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diff --git a/old/55276-0.txt b/old/55276-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 9c66712..0000000 --- a/old/55276-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,10637 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Twilight, by Julia Frankau - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere 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/license - - -Title: Twilight - -Author: Julia Frankau - -Release Date: August 6, 2017 [EBook #55276] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TWILIGHT *** - - - - -Produced by Richard Tonsing and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive) - - - - - - - - - - TWILIGHT - - - - - _BY THE SAME AUTHOR_ - - - PIGS IN CLOVER - BACCARAT - THE SPHINX’S LAWYER - THE HEART OF A CHILD - AN INCOMPLEAT ETONIAN - LET THE ROOF FALL IN - JOSEPH IN JEOPARDY - DR. PHILLIPS - A BABE OF BOHEMIA - CONCERT PITCH - FULL SWING - NELSON’S LEGACY - THE STORY BEHIND THE VERDICT - TWILIGHT - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - TWILIGHT - - BY - FRANK DANBY - - AUTHOR OF “PIGS IN CLOVER,” “THE HEART OF A CHILD,” “THE STORY BEHIND - THE VERDICT,” ETC. - -[Illustration] - - NEW YORK - DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY - 1916 - - - - - COPYRIGHT, 1916, BY - DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - TWILIGHT - - - - - CONTENTS - - - CHAPTER I - CHAPTER II - CHAPTER III - CHAPTER IV - CHAPTER V - CHAPTER VI - CHAPTER VII - CHAPTER VIII - CHAPTER IX - CHAPTER X - CHAPTER XI - CHAPTER XII - CHAPTER XIII - CHAPTER XIV - CHAPTER XV - CHAPTER XVI - - - - - CHAPTER I - - -A couple of years ago, on the very verge of the illness that -subsequently overwhelmed me, I took a small furnished house in Pineland. -I made no inspection of the place, but signed the agreement at the -instance of the local house-agent, who proved little less inventive than -the majority of his _confrères_. - -Three months of neuritis, only kept within bounds by drugs, had made me -comparatively indifferent to my surroundings. It was necessary for me to -move because I had become intolerant of the friends who exclaimed at my -ill looks, and the acquaintances who failed to notice any alteration in -me. One sister whom I really loved, and who really loved me, exasperated -me by constant visits and ill-concealed anxiety. Another irritated me -little less by making light of my ailment and speaking of neuritis in an -easy familiar manner as one might of toothache or a corn. I had no -natural sleep, and if I were not on the borderland of insanity, I was at -least within sight of the home park of inconsequence. Reasoned behaviour -was no longer possible, and I knew it was necessary for me to be alone. - -I do not wish to recall this bad time nor the worse that ante-dated my -departure, when I was at the mercy of venal doctors and indifferent -nurses, dependent on grudged bad service and overpaid inattention, -taking a so-called rest cure. But I do wish to relate a most curious -circumstance, or set of circumstances, that made my stay in Pineland -memorable, and left me, after my sojourn there, obsessed with the story -of which I found the beginning on the first night of my arrival, and the -end in the long fevered nights that followed. I myself hardly know how -much is true and how much is fiction in this story; for what the _cache_ -of letters is responsible, and for what the morphia. - -The house at Pineland was called Carbies, and it was haunted for me from -the first by Margaret Capel and Gabriel Stanton. Quite early in my stay -I must have contemplated writing about them, knowing that there was no -better way of ridding myself of their phantoms, than by trying to make -them substantial in pen and ink. I had their letters and some scraps of -an unfinished diary to help me, a notebook with many blank pages, the -garrulous reticence of the village apothecary, and the evidence of the -sun-washed God’s Acre by the old church. - -To begin at the beginning. - -It was a long drive from Pineland station to Carbies. I had sent my maid -in advance, but there was no sign of her when my ricketty one-horse fly -pulled up at the garden gate of a suburban villa of a house “standing -high” it is true, and with “creeper climbing about its white-painted -walls.” But otherwise with no more resemblance to the exquisite and -secluded cottage _ornée_ I had in my mind, and that the house-agent had -portrayed in his letters, than a landscape by Matise to one by Ruysdael. - -I was too tired then to be greatly disappointed. Two servants had been -sent in by my instructions, and the one who opened the door to me proved -to be a cheerful-looking young person of the gollywog type, with a -corresponding cap, who relieved me of my hand luggage and preceded me to -the drawing-room, where wide windows and a bright fire made me oblivious -for the moment of the shabby furniture, worn carpet, and mildewed -wallpaper. Tea was brought to me in a cracked pot on a veneered tray. -The literary supplement of _The Times_ and an American magazine were all -I had with which to occupy myself. And they proved insufficient. I began -to look about me; and became curiously and almost immediately conscious -that my new abode must have been inhabited by a sister or brother of the -pen. The feeling was not psychic. The immense writing-table stood -sideways in the bow-window as only “we” know how to place it. The -writing-chair looked sufficiently luxurious to tempt me to an immediate -trial; there were a footstool and a big waste-paper basket; all -incongruous with the cheap and shabby drawing-room furniture. Had only -my MS. paper been to hand, ink in the substantial glass pot, and my twin -enamel pens available, I think I should then and there have abjured all -my vows of rest and called upon inspiration to guide me to a fresh -start. - -“_Work whilst ye have the light_” had been my text for months; driving -me on continually. It seemed possible, even then, that the time before -me was short. I left the fire and my unfinished tea. Instinctively I -found the words rising to my lips, “I could write here.” That was the -way a place always struck me. Whether I could or could not write there? -Seated in that convenient easy-chair I felt at once that my shabby new -surroundings were sympathetic to me, that I fitted in and was at home in -them. - -I had come straight from a narrow London house where my bedroom -overlooked a mews, and my sitting-room other narrow houses with a -roadway between. Here, early in March, from the wide low window I saw -yellow gorse overgrowing a rough and unkempt garden. Beyond the garden -more flaming gorse on undulating common land, then hills, and between -them, unmistakable, the sombre darkness of the sea. Up here the air was -very still, but the smell of the gorse was strong with the wind from -that distant sea. I wished for pens and paper at first; then drifted -beyond wishes, dreaming I knew not of what, but happier and more content -than I had been for some time past. The air was healing, so were the -solitude and silence. My silence and solitude were interrupted, my -content came abruptly to an end. - -“Dr. Kennedy!” - -I did not rise. In those bad neuritis days rising was not easy. I stared -at the intruder, and he at me. But I guessed in a minute to what his -unwelcome presence was due. My anxious, dearly beloved, and fidgetty -sister had found out the name of the most noted Æsculapius of the -neighbourhood and had notified him of my arrival, probably had given him -a misleading and completely erroneous account of my illness, certainly -asked him to call. I found out afterwards I was right in all my guesses -save one. This was not the most noted Æsculapius of the neighbourhood, -but his more youthful partner. Dr. Lansdowne was on his holiday. Dr. -Kennedy had read my sister’s letter and was now bent upon carrying out -her instructions. As I said, we stared at each other in the advancing -dusk. - -“You have only just come?” he ventured then. - -“I’ve been here about an hour,” I replied—“a quiet hour.” - -“I had your sister’s letter,” he said apologetically, if a little -awkwardly, as he advanced into the room. - -“She wrote you, then?” - -“Oh yes! I’ve got the letter somewhere.” He felt in his pocket and -failed to find it. - -“Won’t you sit down?” - -There was no chair near the writing-table save the one upon which I sat. -A further reason why I knew my predecessor here had been a writer! Dr. -Kennedy had to fetch one, and I took shallow stock of him meanwhile. A -tall and not ill-looking man in the late thirties or early forties, he -had on the worst suit of country tweeds I had ever seen and -incongruously well-made boots. Now he sprawled silently in the selected -chair, and I waited for his opening. Already I was nauseated with -doctors and their methods. In town I had seen everybody’s favourite -nostrum-dispenser, and none of them had relieved me of anything but my -hardly earned cash. I mean to present a study of them one day, to get -something back from what I have given. Dr. Kennedy did not accord with -the black-coated London brigade, and his opening was certainly -different. - -“How long have you been feeling unwell?” That was what I expected, this -was the common gambit. Dr. Kennedy sat a few minutes without speaking at -all. Then he asked me abruptly: - -“Did you know Mrs. Capel?” - -“Who?” - -“Margaret Capel. You knew she lived here, didn’t you? That it was here -it all happened?” - -“What happened?” - -“Then you don’t know?” He got up from his chair in a fidgetty sort of -way and went over to the other window. “I hoped you knew her, that she -had been a friend of yours. I hoped so ever since I had your sister’s -letter. Carbies! It seemed so strange to be coming here again. I can’t -believe it is ten years ago; it is all so vivid!” He came back and sat -down again. “I ought not to talk about her, but the whole room and house -are so full of memories. She used to sit, just as you are sitting now, -for hours at a time, dreaming. Sometimes she would not speak to me at -all. I had to go away; I could see I was intruding.” - -The cynical words on my lips remained unuttered. He was tall, and if his -clothes had fitted him he might have presented a better figure. I hate a -morning coat in tweed material. The adjective “uncouth” stuck. I saw it -was a clever head under the thick mane of black hair, and wondered at -his tactlessness and provincial garrulity. I nevertheless found myself -not entirely uninterested in him. - -“Do you mind my talking about her? Incandescent! I think that word -describes her best. She burned from the inside, was strung on wires, and -they were all alight. She was always sitting just where you are now, or -upstairs at the piano. She was a wonderful pianist. Have you been -upstairs, into the room she turned into a music room?” - -“As I told you, I have only been here an hour. This is the only room I -have seen.” - -My tone must have struck him as wanting in cordiality, or interest. - -“You didn’t want me to come up tonight?” He looked through his -pocketbook for Ella’s letter, found it, and began to read, half aloud. -How well I knew what Ella would have said to him. - -“She has taken ‘Carbies’; call upon her at once ... let me know what you -think ... don’t be misled by her high spirits....” He read it half aloud -and half to himself. He seemed to expect my sympathy. “I used to come -here so often, two or three times a day sometimes.” - -“Was she ill?” The question was involuntary. Margaret Capel was nothing -to me. - -“Part of the time. Most of the time.” - -“Did you do her any good?” - -Apparently he had no great sense or sensitiveness of professional -dignity. There was a strange light in his eyes, brilliant yet fitful, -conjured up by the question. It was the first time he seemed to -recognize my existence as a separate entity. He looked directly at me, -instead of gazing about him reminiscently. - -“I don’t know. I did my best. When she was in pain I stopped it ... -sometimes. She did not always like the medicines I prescribed. And you? -You are suffering from neuritis, your sister says. That may mean -anything. Where is it?” - -“In my legs.” - -I did not mean him to attend me; I had come away to rid myself of -doctors. And anyway I liked an older man in a professional capacity. But -his eccentricity of manner or deportment, his want of interest in me and -absorption in his former patient, his ill-cut clothes and unlikeness to -his brother professionals, were a little variety, and I found myself -answering his questions. - -“Have you tried Kasemol? It is a Japanese cure very efficacious; or any -other paint?” - -“I am no artist.” - -He smiled. He had a good set of teeth, and his smile was pleasant. - -“You’ve got a nurse, or a maid?” - -“A maid. I’m not ill enough for nurses.” - -“Good. Did you know this was once a nursing-home? After she found that -out she could never bear the place....” - -He was talking again about the former occupant of the house. My ailment -had not held his attention long. - -“She said she smelt ether and heard groaning in the night. I suppose it -seems strange to you I should talk so much about her? But Carbies -without Margaret Capel.... You _do_ mind?” - -“No, I don’t. I daresay I shall be glad to hear all about her one day, -and the story. I see you have a story to tell. Of course I remember her -now. She wrote a play or two, and some novels that had quite a little -vogue at one time. But I’m tired tonight.” - -“So short a journey ought not to tire you.” He was observing me more -closely. “You look overdriven, too fine-drawn. We must find out all -about it. Not tonight of course. You must not look upon this as a -professional visit at all, but I could not resist coming. You would -understand, if you had known her. And then to see you sitting at her -table, and in the same attitude....” He left off abruptly. So the regard -I had flattered myself to be personal was merely reminiscent. “You don’t -write too, by any chance, do you? That would be an extraordinary -coincidence.” - -He might as well have asked Melba if she sang. Blundering fool! I was -better known than Margaret Capel had ever been. Not proud of my position -because I have always known my limitations, but irritated nevertheless -by his ignorance, and wishful now to get rid of him. - -“Oh, yes! I write a little sometimes. Sorry my position at the table -annoys you. But I don’t play the piano.” He seemed a little surprised or -hurt at my tone, as he well might, and rose to go. I rose, too, and held -out my hand. After all I did not write under my own name, so how could -he have known unless Ella had told him? When he shook hands with me he -made no pretence of feeling my pulse, a trick of the trade which I -particularly dislike. So I smiled at him. “I am a little irritable.” - -“Irritability is characteristic of the complaint. And I have bored you -horribly, I fear. But it was such an excitement coming up here again. -May I come in the morning and overhaul you? My partner, Dr. Lansdowne, -for whom your sister’s letter was really intended, is away. Does that -matter?” - -“I shouldn’t think so.” - -“He is a very able man,” he said seriously. - -“And are you not?” By this time my legs were aching badly and I wanted -to get rid of him. - -“In the morning, then.” - -He seemed as if he would have spoken again, but thought better of it. He -had certainly a personality, but one that I was not sure I liked. He -took an inconceivable time winding up or starting his machine, the buzz -of it was in my ears long after he went off, blowing an unnecessary -whistle, making my pain unbearable. - -I dined in bed and treated myself to an extra dose of nepenthe on the -excuse of the fatigue of my journey. The prescription had been given to -me by one of those eminent London physicians of whom I hope one day to -make a pen-and-ink drawing. It is an insidious drug with varying -effects. That night I remember the pain was soon under weigh and the -strange half-wakeful dreams began early. It was good to be out of pain -even if one knew it to be only a temporary deliverance. The happiness of -a recovered amiability soon became mine, after which conscience began to -worry me because I had been ungrateful to my sister and had run away -from her, and been rude to her doctor, that strange doctor. I smiled in -my drowsiness when I thought of him and his beloved Margaret Capel, a -strange devotee at a forgotten shrine, in his cutaway checked coat and -the baggy trousers. But the boots might have come from Lobb. His hands -were smooth, of the right texture. Evidently the romance of his life had -been this Margaret Capel. - -So this place had been a nursing-home, and when she knew it she heard -groans and smelt ether. Her books were like that: fanciful, frothy. She -had never a straightforward story to tell. It was years since I had -heard her name, and I had forgotten what little I knew, except that I -had once been resentful of the fuss the critics had made over her. I -believed she was dead, but could not be sure. Then I thought of Death, -and was glad it had no terrors for me. No one could go on living as I -had been doing, never out of pain, without seeing Death as a release. - -A burning point of pain struck me again, and because I was drugged I -found it unbearable. Before it was too late and I became drowsier I -roused myself for another dose. To pour out the medicine and put the -glass down without spilling it was difficult, the table seemed uneven. -Later my brain became confused, and my body comfortable. - -It was then I saw Margaret Capel for the first time, not knowing who she -was, but glad of her appearance, because it heralded sleep. Always -before the drug assumed its fullest powers, I saw kaleidoscopic changes, -unsubstantial shapes, things and people that were not there. Wonderful -things sometimes. This was only a young woman in a grey silk dress, of -old-fashioned cut, with puffed sleeves and wide skirts. She had a mass -of fair hair, _blonde cendré_, and with a blue ribbon snooded through -it. At first her face was nebulous, afterwards it appeared with a little -more colour in it, and she had thin and tremulous pink lips. She looked -plaintive, and when our eyes met she seemed a little startled at seeing -me in her bed. The last thing I saw of her was a wavering smile, rather -wonderful and alluring. I knew at once that she was Margaret Capel. But -she was quickly replaced by two Chinese vases and a conventional design -in black and gold. I had been too liberal with that last dose of -nepenthe, and the result was the deep sleep or unconsciousness I liked -the least of its effects, a blank passing of time. - -The next morning, as usual after such a debauch, I was heavy and -depressed, still drowsy but without any happiness or content. I had -often wondered I could keep a maid, for latterly I was always either -irritable or silent. Not mean, however. That has never been one of my -faults, and may have been the explanation. Suzanne asked how I had slept -and hoped I was better, perfunctorily, without waiting for an answer. -She was a great fat heavy Frenchwoman, totally without sympathetic -quality. I told her not to pull up the blinds nor bring coffee until I -rang. - -“I am quite well, but I don’t want to be bothered. The servants must do -the housekeeping. If Dr. Kennedy calls say I am too ill to see him.” - -I often wish one could have dumb servants. But Suzanne was happily -lethargic and not argumentative. I heard afterwards that she gave my -message verbatim to the doctor: “Madame was not well enough to see him,” -but softened it by a suggestion that I would perhaps be better tomorrow -and perhaps he would come again. His noisy machine and unnecessary horn -spoiled the morning and angered me against Ella for having brought him -over me. - -I felt better after lunch and got up, making a desultory exploration of -the house and finding my last night’s impression confirmed. The position -was lonely without being secluded. All round the house was the rough -garden, newly made, unfinished, planted with trees not yet grown and -kitchen stuff. Everywhere was the stiff and prickly gorse. On the front -there were many bedrooms; some, like my own, had broad balconies whereon -a bed could be wheeled. The place had probably at one time been used as -an open-air cure. Then Margaret Capel must have taken it, altered this -that and the other, but failed to make a home out of what had been -designed for a hospital. By removing a partition two of these bedrooms -had been turned into one. This one was large, oak-floored, and a -Steinway grand upon a platform dominated one corner. There was a big -music stand. I opened it and found no clearance of music had been made. -It was full and deplorably untidy. The rest of the furniture consisted -of tapestry-covered small and easy-chairs, a round table, a great sofa -drawn under one of the windows, and some amateur water colours. - -On the ground floor the dining-room looked unused and the library smelt -musty. It was lined with open cupboards or bookcases, the top shelves -fitted with depressing-looking tomes and the lower one bulging with -yellow-backed novels, old-fashioned three-volume novels, magazines dated -ten years back, and an “olla podrida” of broken-backed missing-leaved -works by Hawley Smart, Mrs. Lovett Cameron, and Charles Lever. Nothing -in either of these rooms was reminiscent of Margaret Capel. I was glad -to get back to the drawing-room, on the same floor, but -well-proportioned and agreeable. Today, with the sun out and my fatigue -partly gone, its shabbiness looked homely and even attractive. The -position of the writing-table again made its appeal. Suzanne had -unpacked my writing-things and they stood ready for arrangement, heaped -up together on the green leather top. I saw with satisfaction that there -were many drawers and that the table was both roomy and convenient. The -view from the window was altered by the sunlight. The yellow gorse was -still the most prominent feature, but beyond it today one saw the sea -more plainly, a little dim and hazy in the distance but unmistakable; -melting into the horizon. Today the sky was of a summer blue although it -was barely spring. I felt my courage revive. Again I said to myself that -I could write here, and silently rescinded my intention of resting. -“_Work whilst ye have the light._” I had not a great light, but another -than myself to work for, and perhaps not much time. - -The gollywog put a smiling face and a clean cap halfway into the room -and said: - -“Please, ma’am, cook wishes to know if she can speak to you, and if you -please there is no....” - -There tumbled out a list of household necessities, which vexed me -absurdly. But the writing-chair was comfortable and helped me through -the narrative. The table was alluring, and I wanted to be alone. Cook -arrived before Mary had finished, and then the monologue became a duet. - -“There’s not more than half a dozen glasses altogether, and I’m sure I -don’t know what to do about the teapot. There’s only one tray....” - -“And as for the cooking utensils, well, I never see such a lot. And that -dirty! The kitchen dresser has never been cleaned out since the flood, I -should think. Stuffed up with dirty cloths and broken crockery. As for -the kitchen table, there’s knives without handles and forks without -prongs; not a shape that isn’t dented; the big fish kettle’s got a hole -in it as big as your ’and, and the others ain’t fit to use. The pastry -board’s broke....” - -I wanted to stop my ears and tell them to get out. I had asked for -competent servants, and understood that competent servants bought or -hired whatever was necessary for their work. That was the way things -were managed at home. But then my cook had been with me for eight years -and my housemaid for eleven. They knew my ways, and that I was never to -be bothered with household details, only the bills were my affair. And -those my secretary paid. - -“It was one of them there writing women as had the place last, with no -more idea of order than the kitchen cat,” cook said indignantly, or -perhaps suspiciously, eyeing the writing-table. I had come here for rest -and change, to lead the simple life, with two servants instead of five -and everything in proportion. Now I found myself giving reckless orders. - -“Buy everything you want; there is sure to be a shop in the village. If -not, make out a list, and one of you go up to the Stores or Harrod’s. If -the place is dirty get in a charwoman. Some one will recommend you a -charwoman, the house-agent or the doctor.” I reminded cook that she was -a cook-housekeeper, but failed to subdue her. - -“You can’t be cook-housekeeper in a desert island. I call it no better -than a desert island. I’d get hold of that there house-agent that -engaged us if I was you. He said the ’ouse was well-found. Him with his -well-found ’ouse! They’re bound to give you what you need, but if you -don’t mind expense....” - -Of course I minded expense, never more so than now when I saw the -possibility before me of a long period of inaction.... But I minded -other things more. Household detail for instance, and uneducated voices. -I compromised and sanctioned the appeal to the house-agent, confirming -that the irreducible minimum was to be purchased, explaining I was ill, -not to be troubled about this sort of thing. I brushed aside a few -“buts” and finally rid myself of them. I caught myself yearning for -Ella, who would have saved me this and every trouble. Then scorned my -desire to send for her and determined to be glad of my solitude, to -rejoice in my freedom. I could look as ill as I liked without comment. I -could sit where I was without attempting to tidy my belongings, and no -one would ask me if I felt seedy, if the pain was coming on, if they -could do anything for me. And then, fool that I was, I remember tears -coming to my eyes because I was lonely, and sure that I had tired out -even Ella’s patience. I wondered how any one could face a long illness, -least of all any one like me who loved work, and above all independence, -freedom. I knew, I knew even then that the time was coming when I could -neither work nor be independent; the shadow was upon me that very first -afternoon at Carbies. When I could see to write I dashed off a postcard -to Ella telling her I was quite well and she was not to bother about me. - -“I like the place, I’m sure I shall be able to write here. Don’t think -of coming down, and keep the rest of the family off me if you can....” - -I spent the remainder of the evening weakly longing for her, and feeling -that she need not have taken me at my word, that she might have come -with me although I urged her not, that she should have understood me -better. - -That night I took less nepenthe, yet saw Margaret Capel more vividly. -She stayed a long time too. This time she wore a blue peignoir, her hair -down, and she looked very young and girlish. There were gnomes and -fairies when she went, and after that the sea, swish and awash as if I -had been upon a yacht. Unconsciousness only came to me when the yacht -was submerged in a great wave ... semi-consciousness. - -But I am not telling the story of my illness. I should like to, but I -fear it would have no interest for the general public, or for the young -people amongst whom one looks for readers. I have sometimes thought -nevertheless, both then and afterwards, that there must be a public who -would like to hear what one does and thinks and suffers when illness -catches one unawares; and all life’s interests alter and narrow down to -temperatures and medicine-time, to fighting or submitting to nurses and -weakness, to hatred and contempt of doctors, and a dumb blind rage -against fate; to pain and the soporifics behind which its hold tightens. - -Pineland did not cure me, although I spent hours in the open air and let -my pens lie resting in their case. Under continual pains I grew sullen -and resentful, always more ill-tempered and desirous of solitude. Dr. -Kennedy called frequently. Sometimes I saw him and sometimes not, as the -mood took me. He never came without speaking of the former occupant of -the house, of Margaret Capel. He seemed to take very little personal -interest in me or my condition. And I was too proud (or stupid) to force -it on his notice. I asked him once, crudely enough, if he had been in -love with Margaret Capel. He answered quite simply, as if he had been a -child: - -“One had no chance. From the first I knew there was no chance.” - -“There was some one else?” - -“He came up and down. I seldom met him. Then there were the -circumstances. She was between the Nisi and the Absolute, the nether and -the upper stone....” - -“Oh, yes, I remember now. She was divorced.” - -“No, she was not. She divorced her husband,” he answered quite sharply -and a little distressed. “Courts of Justice they are called, but Courts -of Injustice would be a better name. They put her to the question, on -the rack; no inquisition could have been worse. And she was broken by -it....” - -“But there was some one else, you said yourself there was some one else. -Probably these probing questions, this rack, were her deserts. -Personally I am a monogamist,” I retorted. Not that I was really narrow -or a Pharisee, only in contentious mood and cruel under the pressure of -my own harrow. “Probably anything she suffered served her right,” I -added indifferently. - -“It all happened afterwards. I thought you knew,” he said incoherently. - -“I know nothing except that you are always talking of Margaret Capel, -and I am a little tired of the subject,” I answered pettishly. “Who was -the man?” - -“The man!” - -“Yes, the man who came up and down to see her?” - -“Gabriel Stanton.” - -“Gabriel Stanton!” I sat upright in my chair; that really startled me. -“Gabriel Stanton,” I repeated, and then, stupidly enough: “Are you -sure?” - -“Quite sure. But I won’t talk about it any more since it bores you. The -house is so haunted for me, and you seemed so sympathetic, so -interested. You won’t let me doctor you.” - -“You haven’t tried very hard, have you?” - -“You put me off whenever I try to ask you how you are, or any -questions.” - -“What is the good? I’ve seen twelve London doctors.” - -“London has not the monopoly of talent.” He took up his hat, and then my -hand. - -“Offended?” I asked him. - -“No. But my partner will be home tomorrow, and I’m relinquishing my -place to him. It is really his case.” - -“I refuse to be anybody’s case. I’ve heard from the best authorities -that no one knows anything about neuritis and that it is practically -incurable. One has to suffer and suffer. Even Almroth Wright has not -found the anti-bacilli. Nepenthe gives me ease; that is all the -doctoring I want—ease!” - -“It is doing you a lot of harm. And what makes you think you’ve got -neuritis?” - -“What ailed your Margaret?” I answered mockingly. “Did you ever find -that out?” - -“No ... yes. Of course I knew.” - -“Did you ever examine her?” I was curious to know that; suddenly and -inconsequently curious. - -“Why do you ask?” But his face changed, and I knew the question had been -cruel or impertinent. He let go my hand abruptly, he had been holding it -all this time. “I did all that any doctor could.” He was obviously -distressed and I ashamed. - -“Don’t go yet. Sit down and have a cup of tea with me. I’ve been here -three weeks and every meal has been solitary. Your Margaret”—I smiled at -him then, knowing he would not understand—“comes to me sometimes at -night with my nepenthe, but all day I am alone.” - -“By your own desire then, I swear. You are not a woman to be left alone -if you wanted company.” He dropped into a chair, seemed glad to stay. -Presently over tea and crumpets, we were really talking of my illness, -and if I had permitted it I have no doubt he would have gone into the -matter more closely. As it was he warned me solemnly against the -nepenthe and suggested I should try codein as an alternative, a -suggestion I ignored completely, unfortunately for myself. - -“Tell me about your partner,” I said, drinking my tea slowly. - -“Oh! you’ll like him, all the ladies like him. He is very spruce and -rather handsome; dapper, band-boxy. Not tall, turning grey....” - -“Did she like him?” I persisted. - -“She would not have him near her. After his first visit she denied -herself to him all the time. He used to talk to me about her, he could -never understand it, he was not used to that sort of treatment, he is a -tremendous favourite about here.” - -“What did she say of him?” - -“That he grinned like a Cheshire cat, talked in _clichés_, rubbed his -hands and seemed glad when she suffered. He has a very cheerful bedside -manner; most people like it.” - -“I quite understand. I won’t have him. Mind that; don’t send him to see -me, because I won’t see him. I’d rather put up with you.” I have -explained I was beyond convention. He really tried hard to persuade me, -urged Dr. Lansdowne’s degrees and qualifications, his seniority. I grew -angry in the end. - -“Surely I need not have either of you if I don’t want to. I suppose -there are other doctors in the neighbourhood.” - -He gave me a list of the medical men practising in and about Pineland; -it was not at all badly done, he praised everybody yet made me see them -clearly. In the end I told him I would choose my own medical attendant -when I wanted one. - -“Am I dismissed, then?” he asked. - -“Have you ever been summoned?” I answered in the same tone. - -“Seriously now, I’d like to be of use to you if you’d let me.” - -“In order to retain the _entrée_ to the house where the wonderful -Margaret moved and had her being?” - -“No! Well, perhaps yes, partly. And you are a very attractive woman -yourself.” - -“Don’t be ridiculous.” - -“It is quite true. I expect you know it.” - -“I’m over forty and ill. I suppose that is what you find attractive, -that I am ill?” - -“I don’t think so. I hate hysterical women as a rule.” - -“Hysterical!” - -“With any form of nerve disease.” - -“Do you really think I am suffering from nerve disease? From the -vapours?” I asked scornfully, thinking for the thousand and first time -what a fool the man was. - -“You don’t occupy yourself?” - -“I’m one of the busiest women on God’s earth.” - -“I’ve never seen you doing anything, except sitting at her writing-table -with two bone-dry pens set out and some blank paper. And you object to -be questioned about your illness, or examined.” - -“I hate scientific doctoring. And then you have not inspired me with -confidence, you are obsessed with one idea.” - -“I can’t help that. From the first you’ve reminded me of Margaret.” - -“Oh! damn Margaret Capel, and your infatuation for her! I’m sorry, but -that’s the way I feel just now. I can’t escape from her, the whole place -is full of her. And yet she hasn’t written a thing that will live. I -sent to the London Library soon after I came and got all her books. I -waded through the lot. Just epigram and paradox, a weak Bernard Shaw in -petticoats.” - -“I never read a word she wrote,” he answered indifferently. “It was the -woman herself....” - -“I am sure. Well, good-bye! I can’t talk any more tonight, I’m tired. -Don’t send Dr. Lansdowne. If I want any one I’ll let you know.” - -Margaret came to me again that night when the house was quite silent and -all the lights out except the red one from the fire. She sat in the -easy-chair on the hearthrug, and for the first time I heard her speak. -She was very young and feeble-looking, and I told her I was sorry I had -been impatient and said “damn” about her. - -“But you are all over the place, you know. And I can’t write unless I am -alone. I’m always solitary and never alone here; you haunt and obsess -me. Can’t you go away? I don’t mean now. I am glad you are here now, and -talking. Tell me about Dr. Kennedy. Did you care for him at all? Did you -know he was in love with you?” - -“Peter Kennedy! No, I never thought about him at all, not until the end. -Then he was very kind, or cruel. He did what I asked him. You know why I -obsess you, don’t you? It used to be just the same with me when a -subject was evolving. You are going to write my story; you will do it -better in a way than I could have done it myself, although worse in -another. I have left you all the material.” - -“Not a word.” - -“You haven’t found it yet. I put it together myself, the day Gabriel -sent back my letters. You will have my diary and a few notes....” - -“Where?” - -“In a drawer in the writing-table. But it is only half there.... You -will have to add to it.” - -“I see you quite well when I keep my eyes shut. If I open them the room -sways and you are not there. Why should I write your life? I am no -historian, only a novelist.” - -“I know, but you are on the spot, with all the material and local -colour. You know Gabriel too; we used to speak about you.” - -“He is no admirer of mine.” - -“No. He is a great stylist, and you have no sense of style.” - -“Nor you of anything else,” I put in rudely, hastily. - -“A harsh judgment, characteristic. You are a blunt realist, I should -say, hard and a little unwomanly, calling a spade by its ugliest name; -but sentimental with pen in hand you really do write abominably -sometimes. But you will remind the world of me again. I don’t want to be -forgotten. I would rather be misrepresented than forgotten. There are so -few geniuses! Keats and I.... _Don’t go to sleep._” - -I could not help it, however. Several times after that, whenever I -remembered something I wished to ask her, and opened dulled eyes, she -was not there at all. The chair where she had sat was empty, and the -fire had died down to dull ash. I drowsed and dreamed. In my dreams I -achieved style, an ambient, exquisite style, and wrote about Margaret -Capel and Gabriel Stanton so glowingly and convincingly that all the -world wept for them and wondered, and my sales ran into hundreds of -thousands. - -“_We have always expected great things of this author, but she has -transcended our highest expectations...._” The reviews were all on this -scale. For the remainder of that night no writer in England was as -famous as I. Publishers and literary agents hung round my doorsteps and -I rejected marvellous offers. If I had not been so thirsty and my mouth -dry, no one could have been happier, but the dryness and thirst woke me -continuously, and I execrated Suzanne for having put the water bottle -out of my reach, and forgotten to supply me with acid drops. I remember -grumbling about it to Margaret. - - - - - CHAPTER II - - -I began the search for those letters the very next day, knowing how -absurd it was, as if one were still a child who expected to find the pot -of gold at the end of the rainbow. I made Suzanne telephone to Dr. -Kennedy that I was much better and would prefer he did not call. I -really wanted to be alone, to make my search complete, not to be -interrupted. If it were not true that I was better, at least I was no -worse, only heavy and dull in body and mind, every movement an almost -unbearable fatigue. Nevertheless I sat down with determination at the -writing-table, intent on opening every drawer and cupboard, calling to -Suzanne to help me, on the pretence of wanting white paper to line the -drawers, and a duster to clean them. In reality, that she should do the -stooping instead of me. But everywhere was emptiness or dust. I crawled -to the music room after lunch and tried my luck there, amid the heaped -disorderly music, but there too the search proved unavailing. It was no -use going downstairs again, so I went to bed, before dinner, passing a -white night with red pain points, beyond the reach even of nepenthe. I -had counted on seeing Margaret Capel again, getting fuller instructions, -but was disappointed in that also. - -The next day and many others were equally full and equally empty. I -looked in unlikely places until I was tired out; dragging about my -worn-out body that had been whipped into a pretence of activity by my -driving brain. Dr. Kennedy came and went, talking spasmodically of -Margaret Capel, watching me, I thought sometimes, with puzzled enquiring -eyes. My family in London was duly informed how well I was, and the good -that the rest and solitude were doing me. I felt horribly ill, and -towards the end of my second week gave up seeking for Margaret Capel’s -letters or papers. I was still intent upon writing her story, but had -made up my mind now to compile it from the facts I could persuade or -force from Dr. Kennedy, from old newspaper reports, and other sources. -It was borne in upon me that to go on with my work was the only way to -save myself from what I now thought was mental as well as physical -breakdown. I saw Margaret elusively, was never quite free from the sense -that I was not alone. The chills that ran through me meant that she was -behind me; the hot flushes that she was about to materialise. In normal -times I was the most dogmatic disbeliever in the occult; but now I -believed Carbies to be haunted. - -When I was able to think soundly and consecutively, I began to piece -together what little I knew of these two people by whom I was obsessed. -For it was not only Margaret, but Gabriel Stanton whom I felt, or -suspected, about the house. Stanton & Co. were my own publishers. I had -not known them as Margaret Capel’s. Gabriel was not the member of the -firm I saw when I made my rare calls in Greyfriars’ Square. He was -understood to be occupied only with the classical works issued by the -well-known house. Somewhere or other I had heard that he had achieved a -great reputation at Oxford and knew more about Greek roots than any -living authority. On the few occasions we met I had felt him -antagonistic or contemptuous. He would come into the room where I was -talking to Sir George and back out again quickly, saying he was sorry, -or that he did not know his cousin was engaged. Sir George introduced us -more than once, but Mr. Gabriel Stanton always seemed to have forgotten -the circumstance. I remembered him as a tall thin man, with deep-set -eyes and sunken mouth, a gentleman, as all the Stantons were, but as -different as possible from his genial partner. I had, I have, a soft -spot in my heart for Sir George Stanton, and had met with much kindness -from him. Gabriel, too, may have had a charm—they were notoriously a -charming family,—but he had not exerted it for my benefit. He and all of -them were so respectable, so traditionally and inalienably respectable, -that it was difficult to readjust my slowly working mind and think of -him as any woman’s lover; illegitimate lover, as he seemed to be in this -case. I wrote to my secretary in London to look up everything that was -known about Margaret Capel. Before her reply came I had another attack -of pleurisy—I had had several in London,—and this brought Ella to me, to -say nothing of various hungry and impotent London consultants. - -As I said before, this is not a history of my illness, nor of my -sister’s encompassing love that ultimately enabled me to weather it, -that forced me again and again from the arms of Death, that friend for -whom at times my weakness yearned. The fight was all from the outside. -As for me, I laid down my weapons early. I dreaded pain more than death, -and do still, the passing through and not the arrival, writhing under -the shame of my beaten body, wanting to hide. Yet publicity beat upon -me, streamed into the room like midday sun. There were bulletins in the -papers and the Press Association rang up and asked for late and early -news. Obituary notices were probably being prepared. Everybody knew that -at which I was still only guessing. It irked me sometimes to know they -would be only paragraphs and not columns, and I knew Ella would be -vexed. - -When the acuteness of this particular attack subsided I thought again of -Margaret Capel and Gabriel Stanton, yet could not talk of them. For Ella -knew nothing of the former occupants of the house, and for some -inexplicable reason Dr. Kennedy had left off coming. His partner, or -substitute, whose Cheshire-cat grin I easily recognised, made no secret, -notwithstanding his cheerfulness, of the desperate view he took of my -condition. I hated his futile fruitless examinations, the consultations -whereat I was sure he aired his provincial self-importance, his great -cool hands on my pulse and smug dogmatic ignorance. “The pain is just -here,” he would announce, but not even by accident did he ever once hit -upon the right spot. - -Fortunately Ella was there. She must have arrived many days before I -recognised her. The household was moving on oiled wheels, my meals were -brought me now on trays with delicate napery and a flower or two. Scent -sprays and early strawberries, down pillows and Jaegar sheets, a water -bed presently, and all the luxuries, told me undeniably she was in the -vicinity. I had always known how it would be. That once I admitted to -helplessness she would give up her home life and all the joys of her -well-filled days, and would live for me only. Because her tenderness for -me met mine for her and was too poignant for my growing weakness, I had -denied us both. Her the joy of giving and myself of taking. Now, without -acknowledgment or word of gratitude, I accepted all. - -“Don’t go away,” were the first words I said to her. I! who had begged -her so hard not to come, repudiated her anxiety so violently. - -“Of course not. Why should I? I always like the country in the early -spring,” she answered coolly. “Do you want anything?” She came nearer to -the bed. - -“What has become of Dr. Kennedy?” I asked. - -“I thought you did not like him. Suzanne told me that often you would -not see him when he called. And you were quite right. It was evident he -did not know what was the matter with you.” - -“No one does.” - -“You have not helped us.” Her eyelids were pink, but otherwise she did -not reproach me. - -“And now I am going to die, I suppose.” - -“Die! You are not going to die; don’t be so absurd. I wouldn’t let you, -for one thing. And why should you? People don’t die of pleurisy, or -neuritis. You are better today than you were yesterday, and you will be -better still tomorrow. I know.” - -Outside the room she may have wept, for, as I said, her eyelids were -pink. Inside it she was all quiet confidence and courage. - -“I want Dr. Kennedy. Get him back to me.” I did not argue with her -whether I would live or die, it was too futile. - -“This man Lansdowne is F.R.C.S. and M.D. London,” she reminded me. - -“I don’t care if he’s all the letters of the alphabet. He grins at me, -talks smugly, patronises me, pats my shoulder. He will send his carriage -to follow the funeral. I see in his face that he has made up his mind to -it.” - -Nurse interfered and said that Dr. Lansdowne was most able. - -“Send her out of the room.” I was impatient at her interference. - -“All right, nurse, I’ll sit with Mrs. Vevaseur until you’ve had your -dinner. You won’t talk too much?” she said to me imploringly. - -“Perhaps,” I answered, and smiled. It was good to have Ella sitting with -me again. - -“The doctor did not wish her to speak at all, nor to see visitors.” - -I don’t know how Ella managed to get that authoritative white-capped -female out of the room, but she did; she had infinite tact and resource. - -“Shall I get my needlework? Or would you rather I read to you? You -really mustn’t talk.” - -“Neither. You are not going away?” - -“I am staying as long as you want me.” - -Not a word about the times when I had told her brutally to let me alone, -when I had almost turned her out of the house in London, finally fled -from her here. That was Ella all over, and characteristic of me that I -could not even thank her. When she said she would stay it seemed too -good to be true. I questioned her about her responsibilities. - -“What about Violet and Tommy, the paper?” For Ella, too, was bound on -the Ixion wheel of the weekly press. - -“It’s all right; everything has been arranged, in the best possible way. -I am quite free. I shan’t go away until you ask me to go.” - -Then I began to cry, in my great weakness, but hid my eyes, for I knew -my tears would hurt her. I gave way only for a moment. It was such a -relief to know her there, to feel I was being cared for. Paid service is -only for the sound. - -Ella pretended not to notice my little breakdown, although she was not -far off it herself. She began to talk of indifferent things. Who had -telegraphed, or rung up; she told me that the news of my illness had -been in the papers. All my good friends whom I had avoided during those -dreary months had forgotten they had been snubbed and came forward with -genuine sympathy and offers of help. I soon stopped her from telling me -about them. It made me feel ashamed and unworthy. I could not recollect -ever having done anything for anybody. - -“About getting Dr. Kennedy back?” - -“He neglected you disgracefully; wrote me lightly. I don’t wonder you -told him not to call.” - -“I want him back.” - -“Then you shall have him back. You shall have everything you want, only -go on getting better.” She turned her face away from me. - -“Have I begun?” - -She made no answer, and I knew it was because she could not at the -moment command her voice. - -So I stayed quiet a little while. Then I began again to beg her to rid -me of Lansdowne. - -“After all, he is independent of his profession,” she said at length -thoughtfully, thinking of his feelings and how not to hurt them. “He -married a rich woman.” - -“He would. And I am sure he has no children,” I answered. - -“Good heavens! How did you know? You are cleverer when you are ill than -other people when they are well.” - -That is like Ella, too, she has an exaggerated and absurd opinion of my -talent. Just because I write novels which are paid for beyond their -deserts! - -I don’t know how she did it, I don’t know how she accomplished half of -the magical wonderful things she did for my comfort all that sad time. -But I was not even surprised, a few days later, when I really was better -and sitting up in bed; propped up by pillows, I admit, but still -actually sitting up; that Dr. Kennedy, tall and unaltered, with the same -light in his eye, even the same dreadful country suit, lounged in and -sat on the chair by my side. Ella went away when he came in, she always -had an idea that patients like to see their doctors alone. She flirts -with hers, I think. She is incurably flirtatious in her leisure hours. - -“You’ve had a bad time,” he said abruptly. - -“You didn’t try to make it any better,” I answered weakly. - -“Oh! I! I was dismissed. Your sister turned me out. She said I hadn’t -recognised how ill you were. I told her she was quite right. I didn’t -tell her how often you had refused to see me.” - -“Did you know how ill I was?” - -“I’m not sure.” He smiled, and so did I. “Were you so ill?” - -“I know now what Margaret Capel felt about Dr. Lansdowne.” - -“He is a very able fellow. And you’ve had Felton, Shorter, Lawson.” - -“Don’t remind me.” - -“Anyway you are getting better now.” - -“Am I? I am so hideously weak.” - -“Not beginning to write again yet! You see, I know all about you now. -I’ve taken a course of your novels.” - -“Thinking all the time how much better Margaret Capel wrote?” - -“You haven’t forgotten Margaret, then?” - -“Have _you_?” He became quite grave and pale. - -“I! I shall never forget Margaret Capel.” - -Up till then he had been light and airy in manner, as if this visit and -circumstance and poor me, who had been so near the Gates, were of little -consequence. - -“Did you think how much worse I wrote than she did, that I was no -stylist?” - -“Why do you say that?” - -I was glad to see him and wished to keep him by my side. I thought what -I was going to tell him would secure my object. - -“She told me so herself” I shot at him, and watched to see how he would -take it. “The last time I saw you, the night the pleurisy started, she -sat over there by the fireside. We talked together confidentially, she -said she knew I would write her story, and was sorry because I had no -style.” There was a flush on his forehead, he looked to where I said she -sat. - -“What else did she say?” He did not seem to doubt me or to be surprised. - -“You believe I saw her, that it was not a dream?” - -“There is an unexplored borderland between dreams and reality. Fever -often bridges it. Your temperature was probably high. And I, and you, -were so full of her. Go on. Tell me what she wore.” - -“She was dressed in grey, a white fichu over her shoulders.” - -“And a pink rose.” - -“Her hair....” - -“Was snooded with a blue ribbon.” He finished my sentences excitedly. - -“No. It was hanging in plaits.” - -“Oh, no! Not when she wore the grey dress.” He had risen and was -standing by the bed now, he seemed anxious, almost imploring. “Think -again. Shut your eyes and think again. Surely she had the blue ribbon.” - -I shut my eyes as he bade me. Then opened them and stared at him. - -“But how did you know?” - -“Go on. There was a blue ribbon in her hair?” - -“The first time I saw her. The next time her hair was hanging down her -back, two great plaits of fair hair, and she had on a blue -dressing-gown.” - -“With a white collar like a fine handkerchief, showing her slender -throat.” - -“How well you knew her clothes.” - -“There was a sense of fitness about her, an exquisite sense of fitness. -She would not have worn her hair down with that grey dress.” - -“You know I really did see her.” - -“Of course. Go on. Tell me exactly what she said, word for word.” - -“About my bad style.” - -“About your good sense of comradeship with her.” - -“She said I would write the story. Hers and Gabriel Stanton’s.” - -I told him all she had said, word for word as well as I could remember -it, keeping my eyes shut, speaking slowly, remembering well. - -“She told me of the letters and diary, the notes, chapter headings, all -she had prepared....” - -I turned my head away, sank down amongst the pillows, and turned my head -away. I didn’t want him to see my disappointment, to know that I had -found nothing. Now I recognised my weakness, that I was spent with -feverish nights and pain. - -“I can’t talk any more.” He put his hand upon my pulse. - -“Your pulse is quite strong.” - -“I am not,” I said shortly. I wished Ella would come back. - -“You looked for them?” I did not answer. - -“I am so sorry. Blundering fool that I am. You looked, and looked ... -that is why you kept me at arm’s length, would not see me, wanted to be -alone. You were searching. Why didn’t I think of it before? But how did -I know she would come to you, confide in you?” - -He was talking to himself now, seemed to forget me and my grave illness. -“I might have thought of it though. From the first I pictured you two -together. I have them. I took them ... didn’t you guess?” I forgot the -extreme weakness of which I had complained, and caught hold of his coat -sleeve, a little breathless. - -“You took them ... stole them?” - -“Yes. If you put it that way. Who had a better right? I knew everything. -Her father, her people, nothing, or very little. And she had not wished -them to know.” - -“She was going to write the story, whatever it was; to publish it.” - -“No! not immediately, not until long afterwards, not until it would hurt -no one. They were in the writing-table drawer, the letters, in an -elastic band. She was not tidy as a rule with papers, but these were -tidy. The diary was bound in soft grey leather, and there were a few -rough notes; loose, on MS. paper. You know all that happened there; the -excitement was intense. How could I bear her papers, his letters, her -notes to fall into strange hands. I was doing what she would wish, I -knew I was carrying out her wishes. The day she ... she died I gathered -them all together, slipped them into my greatcoat pocket; the car was at -the door. I hurried away as if I had been a thief, the thief you are -thinking me.” - -“Got home quickly, gloated over them all that evening.” - -“I swear to you, I swear to you I have never opened the packet. I have -never looked at them. I made one parcel of them all, of the letters, -diary, notes; wrapped them all together in brown paper, tied it up with -string, sealed it. - -“You’ve got it still!” I was in high excitement, all my pulses -throbbing, face flushed, hands hot, breathless. - -“In the safe at my bank. I took it there the next morning.” - -“You are going to give me the packet?” - -“But of course.” He seemed suddenly to recollect that I was an invalid, -that he was supposed to be my doctor. “I say, all this excitement is -very bad for you. Your sister will turn me out again. Can’t you lie -down, get quiet,—you’ve jumped from 90 to 112.” His hand was on my pulse -again. I knew I was going beyond my tether and cursed my weakness. - -“You won’t change your mind!” I was lying on my back now, quite still, -trying to quiet myself as he had told me. “Promise!” - -“I’ll get the packet in the morning, as soon as the bank is open, and -come straight on here with it. You must find some place to put it. Where -you can see it, know it’s there all the time. But you mustn’t open it, -you must get stronger first. You know you can’t use it yet.” - -“Yes, I can.” - -“It would be very wrong. You wouldn’t do it well.” - -“I’m sick of being ordered about.” But I could barely move and breathing -was becoming difficult to me, I had a sense of faintness, suffocation, -the room grew dark. He opened the door and called nurse. Ella came in -with her. I was conscious of that. - -“What does she have when she is like this? Smelling salts, brandy?” -Nurse began to fan me; my cheeks were very flushed. - -Ella opened the windows, wide, quietly; the scent of the gorse came in. -I did not want to speak, only to be able to breathe. - -Nurse telegraphed him an enquiring glance. Strychnine? her dumb lips -asked. He shook his head. - -“Oxygen. Have you got a cylinder of oxygen in the house?” He took the -pillows from under my head. - -I don’t know what they tried or left untried. Whenever I opened my eyes -I sought for Ella’s. I knew she would not let them do anything to me -that might bring the pain back. I was only over-tired. I managed to say -so presently. When I was really better and Dr. Kennedy gone, Ella said a -bitter word or two about him. Nurse too thought she should have been -called sooner. A good nurse, but dissatisfied up to now with all my -treatment, with my change of doctors, with my resistance to authority, -and Ella’s