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diff --git a/old/53995-h/53995-h.htm b/old/53995-h/53995-h.htm deleted file mode 100644 index 292d955..0000000 --- a/old/53995-h/53995-h.htm +++ /dev/null @@ -1,7823 +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>A Study In Shadows, by William J. Locke</title> - <meta content="pg2html (binary v0.17)" /> - <link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" /> - <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> - - body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} - P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .50em; margin-bottom: .50em; } - H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } - hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} - .foot { margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%; text-align: justify; font-size: 80%; font-style: italic;} - blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} - .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} - .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} - .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} - .xx-small {font-size: 60%;} - .x-small {font-size: 75%;} - .small {font-size: 85%;} - .large {font-size: 115%;} - .x-large {font-size: 130%;} - .indent5 { margin-left: 5%;} - .indent10 { margin-left: 10%;} - .indent15 { margin-left: 15%;} - .indent20 { margin-left: 20%;} - .indent30 { margin-left: 30%;} - .indent40 { margin-left: 40%;} - div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } - div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } - .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} - .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} - .pagenum {position: absolute; right: 1%; font-size: 0.6em; - font-variant: normal; font-style: normal; - text-align: right; background-color: #FFFACD; - border: 1px solid; padding: 0.3em;text-indent: 0em;} - .side { float: left; font-size: 75%; width: 15%; padding-left: 0.8em; - border-left: dashed thin; text-align: left; - text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; - font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;} - .head { float: left; font-size: 90%; width: 98%; padding-left: 0.8em; - border-left: dashed thin; text-align: center; - text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; - font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;} - p.pfirst, p.noindent {text-indent: 0} - span.dropcap { float: left; margin: 0 0.1em 0 0; line-height: 0.8 } - pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} - -</style> - </head> - <body> - - -<pre> - -The Project Gutenberg EBook of A Study In Shadows, by William J. Locke - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - -Title: A Study In Shadows - -Author: William J. Locke - -Release Date: January 18, 2017 [EBook #53995] -Last Updated: March 12, 2018 - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A STUDY IN SHADOWS *** - - - - -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> - A STUDY IN SHADOWS - </h1> - <h2> - By William J. Locke - </h2> - <h3> - London: John Lane - </h3> - <h4> - MCMVIII - </h4> - <div class="fig" style="width:50%;"> - <img src="images/titlepage.jpg" alt="titlepage " width="100%" /><br /> - </div> - <h5> - <a href="images/titlepage.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a> - </h5> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - <b>CONTENTS</b> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I.—THE LONE WOMEN. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II.—KATHERINE. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III.—LOST IN THE SNOW </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV.—“WHERE THE BROOK AND RIVER - MEET.” </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V.—THE PUZZLE OF RAINE CHETWYND. - </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI.—SUMMER CHANGES. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII.—KATHERINE'S HOUR </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII.—A POOR LITTLE TRAGEDY. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX.—VARIOUS ELEMENTS HAVE THEIR - SAY. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X.—A TOUCH OF NATURE. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI.—“THE WOMAN WHO DELIBERATES.” - </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII.—ELECTRICITY IN THE AIR. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII.—THE SOILING OF A PAGE. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XIV.—THE WEAKER SIDE. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER XV.—THE SIGNING OF A DEATH WARRANT. - </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER XVI.—FELICIA VICTRIX. </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.—THE LONE WOMEN. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">F</span>elicia Graves was - puzzled. The six weeks she had spent at the Pension Boccard had confused - many of her conceptions and brought things before her judgment for which - her standards were inadequate. Not that a girl who had passed the few - years of her young womanhood in the bubbling life of a garrison town could - be as unsophisticated as village innocence in the play; but her fresh, - virginal experience had been limited to what was seemly, orthodox, and - comfortable. She was shrewd enough in the appreciation of superficial - vanities, rightly esteeming their value as permanent elements; but the - baser follies of human nature had not been reached by her young eyes. Her - whole philosophy of life had been bound up in well-ordered family systems, - in which the men were honest and well-bred, and the women either - comfortable matrons or fresh-minded, companionable girls like herself. She - knew vaguely that sorrows and bitterness and broken lives existed in the - world, but hitherto she had never reckoned upon coming into contact with - them. They all lay in the dim sphere where crime and immorality held sway, - whose internal upheavals affected her as little as dynastic commotions in - China. The lives and habits and opinions therefore of the six lonely women - who, with one old gentleman, formed her sole daily companions in the - Pension Boccard, were a subject of much puzzled and half-frightened - speculation on the part of the young English girl. - </p> - <p> - She was forced to speculate, not only because she was brought into - intimate touch with the unfamiliar, but also because there was little else - to do. The Pension Boccard was neither gay nor stimulating in winter. Its - life was dependent, first upon the ever-changing current of guests, and - secondly upon such public distractions as Geneva offers. In the summer it - was bright enough. The house was full from top to bottom with eager, - laughing holiday-makers, bringing with them the vitality and freshness of - the outside world. There were dances, flirtations, picnics. New ideas, - scraps of gossip and song from London, Paris, St. Petersburg filled - dining-room and salons. The pleasant friction of nationalities alone was - stimulating. The town, too, was gay. The streets were bright with the - cosmopolitan crowd of pleasure-seekers, the <i>cafés</i> alive with - customers, the shop windows gay with jewellery and quaint curios to dazzle - the eyes of the reckless tourist. At the Kursaal were weekly balls, - entertainments, <i>petits chevaux</i>. Bands played in the public gardens, - and all the <i>cafés</i> offered evening concerts gratis to their - customers. There were pleasant trips to be made on the lake to Nyon, - Lausanne, Montreux, Chillon. No one need be dull in summer time at Geneva. - But in the winter, when all the public festivities were over and week - after week passed without a stranger bringing a fresh personality to the - dinner-table, the Pension Boccard was an abode of drear depression. If it - had been chipped off from the earth's surface by the tail of a careless - comet and sent whirling through space on an ecliptic of its own, it could - not have been less in relation with external influences. It was thrown - entirely on its own resources, which only too often gave way, as it were, - beneath it. - </p> - <p> - There was nothing to do save reading and needlework and gossip. It was - while pursuing the last avocation that Felicia gathered her chief - materials for speculation. These women, what were they? Their names were - Mrs. Stapleton, Miss Bunter, Frau Schultz, Frâulein Klinkhardt, and Madame - Popea. American, English, German, Roumanian respectively. Yet in spite of - wide divergencies in creed, nationality, and character, they all seemed - strangely to belong to one class. They were apparently isolated, - selfcentred, without ties or aims or hopes. Each had travelled through - Europe from pension to pension—a weary pilgrimage. Their lives were - for the most part spent in listless idleness, only saved now and then from - inanition by the nerving influences of petty bickerings, violent - intimacies, sordid jealousies. All had moods of kindness alternating with - moods of cynical disregard of susceptibilities. Now and then a wave of - hysteria would pass through the atmosphere of depression, when feminine - velvet would be rudely thrust back and spiteful claws exposed to view. - Even Mrs. Stapleton would occasionally break through her habitual - restraint and be goaded into mordant expression. It was the isolation of - these women, their vague references to the sheltering home of years ago, - their cynical exposition and criticism of undreamed of facts, that made - Felicia look upon her surroundings with a child's alarm at the unfamiliar. - </p> - <p> - Sometimes she felt home-sick and miserable, wished that her uncle and - aunt, with whom her home had been for many years since the death of her - parents, had taken her out with them to Bermuda. But they, worthy souls, - when Colonel Graves was ordered abroad with the regiment, had thought that - a year's continental life would be a treat for the girl, and had sent her, - in consequence, to the care of Mme. Boccard, a distant kinswoman, whose - prospectus read like a synopsis of Eden. They had so set their hearts upon - her enjoyment, that, now they were thousands of miles away, she felt it - would be ungracious to complain. But she was very unhappy. - </p> - <p> - “Mon Dieu! This is getting terrible!” said Mme. Popea, one evening. - </p> - <p> - Dinner was over, and some of the ladies were passing the usual dreary - evening in the salon. - </p> - <p> - “It is enough to drive you mad. It would be livelier in a convent. One - would have Matins and Vespers and Compline—a heap of little duties. - One could go to one's bed tired, and sleep. Here one sleeps all day, so - that when night comes, one can't shut an eye.” - </p> - <p> - “Why don't you go to the convent, Mme. Popea?” asked Mrs. Stapleton, - mildly, looking up from her needlework. - </p> - <p> - “Ah! one cannot always choose,” replied Mme. Popea, with a sigh. - “Besides,” she added, “one would have to be so good!” - </p> - <p> - “Yes; there is some truth in that,” said Mrs. Stapleton. “It is better to - be a serene sinner than a depressed saint! And sometimes we sinners have - our hours of serenity.” - </p> - <p> - “Not after such a dinner as we had tonight,” remarked Frau Schultz, in - German, with strident irritability. “The food is getting dreadful—and - the wine! It is not good for the health. My stomach—” - </p> - <p> - “You should drink water, as Miss Graves and I do,” said Mrs. Stapleton. - </p> - <p> - “Ah, you American and English women can drink water. We are not accustomed - to it. In my home I never drank wine that cost less than four marks a - bottle. I am not used to this. I shall complain to Mme. Boccard.” - </p> - <p> - “It is bad,” said Mme. Popea, “but it isn't as bad as it might be. At the - Pension Schmidt we couldn't drink it without sugar.” She was a plump - little woman, with a predisposition to cheerfulness. Besides, as she owed - Mme. Boccard some two months' board and lodging, she could afford a little - magnanimity. But Frau Schultz, who was conscious of scrupulous payment up - to date, had no such delicacy of feeling. She pursued the subject from her - own standpoint, that of her own physiological peculiarities. By the time - her tirade was ended, she had worked herself up into a fit state to give - battle to Mme. Boccard, on which errand she incontinently proceeded. - </p> - <p> - “What a dreadful woman!” said Mrs. Stapleton, as the door slammed behind - her. - </p> - <p> - “Ah, yes. Those Germans,” said Mme. Popea, “they are always so unrefined. - They think of nothing but eating and drinking. Herr Schleiermacher came to - see me this afternoon. He has been to Hanover to see his <i>fiancée</i>, - whom he can't marry. He was telling me about it. 'Ach!' he said, 'the last - evening it was so grievous. She did hang round my neck for dree hours, so - that I could not go out to drink beer with my vriendts!' Animal! All men - are bad. But I think German men—ugh!” - </p> - <p> - She gave her shoulders' an expressive shrug, and resumed her reading of an - old copy of <i>Le Journal Amusant</i>, which she had brought down from her - room. - </p> - <p> - “Where are the others?” asked Felicia, dropping her book wearily on to her - lap. It was a much-thumbed French translation of “The Chaplet of Pearls,” - which Mme. Boccard had procured for her from the circulating library in - the Rue du Rhone. Felicia found it languid reading. - </p> - <p> - “Miss Bunter is tending her canary, which is moulting, or else she is - writing to her <i>fiance</i> in Burmah,” replied Mrs. Stapleton. - </p> - <p> - “Is she <i>engaged</i>?” - </p> - <p> - Miss Bunter was some seven and thirty, thin and faded, the last person in - the world, according to Felicia's ideas, to have a lover. Both ladies - laughed at her astonishment. - </p> - <p> - “Yes. Hasn't she told you?” cried Mme. Popea. “She tells everyone—in - confidence. They have been engaged for fifteen years. And they write each - other letters—such fat packages—thick as that—every - mail. Ah, <i>mon Dieu!</i> If a man treated me in that way—kept me - waiting, waiting—” - </p> - <p> - She threw up her plump little hands with a half-threatening gesture. - </p> - <p> - “What would you have done?” asked Mrs. Stapleton. - </p> - <p> - “I should have consoled myself—<i>en attendant</i>. Oh, yes, I - should have gone on writing; but I would not have let myself become a poor - old maid for any man in the world. That is one thing I admire about - Frâulein Klinkhardt. You were asking where she was to-night. I know, but I - won't be indiscreet. She is <i>fiancee</i> too. She is not getting less - young—<i>mais elle s'amuse, elle—en attendant</i>.” - </p> - <p> - Felicia did not grasp the full significance of Mme. Popea's insinuations, - but she caught enough to set her cheeks burning, and she cast an appealing - glance at Mrs. Stapleton. - </p> - <p> - “Won't you play us something?” said the latter, kindly, in response to the - appeal. - </p> - <p> - “Ah, do!” said Mme. Popea, serenely. “You play so charmingly.” - </p> - <p> - Felicia went to the piano, and ran her fingers over the keys. She did not - feel in a mood for playing; music with her was an accomplishment, not an - art to which she could instinctively bring bruised and quivering fibres to - be soothed. She played mechanically, thinking of other things. - </p> - <p> - Once she struck a false note, and her ear caught a little indrawn hiss - from Madame Popea, which brought her wandering attention sharply back. But - her heart was not in it. She was thinking of poor little Miss Bunter, and - the weary years of waiting, and how sad she must have been as, year by - year, she had seen the youth dying out of her eyes and the bloom fading - from her cheek. Frâulein Klinkhardt, too, who was amusing herself—<i>en - attendant</i>; she felt as if something impure had touched her. - </p> - <p> - At the next false note, Mme. Popea rose softly, and went to Mrs. - Stapleton. - </p> - <p> - “I am going to bed,” she whispered. “These English girls are charming; but - they should have dumb pianos made for them, that would speak only to their - own souls.” - </p> - <p> - When Felicia heard the click of the closing door, she started round on the - music-stool. - </p> - <p> - “I hope I haven't driven Mme. Popea away with my strumming,” she said, - guiltily. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, no, dear,” replied Mrs. Stapleton, with cheerful assurance. “She is a - lazy little body that always goes to bed early.” - </p> - <p> - Felicia rose, took up <i>Le Journal Amusant</i>, which Mme. Popea had left - behind, and sitting down, began to look through it. A few seconds later, - however, she crumpled it fiercely, and threw it on the ground with a cry - of disgust. - </p> - <p> - “How can ladies read such things?” she exclaimed. - </p> - <p> - She had never seen such a picture before, never conceived that the like - could even have been visualized by the imagination. Its cynical immodesty, - its obscene suggestion, gave her a sickening sensation of loathing. - </p> - <p> - Mrs. Stapleton picked up the offending journal, and skimmed over its pages - with calm eyes and a contemptuous curl of the lip. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, how can you?” cried Felicia, writhing. - </p> - <p> - The other smiled, and, opening the door of the great porcelain stove, - thrust the paper in amongst the glowing coals, and closed the door again. - Then she came quickly up to the couch where Felicia was, and sitting down - by her side, took her hand. - </p> - <p> - “My poor child,” she said, “I hope you are not too unhappy here.” - </p> - <p> - The elder woman's voice was so soft, her manner was so gentle and - feminine, that the girl's heart, that had been longing for six weeks, with - a greater hunger day after day, for womanly sympathy, leapt towards her, - and her eyes filled with tears. - </p> - <p> - “It is so strange here,” she said, piteously, “and I feel so lost, without - my friends and occupations, and—and—” - </p> - <p> - “Well? Tell me. Perhaps I may be able to help you.” - </p> - <p> - The girl turned away her head. - </p> - <p> - “Other things. Sometimes I feel frightened. To-night—that newspaper—what - Mme. Popea was saying—it seemed to scorch me.” - </p> - <p> - Mrs. Stapleton registered a mental resolution to talk pointedly to Mme. - Popea on the morrow. If English girls should have dumb pianos, it was only - fair that Roumanian widows should have invisible indecent pictures. - </p> - <p> - She smoothed the back of Felicia's hot hands. Her own were cool and soft, - and their touch was very grateful to Felicia. - </p> - <p> - “My poor child,” she said, “my poor child.” - </p> - <p> - She herself had suffered. She knew from sad tasting the bitterness of many - fruits that grow in the garden of life. Like many women, she judged the - flavour of another's future experiences by the aftertaste of her own past. - There were many, many Dead Sea apples that a woman had to eat before the - grave closed over her. The sight of the young soul shrinking at the - foretaste filled her with a sense of infinite pathos. - </p> - <p> - “I wonder if you would let me call you by your name sometimes when we are - alone,” she said, gently. - </p> - <p> - The girl flashed a grateful glance. - </p> - <p> - “Would you really? It is Felicia.” - </p> - <p> - “And mine is Katherine. I wonder how it would sound?” - </p> - <p> - “Katherine?” echoed Felicia, with a puzzled smile. “What do you mean?” - </p> - <p> - “I have not heard it for very many years. To everybody I have known I have - been Mrs. Stapleton. I should like to be called by my own name once again. - Would you do so?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh! yes—gladly. But how sad! How very, very lonely you must be. I - think I should pine away with loneliness. There must be quite a hundred - people who call me Felicia.” - </p> - <p> - “Then you must give us poor forlorn creatures some of your happiness,” - said Katherine, with a smile. “You must make allowances for us. Do not - judge us too harshly.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh! you must not compare yourself with the others,” said Felicia; “you - are quite different from—Mme. Popea, for instance.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah, no, not very much,” said Katherine, with a touch of bitterness. “We - only differ a little through the circumstances of our upbringing, - nationality, and so on. We are all the same at heart, weary of ourselves, - of life, of each other. Most women have their homes, their children, their - pleasant circle of friends. None of us has. We are failures. Either we - have sought to get too much from life and heaven has punished us for - presumption, or circumstance has been against us—we have been too - poor to conquer it. Ah, no, my dear child, don't think that we are merely - a set of selfish, coarse, ill-tempered women. Each of us knows in her own - heart that she is a failure, and she knows that all the others know it.” - </p> - <p> - A flush of colour bad come into her delicate cheek as she said this, and - her lips closed rather tightly, showing fine, almost imperceptible - vertical lines. Yet her eyes looked kindly at Felicia and smoothed any - rough impression her words may have made. - </p> - <p> - The other's eyes met hers rather wonderingly. The tragedy that underlay - this commonplace pension life was a new conception. - </p> - <p> - “I'll try to think more kindly of them,” she said. - </p> - <p> - “And what about poor me?” - </p> - <p> - “Ah, you! I have never thought unkindly about you. In fact, I have wanted - to know you, but you have always been so distant and reserved, until this - evening; you and Mr. Chetwynd. He is so clever, and so old—and I am - only a girl—that I am afraid of boring him.” - </p> - <p> - Katherine laughed at her naïve confusion. “Why, Mr. Chetwynd is the - kindest and most courteous old man in the world! I'll tell you what we'll - do. I will get your seat moved up to our end of the table—away from - Mme. Boccard, who has had you long enough—and then you can sit next - to him. Would you like that?” - </p> - <p> - Felicia assented gladly. Mme. Boccard was a rather oppressive neighbour. - Her conversation was as chaff before the wind, both in substance and - utterance; and the few straws that Felicia, with her schoolgirl's - knowledge of French, was able to seize, did not afford her much - satisfaction. - </p> - <p> - “How can I thank you for being so kind to me?” she said, a little later, - before they parted for the night. - </p> - <p> - “By calling me Katherine sometimes,” said the other. “I am not so very, - very old, you know; and, my dear child, it would comfort me.” - </p> - <p> - Felicia went to sleep that night happier than she had done since her - arrival in Geneva. But she pondered many things before her eyes closed. She was ready - to pity Mme. Popea for being a failure, but Mrs. Stapleton had failed to - explain to her the necessary connection between an unhappy life and <i>Le - Journal Amusant</i>. If the latter was a necessary solace, it brought - fresh terrors to the anticipation of sorrow. - </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.—KATHERINE. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">D</span>on't waste your - pity upon me,” wrote old Mr. Chetwynd to his son Raine, an Oxford don. - “This is not the Euxine, and even if it were, there would be compensation. - </p> - <p> - I have fallen in love in my old age. She is a little brown-haired, - brown-eyed, fresh-coloured English girl, who has come lately to sit by me - at table. Owing to her, a change has come o'er the spirit of my meals. - </p> - <p> - I say and do all kinds of foolish things. I caught myself yesterday - brushing my coat before coming down to dinner. I shall be wearing a flower - in my buttonhole before long. I am already supplied with bouquets. - </p> - <p> - “My young lady's ignorance is fascinating; it forms a bond between us. The - Oxford young ladies, who will tell you of their charming talk with the - dear professor, little know what wicked satirical thoughts they have left - behind in the dear professor's breast. But this one actually does not want - to teach me anything. Think of it! She is Homeric. I told her she reminded - me of Nausicaa. Instead of taking the allusion as a text to preach the - newest theories of female education, she asked me sweetly who Nausicaa - was. It is wonderful! In brief, my dear Raine, if you value the place you - hold in your poor old daddy's heart, you must pay me your promised visit - with the utmost celerity.” - </p> - <p> - He was a striking figure in the pension, this old scholar, whose heart - Felicia had won. All the ladies knew that he was a professor, wonderfully - learned, and that he was writing a learned book, in which pursuit he spent - half his days among the musty manuscripts in the Geneva University - Library. In consequence, they looked upon him with a certain awe. They saw - very little of him, except at meals, and then only those who were within - easy conversational distance profited much by his society. Now and then, - on rare occasions, he came into the salon after dinner, where he would - take a hand at piquet with Mme. Popea, whose conspicuously best behaviour - on these occasions was a subject of satirical pleasure to the others. But - as a general rule he retired to his own room and his private avocations. - </p> - <p> - As a matter of fact, he was an Oxford scholar of considerable repute, - honoured and welcomed in every Common Room. In his middle age he had - filled a professorial chair in a Scotch University, which after some years - he had resigned for reasons of climate and failing health. At present he - was engaged on critical work dealing with the Swiss Reformers, and - involving accurate documentary research. He had already spent the latter - part of the summer at Zürich, examining the Zwinglius MSS., and now he was - busy with the Calvinistic treasures of Geneva. How long his task would - last would depend upon his rate of progress. But as he had let his small - house in Oxford for a year, and as the quiet of the Pension Boccard suited - him, he had decided upon staying at Geneva for a considerable time. - </p> - <p> - A strange anomaly, with his learning and industry, in the midst of the - heterogeneous feminine idleness of the Pension. In a vague way all the - women felt it. His appearance, too, was strikingly suggestive of a - personality inaccessible to the trivialities round which their own souls - centred. Once a strong, thick-set man, he retained at seventy-two, great - breadth of bent shoulders. His hair, scanty at the top and long, was still - black, as were his heavy eyebrows, beneath which gleamed lustrous black - eyes. The sombre depth of the latter and the deep furrowings on his dark, - square face gave it, in moments of repose, a stern expression but when a - smile or the play of fancy or interest lit it up, it was like the sunshine - breaking upon a granite scaur. The very magic of the change had in it - something eerie, incomprehensible. And a rare tenderness could sometimes - well from the heart into the eyes, making the old face beautiful; but that - was not displayed for the benefit of the ladies of the Pension. - </p> - <p> - The fresh instincts of the young girl, however, divined the underlying - tenderness and brought it to the surface. It was a natural intimacy, which - cheered both lives. The old scholar's genial humour, delicate, playful - fancy, evoked in Felicia spontaneity of merry thought and speech. The - meals, which once had been such ordeals, when eaten under the whirlwind of - Mme. Boccard's half-intelligible platitudes, became invested with a rare - charm. Instead of sitting shy and silent, she laughed and jested with the - inconsequence of twenty. The change was so marked, that one day, when a - mock quarrel arose between the old man and herself, over the exact halving - of a pear, Mme. Popea elevated surprised eyebrows, and nudged Frau Schultz - her neighbour. - </p> - <p> - “<i>Voilà bien les femmes!</i> a man—a mummy will suffice—but - let it be masculine!” - </p> - <p> - “And the men, they are all the same,” said Frau Schultz, in her thick - South German. “Give them a pretty face, and no matter how old, they are on - fire.” - </p> - <p> - Frau Schultz applied herself again seriously to her meal, whilst Madame - Popea repeated her own observation to Madame Boccard, who laughed, and - prophesied a wedding in the pension. But as all this was whispered, it did - not reach the ears of the parties concerned, at the other end of the - table. - </p> - <p> - Mrs. Stapleton listened amusedly to the light talk between Mr. Chetwynd - and Felicia, though with a certain surprise and wistfulness. Charming and - courteous as the old man was when the mood for conversation was on him, - she had never been able to open in him that light playful vein. What Frau - Schultz had expressed coarsely, Katherine, with a finer nature, felt - delicately. It was Felicia's fresh maidenhood that had instinctively - gladdened the old man—a possession she herself had lost for ever, - with which she could gladden no man's heart. She looked across the table - and smiled at her own thought. What did it matter, after all? She had had - the roses and lilies in her time, and they had not brought her any great - happiness. Her life had been lived. Still, a woman of thirty mourns her - lost youth—all the more if it has been a failure—just as an - older woman mourns the death of a scrapegrace son. And though Katherine - smiled at herself, she wished for some of it back, even to charm such an - old, old man as Mr. Chetwynd. There will ever be much that is feminine in - woman. - </p> - <p> - “You haye made a conquest,” she said soon afterwards to Felicia. - </p> - <p> - “Haven't I?” laughed the girl. “He is so sweet. Do you know, I think sweet - people, when they grow very, very old, become quite young again.” - </p> - <p> - “Or, in this case, more accurately, isn't it that extremes touch?” - </p> - <p> - “Do you think I am so very young?” asked Felicia, seizing the objective. - “I am twenty.” - </p> - <p> - “Happy girl,” said Katherine, smiling. “But what I meant was, that if you - were thirty and he was fifty, you probably would have fewer points of - contact.” - </p> - <p> - “Or, if I were ten and he were eighty, we would play together like - kittens,” said Felicia, with girlish irreverence. “Well, it doesn't - matter. He is the dearest old man in the world, and it was very nice of - you to arrange for me to sit next to him.” - </p> - <p> - “It seems to have brightened you, Felicia.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, yes, wonderfully. I was getting so bored and dull and miserable. It - is not very gay now, but I have something to look forward to every day. - And your letting me talk to you has made a great difference.” - </p> - <p> - “I am afraid I am not very entertaining,” said Katherine. - </p> - <p> - “Sometimes you are so sad,” said Felicia, sympathetically. “I wish I could - help you.” - </p> - <p> - “I am afraid you would have to upheave the universe, my dear.” - </p> - <p> - Felicia looked at her with such wonderful gravity in her brown eyes that - Katherine broke into a laugh. - </p> - <p> - “Well, you can do it gradually. Begin with my work-basket, will you? and - find me a spool of No. 100 thread.” - </p> - <p> - Without overstepping the bounds of kindly friendship, they saw much of - each other. An imperceptible shadow of reserve in Katherine's manner, a - certain variability of mood, a vein of hardness in her nature ever liable - to be exposed by a chance thought, checked in the young girl the impulses - of a more generous affection. Katherine was conscious of this; conscious, - too, of no efforts to win more from the girl. Now and then she sounded a - note of explanation. - </p> - <p> - Once they were talking of the pension's dreariness—an endless topic. - It happened that Felicia was disposed to take a cheerful view. - </p> - <p> - “Every cloud has a silver lining,” she said. - </p> - <p> - “By way of heightening its blackness, my dear,” said Katherine. “Besides, - the lining is turned to heaven and the blackness to earth, so it does not - help us much.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, why are you so bitter?” - </p> - <p> - “Bitter?” echoed Katherine, musingly. “Oh, no! I am not, really. But - perhaps it were better that you should think so.” - </p> - <p> - But for all her refusal to admit Felicia any deeper into her heart, - Katherine welcomed her companionship frankly. She had looked forward - almost shudderingly to the dreary isolation of the winter. Whom could she - choose as a companion, to exchange a thought with beyond those of ordinary - civility? By a process of elimination she had arrived at little Miss - Bunter, with her canaries, her <i>Family Herald</i> and <i>Modern Society</i>, - her mild spinsterish chit-chat. It was a depressing prospect; but Felicia - had saved her. Her society relieved the monotony of those terrible dreary, - idle days, took her out of herself, stilled for a few odd hours the - yearnings for a bright full life—yearnings all the more inwardly - gnawing by reason of the ever exerted strain to check their outward - expression. - </p> - <p> - She was standing before her glass one morning brushing her hair. She had - shaken it back loose; it was fair, long, and thick, and she had taken up - the brush languidly. She was not feeling well. Frau Schultz had - unsuccessfully tried to provoke a quarrel the night before; a little - graceful experiment in philanthropy that had engaged her attention of late - had ignominiously failed; the rain was pouring in torrents outside; the - day contained no hope; a crushing sense of the futility of things came - over her like a pall. She had roused herself, given her hair a determined - shake, and commenced to brush vigorously, looking at herself sideways in - the glass. But a weak pity for the weary, delicate face she saw there - filled her eyes with tears. Her arm seemed heavy and tired. She dropped - the brush and sank down on a chair, and spreading her arms on the - toilet-table, buried her face in them. - </p> - <p> - “Oh I can't, I can't!” she cried, with a kind of moan. “What is the good? - Why should I get up day after day and go through this weariness? Oh, my - God! What a life! Some day it will drive me mad! I wish I were dead.” - </p> - <p> - The sobs came and shook her shoulders, hidden by the spreading mass of - hair. She could not help the pity for herself. - </p> - <p> - Suddenly there was a knock at the door. She sprang to her feet, glanced - hurriedly at the glass, and touched her face quickly with the powder-puff. - In a moment she had recovered. - </p> - <p> - Felicia entered in response to her acknowledgment of the knock. She had - been out in the rain; her cheeks were glowing above the turned-up collar - of her jacket. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, you are only just dressing. I have been up and about for ages. See, I - have brought you some flowers. Where shall I put them?” - </p> - <p> - Katherine felt gladdened by the little act of kindness. She thanked - Felicia, and went about the room collecting a few vases. - </p> - <p> - “Arrange them for me, dear, whilst I finish my hair.” - </p> - <p> - She returned to the looking-glass, and Felicia remained by the table busy - with the flowers. - </p> - <p> - “I went as far as the library with Mr. Chetwynd,” said Felicia. “I told - him he ought not to go out to-day, but he would go. When 'Raine,' as he - calls him, comes, I shall have to talk to him seriously about his father.” - </p> - <p> - “The son has definitely settled to come, then?” asked Katherine, with a - hair-pin between her lips. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, yes. Mr. Chetwynd can talk of nothing else. He will be here quite - soon.” - </p> - <p> - “It will be a good thing,” said Katherine. - </p> - <p> - “Yes; it will do the dear old man good.” - </p> - <p> - Ordinarily Katherine would have smiled at the ingenuousness of the reply; - but this morning her nerves were unstrung. - </p> - <p> - “I wasn't thinking of him. I was thinking of ourselves—us women.” - </p> - <p> - “I wonder what he'll be like,” said Felicia. - </p> - <p> - “What does it matter? He will be a man.