - <p> - “I hope you are not alluding to me, my dear,” said the major, who was - given to saying stupid things by way of showing that he followed the - thread of his wife's conversation. - </p> - <p> - Thornton chimed in with his deep laugh. - </p> - <p> - “That is one for you, Clavering. Perhaps one for me too. Anyhow, the - curtain is going up and that saves us. Make room for me by you, Clytie, - and tell me about what's going on.” - </p> - <p> - He edged in his chair between Clytie and Mrs. Clavering. The major lounged - behind, with his hands in his pockets, very much bored. He was hoping to - escape soon. - </p> - <p> - “Are you enjoying it?” whispered Thornton to Clytie. - </p> - <p> - “Moderately. It is a dull opera. And it is so unbearably hot.” - </p> - <p> - “It is not entrancingly interesting. Would you like to clear out after - this act? I should.” - </p> - <p> - “And the Claverings?” - </p> - <p> - “They are a bit tired of it. Shall we all go back together to the hotel - and have supper?” - </p> - <p> - “I'd sooner we were alone together, Thornton dear—this evening.” - </p> - <p> - He made a little gesture of impatience. - </p> - <p> - “Of course we won't ask them if you don't want to. But then we must stay - this thing out.” - </p> - <p> - He leaned back in his chair and looked at the mass of heads in the - opposite tiers, vague in the dimness, and drummed with his fingers on the - rails of his chair. - </p> - <p> - “Sh!” said Mrs. Clavering. “That's one of your old tricks. You never seem - to think that people have nerves.” - </p> - <p> - Clytie caught the words, although they were whispered. She turned her head - round quickly and stared at the stage for the rest of the act. - </p> - <p> - When it was over Mrs. Clavering solved the question of departure. - </p> - <p> - “I think we all want to go,” she said, rising. “My husband is suffering - acutely, and yours I know is not very musical. When shall we see you - again, Mrs. Hammerdyke? Will you come and dine with us some evening, - quietly—when we can talk better? I'll let you know what evenings we - are free. Will that do? That is your wife's cloak, not mine, Mr. - Hammerdyke.” - </p> - <p> - A few minutes later Thornton and Clytie were driving back to their hotel - in the pleasant Paris victoria. It seemed a superb night. A slight breeze - had risen, and the leaves in the Champs Elysées rustled pleasantly. Clytie - leaned back with a sense of relief, physical and moral. They had both been - rather silent since they left the opera house. - </p> - <p> - “Don't let us go in,” said Clytie suddenly. “Let us drive about a little, - along the quays—anywhere.” - </p> - <p> - “I was just going to suggest it,” said Thornton. - </p> - <p> - He gave the order to the coachman, who turned back through the Place de la - Concorde and took them past the Tuileries and the great mass of the Louvre - and along the quays in the direction of Auteuil. - </p> - <p> - “What do you think of the Clavering woman?” asked Thornton. “Not much, - eh?” - </p> - <p> - “I can't say that I like her. Perhaps I oughtn't to say it, as she is a - friend of yours, but—she doesn't please me.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, I can't say that she does me now. She never was a beauty, but she - has sadly fallen off the last few years. She thinks herself so deuced - superior. And she isn't, by Jove! Still she is amusing, you know, and that - is a quality that covers a multitude of sins. But other women can't - understand her. She was loathed by them all in Cairo, so you are not alone - in your antipathy.” - </p> - <p> - There was a long silence. Thornton drew her closer to his side and took - her hand in his. Clytie felt somewhat hurt. It was not flattering to be - grouped with the other women in Cairo, however estimable they may have - been in their non-appreciation of Mrs. Clavering. They drove on, and began - to talk of different subjects, disconnectedly, without much interest. - Finally Thornton came back to the Claverings. - </p> - <p> - “By the way, I suppose you'll dine with them, as they were civil enough to - ask us.” - </p> - <p> - “Certainly, if you wish it and it gives you any pleasure. Perhaps I may - like her better when I know more of her.” - </p> - <p> - “You see, you can't drop people because you don't happen to take a violent - fancy to them,” he said rather lamely. And then he added: - </p> - <p> - “I wish you had let me ask them to supper.” - </p> - <p> - “Why?” - </p> - <p> - “It would have livened us up a little.” - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps it would,” answered Clytie almost wearily. “I half wish you had.” - </p> - <p> - The evanescent charm had gone from the drive. The weather, too, had - changed. Clouds, that had imperceptibly gathered, covered the moon. The - quay looked desolate, the water black and lifeless, on the other side the - great buildings loomed forbidding in the darkness. An air of - disenchantment was over all things. - </p> - <p> - “Will monsieur turn back? It is going to rain,” said the cabman, lounging - sideways and looking down at them. - </p> - <p> - They turned off through the narrow streets, on the nearest way back to the - hotel. The cab horse was tired and jogged on painfully, indifferent to the - loud-cracking whip and the “<i>hue's</i>” addressed to him in the driver's - raucous voice. Clytie shivered a little at the sudden fall in the - temperature. She was chilled too—ever so little—at her heart. - She drew away slightly from her husband, who held her hand mechanically. - When she withdrew it he did not seem to notice. He had discovered that he - was annoyed about the supper. - </p> - <p> - Suddenly the horse, overdriven, stumbled, tried to recover himself, and - then crashed down helpless, snapping the shaft. The victoria lurched - violently on the side where Clytie was sitting. To save herself she jumped - out quickly, but her foot slipped on the kerb and she nearly fell. - Thornton sprang out and raised her, and then turned to the coachman in a - sudden frenzy of passion. He stood there moving his arms about and cursed - him in English. Clytie was shocked to the heart. She was thankful that she - could see his face but dimly in the bad gaslight. The cabman shrugged his - shoulders as he bent down to loosen the traces. Some people came up, - chiefly from a small <i>brasserie</i> whose few tables were just visible - some yards further along the street. Another cab arrived and paused, - interested and expectant, watching the scene: the little group round the - fallen horse; the stately figure of the girl in white dress and rich - opera-cloak standing by the upset cab; the great figure of the man, - stamping with rage, pouring forth a torrent of oaths. It all happened very - quickly. - </p> - <p> - Clytie touched her husband's arm quietly. - </p> - <p> - “Stop, Thornton,” she said. “He does not even understand you.” - </p> - <p> - Thornton looked at her for a moment, then at the group. Then he burst into - a loud laugh, pulled a ten-franc piece from his pocket and threw it to the - cabman, who picked it up with an ironical, “<i>Merci, bourgeois</i>.” - </p> - <p> - They entered the other cab and drove quickly homewards. Thornton seemed to - have forgotten his rage, for he laughed in high spirits over the incident. - He apologised gaily for his loss of temper and language. He was still - infected with his years of savagery, he pleaded. He had been so accustomed - to rule men by terror that he forgot himself sometimes. Often he had been - the only white man among hundreds of fierce, lawless savages, over whom he - had despotic authority of life and death. If they had not feared his rage - and violence, his life would not have been worth a moment's purchase. - </p> - <p> - He had regained his old manner, the daring personal charm that had swept - her along in spite of herself into marrying him. The glamour of his fame, - his power, his heroism came over her and hid the sordid scenes of the - evening. When they reached the hotel they were lovers once more. - </p> - <p> - As Clytie alighted from the cab her foot gave way beneath her. It had been - hurting her since her slip on the kerb, but she had scarcely noticed the - pain. Now she found that she could not walk. She had sprained her ankle. - She limped into the hotel with Thornton's aid. Then she stood at the foot - of the stairs and looked at them helplessly. It was an old-fashioned - hotel, without a lift, and their rooms were on the third story. - </p> - <p> - “I'll carry you up,” said Thornton. - </p> - <p> - He took her up in his arms, and mounted the stairs with a step as light - and springy as if he had no burden to carry. Until then Clytie had not - realised his marvellous strength. - </p> - <p> - “I feel like the fairy princess being carried off by the giant,” she - whispered. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XVII. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">C</span>lytie was confined - several days to her room through her sprained ankle. It was not an - unqualified affliction, as it solved the question of her dining with the - Claverings. - </p> - <p> - Thornton went alone, carrying with him his wife's excuses and regrets, and - returned to her in high spirits. When she was able to get about again the - Claverings had left Paris for Homburg, where they were going to stay for a - few weeks. “And when they return to London we can see just as much or as - little of them as we like,” said Thornton. - </p> - <p> - The forced confinement also brought Clytie a little more solitude than - usual. Thornton found a race meeting or two to go to, and a nominally - bachelor supper party, and he laughed, in his gay manner, at this - resumption of bachelor habits. Clytie was rather glad, on the whole, to be - left to her own society for a little. She was gradually awakening from the - dream, realising herself. Very often in the ordinary, sober moments of - life Thornton jarred upon her. His absence often was a relief. She hated - herself when this unwelcome and unbidden thought came into her mind; but - it came for all her hating. The sprained ankle marked definitely the end - of this second or false honeymoon in Paris, whose glamour was the - lingering twilight glow of the real one in Bordighera. It was then that - Clytie first thought of the railway journey as a landmark. After her - recovery Thornton continued his bachelor habits as a matter of course, and - as a matter of course discontinued his playful apologies. Still he took - Clytie whithersoever she expressed a desire to go, and gladly, proud of - having his beautiful wife by his side. Only, if she elected to remain at - home, he went out equally cheerfully by himself. - </p> - <p> - Occasionally they drove in the Bois in a neat phaeton and pair which he - hired for her from a livery-stable, and he would point out to her the - celebrities whom they passed by. Some of these she had herself met or seen - at the various social functions to which they had received invitations. - They themselves, too, had become known and were pointed out with some - curiosity,—<i>le beau couple</i>, as the phrase went,—even by - those who were unacquainted with their name or position. Thornton was - always in his gayest humour on these occasions as he sat by his wife's - side and guided his pair through the crush of magnificent equipages; and - she felt glad too and elated, pleased by the vivid flashes of colouring in - dresses and parasols, and the vague perfumes that filled the air, and the - half-caught scraps of conversation and laughter. Her girlish delight at - the gladness of life came back to her fresh and untainted. She indulged - her old habit of speculation on the life that lay beneath individual - faces, which she stored up in her memory for rapid sketching when at - leisure, and she would draw Thornton into her vein, and then there were - arguments without end. These were some of her happiest moments in Paris, - when she recovered her old self, bright, satirical, paradoxical, and felt - no cold hand on her heart. - </p> - <p> - One day, towards the end of their stay in Paris, they had drawn up in the - block of carriages by the side of the promenade. The sun was powerful, and - the glaring colours in the carriages contrasted with the cool tones of - white and gray in the deep shade under the chestnut-trees. Clytie was - animatedly observing the bright scene when her eyes met those of a woman, - quietly though expensively dressed, seated in an open carriage quite close - by. For a moment they looked at one another in silent inquiry, and then - came a flash of mutual recognition. It was the girl whom Clytie had met - the summer before in the hotel at Dinan. The scene, with its mingled - associations of wonder and pity, came back to her, and moved by a strong - impulse she smiled and moved her head slightly. A look of eager wonderment - came over the other's face as she returned Clytie's greeting. And then she - turned quickly away to talk to a man who had just come up to the side of - the carriage. - </p> - <p> - “Confound it, Clytie!” cried Thornton, setting the horses in motion, “you - must really make sure who people are before you bow to them. Do you know - who that woman is?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” said Clytie, “that is to say, I know what she is. I don't know her - name.” - </p> - <p> - “She is one of the most notorious women in Paris, Loulou Mendès. You - mustn't go playing the fool like this! What did you bow to her for?” - </p> - <p> - “Because I know her—a little.” - </p> - <p> - “You—know—her?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, yes, Thornton dear; it is somewhat of a story. I met her accidentally - last year in Dinan. She was in trouble, and I took a fancy for her, and - seeing her suddenly here, I showed her that I recognised her.” - </p> - <p> - “I sincerely hope you won't do such a thing again,” he said shortly, - giving a vicious cut to the horses that sent them spinning down the <i>allée</i>. - “And please to remember that you are not an amateur Bohemian any longer, - but my wife.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, Thornton, you mustn't say things like that!” said Clytie, with a - queer little catch at her throat. “They hurt me!” - </p> - <p> - “Well, you mustn't deserve them,” replied Thornton. And then, mollifying - at the sight of her distress: “You don't understand these things, little - wife.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, never mind, dear,” said Clytie. “Perhaps it was foolish of me. I - ought to have considered you; I didn't think of it. She kissed my hand the - last time I saw her, and it would have seemed base and hypocritical to - have cut her dead to-day. It seemed such a little matter. Why hurt the - girl's feelings? That's why I did it.” - </p> - <p> - “Feelings?” echoed Thornton, with a laugh. “Bah! my good child, you are - talking nonsense. She put her feelings up the spout years ago to get - herself champagne and diamonds and the rest of it. With her soul sold to - the devil and her body to men, what the deuce is she going to do with - feelings?” - </p> - <p> - “What I saw of her was very human, Thornton. And if such women are brutes, - it is men who make them so. If men were only kinder and tenderer——” - </p> - <p> - “Like the sentimental idiot in 'Jenny.' That's a poem about it, you know.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes—Rossetti; I am very fond of it,” she replied, with a half - smile, wondering somewhat at his explanation. Then she added: “But surely - there's humanity in every human being.” - </p> - <p> - “That's a very sweet, innocent belief, and you had better keep to it, my - dear.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, Thornton, I'm not an ignorant little schoolgirl,” she said, with hurt - vanity. “I have learned something of the world. Perhaps I have been too - eager to acquaint myself with things.” - </p> - <p> - “Anyhow, you can't know much about them,” he replied shortly. “Leave such - things alone. They don't concern you, so what's the good of prying into - them?” - </p> - <p> - “They have concerned me,” she insisted. “Believe me, Thornton, it was - something deeper than ordinary morbid curiosity that led me to them.” - </p> - <p> - “But I can't see what the deuce the Social Question has to do with girls,” - he said. “That is what licks me. What the dickens has it got to do with - your life?” - </p> - <p> - “But you mistake, Thornton,” she replied eagerly, with a return of her old - earnestness. “It is not the Social Question. Indeed not. I never have any - call to look at things in that aspect. I am neither a sociologist nor a - reformer. I am an artist. I have to express certain truths about human - beings,—the little talent I have lies entirely that way,—and - in order to express the truths I had to set to work to learn them. How all - this corruption affects society, how it is to be done away with and so on, - does not come within my province. But to get to the hearts and inner - feelings of individuals, to see how society affects them, what - justification they have in their struggle with it, how they contemplate - life, what elements of emotion, or passion, or weariness, or what not form - essential parts of their beings that do not form essential parts of mine—to - try to do that, Thornton, <i>has</i> been my business, and, till I knew - you, was the dearest motive of my life. Don't you see?” - </p> - <p> - “And when you have done it what good will it do to yourself or anybody - else?” - </p> - <p> - “To answer you I should have to appear conceited. It would be answering - the question, What is the good of art at all?” - </p> - <p> - “Well, all said and done, what is the good of it? To make pretty and - amusing things to look at. All the rest is cant and humbug—including - your desire to scrape acquaintance with loose women for artistic purposes. - Look here, little wife”—and he turned round, with a sharp smile that - showed his white teeth more than usual—“I didn't fall in love with - you because you were an artist and held highfalutin' theories about - artistic ideals and so forth, but because you were the woman whose - loveliness appealed to me and always fascinated me. And now you are my - wife you have other things to think about.” - </p> - <p> - “I know that, Thornton,” she replied, staring a little wistfully in front - of her. “Tell me. What is our new life going to be like? You speak so - little of it that I scarcely know.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh! what's the good of worrying yourself about it yet? I'll tell you when - the time comes. You'll have our position in society to look after, keep - things going straight for me in quarters where a woman can wheedle out - more in an hour than a man in a twelvemonth. I have definitely taken up - politics, you know. Things were settled this morning.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, why didn't you tell me before?” she cried involuntarily. - </p> - <p> - “I never thought of it, my dear. Well, Hernshawe has asked me whether I - would care to be his private secretary. His present man is in the Civil - Service and is resigning owing to some office promotion, so when the House - meets after the Whitsuntide recess Hernshawe will be free to take me.” - </p> - <p> - “I don't quite understand,” said Clytie, to whom these details were all - new. She was vaguely aware that Thornton had intentions of aiming at a - parliamentary career, but as he had volunteered no confidences, she had - shrunk from soliciting them. - </p> - <p> - “I don't understand,” she repeated, “why you should take a - private-secretaryship. You want to enter Parliament.” - </p> - <p> - “Of course. But I am so out of things that I want to get into training, so - to speak. I shall be this session, perhaps next, with Hernshawe and learn - all the ropes, and then he will run me for a suitable vacancy. It is as - simple as good-morning, as they say in this country. I must do something, - and politics seem about the only mildly exciting thing to go in for in - this severely flat and respectable continent. But beyond looking after the - society side of the matter, I don't see why you need worry your pretty - head about it.” - </p> - <p> - “Then don't you want me to become a bit of a politician, so as to help - you, and understand you in your career?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, of course, to a certain extent,” he replied with cheerful - offhandedness. “But for God's sake, my dear child, don't become a - political woman. If there's one kind of a woman I bar more than another, - its the female politician. Of course you'll have to go round canvassing - for votes at the election, and to humbug people in society, but all that - is rather sport than otherwise? Never mind, little wife; you'll have a - ripping good time in London when the show begins.” - </p> - <p> - He laughed, in gay good humour again. Clytie echoed with a faint smile. - </p> - <p> - “Thornton,” she said after a short pause, “I don't want to bother you - about politics if you don't like it”—she felt now a strange - hesitation in speaking to him—“but you know you'll have to convert - me, dear. It has been on my mind for some time. You are a Tory, you know, - and I have been a Radical hitherto in feelings and sympathies.” - </p> - <p> - He burst out laughing at her little air of seriousness. Perhaps if he had - known how he hurt her, he would not have treated the matter so cavalierly. - This difference in political views had been a question of some concern to - Clytie, who was aware of old-fashioned Tory prejudices. And Thornton took - her Radicalism as a jest, attributing no importance to the difference of - opinion. - </p> - <p> - “You'll change when we get back and become a shining light in the Primrose - League.” - </p> - <p> - She was too depressed by the whole of the foregoing conversation to pursue - the subject any further. Thornton started the lighter topic of personal - criticism of their new acquaintances in Paris, and rattled on in great - spirits. He had forgotten entirely the argument that Clytie's somewhat - unconventional action had occasioned, and was as boyishly gay as ever. But - men forget things much more easily than women, especially when they have - no object in remembering, nor any reminiscent twinge of susceptibility. - </p> - <p> - That evening Clytie spent alone. Thornton was dining at the Café des - Ambassadeurs with some men from the Embassy. He had kissed her before he - started, called himself a selfish brute for condemning her to a dull - evening, and went away humming a café-concert air. She did not mind his - leaving her, took it now as a matter of course that each should be to a - certain extent independent of the other; for the glamour of the south had - departed, and the practicalities of life had begun to assert themselves. - But it was the first wretched evening of her married life. She would have - liked to cry, but as she was not of those who cry easily, she sat with - eyes all the more painful for being strained and tearless. She had - received a great shock. Ever since she had rebelled against the Durdleham - formula that men were to descend from their intellectual sublimity when - they spoke to women, lest like Semele the latter should be consumed in the - Jovian blaze, she had been accustomed to meet men freely on an - intellectual level. To find herself in a society where this particular - formula was unknown had been one of the earliest joys of her emancipated - life. She had very little vanity in the matter of her own attainments, but - she took it for granted that her associates should recognise in her a - woman of ordinary culture, capable of forming rational opinions. Her - intelligence was keen, her judgment fine. She had read, thought, observed. - Her art was to a certain extent a matter of intellect as well as of - instinctive feeling, and in this respect had been stimulated by her - intercourse with Kent. In the glow of her young, ardent nature she had - committed many extravagances, but they all had borne the indubitable stamp - of a mind strenuous in its endeavours. None but fools had ever thought of - condescending to Clytie because she was a woman. - </p> - <p> - And now for the first time she was coolly shown that she was a woman, that - her opinions were not worth serious consideration, that she must not - trouble her pretty-head about things that were too deep for her. And by - the man, above all, whose life she shared. They were hours of dull, dazed - humiliation that she spent alone that evening; hours that were not lost - even in the pain of her after life. Over the absence of sympathy with her - own pursuits she was only a little regretful. It would have been nicer if - Thornton had been able to take a pleasure in her art. But she was too - large-natured not to be able to bridge over this small gap between them. - She was ready to sacrifice her art entirely to her love, was eager to - throw herself into his interests and ambitions. But she demanded a full, - vigorous share. To live an empty life was with her an impossibility. And - to this life Thornton, in his good-natured contempt for her powers, was - condemning her. She was puzzled, humiliated, frightened. - </p> - <p> - There is a vague mystery of woe in the dawn of a dreary day. - </p> - <p> - Meanwhile Thornton was enjoying himself amazingly. The dinner was one - which, as Heine says, “ought to be partaken of kneeling,” and the wine was - excellent; the party well chosen, the talk essentially, broadly masculine. - There is a certain type of man whose conversation is wholly made up of - sport in its various aspects, women, shop, and crude personal gossip—a - type which numbers its tens of thousands in English society. It can be met - with, to utter weariness of the soul, in any heterogeneous gathering of - upper- and middle-class Britons. They are God's creatures, it is true; - many of them are possessed of estimable qualities, some of them have - performed deeds of heroism. But as a type they are a glaring satire upon - the vaunted culture and refinement of our civilisation. And it is a - remarkable thing how little their power and influence are recognised by - writers in their analysis of the spirit of this dying nineteenth century. - This vast overwhelming type does not read, does not think, does not care - for art or music, has no power of penetration to the heart of delicate - things. It is dull, brawny, selfish, and a pillar of the Church and State. - Its main subjective characteristic is the brutality of its views - concerning women—varying from the kindly disdain of its highest - members to the degraded brutality of its lowest. - </p> - <p> - Of this type, with all his physical charm, his brilliant personality and - splendid capacities for action, was Thornton Hammerdyke. The man whose - magnetism had drawn Clytie irresistibly, headlong into his arms was only, - after all, a representative of this ignoble, commonplace order of men. The - love that had flooded Clytie's being with wild surging tumult was only, - after all, the commonplace, ignoble passion of his type. There are some - things so elementary that analysis quickly comes to an end. Put in a strip - of litmus paper and it is done. - </p> - <p> - He was honestly glad to be free of Clytie. With unconscious cynicism he - never sought to disguise it from himself. With Carteret of the Hussars and - Swithin and Holyoake of the Embassy he was in his proper sphere. They were - of the type. He had interests in common with them. The fact that he was a - man of high distinction was neither here nor there. Over the fish and <i>entrées</i> - they talked of racing and shooting; over the game they wandered along the - upper galleries of the Cloaca Maxima of Paris; over the peaches and - Château-Mouton they told foul stories. An ignoble, commonplace dinner - party. - </p> - <p> - And Clytie was alone in her room at the hotel staring at an unknown - future. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XVIII. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he last three days - of their stay in Paris were marked by a return on the part of Thornton to - his old devotion. He declined invitations ruthlessly, spent almost the - whole of his time with his wife. In all outward and visible signs they - were lovers again, but the inward and spiritual grace was a bit vapoury. - They went on excursions together, to Fontainebleau, Melun, Passy. One day - they wandered about the forest of Vincennes and he kissed her beneath the - trees as he used to do at Bordighera. They had gay, laughing meals - together at little riverside restaurants. He was passionate in his - expressions of endearment and in his delight at her beauty. With the - negative tact of passion, he avoided all subjects that could jar upon her. - For three days he was the Thornton of their honeymoon. - </p> - <p> - Clytie at first could not understand this sudden change. She asked him the - reason tremulously. - </p> - <p> - “Can't you see, you silly girl,” he replied with masterful frankness, - “that I love you and we have only three more days' idleness?” - </p> - <p> - And then she let the spell come over her again and surrendered herself to - his mood. But now, instead of entering with spontaneous joy a world of - laughter whose magic gates lay open before her, she crossed the threshold - with deliberate step. She had to choose whether to laugh or cry. She was - young, she wanted to love her husband; so she chose to laugh. It was an - act of reason. But woe to love when reason has to find its argument! - </p> - <p> - By Whitsuntide they were in London, installed in their house in the - Cromwell Road. The three days' passion had cooled down, and the atmosphere - was colder than before. But Clytie for several weeks was so busy that she - had not time for much consideration of troubling questions. First, the - house required her attention. There was much supplementary furniture to be - chosen, many minor schemes of decoration to be carried out in accordance - with her own artistic tastes. - </p> - <p> - Thornton gave her a free hand in these matters, and, beyond taking it for - granted that the house should be fitly arranged, never troubled himself - about details. He attended two or three picture sales with Clytie, where - he bought a few pictures on her recommendation, ordered some great leather - armchairs for his smoking-room, and then transferred his attention to - concerns of more serious interest. So Clytie, left unhampered, succeeded - in arranging the house to her own satisfaction. This occupied a great - portion of her time; the rest was almost entirely devoted to her social - duties. - </p> - <p> - She found herself in some small position in society, as the artistic wife - of a distinguished soldier of fortune with a considerable income, and it - was Thornton's special ambition for the time being that this position - should be maintained and secured, in furtherance of his own personal - projects. Whilst contemplating marriage, or rather after he had, in his - fierce impetuous way, decided upon it, he had sought around after some - practical interest in his new life. He had forsworn Africa, with a - virtuous sense of self-sacrifice. What remained worthy of a man's serious - attention? He did not consult Clytie. It scarcely occurred to him that the - subject concerned her. Of the few careers that presented themselves he - selected two, the turf and politics, and wavered for some time in his - choice. At last he tossed up for it, as he had often done at the fork of - two paths in the forest. The coin came down with the Queen's head - uppermost—and that meant politics. He was a Tory of the fiercer - school. Even if family and professional tradition had not influenced him, - a lengthy course of despotic authority enforced by the halter and the butt - end of a musket is not favourable to the cultivation of Liberal suavities - and amenities. And again, the “type” is almost always Tory. He was even - out of touch with the broader Conservativism of our day, between which and - modern Liberalism he failed to appreciate the distinction. In fact his - political ideals, such as they were, belonged to the beginning instead of - the end of the century, but he expressed them with a fervour that left no - doubt as to their genuineness. - </p> - <p> - He had no difficulty in setting at work the machinery of social influence, - and the result was the offer of a private-secretaryship on the part of an - under-secretary of state. He accepted it. It would not only afford him an - insight into the practical working of politics, but would give him an - opportunity of making himself known to the chiefs of the Conservative - party and securing their influence when he should seek to enter - Parliament. When everything was settled he informed Clytie casually in - Paris of his new ambitions. She, too, had wondered what outlet this man of - restless action would find for his energies, and, shrinking from inquiry, - had been filled with vague uneasiness. Now she felt that he had made a - worthy choice and in spite of dubious encouragement strove to identify - herself with his interests. True, she contemplated with a little dismay - the abandonment of her own pet social theories, which tended towards an - advanced and somewhat inchoate Radicalism, and the espousal of a cause - forming part of a scheme of life against which she had so passionately - rebelled. But she wilfully, almost desperately, shut her eyes against all - this. She would give her heart and soul to Thornton's glory, and the - sacrifice of principle on her part would only accentuate the triumph. But - this sacrifice Thornton did not concern himself to realise. Very few men - ever do. As we have seen, he laughed at it. - </p> - <p> - He entered upon his political duties as soon as they returned to London, - led a busy life of work and pleasure, throwing into both the energy of his - strong vitality. He was not a man to wait. Social position, power, must be - wrested from the world by force of arms. The sooner the struggle began and - the fiercer it was fought the sooner would come success. It behoved - Clytie, therefore, to enter upon it with him at once. Before she could - realise herself as mistress of a large house, as cut off from the old - habits that had invested London with earnest charm, as sundered from Kent - and Winifred, as deprived of her art and her dreams and ambition, she - found herself caught up in the whirl of London society, bidden to - cultivate its conventions, flatter its weaknesses, intrigue, gossip, - dance, drive, rush, without a moment's pause to think. - </p> - <p> - And thus began her new life. It was not the one she had dreamed of. In - fact she hardly recognised herself in her deliberate subordination to a - nature dominating hers. She let herself drift, abandoning herself to the - current, clutching hold of her love towards her husband as the only plank - saving her from destruction. - </p> - <p> - Winifred she saw occasionally. She had no time for anything beyond a half - hour's gossip, and then she forgot her own hopes and fears in the - happiness of her friend, who had just become engaged to Treherne. She saw - nothing of Kent. A feeling she could not analyse restrained her from - writing to him, ever so formally. It was analogous to the whimsical - shrinking from sketching his portrait when she had first met him. She - heard of him, however, through Winifred. He came down to the studio still - occasionally, and chatted over the teacups—“chiefly about you, - dear,” said Winifred, “and the old days and your present life.” - </p> - <p> - “And is he changed at all?” asked Clytie. “It seems centuries since those - same old days. I feel almost like asking whether he has a gray head and - carries his years well!” - </p> - <p> - “It does seem a long time,” said Winifred reflectively. “But it really - isn't, you know, and Kent is just the same as ever. His trip abroad has - done him so much good. Do you know, dear, except Victor—and Mr. - Hammerdyke, of course—I think he is the best man in all the world.” - </p> - <p> - Her brown cheeks flushed as she spoke, and Clytie bent down and kissed - them. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, Winnie darling, I wish everybody were as true and loyal as you,” she - said. - </p> - <p> - A great sob was in her heart, and she would have given much to have buried - her face in Winnie's lap and let the tears come how they would. But she - mastered herself, and before the other had time to hear the echo of the - chord that was struck she went on: - </p> - <p> - “Tell me, Winnie, how is his great work getting on?” - </p> - <p> - “Rapidly, I believe,” answered Winifred. “He seems to have nothing else to - live for now. I think he misses you, dear, and plunges into it as a kind - of consolation. He has had a great compliment paid him—have you - heard? He met a great Austrian scientist, Herr ————, - I can't remember his name—it doesn't matter. Anyhow, he showed this - professor his work, and talked to him about the difficulties of - publishing, expense, and all that, and a few days ago he received an offer - from the University of Vienna to translate what was already done into - German and publish it there. He says it is a most distinguished honour.” - </p> - <p> - “I am so glad, dear,” said Clytie. “I feel proud of him, and I wish I - could see him—to give him my congratulations. You will tell him that - I asked after him, won't you, Winnie?” - </p> - <p> - “Why, of course!” said Winifred. “Don't we always talk of you?” - </p> - <p> - Mrs. Blather was anxious that Clytie and her husband should come to - Durdleham to stay there after the season in town was over. But Clytie - replied evasively to the affectionate invitation. She shrank from - Durdleham even more than from herself. Mrs. Blather, now that the soreness - as regards the wedding had worn off, was delighted at the brilliant match—just - the very marriage one could have wished for Clytie, as she remarked over - the Durdleham tea tables. Besides, it was definite settling down for - Clytie, saving them from that shadow of scandal that had always seemed - liable to be cast over them through her unprincipled behaviour. There were - no longer any fears. And Mrs. Blather had her own little triumph in - another way. She remembered now she had prophesied years ago that Clytie's - desire to live her art life in London was a craze that would not last long—like - Janet's transient enthusiasm for cookery classes. Both Janet and herself - took it for granted that Clytie viewed her past errors with the same - indulgent retrospective smile, and wrote her complacent letters based on - this assumption. And Clytie found it harder than ever to write to them - naturally, to answer these letters in the same tone. If her sisters had - failed to understand her when to her her young, earnest self was brightly - intelligible, how could they do it now when she saw herself vaguely, - dimly, wrapped in impenetrable vapours? A visit to Durdleham, under the - circumstances, seemed almost an ordeal. Yet Thornton's presence there - might make some difference. - </p> - <p> - She spoke to him very little on the subject. He broached it himself one - day at breakfast, almost the only time now, except late at night, that she - saw him alone. It was nearing the end of July and the session of - Parliament was on the eve of closing. - </p> - <p> - “When are you going to see your people, Clytie?” he asked, looking over - his paper. - </p> - <p> - “I thought I had told you. They want us to come for a week as soon as we - can leave town.” - </p> - <p> - “Us?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes; won't you come?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, no, thanks. It would not suit me at all. You go and make an excuse - for me.” - </p> - <p> - “Things are not gay there, I know,” said Clytie, “but I should like you to - come with me.” - </p> - <p> - “It can't be done, my dear,” replied Thornton. “You had better have a - quiet time there by yourself, while I go up to Scotland——” - </p> - <p> - “I thought you would have liked me to go to Scotland with you—we - have seen so little of each other lately. You don't want to stay up there - all the autumn without me?” she added half pathetically. - </p> - <p> - “Why, my dear Clytie, you can come if you like,” said her husband, drawing - back his chair from the table. “Only you won't find much fun in a little - shooting-box in the middle of a glen in the Highlands. Look: you go and - see your people for a month, and then, if you like, you can come and join - me there—that is to say, if Carteret has any of his women folks - staying in the house, which does not seem to be quite settled yet. If he - hasn't, naturally you can't come.” - </p> - <p> - “In that case I shall not go to Durdleham—I couldn't. You would not - understand why. I shall stay in London, and mind the house.” - </p> - <p> - “I should not like you to do that,” said Thornton. - </p> - <p> - “Why not?” - </p> - <p> - “Because I had rather you did not,” he repeated, with a gathering frown. - </p> - <p> - “How long do you contemplate being away?” asked Clytie quietly. - </p> - <p> - “August and September, perhaps—I can't quite tell yet.” - </p> - <p> - “Do you propose, then, that I should go and stay in Durdleham for two - months with my people?” - </p> - <p> - He had not contemplated it, but he was irritated at her show of - opposition. He lost his temper and said sharply: - </p> - <p> - “Yes. Or with any other friends you like. I am not going to have you - remain here all by yourself.” - </p> - <p> - “Will you tell me your reasons, Thornton?” asked Clytie. - </p> - <p> - He crumpled up his paper angrily and thumped it on the table. The veins in - his forehead stood out. His face grew ugly. - </p> - <p> - “When I say a thing is to be done I mean it,” he cried, “and I am not - accustomed to be asked for my reasons!” - </p> - <p> - “I shall leave you until you have recovered yourself,” said Clytie with - dignity, and she left the room. - </p> - <p> - This was the first real quarrel between them. The blood had often rushed - hot through Clytie's veins and set her pulses tingling, but hitherto she - had restrained herself, feeling that the first revolt would mark the - beginning of the end. - </p> - <p> - She passed a miserable day. When Thornton came home in the afternoon to - dress for dinner he was in one of his light-hearted moods. He had backed - an outsider some weeks back at very long odds. The race had been run that - day and the outsider had won, bringing him a couple of thousand pounds—a - windfall that relieved him of certain temporary embarrassments. Hence his - buoyancy that afternoon. He had apparently forgotten the morning's - difference, and called Clytie “little wife” again, and promised her a - victoria to supplement the modest brougham with which they had begun. He - put his arm round her and kissed her, praised her beautiful hair, the - roundness of her arms, her dress. He told her the gossip of the day in his - bright off-hand manner, made her laugh in spite of her weariness. But when - he kissed her she shrank a little. In the elation of his victory he did - not notice her lack of responsiveness; besides, he was not over-sensitive - at any time. When they returned home at night from the dinner-party to - which they had gone together, Thornton was still in pleasant mood. Nothing - more was said respecting the plans for August and September. - </p> - <p> - The reconciliation did not last long. Clytie strove with an earnestness - that was torture to keep the peace between them, but sometimes her nature - clamoured within her and broke out in self-assertion. Only four months - married, and already the breach between them was perceptible, slowly - widening. And it was Clytie that drifted away from her husband. If she had - been a lesser nature, she might have retained the love on both sides. A - woman of a lower type would have been able to flatter, soothe, cajole, - yield, and thus have kept Thornton at her feet. The patronising contempt - for her own needs, which lashed Clytie to the soul, she would have treated - lightly, as the natural and foolish vanity of the superior being; and she - would have found in a sudden demonstration of passion full compensation - for previous indifference. But Clytie was not only unversed herself in the - arts of seduction, but despised them fiercely in other women. And she - began also to dread Thornton's fits of affection as much as his fits of - anger. - </p> - <p> - He left her one morning quivering with mortification and suppressed - bitterness. He himself was not conscious of the slight he had inflicted, - and he went away in gay spirits. Their talk had turned upon a Cabinet - Minister named Godderich, whose influence Thornton was anxious to acquire. - Now it had so happened that this same Godderich had succeeded in making - himself vastly obnoxious to Clytie. She told her husband this, giving him - the reasons. - </p> - <p> - “I have not been accustomed to that kind of admiration,” she said, “and I - don't like it.” - </p> - <p> - But Thornton laughed his great laugh, called her “his unconventional - prude,” and went on to show her what an invaluable ally Godderich was. - </p> - <p> - “You must swallow your dislike, Clytie,” he said. “Why, God bless my soul, - if ninety-nine women out of a hundred had that chance, they would get the - eyes out of his head.” - </p> - <p> - “Would you so much desire me to be like ninety-nine women out of a - hundred, then, Thornton?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, nonsense, Clytie; you know what I mean. Come! Don't you see that - here's a way of pushing things on a bit? What does it matter if the ass is - attentive? You can laugh at him. But keep him in hand a bit until we want - to let him loose. Do you see? Of course I trust you, and all that sort of - thing.” - </p> - <p> - “I thank you for your confidence,” she replied. “But I don't think you - will need to exercise it much.” - </p> - <p> - “What do you mean?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, never mind. Do you really want me, Thornton, to encourage this man to - make love to me, so as to get a hold on him for other purposes?” - </p> - <p> - “I never saw anyone like you for the dotting of i's,” said Thornton, - amused. “But that's about the size of it. Don't you see what an infernal - ass we can make of him? Well, think it over, little wife. Good-bye.” - </p> - <p> - He opened the front door,—this little conversation had taken place - in the hall,—and ran down the steps very well pleased with himself. - </p> - <p> - But Clytie's heart turned from him and she passed a wretched day—all - the more trying as she felt in honour bound to sing antistrophe of praise - of Thornton to the strophe of Mrs. Farquharson, with whom she was - lunching. - </p> - <p> - In the evening they were going out together. He came home late from - Westminster, dressed hurriedly, and went down to the drawing-room, where - Clytie was waiting. She was wearing a low-cut dress. Her arms were bare. A - tiny diamond clasp to a thin gold chain flashed on her bosom. - </p> - <p> - “By Jove! You're looking lovelier than ever!” he cried. “Come, let me kiss - you.” - </p> - <p> - He drew her to him, kissed the upper part of her arm, and then her lips. - But she made no response. She shrank, and this time he noted it. His arm - still round her waist, he held back his head and looked at her. - </p> - <p> - “Clytie!” - </p> - <p> - He spoke with loverlike reproach, and kissed her again, and again she - shrank. And then he cast her aside roughly, and stamped his foot. - </p> - <p> - “Damn it! Clytie,” he exclaimed, showing his teeth, “you are a perfect - icicle!” - </p> - <p> - Clytie made no reply, but turned to the window and buttoned her glove. - Thornton rang the bell violently, and when the footman appeared asked him - why the devil the carriage had not come round. Then he flung himself into - a chair and turned over a book. And thus they remained without speaking - until the brougham was announced. On their way to their dinner-party they - did not speak. He was in a fit of furious sulks, and Clytie's heart was - too heavy. Afterwards he went off to his club and she drove home by - herself. - </p> - <p> - And this at the end of only four months' wedded life. What would it be at - the end of four years, fourteen? Clytie strove for a little to blame - herself for supersensitiveness, egotism, coldness. But her self rose in - arms against this charge. For, like the unfolding of a horrible story, the - nature of Thornton's love for her, the nature of the place she really - occupied in his estimation, gradually broke upon her. The meaning of light - remarks, trivial jests, careless actions; the meaning of caresses now half - contemptuous, now passionate—all came to her in full light, in all - their crudity, out of the gray darkness in which she had instinctively - kept it hidden from herself. She stared at it—not in ignorant - surmise as she had done in Paris, but with a ghastly sickening of soul. - </p> - <p> - Oh, the degradation of it! What was she to her husband but a possession, a - toy, a woman, to suffer his caresses when it so pleased him to bestow - them, a mistress whom he had taken it into his head to bind legally to - himself, so that she might serve certain purposes of his in society? What - little better was she to him than the women whom men buy,—Loulou - Mendès, for instance,—save that he reckoned,—he had told her - so,—on her fidelity to him? Things she had tried to ascribe to the - careless familiarity of love blazed insultingly before her, scorching her, - making her writhe in her abasement. - </p> - <p> - Naturally satiety had come to him. He was indifferent whether he saw her - or not for a season. Only in his absence she was to obey blindly his - caprices. If only she was his wife, she thought bitterly, in the humdrum - Durdleham way, where at least she would have had the conventional position - in their conjugal relations! Either that or the wild independence of a - Loulou Mendès, carrying her will in her hand, free to choose her own way - among the groves of the satyrs. For even there the free path smells - sweeter than the one of servitude. - </p> - <p> - Just before the session ended Clytie came to a definite understanding with - her husband. It is surprising what pain can underlie this mutual - adjustment of two intelligences. - </p> - <p> - The scene was again the breakfast-room. Each was reading the morning's - correspondence. Thornton tossed a letter across the table. - </p> - <p> - “Carteret's women folk can't come,” he said. “Devilish sensible women—they - don't see the fun of it. So it's settled. I go up as soon as this wretched - grind is over.” - </p> - <p> - “Very well,” said Clytie calmly. “I hope you will have a good time.” - </p> - <p> - “Thanks,” he replied in his careless way. “It will be like old times - again. And you will put in a good, quiet couple of months with your - people.” - </p> - <p> - Clytie bit her lip. Her heart beat a little faster. She was going to set - herself in opposition to him. She glanced at him before she spoke; he - hardly seemed to expect an answer, but continued reading another letter. - He looked kind and frank, she thought, a husband for any woman to be proud - of. In his morning freshness, clean-shaven, groomed, trimmed, he seemed - handsomer than ever. His close brown hair had not a touch of gray; - scarcely a line showed on his forehead or beneath his eyes; and the dark - rich colour was visible beneath the bronze on his cheek. He broke into a - laugh, buoyant and careless, over his letter, and looked up at Clytie. - Then, his glance meeting hers, his face grew more serious. - </p> - <p> - “What are you gazing at me for with those great blue eyes of yours, - Clytie?” - </p> - <p> - She bent forward, rested her cheek on her hand. - </p> - <p> - “In regard to what you have just said—my going to Durdleham—I - am not going for many reasons. I told you so, Thornton, the other day.” - </p> - <p> - “I am quite aware of it,” said Thornton. “But you are going.” - </p> - <p> - He looked her full in the face, and she returned his gaze calmly and - unflinchingly. - </p> - <p> - “Don't let us quarrel, Thornton,” she said. “It is so sordid and petty. - Let us try quietly to understand one another.” - </p> - <p> - His glance fell first, and he threw himself back in his chair with a laugh - and unfolded his paper. - </p> - <p> - “All right—we'll bar scenes. Only don't say anything too severe or - you'll spoil my breakfast.” - </p> - <p> - “Thornton,” she said, not changing her attitude, “I think I know what my - duty is towards you, and I try to perform it. Has it ever struck you that - you may have some duties towards me?” - </p> - <p> - “I can't say it has,” he replied. - </p> - <p> - “I don't think you understand me, Thornton. I will try to make it clearer - to you. As far as you will let me take an interest in your life, I do so. - I am more than willing to make any sacrifices—to give up everything - for you. But when you do not want me, as this autumn, I surely may - remember that I have a life of my own to lead.” - </p> - <p> - “And suppose that life does not suit me?” - </p> - <p> - “That is the point, Thornton. If you wished me, out of love for you, to do - anything, I would do it. But this is a matter in which love has no place. - Provided I am scrupulous in all my duties towards you, I have a right to - my own life, to my own antipathies, to my own favourite pursuits—in - fact to myself as an individual, and it is your duty towards me to - recognise it.” - </p> - <p> - “I don't quite see what you are driving at,” said Thornton. “You can - dislike sweet champagne and paint pictures and read Schopenhauer if you - like. Who is preventing you? But in certain matters, as you are my wife, - you have got to do what I tell you.” - </p> - <p> - “To take an extreme case, by way of argument: Suppose the fancy seized you - to order me to remain in my bedroom all day—you would expect me to - obey you?” - </p> - <p> - “By God! I should think I would!” cried Thornton, starting to his feet, - with blazing eyes and the veins standing out on his forehead. - </p> - <p> - “It seems, Thornton,” she said very quietly, “you have married the wrong - woman.” - </p> - <p> - Then she rose, too, from the table, moved towards him, and laid her hand - on his arm. He shook it off with an impatient oath, and turned away, - fuming, to stare out of the window. She was too well accustomed to his - fits of passion to resent the indignity. She mechanically picked off some - withering leaves from some flowers on the mantelpiece, and waited for him - to speak. At last he turned round again, and asked her sullenly: - </p> - <p> - “Have you any other pretty remarks to make?” - </p> - <p> - “If you will listen to them quietly.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, what do you want? I grant I was a fool to marry you. Let me hear - the consequences of my folly.” - </p> - <p> - His face was set in a sneer, an ugly expression. She had seen it several - times since that evening at the opera in Paris. The tears sprang into her - eyes as she glanced at him. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, don't speak and look like that!” she cried. “I cannot bear it. I did - not intend to say anything hard just now. I only meant that you had - mistaken me, and my needs, and my nature. I have tried to look upon - marriage from your point of view for four months, and I can't do it any - longer. You say I must obey you blindly in everything, even your arbitrary - fancies, subordinate myself absolutely to you. Thornton, believe me, where - your interests or love are concerned I will do it; but where they are not - I can't, and it will be happier for both of us that I should tell you so - frankly. If you go your way alone, I must go mine.” - </p> - <p> - “That means you set yourself in defiance to my wishes?” - </p> - <p> - Clytie checked an impulse of impatience. - </p> - <p> - “If you won't understand me, and insist on putting it that way—yes.” - </p> - <p> - They looked at each other for some time. And then Thornton ground his - teeth and glared at her. - </p> - <p> - “You can go your own way if you like, but I warn you one of these days - there will be the devil to pay!” - </p> - <p> - And he strode out of the room, cursing, and slammed the door behind him. - </p> - <p> - Clytie sat down by the window. The tears would come in spite of her pride. - She had gained the victory. But there are some victories that have all the - aching sense of defeat. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XIX. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">O</span>n the day after - this conversation Clytie was surprised by an announcement from Durdleham - that Mrs. Blather and Janet were suddenly coming to town and would avail - themselves of her often repeated invitation to pay her a visit in her new - home. Janet had been ailing for some time past. The over-refined Davenant - blood had never been vivifying at any time, and now, as there were sudden - dangers of a grave kind, their Durdleham doctor had advised her consulting - a London specialist. They hurried to catch the great man before he left - for his summer holidays. That was their apology to Clytie for the - shortness of their notice. Ordinarily on their rare visits to town they - put up at Durfey's Hotel in Albany Street. Their father and grandfather - had put up there from time immemorial, and they spoke of Durfey's with - solemn familiarity, as if it were the one hotel of London. On this - occasion, however, they came and stayed with Clytie. - </p> - <p> - Their presence in the house was a relief to her, even though it was by way - of counter-irritation. Thornton showed himself in the light of a charming - host and delighted his sisters-in-law. They could not find enough - felicitations to bestow upon Clytie. They forgot the old - misunderstandings, took it for granted that Clytie had finally settled, - was happy, without any ulterior desires. They went round the house, Mrs. - Blather manifesting mild enthusiasm over the more solid arrangements in - the way of furniture and domestic appurtenances, Janet going into little - ecstasies over the decorations. - </p> - <p> - “I never thought you had such a talent for house management,” said Mrs. - Blather after an inspection of the linen-cupboards and china-closets. - </p> - <p> - “I hardly think it requires absolute genius,” replied Clytie, “to see that - sheets are folded up properly and that plates are not put away dirty.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah!” said her sister, with a philosophic sigh. “So many young wives are - so inexperienced.” - </p> - <p> - It was a delight to Mrs. Blather to see Clytie in this aspect. She could - talk to her now on common ground; Clytie had become an ordinary sensible - woman, who could discuss the things that fill the ordinary sensible - woman's life: housemaids, fancywork, and the price of fish. Mrs. Blather - knew that Hammerdyke was fairly well off, but she thought it her duty to - give Clytie many valuable hints as to household expenditure, to which - Clytie listened with suave distraction. She also gave her recipes for - cooking, and the washing of lace, and infallible methods for removing wine - stains from tablecloths; also neat little formulas for the management of a - husband. - </p> - <p> - “But yours is simply perfect,” she added, with reference to this last. - “Oh, Clytie, you are a lucky girl!” - </p> - <p> - To Clytie there was something pathetically humorous in the aspect she - presented to her sisters; in finding herself, for the first time in her - life, perfect in their eyes; in their changed relations. It was amusing to - be the lady of the house, and to make plans for Gracie and Janet's - entertainment. She brightened under the sense of it, and though many a - misconception on their part caused her a sharp twinge of pain, she allowed - them to purr on contentedly, taking a small measure of enjoyment from the - comfort thereof. Besides, she felt that it would not last long. Their stay - was limited to three days. A week of it would have been intolerable. For - this reason she declined to accompany them back to Durdleham. At first - Mrs. Blather was rather hurt at her refusal; but Clytie gently smoothed - over the matter, tactfully avoiding to give specific reasons. - </p> - <p> - Although Thornton was amenity itself in his intercourse with Clytie when - they met in her sisters' presence, in their private relations he showed a - certain soreness—the result of the process of understanding. She - tried to heal this, to win back from him, if not love, at least gentleness - and courtesy. - </p> - <p> - “I must thank you, Thornton, for being so nice to my sisters,” she said - once. - </p> - <p> - “I suppose I know how to behave myself in my own house,” he replied - coldly, and Clytie retired, and listened, with an ache in her heart, to - Mrs. Blather's epithalamion. - </p> - <p> - Still it comforted her to see Thornton his old bright self again, as she - had known him before her marriage, even though she knew his brow would - darken on the departure of her guests. It gladdened her to hear him talk - animatedly to Janet of the wonders of the forest and the romance of war. - The hall, the staircase, and the walls of his smoking room were lined with - curiosities of travel: spears and skin-covered shields, swords, wooden - maces—a whole armoury of savage weapons. There were feathered - headdresses, great rings roughly wrought of virgin gold, strange garments, - some stained with blood. On the landing above the hall stairs hung an evil - wooden yoke with pendent chains which he had lifted from the necks of two - dead slaves, left by the caravan to die and rot by the way; and, flanking - it, two great lions' heads glared defiantly. To each relic a history was - attached, now commonplace, now ghastly. Clytie knew them all, but she - accompanied her sisters as Thornton took them round, a perfect cicerone, - and she was pleased to see his face light up and his eyes glow with the - reminiscence of dangers and brave deeds. It brought her a glad memory of - the past and a little hope for the future. She was grateful, too, to - Thornton for thus effectually hiding from her sisters any signs of their - recent differences and divergencies. She could receive their - congratulations with a sense of grim humour. Anything approaching pity, - with whatever delicate sympathy it might be conveyed, would have made her - wince with pain. Even Mrs. Farquharson, who had sharp eyes and many kindly - affinities with her, shared Mrs. Blather's unquestioning belief in the - happiness of her lot. Before others Thornton was still the gallant lover - and courteous husband, and Clytie was not unthankful. When questioned as - to Thornton's plans for the autumn she answered vaguely. The session had - worn him out. He was going up to Scotland for the grouse shooting. She - herself was going to take care of the house until his return. She - preferred staying in London in August to going anywhere without him. And - Mrs. Blather, quite satisfied, paid her a little compliment on her - wifeliness, and suggested various household improvements to occupy her - time during her grass-widowhood. - </p> - <p> - So Mrs. Blather and Janet went back to Durdleham, to raise a flutter of - excitement at the Durdleham tea tables over their accounts of Clytie's - moral and material prosperity and her husband's manifold perfections. But - the old man, Mr. Davenant, shook his head and sighed. Slow to receive - fresh impressions, he could not conceive Clytie other than wilful and - paradoxical. And he was suspicious of the brilliant soldier of fortune. He - would much have preferred his daughter to have married a steady-going - country gentleman or professional man. Still no fault could be found with - Hammerdyke, who had treated him with every courtesy. - </p> - <p> - Before Thornton's departure for Scotland a kind of reconciliation was - patched up between them. The first overtures had come from Clytie. After - all, he was her husband. They were bound together, for better or worse, - till death parted them. It was only common sense to struggle that it - should be for better. She humbled herself, then, a little, confessed that - she had been unreasonable in some things. He happened to be in a softer - mood, and encouraged her to tell him she was sorry if she had been cold - and selfish. Unconsciously she made him feel quite magnanimous. He kissed - her gaily, bade her think no more about it, and even condescended to say - with regard to the main point at issue: - </p> - <p> - “Well, perhaps you are about right in not caring to go to Durdleham. Your - sisters are not rapid.” - </p> - <p> - A remark which, although it jarred somewhat on Clytie's strung nerves, she - nevertheless accepted as a token of peace. - </p> - <p> - This was the second time in her life that she had deliberately humbled - herself before a man. She thought of it with a queer little pang. When she - had put down her young pride so as to retain Kent's friendship and esteem, - on the day that Jack had destroyed Winifred's picture, it had been all - gladness and triumph. She remembered how happily she had gone to sleep - that night, in pleasant subconsciousness of certain feminine workings. It - had been a joy to surrender then. But now? She shrugged her shoulders, - tried to dismiss it from her mind. - </p> - <p> - In the middle of August she found herself alone in the great house, - enjoying the leisure and solitude, the independence, the freedom from - friction. She devoted most of her time to her painting, which had been - sadly neglected since her marriage. Her studio was a pleasant room, with a - good light. It had not the severe, businesslike air of the one in the - King's Road; it was warmer, heavier with velvet hangings, richer in quaint - furniture. Instead of the whitewashed walls scrawled over with grotesque - caricatures, it had a delicately toned Morris paper. The floor was - polished, strewn with thick rugs; a great white bearskin lay before the - hearth. The piles of canvases stretched upon rough wooden backs that used - to lie stacked up in odd corners Thornton had had framed for her, as a - surprise to greet her on her home-coming, and now the best of them were - hung round the room. Some of her cherished possessions found a place—the - etching by Rupert Kent, two or three of Winifred's delicate studies, and - an exquisite Jacquemart that Kent had given her long ago. But otherwise - all was new, luxurious, separating her from the old associations of her - art life. - </p> - <p> - Whilst searching for a subject she took out her studies for the Faustina - picture. But she put them aside with a shudder. She was painting merely - for amusement, to gratify the artistic impulse that urged her to create. - But the hope, by which she had been gradually rising towards the goal of - her ambition, the hope of fame and full accomplishment, was gone, - apparently beyond recall; and she mused upon it sadly. This sense of - finality is characteristic of youth—its one governing pessimism. Yet - she was cheerful enough, glad to feel the brush between her fingers again, - and to smell the familiar odour of turpentine, and to see her fancies take - visible form under her touch. The artist within her asserted itself, - though vaguely, as from some depth where it lay buried. It was undergoing - a subtle change, and its weak, inchoate manifestations were those of a - period of transition. But Clytie knew it not. - </p> - <p> - The Farquharsons returned to town towards the end of the month, and - Winifred also, after her annual seaside holiday with the children. And - many of Clytie's other friends remained in London, and welcomed her back - among them. It was like a return to her old life. Only Kent was absent - from her circle. She missed him, sighing a little for the impossible. - </p> - <p> - Thornton wrote from Scotland with affectionate brevity. He did not know - that he could have missed her so much. He had bagged so many brace that - morning. He longed to see her. He thought he might as well stay on with - Carteret so long as there was any sport forward. His letters, dashed off - with a broad quill pen in a great, bold hand, covered four sides of - notepaper, and came once a week. Clytie had no reason to complain of lack - of attention on the part of her husband. Consequently she looked forward - to less troubled days when they should lead their common life together - again. - </p> - <p> - An occasional visitor that she had during these weeks was the boy Jack. He - had been for a term at the industrial school to which Treherne and Kent - had procured him admittance, and now passed as a reformed character - amongst his enthusiasts. The teachers at the school, with vivid memories - of stormy scenes, might have demurred at this opinion; but they were miles - away holiday-making, and for the time blissfully oblivious of Jack. Four - months over a spelling-book and a carpenter's bench, even though the - latter may be situated amid pleasant fields, are not long enough to purify - the blood from the wildness of London streets; and a lifetime so spent - cannot wash out hereditary taint; but they can teach the use of soap and - water and a suitable adjustment of garments. And Jack was clean, and his - wild elf locks were cropped into compulsory smugness, and his clothes - conformed to a strictly conventional order. This external revolution was - so startling that an accompanying moral reform seemed unquestionable. - Even his mother's dull pessimism was affected by it. When she returned - from her work she bribed him with bread and treacle to sit in a chair - where she could admire him, instead of sending him out of her way into the - streets as she had been wont to do. But Jack ate the bread and treacle and - then sauntered into the street of his own accord. He did not admire his - mother, and only heeded her blandishments when they assumed an objective - form. He admired one person, and that was Winifred. With her the young - animal was tame, almost docile. It was merely owing to lack of special - instinct that he did not lick her hand. He was often in the studio, where - he had been constituted general factotum during his holidays. He swept the - floor, cleaned the windows, set the brushes and paints in order before - Winifred arrived, ran messages for her, and whenever she permitted would - sprawl on the ground by her side, following her movements with his great - brown eyes. To prevent him from wasting his time and energies in this - passive adoration, Winifred often invented commissions for him which he - executed with proud despatch, disregarding all allurements to eat the - lotus of the gutter and holding his person sacred as Winifred's messenger. - It was in consequence of this that he found his way to Clytie's house, - acting as postman for his patroness. At first he was shy. He had not lost - the feeling of awe with which Clytie inspired him, nor had he forgotten - the dread picture of her anger on that day when she had summarily - dismissed him from her service. It was only his devotion to Winifred that - had induced him to put, as it seemed to him, his head in the lion's mouth. - But when he found that the lion was kind and roared as gently as his own - dove, and further, gave him various unimaginable dainties to eat and odd - shillings to spend in surreptitious tobacco, the house in the Cromwell - Road became invested with pleasant associations. - </p> - <p> - It was after Clytie had had two or three visits from him that the idea - occurred to her to paint the portrait of the reformed Jack. The sittings - continued long after the necessity for them had ceased. Jack came of his - own accord. At last one day he astonished her by refusing the shilling - that she held out to him. - </p> - <p> - “I didn't come for that,” he said bluntly. “I come to see you.” - </p> - <p> - Clytie and the urchin in industrial school corduroys looked steadily for - some seconds at one another, and both in their respective ways were - conscious of having added to their sum of knowledge. Then they became real - friends. Clytie looked upon him with a new interest, taking herself - severely to task for having summed him up in the past with such scornful - superficiality. She atoned for it now by seeking to interest herself in - his life, to give herself a little place in it, whereby it should receive - some individual colour. This was all the easier now, as Winifred had - smoothed down many of Jack's social asperities. Albeit not refined of - speech, he no longer used profane language in the studio, nor did he - entertain her with sanguinary details of cat murder. When the time came - for him to return to school Clytie felt quite sorry. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XX. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>hornton returned - in due time. The autumn session began. The weeks and months passed. Their - relations remained the same as when they had parted in the summer. Towards - Clytie he manifested a kindly indifference, so long as she obeyed his - wishes. When she went counter to them he flared up, showed his teeth, and - swore; on which occasions Clytie would draw herself up, and, with her chin - in the air, leave the room and retire into her studio. Then, after two or - three days of evil sullenness, the fancy would take him to kiss her, and - lightly swear that she was the loveliest woman in the world. But Clytie - had lost all responsive feeling. She met him not wholly unaffectionately, - but calmly, presenting an obedient, passionless cheek. Thereupon he would - either storm again or laugh, reminding her of a time when her lips sought - his, asking her why she had frozen, where was the Clytie of their bridal - month. And if he pleaded gently, womanlike, she would relent a little, - yield to him, striving to blot out the objects that met her sight as she - looked back towards the past. Then there would recur the season of - indifference, which Clytie had grown to welcome. - </p> - <p> - The daily life went on, she scarce knew how. Visiting, entertaining, - painting, filled her days. And she dreamed wistful little dreams. - </p> - <p> - And then there came to Clytie a great calm, a new, strange happiness, in - the midst of the life she had thought to be broken. She would sit by - herself and think, with a smile playing round the corners of her lips, and - a light in her eyes. Again the order of things seemed changed. Again a - newer life, with newer hopes and responsibilities, lay before her. For the - time her art, her needs, were forgotten. Trifling, dainty occupations - absorbed her as she sat in the solitude of the studio on the chilly autumn - days, her feet luxuriously buried in the bearskin before the great fire. - Sometimes Mrs. Farquharson would come and help her, with a yearning hunger - in her eyes that Clytie knew the meaning of; for Caroline was a childless - woman. And then Clytie would kiss her silently and Caroline would shake - her head and laugh, and talk in her bright way of the wonder that would - be. - </p> - <p> - Only at times did a wave of bitterness pass over her. If all that had - happened in her married life since the train had carried her out of - Bordighera station had been different! If only she could see her husband - as she saw him that day, by the ruined tower, when she passed her hand - over his hair and thought him all that could suffice a woman's needs! - Sometimes she looked at him now, furtively, when his face was in repose. - He seemed the same, handsome, brave, ideally perfect in manhood. Why had - not the glamour lasted? Why should the “dream be better than the drink”? - And then she would turn away and the thought would rise: - </p> - <p> - “Why did I not continue blind? Would to God this knowledge of him had - never come!” - </p> - <p> - He grew a little kinder to her, however. It was a rough, patronising - tenderness, it is true, but yet Clytie felt grateful. A little act of - forethought and consideration softened her towards him much more than it - warranted. Perhaps in spite of all he might have won her to him again, and - brought her lips to his in a kiss of rare meaning—for at certain - times there are wondrous tendernesses and wondrous powers of forgiveness - in woman. But Thornton lost the golden chance, being busy with his - muck-rake. - </p> - <p> - He came home one afternoon, in an evil humour. Clytie, prepared to welcome - him, looked up kindly from her lounge-chair as he came into the studio, - but as she saw the blackness of his face, her heart sank. A footstool came - in his way, and he sent it, with a kick, sliding along the polished floor. - </p> - <p> - “Why do you litter up the place with these infernal traps, Clytie?” he - asked crossly as he came up to the fire to warm his hands. - </p> - <p> - Clytie, like a wise woman, held her peace. Silence is a very good friend - sometimes. But as he remained there moodily, without saying a word, and - the silence was growing uncomfortable, she asked him what was amiss. - </p> - <p> - “Everything's amiss!” he replied roughly—“all through your silly - folly. Read that!” - </p> - <p> - He drew a letter from his pocket book and threw it into her lap. It ran: - </p> - <p> - Dear Hernshawe: - </p> - <p> - As I think Simmons would be a more satisfactory man for Burchester than - Hammerdyke, I have suggested the former to the local Conservative - association. As they seem rather at a loss for a suitable candidate, I - think they will accept my nominee. - </p> - <p> - Yours truly, - </p> - <p> - E. Godderich. - </p> - <p> - “I am sorry, Thornton,” said Clytie, laying the letter down on the - afternoon tea table by her side. “But you hardly expected to have a chance - so soon.” - </p> - <p> - “Do you suppose I am going to slave away at this hack's work for two or - three years?” - </p> - <p> - “No; but this is only the second or third vacancy that has occurred.” - </p> - <p> - “What does that matter? Godderich promised to run me as soon as he saw an - opening. Hernshawe was amazed at this letter this morning. Don't talk of - what you know nothing about. It's simply infernal spite on Godderich's - part! Who is Simmons? A damned cheesemonger with a jubilee knighthood, and - as much brains as a double Glo'ster! Godderich has the reputation for this - sort of thing. That was why I wanted to keep in with him. If you had taken - a ha'porth of interest in the matter, it would not have happened. You have - treated the man in your confounded icy - don't-address-me-or-I'll-petrify-you kind of way, and you have put his - back up against us!” - </p> - <p> - “I always treated him courteously,” said Clytie. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, by Jove, I know what that means!” sneered Thornton. “And now you can - have the satisfaction of seeing how your courtesy has played the fool with - my plans.” - </p> - <p> - “I can't understand you, Thornton,” she replied wearily. “I should have - thought you of all people would have preferred to win your own battles.” - </p> - <p> - “So I shall in future. I shall take jolly good care not to ask you to help - me any more! After all your fine professions of identifying yourself with - my life and that sort of rot I really thought you would be willing to help - me—in about the only way a woman can.” - </p> - <p> - “By a silly, ignoble flirtation? Would you really hope to win success by - your wife's dishonour?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, rot!” cried Thornton savagely. “Who the devil talked about - dishonour?” - </p> - <p> - “Well, then, we don't see things in the same light,” said Clytie quietly. - “And I am very glad you have lost Godderich's influence, if that is what - it depended upon.” - </p> - <p> - He turned and faced her, in one of his blind rages. - </p> - <p> - “Why don't you say at once you don't care a little damn about me? It would - be nearer the truth. What the deuce did I marry you for, when there are - thousands of better women in the world who are to be had for the asking? - About the only thing I have ever asked you to do for me was to employ a - little womanly tact, and then you get up on the high horse, damme! and - talk about dishonour! One would have thought you had been bred in a - nunnery instead of the disreputable gutter in the King's Road I found you - in!” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, stop!” said Clytie, rising. “If I were well, perhaps I might be angry - and amuse you with a row. But I am not equal to it at present, believe me. - I'll see you at dinner.” - </p> - <p> - She walked towards the door, but Thornton intercepted her with three or - four quick strides. - </p> - <p> - “I'm hanged if you do!” he said. “I have too much respect for my - digestion. I'm not going to stay in the house with you!” - </p> - <p> - And he strode out of the studio, slamming the door. - </p> - <p> - “Thank God!” said Clytie to herself. - </p> - <p> - And so the film of reconciliation that new circumstances had begun to - spread was rudely torn asunder, and the breach between them grew greater - than before. For several days Clytie suffered. Then she resigned herself - to the inevitable, and in her thoughts drifted away from her husband. For - they were sweet thoughts, full of unspeakable consolation. And the weeks - wore on, and the evenings grew shorter and shorter, and the little pile of - dainty needlework grew higher in the press. Thornton rarely disturbed her; - the time that he could spare from his official duties he passed as a man - about town idles the hours away. A man with the least domestic tastes in - the world, he found no especial pleasures in his house. His wife did not - amuse him; the cooking at his club was more to his taste than that which - awaited him at home. There was no earthly reason why he should use the - house for any other purpose than sleeping, breakfasting, and the - occasional entertainment, which was now discontinued for a season. He - lived his own life, more or less satisfactory to himself, and left Clytie - to her own devices. Wherefore she not unfrequently thanked the Almighty. - She lived practically alone. Winifred came to see her from time to time. - Mrs. Farquharson was often with her. The shrewd eyes of Caroline saw that - there was something wrong in the marriage of which she had augured such - fair fruits. But as Clytie proudly kept all her troubles to herself, - Caroline could do no more than surround Clytie with her mute sympathy. - This gradual discovery was a shock to her faith in human nature. One of - the two had failed; which one was it? Her instinct told her that it was - not Clytie; her husband unequivocally affirmed that it was Hammerdyke. - When her instinct and her husband differed she sometimes trusted to one - and sometimes to the other, by way of giving a certain variety to life. - When they coincided she had no option but to believe. So, although giving - up her hero cost her a great pang, her heart went out more than ever to - her friend. - </p> - <p> - It was a period of strange new happiness for Clytie. It showed itself - outwardly in her art. No one but herself has ever seen the pictures that - she painted during this time—not even Caroline. They were all - unfinished, sketched in the hurried, semi-impressionist manner with which - from her early girlhood she had been wont to give objectivity to her - cravings and imaginings; but they were dainty, laughing, tender things, a - world of waxen touches and sweet hopes. It would be hard to say how many - small panels she covered with the promises of this new life. Sometimes, - when she was quite alone, she would lock the door and take them out and - arrange them along the wall on the ledge above the dado, and gladden her - heart with them. After which she would collect them hastily and lock them - up, with a smile at her own foolishness. She meditated now and then, - before the fire, with closed eyes, turning over the leaves of her Book of - New Formulas, which had grown somewhat tear-stained and dusty; but she - found in it nothing relating to present things, and she laughed quietly at - the omission, resolving to rectify it by and by. It was strange that she - had not included this in her scheme of life. And yet, after all, was it so - strange? She could not quite decide. But the future she never questioned. - The evolution of her own individuality seemed in no wise to concern her. - She had projected herself into another life. And she looked at the world, - and again she saw it fair; and peace rested on her eyelids as she slept. - And the weeks went on. - </p> - <p> - One evening in the middle of December Thornton and herself were alone - together. They had finished dinner and he was smoking a cigar with his - coffee in the dining-room. Relations between them were beginning to grow - kindlier again. That is to say, he curbed his temper, inquired after her - health, and occasionally spent an evening at home. They had not spoken - much during the meal. Now that they had so few interests in common, their - conversation was generally desultory. The one great and precious bond that - was to be between them was rarely mentioned. It was too deeply rooted in - the holiest place of Clytie's soul for her to discuss it in the - commonplace interviews she had with her husband, and his interest in the - matter did not go much beyond a rather irritating sense of responsibility. - Some feeling of the sort prompted him on this evening to allude to the - subject. - </p> - <p> - “I heard from the Claverings this morning,” he said, knocking off his - cigar ash into the fender. “They want us to go and spend Christmas with - them in their new place in Hampshire.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh?” said Clytie politely. - </p> - <p> - She had seen Mrs. Clavering several times during the summer in town, and - further acquaintance had only increased the antipathy she had conceived in - Paris. Thornton, however, had been pretty intimate with them during the - latter part of the season, and he had met Major Clavering again in - Scotland. Hence the invitation. - </p> - <p> - “Well,” asked Thornton, “what shall I do? Of course your going is out of - the question.” - </p> - <p> - “Naturally,” replied Clytie, glad that that point was settled without any - discussion. “Why do you ask me?” - </p> - <p> - “To know what your wishes are as regards myself. Clavering has got some - good shooting, I believe, and his wife always keeps a decent house. I - don't see what good I should be here; but still, if you would like me to - stay on and see you through, I don't mind a bit.” - </p> - <p> - He meant to be magnanimous. Perhaps he expected his wife to be duly - grateful; as it was she only replied somewhat wearily: - </p> - <p> - “You must do whatever you think best, Thornton. I should not like to keep - you here on my account, while you might be having a good time with your - friends.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh! it's all the same to me,” he said. “It's just as you like.” - </p> - <p> - Clytie shook her head despondently. If there could have been any pleasure - to either of them in his staying, these questions would have been - impossible. It was love and not politeness that should have kept him by - her side. - </p> - <p> - “You are very kind to think of it, Thornton,” she said, “and I thank you - for asking me; but you couldn't do much if you stayed, you know.” - </p> - <p> - “I think I should be somewhat in the way,” he said good-temperedly. “That - sort of thing is not much in my line. However, I did not like to accept - without asking you. Are you sure you don't mind?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, quite sure!” said Clytie suavely. - </p> - <p> - So the point was amicably settled, and Thornton went down to Hampshire to - shoot Clavering's pheasants and to be led cynically captive by Clavering's - wife. To avoid giving the latter a gratuitous loophole for sarcastic - attack, he forbore to hint at the cause that prevented Clytie from - accompanying him. He said vaguely that she was with her people. Mrs. - Clavering did not press the point in any way, as she reciprocated Clytie's - dislike, and was perfectly indifferent as to what became of her. In fact - she was greatly relieved when Thornton announced that he was coming alone. - Him she could manage as she liked—or thought she could, which comes - to the same thing. - </p> - <p> - The house which the Claverings had taken for the winter was one that - appealed to the quieter tastes of a man like Thornton. There was good - hunting in the neighbourhood, and the stables were well filled with - hunters, some of which Major Clavering had hired for the season. Over the - estate attached to the house was excellent partridge shooting, and the - covers were stocked with pheasants. The house itself was straggling—as - a country house should be—roomy, and capable of accommodating - comfortably the large party that was assembled for Christmas. It contained - two billiard tables, a concert room staged for private theatricals, and a - magnificent club-furnished smoking-room with a specially made baccarat - table. Among the party the masculine element greatly preponderated, but - the few women who were there had been carefully selected by the hostess to - maintain a nice equilibrium. The major invited the men, and his wife, - running over the list, had settled upon the women. She was doubly grateful - that Clytie had thought fit to decline. - </p> - <p> - On the evening of his arrival Thornton came down early after dressing and - found Mrs. Clavering alone in the drawing-room, reclining luxuriously - before the blaze under the great marble chimney-piece. - </p> - <p> - “Clavering must have come into a pot of money in order to run this,” he - said, parting his coat tails. “I have just been round the place. I had no - idea it was such an extensive development.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes. It's better than soldiering. Tom's looking out for a place of his - own something after the style of this. The Dynevors wanted to go to - Australia, and so they have let it to us cheap.” - </p> - <p> - He nodded, not very interested, and twirled his moustache in silence. - </p> - <p> - “You are not making a very good start by way of being amusing,” said Mrs. - Clavering. “How is your wife?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, very well. But I don't see how that topic could amuse you. Matrimony - isn't very funny.” - </p> - <p> - “Glad to get out of the toils, I suppose.” - </p> - <p> - “Passably. It leaves me free in the society of the only woman I have - reasonably cared for,” he said, without changing his attitude. - </p> - <p> - “Have you come down to play at that sort of thing again?” she asked, - arching her eyebrows, with a little supercilious curl on her thin lips. - </p> - <p> - “That's what you wanted me here for, I suppose.” - </p> - <p> - “You came to shoot little birds on the invitation of my adoring husband.” - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps the motives were mixed. You wouldn't believe me if I told you I - had come to see you. That was my main inducement. I suppose I ought to - have begun better and told you of my longing and despair. Let me make my - declaration now, Clara.” - </p> - <p> - “Bah! my friend. What is the meaning of all this?” she said cynically. - “You don't care a straw for me—you told me yourself I had gone off - lamentably. And I don't rate you a halfpenny above your worth. You are a - fine-looking man with impulses and animal passions instead of brains and - heart; and if you were to die to-morrow, my delicate appreciation of my - dinner would not be impaired. So why in the name of common sense have we - revived this miserable farce?” - </p> - <p> - “It's a kind of absinthe. We like it.” - </p> - <p> - “If I could pump up any enthusiasm about you,” she went on, not heeding - his epigram, “I could understand it. But you are bad all through. You - would not even be moderately faithful to me—as you are not to your - wife.” - </p> - <p> - “What the devil do you mean?” asked Thornton quickly, showing his teeth. - But Mrs. Clavering laughed. - </p> - <p> - “Do you take me for a fool, or a woman of the world, my friend? I have - eyes and I have ears. I'll go into particulars if you like.” - </p> - <p> - “That would scarcely be interesting,” he said. - </p> - <p> - He looked at her for some moments and then burst out into his resonant - laugh, expecting boyish indulgence for his peccadilloes. His whole-hearted - animal laughter was irresistible. The woman joined in. - </p> - <p> - “I don't know which is the worse of us two,” she said. “Perhaps I. I - forgive you.” - </p> - <p> - The piquant cynicism of this revived liaison attracted Thornton, was an - enjoyable complement to the essentially masculine side of that - country-house life. He was a keen, brilliant sportsman, a famous shot, a - perfect though reckless rider, standing out in all physical qualities far - above the other men of his type who were his fellow-guests. By them he was - flattered, in an honest British way, his acts were applauded, and his - opinions received with respect. In the slaying of creatures, brute or - human, he was an indubitable authority. And although he was accustomed to - a certain shade of deference from his associates, it never failed to - gratify his somewhat barbarous nature. Much of him had remained - undeveloped. Small things pleased and captivated him. To be the central - figure in this tiny world of sport was unalloyed pleasure to the man of - fierce passions and heroic courage. And the bitter philandering in his - relations with Mrs. Clavering amused, stimulated, irritated, and - fascinated him. In his own way, therefore, he was enjoying himself - exceedingly. Beyond writing Clytie a hurried note on the second day after - his arrival, he scarcely recalled to himself her existence. When he did it - was with petulant annoyance. He wished to God he had not been such a fool - as to marry. And now what the deuce was the point of having children? But - that was his wife's concern after all, for which he cordially thanked the - wise contriver of the human mechanism. - </p> - <p> - Christmas came, was celebrated with much festivity. On Boxing Day there - was a big partridge drive over a distant corner of the estate. It had been - carefully saved for this one day's sport and the birds were accordingly - plentiful. The best portion of it—a field sloping from a ridge and - skirting a pine wood and then merging into a wide gorse-covered pasture - tract—was reserved till after lunch. But the sport was good in the - outlying approaches to this, and it was not without some irritation that - Thornton tore open a telegram which a breathless messenger brought up. It - announced the birth of a son. Thornton went on with the line across the - wet, ploughed fields, but until they halted for lunch luck did not come - his way. - </p> - <p> - Mrs. Clavering and the other ladies had walked over with the - luncheon-baskets. The day was warm and relaxing. They lingered over the - meal longer than they had intended. When a keeper came up and suggested - that if they wanted to shoot the slope before dusk they had better be - starting, the men sprang up in a hurry and betook themselves thither. - Thornton was the extreme man, on the right, near the pine wood, which was - being beaten. His ill-success in the morning had piqued his vanity. He was - not accustomed to be second or third in matters of prowess. After he had - brought down his first brace his whole frame was kindled with the desire - to slay. Even partridges he could not kill calmly. Covey after covey was - driven out of the wood, and as he had the first chance, his bag increased - speedily. They had thus proceeded halfway down the long, straggling slope. - The keeper by Thornton's side had just handed him his gun, and was - watching the wood with intent, outstretched hand. A covey was being - driven. At that moment another messenger, a boy, ran down the slope and - put a telegram into Thornton's hand. With an impatient oath he stuffed it - into the pocket of his shooting-coat, just in time to be able to fire his - two barrels into the whirring flight of birds. The next man to him fired - simultaneously. Two birds fell. The warm dispute that arose caused - Thornton to forget the existence of the telegram in his pocket. And the - continuance of the drive kept his mind entirely from it. - </p> - <p> - But when the party arrived home, and were standing for a moment in the - hall, Mrs. Clavering came up to him and asked whether he had received his - second telegram safely. Then he remembered. He drew it out, read it. - </p> - <p> - “Damn!” he muttered under his breath, and crumpling the flimsy sheet into - a ball, threw it with a gesture of impatience into the fireplace. Then he - turned and talked with Mrs. Clavering until he went upstairs to change. - </p> - <p> - As chance willed, the crumpled telegram had not fallen into the blazing - wood fire, but had struck upon a log and dropped on its unkindled side. - And chance willed that Mrs. Clavering should have noticed this. Women of - her type are cynically unscrupulous. As soon as the hall was clear of men - she picked up the telegram and read it. Her face, which when she was by - herself was somewhat faded, grew a little grayer. She put the telegram in - her pocket. - </p> - <p> - Chance willed also that Thornton and Mrs. Clavering should find themselves - alone for a long spell after dinner in the little withdrawing-room, where - smoking was permitted. Most of the men were tired. One or two of the women - had gone up to their rooms. The rest were playing billiards. Thornton was - in gay spirits, talking recklessly, giving her openings for sarcasms, and - then closing in upon her with a brutality. It was an amusing game. - </p> - <p> - Suddenly she asked him irrelevantly: - </p> - <p> - “When are you going back to London?” - </p> - <p> - “You're a wise woman,” he replied, leaning back in his chair. “But what do - you mean?” - </p> - <p> - “I asked you a question—a simple one. Are you going to London - to-morrow?” - </p> - <p> - “No; why should I?—unless you are getting sentimental over me, and - would prefer the illusion of my absence to the disenchantment of my bodily - presence. If you mean it as a hint, of course I'll go.” - </p> - <p> - “I do mean it as a hint,” she said with a hard kind of drawl. “I didn't - know you were quite such an unreasoning brute. Hadn't it occurred to you - that it was only common decency to go off and help bury your newborn - child?” - </p> - <p> - She rose, and gathering up her skirts, left him before he had time to - recover. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XXI. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>hus it had - happened with Clytie during Thornton's absence. There came a morning at - the end of the Old Year when the snow and sleet dashing against the window - could be dimly heard in the heavily curtained room, and Clytie feebly - whispered: “Give me the child.” Gently they told her that the life had - merely fluttered on the threshold and passed back into the silence whence - it came. And she sank back on her pillows, struck to the heart with a - dumb, hopeless heartsickness. - </p> - <p> - Recovery was slow. Clytie lay for many days quite listless, the tears - rolling down her cheeks, physical weakness aiding to make her feel a great - self-pity. The long waiting, the fear, the pain, all had been counted as - nothing if at the close there could have lain in her arms a little child—one - whose touch would draw all pain from her heart, make her forget every - sorrow. And the passionate child hunger, begotten of the pangs of - maternity, woke within her and cried for satisfaction. - </p> - <p> - The whole weight of the world's misery crushed down upon her. She awoke to - a gray world. Its glory had departed. There was nothing left to live for, - and a great despair came over her. What was the use of dragging out this - broken, colourless existence until the time,—hopelessly remote it - seemed to her, now that the blood ran again strongly through her veins,—should - come for her to die? She passed through the phase common to all strong - natures in supreme moments of weariness, when death seemed the only - solution. One little draught out of a phial, an agonised convulsion, - perhaps, and then eternal nothingness. She did not fear the annihilation - which her materialism had taught her was the end of things. She had no - eschatological sentimentality. But the full-pulsed animal's instinctive - clutching after life held her back; the fit passed off, and she decided to - live through another act of the dreary tragedy. - </p> - <p> - All feelings of tenderness, trust, common confidence in her husband, were - swept away forever. The faintest breath of the old attraction caused her - to shiver with repulsion. Henceforward they were mere acquaintances, who - subsisted from a common fund, lived under the same roof, and performed - certain conventional actions in common, for the sake of their own - relations with a society that demands a certain outward show of harmony - between husband and wife. Thornton had come to town from Hampshire in the - vilest of tempers. For a day or two he positively hated Clytie. Then the - seriousness of her illness had awakened in him a superficial sympathy. But - as soon as she was out of danger he regarded her with cold dislike. She - had abruptly terminated his pleasant holiday. She had gravely endangered - his liaison with the only woman by whom he had been otherwise than purely - sensually attracted, wherein lay an odd fascination, and in thus - compelling him to her side she had sharply reminded him that a married - man, if he wishes to keep in with the world, must not parade himself too - conspicuously as his own master. And Thornton had his own reasons for not - wishing to openly outrage society. - </p> - <p> - As soon as she was able to travel Clytie went to Durdleham, for the first - time since her marriage. The quiet, easy life soothed her for a while. She - was in that condition of hopelessness when inaction seems the highest - good. Mrs. Blather attributed her dejection to the objective cause, and - sympathised with her as one woman can with another, and strove to cheer - her; but still she privately thought this long brooding somewhat morbid. - Clytie always went to extremes. But although she naturally was unconscious - of the subtleties of dreariness in the causation of her sister's state, - she was none the less helpful with her sympathy—and sympathy very - often is all the stronger from the narrowness of the channel in which it - flows. - </p> - <p> - February and March passed in the quiet, monotonous Durdleham way. But as - the spring grew into her blood Clytie felt the tingling of life once - again, and the period of inactivity was over. She was not of the - temperament to sit long with folded hands and lament over the futility of - things. The old restlessness of her girlhood, though strangely modified, - again urged her towards a fuller, more vivid existence. Again she looked - out upon the world and its mysteries with a knowledge begotten of sorrow, - and again vague longings took possession of her. She faced the new - condition of things bravely, resolved to struggle towards a newer, better - content. If the short dream had come true, she would have found happiness - in the guidance of another life; but the high gods had ordained otherwise. - As before her marriage, her only problem was the working out of her own - individuality; for henceforward Thornton would be her husband only in - name. In what direction should she carry herself so as to prevent the - fulfilling of her needs from developing into ignoble egoism? As a girl she - had studied life eagerly, had painted from artistic impulses, from desire - for fame, and from material necessity. Her enthusiasms, the intimacy of - her odd social life with Kent and Winifred, had kept her pure and fresh. - Now all was changed. She was alone. She had learned many things: the touch - of the fire of passion, the taste of the waters of bitterness. Definite - enthusiasms seemed to be wanting; only the artistic impulse urging - creation remained to her—together with mechanical skill. How was she - to occupy her life to a fair and noble purpose? She tried to solve the - problem calmly, was wise enough to smile when she discovered that she - failed. One cannot range a row of potential enthusiasms in front of one, - like oranges, and select in cold blood. So Clytie determined to have faith - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent30"> - “... large in time, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - And that which shapes it to some end.