interference. - -“Ella.” She had been sitting by the fire but came over to me at once. - -“What is it? I am only going to stop a minute. Then I shall leave you to -nurse. That man stopped too long, over-excited you. We mustn’t have him -again, he doesn’t understand you.” - -“Yes he does; perfectly.” My voice may have been faint, but I succeeded -in making it urgent. “Ella, I want to see him again in the morning, -nothing must prevent it, nothing. Don’t talk against him, I want him.” - -“Then you shall have him,” she decided promptly. Notwithstanding my -terrible weakness and want of breath I smiled at her. - -“I suppose you’ve fallen in love with him,” she said. Love and -love-making were half her life, the game she found most fascinating. -They were nothing to do with mine. - -“See that he comes. That’s all. However ill I am, whether I’m ill or -not, he is to come.” - -“You noticed his clothes?” - -“Oh, yes!” - -Nurse I suppose thought we had both gone mad. But she came over to me -and lifted me into a more comfortable position, fanned me again, and -when the fanning had done its work brought _eau de Cologne_ and water -and sponged my face, my hot hands. She told Ella that she ought to go, -that I ought to be alone, that I should have a bad night if I were not -left to myself. Ella only wanted to do what was best for me. - -“I am sure you are right, nurse. I shan’t come in again. Sleep well.” - -“You are sure?” - -“Quite sure that Dr. Kennedy shall come in the morning, if I have to -drag him here. It’s a pity you will have an executioner instead of a -doctor; he seems to do you harm every time he comes. You had your worst -attack when he was here before. Good-night. I do wish you had better -taste.” - -She kept her light tone up to the last, although I saw she was pale with -anxiety and sympathy. Days ago she had asked me if the nurses were good -and kind to me, and if I liked them, and had received my assurance that -this one at least was the best I had ever had, clever and untiring. If -only she had not been so sure of herself and that she knew better than I -did what was good for me, I should have thought her perfect. She had a -delightful voice, never touched me unnecessarily, nor brushed against -the bed. But she was younger than I, and I resented her authority. We -were often in antagonism, for I was a bad invalid, in resistance all the -time. I had not learnt yet how to be ill! The lesson was taught me -slowly, cruelly, but I recognised Benham’s quality long before I gave in -to her. Now I was glad that Ella should go, that nurse should minister -to me alone. I wanted the night to come ... and go. But my exhaustion -was so complete that I had forgotten why. - - - - - CHAPTER III - - -I seem to be a long time coming to the story, but my own will intervene, -my own dreadful tale of dependence and deepening illness. Benham was my -day nurse. At ten o’clock that night she left me, considerably better -and calm. Then Lakeby came on duty, a very inferior person who always -talked to me as if I were a child to be humoured: “Now then be a dear -good girl and drink it up” represents her fairly well. Then she would -yawn in my face without apology or attempt to hide her fatigue or -boredom. Nepenthe and I were no longer friends. It gave me no ease, yet -I drank it to save argument. Lakeby took away the glass and then lay -down at the foot of the bed. I thought again, as I had thought so many -times, that no one ever sleeps so soundly as a night nurse. I could -indulge my restlessness without any fear of disturbing her. Tomorrow’s -promised excitement would not let me sleep. Their letters, the very -letters they had written to each other! I did not care so much about the -diary. I had once kept a diary myself and knew how one leaves out all -the essentials. I suppose I drowsed a little. Nepenthe was no longer my -friend, but we were not enemies, only disappointed lovers, without -reliance on each other. As I approached the borderland I wished Margaret -were in her easy-chair by the fireside. I did not care whether she was -in her grey, or with her plaits and peignoir. I watched for her in vain. -I knew she would not come whilst nurse snored on the sofa. Ella would -have to get rid of the nurse from my room. Surely now that I was better -I could sleep alone, a bell could be fixed up. Two nurses were -unnecessary, extravagant. I woke to cough and was conscious of a strange -sensation. I turned on the light by my side, but then only roused the -nurse (she had slept all day) with difficulty. I knew what had happened, -although this was the first time it had happened to me, and wanted to -reassure her or myself. Also to tell her what to do. - -“Get ice. Call Benham; ring up the doctor.” This was my first -hæmorrhage, very profuse and alarming, and Lakeby although she was -inferior was not inefficient. When she was really roused she carried out -my instructions to the letter. Once Benham was in the room I knew at -least I was in good hands. I begged them not to rouse the house more -than necessary, not to call Ella. - -“Don’t you speak a word. Lie quite still. We know exactly what is to be -done. Mrs. Lovegrove won’t be disturbed, nor anybody if you will only do -what you are told.” - -Benham’s voice changed in an emergency; it was always a beautiful voice -if a little hard; now it was gentle, soft, and her whole manner altered. -She had me and the situation completely under her control, and that, of -course, was what she always wanted. That night she was the perfect -nurse. Lakeby obeyed her as if she had been a probationer. I often -wonder I am not more grateful to Benham, failed to become quickly -attached to her. I don’t think perhaps that mine is a grateful nature, -but I surely recognised already tonight, in this bad hour, her complete -and wonderful competence. I was in high fever, very agitated, yet -striving to keep command of my nerves. - -“It looks bad, you know, but it is not really serious, it is only a -symptom, not a disease. All you have to do is to keep very quiet. The -doctor will soon be here.” - -“I’m not frightened.” - -“Hush! I’m sure you are not.” - -A hot bottle to my feet, little lumps of ice to suck; loose warm -covering adjusted round me quickly, the blinds pulled up, and the window -opened, there was nothing of which she did not think. And the little she -said was all in the right key, not making light of my trouble, but -explaining, minimizing it, helping me to calm my disordered nerves. - -“I would give you a morphia injection only that Dr. Kennedy will be here -any moment now.” - -I don’t think it could have been long after that before he was in the -room. In the meantime I was hating the sight of my own blood and kept -begging the nurses or signing to them to remove basins and stained -clothes. - -Nurse Benham told him very quietly what had happened. He was looking at -me and said encouragingly: - -“You will soon be all right.” - -I was still coughing up blood and did not feel reassured. I heard him -ask for hot water. Nurse and he were at the chest of drawers, whispering -over something that might be cooking operations. Then nurse came back to -the bed. - -“Dr. Kennedy is going to give you a morphia injection that will stop the -hæmorrhage at once.” - -She rolled up the sleeve of my nightgown, and I saw he was beside her. - -“How much?” I got out. - -“A quarter of a grain,” he answered quietly. “You’ll find it will be -quite enough. If not, you can have another.” - -I resented the prick of the needle, and that having hurt me he should -rub the place with his finger, making it worse, I thought. I got -reconciled to it however, and his presence there, very soon. He was -still in tweeds and they smelt of gorse or peat, of something pleasant. - -“Getting better?” - -There was no doubt the hæmorrhage was coming to an end, and I was no -longer shivering and apprehensive. He felt my pulse and said it was -“very good.” - -“The usual cackle!” I was able to smile. - -“I shouldn’t talk if I were you.” He smiled too. “You will be quite -comfortable in half an hour.” - -“I am not uncomfortable now.” He laughed, a low and pleasant laugh. - -“She is wonderful, isn’t she?” he said to Benham. Benham was clearing -away every evidence of what had occurred, and I felt how competent they -both were, and again that I was in good hands. I was glad Ella was -asleep and knew nothing of what was happening. - -Dr. Kennedy was over at the chest of drawers again. - -“I’ll leave you another dose,” he said, and they talked together. Then -he came to say “good-bye” to me. - -“Can’t I sleep by myself? I hate any one in the room with me.” I wanted -to add, “it spoils my dreams,” but am not sure if I actually said the -words. - -“You’ll find you will be all right, as right as rain. Nurse will fix you -up. All you have to do is to go to sleep. If not she will give you -another dose. I’ve left it measured out. You are not afraid, are you?” - -“No.” - -“The good dreams will come. I am willing them to you.” I found it -difficult to concentrate. - -“What did you promise me before?” - -“Nothing I shan’t perform. Good-night....” - -He went away quickly. - -I was wider awake than I wished to be, and soon a desire for action was -racing in my disordered mind. I thought the hæmorrhage meant death, and -I had left so many things undone. I could not recollect the provisions -of my will, and felt sure it was unjust. I could have been kinder to so -many people, the dead as well as the living. It is so easy to say sharp, -clever things; so difficult to unsay them. I remembered one particular -act of unkindness ... even now I cannot bear to recall it. Alas! it was -to one now dead. And Ella, Ella did not know I returned her love, full -measure, pressed down, brimming over. Once, very many years ago, when -she was in need and I supposed to be rich, she asked me to lend her five -hundred pounds. Because I hadn’t it, and was too proud to say so, I was -ruder to her than seems possible now, asking why I should work to supply -her extravagances. But she was never extravagant, except in giving. Oh, -God! That five hundred pounds! How many times I have thought of it. What -would I not give not to have said no, to have humbled my pride, admitted -I could not put my hands on so large a sum? Now she lavishes her all on -me. And if it were true that I was dying, already I was not sure, she -would be lonely in her world. Without each other we were always lonely. -Love of sisters is unlike all other love. We had slept in each other’s -bed from babyhood onward, told each other all our little secrets, been -banded together against nurses and governesses, maintained our intimacy -in changed and changing circumstances, through long and varied years. -Ella would be lonely when I was dead. A hot tear or two oozed through my -closed lids when I thought of Ella’s loneliness without me. I wiped -those tears away feebly with the sheet. The room was very strange and -quiet, not quite steady when I opened my eyes. So I shut them. The -morphia was beginning to act. - -“Why are you crying?” - -“How could you see me over there?” But I no longer wanted to cry and I -had forgotten Ella. I opened my eyes when she spoke. The fire was low -and the room dark, quite steady and ordinary. Margaret was sitting by -the fireside, and I saw her more clearly than I had ever seen her -before, a pale, clever, whimsical face, thin-featured and mobile, with -grey eyes. - -“It is absurd to cry,” she said. “When I finished crying there were no -tears in the world to shed. All the grief, all the unhappiness died with -me.” - -“Why were you so unhappy?” I asked. - -“Because I was a fool,” she answered. “When you tell my story you must -do it as sympathetically as possible, make people sorry for me. But that -is the truth. I was unhappy because I was a fool.” - -“You still think I shall write your story. The critics will be -pleased....” I began to remember all they would say, the flattering -notices. - -“Why were you crying?” she persisted. “Are you a fool too?” - -“No. Only on Ella’s account I don’t want to die.” - -“You need not fear. Is Ella some one who loves you? If so she will keep -you here. Gabriel did not love me enough. If some one needs us -desperately and loves us completely, we don’t die.” - -“Did no one love you like that?” - -“I died,” she answered concisely, and then gazed into the fire. - -My limbs relaxed, I felt drowsy and convinced of great talent. I had -never done myself justice, but with this story of Margaret Capel’s I -should come into my own. I wrote the opening sentence, a splendid -sentence, arresting. And then I went on easily. I, who always wrote with -infinite difficulty, slowly, and trying each phrase over again, weighing -and appraising it, now found an amazing fluency come to me. I wrote and -wrote. - -De Quincey has not spoken the last word on morphia dreams. It is only a -pity he spoke so well that lesser writers are chary of giving their -experiences. The next few days, as I heard afterwards, I lay between -life and death, the temperature never below 102 and the hæmorrhage -recurring. I only know that they were calm and happy days. Ella was -there and we understood each other perfectly, without words. The nurses -came and went, and when it was Benham I was glad and she knew my needs, -when I was thirsty, or wanted this or that. But when Lakeby replaced her -she would talk and say silly soothing things, shake up my pillows when I -wanted to be left alone, touch the bed when she passed it, coax me to -what I would do willingly, intrude on my comfortable time. I liked best -to be alone, for then I saw Margaret. She never spoke of anything but -herself and the letters and diary she had left me, the rough notes. We -had strange little absurd arguments. I told her not to doubt that I -would write her story, because I loved writing, I lived to write, every -day was empty that held no written word, that I only lived my fullest, -my completest when I was at my desk, when there was wide horizon for my -eyes and I saw the real true imagined people with whom I was more -intimate than with any I met at receptions and crowded dinner-parties. - -“The absurdity is that any one who feels what you describe should write -so badly. It is incredible that you should have the temperament of the -writer without the talent,” she said to me once. - -“What makes you say I write badly? I sell well!” I told her what I got -for my books, and about my dear American public. - -“Sell! sell!” She was quite contemptuous. “Hall Caine sells better than -you do, and Marie Corelli, and Mrs. Barclay.” - -“Would you rather I gave one of them your MS.?” I asked pettishly. I was -vexed with her now, but I did not want her to go. She used to vanish -suddenly like a light blown out. I think that was when I fell asleep, -but I did not want to keep awake always, or hear her talking. She was -inclined to be melancholy, or cynical, and so jarred my mood, my sense -of well-being. - -Night and morning they gave me my injections of morphia, until the -morning when I refused it, to Dr. Kennedy’s surprise and against -Benham’s remonstrance. - -“It is good for you, you are not going to set yourself against it?” - -“I can have it again tonight. I don’t need it in the daytime. The -hæmorrhage has left off.” Dr. Kennedy supported me in my refusal. I will -admit the next few days were dreadful. I found myself utterly ill and -helpless, and horribly conscious of all that was going on. The detail of -desperate illness is almost unbearable to a thinking person of decent -and reticent physical habits. The feeding cup and gurgling water bed, -the lack of privacy, are hourly humiliations. All one’s modesties are -outraged. I improved, although as I heard afterwards it had not been -expected that I would live. The consultants gave me up, and the nurses. -Only Dr. Kennedy and Ella refused to admit the condition hopeless. When -I continued to improve Ella was boastful and Benham contradictory. The -one dressed me up, making pretty lace and ribbon caps, sending to London -for wonderful dressing-jackets and nightgowns, pretending I was out of -danger and on the road to convalescence, long before I even had a normal -temperature. Benham fought against all the indulgences that Ella and I -ordered and Dr. Kennedy never opposed. Seeing visitors, sitting up in -bed, reading the newspapers, abandoning invalid diet in favour of -caviare and foie gras, strange rich dishes. Benham despised Dr. Kennedy -and said we could always get round him, make him say whatever we wished. -More than once she threatened to throw up the case. I did not want her -to go. I knew, if I did not admit it, that my convalescence was not -established. I had no real confidence in myself, was much weaker than -anybody but myself knew, with disquieting symptoms. It exhausted me to -fight with her continually, one day I told her so, and that she was -retarding my recovery. “I am older than you, and I hate to be ordered -about or contradicted.” - -“But I am so much more experienced in illness. You know I only want to -do what is best for you. You are not strong enough to do half the things -you are doing. You turn Dr. Kennedy round your little finger, you and -Mrs. Lovegrove. He knows well enough you ought not to be getting up and -seeing people. You will want to go down next. And as for the things you -eat!” - -“I shall go down next week. I suppose I shall be exhausted before I get -there, arguing with you whether I ought or ought not to go.” - -By this time I had got rid of the night nurse, Benham looked after me -night and day devotedly. I was no longer indifferent to her. She angered -me nevertheless, and we quarrelled bitterly. The least drawback, -however, and I could not bear her out of the room. She did not reproach -me, I must say that for her. When a horrible bilious attack followed an -invalid dinner of melon and _homard à l’américaine_ she stood by my side -for hours trying every conceivable remedy. And without a word of -reproach. - -After my hæmorrhage I had a few weeks’ rest from the neuritis and then -it started again. I cried out for my forsaken nepenthe, but Peter -Kennedy and Nurse Benham for once agreed, persuaded or forced me to -codein. Dear half-sister to my beloved morphia, we became friends at -once. Three or four days later the neuritis went suddenly, and has never -returned. One night I took the nepenthe as well, and that night I saw -Margaret Capel again. - -“When are you going to begin?” she asked me at once. - -“The very moment I can hold a pen. Now my hand shakes. And Ella or nurse -is always here—I am never alone.” - -“You’ve forgotten all about me,” she said with indescribable sadness. -“You won’t write it at all.” - -“No, I haven’t. I shall. But when one has been so ill ...” I pleaded. - -“Other people write when they are ill. You remember Green, and Robert -Louis Stevenson. As for me, I never felt well.” - -The next day, before Dr. Kennedy came, I asked Benham to leave us alone -together. He still came daily, but she disapproved of his methods and -told me that she only stayed in the room and gave him her report because -she thought it her duty. They were temperamentally opposed. She had the -scientific mind and believed in authority. His was imaginative, -desultory, doubtful, but wide and enquiring. Both of them were -interested in me, so at least Ella told me. She was satisfied now with -my doctoring and nursing. At least a week had passed since she suggested -a substitute for either. - -Dr. Kennedy, when we were alone, said, as he did when nurse was standing -there: - -“Well! how are you getting on?” - -“Splendidly.” And then, without any circumlocution, although we had not -spoken of the matter for weeks, and so much had occurred in the -meantime, I asked him: “What did you do about that packet? I want it -now. I am quite well enough.” - -“You have not seen her since?” - -“Over and over again. She thinks I am shirking my responsibilities.” - -“Are you well enough to write?” - -“I am well enough to read. When will you bring me the letters?” - -“I brought them when I said I would, the day you were taken ill.” - -“Where are they?” - -“In the first drawer, the right-hand drawer of the chest of drawers.” He -turned round to it. “That is, if they have not been moved. I put the -packet there myself, told nurse it was something that was not to be -touched. The morphia things are in the same place. I don’t know what she -thinks it is, some new and useless drug or apparatus; she has no opinion -of me, you know. I used to see it night and morning, as long as you were -having the injections.” - -“See if it is there now.” - -He went over and opened the drawer: - -“It is there right enough.” - -“Oh! don’t be like nurse,” I said impatiently. “I am strong enough to -look at the packet.” - -He gave it to me, into my hands, an ordinary brown paper parcel, tied -with string and heavily, awkwardly, splotched and protected with -sealing-wax. I could have sworn to his handiwork. - -“Why are you smiling?” he asked. - -“Only at the neatness of your parcel.” He smiled too. - -“I tied it up in a hurry. I didn’t want to be tempted to look inside.” - -“So you make me guardian and executrix....” - -“Margaret herself said you were to have them,” he answered seriously. - -“She didn’t tell you so. You have only my word for it,” I retorted. - -“Better evidence than that, although that would have been enough. How -else did you know they were in existence? Why were you looking for -them?” - -The parcel lay on the quilt, and all sorts of difficulties rose in my -mind. I would not open it unless I was alone, and I was never alone; -literally never alone unless I was supposed to be asleep. And, thanks to -codein, when I was supposed to be asleep the supposition was generally -correct! Thinking aloud, I asked Dr. Kennedy: - -“Am I out of danger?” - -He answered lightly and evasively: - -“No one is ever really out of danger. I take my life in my hands every -time I go in my motor.” - -“Oh, yes! I’ve heard about your driving,” I answered drily. - -He laughed. - -“I am supposed to be reckless, but really I am only unlucky. With luck -now....” - -“Yes, with luck?” - -“You might go on for any time. I shouldn’t worry about that if I were -you. You are getting better.” - -“I am not worrying, only thinking about Mrs. Lovegrove. She has two -children, a large house, literary and other engagements. Will you tell -her I am well enough to be left alone?” He answered quickly and -surprised: - -“She does not want to go, she likes being with you. Not that I wonder at -that.” - -He was a strange person. Sometimes I had an idea he was not “all there.” -He said whatever came into his mind, and had other divergencies from the -ordinary type. I had to explain to him my need of solitude. If Ella went -back to town, Benham would soon, I hoped, with a little encouragement, -fall into the way of ordinary nurses. I had had them in London and knew -their habits. Two or three hours in the morning for their so-called -“constitutionals,” two or three hours in the afternoon for sleep, -whether they had been disturbed in the night or not; in the intervals -there were the meals over which they lingered. Solitude would be easily -secured if Ella went away and there was no one to watch or comment on -the amount of attention purchased or purchasable for two guineas a week. -I misread Benham, by the way, but that is a detail. She was not like the -average nurse, and never behaved in the same way. - -My first objective, once that brown paper parcel lay on the bed, was to -persuade Ella to go back to home and children. Without hurting her -feelings. She would not have left the house for five minutes before I -should be longing for her back again. I knew that, but one cannot work -_and_ play. I have never had any other companion but Ella. Still.... -_Work whilst ye have the light._ One more book I _must_ do, and here was -one to my hand. - -I made Dr. Kennedy put the parcel back in the drawer. Then I lay and -made plans. I must talk to Ella of Violet and Tommy, make her homesick -for them. Unfortunately Ella knew me so well. I started that very -afternoon. - -“How does Violet get on without you?” - -“She is all right.” - -But soon afterwards Ella asked me quietly whether there was any one else -I would like down. - -“God forbid!” I answered in alarm, and she understood, understood -without showing pang or offence, that I wanted to be alone. One thing -Ella never quite realised, my wretched inability to live in two worlds -at once, the real and the unreal. When I want to write there is no use -giving me certain hours or times to myself. I want all the days and all -the nights. I don’t wish to be spoken to, nor torn away from my story -and new friends. For this reason I have always had to leave London many -months in the year, for the seaside or abroad. London meant Ella, almost -daily, at the telephone if not personally. - -“You don’t write all day, do you? What are you pretending? Don’t be so -absurd, you must go out sometimes. I am fetching you in the car at....” - -And then I was lured by her to theatres, dinners, lunches. She thought -people liked to meet me, but I have rarely noticed any interest taken in -a female novelist, however many editions she may run through. My -strength was returning, if slowly. Ella of course had duties to those -children of hers that sometimes I resented so unreasonably. I always -wished her early widowhood had left her without ties. However, the call -of them came in usefully now; it was not necessary for me to press it. I -came first with her, I exulted in it. But since I was getting better.... - -I wished to be alone with that parcel. I did make a tentative effort -before Ella left. - -“I don’t want to settle off to sleep just yet, nurse, I should like to -read a little. There is a packet of letters....” - -“No! No! I wouldn’t hear of such a thing. Starting reading at ten -o’clock. What will you be wanting to do next?” - -“It would not do me any harm,” I answered irritably. “I’ve told you -before it does me more harm to be contradicted every time I make a -suggestion.” - -“Well, you won’t get me to help you to commit suicide. Night is the time -for sleep, and you’ve had your codein.” - -“The codein does not send me to sleep, it only soothes and quiets me.” - -“All the more reason you should not wake yourself up by any old -letters.” She argued, and I.... At the end I was too tired and out of -humour to insist. I made up my mind to do without a nurse as soon as -possible, and in the meantime not to argue but to circumvent her. At -this time, before Ella went, I was getting up every day for a few hours, -lying on the couch by the window. I tested my strength and found I could -walk from bed to sofa, from sofa to easy-chair without nurse’s arm, if I -made the effort. - -“You _will_ take care of yourself?” were Ella’s last words, and I -promised impatiently. - -“I don’t so much mind leaving you alone now, you have your Peter, and -nurse won’t let you overdo things.” - -“_You have your Peter._” Can one imagine anything more ridiculous! My -incurably frivolous sister imagined I had fallen in love, with that -lout! I was unable to persuade her to the contrary. She argued, that at -my worst and before, I would have no other attendant. And she pointed -out that it could not possibly be Peter Kennedy’s skill that attracted -me. I defended him, feebly perhaps, for it was true that he had not -shown any special aptitude or ability. I said he was quite as good as -any of the others, and certainly less depressing. - -“There is no good humbugging me, or trying to. You are in love with the -man. Don’t trouble to contradict it. And I am not a bit jealous. I only -hope he will make you happy. Nurse told me you do not even like her to -come into the room when he is here.” - -“Don’t you know how old I am? It is really undignified, humiliating, to -be talked to or of in that way....” - -“Age has nothing to do with it. A woman is never too old to fall in -love. And besides, what is thirty-nine?” - -“In this case it is forty-two,” I put in drily, my sense of humour not -being entirely in abeyance. - -“Well! or forty-two. Anyway you will admit I took a hint very quickly. I -am going to leave you alone with your Corydon.” - -“Caliban!” - -“He is not bad-looking really, it is only his clothes. And if anything -comes of it you will send him to Poole’s. Anyway his feet and hands are -all right, and there is a certain grace about his ungainliness.” - -“Really, Ella, I can’t bear any more. Love runs in your head; feeds your -activities, agrees with you. But as for me, I’ve long outgrown it. I am -tired, old, ill. Peter Kennedy is just not objectionable. Other doctors -are. He is honest, simple....” - -“I will hear all about his qualities next time I come. Only don’t think -you are deceiving me. God bless you, dear.” She turned suddenly serious. -“You know I would not go if you wanted me to stop or if I were uneasy -about you any more. You know I will come down again at any moment you -want me. I shall miss my train if I don’t rush. Can I send you anything? -I won’t forget the sofa rug, and if you think of anything else....” Her -maid knocked at the door and said the flyman had called up to say she -must come at once. Her last words were: “Well, good-bye again, and tell -him I give my consent. Tell him he gave the show away himself. I have -known about it ever since the first night I was here when he told me -what an interesting woman you were....” - -“Good-bye ... thanks for everything. I’m sorry you’ve got that mad idea -in your silly head....” She was gone. I heard her voice outside the -window giving directions to the man and then the crunch of the fly -wheels on the gravel as she was driven away. - - - - - CHAPTER IV - - -That night, the very night after Ella had gone, I tested my slowly -returning strength. Benham gave me my codein, and saw that I was well -provided with all I might need for the night; the lemonade and glycerine -lozenges, a second codein on the table by my side, the electric bell to -my hand. This bell had been put up since the night nurse left; it rang -into Benham’s bedroom. I waited for a quarter of an hour after she had -gone, she had a habit of coming back to see if I had forgotten anything, -or to show me how thick and abundant her hair was without the uniform -cap. I should have felt like a criminal when I stole out of bed. But I -did not, I felt like an invalid, and a feeble one at that. It was only a -couple of steps from the bed to the chest of drawers and I accomplished -it without mishap, then was back again in bed, only to remember the -seals were still unbroken and the string firm. A pair of nail scissors -were on the dressing-table. I was disinclined for the journey, but -managed it all the same. I was then so exhausted I had to wait for a -quarter of an hour before I was able to use them. Only then was my -curiosity rewarded. A small number of letters, not more than fifteen or -sixteen in all, a bound diary, a very cursory glance at which showed me -the disingenuousness, and half a dozen pages of MS. notes or chapter -headings with several trial titles, “Between the Nisi and the Absolute,” -“Publisher and Sinner,” headed two separate pages. “The Story of an -Unhappy Woman” the third. The notes were all in the first person, and I -should have known them anywhere for Margaret Capel’s. - -Small as the whole _cache_ was, I did not think it possible I could get -through it all that night. Neither did it seem possible to get out of -bed again. The papers must remain where they were, or underneath my -pillow. I should be strong enough, I hoped, by the morning to put up -with or confront any wrath or argument Benham would advance. - -I had got up because I chose. That was the beginning and end of it. She -must learn to put up with my ways, or I with a change of nurse. - -The letters were in an elastic band, without envelopes, labelled and -numbered. Margaret’s were on paper of a light mauve, with lines, like -foreign paper. Her handwriting, masculine and square, was not very -readable. She rarely dotted an _i_ or crossed a _t_, used the Greek _e_ -and many ellipses. Gabriel’s letters were as easy to read as print. It -was a pity therefore that hers were so much longer than his. Still, once -I began I was sorry to leave off, and should not have done so if I could -have kept my eyes open or my attention from wandering. I am printing -them just as they stand, those that I read that night, at least. Here -they are:— - - No. 1. - - 211 Queen Anne’s Gate, S.W., - January 29th, 1902. - - _Dear Sirs_:— - - Would you care to publish a book by me on Staffordshire Pottery? - What I have in my mind is a limited _édition de luxe_, illustrated - in colours, highly priced. I may say I have a collection which I - believe to be unique, if not complete, upon which I propose to draw - largely. Of course the matter would have to be discussed both from - your point of view and, mine. This is merely to ask if you are open. - - My name is probably not unknown to you, or rather my pseudonym. - - The critics have been kind to my novels, and I see no reason why - they should be less so to a monograph on a subject I thoroughly - understand. Although perhaps that will be hard for them to forgive. - For it will be reviewed, if at all, by critics less well informed. - - Yours sincerely, - MARGARET CAPEL (“_Simon Dare_”). - Author of “The Immoralists,” - “Love and the Lutist,” etc. - - Messrs. Stanton & Co. - - No. 2. - - 117–118 Greyfriars’ Square, E.C., - January 30th, 1902. - - _Dear Madam_:— - - I have to thank you for your letter of yesterday with its suggestion - for a book on Staffordshire Pottery. - - The subject is outside my own knowledge, but I find there is no - comprehensive work dealing with it, a small elementary booklet - published in the Midlands some three years ago being the only volume - catalogued. - - In any case there can hardly be a large public for so special an - interest, and it will probably be best, as you indicate, to issue a - limited edition at a high price and appeal direct by prospectus to - collectors. The success of the publication would be then largely - dependent on the beauty of the illustrations and the general “get - up” of the volume, for although I have no doubt your text will be - excellent and accurate—it must be properly “dressed” to secure - attention. - - Indeed I have the privilege of knowing your novels well. They have - always appealed to me as having the cardinal qualities of courage - and actuality. Complete frankness combined with delicacy and - literary skill is so rare with modern-day writers that your work - stands out. - - Could you very kindly make it convenient to call here so that we may - discuss the details and plan for the Staffordshire book? This would - save a good deal of correspondence. - - I will gladly keep any appointment you make—please avoid Saturday, - as I try to take that day off at this time of year to go to a little - fishing I have in Hampshire. - - Yours faithfully, - GABRIEL STANTON. - - Mrs. Capel. - - No. 3. - - 211 Queen Anne’s Gate, S.W., - February 1st, 1902. - - _Dear Sir_:— - - I am obliged by your courteous letter, and will be with you at four - o’clock whichever day suits you. I propose to bring with me a short - synopsis of “The Staffordshire Potters, Their Inspiration and - Results,” and also a couple of specimens from which you might make - experiments for illustrations. I want to place the book definitely - before writing it. - - Domestic circumstances with which I need not trouble you, they are I - fear already public property, make it advisable I should remain, if - not sequestered, at least practically in retreat for the next few - months. I find I cannot concentrate my mind on a novel at this - juncture. But my cottages and quaint figures, groups and animals, - jugs and plates, retain their attraction, and I shall do a better - book about them now, when I am dependent on things and isolated from - people, than I should at any other time. - - It is good of you to say what you do about my novels, but I doubt if - I shall ever write another. My courage has turned to cowardice, and - under cross-examination I found my frankness was no longer complete. - I have taken a dislike to humanity. - - Yours sincerely, - MARGARET CAPEL. - - No. 4. - - 211 Queen Anne’s Gate, S.W., - February 6th, 1902. - - _Dear Mr. Stanton_:— - - The agreement promised has not yet arrived; nor your photographer; - but I have made a first selection for him, and I think you will find - it sufficiently varied according to your suggestion. Thirty - illustrations in colour and seventy in monochrome will give the - cream of my collection, and be representative, although of course - not exhaustive. I have 375 specimens, no two alike! Ten groups, with - the dancing dogs for the half-title, six cottages, six single - figures, and the rest animal pieces will all look well in the - process you showed me. I propose the large so-called classical - examples in monochrome; their undoubted coarseness will then be - toned down in black or brown and none of their interest destroyed. - Julia, Lady Tweeddale, has one piece of which I have never been able - to secure a duplicate, and so has Mr. Montague Guest. Do you think - it advisable to ask permission to photograph these for inclusion, or - would it be better to use only my own collection, and keep to the - personal note in the letterpress? - - Our brief interview gave me the feeling that I may ask you for help - in any difficulty or perplexity that occurs in the preparation of a - work so new to me. You were very kind to me. I daresay I seemed to - you nervous and uncertain of how I meant to proceed. I felt like a - trembling amateur in that big office of yours. I have never - interviewed a publisher before; my novels always went by post—and - came back that way too, at first! I had a false conception of - publishers, based on—but I must not tell you upon whom it was based. - Although why not? Perhaps you will recognise the portrait. A little - pot-bellied person, Jewish or German, with a cough, or a sniff, or a - sneeze, a suggestion of a coming expectoration, speaking many - languages badly and apparently all at once; impressed with his own - importance, talking Turgenieff and looking Abimelech. Why Abimelech - I don’t know; but that is the hero of whom he reminds me. I met him - at a literary garden party to which I was bidden after “The - Immoralists” had been so favourably reviewed. It was given by a lady - who seemed to know everybody and like no one, a keen two-bladed - tongue leapt out among her guests, scarifying them. She told me Mr. - Rosenstein was not only a publisher but an amorist. He looked - curiously unlike it; but an introduction and a short interview - turned me sceptic of my own impression, inclined me to the belief in - hers. - - I have wandered from my theme—your kindness, my nervousness. I - shall try to do credit to your penetration. You said that you were - sure I should make a success of anything I undertook! I wonder if - you were right. And if my Staffordshire book will prove you so? I - am going to try and make it interesting, not too technical! But my - intentions vary all the time. A preliminary chapter on clays was - in my first scheme, I now want instead to tell of the family - history of half a dozen potters. From this I begin to dream of - stories of the figures; the short-waisted husband and wife - a-marketing with their basket of fruit and vegetables, the - clergyman in the tithe piece, a benignant villain this, with a - chucking-his-parishioners-under-the-chin expression. Dear Mr. - Stanton, what will happen if it turns out that I cannot write a - monograph, but am only a novelist? You said I could trust you to - act as Editor and blue-pencil my redundancies. But what if it - should be all redundancy? Put something about this in the - agreement, will you? I want to make money, but not at your - expense. I _am_ nervous. I fear that instead of a book on - Staffordshire Pottery I shall give you an illustrated volume of - short stories published at five guineas!! What an outcry from the - press! Already I have been called “precious.” Now they will talk - of “pretentiousness”; the “grand manner” without the grand brain - behind it! Will you really help and advise me? I have never felt - less self-confident. - - Yours sincerely, - MARGARET CAPEL. - - No. 5. - - 118 Greyfriars’ Square, E.C., - February 6th, 1902. - - _Dear Mrs. Capel_:— - - As we arranged at our interview yesterday I now enclose a draft - contract for the book. - - If there is any point not entirely clear to you please do not - hesitate to tell me, and I shall be glad also of any suggestion or - criticism that may occur to you in regard to possible alteration of - the various clauses, and will do my best to meet your wishes. For I - am more than anxious that we shall begin what I hope will prove a - long and successful “partnership” with complete understanding and - confidence. - - Further enquiry makes me sanguine that the scheme is a good one, and - we will do everything we can to produce a beautiful book. - - May I say that it was a great pleasure and privilege to me to meet - you here yesterday? I hope the interest you will find in this - present work will afford you some relief during this time of trouble - and anxiety you are passing through; and counteract to some extent - at least the pettiness and publicity of litigation. I only refer to - this with the greatest respect and sympathy. - - There are many details, not only of the contract, but for the plan - of the book, which we could certainly best arrange if we discussed - them, rather than by writing. - - Could you make it convenient to lunch with me one day next week? I - shall be in the West End on Wednesday, and suggest the Café Royal at - two o’clock. - - It would be good of you to meet me there. - - Yours sincerely, - GABRIEL STANTON. - - No. 6. - - 211 Queen Anne’s Gate, - February 7th, 1902. - - _Dear Mr. Stanton_:— - - Our letters crossed. Thanks for yours with agreement. The greater - part seems to me to be merely technical, and I have no observations - to make about it. - - Par. 2: guaranteeing that the work is in no way “a violation of any - existing copyright,” etc. I think this is your concern rather than - mine. You say there is a book existing on Staffordshire Pottery, - perhaps you can get me a copy, and then I can see that ours shall be - entirely different. - - Par. 7: beginning “accounts to be made up annually,” etc., seems to - give you an exceptionally long time to pay me anything that may be - due. But perhaps I misunderstand it. - - Therefore, and perhaps for other reasons, I very gladly accept your - kind invitation to lunch with you on Wednesday at the Café Royal, - and will be there at two, bringing the agreement with me. - - With kind regards, - Yours very truly, - MARGARET CAPEL. - - No. 7. - - 118 Greyfriars’ Square, E.C., - February 13th, 1902. - - _Dear Mrs. Capel_:— - - I am breaking into the commonplace routine of a particularly - tiresome business day, to give myself the pleasure of writing to - you, and you will forgive me if I purposely avoid business—for - indeed it seems to me today that life might be so pleasant without - work. That little grumble has done me good. I want to say what I - fear I did not express to you yesterday—how greatly I enjoyed our - talk. It was good of you to come and more good of you to tell me - something of your present difficulties. I wish I could have been - more helpful—but please believe I am more sympathetic than I was - able to let you know, and I do understand much of what must be - trying and unhappy for you during these weeks. Counsels of - perfection are poor comfort, but perhaps that some one is most - genuinely in accord with you—and anxious to help in any way - possible—may be of some little value. - - I beg you to believe that this is so, and I should welcome the - chance of being of any service to you. This all reads very formal I - fear, but your kindness must interpret the spirit rather than the - letter. - - Last evening I went into an old curiosity shop to try and find a - wedding-present for a niece who is also my god-daughter, and I - secured six beautiful Chippendale chairs. Curiously enough the man - showed me what he said was the best specimen of Staffordshire he had - ever had. A group of musicians—seeming to my inexperienced eye good - in colour and design. I know not what impulse persuaded me to buy - the piece. Today I am fearing that my purchase is not genuine. May I - bring it to you on Sunday for approval or condemnation? Don’t - trouble to answer if you will be at home—I will call at five - o’clock. - - Now I must return to less pleasant business affairs—the telephone is - insistent. - - Yours very sincerely, - GABRIEL STANTON. - - No. 8. - - 211 Queen Anne’s Gate, S.W., - 14th February, 1902. - - _Dear Mr. Stanton_:— - - Thank you so much for your kind letter, it made a charming savoury - to that little luncheon you ordered. Did I tell you how much I - enjoyed it? If not, please understand I am doing so now. The - _mousse_ was a dream of delight, the roses were very helpful. I have - a theory about flowers and food, and how to blend them. Which - reminds me that my father wants to share with me in the pleasure of - your acquaintance and bids me ask if you will dine with us on the - 24th at eight o’clock. This of course must not prevent your coming - Sunday afternoon with your pottery “find.” I am more than curious, I - am devoured with curiosity to see it. I don’t know a Staffordshire - “group of musicians,” it sounds like Chelsea! Bring it by all means, - but if it is Staffordshire and not in my collection, I warn you I - shall at once begin bargaining with you, spending my royalties in - advance! Yes! I think I hate business too, as you say, and should - like to avoid it. We were fairly successful, by the way, in the Café - Royal! Our talk ranged over a large field, became rather personal—I - think I spoke too freely; it must have been the Steinberger! or - because I am really very worried and depressed. Depression is the - old age of the emotions, and garrulousness its distressing symptom. - - Yours sincerely, - MARGARET CAPEL. - - No. 9. - - 118 Greyfriars’ Square, E.C., - 15th February, 1902. - - _Dear Mrs. Capel_:— - - I am so glad to have your letter and look forward to Sunday. Should - my little pottery “find” prove authentic I have no doubt we can - arrange for its transfer to you, on business or even un-business - lines! - - I accept with pleasure your invitation to dinner on the 24th. I have - heard often of your father from my friend Wilfrid Henning, who - attends to what little investments I make—and who meets your father - in connection with that big Newfoundland scheme for connecting the - traffic from the Eastern ports to Lake Ontario. I should value the - opportunity to hear of it, first hand. - - Yours most sincerely, - GABRIEL STANTON. - - No. 10. - - 211 Queen Anne’s Gate, S.W., - 16th February, 1902. - - _Dear Mr. Stanton_:— - - I am no longer puzzled about the “musicians”; it is Staffordshire, I - was convinced of that from the first but had to confirm my - impression. I will tell you all about it when we meet again (on the - 24th), I am sure you will be interested. I want you to let me have - it. Whatever you paid for it I will give you, and any profit you - like. I won’t bargain with you, but I really feel I can never part - with it again. It was a wonderful chance that you should find it. - Wasn’t Sunday altogether strange? Such a crowd, and so difficult to - talk. I shall have to get out of London, I have a sense of fatigue - all the time, of restless incoherent fear. I dread sympathy, and - scent curiosity as if it were carrion. In that little talk I had - among the tea-things I said none of the things I meant. I believe - you understood this, although you only said yes, and yes again to my - wildest suggestions. I am only epigrammatic when I am shy; it is the - form taken by my mental stammer. Epigrams come to me too, when I - have a scene in my head too big to write. I find my hand shaking, - heart beating, tremulous. Then my queer brain relieves the pressure - on my feelings and stammers out my scene in short cryptic sentences. - That is why, although I am an emotional thinker, I am what you are - pleased to call an intellectual writer. - - And now for the agreement, in which I have ventured to make - alterations, and even additions. Will you return it to me with - comments if you think I have been too difficult or exacting. My - father tells me I have inherited his business ability. He means to - pay me a compliment, but I gather your point of view is that - business ability is but deformity in an intellectual woman? I’m - sorry for this deformity of mine, realising the unfavourable - impression it may create. Try and forgive me for it, won’t you? You - need not even remember it when you are telling me what I am to give - you for the Staffordshire piece! - - With kind regards, - Yours very sincerely, - MARGARET CAPEL. - - No. 11. - - 118 Greyfriars’ Square, E.C., - 17th February, 1902. - - _Dear Mrs. Capel_:— - - What good news about the little “Staffordshire” piece! I am really - delighted. Please don’t mar my pleasure in thinking of it happily - housed with you by questions of price or bargaining. Rather add to - my pride in my “find” by accepting it as a small recognition of my - great good fortune in having made your acquaintance. - - Out of the chatter and clatter of the tea on Sunday the things you - said remain with me; if they were epigrams they were vivid and to me - very real. - - I hated everything that interrupted—and hated going away. Quite - humbly I say that I think I did understand, and was longing to tell - you so. But I have never had the tongue of a ready speaker, and as I - left your beautiful home I was choked with unspoken words a cleverer - man would have found more quickly. - - How much I wished I could have expressed myself. I wanted to say - that I had no hateful curiosity, but only an overwhelming sympathy - and desire for your confidence, a bedrock craving for your - friendship. May I be your friend? May I? Or am I presuming on your - kindness and too short an acquaintanceship? - - Anyhow, I can’t write on business, the contract is to go through - with all your alterations. - - Looking forward to the 24th, I need only sign, - - Au revoir, - Yours very truly, - GABRIEL STANTON. - - No. 12. - - 211 Queen Anne’s Gate, S.W., - 18th February, 1902. - - _Dear Mr. Stanton_:— - - I don’t know what to say about “The Musicians,” that is why I have - not already written to say it! I have not put the group into my - collection, it is on my bedroom mantelpiece. I see it when I first - wake in the morning, it is the last thing upon which my tired eyes - rest before I turn off the light at night. Sometimes I think those - musicians are playing the prelude to the friendship of which you - speak. - - I wonder why you are so curiously sympathetic to me, and why I mind - so little admitting it. Friendship has been rare in my life. You - offer me yours, and I am on the point of accepting it; thinking all - the time what it may mean, what I can give you in return. An hour - now and again of detached talk, a great deal of trouble with my - literary affairs ... there is not much in that for you; is there? - Are the Musicians really a gift? They must go on playing to me - softly then, and the prelude be slow and long-drawn-out. I am afraid - even of friendship, that is the truth. I’m disillusioned, - disappointed, tired. Nothing has ever happened to me as I meant it. - When I first came from America with my father, I was full of the - wildest hopes, and now I have outlived them all. It is not an - affectation, it is a profound truth, and at twenty-eight I find - myself worn out, dimmed, exhausted. I have had fame (a small measure - of it, but enough for comparison), wealth, and that horrid - nightmare, love. - - My father spoiled me when I was small, believed too much in me. - He thought me a genius, and I ... perhaps I thought so too. I - puzzled and perplexed him, and he felt overweighted with his - responsibilities, with character-studying an egotistic girl of - sixteen. The result was a stepmother. Can you imagine what I - suffered! She began almost immediately to suffocate me with her - kindness. She too admitted I was a genius. Do you know we had - the idea, these besotted parents of mine and I, that I was to be - a great pianist! I practised many hours a day, sustained by - jellies, and beef-tea and encouragement. I had the best - teachers, a few weeks in Dresden with Lentheric, my father - poured out his money like water. The end of that period was a - prolonged fainting fit, the first of many, the discovery I had a - weak heart, that the exertion of piano-playing affected it - unfavourably. I came back from Dresden at eighteen, was - presented the same year, the papers said I was beautiful; father - put himself out of the way to be nice to pressmen; he had - acquired the habit in America whilst he was building up his - fortune. That I was accounted beautiful and could play Chopin - and was to have a fortune, made me appear also brilliant. My - father paid for the printing of my first book. My first one-act - play was performed at a West End theatre. Then I met James - Capel. Mr. Justice Jeune knows the story of my married life - better than any one else. I was high-spirited before it began. - At the end of a year I was physically, mentally, morally a - wreck. I don’t know which of us hated the other more, my husband - or I. Anyway, he made no objection to my returning to my father. - My stepmother’s suffocating kindness descended upon me again, - and now I found it healing. When I was healed I wrote “The - Immoralists.” Then my father’s pride in me revived. He and my - stepmother kept open house and collected celebrities to show the - dimness of their light as a background for my supposed more - brilliant shining! Society was pleased to come, my father - growing always richer.... I wrote “The Farce of Fearlessness” - and “Love and the Lutist” about this time, and my other play. - When my husband made it imperative by his proved and public - blackguardism I resorted to the law, and acting under advice, - fought him in the arena he chose, and have now won my freedom, - but at an incredible, hardly yet to be realised cost, all my - wounds exposed in the market-place. - - I wonder why I am recapitulating all this. I think it is to show you - I am in no mood for friendship. There are times when I am savage - with pain, and times when I am exhausted from it, times when I feel - bruised all over, so tender that the touch of a word brings tears, - times when my overwhelming pity for myself leaves me incapable of - realizing anything beyond my wrongs. I say I have won my freedom, - but even this is untrue: at present I have only won six months of - probation, during which I am still James Capel’s wife. Sometimes I - think I shall never live through them, the stain of my connection - with him is like mortification. - - The prelude played by the Musicians is a prelude to a dream. - - And still I am grateful you gave them to me. - - Yours very truly, - MARGARET CAPEL. - -When I had read as far as this the codein exerted its influence. My -eyelids drooped, I slept and recovered myself. The sense of what I was -reading began to escape, I knew it was time to put the bundle away. -There were not very many more letters. I put all the papers on the table -by my side, then dropped off. Margaret betrayed herself completely in -her letters. Gabriel Stanton was still a strange unrealisable figure. - - - - - CHAPTER V - - -The few words I had with Nurse Benham the next morning cleared the air -and the situation between us. The strange thing was that at first she -did not notice the parcel at all, still loose and untidy in the paper in -which Dr. Kennedy had enwrapped it. Not until I told her to be careful -not to spill the tea over it did it strike her to wonder how it came -there. - -“Did Suzanne give you that?” she asked suspiciously. - -“She has not been in my room since you left me.” - -“That’s the very parcel you asked for the other night. How ever did you -get hold of it?” - -“After you left me I got out of bed and fetched it.” - -“You got out of bed!” She grew red in the face with rage or incredulity. - -“Yes, twice. Once for the parcel and once for the scissors!” - -She did not speak at once, standing there with her flushed face. So I -went on: - -“It is absurd for you to insist on me doing this or that, or leaving it -undone. You are here to take care of me, not to bully and tyrannise over -me.” - -“I am no good to you at all. I’d better go. You _will_ take matters into -your own hands. I never knew such a patient, never. One would think -you’d no sense at all, that you didn’t know how ill you were.” - -“That is no reason why I should not be allowed to get better. Believe -me, the only way for that to come about is that I should be allowed to -lead my own life in my own way.” - -“To get up in the middle of the night with the window wide open, to walk -about the room in your nightgown!” - -“I should not have done so, you know, if you had passed me the things -when I asked you for them.” - -“You don’t want a nurse at all,” she repeated. - -“Yes, I do. What I don’t want is a gaoler.” - -I was on the sofa when Dr. Kennedy called, the papers on the table -beside me. He asked eagerly what I thought of them: - -“I see you have got at them. Are you disappointed, exhilarated? Are they -illuminative? Tell me about them; I want so much to hear.” - -He had forgotten to ask how I was. - -“I will tell you about them presently. I haven’t read them all. Up to -now they are certainly disappointing, if not dull! They are business -letters, to begin with. But it is obvious she is trying to get up -something like a flirtation with him.” - -“Oh, no!” - -“Oh, yes! I have watched Ella, my sister Mrs. Lovegrove, for years. She -is past mistress of the art of flirtation. Sentiment and the appeal of -her femininity, a note of unhappiness and the suggestion the man’s -friendship may assuage it....” - -“Mrs. Lovegrove is a very charming woman. But Margaret Capel was not in -the least like her.” - -“Or any other woman?” - -“No.” - -“You have put yourself out of court. No woman is unlike any other. Your -‘pale fair Margaret’ admits, from the first, that