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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5147604 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #55927 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/55927) diff --git a/old/55927-0.txt b/old/55927-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 6db9dc5..0000000 --- a/old/55927-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,9710 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Derelicts, by William J. Locke - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - -Title: Derelicts - -Author: William J. Locke - -Release Date: November 10, 2017 [EBook #55927] -Last Updated: April 29, 2018 - - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DERELICTS *** - - - - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by Google Books - - - - - - - - - -DERELICTS - -By William J. Locke - -Author of “At The Gate of Samaria” and “The Demagogue and Lady Phayre” - -John Lane: The Bodley Head London and New York - -1897 - -[Ill 0010] - - -DERELICTS - - - - -Part I - - - - -CHAPTER I--BEYOND THE PALE - - -Warm day” said the policeman. - -The man thus addressed looked up from the steps, where he was sitting -bareheaded, and nodded. Then, rather quickly, he put on his hat. - -“Not much Bank Holiday hereabouts.” - -“So much the better,” said the man. - -“It’s all very well for them as likes it,” said the policeman, wiping -his forehead. - -It was the first Monday in August, and his beat was not a lively one. -Curiosity had attracted him toward the sitting figure, and the social -instinct prompted conversation. Receiving, however, an uninterested nod -in reply to his last remark, he turned away reluctantly and continued -his slow tramp up the street. - -The man took no notice of his departure, but, resting his chin on his -hands, gazed wistfully across the road. Why he had come here to Holland -Park he scarcely knew. Perhaps, in his aimless walk from his lodgings -in Pimlico, he had unconsciously followed a once familiar track that had -brought him to a spot filled with sweet and bitter associations. - -The blinds were drawn in the great house opposite that stared white in -the noonday sun. A beer-can hanging on the area railings announced the -caretaker. Like most of the mansions in the long, well-kept street, it -seemed abandoned to sun and silence. - -It was the first time he had seen the house since the cloud had fallen -upon his life. Once its interior had been as familiar to him as his own -boyhood’s home. Its inmates gave him flattering welcome. He was courted -for his brilliant promise and admired for his good looks. A whisper of -feasting and riotous living that hovered around his reputation caused -him to be petted by the household as the prodigal cousin. The comforts -of wealth, the charm of refinement, the warmth of affection, were his -whenever he chose to knock for admittance at that door. Now he had lost -them all, as irrevocably as Adam lost Eden. He was an outcast among men. -Not only had he forfeited his right to mount the steps, but he knew that -the very mention of his existence in that household brought shame and -fierce injunctions of silence. - -He gazed at the drawn blinds of the deserted house in an agony of -hopelessness, craving the warm sympathy, the laughter, the dear human -companionship, the mere sound of his Christian name which he had not -heard uttered for over two years--ever since he had entered by that gate -above which the _lasciate ogni speranza_ seemed written in letters of -flame. The lines deepened on his face. The touch of a friendly hand, -a kind glance from familiar eyes, the daily, unnoted possession of -millions, were to him a priceless treasure, forever beyond his reach. -He was barely thirty. His life was wrecked. Nothing lay before him but -pariahdom, and slinking from the gaze of honest men. And within him -there burnt no fiery sense of injustice to keep alive the flame of noble -impulse--only self-contempt, ignominy, the ineffaceable brand of the -gaol. - -It was on the pavement opposite that he had been arrested. He had -tripped down the steps in evening dress, his ears buzzing with the -laughter within, in spite of tremulous throbbings of his heart, and had -walked into the arms of the two quiet officers in plain clothes who had -been patiently awaiting his exit. From that moment onward his life -had been one pain and horror. Regained freedom had brought him little -joy--had brought him in fact increased despair. During the last few -months of his imprisonment he had yearned sickeningly for the day of -release. It had come. Sometimes he regretted the benumbed hours of that -mid-time in gaol, when pain had been lost in apathy. He had been free -for five months. In all probability he would be free for the rest of his -life. Sometimes he shuddered at the prospect. - -The policeman again passed by, and this time eyed him askance. Why was -he sitting on those steps? A suspicion of felonious purpose relieved the -monotony of his beat. - -“You ’ll be moving on soon,” he said. “You mustn’t doss on them doorsteps -all day.” - -The man looked at him rather stupidly. His first impulse was one of -servile obedience--an instinct of late habit, and he rose from -his seat. Then his sense of independence asserted itself, and -he said, in a somewhat defiant tone:-- - -“I felt faint from the heat. You have no right to molest me.” - -The policeman glanced at him from head to foot. A gentleman evidently, -in spite of well-worn clothes and gloveless hands thrust into trousers -pockets. He wore no watch-chain, and his shirt-cuffs were destitute of -links. “Down upon his luck,” thought the policeman; “ill too.” The man’s -face was pinched, and of the transparent white of a thin, fair man with -delicately cut features. His eyes were heavy, deeply sunken, and wore an -expression of weariness mingled with fear. The side muscles by his mouth -were relaxed, as if a heavy drooping moustache had dragged them -down; the scanty blonde hair on his upper lip, curled up at the ends, -contrasted oddly with this impression. He looked careworn and ill. His -clothes hung loosely upon him. The policeman surrendered his point. - -“Well, you ain’t obstructing the traffic,” he replied good-humouredly; -and again he left the man alone, who reseated himself on the shady -steps, as if disinclined to stir from comfortable quarters. But the -spell of his meditations had been broken. He leaned his head against the -stone pillar of the balustrade and tried to think of occupation for the -day. He longed for to-morrow, when he could resume his weary search for -work, interrupted since Saturday noon. At first he had plunged into the -hopeless task with feverish anxiety, humiliated by rebuffs, agonised -through the frustration of idle hopes. Now it had grown mechanical, a -daily routine, devoid of pain or joy, to drag himself through the busy -streets from office to office and from shop to shop. He resented the -Sunday cessation of work, as interfering with the tenor of his life. -This Bank Holiday added another Sunday to the week. - -The heat and glare and soundless solitude of the street made him drowsy. -The thought of death passed through him: an euthanasia--to fade -there peacefully out of existence. And then to be picked up dead on a -doorstep--a fitting end. _Finis coronat opus_. He sniffed cynically at -the idea. The minutes passed. The shade gradually encroached upon the -sunlight of the pavement. A cat from one of the great deserted houses -drew near with meditative step, smelt his boots, and, in the bored -manner of her tribe, curled herself up to slumber. A butcher’s cart -rattling past awoke the man, and he bent down and stroked the creature -at his feet. Then he became aware of a figure approaching him, along -the pavement--a tiny woman, neatly dressed. He watched her idly, with -lack-lustre gaze. But when she came within distance of salutation, their -eyes met, and each started in recognition. He rose hurriedly and made a -step as if to cross the road, but the little lady stopped still. - -“Stephen Chisely!” - -She moved forward and laid a detaining touch upon his arm, and looked up -questioningly into his face:-- - -“Won’t you speak to me?” - -The voice was so soft and musical, the intonation so winning, that he -checked his impulse of flight; but he stared at her half bewildered. - -“You haven’t forgotten me--Yvonne Latour?” she continued. - -“Forgotten you? No,” he replied, slowly. “But I am not accustomed to -being recognised.” - -“The world is very full of hateful people,” she said. “Oh! how -wretchedly ill you are looking! That was why you were sitting down on -the doorstep. My poor fellow!” - -There was a suggestion of tears in her eyes. He turned his head away -quickly. - -“You mustn’t talk to me like that,” he said, huskily. “I’m not fit for -you to speak to. When I went under, I went under--for good and all. -Good-bye, Madame Latour--and God bless you for saying a kind word to -me.” - -“Why need you go away? Walk a little with me, won’t you? We can go along -to the Park and sit quietly and talk.” - -“Do you really mean it--that you would walk with me--in the public -streets?” - -“Why, of course,” she replied, with a little air of surprise. “Did -we not have many walks together in the old days? Do you think I have -forgotten? And you want friends so, so badly that even poor little me -may be of some good. Come.” - -They moved away together, and walked some steps in silence. He was too -dazed with the sudden realisation of his yearning for human tenderness -to find adequate speech. At last he said harshly:-- - -“You know what you are doing? You are in the company of a man who -committed a disgraceful crime and has rotted in a gaol for two years.” - -“Ah, don’t say such things,” said Madame Latour. “You hurt me. There -are hundreds of people in this great London, honoured and respected, who -have done far worse than you. Hundreds of thousands,” she added, with -exaggerated conviction. “Besides, you are still my good, kind friend. -What has passed cannot alter that.” - -“I can’t understand it yet,” he said lamely. “You are the first who has -said a kind word to me.” - -“Poor fellow!” said Yvonne again. - -They emerged into the Bayswater Road. Before he had time to remonstrate, -she had hailed an omnibus going eastward. “We will get out at the corner -of the Park. You mustn’t walk too much.” - -The ’bus stopped. He entered with her and sat down by her side. When the -conductor came for the fares, Yvonne opened her purse quickly; but a -flush came over her companion’s pale face as he divined her intention. -“You must let me,” he said, producing a couple of pence from his pocket. - -The rattling of the vehicle prevented serious conversation. The -talk drifted naturally into the desultory commonplace. Madame Latour -explained that she had been giving the last singing lesson of the season -at a house on the other side of Holland Park, that her pupil had neither -ear nor voice, and that by the time she had learned the accompaniment -to a song it had already grown out of date. “People are so stupid, you -know.” - -She said it with such an air of conviction, as if she had discovered -a brand-new truth, that the man smiled. She noted it with her quick, -feminine glance, and felt gladdened. It was so much better to laugh than -to cry. She was encouraged to chatter lightly upon passing glimpses -of people in the street, of amusing incidents in her profession as a -concert singer. When the ’bus stopped, she jumped out, disregarding his -gravely offered hand, and laughed, her face glowing with animation. - -“Oh, how nice it is to be with you again!” she said, as they crossed to -the entrance gate of Kensington Gardens. “Say that you are glad you met -me.” - -“It is like a drop of water on the tongue of the damned,” he said in a -low voice--too low, however, for her to hear, for she continued to look -up at him, all smiles and sweetness. - -She seemed a thing of warmth and sunshine, too impalpable for the rough -uses of the world. One would have said she was the embodied spirit of -the warm south of Keats’s ode. Her dark hair, massed in a hundred little -waves over her forehead and temples, gave an indescribable softness to -her face. A faint tinge of rose shone through her dark skin. Her -great brown eyes contained immeasurable depths of tenderness. A -subtly-mingled, all-pervading sense of summer and the exquisitely -feminine enveloped her from the beautiful hair to her tiny feet. She was -in the sweetest bloom of her womanhood and she had all the unconscious, -half-pathetic charm of a child. In a crowded ball-room, amidst dazzling -dresses and flashing arms and necks and under the electric light, -Yvonne’s beauty might have passed unnoticed. But there, in the shady -walk upon which they had just entered, in that quiet world of cool -greens and shadowed yellows, she appeared to the man’s weary eyes the -most beautiful thing on the earth. - -“How sweet it is here,” she said, as they sat down upon a bench. - -“Incomprehensibly sweet,” he replied. - -His tone touched her. She laid her tiny gloved hand upon his arm. - -“I wish I could help you--Mr. Chisely,” she said gently. - -“That is no longer my name,” he said. “And so you must n’t call me by -it. I have given it up since--since I came out. Would you care to hear -about me? It would help me to speak a little.” - -“That’s why I brought you here,” said Yvonne. - -He bent forward, elbows on knees, covering his face in his hands. - -“I don’t know, after all, that there’s much to say. My poor mother died -while I was in prison--you know that; I suppose I broke her heart. Her -money was sunk in an annuity. The furniture and things were sold to -pay outstanding debts of mine. I came out five months ago, penniless. -Everard’s bankers communicated with me. As the head of the family he had -collected a lump sum of money, which was given to me on condition that -I should change my name and never let any of the family hear of my -existence again. My mother’s people refused to have anything to do with -me. God knows why I was sitting outside their house to-day. Perhaps you -think I ought n’t to have accepted Everard’s gift. A man hasn’t much -pride left after two years’ hard labour.... I took the name of Joyce. -I saw it on a tradesman’s cart as I reached the street after the -interview. One name is as good as another.” - -“But you are still Stephen?” said Yvonne. - -“I suppose so. I have hardly thought of it. Yes, I suppose I keep the -Stephen.... I am husbanding this money. I have only that between me and -starvation, if anything happened, you know. What I have passed through -is not the best thing for one’s health. Meanwhile, I am trying to get -work. It is a bit hopeless. I know I ought to go out of England, but -London is in my blood somehow. I am loth to leave it. Besides, what -should I do in the colonies? I am not fit for hard manual labour. They -tried it in there, and I broke down; I made sacks and helped in the -kitchen most of my time. If I could earn a pound a week in London, I -should n’t care. It would keep body and soul together. Why I should want -to keep them together I don’t know. I suppose my spirit is broken, and I -am too apathetic to commit suicide. If I had the spirit of a louse I -should do so. But I haven’t.” - -He stopped speaking and remained with his head bowed in his hands. -Yvonne could find no words to reply. His almost brutal terseness had -given her a momentary perception of his self-abasement which surprised -and frightened her. Generous and tender-hearted as she was, she had -ever found men insoluble enigmas. They knew so much, had so many strange -wants, seemed to exist in a world of ideas, feelings, and actions beyond -her ken. Here was one with nameless experiences and shames. She shrank -a few inches along the seat, not from repulsion, but from a sudden -sense of her own incapacity of comprehension. She felt tongue-tied and -helpless. So there was a short silence. - -Joyce noticed the lack of spontaneous sympathy, and, raising a haggard -face, said:-- - -“I have shocked you.” - -“You talk so strangely,” said Yvonne--“as if you had a stone instead of -a heart.” - -“Forgive me,” he said, softening at the sight of her distress. “I am -ungrateful to you. I ought to be happy to-day. I will be happy. I should -like to bend down and kiss your feet for sitting here with me.” - -The change in his tone brought the colour back into Yvonne’s face and -the sun into her eyes. She was a creature of quick impulses. - -“Have I really made you happy? I am so glad. I seem to be always trying -to make people happy and never succeeding.” - -“They must be strange people you have dealt with,” said Joyce with a -weary smile. - -She shrugged her shoulders expressively. - -“I suppose it is that other people are so strange and I am so ordinary.” - -“You are the kindest, sunniest soul on earth,” said Joyce. “You always -were.” - -“Oh, how can you say so?” she cried, shaking her head. She was all -brightness again. “I am such an insignificant little person. Everything -about me seems so small. I have a small body, a small voice, a small -sphere, a small mind, and oh! I live in such a small, tiny flat. -You must come and see me. I will sing to you--that is my one small -talent--and perhaps that will cheer you. You must be so lonely!” - -“Why are you so good to me?” Joyce asked. - -“Because you look wretched and ill and miserable.” she said impulsively, -“and I can’t bear it. You were good to me once. Do you remember how -kindly you settled everything for me after Amédée left me? I don’t know -what I should have done without you. And then, your mother. Ah, I know,” - she continued, lowering her voice a little, “I know, and I cried for -you. I saw her just before the end came and she spoke of you. She said -‘Yvonne, if ever you meet Stephen, give him a kind word for my sake. -He will have the whole world against him.’ And I promised--but I should -have done just the same if I had n’t promised. There is n’t any goodness -in it.” - -He pressed her hand dumbly. Her eyes swam with starting tears, but his -were dry. Sometimes when he thought of the devastation his crime had -wrought, he would fall on his knees and bury his face, and long that he -could ease his heart in a storm of weeping. But it seemed too dead for -passionate outburst. Yet he had never felt so near to emotion as at that -moment. - -They talked for a short while longer, of old days and home memories, -bitter-sweet to the young man, and of his present position, whose -hopelessness Yvonne refused to allow. She was anxious to effect a -reconciliation between him and his family. His mother’s relations who -lived in Holland Park she did not know. But his cousin, Everard Chisely, -Canon of Winchester, might be brought to more Christian sentiments of -forgiveness. She would plead with the Canon the first time that she met -him. But Joyce shook his head. No. He was the black sheep. Everard had -behaved generously. He must go his own way. No modern Christianity could -make a man forget the disgrace that had been brought upon his name by -felony. Besides, Everard never went back upon his word. Like Pilate, -what he had written, he had written, and there was an end of the matter. - -“But how do you come to know Everard?” asked Joyce, wishing to turn the -conversation. - -“I met him several times at your mother’s,” replied Yvonne. “He used -to be so kind to her. And there he heard me sing--and somehow we have -become immense friends. He comes to see me, and I sing to him. Dina -Vicary says he comes up to town on purpose. Did you ever hear such -a thing? But I can’t tell you how respectable it makes me feel--so -impressive you know--a real live dignitary. Once he came when Elsie -Carnegie and Vandeleur were there showing me her new song and dance. -You should have seen their faces when he came in. Van, who sings in the -choir of a West End church, began to talk hymns for all he was worth, -while Elsie flicked her lighted cigarette into a flower-pot. It was so -funny.” - -Yvonne broke into a contagious ripple of laughter. Then, remembering the -flight of time, she looked at her watch and rose quickly from the seat. - -“I had no idea it was so late! I am going out to lunch. Now you will -come and see me, won’t you? Come to-morrow evening. I live at 40 -Aberdare Mansions, Marylebone Road. By the way, do you still sing?” - -“I had forgotten there was such a thing as song in the world,” said -Joyce sadly. - -“Well, you ’ll remember it to-morrow evening,” said Yvonne. “I have an -idea. _Au revoir_ then.” - -“God bless you,” said Joyce, shaking hands with her. - -She nodded brightly, and tripped away up the path. Joyce watched her -dainty figure until it was out of sight, and then he wandered aimlessly -through the Park, thinking of the past hour. And, for a short while, -some of the contamination of the gaol seemed to be wiped away. - - - - -CHAPTER II--YVONNE - -That evening Yvonne was standing by the door of a concert-hall, as -her friend and fellow-artist Vandeleur adjusted a red wrap round her -shoulders. He was a burly, pudding-faced Irishman with twinkling dark -blue eyes and a persuasive manner. His fingers lingered about the wrap -longer than was necessary. - -“Good-bye,” said Yvonne, “and thank you.” She was feeling a little -upset. Vandeleur, a popular favourite, had preceded her on the -programme, and his song had been met with rapturous applause. - -“You have ‘queered’ me, Van,” she had said, in pure jest. - -Whereupon, he had returned to the platform to give his enthusiastically -demanded encore, and, to the disappointment of the audience, had sung -the most villainous drawing-room ballad he could think of, without an -attempt at expression. The applause had been perfunctory, and Yvonne’s -appearance had created a quickening of interest. Vandeleur’s unnecessary -quixotism put Yvonne into a false position. So she thanked him shyly. - -“Let me just have ten minutes of a cigarette at home with you,” he -pleaded. - -Yvonne was tired. It was very hot; she had been running hither and -thither about London since the morning, and was longing in a feminine -way to free herself of hampering garments, and to lie down with a French -novel for an hour before going to bed. But when a man spoke to her with -that note of entreaty in his voice she did not know how to refuse. She -nodded assent. Vandeleur called a cab and they drove together to her -flat. - -It was up many flights of stairs--the passage was very narrow, the -drawing-room very tiny. The big Irishman standing on the hearthrug -seemed to fill all the space left by the grand piano. How this article -of furniture was ever brought into the flat puzzled Yvonne’s friends -as much as the entrance of the apples into the dumplings puzzled George -III., until some one suggested the same solution of the problem--the -flat had been built round the piano. Everything else in the room -was small, like Yvonne herself, the armchairs, the couch, the three -occasional tables. A few water-colours hung around the walls. The -curtains and draperies were fresh and tasteful. All the room, with its -dainty furniture and pretty feminine knick-knacks, was impressed with -Yvonne’s graceful individuality--all except the immense grand piano, -which asserted itself loudly, a polished rosewood solecism. It seemed -such a very big instrument for so small a person as Yvonne. - -She threw herself into an armchair by the fire, with a little sigh. She -had been unusually quiet during the drive home. - -“And what’s making you miserable?” asked Vandeleur, in a tone of -concern. - -“I wish you had n’t done that, Van,” she said, with a wistful puckering -of her forehead. - -“Ah, there! now you’re vexed with me. There never was an animal like me -for treading on my dearest friends. I’m like the elephant you may have -heard of, that squashed the mother of a brood of chickens by mistake, -and, taking it to heart, just like me, gathered the little ones under -his wing, and, sitting down upon them, said: ‘Ah, be aisy now, I’ll be -a mother to you’; he did n’t hurt the chickens’ feelings exactly--but it -was mistaken kindness. Was it your feelings I trampled on?” - -“Ah, no, Van,” said Yvonne, smiling. “But don’t you see, it was doing a -thing I can never pay you back for.” - -“Faith, the sight of your sweet face is payment enough.” - -“But you can have that for nothing--such as it is.” - -“It’s the sweetest face that ever was made,” said the Irishman, flinging -a freshly-lighted cigarette into the grate behind him. “I’d cut off my -head any day to get a sight of it But are you wanting to pay me more -than that? By my soul, there’s just an easy way out of your difficulty, -Yvonne!” - -He looked down at her, his face very red, and questioning in his -eyes. She caught his glance and sat upright, stretching out her hand -appealingly. Men had looked at her like that before,--craving for -something she had not in her to give. She had always, on such occasions, -felt what a shallow, poverty-stricken little soul she was. What was in -her that could bring the trouble into men’s eyes? Here was Van, the kind -friend and good comrade, going the way of the others. She was -frightened and distressed. - -“Oh, Van, don’t!” she cried. “Not that. I can’t bear it!” - -She covered her face with her hands, as he came quickly forward and -leaned over her chair. “Just a tiny bit of love, Yvonne. So small that -you would n’t miss it. I could do with it all, but I know I can’t get -that. I only ask for a sample. Come, Yvonne.” - -But Yvonne shook her head. - -“Don’t, Van,” she repeated, piteously; “you’re hurting me.” - -Her tone was so pathetic that the big man drew himself up, thumped -his chest, and seized his hat. “I’m a great big brute to come and take -advantage of you like this. Of course you couldn’t care about a great -fat bounder like me. And you’re half dropping with weariness. It’s a -villain I am. I’ll leave you to your sleep, poor little woman. Good -night.” - -He held out his hand, and she allowed hers to remain in it for a moment. - -“I have n’t been ungrateful to you, have I?” she asked. “I did n’t mean -to be. But I thought you were different.” - -“How, different?” - -“That you would never make love to me. Don’t, Van, please. It would -spoil it all.” - -“Well, perhaps it would,” replied Vandeleur, philosophically. “Only it -is so devilish hard not to make love to you when one’s got the chance. -And, begad! if you’d just give up looking like a little warm, brown -saint, it would be better for the peace of mind of the men.” - -He stooped and touched her hand with his lips and strode buoyantly out -of the room. She heard him humming one of his songs along the passage, -then the slam of the front door; then there was silence, and Yvonne went -to bed with a grateful sense of escape from unknown dangers. Still, -she was sorry for Vandeleur, although she had a dim perception of the -superficiality of his passion. It would have been nice, had it been -possible, to make him happy. She had a queer, unreasonable little -feeling that she had been selfish. She sighed as she settled herself to -sleep. The ways of the world were very complicated. - -To those who knew her it was often a subject for marvel that she was -not crushed in the fierce struggle of life. A creature so yielding, so -simple, so unaffected by experience or the obvious external lessons of -the world, and yet standing serenely in the midst of the turmoil, seemed -an incongruity--gave a sense of shock, a prompting to rescue, such -as would arise from the sight of a child in the middle of a roadway -clashing with traffic. She was made for protection, tenderness, all the -sheltering luxuries and amenities of life. It was a flaw in the eternal -fitness of things that she was alone, earning her livelihood, with -nothing but her sweetness and innocence to guard her from buffeting and -downfall. - -Yet it was her very simplicity that saved her from outward strain; -and inward stress was as yet spared her, through her unawakened child's -nature. She laughed when folks pitied her. To earn her living was an -easy matter. Born in the profession, trained for it from her earliest -days, she had taken to it as a young swan to the water. Engagements came -like the winds, the visits of her friends, and other such natural and -commonplace phenomena. She sang, or gave her lessons, and the money was -paid in to the branch of the City Bank close by her flat, and when she -needed funds for her modest expenses she wrote a cheque and sent her -maid to cash it When her balance was getting low, she practised little -economies and postponed payment of bills; when it was high, she settled -her debts, bought new clothes, and had a dozen oysters now and then for -supper. It was very simple. She did not pity herself at all. Nor did she -feel the trouble of her past married life. It had gone by like a cloudy -day, forgotten in succeeding sunshine, and had left singularly little -trace upon her character. Even the period of unhappiness had not weighed -unduly. A more resistful nature might have been wrecked irretrievably; -but Yvonne had been cast upon the shoals only for a season. - -When Amédée Bazouge, a Parisian tenor who had settled in London, first -met her, he was surfeited with various blonde beauties of the baser -sort, and in a sentimental mood, during which he frequently invoked the -memory of his mother, he chose to fall desperately in love with little -brown Yvonne, likening her to the Blessed Virgin and as many saints as -he recollected. Yvonne was very young; this sudden worship was new to -her; the pain in his heart that he so passionately dwelt upon seemed a -terrible thing for her to have caused. She married him because he said -that his life was at stake. She gave him herself as she would have -given sixpence to a poor man in the street. Why she was necessary to his -life’s happiness she could not guess. However, Amédée said so, and she -took it on faith. - -For a while she was mildly content in his exuberant delight. He -whispered, in soft honeymoon hours, “_m’aimes-tu?_”--and she said “Yes,” - because she knew it would please him; but she was always happier at -other times, when she was not called upon for display or expression of -feeling. She liked him well enough. His somewhat common handsomeness -pleased her, his effervescent fancy and boulevard wit kept her lightly -amused, and his vehement passion provided her with an interest strangely -compounded of fright, wonder, and pity. - -But Amédée Bazouge was not made either by nature or education for the -domestic virtues. His repentant mood passed away; he forgot the memory -of his mother, and found Yvonne’s innocence grow insipid. He hankered -after the strange goddesses with their full-flavoured personalities, -their cynicism, their passions, and their stimulating variety. Regret -came to him for having broken with the last, who always kept him in -a state of delicious uncertainty whether she would overwhelm him with -passionate kisses or break the looking-glass in a tempest of wrath. -So, gradually, he sought satisfaction for his reactionary yearnings and -drifted away from Yvonne. And then she grew unhappy. He did not treat -her unkindly. In all their dealings with each other a harsh word never -passed the lips of either. But she felt cold and neglected. Instead -of being met after a concert and accompanied to their little house at -Staines, she went the long journey alone. The quiet evenings of music -and singing together were things of the past. Often a week elapsed -without their meeting. To complete her trouble, her mother died -suddenly, and Yvonne felt very lonely. She would sit sometimes and cry -like a lost child. - -At last they parted. Amédée returned to Paris, and Yvonne took her -little flat in the Marylebone Road. The clouds passed by and Yvonne was -happy again. She had retained professionally her maiden name of -Latour, and now she assumed it altogether, only changing the former -“Mademoiselle” into “Madame.” Her husband faded into a vague memory. -When she received news of him it was through a paragraph in the -“Figaro,” announcing his death in a Paris hospital. She wore a little -crape bonnet to notify to the world the fact of her widowhood, but she -had no tears to shed. When friends condoled with her over her sad lot, -she opened her round eyes in astonishment. - -“But, my dear, I am as happy as I can possibly be,” she would say in -remonstrance. And it was true. She had come through the ordeal of an -unhappy marriage, pure and childlike, her heart unruffled by passion and -her soul unclouded by disillusion. - -There are some women born to be loved by many men, yielding, trustful, -appealing irresistibly to the masculine instincts of protection and -possession. Sometimes they are carried off by one successful owner and -bear him children, and hear nothing of the hopeless loves that they -inspire. Sometimes, like Yvonne, they are at the mercy of every gust -of passion that stirs the hearts of the men around them. They are too -innocent of the meaning and scope of love to bide the time when love -shall take them in its grip; too weak, tender, and compassionate to -harden their hearts against the sufferings of men. If they fail, the -world is unsparing in condemnation. If happy circumstance shelters -them, they are canonised for virtues that stop short of their logical -conclusion. Wherefore we are tempted to say hard things of the world. - -Fate, however, had dealt not unkindly with Yvonne. At times her path -had been sadly tangled and she had sighed, as she did this night after -Vandeleur’s unexpected declaration. But chance had always come to her -aid and cleared her way. She trusted to it now as she fell asleep. - - - - -CHAPTER III--IN THE DEPTHS - - -If you step this way, the manager will see you,” said the clerk, -lifting the flap of the counter. - -Joyce rose from the cane-bottomed chair on which he had been sitting, -and followed the clerk through the busy outer office into the private -room beyond. An elderly man in gold spectacles looked up from his desk. - -“What can I do for you?” - -“I am seeking employment,” said Joyce, “can you give me any?” - -“Employment?” - -If Joyce had asked him for Prester John’s cap, or the Cham of Tartary’s -beard, his tone could not have expressed more surprise. - -“Yes,” replied Joyce. “I don’t mind what it is--clerk, copyist, -handy-man, messenger--so long as it’s work.” - -“Utterly impossible,” said the manager, shortly. - -“Would it be of any use to leave my address?” asked Joyce. - -“Not a bit. Good day to you.” - -Joyce walked out apathetically on to the landing. It was a nest of city -offices in a great block of buildings in Fenchurch Street, a labyrinth -of staircases, passages, and ground-glass doors black-lettered with the -names of firms. He was going through them systematically. Often he could -not gain access to a person in authority. When he succeeded, it was the -same history of rebuff. He felt somewhat downcast at the result of this -last interview, the cheerful alacrity with which he had been received -having given him an unreasonable hope. He paused for a few moments -deciding upon what door to try next. Some names looked encouraging, -others forbidding--a futile superstition, yet one not without influence -upon his unfed mind. Why “Griffith & Swan” should have attracted and -“Willoughby Bros.” repelled him is a psychological problem that must -forever remain insoluble. It is none the less a fact that he bent his -steps along the passage to the door of the first-mentioned firm. But -there he was repulsed at the outset. The chiefs were engaged. Had he an -appointment? - -What was his business? The only way to see the chiefs was by writing to -fix an interview. Joyce retired, climbed wearily up the stone staircase -to the next floor. Everywhere the same monotonous result. - -At last his application was seriously entertained. His heart beat -anxiously. It was at a firm of shipping agents. Two clerks had gone on -their holiday, another one had just that morning fallen ill. They were -short-handed. The junior partner, a brisk young fellow, looked shrewdly -at Joyce, divining his education and capacity. - -“I could give you some temporary work, certainly. Only too glad, for we -are in a hole. But of course we must have some references.” - -“I am afraid I can give you none,” replied Joyce. “I have had a good -education and business training, and I could do your work. But I’m a -lonely man--without friends.” - -“What have you been doing lately for a living.” - -The matter-of-fact question turned his heart sick. He had known that he -would have to answer it before he could enter upon any employment; but -he had always shrunk from formulating a plausible reply, weakly -trusting to his mother-wit when the dreaded moment should come. Now his -mother-wit deserted him. He could think of nothing but the past reality. - -“I would rather tell you nothing about myself,” he said lamely. - -The young partner shrugged his shoulders good-humouredly. - -“Well, that’s your affair. But you see we can’t take a stranger into our -office without his giving us some formal voucher for his honesty.” - -Joyce looked at him appealingly, with glistening eyes, a new Moses on -Mount Nebo. Only then did he fully realise the utter hopelessness of his -position. The veriest office-boy needed a certificate of character. He -had none. - -The partner, clean-shaven, ruddy-cheeked, was lounging against the -mantel-piece, hands in pockets, a whimsical smile playing around the -comers of his mouth. His speech, though business-like, was kindly. He -looked a gentleman. Joyce was seized with a mad, despairing impulse. He -flushed to the roots of his hair, clenched his hands by his sides and -advanced an involuntary step towards his interlocutor. - -“I will tell you the truth,” he cried breathlessly. “I must find work -soon or I shall starve. Give it to me and I will work night and day -for you. I took a double first at Oxford. I practised as a solicitor. I -lived beyond my means and misappropriated trust-money. I could not pay -it back. My name was struck off the rolls and I had two years’ hard -labour. I have been looking for work every day for five months. I am not -such a fool as to risk that hell again. For God’s sake give me a chance -and set me on my feet again.” His voice rang with the agony of entreaty. -His lips quivered. When he ceased speaking he was shaking from head to -foot. - -The young man shifted the crossing of his feet and put up an eyeglass -that had been dangling on his waistcoat. - -“Well, you have pretty damned cheek, I must say!” he remarked, with a -drawl. - -Joyce stared at him for a moment stupidly, and then turned away -without a word, crushed and humiliated to his soul. Round and round the -rectangular well-staircase he went, dizzy with the reaction. He could -knock at no more doors. The names seemed to swell large and to jeer at -him as he passed. A burst of laughter from two men, issuing from some -office above, echoed and rattled down the staircase and jarred upon -every nerve of his body. He quickened his pace to a run, and did not -stop until he reached the sweltering street. White and faint he leant -against the wall, vaguely conscious of the ceaselessly hurrying mass -that passed him by. After a minute or two he recovered self-possession -enough to move onwards with the westward stream on the pavement. His -quest of work was abandoned. He could only feel sickening regret for -having given way to his insane impulse and shrink from the echoing tones -of the other man’s cynical contempt. The last shred of his self-respect -was torn away. He seemed to be the naked gaol-bird before those thousand -eyes that glanced upon him. The idea grew into morbid exaggeration. A -man or woman making way for him to pass appeared to be shrinking from -the soil of his touch. Every policeman was identifying him. A penny-toy -man by the Mansion House, who had taken off his cap and was scratching -a closely-cropped head, grinned at him with the familiarity of an old -acquaintance. - -It became unbearable. He fled into a public-house in Cheapside -and ordered a glass of whisky. The spirit ran through his veins -comfortingly. He drank another, and went out into the street. Soon the -spirit, acting on an empty stomach, dulled his senses and provoked a -vague suggestion of debauch as the only consoler. In the days of -his vanity Joyce had known the flush of wine on joyous nights, but -drunkenness had always been hateful to him. Yet now, in his morbid -state, the temptation was irresistible. He went from tavern to tavern -with dull, stupid recklessness, cognisant only of the motive to drink -and of his own mechanical personality. At last, staggering out of a -public-house in Fleet Street, he tripped at the threshold and fell -insensible on the pavement. - -When he recovered consciousness it was quite dark. For a few moments he -did not seek to discover where he was. But a chance movement caused him -nearly to fall from where he lay, and he started to a sitting posture. -His feet touched the ground sooner than he expected; the slight shock -completed his awakening. Where was he? He stretched out his hand and -felt the wall. It was stone. Stone, too, was the floor, as he found -by stamping his foot. Then the truth burst upon him with indescribable -terror. It was the cell of a police station. Although his head swam and -his eyeballs ached, the flight of the discovery had thoroughly sobered -him. It was the final calamity and degradation of the day. He was in -prison again. He would again have to put on the hateful clothes and -cower beneath the warder’s glance. Once more he would have to go -through that dreadful ignominy. Exaggerating the consequences of his -misdemeanour, he conjured up all the horrors of his previous term. -A sense of utter self-loathing swelled within him like a nausea. He -crouched on the narrow bench, holding his hair in a feverish grasp. The -gaol had got him, body and soul. It was all that he was fit for. - -An hour passed. Then the door opened and a policeman appeared in the -light of the passage. Joyce looked up at him haggardly. - -“Oh, you’re all right now, are you? Better come up and see the -Inspector.” - -Joyce staggered to his feet and clutched the policeman’s supporting arm. - -“I was in great trouble,” he said hoarsely. “And then the heat--an empty -stomach--a few glasses knocked me over.” - -“Explain that upstairs,” replied the other. “Bless you, it ’ll be all -square.” - -Brought before the Inspector, he pulled himself together and pleaded -his cause with an intensity that amused the officials. They could see -nothing tragic in a “drunk and incapable.” - -“Very well,” said the Inspector at last. “I see it was an accident. Call -it heat-apoplexy. I sha’n’t charge you. You had better get home to bed.” - -Joyce grew faint with the revulsion of feeling, and steadied himself by -the iron railing. One of the men took him to the door, hailed a passing -cab and helped him in. At first, ill and dizzy as he was, he felt -the animal’s instinctive joy in suddenly regained liberty. The -non-fulfilment of his agonising forebodings filled him with a wondering -sense of relief. But this did not last long. Despair and self-abhorrence -resumed their hold upon him, causing him to shiver in the cab as with an -ague. - -He crawled upstairs to his attic, and after having procured some food, -of which he ate as much as he could swallow, he went to bed and fell -into a heavy sleep. In the middle of the night he woke with a start. The -recollection of his engagement with Yvonne Latour had penetrated through -the sub-consciousness of half-awakening. He uttered a cry of dismay. - -All the previous evening and all that morning he had thought of the -promised visit. To sit in a lady’s room, to live for a moment a bit of -the old life, to forget his pariahdom in Yvonne’s welcoming smile, to -have the comfort of her exquisite pity--the prospect had rendered him -almost buoyant during the early part of his round. But the pain -and fever of after-events had driven her from his mind. Now, in his -suffering state, it seemed as if he had lost an offered corner of -Paradise, rejected the one hand that was stretched out to save him -from perdition. He lay awake many hours. At last, toward dawn, he fell -asleep again and did not wake till mid-day. - -He rose, rang for his breakfast, which was brought him, as usual, on -a tray, by the slatternly maid-of-all-work. He was still feeling -prostrated in mind and body. Having eaten what he could, he drew up the -blind to look at the day. The fine weather was still lasting. But he -felt no desire to go out. What was the use? Judging by the lesson of -yesterday it would be futile to continue his search for employment. As he -turned away from the window, he caught sight of his white haggard face -and bloodshot eyes in the mirror, and he shrank back, as though it -revealed to him the miserable weakness of his soul. Then he threw -himself half-dressed upon the bed, and there he remained, abandoning -himself to the hopeless inaction of defeat, and eating his heart out in -remorse for the shipwreck he had made of his life. - -He did not pose before himself as a victim to circumstance. Could he -have done so, he might have found some poor consolation. His criminal -folly lay as much upon his soul as its punishment. Again, it had not -been a grand stroke of villainy requiring for its execution a masterly -coolness and genius for which he might at least have had an intellectual -admiration. But it had been of the same petty sort as that of the -shop-boy led astray by low turf associates, who pilfers day by day from -his master’s till, hoping the luck will turn and enable him to replace -the stolen shillings. The difference had been merely one of degree. His -operations had been on a larger scale, his vices more fastidious, his -circle of loose friends more aristocratic. But he had had the same -contemptible motives for his crime, and the same contemptible excuses. -He spared himself no arrow of self-scorn. - -Latterly, through sheer weariness, he had grown apathetic, taking -his self-abasement as one of the conditions of life. A man is not -physiologically capable of continuous outburst. But now the iron had -entered deep into his soul, causing him to writhe in torment. - -What would be the end? The question haunted him, and yet it seemed -scarcely worth consideration. There was no employment to be obtained by -such as he. He would eke out his small capital as far as possible, and -when that was exhausted, he could put an end to his worthless life. Or -would his cowardice drag him down among the class of habitual criminals, -lead him to crime as a means of livelihood? He shuddered, remembering -his short spell of agony in the cell of yesterday. - -The hours passed. Towards evening he dressed himself and went out to a -dingy Italian restaurant near Victoria station, where he usually dined. -On coming out again into the street he hesitated for some time as to -what he should do next. He thought of Yvonne with wistful longing, but -had not the courage to go and seek her. The sense of degradation was -too strong upon him. He shrank with morbid sensitiveness from taking -advantage of her guilelessness by bringing his contamination into her -presence. For, paradoxical as it may seem, an instinctive pride still -remained in the man. Had he chosen to lay it aside, doubtless more than -one of his former friends would have consented to receive him on some -sort of terms of acquaintanceship. But he had sought out none, and -if chance brought him into sight of a familiar face in the street, he -effaced himself and hurried on. Yvonne was the only figure out of the -past with whom he had communicated. And now he had cut himself adrift -from her. - -After a few undecided turns up and down the pavement, he directed his -steps mechanically to a customary haunt of his, the billiard-room of a -public-house in Westminster. It was better than the wearying streets -and the choking solitude of his attic. A couple of shabby men in dingy -shirt-sleeves were playing at the table. On the raised divan, in the -gloom of the walls, sat a silent company of lookers-on. With a group -of these, Joyce exchanged nods, and took his place sombrely among them. -They were a depressed, out-at-elbows crew, who came here night after -night, speaking little, drinking less, and never playing billiards at -all. They watched the game, now and then applauded, oftener condoled -with the loser than congratulated the winner. They formed an orderly -and appreciative gallery, and set, as it were, a tone of decorum in -the room; and for this reason their presence was not discouraged by the -landlord. Eight was their average number. They were mostly men in -the prime of life, and belonged, as far as one could judge by their -voluntary confidences, to the obscure fringes of journalism, the stage, -and independence. Those who occupied the last position lived chiefly on -their wives. There was a decayed medical student who did Heaven knows -what for a living, and a red-headed, vulgar man, who gave out that he -had thrown up a country rectorship, through conscientious scruples. -Differing widely as they did in personality, yet they retained one -common characteristic. Failure seemed written on each man’s face. A kind -of mutual affinity had drawn them together. To Joyce’s cynical humour it -appeared as if something more than mere chance had caused him to stumble -upon them one evening two months before. - -“I’m afraid I have left my ’baccy at home,” said the man sitting next -to Joyce, who was filling his pipe. “Thank you very much. A change in -tobacco is very gratifying at times to the palate.” - -He was a man of singular appearance. The bones in his face were very -large, the flesh scanty; his nose hooked, his eyebrows black and -meeting. His long upper-lip and his chin were shaven; but he wore -thick black mutton-chop whiskers which contrasted oddly with a bush of -whitening hair above his temples and at the back of his head. Whether he -was bald or not, no one ever knew, as he always retained his hat fixed -in one never-changing, respectable angle. This hat was very, very -old, an extravagantly curled silk hat of the masher days in the early -eighties. But the most striking feature of his costume consisted in a -long thick Chesterfield overcoat which he obviously wore without coat -or waistcoat beneath. In the sultry August weather the sight of him -made the beholder perspire. Although there was no trace of linen at his -wrists or down the arms as far as one could see, a dirty frayed collar -and a shirt-front adorned with a straight black tie appeared above the -tightly buttoned overcoat. Joyce knew him by the name of Noakes. - -He looked at Joyce, as he spoke, out of pale-blue, unspeculative eyes, -and returned the tobacco-pouch. “You had better take another fill or -two, while you are about it,” said Joyce. - -“I don’t like to trespass upon your generosity,” said Noakes. But -he helped himself plentifully, tying up the tobacco in his -pocket-handkerchief. They smoked on during a long silence, broken only -by the click of the billiard-balls, the monotonous cry of the marker, -and occasional murmurs of applause. The air was heavy with drink and -tobacco-smoke, fresh and stale. - -“I must be getting back to work,” said Noakes at last. - -The word roused Joyce from the lethargy into which he had fallen. He had -never associated Noakes with definite employment. For a moment he envied -him. - -“I wish to heaven I could,” he said. - -“A man of your attainments,” replied Noakes, respectfully, “ought never -to be at a loss. Now I should say you have been to a public school?” - -Joyce nodded. - -“And the university?” - -Joyce did not reply, but Noakes went on: “Yes; one can see it. Somehow a -man of acute observation can always tell. I remember your correcting me -the other night when I spoke of Plato’s dramatic unities. I looked -up the matter in the British Museum, and found that you were right in -attributing them to Aristotle. As I said before, a man of your education -ought to have no difficulty.” - -“You might suggest something,” said Joyce, with a shade of irony. - -“Authorship.” - -“Are you an author?” - -“With all due modesty, I may say that I am,” returned Noakes, gravely. -“I don’t find it very remunerative, but I attribute that solely to the -deficiencies in my education.” - -“What do you write?” asked Joyce, interested in spite of himself in this -odd, pathetic figure. - -“I have adopted two branches of the profession--one, the literary -advertisement; the other, popular fiction.” - -He drew a halfpenny evening paper from his pocket, and, designating -a half-column with his thumb, handed it to Joyce. It was headlined -“Nihilism in Russia,” opened with an account of Siberian horrors, and -ended, of course, with somebody’s pills. - -“I always pride myself upon there being more literary quality in my work -than is usually given to that class of thing,” he remarked complacently, -while Joyce idly ran through the column. “And in my fiction I always try -to keep the best models before me, Stevenson and Mayne Reid. I happen -to have a copy of one of my latest works in my pocket. Perhaps it might -interest you to glance through it. In return for the tobacco,--with the -author’s compliments.” - -Joyce received into his hands a thin volume in a gaudy paper wrapper. It -was entitled “The Doom of the Floating Fiend.” The printing, in packed -double-column, and the paper were execrable. The author’s name did -not figure beneath the title. From the most cursory glance through the -pages, Joyce could see they were deluged in blood. - -“I shall be glad to read it,” he said, mendaciously, putting it into his -pocket. - -“If you find anything noteworthy of criticism in my style, I should feel -grateful for you to tell me,” said Noakes. “My ambition is to write some -day for a more cultured public. I have a pastoral idyll that I shall -write when I have time. But, you see, there is a continuous market for -books of adventure.” - -He spoke in a toneless, even voice, without a shade of enthusiasm or -regret appearing in his eyes. - -“Do you think it would be of any use for an outsider to try it--one not -in the swim with the publishers?” asked Joyce, curiously. - -“Certainly. But one needs the imaginative faculty. If you ’ll look at my -forehead, you will see I have it firmly developed. Allow me to look at -yours. Yes; I see it there. Once started, it is constant employment. -They pay half a crown per thousand words. I do my three thousand a day.” - -Noakes rose to depart. - -“Thanks for the information,” said Joyce. “I may try my hand. Won’t you -have a glass with me before you go?” - -“No, thank you,” said Noakes. “I find stimulants interfere with -brain-work. Good evening.” - -Noakes gone, Joyce found himself next to the red-headed ex-rector, -who was fast asleep, his dirty, pudgy fingers clasped in his lap. He -remained, therefore, solitary, and after having looked for some time -dejectedly at the three ever-clicking balls on the table, he went out -again into the street. - -Noakes’s hint had taken root in his mind. If that dilapidated man could -maintain himself honestly by “popular fiction,” surely he could do so -too. Off and on during the last five months he had striven to write an -article or short story, but his mind had refused to work. The conviction -that his intellect had been shattered during those two awful years had -added to his despair. But now he told himself that this was work in -which intellectual subtlety and fastidiousness would prove a hindrance. -The one thing needful was imagination: also a terrible faculty for -continuous quill-driving. To gain a livelihood there would have to be -written daily stuff equal to three columns of the “Globe” newspaper. And -seven-and-sixpence as the reward! A noble end, he thought bitterly -to himself as he walked along, to the ambition of Stephen Chisely, -double-first of New College, Oxford--to become a writer of “penny -bloods.” - -Still, the suggestion had acted as a stimulus. When he entered his room, -he did not feel so broken and purposeless as when he had left it. The -intellectual effort he had made whilst walking home in scheming out an -experimental chapter had broken the spell of morbid introspection. As -soon as he had lit the gas, he drew out writing materials, and, sitting -before his dressing-table, began the scene of slaughter he had arranged. -At the end of a couple of hours he found he had written two slips of one -hundred and fifty words each. He regarded them ruefully. At that rate -it would take him twenty hours a day to earn his seven-and-sixpence. -The idea occurred to him to look at the “Doom of the Floating Fiend.” He -read a few pages and then dropped the work hopelessly on to the floor. -The instinct of the scholar and man of culture awakened in revolt. His -mind would not be prostituted to stuff like that. - -“Sooner death!” he said to himself, with whimsical bitterness. His own -carefully elaborated efforts he tore up with a sigh. Then, tired out, he -prepared to go to bed. - -Suddenly, in the midst of his undressing, he caught sight, to his -immense surprise, of a letter lying on his counterpane, where the maid -of all work had carelessly thrown it. From whom could it be? Letters -were things of an almost forgotten past. It was in a woman’s hand. Then -he remembered he had given his address to Yvonne. The letter was from -her, and ran:-- - - “Dear Stephen,--Oh, why didn’t you come last night? I was - _so_ disappointed. You surely did n’t think I only asked you - out of politeness. I hope nothing has happened to you. My - head was running over all day with a little plan for you. Do - come and catch it before it all runs away. I shall be in to- - morrow afternoon. - - You know it’s just like old times--writing a silly little - note to you. - - Yours sincerely, - - Yvonne Latour.” - -Joyce went to bed and slept the sound sleep of a jaded man. But the -letter lay under his pillow. - - - - -CHAPTER IV--DEA EX MACHINA - - -There’s nothing like leather,” cried Yvonne, gaily. “If I had been a -milliner, I should have thought what a gentlemanly shopwalker you would -have made. As I am a singer, I can only think of the profession. You did -n’t know I was so philosophical, did you?” - -“But I can’t sing a note now, Madame Latour,” said Joyce. - -“We ’ll try after you have had some tea. But you ’ll be good enough for -Brum, I’m quite sure. If he did n’t take you on I should never speak to -him again.” - -With which terrible threat she poured the tea outside the cup into the -saucer. - -“It seems too good to be true,” said Joyce, in a subdued tone. “It -seemed impossible I should ever get work among honest men again. I am -deeply grateful to you, Madame Latour--I cannot tell you how deeply.” - -“Here is some tea,” said Yvonne, cup in hand, “I have put milk in, but -no sugar. I am so glad you like my little scheme. I was afraid it was -n’t worth your while.” - -Joyce laughed ironically. - -“You would n’t say that if you knew the posts I have sought after, the -advertisements I have answered. It will be a fortune to me.” - -“And it may lead--how far, you don’t know. Why in two or three years you -may be playing a leading part in a West End light opera. Or you may do -dramatic business and come to the top. One never can tell. Won’t it be -nice when you can command your £40 or £50 a week?” - -Yvonne was very happy. She had conceived the plan all by herself and had -gone off impulsively to Brum to put it into execution. Joyce’s future -was assured. His cleverness, of which she used to be a little afraid in -earlier years, would soon lift him from the ranks. She was excited over -this forecast of his success. But Joyce could not look so far ahead. All -he could feel was a wondrous relief to find a door still open for -him, gratitude to the woman who had led him to it. His spirit was too -shrouded to catch a gleam of her enthusiasm. She strove to brighten him. - -“You will find Brum all right. He has always been good to me, since -I stepped into a gap for him once at a charity matinée---a medley -entertainment, you know. When he has a theatre in London he always sends -me a box, if there’s one vacant. You see, I knew he was taking out ‘The -Diamond Door,’ into the provinces, and he pays pretty high salaries all -round--so I did n’t see why you should n’t have a chance in the chorus. -Oh, you ’ll like the stage so much. I wish I were on, instead of singing -at concerts. I have always hankered after it.” - -“Why don’t you make the change?” asked Joyce. - -“I’m not good enough. I am too insignificant. But I don’t really mind. I -love singing for singing’s sake, no matter where it is. I only have one -great anxiety in life--that I should lose my voice. Then I should put -my head under my wing and die, like the _cigale_. That is to say, if the -_cigale_ has wings--has she?” - -“Yes, pretty brown wings--as yours must be. I believe you have them -somewhere hidden from us.” - -“You mustn’t make pretty speeches,” said Yvonne, pleased. - -“It expresses clumsily what I feel,” said Joyce, with a sudden rush of -feeling. “I have been asking myself what are the common grounds on -which we can meet--you, a pure, bright, beautiful soul--and I, a mean, -degraded man, who knows it to be almost an outrage upon you to cross -your threshold. I feel we are not of the same human clay. I wonder how -it is that the sight of me does n’t frighten you. Thank God you don’t -see me as I see myself.” - -“Hush!” said Yvonne, gently. - -She glanced at him in a puzzled way, unable to comprehend. She knew that -he felt his disgrace very deeply, but she could not understand the way -in which he related it with herself. Beyond looking careworn and ill, -he seemed almost the same externally as in the days of their former -intimacy; and more so now than on the occasion of their meeting on the -Bank Holiday, when he was shabbily attired. Now he was wearing a new -blue serge suit and a carefully tied cravat--he had bought the clothes -on the chance of his being suddenly required to be correctly dressed, -and this was his first time of wearing them--and looked at all points -the neat, well-groomed gentleman she had always known; so that she found -it difficult to realize fully even the change in his material fortunes. -The blight that had come over his soul was altogether beyond her power -of perception. She could find no words to supplement her sympathetic -exclamation, and so there was silence. When she looked at him again, as -he sat opposite, his cheek resting on his hand, and his mournful eyes -fixed upon her, she found herself thinking what a good-looking fellow -he was, with his clear-cut face, refined features and trim blonde -moustache. It was a pity he had those deep lines on each side of -his mouth and wore so unsmiling an expression. There was sunshine in -Yvonne’s heart that quickly dissipated clouds. She rose suddenly, and -went round to the key-board of the great piano. - -“I ’ll sing you something first and then we ’ll try your voice.” - -She paused before she sat down, and asked: - -“Would you like something sad or something gay?” - -The afternoon light, slanting in through the further unshaded window, -fell full upon her, and revealed the warmth of her cheeks and the -smiling softness of her lips. To have demanded sadness of her would have -been an act of unreason. - -“Something bright,” said Joyce, instinctively. - -She ran her fingers over the keys and broke into a _barcarolle_ of -Théophile Gautier. - - “Dites, la jeune belle, - - Où voulez-vous aller? - - La voile ouvre son aile, - - La brise va souffler! - - L’aviron est d’ivoire. - - Le pavillon de moire, - - Le gouvernail d’or fin; - - J’ai pour lest une orange, - - Pour voile une aile d’ange, - - Pour mousse un séraphin.” - -Her exquisite voice, sounding like crystal in the little room, seemed to -Joyce as if it came from the dainty boat. Her sweet face seemed to peep -forth under the angel’s wing, mocking the seraphic cabin-boy. - -The setting was as perfect as her rendering. All the joy and -inconsequence of life rang from her lips. She came to the last verse. - - “Dites, la jeune belle, - - Où voulez-vous aller? - - La voile ouvre son aile, - - La brise va souffler! - - --Menez-moi, dit la belle, - - À la rive fidèle - - Où l’on aime toujours. - - --Cette rive, ma chère, - - On ne la connaît guère - - Au pays des amours.” - -When she had finished, she looked up at him, as he leaned over the tail -of the piano, with laughter in her eyes. - -“I adore that song. It is so lovely and irresponsible. Canon Chisely -says it is cynical. But it always puts me in mind of a dragonfly.” - -“I am afraid Everard is right,” replied Joyce, with a smile. “But if you -live in the fairyland of love, constancy must be a serious hindrance to -affairs.” - -“Oh, now you talk just as you used to!” cried Yvonne, “I ’ll sing you -something else.” She scamped the prelude in her impulsive way, and -began, “Coming thro’ the Rye.” His black mood was lifted. The tender, -mischievous charm of her voice held him in a spell, and he smiled at her -like “a’ the lads” in the song. - -“Now it is your turn,” she said, reaching towards a pile of songs. “Help -me to choose one.” - -He selected one that he used to sing and commenced it creditably. But -after a few bars he broke down. Yvonne encouraged him to take it again, -which he did with greater success. But his voice, a high baritone, was -wofully out of condition. At a second breakdown, he looked at her in -dismay. - -“I fear it’s no good,” he said. - -“Oh, yes it is,” said Yvonne. “They don’t want a Santley in the chorus -of the provincial company of a comic-opera. We ’ll have a good long time -now. You shall do some scales. And you can come in to-morrow morning, -before you go to Brum, and have half-an-hour more, and that will set you -right.” - -The little authoritative air sat oddly upon her. Vandeleur used to -say that Yvonne in a business mood was even more serious than a child -playing at parson. But she knew she was giving a professional opinion; -and that was bound to be serious. Taking him through the scales, -then, in her best professional manner, she brought the practice to a -satisfactory conclusion. Then she became the sunny Yvonne again, and, -after he had gone, sat smiling to herself with the conscious happiness -of a fairy god-mother. - -***** - -The interview with Brum, the manager, was satisfactory, and Joyce after -accepting the engagement at thirty shillings a week, went straight on -to rehearse with the rest of the chorus. And after this there were daily -rehearsals extending to the Sunday two weeks ahead when the start was to -be made for Newcastle, where the company opened. After the first two -or three days, the rather helpless sense of unfamiliarity wore off, and -Joyce found his task an easy one. His voice, by comparison, certainly -warranted his selection, and in knowledge of music and general ability -he was vastly superior to his colleagues, who received rough usage for -stupidity at the hands of the stage-manager. He found them mostly dull, -uneducated men, two or three with wives in the female chorus, very -jealous of their rights and the order of precedence among them, but with -little ambition and less capacity. In spite of the old suit, which he -was careful to wear, he was looked upon at first, rather resentfully, -as an amateur; but he bore disparaging remarks with philosophical -unconcern, and, after a judicious drink or two at a “professional” bar -near the stage-door of the theatre, he was accepted among them without -further demur. - -But Joyce was too much exercised at this time with his own relations to -himself to think much of his relations to others. The reaction from the -most poignant despair he had known since his freedom, to sudden hope, -had set working many springs of resolution. He would banish all thoughts -of the past from his mind, forget Stephen Chisely in the new man Stephen -Joyce, take up the new threads fate had spun for him, and weave them -into a new life without allowing any of them to cross the old: a -resolution which would be laughable, were it not so eternal, and -so pathetic in its futility. The world will never know the enormous -expenditure of will-power by its weak men. - -The fortnight, however, passed in something near to contentment and -peace of soul. If we can cheat ourselves into serenity at times, it is -a gift to be thankful for. Besides, occupation is a great anodyne to -trouble; and the provincial production of a great London success offers -considerable occupation for those concerned in it. Rehearsals were -called twice a day, morning and evening. As Joyce did not leave the -theatre until nearly midnight he had no time to look in at the familiar -billiard-room, and so Noakes and his “penny bloods” were forgotten. On -the other hand he spent several of his afternoons with Yvonne, who was -delighted with his accounts of himself, and sent him away cheered and -sanguine. - -“The only thing I regret,” said Joyce, during his farewell visit, “is -that I shall be cutting myself off from you. I suppose every one is -entitled to a grievance. And this is mine. Do you know you are the only -friend I have in the world?” - -As Yvonne knew that the world was very big and that she herself was -very small, the fact somewhat awed her. She regarded him pityingly for a -moment “What a dreadful thing it must be to feel alone like that.” - -“I have n’t felt it so, since I met you,” said Joyce. - -“But you won’t have even me, any more. I wish I could help you.” - -“Help me? Why, you ‘ve raised me out of the gutter, Madame Latour.” - -“Oh, don’t call me ‘Madame Latour,’” she said, “I don’t call you ‘Mr. -Joyce.’ I am ‘Yvonne’ to all my friends. You used to call me ‘Yvonne’ -once.” - -“You were not my benefactress then,” said Joyce. - -“Please don’t call me hard names,” she returned whimsically, “or I shall -be afraid of you, as I used to be.” - -“Afraid of me?” echoed Joyce. - -“Yes. Weren’t you dreadfully clever? I was always afraid you would think -me silly. And then, often I could not quite understand what you were -saying--how much you meant of what you said. Don’t you see?” - -“I see I must have been insufferable,” he replied. “It makes what you -are to me now all the more beautiful. But I scarcely dare call you -‘Yvonne’--don’t you understand? But it would gladden me to write it. May -I write to you on my pilgrimage?” - -“It would be so good of you, if you would,” she answered eagerly. “I do -love people to write to me.” - -She had unconsciously slipped from her fairy-godmother attitude. Her -simple mind could not look upon welcoming his letters as an act of -graciousness. - -“Would you sing to me once more before I go?” he asked, a little later. -“I don’t know when I shall see you again, and I should like to carry -away a song of yours to cheer me.” - -She sat down at the piano and sang Gounod’s Serenade. Something in -its yearning tenderness touched the man in his softened mood. The pure -passion of Yvonne’s voice pierced through the thick layers of shame and -dead hopes and deadening memories that had encrusted round his heart, -and met it in a tiny thrill. He leaned back in his chair, staring at the -walls, which grew misty before his eyes. The scene changed and he was -back again in his mother’s house and Yvonne was singing this song. The -benumbing spell that had kept him dry-eyed since the news came to him of -his mother’s death, was lifted for the moment. But, only when a sudden -silence broke the charm, was he aware that tears were on his face. - -He brushed them away quickly, rose, took her hand and kissed it, and -then he laughed awkwardly, and bade her good-bye. - -On his way downstairs he brushed against a man ascending. It was a -squarely-built, keen-faced man of forty in clerical attire. Each stepped -aside to apologise, and then came the flash of recognition. Joyce -looked down in some confusion. But Canon Chisely turned on his heel and -continued his ascent. - -Joyce walked away moodily. His cousin’s cut brought back the old -familiar sense of degradation which Yvonne had charmed away. Again he -realised that he was an outcast, a blot upon society, an object of scorn -for men of good repute. No one but Yvonne could have befriended him -and forgotten what he was. And Yvonne herself,--was her friendship not -perhaps solely due to her childlike incapacity to appreciate the depths -of his disgrace? He would have given anything not to have met the Canon -on the stairs. - -***** - -Three weeks afterwards Yvonne was at Brighton for change of air -and holiday, accompanied by Geraldine Vicary, her dearest friend, -confidante, and chastener. They had taken lodgings in Lansdowne Place, -where they shared a sitting-room and discussed Yvonne’s prospects and -peccadilloes. Not but what the discussion was continued out of doors, -on the Parade, or in a quiet nook on the sands at Shoreham; but it -proceeded much more effectively within four walls, where there was -nothing to distract Yvonne’s attention. Miss Vicary had her friend’s -good most disinterestedly at heart, and Yvonne herself loved these -discussions, very much as she loved church. She felt a great deal better -and wiser, without in the least knowing why. In intervals of leisure -they idled about, dissected passing finery, and ate prodigious -quantities of ices--which, as all the world knows, is the proper way to -enjoy Brighton. - -They were sitting in one of the shelters on the cliff overlooking the -electric toy-railway. It was a lovely day. A sea-breeze ruffled the blue -Channel into a myriad dancing ridges, and blew Yvonne’s mass of dark -hair further back from her forehead. Suddenly she slipped her hand into -her friend’s. - -“Oh, Dina, is n’t this delicious!” - -“Rapturous,” said Geraldine, with a smile. She was a tall, -plainly-dressed young woman, some four years older than Yvonne, with a -pleasant, frank face and a decided manner. She wore a plain sailor-hat, -a blouse, and a grey-stuff skirt that hung rather badly -beneath a buff belt; thus contrasting with Yvonne, who suggested dainty -perfection of attire, from the diminutive bonnet to the toe of her -little brown shoe. Miss Vicary gave the impression of the typical -schoolmistress, which she would most probably have been, had not the -possession of a magnificent voice decided her career otherwise. - -“I mean it’s delicious being here alone with you,” returned Yvonne. -“Away from men altogether.” - -“They are a horrid lot,” said Geraldine, drily. “I wonder you see as -much of them as you do.” - -“But how can I help it? They will keep coming my way. Oh, I wish they -were all women. It would be so much nicer!” - -Geraldine broke into a laugh. - -“You goose!” she said. “You wouldn’t have the women falling in love with -you as the men do!” - -“But I don’t want them to fall in love with me,” cried Yvonne. “It is so -stupid. I don’t fall in love with them.” - -“Then why do you give them encouragement? I am always at you about it.” - -“I am only kind to them, as any one else would be.” - -“Fiddlesticks, my dear. You should keep them in their place.” - -“But what _is_ their place?” asked Yvonne, pathetically. “I never know. -That is why I wish they were women. Oh, I love so being here with you, -Dina. I wish I had a lot of women friends that I could talk to when I -can’t see you. But you’re the only real woman friend I ’ve got.” - -“You dear little mite!” exclaimed Geraldine, with sudden impulse. “I -can’t see why women don’t take to you. And I can understand all the men -falling in love with you. Even the Canon.” - -“Oh, how can you say such a thing?” cried Yvonne, quickly, the colour -coming into her cheeks. - -“By reason of the intelligence that God has given me, my dear,” replied -Geraldine. “I would send him packing if I were you.” - -“It is very kind indeed of a man like that to come and see me.” - -“And to pick you out from among all the concert singers in London for -his musical festival?” - -“But we’re old friends, Dina. He is only doing me a good turn.” - -“So as to deserve another, you simple darling. In the meantime, -I wouldn’t encourage Vandeleur or your new _protégé_, the Canon’s -unmentionable cousin.” - -“You know, I once thought there was something between you and Van,” - remarked Yvonne, with guileless inconsequence. - -“Rubbish!” said Miss Vicary. And then she added, rising hastily, after a -moment’s silence, “Look, you are getting chilly in this cold wind,--and -I am sure you have next to nothing underneath.” - -To keep Yvonne out of draughts and other pretexts for catching cold was -one of Miss Vicary’s self-imposed tasks, and she sought to compensate -Yvonne’s reckless exposure of herself when alone by excess of vigilance -on her own part when Yvonne was under her control--which is not an -uncommon irrationality in women, who, geniuses or not, have an infinite -capacity for taking superfluous pains. However, in spite of her maternal -precautions, it happened that Yvonne was laid up two or three days -afterwards with a cold which flew at once to her throat. Although in -no way serious, it filled her with dismay. She knew her throat to be -delicate. That her voice might one day fail her was the dread of her -life. - -“What does he say about me?” she asked, pathetically, when Geraldine had -returned from a short consultation with the doctor. “Is it going to hurt -my voice? Oh, do tell me, Dina?” - -“You must n’t talk, or else it will,” replied Geraldine, severely. - -Then she threw off the chastener, put on the consoler, and, sitting on -the bed, petted Yvonne until she had restored her mind to a measure of -peace. - -“Then I must throw up my engagements?” Yvonne asked, wistfully, after a -while. - -“Certainly the one here next week. But don’t bother your dear little -head about it.” - -“And the concerts at Fulminster for Canon Chisely. I must get well for -them, Dina.” - -“Why, of course you will,” replied Geraldine. “They are weeks and weeks -ahead. Besides, let the Canon go to Jericho!” - -“Why are you so hard upon Canon Chisely?” asked Yvonne. - -“A case of Dr. Fell, I suppose. I don’t like his always hanging about -you.” - -Yvonne burst out laughing. - -“I believe you are jealous, Dina,” she cried. - -Miss Vicary’s retort was checked by the entrance of the landlady with -Yvonne’s supper. She busied herself with the arrangement of plates and -dishes on the tray. But all the time the expression on her face was that -of a woman who foresees a considerable amount of trouble to come. - - - - -CHAPTER V--THE COMIC MUSE - -The common dressing-room appointed for the male members of the chorus -was crowded with half-attired men, strangely painted and moustachioed. -The low, blackened ceiling beat down the heat from the gas-jets over the -dressing-ledges, and the air reeked of stuffiness, tobacco, and yellow -soap. Everywhere was a confusion of garments, grease-paints, open bags, -beer bottles, and half-emptied glasses. It wanted only five minutes to -the rise of the curtain, and hurry prevailed among belated ones, who got -in each other’s way and swore lustily. - -Joyce had finished dressing. He wore a mandarin’s hat, a green robe, a -pigtail, and long, drooping moustaches, like the rest of his -companions. Having nothing more to do, he was leaning back against the -dressing-table with folded arms, and staring absently in front of him. - -“You are looking down in the mouth, old man,” said the man who dressed -next to him, turning away from the mirror and buttoning his robe. - -“I beg your pardon, McKay?” said Joyce, with a start. - -“I asked why you were so blooming cheerful,” answered the other. - -“I was only thinking,” said Joyce. - -“It seems to be an unpleasant operation, old man.” - -“Don’t you see it’s of _her_?” said another man standing by. “They’re -always like that.” - -“Perhaps it’s better to put her out of your mind and grin--isn’t it?” - retorted Joyce, pointedly, for the railer’s quasi-matrimonial squabbles -had already become a byword in the company. McKay burst into a loud -laugh, in which those who heard joined, and the railer retired in -discomfiture. - -“Had him there,” said McKay. “Well, how’s the world, anyway?” - -“Oh, all right!” replied Joyce, vaguely. - -“Blake and I took his missus and two of the girls for a sail to-day,” - said the other. “If the whole crew hadn’t been sick, we should have had -a gay old time. Been doing anything?” - -“No. What is there to do?” - -“At Southpool? Why, there’s no end of things. I wish we went to some -more seaside places, late as it is.” - -“I don’t think it matters much where we go,” said Joyce. “Life is just -the same.” - -“I suppose it is, if you moon around by yourself. Why don’t you get a -pal?” - -“Masculine or feminine?” asked Joyce; for there was as much pairing in -the company as in the Ark. - -“Whichever you please. You pays--no you don’t--you takes your choice -here without paying your money. But take my tip and keep clear of women. -You never know when they ’ll turn round and scratch you--like cats. After -all, what can you expect of ’em? I ’ve done with ’em all long ago.” - -“What about the sea-sick girls to-day?” - -“I would n’t touch any of ’em with a ten-foot pole,” replied the -misogynist, with bitter scorn. “I never was in an engagement where there -was such an inferior lot of ladies. I don’t know where the management -picked them up. And to think of the number of nice girls in London -simply starving for work.” - -“They seem right enough,” said Joyce, indifferently. - -“Gad! You should have been with me in ‘Mother Goose’ at Leeds this -winter. I was playing one of the men in the moon--they noticed me from -the front. You should have seen the slap-up lot we had there. What kind -of shop were you in for the winter?” - -“I was in another walk of life,” replied Joyce, with a curl of his lips. - -At that moment the call-boy’s voice was heard in the passages: -“Beginners for the first act;” and then he appeared himself at the door. - -“Everybody on the stage.” - -They trooped out, up the narrow stairs and along the dusty passages and -through the wings on to the stage, where they were met by the ladies -of the chorus, who came on from the other side; and then all grouped -themselves in their customary attitudes under the stage-manager’s eye. -Joyce was posed, second on the left, with a girl resting her head on his -knee. He greeted her as she took her place. - -“How are you to-night, Miss Stevens?” he whispered. - -“Oh, badly. The heat in the dressing-room is awful.” - -“So it is in ours. It is a wonder we don’t all melt together in a sticky -lump.” - -“It is the worst arranged theatre I was ever in.” - -“I am sorry,” said Joyce, “you look tired.” - -“Hush--the orchestra--” - -The curtain rose slowly, revealing the glare of the footlights and the -vague cavernous darkness of the auditorium, seen shimmering, as they -reclined on the stage, through the band of unbumed gases above the jets. - -The opening chorus began with its nodding-mandarin business, followed -by eccentric evolutions. Then the tenor came on alone. He jostled Joyce -who was standing near the entrance. - -“Damn it, don’t take up all the stage,” he muttered irritably under -cover of the radiant expression demanded by the business. - -He broke into his song, the chorus lining the sides. Then two minor -characters appeared, and after some dialogue, interrupted by Chinese -exclamations of delight on the part of the chorus, the latter danced off -in pairs. - -“I do call that cheek,” said Miss Stevens, as soon as they had reached -the wings, “why could n’t he look where he was going to?” - -“Yes, it was his fault,” said Joyce. - -“That’s the way with all these light tenors--simply eaten up with -conceit. If I were you I’d give him a piece of my mind and ask him what -the something he meant by it.” - -“I have n’t enough individuality here to make it worth while,” replied -Joyce with a shrug of the shoulders. - -The girl did not quite understand, but she caught enough of his drift to -perceive that he was not going to retaliate. Possibly she thought him a -poor-spirited fellow. “Oh, well--if you like being insulted--” she said, -turning away toward a group of girls. - -Joyce did not attempt to remonstrate. What did it matter whether a -coxcomb had cursed him? What did it matter, either, whether he had -fallen in Miss Stevens’s estimation? In fact, what did anything matter, -so long as starvation was not staring you in the face, or your companion -was not pointing at the trace of black arrows? He turned also and joined -in desultory whispering with McKay and Blake. At the end of the first -act, men and women went off at different sides to their dressing-rooms. -It was only during a wait in the second act that he found himself next -to Miss Stevens again. - -“Are you going to see me home again tonight after the performance?” she -asked. - -“If you will allow me,” replied Joyce. - -“I’m sorry I was short with you,” she said, awkwardly. - -“Oh, it was nothing.” - -The polite indifference in his tone rather piqued her. She was naturally -a plain, anaemic girl and the heavy make-up of grease-paint did not -render her more attractive at close quarters. The knowledge of this -irritated her the more. - -“You don’t seem to care about anything.” - -“I don’t much,” said Joyce. - -At that moment the leading lady came off the stage and passed by them as -they stood leaning against the iron railings of the staircase. She -was wearing the minimum of costume allowed by Celestial etiquette, and -looked very fresh and charming. - -“Oh, you are Mr. Joyce, aren’t you?” she said, pausing at the top of -the stairs; and, as Joyce bowed,--“Some one told me you were a friend of -Yvonne Latour’s.” - -“Yes,” said Joyce, “I have known her for a very long time.” - -“How is she? I have n’t seen her for ages.” She moved down a couple of -steps, so Joyce had to lean over the balustrade to reply. - -“She’s a dear little creature. I used to know her while she was living -with that wretch of a husband of hers,” said the lady, looking up. “He’s -dead, or something, is n’t he?” - -“Yes, thank goodness,” said Joyce, with more warmth perhaps than he was -aware of; for she smiled and replied:-- - -“You seem to look upon it as a personal favour on the part of -Providence.” - -“I think it is a personal boon to all Madame Latour’s friends.” - -“Oh, I am delighted,” she said, with a touch of raillery. “If ever there -was a marriage that ought to have been labelled ‘made in heaven,’ that -was one.” - -“Yes, it was a very cheap imitation of native goods,” replied Joyce, -with a smile. - -“Well, if you were going to meet her soon, I should ask you to remember -me to her; but as we are on a long tour--” - -“I shall be writing shortly,” he interposed. - -“Then that will do. Good-night, Mr. Joyce.” - -She disappeared down the stairs. When Joyce turned round, he discovered -that Miss Stevens had walked off, perhaps in dudgeon at having been -neglected. Joyce felt sorry. She was the only girl with whom he cared -to be on friendly terms outside the theatre, and who, accordingly, had -manifested any interest in his doings. It would be a misfortune if she -were offended. Meanwhile the late unexpected chat about Yvonne had been -very pleasant. Miss Verrinder had been nice and frank, assuming from the -first that he was a gentleman, and could be spoken to without restraint. -Joyce felt the fillip to his spirits during the rest of the performance. - -When it was over, he dressed as quickly as the crowded confusion of the -dressing-room rendered possible, and refusing an invitation on the part -of McKay to drink at the adjoining public-house, went down the short -street that led to the Parade, where he had arranged to meet Miss -Stevens. - -She did not keep him long waiting. He relieved her of a bulky parcel she -was carrying, and, holding it under his arm, walked gravely by her side. - -“I thought you said you were n’t an amateur,” she said suddenly. - -“Neither am I. It’s my livelihood.” - -“Oh, yes--between you and starvation, I suppose.” - -“Just so,” said Joyce. - -“Could n’t you do anything else?” - -“I can’t get anything else to do.” - -“Then how did you manage to come down in the world?” - -“How do you know I have come down?” asked Joyce, amused at the -catechism. - -“Can’t I see you were up once? Miss Verrinder would n’t have talked to -you like that if you had n’t belonged to her set. And I have heard of -Yvonne Latour. She does n’t make friends with the likes of McKay and me -and the rest of us. So you’re either an amateur come for the practice or -the fun of the thing, or--” - -“It’s hugely funny, I assure you,” he interrupted, “to live in a -back-street bedroom--‘lodgings for respectable men’--on thirty shillings -a week, and save out of that.” - -“Well, then you’ve come a cropper.” - -“Really, Miss Stevens,” he replied drily, “it would be rather -embarrassing to have to account to you for all my misdeeds.” - -“Oh, I don’t want to hear ’em. Not I--I’m not that sort But when I -like a man, I like to know just what he is. That’s all. Now my father -was a butler, and my mother a housekeeper, and they used to let lodgings -in Yarmouth. And they’re dead now, and I shift for myself. Now you know -all about me. I think I’d better carry that parcel.” - -She was rather defiant. Joyce could not understand her. Surely something -more than inconsequent bad taste had prompted her to draw this -distinction between their respective origins. But he was too -self-centred to speculate deeply upon feminine problems. He hugged the -parcel closer, and said:-- - -“Nonsense. The paper is torn and all the stuff will drop out.” - -“Oh, then I must carry it,” she cried, in quite a different tone. But he -refused gallantly. - -“What’s inside it?” he asked, glad to divert the conversation into less -perplexing channels. - -“It’s a dress--the one I wear in the third act. Well, you can carry it. -My head’s splitting. And I’m ready to drop.” - -They had reached the end of the Parade. Their way lay at right -angles through the town. It was a gusty, though warm night, and the -cloud-racked sky and sea were dimly visible. - -“Would you like to sit down for a few minutes?” he asked. - -“Would you like it?” - -Her white face was turned up earnestly toward his. - -“It might do you good,” he replied. - -“No,” she said abruptly, after a pause, “Let us get home.” - -They walked together in silence. Joyce’s thoughts were far away. He -parted from her at the door of her lodgings and went on slowly to his -own. - -He had accustomed himself quickly to the nomad life on tour, its -mechanical regularity despite the weekly change of scene. Once, perhaps, -a round like this among the large provincial towns would have been -filled with interests. But now it was empty. He tried in vain to whet -his dull curiosity, by strolling through the streets and seeking to busy -his mind with the industrial or municipal aspects, the art treasures, -the historical monuments of the various towns. But all intellectual -keenness seemed to have been blunted during those deadening years. His -lonely walks were at best but an aimless killing of time. All the towns -presented to him the same essential features: one busy thoroughfare, the -theatre with its flaring bills, and a poverty-stricken side-street where -his bedroom was situated. His life was singularly monotonous. The long -hours of the day, given up to lounging in solitude, or reading -what cheap literature his means would allow, were succeeded by the -uninspiring, almost impersonal work at the theatre. All that was -required of him was to sing his parts correctly, and to execute -automatically the “business” in which he had been drilled. It was -painfully easy. But he doubted within himself whether he had any -dramatic aptitude. He could never divest himself of the self-conscious -idea that he looked a fool in theatrical garb. The green robe and -pigtail gave him the sense of being a spectacle for gods and men. His -spirit was too crushed to look upon life humorously. Still, the great -anxiety was lifted from his mind. It was a livelihood, secured for an -indefinite time. The tour was booked a year ahead, and, as the outset -proved “The Diamond Door” to be as great a provincial success as it had -been a London one, there seemed no reason against a continuous run for -three or four years. In the meantime, he might advance a step or two. -But he did not care to contemplate the future. He was thankful for the -dull, unruffled present. He was working again among honest men, reckoned -as one himself. Could he dare hope for more? - -At times he found himself half cynically content with his lot. At -others, a yearning rose within him like a great pain to be able to look -the world in the face without shrinking from its condemnation. A strange -idea began to work in his brain; to win back by some great deed of -sacrifice his self-honour and respect. But he knew himself to be a -dreamer of dreams, of too sorry stuff for such stern action. He would go -whither the wind drifted him. Of this he thought as he walked home after -parting with Annie Stevens. - -He met her the next morning on the beach, a long way from the town, -sitting, a lonely figure upon a great drain-pipe rising half above the -sand. She was resting her chin upon her fingers, that grasped a crumpled -copy of “Tit-Bits,” and she was looking out to sea. Their eight weeks -of pairing on the stage had brought to Joyce a feeling of companionship -with her, which he did not have as regards the others. Besides, -those who were not either domestic or commonplace, belonged to the -flaxen-haired, large-eyed, tawdrily-dressed type so common in the lower -ranks of the profession. Miss Stevens had a personality which, though -unrefined, was at least her own, and he honestly liked her. - -She gave a little start when she was aware of his presence, and a quick -flush came into her cheeks. But he did not notice it With a pleasant -greeting he sat down by her side and talked of current trifles. At last -she broke out suddenly. - -“Oh, don’t let’s talk ‘shop.’ I’m sick of the piece and the theatre -altogether.” - -“Oh, come, it is not so bad,” said Joyce, consolingly. “We both ought to -be playing good parts, and having rosier prospects. But things might be -very much worse.” - -He was feeling brighter this morning. Yvonne had written him a long, -gossipy letter, full of encouragement and her own unconscious charm, -thus lifting him on a little wave of cheerfulness. With a friend like -Yvonne and daily bread, he ought to be thankful. As for Miss Stevens, -he did not see what she had particularly to grumble at. If she had been -beautiful or talented, she might have had reason to quarrel with her -lot. - -“Besides,” he added after a pause. “Look what a lovely day it is!” - -“So you think we ought to be quite happy?” - -“Moderately so.” - -She was in a taciturn mood, and did not reply, but turned a little away -from him and began to dig the sand with the toe of her boot. Suddenly -she said, rather petulantly:-- - -“I wonder if you could ever love a woman.” He had grown accustomed to -her late, discrete methods of conversation, so the question scarcely -surprised him. He took off his hat, so as to enjoy the breeze, and -rested both hands at his sides on the drain-pipe. - -“I suppose I could if I tried,” he said carelessly, “but I’m very much -better as I am. Why do you ask?” - -She shrugged her shoulders. - -“I don’t know. I thought I’d say something. We were n’t having exactly a -rollicking time, you know.” - -This time the acerbity in her tone did strike him. Something had gone -wrong with her. He bent forward so as to catch a sight of her averted -face. - -“What is the matter, Miss Stevens?” he asked concernedly. “You are not -yourself. Could I be of any service to you?” - -She did not reply. Her silence seemed an encouragement to press his -sympathy. It was a new thing to be of help to a human being. He put his -fingers on her sleeve and added:-- - -“Tell me.” - -She drew away her arm and started to her feet. - -“Yes, I will tell you. I ’ve been making a miserable little fool of -myself. Let’s go back.” - -Joyce rose and walked by her side. - -“You are not by any chance embarrassed in money matters?” he asked, in -as delicate a tone as he could. - -“Money!” - -She looked at him incredulously for a moment, then broke into hysterical -laughter. - -“Money!” she repeated. “Oh, you are too comic for anything!” - - - - -CHAPTER VI--MELPOMENE - -Two weeks passed and Joyce found himself in Hull. During the previous -week Miss Stevens had lodged quite near to the theatre, and there had -been no occasion for his escort after the performance. Besides, she had -maintained a distant attitude toward him which precluded further offer -of sympathy in her affairs. He was sorry for her; she seemed lonely, -like himself, and, like himself, to have some inward suffering that made -life bitter. He was glad, then, to find at Hull that they lodged in the -same street, some distance away from the Theatre Royal, so that he could -propose, as a natural thing, the resumption of their former habit. She -had acquiesced readily on the Monday night, and they had met as a -matter of course on the four succeeding evenings. Her late aloofness was -followed by a more intimate and submissive manner. There were no more -defiant utterances and fits of petulance. She seemed anxious to atone -for past irritability, and Joyce, vaguely remembering a spring-tide -cynicism of his, that one must be astonished at nothing in a woman, -received these advances kindly, and looked upon their friendly relations -as consolidated. - -He also found himself progressing in favour with the rest of the -company. Several desultory chats with Miss Verrinder, the friend of -Yvonne, had not only brightened the dulness of the theatre life, but -also given him a little _prestige_ among his colleagues. For there is a -good deal of humanity in man, including the chorus of comic opera. So, -such as it was, Joyce’s contentment rose to high-level at Hull. He did -not couple the town with Hell and Halifax in his litany of supplication, -but, on the contrary, found it a not unpleasant place, which, moreover, -was in process of undergoing a rare week of sunshine. - -His favourite spot was the Corporation Pier, with its double deck and -comfortable seats and view across the Humber. His well-worn clothes were -in harmony with its frequenters, and he felt more at ease than on the -Parade of a seaside resort thronged with well-dressed people. -Here he brought his book and pipe, read discursively, watched the -shipping, fell into talk with seafaring men, who told him the tonnage -of vessels and the ports from which they came. Often a great steamer -performing the passenger service across the North Sea would come into -the docks close by, and he would go and watch her land her passengers -and cargo. The hurry and movement were welcome to him, breaking, as they -did, the lethargy of the day. If the docks were quiet, there was always -the mild excitement of witnessing the arrival of the Grimsby boat at the -pier. - -On Saturday morning this last incident had attracted him from his seat -on the lower gallery to the little knot of expectant idlers gathered by -the railing. The steamer was within a quarter of a mile, the churn of her -paddles the only break visible in the sluggish water of the river. He -stood leaning over, pipe in mouth, idly watching her draw near. When -she was moored alongside and the gangway pushed on to the landing-stage -below, he moved with the others to the head of the slope to watch the -passengers ascend. Why he should particularly interest himself in the -passage of humdrum labourers, fishwives, artisans, and young -women come to shop in Hull, he did not know. He watched them, with -unspeculating gaze, pass hurrying by, until suddenly a pair of evil -eyes looking straight into his own made him start back with a shiver of -dismay. - -Escape was impossible; in another moment the man was by his side. - -“Hullo, old pal! Who would have thought of seeing you?” - -Joyce did not take the dirty hand that was proffered. He stuck his own -deep in his pockets, frowned at the man, and turned away. But the other -followed. - -“Look here, old pal, I don’t call this a friendly lead--bust me if I do. -You might pass the time of day with a bloke--especially as it is n’t sol -ong ago----” - -The man’s voice was loud, the pier busy with people. The air seemed -to Joyce filled with a thousand listening ears. His blood tingled with -shame. He faced round with an angry look. - -“What do you want with me?” - -“Oh, don’t take on, old pal,” replied the other, in lower tones. “I -ain’t going to give you away--don’t you fear. It’s only pleasant to meet -old pals again--in better circs. Ain’t it?” - -Joyce had always loathed him--a flabby, sallow, greasy-faced fellow, -with blear eyes and a protruding under-lip. He had been sentenced for a -foul offence against decency. Joyce’s soul used to revolt at the sight -of him as they sat on either side of the reeking tub washing up the -cooking utensils in the prison kitchen. The hateful stench rose again to -his nostrils now and turned his stomach. - -“Can’t you see I am going to have nothing to do with you?” he said -angrily. - -“Come, don’t be hard on a bloke when he’s down,” replied the man. “It -ain’t everyone that gets on their legs again when they comes out. I ’ve -been out two months, and I haven’t had a job yet. S’welp me! And there’s -the wife and the kids starving. Give us a couple of quid to send to -’em and make ’em happy again. Just two thick uns.” - -Joyce stared at him, breathless with indignation at his impudence. - -“I ’ll see you damned first!” he cried fiercely. - -“Well, make it ten bob, or five, or the price of a drink, old pal. You -can’t leave an old fellow-boarder in distress, or the luck will turn -agen you.” - -He leered up into Joyce’s face, disclosing a jagged row of yellow teeth. -But Joyce started forward and took him by the collar. - -“If you try to blackmail me,” said he, pointing to a policeman on the -quay, “I ’ll give you in charge. Just stay where you are and let me go my -ways.” - -He released him and marched off. But the man did not attempt to follow. -He slipped into a seat close by and sang out sarcastically: “If you ’ll -leave your address, I ’ll send you a mourning card when the kids is -dead!” - -Joyce caught the words as he hurried down the stairs. When he had -crossed the quay to the hotels, he looked up at the pier, and saw the -man leaning over with a grin on his face. It was only when he reached -his lodging that he breathed freely again. - -What he had long expected had come to pass--recognition by a -fellow-prisoner. It was a horrible experience. It might occur again and -again indefinitely. He walked agitated up and down his poorly-furnished -bedroom. Could he do nothing to guard against such things in the future? -If he could only disguise himself! Then he remembered that the moustache -which might have served him as a slight protection against casual -glances had been sacrificed to theatrical exigencies. He ground his -teeth at the futility of the idea. And at intervals wrath rose up hot -within him at the man’s cool impudence. Two pounds--more than a week’s -salary--to be thrown away on swine like that! He laughed savagely at the -thought. - -He grew calm after a time, lay down on his bed and opened a book. But -the face of the man, bringing with it scenes of a past in which they had -been associated came between his eyes and the page. - -“Anyhow, it’s over,” he exclaimed at last, with a determined effort to -banish the memories. “And, thank God, it’s Saturday, and I shall be in -Leeds to-morrow.” - -To avoid the chance of meeting him in the streets, however, he stayed at -home all day, sending round a note of excuse on the score of seediness -to Miss Stevens, with whom he had arranged to take an afternoon stroll. -On his way to the theatre he caught sight of the man standing by a -gas-lamp at a street-corner on the other side of the way. He hurried on, -glad at his escape, for the glance of the man’s eyes resting upon him -was abhorrent. - -For the first time since he had started on the tour the rough -companionship of the dressing-room was a comfort and delight. Here -were kindly words, welcoming faces, the pleasant familiarity of common -avocation. He forgot the heat, and the crush, and the tomfool aspect -the dressing had always presented. The place was home-like, familiar, -sheltering. His costume, as he took it down from the peg, seemed like -an old friend. The jolly voices of his companions rang gratefully in his -ears. The disgust of the day faded into the memory of a nightmare. This -was a reality--this hearty good-fellowship with uncontaminated men. - -When he went out with them on to the stage, before the curtain rose, -and met the ladies of the chorus, he greeted those that he liked with -a newer sense of friendliness. Until then he had never been aware how -pleasant it was to have Annie Stevens’s head resting on his knee. He -thanked God he was a criminal no longer--not as that other man was. -Certainly Phariseeism is justifiable at times. - -He was very kind to Miss Stevens all the evening during the waits, when -they happened to be together. His apologies for having to put off their -engagement met with her full acceptance. She was solicitous as to his -health--asked him in her downright fashion whether he ate enough. - -“You are a gentleman, you know, and not accustomed to poor people’s ways -and their privations.” - -“My dear,” he replied, dropping for the first time into the old -professional’s mode of address. “I ’ve gone through privations in my life -that you have never dreamed of. This is clover--knee-deep.” - -And he believed it; thought, too, what a fool he had been to grumble at -this honest, pleasant theatrical life. The reaction had rather excited -him. - -“I look upon myself as jolly well off here,” he said. “And I eat like an -ox, I assure you. Do you know, it’s very good of you to take an interest -in me?” - -“Do you think so?” said the girl, with a little laugh, and turning away -her head. - -At the end of the first act a fresh pleasure awaited him. It was a night -of surprising sensations. The stage-manager called him into his room. - -“Walker has been telegraphed for--wife very ill--and he won’t be able -to play on Monday. Do you think you could play his part till he comes -back?” - -“Rather!” said Joyce, delighted. - -“You are the only one of the crowd that can sing worth a cent,” said -the stage-manager with a seasonable mixture of profanity. “I ’ll pull -you through. Perhaps he’s not coming back at all. One never knows. If -he does n’t and you go all right, there’s no reason why you should n’t -stick to it.” - -Walker spoke exactly four lines, sang once in a quartette and had a -couplet solo. Otherwise he made himself useful in the chorus. But it -was a part, his name was down in the bill. The value of the step, moral, -pecuniary and professional was considerable. Joyce felt that his luck -had turned at last. Here was the gate into the profession proper open to -him. - -The news soon spread through the company. A “call” for rehearsal on -Monday morning for the chorus and those of the principals concerned in -the change was posted up. He felt himself a person of some importance. -McKay congratulated him; and Blake, although he said, “You swells get -all the fat,” spoke by no means enviously. The others cracked jokes -and suggested drinks all round, which, being sent for by Joyce, were -consumed in the dressing-room. Annie Stevens squeezed his hand, during -their dance together, and whispered a word of pleasure. He had no -idea that so infinitesimal a success could have masqueraded as such a -triumph. He longed to get back to his room to write it all to Yvonne. - -At the stage-door, after the performance, he met Annie Stevens, who had -hurried through her dressing. - -“I’m glad for your sake, but I’m sorry for my own,” she said, after they -had walked a few steps. - -“Why, what difference can it make to you?” asked Joyce laughing. - -“I shall have to play and sing with somebody else.” - -“True. I was forgetting. Yes, it will seem funny. I shall miss you too.” - -“I don’t believe you care one bit,” said the girl. - -To acquiesce would have been rude. He answered her with vague regrets. -She interrupted him with a laugh in which was the faintest note of -scorn. - -“Oh, you’re very glad to get rid of me, and the stupid kissing and -everything. You won’t have to give any one a Chinese kiss now. And they -were very Chinese, you know.” - -“An English kiss would have been out of the picture,” said Joyce. - -“We’re not in the picture now,” she said softly. - -Joyce felt that he was doing something very foolish, perhaps dangerous. -He had never had the remotest fancy for allowing his companionship with -her to degenerate into a flirtation. But what could he do? He bent down -and kissed her. - -There was an awkward silence for a few yards, which she broke at last in -her irrelevant way. - -“I should so like a glass of port wine tonight.” - -“So should I,” said Joyce, cheerfully. “Or something like it. We ’ll go -into the Crown yonder.” - -Two or three times before they had had a glass together on their way -home. To-night, therefore, the suggestion seemed natural. They entered -the private bar of the public-house, and Joyce ordered the liquors. Only -one young man was there, reading a sporting paper on a high stool. It -was a quiet place, with the view beyond the counter down the bar cut off -by a ground-glass screen, through a low space under which the customers -were served. - -Joyce pushed the port wine smilingly to Miss Stevens, and, with his -back to the door, was pouring some water into his whisky, when a -voice sounded in his ear, causing him to start violently and flood the -counter. - -“I say, old pal, _are_ you goin’ to help a poor feller?” - -The man was standing behind him, the leer upon his greasy face. Joyce -had been blissfully unaware that he had dogged his steps from that -street corner to the stage-door of the theatre, and from the stage-door -hither. The sight of him was a stroke of cold terror. - -“Go away. I ’ll give you in charge,” he stammered, losing his head for -the moment. - -Annie Stevens clutched his arm. - -“Who is this beastly man?” she said. - -“Only an old pal, miss,” said the man, edging towards the door. “We was -in quod many months together, and now he won’t give me ’arf a crown to -keep me from starving.” - -“By God!” cried Joyce, making a sudden dash at him. - -But the man was too quick; he had secured his retreat, and when Joyce -reached the pavement--the house was at a corner of cross roads--he -could not catch the fall of his footsteps. The man had vanished into -the night, and pursuit was hopeless. It had all passed with the sudden -unexpectedness of a dream. Joyce put his hand to his forehead and tried -to think. He could scarcely realise exactly what had happened. He seemed -to be enveloped with tiny tingling waves that drew his skin tight like -a drum for his heart to beat against. He turned, and saw Annie Stevens -standing by his side, in the light of the public-house, with anger on -her face. - -“What have you got to say for yourself?” she asked brusquely. - -“Do you believe that man?” said Joyce, the words coming painfully. - -Their lack of conviction damned him. The girl drew back a step, and -looked at him with revulsion in her eyes. - -“You can’t deny it! I see that you can’t. You’ve just come out of -prison.” - -If the world had been at his feet he could not have lied convincingly -at that moment. He could only stare at her haggardly and rack his brains -for words that would not come. She moved away instinctively from the -public glare and turned down the dark street that led toward their -destination. - -“It’s a lie,” he said desperately, striding to her side. - -“No it is n’t. It’s truth. I read it on your face. That’s why you’ve -come down in the world--that’s why you live by yourself--that’s why you -didn’t dare come out this afternoon--and that’s where you’ve known all -those privations I never dreamed of. It’s no good telling lies.” - -“Well, it’s true,” said Joyce. “And I ’ve paid the penalty for my folly -ten times over. Forget all this, Annie, for God’s sake.” - -“Go away!” she cried, walking faster. “I don’t want to see you again. -Oh, to think of it makes me sick! Go away, do!” - -But he followed her imploringly. He was at her mercy. “I don’t care what -you think of me,” he said. “I will keep out of your way as much as you -like. Only, a word from you would ruin me. Keep my story secret, like an -honourable woman. I have done nothing to you.” - -“Yes, you have!” she cried, stopping short and facing him. “You have -dared to kiss me. Oh--a pretty fine gentleman you are--with your -patronising superior ways--and I thinking myself an ignorant, common -girl, not good enough for you! What were you? A pickpocket?” - -“You abuse me as if I were one,” said Joyce, bitterly. “Good-night, Miss -Stevens. I shall not molest you any further.” He motioned to her with -his hand to pass on in front. She regarded him for a moment stonily, -and then, with a short exclamation of disgust, swung round sharply and -proceeded at a hurried pace down the dismal, ill-lighted street. Joyce -watched her until she was swallowed up in the darkness, and had obtained -sufficient start for him to follow in her footsteps without fear of -overtaking her. - -But as he walked along, the dread of her indignation seized him. If only -he could say another word to her before the morning, he might secure her -pity and her silence. The idea grew more and more insistent, until -he could bear it no longer. He started off at a run, at first on the -pavement of the quiet side street, and then in the roadway by the kerb -of the busier thoroughfare into which it led, and regardless of jostling -and oaths, continued his way, until he succeeded in catching her up just -as she was inserting the latchkey into her door. - -“Annie,” he cried, his chest heaving painfully from the exertion of -running. “Promise me you won’t breathe a word of this to any one.” - -She let herself in deliberately and stood in the dark passage. - -“I ’ll promise nothing. I never want to set my eyes on you again!” - -And then she slammed the door in his face. - -He turned away sick at heart, and went to his own lodging. Resentment at -her coarse anger, and speculation as to the motives of the sudden change -from friendliness to hatred were things that did not come to him till -afterwards. Sufficient for the night was the despair of the sleepless -hours, the dread of the girl’s tongue, and the anguish of tottering -hopes. He did not write to Yvonne. The little triumph of the evening -seemed like a gay pagoda struck by lightning. - - - - -CHAPTER VII--A FORLORN HOPE - -At the railway station the next afternoon he found most of the company -already assembled on the platform. Curious glances were cast upon him as -he appeared; there were nudgings and whisperings; some giggling on the -part of the chorus girls standing round Annie Stevens, who was looking -paler and more defiant than usual. A group of his colleagues melted away -at his approach. He saw at once what had happened. The fears that had -haunted him all the night and all that day were realised. He felt his -face and lips grow white, and his limbs trembled. With an instinctive -remnant of self-assertion, he went up to Blake, who was standing by one -of the reserved carriages. It seemed a long time before he could speak. -At last he asked him stupidly at what time the train started. - -“Four-forty,” said Blake, curtly. - -“And when do we get to Leeds?” - -“How the devil should I know? If you want to know, there’s the guard. -Ask him.” - -With which he moved away and joined two or three others a few steps -off. Joyce felt too sick with misery to resent the rudeness. He walked -a short distance along the train, and seeing one of his colleagues in a -compartment, concluded that it was reserved for the chorus-men and crept -into the far corner, where he sat down, holding a newspaper before his -face. - -The compartment filled and the train started. At first there was a -general constraint in the talk. Then a game at nap was instituted; but -no one spoke to Joyce. At Selby there was over an hour’s wait. With a -feeling that he must be alone at any cost, he rushed out of the station, -and, avoiding the town, wandered aimlessly through lanes and fields -until it was time to return. He was too dazed and overwhelmed by this -sudden blow to think coherently. Now it was the girl’s deliberate -cruelty that passed his comprehension; now the sickening shame at being -known in his true colours to a whole society burned into his flesh. -Only one thought stood out from the rest in lurid clearness--the -impossibility of his continuing the tour. Even if the management took -no notice of the discovery, he felt he would rather starve to death in -a hole than live through that hell of daily aversion and contempt. To -return to the company and travel with them as far as Leeds was pain -enough. He would face that, however, and then-- - -It was gathering dusk when he arrived at the station, just in time -to see the guard about to wave the green flag. The handle of the -compartment was in his grasp when he heard McKay say:-- - -“Well, because a fellow’s happened to be in quod, that doesn’t mean he’s -likely to sneak your watches out of the dressing-room!” - -He opened the door and entered amid a dead silence, which lasted, with -few interruptions, all the rest of the journey. Joyce looked round -at his seven companions, with an awful sense of isolation. Only -four-and-twenty hours before he had loved them for their warm -good-fellowship. He was wrung with the pity of it. McKay’s words still -sounded in his ear. They were horrible enough, but it was evident they -were meant in his defence. Once he met his glance, and read in it a -signal of kind intent. But the others steadily looked another way when -his eye fell upon them. - -When they left the train at Leeds, McKay touched him on the shoulder and -drew him apart from the hurrying stream of passengers and porters. - -“What’s all this yarn that Annie Stevens has been telling us?” - -“Oh, it’s true enough,” replied Joyce, wearily. - -“The damned little hell-cat,” said McKay. “I told you to keep clear of -women.” - -“It was bound to come out. One of you fellows might just as well have -been with me in the pub last night.” - -“Do you think a man would have given you away like this?” asked McKay, -with great scorn. - -“I ’ve come to the conclusion that anything’s possible in this infernal -world,” said Joyce, bitterly. “I suppose the whole crowd are against -me.” - -“Well, there is a bit of feeling, certainly,” replied McKay, in an -embarrassed tone. “And maybe it won’t be very pleasant for you. They all -talk as if they were plaster of Paris saints,--and, dash it all--they -made me sick; so I thought I’d come and say I’d stand by you.” - -“Thank you, McKay,” said Joyce, touched. “You are a good sort. But I -sha’n’t ask you. I am not going on with the tour.” - -“I think you’re just as well out of it, to tell you the truth,” said -McKay. Then his anger against Annie Stevens broke out again in an -unequivocal epithet. - -“The little--------,” he said. - -“I suppose it is horrible in a woman’s eyes,” said Joyce, moving with -McKay toward the crowd round the luggage-van. “But I can’t see why she -should hate me like this, all of a sudden, and wish to ruin me.” - -“Can’t you? It’s pretty plain.” - -“No,” said Joyce. “We have always been the best of friends.” - -“Friends? You don’t mean to say you did n’t know she was gone on -you--clean gone, all off her chump? No one liked to chaff you about it, -because you have an infernal sarcastic way of scoring off fellows. But, -Gawd! The way she used to look at you was enough to make a man sick!” - -“Do you mean she was in love with me?” asked Joyce, falteringly, as the -whole situation of affairs, past and present, began to dawn upon him. - -“Well, rather,” said McKay, with a chuckle. “What do you think?” - -Several of the company were still around the pile of luggage by the van, -claiming their things and waiting for porters. Standing on one side was -Annie Stevens, and, as it happened, Joyce recognised his Gladstone bag -lying at her feet He went and picked it up, and was going off silently -with it, when he felt her touch on his arm. Dim as the light was, he -could see that her face was haggard and drawn. She met his stern gaze -beseechingly. - -“For God’s sake, forgive me,” she whispered. - -“You have played too much havoc with my life,” replied Joyce coldly. - -“I shall kill myself,” said the girl. - -“Some people are better dead,” said Joyce, turning away, bag in hand. - -On the platform beyond the barriers he met McKay again. - -“Good-bye, McKay,” he said. “I have only two friends in the world who -know my story, and you are one.” - -“Good-bye, old man,” said McKay. “Better luck next time.” - -They shook hands and parted, McKay to join his friend Blake at the -lodgings they had secured already, Joyce to put up for the night at the -first cheap hotel he could find. - -The next day he was in London again, in his old room in Pimlico--a -broken-hearted, broken-spirited man. For two days he remained in a state -of stupid misery, yearning for the life he had just abandoned; tortured, -too, by reproaches for his cowardice. Why had he not faced the ignominy, -and tried to live it down? Then the conviction of the hopelessness -of the attempt was forced upon him. Even if he had continued in the -profession, his name would soon have been known throughout it as the -ex-convict,--and he had been in it long enough to perceive how narrow -the theatrical circle is,--and all hope of advancement would have been -worse than futile. On the third day he went to see Yvonne, but she had -just gone out of town. The porter at the flat did not know how long she -would be away. She was at Fulminster. Her letters were forwarded there. -So Joyce wrote her a short note, explaining his situation, and set -himself to wait patiently for her coming. - -But on that evening, out of sheer weariness and longing for human -companionship, he turned into his old haunt, the billiard-room in -Westminster. It seemed just the same as on the last evening he had been -there. The occupants of the divan might never have moved from that night -to this. His appearance was greeted with incurious, uninterested nods. -The only one that offered his hand was Noakes, who was sitting at the -end, still in his Chesterfield overcoat and old curly silk hat, but -looking more woe-begone and pallid than ever. There was a touch of pain, -too, in his usually expressionless pale-blue eyes. Joyce took his seat -next to him and bent forward, elbows on knees and chin resting in his -hands. - -“You have been absent from town?” asked Noakes, in his precise, toneless -way. - -Joyce nodded, with a murmur of assent. - -“I, too, have not been here lately.” - -“Press of literary work?” asked Joyce, without looking up. - -The other did not notice the shade of sarcasm. He passed his hand across -his eyes and sighed. - -“I have given it up.” - -“Have you come into a fortune?” - -“No. I have had the deadliest misfortune that can befall a man.” - -Something genuinely tragic in his tone made Joyce start up from his -dejected attitude and look at his neighbour. - -“I beg your pardon,” he said. “I did not know.” - -“Of course not; no one does. At least, no one I can repose any -confidence in.” - -There was an air of dignity in this oddly attired figure, with the -ludicrous silk hat above the black mutton-chop whiskers and bushy white -hair, and yet a mute appeal for sympathy which Joyce could not but -perceive. - -“I, too, have been hard hit lately,” he said, in a low voice. - -“Ah, not like me,” said the other, turning round in his seat, so that -his words should reach only Joyce’s ear. “Until three weeks ago I had -a wife and child. No man ever loved as I did. I worked for them till -my brain almost gave way--fifteen hours a day, week after week, starved -myself for them, denied myself the clothes on my back. Now I have them -no longer. Life is valueless to me.” - -“Are they--dead?” asked Joyce. - -“No. Gone off with the lodger on the first floor,” replied Noakes, -solemnly. - -Joyce remained silent. What could he say? He looked sympathetic. Noakes -blew his nose in a dirty piece of calico with frayed edges that courtesy -called a pocket-handkerchief, and continued:-- - -“So my life is wrecked. My imagination is darkened and I can write -no more. I have given up my literary ambitions. It is not worth while -writing penny bloods at half a crown a thousand for one’s own support.” - -“What are you going to do then?” asked Joyce, interested in the quaint -creature. - -“I am going abroad. I have come here perhaps for the last time. On the -day after to-morrow I sail for South Africa.” - -Was it a sudden inspiration? Was it the coming to a head of vague -resolutions, despairs, workings, the final word of a destiny driving him -from England? Was it a sudden sense of protecting brotherhood towards -this forlorn, tragic scarecrow of a man? Joyce never knew. Possibly it -was all bursting upon his soul at once. Springing to his feet, he held -out his hand to Noakes. - -“By all that’s holy, I ’ll come with you!” he cried, in a strange voice. - -The other, after some hesitation, took his hand and looked at him -pathetically. - -“Are you in earnest?” - -“In dead earnest.” - -“I am going in the very cheapest possible manner.” - -“So am I.” - -“I am going, with a few pounds I have scraped together, to try my luck.” - -“The same with me. It can’t be worse than England; starvation is -certain here. Come, say, honour bright--will you be glad of me as a -companion--as a friend if you like? I am a lonely bit of driftwood like -yourself.” - -Then Noakes rose to his feet and this time squeezed Joyce’s hand and his -pale eyes glistened. - -“I ’ll swear to be your friend in peace and in danger,” he said, in his -quaint phraseology. “And I thank the God of all mercies for sending you -to me in my hour of need.” - -“All right,” said Joyce. “And now let us have some whisky, and talk over -details.” - -And so, in that dingy billiard-room, unknown to the moulting Bohemians -huddled up in somnolent attitudes close by on the divan and unheeded by -the shirt-sleeved men passing around the table intent on their game, -was struck the strangest bargain of a friendship ever made between two -outcast men; a friendship that was to last through want and sickness -and despair and hope, and to leave behind it the ineffaceable stamp of -nobler feeling. - -But at first there was much admixture of cynicism on Joyce’s side. He -laughed aloud, in the bitterness of his heart, at the object he had -taken for his bosom friend. It was only later, when he learned the -patient, dog-like devotion of the man, that he felt humbled and ashamed -at these beginnings. - -With a draft on a Cape Town bank for the remainder of his capital, and -a last regretful letter from Yvonne in his pocket, he left Southampton. -And as they steamed down Channel, in the mizzling rain of a grey -November day, he leaned over the taffrail and stared at the land of -his brilliant hopes, his crime, his punishment, his struggles and his -dishonour, with a man’s agony of unshed tears. - -He was going to begin life anew in a strange undesired country; -hopeless, aimless, friendless save for that useless creature who -was pacing up and down the deck behind him, still in his ridiculous -headgear. He had made no plans. The future to him when he should land at -Cape Town was as unknown--as it is to any of the sons of men, did we but -realise it. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII--THE CANON’S ANGEL - -While Joyce was straining his eyes through the darkness for the last -sight of land and eating out his heart in bitter regrets, Yvonne was -busily engaged at Fulminster in rehearsing for the next day’s concert. -She had spent four days at Fulminster, the guest of Mrs. Winstanley, -and found herself somewhat lost among the very decorous society of -which Canon Chisely was a leading member. And while she was scanning the -social heavens in half pathetic search of her bearings, Joyce’s letters -had arrived, with their tidings of catastrophe and exile. So, while -there was a smile on her lip for the Canon and his friends, there was -a tear in her eye for Joyce. His humiliation and her failure as fairy -godmother brought her a pang of disappointment. She felt very tenderly -towards Joyce. In her imagination, too, Africa was a dreadful place, -made up of deserts, lions, and ferocious negroes in a state of nudity. - -If she had seen him before he started, she might have dissuaded him -from encountering such discomforts. She thought of this tearfully in the -intervals that Fulminster affairs allowed her for reflection. - -She was staying with Mrs. Winstanley. Now Mrs. Winstanley was the -leading social authority in Fulminster. She was a distant cousin of -Canon Chisely. In fact, she was an infinite number of irreproachable -things. Mothers came to her as a matrimonial oracle. The Mayor consulted -her on ticklish questions of civic etiquette. The affairs of the parish -were in her hands. Although she inhabited a well-appointed house of her -own, she superintended the domestic arrangements of the Rectory; and -performed all the duties of hostess for her cousin when he entertained. -Thus, parochially and socially she was invaluable to the Canon--his -right-hand woman, one who could share his dignity, and, by so doing, add -to its impressiveness. If he had been called upon to write her epitaph, -he would have carved upon the stone, “Here lies a woman of sense.” Now, -when a responsibly placed and grave bachelor of three-and-forty holds -that opinion of a woman of his own years, and consults her in all his -concerns, the result is not difficult to imagine. Cousin Emmeline ruled -the Rectory, with exquisite tact it is true--for if there was one of -her peculiar and original virtues of which she made a speciality, it was -tact--but yet her influence was paramount. - -When the Canon had come to her with a request to invite Madame Yvonne -Latour to stay with her, she had elevated polite eyebrows. - -“Whoever heard of such a thing!” - -“It seems simple,” said the Canon. “I can’t invite her to my own house, -so I beg you to invite her to yours.” - -“You are not going to do this for all the professionals engaged at the -festival?” - -“Of course not,” answered the Canon; “who is suggesting anything so -absurd?” - -“Then why make an exception of Madame Latour, who is not even singing -the leading parts?” - -“She is very delicate and requires comforts,” he replied. “If she is -not taken care of, she may not be able to sing at all. Besides, it is my -particular desire, Emmeline. I assume the privilege of expressing it to -you.” - -“I take it she is a very great friend of yours?” - -“A very great friend,” said the Canon. - -Mrs. Winstanley reviewed many unpleasant possibilities. Certain -weaknesses becoming apparent in her own impregnable position strongly -tempted her to refuse. She bit her lip and looked at her manicured -finger-nails. - -“Come, you’re a woman of sense,” added the Canon, after a pause. - -The tribute turned the tide of her judgment. She was a woman of sense. -How absurd of her to have forgotten. An ironical smile played on her -lips and lurked in her steel-grey eyes. - -“You want to present Madame Latour to Fulminster society, Everard, with -whatever advantages may be attached to my chaperonage?” - -“Precisely,” said the Canon. - -“Well, I will send the invitation. But will she accept it?” - -“I ’ll see about that,” he replied briskly. “I am deeply indebted to you, -Emmeline.” - -She smiled, shook hands and followed him, with a word of parting, to -the door. Then as soon as it was shut upon him, she stamped her foot and -walked across the room, with an exclamation of impatience. - -“I wonder what kind of a fool he is going to make of himself!” - -She soon saw. One is not a woman of sense for nothing. On the eve of the -Festival, which was being held for the purpose of raising funds for the -restoration of the old Abbey church, of which the Canon was rector, he -gave a consecrating dinner-party. - -The Bishop of the diocese, who was staying at the Rectory, was there; -Sir Joshua and Lady Santyre, and others of the high and solemn world of -Fulminster. Yet the Canon, with a high-bred tact, delicately conveyed -the impression that Madame Latour was the guest of the evening. Mrs. -Winstanley kept eyes and ears on the alert. There was much talk of the -Festival. On the morrow the “Elijah” was to be given, with Madame Latour -in the contralto part. The Canon was solicitous as to her voice, beamed -with pleasure when she offered, in her sweet, simple way to sing to -his guests, and stood behind her as she sung, with what, in Mrs. -Winstanley’s eyes, appeared an exasperating expression of fatuity. - -A little later in the evening, a young girl, Sophia Wilmington, went up -to him with the charming insolence of youth. - -“Why did n’t you tell us she was so sweet? I ’ve fallen head over ears in -love with her.” The Canon smiled, bowed, and delivered himself of this -extraordinary speech:-- - -“My dear Sophia, next to falling in love with me, myself, you could not -give me greater pleasure.” - -“She is so lovely,” said the girl. - -“A chance for a medallion,” said the Canon. Miss Wilmington had a pretty -taste in medallion painting. - -“Oh, I couldn’t get her colouring; but I should love to try--and -her voice. To me, any one with a gift like that seems above ordinary -mortals. You see I am quite ready to worship your angel.” - -“My angel?” said the Canon, sharply. - -Mrs. Winstanley, who was close by, discussing the Engadine with the -Bishop, did not lose a word of the above conversation. At his last -exclamation, she shot a swift side glance which caught the momentary -confusion and flush on the Canon’s face. She was quite certain now of -the sort of fool he was going to make of himself. - -Meanwhile, the girl broke into a gay laugh. - -“It did sound funny. I meant the angel in the ‘Elijah.’” - -“Oh,” said the Canon, “I was forgetting the ‘Elijah.’” - -Mrs. Winstanley resolved at least to say a warning word. Before she -left, she managed to have a few words with him. - -“I hope you are keeping your eyes very wide open, Everard,” she said, in -a whisper. - -The Canon took her literally and so regarded her. But she smiled and put -her hand on his sleeve. - -“She is quite charming and all of that, I grant. But she is very much -deeper than she looks.” - -“Really, my dear Emmeline--” he began, drawing himself up. - -“Tut! my dear friend; don’t be offended. You have called me a wise woman -so often that I believe I am one. Well, trust a wise woman, and look -before you leap.” - -“I am not in the habit of leaping, Emmeline,” said the Canon, stiffly. - -Mrs. Winstanley laughed, as if she had a sense of humour; and in a few -minutes was driving Yvonne homewards in her snug brougham. - -But the Canon, after he had performed his last duties as host towards -his right reverend guest, sought the great leathern armchair before his -study fire and lit a cigar. Emmeline’s words had disturbed him. That is -the worst of keeping a consultant cousin--a woman of sense. Her advice -_may_ save you from months of regret, but it is sure to cause you bad -quarters of an hour. You remember the woman and disregard the sense -on such occasions; or _vice versa_. Hitherto Emmeline had been -infallible. The fact annoyed him, and he let his cigar die out, another -irritation. At last he rose impatiently, and going to a violin-case, -drew from it a favourite Guarnerius fiddle, tenderly wrapped in a silk -handkerchief. And then, having put on the _sourdine_, so as not to -disturb right reverend slumbers, he played “O, rest in the Lord,” with -considerable taste and execution. - -Perhaps it is well that Mrs. Winstanley did not hear him. - -***** - -The concert began at three o’clock. The new Town Hall was packed from -ceiling to floor. Canon Chisely stood up by his seat near the platform -and looked around at the great mass of the audience, which included -the flower and influence of the county, and then, turning, scanned the -serried hedgerow of the orchestra, the crowding terraces of the choir, -and the thin line of professionals in front, among whom Yvonne’s tiny -figure had just come to make a spot of grace; and he felt a glow of -pride. It was all his doing. The dream of many years was in process of -being realised--the completion of the Abbey Restoration Fund. Moreover, -he had succeeded in developing his first conception of an unambitious -concert into a musical event, to be chronicled by critics from the -London dailies. He had other reasons, too, for satisfaction, neither -professional nor aesthetic. - -Yvonne was feeling fluttered and happy. Fluttered, because it was -an important engagement. There are very few chances, even for a real -contralto, in oratorio music, and her voice was more mezzo. Hitherto -she had contented herself with the scraps. If she had known that the -“Elijah” had been deliberately selected because it was the one oratorio -in which the contralto part not only suited her voice perfectly, but -also rivalled the soprano in importance, the fluttering would have been -intensified by perplexity. And she was happy, because all the world was -smiling on her, particularly Geraldine Vicary and Vandeleur, with whom -she was in immediate converse. Vandeleur had been engaged long since by -the Canon for the name-part, partly on account of his magnificent bass -voice, and partly to please Yvonne. Geraldine Vicary had stepped into -a gap caused by the withdrawal of a more celebrated soprano at the last -moment. Yvonne was smiling brightly upon Vandeleur. She liked him. He -had made no subsequent reference to his declaration of love, and Yvonne, -with her facile temperament, had almost forgotten the circumstance. -Besides, he had gone back to his old allegiance to Geraldine, which -pleased Yvonne greatly. - -The conductor stepped to his stand and tapped with his baton. Silence -succeeded the buzz of talk and the din of the tuning of fiddles. Three -chords from the orchestra, and Vandeleur sang the introduction; the -overture, the opening chorus, and then Yvonne took up her part. Singing -was her life. After the first bar, she sang spontaneously, like the -birds, free from nervousness or self-consciousness. And during her waits -the sublime music absorbed her senses. It swept on through its themes -of despair, renunciation, revelation, and promise; through all its vivid -contrasts--the great trumpet voice of the prophet, the rolling mass of -sound of the chorus, the vibrating notes of the messenger--“Hear ye, -Israel; hear what the Lord speaketh “--the calm, sweet voice of the -angel, telling of peace. - -The Canon listened through all with the ear of a musician and the heart -of a religious man. But there was a chord in his nature that remained -untouched when Yvonne was not singing, and quivered strangely when her -voice was raised. It was so pathetically weak, so different in quality -from Geraldine Vicary’s powerful soprano, apparently so incapable of -filling that vast hall; and yet so true, so exquisitely modulated -that every note rang clear to the farthest gallery. The man forgot -his three-and-forty years, the strange mingling of worldly wisdom and -priestly dignity by which most of his judgments were formed, and -he identified the woman with the voice, pure, angelic, irresistibly -lovable. - -He turned to his neighbour, Mrs. Winstanley, after the “O, rest in the -Lord,” his eyes glistening, and whispered, “What do you think?” - -“An unqualified success, Everard.” - -“I am so glad.” - -“You deserve every congratulation.” - -“Thanks, from my heart, Emmeline.” - -“The Obadiah man is delightful.” - -He looked blankly at her, unable to read what lay behind those calm, -grey eyes. Then a great comfort fell upon him. The woman of sense had -manifested a lack of intuition that could be called by no other name -than stupidity. He hugged his knee, delighted. But he made no more -references to Yvonne. - -The silence following the crash of the last “Amen,” announced the end. -It woke him from a dream. He started to his feet with the impulse to -seek Yvonne on the platform, but he was immediately hemmed in by a -circle of congratulatory friends. As soon as he obtained breathing -space, he turned round, to find that she had withdrawn to the ladies’ -dressing-room to put on her things. The hall cleared rapidly. Mrs. -Winstanley waited for Yvonne, who did not come at once, having a flood -of things to tell to Geraldine. The Canon grew impatient. It was getting -late, and he had to drive the Bishop home in time to dress for dinner at -a great house some distance away. It would be his only chance of seeing -Yvonne that evening. At last she came through the side-door and down the -platform with Miss Vicary. He advanced to assist them at the steps, and -then, after a few courteous words of thanks to Geraldine, who walked on -unconcernedly toward the waiting group, found himself alone with Yvonne. - -She wore high-standing fur at her throat and a tiny fur toque in the -mass of dark hair, and she looked very winsome. Foolish speeches ran in -his grave head, but he could not formulate them. - -“I hope you are not very tired,” he said, with dignified lameness, -pacing by her side, his hands behind his back. - -“Not very. My throat is a bit stiff, but that will go off. Well, was I -all right?” - -“My dear child--” began the Canon, stopping abruptly. - -“I was afraid I might let the piece down, you know,” she said, with a -serene smile. “I am not a great vocalist, like Miss Vicary.” - -“Don’t speak like that,” he said, awkwardly. - -“Besides, your voice has a charm that hers can never have.” - -“So you are quite pleased with me?” She looked up at him with such -trustful simplicity that his rather stern face grew tender with a smile. -It seemed as if a glimpse of her true nature was revealed to him. - -“You are like a child-angel, asking if it has been good.” - -“Oh, what a sweet, pretty thing to say!” cried Yvonne, gaily. “I shall -always remember it, Canon Chisely. Now I know I sang nicely. And, you -know, it’s almost like being in heaven to sing that part.” - -“You called us all there to you,” said the Canon. - -Yvonne blushed, pleased to her heart by the sincerity of the compliment. -Coming from Canon Chisely, it had singular force. There was an air of -strength and dignity about his broad shoulders, his strongly-marked, -thoughtful face, and his grave, yet kindly manner, that had always set -him apart, in her estimation, from the other men with whom she came -into contact. She never included him in her generalisations upon men -and their strange ways. His profession and position, as well as his -personality, put him into a category where her unremembered father, and -Mr. Gladstone, and the great throat-surgeon whom she had once consulted, -vaguely figured. She was always conscious of being on her very best -behaviour while talking to him. - -The Canon glanced at his friends. They were conversing animatedly, as if -in no great hurry to depart. So he leant back against the platform and -lingered a while with Yvonne. - -“You must take care not to catch cold,” he said, after a while. “I -believe it’s a horrid evening.” - -“Oh, don’t fear. I shall be all right tomorrow,” said Yvonne. - -“I am not thinking of to-morrow at all, though any hitch then would be -a misfortune, certainly. I am anxious about yourself. Your throat is -already relaxed.” - -“You mustn’t spoil me, Canon Chisely. I am used to going out in all -kinds of weather. I have to, you know.” - -“I wish you had n’t. You are far too fragile.” - -“Oh, I am stronger than I look. I am tough--really.” - -She brought out the incongruous epithet so prettily that he put back his -head and laughed. - -“If I had any authority over you, you should not play tricks with -yourself,” he said, in grave playfulness. - -“But you have a great deal of authority over me. I should never dream of -disobeying you.” - -He leaned his body forward, his hands resting on the platform edge -behind him, and looked at her earnestly. - -“Do you think so much of me as that?” he asked, in a low voice. - -“Why, of course, I think everything of you,” replied Yvonne, innocently. -“Don’t you know that?” - -An answer was on his lips, but, happening to look round, he caught Mrs. -Winstanley’s ironical glance, an off-switch to sentiment. He stroked a -grizzling whisker and drew himself up. - -“I mustn’t keep the Bishop waiting,” he said. - -“Nor I, Mrs. Winstanley.” - -They joined the group, where Yvonne received her congratulations and -compliments with childish pleasure. In a few moments they separated, and -the Canon drove off, regarding the Bishop by his side with uncanonical -feelings. - -Late that evening Vandeleur was smoking a cigarette in Miss Vicary’s -hotel sitting-room. As Yvonne’s friends, they had been dining with -Mrs. Winstanley. Vandeleur was charmed with her urbanity, and sang her -praises with Celtic hyperbole. - -“I should n’t trust her further than I could see her,” said Geraldine. -“She hangs up her smile every night on her dressing-table.” - -“Just hear a woman, now,” said the Irishman. - -“Yes, just hear a woman,” retorted Geraldine, sarcastically. “I suppose -you think she loves Yvonne, don’t you?” - -“Of course I do. I’m sure she’s thinking how sweet she is this very -minute.” - -“She would like to be poisoning Yvonne this very minute.” - -“Well, I’m blest!” exclaimed Vandeleur, letting the match die out with -which he was preparing to light a fresh cigarette. “It takes a woman to -imagine gratuitous devilry!” - -“And it takes a man to absorb himself in his dinner to the besotting of -his intelligence! But I have eyes. And a logical mind--don’t tell me I -have n’t. Now, hitherto, Mrs. Winstanley seems to have been the central -figure in this wretched little provincial society. Who is, at the -present moment?” - -“Sure, it’s yourself, Geraldine--the great soprano from London.” - -She did not condescend to notice the flattery. - -“It’s Yvonne. I bet you she’s the most-talked-of person in Fulminster -this evening. And Mrs. Winstanley the sickest. Oh, how dull men are! -What is all this Festival, really, but the apotheosis of Yvonne?” - -“It’s the canonisation of Yvonne, I should say,” remarked Vandeleur, -drily. - -Miss Vicary’s expression relaxed, and she leaned back in her chair. - -“You’re not such a fool, after all, Van.” - -“So I ’ve been told before,” he replied, with a chuckle. “Anyhow, it will -be a splendid thing for the dear child.” - -“Oh, how can it be? I have no patience with you!” - -“That’s obvious,” said Vandeleur. - -“Yvonne would give any man her head, if he whimpered or clamoured for -it,” Geraldine, rising to her feet, “and then tell you in her pathetic -way, ‘but he wanted it so, dear.’ And there isn’t a man living who could -be good enough to Yvonne!” - -“There I agree with you,” said Vandeleur. - -Meanwhile, Yvonne was going to sleep, quite unconscious of the facts -that had aroused Miss Vicary’s indignation. The memory of the artistic -triumph of the day and the Canon’s generous praise lingered pleasantly -around her pillow. But if there was any one man to whom her thoughts -were tenderly given, it was the unhappy friend of her girlhood, who was -then speeding into exile over the bleak autumn seas. - - - - -CHAPTER IX--PAST, PRESENT, AND FUTURE - -If genius is mad, sensitiveness degenerate, and emotionality neurotic, -and if heredity is the determining principle in the causation of -character, comparative psychology enables us to account for many things. -On these lines it could fairly be argued that one family taint of -neurosis, manifesting itself diversely, had driven Stephen Chisely -to the gaol and brought his cousin, the Canon, to the feet of Yvonne. -Though there may be fallacies in the premises, there is, however, a -certain plausibility in the deduction. Through both men ran a vein of -artistic feeling carrying with it a perception of the beautiful and an -impulse toward its attainment This malady of sensitiveness--to speak by -the book--had carried Stephen beyond the bounds of moral principle. It -prevailed at times over Canon Chisely’s natural austerity and hardness. -If in the one case it had been a curse, in the other it was a blessing. - -In politics a Tory, in social attitude proud of caste, in creed a rigid -Anglican, in morals conventional, in affairs a man of cold, crystalline -judgment, he had few of the undegenerate qualities that make for -lovableness of character. The aesthetic sense, deeply spreading, was the -redeeming vice of a sternly virtuous man. It was his social -salvation, his vehicle of happiness, his bond of sympathy with his -fellow-creatures. - -The beauty of Yvonne’s voice had attracted him toward her, years -before--afterwards, the beauty of her face. But it was not until -the conception of her nature’s beauty, idealised by he knew not what -artistry within him from voice and face and simple thoughts and acts, -arose within his mind, that he became conscious of deeper feelings. At -first it seemed as if he had disintegrated the soul of his favourite -Greuze--fathomed the unplumbed innocence of its eyes as its hand closes -over the apple--and was regarding it with a poet’s wonder. But then -his sterner nature asserted itself, restoring mental equilibrium. He -realised that his feelings for her were what men call love, and soberly -he thought of marriage. - -He had often, previously, considered the advantages of matrimony. It -was an honourable estate, becoming to his position, involving parental -responsibilities which, for God’s greater glory, it behoved a man of -his calibre to seek. The wife he had contemplated was to be a woman of -culture, reserve, high principle, who could grace his table, aid him in -spiritual affairs, and bear him worthy offspring. He was called upon -now to reorganise his conceptions. It is true that his idea of the -advantages of the married state was unaffected, save by the addition of -one undreamed of--the sunshine of a sweet woman’s face in his cold home. -But the disparity between the ideal woman and the real one was alarming. -Socially, parentally, spiritually, was Yvonne the woman to hold the high -office of his wife? He gave the matter months of anxious reflection. He -was marrying at leisure, certainly, he thought grimly; would he repent -in haste? At length his love for Yvonne wove itself into his schemes for -the Festival. Yvonne should come to Fulminster, take her place at once -in society under Mrs. Winstanley’s chaperonage and win her welcome with -her voice. Thus he would have an opportunity of judging her within his -own environment. A complex mingling of passion and calculation. - -And Yvonne, demurely innocent, had passed through the ordeal. As the -Canon drove away from the “Elijah,” he doubted no longer. Before she -left Fulminster he would ask her to be his wife. It is characteristic of -the man that he had no serious fears of her refusal. - -***** - -The Festival was over. It was the day after. Miss Vicary and Vandeleur -had returned to town by an early train and Yvonne was spending an -idle morning over the fire. She had wandered round the shelves of the -morning-room in search of a novel, and had selected “Corinne” because it -was French. But Yvonne was a child of the age, and children of the age -do not appreciate Madame de Staël. One can understand a dear old lady in -curls and cap sighing lovingly over “Corinne,” bringing back as it does -memories of inky fingers and eternal friendships; but not--well, not -Yvonne. She loved “Gyp.” An unread volume was in her trunk upstairs. -She felt too tired and lazy to get it. Besides, she was not quite sure -whether the sight of “Gyp” would not shock Mrs. Winstanley, who was -engaged over her voluminous correspondence at a table by the window. - -“They have such queer prejudices,” thought Yvonne. “One never knows.” - -So she dropped “Corinne” on to the floor and looked at the fire. In -spite of her awe of Mrs. Winstanley, she was sorry to leave Fulminster. -Life had been made very pleasant for her the last few days. Her throat -was somewhat relaxed after the strain. She wished she could give it a -long rest. But on Monday she was engaged to sing at a club concert at -the Crystal Palace and in the morning she was to resume her singing -lessons; and the weather in London was wet and muggy. It would be bliss -to be idle, not to think of earning money and just to sing when you -wanted. She turned her head and caught a chance glimpse of her hostess’s -face. The morning light streaming full upon it showed up pitilessly the -network of lines beneath her eyes and the fallen contours of her lips -and the roughness of her skin. Yvonne was startled at seeing her look so -old and faded--a letter to a sister-in-law detailing Everard’s folly did -not conduce to sweetness of expression--and she wondered whether she, -Yvonne, would be happy when she came to look like that. She shivered -a little at the thought. Yes, the years would pass, leaving their -footprints, and she would grow old and her voice would pass away. It was -dreadful. When Yvonne did enter the gloom, she made it very dark indeed, -and summoned every available bogey. What should she do in her old age, -when she could no longer earn her living? Geraldine was always preaching -thrift, but she had put nothing by as yet. If she became incapacitated -to-morrow, she did not know how she would live. She looked at the fire -wistfully, her brow knitted in faint lines, and found her position very -pathetic. But just then Bruce, Mrs. Winstanley’s collie, rose from the -rug and came and laid his chin on her knees, looking at her with great, -mournful eyes. Yvonne broke into a sudden laugh, which astonished both -Bruce and his mistress, and taking the dog’s silky ears in her hands, -she kissed his nose and rallied him gaily on his melancholy. So Yvonne -stepped out of the darkness into the sunshine again. - -Presently a servant entered. - -“Canon Chisely would be glad if he could see Madame Latour for a -moment.” - -“Where is the Canon?” asked Mrs. Winstanley. - -“In the drawing-room, ma’am.” - -Yvonne rose quickly and went to her hostess, who slipped a sheet of -blotting-paper over her half-finished page. - -“Shall I go down?” - -“Naturally.” - -Yvonne spoke a word to the servant, who retired, and then gave her hair -a few tidying touches before the mirror in the over-mantel. - -“I wonder if he has brought me those old Provençal songs.” - -“I hope he has, my dear,” said Mrs. Winstanley, drily. - -“Well, he is sure to have something nice to tell me, at any rate,” - replied Yvonne, in her sunny way. - -The Canon was standing on the hearthrug, his hands behind his back. On -the table lay his hat and gloves. Yvonne advanced quickly across the -room to meet him, her face lit with genuine pleasure. He greeted her -gravely and held her hand in both of his. - -“I have come to have a serious talk with you.” - -“Have I been doing anything wrong?” asked Yvonne, looking up into his -face. - -“We shall see,” he said, smiling. “Let us sit down.” - -Still holding her hand, he drew her to the couch by the fireside, and -they sat down together. - -“It is about yourself, Yvonne--I may call you Yvonne?--and about myself -too. You have always felt that you have had a friend in me?” - -“Ah! a dear friend, Canon. No one is to me the same as you. I shan’t -mind at all if you scold me.” - -She looked at him so guilelessly, so trustingly, that his heart melted -over her. Verily she was the wife sent to him by heaven. - -“I was but jesting, Yvonne. Besides, how could I dare scold you? It is -I who come as a suppliant to you, my dear. I love you, and it is the -dearest wish of my heart to make you my wife.” - -The sun died out of Yvonne’s eyes, her heart stopped beating, she looked -at him in piteous amazement. - -“You--want me--?” - -“Yes. Is it so strange?” - -“You are jesting still--I don’t understand--” She had withdrawn her hand -from his clasp, and was sitting upright, twisting her handkerchief and -trembling all over. It was so unexpected. She could scarcely trust her -senses. She had regarded him more as an influence than as a man. To -Geraldine’s wit she had given not a moment’s thought. To marry Canon -Chisely--the idea seemed unreal, preposterous. And yet she heard -his voice pleading. She was overwhelmed by the sudden magnitude of -responsibility. He had swooped down and caught her up through the vast -moral spaces that lay between them, and she was dizzy and breathless. - -“I do not press you for your answer,” she heard him saying. -“To-morrow--a week, a month hence--what you will. Take your time. I can -give you a good name, comfort in worldly things--the ease and freedom -from care which, thank God, my means allow--an honourable position, and -a deep, true affection. Would you like me to wait a month before I speak -to you again?” - -“A month could make no difference,” murmured Yvonne. “It would seem -as strange then as now.” There was a sudden pause in the whirl of her -thoughts. Was it a bewildering device of his to show her kindness, -provide for her future? - -“I could n’t accept it from you,” she added incoherently. - -“But it is I who want you, Yvonne,” said the Canon, earnestly. “It is I -who must have you to brighten my home and comfort my life. If your life -is lying idle, as it were, Yvonne, give it me to use for my happiness. -For months I have given this my deepest, most anxious thought. I am not -a man to talk lightly of love and marriage. When I say that I want you, -it means that you are necessary to me. And you trust me?” - -“Above all men--of course--” - -“Then your answer--‘yes,’ or ‘no,’ or ‘wait.’” - -She was silent. He put his arm round her shoulders and drew her to him. - -“You must be my wife, Yvonne. Why not say ‘yes’ now?” - -She felt powerless beneath the strong will and authority of the man. Why -he should wish to marry her, she could not understand; but his words had -all the weight of an imperative. - -“If you must have me, then--” said she in a quavering little voice, “I -must do as you say.” - -“You will be happy, my child,” he said, reassuringly. “I will make it -all sunshine for you--you need have no fears.” - -He drew her yet closer to him and kissed her forehead; then he released -her gently. - -“So it’s a promise?” - -“Yes,” said Yvonne. - -“Then look into my eyes and say, ‘Everard, I will take you for my -husband.’” - -He said it loverwise, and, dignitary though he was, with a touch of a -lover’s fatuity. The tone revived Yvonne’s animation. - -“Oh, I could n’t,” she cried, with a queer little laugh, midway between -despair and gaiety. “I shouldn’t dare--it wouldn’t sound respectful.” - -“Try,” said he. “Say ‘Everard.’” - -But Yvonne shook her head. “I must practise it by myself.” - -The Canon laughed. He was well contented with the world. Her modesty -and innocence charmed him. Married though she had been, the fragrance of -maidenhood seemed still to hover round her. She was an exquisite thing -to have taken possession of. - -“Are you happy?” he asked, taking her small brown hand that lay clasped -with the other on her lap. - -“I am too frightened to be happy--yet,” she replied softly, with a shy -lift of her eyes. - -“I don’t quite understand what has happened. Half an hour ago I was a -poor little singer--and now--” - -“You are my affianced wife,” said the Canon, with grave promptness. - -“That’s what I can’t realise. Everything seems topsy-turvy. Oh, it -_is_ your wish, Canon Chisely, isn’t it? You are so good and wise, you -wouldn’t let me do anything that was not right?” - -“Always trust to me for your happiness, Yvonne, and all will be well,” - answered the Canon. - -Presently she rose, gave him her hand with simple dignity. - -“I must go and think it over by myself. You will let me? Another time I -will stay with you as long as you want me.” - -The Canon led her to the door, kissed her hand, bending low over it in -an old-fashioned way, and bowed her out of the room. Then he rang for -the servant and sent a message to Mrs. Winstanley. He was a man of -prompt execution. - -In the interview that followed, the Canon came off triumphant. He -parried his cousin’s thrusts of satire with a solicitude for her own -welfare that was not free from irony. If she had not so openly showed -him her distaste for the marriage, he might have displayed some sympathy -for her in the loss of _prestige_ that she was sustaining as lady ruler -of the Rectory. As matters stood, he considered she had forfeited it by -her caprice. Besides, he had shrewdly determined that there should not -be a triple dominion in his house. - -“I hope she will extend your sphere of usefulness, Everard, as a wife -should,” said Mrs. Winstanley. “But she is inexperienced in these -matters. You will not be hard upon her.” - -“I am only hard on those who disregard my authority. Then it is duty and -not severity. Have you ever found me a harsh taskmaster, Emmeline?” - -“You would n’t compare us surely?” - -“Certainly not. I could compare my wife with no other woman. It would be -in all respects wrong.” - -“Well,” she replied, bidding him adieu, “I hope that you will be happy.” - -“My dear Emmeline,” said the Canon, “I have been humbly conscious -for years that my happiness has always been one of your chief -considerations.” - -From Mrs. Winstanley’s he proceeded at once to Lady Santyre’s, where -he received congratulations and luncheon. He left with the comfortable -certainty that all Fulminster would ring with the news of his engagement -during the course of the afternoon. His announcement was as public as if -he had proclaimed it from the pulpit. And Fulminster did ring as he -had expected--not that it was unprepared, for the Canon’s attentions to -Madame Latour had been a subject of universal speculation. Murmurings -arose in certain quarters. The neighbourhood abounded in the -aristocratic fair unwedded, and the Canon was highly eligible. One -of the aggrieved declared that all the Chiselys were eccentric, and -instanced the unfortunate Stephen. - -“My dear,” replied in remonstrance her interlocutor, who had just -married her last daughter to the leading manufacturer in Fulminster, -“You must not talk as if the Canon had run off with a ballet-girl.” - -But generally his indiscretion was condoned. It had been a stroke of -genius to let Yvonne charm her critics from a public platform at the -very outset. - -For Yvonne herself, the remainder of her visit passed in a whirl. -Families called upon her; mothers congratulated her; the “Fulminster -Gazette” interviewed her; the Santyres changed the small dinner-party, -to which she had been already asked, into a solemn banquet in her -honour; and the Canon was ever at her side, attentive, courteous, -dignified, authoritative, playing his part to perfection. The flattery -pleased her. The universal deference paid to the Canon, of which she had -grown more keenly conscious, awakened a shy pride. But it all seemed an -incongruous dream, out of which she would awake when she found herself -in her tiny flat in the Marylebone Road. She was afraid to go back. If -it was a dream, she would regret this sudden lifting from her shoulders -of all sordid cares, the dread of losing her voice, of poverty, and the -grasshopper’s wintry old age. If it continued true, she feared lest the -familiar surroundings might pain her with regret for the life she was -abandoning--the sweet artist’s life, with all its inconsequences and its -purposes, its hopes and fears, its freedom and its claims. Even now, she -cried a little at the prospect of giving it up. And then she wouldn’t -know herself. Hitherto, her conception of herself had been Yvonne -Latour, the singer. That was her Alpha and Omega. It would be like -looking in the glass and seeing a total stranger. It was pathetic. - -On Sunday she received a series of sensations. She believed such -elemental doctrines as she had received at her mother’s knee: in a -beautiful heaven and a fearful hell, in Christ and the angels--she was -not quite certain about the Virgin Mary--in the Lord’s Prayer, which she -said every night at her bedside, and in the goodness of going to church. -Her religion might have been that of a bird of the air for all the -shackles it laid upon her soul. But the outer forms of worship impressed -her strongly--church music, solemn silences, vestments, stained windows, -even words. She felt very solemn when she called her innocent self a -“miserable sinner” in the Litany, and the word “Sabbaoth,” in the “Te -Deum,” always seemed fraught with mystic meaning. The symbolic hushed -her into awe. Even the surplices of the choir-boys set them apart -for the moment, in her mind, from the baser sort of urchins. And, _a -fortiori_, the clergyman, in surplice and stole, had always appealed to -her childish imagination as a being that moved in an especial odour of -sanctity. It is fair to add that Yvonne’s church-going had never been -as regular as might have been desired, so these reverential feelings -had not been staled by custom. However, when the Canon appeared at the -reading-desk, and his fine voice rang through the Abbey, Yvonne felt a -sudden pang of alarm. The night before he had been so tender and playful -that he had almost seemed to be upon her level. And now, he was far, far -away. The distance between her, poor, insignificant little Yvonne, and -him performing his sacred office, appeared immeasurably vast. And when -he mounted the pulpit, her awe grew greater. She could not realise that -he was her affianced husband. - -He preached on the text from the story of Nicodemus, “Except a man be -born again.” The words caught her fancy as being apposite to her -own case, and, disregarding the thread of the Canon’s discourse, she -preached a little sermon to herself. She was going to be born again. -Yvonne the singer would die, and a new, regenerate Yvonne, the lady of -the Rectory, Mrs. Everard Chisely, would appear in her stead. She caught -a phrase in which the Canon touched upon the spiritual pain attending on -the death of the old Adam. She wondered whether she would be called upon -to suffer the fire of purification. It was like the Phoenix. At this -point she pulled herself up short. To mix up the Phoenix and Nicodemus -might be profane. So she bestowed her best attention on the remainder of -the sermon. - -That afternoon he took her through the Rectory--a great rambling -Elizabethan house, with nineteenth-century additions. She followed him -meekly from room to room, filled with wonder at the beauty of her future -home. The Canon had spent much money over his collections--overmuch, -some critics said--and the house was a museum of art treasures. -Pictures, statuary, wood-carvings, rare furniture met her in every -apartment, at every turn of the stairs. At first, the awe with which his -sacerdotal character had inspired her kept her subdued, but gradually -the new impressions effaced it. He spoke as if all these things were -already hers--established, as it were, a joint ownership. - -“This is your own boudoir,” he said, as he led her into a pleasant room, -overlooking the lawn and commanding a view of the Abbey. “Do you think -you will be happy in it?” - -“I must be,” she said, gratefully. “Not only because you have given me -the most beautiful room in the whole house, but because you are so good -to me in all things.” - -“Who could help being good to you, my child?” said the Canon. - -He was sincere. Yvonne felt humbled and yet lifted. Her eyes dwelt for a -shy moment on his. He seemed so kind, so loyal, so indulgent, and yet -a man so greatly to be venerated and honoured, that all her sweet -womanhood was moved. Standing, too, in this room that was to be her -own, she felt the future melt into the present. Her hand slipped timidly -through his arm. - -“I shall never know why you want me,” she said, in a low voice, “but I -pray God I may be a good and loving and obedient wife to you.” - -“Amen, dear,” said the Canon, kissing her. - - - - -CHAPTER X--COUNSELS OF PERFECTION - -So Yvonne was married, and for six months was completely happy. -Fulminster and the county entertained her, and she entertained -Fulminster and the county. Her husband petted her and relieved her -of serious responsibilities. She won the hearts of Mrs. Dirks the -housekeeper, of Jordan the gardener, and Fletcher the coachman, three -autocrats in their respective spheres of influence--victories whereby -she controlled the menu, filled the house with whatever flowers struck -her fancy, and had out the horses at the moment of her caprice. Her -quick wit soon obtained a grasp upon domestic affairs and her -headship in the household was a practical fact which the Canon proudly -recognised. Her social duties she performed with the tact born -of simplicity. Mrs. Winstanley went away raging after her first -dinner-party. She had expected a consoling proof of incapacity and had -witnessed a little triumph of hostess-ship. - -Not a cloud had appeared on her horizon since the wedding-day, when -they had started upon a magic month in Italy, among blue lakes and bluer -skies and gorgeous pictures and marble palaces. After that, there had -been the excitement of home-coming, the fluttering sweetness of -taking possession, the bewildering succession of fresh faces in her -drawing-room, the long drives to return calls, and to attend parties in -her honour. The new duties interested her. She revelled in an infants’ -class at the Sunday school, which she instructed in a theology undreamed -of by the Fathers. She sang at local concerts. She dressed herself in -dainty raiment to please her husband’s eye. In fact she made a study -of his æsthetic tastes from food to music, and delighted in gratifying -them. With feminine pliancy she strove to adapt her moods to his. His -face became a book which she loved to read when they met after a few -hours’ absence; and, according to what she read, she became demure, or -gay, or businesslike. In her leisure hours she sang to herself, read -French novels, which she obtained in unlimited supply from London, and -sought the society of Sophia Wilmington and her brother, who quickly -constituted themselves her chief friends and advisers in Fulminster. -Often she sat idle and gave herself up to dreamy contemplation of her -beatitude. - -In these moods comparisons would arise between her two marriages, and -between the two men. Scenes, almost forgotten during the years of her -widowhood, revived in her memory. Phases of present wedded relations -brought back vividly analogous phases in the past. The contrast -sometimes produced an emotion that seemed too great for -self-containment, and she longed to open her heart to her husband. -But she dared not. Love might have broken down barriers, but not the -grateful, respectful affection she bore the Canon. Besides, beyond one -little talk, two years ago, at the house of Stephen’s mother during her -last illness, no mention had been made between them of Amédée Bazouge. - -Man-like, he preferred to dismiss the circumstance from his mind as -unpleasant. But the woman found pleasure in remembering, and in using -the contrasts to heighten her present happiness. - -Thus for six months she had known no trouble, and had laughed at her -old tremulous misgivings as to her capacity for filling her present -position. - -Suddenly, one afternoon in early June, as they were sitting in the -shadow of the old Abbey, cast across half the lawn, the Canon laid down -the review he was reading by the foot of his chair, and, deliberately -folding his gold pince-nez and thrusting it in his waistcoat, looked at -her and said, “Yvonne.” - -She closed “Le Petit Bob” with a snap, and became dutiful and smiling -attention. - -“I have something to say to you,” he remarked gravely; “something -perhaps painful--about certain possible little changes in our lives.” - -“Changes?” echoed Yvonne blankly. - -“Yes, I have been wishing to speak for some months past. I think, dear, -you ought to be more serious, and give me greater help than you have -done hitherto. Do you follow me?” - -If the quiet Rectory garden had suddenly been transformed into a Sahara, -and the golden laburnum by which she was sitting, into a pillar of fire, -she could not have been more bewildered. But she felt a horrible pain, -as from a stab, and the tears started to her eyes. - -“No. Not at all--what is it?” - -“I don’t wish to be unkind to you, Yvonne. I am only speaking from a -sense of duty. Once said, it will be, I am sure, enough.” - -“But what is it? What is it?” she repeated piteously. “What have I done -to displease you?” - -He took up his parable, with crossed legs and joined finger tips, and -in a quiet, unemotional voice catalogued her failings. She was not -sufficiently alive to the deeper responsibilities of her position. Many -parochial duties that devolved upon the Rector’s wife, she had left -undone. She took no pains to improve her acquaintance with doctrinal and -ecclesiastical affairs. - -“I am not exaggerating,” he said, “for you did tell the Sunday-school -children that St. John the Baptist was present at the Crucifixion, -Yvonne, did n’t you?” - -He smiled, as if to soften the severity of his charges; but Yvonne’s -face was fixed in tragic dismay, and the tears were rolling down her -cheeks. - -He rose and advanced to her with outstretched arms. She obeyed his -suggestion mechanically and allowed herself to stand in his embrace. - -“It is best to say it all out at once, Yvonne,” he said gently. “And you -will think over it, I know. You must n’t be hurt, little wife.” - -But she was--to the depths of her heart. “I did n’t know you were not -pleased with me,” she said with trembling lip. “I thought I was doing my -very best to make you happy.” - -“And you have, my child--very happy.” - -“Oh no--I have n’t. I will try to do what you want, Everard. But I told -you I was n’t fit for you--I can do nothing, nothing but just sing a -little. But I will try Everard. Forgive me.” - -“Freely, freely, dearest,” said the magnanimous man, patting her on the -shoulder. “There, there,” he added, kissing her forehead. “It pained -me intensely to say what I did. But if duties were always pleasant, it -would be a world of righteousness. Dry your eyes and smile, Yvonne. And -come and play my accompaniment for a few minutes before dinner.” - -He drew her arm within his and led her into the house, through the open -French window, talking of trifles to assure her of his affectionate -forgiveness. It was not in Yvonne’s nature to show resentment. She fell -outwardly into his humour, and thanked him sweetly for his somewhat -exaggerated attentions in arranging the piano and music; but as she -played, the notes became blurred. - -“A little out there,” he said, standing behind her, his violin under his -chin. “Let us go back four bars.” - -She struggled on bravely, biting her lip to keep back the tears that -would come and render the page illegible. At last a drop fell on a black -note, as she was bending her head towards the music-book. The Canon -stopped short and laid his violin and bow hastily on the piano. - -“My dearest,” he exclaimed, stooping over her. “It is all over. Don’t be -unhappy. I did not mean to be unkind to you. I am afraid I was. It is I -who am not fit for so tender and sensitive a nature.” - -He sat down by her on the broad piano-seat and let her cry upon his -shoulder. He had an uncomfortable feeling that in some way he had been -brutal. A man must be as hard as Mephistopheles not to experience this -sensation the first time he makes a woman cry. The second or third time -he calls his attitude firmness; afterwards he characterises her conduct -as unreasonable. A wise woman makes the very most of the first tears of -her married life. But Yvonne was not a wise woman. She dried her eyes -as fast as she could, and felt ashamed and humbled, and went and bathed -them in eau-de-cologne and water, and, seeing that the Canon desired her -to be her old self, for that evening at any rate, did her best to humour -him. - -After this, her life went on, not unhappily, but unlifted by the -buoyancy of the first six months. Her illusions had been shattered. The -spontaneity of her actions was checked. They became little tasks, whose -excellence she could not judge until the Canon had pronounced upon them. -She made prodigious efforts to fulfil his wishes. Some met with -success. Others, such as attempts at parish organisation, failed. -Mrs. Winstanley, like Betsy Jane in Artemus Ward’s book, would not be -reorganised. The Canon intervened, but his cousin stood firm, and at -last he had to yield. In district visiting, Yvonne had hard struggles. -If she had carried her own charming _insouciance_ into working -homes, she would have won all hearts. But, morbidly conscious of -the responsibilities of her position, she judged it her duty to cast -frivolity from her and to put on the serious dignity of the Rector’s -wife, which fitted her as easily as a suit of armour. As for theology, -she read with a zeal only equalled by her incapacity of appreciating the -drift of the science. To the end of her days Yvonne could see no other -difference between a Churchman and a Dissenter, except that one had a -pretty service and the other a dull one. So closely, however, did she -pursue her studies that the Canon took pity on her, and came back from -London one day with “Gyp’s” latest production in his pocket. It would -have done an archbishop good to see the gleam of pleasure in Yvonne’s -eyes. - -Six more months passed, and Yvonne began to weary of the strain of -self-improvement. The sterner side of the Canon’s character showed -itself in a hundred little ways. Small censurings became frequent, -praise difficult to obtain. With the Canon’s gracious consent, she -despatched at last an invitation to Geraldine, who had already paid her -a visit in the spring. But that was in the days of her happiness. - -Geraldine came, and her keen wit very soon penetrated the situation. -Yvonne had been too loyal to complain. - -“You’ve just got to tell me all about it,” she said in her determined -fashion. - -It was their first evening, after dinner, as soon as the Canon had gone -down to his library. - -“All about what, Dina?” asked Yvonne. - -“Oh, don’t pretend not to know. You were as happy as a bird when I was -here last, and now you don’t open your mouth.” - -“I think I want a change,” said Yvonne. “I am getting too respectable. -At first, you see, everything was new, and now I have got used to it. -I think if I could run about London by myself for a month, and sing at -lots of concerts, it would do me good. And oh, Dina--I should so much -like to hear a man say ‘damn’ again!” - -“Well, I’m not a man, but I’ ll say it for you--damn, damn, damn. Now do -you feel better?” - -“Oh, you look so funny as you say it!” cried Yvonne, with a laugh. “I -wish it was something artistic and you could teach it to the Canon.” - -“It strikes me, if I were to set about it, I could teach the Canon a -good many things. First of all, what a treasure he has got--which he -does n’t seem quite aware of.” - -“Oh, Dina, you mustn’t say that,” said Yvonne, looking shocked. “He is -all kindness and indulgence--really, dear. If I feel dull, it is because -I am wicked and hanker after frivolous things--Van, for instance, and a -comic song. Do you know you have n’t once spoken about Van?” - -“Oh, don’t talk of Van,” said Miss Vicary; “I am getting tired of him. -He never knows his mind three days together. If I was n’t a fool I would -give him up for good and all.” - -“But why don’t you marry and make an end of it?” asked Yvonne. “I don’t -understand.” - -“Ask Van. Don’t ask me. There’s somebody else now. Elsie Carnegie, of -all people.” - -“Poor Dina.” - -“Oh, not at all. Dina is not going to break her heart over Van’s -infidelities. I’m quite content as I am. Only I’m a fool--there! I ’ve -never told you I was a fool before, Yvonne. That’s because you are so -sedate and respectable. I’m getting to venerate you.” - -“I should like to talk to him seriously about it--for his good.” - -“Oh, heavens, my child, he’d be falling in love with you again and -having the whole artillery of the Church about his ears!” Yvonne laughed -gaily. The talk was doing her good. Geraldine’s forcible phraseology -was a tonic after the politer accents of Fulminster. They drifted -away unconsciously from the main subject upon which they had started. -Geraldine had many things to tell of the doings in the musical world. - -“Oh, I wish I was back for a little,” cried poor Yvonne. “Singing in a -amateur way is not like singing professionally, is it?” - -“I think you are better where you are,” replied Geraldine, seriously, -“in spite of all things. It is no use being discontented.” - -“Not a bit,” sighed Yvonne. She was silent for a little, and then she -turned round to Geraldine. - -“I don’t think you would do very well married, Dina. You are too -independent. A woman has to give in so much, you know; and do so much -pretending, which you could never do.” - -“And why pretend?” - -“Oh, I don’t know. You have to--in lots of things. I suppose we women -were born for it. Men have all kinds of strange feelings, and they -expect us to have the same, and we have n’t, Dina; and yet they would be -hurt and miserable if we told them so--so we have to pretend.” - -Geraldine looked at her with an expression of pain on her strong face, -and then she bent down--Yvonne was on a low stool by her side--and flung -her arms about her. - -“Oh, my dear little philosopher, I wish to God you could have loved a -man--and married him! That is happiness--no need of pretending. I knew -it once--years ago. It only lasted a few months, for he died before we -announced our marriage--no one has ever known. Only you, now, dear. Try -and love your husband, dear--give him your soul and passion. It is the -only thing I can tell you to help you, dear. Then all the troubles will -go. Oh, darling, to love a man vehemently--they say it is a woman’s -greatest curse. It is n’t; it is the greatest blessing of God on her.” - -“You are speaking as men have spoken,” replied Yvonne, in a whisper, -holding her friend’s hand tightly. “I never knew before--but God will -never bless me--like that.” - - - - -CHAPTER XI--THE OUTCAST COUSIN - -The autumn hardened into winter and the winter softened into spring, -and the relations between Yvonne and the Canon seemed to follow the -seasons’ difference. He had learned her limitations and no longer set -her tasks beyond her powers. - -“You must not try to put a butterfly into harness,” said Mrs. -Winstanley, who had gradually been gaining lost influence. He had called -to consult her upon some parochial question and the talk had turned upon -Yvonne. The Canon bit his lip. He had fallen into the habit of making -confidences and regretting them a moment afterwards. - -“You do Yvonne injustice.” - -“I did once, I grant,” she replied; “but now, as you see, I am pleading -for her.” - -“Yvonne needs no advocate with me,” said the Canon, stiffly. - -“She may.” - -“What do you mean, Emmeline?” - -“If you don’t understand her nature, you may misinterpret her conduct. -You see, Everard, she is young and light-natured--and so, like seeks -like. You may always count upon me to keep things straight outside.” - -She had laid her hand upon his arm, and spoke in her quiet, -authoritative voice. Her manner was too dignified to be intrusive. She -was eminently the woman of sense. Her reference was well understood by -him, but being a man accustomed to the broad issues of life, he did not -appreciate the delicate pleasure such a conversation afforded her. - -On this occasion, he went from her house straight to the Rectory, and in -the drawing-room found young Evan Wilmington bidding good-bye to Yvonne. -Her sunniest smile rested on the young fellow; when the door shut upon -him, the after-glow of amusement was still upon her face. The Canon felt -an absurd pang of jealousy. Such had not been infrequent of late, since -he had abandoned his scheme of reorganisation. In fact, as Yvonne had -fallen from his conjugal ideal--the woman who, as an impeccable consort -and mother of children was to lend added dignity to his days--his -feelings as regards her had been growing more helplessly human. His -conception of the dove-like innocence of her nature had suffered no -change. Her pure voice had ever been to him the speech of a purer soul. -It was no vulgar jealousy that pained him; but jealousy it was, all the -same. - -He went to her and put his hands against her cheeks and held up her -face. - -“Don’t smile too much on young Evan,” he said. “It is not good for him. -I want all your best smiles for myself, sweetheart.” - -“He has been making me laugh,” said Yvonne. - -“And I cannot?” - -“He is a silly boy and you are the venerable Canon Chisely.” - -“That’s it,” he said, rather bitterly, releasing her. - -Her expression changed. She caught him, as he was turning away, by the -lapels of his coat. - -“Are you serious, Everard? You are! Forgive me if I have hurt you. -I can’t bear to do it. Do you wish me to see less of Mr. -Wilmington--really?” - -Looking into her eyes he felt ashamed of his pettiness. - -“See your friends as much as you like, my child,” he said, with a -revulsion of feeling. - -The matter was settled for the time being, but thenceforward the even -tenor of their life was disturbed occasionally by such outbursts. Once -he grew angry. “You have the same smile for any man who speaks to you, -Yvonne.” She replied with gentle logic, “That ought to prove that I like -all equally.” - -“Your husband included.” - -She turned away wounded. “You have no right to say that.” - -“Then what have I a right to say, Yvonne?” - -“Anything,” she cried, facing him with brightening eyes, “anything -except that I do not try with all my heart and soul to be a good wife to -you.” - -This time it was he who said “Forgive me.” Unconsciously her -influence grew upon him in his lighter moods, as he excluded her from -participation in his serious concerns. To win from her a flash other -than dutiful he would humour any caprice. Yvonne was too shrewd not to -perceive this. His tenderness touched her, saddened her a little. On her -birthday he gave her a pair of tiny ponies and a diminutive phaeton--a -perfect turn-out. He lived for a week on the delight in her face when -they were brought round (an absolute surprise) to the front door. Yet -that evening she said, with her little air of seriousness, after she had -been meditating for some time in silence, with puckered brow:-- - -“I wonder if I am quite such a child as you think me, Everard. I should -like something to happen to show you that I am a woman.” - -“Don’t say that, dear,” he replied, contentedly, holding up his glass -of port to the light and peering into it--he was a specialist in -ports--“such a chance would probably be some calamity.” - -Yvonne was not alone in noting the true inwardness of the Canon’s course -of action. Mrs. Winstanley did so, to her own chagrin. The ponies were -as distasteful to her as the beast of the Apocalypse. She was with Lady -Santyre, in the latter’s barouche, when she first saw them. Yvonne, -aglow with the effort of driving, was sending them down the Fulminster -Road at a rattling pace. She nodded brightly as she passed, pointing to -the ponies with her whip. - -“How fond the dear Canon is of that little woman,” said Lady Santyre, -her thin lips closing as if on an acidulated drop. - -“Psha!” said Mrs. Winstanley, with one of her rare exhibitions of -temper. “If he were a few years older, it would be senile infatuation! -She is beginning to curl him round her finger.” - -But there was one subject near to Yvonne’s heart on which the Canon -was inflexible--Joyce. Often Yvonne had sought to soften him toward the -black sheep, but in his gentlest moods the mention of his cousin’s name -turned him to adamant. He even resented Yvonne’s helpful friendship -before her marriage. On the afternoon that he had passed Joyce on the -stairs, he had spoken as strongly to Yvonne as good taste permitted. -Now that he had authority over her, he forbade her to hold further -communication with the man who had disgraced his name. Finally she -abandoned her attempts at conciliation, but pity prevailing over wifely -obedience, she kept up her correspondence with Joyce, unknown to the -Canon. That is to say, she wrote cheery, gossipy letters now and then to -the address she had received from Cape Town, trusting to luck for their -ultimate delivery, but receiving very few in return, for Joyce had often -not the heart to write. - -She was reading, one day, his last letter, many pages closely filled. -It had come that morning, under Miss Vicary’s cover, according to her -request. The envelope lay on the table in the centre of the room; -but she had taken the letter to the broad, cushioned window-seat, her -favourite place in summer, where she could see the old abbey, and enjoy -the scent of the mignonette and syringa from the beds below. It was the -quiet afternoon hour, before tea, when she generally read or idled or -sang to herself. She was at peace with all the world, and her heart was -full of pity for Joyce. - -Yet it was the most hopeful of the four letters she had received from -him. The previous ones had told of struggles and privations innumerable; -the aimless tramp from one town to another in the search for more than -starvation wages; the hopeless attempts to live in mining camps, where -unskilled labour was a drug in the market; sickness, and the dwindling -of his little capital. This one took up the tale broken off some months -before. Noakes and himself had left the mines, had wandered, sometimes -alone, sometimes with other adventurers, into Bechuanaland, where he had -purchased with his last remaining pounds a share in a small farm. It -was a haven of rest. But the country was unhealthy. The work was hard. -Noakes lay ill in bed; medical advice was a hundred and fifty miles -away. To cheer the invalid, he had schemed out a novel on the life they -had recently passed through, and was writing it at nights for Noakes -to read during the day. He was writing it on a bundle of yellow -package-paper which had remained over from the stock of a small “store” - once run by the chief owner of the farm. - -He spoke of the comfort of her letters. Four of them had just come to -his hands at once. He had read them aloud to Noakes, who was even more -friendless than himself. Yvonne’s heart was touched at the thought -of the poor man who never got a letter, and had to extract vicarious -comfort from his friend’s. She knew him quite well through Joyce’s -description, and loved him for the quaint lovableness that appeared in -the narrative of their joint fortunes. - -“He shall have a letter all to himself,” said Yvonne aloud; and she rose -to put her idea into execution. - -But just as she was bringing her writing materials to the window-seat, -which was strewn with the sheets of Joyce’s letter, the Canon came into -the room. - -“Can you give me some tea quickly, dear?” he said, ringing the bell. “I -am called away to Bickerton.” - -He sank into a chair with a sigh of relief. It had been a busy day and -the weather was hot. - -“Would you like me to drive you over?” asked Yvonne. - -“Dearly,” said the Canon. He leaned back, and stretched out his hand in -a gesture of contented invitation. - -“It won’t be taking you from your correspondence? You seem up to your -eyes in it.” - -“Oh, it can wait,” said Yvonne, smiling down upon him as he held her -hand. - -Soon the servant brought the tea, and Yvonne established herself over -the tea-cups. The Canon, whilst waiting, glanced idly at the books -and odds and ends on the table by his side. Suddenly he uttered an -exclamation of surprise. He had become aware of the foreign envelope, -with the Cape Colony stamp and its address to “Mrs. Chisely, care of -Miss Vicary.” He also recognised Joyce’s handwriting which happened to -be singularly striking in character. His brow grew dark. - -“What is the meaning of this, Yvonne?” - -“A letter from Stephen,” she replied with a sudden qualm. - -“And sent to you clandestinely. You have been corresponding with him -secretly in defiance of my express desire. How dared you do it?” - -He spoke in harsh tones, bending upon her all the hardness of a -stern face. She had never seen him angered like this before. She was -frightened, but she steadied herself and looked him in the face. - -“I couldn’t help it, Everard,” she said, gently. “The poor fellow -regards me as his only friend. I was forced to disobey you.” - -“That poor fellow has been guilty of mean robbery. He has herded with -ruffians in a common gaol. He has dragged an old honoured name through -the mire. For a man like that--once a knave always a knave. I don’t -choose to have my wife keeping up friendly relations with an outcast -member of my family. I am deeply offended with you--I pass over the -underhand nature of the correspondence, which in itself deserves -reprobation.” - -“I believe in Stephen,” replied Yvonne, growing very white. “He has been -punished a thousand times over. He will live an honourable man to the -end of his life. And if you read how he speaks of the few silly letters -I have written him--his joy and gratitude--you would not wish to deprive -him of them.” - -“Do you mean to say that you are deliberately setting yourself in -opposition to my wishes, Yvonne?” asked the Canon in angry surprise. - -Yvonne was in great distress. She could not defy him openly, and yet -she knew that no power on earth would prevent her from doing Joyce her -little deeds of mercy. - -She looked at him piteously for a moment, and then sank by his chair and -clasped his knees. “I can’t do what you want, Everard,” she cried. “We -were such friends in days past--And when I met him again, he looked so -broken and lonely--I could n’t in my heart let him go--and having given -him my friendship, I can’t be so cruel as to take it from him now. I -can’t feel what you do about the disgrace. I haven’t the capacity -perhaps. And I promised his dead mother to be kind to him. I did indeed, -Everard--and a promise like that I must keep.” - -He put her not unkindly from him and, rising to his feet, took two or -three turns about the room. Stopping, he said:-- - -“Why did you not tell me of this promise before?” - -“I was afraid to vex you,” said Yvonne. - -“You have vexed me much more by deceiving me,” he replied. - -But there the matter had to end. He could not bid her break her word, -nor would he allow himself to yield to a tempting sophistry that women’s -ante-nuptial promises were annulled by marriage. To regain his good -graces, however, Yvonne pledged herself never to intercede with him on -Joyce’s behalf in the future--in fact to preserve an absolute silence -concerning the black sheep and his doings. - -This settled, she drove him over to Bickerton in her pony carriage. And -the even tenor of her life went on. - -***** - -It was many weeks before the letters arrived at the farm in South -Africa. The monthly ox-waggons that came from the nearest post-town -brought them, together with the usual load of farm and household -requisites, tinned provisions, and liquors. Day after day, Joyce had -stood by the prickly-pear hedge on the rise behind the house, looking -over the dreary plain, in wistful watch for the specks on the horizon -that alone connected him with civilisation. They arrived at night--a -blustering August night, with frost in the air, and a cloudless sky -in which the Southern Cross gleamed. Before waiting to help unload and -outspan the teams, he rushed into the house with the meagre post-bundle. -It contained a few colonial newspapers, some letters for Wilson, the -farmer who was away, and the two letters from Fulminster. The rough -table, on which he sorted them by the light of a flaring chimneyless -lamp, was drawn up to the bedside of Noakes. - -“One for you, old man,” said Joyce. - -“For me?” - -Noakes stretched out his thin arm eagerly, and clutched the undreamed of -prize. - -“From Yvonne. It’s to cheer you up, old chap, I expect. It’s just like -her, you know.”