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, it does matter. If he is not nice—” - </p> - <p> - “My dear child,” said Katherine, wheeling round, “it does not signify - whether he has the face of an ogre and the manners of a bear. He will be a - man; and it is a man that we want among us!” - </p> - <p> - The girl shrank away. To look upon mankind as necessary elements in life - had never before occurred to her. She would have been quite as excited if - a nice girl had been expected at the pension. - </p> - <p> - “But surely—” she stammered. - </p> - <p> - Katherine divined her thought; but she was too much under the power of her - mood to laugh it away. - </p> - <p> - “No!” she cried, with a scorn that she felt to be unjust—and that - very consciousness made her accent more passionate. - </p> - <p> - “We don't want a man to come so that one of us can marry him by force! God - forbid! Most of us have had enough of marrying and giving in marriage. - Heaven help me, I am not as bad as that yet, to throw myself into the arms - of the first man who came, so that he could carry me away from this - Aceldama. But we want a man here to make us feel ashamed of the meannesses - and pettinesses that we women display before each other, and to make us - hide them, and appear before each other as creatures to respect. Women are - the lesser race; we cannot exist by ourselves; we become flaccid and - backboneless and small—oh, so small and feeble! I get to despise my - sex, to think there is nothing, nothing in us; no reserve of strength, - nothing but a mass of nerves and soft, flabby flesh. Oh, my dear child, - you don't know it yet—let us hope you never will know it—this - craving for a man, the self-contempt of it, to crave for nothing more but - just to touch the hem of his garment to work the miracle of restoring you - to the dignity of your womanhood. Ah!” - </p> - <p> - She waved her arms in a passionate gesture and walked about the room with - clenched hands. Felicia arranged the flowers mechanically. These things - were new to her philosophy. She felt troubled by them, but she kept - silent. Katherine continued her parable, the pent-up disgusts and - wearinesses of months finding vehement expression. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, a man, a man. It is good that he is coming. A being without jangling - nerves, and with a fresh, broad mind that only sees things in bulk and - does not dissect the infinitely little. He will come here like a sea - breeze. It is a physical need among us, a man's presence now and then, - with his heavy frame and deep voice and resonant laugh, his strength, his - rough ways, his heavy tread, his great hands. Ah! you are young; you think - I am telling you dreadful things; you may never know it. It is only women - who live alone that can know what it is to yearn to have a man's strong - arm, brother or father or husband, to close round you as you cry your poor - weak woman's heart out, and the more humble, self-abasing longing, just to - long for a man's voice. What does it matter what the man is like?” - </p> - <p> - There was a few moments' silence. Katherine went on with her dressing. The - words had relieved her heart, yet she felt ashamed at having spoken so - bitterly before the young girl. <i>Maxime debetur</i>—. She thought - of the maxim and bit her lip. But was she not young too? Were they so far - apart in age that they could not meet on common grounds? She looked in the - glass. Her charm had not yet gone. Yet she wished she had not spoken. - </p> - <p> - Felicia finished arranging the flowers, and disposed the four little vases - about the room. Then she went up to Katherine and put her arm round her - waist. - </p> - <p> - “I am sorry.” - </p> - <p> - It was all the girl could say, but it made Katherine turn and kiss her - cheek. - </p> - <p> - “I expect Mr. Chetwynd is going to be very nice if he is anything like his - father,” she said in her natural tones. “Forgive me for having been - disagreeable. I woke up like it. Sometimes this pension gets on one's - nerves.” - </p> - <p> - “It is frightfully dull,” assented Felicia. “But you are the busiest of - anybody. You are always working or reading or going out to nurse poor sick - people. I wish I did anything half as useful.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, you have made me more cheerful than I was, if that is anything,” - replied Katherine. - </p> - <p> - A little later the old man announced to her the speedy arrival of his son - Raine. Katherine listened, made a few polite inquiries, learned the - functions of a college tutor, and the difference between a lecturer and a - professor. - </p> - <p> - “He is a great big fellow,” said the old man. “He would make about ten of - me. So don't expect to see a thin, doubled up, elderly young man in - spectacles!” - </p> - <p> - “Is your son married?” asked Frâulein Klinkhardt, who sat next to Felicia. - </p> - <p> - She was a fair, florid woman of over thirty, with strongly hewn features - and a predisposition for bold effects of attire. The old man, who did not - like her, said that her hats were immoral. A glint of gold on one of her - front teeth gave a peculiar effect, in the way of suggestion, to her - speech. - </p> - <p> - “He has never told me,” said the old man, with his most courtly smile. - </p> - <p> - “You will see, she will try to marry him when he comes,” whispered Frau - Schultz to Mme. Boccard. - </p> - <p> - But Frâulein Klinkhardt laughed at the old man's reply. - </p> - <p> - “That is a pity, for married men—whom one knows to be married—are - always more agreeable.” - </p> - <p> - “And women, too,” said Mme. Popea with a little grimace of satisfaction. - </p> - <p> - “A bachelor is generally more chivalrous,” said Miss Bunter, who always - took things seriously. “He acts more in accordance with his ideals of - women.” - </p> - <p> - “Is Saul also among the prophets?” asked Katherine with a smile, “Miss - Bunter among the cynics?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, dear! I hope not,” replied Miss Bunter in alarm; “I did not mean - that, but a bachelor always seems more romantic. What do you think, Miss - Graves?” - </p> - <p> - “I don't know,” said Felicia, laughing; - “I like all men when they are nice, and it doesn't seem to make any - difference whether they are married or not. Perhaps it may with very young - men,” she added reflectively. “But then very young men are different. For - instance, all the young subs in my uncle's regiment; it would seem as - ridiculous to call them bachelors as to call me a spinster.” - </p> - <p> - “But you are a spinster, Miss Graves,” said Miss Bunter, mildly - platitudinous. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, please!—” laughed Felicia. “A spinster is—” she paused in - some confusion, “An old maid,” she was going to add, but she remembered it - might be a tender point with Miss Bunter. Frau Schultz, however, struck in - with her harsh voice,— - </p> - <p> - “At what age does a woman begin to be a spinster, Miss Graves?” - </p> - <p> - Frau Schultz's perverted sense of tact was of the quality of genius. Old - Mr. Chetwynd came to the rescue of the maiden ladies. - </p> - <p> - “In England, when their first banns of marriage are published,” he said. - </p> - <p> - Mme. Boccard turned to Mme. Popea to have the reply translated into - French. Then she explained it volubly to the table. - </p> - <p> - The question at issue, the relative merits of bachelors and married men, - was never beaten out; for at this juncture, the meal being over, old Mr. - Chetwynd rose, turned, and hobbled out of the room, taking Felicia with - him. - </p> - <p> - An hour later Katherine was picking her way through the mud up the long - unsightly street in the old part of the town that leads to the Hotel de - Ville. At the ill-kept gateway of a great decayed house, she stopped, and - entering, descended the steps at a side doorway beneath to a room on the - basement, whose lunette window was on a level with the roadway. A very old - woman opened the door to her knock, and welcomed her with an— - </p> - <p> - “<i>Ah, Madame! C'est encore vous!</i>” and led her in with many - expressions of delight. - </p> - <p> - It was a poor, squalid enough room, very dark, ill-kept, littered with - cooking utensils, cookery, and strange articles of clothing. An old man - lay in the great wooden bedstead, his face barely visible in the dim light - which was further obscured by the dingy white curtains running on a rope, - fixed over the bed. - </p> - <p> - “Jean-Marie.” cried the old woman, “here is Madame come to read to you. - Will Madame give herself the trouble to sit down? My daughter has not come - in yet, so the room is still unmade.” - </p> - <p> - The old man raised himself on his elbow and grinned at Katherine. - </p> - <p> - “One would say it was an angel when Madame comes.” - </p> - <p> - The old woman broke out again in welcome. It was so good of Madame to - come. Jean-Marie could do nothing but talk of her. Really Jean-Marie was - right, and she was an angel. - </p> - <p> - Katherine took the venerable wooden armchair that was placed for her near - the stove, accepted graciously the pillow that the old woman took from the - bed to make her more comfortable, and after a few minutes' gossip opened - the book she had brought with her and began to read. The old man turned so - that he could fix his eyes upon her. His old wife sat on a straight-backed - chair at the foot of the bed and listened in deep attention. Katherine - read on amid a rapt silence, only broken now and then by an “oh, la! la!” - muttered under the breath, at which she could scarcely repress a smile. - She was happier now. Her best, kindest, tenderest self only was shown to - this poor, broken-down old couple who seemed to worship her. - </p> - <p> - There was a humour blended with pathos, too, in the situation that - appealed to her. For the book in which their whole souls were concentrated - was a French translation of “Robinson Crusoe.” - </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.—LOST IN THE SNOW - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>T was the middle - of January. Felicia stood at the salon window and looked out at the snow - falling, falling in the deserted street. She was oppressed by the dead - silence of things. There was not even a cheerful fire to crackle in the - room, which was heated by the cold white porcelain stove in the corner. - All the ladies had retired to their rooms, for their usual afternoon - siesta, and there was not a sound in the house. She caught sight of a cab - passing down the street, but it moved with a deathlike noiselessness over - the snow. She half wished the driver would crack his whip, although she - hated the maniacal pastime, dear to Genevese cabmen, as much as - Schopenhauer himself. But he passed on, a benumbed, silent spectre, - huddled up on his box. - </p> - <p> - Nothing but stillness, dreariness, and desolation. The house seemed empty, - the street empty, the world empty. - </p> - <p> - Raine Chetwynd had come and gone. For a brief season his hearty voice and - cheery face had gladdened the little pension. He had come with his - robustness of moral fibre, his culture, his broad knowledge of the world, - and his vigorous manhood, and the pulse of the community seemed to beat - stronger for it. In spite of the old man's warning, they had all expected - to see in the young “professor” a pale image of his father, minus the - softening charm of age. But, instead, they had been presented with a type - of blond, Anglo-Saxon comeliness—tall, deep-chested, fresh-coloured, - with an open, attractive face, blue-eyed and fair-moustached, which, at - first sight, seemed to belong to a thousand men who rowed and cricketed, - and lived honest, unparticularized lives, but on closer examination showed - itself to be that of a man who could combine thought and action, the - scholar and the athlete, the man of intellectual breath and refinement, - and the cheery, practical man of the world. He was a man, in the specific - feminine sense. He had brought into the pension the influence that Mrs. - Stapleton had insisted on, with such passionate bitterness, as being - needful in a woman's life. Each of the women had brightened under it, - exhibiting instinctively the softer side of her nature. Mme. Popea had - kept hidden from view the shapeless wrapper, adorned with cheap soiled - lace, in which, much to Frau Schultz's annoyance, she would now and then - appear at déjeuner, and had tidied and curled her hair betimes, instead of - leaving it till the late afternoon. In Frau Schultz a dignified urbanity - had taken the place of peevish egotism. Little Miss Bunter had perked up - like a frozen sparrow warmed into life, and had chirruped merrily to her - canaries. The only friction that his presence had caused, had arisen - between Mme. Boccard and Frâulein Klinkhardt, who had broadly hinted a - request to be placed next to him at table. A pretty quarrel had resulted - from Mme. Boccard's refusal; after which Frâulein Klinkhardt went to bed - for a day, and Mme. Boccard called her softly, under her breath, a German - crane, which appeared to afford her much relief. - </p> - <p> - It had been pleasant and comfortable to see a man again in the salon. It - had broken the sense of isolation they carried with them, like lead in - their hearts, all through the winter. Then, too, he had been a man whom - one and all could honestly respect. He had been open-hearted, frank with - them all, showing, in a younger, fresher way, the charm of courtesy that - distinguished his father. But naturally he had brought himself nearer to - them, had not seemed placed in such remote moral and intellectual spheres. - </p> - <p> - Besides, there had been a few festivities. Old Mr. Chetwynd had given, in - honour of his son's visit, a Christmas dinner, which had won him the heart - of Frau Schultz. Frâulein Klinkhardt and herself had lavished more than - their usual futile enthusiasm on a Christmas tree, which, owing to Raine, - had something better than its customary <i>succès d'estime</i>. He had - taken them to the theatre, made up skating parties at Villeneuve, at the - other side of the lake. Some friends of his at Lausanne had given a large - dance, to which he had managed to escort Felicia and Katherine, under his - father's protection. A couple of undergraduates of his own college were - there; they came a few days afterwards to Geneva to see him; and that was - another merry evening at the pension. - </p> - <p> - Katherine Stapleton had brightened, too, under the gaiety, and her eyes - had lost for the time the touch of weariness that saddened her face in her - gentler moods, and her laugh had rung true and fresh. There were many - evident points of contact between herself and him, much that was - complementary in each to the other. - </p> - <p> - One day he had said to her laughingly,— - </p> - <p> - “I have come round to the opinion—-which I had not at first—that - you are the most incomprehensibly feminine thing I know.” - </p> - <p> - “And I,” she had replied, “to the after-opinion that you are the most - comprehensibly masculine one.” - </p> - <p> - “Is that why we get on so well together?” - </p> - <p> - “That is what I had meant to convey,” she had answered with a light laugh. - </p> - <p> - The rest of which conversation lingered long after his departure in - Katherine's memory. - </p> - <p> - Now he had gone, and life at the pension resumed its dreary, monotonous - round. Raine Chetwynd would have been surprised had he known the change - wrought by his departure. - </p> - <p> - Felicia obviously shared in the general depression, and, like Katherine, - had memories of bright hours in which the sun seemed to shine exclusively - for her own individual benefit. She thought of them wretchedly, as she - stood by the window watching the flakes fall through the grey air. - </p> - <p> - A voice behind her caused her to start, though the words seemed to come - out of some far distance. It was old Mr. Chetwynd. He had been somewhat - ailing the last day or two, unable to go out. In a fit of restlessness, he - had wandered down to the salon. - </p> - <p> - “Lost in the snow?” he asked, coming to her side. - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” she replied, with a half sigh. “I think so. Quite. I was beginning - to doubt whether I should find my way safe home again, and to grow almost - tearful.” - </p> - <p> - “You have no business with low spirits, my dear,” he replied, with a - smile. “You should leave that to old people. Their hearts get lost in the - snow sometimes, and when they feel them gradually getting stone-cold and - frozen, then they may be excused for despairing.” - </p> - <p> - “What is to prevent it from being the same with young hearts?” - </p> - <p> - “The warm blood of their youth.” - </p> - <p> - “That may keep them warm, but it doesn't prevent their being lost,” said - Felicia, argumentatively. - </p> - <p> - “Well, what does it signify if you do go out of your way a little, when - your legs are strong and your blood circulates vigorously?” he said - cheerfully. - </p> - <p> - “But the young heart <i>can</i> get lost,” said Felicia. - </p> - <p> - “I won't chop logic with you, young lady. I am trying to teach you that - youth is a glorious thing and ought to be its own happiness. I suppose it - is attempting to teach the unlearnable. Ah me! How beautiful it would be - to be three and thirty again!” - </p> - <p> - “Three and thirty! Why, that is quite old!” - </p> - <p> - He looked at her with a touch of sadness and amusement, his head on one - side. - </p> - <p> - “I suppose it is for you. I was forgetting. To me it is youth, the full - prime of a man's life, when the world is at his feet. Later on he begins - to feel it is on his shoulders. But at thirty-three—I was thinking - of Raine. That is his age.” - </p> - <p> - “Have you heard from Mr. Chetwynd?” asked Felicia, after a longish pause. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, yes. He never keeps me long without news of him. There are only the - two of us.” - </p> - <p> - “You seem very fond of one another,” said Felicia. - </p> - <p> - “I am proud of my son, my dear, and he is foolish enough to be proud of - his poor old daddy.” - </p> - <p> - His voice had grown suddenly very soft, and he spoke with the simplicity - of old age. - </p> - <p> - His eyes looked out into the distance, their brightness veiled with a - strange tenderness. Felicia was touched, felt strongly drawn to him. She - lost sense of the scholar of profound learning in that of the old man - leaning on his son's strong arm. And the son's manhood grew in her eyes as - the father's waned. - </p> - <p> - “It is not many men,” he continued musingly, “that would have given up a - Christmas vacation and come all this way just to see an old, broken-down - fellow like me.” - </p> - <p> - Felicia stared out of the window, but she no longer saw the snow. - </p> - <p> - “You must miss him dreadfully.” - </p> - <p> - “I always do. We are much together in Oxford. He always gives me at least - a few minutes of his day.” - </p> - <p> - “How good of him. It must be beautiful for you.” - </p> - <p> - “A great happiness—yes, a great happiness!” - </p> - <p> - He too was looking out of the window, by Felicia's side, his hands behind - his back, and likewise saw nothing. A spell of wistfulness was over them - both—bound them unconsciously together. - </p> - <p> - “A tender-hearted fellow,” said the old man. “Wonderfully sympathetic.” - </p> - <p> - “He seems to understand everyone so.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes; that is Raine's way—he gets behind externals. I have missed - him sadly since he left.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” said Felicia, softly. - </p> - <p> - “And I have been wishing for him all day.” - </p> - <p> - “So have I!” said Felicia, under the spell. - </p> - <p> - Her tone suddenly awakened the old man. His eyes flashed into intelligence - as a darkened theatre can leap into light. The girl met them, recoiled a - step at their brilliance, and shrank as if a search-light had laid bare - her soul. - </p> - <p> - She had scarcely known what she had been saying. A quivering second. Was - there time to recover? She struggled desperately. If the tears had not - come, she would have won. But they rose in a flood, and she turned away - her head sharply, burning with shame. - </p> - <p> - The old man laid his thin hand on her shoulder, and bent round to look - into her face. - </p> - <p> - “My dear little girl—my poor child!” he said gently, patting her - shoulder. - </p> - <p> - For all her shrinking, she felt the tenderness of the touch. To have - withdrawn from it would have been to repulse. But it added to her - wretchedness. She could not speak, only cry, with the helpless - consciousness that every second's silence and every tear were issues - whence oozed more and more of her secret. - </p> - <p> - “Does Raine know?” whispered the old man. - </p> - <p> - Then she turned quickly, her brown eyes glistening, and found speech. - </p> - <p> - “He know? Know what? Oh, you must never tell him—never, never, - never! He would think—and I couldn't bear him to, although he will - never see me again. And, please, Mr. Chetwynd, don't think I have told you - anything—I haven't. Of course, I only miss him—as every one - does.” - </p> - <p> - Felicia moved softly towards the door, longing for retreat. The old man - followed at her side. - </p> - <p> - “Forgive me, my dear,” he said, with a shadow of a smile round his lips. - “I have been indiscreet, and leapt to wrong conclusions. Raine is so - bright that we all miss him—equally.” - </p> - <p> - She glanced at him. The smile found a watery reflection in her eyes. In - another moment she was on the stairs, fleeing to the comfort of her own - room. - </p> - <p> - The old man, left to himself, kicked open the door of the stove, drew up a - chair, and spread his hands out before the glow. - </p> - <p> - “Louis Chetwynd,” he said to himself, “you are no better than an old - fool.” - </p> - <p> - The subject was never touched upon again, but it seemed always afterwards - to be in their thoughts when together. At first Felicia was shy—felt - the blood rise to her cheeks whenever the old man's bright eyes were fixed - upon her. But her involuntary admission had stirred a great tenderness in - his heart. Somehow he had always thought sadly of the possibility of Raine - marrying, although he had urged him to it many times. Up to now he had - been the first—or thought he had, which comes to the same thing—in - Raine's affections, and he could not yield that first place without a pang. - And it would be to a woman not good enough for Raine; that was certain. If - he could only choose for him the paragon that was his equal, then the - surrender would be less hard. But Raine would choose for himself. It was a - way even the most loving of sons had—one of the perversities of the - scheme of things. Now, Felicia's confession and his own feelings towards - her supplied him with a happy solution to this vexed question. Why should - not Raine marry Felicia? - </p> - <p> - He used to argue it out with himself when his intellectual conscience told - him he ought to be criticizing Calvin's condemnation of Servetus, and - pulverizing the learned Beza. But he soothed it by reflecting that he was - pursuing a philosophical method of inquiry. He put it syllogistically. - Girls do not fall in love with a man until he has given them good reason. - Felicia was in love with Raine. Therefore he had given her good reason. - Again, an honourable man does not give a girl such reasons unless he loves - her. - </p> - <p> - Raine was an honourable man. Therefore he loved her. Which was extremely - satisfactory; and had it not been for the uneasy suspicion of a fallacy in - his first major, he would have written off to Raine there and then. In - spite of the fallacy, however, he wove his old man's web of romance, saw - Felicia married to Raine, and surrendered his first place with great - gladness. For he would be second in the hearts of two, which common - arithmetic shows to be equal to first in the heart of one. And when he had - definitely settled all this in his mind, he revoked the judgment he had - previously passed upon himself, and felt distinctly gratified at his own - tact and shrewdness. So the liking that he had conceived for Felicia - developed into a tenderer sentiment, of whose existence she gradually - became aware, though naturally she remained in ignorance of its cause. - </p> - <p> - She fought fierce battles with herself during the next few weeks. If she - were ever going to see him again, there would have been a fearful joy, a - strange mingling of shame and dizzying hope to keep her heart excited. But - as he had gone for ever out of her path, her common sense coming to the - aid of her ashamedness strove to crush her futile fancies. They took a - great deal of killing, however, especially as she found the friendship - between Raine's father and herself growing daily stronger. She longed for - the day of her release to come, when she could join her uncle and aunt in - Bermuda. - </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.—“WHERE THE BROOK AND RIVER MEET.” - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>ill you come for a - walk this beautiful morning, Miss Graves?” asked Frau Schultz. - </p> - <p> - Felicia had intended to pursue her study of scientific dressmaking under - Mrs. Stapleton's tuition, but she acceded graciously enough. She had - considered it her duty to like Frau Schultz; yet Frau Schultz remained her - pet aversion. Although she still winced under Mme. Popea's innuendoes and - Fraulein Klinkhardt's pretty free theories of life, yet she managed to - find something likeable in each. But Frau Schultz's red, weather-beaten - face, coarse habits and spiteful tongue, jarred upon her. She smiled - pleasantly, however, when she came down in her fur-trimmed jacket, hat and - muff, and met Frau Schultz on the landing outside the salon. - </p> - <p> - “It will do you good. You sit too much in the house,” said Frau Schultz - magisterially. - </p> - <p> - It seemed a lovely day when the sunshine was looked at from the windows of - a warm room, but outside, the <i>bise</i> was blowing, and caught the face - like a million razor-edges. Felicia put up her muff with a little cry, as - soon as they emerged into the open air. “Oh! this dreadful <i>bise!</i>” - </p> - <p> - “Ach! It is nothing,” said the other, who prided herself on her - pachydermaty. “You English girls would sacrifice everything to your - complexions. If your skin cracks you can put on some cold cream. But you - will have had your exercise.” - </p> - <p> - Frau Schultz wore an imitation sealskin jacket, a new crape hat with broad - strings tied under her chin, and thick grey woollen gloves. Felicia - wondered, with not unpardonable vindictiveness, how many cracks would do - her appreciable damage. - </p> - <p> - “I don't care a little bit about my complexion,” she replied stoutly, - resolved, for the honour of her countrywomen, to face a blizzard, if - called upon. “I have felt worse east winds than this in England.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah, your England! It is a wonderful place,” said Frau Schultz. - </p> - <p> - They walked along by the end of the Jardin Anglais, crossed the bridge and - proceeded by the Quai du Mont Blanc in the direction of the Kursaal. Frau - Schultz was evidently in an atrabiliar mood. Felicia began to be rather - grateful to the <i>bise</i>, which does not favour conversation. But she - had not reckoned with Frau Schultz's voice. As soon as it had found the - right pitch, by means of desultory remarks, it triumphed over mere wind, - and shrieked continuously. - </p> - <p> - “I asked you to come out because I wanted to talk to you.” - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps she prefers talking in a hurricane,” thought Felicia in comic - desperation. But all she said was,— - </p> - <p> - “Oh?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes. You are so young and inexperienced that I have thought it my duty to - advise you. Mme. Boccard is too busy. I am a mother. I brought up my - Lottchen excellently, and she married last year. I am clearly the only one - in the pension who knows what is suitable for a young girl and what - isn't.” - </p> - <p> - Felicia looked at her in some astonishment from under the wind depressed - hat brim. - </p> - <p> - “I am sure I am getting on very well.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah, you think so. But you are wrong. You cannot touch pitch without - stinking.” Frau Schultz's English was apt to fail her now and then. - </p> - <p> - “Really, I don't understand at all, Frau Schultz.” - </p> - <p> - “I will make myself quite plain. You have become too great a friend with - Mrs. Stapleton. She is the pitch.” - </p> - <p> - Felicia stopped short, her eyes watering with wind and indignation. - </p> - <p> - “If you say such things of my friends, Frau Schultz, I shall go home - again.” - </p> - <p> - “I did not hear,” said Frau Schultz coming closer. - </p> - <p> - Felicia repeated her observation, with an irritated little patting of her - foot. - </p> - <p> - “<i>Ach!</i>” cried the other impatiently, “I come to talk with you out of - motherly kindness, for your own good, and you get angry. It is not polite - either, as I am so much older than you. I repeat that Mrs. Stapleton is a - bad woman. If you do not like to walk with me, I will walk with myself. - But I have done my duty. Are you going to stand, Miss Graves, or will you - proceed?” - </p> - <p> - Felicia, in spite of her indignant resentment of Frau Schultz's tone, - hesitated for a moment. She had seen too many sordid squabbles in the - pension, in consequence of which women would not speak to each other for a - week, and asked each other vicariously to pass the salt, not to feel a - wholesome horror at the prospect of finding herself involved in one. - Hitherto she had escaped. So she checked her outburst of wrath. - </p> - <p> - “I shall be happy to go on, Frau Schultz, if you will drop the subject,” - she said. - </p> - <p> - “<i>Ach, so!</i>” replied Frau Schultz, enigmatically, and they continued - their walk. But after this, conversation was not cordial. At the Kursaal - they turned and retraced their steps. - </p> - <p> - On the Quai du Mont Blanc, where the steamers lay at their moorings, Frau - Schultz stopped and looked at the view. Things were vivid in their spring - freshness, and stood out clear in the wind-swept air. The larches in - Rousseau's Island had put on their green, and so had the clustering limes - in the Jardin Anglais, at the other end of the bridge. Above the white, - tree-hidden shops and cafés on the Grand Quai, the old town rose sharply - defined, around the grim cathedral. Straight in front was the ever - sea-blue lake, its fringe of trees on the other side, just hiding the - villas at the foot of the hills; and away in the intense distance behind - them rose the crest of Mont Blanc, shimmering like frosted silver against - the blue sky. - </p> - <p> - At the sight of the latter, Frau Schultz drew a long, rapt breath. - </p> - <p> - “<i>Wunderschon!</i>” - </p> - <p> - She would not trust herself to speak English. She looked at Felicia for - responsive enthusiasm. But Felicia was angry, and she could not help - feeling a little resentment against Mont Blanc, for affording Frau Schultz - pleasurable sensations. But she replied politely that it was very pretty. - </p> - <p> - “How few of you English have any soul!” said Frau Schultz, as they went on - again. - </p> - <p> - “I think it is that we are not sentimental,” said Felicia. - </p> - <p> - “I never could quite understand what that 'sentimental' is, that you are - all so afraid of.” - </p> - <p> - “It is making the same fuss about little emotions as one only could about - big ones.” - </p> - <p> - “So you think I am sentimental because I admire the glorious nature?” - </p> - <p> - “I did not say so, Frau Schultz.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah, but you thought so. It is the way you all have. Nothing is good but - what you put your seal to.” - </p> - <p> - It was decidedly not a pleasant walk. Frau Schultz took up the parable of - the narrow-minded Englishman, and expounded it through the <i>bise</i>. - Felicia longed for home. To try to turn the conversation into a calmer - channel, she took advantage of a lull, and inquired after Frau Schultz's - daughter. The ingenious device succeeded. - </p> - <p> - Lottchen's early history lasted until they reached their own street. - Felicia did not know whether to hate Lottchen for being such a paragon, or - to pity her for being so parented. At last she made a rash remark. - </p> - <p> - “I don't think you gave Frâulein Schultz much chance of doing anything - wrong.” - </p> - <p> - “I was her mother,” replied Frau Schultz with dignity, “and in Germany - young girls obey their mothers and respect the mothers of other young - girls. If I had spoken to a German girl as I did to you this morning, she - would have been grateful.” - </p> - <p> - “I am very sorry, Frau Schultz, but I don't like to hear my friends spoken - ill of.” - </p> - <p> - “I wanted to save you from those friends. I say again, Mrs. Stapleton is - not the person I should let my innocent daughter associate with.” - </p> - <p> - Felicia fired up. They were within a few yards of the entrance to the - pension. “You know nothing whatever against Mrs. Stapleton. I think it - very unkind of you.” - </p> - <p> - “<i>So!</i> Ask her where her husband is.” - </p> - <p> - “She is a widow.” - </p> - <p> - Frau Schultz looked at her and broke into derisive laughter. It jarred - through the girl as if she had trodden upon an electric eel. She left Frau - Schultz at the foot of the staircase, and ran up by herself, tingling with - anger and disgust. - </p> - <p> - Six months ago she would scarcely have divined Frau Schultz's - insinuations. Now she did. Her mental range had widened considerably since - she had lived in the pension. A less refined nature might have been to - some extent coarsened by the experience, but her knowledge only brought - her keener repugnance. She was no longer puzzled or frightened, but - disgusted—sometimes revolted. It seemed as if she could never get - free from the taint. Even Katherine, whose society, since they had grown - more intimate, she had sought more and more, and to whom she had gone for - comfort and pure breath, when the air had been close with lax talk or - unsavoury recrimination—even Katherine was now declared by this - vulgar, domineering woman to be infected by what, in the girl's eyes, was - the same leprosy. She did not believe it. In other matters Felicia had - seen Frau Schultz convicted as a liar. But the imputation seemed like a - foul hand laid upon their friendship. - </p> - <p> - It was a relief when she went into Katherine's room and saw the welcome - on the quiet, delicate face that looked up from the needlework. - Katherine's room, too, always cheered her. Like Katherine herself, it was - different from the others. Mme. Popea's, for instance, struck one with a - pervading sense of soiled dressing-gowns; Miss Bunter's was all primness, - looking as if made to match the stiff wires of her canary cages. But this - sunny little retreat, with all its bedroom suggestions curtained off, and - cosy with piano and comfortable easy chairs and rugs, was essentially a - lady's room that had assimilated some of the charm of its owner. By the - time the gong went for <i>déjeuner</i>, Felicia was cheered and comforted, - and she entered the dining-room, her arm around Katherine's waist, darting - a rebellious glance at Frau Schultz. - </p> - <p> - The days went on uneventfully. The only incident was the return of old Mr. - Chetwynd from a month's holiday in Italy, when the whole pension united to - do him honour and welcome him. On the day of his arrival Felicia laid a - pair of slippers she had worked for him in his room, which delighted the - old man so much that he came down to the salon in the evening to offer - them for general admiration. But otherwise there was no departure, no - arrival all the spring. Every one sighed for the summer and fresh faces. - They looked forward with the longing that chrysalises must have for - butterflydom. Felicia joined in the general anticipation. She had not - forgotten Raine, though he gradually grew to be but a wistful memory. But - she felt convinced, with the fervid conviction of twenty, that she could - never love any man again. - </p> - <p> - The whole course of her thoughts was altered on one morning in May. The - hour for <i>dejeuner</i> had been put earlier than usual, for some - domestic reason, and the English post arrived during the meal. Mr. - Chetwynd glanced over his envelopes, selected one, and courteously asked - Katherine and Felicia permission to open it. His eyes sparkled as he read. - </p> - <p> - “I have had pleasant news,” he said radiantly, laying down the letter and - addressing Mme. Boccard at the other end of the table. “My son is coming - here for the first part of the Long Vacation.” - </p> - <p> - There was a general chorus of satisfaction. Tongues were set on the wag. - Mme. Popea and Frau Schultz conversed with simultaneous unmodulation. Mme. - Boccard explained volubly to Mr. Chetwynd the pleasure he would derive - from his son's visit. But all was a distant buzz in Felicia's ears. The - announcement was like an electric shock, vivifying the fading love into - instant life. Her heart gave a great leap, and things swam before her - eyes, causing her to close them for a second. She opened them to a - revelation—Katherine's face, which was as white as paper, and - Katherine's eyes fixed upon her with an almost terrified intelligence. The - exchanged glance told each the other's secret. But all was so sudden that - only they two knew. - </p> - <p> - Katherine recovered her composure instantly, and the reaction brought the - blood back into her cheeks. She said with a smile to the old man,—“It - will be charming to see Mr. Chetwynd again.” - </p> - <p> - Felicia envied her. She could not have trusted her voice whatever had been - at stake. - </p> - <p> - When they rose from the table, the old man motioned to Felicia to come - with him on to the balcony, which ran continuously past the dining-room - and salon windows. - </p> - <p> - “Is it not good news?” - </p> - <p> - She hung her head, and faltered out,— - </p> - <p> - “Yes.” - </p> - <p> - “Will you still be glad to see Raine again?” - </p> - <p> - “You know—how can I tell you?” - </p> - <p> - “My dear child,” he said, laying his hand on hers, as it rested on the - iron balustrade, “do you know what I hope Raine is coming for?” - </p> - <p> - Felicia shook her head. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I dare not think it—we must not speak of it. I don't think I - shall be able to meet him.” - </p> - <p> - “Can I help you?” asked the old man, tenderly. “You can tell an old man - things without shame that you cannot tell a young one. I have grown very - fond of you, my child. To part with you would be a great wrench. And that - this other should be has become one of the dearest wishes of my life.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah! you are good—dear, and good, and kind,” replied the girl; “but—” - </p> - <p> - “Well, perhaps you can explain a little enigma in Raine's letter!” - </p> - <p> - She looked up at him quickly. For the first time, her cheek flushed with a - ray of hope. - </p> - <p> - “Can you explain this?” he asked, taking the letter from his pocket, and - placing it so that they both could read as they leant over the balcony. - </p> - <p> - He pointed to a sentence. - </p> - <p> - <i>“I am coming on my own account as well as yours. This, so that you - should not be conceited, and think you are the only magnet in Geneva that - draws</i> - </p> - <p> - <i>Your loving</i> - </p> - <p> - <i>“Raine.”</i> - </p> - <p> - “There!” he said, hastily withdrawing it. “Perhaps I ought not to have - shown it to you. But Raine never talks idly; and I have ventured to - believe that Miss Felicia Graves is the magnet in question. Goodbye, my - dear. I think I have committed enough indiscretion for one day.” - </p> - <p> - She gave his hand a little caressing squeeze, and, when he had gone, - remained a long time on the balcony, deep in troubled thoughts. Who was - the magnet—she or Katherine? - </p> - <p> - She strove not to think of it, to busy herself with whatever interests she - could find to hand. With this end in view, she took out for a long walk - little Miss Bunter, who had been in low spirits for some days. She strove - to cheer her. But Miss Bunter folded her drapery of depression all the - more closely around her, and poured into Felicia's ears the history of her - engagement with the man in Burmah. - </p> - <p> - “Our marriage has just been put off for another year,” she said. “I - thought I had come to the end of my waiting. But he can't afford it yet; - and you have no idea how expensive living is there.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh! I shouldn't have thought so,” said Felicia. - </p> - <p> - “My dear!” said Miss Bunter, straightening her thin shoulders - reproachfully, “Mr. Dotterel says so, and he has been living there fifteen - years.” - </p> - <p> - “It is strange that you have remained so fond of one another all this long - time.” - </p> - <p> - “Do you think so? Oh, no!” replied Miss Bunter, with a convinced shake of - her head. “When one loves really, it lasts for ever. But,” she added, - sighing, “it has been a long engagement.” - </p> - <p> - So Felicia parted with Miss Bunter rather more depressed than before. She - had thought to get outside the range of such things, but she had been - brought only the closer within it. - </p> - <p> - She could not sleep that night. Many things troubled her, causing her - cheek to burn in the darkness—the sudden rekindling within her of - feelings against which her young maiden pride had ever revolted; the shame - at having revealed them for the second time; the hope suggested by Raine's - letter, to which it seemed a joy and a humiliation to cling; the discovery - of Katherine's love. - </p> - <p> - She buried her face in her pillow, trying to hide from herself her - self-abasement. So does it happen to many women, when their sudden - investiture of womanhood comes to them, with its thoughts and sorrows, - and, unaware, they still regard it with the eyes of a young girl. - </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.—THE PUZZLE OF RAINE CHETWYND. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>hen you won't join - us?” said the Junior Dean. - </p> - <p> - “I can't say definitely,” replied Raine Chetwynd, rubbing his meerschaum - bowl on his coat-sleeve. - </p> - <p> - “You had better,” urged the other. “We can make our arrangements fit into - yours, if you'll give us timely notice. Put aside a fortnight in July or - August, and we will keep all the plums for then. You see we must have - dates beforehand, on account of the guides.” - </p> - <p> - “Quite so,” Raine assented; “and it's very good of you, Rogers. But - somehow I shouldn't care to tie myself down. I am not certain how long I - may be likely to stay in Switzerland; and I have half promised the - Professor to take him away somewhere, if he has had enough of Geneva. No; - you fellows make your own arrangements without reference to me. Tell me - your dates, and I'll very probably happen upon you and take my chance of - what's going.” - </p> - <p> - The Junior Dean did not press the matter. Chetwynd was not a man to be - governed by caprice, and doubtless had excellent reasons for not wishing - to make a specific engagement. But Raine thought it necessary to - apologize. He got up, and walked to the open window. - </p> - <p> - “Don't think me a disagreeable beast.” - </p> - <p> - The Junior Dean, laughed, and came and leant on the sill by his side. - </p> - <p> - “No one could be disagreeable on a day like this.” - </p> - <p> - The window gave upon the College Gardens. The lawn was flooded with - sunlight, save for the splashes of shade under the two flowering - chestnut-trees. The fresh voices of some girls up for Commemoration rose - through the quiet afternoon air; the faint tinkle of a piano was heard - from some rooms in the grey pile on the left that stood cool in shadow. - </p> - <p> - The two men stood side by side for a long time without speaking, Raine - leaning on his elbow, blowing great puffs of smoke that curled lazily - outwards in the stillness, and the Junior Dean with his hands behind his - back. - </p> - <p> - “We ought to be accounted happy,” said the latter, meditatively. “This - life of ours—” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, it approaches Euthanasia sometimes,” replied Raine, allusively—“or - it would, if one gave way to it.” - </p> - <p> - “I can't see that,” rejoined the other. “A life of scholarly ease is not - death—the charm of it lies in its perfect mingling of cloistered - seclusion with the idyllic. Here, for instance”—with a wave of a - delicate hand—“is Arden without its discomforts.” - </p> - <p> - “I am afraid I am not so 'deep-contemplative' as you,” said Raine, with a - smile, “and the idyllic always strikes me as a bit flimsy. I never could - lie under a tree and pretend to read Theocritus. I'd sooner read Rabelais - over a fire.” - </p> - <p> - “I think you're ungrateful, Chetwynd. Where, out of Oxford—Cambridge, - perhaps—could you get a scene like this? And not the scene alone, - but the subtle spirit of it? It seems always to me thought-haunted. We - have grown so used to it that we do not appreciate sufficiently the - perfect conditions around us for the development of all that is spiritual - in us—apart from 'the windy ways of men.'” - </p> - <p> - “The 'windy ways of men' are very much better for us, if you ask me,” - replied Raine. “I mean 'men' really and not technically,” he added, with a - smile and a thought of undergraduate vanity. - </p> - <p> - “Ah, but with this as a haven of refuge—the grey walls, the cool - cloisters, the peaceful charm of rooms like these looking out on to these - beautiful, untroubled gardens.” - </p> - <p> - “I don't know,” said Raine. “Loving Oxford as I do, I sometimes breathe - more freely out of it. There is too much intellectual <i>mise en scène</i> - in all this. If you get it on your mind that you are expected to live up - to it, you are rapidly qualifying yourself for the newest undergraduate - culture-society, at a college that shall be nameless. Many a man is ruined - by it.” - </p> - <p> - “But, my dear Chetwynd,” said the Junior Dean, “there is a difference - between loving 'to walk the studious cloysters pale' and intellectual - priggishness.” - </p> - <p> - “Doubtless. But it isn't everyone who can walk honestly. The danger lies - in finding another fellow doing the same. Then the two of you join - together and say how beautiful it is, and you call in a third to share the - sensation, and you proceed to admire yourselves as being vastly superior - meditative persons. Then finally, according to modern instinct, you throw - it into a Pale Cloyster Company, Limited, which is Anathema.” - </p> - <p> - “Switzerland will do you good, Chetwynd,” remarked the Junior Dean - quickly. “Particularly as your mind is so disorganized as to misinterpret - Milton.” - </p> - <p> - Raine laughed, stretched himself lazily after the manner of big men, and - lounged back on the window-sill, his hands in his pockets. - </p> - <p> - “I don't care. I'd misinterpret anybody—even you. I've had enough of - Oxford for a time. You see I have had a long spell since January. There - were Entrance Scholarships and a lot of bursarial work for Evans to be - done that kept me up nearly all the Easter vacation. I suppose you are - right. I want a change.” - </p> - <p> - “The mountain air would be better for you than a stuffy town.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, good gracious!” laughed Raine, swelling out his deep chest, “I am - healthy enough. You don't presume to say I am pale with overwork!” - </p> - <p> - “No,” said the Junior Dean, mentally contrasting his own spare form with - his colleague's muscular development. “You have a constitution like an ox. - But you would get better air into your lungs and better rest in your - mind.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, perhaps you are right,” said Raine. “Anyhow, if Geneva gets too hot - for me, I can come to you and sit on the top of the Jungfrau with some - snow on my head and get cool.” - </p> - <p> - The Junior Dean, in spite of his sentiment, was a man of the world, and he - scented a metaphor in Raine's speech. He glanced at him keenly through his - <i>pince-nez</i>. Whereupon Raine burst out laughing and took him by the - arm. - </p> - <p> - “Look here, are you going to put in an appearance at the St. John's - garden-party?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, time is getting on. Let us go.” - </p> - <p> - And on their way thither down the Broad, they discussed the Masonic Ball, - the results of the Schools, the prospects of the cricket match, and - kindred subjects, such as are dear to the hearts of dons in summer time. - </p> - <p> - The first person that Raine met at the Garden Party was his cousin, Mrs. - Monteith. She skilfully disposed of a couple of pretty nieces she was - chaperoning to some passing undergraduates, and walked up and down the - lawn by his side. - </p> - <p> - She was a small, pretty, keen-faced woman, some two or three years his - senior. Once upon a time she had fostered a conviction that Raine and - herself had been born for one another, and had sought to share his soul's - secrets. As long as she depended upon his initiative, all went well; but - one day, having forced open a scrupulously locked apartment, she recoiled - in pained surprise. Whereupon she decided that she had mistaken the - intentions of the Creator, and forthwith married Dr. Monteith, whose - soul's secrets were as neatly docketed and catalogued as the slips of his - unfinished Homeric Lexicon. But she always claimed a vested interest in - Raine's welfare, which he, in a laughing, contented way, was pleased to - allow. - </p> - <p> - “So you're off to Switzerland,” she said. “What are you going to do there, - besides seeing Uncle Louis?” - </p> - <p> - “Rest,” he replied. “Live in a pension and rest.” - </p> - <p> - “You'll find it dismally uninteresting. How long are you going to stay - there?” - </p> - <p> - “Possibly most of the Long.” - </p> - <p> - Mrs. Monteith opened her eyes and stopped twirling her parasol. - </p> - <p> - “My dear Raine! In Geneva?” - </p> - <p> - “My dear Nora, I really don't see anything in that to create such - surprise. I've just had Rogers expressing himself on the subject. Why - shouldn't I live in Geneva? What objection have you?” - </p> - <p> - “If you talk to me in that vehement way you will make people fancy you are - declaring a hopeless passion for me.” - </p> - <p> - “Let them,” said Raine, “they won't be greater fools than I am.” - </p> - <p> - “What on earth do you mean?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, don't be alarmed. I am not going to declare myself. I wonder whether - you would laugh at me, if I told you something.” - </p> - <p> - “It would depend whether it were funny or not.” - </p> - <p> - “That would be a matter of opinion,” he replied with a smile. - </p> - <p> - “Well, first let me know in what capacity I am to listen to it.” - </p> - <p> - “As guide, philosopher, and friend,” he said. “Let us get out of the way - of these people. There are the Kennets bearing down upon us.” - </p> - <p> - They found a garden seat in a secluded corner under a tree, and sat down. - Mrs. Monteith laid her gloved fingers on his arm. - </p> - <p> - “Don't tell me it's about a woman, please.” - </p> - <p> - “How did you know it's about a woman?” - </p> - <p> - “My dear boy, you wouldn't drag me to this sequestered wilderness if it - were about a man! Of course it's a woman. You have it written all over - your face. Well?” - </p> - <p> - “If you are not sympathetic I shan't tell you.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, Raine!” - </p> - <p> - She moved a little nearer to him, and settled her skirts. When a woman - settles her skirts by a man's side it impresses him with a sense of - confidential relations. - </p> - <p> - “Nora,” he said, “when a man doesn't know whether he is in love or not, - what is the best thing he can do?” - </p> - <p> - “The best thing is to make up his mind that he isn't. The next best is to - find out.” - </p> - <p> - “Then I am going to do the next best thing. I am going to Geneva to find - out.” - </p> - <p> - “And how long have you been like this?” - </p> - <p> - “Since January.” - </p> - <p> - “Why didn't you tell me before?” - </p> - <p> - “Because I did not relish telling it to myself. Now I have acknowledged - it, I have been pulling the petals off the marguerite, in a kind of - inverse way, for months, and the pastime has palled. The dear old man - thinks I am going solely for his sake, and I feel rather a humbug. But of - course—well—” - </p> - <p> - “Most of us are.” - </p> - <p> - “What?” - </p> - <p> - “Humbugs,” replied the lady sweetly. “Come, honour bright. Don't you know - whether you are in love or not?” - </p> - <p> - “No.” - </p> - <p> - “Would you like to be?” - </p> - <p> - “I don't quite know. That's the irritating part about it.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I see! Then it's a question of the lady's desirability. Oh, Raine, I - know these pensions. I hope it isn't a Polish countess with two poodles - and a past. Tell me, what is she like?” - </p> - <p> - “Well, to tell you the truth,” he replied, with a strange conjuncture of a - humorous twinkle in his eyes and a deprecatory smile, “it is impossible to - say.” - </p> - <p> - “Why?” - </p> - <p> - “Because she isn't one, but two.” - </p> - <p> - “Two what?” - </p> - <p> - “Two individuals.” - </p> - <p> - “And you don't know which one to fall in love with?” - </p> - <p> - Raine nodded, lounging with arms extended along the back of the seat. - </p> - <p> - Mrs. Monteith looked at him in silence for a few moments, and then broke - into rippling laughter. - </p> - <p> - “This is delicious. <img src="images/3098.jpg" alt="3098 " width="15%" /> - like the warrior in Anacreon!” - </p> - <p> - “Don't quote, Nora,” said Raine. “It is one of your bad habits. You are - trying enough with your list of first lines of Horace; but you know - nothing at all about Anacreon.” - </p> - <p> - “I do!” she cried, wheeling round to face him. “Joshua was correcting the - proofs of his edition during our honeymoon. I used to make him translate - them—it was a way of getting him to make love to me. There! Now I'll - repeat it:<img src="images/3099.jpg" alt="3099 " width="30%" /> - </p> - <p> - “Oh, my dear Raine, it is too delicious! You, of all people in the world!” - </p> - <p> - “Then your verdict is that I am supremely ridiculous?” - </p> - <p> - “I am afraid I must say it strikes me in that light.” - </p> - <p> - “Thanks,” said Raine serenely. “That was what I was trying to get at. I - have been jesting a little, but there is a substratum of truth in my - confession. You confirm me in my own opinion—I am supremely - ridiculous. I like to make certain of things. It is so futile to have this - complicated state of mind—I hate it.” - </p> - <p> - “Do you?” said Mrs. Monteith. “How different from a woman; there is - nothing she enjoys more.” - </p> - <p> - After Raine had taken her back to her charges, he remained to exchange a - few civilities with the St. John's people and their wives, and then - strolled back to his own college. He mounted his staircase, with a smile - on his lips, recalling his conversation with his cousin. How far had he - been in earnest? He could scarcely tell. Certainly both Katherine and - Felicia had attracted him during his Christmas visit. He had been thrown - into more intimate contact with them than he usually was with women. - Perhaps that was the reason that they stood out distinct against the - half-known feminine group whom he was accustomed to meet at the crowded - afternoon receptions to which Oxford society is addicted. Perhaps, too, - the fact of his going from Oxford, where men are a glut in the market, to - the Pension Boccard, where they are at an extravagant premium, had - something to do with it. Some unsuspected index in his robust organization - was sensitive to the sudden leap in values. Whatever was the reason, he - retained a vivid impression of the two personalities, and, as he had - written to his father—in the same half-jesting strain as he had - talked with his cousin—he found himself bound to admit that filial - duty was not the only magnet that attracted him to Geneva. As for his - disinclination to bind himself to a definite mountaineering engagement - with Rogers and his party, he was glad of these nebulous fancies as - affording him a conscientious reason. The Junior Dean was an excellent - fellow and an Alpine enthusiast, but he was apt to be academic, even on - the top of the Jungfrau. - </p> - <p> - These considerations were running lightly through his mind as he sat down - to his desk to finish off some tutorial work before dinner, in the little - inner room which he made his sanctuary, whither undergraduates only - penetrated for strictly business purposes. The outer keeping-room was - furnished with taste and comfort for the general eye, but here Raine kept - such things as were nearly connected with his own life. As he wrote, he - idly took up an ivory paper-knife in his left hand, and pressed it against - his cheek. - </p> - <p> - He paused to think, looked mechanically at the paper-knife, and then lost - himself in a day-dream. For the bit of ivory had taken him back many years—to - the days when he had just entered on his manhood. - </p> - <p> - He started, threw down his pen, and leant back in his chair, a shadow of - earnestness over his face. - </p> - <p> - “That was the boy,” he said, half aloud. “What would it be for the man? If - this foolishness is serious—as the other—” - </p> - <p> - And, after a few seconds, he clapped both hands down on the leather arms - of his chair. - </p> - <p> - “It <i>is</i> both equally—it must be—I'll swear that it is! - And so there's nothing in it.” - </p> - <p> - He pushed aside his unfinished schedule, and took a sheet of note-paper - from the stationery-case. - </p> - <p> - <i>“My dear Nora,” he wrote, “I have been thinking you may have - misunderstood my rubbish this afternoon. So don't think I propose anything - so idiotic as a search for a wife. Remember there are two, and there is - safety in numbers. If you will go over to Geneva and make a third - attraction, you may be absolutely unconcerned as to the safety of</i> - </p> - <p> - <i>“Your affectionate cousin,</i> - </p> - <p> - <i>“Raine Chetwynd.”</i> - </p> - <p> - When he had tossed the letter into the tray for the next post, he felt - relieved, and went on with his work. - </p> - <p> - But the next morning he received a note by hand from Mrs. Monteith, which - he tore up wrathfully into little pieces and threw into the waste-paper - basket. - </p> - <p> - It ran:— - </p> - <p> - “My dear Raine,—Men are the funniest creatures! I laughed over your - letter till I cried. - </p> - <p> - “Your affectionate cousin, - </p> - <p> - “Nora Monteith.” - </p> - <p> - Which shows how a woman can know your mind from a sample, when you - yourself are in doubt with the whole piece before you. - </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.—SUMMER CHANGES. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">F</span>rom the moment of - mutual revelation, the relations between Katherine and Felicia underwent a - change, not the less appreciable for being subtle. This was inevitable. In - fact, Felicia had dreaded the first confidential talk as much as she - dreaded the arrival of Raine. But these things are infinitely simpler than - we are apt to imagine, by reason of the mere habit of human intercourse. - The hours that they spent together at first, passed outwardly as - pleasantly as before. But Katherine was more reserved, limited the - conversation as much as possible to the ephemeral concrete, and Felicia, - keeping a guard over herself, lost somewhat in simplicity of manner. - Imperceptibly, however, they drifted apart, and saw less of one another. A - tendency towards misjudgment of Katherine was a necessary consequence of - the sense of indelicacy under which the girl chafed. The rare utterances - of feeling or opinion that the other gave vent to, instead of awakening - her sympathy, aroused undefined instincts of antagonism. She sought the - old scholar's society more and more, boldly put into execution a project - she had long rather tremulously contemplated, and established herself as - his amanuensis. - </p> - <p> - When he saw her, with inky fingers and ruffled hair, copying out his - crabbed manuscript, he would thank her for her self-sacrifice. But Felicia - would look up fervently and shake her head. - </p> - <p> - “You can't tell what a blessed relief it is, Mr. Chetwynd.” - </p> - <p> - So the old man accepted her services gratefully; though, if the truth were - known, the trained man of letters, who was accustomed to do everything - himself with minute care, was sorely put to it at times as to how to - occupy his fair secretary—especially as she, with the - conscientiousness of her sex, insisted on scrupulously filling up every - moment of the time she devoted to his service. - </p> - <p> - But Katherine smiled sadly and comprehendingly at Felicia's ingenuous - strategical movement. - </p> - <p> - “It seems rather a pity you never thought of it before,” she said, one - day, kindly. “Regular occupation is a great blessing; it prevents one from - growing lackadaisical.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” replied Felicia, falling in with her tone; “I am afraid I was - beginning to get into evil ways.” - </p> - <p> - With the advent of summer, there was much bustle in the pension, bringing - relations into greater harmony. The chatter of millinery filled the air. - Ladies ran up against each other in shops, rendered mutual advice, and - grew excited over the arrival of each other's parcels. - </p> - <p> - “One touch of <i>chiffon</i> makes the whole world kin,” said Katherine, - who looked upon matters with a satirical, yet kindly eye. - </p> - <p> - She was drawn perforce into the movement, being consulted on all sides as - to matching of shades and the suitability of hats. She bought outright an - entire wardrobe for Miss Bunter, who begged her to go shopping with her, - and then sat helpless by the counter, fingering mountains of materials. - Even Frau Schultz was softened. But she was the only one who did not - consult Katherine. She took Felicia into her confidence, and exhibited, - among other seasonable vestments, a blood-coloured blouse, covered with - mauve spots as large as two-franc pieces, which she pronounced to be very - genteel. Every one had something new to wear for the summer. Mme. Popea - scattered scraps of stuff about her room, in a kind of libationary joy. - The little dressmaker, bristling with pins, haunted the landings, when not - within the little cabinet assigned to her, from outside whose door could - be unceasingly heard the sharp tearing of materials and the droning buzz - of the sewing-machine. - </p> - <p> - Summer changes took place in the pension itself. The storey above, which - was let unfurnished during the winter, was incorporated, as usual, into - the general establishment. There was a week of cleaning, during which the - house was given over to men in soft straw hats and blue blouses. And then - a week of straightening, when new curtains were put up, and floors - rewaxed, and dingy coverings removed from chairs and sofas, which burst - out resplendent in bright green velvet. The latter proceedings were - superintended by an agile young man in alpaca sleeves and green baize - apron. It was the summer waiter, who had emerged from the mysterious limbo - where summer waiters hibernate, and was resuming his duties, apparently at - the point he had left them at the end of the previous season. Mme. Boccard - and he conversed at vast distances, which was trying to those who did not - see how the welfare of the pension was being thereby furthered. In her - quiet moments, the good lady was busy sending out prospectuses and - answering replies to advertisements and applications. She went about - smiling perspiringly at the prospect of a successful season. - </p> - <p> - The first new guests to arrive were M. le Commandant Porniclion and his - wife. He was a stout-hearted old Gascon, a veteran of Solferino and - Gravelotte, who talked in a great voice and with alarming gestures of - blood and battles, and obeyed his little brown wife like a lamb. His - friend, Colonel Cazet, was coming with his wife later on. For some years - they had been regular summer boarders of Mme. Boccard. The next arrival - was a middle-aged man, called Skeogh, who had commercial business in - Geneva. At the first he caused disappointment through adding up figures in - a little black book at meal times. But Frau Schultz found him a most - superior person, after listening to a confidential account of the jute - market, in which commodity she seemed to have been vaguely interested at - one period of her life. Whereupon she talked to him about Lottchen, and he - put away the black book. - </p> - <p> - “<i>Quelle Sirène!</i>” cried Mme. Popea, in wicked exultation. - </p> - <p> - The next to come was Raine Chetwynd. The old man went to the -railway-station in the morning to meet him, and bore him back in triumph. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, Raine, my dear, dear boy,” he said, watching him consuming the coffee - and <i>petit pain</i> he had ordered up to his room, “you can't tell how I - have longed to see you again.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, you shall not exile yourself any longer,” said Raine, heartily. “I - am going to carry you back to Oxford. The place is a howling wilderness - without you. If I could remember the names of all who sent appealing - messages to you, it would be a list as long as Leporello's. And you - mustn't live away from me again, dad.” - </p> - <p> - “No,” replied the old man; “but you see I couldn't have done this work as - well in Oxford, could I?” - </p> - <p> - “It's a noble work,” said Raine, with the scholar's instinct. - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” replied the old man with a sigh; “it wanted doing, it wanted doing. - And I think I have done it very well.” - </p> - <p> - “I must overhaul your scrip, while I am here. Let me have a look at it.” - </p> - <p> - “Don't bother about it yet, my boy. Finish your coffee. Let me ring for - some more. You must be tired after your long journey.” - </p> - <p> - “Tired?” laughed Raine. “Oh dear no, and I can go on quite well till - breakfast. I only want to see what kind of stuff you have been doing since - I have been away.” - </p> - <p> - The professor went to his drawer and pulled out the manuscript, his heart - glowing at Raine's loving interest in his work—a never-failing - source of pride and comfort. - </p> - <p> - “Here it is, nearly finished.” - </p> - <p> - Raine took the scrip from him and turned over the pages, with a running - commentary on the scope within which the subject was treated. At last he - uttered an exclamation of surprise, laid the book on his knee and looked - up at his father. - </p> - <p> - “Hullo! what is all this?” - </p> - <p> - The old man peeped over his shoulder. - </p> - <p> - “That is my secretary's writing,” he explained; “Miss Graves, you remember - her, don't you?” - </p> - <p> - “Of course; but—” - </p> - <p> - “Well, she will insist upon it, Raine; she comes in for a couple of hours - a day. It pleases her, really, and I can't help it.” - </p> - <p> - “What a dear little soul she must be,” said Raine. - </p> - <p> - “Ah! she is, my boy; every day she seems to wind a fresh thread round my - heart. We shall have to take her back to Oxford with us, eh, Raine?” - </p> - <p> - He laughed softly, took up the manuscript and put it tenderly away again - in the drawer, while Raine lit his pipe. The latter did not suspect the - hint that his father had meant to convey, but he took advantage of the - short pause that followed to change the conversation. - </p> - <p> - It was Mme. Boccard's arrangement that Raine should take Katherine's place - next to his father, and thus have her as his neighbour. It would - disappoint M. le Professeur if he were separated from his <i>petite amie</i>, - Miss Graves, and she was sure that Mrs. Stapleton would not mind. - </p> - <p> - “Make any arrangement you please,” Katherine had replied, with some - demureness. - </p> - <p> - Whereupon Mme. Boccard thanked her, and wished that everybody was as - gentle and easy to deal with, and Katherine had smiled inwardly, at the - same time despising herself a little for doing so, as is the way with - women. - </p> - <p> - As for Felicia, the disposition of seats caused her painful embarrassment. - She dared not look at Katherine, lest she should read the welcome in her - eyes; she dared not look at Raine, lest the trouble in her own should - betray her. She kept them downcast, listening to Raine's voice with a - burning cheek and beating heart. Only when the meal was over, and the old - man detained her in conversation by the window, and Raine came up to them, - did she summon up courage to meet his glance fully. - </p> - <p> - “So the professor has caught you in his dusty web, Miss Graves,” he said, - smiling. “You were very sweet to let yourself be caught.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh! I walked in of my own accord, I assure you,” replied Felicia, “and - you have no idea what trouble I had. He wants to dismiss me at the present - moment. Do plead for me, Mr. Chetwynd. Of course, I know I should be in - the way in the professor's room now—oh! yes, I should, that is quite - settled—but I want him to give me something to do by myself.” - </p> - <p> - “I will try my best for you, Miss Graves,” said Raine; “but you don't know - what an unnatural, hard-hearted—” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, Mr. Chetwynd!” said Felicia. - </p> - <p> - “Well, my dear,” said the old man, “you must have your way. It was only - for your own sake I suggested it. I am always so afraid of making you - weary—and it is very, very dry stuff—but your help is - invaluable, my dear. It will be the same as usual, then. Only I think I - shall cut down the time to half, as I, too, am going to be lazy now.” - </p> - <p> - “Now you will see what real laziness is, Miss Graves,” said Raine. “Do you - know my father's idea of leisure?—what remains of a day after nine - hours' work. Seven he calls laziness; six is abject sloth.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah! not now, Raine,” said the old man, “not now.” - </p> - <p> - He turned to go. The two younger people's eyes met, both touched by the - same thing—the pathos of old age that sounded in the old man's - words. - </p> - <p> - “How you must love him!” said Felicia, in a low voice. - </p> - <p> - “I do,” replied Raine, earnestly; “and it makes me happy to see that he - has not been unloved during my absence. I feel more about what you have - done for him than I can say.” - </p> - <p> - He smiled, involuntarily put out his hand, and pressed hers that she gave - him. Then they parted, he to follow his father, she to go to her room - serener and happier than she had been for many days, and to weave a - wondrous web out of a few gracious words, a smile, and a pressure of the - hand. If it were possible—if it were only possible! There would be - no shame then—or only just that of it to raise joy with a leaven of - tremulousness. - </p> - <p> - Meanwhile Raine sat in his father's room, and continued the interrupted - gossip. But towards three o'clock the old man's eyes grew heavy, as he - leaned his head back in the armchair. He struggled to keep them open for - Raine's sake, but at last the latter rose with a smile. - </p> - <p> - “Why, you are sleepy, dad!” - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” murmured the old man, apologetically. “It's a new habit I have - contracted—I must break myself of it gradually. I suppose I am - getting old, Raine. You won't think it unkind of me will you? Just forty - winks, Raine.” - </p> - <p> - “Have your nap out comfortably,” said the young man. - </p> - <p> - He fetched a footstool, arranged a cushion with singular tenderness behind - the old man, and left him to his sleep. Then he went out for a stroll - through the town. - </p> - <p> - It was a hot, sunny day. At the end of the street, the gate of the Jardin - Anglais stood invitingly open. Raine entered, and came upon the enclosed - portion of the Quai that forms the promenade, pleasant with its line of - shady seats under the trees on one side, and the far-stretching lake on - the other. He paused for awhile, and leant over the balustrade to light a - cigarette and to admire the view—the cloudless sky, the deep blue - water flecked with white sails, the imposing mass of the hotels on the - Quai du Mont Blanc, the busy life on the bridge, beneath which the Rhone - flows out of the lake. He drew in a long breath. Somehow it was more - exhilarating than his college gardens. The place was not crowded, as the - tourist season had not yet set in. But the usual number of nurses and - children scattered themselves promiscuously along the path, and filled the - air with shrill voices. Raine, continuing his stroll, had not gone many - steps when he perceived, far ahead, a lady start from her seat and run to - pick up a child that had fallen down. On advancing farther, he saw that it - was Mrs. Stapleton, who had got the child on her knees and was tenderly - wiping the little gravel-scratched hands, while the nurse, who had come - up, stood by phlegmatic. - </p> - <p> - It was a pretty sight, instinct with feminine charm, and struck gratefully - on the man's senses. Katherine looked very fresh and delicate in her - sprigged lilac blouse, plain serge skirt, and simple black straw hat, and - the attitude in which she bent down to the chubby, tearful face under the - white sun-bonnet was very graceful and womanly. She kissed the child and - handed it to its nurse as Raine came up. She greeted him with a smile. - </p> - <p> - “Quite a catastrophe—but she will forget all about it in half an - hour. It must be delightful to be a child.” - </p> - <p> - “If all hurts are so promptly and tenderly healed, I should think it must - be,” said Raine. - </p> - <p> - “Thank you,” she said, with an upward glance; “that is a pretty - compliment.” Raine bowed, laughed his acknowledgments, and with a word of - request, sat down by her side. - </p> - <p> - “Is this a haunt of yours?” he asked. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, I suppose it is. It is so near the pension—and I love the open - air.” - </p> - <p> - “So do I. That is another point of contact. We discovered a good many, if - you remember, at Christmas. What have you been doing since then?” - </p> - <p> - “Forgetting a good many old lessons, and trying to teach myself a few new - ones. Or, if you like, making bricks without straw—trying to live a - life without incidents.” - </p> - <p> - “Which less epigrammatically means that you have had a dull, cheerless - time. I am sorry. You have been here all the winter and spring?