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - As soon as she had arrived at this decision she threw off her moodiness - and became bright again, to the great joy of Mrs. Blather, who was sighing - for her to join in such Easter dissipations as Durdleham society offered. - In obedience to her sister, therefore, Clytie burst upon Durdleham like a - revelation. During her girlhood Durdleham had regarded her as odd, refused - to accept her as conducive to social amenities. Now it worshipped her with - dazzled eyes—the whirligig of time thus bringing in its revenges. - The irony of the position amused her, but at the same time it brought out - in her much that was good and whole-hearted. She saw, perhaps for the - first time, that much of the decorous dulness that had once chafed her to - frenzy proceeded from an almost childlike ignorance of the possibilities - of enjoyment. For a wild moment the idea entered her head to convert - Durdleham to epicureanism. Janet, to whom she confided this visionary - scheme, stared at her open-mouthed, and Clytie burst out into genuine - mirth. Durdleham was willing to be amused, eager to be brightened by a - brilliant woman; but it would not be convinced. It held by its principles, - would not yield an iota in a single formula. Still it could be brought to - treat a paradox as a joke instead of brooding over it with the stolidity - of a hen sitting on a china nest-egg. And that much Clytie did accomplish - during the short season of her social triumph. - </p> - <p> - In the middle of April she was requested by Thornton to return to London. - He had thrown up the private-secretaryship, as his purpose in accepting it - had been already served. By dint of self-assertion he had identified - himself with the non-parliamentary chiefs of the Tory party, and during - the early spring had rendered efficient electioneering services. His - chance of a candidature was therefore only a question of time. But as he - wished to neglect no means of keeping himself in evidence, he still felt - bound to call upon his wife to aid him socially—that is to say, to - preside at his table and receive his guests. This Clytie was not - disinclined to do, especially as his summons was couched in pleasant and - courteous terms. So she bade farewell to Durdleham and returned to London. - </p> - <p> - When her train arrived at Euston she was surprised at seeing Thornton on - the platform. He wore a gray frock-coat with a dark rose in the - buttonhole, and lavender kid gloves. He came forward and greeted her, - raising his hat before he shook hands. - </p> - <p> - “Have you had a tiring journey? You are looking very well. As I was paying - a call near Primrose Hill,—ghastly place to live in, isn't it?—I - thought I might as well pick you up here with the brougham.” - </p> - <p> - “That was very kind of you, Thornton,” she said. - </p> - <p> - They talked of indifferent subjects during the long drive to South - Kensington: the theatres, odds and ends of gossip. When they got home he - accompanied her into the drawing-room and drank a cup of tea. - </p> - <p> - “You're a deuced lovely woman, you know, Clytie,” he said, his great bulk - sprawling over a small drawing-room chair, his hands in his pockets. “I - have half a mind to fall in love with you again. If you had not turned - into absolute ice, perhaps I should. You've got that same devilish - witchery in your skin that made me go wild over you a year ago.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, please don't talk of that, Thornton. It is the past,” she said, with - a tremor. - </p> - <p> - “Well, upon my soul!” he said, gathering himself together. “I don't see - why it might not be the present. I was going to unfold to you a little - scheme by which we might live politely together, but, by Jove! now I look - at you and reflect that you are my wife after all—you're so - gloriously beautiful, Clytie!” - </p> - <p> - He rose, but she was on her feet before him, having sprung up with a - beating heart. She looked at him with a fearful surmise in her glance, and - as he made a stride towards her she recoiled in a terror she had not known - before. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, no, no, no! For God's sake!” she cried, catching at her breath, - instinctively putting out her hands to keep him off. “That is all over. We - loved one another once. A horrible mockery of it is more than I can bear.” - </p> - <p> - “Confound it, Clytie!” he exclaimed, clenching his hands and showing his - teeth, “you're my wife, and, by the Lord! I'll kiss you if I choose!” - </p> - <p> - The flash of his brown eyes that had once overpowered her will now made - her shudder. She stiffened into a woman of iron, with bloodless cheeks. - Standing up perfectly rigid, she closed her eyes, and hung her hands - against her sides. - </p> - <p> - “Kiss me, then, since you claim the right,” she said in a choked voice. - </p> - <p> - For a moment or two he stood looking at her. Then with a loud laugh he - flung himself back in his chair. - </p> - <p> - Clytie with shame and horror in her heart rushed from the room. - </p> - <p> - It was not an encouraging home-coming. The incident, though not repeated, - upset many of her plans for the reconstitution of her existence. It added - a new dread. For she had counted upon the continuance of the entire - indifference with which Thornton had grown to regard her. A sudden - outburst like this had not occurred for many months. What guarantee had - she that this was not the beginning of a series of spasmodic rekindlings - of a fire she had thought dead? For some days anxiety lay heavy on her - mind. But human nature is very elastic; if it were not so, God help us - all! After a while she recovered and was able to talk calmly to Thornton, - who began by treating her with an ironical politeness, and then relapsed - into his usual cheerful indifference. Once while discussing their mutual - relations she broached the subject of separation. - </p> - <p> - “I won't consent,” he replied. “As we can't be lovers, we may as well be - friends. You would gain very little by it. Besides, people would talk, and - for me that is an important consideration.” - </p> - <p> - “It hardly concerns me,” she said, with a touch of cynicism that was new - to her. “Still, if you wish it very much, I will remain.” - </p> - <p> - “I do wish it, Clytie,” he said in a softened voice. “You can go your way, - I will go mine. But we must live together as far as the world sees us.” - </p> - <p> - Clytie yielded with some misgivings, and set herself to work to discover - interests in life. - </p> - <p> - The society life of London, in which she was free to play an important - part, did not satisfy her. She saw too deep below the surface of things to - be guilty of the silly cynicism that finds society hollow, its aims - futile, and its morals corrupt. There is earnestness even among cultivated - men and women. But society is formal, conventional, and in the external - rules of life differs only in degree from Durdleham. True, it has a far - wider intellectual scope. Contrary to Durdleham, it permits the possession - of ideas, but it is just as punctilious as to their correct expression. - The elaborate ceremonial of society weighed upon Clytie. She preferred a - simpler, directer life. There were so many wrappings of convention to be - pierced through before she could get to the heart of a thing or a person, - and they wearied, irritated her. And now, as Thornton seemed to care very - little whether she placed herself in evidence or not, beyond playing the - part of hostess in his house, she consulted merely her own desires in her - acceptance of invitations. But as the circle from which these mainly - proceeded was that into which her husband's reputation, tastes, and - political aspirations had led her, she did not find in it the interests - which particularly affected her. It was beyond her power either to feel or - to simulate an interest in Thornton's ambitions. Nor did she feel called - upon now to profess the tenets of Thornton's political creed. She was a - solitary, unconventional Radical in the midst of the most uncompromising - Torydom, which is an unenviable position even for the least rabid - politician. The political section, therefore, of her social circle she - studiously avoided. The purely fashionable, frivolous element, that goes - to Hurlingham and Ascot, and makes itself merry over material things, had - attracted her the previous year with its graceful epicureanism. She had - still been proud of her husband and his boyish zest in amusement, and she - had caught from him the spirit of laughing Babylon. But now it was pain to - be with him when he chatted and jested with pretty girls and idle young - men. His light-hearted gaiety jarred upon her. She saw that men and women - were affected by his charm, and she had half longings to tell them it was - a lie. So she withdrew herself from their midst as much as possible. By - this process of elimination Clytie's circle became conveniently limited. - She was sick at heart, and she turned more and more to the friends of her - girlhood. - </p> - <p> - Mrs. Farquharson's Sunday evenings became pleasant spots in her barren - week. She went there alone, as in the old days. Nothing was changed there: - the same faces, the same bright, eager talk, the same welcome. Clytie - became her old self, was astonished to find how many enthusiasms she still - retained. She almost forgot that she was married, and had said farewell to - theories of life and such like vanities. Only at times, when her own art - came within the range of a friendly arrow, did she wince and remember with - a pang that Clytie Davenant was dead. Redgrave, whom she occasionally met, - forbore, with a portrait painter's intuitive delicacy, to question her - upon the progress of her art under its new conditions. He divined that his - prophecies had been correct, and he was sad; because he had had great - hopes of Clytie. In a tentative way he spoke of it to Mrs. Farquharson, - who confided to him her own surmises as to the dubious success of the - marriage. Then Redgrave brightened, and declared that there was hope yet. - </p> - <p> - “What do you mean?” cried Caroline with a touch of indignation; whereat - Redgrave smiled in his serene way. - </p> - <p> - “I mean that hitherto she has tried to look at life through her art. Now - she will be able to look at art through her life.” - </p> - <p> - “Then her art will be very feeble and miserable!” - </p> - <p> - “Clytie's life has never been feeble and miserable,” he replied. “I feared - it was going to be so—in a special sense, you know; I feared that - she would be overpowered by the physical element her husband would bring - into her atmosphere, and that she would develop into the fashionable - married woman, and thus, at the same time, suffer in spirituality and lose - her grip upon the subjects that form her artistic range.” - </p> - <p> - “I can't see how an unhappy married life can help her,” said Caroline. “If - such a deterioration is possible, it has taken place already.” - </p> - <p> - “Doubtless it has,” Redgrave replied earnestly. “But it is not final. If - she lives within herself again, she will recover spirituality and grip—both - strengthened by experience and suffering. That is the most precious - knowledge, Mrs. Farquharson, which we have bought with sorrow.” - </p> - <p> - “Then mine must be very worthless,” cried Caroline. “And I'm very glad of - it. I would rather be ignorant and happy than wise and sad. And I could - wish the same for poor Clytie. I can understand the good and beautiful - things of this world as well as most people, but I don't believe in art to - all that extent. I may be a Philistine,—God forbid it, but perhaps I - am,—and I like to see people happy.” - </p> - <p> - “That depends upon what you call happiness,” said Redgrave. - </p> - <p> - But Caroline was not to be led into an argument. She had her views and - expounded them. - </p> - <p> - “I mean common, all-round human happiness,” she said, “that makes you - laugh to yourself when there's no particular reason for it. And I'd sooner - Clytie have that and never touch a brush than paint the most - world-convulsing pictures and be wretched.” - </p> - <p> - “But if she painted world-convulsing pictures, as you call them, she would - be happy—much happier than under the other conditions.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, no, she wouldn't!” she replied, with a conclusive nod. “You are quite - wrong, my dear good friend. It is a secondary consideration to a woman - whether she convulses the world or not. It might amuse and gratify her to - do it <i>en passant</i>, but it is only <i>en passant</i>. Believe me. I - don't give my sex away as a general rule, but I make you a present of - that! So if you're glad,” she added with triumphant feminine logic, “that - Clytie has made an unhappy marriage, I think it is simply detestable of - you!” - </p> - <p> - So Redgrave, routed, retired in confusion; but he took his own ideas with - him. - </p> - <p> - One Sunday evening, early in July, Mrs. Farquharson ran into the room - where Clytie, just arrived, was taking off her wraps. - </p> - <p> - “I have been waiting by the window ever so long, watching for your - carriage. You are quite late. I wanted to see you before you came into the - drawing-room. Who do you think is here? Guess!” - </p> - <p> - Clytie saw at once by Caroline's face. A little thrill of gladness sent - the colour to her cheeks and caused her eyes to sparkle as she paused with - one glove half off and looked quickly at her friend. - </p> - <p> - “Kent?” - </p> - <p> - Caroline nodded, glad at seeing that Clytie was pleased. - </p> - <p> - “I wanted to drop you a line, but how could I on Sunday in this postless - town? George only condescended to tell me last night that he was coming. - If we had as little sense as men, I wonder how on earth we should get on! - He met him out a week ago and persuaded him.” - </p> - <p> - “It will be quite like an old evening, dear,” said Clytie. “I shall be so - glad to see him.” - </p> - <p> - “It is strange you should not have met,” said Caroline; and then she added - reflectively: “Well, perhaps it isn't.” - </p> - <p> - She had her own theories on the subject. And to say a woman has her own - theories is to say a good deal. - </p> - <p> - “But I don't see why he should have let us almost lose sight of him,” she - continued. - </p> - <p> - “What reason does he give?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, the reason that makes one so helpless, you know. A man you like comes - to you and says: 'I have sinned against you without any cause whatever. It - was just my own badness, and nothing else, and now I am humble and - repentant'—and what are you to do but forgive him? He's very - penitent now and vows amendment.” - </p> - <p> - Clytie completed her little toilet arrangements and went downstairs with - Caroline. On their way Caroline asked her where Thornton was. - </p> - <p> - “He's at Goodwood, staying with some people there. He went down yesterday - for the races.” - </p> - <p> - “Wouldn't it have brightened you up to have gone too?” asked Caroline with - deliberate tactlessness, darting a quick feminine side glance. But Clytie - broke into a laugh. - </p> - <p> - “Oh! good gracious, no! I didn't even know he was going till yesterday, - when Roberts asked me about something he was to do during the master's - absence. We are quite old married people now, Caroline, and we each go - more or less our own way. It saves a lot of trouble. You see, he knew I - wouldn't care for Goodwood and the set he's in with there—the - Claverings and such like.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, I think you are better off here,” said Caroline. - </p> - <p> - “I know I am,” replied Clytie, taking her arm. And then they went into the - drawing-room. - </p> - <p> - Clytie's first impulse on entering was to look round for Kent. She met his - eyes fixed upon her from the other side of the rather crowded room, and - she gave him a little nod of greeting. He rose and joined the knot of - people who were surrounding her. Both were self-conscious to the extent of - knowing that, as they had once been a familiar couple in that company, it - would be inexpedient to allow it to be noticed that their meeting was an - event to them. They shook hands, with a friendly commonplace, and joined - in the general conversation. Redgrave, French, the journalist, Mr. - Singleton, Mrs. Tredegar, were there—most of the old faces, a few - new ones. To see Kent's among them was a joy to Clytie. She had never - understood why he had broken from her. Now and then the true solution - passed through her mind, but she rejected it. It was incongruous with his - action. Love begets wants, and it is the nature of man to clamour for - them. This was her hasty conclusion. But she had avoided thinking very - deeply upon the subject, instinctively deeming it wiser to refrain. - </p> - <p> - He had not changed, she thought; and wondered whether he would notice any - change in her. She found herself listening again to him as he talked, in - his downright, earnest way, quickly noting familiar turns of thought and - expression, admiring the thoroughness of his unconventional enthusiasm. - The old contented humility of spirit came back to her. How much more real - than hers was his life! How much she had learned and could learn from him! - And for a short, swift moment the laughter and talk sounded dull in her - ears, and all the objects around, all the faces save one, melted away into - the blue cigarette smoke, and that one face remained—sitting at a - table opposite to her, the lamp between them—and the brows were - intent on the sheet over which a quill pen was scratching assiduously; and - the surroundings shaped themselves into her old rooms in the King's Road. - Then, just as swiftly as it had come, the dream vanished, and Clytie - sighed. The talk languished a little. Kent looked somewhat wistfully at - her. She leaned forward and beckoned him with a smile and a little upward - movement of her chin. - </p> - <p> - “Come down and give me some supper,” she said. “I did not eat anything - before coming out.” - </p> - <p> - “That was foolish of you,” he said involuntarily. - </p> - <p> - Then they both laughed. - </p> - <p> - “You are just the same as ever,” she said. And they went downstairs. - </p> - <p> - It was a tradition in Harley Street that on Sunday evenings a cold supper - should be laid in the dining-room from half-past eight onward, so that - guests could go down whenever it so pleased them. To break up the - continuity of the evening by a formal gathering around a supper table was - opposed to Caroline's notions. Besides, irregularities in meals were one - of the features of the house. You need never be in time, and there was - always food when you wanted it. To the erratic and unregulated visitor it - was paradise. Caroline paid her servants extra wages to insure - satisfaction in this respect. So Clytie's little manouvre was quite in - accordance with the recognised order of things. - </p> - <p> - They found the dining-room unoccupied. She sat down near the end of the - table, while Kent, a little way off, gravely carved some chicken, which he - brought to her together with some salad and a jug of claret-cup. Then he - sat down by her, at the corner. - </p> - <p> - “But aren't you going to eat anything yourself?” she asked, laughing. - </p> - <p> - “I am not hungry.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, that doesn't matter. Do go and get something, to keep me in - countenance. How can I eat when you are sitting watching me like that, - with your elbow on the table?” - </p> - <p> - “I have done it so often before. It seemed natural to sit by you while you - had your meal. I was forgetting. You see my manners have not improved. - However——” - </p> - <p> - He rose for the purpose of helping himself to some food, but Clytie - stopped him, made him sit down again. - </p> - <p> - “There! It was silly of me,” she said. “I did not think of it. Don't be - any different from what you used to be. Let us imagine that this evening - is one of the old Sunday evenings here. Ah! If you only knew how glad I am - to see you. What an eternity it has been since we met.” - </p> - <p> - “Eighteen months,” said Kent laconically. “The longest eighteen months I h - I have ever lived.” - </p> - <p> - “Why?” - </p> - <p> - “Don't you think I have missed you?” - </p> - <p> - “So much as that?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes; so much as that.” - </p> - <p> - “My poor Kent!” said Clytie, troubled. “I wish I could do something for - you.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah, <i>es ist vorbei</i>,” he said, puckering his brows, as he watched - the rings he was making in the damask with an inverted wineglass. Then his - forehead suddenly cleared, and he looked up with his frank laugh. - </p> - <p> - “You see I am just as much of a bear as ever. Instead of telling you what - a delight it is to be with you again, I come to you complaining, and I - ought to have every reason not to rail at fortune.” - </p> - <p> - “You are doing great things, I hear,” said Clytie. “Tell me about them.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, they are neither great nor much worth telling. The <i>opus</i> is - being translated into German, and part of it will be soon published by the - University of Vienna.” - </p> - <p> - “That is a feather in your cap.” - </p> - <p> - “A big one. I don't think I am given to running after notoriety and that - sort of thing, but it is gratifying to be recognised a little. It - encourages one.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah, it does!” said Clytie with more meaning than she intended. - </p> - <p> - “So I have been working away at it harder than ever.” - </p> - <p> - “I wish I had your enthusiasm,” she said. “And your power of work. Do you - remember your lectures?” They talked a little about the old days, half - sadly, half tenderly. Those memories were very pleasant. Then they came - back to the present. - </p> - <p> - “Winnie tells me you are a great man now at the Museum. I am so glad.” - </p> - <p> - Kent waved his hand deprecatingly and laughed. “Winifred is quite an - Iris,” he replied. “For she comes down to earth sometimes and tells me - things about you. Yes, I am quite a man of affluence these days. I am the - head of the department. I have got so much money I don't know what to do - with it.” - </p> - <p> - “I hope you employ some of it in giving yourself proper meals,” said - Clytie. “Or do you still have your extraordinary suppers?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I live just the same,” said Kent. “If I began to be respectable in - one thing, I should gradually become so in all.” - </p> - <p> - “And the rooms are just the same as ever?” - </p> - <p> - “A few more pictures and odds and ends. And I have got a carpet. That's - Wither's doing. He came to see me in the winter and caught a cold, due to - the bare boards, so he said. When he had recovered he made me go and buy a - thick Turkey square. After that I had serious designs of forbidding him - the rooms lest he should turn them into a boudoir altogether.” - </p> - <p> - They laughed over this idea. Clytie asked him whether he still kept the - tripods before the fireplace, and whether the paraffin oil can in the - corner harmonised well with the carpet. It was like a breath of fresh air - to meet Kent again. - </p> - <p> - Suddenly he pointed to her plate. - </p> - <p> - “You are not eating anything.” - </p> - <p> - “I am not hungry,” said Clytie with some demureness. - </p> - <p> - “But if you have not had your evening meal, you'll get faint. What did you - come down for, if you merely wanted to pick at the wing of a chicken and - to put hardly any of it into your mouth?” - </p> - <p> - Then Clytie burst out into merry laughter. He was so downright and honest. - Just the same as ever. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, you foolish Kent! I should have thought even you could have invented - that.” - </p> - <p> - “Did you really want to see me?” he asked, brightening. - </p> - <p> - “Why, of course! Do you suppose I am devoid of human attributes?” - </p> - <p> - This brought them nearer than they had been since the time that Kent - realised he loved her. To Kent this meeting was enchantment. To see her - sitting by him, bright, laughing, her old self, was enough to make him - lose sense of the past eighteen months of hopeless longing. He thought to - himself that it was better she had not learned, since her ignorance gave - him this sweet half hour. - </p> - <p> - “I suppose we must be going upstairs soon,” she said, with a little - wistful wrinkling of her forehead. “When shall I see you again?” - </p> - <p> - Kent started at the question. It troubled him. He did not know what answer - to make. - </p> - <p> - “Within less than another year, I hope,” he said. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, yes, Kent. We mustn't be strangers any more. It's not good for us. - Would you care about seeing me very often?” - </p> - <p> - “I am not coming to call upon you,” he replied bluntly. - </p> - <p> - The actual words were ungracious. But there was a flash of eager longing - in his eyes that lent the words a subtle meaning. And Clytie rose from the - table with a little gasp of pain as the truth burst upon her. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, Kent, Kent!” she cried, greatly moved. - </p> - <p> - Their eyes met, and this time there was no mistake. He knew that she had - guessed. But with a great effort he evaded the appeal. - </p> - <p> - “No; I can't come to your house to see you,” he said huskily. “There you - are Mrs. Hammerdyke, and I shouldn't know you. Your home is full of - interests and associations in which I could only be a stranger and an - intruder. To me you are Clytie, the Clytie whose daily life I used to - share—and only as Clytie can I bear to see you.” - </p> - <p> - “Would it help you to see me as Clytie?” she asked. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, dearly,” he said. - </p> - <p> - “Then you can always come in to the studio when I am with Winifred, and I - shall always be here on Sunday evenings. Don't you think I want to see you - too—as Clytie!” - </p> - <p> - “Thank you. Thank you,” he said in a low voice, taking her hand. “Now it - is time for us to go upstairs.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XXII. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">E</span>ach lay awake that - night, thinking. To Clytie the revelation of Kent's love was dazing. The - sense of her own dulness in never having pierced the heart of his mystery - was even more confounding. Why should she have divined suddenly the - meaning of the light in his eyes, on this first meeting after their - eighteen months of separation, when she had been blind to it before? She - only half guessed as yet why he had not told her, but she saw that it must - have arisen from a rare, strange delicacy in his nature differentiating - him from all other men that she had known. Her heart went out in pity for - him. - </p> - <p> - “How he must have suffered!” she repeated over and over to herself. And - then scenes between them came before her mind and became clear in the - light of this revelation: the strange suppressed interview after her - arrival from Durdleham; the last evening he had spent in London before - going abroad, when he had lit her fire, and she had gone up to bid him - farewell. How had her ears been so dull as not to detect the tremor in his - voice when, after kissing her hand, he had said: “You are my very dear - lady whom I will serve to the hour of my death”? - </p> - <p> - And then a little hissing snake of a thought formed itself into a reply; - and she shrank up together with a slight convulsive shiver as if something - foul had touched her. - </p> - <p> - After that she could not sleep. She got up, lit her candle, and took a - book at random from her shelves. It was her well-worn, girlish Globe - Shakespeare, one of the books she had surreptitiously procured when the - family Bowdler was included in the category of formulas against which she - revolted. She took it back to bed with her and commenced reading where it - had chanced to open. The first words that met her eye seemed like a voice - from the other world: - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Such harmony is in immortal souls; - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - But while this muddy vesture of decay - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Doth grossly clothe it in, we cannot hear it. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - They followed so closely on the track of her own shuddering thought that - she could read no more. She blew out her candle, and remained awake, - staring into the darkness, until the gray dawn filtered through the - blinds, and she fell asleep. - </p> - <p> - Nor was Kent more restful. He had battled with his love, and with a strong - man's will had brought it under subjection, making it minister to his - happiness in spite of torturing longings instead of allowing it to darken - his life. It had awakened him to a sense of a world of beautiful things, - given him a deeper understanding and a wider sympathy than he had before. - For him truly might it be said that to love her was a liberal education. - It gave him the key to the knowledge and appreciation of women, drew him - from his seclusion into the general society he had formerly avoided. A - feminine conclusion which he would once have pooh-poohed as weak and - illogical struck him now with its intuitive subtlety and delicacy of - point. He learned that what the essentially feminine mind lacks in breadth - it gains in fineness, and he was amazed to discover what a sensitive touch - upon life is possessed by a cultivated woman. And mingled with this new - charm was another of an esoteric kind. No woman he met had all the - fascinations of Clytie, but every woman seemed to possess one of them. He - confided this once in a roundabout way to Wither, who laughed, and told - him he was growing too susceptible and would find himself married one of - these days. But Kent shook his head. “I could only find a Clytie among - them by marrying the whole sex and making an extract of it,” he said with - conviction. For not only did the higher qualities of woman's nature - manifest themselves to him, but the minor graces of manner and appearance - appealed to that side of his aesthetic temperament that had hitherto been - under a cloud. It occurred to him then that he had been living with half - his faculties. Accordingly he felt a peculiar satisfaction in his new - powers of perception. - </p> - <p> - It had cost him a pang to forego the pleasure of the bright society that - Mrs. Farquharson gathered round her. At first he had given up going to - Harley Street through fear of meeting Clytie, for he shrank from meeting - her under the new conditions. Then as time passed on, and he accustomed - himself to the idea of Clytie as a married woman of fashion, he wished to - go, but shyness held him back. It would look strange to resume visiting - suddenly after his apparent rudeness and neglect. Probably the Farquharsons - would never have seen him again had not George met him at a learned - society's meeting, and given him a hearty and pressing invitation. - </p> - <p> - But there was a large though somewhat scattered society in which, although - the rarest of visitors, he had always been welcome. And now he not only - mixed assiduously in this, thereby causing many laughing conjectures as to - the reason of his social reformation, but he volunteered occasionally to - go out with Wither, whose circle of acquaintance, like Sam Weller's - knowledge of London, was extensive and peculiar. A revolution was thus - effected in Kent's habits, and to a certain extent in his mode of thought. - A new zest was given to life in this enlargement of his horizon. And all - through his love of Clytie. The awakening of the dormant sex principle had - strengthened his nature, extended his humanity in depth and breadth. In - spite of a hopeless, passionate love Kent was still a happy man. - </p> - <p> - And now this spell of her influence was broken, or at least modified. He - had seen her, felt the softness of her voice, the kindliness of her eyes. - And he had unwittingly betrayed his secret. She knew that he loved her. - She pitied him, promised that he should see her frequently on the basis of - the old friendship. It was kind and generous, he thought, to step down - from the height of her wedded felicity to comfort him with her friendship - and sympathy. An unexpected happiness was in store for him. Perhaps, after - all, his loyalty and devotion might be of some use to her. - </p> - <p> - But strong, loyal man as he was, this sudden meeting troubled him. If only - he had spoken at once, before the other had come upon the scene, she might - have been won to love him. The old torturing regrets came upon him, and he - tossed sleeplessly on his bed. The love which, through its very - hopelessness, had all these months given him peace and a measure of - happiness now burst forth again tumultuously. It became a miserable farce - to lie awake in the darkness. He rose, went into his sitting-room and lit - the gas. Then he sat down at his writing space, and, burying his face in - his hands, remained for some time in great pain of thought. At last his - eye fell upon some notepaper lying invitingly on his blotting-pad. An idea - struck him. He would write to her. He covered four sides with a passionate - outburst of his love, writing wildly, unthinkingly, as men must write in - moments of overpowering emotion. Then he tore up the sheet and began - afresh. The summer morning light was streaming into the room through the - curtainless window, mingling oddly with the yellow gas, when Kent enclosed - and addressed the first letter to Clytie in which he told her of his love. - He got up, stiff from his long sitting and somewhat exhausted, and going - to bed, slept the sleep of the just until it was his usual hour for - rising. - </p> - <p> - The next afternoon when Clytie returned from a drive she found the letter - awaiting her. She took it up to her room, and there, sitting on the edge - of the bed, read it with conflicting feelings. It ran as follows: - </p> - <p> - My Dear Clytie: - </p> - <p> - You know my secret. I think so. I saw it in your face. But if I was - mistaken, let me tell it to you in so many words; and as I bring to you - what is best and truest in me, it will neither dishonour me to tell it nor - you to hear it. And as you in your goodness offer me a resumption of the - old friendship, I must say it once and for all. I love you, Clytie, with - all the strength of a man who has allowed women to take up very little - part in his life. I loved you long before I knew it. It grew up gradually - during our intercourse, and only one day when you were at Durdleham a - little, little chance circumstance revealed to me that you were not only - the grand, sweet friend, but the woman that I passionately loved. And I - could not tell you for fear of paining you and destroying our friendship—for - what was I to love you? And I dreaded lest you should think me disloyal to - the trust between us. And at last I came, resolved to speak, and it was - too late. Winifred can tell you. - </p> - <p> - From that time I have carried my love with me as the vivifying principle - of my life. I thought you would never know, but now I have betrayed - myself. - </p> - <p> - Will it not pain you too much in your present happiness to see me under - this new guise? Ah, Clytie! tell me frankly as you always used to do. - </p> - <p> - I shall never, never willingly trouble the serenity of your life. I love - you too sincerely, too devotedly; and my love makes me myself too happy. - If you will meet me now and again after this, freely, at the houses of our - common friends, you shall only see the old Kent who now and then scolded - you, sometimes helped you, and who always held you dearer and higher and - grander than all other women; and yet you must let yourself be loved—that - I cannot help. It is fused into my being, and it gives me happiness in my - own way. I am an oddity, you know, Clytie, as you yourself have called me, - and oddities have their little privileges, and if you know that it makes - my happiness, and does not grudge you yours, you will not find it hard to - be loved. - </p> - <p> - If you were a woman of ordinary conventional ideas, I could not tell you - this. You would misunderstand it. - </p> - <p> - There seems but little I could do for you—and I would do so much. - But life is full of strange chances, and perhaps my chance of serving you - may come, and would then I could die for you to save you an hour's pain. - </p> - <p> - Yours in all devotion, - </p> - <p> - Kent. - </p> - <p> - Clytie read the letter over several times. At first the tears came into - her eyes and a lump rose in her throat. This simple, unrequiring love - soothed her and smote her at once. The largeness and tenderness of the - man's nature came to her almost as a revelation. What was there in her - worthy of this sacrifice? How could she tell him, she thought in her - broken pride, that she had failed miserably, wretchedly, that she had - forsaken the higher for the lower, that this selfless love of his was as - far above the sudden intoxication that had degraded her as the spirit is - above the flesh? She had thrown away the best, like the shepherd in the - German legend, who, in the sensuous heart-leap at the sight of the - glittering treasure, disregarded the voice, “Forget not the best,” and - dropped and trampled underfoot the little blue flower that opened the - enchanted hillside. How could she tell him that? - </p> - <p> - Then, too, the note of unconscious irony in his letter jarred through her - painfully. “Her present happiness!” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, my God!” she cried at last. “If he only knew how much need I have of - happiness!” - </p> - <p> - And then the strength that had kept the tears back for all these latter - months of weariness and disillusion suddenly forsook her, and turning as - she sat, she threw herself on the bed in a great agony of sobbing. - </p> - <p> - A little later she wrote Kent the following reply: - </p> - <p> - My Dear Friend Kent: - </p> - <p> - I am not worthy of such devotion. I can only wonder at it and accept it - humbly and gratefully. Words like these of yours I never could - misunderstand, Kent. If it is a pleasure to you to see me, you need not - shun me any more. Clytie. - </p> - <p> - Kent went into the studio on Monday to tell Winifred of the meeting; on - Tuesday, with a vague hope of seeing Clytie; on Wednesday, when Winifred - herself expected her, but she did not come. On Thursday, however, he heard - her voice from outside the studio door, and his heart gave a great throb. - He entered and found himself once more in her presence. Neither spoke of - the letters that had passed between them, but the faintest pressure of the - hand and a glance from her eyes told him that she understood. - </p> - <p> - After that they met frequently—on Sunday evenings at the - Farquharsons', during the week in the studio, where for some months Clytie - had taken to coming very frequently for the comfort of seeing Winifred. - Clytie maintained her usual habits; Kent, as far as was possible, resumed - his old ones. Sometimes it was strangely like the old days. With a little - longing, perhaps, to add to the illusion, and also to give herself some - employment while Winifred worked, Clytie began a picture, choosing in a - humorous tenderness to take Winnie as her model. The picture never was - completed, for Clytie had not the temperament to do justice to the slender - figure in its quiet summer dress, and to the soft, dark face bent so - earnestly over the palette and sheaf of brushes. But while the painting of - it lasted it gave a comfortable air of reality to the revival. It was new - life to Kent to come in on his return and once more receive Clytie's - friendly nod as she stood by the easel, a painting-apron over her dainty - dress, and her hands smudged with charcoal or daubs of paint. He did not - think much of the portrait, and he told her so with laughing frankness. - But he divined why she was doing it, and while criticising, encouraged her - to proceed. His arrival, however, as it always had been, was a signal for - the cessation of work. Then Winifred cleaned the brushes and put them in - the trays, and gathered up the tubes and rags which Clytie, with less - sense of tidiness, had strewed around her, and Clytie drew out the - basket-table and rang the bell for Mrs. Gurkins to bring up the tea. - Clytie had left behind her all her small domestic articles for Winnie's - use in the studio. So there was the familiar tea-service, the Crown-Derby - cups and apostle spoons,—a piece of wicked extravagance on Clytie's - part in times gone by,—the gray Japanese teapot whose wicker handle - had still to be delicately fingered, and the little glass sugar-bowl that - looked so plebeian beside the aristocratic porcelain. Scarcely anything in - the studio had been changed. The charcoal caricatures on the walls were as - sacred in Winifred's eyes as if they had been frescoes by old Italian - masters, and she had issued strict injunctions to spring-cleaners to leave - them intact. Even Clytie's easel was there now. Kent lived for these - afternoons. - </p> - <p> - One day Kent was going to dine with Wither and Fairfax. As his road to a - certain point was the same as Clytie's, they walked along together. This - was almost the first occasion on which they were quite alone together. He - reminded her casually of the fact. - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” she replied. “And I have been wanting to see you by yourself. I - have not thanked you for your letter. But you do see that I appreciate it, - don't you?” - </p> - <p> - “There is nothing to thank me for, since I pleased myself in writing it. - The thanks are from me to you for treating it as you have done.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, no,” said Clytie, shaking her head and looking before her. “You can't - understand,—and perhaps it is better you shouldn't,—what a - letter like that means to a woman. Well, it meant a great deal to me. To - tell you so is the only return I can make you.” - </p> - <p> - “Don't let us talk of it,” said Kent. “I could not bear to have you as a - friend under false pretences.” - </p> - <p> - After they had walked a few steps in silence she continued the subject. - </p> - <p> - “Don't you think it would be better for you to forget all about me, and - look around for someone who can make you happy—really happy?” - </p> - <p> - “I'd have to live till the day of judgment to find her,” said Kent - bluntly. - </p> - <p> - “That's ridiculous, Kent. But can't you feel that it sometimes pains me to - see you sacrificing your life for me?” - </p> - <p> - “I am not sacrificing my life,” he answered cheerfully. “Besides, I don't - quite see what it has got to do with you—in one sense. I love you, - and I couldn't love anybody else for all the joys in creation. Thank God, - you are broad-minded enough to let me tell you this without any chance of - misconstruction.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah! That's all very well,” she said, with a little sigh. “If I were a - saint, I might placidly accept it as my due. Being only a woman, and that - none of the best, it seems such a waste of good love, Kent, and love is a - rare, rare thing in the world.” - </p> - <p> - “But it would go a-begging if you did not have it,” he replied, laughing. - “Come, don't let us say anything more about it. You are happy with your - own home and interests, and I am happy in seeing you and having your - friendship. Of course I have suffered a bit, but it's all over now.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah!” she said. “Life seems to be made up of that.” - </p> - <p> - “Of what?” - </p> - <p> - “Suffering.” - </p> - <p> - He waved an energetic protest with his ash stick. - </p> - <p> - “Since when have <i>you</i> grown a pessimist? I don't believe in it. Life - is made up of responsibilities and interests. There's suffering in it of - course; but there are alleviations. It's like cold and frost. If you stood - up without a rag on in the snow you'd think the world was made of nothing - else but frost. But you put on warm clothing and defy it.” - </p> - <p> - “But the poor, ill-clad, shivering wretches—what about them?” - </p> - <p> - “I'm talking of people with average material wealth,” he replied. “That's - just it. So can the people of ordinary moral wealth clothe themselves - against suffering. I don't like the morbid view of things. It doesn't do - any good. Do you remember a passage in Longfellow's 'Hyperion'—a - criticism of two German poets—'melancholy gentlemen to whom life was - only a dismal swamp, upon whose margin they walked with cambric - handkerchiefs in their hands, sobbing and sighing, and making signals to - Death to come and ferry them over the lake'? It's a bit fierce on your - pessimists; but it's a wholesome little passage to remember.” - </p> - <p> - A little while after this they parted. Kent walked on, swinging his stick, - convinced of Clytie's happiness, yet wondering at her unusual note of - pessimism, and Clytie called a cab, as she was late, and drove home with a - world of strange and troubling thoughts. - </p> - <p> - On the 1st of August Clytie received a visit from the boy Jack, who had - just come to London for his summer holiday. He had grown greatly during - the past year, had filled out. The taint of the street had gone from him - and he was becoming civilised. Clytie leaned back in her chair and looked - at him curiously as he sat, in all the self-consciousness of a newly - awakened sense of propriety, upon the edge of his seat, twirling his - glengarry cap. As an artistic object he had deteriorated. The motive of - his worth in that respect had gone with the picturesqueness of his old - garments and dirt and wild elf locks; but he was handsome in spite of his - cropped brown hair and the severity of his attire. Indeed there was - something incongruous in the corduroy uniform and the refinement of his - face, with its bright dark eyes and finely cut lips that disclosed a - perfect row of white, even teeth. And yet there was cruelty around the - mouth, the sublimated essence of the fierce savagery that Clytie had - impressed upon her famous picture. He had been transformed from the animal - into the human being, it is true; but that does not necessarily imply that - the human being does not retain many of the passions of the animal. With - the old Jack the untamable was degradingly confused with lowness, but it - shone out all the clearer now by reason of the humanising of his face. - Clytie noted all this as they talked together. - </p> - <p> - “You are getting quite a man,” she said. “When are you leaving school?” - </p> - <p> - “Mr. Kent says I'm to stay there another year,” replied Jack. “Then I'm to - be 'prenticed.” - </p> - <p> - “To a joiner?” - </p> - <p> - “I suppose so,” said Jack. And after he had scraped a little with his toe - on the ground he looked up and added: “Do you think I needn't be a joiner - if I didn't want to?” - </p> - <p> - “I don't see why you shouldn't be what you like, Jack.” - </p> - <p> - “Really!” and his face brightened. “I have been thinking I should like to - be something else.” - </p> - <p> - “What is that?” - </p> - <p> - “A carver and gilder,” said Jack bashfully. - </p> - <p> - “Where do the especial charms of that trade come in?” asked Clytie, - laughing. - </p> - <p> - “I dunno,” said Jack; “I only thought it.” - </p> - <p> - There was a touch of pique in his voice. Clytie noticed it, saw that she - had wounded susceptibilities. - </p> - <p> - “Tell me, Jack, why you want to be a carver and gilder.” - </p> - <p> - “I could make all the picture-frames for you and Miss Marchpane,” he - replied. - </p> - <p> - “Thank you, Jack,” said Clytie, touched at the boyish idea. “But perhaps - we'll make you something better than a carver or gilder. I don't know what - you could be. What could we make of you?” - </p> - <p> - A vague idea of raising Jack above the artisan level had occurred to her - during her scrutiny of his face. He was not an ordinary creature. That he - should spend his life in the dull, commonplace atmosphere of the British - workman seemed a waste of possibilities. There are millions who possess - just the qualifications for hewers of wood and drawers of water. Why - should a finer organisation not be cultivated, trained, put into an - environment where there are conditions for free development? But whether - the boy was a potential admiral, Lord Chancellor, or novelist she could - not determine. That was why she asked the question, “What could we make of - you?” somewhat pathetically. Jack shook his head in reply. He had learned - at school that life was a serious thing terminating in apprenticeship. - </p> - <p> - “I've got to learn a trade,” he replied after a little, “and I'd sooner be - a carver and gilder than anything else.” - </p> - <p> - “But suppose a good fairy were to come, Jack,” persisted Clytie, “and say - that you were not to learn a trade, or that, if you did begin, you would - work your way out of it, and become a great man, and do glorious things in - the world—suppose you were able to choose to be anything you liked—what - do you think you would be? Tell me—something great and bright and - noble!” - </p> - <p> - She had grown animated with her enthusiasm, and leaned forward, with her - chin raised and lips parted—her attitude in moments of exaltation. - The boy looked at her for a few seconds, catching her spirit. Something - was at work within him too, for his eyes glowed, and his breath came - quickly. - </p> - <p> - “There is something, Jack. Tell me what it is!” - </p> - <p> - “I'd like to be a soldier like my father,” he said in a low voice, the - extravagant, glowing fancies that had haunted him for six months thus - finding half-choked expression. - </p> - <p> - “Your father?” asked Clytie, taken aback, and diverging into the side - track of her astonishment. “I never knew you had—I mean, I thought - you did not know anything at all about him. You used not to tell me the - truth, then, Jack.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh! but I did not know then!” he cried eagerly. “It was only when I come - here at Christmas, and you was ill, so I couldn't tell you. He was a - soldier, my father, an orficer. And I would like to be an orficer too.” - </p> - <p> - “Really, Jack, this is very interesting,” said Clytie. “Aren't you pleased - to have a father you can be proud of? Was he a very brave man?” - </p> - <p> - “He had a sword,” said Jack proudly, as if that was proof positive of - valour. - </p> - <p> - “Come and sit down in your old place on the hearthrug and tell me all - about him.” - </p> - <p> - The boy did as he was bidden, sinking somewhat shyly at first on to the - great bearskin at Clytie's feet. But after a while he huddled himself up - in his old posture. - </p> - <p> - “Mother didn't tell me much,” he said in answer to a question of Clytie's. - “I was looking in a chest of drawers of mother's, and I see a photograph—an - orficer—all over strings and buttons and a sword and great big - moustaches. And I come to mother and says: 'Who's this?' and she says: - 'That's your father.' And then she snatched it out of my hand and hit me a - clout on the head for going to her drawer. She wouldn't tell me no mere; - but I know he was an orficer because he's got a star on his collar. I - think I knows orficers when I sees them,” he added, with the ci-devant - street urchin's knowledge of life. “And I go and look at him now when - mother isn't by.” - </p> - <p> - “But you shouldn't go to your mother's private drawers,” said Clytie by - way of moral precept. - </p> - <p> - “I've got as much right to look at my father as she has,” replied Jack in - an injured tone, whereat Clytie laughed a little. - </p> - <p> - “You are an odd youth. I wish I could make you an officer right away. But - I am afraid I can't.” - </p> - <p> - “I believe you could,” said Jack. - </p> - <p> - There was a world of childish faith in the remark and the manner in which - it was delivered. Clytie was both touched and saddened. She regretted that - she had raised hopes in the boy that from the nature of things were doomed - to disappointment. The overpowering difficulties in the way of her sudden - visionary aspirations for Jack's future ranged themselves before her mind. - So it was with a sigh she answered his outburst of faith. - </p> - <p> - “I am afraid I can't, Jack,” she repeated. “But you yourself can do a - great deal. If you like, one of these days when you are much older, you - can enlist in the army, and then throw your soul into your duties, and - keep before you at every minute of the day the words, 'I am going to be an - officer,' and if you do this intensely, and never lose sight of it, you - will succeed. That's the only way. They call it getting a commission - through the ranks. But between now and then there are a great many years, - and I'll do all I can for you, Jack. Yet, perhaps, after all, you'd be a - happier and more useful man as a carver and gilder. Who knows!” - </p> - <p> - Jack did not heed the pessimism of the peroration. His mind was aflame - with the possibilities of becoming an officer and he took his leave in - high spirits. - </p> - <p> - Clytie sat for a little musing over the solution of the problem that had - troubled her in the first days of her acquaintance with Jack. She was - gratified at her intuitions having proved correct. But there was still - much that was dark to her. The physiological side of the question, - however, was shadowed at present by more practical considerations. Why - could she not find a means of giving Jack a chance in life? She looked - ahead at the years to come, as she often had done since that dark December - morning, and a pain came at her heart as she beheld their blankness. And - now fate had thrown across her path this drifting spar of humanity. Jack - was hers if she chose to claim him. No one would dispute with her the - privilege. - </p> - <p> - After luncheon she walked to the King's Road and sat with Winifred, in the - hope that Kent would look in on his way upstairs. She wanted to take - counsel with him. His sturdy common sense would help her. She did not - confide her vague scheme to Winifred, because Winifred would have called - her a darling, and put her arms round her neck, and made her feel as if - she were meditating something peculiarly noble. So she waited for Kent's - sobering presence. - </p> - <p> - He came in at his customary hour, bearing a paper bag of peaches which he - had brought for Winifred. He had carried them from some distance through - the streets, and there were little wet stains on the paper. But when the - fruit was put on a plate beside the bread and butter on a flap of the - wickerwork afternoon tea table it looked fresh and inviting. This sudden - return of their old intimacy was delightful to all three of them, and they - chatted during tea as if nothing had happened to break it. - </p> - <p> - Then Clytie propounded her case, and they formed themselves into a - committee to consider it. - </p> - <p> - “I don't like social experiments,” said Kent. “It's constituting one's - self a Providence without Providence's resources. If one bit of the - machinery fails, the whole thing is apt to go wrong.” - </p> - <p> - “But I don't want to experiment!” cried Clytie. “It's quite wicked of you - to say so.” - </p> - <p> - “How can it be otherwise?” asked Kent. “You want to put an industrial - school boy of the most unconventional type and upbringing into the most - caste-bound, conventional profession under the sun. It's like putting a - bit of metallic sodium into water. A pretty experiment, though rather - common; but the result is an explosion.” - </p> - <p> - “But he must be trained and made a gentleman first,” cried Winifred, - coming to Clytie's assistance. - </p> - <p> - “Of course,” said Clytie. “Should he ever be able to get into the army, he - will be by that time quite a different being to what he is now.” - </p> - <p> - “Then you'll have to give him a rigid, conventional training, and so spoil - him,” said Kent. - </p> - <p> - “It wouldn't spoil him to learn to speak the Queen's English and the use - of his knife and, fork,” said Clytie a little defiantly. - </p> - <p> - “He'd have to learn more than that. Besides, how is he to be taught?” - </p> - <p> - “That's what I've come to you for advice about.” - </p> - <p> - Kent mused for a moment and stroked his beard. - </p> - <p> - “Are you very much bent upon this?” he asked. - </p> - <p> - “Yes.” - </p> - <p> - “Then I can only see one way.” - </p> - <p> - “Well—and that?” - </p> - <p> - “Adopt him,” said Kent. “An industrial school boy can be run by a - committee—the experiment is not very dangerous, but a conventional - gentleman must have conventional references.” - </p> - <p> - His first words struck the chord she had shrunk from striking herself. It - was the formulated suggestion of a vague desire. She was silent for a - little. Then Winifred in response to a business summons went out on to the - landing, and Kent and Clytie were left alone. - </p> - <p> - “I am afraid I have been too downright and have hurt you,” he said - concernedly. - </p> - <p> - She shook her head and glanced at him smilingly. - </p> - <p> - “I came to you for common sense. You have given it me. And your conclusion - is one that I dared not come to myself.” - </p> - <p> - “That you should adopt him? A <i>reductio ad absurdum!</i>” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, I feel it. I am not my own mistress now There are difficulties. Oh, - Kent, don't let me talk of them! You see, I came to you for help—to - no one else.” - </p> - <p> - “I don't quite understand you, Clytie,” said Kent, anxious at her sudden - agitation. - </p> - <p> - She recovered herself, womanlike, and forced a laugh. - </p> - <p> - “If I were a rich, lonely old woman, I might be able,” she said, “but, you - see, I'm not. No, no, I can't adopt Jack; and we'll have to run him by a - committee, whatever happens to him.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, what have you decided?” asked Winifred, coming into the room. - </p> - <p> - “That it will be fairer to Jack to let him work out his own salvation,” - said Kent. “Let him work his way through the ranks. If there is anything - in him it will come out. You don't think me unkind, do you, Clytie?” - </p> - <p> - Whereat Clytie laughed honestly and Kent received much consolation. - </p> - <p> - They talked a little longer, on indifferent subjects, and then at - Winifred's hour of departure they all rose together. Winifred went to the - back of the studio and put on her hat; Clytie and Kent moved slowly in the - direction of the door. Kent sighed a little. - </p> - <p> - “I only seem to have seen you for five minutes,” he said, “and I have told - you nothing, but given you commonplace advice.” - </p> - <p> - “Had you so much to tell me?” she asked, smiling, as his unformulated wish - echoed within herself. “There is no reason for us to go away because - Winifred does. Would you really like to stay a little and talk to me?” - </p> - <p> - Before Kent spoke Clytie had not the faintest thought of doing this. But - in a flash came before her the long evening she was to spend in the great - lonely house. Thornton rarely came home for dinner. He even dressed at his - club. Often he slept there. On such occasions the first notice Clytie - received of his absence was from the inscrutable butler, who would come - into the studio in the morning with: “The commissionnaire for master's - letters, ma'am.” Occasionally three days passed without their meeting. - When they did pass an hour in each other's company sometimes there was - calm and sometimes storm. It depended upon his mood. As a general rule he - was polite, even bright and entertaining, and life with him under these - conditions was just bearable. But now the thought came with some - bitterness: What did it matter whether she was at home by seven or eight—or - twelve, for that matter? Why should she not have a cheery hour with Kent? - </p> - <p> - His face brightened as she made her smiling offer to stay. - </p> - <p> - “It is too good of you. Of course I should like to have a talk with you. - But you—can you——” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, yes,” she interrupted lightly. “I am not due home at any hour. I want - to chat with you myself. Winnie dear, we are going to remain a little. - Give me the key and I'll hand it to Mrs. Gurkins as I go down. I haven't - asked you, but I suppose we can?” - </p> - <p> - “Why, of course, darling,” said Winnie, coming up and giving her a - farewell kiss. “I hate to think the studio isn't yours.” - </p> - <p> - So Winifred went away and they remained as in the old days. The sudden - association gave Clytie a pang. A reaction from her enthusiasm about Jack - to weariness of spirit made her sink back listlessly in her chair. - </p> - <p> - “What is the matter?” asked Kent, filling his pipe. “You are not looking - yourself. It is this steaming London. Why don't you go and get some - country air?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, one place is just the same as another. It isn't London and it isn't - the weather. It is the world that is out of joint, somehow. I am afraid I - have been moping. I think I shall invest in a cat. Then I can pour out my - grievances to it. That's the best of a cat: it never mopes. It goes on - purring cheerfully so long as it's warm and well fed, and when you feel - paradoxical it never worries you to explain yourself. Do you like cats? I - forget.” - </p> - <p> - “What are you moping about?” he asked between the first few puffs of his - kindling pipe. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, don't talk in that aggressively cheerful tone, Kent. I have come on - all over moods, and I want comforting.” - </p> - <p> - “You should work,” replied Kent with some self-restraint. “You have hardly - touched a brush in earnest this year. It is the claims of that part of - your nature that cry out if they are not satisfied. Why don't you go on - painting? What has the fact of your not having to make your living got to - do with your art?” - </p> - <p> - “Everything, in a way,” she murmured. - </p> - <p> - “I can't believe it,” said Kent earnestly. “You are not the woman to - neglect your art out of pure idleness. Come, Clytie, rouse yourself and - paint a great picture. The 'Faustina'—what has become of that?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, don't, don't!” she cried, putting her hands up before her face. “I - can't do that now—can't think of it. Years hence, perhaps, when I am - a middle-aged woman, if I find it good enough to live till then, I may try—but - not now.” - </p> - <p> - Kent laid down his pipe and drew his chair near to her. He was pained and - troubled. He saw that her nerves were a little unstrung; but the Clytie he - knew was the last woman in the world to give way to attacks of this kind. - And then a dreary conjecture dawned upon him, and his heart sank. - </p> - <p> - “My poor Clytie!” he said in his kind way. “You seem unhappy. I wish I - could do something to help you.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah! it's too late now,” she said impulsively, scarcely heeding the - purport of her words. “You might have done it eighteen months ago—if - you had not been quixotic.” - </p> - <p> - “What do you mean?” he asked, more and more troubled and at fault. - “Eighteen months ago? How could I have helped you? I loved you and hid it - from you. I could only have caused you pain. I love you now. I don't hide - it. Why should I? I am ready to help you if I can. I am stronger, wiser - now than I was then. How could I have helped you then?” - </p> - <p> - The simplicity of his short, reiterative sentences and the sincerity of - his tone went to her heart, “You could have helped me then by not hiding - it.” - </p> - <p> - “I don't understand,” he said. “How could the knowledge that I loved you - have helped you, unless you cared for me?” - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps I might have cared for you,” she said wearily. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, God, Clytie! don't say that. It is cruel!” he cried, starting to his - feet in great agitation. “I know I acted like a fool, but it was with true - motives. Don't twit me with them. It is more than I can bear.” - </p> - <p> - Only then did Clytie clearly realise what she had been saying. The fit of - supreme dejection passed off as suddenly as it had come, and she felt - keenly the justice of his words. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, Kent, Kent, forgive me!” she cried, with starting tears. “I hardly - knew what I was saying. You are so noble and true-hearted that you must - forgive me. Sometimes when a woman is wretched she has not control over - herself, and I am sometimes very, very wretched, Kent. I was thinking of - myself more than of you when I said the thing that pained you. Tell me - that you forgive me.” - </p> - <p> - The appeal was too human, too unreserved, to be rejected by Kent's tender - nature. He sat down again by her and took her hand and kissed it gently. - </p> - <p> - “I have never seen you like this before,” he said. “I wish I could comfort - you.” - </p> - <p> - He knew that it was no passing irritation or weariness that forced the - confession from Clytie's proud nature. It was something deep and final—something - impossible in her married life. Her wretchedness made him forget his own - longing in the desire to be of use to her and lighten her lot. He let go - her hand, which she allowed to lie on her lap as it fell, with the palms - lightly upwards. - </p> - <p> - “I don't know why I have told you this to-day,” she said, not meeting his - eyes. “I have never breathed it or hinted it to a living being, and it - came upon me unawares. Don't despise me, Kent.” - </p> - <p> - “Clytie!” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, yes. I know what any outsider would say. I was posing as the <i>femme - incomprise</i>. I was casting away my womanly pride. Of all persons in the - world <i>you</i> ought not to have been my confidant. Judged by - conventional canons I am to be despised, for what can the world say of a - woman who tells a man that still loves her that she regrets she did not - marry him? Oh, don't interrupt me. I may as well speak out my true self - once and for all to you. You yourself once remarked that if we were - superior to conventionalities of habit, we ought to extend our - unconventionalities to sentiment. You are loyal and staunch. You can help - me by being my friend, for I have no one else to turn to. My life is a - dreary mistake. My art does not satisfy me, because I have no hopes. One - must have enthusiasms to be an artist, and all mine are dead. Now you - know.” - </p> - <p> - There was a certain fierce pleasure in this self-abasement. It was like - the vengeance of her higher nature upon her lower, the whip of scorn - applied by the spirit to the flesh. - </p> - <p> - He did not answer, but looked at her with inexpressible sadness in his - eyes. She added a few more words. - </p> - <p> - “If you despise me for telling you, let me know at once. It would be - better.” - </p> - <p> - “God forbid!” he said in a low voice. “I shall never apply to you the - conventional canons of misjudgment. I take what you have said to me as a - sacred trust, and thank you from my heart for thinking well enough of me - to give me your confidence. You must never ask me such a question again, - Clytie, for it would wound me.” - </p> - <p> - “I believe you, Kent,” she said, raising her eyes to his in her frank - manner. “And I was wrong to say you <i>might</i> have helped me, for you - can now. And you will?” - </p> - <p> - “With my last breath,” said Kent simply. “It has been the torturing regret - of the last eighteen months that, much as I wished, I could never do a - hand's turn for you.” - </p> - <p> - “But what can I do for you in repayment, my poor Kent?” - </p> - <p> - “Be your own bright, eager self again. Throw yourself into your painting, - and the result I will take as my reward. It will be my influence gleaming - through your genius, and it will be sweet to me. Oh, Clytie! you are - wrong. A life is seldom so wrecked that it cannot be reconstructed, for - that implies the utter loss of faith. A grain of faith in anything can - move mountains; if one hasn't it, then it is time to put an end to life - altogether, it becomes one's duty not to live.” - </p> - <p> - “I came within an ace of that at the beginning of the year,” said Clytie, - with a sad retrospective smile. “Some time I may tell you why. I thought - of dying, but then it seemed cowardly. Perhaps it was I had more curiosity - to go on seeing how the world went on than I was aware of. And now, Kent, - you have put things in a new light before me, and how can I thank you for - all your goodness?” - </p> - <p> - “I have told you,” he replied, with a smile. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XXIV. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he next morning, - after writing her letters and attending to her household duties, Clytie - went into her studio with the praiseworthy intention of stimulating the - artistic impulse that had been flagging for so long. Kent was right, she - thought. Her life could be reconstructed. She would begin her laborious - art life again, resume it seriously as a profession, put her pictures into - the market once more. Amid the many confusing thoughts and emotions - resulting from her conversation with Kent, one idea had sprung in - connection with Jack. She could not adopt the boy. That was a wild - feminine craving, somewhat selfish, springing out of a bitter hour when - fairer hopes were crushed. It cost her a sigh to resign; but she trusted - to Kent's judgment, and her mind was so far at rest. Yet if it could lie - in her power to help Jack materially in after years, when a little capital - would be worth all the world to him, she felt that she would have wrought - some good for one human creature at least in her somewhat self-centred - life. And then Kent's advice as to her art mingled and combined with these - thoughts, and the outcome was the sudden idea that the proceeds of the - sale of her pictures would, in course of time, form a very considerable - fund. She clapped her hands with delight when this occurred to her. A - mountain of weariness seemed removed. In the spontaneity of new workings - she scribbled a hasty line to Kent and had it posted with the address - scarcely dry. - </p> - <p> - “I am going to paint <i>seriously</i>, and <i>sell</i> my pictures, and - devote the proceeds to a fund for Jack. Shall I?” - </p> - <p> - She was in bright spirits this morning, having discovered an object in - life. The future has generally much more to do with our present moods than - the past. Yet, notwithstanding this broad truth, the immediate past had a - certain influence on Clytie's humour. Whilst she was driving home the - afternoon before, the gravity of the fact of her confession to Kent had - somewhat weighed upon her. She had spent the lonely evening grappling with - a truth that had been taking half-reluctant shape in her consciousness for - the last two months, and now rose clear and sharply defined. She had even - written to Kent the following portion of a letter which she straightway - tore up into the finest of pieces. In fact her intention of sending it to - him was from the first of the very remotest. “My dear Kent,” ran this - singularly feminine effusion. “My words to-day were true. If you had told - me you loved me eighteen months ago, I should have realised myself and - what it was that I felt towards you. The knowledge of her own heart does - not come to a woman with the easy grace that your sentimentalists make - out. It is somewhat of a fierce process, Kent. There is no royal road to - it. Well, I know my own heart now, and I have bought the knowledge with - agonies of suffering. Oh, Kent, my true, loyal Kent! I am tired, tired of - hiding facts from myself, of acting in a wilful dream, in defiance of the - promptings of my reason. I am a woman, and I ought not to confess things - to myself, let alone to you. So people say—and people are so wise, - aren't they? I love you, Kent. There, I write it down in black and white. - It looks odd, grotesque, horrible, and yet wonderfully comforting. I love - you, Kent. Why should I deceive myself any longer? God knows whether it is - for my happiness in the future or my misery; but now that the beauty of it - is upon me it makes me wonderfully happy. Yes, wonderfully, wonderfully, - wonderfully happy.” - </p> - <p> - And then she threw down her pen and shredded the paper with frenzied zeal. - But her heart was lighter. The world seemed a clearer, pleasanter place. - Her cheeks burned like fire at the thought of Kent ever knowing of this - feeling. She arranged in her mind the tenderest and most elusive of - relations between Kent and herself. He, a declared lover, should give her - all the comfort and kind counsel of a friend; she, his declared friend, - would find delicate, subtle ways of colouring and softening his life with - her love. A new paradise of exquisite emotion opened its evanescent - portals. For the first time in her life came the romance of delicate - sentiment, tinged with an innocent pink like the buds in spring. It is - true these same buds, to continue the analogy, burst into gorgeous, - riotous bloom under the summer sun; but while the tenderer air of spring - keeps them closed they have a grace peculiarly their own. - </p> - <p> - Clytie moved about the studio singing, a sign with her of great content. - The window was open and the morning sun streamed in, filling the large and - somewhat heavily tapestried room with gay light. It glorified Clytie as - she passed across the patch of sunlight, falling upon her hair in a - thousand scintillations and revealing the deep sea-blue of her eyes. She - wore a soft cream morning gown, a golden tasselled girdle round her waist, - an edging of old lace round the somewhat open neck. The wide, drooping - sleeves she had caught up a little for convenience in working, and her - arms were bare to the elbow. The skirt clung around her as she walked - quickly about the room, with her old elastic tread, making a soft - frou-frou that pleased her, she did not know why. She was happy again, - filled with a double sense of the meaning of life. At last she sat down - before a small easel, on which was put the board with its fair sheet of - Whatman paper ready for the first sketch. In her rapid, eager way she - commenced to indicate the motive of the picture that had flashed like an - inspiration upon her. In the middle distance on the left a pair of lovers, - the woman looking with upturned face at the man, whose arm was round her - waist. In the foreground, peeping at them from behind a clump of bushes, a - girl of about seventeen, with a letter in her hand. The contrast between - the two female faces was the motive—the fulfilment of knowledge on - the one, the dawning revelation on the other. The title had come with the - conception: “Maiden and Woman.” Clytie worked on steadily with her <i>ébauche</i>, - keen, sure of herself, tingling once again with the excitement of - inspiration. She knew she could put that in their faces which would raise - the picture above the narrative prettiness of Sant and his school. The - accessories were to be severe to austerity. No elaborate detail in tree - painting, no subtle effects of light and shade. The principle of - abstraction to be as uncompromisingly carried out as in one of Seymour - Haden's etchings. The whole artistic force of the picture was to be - concentrated in the awakened and awakening souls. - </p> - <p> - She was absorbed in her work when, after a tap at the door, Jack came in. - Clytie looked up with a smile. - </p> - <p> - “You here again, Jack! That is good of you. But I can't say a word to you—positively. - I am so busy. Sit down somewhere until I have finished.” - </p> - <p> - The boy, used to these fits of absorption in his two artist patronesses, - sat down for a little and let his eyes wander round the studio, looking at - the pictures and nicknacks. Then he got up to make a closer examination of - vases and photographs, and walked about on tiptoe, trying to still the - noise of his iron-shod boots against the hard, polished floor. At last he - discovered on the bookshelves an illustrated History of England, with - which he retired to his favourite place on the hearthrug. And so they - remained for half an hour without saying a word—Clytie bending over - her study, Jack curled up with his picture-book. It was quite still. A - stray bumble-bee looked in now and then at the window, buzzing - querulously, as if he had lost his way in London, and then darted off - again. From the servants' hall came the just perceptible voice of one of - the maids singing a hymn-tune, and from far, far away came the tinkling - treble of a piano-organ. And these few sounds, so faint yet so clear, - accentuated the summer stillness. - </p> - <p> - When Clytie had put the last few touches on the portion of her work that - demanded all her concentration, she gave a little sigh of relief. - </p> - <p> - “What do you think of that, Jack?” she said, leaning back with her head - critically aslant. “Don't you think that is going to make a famous - picture?” - </p> - <p> - Jack jumped up promptly, leaving his book open on the hearthrug, and came - up to her side. He was not a connoisseur, in spite of his associations - with art, so he said nothing, but grinned appreciatively, rubbing the calf - of one leg with the instep of the other. - </p> - <p> - “Well,” asked Clytie, “why don't you admire?” - </p> - <p> - “You aint given them no faces,” said Jack. - </p> - <p> - “Ah! This is to be one face,” she said, pointing to a kind of <i>remarque</i> - at the foot of the sheet. “Or something like it. Now just use your - imagination, Jack. This face is to go there—the woman whose whole - nature has been awakened, and is shining out of her eyes, and quivering on - her lips, and is vibrating all through her frame—all of which is - Greek and Chaldee to you, my good Jack; but I may as well explain. And now - I have got to fix a face for this one. What kind of face do you think I am - going to give her?” - </p> - <p> - “I dunno,” murmured Jack. And then after a slight pause: “And what's the - man going to be like?” - </p> - <p> - “Ah!” said Clytie with a mock sigh. “What a little Philistine you are! The - man can be any kind of creature on two legs. What does it matter about the - man? He is a nuisance. I have a good mind to make him awfully ugly with a - face like a rhinoceros. See, like this.” - </p> - <p> - She made a few rapid strokes with her charcoal in the oval left for the - man's face, and the result was a picturesque monster with a long nose, - Mephistophelian eyebrows, and a moustache curling up to his ears. Then - they both burst out laughing. - </p> - <p> - “Let me draw some funny men for you,” she said in the light-hearted - buoyancy of her mood. “Run and get me that sheet of paper over there.” - </p> - <p> - She pinned the sheet that Jack brought her on to the board and began to - draw caricatures. - </p> - <p> - “You shall choose one for me to put in the picture, Jack.” - </p> - <p> - It was a long, long time since she had indulged this freakish side of her - genius. It ran riot now in grotesque exuberance. Here a head with wide, - leering mouth and pointed ears, like the devil that looks over Lincoln; - there a snouted monster with cat's whiskers, an eyeglass, and a silk hat; - a lean, cadaverous, equine face with a terrible squint; a masher, - indicated by three or four little dots and lines. Jack looked on in - rapture. She had never drawn pictures for him before. He broke out now and - then into breathless exclamations. - </p> - <p> - “Lord, he's an ugly one! Give him a long nose—longer than that; and, - my eye! that's a wart upon it. One of the teachers at school has a wart on - his nose. That's just like him! And where's this one's 'ed?—he's all - body and legs!” - </p> - <p> - And then he jumped and clapped his hands when the head was seen to emerge - from between the knees after the fashion of the boneless wonders. - </p> - <p> - When she had filled up the last space on the sheet she tossed the charcoal - into the tray, and rose from her seat. - </p> - <p> - “There, Jack! There's nothing like going absolutely mad on occasions. Now - if you'd like to keep these pictures and show them to the boys at school, - you can.” - </p> - <p> - She rolled up the stiff piece of drawing paper, slipped an elastic band - round it in her hasty way, and gave it to Jack, who could only look his - delighted thanks. - </p> - <p> - “Now I must go and wash my hands and get decent for lunch. Go downstairs - and tell Mrs. Pawkins to give you something to eat. Stay—you had - better leave that roll up here; come in for it before you go.” - </p> - <p> - She took it from him, and laid it on a little table near the door. She did - not desire that the inquisitive eyes in the servants' hall should witness - the mistress's frivolity. Jack understood her more or less, but Mrs. - Pawkins and Mary and John would have questioned her sanity. - </p> - <p> - Jack lingered for a moment on the threshold, and then drew shyly from his - handkerchief pocket a dingy, whitey-brown packet. - </p> - <p> - “I came to show you this,” he said, putting it into her hand. “I prigged - it from mother's drawer this morning. You'll give it me back, won't you?” - </p> - <p> - “I have a good mind not to,” said Clytie severely. “If your mother knew, - she would be very angry, and you would catch it. Still, as you have been a - good boy, I'll look at it and give it you back. Run away, now.” - </p> - <p> - Jack did as he was bid, and Clytie, after a few turns about the room, - putting things more or less straight, unfolded the dirty wrapper of Jack's - packet, with an amused curiosity as to the features of Jack's father. - </p> - <p> - But in another second all her curiosity, amusement, idle interest, were - fled, and her whole emotive force concentrated into a short, irrepressible - gasp of astonishment. It was a photograph of Thornton, her husband. There - was no mistaking it. She had the fellow to it in her album. One day long - ago she had seen it among his odds and ends, and had begged for it, loving - it for all that it was so many years old, taken when he was still in the - army. He looked so stalwart, soldierly, magnificent in his uniform. It was - perhaps the likeness of him that she had cherished most—only too - familiar. For a moment she could hardly understand—the shock was so - sudden and unexpected. Then with the quick reaction she realised what it - meant. Thornton was Jack's father, Mrs. Burmester was his mother. With a - shudder of disgust she threw the photograph on the table. - </p> - <p> - The riddle of Jack's parentage was solved in a way she had not looked for; - the mystery that had lain hidden in strange, unknown depths of passion was - now clear to her in all its unlovely nakedness. Her soul sickened at the - truth. She had not come to her husband with the helpless ignorance of a - young girl. The knowledge of good and evil, to employ the somewhat - meaningless euphemism, had come to her through her intelligence by means - of books, through her contact with real life. She had grasped the fact of - the existence of the Loulou Mendès type with whom love is a trade. That a - man should have had a liaison with such a woman she could have understood. - In fact she never at any one moment had fancied that Thornton had brought - to her the pure ardour of a virgin soul. To have been revolted at the - discovery of a mere antenuptial infidelity on the part of her husband - would have been to her impossible. It was not noble, it is true; but it - was intelligible. There was certainly for a lower nature a charm, - witchery, fascination, in the fleshly beauty of the courtesan. She had - heard of many men falling victims to it, and sinking very little into - degradation. If Jack's mother had been such a woman, she would have felt - little more than the shock of coincidence, a sense of strangeness in her - relations with the boy. But Jack's mother was not of this type. She never - had charm, witchery, or fascination. She had never even passable good - looks. A poor, stolid, dull, animal drudge. - </p> - <p> - The truth had come upon Clytie; the truth that had touched her now and - then with its bat wings, making her shiver; the horrible, soul-nauseating - truth of the eternal <i>beast</i> in man. She knew Thornton now as he was, - and her indifference passed into loathing. In Thornton's feelings what - difference had there been between this boy's mother and herself? - </p> - <p> - She walked swiftly up and down the studio, with clenched white hands, her - shoulders rising now and then in an involuntary heave of disgust. The - glory had gone out of the day. A foul shadow overspread it. - </p> - <p> - Suddenly Thornton himself appeared with eager face, a telegram in his - hand. He had just come in from riding in the Park, and according to the - modern fashion out of the season, was dressed in tweed suit and gaiters. - He carried a silver-headed riding whip jauntily under his arm. He waved - the telegram exultingly. - </p> - <p> - “They have asked me to put up for Witherby!” he said. “I'll have some - lunch on the strength of it. I suppose there's some going.” - </p> - <p> - “I believe lunch is at the usual hour,” said Clytie, not looking at him. - </p> - <p> - He lingered a little, flicking his legs with his whip. - </p> - <p> - “You might as well congratulate me, if only for the sake of politeness,” - he said in an injured tone. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, yes; I congratulate you,” she replied. - </p> - <p> - Her voice sounded strange in her own ears. She felt an almost irresistible - impulse to burst forth into a torrent of speech, to say out finally all - the bitterness and loathing that were in her heart. She restrained - herself, but the effort gave a queer guttural resonance to her words. She - turned and looked out of the window. - </p> - <p> - “What the devil's the matter?” he asked impatiently. “I came in, 'pon my - soul, thinking you'd be pleased. It's a safe seat. I'm dead certain to - knock the confounded Radical into a cocked hat. Just the moment when I've - got what I've been sweating for the last eighteen months, confound it all, - I did think you'd be civil for once in a way. But it's just like you; I - might have expected it. Well, perhaps it's the truth to say you don't care - a damn one way or the other.” - </p> - <p> - He walked to and fro for a little, fuming. Then his eyes falling on the - photograph that lay on the table, he picked it up, as an angry man will - do, looked at it absently for a moment, and pitched it sharply to the - other side of the room. Clytie, startled by the slight click of the - cardboard striking against the wall, turned half round and met his eyes - fixed loweringly upon her. Each held the other spellbound for a few - seconds. Then the door opened and Jack came into the studio, checking his - motion forward as he saw Thornton. - </p> - <p> - “What the deuce is this?” cried the latter. - </p> - <p> - With a swift, instinctive glance Clytie compared the two faces. They were - astonishingly alike. The same finely moulded features, dark lucent eyes, - brown crisp hair, white evenly set teeth; the same lines of cruelty at the - corners of the lips. Strange that, much as she had studied Jack's - physiognomy, the likeness had never suggested itself. At Thornton's - petulant question the boy looked at him half frightened, and then at - Clytie, and was about to shrink back. But she called him in. - </p> - <p> - “Don't go away without your drawing, Jack. This,” she said coldly to - Thornton, “is a <i>protégé</i> of mine. He was once my model—for my - picture 'Jack.' Here, Jack, take your drawing. Run home. Thank you for - coming to see me.” - </p> - <p> - “And—and the photograph. You said you'd give it me back.” - </p> - <p> - Clytie went to the table where she had thrown it. Not seeing it, she - remembered the sound that had startled her, and turning round, perceived - the photograph lying face upwards on the floor. She gave a little start of - dismay. The situation threatened to become dramatic, and she was - unprepared. In her hurry to dismiss the boy she had forgotten the - photograph. Now he had called attention to it, and she felt bound to - restore it to him to save the poor little urchin's honour and most - probably his back. And Thornton was leaning against the mantelpiece, with - his hands in his pockets, frowningly surveying the scene. With outward - calm, but with a beating heart, she picked up the photograph, wrapped it - in the dirty covering, and put it into Jack's hand. Thornton, who had - watched her movements with gathering surprise, strode forward with an - oath. - </p> - <p> - “What the devil——” - </p> - <p> - But Clytie quickly interposed herself between him and the boy. - </p> - <p> - “Run away!” she said in a hasty whisper, and Jack, accustomed from his - childhood to sudden dartings, disappeared like a flash. Clytie put her - back against the door and looked at her husband with strange eyes. It had - been done with the speed of a conjuring trick. - </p> - <p> - “What on earth is the meaning of all this?” asked Thornton; “and what are - you giving away my photographs for? Upon my soul, I think you are taking - leave of your senses. You'll have to drop this sort of thing. I'm damned - if I am going to have my photographs given away to all the street urchins - in London. Play the fool yourself if you like, but I'll trouble you to - keep me and my things out of it. Have you been giving me away any more?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, God! Thornton, you have given yourself away!” she cried, echoing his - slang phrase half unconsciously in her bitterness. “I'll tell you, if you - like. The photograph belongs to the boy's mother. He is your child.” - </p> - <p> - “What!” cried Thornton in a voice of thunder, showing his teeth savagely. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, your child,” she went on, striving to be calm. “His mother's name is - Burmester. You gave her the picture yourself years ago. I had just made - the discovery when you came in. Ah—h!” she cried, putting her hands - suddenly before her face, “it is horrible, horrible!” - </p> - <p> - “Ha!” retorted Thornton fiercely. “You are in one of your damned - high-horse moods. Well, I did give one of my father's kitchen-maids a - photograph, and she did have a child, and I paid her for her trouble, and, - damme! what that's got to do with you now is more than I can see. Besides, - you never were such a fool as to imagine you were marrying an infernal - saint.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, stop! stop!” she cried. “Don't say anything more. You will brutalise - me as well as yourself. I never thought you a saint—even when I - cared for you. I know what you are, and, oh, God! this is the end of it. - If you had betrayed a sweet, innocent girl, you would have been a villain, - but not necessarily a brute—someone charming, pretty, attractive—I - could have understood it; but a poor stupid drudge—a kitchen-maid—little - better than an animal——” - </p> - <p> - Thornton rushed forward and caught her by her shoulder. - </p> - <p> - “By the Lord God! if you don't hold your tongue, I'll strike you!” - </p> - <p> - She saw that she had aroused the devil in him. She had meant to be calm, - to tell him plainly the facts of the case and to say that it would be - better that they should live apart. But an irrepressible shudder had come - over her, and then the brutal cynicism of his confession had caused her - the loss of her self-control. As she saw the blazing eyes and white - glittering teeth in front of her and felt the grip on her shoulder, she - regretted that she had been, in a way, to blame; but she was no coward, - and the threat awakened the fierce old Puritan courage in her nature. She - did not flinch, but looked him directly in the face. - </p> - <p> - “Your striking me would only add to your other brutalities.” - </p> - <p> - “Damn you!” he cried in blind fury; and swinging her round, he struck her - with the riding whip with all his huge strength, cutting the back of the - thin morning gown, that flew open at the gap, showing her bare shoulders. - Then he hurled her from him and rushed out of the room. - </p> - <p> - With an almost superhuman effort of will Clytie sprang to her feet, stood - for a moment dazed, stunned, on fire with agony, then staggered forward - and threw herself upon the bearskin rug, with the illustrated History of - England, open as Jack had left it, beneath her face. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XXV. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">S</span>uddenly Clytie - rose to her feet and left the studio. As she moved a strange weight seemed - to lie upon her limbs. It was a physical effort to drag herself up the - stairs to her bedroom. Her heart seemed to be burned through, a fiery - sword to have been thrust through her temples. It was the supreme moment - of the horror and abasement of her married life. One intense thought - possessed her; to fly from the house, to escape from the area of - Thornton's influence, to bury herself somewhere far away. Mechanically she - changed her things, choosing one of the simple morning dresses she had - retained since the days before her marriage, and bathed her feverish face - and hands. The cold water refreshed her, restored adjustment to her - quivering nerves, and she was able to think, form a coherent plan. - </p> - <p> - She would go forthwith to her old rooms in the King's Road, which she knew - to be vacant. There she would live again as Clytie Davenant, and shut out - of her memory the nightmare of the past months. The plan conceived, she - hurried to put it into execution. She would have liked to open the street - door there and then, to cross its threshold for the last time. But the - practical side of life asserts itself in the midst of the intensest - emotions. She would have to pack her boxes, select what things she would - take with her. The aid, too, of the servants would be necessary. After a - swift look at the glass she composed her features, summoned her maid, gave - her orders in a calm, equable voice, as if she were going on an ordinary - visit in the country. - </p> - <p> - While the servants packed the articles she designated, she went down to - the studio in order to collect a few of the portable objects that were - dear to her: Rupert Kent's etching, the Jacquemart that Kent had given - her, a book or two, a favourite box of oil-tubes. All the rest she would - leave behind, together with everything that Thornton had ever given her. - The maid, an excellently trained servant, packed quickly, but to Clytie - she seemed unutterably slow. It was an effort of control to refrain from - urging the girl on, from snatching the articles from her hands and stowing - them away anyhow, haphazard. Every moment that she lingered seemed an - eternity of degradation. In after days she wondered that she had never - reflected how far Thornton's possible presence in the house might have - affected the ease of her escape. As it happened, he had flung out of doors - as soon as he had left her stricken upon the floor; but she, in the fixity - of her idea, never concerned herself as to his whereabouts. - </p> - <p> - At last, when the boxes were packed and locked, the maid, dangling the - keys in her hand, asked Clytie when she should order the brougham. - </p> - <p> - “I shall go in a four-wheeled cab with the luggage,” said Clytie. - </p> - <p> - “Go and order one round at once.” - </p> - <p> - The maid retired wonderingly, and Clytie was left alone. She put on her - bonnet and sat down on the edge of the bed to draw on her gloves. Then for - the first time her eye fell consciously upon her wedding-ring, and - thereupon came over her the sense of all that her present action implied: - the final renunciation of the marriage-tie, the assertion of her own - individuality, the beginning of another life. And yet, in spite of her - repudiation, the tie remained, indissoluble except by death, and this - little circlet of gold was the symbol. With a twinge of pain she wrenched - it off, for it was tightly fitting, and went and threw it in a jewel box - containing the jewellery that Thornton had given her. At any rate, she - could spare herself the hourly misery of this visible bond. It was a poor - kind of relief to leave it there with the other tokens of her wifehood. - </p> - <p> - Then, as she waited, her crushed pride rose a few degrees. Whatever - subsequent steps Thornton might take, her departure should at least not - have the indignity of flight. A scribbled line would save her - self-respect. When the servants came into the room to take down the boxes - to the cab she had written the note. - </p> - <p> - “I am leaving your house. I go back to my old rooms in the King's Road, - where I shall resume the life I led before I knew you.” - </p> - <p> - Then only did it occur to her to inquire of the footman whether Mr. - Hammerdyke was in. The man, who was accustomed to the separation between - the lives of his master and mistress, replied, without manifesting any - surprise at the question, that Mr. Hammerdyke had gone out just before - lunch. - </p> - <p> - “Put this note in his room for him,” said Clytie. “I shall be away some - time.” - </p> - <p> - In a few moments she had started. With a little convulsive moan, wrung - involuntarily from her lips by her agony of body and soul, she leaned her - head against the rusty cushions of the ramshackle vehicle and closed her - eyes. The day was still glorious, London bathed in sunlight, the streets - filled with life and motion. For all the world but her the promise of the - morning was kept. As the cab slackened its pace on crossing the Fulham - Road she opened her eyes for a moment, and looked vacantly, as if in a - dream, out of the window. Then she relapsed into her darkness. - </p> - <p> - “And I was so happy this morning,” she murmured to herself. “I could have - lived the better life—with Kent's help!” - </p> - <p> - Kent! She started, as a wave of blood rushed to her cheeks. She was going - to Kent now, to live under the same roof with him once more, to see him - daily, to take him more intimately than ever into her life. Until now she - had not realised this coherently. Vague thoughts of him had passed through - her mind, but she had been too dazed, too sickened, too much possessed by - the overpowering longing for freedom, escape from the house of bondage, to - connect him definitely with her immediate future. And in the unconscious - sequence of ideas a little self-reproach came into her mind, bringing with - it a sense of soothing. Why had she not thought of Kent at first, of the - true, loyal friend and lover, on whom she could rely for strength and - comfort? How could she have been so much wrapped up in herself and her - wrongs as never to have given him a place in her plans? And then the tide - of feeling ebbed back again, leaving her heart quite cold and sad. How - could she meet him? How could she tell him? The eternal woman in her - shrank from the confession. If he had been to her but a friend, it had - been easy. But she loved him. Had not her heart sung within her that very - morning, only a few hours before, at the grace and tenderness of her at - last awakened love? And she fought, womanlike, against she scarce knew - what, striving to disentwine herself like Laocoon from the coils that love - and circumstance had wound, in subtle intricacy of convolution, about her - heart. But for all her shrinking she longed for Kent. If only he could - understand it all without her telling! If only he could come that evening - and sit by her side and hold her hand in strong, mute sympathy! Well, she - would conquer her woman's diffidence, and tell him bravely. She felt she - owed him a little reparation. The inherent delight in putting itself in - the wrong is perhaps one of the most elusive traits of a woman's nature. - </p> - <p> - The cab stopped before the familiar side door. Mrs. Gurkins, standing - beneath the awning of the shop between the stalls of cabbage and fruit, - gave a gasp of bewilderment as she saw Clytie alight from the - luggage-laden vehicle. She ran round through the connecting passage and - opened the front door. - </p> - <p> - “You are not coming to stay here, miss?” she asked. - </p> - <p> - It was only in moments of calm reflection that she could bring herself to - address Clytie more decorously as “ma'am.