. - -Joyce ran through his letter rapidly and went out to superintend the -unloading. But Noakes, who was past work, remained in bed and pored over -Yvonne’s simple lines till the tears came into his eyes. - -When all was settled, the stores taken in, the teams secured, the -natives who had driven them established in the huts, and finally the -Englishman in charge provided with food and whisky and sent to sleep, -Joyce sat down by his friend’s side and gave himself up to the greatest -pleasure his life then held. The wind howled outside, and the draught -swept in through the cracks on the doors, and the ill-fitting windows, -and up the rude chimney beneath which a fire was smouldering. Noakes -coughed incessantly. The atmosphere was tainted with the smell of the -lamp, the thin smoke from the fuel, the piles of sacking and mealy-bags -that lay in corners of the room, and the strips of bultong or dried beef -hanging in the gloom of the rafters. The room itself, occupying nearly -the whole area of the ground-floor of the rudely built wooden house, was -cheerless in aspect. The table, two or three wooden chairs, some shelves -holding cooking utensils and odds and ends of crockery, a litter of -stores and boxes, a frameless dirty oleograph of the bubble-blowing boy, -a churchman’s almanac, two years old, against the wall, and Noakes’s -sack bed--that was all the room contained. In a corner was a ladder -leading to the loft, where Joyce and the farmer slept, and whence now -came the muffled sounds of the snoring of the English driver. But for a -few moments Joyce forgot the cheerless surroundings. - -He sat late with Noakes, reading the letters aloud and talking of -Yvonne. At last, after a short silence, Noakes raised himself on his -elbow and gazed earnestly at his friend. He was very gaunt and wasted-- - -“That’s the only tender thing a woman has ever done for me,” he said. -“No,” he added in reply to Joyce’s questioning look, “my wife was never -tender. God knows why she married me.” - -“We ’ll make our fortunes and go back, and you shall know her,” said -Joyce. - -“No. I shall never go back. I shall never get half a mile beyond this -door again.” - -“Nonsense,” said Joyce. “You ’ll pull round when the spring comes.” - -“I have performed my allotted task. It was a severe portion and it has -finished me off.” - -“Look here, old man,” cried Joyce, “for God’s sake don’t talk like that. -I can’t live in this accursed place by myself. You’ve been broken down -by our hard times--but you ’ll get over it all, with this long rest.” - -“I am going to a longer one, Joyce. I don’t mind going, you know. And -then you ’ll be free of me. I am but a cumberer of the ground--I am of no -use--I never have been of any use--I have been carrying water in a sieve -all my life.” - -He began to cough. Joyce put his arm around him for support, and tended -him gently. - -“You have a lot to do, old man,” he said soon after. “The foolscap -has come, and a great jar of ink, and you can start copying out the -manuscript to-morrow.” - -“Ah yes, I can do that,” said Noakes. - -“Now go to sleep. I ’ll sit by you, if you like,” said Joyce. - -He moved the lamp to a ledge behind Noakes’s head, and sat down near by, -with the budget of newspapers. Noakes composed himself to sleep. At last -he spoke, without turning round. - -“Joyce.” - -“Yes, old man.” - -“Make me a promise.” - -“Willingly.” - -“Bury that dear lady’s letter with me.” - -“Will it make you happy to promise?” - -“Yes.” - -“Then I promise,” said Joyce, humouring him. “Now I’m not going to talk -to you any more.” - -A few minutes later, his breathing told Joyce that he slept. The -newspapers fell from Joyce’s hand, and he put his elbows on his knees -and crouched over the smouldering logs. Noakes spoke truly. There was -little chance of recovery. He would be left alone again soon. It would -be very comfortless. The poor wreck who was dragging out his last days -upon that wretched bed had been an unspeakable solace to him. Without -his womanlike devotion he would have died of fever six months back on -the Arato goldfield. Without the influence of his calm fatalism, he -would have given up heart long ago. Without his steadfast purity of -soul, he would have gone recklessly to the devil. The thought of losing -him was a great pang. - -He himself, too, was far from strong. The climate, the hard manual -labour for which he was physically unfit were telling upon him heavily. -He yearned for home, for civilised life, for the lost heritage of -honour. Yvonne’s letter, telling of the little commonplaces of the lost -sweet life of decent living, had revived the ever dormant longing. He -began to dream of her, of that last day he had seen her, of her voice -singing Gounod’s serenade. - -It was difficult to picture her as married to his cousin Everard, whom, -in the days of his vanity, he had despised as a prig and now dreaded as -a scornful benefactor. It was a strange mating. And yet she seemed happy -and unchanged. - -The wind blustered outside. The cold draught whistled through the room. -Joyce rose to his feet with a shiver, went to a corner for a couple of -sacks, which he threw over the sleeping man, and, after having wistfully -read Yvonne’s letter once more, ascended the ladder to the loft, where -the shapeless mattress of dried grass and sacking awaited him. - - - - -CHAPTER XII--HISTOIRE DE REVENANT - -Ostend is a magnificent white Kursaal on the Belgian coast. Certain -requisites are attached to it in the way of great hotels and villas -along a tiled _digue_, and innumerable bathing-machines on the sands -below. There is an old town, it is true, somewhere behind it, with -quaint narrow streets, a Place d’Armes dotted round with cafés, and -a thronged market-square; there is also a bustling port and a fishing -population. But the Ostend of practical life begins and ends at the -Kursaal. Were it to perish during a night, the following day would see -the exodus of twenty thousand visitors. The vast glass rotunda can hold -thousands. Within its precincts you can do anything in reason and out of -reason. You can knit all day long like Penelope, or you can go among -the Sirens with or without the precautions of Ulysses. You can consume -anything from a biscuit to a ten-course dinner. You can play dominoes at -centime points or roulette with a forty-franc minimum. You can listen to -music, you can dance, you can go to sleep. You can write letters, send -telegrams, and open a savings-bank account. By moving to one side or the -other of a glass screen you can sit in the warm sunshine or in the keen -sea wind. You can study the fashions of Europe from St. Petersburg to -Dublin, and if you are a woman, you can wear the most sumptuous garments -Providence has deigned to bestow on you. And lastly, if you are looking -for a place where you will be sure to find the very last person in the -world you desire to see, you will meet with every success at the Kursaal -of Ostend. - -Such was Mrs. Winstanley’s passing thought one day. She was there with -Sophia and Evan Wilmington. It was always a great pleasure, she used -to say, to have young people about her; and very naturally, since young -people can be particularly useful in strange places to a middle-aged -lady. The brother and sister fetched and carried for her all day long, -which was very nice and suitable, and Mrs. Winstanley was in her -most affable mood. On the day in question, however, she saw, to her -astonishment and annoyance, Canon Chisely and Yvonne making their way -towards her through the crowded lines of tables. - -“Good gracious, Everard!” she said as they came up. “How did you find -your way here? I thought you were going to Switzerland.” - -“So we are,” replied the Canon. “We have broken our journey. And as for -getting here, we took the boat from Dover and then walked.” - -“The frivolity of the place is infecting you already, Canon,” cried -Sophia, with a laugh. “I hope you are going to stay a long time.” - -“Oh, not too long,” said Yvonne. “It wouldn’t be fair to the Canon, who -needs some mountain air. This is just a little treat all for me.” - -She glanced at him affectionately as she spoke. It was good of him to -tarry for her sake in this Vanity Fair of a place. - -“We were going by Calais, as you know,” said the Canon, explanatively -to Mrs. Winstanley. “We only changed our minds a day or two ago--we -thought it would be a little surprise for you.” - -“Of course it is--a delightful one--to see dear Yvonne and yourself. -Where are you staying?” - -“At the Océan,” said the Canon, “and you must all come and dine with us -this evening.” - -“And will you come to the _bal_ here afterward?” asked Sophia. “Evan has -run across some college friends--or won’t you think it proper?” - -“I am going to wear the whole suit of motley while I am here,” replied -the Canon gaily. - -He kept his word, not being a man of half measures. No check should be -placed on Yvonne’s enjoyment. She had been moping, as far as Yvonne could -mope, during the latter dullness of Fulminster; now she expanded like a -flower to the gaiety around her. The Canon found an aesthetic pleasure -in watching her happiness. Her expressions of thanks too were charmingly -conveyed. Since that unfortunate attempt on his part, over a twelvemonth -back, to instruct her in the responsibilities of her position, she had -never exhibited toward him such spontaneous feeling. He let her smile -upon whom she would, without a twinge of jealousy. - -Yvonne enjoyed herself hugely. She danced and jested with the young men; -she chattered in French to her table d’hôte neighbours, delighted to -speak her mother’s tongue again; she staked two-franc pieces on the -public table, and one afternoon came out of the gaming-room into the -great hall where the Canon was sitting with Mrs. Winstanley, and poured -a great mass of silver on to the table--as much as her two small hands -joined could carry. - -“I thought gambling was against your principles, Everard,” said Mrs. -Winstanley, after Yvonne had gone again. - -“I am sacrificing them for my wife’s happiness, Emmeline,” he replied, -with a touch of irony. - -“Yes, it would be a pity to spoil her pleasure. She is such a child.” - -“I wish we all had something of her nature,” said the Canon. - -Mrs. Winstanley noted the snub. She was treasuring up many resentments -against Yvonne. In her heart she considered herself a long-suffering -woman. - -“You seem to enjoy it too, Everard,” said Yvonne to him that evening. -They were sitting near the entrance watching the smartly-dressed people. -“And I am so glad to be alone with you.” - -He was pleased, smiled at her, and throwing off his dignity, entered -into the frivolous spirit of the place. Yvonne forgot the restraint she -had always put upon her tongue when talking to him. She chattered about -everything, holding her face near him, so as to be heard through the -hubbub of thousands of voices, the eternal shuffling of passing feet, -and the crash of the orchestra in the far gallery. - -“It is a _Revue des Deux Mondes,_” she said, looking rapidly around -her, with bright eyes. - -“How?” asked the Canon. - -“The _beau_ and the _demi_,” she replied, wickedly. She shook his knee. -“Oh, do look at that woman! what does she think a man can see in her!” - -“Powder,” answered the Canon. “She has been using her puff too freely.” - -“She has been putting it on with a _muff_,” cried Yvonne. - -He laughed. Yvonne had such a triumphant air in delivering herself of -little witticisms. - -A magnificently dressed woman, in a great feathered hat and low-dress, -with diamonds gleaming at her neck, passed by. “You are right, I fear, -about the two worlds,” said the Canon. - -“Are n’t there crowds of them? I like to look at them because they wear -such beautiful things. And they fit so. And then to rub shoulders with -them makes one feel so delightfully wicked. You know, I knew a girl -once--she went in for that life of her own accord and she was awfully -happy. Really. Is n’t it odd?” - -“My dear Yvonne!” said the Canon, somewhat shocked, “I sincerely trust -you did not continue the acquaintance, afterwards.” - -“Oh, no,” she replied, sagely. “It would not have done for me at all. -A lone woman can’t be too careful. But I used to hear about her from my -dressmaker.” - -Her point of view was not exactly the Canon’s. But further discussion -was stopped by the arrival of the Wilmingtons, who carried off Yvonne -to the dancing-room. The Canon, drawing the line at his own appearance -there, strolled back contentedly to the hotel to finish the evening over -a book. - -Two mornings afterwards Yvonne was walking by herself along the _digue_. -They were to leave for Switzerland the next day, and she determined to -make the most of her remaining time. Sophia Wilmington, for whom she -had called, had already gone out. The Canon, who was engaged over his -correspondence, she was to meet later at the Kursaal. It was a lovely -morning. The line of white hotels, with their al fresco breakfast tables -spread temptingly on the terraces, gleamed in the sun. The _digue_ was -bright with summer dresses. The sands below alive with tennis players, -children making sand-castles, and loungers, and bathers, and horses -moving among the bathing-machines. Yvonne tripped along with careless -tread. Her heart was in harmony with the brightness and movement and -the glint of the sun on the sea. Once a man, meeting her smiling glance, -hesitated as if to speak to her, but seeing that the smile was addressed -to the happy world in general, he passed on his way. It was easy to -kill time. She went down the Rue Flammande and looked at the shops. The -jewelry and the models of Paris dresses delighted her. The display -of sweets at Nopenny’s allured her within. When she returned to the -_digue_, it was time to seek the Canon at the Kursaal. - -The liveried attendants lifted their hats as she ran up the steps and -passed the barrier. She gave them a smiling “_bonjour_.” Neither the -Canon nor any of the friends being visible on the verandah, she entered -the great hall, where the morning instrumental concert was going on. -She scanned the talking, laughing crowd as she passed through. Many eyes -followed her. For Yvonne, when happy, was sweet to look upon. She was -turning back to retrace her steps, when, suddenly, a man started up from -a group of three who were playing cards and drinking absinthe at a small -table, and placed himself before her. - -“_Tiens! c’est Yvonne!_” - -She stared at him with dilated eyes and parted lips and uttered a little -gasping cry. Seeing her grow deadly white and thinking she was going to -faint, the man put out his arm. But Yvonne was mistress of herself. - -“_Allons d’ici_,” she whispered, turning a terrified glance around. - -The man raised his hat to his companions and signed to her to come. He -was a handsome, careless, dissipated-looking fellow, with curly hair and -a twirled black moustache; short and slightly made. He wore a Tyrolese -hat and a very low turned-down collar and a great silk bow outside -his waistcoat. There was a devil-may-care charm in his swagger as -he walked--also an indefinable touch of vulgarity; the type of the -_cabotin_ in easy circumstances. - -Yvonne, more dead than alive, followed him through the deserted _salle -des jeux_ on to the quiet bit of verandah, and sank into a chair that he -offered. She looked at him, still white to the lips. - -“You?” - -“Yes,” he said laughingly, “why not? It is not astonishing.” - -“But I thought you dead!” gasped Yvonne, trembling. - -“_A la bonne heure!_ And I seem a ghost. Oh, I am solid. Pinch me. But -how did you come to learn? Ah! I remember it was given out in Paris. A -_canard_. It was in the hospital--paralysis, _ma chère_. See, I can only -just move my arm now. _Cétait la verte, cette sacrée verte--_” - -“Absinthe?” asked Yvonne, almost mechanically. - -He nodded, went through the motions of preparing the drink, and laughed. - -“I had a touch lately,” he went on. “That was the second. The third I -shall be _prrrt--flambé!_ They tell me to give it up. Never in life.” - -“But if it will kill you?” - -“Bah. What do I care? When one lives, one amuses oneself. And I have -well amused myself, eh, Yvonne? For the rest, _je m’en fiche!_” - -He went on talking with airy cynicism. To Yvonne it seemed some horrible -dream. The husband she had looked upon as dead was before her, gay, -mocking, just as she had known him of old. And he greeted her after all -these years with the-same lightness as he had bidden her farewell. - -“_Et toi, Yvonne?_” said he at length. “_Ça roule toujours?_ You -look as if you were brewing money. Ravishing costume. _Crépon_--not -twenty-five centimes a yard! A hat that looks like the Rue de la Paix! -_Gants de reine et petites bottines de duchesse!_ You must be doing -golden business. But speak, _petite_, since I assure you I am not a -ghost!” - -Yvonne forced a faint smile. She tried to answer him, but her heart was -thumping violently and a lump rose in her throat. - -“I am doing very well, Amédée,” she said. The dreadfulness of her -position came over her. She felt sick and faint. What was going to -happen? For some moments she did not hear him as he spoke. At last -perception returned. - -“And you are pretty,” Amédée Bazouge was saying. “_Mais jolie à -croquer_--prettier than you ever were. And I--I am going down the hill -at the gallop. _Tiens_, Yvonne. Let us celebrate this meeting. Come and -see me safe to the bottom. It won’t be long. I have money. I am always -_bon enfant._ Let us remarry. From to-day. _Ce serait rigolo!_ And I -will love you--_mais énormément!_” - -“But I am already married!” cried Yvonne. - -“Thinking me dead?” - -“Yes.” - -He looked at her for a few seconds, then slapped his thigh and, rising -from his chair, bent himself double and gave vent to a roar of laughter. -The tears stood in Yvonne’s eyes. - -“Oh, but it’s comic. You don’t find it so?” - -He leant back against the railings and laughed again in genuine -merriment. - -“Why, it’s all the more reason to come back to me. _Ça y met du salé_. -Have you any children?” - -Yvonne shook her head. - -“_Eh bien!_” he exclaimed, triumphantly, stepping towards her with -outstretched hands. But she shrank from him, outraged and bewildered. - -“Never, never!” she cried. “Go away. Have pity on me, for God’s sake!” - -Amédée Bazouge shrugged his shoulders carelessly. - -“It’s a comedy, not a tragedy, _ma chère_. If you are happy, I am not -going to be a spoilsport. It is not my way. Be tranquil with your good -fat Englishman--I bet he’s an Englishman--In two years--bah! I can amuse -myself always till then--my poor little Yvonne. No wonder I frightened -you.” - -The affair seemed to cause him intense amusement. A ray of light -appeared to Yvonne. - -“You won’t interfere with me at all, Amédée--not claim anything?” - -“Oh, don’t be afraid. _Dès ce moment je vais me reflanquer au sapin!_ I -shall be as dead as dead can be for you. _Suis pas méchant va!_” - -“Thank you,” said Yvonne. “You were always kind-hearted, Amédée--oh, -it was a horrible mistake--it can’t be altered. You see that I am -helpless.” - -“Why, my child,” said he, seating himself again, “I keep on telling you -it is a farce--like all the rest of life. I only laugh. And now let us -talk a little before I pop into the coffin again. What is the name of -the thrice happy being?” - -“Oh, don’t ask me, I beg you,” said Yvonne shivering. “It is all -so painful. Tell me about yourself--your voice--Is it still in good -condition?” - -“Never better. I am singing here this afternoon.” - -“In the Kursaal?” - -“Why, yes. That’s why I am here. Oh, _ca marche--pas encore paralysée, -celle-là_. Come and hear me. _Et ton petit organe à toi?_” - -“I am out of practice. I have given up the profession.” - -“Ah, it’s a pity. You had such an exquisite little voice. I regretted -it after we parted. Two or three times it nearly brought me back to -you--_foi d’artiste!_” - -“I think I must go,” said Yvonne after a little. “I am leaving Ostend -to-morrow and I shall not see you again. You don’t think I am treating -you unkindly, Amédée?” - -He laughed in his bantering way and lit a cigarette. - -“On the contrary, _cher ange_. It is very good of you to talk to a poor -ghost. And you look so pathetic, like a poor little saint with its harp -out of tune.” - -She rose, anxious to leave him and escape into solitude, where she could -think. She still trembled with agitation. In the little cool park, on -the other side of the square below, she could be by herself. She dreaded -meeting the Canon yet awhile. - -“Do give up that vile absinthe,” she said, as a parting softness. - -“It is the only consoler that remains to me--sad widower.” - -“Well, good-bye, Amédée.” - -“Ah--not yet. Since you are the wife of somebody else, I am dying to -make love to you.” - -He held her by the wrist, laughing at her. But at that moment Yvonne -caught sight of the Canon and Mrs. Winstanley, entering upon the -terrace. She wrenched her arm away. - -“There is my husband.” - -“_Nom de Dieu!_” cried Bazouge, stifling a guffaw before the austere -decorum of the English churchman. “_Ça?_ Oh, my poor Yvonne!” She shook -hands rapidly with him and turned away. He bowed gracefully, including -the new-comers in his salute. The Canon responded severely. Mrs. -Winstanley stared at him through her tortoise-shell lorgnette. - -“We have been looking all over the place for you,” said the Canon, -as they passed through the window into the _salle des jeux_, leaving -Bazouge in the corner of the verandah. - -“I’m sorry,” said Yvonne penitently. - -“And who was that rakish-looking little Frenchman you were talking to?” - -“An old friend--I used to know him,” said Yvonne, struggling with her -agitation. “A friend of my first husband--I had to speak to him--we went -there to be quiet. I could n’t help it, Everard, really I could n’t.” - -“My dear child,” said the Canon, kindly, “I was not scolding you--though -he did look rather undesirable.” - -“I suppose you had to mix with all kinds of odd Bohemian people in your -professional days?” said Mrs. Winstanley. - -“Of course,” faltered Yvonne. - -They went through the great hall. At the door they parted with Mrs. -Winstanley, who was waiting for the Wilmingtons. “We will call for you -on our way to the concert this afternoon,” said the Canon. - -“Thanks,” said Mrs. Winstanley, and then, suddenly looking at Yvonne-- - -“Mercy, my dear! How white you are!” - -“There’s nothing the matter with me,” said Yvonne, trying to smile. - -“It’s past our _déjeuner_ hour,” said the Canon, briskly. “You want some -food.” - -“Perhaps I do,” said Yvonne. - -She went with the Canon on to the _digue_, and walked along the shady -side, by the hotels, past the gay terraces thronged with lunching -guests. But all the glamour had gone from the place. An hour had changed -it. And that hour seemed a black abyss separating her from happiness. - -An hour ago she had looked upon this kind, grave man who walked by -her side as her husband. Now what was he to her? She shrank from the -thought, terrified, and came nearer to him, touching the flying skirt of -his coat as if to take strength from him. - -They entered the crowded dining-room, where the _maître d’hôtel_ had -reserved them a table. She struggled bravely through part of the meal, -strove to keep up a conversation. But the strain was too great. Another -five minutes, she felt, would make her hysterical. She rose, with an -excuse to the Canon, and escaped to her room. - -There she flung herself down on the bed and buried her face in the cool -pillows. It was a relief to be alone with her fright and dismay. She -strove to think, but her head was in a whirl. The incidents of the late -scene came luridly before her mind, and she shivered with revulsion. A -rough hand had been laid on the butterfly and brushed the dust from its -wings. - -The Canon came later to her room, kindly solicitous. Was she ill? Would -she like to see a medical man? Should he sit with her? She clasped his -hand impulsively and kissed it. - -“You are too good to me. I am not worth it. I am not ill. It was the -sun, I think. Let me lie down this afternoon by myself and I shall be -better.” - -Surprised and touched by her action, he bent down and kissed her. - -“My poor little wife.” - -He stepped to the window and pulled the curtain to shield her eyes from -the glare, and promising to order some tea to be brought up later, he -went out. - -The kiss, the term, and the little act of thoughtfulness comforted her, -gave her a sense of protection. She had been so bruised and frightened. -Now she could think a little. Should she tell Everard? Then she broke -down again and began to cry silently in a great soothing pity for -herself. - -“It would only make him unhappy,” she moaned. “Why should I tell him?” - -She grew calmer. If Amédée would only keep his promise and leave her -free, there was really nothing to fret about. She reassured herself with -his words. Through all his failings toward her he had ever been “_bon -enfant_.” There was no danger. - -Suddenly a thought came that made her spring from her bed in dismay. The -concert. She had forgotten that Amédée was singing there. Everard was -going. He would see the name on the programme, “Amédée Bazouge.” There -could not be two tenors of that name in Europe. Everard must be kept -away at all costs. - -She rushed from the room and down the stairs, in terrible anxiety lest -he should have already left the hotel. To her intense relief, she saw -him sitting in one of the cane chairs in the vestibule smoking his -after-lunch cigar. He threw it away as he caught sight of her at the -head of the stairs, breathless, and holding the balusters, and went up -to meet her. - -“My poor child,” said he in an anxious tone. “What is the matter?” - -“Oh, Everard--I don’t want any more to be left alone. Don’t think me -silly and cowardly. I am afraid of all kinds of things.” - -“Of course I ’ll come and sit with you a little,” he replied kindly. - -They entered her room together. Yvonne lay down. Her head was splitting -with nervous headache. The Canon tended her in his grave way and -sat down by the window with a book. Yvonne felt very guilty, but yet -comforted by his presence. At the end of an hour, he looked at his watch -and rose from his seat. - -“Are you easier now?” - -“You are not going to the Kursaal, Everard?” - -“I am afraid Emmeline is expecting me.” She signed to him to approach, -and put her arms round his neck. - -“Don’t go. Send her an excuse--and take me for a drive. It would do me -good, and I should so love to be alone with you.” - -It was the very first time in her life that Yvonne had consciously -cajoled a man. Her face flushed hot with misgivings. It was with a -mixture of her sex’s shame and triumph that she heard him say. - -“Whatever you like, dear. It is still your holiday.” - - - - -CHAPTER XIII--Dis Aliter Visum - -But the best laid schemes of Yvonnes and men often come to nothing. -While she was devising, on her drive along the coast, a plan for -spending a quiet dangerless evening at the hotel, Mrs. Winstanley was -sitting in solitary dignity at the concert, nursing her wrath over -Professor Drummond’s “Natural Law in the Spiritual world,” a book which -she often perused when she wished to accentuate the rigorous attitude of -her mind. - -Yvonne had reckoned without Mrs. Winstanley. Otherwise she would have -offered her a seat in the carriage. As it was, Mrs. Winstanley felt -more resentful than ever. Under the impression that the Canon was to -accompany her to the Kursaal, she had graciously dispensed with the -escort of the Wilmingtons, who had gone off to see bicycle races at the -Vélodrome. She was left in the lurch. - -To dislike this is human. To wrap oneself up in one’s sore dignity is -more human still, and there was much humanity that lurked, unsuspected -by herself, in Mrs. Winstanley’s bosom. It asserted itself, further, -in certain curiosities. She had seen that morning what had escaped the -Canon’s notice--the stranger’s grasp on Yvonne’s arm and the insolent -admiration on his face. This fact, coupled with Yvonne’s agitation, had -put her upon the track of scandal. The result was, that at the concert -she made interesting discoveries, and, piecing things together in her -mind afterwards, bided her time to make use of them. - -It would be for the Canon’s sake, naturally. A woman of Mrs. -Winstanley’s stamp is always the most disinterested of God’s creatures. -She never performed an action of which her conscience did not approve. -But she was such a superior woman that her conscience trembled a little -before her, like most of the other friends whom she patronised. She did -not have to wait long. The Canon called upon her soon after his return -to invite herself and the Wilmingtons to dinner. It was his last -evening at Ostend, and Yvonne was not feeling well enough to spend it, -as usual, at the Kursaal. - -“Yvonne is still poorly, Everard?” she asked, with her air of -confidential responsibility. - -“A little. She has been gadding about somewhat too much lately, and it -has knocked her up.” - -“Has it not occurred to you that her encounter this morning may have had -something to do with it?” - -“Of course not,” replied the Canon, sharply. “It would be ridiculous.” - -“I have reasons for not thinking so, Everard. The man was singing at the -Kursaal this afternoon. Here is his name on the programme.” She -handed him the slip of paper. He read the name among the artistes. “M. -Bazouge.” He returned it to her. - -“Well?” - -“Does it not seem odd to you?” - -“Not at all. A relation of her first husband’s, I suppose. In fact -Yvonne said as much.” - -“I could not help being struck by the name, Everard. It is so peculiar. -I remembered it from the publication of the banns.” - -“I compliment you on your memory, Emmeline,” said the Canon. - -Mrs. Winstanley drew herself up, offended. - -She walked from the window where they were standing to a table, and -fetched from it a newspaper. - -“Do you remember the Christian name of Yvonne’s first husband?” - -The Canon drew himself up too, and frowned. - -“What is the meaning of all this, Emmeline? What are you trying to -insinuate?” - -“If I thought you were going to adopt this tone, Everard, I should have -kept my suspicions to myself.” - -“I certainly wish that you had,” said he, growing angry. “It is an -insult to Yvonne which I cannot permit. My wife is above suspicion.” - -“Like Caesar’s,” said the lady with a curl of the lip. “Do you know that -we are beginning to quarrel, Everard? It is slightly vulgar. I am your -oldest friend, remember, and I am trying to acquit myself of a painful -duty to you.” - -“Duty is one of the chief instruments of the devil, if you will excuse -my saying so,” replied the Canon. - -“Oh, very well then, Everard,” she said hotly. “You can go on being -a fool as long as you like. I saw your wife struggling in this man’s -embrace, more or less, this morning. Two or three strange coincidences -have been forced upon my notice. For your sake I have been excessively -anxious. My conscience tells me I ought to take you into my confidence, -and I can do no more. You can see the Christian name of this Bazouge -in the Visitors’ List, and adopt what course of action you think fit. -I wash my hands of the whole matter. And I must say that from the very -beginning, two years ago, you have treated me all through with the -greatest want of consideration.” - -The Canon did not heed the peroration. He stood with the flimsy sheet -clenched in his hand and regarded her sternly. She shrank a little, for -her soul seemed to be naked. - -“You have tried to ferret this out through spite against Yvonne. Whether -the horrible thing you imply is true or not, I shall find it hard to -forgive you.” - -Mrs. Winstanley shrugged her shoulders. “In either case, you will come -to your senses, I hope. Meanwhile, considering the present relations, it -might be pleasanter not to meet at dinner to-night.” - -“I am sorry to have to agree with you, Emmeline,” said the Canon. - -She made him a formal bow and was leaving the room; but his voice -stopped her. - -“Your anxiety cannot be very great, or you would wait to learn whether -your suspicions are baseless or not.” - -She paused, in a dignified attitude, with her hand on the back of a -chair, while he adjusted his gold pince-nez and ran through the list. - -“You are right so far,” he said coldly. “The names are identical.” - -They parted at the door. The Canon walked back to his hotel with anger -in his heart. In spite of cumulative evidence, the theory that his -cousin had insinuated was prima facie preposterous. It was important -enough, however, to need some investigation. But the feeling uppermost -in his mind was indignation with Mrs. Winstanley. He was too shrewd a -man not to have perceived long ago her jealousy of Yvonne; but beyond -keeping a watchful eye lest his wife should receive hurt, he had not -condescended to take it into serious consideration. Now, beneath her -impressive manner he clearly divined the desire to inflict on Yvonne -a deadly injury. To have leaped at such a conclusion, to have sought -subsequent proof from the Visitors’ List, argued malicious design. He -could never forgive her. - -Still the matter had to be cleared up at once. On his arrival at the -Océan, he went forthwith to Yvonne’s room, and entered on receiving an -acknowledgment of his knock. She was standing in the light of the window -by the toilet table, doing her hair. The rest of the room was in the -shadow of the gathering evening. - -“Well,” she said, without turning, “are they coming?” - -The grace of her attitude, the intimacy of the scene, the pleasantness -of her greeting, made his task hateful. - -“No,” he said, with an asperity directed towards the disinvited guest. -“We shall dine alone to-night.” - -But his tone made Yvonne’s heart give a great throb, and she turned to -him quickly. - -“Has anything happened?” - -“A great deal,” said the Canon. - -Where he stood in the dusk of the doorway, the shadow accentuated the -stern lines of his face and deepened the sombreness of his glance. His -brows were bent in perplexities of repugnance. It was horrible to demand -of her such explanations. To Yvonne’s scared fancy, his brows seemed -bent in accusation. That was the pity of it. For a few seconds they -looked at one another, the Canon severely, Yvonne in throbbing suspense. - -“What?” she asked at length. - -He paused for a moment, then threw his hat and the crumpled Visitors’ -List on to the table and plunged into the heart of things--but not -before Yvonne had glanced at the paper with a sudden pang of intuition. - -“Emmeline has discovered, Yvonne, that the man--” - -He got no further. Yvonne rushed to him with a cry of pain, clung to his -arm, broke into wild words. - -“Don’t say any more--don’t--don’t. Spare me--for pity’s sake. I did not -want you to know. I tried to keep it from you, Everard! Don’t look at me -like that?” - -Her voice ended in a note of fright. For the Canon’s face had grown -ashen and wore an expression of incredulous horror. He shook her from -him. - -“Do you mean that this is true? That you met your first husband this -morning?” - -“Yes,” said she, with quivering lips. Question and answer were too -categorical for misunderstanding. For a moment he struggled against the -overwhelming. - -“Are you in your right senses, Yvonne? Do you understand what I asked -you? Your first husband is still alive and you saw him to-day?” - -“Yes,” said Yvonne again. “Didn’t you know when you came in?” - -“I did n’t know,” he repeated almost mechanically. - -The blow crushed him for a while. He stood quite rigid, drawing -quick breaths, with his eyes fixed upon her. And she remained still, -half-sitting on the edge of the bed, numb with a vague prescience of -catastrophe, and a dim, uncomprehended intuition of the earthquake and -wreck in the man’s soul. The silence grew appalling. She broke it with a -faltering whisper. - -“Will you forgive me?” - -The poor little commonplace fell in the midst of devastating -emotions--pathetically incongruous. - -“Did you know that this man was alive when you married me?” he asked in -a hard voice. - -“No,” cried Yvonne. “How could I have married you? I thought he had been -dead nearly three years.” - -“What proofs did you have of his death?” - -“A friend sent me a number of the Figaro, with the announcement.” - -“Was that all?” - -“Yes,” said Yvonne. - -“Do you mean to tell me,” he insisted, “that you married a second time, -having no further proofs of your first husband’s death than a mere -newspaper report?” - -“It never occurred to me to doubt it,” she replied, opening piteous, -innocent eyes. - -The childlike irresponsibility was above his comprehension. Her apparent -insensibility to the most vital concerns of life was another shock to -him. It seemed criminal. - -“God forgive you,” he said, “for the wrong you have done me.” - -“But I did it unknowingly, Everard,” cried poor Yvonne. “If one has to -get greater proofs, why did you not ask for them, yourself?” - -The Canon turned away and paced the room slowly, without replying. At -last he stood still before her. - -“Among ordinary honourable people one takes such things for granted,” he -said. - -“Forgive me,” she said again, humbly. - -But he could find no pity for her in his heart. She had wronged him past -redemption. - -“How much truth was there in the newspaper story?” he asked coldly. - -She told him rapidly what Amédée Bazouge had said concerning his attack -in the hospital and his subsequent stroke. - -“So the man is wilfully killing himself with absinthe?” he said. - -“It appears so,” replied Yvonne with a shudder. - -“Could you tell me what passed between you otherwise--in general terms?” - he asked, after a short silence. “You explained your position? Or did -you leave him in ignorance, as you were going to leave me?” - -“I told him--of course. It was necessary. And he laughed--I thought to -spare you, Everard.” - -“Spare me, Yvonne?” - -“Yes,” she said, simply, “I could have borne all the pain and fright -of it alone--why should I have made you unhappy? And _he_ said he would -never interfere with me, and I can trust his word. Why should I have -told you, Everard?” - -“Do you actually ask me such a question, honestly?” - -“God knows I do,” she replied pitifully. - -“And you would have gone on living with me--I not being your husband?” - -“But you are my husband,” cried Yvonne, “nothing could ever alter that.” - -“But good God! it does alter it,” cried the Canon in a voice of anguish, -breaking the iron bonds he had placed on his passion. “Neither in the -eyes of God nor of man are you my wife. You have no right to bear my -name. After this hour I have no right to enter this room. Every caress -I gave you would be sin. Don’t you understand it, child? Don’t you -understand that this has brought ruin into our lives, the horror of -loneliness and separation?” - -“Separation?” said Yvonne. - -She rose slowly from her seat on the bed and stared at him aghast. - -The twilight in the room deepened; the shadow of a wall opposite the -window fell darker. Their faces and Yvonne’s bare neck and arms gleamed -white in the gloom. They had spoken with many silences; for how long -neither knew. - -“Yes,” replied the Canon in his harder tones, recovering himself “It -means all that.” - -“I am to go--not to live with you any more?” - -“Could you imagine our past relations could continue?” - -“I don’t understand,” she began feebly. And then the darkness fell upon -her, and her limbs relaxed. She swayed sideways and would have fallen, -but he caught her in his arms and laid her on the couch. - -“Thank you,” she murmured faintly. - -She hid her face in her hands and remained, crouched up, quite still, in -a stupor of misery. The Canon stood over her helplessly, unable to find -a word of comfort. - -The sight of her prostration did not move him. He had been wounded to -the very depths of his being. His pride, his honour, his dignity were -lacerated in their vitals. He burned with the sense of unpardonable -wrong. - -“It is self-evident,” he said at last, “that we must part. Our remaining -together would be a sin against God and an outrage upon Society.” - -She rased herself wearily, with one hand on the couch, and shook her -head slowly. - -“Such things are beyond me. No one will ever know.” - -“There is One who will always know, Yvonne.” - -She pondered over the saying, as far as her tired, bewildered brain -allowed. It conveyed very little meaning to her. Theology had not -altered her child-like conception of the benevolence of the Creator. -After a long time she was able to disentangle an idea from the -confusion. - -“If it is a sin--don’t you love me enough to sin a little for my sake?” - -“Not that sin,” he said. - -Yvonne lifted her shoulders helplessly. - -“I would commit any sin for your sake,” she said. “It would seem so -easy.” - -Curiously assorted as they were, a poetic idealism on the one side and -grateful veneration on the other had hitherto bound them together. Now -they were sundered leagues apart; mutual understanding was hopeless. -Each was bewildered by the other’s moral attitude. - -The logical consequences of the discovery, that appeared so luridly -devious to the Canon’s intellect, failed entirely to appeal to Yvonne. -She referred them entirely to his personal inclinations. On the other -hand, the Canon had a false insight into her soul that was a chilling -disillusion. - -The beauty of her exquisite purity and innocence had always captivated -in him the finer man. It was a mirage. It was gone. Emptiness remained. -She was simply a graceful, non-moral being--a spiritual anomaly. - -Yvonne shivered, and rising, walked unsteadily to the wardrobe, whence -she took a dressing-jacket. Putting it on, she returned to the couch. It -was almost dark. The Canon watched her dim, slight figure as it passed -him, with a strange feeling of remoteness. A hundred trivial instances -of her want of moral sense crowded into his mind to support his -view--her inability to see the wrong-doing of Stephen, her indefinite -notions in religious matters, her mental attitude toward the girl that -had gone astray, of whom she had been talking only the night before, her -expressed intention of hiding this terrible discovery from him. He had -been duped, not by her, but by his own romantic folly. - -Yet what would his life be without her--or rather without his illusion? -An icy hand gripped his heart. He turned to the glimmering window and -stared at the blank wall. - -Presently a moan struck upon his ear. He wheeled round sharply, and -distinguished her lying with helpless outspread arms on the couch. Mere -humanity brought him to her side. - -“I am so tired,” she moaned. - -“You must go to bed,” he replied in a gentler voice than hitherto. “We -had better part now. To-morrow, if you are well enough to travel, we -will leave for England.” - -“Let me go alone,” she murmured, “and you go on to Switzerland. Why -should your holiday be spoiled?” - -“It is my life that is spoiled,” he said ungenerously. “The holiday -matters very little. It is best to return to England as soon as -possible. Between now and to-morrow morning I shall have time to reflect -upon the situation.” - -He struck a match and lit the candles and drew down the blind. The -light revealed her to him so wan and exhausted that he was moved with -compunction. - -“Don’t think me hard, my child,” he said, bending over her. “It is the -bitterest day of our lives. We must pray to God for strength to bear it. -I shall leave you now. I shall see that you have all you want. Try to -sleep. Good-night.” - -“Good-night,” she said miserably. - -And so, without touch of hand, they parted. - -The hours of the evening wore on, and night came. At last she cried -herself to sleep. It had been a day of tears. - -They left Ostend quietly the following morning by the Dover boat. During -the whole journey the Canon treated Yvonne with the deferential courtesy -he could always assume to women, seeing to her comforts, anticipating -her wants, even exchanging now and then casual remarks on passing -objects of interest. But of the subject next his heart he said not a -word. The crossing was smooth. The sea air revived Yvonne’s strength. - -His silence half comforted, half frightened her. Had he relented? She -glanced often at his impassive face, in cruel anxiety to pierce to the -thoughts that lay behind. Yet a little hope came to her; for fear of -losing it she dared not speak. To her simple mind it seemed impossible -that merely conscientious scruples could make him cast her off. If he -loved her, his love would triumph. If he persisted in his resolve, he -cared for her no longer. In this case her future was very simple. She -would go back to London and sing. - -She seemed to have cried her feeling away during the night--such as he -had left unbruised and untorn. For the quivering flesh is only sensitive -up to a certain point of maceration. He had trodden upon her pitilessly; -but she felt no resentment. In fact, she would have been quite happy if -he had put his arms round her and said, “Let us forget, Yvonne.” By the -end of the journey she had cajoled herself into the idea that he would -do so. - -A suite of rooms received them in the quiet West End hotel where the -Canon always stayed. They dined alone, the discreet butler waiting on -them, for the Canon was an honoured guest. When the cloth was removed, -the Canon said in his even voice:-- - -“Are you sufficiently recovered, Yvonne, to discuss this painful -subject?” - -“I am quite ready, Everard.” - -“We will make it as short as possible. What I said last night must -remain, whatever be the suffering. I have loved you deeply--like a young -man--in a way perhaps ill befitting my years. The memories, for they are -innocent, will always be there, Yvonne. If I did not seek strength from -Elsewhere, it might wreck my life to part from you.” - -Her hope was dashed to the ground. She interrupted him with one more -appeal. “Why need we part, Everard?” she said, in a low voice. “I mean, -why cannot we live in the same house--before the world--?” - -“It is impossible,” he replied. “You don’t know what you are asking.” - -His voice grew husky. He paused a few seconds, then, recovering himself -continued in the same hard tones:-- - -“As we must live apart, it is my duty to make provision for you. I shall -alter my will, securing to you what would have come to you as my wife. -During my lifetime I shall make you an allowance in fair proportion to -my means. And it will be, of course, unconditional.” - -Then, for the first time, her gentle nature rose up in revolt against -him. - -“I could not accept it, Everard,” she cried with kindling cheeks. “If I -have no right to bear your name I have no right to your support. Don’t -ask me to take it, for I can’t.” - -“Yvonne, listen to me--” - -“No,” she went on passionately, “I am speaking as a woman now; the time -has come, and you were right in your prophecy--I would sooner die than -live away from you and be supported by you. You don’t understand--it is -as if I had done something shameful and you were putting me away from -you. Oh, don’t speak of it,--don’t speak of it. If I am not your wife -before God, I have no claims on you.” - -“To hear you speak like that pains me intensely,” he said. “Do you think -I have lost all regard for you?” - -“If you loved me, you would not wish to part from me,” said Yvonne with -her terrible logic. - -They were on different planes of thought and feeling. The Canon argued, -insisted, but to no purpose. Yvonne was inconvincible. - -The talk continued, drifted away for a time to arrangements for the -immediate future. A reply telegram came from Geraldine Vicary, to the -effect that she would be with Yvonne in the morning. It was settled that -Yvonne should stay with her provisionally, and that she, in order to -avoid painful meetings and communications, should be Yvonne’s agent in -the necessary settlement of affairs. Finally, the Canon returned to -the subject of the allowance. He would settle a certain sum upon her, -whether she would accept it or not. Yvonne flashed again into rebellion. -The idea was hateful to her. He had no right to make her lose her -self-respect. - -“But it is my solemn duty that I must perform. Will nothing I can say -ever make you understand?” he exclaimed at last, in exasperation. - -Yvonne rose and came to where he sat, and laid her hand upon his -shoulder with an action full of tenderness, and looked down upon him -with her wistful dark eyes, all the more wistful for the rings beneath -them. - -“Don’t be angry with me--over last evening. It is good and generous of -you to wish to make provision for me. But I shall be much happier to -feel myself no burden upon you. And it will be so easy for me to earn my -living again. I shall be much happier, really.” - -The little word, with which she so often confirmed her statements, the -familiar touch of her hand, the sense of her delicate, fragile figure so -near him caused a spasm of pain to pass through his heart; disillusion -had not touched his common, human want of her. He bowed his head in his -hands. - -“Some day, Yvonne, it may be possible for me to ask you--to come back. -If I give in to your wishes now, will you give in to mine then?” - -The emotion in his voice was too strong to escape her. It stirred -all the yielding sweetness and tender pity of Yvonne. She forgot the -reproaches, the pitilessness, the religious scruples comprehended only -as unloving. His broad shoulders shook beneath her touch. - -“I will come whenever you want me,” she said. - -“If I have been ungenerous in word or thought to you, Yvonne, forgive -me.” - -Her hand strayed shyly to a lock of grizzling hair above his temples and -smoothed it back gently. - -He raised his head, and looked at her for a second or two with an -expression of anguish. - -Then he sprang to his feet, and before Yvonne, shrinking back, could -realise his intention, his arms were about her in a tight clasp, and -his kiss was on her face. “God help us. God help us both, my child.” He -released her and went hurriedly from the room. - -And so they parted. - - - - - -Part II - - - - -CHAPTER XIV--“IN A STRANGE LAND” - -They buried Noakes on the other side of the _kopje_ behind the house. -He had lasted through the winter and early spring, but the season of the -rains and heat, when the damp oozed through wooden walls and mud floor, -and hung clammily upon sheets and pillows, gave the remnants of his -lungs no breathing chance, and Noakes went uncomplainingly to his place. - -Joyce laid “the dear lady’s” letter on his breast before nailing down -the rough wooden coffin. It seemed as if most of his own heart too were -enclosed with the letter, to be put away under the ground for ever and -ever. Wilson the farmer, himself, and a Kaffir carried the coffin to the -hole that had been dug beneath a blue gum-tree. There Wilson read the -burial service of the Church of England. - -He was a religious man, when he was not drunk, and set great store by -a prayer-book that he had saved from the wreckage of churchgoing times. -Over a fat, phlegmatic, brick-red face the sun had spread a glaze, as if -to shield the colour from other counteracting climatic influences. -His speech was thick and uneducated. At first Joyce had resented his -intention as a mockery, and only to avoid unseemly wrangling did he -stand there and listen, while the Kaffir squatted by, scratching his -limbs in meditative wonder at the incantation. But very soon the solemn -beauty of the service appealed to him. “Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, -dust to dust.” He stooped and threw some handfuls of the red soil -reverently into the grave. It seemed not unfitting that the rude voice -should give the broken life this rude burial. - -The service over, Wilson signed to the Kaffir to fill in the grave, -and flicking the perspiration from his forehead, for the sun beat down -fiercely, turned to Joyce. - -“Come in now and have a drink.” - -But Joyce refused and remained there alone, with his head sunk on his -breast, watching the Kaffir. When the task was done, he set at the -grave-head a great stone he had previously brought there, and slowly -went away. His steps took him mechanically back over the _kopje_. But -when he arrived at the prickly-pear hedge on top, the sight of the mean -shanty and the Kaffir huts and the straggling fields high with corn and -maize, jarred upon his mood. He turned, and descending, struck across -the rank, sodden veldt, that stretched eastward in a terrible monotony -to the sky-line. There, at any rate, he could be alone, away from the -sights and sounds of his dreary toil. A broad gully, half filled with a -red, swollen stream, stopped his progress. Half a mile farther up was a -bridge. But he was tired and hot and sick at heart. A slab in the shade -of an overhanging edge of the ravine met his eye. He clambered down and -sat there, looking into the small swirling flood. - -A centipede crawled close by. He drew his knife from his belt, cut the -creature in two, and flicked the pieces into the water, which swept -them instantaneously out of sight. He looked at his knife that had so -speedily given death to the insect. Was he much better, more useful? -One gash, a leap into the stream, and he would be carried away into -eternity. Till yesterday his life had some meaning--the support of the -poor forlorn man just buried. Now, what was the good of his living? -There was no joy for himself, no service to one of God’s creatures. But -after digging his knife idly into the crumbling slab, he returned it to -his belt. - -Yet what he had dreaded with almost morbid heart-sinking these latter -months had come about. He was alone. Noakes had gone--passed away like -a shadow, as the burial service hath it. The phrase brought back to his -mind a tag from old days of scholarship--[Greek]--“man is the dream of -a shadow.” He mused upon the saying. Time was, he remembered, when he -had wondered at the strange Greek melancholy underlying even Pindar’s -gladness in outward things, thews and sinews and supple forms. Now -he understood. What sane man who had watched the world could escape -it--this overwhelming sense of the futility of things? To what ends -had Noakes’s life been lived? The ceaseless awful toil of grinding out -despicable literature at sweated wages; the begetting of a child to an -inheritance of misery in the world’s tragedy; the crowning futility of -his senseless exile--what purpose had it all served? Save for the pity -of it, could it be taken seriously? And he himself dangling his legs -over this gully? Verily, the dream of a shadow. - -The lines in which the passage occurred came into his head. He repeated -them aloud. Such reminiscences of former culture occasionally visited -him and smote him with their ironic incongruity. He broke into a -mirthless laugh. - -The westering sun had already touched the top of the far distant High -Veldt when he turned his steps homeward. - -Wilson was squirting tobacco juice over a gate and giving directions as -to the repairing of one of the sluices, that drained the land into the -gully, whence Joyce had come. - -“This damn thing will all go to glory soon,” he said. - -“We ought to get some pipes,” said Joyce. - -“And lay on gas and hot-water,” returned Wilson, sarcastically. “Where’s -the money to come from?” - -Joyce shrugged his shoulders and continued his way to the house. He did -not much care. Things were going badly. Well, things had gone badly with -him since he stepped aside from the paths of honest living. He could -expect nothing else. - -The sight of the rough bed, tenantless now for the first time for many -months, was inexpressibly cheerless. The indentations too of the coffin -still remained upon it. He smoothed them out mechanically. Then reaching -for a thick pile of foolscap that was on the shelf, he sat down with it -upon the bed. It was the MS. of the novel which Noakes had copied from -the yellow package-paper--all written in his beautiful round hand. He -had been a writing master in his youth and retained a professional pride -in penmanship. For months this copying had been all he could do. - -Joyce read here and there, at last became interested. The work was good. -And then for the first time he seriously contemplated mailing it to a -publisher. When the Kaffir came in later to help him prepare supper, he -had made up his mind. - -It was a gloomy book, dealing with the abject side of colonial pioneer -work--a tragedy of wasted lives and hopes foredoomed to disappointment. -A picture of wrecks and derelicts; men of broken fortunes, breaking -hearts, degraded lives; poor fools, penniless, craftless, who had come -hither like Noakes, allured by vague visions of El Dorado, to find no -place for them in this new rude land where unskilled labour belongs to -the natives, who defy competition. He called it “The Wasters.” Almost -unconsciously, his intellectual powers had returned to him whilst -writing it. The English was pure, the style vigorous and scholarly. And -the feeling--he had written it with his heart’s blood. Before he went to -sleep that night, he appended to it an alternative title, “The Dream of -a Shadow.” - -In the course of time the manuscript was despatched and Joyce settled -down to many months’ forgetfulness of it, and to humdrum loneliness and -labour. Time went quickly, for he took no heed of its flight, having -nothing to hope for. He tried to begin another book, but the stimulus -of Noakes’s appreciation was gone and he sank again into intellectual -apathy. In the long evenings he taught a Kaffir boy to read and write, -while Wilson boozed away the profits of the farm. At the best of times -there was little sympathy between the two men. Often mutual antipathy -manifested itself actively under a thin disguise. The farmer despised -Joyce for a broken-down gentleman unacquainted with any handicraft or -the principles of farming, and Joyce considered his partner a dull sot, -who was letting the farm go to rack and ruin. Still, a habit of life is -a strange help in living. Often Joyce told himself that he must sell -out and try his luck elsewhere. But there was no particular reason for -bringing matters to a crisis on one day more than on another. So the -months wore on. - -The work of the harvest knocked him up. He got ague and lay in bed for -three weeks. Wilson cursed the day he ever took him into the place; and -had it not been for the humaneness of their next neighbour, who farmed -more healthy ground some forty miles away, towards the High Veldt, -and carried Joyce off thither one day in an ox-waggon, he might have -speedily followed Noakes. He returned to the farm cured but terribly -gaunt. The lines had deepened in his face, over which the beard grew -straggling, accentuating the hollows of his cheeks. His hands had -whitened and thinned during his illness. Wilson sniffed contemptuously -at them and looked at his own huge glazed and freckled paw. - -Winter set in. There was plenty to do--ricks to thatch, buildings -to repair, fields to irrigate. Joyce did not spare himself. Work, if -joyless, was at least an anodyne. It brought on prostrating fatigue, -which in its turn brought long heavy hours of sleep. In that way it was -as good as adulterated whisky. - -Some men thrive physically and morally in the wilds. The incessant -conflict with the elemental forces of nature braces nerves and -strengthens the will. And these are exclusive of such as find -satisfaction of primitive instincts only in uncivilised lands--such as -are a reversion to the savage type, and, in the forest or the -desert, live a life truer to their natures than amid the decencies of -civilisation. But the men who thrive are physically and morally adapted -to the struggle--men of energy, ambition, daring, who see in it a means -towards the yet ungained or forfeited place in civilisation. The pioneer -work of new colonies is done by them, and they generally gain their -reward. Joyce had found all the successful men in South Africa belonging -to this type. He had looked at Noakes and himself and groaned inwardly. -They were doomed to perish, it seemed, by natural selection. In the -case of Noakes the foreboding had been fulfilled. Would it be so with -himself? His unfitness for his environment weighed heavier day by day -on his mind: all the more since the loss of the companionship that had -cheered him in dark hours. A habit of brooding silence fell upon him. He -spoke as little as in those awful years of prison. And as his life grew -lonelier and more self-centred, softer memories faded, and those chiefly -remained that had branded themselves in his brain. The gaol came back to -his dreams. Once, in the shed where he had taken up his abode since the -beginning of spring, he awoke in a sweating terror. The disposition -of his bed as regards the window and the height of the latter from the -ground corresponded with the arrangements of his cell. The nightmare -held him paralysed. And this in some form or the other repeated itself -at intervals, so that he was forced to rearrange his room. - -He had shifted his quarters owing to the arrival of a fat Boer woman who -claimed connubial relations with Wilson. The suggestion had proceeded -from himself from motives of delicacy and good-nature. At first he had -welcomed her in spite of unprepossessing manners and appearance, and -tried to win her esteem by little acts of civility. But the lady drank; -and one day Wilson, finding her alone in Joyce’s hut, whither she had -come to steal whisky, grew unreasonably jealous and blacked both her -eyes. After which occurrence Joyce and she let each other severely -alone. He relapsed into his sombre apathy. - -The life was killing him, brutalizing him. He lost even interest in the -Kaffir boy’s education, which had not been without its light side -of amusement. Hour after hour he would sit, on summer nights, on the -doorstep of his shed, pipe in mouth, elbows on knees, thinking of -nothing, his mind a dull blank. Now and then he thought of Yvonne, but -only in a vague, far-off way. He never wrote or felt urged to write. -What was the good? And he had received no letter from Yvonne since -the one that had accompanied her line to Noakes. Once, several months -afterwards, one of the ox-waggons from the town had been overturned in -a swollen river, and many stores including the mail had been swept away. -The driver told him there had been letters for him. Possibly one from -Yvonne. At the time he regretted it, but his morbid indifferentism had -already begun to darken his mind. He laid conjecture dully aside. The -weeks and months passed and, with all his other longings for sweeter -things, the desire for her letters died. And so the last strand wore -through of the last thread that bound him to England. - -As for the novel, he had long since ceased to concern himself about its -fate. Probably it had been lost in transit, either going or returning. -The yellow sheets on which he had written the first draft lay on the -mud floor in the corner of his hut and rotted and grew mildewed with the -damp. - -At last, one day, like a bolt from the blue, came the publishers’ -letter, offering alternative terms for the book, the usual royalty the -firm paid to unknown authors, or eighty pounds down for the copyright, -to be paid on publication. It aroused him, with a shock, from his -torpor. That night he could not sleep. He got up and wandered about the -veldt through the dewy grasses, under the bright African starlight, his -veins alive with a new excitement. Perhaps he had found a vocation--one -to bring him money, congenial work, the right at last to take his -forfeited place in a civilised land. He returned to the house at -daybreak, worn out with fatigue, but throbbing with wild schemes for the -future. And the following evening, as soon as the toil of the day was -over, he lit his small, smoking lamp, and sat down in feverish haste to -begin a new story, the scheme of which he had half-heartedly worked out -soon after Noakes’s death. The copyright of the other he sold for the -eighty pounds. - -And then gradually the longing for England grew more insistent, until at -last it took the form of a settled determination. One day he saddled -a rough farm-pony and rode to the good Samaritan who had taken him in -during his illness. The farmer, a hard-headed Scotchman, shook his head -dubiously when Joyce unfolded his plan. - -“Stick to the farm and buy Wilson out. You ’ll mak’ more money, and then -you can retire in a few years.” - -“The profits are nearly swallowed up in improvements and transit,” said -Joyce. “It is a bare subsistence.” - -“That’s because you don’t go the right way to work. If I had the land, -I’d make it pay soon enough.” - -“You are a practical farmer, and I am not,” said Joyce. “Even if I -desired to gain experience, it is precious little I could gain with -Wilson--and I long for home again.” - -“That’s all very well--but if you fail with your writing? I have heard -it is a precarious trade.” - -“I’m used to failure,” replied Joyce. “That’s what I came into the world -for. You can’t say that I am a conspicuous success as a colonist.” - -“Sell out from Wilson, and come here,” said the farmer, “on the metayer -system. I will put you up to a few things.” - -Joyce looked round him; they were sitting on the verandah of the -nicely-built house. Everything had the trim appearance of scientific -English farming--the outbuildings solid and clean, the fields high with -grain, the dams in perfect repair, the yard spick and span. A flower -garden lay beneath him. A well-trimmed vine covered the lattice-work -of the verandah. All was a striking contrast to his own ramshackle, -neglected surroundings. A month ago he would have leaped at the offer. -But now he declined it. He distrusted himself, his power of content. If -he once put his hand to the plough, he would not be able to draw back. -And he held ploughs in cordial detestation. He rode back, having thanked -his friend and obtained his consent to act as arbiter, if need were, -between Wilson and himself. - -A day or two later, he took advantage of a sober and quasi-friendly -moment, to announce his intention to Wilson, who listened to him -stolidly. - -“I hope my sudden withdrawal won’t cause you inconvenience,” said he, -politely. “If it does--” - -“My good friend,” replied Wilson, “I am only too damn glad to get rid of -you.” - -“Then if you ’ll give me a lump sum down for my share, and lend me -a team, I ’ll leave the infernal place this afternoon,” said Joyce, -nettled. - -Wilson went into the house and came out with a roll of greasy notes. - -“There,” he said, “will that satisfy you? I ’ve been wanting to part -company for a long time, and I ’ve kept ’em by me.” - -Joyce counted the notes, and to his surprise found the sum exceeded that -which he himself calculated to be his due. After half an hour’s joint -examination of their roughly-kept accounts, he found that Wilson was -right. - -“You are an honest man,” he said with a smile. “It is a pity you have so -many other failings.” - -“I can keep myself out of quod, at any rate,” replied Wilson, “which is -more than some people can say.” - -The retort was like a blow in the face. Joyce staggered under it. - -“Another time don’t be so devilish smart with your tongue,” said Wilson. -“I ain’t the one to cast a man’s misfortunes in his teeth, but, all the -same, it’s best for a man like you to lie low.” - -“What the devil are you talking of?” said Joyce, fiercely. - -“What’s the good of bluff? You’ve given yourself away heaps of times.” - -“I insist upon knowing what you mean,” said Joyce. - -How could this man have learned his history? Noakes could not have -betrayed him. For the honour of his dead comrade he could not let the -matter drop. Wilson tilted back his chair and squirted a stream of -tobacco-juice over the floor, which aroused the indignation of the Boer -woman, who was sitting on some sacks near the door, peeling potatoes. -Her lord was a beastly Englander, and a great many other undesirable -things. Wilson, who had not yet laced his heavy boots, took one off to -throw at her head, but Joyce caught his arm. - -“What a brute you are!” he said angrily. - -Wilson broke into a laugh. - -“You’d better thank Mr. Joyce for saving your beauty from being -damaged,” he said, pulling on the boot again. - -“Now,” said Joyce, as soon as domestic peace was restored, “tell me what -you meant just now.” - -Wilson rose, went to the door and ostentatiously spat over the Boer -woman’s head; then he turned round to Joyce:-- - -“Look here,” he said, “I have my hands full enough of quarrelling as it -is. You ’d better trek off with that waggon and a couple of niggers. -And I ’ll give you a piece of advice. When next you shake down alongside -of a man to sleep, just keep from blabbing all your private affairs to -him. And that’s why I wanted to be shut of you. We can do without your -kind hereabouts. No wonder you were surprised to find me honest.” - -“I suppose I must beg your pardon,” said Joyce humiliated. “I had no -right to speak to you as I did.” - -“If you had held your tongue, I should have held mine, as I have done -for the last year and a half,” replied Wilson. - -A few hours later Joyce stood up in the ox-waggon and looked back at the -detested place that had so long been his home. It was just a speck in -the midst of the cheerless plain under the irregular mound, the _kopje_, -behind which poor Noakes lay buried. He drew an envelope from his pocket -and looked at the blade of grass he had picked from the grave. Ashamed -of his sentimentality, he twirled it between his fingers, undecided -whether to throw it away or not. He ended by replacing it in his pocket. -After all, it symbolised a pure, tender feeling, and he was not carrying -away with him too many. - -He smoked in silence through the night, under the clear stars. He was -sore at heart, deeply humiliated. The buoyancy of new hopes which his -little literary success had occasioned during the last few weeks, had -gone. The sense of the ineffaceable stain overpowered him. It was a -fatality. Go where he would, he could not hide it from the knowledge of -men. In his own land, accusing fingers pointed to it at street corners. -In the uttermost ends of the earth he himself proclaimed it aloud. - -To have lived for months and months under the silent contempt of this -drunken woman-beating brute, to have been watched narrowly in all his -business dealings--as he knew, from Wilson’s nature, must have been the -case--to have been forced to stand helpless, degraded before this sot, -while he vaunted his one virtue, honesty--it was gall and wormwood and -all things bitter. - -The Southern Cross flashed down from the myriad stars in its startling -splendour. The moon shone bright over the vast silent plain, limitless, -broken only by the undulating mounds and the infinitely stretching -clumps of karroo bushes. The camp-fire, just replenished with damp twigs -and shrubs, burned sulkily and the smoke ascended in spirals into the -clear air. The hooded waggon depended helplessly on its shafts. The -Kaffirs, wrapped in blankets, slept beneath. The oxen, outspanned some -distance off, chewed the cud in sharp, rhythmic munches. The universe -was still--awfully still. All gave the sense of the littleness of man -and the immensity of space. - -In a strange, imperious need of expansion, Joyce threw himself down on -the wet earth and clutched the grasses and cried aloud:-- - -“Oh, God! I have suffered enough for my sin. Take this stain and -degradation from my soul.” - -After a while he arose, ashamed of his weakness, the futility of his -appeal. Relighting his pipe, he clambered into the waggon, and sitting -on the floor against the back, watched the portion of starry sky framed -by the hood, until the first streaks of dawn announced the hour for -inspanning the oxen again and continuing his journey. - - - - -CHAPTER XV--KNIGHT-ERRANT - -For all the change about him and within him, the hand of time might -have been put back four years, and the tender might have been nearing -the outward bound ship, instead of the Southampton landing-stage. It was -the same raw mizzling rain as when he had crossed the harbour four years -before; the same wet, shivering crowd of second-class passengers, with -the water streaming from waterproofs, umbrellas and hand luggage on -to the sloppy deck. In his heart was the same mingling of anxiety and -apathy, the same ineradicable sense of pariahdom. He had thought -that the sight of England once more would have brought him a throb of -gladness. It only intensified his depressing fears for the future. - -The circumstances reproduced themselves with startling actuality. One of -the men in charge of the tender had a great ugly seam across his face. -Joyce remembered having seen him before, in just the same attitude, with -a coil of rope in his hand. Had he not awakened from a minute’s dream -that had covered an illusory four years of his life? He looked around, -almost expecting to see Noakes, in his ridiculous curly silk hat and old -frieze overcoat. - -The tender came alongside the landing-stage, and he stepped ashore with -the dripping crowd. The flurry of the Custom House and the transport of -his meagre baggage to the railway station broke the illusion. He was in -England at last, and it seemed a strange country. During the journey to -London, he had the companionship of some of his fellow-travellers. At -Waterloo they parted. Then he felt terribly lonely. - -“Cab, sir?” asked a porter. - -He was standing over his luggage, somewhat lost amid the bustle and -tumult of the station. It was the late afternoon, and the platforms were -hurrying with suburban passengers. The incessant movement through -the blue glare of the electric light dazed his unaccustomed eyes. He -declined the porter’s offer. Cabs were a luxury he could ill afford. -Besides, one meagre Gladstone bag contained his whole possessions, and -he could easily carry it. Leaving the station, he took an omnibus for -Victoria, with the idea of seeking his old Pimlico lodgings. If he could -not be taken in there, it would not be difficult to find a room in the -neighbourhood. Still confused by the sudden transition to the midst -of the roar of London, he peered through the glass sides at the wet -pavements glistening in the gaslight, the shop fronts, the eternal -hurrying by of vague forms, and the dash past of vehicles. From -Westminster Bridge the face of Big Ben greeted him. He stared at it -stupidly as long as he could see it. The light on the Clock Tower -announced that the House was sitting. It was all curiously familiar, and -yet he felt like an alien. There was not a soul in London to welcome -his home-coming. His heart sank with the sense of loneliness. He was as -infinitesimal and as isolated a unit in this seething, swarming ant-hill -of humanity as amid the starry solitudes of the African veldt. - -As chance willed it, he found the house in Pimlico in the same hands -as before, and his old room in the attics vacant. Nothing had altered, -except that it looked smaller and four years shabbier. The same -discoloured blind hung before the window, the same fly-blown texts -adorned the walls. The same acrid smell of dust and ashes and earth and -the unaired end of all human things met his nostrils. When he went -to sleep that night, it seemed incredible that four years should have -passed since he had last lain there. - -In a day or two the strangeness wore off. London is in a Londoner’s -blood. No matter how long his exile, life there comes to him as -naturally as swimming does to a swimmer after years of non-practice. He -remembered how he had yearned for its sights and sounds and stimulating -movement. Now they were his again, and he took a measure of content. His -first care was to provide himself with some clothes; his next, to visit -the publishers. A cordial reception gratified him. The book was bound -to have some success. The manuscript was in the printer’s -hands. Publication was announced for the spring. Joyce went home -lighter-hearted after the interview. It was delightful to be treated -as an intellectual man once more. His prospects too were not so very -gloomy. With the little capital he had brought back from South Africa -and the £80 for his book, he saw himself saved from starvation for two -years, if he lived very, very humbly on a little over a pound a week. -Meanwhile he could earn something by occasional odds and ends of -writing, and also complete his second novel. He arranged his scheme -of life as he walked along. He would leave his lodging punctually at a -certain hour after breakfast, walk to the British Museum, write all day -in the Reading Room, dine, walk home, and write or read in the evenings -until it was time for bed. - -Thus, as ever, his sensitive nature reflected the little ray of hope. -But, as usual, it was soon eclipsed by the darkening shadow in his -soul, although he set to work with dogged determination. The prospect of -life-long solitude appalled him. It was the terrible part of his -never-ending punishment. To a nature like his, companionship and -sympathy are essentials of development. Without them it withers like a -parched plant And yet he dreaded making new acquaintances, on account of -the shame that would inevitably follow if his identity and history -leaked out He accepted loneliness as his portion. There were only two -people in England whom, knowing his story, he could trust to shake him -by the hand--Yvonne and the actor McKay. The latter was necessarily lost -in the obscurities of his roving profession. Yvonne was married to his -cousin, moving in the sphere to which beyond all others he was -rigorously denied access. One day, however, when the memory of her sweet -kind face came back to him, and he yearned for its bright sympathy, he -wrote to her at Fulminster. - -He felt somewhat cheered after he had despatched the letter. And as -comfortings often come in pairs, he was further cheered by seeing in -an evening paper which he bought from a stand near the pillar-box, -a general article he had sent up two or three days before. It was an -encouraging beginning. At any rate, London streets were more stimulating -to his intellectual powers than the dull, deadening life of the African -farm. He made many good resolutions during these first days in London. -He would win back his lost scholarship, begin to form a humble library. -On his way home he bought out of a fourpenny box an old copy of Plato’s -“Republic.” He sat up half the night reading it. - -To his surprise and disappointment, instead of a letter coming from -Yvonne, his own was returned through the Dead Letter Office. “Left -Fulminster two years ago--present address unknown.” He was puzzled. At -the Museum he consulted the Clergy List for the year. According to -it, Canon Chisely was still Rector of Fulminster. What had happened to -Yvonne? - -“It must be some silly mistake,” he said to himself. He wrote again; but -with the same result. He thought of writing to Everard, but reflected -that he too must be ignorant of Yvonne’s address; also that in any case, -perhaps, he would disregard his letter. There was some mystery. Both -his affection for Yvonne and the novelty of a curiosity outside himself -spurred his interest. A day or two afterwards, he noticed on a hoarding -an advertisement of cheap excursion trains to the great provincial town -next to Fulminster. The journey would be very inexpensive. Why should -he not go down and pick up what information he could? The idea of the -little excitement pleased him. - -He started the next morning at a very early hour, and arrived at -Fulminster about noon. The place was well known to him. He had often -visited his cousin in days gone by. - -Many bitter-sweet associations crowded upon him as he walked up from the -station through the streets. - -He went on, without any definite idea as to his course of action. Almost -mechanically he bent his steps toward the old abbey, whose spire rose -above the housetops, at the end of the High Street. Soon the great mass -towered above him. He stood for a while looking upwards at the wealth -of tracery, and crocket, and pinnacle, feeling its beauty, and then -wandered idly round. At last his eye fell upon a notice on the board by -the vestry door. It was signed “J. Abdy, Rector”; other notices bore the -same signature. This was a new surprise. Wondering what had occurred, he -left the Abbey Close and proceeded round the familiar path to the front -door of the Rectory. He would take the bull by the horns. - -“Is the Rector in?” he asked the servant who opened to him. - -“Yes, sir.” - -“Could I see him for a moment?” - -“What name, sir?” - -“Chisely,” said Joyce, instinctively, then he coloured. It was odd that -he should have been taken off his guard. - -The servant showed him into the library. A glance proved that Everard -no longer inhabited it. No trace of the dilettante was visible in its -homely comfort. Presently the door opened, and the Rector, a kindly -grey-bearded man, entered the room. Joyce made his apology for -intrusion. - -“I came down expecting to find Canon Chisely. I am a distant relation of -his, not long come from abroad.” - -“I fear you have come on a vain errand,” said the Rector with a smile. -“He took over his diocese in New Zealand some months ago.” - -“His diocese?” repeated Joyce. - -“Dear me, have n’t you heard? Canon Chisely accepted the bishopric of -Taroofa at the beginning of the year.” - -“How very extraordinary!” said Joyce, nonplussed. But the other took his -remark literally. - -“Yes, it is singular. Most people think he has thrown himself away. -A very able man, you know--quite young. He might have had an English -bishopric if he had waited.” - -“And Mrs. Chisely?” asked Joyce, interrogatively. - -The Rector raised a deprecative hand. - -“That’s where the whole trouble came in, apparently. It weighed on his -mind--a very proud man. He took the first chance that offered.” - -“Pardon my questioning you,” said Joyce, “but I am quite in the dark as -to what you are referring to. The last letter, two years back, that I -received from Mrs. Chisely was dated from here. She was happily married -and all that. I am an old friend of hers. What has happened?” - -“I can only repeat the gossip, Mr. Chisely. It seems that just about -then some misfortune arose--a first husband of Mrs. Chisely’s, supposed -dead, turned up, and so there was a separation.” - -“And where is Mrs. Chisely now?” - -“That’s more than I can say. A lady--a great friend of mine--also I -believe a connexion of your own--” - -“Mrs. Winstanley?” - -“The same. I see you know her. She may be able to inform you. I believe -she has said authoritatively that the late Mrs. Chisely went back to her -former husband.” - -“That I can’t believe,” said Joyce, indignantly. - -“I can only give you what I hear,” said the Rector, placidly. “I know -Bishop Chisely went to Paris, where they were supposed to be, before -starting for New Zealand. But Mrs. Winstanley will tell you.” - -“I think I know enough,” said Joyce, hurriedly, and rising from his -chair. “I am greatly indebted to you for your kindness, Mr. Abdy.” - -“Can I offer you some lunch? It will be on the table in a moment.” - -Joyce declined, pleaded a train. He would have liked to sit with this -kind gossipy old man, but he could not accept such hospitality under -false pretences. Perhaps it was well that he acted thus, for later in -the afternoon the Rector described his visitor to Mrs. Winstanley. She -listened for some time, and at last broke out:-- - -“Why, my dear Mr. Abdy, it could have been no one else than the convict -cousin! He must have come to get money out of Everard.” - -“Dear me,” said Mr. Abdy, arresting his hand in a downward stroke of his -beard. “Who would have thought it? He seemed such a gentlemanly fellow. -And I asked him to lunch!” - -“I ’ll write and put the dear Bishop on his guard,” said Mr. Winstanley, -virtuously. - -Meanwhile, Joyce went away full of wonder and pity. It was an amazing -story. Poor Yvonne! He could not believe that she had returned to -the scamp of a first husband. The thought was repulsive. At any rate -communication between Everard and Yvonne seemed to have been cut off. He -was not very sorry for Everard. - -“A little trouble will do him good,” he muttered to himself. And he -found a certain grim amusement in the contemplation of the chastened -Bishop, his cousin. But he felt a great concern for poor fragile little -Yvonne cast adrift again upon the world. “I will find out what has -become of her, at any rate,” he said, digging his stick into the road. - -The natural course was to write to Miss Geraldine Vicary, whose address -he fortunately remembered. If she had lost count of Yvonne, he would -set to work to find her some other way. He felt as eager now to recover -Yvonne’s friendship as he had been apathetic before. To lose no time, -while waiting for the early return excursion train, he went into a -post-office and wrote and despatched his letter. - -The following morning he resumed his newly schemed out life of literary -work. Three days passed and no reply came from Miss Vicary. On the -fourth morning he received a black-edged envelope bearing the Swansea -postmark. He opened it and read:-- - - Dear Sir,--Your letter to Miss Geraldine Vicary was, - according to instructions, forwarded to me. I regret to - inform you that my poor sister died three weeks ago, of - diphtheria. She caught the disease whilst nursing the lady - concerning whom, I believe, you inquire. Madame Latour had - been living with her for the past two years. Shortly after - my poor sister’s death, Madame Latour was removed to St. - Mary’s Hospital, where, as far as I know, she still lies - very ill. - - Trusting this sad information may be of service to you, - - I am yours faithfully, - - Henrietta Dasent. - - -Joyce hurried through his dressing, bolted his breakfast, and rushed -out into the street, with one idea in his head. Yvonne alone and -uncared for, dying in a London hospital--it was incredible. The apparent -heartlessness of the woman who wrote, her calm disclaimer of all -interest in her dead sister’s dying friend, made his blood boil. A -London hospital--an open common ward, with medical students chattering -round--it was a cruel place for the sweet delicate woman he remembered -as Yvonne. Where were all her friends? - -In the dismay, excitement, and indignation of the moment, he forgot his -poverty, and jumped into the first hansom-cab he saw. - -“St. Mary’s Hospital, quick!” - -And the cabman, thinking it a matter of life and death, went at a -breakneck pace. - - - - -CHAPTER XVI--LA CIGALE - -Seeing Yvonne at that time of the morning was out of the question. But -he penetrated to the landing outside the ward and had a few words with -the sister in charge. She was a fresh, pleasant-faced woman, who, having -fallen in love with Yvonne, felt kindly disposed toward her friends. - -Madame Latour was slowly recovering. One of the most lingering of the -sequelae of diphtheria, diphtheritic paralysis, had set in. It was her -larynx and left arm that were affected. At present she was suffering -from general weakness. It would be some time yet before she could be -moved. - -“Do you think I could see her?” asked Joyce--“that is to say, if she -would care about it.” - -“Certainly,” replied the sister. “It would probably do her good. To-day -is a visiting day--after two o’clock.” - -“I wonder whether she would like it,” said Joyce, questioningly. - -“I will take her a message,” said the sister. - -He scribbled a few words on a scrap of paper and handed it to her. She -retired and presently returned, smiling. - -“She will be delighted. I have not seen her look like that since she -has been here. ‘Tell him it will be a joy to see him.’ Those were her -words.” - -Joyce thanked her warmly, rased his hat, and departed. It was a fine -crisp morning. The message seemed to bring a breath of something sweet -into the air. He walked along almost buoyantly in spite of the sad -plight of Yvonne. The appalling weight of loneliness was lifted from his -shoulders. The sight of him would be a joy to one living creature. It -was a new conception, and it winged his feet. - -***** - -On the stroke of two the great doors of the ward opened, and he entered -with a group of visitors, chiefly women of the poorer classes, some -carrying babies. It was bewildering at first--the long double row of -beds, each with its pale, wistful woman’s face. Some of the patients -were sitting up, with shawls or wraps around them; the greater number -lay back on their pillows, turning eyes of languid interest towards the -visitors. Two beds curtained round broke the uniformity of the two white -lines of bedsteads. At the end of the ward, a great open fireplace, -with glowing blocks of coal, struck a note of cheerfulness in the grey -November light, that streamed through the series of high windows. Joyce -felt a man’s shyness in walking among these strange sick women, and -looked helplessly down the ward from the doorway, to try to discover -Yvonne. The sister came to his help from a neighbouring bedside. - -“At the very end. The last bed on the left.” - -Joyce walked down the druggetted aisle, and as soon as he saw her and -knew himself to be recognised, he quickened his pace. - -There she was, half sitting in the bed, propped up by pillows, her wavy -dark hair like a nimbus around her pale face. In honour of the visit she -had done up her hair, with infinite difficulty, poor child, and put on -a pretty white dressing-jacket tied with knots of crimson ribbon. His -heart was smitten with pity. She was so changed, so wasted. Her delicate -features were pinched, her childlike lips blanched. Only the old -Yvonne’s eyes remained--the great, pathetic, winning dark eyes. They -gave him glad and grateful welcome. - -“Yvonne.” - -It was all he could find in his head to say as he pressed her little -thin hand. - -“How good of you to come to see me,” she said. - -Joyce was unprepared. It was not Yvonne’s voice--once as sweet in speech -as in singing; but a toneless, distressed sound devoid of quality, like -that of a cracked silver bell. He could not conceal the shadow of dismay -on his face. She was quick to note it. - -“I am afraid I speak like a wicked old raven,” she said with a smile; -“but you mustn’t mind.” - -“I can’t tell you how grieved I am to see you like this,” he said, -sitting down by the bedside. “You must have been very ill. Poor Yvonne.” - -“Yes. Awfully ill. You would have been quite sorry to see how ill I was. -Do you mind moving your chair further down, so that I can look at you? -I can’t turn my head, you know. Is n’t it silly not to be able to turn -one’s head?” - -“You must make haste and get well,” he said, after he had complied with -her request “I’m afraid I can’t,” she said, looking at him wistfully. -“They all say it’s going to be a long, long business. But I want to know -how you came here--to England, I mean,” she added more brightly, after -a pause. “It was such a startling surprise when Sister brought me your -note this morning. Why have you left Africa? I ’ve been dying to know all -day.” - -Joyce sketched rapidly the events that had led him back--the death of -Noakes, the year of wretched apathy, the purchase of his book by the -publishers, the craving for civilisation. - -“So I sold out and came home,” he concluded. “I have been back a -fortnight.” - -“You must have been very sad at losing your friend,” said Yvonne. “Death -is an awful, awful thing. Have you ever thought of it? A person is -living and feeling, like you and me, to-day--and to-morrow--gone--out of -the world--for ever and ever.” - -Her voice sank to a whisper and she looked at him out of great, -awe-stricken eyes. - -“I have lost my dear friend too--just lately. Did you know?” - -“Yes,” he replied gently. “I wrote to her for your address and her -sister answered the letter, telling me of her death.” - -“Wasn’t it terrible? And she so bright and brave and strong. I never -loved anybody as I loved her. It was only after she was buried that I -knew--and then I wished I had died instead--I who am no good to any one -at all. And I am alive. Isn’t it an awful mystery?” - -The man’s eyes fell for a moment beneath the intense, child-like -earnestness of hers. Silence fell upon them. He stretched out his arm -and took her hand that rested outside the coverlet. A man is often -instinctively driven to express his sympathy by touch, where a woman -would find words. - -After a while she withdrew her hand gently, as if to break the current -of thoughts. - -“I was wondering why you looked different,” she said. “You have grown a -beard.” - -“Yes,” he said, with a sudden laugh--the transition was so abrupt. “I -was too slack to shave in South Africa. Don’t you like it?” - -“Oh, not at all. It spoils you.” - -“I will cut it off at once.” - -“Not just to please me?” - -“Just to please you. It will be a new sensation.” - -“To have it off?” - -“No--to please you, Yvonne.” - -Her eyes smiled gratefully at him. - -“Tell me when I must go,” he said, after a while. “I must n’t tire you. -And you may have other visitors.” - -“Don’t go yet. No one else will come.” - -“How do you know?” - -“You are the only person who has been to see me since I was brought -here,” she replied sadly. - -Joyce looked at her for a moment incredulously. - -“Do you mean to say you have been quite alone here, among strangers, all -these weeks?” - -“Yes,” she said. “But Sister is kind to me, and they allow me all sorts -of little indulgences.” - -“But you should be among loving friends, Yvonne,” said Joyce. - -“I have so few. And I have told no one that I am here. I couldn’t. -Besides, whom could I tell?” - -Joyce could not understand. It was so strange for Yvonne to be -friendless. Delicacy forbade him to question further. - -“I have had a lot of trouble, you know,” she said. “It has been nearly -all trouble for over two years. I wrote and told you what had happened. -Then I went to live with Geraldine Vicary, and began to sing again. But -I was always being laid up with my throat and I never knew whether I -could fulfil an engagement when I made it--so I didn’t get on as I used -to. People won’t employ you if they fear you may have to throw them over -at the last moment, will they? And Geraldine used to keep me in a great -deal, for fear I should hurt my voice. But, you see, I had to make some -money. So I went out and sang just before this illness, when I ought -not, and my throat became inflamed and I caught another cold, and it got -worse and worse until diphtheria came on. Then poor Dina caught it and -there was no one to nurse me. You could n’t expect her sister, who did -n’t know me, to do much, could you? And then Dina was just giving up her -flat, and of course I couldn’t keep it on--so the doctor thought I had -better come here. ‘J’y suis, j’y reste. It is not a gay little story, is -it?” - -“It is a heart-rending story altogether,” said Joyce, with a concerned -puckering of the forehead. “I wish I could do something to brighten you, -Yvonne.” - -“You have done so,” she said with a smile, “by coming to see me. How -good of you to remember--and, you know, by your not writing, I thought -you had quite forgotten.” - -“Forgive me, Yvonne--a kind of dull brutishness came over me--I -couldn’t.” - -“And I could n’t either, after the one I wrote--about my trouble--at -Fulminster. You never answered it, and I thought--It was n’t because you -despised me, was it?” - -“I did n’t get the letter, Yvonne,” he said, unable to disregard this -second reference as he had done the first. “It must have been the one I -heard was lost. I will explain afterwards. I thought you were happy at -Fulminster--so why should I inflict my eternal grumblings on you?” - -“Then don’t you know what has happened?” asked Yvonne, with wider eyes -and a little quiver of the lip. - -“I learned it a few days ago. I went to Fulminster to find you, as my -letters were returned to me through the Post Office. I was determined to -discover you, but I never dreamed of finding you here. I came as soon I -got the news this morning.” - -“I have one friend left,” said Yvonne. - -“And you shall always have him, if you will,” said Joyce. “You are the -only one he has.” - -“Poor fellow,” said Yvonne. - -Though the sweet voice was broken and hard, there was the same tender -pity in the words as when she had uttered them four years back, on their -first re-meeting. - -“We are two lonesome bodies, are n’t we?” she added. - -“We ’ll do our best to comfort each other,” said Joyce. - -The visiting hour was nearly at an end, and the ward was growing silent -again. The sister came down the aisle and stood by Yvonne’s bed and -smoothed her pillows. - -“You have had quite enough talking for one day,” she said pleasantly. -“It has given you quite a colour--but we mustn’t overdo it.” - -Joyce rose to take his leave. - -“I may come again, the next time?” he asked. - -“Would you?” said Yvonne, with an eager look. - -“I would come to-morrow--every day, if they would let me,” he said with -conviction. - -He shook hands with her and walked away. At the end of the ward he -turned, looked back and saw the mass of black against the white pillow -and the specks of crimson that showed Yvonne. He hated leaving her among -strangers and the rough comforts of an open ward in a hospital. An -odd feeling of personal responsibility was mingled with his resentment -against the freaks of fortune--an irrational sense of mean-spiritedness -in letting her lie there. - -He went back to his work, cheered and strengthened within; but his -outlook on life was darkened by one more shadow of the inexorable -cruelty of fate. That he should have suffered--well and good. It was -a penalty he was paying. But Yvonne, the sweetest, innocentest soul -alive--why should her head be brought low? And thus the pages that he -wrote grew darker by the shadow. - -A fortnight passed, during which he saw her as often as the visiting -hours allowed. He brought her whatever little trifles he could afford, -and she accepted them with the eager gratification of a child. There was -a second-hand bookshop he had come across during his late wanderings, -in Upper Street, Islington, which had a speciality in cheap, tattered -French novels. Thither he tramped one day in order to gratify a desire -she had expressed, and spent an hour turning over the stock. It seemed -hard not to be able to go into a West End shop and order the newest -Paris fiction; but a poor devil must do as best he can and be cheerful. -Yvonne’s delight repaid him for wounded pride. She dipped into them all, -while he was there, turning to the last page to see how they ended. And -then the rakish air their soiled yellow covers gave to the bed, as they -sprawled upon it, amused them both. - -They talked of many things. Yvonne interested herself in the patients -and gossiped about their progress and their eccentricities. Often her -artless candour and innate love of laughter gave him details unfit -perhaps for ears masculine. Then she would catch herself up, while a -faint tinge of colour came into her cheek, and with still smiling eyes, -say: - -“I always forget that you’re a man. You ought to remind me.” - -Joyce, for his part, strove to amuse her with whatever gleams of -brightness he could find in his colonial adventures. Noakes grew to -be the hero of an Arthurian cycle. As for the fat Boer woman, he was -surprised at the amount of grim humour he extracted from her doings. - -“I hope you are going to put it in a book,” Yvonne would say, with her -little air of wisdom. “You must n’t waste it all upon me.” - -And Joyce, by thus disintegrating incidents from his confused mass of -impressions, found the talks of material benefit as well as a delight. -For a delight they were; the more so, because Yvonne’s gladness at his -visits was so obviously genuine and spontaneous. She told him that she -counted the hours between them. And Yvonne scarcely exaggerated. His -visits were bright spots in a sorrowful, fear-haunted time. When he -came, she summoned up all her strength and courage so as to make the -hour pass pleasantly. Men do not like crying, complaining women, thought -poor Yvonne. Unless she was bright for him, he might grow tired of -coming, and then she would be lonelier than before. So Yvonne told him -little of the anxieties that lay like a dead weight upon her poor little -soul and kept her awake at nights, amid the moans of the sleeping women, -that sounded faint and ghostly in the dim ward. - -Her patient acceptance of her lot won Joyce’s admiration. But of her -real position he had no idea. The gentleman in him that had survived -his shame and degradation forbade him to pry into her private affairs. -Besides, he took it for granted that when she recovered, she would live -by herself again, in the old way, and that her drawing-room would be -a haven of rest to him for indefinite years. The question of nursing -alone, he thought, and her incomprehensible friendlessness, had brought -her to the hospital. He longed for her to leave it. - -One day, however, he found her lying down in bed, her hair in dark loose -masses over the pillow, her face turned away towards the sister who was -sitting by her side. The latter rose on seeing him, and hurried forward -to meet him in the aisle. - -“Be as kind as you can to her,” she said; “she is in great trouble -to-day, poor little thing.” - -“What is the matter?” asked Joyce, anxiously. - -“Let her speak for herself. I was to send you away when you came. She -was not fit to see you, she said. But I am sure it will comfort her to -talk to a friend.” - -The sister moved away, and Joyce approached Yvonne’s bedside with quick -steps. Something serious must have happened. - -Yvonne rased a wan, desolate face and eyes heavy with crying, and put -out her hand timidly from beneath the bedclothes. He retained it, as he -sat down upon the chair just vacated by the sister. The few little -cakes he had brought her he placed on the stand near by. She looked too -woe-begone for cakes. - -“I have come in spite of your message,” he said. “Why did you want to -send me away?” - -“I am too miserable,” murmured Yvonne, in her broken voice. - -“What has happened to make you miserable?” he asked very softly. “Tell -me, if it is anything I can hear.” - -“It’s my voice that has gone,” cried Yvonne in a sob. “They told me this -morning--the doctor brought a throat specialist--I shall never be able -to sing again--never.” - -Before this sudden calamity the man was powerless for comfort. - -“My poor little woman!” he said. - -“It is worse than losing a limb,” moaned Yvonne. “I have been dreading -it--hoping against hope all along. I wished I had died instead of Dina. -I wish I could die now.” The tears came again. She drew away her hand -and dabbed her eyes with a miserable little wet rag of a handkerchief. - -“Don’t,” said Joyce, helplessly. “If you give way you will make yourself -worse. They may be mistaken. Perhaps it will come again after a year or -two.” - -He strove to cheer her, brought forward all the arguments he could think -of, all the tender phrases his unaccustomed mind could suggest. At last -the tears ceased for a time. - -“But it is my means of livelihood gone,” she said. “When I leave here I -shall starve.” - -“Not while I live,” said Joyce, impulsively. Then he reflected. Surely -she could not be entirely without means. He coloured slightly at his -remark, as at an impertinence. - -“I shall never get any money any more as long as I live,” said Yvonne. -“I can only go from this hospital into the workhouse. And I won’t go -there. I will pray to die rather.” - -“But,” began Joyce, in an embarrassed way, - -“I don’t understand. Forgive me for touching upon it--but has not -Everard--?” - -“No, oh, no! I refused. I could n’t take his money, if I was not his -wife.” - -“That’s absurd,” said Joyce. But his opinion did not alter the facts. He -remained for a moment in thought. “Don’t lose heart,” he said at length. -“Things are never as bad as they seem. I ’ve had awfully bad times and -yet I have pulled through, somehow. You can live quietly for a little on -what you have, and then--” - -“But I have n’t a penny, Stephen,” she cried piteously. “Not a penny in -the world. I earned scarcely anything the last year. If it hadn’t been -for Dina, I don’t know what I should have done. I don’t own anything but -a few sticks of furniture and some clothes--” - -“Where are they?” - -“The porter’s wife at the mansions is keeping them for me, I believe. -They may be sold. I was too ill to trouble.” - -“I ’ll see about them for you,” said Joyce. His heart was moved with -great pity for the sweet, helpless little soul. It seemed hard to -realise that, when they had met four years ago, he had looked upon her -as a Lady Bountiful, who had only to stretch out her kind arm to save -him from starvation. Oh, the whirligig of time! And yet the memory of -her help was very precious to him. - -“You must let me act for you, Yvonne, will you?” - -“You have your own troubles, poor fellow,” said Yvonne. - -“Yours will drive mine away, so they will be a blessing in disguise. I -wonder if you could trust me?” - -“I have always done so--and I do. Are n’t you the only friend I have?” - -“That is what beats me entirely,” he said. “What are all your friends -doing?” - -“They have all disappeared gradually,” said Yvonne. “My poor marriage -cut me adrift from my old circle. And at Fulminster--I did n’t make many -real friends.” - -“There was a girl you wrote to me about once or twice.” - -“Sophia Wilmington? She’s married and gone out to India. I should have -written to her if she had been in England, for she was fond of me.” - -“I should have thought that the whole world was fond of you, Yvonne.” - -“I don’t know,” she said wistfully. “It seems that I have always been -a kind of waif. I never had any solid kinds of friends, families and so -forth--except your dear mother. I once knew a lot of professionals--but -I saw men mostly--I could never tell why--and they don’t bother about -you much when they’ve lost sight of you, do they? I thought Vandeleur -might have wondered what had become of me.” - -“Dear, dear!” said Joyce, reflectively. “I remember Vandeleur from the -long ago.” - -“Yes, he’s an old friend. But, you see, it was through Dina. He behaved -badly to her and married Elsie Carnegie--and so they were cuts. I only -saw him once all last year. I heard she was awfully jealous. Is n’t it -silly of a woman? I think, if he knew I was here he’d come. But what -would be the use?” - -“Not much, except to say a friendly word to you. But still--while you -were living with Miss Vicary, you must have made some acquaintances. It -seems so extraordinary.” - -“We lived so very much alone,” explained Yvonne. “Poor Dina didn’t know -many people--no one liked her. With one exception--and he died long -ago--I think I am the only one in the world who ever loved Dina. No--I -am just a waif--that’s what I am.” - -In her simple way she had accounted to him accurately for her life since -her rupture with Everard. At first she had been too sore at heart to -go much into the world. Then Geraldine, whose influence with her -was paramount, continually discouraged her from renewing old -acquaintanceships. Her friends had literally melted away. Had she -so chosen, she might have interested in her misfortunes a score of -professional well-wishers. But Yvonne was proud in many unexpected ways, -and would have died rather than have the shame of sending the hat round -for relief. As for communicating with Fulminster, it was not to be -thought of. - -“I don’t care,” she added, after a pause; “I have found you again.” - -“Then dry your poor eyes,” he said comfortingly; “and don’t think any -more of the worries. Don’t you remember how happy you made me once, when -I was in desperate straits--when all the world cast me off but you? You -are still the only being who knows me and cares whether I live or die. -You are neither going to starve, Yvonne, nor die in a workhouse. As long -as I have a penny you shall have half of it. Don’t think of anything -more than the immediate future, little woman. We will manage that all -right. Be comforted.” - -He spoke earnestly, leaning forward with his arm on the bed. The -precariousness of his own fortunes scarcely occurred to him. He was -deeply moved. At that moment he would have cut off his right hand for -her. - -Yvonne thanked him with her eyes, which grew very soft and grateful. His -man’s strength brought her comfort. She trusted him implicitly, as she -had all her life trusted those who were kind to her. She closed her eyes -for a moment with a little sigh of relief. She was so content to yield -to the generous hand that was taking the terrible burden from her -shoulders, felt as if she could go to sleep like a tired child. When she -opened her eyes they were almost smiling. - -“I ’ll try to be happy again, so as to thank you, Stephen,” she said. - -“Well, here is something for you--what you like--eat one to show me you -are comforted.” - -He put the paper bag into her hand, and, tilting back his chair, watched -her pleased expression as she peeped into the mouth and drew out one of -the cakes. - -“Oh, how sweet of you!” she said, with a flash of her old sunlight. - -Suddenly he rose, and stood, hands in pockets, by the window, frowning -absently at the gathering mist of evening outside. A conviction was -forcing itself on his mind--a cold douche for his quixotic impulses. -Obvious right and common-sense prevailed. - -“Yvonne,” he said turning round. “You had no quarrel with Everard, had -you, at parting?” - -“Oh, no,” she replied, looking up round-eyed from her paper-bag. “He was -very kind to me.” - -“Have you written to him about this?” - -“No. We arranged we should not correspond. He sent me word when he -was going out to New Zealand. But I couldn’t let him know--I should -be ashamed. Oh, no, Stephen, I could n’t write to him and say, ‘I am a -beggar now, please give me charity.’ Why should he support me?” - -“I hate questioning you,” said Joyce in some embarrassment, “but--is it -repugnant to you to--to think of Everard?” - -“Why, of course not, Stephen. It was a time of awful pain and -misery--but if he came to take me back as his wife, I would go to him. -If he ever can, I have promised that I will.” - -With all his knowledge of her, Joyce was taken aback by her simple -candour. - -“If that is so, why on earth shrink from reconsidering, now, his former -offer?” he asked, exceedingly puzzled at her point of view. - -“You tell me what I ought to do, and I will do it,” said Yvonne. - -“You must write to Everard.” - -“Very well.” - -“Then you need not have any fears at all for the future. It will be all -so simple.” - -“How can I thank you?” said Yvonne. “Oh, if I could only sing for you! -But nothing will ever give me back my voice--I am a useless little -creature. And you have been so good to me to-day. I shall never forget -it all my life.” - -But Joyce’s heart was at ebb-tide again. He rose soon, and took his hat -and stick. - -“There is no reason to thank me, Yvonne,” he said, with bitterness. -“What I have done for you has cost me nothing--the cheapest of all -services; I have only given you advice.” - -Yvonne looked at him wistfully. - -“If you talk like that, you will make me cry again.” - -“Forgive me,” said Joyce. “I am a beast.” - - - - -CHAPTER XVII--YVONNE PROPOSES - -It was night. Yvonne lay wide awake. A suffused sound of breathing -filled the air. Now and then a moan or a smothered cry of pain broke -sharply upon the stillness. The woman in the adjacent bed began to -murmur broken words in her sleep: “For the children’s sake, Joe--my poor -little children--I wish we was all dead.” Some poor tragedy reenacting -itself in slumber. Yvonne listened pityingly. The woman had seemed as -broken down that day with misery as she herself. Then silence again, and -Yvonne fell back upon her own tragedy, which seemed to be working itself -out in the staring wakeful hours. - -She had not written to Everard. Pen, ink, and paper had been brought. -The sister had propped her up with pillows in a posture especially -comfortable for writing. But her strength had failed her. To ask him for -money was more than her pride could do. - -Instead, she had written a long outpouring to Joyce, which lay unposted -under her pillow. - -This pride was a seam of flint in her soft nature. She would have -returned to Everard as his wife, willingly, gratefully, glad to lay her -tired head on his shoulder, and feel his strong protection around her -once more. But from any one rather than him would she accept charity. -Illogical, irrational, absurd--but a reality none the less in her heart. - -Perhaps it was a protest of wounded sex. If Everard had treated her -differently on that disastrous day, the quivering feminine might have -gone unscathed. But in his anger, pain and disillusion he had driven her -wrongs towards him into her flesh, almost like infidelities. She was too -generous to feel resentful. An offer of remarriage would be a natural -acknowledgment of error. To accept his support, apart from him, stung -her to the soul with a sense of being cast off as faithless wife or -dishonest mistress, to whom, however, he was forgivingly and charitably -disposed. And yet what was she to do? Joyce would save her from -immediate want, but she could not look to him for anything but temporary -assistance. More was preposterous. - -At last she gave up thinking. Joyce, with his cleverness, would see some -way out of her difficulties. Somewhat comforted, she fell asleep. The -next day was long and intensely dismal. The more clearly she saw that -Joyce’s counsel was the only course to follow, the more hateful it -seemed to her to write the letter. She put it off from hour to hour. And -then the terrible blow that had befallen her weighed upon her mind. She -strove to realise herself moving about the world without a voice. It was -as hard to grasp as the conception of herself as a bodiless shade on the -banks of Acheron. When the elusiveness ceased, and the reality loomed -upon her in all its grimness, she wept bitterly. The consequence was -that, in her still weak state, she broke down with the mental worry, -and, when Joyce next came, he found her in a far worse state than -before. She could scarcely move or speak. Letter-writing was out of the -question. By the merest chance he learned, during the five minutes the -sister allowed him to have with her, that she had not yet written to -Everard. - -“But the mail goes to-morrow,” he said. “I have been making enquiries. -If we don’t write now, we shall lose a month. Shall I write to Everard, -seeing that your poor little self is incapable?” - -She murmured assent, and sighed as if in grateful relief. Joyce -comforted her as best he could and left her reluctantly. When he -got home, he wrote the letter, a bald statement of facts to which he -appended his signature and the address of his lodgings. He sealed it, -directed it, in his nervous, characteristic handwriting and hurried -out to post it at once. It was a most disagreeable duty over, for to -communicate with his cousin went sorely against the grain. A pleasanter -duty awaited him, as soon as he could settle down to his evening’s work, -the correction of the first batch of proofs from the publishers. - -In the course of time, Yvonne recovered her spirits and was on the mend -again. Signs of returning strength showed themselves in her left arm, -which, together with the throat on that side, had been affected by -the disease. Her speaking voice also began to regain some of its old -sweetness, though the surgeons confirmed their statement that the -singing voice was irrevocably gone. - -“Do say they are wrong,” said Yvonne casting a pleading look at Joyce. - -“Perhaps they are,” said he; “let us hope.” - -“Then I may not need Everard’s money, after all.” - -“You will for a couple of years, at least,” he said kindly. “But you may -be able to pay it back afterwards.” - -This consoled her, and she began to build great schemes. On another -occasion she said to him irrelevantly:-- - -“Do you think I ought to write to Everard?” She had raised him by this -time to the position of father confessor. A certain feminine weakness in -Joyce’s nature, developing gradually, through his intercourse with -her, into a finer sensitiveness, made it easy for her to give him her -confidence, to speak with him much as she used to speak with Geraldine. -And yet, he being a man, his utterances on such questions, had for her -all their masculine weight. - -“It is a matter entirely of your own inclination,” he replied -oracularly. - -“But I don’t know what my inclination is,” said Yvonne. “Everard once -told me that it was a much harder thing to know what one’s duty was than -to do it when you know what it is.” - -“He was plagiarising from George Eliot,” said Joyce, not ill-pleased at -a malicious hit at the Bishop. And then, teasingly to Yvonne: “And I’m -sure they both put it a little more grammatically.” - -“I won’t talk grammar,” cried Yvonne. “I always hated it. It is silly -stuff. You understood perfectly what I meant, did n’t you?” - -“Perfectly,” said Joyce. - -“Then what’s the good of grammar?” cried Yvonne, triumphantly. “But you -make me forget what I was going to say. It was something quite clever. -Oh yes! Substitute ‘inclination’ for ‘duty,’ and you have my difficulty. -Now do tell me what I am to do.” - -“Well, wait until you hear from Everard, and then write him a nice long -letter,” said Joyce. - -“That’s just what I wanted to do,” said she; “you are so good to me.” - -She was to leave the hospital in January. The time was rapidly -approaching. Much of their time together was spent in the discussion -of plans for the immediate future. Yvonne wanted to sell her furniture, -which Joyce had inspected and found in safe hands. He opposed the idea. -What was the use, when she would want it again, as soon as she was -comfortably situated? In three months she would be in receipt of funds. -Everard might cable her back a remittance long before. In the meantime, -he could advance her a lump sum out of his capital. - -“Then you can take unfurnished rooms and put in your own things at once. -It will be much cheaper.” - -“But suppose I don’t pay you back,” said Yvonne. “How can you make me?” - -“I can suggest nothing but a bill of sale on the furniture,” he replied -laughingly. - -“What is that?” - -“Well, you sign a paper saying that if the debt is not paid in three -months, at the end of that time I can put in the brokers and sell your -furniture and take all the money.” - -“Oh, that would be lovely!” cried Yvonne. “Do let me do it. I should -feel so businesslike. Draw it up now and I ’ll sign it.” - -“It will have to be registered,” said Joyce. - -“Well, register it then. What’s to prevent you?” - -“I was only jesting,” said Joyce. - -“But I’m quite serious. Don’t you see how serious I am? Come--to please -me.” - -The idea caught her childish fancy, and she spoke quite in her old, gay -mood. She was sitting up now, partially dressed, and, being able to move -her limbs more freely, reached for writing materials that lay on the -little table by her bed. - -“There, draw it up at once, as fearfully legally as you can, with all -kinds of ‘afore-saids’ in it.” - -Joyce fell into her humour, and drew up the document in due form, read -it over to her solemnly, and called one of the nurses to witness the -signatures. Then he wrote out a cheque for the amount of the loan, which -she locked up in her despatch-box. He went away with the bill of sale -in his pocket. On his next visit he informed her that it had been -registered and that he would be a merciless creditor. The frivolity of -the proceedings cheered him. - -Meanwhile, the real problem of Yvonne’s arrangements presented itself. -The idea of going at once into unfurnished rooms was abandoned. She was -far too weak and helpless as yet for the worries of housekeeping. He -suggested a boarding-house. But Yvonne shrank from the prospect of -living among strangers. - -“Besides, you could n’t come and see me as often as I should like,” she -added, with a little air of worldly wisdom. “You haven’t an idea what -scandal is talked in those places.” So Joyce quickly acquiesced in her -taboo of boarding-houses, and found the choice of domicile narrowed down -to furnished apartments. - -Yvonne was beginning to be a vital interest in his life. On the days -that the hospital was not open to him, he sent her little notes of his -doings and of such things as might amuse her. In her helpless dependence -she grew to be what Noakes had been to him in his latter days--with -the sweet and subtle difference made by her sex. He had moods almost -of happiness. Yet, like Noakes, Yvonne had not the power of freeing him -from himself, from the awful memories, from the taint that clung to -him. His crime and its punishment was his hair-shirt, for ever next -the sensitive skin, never for the shortest intervals forgotten. Small -incidents were never wanting to bring back the old burning anguish. -Already in the streets he had passed, unrecognised, two old -prison-associates. The sight of them was hateful. Once, in the Strand, -he came face to face with a man, his chief intimate in that fashionable -demi-reputable world which had drawn him to his precipice. The man cut -him dead. On another occasion he met a troop of his cousins from Holland -Park on the terrace of the British Museum. He noticed a girl recognize -him and turn round another way, with a start, as he sprang hurriedly by -through the folding doors. After such encounters, he cowered under the -sense of everlasting disgrace. The old longing that always had lain -dormant within him revived with intense poignancy; the longing to redeem -his self-respect by some wild heroic deed of atonement. Sometimes he -thought of realising all his capital, including the publisher’s eighty -pounds and giving it to Yvonne. But soon she would be beyond the need of -his help and his sacrifice would be merely silly. Common-sense leads us -generally to the most hopeless commonplace. Nor did patient bearing of -his lot appeal to his sensitive fancy as an expiation. The self-respect -that would enable him to free the world’s back with cheerful calm could -only be purchased by some great self-sacrifice. But what chances for -such were offered in his humdrum, poverty-stricken life? - -The days passed uneventfully. He wrote from morning to night, either -in the Museum or in his attic, with a fierce determination to earn a -livelihood that braced his powers. His attempts at occasional journalism -were fairly encouraging. The new novel grew daily in gloomy bulk. Often, -on Yvonne-less days, he strolled up to the second-hand bookshop, where he -had bought the French novels, and chatted with the proprietor, with whom -he had struck up an acquaintance. He was a snuffy, rheumy-eyed old man, -Ebenezer Runcle by name, with chronic bronchitis and a deep disdain for -the remnant of the universe outside his bookshop. But for the lumbering, -chaotic, higgledy-piggledy world of volumes within its book-lined walls, -he had a passionate veneration. Joyce found him a mine of extraordinary -and useless information. To sit on a pile of books and listen -to unceasing gossip about Gregory Nazianzene, Sozomen, Evagrius, -Photius--about Aristotle, Averrhoes, Duns Scotus, and the -Schoolmen--about Hakluyt and Purchas--about forgotten historians, -churchmen, poets, dramatists, of all countries in Europe; to turn -over musty old editions of famous printers, the Aldi, Junta, Elzevirs, -Stephani, Allobrandi, Jehans, which the old man shuffled off to procure -from dim recesses of the shelves, was a new intellectual delight. It was -a renewal of the keen book-interest of his Oxford days, and a mental -stimulus such as he had not received for many weary years. Gradually it -appeared that Mr. Runcle looked forward to his visits; and Joyce, who had -been shy at first of trespassing upon his time, gladly took advantage -of his welcome. Sometimes he helped the old man in the constant work -of rearranging and cataloguing the stock. One afternoon, he found him -wheezing so painfully with his complaint, that he persuaded him to -sit in the little back parlour, while he himself took charge of the -establishment and served customers till closing time. After that he -dropped into the habit of playing salesman. The old man seemed a lonely, -pathetic figure. Joyce’s heart instinctively warmed toward him. - -One afternoon, toward the middle of January, he visited Yvonne for the -last time in the hospital. She received him, as on the last two or three -occasions, in the sister’s little sitting-room just outside the ward. -For the first time, however, she was completely dressed, and only -now did Joyce realise how thin and fragile she had become. She looked -absurdly small in the great cane armchair before the fire. - -“So I am to call for you on Thursday at twelve and carry you off to your -new abode,” he said. - -“Have you settled yet?” asked Yvonne. - -“No, not yet. If I can get the place in Elm Park, I shall give up the -other. I shall hear to-morrow.” - -Yvonne looked wistfully into the fire, and sighed. - -“I shall feel awfully lonesome there, by myself. I am beginning to dread -it. You won’t think me silly, will you? I used not to mind living alone. -But then it was different. You ’ll come and see me very, very often. -Bring your writing, and I ’ll be as quiet as a mouse and won’t disturb -you. You don’t know how frightened and nervous I am. I suppose it’s -because I have been so ill.” - -“You poor little thing,” said Joyce, looking down upon her, as he stood -on the hearthrug, “I wish I knew some motherly soul to take care of -you--or that I could take care of you myself,” he added, with a smile. - -“Oh, I wish you could,” cried Yvonne, piteously, with an appealing -glance. “Oh, Stephen--could n’t you? I would n’t give you much trouble.” - -“Do you mean, Yvonne, that you would like me to get lodgings in the same -house as you?” asked Joyce, with a sudden flash in his eyes. - -“Yes,” said Yvonne. “Just at first. Until I feel stronger. I have -been longing to ask you, but I didn’t dare. Don’t think me selfish and -horrid.” - -The notion dawned upon him like an inspiration. Why had he not thought -of it before? Why should he not find a garret above her rooms whence he -could look protectingly down upon her, in brotherly affection, instead -of leaving her ill and alone to the dubious mercy of landladies and -lodging-house servants? He was quite bewildered by the charm of her -proposal. - -“But, Yvonne, do you know what undreamed of happiness you are offering -me?” he said. - -“Then you would like it?” she cried gladly. - -“Why, my dear child!” said Joyce; and he walked about the room to -express his feelings. - -“I have thought it all out,” said Yvonne, sagely. “We can go to much -cheaper rooms than you intended me to have, so that you can pay the -same for your own lodgings as you pay now. I would n’t lead you into -extravagances for anything in the world.” - -“If it comes to that,” said Joyce, “the second floor is vacant where I -lodge now.” - -“But that is delightful!” cried Yvonne. “The fates have arranged it -on purpose for us.” They talked for a while over the new plan. Joyce’s -acquiescence, relieving her of much nervous dread of loneliness, raised -her spirits wonderfully. - -“You won’t tyrannise over me too much, will you? If I am going out with -tan shoes, you won’t send me indoors to put on black ones? Promise me.” - -He laughed. The idea of such an attitude towards her seemed to belong -more to comic opera than to real life. And yet he felt his authority. -She regarded him with the implicit trust of a stray child. - -The sister came in and stayed whilst afternoon tea was in progress. She -had built up a lone woman’s romance for these two, and had taken them -both into her friendship. Hence the use of the sitting-room, the tea -and her wise counsels to Joyce as to the proper care of Yvonne. When she -left them alone again, a silence fell upon them, and with it the gloomy -cloud upon Joyce, that no sunshine could dispel for long. He looked -broodingly into the fire, the lines deepening on his face, the old pain -in his eyes. - -Was it a right thing that he was about to do--to associate his tarnished -name with hers? It was all very well to dream of the sweetness and light -that daily companionship with her would bring into his life--but was -he fit, socially, morally, spiritually, to live with her? It was taking -advantage of her innocence. His sensitiveness shrank, as if from the -suggestion of a baser disloyalty to her trustingness. - -Yvonne, leaning back in her long chair, kept her dark eyes fixed -upon him. At first she wondered at his sudden gloom, and fancied -distressedly that it proceeded from her proposal. But suddenly an -illumination, such as she had never in her life experienced, lit up -her mind, and caused her a strange little thrill. She called his name -softly. He started, turned, rose at her sign and bent low over her -chair. - -“I want to come and live with you more than ever now, Stephen,” she -said; and as she spoke her voice seemed to have regained its musical -softness. “I mean to try and drive away the sad thoughts from you. -Perhaps, after all, though I can’t sing, I may do a little good in the -world.” - -Her tenderness touched him. He wished she was a child that he might kiss -her. The temptation to receive this boon the gods were giving him was -too strong. He yielded entirely. And from that hour began Yvonne’s -conscious battle with the powers of darkness in the desolate depths of a -man’s heart. - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII--DRIFTWOOD - -They lived together four months, Yvonne in her comfortable rooms, Joyce -in his attic overhead. At first she had been helpless, requiring much -aid both from Joyce and from the landlady, over whom she had cast her -accustomed charm; but with the early spring weather she recovered full -use of her limbs, and strength enough to fight her small battles for -herself. To Joyce it had been a time of consolation in many black moods. -He dreaded the arrival of the New Zealand mail, which he calculated -would bring Yvonne her freedom. It was almost a relief when he assured -himself by enquiries that no news had come from the Bishop. He had -another month of Yvonne’s companionship to look forward to. When -that passed, however, and the second mail from New Zealand proved as -fruitless as the first, he was forced to look at matters from a -practical point of view. He had already far exceeded the original -advance he had made to Yvonne. Under the assurance that he would be -reimbursed, he had not scrupled to spend money freely on little luxuries -and comforts. At the present rate of living, therefore, another two -months would see him at the end of his resources, which included money -that he had received in advance for the copyright of his book. His -current income from occasional journalism was ridiculously small. The -new novel was only half-way towards completion. Poverty stared him in -the face. - -As a last resource he went to Everard’s bankers, but only to learn that -his cousin had withdrawn his account. He found Yvonne anxiously -awaiting the result of this errand. As he entered, she rose impulsively, -scattering scissors and spool of cotton from her lap. She read his -failure in his face. - -“What is to be done?” she asked, when he had finished his report. - -“I don’t know,” replied Joyce, truthfully. - -He looked at her, puzzled and distressed. - -“You must pay yourself out of the furniture and let me go,” said Yvonne. - -“Where would you go to?” - -“I don’t know,” said Yvonne in her turn. - -At the picture of helpless dismay Joyce broke into a laugh. - -“Oh, how _can_ you laugh, when I owe you all this money?” she said, with -a choke in her voice. - -“Because I am glad, Yvonne, that fate seems to compel me to go on -looking after you.” - -“But how can you go on? How can I burden you any further?” - -“Don’t talk about burdens,” he said gently. “You repay me twice over for -what little I have given you.” - -“But the furniture is not worth all that,” said Yvonne. - -“What has the furniture to do with it?” - -“Why it is yours, is n’t it?” - -“How, mine?” - -“The bill of sale,” replied Yvonne seriously. - -“Oh, you dear little goose,” cried Joyce, “you don’t suppose I am going -to sell you up!” - -“Why not--if you need the money? The furniture is all your own.” - -“How can it be when I don’t claim it?” - -Yvonne shook her head. Ordinarily the most easily swayed of women, now -and then she was inconvincible. She had got it into her head that the -furniture had lapsed by sheer law of England into his possession, and no -argument could move her. He explained that he could renew the bill. She -dismissed the explanation with a little foreign gesture. - -“I own nothing in the world but what I stand up in,” she persisted. - -“Then you’re worse off than ever,” said Joyce. - -“I am,” she said despondently. “Is n’t it strange to want money! I never -knew what it was before.” - -There was an odd pathos in her face that touched him. - -“Cheer up, little woman. Nothing is ever so bad as it looks.” - -Comforting words were nice, but they did not change the position. Money -had to be obtained. Where was it to come from? - -“I suppose I must write to Everard, since your letter has miscarried.” - -“Letters don’t miscarry nowadays,” said Joyce. “They don’t even do so in -novels. Still, you had better write. I wish you felt you need n’t.” - -“So do I.” - -“We shall have to part as soon as he cables a remittance.” - -“Oh, I wish we could get along as we are,” said Yvonne. “I have been so -happy here with you.” - -“Then let us fight it out between us,” exclaimed Joyce resolutely. “You - ’ll soon be able to get some singing lessons, and I ’ll find a situation -as railway porter, or something, and we ’ll rub along somehow till better -times.” - -“Oh, you don’t know how much gladder I should be!” cried Yvonne with a -sparkle in her eyes. “If I only could earn something--not be a drag -upon you! Oh, I would sooner lead the life of a poor, poor woman, in the -humblest way, than take Everard’s money--you know that.” - -“We can’t go on living here,” said Joyce, gently. - -“Of course not. We will go to much cheaper rooms and live like -working-folks. I can do lots of things, lay fires, make pastry--” - -“Dumplings will be as far as we can get,” said Joyce. - -“Well, then, they ’ll be beautiful dumplings,” said Yvonne. - -“And I dare say we can find a way to settle the furniture question,” - said Joyce. “I shall begin to look about for a cheap place at once.” - So the trouble fell from Yvonne for a time. Now that she had decided to -make no further appeal to Everard, but to endeavour once more to earn -her livelihood, she felt lighter-hearted. Her attachment to Stephen -had grown so strong that she had contemplated the loss of his -daily protection with dismay. The solitary life frightened her. The -vicissitudes through which she had passed, the loss of her voice -especially, had taken away her nerve. At first, she had been so weak -from her long illness and her helpless arm, that she found Stephen’s -presence an unspeakable comfort, and did not speculate upon any anomaly -in her position. By the time she regained health, their life under the -same roof appeared in the natural order of every-day things. And it -was very pleasant. Besides, with the daily intercourse, came a deeper -comprehension of his shipwreck. She began to realise that the material -dependence on her side was reciprocated by a spiritual dependence on -his. It awoke new and delicious stirrings of pride to feel her influence -over him, to find herself of use to a man. Once she could sing, -amuse--yield her lips with kind passivity to satisfy strange unknown -needs. She had regarded herself with wistful seriousness in her -relations with men, as a poor little instrument for men to play on. They -fingered the stops, extracted what music they could, and then laid the -pipe aside while they devoted themselves to the business of the world. -But Stephen approached her differently from other men. He did not want -her for her voice; he did not throw himself weary into a chair and say, -“Chatter and amuse me;” and he did not look at her with eyes yearning -for her lips. But his needs, quite other than she had known before, were -revealing themselves to her with gradual distinctness. She was learning -his humbled pride, his lacerated self-respect, his ingrained sense of -degradation, his crying need of sympathy and encouragement and ennobling -object in life. The strong man came to her, Yvonne, to be healed and -strengthened; and, from some fresh-discovered fountain within her, she -was finding remedy for maladies and sustaining draughts for weakness. -A new conception of herself was dawning before her, in a great, quiet -happiness; and her nature unconsciously expanded. - -Thus a twofold instinct urged her to throw in her lot with Joyce. - -He passed a very anxious week. It seemed as if his old bitter and -fruitless search for work was to be repeated. Neither could he find -suitable apartments. “I’m afraid it will have to come to the workhouse,” - he said in dejected jest. - -“Oh, that will never do!” cried Yvonne. “They would separate us.” - -She had been more successful. Two or three of the ex-pupils to whom -she had written had replied, promising their recommendation. With a -shrewdness that won Joyce’s admiration she used the address of her -former agents, who willingly forwarded her letters. But the sight of the -familiar office, whither she had gone to beg this favour, had brought -her a bitter pang of regret for the lost voice. She had cried all the -way home and then looked anxiously in the glass, afraid lest Joyce -should perceive the traces of her tears. She strove valiantly to cheer -him in his worries. - -At last Joyce went to his friend, the secondhand bookseller in -Islington, whom he had seen less frequently since his life with Yvonne, -and there, to his delighted surprise, found a solution for all his -difficulties. The old man was growing too infirm to carry on the -business single-handed. He wanted an assistant “And where am I to get -one?” he said querulously. “I don’t want a damned fool who does n’t know -an Elzevir from a Catnach.” - -“I ’ll come like a shot if you ’ll have me,” said Joyce, eagerly. - -“You? Why, you’re a gentleman and a scholar,” said the old man. - -“So much the better,” returned Joyce, laughing. “There will be something -mediaeval about the arrangement.” - -The bargain was quickly struck. Furthermore, when Joyce explained his -domestic considerations, the old man offered him, at a small rent, three -rooms in the house, above the shop. There they were, he said; they were -not used; he once took in lodgers, but they pestered his life out; so -he had made up his mind not to be worried with them any more. However, -Joyce was an exception. He was quite welcome to them; he himself only -wanted a bedroom and the little back-parlour on the ground-floor. - -These reserved quarters, the vacant three rooms and a kitchen with an -adjoining servant’s bedroom, made up the internal arrangements of the -old-fashioned, rather dilapidated house. Joyce went up to inspect. At -first his heart sank. The rooms were only half-furnished, the paper -was mouldy, dirt abounded, the ceilings were low and blackened. However, -many of these drawbacks could be remedied. Mr. Runcle promised a -thorough cleansing and repapering, whereat Joyce’s spirits rose again. -Next to the sitting-room was a fair-sized bedroom for Yvonne; upstairs -a little room for himself. He enquired about attendance. The old man -explained that a woman lived on the premises. She did for him and would -doubtless be glad to do for Joyce also, for a small sum per week. - -***** - -By the end of a few days they were settled in their new abode. The bits -of furniture, that had been the subject of such dispute, made the place -habitable. Re-papered and whitewashed and hung with curtains and a -few pictures out of Yvonne’s salvage, it looked almost cosy. But the -threadbare carpet and rug, the horsehair sofa, and odd, rickety chairs -and the small-paned, cheaply-painted windows gave it an aspect of -poverty that nothing could efface. - -“It’s not a palace,” said Joyce ruefully, looking round him on the day -they took definite possession. “You will miss many comforts, Yvonne.” - -“I’m not going to miss anything,” she replied, “except worry and -anxiety. I am going to be perfectly happy here.” - -“You don’t know what a sweet incongruity you are among these -surroundings,” he said; “you remind one of a dainty piece of lace sewn -on to corduroys. Oh, I hope this life won’t be too rough for you--we -shall have to practise so many miserable little economies--coals, gas, -food--” - -Yvonne broke into a sunny laugh. “Oh, that’s just like a man! Did you -ever hear of a well-regulated woman that did n’t love to economise? When -I was at Fulminster, you have no idea how I cut down expenses!” - -She turned to take off her hat before the discoloured gilt mirror over -the mantelpiece, and then threw it quickly on the round centre table and -faced him again. - -“I shall be quite as happy here as I was in Fulminster. Perhaps happier, -in a sense. You know, I always felt so small in that big house. This -just suits me.” - -Thus began the odd life together of these two waifs, abandoned by -the world. The previous four months had been invested with an air of -transience. Yvonne’s presence beneath the same roof as Joyce had been a -temporary arrangement until supplies should come from the Bishop. They -had not joined in housekeeping. Whenever Joyce went down to Yvonne, he -had done so purely in the character of a visitor. From that state of -things to this life in common was a great step. And yet to each it -seemed natural. Society being unaware of their existence, they felt -no particular need of observing Society’s conventions. To the old -bookseller, to the servant, to each other, they were brother and sister, -and that was enough. - -Joyce found his work fairly light. The important part of the business -was carried on by orders through the post. Purchases of “rare and -curious books” at prices per volume from three pounds upwards are rarely -made casually over the counter. Joyce knew this, of course, but he -was nevertheless surprised at the extensiveness of Ebenezer Runcle’s -connection. Every morning there was considerable correspondence to be -got through, parcels of books to be made up and despatched, the slips -for the monthly catalogue to be kept up to date. After that, if no -new stock was brought in, there was little else to do but wait for -customers. The long spells of leisure were invaluable to him for -writing. He found his mind worked smoothly in the quiet, musty -atmosphere of the books. There they were in brilliant rows around the -walls, on bookcases running longitudinally through the shop, piled -in stacks by the doorway, in comers, upon trestles, anywhere. A great -rampart of them cut off the draught of the door. In the small enclosed -space thus formed was a stove, on one side of which he placed his -writing-table, while on the other, in a dilapidated cane armchair, sat -the old man, a bent, wheezing figure, deep in his beloved patristic -literature. - -At intervals during the day he saw Yvonne, who was proud and happy in -the superintendence of her humble establishment. Not long after the -move, some welcome singing-lessons came, at a house in Russell Square, -and enabled her to contribute her mite towards the household expenses. -It was a hard problem to make ends meet sometimes, on what Joyce was -able to set apart for housekeeping, and at first, through lack of -experience in close economy, she made dreadful blunders. Then she came -in tearful penitence to Joyce. On one of these occasions, he had arrived -for dinner, and found her gazing piteously upon three meatless bones, -standing like ribs of wreck in a beach of potatoes. She had thought -enough had been left from yesterday for two more meals. He consoled her -as best he could, and tackled the potatoes. But she watched him with -so miserable and remorse-stricken a face that at last he broke out -laughing. And then, Yvonne, who was quick to see the light side of -things, laughed too and forgot her troubles. After a time, no housewife -in the neighbourhood kept a shrewder eye upon the butcher. - -The evenings they usually spent together, working or talking. Now and -then, at Joyce’s invitation, the old man would come in, and the trio -would talk literature, the old man vaunting the ancients and Joyce -defending the moderns, until a veritable Battle of the Books was -recontested, while Yvonne sat by, in awed silence, wondering at the -vastness of human learning. Often he wrote or discussed the novel with -her. In this she took the deepest interest. The intellectual processes -involved were a perpetual mystery to her, and caused her to place Joyce -on a pinnacle of genius. But her sympathy and enthusiasm helped him as -few other things could. And gradually her influence made itself felt -in his writing. His sympathies widened, his aspect upon life softened. -Planned to reveal the bitter sordidness of broken lives, and half -written in a grey, hopeless atmosphere, imperceptibly the book lost in -harshness, grew in tenderness and humanity. And this corresponded to the -softening in the nature of the man himself. - -Yet now and then incidents occurred that brought back the past in all -its gloom. One in particular weighed for many days afterwards upon his -mind. - -It was a sultry night. He had come out for a stroll down Upper Street -and High Street, before going to bed. Outside the Angel, the limit of -his walk, he lingered a moment and was looking with idle interest at -the great block of omnibuses, when he became aware that a poorly-dressed -woman was standing by him, gazing rigidly into his face. He started, -tried to fix her identity. - -“Good God! It is you!” said the woman. - -Then he remembered. It was Annie Stevens, the girl who had betrayed him -so miserably to the theatrical company years before. - -“Won’t you speak to me?” she asked, somewhat humbly, as he remained -silent. - -“You recall a very bitter time to me,” said Joyce. - -“Do you think it is any sweeter to me?” she asked. - -And then, with a quick glance round at an approaching policeman:-- - -“Walk on a little way with me, will you?” - -He hesitated for a moment, but a beseeching look in her eyes touched -him. Her presence at that place, at that hour, spoke of tragedy. She had -never been pretty. Now she had grown thin and hard-featured. - -“You need n’t fear I’m going to ask you for anything--you of all people -in the world. Of course, if you don’t want to be seen with me, don’t -come. You can’t hurt me. I’m past that. But I’d like to speak with you -for a minute or two.” - -He had moved on with her while she was talking. Then there were a few -moments’ silence. - -“Well?” he enquired. “What do you wish to say?” - -“God knows--anything--just to ask you, perhaps, whether you’re right -again. I have thought of you enough.” - -He glanced at her curiously. - -“Why have you come to this?” - -“Why did you go to prison?” she retorted. - -“I did wrong and was punished for it.” - -“So did I. This is my punishment. After you had gone, I could have -torn my heart out. I went on the drink--could n’t get engagements--went -downhill. I can’t go much lower, can I? If you want revenge, you ’ve got -it.” - -She tossed her head in her old, defiant way. Joyce, perceiving her -association of himself in her downfall, felt somewhat moved with pity. - -“God knows, revenge is the last thing I want. On the contrary, I am -distressed to see you come to this. If I could help you, I would do so. -But that, you know as well as I, is out of my power.” - -“Yes; the only thing you could do, would be to marry me and make an -honest woman of me, and that is n’t likely,” she said, cynically. - -“No, it is n’t likely,” said Joyce. “I can only be deeply sorry for -you.” - -“I wonder whether you could tell what it is to me to talk to you even in -this way. Oh, God! if you knew how I longed to see you!” - -“Why did you act as you did toward me?” he asked. - -“I don’t know. Don’t ask me. Because every woman’s got a tiger in her -somewhere, I suppose. I used to think men were the brutes. Now I know -it’s women. We’re all the same. I hate myself. I wish you would take me -up a back street and kill me. This is a hell of a life. Do you remember -the last words you said to me? ‘Some people are better dead.’ It’s the -truest thing I ’ve ever heard from man or woman.” - -“It’s easy enough to get out of the world, if we want to,” said Joyce. -“But perhaps it’s better to fight it out. You must make an effort and -get out of this life--a proud girl like you.” - -“I have n’t much pride left.” - -“I thought so too. But it takes a lot of killing. I ’ve come out fairly -straight. Why shouldn’t you?” - -“I ’ll come out straight, the only way--a corpse. But I’m glad things are -better with you. It relieves me to know it. I thought I had sent you to -the devil, and that’s why I went there myself, I suppose. Well, I won’t -keep you any longer. I know you hate being seen with me.” - -“Can’t I do anything for you?” said Joyce, feeling in his pocket. - -“Yes--flay me alive by offering me money. You did once--do you -remember?” - -She stopped abruptly, took Joyce’s proffered hand, and said in a softer -voice:-- - -“It’s good of you to shake hands with me. Men are better than women. -Thank God I ’ve seen you at last. Good-bye.” - -“Good-bye,” said Joyce, kindly. - -They parted, and went their different ways, Annie Stevens to the horror -of her life and Joyce to the home that held Yvonne. The parallel and the -contrast smote him as he walked along the familiar street. Both himself -and this girl that had fallen were derelicts, both were expiating the -past, both were carrying within them a degraded self, that with a nobler -self waged cruel and eternal warfare. For the injury she had done him -he cherished no resentment. He felt a great pity for her, and judged her -gently. - -It was strange how his rudderless course through the last six years had -been influenced by other lonely and drifting craft. Annie Stevens, who -had loved and nearly wrecked him, had been the cause of his linking -fortunes with poor Noakes; and it was through Yvonne--with whom, -sweetest of derelicts, he was now voyaging on unruffled waters--that he -had first drifted towards Annie Stevens. He was pondering over this -one day during an idle hour in the shop with the old bookseller, when a -whimsical fancy seized him. - -“You lead a very lonely life, Mr. Runcle,” he said suddenly. - -“Yes,” replied the old man. “I suppose I do. Beyond one sister, who has -been dying for many months, I have neither kith nor kin in the world.” - - - - -CHAPTER XIX--FERMENT - - -Is all this true?” asked Yvonne, mournfully. - -“Yes, worse luck,” replied Joyce, looking up from his Sunday newspaper. - -“It is very dreadful,” said Yvonne. - -She was finishing “The Wasters,” Joyce’s lately published novel. It was -not a success. Its cultivated style received recognition everywhere, but -the unrelieved pessimism, powerfully as it was presented, repelled most -readers. He was inclined to be depressed at its reception. To Yvonne, -however, it was a revelation. She closed the book with a sigh, and -remained for some time gazing absently at the cover. Then she rose in -her quick way. - -“Let us go out--into the sunshine--or I shall cry. I feel miserable, -Stephen.” - -“On account of that wretched book?” - -“That and other things. Take me to Regent’s Park--to see the flowers.” - -He assented gladly and Yvonne went to put on her things. Shortly -afterwards they were side by side on the garden seat of a westward bound -omnibus. - -“I feel better,” said Yvonne, breathing in the summer air. “Don’t you?” - -“It is nice,” answered Joyce. “I shall be better pleased when we are -out of these joyless streets. The Pentonville Road on a Sunday is -depressing. I haven’t seen a smile on a human face since we have been -out. What grey lives people lead.” - -“But they can’t all be unhappy,” she said. - -The ’bus stopped for a moment. Three or four young roughs, in Sunday -clothes, with coarse, animal faces and discordant speech passed by below -on the pavement, and noisily greeted a couple of quiet-looking girls, -evidently acquaintances. - -“These seem cheerful enough,” said Yvonne. - -Joyce shrugged his shoulders. - -“Did it ever occur to you what misery men of that type work in the -world? By the laws of their class they will all marry--and marry young. -Fancy a woman’s life in the hands of any of those fellows.” - -The ’bus moved on. Yvonne was silent. - -His tone was that of the book she had just been reading. She stole a -side glance at him. His face in repose was always sad and brooding. -To-day she seemed to read more clearly in it the lines that the breaking -of the spirit had caused. She identified him with the characters in the -sordid scenes he had described. Presently she laid her hand lightly on -his arm. - -“Do you think we live a very grey life--now?” - -“You have a very hard, dull, monotonous life,” he replied. - -“I don’t,” said Yvonne stoutly. “I am very pleased and contented. I only -want one thing to make me perfectly happy.” - -“So does every one. The one thing just makes the difference. It’s the -one thing we can’t possibly get.” - -“It is n’t what you imagine,” said Yvonne. “You are thinking of money -and all that.” - -“No. It’s your voice.” - -“It is n’t!” cried Yvonne, with a touch of petulant earnestness. “It is -to see you bright and happy--as you used to be long, long ago. You might -have known.” - -“It is very dear of you,” he answered, after a pause. “I am selfish--and -can’t understand your sweet spirit. Sometimes I seem to have a stone -heart, like the man in the German story.” - -“You have a warm, generous heart, Stephen. What other man would have -done what you have for me?” - -“It was pure selfishness on my part,” he replied. “The loneliness was -too appalling. And then, further, I am never quite sure I have acted -rightly by you.” - -“I am,” she said. “And I’m the best judge, I think.” - -But Joyce was correct in his bitter self-analysis. Now and then his -sensitive fibres vibrated. But generally the weight of the past years -was on his heart, and repressed continuous emotion. To live on these -intimate terms with Yvonne and never consider the possibility of loving -her, after the way of men, was absurd. The chivalrous instincts awakened -by her implicit trust in him, and the double barrier which forbade -a love that could result in marriage, made him dismiss such -considerations. But often, in gloomy introspective moods, his -self-contempt denied these instincts as arrogant pretensions, and -attributed the absence of warmer feelings towards Yvonne to the -petrifaction of all emotional chords. Of late, however, he had ceased to -speculate, taking his insensibility for granted. - -When they arrived at the Regent’s Park, they proceeded for some distance -northwards up the great avenue. It was crowded. Joyce looked about him, -with a fidgeted air, at the stream of passers-by. - -“Let us get away from the people and sit under a tree,” he said at -length. - -Yvonne slipped her hand impulsively through his arm. - -“I wish you knew how proud I am of you,” she said. - -“It’s for your sake, too, Yvonne, dear,” he replied in a touched voice. - -She made one of her magnificent little gestures with the hand holding -her sunshade. - -“I have never done anything to be ashamed of yet,” she said proudly, and -glanced from Joyce to a pompous elderly couple with an air of defiance. -Then she brought him abruptly to a stand before a flower-bed bright in -its summer glory. - -“Oh, how lovely! Look!” - -She broke into little joyous exclamations. Colour affected her like -music. A glow came into her cheek. She became again the thing of -warmth and sunshine that had gladdened him four years before, when his -degradation lay heavy on him. - -“It _is_ a beautiful world, Stephen.” - -“You are right, dear. It is. And you are the most beautiful thing in -it.” - -The glow deepened on her face, and a bright moisture appeared in her -eyes as she glanced upwards. - -“That’s very, very foolish. But you said it as if you meant it.” - -“I did indeed, Yvonne.” - -“Let us go and find a place under the trees,” she said softly. - -They left the main avenue and wandered on over the green turf, seeking -for a long time a piece of shade untenanted by sprawling men, or lovers, -or heterogeneous families. At last they found a lonely tree and sat down -beneath it. - -“Are you happier here?” she asked. - -“Much. It is so peaceful. When I was in South Africa I yearned for -civilisation and men and women. Now I am in London, I am happiest away -from them. Men are funny animals, Yvonne.” - -Yvonne looked down at the ground and nervously plucked at the grass. -Then she raised her eyes quickly. - -“When are you going to be quite happy, Stephen?” - -“I am happy enough now.” - -“But when you get home, the black mood may come over you again. Can’t -you forget all the horrid past--the prison--and all that?” It was the -first time she had ever alluded to it directly; her voice quavered on -the word. - -“No, I can never forget it,” he replied in a low tone. “If I live to be -a hundred, I shall remember it on my deathbed.” - -“You seem to feel it--just like a woman does--who has been on the -streets--as if nothing could wipe it away.” - -He was startled. Signs had not been wanting of a change coming over -Yvonne, but he had never heard a saying on her lips of such perceptive -earnestness. It was strange, too, that she had hit upon a parallel that -had been in his mind since the night he had met Annie Stevens. - -“Nothing can wipe it away, Yvonne. It is like a woman’s sense of -degradation--just as you say.” - -“I would give anything--my voice over again, if I had it--to help you. -You have never told me about it--the dreadful part of it--I want to -know--every bit--tell me now, will you?” - -“You would loathe me, as much as I loathe myself, if I told you.” - -He was lying on one elbow, by her side. She ventured a gossamer touch -upon his forehead. - -“You don’t know much about a woman, although you do write books,” she -said. - -The touch and the tone awoke a great need of expansion. He struggled for -a few moments, and at last gave way. - -“Yes, I ’ll tell you--from the very beginning.” And there in the -quasi-solitude of their tree--one of innumerable camping-spots for -recumbent figures, that met the eye on all sides--he gave, for the first -time, definite utterance to the horrors that had haunted him for six -years. He told her the old story of the earthenware pot careering down -the stream in company with the brazen vessels; of his debts, staring -ruin, and his yielding to the great temptation; of his trial, his -sentence rendered heavier by the fact that his malversations had brought -misery into other lives. He described to her in lurid detail just what -the prison-life was, what it meant, how its manifold degradation ate -into a man’s flesh, became infused in his blood and ran for ever through -his veins. He spared her nothing of which decency permitted the telling. -Now and then Yvonne shivered a little and drew in a quick breath; but -her great eyes never left his face--save once when he showed her his -hands still scarred by the toil from which delicate fingers never -recover. - -He had spoken jerkily, in hard, dry tones; so he ended abruptly. There -was silence. Yvonne’s little gloved hand crept to his and pressed it. -Then, with a common impulse, they rose to their feet. - -“Thank you for telling me,” she said, coming near to him and taking his -arm. “I did not know how how terrible it has been--and I never realised -what a brave man you are.” - -“I--brave, Yvonne?” he cried with a bitter laugh. - -“Yes--to have gone through that and to be the loyal, tender, -true-hearted gentleman that you are.” - -He looked down at her and saw her soft eyes filled with tears and her -lips quivering. - -“You still feel the same to me, Yvonne, now that you know it all?” he -asked, bending forward on his stick. - -“More,” she answered. “Oh,--much more.” - -They walked back to the Park gates in a happy silence, drawn very near -to one another, since both hearts were very full. So close together -did they walk, so softened was the man’s face, and so sweetly proud the -woman’s, that they might have been taken for lovers. But if love was -hovering over them, he touched neither with an awakening feather. And so -they passed on their way untroubled. - -That day was, in a certain sense, a landmark in their lives. Yvonne -never referred to the prison again, but she learned to know when its -shadow was over him and at such times her nature melted in tenderness -towards him. - -The days wore on. The second novel, over whose pages Yvonne had cast -gleams of sunshine, was finished and disposed of to the same publishers. -His source of income from occasional journalism showed signs of becoming -steadier. But all the same, the struggle with poverty continued hard. -Yvonne fell ill again and lost her music-lessons. It took some time -after her recovery to pay off the debts incurred for doctor, medicine, -and invalid necessaries. To obtain funds to take her to the seaside -for a few days, Joyce was forced to ask his publishers for an advance. -However, the trip restored Yvonne to health again, and their uneventful -life pursued its usual course. - -One day a strange phenomenon occurred. A visitor was announced. It was -the sister who had tended Yvonne in the hospital. Once before, while -Yvonne was living in the Pimlico lodgings, she had paid a flying visit. -On this occasion she stayed for a couple of hours with Yvonne, who, -happy as she was with Joyce, felt a wonderful relief in talking again -familiarly with one of her own sex. She poured forth the little history -of all that had befallen her since she had left the hospital. - -“Do you mean to tell me,” the sister said at last, “that you keep house -together on this romantically Platonic basis?” - -Yvonne regarded her, wide-eyed. - -“Of course. Why should n’t we?” - -The sister was a woman of the world. When she had entered the room and -perceived the unmistakable signs of a man’s general presence, she had -drawn her own conclusions. - -That these were erroneous, Yvonne’s innocent candour most clearly -proved. Yet she was astonished, perhaps a little disappointed. The -offending Eve lingers in many women, even after much self-whipping--for -the greater comfort of their lives. - -“But how can a man look at you and not fall in love with you?” she asked -downright. - -Yvonne laughed, and ran to the kettle that was boiling over on the -gas-stove--she was making tea for her visitor. - -“Oh, you can’t think of the number of people who have said those same -words to me! Why, that is why I am so happy with Stephen--he has never -dreamed of making love to me; never once--really. And, do you know, he’s -the only man I ’ve ever had much to do with who has n’t.” - -“He looks like a man who has seen a great deal of trouble,” said the -sister. - -Yvonne’s laugh faded, and a great seriousness came into her eyes. - -“Awful trouble,” she said in a very low and earnest voice. - -“Perhaps that makes him different from other men,” said the sister, -taking her hand and smoothing it. - -“Perhaps,” replied Yvonne. - -It was a new light, quick and clear, flashed upon their relations. Her -woman’s instinct clamoured for confirmation. - -“Do you think that if he had not this great trouble, he would -necessarily have fallen in love with me, like the others?” - -“It stands to reason,” replied the elder woman gently--“if he’s a man at -all. And he is a man--one, too, that many women could love and be proud -of.” - -“Oh, thank you for saying that!” cried Yvonne, impulsively. “I am proud -of him.” An imperceptible smile played over the sister’s plain, pleasant -face. Her calling had brought her a certain knowledge of human nature, -and taught her to judge by suppressions. This side-light on the inner -lives of the two beings whose fortunes had long ago interested her, -quickened her sympathies for them. She determined to keep them in view -for the future--and with this intention she offered Yvonne opportunities -for continuing the friendship. - -“So you ’ll come and see me often,” she said at last. “I have n’t very -many friends.” - -“And I haven’t any at all,” said Yvonne, smiling. “And oh! you don’t -know what a comfort it would be to have a woman to go to now and then!” - -The visit left Yvonne thoughtful and happy. A new feeling towards Joyce -budded in her heart and the process was accompanied by tiny shocks -of tender resentment. So conscious was she of this, that that evening -whilst Joyce was working in the armchair opposite to her, she suddenly -broke into a little musical laugh. He looked up and caught the -reflection of her smile. - -“What is amusing you, Yvonne?” - -She still smiled, but a deep red flush showed beneath her dark skin. - -“My thoughts,” she said, in a tone that admitted of no further question. - -Yet she would have liked to tell him. It was so humorous that she should -feel angry because he did not fall in love with her. - -Sometimes light moods are delicate indexes to far-away, unknown -commotions. Afterwards, in the serious moments, when the birdlike -inconsequence fled away from her and she realised herself as a grown -woman to whom had come the knowledge of life, this that she had laughed -and blushed over appeared sad and painful. It kept her awake sometimes -at nights. Once she got out of bed, lit her candle, and looked closely -at her face in the glass. But she returned comforted. She was not -getting old and unattractive. - -Yet a vague ferment in her nature began to puzzle her sorely. Her mind, -that was once as simple as a child’s and as clear as spring water, -seemed now tangled with many complexities; she saw into it, as in a -glass, darkly. Life, for the first time appeared to her incomplete. She -was weighed down with a sense of failure. The very facts that had caused -the happy possibility of her comradeship with Joyce smote her as proofs -of the inadequacy of her own womanhood. The essential fierce vanity of -sex was touched. - -Once only before had she used her sex as a weapon--on that miserable day -at Ostend, to keep Everard by her side. Then she had felt the fire of -shame. Now she was tempted to use it again, and the shame burned deeper. - -And Joyce, familiarised with the daily sweetness of her companionship, -did not notice the gradually stealing increase of tenderness in her -ways. - - - - -CHAPTER XX--UPHEAVAL - -It was late in the afternoon. The old man had gone away to Exeter, to -bury his sister, his only surviving relative. Joyce was alone in the -shop busily sorting a job lot of books that had come in during the -morning. They were stacked in great piles at the further end, forming -a barrier between himself and the doorway, where the falling light -was creeping in upon the neatly-arranged shelves. Above him flared a -gas-jet. It was warm and dusty work, and Joyce had taken off his coat -and collar and rolled up the sleeves of his flannel shirt. Some of the -worthless books he threw on two piles on the floor, to be placed in the -twopenny and fourpenny boxes outside. Others he priced and catalogued. -Others, again, in good bindings, or otherwise obviously of value, he -dusted with a feather brush and put aside for the old man’s inspection. -Now and again space failed for the assorted lots, and he would carry -great strings of volumes supported under his chin to convenient -stacking-spaces on the shelves. Then he would proceed with his sorting, -cataloguing, and cleansing. - -Presently the back-parlour door opened and Yvonne appeared. Joyce -paused, with a grimy volume in his hand, in the midst of a cloud of dust -that rose like incense, and his heart gave a little throb of gladness. -She looked so fresh and sweet as she stood there, daintily aproned, in -the darkness of the doorway, with the light from the gas-jet falling -upon her face. - -“Tea’s ready,” she remarked. - -“Let me finish this lot,” he said, pointing to a pile, “and then I ’ll -come.” - -She nodded, advanced a step and took up a great in-folio black-letter. - -“What silly rubbish,” she said, with a superior little grimace, as she -turned over the pages. “Fancy any one wanting to buy this.” - -“You had better put it down, if you don’t want to cover yourself with -dirt,” said Joyce. - -She dropped the book, looked at her soiled hands with a comic air of -disgust. - -“Horrid things! Why did n’t you tell me?” - -Joyce laughed for answer. It was so like Yvonne. After she had -withdrawn, with a further reminder about the tea, he went on smiling to -himself. - -It was very sweet, this brother and sister life of theirs, in spite of -its isolation. There seemed no reason why it should not continue for -ever. Indeed, he scarcely thought of change. Now that his small earnings -seemed practically assured and Yvonne could contribute from her singing -lessons something to the household expenses, the wolf was kept pretty -far from the door. - -He was in one of his lighter moods, when Yvonne’s sunshine “scattered -the ghosts of the past,” and illuminated the dark places in his heart. -He hummed a song, forgetful of the gaol and his pariahdom, and thought -of Yvonne’s face awaiting him at the tea-table, as soon as he had -completed his task. - -A hesitating step was heard in the shop. He thought it was the boy -returning from an errand. - -“Another time you are sent out round the corner, don’t take a quarter of -an hour,” he cried, without turning round. - -An irritated tap of the foot made him realise that it was a customer. He -sprang forward with apologies, and, as it had grown dusk, he seized a -taper and quickly lighted the gas in the shop. - -Then he looked at the man and started back in amazement; and the man -looked at him; and for a few seconds they remained staring at one -another. The visitor wore apron and gaiters and a bishop’s hat, and -his dignified presence was that of Everard Chisely. He surveyed Joyce’s -grimy and workaday figure with a curl of disgust on his lip. The glance -stung Joyce like a taunt. He flushed, drew himself up defiantly. - -“You are the last person I expected to meet here,” said the Bishop, -haughtily. - -“Your lordship is the last person I desired to see,” retorted Joyce. - -“Doubtless,” replied the Bishop. “And now we have met, I have only one -thing to say to you. I have traced Madame Latour to this house. Where is -she?” - -“She is here--upstairs.” - -“In this--” began the Bishop, looking round and seeking for a word -expressive of distaste. - -“--hovel?” suggested Joyce. “Yes.” - -“Under your protection?” - -“Under my protection.” - -Then Joyce noticed that his lips twitched, and that the perspiration -beaded on his forehead, and that an agony of questioning was in his -eyes. - -“Have you been villain enough--?” he began in a hoarse, trembling voice. - -But Joyce checked him with a sudden flash and an angry gesture. - -“Stop! She is as pure as the stars. Let there be no doubt about that. I -tell you for her sake, not for yours.” - -The Bishop drew a long breath and wiped his forehead. Joyce took his -silence for incredulity. - -“If I were a villain,” he continued, “do you think it would matter a -brass button to me whether you knew it? I should say ‘yes,’ and you -would walk away and I should never see you again.” - -He thrust his hands in his pockets and faced his cousin. All the -pariah’s bitter hatred arose within him against the man who stood there, -the representative of the caste that had disowned and reviled him; -conscious, too, as he was, of standing for the moment on a higher plane. - -“I believe you. Oh--indeed--I believe you,” replied Everard, hurriedly. -“But why is she here? Why has she sunk as low as this?” - -“Your lordship should be the last to ask such a question.” - -“I don’t understand you.” - -“I should have thought it was obvious,” said Joyce, with a shrug of his -shoulders. - -The sarcasm sounded in the Bishop’s ears like cynicism. - -“Do you mean that you have inveigled Madame Latour into supporting you?” - he asked in a tone of disgust. - -Joyce laughed mirthlessly. - -“Listen,” he said. “Let us come to some understanding. I am a member -of the criminal classes, and you are a bishop of the English church. -Perhaps the God you believe in may condescend to judge between us. -The woman who was once your wife appealed to you when she was sick and -penniless, and you disregarded her appeal. I, a poverty-stricken outcast -supported her, gave her a home, and reverenced her as a sacred trust. -‘Whether of them twain did the will of his father?’” - -Everard stared at him in wide-eyed agitation. A customer entered with -a book he had selected from the stall outside. Joyce went forward, -received the money and returned to his former position by the Bishop. - -“I received no appeal from her,” said the latter. - -“You did, through me. She was too ill to write.” - -“When was this?” - -“Last November, a year ago.” - -Everard reflected for a moment and then a sudden memory flashed upon -him, and an expression of deep pain came over his face. - -“God forgive me! I threw your letter into the fire unopened.” - -“Might I ask your reason?” asked Joyce, feeling a grim joy in his -cousin’s humiliation. - -“I had been warned that you had gone to Fulminster on a begging -errand--” - -“Did the Rector have the iniquity to write you that?” burst in Joyce -fiercely. - -“It was not the