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes. Where else should I have been?” - </p> - <p> - “In a happier place,” said Raine. “You don't seem made to lead this - monotonous existence.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh! I suppose I am, since I am leading it. Human beings, like water, find - their own level. The Pension Boccard seems to be mine.” - </p> - <p> - “You smile, as if you liked it,”, he said, rather puzzled. - </p> - <p> - “Would you have me cry to you?” - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps not on the day of my coming, but afterwards, I wish you would.” - </p> - <p> - She flashed a glance at him, the lightning reconnoitre of woman ever on - the defensive. But the sight of his strong, frank face and kind eyes - reassured her. She was silent for a moment, dreaming a vivid day-dream. - She was taking him at his word, crying with her face on his shoulder and - his arm around her. It was infinite comfort. But she quickly roused - herself. - </p> - <p> - “Don't you know your Burton? A kind man once pointed it out to me—'As - much pity is to be taken of a woman weeping, as of a goose going - barefoot.' It was the same that told me a woman cried to hide her - feelings.” - </p> - <p> - “That kind of epigram can be made like match-boxes at twopence farthing a - gross,” said Raine, impatiently. “You have only to dress up an old adage - with a mask of spite.” - </p> - <p> - “You haven't changed,” she said with a smile. “You are just the same as - when you left.” - </p> - <p> - “More so,” he said, enigmatically. “Much more so. Then I thought it would - do you good to cry. Now I wish you would. I suppose it seems odd I should - say this to you. You must forgive me.” - </p> - <p> - “But why should I cry when I have no trouble?” she asked, disregarding his - apology. “Besides, I don't go about bewailing my lot in life. Do you think - I am unhappy?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” he replied, bluntly, “I do. I'll tell you what made me first think - so. It was at the theatre at Christmas, when we saw 'Denise.' I was - watching your face in repose.” - </p> - <p> - “It is a painful play,” she said, quietly, but her lip quivered a little, - and a faint flush came into her cheek. “Besides, I was very happy that - evening.” - </p> - <p> - He was sitting sideways on the bench, watching her with some earnestness. - She was drawing scrawls on the gravel with the point of her parasol. Both - started when they heard a harsh voice addressing them. - </p> - <p> - “Ach! You are here. Is it not a beautiful afternoon?” - </p> - <p> - It was Frau Schultz who spoke. Felicia was by her side. Raine rose to his - feet, took off his hat, and uttered a pleasant commonplace of greeting. - But Frau Schultz put her hand on Felicia's arm and moved away. - </p> - <p> - “We will not detain you. I am going to the dentist, and Miss Graves is - accompanying me.” - </p> - <p> - So Raine lifted his hat again and resumed his seat. - </p> - <p> - “That is rough on Miss Graves,” he said, watching their retiring figures - and noting the contrast between the girl's slim waist and the elder - woman's broad, red and mauve spotted back. “But she is a sweet-natured - girl. Isn't she?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” assented Katherine. “He will be a happy man who wins her.” - </p> - <p> - “You are right there,” he replied in his downright way, unconscious of the - questioning pain that lay behind the woman's calm grey eyes. “Few people, - I should think, could know her without loving her. Life is touching to see - the relations between herself and my father.” - </p> - <p> - “You will see a great deal of her, for that reason.” - </p> - <p> - “I hope so,” he said, brightly. - </p> - <p> - Again Katherine kept down the question that struggled to leap into her - eyes. There was a short silence, during which she turned idly over the - leaves of the book that was in her lap. It was “Diana of the Crossways.” - </p> - <p> - “A noble book,” he said, glancing at the title. “But I never quite - understand how Diana sold the secret.” - </p> - <p> - “No?” said Katherine, “I think I can tell you.” - </p> - <p> - And so she gave him of her woman's knowledge of her sex, and the time - passed pleasantly, till she judged it prudent to bid him farewell. - </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.—KATHERINE'S HOUR - </h2> - <p> - “Ach so!” said Frau Schultz as soon as they were out of earshot, “she has - begun already. It is not decent. In a little while he will become quite - entangled.” - </p> - <p> - Felicia looked away and did not speak. The other went on,— - </p> - <p> - “She might have waited a fortnight, a week, and done it gradually. But the - very first day—” - </p> - <p> - “Please don't let us discuss it,” said Felicia wearily. - </p> - <p> - “But I will discuss it; I am a virtuous woman, and I don't like to see - such things. He is too good to fall a victim. I shall speak to the - professor.” - </p> - <p> - “Do you think a gentleman like the professor would listen to you, Frau - Schultz?” asked Felicia, scarcely veiling her disgust. - </p> - <p> - This was a new idea to Frau Schultz. She turned it over with some - curiosity, and metaphorically sniffed at it. Then she left it alone, to - Felicia's relief, and the rest of their conversation passed without - allusion to the subject. - </p> - <p> - But her comments upon the meeting in the Jardin Anglais made an unpleasant - impression upon the girl, revived the memory of the previous indictment of - Katherine which she had rebutted with such indignation. But now, she could - not regard Katherine with the same feelings of loyalty. On the contrary, - the growing distrust and antagonism seemed to have come to a head. The - instinct of combat was aroused in her for the first time, and she began to - dislike Katherine with a younger woman's strong, active dislike. - </p> - <p> - Unconsciously to herself, the atmosphere of the pension had tainted the - purity of her judgment. She had learned that little knowledge of things - evil which is so dangerous. Katherine was not to her merely a rival, - loving Raine Chetwynd with a fair, pure love like her own, but a scheming - woman, one of those to whom love is a pastime, occupation, vanity—she - knew not what—but still a thing unhonoured and conferring no honour - on the man. And, as the days went on, this attitude became more definite, - gaining stability in measure as the woman within her took the place of the - child. The thought, too, took shape: why should she not use maidenly means - to keep him by her side, when Katherine used unworthy ones? And with the - thought her ashamedness wore off, and she began to battle bravely for her - love. - </p> - <p> - Katherine could not help noticing these signs of active rivalry. At first - she was hurt. She would have dearly liked to retain Felicia's friendship. - But what could she do? - </p> - <p> - She was in her room one morning when the sound of a carriage drawing up in - the street below, struck upon her ear. Out of idle curiosity she stepped - upon the little balcony and looked down. Old Mr. Chetwynd, Raine and - Felicia were going out for a drive. She watched them settle themselves - laughingly in their places, and smiled not unkindly at Felicia's young - radiant face. But as they drove off, Felicia glanced up, caught sight of - her, and the expression changed. Its triumph smote Katherine with a sense - of pain. She retired from the balcony wearily. A vague fancy came to her - to go away from Geneva, to leave the field open for Felicia. She dallied - with it for a moment. And then the fierce reaction set in. - </p> - <p> - No. A thousand times no. Why should she be quixotic? Whoever in the world - had acted quixotically towards her? Her life had been wrecked—up to - now, without one gleam of light in any far-off haven. She had been tossed - about by the waves, an idle derelict. Only lately had hope come. It was a - wild, despairing hope, at the best—but it had kept her alive for the - past six months Why should she give way to this young girl—untouched, - untroubled save by this one first girlish fancy? All the world was before - her, waiting with its tributes to throw at the feet of her youth and - fairness and charm. In a few months she would go out into it again, leave - the Pension Boccard and its narrowing life for ever. In a year it would be - but a memory, Raine Chetwynd but a blushing episode. Many men would love - her. She would have her pick of the noblest. Why should she herself then - yield her single frail hope to her who had so many fair ones? - </p> - <p> - She clung with passionate insistence to this self-justification. Since her - lot of loneliness had fallen upon her, she had accepted it implicitly, - never sought to form ties of even the most delicate and ephemeral nature. - She had contemplated the grey, loveless, lonely stretch of future years as - the logical consequence of the past, and sometimes its stern - inevitableness crushed her. Life for life, which had the greater need of - joy—her own or that of the young girl? The law of eternal justice - seemed to ring answer in her heart—as it has rung in the heart of - every daughter of Hagar since the world began. - </p> - <p> - Late that evening she was standing on the balcony outside the salon. They - had passed a merry evening. A concert-singer from London, who had arrived - the day before, had good-naturedly sung for them. Old Mr. Chetwynd had - been witty and charming. Commandant Pornichon had told, with Gascon verve, - stories of camp and war. Raine had talked and laughed in his wholehearted - way. Everyone had been gay, good-tempered. Felicia had been in buoyant - mood, adding her fresh note to the talk; had even addressed to her a few - laughing words. One by one all had left the salon. The last had been Mme. - Popea, who had remained for a quiet chatter with her about the events of - the evening. She was alone now, in the moonlight, feeling less at war with - herself than during the day. Laughter and song are good for the heart. She - leant her cheek on her elbow and mused. Perhaps she was a wicked woman to - try to come between a girl and her happiness. After all, would not the - sacrifice of self be a noble thing? - </p> - <p> - But suddenly she heard the salon door open and an entering footstep that - caused her heart to leap within her. With an incontrollable impulse she - moved and showed herself at the window. - </p> - <p> - “How delightful to find you!” exclaimed Raine. “I came almost on a forlorn - hope.” - </p> - <p> - “I stayed to sentimentalize a little in the moonlight,” said Katherine. “I - thought you had gone to the <i>café</i>.” - </p> - <p> - “No; I have been sitting with my father,” he said, pulling a chair on to - the balcony and motioning her to it. “And then, when I left him, I thought - it would be pleasant to talk to you—so I came. I have not had a word - with you all day.” - </p> - <p> - “I have missed our argument too,” admitted Katherine. “So you had a - pleasant expedition?” - </p> - <p> - “Very,” said Raine. “But I wished you had been there.” - </p> - <p> - “You had your father and Felicia.” - </p> - <p> - “That was the worst of it,” he said laughingly. “They are so much in love - with one another, that I was the third that makes company nought.” - </p> - <p> - He talked about the drive to Vevey, the habits and customs of the Swiss, - digressed into comparisons between the peasant classes of various - countries. Katherine, who had wandered over most of the beaten track in - Europe, supplied his arguments with illustrations. She loved to hear him - talk. His knowledge was wide and accurate, his criticisms vigorous. The - strength of his intellectual fibre alone differentiated him, in her eyes, - from ordinary men. His vision was so clear, his touch upon all subjects so - firm, and yet, at need, so delicate; she felt herself so infinitely little - of mind compared with him. They talked on till past midnight; but long ere - that the conversation had drifted around things intimately subjective. - </p> - <p> - As they parted for the night at the end of Katherine's corridor, she could - not help saying to him somewhat humbly,— - </p> - <p> - “Thank you for the talks. You do not know how I value them. They lift me - into a different atmosphere.” - </p> - <p> - Raine looked at her a little wonderingly. Her point of view had never - occurred to him. Thoroughly honest and free from vanity of every kind, he - could not even now quite comprehend it. - </p> - <p> - “It is you who raise me,” he replied. “To talk with you is an education in - all fine and delicate things. How many women do you think there are like - you?” - </p> - <p> - His words rang soothingly in her ear until she slept. In the morning she - seemed to wake to a newer conception of life. - </p> - <p> - And as the days went by, and their talks alone together on the balcony, in - the Jardin Anglais, and where not, deepened in intimacy, and the nature of - the man she loved unfolded itself gradually like a book before her - perceptive feminine vision, this conception broadened into bolder, clearer - definition. Hitherto she had been fiercely maintaining her inalienable - right to whatever chance of happiness offered itself in her path. Now she - felt humbled, unworthy, a lesser thing than he, and her abasement brought - her a sweet, pure happiness. At first she had loved him, she scarce knew - why, because he was he, because her heart had leapt towards him. But now - the self-chastening brought into being a higher love, tender and - worshipping, such as she had dreamed over in a lonely woman's wistful - reveries. She lost the sense of rivalry with Felicia, strove in - unobtrusive ways to win back her friendship. But Felicia, sweet and - effusive to others, to Katherine remained unapproachable. - </p> - <p> - At last a great womanly pity arose in Katherine's heart. The victory that - she was ever becoming more conscious of gaining awakened all her generous - impulses and tendernesses. Her love for Raine had grown too beautiful a - thing to allow of unworthy thrills of triumph. - </p> - <p> - For the rest, it was a happy sunlit time. The past faded into dimness. She - lived from day to day blinded to all but the glowing radiance of her love. - </p> - <p> - Raine met her one day going with a basket on her arm up the streets of the - old town by the cathedral. He had fallen into the habit of joining her - with involuntary unceremoniousness when she was alone, and it did not - occur to her as anything but natural that he should join her now and walk - by her side. At the door of the basement where Jean-Marie and his wife - dwelt, she paused. - </p> - <p> - “This is the end of my journey. My old people live here.” - </p> - <p> - “I am quite envious of them,” said Raine. - </p> - <p> - He had scarcely spoken, when the old woman hobbled across the road from - one of the opposite houses, and came up to Katherine with smiling welcome - in the wrinkles of her old, lined face. - </p> - <p> - She had not expected madame so soon after her last visit. It was - Jean-Marie who was going to be happy. Would Madame enter? And Monsieur? - Was he the brother of Madame? - </p> - <p> - Katherine explained, with a bright flush on either cheek and a quick - little glance of embarrassment at Raine, who laughed and added his word of - explanation. He was a great friend of Madame's. She had often spoken to - him of Jean-Marie. - </p> - <p> - The old woman looked at him, the eternal feminine in her not dulled by - years, and liked his smiling face. - </p> - <p> - “If I could dare to ask Monsieur if he would condescend to enter with - Madame—?” - </p> - <p> - He sought a permissive glance from Katherine, and accepted the invitation. - </p> - <p> - “I did not mean—” began Katherine in a low voice as they were - following the old woman down the dark stairs. - </p> - <p> - “It will delight me,” replied Raine. “Besides, I shall envy them no - longer.” - </p> - <p> - After a few moments her embarrassment wore off, as she saw the old - paralytic's first Swiss shyness melt away under Raine's charm. It was - Raine's way, as the old professor had said once to Felicia, to get behind - externals and to set himself in sympathy with all whom he met. And - Katherine, though she had not heard this formulated, felt the truth - unconsciously. He talked as if he had known Jean-Marie from infancy. To - listen to him one would have thought it was the simplest thing in the - world to entertain an ignorant old Swiss peasant. Katherine had never - loved him so much as she did that hour. - </p> - <p> - She was full of the sense of it when they were in the street again—of - his tenderness, simplicity, human kindness. - </p> - <p> - “How they adore you!” he said suddenly. - </p> - <p> - The words and tone startled her. The aspect she herself had presented was - the last thing in her thoughts. The tribute, coming from him in the midst - of her silent adoration of him himself, brought swiftly into play a range - of complex feelings and the tears to her eyes. He could not help noticing - their moisture. - </p> - <p> - “What a tender heart you have!” he said in his kind way, falling into - inevitable error. - </p> - <p> - “It is silly of me,” she replied with a bright smile. - </p> - <p> - She could not undeceive him. Often a woman by reason of her sex has to - receive what she knows is not her due. But she compensates the eternal - justice of things by giving up more of her truest self to the man. A few - moments later, however, on their homeward walk, she tried to be - conscientious. - </p> - <p> - “I cannot bear you to praise me—as you do sometimes.” - </p> - <p> - “Why?” - </p> - <p> - A man, even the most sympathetic, is seldom satisfied unless he has - reasons for everything. Katherine, in spite of her seriousness, smiled at - the masculine directness. She replied somewhat earnestly,— - </p> - <p> - “Because I do not deserve it in the first place, and in the second, it - means so much more, coming from you.” - </p> - <p> - “I said that those old folks adore you, and that you are tender-hearted,” - he answered conclusively; “and both facts are true, and it would be a bad - day for anyone but yourself who gainsaid them.” - </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.—A POOR LITTLE TRAGEDY. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">O</span>f the development - of human phenomena, two truisms may be stated. First, a man can seldom - gauge its progress, the self of to-day differing so infinitely little from - the self of yesterday. And secondly, the climax is seldom reached by a - man's own initiative. He seems blindly and unconsciously to depend upon - that law of averages which assigns an indefinite number of external - contingencies to act upon and to complete any given process.” - </p> - <p> - Raine had jotted down this among some rough notes for a series of lectures - in Metaphysics he was preparing, when his father's voice broke a silence - that had lasted nearly an hour. - </p> - <p> - “I am reading that letter you wrote to ——.” - </p> - <p> - “Which letter?” asked Raine. - </p> - <p> - As the old man did not reply at first, but continued reading the letter - which he held out before him, Raine closed his note-book, and went round - behind his father's chair, and looked over his shoulder. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, that one. You must have thought me idiotic. I half fancy I did it to - puzzle you.” - </p> - <p> - “I wasn't puzzled, my dear boy. I guessed. And does the magnet still - attract?” - </p> - <p> - It was the first time he had referred to the matter. His voice was a - little husky as he asked the question—it seemed to be a liberty that - he was taking with Raine. He looked up at him deprecatingly, touching the - hand that was on his shoulder. - </p> - <p> - “Don't think me an inquisitive old man,” he added, smiling to meet the - affectionate look on his son's face. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, I am attracted—very much,” said Raine. “More than I had - conceived possible.” - </p> - <p> - “I am so glad—she too is drawn to you, Raine.” - </p> - <p> - “I think so too—sometimes. At others she baffles me.” - </p> - <p> - “You would like to know for certain?” - </p> - <p> - “Of course,” said Raine with a laugh. There seemed a humorous side to the - discussion. The loved old face wore an expression of such concern. - </p> - <p> - “Then, Raine—if you really love her—I can tell you—she - has given you her heart, my son. I had it from her own lips.” - </p> - <p> - The laugh died away from Raine's eyes. With a quick movement, he came from - behind his father and stood facing him, his brows knitted. - </p> - <p> - “What do you mean, father?” he asked very earnestly. - </p> - <p> - “Felicia—she is only waiting, Raine.” - </p> - <p> - “Felicia!” - </p> - <p> - “Yes. Who else?” - </p> - <p> - Raine passed his hand through his hair and walked to and fro about the - room, his hands dug deep in his pockets. The old man followed him with his - eyes, anxiously, not comprehending. - </p> - <p> - Suddenly Raine stopped short before him. - </p> - <p> - “Father, I haven't been a brute. I haven't trifled with her. I never - suspected it. I liked her for her own sake, because she is a bright, - likeable girl—and I am fond of her for your sake. But I have never, - to my knowledge, led her to suppose—believe me.” - </p> - <p> - And then the old man saw his plans for Raine's future fall in desolation - round him like a house of cards. - </p> - <p> - “I don't understand,” he said rather piteously, “if she is the attraction—” - </p> - <p> - “It is not little Felicia.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah!” said the old man, with the bitter pang of disappointment. - </p> - <p> - He rested his head on his hand, dejectedly. - </p> - <p> - “I had set my heart upon it. That was why, the first day you came, I spoke - of her coming back to Oxford with us. Poor little girl! Heaven knows what - will happen to her, when I tell her.” - </p> - <p> - “Tell her! You mustn't do that, dad. She must learn it for herself. It - will be best for her. I will be very careful—very careful—she - will see—and her pride will come to her help. I'll tell you what - I'll do. I'll go away—for an indefinite time. Rogers and three men - are climbing in Switzerland. I shall pack up my things and go and join - them to-morrow; I have a list of their dates.” - </p> - <p> - He searched for it among the papers in his pocket-book. - </p> - <p> - “Chamonix! Their being so close will be a good excuse. When I come back—it - will only be for a short time—this break will make it easier to - modify my attitude.” - </p> - <p> - “Let us think what would be best,” said the professor with an old man's - greater slowness of decision. - </p> - <p> - “I have made up my mind,” said Raine. “I go to-morrow.” - </p> - <p> - Just then a rap was heard at the door, and a moment afterwards Felicia - appeared, bringing her daily task of copy. She handed the professor the - manuscript—and while he looked through it mechanically, she stood - like a school-girl before her master, with clasped hands, waiting - pleasurably for the little word of praise. - </p> - <p> - “There is going to be a specially gorgeous <i>fête</i> on the lake - to-night, Mr. Chetwynd,” she said brightly, turning to Raine. - </p> - <p> - “Won't it be like the other one?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, much more so! There is a royal Duke of somewhere or other staying at - the National, and the municipality mean to show him what they can do. I am - so fond of these <i>fêtes venétiennes</i>. You're coming, aren't you, - professor?” - </p> - <p> - “I don't know, my dear,” replied the old man. “The night air isn't good - for me.” Then he added, closing the manuscript, “It is beautifully done. I - shall grudge giving it to the printers.” - </p> - <p> - “But you'll get it all back again,” said Felicia. “Send it to me - afterwards, and I'll bind it up beautifully with blue ribbon.” - </p> - <p> - She gave them each a little nod of farewell and tripped lightly out of the - room. The two men looked at each other, rather sadly. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, Raine—is it too late? Couldn't you?” - </p> - <p> - “No, dad,” said Raine. “I am afraid other things are too serious.” - </p> - <p> - Later in the day he opened his note-book and his eye fell upon the last - fragment he had scribbled. He threw it upon his dressing-table with an - exclamation of impatience. The personal application of his aphorisms was - too sudden and obvious to be pleasant. - </p> - <p> - There was no doubt now in his mind as to the face that attracted him to - Geneva. It had vanished on the first day of his arrival, when he had seen - Katherine comforting the hurt child. He was conscious too that it had been - Katherine all along, at Oxford, whose memory had haunted him, that he had - only evoked that of Felicia in order to enable him to deceive himself. He - had practised the self-delusion systematically, whenever his thoughts had - drifted away from the work and interests that surrounded him. He had made - light of the matter, treated it jestingly, grown angry when it obtruded - itself seriously on his thoughts. For he had shrunk, with the instinctive - fear of a man of strong nature, from exposing to the touch a range of - feelings which had once brought him great sorrow. To love meant to bring - into play a man's emotions, infinitely deeper than those of a boy, and - subject to far more widely-reaching consequences. For this reason he had - mocked at the idea of being in love with Katherine, had forced himself, - since the power that drew him to Geneva could not be disregarded, to - consider Felicia as an equal component, and at the time of his light - confidence to Mrs. Monteith, had almost persuaded himself that he was - indulging in a whimsical holiday fancy. - </p> - <p> - But he could delude himself no longer. From the first meeting he knew that - it was not the young girl, but the older, deeper-natured woman that had - stirred him. He had felt kindly and grateful to her for his father's sake; - but there his feelings had stopped. Whereas, with Katherine, he had been - drifting, he knew not whither. The process of subjective development had - been brought suddenly to its climax by his father's words. He realized - that he loved Katherine. - </p> - <p> - To fly away from Geneva at this moment was particularly unpleasant—necessitating - almost the rending of his heart-strings. But as he had decided, he sent a - telegram to Rogers at Chamonix, secured a place in the next morning's - diligence, and packed his Gladstone-bag and knapsack. He was sincerely - sorry for Felicia. No decent, honest man can learn that a girl has given - him her heart in vain, without a certain amount of pain and perplexity. - </p> - <p> - “And to think that I have been such a blind idiot as never even to suspect - it?” he exclaimed with a vicious jerk of the bag-strap, which burst it, - and thereby occasioned a temporary diversion. - </p> - <p> - “I passed you this afternoon and you did not see me,” said Felicia as they - were going in to dinner. “You were in the diligence office.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” said Raine, “I was engaging a seat to Chamonix. I am going climbing - with some Oxford people.” - </p> - <p> - “When do you start?” - </p> - <p> - “To-morrow,” said Raine. “I think I may be away some weeks.” - </p> - <p> - He could not help noticing the look of disappointment in her eyes, and the - little downward droop of her lips. He felt himself a brute for telling her - so abruptly. However, he checked the impulse, which many men, in a similar - position, have obeyed, out of mistaken kindness, to add a few consoling - words as to his return, and took advantage of the general bustle of - seat-taking to leave her and go to his place at the opposite side of the - table. - </p> - <p> - Many new arrivals had come to the pension during the last few days. - Colonel Cazet and his wife had joined their friends the Pornichons; - several desultory tourists, whose names no one knew, made their appearance - at meal-times, and vanished immediately afterwards. When questioned - concerning them, Mme. Boccard would reply: - </p> - <p> - “<i>Oh, des Américains!</i>” as if that explained everything. - </p> - <p> - In addition to these, Mr. Skeogh, the commercial gentleman who had - surrendered to Frau Schultz's seductions, had this evening introduced a - friend who was passing through Geneva. By virtue of his position as - visitor of a guest, Mme. Boccard placed him at the upper end of the table - between Frâulein Klinkhardt and Mme. Popea, instead of giving him a seat - at the foot, by herself, where new arrivals sat, and whence, by the rules - of the pension, they worked their way upwards, according to seniority. - </p> - <p> - There were twenty-one guests that night. Mme. Boccard turned a red, - beaming face to them, disguising with smiles the sharp directing glances - kept ever upon the summer waiter and his assistant. The air was filled - with a polyglot buzz, above which could be heard the great voices of the - old soldiers and the shrill accents of the Americans fresh from the - discovery of Chillon. At the head of the table, however, where the older - house-party were gathered, reigned a greater calm. Both Mr. Chetwynd and - Felicia were silent. Raine conversed in low tones with Katherine, on - America, where she had lived most of her younger life. She very rarely - alluded to her once adopted nationality, preferring to be recognized as an - Englishwoman, but Raine was recording his impressions of a recent visit to - New York, and her comments upon his criticisms were necessary. Around them - the general topic was the <i>fête venétienne</i> that was to take place on - the lake. To Mr. Skeogh, who had never seen one, Frau Schultz gave - hyperbolic description. Mr. Wanless, a grizzled and tanned middle-aged - man, with a cordless eyeglass and a dark straggling moustache, who had - travelled apparently all over the world, rather pooh-poohed the affair as - childish, and, in a lull in the talk, was heard describing a Nautch-dance - to Mme. Popea. - </p> - <p> - It seemed commonplace enough, this pension dinner-party. Hundreds such - were at that moment in progress all through Switzerland, differing from - each other as little as the loads of any two consecutive London omnibuses - on the same route. Yet to more than one person it was ever memorable. - </p> - <p> - Little Miss Bunter, who sat next to Felicia, had grown happier of late. - The summer had warmed her blood. Also she had lately received an - eight-page letter from Burmah which had brought her much consolation. - There was a possibility, it hinted, of the marriage taking place in the - spring. She had already consulted Katherine as to the trousseau, and had - made cuttings from <i>Modern Society</i> of the description of fashionable - weddings during the past two months. Having these hopes within her, and - one of the new dresses chosen by Katherine, without, she looked much - fresher than usual this evening. Her sandy hair seemed less lifeless, her - complexion less sallow. She did not speak much, being constitutionally - timid. Her opinions were such weak, frail things, that she was afraid of - sending them forth into the rough world. But she listened with animated - interest to the various conversations. Raine's talk particularly - interested her. She had a vague idea that she was improving her mind. - </p> - <p> - “It struck me,” Raine was saying, “that culture in America was chiefly in - the hands of the women—more so even than it is in our own strictly - business circles. And nearly all New York is one great business circle.” - </p> - <p> - “Were you long in the States, sir?” asked Mr. Skeogh, who had been silent - for some time. - </p> - <p> - “Oh no,” said Raine, looking over towards him, “only a few weeks. My - remarks are from the merest superficial impressions.” - </p> - <p> - “It is a fine country,” said Mr. Skeogh. - </p> - <p> - Raine acquiesced politely. - </p> - <p> - “I do not like the country,” said Frau Schultz, thus making the topic a - fairly general one. “There is no family life. The women are idle. They are - not to my taste.” - </p> - <p> - “What a blessing!” murmured Katherine in a low voice, to which Raine - replied by an imperceptible smile. But aloud she said: “I don't think - American women are idle. They give their wits and not their souls to - housekeeping. So they order their husbands' dinners and see to the washing - of their babies just as well as other women; but they think that these are - duties that any rational creature can perform without letting them absorb - their whole interests in life.” - </p> - <p> - “A woman's duty is to be a good housewife,” said Frau Schultz - dictatorially, in her harshest accent. “In Germany it is so.” - </p> - <p> - “But is not the party of progress in Germany trying to improve the - position of women?” asked Mr. Wanless with a securing grip of his - eyeglass. - </p> - <p> - “It cannot be improved,” said Frau Schultz. - </p> - <p> - “That is a matter of opinion,” replied Mr. Wanless. “When elegant ladies - have <i>Damen-lectüre</i> especially written for them, and when peasant - women are harnessed to a cart by the side of the cow, while the husband - walks behind smoking his cigar—I think a little improvement is - necessary somewhere.” - </p> - <p> - He spoke in a clear, authoritative voice, commanding attention. - </p> - <p> - “Have you been in Germany?” asked Frau Schultz. - </p> - <p> - “I have been all over the world—travelled continuously for twenty - years. Somehow the position of women has interested me. It is an index to - the sociology of a country.” - </p> - <p> - “Which is the most interesting one you know from that point of view?” - asked old Mr. Chetwynd, who had been following the conversation. - </p> - <p> - “Burmah,” replied Mr. Wanless. “It is the anomaly of the East. Germany - could learn many lessons from her.” - </p> - <p> - “Is the position of women very high there?” asked Miss Bunter, timidly, - the mention of Burmah having stimulated her interest to the pitch of - speaking. - </p> - <p> - “Oh yes!” returned Mr. Wanless, laughing. “A wife is the grey mare there - with a vengeance.” - </p> - <p> - A faint flush came into Miss Bunter's cheek. - </p> - <p> - “But it does not matter to the English people who live there, does it?” - </p> - <p> - Mr. Wanless assured her, amid the general smile, that English people - carried their own laws and customs with them. Miss Bunter relapsed into a - confused yet pleased silence. The talk continued, became detached and - desultory again. Miss Bunter no longer listened, but nerved herself up to - a great effort. At last, when a lull came, she moistened her lips with - some wine, and leant across the table, catching the traveller's eye. - </p> - <p> - “Have you lived long in Burmah?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes. I have just come from an eighteen-months' stay there.” - </p> - <p> - “I wonder if you ever met a Mr. Dotterel there?” - </p> - <p> - “I know a man of that name,” said Mr. Wanless, smiling. “But Burmah is an - enormous place, you know. My friend is an F. J. Dotterel—Government - appointment—stationed at Bhamo!” - </p> - <p> - “That's him,” cried Miss Bunter, in suppressed and ungrammatical - excitement. “How extraordinary you should know him! He is a great friend - of mine.” - </p> - <p> - “A very good fellow,” said Mr. Wanless. “His wife and himself were very - kind to me.” - </p> - <p> - “I beg your pardon,” said Miss Bunter. “His wife? It can't be the same—my - friend is not married.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh yes he is,” laughed the traveller pleasantly. “There is only one F. J. - Dotterel in the Government service at Bhamo. Married out there. Got three - or four jolly little children.” - </p> - <p> - She looked at him for a moment haggardly, and grew white to the lips. The - loss of blood made her face look pinched and death-like. She tried to - utter some words, but only a few inarticulate sounds came from her throat. - There was a moment's intense silence, every one around her knowing what - had happened. Then she swayed sideways, and Felicia caught her in her - arms. - </p> - <p> - She had fainted. The table rose in confusion. Amid a hubbub of voices was - heard Mme. Popea's explaining to Mr. Wanless the nature of his - indiscretion. - </p> - <p> - “I will carry her to her room,” said Raine, lifting her thin body in his - arms. “Come and help me,” he added, signing with his head to Felicia and - Katherine. - </p> - <p> - They followed him out and upstairs. He laid her down on her bed. - </p> - <p> - “You know what to do, don't you?” he said to Katherine, as he left the two - with the unconscious lady. - </p> - <p> - “Poor thing. It will break her heart,” whispered Katherine, as she busied - herself with the hooks and eyes and laces. - </p> - <p> - “I don't much believe in the fragility of women's hearts,” said Felicia. - </p> - <p> - “Why do you say that, Felicia?” said Katherine gently. “You know that you - don't mean it.