Gabriel Stanton -attracts her. And this at a moment when she should allow herself to be -attracted by no man. When she has just gone through the horrors of the -Divorce Court.” - -“You are not bringing that up against her?” - -“I am not bringing anything up against her. But you asked me about the -letters. I have only read a dozen of them, and that is how they strike -me. A little dull and, on her part, flirtatious.” - -“I hope you won’t do the book at all if you don’t feel sympathetic.” - -“Believe me I shall be sympathetic if there is anything with which to -sympathise. Do you know her early life, or history? It is hinted at, -partly revealed here, but I should like to see it clearly.” - -“Won’t she tell you herself?” He smiled. I answered his smile. - -“She has left off coming since I have begun to get well. I shall have to -write the book, if I write it at all, without further help. By the way, -talking about getting better, I know that doctoring bores you, but I -want to know how much better I am going to get? I am as weak as a rat; -my legs refuse to carry me, my hand shakes when I get a pen in it. I -shall get the story into my head from these papers,” I added, with -something of the depression that I was feeling: “But I don’t see how I -am to get it out again. I don’t see how I shall ever have the strength -to put it on paper.” - -“That will come. There is no hurry about that. As a matter of fact I -believe letters are copyright for fourteen years. It isn’t twelve yet.” - -It was not worth while to put him right on the copyright acts. - -“You’ll be going downstairs next week, you’ll be at your writing-table, -her writing-table in the drawing-room. You ask me about her early life. -I only know her father was a wealthy American absolutely devoted to her. -He married for the second time when she was fifteen or sixteen and they -both concentrated on her. She was remarkable even as a child, obviously -a genius, very beautiful.” - -“She outgrew that,” I said emphatically. - -“She was a very beautiful woman,” he insisted. And then said more -lightly, “You must remember you have only seen her ghost.” The retort -pleased me and I let the subject of Margaret Capel’s beauty drop. She -interested me less when I felt well, and notwithstanding my active night -I felt comparatively well this morning. Since I could not get him to -take my weakness seriously I told him my grievance against nurse. - -“When she hears I am to go down next week she will have a fit. I wish -for once you would use your medical authority and tell her I am on no -account to be contradicted or thwarted.” - -“I’ll tell her so if you like, but I never see her. She runs like a -rabbit when I come near.” - -“You are not professional enough for her taste, there are too few -examinations and prescriptions. How is my unsatisfactory lung, by the -way? Give a guess, something scientific to retail. I must keep Ella -informed.” - -“There has not been time for the physical signs to have cleared up yet. -I’ll listen if you like, but after seeing all those specialists I should -have thought you were tired of saying ‘99’.” - -“They varied it sometimes. ‘999’ seems to be the latest wheeze.” - -“I wish you had not left off seeing Margaret,” he sighed. - -“It is a pity,” I laughed at him. “You should not have dropped giving me -the morphia so soon.” - -“You wouldn’t have it.” - -“It was dulling my brain. I felt myself growing stupid and more stupid.” - -“You only had one-quarter grain twice a day for the inside of a week, -and there was atropin in it. If it had really had a deadening effect -upon you you would not have refused it, but just gone on. Not that I -believe anything would ever dull _your_ brain.” - -I wished Ella could have heard him, it would have confirmed her in her -folly and made for my amusement. He left shortly after paying me that -remarkable compliment, but stopped on his way out to speak to Benham. -The immediate effect of his words was to make her silent and perhaps -sullen for a few hours. After which, but still under protest, she gave -me whatever I asked for, and began to be more like other nurses in the -time she took off duty for exercise, sleep, and meals. She even yawned -in my face on the rare occasions when I summoned her in the night. I -tried to chaff her back into good humour, but without much success. - -“Do you find me any worse for having got out of leading strings?” I -asked her. “Have pencils and MS. paper sent up my temperature?” - -“You are not out of the wood yet,” she retorted angrily. - -“No, but I am enjoying its umbrageous rest,” I returned. “Reading my -papers in the shadows.” - -“Shadow enough!” - -“That’s right. Mind you go on keeping up my spirits.” She did smile -then, but she was obviously dissatisfied, both with me and Dr. Kennedy. -I was taking no drugs, doing a little more each day, in the way of -moving about. And yet I could not call myself convalescent. My legs were -stiff and my back heavy. I had no feeling of returning vigour. What -little I did I forced myself to do. I had hardly the energy to finish -the letters. Had it not been for Dr. Kennedy I don’t believe, at this -stage, I should have finished them! Although the next two or three set -me thinking, and I was again visualising the writers. Not that Gabriel -Stanton betrayed himself in his letters, as Margaret did in hers. I had -to reconcile him with the donnish master of Greek roots, whom I had met -and been ignored by, in Greyfriars’ Square. This was his answer to her -last effusion. - - No. 13. - - 118 Greyfriars’ Square, - 19th February, 1902. - - _Dear Mrs. Capel_:— - - I have read your letter ten—twenty times; my business day was filled - and transformed by it. Now it is midnight and I am alone in the - stillness of my room, the routine of the day and the evening over, - and my brain, not always very quick, alight with the wonderment of - your words, and my restless anxiety to respond. Don’t, I implore - you, belittle the possibility of friendship! - - Surely the value of it is only proved by its needs? - - May I not say that in this crisis in your life friendship may be - much to you. Can I hope that my privilege may be to fill the need? - - _You_ have been so splendidly frank and outspoken. _I_ have suffered - all my life from a sort of stupid reticence, probably cowardly. But - tonight, and to you, I want to throw off the habit of years and not - miss, before it is too late, the luxury of being natural. - - Well, I am hot with hatred that you should have been hurt, and yet I - am happy that you have told me of your wounds. Tonight I pray that - it may be given to me to heal them. - - I am writing this because I must—though conventionally the shortness - of our acquaintance does not justify me. But I have been - conventional so long—circumstance has ruled and limited my doings. - And tonight it comes to me that chance and fate are, or should be, - greater than environment. The Gods only rarely offer gifts, and the - blackness and blankness of despair follow their refusal. So I cling - to the hope that they have now offered me a precious gift, and that - in spite of all your pain—all the past which now so embitters you, - to me may come the chance in some small way of proving to you that - in friendship there is healing, and in sympathy and understanding, - at least the hope of forgetfulness. - - I shall hardly dare to read over what I have written, for I should - either be conscious that it is inadequate to express what I have - wanted to say to you—or that I have presumed too much in writing - what is in my mind. - - Look upon those Musicians as playing a prelude, not to a dream but - to a happier future, and then my pleasure in the little gift will be - enormously increased. - - It has been a sort of joke in my family that I am over-cautious and - too deliberate, but for tonight at least in these still quiet hours - I mean to conquer this, and go out to post this letter myself; just - as I have written it, with no alteration; yet with confidence in the - kindness you have already shown me. - - And I shall see you at dinner on Thursday. - - Yours very sincerely, - GABRIEL STANTON. - -A little over a fortnight passed before there was any further -correspondence. Meanwhile the two must have met frequently. Her letters -were often undated, and her figures even more difficult to read than her -handwriting generally. The hieroglyphic over the following looks like 5, -but I could not be sure. The intimacy between them must have grown -apace, and yet the running away could have been nothing but a ruse. -There could have been little fear of so sedate a lover as Gabriel -Stanton. I found something artificial in the next letter of hers, -recapitulative, as if already she had publication in her mind. Of course -it is more difficult for a novelist or a playwright to be genuine and -simple with a pen than it is for a person of a different avocation, but -I could not help thinking how much better than Margaret Ella would have -acted her part, and my sympathy began to flow more definitely toward the -inexperienced gentleman, no longer young, to whom she was introducing -the game of flirtation under the old name of Platonic friendship. - - No. 14. - - Carbies, - Pineland, - March 5th, 1902. - - I have run away, you realise this, don’t you, simply turned tail and - run. That long dinner which seemed so short; the British Museum the - next day, and your illuminating lecture so abruptly ended—that - dreadful lunch ... boiled fish and ginger beer! Ye Gods! Greek or - Roman, how could you appear satisfied, eat with appetite? I sickened - in the atmosphere. Thursday at the National Gallery was better. Our - taste in pictures is the same if our taste in food differs. But - perhaps you did not know what you were given in the refreshment room - of the British Museum? I throw out this suggestion as an extenuating - circumstance, for I find it difficult to forgive you that languid - cod and its egg sauce. Our other two meals together were so - different. That first lunch at the Café Royal was perfect in its - way. As for our dinner, did I not myself superintend the ménu, curb - the exuberance of the chef and my stepmother; dock the unfashionable - sorbet; change Mayonnaise sauce into Hollandaise; duck and green - peas into an idealised animal of the same variety, stuffed with foie - gras, enriched and decorated with cherries? For you I devoted myself - to the decoration of the table, interested myself in the wine list - my father produced, discussed vintages with our pompous and absurd - butler. I must tell you a story about that butler. You said he - looked like an Archdeacon. Can you imagine an Archdeacon in the - Divorce Court? No! No! No! Nothing to do with mine. Had it been I - could not have written of it, the very thought sets me writhing - again. Poor Burden was with the Sylvestres, you remember the case. - Everybody defended and it was fought for five interminable days. The - papers devoted columns to it, nothing else was discussed in the - Clubs, the whole air of London—Mayfair end—was fœtid and foul with - it. Burden was a witness, he had seen too much, and his evidence - sent poor silly Ann Sylvestre to hide her divorced and disgraced - head in Monte Carlo. And can a head properly _ondulé_ be said to be - divorced? Heavens! how my pen runs on, or away, like me. And I - haven’t come to the story, which now I come to think of it is not so - _very_ good. I will tell you it in Burden’s own words. He applied - for our situation through a registry office, and stood before my - stepmother and me, hat in hand, sorrowful, but always dignified, as - he answered questions. - - “My last situation was with a Mrs. Solomon. I’m sorry, milady, to - have to ask you to take up a character from such people. I’d always - been in the best service before that.... I was hallboy with the - Jutes, third and then second with His Grace the Duke of Richland, - first footman under the Countess Foreglass. I was five years with - the Sylvestres; you know, Ma’am, he was first cousin to the Duke of - Trent, near to the Throne itself, as one might say. I’d never - lowered myself to an untitled family before. But after the divorce I - couldn’t get nothing. Ma’am, I hope you’ll believe me, but from the - moment I accepted Mr. Solomon’s place all I was planning to do was - to get out of it. They was Jews, if I may mention such a thing to - you. I took ten pounds a year less than I’d had at his Lordship’s, - but Mr. Solomon, he said in his facetious way that being in the - witness box ’ad knocked at least ten pounds off my value, an’ he - ground me down. But I’ll have to ask you to take up my character - from him. That’s the worst of it, Ma’am, milady.” - - We had to break it to him that we were without titles, but he said - sorrowfully that having been in a witness box in the divorce court - made it impossible for him to stand out. - - Burden and I have always been on good terms. I understand him, you - see, his point of view, and his descent in the social scale when he - went to live with Jews. What I was going to tell you was, that - notwithstanding our friendship he resented my interference in his - department when I insisted on selecting the wine for your—our—dinner - party. I am almost sorry I quarrelled with him on your account. He - looks at me coldly now, he is remembering my American blood, - despising it. And to think I have lost the priceless regard of - Burden for a man who can eat boiled and tired cod, masked with egg - sauce, washed down with ginger beer! - - Where was I? The sculpture at the British Museum; then the next day - at the National Gallery. Our spirits kneeled there; we grew small. - No, we didn’t, I’m disingenuous. We said so, not meaning it in the - least. After twenty minutes we forgot all about the pictures. - Rumpelmayer’s, St. James’s Park, out to Coombe. - - Did you realise we were seeing each other every day, how much time - we spent together? - - Am I eighteen or twenty-eight? You’ve a reputation for knowing more - about Greek roots than any other Englishman. Should I have run away - down here if you had talked about Greek roots? I’m excited, - exhausted, bewildered. For three nights sleep failed me. Nothing is - so wonderful as a perfect friendship between a man of your age and a - woman of mine. Why did you change your mind, or your note, so - quickly yesterday? _I_ knew all the time what was happening to us. I - think there is something arrogant in your humility. I am naturally - so much more outspoken than you, although my troubles have made me - more fearful. You are a strange man. I think you may send me a - portrait. When I try to recall you, you don’t always come whole, - only bits of you, inconsistent bits, a gleam of humour in your eyes, - your stoop, the height that makes us so incongruous together. I like - you, Gabriel Stanton, and I’ve run away from you; that’s the truth. - That disingenuous aggressive humility of yours is a subtle appeal to - my sympathies. I don’t want to sympathise with you overmuch, with - the loneliness of your life, or anything about you. We were meeting - too often, talking too freely. I curl up and want to hide when I - think of some of the things we have said (_I_ have said!!!). I know - I am too impulsive. - - I’m going to settle down here and start seriously on my - Staffordshire Potters. I’ve taken the house for three months. If I - had not already written the longest letter ever penned I’d describe - it to you. Perhaps I’ll write again if you encourage me. Think of me - as a novelist out of work, using up my MS. paper. Down here - everything has become unreal. You and I, but especially “_us_”! I - _want_ everything to be unreal, I’m not strong enough for more - reality. Keep unsubstantial. I don’t suppose you will understand me - (I am not sure that I understand myself). But you begged me to “let - myself go,” “pour myself out on you.” Can I take your strength and - lean upon it, the tenderness you promise me and revel in it, all - that I believe you are offering me, and give you nothing? I am mean, - afraid of giving. It all came so quickly, so unexpectedly. I have - never had a real companion. Never, never, never even as a child been - wholly natural with anybody, posing always. The only daughter of a - millionaire with more talent than she ought to have, a shy soul - behind a brazen forehead, is in a difficult position. To undrape - that shy soul of mine as you so nearly make me do, unwillingly—but - it might happen—makes me shiver. That’s why I ran away, I want to be - isolated, to stand alone. Here is the truth again, not at the bottom - of a well, but at the end of an interminable letter. I am afraid of - pain, and this intimacy presages it. You cannot be all I think you. - I don’t want to be near enough to see your clay feet. - - I am going to get some picture postcards with small space for - writing; this MS. paper demoralises me. - - Sincerely, - MARGARET CAPEL. - - No. 15. - - Will you ever know what your dear wonderful letter has given me? I - passed through moments of doubt, of bewildered unbelief into a - golden trance of joy and hope. And as again and again I read it some - of your far braver personality fills me, and I refuse to think this - new spring of hope is a mere dream, and take courage and tell myself - I _am_ something to you—something in your life, and that to me, - Gabriel Stanton, has come at last the chance of helping, tending, - caring for against all the world if need be, such a woman as - Margaret Capel. - - Let me revel in this new strange happiness. You are too kind, too - generous to destroy it! For it is all strange and marvellous to - me—I’ve lived so much alone—have missed so much by circumstance and - the fault of what you call my “aggressive humility.” I _can_ help - you! As I write I feel I want nothing else in life. Oh! my wonderful - friend, don’t let us miss a relationship which on my part I swear to - you shall be consecrated to your service, to your happiness in any - and every way you decide or will ask. Let me come into your life, - give me the chance of healing those wounds which have bruised you - grievously, but can never conquer your brave spirit. You must let me - help. - - You have gone away, but your dear letter is with me—it is so much - your letter—so much you that I am not even lonely any more. And yet - I long to see you—hear you talk, be near you. Thoughts—hopes—ideas, - crowd upon me tonight, things to tell you——It is like having a new - sense—I’ve wakened up in a new and so beautiful country. Do you wish - for those weeks of solitude? Only what you wish matters. But I - confess I’ve looked up the trains to Pineland. I will come on any - day at any moment you say. There is no duty that could keep me - should you say “come.” Give me at least one chance of seeing you in - your new home. Then I will keep away and respect your solitude if - you wish it. - - The joy of your letter and the golden castles I am building help the - hours until I hear from you. - - G. S. - -It is my opinion still that she only ran away in order to bring him -after her, to secure a greater solitude than they could enjoy in places -of public resort, or in her father’s house. I don’t mean that she -deliberately planned what followed, but had that been her intention she -could have devised no better strategy than to leave him at the point at -which they had arrived without a word of farewell other than that -letter. As for me, when I had finished reading it and the answer, I had -recourse to the diary and MS. notes. They would, however, have been of -but little use had not a second dose of codein that night brought me -again in closer relation with the writer. - - - - - CHAPTER VI - - -As I said, I took two codein pills instead of one that night, and in an -hour or so was conscious of the comfort and phantasmagoria of morphia. I -was no longer in the bedroom of which I had tired, nor in the rough -garden without trees or shade. I had escaped from these and in returning -health was beside the sea, happily listening to the little waves -breaking on the stones, no soul in sight but those two, Margaret Capel -and Gabriel Stanton, in earnest talk that came to me as I sat with my -back against a rock, the salt wind in my face. How it was they did not -see me and moderate their voices I do not know, morphia gives one these -little lapses and surprises. - -Margaret looked extraordinarily sedate and yet perverse, her thin lips -pink and eyes dancing. I saw the incandescent effect of which Peter -Kennedy had told me. It was not only her eyes that were alight but the -woman herself, the luminous fair skin and the fairness of her hair -stirred and brightened by the sun and the sea-wind. She talked vividly, -whilst he sat at her feet listening intently, offering her the homage of -his softened angularities, his abandoned scholarship, his adoring eyes. - -“Why did you come? I told you not to come. Of course I meant to wire in -answer to your letter that you were to stay in London. What was the use -of my running away?” - -I saw that he fingered the hem of her skirt, and watched her all the -time she spoke. - -“Tomorrow I shall have no expectation in the post. I hate not to care -whether my letters come or not. And Monday too. You have spoiled two -mornings for me.” - -“I am not as satisfying as my letters to you.” Even his voice was -changed, the musical charming Stanton voice. His had deepened and there -was the note of an organ in it. She looked at him critically or -caressingly. - -“Not quite, not yet. I understand your letters better than I do you. And -you are never twice alike, not quite alike. We part as friends, -intimates. Then we come together again and you are almost a stranger; we -have to begin all over again.” - -“I am sorry.” He looked perplexed. “How do I change or vary? I cannot -bear to think that you should look upon me as a stranger.” - -“Only for a few moments.” - -“When you met me at the station today?” - -“I was at the station early, and then was vexed I had come, looking -about me to see if there were any one I knew or who knew me. I took -refuge at the bookstall, found ‘The Immoralists’ among the two-shilling -soiled.” She left off abruptly, and her face clouded. - -“Don’t!” he whispered. - -“How quick you are!” Now their hands met. She smiled and went on -talking. “I heard a click and saw that the signals were down. The train -rounded the curve and came in slowly. People descended; I was conscious -of half a dozen, although I saw but one. No, I didn’t see you, only your -covert coat and felt hat. I felt a pang of disappointment.” Their hands -fell apart. I saw he was hurt. She may have seen it too, but made no -sign. - -“It was not your fault, you had done nothing ... you just were not as I -expected you. You had cut yourself shaving, for one thing.” He put his -hand to his chin involuntarily, there was barely a scratch. “As we -walked back from the station my heart felt quite dead and cold. I hated -the scratch on your cheek, the shape of your hat, everything.” He turned -pale. “I wondered how I was going to bear two whole days, what I should -say to you.” - -“We talked!” - -“I know, but it was outside talk, forced, laboured. You remember, ‘How -warm the weather was in London’; and that the train was not too full for -comfort. You had papers in your hand, the _Saturday Review_, the -_Spectator_. You spoke of an article by Runciman in the first.” - -“You seemed interested.” - -“I was thinking how we were going to get through the two days. What I -had ever seen in you, why I thought I liked you so much.” - -He was quite dumb by now, the sunken eyes were full of pain, the -straight austere mouth was only a line; he no longer touched the hem of -her dress. - -“You left me in the garden of the hotel when you went to book a room, to -leave your bag. I sat on a seat in the garden and looked at the sea, the -blue wonder of the sea, the jagged coast-line, and one rock that stood -out, then hills and always more hills, the sky so blue, spring in the -air. Gabriel ...” she leaned forward, touched him lightly on the -shoulder. A deep flush came over his face, but he did not move nor put -up his hand to take hers. “You were only gone ten minutes. I could not -have borne for you to have been away longer. There were a thousand -things I wanted to say to you, that I knew I could say to no one but -you. About the spring and my heart hunger, what it meant.” - -“And when I came out I suppose all you remembered was that I had cut -myself shaving?” - -She seemed astonished at the bitterness of his tone. - -“You are not angry with me, are you?” - -“No! Not angry. How could I be?” - -“When you came out and I felt rather than saw you were moving toward me -across the grass I thought of nothing but that you were coming; that we -were going to have tea together, on the ricketty iron table, that I -should pour it out for you. That after that we should walk here -together, and then you would go home with me, dine together at Carbies, -talk and talk and talk....” - -He could not help taking her hand again, because she gave it to him, but -his face was set and serious. - -“Tell me, is it the same with you as it is with me? Am I a stranger to -you sometimes? Different from what you expect? Do I disappoint you, and -leave you cold, almost as if you disliked me? Don’t answer. I expect, I -know it is the same with you. You find me plain, gone off, you wonder -what you ever saw in me.” - -He answered with a quiet yet passionate sincerity: - -“When I see you after an interval my heart rushes out to you, my pulses -leap. I feel myself growing pale. I am paralysed and devoid of words. -Margaret! My very soul breathes _Margaret_, my wonderful Margaret. I -cannot get my breath.” Her eyes shone and exulted. - -“It is not like that always?” she whispered, leaning towards him. - -“It is like that always. But today it was more than that. I had not seen -you for a week, a whole long week. Sometimes in that week I had not -dared look forward.” - -“And then you saw me.” She was hanging upon his words. He got up -abruptly and walked a few paces away from her, to the edge of the sea. -She smiled quietly to herself when he left her like that. He was -suffering, he could not bear the contrast between what she had thought -of him and he of her. - -“Gabriel!” she called him back presently, called softly and he came -swiftly. - -“I had better go back to town by the next train. I disappoint you.” - -“Silly!” She was amazingly, alluringly smiling into his dour eyes, not -satisfied until he smiled too. “It is my sense of style. I am like -grammar; all moods and tenses. You want me to tell you everything, don’t -you?” - -“Am I the man for you? that is what I want you to tell me. I don’t know -what you mean by that sense of strangeness—I cannot bear it.” - -“Don’t you vary? wonder, doubt?” - -“I always knew from the first afternoon when you were shown into my room -in Greyfriars’, your black fur framing your exquisite porcelain face, -your eyes like wavering stars, that you were the only woman in the -world. Since then the conviction of it grows deeper and deeper, more -certain. You are never out of my mind. I know I am not good enough for -you, too old and grave. But you have let me hope. Oh! you wonderful -child.” For still she was smiling at him in that dazzling alluring way. -He was at her feet and the hem of her dress again against his lips. -“Don’t you understand, can’t I make you understand? I adore you, I -worship you. I want nothing from you except that you let me tell you so -sometimes.” - -“It is so much nicer when you write it,” she murmured. - -“Don’t.” She cajoled him. - -“I can’t take it lightly,” he burst out. “Pity me, forgive me, but don’t -laugh at me.” - -“I am not laughing.” - -“I know. You are an angel of sweetness, goodness. Margaret, let me love -you!” - - * * * * * - -I was back again in bed, very drowsy and comfortable, wondering how I -had got there, what had happened, what time it was. I took a drink of -lemonade and thought what a bad night I was having. I remembered my -dream; it had been very vivid, and I was sorry for Gabriel Stanton and -tried to remember what had become of him, when I had heard of or seen -him last; it must have been a long time ago. Margaret was a minx. If -ever I wrote about them it would be to tell the truth, to analyse and -expose the spirit and soul of a woman flirt. And again when I lay down I -thought of what the critics would say of this fine and intimate study, -this human document that I was to give the world. Phrases came to me, -vivid lightning touches ... I hoped I should be able to remember them, -but hardly doubted it, for others came, even better than these, and then -in consequence, sleep.... - - * * * * * - -Benham said in the morning: - -“Whatever did you take another pill for? Was anything the matter with -you? You could have called me up.” - -“But you might have argued with me.” - -“I am sure I don’t know what good a nurse is to you at all!” - -“You would be invaluable if you would only get it into your head that I -am not a mental case. Don’t you realise that I am a very clever woman, -quite as clever as you?” - -“I don’t call it clever to retard your own recovery.” - -“Am I going to recover?” I asked quickly. - -“Your beloved Dr. Kennedy says you are.” - -“By the way, is he coming today?” - -“It isn’t many days he misses.” - -“He comes to protect me from you, to see I have some few privileges and -ameliorations of my condition, that my confinement is not too close, my -gaoler too vigilant.” - -We understood each other better now, and I could chaff her without -provoking anything but a difficult smile. I, of course, was a bad -patient. I found it difficult to believe that I ought not to try and -overcome my weakness and inertia, that it was my duty to leave off -fighting and sink into invalidism as if it were a feather bed. - -That afternoon she helped me to the writing-table in the drawing-room, -and I sat there trying to recapture the conversation I had heard. But -although I could remember every word I found it hard to write. I could -lie back in the chair and look at the gorse, the distant hills, the sea, -the dim wide horizon, but to lean forward, take pen in hand, dip it in -the ink, write, was almost beyond that still slowly ebbing strength. I -whipped myself with the thought of what weak women had done, and dying -men. “_My head is bloody but unbowed...._” Mine was bowed then, quickly -over the writing-table; tears of self-pity welled hot, but I would not -let them fall. It was not because Death was coming to me. I swear that -then nor ever have I feared Death. But I was leaving so much undone. I -had a place, and it was to know me no more. And the world was so lovely, -the promise of spring in the air. When I lifted my bowed head Peter -Kennedy was there, very pitiful as I could see by his eyes, and with a -new gift of silence. Silence as to essentials, at least. He did not ask -what ailed me, but spoke of a breakdown to the motor, of the wonder of -the April weather. I soon regained my self-possession. - -“How soon after Margaret Capel came here did you make her acquaintance?” -I asked him suddenly, and _à propos_ of nothing either of us had said. - -“It must have been a week or two, not more. I knew the house had been -taken, but not by whom. And at first the name meant nothing to me. I am -not a reading man; at least I don’t read novels.” - -“Don’t apologise. I have heard of the _Sporting Times_, _Bell’s Life_.” - -“Go on, gibe away, I like it. She was just the same only kinder, much -kinder.” - -I laughed. - -“I knew she would be kind, and soft, and womanly. Didn’t she say she was -lonely?” - -“Yes.” - -“And then say quickly: ‘But of course you are quite right. Reading is a -waste of time, living everything, and you are doing a fine work, a man’s -work in the world.’ She said she envied you. I can hear her saying it.” -He looked ecstatic. - -“So can I. Ella says the same thing.” - -“Why are you so bitter?” - -I could not tell him it was because I had heard other women, many women, -who were all things to all men, and that I despised, or perhaps envied -them, lacking their gift and so having lived lonely save for Ella and -Ella’s love. Until now, when it was too late. And then I looked at him, -at Dr. Kennedy, and laughed. - -“Why do you laugh? You are so like and so unlike her. She would laugh -for nothing, cry for nothing....” - -“Tell me all about her from the beginning.” It was an excuse to rest on -the cushions in the easy-chair, to cease whipping my tired conscience. - -“There is little or nothing to tell. It was about a week after she came -here we had the first call. _Urgent_, the message said. So I got on my -bicycle and spun away up here. I did not even wait to get out the car.” - -“What day of the week was it?” I asked, interrupting him. - -“What day of the week?” he repeated in surprise. - -“Yes, what day?” - -“As a matter of fact it was on a Monday. What’s the point? I remember -because it happens to have been my Infirmary day. I had just come home, -dog-tired, but of course when the call came I had to go. I actually -thought what a bore it was as I pedalled up. It’s nearly all uphill from -our house to Carbies. The maid looked frightened when she opened the -door.” - -“Oh, sir, I am so glad you are here. Will you please come into the -drawing-room? Mrs. Capel, she fainted right away. Miss Stevens has tried -hartshorn an’ burnt feathers, everything we could think of.” - -“Everything that had a smell?” - -“Yes, sir. I perceived it as I approached the drawing-room—this room. -She was on the sofa,” he looked over to it, “very pale and dishevelled, -only partly conscious.” - -“Who was Miss Stevens?” - -“Her maid. Quite a character. Something like your nurse, only more so.” - -“What did you do?” - -“I felt her pulse, her heart, thought of strychnine.” - -“You are not a great doctor, are you?” I scoffed lightly. - -“Oh! I know my work all right; it’s simple enough. You try this drug or -the other....” - -“Or none, as in my case.” - -“That’s right.” - -“And then if the patient does not get better or her relatives get -restive, you call in some one else, who makes another shot.” There was a -twinkle in his eye. I always thought he knew more about medicine than he -pretended. “And what did you do for Margaret?” I went on. - -“Opened the window, and her dress; waited. The first thing she said was, -‘Has he gone?’ I did not know to whom she referred, but the maid told me -primly: ‘Mrs. Capel’s publisher has been down for the week-end. He left -this morning. She don’t know what she’s saying.’ Margaret opened her -eyes, her sweet eyes, dark-irised, the light in them wavered and grew -strong. She seemed to recall herself with difficulty and slowly. ‘Did I -faint? I’m all right now. Is that you, Stevens? What happened?’ - -“‘I came in to bring your afternoon tea and you were in a dead faint, at -the writing-table, all in a heap. I rang for cook and we carried you to -the sofa, and tried to bring you round. Then cook telephoned for Dr. -Lansdowne.’ - -“‘Are you Dr. Lansdowne?’ - -“‘He was out. I’m his partner, Dr. Kennedy. How are you feeling?’ I -asked her. - -“‘Better. Stevens, you can go away. Bring me some more tea. Dr. Kennedy -will have a cup with me.’ She struggled into a sitting position and I -helped her. Then she told me she had always been subject to these -attacks, ever since she was a child, that she was to have been a -pianist, had studied seriously. But the doctors forbade her practising. -Now she wrote. She admitted that her own emotional scenes overcame her. -Then we talked of the emotions....” - -Dr. Kennedy looked at me as if enquiringly. - -“Do you want to hear any more?” - -“You saw her often after that?” - -“Nearly every day, all the time she was here.” - -“And talked about the emotions?” - -“Sometimes. What are you implying? What are you trying to get at? -Whatever it is, you are wrong. I was in her confidence, she liked -talking to me. I did her good.” - -“With drugs or dogma?” I asked. - -“With sympathy. She had suffered terribly, more than any woman should be -allowed to suffer. And she was ultra-sensitive, her nerves were all -exposed, inflamed. You have sometimes that elusive, strange resemblance -to her. But she had neither strength nor courage and as for hardness ... -she did not know the meaning of the word.” - -“You are wrong. Last night I heard her talk to Gabriel Stanton.” - -“Did you?” His eyes lightened. “Tell me. But he was not the man for her, -never the man for her. Not sufficiently flexible. He took her too -seriously.” - -“Can a man take a woman too seriously?” - -“An emotional, nervous, delicate woman. Yes. You’ve been through all the -letters?” - -“No. There are a few more.” - -They were on the table, and I put my hand on them. I was sure that no -one but I must see them. - -“The first two or three times that Gabriel Stanton came down he stayed -at ‘The King’s Arms.’ She was always ill after he left, always. She made -a brave effort, poor girl. Day after day I have come in and seen her -sitting as you are, paper before her, and ink. I don’t think anything -ever came of it. She would play too, for hours.” - -“You stayed away when he was here, I suppose?” - -“No! Not always. I was sent for once or twice. She had those heart -attacks.” - -“Hysteria?” - -“Heart attacks. He did not know how to treat or calm her.” - -“Poor Gabriel Stanton!” - -“Poor Margaret Capel!” he retorted. “I wouldn’t try to write the story -if I were you. You misjudge her, I am sure you do. She was -delicate-minded.” - -“Why did she have him down here at all? She knew the risk she ran. Why -did she not wait until the decree _was_ made absolute?” For by now, of -course, I knew how the trouble came about. - -“She was in love with him.” - -“She did not know the meaning of the word. She was philandering with you -at the time.” He grew red. - -“She was not. I was her doctor.” - -“And are not doctors men?” - -“Not with their patients.” - -I looked at him thoughtfully and remembered Ella. He answered as if he -read my thoughts. - -“You are not my patient, you are Lansdowne’s.” He gave a short uncertain -laugh when he had said that. That seemed amusing to me, for I did not -care whether he was a man or not, feeling ill and superlatively old and -sexless, also that he lacked something, had played this game with -Margaret, the game she had taught him, until his withers were all -unwrung, until she had bereft him of reason, leaving him empty, as it -were hollow, filled up with words, meaningless words that were part of -the fine game, of which he had forgotten or never known the rules. - -After he left I read her next letter, the one written after Gabriel -Stanton had been to Pineland for the first time, and she had told him -how she felt about him. - - Carbies, Pineland. - - I have been writing to you and tearing up the letters ever since you - left. I look back and cannot believe you were here only two days. - The two days passed like two hours, but now it seems as if we must - have been together for weeks. You told me so much and I ... I - exposed myself to you completely. You know everything about me, it - is incredible but nevertheless true that I tried all I knew to show - you the real woman on whom you are basing such high hopes. What are - you thinking of me now, I wonder. That I am a little mad, not quite - human? What is this genius that separates me from the world, from - all my kind? My books, my little plays, my piano-playing! There is a - little of it in all of them, is there not, my friend, my companion, - the first person to whom I have ever spoken so frankly. Is it not - true that I have a wider vision, intenser emotions than other women? - Love me therefore better, and differently than any man has ever - loved a woman. You say that you will, you do, that I am to pour - myself out on you. I like that phrase of yours—you need never use it - again, you have already used it twice. - - “I shall remember while the light is yet, - And when the darkness comes I shall not forget.” - - It went through me, there is nowhere it has not permeated. And see, - I obey you. I no longer feel a pariah and an outcast, with all the - world pointing at me. The degradation of my marriage is only a - nightmare, something, as you say, that never happened. I look out on - the garden and the sea beyond, on the jagged coast-line and the - green tree-clad hills, all bathed in sunshine, and forget that I - have suffered. I am glad to know you so intimately that I can - picture each hour what you are doing. You are not happy, and I am - almost glad. What could I give you if you were happy? But as it is - when you are bored and wearied, with your office work, depressed in - your uncongenial home, I can send you my thoughts and they will flow - in upon you like fresh water to a stagnant pool. I have at times so - great a sense of strength and power. At others, as you know, I am - faint and fearful. Nobody but you has ever understood that I am not - inconsistent, only a different woman at different times. I know I - see things that are hidden from other people, not mystic things, but - the great Scheme unfolded, the scheme of the world, why some suffer - and some enjoy, what God means by it all. In my visions it is - blindingly brilliant and clear, and I understand God as no human - being has ever understood Him before. I want to be His messenger, to - show the interblending marvel. I know it is for that I am here. Then - I write a short story that says nothing at all, or I sit at the - piano and try to express, all alone by myself, that for which I - cannot find words. Afterwards I go to bed and know I am a fool, and - lie awake all night, miserable enough at my futility. I have always - lived like this save during those frenzied months when I thought - love was the expression for which I had waited, and with my eyes on - the stars, blundered into a morass. Notwithstanding we have hardly - spoken of it, you know the love I ask from you has nothing in common - with the love ordinary men and women have for each other, nothing at - all in common. The very thought of physical love makes me sick and - ill. That is still a nightmare, nothing more nor less. I want my - thoughts held, not my hands. How intimate we must be for me to write - you like this, and the weeks we have known each other so few. - - You won’t read this in the office, you will take it home with you to - the bookish and precise flat in Hampstead, and hoard it up until the - little round-backed sister with her claim and her querulousness has - left you in peace. She is part of that great scheme of things which - evades me when I try to write it. Why should you sacrifice your - freedom to make a home for her? Poor cripple, with her cramped small - brain; your companion to whom you are tied like a sound man to a - leper, and with whom you cannot converse and yet must sometimes - talk. You cannot read or write very well in the atmosphere she - creates for you, but must listen to gossip and answer fittingly, - wasting the precious hours. Nevertheless you will find time to - answer this letter. I shall not watch for the coming of the post and - be disappointed. She does not care for you overmuch I fear, this - poor sister of yours, only for herself. I am sorry she is - hunchbacked and ailing. But I am sorrier still that she is your - sister and burdens you. Life has given you so little. Your dreary - orphaned childhood in your uncle’s large hospitable family, of which - you were always the one apart, you and that same suffering sister; - your strenuous schooldays. You say you were happy at Oxford, but for - the cramping certainty that there was no choice of a career; only - the stool at Stanton’s, and so repayment for all your uncle had done - for you. My poor Gabriel, it seems to me your boyhood and your - manhood have been spent. And now you have only me. Me! with hands - without gifts and arid lips, an absorbing egotism, and only my - passionate desire for expression. I don’t want to live; I want to - write, and even for that I am not strong enough! My message is too - big for me. Hold me and enfold me, I want to rest in you; you are - unlike all other men because you want to give and give and give, - asking nothing. And therefore you are my mate, because I am unlike - all other women, being a genius. You alone of all men or women I - have ever known will not doubt that I have a message, although I may - never prove it. You don’t want to be proud of me, only to rest me. - - Which reminds me—that book on Staffordshire Pottery will never be - written. How will you explain it to your partners, and the wasted - expense of the illustrations? I shall send you a business letter - withdrawing; then I suppose you will say that you had better run - down and discuss the matter with me. But, oh! it’s so wonderful to - know that you, you yourself will know without any explaining that I - cannot write about pottery just now. I _have_ written a few verses. - I will send them to you when they are polished and the rhythm is - perfect. There will be little else left by then! - - Write and tell me that one day you will come again to Pineland. One - day, but not yet. I could not bear it, not to think of you - concretely here with me again, this week or next. I want you as a - light in the distance, my eyes are too weak to see you more - closely.... I won’t even erase that, although it will hurt you. - Sometimes I feel I am not going to bring you happiness, only drain - you of sympathy. - - MARGARET. - - Church Row, Hampstead. - - _My dear, dear love, you wonderful, wonderful - Margaret:_— - - I wish I could tell you, I wish I could begin to tell you all you - mean to me, what our two days together meant to me. You ask me what - I am thinking of you. If only I could let you know that, you would - know everything. For your sufferings I love you, for your crucified - gift and agonies. You say I am to love you better and differently - than any man has ever loved woman. My angel child, I do. Can’t you - feel it? Tell me you do. That is all I want, that you tell me you do - know how I worship you, that it means something to you, helps you a - little. - - What am I to answer to your next sentence? You say you ask of me a - love that has nothing in common with the love ordinary men and women - have for each other, that physical love makes you sick and ill. - Beloved, everything shall be as you wish between us. I would not so - much as kiss the hem of your dress if you forbade it by a look, nor - your delicate white hands. I love your hands. You let me hold them, - you must let me hold them sometimes. Dear generous one, I will never - trouble you. I am for you to use as you will, that you use me at all - is gift enough. This time will pass this trying dreadful time. Until - then, and afterwards if you wish it, I will be only your - comrade—your very faithful knight. I love your delicacy and reserve, - all you withhold from me. I yearn to be your lover, your husband; - all and everything to you. Don’t hate and despise me. You say when - radiant love came to you, your eyes were on the stars, and you - blundered into a morass. But, sweetheart, darling, if I had been - your lover—husband, do you think this would have happened? Think, - _think_. I cannot bear that you should confuse any love with mine. I - want to hold you in my arms, teach you. I can’t write any more, not - now. Thank you for your letter, for my sleepless nights, for my - dreams, for everything. You are my whole world. - - GABRIEL. - - Greyfriars’. - - I fear I wrote you a stupid letter last night. I had had a long - evening with my sister. She insisted on reading to me from a - wonderful book she has just bought. It was on some new craze with - the high-sounding name of Christian Science. The book was called - “Science and Health.” More utter piffle and balderdash I have never - heard. There were whole sentences without meaning, and many calling - themselves sentences were without verbs. I swallowed yawn after - yawn. Then she left off reading and asked my opinion. I suggested - the stuff might have emanated from Earlswood. She made me a dreadful - scene. It seemed she had already consulted a prophetess of this new - religion and had been promised she should be made whole if only she - had sufficient faith! Now I was trying to “shake her faith and so - retard her cure”; she sobbed. Poor woman! I tried reasoning with - her, went over a few passages and asked her to note inconsistency - after inconsistency, stupidity after stupidity, blasphemy and - irrelevance. She cried more. Then my own unkindness struck me. She - too had had a vision, seen the marvellous sun rise. To be made - whole! She who had been thirty years a cripple and in pain always. I - tried to withdraw all I had said, to find a strange and mystic sense - and meaning in the stuff. I think I comforted her a little. I - insisted she should go on with her induction, or initiation, or - whatever they call it. There are paid healers; the prophets play the - game for cash. I gave her money. I could not bear her thanks or to - remember I had been unkind, I, with my own overwhelming happiness. - If I were able I would make happiness for all the world. When at - last I was alone I sat a long time with your letter in my hand, your - dear, dear letter. I don’t know what I wrote; dare not recall my - words. Forgive me, whatever it was. If there was a word in my letter - that should not have been there forgive me. Bear with me, dear. You - don’t know what you are to me, I am bewildered with the mystery. - - About the book on Staffordshire Pottery. Don’t give it another - thought. I can arrange everything here without any trouble. You need - not write. But if you do, and suggest, as you say, that I shall come - down and discuss the matter with you, why then, then—will you write? - I want to come. I promise not to cut myself shaving this time. - Although is it not natural my hand should have been unsteady? It - shakes now. I must come and discuss the pottery book or anything. - _Let me._ It is much to ask, but I won’t be in your way. I’ve some - manuscripts to go through. I’ll never leave the hotel. But I want to - be in the same place. - - For ever and ever, - YOUR GABRIEL. - - - - - CHAPTER VII - - -Of course she let him come. Not only that week-end but many others, -until the early spring deepened into the late, the yellow gorse grew -more golden, and the birds sang as they mated. It was the same time of -year with me now, and I saw Margaret Capel and Gabriel Stanton often -together in the house or garden, lying on the stones by the sea, walking -toward the hills. My strength was always ebbing and I was glad to be -alone, drowsily listening to or dreaming of the lovers, drugging myself -with codein, seeing visions. I fancy Benham began to suspect me, counted -the little silver pills that held my ease and entertainment. I -circumvented her easily. Copied the prescription and sent it to my -secretary in London to be made up, replaced each extra one I took. I was -not getting better, although I wrote Ella in every letter of returning -strength, and told her that I was again at work. My conscience had -loosened a little, and I almost believed it to be true. Anyway I had the -letters, and knew that when the time came it would be easy to transcribe -them. Meanwhile I told myself disingenuously that I hoped to become -better acquainted with my hero and heroine. I was wooing their -confidence, learning their hearts. Now Gabriel’s was clear, but -Margaret’s less distinct. I saw them sometimes as in a magic-lantern -show, when the house was quiet, and I in the darkness of my bedroom. On -the circle in the white sheet that hung then against the wall, I saw -them walk and talk, he pleading, she coquetting. Whilst the slide was -being changed Peter Kennedy acted as spokesman: - -“Week-end after week-end Gabriel Stanton came down, and all the hours of -the day they passed together. Four months of the waiting time had gone -by and her freedom was in sight. Her nerves were taut and fretted. She -often had fainting attacks. He never questioned me about her but once. I -told him the truth, that she had suffered, was suffering more than any -woman can endure, any young and delicate woman. And her love for him -grew....” - -I did not want to stop the show, the moving figures and changing slides, -yet I called out from my swaying bed: - -“No, no, she never loved him.” And Peter Kennedy turned his eyes upon -me, his surprised and questioning eyes. - -“Why do you say that? Do you know a better way of loving?” - -“Yes, many better ways.” - -“You have loved, then?” - -“Read my books.” - -“The love-making in your novels? Is that all you know?” A coal fell from -the fire; I frowned and said something sharply. He did not go on, and I -may have slept a little. When I looked up again there was no more sheet -nor Peter. Instead Margaret herself sat in the easy-chair and asked me -how I was getting on with her story. - -“Not very well. I don’t understand why you took pleasure in making -Gabriel miserable by your scenes and vapours. That first day now. What -did you mean by telling him of your reaction on seeing him, that it -might have been because he had cut himself shaving, or because of the -shape of his hat; the hang of his coat disappointed you. Either you -loved the man or you did not. Why hurt his feelings, deliberately, -unnecessarily? Why did you tell him not to come and then telegraph him? -Why should I write your story? I don’t know the end of it, but already I -am out of sympathy with you.” - -“You were that from the first,” she answered unhappily. “Don’t think I -am ignorant of that. In a way, I suppose you are still jealous of me.” - -“I! jealous! And of you?” - -“Why did you pretend you did not know my books, and send for them to the -London Library? You knew them well enough and resented my reputation. -The _Spectator_, the _Saturday Review_, the _Quarterly_; you were -dismissed in a paragraph where I had a column and a turn.” - -“At least you never sold as well as I did.” - -“That is where the trouble comes in, as you would say—although you are a -little better in that way than you used to be. You wanted to ‘serve God -and Mammon,’ to be applauded in the literary reviews whilst working up -sentimental situations with which to draw tears from shopgirls....” - -“I am conscious of being unfairly treated by the so-called literary -papers,” I argued. “I write of human beings, men and women; loving, -suffering, living. You wrote of abstractions, making phrases. The -sentences of one of your characters could have been put in the mouths of -any of the others. Life, it was of life I wrote. Now that I am -dying....” - -“You are not dying, only drugged. And you are jealous again all the -time. Jealous of Gabriel Stanton, who despised your work and could not -recall your personality, however often he met you. Jealous of the -literary critics who ignored you and praised me. And jealous of Peter, -Peter Kennedy, who from the first would have laid down his great awkward -body for me to tread upon.” - - * * * * * - -I half woke up, raised myself on my arm, and drank a little water, -looked over to where Margaret sat, but she was no longer there. I did -not want to go to sleep again, and lay on my back thinking of what had -been told me. “Jealous!” Why should I be jealous of Margaret Capel’s -dead fame, of her dying memory? But perhaps it was true. I had a large -public, made a large income, but had no recognition, no real reputation, -was never in the “Literary Review of the Year,” was not jeered at as -other popular writers, but only ignored. Well, I did not overrate my -work. I never succeeded in pleasing myself. I began every book with -unextinguishable hope, and every one fell short of my expectations. -People wrote to me and told me I had made them laugh or cry, helped them -through convalescence, cheered their toilsome day. - -“I love your ‘Flash of the Footlights.’” - -To repletion I had had such letters, requests for autographs, praise, -and always: “I love your ‘Flash of the Footlights.’” Fifty-eight -thousand copies had been sold in the six-shilling edition. I wonder what -were the figures of Margaret Capel’s biggest seller. Under four thousand -I knew. Little Billie Black told me, cherubic Billie, the publisher, -with his girlish complexion and his bald head, who knew everybody and -everything and told us even more. - -I was getting drowsy again, figures, confused and confusing, passing -over the surface of my mind. Billie Black and Sir George Stanton, -Gabriel, then Ella, a dim glance of my long-lost husband, Dennis, a -smiling flash in the foreground; my eyes were hot with tears because of -this short glad sight of him. Then Peter Kennedy again; awkward in his -tweed cutaway morning coat. What did she mean by saying I was jealous of -Peter Kennedy? I smiled in my deepening somnolence. Then there was an -organ and children dancing, a monkey, a policeman, and the end of a -string of absurdities in a long narrow vista. Sleep and unconsciousness -at the end. - -I observed Dr. Kennedy with more interest the next few times he came to -see me. A personable man without self-consciousness, some few years -younger than myself, the light in his eyes was strange and fitful, and -he talked abruptly. He was not well-read, ignorant of many things -familiar to me, yet there was nothing of the village idiot about him -such as I have found in many country apothecaries. He looked at me too -long and too often, but at these times I knew he was thinking of -Margaret Capel, comparing me with her. And I did not resent it, she was -at least fourteen years younger than I, and I never had any pretensions -to beauty. Dr. Kennedy had good hands, long-fingered, muscular; dark -hair interspersed with grey covered his big head. - -“What are you thinking about me?” he asked. - -“What sort of doctor you are!” I answered with a fair amount of candour. -“Here have I been without any one else for three or is it five weeks? -You don’t write me prescriptions, nor tell me how I shall live, what to -eat, drink, or avoid. You call constantly.” - -“Not as often as I should like,” he put in promptly. Then he smiled at -me. “You don’t mind my coming?” - -“Have you found out what is the matter with me?” - -“I know what is the matter with you!” - -“Do you know I get weaker instead of stronger?” - -“I thought you would.” - -“Tell me the truth. Is there no hope for me?” - -“Patients ask so often for the