Rector.” - -“Who, then? I saw no one but him. I was simply seeking Madame Latour.” - -“I name no names,” replied the Bishop, stiffly. “I am merely explaining. -The letter, in fact, came by the same mail as yours. Little suspecting -that you could address me on any subject unconnected with yourself, and -keeping to my resolution to hold no further communication with you, I -destroyed, as I say, your letter unopened. Believe me, the apology I -tender to you--” - -“Is neither here nor there,” said Joyce, coldly. “I am past feeling -such slights. I suppose your correspondent was that she-devil Emmeline -Winstanley. I congratulate you.” The Bishop made no reply, but paced -backwards and forwards two or three times with bent head, along the -book-lined shelves. Then he stopped and said abruptly:-- - -“Tell me the facts about Yvonne.” - -The conciliatory mention of her by her Christian name thawed Joyce for -the moment. He rapidly sketched events, while Everard listened, looking -at him rigidly from under bent brows. - -“I would have given the last drop of my blood rather than she should -have suffered so.” - -“So would I,” replied Joyce. - -“Would to God I had known of it!” - -“It was your own doing.” - -“You are right. My uncharitableness towards you has brought its -punishment.” - -“I cannot say I am sorry,” said Joyce, grimly. - -There was a short silence, compelled by the struggling emotions in -each man’s heart. In Joyce’s there was war, a sense of victory, of the -sweetness of revenge. He felt, too, that now Yvonne would indubitatively -reject the Bishop’s offer of help. He had won the right to support her. - -Suddenly her voice was heard from the back-parlour door. - -“Do come. The tea is getting quite cold.” - -Both men started. A quick flash came into Everard’s eyes and he made a -hasty step forward. But Joyce checked him with a gesture. - -“I had better prepare her for the surprise of seeing you.” - -The Bishop nodded assent. Joyce ran to the street door to see that the -boy had returned to his post, and, satisfied, left the Bishop and went -to join Yvonne in their little sitting-room upstairs. - -She had just entered, was lifting a plate of hot toast from the fender. -She held it out threateningly with both hands. - -“If it’s all dried up it is not my fault,” she scolded. “And oh! you -know I don’t allow you to sit down in your shirt-sleeves!” - -He made no reply, but took the plate mechanically from her and placed it -on the table. - -“What is the matter, Stephen?” she asked suddenly, scanning his face. - -“Some one has called to see you, Yvonne.” - -“Me?” - -She looked at him for a puzzled moment. Then something in his face told -her. She caught him by his shirt-sleeve. - -“It can’t be Everard?” she cried, agitated. - -“Yes. It is Everard.” - -She grew deadly pale and her breath came fast. - -“How has he managed to find me?” - -“I don’t know. Possibly he will explain.” - -Yvonne sat down by the table and put her hand to her heart. - -“It is so sudden,” she said deprecatingly. - -“Perhaps you would rather put off seeing him,” suggested Joyce. - -“Oh no, no. I will see him now--if you don’t mind, Stephen, dear. I am -quite strong again. Tell him to come. And don’t be unhappy about me.” - -She smiled up at him and held out her hand. He took it in his and kissed -it. - -“My own brave, dear Yvonne,” he said impulsively. A flush and a grateful -glance rewarded him. - -He found the Bishop scanning the book backs. - -“Will you let me show you up to the sitting-room?” said Joyce. - -The Bishop bowed and followed. At the foot of the stairs he paused. - -“I think it right to tell you,” he said, “that I have received authentic -news of the death of Madame Latour’s first husband. The object of my -sudden visit to England is to take her back with me as my wife.” - -The unexpectedness of the announcement smote Joyce like a blast of -icy air. The loftiness of the Bishop’s assurance dwarfed him to -insignificance. As at previous crises of his life, the sudden check -cowed the spirit yet under the prison yoke. His defiance vanished. -He turned with one foot on the stair and one hand on the baluster and -stared stupidly at the Bishop. The latter motioned to him to proceed. He -obeyed mechanically, mounted, turned the handle of the sitting-room door -in silence, and descended again to the shop. - -No sooner was he alone than a swift consciousness of his moral rout made -him hot with shame and anger. His heart rose in fierce revolt. Yvonne -was free. Free to marry whom she liked. What right over her had this -man who had cast her off, spent two whole years at the other end of the -world without once troubling to enquire after her welfare? What right -had the man to come and rob him of the one blessing that life held for -him? - -The prospect of life alone, without Yvonne, shimmered before him like a -bleak landscape revealed by sheet-lightning. A panic shook him. A second -flash revealed him to himself. This utter dependence upon Yvonne, this -intense need of her that had gone on strengthening, week by week, and -day by day, was love. Use, self-concentration, the mere unconcealed -affection of daily life had kept it dormant as it grew. Now it awakened -under the sudden terror of losing her. A thrill ran through his body. -He loved her. She was free. This other set aside, he could marry her. He -paced among the piles of books in strange excitement. - -The boy, who had been rapping his heels against his box-seat by the -door, strolled in to see what was doing. Joyce abruptly ordered him to -put up the shutters and go home. - -Meanwhile he made pretence to continue his work of cataloguing. But his -brain was in a whirl. His eyes fell upon the marks of Yvonne’s hands and -arms on the dust of the folio she had been handling. The mute testimony -of their intimacy eloquently moved him. She was part and parcel of his -life. He would not give her up without fierce fighting. - -Then, in the midst of the glow came the fresh memory of his collapse. -He sat down by the little deal table, where he was wont to write, -and buried his face in his hands, and shivered. His manhood had gone. -Nothing could ever restore it. Its semblance was liable to be shattered -at any moment by an honest man’s self-assertion. It had perished during -those awful years; not to be revived, even by the pure passion of love -that was throbbing in his veins. - -Too restless to sit long, he rose presently and walked about the shop, -among the books. The close, dusty air suffocated him. He longed to go -out, walk the streets, and shake off the burden that was round his neck. -But the feeling that he ought, for Yvonne’s sake, to remain until the -Bishop’s departure kept him an irritable prisoner. The minutes passed -slowly. Outside was the ceaseless hum and hurry of the street: within, -the flare of the gas-jets and the sound of his own purposeless tread. -And so for two hours he waited, running the gamut of his emotions with -maddening iteration. The terror of losing Yvonne brought at times the -perspiration to his forehead. With feverish intensity he argued out his -claim upon her. She could not throw him over to go and live with that -proud, unsympathetic man who must for ever be to her a stranger. Then -his jealous wrath burst forth again, and again came the old hated shiver -of degradation. How dare he match himself against one who, with all his -faults, had yet lived through his life a stainless gentleman? - - - - -CHAPTER XXI--A DEMAND IN MARRIAGE - -“Yes, he is dead,” said the Bishop, gravely. “You are a free woman. -I have come from the other end of the world to tell you so.” Yvonne, -sitting opposite him, looked into the red coals of the fire, and clasped -her hands nervously. His presence dazed her. She had not yet recovered -from the shock of his sudden embrace. The pressure of his arms was yet -about her shoulders. The change wrought in her life by the loss of her -voice was almost like a change of identity. It was with an effort -that she realised the former closeness of their relations. He seemed -unfamiliar, out of place, to have dropped down from another sphere. The -oddity of his attire struck a note of the unusual. The dignity of his -title invested him with remoteness. His face too, did not correspond -with her remembered impression. It was thinner, more deeply lined. His -hair had grown scantier and greyer. - -She had listened, almost in a dream, to the story of his coming. How, to -his bitter regret, he had destroyed Joyce’s letter. How, later, growing -anxious about her, he had written for news of her welfare. How his -letter had been returned to him through the post-office. How, meanwhile, -the detective whom he had employed for the purpose in Paris, had sent -him proofs of Bazouge’s death. How he had been unable to rest until he -had found her, and, impatient of the long weary posts, he had left New -Zealand; and lastly, how he had obtained her present address from the -musical agents, who had informed him of her illness and the loss of her -voice. - -“You are free, Yvonne, at last,” repeated the Bishop. - -The tidings scarcely affected her. She had counted Amédée so long as -dead, even after his disastrous resurrection, that now she could feel -no shock either of pain or relief. It was not until the after-sound of -Everard’s last words penetrated her consciousness, that she realised -their import. She started quickly from her attitude of bewilderment, and -looked at him with a dawning alarm in her eyes. - -“It can make very little difference to me,” she said. - -“I thought it might make all the difference in the world to me,” said -Everard. “Do you think I have ever ceased to love you?” - -There was the note of pain in his voice which all her life long had -had power to move her simple nature. She trembled a little as she -answered:-- - -“It is all so long ago, now. We have changed.” - -“You have not changed,” he said, with grave tenderness. “You are still -the same sweet flower-like woman that was my wife. And I have not -changed. I have longed for you all through these bitter, lonely years. -Do you know why I left Fulminster?” - -“No,” murmured Yvonne. - -“Because it grew unbearable--without you. I thought a changed scene and -new responsibilities would fill my thoughts. I was mistaken. And added -to my want of you was remorse for harshness in that terrible hour.” - -“I have only thought of your kindness, Everard,” said Yvonne, with -tears in her eyes. His emotion impressed her deeply with a sense of his -suffering. - -He rose, came forward and bent over her chair. - -“Will you come back with me, Yvonne?” - -She would have given worlds to be away; to have, at least, a few hours -to consider her answer. He expected it at once. Feminine instinct -desperately sought evasion. - -“I shall be of no use to you. I can’t sing any more. Listen.” - -She turned sideways in her chair, and drawing back her head far from -him, began, with a smile, the “Aria” of the Angel in the Elijah. The -grave man drew himself up, shocked to the heart. He had not realised -what the loss of her voice meant. Instead of the pure dove-notes that -had stirred the passion of his manhood, nothing came from her lips but -toneless, wheezing sounds. She stopped, bravely tried to laugh, but the -laugh was choked in a sob and she burst into tears. - -“Come back with me, my darling,” he said, bending down again. “I will -love you all the more tenderly.” - -Yvonne dried her eyes in her impulsive way. - -“I am foolish,” she said. “Crying can’t mend it.” - -“I will devote the rest of my life to making compensation,” said the -Bishop. “Come, Yvonne.” - -“Oh, give me time to answer you, Everard,” she cried, driven to bay at -last. “It is all so strange and sudden.” - -He left her side, with a kind of sigh, and resumed his former seat. He -was somewhat disappointed. He had not contemplated the chance of -her refusal. A glance, however, round the shabby, low-ceilinged room -reassured him. The coarse, not immaculate tablecloth, the homely -crockery, the half-emptied potted-meat tins on the table, the threadbare -hearthrug at his feet--all spoke, if not of poverty, at least of very -narrow means. She could not surely hesitate. But she did. - -“Take your time--of course,” he said, crossing his gaitered legs. There -was a short silence. At last she said, with a little quiver of the -lip:-- - -“I promised you, I know. But things have altered so since then. I -thought I should always be free. But now I am not, you see.” - -“What do you mean?” he cried, startled. - -“It is Stephen,” Yvonne explained. “He saved me from starvation, gave me -all he had, to make me well again, and has been staying all this time to -support me. You don’t know how nobly he has behaved to me--yes, nobly, -Everard, there is no other word for it. He has rights over me that a -brother or father would have--I could not leave him without his consent. -It would be cruel and ungrateful. Don’t you see that it would be wicked -of me, Everard,” she added earnestly. - -His face clouded over. Pride rose in revolt. He crushed it down, -however, and suffered the humiliation. - -“It would lift a responsibility from his shoulders,” he said. “I myself -am willing to take him by the hand again, and help him to rise from his -present position.” - -“You will let bygones be bygones--quite?” - -“With all my heart,” replied Everard. - -“He suffers dreadfully still,” said Yvonne. - -“I will do my best to heal the wound,” replied the Bishop. “I own I have -judged him too harshly already.” - -A flush of pleasure arose in Yvonne’s cheeks, and her eyes thanked him. -Then she reflected, and said somewhat sadly:-- - -“Perhaps if you help him in that way, he won’t miss me.” - -“I will guarantee his prosperity,” he answered, with dignified -conviction. And then, changing his manner, after a pause, and leaning -forward and looking at her hungeringly, “Yvonne,” he said, “you will -come and share my life again--in a new world, where everything is -beautiful--? I have been growing old there, without you. You will make -me young again, and the blessing of God will be upon us. I must have -you with me, Yvonne. I cannot live in peace without your smile and your -happiness around me. My child--” - -His voice grew thick with emotion. He stood up and stretched out his -arms to her. Yvonne rose timidly and advanced toward him, drawn by his -pleading. But just as his hands were about to touch her, she hung back. - -“You must ask Stephen for me,” she said, in her serious, simple way. - -His hands fell to his sides, in a gesture of impatience. - -“Impossible. How can I do such a thing? It would be absurd.” - -“But I can’t,” she said. - -Her tiny figure, the plaintiveness of her upturned face, the wistfulness -of her soft eyes, brought back to him a flood of memories. She was still -the same sweet, innocent soul. The lines about his lips relaxed into a -smile, and he took her, yielding passively, into his arms and kissed her -cheek. - -“I will do what you like, dear,” he said, in a low voice. “Anything -in the world to win you again. I will ask him. It will be making -reparation. And then you will marry me?” - -“Yes,” murmured Yvonne faintly, “I promised you.” - -“Why did you not write to me again?” he asked, still holding her hands. - -“I was going to write when the answer came,” she said, looking down. -“But no answer did come. And then, I was content to help Stephen.” - -“You could have helped Stephen, all the same.” - -“Oh, no!” she cried, with a swift look upwards. “Don’t you understand?” - -The Bishop saw the delicacy of the point, and motioned an affirmative. -But he regarded Stephen with mingled feelings. It was intensely -repugnant to him to find his once reprobated cousin a barrier between -himself and Yvonne. An uneasy suspicion passed through his mind. Might -not Stephen be even a more serious rival? - -“You are not marrying me merely on account of that promise years ago, -Yvonne?” he asked. - -“Oh, no, Everard,” she replied gently. “It is because you want me--and -because it’s right.” - -He kissed her good-bye. - -“I shall not visit you here again, Yvonne,” he said. “When I receive -the final answer I shall make suitable arrangements. We shall be married -quietly, by special licence. Will that please you?” - -“Yes,” said Yvonne. “Thank you.” - -At the door he turned for a parting glance. Then he descended the -stairs, with the intention of broaching the matter to Joyce then and -there. But although he found lights burning in the shop, Joyce was -nowhere to be seen. Nor were there any apparent means of ascertaining -his whereabouts. The Bishop bit his lip with annoyance. He did not -wish to procrastinate in this affair. Suddenly his eye fell upon an old -stationery-rack against the wall, in which were visible the paper and -envelopes used for the business. With prompt decision the Bishop took -what was necessary, sought and found pen and ink, and wrote at Joyce’s -table a letter, which he addressed and left in a conspicuous position. -Then he found with some difficulty the street-door of the house and let -himself out. - -Joyce, whom a longing for air had at last driven outside, was walking -up and down the pavement, keeping his eye on the door. As soon as he -witnessed Everard’s departure, he entered and went through the passage -into the shop. The letter attracted his attention. He opened it and -read:-- - - Dear Stephen,--I wished for a word with you. But as the - matter is urgent, I write. I should like to express to you - my sense of the generous chivalry of your conduct toward - Yvonne. I should also like to hold out to you the hand of - sincere friendship. - - In earnest of this I approach you, as man to man, with - reference to one of the most solemn affairs in life. Yvonne, - gratefully acknowledging the vast obligations under which - she is bound to you, has made her acceptance of my offer of - remarriage dependent upon your consent. For this consent, - therefore, I earnestly beg you. - - For the future, in what way soever my friendship can be of - use to you, it will most gladly be directed. - - Yours sincerely, - - E. Chisely. - - Burgon’s Hotel, W. - - -Joyce grew faint as he read. The words swam before his eyes. A -great pain shot through his heart. The letter contained one torturing -fact--that of Yvonne’s acquiescence. The Bishop’s acknowledgment of -his uprightness, the courtesy of the formal request, the offer of -friendship--all were meaningless phrases. Yvonne was going to leave -him--of her own free-will. Although his fears had anticipated the blow, -it none the less stunned him. He flung himself down by his table, with -a groan, and buried his face in his arms. The realisation of what Yvonne -was to him flooded him with a mighty rush. She was his hope of salvation -in this world and the next, his guardian angel, his universe. Without -her all was chaos, void and horrible. - -Presently Yvonne’s voice was heard calling him from the top of the -stairs:-- - -“Stephen!” - -He raised a haggard face, and with an effort steadied his voice to -reply. Then he rose, turned off the gas, from force of habit, and went -with heavy tread up the stairs. - -“Your tea,” said Yvonne, busying herself with a kettle. “I am making you -some afresh.” - -“I will go and wash my hands,” he said drearily. - -He mounted to his bedroom and cleansed himself from the book-dust and -returned to Yvonne. He drew his chair to the table. She poured him out -his tea, and helped him to butter, according to a habit into which -she had fallen. She deplored the spoilt toast. He said that it did not -matter. But when he tried to eat, the food stuck in his throat. Yvonne -made no pretence at eating, but trifled with her teaspoon, with downcast -eyes. Joyce looked at her anxiously. She seemed to have grown older. -The childlike expression had changed into a sad, womanly seriousness. -Presently she raised her eyes, soft and appealing as ever, and met his. - -“Did you see Everard?” she asked. - -“No. I was out. But he left a note--that told me everything.” - -“He asks for your consent?” - -“Yes.” - -“And will you give it?” she asked, below her breath. - -“It would be worse than folly for me to try to withhold it,” he said, -bitterly. - -“I will stay with you, and go on living this life, if you wish.” - -“And yourself?” - -“I don’t count,” she said, “I must do as I am told.” - -“Would you be happy with Everard?” he asked huskily. - -“Yes--of course--I was before,” she replied. But her cheek grew paler. - -“And you would stay, if I asked you, and share all this struggle and -poverty with me?” - -“How could I refuse? Don’t I owe you my life?” - -He looked for a tremulous second into her pure eyes and knew that he was -master of her fate. The condition she had imposed upon Everard was no -graceful act of acknowledgment. It was a serious placing of her future -in his hands. He was silent for a few moments, deep in agitated thought, -trembling with a struggle against a fierce temptation. The hand that -nervously tugged at his moustache was shaking. Yvonne read the anxious -trouble on his face. - -“Don’t worry over it now,” she said, gently. “There is time, you know. -Why should people always want to decide things straight off?” - -“You are right, Yvonne,” said Stephen. “Let us forget it for a little.” - -“Your poor tea,” add Yvonne, with pathetic return to her old manner. “It -will never be drunk. And do eat something, to please me.” - -But it was a miserable meal. The tabooed subject filled the heart and -thoughts of each. It was with an effort that they caught the drift of -casual commonplaces uttered from time to time. Now and then, during the -long spells of silence, Yvonne stole a swift feminine glance at his -face. But his sombre expression seemed to tell her nothing of that which -she longed to know. At last the farce ended. They rose from the table -and went to their usual seats by the fireside. Joyce filled his pipe, -and was fumbling in his pockets for a match, when Yvonne came forward -with a spill and stood before him holding it until the pipe was alight. -He tried to thank her, but the words would not come. The tender act of -intimacy made his heart swell too painfully. Yvonne rang the bell and -the elderly, slatternly maid-of-all-work, cleared away the tea-things. -Sarah was one of the elements of the establishment that made Joyce hate -his poverty. She drank, was unclean, was a perpetual soil in the -atmosphere that Yvonne breathed. The sight of her was a new factor in -the case against himself. - -It was a terrible decision that he was called upon to make. On the -one hand, wealth and ease and social happiness for Yvonne, despair and -misery for himself. On the other, a selfish happiness for himself, and -for Yvonne this squalor and ostracism. He knew that her sweet, gentle -nature would accept the latter portion unmurmuringly. A voice rang -in his ears the certainty that she would marry him, if he pleaded. -To repress the temptation to cast all other thoughts but his yearning -passion to the winds was indescribable torture. - -“I wish I could sing to you,” she said, breaking a long silence. “I -don’t know what to do now, when I feel things. Once I could sing them.” - -“I should ask you to sing Gounod’s ‘Serenade,’” said Joyce. - -“Oh, not that!” she cried quickly. “It was the last thing I ever sang to -you, and it brought us bad luck.” - -For a moment he put a lover’s passionate interpretation upon her words. -His heart beat fast. He controlled the wild impulse that seized him, -biting through the amber of his pipe with the nervous effort. - -And then he realised that he must be alone to work out this stern -problem, on whose solution depended the happiness of three human lives. -He rose to his feet. - -“I am going out, Yvonne,” he said, in a constrained voice. “All this is -rather upsetting--and you had better go to bed early. You look tired.” - -“Yes. I have a splitting headache,” said Yvonne. - -She tried to smile brightly, as he wished her good-night. But when the -door closed upon him, the smile faded, and her face grew drawn, almost -haggard. A spirit had descended, touched her with magical wings, and -changed at last the child into the woman. Her eyes were set in steadfast -envisaging of the future; and they beheld the responsibilities and -sadnesses of life, no longer as vague terrors and discomforts from which -her light bird-like nature shrank to the nearest refuge, but as dull -realities, commonplace in form and grey in hue. - -It was her duty to go back to Everard, Stephen not wanting her; for she -had promised. It was her duty to ask Stephen for his consent. And it was -Stephen’s duty to give it, if he did not want her for more than daily -companionship. She had proved that Stephen did not love her. Never had -she felt so keenly the failure of her womanhood. It had not cleared his -life of haunting cares. If it had, his heart would have been stirred -with needs for closer union. The weapon of her sex was powerless. Newer -knowledge had come to her. He needed her less than Everard. She argued -with desperate logic. And yet there was a lingering, feverish hope--one -that made her now and then draw a sharp convulsive breath, as she sat -staring, with clear vision, at her life. - - - - -CHAPTER XXII--SEEKING SALVATION - -He could walk no longer through the drizzling rain, in futile struggle -with his soul’s needs. As possible to cut out his heart and fling it at -Everard’s feet as to surrender Yvonne. He called himself a fool. - -The glare in front of a cheap music-hall attracted him. He entered, -mounted to the nine-penny balcony, where he stood leaning over the -wooden partition, wedged among a crowd of loungers. The air was filled -with the smoke of cheap tobacco and the fumes of the bar behind. A girl -on the stage was singing a song in the chorus of which the thronged -house roared lustily. Then came a tenor vocalist with drawing-room -ballads. Joyce attended absently, hearing and seeing in a confused -dream. A neighbour asking him for a light aroused him from his reverie. -He wondered why he had come. To-night of all nights, when he might be at -home in the joy of his heart’s desire. Yet he stayed. - -A flashing family appeared riding on nondescript cycles. He watched -them with half-shut eyes, caressing a quaint conceit that they were -his thoughts whirling around in concrete form. The bursts of deafening -applause seemed to soothe him. Presently a street-scene cloth was let -down and a battered man appeared and sang a song about drink and twins -and brokers. He threw such humourous gusto into the performance that -Joyce laughed in spite of his preoccupation, and remained in amused -anticipation of his second turn. The bell tinkled. The “comedian” came -on and was greeted with vociferous applause. With music-hall realism -he was dressed in prison-clothes, glengarry, woollen stockings, -and black-arrowed suit all complete. He had made up his face into a -startling brute. Joyce felt sick. He did not catch the first verse; only -the concluding lines of the chorus, - - “I ‘ve done my bit of time, - - For ’itting of my missus on the chump, chump, chump.” - -But then the man began to speak, and Joyce could not help hearing. -A horrible fascination held him. The ignoble figure poured out with -grotesque and voluble cynicism the comic history of the prison-life; -the plank-bed, the skilly, the oakum, the exercise-yard. He sketched -his pals, detailed the sordid tricks for obtaining food, the mean -malingering, the debasing habits. And all with a horrible fidelity. The -audience shrieked with laughter. But Joyce lost sense of the mime. The -man was real, one of the degraded creatures with whom he himself had -once been indistinguishably mingled--a loathsome fact from the past. The -smell of the prison floated over the footlights and filled his nostrils. -All his overwrought nerves quivering with repulsion, he broke through -the crowd hemming him in against the partition, and rushed down into the -street. - -***** - -How long and whither he walked he did not know. At last he found himself -within familiar latitudes, outside the Angel Tavern. He was wet through -from the fine, penetrating rain, tired, cold, and utterly miserable. The -revulsion of feeling in the music-hall had thrown him back years in his -self-esteem. The soil of the gaol had never seemed so ineffaceable. -In the blaze of light by the tavern door he paused, irresolute. Then, -remembering the disastrous results of an attempt years before to seek -such consolation, he shivered and turned away. It was too dangerous. - -About a hundred yards further, a woman passed him, turned, and overtook -him. - -“I thought it was you,” she said. He recognised the voice as that of -Annie Stevens. It was not far from the spot where he had first met her, -and where, some short time after, he had met her again. For months, -however, he had lost sight of her. He recognised her voice, but her -appearance was unfamiliar, and her face was half hidden by a Salvation -Army bonnet. The apparent cynicism of her attire revolted him. - -“Why are you masquerading like this?” he asked, continuing to walk -onwards. - -“It’s not masquerading. It’s real. I recognised you, and thought perhaps -you’d care to know.” - -He slackened his pace imperceptibly, and she walked by his side. - -“You don’t seem to believe it,” she resumed. “I don’t tell lies. It’s -the truth that has generally cursed me.” - -“Then why are you walking up and down here at this time of night?” - -“Doing rescue work.” - -“Have you rescued any one yet?” asked Joyce, with a touch of sarcasm. - -“No. I scarce expect to.” - -“Then why are you trying?” - -“Because it’s the beastliest thing I could think of doing,” she said, -stopping abruptly, and facing him, as he turned, in the defiant way he -remembered from the theatre days. - -“You ’re an odd girl,” he said. - -“You don’t suppose I wear this disgusting bonnet and get hustled by -roughs and blackguarded by women because I like it! I haven’t been -converted, and I don’t shriek out ‘Hallelujah,’ and I won’t,--but I earn -an honest living at the Shelter during the day, and at night I come out. -It’s the beastliest thing I can think of doing,” she repeated. “If I -knew of anything beastlier I’d do it. I ’ve had flames inside me since I -gave you away,--I’d have killed myself for you after,--and hell since I -went on the streets,--but I think the other was worse. I ’ve learned what -you felt like; now I’m trying to burn out the fire--” - -“Stop for a moment,” he said, with a queer catch in his throat. “Do you -mean you are doing this for your own inner self?” - -“Yes,” she replied, her direct intuition divining the implied -alternative. “I don’t know much about Jesus and my immortal soul. -That ’ll come. I want one day to be able to remember that I loved -you--without hating myself and feeling sick with the shame and the -horror of it all. You may think me a silly fool if you like, but that’s -why I’m doing it. Let us walk on. We need n’t attract attention.” This -was wise; for more than one passer-by had turned round, struck by the -two intent white faces. Joyce obeyed passively, but continued for some -moments to look down upon her in great wonder. An idea, which he became -dimly aware had been struggling for birth in the dark of his soul for -the past two hours, dawned upon him amid a strange, exulting excitement. -Suddenly he took her by the arm and held it very tightly. She looked up -at him, astonished. - -“What is the matter with you?” - -“Do you know what you have done tonight?” he said, in a shaking voice. -“You have shown me how to burn out my hell too. You have retrieved any -wrong you have done me. If my forgiveness is worth having, you have it, -from the depths of my soul.” - -He was strangely moved. In the impulse of his exaltation, he drew -her quickly into the gloom of a doorway--the pavement was momentarily -deserted--and kissed her. She uttered a little cry and shrank back. - -“Is that for forgiveness?” - -“Yes,” he cried; and then he broke from her abruptly, and went on along -the pavement with great strides. - -He was no longer uncertain. The problem of his life was solved. His mind -was crystal clear. At last the time had come for the great atonement to -his degraded self, the supreme sacrifice that should clear his being of -stain. - -At last he could perform that act of renunciation that would give -the strength back into his eyes to meet calmly the scrutiny of his -fellow-man. Renunciation! The word rang in his ears and echoed to his -footsteps. - -He did not doubt that it would not be to Yvonne’s lesser happiness to -regain her lost environment of luxury and tender care. On the other -hand, he judged her rightly enough to know that she would have found -compensating pleasures in a life of privation with himself. Had it not -been so, mere manliness would have decided in the Bishop’s favour. In -perfect fairness (he saw now), he could have claimed her. His sacrifice -was made in pure loyalty to his conscience. - -And it had been reserved, too, for that ignorant, wayward woman, who had -groped her unguided way thus grotesquely to the Principle, to have led -him thither and revealed its elemental application. He felt a stirring -of shame that strengthened his manhood. - -The rain had stopped. The clouds broke and drifted across the heavens, -and a misty moon appeared at intervals, shedding its pale light upon the -unlovely thoroughfare. A fresh breeze sprang up and made Joyce, in his -wet things, shiver with cold. At the nearest tavern he stopped, entered, -called for some hot spirits, this time from no temptation to drown care, -and asked for writing materials. Then, in the midst of the noise of -thick voices and clatter of drinking vessels, he wrote at a corner of -the bar his letter of renunciation. - - Dear Everard,--I accept your letter in the spirit in which - it was written. I put the sweetest and purest of God’s - creatures into your keeping. Cherish her. - - Yours sincerely, - - Stephen Joyce. - - -A few minutes afterwards he dropped it into a pillar-box. The faint -patter of its fall inside struck like a death-note upon his ear, shocked -him with a sense of the irrevocable. Now that the act of renunciation -was accomplished, he felt frightened. The immensity of his sacrifice -began to loom before him. He became conscious of the dull premonitions -of an agony hitherto undreamed of, for all his suffering in the past. - -Shiveringly he bent his steps homeward. The gas was burning dimly in the -sitting-room. As was usual on the rare occasions when he had spent the -evening out, Yvonne had brought down his bedroom candle and had laid his -modest supper neatly for him. His slippers were warming by the fire. At -the sight, his pain grew greater. Having taken off his wet boots and lit -his candle--he could eat no supper--he turned off the gas, and went out -of the room. On the landing outside Yvonne’s door were the tiny shoes -she had placed there for Sarah to clean. He looked at them for a second -or two and mounted the stairs hurriedly. - -In the shock and excitement of battle a man can bear the amputation of -a mangled limb without great suffering. It is afterwards that the agony -sets in, when the nerves have quieted to responsiveness. So it was with -Joyce on that sleepless night of his great renunciation, and with his -misery was mingled despair lest all should prove to be futile, his -theory of renunciation; a ghastly fallacy. Time was when he would have -mocked at the proposition. Could he even now defend it upon rational -grounds? Had he not cut off his leg to compensate for the loss of an -arm, thereby adding to the gaiety of the high gods? He tossed about in -the bed in anguish, “burning out his hell.” - -A man of sensitive, emotional temperament, however, cannot pass through -such an ordeal unchanged. Some fibres must be shrivelled up, whilst -others are toughened. Joyce rose in the morning with aching head and -exhausted nerves, but still with a dull sense of calm. Fallacy or not, -at any rate he had chosen the man’s part. The consciousness of it was an -element of strength. He dressed and went downstairs. - -Yvonne was already in the room, neat and dainty as usual, making the -toast for breakfast. She was pale and had the faint rings below the -eyes that ever tell tales on a woman’s face. She looked round at him -anxiously, as she knelt before the fire. He saw her trouble and went and -sat in the armchair beside her and spread out his hands to warm them. - -“You have been worrying, my poor little Yvonne,” he said gently. “I was -a selfish beast to let you think I wanted to make up my mind, when -my course was so plain. I wrote to Everard last night. I told him to -cherish the treasure that he has got. You shouldn’t have worried over -it.” - -Yvonne turned away her face from him, and remained silent for some -moments, half kneeling, half sitting, the toasting-fork drooping idly -from her hand. - -“It was foolish of me,” she replied at last “But it seemed hard to leave -you alone--and I ’ve got so used to this little place--one gets attached -to places, like a cat--Did you--were you sorry to give me away?” - -“Of course,” said Joyce. “I thought we could go on being brother and -sister till the end of all things. Well, all things have an end, and -this is it.” - -“You would not prefer me to stay?” asked Yvonne, in her soft voice. - -He would have given his soul to have been able to throw his arms round -her, passionately and wildly--she was so near him, so maddeningly -desired. Did she realise, he wondered, what flame was in her words? He -leaned back in the chair, as if to avert the temptation by increasing -the distance between them. - -“No,” he said, with a sharp breath, “I could not--it will be a wrench -breaking up the--partnership. But it is all for the best. I know you -will be happy and cared for, and that will be a happiness to me.” - -Sarah brought in the breakfast and retired. They sat down to table. -Somehow or other the meal proceeded. Two things had come by post for -Joyce, one a belated but laudatory notice of “The Wasters,” the other -a cheque from the office of a weekly paper. He passed them both to her, -according to custom. - -“You mustn’t bother about me at all, Yvonne. I am in a different way of -business altogether from what I was when we first started housekeeping. -The new book will do ever so much better than ‘The Wasters.’ I shall -miss you terribly--at first--but it will all dry straight, Yvonne. I -dare say I shall go on living here. Runcle and I are immense pals, you -know--perhaps I may go into partnership with him and bring some modern -go-ahead ideas into the concern--become a Quaritch or Sotheran--who -knows? Yes, I should n’t like to leave these quaint, dear old rooms,” - he said, looking round, anywhere but in Yvonne’s face, with an air of -cheerfulness that he felt in his heart must be ghastly. “Something of -you and your dear companionship will linger about them. I shall pretend, -like the ‘Marchioness,’ that you are with me.” - -He passed his tea-cup, and, meeting her eyes, tried to smile. The comers -of her lips responded bravely. - -“And at last you will come into indisputed possession of your -furniture,” she said. - -He had not the heart to protest. So they continued to talk in this light -strain of the coming parting, until Joyce, looking at his watch, found -it was time to go down to the shop. At the door, on his way out, he -paused to relight his pipe. Then, without trusting himself to look -round, he left her. But if he had turned he would have seen her grow -suddenly very white, clutch the mantel-piece for support with one hand -while the other pressed her bosom hard, and sway for a second or two -with shut eyes. - -Downstairs he resumed his unfinished task of the evening before. He -worked at it doggedly, trying not to think. But it was as futile as -trying to hold one’s breath beyond a certain period. - -“Yvonne is going--to marry Everard--going for ever--I shall be -alone--she will lie in his arms--I shall go mad--God help me--if it -is more than I can bear, there is a way out--I can keep up till she -goes--she shall not know--afterwards.” His brain could not work beyond. -The same thoughts throbbed with almost rhythmic recurrence as he priced -and catalogued the books. Once he opened a tattered “Marcus Aurelius”:-- - -“If pain is an affliction, it must affect either the body or the mind; -if the body is hurt, let it say so; as for the soul, it is in her power -to preserve her serenity and calm, by supposing the accident no evil.” - -He laughed to himself mirthlessly, and threw the book on the fourpenny -heap. “Or pretending, like the Marchioness,” he said. He was scarcely in -a mood for “Marcus Aurelius.” - -A messenger-boy appeared with a letter for Madame Latour. Joyce sent it -up to her by the shop-boy, who presently brought down a reply note. The -preparations for her departure had begun. Joyce’s heart seemed set in a -vice and he nearly cried aloud with the pain. - -The hours wore on; the piles of books were disposed of; nothing to do, -but wait for customers. To keep himself employed he copied untidy pages -of his manuscript. He went up for dinner. Yvonne was more subdued than -at breakfast, and they scarcely spoke. When the meal was over, she told -him quietly of the letter she had received. - -“Everard says that he is getting the special licence to-day, and the -marriage will take place to-morrow at St Luke’s, Islington. Considering -the circumstances, he thinks it best that there should be no delay.” - -“It is just as well,” he replied. “When changes come, it is best -that they should come swiftly. Has he made any more definite -arrangements--the hour?” - -“He will send me a message later.” - -“You will have to put up your things. If I can help you, Yvonne--” - -“Thanks--no. I have so little. The few odds and ends I shall leave -you--as mementoes. You would like to keep them, would n’t you?” - -“Thank you, Yvonne,” he said, turning away. They had spoken in subdued -voices, as folks do when discussing funeral arrangements. Joyce, blinded -and dazed by his misery, was unperceptive of her joylessness. At the -most, he was conscious of a seriousness that, under the circumstances, -was not unnatural. His own pain he hid with anxious effort. - -The afternoon hours passed. He lit the gas in the shop, and proceeded -with whatever mechanical employment he could find. It was a relief to be -alone. The old man’s gossip would have jarred upon him, driven him up -to the sitting-room where the ordeal was fiercest, or out into the -hard-featured streets. He would have two or three days of solitude -before Runcle returned from Exeter. - -Messages came from the Bishop. One for Yvonne. Another for him, -acknowledging his letter, announcing that the hour of noon had been -fixed upon, shortly before which time a carriage would be sent to convey -Yvonne to the church, and begging him in most courteous terms to assist -at the ceremony and give Yvonne away. An echo of the Salvation -Army girl’s voice came back to him, and he smiled grimly. “It’s the -beastliest thing I can do.” - -He scribbled a line of acquiescence and gave it to the waiting -messenger-boy. “I had not thought of the dregs,” he said to himself. - -That evening they sat drearily in their accustomed places by the -fireside, each knowing it to be their last together. Night after night -they had spent in each other’s society, Yvonne sewing or reading or -dreaming in a lazy, contented way, Joyce writing upon a board laid -across his knees. Sometimes she would come and lean over the back of his -chair and watch the words as they came from his pen, her soft wavy black -hair very near his fair, close-trimmed head. - -“Send me away if I’m worrying you,” she used to say. - -Whereupon he would laugh happily and answer:-- - -“See how beautifully I am writing. I should never have thought of that -remark if you had not been there.” - -“I like to play at feeling a guardian angel,” she said once. - -“You can feel it without the playing,” he replied, drawing his head -aside and looking round at her. “When your wings are over me like that, -I do work that I could n’t do unaided.” - -And she had blushed and felt very happy. - -But now, on this last evening, they sat apart--half the world already -between them--and talked constrainedly, with long silences. For the -greater part of the time he shaded his face with his hand, sparing -himself the sight of her hungered-for sweetness and saving her the sight -of the hunger he felt was in his eyes. When at last she rose to bid him -good-night, he nerved himself to meet her gaze calmly. And then for the -first time he was shocked at the change that the night and the day had -wrought in her. - -She stood before him, infinitely sweet and simple; but more wan even -than she had been on that day in the hospital when she had learned the -loss of her voice. For the still unvanished pathos of childhood that had -then smoothed her face was gone, and the sterner pathos of the woman’s -experience had taken its place. Yet the interpretation did not come to -him. - -“My poor child,” he said. “You are scarcely strong enough yet to bear -such an upheaval as this. Try to have a good sleep.” He held the door -for her to pass out. And then with a great gulp, he continued, “You must -look your best to-morrow.” - -He caught her soft cold hand, put it to his lips, and shut the door -quickly. The prison seemed as comfort when compared with this torment. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIII--AN END AND A BEGINNING - -In the middle of the night he broke down utterly. - -If he had been a strong man he would not have yielded to the series of -temptations that had culminated in his crime and his disgrace. Or, -passing that, his spirit would not have been broken during the months of -his punishment If he had been even of slightly robuster fibre, the sense -of degradation would not have palsied his life. He would have gone at -once to a new land and made himself master of his destiny. A strong man -would not have been found by Yvonne, that August morning, sitting, a -self-abhorring outcast before his rich uncle’s door. He would not have -lost his wit and courage, when assailed by his prison companion at Hull. -He would not have joined fortunes with Noakes in their futile African -expedition. A strong man would not have clung for comfort and moral -support to the poor ridiculous creature, his own protection of whom was -that of the woman rather than that of the man. A strong man would not -have yielded to the numbing despair of the after solitude in Africa, nor -writhed that night in agony of spirit upon the lonely star-lit veldt And -lastly, a strong man would not have had that terror of loneliness which -had made him in the first place cling to Yvonne much as a child, afraid -of the dark, clings to the hand of another child weaker than itself. - -By the law of evolution the strong survive and the weak die. But in the -eternal struggle between humanity and the pitiless law, conditions are -modified, and the sympathy of the race, that expression of revolt which -we call civilisation, gives surviving power to the weak, so that not -only the strong man has claims to life and love. And when the weak man -strives with all his quivering fibres towards strength, he is doing a -greater deed than the strong wot of. - -So Joyce, fool or hero, had performed an act of strength beyond his -nature. The strain of the day had been intense. Every nerve in his body -was stretched to breaking-point. At last, in the middle of the night, as -he was pacing the room, one of them seemed to snap, and he fell forwards -on to the bed and broke into a passion of sobbing. Ashamed he buried -his face in the blankets and bit them with his teeth. But a grown man’s -sobbing is not to be checked, like a child’s. It is a terrible thing, -which comes from the soul’s depths and convulses flesh and spirit to -their foundations; and it is horrible to hear. The shuddering heaves -came into his throat and forced their way in sound through his lips. -And the utterances of pain came from him, inarticulate prayers to God -to help him, and half-stifled cries for his love and for Yvonne. But he -knew that he was wrestling with his spirit for the last time, and that, -after this paroxysm of agony, would come calm and strength to meet his -fate. - -And Yvonne, clad in dressing gown and bare-footed, with her hair about -her shoulders, stood trembling outside his door and heard. Although his -room was not immediately above hers, being over the sitting-room, yet in -her sleeplessness she had listened for hours and hours to his movements. -At last, obeying an incontrollable impulse, she had crept up the stairs. -A long time she waited, her hand upon the door, his name upon her lips, -shaking from head to foot with the revelation of the man’s agony. Every -sound was like a stab in her tender flesh. The warm, impulsive old -Yvonne within her would have burst at the first sob into his room, -but the newer womanhood held her back. When all was silent she crept -downstairs again into her bed, and lay there, throbbing and shivering -until the morning. - -And Joyce, unconscious that she had been so near to him, that had he but -opened his door, he would have been caught in her arms and been given -for all eternity that which he was renouncing, lay down in his bed -exhausted, and when the morning was near at hand, sank into heavy sleep. -He awoke later than usual. The water that Sarah had put for him was -nearly cold. He drew up the blind and saw a cheerless grey morning--a -fitting dawn for his new life. The minor details of the day before him -presented themselves painfully. The first was the necessity of being -well shaven, groomed and dressed. He drew from the drawer the clothes of -decent life that he could now so seldom afford to wear. The last time -he had put them on was three weeks ago, when he had taken Yvonne to a -ballad concert at St. James’s Hall. He remembered how, in her bright -way, she had said, on their way thither, “You look so handsome and -distinguished, I feel quite proud.” - -And now he was to wear them at her wedding with another man. And he was -to give her away. - -He had regained his nerve, felt equal to the task. After dressing with -scrupulous care, he slowly went down to breakfast,--his last breakfast -with Yvonne. He contemplated the fact with the fatalistic calmness with -which men condemned to death often face their last meal on earth. Yvonne -had not yet appeared. Sarah had not even brought up the breakfast. He sat -down and waited, unfolded his halfpenny morning paper and tried to read. -After a time he became aware that he was studying the advertisements. So -he laid it aside. - -Presently he went up to his room to get a handkerchief, and on his -return to the landing he noticed that Yvonne’s bedroom door was ajar. -She was stirring, evidently. He knocked gently and called her name. -There was no reply. Perhaps she was still sleeping, he thought; but it -was odd that her door should be open. He returned to the sitting-room, -wandered about nervously, looked out of the window into the dismal -street. The pavement was wet, people were hurrying by with umbrellas up, -the capes of drivers gleamed miserably in the misty air. He turned away -and put some coals on a sulky fire, and again took up the paper. But -an undefined feeling of uneasiness began to creep over him. It was long -past nine o’clock. He went again and knocked at Yvonne’s door. It opened -a little wider and he saw by the light in the room that the blind had -been drawn up. He called her in loud tones. His voice seemed to fall in -a void. Agitated, he ventured to take a swift glance into the room. The -bed was empty. There was no Yvonne. - -He went back and rang the bell violently. After a short interval Sarah -appeared, leisurely bringing in the breakfast-tray. - -“Where is Madame Latour?” asked Joyce. “Oh, she went out early, and said -you weren’t to wait breakfast for her.” - -“At what time did she go out?” - -“Shortly after eight.” - -“Thank you,” said Joyce. - -“I think she was took ill, and was going to see a doctor,” said Sarah, -unloading the tray noisily. - -“Did Madame Latour tell you so?” - -“No. But she was looking so bad I was frightened to see her.” - -“Very well,” said Joyce, not wishing to show the servant his agitation. -“She will be back soon. Yes, you can leave the breakfast.” Sarah quitted -the room with her heavy, scuffling step. Joyce remained by the fire -tugging at his moustache, his mind filled with nameless anxieties. The -presentiment of ill grew in intensity. Why had Yvonne left the house at -that early hour? Sarah’s suggestion was manifestly absurd. If Yvonne had -been poorly, she would have sent for a doctor. Yet the servant’s last -remark frightened him. He remembered Yvonne’s pallor of the night before. -A dreadful surmise began to dawn upon him. Had he been blind, all the -way through, and condemned her to a fate impossible to bear? Once, -in South Africa, he had seen an innocent man sentenced to death. The -picture of the man’s face in its wistful despair rose before him. It was -terribly like Yvonne’s. Had she, then, pronounced sentence on herself? - -He walked to and fro in feverish helplessness, his heart weighed down by -the new load. The cheap American clock on the mantel-piece struck ten. -There came, soon after, a knock at the door. Joyce sprang to open it. -But it was only the boy from the shop wanting to know if any one -was coming down. Joyce put his hand to his forehead. He had entirely -forgotten Mr. Runcle’s absence and his own consequent responsibility. - -“You can take the money for any book outside, Tommy,” he said, after -a little reflection. “If a customer wants anything inside, come up and -call me.” - -The boy went away, proud at being left in charge. Joyce filled a cup -with the rapidly cooling coffee, and drank it at a draught. The minutes -crept on. If his wild and dreadful fancies were groundless, where could -Yvonne be? She could not have chosen a time before the shops were open -to make any necessary purchases before the ceremony. Or had she gone out -of the house so as to avoid spending a painful morning in his company? -But that was unlike Yvonne. At last he descended, and stood bareheaded -in the raw air, gazing up and down the street. - -“I ‘ve taken eightpence already,” said the boy, handing him a pile of -coppers. - -Joyce took them from him absently, and put them in his pocket, while -Tommy went back to his seat on the upturned box, and resumed his -occupation of blowing on his chilled fingers. No sign of Yvonne. -Several passers-by turned round and looked at Joyce. In his well-fitting -clothes, and with his refined, thorough-bred air, he seemed an -incongruous figure standing hatless in the doorway of the dingy -secondhand book-shop. - -Presently he became aware of an elderly man trying to pass him. He -stepped aside with apologies, and followed the customer. - -“Are you serving here?” asked the latter, with some diffidence. - -On Joyce’s affirmative, he enquired after two editions of “Berquin,” - which he had seen in Runcle’s catalogue. Joyce took one from the -shelves,--the original edition. It was priced two guineas. The customer -haggled, then wished to see the other. As this was on the top shelf at -the back part of the shop, Joyce had to mount the ladder and hunt for it -in the dusky light. While thus employed, he felt something sweep against -the foot of the ladder, and, looking down, he saw Yvonne. She shot a -quick upward glance, and hurriedly disappeared. - -His heart gave a great bound as he saw her, and he dropped the books he -was holding. He could not seek any more for the “Berquin.” In another -moment he was by the side of the customer. - -“We must have sold the other copy. How much will you give for this?” - -“Thirty-five shillings.” - -“You can have it,” said Joyce. - -Never was book tied up at greater speed. He thrust it into the man’s -hand, received the money without looking at it, and left the elderly man -standing in the middle of the shop, greatly astonished at the haste of -the transaction. - -Joyce flew up the stairs into the sitting-room. - -“Oh, where--” he began. - -Then he stopped, dazed and bewildered, for Yvonne, her arms -outstretched, her head thrown back, her lips parted, and a great -yearning light in her eyes, came swiftly to him from where she stood, -uttering a little cry, and in another moment was sobbing in his arms. - -“Oh, my love, my dear, dear love!” she cried, “I could not leave -you--take me--for always. I love you--I love you--I could n’t leave -you!” - -“Yvonne,” he cried hoarsely, his pulses throbbing like a great engine’s -piston-rod, in the tremendous amazement, as he held her--how tightly he -did not know--and gazed down wildly into her face, “Yvonne, what are -you saying? What is it? Tell me--for God’s sake--the marriage--Everard?” - Then she threw back her head further against his arm, and their eyes met -and hung upon each other for a breathless space. And there was that in -Yvonne’s eyes--“the light that never was on sea or land”--that no man -yet had seen or dreamed of seeing there. The straining, passionate love -too deep for smiling, glorified her pure face. - -“There will be no marriage,” she murmured faintly, still holding him -with her eyes, “I went to Everard this morning.” - -She raised her lips almost unconsciously toward him, and then the man’s -whole existence was drowned in the kiss. - -For many moments they scarcely spoke. Passion plays its part in swift -burning utterances and tumultuous silences. At last, she freed herself -gently and moved towards the fire. But only to be taken once again into -his clasp. - -“Oh, my darling, my darling, is this joy madness, or is it real?” - -“It is real,” said Yvonne. “Nothing can ever part us, until we die.” - -He helped her off with her hat and jacket and led her to the great -armchair by the fire and knelt down by her side. - -“Oh, Stephen dear,” she said in piteous happiness, “it has been such -suffering.” - -“My poor child,” he said tenderly. - -“I did n’t know that you cared about me--in this way--until last night. -I tried to make you tell me--Stephen darling, why didn’t you? I was -bound to go to Everard--I had promised, and he wanted me--and what could -I tell him? I could n’t say to him, dear, that I would go on for ever -living on your dear charity, a burden upon you--yes, in a sense I must -be one--rather than keep my promise and marry him, could I, dear? -I could only refer him to you--and when you said I must go, it was -miserable, for I hungered all the time to stay. And I knew you were sad, -it was natural--but I thought you found you did not love me enough to -want me as a wife and felt it your duty to give me up. Why did you give -me up when you loved me so?” - -“I will tell you all, some day, dear, not now,” said Joyce. “But one -thing--I did not know either that you loved me--like this. When did you -begin to love me, Yvonne?” - -“I think I must have begun in the years and years ago--but I only knew -it last night--knew it as I do now,” she added, with a tremor in her -voice. - -She closed her eyes, gave herself up for a flooded moment to the -lingering sense of the first great kiss she had ever given. And before -she opened them, the memory had melted into actuality as she felt his -lips again meet hers. - -“Thank God, I have got you, my own dear love,” she murmured. “It has -been a hard battle for you--this morning. I went out as soon as I -dared--to go to him. I seemed to be going to do an awful thing--to -give him that pain for our sakes. He told me I had not treated him -wickedly--but I felt as if I had been committing murder, until I saw -your face at the door. I told him all--all that I knew about my own -feelings and yours. I said that you did not know I loved you--that your -noble-heartedness was making the sacrifice--that I would marry him and -leave you and never see you again, and be a devoted wife to him, if he -wished it, but that my love was given to you. And he looked all the -time at me with an iron-grey face, and scarcely spoke a word. Tell me, -Stephen dear, does it pain you to hear?” - -“No,” said Joyce, softly. “Your heart has been bursting with it. It is -best for us to share it, as we shall share all things, joy and pain, to -the far end.” - -“I shall feel lighter for telling you. It was so terrible to see -him--oh, Stephen, if I had not loved you, I couldn’t have borne it--he -seemed stricken. Oh, why is there all this pain in the world? And to -think that I--Yvonne--should have had to inflict it--either on him, -who has been good and kind to me, or on you, whom I love better than -I thought I could love anything in the world! And when I had ended, -he said, ‘He is young, and I am old; he has had all the sufferings and -despair of life, and my lot has been cast in pleasant places; he has -come out of the furnace with love and charity in his heart, and I have -pampered my pride and uncharitableness. Go back to him--and I pray God -to bless you both.’ He spoke as if each word was a knife driven into -him--and his face--I shall never forget it--it seemed to grow old, and -ashen, and hardened.” - -She covered her face with her hands for a moment, and then, suddenly, -the memory of the night flashing through her, she dashed them away with -a woman’s fierceness and clasped his head. - -“But your need was greater, a million times greater than his,” she cried -in ringing tones, “and your sufferings greater, and your heart nobler, -and I should have died if I had not come to you--you are my king, my -lord, my God, my everything.” - -***** - -In the formally appointed hotel sitting-room, where Yvonne had twice -parted from him, sat Everard Chisely, with grey, withered face. The blow -had fallen heavily. He had hungered for her of late years with a poor, -human, unidealising passion. The pitifulness of it had galled his pride, -and he had striven to put her out of his thoughts. He had lived an -austere life, seeking in an unfamiliar asceticism to conquer the -inherited, unregenerate cravings for a fuller aesthetic and emotional -existence. Yet he had longed intensely for the death of the man who -stood between himself and Yvonne. Twice a year his agent in Paris had -reported news of Amédée Bazouge. Such communications he had opened with -trembling fingers: the man was still alive; he prayed passionate prayers -that the murder in his heart might not be counted to him as a sin. At -last, in the New Zealand spring, came the news of Bazouge’s death. His -blood tingled like the working sap in the trees. He could not wait. He -came and found Yvonne. - -For thirty-six hours he had become a young man again, treading on air, -hurrying on events with a lover’s impatience. And now the crash had -come. He was an old man. He sat by his untasted breakfast, and covered -his face in his hands. His life rose up before him, self-complacent, -dignified, immaculate. Yet, somehow, he felt like a Pharisee. He was a -Churchman first, a Christian afterwards. His religion had given him very -little comfort. It had taken Yvonne from him once, at a time when -he might have won her to him forever, and it had brought him no -consolation. A man does not often get a glimpse at his own soul; when he -does, he finds it rather a pitiable sight. The Bishop saw in its depths -poignant regret that he then had not loved the woman enough to sin for -her sake. And there, too, was revealed to him miserably that outraged -pride, disillusion, the traditions of social morality, the authority of -the Church’s ordinances--all externals--had been the leading factors of -his life’s undoing. A great wish rose amid the bitterness of his heart -that he had been, like Stephen, one of the publicans and sinners, upon -whom could shine the Light of the World. - -***** - -Joyce and Yvonne were married one morning quietly at a registrar’s, -and came back to continue the day’s routine. The old bookseller did -not appear astonished when Joyce informed him of the unusual change of -relationship. - -“You have both had your troubles,” he said, shrewdly, looking up over -his spectacles, and keeping his thumb in the volume of Origen he was -reading. “Any one can see that. You would n’t be here otherwise. And -I’m not enquiring into them. But I hope they’re ended. And now,” he -continued, rising with an old man’s stiffness, “I ’ve got some old -Madeira that I bought thirty years ago with a job-lot of things out of a -gentleman’s chambers, and I’d like to open a bottle in your honour.” - -Joyce brought Yvonne down to the back-parlour. The wine came out of -the dirt-encrusted bottle like sunshine breaking through a cloud, and -gladdened their hearts. And that was their marriage feast. Thus began -the wedded life of these two. Years of struggle, poverty, and ostracism -lay before them. They faced it all fearlessly. To each of them the -long-denied love had come, at last, new and vivifying, changing the -meaning of existence. Yet the final word of mutual revelation awaited -the loosening touch. It came with tragic unexpectedness. - -One evening, not long after their marriage, Joyce, looking through the -shop copy of “The Islington Gazette,” caught the head-line, “Salvation -lassie commits suicide in New River.” A presentiment of what would -follow flashed upon him. It was true. Annie Stevens had killed herself. - -“Good God!” he said involuntarily. - -Yvonne looked up from her sewing, and grew alarmed at the distress on -his face. - -“What is it?” - -He was silent for a few moments. To tell her would involve long -explanations. Yvonne knew of Annie Stevens in connection with his -disgrace on the tour of “The Diamond Door,” but he had not spoken of -after meetings. Yvonne put her work aside, in her quick way, and came -and sat down on the footstool by his feet. As he bent and kissed her, she -drew his arm round her neck, holding his hand. - -“What has pained you?” - -And then he told her the whole of the girl’s miserable story, her love -for him, her degradation and downfall, and her wild idea of atonement. - -“And this is the end,” he said, showing her the paragraph. - -“Poor girl!” said Yvonne, deeply touched. “It was so pathetically -impossible, was n’t it?” - -“Yes, dear,” Joyce answered. “I, too, know that.” - -“What?” - -“The tragic futility of such self-crucifixion. I have never told you the -history of that night--why I gave you up--and the part this poor dead -girl played in it.” - -In a low voice, he went over the old ground of degradation and his -longing for atonement, and briefly laid before her the facts of his -renunciation. - -“I know now,” he concluded, “that it could only add misery to misery. -Nothing that a man or a woman alone can do can restore lost honour and -self-reverence. No fasting or penance or sacrifice is of any use.” - -Yvonne drew her face away from him, so as to see him better. Pain was in -her eyes. Her lips quivered. - -“Then--Stephen--dear--is it still the same with you about the -prison--the old horror and shame?” - -“My dearest,” he said tenderly, “I said man alone was powerless. It is -the touch of your lips that has wiped away all stain for ever.” - -They looked deep into each other’s eyes for a long, speechless moment -And then Yvonne, like a foolish woman, fell a-sobbing on his knees. - -“Oh, thank God, my dear, thank God!” she said. - - - - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Derelicts, by William J. 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Locke - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - -Title: Derelicts - -Author: William J. Locke - -Release Date: November 10, 2017 [EBook #55927] -Last Updated: April 29, 2018 - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DERELICTS *** - - - - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by Google Books - - - - - - -</pre> - - <div style="height: 8em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h1> - DERELICTS - </h1> - <h2> - By William J. Locke - </h2> - <h4> - Author of “At The Gate of Samaria” and “The Demagogue - and Lady Phayre” - </h4> - <h4> - John Lane: The Bodley Head London and New York - </h4> - <h3> - 1897 - </h3> - <div class="fig" style="width:50%;"> - <img src="images/0010.jpg" alt="0010 " width="100%" /><br /> - </div> - - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - <b>CONTENTS</b> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_PART"> <b>Part I</b> </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I—BEYOND THE PALE </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II—YVONNE </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III—IN THE DEPTHS </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV—DEA EX MACHINA </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V—THE COMIC MUSE </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI—MELPOMENE </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII—A FORLORN HOPE </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII—THE CANON’S ANGEL </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX—PAST, PRESENT, AND FUTURE </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X—COUNSELS OF PERFECTION </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI—THE OUTCAST COUSIN </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII—HISTOIRE DE REVENANT </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII—Dis Aliter Visum </a> - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_PART2"> <b>Part II</b> </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XIV—“IN A STRANGE LAND” - </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER XV—KNIGHT-ERRANT </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER XVI—LA CIGALE </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER XVII—YVONNE PROPOSES </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER XVIII—DRIFTWOOD </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER XIX—FERMENT </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER XX—UPHEAVAL </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER XXI—A DEMAND IN MARRIAGE </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0022"> CHAPTER XXII—SEEKING SALVATION </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER XXIII—AN END AND A BEGINNING </a> - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_PART" id="link2H_PART"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - Part I - </h2> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER I—BEYOND THE PALE - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>arm day” - said the policeman. - </p> - <p> - The man thus addressed looked up from the steps, where he was sitting - bareheaded, and nodded. Then, rather quickly, he put on his hat. - </p> - <p> - “Not much Bank Holiday hereabouts.” - </p> - <p> - “So much the better,” said the man. - </p> - <p> - “It’s all very well for them as likes it,” said the - policeman, wiping his forehead. - </p> - <p> - It was the first Monday in August, and his beat was not a lively one. - Curiosity had attracted him toward the sitting figure, and the social - instinct prompted conversation. Receiving, however, an uninterested nod in - reply to his last remark, he turned away reluctantly and continued his - slow tramp up the street. - </p> - <p> - The man took no notice of his departure, but, resting his chin on his - hands, gazed wistfully across the road. Why he had come here to Holland - Park he scarcely knew. Perhaps, in his aimless walk from his lodgings in - Pimlico, he had unconsciously followed a once familiar track that had - brought him to a spot filled with sweet and bitter associations. - </p> - <p> - The blinds were drawn in the great house opposite that stared white in the - noonday sun. A beer-can hanging on the area railings announced the - caretaker. Like most of the mansions in the long, well-kept street, it - seemed abandoned to sun and silence. - </p> - <p> - It was the first time he had seen the house since the cloud had fallen - upon his life. Once its interior had been as familiar to him as his own - boyhood’s home. Its inmates gave him flattering welcome. He was - courted for his brilliant promise and admired for his good looks. A - whisper of feasting and riotous living that hovered around his reputation - caused him to be petted by the household as the prodigal cousin. The - comforts of wealth, the charm of refinement, the warmth of affection, were - his whenever he chose to knock for admittance at that door. Now he had - lost them all, as irrevocably as Adam lost Eden. He was an outcast among - men. Not only had he forfeited his right to mount the steps, but he knew - that the very mention of his existence in that household brought shame and - fierce injunctions of silence. - </p> - <p> - He gazed at the drawn blinds of the deserted house in an agony of - hopelessness, craving the warm sympathy, the laughter, the dear human - companionship, the mere sound of his Christian name which he had not heard - uttered for over two years—ever since he had entered by that gate - above which the <i>lasciate ogni speranza</i> seemed written in letters of - flame. The lines deepened on his face. The touch of a friendly hand, a - kind glance from familiar eyes, the daily, unnoted possession of millions, - were to him a priceless treasure, forever beyond his reach. He was barely - thirty. His life was wrecked. Nothing lay before him but pariahdom, and - slinking from the gaze of honest men. And within him there burnt no fiery - sense of injustice to keep alive the flame of noble impulse—only - self-contempt, ignominy, the ineffaceable brand of the gaol. - </p> - <p> - It was on the pavement opposite that he had been arrested. He had tripped - down the steps in evening dress, his ears buzzing with the laughter - within, in spite of tremulous throbbings of his heart, and had walked into - the arms of the two quiet officers in plain clothes who had been patiently - awaiting his exit. From that moment onward his life had been one pain and - horror. Regained freedom had brought him little joy—had brought him - in fact increased despair. During the last few months of his imprisonment - he had yearned sickeningly for the day of release. It had come. Sometimes - he regretted the benumbed hours of that mid-time in gaol, when pain had - been lost in apathy. He had been free for five months. In all probability - he would be free for the rest of his life. Sometimes he shuddered at the - prospect. - </p> - <p> - The policeman again passed by, and this time eyed him askance. Why was he - sitting on those steps? A suspicion of felonious purpose relieved the - monotony of his beat. - </p> - <p> - “You ’ll be moving on soon,” he said. “You mustn’t - doss on them doorsteps all day.” - </p> - <p> - The man looked at him rather stupidly. His first impulse was one of - servile obedience—an instinct of late habit, and he rose from - his seat. Then his sense of independence asserted itself, and he - said, in a somewhat defiant tone:— - </p> - <p> - “I felt faint from the heat. You have no right to molest me.” - </p> - <p> - The policeman glanced at him from head to foot. A gentleman evidently, in - spite of well-worn clothes and gloveless hands thrust into trousers - pockets. He wore no watch-chain, and his shirt-cuffs were destitute of - links. “Down upon his luck,” thought the policeman; “ill - too.” The man’s face was pinched, and of the transparent white - of a thin, fair man with delicately cut features. His eyes were heavy, - deeply sunken, and wore an expression of weariness mingled with fear. The - side muscles by his mouth were relaxed, as if a heavy drooping moustache - had dragged them down; the scanty blonde hair on his upper lip, curled up - at the ends, contrasted oddly with this impression. He looked careworn and - ill. His clothes hung loosely upon him. The policeman surrendered his - point. - </p> - <p> - “Well, you ain’t obstructing the traffic,” he replied - good-humouredly; and again he left the man alone, who reseated himself on - the shady steps, as if disinclined to stir from comfortable quarters. But - the spell of his meditations had been broken. He leaned his head against - the stone pillar of the balustrade and tried to think of occupation for - the day. He longed for to-morrow, when he could resume his weary search - for work, interrupted since Saturday noon. At first he had plunged into - the hopeless task with feverish anxiety, humiliated by rebuffs, agonised - through the frustration of idle hopes. Now it had grown mechanical, a - daily routine, devoid of pain or joy, to drag himself through the busy - streets from office to office and from shop to shop. He resented the - Sunday cessation of work, as interfering with the tenor of his life. This - Bank Holiday added another Sunday to the week. - </p> - <p> - The heat and glare and soundless solitude of the street made him drowsy. - The thought of death passed through him: an euthanasia—to fade there - peacefully out of existence. And then to be picked up dead on a doorstep—a - fitting end. <i>Finis coronat opus</i>. He sniffed cynically at the idea. - The minutes passed. The shade gradually encroached upon the sunlight of - the pavement. A cat from one of the great deserted houses drew near with - meditative step, smelt his boots, and, in the bored manner of her tribe, - curled herself up to slumber. A butcher’s cart rattling past awoke - the man, and he bent down and stroked the creature at his feet. Then he - became aware of a figure approaching him, along the pavement—a tiny - woman, neatly dressed. He watched her idly, with lack-lustre gaze. But - when she came within distance of salutation, their eyes met, and each - started in recognition. He rose hurriedly and made a step as if to cross - the road, but the little lady stopped still. - </p> - <p> - “Stephen Chisely!” - </p> - <p> - She moved forward and laid a detaining touch upon his arm, and looked up - questioningly into his face:— - </p> - <p> - “Won’t you speak to me?” - </p> - <p> - The voice was so soft and musical, the intonation so winning, that he - checked his impulse of flight; but he stared at her half bewildered. - </p> - <p> - “You haven’t forgotten me—Yvonne Latour?” she - continued. - </p> - <p> - “Forgotten you? No,” he replied, slowly. “But I am not - accustomed to being recognised.” - </p> - <p> - “The world is very full of hateful people,” she said. “Oh! - how wretchedly ill you are looking! That was why you were sitting down on - the doorstep. My poor fellow!” - </p> - <p> - There was a suggestion of tears in her eyes. He turned his head away - quickly. - </p> - <p> - “You mustn’t talk to me like that,” he said, huskily. - “I’m not fit for you to speak to. When I went under, I went - under—for good and all. Good-bye, Madame Latour—and God bless - you for saying a kind word to me.” - </p> - <p> - “Why need you go away? Walk a little with me, won’t you? We - can go along to the Park and sit quietly and talk.” - </p> - <p> - “Do you really mean it—that you would walk with me—in - the public streets?” - </p> - <p> - “Why, of course,” she replied, with a little air of surprise. - “Did we not have many walks together in the old days? Do you think I - have forgotten? And you want friends so, so badly that even poor little me - may be of some good. Come.” - </p> - <p> - They moved away together, and walked some steps in silence. He was too - dazed with the sudden realisation of his yearning for human tenderness to - find adequate speech. At last he said harshly:— - </p> - <p> - “You know what you are doing? You are in the company of a man who - committed a disgraceful crime and has rotted in a gaol for two years.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah, don’t say such things,” said Madame Latour. “You - hurt me. There are hundreds of people in this great London, honoured and - respected, who have done far worse than you. Hundreds of thousands,” - she added, with exaggerated conviction. “Besides, you are still my - good, kind friend. What has passed cannot alter that.” - </p> - <p> - “I can’t understand it yet,” he said lamely. “You - are the first who has said a kind word to me.” - </p> - <p> - “Poor fellow!” said Yvonne again. - </p> - <p> - They emerged into the Bayswater Road. Before he had time to remonstrate, - she had hailed an omnibus going eastward. “We will get out at the - corner of the Park. You mustn’t walk too much.” - </p> - <p> - The ’bus stopped. He entered with her and sat down by her side. When - the conductor came for the fares, Yvonne opened her purse quickly; but a - flush came over her companion’s pale face as he divined her - intention. “You must let me,” he said, producing a couple of - pence from his pocket. - </p> - <p> - The rattling of the vehicle prevented serious conversation. The talk - drifted naturally into the desultory commonplace. Madame Latour explained - that she had been giving the last singing lesson of the season at a house - on the other side of Holland Park, that her pupil had neither ear nor - voice, and that by the time she had learned the accompaniment to a song it - had already grown out of date. “People are so stupid, you know.” - </p> - <p> - She said it with such an air of conviction, as if she had discovered a - brand-new truth, that the man smiled. She noted it with her quick, - feminine glance, and felt gladdened. It was so much better to laugh than - to cry. She was encouraged to chatter lightly upon passing glimpses of - people in the street, of amusing incidents in her profession as a concert - singer. When the ’bus stopped, she jumped out, disregarding his - gravely offered hand, and laughed, her face glowing with animation. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, how nice it is to be with you again!” she said, as they - crossed to the entrance gate of Kensington Gardens. “Say that you - are glad you met me.” - </p> - <p> - “It is like a drop of water on the tongue of the damned,” he - said in a low voice—too low, however, for her to hear, for she - continued to look up at him, all smiles and sweetness. - </p> - <p> - She seemed a thing of warmth and sunshine, too impalpable for the rough - uses of the world. One would have said she was the embodied spirit of the - warm south of Keats’s ode. Her dark hair, massed in a hundred little - waves over her forehead and temples, gave an indescribable softness to her - face. A faint tinge of rose shone through her dark skin. Her great brown - eyes contained immeasurable depths of tenderness. A subtly-mingled, - all-pervading sense of summer and the exquisitely feminine enveloped her - from the beautiful hair to her tiny feet. She was in the sweetest bloom of - her womanhood and she had all the unconscious, half-pathetic charm of a - child. In a crowded ball-room, amidst dazzling dresses and flashing arms - and necks and under the electric light, Yvonne’s beauty might have - passed unnoticed. But there, in the shady walk upon which they had just - entered, in that quiet world of cool greens and shadowed yellows, she - appeared to the man’s weary eyes the most beautiful thing on the - earth. - </p> - <p> - “How sweet it is here,” she said, as they sat down upon a - bench. - </p> - <p> - “Incomprehensibly sweet,” he replied. - </p> - <p> - His tone touched her. She laid her tiny gloved hand upon his arm. - </p> - <p> - “I wish I could help you—Mr. Chisely,” she said gently. - </p> - <p> - “That is no longer my name,” he said. “And so you must n’t - call me by it. I have given it up since—since I came out. Would you - care to hear about me? It would help me to speak a little.” - </p> - <p> - “That’s why I brought you here,” said Yvonne. - </p> - <p> - He bent forward, elbows on knees, covering his face in his hands. - </p> - <p> - “I don’t know, after all, that there’s much to say. My - poor mother died while I was in prison—you know that; I suppose I - broke her heart. Her money was sunk in an annuity. The furniture and - things were sold to pay outstanding debts of mine. I came out five months - ago, penniless. Everard’s bankers communicated with me. As the head - of the family he had collected a lump sum of money, which was given to me - on condition that I should change my name and never let any of the family - hear of my existence again. My mother’s people refused to have - anything to do with me. God knows why I was sitting outside their house - to-day. Perhaps you think I ought n’t to have accepted Everard’s - gift. A man hasn’t much pride left after two years’ hard - labour.... I took the name of Joyce. I saw it on a tradesman’s cart - as I reached the street after the interview. One name is as good as - another.” - </p> - <p> - “But you are still Stephen?” said Yvonne. - </p> - <p> - “I suppose so. I have hardly thought of it. Yes, I suppose I keep - the Stephen.... I am husbanding this money. I have only that between me - and starvation, if anything happened, you know. What I have passed through - is not the best thing for one’s health. Meanwhile, I am trying to - get work. It is a bit hopeless. I know I ought to go out of England, but - London is in my blood somehow. I am loth to leave it. Besides, what should - I do in the colonies? I am not fit for hard manual labour. They tried it - in there, and I broke down; I made sacks and helped in the kitchen most of - my time. If I could earn a pound a week in London, I should n’t - care. It would keep body and soul together. Why I should want to keep them - together I don’t know. I suppose my spirit is broken, and I am too - apathetic to commit suicide. If I had the spirit of a louse I should do - so. But I haven’t.” - </p> - <p> - He stopped speaking and remained with his head bowed in his hands. Yvonne - could find no words to reply. His almost brutal terseness had given her a - momentary perception of his self-abasement which surprised and frightened - her. Generous and tender-hearted as she was, she had ever found men - insoluble enigmas. They knew so much, had so many strange wants, seemed to - exist in a world of ideas, feelings, and actions beyond her ken. Here was - one with nameless experiences and shames. She shrank a few inches along - the seat, not from repulsion, but from a sudden sense of her own - incapacity of comprehension. She felt tongue-tied and helpless. So there - was a short silence. - </p> - <p> - Joyce noticed the lack of spontaneous sympathy, and, raising a haggard - face, said:— - </p> - <p> - “I have shocked you.” - </p> - <p> - “You talk so strangely,” said Yvonne—“as if you - had a stone instead of a heart.” - </p> - <p> - “Forgive me,” he said, softening at the sight of her distress. - “I am ungrateful to you. I ought to be happy to-day. I will be - happy. I should like to bend down and kiss your feet for sitting here with - me.” - </p> - <p> - The change in his tone brought the colour back into Yvonne’s face - and the sun into her eyes. She was a creature of quick impulses. - </p> - <p> - “Have I really made you happy? I am so glad. I seem to be always - trying to make people happy and never succeeding.” - </p> - <p> - “They must be strange people you have dealt with,” said Joyce - with a weary smile. - </p> - <p> - She shrugged her shoulders expressively. - </p> - <p> - “I suppose it is that other people are so strange and I am so - ordinary.” - </p> - <p> - “You are the kindest, sunniest soul on earth,” said Joyce. - “You always were.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, how can you say so?” she cried, shaking her head. She was - all brightness again. “I am such an insignificant little person. - Everything about me seems so small. I have a small body, a small voice, a - small sphere, a small mind, and oh! I live in such a small, tiny flat. You - must come and see me. I will sing to you—that is my one small talent—and - perhaps that will cheer you. You must be so lonely!” - </p> - <p> - “Why are you so good to me?” Joyce asked. - </p> - <p> - “Because you look wretched and ill and miserable.” she said - impulsively, “and I can’t bear it. You were good to me once. - Do you remember how kindly you settled everything for me after Amédée left - me? I don’t know what I should have done without you. And then, your - mother. Ah, I know,” she continued, lowering her voice a little, - “I know, and I cried for you. I saw her just before the end came and - she spoke of you. She said 'Yvonne, if ever you meet Stephen, give him a - kind word for my sake. He will have the whole world against him.’ - And I promised—but I should have done just the same if I had n’t - promised. There is n’t any goodness in it.” - </p> - <p> - He pressed her hand dumbly. Her eyes swam with starting tears, but his - were dry. Sometimes when he thought of the devastation his crime had - wrought, he would fall on his knees and bury his face, and long that he - could ease his heart in a storm of weeping. But it seemed too dead for - passionate outburst. Yet he had never felt so near to emotion as at that - moment. - </p> - <p> - They talked for a short while longer, of old days and home memories, - bitter-sweet to the young man, and of his present position, whose - hopelessness Yvonne refused to allow. She was anxious to effect a - reconciliation between him and his family. His mother’s relations - who lived in Holland Park she did not know. But his cousin, Everard - Chisely, Canon of Winchester, might be brought to more Christian - sentiments of forgiveness. She would plead with the Canon the first time - that she met him. But Joyce shook his head. No. He was the black sheep. - Everard had behaved generously. He must go his own way. No modern - Christianity could make a man forget the disgrace that had been brought - upon his name by felony. Besides, Everard never went back upon his word. - Like Pilate, what he had written, he had written, and there was an end of - the matter. - </p> - <p> - “But how do you come to know Everard?” asked Joyce, wishing to - turn the conversation. - </p> - <p> - “I met him several times at your mother’s,” replied - Yvonne. “He used to be so kind to her. And there he heard me sing—and - somehow we have become immense friends. He comes to see me, and I sing to - him. Dina Vicary says he comes up to town on purpose. Did you ever hear - such a thing? But I can’t tell you how respectable it makes me feel—so - impressive you know—a real live dignitary. Once he came when Elsie - Carnegie and Vandeleur were there showing me her new song and dance. You - should have seen their faces when he came in. Van, who sings in the choir - of a West End church, began to talk hymns for all he was worth, while - Elsie flicked her lighted cigarette into a flower-pot. It was so funny.” - </p> - <p> - Yvonne broke into a contagious ripple of laughter. Then, remembering the - flight of time, she looked at her watch and rose quickly from the seat. - </p> - <p> - “I had no idea it was so late! I am going out to lunch. Now you will - come and see me, won’t you? Come to-morrow evening. I live at 40 - Aberdare Mansions, Marylebone Road. By the way, do you still sing?” - </p> - <p> - “I had forgotten there was such a thing as song in the world,” - said Joyce sadly. - </p> - <p> - “Well, you ’ll remember it to-morrow evening,” said - Yvonne. “I have an idea. <i>Au revoir</i> then.” - </p> - <p> - “God bless you,” said Joyce, shaking hands with her. - </p> - <p> - She nodded brightly, and tripped away up the path. Joyce watched her - dainty figure until it was out of sight, and then he wandered aimlessly - through the Park, thinking of the past hour. And, for a short while, some - of the contamination of the gaol seemed to be wiped away. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER II—YVONNE - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>hat evening Yvonne - was standing by the door of a concert-hall, as her friend and - fellow-artist Vandeleur adjusted a red wrap round her shoulders. He was a - burly, pudding-faced Irishman with twinkling dark blue eyes and a - persuasive manner. His fingers lingered about the wrap longer than was - necessary. - </p> - <p> - “Good-bye,” said Yvonne, “and thank you.” She was - feeling a little upset. Vandeleur, a popular favourite, had preceded her - on the programme, and his song had been met with rapturous applause. - </p> - <p> - “You have ‘queered’ me, Van,” she had said, in - pure jest. - </p> - <p> - Whereupon, he had returned to the platform to give his enthusiastically - demanded encore, and, to the disappointment of the audience, had sung the - most villainous drawing-room ballad he could think of, without an attempt - at expression. The applause had been perfunctory, and Yvonne’s - appearance had created a quickening of interest. Vandeleur’s - unnecessary quixotism put Yvonne into a false position. So she thanked him - shyly. - </p> - <p> - “Let me just have ten minutes of a cigarette at home with you,” - he pleaded. - </p> - <p> - Yvonne was tired. It was very hot; she had been running hither and thither - about London since the morning, and was longing in a feminine way to free - herself of hampering garments, and to lie down with a French novel for an - hour before going to bed. But when a man spoke to her with that note of - entreaty in his voice she did not know how to refuse. She nodded assent. - Vandeleur called a cab and they drove together to her flat. - </p> - <p> - It was up many flights of stairs—the passage was very narrow, the - drawing-room very tiny. The big Irishman standing on the hearthrug seemed - to fill all the space left by the grand piano. How this article of - furniture was ever brought into the flat puzzled Yvonne’s friends as - much as the entrance of the apples into the dumplings puzzled George III., - until some one suggested the same solution of the problem—the flat - had been built round the piano. Everything else in the room was small, - like Yvonne herself, the armchairs, the couch, the three occasional - tables. A few water-colours hung around the walls. The curtains and - draperies were fresh and tasteful. All the room, with its dainty furniture - and pretty feminine knick-knacks, was impressed with Yvonne’s - graceful individuality—all except the immense grand piano, which - asserted itself loudly, a polished rosewood solecism. It seemed such a - very big instrument for so small a person as Yvonne. - </p> - <p> - She threw herself into an armchair by the fire, with a little sigh. She - had been unusually quiet during the drive home. - </p> - <p> - “And what’s making you miserable?” asked Vandeleur, in a - tone of concern. - </p> - <p> - “I wish you had n’t done that, Van,” she said, with a - wistful puckering of her forehead. - </p> - <p> - “Ah, there! now you’re vexed with me. There never was an - animal like me for treading on my dearest friends. I’m like the - elephant you may have heard of, that squashed the mother of a brood of - chickens by mistake, and, taking it to heart, just like me, gathered the - little ones under his wing, and, sitting down upon them, said: ‘Ah, - be aisy now, I’ll be a mother to you’; he did n’t hurt - the chickens’ feelings exactly—but it was mistaken kindness. - Was it your feelings I trampled on?” - </p> - <p> - “Ah, no, Van,” said Yvonne, smiling. “But don’t - you see, it was doing a thing I can never pay you back for.” - </p> - <p> - “Faith, the sight of your sweet face is payment enough.” - </p> - <p> - “But you can have that for nothing—such as it is.” - </p> - <p> - “It’s the sweetest face that ever was made,” said the - Irishman, flinging a freshly-lighted cigarette into the grate behind him. - “I’d cut off my head any day to get a sight of it But are you - wanting to pay me more than that? By my soul, there’s just an easy - way out of your difficulty, Yvonne!” - </p> - <p> - He looked down at her, his face very red, and questioning in his eyes. She - caught his glance and sat upright, stretching out her hand appealingly. - Men had looked at her like that before,—craving for something she - had not in her to give. She had always, on such occasions, felt what a - shallow, poverty-stricken little soul she was. What was in her that could - bring the trouble into men’s eyes? Here was Van, the kind friend and - good comrade, going the way of the others. She was frightened - and distressed. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, Van, don’t!” she cried. “Not that. I can’t - bear it!” - </p> - <p> - She covered her face with her hands, as he came quickly forward and leaned - over her chair. “Just a tiny bit of love, Yvonne. So small that you - would n’t miss it. I could do with it all, but I know I can’t - get that. I only ask for a sample. Come, Yvonne.” - </p> - <p> - But Yvonne shook her head. - </p> - <p> - “Don’t, Van,” she repeated, piteously; “you’re - hurting me.” - </p> - <p> - Her tone was so pathetic that the big man drew himself up, thumped his - chest, and seized his hat. “I’m a great big brute to come and - take advantage of you like this. Of course you couldn’t care about a - great fat bounder like me. And you’re half dropping with weariness. - It’s a villain I am. I’ll leave you to your sleep, poor little - woman. Good night.” - </p> - <p> - He held out his hand, and she allowed hers to remain in it for a moment. - </p> - <p> - “I have n’t been ungrateful to you, have I?” she asked. - “I did n’t mean to be. But I thought you were different.” - </p> - <p> - “How, different?” - </p> - <p> - “That you would never make love to me. Don’t, Van, please. It - would spoil it all.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, perhaps it would,” replied Vandeleur, philosophically. - “Only it is so devilish hard not to make love to you when one’s - got the chance. And, begad! if you’d just give up looking like a - little warm, brown saint, it would be better for the peace of mind of the - men.” - </p> - <p> - He stooped and touched her hand with his lips and strode buoyantly out of - the room. She heard him humming one of his songs along the passage, then - the slam of the front door; then there was silence, and Yvonne went to bed - with a grateful sense of escape from unknown dangers. Still, she was sorry - for Vandeleur, although she had a dim perception of the superficiality of - his passion. It would have been nice, had it been possible, to make him - happy. She had a queer, unreasonable little feeling that she had been - selfish. She sighed as she settled herself to sleep. The ways of the world - were very complicated. - </p> - <p> - To those who knew her it was often a subject for marvel that she was not - crushed in the fierce struggle of life. A creature so yielding, so simple, - so unaffected by experience or the obvious external lessons of the world, - and yet standing serenely in the midst of the turmoil, seemed an - incongruity—gave a sense of shock, a prompting to rescue, such as - would arise from the sight of a child in the middle of a roadway clashing - with traffic. She was made for protection, tenderness, all the sheltering - luxuries and amenities of life. It was a flaw in the eternal fitness of - things that she was alone, earning her livelihood, with nothing but her - sweetness and innocence to guard her from buffeting and downfall. - </p> - <p> - Yet it was her very simplicity that saved her from outward strain; and - inward stress was as yet spared her, through her unawakened -child's nature. She laughed when folks pitied her. To earn her living was an easy - matter. Born in the profession, trained for it from her earliest days, she - had taken to it as a young swan to the water. Engagements came like the - winds, the visits of her friends, and other such natural and commonplace - phenomena. She sang, or gave her lessons, and the money was paid in to the - branch of the City Bank close by her flat, and when she needed funds for - her modest expenses she wrote a cheque and sent her maid to cash it When - her balance was getting low, she practised little economies and postponed - payment of bills; when it was high, she settled her debts, bought new - clothes, and had a dozen oysters now and then for supper. It was very - simple. She did not pity herself at all. Nor did she feel the trouble of - her past married life. It had gone by like a cloudy day, forgotten in - succeeding sunshine, and had left singularly little trace upon her - character. Even the period of unhappiness had not weighed unduly. A more - resistful nature might have been wrecked irretrievably; but Yvonne had - been cast upon the shoals only for a season. - </p> - <p> - When Amédée Bazouge, a Parisian tenor who had settled in London, first met - her, he was surfeited with various blonde beauties of the baser sort, and - in a sentimental mood, during which he frequently invoked the memory of - his mother, he chose to fall desperately in love with little brown Yvonne, - likening her to the Blessed Virgin and as many saints as he recollected. - Yvonne was very young; this sudden worship was new to her; the pain in his - heart that he so passionately dwelt upon seemed a terrible thing for her - to have caused. She married him because he said that his life was at - stake. She gave him herself as she would have given sixpence to a poor man - in the street. Why she was necessary to his life’s happiness she - could not guess. However, Amédée said so, and she took it on faith. - </p> - <p> - For a while she was mildly content in his exuberant delight. He whispered, - in soft honeymoon hours, “<i>m’aimes-tu?</i>”—and - she said “Yes,” because she knew it would please him; but she - was always happier at other times, when she was not called upon for - display or expression of feeling. She liked him well enough. His somewhat - common handsomeness pleased her, his effervescent fancy and boulevard wit - kept her lightly amused, and his vehement passion provided her with an - interest strangely compounded of fright, wonder, and pity. - </p> - <p> - But Amédée Bazouge was not made either by nature or education for the - domestic virtues. His repentant mood passed away; he forgot the memory of - his mother, and found Yvonne’s innocence grow insipid. He hankered - after the strange goddesses with their full-flavoured personalities, their - cynicism, their passions, and their stimulating variety. Regret came to - him for having broken with the last, who always kept him in a state of - delicious uncertainty whether she would overwhelm him with passionate - kisses or break the looking-glass in a tempest of wrath. So, gradually, he - sought satisfaction for his reactionary yearnings and drifted away from - Yvonne. And then she grew unhappy. He did not treat her unkindly. In all - their dealings with each other a harsh word never passed the lips of - either. But she felt cold and neglected. Instead of being met after a - concert and accompanied to their little house at Staines, she went the - long journey alone. The quiet evenings of music and singing together were - things of the past. Often a week elapsed without their meeting. To - complete her trouble, her mother died suddenly, and Yvonne felt very - lonely. She would sit sometimes and cry like a lost child. - </p> - <p> - At last they parted. Amédée returned to Paris, and Yvonne took her little - flat in the Marylebone Road. The clouds passed by and Yvonne was happy - again. She had retained professionally her maiden name of Latour, and now - she assumed it altogether, only changing the former “Mademoiselle” - into “Madame.” Her husband faded into a vague memory. When she - received news of him it was through a paragraph in the “Figaro,” - announcing his death in a Paris hospital. She wore a little crape bonnet - to notify to the world the fact of her widowhood, but she had no tears to - shed. When friends condoled with her over her sad lot, she opened her - round eyes in astonishment. - </p> - <p> - “But, my dear, I am as happy as I can possibly be,” she would - say in remonstrance. And it was true. She had come through the ordeal of - an unhappy marriage, pure and childlike, her heart unruffled by passion - and her soul unclouded by disillusion. - </p> - <p> - There are some women born to be loved by many men, yielding, trustful, - appealing irresistibly to the masculine instincts of protection and - possession. Sometimes they are carried off by one successful owner and - bear him children, and hear nothing of the hopeless loves that they - inspire. Sometimes, like Yvonne, they are at the mercy of every gust of - passion that stirs the hearts of the men around them. They are too - innocent of the meaning and scope of love to bide the time when love shall - take them in its grip; too weak, tender, and compassionate to harden their - hearts against the sufferings of men. If they fail, the world is unsparing - in condemnation. If happy circumstance shelters them, they are canonised - for virtues that stop short of their logical conclusion. Wherefore we are - tempted to say hard things of the world. - </p> - <p> - Fate, however, had dealt not unkindly with Yvonne. At times her path had - been sadly tangled and she had sighed, as she did this night after - Vandeleur’s unexpected declaration. But chance had always come to - her aid and cleared her way. She trusted to it now as she fell asleep. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER III—IN THE DEPTHS - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>f you step this - way, the manager will see you,” said the clerk, lifting the flap of - the counter. - </p> - <p> - Joyce rose from the cane-bottomed chair on which he had been sitting, and - followed the clerk through the busy outer office into the private room - beyond. An elderly man in gold spectacles looked up from his desk. - </p> - <p> - “What can I do for you?” - </p> - <p> - “I am seeking employment,” said Joyce, “can you give me - any?” - </p> - <p> - “Employment?” - </p> - <p> - If Joyce had asked him for Prester John’s cap, or the Cham of - Tartary’s beard, his tone could not have expressed more surprise. - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” replied Joyce. “I don’t mind what it is—clerk, - copyist, handy-man, messenger—so long as it’s work.” - </p> - <p> - “Utterly impossible,” said the manager, shortly. - </p> - <p> - “Would it be of any use to leave my address?” asked Joyce. - </p> - <p> - “Not a bit. Good day to you.” - </p> - <p> - Joyce walked out apathetically on to the landing. It was a nest of city - offices in a great block of buildings in Fenchurch Street, a labyrinth of - staircases, passages, and ground-glass doors black-lettered with the names - of firms. He was going through them systematically. Often he could not - gain access to a person in authority. When he succeeded, it was the same - history of rebuff. He felt somewhat downcast at the result of this last - interview, the cheerful alacrity with which he had been received having - given him an unreasonable hope. He paused for a few moments deciding upon - what door to try next. Some names looked encouraging, others forbidding—a - futile superstition, yet one not without influence upon his unfed mind. - Why “Griffith & Swan” should have attracted and “Willoughby - Bros.” repelled him is a psychological problem that must forever - remain insoluble. It is none the less a fact that he bent his steps along - the passage to the door of the first-mentioned firm. But there he was - repulsed at the outset. The chiefs were engaged. Had he an appointment? - </p> - <p> - What was his business? The only way to see the chiefs was by writing to - fix an interview. Joyce retired, climbed wearily up the stone staircase to - the next floor. Everywhere the same monotonous result. - </p> - <p> - At last his application was seriously entertained. His heart beat - anxiously. It was at a firm of shipping agents. Two clerks had gone on - their holiday, another one had just that morning fallen ill. They were - short-handed. The junior partner, a brisk young fellow, looked shrewdly at - Joyce, divining his education and capacity. - </p> - <p> - “I could give you some temporary work, certainly. Only too glad, for - we are in a hole. But of course we must have some references.” - </p> - <p> - “I am afraid I can give you none,” replied Joyce. “I - have had a good education and business training, and I could do your work. - But I’m a lonely man—without friends.” - </p> - <p> - “What have you been doing lately for a living.” - </p> - <p> - The matter-of-fact question turned his heart sick. He had known that he - would have to answer it before he could enter upon any employment; but he - had always shrunk from formulating a plausible reply, weakly trusting to - his mother-wit when the dreaded moment should come. Now his mother-wit - deserted him. He could think of nothing but the past reality. - </p> - <p> - “I would rather tell you nothing about myself,” he said - lamely. - </p> - <p> - The young partner shrugged his shoulders good-humouredly. - </p> - <p> - “Well, that’s your affair. But you see we can’t take a - stranger into our office without his giving us some formal voucher for his - honesty.” - </p> - <p> - Joyce looked at him appealingly, with glistening eyes, a new Moses on - Mount Nebo. Only then did he fully realise the utter hopelessness of his - position. The veriest office-boy needed a certificate of character. He had - none. - </p> - <p> - The partner, clean-shaven, ruddy-cheeked, was lounging against the - mantel-piece, hands in pockets, a whimsical smile playing around the - comers of his mouth. His speech, though business-like, was kindly. He - looked a gentleman. Joyce was seized with a mad, despairing impulse. He - flushed to the roots of his hair, clenched his hands by his sides and - advanced an involuntary step towards his interlocutor. - </p> - <p> - “I will tell you the truth,” he cried breathlessly. “I - must find work soon or I shall starve. Give it to me and I will work night - and day for you. I took a double first at Oxford. I practised as a - solicitor. I lived beyond my means and misappropriated trust-money. I - could not pay it back. My name was struck off the rolls and I had two - years’ hard labour. I have been looking for work every day for five - months. I am not such a fool as to risk that hell again. For God’s - sake give me a chance and set me on my feet again.” His voice rang - with the agony of entreaty. His lips quivered. When he ceased speaking he - was shaking from head to foot. - </p> - <p> - The young man shifted the crossing of his feet and put up an eyeglass that - had been dangling on his waistcoat. - </p> - <p> - “Well, you have pretty damned cheek, I must say!” he remarked, - with a drawl. - </p> - <p> - Joyce stared at him for a moment stupidly, and then turned away without a - word, crushed and humiliated to his soul. Round and round the rectangular - well-staircase he went, dizzy with the reaction. He could knock at no more - doors. The names seemed to swell large and to jeer at him as he passed. A - burst of laughter from two men, issuing from some office above, echoed and - rattled down the staircase and jarred upon every nerve of his body. He - quickened his pace to a run, and did not stop until he reached the - sweltering street. White and faint he leant against the wall, vaguely - conscious of the ceaselessly hurrying mass that passed him by. After a - minute or two he recovered self-possession enough to move onwards with the - westward stream on the pavement. His quest of work was abandoned. He could - only feel sickening regret for having given way to his insane impulse and - shrink from the echoing tones of the other man’s cynical contempt. - The last shred of his self-respect was torn away. He seemed to be the - naked gaol-bird before those thousand eyes that glanced upon him. The idea - grew into morbid exaggeration. A man or woman making way for him to pass - appeared to be shrinking from the soil of his touch. Every policeman was - identifying him. A penny-toy man by the Mansion House, who had taken off - his cap and was scratching a closely-cropped head, grinned at him with the - familiarity of an old acquaintance. - </p> - <p> - It became unbearable. He fled into a public-house in Cheapside and ordered - a glass of whisky. The spirit ran through his veins comfortingly. He drank - another, and went out into the street. Soon the spirit, acting on an empty - stomach, dulled his senses and provoked a vague suggestion of debauch as - the only consoler. In the days of his vanity Joyce had known the flush of - wine on joyous nights, but drunkenness had always been hateful to him. Yet - now, in his morbid state, the temptation was irresistible. He went from - tavern to tavern with dull, stupid recklessness, cognisant only of the - motive to drink and of his own mechanical personality. At last, staggering - out of a public-house in Fleet Street, he tripped at the threshold and - fell insensible on the pavement. - </p> - <p> - When he recovered consciousness it was quite dark. For a few moments he - did not seek to discover where he was. But a chance movement caused him - nearly to fall from where he lay, and he started to a sitting posture. His - feet touched the ground sooner than he expected; the slight shock - completed his awakening. Where was he? He stretched out his hand and felt - the wall. It was stone. Stone, too, was the floor, as he found by stamping - his foot. Then the truth burst upon him with indescribable terror. It was - the cell of a police station. Although his head swam and his eyeballs - ached, the flight of the discovery had thoroughly sobered him. It was the - final calamity and degradation of the day. He was in prison again. He - would again have to put on the hateful clothes and cower beneath the - warder’s glance. Once more he would have to go through that dreadful - ignominy. Exaggerating the consequences of his misdemeanour, he conjured - up all the horrors of his previous term. A sense of utter self-loathing - swelled within him like a nausea. He crouched on the narrow bench, holding - his hair in a feverish grasp. The gaol had got him, body and soul. It was - all that he was fit for. - </p> - <p> - An hour passed. Then the door opened and a policeman appeared in the light - of the passage. Joyce looked up at him haggardly. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, you’re all right now, are you? Better come up and see the - Inspector.” - </p> - <p> - Joyce staggered to his feet and clutched the policeman’s supporting - arm. - </p> - <p> - “I was in great trouble,” he said hoarsely. “And then - the heat—an empty stomach—a few glasses knocked me over.” - </p> - <p> - “Explain that upstairs,” replied the other. “Bless you, - it ’ll be all square.” - </p> - <p> - Brought before the Inspector, he pulled himself together and pleaded his - cause with an intensity that amused the officials. They could see nothing - tragic in a “drunk and incapable.” - </p> - <p> - “Very well,” said the Inspector at last. “I see it was - an accident. Call it heat-apoplexy. I sha’n’t charge you. You - had better get home to bed.” - </p> - <p> - Joyce grew faint with the revulsion of feeling, and steadied himself by - the iron railing. One of the men took him to the door, hailed a passing cab - and helped him in. At first, ill and dizzy as he was, he felt the animal’s - instinctive joy in suddenly regained liberty. The non-fulfilment of his - agonising forebodings filled him with a wondering sense of relief. But - this did not last long. Despair and self-abhorrence resumed their hold upon - him, causing him to shiver in the cab as with an ague. - </p> - <p> - He crawled upstairs to his attic, and after having procured some food, of - which he ate as much as he could swallow, he went to bed and fell into a - heavy sleep. In the middle of the night he woke with a start. The - recollection of his engagement with Yvonne Latour had penetrated through - the sub-consciousness of half-awakening. He uttered a cry of dismay. - </p> - <p> - All the previous evening and all that morning he had thought of the - promised visit. To sit in a lady’s room, to live for a moment a bit - of the old life, to forget his pariahdom in Yvonne’s welcoming - smile, to have the comfort of her exquisite pity—the prospect had - rendered him almost buoyant during the early part of his round. But the - pain and fever of after-events had driven her from his mind. Now, in his - suffering state, it seemed as if he had lost an offered corner of - Paradise, rejected the one hand that was stretched out to save him from - perdition. He lay awake many hours. At last, toward dawn, he fell asleep - again and did not wake till mid-day. - </p> - <p> - He rose, rang for his breakfast, which was brought him, as usual, on a - tray, by the slatternly maid-of-all-work. He was still feeling prostrated - in mind and body. Having eaten what he could, he drew up the blind to look - at the day. The fine weather was still lasting. But he felt no desire to - go out. What was the use? Judging by the lesson of yesterday it would be - futile to continue his search for employment. As he turned away from the - window, he caught sight of his white haggard face and bloodshot eyes in - the mirror, and he shrank back, as though it revealed to him the miserable - weakness of his soul. Then he threw himself half-dressed upon the bed, and - there he remained, abandoning himself to the hopeless inaction of defeat, - and eating his heart out in remorse for the shipwreck he had made of his - life. - </p> - <p> - He did not pose before himself as a victim to circumstance. Could he have - done so, he might have found some poor consolation. His criminal folly lay - as much upon his soul as its punishment. Again, it had not been a grand - stroke of villainy requiring for its execution a masterly coolness and - genius for which he might at least have had an intellectual admiration. - But it had been of the same petty sort as that of the shop-boy led astray - by low turf associates, who pilfers day by day from his master’s - till, hoping the luck will turn and enable him to replace the stolen - shillings. The difference had been merely one of degree. His operations - had been on a larger scale, his vices more fastidious, his circle of loose - friends more aristocratic. But he had had the same contemptible motives - for his crime, and the same contemptible excuses. He spared himself no - arrow of self-scorn. - </p> - <p> - Latterly, through sheer weariness, he had grown apathetic, taking his - self-abasement as one of the conditions of life. A man is not - physiologically capable of continuous outburst. But now the iron had - entered deep into his soul, causing him to writhe in torment. - </p> - <p> - What would be the end? The question haunted him, and yet it seemed - scarcely worth consideration. There was no employment to be obtained by - such as he. He would eke out his small capital as far as possible, and - when that was exhausted, he could put an end to his worthless life. Or - would his cowardice drag him down among the class of habitual criminals, - lead him to crime as a means of livelihood? He shuddered, remembering his - short spell of agony in the cell of yesterday. - </p> - <p> - The hours passed. Towards evening he dressed himself and went out to a - dingy Italian restaurant near Victoria station, where he usually dined. On - coming out again into the street he hesitated for some time as to what he - should do next. He thought of Yvonne with wistful longing, but had not the - courage to go and seek her. The sense of degradation was too strong upon - him. He shrank with morbid sensitiveness from taking advantage of her - guilelessness by bringing his contamination into her presence. For, - paradoxical as it may seem, an instinctive pride still remained in the - man. Had he chosen to lay it aside, doubtless more than one of his former - friends would have consented to receive him on some sort of terms of - acquaintanceship. But he had sought out none, and if chance brought him - into sight of a familiar face in the street, he effaced himself and - hurried on. Yvonne was the only figure out of the past with whom he had - communicated. And now he had cut himself adrift from her. - </p> - <p> - After a few undecided turns up and down the pavement, he directed his - steps mechanically to a customary haunt of his, the billiard-room of a - public-house in Westminster. It was better than the wearying streets and - the choking solitude of his attic. A couple of shabby men in dingy - shirt-sleeves were playing at the table. On the raised divan, in the gloom - of the walls, sat a silent company of lookers-on. With a group of these, - Joyce exchanged nods, and took his place sombrely among them. They were a - depressed, out-at-elbows crew, who came here night after night, speaking - little, drinking less, and never playing billiards at all. They watched - the game, now and then applauded, oftener condoled with the loser than - congratulated the winner. They formed an orderly and appreciative gallery, - and set, as it were, a tone of decorum in the room; and for this reason - their presence was not discouraged by the landlord. Eight was their - average number. They were mostly men in the prime of life, and belonged, - as far as one could judge by their voluntary confidences, to the obscure - fringes of journalism, the stage, and independence. Those who occupied the - last position lived chiefly on their wives. There was a decayed medical - student who did Heaven knows what for a living, and a red-headed, vulgar - man, who gave out that he had thrown up a country rectorship, through - conscientious scruples. Differing widely as they did in personality, yet - they retained one common characteristic. Failure seemed written on each - man’s face. A kind of mutual affinity had drawn them together. To - Joyce’s cynical humour it appeared as if something more than mere - chance had caused him to stumble upon them one evening two months before. - </p> - <p> - “I’m afraid I have left my ’baccy at home,” said - the man sitting next to Joyce, who was filling his pipe. “Thank you - very much. A change in tobacco is very gratifying at times to the palate.” - </p> - <p> - He was a man of singular appearance. The bones in his face were very - large, the flesh scanty; his nose hooked, his eyebrows black and meeting. - His long upper-lip and his chin were shaven; but he wore thick black - mutton-chop whiskers which contrasted oddly with a bush of whitening hair - above his temples and at the back of his head. Whether he was bald or not, - no one ever knew, as he always retained his hat fixed in one - never-changing, respectable angle. This hat was very, very old, an - extravagantly curled silk hat of the masher days in the early eighties. - But the most striking feature of his costume consisted in a long thick - Chesterfield overcoat which he obviously wore without coat or waistcoat - beneath. In the sultry August weather the sight of him made the beholder - perspire. Although there was no trace of linen at his wrists or down the - arms as far as one could see, a dirty frayed collar and a shirt-front - adorned with a straight black tie appeared above the tightly buttoned - overcoat. Joyce knew him by the name of Noakes. - </p> - <p> - He looked at Joyce, as he spoke, out of pale-blue, unspeculative eyes, and - returned the tobacco-pouch. “You had better take another fill or - two, while you are about it,” said Joyce. - </p> - <p> - “I don’t like to trespass upon your generosity,” said - Noakes. But he helped himself plentifully, tying up the tobacco in his - pocket-handkerchief. They smoked on during a long silence, broken only by - the click of the billiard-balls, the monotonous cry of the marker, and - occasional murmurs of applause. The air was heavy with drink and - tobacco-smoke, fresh and stale. - </p> - <p> - “I must be getting back to work,” said Noakes at last. - </p> - <p> - The word roused Joyce from the lethargy into which he had fallen. He had - never associated Noakes with definite employment. For a moment he envied - him. - </p> - <p> - “I wish to heaven I could,” he said. - </p> - <p> - “A man of your attainments,” replied Noakes, respectfully, - “ought never to be at a loss. Now I should say you have been to a - public school?” - </p> - <p> - Joyce nodded. - </p> - <p> - “And the university?” - </p> - <p> - Joyce did not reply, but Noakes went on: “Yes; one can see it. - Somehow a man of acute observation can always tell. I remember your - correcting me the other night when I spoke of Plato’s dramatic - unities. I looked up the matter in the British Museum, and found that you - were right in attributing them to Aristotle. As I said before, a man of - your education ought to have no difficulty.” - </p> - <p> - “You might suggest something,” said Joyce, with a shade of - irony. - </p> - <p> - “Authorship.” - </p> - <p> - “Are you an author?” - </p> - <p> - “With all due modesty, I may say that I am,” returned Noakes, - gravely. “I don’t find it very remunerative, but I attribute - that solely to the deficiencies in my education.” - </p> - <p> - “What do you write?” asked Joyce, interested in spite of - himself in this odd, pathetic figure. - </p> - <p> - “I have adopted two branches of the profession—one, the - literary advertisement; the other, popular fiction.” - </p> - <p> - He drew a halfpenny evening paper from his pocket, and, designating a - half-column with his thumb, handed it to Joyce. It was headlined “Nihilism - in Russia,” opened with an account of Siberian horrors, and ended, - of course, with somebody’s pills. - </p> - <p> - “I always pride myself upon there being more literary quality in my - work than is usually given to that class of thing,” he remarked - complacently, while Joyce idly ran through the column. “And in my - fiction I always try to keep the best models before me, Stevenson and - Mayne Reid. I happen to have a copy of one of my latest works in my - pocket. Perhaps it might interest you to glance through it. In return for - the tobacco,—with the author’s compliments.” - </p> - <p> - Joyce received into his hands a thin volume in a gaudy paper wrapper. It - was entitled “The Doom of the Floating Fiend.” The printing, - in packed double-column, and the paper were execrable. The author’s - name did not figure beneath the title. From the most cursory glance - through the pages, Joyce could see they were deluged in blood. - </p> - <p> - “I shall be glad to read it,” he said, mendaciously, putting - it into his pocket. - </p> - <p> - “If you find anything noteworthy of criticism in my style, I should - feel grateful for you to tell me,” said Noakes. “My ambition - is to write some day for a more cultured public. I have a pastoral idyll - that I shall write when I have time. But, you see, there is a continuous - market for books of adventure.” - </p> - <p> - He spoke in a toneless, even voice, without a shade of enthusiasm or - regret appearing in his eyes. - </p> - <p> - “Do you think it would be of any use for an outsider to try it—one - not in the swim with the publishers?” asked Joyce, curiously. - </p> - <p> - “Certainly. But one needs the imaginative faculty. If you ’ll - look at my forehead, you will see I have it firmly developed. Allow me to - look at yours. Yes; I see it there. Once started, it is constant - employment. They pay half a crown per thousand words. I do my three - thousand a day.” - </p> - <p> - Noakes rose to depart. - </p> - <p> - “Thanks for the information,” said Joyce. “I may try my - hand. Won’t you have a glass with me before you go?” - </p> - <p> - “No, thank you,” said Noakes. “I find stimulants - interfere with brain-work. Good evening.” - </p> - <p> - Noakes gone, Joyce found himself next to the red-headed ex-rector, who was - fast asleep, his dirty, pudgy fingers clasped in his lap. He remained, - therefore, solitary, and after having looked for some time dejectedly at - the three ever-clicking balls on the table, he went out again into the - street. - </p> - <p> - Noakes’s hint had taken root in his mind. If that dilapidated man - could maintain himself honestly by “popular fiction,” surely - he could do so too. Off and on during the last five months he had striven - to write an article or short story, but his mind had refused to work. The - conviction that his intellect had been shattered during those two awful - years had added to his despair. But now he told himself that this was work - in which intellectual subtlety and fastidiousness would prove a hindrance. - The one thing needful was imagination: also a terrible faculty for - continuous quill-driving. To gain a livelihood there would have to be - written daily stuff equal to three columns of the “Globe” - newspaper. And seven-and-sixpence as the reward! A noble end, he thought - bitterly to himself as he walked along, to the ambition of Stephen - Chisely, double-first of New College, Oxford—to become a writer of - “penny bloods.” - </p> - <p> - Still, the suggestion had acted as a stimulus. When he entered his room, - he did not feel so broken and purposeless as when he had left it. The - intellectual effort he had made whilst walking home in scheming out an - experimental chapter had broken the spell of morbid introspection. As soon - as he had lit the gas, he drew out writing materials, and, sitting before - his dressing-table, began the scene of slaughter he had arranged. At the - end of a couple of hours he found he had written two slips of one hundred - and fifty words each. He regarded them ruefully. At that rate it would - take him twenty hours a day to earn his seven-and-sixpence. The idea - occurred to him to look at the “Doom of the Floating Fiend.” - He read a few pages and then dropped the work hopelessly on to the floor. - The instinct of the scholar and man of culture awakened in revolt. His mind would not be prostituted to stuff like that. - </p> - <p> - “Sooner death!” he said to himself, with whimsical bitterness. - His own carefully elaborated efforts he tore up with a sigh. Then, tired - out, he prepared to go to bed. - </p> - <p> - Suddenly, in the midst of his undressing, he caught sight, to his immense - surprise, of a letter lying on his counterpane, where the maid of all work - had carelessly thrown it. From whom could it be? Letters were things of an - almost forgotten past. It was in a woman’s hand. Then he remembered - he had given his address to Yvonne. The letter was from her, and ran:— - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - “Dear Stephen,—Oh, why didn’t you come last night? I was - <i>so</i> disappointed. You surely did n’t think I only asked you - out of politeness. I hope nothing has happened to you. My - head was running over all day with a little plan for you. Do - come and catch it before it all runs away. I shall be in to- - morrow afternoon. - - You know it’s just like old times—writing a silly little - note to you. - - Yours sincerely, - - Yvonne Latour.” - </pre> - <p> - Joyce went to bed and slept the sound sleep of a jaded man. But the letter - lay under his pillow. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER IV—DEA EX MACHINA - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>here’s - nothing like leather,” cried Yvonne, gaily. “If I had been a - milliner, I should have thought what a gentlemanly shopwalker you would - have made. As I am a singer, I can only think of the profession. You did n’t - know I was so philosophical, did you?” - </p> - <p> - “But I can’t sing a note now, Madame Latour,” said - Joyce. - </p> - <p> - “We ’ll try after you have had some tea. But you ’ll be - good enough for Brum, I’m quite sure. If he did n’t take you - on I should never speak to him again.” - </p> - <p> - With which terrible threat she poured the tea outside the cup into the - saucer. - </p> - <p> - “It seems too good to be true,” said Joyce, in a subdued tone. - “It seemed impossible I should ever get work among honest men again. - I am deeply grateful to you, Madame Latour—I cannot tell you how - deeply.” - </p> - <p> - “Here is some tea,” said Yvonne, cup in hand, “I have - put milk in, but no sugar. I am so glad you like my little scheme. I was - afraid it was n’t worth your while.” - </p> - <p> - Joyce laughed ironically. - </p> - <p> - “You would n’t say that if you knew the posts I have sought - after, the advertisements I have answered. It will be a fortune to me.” - </p> - <p> - “And it may lead—how far, you don’t know. Why in two or - three years you may be playing a leading part in a West End light opera. - Or you may do dramatic business and come to the top. One never can tell. - Won’t it be nice when you can command your £40 or £50 a week?” - </p> - <p> - Yvonne was very happy. She had conceived the plan all by herself and had - gone off impulsively to Brum to put it into execution. Joyce’s - future was assured. His cleverness, of which she used to be a little - afraid in earlier years, would soon lift him from the ranks. She was - excited over this forecast of his success. But Joyce could not look so far - ahead. All he could feel was a wondrous relief to find a door still open - for him, gratitude to the woman who had led him to it. His spirit was too - shrouded to catch a gleam of her enthusiasm. She strove to brighten him. - </p> - <p> - “You will find Brum all right. He has always been good to me, since - I stepped into a gap for him once at a charity matinée—-a medley - entertainment, you know. When he has a theatre in London he always sends - me a box, if there’s one vacant. You see, I knew he was taking out - ‘The Diamond Door,’ into the provinces, and he pays pretty - high salaries all round—so I did n’t see why you should n’t - have a chance in the chorus. Oh, you ’ll like the stage so much. I - wish I were on, instead of singing at concerts. I have always hankered - after it.” - </p> - <p> - “Why don’t you make the change?” asked Joyce. - </p> - <p> - “I’m not good enough. I am too insignificant. But I don’t - really mind. I love singing for singing’s sake, no matter where it - is. I only have one great anxiety in life—that I should lose my - voice. Then I should put my head under my wing and die, like the <i>cigale</i>. - That is to say, if the <i>cigale</i> has wings—has she?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, pretty brown wings—as yours must be. I believe you have - them somewhere hidden from us.” - </p> - <p> - “You mustn’t make pretty speeches,” said Yvonne, - pleased. - </p> - <p> - “It expresses clumsily what I feel,” said Joyce, with a sudden - rush of feeling. “I have been asking myself what are the common - grounds on which we can meet—you, a pure, bright, beautiful soul—and - I, a mean, degraded man, who knows it to be almost an outrage upon you to - cross your threshold. I feel we are not of the same human clay. I wonder - how it is that the sight of me does n’t frighten you. Thank God you - don’t see me as I see myself.” - </p> - <p> - “Hush!” said Yvonne, gently. - </p> - <p> - She glanced at him in a puzzled way, unable to comprehend. She knew that - he felt his disgrace very deeply, but she could not understand the way in - which he related it with herself. Beyond looking careworn and ill, he - seemed almost the same externally as in the days of their former intimacy; - and more so now than on the occasion of their meeting on the Bank Holiday, - when he was shabbily attired. Now he was wearing a new blue serge suit and - a carefully tied cravat—he had bought the clothes on the chance of - his being suddenly required to be correctly dressed, and this was his - first time of wearing them—and looked at all points the neat, - well-groomed gentleman she had always known; so that she found it - difficult to realize fully even the change in his material fortunes. The - blight that had come over his soul was altogether beyond her power of - perception. She could find no words to supplement her sympathetic - exclamation, and so there was silence. When she looked at him again, as he - sat opposite, his cheek resting on his hand, and his mournful eyes fixed - upon her, she found herself thinking what a good-looking fellow he was, - with his clear-cut face, refined features and trim blonde moustache. It - was a pity he had those deep lines on each side of his mouth and wore so - unsmiling an expression. There was sunshine in Yvonne’s heart that - quickly dissipated clouds. She rose suddenly, and went round to the - key-board of the great piano. - </p> - <p> - “I ’ll sing you something first and then we ’ll try your - voice.” - </p> - <p> - She paused before she sat down, and asked: - </p> - <p> - “Would you like something sad or something gay?” - </p> - <p> - The afternoon light, slanting in through the further unshaded window, fell - full upon her, and revealed the warmth of her cheeks and the smiling - softness of her lips. To have demanded sadness of her would have been an - act of unreason. - </p> - <p> - “Something bright,” said Joyce, instinctively. - </p> - <p> - She ran her fingers over the keys and broke into a <i>barcarolle</i> of - Théophile Gautier. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent30"> - "Dites, la jeune belle, - </p> - <p class="indent30"> - Où voulez-vous aller? - </p> - <p class="indent30"> - La voile ouvre son aile, - </p> - <p class="indent30"> - La brise va souffler! - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent30"> - L’aviron est d’ivoire. - </p> - <p class="indent30"> - Le pavillon de moire, - </p> - <p class="indent30"> - Le gouvernail d’or fin; - </p> - <p class="indent30"> - J’ai pour lest une orange, - </p> - <p class="indent30"> - Pour voile une aile d’ange, - </p> - <p class="indent30"> - Pour mousse un séraphin.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - Her exquisite voice, sounding like crystal in the little room, seemed to - Joyce as if it came from the dainty boat. Her sweet face seemed to peep - forth under the angel’s wing, mocking the seraphic cabin-boy. - </p> - <p> - The setting was as perfect as her rendering. All the joy and inconsequence - of life rang from her lips. She came to the last verse. - </p> - <p class="indent30"> - "Dites, la jeune belle, - </p> - <p class="indent30"> - Où voulez-vous aller? - </p> - <p class="indent30"> - La voile ouvre son aile, - </p> - <p class="indent30"> - La brise va souffler! - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent30"> - —Menez-moi, dit la belle, - </p> - <p class="indent30"> - À la rive fidèle - </p> - <p class="indent30"> - Où l’on aime toujours. - </p> - <p class="indent30"> - —Cette rive, ma chère, - </p> - <p class="indent30"> - On ne la connaît guère - </p> - <p class="indent30"> - Au pays des amours.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - When she had finished, she looked up at him, as he leaned over the tail of - the piano, with laughter in her eyes. - </p> - <p> - “I adore that song. It is so lovely and irresponsible. Canon Chisely - says it is cynical. But it always puts me in mind of a dragonfly.” - </p> - <p> - “I am afraid Everard is right,” replied Joyce, with a smile. - “But if you live in the fairyland of love, constancy must be a - serious hindrance to affairs.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, now you talk just as you used to!” cried Yvonne, “I - ’ll sing you something else.” She scamped the prelude in her - impulsive way, and began, “Coming thro’ the Rye.” His - black mood was lifted. The tender, mischievous charm of her voice held him - in a spell, and he smiled at her like “a’ the lads” in - the song. - </p> - <p> - “Now it is your turn,” she said, reaching towards a pile of - songs. “Help me to choose one.” - </p> - <p> - He selected one that he used to sing and commenced it creditably. But - after a few bars he broke down. Yvonne encouraged him to take it again, - which he did with greater success. But his voice, a high baritone, was - wofully out of condition. At a second breakdown, he looked at her in - dismay. - </p> - <p> - “I fear it’s no good,” he said. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, yes it is,” said Yvonne. “They don’t want a - Santley in the chorus of the provincial company of a comic-opera. We - ’ll have a good long time now. You shall do some scales. And you can - come in to-morrow morning, before you go to Brum, and have half-an-hour - more, and that will set you right.” - </p> - <p> - The little authoritative air sat oddly upon her. Vandeleur used to say - that Yvonne in a business mood was even more serious than a child playing - at parson. But she knew she was giving a professional opinion; and that - was bound to be serious. Taking him through the scales, then, in her best - professional manner, she brought the practice to a satisfactory - conclusion. Then she became the sunny Yvonne again, and, after he had - gone, sat smiling to herself with the conscious happiness of a fairy - god-mother. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - The interview with Brum, the manager, was satisfactory, and Joyce after - accepting the engagement at thirty shillings a week, went straight on to - rehearse with the rest of the chorus. And after this there were daily - rehearsals extending to the Sunday two weeks ahead when the start was to - be made for Newcastle, where the company opened. After the first two or - three days, the rather helpless sense of unfamiliarity wore off, and Joyce - found his task an easy one. His voice, by comparison, certainly warranted - his selection, and in knowledge of music and general ability he was vastly - superior to his colleagues, who received rough usage for stupidity at the - hands of the stage-manager. He found them mostly dull, uneducated men, two - or three with wives in the female chorus, very jealous of their rights and - the order of precedence among them, but with little ambition and less - capacity. In spite of the old suit, which he was careful to wear, he was - looked upon at first, rather resentfully, as an amateur; but he bore - disparaging remarks with philosophical unconcern, and, after a judicious - drink or two at a “professional” bar near the stage-door of - the theatre, he was accepted among them without further demur. - </p> - <p> - But Joyce was too much exercised at this time with his own relations to - himself to think much of his relations to others. The reaction from the - most poignant despair he had known since his freedom, to sudden hope, had - set working many springs of resolution. He would banish all thoughts of - the past from his mind, forget Stephen Chisely in the new man Stephen - Joyce, take up the new threads fate had spun for him, and weave them into - a new life without allowing any of them to cross the old: a resolution - which would be laughable, were it not so eternal, and so pathetic in its - futility. The world will never know the enormous expenditure of will-power - by its weak men. - </p> - <p> - The fortnight, however, passed in something near to contentment and peace - of soul. If we can cheat ourselves into serenity at times, it is a gift to - be thankful for. Besides, occupation is a great anodyne to trouble; and - the provincial production of a great London success offers considerable - occupation for those concerned in it. Rehearsals were called twice a day, - morning and evening. As Joyce did not leave the theatre until nearly - midnight he had no time to look in at the familiar billiard-room, and so - Noakes and his “penny bloods” were forgotten. On the other - hand he spent several of his afternoons with Yvonne, who was delighted - with his accounts of himself, and sent him away cheered and sanguine. - </p> - <p> - “The only thing I regret,” said Joyce, during his farewell - visit, “is that I shall be cutting myself off from you. I suppose - every one is entitled to a grievance. And this is mine. Do you know you - are the only friend I have in the world?” - </p> - <p> - As Yvonne knew that the world was very big and that she herself was very - small, the fact somewhat awed her. She regarded him pityingly for a moment - “What a dreadful thing it must be to feel alone like that.” - </p> - <p> - “I have n’t felt it so, since I met you,” said Joyce. - </p> - <p> - “But you won’t have even me, any more. I wish I could help - you.” - </p> - <p> - “Help me? Why, you ‘ve raised me out of the gutter, Madame - Latour.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, don’t call me ‘Madame Latour,’” she - said, “I don’t call you ‘Mr. Joyce.’ I am ‘Yvonne’ - to all my friends. You used to call me ‘Yvonne’ once.” - </p> - <p> - “You were not my benefactress then,” said Joyce. - </p> - <p> - “Please don’t call me hard names,” she returned - whimsically, “or I shall be afraid of you, as I used to be.” - </p> - <p> - “Afraid of me?” echoed Joyce. - </p> - <p> - “Yes. Weren’t you dreadfully clever? I was always afraid you - would think me silly. And then, often I could not quite understand what - you were saying—how much you meant of what you said. Don’t you - see?” - </p> - <p> - “I see I must have been insufferable,” he replied. “It - makes what you are to me now all the more beautiful. But I scarcely dare - call you 'Yvonne’—don’t you understand? But it would - gladden me to write it. May I write to you on my pilgrimage?” - </p> - <p> - “It would be so good of you, if you would,” she answered - eagerly. “I do love people to write to me.” - </p> - <p> - She had unconsciously slipped from her fairy-godmother attitude. Her - simple mind could not look upon welcoming his letters as an act of - graciousness. - </p> - <p> - “Would you sing to me once more before I go?” he asked, a - little later. “I don’t know when I shall see you again, and I - should like to carry away a song of yours to cheer me.” - </p> - <p> - She sat down at the piano and sang Gounod’s Serenade. Something in - its yearning tenderness touched the man in his softened mood. The pure - passion of Yvonne’s voice pierced through the thick layers of shame - and dead hopes and deadening memories that had encrusted round his heart, - and met it in a tiny thrill. He leaned back in his chair, staring at the - walls, which grew misty before his eyes. The scene changed and he was back - again in his mother’s house and Yvonne was singing this song. The - benumbing spell that had kept him dry-eyed since the news came to him of - his mother’s death, was lifted for the moment. But, only when a - sudden silence broke the charm, was he aware that tears were on his face. - </p> - <p> - He brushed them away quickly, rose, took her hand and kissed it, and then - he laughed awkwardly, and bade her good-bye. - </p> - <p> - On his way downstairs he brushed against a man ascending. It was a - squarely-built, keen-faced man of forty in clerical attire. Each stepped - aside to apologise, and then came the flash of recognition. Joyce looked - down in some confusion. But Canon Chisely turned on his heel and continued - his ascent. - </p> - <p> - Joyce walked away moodily. His cousin’s cut brought back the old - familiar sense of degradation which Yvonne had charmed away. Again he - realised that he was an outcast, a blot upon society, an object of scorn - for men of good repute. No one but Yvonne could have befriended him and - forgotten what he was. And Yvonne herself,—was her friendship not - perhaps solely due to her childlike incapacity to appreciate the depths of - his disgrace? He would have given anything not to have met the Canon on - the stairs. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - Three weeks afterwards Yvonne was at Brighton for change of air and - holiday, accompanied by Geraldine Vicary, her dearest friend, confidante, - and chastener. They had taken lodgings in Lansdowne Place, where they - shared a sitting-room and discussed Yvonne’s prospects and - peccadilloes. Not but what the discussion was continued out of doors, on - the Parade, or in a quiet nook on the sands at Shoreham; but it proceeded - much more effectively within four walls, where there was nothing to - distract Yvonne’s attention. Miss Vicary had her friend’s good - most disinterestedly at heart, and Yvonne herself loved these discussions, - very much as she loved church. She felt a great deal better and wiser, - without in the least knowing why. In intervals of leisure they idled - about, dissected passing finery, and ate prodigious quantities of ices—which, - as all the world knows, is the proper way to enjoy Brighton. - </p> - <p> - They were sitting in one of the shelters on the cliff overlooking the - electric toy-railway. It was a lovely day. A sea-breeze ruffled the blue - Channel into a myriad dancing ridges, and blew Yvonne’s mass of dark - hair further back from her forehead. Suddenly she slipped her hand into - her friend’s. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, Dina, is n’t this delicious!” - </p> - <p> - “Rapturous,” said Geraldine, with a smile. She was a tall, - plainly-dressed young woman, some four years older than Yvonne, with a - pleasant, frank face and a decided manner. She wore a plain sailor-hat, a - blouse, and a grey-stuff skirt that hung rather badly - beneath a buff belt; thus contrasting with Yvonne, who suggested dainty - perfection of attire, from the diminutive bonnet to the toe of her little - brown shoe. Miss Vicary gave the impression of the typical schoolmistress, - which she would most probably have been, had not the possession of a - magnificent voice decided her career otherwise. - </p> - <p> - “I mean it’s delicious being here alone with you,” - returned Yvonne. “Away from men altogether.” - </p> - <p> - “They are a horrid lot,” said Geraldine, drily. “I - wonder you see as much of them as you do.” - </p> - <p> - “But how can I help it? They will keep coming my way. Oh, I wish - they were all women. It would be so much nicer!” - </p> - <p> - Geraldine broke into a laugh. - </p> - <p> - “You goose!” she said. “You wouldn’t have the - women falling in love with you as the men do!” - </p> - <p> - “But I don’t want them to fall in love with me,” cried - Yvonne. “It is so stupid. I don’t fall in love with them.” - </p> - <p> - “Then why do you give them encouragement? I am always at you about - it.” - </p> - <p> - “I am only kind to them, as any one else would be.” - </p> - <p> - “Fiddlesticks, my dear. You should keep them in their place.” - </p> - <p> - “But what <i>is</i> their place?” asked Yvonne, pathetically. - “I never know. That is why I wish they were women. Oh, I love so - being here with you, Dina. I wish I had a lot of women friends that I - could talk to when I can’t see you. But you’re the only real - woman friend I ’ve got.” - </p> - <p> - “You dear little mite!” exclaimed Geraldine, with sudden - impulse. “I can’t see why women don’t take to you. And I - can understand all the men falling in love with you. Even the Canon.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, how can you say such a thing?” cried Yvonne, quickly, the - colour coming into her cheeks. - </p> - <p> - “By reason of the intelligence that God has given me, my dear,” - replied Geraldine. “I would send him packing if I were you.” - </p> - <p> - “It is very kind indeed of a man like that to come and see me.” - </p> - <p> - “And to pick you out from among all the concert singers in London - for his musical festival?” - </p> - <p> - “But we’re old friends, Dina. He is only doing me a good turn.” - </p> - <p> - “So as to deserve another, you simple darling. In the meantime, I - wouldn’t encourage Vandeleur or your new <i>protégé</i>, the Canon’s - unmentionable cousin.” - </p> - <p> - “You know, I once thought there was something between you and Van,” - remarked Yvonne, with guileless inconsequence. - </p> - <p> - “Rubbish!” said Miss Vicary. And then she added, rising - hastily, after a moment’s silence, “Look, you are getting - chilly in this cold wind,—and I am sure you have next to nothing - underneath.” - </p> - <p> - To keep Yvonne out of draughts and other pretexts for catching cold was - one of Miss Vicary’s self-imposed tasks, and she sought to - compensate Yvonne’s reckless exposure of herself when alone by - excess of vigilance on her own part when Yvonne was under her control—which - is not an uncommon irrationality in women, who, geniuses or not, have an - infinite capacity for taking superfluous pains. However, in spite of her - maternal precautions, it happened that Yvonne was laid up two or three - days afterwards with a cold which flew at once to her throat. Although in - no way serious, it filled her with dismay. She knew her throat to be - delicate. That her voice might one day fail her was the dread of her life. - </p> - <p> - “What does he say about me?” she asked, pathetically, when - Geraldine had returned from a short consultation with the doctor. “Is - it going to hurt my voice? Oh, do tell me, Dina?” - </p> - <p> - “You must n’t talk, or else it will,” replied Geraldine, - severely. - </p> - <p> - Then she threw off the chastener, put on the consoler, and, sitting on the - bed, petted Yvonne until she had restored her mind to a measure of peace. - </p> - <p> - “Then I must throw up my engagements?” Yvonne asked, - wistfully, after a while. - </p> - <p> - “Certainly the one here next week. But don’t bother your dear - little head about it.” - </p> - <p> - “And the concerts at Fulminster for Canon Chisely. I must get well - for them, Dina.” - </p> - <p> - “Why, of course you will,” replied Geraldine. “They are - weeks and weeks ahead. Besides, let the Canon go to Jericho!” - </p> - <p> - “Why are you so hard upon Canon Chisely?” asked Yvonne. - </p> - <p> - “A case of Dr. Fell, I suppose. I don’t like his always - hanging about you.” - </p> - <p> - Yvonne burst out laughing. - </p> - <p> - “I believe you are jealous, Dina,” she cried. - </p> - <p> - Miss Vicary’s retort was checked by the entrance of the landlady - with Yvonne’s supper. She busied herself with the arrangement of - plates and dishes on the tray. But all the time the expression on her face - was that of a woman who foresees a considerable amount of trouble to come. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER V—THE COMIC MUSE - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he common - dressing-room appointed for the male members of the chorus was crowded - with half-attired men, strangely painted and moustachioed. The low, - blackened ceiling beat down the heat from the gas-jets over the - dressing-ledges, and the air reeked of stuffiness, tobacco, and yellow - soap. Everywhere was a confusion of garments, grease-paints, open bags, - beer bottles, and half-emptied glasses. It wanted only five minutes to the - rise of the curtain, and hurry prevailed among belated ones, who got in - each other’s way and swore lustily. - </p> - <p> - Joyce had finished dressing. He wore a mandarin’s hat, a green robe, - a pigtail, and long, drooping moustaches, like the rest of his companions. - Having nothing more to do, he was leaning back against the dressing-table - with folded arms, and staring absently in front of him. - </p> - <p> - “You are looking down in the mouth, old man,” said the man who - dressed next to him, turning away from the mirror and buttoning his robe. - </p> - <p> - “I beg your pardon, McKay?” said Joyce, with a start. - </p> - <p> - “I asked why you were so blooming cheerful,” answered the - other. - </p> - <p> - “I was only thinking,” said Joyce. - </p> - <p> - “It seems to be an unpleasant operation, old man.” - </p> - <p> - “Don’t you see it’s of <i>her</i>?” said another - man standing by. “They’re always like that.” - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps it’s better to put her out of your mind and grin—isn’t - it?” retorted Joyce, pointedly, for the railer’s - quasi-matrimonial squabbles had already become a byword in the company. - McKay burst into a loud laugh, in which those who heard joined, and the - railer retired in discomfiture. - </p> - <p> - “Had him there,” said McKay. “Well, how’s the - world, anyway?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, all right!” replied Joyce, vaguely. - </p> - <p> - “Blake and I took his missus and two of the girls for a sail to-day,” - said the other. “If the whole crew hadn’t been sick, we should - have had a gay old time. Been doing anything?” - </p> - <p> - “No. What is there to do?” - </p> - <p> - “At Southpool? Why, there’s no end of things. I wish we went - to some more seaside places, late as it is.” - </p> - <p> - “I don’t think it matters much where we go,” said Joyce. - “Life is just the same.” - </p> - <p> - “I suppose it is, if you moon around by yourself. Why don’t - you get a pal?” - </p> - <p> - “Masculine or feminine?” asked Joyce; for there was as much - pairing in the company as in the Ark. - </p> - <p> - “Whichever you please. You pays—no you don’t—you - takes your choice here without paying your money. But take my tip and keep - clear of women. You never know when they ’ll turn round and scratch - you—like cats. After all, what can you expect of ’em? I - ’ve done with ’em all long ago.” - </p> - <p> - “What about the sea-sick girls to-day?” - </p> - <p> - “I would n’t touch any of ’em with a ten-foot pole,” - replied the misogynist, with bitter scorn. “I never was in an - engagement where there was such an inferior lot of ladies. I don’t - know where the management picked them up. And to think of the number of - nice girls in London simply starving for work.” - </p> - <p> - “They seem right enough,” said Joyce, indifferently. - </p> - <p> - “Gad! You should have been with me in ‘Mother Goose’ at - Leeds this winter. I was playing one of the men in the moon—they - noticed me from the front. You should have seen the slap-up lot we had - there. What kind of shop were you in for the winter?” - </p> - <p> - “I was in another walk of life,” replied Joyce, with a curl of - his lips. - </p> - <p> - At that moment the call-boy’s voice was heard in the passages: - “Beginners for the first act;” and then he appeared himself at - the door. - </p> - <p> - “Everybody on the stage.” - </p> - <p> - They trooped out, up the narrow stairs and along the dusty passages and - through the wings on to the stage, where they were met by the ladies of - the chorus, who came on from the other side; and then all grouped - themselves in their customary attitudes under the stage-manager’s - eye. Joyce was posed, second on the left, with a girl resting her head on - his knee. He greeted her as she took her place. - </p> - <p> - “How are you to-night, Miss Stevens?” he whispered. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, badly. The heat in the dressing-room is awful.” - </p> - <p> - “So it is in ours. It is a wonder we don’t all melt together - in a sticky lump.” - </p> - <p> - “It is the worst arranged theatre I was ever in.” - </p> - <p> - “I am sorry,” said Joyce, “you look tired.” - </p> - <p> - “Hush—the orchestra—” - </p> - <p> - The curtain rose slowly, revealing the glare of the footlights and the - vague cavernous darkness of the auditorium, seen shimmering, as they - reclined on the stage, through the band of unbumed gases above the jets. - </p> - <p> - The opening chorus began with its nodding-mandarin business, followed by - eccentric evolutions. Then the tenor came on alone. He jostled Joyce who - was standing near the entrance. - </p> - <p> - “Damn it, don’t take up all the stage,” he muttered - irritably under cover of the radiant expression demanded by the business. - </p> - <p> - He broke into his song, the chorus lining the sides. Then two minor - characters appeared, and after some dialogue, interrupted by Chinese - exclamations of delight on the part of the chorus, the latter danced off - in pairs. - </p> - <p> - “I do call that cheek,” said Miss Stevens, as soon as they had - reached the wings, “why could n’t he look where he was going - to?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, it was his fault,” said Joyce. - </p> - <p> - “That’s the way with all these light tenors—simply eaten - up with conceit. If I were you I’d give him a piece of my mind and - ask him what the something he meant by it.” - </p> - <p> - “I have n’t enough individuality here to make it worth while,” - replied Joyce with a shrug of the shoulders. - </p> - <p> - The girl did not quite understand, but she caught enough of his drift to - perceive that he was not going to retaliate. Possibly she thought him a - poor-spirited fellow. “Oh, well—if you like being insulted—” - she said, turning away toward a group of girls. - </p> - <p> - Joyce did not attempt to remonstrate. What did it matter whether a coxcomb - had cursed him? What did it matter, either, whether he had fallen in Miss - Stevens’s estimation? In fact, what did anything matter, so long as - starvation was not staring you in the face, or your companion was not - pointing at the trace of black arrows? He turned also and joined in - desultory whispering with McKay and Blake. At the end of the first act, - men and women went off at different sides to their dressing-rooms. It was - only during a wait in the second act that he found himself next to Miss - Stevens again. - </p> - <p> - “Are you going to see me home again tonight after the performance?” - she asked. - </p> - <p> - “If you will allow me,” replied Joyce. - </p> - <p> - “I’m sorry I was short with you,” she said, awkwardly. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, it was nothing.” - </p> - <p> - The polite indifference in his tone rather piqued her. She was naturally a - plain, anaemic girl and the heavy make-up of grease-paint did not render - her more attractive at close quarters. The knowledge of this irritated her - the more. - </p> - <p> - “You don’t seem to care about anything.” - </p> - <p> - “I don’t much,” said Joyce. - </p> - <p> - At that moment the leading lady came off the stage and passed by them as - they stood leaning against the iron railings of the staircase. She was - wearing the minimum of costume allowed by Celestial etiquette, and looked - very fresh and charming. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, you are Mr. Joyce, aren’t you?” she said, pausing - at the top of the stairs; and, as Joyce bowed,—“Some one told - me you were a friend of Yvonne Latour’s.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” said Joyce, “I have known her for a very long - time.” - </p> - <p> - “How is she? I have n’t seen her for ages.” She moved - down a couple of steps, so Joyce had to lean over the balustrade to reply. - </p> - <p> - “She’s a dear little creature. I used to know her while she - was living with that wretch of a husband of hers,” said the lady, - looking up. “He’s dead, or something, is n’t he?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, thank goodness,” said Joyce, with more warmth perhaps - than he was aware of; for she smiled and replied:— - </p> - <p> - “You seem to look upon it as a personal favour on the part of - Providence.” - </p> - <p> - “I think it is a personal boon to all Madame Latour’s friends.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I am delighted,” she said, with a touch of raillery. - “If ever there was a marriage that ought to have been labelled - ‘made in heaven,’ that was one.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, it was a very cheap imitation of native goods,” replied - Joyce, with a smile. - </p> - <p> - “Well, if you were going to meet her soon, I should ask you to - remember me to her; but as we are on a long tour—” - </p> - <p> - “I shall be writing shortly,” he interposed. - </p> - <p> - “Then that will do. Good-night, Mr. Joyce.” - </p> - <p> - She disappeared down the stairs. When Joyce turned round, he discovered - that Miss Stevens had walked off, perhaps in dudgeon at having been - neglected. Joyce felt sorry. She was the only girl with whom he cared to - be on friendly terms outside the theatre, and who, accordingly, had - manifested any interest in his doings. It would be a misfortune if she - were offended. Meanwhile the late unexpected chat about Yvonne had been - very pleasant. Miss Verrinder had been nice and frank, assuming from the - first that he was a gentleman, and could be spoken to without restraint. - Joyce felt the fillip to his spirits during the rest of the performance. - </p> - <p> - When it was over, he dressed as quickly as the crowded confusion of the - dressing-room rendered possible, and refusing an invitation on the part of - McKay to drink at the adjoining public-house, went down the short street - that led to the Parade, where he had arranged to meet Miss Stevens. - </p> - <p> - She did not keep him long waiting. He relieved her of a bulky parcel she - was carrying, and, holding it under his arm, walked gravely by her side. - </p> - <p> - “I thought you said you were n’t an amateur,” she said - suddenly. - </p> - <p> - “Neither am I. It’s my livelihood.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, yes—between you and starvation, I suppose.” - </p> - <p> - “Just so,” said Joyce. - </p> - <p> - “Could n’t you do anything else?” - </p> - <p> - “I can’t get anything else to do.” - </p> - <p> - “Then how did you manage to come down in the world?” - </p> - <p> - “How do you know I have come down?” asked Joyce, amused at the - catechism. - </p> - <p> - “Can’t I see you were up once? Miss Verrinder would n’t - have talked to you like that if you had n’t belonged to her set. And - I have heard of Yvonne Latour. She does n’t make friends with the - likes of McKay and me and the rest of us. So you’re either an - amateur come for the practice or the fun of the thing, or—” - </p> - <p> - “It’s hugely funny, I assure you,” he interrupted, - “to live in a back-street bedroom—‘lodgings for - respectable men’—on thirty shillings a week, and save out of - that.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, then you’ve come a cropper.” - </p> - <p> - “Really, Miss Stevens,” he replied drily, “it would be - rather embarrassing to have to account to you for all my misdeeds.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I don’t want to hear ’em. Not I—I’m not - that sort But when I like a man, I like to know just what he is. That’s - all. Now my father was a butler, and my mother a housekeeper, and they - used to let lodgings in Yarmouth. And they’re dead now, and I shift - for myself. Now you know all about me. I think I’d better carry that - parcel.” - </p> - <p> - She was rather defiant. Joyce could not understand her. Surely something - more than inconsequent bad taste had prompted her to draw this distinction - between their respective origins. But he was too self-centred to speculate - deeply upon feminine problems. He hugged the parcel closer, and said:— - </p> - <p> - “Nonsense. The paper is torn and all the stuff will drop out.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, then I must carry it,” she cried, in quite a different - tone. But he refused gallantly. - </p> - <p> - “What’s inside it?” he asked, glad to divert the - conversation into less perplexing channels. - </p> - <p> - “It’s a dress—the one I wear in the third act. Well, you - can carry it. My head’s splitting. And I’m ready to drop.” - </p> - <p> - They had reached the end of the Parade. Their way lay at right angles - through the town. It was a gusty, though warm night, and the cloud-racked - sky and sea were dimly visible. - </p> - <p> - “Would you like to sit down for a few minutes?” he asked. - </p> - <p> - “Would you like it?” - </p> - <p> - Her white face was turned up earnestly toward his. - </p> - <p> - “It might do you good,” he replied. - </p> - <p> - “No,” she said abruptly, after a pause, “Let us get - home.” - </p> - <p> - They walked together in silence. Joyce’s thoughts were far away. He - parted from her at the door of her lodgings and went on slowly to his own. - </p> - <p> - He had accustomed himself quickly to the nomad life on tour, its - mechanical regularity despite the weekly change of scene. Once, perhaps, a - round like this among the large provincial towns would have been filled - with interests. But now it was empty. He tried in vain to whet his dull - curiosity, by strolling through the streets and seeking to busy his mind - with the industrial or municipal aspects, the art treasures, the - historical monuments of the various towns. But all intellectual keenness - seemed to have been blunted during those deadening years. His lonely walks - were at best but an aimless killing of time. All the towns presented to - him the same essential features: one busy thoroughfare, the theatre with - its flaring bills, and a poverty-stricken side-street where his bedroom - was situated. His life was singularly monotonous. The long hours of the - day, given up to lounging in solitude, or reading what cheap literature - his means would allow, were succeeded by the uninspiring, almost - impersonal work at the theatre. All that was required of him was to sing - his parts correctly, and to execute automatically the “business” - in which he had been drilled. It was painfully easy. But he doubted within - himself whether he had any dramatic aptitude. He could never divest - himself of the self-conscious idea that he looked a fool in theatrical - garb. The green robe and pigtail gave him the sense of being a spectacle - for gods and men. His spirit was too crushed to look upon life humorously. - Still, the great anxiety was lifted from his mind. It was a livelihood, - secured for an indefinite time. The tour was booked a year ahead, and, as - the outset proved “The Diamond Door” to be as great a - provincial success as it had been a London one, there seemed no reason - against a continuous run for three or four years. In the meantime, he - might advance a step or two. But he did not care to contemplate the - future. He was thankful for the dull, unruffled present. He was working - again among honest men, reckoned as one himself. Could he dare hope for - more? - </p> - <p> - At times he found himself half cynically content with his lot. At others, - a yearning rose within him like a great pain to be able to look the world - in the face without shrinking from its condemnation. A strange idea began - to work in his brain; to win back by some great deed of sacrifice his - self-honour and respect. But he knew himself to be a dreamer of dreams, of - too sorry stuff for such stern action. He would go whither the wind - drifted him. Of this he thought as he walked home after parting with Annie - Stevens. - </p> - <p> - He met her the next morning on the beach, a long way from the town, - sitting, a lonely figure upon a great drain-pipe rising half above the - sand. She was resting her chin upon her fingers, that grasped a crumpled - copy of “Tit-Bits,” and she was looking out to sea. Their - eight weeks of pairing on the stage had brought to Joyce a feeling of - companionship with her, which he did not have as regards the others. - Besides, those who were not either domestic or commonplace, belonged to - the flaxen-haired, large-eyed, tawdrily-dressed type so common in the - lower ranks of the profession. Miss Stevens had a personality which, - though unrefined, was at least her own, and he honestly liked her. - </p> - <p> - She gave a little start when she was aware of his presence, and a quick - flush came into her cheeks. But he did not notice it With a pleasant - greeting he sat down by her side and talked of current trifles. At last - she broke out suddenly. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, don’t let’s talk ‘shop.’ I’m sick - of the piece and the theatre altogether.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, come, it is not so bad,” said Joyce, consolingly. “We - both ought to be playing good parts, and having rosier prospects. But - things might be very much worse.” - </p> - <p> - He was feeling brighter this morning. Yvonne had written him a long, - gossipy letter, full of encouragement and her own unconscious charm, thus - lifting him on a little wave of cheerfulness. With a friend like Yvonne - and daily bread, he ought to be thankful. As for Miss Stevens, he did not - see what she had particularly to grumble at. If she had been beautiful or - talented, she might have had reason to quarrel with her lot. - </p> - <p> - “Besides,” he added after a pause. “Look what a lovely - day it is!” - </p> - <p> - “So you think we ought to be quite happy?” - </p> - <p> - “Moderately so.” - </p> - <p> - She was in a taciturn mood, and did not reply, but turned a little away - from him and began to dig the sand with the toe of her boot. Suddenly she - said, rather petulantly:— - </p> - <p> - “I wonder if you could ever love a woman.” He had grown - accustomed to her late, discrete methods of conversation, so the question - scarcely surprised him. He took off his hat, so as to enjoy the breeze, - and rested both hands at his sides on the drain-pipe. - </p> - <p> - “I suppose I could if I tried,” he said carelessly, “but - I’m very much better as I am. Why do you ask?” - </p> - <p> - She shrugged her shoulders. - </p> - <p> - “I don’t know. I thought I’d say something. We were n’t - having exactly a rollicking time, you know.” - </p> - <p> - This time the acerbity in her tone did strike him. Something had gone - wrong with her. He bent forward so as to catch a sight of her averted - face. - </p> - <p> - “What is the matter, Miss Stevens?” he asked concernedly. - “You are not yourself. Could I be of any service to you?” - </p> - <p> - She did not reply. Her silence seemed an encouragement to press his - sympathy. It was a new thing to be of help to a human being. He put his - fingers on her sleeve and added:— - </p> - <p> - “Tell me.” - </p> - <p> - She drew away her arm and started to her feet. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, I will tell you. I ’ve been making a miserable little - fool of myself. Let’s go back.” - </p> - <p> - Joyce rose and walked by her side. - </p> - <p> - “You are not by any chance embarrassed in money matters?” he - asked, in as delicate a tone as he could. - </p> - <p> - “Money!” - </p> - <p> - She looked at him incredulously for a moment, then broke into hysterical - laughter. - </p> - <p> - “Money!” she repeated. “Oh, you are too comic for - anything!” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER VI—MELPOMENE - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>wo weeks passed - and Joyce found himself in Hull. During the previous week Miss Stevens had - lodged quite near to the theatre, and there had been no occasion for his - escort after the performance. Besides, she had maintained a distant - attitude toward him which precluded further offer of sympathy in her - affairs. He was sorry for her; she seemed lonely, like himself, and, like - himself, to have some inward suffering that made life bitter. He was glad, - then, to find at Hull that they lodged in the same street, some distance - away from the Theatre Royal, so that he could propose, as a natural thing, - the resumption of their former habit. She had acquiesced readily on the - Monday night, and they had met as a matter of course on the four - succeeding evenings. Her late aloofness was followed by a more intimate - and submissive manner. There were no more defiant utterances and fits of - petulance. She seemed anxious to atone for past irritability, and Joyce, - vaguely remembering a spring-tide cynicism of his, that one must be - astonished at nothing in a woman, received these advances kindly, and - looked upon their friendly relations as consolidated. - </p> - <p> - He also found himself progressing in favour with the rest of the company. - Several desultory chats with Miss Verrinder, the friend of Yvonne, had not - only brightened the dulness of the theatre life, but also given him a - little <i>prestige</i> among his colleagues. For there is a good deal of - humanity in man, including the chorus of comic opera. So, such as it was, - Joyce’s contentment rose to high-level at Hull. He did not couple - the town with Hell and Halifax in his litany of supplication, but, on the - contrary, found it a not unpleasant place, which, moreover, was in process - of undergoing a rare week of sunshine. - </p> - <p> - His favourite spot was the Corporation Pier, with its double deck and - comfortable seats and view across the Humber. His well-worn clothes were - in harmony with its frequenters, and he felt more at ease than on the - Parade of a seaside resort thronged with well-dressed people. - Here he brought his book and pipe, read discursively, watched the - shipping, fell into talk with seafaring men, who told him the tonnage of - vessels and the ports from which they came. Often a great steamer - performing the passenger service across the North Sea would come into the - docks close by, and he would go and watch her land her passengers and - cargo. The hurry and movement were welcome to him, breaking, as they did, - the lethargy of the day. If the docks were quiet, there was always the - mild excitement of witnessing the arrival of the Grimsby boat at the pier. - </p> - <p> - On Saturday morning this last incident had attracted him from his seat on - the lower gallery to the little knot of expectant idlers gathered by the - railing. The steamer was within a quarter of a mile, the churn of her - paddles the only break visible in the sluggish water of the river. He - stood leaning over, pipe in mouth, idly watching her draw near. When she - was moored alongside and the gangway pushed on to the landing-stage below, - he moved with the others to the head of the slope to watch the passengers - ascend. Why he should particularly interest himself in the passage of - humdrum labourers, fishwives, artisans, and young women come to - shop in Hull, he did not know. He watched them, with unspeculating gaze, - pass hurrying by, until suddenly a pair of evil eyes looking straight into - his own made him start back with a shiver of dismay. - </p> - <p> - Escape was impossible; in another moment the man was by his side. - </p> - <p> - “Hullo, old pal! Who would have thought of seeing you?” - </p> - <p> - Joyce did not take the dirty hand that was proffered. He stuck his own - deep in his pockets, frowned at the man, and turned away. But the other - followed. - </p> - <p> - “Look here, old pal, I don’t call this a friendly lead—bust - me if I do. You might pass the time of day with a bloke—especially - as it is n’t so long ago——” - </p> - <p> - The man’s voice was loud, the pier busy with people. The air seemed - to Joyce filled with a thousand listening ears. His blood tingled with - shame. He faced round with an angry look. - </p> - <p> - “What do you want with me?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, don’t take on, old pal,” replied the other, in - lower tones. “I ain’t going to give you away—don’t - you fear. It’s only pleasant to meet old pals again—in better - circs. Ain’t it?” - </p> - <p> - Joyce had always loathed him—a flabby, sallow, greasy-faced fellow, - with blear eyes and a protruding under-lip. He had been sentenced for a - foul offence against decency. Joyce’s soul used to revolt at the - sight of him as they sat on either side of the reeking tub washing up the - cooking utensils in the prison kitchen. The hateful stench rose again to - his nostrils now and turned his stomach. - </p> - <p> - “Can’t you see I am going to have nothing to do with you?” - he said angrily. - </p> - <p> - “Come, don’t be hard on a bloke when he’s down,” - replied the man. “It ain’t everyone that gets on their legs - again when they comes out. I ’ve been out two months, and I haven’t - had a job yet. S’welp me! And there’s the wife and the kids - starving. Give us a couple of quid to send to ’em and make ’em - happy again. Just two thick uns.” - </p> - <p> - Joyce stared at him, breathless with indignation at his impudence. - </p> - <p> - “I ’ll see you damned first!” he cried fiercely. - </p> - <p> - “Well, make it ten bob, or five, or the price of a drink, old pal. - You can’t leave an old fellow-boarder in distress, or the luck will - turn agen you.” - </p> - <p> - He leered up into Joyce’s face, disclosing a jagged row of yellow - teeth. But Joyce started forward and took him by the collar. - </p> - <p> - “If you try to blackmail me,” said he, pointing to a policeman - on the quay, “I ’ll give you in charge. Just stay where you - are and let me go my ways.” - </p> - <p> - He released him and marched off. But the man did not attempt to follow. He - slipped into a seat close by and sang out sarcastically: “If you - ’ll leave your address, I ’ll send you a mourning card when - the kids is dead!” - </p> - <p> - Joyce caught the words as he hurried down the stairs. When he had crossed - the quay to the hotels, he looked up at the pier, and saw the man leaning - over with a grin on his face. It was only when he reached his lodging that - he breathed freely again. - </p> - <p> - What he had long expected had come to pass—recognition by a - fellow-prisoner. It was a horrible experience. It might occur again and - again indefinitely. He walked agitated up and down his poorly-furnished - bedroom. Could he do nothing to guard against such things in the future? - If he could only disguise himself! Then he remembered that the moustache - which might have served him as a slight protection against casual glances - had been sacrificed to theatrical exigencies. He ground his teeth at the - futility of the idea. And at intervals wrath rose up hot within him at the - man’s cool impudence. Two pounds—more than a week’s - salary—to be thrown away on swine like that! He laughed savagely at - the thought. - </p> - <p> - He grew calm after a time, lay down on his bed and opened a book. But the - face of the man, bringing with it scenes of a past in which they had been - associated came between his eyes and the page. - </p> - <p> - “Anyhow, it’s over,” he exclaimed at last, with a - determined effort to banish the memories. “And, thank God, it’s - Saturday, and I shall be in Leeds to-morrow.” - </p> - <p> - To avoid the chance of meeting him in the streets, however, he stayed at - home all day, sending round a note of excuse on the score of seediness to - Miss Stevens, with whom he had arranged to take an afternoon stroll. On - his way to the theatre he caught sight of the man standing by a gas-lamp - at a street-corner on the other side of the way. He hurried on, glad at - his escape, for the glance of the man’s eyes resting upon him was - abhorrent. - </p> - <p> - For the first time since he had started on the tour the rough - companionship of the dressing-room was a comfort and delight. Here were - kindly words, welcoming faces, the pleasant familiarity of common - avocation. He forgot the heat, and the crush, and the tomfool aspect the - dressing had always presented. The place was home-like, familiar, - sheltering. His costume, as he took it down from the peg, seemed like an - old friend. The jolly voices of his companions rang gratefully in his - ears. The disgust of the day faded into the memory of a nightmare. This - was a reality—this hearty good-fellowship with uncontaminated men. - </p> - <p> - When he went out with them on to the stage, before the curtain rose, and - met the ladies of the chorus, he greeted those that he liked with a newer - sense of friendliness. Until then he had never been aware how pleasant it - was to have Annie Stevens’s head resting on his knee. He thanked God - he was a criminal no longer—not as that other man was. Certainly - Phariseeism is justifiable at times. - </p> - <p> - He was very kind to Miss Stevens all the evening during the waits, when - they happened to be together. His apologies for having to put off their - engagement met with her full acceptance. She was solicitous as to his - health—asked him in her downright fashion whether he ate enough. - </p> - <p> - “You are a gentleman, you know, and not accustomed to poor people’s - ways and their privations.” - </p> - <p> - “My dear,” he replied, dropping for the first time into the - old professional’s mode of address. “I ’ve gone through - privations in my life that you have never dreamed of. This is clover—knee-deep.” - </p> - <p> - And he believed it; thought, too, what a fool he had been to grumble at - this honest, pleasant theatrical life. The reaction had rather excited - him. - </p> - <p> - “I look upon myself as jolly well off here,” he said. “And - I eat like an ox, I assure you. Do you know, it’s very good of you - to take an interest in me?” - </p> - <p> - “Do you think so?” said the girl, with a little laugh, and - turning away her head. - </p> - <p> - At the end of the first act a fresh pleasure awaited him. It was a night - of surprising sensations. The stage-manager called him into his room. - </p> - <p> - “Walker has been telegraphed for—wife very ill—and he - won’t be able to play on Monday. Do you think you could play his - part till he comes back?” - </p> - <p> - “Rather!” said Joyce, delighted. - </p> - <p> - “You are the only one of the crowd that can sing worth a cent,” - said the stage-manager with a seasonable mixture of profanity. “I - ’ll pull you through. Perhaps he’s not coming back at all. One - never knows. If he does n’t and you go all right, there’s no - reason why you should n’t stick to it.” - </p> - <p> - Walker spoke exactly four lines, sang once in a quartette and had a - couplet solo. Otherwise he made himself useful in the chorus. But it was a - part, his name was down in the bill. The value of the step, moral, - pecuniary and professional was considerable. Joyce felt that his luck had - turned at last. Here was the gate into the profession proper open to him. - </p> - <p> - The news soon spread through the company. A “call” for - rehearsal on Monday morning for the chorus and those of the principals - concerned in the change was posted up. He felt himself a person of some - importance. McKay congratulated him; and Blake, although he said, “You - swells get all the fat,” spoke by no means enviously. The others - cracked jokes and suggested drinks all round, which, being sent for by - Joyce, were consumed in the dressing-room. Annie Stevens squeezed his - hand, during their dance together, and whispered a word of pleasure. He - had no idea that so infinitesimal a success could have masqueraded as such - a triumph. He longed to get back to his room to write it all to Yvonne. - </p> - <p> - At the stage-door, after the performance, he met Annie Stevens, who had - hurried through her dressing. - </p> - <p> - “I’m glad for your sake, but I’m sorry for my own,” - she said, after they had walked a few steps. - </p> - <p> - “Why, what difference can it make to you?” asked Joyce - laughing. - </p> - <p> - “I shall have to play and sing with somebody else.” - </p> - <p> - “True. I was forgetting. Yes, it will seem funny. I shall miss you - too.” - </p> - <p> - “I don’t believe you care one bit,” said the girl. - </p> - <p> - To acquiesce would have been rude. He answered her with vague regrets. She - interrupted him with a laugh in which was the faintest note of scorn. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, you’re very glad to get rid of me, and the stupid kissing - and everything. You won’t have to give any one a Chinese kiss now. - And they were very Chinese, you know.” - </p> - <p> - “An English kiss would have been out of the picture,” said - Joyce. - </p> - <p> - “We’re not in the picture now,” she said softly. - </p> - <p> - Joyce felt that he was doing something very foolish, perhaps dangerous. He - had never had the remotest fancy for allowing his companionship with her - to degenerate into a flirtation. But what could he do? He bent down and - kissed her. - </p> - <p> - There was an awkward silence for a few yards, which she broke at last in - her irrelevant way. - </p> - <p> - “I should so like a glass of port wine tonight.” - </p> - <p> - “So should I,” said Joyce, cheerfully. “Or something - like it. We ’ll go into the Crown yonder.” - </p> - <p> - Two or three times before they had had a glass together on their way home. - To-night, therefore, the suggestion seemed natural. They entered the - private bar of the public-house, and Joyce ordered the liquors. Only one - young man was there, reading a sporting paper on a high stool. It was a - quiet place, with the view beyond the counter down the bar cut off by a - ground-glass screen, through a low space under which the customers were - served. - </p> - <p> - Joyce pushed the port wine smilingly to Miss Stevens, and, with his back - to the door, was pouring some water into his whisky, when a voice sounded - in his ear, causing him to start violently and flood the counter. - </p> - <p> - “I say, old pal, <i>are</i> you goin’ to help a poor feller?” - </p> - <p> - The man was standing behind him, the leer upon his greasy face. Joyce had - been blissfully unaware that he had dogged his steps from that street - corner to the stage-door of the theatre, and from the stage-door hither. - The sight of him was a stroke of cold terror. - </p> - <p> - “Go away. I ’ll give you in charge,” he stammered, - losing his head for the moment. - </p> - <p> - Annie Stevens clutched his arm. - </p> - <p> - “Who is this beastly man?” she said. - </p> - <p> - “Only an old pal, miss,” said the man, edging towards the - door. “We was in quod many months together, and now he won’t - give me ’arf a crown to keep me from starving.” - </p> - <p> - “By God!” cried Joyce, making a sudden dash at him. - </p> - <p> - But the man was too quick; he had secured his retreat, and when Joyce - reached the pavement—the house was at a corner of cross roads—he - could not catch the fall of his footsteps. The man had vanished into the - night, and pursuit was hopeless. It had all passed with the sudden - unexpectedness of a dream. Joyce put his hand to his forehead and tried to - think. He could scarcely realise exactly what had happened. He seemed to - be enveloped with tiny tingling waves that drew his skin tight like a drum - for his heart to beat against. He turned, and saw Annie Stevens standing - by his side, in the light of the public-house, with anger on her face. - </p> - <p> - “What have you got to say for yourself?” she asked brusquely. - </p> - <p> - “Do you believe that man?” said Joyce, the words coming - painfully. - </p> - <p> - Their lack of conviction damned him. The girl drew back a step, and looked - at him with revulsion in her eyes. - </p> - <p> - “You can’t deny it! I see that you can’t. You’ve - just come out of prison.” - </p> - <p> - If the world had been at his feet he could not have lied convincingly at - that moment. He could only stare at her haggardly and rack his brains for - words that would not come. She moved away instinctively from the public - glare and turned down the dark street that led toward their destination. - </p> - <p> - “It’s a lie,” he said desperately, striding to her side. - </p> - <p> - “No it is n’t. It’s truth. I read it on your face. That’s - why you’ve come down in the world—that’s why you live by - yourself—that’s why you didn’t dare come out this - afternoon—and that’s where you’ve known all those - privations I never dreamed of. It’s no good telling lies.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, it’s true,” said Joyce. “And I ’ve - paid the penalty for my folly ten times over. Forget all this, Annie, for - God’s sake.” - </p> - <p> - “Go away!” she cried, walking faster. “I don’t - want to see you again. Oh, to think of it makes me sick! Go away, do!” - </p> - <p> - But he followed her imploringly. He was at her mercy. “I don’t - care what you think of me,” he said. “I will keep out of your - way as much as you like. Only, a word from you would ruin me. Keep my - story secret, like an honourable woman. I have done nothing to you.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, you have!” she cried, stopping short and facing him. - “You have dared to kiss me. Oh—a pretty fine gentleman you are—with - your patronising superior ways—and I thinking myself an ignorant, - common girl, not good enough for you! What were you? A pickpocket?” - </p> - <p> - “You abuse me as if I were one,” said Joyce, bitterly. “Good-night, - Miss Stevens. I shall not molest you any further.” He motioned to - her with his hand to pass on in front. She regarded him for a moment - stonily, and then, with a short exclamation of disgust, swung round - sharply and proceeded at a hurried pace down the dismal, ill-lighted - street. Joyce watched her until she was swallowed up in the darkness, and - had obtained sufficient start for him to follow in her footsteps without - fear of overtaking her. - </p> - <p> - But as he walked along, the dread of her indignation seized him. If only - he could say another word to her before the morning, he might secure her - pity and her silence. The idea grew more and more insistent, until he - could bear it no longer. He started off at a run, at first on the pavement - of the quiet side street, and then in the roadway by the kerb of the - busier thoroughfare into which it led, and regardless of jostling and - oaths, continued his way, until he succeeded in catching her up just as - she was inserting the latchkey into her door. - </p> - <p> - “Annie,” he cried, his chest heaving painfully from the - exertion of running. “Promise me you won’t breathe a word of - this to any one.” - </p> - <p> - She let herself in deliberately and stood in the dark passage. - </p> - <p> - “I ’ll promise nothing. I never want to set my eyes on you - again!” - </p> - <p> - And then she slammed the door in his face. - </p> - <p> - He turned away sick at heart, and went to his own lodging. Resentment at - her coarse anger, and speculation as to the motives of the sudden change - from friendliness to hatred were things that did not come to him till - afterwards. Sufficient for the night was the despair of the sleepless - hours, the dread of the girl’s tongue, and the anguish of tottering - hopes. He did not write to Yvonne. The little triumph of the evening - seemed like a gay pagoda struck by lightning. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER VII—A FORLORN HOPE - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>t the railway - station the next afternoon he found most of the company already assembled - on the platform. Curious glances were cast upon him as he appeared; there - were nudgings and whisperings; some giggling on the part of the chorus - girls standing round Annie Stevens, who was looking paler and more defiant - than usual. A group of his colleagues melted away at his approach. He saw - at once what had happened. The fears that had haunted him all the night - and all that day were realised. He felt his face and lips grow white, and - his limbs trembled. With an instinctive remnant of self-assertion, he went - up to Blake, who was standing by one of the reserved carriages. It seemed - a long time before he could speak. At last he asked him stupidly at what - time the train started. - </p> - <p> - “Four-forty,” said Blake, curtly. - </p> - <p> - “And when do we get to Leeds?” - </p> - <p> - “How the devil should I know? If you want to know, there’s the - guard. Ask him.” - </p> - <p> - With which he moved away and joined two or three others a few steps off. - Joyce felt too sick with misery to resent the rudeness. He walked a short - distance along the train, and seeing one of his colleagues in a - compartment, concluded that it was reserved for the chorus-men and crept - into the far corner, where he sat down, holding a newspaper before his - face. - </p> - <p> - The compartment filled and the train started. At first there was a general - constraint in the talk. Then a game at nap was instituted; but no one - spoke to Joyce. At Selby there was over an hour’s wait. With a - feeling that he must be alone at any cost, he rushed out of the station, - and, avoiding the town, wandered aimlessly through lanes and fields until - it was time to return. He was too dazed and overwhelmed by this sudden - blow to think coherently. Now it was the girl’s deliberate cruelty - that passed his comprehension; now the sickening shame at being known in - his true colours to a whole society burned into his flesh. Only one - thought stood out from the rest in lurid clearness—the impossibility - of his continuing the tour. Even if the management took no notice of the - discovery, he felt he would rather starve to death in a hole than live - through that hell of daily aversion and contempt. To return to the company - and travel with them as far as Leeds was pain enough. He would face that, - however, and then— - </p> - <p> - It was gathering dusk when he arrived at the station, just in time to see - the guard about to wave the green flag. The handle of the compartment was - in his grasp when he heard McKay say:— - </p> - <p> - “Well, because a fellow’s happened to be in quod, that doesn’t - mean he’s likely to sneak your watches out of the dressing-room!” - </p> - <p> - He opened the door and entered amid a dead silence, which lasted, with few - interruptions, all the rest of the journey. Joyce looked round at his - seven companions, with an awful sense of isolation. Only four-and-twenty - hours before he had loved them for their warm good-fellowship. He was - wrung with the pity of it. McKay’s words still sounded in his ear. - They were horrible enough, but it was evident they were meant in his - defence. Once he met his glance, and read in it a signal of kind intent. - But the others steadily looked another way when his eye fell upon them. - </p> - <p> - When they left the train at Leeds, McKay touched him on the shoulder and - drew him apart from the hurrying stream of passengers and porters. - </p> - <p> - “What’s all this yarn that Annie Stevens has been telling us?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, it’s true enough,” replied Joyce, wearily. - </p> - <p> - “The damned little hell-cat,” said McKay. “I told you to - keep clear of women.” - </p> - <p> - “It was bound to come out. One of you fellows might just as well - have been with me in the pub last night.” - </p> - <p> - “Do you think a man would have given you away like this?” - asked McKay, with great scorn. - </p> - <p> - “I ’ve come to the conclusion that anything’s possible - in this infernal world,” said Joyce, bitterly. “I suppose the - whole crowd are against me.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, there is a bit of feeling, certainly,” replied McKay, - in an embarrassed tone. “And maybe it won’t be very pleasant - for you. They all talk as if they were plaster of Paris saints,—and, - dash it all—they made me sick; so I thought I’d come and say I’d - stand by you.” - </p> - <p> - “Thank you, McKay,” said Joyce, touched. “You are a good - sort. But I sha’n’t ask you. I am not going on with the tour.” - </p> - <p> - “I think you’re just as well out of it, to tell you the truth,” - said McKay. Then his anger against Annie Stevens broke out again in an - unequivocal epithet. - </p> - <p> - “The little————,” he said. - </p> - <p> - “I suppose it is horrible in a woman’s eyes,” said - Joyce, moving with McKay toward the crowd round the luggage-van. “But - I can’t see why she should hate me like this, all of a sudden, and - wish to ruin me.” - </p> - <p> - “Can’t you? It’s pretty plain.” - </p> - <p> - “No,” said Joyce. “We have always been the best of - friends.” - </p> - <p> - “Friends? You don’t mean to say you did n’t know she was - gone on you—clean gone, all off her chump? No one liked to chaff you - about it, because you have an infernal sarcastic way of scoring off - fellows. But, Gawd! The way she used to look at you was enough to make a - man sick!” - </p> - <p> - “Do you mean she was in love with me?” asked Joyce, - falteringly, as the whole situation of affairs, past and present, - began to dawn upon him. - </p> - <p> - “Well, rather,” said McKay, with a chuckle. “What do you - think?” - </p> - <p> - Several of the company were still around the pile of luggage by the van, - claiming their things and waiting for porters. Standing on one side was - Annie Stevens, and, as it happened, Joyce recognised his Gladstone bag - lying at her feet He went and picked it up, and was going off silently - with it, when he felt her touch on his arm. Dim as the light was, he could - see that her face was haggard and drawn. She met his stern gaze - beseechingly. - </p> - <p> - “For God’s sake, forgive me,” she whispered. - </p> - <p> - “You have played too much havoc with my life,” replied Joyce - coldly. - </p> - <p> - “I shall kill myself,” said the girl. - </p> - <p> - “Some people are better dead,” said Joyce, turning away, bag - in hand. - </p> - <p> - On the platform beyond the barriers he met McKay again. - </p> - <p> - “Good-bye, McKay,” he said. “I have only two friends in - the world who know my story, and you are one.” - </p> - <p> - “Good-bye, old man,” said McKay. “Better luck next time.” - </p> - <p> - They shook hands and parted, McKay to join his friend Blake at the - lodgings they had secured already, Joyce to put up for the night at the - first cheap hotel he could find. - </p> - <p> - The next day he was in London again, in his old room in Pimlico—a - broken-hearted, broken-spirited man. For two days he remained in a state - of stupid misery, yearning for the life he had just abandoned; tortured, - too, by reproaches for his cowardice. Why had he not faced the ignominy, - and tried to live it down? Then the conviction of the hopelessness of the - attempt was forced upon him. Even if he had continued in the profession, - his name would soon have been known throughout it as the ex-convict,—and - he had been in it long enough to perceive how narrow the theatrical circle - is,—and all hope of advancement would have been worse than futile. - On the third day he went to see Yvonne, but she had just gone out of town. - The porter at the flat did not know how long she would be away. She was at - Fulminster. Her letters were forwarded there. So Joyce wrote her a short - note, explaining his situation, and set himself to wait patiently for her - coming. - </p> - <p> - But on that evening, out of sheer weariness and longing for human - companionship, he turned into his old haunt, the billiard-room in - Westminster. It seemed just the same as on the last evening he had been - there. The occupants of the divan might never have moved from that night - to this. His appearance was greeted with incurious, uninterested nods. The - only one that offered his hand was Noakes, who was sitting at the end, - still in his Chesterfield overcoat and old curly silk hat, but looking - more woe-begone and pallid than ever. There was a touch of pain, too, in - his usually expressionless pale-blue eyes. Joyce took his seat next to him - and bent forward, elbows on knees and chin resting in his hands. - </p> - <p> - “You have been absent from town?” asked Noakes, in his - precise, toneless way. - </p> - <p> - Joyce nodded, with a murmur of assent. - </p> - <p> - “I, too, have not been here lately.” - </p> - <p> - “Press of literary work?” asked Joyce, without looking up. - </p> - <p> - The other did not notice the shade of sarcasm. He passed his hand across - his eyes and sighed. - </p> - <p> - “I have given it up.” - </p> - <p> - “Have you come into a fortune?” - </p> - <p> - “No. I have had the deadliest misfortune that can befall a man.” - </p> - <p> - Something genuinely tragic in his tone made Joyce start up from his - dejected attitude and look at his neighbour. - </p> - <p> - “I beg your pardon,” he said. “I did not know.” - </p> - <p> - “Of course not; no one does. At least, no one I can repose any - confidence in.” - </p> - <p> - There was an air of dignity in this oddly attired figure, with the - ludicrous silk hat above the black mutton-chop whiskers and bushy white - hair, and yet a mute appeal for sympathy which Joyce could not but - perceive. - </p> - <p> - “I, too, have been hard hit lately,” he said, in a low voice. - </p> - <p> - “Ah, not like me,” said the other, turning round in his seat, - so that his words should reach only Joyce’s ear. “Until three - weeks ago I had a wife and child. No man ever loved as I did. I worked for - them till my brain almost gave way—fifteen hours a day, week after - week, starved myself for them, denied myself the clothes on my back. Now I - have them no longer. Life is valueless to me.” - </p> - <p> - “Are they—dead?” asked Joyce. - </p> - <p> - “No. Gone off with the lodger on the first floor,” replied - Noakes, solemnly. - </p> - <p> - Joyce remained silent. What could he say? He looked sympathetic. Noakes - blew his nose in a dirty piece of calico with frayed edges that courtesy - called a pocket-handkerchief, and continued:— - </p> - <p> - “So my life is wrecked. My imagination is darkened and I can write - no more. I have given up my literary ambitions. It is not worth while - writing penny bloods at half a crown a thousand for one’s own - support.” - </p> - <p> - “What are you going to do then?” asked Joyce, interested in - the quaint creature. - </p> - <p> - “I am going abroad. I have come here perhaps for the last time. On - the day after to-morrow I sail for South Africa.” - </p> - <p> - Was it a sudden inspiration? Was it the coming to a head of vague - resolutions, despairs, workings, the final word of a destiny driving him - from England? Was it a sudden sense of protecting brotherhood towards this - forlorn, tragic scarecrow of a man? Joyce never knew. Possibly it was all - bursting upon his soul at once. Springing to his feet, he held out his - hand to Noakes. - </p> - <p> - “By all that’s holy, I ’ll come with you!” he - cried, in a strange voice. - </p> - <p> - The other, after some hesitation, took his hand and looked at him - pathetically. - </p> - <p> - “Are you in earnest?” - </p> - <p> - “In dead earnest.” - </p> - <p> - “I am going in the very cheapest possible manner.” - </p> - <p> - “So am I.” - </p> - <p> - “I am going, with a few pounds I have scraped together, to try my - luck.” - </p> - <p> - “The same with me. It can’t be worse than England; starvation - is certain here. Come, say, honour bright—will you be glad of me as - a companion—as a friend if you like? I am a lonely bit of driftwood - like yourself.” - </p> - <p> - Then Noakes rose to his feet and this time squeezed Joyce’s hand and - his pale eyes glistened. - </p> - <p> - “I ’ll swear to be your friend in peace and in danger,” - he said, in his quaint phraseology. “And I thank the God of all - mercies for sending you to me in my hour of need.” - </p> - <p> - “All right,” said Joyce. “And now let us have some - whisky, and talk over details.” - </p> - <p> - And so, in that dingy billiard-room, unknown to the moulting Bohemians - huddled up in somnolent attitudes close by on the divan and unheeded by - the shirt-sleeved men passing around the table intent on their game, was - struck the strangest bargain of a friendship ever made between two outcast - men; a friendship that was to last through want and sickness and despair - and hope, and to leave behind it the ineffaceable stamp of nobler feeling. - </p> - <p> - But at first there was much admixture of cynicism on Joyce’s side. - He laughed aloud, in the bitterness of his heart, at the object he had - taken for his bosom friend. It was only later, when he learned the - patient, dog-like devotion of the man, that he felt humbled and ashamed at - these beginnings. - </p> - <p> - With a draft on a Cape Town bank for the remainder of his capital, and a - last regretful letter from Yvonne in his pocket, he left Southampton. And - as they steamed down Channel, in the mizzling rain of a grey November day, - he leaned over the taffrail and stared at the land of his brilliant hopes, - his crime, his punishment, his struggles and his dishonour, with a man’s - agony of unshed tears. - </p> - <p> - He was going to begin life anew in a strange undesired country; hopeless, - aimless, friendless save for that useless creature who was pacing up and - down the deck behind him, still in his ridiculous headgear. He had made no - plans. The future to him when he should land at Cape Town was as unknown—as - it is to any of the sons of men, did we but realise it. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER VIII—THE CANON’S ANGEL - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>hile Joyce was - straining his eyes through the darkness for the last sight of land and - eating out his heart in bitter regrets, Yvonne was busily engaged at - Fulminster in rehearsing for the next day’s concert. She had spent - four days at Fulminster, the guest of Mrs. Winstanley, and found herself - somewhat lost among the very decorous society of which Canon Chisely was a - leading member. And while she was scanning the social heavens in half - pathetic search of her bearings, Joyce’s letters had arrived, with - their tidings of catastrophe and exile. So, while there was a smile on her - lip for the Canon and his friends, there was a tear in her eye for Joyce. - His humiliation and her failure as fairy godmother brought her a pang of - disappointment. She felt very tenderly towards Joyce. In her imagination, - too, Africa was a dreadful place, made up of deserts, lions, and ferocious - negroes in a state of nudity. - </p> - <p> - If she had seen him before he started, she might have dissuaded him from - encountering such discomforts. She thought of this tearfully in the - intervals that Fulminster affairs allowed her for reflection. - </p> - <p> - She was staying with Mrs. Winstanley. Now Mrs. Winstanley was the leading - social authority in Fulminster. She was a distant cousin of Canon Chisely. - In fact, she was an infinite number of irreproachable things. Mothers came - to her as a matrimonial oracle. The Mayor consulted her on ticklish - questions of civic etiquette. The affairs of the parish were in her hands. - Although she inhabited a well-appointed house of her own, she - superintended the domestic arrangements of the Rectory; and performed all - the duties of hostess for her cousin when he entertained. Thus, - parochially and socially she was invaluable to the Canon—his - right-hand woman, one who could share his dignity, and, by so doing, add - to its impressiveness. If he had been called upon to write her epitaph, he - would have carved upon the stone, “Here lies a woman of sense.” - Now, when a responsibly placed and grave bachelor of three-and-forty holds - that opinion of a woman of his own years, and consults her in all his - concerns, the result is not difficult to imagine. Cousin Emmeline ruled - the Rectory, with exquisite tact it is true—for if there was one of - her peculiar and original virtues of which she made a speciality, it was - tact—but yet her influence was paramount. - </p> - <p> - When the Canon had come to her with a request to invite Madame Yvonne - Latour to stay with her, she had elevated polite eyebrows. - </p> - <p> - “Whoever heard of such a thing!” - </p> - <p> - “It seems simple,” said the Canon. “I can’t invite - her to my own house, so I beg you to invite her to yours.” - </p> - <p> - “You are not going to do this for all the professionals engaged at - the festival?” - </p> - <p> - “Of course not,” answered the Canon; “who is suggesting - anything so absurd?” - </p> - <p> - “Then why make an exception of Madame Latour, who is not even - singing the leading parts?” - </p> - <p> - “She is very delicate and requires comforts,” he replied. - “If she is not taken care of, she may not be able to sing at all. - Besides, it is my particular desire, Emmeline. I assume the privilege of - expressing it to you.” - </p> - <p> - “I take it she is a very great friend of yours?” - </p> - <p> - “A very great friend,” said the Canon. - </p> - <p> - Mrs. Winstanley reviewed many unpleasant possibilities. Certain weaknesses - becoming apparent in her own impregnable position strongly tempted her to - refuse. She bit her lip and looked at her manicured finger-nails. - </p> - <p> - “Come, you’re a woman of sense,” added the Canon, after - a pause. - </p> - <p> - The tribute turned the tide of her judgment. She was a woman of sense. How - absurd of her to have forgotten. An ironical smile played on her lips and - lurked in her steel-grey eyes. - </p> - <p> - “You want to present Madame Latour to Fulminster society, Everard, - with whatever advantages may be attached to my chaperonage?” - </p> - <p> - “Precisely,” said the Canon. - </p> - <p> - “Well, I will send the invitation. But will she accept it?” - </p> - <p> - “I ’ll see about that,” he replied briskly. “I am - deeply indebted to you, Emmeline.” - </p> - <p> - She smiled, shook hands and followed him, with a word of parting, to the - door. Then as soon as it was shut upon him, she stamped her foot and - walked across the room, with an exclamation of impatience. - </p> - <p> - “I wonder what kind of a fool he is going to make of himself!” - </p> - <p> - She soon saw. One is not a woman of sense for nothing. On the eve of the - Festival, which was being held for the purpose of raising funds for the - restoration of the old Abbey church, of which the Canon was rector, he - gave a consecrating dinner-party. - </p> - <p> - The Bishop of the diocese, who was staying at the Rectory, was there; Sir - Joshua and Lady Santyre, and others of the high and solemn world of - Fulminster. Yet the Canon, with a high-bred tact, delicately conveyed the - impression that Madame Latour was the guest of the evening. Mrs. - Winstanley kept eyes and ears on the alert. There was much talk of the - Festival. On the morrow the “Elijah” was to be given, with - Madame Latour in the contralto part. The Canon was solicitous as to her - voice, beamed with pleasure when she offered, in her sweet, simple way to - sing to his guests, and stood behind her as she sung, with what, in Mrs. - Winstanley’s eyes, appeared an exasperating expression of fatuity. - </p> - <p> - A little later in the evening, a young girl, - Sophia Wilmington, went up to him with the charming insolence of youth. - </p> - <p> - “Why did n’t you tell us she was so sweet? I ’ve fallen - head over ears in love with her.” The Canon smiled, bowed, and - delivered himself of this extraordinary speech:— - </p> - <p> - “My dear Sophia, next to falling in love with me, myself, you could - not give me greater pleasure.” - </p> - <p> - “She is so lovely,” said the girl. - </p> - <p> - “A chance for a medallion,” said the Canon. Miss Wilmington - had a pretty taste in medallion painting. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I couldn’t get her colouring; but I should love to try—and - her voice. To me, any one with a gift like that seems above ordinary - mortals. You see I am quite ready to worship your angel.” - </p> - <p> - “My angel?” said the Canon, sharply. - </p> - <p> - Mrs. Winstanley, who was close by, discussing the Engadine with the - Bishop, did not lose a word of the above conversation. At his last - exclamation, she shot a swift side glance which caught the momentary - confusion and flush on the Canon’s face. She was quite certain now - of the sort of fool he was going to make of himself. - </p> - <p> - Meanwhile, the girl broke into a gay laugh. - </p> - <p> - “It did sound funny. I meant the angel in the ‘Elijah.’” - </p> - <p> - “Oh,” said the Canon, “I was forgetting the ‘Elijah.’” - </p> - <p> - Mrs. Winstanley resolved at least to say a warning word. Before she left, - she managed to have a few words with him. - </p> - <p> - “I hope you are keeping your eyes very wide open, Everard,” - she said, in a whisper. - </p> - <p> - The Canon took her literally and so regarded her. But she smiled and put - her hand on his sleeve. - </p> - <p> - “She is quite charming and all of that, I grant. But she is very - much deeper than she looks.” - </p> - <p> - “Really, my dear Emmeline—” he began, drawing himself - up. - </p> - <p> - “Tut! my dear friend; don’t be offended. You have called me a - wise woman so often that I believe I am one. Well, trust a wise woman, and - look before you leap.” - </p> - <p> - “I am not in the habit of leaping, Emmeline,” said the Canon, - stiffly. - </p> - <p> - Mrs. Winstanley laughed, as if she had a sense of humour; and in a few - minutes was driving Yvonne homewards in her snug brougham. - </p> - <p> - But the Canon, after he had performed his last duties as host towards his - right reverend guest, sought the great leathern armchair before his study - fire and lit a cigar. Emmeline’s words had disturbed him. That is - the worst of keeping a consultant cousin—a woman of sense. Her - advice <i>may</i> save you from months of regret, but it is sure to cause - you bad quarters of an hour. You remember the woman and disregard the - sense on such occasions; or <i>vice versa</i>. Hitherto Emmeline had been - infallible. The fact annoyed him, and he let his cigar die out, another - irritation. At last he rose impatiently, and going to a violin-case, drew - from it a favourite Guarnerius fiddle, tenderly wrapped in a silk - handkerchief. And then, having put on the <i>sourdine</i>, so as not to - disturb right reverend slumbers, he played “O, rest in the Lord,” - with considerable taste and execution. - </p> - <p> - Perhaps it is well that Mrs. Winstanley did not hear him. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - The concert began at three o’clock. The new Town Hall was packed - from ceiling to floor. Canon Chisely stood up by his seat near the - platform and looked around at the great mass of the audience, which - included the flower and influence of the county, and then, turning, - scanned the serried hedgerow of the orchestra, the crowding terraces of - the choir, and the thin line of professionals in front, among whom Yvonne’s - tiny figure had just come to make a spot of grace; and he felt a glow of - pride. It was all his doing. The dream of many years was in process of - being realised—the completion of the Abbey Restoration Fund. - Moreover, he had succeeded in developing his first conception of an - unambitious concert into a musical event, to be chronicled by critics from - the London dailies. He had other reasons, too, for satisfaction, neither - professional nor aesthetic. - </p> - <p> - Yvonne was feeling fluttered and happy. Fluttered, because it was an - important engagement. There are very few chances, even for a real - contralto, in oratorio music, and her voice was more mezzo. Hitherto she - had contented herself with the scraps. If she had known that the “Elijah” - had been deliberately selected because it was the one oratorio in which - the contralto part not only suited her voice perfectly, but also rivalled - the soprano in importance, the fluttering would have been intensified by - perplexity. And she was happy, because all the world was smiling on her, - particularly Geraldine Vicary and Vandeleur, with whom she was in - immediate converse. Vandeleur had been engaged long since by the Canon for - the name-part, partly on account of his magnificent bass voice, and partly - to please Yvonne. Geraldine Vicary had stepped into a gap caused by the - withdrawal of a more celebrated soprano at the last moment. Yvonne was - smiling brightly upon Vandeleur. She liked him. He had made no subsequent - reference to his declaration of love, and Yvonne, with her facile - temperament, had almost forgotten the circumstance. Besides, he had gone - back to his old allegiance to Geraldine, which pleased Yvonne greatly. - </p> - <p> - The conductor stepped to his stand and tapped with his baton. Silence - succeeded the buzz of talk and the din of the tuning of fiddles. Three - chords from the orchestra, and Vandeleur sang the introduction; the - overture, the opening chorus, and then Yvonne took up her part. Singing - was her life. After the first bar, she sang spontaneously, like the birds, - free from nervousness or self-consciousness. And during her waits the - sublime music absorbed her senses. It swept on through its themes of - despair, renunciation, revelation, and promise; through all its vivid - contrasts—the great trumpet voice of the prophet, the rolling mass - of sound of the chorus, the vibrating notes of the messenger—“Hear - ye, Israel; hear what the Lord speaketh “—the calm, sweet - voice of the angel, telling of peace. - </p> - <p> - The Canon listened through all with the ear of a musician and the heart of - a religious man. But there was a chord in his nature that remained - untouched when Yvonne was not singing, and quivered strangely when her - voice was raised. It was so pathetically weak, so different in quality - from Geraldine Vicary’s powerful soprano, apparently so incapable of - filling that vast hall; and yet so true, so exquisitely modulated that - every note rang clear to the farthest gallery. The man forgot his - three-and-forty years, the strange mingling of worldly wisdom and priestly - dignity by which most of his judgments were formed, and he identified the - woman with the voice, pure, angelic, irresistibly lovable. - </p> - <p> - He turned to his neighbour, Mrs. Winstanley, after the “O, rest in - the Lord,” his eyes glistening, and whispered, “What do you - think?” - </p> - <p> - “An unqualified success, Everard.” - </p> - <p> - “I am so glad.” - </p> - <p> - “You deserve every congratulation.” - </p> - <p> - “Thanks, from my heart, Emmeline.” - </p> - <p> - “The Obadiah man is delightful.” - </p> - <p> - He looked blankly at her, unable to read what lay behind those calm, grey - eyes. Then a great comfort fell upon him. The woman of sense had - manifested a lack of intuition that could be called by no other name than - stupidity. He hugged his knee, delighted. But he made no more references - to Yvonne. - </p> - <p> - The silence following the crash of the last “Amen,” announced - the end. It woke him from a dream. He started to his feet with the impulse - to seek Yvonne on the platform, but he was immediately hemmed in by a - circle of congratulatory friends. As soon as he obtained breathing space, - he turned round, to find that she had withdrawn to the ladies’ - dressing-room to put on her things. The hall cleared rapidly. Mrs. - Winstanley waited for Yvonne, who did not come at once, having a flood of - things to tell to Geraldine. The Canon grew impatient. It was getting - late, and he had to drive the Bishop home in time to dress for dinner at a - great house some distance away. It would be his only chance of seeing - Yvonne that evening. At last she came through the side-door and down the - platform with Miss Vicary. He advanced to assist them at the steps, and - then, after a few courteous words of thanks to Geraldine, who walked on - unconcernedly toward the waiting group, found himself alone with Yvonne. - </p> - <p> - She wore high-standing fur at her throat and a tiny fur toque in the mass - of dark hair, and she looked very winsome. Foolish speeches ran in his - grave head, but he could not formulate them. - </p> - <p> - “I hope you are not very tired,” he said, with dignified - lameness, pacing by her side, his hands behind his back. - </p> - <p> - “Not very. My throat is a bit stiff, but that will go off. Well, was - I all right?” - </p> - <p> - “My dear child—” began the Canon, stopping abruptly. - </p> - <p> - “I was afraid I might let the piece down, you know,” she said, - with a serene smile. “I am not a great vocalist, like Miss Vicary.” - </p> - <p> - “Don’t speak like that,” he said, awkwardly. - </p> - <p> - “Besides, your voice has a charm that hers can never have.” - </p> - <p> - “So you are quite pleased with me?” She looked up at him with - such trustful simplicity that his rather stern face grew tender with a - smile. It seemed as if a glimpse of her true nature was revealed to him. - </p> - <p> - “You are like a child-angel, asking if it has been good.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, what a sweet, pretty thing to say!” cried Yvonne, gaily. - “I shall always remember it, Canon Chisely. Now I know I sang - nicely. And, you know, it’s almost like being in heaven to sing that - part.” - </p> - <p> - “You called us all there to you,” said the Canon. - </p> - <p> - Yvonne blushed, pleased to her heart by the sincerity of the compliment. - Coming from Canon Chisely, it had singular force. There was an air of - strength and dignity about his broad shoulders, his strongly-marked, - thoughtful face, and his grave, yet kindly manner, that had always set him - apart, in her estimation, from the other men with whom she came into - contact. She never included him in her generalisations upon men and their - strange ways. His profession and position, as well as his personality, put - him into a category where her unremembered father, and Mr. Gladstone, and - the great throat-surgeon whom she had once consulted, vaguely figured. She - was always conscious of being on her very best behaviour while talking to - him. - </p> - <p> - The Canon glanced at his friends. They were conversing animatedly, as if - in no great hurry to depart. So he leant back against the platform and - lingered a while with Yvonne. - </p> - <p> - “You must take care not to catch cold,” he said, after a - while. “I believe it’s a horrid evening.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, don’t fear. I shall be all right tomorrow,” said - Yvonne. - </p> - <p> - “I am not thinking of to-morrow at all, though any hitch then would - be a misfortune, certainly. I am anxious about yourself. Your throat is - already relaxed.” - </p> - <p> - “You mustn’t spoil me, Canon Chisely. I am used to going out - in all kinds of weather. I have to, you know.” - </p> - <p> - “I wish you had n’t. You are far too fragile.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I am stronger than I look. I am tough—really.” - </p> - <p> - She brought out the incongruous epithet so prettily that he put back his - head and laughed. - </p> - <p> - “If I had any authority over you, you should not play tricks with - yourself,” he said, in grave playfulness. - </p> - <p> - “But you have a great deal of authority over me. I should never - dream of disobeying you.” - </p> - <p> - He leaned his body forward, his hands resting on the platform edge behind - him, and looked at her earnestly. - </p> - <p> - “Do you think so much of me as that?” he asked, in a low - voice. - </p> - <p> - “Why, of course, I think everything of you,” replied Yvonne, - innocently. “Don’t you know that?” - </p> - <p> - An answer was on his lips, but, happening to look round, he caught Mrs. - Winstanley’s ironical glance, an off-switch to sentiment. He stroked - a grizzling whisker and drew himself up. - </p> - <p> - “I mustn’t keep the Bishop waiting,” he said. - </p> - <p> - “Nor I, Mrs. Winstanley.” - </p> - <p> - They joined the group, where Yvonne received her congratulations and - compliments with childish pleasure. In a few moments they separated, and - the Canon drove off, regarding the Bishop by his side with uncanonical - feelings. - </p> - <p> - Late that evening Vandeleur was smoking a cigarette in Miss Vicary’s - hotel sitting-room. As Yvonne’s friends, they had been dining with - Mrs. Winstanley. Vandeleur was charmed with her urbanity, and sang her - praises with Celtic hyperbole. - </p> - <p> - “I should n’t trust her further than I could see her,” - said Geraldine. “She hangs up her smile every night on her - dressing-table.” - </p> - <p> - “Just hear a woman, now,” said the Irishman. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, just hear a woman,” retorted Geraldine, sarcastically. - “I suppose you think she loves Yvonne, don’t you?” - </p> - <p> - “Of course I do. I’m sure she’s thinking how sweet she - is this very minute.” - </p> - <p> - “She would like to be poisoning Yvonne this very minute.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, I’m blest!” exclaimed Vandeleur, letting the - match die out with which he was preparing to light a fresh cigarette. - “It takes a woman to imagine gratuitous devilry!” - </p> - <p> - “And it takes a man to absorb himself in his dinner to the besotting - of his intelligence! But I have eyes. And a logical mind—don’t - tell me I have n’t. Now, hitherto, Mrs. Winstanley seems to have been - the central figure in this wretched little provincial society. Who is, at - the present moment?” - </p> - <p> - “Sure, it’s yourself, Geraldine—the great soprano from - London.” - </p> - <p> - She did not condescend to notice the flattery. - </p> - <p> - “It’s Yvonne. I bet you she’s the most-talked-of person - in Fulminster this evening. And Mrs. Winstanley the sickest. Oh, how dull - men are! What is all this Festival, really, but the apotheosis of Yvonne?” - </p> - <p> - “It’s the canonisation of Yvonne, I should say,” - remarked Vandeleur, drily. - </p> - <p> - Miss Vicary’s expression relaxed, and she leaned back in her chair. - </p> - <p> - “You’re not such a fool, after all, Van.” - </p> - <p> - “So I ’ve been told before,” he replied, with a chuckle. - “Anyhow, it will be a splendid thing for the dear child.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, how can it be? I have no patience with you!” - </p> - <p> - “That’s obvious,” said Vandeleur. - </p> - <p> - “Yvonne would give any man her head, if he whimpered or clamoured - for it,” Geraldine, rising to her feet, “and then tell you in - her pathetic way, ‘but he wanted it so, dear.’ And there isn’t - a man living who could be good enough to Yvonne!” - </p> - <p> - “There I agree with you,” said Vandeleur. - </p> - <p> - Meanwhile, Yvonne was going to sleep, quite unconscious of the facts that - had aroused Miss Vicary’s indignation. The memory of the artistic - triumph of the day and the Canon’s generous praise lingered - pleasantly around her pillow. But if there was any one man to whom her - thoughts were tenderly given, it was the unhappy friend of her girlhood, - who was then speeding into exile over the bleak autumn seas. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER IX—PAST, PRESENT, AND FUTURE - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>f genius is mad, - sensitiveness degenerate, and emotionality neurotic, and if heredity is - the determining principle in the causation of character, comparative - psychology enables us to account for many things. On these lines it could - fairly be argued that one family taint of neurosis, manifesting itself - diversely, had driven Stephen Chisely to the gaol and brought his cousin, - the Canon, to the feet of Yvonne. Though there may be fallacies in the - premises, there is, however, a certain plausibility in the deduction. - Through both men ran a vein of artistic feeling carrying with it a - perception of the beautiful and an impulse toward its attainment This - malady of sensitiveness—to speak by the book—had carried - Stephen beyond the bounds of moral principle. It prevailed at times over - Canon Chisely’s natural austerity and hardness. If in the one case - it had been a curse, in the other it was a blessing. - </p> - <p> - In politics a Tory, in social attitude proud of caste, in creed a rigid - Anglican, in morals conventional, in affairs a man of cold, crystalline - judgment, he had few of the undegenerate qualities that make for - lovableness of character. The aesthetic sense, deeply spreading, was the - redeeming vice of a sternly virtuous man. It was his social salvation, his - vehicle of happiness, his bond of sympathy with his fellow-creatures. - </p> - <p> - The beauty of Yvonne’s voice had attracted him toward her, years - before—afterwards, the beauty of her face. But it was not until the - conception of her nature’s beauty, idealised by he knew not what - artistry within him from voice and face and simple thoughts and acts, - arose within his mind, that he became conscious of deeper feelings. At - first it seemed as if he had disintegrated the soul of his favourite - Greuze—fathomed the unplumbed innocence of its eyes as its hand - closes over the apple—and was regarding it with a poet’s - wonder. But then his sterner nature asserted itself, restoring mental - equilibrium. He realised that his feelings for her were what men call - love, and soberly he thought of marriage. - </p> - <p> - He had often, previously, considered the advantages of matrimony. It was - an honourable estate, becoming to his position, involving parental - responsibilities which, for God’s greater glory, it behoved a man of - his calibre to seek. The wife he had contemplated was to be a woman of - culture, reserve, high principle, who could grace his table, aid him in - spiritual affairs, and bear him worthy offspring. He was called upon now - to reorganise his conceptions. It is true that his idea of the advantages - of the married state was unaffected, save by the addition of one undreamed - of—the sunshine of a sweet woman’s face in his cold home. But - the disparity between the ideal woman and the real one was alarming. - Socially, parentally, spiritually, was Yvonne the woman to hold the high - office of his wife? He gave the matter months of anxious reflection. He - was marrying at leisure, certainly, he thought grimly; would he repent in - haste? At length his love for Yvonne wove itself into his schemes for the - Festival. Yvonne should come to Fulminster, take her place at once in - society under Mrs. Winstanley’s chaperonage and win her welcome with - her voice. Thus he would have an opportunity of judging her within his own - environment. A complex mingling of passion and calculation. - </p> - <p> - And Yvonne, demurely innocent, had passed through the ordeal. As the Canon - drove away from the “Elijah,” he doubted no longer. Before she - left Fulminster he would ask her to be his wife. It is characteristic of - the man that he had no serious fears of her refusal. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - The Festival was over. It was the day after. Miss Vicary and Vandeleur had - returned to town by an early train and Yvonne was spending an idle morning - over the fire. She had wandered round the shelves of the morning-room in - search of a novel, and had selected “Corinne” because it was - French. But Yvonne was a child of the age, and children of the age do not - appreciate Madame de Staël. One can understand a dear old lady in curls - and cap sighing lovingly over “Corinne,” bringing back as it - does memories of inky fingers and eternal friendships; but not—well, - not Yvonne. She loved “Gyp.” An unread volume was in her trunk - upstairs. She felt too tired and lazy to get it. Besides, she was not - quite sure whether the sight of “Gyp” would not shock Mrs. - Winstanley, who was engaged over her voluminous correspondence at a table - by the window. - </p> - <p> - “They have such queer prejudices,” thought Yvonne. “One - never knows.” - </p> - <p> - So she dropped “Corinne” on to the floor and looked at the - fire. In spite of her awe of Mrs. Winstanley, she was sorry to leave - Fulminster. Life had been made very pleasant for her the last few days. - Her throat was somewhat relaxed after the strain. She wished she could - give it a long rest. But on Monday she was engaged to sing at a club - concert at the Crystal Palace and in the morning she was to resume her - singing lessons; and the weather in London was wet and muggy. It would be - bliss to be idle, not to think of earning money and just to sing when you - wanted. She turned her head and caught a chance glimpse of her hostess’s - face. The morning light streaming full upon it showed up pitilessly the - network of lines beneath her eyes and the fallen contours of her lips and - the roughness of her skin. Yvonne was startled at seeing her look so old - and faded—a letter to a sister-in-law detailing Everard’s - folly did not conduce to sweetness of expression—and she wondered - whether she, Yvonne, would be happy when she came to look like that. She - shivered a little at the thought. Yes, the years would pass, leaving their - footprints, and she would grow old and her voice would pass away. It was - dreadful. When Yvonne did enter the gloom, she made it very dark indeed, - and summoned every available bogey. What should she do in her old age, - when she could no longer earn her living? Geraldine was always preaching - thrift, but she had put nothing by as yet. If she became incapacitated - to-morrow, she did not know how she would live. She looked at the fire - wistfully, her brow knitted in faint lines, and found her position very - pathetic. But just then Bruce, Mrs. Winstanley’s collie, rose from - the rug and came and laid his chin on her knees, looking at her with - great, mournful eyes. Yvonne broke into a sudden laugh, which astonished - both Bruce and his mistress, and taking the dog’s silky ears in her - hands, she kissed his nose and rallied him gaily on his melancholy. So - Yvonne stepped out of the darkness into the sunshine again. - </p> - <p> - Presently a servant entered. - </p> - <p> - “Canon Chisely would be glad if he could see Madame Latour for a - moment.” - </p> - <p> - “Where is the Canon?” asked Mrs. Winstanley. - </p> - <p> - “In the drawing-room, ma’am.” - </p> - <p> - Yvonne rose quickly and went to her hostess, who slipped a sheet of - blotting-paper over her half-finished page. - </p> - <p> - “Shall I go down?” - </p> - <p> - “Naturally.” - </p> - <p> - Yvonne spoke a word to the servant, who retired, and then gave her hair a - few tidying touches before the mirror in the over-mantel. - </p> - <p> - “I wonder if he has brought me those old Provençal songs.” - </p> - <p> - “I hope he has, my dear,” said Mrs. Winstanley, drily. - </p> - <p> - “Well, he is sure to have something nice to tell me, at any rate,” - replied Yvonne, in her sunny way. - </p> - <p> - The Canon was standing on the hearthrug, his hands behind his back. On the - table lay his hat and gloves. Yvonne advanced quickly across the room to - meet him, her face lit with genuine pleasure. He greeted her gravely and - held her hand in both of his. - </p> - <p> - “I have come to have a serious talk with you.” - </p> - <p> - “Have I been doing anything wrong?” asked Yvonne, looking up - into his face. - </p> - <p> - “We shall see,” he said, smiling. “Let us sit down.” - </p> - <p> - Still holding her hand, he drew her to the couch by the fireside, and they - sat down together. - </p> - <p> - “It is about yourself, Yvonne—I may call you Yvonne?—and - about myself too. You have always felt that you have had a friend in me?” - </p> - <p> - “Ah! a dear friend, Canon. No one is to me the same as you. I shan’t - mind at all if you scold me.” - </p> - <p> - She looked at him so guilelessly, so trustingly, that his heart melted - over her. Verily she was the wife sent to him by heaven. - </p> - <p> - “I was but jesting, Yvonne. Besides, how could I dare scold you? It - is I who come as a suppliant to you, my dear. I love you, and it is the - dearest wish of my heart to make you my wife.” - </p> - <p> - The sun died out of Yvonne’s eyes, her heart stopped beating, she - looked at him in piteous amazement. - </p> - <p> - “You—want me—?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes. Is it so strange?” - </p> - <p> - “You are jesting still—I don’t understand—” - She had withdrawn her hand from his clasp, and was sitting upright, - twisting her handkerchief and trembling all over. It was so unexpected. - She could scarcely trust her senses. She had regarded him more as an - influence than as a man. To Geraldine’s wit she had given not a - moment’s thought. To marry Canon Chisely—the idea seemed - unreal, preposterous. And yet she heard his voice pleading. She was - overwhelmed by the sudden magnitude of responsibility. He had swooped down - and caught her up through the vast moral spaces that lay between them, and - she was dizzy and breathless. - </p> - <p> - “I do not press you for your answer,” she heard him saying. - “To-morrow—a week, a month hence—what you will. Take - your time. I can give you a good name, comfort in worldly things—the - ease and freedom from care which, thank God, my means allow—an - honourable position, and a deep, true affection. Would you like me to wait - a month before I speak to you again?” - </p> - <p> - “A month could make no difference,” murmured Yvonne. “It - would seem as strange then as now.” There was a sudden pause in the - whirl of her thoughts. Was it a bewildering device of his to show her - kindness, provide for her future? - </p> - <p> - “I could n’t accept it from you,” she added - incoherently. - </p> - <p> - “But it is I who want you, Yvonne,” said the Canon, earnestly. - “It is I who must have you to brighten my home and comfort my life. - If your life is lying idle, as it were, Yvonne, give it me to use for my - happiness. For months I have given this my deepest, most anxious thought. - I am not a man to talk lightly of love and marriage. When I say that I - want you, it means that you are necessary to me. And you trust me?” - </p> - <p> - “Above all men—of course—” - </p> - <p> - “Then your answer—‘yes,’ or ‘no,’ or - ‘wait.’” - </p> - <p> - She was silent. He put his arm round her shoulders and drew her to him. - </p> - <p> - “You must be my wife, Yvonne. Why not say ‘yes’ now?” - </p> - <p> - She felt powerless beneath the strong will and authority of the man. Why - he should wish to marry her, she could not understand; but his words had - all the weight of an imperative. - </p> - <p> - “If you must have me, then—” said she in a quavering - little voice, “I must do as you say.” - </p> - <p> - “You will be happy, my child,” he said, reassuringly. “I - will make it all sunshine for you—you need have no fears.” - </p> - <p> - He drew her yet closer to him and kissed her forehead; then he released - her gently. - </p> - <p> - “So it’s a promise?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” said Yvonne. - </p> - <p> - “Then look into my eyes and say, ‘Everard, I will take you for - my husband.’” - </p> - <p> - He said it loverwise, and, dignitary though he was, with a touch of a - lover’s fatuity. The tone revived Yvonne’s animation. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I could n’t,” she cried, with a queer little laugh, - midway between despair and gaiety. “I shouldn’t dare—it - wouldn’t sound respectful.” - </p> - <p> - “Try,” said he. “Say ‘Everard.’” - </p> - <p> - But Yvonne shook her head. “I must practise it by myself.” - </p> - <p> - The Canon laughed. He was well contented with the world. Her modesty and - innocence charmed him. Married though she had been, the fragrance of - maidenhood seemed still to hover round her. She was an exquisite thing to - have taken possession of. - </p> - <p> - “Are you happy?” he asked, taking her small brown hand that - lay clasped with the other on her lap. - </p> - <p> - “I am too frightened to be happy—yet,” she replied - softly, with a shy lift of her eyes. - </p> - <p> - “I don’t quite understand what has happened. Half an hour ago - I was a poor little singer—and now—” - </p> - <p> - “You are my affianced wife,” said the Canon, with grave - promptness. - </p> - <p> - “That’s what I can’t realise. Everything seems - topsy-turvy. Oh, it <i>is</i> your wish, Canon Chisely, isn’t it? - You are so good and wise, you wouldn’t let me do anything that was - not right?” - </p> - <p> - “Always trust to me for your happiness, Yvonne, and all will be - well,” answered the Canon. - </p> - <p> - Presently she rose, gave him her hand with simple dignity. - </p> - <p> - “I must go and think it over by myself. You will let me? Another - time I will stay with you as long as you want me.” - </p> - <p> - The Canon led her to the door, kissed her hand, bending low over it in an - old-fashioned way, and bowed her out of the room. Then he rang for the - servant and sent a message to Mrs. Winstanley. He was a man of prompt - execution. - </p> - <p> - In the interview that followed, the Canon came off triumphant. He parried - his cousin’s thrusts of satire with a solicitude for her own welfare - that was not free from irony. If she had not so openly showed him her - distaste for the marriage, he might have displayed some sympathy for her - in the loss of <i>prestige</i> that she was sustaining as lady ruler of - the Rectory. As matters stood, he considered she had forfeited it by her - caprice. Besides, he had shrewdly determined that there should not be a - triple dominion in his house. - </p> - <p> - “I hope she will extend your sphere of usefulness, Everard, as a - wife should,” said Mrs. Winstanley. “But she is inexperienced - in these matters. You will not be hard upon her.” - </p> - <p> - “I am only hard on those who disregard my authority. Then it is duty - and not severity. Have you ever found me a harsh taskmaster, Emmeline?” - </p> - <p> - “You would n’t compare us surely?” - </p> - <p> - “Certainly not. I could compare my wife with no other woman. It - would be in all respects wrong.” - </p> - <p> - “Well,” she replied, bidding him adieu, “I hope that you - will be happy.” - </p> - <p> - “My dear Emmeline,” said the Canon, “I have been humbly - conscious for years that my happiness has always been one of your chief - considerations.” - </p> - <p> - From Mrs. Winstanley’s he proceeded at once to Lady Santyre’s, - where he received congratulations and luncheon. He left with the - comfortable certainty that all Fulminster would ring with the news of his - engagement during the course of the afternoon. His announcement was as - public as if he had proclaimed it from the pulpit. And Fulminster did ring - as he had expected—not that it was unprepared, for the Canon’s - attentions to Madame Latour had been a subject of universal speculation. - Murmurings arose in certain quarters. The neighbourhood abounded in the - aristocratic fair unwedded, and the Canon was highly eligible. One of the - aggrieved declared that all the Chiselys were eccentric, and instanced the - unfortunate Stephen. - </p> - <p> - “My dear,” replied in remonstrance her interlocutor, who had - just married her last daughter to the leading manufacturer in Fulminster, - “You must not talk as if the Canon had run off with a ballet-girl.” - </p> - <p> - But generally his indiscretion was condoned. It had been a stroke of - genius to let Yvonne charm her critics from a public platform at the very - outset. - </p> - <p> - For Yvonne herself, the remainder of her visit passed in a whirl. Families - called upon her; mothers congratulated her; the “Fulminster Gazette” - interviewed her; the Santyres changed the small dinner-party, to which she - had been already asked, into a solemn banquet in her honour; and the Canon - was ever at her side, attentive, courteous, dignified, authoritative, - playing his part to perfection. The flattery pleased her. The universal - deference paid to the Canon, of which she had grown more keenly conscious, - awakened a shy pride. But it all seemed an incongruous dream, out of which - she would awake when she found herself in her tiny flat in the Marylebone - Road. She was afraid to go back. If it was a dream, she would regret this - sudden lifting from her shoulders of all sordid cares, the dread of losing - her voice, of poverty, and the grasshopper’s wintry old age. If it - continued true, she feared lest the familiar surroundings might pain her - with regret for the life she was abandoning—the sweet artist’s - life, with all its inconsequences and its purposes, its hopes and fears, - its freedom and its claims. Even now, she cried a little at the prospect - of giving it up. And then she wouldn’t know herself. Hitherto, her - conception of herself had been Yvonne Latour, the singer. That was her - Alpha and Omega. It would be like looking in the glass and seeing a total - stranger. It was pathetic. - </p> - <p> - On Sunday she received a series of sensations. She believed such elemental - doctrines as she had received at her mother’s knee: in a beautiful - heaven and a fearful hell, in Christ and the angels—she was not - quite certain about the Virgin Mary—in the Lord’s Prayer, - which she said every night at her bedside, and in the goodness of going to - church. Her religion might have been that of a bird of the air for all the - shackles it laid upon her soul. But the outer forms of worship impressed - her strongly—church music, solemn silences, vestments, stained - windows, even words. She felt very solemn when she called her innocent - self a “miserable sinner” in the Litany, and the word “Sabbaoth,” - in the “Te Deum,” always seemed fraught with mystic meaning. - The symbolic hushed her into awe. Even the surplices of the choir-boys set - them apart for the moment, in her mind, from the baser sort of urchins. - And, <i>a fortiori</i>, the clergyman, in surplice and stole, had always - appealed to her childish imagination as a being that moved in an especial - odour of sanctity. It is fair to add that Yvonne’s church-going had - never been as regular as might have been desired, so these reverential - feelings had not been staled by custom. However, when the Canon appeared - at the reading-desk, and his fine voice rang through the Abbey, Yvonne - felt a sudden pang of alarm. The night before he had been so tender and - playful that he had almost seemed to be upon her level. And now, he was - far, far away. The distance between her, poor, insignificant little - Yvonne, and him performing his sacred office, appeared immeasurably vast. - And when he mounted the pulpit, her awe grew greater. She could not - realise that he was her affianced husband. - </p> - <p> - He preached on the text from the story of Nicodemus, “Except a man - be born again.” The words caught her fancy as being apposite to her - own case, and, disregarding the thread of the Canon’s discourse, she - preached a little sermon to herself. She was going to be born again. - Yvonne the singer would die, and a new, regenerate Yvonne, the lady of the - Rectory, Mrs. Everard Chisely, would appear in her stead. She caught a - phrase in which the Canon touched upon the spiritual pain attending on the - death of the old Adam. She wondered whether she would be called upon to - suffer the fire of purification. It was like the Phoenix. At this point - she pulled herself up short. To mix up the Phoenix and Nicodemus might be - profane. So she bestowed her best attention on the remainder of the - sermon. - </p> - <p> - That afternoon he took her through the Rectory—a great rambling - Elizabethan house, with nineteenth-century additions. She followed him - meekly from room to room, filled with wonder at the beauty of her future - home. The Canon had spent much money over his collections—overmuch, - some critics said—and the house was a museum of art treasures. - Pictures, statuary, wood-carvings, rare furniture met her in every - apartment, at every turn of the stairs. At first, the awe with which his - sacerdotal character had inspired her kept her subdued, but gradually the - new impressions effaced it. He spoke as if all these things were already - hers—established, as it were, a joint ownership. - </p> - <p> - “This is your own boudoir,” he said, as he led her into a - pleasant room, overlooking the lawn and commanding a view of the Abbey. - “Do you think you will be happy in it?” - </p> - <p> - “I must be,” she said, gratefully. “Not only because you - have given me the most beautiful room in the whole house, but because you - are so good to me in all things.” - </p> - <p> - “Who could help being good to you, my child?” said the Canon. - </p> - <p> - He was sincere. Yvonne felt humbled and yet lifted. Her eyes dwelt for a - shy moment on his. He seemed so kind, so loyal, so indulgent, and yet a - man so greatly to be venerated and honoured, that all her sweet womanhood - was moved. Standing, too, in this room that was to be her own, she felt - the future melt into the present. Her hand slipped timidly through his - arm. - </p> - <p> - “I shall never know why you want me,” she said, in a low - voice, “but I pray God I may be a good and loving and obedient wife - to you.” - </p> - <p> - “Amen, dear,” said the Canon, kissing her. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER X—COUNSELS OF PERFECTION - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">S</span>o Yvonne was - married, and for six months was completely happy. Fulminster and the - county entertained her, and she entertained Fulminster and the county. Her - husband petted her and relieved her of serious responsibilities. She won - the hearts of Mrs. Dirks the housekeeper, of Jordan the gardener, and - Fletcher the coachman, three autocrats in their respective spheres of - influence—victories whereby she controlled the menu, filled the - house with whatever flowers struck her fancy, and had out the horses at - the moment of her caprice. Her quick wit soon obtained a grasp upon - domestic affairs and her headship in the household was a practical fact - which the Canon proudly recognised. Her social duties she performed with - the tact born of simplicity. Mrs. Winstanley went away raging after her - first dinner-party. She had expected a consoling proof of incapacity and - had witnessed a little triumph of hostess-ship. - </p> - <p> - Not a cloud had appeared on her horizon since the wedding-day, when they - had started upon a magic month in Italy, among blue lakes and bluer skies - and gorgeous pictures and marble palaces. After that, there had been the - excitement of home-coming, the fluttering sweetness of taking possession, - the bewildering succession of fresh faces in her drawing-room, the long - drives to return calls, and to attend parties in her honour. The new - duties interested her. She revelled in an infants’ class at the - Sunday school, which she instructed in a theology undreamed of by the - Fathers. She sang at local concerts. She dressed herself in dainty raiment - to please her husband’s eye. In fact she made a study of his - æsthetic tastes from food to music, and delighted in gratifying them. With - feminine pliancy she strove to adapt her moods to his. His face became a - book which she loved to read when they met after a few hours’ - absence; and, according to what she read, she became demure, or gay, or - businesslike. In her leisure hours she sang to herself, read French - novels, which she obtained in unlimited supply from London, and sought the - society of Sophia Wilmington and her brother, who quickly constituted - themselves her chief friends and advisers in Fulminster. Often she sat - idle and gave herself up to dreamy contemplation of her beatitude. - </p> - <p> - In these moods comparisons would arise between her two marriages, and - between the two men. Scenes, almost forgotten during the years of her - widowhood, revived in her memory. Phases of present wedded relations - brought back vividly analogous phases in the past. The contrast sometimes - produced an emotion that seemed too great for self-containment, and she - longed to open her heart to her husband. But she dared not. Love might - have broken down barriers, but not the grateful, respectful affection she - bore the Canon. Besides, beyond one little talk, two years ago, at the - house of Stephen’s mother during her last illness, no mention had - been made between them of Amédée Bazouge. - </p> - <p> - Man-like, he preferred to dismiss the circumstance from his mind as - unpleasant. But the woman found pleasure in remembering, and in using the - contrasts to heighten her present happiness. - </p> - <p> - Thus for six months she had known no trouble, and had laughed at her old - tremulous misgivings as to her capacity for filling her present position. - </p> - <p> - Suddenly, one afternoon in early June, as they were sitting in the shadow - of the old Abbey, cast across half the lawn, the Canon laid down the - review he was reading by the foot of his chair, and, deliberately folding - his gold pince-nez and thrusting it in his waistcoat, looked at her and - said, “Yvonne.” - </p> - <p> - She closed “Le Petit Bob” with a snap, and became dutiful and - smiling attention. - </p> - <p> - “I have something to say to you,” he remarked gravely; “something - perhaps painful—about certain possible little changes in our lives.” - </p> - <p> - “Changes?” echoed Yvonne blankly. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, I have been wishing to speak for some months past. I think, - dear, you ought to be more serious, and give me greater help than you have - done hitherto. Do you follow me?” - </p> - <p> - If the quiet Rectory garden had suddenly been transformed into a Sahara, - and the golden laburnum by which she was sitting, into a pillar of fire, - she could not have been more bewildered. But she felt a horrible pain, as - from a stab, and the tears started to her eyes. - </p> - <p> - “No. Not at all—what is it?” - </p> - <p> - “I don’t wish to be unkind to you, Yvonne. I am only speaking - from a sense of duty. Once said, it will be, I am sure, enough.” - </p> - <p> - “But what is it? What is it?” she repeated piteously. “What - have I done to displease you?” - </p> - <p> - He took up his parable, with crossed legs and joined finger tips, and in a - quiet, unemotional voice catalogued her failings. She was not sufficiently - alive to the deeper responsibilities of her position. Many parochial - duties that devolved upon the Rector’s wife, she had left undone. - She took no pains to improve her acquaintance with doctrinal and - ecclesiastical affairs. - </p> - <p> - “I am not exaggerating,” he said, “for you did tell the - Sunday-school children that St. John the Baptist was present at the - Crucifixion, Yvonne, did n’t you?” - </p> - <p> - He smiled, as if to soften the severity of his charges; but Yvonne’s - face was fixed in tragic dismay, and the tears were rolling down her - cheeks. - </p> - <p> - He rose and advanced to her with outstretched arms. She obeyed his - suggestion mechanically and allowed herself to stand in his embrace. - </p> - <p> - “It is best to say it all out at once, Yvonne,” he said - gently. “And you will think over it, I know. You must n’t be - hurt, little wife.” - </p> - <p> - But she was—to the depths of her heart. “I did n’t know - you were not pleased with me,” she said with trembling lip. “I - thought I was doing my very best to make you happy.” - </p> - <p> - “And you have, my child—very happy.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh no—I have n’t. I will try to do what you want, - Everard. But I told you I was n’t fit for you—I can do - nothing, nothing but just sing a little. But I will try Everard. Forgive - me.” - </p> - <p> - “Freely, freely, dearest,” said the magnanimous man, patting - her on the shoulder. “There, there,” he added, kissing her - forehead. “It pained me intensely to say what I did. But if duties - were always pleasant, it would be a world of righteousness. Dry your eyes - and smile, Yvonne. And come and play my accompaniment for a few minutes - before dinner.” - </p> - <p> - He drew her arm within his and led her into the house, through the open - French window, talking of trifles to assure her of his affectionate - forgiveness. It was not in Yvonne’s nature to show resentment. She - fell outwardly into his humour, and thanked him sweetly for his somewhat - exaggerated attentions in arranging the piano and music; but as she - played, the notes became blurred. - </p> - <p> - “A little out there,” he said, standing behind her, his violin - under his chin. “Let us go back four bars.” - </p> - <p> - She struggled on bravely, biting her lip to keep back the tears that would - come and render the page illegible. At last a drop fell on a black note, - as she was bending her head towards the music-book. The Canon stopped - short and laid his violin and bow hastily on the piano. - </p> - <p> - “My dearest,” he exclaimed, stooping over her. “It is - all over. Don’t be unhappy. I did not mean to be unkind to you. I am - afraid I was. It is I who am not fit for so tender and sensitive a nature.” - </p> - <p> - He sat down by her on the broad piano-seat and let her cry upon his - shoulder. He had an uncomfortable feeling that in some way he had been - brutal. A man must be as hard as Mephistopheles not to experience this - sensation the first time he makes a woman cry. The second or third time he - calls his attitude firmness; afterwards he characterises her conduct as - unreasonable. A wise woman makes the very most of the first tears of her - married life. But Yvonne was not a wise woman. She dried her eyes as fast - as she could, and felt ashamed and humbled, and went and bathed them in - eau-de-cologne and water, and, seeing that the Canon desired her to be her - old self, for that evening at any rate, did her best to humour him. - </p> - <p> - After this, her life went on, not unhappily, but unlifted by the buoyancy - of the first six months. Her illusions had been shattered. The spontaneity - of her actions was checked. They became little tasks, whose excellence she - could not judge until the Canon had pronounced upon them. She made - prodigious efforts to fulfil his wishes. Some met with success. Others, - such as attempts at parish organisation, failed. Mrs. Winstanley, like - Betsy Jane in Artemus Ward’s book, would not be reorganised. The - Canon intervened, but his cousin stood firm, and at last he had to yield. - In district visiting, Yvonne had hard struggles. If she had carried her - own charming <i>insouciance</i> into working homes, she would have won all - hearts. But, morbidly conscious of the responsibilities of her position, - she judged it her duty to cast frivolity from her and to put on the - serious dignity of the Rector’s wife, which fitted her as easily as - a suit of armour. As for theology, she read with a zeal only equalled by - her incapacity of appreciating the drift of the science. To the end of her - days Yvonne could see no other difference between a Churchman and a - Dissenter, except that one had a pretty service and the other a dull one. - So closely, however, did she pursue her studies that the Canon took pity - on her, and came back from London one day with “Gyp’s” - latest production in his pocket. It would have done an archbishop good to - see the gleam of pleasure in Yvonne’s eyes. - </p> - <p> - Six more months passed, and Yvonne began to weary of the strain of - self-improvement. The sterner side of the Canon’s character showed - itself in a hundred little ways. Small censurings became frequent, praise - difficult to obtain. With the Canon’s gracious consent, she - despatched at last an invitation to Geraldine, who had already paid her a - visit in the spring. But that was in the days of her happiness. - </p> - <p> - Geraldine came, and her keen wit very soon penetrated the situation. - Yvonne had been too loyal to complain. - </p> - <p> - “You’ve just got to tell me all about it,” she said in - her determined fashion. - </p> - <p> - It was their first evening, after dinner, as soon as the Canon had gone - down to his library. - </p> - <p> - “All about what, Dina?” asked Yvonne. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, don’t pretend not to know. You were as happy as a bird - when I was here last, and now you don’t open your mouth.” - </p> - <p> - “I think I want a change,” said Yvonne. “I am getting - too respectable. At first, you see, everything was new, and now I have got - used to it. I think if I could run about London by myself for a month, and - sing at lots of concerts, it would do me good. And oh, Dina—I should - so much like to hear a man say ‘damn’ again!” - </p> - <p> - “Well, I’m not a man, but I’ ll say it for you—damn, - damn, damn. Now do you feel better?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, you look so funny as you say it!” cried Yvonne, with a - laugh. “I wish it was something artistic and you could teach it to - the Canon.” - </p> - <p> - “It strikes me, if I were to set about it, I could teach the Canon a - good many things. First of all, what a treasure he has got—which he - does n’t seem quite aware of.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, Dina, you mustn’t say that,” said Yvonne, looking - shocked. “He is all kindness and indulgence—really, dear. If I - feel dull, it is because I am wicked and hanker after frivolous things—Van, - for instance, and a comic song. Do you know you have n’t once spoken - about Van?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, don’t talk of Van,” said Miss Vicary; “I am - getting tired of him. He never knows his mind three days together. If I - was n’t a fool I would give him up for good and all.” - </p> - <p> - “But why don’t you marry and make an end of it?” asked - Yvonne. “I don’t understand.” - </p> - <p> - “Ask Van. Don’t ask me. There’s somebody else now. Elsie - Carnegie, of all people.” - </p> - <p> - “Poor Dina.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, not at all. Dina is not going to break her heart over Van’s - infidelities. I’m quite content as I am. Only I’m a fool—there! - I ’ve never told you I was a fool before, Yvonne. That’s - because you are so sedate and respectable. I’m getting to venerate - you.” - </p> - <p> - “I should like to talk to him seriously about it—for his good.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, heavens, my child, he’d be falling in love with you again - and having the whole artillery of the Church about his ears!” Yvonne - laughed gaily. The talk was doing her good. Geraldine’s forcible - phraseology was a tonic after the politer accents of Fulminster. They - drifted away unconsciously from the main subject upon which they had - started. Geraldine had many things to tell of the doings in the musical - world. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I wish I was back for a little,” cried poor Yvonne. - “Singing in a amateur way is not like singing professionally, is it?” - </p> - <p> - “I think you are better where you are,” replied Geraldine, - seriously, “in spite of all things. It is no use being discontented.” - </p> - <p> - “Not a bit,” sighed Yvonne. She was silent for a little, and - then she turned round to Geraldine. - </p> - <p> - “I don’t think you would do very well married, Dina. You are - too independent. A woman has to give in so much, you know; and do so much - pretending, which you could never do.” - </p> - <p> - “And why pretend?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I don’t know. You have to—in lots of things. I - suppose we women were born for it. Men have all kinds of strange feelings, - and they expect us to have the same, and we have n’t, Dina; and yet - they would be hurt and miserable if we told them so—so we have to - pretend.” - </p> - <p> - Geraldine looked at her with an expression of pain on her strong face, and - then she bent down—Yvonne was on a low stool by her side—and - flung her arms about her. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, my dear little philosopher, I wish to God you could have loved - a man—and married him! That is happiness—no need of - pretending. I knew it once—years ago. It only lasted a few months, - for he died before we announced our marriage—no one has ever known. - Only you, now, dear. Try and love your husband, dear—give him your - soul and passion. It is the only thing I can tell you to help you, dear. - Then all the troubles will go. Oh, darling, to love a man vehemently—they - say it is a woman’s greatest curse. It is n’t; it is the - greatest blessing of God on her.” - </p> - <p> - “You are speaking as men have spoken,” replied Yvonne, in a - whisper, holding her friend’s hand tightly. “I never knew - before—but God will never bless me—like that.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XI—THE OUTCAST COUSIN - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he autumn hardened - into winter and the winter softened into spring, and the relations between - Yvonne and the Canon seemed to follow the seasons’ difference. He - had learned her limitations and no longer set her tasks beyond her powers. - </p> - <p> - “You must not try to put a butterfly into harness,” said Mrs. - Winstanley, who had gradually been gaining lost influence. He had called - to consult her upon some parochial question and the talk had turned upon - Yvonne. The Canon bit his lip. He had fallen into the habit of making - confidences and regretting them a moment afterwards. - </p> - <p> - “You do Yvonne injustice.” - </p> - <p> - “I did once, I grant,” she replied; “but now, as you - see, I am pleading for her.” - </p> - <p> - “Yvonne needs no advocate with me,” said the Canon, stiffly. - </p> - <p> - “She may.” - </p> - <p> - “What do you mean, Emmeline?” - </p> - <p> - “If you don’t understand her nature, you may misinterpret her - conduct. You see, Everard, she is young and light-natured—and so, - like seeks like. You may always count upon me to keep things straight - outside.” - </p> - <p> - She had laid her hand upon his arm, and spoke in her quiet, authoritative - voice. Her manner was too dignified to be intrusive. She was eminently the - woman of sense. Her reference was well understood by him, but being a man - accustomed to the broad issues of life, he did not appreciate the delicate - pleasure such a conversation afforded her. - </p> - <p> - On this occasion, he went from her house straight to the Rectory, and in - the drawing-room found young Evan Wilmington bidding good-bye to Yvonne. - Her sunniest smile rested on the young fellow; when the door shut upon - him, the after-glow of amusement was still upon her face. The Canon felt - an absurd pang of jealousy. Such had not been infrequent of late, since he - had abandoned his scheme of reorganisation. In fact, as Yvonne had fallen - from his conjugal ideal—the woman who, as an impeccable consort and - mother of children was to lend added dignity to his days—his - feelings as regards her had been growing more helplessly human. His - conception of the dove-like innocence of her nature had suffered no - change. Her pure voice had ever been to him the speech of a purer soul. It - was no vulgar jealousy that pained him; but jealousy it was, all the same. - </p> - <p> - He went to her and put his hands against her cheeks and held up her face. - </p> - <p> - “Don’t smile too much on young Evan,” he said. “It - is not good for him. I want all your best smiles for myself, sweetheart.” - </p> - <p> - “He has been making me laugh,” said Yvonne. - </p> - <p> - “And I cannot?” - </p> - <p> - “He is a silly boy and you are the venerable Canon Chisely.” - </p> - <p> - “That’s it,” he said, rather bitterly, releasing her. - </p> - <p> - Her expression changed. She caught him, as he was turning away, by the - lapels of his coat. - </p> - <p> - “Are you serious, Everard? You are! Forgive me if I have hurt you. I - can’t bear to do it. Do you wish me to see less of Mr. Wilmington—really?” - </p> - <p> - Looking into her eyes he felt ashamed of his pettiness. - </p> - <p> - “See your friends as much as you like, my child,” he said, with - a revulsion of feeling. - </p> - <p> - The matter was settled for the time being, but thenceforward the even - tenor of their life was disturbed occasionally by such outbursts. Once he - grew angry. “You have the same smile for any man who speaks to you, - Yvonne.” She replied with gentle logic, “That ought to prove - that I like all equally.” - </p> - <p> - “Your husband included.” - </p> - <p> - She turned away wounded. “You have no right to say that.” - </p> - <p> - “Then what have I a right to say, Yvonne?” - </p> - <p> - “Anything,” she cried, facing him with brightening eyes, - “anything except that I do not try with all my heart and soul to be - a good wife to you.” - </p> - <p> - This time it was he who said “Forgive me.” Unconsciously her - influence grew upon him in his lighter moods, as he excluded her from - participation in his serious concerns. To win from her a flash other than - dutiful he would humour any caprice. Yvonne was too shrewd not to perceive - this. His tenderness touched her, saddened her a little. On her birthday - he gave her a pair of tiny ponies and a diminutive phaeton—a perfect - turn-out. He lived for a week on the delight in her face when they were - brought round (an absolute surprise) to the front door. Yet that evening - she said, with her little air of seriousness, after she had been - meditating for some time in silence, with puckered brow:— - </p> - <p> - “I wonder if I am quite such a child as you think me, Everard. I - should like something to happen to show you that I am a woman.” - </p> - <p> - “Don’t say that, dear,” he replied, contentedly, holding - up his glass of port to the light and peering into it—he was a - specialist in ports—“such a chance would probably be some - calamity.” - </p> - <p> - Yvonne was not alone in noting the true inwardness of the Canon’s - course of action. Mrs. Winstanley did so, to her own chagrin. The ponies - were as distasteful to her as the beast of the Apocalypse. She was with - Lady Santyre, in the latter’s barouche, when she first saw them. - Yvonne, aglow with the effort of driving, was sending them down the - Fulminster Road at a rattling pace. She nodded brightly as she passed, - pointing to the ponies with her whip. - </p> - <p> - “How fond the dear Canon is of that little woman,” said Lady - Santyre, her thin lips closing as if on an acidulated drop. - </p> - <p> - “Psha!” said Mrs. Winstanley, with one of her rare exhibitions - of temper. “If he were a few years older, it would be senile - infatuation! She is beginning to curl him round her finger.” - </p> - <p> - But there was one subject near to Yvonne’s heart on which the Canon - was inflexible—Joyce. Often Yvonne had sought to soften him toward - the black sheep, but in his gentlest moods the mention of his cousin’s - name turned him to adamant. He even resented Yvonne’s helpful - friendship before her marriage. On the afternoon that he had passed Joyce - on the stairs, he had spoken as strongly to Yvonne as good taste - permitted. Now that he had authority over her, he forbade her to hold - further communication with the man who had disgraced his name. Finally she - abandoned her attempts at conciliation, but pity prevailing over wifely - obedience, she kept up her correspondence with Joyce, unknown to the - Canon. That is to say, she wrote cheery, gossipy letters now and then to - the address she had received from Cape Town, trusting to luck for their - ultimate delivery, but receiving very few in return, for Joyce had often - not the heart to write. - </p> - <p> - She was reading, one day, his last letter, many pages closely filled. It - had come that morning, under Miss Vicary’s cover, according to her - request. The envelope lay on the table in the centre of the room; but she - had taken the letter to the broad, cushioned window-seat, her favourite - place in summer, where she could see the old abbey, and enjoy the scent of - the mignonette and syringa from the beds below. It was the quiet afternoon - hour, before tea, when she generally read or idled or sang to herself. She - was at peace with all the world, and her heart was full of pity for Joyce. - </p> - <p> - Yet it was the most hopeful of the four letters she had received from him. - The previous ones had told of struggles and privations innumerable; the - aimless tramp from one town to another in the search for more than - starvation wages; the hopeless attempts to live in mining camps, where - unskilled labour was a drug in the market; sickness, and the dwindling of - his little capital. This one took up the tale broken off some months - before. Noakes and himself had left the mines, had wandered, sometimes - alone, sometimes with other adventurers, into Bechuanaland, where he had - purchased with his last remaining pounds a share in a small farm. It was a - haven of rest. But the country was unhealthy. The work was hard. Noakes - lay ill in bed; medical advice was a hundred and fifty miles away. To - cheer the invalid, he had schemed out a novel on the life they had - recently passed through, and was writing it at nights for Noakes to read - during the day. He was writing it on a bundle of yellow package-paper - which had remained over from the stock of a small “store” once - run by the chief owner of the farm. - </p> - <p> - He spoke of the comfort of her letters. Four of them had just come to his - hands at once. He had read them aloud to Noakes, who was even more - friendless than himself. Yvonne’s heart was touched at the thought - of the poor man who never got a letter, and had to extract vicarious - comfort from his friend’s. She knew him quite well through Joyce’s - description, and loved him for the quaint lovableness that appeared in the - narrative of their joint fortunes. - </p> - <p> - “He shall have a letter all to himself,” said Yvonne aloud; - and she rose to put her idea into execution. - </p> - <p> - But just as she was bringing her writing materials to the window-seat, - which was strewn with the sheets of Joyce’s letter, the Canon came - into the room. - </p> - <p> - “Can you give me some tea quickly, dear?” he said, ringing the - bell. “I am called away to Bickerton.” - </p> - <p> - He sank into a chair with a sigh of relief. It had been a busy day and the - weather was hot. - </p> - <p> - “Would you like me to drive you over?” asked Yvonne. - </p> - <p> - “Dearly,” said the Canon. He leaned back, and stretched out - his hand in a gesture of contented invitation. - </p> - <p> - “It won’t be taking you from your correspondence? You seem up - to your eyes in it.