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh!” said Felicia with a little inflexion of superciliousness, “I - generally say what I mean.” - </p> - <p> - Katherine did not reply, reading her well enough by her own general - knowledge of human nature. We often contradict our own common sense and - better impulses, for the unprofitable satisfaction of contradicting our - enemy. - </p> - <p> - So when poor Miss Bunter opened her eyes and recovered consciousness, - feeling sick and giddy and cold, and, seizing Felicia's hand, broke into - miserable crying and sobbing, Katherine judged it wiser to leave the two - of them alone together, without any further offer to share Felicia's - ministrations. - </p> - <p> - When she entered the salon a little later, she found most of the party - preparing to go out to see the illuminations. The little tragedy was still - being discussed, and Katherine was beset by questioners. Little Miss - Bunter's love story had long been common property in the pension, as she - had told it to each of the ladies in the very strictest confidence. - </p> - <p> - The exodus of the guests began. Mme. Popea ran out of the room and quickly - returned to Katherine's side. - </p> - <p> - “Mademoiselle Graves will not come,” she said, buttoning her glove. “Could - not you go and persuade her?” - </p> - <p> - “I fear I should be of no use, Mme. Popea,” said Katherine. “I will ask - Mr. Chetwynd.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah! Then she will come,” laughed Mme. Popea—and she hurried out - after the Pornichons, who had asked her to accompany them. - </p> - <p> - Katherine passed by the few remaining people, chiefly ladies, standing - about the room in hats and wraps, to meet Raine, who was just coming in - from the balcony, where he had been smoking. - </p> - <p> - “I hear that Felicia won't go to the <i>fête</i>. Don't you think you - could persuade her? It would do her good. She has been looking forward to - it so much.” - </p> - <p> - But Raine shook his head and looked down at her, tugging his blonde - moustache. It was an embarrassing request. Katherine half divined, and - forbore to press the matter. She had already somewhat sacrificed her tact - to her conscience. - </p> - <p> - “But you, yourself? Are you not coming?” he asked. - </p> - <p> - “No; I think I'll stay in. I feel rather too sorry for that poor little - body.” - </p> - <p> - “You had better come. The brightness will cheer you.” - </p> - <p> - “I don't think I should care for it,” she replied, with her hand to her - bosom, fingering a dark red rose in her dress. - </p> - <p> - Suddenly the flower fell from its stalk to the ground. She started - slightly, from the unexpectedness, and, when Raine stooped and picked it - up, held out her hand for it, palm upwards. But he disregarded her action - and retained the rose. - </p> - <p> - “Do come!” he pleaded. - </p> - <p> - She glanced at him, met his eyes. A wave of emotion passed through her, - seeming for the moment to lift her off her feet. Why should she refuse? - She knew perfectly well that she would give her soul to go with him - through fire and water to the ends of the earth. But she dreaded lest he - should know it. - </p> - <p> - “Would you really like me to come?” - </p> - <p> - “You know I should.” - </p> - <p> - She went to put on her things. Raine stepped on to the balcony to wait for - her. He could see the pale reflection of the illuminations, and hear the - noise of the people, and the faint sound of music broken by the cracking - of a cabman's whip in the street below. For a moment his surroundings - seemed to him unreal, as they do to a man gliding over the edge of a - precipice. - </p> - <p> - “I wonder what is going to happen?” he said to himself. - </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.—VARIOUS ELEMENTS HAVE THEIR SAY. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t was a sultry - night. Not a breath of air was stirring. They had escaped from the crowd - on the quays and were being rowed about the lake in a little boat gaily - hung with Chinese lanterns. The glare fell on their faces, confusing their - view, and making all dark objects around them invisible. Their eyes caught - nothing but a phantasmagoria of coloured lights. The water swarmed with - them. Scores of similarly illuminated craft darted hither and thither, - crossed and recrossed each other on all sides, with the dazzling effect of - myriads of fireflies. All around, fixed amid the moving lights, blazed the - lamps on quays, bridges and jetties. Now and then, through a momentary - vista, could be seen the gas devices on the fronts of the great hotels on - the <i>Quai du Mont Blanc</i>. Now and then, too, they neared the looming - hull of the great steamer, a mass of festoons of coloured lamps. The - strains of the band on board broke through the roar of many voices, with a - strange effect, and died away in the general hubbub as the steamer moved - slowly off. - </p> - <p> - “I am glad I came,” said Katherine. “It was nice of you to think of this - boat. It is fresher on the water.” - </p> - <p> - She was happy; he was by her side. The little canopy of lanterns above - their heads seemed to draw them together, isolate them from the outer - world. The lights whirled around her as in a dream. Raine too, for all his - man's lesser emotional impressibility, felt a slight exaltation, a - continuance of the strange sense of the unreality of things. As the - moments passed, this common mood grew in intensity. - </p> - <p> - They spoke of the incident of the dinner-table, but like other things it - seemed to lose perspective. Meanwhile the old wizened boatman, apparently - far away in the bows, rowed stolidly round and round within the basin - formed by the quays and jetties. - </p> - <p> - “It is a mad story,” said Katherine. “Almost fantastic. What object had - he? Was he a fiend, or a coward, or what?” - </p> - <p> - “Both,” said Raine. “With a soft sentimental heart. A fiend that is half a - fool is ever the blackest of fiends. He is irresponsible for his own - hell.” - </p> - <p> - “Are all men like that who make life a hell for women?” - </p> - <p> - “In a way. Men are blind to the consequences of their own actions. Apply - the truism specially. Or else they see only their own paths before them. - Sometimes men seem 'a little brood.' I often wonder how women can love - them.” - </p> - <p> - “Do you? Would you include yourself?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes. I suppose so.” - </p> - <p> - “Do you think you could ever be cruel to a woman?” - </p> - <p> - “I could never lie to her, if you mean that. The woman who loves me will - find me straight, however much of an inferior brute I might be otherwise.” - </p> - <p> - “Don't,” said Katherine. “You frighten me—the suggestion—” - </p> - <p> - “But you asked me whether I could be cruel.” - </p> - <p> - “A woman's thoughts and speech are never so intense as a man's. You throw - a lurid light on my words and I shrink from them. Forgive me. I know that - you could be nothing but what was good and true-hearted.” - </p> - <p> - Raine looked at her. Her face was delicate in its strength, very pure in - its sadness. The dim light by which it was visible suggested infinite - things beyond that could be revealed in a greater brightness. He felt - wonderfully drawn to her. - </p> - <p> - “Men have been cruel to you. That is why you ask.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah no!” she said, turning away her head quickly. “I will never call men - cruel. I have suffered. Who has not? The greatest suffering—it is - the greatest suffering in life—that which comes between man and - woman.” - </p> - <p> - “It is true,” replied Raine musingly. “As it can be the greatest joy. Once - I could not bear to think of it, for the pain. It is strange—” - </p> - <p> - “What is strange?” asked Katherine in a low voice. - </p> - <p> - He was scarcely conscious how he had come to strike the chord of his own - life. It seemed natural at the moment. - </p> - <p> - “It is strange how like a dream it all appears now; as if another than I—a - bosom friend, whose secrets I shared—had gone through it.” - </p> - <p> - She put her hand lightly on his arm, and he felt the touch to his heart. - </p> - <p> - “Would you care for me to tell you? I should like to. It would seem a way - of laying a ghost peacefully and reverently. It has never passed out of me - yet—not even to my father.” - </p> - <p> - “Tell me,” murmured Katherine. - </p> - <p> - “Both are dead—twelve years ago.” - </p> - <p> - “Both?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes; mother and child. I was little else than a boy—an - undergraduate. She was little else than a girl—yet she had been - married—then deserted by her husband and utterly alone and - friendless when I met her—in London. She was a dresser at a theatre—educated - though, and refined far above her class. At first I helped her—then - loved her—we couldn't marry—she offered—at first I - refused. But then—well, you can end it. We loved each other dearly. - If she had lived, I should have been true to her till this day—I - should have married her, for she would soon have become a widow. When the - child was born, I was one-and-twenty—she nineteen. We were wildly, - ecstatically happy. Three months afterwards the child caught diphtheria—she - caught it too from the baby—first the little one died—then the - mother died in my arms. I seemed to have lived all my life before I had - entered upon it. It was a heavy burthen for a lad.” - </p> - <p> - “And since?” asked Katherine gently. - </p> - <p> - “I have shrunk morbidly from risking such torture a second time.” - </p> - <p> - “Yours is a nature to love altogether if it loves at all.” - </p> - <p> - “I reverence love too highly to treat it lightly,” he said. “Tell me,” he - added, “do you think my punishment came upon me rightly? There are those - that would. Are you one?” - </p> - <p> - “God forbid,” she replied in a low voice. “God forbid that I of all - creatures should dare to judge others.” - </p> - <p> - The earnestness in her tone startled him. He caught a side-view of her - face. It wore the same look of sadness as on the night they had seen - “Denise” together in the winter. She had suffered. A great yearning pity - for her rose in his heart. - </p> - <p> - “It is well that the past can be the past,” he said. “We live, and gather - to ourselves fresh personalities. A little gradual change, a little daily - hardening or softening, weakening or strengthening—and at the end of - a few years we are different entities. Things become memories—reflections - without life. That was why I said it was strange. Now all that time is - only a vague memory, and it mingles with the far-off memory of my mother, - who died when I was a tiny boy. And now I have put it to rest for ever—for - it was a ghost until I knew you. Do you believe in idle fancies?” - </p> - <p> - “I live in a great many,” said Katherine. - </p> - <p> - “I fancied—that by telling you, I should be free to give myself up - to a new, strange, wonderful world that I saw ready to open for me.” - </p> - <p> - “Could I ever say 'I thank you' for telling me?” replied Katherine. “I - take all that you have said to my heart.” - </p> - <p> - There was a long silence. He put his hand down by her side and it rested - upon hers. She made a movement to withdraw it, but his touch tightened - into a clasp. She allowed it to remain, surrendering herself to the - happiness. Each felt the subtle communion of spirit too precious to be - broken by speech. The lantern-hung boats passed backwards and forwards. - One party, just as they came abreast, struck up an attempt at a jodeling - song: “<i>Juch hol-dio hol-di-ai-do hol-di-a hol-dio</i>.” - </p> - <p> - The suddenness startled them. Katherine drew away her hand hastily as he - looked round. - </p> - <p> - “Why did you?” he asked. - </p> - <p> - “Because—because the little dream-time came to an end.” - </p> - <p> - “Why should it?” - </p> - <p> - “It is the nature of dreams.” - </p> - <p> - “Why, then, should it be a dream?” - </p> - <p> - “Because it can never be a reality.” - </p> - <p> - “It can. If you cared.” - </p> - <p> - The words were low, scarcely audible, but they stirred the woman's soul to - its depths. She remained for a moment spellbound, gazing away from him, - down at the fantastically flecked water. A yearning, passionate desire - shook her. One glance, one touch, one little murmured word, and she would - unlock the flood-gates of a love that her whole being cried aloud for. - Often she had given herself up to the tremulous joy of anticipation. Now - the moment had come. It depended upon her to give a sign. But she could - not. She dared not. A sign would make it all a reality in sober fact. She - shrank from it now that she was brought face to face with it. With a - woman's instinct she sought to temporize. But what could she say? If she - cared! To deny was beyond her strength. Meanwhile the pause was growing - embarrassing. She felt that his eyes were fixed upon her—that he was - awaiting an answer. - </p> - <p> - “What I have said has pained you.” - </p> - <p> - She turned her head to reply desperately, she scarce knew how. But the - first syllable died upon her lips. A flash of lightning quivered across - the space, bringing into view for a vivid, dazzling second the semicircle - of the quay, the old clustering city, the Salèves; and almost - simultaneously a terrific peal of thunder broke above their heads. - Katherine was not a nervous woman, but the flash and the peal were so - sudden, that she instinctively gave a little cry and grasped Raine's arm. - Before the rumble had died away, great drops of rain fell. In another - moment it came down as from a water-spout. - </p> - <p> - The evening had been close, but they had not thought of a storm. Katherine - had only a light wrap to put over her thin dress. The gay lanterns - swinging above their heads and before their eyes—now they were a - lightless mass of wet paper—had prevented them from noticing the - gradual clouding over of the sky. They were in the middle of the basin. - Amid the roar of the rain and the shouts from the boats around them, they - could hear the dull noise of the crowd on the quays scampering away to - shelter. - </p> - <p> - “My poor child, you will get wet through,” cried Raine, “put this round - you. Let us get in as quickly as we can.” - </p> - <p> - He pulled off his rough tweed coat and threw it over her shoulders; and - then, before either Katherine or the old boatman were aware of his - intentions, he had dispossessed the latter of his place, taken the sculls, - and was pulling for shore with a vigour that the little boat had never - before felt in its rowlocks. - </p> - <p> - Drenched, blinded, bewildered by the avalanche of water, Katherine felt a - triumphal glow of happiness. The heavens seemed to have come to her - rescue, to have given her another chance of life. She was pleased too at - having his coat about her, at having heard the rough, protecting - tenderness in his voice. It pleased her to feel herself borne along by his - strong arms. She could just distinguish his outline in the pitch darkness, - and the shimmer of his white shirt-sleeves. There was nothing particularly - heroic in his action, but it was supremely that of a man, strong, prompt, - and helpful. Another flash as vivid as the first showed him a smile on her - face. He shouted a cheery word as the swift darkness fell again, and rowed - on vigorously, delighted at the transient vision. - </p> - <p> - In a few moments they were by the Grand Quai, amidst a confusion of boats - hurriedly disgorging their loads. Experienced in many a river crush, Raine - skilfully brought his boat to the landing-place, paid the old boatman, and - assisted Katherine to land. It was still pouring violently. When they - reached the top of the quay, Raine paused for a moment to take his - bearings. - </p> - <p> - “It is ridiculous to think of a cab or shelter,” he said, “We must dash - home as quickly as we can. Come along.” - </p> - <p> - He passed her arm through his hurriedly, and set off at a smart pace. - </p> - <p> - “Don't take off that,” he cried, preventing an attempt on her part to - remove the coat from her shoulders. - </p> - <p> - “But you—oh—I can't!” - </p> - <p> - “You must,” he said, authoritatively. - </p> - <p> - And Katherine found it sweet to yield to his will. - </p> - <p> - They walked rapidly homewards, speaking very little, owing to the - exigencies of the situation, but feeling very close to one another. Even - the touch of grotesqueness in this unconventional flight through the rain - made them laugh happily together, as they stumbled along in their haste. - </p> - <p> - “It is very sweet of you not to mind,” he said. - </p> - <p> - She gave his arm a little pressure for reply, and laughed light-heartedly. - </p> - <p> - At the <i>porte-cochere</i> of the pension, Katherine paused before - mounting the stairs, to take breath and to restore Raine his coat. - </p> - <p> - The gas-lamp by the door threw its light upon them and for the first time - they saw each other clearly. They were drenched to the skin. A - simultaneous exclamation rose to the lips of each. - </p> - <p> - “I earnestly hope you have taken no hurt,” added Raine in a tone of - concern. - </p> - <p> - “Oh no! One never takes hurt when one is happy.” - </p> - <p> - The glow on her wet cheeks and the light in her eyes confirmed the - statement as far as the happiness went. - </p> - <p> - They entered at the door; he gave her his hand to help her up the stairs. - </p> - <p> - “When do you start to-morrow?” - </p> - <p> - “At seven.” - </p> - <p> - “Must you go?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes. There seems to be no help for it. But I shall come back. You know - that. I hate going away from you.” - </p> - <p> - They stopped at the end of the little corridor where her room was - situated. He detained the parting hand she gave him. - </p> - <p> - “Tell me. Were you pained at what I said—the last thing, in the - boat?” -</p> - <p> -“Pained? No.” - </p> - <p> - “Then you do care?” - </p> - <p> -She was silent. But she lifted her eyes to him and he - read there what she could not speak. With a sudden impulse he threw his - arm around her, dripping as she was, and kissed her. Then she broke away - and fled to her room. - </p> - <p> - Raine's first act on reaching his room was to summon a servant and send - Katherine a glass of cherry-brandy, which he poured from a flask he had - brought with him for mountaineering chances, together with a scribbled - line: “Drink this, at once.” - </p> - <p> - Then he changed his dripping garments for comfortable flannels, and went - in search of his father. But the old man, though he smiled at Raine's - account of his adventure, was still depressed. - </p> - <p> - “It will be wretched without you,” he said. “Yet you must go away for a - time. Make it as short as you can, Raine. I shall think in the meantime of - a way out of the difficulty.” - </p> - <p> - “Couldn't you take Felicia somewhere?” suggested Raine. “To Lucerne. You - might start a few days before my return. I must come back for a little - while. Afterwards, I might join you, when you have parted from Felicia, - and go back to Oxford with you.” - </p> - <p> - “I will see,” replied the old man a little wearily. - </p> - <p> - “Poor old dad,” said Raine. - </p> - <p> - “Man is ever poor,” said his father. “He will never learn the lesson of - life. Even with one foot in the grave he plants the other upon the ladder - of illusion.” - </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.—A TOUCH OF NATURE. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">R</span>aine sat smoking - his pipe for a long time before going to bed. The events of the day-had - crowded so fast upon one another, that he had scarcely had time to - estimate their relative importance. His mind was not yet perfectly - balanced. The first kiss of a new love disturbs fine equilibrium. - </p> - <p> - It was characteristic of him that he at once put aside all temptations to - postpone his departure. He could not meet Katherine again, except as a - declared lover. To parade such relations before Felicia's eyes, seemed to - his simple experience in such things a cynical cruelty. Yet he devoutly - hoped that fate would decide and the destinies decree that he should - return as quickly as possible. There was a peculiar irritation in the - position in which he found himself. The sense of it grew in intensity as - things assumed juster proportions. After all, what had been said? He was - going away with everything unasked, everything unspoken. A question, a - glance, a kiss; sufficient for the glowing moment—but painfully - inadequate for after-hours of longing. With almost grotesque irritation he - broke into an exclamation of anger against the storm that had interrupted - the outburst of his gathering passion. But for a saving sense of humour he - would have felt humiliated by the remembrance of the sudden check. He - could not help chafing under the feeling of incompleteness. - </p> - <p> - Unlike the woman, who had taken the kiss to her heart of hearts and nursed - it there wilfully forgetful, for the first delicious after-hours, of aught - else in the wide world, Raine gnawed his spirit with impatient regret that - circumstances had granted him no more. If the fulness of revelation were - to come on the morrow, it would have been different; but he was going away—without - seeing her—for days and days—leaving her with this - unsatisfying expression of his love. For he loved her, deeply, truly, with - the strength of his simple, manly nature. She had roused in him every - instinct of pitying protection, her delicate grace had captivated his - senses, her wide experience of life, sad in its wisdom, had harmonized - subtly with his robust masculine faith. Without being intellectual, she - had the fine judgments of a cultured, thoughtful woman. On deep questions - of ethics they met on common ground; could view the world together, and be - stirred by the same sympathies. Her companionship had grown intensely dear - to him. The sadness that seemed to overspread her life had appealed to his - chivalry, compelled him irresistibly to her side. The sweet womanliness of - her nature had been gradually revealed to him by a thousand little acts, - each one weaving its charm about him, Jean-Marie, too, and his wife had - drawn him within the area of their worship. - </p> - <p> - Hitherto her sadness had been attributed in his mind to no definite cause. - She was a widow, had passed through much suffering, was intensely lonely, - uncared for. For him that had been enough. He had scarcely thought of - speculating further. But tonight the remembrance of agitated tones in her - voice forced him to a surmise. He pondered over her self-accusing cry when - he had submitted to her judgment the ethical side of the poor tragedy of - his early manhood. - </p> - <p> - “God forbid that I of all creatures should dare to judge others.” - </p> - <p> - Women do not utter such words lightly, least of all women like Katherine. - He fitted them as a key-stone into the grey, vague arch of the past. His - face grew stern and thoughtful as he lay back in his seat, and passed his - hand heavily through his hair, contemplating the apparition. For a time it - loomed as a shadow between himself and her. And then—was it the - ghost that he had laid that evening, come back as the eternal spirit of - love, or was it merely his strong human faith? A light seemed to pour down - from above, and Katherine emerged serene and radiant from the mist, which - spread behind her thin and formless. - </p> - <p> - He sprang to his feet, rubbed his eyes and laughed to himself. His love - for her thrilled buoyantly through him. He loved her for what she had - shown herself to be; a woman fair and brave and womanly—and one who - loved him; that he had seen in her eyes as he had kissed her. - </p> - <p> - At half-past six on the following morning, the porter came to convey his - luggage to the diligence, which starts from the Grand Quai, and a little - later he himself left the house. He did so very wistfully. His quixotic - flight caused him a greater pang even than he had anticipated. In the - street he could not forbear giving a regretful glance upwards at the - pension. To his delight, Katherine was standing on the little balcony - outside her window. - </p> - <p> - The bright morning sunlight fell upon her. She was wearing a - cream-coloured wrapper; a pale blue scarf about her head half covered her - fair hair. Seen through the clear, pure atmosphere, she looked the - incarnation of the morning. Her face flushed red all over, as she met the - gladness in his eyes. She had risen early, unable to sleep; had dressed - herself with elaborate care, searching earnestly in her glass for the - accusing lines of her thirty years. She would send a note, she had - thought, by the waiter who would bring up his coffee, saying that she was - astir and could see him in the salon before he started. But she had only - got as far as biting the end of a pencil before a blank sheet of paper. - All her preparations and fluttering of heart had ended in her going on to - the balcony, to see him walk twenty yards before he turned the corner of - the street. And there she had wished tremulously against her will that he - would look up as he crossed the road. He had done so, was standing below - her. She blushed like a young girl. But he only stood for a moment. With - an eager sign he motioned her inwards, and ran back to the house. - </p> - <p> - They met outside the salon door. He rushed up to her, a little breathless - from his race up the stairs, and drew her with him into the room. - </p> - <p> - “You—up at this hour—just to see me start!—are you an - angel?” - </p> - <p> - He was rapturously incoherent. Her act seemed to him to be truly angelic. - In the early stages of love a man rarely takes the woman's passionate - cravings into account. Acts that proceed from desires as self-centred as - his own he puts down to pure, selfless graciousness towards him. And - perhaps as a general principle this is just as well. The woman loves the - tribute; and one of her fairest virtues is none the less fair through - being won under false pretences. - </p> - <p> - Katherine looked up at him with strange shyness. He had the power of - evoking that which was sweetest and most womanly in her. - </p> - <p> - “You see that I do care—greatly.” - </p> - <p> - His arms were about her before the soundwave had passed his ear. A flood - of burning words burst impatiently from his lips. She leant back her head, - in the joy of surrender. - </p> - <p> - “I have loved you from the first—since last Christmas. You came to - me as nothing else has ever come to me—brave and strong above all - men.” - </p> - <p> - The words fell from her in a murmur strung to passion-pitch. One such - radiant moment eclipsed the waste of grey years. She would have sold her - soul for it. - </p> - <p> - She disengaged herself gently. - </p> - <p> - “I must not make you late.” - </p> - <p> - “You will write to me?” - </p> - <p> - “If you write.” - </p> - <p> - “Every hour, beloved, till I come back.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, let it be soon.” - </p> - <p> - “How great is your trust in me. Another than you might have reproached me - for going—at such a time.” - </p> - <p> - She looked at him, her eyes and lips one smile. - </p> - <p> - “I can guess the reason. I honour you for it. I would not keep you. But - oh! it will be long till I see you again.” - </p> - <p> - “And to me. I am not one of those to whom waiting is easy. But I take away - all, all yourself with me.” - </p> - <p> - “All.” - </p> - <p> - “Good-bye—Katherine,” he whispered. “You haye never called me by my - name. Let me hear it from you.” - </p> - <p> - “Raine!” - </p> - <p> - Again their lips met. In another moment he was speeding to catch the - diligence. She went on to the balcony, kissed both hands to him as he - turned the corner. Then she went slowly back up the stairs, holding by the - hand-rail, and shaken with joy and fear. - </p> - <p> - When Raine arrived at Chamonix, instead of finding Rogers and his party at - the Hotel Royale as he had expected, he found a telegram awaiting him. - </p> - <p> - “Accident to Bryce. Party broken up. Letter to follow.” - </p> - <p> - On inquiring of the manager, Raine learned that his telegram of the day - before had been forwarded on to Rogers to Courmayeur, whence the latter - had written to the hotel countermanding the rooms he had ordered. And by - the next post came a letter giving details of the accident. Bryce had - slipped down a crevasse and injured himself, perhaps fatally. All thoughts - of further climbing were abandoned. Raine was somewhat shocked at the - news. He did not know Bryce, who was a Cambridge friend of the junior - Dean's, but he was sincerely concerned at the tragic end of the - expedition. - </p> - <p> - The point, however, that touched him practically was that he found himself - stranded at Chamonix. He eagerly scanned the long table-d'hote in the hope - of discovering a familiar face. But not one was visible. He was alone in - that crowded resort which only exists as a rallying point for - excursionists and climbers. The sole distraction the place afforded were - glaciers which he derived little interest in contemplating, and peaks - which he had not the remotest desire to scale. It would have been - different, if he had met a cheerful party. He had bargained with himself - for their society. It was part of the contract. Now that he was forced to - depend on the Alps alone for companionship, he felt aggrieved, and began - to dislike them cordially. The notion, however, of going on solitary - mountaineering excursions entirely against his will, appealed to his sense - of humour. - </p> - <p> - “The relations between us are simply ridiculous,” he said, apostrophizing - the mighty snow-clad pile. - </p> - <p> - But as there was no help for it, he prepared, like Mahomet, to go the - mountain cheerfully. So he secured a guide to the Tête Noire for the - following day. - </p> - <p> - That done, he gave himself up entirely to the new sweetness that had come - into his life. - </p> - <p> - The few moments of the morning's meeting had lit up the day. Much still - remained unspoken, but there was no longer the irritating sense of - incompleteness that had filled him the night before. Yet all the deeper, - subtler pulsations of his love craved immediate expression. He sat in his - hotel bedroom far into the night, writing her his first letter. - </p> - <p> - For the next few days he occupied himself strenuously with the sights of - Chamonix. He joined a party over the Mer de Glace, took one day over the - Grands Mulets, ascended the Aiguille Verte, and then rested with a feeling - of well-earned repose. His great event of the day was the Geneva post. He - had received two letters from Katherine. One she had written a few hours - after his departure—he put it to his lips. The second, for which he - waited with a lover's impatience, was in answer to the first he had - written. At first he read it with a slight shade of disappointment. It - seemed to lack the spontaneity of the other. But Raine, by nature - chivalrous towards women, and holding them as creatures with emotions more - delicately balanced than men and subject to a thousand undreamed-of - shynesses, quickly assigned to such causes the restraint he had noticed, - and, reading in, as it were a touch of passion into every touch of - tenderness, satisfied the longings of his heart. There were letters too - from his father. The first stated that he had mooted the plan to Felicia - of the little jaunt to Lucerne, and that she had acceded to it joyfully, - but in the second the old man complained of sudden poorliness. From the - third Raine learned that he was in bed with a bad cold, and that Lucerne - had been postponed indefinitely. - </p> - <p> - The news depressed him slightly. No letter from Katherine had accompanied - it, to cheer him. On the evening of his day of rest, therefore, he was - less in love with Chamonix than ever. By way of compensation the weather - was bright and clear, and the sunny seat under the firs in the hotel - gardens, whither he had retired with his travelling edition of “Tristram - Shandy,” was warm and reposeful. He was speculating over the Rabelaisian - humour of Mr. Shandy's domestic concerns, and enjoying the incongruity - between it and the towering masses of rock and glacier and snow on the - other side of the valley, when a man sauntered up the gravelled path, - stopped before him, and asked for a light. - </p> - <p> - Raine looked up, and recognizing the newcomer as one with whom he had - exchanged casual remarks during the last few days, readily complied with - his request. - </p> - <p> - He was a thin, wiry man of about seven and thirty, with a clean-shaven - face which bore a curious expression of mingled simplicity and shrewdness. - His thin lips seemed to smile at the deception practised by his guileless - pale-blue eyes. Unlike Raine, who wore the Englishman's Norfolk jacket, - knickerbockers and heavy heather-mixture stockings, he was attired in grey - summer trousers and a black jacket. A soft felt hat of the Tyrolese shape, - a pair of field-glasses slung over his shoulder, a great gold solitaire - fastening his shirt-cuff, which showed conspicuously as he lit his cigar, - suggested the nationality that was confirmed by his speech. - </p> - <p> - He was an American, his name was Hockmaster, and he was visiting Europe - for the first time. With these facts he had already acquainted Raine on a - previous occasion. - </p> - <p> - When the American had returned the match-box, he sat down on the bench by - Raine's side. - </p> - <p> - “If you want to be alone, you've only got to tell me and I'll evaporate,” - he said cheerfully. “But I've been getting somewhat lonesome in this - valley. Nature's a capital thing in mixed society, but when you have got - her all to yourself, she is a thundering dull companion.” - </p> - <p> - The remark so exactly echoed Raine's sentiments of the past few days that - he burst out laughing, closed “Tristram Shandy,” and prepared to gossip - sympathetically with his new acquaintance. - </p> - <p> - “You are not ecstatic over all this,” he said with a wave of his hand. - </p> - <p> - “Only within reasonable limits,” replied the American. “It's very pretty, - and when you see it for the first time it fetches you in the pit of your - stomach. Some folks say it touches the soul, but I don't take much stock - of souls anyway. Well, then you get over it, like sea-sickness, and it - doesn't fetch you any more. But I'm glad I've seen it. That is what I came - over for.” - </p> - <p> - “To see the Alps?” - </p> - <p> - “Well, no. Not exactly. But to sample Europe generally. To get a - bird's-eye view of all the salient features. It is very interesting. - America is a fine country, but it's not the microcosm of the universe.” - </p> - <p> - “But you have scenery much more grandiose than this, in the Californian - Sierras,” said Raine. - </p> - <p> - “We may. I don't know. And I hope I shall never know, for mountains and - glaciers are not my strong point. But if they were fifty times as sublime, - American mountains could not have the glamour and sentiment that brings - thousands of my countrymen to gape at Mount Blanc. Other mountains may do - business on a larger scale, but the Alps is an old-established firm. They - have the connection, and people stick to them. Mount Blanc, too, is a sort - of Westminister Abbey to Americans, and the Rigi a Stratford-on-Avon. They - like to feel they have a share in it. I don't say these are my views - personally. I am afraid I take my glamour neat and get it over quickly.” - </p> - <p> - As Raine had nothing particular to reply to this philosophy, and as he saw - that Mr. Hockmaster would be more entertaining as a talker than as a - listener, he uttered a polite commonplace by way of antistrophe, and the - American again took up his parable. He spoke well and fluently. Behind the - ingenuousness of his remarks there generally lurked a touch of - incisiveness, which stimulated his listener's interest. His manners were - those of a gentleman. Raine began to like him. - </p> - <p> - “What part of England do you come from?” he asked at length. - </p> - <p> - “Oxford.” - </p> - <p> - “The University?