truth. But they never want it.” - -“I am not like other patients. Haven’t I got a dog’s chance?” He shook -his head. - -“How long?” - -“Months. Very likely years. No one can tell. You are full of vitality. -If you live in the right way....” - -“Like this?” - -“More or less.” - -“And nothing more can be done for me?” - -“Rest, open air, occupation for the mind.” I thought over what he had -just told me. I had known or guessed it before, but put into words it -seemed different, more definite. “Not a dog’s chance.” - -“You think Margaret Capel and Gabriel Stanton will do me good? They are -part of your treatment?” I asked him. - -“They and I,” he said. I was silent after that, silent for quite a long -time. He was sitting beside me and put his shapely hand on mine. I did -not withdraw it, my thoughts were fully occupied. “You know I shall do -everything I can for you; you are a reincarnation.” He spoke with some -emotion. “Some day I shall want to ask you something; you will know more -about me soon. You are in touch with her.” - -“Do you really believe it?” I asked him. We were in the upstairs room. -Today I had not adventured the stairs. - -“May I play?” he asked. It was not the first time he had played to me. I -rather think he played well, but I know nothing of music. If he were -talking to me through the keys he was talking to a deaf mute. I lay on -the sofa and thought how tired I was, may even have slept. I was taking -six grains of codein in the twenty-four hours when the prescription said -two, and often fell asleep in the daytime without preparation or -expectation. - -“I will tell you why I would do anything on earth for you,” he said, -turning round abruptly on the piano stool. “If you want to know.” I was -wide-awake now and surprised, for I had forgotten of what we had talked -before I went off. “It is because you are so brave and uncomplaining.” - -“It isn’t true. Ask Ella. She has had an awful time with me, grumbling -and ungrateful.” - -“Your sister adores you, thinks there is no one like you.” - -“That is merely her idiosyncrasy.” - -“Well! there is another reason. You asked for it and you are going to be -told. The love of my life was Margaret Capel.” He stared at me when he -said it. “You remind me of her all the time.” I shut my eyes. When I -opened them again his back was all I saw and he was again playing -softly; talking at the same time. “When I came here, the first time, the -first day, and saw you sitting in her chair, at her table, in her -attitude, as I said, it was a reincarnation.” He got up from the music -stool and came over to me. He said, without preliminary or excuse, “You -are taking opium in some form or other.” - -“I am taking my medicine.” - -“I am not blaming you. You’ve read De Quincey, haven’t you? You know his -theory?” - -“Some of it.” - -“Never mind; perhaps you’ve missed it, better if you have. In those days -it was often thought that opium cured consumption.” - -“Then it is consumption?” - -“What does it matter what we call it? Pleurisy, as you have had it, -generally means tubercle. But you will hang on a long time. The life of -Margaret Capel must be written and by you. She always wanted it written. -From what you tell me she still wants it. I poured my life at her feet -those few months she was here, but she never gave me a thought, not -until the end. Then, then at the last, I held her eyes, her thoughts, -her bewildered questioning eyes. Bewildered or grateful? Shall I ever -know? Will you tell me, I wonder, hear it from her, reassure me....” He -stopped. “I suppose you think I am mad?” - -“I have never thought you quite sane. But,” I added consolingly, “that -is better than being merely stupid, like most doctors. So you regard -me,” I could not help my tone being bitter, “as a clairvoyante, -expectantly....” - -“Does any man ever care for a woman except expectantly, or -retrospectively?” - -“How should I know?” He sat down by my side. - -“No one should know better. Tell me more about yourself, I have only -heard from Mrs. Lovegrove.” - -“She told you, I suppose, that I had a great and growing reputation, had -faithful lovers sighing for me, that I was thirty-eight....” - -“She told me a great deal more than that.” - -“I have no doubt. Well! in the first place I am not thirty-eight, but -forty-two. My books sell, but the literary papers ignore them. I make -enough for myself and Dennis.” - -“Dennis?” His tone was surprised. - -“Ella never mentioned Dennis to you?” - -“No.” - -I did not want to talk about Dennis. Since he had left me I never wanted -to talk of him. His long absence had meant pain from the first, then -agony. Afterwards the agony became physical, and they called it -neuritis. Now it has pierced some vital part and I don’t even know what -they call it. Decline, consumption, tuberculosis? What does it matter? -In the two years he had been away my heart had bled to death. That was -the truth and the whole truth. No one knew my trouble and I had spoken -of it to nobody save once, in early days, to Ella. Ella indignantly had -said the boy was selfish to leave me, and so closed my confidence. It is -natural our children should wish to leave us, they make their trial -flights, like the birds, joyously. My son wanted to see the world, -escape from thraldom, try his wings. But I had only this one. And it -seemed to me from his letters that he was never out of danger, now with -malaria, and in Australia with smallpox. The last time I heard he had -been caught in a typhoon. After that my health declined rapidly. But it -was not his fault. - -“And Dennis?” - -“Since you know so much you can hear the rest. I married at eighteen. I -forget what my husband was like. I’ve no recollection of his ever having -interested me particularly. Married life itself I abhorred, I abhor. But -it gave me Dennis. My husband died when I was two-and-twenty. Ever since -Ella has been trying to remarry me. But when one writes, and has a -son——” I could talk no more. - -“You are tired now.” - -“I am always tired. Why do you say years? You mean months, surely?” - -“You will write one more book.” - -“Still harping on Margaret?” - -“Let me carry you into your room; I have so often carried her.” - -“Physically at least I am a bigger woman than she was.” - -“A little heavier, not much.” - -“Well, give me your arm, help me. I don’t need to be carried.” I leaned -on his arm. “We will talk more about your Margaret another day. I -daresay I shall write her story. Not using all the letters, people are -bored with letters. I am myself. And I am not sure about the copyright -acts!” - -“You will give them back to me when you have done with them?” - -“Why not?” - -Benham bullied him for having let me sit up so late. My illness was -deepening upon me so quietly, so imperceptibly that I had forgotten I -once resented her overbearing ways. Now I depended on her for many -things. Suzanne had gone, finding the house too _triste_, and seeing no -possibility of further emolument from my neglected wardrobe. Benham did -everything for me; yawningly at night, but willingly in the day. - -I was desperately homesick for Ella this evening. I wondered what she -would say when she knew what Dr. Kennedy had told me. I cried again a -little because he said I had not a dog’s chance, but was quickly -ashamed. Why should I cry? I was so hopelessly tired. The restfulness of -Death began to appeal to me. Not to have to get up and go to bed, dress -and undress daily, drag myself from room to room. I had not done all my -work, but like an idle child I wanted to be excused from doing any more. -I was in bed and my mind wandered a little. Why was not Ella here? It -seemed cruel she should have left me at such a time. But of course she -did not know that I was going to die. Well! I would tell her, then she -would come, would stay with me to the end. I forgot Margaret and Gabriel -Stanton, two ghosts who walked at night. No extra codein for me any -more. I no longer wanted to dream, only to face what was before me with -courage. My writing-block was by my side and pencils, one of Ella’s last -gifts, and I drew them toward me. I had to break to her that if she -would be lonely in the world without me, then it was time for her to -prepare for loneliness. I wanted to break it to her gently, but for the -life of me I could not think, with pencil in my hand and writing-block -before me, of any other way than that of the man who, bidden to break -gently to a woman that her husband was dead, had called up to the window -from the garden: “Good-morning, Widow Brown.” So I started my farewell -letter to Ella: - -“Good-morning, Widow Lovegrove.” - -I never got any further. The hæmorrhage broke out again and I rang for -Benham. She came yawning, buttoning up her dressing-gown, pushing back -her undressed hair, but when she saw what was happening her whole note -changed. This time I was neither alarmed nor confused, even watching her -with interest. She rang for more help, got ice, gave rapid instructions -about telephoning for a doctor. - -“Will you wait for an injection until he comes, or would you like me to -give it to you?” - -“You.” - -“Very well, lie quite quiet, I shan’t be a minute.” - -I lay as quietly as circumstances would allow whilst she brewed her -witches’ broth. - -“What dreams may come.” - -“Hush, do keep quiet.” - -“Mind you give me enough.” - -“I shall give you the same dose he does, a quarter of a grain.” - -“It won’t stop it this time.” - -“Oh, yes! it will.” - -She gave the injection as well, or better than Dr. Kennedy. I hardly -felt the prick, and when she rubbed the place, so cleverly and gently, -she almost made a suffragist of me. Women who did things so well -deserved the vote. - -“Do you want the vote?” I asked her feebly. - -“I want you to lie quite still,” was her inappropriate answer. I seemed -to be wasting words. The room was slowly filling with the scent of -flowers. When I shut my eyes I saw growing pots of hyacinth, then -lilies, floating in deep glass bowls, afterwards Suzanne came in, and -began folding up my clothes, in her fat lethargic way. - -“I thought Suzanne went away.” - -“So she did.” - -“Who is in the room, then?” - -“No one. Only you and I.” - -“And Dr. Kennedy?” - -“No.” - -“You have sent for him?” - -“I thought you wouldn’t care for me to give you a morphia injection.” - -“Why not? You give it better than he does. I want to see him when he -comes.” - -“You may be asleep.” - -“No! I shan’t. Morphia keeps me awake, comfortably awake. De Quincey -used to go to the opera when he was full up with it.” - -Peter Kennedy came in, and I followed the line of my own thoughts. I was -feeling drowsy. - -“I don’t want you to play for me,” I said, a little pettishly perhaps. -“I should never have gone to the opera.” - -“All right, I won’t.” He asked nurse in a low voice, “How much did you -give her?” - -“A quarter of a grain, the same as before.” The bleeding had not left -off. Benham straightened me amongst the pillows and fed me with ice. - -“I shall give her another quarter,” he said abruptly after watching for -a few minutes. I smiled gratefully at him. Benham made no comment, but -got more hot water. He made the injection carefully enough, but I -preferred nurse’s manipulation. - -“For Margaret?” I asked him. - -“Partly,” he answered. “You will dream tonight.” - -“I shall die tonight. I want to die tonight. Give me something to hurry -things, be kind. I don’t mind dying, but all this!” - -“Don’t. I can’t. Not again. For God’s sake don’t ask me!” There was more -than sympathy in his voice. There was agitation, even tears. “You will -get better from this.” - -“And then worse again, always worse. I want it ended. Give me -something.” - -“Oh! God! I can’t bear this. Margaret!” - -“Don’t call me Margaret. My name is Jane. What is that stuff that -criminals take in the dock? Italian poisoners keep it in a ring. I see -one now, with pointed beard, melancholy eyes, a great ruby in the ring. -Is anything the matter with my eyes? I can’t see.” - -“Shut them. Be perfectly quiet. The Italian poisoner will pass.” - -“You will give me something?” - -“Not this time.” - -I must have slept. When I woke he was still there. I was very -comfortable and pleased to see him. “Why am I not asleep?” - -“You are, but you don’t know it.” - -“You won’t tell Ella?” - -“Not unless you wish it.” - -“I’ve written to her. See it goes.” I heard afterwards he searched for a -letter, but could only find four words “Good-morning, Widow -Lovegrove ...” which held no meaning for him. - -“Don’t let me wake again. I want to go.” - -“Not yet, not yet....” - -There followed another week of morphia dreams and complete content. I -was roused with difficulty, and reluctantly, to drink milk from a -feeding-cup, to have my temperature taken, my hands and face washed, my -sheets changed. There was neither morning nor evening, only these -disturbances and Ella’s eyes and voice in the clouded distance, vague -yet comforting. - -“You will soon be better, your temperature is going down. Don’t speak. -Only nod your head. Shall I cable for Dennis?” - -I shook it, went on slowly shaking it, I liked the motion, turning from -side to side on the pillow, continuing it. Ella, frightened, begged me -to leave off, summoned nurse, who took my cheeks gently between her -hands. That did not stop it, at least I recollect being angry at the -slight compulsion and making up my mind, my poor lost feeble mind that I -should do what I liked, that I would never leave off moving my head from -side to side. - -That night I dreamed of water, great masses of black water, heaving; too -deep for sound or foam. Upon them I was borne backwards and forwards -until I turned giddy and sick, very cold. The Gates of Silence were -beyond, but I was too weak to get there, the bar was between us. I saw -the Gates, but could not reach them. The waters were cold and ever -rising. Sometimes, submerged, my lips tasted their dank saltness and I -knew that my strength was all spent. Soon I should sink deeper. I wished -it was over. - -Then One came, when I was past help, or hope, drowning in the dark -waters, and said: - -“Now I will take you with me.” We were going rapidly through air -currents, soft warm air-currents and amazing space, a swift journey, -over plains and mountains. At last to the North, and there I saw -snow-mountains and at the foot the cold sea, frozen and blue, heaving -slowly. Swimming in that slow frozen sea, I saw a seal, brown and -beautiful, swimming calmly, with happy handsome eyes. They met mine. One -who was beside me said: - -“That is your sister Julia. See how happy she looks, and content....” - -Then everything was gone and I woke up in my quiet bedroom, the fire -burning low and Ella in the chair by my side. - -“Do you want anything?” She leaned over me for the answer. - -“I have just seen Julia.” - -She hushed me, tears were in her reddened eyes. Our sister Julia had -been dead two years, to our unextinguishable sorrow. - -“Don’t cry, she is very happy.” - -I told her my dream. She said it was a beautiful dream, and I was to try -and sleep again. - -“Why are you sitting up?” I asked her. - -“It is not late,” was her evasive reply. - -Many nights after that I saw her sitting there, I forgot even to ask her -why, I was too far gone, or perhaps only selfish. I did not know for a -long time whether it was night or day. I always asked the time when I -woke, but forgot or did not hear the answer, drank obediently through -the feeding-cup,—the feeding-cup was always there; enormously large, -unnaturally white, holding little or nothing, unsatisfactory. Once I -remember I decided upon remaining awake to tell poor Ella how much -better I felt.... - -I told it to Margaret instead, and she had no interest in the news, none -at all. - -“I knew you were not going to die yet. Not until you had written my -story.” - -“It seems not to matter,” I answered feebly, “to be small and trivial.” - -“_Work whilst ye have the light_,” she quoted. The words were in the -room, in the air. - -“It is not light, not very light,” I pleaded. - -“There has been no biography of me. How would you like it if it had been -you? And all the critics said I would live....” - -“Must I stay for that?” - -“You promised, you know.” - -“Did I? I had forgotten.” - -“No, no. You could not forget, not even you. And you will make your -readers cry.” - -“But if I make myself cry too?” - -“Write.” - -And I wrote, sick with exhaustion, without conscious volition or the -power to stop. I wonder whether any other writer has ever had this -experience. I could not stop writing although my arm swelled to an -unnatural size and my side ached. I covered ream after ream of paper. I -never stopped nor halted for word or thought. I was wearied, aching from -head to foot, shaking and even crying with fatigue and the pain in my -swollen arm or side, but never ceasing to write, like a galley slave at -his oar. Sometimes in swimming semi-consciousness I thought this was my -eternal punishment, that because I had swept so much aside that I might -write, and yet had written badly, now I must write for ever and for -ever, words and scenes and sentences that would be obliterated, that -would not stand. I knew in these semi-conscious moments that I was -writing in water and not in ink. But I was driven on, and on, -relentlessly. - - - - - CHAPTER VIII - - -Here is the story I wrote under morphia and in that strange driving -stress, set down as well as I can recall it, but seeming now so much -less real and distinct. I have not tried to polish, only to remember. -There was then no effort after composition, no correction, transposition -nor alteration, and neither is there now; nor conscious psychology nor -sentiment. The scenes were all set in the house where I lay, and there -was no pause in the continuity of the drama. I saw every gesture and -heard every word spoken. The letters were and are before me as -confirmatory evidence. My own intrusive illness minimised the interest -of the circumstances to my immediate surroundings. But to me it seems -that the consecutive actuality of the morphia dream or dreams is unusual -if not unique, and gives value to the narrative. - -I refer to the MS. notes and diary for the beginning of the story, but -have had to make several emendations and additions. There were too many -epigrams, and the impression the writer wished to convey was only in the -intention, and not in the execution. What she left out I have put in. It -should be easy to separate my work from hers. And she carried her story -very little way. From the beginning of the letters the autobiography -stopped. It started abruptly, and ended in the same way. - -There were trial titles in the MS. notes. “Between the Nisi and the -Absolute” competed in favour with “The Love Story of a Woman of Genius.” - -Margaret Belinda Rysam was the daughter of a New Yorker on the up-grade. -Her father began to make money when she was a baby and never left off, -even to take breath, until she was between thirteen and fourteen. Then -his wife died, not of a broken heart, but of her appetites fed to -repletion, and an overwhelming desire for further provender. Her poor -mouth, so much larger than her stomach, was always open. He piled a -great house on Fifth Avenue into it and a bewilderment of furniture, -modern old Masters and antiquities, also pearls and other jewellery. She -never shut it, although later there were a country house to digest and -some freak entertainments, a multiplicity of reporters and a few -disappointments. The really “right people” were difficult to secure, the -nearly “right people” were dust and ashes. A continental tour was to -follow and a London season.... Before they started she died of a surfeit -which the doctors called by some other name and operated upon, -expensively. - -In the pause of the hushed house and the funeral Edgar B. Rysam began to -think that perhaps he had made sufficient money. He really grieved for -that poor open mouth and those upturned grasping hands, realising that -it was to overfill them that he had worked. He gave up his office and -found the days empty, discovered his young daughter, and, nearly to her -undoing, filled them with her. During her mother’s life she had been -left to the happy seclusion of nursery or schoolroom; subsidiary to the -maelstrom of gold-dispensing. Now she had more governesses and tutors -than could be fitted into the hurrying hours, and became easily aware of -her importance, that she was the adored and only child of a widowed -millionaire. Forced into concentrating her entire attention upon herself -she discovered a remarkable personality. Bent at first on astonishing -her surroundings she succeeded in astonishing herself. She found that -she acquired knowledge with infinite ease and had a multiplicity of -minor talents. She wrote verses and essays, sang, and played on various -instruments. Highly paid governesses and tutors exclaimed and -proclaimed. The words prodigy, and genius, pursued and illuminated her. -At the age of sixteen no subject seemed to her so interesting as the -consideration of her own psychology. - -Nothing could have saved her at this juncture but what actually -occurred. For she had no incentive to concentration, and every battle -was won before it was fought. To be was almost sufficient. To do, -superfluous, almost arrogant. - -Edgar B. Rysam had, however, forgotten to safeguard his resources. That -is to say, his fortune was invested in railroad bonds and stocks. In the -great railway panic of 1893 prices came tumbling down and public -confidence fell with them. Edgar B. in alarm, for he had forgotten the -ways of railway magnates and financiers, sold out and lost half his -capital. He reopened his office, and by dint of buying and selling at -the wrong time, rid himself of another quarter. When he woke to his -position, and retired for the second time, he had only sufficient means -to be considered a rich man away from his native land. The sale of the -mansion in Fifth Avenue, the country house, and the yacht damned him in -the sight of his fellow-citizens. He found himself with a bare fifty -thousand dollars a year, and no friends. Under the circumstances there -was nothing for it but emigration, and he finally decided upon England -as being the most hospitable as well as the most congenial of -abiding-places. His linguistic attainments consisted of a fair fluency -in “Americanese.” - -During the year he had spent in ruining himself, his young daughter -became conscious of a pause in the astonished admiration she excited. -She bore it better than might have been expected, because it -synchronised with her first love affair. She had become passionately -enamoured of the “cold white keys” and practised the piano innumerable -hours in every day. - -When Edgar B. remembered her existence again she had grown pale and -remote, enwrapped in her gift and in her egotism, not doubting at all -she would be the greatest pianist the world had ever seen, and that all -those friends and acquaintances who had ignored or cold-shouldered her -during the last year would wither with self-disdain at not having -perceived it earlier. Not by her father’s millions would she shine, but -by reason of her unparalleled powers. The decision to visit Europe and -settle in England, for a time was not unconnected with these visions. -She insisted she required more and better lessons. Edgar B. was awed by -her decision, by her playing, by her astonishingly perverse and burdened -youth. He was grateful to her for not reproaching him for his failure to -grapple with a new position, and contrasted her, favourably, -notwithstanding an uneasy fear of disloyalty, with her mother. - -“What do we want of wealth?” she asked in her young scorn. And spoke of -the vulgarity of money and their scampered friends of the Four Hundred. -In those early days, when she hoped to become a pianist, she had many of -the faults of inferior novelists or writers. She used, for instance, -other people’s words instead of her own, and said she wished to “scorn -delight and live laborious days.” Edgar B., who knew no vision but money -against a background of rapacious domestic affection, gaped at and tried -to understand her. It was not until they were on board the “Minotaur” -and he had come across an amiable English widow, that he learnt his -daughter was indeed a genius, ethereal, a wonder-child. But one who -needed mothering! - -Even genius must eat, sleep for reasonable hours, wear warm clothes in -cold weather. Margaret’s absorbed self-consciousness left her no weapons -to fight Mrs. Merrill-Cotton’s kindness. She accepted it without -surprise. It seemed quite natural to her; the only wonder was that the -whole shipload had eyes or ears for any one else once they had heard her -play the piano! Mrs. Merrill-Cotton brought her port wine and milk, -shawls and rugs, volubly admiring her reticence, her unlikeness to other -girls, her dawning delicate beauty. In truth Margaret at that period was -girlishly angular and emaciated, from midnight and other labours, too -much introspection and too little exercise, other than digital. She was -desultorily interested in her appearance and a little uncertain as to -whether the mass of her fair hair accorded with her pallid complexion. -Her eyes were hazel and seemed to her lacking in expression. She did not -think herself beautiful, but admitted she was “mystic” and of an unusual -type. - -Mrs. Merrill-Cotton found the more appropriate words. “Dawning delicate -beauty.” They led her to the looking-glass so often that she had no time -nor thought for what was happening elsewhere. Meanwhile Mrs. -Merrill-Cotton and Mr. Rysam foregathered on deck, and at mealtimes, at -the bridge table and in the saloon. Margaret was assured of a stepmother -long before she realised the possibility of her father having a thought -for anybody but herself. And then she was told that it was only for her -sake that the engagement had been entered into! Mrs. Merrill-Cotton, it -appeared, was the centre of English society, had a large income and a -larger heart. She, Margaret, would be the chief interest of the two of -them. - -Margaret’s indifference to mundane things was sufficient to make her -presently accept the position, if not enthusiastically, yet agreeably. -And, strangely enough, Mrs. Merrill-Cotton proved to be as alleged. She -had never had a daughter, and wished to mother Margaret: she had no -other ulterior motive in marrying the American. Her income was at least -as much as she had said, and she knew a great many people. That they -were city people of greater wealth than distinction made no difference -to her future husband. He wanted a domestic hearth and some one to share -the embarrassment of his exceptional daughter. - -The first thing they did after the wedding was to take Margaret to -Dresden for those piano lessons she craved. She broke down quickly,—had -not the health, so the doctors said, for her chosen profession. They -said her heart was weak, and that she was anæmic. So father and -stepmother brought her back to England, and installed her as the centre -of interest in the big house in Queen Anne’s Gate. - -At eighteen she published her first novel, at her father’s expense. It -was new in method and tone. Word was sent round by the publisher that -the authoress was a young and beautiful American heiress, and the result -was quite an extraordinary little success. - -The Lady Mayoress presented her to her Sovereign, after which the social -atmosphere of the house quickly changed. Margaret began to understand, -and act. Into the thick coagulated stream of city folk for whom the new -Mrs. Rysam had an indefinable respect there meandered journalists, -actors, painters, musicians. The whole tone of the house unconsciously -but quickly altered. Culture was now the watchword. Money, no longer a -topic of conversation, was nevertheless permitted to minister to the -creature comfort of men and women of distinction in art and letters. The -two elderly people accustomed themselves easily to the change, they were -of the non-resistant type, and Margaret led them. When in her twentieth -year her first play was produced at a West End theatre, and she came -before the curtain to bow her acknowledgment of the applause, their -pride was overwhelming. The next book was praised by all the critics who -had been entertained and the journalists who hoped for further -entertainment. Another and another followed. Open house was kept in -Queen Anne’s Gate, and there was an idea afloat in lower Bohemia that -here was the counterpart of the Eighteenth-century salon. - -This was the high-water tide of Margaret’s good fortune. She had (as she -told Gabriel Stanton in one of her letters) everything that a young -woman could desire. The disposition of wealth, a measure of fame, the -reputation of beauty, lovers and admirers galore. Why, out of the -multiplicity of these, she should have selected James Capel, is one of -those mysteries that always remain inexplicable. It is possible that he -wooed her perfunctorily, and set her aflame by his comparative -indifference! She imbued him with diffidence and a hundred chivalrous -qualities to which he had no claim. - -James Capel, at the piano, his head flung back, his dark and too long -locks flowing, his dark eyes full of slumbrous passions, singing -mid-Victorian love songs in a voluptuous manner and rich vibrating -voice, was irresistible to many women, although his lips were thick and -his nose not classic. A woman like Margaret should have been immune from -his virus. Alas! she proved ultra-susceptible, and the resultant fever -exacted from her nearly the extremest penalty. - -James Capel accepted all his tributes and seemed to dispense his favours -equally, kissing this one’s hands and casting languorous glances on the -others. He made love to Margaret with the rest, knowing no other -language nor approach. Probably he liked the Rysams’ establishment, -their big Steinway Grand and the fine dinners, the riot of wealth and -the unlimited hospitality! - -He said afterwards, and every one believed it, all the women at least, -that the last thing in the world he contemplated was marriage, that the -whole situation and final elopement were of Margaret’s contriving. Be -that as it may, one cannot but pity her. She was only twenty, ignorant -of evil, with the defects of her qualities, emotional, highly strung. -She contracted a secret marriage with the musician. What she suffered in -her quick disillusionment can easily be realised. James Capel was -ill-bred, and of a vanity at least as great as hers. But hers had -justification and his none. - -Margaret may have been inadequate as a wife, she had been used to every -consideration and found herself without any. James Capel was beneath her -in everything, in culture and education, refinement. He said openly that -men like himself were not destined for one woman. Their short married -life was tragedy, a crucifixion of her young womanhood. She had, with -all her faults, delicacy, physical reserve, a subtlety of charm and -brilliant intellect. She had given herself to a man who could appreciate -none of these, who was coarse from his thick lips to his language, from -his large spatulate hands to his lascivious small brain. He burned her -with his taunts of how she had pursued him, torn him from other women, -forced her love upon him. There was just enough truth in it to make her -writhe in her desecrated soul and modesties. Of course she thought he -had feared to aspire. Now he made it evident he considered it was she -who had aspired!!! He told her of duchesses who had sought his songs and -his caresses, and gloatingly of unimaginable incidents. He tortured her -beyond endurance. - -She left him for the shelter of her father’s home within a few months of -their marriage. There she was nursed back into moral and physical -health, welcomed, comforted, pitied, and she slowly emerged from this -mud bath of matrimony. Her press, theatrical and lettered friends -rallied round her; wealth and foreign travel ameliorated the position. -She wrote again and with greater success than before. Suffering had -deepened her note, she was still without sentiment, but had acquired -something of sympathy. - -Years passed. She had almost forgotten the degradation and humiliation -of her marriage, when an escapade of her husband’s, brazenly public, -forced her to take definite steps for legal freedom. She was now -sufficiently famous for the papers to treat the news as a _cause -célèbre_. James Capel unexpectedly defended himself, and fought her with -every weapon malice and an unscrupulous solicitor could forge. Part of -the evidence was heard _in camera_, the rest should have been relegated -to the same obscurity. All the bitterness and misery of those terrible -months were revived. Now it seemed there was nothing for her but -obliteration. She thought it impossible she could ever again come before -the public, for her story to be recalled. She was all unnerved and -shaken, refusing to go out or to see people. She thought she desired -nothing but obscurity. - -Yet she had to write. - -The book on pottery was a sudden inspiration. It would be something -entirely new and unassociated with her in the public mind. There were -dreadful months to be got through, the waiting months during which, in -law at least, she was still James Capel’s wife, a condition more -intolerable now than it had ever been. - -Whatever she may have thought about herself it is obvious that in -essentials she was unaltered. Her egotism had re-established itself -under her father and good stepmother’s care, and her amazing -self-consciousness. To her it seemed as if all the world were talking -about her. There was some foundation for her belief, of course. In so -much as she was a public character, she was a favourite of that small -eclectic public. She may have overrated her position, taken as due to -herself alone that which was equally if not more essentially owing to -her father’s wealth and habit of keeping open house. Her letters are -eminently characteristic. Her self is more prominent in them than her -lover. She seems to have bewildered Gabriel Stanton, who knew little or -nothing of women, and carried him off his feet. He may have begun by -pitying her, she appealed to his pity, to his chivalry. As she said -herself, she “exposed herself entirely to him.” Young, rich, beautiful, -famous, she was, nevertheless, at the time she first met Gabriel Stanton -as a bird in flight, shot on the wing and falling; blood-stained, -shrinking, terrified, the stain spreading. Into Gabriel Stanton’s -pitiful powerless hands, set on healing, she fell almost without a -struggle. This at least is her own phrasing, and the way she wished the -matter to appear. As it did appear to him, and perhaps sometimes to -herself. To others of course it might seem she was the fowler, he the -bird! - -Certainly after the first visit to Greyfriars’, when she opened the -matter of the ill-fated book on Staffordshire Pottery there were -constant letters, interviews and meetings, conventional and -unconventional. Perhaps it was only her dramatic brain, working for copy -behind its enforced and vowed inactivity, that made her act as she did. -Her letters all read as if they were intended for publication. In her -disingenuous diary and short MS. notes, there were trial titles, without -a date, and forced epigrammatic phrases. “Publisher and Sinner” occurred -once. There is a note that “Between the Nisi and the Absolute” met the -position more accurately. - -She told Gabriel Stanton, she must have convinced Peter Kennedy and -herself, that she never knew the danger she ran until it was too late. -But the papers she left disproved the tale. - - - - - CHAPTER IX - - -The early letters have already been transcribed. Also the description of -when and how I first saw Margaret and Gabriel Stanton together, on the -beach when she told him that his coming had been a disappointment. - -Recalling the swift and painful writing of the story it would seem I saw -them again two days later, and that she was occupied in making amends. -They had talked and grown in intimacy, and now it was Sunday evening. -They were in the music room at Carbies, and she had been playing to him -while he sat spellbound, listening to and adoring her. She was in that -grey silk dress with the white muslin fichu finished with a pink rose, -her pale hair was parted in the middle and she wore her Saint Cecilia -expression. She left off playing presently, came over to him with swift -grace and sank on the footstool at his feet. - -“What are you thinking about? You are not vexed with me still?” - -“Was I ever vexed with you?” - -“Yesterday afternoon, when I said I was disappointed in you.” - -“Not vexed, surely not vexed, only infinitely grieved, startled.” - -“Have you enjoyed your visit, notwithstanding that strange slow -beginning? Tell me, have you been happy?” - -“Have you?” - -“I don’t know. I don’t quite know. I have been so excited, restless. I -have not wanted any one else. It is difficult for me to know myself. Are -you still sorry for me, like you were in London?” - -“My heart goes out to you. You have suffered, but you have great -compensations; great gifts. I would sympathise with you, but you make me -feel my own limitations. I fear to fail you. You have the happier -nature, the wider vision....” - -“Then you have not been happy?” - -“Yes, I have, inexpressibly happy. I wish I could tell you. But I matter -so little in comparison with you.” - -“I don’t want you to be humble.” - -“I am not humble, I am proud.” - -“Because?” - -“Because you have taken me for your friend.” - -He never touched her whilst she sat there at his feet, but his eyes -never left her and his voice was deep and tender. They talked of -friendship, all the time, they only spoke of friendship. And he was -unsure of himself, or of her, more deeply shy than she, and moved, -though less able to express it. - -“Next week you will come again. Will it be the same between us?” - -“I will come whenever you let me. With me it will always be the same, or -more. Sometimes I cannot believe that it is to me this is happening. To -me, Gabriel Stanton! What is it you find in me? Sometimes I think it is -only your own sweet goodness; that what you expressed in seeing me this -time you will find again and again—disappointment; that I am not the man -you think me, the man you need.” - -“Am I what you thought I would be? Are you satisfied with me?” - -“I am overpowered with you.” - -She stole a look at him. His close and thin-lipped mouth had curves that -were wholly new, his sunken eyes were lit up. She was secretly -enraptured with him. - -“I thought you very grave and severe when I first came to the office. -What did you think of me?” - -“What I do now, that you were wonderful. After you left I could not -settle to work ... but I have told you this.” - -“Tell me again. Why didn’t you say something nice to me then? You were -short, sharp, noncommittal. I went away quite downcast, I made sure you -did not want my poor little book, that you would write and refuse it, in -set businesslike terms.” - -“I knew I would not. If George had said no, I should have fought him. I -was determined upon that book of Staffordshire Pottery. Were you -disappointed with my letter when it came?” - -“I loved it. I have always loved your letters. You never disappoint me -then.” - -Because they had grown more intimate he was able to say to her gently, -but with unmistakable feeling: - -“Dear, it hurts me so when you say that. I know I shall think of it when -I am alone, wonder in what way I fail you, how I can alter or change. -Can you help me, tell me? I came down with such confidence.” - -“But you had cut yourself shaving.” - -“Be a little serious, beloved. Tell me.” - -“You thought I cared for you ... that we should begin in Pineland where -we left off in London?” - -“I hoped....” - -“But I had run away from you!” - -They smiled at each other. - -“You will come again next week?” she asked him inconsistently. - -“And if I should again disappoint you?” - -“Then you must be patient with me, good to me until it is all right -again. I am a strange creature, a woman of moods.” She was silent a -moment. “I have been through so much.” He bent toward her. She rose -abruptly, there had been little or no caressing between them. Now she -spoke quickly: - -“Don’t hope too much ... or ... or expect anything. I am a megalomaniac: -everything that happens to me seems larger, grander, finer, more -wonderful than that which happens to any one else.” - -She paused a moment. “This ... then, between us is friendship?” she went -on tentatively. - -He answered her very steadily: - -“This, between us, is what you will.” - -“You know how it has been with me?” Her voice was broken. He was deeply -moved and answered: - -“God gave it to me to comfort you.” - -There was a long pause after that. It was getting late, and they must -soon part. He kissed her hands when he went away, first one and then the -other. - -“Until next week.” - -“Until next week, or any time you need me.” - -Then there were letters between them, letters that have already been -transcribed. - -He came the next week and the next. A man of infinite culture, widely -read and with a very real knowledge of every subject of which he spoke, -it was not perhaps strange that she fell under the spell of his -companionship, and found it ever more satisfying. - -Her own education was American and superficial, but her intelligence was -really of a high order and browsed eagerly upon his. The only other she -was seeing at this time was Dr. Peter Kennedy, a man of very different -calibre. Peter Kennedy, country born and bred, of a coarsening -profession and provincial experience. - -Margaret was not made to live alone, for all her talk of resources, her -piano and her books, her writing materials. The house, Carbies, was soon -obnoxious to her. She had taken it for three months against the advice -of her people, who feared solitude for her. She could not give in so -soon, tell them they were right. But it was and remains ugly, -ill-furnished, with its rough garden. She had some sort of heart attack -the Monday after Gabriel Stanton’s first visit, and it was then Dr. -Kennedy told her about her house, wondered at her having taken it. - -After he told her that it had been a nursing-home she began to dislike -the place actively, said the rooms were haunted with the groans of -people who had been operated upon, that she smelt ether and -disinfectants. She did not tell Gabriel Stanton these things. To -Gabriel, Carbies was enchanted ground, he came here as to a shrine, -worshipping. He used to talk to her of the golden bloom of the gorse, -and the purple of the distant sea, of the way the sun shone on his -coming. When with him she made no mention of distaste. For five -successive weeks that spring the weather held, and each week-end was -lovelier than the last. From Friday to Monday she may have felt the -charm of which he spoke. From Monday to Friday she lamented to her -doctor about the groans and the smell of disinfectants, and he consoled -her in his own way, which was not hers, and would not have been -Gabriel’s, but was the best he knew. - -Peter Kennedy at this time was recently qualified, not very learned in -his profession, nor in anything else for that matter. He became quickly -infatuated with his new patient. She told him she had heart disease, and -he looked up “Diseases of the Heart” in Quain’s “Dictionary of Medicine” -and gave her all the prescribed remedies, one after another. - -He heard of her reputation; chiefly from herself, probably. And that she -was rich. Mr. and Mrs. Rysam came down once, with motors and maids, and -made it clear; they told him what a precious charge he had. He took -Edgar Rysam out golfing, golfing had been Peter Kennedy’s chief interest -in life until he met Margaret Capel. And Edgar found him very -companionable and most considerate to a beginner. Edgar Rysam had taken -to golf because he was putting on flesh, because his London doctor and -some few stock-broking friends advised it. He had practised assiduously -with a professional, learnt how to stand, but forgotten the lessons in -approach and drive and putt. - -He had succeeded in acquiring a bag of fine clubs and some golfing -jargon. He never knew there was any enjoyment in the game until Peter -Kennedy walked round the Pineland course with him and handicapped him -into winning a match. After that he wanted to play every day and always, -talked of prolonging his stay, of coming down again. Margaret reproached -Peter for what he had done. - -“I did it to please you.... I thought you wanted them to be amused.” - -“If that was all I wanted I would have stayed in London,” she retorted. -She was extraordinarily and almost contemptuously straightforward with -Peter Kennedy. She knew that with a man of his limited experience it was -unnecessary to be subtle. She may have sometimes encouraged his -approaches, but the greater part of the time snubbed him unmercifully. - -“You don’t put yourself on the same level as Gabriel Stanton, do you?” -she asked him scornfully one day when he was gloomily complaining that -“a fellow never had a chance.” - -“If I were not more of a man than that I’d kick myself!” - -“More of a man!” - -“You wouldn’t get _me_ to stay at the hotel.” She flushed and said: - -“Well, you can go now. I’ve had enough of you, you tire me.” - -“You’ll send for me to come back directly you are ill?” - -“Very likely. That only means I like your drugs better than you.” - -He seized her hand, her waist, not for the first time, swore that he -would kill himself if she despised and flouted him. Probably she liked -the scenes he made her, for she often provoked them. They were mere -rough animal scenes, acutely different from those she was able to bring -about with Gabriel. But she did not do the only obvious and correct -thing, which was to dismiss him and find another doctor. - -In these strange days, waiting for her freedom, seeing Gabriel Stanton -from Saturday to Monday and only Peter Kennedy all the long intervening -week, she may have liked the excitement of being attended by a doctor -who was madly in love with her. She excused herself to me on the ground -that she was a novelist and he a strange and primitive creature of whom -she was making a study. Also, curiously enough, he was genuinely -musical. Something of an executant and an enthralled listener. - -He himself suggested more than once that she should have other advice -about her heart and he brought his partner to see her. But never -repeated the experiment. Dr. Lansdowne purred and prodded her, talking -all the time he used his stethoscope, smiling between whiles in a -superior way as if he knew everything. Particularly when she tried to -tell him her symptoms, or what other doctors had diagnosed. - -“You have a nurse?” he asked her. “I had better see her nurse, Kennedy.” - -“A nurse,—why should I have a nurse? I have a maid.” - -“You ought never to be without a nurse. You ought never to be alone,” he -told her solemnly. “Now do, my dear child, be guided by me.” He smiled -and patted her. “I will tell Dr. Kennedy all about it, give him full -instructions. I will see you again in a few days. Come, Kennedy, I can -give you a lift; we will decide what is to be done.” He smiled his -farewell. - -“See me again in a day or two! Not if I know it. Not in a day or two, or -a week or two, or a month or two.” - -She was furious with him, and with Dr. Kennedy for having brought him. -Peter Kennedy had acted well, according to his lights. He did not wish -to turn his beloved patient over to his all-conquering partner, but the -more infatuated he became about her the less he trusted his own -knowledge. - -“A bad case of angina, extensive valvular disease. Keep her as quiet as -possible, she ought not to be contradicted. Get a nurse or a couple of -nurses for her. Daughter of Edgar Rysam, the American millionaire, isn’t -she? Seems to have taken quite a fancy to you. Extraordinary creatures -these so-called clever women! You ought to make a good thing out of the -case.” - -Kennedy went back to Carbies after Dr. Lansdowne dropped him, made his -way back as quickly as possible. Margaret had bidden him return to tell -her what had been said. - -“Not that I believe in him or in anything he may have told you. He did -not even listen to my heart, he was so busy talking and grinning and -reassuring me. What did he tell you? That he heard a murmur? I am so -sick of that murmur. I have been hearing of it ever since I was a -child.” - -Peter slurred over everything Lansdowne had said to him, except that she -must be kept quiet; she must not allow herself to get excited. He -implored her to keep very quiet. She laughed and asked whether he -thought he had a calmative influence? He put his arms about her for all -that she resisted him and blubbered over her like the great baby he was. - -“I adore you, I want to take care of you, and you won’t look at anybody -but him.” - -She pushed him away, told him she could not bear to be touched. - -“If it hadn’t been for him? Tell me, if it hadn’t been for Gabriel -Stanton it would have been me, wouldn’t it? You do like me a little, -don’t you?” - -It was impossible to keep him at a proper distance. - -“Like you! not particularly. Why should I? You are very troublesome and -presumptuous.” - -She could not deal with him as she did with Gabriel. To this young -country doctor, ten years before I knew him and he had acquired wisdom, -men and women were just men and women, no more and no less. He had -fallen headlong in love with Margaret, and when he saw he had, as he -said, no chance, he could not be brought to believe that Gabriel Stanton -was not her lover. He was demonstratively primitive, and many of his -so-called medical visits she spent in fighting his advances. He knew -that what she had to give she was giving to Gabriel Stanton, because she -told him so, made no secret of it, but was for ever asking “If it hadn’t -been for him? If you’d met me first?” One would have thought that -Margaret, Gabriel’s “fair pale Margaret,” would have resented or at -least tired of this rough persistent wooing, but if this were so there -was nothing in her conduct to show it. - -She said or wrote to Gabriel Stanton: “the very thought of physical love -is repugnant to me, horrible.” Yet Peter kissed her hands, her feet, -attempted her lips, made her fierce wild scenes. She called him a boy, -but he was a year older than herself. Gabriel brought her books and the -most reverent worship, was mindful of her slightest wish. He hoped that -one day she would be his wife, but scarcely dared to say it, since once -she put the matter aside, almost imploringly, growing pale, seeming -afraid. - -“Don’t talk to me of marriage, not yet. How can you? At least, wait!” - -She spoke of her sensitiveness. But her sensitiveness was as a mountain -to a mist compared with his. - -She would tell him her most intimate thoughts, sit with him by dying -fire or in gathering twilight, holding herself aloof. If, because he was -so different from Peter Kennedy, she did sometimes try her woman’s wiles -on him, she never moved him to depart from the programme or the -principles she herself had laid down. - -Another Sunday evening,—it was either the third or fourth of his -coming,—sitting in the lamplight, after dinner, in the music room, after -a long enervating day of mutual confidences and ever-growing intimacy, -she tried to break through his defences. They had been talking of -Nietzsche, not of his philosophy, but his life. She had been envying -Nietzsche’s devoted sister and her opportunities when, suddenly and -disingenuously, she startled Gabriel by saying: - -“You are not a bit interested in what I am saying, you are thinking of -something else all the time.” - -“Of you ... only of you!” - -“Of the intellectual me or the physical me? Do I please you tonight?” - -She nearly always wore grey, a ribbon or a flower, material or cut, -diversified her wardrobe. Tonight the grey material was the softest -crêpe de chine; and she wore one pink rose in a blue belt. This -treatment gave value to her _blonde cendré_ hair and fair complexion, -she gave the impression of a most delicate, slightly faded, yet modern -miniature. - -“You always please me.” - -“Please, or excite you?” - -“My dear one!” - -He was startled, thought she did not know what it was she was saying. -His blood leaped, but he had it under control. What was growing -perfectly between them was love. She would soon be a free woman. - -“I want to know. Sometimes I wonder if I were more beautiful....” - -“You could not be more beautiful.” - -“More like other women, or perhaps if you were more like other men....” - -“There is no difference between me and other men,” he answered quickly. -And then although he thought she did not know what she was implying, or -where the conversation might carry them, he went on even more steadily: -“I want to carry out your wishes. If I had the privilege of telling you -all that is in my heart....” - -“I am admiring your self-control.” - -It was true she hardly knew what was impelling her to this reckless -mood. “My wishes! What are my wishes? Sometimes one thing and sometimes -another. Tonight for instance....” - -He was in the corner of the sofa, she on the high fender stool in the -firelight. There were only oil lamps in the room, and she and the -fireside shone more brightly than they. - -When she said softly, “Tonight for instance,” she got up; her eyes -seemed to challenge him. He rose too, and would have taken her in his -arms, but that she resisted. - -“No, no, no, you don’t really want to ... talking is enough for you.” - -“You strange Margaret,” he said tenderly. - -“I sometimes wonder if you care for me or only for my talk,” she said -with a nervous laugh. - -“If you only knew.” His arms remained about her. - -“If I only knew!” she exclaimed. “Tell me,” she whispered coaxingly. - -“How I long for this waiting time to be at an end. To woo you, win you. -You say anything approaching physical love is hateful and abhorrent to -you. Yet, if I thought ... Margaret!” - -She did not repel him, although his arms were around her. And now, -reverently, softly, he sought and found her unreluctant lips. One of the -lamps flickered and went out. His arms tightened about her; she had not -thought to be so happy in any man’s arms. Her heart beat very fast and -the blood in her pulses rose. - -“How much do you care for me?” she whispered; her voice trembled. - -“More than for life itself,” he whispered back. - -“And I ... I....” He felt her trembling in his arms as if with fear. He -loved and hushed her with ineffable tenderness, his control keeping pace -with his rising blood. “My love, my love, I will take care of you. Trust -yourself to me. I love you perfectly, beloved.” - -He had an exquisite sense of honour and a complete ignorance of -womanhood. A flash of electricity from him and all would have been -aflame. But she had said once that until the decree was made absolute -she did not look upon herself as a free woman. - -“My little brave one, beloved. _It will not be always like this between -us._ Tell me that it will not. I count the days and hours. You will take -me for your husband?” - -She could feel the beating of his pulses, her cheek lay against his -coat. But her heart slowed down a little. How steadfast he was and -reliable, the soul of honour. But she was a woman, difficult to satisfy. -She had wanted from him this evening, this moment, something of that she -won so easily from Peter Kennedy. The temperament she denied was alight -and clamorous. - -“Gabriel.” - -“Heart of my innermost heart.” - -“I am so lonely in this house.” - -“Sweetheart.” - -“So lonely; it is haunted, I think. I can never sleep, I lie awake ... -for hours. _Don’t go._” - -Her own words shook and shocked her. She was still and supine in his -encompassing arm. There was perhaps a relaxation of his moral fineness, -a faint disintegration. But of only a moment’s duration, and no man ever -held a woman more reverently or more tenderly. - -“My wife that will be ... that will be soon. How I adore you.” - -Their hands were interlocked, they felt the dear sweetness of each -other’s breath; their hearts were beating fast. - -Silence then, a long-drawn silence. - -“It is not long now. I am counting the days, the hours. You won’t say -again I disappoint you, will you? You will bear with me?” - -She clung closer to him. Tonight he moved her strangely. - -“You really do love me?” she whispered. - -“I want to take care of you always. My dear, darling, how good you are -to let me love you! One day I will be your husband! I dare hardly say -the words. Promise me!” And again his lips sought hers. “Your husband -and your lover....” - -An extraordinary chill came upon her. She could not herself say what had -happened, the effect, but never the cause. - -She disengaged herself from him. When he saw she wanted to go he made no -effort to hold her. - -“It is very late, isn’t it?” He made no answer, and she repeated the -question. “It’s very late, isn’t it?” - -“I don’t know.” - -“I wish you would look.” - -He took out his watch. - -“Barely ten. You are tired?” - -“Yes, a little.” - -“Margaret, you say you are lonely in this house, nervous. Would you feel -better if I patrolled the garden, if you felt I was at hand?” - -“Oh, no, no. I didn’t know what I was saying.” - -All her mood had changed. - -“I must have forgotten Stevens and the other maids.” - -Then she moved away from him, over to the round table where the dead -lamp still gave an occasional flicker. - -She tried it this way and that, but there was no flame, only flicker. - -“You always take me so seriously, misunderstand me.” - -He came near her again. - -“I don’t think I misunderstand you,” he said tenderly. - -“I am sorry,” she answered vaguely. “It was my fault.” - -“Fault! You have not a fault!” - -“But now—I want you to go.” - -His eyes questioned and caressed her. - -“Until next week then.” - -He took her in his arms, but her lips were cold, unresponsive, it was -almost an apology she made: - -“I am really so tired.” - -When he had gone, lying among the pillows on the sofa, she said to -herself: - -“Greek roots! He is supposed to be more learned in Greek roots than any -one in England. But the root word of this he missed entirely. REACTION. -That is the root word. I don’t know what came over me. Why is he so -unlike other men? What