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, I am,” replied Clytie in her decisive way. “Can I have my old - rooms?” - </p> - <p> - “Of course, miss—but——” - </p> - <p> - “Well, have my boxes taken up and get things straight for me, Mrs. - Gurkins. You know what an erratic creature I am, don't you? I think I am - going to stay a very long time. I'll go and see Miss Marchpane while you - do all that is necessary. You'll forgive me for putting you to all this - trouble?” - </p> - <p> - “La, miss—ma'am, I'm that glad to have you back! But Miss Marchpane - left early to-day—about an hour ago. You can go up to the - sitting-room. I was cleaning it out only yesterday.” - </p> - <p> - Clytie went upstairs to the familiar room, and took off her bonnet and - gloves. In a few moments the boxes were brought up. When she had unpacked - these and arranged their contents, and eaten as much as she could of the - meal that Mrs. Gurkins prepared for her, the glorious afternoon had melted - into night. She sat by the open window and looked out upon the hurrying - street below. It was a Saturday evening. The whole population of the - district was astir buying their Sunday provisions or their Sunday - headaches. Bands of the youth of both sexes clattered noisily past, - singing hoarsely or darting from pavement to roadway in loud, dissonant - gaiety. Along the kerb stretched the line of costers' barrows with flaming - naphtha torches, and the faces of the sellers and buyers stood out clear - in the glare. A babel of sounds arose: the confused murmur of private - conversations pitched in the discordant key of the unrefined, the raucous - cries of the costers offering their wares, the shrill “Buy! buy!” of the - butcher a few yards away and the rapid click of his steel, the doleful - nasal dirge of a tramp woman holding a vague bundle looking like a baby in - her arms, the continuous scraping of feet, the roar of the 'buses and - carts in the roadway. - </p> - <p> - Clytie had often before sat on Saturday evenings at her window, lost in - the wonder of speculation upon the individualities of the units that - composed this hurrying, bawling, laughing, cursing crowd. And now she felt - the old fascination creep over her. The noise and movement acted as a - counter-stimulus to the fierce whirl of emotions through which she had - passed during the day. She lost for the time the sense of loneliness, - soul-sickness, and bodily prostration in this external world of tumult. - What did it all mean, this hurry and strain? Looked at as a whole, it - seemed to indicate that life was intense, earnest, throbbing with infinite - variety of passions, an end in itself, to be carried on, because it was - life, to all eternity. It seemed real, practical, objective, obeying - inscrutable, immutable laws. The planets circle round the sun; our solar - system circles round another focal sphere. It is great, it is glorious, - serving some great and glorious end; yet what that end is no man knoweth. - And so with the collective life that surged beneath Clytie's window, - yielding blindly to the unchanging laws that direct the cosmos. If this - movement was meaningless and vain, then did the stars wander futilely in - their courses. Sin and shame and misery, love and laughter and happiness, - what did they matter in the progress of collective life? They are internal - forces affecting its resistless march as little as the incessant motion of - men affects the rotation of the earth. - </p> - <p> - But the individuals, when detached from the conglomerate mass of humanity—what - was this life to them? How far was it a gracious thing to yonder bawling - cheap-jack, with his red, sodden face? And the factory girl, with her - feathered hat and deep fringe overshadowing pinched, soulless features, - looking hungrily at his Brummagem wares; the fat, unintelligent workman's - wife gossiping loudly of sickness, death, and funerals; the besotted navvy - stumbling along in the grip of a soberer friend—how far were they - intellectually, spiritually, cognisant of life? Again as of old these - questions presented themselves to Clytie. During these latter months she - had been too closely confronted with the problems of her own personality - to interest herself in that of others. But now a newly awakened - self-knowledge had given her a key to mysteries to the elucidation of - which she had once devoted all her artistic powers. She had arrived at the - truth of the relativity of individual life. There was no such thing as - absolute fulness of existence. Everyone—coster, factory girl, - statesman, poet—was striving, each in his way, after a completer - life, but the ideal of completeness was limited by each individual's - capacity for action, sensation, and thought. Hence yonder factory girl's - life might be relatively as full as her own, the hunger for the unknown - that would complete it as loudly clamourous. Clytie was glad for the - moment, almost happy. New artistic stirrings seemed to be at work within - her soul. Heretofore she had sought a solution for the problems of life - through her art. Might not this newer knowledge and more extensive - sympathy enable her to present finely perceived truths, thus making her - art less self-centred, more universal? - </p> - <p> - This train of thought was working through her mind as she sat by the - window, resting her cheek on her arm. - </p> - <p> - Gradually, however, the thoughts confused themselves into a medley of dim - associations, which in their turn became lost in drowsiness. Worn out by - the physical strain of the day, she fell asleep in the midst of the uproar - that arose from the hurrying street. - </p> - <p> - Suddenly she became conscious of a presence beside her in the room, and, - starting up, beheld Kent looking down upon her. - </p> - <p> - “You'll get cold or a stiff neck or something sleeping by the open window - like that,” he said in his kindly way. “And yet I did not like to wake - you.” - </p> - <p> - “I do feel a little cramped,” said Clytie, rising. “But the night is hot. - Bring another chair and sit down. I shall not go to sleep again.” - </p> - <p> - Kent did as she bade him, and they sat on either side of the window, - Clytie with face half averted looking into the street, Kent leaning - forward, gazing at her with troubled eyes. For some moments neither spoke. - At last Kent broke the silence. - </p> - <p> - “Clytie!” - </p> - <p> - “Yes?” - </p> - <p> - “Was I wrong to come in? Do you want to be alone? Tell me frankly and I - will go.” - </p> - <p> - “No; stay,” replied Clytie slowly, without turning her head. “I wanted you - to come. I don't know why. How did you find out I was here?” - </p> - <p> - “Mrs. Gurkins caught me in the passage. She said you were staying some - time. I knocked at your door, but you did not answer, so I looked in, saw - you asleep there. I could not resist the temptation of coming nearer so as - to see your face. You look so done up, you must go to bed early and have a - good night's rest.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah, Kent! How like you!” said Clytie, looking quickly round at him. - Womanlike, she was pleased that he had not expressed wonderment at her - presence in the house, and beset her with abrupt questions, but tried - instead with delicate sympathy to put her at her ease. - </p> - <p> - “Can you guess why I am here, Kent?” she asked in a low voice. - </p> - <p> - “I dare not try,” he replied. - </p> - <p> - “I have finally parted from my husband.” - </p> - <p> - “Good God! Clytie, what do you mean?” he cried, with a leap at his heart, - followed by a feeling of great pity for the woman he loved, an aching - sense of the irony of things. “It has been a misunderstanding. It will all - be cleared up in time,” he continued unsteadily. - </p> - <p> - Clytie shook her head. - </p> - <p> - “No; thank God, this is the end. See my hand: that which was there I drew - off to-day for the first time. It shall never be there again.” - </p> - <p> - “Clytie, my dear friend Clytie!” said Kent, very much moved. “What can I - say to you? My heart aches for all that you must have suffered. You told - me yesterday your life was not what I thought it to be, for I fancied you - happy, with all around you to make the world bright and glorious. I do not - know what to think now. Is there no hope for your happiness?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, no, Kent, not that way. Let me tell you at once what I can. Don't - judge me severely. I did what lay in my nature to do. I bore things that - nearly drove me mad, although perhaps many other women would not have - looked on them as burdens. But my marriage was a mistake—for both of - us. And then—oh, how can I tell you? Something happened to-day, the - climax, rendering further life there impossible. Oh, I can't speak or even - think of it!” - </p> - <p> - Her voice ended in a moan and a shivering catch of her breath, and she - covered her face with her hands. Kent leaped to his feet quivering with a - sudden intuition. - </p> - <p> - “Clytie, you have been wronged far more than by mere misunderstanding. Did - he dare——” - </p> - <p> - “Yes—yes. Don't think of it. It's all over.” - </p> - <p> - “But I must think of it. It is like a red-hot iron in my heart. I can't - bear it. All last night I lay awake thinking of your unhappiness, tortured - by regrets, hating the man who made your life a weariness to you. I never - thought of this. The coward! The brute! Oh, my God!” - </p> - <p> - And as he strode up and down the room, with set lips and clenched hands, - Clytie looked at him half-wonderingly. She had never seen her calm, strong - Kent so moved by passion. She went up to him, with natural impulse, and - put her hand on his shoulder and looked into his face. - </p> - <p> - “You need never speak or think of this again, Kent. It is all over, - buried. For nearly a year we have lived almost as separated as we shall do - henceforward. I have come to be Clytie Davenant once again, to lead the - old life of work and happiness with you and Winifred. I can blot out the - past eighteen months like an evil dream in which I have suffered much and - learned much. We can work together as we used to do, Kent, and you will - find me, I hope, a better, gentler woman, dear. Now forget all about it, - as I shall do. Remember what you said yesterday—that no life was so - wrecked as to be incapable of reconstruction. You cannot tell what comfort - you gave me. And I cannot tell you what happiness I passed through this - morning—before—ah, well——Oh, Kent, my true, loyal - Kent! I am a very weak woman, and I want your goodness and help and - tenderness. You can do nothing to help or avenge what has passed. You can - do all for me in the future if you will.” - </p> - <p> - “What I can do is small enough, God knows!” replied Kent. - </p> - <p> - “Do you know what you can do for me?” - </p> - <p> - “Tell me.” - </p> - <p> - “Let me forget myself and my selfish wants in trying to bring some help - and gladness into your life. I wronged you deeply once—I wronged - myself; let me make reparation.” - </p> - <p> - Kent turned aside and passed his hand across his forehead. - </p> - <p> - “You must not think of me,” he said in a low voice. “I am rough and - strong, with no particular burdens to bear. Some day or the other, when - you are happy, I will come to you with my little griefs for the sake of - having them charmed away by your sympathy; but until then let me think of - you—help you if I can. If I can't, Heaven knows it will not be for - want of longing to do so.” - </p> - <p> - “Kent,” said Clytie very softly, unconsciously moving nearer to him, “I am - happy now. Can't you see that I am?” - </p> - <p> - Kent's heart beat like a sledge hammer; a wave of passionate love swept - through his veins, thrilling him to the finger tips. He was conscious that - if he turned his face the hair on her forehead would brush his cheek. - Never before had a woman spoken to him in that strange tone. The world - stood still for a moment. Then in a blinding daze of light, in which all - things in heaven and earth were drowned, he turned, caught her to him, and - kissed her. - </p> - <p> - Slowly Clytie freed herself, held out a restraining hand, and, with steps - strangely faltering, moved across the room to the couch, where she sat - down and hid her face in the cushions. Kent paused for a moment, steadying - his senses still reeling from the shock of the first kiss of love he had - ever given to woman. Then he went and stood by her side. - </p> - <p> - “Forgive me, Clytie. It was base of me. But it was something beyond my - will that acted. You forget that I love you. I have wronged you, my queen, - my life! If you can ever trust me again, I will devote myself to making - you forget that I have dared to love you. I ask your pardon, Clytie.” - </p> - <p> - He stayed for a moment looking at her bowed figure. Then, as she gave no - sign that she was moved by his appeal, he left her, and with a strange - mingling of death and gladness in his heart walked lingeringly to the - door. But just as his hand was on the knob Clytie rose impulsively from - the couch, and with hair ruffled and her cheeks glowing came up to him, - and it was she who opened the door. - </p> - <p> - “You are pardoned, dear, for I love you.” - </p> - <p> - A moment later she was alone. And she resumed her position by the open - window, and looked out upon the busy scene. But she heeded it not. Her - sight was directed to the mysteries of an invisible world. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0025" id="link2HCH0025"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XXVI. - </h2> - <p> - Clytie's last words rang in Kent's ears all night. She loved him. She had - surrendered herself to his kiss, she had told him her heart in plain, - unequivocal language. In the first blaze of this happiness he did not - perceive the gloomy background of their love. All that he could feel was - that Clytie had left the life to which he had been a stranger, that she - had come back to live in his daily company in the old helpful way, that, - furthermore, her simple friendship had changed into something unutterably - sweeter. He looked into the future and found it glowing with many rose - tints of beauty. He saw Clytie and himself carrying out to its fullest his - brave gospel of work—to its fullest because of their belief and - trust in one another. He saw Clytie painting noble pictures, drawing - strength and confidence from his sympathy—himself stimulated to - great achievement, the prose of life transmuted into sonorous epic, - lyrical gladness, elegiac grace. The fever in his blood kept him awake as - image after image passed before his fancy. But whether the vision was of - Clytie walking by his side through the gaslit streets, or of Clytie's - glorious head strained back to view the effect of brush strokes he had - suggested, or of Clytie sitting by the table as he worked, the lamp - between them, it ended always with the warm touch of Clytie's lips beneath - his, and the low, clear voice, “I love you.” - </p> - <p> - This exaltation is common to most men when a strong love comes to them. - But to Kent it was all the intenser through the peculiarities of his - nature. He had lived without the sphere of women. The passionateness of - his temperament had thrown itself utterly into another channel. His work - had been his love, his wife, the centre of all his energies, all his - hopes. The craving for the unknown complement of existence had found - satisfaction in the added line upon line, the growing bulk of manuscript, - the builder's thrill when the creation of his own brain is materialising - itself course by course into a majestic edifice. Besides, action, whether - it was spending hours in a musty library in the exciting search after a - reference, or tramping for miles in the keen mountain air of Norway, - always fascinated him and compelled the entire energy of his being. He - beheld the earth after his wholesome fashion and saw that it was good. To - him life was complete. Things, therefore, not contained within his sphere - he looked upon as superfluities. Woman was a superfluity; the impulses of - sex repugnant. The very intensity of his nature made him shrink all the - more strenuously from the sexual principle upon which love is built. When, - however, love came to him, in spite of himself, he was dazed with it, - terrified. On that January morning when he buried his face in the faint - perfume of Clytie's handkerchief he felt himself overcome with a kind of - horror. The fierce consciousness that he would give his soul to hold her - in his arms and kiss her hair and eyes and lips was to him a torture of - debasement. This morbidness was due only to the violence of the reaction. - It lasted but a short while, and toned down into a feeling of disloyalty - to Clytie's friendship in daring to love her. But time at last adjusted - his moral balance, when it was too late, and Clytie was lost to him. And - then his love was purified into a deep, passionate devotion that was its - own joy and recompense. If circumstances had remained unchanged, Kent - would have carried this deeper than romantic love with him to the grave. - It had grown into his inmost heart, informing that subconsciousness that - makes a man's individual life. Even during the last few months, when they - were meeting in frank, friendly fashion, his love had altered very little - in kind. He believed her to be a happy wife, loving her husband, with whom - in a moment of bitterness he had once silently measured himself. The - precious boon of her friendship was regained, nothing more, and it was - given to him, under no false pretences on his part, but all the more - tenderly because she knew of his devotion. Secure in the impression of her - happiness, he would never have wavered in word or thought from his - straightforward, simple loyalty, and his days would have passed in quiet - contentment, saddened a little, perhaps, by regrets for what might have - been, but never tormented by longings for the impossible. - </p> - <p> - But conditions were no longer the same. Clytie had renounced her married - life. Except as a memory of bitterness it had no place in her thoughts. - Except by a legal fiction she was her own mistress once more, free to go - and come, think and act. Even in name she would be Clytie Davenant again, - and she had spoken to him in that strange tone he had never heard before, - and had come nearer to him as her touch lay upon his arm. The whole pent - up passion of Kent's life had gone forth into that kiss. For Kent the - world was changed, and the night a dream of unutterable things. But by the - morning it had brought counsel. This love, acknowledged on both sides—whither - would it tend? A great problem. So great a one, indeed, that Kent was - tempted to shirk grappling with it. Courage and a stout heart, he said to - himself, and all would be well. But one cannot rid one's self in this easy - way of responsibilities. If you shake them from your shoulders, they - shackle themselves about your feet. Kent felt thus fettered as he lay - awake. Moreover, his early misgivings concerning Hammerdyke came, like the - curses in the proverb, home to roost. If he had spoken to Clytie then, - before her marriage, possibly she might have been spared all this - suffering. He wished that he had obtained from Wither all the particulars - of the ugly rumours that had been afloat, investigated them, confronted - Clytie bravely with the truth, and so saved her from wrecking her life. - And yet he felt that he could not have done so. Well, what was past was - past. The present and the future contained enough matter to engage his - attention. He lay for some time in bed trying to solve these perplexities. - At last, at half-past nine, he rose, dressed, and went into his - sitting-room to prepare his breakfast. This was a simple process. On a - couple of gas-stoves, connected by india-rubber piping with the two - gas-jets in his room, he placed a kettle and a saucepan, the latter - containing eggs. Then he spread a little cloth on a clear space of his - dresser-table, and brought out his crockery and other breakfast requisites - from one of the under-cupboards. A ham somewhat cut into, butter, and - marmalade he procured from a safe in a third little room on the landing - which he used as a combined larder and lumber-room. For years Kent had - enjoyed the simple Bohemianism of this Sunday morning meal. He could - linger over it easefully without the weekday glance at his watch, when - time was short. There was the Sunday paper, a weekly review or two, the - long, undisturbed after-breakfast pipe. It was a time when he could - release himself with free conscience from his busy life and enjoy his - leisure. But this morning the eggs seemed stale, the ham tasteless, the - journals dull, and he found himself looking at his watch. He would go down - and see Clytie at eleven, an hour which he had himself arbitrarily fixed - upon, and he was counting the minutes. It is surprising how long minutes - are when you count sixty of them. - </p> - <p> - At last eleven o'clock came and Kent descended the stairs. But Clytie was - out. Mrs. Gurkins, who answered his ring on Clytie's bell, informed him - that Miss Davenant would not be in for lunch. Perhaps she would be back - during the afternoon. So Kent went upstairs again, disappointed, and, - after vainly trying to occupy himself, seized his hat and went out for a - long tramp through Putney and Wimbledon. His heart was full of strange - emotions that beset him for many hours, making them seem hopelessly long. - Of the two Clytie passed by far the happier day. - </p> - <p> - In the afternoon, on his return, he heard voices in the studio. He knocked - and entered. Clytie was there with Winifred. - </p> - <p> - “Can I come in?” - </p> - <p> - “Of course,” said Clytie. “Why do you ask? We have been expecting you ever - so long. In fact we have kept tea waiting for you.” - </p> - <p> - He put down his hat and stick, nodded as usual to Winifred, and advanced, - through force of later habit, with outstretched hand, to Clytie. She laid - her fingers in his slowly, looked up at him from her chair by the stove, - and laughed. - </p> - <p> - “You forget I am no longer a visitor, Kent,” she said rebukingly. - </p> - <p> - “Only this once, then,” he answered, “to welcome you back among us.” - </p> - <p> - “Where have you learned to make pretty speeches?” asked Clytie. - </p> - <p> - She was pleased with the words and gave his hand a sudden pressure. - </p> - <p> - Kent brought a chair up to where Clytie and Winifred were sitting, tried - to talk lightly, and failed. A silence came over the little party. Tea - caused a distraction, and they fell to discussing indifferent subjects, - odds and ends of gossip, but in a desultory fashion that each found - strange. At last Clytie rose, cut the Gordian knot in her impulsive way. - </p> - <p> - “I am going to do one or two things in the sitting-room,” she said. “You - two have a talk until I come back.” - </p> - <p> - Kent opened the door for her. On the threshold she turned and whispered to - him: “Talk to Winifred a little. You will do each other good.” - </p> - <p> - He closed the door after her and went back to Winifred. - </p> - <p> - “So we have her with us again.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” she replied gently, “and I don't know whether to feel sorry or - glad.” - </p> - <p> - “Did you know—had you any idea that she was unhappy? I never knew - till yesterday—or the day before.” - </p> - <p> - “I think I knew—before—perhaps because I am a woman. It made - my heart ache.” - </p> - <p> - “But she is not unhappy now,” said Kent. “Therefore you ought to be glad.” - </p> - <p> - Winifred glanced at him swiftly. In spite of the brown softness of her - eyes they were woman's eyes, capable of quick, subtle perceptions. - </p> - <p> - “But will she be happy, Kent?” she asked, bending down over her - needlework. As she had not been able to paint, she had taken in hand, by - way of feminine comfort, some sewing for Clytie. - </p> - <p> - “What do you mean?” he asked, with a man's preference to answer a concrete - question rather than a delicately hinted suggestion. - </p> - <p> - “Will not this tie that cannot be loosed hamper her all through her life?” - </p> - <p> - “God knows!” he said gloomily. And then, brightening, he added: “But we - have her with us for always, Winifred, and we who love her can try to make - her forget it.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah, can we, my dear Kent?” she said, putting her work and both hands in - her lap and looking at him. “You love her, but you can't love her as I do. - Oh, no, no,” she added as he smiled and shook his head. “You may think you - do, but it is not possible. You have found faults in Clytie and scolded - her—oh, very kindly and sympathetically, I know, but still in your - eyes Clytie can do wrong. In mine she can't—and there is the - difference. Clytie is not like other girls. She is like no one in the - world. Everything must give way to her. If Clytie were to do something you - would think <i>dreadful</i>—commit a murder—I feel that she - would be justified in doing it, and I should love her all the more - tenderly and dearly.” - </p> - <p> - “God bless your loving little heart!” cried Kent. “Love like yours could - make the most miserable creature on earth happy.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah, no, Kent. What could I do for her? Listen: I was a poor, friendless, - ignorant, uninteresting little girl when I first met Clytie. And she was - kind to me. She seemed so brave and strong and clever and beautiful, I - quite shrank from her. I felt so small and humble beside her. And she - singled me out from among all the rest of the girls at the Slade School, - and made me her friend. I never could tell what she found in me.” - </p> - <p> - “She can tell, and I can, too,” exclaimed Kent with abrupt enthusiasm—“the - purest, tenderest flower of a soul that ever breathed!” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, Kent!” said Winifred as the colour rose to her dark cheeks. “You must - not say things like that. Clytie has done everything for me, everything—and - I——” - </p> - <p> - “You have helped Clytie as no one else could have done,” said Kent, “and - you are doing it now.” - </p> - <p> - “Am I?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes; don't you see how bright and happy you have made her?” - </p> - <p> - “She is brighter than I should have thought,” said Winifred musingly. “But - will it last?” - </p> - <p> - “We must try to make it lasting, you and I,” said Kent softly. - </p> - <p> - He pondered for a moment over the love in each of their hearts, the girl's - and the man's. How exquisitely pure and selfless hers seemed to be! He - could not realise it in all its beauty, but his perceptions had been - refined enough for him to be profoundly touched. - </p> - <p> - “You have taught me something, Winifred,” he said after a pause, during - which she had quietly resumed her sewing. “I am happier than I have been - all day.” - </p> - <p> - Clytie returned soon afterwards. She looked curiously at the faces of her - two friends, and then, divining, perhaps, something of what had passed - between them, went up to Winifred and kissed her. After this they talked - more freely—of old habits, plans for the future. The latter were - vague, for Winifred's marriage with Treherne was fixed for the early part - of the next year, and the studio without Winifred was unrealisable. Still - the plans were food for much intimate gossip, which some may liken to the - very salt of life. - </p> - <p> - When Winifred had gone, Kent went with Clytie into the sitting-room, - where, furnished with hammer and nails, he hung the few pictures that - Clytie had brought with her, together with some that had been lying about - the studio. It was a delight to him to perform this little service for - her, and she too felt the woman's happiness of being surrendered to a - man's helpfulness. He fetched from his own rooms a bookstand, which he - secured against the wall, a few curios, and an armful of the dainty - cushions, chair backs, and curtain sashes with which his sister Agatha in - misguided zeal had years ago supplied his drawers and cupboards. - </p> - <p> - “They are not as artistic as your odds and ends, you know,” he said by way - of apology. “But until you can get some together they will be more - cheerful to look at than Mrs. Gurkins's efforts.” - </p> - <p> - He had just completed his scheme of decoration when Mrs. Gurkins came up - to lay the cloth for Clytie's dinner. Clytie detained him as he was about - to go. - </p> - <p> - “Won't you stay and dine with me?” she said half timidly. - </p> - <p> - She felt that she could not dismiss him. To do so on conventional grounds - would be the silliest prudery. Besides, a sense of helplessness had come - over her, and she wanted him by her side, longed for him to think and act - for her. The touch of any incident bordering ever so slightly on the - dramatic would at that moment have sufficed to free the spring of feminine - reserve and loosen passionate expression of her longing for his presence. - But the simple commonplace of the situation saved her. Kent's eyes - brightened at the invitation. - </p> - <p> - “And we can have a long evening afterwards?” he asked half pleadingly. - </p> - <p> - “Of course,” said Clytie, with an inward smile. - </p> - <p> - On Monday morning Kent, as he was starting for the Museum, put his head in - at Clytie's sitting-room door. She was at breakfast, having risen rather - later than usual. By her side was an open letter. As Kent entered she - pushed back her chair and looked up at him, a gleam of gladness eclipsing - in her eyes a late expression of pain. Kent noticed the sudden change. - </p> - <p> - “You have been sad, Clytie,” he said in his rough tenderness. “That is not - right. Did you not promise me last evening that you would be happy, very - happy?” - </p> - <p> - “So I shall be,” she answered, taking his hand in hers and turning away - her head. “Only there are things that cut one to the heart. You are a man; - you can't understand a woman—no man can, no matter how he loves her. - Look, read that—the end of the sordid story of my latter life. Oh, - Kent, I am not worth your love! This thing has degraded me enough, and - this last insult——Oh, read it and see. It would be better that - you should know of how little account I really am.” - </p> - <p> - Kent took the letter which she thrust into his hand, and, without having - read it, tore it into tiny pieces which he scattered through the open - window to the four winds. Then he came and put one arm around her. - </p> - <p> - “Because one man insults you, dear, it is all the more reason that I - should love and shield you. That part of your life is dead now. You said - yourself this letter was the end. Let it be so, Clytie.” - </p> - <p> - His delicacy and tenderness moved her very deeply. Womanlike, she had - wanted him to read the paper, and yet loved him all the more for not - having done so. The letter was her own note to Thornton, which he had - returned with “You can go to the devil!” scrawled across it. The sheer - brutality had made her lose, as it were, her self-respect, had presented - her to her own eyes as a thing of naught, unworthy of the reverential love - that Kent brought her. How could she honestly be to him the brightest and - noblest of women with that scrawled thing dragging her down? Accordingly - his actions and words gladdened her. She looked up at him, and he read as - in some magical book the spell of tenderness that swam in her eyes. Then - he threw himself on his knees before her and buried his face in her lap. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, my love, my love!” - </p> - <p> - And, stirred to her depths with a passionate thrill that was like a great - pain, she threw her arms round his neck and kissed him. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0026" id="link2HCH0026"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XXVII. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>wo years passed, - outwardly uneventful, yet momentous in the development of inner life. Her - marriage sometimes appeared to Clytie as a far-away episode, a kind of - dream state in which she had been invested with a strange, unrealisable - personality. Yet influences had remained, impulses had been awakened, that - could not again lie dormant; knowledge had come to her that could not - lapse into oblivion, leaving no trace behind. In her daily intercourse - with Kent her nature expanded. It lost imperceptibly that vein of hardness - which her struggle for self-development had fostered, and the disillusions - and repugnances of her marriage had gradually been strengthening. Except - in a brief interval of intoxication she had never known the woman's - sweetness of surrender. The great triumph of surrender had never even then - been hers. And this was gradually making itself felt in her heart during - the two years that passed from the time of leaving her husband's roof. - </p> - <p> - They contained hours of sweet bitterness, it is true. Although Thornton - had gone out of her life like an evil phantom, yet the legal tie between - them remained unbroken. Mrs. Farquharson, who seldom did things by halves, - after seeing her idol broken trampled it underfoot into a thousand pieces, - and vehemently tried to persuade Clytie to seek after a divorce. She even - insisted upon her taking counsel's opinion on the matter. But there was no - definite evidence obtainable to support an action at law, and Clytie, sick - at heart, was glad to dismiss the question from her mind forever. Yet in - the eyes of the world she was Hammerdyke's wife, and so she would have to - remain until death parted them. Perhaps when enlightenment sheds a fuller - ray upon our civilisation we shall make radical changes in our marriage - laws, for they are based upon the sad old fallacy that human conduct and - human emotion are indifferently susceptible of regulation. As yet we can - universalise only on material things: security of property, full stomachs, - and warm backs for the poor. The facts of broken lives and torn hearts we - can recognise only in particular instances, as they come within each man's - individual sphere. The universality of spiritual, moral, and emotional - suffering is as yet far from being a national conception. When this is - attained we may hope for social conditions happier than those under which - we struggle at present. - </p> - <p> - Thornton had taken the most effectual steps to become an undisturbing - element in Clytie's life. The constituency for which he had intrigued and - striven to be nominated did not return him at the bye-election, which took - place soon after Clytie's departure, but chose instead a radical lawyer - with an insignificant presence and a shakiness as to aspirates. Thornton - was disgusted and humiliated at his defeat. Politics lost their charm. An - offer from the Belgian government to reform the administration in a wide - tract of country whose borders were infested with Arabs came to him at - this juncture, and found him in a mood for acceptance. He bade Mrs. - Clavering a sardonic farewell and replunged into the wilds out of English - ken. - </p> - <p> - Winifred only remained in the King's Road for a few months. Early in the - new year she married Treherne, and Clytie was left alone. The studio - seemed very forlorn for some time afterwards, robbed, as it were, of an - inherent tender grace, a softening, refining influence that had always - been dear to Clytie, even in her days of greatest wilfulness. Yet it - gladdened her to know that Winifred was happy—married to a man of - fine fibre who could value the exquisite gift that the high gods had given - him. - </p> - <p> - “You are a lucky girl, dear,” she said to the young bride one day when - visiting her in her new home. - </p> - <p> - “Of course I am,” replied Winifred enthusiastically. “A man like Victor——” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, yes,” replied Clytie drily. “I know. He is all perfection. But the - man doesn't live who is fit to black your boots, my child. I did not mean - that; I meant that you were a lucky girl in having eluded your obvious - destiny.” - </p> - <p> - Winifred looked at her open-eyed. - </p> - <p> - “I always used to think somewhat sadly about you,” Clytie went on. “I - seemed to read in your face and eyes that you would marry a man quite - unworthy of you, who would ill treat you, and that you would love him more - as he became worse, that your life would be a dreadful, purposeless - sacrifice. And now you see how you have escaped. Victor is just the - husband I could have picked out for you. So you are a lucky girl.” - </p> - <p> - “I wish you were as happy as I am, darling,” said Winifred, looking at her - somewhat wistfully through her own gladness. - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps I am,” replied Clytie, with a flush. “Who knows? Utter completion - of existence is not possible in this imperfect world of ours; and if my - life has its gaps that ache a little, yet it has its fulness, believe me, - dear. I am happier now than I have ever been. After all, the gaps matter - very little.” - </p> - <p> - “Now you are getting somewhat beyond me,” said Winifred. “I can't quite - follow you.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah, you needn't, Winnie dear,” replied Clytie. “Only go on loving and - trusting me. Don't you see that I am happy because I too have a good man's - love?” - </p> - <p> - “But if—if you had been—if things were different—you - might have married,” said Winifred hesitatingly. - </p> - <p> - “That does not make the love less beautiful and life-giving,” replied - Clytie. - </p> - <p> - This and other conversations of a like tenor succeeded finally in allaying - Winifred's doubts as to Clytie's happiness. An uneasy burden was lifted - off her mind, glad as her heart was in the new joy of her marriage. - Henceforth she was content to take Clytie's assurances, and to trust in - her own rooted idea that Clytie's deep, complex nature was beyond the - reach of her simple comprehension, and ungovernable by the canons that - regulated commoner clay. Strong in this faith, she triumphed in the first - little conflict of opinion that arose between herself and her husband. - Fine and generous as his views were, he had, nevertheless, a strict - churchman's regard for the proprieties of life. The recognised intimacy - between Clytie and Kent, harmless as it appeared before Clytie's marriage, - had begun to cause him certain uneasiness. He was fond of them both, - partly for their own sakes, partly on account of his wife. An unkind - thought concerning them hurt his sensitive nature, and yet, as time went - on, such thoughts began painfully to formulate themselves in his mind. At - last his conscience forced him to broach the subject to Winifred. She - listened with a little flush of spirit in her cheek, and then broke into - such a warm torrent of words that Treherne was fairly amazed. He had never - dreamed that his gentle, brown-eyed wife could be capable of such - passionateness. Her logic of devotion overmastered his scruples, and he - was almost converted to Winifred's unswerving faith. At any rate, from - that time forth he was Clytie's firm friend and ally. - </p> - <p> - During these two years Clytie was in some need of friends. The society in - which she had moved during her married life was a world unknown to her - now. Only the circle of her girlhood's acquaintances remained, and of - these some manifested disapprobation at the mode of life she had adopted. - Every staunch adherent was therefore of inestimable value, and half - unconsciously she clung to every hand held out in friendship. - </p> - <p> - The resumption of her life with Kent had produced also great tension in - her relations with Durdleham. Finally it snapped them entirely. - </p> - <p> - “I don't for a moment suppose,” wrote Mrs. Blather in the last letter that - passed between them, “that everything is not most innocent and honourable - on both sides. But your conduct is grossly imprudent and must inevitably - give rise to most painful scandal. It is your duty both to the name you - bear (painful though the associations connected with it may be) and to - that which you had from papa to put yourself beyond the reach of calumny - by living no longer beneath the same roof as Mr. Kent. Until you do so - papa and Janet and myself will consider that any regard you may have had - either for ourselves personally or for our honour as a family has entirely - gone, and, I grieve to say it, our doors, though not our hearts, will have - to be closed against you.” - </p> - <p> - Clytie read her condemnation very sadly. She could not blame her sister. - Mrs. Blather was acting conscientiously, according to the faith and - tradition she had inherited from her Godfearing ancestors. Petty and - futile as many of the formulas were by which she had been trained to - regulate human conduct, yet there were great ones which could not do - otherwise than command respect. “Thou shalt not sin,” is a formula the - obeying or renouncing of which is often a secret for one or two human - hearts alone. Its corollary, “Thou shalt not appear to be sinning,” is one - which must be dealt with openly, under the world's eye. Mrs. Blather's - judgment was based on this latter formula, her position unassailable. She - had no Winifred to shake with the eloquence of love her faith in the - formula's eternal verity. She was supported by the firm convictions of a - lifetime, and by the unhesitating assent of her father and sister. The - letter cut off all Clytie's hopes of ever being understood by her family. - She herself knew their inmost hearts, was conversant with every principle - by which they were guided, and she could bear them no ill will. But to - them she knew she would be forever inscrutable, and she accepted their - judgments with sad resignation. - </p> - <p> - In point of common fact, she was called upon to make the old, old choice - that has been offered to woman in all ages, between her family and the man - she loved. Without a moment's hesitation she chose the man, and severed - herself finally from her kin. Kent had become the object of her life. She - had loved him—she knew that now—before her marriage. She had - wronged him, as it seemed to her, by not having realised it, had received - notwithstanding a tender, absolute devotion whose brave selflessness had - been a revelation to her. No sacrifice that she could make for his - happiness was too great for her. She loved him with the whole strength of - her full nature. If any sacrifices on her part were not made, it was Kent - that forbade them. The less he would accept the more did she find in her - heart to offer. That she should remain in what they had begun to look upon - as their common home seemed to be a vital necessity to his happiness. The - mild, affectionate approval of Grace and Janet could not compensate the - great loss that each would sustain in a rupture of their intercourse. Any - appeal to her sister she knew would be useless. She was firm in the path - in which she had elected to walk, and Mrs. Blather's letter remained - unanswered. - </p> - <p> - But Kent could not take this comprehensive view of humanity. That Clytie - should be cast off by her family aroused his indignation. - </p> - <p> - “They never loved you,” he said one day. “You were always a thorn in their - flesh, and now they have seized an opportunity of plucking you out.” - </p> - <p> - “You are wrong, dear,” replied Clytie. “They loved me in their unemotional - fashion, and if I were to die they would shed many tears and wear mourning - for a whole year. But don't you see that I am of Samaria? I cannot pray in - the temple of Jerusalem, and the houses of Israel are closed against me. - It is of their religion to do so. They believe that the 'bread of the - Samaritan is as the flesh of swine.' We cannot change their faith. We can - only seek in Samaria for freer conditions of life, and the love of those - who are Samaritans at heart.” - </p> - <p> - “If I loved you less, I might take up as lofty a position as you,” said - Kent. “But I cannot bear that even a Pharisee of the Pharisees should - presume to judge you.” - </p> - <p> - “They have been judging me rightly or wrongly all my life,” said Clytie, - with a smile. “It was my own challenge; I gave it vehemently and - passionately as a girl when life lay before me like a closed book which - they refused to open for me. Now that I have learned some of its secrets I - give the challenge with a calm conviction that I am acting in accordance - with laws higher than theirs. So do not fret about me, dear.” And then she - added in a low voice: - </p> - <p> - “You know I would give up all I could have in the world for you, if you - would accept it.” - </p> - <p> - Then Kent put his arms around her and kissed her. - </p> - <p> - “I accept far too much in my selfishness,” he said. “My old lonely life - was happy, but it could not be so again. So in spite of all, Clytie, I - say, Stay with me.” - </p> - <p> - “I should stay whatever you said,” returned Clytie. “Don't fancy that all - the giving is on my side.” - </p> - <p> - One sad event marked the mid-time in these two years, robbing Clytie of an - external interest that had grown to be very dear to her. The boy Jack - died. - </p> - <p> - The first meeting with him after the terrible scene in her husband's house - was in the studio, whither he had betaken himself on one of his frequent - visits to Winifred. A sensation of pain caught at Clytie's heart as she - marked the lines of Thornton's features wrought in miniature on the boy's - face. It only lasted a few moments, and then it melted away into a great - pity. Jack was Jack, were Thornton twenty times his father. That he was so - parented should make her pity for him all the greater. She never felt more - drawn towards the boy than in that first interview. She told no one but - Kent of the secret of his parentage, not even Winifred, to whom Jack, in - spite of full intentions, never had an opportunity of showing the - photograph. For Mrs. Bur-mester having discovered that Jack had - temporarily abstracted it, had cuffed him soundly and secreted the coveted - treasure in a secure hiding-place. - </p> - <p> - Whatever hopes Clytie might have entertained as to Jack's future were cut - short by the change in her circumstances. All she could do was to - contribute towards his training in the sphere in which the high gods, - assisted by Kent and Treherne had placed him. Besides, he had manifested - no particular intellectual bent. His gifts were rather those of action; - books wearied him, except such as dealt with wild exploit and adventure. - And she shrank now from the idea of his entering the army—a feminine - distaste, easily understandable. So she had perforce to concur in the - scheme whereby he should remain another year at the school and then be - apprenticed to a respectable trade. Kent comforted her with his - assurances. If the boy had the fire of success in him, he would rise out - of the common ranks. Life was all before him with its endless fortuities. - With devoted friends watching and guiding him, it would be a poor world if - he did not arrive at ultimate good. And Clytie in her turn comforted the - boy, trying to soften and mould his nature with her womanly influence. - </p> - <p> - It was his last term at the school. He had won for himself the golden - opinions of the authorities. The semi-animal little arab of four years ago - had developed into a bright, self-reliant lad of generous impulses, - subject, it is true, to fits of ungovernable passion, but quick to - forgive, repent, and do penance. Suddenly Clytie received a telegram that - Jack was very ill. She left her work and started immediately for the - school. There she found that diphtheria had broken out among the boys, and - Jack's was the most critical case. Day and night she nursed him. But it - was of no avail. The boy died, and Clytie returned to London with a - cheerless sense of loss. Mrs. Burmester, who came to see her after the - funeral, whimpered a little, and hoped that Clytie would recommend her to - any of her friends who happened to be in need of a charwoman. And then - Clytie looked at the mother, thought of the father. After all, if the laws - of heredity had anything to do with the controlling of human destinies, - were it not better for Jack to be dead? When the woman had gone she went - and stood before the replica of her famous picture which she had painted - for Kent, and shook her head sadly. - </p> - <p> - “What I have painted there,” she said to Kent, “the cruelty and animalism - that seemed to have gone out of his face latterly, would always have - remained. Human nature is a palimpsest, dear. What is written is written - forever, though it seem obliterated, and may be called up to the surface - at any moment. I call Jack happy, being dead.” - </p> - <p> - With the exception of this episode the weeks and months passed in peaceful - uneventfulness. Clytie worked assiduously at her art. At first the studio - seemed lonely and dispiriting without Winifred. But other influences - compensated her loss. As soon as it became known that she had resumed her - profession, orders came in plentifully and kept her busy. And then perhaps - Winifred's absence brought her nearer to Kent. If she worked hard all day - and failed to reach her artistic ideal, it was deep comfort to know that - Kent's whole-hearted encouragement would soon come and cheer her and save - her from depression. They had learned to depend much upon each other in - their work. In every mood they were constant companions, never weary of - each other. Instead of walking home from the Museum, as he had done for - years, Kent would hurry back by train from Charing Cross to Sloane Square, - so as to shorten her loneliness by half an hour. A cup of tea, a talk over - the day's work, perhaps a stroll along the Embankment, dinner, and then - the long quiet evening as in the old days—such was the ordinary - routine. Certain changes had naturally occurred in Kent's habits—changes - for his distinct good, as Clytie used to declare laughingly. He rarely - used the attic sitting-room. His scratch Bohemian meals were things of the - past. What law of God or man forbade them to eat together? Clytie asked - once in the early days when they were talking of household trifles. And - then Kent bluntly insisted upon an arrangement whereby they divided - equally the rent of the rooms they inhabited. It was not fair, he - maintained, that he should give her sitting-room all that wear and tear - without helping to pay for it. Clytie yielded, not unpleasurably, seeing - that he was bent upon it, but she reserved the studio as her own especial - sanctum. - </p> - <p> - The charm of the life grew daily upon Kent, with its infinite grace of - little things. He told her this often, with awkward sincerity, as a man - can only tell the woman he loves deeply. And Clytie would laugh - contentedly and say: - </p> - <p> - “But you'll soon get tired of these organised meals and long for your - freedom again. Don't you ever crave to be swallowing your coffee as you - brush your hair in the mornings? And doesn't it chafe you all the - afternoon at the Museum to think that there is a regular dinner awaiting - you when you get back?” - </p> - <p> - “No; somehow I like it,” he would reply, laughing. “I believe I am - developing into respectability.” - </p> - <p> - Combining their resources they were able to entertain in a modest way - those of their friends who perfectly understood their relations—the - Farquharsons, the Trehernes, Wither. On these occasions Mrs. Gurkins's - husband, a lean, self-effacive man, would wait at table in the severest of - black and lend immense dignity to the meal. Wither was a constant visitor. - The “monastery” was broken up; Fairfax had taken a practice in a large - country town, Green had taken a wife. Wither complained bitterly, railing - at them both for their disgusting selfishness. Clytie learned to love the - bright-eyed, gnomelike little being, his cynical, paradoxical talk, his - large-heartedness which he was ever anxious to conceal from the world. - Often when life seemed to weigh a little heavy, the future to loom - somewhat sad, and Kent and Clytie had been sitting alone, a spell of - wistful silence over them, Wither would come in unexpectedly, and, with - his subtle feminine perception piercing to the heart of their mood, would - exert himself to extra brilliancy and dissipate their cloud in laughter. A - man by no means requires delicate tact to win a woman's love, but no man - who displays it towards a woman can fail of winning a little of the - overflow of her heart. Clytie was grateful to Wither. Once, when bidding - him good-night,—Kent had gone into the passage,—she added - impulsively, “and thank you.” - </p> - <p> - He looked at her in his odd way, with a smile playing around his lips. - </p> - <p> - “What for? For being miserable and lonely and making use of you to cure - myself?” - </p> - <p> - But they understood one another, and he was touched by Clytie's little - tribute. And Clytie had spoken out of her heart. - </p> - <p> - For, in spite of the helpfulness and comfort of their life together, there - were gaps in its plenitude which, as she had said to Winifred, ached a - little at times. Kent was tenderness, manly sympathy itself: he would have - cut his tongue out rather than formulate a longing that could not be - satisfied. But moments came when the irony of life seemed somewhat - bitterly mocking, and caused a veil of sadness to be drawn between them. - And like people who love deeply each was sensitive to the variations in - the other's mood. Then Clytie would yearn for the impossible: to fix - forever the light she loved to see in his eyes, to cling to his arm and be - acknowledged his wife before all the world. Thus through the midst of - their happy, earnest life ran a vein of sorrow. - </p> - <p> - But the years that had passed, with their manifold emotions, experiences, - and disillusions, with their awakenings of passion, with their plentiful - gift of tears, with their later gift of an almost holy communion of souls, - had completed the woman and the artist. One hunger remained to her—one - that had had no place in her girlish cravings—a woman's hunger that - is as a thing sacred, and wondrously softens her nature. An infinite - compassion took within her the place of scorn. Her eyes had learned the - trick of tenderness which illuminated her bright, fearless face. Her - judgments became less harsh, gained in breadth what they lost in - brilliance. She “saw life steadily and saw it whole.” Many of its - mysteries had been revealed to her, and she had learned the road to the - heart of others. The great lesson that Kent in the years before had - suggested to her she grasped in its entirety, and it revolutionised her - artistic career. No longer was her art a stepping-stone, a magic-lantern - sheet on which to project life in order to realise its meaning. It was no - longer the objective form of a vague craving, but the idealised record of - an experience. When she painted the wistful, old-world look in a waif's - eyes it was no longer with the impatient, fretful hope that its - significance would be taught her from her own canvas; her awakened sight - gazed with the sorrow of knowledge into the young soul, and she used her - art to bear witness to the world of what was there. In a dim way she was - conscious of this change of attitude—seeking within herself for the - reason of the deeper, intenser, calmer feeling with which she approached - her work. There came, too, a sense of responsibility, the necessity of - perfecting whatever she painted in its presentation of truth. As her - genius expanded the inner interpretation of the formula, “Art for art's - sake,” dawned upon her in the realisation of the “sorrowful great gift” - whereby the artist has the privilege of piercing through the media of - sense and intellect and touching the naked soul of man. - </p> - <p> - She went, as of old, into the streets for her models, choosing the side of - life least understanded of Philistia, sublimating that which was - spiritual, eternal in abject and outcast, beggar and courtesan. Strange - were the walks of Kent and herself about the great city, by day and by - night, and strange the spars and fragments of humanity they picked up in - these rambles, who found their way afterwards to Clytie's studio. They - went together to East End music halls, bank holiday gatherings, thieves' - kitchens, night clubs in the West End, where ladies are admitted free on a - member's introduction, Kent paying his subscription almost at the door. It - was towards women that Clytie's sympathy flowed the strongest. Her first - contact with one of <i>ces autres</i> in the hotel at Dinan had set a - chord vibrating within her that now rang out full and true. She could - paint these women, young, withered, children on the lurid threshold, old - women with charred and blackened past. It is the moralist's part to - condemn, evolve the moral; the artist on the higher plane disintegrates - the spiritual from the animal and presents it in the form of Truth. From - the comedy of misery, the tragedy of sex, the never ending drama of vice - and crime, the one draws groans, the other tears. Each has his place in - the cosmos. Thus Clytie, artist and woman, walked through the abomination - of desolation and opened the eyes of the world to the glimmering spiritual - rays that shot across it. - </p> - <p> - Once more she took out the studies she had made for the “Faustina” - picture. This time she could look on them without a shudder, only sadly. - The picture would never be painted. She was no longer in feverish, - passionate search after mysteries that had baffled her. The picture now - had no artistic reason for existence. It would be a cruel, despairing - work, a tragedy of cynicism. Knowledge of the world had given her - knowledge of self; she knew now how blent were the foreshadowings of - passion in her own soul with those that she had hungered to express on the - young face of Faustina. In those days she could have found a model in her - own mirror, and then the personal note dominating the picture would have - saved it from heartlessness. For the complete woman to paint it would be - the presentation of the damnation of a young soul. But the contemplation - of her earlier work suggested vividly the converse of the subject—a - Faustina swept away by the whirl of passion with the after-light of - innocence in her soul's depths. The conception grew within her, took form, - awoke the full artist in the ripe woman. With a throbbing sense of - mastery, a quivering thrill of inspiration, new to her as the first love - kiss on a young girl's lips, she betook herself to her task. - </p> - <p> - It was the 5th of August, two years after Clytie had resumed her artistic - life with Kent. The afternoon was hot and oppressive. Clytie was tired and - lay back on the couch by the window, for she had worked unceasingly all - through the summer and the strain was beginning to tell on her. - </p> - <p> - They had just returned from the West End Gallery, where Clytie's picture - had been exhibited during the season. This was the closing day, and they - had gone to see the picture for the last time. A wealthy American had - purchased it for the art museum of his native city, and to-morrow it would - be packed up and sent over seas. - </p> - <p> - “It's like parting forever from the child that is dearest to you,” she - said with a little touch of melancholy. “That is the worst of painting. A - poet or a musician—even an etcher can keep his work by him, but a - painter loses all. Doesn't it seem hard?” - </p> - <p> - Kent acquiesced, comforted her, spoke with vague cheeriness of the law of - sacrifice which we must all obey. On the other hand, she must think of all - that the picture had brought her, the public fame, the homage of those - whose opinion was dear to her. - </p> - <p> - “Yes; in all that I have succeeded beyond my wildest hopes,” said Clytie. - “But what is it? At the Redgraves' the other afternoon crowds of people - stared at me, whispered each other requests to be introduced to Clytie - Davenant. The men praised all the wrong points in my picture, and the - women tried to get at the way I did my hair. I know it's flattering to - one's vanity, dear, and I like it. I honestly like it. But it is a - superficial little gratification. Now it is all over I begin to think of - what that picture has cost, what has gone to the making of it. Neither - money nor fame can pay me back.” - </p> - <p> - “It has cost you hours of work in which you have found happiness,” said - Kent. “You must not overlook that.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, Kent!” cried Clytie, not seeing for the moment that he had - deliberately avoided the deeper elements in her thought. “Don't you know - what I mean? You who have been just now preaching to me the law of - sacrifice! Don't you know that to be the woman to paint that picture there - were sacrificed the traditions and formulas of my home—there were - sacrificed the first pure flush of a girl's love, the illusions of a wife, - the joy of motherhood, the dignity of a proud woman?” - </p> - <p> - She raised herself impulsively on her elbow and continued with flashing - eyes: - </p> - <p> - “Don't you see that? And you of all men who have shared with such - bitterness in the sacrifice! Yes, you, my dearest, my best, my love! Your - life has been sacrificed, your love, your devotion, your nobleness. For - once in the world the man has paid, and not the woman. For two long years - we have lived together, eating at the same table, living a common life, - which, had one great fact been non-existent would have crowned our days - with happiness. I am of Samaria—I don't care. I have offered to you - to defy the world, to live openly together, to bear your name. You have - said 'No,' for my sake sacrificing yourself. Can this life last forever? - Have not the past two years been filled with longings, restraints, - bitternesses, regrets, all silently working—you too loyal to utter - them, I dreading lest the utterance of them on my part should render you - unhappier?” - </p> - <p> - “I have been happy,” said Kent. “A thousandth part of what you have given - me would have made me more than happy.” - </p> - <p> - “But your due is a thousand times more!” cried Clytie. “I have given you - little enough, but I have drawn from you the breath by which I live, the - strength, the passion, the will by which I have reached my poor success. - It can't be so any longer; it would be unjust, cruel!” - </p> - <p> - “Stop, my darling!” exclaimed Kent, greatly agitated. I am a man, and you - are saying things a man cannot bear from the woman he loves. Let us finish - this before it is too late, and I lose mastery over myself. I have thought - over it all—with the fiercest hunger in my heart—even in - moments of our love that have been worth a century of misery. I have - thought over it all ways. What was impossible two years ago is impossible - now. I will not wreck your life by condemning you to scorn and ostracism - and the loss of all that the outside world can give you.” - </p> - <p> - Clytie did not reply, but turned her face towards the open window, looking - with knitted brow into the patch of blue heaven that was just visible over - the tops of the opposite houses. A great, great longing possessed her, an - infinite tenderness towards the man who could speak and act so selflessly. - She longed to be able to say three little words, summing up the yearning - of her heart: “For my sake.” But they seemed unutterable at that hour. - Perhaps at another time, in a moment of less vehement tone, when he was - unawares, the words could be whispered in his ear. She sank deep into the - thought—utter woman. - </p> - <p> - A long, long silence, which Kent, uncomprehensive, like a man, did not - dare to break. A thought had seized him too, a troubling doubt. Would he - always be as strong? - </p> - <p> - At last he drew mechanically out of his pocket an evening paper that he - had bought on the way home, and as mechanically opened it and began to - skim the contents. - </p> - <p> - Suddenly he leaped to his feet with a loud cry: - </p> - <p> - “Clytie!” - </p> - <p> - She sprang up, startled, and saw him standing with white cheeks and - shaking hand, holding out the paper. - </p> - <p> - “Read—he—he—read!” - </p> - <p> - Clytie took the paper from him, and her eyes instinctively fell upon the - paragraph: - </p> - <p> - A telegram from Loango announces the death of Mr. Thornton Hammerdyke, the - well-known explorer, in a skirmish with some Arab slave-traders. Later - particulars will be given in our next edition. - </p> - <p> - The newspaper fell from her hand, and they remained for some moments - facing each other, trembling. Then she lowered her eyes and went to him - humbly. - </p> - <h3> - THE END. - </h3> - <div style="height: 6em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's At The Gate Of Samaria, by William J. 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