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes.” - </p> - <p> - “I haven't been there yet. I've been through Cambridge. But Oxford I am - keeping until I get back. Your English institutions interest me more than - anything in Europe. It's a cumbrous old bit of machinery, and won't stand - comparison with ours; but we seem to live for the sake of our - institutions, whereas you let yours rip and make use of them when they - serve your purpose.” - </p> - <p> - He lit another cigar from the stump of the old one, and continued,— - </p> - <p> - “I come from Chicago. It is a go-ahead place, and, if it were near the - sea, could become the capital of the world, when Universal Federation sets - in. I love it, as perhaps you love Oxford. You have literature—'<i>literae - humaniores</i>' you call it at Oxford—in your blood, and I have - business in mine. I am a speculator in a small way. I have just floated a - company—got it shipshape before I sailed—for a patent process - of making white lead. Now, I am as keen upon that white lead as if it were - a woman. It has kept me awake at nights, and danced before my eyes during - the day. I have dreamed of every ship flying American colours painted with - my white lead. To make a pile out of it was quite secondary to the poetry - of it. Now I bet you don't see any poetry at all in a patent white lead - process—in making the land hum with it.” - </p> - <p> - “What about the neat glamour?” asked Raine, smiling. - </p> - <p> - “Ah! There's a difference. I have got this all out of my own head. It is a - bit of <i>me</i>. Whereas the Alps aren't—” He stared at them - innocently—“Not a little bit.” - </p> - <p> - The sound of the gong for the mid-day meal reached them, resonant through - the rarefied air. They rose and walked together towards the hotel. - </p> - <p> - “I guess I'll come and sit next to you, if you have no objection,” said - Mr. Hockmaster. - </p> - <p> - “Do,” replied Raine cordially, “I shall be delighted.” - </p> - <p> - They lunched together, and in the afternoon walked to the Boissons and - back, a pleasant three hours' excursion. Raine did not wish to absent - himself from the hotel for a longer time, being anxious concerning posts. - But no letters came for him, save a couple of business communications from - Oxford. He was troubled about his father's health, and longing for a line - from Katherine. He began to reflect that perhaps, after all, he had come - on a fool's errand to Chamonix. Poor little Felicia would have to be - disillusioned sooner or later. If the Lucerne plan had fallen through, - owing to his father's illness, there was no chance of sparing her the - ultimate revelation of the love between himself and Katherine. He could - not remain at Chamonix indefinitely; to take up other quarters at Geneva - would only set the whole pension speculating; and Raine knew full well - that the speculation of a whole pension is perilous to the most - Calphurnian reputation. - </p> - <p> - He decided, however, to be guided by the next day's letters. - </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.—“THE WOMAN WHO DELIBERATES.” - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">“T</span>hou shalt love thy - neighbour as thyself,” is an excellent maxim. Its only fault is its - capacity of a too wide extension. If a saying clause had been added with - reference to its non-application to one's neighbour's business, it would - have been perfect. But, perhaps, after all, in its faultiness lies its - excellence, for counsels of perfection are of no great use to mankind, - which, in its ethical systems, loves disguised loopholes for original sin. - </p> - <p> - However little the inmates of the Pension Boccard may have observed the - maxim itself, they obeyed its extension to a nicety. Not only because they - were women. Sometimes communities of men have been known to gossip about - each other's affairs. It is but human to speculate upon events around us, - and speculation, anticipating Raine's fear, was rife at the Pension - Boccard. - </p> - <p> - In the first place, the dramatic ending of poor Miss Bunter's romance kept - wits and tongues exercised for days. And secondly, certain facts had - become common property which pointed to interesting relations between Mrs. - Stapleton and Raine Chetwynd. The chief of these facts was the early - morning interview. The summer waiter reported it to the cook, who informed - Madame Boccard, who mentioned it in confidence to Madame Popea, who in her - satirical way described it to Frâulein Klinkhardt. From the latter it - passed to Frau Schultz, who barbed it carefully in accordance with her own - spite against Katherine, and sent it round on its travels again. In this - form it reached Felicia. - </p> - <p> - The girl found herself just in the humour of bitterness to accept it. - After the heartless, systematic deception that had been practised on Miss - Bunter for fifteen years, it seemed possible to credit humanity with - anything. Not that she felt any resentment against Raine Chetwynd on her - own score. She was bound to confess to herself, with tears of self-scorn, - that he had never treated her with anything but the most brotherly - frankness and courtesy. But in her dislike of Katherine, she certainly - credited him with a commonplace amour, and thereby set him down lower in - her estimation. Then her pride came, speciously to her rescue, but really, - after the way of pride in women's hearts, to embitter the struggle that - was taking place within her. One bright, pure feeling, however, rose above - the turmoil—an intense pity for the poor frail creature out of whom - had been crushed the hope of life. To have stood by as witness and - comforter during that agony of despair had been one of those lurid - experiences that set in motion the springs of infinitely reaching - sympathies. - </p> - <p> - When old Mr. Chetwynd proposed the trip to Lucerne she sprang at it - eagerly. It would be a relief to leave the pension and its associations. - For the whole of the day she busied herself feverishly with preparations. - It was a keen disappointment when the old man fell ill and the trip had to - be indefinitely postponed. She longed passionately for October, when she - was to join her uncle and aunt in Bermuda. Meanwhile she copied out - manuscript assiduously, nursed the old man as far as he would allow her, - and devoted the rest of her time to whatever gaieties were afoot in the - pension. - </p> - <p> - Katherine lived in a fool's paradise after Raine had gone, for a couple of - days. His kiss was on her lips, the pressure of his arms lingered round - her, the vibrating words rang in her ear. If unbidden thoughts came, she - put them aside with a passionately rebellious will. The long morning - passed like a dream. The day and evening in an intoxicated sense of - happiness. In the night she slept and waked, alternately, heedless of the - hours. She had won his love. It had been given to her in full, overflowing - measure. It flooded her presence with sunlight. She surrendered herself to - the delicious joy that it was to feel, instead of to think. - </p> - <p> - On the evening of the second day, however, came Raine's letter. She sat by - her window, reading it with a beating heart. At times the words swam - before her. Until then she had not realized the wholeness, the simple - nobility of his love. To her it was more than a love-letter. It was the - revelation of a strong, high soul that was given her, to companion and - illuminate the rest of her days upon earth. She, who in her self-abasement - before him, felt unworthy to kiss the hem of his raiment, saw herself - revered, worshipped, filling a holy of holies in his heart. She was to be - his wife. - </p> - <p> - She read the letter through twice. Then a great fear chilled her. Its - premonitions had come that evening on the lake, just before the thunder - broke, and through all her after-intoxication it had loomed threateningly. - Only her will had staved it off. Now it held her in its grip. - </p> - <p> - His wife. The words stared her in the face, repeated over and over again - with every surrounding of passion, tenderness, and devotion. She grew - cold. A lump rose in her throat. She walked across the room, poured - herself out a glass of water, and sat down again. The dream, the illusion, - the joy, all was over. A great pain was in her eyes as she gazed - sightlessly straight in front of her. - </p> - <p> - As she gazed, a temptation crept insidiously into her heart, relaxed and - soothed for a moment her tense nerves. Why should she tell him that which - she knew his fine nature would never ask? All her future to all eternity - was his. What mattered the past? - </p> - <p> - Her eyes fell upon his letter on her lap, caught a few chance phrases. - Then a shudder passed through her like a wave of self-contempt and - revulsion, and, leaning forward, she buried her face in her hands and - cried. - </p> - <p> - He was too noble to be deceived—to be entrapped as by a common - adventuress. The thought scorched her. Silence would be metal too base to - repay the pure gold of his love. A million times sooner speak and lose him - than keep him with a lie. All that was pure and true and womanly in her - revolted at the temptation. - </p> - <p> - For a long time she remained with bowed head, her thoughts whirling round - the means whereby she was to deal the death-blow at her happiness. The - moments passed quickly, and the shadows gathered as the afternoon began to - melt into evening. A message from Mme. Boccard, asking her whether she was - coming down to dinner, was the first thing that made her conscious of the - flight of time. She sent down word that she was poorly. A plate of soup - brought up to her would be all that she required. Then she fell back into - her despairing thoughts. The cry wrung from the soul of Denise hummed in - her ears until it became a meaningless burthen. Since that night in - January when she had seen the play with Raine, she had morbidly applied - that cry to herself—“<i>Je suis de celles qu'on aime, mais qu'on - n'epouse pas.</i>” - </p> - <p> - A faint ray of hope shot across the darkness. He had told her his own - story. To him it was a sacred memory. The girl that he had loved, the - mother of his child, was in his eyes the purest of women. Would not that - mitigate the judgment he would have to pass on her? She clung to the hope - revealed, as she lost grip of herself. He would not despise her. He would - still love her. She would be to him what that other had been. Her thoughts - for a while grew hysterical. - </p> - <p> - The effort she was forced to make when the servant entered with her meal, - and the physical strength given her by the warm soup, restored calm and - order in her mind. She read Raine's letter through once more. It inspired - her with sad, despairing courage. She became for the time the Katherine - she had been so long, hopeless, resigned, fatalistic. Before she crept - broken and exhausted into bed, she had written him a long calm letter - telling him all. She did not spare herself, hiding behind sophistries, - neither did she blacken herself like a remorseful Magdalen. She wrote it - with her heart's blood, at the dictates of her highest self. Only once - perhaps in a lifetime is the power given to human beings to lay thus bare - their souls as they appear before the eyes of the high gods. It was a - higher Katherine than she wot of, that had written that letter. - </p> - <p> - But in the morning, the human woman yearning dumbly for happiness beheld - it, addressed, stamped, ready for post, and her heart was ice within her. - She stood for a moment holding it in her hand, irresolute whether to break - the seal and read it over again. Perhaps, she weakly thought, something in - it might be better expressed. Her finger mechanically sought the flap - corner of the envelope, and she tore it slowly. Then she went back to bed - with the letter. Nothing could be altered. She would readdress it and - despatch it that day. - </p> - <p> - Whilst dressing she paused at her reflection in the glass, with a feminine - catch at the heart. She looked pale, old, faded, she thought; faint lines - were around the corners of her eyes; her features seemed pinched. She - shivered slightly—hurried foolishly over her hair, so that she could - be spared the sight of her face as soon as possible. - </p> - <p> - “After all,” she said to herself, bitterly, “what does it matter? When - that letter has gone, who in the world will care whether you look old or - young?” - </p> - <p> - Life seemed to end for her from the moment the letter would fall from her - hands into the letter-box. She kept it by her all day, unable to cut - herself adrift. The small extra effort required to address a fresh - envelope just raised the task above her strength. Once during the day she - flung herself on the bed in a fit of sobbing. She could not send it. It - would spoil his trip. She would wait till he returned, till she had seen - his eye light up once more as he looked at her, and heard, for one last - time, the throb in his voice that she was never to hear again. Just one - more hour of happiness. Then she would give him the letter, stay by him as - he read it, as a penance for her present pusillanimity. Feeling miserably - guilty, yet glad of the respite, she wrote him the second letter that he - had received. The one that she was to have sent she carried about with her - in her pocket, until the outside grew soiled and dogs-eared. - </p> - <p> - They were not happy days. But she moved about the pension outwardly calm - and serene, to all appearances her own self. The feeling of self-reproach - for her cowardice wore off. She resigned herself to her lot. One sight of - his face—and then the end of all things. She knew, with the - knowledge of herself given by years of solitude and self-repression, that - she would not falter in her second resolution. - </p> - <p> - So centred, however, were her thoughts in the tragic side of her relations - with Raine that she gave no heed to the possibility of gossip. None - reached her ears. Her long sustained attitude of reserve, a superiority of - personality, a certain dignity of manner and conduct, had won for her the - respect, if not the love, of the pension. Even Frau Schultz, who hated - her, found it impossible to utter the spiteful innuendo that trembled on - her lips. But Mme. Popea, who was the chartered libertine of the pension, - by reason of her good-nature and unblushing liberty of speech, summoned up - courage one day to tread upon the ice. - </p> - <p> - “Mon Dieu,” she said, as if by way of invoking the deity's aid in her - venture, “it is getting dull again. I long to see Mr. Chetwynd back. - </p> - <p> - “He makes himself missed,” replied Katherine calmly, continuing her - sewing. - </p> - <p> - Mme. Popea had come into her room with the ostensible purpose of borrowing - a stiletto. It was one of her ways to stock her work-basket with loans. - </p> - <p> - “If the dear professor grows worse, he will return soon, I suppose. They - are like women to each other, those two—good ones, in the <i>vie de - famille</i> of novels. I hear the professor is much worse to-day.” - </p> - <p> - “Who told you?” - </p> - <p> - “Miss Graves. She is nursing him. What a charming girl! Her devotion to - him is touching. It would be quite a romance if she married Monsieur - Raine. He is so handsome.” - </p> - <p> - Katherine regarded the plump, irresponsible lady with placid gravity. - </p> - <p> - “You seem to take a romantic interest in them, Madame Popea.” - </p> - <p> - “Mon Dieu, yes. Anything that concerns love is interesting, especially the - idyllic. But you, Madame, would you be surprised if on his return they - were betrothed?” - </p> - <p> - “<i>Il ne faut jamais s'étonner de rien</i>,” quoted Katherine, smiling - imperturbably. - </p> - <p> - “I once thought he had a <i>tendresse</i> for Madame,” ventured Mme. Popea - archly. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, Madame Popea,” laughed Katherine. “You know what men are—and we - women ought never to tell each other our impressions. If I told you the - flattering remarks I have heard about you this last fortnight, your head - would be turned.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah, who has spoken of me?” - </p> - <p> - Katherine rose, took out a bonnet from a drawer and somewhat - ostentatiously unrolled a veil, while she returned a laughing answer. - </p> - <p> - “I am too old not to have learned discretion. It is my one vice.” - </p> - <p> - And Mme. Popea, seeing that Katherine was not to be surprised into any - admission, lingered a moment idly, and then took her departure. Katherine, - who read through Mme. Popea, smiled to herself somewhat sadly. But her - visitor's announcement regarding the old professor gave her subject for - reflection. If his father grew worse, Raine would have to return at once. - For a moment she half wished he would delay his coming. Her heart throbbed - painfully in anticipation of what lay before her. - </p> - <p> - The announcement was true. The old man had taken a severe chill. The - doctor had just spoken rather alarmingly to Felicia. She determined that - Raine should be summoned. - </p> - <p> - “You must let me send a telegram to Chamonix,” she said, standing by the - bedside, while the old man drank his tisane. “It would cheer you to see - him, wouldn't it?” - </p> - <p> - The old man shook his head. - </p> - <p> - “Not yet.” - </p> - <p> - “Why?” - </p> - <p> - “It would be such a pity. He is enjoying himself.” - </p> - <p> - “I should think he would not be sorry to come back,” said Felicia. - </p> - <p> - An unwonted sub-acidity in her tone surprised him. He paused, with the cup - at his lips, his eyes luminous. Her glance fell beneath his, and she - coloured. - </p> - <p> - “I don't think he went away to enjoy himself,” she said, giving expression - to vague conjectures that had been taking shape in her mind the last few - days. “Besides, his friends have left him in the lurch—not their - fault—unhappily—but still he is alone. He would be glad to - come back if you sent for him.” - </p> - <p> - The old man was perplexed. He was also weakened by his attack of cold. - </p> - <p> - “Do you think that I sent him away, Felicia?” he asked. - </p> - <p> - Felicia was feminine enough to perceive his admission. She was sure of her - guess now. Katherine was at the bottom of the matter. The proceedings, - however, struck her as particularly futile. As they were, actually, on the - real grounds. She took the empty cup from his hands, smoothed his pillow - deftly, and as he laid his head back, she bent over him and whispered,—“He - went away to please you—and he will return to please you. Let me - telegraph to him.” - </p> - <p> - “But you—my dear child—how could you bear—?” - </p> - <p> - “I?” asked Felicia in surprise. “What have I to do with it?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, Mr. Chetwynd!” she added after a moment's silence. “You must not - remember any foolish things I told you once—I think I must have been - a child then. I am ashamed of them now. I have grown older,”—she - struggled bravely—“and I have got over those silly feelings. I would - not wish to be anything more than friends—ever—so it would - make no difference to me, if he were here—except as a friend.” - </p> - <p> - The old man reached out his thin hand, took hers, and laid it against his - cheek. - </p> - <p> - “Then there was no need at all of his going away, since you knew?” - </p> - <p> - Felicia gave a little involuntary cry, and twitched her hand, as the - revelation burst upon her. The blood flooded her cheeks and sang in her - ears. The former shame was nothing to this new one. - </p> - <p> - “He went away because he saw that I cared for him?” she asked chokingly. - </p> - <p> - “My poor little darling,” said the old man tenderly, “we did it all for - the best.” - </p> - <p> - She stood by him in silence for a long time, while he petted her hand. At - last she gathered strength. - </p> - <p> - “Tell him,” she said, “that it was all a mistake—that he acted nobly - and generously and delicately—but that I smiled when I heard it. - Tell him that I smiled, won't you, dear professor? See, I am smiling—quite - gaily, like the Felicia you spoil. And now,”—she withdrew her hand - gently—“I am going to telegraph to him. He and I together will soon - bring you round again—but I alone am not sufficient.” - </p> - <p> - She administered a few feminine touches to the things on the table beside - him, and went upon her self-imposed errand. - </p> - <p> - <i>“I should like you to return as quickly as possible.</i> - </p> - <p> - <i>“Chetwynd.”</i> - </p> - <p> - She composed the wording of the telegram on her way to the office. It kept - her from thinking of other things. - </p> - <p> - “There,” she said to herself as she wrote. - </p> - <p> - “That will not alarm him.” - </p> - <p> - Meanwhile the invalid was sorely puzzled. - </p> - <p> - “I have made a mess of it from beginning to end,” he murmured wearily. - “And yet I don't think it can be dotage yet awhile. Let me reason it all - out.” - </p> - <p> - His eyes closed. He had put the argument into a syllogism in <i>Barbara</i>, - when his brain refused to act, and he fell asleep. - </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.—ELECTRICITY IN THE AIR. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he waiter who - brought Felicia's telegram into the smoking-room found Raine walking up - and down, pipe in mouth, in a state of caged irritation. A fine, - penetrating rain was falling outside, the wet dribbled down the windows, - the air was impregnated with mist, and great rolls of fog hid the - mountains. The guides had prophesied a clearing up of the weather at - midday, but it was half-past eleven, and the prospect was growing drearier - every minute. Hockmaster was yawning over a cigar and a battered copy of - the <i>Louisville Guardian</i> which some compatriot had bequeathed to the - hotel. - </p> - <p> - Raine seized the telegram eagerly, read it, crumpled it into his pocket in - some excitement, and turned to the waiter. - </p> - <p> - “There is a diligence to Cluses—when does it start?” - </p> - <p> - “At 12.15, Monsieur.” - </p> - <p> - “And the train to Geneva?” - </p> - <p> - “At 5.50.” - </p> - <p> - “Good. Secure me a seat in the diligence, and have my bill made out.” - </p> - <p> - The waiter bowed and departed. - </p> - <p> - “I am sorry to break our engagement to-day, Hockmaster,” said Raine to the - American, who had been watching the effect of the telegram with some - curiosity, “but I must start for Geneva at once.” - </p> - <p> - “I like that,” replied Hockmaster; “it's slick. Nothing like making up - your mind in a minute. It's the way to do business. I guess I'll come - too.” - </p> - <p> - “You'll have a disgusting drive,” said Raine, viewing the proposal with - less than his usual cordiality. - </p> - <p> - “That's so,” retorted the other imperturbably, “I wasn't expecting the sun - to shine just because I choose to travel. I am a modest man.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, hurry up,” said Raine, seeing that the American was decided. - “Perhaps you're wise in getting out of this.” - </p> - <p> - “I should have done so a couple of days ago, if it had not been for you. - You seem to have a sort of way of pushing the lonesomeness off people's - shoulders.” - </p> - <p> - There was an ingenuous frankness, an artless simplicity in the man's tone, - that touched a soft spot in Raine's nature. - </p> - <p> - “That's devilish good of you,” he replied, with an Englishman's - awkwardness of acknowledgment. “You have done me a good turn too. Come - along.” - </p> - <p> - In spite of Hockmaster's special efforts towards entertainment, the drive - to Cluses was particularly dreary. The rain never ceased falling, the damp - hung thick upon leaves and branches, and clustered like wool among the - pine stems. The mountains loomed vague and indistinct, fading away into - mist in the middle-distance. The Arve, as the road approached it, seethed - below, a muddy torrent. The desolate district beyond St. Martin heaved - like an Aceldama of mud and detritus oozing through the fog. - </p> - <p> - Besides external depression, certain anxieties lay on Raine's mind. His - father's health was never very strong. A dangerous illness was to be - dreaded. His deep affection for his father magnified his fears. There was - Katherine, too. His heart yearned towards her. He closed his eyes to the - hopeless landscape, and evoked her picture as she stood in pale saffron - and sapphire and a dash of pale gold, the morning's colours, in the - morning sunlight. But why had she left him so long without news of her? A - lover's question, which he sought to answer lover-wise. - </p> - <p> - Cluses at last, the little watchmakers' town; an hour's wait for the - train. They went into a <i>café</i> and sat down. After a while Hockmaster - rose, went up to an old plate-glass mirror on one side of the room, - smoothed his thin sandy hair with his fingers, arranged his cravat, and - then returned. With the exception of two elderly townsmen playing at - dominoes in the corner, while the host sat looking on in his shirtsleeves, - they were the only customers. They conversed in desultory fashion on the - rain, the journey, the forlorn aspect of the place. - </p> - <p> - “If we had a town with an industry like this one in America,” said - Hockmaster, after his second <i>petit verre</i> from the carafe in front - of him, “we should hitch it on to Wall Street and make a go-ahead city of - it in a fortnight, and manufacture timepieces for half the universe.” - </p> - <p> - “That would be rather rough on the universe,” said Raine idly. “American - watches—” - </p> - <p> - “The very tip-topest articles in the world!” interrupted Hockmaster - warmly. “Just look at this!” - </p> - <p> - He drew from his pocket a magnificent gold watch, opened all its cases - rapidly, and displayed the works before Raine's eyes. - </p> - <p> - “There! See whether that can be beaten in Europe. Made, every bit of it, - in Chicago. That watch cost me 450 dollars. It did that.” - </p> - <p> - Raine admired the watch, mollified the owner, who drank another glass of - <i>fine champagne</i> on the strength of his country's reputation. Then - with an inconsequence that was one of the quaint features of his conversation: - </p> - <p> - “Mr. Chetwynd,” he said, lighting a fresh cigar, “I am about tired to - death of these gilded saloons in continental hotels. Imitation palaces are - not in my line. I should like something homier. I was thinking, if you - could recommend me a snug sort of boarding-house in Geneva, it would be - very good of you.” - </p> - <p> - “Why not come to the one I am staying at?” said Raine good-naturedly. - “There is a very companionable set of people there.” - </p> - <p> - “Right,” replied Hockmaster. “That's real kind of you. When you come to - Chicago, you track straight for Joseph K. Hockmaster. You'll find - gratitude.” - </p> - <p> - “My dear fellow!” laughed Raine deprecatingly. - </p> - <p> - “No,” said the other in his serious way. “I repeat, it's real kind. Most - of your countrymen would have shunted me off to another establishment. I - think I tire folks by talking. I am always afraid. That's why I tell you - to mention when you grow weary of conversation. It won't offend me. It's - as natural for me to talk as it is for a slug to leave his slime behind - him. I think I'm chock full of small ideas and they overflow in a liquid - kind of way. Now big ideas are solider and roll out more slowly—like - yours.” - </p> - <p> - And he poured himself out the last glass of <i>fine champagne</i> that - remained in the decanter. - </p> - <p> - They reached the pension at half-past seven. Mme. Boccard appeared at - Raine's summons, wreathed in smiles, welcomed Hockmaster graciously and - assigned him a room. Dinner had just begun, she had put it back half an - hour, in compliment to Mr. Chetwynd. It was charming of him to have sent - her a private telegram. Everyone was well; the professor had taken a turn - for the better during the day. - </p> - <p> - Raine went straight up to his father, and, to his intense relief, found - his fears of a dangerous illness to be almost groundless. - </p> - <p> - “And Felicia?” he asked, after the first affectionate questionings. - </p> - <p> - “Well,” replied the old man—“very bonny. Do you know, Raine, I think - we may have made a mistake. It has been all my fault. It would be the - greatest kindness to forget—and to forgive your meddling old - father.” - </p> - <p> -Raine laughed in his kind way, reassuring the old man. - </p> - <p> - “It was not I that sent for you,” continued the latter. “It was Felicia. - There was no longer any reason for you to stop away—and she - insisted. Girls' hearts are mysterious books. Don't search into hers, - Raine. Forget it—seek your happiness where it is truest, my son—and - then it will be mine.” -</p> - <p> -Raine did not press the subject. He was somewhat - puzzled, but he gathered that she had spoken and that silence would be the - more delicate part. He postponed further consideration of the matter; for - which he may be forgiven, as the longing for Katherine was tugging at his - heart-strings. Besides, he was honestly very hungry, and dinner was in - progress. - </p> - <p> - After a hurried toilet he went down to the dining-room. The first sound - that struck his ear, as he entered, was the pop of a champagne cork and - the voice of Hockmaster, who was sitting at the lower end, with his back - to the door, next to Mme. Boccard. The waiter was in the act of filling - his glass from a large bottle of champagne. The blaze of light after the - darkness of the corridors dazzled Raine, and he paused for a second on the - threshold, glancing up the table. He was greeted by two rows of welcoming - faces turned towards him and a chorus of kind salutations. The old - commandant stretched up his hand behind his chair and gave a vigorous - handshake. Mme. Popea looked up at him, with a smile over her good-natured - face, as he passed along. But he had eyes only for Katherine. A curious - little spasm passed through him, as he met her glance. It seemed to - contain a world of fears. She was looking pale and ill. - </p> - <p> - Mme. Boccard, in her high-pitched voice, directed him to take the - professor's place at the head of the table. He found himself thus between - Felicia and Katherine. Felicia greeted him naturally. Katherine gave him a - cold, trembling hand, and an almost furtive look. Evidently something had - happened during his absence, of whose nature he was ignorant. She was no - longer the same woman. Mere feminine shyness would not account for this - suppressed agitation. The food on her plate had remained untouched. For a - moment he lost sense of the scene round him. The universe consisted in - this woman with the ashen face and quickly heaving bosom. He bent towards - her,—“Are you ill?” he whispered, his emotion expressing itself by - the first chance commonplace. - </p> - <p> - “No,” she returned hurriedly, in the same tone. “A sudden faintness—my - heart, perhaps. Don't notice me—for heaven's sake! I shall be better - soon.” - </p> - <p> - Question and answer passed too quickly to attract attention. Raine - recovered his balance, and turned to Felicia. - </p> - <p> - “My father seems to be getting on nicely, thanks to you,” he said kindly. - </p> - <p> - “Ca, not to me. To you. Since your reply came to-day.” - </p> - <p> - “I am always so nervous when he gets seedy. He is not strong, I have been - full of direful imaginations all the afternoon.” - </p> - <p> - Felicia sketched the history of the case, touched on the abandoned trip to - Lucerne, condoled with Raine on the disappointment at not meeting his - friends at Chamonix. She talked bravely, all the pride of her - young-womanhood up in arms to help her. Perhaps she could convince him - that he had made a mistake. She devoted to the task all her energies. Her - modesty and intuitive tact saved her from over-acting. Her concentration, - however, prevented her from realizing the silent agitation of Katherine. - She attributed it to embarrassment at meeting Raine after his absence, and - felt a little thrill of gratified vanity at the inversion of parts. It - used to be Katherine who was outwardly at perfect ease and self-contained, - and herself who was embarrassed and tongue-tied. - </p> - <p> - It seemed a little victory in the handling of life. - </p> - <p> - Raine spoke brightly enough of his adventures at Chamonix, including Miss - Bunter, who was sitting very subdued and wan next to Felicia, in the - conversation, and drew from her an account of a far-off visit to the Mer - de Glace. But he was feeling low at heart. If he addressed a chance remark - to Katherine, she greeted it with a forced smile, which he felt like a - stab. He could see from the very fear in her eyes that it was not merely - sudden faintness. He noticed that on trying to lift her wine-glass, which - he had accidentally refilled too full, her hand shook so much that she - abandoned the attempt. He silently poured some wine into one that he had - not used and exchanged glasses with her. She acknowledged the act with a - bow of her head and drank the wine somewhat feverishly. - </p> - <p> - “My American friend seems to be enjoying himself,” said Raine to Felicia, - as Hockmaster's somewhat sharply pitched voice was heard expounding his - artlessly paradoxical philosophy of life to those around him. - </p> - <p> - Felicia leant forward, so as to catch a glimpse of him down the long - table. - </p> - <p> - “You must introduce him,” she said. - </p> - <p> - “With pleasure. He will amuse you. I think if Bret Harte had known him, he - would not have asked whether the Caucasian was played out. He is as - childlike and bland as Ah Sin himself. But he is a capital fellow.” - </p> - <p> - They paused for a moment to catch what he was saying. Raine saw him - leaning across the table and addressing a new arrival, evidently a - compatriot. - </p> - <p> - “No. I am not a married man. But I am fond of ladies' society. To get - along without ladies is like washing your hands without soap.” - </p> - <p> - There was laughter at the remark, which was increased by his attempts to - convey his meaning in French to Mme. Boccard. - </p> - <p> - Felicia looked at Raine and laughed too. Then out of kindly impulse, by - chance catching Katherine's eye,— - </p> - <p> - “Mr. Chetwynd has brought us quite an acquisition, don't you think so?” - </p> - <p> - Katherine forced a smile and uttered a semi-articulate “yes.” Then her - eyelids closed for a few seconds and quivered, as in a nervous attack. - This sign of agitation could not escape Felicia's notice. She became aware - that something was happening. A suspicion of a tragic element in the - relations between the man she loved and the woman she hated, flitted in - the twilight of her mind. The laugh died from her lips, as she looked more - keenly at Katherine. She turned her glance towards Raine, saw his eyes fix - themselves for a moment on Katherine with an indescribable expression of - pain and longing. It was the first time she had seen for herself that he - loved her. The pang of it gripped her heart. But she disregarded it. Again - she remembered Frau Schultz's innuendoes and tittle-tattle, and - involuntarily brought them to bear on the present situation. The - impression left on her mind by the tragedy in the life of the poor little - lady by her side had not yet been effaced. It aided in the suggestion of - another tragedy in the lives of these two others. The strain upon herself - had also somewhat exalted her system and produced a certain nervous - sensitiveness. Something was happening—something fateful or tragic. - A feeling akin to awe came over her young mind, and suppressed her own - simpler girlish fancies. A silence fell upon her, as it had fallen upon - Raine and Katherine. The constraint began to grow painful, the meal seemed - endless. Hockmaster's voice in the distance began to irritate her nerves. - </p> - <p> - At last the dinner was over. There was the usual scuffling of chairs and - <i>frou-frou</i> of skirts, as the guests rose. With a common impulse - Raine and Katherine moved a step aside. - </p> - <p> - “Katherine!” - </p> - <p> - She put one hand up to her bosom, and steadied herself with the other on - the back of her chair. - </p> - <p> - “I am feeling very ill,” she said, thickly. “Don't think me cruel—I - can't see you tonight. To-morrow. I shall be better then. You have seen I - am not myself—this last hour has been martyrdom—forgive me—good-night.” - </p> - <p> - “Don't forget that I love you, dear—let that give you strength,” - said Raine, in a low voice. - </p> - <p> - A cry came involuntarly to her lips, wrung from her suffering. - </p> - <p> - “Ah, don't!” - </p> - <p> - She turned quickly, and followed the departing guests. Raine stood - bewildered, looking with contracted brow at her receding form. Hockmaster - was standing at the door, his dinner napkin over his arm, a few yards away - from the group of men who had remained to smoke. He opened the door a - little wider for her. But she passed out like an automaton, looking - neither to right nor left. - </p> - <p> - The American closed the door, and came up to Raine. - </p> - <p> - “Say, Chetwynd, can one get a liqueur brandy here?” - </p> - <p> - “The waiter will be here in a minute for orders,” replied Raine. “How are - you getting on?” - </p> - <p> - “First class. Liveliest meal I've had since I dined on a burning ship - sailing from New York to Cuba. Did I ever tell you the story?