if such a moment had come to me with Peter -Kennedy!” - -She smiled faintly all by herself in the firelight. How impossible it -was that she should have played like this with Peter Kennedy. He moved -her no more than a log of wood. Then she was suddenly ashamed, her -cheeks dyed red in the darkness. - - - - - CHAPTER X - - -She was surprised at what had happened to her, thought a great deal -about it, magnifying or minimising it according to her mood. But in a -way the incident drew her more definitely toward Gabriel Stanton. She -began to admit she was in love with him, to do as he had bidden her, -“let herself go.” In imagination at least. Had she been a psychological -instead of an epigrammatic novelist, she would have understood herself -better. To me, writing her story at this headlong pace, it was -nevertheless all quite clear. I had not to linger to find out why she -did this or that, what spirit moved her. I knew all the time, for -although none of my own novels ever had the success of “The Dangerous -Age” I knew more about what the author wrote there than he did himself, -much more. The Dangerous Age comes to a woman at all periods. With -Margaret Capel it was seven years after her marriage and over six from -the time when she had left her husband. She was impulsive, and for all -her introspective egotism, most pitifully ignorant of herself and her -emotional capacity. Fortunately Gabriel Stanton was almost as ignorant -as she. But, at least after that Sunday evening, there was no more talk -of friendship between them. There was coquetting on her side and some -obtuseness on his. Rare flashes of understanding as well, and on her -part deepening feeling under a light and varying surface. - -She was rarely twice alike, often she merely acted, thinking of herself -as a strange character in a drama. She was genuinely uncertain of -herself. Her love flamed wild sometimes. Then she would pull herself up -and remember that something like this she had felt once before, and it -had proved a will o’ the wisp over a bog. She wanted to walk warily. - -“Supposing I am wrong again this time?” she asked him once with wide -eyes. - -“You are not. This is real. Trust me, trust yourself.” She liked to -nestle in the shelter of his arm, to feel his lips on her hair, to -torment and adore him. The week-ends seemed very short; the week-days -long. Week-days during which she was restless and excitable, and Peter -Kennedy and his bag of tricks, medical tricks, often in request. She was -very capricious with Peter, calling him ignorant, and a country yokel. -As a companion he compared very badly with Gabriel. As an emotional -machine he was easier to play upon. She spared him nothing, he was her -whipping-boy. Watching him one noticed that he grew quieter, improved in -many ways as she secured more and more mastery over him. When there were -scenes now they were of her and not of his making. He was wax in her -hands, plastic to her moulding. Sometimes she was sorry for him and a -little ashamed of herself. Then she gave him a music lesson or lectured -him gravely on his shortcomings. But from first to last he was nothing -to her but a stop-gap. His devotion had the smallest of reward. - -The weeks went by. Gabriel Stanton coming and going, staying always at -the local hotel. Ever more secure in his position with her, but never -taking advantage of it. - -“He is naturally of a cold nature,” she argued. And once her confidant -was Peter Kennedy and she compared the two of them. This was in early -days, before her treatment of Peter had subdued him. - -“What’s he afraid of?” Peter asked brusquely. - -“Until the decree has been made absolute I am not free.” - -“So what he is afraid of is the King’s Proctor?” - -“Don’t.” - -“His precious respectability, the great house of Stanton.” - -“You take it all wrong, you don’t understand. How should you?” - -“Don’t I? I wish I’d half his chances.” - -“You are really not in the same category of men. It is banal—I have -never fully realised the value of a banal phrase before, but you are -‘not fit to wipe the mud off his shoes.’” - -“Because I am a country doctor.” - -“Because you are—Peter Kennedy.” - -She knew then how comparatively thick-skinned he was; that if he had -some sense or senses _in excelsis_, in others he was lacking, altogether -lacking and unconscious. It is not paradoxical but plain that the more -she saw of Gabriel Stanton the less heed she took of Peter Kennedy’s -freedom of speech and ways. The two men were as apart as the poles, that -they both adored her proved nothing but her undoubted charm. She was not -quite looking forward, like Gabriel Stanton, through the “decree -absolute” to marriage. She lived in the immediate present; in the -Saturdays to Mondays when she tortured Gabriel Stanton and in a way was -tortured by him. For she had never met so fine a brain, nor honour and -simplicity so clean and clear, and she was upborne by and with him. And -the Tuesdays to Fridays she had attacks or crises of the nerves and -Kennedy alternately doctored and clumsily courted her. - -There came a time when she wrote and asked Gabriel to bring his sister -next time he came, and that both of them should stay in the house with -her, at Carbies. It was clear, if it had not been put into actual words, -that they would marry as soon as she was free, and she thought it would -please him that she should recognise the position. - -“I want to know her. Tell her I am a friend of yours who is interested -in Christian Science, then she won’t think it strange that I should -invite her here.” She was not frank enough to say “since she is to be my -sister-in-law.” - -Gabriel, nevertheless, was translated when the letter came, and answered -it rapturously. The invitation to his sister seemed to admit his -footing, to make the future more definite and domestic. - - But if you want me to stay away I will stay away. Remember it is - your wishes not mine that count. I tired you, perhaps? Did I tire - you? God bless you! - - I can never tell you half that is in my heart. You are an angel of - goodness, and I am on my knees before you all the time. I will tell - Anne as little as possible until you give me permission, yet I am - sure she must guess the rest. My voice alters when I speak of you, - although I try to keep it even and calm. I went to her when I got - your letter. “A friend of mine wants to know you.” I began as - absurdly as that. She looked at me in surprise, and I went on - hurriedly, “She wants you to go down with me to her house in - Pineland at the end of the week....” - - “You have been there before?” she asked suspiciously, sharply. “Is - that where you have been each week lately?” - - “Yes,” I answered, priding myself that I did not go on to tell her - each week I entered Paradise, lingered there a little while. She - began to question, probe me. Were you old, young, beautiful; the - questions poured forth. Somehow or other, in the end these questions - froze and silenced me. I could not tell her, you were you! She would - not have understood. Nor was I able to satisfy her completely on any - point. I could not describe you, felt myself stammering like a - schoolboy over the colour of your hair, your eyes. How could I say - to her “This sweet lady who invites you to make her acquaintance is - just perfection, no more nor less; all compound of fire and dew, - made composite and credible with genius”? As for giving a - description of you, it would need a poet and a painter working - together, and in the end they would give up the task in despair. I - did not tell Anne this. - - She is now reviewing her wardrobe. And I ... I am reviewing - nothing ... past definite thought. Do you know that when I left you - on Sunday I feared that I had vexed or disappointed you again? You - seemed to me a little cold—constrained. Monday and Tuesday I have - examined and cross-examined myself—suffered. My whole life is - yours—but if I fail to please you! I was in a hotel in the country - once, when a man was brought in from the football field, very badly - hurt. His eyes were shut, his face agonised; he moaned, for all his - fortitude. There was a doctor in the crowd that accompanied him, who - gave what seemed to me a strange order: “Put him in a hot bath, just - as he is, don’t delay a moment; don’t wait to undress him.” My own - bath was just prepared and I proffered it. They lowered him in. He - was a fine big fellow, but suffering beyond self-restraint. Within a - minute of the water reaching him, clothes on and everything, he left - off moaning. His face grew calm. “My God! I am in heaven!” he - exclaimed. - - “The relief must have been exquisite. I thought of the incident when - your letter came, when I had submerged myself in it. I had forgotten - it for years, but remembered it then. I too had passed in one moment - from exquisite agony to a most wonderful calm. Dear love, how can I - thank you! I am not going to try. Anne and I will come by the train - arriving at Pineland at 4.52. I will not ask your kindness for her; - I see you diffusing it. She will be grateful, and the form her - gratitude will take will be the endeavour to convert you to - Christian Science. My sweet darling, you will listen gravely, - patiently. And I shall know it will be for me. I have done nothing - to deserve you, am nothing, only your worshipper. Some day perhaps - you will let me do something for you. Dear heart, I love you, love - you, love you, however I write.” - - G. S. - -Friday, Margaret decided it was better that she should entertain her -guests alone. She had to learn the idiosyncrasies of this poor sister of -her lover’s, to acclimatise herself to a new atmosphere between herself -and Gabriel. She invited Peter Kennedy to dine with them on Saturday, -but bade him not to speak lightly of Christian Science. - -“What’s the game?” he asked her. - -“I think it is probably some form of mesmerism; I don’t quite know. -Anyway Mr. Stanton’s sister is an invalid and thinks Christian Science -has relieved her. You are not to laugh at or argue with her.” - -“I am to dine here and talk to her, I suppose, whilst you and that -fellow ogle and make love to each other.” She turned a cold shoulder to -him. - -“I withdraw my invitation, you need not come at all.” - -“Of course I shall come. And what is the name of the thing? Christian -Science? I’ll get it up. You know I’d do anything on earth you asked me, -though you treat me like a dog.” - -“At least you snatch an occasional bone,” she smiled as he mumbled her -hand. - -Margaret sent for Mary Baker Eddy’s “Science and Health; with a Key to -the Scriptures,” and spent the emptiest two hours she could remember in -trying to master the viewpoint of the book, the essential dogma. Failing -completely she flung it to Peter Kennedy, who read aloud to her sentence -after sentence as illuminative as these: - -“‘_Destructive electricity is not the offspring of infinite good._’ Who -the devil said it was?” - -“Hush, go on. There must be something more in it than that.” He turned -to the title-page, “‘Printed and published at Earlswood’? No, my -mistake—at Boston. ‘_Christian Science rationally explains that all -other pathological methods are the fruits of human faith in matter, in -the working, not of spirit, but of the fleshly mind, which must yield to -Science._’ Don’t knit your brows. What’s the good of swotting at it? -Let’s say Abracadabra to her and see what happens.” - -“What an indolent man you are. Is that the way you worked at your -examination?” - -“I qualified.” - -“I suppose that was the height of your ambition?” - -“You don’t give a man much encouragement to be ambitious.” - -“But this was before I knew you.” - -“Don’t you believe it. I never lived at all before you knew me.” - -“Absurd boy!” - -“I’m getting on for thirty.” - -“You can’t expect me to remember it whilst you behave as if you were -seventeen. Take the book up again, let us give it an honest trial.” - -He read on obediently, and she listened with a real desire for -instruction. Then all at once she put her fingers in her ears and called -a halt. - -“That will do. Ring for tea, I can’t listen to any more....” - -He went on nevertheless: “‘_Mind is not the author of Matter._’ I say, -this is jolly good. You can read it the other way too. ‘_Matter is not -the author of mind. There is no matter ... put matter under the foot of -mind._’ Put Mrs. Eddy under the foot of a militant suffragette. Oh! I -say ... listen to this....” - -“No, I won’t, not to another word. Poor Gabriel....” He threw the book -away. - -“Always that damned fellow!” he said. - -When Friday came and the house had been swept and garnished Margaret -drove to the station to receive her guests. The room prepared for Anne -was on the same corridor as her own, facing south, and with a balcony. -Margaret herself had seen to all the little details for her comfort. A -big sofa and easy-chair, pen and ink and paper, the latest novel: -flowers on the mantelpiece and dressing-table, a filled biscuit box, and -small spirit stand. Then, more slowly, she had gone into the little -suite prepared for Gabriel, bedroom and bathroom, no balcony, but a wide -window. She only stayed a moment, she did not give a thought to his -little comforts. She was out of the room again quickly. - -She arrived late at the station, and Gabriel was already on the -platform; he never had the same happy certainty as the first time, nor -knew how she would greet him. The first impression she had of Anne was -of a little old woman, bent-backed, fussing about the luggage, about -some bag after which she enquired repeatedly and excitedly, of whose -safety she could not be assured until Gabriel produced it to her from -among the others already on the platform. - -“Shall we go on and leave him to follow with the luggage?” Margaret -asked. - -“Oh, no, no, I couldn’t think of moving until it is found. So -tiresome....” - -“I am sure you are tired after your journey.” - -“I don’t know what it is to be tired since I have taken up Christian -Science. You know we are never tired unless we think we are,” Anne said, -when they were in the carriage, bowling along the good road toward the -reddening glow of the sunset. Margaret and Gabriel, sitting opposite, -but not facing each other—embarrassed, shy with the memory of their last -parting,—were glad of this intervening person who chattered of her -non-fatigue, the essential bag, and the number of things she had had to -see to before she left home. All the way from Pineland station to the -crunching gravel path at Carbies Anne talked and they made a feint of -listening to her. The feeling between them was a great height. They were -almost glad of her presence, of her fretting small talk. Margaret said -afterwards she felt damp and deluged with it, properly subdued. “I felt -as if I had come all out of curl,” she told him. “No wonder you speak so -little, are reserved.” - -“I am not reserved with you,” he answered. - -“I think sometimes that you are.” - -“There is not a corner or cranny of my mind I should not wish you to -explore if it interested you,” he replied passionately. - -All that evening Anne’s volubility never failed. She was of the type of -woman, domestic and frequent, who can talk for hours without succeeding -in saying anything. Most of it seemed simultaneous! Anne Stanton, who -was ten years older than Gabriel and had an idea that she “managed” him, -prided herself also on her good social quality and capacity for carrying -off a situation. She thought of this invitation and introduction to the -young lady with whom her brother had evidently fallen in love as “a -situation” and she felt herself of immense importance in it. Gabriel -must have kept his secret better than he knew. She believed that he was -seeking her opinion of his choice, that the decision, if there was to be -a decision, rested with her. One must do her the justice to admit that -she did not give a thought to any possible alteration in her own -position. She had always lived with Gabriel, she knew he would not cast -her off. Conscious of her adaptability she had already said to him on -the way down: - -“I could live with anybody, any nice person, and, of course, since I -have been so well everything is even easier. I do hope I shall like -her....” - -She did like her, very much, Margaret saw to that, behaving exquisitely -under the stimulus of Gabriel’s worshipping eyes; listening as if she -were absorbedly interested in a description of the particular Healer who -had Anne’s case in hand. - -“At first you see I was quite strange to it, I didn’t understand -completely. Mr. Roope is a little deaf, but he says he hears as much as -he wants to ... so beautifully content and devout.” - -“Has Mrs. Roope any defect?” Margaret got a word or two in edgeways -before the end of the evening, her sense of humour helping her. - -“She has a sort of hysterical affection. She goes ‘Bupp, bupp,’ like a -turkey-cock and swells at the throat. At least that is what I thought, -but I am very backward at present. Some one asked her the cause once, -when I was there, and she said she had no such habit, the mistake was -ours. It is all very bewildering.” - -“Are there any other members of the family?” - -“Her dear mother! Such a nice creature, and quite a believer; she has -gall-stones.” - -“Gall-stones!” - -“Not really, you know, they pass with prayer. She looks ill, very ill -sometimes, but of course that is another of my mistakes. I am having -absent treatment now.” - -“They know where you are?” Gabriel asked, perhaps a little anxiously. - -“Oh! dear, yes. I am never out of touch with them.” - -After she had retired for the night, for notwithstanding her immunity -from fatigue and pain, she retired early, explaining that she wanted to -put her things in order, Gabriel lingered to tell Margaret again what an -angel she was, and of his gratitude to her for the way she was receiving -and making much of his sister. - -“I like doing it, she interests me. I suppose she really believes in it -all.” - -“I think so. You see her illness is partly nervous, partly her spine, -but still to a certain extent, nervous. She is undoubtedly better since -she had this hobby. The only thing that worries me is this family of -whom she speaks, these Roopes. Of course they will get everything she -has out of her, every penny. If it only stops at that....” - -“You have seen them?” - -“Not yet. I hear the man is an emaciated idler, not over-clean, his wife -has evidently a bad form of St. Vitus’s dance. The woman leads them all, -the old mother, all of them. I expect they live upon what she makes. -I’ve heard a story or two ... I had not realized about this absent -treatment, that Anne tells them where she goes. You don’t mind?” - -“Why should I mind?” - -“She may have told them I come here....” - -“Oh! that! I had forgotten.” - -It was true, she had forgotten that she must walk circumspectly. She had -spoken of and forgotten it. Now she remembered, because he reminded her; -reddened and wished she had not invited Anne. Anne, with her undesirable -acquaintances and meandering talk, who would keep her and Gabriel -company on their walks and drives for the next two days. - -But Providence, or a broken chain in the sequence of the Roope Christian -Science treatment, came to her aid. On Saturday Anne was prostrated with -headache. - -“She has never been able to bear a railway journey.” - -“Does she explain?” - -“I went in to see her. ‘If only I had faith enough,’ she moaned, and -asked me to send Mrs. Roope a telegram. I persuaded her to five grains -of aspirin, but I could see she felt very guilty about it. She will -sleep until the afternoon.” - -“We can leave her?” - -“Oh, yes! I doubt if she will be well awake by dinner, certainly not -before.” - -“Let us get away from here, from Carbies and Pineland....” - -“Right to the other side of the island. We could lunch at Ryde. I’ll get -a car.” - -Nothing suited either of them so well today as a long silent drive. The -car went too fast for them to talk. Retrospect or the comparison of -notes was practically impossible. They sat side by side, smiling rarely, -one at the other as the spring burst into life around them. The tall -hedges were full of may blossom, with here and there a flowering -currant, the trees wore their coronal of young green leaves, great -clumps of primroses succeeded the yellow gorse of which they had tired, -fields were already green with the autumn-sown corn, there was nothing -to remind them of Carbies. For a long time the sea was out of sight. -Never had they been happier together, for all they spoke so little. - -At Ryde he played the host to her, and she sat on the verandah whilst he -went in to give his orders. A few ships were aride in the bay, but the -scene was very different from what she had ever seen it before, in -Regatta time, when it was gay with bunting and familiar faces. Today -they had it to themselves, the hotel she only knew as overcrowded, and -the view of the town, so strangely quiet. And excellent was the luncheon -served to them. A lobster mayonnaise and a fillet steak, a pie of early -gooseberries, which nevertheless Margaret declared were bottled. They -spoke of other meals they had had together, of one in the British Museum -in particular. On this occasion it pleased her to declare that boiled -cod, not crimped, but flabby and served with lukewarm egg sauce, was the -most ambrosial food she knew. - -“I don’t know when I enjoyed a meal so much,” she said reflectively. - -“You wrote and reproached me for it.” His eyes caressed and forgave her -for it. - -“Impossible!” - -“You did indeed. I can produce your plaint in your own handwriting.” - -“You don’t mean to say you keep my letters!” - -“I would rather part with my Elzevirs.” - -This was the only time they approached sentiment, approached and sheered -off. There was something between them, in wait for them, at which at -that moment neither wished to look. - -The sun sparkled on the waters, a boatload of smart young naval officers -put off from a strange yacht in the bay. Gabriel and Margaret wished -that their landing at the pier should synchronise with their own -departure. Nothing was to break the unusualness of their solitude in -this whilom crowded place. He showed his tenderness in the way he -cloaked her, tucked the rugs about her, not in any spoken word. She felt -it subtly about her, and glowed in it, most amazingly content. - -When they got back to Carbies, after having satisfied herself that her -guest had recovered and would join them at dinner, she astonished her -maid by demanding an evening toilette. She wore a gown of grey and -silver brocade, very stiff and Elizabethan, a chain of uncut cabochon -emeralds hung round her neck, and a stomacher of the same decorated her -corsage. The mauve osprey upstanding in her hair was clasped by a -similar encrusted jewel. She carried herself regally. Had she not come -into her woman’s Kingdom? Tonight she meant that he should see what he -had won. - -It was a strange evening, nevertheless, and they were a strangely -assorted quartette. There was a little glow of colour in Margaret’s -cheeks, such as Peter Kennedy had never seen there before, her eyes -shone like stars, and she wore this regal toilette. Peter was introduced -to Anne. Anne, yellowish and subdued after the migraine, dressed in -brown taffeta, opening at the wizened throat to display a locket of seed -pearls on a gold chain; her brown toupée had slipped a little and -discovered a few grey hairs, her hands, covered with inexpensive rings, -showed clawlike and tremulous. Margaret’s unringed hands, so pale and -small, were like Japanese flowers. Peter had to take in Anne. Gabriel -gave his arm to Margaret. The poverty of the dining-room furniture was -out of the circle of the white spread table, where the suspended lamp -shone on fine silver and glass. Flowers came constantly to Carbies from -London. Tonight red roses scented the room; hothouse roses, blooming -before their time, on long thornless stems. Margaret drew a vase toward -her, exclaimed at the wealth of perfume. - -“I only hope they won’t make your headache worse.” - -Anne tried to insist she had no headache. Peter advised a glass of -champagne. She began to tell him something of her new-found panacea for -all ills, but ceased upon finding he was what she called a “medical -man,” one of the enemies of their creed. Before the dinner had passed -the soup stage he hardly made a pretence of listening to her. Both men -were absorbed in this regal Margaret. All her graciousness was for -Gabriel, but she found occasion now and again for a smile and a word for -Peter. Poor Peter! guest at this high feast where there was no food for -him. But he made the most of the material provender, and proved -fortunately to be an excellent trencherman. Otherwise Margaret’s good -cook had exerted herself in vain. For none of them had appetite but -Peter; Margaret because she talked too much, and Gabriel because he -could do nothing but listen; Anne because she was feeling the -after-effects, and regretting she had yielded to the temptation of the -aspirin. - -The men sat together but a short time after the ladies left them. They -had one subject in common of which neither wished to speak. Gabriel -smoked only a cigarette, Peter praised the port, which happened to be -exceptionally bad; the weather was a topic that drew blank. Fortunately -they struck upon Pineland and its health-giving qualities, upon which -both were enthusiastic. Peter Kennedy was in Gabriel’s secret, but -Gabriel had no intuition of his. - -“Mrs. Capel seems to have derived great benefit from her stay. Probably -from your treatment also,” he said courteously. His thoughts were so -full of her; how could he speak of anything else? - -“I can’t do much for her,” Peter said gloomily. He had had the greater -part of a bottle of champagne, and the port on the top of it. “She -doesn’t do a thing I tell her. She doesn’t care whether I’m dead or -alive.” - -“I am sure you are wrong,” Gabriel reassured him earnestly. “She has, I -am sure, the highest possible opinion of your skill. She carries out -your régime as far as possible. You think she should rest more?” - -“She should do nothing but rest.” - -“But with an active mind?” - -“It is not only her mind that is active.” - -“You mean the piano-playing, writing....” - -“She ought just to vegetate. She has a weak heart, one of the -valves....” - -Gabriel rose hurriedly, it was not possible for him to listen to a -description of his beloved’s physical ailments. He was shocked with -Peter for wishing to tell him, genuinely shocked. It was a breach of -professional etiquette, of good manners. They arrived upstairs in the -music room completely out of tune. - -“He wouldn’t even listen when I told him how seedy you were, that you -ought to be kept quiet. Selfish owl. You’ve been out with him all day.” - -“I rested for half an hour before dinner. Do I look tired or washed -out?” She turned a radiant face to Peter for investigation. “I am going -to play to you presently, when you will see if I am without power.” - -“Power! Who said you were without that? You’d have power over the devil -tonight.” - -“Or over my eccentric physician.” She smiled at him. “Have you been -behaving yourself prettily downstairs?” - -“I haven’t told him what I think of him, if that’s what you mean!” - -“Will you play first?” she asked him. Peter Kennedy was a genuine music -lover, and he played well, very much better since Margaret Capel had -come to Pineland. He sang also, but this accomplishment Margaret would -never let him display. She had no use for a man’s singing since James -Capel had lured her with his love songs. - -Gabriel was talking to his sister whilst Margaret and Peter had this -little conversation. He was persuading her to an early retreat. - -“Did you send my telegram to Mrs. Roope? I am sure I am getting better, -I have been thinking so all the evening. She must have been treating -me.” - -“I am sure, but are not the vibrations stronger between you if you are -alone, if there is nothing to disturb your thoughts?...” Even Gabriel -Stanton could be disingenuous when the occasion demanded. She hesitated. - -“Wouldn’t Mrs. Capel be offended? One owes something to one’s hostess. -She has promised to play. You told me she played beautifully. I do think -she is very sweet. But, Gabriel, have you thought of the flat? I -shouldn’t like to give it up. The gravel soil and air from the heath, -and everything. Isn’t she ... isn’t she....” - -“A size too big for it?” He finished her sentence for her. - -“Too grand, I meant.” - -“Yes, too grand. Of course she is too grand.” He turned to look at her. -This time their eloquent eyes met. She indicated the piano stool to -Peter Kennedy and came swiftly to the brother and sister. - -“Has he made you comfortable?” She adjusted the pillows, and stole a -glance at Gabriel. Whenever she looked at him it seemed that his eyes -were upon her. They were extraordinarily conscious of each other, acting -a little because Anne and Peter were there. Peter Kennedy, over on the -music stool, struck a chord or two, as if to lure her back. - -“One can always listen better when one is comfortable,” she said to -Anne. Then went over to the fender stool, where Gabriel joined her, -after a moment’s hesitation. - -“Isn’t it too hot for you?” she asked him innocently. - -“It might have been,” he answered, smiling, “only the fire is out.” - -“Is it?” she turned to look. “I had not noticed it. Hush! He is going to -play the _Berceuse_. You haven’t heard him before, have you? He plays -quite well.” - -So they sat there together whilst Peter Kennedy played, and every now -and then Anne said from the sofa: - -“How delicious! Thank you ever so much. What was it? I thought I knew -the piece.” - -Peter got up from the piano before Gabriel and Margaret had tired of -sitting side by side on the fender stool, or Anne of ejaculating her -little complimentary, grateful, or enquiring phrases. - -“I suppose you’ve had enough of it,” he said abruptly to Margaret. - -“No, I haven’t. You could have gone on for another hour.” - -“I daresay.” - -Gabriel thought his manner singularly abrupt, almost rude. This was only -the second or third time he had met Margaret’s medical attendant, and he -was not at all favourably impressed by him. As for Peter: - -“Damned dry stick,” he said to Margaret, when he had persuaded her to -the redemption of her promise, and was leading her to the piano. - -“What a boor you really are, notwithstanding your playing,” she answered -calmly, adjusting the candles, the height of the piano stool, looking -out some music. “I really thought you were going to behave well tonight. -And not a word about Christian Science,” she chaffed him gently, “after -all the coaching.” - -She too tried a few chords. - -“I say, don’t you play too long tonight. Don’t you go overdoing it.” Her -chaff made no impression upon him, he was used to it. But he was struck -by some alteration or intensification of her brilliancy. How could he -know the secret of it? The love of which he was capable gave him no key -to the spell that was on those two tonight. - -Anne slipped off to bed presently, at Gabriel’s whispered encouragement, -and Margaret went on playing to the two men. Peter commented sometimes, -asked for this or the other, went over and stood by her side, turning -over the music, sat down beside her now and again. Gabriel remained on -the corner of the sofa Anne had vacated, and listened. Therefore it was -Peter who caught her when she fell forward with a little sigh or moan, -Peter who caught her up in his arms and strode over with her to the -sofa. Gabriel would have taken her from him, but Peter issued impatient -orders. - -“Open the window, pull the blind up, let us have as much air as -possible. Ring for her maid, ring like blazes ... she has only fainted.” -Within a minute she was sitting up, radiantly white, but with shadows -round her pale mouth and deep under her eyes. - -“It is nothing, it is only a touch of faintness. Not an attack. Gabriel, -you were not frightened?” she asked, and put out her hand to him. - -Peter said something inarticulate and got up from where he had been -kneeling beside her. - -“I’ll get you some brandy.” - -“Shall I go?” Gabriel asked, but was holding her hand. - -“No, no. You stay. Dr. Kennedy knows where it is.” - -Gabriel knelt beside her now. - -“Were you frightened?” she asked, still a little faintly. - -“Love, lover, sweet, my heart was shaken with terror.” - -“It is really nothing. We have had such a wonderful day I was trying to -play it all to you. Then the glory spread, brightened, overwhelmed -me....” - -“Beloved!” - -“Hush! he is coming back. You won’t believe anything he tells you?” - -“Not if you tell me you are not really ill? Oh! my darling! I could not -bear it if you were to suffer. Let me get some one else....” - -Peter was back with the brandy, a measured dose, he brushed Gabriel -aside as if now at least he had the mastery of the position. For all -Gabriel’s preoccupation with Margaret, Dr. Kennedy managed to attract -from him a wondering moment of attention. Need he have knelt to -administer the draught? What was it he was murmuring? Whatever it was -Margaret was unwilling to hear. She leaned back, closing her eyes. When -the maid came, torn reluctantly from her supper, she was able, -nevertheless, to reassure her. - -“Nothing of consequence, Stevens, not an attack. I am going across to my -bedroom. One of you will lend me an arm,” they were both in readiness, -“or both.” She took an arm of one and an arm of the other, smiled in -both their faces. “What a way to wind up our little evening! You will -have to forgive me, entertain each other.” - -“I’ll come in again and see you when you are comfortable,” the doctor -said, a little defiantly, Gabriel thought. - -“No, don’t wait. Not on any account. Stevens knows everything to do for -me. Show Mr. Stanton where the cigars are.” - -They were not in good humour when they left her. - -“I don’t smoke cigars,” Gabriel said abruptly when Dr. Kennedy made a -feint of carrying out her wishes. Peter shrugged his shoulders. - -“She told me to find them for you.” - -“Has she had attacks like this before?” Gabriel asked, after a pause. -Peter answered gloomily: - -“And will again if she is allowed to overtire herself by driving for -hours in the sun, and then encouraged to sit through a long dinner, -talking all the time.” - -“She ought not to have played?” Peter Kennedy threw himself on to the -sofa, desecrating it, bringing an angry flush to Gabriel’s brow. But -when he groaned and said: - -“If one could only do anything for her!” - -Gabriel forgave him in that instant. Gabriel had lived all his life with -an invalid. Attacks of hysteria and faintness had been his daily menu -for years. - -“But surely an attack of faintness is not very unusual or alarming? My -sister often faints....” - -“She isn’t Margaret Capel, is she?” - -“You ... you knew Mrs. Capel before she came to Carbies?” - -“No, I didn’t. But I know her now, don’t I?” - -Gabriel was silent. He had seen a great many doctors too, before the -Christian Scientists had broken their influence, but such a one as this -was new to him. Margaret was so sacred and special to him that he did -not know what to think. But Peter gave him little time for thinking. He -fixed a gloomy eye upon him and said: - -“A man’s a man, you know, although he’s nothing but a country -practitioner.” Gabriel was acutely annoyed, a little shocked, most -supremely uncomfortable. - -“But ought you to go on attending her?” he got out. - -“I shan’t do her any harm, shall I, because I am madly in love with her, -because I could kiss the ground she walks on, because I’d give my life -for hers any day?” Gabriel’s face might have been carved. “She treats me -like a dog....” - -Gabriel made a gesture of dissent, Margaret could not treat any one like -a dog. - -“Oh, yes, she does, she says I’m not fit to wipe the mud off your -shoes....” - -Then Margaret knew. He was a little stunned and taken by surprise to -think Margaret knew her doctor was in love with her, knew and had kept -him in attendance. But of course she was right, everything she did was -right. She had not taken the matter seriously. - -“I suppose I’d better go.” Peter dropped his feet to the ground, rose -slowly. “She won’t see me again if she says she won’t. She’s got her -bromide. You might ring me up in the morning and tell me how she is, if -she wants me to come round. That’s not too much to ask, is it?” he said -savagely. - -“Not at all,” Gabriel answered coldly. “I should of course do anything -she wished.” Peter paused a moment at the door. - -“I say, you’re not going to try and put her off me, are you? Just -because I’ve let myself go to you?” - -“I am not authorised to interfere in Mrs. Capel’s affairs.” Gabriel was -quite himself again and very stiff. - -“But I understand you will be.” - -“I would rather not discuss the future with you.” - -“Then you do intend to try and out me?” - -Gabriel was suddenly a little sorry for him, he looked so desperately -miserable and anxious, and after all he, Peter Kennedy, was leaving the -house. Gabriel was remaining, sleeping under the same roof. - -“I will see her maid if possible. You shall be called up if you are -needed. Nothing but her well-being, her own wish will be thought of.... -Anyway you shall have a report.” - -“As her doctor she trusts me. I can ease her symptoms.” It was almost a -plea. “She need not suffer.” - -“Of course you will be sent for. They have your telephone number?” - -Peter held out his hand. - -“Good-night. You’re a good fellow. She is quite right. I suppose I ought -not to have told you how it is with me...?” - -“It is of no consequence,” Gabriel answered, intending to be courteous. - - - - - CHAPTER XI - - -Sunday morning the church bells were chiming against the blue sky in the -clear air. Both invalids were better. The reports Gabriel received -whilst he sat over his solitary breakfast were to the effect that Miss -Stanton had slept well and was without headache, she sent word also of -her intention to go to church if it were possible. Stevens herself told -him that Mrs. Capel would be coming down at eleven o’clock or half-past, -having had an excellent night. He was not to stay in for her. - -“Can you tell me how far off is the nearest church?” - -Stevens was fully informed on the matter. There were two almost within -equal distance. - -“Not more than a quarter of an hour to twenty minutes away. The nearest -is the ’ighest....” Stevens was a typical English maid, secretly devoted -to her mistress, well up in her duties but with a perpetual grievance or -list of grievances. “Not that I get there myself, not on Sunday -mornings, since I’ve been here.” - -Gabriel was sympathetic. Contempt, however, was thrown upon his -suggestion of the afternoon. - -“Children’s services and such-like, no thank you!” - -As for the evenings Stevens said “they was mostly hymns.” He detained -her for a few minutes, for was she not Margaret’s confidential maid, -compensating her, too, for her lack of religious privileges. He told her -to tell her mistress he would walk to church with his sister and then -return, that he looked forward to seeing her if she were really better. -Otherwise she was not to think of rising. - -“She’ll get up right enough. I’m to have her bath ready at ’alf-past -ten.” - -When Anne came down he walked with her over the common-land, bright with -gorse and broom that lay between Carbies and the higher of the two -churches, heard how Anne had lain awake and then how she had slept, sure -of the intervention of Mrs. Roope. Her headache had completely -disappeared. - -“You did send that telegram, didn’t you?” - -Gabriel assured her that the telegram had been duly despatched. - -“She must have started on me at once. She is a good creature. I wish you -were more sympathetic to it. You’ve never once been with me to a -meeting.” - -“But I have not put anything in the way of your going.” - -“Oh, yes! I know how good you are. Which reminds me, Gabriel, about Mrs. -Capel. We must talk things over when we get home. You must not do -anything in a hurry. I heard about her fainting away last night. It is -not only that she is a widow, and terribly delicate, her maid tells me, -but she takes no care of herself, none at all.... What a rate you are -walking at; I’m sure we have plenty of time, the bells are still going. -I can’t keep up with you.” He slowed down. “As I was saying, I shouldn’t -like you to be more particular with her until we have talked things over -together. Of course as far as her delicacy is concerned, we might -persuade her to see Mrs. Roope.” - -“I have already asked Mrs. Capel if she will do me the honour of -becoming my wife,” her brother said in a tone she found curious, -peculiar, not at all like himself. - -“Oh, dear! how tiresome! You really are so impulsive. Of course I like -her very much, very much indeed, but there are so many things to be -thought of. How long has her husband been dead? You know she is more -than half an American, she told me so herself, and such strange things -do happen with American husbands.” - -“Mrs. Capel divorced her husband!” He spoke quickly, abruptly, hurrying -her on toward the church, through the gate and up the path where a -little stream of people was already before them, people carrying -prayer-books, or holding by the hand a stiffly dressed unwilling child; -one or two women with elderly husbands. - -Anne gave a little subdued scream when Gabriel told her that Mrs. Capel -had divorced her husband, a little gasp. - -“Oh dear, oh dear!” It was impossible to say more under the -circumstances, she could not make a scene here. - -“You will be able to find your way back all right?” he asked her. The -bells were clashing now almost above their heads, clashing slowly to the -finish. - -“I’m sure I don’t know whether I am standing on my head or my heels.” - -“You will be all right when you are inside.” - -“I haven’t even got my smelling-salts with me, I promised to leave off -carrying them.” She was almost crying with agitation. - -“You will be all right,” he said again. He waited until she had gone -through the door, the little bent figure in its new coat and skirt and -Victorian hat tied under the chin. Then he was free to return on swift -feet to Carbies to await Margaret’s coming. He walked so swiftly that -although it had taken them twenty minutes to get there he was barely ten -in coming back. He hurried faster when he saw there was a figure at the -gate. - -“It is too fine to be indoors this morning. I am going down to the sea. -I yearn for the sea this morning. Go up to the house, will you? Fetch a -cushion or so. Then we can be luxurious.” He executed his commission -quickly, and when he came up to her again had not only a cushion but a -rug on his arm. She said quickly: - -“What a wonderful morning! Isn’t it a God-given morning?” - -“All mornings are wonderful and God-given that bring me to you,” he -answered little less soberly, walking by her side. “Won’t you lean a -little on me, take my arm?” - -“Do I look decrepit?” She laughed, walking on light feet. Spring was -everywhere, in the soft air, and the throats of courting birds, in the -breeze and both their hearts. They went down to the sea and he arranged -the cushions against that very rock behind which I had once sat and -heard them talk. She said now she must face the sea, the winds that blew -from it. - -“Not too cold?” he asked her. - -“Not too anything. You may sit on the rug too, there is a bit to spare -for you. What book have you in your pocket?” - -“No book today. I carried Anne’s prayer-book.” - -“‘Science and Health’?” - -She was full of merriment and laughter. - -“No; the ordinary Church Service. There was nothing else available.” - -“Oh, yes, there was. I sent for a copy of Mrs. Eddy’s lucubrations.” - -“No!” - -“Of course I did. I had to make myself acquainted with a subject on -which I should be compelled to talk.” - -“What a wonderful woman you are.” - -“Not at all. If she had been a South Sea Islander I’d have welcomed her -with shells or beads. Tell me, have I made a success? Will she give her -consent?” - -“Have you given yours, have you really given yours? You have never said -so in so many words.” - -“Well, the implication must have been fairly obvious.” The eyes she -turned on him were full of happy laughter, almost girlish. Since -yesterday she had had this new strange bloom of youth. “Don’t tell me -your sister has not guessed.” - -“I told her.” - -“You told her! Well! I never! as Stevens would say. And you were -pretending not to know!” - -“I only said you had never put it into words. Say it now, Margaret, out -here, this wonderful Sunday.” - -“What am I to say?” - -“Put your little hand in mine, your sweet flower of a hand.” He took it. - -“Not a flower, a weed. See how brown they have got since I’ve been -here.” He kissed the weed or flower of her hand. - -“Say, ‘Gabriel, you shall be my husband. I will marry you the very first -day I am free!’” Her brows knitted, she took her hand away a little -pettishly. - -“I _am_ free. Why do you remind me?” - -“Say, ‘I will marry you on the last day in May, in six weeks from -today.’” - -“May marriages are unlucky.” - -“Ours could not be.” - -“Oh, yes! it could. I am a woman of moods.” - -“Every one more lovely than the last.” - -“Impatient and irritable.” - -“You shall have no time to be impatient. Anything you want I will rush -to obtain for you. If you are irritable I will soothe you.” - -“And then I want hours to myself.” - -“I’ll wait outside your door, on the mat, to keep interruptions from -you.” - -“I want to write ... to play the piano, to rest a great deal.” - -“Give me your odd half-hours.” She gave him back her hand instead. - -“Let’s pretend. We are to sail away into the unknown; to be happy ever -afterwards. Where shall we go, Gabriel? Can we have a yacht?” - -“I am not rich.” - -“Pretend you are. Where shall we go? To Greece, where every stone is -hallowed ground to you. All the white new buildings shall be blotted out -and you may turn your back on the museum....” - -“I shall only want to look at you.” - -“No, on rocks and the blue Ægean Sea. No, we won’t go to Greece at all. -You will be so learned, know so much more than I about everything. I -shall feel small, insignificant.” - -“Never. Bigger than the Pantheon.” - -“We will go to Sicily instead, go down among the tombs.” - -“I bar the tombs.” - -“Contradicting me already. How dare you, sir?” - -So the time passed in happy fooling, but often their hands met, the -under-currents between them ran swift and strong, deep too. Then it was -time for lunch. It was Margaret who suggested they would be in time to -meet Anne, walk up to the house with her. Nothing had been said about -Dr. Kennedy. Gabriel had meant to broach the subject, only touch it -lightly, suggest if she still needed medical attendance some one older, -less interested might perhaps be advisable. - -But he never did broach the subject, it had been impossible on such a -morning as this, she in such a mood, he in such accord with her. Anne, -when they met her, dashed them both a little. She twittered away about -the service and the sermon, but it was nervous and disjointed twitter, -and her eyes were red. She responded awkwardly to all Margaret’s kind -speeches, her enquiries after her headache; she was even guilty of the -heinous offence, heinous in her own eyes when she remembered it -afterwards, of saying nothing of the other’s faintness. Her landmarks -had been swept away, the ground yawned under her feet. Divorce! She did -not think she could live in the house with a divorced person. She knew -that some clergymen would not even marry divorced people, nor give them -the sacrament. She was miserably distressed, and longing to be at home. -She felt she was assisting at something indecorous, if not worse; she -thought she ought not to have waited for the sermon, she ought not to -have left them so long alone together. All her mingled emotions made her -feel ill again. She told Gabriel crossly that he was walking too fast. - -“Perhaps Mrs. Capel likes fast walking? Don’t mind me if you do,” she -said to Margaret, “I can manage by myself.” - -When they had adapted their pace to hers she was little better -satisfied; querulous, and as Margaret had pictured her before they met. -Luncheon was a miserable meal, or would have been but that nothing could -have really damped the spirits of these other two. First Anne found -herself in a draught, and then too hot. She never eat eggs, and -explained about her digestion, the asparagus tops could not tempt her. A -lobster mayonnaise was a fresh offence or disappointment. And she could -not disguise her disapproval. After all she prided herself she did know -something about housekeeping. - -“I never give Gabriel eggs except for breakfast.” - -“I do hope I have not upset your liver.” Margaret’s eyes were full of -laughter when she questioned him. - -“In my young days, in my papa’s house, nor for the matter of that in my -uncle’s either, did we ever have lobster salad except for a supper -dish.” - -Gabriel suggested gently that the whole art of eating had altered in -England. - -“Cod and egg sauce,” put in Margaret. - -“Nectar and ambrosia.” - -“We never gave either of them,” said poor hungry Anne. - -Fortunately a spatchcock with mushrooms was produced, and the _mousse_ -of _jambon_, although it seemed “odd,” was very light. - -“Why didn’t I have boiled mutton and rice pudding?” Margaret lamented in -an aside to Gabriel when the _omelette au rhum_ was most decisively -declined. Cream cheese and gingerbread proved the last straw. Anne -admitted it made her feel ill to see the others eat these in -combination. - -“I should like to get back to town as early as possible this afternoon,” -she said. “I am sure I don’t know what has come over me, I felt well -before I came. The place cannot agree with me. I hope you don’t think me -very rude, but if we can have a fly for the first train....” - -Gabriel was full of consternation and remonstrated with her. Margaret -whispered to him it was better so. Nothing was to be gained by detaining -her against her will. - -“We have next week....” - -“All the weeks,” he whispered back. - -Margaret offered Stevens’ services, but Anne said she preferred to pack -for herself, then she knew just where everything was. The lovers had an -hour to themselves whilst she was engaged in this congenial occupation. -She reminded Gabriel that he too must put his things together, and he -agreed. She thought this made matters safe. - -“Stevens will do them for you,” Margaret said softly. He did not care -how they were jumbled in, or what left behind, so that he secured this -precious hour. - -“Something has upset her, it was not only the lunch,” Margaret said -sapiently. He did not wish to enlighten her. - -“Has she worried you, beloved one?” - -“Not very much, not as much as she ought to perhaps. I was selfish with -her, left her too much alone. I shall know better another time. But at -least we had yesterday afternoon, and this morning ... oh! and part of -the evening, too. Did I frighten you very much?” she asked him. - -“Before I had time to be frightened you smiled, something of your colour -came back. Margaret, that reminds me. Do you mind if I suggest to you -that if you were really seedy Dr. Kennedy is comparatively a young -man....” She laughed. - -“But look how devoted he is!” - -“That is why.” He spoke a little gravely, and she put her hand in his. - -“Jealous!” Her voice was very soft. - -“The whole world loves you.” - -“I don’t love the whole world.” And when she said this her voice was no -longer only soft, it was tenderness itself. - -“Thank God!” He kissed her hand. - -But returned to his text as a man will. “No, I am not jealous. How could -I be? You have honoured me, dowered me beyond all other men. But you are -so precious, so supremely and unutterably precious. Margaret, my heart -is suddenly shaken. Tell me again. You are not ill, not really ill? When -this trying time is over, when I can be with you always....” - -“How about those hours I want to myself?” she interrupted. - -“When I can be within sound of you, taking care of you all the time, you -will be well then?” Now she put a hand on his knee. “Your little fairy -hand!” he exclaimed, capturing it. - -“I want you to listen,” she began. She did not know or believe herself -that she was seriously ill, but remembered what Dr. Lansdowne had said -and shivered over it a little. - -“Suppose I am really ill, that it is heart disease with me as the German -doctors and Lansdowne told me? Not only heart weakness as the others -say, would you be afraid? Do you think I ought not to ... to marry?” - -“My darling, it is impossible, your beautiful vitality makes it -impossible. But if it were true, incredibly true, then all the more -reason that we should be married as quickly as possible. I must snatch -you up, carry you away.” There was an interlude. “You want petting....” -He was a little awkward at it nevertheless, inexperienced. - -“Isn’t there some great man you could see, and who would reassure you, -some specialist?” - -“The Roopes?” She laughed, and her short fit of seriousness was over. - -“I will find out who is the best man, the head of the profession. No one -but the best is good enough for my Margaret. You will let me take you to -him?” - -“Perhaps. When I come back to London; if I am not well by then.” - -“You like this place, don’t you?” he asked. “You don’t think it is the -place?” - -“Pineland and Carbies? I am not sure. If I had not taken it for three -months I believe I’d go back today or tomorrow. I ran away from you ... -and social guns. I’m armed now.” He thanked her for that mutely. “Do you -really love this ill-fixed house?” - -“How should I not? But what does that matter? Leave it empty if it -doesn’t suit you. There is Queen Anne’s Gate.” - -“I know, but we should never be alone.” - -“Nothing matters but that you should be well, happy. I’d take my -vacation now, stay down, only I want at least six weeks in June. I could -not do with less than six weeks.” And this time the interlude was -longer, more silent. Margaret recovered herself first. - -“About Peter Kennedy. He really suits me better than any of the other -doctors here. Lansdowne is a soft-soapy grinning pessimist, with an -all-conquering air. He tells you how ill you are as if it doesn’t matter -since he has warned you, and will come constantly to remind you. There -is a Dr. Lushington who, I believe, knows more than all of them put -together, but he is a delicate man himself, overburdened with children, -and cramped with small means. He gives me fresh heartache, I am so sorry -for him all the time he is with me. Lansdowne and Lushington have each -young partners or assistants, straight from London hospitals, smelling -of iodoform, talking in abstruse medical or surgical terms, nosing for -operations, as dogs for truffles. You don’t want me to have any of -these, do you?” - -“I want you to do what you please, now and always.” - -“Even if it pleases me that Peter Kennedy should medicine and make love -to me?” - -“Even that. Does he make love to you?” - -“What did he tell you?” - -“That he adored you—that you treated him like a dog.” - -“He gives me amyl, bromide. He was only a country practitioner when I -first knew him, with a gift for music, but not for diagnosis.” - -“And now?” - -“He has done more reading, medical reading, since I have been here than -in all his life before. Treatises on the heart; all that have ever been -written. He is really studying, he intends to take a higher degree. In -music too, I have given him an impetus.” - -Gabriel was obviously, nevertheless, not quite satisfied, started a -tentative “but,” and would perhaps have enquired whether ultimately it -would be for Peter Kennedy’s good that she had done so much for him. -Anne, however, intervened, coming down dressed for the journey, very -agitated at finding the two together. She gave him no opportunity for -further conversation, monopolising the attention of the whole household, -in searching for something she had mislaid, which it was eventually -decided had possibly been left in Hampstead! Her conscience reproached -her for her behaviour over lunch, and she found the cup of tea which -Margaret pressed upon her before she left “delicious.” - -“I do so much like this Chinese tea, ever so much better than the -Indian. You remember, Gabriel, don’t you, that rough tea we used to have -from Pounds?...” And she told a wholly irrelevant anecdote of rival -grocers and their wares. - -She betrayed altogether in the last ten minutes an uneasy -semi-consciousness that her visit had not been a great success and -talked quickly in belated apology. - -“You’ve been so kind to me. I am afraid I have not responded as I ought. -My silly headache, which of course I never exactly had ... you know what -I mean, don’t you? And I did no credit to your beautiful lunch.” - -Margaret succeeded in assuring her that she had behaved exactly as a -guest should, whilst Gabriel stood by silently. - -“I hope you will come again,” she said, and Anne replied nervously, -noncommittal. - -“That would be nice, wouldn’t it? But I am always so busy, and now that -I have my treatment it is so much more difficult to get away....” - -A kiss was avoided. Margaret went to the hall door with them, but not to -the station. Gabriel had asked her not to do so. - -“You ought to rest after yesterday.” - -“Yes, of course she ought to rest,” Anne chorussed. There was a certain -awkwardness in the farewells, somewhat mitigated by the luggage that -occupied, so to speak, the foreground of the picture. As they drove away -Anne nodded her head, threw a kiss. But neither Margaret nor Gabriel was -conscious of her condescension, only of how long it was from now until -next Friday. - -“I am glad that is over,” Anne said complacently, as the carriage turned -through the gates. “It was very trying, very trying indeed. In many ways -she is quite a nice person. But not suited to us, in our quiet lives. -Divorced too! I thought there was something last night. So ... so -overdressed and peculiar. I am glad I came down before things had gone -any further....” - -“Further than what?” Gabriel asked her, waking up, if a little slowly, -to the position. “Margaret and I are to be married in about a month’s -time. You shall stay on in the flat if you wish. I think I shall be able -to arrange.... Have you thought about any one you would like to share it -with you?” - -“Any one I should like! Share it with me?” - -She was very shrill and he hushed her, although there was no one to hear -but the flyman, who flicked at the trotting horse and wheezed -indifferently. They got to the station long before Anne had taken in the -fact that Gabriel was telling her his intention, not asking her advice. -In the train; after they got home; and for many weary days she showed -her unreasoning and ineffective opposition. It was not worth recording, -or would not be but for the sympathetic interest taken by the Roopes, -when Anne, reluctantly and under pressure, gave her brother’s -approaching marriage as a reason for her own impaired health, and the -failure of their ministrations. Anne felt it her duty to tell them this, -and Mrs. Roope no less hers to make further enquiries; the results being -more far-reaching than either of them could have anticipated. James -Capel was a relation of the Roopes and it was natural they should be -interested in the wife who had so flagrantly divorced him. - -Ten days after Anne’s unlucky visit to Carbies, Gabriel received a -bewildering telegram. He had been down once in the interval, but had -found it unnecessary to speak of Anne, her vagaries or vapours. He -stayed at Carbies because once having done so it seemed absurd that his -room should remain empty. The very contrast between this visit and the -last accentuated its intimate charm. Anne was not there, and Peter -Kennedy’s services not being required, he had the good sense or taste to -keep away. Margaret, closely questioned, admitted to having stayed a -couple of days in bed, after the last week-end, admitted to weakness, -but not illness. - -“I have always been like that ever since I was a child. What is called, -I believe, ‘a little delicate.’ I get very easily over-tired. Then if I -don’t pull up and recuperate with bed and Benger, I get an attack of -pain....” - -“Of pain! My poor darling!” - -“Unbearable. I mean _I_ can’t bear it. Gabriel, don’t you think you are -doing a very foolish thing, taking this half-broken life of mine?” - -“If only the time were here!” - -“Sometimes I think it will never come,” she sighed. “I am _clairvoyante_ -in a way. I don’t see myself in harbour.” - -“Only three weeks more, then you shall be as _clairvoyante_ as you -like.” He laughed happily, holding her to him. - -On this visit she seemed glad of his love, to depend upon and need him. -He always had that for which to be glad. In truth that weakness of which -she spoke, and which was the cause, or perhaps the effect, of two -unmistakable heart attacks, had left her in the mood for Gabriel -Stanton, his serious tenderness, and deep, almost overwhelming devotion. -She was a whimsical, strange little creature, genius as she called -herself, and for the moment had ceased to act. - -The weather changed, it rained almost continuously from Saturday night -until Monday morning. They spent the time between the music room and the -uncongenial dining-room where they had their meals. On the sofa, she lay -practically in his arms, she sheltered there. She had been frightened by -her own agitation and uncertainty; the attacks that followed. And now -believed that all she needed was calm; happy certainty; Gabriel Stanton. - -“Don’t make me care for you too much,” she said on one of these days. “I -want you to rest me, not to get excited over you, to keep calm.” - -“I am here only for you to use. Think of me as refuge, sanctuary, what -you will.” - -“A sort of cathedral?” - -“You may laugh at me. I like you to laugh at me. Why not as a cathedral, -cool and restful?” - -“Cool and restful,” she repeated. “Yes, you are like that. But suppose I -want to wander outside, restless creature that I am; suppose nothing you -do satisfies me?” - -“I’ll do more.” - -“And after that?” - -“Always more.” - -There were no scenes between them; Gabriel was not the man for scenes, -he was deeply happy, humbly happy, not knowing his own worth, much more -careful of her than any woman could have been, and gentle beyond speech. -Even in those days she wondered how it would be with her if she were -well, robust, whether all these little cares would not irritate her, -whether this was indeed the lover for her. There was something donnish -and Oxonian about him. - -“I’m not sure I look upon you as a cathedral, whether it isn’t more as a -college.” - -When he could not follow her he remained silent. - -“Think of me any way you want so long as you do think of me,” he said, -after a pause. - -“I thought you would say that.” - -“Was it what you wanted me to say?” - -“I only want to hear you say you adore me. You say it so nicely too.” - -“Do I? I don’t know what I have done to deserve you.” - -“Just loved me,” she said dreamily. - -“Any man would do that.” - -“Not in the same way.” - -“As long as my way pleases you I am the most fortunate of men.” - -“Even if I never wrote another line?” - -“As if it mattered which way you express yourself, by writing or simply -living.” - -“Such love is enervating. Are you not ambitious for me?” - -“You’ve done enough.” - -“I am capable of doing much better work.” - -“You are capable of anything.” - -“Except of that book on Staffordshire Pottery.” - -“That was only to have been a stop-gap. You replaced that with me, -darling that you are!” - -“What will Sir George say when he knows?” - -“He will say ‘Lucky fellow’ and envy me. Margaret, about how we shall -live, and where?” - -He told her again he was not rich. There was Anne, a certain portion of -his income must be put aside for Anne. - -“You are quite rich enough. For the matter of that I have still my -marriage settlement. Father would give me more if we needed it. James -had thousands from him.” - -Then they both coloured, she in shame that this ineffable James had ever -called her wife. He, because the idea that any of her comforts or -luxuries should emanate from her father or from any one but himself was -repellent to him. He would have talked ways and means, considered the -advantages of house or flat, spoken of furniture, but that at first she -was wayward and said it was unlucky to “count chickens before they were -boiled, or was it a watched pot?” She would only banter and say things -that were without meaning or for which he could not find the meaning. -Presumably, however, she allowed him to lead her back to the subject. - -“I have in my mind sometimes a little old house in Westminster, built in -the seventeenth or eighteenth century, with panelled walls and uneven -floors. And hunting for furniture in old curiosity shops. It mustn’t be -earlier than the eighteenth century, by the way. Not too early in that; -or my Staffordshire won’t look well. In the living-room with the -eighteenth-century chintz I see all little rosebuds and green leaves. A -few colour prints on the walls.” - -Gabriel had spoken of his collection of old prints. He said he would set -about looking for the house at once. He told her there were a few such -still standing, they were snapped up so eagerly. - -Soon, quite excitedly they were both planning, talking of old oak, James -I. silver, William and Mary walnut. Of all their happy hours this I -think was the happiest they ever spent. Their tastes were so congenial, -Gabriel’s knowledge so far beyond her own; the home they would build so -essentially suited to them. There Margaret would write and play, hold -something of a salon. He would see that all her surroundings were -appropriate, dignified, congenial. She would be the centre of an -ascending chorus of admiration. He would, as it were, conduct the band. -With adoring eyes he would watch her effects, temper this or straighten -that, setting the stage and noting the audience; all for her -glorification. - -When they parted on that Sunday night they could scarcely tear -themselves asunder. Three weeks seemed so long, so desperately long. -Margaret, woman of moods, suddenly launched at him that they would have -no honeymoon at all. He was to look for the house at once, to find it -without difficulty. - -“Then I’ll come up and confirm; set the painters to work, begin to look -for things.” - -Gabriel pleaded for his honeymoon. - -“But it will all be honeymoon.” - -“I want you all to myself; for at least a little time. I won’t be -selfish, but for a little while, just you and I....” - -He must have pleaded well, for though she made him no promise in words -he knew she had answered “yes” by her eyes downcast, and breath that -came a little quicker, by the clinging hands, by finding her in his -arms, her undenying lips. - - - - - CHAPTER XII - - -On Monday morning he went up to town without seeing her again. Tuesday -he got that fateful telegram: - - Stevens seen man hanging about house, shabby peering man. Questioned - cook. Sick with fear. Send back all my letters at once by special - messenger. In panic. On no account come down or near me but letters - urgent. - -Stevens had told her in the evening whilst putting her to bed. Stevens -knew all about the case and was alert for possible complications. The -shabby man had been under the observation of cook and housemaid. - -“And much satisfaction he got out of what they told him. Askin’ -questions an’ peerin’ about! Cook told him off, said no one hadn’t been -stayin’ here, an’ if they had ’twas no business of his.” - -Margaret, pale and stricken, asked if the man looked like ... like a -detective. - -“Lawyer’s clerk more like, but I thought I’d best let you know.” - -The news would have kept until the morning, but one could not expect a -servant to take into consideration the effect her stories might have on -Margaret’s sensitiveness. She had no sleep at all. Sleepless and shaken -she lay awake the whole night, conjuring up ghosts, chiefly the ghost or -vision of James, coarse-mouthed, cruel, vindictive. The bare idea of the -case being reopened made her shudder, she had been so tormented in -court, her modesties outraged. She knew she could never, would never -bear it again. If the dreadful choice were all that was left to her she -would give up Gabriel. At the thought of giving up Gabriel it seemed -there was nothing else for which she cared, nothing on earth. - -She conjured up not only ghosts but absurdities. The shabby peering man -would go to Hampstead, question Gabriel’s silly sister, _be shown -letters_. This was more than she could bear. On the last occasion -letters of hers had been read in court; love letters to James! She -cringed in her bed at the remembrance of them. And what had she written -to Gabriel? Not one word came back to her of anything she had written. -At first she knew they had been laboured letters, laboured or literary. -But since she had been down here, and Peter Kennedy, by sheer force of -contrast, had taught her how much she could care for a really good and -clever man, she had written with entire unrestraint, freely. - -She wrote that telegram to Gabriel Stanton at four o’clock in the -morning, going down to the drawing-room for a telegram form in -dressing-gown and slippers, her hair in two plaits, shivering with cold -and apprehension. The house was full of eerie sounds; she heard pursuing -feet. After she had secured the forms she rushed for the shelter of her -room and the warmth of her bed; cowering under the clothes, not able for -a long time to do the task she had set herself. When she became -sufficiently rested she took more time and care over the wording of her -telegram to Gabriel than she might have done over a sonnet. She wanted -to say just enough, not too much, not to bring him down, yet to make the -matter urgent. Stevens was rung for at six o’clock for tea and perhaps -sympathy. - -“Get me a cup of tea as quickly as you can, I’ve been awake the whole -night. I want this telegram sent off as soon as the office opens, not -later anyway than eight o’clock. Keep the house as quiet as you can. I -shall try and sleep now.” - -She slept until Gabriel’s telegram came back. - - * * * * * - -One of our own men coming with package by 3.15. - - * * * * * - -She met the train, looking pale and wretched. Stanton’s man wore the -familiar cap. She had been to the office two or three times about the -pottery book, and he recognised her easily. - -“You have a parcel for me?” - -“Mr. Gabriel said I was to tell you there was a letter inside.” - -“A letter! But I thought ... oh, yes! Give it to me.” - -“And I was to ask if there was an answer.” - -“An answer, but I can’t write here!” - -“He didn’t know you was meeting me. ‘Go up to the house,’ he said; ‘give -it to her in her own hands. Ask if there is any answer.’” - -“Tell him ... tell him I’ll write,” she said vaguely. - -But as yet she had not read. What would he say, what comfort send her? -For all her wired definiteness she wished he had come himself, had a -moment’s disloyalty to him, thought he should have disregarded her -wishes, rushed down, even if they had met only at the station. He need -not have been so punctilious! - -She could not let the man go back until she had read and answered -Gabriel’s letter. She made him drive back with her to Carbies, seated on -the box beside the driver. She held the precious package tight, but did -not open it. For that she must be alone. - -Stanton’s man was handed over to the household’s care for lunch or tea. -He was to go back by the 5.5. “Mr. Gabriel” had given him his -instructions. - -Now she was at her writing-table and alone. The packet was sealed with -sealing-wax. Inside there were all her own letters, and a closed -envelope superscribed in the dear familiar handwriting. She tore it -open. After she had read her lover’s letter she had no more reproaches -for him, vague or otherwise. - - _My Own, my Beloved:_— - - Here are the letters. I could refuse you nothing, but to part from - these has overwhelmed me, weakened me. I have turned coward. For it - is all so unknown. I am in the dark, bewildered. Your wire was an - awful shock. I am haunted with terror, the harder to bear because it - came in the midst of all the sweet sacred thoughts and remembrances - of a wonderful week-end, of the things you said or allowed me to say - which filled me with high hopes, promise of joy and happiness I - dared hardly dwell upon. I don’t know what has happened. I only know - you must not be alone and have forbidden me to come to you. Rescind - your decision, I implore you. As I think and think with restless - brain and heart my great ache and anxiety are that you are in - trouble and that I am away and useless, just when I would give my - soul for the chance of standing by you and with you in any need and - for always. By all the remembrance of our happy hours, by all the - new and sweet happiness you have given me, by all I yearn for in the - future give me this chance. Let me come to you. To think of you - suffering alone is maddening. Trust me, give me your trust, solemnly - I swear not to fail you whatever may happen. It is of you only I am - thinking. I can be strong for _you_, wise for _you_, and should - thank God, both in pride and humbleness, for the chance to serve - you; to serve you with reverence and love. _Send for me._ Tell - me—let me share all and always. - - Devotedly yours, - G. S. - -She sat a long time with the letter in her hand, read it again and yet -again. She forgot the night terrors, began to question herself. Of what -had she been so frightened? What had Stevens told her? Only that a -shabby man had questioned cook about their visitors. Now she wanted to -analyse and sift the trouble, get to bedrock with it. She rang the bell -and sent for the maids. They had singularly little to tell her; -summarised it came to this: A shabby man had hung about Carbies all -Monday; cook had called him up to the back door and asked him what he -was after—“No good, I’ll be bound,” she told him. He had paid her a -compliment and said that “with her in the kitchen it was no wonder men -’ung about.” And after that they seemed to have had something of a -colloquy and cook had been asked if she walked out with anybody. “Like -his nasty impidence,” she commented, when telling the story to her -mistress. “I up and told him whether I walked out with anybody or not I -wasn’t for the likes of him.” - -It was not without question and cross-question Margaret elicited that -this final snub was not given until after tea. Cook defended the -invitation. - -“It’s ’ard if in an establishment like this you can’t offer a young man -a cup of tea.” She complained, not without waking a sympathetic echo in -Margaret’s own heart, that Pineland was that dull, not a bit o’ life in -it. Married men came round with the carts and a girl delivered the milk. - -“‘E was pleasant company enough till ’e started arskin’ questions.” - -Then it appeared it was Stevens who “gave him as good as he gave,” -asking him what it was he did want to know, and being satirical with -him. The housemaid had chimed in with Stevens; there may have been some -little feminine jealousy at the back of it. Cook was young and -frivolous, the two others more sedate. Stevens and the housemaid must -have set upon cook and her presumed admirer. In any case the young man -was given his congé immediately after tea, before he had established a -footing. Stevens’ report had been exaggerated, Margaret’s terror -excessive and unreasonable. She dismissed the erring cook now with the -mildest of rebukes, then set herself to write to Gabriel. The time was -limited, since the man was returning by the 5.5. She heard later, by the -way, that he quite replaced the stranger in the cook’s facile -affections. Stevens again was responsible for the statement that cook -was “that light and talked away to any man.” Contrasting with herself, -Stevens, who “didn’t ’old with making herself cheap.” - -Margaret wrote slowly, even if it were only a letter. She had to recall -her mood, to analyse the panic. She was quite calm now. _His_ letter -seemed exaggerated beyond what the occasion or the telegram demanded. - - _Dearest_:— - - How good you are, and safe. Your letter calmed and comforted me. - Panic! no other word describes my condition at four o’clock this - morning after a sleepless night. Servants’ gossip was at the bottom - of it. I have always wished for a dumb maid, but Stevens’ tongue is - hung on vibrating wires, never still. There _was_ a man, it seems - now he was a suitor of cook’s! He _did_ ask questions, but chiefly - as to her hours off duty, whether she was already “walking out,” an - expression for an engagement on probation, I understand. He was an - aspirant. I cannot write you a proper letter, my bad night has - turned me into a wreck, a “beautiful ruin” as you would say. No, you - wouldn’t, you are too polite. You must take it then that all is - well; except that your choice has fallen upon a woman easily - unnerved. Was I so foolish after all? James is capable of any - blackguardism, he would hate that I should be happy with you. He can - no longer excuse his conduct to me, or my resentment of it on the - plea that I am unlike other women. I know his mind so well! “Women - of genius have no sex,” he said among other things to account for - the failure of our married life. He can say so no longer. “Women of - genius have no sex!” _It isn’t true._ Do you see me reddening as I - write it? What about that little house in Westminster? Have you - written to all the agents? Are you searching? Sunday night I was so - happy. One large room there must be. Colour prints on the walls and - chintz on the big sofas, my Staffordshire everywhere, a shrine - somewhere, central place for the musicians; cushions of all shades - of roses, some a pale green. I can’t _see_ the carpets or curtains - yet. I incline to dark green for both. No, I am not frivolous, only - emotional. I think I shall alter when we are together, begin to - develop and grow uniform in the hothouse of your love, under the - forcing glass of your great regard. It is into that house, under - that glass I want to creep, to be warmed through, to blossom. - - Picture me then as no longer unhappy or distressed, although all day - I have neither worked nor played. Your letter healed me; take thanks - for it therefore and come down Saturday as usual, with a plan of the - house that is to be. (By the way, I _must_ have dog stoves.) In a - few days now I, or you, will tell my father and stepmother. The days - crawl, each one emptier than the other, until the one that brings - you. _Arrivederci_. - -She sent it, but not the old ones back. She wanted to read them again, -it would be an occupation for the evening. She would place them in -order, together with his answers. She saw a story there. “The Love Tale -of a Woman of Genius.” After all, both she and Gabriel were of -sufficient interest for the world to wish to read about them. (It was -not until a few days later, by the way, that the title was altered, -others tried, that the disingenuous diary began, the MS. started.) - -She slept well that night and wrote him again in the morning, the most -passionate love-letter of any of the series. Then she sent for Peter -Kennedy. Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday had to be got through. And then -another week, and one other. And Safety, safety with Gabriel! - -Peter came hot-foot like a starving animal. It was five days since he -had seen her, and he looked worn and cadaverous. She gave him an -intermittent pulse to count, told him she had had a sleepless night, -found herself restless, unnerved, told him no more. He was purely -professional at first, brusquely uneasy about her, blaming her for all -she had done and left undone, the tonic she had missed, the unrest to -which she admitted. After that they found little more to say to each -other, though Peter could not tear himself away. - -She talked best to Peter through the piano, as he to her. Even in these -few weeks his playing had enormously improved. The whole man had -altered. She had had more and different effect upon him than would have -seemed possible at first. He had never been in love before, only known -vulgar intrigue, how to repel the glad-eye attentions of provincial -maidens to whom his size was an attraction, and his stupidity no -deterrent. This was something altogether different, and in a measure he -had grown to meet it, become more ambitious and less demonstrative, -perceptibly humbler. She knew he loved her but made light of it. He -filled up the hours until Gabriel would come again. That was all. But -less amusingly now that she had less difficulty in managing him. This -mutual attraction of music slurred over many weak places in their -intercourse. - -Wednesday he sat through the afternoon, stayed on to dinner playing to -her and listening. Thursday he paid her a professional visit in the -morning, would have sounded her heart but that his stethoscope was -unsteady, and he heard his own heartbeats louder and more definitely -than hers. Thursday evening he ran up on his bicycle to see if she was -all right. There was more music, and for all his newly found -self-restraint a scene at parting, a scene that troubled her because she -could not hold herself guiltless in bringing it about, and Gabriel was -in her mind now to the exclusion of any other man. Gabriel had won -solidly that which at first was little more than an incitement, an -inclination. - -Gabriel Stanton would not have made love to another man’s fiancée. His -standard was higher than her own, just as his scholarship was deeper and -more profound. She was proud that he loved her, simpler and more sincere -than she had ever been before. - -Tonight, when Peter Kennedy broke down, and cried at her feet and told -her that his days were hell and all his nights sleepless, she was -ashamed and distressed, much more repelled than attracted. She told him -she would refuse to see him, that she would not have him at the house at -all if he could not learn to behave himself. - -“You are a disgrace to your profession,” she said crossly, knowing she -was not blameless. - -“You do not really think so, do you?” he asked. “I can’t help being in -love with you.” - -“Yes, I do. You have given me a pain.” - -When she said that and pressed both hands over her heart his whole -attitude changed. It was true that under the influence of his love his -skill had developed. Her lips grew pale and her eyes frightened. He made -her lie down, loosened her dress, gave her restoratives. The pain had -been but slight, and she recovered rapidly. - -“It was entirely your fault,” she said when she was able to speak. “You -know I can’t bear any agitation or excitement.” - -“The last you’ll have through me, I swear it. You can trust me.” - -“Until the first time the spirit moves you.” She never had considered -his feelings and did not pause to do so now. “You’ve no self-control. -You dump your ungainly love upon me....” - -“And you throw it back in my face with both hands, as if it were mud. -But you’ll never have another chance, never....” - -She was a little sorry for him, and to show it reproached him more. - -“Why do you do it, then? You know that, as far as I can be, I am engaged -to Gabriel Stanton, that the moment the decree is made absolute we shall -be married. Perhaps I ought not to have let you come so often....” - -“I fell in love with you the very first moment I saw you. If I’d never -seen you again it would have been the same thing. And you’ve nothing to -reproach yourself with. You’ve made a different man of me. I play -better.” - -“And your taste in music has improved.” He looked so forlorn standing up -and saying he played the piano better since he had known her, that she -regretted the cruelty of her words. He had relieved her pain not once -but many times. Instead of sending him away, as she had intended, she -kept him with her until quite late. She let him tell her about himself; -and what a change his love for her had brought into his life, and there -was nothing he would not do, nor sacrifice for her. He said, humbly -enough, that he knew she could never, never have cared for such a man as -himself. - -“Stanton has been to a public school and university, is no end of a -swell at classics. I got what little education I have at St. Paul’s and -the London University, walked the hospitals and thought well of myself -for doing it, that I was coming up in the world. My father was a country -dentist. I’ve studied more, learnt more since you’ve been here than in -all my student days. You’ve opened a new world to me. I didn’t know -there were women like you. After the girls I’ve met! You were such a ... -lady, and all that. You are so clever too, and satirical, I don’t mind -you being down on me. It isn’t as if you were strong.” - -She smiled and asked him whether her delicacy was an additional charm. - -“Well, yes, in a way it is. I can always bring you round. I want you to -go on letting me be your doctor. You hardly had that pain a minute -tonight. It is angina, you know, genuine _angina pectoris_, and I can do -no end of things for it.” - -“You don’t mean I must always have these pains, that they will grow -worse?” She grew pale and he saw he had made a mistake, hastening to -reassure her. - -“You’ve only got to live quietly, take things easily.” - -“Oh, that will be all right. When I am married everything will be easy,” -she said almost complacently. And then in plaintive explanation or -apology added, “I bear pain so badly.” - -“And I may go on doctoring you?” - -“I don’t suppose I shall send to Pineland if I should feel not quite -well,” she answered seriously. “We are going to live in London.” - -“I’ll come up to London. There is no difficulty about that. I’ve started -reading for my M.D. I can get back to my old hospital.” She rallied him -a little and then sent him away. - -“I shall expect to hear you are house physician when I return from my -honeymoon!” - -“May I come up in the morning? I want to hear that attack has not -recurred.” - -“The morning is a long way off, the night has to be got through first.” -Suddenly she remembered her panic and had a faint recrudescence of fear. -“I’ve so many things on my mind. I wish you could ensure me a good -night.” - -“But I can,” he said eagerly. “I can easily.” - -“And without after-effects?” - -“Without any bad after-effects.” - -“The bromide! but it always makes me feel dull and stupid.” - -“Veronal?” - -“I am frightened of veronal.” - -“Adolin, paraldehyde, trional, a small injection of morphia?” - -“But it is so late. You would have to get anything from a chemist.” - -“No, I shouldn’t. I’ve got my case.” - -“Your case!” - -“Yes.” He showed it to her, full of strange little bottles and unknown -drugs. She showed interest, asking what was this or the other, then -changing her mind suddenly: - -“No, I won’t try any experiments. I’ll sleep, or I’ll stay awake.” - -“You don’t trust me?” - -“Indeed I do, but I distrust drugs. Unless I am in pain, then I would -take anything. Tell me, can you really always help me if I get into -pain? Would you? At any risk?” - -“At any risk to myself, not at any risk to you. But we won’t talk of -pain, it mustn’t happen.” - -“But if it did?” she persisted. - -“Don’t fear, I couldn’t see you in pain.” - -“Yet I’ve always heard and sometimes seen how callous doctors are.” - -“But I’m not only a doctor....” - -“Hush! I thought we had agreed you were. My very good and concerned -doctor. Now you really must go. Yes, you can come up in the morning.” - -“You will take your bromide?” - -“If I need it. Good-night!” - -Margaret slept well. But she heard from Stevens again next morning over -her toilette that cook was not to be trusted, should be got rid of, that -she was deceitful, had been seen, after all, with the shabby man from -London. - -“She took her oath that she’d never mentioned you to him, you nor your -visitors, only Dr. Kennedy who attends you. But I’d not believe her -oath. A hat with feathers she had on, and a ring on her finger when she -went out with him. Such goings-on are not fit for a respectable -Christian house, and so I told her.” - -Margaret listened inattentively, and irritably. She did not want ever to -think again of that shabby man or her own unreasoned fears. She bade the -maid be silent, attend to her duties. Stevens sniffed and grumbled under -her breath. Afterwards she asked if the doctor were coming up again this -morning. - -“Why?” - -“He might want to sound you. You’d best have your Valenciennes slip.” - -“Don’t be so absurd.” - -Nevertheless the query set her thinking of Peter Kennedy and his love -for her. Desultory thinking connects itself naturally with a leisurely -toilette. She was sorry for Peter and composed phrases for him, -comforting noncommittal phrases. She thought it would do him good to get -to London, his ideas wanted expanding, his provincialisms brushed off. -She was under the impression she would do great things for Peter one -day, let him into her circle; that salon she and Gabriel would hold. Her -father should consult him, she would help him to build up a practice. - -When he came up, later on, she told him something of her good -intentions. They did not interest him very much, it was not service he -wanted from her. He heard her night had been good, that she felt rested -and better this morning. He had not been told what had disturbed the -last one. They were sitting together in the drawing-room, doctor and -patient, when the parlourmaid came in with a card. Margaret looked at it -and laughed, passed it over to him. - -“That’s Anne,” she said. “Anne evidently thinks I am a hopeful subject.” - -The card bore the name of “Mrs. Roope, Christian Healer.” - -“Stay and see her with me,” she said to Peter. “It will be almost like a -consultation, won’t it?... Yes,” she told the parlourmaid, “I will see -the lady. Let her come up. Now, Peter Kennedy, is opportunity to show -your quality, your tact. I expect to be amused, I want to be amused.” - -Peter was not loath to stay, whatever the excuse. - -Mrs. Roope, tall, and dressed something like a hospital nurse, in long -flowing cloak and bonnet with veil, was ushered in, but delayed a little -in her greeting, because that hysterical affection of the throat of -which Anne had spoken, caught and held her, and at first she could only -make uncanny noises, something between a hiccough and a bad stammer. - -“I’ve come to see you,” she said not once but several times without -getting any further. - -“Sit down,” Margaret said good-naturedly. “This is my doctor. I would -suggest you ask him to cure your affliction, only I understand you -prefer your own methods.” - -“There is nothing the matter with me,” said the Christian Scientist with -an unavoidable contortion. - -“So I see,” said Margaret, her eyes sparkling with humour. - -“I would prefer that this interview should take place without -witnesses.” - -Margaret found that a little surprising, but even then she was not -disturbed. There was no connection in her mind between Anne Stanton’s -healer and the shabby man who had wooed her cook. - -“I have no secrets from this gentleman,” she answered, her eyes still -laughing. “He has no prejudice against you irregular practitioners. You -can decide together what is to be done for me. He is my present -physician.” - -“I had thought he was”—bupp, bupp, explosion—“your co-respondent.” - -When she said that Peter Kennedy looked up. He tingled all over and his -forehead flushed. He made a step forward and then stood still. His -instinct told him here was an enemy, an enemy of Margaret’s. He looked, -too, at Margaret. - -“Your name is Gabriel Stanton.” - -“My name is Peter Kennedy.” - -Margaret’s quick mind leapt to the truth, saw, and foresaw what was -coming. She turned very pale, as if she had been struck. Peter Kennedy -moved nearer to her. - -“Shall I turn her out?” he asked. - -Mrs. Roope fanned herself with her bonnet strings as if she had said -nothing unusual. - -“You had better see me alone,” she said, not menacingly but as if she -had established her point. To save repetition the rest of her -conversation can be recorded without the affliction that retarded it. - -“No,” Margaret answered, her courage at low ebb. “Stay where you are,” -she said to Peter Kennedy. - -“You don’t suppose I am going, do you?” he asked. Mrs. Roope, after a -glance, ignored him. - -“Perhaps you are not aware that you have been under observation for some -time. My call on you is one of kindness, of kindness only. James Capel -is my husband’s cousin.” - -At the name of James Capel Margaret gave a little low cry and Peter -Kennedy sat down by her side, abruptly. - -“We heard you were being visited by Gabriel Stanton and a watch was set -upon you. Your decree is not yet made absolute. It never will be now, if -the King’s Proctor is informed. James, I know, does not wish for a -divorce from you.” - -Margaret sat very still and speechless,—any movement, she knew, might -bring on that sickening pain. Peter too realised the position, although -he had so little to guide him. - -“Answer her. Don’t let her think you are afraid. It’s blackmail she’s -after. I am sure of it,” he whispered to his patient. Thus strengthened -Margaret made an effort for self-control. Peter saw then that the fear -was not as new to her as it was to him. - -“So it is you who have been having this house watched? Is it perhaps -your husband who has been making love to my cook?” Since Peter Kennedy -was here she would not show the cold fear at her heart. Mrs. Roope was -not offended. She had been kicked out of too many houses by irate -fathers, brothers, and husbands to be sensitive. - -“No, that is not my husband. The gentleman who has been here is my -nephew. As for making love to your cook, I will not admit it. I -suggested your maid.” - -“If she had only sent her husband instead of coming herself. One can -talk to a man.” - -Peter might have been talking to himself. He had risen and now was -walking about the room on soft-balled feet like a captive panther. - -“You don’t know our religion, our creed. We have the true Christian -spirit and desire to help others. The sensual cannot be made the -mouthpiece of the spiritual. Sensuality palsies the right hand and -causes the left to let go its divine grasp. That is why I interfere, for -your own good as we are enjoined. Uncleanliness must lead to the body’s -hurt, in so far as it can be hurt. But mind and matter being one, what -hurts the one will hurt the other.” - -“You can cut the cackle and come to the horses,” Peter interrupted -rudely. He had summed up the situation and thought he might control it. -To him it was obvious the woman was a common blackmailer, although she -had formulated no terms. “You are making a great deal of the fact that -Mr. Stanton has been down here two or three times. I suppose you know he -is Mrs. Capel’s publisher.” - -“Do not interfere, young man. You are a member of a mendacious -profession. I am not here to speak to you. I know Gabriel Stanton slept -in the house,” she said to Margaret. - -“What then? Show us your foul mind, if you dare.” - -“There is no mind....” - -“Oh! damn your jargon. What have you come here for? What do you want?” -He stopped opposite to her in his restless walking. There shot a gleam -of avarice into her dull eye. - -“Is he your mouthpiece?” she asked Margaret, who nodded her assent. “I -want nothing for myself.” - -“For whom, then?” - -“The labourer is worthy of his hire.... Our Church....” - -“You call it a church, do you? And you are short of cash. There are not -enough silly women, half-witted men. You want money....” - -“For the promulgation of our tenets.” She interrupted. “Yes, we need -money for that, for the regeneration of the world.” - -“And to keep your own house going.” - -“Your insults do not touch me. I am uplifted from them. Nothing touches -the true believer.” - -Margaret called him over to her and whispered: - -“Find out whether James knows anything of this or whether she is acting -on her own; what she really wants. I can’t talk to her.” - -Mrs. Roope went on talking and spluttering out texts. - -“Cannot you see that Mrs. Capel is ill?” he said angrily. - -The Christian Healer was quick to take the opening he gave her. - -“Sickness is a growth of error, springing from man’s ignorance of -Christian Science.” - -“Oh! more rot—rot—rot, _rot_! Shut it! What we want to know is if there -is any one in this but yourself. We don’t admit a word of truth in your -allegations. They are lies, and we have no doubt you know they are -lies.” - -“Mrs. Capel will make her own deductions. What have you to do with it, -young man?” - -“I’ll tell you what I have to do with it. I am here to protect this -lady.” - -“Mr. Capel and his lawyer will understand.” - -“That isn’t what you came down here to say.” - -“I knew that I should be guided. I prayed about it with my husband.” - -“A pretty sight! ‘The Blackmailers’ Prayer!’ How it must have stank to -Heaven! And this fellow here?” - -“My nephew. An honourable young man, one of the believers.” - -“He would be. What’s the proverb? _Bon sang ne peut pas mentir._ Well, -for the whole lot of you, your prayerful husband, your honourable -nephew, and yourself?” - -“What is it you are asking me?” - -“As you are here and not with James Capel it is fair to presume you’ve -got your price. Mrs. Capel does not wish to argue or defend herself, she -wants to be left alone. You don’t know anything because there is nothing -to know. But I daresay you could make mischief. What are you asking to -keep your venomous mouth shut? There is no good beating about the bush -or talking Christian Science. Come to the point. How much?” - -“A thousand pounds!” They were both startled, but Peter spoke first. - -“That be damned for a tale.” A most unedifying dialogue ensued. Then -Peter said, after a short whispered colloquy with Margaret: - -“She will give you a hundred pounds, no more and no less. Come, close, -or leave it alone. A hundred pounds! Take it or leave it.” - -Margaret would have interrupted. “I said double,” she whispered. He -translated it quickly: - -“Not a farthing more, she says. She has made up her mind. Either that or -clear out and do your damnedest.” - -Sarah Roope stood out for her price until she nearly exhausted his -patience, would have exhausted it but that Margaret, terrified, kept -urging and soothing him. Before the end Mrs. Roope said a word that -justified him—and he put his two hands on her shoulders. He made no -point now of her being a woman. There are times when a man’s brutality -stands him in good stead, and this was one of such occasions. - -“Get out of that chair,” he jerked it away from her. “Out of her -presence. You’ll deal with me, or not at all.” - -He slid his hands from her shoulders to under her elbows: the noises she -made in her throat were indescribable, but her actual resistance was -small. - -“You are not to sit down in her presence.” - -“I prefer to stand.” - -“Nor stand either. Outside....” he bundled her towards the door, she -tried to hold her ground, but he forced her along. “We’ve had nearly -enough of you, very nearly enough. You wait outside that door. I’ll have -a word with Mrs. Capel and give you your last chance.” She bup—ped out -her remonstrance. - -“I came here to do her a service. As Mrs. Eddy writes: ‘Light and -darkness cannot mingle.’ I must do as I am guided, and I said from the -first we should go to James Capel. Husband and wife should never -separate if there is no Christian demand for it.” - -“Oh! go to hell!” - -He shut the door in her face and came back to Margaret. - -“You’d better let me get rid of her for you. I shouldn’t pay her a brass -farthing.” - -“I’d pay her anything, anything, rather than go through again what I -went through before.” She burst into tears. - -“Oh! if that’s the case ...” he said indecisively. - -“Pay her what she wants.” - -“I can get her down a good bit.” He had no definite idea but to stop her -tears, carry out her wishes. In a measure he acted cleverly, going -backward and forward between dining and drawing-room negotiating terms. -Mrs. Roope said she had no wish to expose Mrs. Capel, and repeated, “I -came here to do her a kindness.” - -In the end two hundred and fifty pounds was agreed upon, a hundred down -and a hundred and fifty when the decree was made absolute, this latter -represented by a post-dated cheque. Peter had to write the cheques -himself, it was as much as Margaret could do to sign them. Her hands -were shaking and her eyelids red, the sight swept away all his -conventions. - -“You’ve got to go to bed and stay there,” he told her when he came back -to her finally. He forgot everything but that she looked terribly ill -and exhausted, and that he was her physician. “You need not have a -minute’s more anxiety. I know the type. She has gone. She won’t bother -you again. She’s taken her hundred pounds. That’s a lot to the woman who -makes her money by shillings. That absent treatment business is a pound -a week at the outside. There’s a limited number of fools who pay for -isolated visits. Did you see her boots? They didn’t look like affluence! -and her cotton gloves! She will have another hundred and fifty if -nothing comes out, if she keeps her mouth shut until the 30th of May. -You are quite safe. Don’t look so woebegone. I ... I can’t bear it.” - -He turned his back to her. - -“What will Gabriel say?” - -“The most priggish thing he can think of,” he answered roughly. - -“He doesn’t look at things in the same way you do.” - -“Do you think I don’t know his superiority?” - -“Now you are angry, offended.” - -“You’ve done the right thing. You are not in the health for any big -annoyance.” - -She was holding her side with both hands. - -“I believe the pain is coming on again.” - -“Oh; no, it isn’t.” But he moved nearer to her. No contradiction or -denial warded off the attack. She bore it badly too, pulse and colour -evidencing her collapse. Hurriedly and perhaps without sufficient -thought he rang for Stevens, called for hot water, gave her her first -injection of morphia. - -Stevens knew or guessed what had been going on, and took a gloomy view. -Every one in the house knew of Mrs. Roope’s visit. - -“It will be the death of her.” - -“No, it won’t,” he said savagely. “You do what you are told.” - -“I ’ope I know my duty,” she replied primly. - -“I’m sure you do, but not the effect of a morphia injection,” he -retorted. - -He said Stevens knew nothing of the effect of a morphia injection, but -he was not quite sure of it himself in those days and with such a -patient. The immediate effect was instantaneous. Margaret grew easier, -she smiled at him with her pale lips: - -“How wonderful,” she said. He made her stay as she was for half an hour, -then helped to carry her to bed. Stevens said she required no help in -undressing her. - -“You are not to let her do a thing for herself, not to let her move. -Give her iced milk, or milk and soda....” - -The afternoon was not so satisfactory, there were disquieting symptoms, -and not the sleep for which he hoped. He suggested Dr. Lansdowne, but -she would not hear of him being sent for. When night fell he found it -impossible to leave her. - -He walked up and down outside the house for a long time, only desisting -when Margaret herself sent down a message that she heard his footsteps -on the gravel and they disturbed her. The rest of the night he spent on -the drawing-room sofa, running upstairs to listen outside her bedroom -door, now and then, to reassure himself. Tomorrow he knew Gabriel would -be there and he would not be needed. But tonight she had no one but -himself. Wild thoughts came to him in the dawn. What if Gabriel Stanton -were not such a good fellow after all? What if he were put off by the -thought of a scandal and figuring as a co-respondent? He, Peter, would -stick to her through thick and thin. She might turn to him, get to care. - -But he had not an ounce of real hope. He was as humble as Gabriel by -now, and the nearer to being a true lover. - - - - - CHAPTER XIII - - -Margaret was not a very good subject for morphia. True it relieved her -pain, set her mind at rest, or deadened her nerve centres for the time. -But when the immediate effect wore off she was intolerably restless, and -although the bromide tided her over the night, she drowsed through an -exhausted morning and woke to sickness and misery, to depression and a -tendency towards tears. She was utterly unable to see her lover, she -felt she could not face him, meet him, conceal or reveal what had -happened. Dr. Kennedy came up and she told him exactly how she felt. She -told him also that he must go to the station in her stead. She said she -was too broken, too ill. - -This unnerved and weakened Margaret distracted Peter, and he thought of -every drug in the pharmacopœia in the way of a pick-me-up. He said that -of course he would go to the station, go anywhere, do anything she asked -him. But, he added gloomily, that he would probably blunder and make -things worse. - -“He would ever so much rather hear it from you if it must be told him,” -he urged. “He’ll guess you are ill when you are not at the station. -He’ll rush up here and see you and everything will be all right. He has -only got to see you.” - -Dr. Kennedy then begged her to go back to bed, but without effect. -Fortunately the only drug to which he could ultimately persuade her was -carbonate of soda! That and a strong cup of coffee helped to revive her. -Stevens had the qualities of her defects and insisted later upon beef -tea. Margaret, although still looking ill, was really almost normal when -four o’clock came bringing Gabriel. Her plan of Peter Kennedy meeting -him miscarried, and she need not have feared his anxiety when she was -not at the station. Gabriel had caught an earlier train than usual. Ever -since Tuesday his anxiety had been growing, notwithstanding her letters -and reassurances. - -He was dismayed at seeing Dr. Kennedy’s hat in the hall. Little more so -than Margaret was when she heard the wheels of the car on the gravel and -learnt from Peter, at the window, that Gabriel was in it. They were -unprepared for each other when he walked in. Yet if Peter had not been -there all might still have been well. It was Dr. Kennedy’s instinct to -stand between her and trouble, and his misfortune to stand between her -and Gabriel Stanton. - -“You are ill?” and - -“You are early?” came from each of them simultaneously. If the doctor -had slipped out of the room they would perhaps have found more to say. -But he stayed and joined in that short dialogue, thinking he was meeting -her wishes. - -“She has had an attack of angina, a pretty hot one at that. I gave her a -morphia injection and it did not suit her. She is simply not fit for any -emotion or excitement. As a matter of fact she ought not to be out of -bed today.” - -“Has my coming by an earlier train distressed you?” Gabriel asked -Margaret, perhaps a little coldly. Certainly not as he would have asked -her had they been alone. Nor were matters improved when she answered -faintly: - -“Tell him, Peter.” - -Her lover wanted to hear nothing that Peter Kennedy might tell him. He -was startled when she used his Christian name. He had a distaste at -hearing his fiancée’s health discussed, a sensitiveness not unnatural. -From an older or more impersonal physician he might have minded it less; -or from one who had not admitted to him, and gloried in the admission, -that he was in love with his patient. - -“I don’t want to hear anything that Dr. Kennedy can tell me,” was what -he said, but it misrepresented his mind. It sounded sullen or -ill-tempered, but was neither, only an inarticulate evidence of distress -of mind. - -“Surely, Margaret, your news can wait....” This was added in a lower -tone. But Margaret was beyond, and Peter Kennedy impervious to hint. The -only thing that softened the situation to Gabriel was that she made room -for him on the sofa, by a gesture inviting him to seat himself there. -Almost he pretended not to see it, he felt rigid and uncompromising. -Nevertheless, after a moment’s hesitation, he found himself beside her, -listening to Dr. Kennedy’s unwelcome voice. - -“You knew, didn’t you, that there had been a man hanging about the -place, trying to get information from the servants? Margaret first heard -of this last Tuesday....” Gabriel missed the next sentence. That the -fellow should speak of her as “Margaret” made him see red. When his -vision cleared Peter was still talking. There had been some allusion to -or description of cook’s weakness, and the discursiveness was a fresh -offence. - -“What she told him in her amorous moments we have no means of knowing, -but that it included the information that you had stayed in the house -there is not much reason to doubt. And down came this woman like a ton -of bricks on Wednesday morning and flung a bomb on us in the shape of a -demand for a thousand pounds.” - -“What woman?” - -“The man’s employer. She had set him on to it.” - -“Who?” - -“This blackmailing person.” - -The “us” tightened Gabriel’s thin lips and hardened his deep-set eyes. -Had they been alone he might have remembered what Margaret must have -suffered, what a dreadful thing this visit must have been to her. As it -was, and for the moment, he thought of nothing but of Peter Kennedy’s -intervention, interference. - -“Why did you see her?” he asked Margaret. - -“I thought she came from Anne,” she faltered. - -“From Anne!” - -“She is the Christian Science woman,” Peter explained. - -And now indeed the full force of the blow struck him. - -“Mrs. Roope?” he got out. - -“No other,” Peter answered. “Crammed choke-full of extracts from Mrs. -Eddy. James Capel is her husband’s cousin. At least so she says. And -that he never wanted to be divorced from his wife, and would welcome a -chance of stopping the decree from being made absolute. She said the -higher morality bade her go to him. ‘Husband and wife should never -separate if there is no Christian demand for it,’ she quoted. But help -toward the Christian Science Church, or movement, she would construe as -‘a Christian demand.’ She asked for a thousand pounds! Mrs. Capel,” this -time for some unknown reason he said “Mrs. Capel” and Gabriel heard -better, “was quite overwhelmed, knocked to pieces by her impudence. -That’s when I came on the scene. I told the woman what I thought of her; -you may bet I didn’t mince matters. And then I offered her a -hundred....” - -Gabriel got up suddenly, abruptly, his face flushed. - -“You ... you offered her a hundred pounds?” - -“Well! there was not a bit of good trying for less. It was a round sum.” - -“You allowed Mrs. Capel to be blackmailed!” - -“What would you have done? Of course I did.” - -“It was disgraceful, indefensible.” - -“Gabriel.” She called him by his name, she wanted him to sit down by -her, but he remained standing. “There was no time to send for any one, -ask for advice....” - -“It was a case of ‘your money or your life.’ The woman put a pistol to -our heads. ‘Pay up or I’ll take my tale to James Capel’ was the -beginning and end of what she said. I got her down finally to £250.” - -“You gave the woman, this infamous, blackmailing person, £250?” - -“And cheap enough too. Wait a bit. I can guess what you are thinking. -I’m not such a fool as you take me for. She only had a hundred in cash, -the other is a post-dated cheque, not due until the decree is made -absolute. Then I ran her out of the house.” - -“Who wrote those cheques?” The flush deepened, Gabriel could hardly -control his voice. - -“I wrote them and Mrs. Capel signed them. She was absolutely bowled -over, it was as much as she could do to sign her name.” - -Gabriel was beside himself or he would not have spoken as he did. - -“You did an infamous thing, sir, an infamous thing. You should have -guarded this lady, since I was not here, sheltered her innocence. To -allow oneself to be blackmailed is an admission of guilt. The way you -sheltered her innocence was to advise her practically to admit guilt.” -He was choked with anger. - -“Gabriel,” she pleaded. - -“My dear,” never had he spoken to her in such a way, he seemed hardly to -remember she was there, “I acquit you entirely. You did not know what -you were doing, could not be expected to know. But _this_ fellow, this -blackguard....” He actually advanced a step or two toward him, -threateningly. “Her good name was at stake, mine as well as hers, was -and is at stake.” - -“And I saved it for you, for both of you. I’ve shut Mrs. Roope’s mouth. -You’ll never hear a word more....” - -“Not hear more?” Gabriel was deeply contemptuous. “Did you ever know a -blackmailer who was satisfied with the first blood? You have opened the -door wide to her exactions....” - -“You are taking an entirely wrong view, you are prejudiced. Because you -don’t like me you blame me whether I am right or wrong.” - -“You don’t know the difference between right and wrong.” - -“I wasn’t going to have my patient upset,” he said obstinately. - -“Gabriel, listen to me, hear me. Don’t be so angry with Peter. _I_ -wanted the woman paid to keep quiet. I insisted upon her being paid.” -And then under her breath she said, “There is such a little time more.” - -“There is all our lives,” Gabriel answered in that deep outraged voice. -“All our lives it will be a stain that money was paid. As if we had -something to conceal.” - -His point of view was not theirs, neither Peter’s nor Margaret’s. They -argued and protested, justifying themselves and each other. But it -seemed to Gabriel there was no argument. When Margaret pleaded he had to -listen, to hold himself in hand, to say as little as possible. Toward -Peter Kennedy he was irreconcilable. “A man _ought_ to have known,” he -said doggedly. - -“He wanted to ward off an attack.” - -Dr. Kennedy went away ultimately, he had that amount of sense. By this -time he was at least as antagonistic to Gabriel Stanton as Gabriel to -him. - -“Stiff-necked blighter! He’d talk ethics if she were dying. What does it -matter whether it was right or wrong? Anyway, I got rid of the woman for -her, set her mind at rest. I bet my way was as good as any _he’d_ have -found! Now I suppose he’ll argue her round until she looks upon me as -the villain of the play.” In which, as the sequel shows, he wronged his -lady love. “Insufferable prig!” And with that and a few more muttered -epithets he went off to endure a hideous few days, fearing for her all -the time, in the hands of such a man as Gabriel Stanton, whom he deemed -hard and self-righteous. - -But he need not have feared. The two men were poles apart in -temperament, education, and environment. Circumstances aided in making -them intolerant of each other. Their judgment was biased. Margaret saw -them both more clearly than they saw each other. Her lover was the -stronger, finer man, had the higher standard. And he was right, right -this time, as always. Yet she thought sympathetically of the other and -the weakness that led him to compromise. The Christian Scientist should -not have been paid, she should have been prosecuted. Margaret saw it -now,—she, too, had not seen it at the moment. She confessed herself a -coward. - -“But our happiness was at stake, our whole happiness. In less than three -weeks now....” - -Now that they were alone Gabriel could show his quality. The thing she -had done was indefensible. And he had hardly a hope that it would -achieve its object. He, himself, would not have done evil that good -might come of it, submitted, admitted ... the blood rushed to his face -and he could not trust himself even to think of what had practically -been admitted. But she had done it for love of him to secure their -happiness together. What man but would be moved by such an admission, -what lover? He could not hold out against her, nor continue to express -his doubts. - -“Must we talk any more about it? I can’t bear your reproaches. Gabriel, -don’t reproach me any more.” She was nestling in the shelter of his -arms. “You know why I did it. I wish you would be glad.” - -“My darling, I wish I could be. It was not your fault. I ought to have -come down. You ought not to have been left alone, or with an -unscrupulous person like this doctor.” - -“Peter acted according to his lights. He did it for the best, he thought -only of me.” - -“His lights are darkness, his best outrageous. Never mind, I will not -say another word, only you must promise me faithfully, swear to me that -if you do hear any more of this woman, or of the circumstance, from this -or any other quarter, you will do nothing without consulting me, you -will send for me at once....” - -Margaret promised, Margaret swore. - -“I want to lean upon your strength. I have so altered I don’t know -myself. Love has loosened, weakened me. I am no longer as I was, proud, -self-reliant. Gabriel, don’t let me be sorry that I love you. I am -startled by myself, by this new self. What have you done to me? Is this -what love means—weakness?” - -When she said she needed to lean upon his strength his heart ran like -water to her. When she pleaded to him for forgiveness because she had -allowed herself to be blackmailed rather than delay their happiness -together, his tenderness overflowed and flooded the rock of his logic, -of his clear judgment. His arms tightened about her. - -“I ought to have come to you whether you said yes or no. I knew you were -in trouble.” - -“Not any longer.” She nestled to him. - -“God knows....” - -He thrust aside his misgivings later and gave himself up to soothing and -nursing her. Peter Kennedy need have had no fear, but then of course -this was a Gabriel Stanton he did not know. - -Gabriel would not hear of Margaret coming down to dinner nor into the -drawing-room. She was to stay on the sofa in the music room, to have her -dinner served to her there. He said he would carve for her, not be ten -minutes away. - -“All this trouble has made me forget that I have something to tell you. -No, no! Not now, not until you have rested.” - -“I can’t wait, I can’t wait. Tell me now, at once. But I know. I know by -your face. It is about our little house. You have seen a house—our -house!” - -“Not until after dinner. I must not tell you anything until you have -rested, had something to eat. You have been too agitated. Dear love, you -have been through so much. Yes, I have seen the house that seems to have -been built for us. Don’t urge me to tell you now. This has been the -first cloud that has come between us. It will never happen again. You -will keep nothing from me.” - -“Haven’t I promised? Sworn?” - -“Sweetheart!” And as he held her she whispered: - -“You will never be angry with me again?” - -“I was not angry with you. How could I be?” - -She smiled. She was quite happy again now, and content. - -“It looked like anger.” - -“You focussed it wrongly,” he answered. - - * * * * * - -After they had dined; she on her sofa from a tray he supervised and sent -up to her, he in solitary state in the dining-room, hurrying through the -food that had no flavour to him in her absence: he told her about the -little house in Westminster that he had seen, and that seemed to fit all -their requirements. It was very early eighteenth-century, every brick of -it had been laid before Robert Adam and his brother went to Portland -Place, the walls were panelled and the mantelpieces untouched. They were -of carved wood in the drawing-room, painted alabaster in the library and -bedrooms, marble in the dining-room only. It was almost within the -precincts of the Abbey and there was a tiny courtyard or garden. -Margaret immediately envisaged it tiled and Dutch. Gabriel left it stone -and defended his opinion. There was a lead figure with the pretence of a -fountain. - -“I could hardly believe my good luck when first I saw the place. I saw -you there at once. It was just as you had described, as we had hoped -for, unique and perfect in its way, a real home. It needs very careful -furnishing, nothing must be large, nor handsome, nor on an elaborate -scale. I shall find out the history, when it was built and for whom. A -clergy house, I think.” - -She was full of enthusiasm and pressed for detail. Gabriel had to admit -he did not know how it was lit, nor if electric light had been -installed. He fancied not. Then there was the question of bathroom. Here -too there was a lapse in his memory. But that there was space for one he -was sure. There was a powder room off the drawing-room. - -“In a clergy house?” - -“I am not sure it was a clergy house.” - -“Or that there _is_ a powder room!” - -“It may have been meant for books. Anyway, there is one like it on the -next floor.” - -“Where a bath could be put?” - -“Yes, I think so. I am not sure. You will have to see it yourself. Nurse -yourself for a few days and then come up.” - -“For a few days! That is good. Why, I am all right now, tonight. There, -feel my pulse.” She put her hand in his and he held it; her hand, not -her pulse. - -“Isn’t it quite calm?” - -“I don’t know ... _I_ am not.” - -“I shall go up with you on Monday morning, or by the next train.” - -He argued with her, tried to dissuade her, said she was still pale, -fatigued. But the words had no effect. She said that he was too careful -of her, and he replied that it was impossible. - -“When a man has been given a treasure into his keeping ...” She hushed -him. - -They were very happy tonight. Gabriel may still have had a misgiving. He -knew money ought never to have been paid as blackmail. That the trouble -should have come through Anne, Anne and her mad religion, was more than -painful to him. But true to promise he said no further word. He had -Margaret’s promise that if anything more was heard he would be advised, -sent for. - -When he went back to the hotel that night he comforted himself with -that, tried to think that nothing further would be heard. Peter -Kennedy’s name had not been mentioned again between them. He meant to -persuade her, use all his influence that she should select another -doctor. That would be for another time. Tonight she needed only care. - -He had taken no real alarm at her delicate looks, he had lived all his -life with an invalid. As for Margaret, there were times when she was -quite well, in exuberant health and spirits. She was under the spell of -her nerves, excitable, she had the artistic temperament _in excelsis_. -So he thought, and although he felt no uneasiness he was full of -consideration. Before he had left her tonight, at ten o’clock for -instance, and notwithstanding she wished him to stay, he begged her to -rest late in the morning, said he would be quite content to sit -downstairs and await her coming, to read or only sit still and think of -her. She urged the completeness of her recovery, but he persisted in -treating her as an invalid. - -“You are an invalid tonight, my poor little invalid, you must go to bed -early. Tomorrow you are to be convalescent, and we will go down to the -sea, walk, or drive. I will wrap you up and take care of you. -Monday ...” - -“Monday I have quite decided to go up to town.” - -“We shall see how you are. I am not going to allow you to take any -risks.” - -Such a different Gabriel Stanton from the one Peter Kennedy knew! One -would have thought there was not a hard spot in him. Margaret was sure -of it ... almost sure. - -The morphia that had failed her last night put out its latent power and -helped her through this one. The dreams that came to her were all -pleasant, tinged with romance, filled with brocade and patches, with -fair women and gallant men in powder and knee-breeches. No man was more -gallant than hers. She saw Gabriel that night idealised, as King’s man -and soldier, poet, lover, on the stairs of that house of romance. - -The next day was superb, spring merging into summer, a soft breeze, blue -sky flecked with white, sea that fell on the shore with convoluted -waves, foam-edged, but without force. Everything in Nature was fresh and -renewed, not calm, but with a bursting undergrowth, and one would have -thought Margaret had never been ill. She laughed and even lilted into -light song when Gabriel feared the piano for her. Her eyes were filled -with love and laughter, and her skin seemed to have upon it a new and -childish bloom, lightly tinged with rose, clear pale and exquisite. -Today one would have said she was more child than woman, and that life -had hardly touched her. Not touched to soil. Yet beneath her lightness -now and again Gabriel glimpsed a shadow, or a silence, rare and quickly -passing. This he placed to his own failure of temper yesterday, and set -himself to assuage it. He felt deeply that he was responsible for her -happiness. As she said, she had altered greatly since they first met. In -a way she had grown younger. This was not her first passion, but it was -her first surrender. That there was an unknown in him, an uncompromising -rectitude, had as it were buttressed her love. She had pride in him now -and pride in her love for him. For the first and only time in her life -self was in the background. He was her lover and was soon to be her -husband. Today they hardly held each other’s hand, or kissed. Margaret -held herself lightly aloof from him and his delicacy understood and -responded. Their hour was so near. There had been different vibrations -and uneasy moments between them, but now they had grown steady in love. - -Margaret went up to town with Gabriel on Monday. She forgot all about -Peter Kennedy eating his heart out and wondering just how harsh and -dogmatic Gabriel Stanton was being with her. They were going first to -see the house. - -“I must show it you myself.” - -“We must see it together first.” - -They were agreed about that. Afterwards Margaret had decided to go alone -to Queen Anne’s Gate and make full confession. She had wired, announcing -herself for lunch, asking that they should be alone. Then, later on in -the day, Gabriel was to see her father. In a fortnight they could be -married. Neither of them contemplated delay. The marriage was to be of -the quietest possible description. She no longer insisted upon the -yacht. Gabriel should arrange their honeymoon. They were not to go -abroad at all, there were places in England, historic, quite unknown to -her where he meant to take her. The main point was that they would be -together ... alone. - -The first part of the programme was carried out. The house more than -fulfilled expectations. They found in it a thousand new and unexpected -beauties; leaded windows and eaves with gargoyles, a flagged path to the -kitchen with grass growing between the flags, a green patine on the Pan, -which Margaret declared was the central figure in her group of -musicians. Enlarged and piping solitary, but the same figure; an almost -miraculous coincidence. A momentary fright she had lest it was all too -good to be true, lest some one had forestalled them, would forestall -them even as they stood here talking, mentally placing print and -pottery, carpeting the irregular steps and slanting floors. That was -Gabriel’s moment of triumph. He had been so sure, he felt he knew her -taste sufficiently that he need not hesitate. The day he had seen the -house he had secured it. Nothing but formalities remained to be -concluded. She praised him for his promptitude and he wore her praise -proudly, as if it had been the Victoria Cross. A spasm of doubt may have -crossed her mind as to whether her father and stepmother would view it -with the same eyes, or would point out the lack of later-day luxuries or -necessities; light, baths, sanitation. Gabriel said everything could be -added, they had but to be careful not to interfere with the main -features of the little place, not to disturb its amenities. Margaret was -insistent that nothing at all should be done. - -“We don’t want glaring electric light. We shall use wax candles....” He -put her into a cab before the important matter was decided. Privately he -thought one bath at least was desirable, but he found himself unable to -argue with her. Not just now, not at this minute when they came out of -the home they would make together. Such a home as it would mean! - -Mrs. Rysam was less reticent and Margaret persuadable, but that came -later. Her father and stepmother were alone to lunch as she had asked -them. And she broke her news without delay. She was going to marry -Gabriel Stanton. There followed exclamation and surprise, but in the end -a real satisfaction. The house of Stanton was a great one. More than a -hundred years had gone to its upbuilding. Sir George was the doyen of -the profession of publisher. He was the fifth of his line. Gabriel, -although a cousin, was his partner and would be his successor. And he -himself was a man of mark. He had edited, or was editing the Union -Classics, and had contributed valuable matter to the Compendium on which -the whole strength of the house had been employed for the last fifteen -years, and which had already Royal recognition in the shape of the -baronetcy conferred on the head of the firm. - -“Of course it should have been given to Gabriel,” Margaret said when she -had explained or reminded them of his position. Naturally she thought -this. They consoled her by predicting a similar honour for him in the -future. Margaret said she did not care one way or the other. She did not -unbare her heart, but she gave them more than a glimpse of it. That this -time she was marrying wisely and that happiness awaited her was -sufficient for them. Edgar B. looked forward to seeing Gabriel and -telling him so. He promised himself that he would find a way of -forwarding that happiness he foresaw for her. Giving was his -self-expression. Already before lunch was over he was thinking of -settlements. Mrs. Rysam, a little disappointed about the wedding, which -Margaret insisted was to be of the quietest description, was compensated -by talk about the house. Margaret might arrange, but her stepmother made -up her mind that she would superintend the improvements. Then there were -clothes. However quiet the wedding might be a trousseau was essential. -From the time the divorce had been decided upon until now Margaret had -had no heart for clothes. Her wardrobe was at the lowest possible ebb. -Father and stepmother agreed she was to grudge herself nothing. And -there was no time to lose, this very afternoon they must start -purchasing, also installing workmen in The Close, for so the little -house was named. A tremendous programme. Margaret of course must not go -back to Pineland, but must stay at Queen Anne’s Gate for the fortnight -that was to elapse before the wedding. Margaret demurred at this, but -thought it best to avoid argument. It was not that she had grown fond of -Pineland, or that Carbies suited her any better than it did. But the -atmosphere of Queen Anne’s Gate was not a romantic one, and her mood was -attuned to romance. Father and stepmother were material. Mr. Rysam gave -her a cheque for five hundred pounds and told her to fit herself out -properly. Mrs. Rysam promised house linen. Margaret could not but be -grateful although the one spoke too much and shrilly, and the other too -little and to the point. - -“What is his income?” Edgar B. asked. - -“That’s what I’ve got to learn and see what’s to be added to it to make -you really comfortable.” - -“We shall want so little, Gabriel doesn’t care a bit about money,” -Margaret put in hastily. - -“I daresay not.” - -“And neither do I,” she was quick to add. Edgar B. with a twinkle in his -eye suggested she might not care for money but she liked what money -could buy. He was less original than most Americans in his expressions, -but unvaryingly true to type in his outlook. - -What an afternoon they had, Margaret and her stepmother! The big car -took them to Westminster and the West End and back again. They were -making appointments, purchasing wildly, discussing endlessly. Or so it -seemed to Margaret, who, exhilarated at first, became conscious towards -the end of the day of nothing but an overmastering fatigue. She had -ordered several dozens of underwear, teagowns, dressing-gowns, -whitewash, a china bath, and electric lights! They appeared and -disappeared incongruously in her bewildered brain. She had protected her -panels, yet yielded to the necessity for drains. Her head was in a whirl -and Gabriel himself temporarily eclipsed. Her stepmother was -indefatigable, the greater the rush the greater her enjoyment. She would -even have started furnishing but that Margaret was firm in refusing to -visit either of the emporiums she suggested. - -“Gabriel and I have our own ideas, we know exactly what we want. The -glib fluency of the shopmen takes my breath away.” - -Mrs. Rysam urged their expert knowledge. Whatever her private opinion of -the house, its size or position, she fell in easily with Margaret’s -enthusiasm. - -“You must not risk making any mistake. Messrs. Rye & Gilgat or -Maturin’s, that place in Albemarle Street, they all have experts who -have the periods at their fingers’ ends. You’ve only got to tell them -the year, and they’ll set to work and get you chintzes and brocades and -everything suitable from a coal scuttle to a cabinet....” - -Margaret, however, although over-tired, was not to be persuaded to put -herself and her little house unreservedly into any one’s hands. She was -not capable of effort, only of resistance. Tea at Rumpelmayer’s was an -interregnum and not a rest. More clothes became a nightmare, she begged -to be taken home, was alarmed when Mrs. Rysam offered to go on alone, -and begged her to desist. When the car took them back to Queen Anne’s -Gate, Gabriel had already left after a most satisfactory interview with -her father. Edgar B., seeing his daughter’s exhaustion and pallor, had -the grace not to insist on explaining the word “satisfactory.” He -insisted instead that she should rest, sleep till dinnertime. The -inexhaustible stepmother heard that Gabriel had been pleased with -everything Margaret’s father had suggested. He would settle house and -furniture, make provision for the future. Whatever was done for Margaret -or her children was to be done for her alone, he wanted nothing but the -dear privilege of caring for her. Edgar appreciated his attitude and it -did not make him feel less liberal. - -“And the house? How about this house they’ve seen in Westminster? Is it -good enough? big enough? He said it was a little house, but why so -small?” - -“They are just dead set on it. Small or large you won’t get them to look -at another. It’s just something out of the way and quaint, such as -Margaret would go crazy on. No bathroom, no drains, but a paved -courtyard and a lead figure....” - -“Well, well! each man to his taste, and woman too. She knows what she -wants, that’s one thing. She made a mistake last time and it has cost -her eight years’ suffering. She’s made none this time and everything has -come right. He’s a fine fellow, this Gabriel Stanton, a white man all -through. One might have wished him a few years younger, he said that -himself. He’s going on for forty.” - -“What’s forty! Margaret is twenty-eight, herself.” - -“Well! bless her, there’s a lifetime of happiness before her and I’ll -gild it.” - -“The drawing-room will take a grand piano.” - -“That’s good.” - -“And I’ve settled to give her the house linen myself.” - -“No place for a car, I suppose. In an out-of-the-way place like that -she’ll need a car.” - -So they planned for her; having suffered in her suffering and eclipse, -and eager now to make up to her for them, as indeed they had always -been. Only in the bitter past it proved difficult because her -sensitiveness had baffled them. It was that which had kept her bound so -long. All that could be done had been done, to arrange a divorce _via_ -lawyers through Edgar B.’s cheque-book. But James Capel, when it came to -the end, proved that he cared less for money than for limelight, and had -defended the suit recklessly with the help of an unscrupulous attorney. -The nightmare of the case was soon over, but the shadow of it had -darkened many of their days. This wedding was really the end and would -put the coping stone on their content. - -Neither Edgar B. nor his wife heard anything of the attempt at -blackmail. Gabriel, of course, did not tell them. Margaret, strange as -it may sound, had forgotten all about it! Something had given an impetus -to her feeling for Gabriel: and now it was at its flood tide. She had -written once, “Men do not love good women, they have a high opinion of -them.” She would not have written it now, she herself had found goodness -lovable. Gabriel Stanton was a better man than she had ever met. He was -totally unlike an American, and had scruples even about making money. - -Her father and he, discoursing one evening upon commercial morality, she -found that they spoke different languages, and could arrive at no -understanding. But she discovered in herself a linguistic gift and so -saw through her father’s subtlety into Gabriel’s simplicity. She knew -then that the man who enthralled her was the type of which she had read -with interest, and written with enthusiasm, but never before -encountered. An English gentleman! With this in her consciousness she -could permit herself to revel in all his other attractions, his lean -vigour and easy movements, shapely hands and deep-set eyes under the -thin straight brows. His mouth was an inflexible line when his face was -in repose. When he smiled at her the asceticism vanished. He smiled at -her very often in these strange full days. The days hurried past, there -was little time for private conversation, an orgy of buying held them. - -Margaret, yielding to pressure and inclination, stayed on and on until -the week passed and the next one was broken in upon. Now it was Tuesday -and there was only one more week. One more week! Sometimes it seemed -incredible. Always it seemed as if the sun was shining and the light -growing more intense, blinding. She moved toward it unsteadily. This -semi-American atmosphere into which she and her lover had become -absorbed was an atmosphere of hustle, kaleidoscopic, shifting. - -“If they had only given me time to think I should have known that the -clothes and the house-linen, the carpets and curtains, the piano and the -choice of a car, could all wait until we came back, could wait even -after that. But they tear along and carry us after them in a whirlwind -of tempestuous good-nature,” Margaret said ruefully in the five minutes -they secured together before dinner that Tuesday evening. - -“You are doing too much, exhausting your energy, using up your strength. -And we have not found time for even one prowl after old furniture in our -own way, that we spoke of at Carbies.” - -“They are spoiling the house with the talk of preserving it. Today -Father told me it was absolutely necessary the floors should be -levelled....” - -“I know. And he wants the kitchen concreted. Some wretched person with -the lips of a day-labourer and the soul of an iconoclast told him the -place was swarming with rats....” - -“We wanted to hear mysterious noises behind the wainscot.” - -They were half-laughing, but there was an undercurrent of seriousness in -their complaining. They and their house were caught in the -torpedo-netting of the parental Rysams’ strong common sense. Confronted -and caught they had to admit there was little glamour in rats and none -at all in black beetles. Still ... concrete! To yield to it was -weakness, to deny it, folly. - -“I have lost sight of logic and forgotten how to argue. There is nothing -for it but to run away again. Gabriel, I have quite made up my mind. -Tomorrow, I am going back to Carbies. There are things to settle up -there, arrange. Stevens is coming back with me, and we are going before -anybody is up. Every day I have said that I must go, and each time -Father and Mother have answered breathlessly that it was impossible, -interposed the most cogent arguments. Now I am going without telling -them.” - -“I am sure there is nothing else to be done. And stay until next week. -Let me come down Saturday. We need quiet. I feel as if I had been in a -machine room the last few days.” - -“‘All day the wheels keep turning,’” she quoted. - -“Yes, that expresses it perfectly. Run away and let me run after you. -Saturday afternoon and Sunday we will be on the beach, listen to the -sea, and forget the use of speech.” - -“The use and abuse of speech. I’ll wear my oldest clothes. No! I won’t. -You shall have a treat. I really have some most exquisite things. I’ll -take them all down; change every hour or two, give you a private -view....” - -“You are lovely in everything you wear. You need never trouble to -change. Think what a fatigue it will be. I want you to rest.” - -“How serious you are! I was not in earnest, not quite in earnest. But I -can’t wait to show you a teagown, all lacy and transparent, made of -chiffon and mist....” - -“Grey mist?” - -“Yes.” - -“I love you in grey.” - -She laughed: - -“You have had no opportunity of loving me in any other colour. Not -indoors at least. But you will. I could not have a one-coloured -trousseau. I’ve a wonderful beige walking-dress; one in blue serge, -lined with chiffon....” - -“Tell me of your wedding-dress. Only a week today....” Before she had -told him her stepmother bustled in, her arms full of parcels that -Margaret must unpack, investigate, try on immediately after dinner, or -before. Dinner could wait. Margaret had already been tried on and tried -on until her head swam. She yielded again and Gabriel and her father -waited for dinner. - -Nothing was as they had planned it. So, although they were too happy to -complain, and too grateful to resent what was being done for them, the -scheme that Margaret should return to Carbies without again announcing -her intention was hurriedly confirmed between them and carried out. - - * * * * * - -This time Margaret did not complain that the place was remote, the -garden desolate, the furniture ill-sorted and ill-suited. She was glad -to find herself anchored as it were in a quiet back-water, out of the -hurly-burly, able to hear herself breathe. Wednesday she spent in -resting, dreaming. She went to bed early. - -Thursday found her at her writing-desk, sorting, re-sorting, reading -those early letters of hers, and of his; recapturing a mood. She -recognised that in those early days she had not been quite genuine, that -her letters did not ring as true as his. She saw there was a literary -quality in them that detracted from their value. Yet, taking herself -seriously, as always, and remembering the Brownings, she put them all in -orderly sequence, made attempts at a title, in the event of their ever -being published, wrote up her disingenuous diary. All that day, all -Thursday and part of Friday, she rediscovered her fine style, her gift -of phrase. The thing that held her was her own wonderful and beautiful -love story. And it was of that she wrote. She knew she would make her -mark upon the literature of the nineteenth century, had no doubt of it -at all. She had done much already. She rated highly her three or four -novels, her two plays. Unhappiness had dulled her gift, but today she -felt how wondrously it would be revived. There are epigrams among her -MS. notes. - -“All his life he had kept his emotions soldered up in tin boxes, now he -was surprised that they were like little fish, compressed and without -life.” This was tried in half a dozen ways but never seemed to please -her. - -“Happiness, true happiness, holds the senses in solution, it requires -matrimony to diffuse them.” - -It seemed extraordinary now that she should have found content in these -futilities. But it was nevertheless true. She came down to Carbies on -Wednesday and it was Friday before she even remembered Peter Kennedy’s -existence, and that it would be only polite to let him know she was -here, greatly improved in health, on the eve of marriage. Friday morning -she telephoned for him. When he came she was sitting at her -writing-table, with that inner radiance about her of which he spoke so -often, her soft lips in smiling curves, her eyes agleam. - -Peter had known she was there, known it since the hour she came. He had -bad news for her and would not hurry to tell her, not now, when she had -sent for him. In the presence of that radiance he found it difficult to -speak. He could not bear to think it would be blurred or obscured. If -the cruellest of necessities had not impelled him he would have kept -silence for always. - - - - - CHAPTER XIV - - -“Are you glad to see me?” - -“I am not sure,” was an answer she understood. - -“Surprised?” - -“I know you have been down here since Wednesday.” - -“You knew it! Then why didn’t you come and see me? You are very -inattentive.” - -“I knew you would send if you wanted me.” Now he looked at her with -surprised, almost grudging admiration. “Your change has agreed with you; -you look thundering well.” - -“Thundering! What an absurdly incongruous word. Never mind, I always -knew you were no stylist. Yes, I am quite well, although from morning -till night I did almost everything you told me not to do. I was in a -whirl of excitement, tiring and overtiring myself all the time.” - -“I suppose I was wrong then. It seems you need excitement.” He spoke -with less interest than he usually gave to her, almost perfunctorily, -but she noticed no difference and went on: - -“The fact is I have found the elixir of life. There _is_ such a thing, -the old necromancers knew more than we. The elixir is happiness.” - -“You have been so happy?” - -She leaned back in her chair, her eyes sought not him but the horizon. -The window was open and the air was scented with the coming summer, with -the fecund beauty of growing things. - -“So happy,” she repeated. “Incredibly happy. And only on the -threshold....” Then she looked away from the sky and toward him, smiled. - -“Peter, Peter Kennedy, you are not to be sour nor gloomy, you are to be -happy too, to rejoice with me. You say you love me.” He drew a long -breath. - -“You will never know how much.” - -“Then be glad with me. My health has revived, my youth has come back, my -wasted devastated youth. I am a girl again with this added glory of -womanhood. Am I hurting you? I don’t want to hurt you, I only want you -to understand, I can speak freely, for you always knew I was not for -you. Would you like me to be uncertain, delicate, despondent? Surely -not.” - -“I want you to be happy,” he said unevenly. - -“Add to it a little.” She held out her hand to him. “Stay and have tea -with me. Afterwards we will go up to the music room, I will give you a -last lesson. Have you been practising? Peter, are you glad or sorry that -we ever met? I don’t think I have harmed you. You admit I roused your -ambition, and surely your music has improved, not only in execution, but -your musical taste. Do you remember the first time you played and sang -to me? ‘Put Me Among the Girls!’ was the name of the masterpiece you -rolled out. I put my fingers to my ears, but afterwards you played -without singing, and you listened to me without fidgeting. Peter, you -won’t play ‘Put Me Among the Girls’ this afternoon, will you? What will -you play to me when tea is over and we go upstairs?” - -Peter Kennedy, with that strange uneasiness or lambent agony in his -eyes, eyes that all the time avoided hers, answered: - -“I shall play you Beethoven’s ‘Adieu.’” - -“Poor Peter!” she said softly. - -She thought he was unhappy because he loved and was losing her, because -she was going to be married next week and could not disguise that the -crown of life was coming to her. She was very sweet to him all that -afternoon, and sorry for him, fed him with little cress sandwiches and -pretty speeches, spoke to him of his talents and pressed him to practise -assiduously, make himself master of the classical musicians. She really -thought she was elevating him and was conscious of how well she talked. - -“Then as to your profession, I am sure you have a gift. No one who has -ever attended me has done me more good. I want you to take your -profession very, very seriously. If it is true that you have the gift of -healing and the gift of music, and I think it is, you will not be -unhappy, nor lonely long.” - -And the poor fellow, who was really thinking all that time of the bad -news and how to break it, listened to her, hearing only half she said. -He did not know how to break his news, that was the truth, yet dared not -leave it unbroken. - -“When is Mr. Stanton coming down?” he asked her. - -“Why do you dwell upon it? You have this afternoon, make the best of the -time. I should like to think you were glad, not sorry we met.” - -He broke into crude and confused speech then and told her all she had -meant to him, what new views of life she had given to him. - -“You have been a perfect revelation to me. I had not dreamed a woman -could be so sweet....” And then, stammeringly, he thanked her for -everything. He was a little overcome because he was not sure this -happiness of hers was going to last, that it would not be almost -immediately eclipsed. He really did love her and in the best way, would -have secured her happiness at the expense of his own, would have -sacrificed everything he held dear to save her from what he feared was -inevitable. He was miserably undecided, and could not throw off his -depression. Not, as Margaret thought, because of his jealousy of Gabriel -and ungratified love, but because he feared the wedding might never take -place. He eat a great many hot cakes and sandwiches, drank two cups of -tea. Afterwards in the music room he played Beethoven, and listened when -she replied with Chopin. Or if he did not listen the pretence he made -was good enough to satisfy her. She was secretly flattered, elated, at -the effect she had produced, a little sorry for him, a little -sentimental. “Why should a heart have been there in the way of a fair -woman’s foot?” she quoted to herself. - -She sent him away before dinner. She had promised Gabriel she would keep -early hours, rest, and rest, and rest until he came down on Saturday, -and she meant to keep her promise. She gave Dr. Kennedy both her hands -in farewell. - -“I wish you did not look so woebegone. Say you are glad I am happy.” - -“Oh, my God!” he lost himself then, kissing the hands she gave him, -speaking wildly. “If the fellow were not such a prig, if only your -happiness would last....” - -She drew her hands away, angry or offended. - -“Last! of course it will last. Hush! don’t say anything unworthy of you. -Don’t make me disappointed. I don’t want to think I have made a -mistake.” - -With something very like a groan he made a precipitate retreat. He could -not tell her what he had come here to say, to consult her about, he -would have to write, or wait until Stanton was there. He wanted her to -have one more good night. He loved her radiance. She wronged him if she -thought he was jealous of her happiness, or of Gabriel Stanton, although -he wished so desperately and so ignorantly that her lover had been other -than he was. - -Margaret had her uninterrupted night, her last happy night. Peter -Kennedy turned and tossed, and tossed and turned on his narrow bed, the -sheets grew hot and crumpled and the pillow iron-hard, making his head -ache. Towards morning he left his bed, abandoning his pursuit of the -sleep that had played him false, and went for a long tramp. At six -o’clock, the sun barely risen and the sea cold in a retreating tide, he -tried a swim. At eight o’clock he was nevertheless no better, and no -worse than he had been the day before, and the day before that. He -breakfasted on husks; the bacon and eggs tasted little better. Then he -read Mrs. Roope’s letter for about the twentieth time and wished he had -the doctoring of her! - - _Dear Dr. Kennedy_:— - - I am sorry to say that since I last saw you additional facts have - come to my knowledge which in fairness to the purity which is part - of the higher life I cannot ignore. That Mr. Gabriel Stanton had - been visiting my cousin’s wife during the six months in which she - should have been penitently contemplating the errors and - misdemeanours of her past, her failure in true wifeliness, I knew. - That you had been passing many hours daily with her, and at unseemly - hours, have also slept in her house, has only now come to my - knowledge. I am nauseated by this looseness. Marriage should improve - the human species, becoming a barrier against vice. This has not - been so with the wife of my husband’s cousin. As Mrs. Eddy so truly - says “the joy of intercourse becomes the jest of sin.” I return you - the cheque you gave me and which becomes due next Wednesday. If - neither you nor Mrs. Capel has any argument to advance that would - cause me to alter my opinion I am constrained to lay the facts in my - possession before the King’s Proctor. Two co-respondents make the - case more complicated, but my duty more simple. - - Yours without any spiritual arrogance but conscious of rectitude, - - SARAH ROOPE. - -“Damn her!” He had said it often, but it never forwarded matters. Time -pressed, and he had done nothing, or almost nothing. He had received the -letter Wednesday. On Friday before going up to Carbies he had wired, “Am -consulting Mrs. C. wait result.” - -The early morning post came late to Pineland. Dr. Kennedy had to wait -until nine o’clock for his letters. As he anticipated on Saturday -morning there was another letter from the follower of Mrs. Eddy: - - _Dear Dr. Kennedy_:— - - It is my duty to let you know that I have an appointment with James - Capel’s lawyer for Monday the 29th inst. - -In desperation he wired back, “Name terms, Kennedy,” and paid reply. -There were a few patients he was bound to see. The time had to be got -through somehow. But at twelve o’clock he started for Carbies. Margaret -had not expected to see him again. She had said good-bye to him, to the -whole incident. Her “consciousness of rectitude,” as far as Peter -Kennedy was concerned, was as complete as Mrs. Roope’s. She had found -him little better than a country yokel, and now saw him with a future -before him, a future she still vaguely meant to forward—only vaguely. -Definitely all her thoughts were with Gabriel and the hours they would -pass together. She was meeting him at the station at three o’clock. She -remembered the first time she had met him at Pineland station, and -smiled at the remembrance. He might cut himself shaving with impunity -now, and the shape of his hat or his coat mattered not one jot. - -Not expecting Peter Kennedy, but Gabriel Stanton, she was already -arrayed in one of her trousseau dresses, a simple walking-costume of -blue serge, a shirt of fine cambric, and was spending a happy hour -trying on hat after hat to decide not only which was most suitable but -which was the most becoming. Hearing wheels on the gravel she looked out -of the window. Seeing Peter she almost made up her mind not to go down. -She had just decided on a toque of pansies ... she might try the effect -on Peter. She was a little disingenuous with herself, vanity was the -real motive, although she sought for another as she went downstairs. - -Peter was in the drawing-room, staring vacantly out of the window. He -never noticed her new clothes. She saw that in his eyes, and it quenched -any welcome there might have been in hers. It was her expression he -answered with his impulsive: - -“I had to come!” - -“Had you?” - -“You mustn’t be satirical,” he said desperately. “Or be what you like, -what does it matter? I’d rather have shot myself than come to you with -such news....” Her sudden pallor shook him. “You can guess of course.” - -“No, I can’t.” - -“That blasted woman!” - -“Go on.” - -“She has written again. Sit down.” She sank into the easy-chair. All her -radiance was quenched, she looked piteous, pitiable. He could not look -at her. - -“I came up here yesterday afternoon, meaning to tell you. You were so -damned happy I couldn’t get it out.” - -“So damned happy!” she repeated after him, and the words were strange on -her white lips, her laugh was stranger still and made him feel cold. - -“You haven’t got to take it like that; we’ll find a way out. I suppose, -after all, it’s only a question of money....” - -“I cannot give her more money.” - -“I’ve got some. I can get more. You know I haven’t a thing in the world -you are not welcome to, you’ve made a man of me.” - -“It is not because I haven’t the money to give her.” She spoke in a -strange voice, it seemed to have shrunk somehow, there was no volume in -it, it was small and colourless. - -“I don’t know how much she wants. I have wired her and paid a reply. I -daresay her answer is there by now. I’ll phone and ask if you like.” - -“What’s the use?” - -“Well, we’d better know.” - -“He said that is what would happen. That she would come again and yet -again.” She was taking things even worse than he expected. “He will -never give in to her, never....” She collapsed fitfully, like an -electric lamp with a broken wire. “Everything is over, everything.” - -“I don’t see that.” - -She went on in that small colourless voice: - -“I know. We don’t see things the way Gabriel does. I promised to tell -him, to consult him if she came again.” - -He hesitated, even stammered a little before he answered: - -“He ... he had better not be told of this.” - -She laughed again, that little incongruous hopeless laugh. - -“I haven’t any choice, I promised him.” - -“Promised him what?” - -“To let him know if she came back again, if I heard anything more about -it.” - -“This isn’t exactly ‘it.’ This is a fresh start altogether. I suppose -you know how I hate what I am saying. The position can’t be faced, it’s -got to be dodged. It’s not only Gabriel Stanton she’s got hold of....” - -He did not want to go on, and she found some strange groundless hope in -his hesitation. - -“Not Gabriel Stanton?” she asked, and there seemed more tone in her -voice, more interest. She leaned forward. - -“Perhaps you’d like to see her letter.” He gave it to her, then without -a word went over to the other window, turned his face away from her. -There was a long silence. Margaret’s face was aflame, but her heart felt -like ice. Peter Kennedy to be dragged in, to have to defend herself from -such a charge! And Gabriel yet to be told! She covered her eyes, but was -conscious presently that the man was standing beside her, speaking. - -“Margaret!” His voice was as unhappy as hers, his face ravaged. “It is -not my fault. I’d give my life it hadn’t happened. That night you had -the heart attack I did stay for hours, prowled about ... then slept on -the drawing-room sofa. Margaret....” - -“Oh! hush! hush!” - -“You must listen, we must think what is best to be done,” he said -desperately. “Let me go up to London and see her. I’m sure I can manage -something. It’s not ... it’s not as if there were anything in it.” His -tactlessness was innate, he meant so well but blundered hopelessly, even -putting a hand on her knee in the intensity of his sympathy. She shook -it off as if he had been the most obnoxious of insects. “Let me go up -and see her,” he pleaded. “Authorise me to act. May I see if there is an -answer to my telegram? I sent it a little before nine. May I telephone?” - -“Do what you like.” - -“You loathe me.” - -“I wish you had never been born.” - -He was gone ten minutes ... a quarter of an hour perhaps. When he came -back she had slipped on to the couch, was lying in a huddled-up -position. For a moment, one awful moment, he thought she was dead, but -when he lifted her he saw she had only fainted. He laid her very gently -on the sofa and rang for help, glad of her momentary unconsciousness. He -knew what he intended to do now, and to what he must try to persuade -her. Stevens came and said, unsympathetically enough: - -“She’s drored her stays too tight. I told her so this morning.” But she -worked about her effectively and presently she struggled back, seeming -to have forgotten for the moment what had stricken her. - -“Have I had another heart attack?” she asked feebly. - -“No.” - -“I told you you were lacing too tight. I knew what would happen with -these new stays and things.” She actually smiled at Stevens, a wan -little smile. - -“I feel rather seedy still.” - -Peter took the cushion from her, made her lie flat. Then she said in a -puzzled way, her mind working slowly: - -“Something happened?” - -There was little time to be lost and he answered awkwardly, abruptly: - -“I brought you bad news.” - -She shut her eyes and lay still thinking that over. She opened them and -saw his working face and anxious eyes. - -“About Mrs. Roope,” he reminded her. They were alone, the impeccable -Stevens had gone for a hot-water bottle. - -“What is it exactly? Tell me all over again. I am feeling rather stupid. -I thought we had settled and finished with her?” - -“She has reopened the matter, dragged me in.” She remembered now, and -the flush in his face was reflected in hers. “But it is only a question -of money. I’ve got her terms.” - -“We must not give her money. Gabriel says....” - -He would not let her speak, interrupting her hurriedly, continuing to -speak without pause. - -“The sum isn’t impossible. As a matter of fact I can find it myself, or -almost the whole amount. Then there’s Lansdowne, he’s really not half a -bad fellow when you know him. And he’s as rich as Crœsus, he would -gladly lend it to me.” - -“No. Nonsense! Don’t be absurd.” She was thinking, he could see that she -was thinking whilst she spoke. - -“It’s my affair as much as yours,” he pleaded. “There is my practice to -consider.” - -She almost smiled: - -“Then you actually have a practice?” - -“I’m going to have. Quite a big one too. Haven’t you told me so?” He was -glad to get the talk down for one moment to another level. “It would be -awfully bad for me if anything came out. I am only thinking of myself. I -want to settle with her once for all.” - -Her faint had weakened her, she was just recovering from it. Physically -she was more comfortable, mentally less alert, and satisfied it should -be so. - -“Perhaps I took it too tragically?” she said slowly. “Perhaps as you -say, in a way, it _is_ your affair.” - -He answered her eagerly. - -“That’s right. My affair, and nothing to do with your promise to him. -Then you’ll leave it in my hands....” - -“You go so fast,” she complained. - -“The time is so short; she can’t have anything else up her sleeve. I -funked telling you, I’ve left it so late.” He showed more delicacy than -one would have given him credit for and stumbled over the next -sentences. “He would hate to think of me in this connection. You’d hate -to tell him. Just give me leave to settle with her. I’ll dash up to -town.” - -“How much does she want?” - -“Five hundred. I can find the money.” - -“Nonsense; it isn’t the money. I wish I knew what I ought to do,” she -said indecisively. “If only I hadn’t promised....” - -“This is nothing to do with what you promised ... this is a different -thing altogether.” - -He was sophistical and insistent and she was weak, allowed herself to be -persuaded. The money of course must be her affair, she could not allow -him to be out of pocket. - -They disputed about this and he had more arguments to bring forward. -These she brushed aside impatiently. If the money was to be paid she -would pay it, could afford it better than he. - -“I’m sure I am doing wrong,” she repeated when she wrote out the cheque, -blotted and gave it to him. - -“He’ll never know. No one will ever know.” - -Peter Kennedy was only glad she had yielded. He had, of course, no -thought of himself in the matter. Why should he? In losing her he lost -everything that mattered, that really mattered. And he had never had a -chance, not an earthly chance. He believed her happiness was only to be -secured by this marriage, and he dreaded the effect upon her health of -any disappointment or prolonged anxiety. “Once you are married it -doesn’t matter a hang what she says or does,” he said gloomily or -consolingly when she had given him the cheque. - -“Suppose ... suppose ... Gabriel _were_ to get to know?” she asked with -distended eyes. Some reassurance she found for herself after Peter -Kennedy had gone, taking with him the cheque that was the price of her -deliverance. - -Would Gabriel be so inflexible, seeing what was at stake? The last -fortnight in a way had drawn them so much closer to each other. They -must live together in that house within the Sanctuary at Westminster. -_Must._ Oh! if only life would stand still until next Wednesday! The -next hour or two crushed heavily over her. She knew she had done wrong, -that she had promised and broken her promise. No sophistry really helped -her. But, whatever happened, she must have this afternoon and a long -Sunday, alone with him, growing more necessary to him. Finally she -succeeded in convincing herself that he would never know, or that he -would forgive her when he did know, at the right time, when the time -came to tell him. - -She forced herself to a pretence at lunch. Then went slowly upstairs to -complete her interrupted toilette. Looking in the glass now she saw a -pale and distraught face that ill-fitted the pansy toque. She changed -into something darker, more suitable, with a cock’s feather. All her -desire was that Gabriel should be pleased with her appearance, to give -Gabriel pleasure. - -“I haven’t any rouge, have I, Stevens?” - -“I should ’ope not.” - -“I don’t want Mr. Stanton to find me looking ill.” - -“You look well enough, considering. He won’t notice nothing. The -carriage is here.” Stevens gave her gloves and a handkerchief. - -Now she was bowling along the quiet country road, on the way to meet -him. The sky was as blue, the air as sweet as she had anticipated. On -the surface she was all throbbing expectation. She was going to meet her -lover, nothing had come between them, could come between them. - -But in her subconsciousness she was suffering acutely. It seemed she -must faint again when the train drew in and she saw him on the platform, -but the feeling passed. Never had she seen him look so completely happy. -There was no hint or suggestion of austerity about him, or asceticism. -The porter swung his bag to the coachman. Gabriel took his place beside -her in the carriage. A greeting passed between them, only a smile of -mutual understanding, content. Nothing had happened since they parted, -she told herself passionately, else he had not looked so happy, so -content. - -“We’ll drop the bag at the hotel, if you don’t mind.” - -“Like we did the first time you came,” Margaret answered. His hand lay -near hers and he pressed it, keeping it in his. - -“We might have tea there, on that iron table, as we did that day,” he -said. - -“And hear the sea, watch the waves,” she murmured in response. - -“You like me better than you did that day.” - -“I know you better.” She found it difficult to talk. - -“Everything is better now,” he said with a sigh of satisfaction. It was -twenty minutes’ drive from the station to the hotel. He was telling her -of an old oak bureau he had seen, of the way the workmen were -progressing, of a Spode dinner service George was going to give them. -Once when they were between green hedges in a green solitude, he raised -the hand he held to his lips and said: - -“Only three days more.” - -She was in a dream from which she had no wish to wake. - -“You don’t usually wear a veil, do you?” he asked. “There is something -different about you today....” - -“It is my new trousseau,” she answered, not without inward agitation, -but lightly withal. “The latest fashion. Don’t you like it?” Now they -had left the sheltering hedges and were within sight of the white -painted hostelry. - -“The hat and dress and everything are lovely. But your own loveliness is -obscured by the veil. It makes you look ethereal; I cannot see you so -clearly through it. Beloved, you are quite well, are you not?” There was -a note of sudden anxiety in his voice. “It is the veil, isn’t it? You -are not pale?” She shook her head. - -“No, it is the veil.” They pulled up at the door of the hotel. There was -another fly there, but empty, the horse with a nose-bag, feeding, the -coachman not on the box. - -“The carriage is to wait. You can take the bag up to my room,” he said -to the porter. Then turned to help Margaret. - -“Send out tea for two as quickly as you can. The table is not occupied, -is it?” - -“There is a lady walking about,” the man said. “I don’t know as she ’as -ordered tea. She’s been here some time, seems to be waiting for some -one.” - -“Oh! we don’t want any one but ourselves,” Margaret exclaimed, still -with that breathless strange agitation. - -“I’ll see to that, milady.” He touched his cap. - -When they walked down the path to where, on the terrace overlooking the -sea, the iron table and two chairs awaited them, Margaret said -reminiscently: - -“I sat and waited for you here whilst you saw your room, washed your -hands....” - -“And today I cannot leave you even to wash my hands.” - -The deep tenderness in his voice penetrated, shook her heart. He -remembered what they had for tea last time, and ordered it again when -the waiter came to them: Strawberry jam in a little glass dish, clotted -cream, brown and white bread and butter. “The sea is calmer than it was -on that day,” he said when the waiter went to execute the order. - -“The sky is not less blue,” Margaret answered, and it seemed as if they -were talking in symbols. - -“How wonderful it all is!” That was his exclamation, not hers. She was -unusually silent, but was glad of the tea when it came, ministering to -him and spreading the jam on the bread and butter. - -“Let me do it.” - -“No,” she answered. When she drew her veil up a little way to drink her -tea one could see that her lips were a little tremulous, not as pink as -usual. Gabriel, however, was too supremely happy and content to notice -anything. He poured out all his news, all that had happened since she -left, little things, chiefly details of paper and paint and the -protection of their property from her father and stepmother’s -destructive generosity. - -“It will be all right. I had a chat with Travers.” Travers was the -foreman of the painters. “He will do nothing but with direct orders from -us. The concrete in the basement won’t affect the general appearance, we -can put back the old boards over it. But I think that might be a mistake -although the boards are very interesting, about four times as thick as -the modern ones, worm or rat eaten through. They will make the pipes for -the bath as little obtrusive as possible. The electric wire casings will -go behind the ceiling mouldings. They are not really mouldings, but -carved wood, fallen to pieces in many places. But I am having them -replaced. Margaret, are you listening?” - -She had been. But some one had come out of the hotel. Far off as they -were she heard that turkey gobble and impedimented speech. - -“You can tell Dr. Kennedy that I would not wait any longer. Tell him I -have gone straight up to Carbies. I shall see Mrs. Capel.” - -“The lady from Carbies is here, ma’am; having tea on the terrace, that’s -her carriage.” - -Gabriel had not heard, he was so intent on Margaret and his news. The -sea was breaking on the shingle, and to that sound, so agreeable to him, -he was also listening idly, in the intervals of his talk. The strange -voice in the distance escaped him. The familiar impediment was not -familiar to him. Margaret was cold in the innermost centre of her -unevenly beating heart. - -“Are you listening?” he asked her, and the face she turned on him was -white through the obscuring veil. - -“I am listening, Gabriel.” - -“I will go down and speak to her,” Mrs. Roope was saying to the waiter. -“No, you need not go in advance.” - -Margaret’s heart stood still, the space of a second, and then thundered -on, irregularly. She had no plan ready, her quick brain was numbed. - -“Mrs. Capel!” - -Gabriel looked up and saw a tall woman conspicuously dressed as nun or -nursing sister, in blue flowing cloak and bonnet. A woman with irregular -features, large nose and coarse complexion. When she had said “Mrs. -Capel” Margaret cringed, a shiver went through her, she seemed to shrink -into the corner of the chair. “You know me. I wrote to Dr. Kennedy -Wednesday and the letter required an immediate answer. Now I’ve come for -it.” - -“He went up to London to see you,” she got out. - -“I shall have to be sure you are telling me the truth.” - -“You can ask at the station.” - -Gabriel looked from one to the other perplexedly. But his perplexity was -of short duration, the turkey gobble and St. Vitus twist it was -impossible to mistake. He intervened sharply: - -“You are Mrs. Roope, my sister’s so-called ‘healer.’ When Mrs. Capel -assures you of anything you have not to doubt it.” He spoke haughtily. -“Why are you here?” - -“You know that well enough, Gabriel Stanton.” - -“This is the woman who blackmailed you?” The “yes” seemed wrung from her -unwillingly. His voice was low and tender when he questioned Margaret, -quite a different voice to the one in which he spoke again to the -Christian Scientist. - -“How dare you present yourself again? You ought to have been given in -charge the first time. Are you aware that blackmailing is a criminal -offence?” - -“I am aware of everything I wish. If you care for publicity my motive -can stand the light of day.” - -“You ought to be in gaol.” - -“It would not harm me. There is no sensation in matter.” - -“You would be able to test your faith.” - -“Are you sure of yours?” - -Margaret caught hold of his sleeve: - -“Don’t bandy words with her, Gabriel. She says things without meaning. -Let her go. I will send her away.” She got up and spoke quickly. “Dr. -Kennedy has gone up to town to see you. To ... take you what you asked. -When he does not find you in London he will come straight back here. -They will have told him, I suppose, where you have gone? He has the -money with him.” - -“What are you saying, Margaret?” Gabriel rose too, stood beside her. - -“Wait a minute. Leave me alone, I have to make her understand.” - -Margaret was in an agony of anxiety that the woman should know her -claims had been met, that she should say nothing more before Gabriel. -She did not realise what she was admitting, did not see the change in -his face, the petrifaction. - -“Why don’t you go up to his house, wait for him there?” Then she said to -Gabriel quickly and unconvincingly: - -“This is Dr. Kennedy’s affair. It was Dr. Kennedy for whom you were -asking, wasn’t it?” Mrs. Roope’s cunning was equal to the occasion. - -“It is Dr. Kennedy I have got to see,” she said slowly. - -“If he misses you in London he will get back as quickly as possible.” -Margaret’s strained anxiety was easy to read. Afterwards Gabriel -followed her, as she moved quickly toward the hotel. - -“What has she got to do with Dr. Kennedy or he with her?” he asked then. -Margaret spoke hastily: - -“She sent back the post-dated cheque. It is all settled only they missed -each other. Peter went up to town to find her and she misunderstood and -came after him. He has the other cheque with him.” - -She was purposely incoherent, meaning him to misunderstand, hoping -against hope that he would show no curiosity. Mrs. Roope came after -them, planted herself heavily in their path. - -“I’ll give him until the last train.” - -“Telephone to your own house and you will find he has been there,” -Margaret said desperately. “Let me pass.” - -“You may go.” - -“Insolence!” But Margaret hurried on and he could not let her go alone. - -“I will go into the drawing-room. Get the carriage up. We mustn’t stay -here....” She spoke breathlessly. - -“You are not frightened of her?” He hardly knew what to think, that -Margaret was concealing anything from him was unbelievable, unbearable. - -“Frightened? No. But I want to be away from her presence, vicinity. She -makes me feel ill....” - -Margaret thought the danger was averted, or would be if she could get -away without any more explanation. She had obscured the issue. Peter -Kennedy would come back and pay all that was asked. Gabriel would never -know that it was the second and not the first attempt at blackmailing -from which they were suffering. But she underrated his intelligence, he -was not at all so easily put off. He got the carriage round and put her -in it, enwrapping her with the same care as always. He was very silent, -however, as they drove homeward and his expression was inscrutable. She -questioned his face but without result, put out her hand and he held it. - -“We are not still thinking of Mrs. Roope, Gabriel?” - -“Have you seen her since I was here last?” he asked. - -“Not until she came up to us this afternoon.” She was glad to be able to -answer that truthfully, breathed more freely. - -“Nor heard from her?” - -“Nor heard from her.” - -“How did you know Dr. Kennedy had gone up to town to see her?” - -“He told me so this morning. I ... I advised him to go.” - -“Was this morning the first time you saw him?” - -“No, I saw him yesterday. Am I under cross-examination?” She tried to -smile, speak lightly, but Gabriel sat up by her side without response. -His face was set in harsh lines. She loved him greatly but feared him a -little too, and put forth her powers, talking lightly and of light -things. He came back to the subject and persisted: - -“Why did she send back the post-dated cheque? Had she another given -her?” - -“I ... I suppose so.” - -“Why?” - -“I don’t like the way you are talking to me.” She pouted, and he -relapsed into silence. - -When they got back to Carbies she said she must go up and change her -dress. She was very shaken by his attitude: she thought his self-control -hid incredulity or anger, found herself unable to face either. - -He detained her a moment, pleaded with her. - -“Margaret, if there is anything behind this ... anything you want to -tell me....” She escaped from his detaining arm. - -“I don’t like my word doubted.” - -“You have not given me your word. This is not a second attempt, is it? -Why did she force herself upon you? I shall see Kennedy myself tomorrow, -find out what is going on.” - -“Why should there be anything going on? You are conjuring up ghosts....” -Then she weakened, changed. “Gabriel, don’t be so hard, so unlike -yourself. I don’t know what has come over you.” - -He put his arms about her and spoke hoarsely: - -“My darling, my more than treasure. I can’t doubt you, and yet I am -riven with doubt. Forgive me, but how can you forgive me if I am wrong? -Tell me again, tell me once and for always that nothing has been going -on of which I have been kept in ignorance, that you would not, could not -have broken your word to me. You look ill, scared.... I know now that -from the moment I came you have not been yourself, your beautiful candid -self. Margaret, crown of my life, sweetheart; darling, speak, tell me. -Is there anything I ought to know?” He spoke with ineffable tenderness. - -He was bending over her, holding her, her heart beat against his heart; -she would have answered had she been able. But when her words came they -were no answer to his. - -“Darling, how strange you are! There is certainly nothing you ought to -know. Let me go and get my things off. How strange that you should doubt -me, that you should rather believe that dreadful woman. I have never -seen her since you were down here last, nor heard from her....” - -Her cheeks flamed and were hidden against his coat, she hated her own -disingenuousness. It had been difficult to tell him, now it was -impossible. “Let me go.” - -He released her and she went over to the looking-glass, adjusted her -veil. She had burnt her boats, now there was nothing for it but denial -and more denial. Thoughts went in and out of her aching head like forked -lightning. _He would never know. Peter would arrange, Peter would -manage._ It was a dreadful thing she had done, dreadful. But she had -been driven to it. If the time would come over again ... but time never -does come over again. She must play her part and play it boldly. She was -trembling inside, but outwardly he saw her preening herself before the -glass as she talked to him. - -“I think we have had enough of Mrs. Roope. You haven’t half admired my -frock. I have a great mind not to wear my new teagown tonight. I should -resent it being ignored. We ought to go out again until dinner, the -afternoon is lovely. I can’t sit on the beach in this, but I need only -slip on an old skirt. Shall I put on another skirt? Do you feel in the -humour for the beach? I’ve a thousand questions to ask you. I seem to -have been down here by myself for an age. I have actually started a -book! What do you say to that? I want to tell you about it. What has -been decided about the door-plates? What did the parents say when they -heard I’d fled?” - -“I didn’t see them until the next day.” - -“Had they recovered?” - -“They were resigned. I promised to bring you back with me on Monday.” - -“And now you don’t want to?” - -“How can you say that?” - -“Did I say it? My mood is frivolous, you mustn’t take me too seriously. -The beach ... you haven’t answered about the beach. Perhaps you’d rather -walk. I don’t mind adventuring this skirt if we walk.” - -“You are not too tired?” - -“How conventional!” - -Something had come between them, some summer cloud or thunderstorm. Try -as they would during the remainder of the day they could not break -through or see each other as clearly as before. Margaret talked -frivolously, or seriously, rallied, jested with him. He struggled to -keep up with her, to take his tone from hers, to be natural. But both of -them were acutely aware of failure, of artificiality. The walk, the -dinner, the short evening failed to better the situation. When they bade -each other good-night he made one more effort. - -“You find it impossible to forgive me?” - -“There is nothing I would not forgive you. That’s the essential -difference between us,” she answered lightly. - -“There is no essential difference; don’t say it.” - -“The day has been something of a failure, don’t you think? But then so -was the day when you cut yourself shaving.” She maintained the flippant -tone. “That came right. Perhaps tomorrow when we meet we shall find each -other wholly adorable again.” She would not be serious, was light, -frivolous to the last. “Good-night. Don’t paint devils, don’t see -ghosts. Tomorrow everything may be as before. Kiss me good-night. Sleep -well!” He kissed her, hesitated, kept her in the shelter of his arms: - -“Margaret....” She freed herself: - -“No. I know that tone. It means more questions. You ought to have lived -in the time of the Spanish Inquisition. Don’t you wish you could put me -on the rack? There _is_ a touch of the inquisitor about you. I never -noticed it before.... Good-night!” - - - - - CHAPTER XV - - -Margaret slept ill that night. Round and round in her unhappy mind -swirled the irrefutable fact that she had lied to her lover, and that he -knew she had lied. Broken her promise, her oath; and he knew that she -was forsworn. She passionately desired his respect; in all things he had -been on his knees before her. If he were no longer there she would find -the change of attitude difficult to endure. Yet in the watches of the -night she clung to the hope that he could know nothing definitely. He -might suspect or divine, but he could not know. She counted on Peter -Kennedy, trusted that when the five hundred pounds were paid the woman -would be satisfied, would go quietly away, that nothing more would ever -be heard of her. - -Wednesday next they were to be married. She told herself that if she had -lost anything she would regain it then. Perhaps she would tell him, but -not until after she had re-won him. She knew her power. If, too, she -distrusted it, sensing something in him incorruptible and granite-hard, -she took faint and feverish consolation by reminding herself that it was -night-time, when all troubles look their worst. She resolutely refused -to consider the permanent loss of that which she now knew she valued -more than life itself. The possibility intruded, but she would not look. - -In short snatches of troubled sleep she lived again through the scenes -of the afternoon, saw him doubt, heard him question, gave flippant -answers. In oases of wakefulness she felt his arms about her, and the -restrained kisses that were like vows; conjured up thrilled moments when -she knew how well he loved her. She began to dread those nightmare -sleeps, and to force herself to keep awake. At four o’clock she consoled -herself that it would soon be daylight. At five o’clock, after a -desperate short nightmare of estrangement from which she awoke, -quick-pulsed and pallid, she got up and put on a dressing-gown, drew up -the blind, and opened wide the window. She watched the slow dawn and in -the darkness heard the breakers on the stony beach. Nature calmed and -quieted her. She began to think her fears had been foolish, to believe -that she had not only played for safety but secured it, that the coming -day would bring her the Gabriel she knew best, the humble and adoring -lover. She pictured their coming together, his dear smile and restored -confidence. He would have forgotten yesterday. The dawn she was watching -illumined and lightened the sky. Soon the sun would rise grandly, -already his place was roseate-hued. “Red sky in the morning is the -shepherd’s warning,” runs the old proverb. But Margaret had never heard, -or had forgotten it. To her the roseate dawn was all promise. The day -before them should be exquisite as yesterday, and weld them with its -warmth. She would withhold nothing from him, nothing of her love. Then -peace would fall between them? and the renewal of love? At six o’clock -she pulled down the blinds and went back to bed again, where for two -hours she slept dreamlessly. Stevens woke her with the inevitable tea. - -“It can’t be morning yet? It is hardly light.” She struggled with her -drowsiness. “I don’t hear rain, do I?” - -“There’s no saying what you hear, but it’s raining sure enough, a -miserable morning for May.” - -“May! But it is nearly June!” - -“I’m not gainsaying the calendar.” - -“Pull up the blind.” - -A short time before she had gazed on a roseate dawn, now rain was -driving pitilessly across the landscape, and all the sky was grey. No -longer could she hear the breakers on the shore. All she heard was the -rain. Stevens shut the window. - -“You’d best not be getting up early. There’s nothing to get up for on a -morning like this. It’s not as if you was in the habit of going to -church.” Margaret was conscious of depression. Stevens’s grumbling kept -it at bay, and she detained her on one excuse or another; tried to -extract humour from her habitual dissatisfaction. - -“It will be like this all day, you see if it isn’t. The rain is coming -down straight, too, and the smoke’s blowing all ways.” She changed the -subject abruptly, as maids will, intent on her duties. “I’ll have to be -getting out your clothes. What do you think you’ll wear?” - -“I meant to try my new whipcord.” - -“With the wheat-ear hat! What’s the good of that if you won’t have a -chance of going out?” - -“One of my new tea-gowns, then?” - -“I never did hold with tea-gowns in the morning,” Stevens answered -lugubriously. “I suppose Mr. Stanton will be coming over. Not but what -he’ll get wet through.” - -“I shouldn’t be surprised if he came all the same.” Margaret smiled, and -the omniscient maid reflected the smile, if a little sourly. - -“There’s never no saying. There’s that telephone going. Another mistake, -I suppose. I wish I’d the drilling of them girls. Oh! I’m coming, I’m -coming!” she cried out to the insensitive instrument. “Don’t you attempt -to get up till I come back. You’re going to have a fire to dress by; -calendar or no calendar, it’s as cold as winter.” - -Margaret watched the rain driving in wind gusts against the window until -Stevens came back. Somehow the rain seemed to have altered everything, -she felt the fatigue of her broken night, the irritability of her frayed -nerves. - -“It’s that there Dr. Kennedy. He wants to know how soon he may come -over. He says he’s got something to tell you. ‘All the fat’s in the -fire,’ he said. ‘Am I to tell her that?’ I arst him. ‘Tell her anything -you like,’ he answered, ‘but find out how soon I can see her.’ Very -arbitrary he was and impatient, as if I’d nothing to do but give and -take his messages.” - -“Tell him I’m just getting up. I can be ready in half an hour.” - -“I shall tell him nothing of the sort. Half an hour, indeed, with your -bath and everything, and no breakfast, and the fire not yet lit. Nor one -of the rooms done, I shouldn’t think....” - -“Tell him I’ll see him in half an hour,” Margaret persisted. “Now go -away, that’s a good woman, and do as you are told. Don’t stand there -arguing, or I’ll answer the telephone myself.” She put one foot out of -bed as if to be as good as her word, and Stevens, grumbling and -astonished, went to do her bidding. - -Half an hour seemed too long for Margaret. What had Peter Kennedy to -tell her? Had he met or seen Mrs. Roope? “All the fat was in the fire.” -What fat, what fire? The phrase foreshadowed comedy and not tragedy. But -that was nothing for Peter Kennedy, who was in continual need of -editing, who had not the gift of expression nor the capacity of -appropriate words. She scrambled in and out of her bath, to Stevens’s -indignation, never waiting for the room to be warmed. She was impatient -about her hair, would not sit still to have it properly brushed, but -took the long strands in her own hands and “twisted them up anyhow.” -Stevens’s description of the whole toilette would have been sorry -reading in a dress magazine or ladies’ paper. - -“Give me anything,” she says, “anything. What does it matter? He’ll be -here any minute now. The old dressing-gown, or a shirt and skirt. -Whichever is quickest. What a slowcoach you’re getting!” - -“Slowcoach! She called me a slowcoach, and from first to last it hadn’t -been twenty minutes.” - -Margaret, sufficiently dressed, but without having breakfasted, very -pale and impatient, was at the window of the music room when Peter came -up the gravel path in his noisy motor, flung in the clutch with a -grating sound, pulled the machine to a standstill. There was no ceremony -about showing him up. He was in the room before she had collected -herself. He, too, was pale, his chin unshaved, his eyes a little wild; -looking as if he, also, had not slept. - -“You’ve heard what happened?” he began, abruptly.... “No, of course you -haven’t, how could you? What a fool I am! There’s been a hell of a -hullabaloo. That’s why I telephoned, rushed up. You know that she-cat -came down here?” He had difficulty in explaining his errand. - -“Yes. I saw her, she waited for you at the hotel. Go on, what next?” - -“I didn’t get back until after nine o’clock. And then I found her -waiting for me. The servants did not know what to make of her; they told -me they couldn’t understand what she said, so I suppose she talked -Christian Science. Fortunately I’d got the cheque with me. I had not -been able to change it, the London banks were all closed. She took it -like a bird. Not without some of the jargon and hope that I’d mend my -ways, give up prescribing drugs. You know the sort of thing. I thought -I’d got through, that it was all over. The cheque was dated Saturday, -she would be able to cash it first thing Monday morning. It was as good -as money directly the banks opened. I never dreamt of them meeting.” - -“Who?” asked Margaret, with pale lips. She knew well enough, although -she asked and waited for an answer. - -“She and Gabriel Stanton. It seems she was too late for the last train -and had to put up at the hotel....” - -“At the King’s Arms?” - -“Yes. He met her there, or rather she forced herself on him. God knows -what she had in her mind. Pure mischief, I suspect, though of course it -may have been propaganda. It seems he came in about ten o’clock and went -on to the terrace to smoke or to look at the sea. She followed him -there, tackled him about his sister or his soul.” - -“How do you know all this?” - -“Let me tell the story my own way. He met her full-face so to speak, -wanted to know exactly what she was doing in this part of the world. -Perhaps she didn’t know she was giving away the show. Perhaps she didn’t -know he wasn’t exactly in our confidence. There is no use thinking the -worst of her.” - -“She knew what she was doing, that she was coming between us.” Margaret -spoke in a low voice, a voice of desperate certainty and hopelessness. - -“Well, that doesn’t matter one way or another, what her intentions were, -I mean. I don’t know myself what had happened between you and him. -Although of course I spotted quick enough he’d had some sort of -shock....” - -“Then you have seen him!” - -“I was coming to that. After his interview with her he came straight to -me.” - -“To you! But it was already night!” - -“I’d gone to bed, but he rang the night bell, rang and rang again. I -didn’t know who it was when I shouted through the tube that I’d come -down, that I shouldn’t be half a minute. When I let him in I thought he -was a ghost. I was quite staggered, he seemed all frozen up, stiff. Just -for a moment it flashed across me that he’d come from you, that you were -ill, needed me. But he did not give me time to say the wrong things. -‘Mrs. Roope has just left me,’ he began. ‘The devil she has,’ was all I -could find to answer. I was quite taken aback. I needn’t go over it all -word by word, it wasn’t very pleasant. He accused me of compromising -you, seemed to think I’d done it on purpose, had some nefarious motive. -I was in the dark about how much he knew, and that handicapped me. I -swore you knew nothing about it, and he said haughtily that I was to -leave your name out of the conversation. And now I’m coming to the -point. Why I am here at all. It seems she tried to rush him for a bit -more, and he, well practically told her to go to blazes, said he should -stop the cheque, prosecute her. He seemed to think I was trying to save -myself at your expense. ASS! He is going up this morning to see his -lawyer, he wants an information laid at Scotland Yard. He says the -Christian Science people are practically living on blackmail, getting -hold of family secrets or skeletons. And he’s not going to stand for it. -I did all I knew to persuade him to let well alone. We nearly came to -blows, only he was so damned dignified. I said I believed it would break -you up if there was another scandal. ‘I have no doubt that Mrs. Capel -will see the matter in the same light that I do,’ he said in the -stiffest of all his stiff ways.” Peter Kennedy paused. He had another -word to say, but he said it awkwardly, with an immense effort, and after -a pause. - -“He’ll come up here this morning and tackle you. You don’t care a curse -if I’m dead or alive, I know that. But if ... if he drives you too -far ... well, you know I’d lay down my life for you. He says I’ve no -principle, and as far as you’re concerned that’s true enough. I’d say -black was white, I’d steal or starve to give you pleasure, save you -pain. That’s what I’ve come to say, to put myself at your service.” She -put up her hand, motioned him to silence. All this time he had been -standing up, now he flung himself into a chair, brushed his hand across -his forehead. “I hardly know what I’m saying, I haven’t slept a wink.” - -“You were saying you would do anything for me.” - -“I meant that right enough.” - -Without any preparation, for until now she had listened apparently -calmly, she broke into a sudden storm of tears. He got up again and went -and stood beside her. - -“I can’t live without him,” she said. “I can’t live without him,” she -repeated weakly. - -“Oh, I say, you know....” But he had nothing to say. The sniffing -Stevens, disapproval strongly marked upon her countenance, here brought -in a tray with coffee and rolls. Margaret, recovering herself with an -effort, motioned her to set it down. - -“You ought to make her take it,” Stevens said to Dr. Kennedy -indignantly, “disturbing her before she’s breakfasted. She’s had nothing -inside her lips.” He was glad of the interruption. - -“You stay and back me up, then.” Together they persuaded or forced her -to the coffee, she could not eat, and was impatient that Stevens and the -tray should go away. Her outburst was over, but she was pitiably shaken. - -“He’ll come round, all right,” Peter said awkwardly, when they were -alone again. She looked at him with fear in her eyes: - -“Do you really think so?” - -“Who wouldn’t?” - -“You don’t think he would go up to London without seeing me?” - -“Not likely.” - -She spoke again presently. In the interval Peter conjured up the image -of Gabriel Stanton, speaking to her as he had to him, refusing -compromise, harshly unapproachable, rigid. - -“I could never go through what I went through before.” - -“You shan’t.” - -“What could you do?” - -“I’ll find some way ... a medical certificate!” - -“The shame of it!” She covered her face with her hands. - -“It won’t happen. She’s had her money. He may have rubbed her up the -wrong way, but after all she has nothing to gain by interfering.” - -“If only I had told him myself! If only I hadn’t lied to him!” - -Peter, desperately miserable, walked about the room, interjecting a word -now and again, trying to inspirit her. - -“You had better go,” she said to him in the end. “It’s nearly ten -o’clock. If he is coming up at all he will be here soon.” - -“Of course he is coming up. How can I leave you like this?” he answered -wildly. “Can’t I do anything, say anything, see him for you?” Margaret -showed the pale simulacrum of a smile. - -“That was my idea, once before, wasn’t it? No, you can’t see him for -me.” - -“I can’t do anything?” - -“I’m not sure.” - -She spoke slowly, hesitatingly. In truth she did not know how she was to -bear what she saw before her. Not marriage, safety, happiness, was to be -hers, only humiliation. Death was preferable, a thousand times -preferable. She was impulsive and leaped to this conclusion. - -“Can’t I do anything?” he said again. - -“Peter, Peter Kennedy, you say you would do anything, anything, for me. -I wonder what you mean by it.... How much or how little?” - -“Lay down my life.” - -“Or risk it? There must be a way, you must know a way of ... of -shortening things. I could not go through it all again ... not now. If -the worst came to the worst, if I can’t make him listen to reason, if he -won’t forgive or understand. If I have to face the court again, my -father and stepmother to know of my ... my imprudence, all the horrors -to be repeated. To have to stand up and deny ... be cross-examined. -About you as well as him....” - -Again she hid her face. Then, after a pause in which she saw her life -befouled, and Gabriel Stanton as her judge or executioner, she lifted a -strained and desperate face. “You would find a way to end it?” - -She waited for his answer. - -“I don’t know what you mean.” - -“Yes, you do. If it became unbearable. Life no longer a gift, but -leprous....” - -“It isn’t as if you had done anything,” he exclaimed. - -“I’ve promised and broken my promise, lied, deceived him. It was only to -secure his happiness, mine ... ours.... But if he takes it differently, -and must have publicity....” - -“I don’t believe you could go through it,” he said gloomily. “One of -those heart attacks of yours might come on.” - -“You know the pain is intolerable.” - -“That amyl helps you.” - -“Not much.” - -“Morphia.” - -“Was a failure last time. Peter, _think_, won’t you think? Couldn’t you -give me anything? Isn’t there any drug? You are fond of drugs, learned -in them. Isn’t there any drug that would put me out of my misery?” - -He listened and she pressed him. - -“Think, _think_.” - -“Of course there are drugs.” - -“But _the_ drug.” - -“There’s hyoscine....” - -“Tell me the effect of that?” - -“It depends how it is given ... what it is given for.” - -“For forgetfulness?” - -“A quarter of a grain injection.” - -“And, and....” - -“Nothing, nothingness.” - -“If you love me, Peter.... You say you love me.... If the worst came to -the worst, you will help me through...?” - -“Don’t.” - -“I must.... I want your promise.” - -“What is the good of promising? I couldn’t do it.” - -“You said you could die for me.” - -“It isn’t my death you are asking. Unless I should be hanged!” - -“You can safeguard yourself.” - -“You will never ask me.” - -“But if I did?” - -“Oh, God knows!” - -“If I not only asked but implored? Give me this hope, this promise. _If_ -I come to the end of my tether, can bear no more; then ask you for -release, the great release...?” - -“My hand would drop off.” - -“Lose your hand.” - -“My heart would fail.” - -“Other men have done such things for the woman they love.” - -“It won’t come to that.” - -“But if it did...?” - -She pressed him, pressed him so hard that in the end he yielded, gave -her the promise she asked. His night had been sleepless, he had been -without breakfast. He scarcely knew what he was saying, only that he -could not say “No” to her. And that when he said “Yes,” she took his -hand in hers a moment, his reluctant hand, and laid her cheek against -it. - -“Dear friend,” she said tenderly, “you give me courage.” - -When he went away she looked happier, or at least quieter. He cursed -himself for a fool when he got into the car. But still against his hand -he felt the softness of her cheek and the fear of unmanly tears made him -exceed the speed limit. - -Margaret, left alone, calculated her resources and for all her whilom -amazing vanity found them poor and wanting. What would Gabriel say to -her this morning, how could she answer him? If he truly loved her and -she pointed out to him, proved to him that their marriage, their -happiness, need not be postponed, would he listen? She saw herself -persuading him, but remembered that her father in many an argument had -failed in making him admit that there was more than one standard of -ethics, of right conduct. If he truly loved her! In this black moment -she could doubt it. For unlike Peter Kennedy he would put honour before -her love. - -Gabriel, her lover, came late, on slow reluctant feet. He loved her no -less, although he knew she had deceived him, kept things back from him, -complicated, perhaps, both their lives by her action. He knew her -motives also, that it was because she loved him. He had no harsh -judgment, only an overwhelming pang of tenderness. He, too, had faced -the immediate future. He knew there must be no marriage whilst this -thing hung over and menaced them. Yet to take her into his own keeping, -guard and cherish her, was a desire sharp as a sword is sharp, and too -poignant for words. He thought she would understand him. But more -definitely perhaps he feared her opposition. The fear had slowed his -feet. She did not know her lover when she dreaded his reproaches. When -he came into the music room this grey, wet morning, he saw that she -looked ill, but hardly guessed that she was apprehensive, and of him. He -bent over her hands, kissed her hands, held them against his lips. - -“My dear, my dear.” Her mercurial spirits rose at a bound. - -“I thought you would reproach me.” - -“My poor darling!” - -“I wish I had told you.” - -“Never mind that now.” - -“But that was the worst of everything. You don’t know how I have -reproached myself.” - -“You must not.” - -“You have not left off caring for me, then?” - -“I never cared for you so much.” - -“Why do you look so grave, so serious?” - -Her heart was shaking as she questioned him. In his tenderness there was -something different, something inflexible. - -“My darling,” he said again. - -“That means...?” - -“I am going to ask you to let me stop that cheque.” - -“No.” - -“Fortunately it is Sunday. We have the day before us. I am going up by -the two-o’clock. I’ve sent my bag down to the station. I’ve already been -on to my lawyer by telephone and he will see me at his private house -this afternoon. In my opinion we have nothing at all to fear. The King’s -Proctor will not move on such evidence as she has to offer, she has -overreached herself. We ought to have her in gaol by tomorrow night.” - -“In gaol!” - -“That is where she should be. She frightened you ... she shall go to -gaol for it. Margaret, will you write to your bankers ... let me -write....” - -“No!” she said again. - -“Sweetheart!” and he caressed her. - -“No. Gabriel, listen to me. I am overwhelmed because I broke my promise -to you, was not candid. But though I am overwhelmed and unhappy....” - -“I will not let you be unhappy....” - -She brushed that aside and went on: - -“I am not sorry for what I have done. There is not a word of truth in -what she says. As you say, I have admitted guilt, being innocent. -Gabriel, I was innocent before, but racked, tortured to prove it. Here I -have only paid five hundred pounds. Oh, Heaven! give me words, the power -to show you. I am pleading with you for my life. For my life, -Gabriel ... ours. Let the cheque go through, give her another if -necessary, and yet another. I don’t mind buying my happiness.” She -pleaded wildly. - -“Hush! Hush!” He hushed her on his breast, held her to him. - -“Dear love....” She wept, and the tortures of which she spoke were his. -“If only I might yield to you.” - -“What is it stops you? Obstinacy, self-righteousness....” - -“If it were either would I not yield now, now, with your dear head upon -my breast?” She was sobbing there. “Dear love, you unman me.” His -breathing was irregular. “Listen, you unman me, you weaken me. We were -both looking forward, and must still be able to look forward. And -backward, too. Not stain our name, more than our name, our own personal -honour. Margaret, we are clean, there must be no one who can say, ‘Had -they been innocent, would they have paid to hide it?’ And this fresh -charge, this fresh and hideous accusation! And you would accept all, -admit all! My dear, my dear, it must not be, we have not only ourselves -to consider.” - -“Not only ourselves!” He held her closer, whispered in her ear. - -She had heard him discuss commercial morality with her father, had seen -into both their souls; learnt her lover’s creed. One must not best a -fellowman, fool though he might be, nor take advantage of his need nor -ignorance. She had learnt that there were such things as undue -percentage of profit, although no man might know what that profit was. -“Child’s talk,” her father had called it, and told him Wall Street would -collapse in a day if his tenets were to hold good. Margaret had been -proud of him then, although secretly her reason had failed to support -him, for it is hard to upset the teaching of a lifetime. To her, it -seemed there were conventions, but common sense or convenience might -override them. In this particular instance why should she not submit to -blackmail, paying for the freedom she needed? But he could not be -brought to see eye to eye with her in this. She used all the power that -was in her to prove to him that there is no sharp line of demarcation -between right and wrong, that one can steer a middle course. - -The short morning went by whilst she argued. She put forth all her -powers, and in the end, quite suddenly, became conscious that she had -not moved him in the least, that as he thought when he came into the -room, so he thought now. He used the same words, the same hopeless -unarguable words. “Being innocent we cannot put in this plea of guilty.” -She would neither listen nor talk any more, but lay as a wrestler, who, -after battling again and again until the whistle blew and the respite -came, feels both shoulders touching the ground, and suddenly, without -appeal, admits defeat. - -When Gabriel wrote the letter to the bank stopping the cheque that was -to be paid to Mrs. Roope on the morrow, she signed it silently. When he -asked her to authorise him to see her father if necessary, to allow -either or both of them to act for her, she acquiesced in the same way. -She was quite spent and exhausted. - -“I will let you know everything we do, every step we take.” - -“I don’t want to hear.” She accepted his caresses without returning -them, she had no capacity left for any emotion. - -Then, after he had gone, for there was no time to spare and he must not -miss his train, she remained immobile for a time, the panorama of the -future unfolding before her exhausted brain. What a panorama it was! She -was familiar with every sickening scene that passed before her. Lawyer’s -office, documents going to and fro, delay and yet more delay. Appeal to -Judge in Chambers, and from Judge in Chambers, interrogatories and yet -more interrogatories, demands for further particulars, the further -particulars questioned; Counsel’s opinion, the case set down for -hearing, adjournments and yet further adjournments. - -At last the Court. Speeches. And then, standing behind the rail in the -witness-box, the cynosure of all eyes, she saw herself as in the stocks, -for all to pelt with mud ... herself, her wretched, cowering self! -Gabriel said they were clean people; she and he were clean. So far they -were, but they would be pelted with mud nevertheless; perhaps all the -more because their cleanliness would make so tempting a target. The -judge would find the mud-flinging entertaining, would interpolate -facetious remarks. The Christian Science element would give him -opportunity. The court would be crowded to suffocation. She felt the -closeness and the musty air, and felt her heart contract ... but not -expand. That slight cramp woke her from her dreadful dream, but woke her -to terror. Such a warning she had had before. She was able, however, to -ring for help. Stevens came running and began to administer all the -domestic remedies, rating her at the same time for having “brought it on -herself,” grumbling and reminding her of all her imprudences. - -“No breakfast, and lunch not up yet; I never did see such goin’s-on.” - -She had the sense, however, in the midst of her grumbling to send for -the doctor, and before the pain was at its height he was in the room. -The bitter-sweet smell of the amyl told him what had been already done. -What little more he could do brought her no relief. He took out the case -he always carried, hesitated, and chose a small bottle. - -“Get me some hot water,” he said, to Stevens. - -“Morphia?” she gasped. - -“Yes.” - -“Put it away.” - -“Because it failed once is no reason it should fail again.” - -“I’m in ... I’m in ... agony.” - -“I know.” - -“And there’s no hope.” - -“Oh, yes, you’ll get through this.” - -“I don’t want to ... only not to suffer. Remember, you promised.” He -pretended not to hear, busying himself about her. - -“He has gone. I’ve stopped the cheque. Peter....” The pain rose, her -voice with it, then collapsed; it was dreadful to see her. - -“Help me ... give me the hyoscine,” she said faintly. His hand shook, -his face was ashen. “I can’t bear this ... you promised.” The agony -broke over her again. He poured down brandy, but it might have been -water. His heart was wrung, and drops of perspiration formed upon his -forehead. She pleaded to him in that faint voice, then was past -pleading, and could only suffer, then began again: - -“Pity me. Do something ... let me go; help me....” - -One has to recollect that he loved her, that he knew her heart was -diseased, that there would be other such attacks. Also that Gabriel -Stanton, as he feared, had proved inflexible. There would be no wedding -and inevitable publicity. Then she cried to him again. And Stevens took -up the burden of her cry. - -“For the Lord’s sake give her something, give her what she’s asking for. -Human nature can’t bear no more ... look at her.” Stevens was moved, as -any woman would be, or man, either, by such suffering. - -“Your promise!” were words that were wrung through her dry lips. Her -tortured eyes raked and racked him. - -“I ... I can’t,” was all the answer. - -“If you care, if you ever cared. Your miserable weakness. Oh, if I only -had a man about me!” She turned away from him for ease and he could -hardly hear her. In the next paroxysm he lifted her gently on to the -floor, placed a pillow under her head. He whispered to her, but she -repelled him, entreated her, but she would not listen. All the time the -pain went on. “You promised,” were not words,—but a moan. - -Desperately he took the cachet from the wrong bottle, melted it, filled -his needle. When he bade Stevens roll up her sleeve, she smiled on him, -actually smiled. - -“Dear Peter! How right I was to trust you!...” Her voice trailed. The -change in her face was almost miraculous, the writhing body relaxed. She -sighed. Almost it seemed as if the colour came back to her lips, to her -tortured face. “Dear, good Peter,” were her last words, a message he -stooped to hear. - -“Thank the Lord,” said Stevens piously, “she’s getting easier.” She was -still lying on the floor, a pillow under her head, and they watched her -silently. - -“Shall I lift her back?” - -“No, leave her a few minutes.” He had the sense to add, “The morphia -doesn’t usually act so quickly.” Stevens had seen him give her morphia -before in the same way, with the same preliminaries. He had saved her, -he must save himself. He was conscious now of nothing but gladness. He -had feared his strength, but his strength had been equal to her need. -She was out of pain. Nothing else mattered. She was out of pain, he had -promised her and been equal to his promise. He was no Gabriel Stanton to -argue and deny, deny and argue. He wiped his needle carefully, put it -away. Then a cry from Stevens roused him, brought him quickly to her -side. - -“She’s gone. Oh, dear! Oh, dear! She’s gone!” He lifted her up, laid her -on the sofa, the smile was still on her face, she looked asleep. But -Stevens was there and he had to dissimulate. - -“She is unconscious. Get on to the telephone. Ask Dr. Lansdowne to come -over.” - -Then he made a feint of trying remedies. Strychnine, more amyl, more -brandy, artificial respiration. He was glad, glad, glad, exulting as the -moments went on. He thanked God that she was at rest. “_He giveth His -beloved sleep._” He called her beloved, whispered it in her ear when -Stevens was summoning that useless help. He had sealed her to him, she -was his woman now, and for ever. No self-righteous iceberg could hold -and deny her. - -“Sleep well, beloved,” he whispered. “Sleep well. Smile on me, smile -your thanks.” - -He recovered himself with an immense, an incredible effort. He wanted to -laugh, to exult, to call on the world to see his work, what he had done -for her, how peaceful she was, and happy. He was as near madness as a -sane man could be, but by the time his partner came he composed his face -and spoke with professional gravity: - -“I am afraid you are too late.” - -Dr. Lansdowne, hurrying in, wore his habitual grin. - -“I always knew it would end like this. Didn’t I tell you so? An -aneurism. I diagnosed it a long time ago.” He had even forgotten his -diagnosis. “I suppose you’ve tried ... so and so?” He recapitulated the -remedies. Stevens, stunned by the calamity, but not so far as to make -her forget to pull down the blinds, listened and realised Dr. Kennedy -had left nothing undone. - -“I suppose there will have to be an inquest?” - -“An inquest! My dear fellow. _An inquest!_ What for? I have seen her and -diagnosed, prognosed. You have attended her for weeks under my -direction. Unless her family wish it, it is quite unnecessary. I shall -be most pleased to give a death certificate. You have informed the -relatives, of course?” - -“Not yet.” - -Stevens emitted one dry sob which represented her entire emotional -capacity, and hastened to ring up Queen Anne’s Gate. Dr. Lansdowne began -to talk directly she left them alone. He told his silent colleague of an -eructation that troubled him after meals, and of a faint tendency to -gout. Then cast a perfunctory glance at the sofa. - -“Pretty woman!” he said. “All that money, too!” - -Peter, suddenly, inexplicably unable to stand, sank on his knees by the -sofa, hid his face in her dress. Dr. Lansdowne said. “God bless my -soul!” Peter broke into tears like a girl. - -“Come, come, this will never do. Pull yourself together, or I shall -think.... I shan’t know what to think....” - -Peter recovered himself as quickly as he had collapsed, rose to his -feet. - -“It was so sudden,” he said apologetically. “I was unprepared....” - -“I could have told you exactly what would happen. The case could hardly -have ended any other way.” - -He said a few kind words about himself and his skill as a diagnostician. -Peter listened meekly, and was rewarded by the offer of a lift home. -“You can come up again later, when the family has arrived, they will be -sure to want to know about her last moments.... Or I might come myself, -tell them I foresaw it....” - - - - - CHAPTER XVI - - -I woke up suddenly. A minute ago I had seen Peter Kennedy kneeling by -the sofa, his head against Margaret’s dress. He had looked young, little -more than a boy. Now he was by my side, bending over me. There was grey -in his hair, lines about his face. - -“You’ve grown grey,” was the first thing I said, feebly enough I’ve no -doubt, and he did not seem to hear me. “My arm aches. How could you do -it?” - -“Do what?” - -“She was so young, so impetuous, everything might have come right....” - -“She is wandering,” he said. I hardly knew to whom he spoke, but felt -the necessity of protest. - -“I’m not wandering. Is Ella there?” - -“Of course I am. Is there anything you want?” She came over to me. - -“I needn’t write any more, need I? I’m so tired.” Ella looked at him as -if for instructions, or guidance, and he answered soothingly, as one -speaks to a child or an invalid: - -“No, no, certainly not. You need not write until you feel inclined. She -has been dreaming,” he explained. - -It did not seem worth while to contradict him again. I was not -wide-awake yet, but swayed on the borderland between dreams and reality. -Three people were in the dusk of the well-known room. They disentangled -themselves gradually; Nurse Benham, Dr. Kennedy, Ella in the easy-chair, -Margaret’s easy-chair. It was evening and I heard Dr. Kennedy say that I -was better, stronger, that he did not think it necessary to give me a -morphia injection. - -“Or hyoscine.” - -I am sure I said that, although no one answered me, and it was as if the -words had dissolved in the twilight of the room. Incidentally I may say -I never had an injection of morphia since that evening. I knew how easy -it was to make a mistake with drugs. So many vials look alike in that -small valise doctors carry. I was either cunning or clever that night in -rejecting it. Afterwards it was only necessary to be courageous. - -I found it difficult in those first few twilight days of recovering -consciousness to separate this Dr. Kennedy who came in and out of my -bedroom from that other Dr. Kennedy, little more than a boy, who had -wept by the woman he released, the authoress whose story I had just -written. And my feelings towards him fluctuated considerably. My -convalescence was very slow and difficult, and I often thought of the -solution Margaret Capel had found, sometimes enviously, at others with a -shuddering fear. At these times I could not bear that Dr. Kennedy should -touch me, his hand on my pulse gave me an inward shiver. At others I -looked upon him with the deepest interest, wondering if he would do as -much for me as he had done for her, if his kindness had this meaning. -For he was kind to me, very kind, and at the beck and call of my -household by night and day. Ella sent for him if my temperature -registered half a point higher or lower than she anticipated, any -symptom or change of symptom was sufficient to send him a peremptory -message, that he never disregarded. Ella, I could tell, still suspected -us of being in love with each other, and she dressed me up for his -visits. Lacy underwear, soft chiffony tea-gowns, silken hose and satin -or velvet shoes diverted my weakness into happier channel and kept her -in her right _milieu_. - -Then, not all at once, but gradually and almost incredibly the whole -circumstances changed. Dr. Kennedy came one day full of excitement to -tell us that a new treatment had been found for my illness. Five hundred -cases had been treated, of which over four hundred had been cured, the -rest ameliorated. Of course we were sceptical. Other consultants were -called in and, not having suggested the treatment, damned it -wholeheartedly. One or two grudgingly admitted a certain therapeutic -value in selected cases, but were sure that mine was not one of them! -The medical world is as difficult to persuade to adventure as an old -maid in a provincial town. My own tame general practitioner, whom I had -previously credited with some slight intelligence, was moved to write to -Dr. Kennedy urging him vehemently to forbear. He was fortunate enough to -give his reasons, and for me at least they proved conclusive! - -On the 27th of May I took my first dose of thirty grains of iodide of -potassium and spent the rest of the day washing it down with glasses of -chlorine water masked with lemon. I was still the complete invalid, -going rapidly downhill; on a water bed, spoon-fed, and reluctantly -docile in Benham’s hard, yet capable hands. On the 27th of June I was -walking about the house. By the 27th of July I had put on seventeen -pounds in weight and had no longer any doubt of the result. I had found -the dosage at first both nauseous and nauseating. Now I drank it off as -if it had been champagne. Hope effervesced in every glass. The desire to -work came back, but without the old irritability. Ella, before she left, -said I was more like myself than I had been for years. Dr. Kennedy had -unearthed this new treatment and she extolled him, notwithstanding her -old prejudices, admitted it was to him we owed my restoration, yet never -ceased to rally me and comment on the power of love. I agreed with her -in that, knowing hers had saved me even before the drug began to act. It -was for her hand I had groped in the darkest hour of all. Even now I -remember her passionate avowal that she would not let me die, my more -weakly passionate response that I could not leave her lonely in the -world. Now we said rude things to each other, as sisters will, with an -intense sense of happiness and absence of emotion. I criticised Tommy’s -handwriting, and she retorted that at least she saw it regularly. Whilst -as for Dennis.... - -But there was no agony there now to be assuaged. My boy was on his way -home and the words he had written, the cable that he had sent when he -heard of my illness, lay near my heart, too sacred to show her. I let -her think I had not heard from him. Closer even than a sister lies the -tie between son and mother. Not perhaps between her and her rough Tommy, -her fair Violet, but between me and my Dennis, my wild erratic genius, -who could nevertheless pen me those words ... who could send me the -sweetest love letter that has ever been written. - -But this has nothing to do with me and Dr. Peter Kennedy, and the -curious position between us. For a long time after I began to get well -it seemed we were like two wary wrestlers, watching for a hold. Only -that sometimes he seemed to drop all reserves, to make an extraordinary -_rapprochement_. I might flush, call myself a fool, remember my age, but -at these times it would really appear as if Ella had some reason in her -madness, as if he had some personal interest in me. At these times I -found him nervous, excitable, utterly unlike his professional self. As -for me I had to preserve my equanimity, ignore or rebuff without -disturbing my equilibrium. I was fully employed in nursing my new-found -strength, swallowing perpetually milk and eggs, lying for hours on an -invalid carriage amid the fading gorse, reconstructing, rebuilding, -making vows. I had been granted a respite, if not a reprieve, and had to -prove my worthiness. The desire for work grew irresistible. When I asked -for leave he combated me, combated me strenuously. - -“You are not strong enough, not nearly strong enough. You have built up -no reserve. You must put on another stone at least before you can -consider yourself out of the wood.” - -“I won’t begin anything new, but that story, the story I wrote in -water....” I watched him when I said this. I saw his colour rise and his -lips tremble. - -“Oh, yes. I had forgotten about that.” But I saw he had not forgotten. -“You never saw your midnight visitor again?”—he asked me with an attempt -at carelessness—“Margaret Capel. Do you remember, in the early days of -your illness how often you spoke of her, how she haunted you?” He spoke -lightly, but there was anxiety in his voice, and Fear ... was it Fear I -saw in his eyes, or indecision? “Since you have begun to get better you -have never mentioned her name. You were going to write her life ...” he -went on. - -“And death,” I answered to see what he would say. We were feinting now, -getting closer. - -“You know she died of heart disease,” he asked quickly. “There was an -inquest....” - -“I saw her die,” I answered, not very coolly or conclusively. His face -was very strange and haggard, and I felt sorry for him. - -“How strange and vivid dreams can be. Morphia dreams especially,” he -replied, rather questioningly than assertively. - -“I thought you agreed mine were not dreams?” - -“Did I? When was that?” - -“When you brought me their letters, told me I was foredoomed to write -her story. Hers and his. I can’t think why you did.” - -“Did I say that?” - -“More than once. I suppose you thought I was not going to get better.” -He did not answer that except with his rising colour and confusion, and -I saw now I had hit upon the truth. “I wonder you gave me the iodide,” I -said thoughtfully. - -“I suppose now you think me capable of every crime in the calendar?” - -That brought us to close quarters, and I took up the challenge. - -“No, I don’t. Your hand was forced.” Then I added, I admit more cruelly: -“Have you ever done it again?” - -He had been sitting by my couch in the garden; a basket-work chair stood -there always for him. Now he got up abruptly, walked away a few steps. I -watched him, then thought of my question, a dozen others rising in my -mind. It was eleven years since Margaret Capel died and a jury of twelve -good men and true had found that heart disease had been the cause of -death. There had been a rumour of suicide, and, in society, some talk of -cause. Absurd enough, but, as Ella had reminded me, very prevalent and -widespread. The rising young authoress was supposed to have been in love -with an eminent politician. His wife died shortly before she started the -long-delayed divorce proceedings against James Capel, and this gave -colour to the rumour. It was hazarded that he had made it clear to her -that remarriage was not in his mind. Few people knew of the real state -of affairs. Gabriel Stanton shut that close mouth of his and told no -one. I wondered about Gabriel Stanton, but more about Peter Kennedy, who -had walked away from me when I spoke. What had happened to him in these -eleven years? Into what manner of man had he grown? He came back -presently, sat down again by my couch, spoke abruptly as if there had -been no pause. - -“You want to know whether I have ever done for anybody what I did for -Margaret Capel?” - -“Yes, that is what I asked you.” - -“Will you believe me when I tell you?” - -“Perhaps. Why did you first encourage me to write Margaret Capel’s life -and then try and prevent my doing it?” - -“You won’t believe me when I tell you.” - -“Probably not.” - -“I wanted to know whether she had forgiven me, whether she was still -glad. When you told me you saw and spoke to her....” - -“It was almost before that, if I remember rightly.” - -“It may have been. Do you remember I said you were a reincarnation? The -first time I came in and saw you sitting there, at her writing-table, in -her writing-chair, I thought of you as a reincarnation.” - -The light in his eyes was rather fitful, strange. - -“I was right, wasn’t I, Margaret?” He put a hand on my knee. I -remembered how she had flung it off under similar circumstances. I let -it lie there. Why not? - -“My name is Jane.” It came back to me that I had said this to him once -before. - -“You don’t care for me at all?” - -“I am glad you thought of the intensive iodide treatment. It has its -advantages over hyoscine.” - -“You have not changed?” - -“I would rather like you to remember this is the twentieth century.” - -He sighed and took his hand off my knee, drew it across his forehead. - -“You don’t know what the last few months have meant to me, coming up -here again, every day or twice a day, taking care of you, giving you -back those letters, knowing you knew....” - -“You had not the temptation to rid yourself of me again?” - -“You have grown so cold. I suppose you would not look at the idea of -marrying me?” - -“You suppose quite correctly,” I answered, thinking of Ella, and what a -score this would be to her. - -“It would make everything so right. I have been thinking of this ever -since you began to get better, before, too. You will always be delicate, -need a certain amount of care. No one could give it to you as well as I. -Why not? I have almost the best practice in Pineland, and I deserve it, -too. I’ve worked hard in these eleven years. I’ve given an honest -scientific trial to every new treatment. I’ve saved scores of lives....” - -“Your own in jeopardy all the time.” - -“She asked me to do it, begged me to do it....” He spoke wildly. -“Gabriel Stanton was inflexible, the marriage was to be postponed whilst -Mrs. Roope was prosecuted, or the case fought out in the Law Courts. And -every little anxiety or excitement set her poor heart beating ... put -her in pain ... jeopardised her life. I’d do it again tomorrow. I don’t -care who knows. You’ll have to tell if you want to. If you married me -you couldn’t give evidence against me....” - -His smile startled me; it was strange, cunning. It seemed to say, “See -how clever I am,—I have thought of everything.” - -“There, I have had that in my mind ever since you began to be better.” - -“It was not because you have fallen in love with me, then?” I scoffed. - -“When you are Margaret, I love you ... I adore you.” The whole secret -flashed on me then, flashed through his strange perfervid eyes. We were -in full view of a curious housemaid at a window, but he kneeled down by -my couch, as he had kneeled by Margaret’s. - -“You are Margaret. Tell me the truth. There is no other fellow now. You -always said if it were not for Gabriel Stanton....” - -I quieted him with difficulty. I saw what was the matter. Of course I -ought to have seen it before, but vanity and Ella obscured the truth. -The poor fellow’s mind was unhinged. For years he had brooded and -brooded, yet worked magnificently at his profession, worked at making -amends. The place and I had brought out the latent mischief. Now he -implored me to marry him, to show him I was glad he had carried out my -wishes. - -“Your heart is now quite well ... I have sounded it over and over again. -You will never have a return of those pains. _Margaret...._” - -I got rid of him that day as quickly as possible, not answering yes or -no definitely, marking time, soothing him disingenuously. Before the -next day was at its meridian I had hurriedly left Carbies. Left -Pineland, all the strange absorbing story, and this poor obsessed -doctor. I left a letter for him, the most difficult piece of prose I -have ever written. I was writing to a madman to persuade him he was -sane! I gave urgent reasons for being in London, added a few lines, that -I hoped he would understand, about having abandoned my intention of -turning my morphia dreams into “copy”; tried to convey to him that he -had nothing to fear from me.... - -I never had an answer to my letter. I parried Ella’s raillery, resumed -my old life. But I could not forget my country practitioner nor what I -owed him. A peculiar tenderness lingered. However I might try to -disguise names and places he would read through the lines. It was -difficult to say what would be the effect on his mind and I would not -take the risk. I held over my story as long as I was able, even wrote -another meantime. But three months ago I became a free woman. I read in -the obituary column of my morning paper that Peter Kennedy, M.D., -F.R.C.S., of Pineland, Isle of Wight, had died from the effects of a -motor accident. - -The obituary notices were very handsome and raised him from the -obscurity of a mere country practitioner. It mentioned the distinguished -persons he had had under his care. The late Margaret Capel, for -instance. But not myself! I suspected Dr. Lansdowne of having sent the -notices to the press, _his_ name occurred in all of them, the -partnership was bugled. - -Peter Kennedy died well. He was driving his car quickly on an urgent -night call. Some strange cur frisked into the road and to avoid it he -swerved suddenly. Death must have been instantaneous. I was glad that he -died without pain. I had rather he was alive today, although my story -had remained for ever unwritten. So few people have ever cared for me. -Had I chosen I do believe his reincarnation theory would have held. And -I should have had at least one lover to oppose to Ella’s many! - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES - - - 1. Added CONTENTS. - 2. Changed “Your faithfully,” to “Yours faithfully,” on p. 75. - 3. Silently corrected typographical errors. - 4. Retained anachronistic and non-standard spellings as printed. - 5. 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