—My - hell! It was a hot time! Have a cigar.” - </p> - <p> - “No, thanks,” replied Raine. “I must go and fetch my pipe. When I come - back you can tell me.” - </p> - <p> - Deeply troubled about Katherine, he was not in the humour for Hockmaster's - stories, and he seized eagerly at the excuse for being free from him for a - time. He went out on to the balcony, with the intention of passing through - to the drawing-room, where he expected to find Felicia. An idea had - occurred to him which he was anxious to put into execution. But after - passing two or three ladies, he discovered Felicia alone in the dimness of - the furthest end of the balcony. - </p> - <p> - “Felicia,'” he said, calling her for the first time by her Christian name, - “you are a dear good girl—you will help me if you can. Has Katherine - been ill during my absence?” - </p> - <p> - The direct, frank appeal touched the girl to the heart. It seemed to raise - her with one great leap in her own esteem, above all the burning shame she - had suffered. Raine's vigorous, sympathetic instinct had pierced through - externals to the innermost of her maidenhood. She answered his question - gently. - </p> - <p> - “No. She has been quite as usual all the time. But I think she has looked - sadder these last few days.” - </p> - <p> - “She has not been looking ill—as at dinner to-night?” - </p> - <p> - “No. That was sudden.” - </p> - <p> - And then with a strange, absolutely new, almost delicious sense of the - strong man weakly depending upon her for comfort, she said timidly,— - </p> - <p> - “You mustn't be unhappy. She may have been longing for you to come back—for - she loves you—and this evening—she is very delicate, you know. - Sometimes when I am with her, she seems so fragile—she will be - better to-morrow—and you will be happy.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah! Thank you, Felicia,” said Raine, greatly moved. “I wish—I wish - you would let me kiss you for it.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” she whispered. - </p> - <p> - He stooped, and touched her cheek with his lips, and then strode away - feeling somehow stronger and serener. - </p> - <p> - And Felicia remained on the balcony deep in thought, her girlish love - purified by the brotherly kiss. - </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.—THE SOILING OF A PAGE. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t was the large - room in the Kursaal assigned to the <i>Cercle de Genève</i>. Of the two - long green tables, one was deserted and in darkness, and the other, - brilliantly lighted from overhanging green shades, was surrounded by a - fair number of men. Except at short intervals between the hands, a - decorous silence prevailed, broken only by the stereotyped phrases, <i>une - carte, sept, neuf, baccara</i>, marking the progress of the game. But when - the hand was over, voices rose, and above them was heard the sharp click - of the mother-of-pearl counters and the chink of gold and silver, as the - croupier, in the middle of the table, opposite the banker, settled losses - and gains. Then the croupier,—“<i>Quarante louis dans la banque, - vingt à chaque tableau. Faites vos jeux, messieurs. A cheval? Bien, - monsieur. Rien ne va plus!</i>” - </p> - <p> - And then silence again while the hand was being played. - </p> - <p> - The company was cosmopolitan; two or three elderly Genevese citizens, a - sprinkling of Germans and Russians, two or three of nondescript - nationality, speaking English, French, and German with equal fluency, of - the swarthy, Israelitish type familiar at Monte Carlo and Aix-les-Bains, - and a few English and Americans. Among the latter were Raine and - Hockmaster. The American was winning heavily. When the hand had come to - him, he had “passed” seven, nine, and twelve times respectively, and a - little mountain of notes, <i>fiches</i> and gold lay before him. On a - small table by his side was a tumbler of brandy and water which he - replenished at intervals from the customary graduated decanter and a - carafe of iced water. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes unnaturally - bright, and his speech, when the croupier's spoon deposited his winnings - in front of him, was somewhat exuberant and excited. - </p> - <p> - Raine, who had played very little, was neither winning nor losing. He had - accompanied Hockmaster, purely for the sake of distraction, intending to - while away an hour or two before bedtime. The pleasant walk along the - quays to and from the Kursaal had also been an inducement. But he had sat - there next to Hockmaster for several hours, interested in the game and in - his companion's astonishing luck. For the wholesome-minded person, with a - keen sense of life and a broad sympathy with its interests, there is ever - a fascination in watching the chances of a gaming table. Fortune seems to - come down and give a private exhibition of her wheel. The great universe - seems to stand still for a while, and only this microcosm to be subjected - to its chances. - </p> - <p> - At last he grew tired, however, and suggested to Hockmaster the - reasonableness of retiring. Besides, the increasing excitement of the - American led him to reflect, for the first time, upon the quantity of - drink that he had consumed. - </p> - <p> - “I guess I'm going to clear out all these boys,” replied Hockmaster. - </p> - <p> - “In that case,” said Raine, rising, “I'm going home.” - </p> - <p> - The other caught him by his coat. - </p> - <p> - “Half an hour more.” - </p> - <p> - “No. I have had enough. So have you.” - </p> - <p> - “Just the end of this new bank, then.” - </p> - <p> - The croupier was crying a new bank—putting it up to auction. - </p> - <p> - “<i>La banque est aux enchères. Combien la banque?</i>” - </p> - <p> - “I'll wait till you have had just one stake,” said Raine, by way of - compromise. - </p> - <p> - Bids were made for the bank. Ten louis, twenty louis, thirty. - </p> - <p> - “Fifty,” cried Hockmaster, suddenly, with his elbows on the table. Raine - clapped him on the shoulder. - </p> - <p> - “That's not in the bargain.” - </p> - <p> - “A hundred,” cried a fat German at the end of the other <i>tableau</i>, - who had been losing persistently. - </p> - <p> - “You wait if you want to see fun,” said Hockmaster. “Two hundred.” - </p> - <p> - Murmurs began to arise. Play seldom ran so high in the <i>cercle</i>. It - was too much. - </p> - <p> - “<i>Assez, assez,</i>” growled the Genevese citizens. - </p> - <p> - But the rest of the table was athrill with excitement. - </p> - <p> - “Two hundred and fifty,” cried the German. - </p> - <p> - “Four hundred,” said Hockmaster. - </p> - <p> - “Five!” screamed the German. - </p> - <p> - “The gentleman can have that bank,” drawled Hockmaster. “And I'll go <i>banco</i>.” - </p> - <p> - Which means that he would play one hand against the new banker for the - whole amount of the bank—£400. - </p> - <p> - There was a death-like silence. The German, looking pallid and flabby, - took his seat. The stakes were deposited on the table. The croupier placed - the fresh packs on the rest before the new banker. With trembling fingers - the German slipped the two cards apiece to Hockmaster and himself. The - American allowed his cards to remain in front of him for a moment as he - looked up at Raine, who was standing behind him, also under the spell of - the general excitement. - </p> - <p> - “If I lose this, I take the next tramcar back to Chicago.” - </p> - <p> - “Take up your cards,” grumbled an impatient voice. - </p> - <p> - Hockmaster picked them up. They were a 6 and a 4, which making 10, - according to the principles of the game where tens and multiples of ten - count as nothing, were valueless. - </p> - <p> - “<i>Une carte?</i>” asked the German. - </p> - <p> - “Yes.” - </p> - <p> - “The card was an ace. The beads of perspiration formed on the American's - forehead. Only a miracle could save him—that of the banker drawing - tens. For if the banker's pips totted up, subtracting multiples of ten, to - any number between 2 and 9, Hockmaster lost. The banker displayed his - cards. Two queens. The chances were now 9 to 4 in the banker's favour. He - drew a card slowly from the top. It was the ten of diamonds. - </p> - <p> - “<i>Baccara!</i>” he gasped. - </p> - <p> - “One!” cried Hockmaster, throwing down his cards. - </p> - <p> - A hubbub of eager voices arose at the sensational victory. The German - retired from the table and left the room without saying a word. Hockmaster - wiped his forehead and stowed away the bank-notes and gold in his pockets. - </p> - <p> - “I reckon I've had enough too,” he exclaimed in a thick, unsteady voice. - “Good-night, gentlemen.” - </p> - <p> - He rose, stretched himself, laid hold of Raine's arm, and the two went out - together. As they reached the front steps of the Kursaal, they heard the - German driving away in a cab that had been waiting. - </p> - <p> - “I wish there was another one,” said Hockmaster, reeling. - </p> - <p> - The fresh night air struck him like an electric shock. He lurched heavily - against Raine, and laughed stupidly. - </p> - <p> - “I guess I'm as drunk as a boiled owl.” Raine was surprised, angry and - disgusted. The modern Englishman sees nothing funny in drunkenness. If he - had suspected that Hockmaster was drinking to the degree of intoxication, - he would have left the Kursaal long before. But the motionlessness of his - position and the intense excitement of the game had combined to check - temporarily the effects of the alcohol. There was no help for it, however; - he must give the drunken man his arm and convey him home. - </p> - <p> - They soon emerged on to the quay. It was a superb moonlit night. The lake - slumbered peacefully below, the bright expanse sweeping away from the - shadows of the town, scarcely broken by a ripple. At that hour not a soul - was stirring. Hockmaster's excited talk struck with sharp resonance on the - lonely air. As soon as he had realized his condition of leg-helplessness, - he trusted to his companion's support, and, thinking no more about it, - talked volubly of the game, his winnings, his late adversary's piteous - grimace, when the only losing card he could draw turned up. Then he broke - out into loud laughter. - </p> - <p> - “Stop that!” cried Raine, somewhat savagely, jerking his arm. - </p> - <p> - Hockmaster ceased, looked up at him with lack-lustre eye. - </p> - <p> - “I guess I'm drunk. Let's sit down a minute. It's my legs that don't - realize their responsibility.” - </p> - <p> - He pitched sideways in the direction of a seat on the quay, dragging Raine - a step with him. Raine, not sorry to be free of his weight for a few - moments, agreed to sit down. Perhaps the rest in the fresh air would sober - him a little; at least enough to enable him to accomplish unaided the - remainder of his walk home. Having lit his meerschaum, Raine gave himself - up philosophically to the situation. It was just as pleasant and as - profitable to be sitting there under the stars, in front of the magic of - the lake, as to be fretting through anxious hours in his bedroom, longing - for the morrow. For a time he forgot Hockmaster, who sprawled silently by - him, his incapable legs stretched out compass-wise, and his hands in his - pockets. His mind hovered around Katherine, lost itself in mingling - memories of doubts and hopes; wandered back to Oxford and his - uncertainties, returned to Geneva, to their first talk in the Jardin - Anglais, to stray moments when they had drifted into close contact, to the - glow of the first kiss, and finally settled in the gloom that her - agitation that evening had spread about him. Then, with a start, he - remembered the American, whose silence was alarming. - </p> - <p> - “Look here. You are not going to sleep!” - </p> - <p> - “All right, sonny. Don't you be alarmed,” replied Hockmaster with drunken - gravity. “I am all right sitting, anyway. I've been fixing up something in - my mind, and it's like shaving on board ship in a hurricane. Say, you're - my friend, aren't you? If you thought I was a darned skunk, you'd tell me. - </p> - <p> - “You have soaked too much brandy, my friend,” replied Raine. “That doesn't - require much 'fixing up.' Anyhow, the next time you want to go on the - drink, please do it when I am not there.” - </p> - <p> - “Quite right,” said Hockmaster, rolling his head towards him with a - portentous air. “You're disgusted at my being drunk—so'm I—But - thatsh not the question. I felt sort of mean, like the chewed end of a - cigar, and I tried to gargle the feeling away. But it wasn't my fault.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, never mind,” said Raine, with a smile. “Don't do it again.” - </p> - <p> - “You bet your bottom dollar I don't. The man who puts his head twice into - the Divorce Court deserves to be shot sitting.” - </p> - <p> - Raine was startled. What was the man driving at? - </p> - <p> - “You see, I guess I ought to have married her afterwards,” continued - Hockmaster. “But those mines I told you of carried me down to Mexico. Now - when a man's got a blaze at a million of dollars he can't afford to be - fooling around after a woman. She can wait, but the dollars won't. That's - what I was trying to fix up to tell you—as a real friend.” - </p> - <p> - “Tell me to-morrow,” said Raine, preparing to rise. “Let us get home now.” - </p> - <p> - He had no desire to hear the tipsy details of Hockmaster's past life. But - the American put detaining hands on his arm and shoulders, in familiar - confidence. - </p> - <p> - “I want your opinion—I seduced her from her husband, and didn't - marry her after the divorce, and when I saw her this evening for the first - time after eight years—” - </p> - <p> - Raine leaped to his feet with a horrible surmise. - </p> - <p> - “What the devil are you talking about? Whom do you mean?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” said Hockmaster, nodding in a melancholy way. “I thought I was a - mean skunk. You are disgusted.” - </p> - <p> - Raine seized him by the collar and shook him. - </p> - <p> - “Answer my question—which lady do you mean?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh!” said Hockmaster, “of course. You don't know. Why, the sweetest, - prettiest woman there, sitting next to you. I guess she was upset at - seeing me.” - </p> - <p> - He went on talking. But Raine heard no more. His brain was in a whirl, a - nausea was at his heart. His prized meerschaum fell from his hand, and, - knocking against the seat, dropped broken on to the ground; but he was - unconscious of it. Everything blazed before him in a livid light. A - horrible repulsion from the inert, ignoble figure sprawling beneath him - grew into a loathing anger. His fingers thrilled to seize the American - again by the collar and shake the life out of him like a rat. - </p> - <p> - “You damned little cad—betraying her to a stranger—you - infernal, drunken little cad!” - </p> - <p> - Controlling his rage with a great effort, he turned, and strode away with - set teeth. He heard the American's voice calling him, but he went on. - </p> - <p> - “Hallo! Chetwynd!” cried Hockmaster, rising with difficulty to his feet. - “Chetwy—ynd!” - </p> - <p> - He staggered forward a couple of paces and then fell prone. After a few - ineffectual efforts to get up, he abandoned the attempt, and lay - quiescent. - </p> - <p> - Raine walked about fifty yards. He had heard the fall. At first it was a - grim satisfaction to let him lie there—all night if need were. But - then it struck him with unpleasant suddenness that Hockmaster was carrying - about his person an immense sum of money in notes and gold. To leave him - to the risk of being robbed and perhaps knocked on the head was - impossible. He conquered his repugnance and turned, back. - </p> - <p> - “Get up.” - </p> - <p> - “Eh? All right. I think I'll go to shleep.” - </p> - <p> - Raine lifted him to his feet, shook him to a degree of soberness, and with - one arm around him, marched again homewards. - </p> - <p> - He loathed the man. To be condemned to hug him close to his person set - jarring every nerve of physical repulsion. Raine did not handle him - tenderly in that moonlight walk. Whilst sitting on the bench, the American - had been coherent in his speech, but his fall and resignation to slumber - on the pavement had relaxed the tension of his mind, and he grew maudlin - and inarticulate. Now and then he remonstrated with his protector for - hurrying him along so fast. In fact, Raine, in his passionate desire to - shake himself free of the incubus, was unconsciously exerting his great - strength almost to carry him bodily. - </p> - <p> - In the middle of the bridge, Hockmaster laughed softly to himself. - </p> - <p> - “To think I should see her again. Dear little Kitty.” - </p> - <p> - A horrible wave of disgust swept through Raine. He gripped the man - viciously. - </p> - <p> - “Damn you! If you mention her name again, I'll pitch you into the lake.” - </p> - <p> - “That would be a pity,” murmured the American in a panting murmur. “I - can't swim.” - </p> - <p> - Raine increased his pace, so that speech became for the American a - physical impossibility. In the midst of his disgust came the memory of the - last time he had come homewards across that bridge. Then, too, he had - hurried blindly, anxious to reach the pension. The cynical irony of the - parallel smote him. A clock struck two as they reached the corner of the - street. Hockmaster was limply happy, comfortably breathless. Raine propped - him against the wall as he waited for the <i>concierge</i> to open to his - ring. The door was soon swung open, and Raine dragged the American up the - dark staircase. When they reached the latter's bedroom, he flung him in - unceremoniously and left him to himself. - </p> - <p> - Then, when he was alone, rid of the man's body, Raine pieced the story - together more calmly. It was sickening. His fair pure Katherine to have - given herself to that little drunken cad, to have wrecked her life for him—it - was sickening. - </p> - <p> - There are times in a man's career when the poetry of life seems to be - blotted out, and its whole story nothing but ignoble prose. - </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.—THE WEAKER SIDE. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">R</span>aine had judged - her very gently. He had rightly guessed that she had fallen upon the - thorns wherewith society strews the land outside its own beaten paths. His - insight into the depths of her nature had awakened within him a strong - man's yearning pity. In his eyes she was the frail tender thing that had - been torn and wounded, and he had taken to his heart the joy of the - knowledge that his arms would give her rest and peace at the last. - </p> - <p> - Although Hockmaster's revelation had jarred through his whole being, he - judged her gently now. He was honest-souled enough to disintegrate - æsthetic disgust from abiding emotion. He was keenly sensible of the agony - she had endured at dinner, and he suffered with her truly and loyally. But - the ignobleness attendant on all the conditions of Hockmaster's drunken - confidence spread itself for the time like a foul curtain over finer - feelings. He could not help wishing that she had told him her story. That - the consciousness of her position as a divorced woman had been the cause - of the constraint of her letters, he could no longer doubt. That she - intended to make all clear to him before she definitely pledged herself to - him as his wife, he was absolutely certain. His nature was too loyal for - him to suspect otherwise. There he read her truly. But why had she waited? - It would have made his present course of action so much more simple, had - the spoken confidence between them enabled him to take the initiative. Now - his hands were tied. He could do nothing but wait until she made the sign. - Thus the thought, in calmer, nobler moments. But then the common story of - seduction, with its vulgar stigma of the divorce court, and the - personality of the reeling, hiccoughing man, sent a shiver through his - flesh. - </p> - <p> - In the morning he spent an hour with his father, forgetting for the while - his own troubles in endeavours to cheer and amuse. On his way out, he met - Mme. Boccard, who greeted him with plaintive volubility. His American - friend had paid his bill and left orders for his bag to be given to the - porter from the Hôtel National. She was sorry her establishment had not - been to his liking. What did Monsieur Chetwynd think of the dinner? What - had been lacking? And the bed? It was a beautiful bed—as it - happened, the best in all the pension. Raine consoled her, as best he - could, for the American's defection, but in his heart he was grimly - pleased at this sign of grace in his late friend. He had some idea, at - least, when sober, of common decency. Mme. Boccard enquired concernedly - after the professor, was delighted to hear that he was mending. - </p> - <p> - “Ah, that is good,” she said, “it would not be suitable if too many people - were ill. The pension would get a bad name. That poor Mme. Stapleton is - still suffering this morning. It is Mr. Chetwynd who will be sorry.” - </p> - <p> - “Nothing serious?” asked Raine, in some alarm. - </p> - <p> - “Oh no—<i>une crise des nerfs. Que voulez-vous? Les dames sont comme - cela.</i>” - </p> - <p> - In spite of this information, however, he looked into his room, on his way - out, in the vague hope of finding a note from Katherine. But there was - none. He felt himself in a cruelly false position. Yet he could do - nothing. Like a wise man he resolved to await events and in the meantime - to proceed with his usual habits. In accordance therefore with the latter, - he walked up the Grand Quai and sat down at one of the tables outside the - Café du Nord, where he had been accustomed, before his absence at - Chamonix, to read the <i>Journal de Geneve</i> and the previous day's <i>Figaro</i>. - It was pleasant to get back to a part of the former way of life, when - Hockmaster was undreamed of. The retirement of his late friend from the - pension was a relief to him. He felt he could breathe more freely. If he - could be assured that Hockmaster would retire from Geneva as well, and - vanish into the Unknown whence he came, he would have been almost happy. - He wanted never to set eyes on his face again. - </p> - <p> - But the particularly undesired invariably happens. He was trying to - concentrate his mind upon the literary supplement of the <i>Figaro</i>, - when the ingenuous but now detested voice fell upon his ear. - </p> - <p> - “I was just on my way to ransack the town of Geneva for you.” - </p> - <p> - Raine looked up frowningly. Hockmaster was standing by his side, sprucely - attired, clean-shaven, the pink of freshness. His shirt cuffs were - immaculately conspicuous, he wore patent-leather boots and carried a new - pair of gloves in his hand. His pale-blue eyes looked as innocent as if - they had never gazed upon liquid stronger than a pellucid lake. - Immediately after he had spoken he sat down and airily waved away the - waiter, who was hovering near for orders. - </p> - <p> - “Did you particularly desire to see me?” asked Raine, stiffly. - </p> - <p> - “I do. Particularly. I guess I riled you considerably last night, and my - mind would not be easy until I apologized. For anything I did last night - and anything I said, I apologize most humbly. I know,” he added with one - of his child-like smiles, “that I fell by a long chalk from the image of - my Maker, and I can't expect you to forgive me all at once—but if - you were to do it by degrees, beginning from now, you would make me feel - that I am gradually approximating to it again.” - </p> - <p> - There was a quaint charm in the manner of this astonishing man, to which - Raine could not help being susceptible, in spite of his dislike. Besides, - the ordinary conventions of life bound him to accept an apology so amply - tendered. - </p> - <p> - “You did put me to some trouble,” he said gravely, “and for that I most - cordially accept your excuses. For the rest—” he completed the sense - with a gesture.. - </p> - <p> - But Hockmaster looked pained. - </p> - <p> - “I see, Mr. Chetwynd. What you can't do is to pal on to a man who has - betrayed a woman's honour.” - </p> - <p> - Raine felt embarrassed. He was aware that he had been disingenuous in - shifting the whole weight of his disgust and anger on to that one - particular point. The direct appeal did not lack manliness, was evidently - sincere. It stirred within him the sense of justice. He tried to realize - his attitude towards Hockmaster in the case of Katherine being merely a - chance acquaintance. Obviously all the complex feelings centering round - his love for her ought to go for nothing in his judgment of Hockmaster. - Raine was an honourable man, who hated hypocrisy and prejudice and unfair - dealing, and the detection of them in himself brought with it an - irritating sense of shame. - </p> - <p> - “I have the privilege of the friendship of the lady in question,” he - replied to the American, “and therefore felt a personal resentment of your - confidence last night.” - </p> - <p> - “Mr. Chetwynd,” returned Hockmaster, leaning forward earnestly with his - elbows on the table, “there is only one way in which I can make things - square, and that is to take you into my confidence still further.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, for God's sake, man, let us drop the subject!” - </p> - <p> - “No. For I think you'll be pleased. You are a straight, honourable man, - and I want to act in a straight, honourable way. Do you see that?” - </p> - <p> - “Perfectly,” said Raine. “But don't you also see that this is a matter - that cannot be discussed? A woman's name cannot be bandied about by two - men. Come, we will let bygones be bygones.” - </p> - <p> - He rose, grasping his stick, as if to depart, and held out his hand. But - the American, somewhat to Raine's astonishment, made a deprecating gesture - and also rose to his feet. - </p> - <p> - “No. Not yet,” he said blandly. “Not before you feel sure I am doing the - straight thing. You called me a cad, last night, didn't you?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes. But perhaps I was hasty.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh no. I own up. Honest Injun, as we say in America. I was a cad. Only, - having called your friend a cad, you owe it to him to allow him to - retrieve his character in your eyes.” - </p> - <p> - “Why should you be so anxious to do so?” asked Raine, struck with the - man's earnestness. - </p> - <p> - “Because I've got sort of fond of you,” replied the American. “Will you - listen to me for two minutes?” - </p> - <p> - “Certainly.” - </p> - <p> - “Then I'll tell you that I'm going direct, this very minute, to ask that - lady to marry me. - </p> - <p> - “To marry you?” cried Raine, with the blood in his cheeks. “It would be an - insult!” - </p> - <p> - “It's a pity you think so,” returned Hockmaster reflectively. “I wish I - could unmake my mind, but you see it's all fixed up already.” - </p> - <p> - “What's fixed up?” - </p> - <p> - “That I should ask her. Mr. Chetwynd, this is the first chance I have had. - For eight years I have lost every trace of her. If you know a more - honourable way of repairing the wrong, you just tell me.” - </p> - <p> - “Man alive! leave Geneva and never let her hear of you again.” - </p> - <p> - “I will, if she refuses me. That's fixed up too. I must be going.” - </p> - <p> - “Mrs. Stapleton is ill, and can't see you this morning,” said Raine - desperately. - </p> - <p> - “I have an appointment with her in five minutes' time,” replied the other - imperturbably. “Now, Mr. Chetwynd, I shall be proud to shake hands with - you.” - </p> - <p> - He extended his hand, which Raine, thrown off his balance for the moment, - took mechanically; and then he gave him a parting nod, jerked forward his - shirt-cuffs, squared his shoulders and marched away, evidently pleased - with himself. - </p> - <p> - Raine sat down again by the marble table, took a mouthful of the vermouth - in front of him, and tried to recover his equilibrium. Katherine was going - to see this man, to listen to a proposal of marriage. A spasm of pain shot - through him. Perhaps the older love had smouldered through the years and - had burst forth again. His hand shook as he put the glass to his lips - again. - </p> - <p> - People came and went in the <i>café</i>, sat down to their bock or - absinthe and departed. The busy life of Geneva passed by on the sunny - pavement; brown-cheeked, pale-eyed Swiss peasants, blue-bloused workmen, - tourists with veils and puggarees and Baedekers. Barefooted children, - spying the waiter's inattention, whined forward with decrepit bunches of - edelweiss. Smart flower-sellers, in starched white sleeves, displayed - their great baskets to the idlers. Cabs, hired by family parties of - Germans or Americans, drove off with raucous shouts and cracking of whips, - from the rank in the shade opposite, by the garden railings. The manager - of the <i>café</i>, in correct frock-coat, stood under the awning in the - gangway, and smiled benignly on his customers. The time passed. But Raine - sat there chin in hand, staring at the blue veins of the marble, his - thoughts and emotions as inchoate as they. - </p> - <p> - At last he became aware that someone looked at him and bowed. Rousing - himself from his daze he recognized Felicia, who was advancing along the - pavement by the outer row of chairs. With a sudden impulse, he rose, and - leaving some money for the waiter, went out and greeted her. - </p> - <p> - “Isn't it a lovely day?” she said brightly. “I couldn't stay in the - pension after déjeuner, so I came out to do some shopping.” - </p> - <p> - “Déjeuner!” cried Raine, “Do you mean to say it is over?” - </p> - <p> - “Why, of course. Haven't you had any?” - </p> - <p> - “No—the time has passed. However, I am not very hungry. Do you mind - if I go shopping with you?” - </p> - <p> - “I should feel flattered, Mr. Chetwynd.” She laughed up at him from under - her red parasol. The sight of her, fresh in her youthful colouring and - dainty white dress, seemed to soothe the man's somewhat weary senses. A - feeling of restfulness in her company stole over his heart, as he walked - by her side. - </p> - <p> - “What are you going to buy?” he asked as they passed by the shops. - </p> - <p> - “I really don't know. I must consider. Perhaps some needles and tape. But - you must stay outside.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh no. I will come with you and see how it is done,” said Raine with a - smile. - </p> - <p> - “Then I'll have to buy something important that I don't want,” said - Felicia. - </p> - <p> - A laughing argument, which lasted until the needles and tape were - purchased. Then they continued their walk down the Rue de la Corraterie - and came to the Bastion gardens, where they sat down under the trees. - Felicia was happy. The brotherly kiss of the previous evening had restored - to her the self-respect that her maidenhood seemed to have lost. He was - still the prince of her girl's heart, she could serve him now, she felt, - without shame or shrinking. The growing woman in her divined his mood and - strove to cheer him with her most lightsome self. - </p> - <p> - Womanhood divined the mood, but inexperience was blind to its - dangerousness. Unconsciously her sweet charm of youth drew Raine nearer to - her. When they parted, he felt that he had gone within an ace of making - love to her, and committing a base action. The thought stung him. He had - not reckoned upon such weakness in himself. Spurred by an impatient scorn - of his cowardice, his heart turned all the more passionately to Katherine. - </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.—THE SIGNING OF A DEATH WARRANT. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he balcony outside - Katherine's room baked in the morning sun. A tiny patch of sunshine stood - on the threshold of the open window like a hesitating guest. A cool breeze - entered the room, fluttering the gay ribbons of a tambourine hanging - against the wall. - </p> - <p> - Hockmaster had gone. She did not know whether it was the relief of his - absence or the rush of air caused by the opening of the door that sent a - fierce momentary thrill through her frame. Her eyes were burning, her - throat parched, her body quivering in a passion of anger. She stood for a - few seconds, with parted lips, breathing great draughts of the cool air, - and mechanically unloosened the neck of her dress; it was strangling her. - Then she turned, looking from right to left, like a caged creature panting - for escape. Her glance fell upon the chair where Hockmaster had just sat. - The edge of the rug at the feet was curled, the cushion flattened, the - tidy disarranged—all hatefully suggestive of his continued presence. - With a passionate movement, she rushed and restored the things to order, - shaking the cushion with childish fierceness, till not a wrinkle was left. - While the action lasted, it relieved her. - </p> - <p> - She crossed the room, sat for a moment. But every pulse in her throbbed. - Motionlessness was impossible. She sprang to her feet and paced the room, - moving her arms in passionate gestures. - </p> - <p> - Forgive him! Never—never in this world or the next. To have betrayed - her—to Raine of all men. The thought in its fiery agony was almost - unthinkable. The drawling, plaintive tone in which he had made his - confession maddened her. The echo of his words pierced her brain. - </p> - <p> - The sudden meeting the night before had shaken her. After the ordeal of - the dinner her nerves had given way, and she had lain awake all night with - throbbing temples. She had risen, faint and ill, to read his note - beseeching an interview. She had strung herself to go through with it. As - the hours passed she had grown more self-possessed; while waiting, had put - some extra tidying touches to her room, rearranged some flowers she had - bought the day before. She had even smiled to herself. After all, what - claim had this man upon her? - </p> - <p> - He had come, trim, point-device in his attire, looking scarcely a day - older than when she had forsaken all for him. He had pleaded, owned - himself a scoundrel, strengthening his cause by his very weakness. - </p> - <p> - “I was going to marry you, Kitty. Before God I was! On my return from - Mexico. I thought I was going to make millions—become one of the - little gods of the earth. No man living would have let go the chance. I - guess I was to have made you more powerful than the ordinary run of - queens. Who could have told those mines were a fraud? Van Hoetmann himself - was deceived. I came back at once. You were gone. I tried to trace you. I - lost you. And all these years I have been kind of haunted by it. Before I - left Chicago, a man was bragging he had never brought a cloud upon a - woman's life. I said to him: 'Sir, go down on your bended knees and thank - Almighty God for it.'” - </p> - <p> - She had listened, at first rather sceptically. But gradually his - earnestness had convinced her of his sincerity. She had loved him, as she - had understood love in those far-off days, when her young shadowed nature - had expanded like a plant to the light. A little tenderness remained, - called from forgotten depths to the surface. She had spoken very gently to - him, forgiven him, the sweeter woman prompting her. - </p> - <p> - And then he had urged marriage. - </p> - <p> - “It is what I have come to tell you, Kitty. Let me make amends for the - past by devoting my life to your happiness. I am not right bad all - through. I'll begin again to love you as I did when first I saw you in - that white dress, among the roses of the verandah.” - </p> - <p> - She had smiled, shaken her head, it could never be. She was quite happy. - He had done his part, she was satisfied with his intentions. But the - amends she claimed was that he should never seek to see her again. Only on - that condition, that he left Geneva at once, looking upon this as a final - parting, could she give him her full, unqualified forgiveness. He had - insisted, wearying her. She had risen, held out her hand to him. - </p> - <p> - “You must go. It is a generous impulse that urges you to make reparation - in this manner, not love—” - </p> - <p> - She paused for a breath, instinctively trying him with a touchstone, and - smiling as it failed to draw the response of passion. - </p> - <p> - “Let your conscience be easy. You wish to serve me—you have a trust—my - honour—you can cherish it.” - </p> - <p> - And then the element of grotesque folly, that underlay this man's nature, - had prompted him to satisfy the childlike craving for plenary shrift and - absolution. He told her that he had confessed in an unguarded moment to - Chetwynd, taken him further into his confidence. At first she had scarcely - understood him—the suggestion had stunned, paralyzed her for a few - seconds, during which his words seemed to strike her senses dimly, like - rain in the night. The complete realization came with a rush—the - shame, the degradation—the abyss that he had opened at her feet. - Sudden overpowering hate of him had flooded her senses and burst all - barriers of reserve and self-control. - </p> - <p> - He had committed the Unpardonable Sin, in a woman's eyes—the crime - against her honour. To have won her, kissed her, cast her aside—that - is in the heart of a woman to forgive. But not the other. He had betrayed - her. Not only that, but he had stabbed to the very soul of her love. The - sight of the weak man, who had added this crowning outrage to the havoc he - had wrought in her life, goaded her into madness. The very tenderness, - with which she had but lately regarded him, made the revulsion all the - stronger. - </p> - <p> - “Oh God! I could kill you! I could kill you!” she had cried. - </p> - <p> - He had turned white to the lips, scared at the transformation of the calm, - subdued woman into the fierce, quivering creature with glittering eyes and - passion-strung words. The eternal, wild, savage woman, repressed for years - in the depths of her soul, had leapt out upon him to rend him in her mad - anger. She had pointed to the door, stamping her foot, driven him out of - her sight. At the door he had paused, and looked at her with a strange - mingling of manhood and submission in his eyes. - </p> - <p> - “I deserve my punishment—but I am not all bad. And so help me God, - Kitty, my offer will hold good at any moment of my life!” - </p> - <p> - He had gone. She was alone, pacing the room, still shaken with the storm - of elemental fury. - </p> - <p> - At last exhaustion weakened her. She drew aside the curtain before her - bed, and threw herself down shivering with the shame that was eating into - her bones. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, my God!” she moaned, “Oh, my God! That he should have learned—from - him—” - </p> - <p> - She drew the sides of the pillow tight about her face. It was agony of - degradation. Her body shuddered at the thought of his contempt, the - shattering of his faith in her, the man's revolt at the brutality of the - revelation. She had been dragged through the mire before his eyes. In her - degradation she saw herself the object of his loathing. - </p> - <p> - The sharp striking of the little Swiss clock on her writing-table roused - her. She raised a drawn face and looked in its direction. It was only - eleven. She had thought hours had passed while she had lain there - shivering. A little sense of dismay crept over her. If those few minutes - had passed like hours, what would be the length of the hours themselves - that had to be lived through that day? - </p> - <p> - If only she had sent him that letter, she thought bitterly. She might have - fallen in his eyes, but not to those depths. He would have understood. The - tremulous hope that his love would remain unclouded had sustained her. If - only she could have spoken. A cynical irony seemed to govern the world. - </p> - <p> - She went to the window and looked into the street. A sudden impulse to go - out of doors into the open air came over her and as quickly died away. She - could not bear to walk along the street or in the public gardens—before - hundreds of human eyes. Her soul felt naked and ashamed. If it had been - country, where she could have gone and hidden herself in a quiet far-off - corner, and laid her face upon the grass, and let the tree-branches - whisper to her alone, it would have been different. She shrank from the - contact of men and women—and yet her heart sank with a despairing - sense of loneliness. - </p> - <p> - The consciousness of it came with a shock, as to one, who, on a North - Country fell, suddenly finds himself isolated from outer things by an - impenetrable mist. She hurried away from the window, sat down, through - sheer physical weariness, on the chair by her writing-table, and buried - her face in her hands. - </p> - <p> - A servant brought up a note. A fearful pang shot through her that it might - be from Raine. The first glance showed her Hockmaster's handwriting. The - envelope bore the printed heading of one of the <i>cafés</i>. - </p> - <p> - “If you have any pity, forgive me,”—it ran. “That I told you of my - fault is proof of my earnest desire to begin a new life as regards you. I - would give years of my life to win a kind word from you. All that was best - and straightest in me spoke to you, Kitty. I am intensely miserable.” - </p> - <p> - She crumpled up the note and threw it aside. His misery indeed! - </p> - <p> - She looked at the clock. Half-past eleven. The thought came to her that - all her life was to drag along at this pace, endless minutes to each hour. - </p> - <p> - The heat of her resentment against Hockmaster cooled down, but the - poignancy of her shame remained. The impulsive hope that had risen at the - first sight of the letter left a train of new reflections. How could she - ever meet Raine again? - </p> - <p> - She rose once more, and resumed her weary, restless movements about the - room. - </p> - <p> - “Never, never!” she cried. “His eyes would kill me—he would be kind—Oh - God! I couldn't bear it. I would rather have him curse me! I would rather - have him strike me! Oh, Raine, Raine, my darling, my love! I would have - told you all—and you would have judged me from my own lips. You - would not have put me from you. But this degradation—” - </p> - <p> - She was carrying death in her heart. She could not conceive the survival - of his love. Men—unlike women—could not love, when once love - had been turned to scorn. If they met, he would be considerate, kind, even - pitiful. The thought of his contemptuous pity scorched her. The picture of - him rose before her, frank, generous, honourable. She stopped short, as an - agitating possibility occurred to her. - </p> - <p> - Might not quixotism lead him to renew his offer? - </p> - <p> - The idea haunted her, and gathering strength from her knowledge and her - idealized conception of his nature, grew into a conviction. For a moment - she gave herself up to the temptation of taking him at his word. She loved - him with every yearning fibre in her body. Without him life was an - appalling waste. It would be enough for her merely to be with him, seek - now and then a caress from his hand. - </p> - <p> - But then came the passionate recoil. She shuddered, put up her hands - before her face. - </p> - <p> - “Never!” she cried again. “I would rather die! My ignominy in his eyes is - eternal. It would drag him down. He is too good to have a millstone like - that tied around his neck.” - </p> - <p> - Yet the longing swept through her again, and her mind swayed to and fro. - The hours crept on. She refused an offer of food made her by the servant. - She felt as if it would choke her. She would ring if she wanted any later. - </p> - <p> - What was she to do? Her aching head throbbed as if it would burst. - Hockmaster's note met her glance. She read it again. And this time she - smoothed it out and replaced it slowly on the table. Her anger was dulled - by despair. Nothing remained of her vehement indignation. It was the - back-swing of the pendulum. - </p> - <p> - What was she to do? Raine she could never meet face to face. Yet the whole - woman in her yearned to meet him. She must cut herself adrift, vanish - wholly from his life. Destiny seemed to point out the course she must - follow. She sat down, her chin in her hands, brooding over it until the - sense of fatefulness numbed her mind. Fate had brought her back this other - from the dark back ward of time. He had changed her life once. Was it not - meant that he should fulfil the work he had begun? She must marry him. - Raine would be saved. It would be a life of sadness, self-sacrifice. But - then women were born for it. - </p> - <p> - Like many another woman, she was driven by an hour's despair to commit - herself to a life-long unhappiness. She had counted the cost, and, unlike - a man, blindly resolved to pay it. It is part of a woman's nature to trust - herself to the irreparable. Katherine went to her table and wrote two - letters—one to each man. The pen flew quickly, her intelligence - illuminated by a false light. She sealed them, rang the bell, despatched - them by the servant. It was done. She had burned her ships, committed - herself irrevocably. A period of dull calm followed, during which she - pretended to eat some food that she ordered, and read unintelligently an - article in a review. But at last the words swam before her eyes. The - review fell to the ground. The agony of her life came upon her, and she - broke down utterly. - </p> - <p> - Felicia in the next room was humming an air. She had returned from her - walk with Raine and was taking off her things. If she had been called upon - suddenly to name the air, it would have slipped like a waking dream from - her memory. The mingled altruistic and personal feelings of the past two - hours had lifted her into an exalted mood, which was not altogether - joyous. She was passing through one of those rare moments, when a young - impressionable girl lives spiritually, without definite consciousness of - personal needs, in a certain music of the soul. A sexual manifestation - transcendentalized, if one pushes inquiry to the root of things. The magic - of her sex had drawn the pain from a strong man's eyes and had touched his - inner self. - </p> - <p> - Suddenly a sound struck upon her ear and the song died upon her lips. She - listened, puzzled. It came again, a moan and a choking sob. Already - somewhat overwrought, she held her breath, instinctively seeking some clue - of association. She grasped it with a rush of emotion. Once she had heard - that cry before, from a woman's depths, on the evening of poor little Miss - Bunter's tragedy. - </p> - <p> - It was Katherine, on the other side of the wooden partition, crying her - heart out. Fibres within the girl were strangely stirred, filling her with - a great, yearning pity. At some moments of their lives women can touch the - stars. Moved by an uncontrollable impulse she went out, knocked at - Katherine's door and entered. - </p> - <p> - Katherine rose, looked at her half-bewildered; then the magnetism of the - sympathy in Felicia's eyes and impulsively outstretched arms attracted her - involuntarily. She made a step forward, and, with a little cry, half-sob, - half-welcome, gave herself up to Felicia's clasp. - </p> - <p> - “I heard you. I had to come,” said Felicia. Katherine did not reply. For a - long time they sat together without speaking, the elder woman's misery - turned to sadness by the sweet and sudden tenderness. She cried softly in - the girl's arms. - </p> - <p> -“It was good of you to come,” she said at last. “I had - broken down—utterly broken down.” - </p> - <p> - “I felt it,” answered Felicia gently. She smoothed Katherine's ruffled - fair hair with a light touch and kissed her forehead. - </p> - <p> - “It will come right in time, dear.” - </p> - <p> - But Katherine shook her head. - </p> - <p> - “Some things are final, irrevocable. The sun goes out of one's heart for - ever and ever.” - </p> - <p> - “Could I do nothing for you? Practically I mean. You see, I know—a - word—it might be in my power—” - </p> - <p> - She hesitated, touching upon delicate ground. Katherine lifted a - tear-stained face, and looked at her curiously. - </p> - <p> - “You love him—and yet you would help me?” - </p> - <p> - “Because he loves you, dear,” said Felicia. “And because it has come upon - me that I have been doing you a great wrong—in thinking badly of - you.” - </p> - <p> - “What has made you think better of me?” - </p> - <p> - “Intuition, I suppose—and when I seemed to realize what his love for - you meant. He could only love what was worthy of him.” - </p> - <p> - “That is why he can love me no more,” said Katherine in a low voice. - </p> - <p> - She paused for a moment, her breath coming quickly. Then she continued - hurriedly, twining her fingers in a nervous clasp: “Things have happened - that make it impossible for him to care for me—I shall never see him - again. I am going away this afternoon—see,”—she pointed to a - dressing-bag packed, but still open, lying on the table. “And I shall pass - out of his life altogether.” - </p> - <p> - “But I don't understand!” cried Felicia, in grieved dismay. “What could - make him cease to love you?” - </p> - <p> - “I have not been what the world calls a good woman, Felicia. God knows I - have paid the penalty already—but the bitterest penalty of all is - yet to be paid—the surrender of the longed-for Paradise, that only a - woman who has lived as I have done can long for. Oh, my child, my dear, - tender little girl, the way of the world is made hard for women - sometimes.” - </p> - <p> - “Why should the women always suffer?” asked Felicia. - </p> - <p> - “Why? God knows. It is life.” - </p> - <p> - “If I were a man,” said Felicia, with a glow in her eyes, “I would think - it dastardly to let a woman suffer, if I loved her.” - </p> - <p> - “There are some things that kill love,” replied Katherine bitterly. - </p> - <p> - “Has Raine told you so?” - </p> - <p> - “Ah, no. He is too generous.” - </p> - <p> - “Then how do you know?” - </p> - <p> - “My dear, when you leave a cut flower in the sun you know it will be - withered up. There is no need for you to watch it to make sure.” - </p> - <p> - “But—if he still loves you? He did last night—he did this - morning.” - </p> - <p> - Katherine gently laid her hand on the girl's lips. - </p> - <p> - “Hush! I told you. What I have done can't be undone.” - </p> - <p> - “But you love him, Katherine,” Felicia burst out impetuously. - </p> - <p> - “Don't you see I am signing my death-warrant?” cried Katherine. - </p> - <p> - Her voice vibrated and she looked at Felicia with shining eyes—“I - shall love him till I die, as the best and wisest man of men that has ever - walked the earth.” - </p> - <p> - She rose, crossed the room, came back and laid her hands upon Felicia's - shoulders, and looked into her young, wondering eyes. - </p> - <p> - “Dear,” she said, “I shall always remember what you have done for me - to-day. When you came in, I thought my heart was broken—but your - tenderness stole over me like a charm—and now you see I can talk - quite sensibly, and smile, just like my own self again. You must bid me - good-bye, dear. I must go soon. But what I want to tell you is this. Think - kindly of me—ah, don't you cry, child—there has been enough of - tears to-day—think of me, dear, as a sister-woman, who stepped aside - once out of the beaten track and for whom fate has been too much. And, - Felicia dear, when I am gone—it will take very, very little to make - Raine love you—” - </p> - <p> - “Ah, no!” cried Felicia passionately. - </p> - <p> - But Katherine smiled her sad, self-controlled smile. - </p> - <p> - “All, yes! He cannot help loving you—and so God give you happiness.” - </p> - <p> - “I can't bear you to go like this. I can't bear it!” cried Felicia. - </p> - <p> - “We all have to work out our destiny,” said Katherine. “Now good-bye, dear—God - bless you.” - </p> - <p> - A few moments later, Katherine was alone again, finishing her preparations - for departure. - </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.—FELICIA VICTRIX. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">“W</span>hat you have - learned about me,” Katherine had written to Raine, “I was to have told you - last night. I had written to you a long letter, but I was too weak to send - it. I resolved to tell it to your own ears. But it was impossible for me - to speak to you last night for I was suffering too much. - </p> - <p> - “My story is a simple one. Married to a man many years my senior—treated - with a mild gravity which my girlish wilfulness took for harshness—a - great many tears—a great longing for the tenderness that never came—a - gay, buoyant nature meeting mine, changing, it seemed, my twilight into - sunshine—and then—what you know. - </p> - <p> - “Do not judge me harshly, Raine. But forget me. Forget that I came and - troubled your life. Even were my name free from blemish, I am not good - enough to be your wife. Forget me, and take to your heart one who will - make you happier than I could have done—one younger, sweeter, purer. - And she loves you. Let her win you. - </p> - <p> - “I have suffered much to be able to write this. It is a farewell. To meet - you would be too great pain for us both. This morning, as you know, I saw - Mr. Hockmaster, and I have promised to marry him. Fate rules these things - for us. To the day of my death I shall pray for your happiness.—K.S.” - </p> - <p> - Raine's face grew hard as he read the letter. A man quickly wearies of - successive emotions. His self-pride asserts itself and makes him rebel - against falling into weaknesses of feeling. He had been angry at allowing - himself to be drawn towards Felicia, and a natural reaction of loyalty to - Katherine had followed. Now this was checked by her calm, unimpassioned - words and the astounding intelligence of her engagement to Hockmaster. He - was completely staggered. To his dismay, he became conscious of an awful - void in his life. It seemed to be filled with purposeless shadows. He set - his teeth and wrapped his strong man's pride about him. The thought of - himself as John a' Dreams was a lash to his spirit. He crumpled up the - paper in his hands and strode to and fro in his room. - </p> - <p> - She was to marry Hockmaster. It was incredible, preposterous, except on - one hypothesis—the recrudescence of the old passion that had swept - aside the social barriers for this man's sake. It was the most galling - thought of all, it racked him, drew him down to a lower plane of feeling, - blinded his clear insight into delicate things. Perhaps if a man did not - sink lower than himself on some occasions, he could not rise higher than - himself on others. - </p> - <p> - He drew a chair to the open French window. The room, being on the top - storey, had no balcony, but a wrought-iron balustrade fixed on the outside - of the jambs. He leant his arms over it and looked into the familiar - street. He hated it. Geneva was intolerable. As soon as his father was - able to travel, he would shake the dust of it from off his feet. A - bantering letter had come that morning from his cousin, Mrs. Monteith, at - Oxford. A phrase or two passed through his mind. Was he going to bring - back two brides or half a one? - </p> - <p> - “How damned vulgar women can be at times!” he exclaimed angrily, and he - rose with impatience from his chair, as if to drive Mrs. Monteith from his - thoughts. - </p> - <p> - He unrolled Katherine's crumpled letter and read it through again. Then he - thrust it into his pocket and decided to go and sit with his father. - </p> - <p> - But, before he could reach the door, a knock was heard. He opened it, and - to his surprise found Felicia. - </p> - <p> - “You—is my father—?” - </p> - <p> - “No. I want to speak to you. Can I?” - </p> - <p> - “Do you mind coming in? It is not very untidy.” - </p> - <p> - He held the door for her to pass in, then he closed it and came up to her - enquiringly. Felicia stood in the middle of the room, with her hands - behind her back, a favourite attitude. Her dark cheeks were flushed and - her sensitive lips were parted, quivering slightly. - </p> - <p> - “It's about Katherine!” she burst out suddenly. “Please let me talk, or I - shall not be able to say what I want to. Since last night—when you - kissed me—I have thought I might come to you—as your sister - might—and because I care for you like that, I feel I can tell you. I - have just been with Katherine. She is going away this afternoon.” - </p> - <p> - “At once?” asked Raine, startled at the apparent rapidity of events. - </p> - <p> - “Yes. Are you sending her away?” - </p> - <p> - “I? Oh no.” - </p> - <p> - “But why must she go, Raine? Tell me; need she go?” - </p> - <p> - “Katherine is mistress of her own actions.” - </p> - <p> - “Then you don't care?” - </p> - <p> - She looked at him earnestly, with moist eyes. There was a note of passion - in her voice, to which Raine, sympathetic, found himself responding. - </p> - <p> - “What is the use of my caring, since she is going of her own accord - without a word from me?” - </p> - <p> - “But a word from you would make her stay.” - </p> - <p> - “What do you know about all this?” he asked abruptly. - </p> - <p> - “I know that you have broken her heart,” said Felicia. “Oh! knowing her—and - loving her—it is hard not to forgive.” - </p> - <p> - “There is no question of forgiveness,” replied Raine. “Did she tell you I - would not forgive her?” - </p> - <p> - “No. A woman does not need to be <i>told</i> these things—she knows - them and feels them. Must a woman always, always, always suffer? Why can't - a man be great and noble sometimes—like Christ who forgave?” - </p> - <p> - “But, my dear child, you are talking wildly,” cried Raine earnestly. “God - knows there is nothing to forgive. I knew long ago a shadow had been cast - over her life—and I loved her. A strange freak of destiny brought - the man here—last night, accidentally, he told me the details—and - I loved her. I have not seen her. It is not I who drive her away. Read - that, and you can see it is not I.” - </p> - <p> - He thrust the letter into her hand, and watched her as she read. - Four-and-twenty hours ago, he would as soon have thought of crying his - heart's secrets aloud in the public streets, as of delivering them into - the keeping of this young girl. But now it seemed natural. Her exalted - mood had infected him, lifted him on to an unconventional plane. - </p> - <p> - The blood rushed to her cheeks as she read the lines in which reference - was made to herself. When she had finished, she looked at him with a - strange light in her eyes. - </p> - <p> - “And you are satisfied with this?” she said quickly. - </p> - <p> - “I am dumfounded by it. She has promised to marry this man.” - </p> - <p> - “And can't you see why? Isn't it as clear to you as the noonday?” - </p> - <p> - “The old love is stronger, I suppose.” - </p> - <p> - “Raine!” cried the girl, in ringing reproach. “How dare you say that, - think it even? Can't you see the agony that letter has cost her? To me it - is quivering in every line. Why did you let that man go to her instead of - yourself? Oh, heavens! if I were a man, and such a thing had happened - regarding the woman I loved, I should have lain outside her door all night - to guard her—I should have seen her, if hell-fire had been between - us. But you let her suffer. You put your pride above your love, like a man—you - were silent. You let her hear from this man that you knew—you left - her to grapple with her shame alone.” - </p> - <p> - Felicia walked about the room like a young lioness. The words came in a - flood. In the championing of her sister-woman she lost sense of - conventional restrictions. Raine was no longer Raine, but the typefication - of a sex against which she was battling for her own. - </p> - <p> - “Can't you read into it all?” she continued. “Can't you see the - degradation she seemed to have fallen into in your eyes? But you only - think of yourself—of <i>your</i> pride—of the bloom brushed - off from <i>your</i> ideal. Never a thought for her—of the god - hurled from her heaven. She would marry this man to cut herself adrift - from you, to get out of your life without further troubling it—to - ease your conscience, lest it should ever prick you for having left her. - She is marrying him because her heart is broken—who else but a - noble, high-souled woman could have written this letter? I better than - she! Oh, Raine—if you have a spark of love for her left—go and - throw yourself at her knees, before it is too late.” - </p> - <p> - Her voice broke towards the end. The strain was telling on her. She sank - for rest upon the chair by the window, and laid her burning cheek against - the iron balustrade. Raine came to her side. - </p> - <p> - “You can thrash me a little more, if you like.” - </p> - <p> - But the familiar, kindly tone suddenly awoke Felicia to the sense of their - relations. She hung her head, confused. - </p> - <p> - “Forgive me,” she said. “I ought not to have spoken like that to you—I - lost control over myself. You mustn't think of what I have said.” - </p> - <p> - “I'll think of it all through my life, Felicia,” said Raine. - </p> - <p> - A silence fell upon them. The girl was shaken and weary. Raine was - confronting a new hope, that made his heart beat. - </p> - <p> - “Raine,” she said, after a while. - </p> - <p> - He did not reply. She looked up, and saw him staring into the street. - </p> - <p> - “By God!” he cried, suddenly, and before Felicia could realize what he was - doing, he had seized his hat from the table and had rushed from the room, - leaving the door open. - </p> - <p> - Felicia leant over the balustrade, and looked down. Katherine was there, - near the corner, in the act of giving over her dressing-bag to a lad in a - blue blouse, who had offered his services. Felicia watched until she saw - Raine emerge beneath the archway, stride like a man possessed after - Katherine, catch her up, and lay his hand upon her arm, as she turned a - startled face towards him. Then the tears came into her eyes, and she left - the window and went down to her own room, where she locked herself in and - cried miserably. Such is the apparently inconsequent way of women. - </p> - <p> - “Katherine,” said Raine, when he came up with her. She stopped, and looked - at him speechlessly. - </p> - <p> - “I have just caught you in time,” he said, with masculine brusqueness. “We - must talk together. Come into the Gardens.” - </p> - <p> - “I can't,” she replied, hurriedly. “My train—” - </p> - <p> - “You can miss your train. Where are you going?” - </p> - <p> - “Lausanne,” she answered, weakly, with lowered eyes. - </p> - <p> - “There are quantities of trains. Come.” He drew her arm gently. She - obeyed, powerless to resist. He found a seat away from the promenade. An - old peasant was dozing at one end, and a mongrel was stretched at his - feet. They were practically alone. The old man in his time had seen many - English and innumerable pairs of lovers. Neither interested him. He did - not even deign to turn a lustreless eye in their direction. The boy with - the dressing-bag had meekly followed them, and stood by, politely, cap in - hand. Did madame want him to wait with the bag? - </p> - <p> - “No,” replied Raine, pulling a franc from his pocket. “Take it to the <i>concierge</i> - at the Pension Boccard.” - </p> - <p> - Katherine half rose, agitated. - </p> - <p> - “No, no. I must go to Lausanne. You mustn't keep me.” - </p> - <p> - But the boy had dashed off, clutching his franc-piece. Raine bent down - till the ends of his moustache nearly brushed her veil. - </p> - <p> - “I will keep you, Katherine, until you tell me you love me no longer.” - </p> - <p> - “Don't torture me,” she said, piteously. “That is why I tried to avoid - meeting—to spare us both. I knew your generosity.” - </p> - <p> - “My generosity,” echoed Raine, with effective interruption. “My longing, - my needs, the happiness of my life! If you care for me, it is not - torturing you to tell you I love you—I can't live a man's life - without you. When I first read your letter, it crushed the soul out of me. - I did not understand; afterwards I did. Some day you shall learn how. I - love you, Katherine, need you, yearn for you.” - </p> - <p> - His passion grew as he looked at her, watching the faint colour come and - go on the face beneath the veil. She seemed too fragile and delicate for - the rude buffetings of the world. An immense wave of emotion swept through - him. It was his indefeasible right to protect her, cherish her, hold her - in his arms, close to him. - </p> - <p> - And Katherine was trembling, every chord in her vibrated. She could not - speak. She flashed on him a quick, sidelong, feminine glance, and met his - eyes fixed upon her. They were blue and strong, half-fierce, half-tender. - The man's will and longing were in them. She shrank, and yet she looked - again, loving him for their intensity. Raine spoke on as he had never - known it had been in his power to speak. The old peasant dozed, regardless - of their presence or of that of a little dusty child who squatted down by - him to play with the dog. Through the trees and shrubs in front could be - seen glimpses of white dresses, scraps of the passers-by on the path along - the quay. But this quiet, somewhat unkempt corner remained undisturbed. - </p> - <p> - “I can't, I can't,” said Katherine, at last. - </p> - <p> - “I have pledged myself—I can't go back.” - </p> - <p> - “I will settle that matter,” he replied, with a half smile. “Leave it to - me. Men understand one another. You are mine, Katherine, my darling, mine, - my wife—if you love me.” - </p> - <p> - The tenderness of his voice thrilled through her. She raised her eyes to - his, this time to be held there. - </p> - <p> - “Love you!” - </p> - <p> - He read her lips rather than heard them. - </p> - <p> - “And nothing again shall part us? You will marry me, Katherine?” - </p> - <p> - All the woman in her cried “yes,” but it also held her back. - </p> - <p> - “Will you love me in after years as now, Raine? Will you never come to - think that this shame that has come to me was deserved? Think of it, dear, - in your clear, honest way. You will never come to feel that you have given - all your wealth for what, like most men, you should have trodden under - foot? Your life's happiness—mine—depend upon your answering it - from your heart of hearts, dear. Judge me now for ever and ever.” - </p> - <p> - “As God hears me,” said Raine, with the love in his voice. “To me you are - ever the purest and the noblest and tenderest of women. You love me with a - woman's love and I with a man's; and we will love soul to soul, dear, till - we die. Our love, dear, is as sacred to me as the ghost I buried in it a - few weeks ago. All this will be like a troubled dream—all the past, - darling, in both our lives as shadows. Thank God!” - </p> - <p> - He put his arms suddenly round her, drew her to him, and kissed her. For - both of them the world stood still, and the commonplace gardens were Eden, - and the old peasant nodded his weatherbeaten head, and the mongrel and the - dusty child looked on unastonished, like the beasts when the first apple - was eaten. - </p> - <p> - Raine went, an hour or so after, to the Hôtel National and found - Hockmaster outside, cultivating a dinner appetite with sherry and bitters. - He jumped up when he perceived his visitor, and came towards him. - </p> - <p> - “Hello, Chetwynd! This is real friendly of you. Come and sit down—join - me.” - </p> - <p> - Raine accepted the seat, but declined the sherry. - </p> - <p> - “Do you mind my asking you a very intimate question?” asked Raine. - </p> - <p> - “As many as you like,” said Hockmaster, with naïve effusion. “I have given - you a sort of right to be familiar. Of course, whether I answer it is a - matter for my discretion.” - </p> - <p> - “Precisely. But I hope you will. Are your feelings very deeply engaged in - this affair with Mrs. Stapleton?” - </p> - <p> - “Sir,” said Hockmaster. “I've repaired a wrong that has set at rest a - damned uneasy conscience.” - </p> - <p> - “From which I gather you have obeyed your conscience rather than your - heart,” said Raine. - </p> - <p> - “I am going to be married,” replied Hockmaster, between the first puffs of - a cigar he was lighting. “Perhaps you may not know that. So I guess I'd - better fall back upon discretion. It is best in affairs between man and - wife.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, but suppose it was broken off?” - </p> - <p> - “What? My marriage?” - </p> - <p> - He stretched himself out in a comfortable attitude, his hands behind his - head, and regarded Raine placidly. - </p> - <p> - “What sort of interest can the concerns of a worm like me have for you?” - </p> - <p> - “Every interest in the world,” replied Raine, flushing. “If it's merely a - question of conscience on your part, I have no scruple in asking you to - release Mrs. Stapleton from her engagement.” - </p> - <p> - “Did she send you?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes.” - </p> - <p> - “Tell you any reason?” - </p> - <p> - Hockmaster's tone irritated Raine. He rose quickly, thrusting his straw - hat to the back of his head, and stood over the recumbent American, with - his hands on his hips. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, she did. Mrs. Stapleton is going to marry me.” - </p> - <p> - The words brought the other to his feet with a force that nearly upset the - small table in front of him. - </p> - <p> - “God alive, man!” he cried, realizing the whole situation in a rush. “Why - on earth didn't you tell me before?” - </p> - <p> - The two men looked into one another's eyes. It was Raine who was first - disconcerted. The intense distress of the other was too genuine for him - not to feel touched. - </p> - <p> - “You're the first man for years,” said Hockmaster, “that I have felt drawn - to in friendship; and I have been powerfully drawn to you. I would have - cut off my head sooner than said or done anything to pain you Why didn't - you stop me this morning?” - </p> - <p> - “I tried to dissuade you.” - </p> - <p> - Hockmaster threw away his extinct cigar, and put his hands in his pockets - dejectedly. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, you did so; and I went on running knives into you. Why didn't you - pitch me into the lake last night? I wish to God you'd do it now.” - </p> - <p> - “We will forget all that,” said Raine, kindly. - </p> - <p> - “You may, but I shan't. And she—for heaven's sake, ask her to - forgive me. I was trying to do my best. You believe that, don't you?” - </p> - <p> - “With all my heart,” said Raine. - </p> - <p> - “And I'll tell you, Chetwynd,” continued Hockmaster, with a truer ring of - feeling in his voice than Raine had ever perceived, “I meant to be a good - man to her, to put down my cloak over every puddle in life for her to walk - upon, to make her just as happy as I could. But I guess I've been a blamed - fool. I've been a blamed fool all my life. First thing I remember was - running away from school to live in the woods. At first it was glorious. - Then it rained all night, and I crawled back next morning sick and - miserable, and was put to bed for a month. I reckon I'll go home. My White - Lead Company's going to burst like all the other bubbles. I heard this - morning. An hour ago I thought, 'Anyway, I've found a good friend and a - wife in Europe.' Now that's gone. But she'll be happy. You're worth twenty - million of me. You won't see me again. I suppose I'm the sorriest man - standing on the earth at the present moment; but you won't think worse of - me than I am, will you?” - </p> - <p> - He looked sideways at Raine, in his odd, appealing way. - </p> - <p> - “Upon my soul,” cried Raine, in an outburst of generous feeling, grasping - him by the shoulder, “I don't know whether you are not one of the most - lovable men I have ever met!” - </p> - <p> - Raine walked back to the pension with love in his heart towards all - mankind. God was in his heaven. All was right with the world. - </p> - <p> - He found Katherine and Felicia in the salon waiting for dinner, in company - with Mme. Popea and Frau Schultz. Mme. Popea cried out on seeing him,—“Another - happy one! What has made you all look so beatified?” - </p> - <p> - “The eternal beauty of humanity,” returned Raine, with a smile. - </p> - <p> - “And you have caught the plague of epigrams,” said Frau Schultz. “I asked - Miss Graves why she had such a colour, and she said, 'because the world - seemed wider to-day.' It's a new language.” - </p> - <p> - “It is the turn of madame,” said Mme. Popea, in her vivacious way. - </p> - <p> - Katherine laughed. - </p> - <p> - “This is not a parlour game, you know. But perhaps it is because I am - going to dine.” - </p> - <p> -Raine's heart leapt at the little touch of gaiety. His - eyes showed her his gladness. A stream of the other guests entered. She - took advantage of the sudden filling of the salon to draw him to her side. - A glance asked a tremulous question. He reassured her with a whisper, and - they went out on to the balcony. - </p> - <p> - “I have told my father,” said Raine. “He will love you, dear.” - </p> - <p> - She pressed his arm for answer. There was a long silence, which Raine, - half divining her mood, would not break. At last he said, lover-wise,— - </p> - <p> - “Tell me your thoughts, beloved.” - </p> - <p> - “I was thinking that I have lived thirty-one years, and I have never known - till now what even freedom from care was. I seemed blinded by the light, - like the prisoners let out from the Bastille. There is something awful in - such happiness.” - </p> - <p> - “It shall be with you to the end,” said Raine. - </p> - <p> - “I know it,” she replied. - </p> - <p> - Then, after a pause,— - </p> - <p> - “I have told Felicia. Do you mind?” - </p> - <p> - “We owe her a great debt,” said Raine. “She came to me this afternoon, - after leaving you.” - </p> - <p> - The blood rose in Katherine's cheeks, and she looked up timidly into his - face. - </p> - <p> - “I think I shall bring her here to you. You will know what to say to her.” - </p> - <p> - She disappeared for a moment by the open window, and then returned with - Felicia, whom she left with Raine. He came forward, and took both her - hands in his. - </p> - <p> - “How can I ever repay you?” - </p> - <p> - “You have done too much for me already,” said Felicia. - </p> - <p> - There was a little combat of generous words. - </p> - <p> - The dinner-gong sounded the end of the talk. - </p> - <p> - “And the Pension Boccard,” he said; “you will have some pleasant memories - of it?” - </p> - <p> - “Ah, yes. I owe too much to it.” - </p> - <p> - “How?” asked Raine. - </p> - <p> - “You may think it an odd thing to say, but it seems to have changed me - from a girl into a woman.” - </p> - <p> - “Does that bring you happiness?” - </p> - <p> - “I don't know,” replied Felicia, musingly. - </p> - <p> - And then, after a pause,— - </p> - <p> - “I think so.” - </p> - <h3> - THE END. - </h3> - <div style="height: 6em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of A Study In Shadows, by William J. 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