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, it can wait,” said Yvonne, smiling down upon him as he - held her hand. - </p> - <p> - Soon the servant brought the tea, and Yvonne established herself over the - tea-cups. The Canon, whilst waiting, glanced idly at the books and odds - and ends on the table by his side. Suddenly he uttered an exclamation of - surprise. He had become aware of the foreign envelope, with the Cape - Colony stamp and its address to “Mrs. Chisely, care of Miss Vicary.” - He also recognised Joyce’s handwriting which happened to be - singularly striking in character. His brow grew dark. - </p> - <p> - “What is the meaning of this, Yvonne?” - </p> - <p> - “A letter from Stephen,” she replied with a sudden qualm. - </p> - <p> - “And sent to you clandestinely. You have been corresponding with him - secretly in defiance of my express desire. How dared you do it?” - </p> - <p> - He spoke in harsh tones, bending upon her all the hardness of a stern - face. She had never seen him angered like this before. She was frightened, - but she steadied herself and looked him in the face. - </p> - <p> - “I couldn’t help it, Everard,” she said, gently. “The - poor fellow regards me as his only friend. I was forced to disobey you.” - </p> - <p> - “That poor fellow has been guilty of mean robbery. He has herded - with ruffians in a common gaol. He has dragged an old honoured name - through the mire. For a man like that—once a knave always a knave. I - don’t choose to have my wife keeping up friendly relations with an - outcast member of my family. I am deeply offended with you—I pass - over the underhand nature of the correspondence, which in itself deserves - reprobation.” - </p> - <p> - “I believe in Stephen,” replied Yvonne, growing very white. - “He has been punished a thousand times over. He will live an - honourable man to the end of his life. And if you read how he speaks of - the few silly letters I have written him—his joy and gratitude—you - would not wish to deprive him of them.” - </p> - <p> - “Do you mean to say that you are deliberately setting yourself in - opposition to my wishes, Yvonne?” asked the Canon in angry surprise. - </p> - <p> - Yvonne was in great distress. She could not defy him openly, and yet she - knew that no power on earth would prevent her from doing Joyce her little - deeds of mercy. - </p> - <p> - She looked at him piteously for a moment, and then sank by his chair and - clasped his knees. “I can’t do what you want, Everard,” - she cried. “We were such friends in days past—And when I met - him again, he looked so broken and lonely—I could n’t in my - heart let him go—and having given him my friendship, I can’t - be so cruel as to take it from him now. I can’t feel what you do - about the disgrace. I haven’t the capacity perhaps. And I promised - his dead mother to be kind to him. -====== -I did indeed. “I can’t do - what you want, Everard,” she cried. “We were such friends in - days past—And when I met him again, he looked so broken and lonely—I - could n’t in my heart let him go—and having given him my - friendship, I can’t be so cruel as to take it from him now. I can’t - feel what you do about the disgrace. I haven’t the capacity perhaps. - And I promised his dead mother to be kind to him. - - -=== - - I did indeed, Everard, - friendship, I can’t be so cruel as to take it from him now. I can’t - feel what you do about the disgrace. I haven’t the capacity perhaps. - And I promised his dead mother to be kind to him. I did indeed. “I - can’t do what you want, Everard,” she cried. “We were - such friends in days past—And when I met him again, he looked so - broken and lonely—I could n’t in my heart let him go—and - having given him my friendship, I can’t be so cruel as to take it - from him now. I can’t feel what you do about the disgrace. I haven’t - the capacity perhaps. And I promised his dead mother to be kind to him. I - did indeed, Everard—and a promise like that I must keep.” - </p> - <p> - He put her not unkindly from him and, rising to his feet, took two or - three turns about the room. Stopping, he said:— - </p> - <p> - “Why did you not tell me of this promise before?” - </p> - <p> - “I was afraid to vex you,” said Yvonne. - </p> - <p> - “You have vexed me much more by deceiving me,” he replied. - </p> - <p> - But there the matter had to end. He could not bid her break her word, nor - would he allow himself to yield to a tempting sophistry that women’s - ante-nuptial promises were annulled by marriage. To regain his good - graces, however, Yvonne pledged herself never to intercede with him on - Joyce’s behalf in the future—in fact to preserve an absolute - silence concerning the black sheep and his doings. - </p> - <p> - This settled, she drove him over to Bickerton in her pony carriage. And - the even tenor of her life went on. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - It was many weeks before the letters arrived at the farm in South Africa. - The monthly ox-waggons that came from the nearest post-town brought them, - together with the usual load of farm and household requisites, tinned - provisions, and liquors. Day after day, Joyce had stood by the - prickly-pear hedge on the rise behind the house, looking over the dreary - plain, in wistful watch for the specks on the horizon that alone connected - him with civilisation. They arrived at night—a blustering August - night, with frost in the air, and a cloudless sky in which the Southern - Cross gleamed. Before waiting to help unload and outspan the teams, he - rushed into the house with the meagre post-bundle. It contained a few - colonial newspapers, some letters for Wilson, the farmer who was away, and - the two letters from Fulminster. The rough table, on which he sorted them - by the light of a flaring chimneyless lamp, was drawn up to the bedside of - Noakes. - </p> - <p> - “One for you, old man,” said Joyce. - </p> - <p> - “For me?” - </p> - <p> - Noakes stretched out his thin arm eagerly, and clutched the undreamed of - prize. - </p> - <p> - “From Yvonne. It’s to cheer you up, old chap, I expect. It’s - just like her, you know.”. - </p> - <p> - Joyce ran through his letter rapidly and went out to superintend the - unloading. But Noakes, who was past work, remained in bed and pored over - Yvonne’s simple lines till the tears came into his eyes. - </p> - <p> - When all was settled, the stores taken in, the teams secured, the natives - who had driven them established in the huts, and finally the Englishman in - charge provided with food and whisky and sent to sleep, Joyce sat down by - his friend’s side and gave himself up to the greatest pleasure his - life then held. The wind howled outside, and the draught swept in through - the cracks on the doors, and the ill-fitting windows, and up the rude - chimney beneath which a fire was smouldering. Noakes coughed incessantly. - The atmosphere was tainted with the smell of the lamp, the thin smoke from - the fuel, the piles of sacking and mealy-bags that lay in corners of the - room, and the strips of bultong or dried beef hanging in the gloom of the - rafters. The room itself, occupying nearly the whole area of the - ground-floor of the rudely built wooden house, was cheerless in aspect. - The table, two or three wooden chairs, some shelves holding cooking - utensils and odds and ends of crockery, a litter of stores and boxes, a - frameless dirty oleograph of the bubble-blowing boy, a churchman’s - almanac, two years old, against the wall, and Noakes’s sack bed—that - was all the room contained. In a corner was a ladder leading to the loft, - where Joyce and the farmer slept, and whence now came the muffled sounds - of the snoring of the English driver. But for a few moments Joyce forgot - the cheerless surroundings. - </p> - <p> - He sat late with Noakes, reading the letters aloud and talking of Yvonne. - At last, after a short silence, Noakes raised himself on his elbow and - gazed earnestly at his friend. He was very gaunt and wasted— - </p> - <p> - “That’s the only tender thing a woman has ever done for me,” - he said. “No,” he added in reply to Joyce’s questioning - look, “my wife was never tender. God knows why she married me.” - </p> - <p> - “We ’ll make our fortunes and go back, and you shall know her,” - said Joyce. - </p> - <p> - “No. I shall never go back. I shall never get half a mile beyond - this door again.” - </p> - <p> - “Nonsense,” said Joyce. “You ’ll pull round when - the spring comes.” - </p> - <p> - “I have performed my allotted task. It was a severe portion and it - has finished me off.” - </p> - <p> - “Look here, old man,” cried Joyce, “for God’s sake - don’t talk like that. I can’t live in this accursed place by - myself. You’ve been broken down by our hard times—but you - ’ll get over it all, with this long rest.” - </p> - <p> - “I am going to a longer one, Joyce. I don’t mind going, you - know. And then you ’ll be free of me. I am but a cumberer of the - ground—I am of no use—I never have been of any use—I - have been carrying water in a sieve all my life.” - </p> - <p> - He began to cough. Joyce put his arm around him for support, and tended - him gently. - </p> - <p> - “You have a lot to do, old man,” he said soon after. “The - foolscap has come, and a great jar of ink, and you can start copying out - the manuscript to-morrow.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah yes, I can do that,” said Noakes. - </p> - <p> - “Now go to sleep. I ’ll sit by you, if you like,” said - Joyce. - </p> - <p> - He moved the lamp to a ledge behind Noakes’s head, and sat down near - by, with the budget of newspapers. Noakes composed himself to sleep. At - last he spoke, without turning round. - </p> - <p> - “Joyce.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, old man.” - </p> - <p> - “Make me a promise.” - </p> - <p> - “Willingly.” - </p> - <p> - “Bury that dear lady’s letter with me.” - </p> - <p> - “Will it make you happy to promise?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes.” - </p> - <p> - “Then I promise,” said Joyce, humouring him. “Now I’m - not going to talk to you any more.” - </p> - <p> - A few minutes later, his breathing told Joyce that he slept. The - newspapers fell from Joyce’s hand, and he put his elbows on his - knees and crouched over the smouldering logs. Noakes spoke truly. There - was little chance of recovery. He would be left alone again soon. It would - be very comfortless. The poor wreck who was dragging out his last days - upon that wretched bed had been an unspeakable solace to him. Without his - womanlike devotion he would have died of fever six months back on the - Arato goldfield. Without the influence of his calm fatalism, he would have - given up heart long ago. Without his steadfast purity of soul, he would - have gone recklessly to the devil. The thought of losing him was a great - pang. - </p> - <p> - He himself, too, was far from strong. The climate, the hard manual labour - for which he was physically unfit were telling upon him heavily. He - yearned for home, for civilised life, for the lost heritage of honour. - Yvonne’s letter, telling of the little commonplaces of the lost - sweet life of decent living, had revived the ever dormant longing. He - began to dream of her, of that last day he had seen her, of her voice - singing Gounod’s serenade. - </p> - <p> - It was difficult to picture her as married to his cousin Everard, whom, in - the days of his vanity, he had despised as a prig and now dreaded as a - scornful benefactor. It was a strange mating. And yet she seemed happy and - unchanged. - </p> - <p> - The wind blustered outside. The cold draught whistled through the room. - Joyce rose to his feet with a shiver, went to a corner for a couple of - sacks, which he threw over the sleeping man, and, after having wistfully - read Yvonne’s letter once more, ascended the ladder to the loft, - where the shapeless mattress of dried grass and sacking awaited him. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XII—HISTOIRE DE REVENANT - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">O</span>stend is a - magnificent white Kursaal on the Belgian coast. Certain requisites are - attached to it in the way of great hotels and villas along a tiled <i>digue</i>, - and innumerable bathing-machines on the sands below. There is an old town, - it is true, somewhere behind it, with quaint narrow streets, a Place d’Armes - dotted round with cafés, and a thronged market-square; there is - also a bustling port and a fishing population. But the Ostend of practical - life begins and ends at the Kursaal. Were it to perish during a night, the - following day would see the exodus of twenty thousand visitors. The vast - glass rotunda can hold thousands. Within its precincts you can do anything - in reason and out of reason. You can knit all day long like Penelope, or - you can go among the Sirens with or without the precautions of Ulysses. - You can consume anything from a biscuit to a ten-course dinner. You can - play dominoes at centime points or roulette with a forty-franc minimum. - You can listen to music, you can dance, you can go to sleep. You can write - letters, send telegrams, and open a savings-bank account. By moving to one - side or the other of a glass screen you can sit in the warm sunshine or in - the keen sea wind. You can study the fashions of Europe from St. - Petersburg to Dublin, and if you are a woman, you can wear the most - sumptuous garments Providence has deigned to bestow on you. And lastly, if - you are looking for a place where you will be sure to find the very last - person in the world you desire to see, you will meet with every success at - the Kursaal of Ostend. - </p> - <p> - Such was Mrs. Winstanley’s passing thought one day. She was there - with Sophia and Evan Wilmington. It was always a great pleasure, she used - to say, to have young people about her; and very naturally, since young - people can be particularly useful in strange places to a middle-aged lady. - The brother and sister fetched and carried for her all day long, which was - very nice and suitable, and Mrs. Winstanley was in her most affable mood. - On the day in question, however, she saw, to her astonishment and - annoyance, Canon Chisely and Yvonne making their way towards her through - the crowded lines of tables. - </p> - <p> - “Good gracious, Everard!” she said as they came up. “How - did you find your way here? I thought you were going to Switzerland.” - </p> - <p> - “So we are,” replied the Canon. “We have broken our - journey. And as for getting here, we took the boat from Dover and then - walked.” - </p> - <p> - “The frivolity of the place is infecting you already, Canon,” - cried Sophia, with a laugh. “I hope you are going to stay a long - time.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, not too long,” said Yvonne. “It wouldn’t be - fair to the Canon, who needs some mountain air. This is just a little - treat all for me.” - </p> - <p> - She glanced at him affectionately as she spoke. It was good of him to - tarry for her sake in this Vanity Fair of a place. - </p> - <p> - “We were going by Calais, as you know,” said the Canon, - explanatively to Mrs. Winstanley. “We only changed our minds a day - or two ago—we thought it would be a little surprise for you.” - </p> - <p> - “Of course it is—a delightful one—to see dear Yvonne and - yourself. Where are you staying?” - </p> - <p> - “At the Océan,” said the Canon, “and you must all come - and dine with us this evening.” - </p> - <p> - “And will you come to the <i>bal</i> here afterward?” asked - Sophia. “Evan has run across some college friends—or won’t - you think it proper?” - </p> - <p> - “I am going to wear the whole suit of motley while I am here,” - replied the Canon gaily. - </p> - <p> - He kept his word, not being a man of half measures. No check should be - placed on Yvonne’s enjoyment. She had been moping, as far as Yvonne - could mope, during the latter dullness of Fulminster; now she expanded - like a flower to the gaiety around her. The Canon found an aesthetic - pleasure in watching her happiness. Her expressions of thanks too were - charmingly conveyed. Since that unfortunate attempt on his part, over a - twelvemonth back, to instruct her in the responsibilities of her position, - she had never exhibited toward him such spontaneous feeling. He let her - smile upon whom she would, without a twinge of jealousy. - </p> - <p> - Yvonne enjoyed herself hugely. She danced and jested with the young men; - she chattered in French to her table d’hôte neighbours, delighted to - speak her mother’s tongue again; she staked two-franc pieces on the - public table, and one afternoon came out of the gaming-room into the great - hall where the Canon was sitting with Mrs. Winstanley, and poured a great - mass of silver on to the table—as much as her two small hands joined - could carry. - </p> - <p> - “I thought gambling was against your principles, Everard,” - said Mrs. Winstanley, after Yvonne had gone again. - </p> - <p> - “I am sacrificing them for my wife’s happiness, Emmeline,” - he replied, with a touch of irony. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, it would be a pity to spoil her pleasure. She is such a child.” - </p> - <p> - “I wish we all had something of her nature,” said the Canon. - </p> - <p> - Mrs. Winstanley noted the snub. She was treasuring up many resentments - against Yvonne. In her heart she considered herself a long-suffering - woman. - </p> - <p> - “You seem to enjoy it too, Everard,” said Yvonne to him that - evening. They were sitting near the entrance watching the smartly-dressed - people. “And I am so glad to be alone with you.” - </p> - <p> - He was pleased, smiled at her, and throwing off his dignity, entered into - the frivolous spirit of the place. Yvonne forgot the restraint she had - always put upon her tongue when talking to him. She chattered about - everything, holding her face near him, so as to be heard through the - hubbub of thousands of voices, the eternal shuffling of passing feet, and - the crash of the orchestra in the far gallery. - </p> - <p> - “It is a <i>Revue des Deux Mondes,</i>” she said, looking - rapidly around her, with bright eyes. - </p> - <p> - “How?” asked the Canon. - </p> - <p> - “The <i>beau</i> and the <i>demi</i>,” she replied, wickedly. - She shook his knee. “Oh, do look at that woman! what does she think - a man can see in her!” - </p> - <p> - “Powder,” answered the Canon. “She has been using her - puff too freely.” - </p> - <p> - “She has been putting it on with a <i>muff</i>,” cried Yvonne. - </p> - <p> - He laughed. Yvonne had such a triumphant air in delivering herself of - little witticisms. - </p> - <p> - A magnificently dressed woman, in a great feathered hat and low-dress, - with diamonds gleaming at her neck, passed by. “You are right, I - fear, about the two worlds,” said the Canon. - </p> - <p> - “Are n’t there crowds of them? I like to look at them because - they wear such beautiful things. And they fit so. And then to rub - shoulders with them makes one feel so delightfully wicked. You know, I - knew a girl once—she went in for that life of her own accord and she - was awfully happy. Really. Is n’t it odd?” - </p> - <p> - “My dear Yvonne!” said the Canon, somewhat shocked, “I - sincerely trust you did not continue the acquaintance, afterwards.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, no,” she replied, sagely. “It would not have done - for me at all. A lone woman can’t be too careful. But I used to hear - about her from my dressmaker.” - </p> - <p> - Her point of view was not exactly the Canon’s. But further - discussion was stopped by the arrival of the Wilmingtons, who carried off - Yvonne to the dancing-room. The Canon, drawing the line at his own - appearance there, strolled back contentedly to the hotel to finish the - evening over a book. - </p> - <p> - Two mornings afterwards Yvonne was walking by herself along the <i>digue</i>. - They were to leave for Switzerland the next day, and she determined to - make the most of her remaining time. Sophia Wilmington, for whom she had - called, had already gone out. The Canon, who was engaged over his - correspondence, she was to meet later at the Kursaal. It was a lovely - morning. The line of white hotels, with their al fresco breakfast tables - spread temptingly on the terraces, gleamed in the sun. The <i>digue</i> - was bright with summer dresses. The sands below alive with tennis players, - children making sand-castles, and loungers, and bathers, and horses moving - among the bathing-machines. Yvonne tripped along with careless tread. Her - heart was in harmony with the brightness and movement and the glint of the - sun on the sea. Once a man, meeting her smiling glance, hesitated as if to - speak to her, but seeing that the smile was addressed to the happy world - in general, he passed on his way. It was easy to kill time. She went down - the Rue Flammande and looked at the shops. The jewelry and the models of - Paris dresses delighted her. The display of sweets at Nopenny’s - allured her within. When she returned to the <i>digue</i>, it was time to - seek the Canon at the Kursaal. - </p> - <p> - The liveried attendants lifted their hats as she ran up the steps and - passed the barrier. She gave them a smiling “<i>bonjour</i>.” - Neither the Canon nor any of the friends being visible on the verandah, - she entered the great hall, where the morning instrumental concert was - going on. She scanned the talking, laughing crowd as she passed through. - Many eyes followed her. For Yvonne, when happy, was sweet to look upon. - She was turning back to retrace her steps, when, suddenly, a man started - up from a group of three who were playing cards and drinking absinthe at a - small table, and placed himself before her. - </p> - <p> - “<i>Tiens! c’est Yvonne!</i>” - </p> - <p> - She stared at him with dilated eyes and parted lips and uttered a little - gasping cry. Seeing her grow deadly white and thinking she was going to - faint, the man put out his arm. But Yvonne was mistress of herself. - </p> - <p> - “<i>Allons d’ici</i>,” she whispered, turning a - terrified glance around. - </p> - <p> - The man raised his hat to his companions and signed to her to come. He was - a handsome, careless, dissipated-looking fellow, with curly hair and a - twirled black moustache; short and slightly made. He wore a Tyrolese hat - and a very low turned-down collar and a great silk bow outside his - waistcoat. There was a devil-may-care charm in his swagger as he walked—also - an indefinable touch of vulgarity; the type of the <i>cabotin</i> in easy - circumstances. - </p> - <p> - Yvonne, more dead than alive, followed him through the deserted <i>salle - des jeux</i> on to the quiet bit of verandah, and sank into a chair that - he offered. She looked at him, still white to the lips. - </p> - <p> - “You?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” he said laughingly, “why not? It is not - astonishing.” - </p> - <p> - “But I thought you dead!” gasped Yvonne, trembling. - </p> - <p> - “<i>A la bonne heure!</i> And I seem a ghost. Oh, I am solid. Pinch - me. But how did you come to learn? Ah! I remember it was given out in - Paris. A <i>canard</i>. It was in the hospital—paralysis, <i>ma - chère</i>. See, I can only just move my arm now. <i>Cétait la verte, cette - sacrée verte—</i>” - </p> - <p> - “Absinthe?” asked Yvonne, almost mechanically. - </p> - <p> - He nodded, went through the motions of preparing the drink, and laughed. - </p> - <p> - “I had a touch lately,” he went on. “That was the - second. The third I shall be <i>prrrt—flambé!</i> They tell me to - give it up. Never in life.” - </p> - <p> - “But if it will kill you?” - </p> - <p> - “Bah. What do I care? When one lives, one amuses oneself. And I have - well amused myself, eh, Yvonne? For the rest, <i>je m’en fiche!</i>” - </p> - <p> - He went on talking with airy cynicism. To Yvonne it seemed some horrible - dream. The husband she had looked upon as dead was before her, gay, - mocking, just as she had known him of old. And he greeted her after all - these years with the-same lightness as he had bidden her farewell. - </p> - <p> - “<i>Et toi, Yvonne?</i>” said he at length. “<i>Ça roule - toujours?</i> You look as if you were brewing money. Ravishing costume. <i>Crépon</i>—not - twenty-five centimes a yard! A hat that looks like the Rue de la Paix! <i>Gants - de reine et petites bottines de duchesse!</i> You must be doing golden - business. But speak, <i>petite</i>, since I assure you I am not a ghost!” - </p> - <p> - Yvonne forced a faint smile. She tried to answer him, but her heart was - thumping violently and a lump rose in her throat. - </p> - <p> - “I am doing very well, Amédée,” she said. The dreadfulness of - her position came over her. She felt sick and faint. What was going to - happen? For some moments she did not hear him as he spoke. At last - perception returned. - </p> - <p> - “And you are pretty,” Amédée Bazouge was saying. “<i>Mais - jolie à croquer</i>—prettier than you ever were. And I—I am - going down the hill at the gallop. <i>Tiens</i>, Yvonne. Let us celebrate - this meeting. Come and see me safe to the bottom. It won’t be long. - I have money. I am always <i>bon enfant.</i> Let us remarry. From to-day. - <i>Ce serait rigolo!</i> And I will love you—<i>mais énormément!</i>” - </p> - <p> - “But I am already married!” cried Yvonne. - </p> - <p> - “Thinking me dead?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes.” - </p> - <p> - He looked at her for a few seconds, then slapped his thigh and, rising - from his chair, bent himself double and gave vent to a roar of laughter. - The tears stood in Yvonne’s eyes. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, but it’s comic. You don’t find it so?” - </p> - <p> - He leant back against the railings and laughed again in genuine merriment. - </p> - <p> - “Why, it’s all the more reason to come back to me. <i>Ça y met - du salé</i>. Have you any children?” - </p> - <p> - Yvonne shook her head. - </p> - <p> - “<i>Eh bien!</i>” he exclaimed, triumphantly, stepping towards - her with outstretched hands. But she shrank from him, outraged and - bewildered. - </p> - <p> - “Never, never!” she cried. “Go away. Have pity on me, - for God’s sake!” - </p> - <p> - Amédée Bazouge shrugged his shoulders carelessly. - </p> - <p> - “It’s a comedy, not a tragedy, <i>ma chère</i>. If you are - happy, I am not going to be a spoilsport. It is not my way. Be tranquil - with your good fat Englishman—I bet he’s an Englishman—In - two years—bah! I can amuse myself always till then—my poor - little Yvonne. No wonder I frightened you.” - </p> - <p> - The affair seemed to cause him intense amusement. A ray of light appeared - to Yvonne. - </p> - <p> - “You won’t interfere with me at all, Amédée—not claim - anything?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, don’t be afraid. <i>Dès ce moment je vais me reflanquer - au sapin!</i> I shall be as dead as dead can be for you. <i>Suis pas - méchant va!</i>” - </p> - <p> - “Thank you,” said Yvonne. “You were always kind-hearted, - Amédée—oh, it was a horrible mistake—it can’t be - altered. You see that I am helpless.” - </p> - <p> - “Why, my child,” said he, seating himself again, “I keep - on telling you it is a farce—like all the rest of life. I only - laugh. And now let us talk a little before I pop into the coffin again. - What is the name of the thrice happy being?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, don’t ask me, I beg you,” said Yvonne shivering. - “It is all so painful. Tell me about yourself—your voice—Is - it still in good condition?” - </p> - <p> - “Never better. I am singing here this afternoon.” - </p> - <p> - “In the Kursaal?” - </p> - <p> - “Why, yes. That’s why I am here. Oh, <i>ca marche—pas - encore paralysée, celle-là</i>. Come and hear me. <i>Et ton petit organe à - toi?</i>” - </p> - <p> - “I am out of practice. I have given up the profession.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah, it’s a pity. You had such an exquisite little voice. I - regretted it after we parted. Two or three times it nearly brought me back - to you—<i>foi d’artiste!</i>” - </p> - <p> - “I think I must go,” said Yvonne after a litde. “I am - leaving Ostend to-morrow and I shall not see you again. You don’t - think I am treating you unkindly, Amédée?” - </p> - <p> - He laughed in his bantering way and lit a cigarette. - </p> - <p> - “On the contrary, <i>cher ange</i>. It is very good of you to talk - to a poor ghost. And you look so pathetic, like a poor little saint with - its harp out of tune.” - </p> - <p> - She rose, anxious to leave him and escape into solitude, where she could - think. She still trembled with agitation. In the little cool park, on the - other side of the square below, she could be by herself. She dreaded - meeting the Canon yet awhile. - </p> - <p> - “Do give up that vile absinthe,” she said, as a parting - softness. - </p> - <p> - “It is the only consoler that remains to me—sad widower.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, good-bye, Amédée.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah—not yet. Since you are the wife of somebody else, I am - dying to make love to you.” - </p> - <p> - He held her by the wrist, laughing at her. But at that moment Yvonne - caught sight of the Canon and Mrs. Winstanley, entering upon the terrace. - She wrenched her arm away. - </p> - <p> - “There is my husband.” - </p> - <p> - “<i>Nom de Dieu!</i>” cried Bazouge, stifling a guffaw before - the austere decorum of the English churchman. “<i>Ça?</i> Oh, my - poor Yvonne!” She shook hands rapidly with him and turned away. He - bowed gracefully, including the new-comers in his salute. The Canon - responded severely. Mrs. Winstanley stared at him through her - tortoise-shell lorgnette. - </p> - <p> - “We have been looking all over the place for you,” said the - Canon, as they passed through the window into the <i>salle des jeux</i>, - leaving Bazouge in the corner of the verandah. - </p> - <p> - “I’m sorry,” said Yvonne penitently. - </p> - <p> - “And who was that rakish-looking little Frenchman you were talking - to?” - </p> - <p> - “An old friend—I used to know him,” said Yvonne, - struggling with her agitation. “A friend of my first husband—I - had to speak to him—we went there to be quiet. I could n’t - help it, Everard, really I could n’t.” - </p> - <p> - “My dear child,” said the Canon, kindly, “I was not - scolding you—though he did look rather undesirable.” - </p> - <p> - “I suppose you had to mix with all kinds of odd Bohemian people in - your professional days?” said Mrs. Winstanley. - </p> - <p> - “Of course,” faltered Yvonne. - </p> - <p> - They went through the great hall. At the door they parted with Mrs. - Winstanley, who was waiting for the Wilmingtons. “We will call for - you on our way to the concert this afternoon,” said the Canon. - </p> - <p> - “Thanks,” said Mrs. Winstanley, and then, suddenly looking at - Yvonne— - </p> - <p> - “Mercy, my dear! How white you are!” - </p> - <p> - “There’s nothing the matter with me,” said Yvonne, - trying to smile. - </p> - <p> - “It’s past our <i>déjeuner</i> hour,” said the Canon, - briskly. “You want some food.” - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps I do,” said Yvonne. - </p> - <p> - She went with the Canon on to the <i>digue</i>, and walked along the shady - side, by the hotels, past the gay terraces thronged with lunching guests. - But all the glamour had gone from the place. An hour had changed it. And - that hour seemed a black abyss separating her from happiness. - </p> - <p> - An hour ago she had looked upon this kind, grave man who walked by her - side as her husband. Now what was he to her? She shrank from the thought, - terrified, and came nearer to him, touching the flying skirt of his coat - as if to take strength from him. - </p> - <p> - They entered the crowded dining-room, where the <i>maître d’hôtel</i> - had reserved them a table. She struggled bravely through part of the meal, - strove to keep up a conversation. But the strain was too great. Another - five minutes, she felt, would make her hysterical. She rose, with an - excuse to the Canon, and escaped to her room. - </p> - <p> - There she flung herself down on the bed and buried her face in the cool - pillows. It was a relief to be alone with her fright and dismay. She - strove to think, but her head was in a whirl. The incidents of the late - scene came luridly before her mind, and she shivered with revulsion. A - rough hand had been laid on the butterfly and brushed the dust from its - wings. - </p> - <p> - The Canon came later to her room, kindly solicitous. Was she ill? Would - she like to see a medical man? Should he sit with her? She clasped his - hand impulsively and kissed it. - </p> - <p> - “You are too good to me. I am not worth it. I am not ill. It was the - sun, I think. Let me lie down this afternoon by myself and I shall be - better.” - </p> - <p> - Surprised and touched by her action, he bent down and kissed her. - </p> - <p> - “My poor little wife.” - </p> - <p> - He stepped to the window and pulled the curtain to shield her eyes from - the glare, and promising to order some tea to be brought up later, he went - out. - </p> - <p> - The kiss, the term, and the little act of thoughtfulness comforted her, - gave her a sense of protection. She had been so bruised and frightened. - Now she could think a litde. Should she tell Everard? Then she broke down - again and began to cry silently in a great soothing pity for herself. - </p> - <p> - “It would only make him unhappy,” she moaned. “Why - should I tell him?” - </p> - <p> - She grew calmer. If Amédée would only keep his promise and leave her free, - there was really nothing to fret about. She reassured herself with his - words. Through all his failings toward her he had ever been “<i>bon - enfant</i>.” There was no danger. - </p> - <p> - Suddenly a thought came that made her spring from her bed in dismay. The - concert. She had forgotten that Amédée was singing there. Everard was - going. He would see the name on the programme, “Amédée Bazouge.” - There could not be two tenors of that name in Europe. Everard must be kept - away at all costs. - </p> - <p> - She rushed from the room and down the stairs, in terrible anxiety lest he - should have already left the hotel. To her intense relief, she saw him - sitting in one of the cane chairs in the vestibule smoking his after-lunch - cigar. He threw it away as he caught sight of her at the head of the - stairs, breathless, and holding the balusters, and went up to meet her. - </p> - <p> - “My poor child,” said he in an anxious tone. “What is - the matter?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, Everard—I don’t want any more to be left alone. Don’t - think me silly and cowardly. I am afraid of all kinds of things.” - </p> - <p> - “Of course I ’ll come and sit with you a little,” he - replied kindly. - </p> - <p> - They entered her room together. Yvonne lay down. Her head was splitting - with nervous headache. The Canon tended her in his grave way and sat down - by the window with a book. Yvonne felt very guilty, but yet comforted by - his presence. At the end of an hour, he looked at his watch and rose from - his seat. - </p> - <p> - “Are you easier now?” - </p> - <p> - “You are not going to the Kursaal, Everard?” - </p> - <p> - “I am afraid Emmeline is expecting me.” She signed to him to - approach, and put her arms round his neck. - </p> - <p> - “Don’t go. Send her an excuse—and take me for a drive. - It would do me good, and I should so love to be alone with you.” - </p> - <p> - It was the very first time in her life that Yvonne had consciously cajoled - a man. Her face flushed hot with misgivings. It was with a mixture of her - sex’s shame and triumph that she heard him say. - </p> - <p> - “Whatever you like, dear. It is still your holiday.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XIII—Dis Aliter Visum - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">B</span>ut the best laid - schemes of Yvonnes and men often come to nothing. While she was devising, - on her drive along the coast, a plan for spending a quiet dangerless - evening at the hotel, Mrs. Winstanley was sitting in solitary dignity at - the concert, nursing her wrath over Professor Drummond’s “Natural - Law in the Spiritual world,” a book which she often perused when she - wished to accentuate the rigorous attitude of her mind. - </p> - <p> - Yvonne had reckoned without Mrs. Winstanley. Otherwise she would have - offered her a seat in the carriage. As it was, Mrs. Winstanley felt more - resentful than ever. Under the impression that the Canon was to accompany - her to the Kursaal, she had graciously dispensed with the escort of the - Wilmingtons, who had gone off to see bicycle races at the Vélodrome. She - was left in the lurch. - </p> - <p> - To dislike this is human. To wrap oneself up in one’s sore dignity - is more human still, and there was much humanity that lurked, unsuspected - by herself, in Mrs. Winstanley’s bosom. It asserted itself, further, - in certain curiosities. She had seen that morning what had escaped the - Canon’s notice—the stranger’s grasp on Yvonne’s - arm and the insolent admiration on his face. This fact, coupled with - Yvonne’s agitation, had put her upon the track of scandal. The - result was, that at the concert she made interesting discoveries, and, - piecing things together in her mind afterwards, bided her time to make use - of them. - </p> - <p> - It would be for the Canon’s sake, naturally. A woman of Mrs. - Winstanley’s stamp is always the most disinterested of God’s - creatures. She never performed an action of which her conscience did not - approve. But she was such a superior woman that her conscience trembled a - little before her, like most of the other friends whom she patronised. She - did not have to wait long. The Canon called upon her soon after his return - to invite herself and the Wilmingtons to dinner. It was his last evening - at Ostend, and Yvonne was not feeling well enough to spend it, as usual, - at the Kursaal. - </p> - <p> - “Yvonne is still poorly, Everard?” she asked, with her air of - confidential responsibility. - </p> - <p> - “A little. She has been gadding about somewhat too much lately, and - it has knocked her up.” - </p> - <p> - “Has it not occurred to you that her encounter this morning may have - had something to do with it?” - </p> - <p> - “Of course not,” replied the Canon, sharply. “It would - be ridiculous.” - </p> - <p> - “I have reasons for not thinking so, Everard. The man was singing at - the Kursaal this afternoon. Here is his name on the programme.” She - handed him the slip of paper. He read the name among the artistes. “M. - Bazouge.” He returned it to her. - </p> - <p> - “Well?” - </p> - <p> - “Does it not seem odd to you?” - </p> - <p> - “Not at all. A relation of her first husband’s, I suppose. In - fact Yvonne said as much.” - </p> - <p> - “I could not help being struck by the name, Everard. It is so - peculiar. I remembered it from the publication of the banns.” - </p> - <p> - “I compliment you on your memory, Emmeline,” said the Canon. - </p> - <p> - Mrs. Winstanley drew herself up, offended. - </p> - <p> - She walked from the window where they were standing to a table, and - fetched from it a newspaper. - </p> - <p> - “Do you remember the Christian name of Yvonne’s first husband?” - </p> - <p> - The Canon drew himself up too, and frowned. - </p> - <p> - “What is the meaning of all this, Emmeline? What are you trying to - insinuate?” - </p> - <p> - “If I thought you were going to adopt this tone, Everard, I should - have kept my suspicions to myself.” - </p> - <p> - “I certainly wish that you had,” said he, growing angry. - “It is an insult to Yvonne which I cannot permit. My wife is above - suspicion.” - </p> - <p> - “Like Caesar’s,” said the lady with a curl of the lip. - “Do you know that we are beginning to quarrel, Everard? It is - slightly vulgar. I am your oldest friend, remember, and I am trying to - acquit myself of a painful duty to you.” - </p> - <p> - “Duty is one of the chief instruments of the devil, if you will - excuse my saying so,” replied the Canon. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, very well then, Everard,” she said hotly. “You can - go on being a fool as long as you like. I saw your wife struggling in this - man’s embrace, more or less, this morning. Two or three strange - coincidences have been forced upon my notice. For your sake I have been - excessively anxious. My conscience tells me I ought to take you into my - confidence, and I can do no more. You can see the Christian name of this - Bazouge in the Visitors’ List, and adopt what course of action you - think fit. I wash my hands of the whole matter. And I must say that from - the very beginning, two years ago, you have treated me all through with - the greatest want of consideration.” - </p> - <p> - The Canon did not heed the peroration. He stood with the flimsy sheet - clenched in his hand and regarded her sternly. She shrank a little, for - her soul seemed to be naked. - </p> - <p> - “You have tried to ferret this out through spite against Yvonne. - Whether the horrible thing you imply is true or not, I shall find it hard - to forgive you.” - </p> - <p> - Mrs. Winstanley shrugged her shoulders. “In either case, you will - come to your senses, I hope. Meanwhile, considering the present relations, - it might be pleasanter not to meet at dinner to-night.” - </p> - <p> - “I am sorry to have to agree with you, Emmeline,” said the - Canon. - </p> - <p> - She made him a formal bow and was leaving the room; but his voice stopped - her. - </p> - <p> - “Your anxiety cannot be very great, or you would wait to learn - whether your suspicions are baseless or not.” - </p> - <p> - She paused, in a dignified attitude, with her hand on the back of a chair, - while he adjusted his gold pince-nez and ran through the list. - </p> - <p> - “You are right so far,” he said coldly. “The names are - identical.” - </p> - <p> - They parted at the door. The Canon walked back to his hotel with anger in - his heart. In spite of cumulative evidence, the theory that his cousin had - insinuated was prima facie preposterous. It was important enough, however, - to need some investigation. But the feeling uppermost in his mind was - indignation with Mrs. Winstanley. He was too shrewd a man not to have - perceived long ago her jealousy of Yvonne; but beyond keeping a watchful - eye lest his wife should receive hurt, he had not condescended to take it - into serious consideration. Now, beneath her impressive manner he clearly - divined the desire to inflict on Yvonne a deadly injury. To have leaped at - such a conclusion, to have sought subsequent proof from the Visitors’ - List, argued malicious design. He could never forgive her. - </p> - <p> - Still the matter had to be cleared up at once. On his arrival at the - Océan, he went forthwith to Yvonne’s room, and entered on receiving - an acknowledgment of his knock. She was standing in the light of the - window by the toilet table, doing her hair. The rest of the room was in - the shadow of the gathering evening. - </p> - <p> - “Well,” she said, without turning, “are they coming?” - </p> - <p> - The grace of her attitude, the intimacy of the scene, the pleasantness of - her greeting, made his task hateful. - </p> - <p> - “No,” he said, with an asperity directed towards the - disinvited guest. “We shall dine alone to-night.” - </p> - <p> - But his tone made Yvonne’s heart give a great throb, and she turned - to him quickly. - </p> - <p> - “Has anything happened?” - </p> - <p> - “A great deal,” said the Canon. - </p> - <p> - Where he stood in the dusk of the doorway, the shadow accentuated the - stern lines of his face and deepened the sombreness of his glance. His - brows were bent in perplexities of repugnance. It was horrible to demand - of her such explanations. To Yvonne’s scared fancy, his brows seemed - bent in accusation. That was the pity of it. For a few seconds they looked - at one another, the Canon severely, Yvonne in throbbing suspense. - </p> - <p> - “What?” she asked at length. - </p> - <p> - He paused for a moment, then threw his hat and the crumpled Visitors’ - List on to the table and plunged into the heart of things—but not - before Yvonne had glanced at the paper with a sudden pang of intuition. - </p> - <p> - “Emmeline has discovered, Yvonne, that the man—” - </p> - <p> - He got no further. Yvonne rushed to him with a cry of pain, clung to his - arm, broke into wild words. - </p> - <p> - “Don’t say any more—don’t—don’t. Spare - me—for pity’s sake. I did not want you to know. I tried to - keep it from you, Everard! Don’t look at me like that?” - </p> - <p> - Her voice ended in a note of fright. For the Canon’s face had grown - ashen and wore an expression of incredulous horror. He shook her from him. - </p> - <p> - “Do you mean that this is true? That you met your first husband this - morning?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” said she, with quivering lips. Question and answer were - too categorical for misunderstanding. For a moment he struggled against - the overwhelming. - </p> - <p> - “Are you in your right senses, Yvonne? Do you understand what I - asked you? Your first husband is still alive and you saw him to-day?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” said Yvonne again. “Didn’t you know when - you came in?” - </p> - <p> - “I did n’t know,” he repeated almost mechanically. - </p> - <p> - The blow crushed him for a while. He stood quite rigid, drawing quick - breaths, with his eyes fixed upon her. And she remained still, - half-sitting on the edge of the bed, numb with a vague prescience of - catastrophe, and a dim, uncomprehended intuition of the earthquake and - wreck in the man’s soul. The silence grew appalling. She broke it - with a faltering whisper. - </p> - <p> - “Will you forgive me?” - </p> - <p> - The poor little commonplace fell in the midst of devastating emotions—pathetically - incongruous. - </p> - <p> - “Did you know that this man was alive when you married me?” he - asked in a hard voice. - </p> - <p> - “No,” cried Yvonne. “How could I have married you? I - thought he had been dead nearly three years.” - </p> - <p> - “What proofs did you have of his death?” - </p> - <p> - “A friend sent me a number of the Figaro, with the announcement.” - </p> - <p> - “Was that all?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” said Yvonne. - </p> - <p> - “Do you mean to tell me,” he insisted, “that you married - a second time, having no further proofs of your first husband’s - death than a mere newspaper report?” - </p> - <p> - “It never occurred to me to doubt it,” she replied, opening - piteous, innocent eyes. - </p> - <p> - The childlike irresponsibility was above his comprehension. Her apparent - insensibility to the most vital concerns of life was another shock to him. - It seemed criminal. - </p> - <p> - “God forgive you,” he said, “for the wrong you have done - me.” - </p> - <p> - “But I did it unknowingly, Everard,” cried poor Yvonne. - “If one has to get greater proofs, why did you not ask for them, - yourself?” - </p> - <p> - The Canon turned away and paced the room slowly, without replying. At last - he stood still before her. - </p> - <p> - “Among ordinary honourable people one takes such things for granted,” - he said. - </p> - <p> - “Forgive me,” she said again, humbly. - </p> - <p> - But he could find no pity for her in his heart. She had wronged him past - redemption. - </p> - <p> - “How much truth was there in the newspaper story?” he asked - coldly. - </p> - <p> - She told him rapidly what Amédée Bazouge had said concerning his attack in - the hospital and his subsequent stroke. - </p> - <p> - “So the man is wilfully killing himself with absinthe?” he - said. - </p> - <p> - “It appears so,” replied Yvonne with a shudder. - </p> - <p> - “Could you tell me what passed between you otherwise—in - general terms?” he asked, after a short silence. “You - explained your position? Or did you leave him in ignorance, as you were - going to leave me?” - </p> - <p> - “I told him—of course. It was necessary. And he laughed—I - thought to spare you, Everard.” - </p> - <p> - “Spare me, Yvonne?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” she said, simply, “I could have borne all the - pain and fright of it alone—why should I have made you unhappy? And - <i>he</i> said he would never interfere with me, and I can trust his word. - Why should I have told you, Everard?” - </p> - <p> - “Do you actually ask me such a question, honestly?” - </p> - <p> - “God knows I do,” she replied pitifully. - </p> - <p> - “And you would have gone on living with me—I not being your - husband?” - </p> - <p> - “But you are my husband,” cried Yvonne, “nothing could - ever alter that.” - </p> - <p> - “But good God! it does alter it,” cried the Canon in a voice - of anguish, breaking the iron bonds he had placed on his passion. “Neither - in the eyes of God nor of man are you my wife. You have no right to bear - my name. After this hour I have no right to enter this room. Every caress - I gave you would be sin. Don’t you understand it, child? Don’t - you understand that this has brought ruin into our lives, the horror of - loneliness and separation?” - </p> - <p> - “Separation?” said Yvonne. - </p> - <p> - She rose slowly from her seat on the bed and stared at him aghast. - </p> - <p> - The twilight in the room deepened; the shadow of a wall opposite the - window fell darker. Their faces and Yvonne’s bare neck and arms - gleamed white in the gloom. They had spoken with many silences; for how - long neither knew. - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” replied the Canon in his harder tones, recovering - himself “It means all that.” - </p> - <p> - “I am to go—not to live with you any more?” - </p> - <p> - “Could you imagine our past relations could continue?” - </p> - <p> - “I don’t understand,” she began feebly. And then the - darkness fell upon her, and her limbs relaxed. She swayed sideways and - would have fallen, but he caught her in his arms and laid her on the - couch. - </p> - <p> - “Thank you,” she murmured faintly. - </p> - <p> - She hid her face in her hands and remained, crouched up, quite still, in a - stupor of misery. The Canon stood over her helplessly, unable to find a - word of comfort. - </p> - <p> - The sight of her prostration did not move him. He had been wounded to the - very depths of his being. His pride, his honour, his dignity were - lacerated in their vitals. He burned with the sense of unpardonable wrong. - </p> - <p> - “It is self-evident,” he said at last, “that we must - part. Our remaining together would be a sin against God and an outrage - upon Society.” - </p> - <p> - She rased herself wearily, with one hand on the couch, and shook her head - slowly. - </p> - <p> - “Such things are beyond me. No one will ever know.” - </p> - <p> - “There is One who will always know, Yvonne.” - </p> - <p> - She pondered over the saying, as far as her tired, bewildered brain - allowed. It conveyed very little meaning to her. Theology had not altered - her child-like conception of the benevolence of the Creator. After a long - time she was able to disentangle an idea from the confusion. - </p> - <p> - “If it is a sin—don’t you love me enough to sin a little - for my sake?” - </p> - <p> - “Not that sin,” he said. - </p> - <p> - Yvonne lifted her shoulders helplessly. - </p> - <p> - “I would commit any sin for your sake,” she said. “It - would seem so easy.” - </p> - <p> - Curiously assorted as they were, a poetic idealism on the one side and - grateful veneration on the other had hitherto bound them together. Now - they were sundered leagues apart; mutual understanding was hopeless. Each - was bewildered by the other’s moral attitude. - </p> - <p> - The logical consequences of the discovery, that appeared so luridly - devious to the Canon’s intellect, failed entirely to appeal to - Yvonne. She referred them entirely to his personal inclinations. On the - other hand, the Canon had a false insight into her soul that was a - chilling disillusion. - </p> - <p> - The beauty of her exquisite purity and innocence had always captivated in - him the finer man. It was a mirage. It was gone. Emptiness remained. She - was simply a graceful, non-moral being—a spiritual anomaly. - </p> - <p> - Yvonne shivered, and rising, walked unsteadily to the wardrobe, whence she - took a dressing-jacket. Putting it on, she returned to the couch. It was - almost dark. The Canon watched her dim, slight figure as it passed him, - with a strange feeling of remoteness. A hundred trivial instances of her - want of moral sense crowded into his mind to support his view—her - inability to see the wrong-doing of Stephen, her indefinite notions in - religious matters, her mental attitude toward the girl that had gone - astray, of whom she had been talking only the night before, her expressed - intention of hiding this terrible discovery from him. He had been duped, - not by her, but by his own romantic folly. - </p> - <p> - Yet what would his life be without her—or rather without his - illusion? An icy hand gripped his heart. He turned to the glimmering - window and stared at the blank wall. - </p> - <p> - Presently a moan struck upon his ear. He wheeled round sharply, and - distinguished her lying with helpless outspread arms on the couch. Mere - humanity brought him to her side. - </p> - <p> - “I am so tired,” she moaned. - </p> - <p> - “You must go to bed,” he replied in a gentler voice than - hitherto. “We had better part now. To-morrow, if you are well enough - to travel, we will leave for England.” - </p> - <p> - “Let me go alone,” she murmured, “and you go on to - Switzerland. Why should your holiday be spoiled?” - </p> - <p> - “It is my life that is spoiled,” he said ungenerously. “The - holiday matters very little. It is best to return to England as soon as - possible. Between now and to-morrow morning I shall have time to reflect - upon the situation.” - </p> - <p> - He struck a match and lit the candles and drew down the blind. The light - revealed her to him so wan and exhausted that he was moved with - compunction. - </p> - <p> - “Don’t think me hard, my child,” he said, bending over - her. “It is the bitterest day of our lives. We must pray to God for - strength to bear it. I shall leave you now. I shall see that you have all - you want. Try to sleep. Good-night.” - </p> - <p> - “Good-night,” she said miserably. - </p> - <p> - And so, without touch of hand, they parted. - </p> - <p> - The hours of the evening wore on, and night came. At last she cried - herself to sleep. It had been a day of tears. - </p> - <p> - They left Ostend quietly the following morning by the Dover boat. During - the whole journey the Canon treated Yvonne with the deferential courtesy - he could always assume to women, seeing to her comforts, anticipating her - wants, even exchanging now and then casual remarks on passing objects of - interest. But of the subject next his heart he said not a word. The - crossing was smooth. The sea air revived Yvonne’s strength. - </p> - <p> - His silence half comforted, half frightened her. Had he relented? She - glanced often at his impassive face, in cruel anxiety to pierce to the - thoughts that lay behind. Yet a little hope came to her; for fear of - losing it she dared not speak. To her simple mind it seemed impossible - that merely conscientious scruples could make him cast her off. If he - loved her, his love would triumph. If he persisted in his resolve, he - cared for her no longer. In this case her future was very simple. She - would go back to London and sing. - </p> - <p> - She seemed to have cried her feeling away during the night—such as - he had left unbruised and untorn. For the quivering flesh is only - sensitive up to a certain point of maceration. He had trodden upon her - pitilessly; but she felt no resentment. In fact, she would have been quite - happy if he had put his arms round her and said, “Let us forget, - Yvonne.” By the end of the journey she had cajoled herself into the - idea that he would do so. - </p> - <p> - A suite of rooms received them in the quiet West End hotel where the Canon - always stayed. They dined alone, the discreet butler waiting on them, for - the Canon was an honoured guest. When the cloth was removed, the Canon - said in his even voice:— - </p> - <p> - “Are you sufficiently recovered, Yvonne, to discuss this painful - subject?” - </p> - <p> - “I am quite ready, Everard.” - </p> - <p> - “We will make it as short as possible. What I said last night must - remain, whatever be the suffering. I have loved you deeply—like a - young man—in a way perhaps ill befitting my years. The memories, for - they are innocent, will always be there, Yvonne. If I did not seek - strength from Elsewhere, it might wreck my life to part from you.” - </p> - <p> - Her hope was dashed to the ground. She interrupted him with one more - appeal. “Why need we part, Everard?” she said, in a low voice. - “I mean, why cannot we live in the same house—before the world—?” - </p> - <p> - “It is impossible,” he replied. “You don’t know - what you are asking.” - </p> - <p> - His voice grew husky. He paused a few seconds, then, recovering himself - continued in the same hard tones:— - </p> - <p> - “As we must live apart, it is my duty to make provision for you. I - shall alter my will, securing to you what would have come to you as my - wife. During my lifetime I shall make you an allowance in fair proportion - to my means. And it will be, of course, unconditional.” - </p> - <p> - Then, for the first time, her gentle nature rose up in revolt against him. - </p> - <p> - “I could not accept it, Everard,” she cried with kindling - cheeks. “If I have no right to bear your name I have no right to - your support. Don’t ask me to take it, for I can’t.” - </p> - <p> - “Yvonne, listen to me—” - </p> - <p> - “No,” she went on passionately, “I am speaking as a - woman now; the time has come, and you were right in your prophecy—I - would sooner die than live away from you and be supported by you. You don’t - understand—it is as if I had done something shameful and you were - putting me away from you. Oh, don’t speak of it,—don’t - speak of it. If I am not your wife before God, I have no claims on you.” - </p> - <p> - “To hear you speak like that pains me intensely,” he said. - “Do you think I have lost all regard for you?” - </p> - <p> - “If you loved me, you would not wish to part from me,” said - Yvonne with her terrible logic. - </p> - <p> - They were on different planes of thought and feeling. The Canon argued, - insisted, but to no purpose. Yvonne was inconvincible. - </p> - <p> - The talk continued, drifted away for a time to arrangements for the - immediate future. A reply telegram came from Geraldine Vicary, to the - effect that she would be with Yvonne in the morning. It was settled that - Yvonne should stay with her provisionally, and that she, in order to avoid - painful meetings and communications, should be Yvonne’s agent in the - necessary settlement of affairs. Finally, the Canon returned to the - subject of the allowance. He would settle a certain sum upon her, whether - she would accept it or not. Yvonne flashed again into rebellion. The idea - was hateful to her. He had no right to make her lose her self-respect. - </p> - <p> - “But it is my solemn duty that I must perform. Will nothing I can - say ever make you understand?” he exclaimed at last, in - exasperation. - </p> - <p> - Yvonne rose and came to where he sat, and laid her hand upon his shoulder - with an action full of tenderness, and looked down upon him with her - wistful dark eyes, all the more wistful for the rings beneath them. - </p> - <p> - “Don’t be angry with me—over last evening. It is good - and generous of you to wish to make provision for me. But I shall be much - happier to feel myself no burden upon you. And it will be so easy for me - to earn my living again. I shall be much happier, really.” - </p> - <p> - The little word, with which she so often confirmed her statements, the - familiar touch of her hand, the sense of her delicate, fragile figure so - near him caused a spasm of pain to pass through his heart; disillusion had - not touched his common, human want of her. He bowed his head in his hands. - </p> - <p> - “Some day, Yvonne, it may be possible for me to ask you—to - come back. If I give in to your wishes now, will you give in to mine then?” - </p> - <p> - The emotion in his voice was too strong to escape her. It stirred all the - yielding sweetness and tender pity of Yvonne. She forgot the reproaches, - the pitilessness, the religious scruples comprehended only as unloving. - His broad shoulders shook beneath her touch. - </p> - <p> - “I will come whenever you want me,” she said. - </p> - <p> - “If I have been ungenerous in word or thought to you, Yvonne, - forgive me.” - </p> - <p> - Her hand strayed shyly to a lock of grizzling hair above his temples and - smoothed it back gently. - </p> - <p> - He raised his head, and looked at her for a second or two with an - expression of anguish. - </p> - <p> - Then he sprang to his feet, and before Yvonne, shrinking back, could - realise his intention, his arms were about her in a tight clasp, and his - kiss was on her face. “God help us. God help us both, my child.” - He released her and went hurriedly from the room. - </p> - <p> - And so they parted. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_PART2" id="link2H_PART2"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - Part II - </h2> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XIV—“IN A STRANGE LAND” - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>hey buried Noakes - on the other side of the <i>kopje</i> behind the house. He had lasted - through the winter and early spring, but the season of the rains and heat, - when the damp oozed through wooden walls and mud floor, and hung clammily - upon sheets and pillows, gave the remnants of his lungs no breathing - chance, and Noakes went uncomplainingly to his place. - </p> - <p> - Joyce laid “the dear lady’s” letter on his breast before - nailing down the rough wooden coffin. It seemed as if most of his own - heart too were enclosed with the letter, to be put away under the ground - for ever and ever. Wilson the farmer, himself, and a Kaffir carried the - coffin to the hole that had been dug beneath a blue gum-tree. There Wilson - read the burial service of the Church of England. - </p> - <p> - He was a religious man, when he was not drunk, and set great store by a - prayer-book that he had saved from the wreckage of churchgoing times. Over - a fat, phlegmatic, brick-red face the sun had spread a glaze, as if to - shield the colour from other counteracting climatic influences. His speech - was thick and uneducated. At first Joyce had resented his intention as a - mockery, and only to avoid unseemly wrangling did he stand there and - listen, while the Kaffir squatted by, scratching his limbs in meditative - wonder at the incantation. But very soon the solemn beauty of the service - appealed to him. “Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” - He stooped and threw some handfuls of the red soil reverently into the - grave. It seemed not unfitting that the rude voice should give the broken - life this rude burial. - </p> - <p> - The service over, Wilson signed to the Kaffir to fill in the grave, and - flicking the perspiration from his forehead, for the sun beat down - fiercely, turned to Joyce. - </p> - <p> - “Come in now and have a drink.” - </p> - <p> - But Joyce refused and remained there alone, with his head sunk on his - breast, watching the Kaffir. When the task was done, he set at the - grave-head a great stone he had previously brought there, and slowly went - away. His steps took him mechanically back over the <i>kopje</i>. But when - he arrived at the prickly-pear hedge on top, the sight of the mean shanty - and the Kaffir huts and the straggling fields high with corn and maize, - jarred upon his mood. He turned, and descending, struck across the rank, - sodden veldt, that stretched eastward in a terrible monotony to the - sky-line. There, at any rate, he could be alone, away from the sights and - sounds of his dreary toil. A broad gully, half filled with a red, swollen - stream, stopped his progress. Half a mile farther up was a bridge. But he - was tired and hot and sick at heart. A slab in the shade of an overhanging - edge of the ravine met his eye. He clambered down and sat there, looking - into the small swirling flood. - </p> - <p> - A centipede crawled close by. He drew his knife from his belt, cut the - creature in two, and flicked the pieces into the water, which swept them - instantaneously out of sight. He looked at his knife that had so speedily - given death to the insect. Was he much better, more useful? One gash, a - leap into the stream, and he would be carried away into eternity. Till - yesterday his life had some meaning—the support of the poor forlorn - man just buried. Now, what was the good of his living? There was no joy - for himself, no service to one of God’s creatures. But after digging - his knife idly into the crumbling slab, he returned it to his belt. - </p> - <p> - Yet what he had dreaded with almost morbid heart-sinking these latter - months had come about. He was alone. Noakes had gone—passed away - like a shadow, as the burial service hath it. The phrase brought back to - his mind a tag from old days of scholarship—[Greek]—“man - is the dream of a shadow.” He mused upon the saying. Time was, he - remembered, when he had wondered at the strange Greek melancholy - underlying even Pindar’s gladness in outward things, thews and - sinews and supple forms. Now he understood. What sane man who had watched - the world could escape it—this overwhelming sense of the futility of - things? To what ends had Noakes’s life been lived? The ceaseless - awful toil of grinding out despicable literature at sweated wages; the - begetting of a child to an inheritance of misery in the world’s - tragedy; the crowning futility of his senseless exile—what purpose - had it all served? Save for the pity of it, could it be taken seriously? - And he himself dangling his legs over this gully? Verily, the dream of a - shadow. - </p> - <p> - The lines in which the passage occurred came into his head. He repeated - them aloud. Such reminiscences of former culture occasionally visited him - and smote him with their ironic incongruity. He broke into a mirthless - laugh. - </p> - <p> - The westering sun had already touched the top of the far distant High - Veldt when he turned his steps homeward. - </p> - <p> - Wilson was squirting tobacco juice over a gate and giving directions as to - the repairing of one of the sluices, that drained the land into the gully, - whence Joyce had come. - </p> - <p> - “This damn thing will all go to glory soon,” he said. - </p> - <p> - “We ought to get some pipes,” said Joyce. - </p> - <p> - “And lay on gas and hot-water,” returned Wilson, - sarcastically. “Where’s the money to come from?” - </p> - <p> - Joyce shrugged his shoulders and continued his way to the house. He did - not much care. Things were going badly. Well, things had gone badly with - him since he stepped aside from the paths of honest living. He could - expect nothing else. - </p> - <p> - The sight of the rough bed, tenantless now for the first time for many - months, was inexpressibly cheerless. The indentations too of the coffin - still remained upon it. He smoothed them out mechanically. Then reaching - for a thick pile of foolscap that was on the shelf, he sat down with it - upon the bed. It was the MS. of the novel which Noakes had copied from the - yellow package-paper—all written in his beautiful round hand. He had - been a writing master in his youth and retained a professional pride in - penmanship. For months this copying had been all he could do. - </p> - <p> - Joyce read here and there, at last became interested. The work was good. - And then for the first time he seriously contemplated mailing it to a - publisher. When the Kaffir came in later to help him prepare supper, he - had made up his mind. - </p> - <p> - It was a gloomy book, dealing with the abject side of colonial pioneer - work—a tragedy of wasted lives and hopes foredoomed to - disappointment. A picture of wrecks and derelicts; men of broken fortunes, - breaking hearts, degraded lives; poor fools, penniless, craftless, who had - come hither like Noakes, allured by vague visions of El Dorado, to find no - place for them in this new rude land where unskilled labour belongs to the - natives, who defy competition. He called it “The Wasters.” - Almost unconsciously, his intellectual powers had returned to him whilst - writing it. The English was pure, the style vigorous and scholarly. And - the feeling—he had written it with his heart’s blood. Before - he went to sleep that night, he appended to it an alternative title, - “The Dream of a Shadow.” - </p> - <p> - In the course of time the manuscript was despatched and Joyce settled down - to many months’ forgetfulness of it, and to humdrum loneliness and - labour. Time went quickly, for he took no heed of its flight, having - nothing to hope for. He tried to begin another book, but the stimulus of - Noakes’s appreciation was gone and he sank again into intellectual - apathy. In the long evenings he taught a Kaffir boy to read and write, - while Wilson boozed away the profits of the farm. At the best of times - there was little sympathy between the two men. Often mutual antipathy - manifested itself actively under a thin disguise. The farmer despised - Joyce for a broken-down gentleman unacquainted with any handicraft or the - principles of farming, and Joyce considered his partner a dull sot, who - was letting the farm go to rack and ruin. Still, a habit of life is a - strange help in living. Often Joyce told himself that he must sell out and - try his luck elsewhere. But there was no particular reason for bringing - matters to a crisis on one day more than on another. So the months wore - on. - </p> - <p> - The work of the harvest knocked him up. He got ague and lay in bed for - three weeks. Wilson cursed the day he ever took him into the place; and - had it not been for the humaneness of their next neighbour, who farmed - more healthy ground some forty miles away, towards the High Veldt, and - carried Joyce off thither one day in an ox-waggon, he might have speedily - followed Noakes. He returned to the farm cured but terribly gaunt. The - lines had deepened in his face, over which the beard grew straggling, - accentuating the hollows of his cheeks. His hands had whitened and thinned - during his illness. Wilson sniffed contemptuously at them and looked at - his own huge glazed and freckled paw. - </p> - <p> - Winter set in. There was plenty to do—ricks to thatch, buildings to - repair, fields to irrigate. Joyce did not spare himself. Work, if joyless, - was at least an anodyne. It brought on prostrating fatigue, which in its - turn brought long heavy hours of sleep. In that way it was as good as - adulterated whisky. - </p> - <p> - Some men thrive physically and morally in the wilds. The incessant - conflict with the elemental forces of nature braces nerves and strengthens - the will. And these are exclusive of such as find satisfaction of - primitive instincts only in uncivilised lands—such as are a - reversion to the savage type, and, in the forest or the desert, live a - life truer to their natures than amid the decencies of civilisation. But - the men who thrive are physically and morally adapted to the struggle—men - of energy, ambition, daring, who see in it a means towards the yet - ungained or forfeited place in civilisation. The pioneer work of new - colonies is done by them, and they generally gain their reward. Joyce had - found all the successful men in South Africa belonging to this type. He - had looked at Noakes and himself and groaned inwardly. They were doomed to - perish, it seemed, by natural selection. In the case of Noakes the - foreboding had been fulfilled. Would it be so with himself? His unfitness - for his environment weighed heavier day by day on his mind: all the more - since the loss of the companionship that had cheered him in dark hours. A - habit of brooding silence fell upon him. He spoke as little as in those - awful years of prison. And as his life grew lonelier and more - self-centred, softer memories faded, and those chiefly remained that had - branded themselves in his brain. The gaol came back to his dreams. Once, - in the shed where he had taken up his abode since the beginning of spring, - he awoke in a sweating terror. The disposition of his bed as regards the - window and the height of the latter from the ground corresponded with the - arrangements of his cell. The nightmare held him paralysed. And this in - some form or the other repeated itself at intervals, so that he was forced - to rearrange his room. - </p> - <p> - He had shifted his quarters owing to the arrival of a fat Boer woman who - claimed connubial relations with Wilson. The suggestion had proceeded from - himself from motives of delicacy and good-nature. At first he had welcomed - her in spite of unprepossessing manners and appearance, and tried to win - her esteem by little acts of civility. But the lady drank; and one day - Wilson, finding her alone in Joyce’s hut, whither she had come to - steal whisky, grew unreasonably jealous and blacked both her eyes. After - which occurrence Joyce and she let each other severely alone. He relapsed - into his sombre apathy. - </p> - <p> - The life was killing him, brutalizing him. He lost even interest in the - Kaffir boy’s education, which had not been without its light side of - amusement. Hour after hour he would sit, on summer nights, on the doorstep - of his shed, pipe in mouth, elbows on knees, thinking of nothing, his mind - a dull blank. Now and then he thought of Yvonne, but only in a vague, - far-off way. He never wrote or felt urged to write. What was the good? And - he had received no letter from Yvonne since the one that had accompanied - her line to Noakes. Once, several months afterwards, one of the ox-waggons - from the town had been overturned in a swollen river, and many stores - including the mail had been swept away. The driver told him there had been - letters for him. Possibly one from Yvonne. At the time he regretted it, - but his morbid indifferentism had already begun to darken his mind. He - laid conjecture dully aside. The weeks and months passed and, with all his - other longings for sweeter things, the desire for her letters died. And so - the last strand wore through of the last thread that bound him to England. - </p> - <p> - As for the novel, he had long since ceased to concern himself about its - fate. Probably it had been lost in transit, either going or returning. The - yellow sheets on which he had written the first draft lay on the mud floor - in the corner of his hut and rotted and grew mildewed with the damp. - </p> - <p> - At last, one day, like a bolt from the blue, came the publishers’ - letter, offering alternative terms for the book, the usual royalty the - firm paid to unknown authors, or eighty pounds down for the copyright, to - be paid on publication. It aroused him, with a shock, from his torpor. - That night he could not sleep. He got up and wandered about the veldt - through the dewy grasses, under the bright African starlight, his veins - alive with a new excitement. Perhaps he had found a vocation—one to - bring him money, congenial work, the right at last to take his forfeited - place in a civilised land. He returned to the house at daybreak, worn out - with fatigue, but throbbing with wild schemes for the future. And the - following evening, as soon as the toil of the day was over, he lit his - small, smoking lamp, and sat down in feverish haste to begin a new story, - the scheme of which he had half-heartedly worked out soon after Noakes’s - death. The copyright of the other he sold for the eighty pounds. - </p> - <p> - And then gradually the longing for England grew more insistent, until at - last it took the form of a settled determination. One day he saddled a - rough farm-pony and rode to the good Samaritan who had taken him in during - his illness. The farmer, a hard-headed Scotchman, shook his head dubiously - when Joyce unfolded his plan. - </p> - <p> - “Stick to the farm and buy Wilson out. You ’ll mak’ more - money, and then you can retire in a few years.” - </p> - <p> - “The profits are nearly swallowed up in improvements and transit,” - said Joyce. “It is a bare subsistence.” - </p> - <p> - “That’s because you don’t go the right way to work. If I - had the land, I’d make it pay soon enough.” - </p> - <p> - “You are a practical farmer, and I am not,” said Joyce. - “Even if I desired to gain experience, it is precious little I could - gain with Wilson—and I long for home again.” - </p> - <p> - “That’s all very well—but if you fail with your writing? - I have heard it is a precarious trade.” - </p> - <p> - “I’m used to failure,” replied Joyce. “That’s - what I came into the world for. You can’t say that I am a - conspicuous success as a colonist.” - </p> - <p> - “Sell out from Wilson, and come here,” said the farmer, - “on the metayer system. I will put you up to a few things.” - </p> - <p> - Joyce looked round him; they were sitting on the verandah of the - nicely-built house. Everything had the trim appearance of scientific - English farming—the outbuildings solid and clean, the fields high - with grain, the dams in perfect repair, the yard spick and span. A flower - garden lay beneath him. A well-trimmed vine covered the lattice-work of - the verandah. All was a striking contrast to his own ramshackle, neglected - surroundings. A month ago he would have leaped at the offer. But now he - declined it. He distrusted himself, his power of content. If he once put - his hand to the plough, he would not be able to draw back. And he held - ploughs in cordial detestation. He rode back, having thanked his friend - and obtained his consent to act as arbiter, if need were, between Wilson - and himself. - </p> - <p> - A day or two later, he took advantage of a sober and quasi-friendly - moment, to announce his intention to Wilson, who listened to him stolidly. - </p> - <p> - “I hope my sudden withdrawal won’t cause you inconvenience,” - said he, politely. “If it does—” - </p> - <p> - “My good friend,” replied Wilson, “I am only too damn - glad to get rid of you.” - </p> - <p> - “Then if you ’ll give me a lump sum down for my share, and - lend me a team, I ’ll leave the infernal place this afternoon,” - said Joyce, nettled. - </p> - <p> - Wilson went into the house and came out with a roll of greasy notes. - </p> - <p> - “There,” he said, “will that satisfy you? I ’ve - been wanting to part company for a long time, and I ’ve kept ’em - by me.” - </p> - <p> - Joyce counted the notes, and to his surprise found the sum exceeded that - which he himself calculated to be his due. After half an hour’s - joint examination of their roughly-kept accounts, he found that Wilson was - right. - </p> - <p> - “You are an honest man,” he said with a smile. “It is a - pity you have so many other failings.” - </p> - <p> - “I can keep myself out of quod, at any rate,” replied Wilson, - “which is more than some people can say.” - </p> - <p> - The retort was like a blow in the face. Joyce staggered under it. - </p> - <p> - “Another time don’t be so devilish smart with your tongue,” - said Wilson. “I ain’t the one to cast a man’s - misfortunes in his teeth, but, all the same, it’s best for a man - like you to lie low.” - </p> - <p> - “What the devil are you talking of?” said Joyce, fiercely. - </p> - <p> - “What’s the good of bluff? You’ve given yourself away - heaps of times.” - </p> - <p> - “I insist upon knowing what you mean,” said Joyce. - </p> - <p> - How could this man have learned his history? Noakes could not have - betrayed him. For the honour of his dead comrade he could not let the - matter drop. Wilson tilted back his chair and squirted a stream of - tobacco-juice over the floor, which aroused the indignation of the Boer - woman, who was sitting on some sacks near the door, peeling potatoes. Her - lord was a beastly Englander, and a great many other undesirable things. - Wilson, who had not yet laced his heavy boots, took one off to throw at - her head, but Joyce caught his arm. - </p> - <p> - “What a brute you are!” he said angrily. - </p> - <p> - Wilson broke into a laugh. - </p> - <p> - “You’d better thank Mr. Joyce for saving your beauty from - being damaged,” he said, pulling on the boot again. - </p> - <p> - “Now,” said Joyce, as soon as domestic peace was restored, - “tell me what you meant just now.” - </p> - <p> - Wilson rose, went to the door and ostentatiously spat over the Boer woman’s - head; then he turned round to Joyce:— - </p> - <p> - “Look here,” he said, “I have my hands full enough of - quarrelling as it is. You ’d better trek off with that waggon and a - couple of niggers. And I ’ll give you a piece of advice. When next - you shake down alongside of a man to sleep, just keep from blabbing all - your private affairs to him. And that’s why I wanted to be shut of - you. We can do without your kind hereabouts. No wonder you were surprised - to find me honest.” - </p> - <p> - “I suppose I must beg your pardon,” said Joyce humiliated. - “I had no right to speak to you as I did.” - </p> - <p> - “If you had held your tongue, I should have held mine, as I have - done for the last year and a half,” replied Wilson. - </p> - <p> - A few hours later Joyce stood up in the ox-waggon and looked back at the - detested place that had so long been his home. It was just a speck in the - midst of the cheerless plain under the irregular mound, the <i>kopje</i>, - behind which poor Noakes lay buried. He drew an envelope from his pocket - and looked at the blade of grass he had picked from the grave. Ashamed of - his sentimentality, he twirled it between his fingers, undecided whether - to throw it away or not He ended by replacing it in his pocket. After all, - it symbolised a pure, tender feeling, and he was not carrying away with - him too many. - </p> - <p> - He smoked in silence through the night, under the clear stars. He was sore - at heart, deeply humiliated. The buoyancy of new hopes which his little - literary success had occasioned during the last few weeks, had gone. The - sense of the ineffaceable stain overpowered him. It was a fatality. Go - where he would, he could not hide it from the knowledge of men. In his own - land, accusing fingers pointed to it at street corners. In the uttermost - ends of the earth he himself proclaimed it aloud. - </p> - <p> - To have lived for months and months under the silent contempt of this - drunken woman-beating brute, to have been watched narrowly in all his - business dealings—as he knew, from Wilson’s nature, must have - been the case—to have been forced to stand helpless, degraded before - this sot, while he vaunted his one virtue, honesty—it was gall and - wormwood and all things bitter. - </p> - <p> - The Southern Cross flashed down from the myriad stars in its startling - splendour. The moon shone bright over the vast silent plain, limitless, - broken only by the undulating mounds and the infinitely stretching clumps - of karroo bushes. The camp-fire, just replenished with damp twigs and - shrubs, burned sulkily and the smoke ascended in spirals into the clear - air. The hooded waggon depended helplessly on its shafts. The Kaffirs, - wrapped in blankets, slept beneath. The oxen, outspanned some distance - off, chewed the cud in sharp, rhythmic munches. The universe was still—awfully - still. All gave the sense of the littleness of man and the immensity of - space. - </p> - <p> - In a strange, imperious need of expansion, Joyce threw himself down on the - wet earth and clutched the grasses and cried aloud:— - </p> - <p> - “Oh, God! I have suffered enough for my sin. Take this stain and - degradation from my soul.” - </p> - <p> - After a while he arose, ashamed of his weakness, the futility of his - appeal. Relighting his pipe, he clambered into the waggon, and sitting on - the floor against the back, watched the portion of starry sky framed by - the hood, until the first streaks of dawn announced the hour for - inspanning the oxen again and continuing his journey. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XV—KNIGHT-ERRANT - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">F</span>or all the change - about him and within him, the hand of time might have been put back four - years, and the tender might have been nearing the outward bound ship, - instead of the Southampton landing-stage. It was the same raw mizzling - rain as when he had crossed the harbour four years before; the same wet, - shivering crowd of second-class passengers, with the water streaming from - waterproofs, umbrellas and hand luggage on to the sloppy deck. In his - heart was the same mingling of anxiety and apathy, the same ineradicable - sense of pariahdom. He had thought that the sight of England once more - would have brought him a throb of gladness. It only intensified his - depressing fears for the future. - </p> - <p> - The circumstances reproduced themselves with startling actuality. One of - the men in charge of the tender had a great ugly seam across his face. - Joyce remembered having seen him before, in just the same attitude, with a - coil of rope in his hand. Had he not awakened from a minute’s dream - that had covered an illusory four years of his life? He looked around, - almost expecting to see Noakes, in his ridiculous curly silk hat and old - frieze overcoat. - </p> - <p> - The tender came alongside the landing-stage, and he stepped ashore with - the dripping crowd. The flurry of the Custom House and the transport of - his meagre baggage to the railway station broke the illusion. He was in - England at last, and it seemed a strange country. During the journey to - London, he had the companionship of some of his fellow-travellers. At - Waterloo they parted. Then he felt terribly lonely. - </p> - <p> - “Cab, sir?” asked a porter. - </p> - <p> - He was standing over his luggage, somewhat lost amid the bustle and tumult - of the station. It was the late afternoon, and the platforms were hurrying - with suburban passengers. The incessant movement through the blue glare of - the electric light dazed his unaccustomed eyes. He declined the porter’s - offer. Cabs were a luxury he could ill afford. Besides, one meagre - Gladstone bag contained his whole possessions, and he could easily carry - it. Leaving the station, he took an omnibus for Victoria, with the idea of - seeking his old Pimlico lodgings. If he could not be taken in there, it - would not be difficult to find a room in the neighbourhood. Still confused - by the sudden transition to the midst of the roar of London, he peered - through the glass sides at the wet pavements glistening in the gaslight, - the shop fronts, the eternal hurrying by of vague forms, and the dash past - of vehicles. From Westminster Bridge the face of Big Ben greeted him. He - stared at it stupidly as long as he could see it. The light on the Clock - Tower announced that the House was sitting. It was all curiously familiar, - and yet he felt like an alien. There was not a soul in London to welcome - his home-coming. His heart sank with the sense of loneliness. He was as - infinitesimal and as isolated a unit in this seething, swarming ant-hill - of humanity as amid the starry solitudes of the African veldt. - </p> - <p> - As chance willed it, he found the house in Pimlico in the same hands as - before, and his old room in the attics vacant. Nothing had altered, except - that it looked smaller and four years shabbier. The same discoloured blind - hung before the window, the same fly-blown texts adorned the walls. The - same acrid smell of dust and ashes and earth and the unaired end of all - human things met his nostrils. When he went to sleep that night, it seemed - incredible that four years should have passed since he had last lain - there. - </p> - <p> - In a day or two the strangeness wore off. London is in a Londoner’s - blood. No matter how long his exile, life there comes to him as naturally - as swimming does to a swimmer after years of non-practice. He remembered - how he had yearned for its sights and sounds and stimulating movement. Now - they were his again, and he took a measure of content. His first care was - to provide himself with some clothes; his next, to visit the publishers. A - cordial reception gratified him. The book was bound to have some success. - The manuscript was in the printer’s hands. Publication was announced - for the spring. Joyce went home lighter-hearted after the interview. It - was delightful to be treated as an intellectual man once more. His - prospects too were not so very gloomy. With the little capital he had - brought back from South Africa and the £80 for his book, he saw himself - saved from starvation for two years, if he lived very, very humbly on a - little over a pound a week. Meanwhile he could earn something by - occasional odds and ends of writing, and also complete his second novel. - He arranged his scheme of life as he walked along. He would leave his - lodging punctually at a certain hour after breakfast, walk to the British - Museum, write all day in the Reading Room, dine, walk home, and write or - read in the evenings until it was time for bed. - </p> - <p> - Thus, as ever, his sensitive nature reflected the little ray of hope. But, - as usual, it was soon eclipsed by the darkening shadow in his soul, - although he set to work with dogged determination. The prospect of - life-long solitude appalled him. It was the terrible part of his - never-ending punishment. To a nature like his, companionship and sympathy - are essentials of development. Without them it withers like a parched - plant And yet he dreaded making new acquaintances, on account of the shame - that would inevitably follow if his identity and history leaked out He - accepted loneliness as his portion. There were only two people in England - whom, knowing his story, he could trust to shake him by the hand—Yvonne - and the actor McKay. The latter was necessarily lost in the obscurities of - his roving profession. Yvonne was married to his cousin, moving in the - sphere to which beyond all others he was rigorously denied access. One - day, however, when the memory of her sweet kind face came back to him, and - he yearned for its bright sympathy, he wrote to her at Fulminster. - </p> - <p> - He felt somewhat cheered after he had despatched the letter. And as - comfortings often come in pairs, he was further cheered by seeing in an - evening paper which he bought from a stand near the pillar-box, a general - article he had sent up two or three days before. It was an encouraging - beginning. At any rate, London streets were more stimulating to his - intellectual powers than the dull, deadening life of the African farm. He - made many good resolutions during these first days in London. He would win - back his lost scholarship, begin to form a humble library. On his way home - he bought out of a fourpenny box an old copy of Plato’s “Republic.” - He sat up half the night reading it. - </p> - <p> - To his surprise and disappointment, instead of a letter coming from - Yvonne, his own was returned through the Dead Letter Office. “Left - Fulminster two years ago—present address unknown.” He was - puzzled. At the Museum he consulted the Clergy List for the year. - According to it, Canon Chisely was still Rector of Fulminster. What had - happened to Yvonne? - </p> - <p> - “It must be some silly mistake,” he said to himself. He wrote - again; but with the same result. He thought of writing to Everard, but - reflected that he too must be ignorant of Yvonne’s address; also - that in any case, perhaps, he would disregard his letter. There was some - mystery. Both his affection for Yvonne and the novelty of a curiosity - outside himself spurred his interest. A day or two afterwards, he noticed - on a hoarding an advertisement of cheap excursion trains to the great - provincial town next to Fulminster. The journey would be very inexpensive. - Why should he not go down and pick up what information he could? The idea - of the little excitement pleased him. - </p> - <p> - He started the next morning at a very early hour, and arrived at - Fulminster about noon. The place was well known to him. He had often - visited his cousin in days gone by. - </p> - <p> - Many bitter-sweet associations crowded upon him as he walked up from the - station through the streets. - </p> - <p> - He went on, without any definite idea as to his course of action. Almost - mechanically he bent his steps toward the old abbey, whose spire rose - above the housetops, at the end of the High Street. Soon the great mass - towered above him. He stood for a while looking upwards at the wealth of - tracery, and crocket, and pinnacle, feeling its beauty, and then wandered - idly round. At last his eye fell upon a notice on the board by the vestry - door. It was signed “J. Abdy, Rector”; other notices bore the - same signature. This was a new surprise. Wondering what had occurred, he - left the Abbey Close and proceeded round the familiar path to the front - door of the Rectory. He would take the bull by the horns. - </p> - <p> - “Is the Rector in?” he asked the servant who opened to him. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, sir.” - </p> - <p> - “Could I see him for a moment?” - </p> - <p> - “What name, sir?” - </p> - <p> - “Chisely,” said Joyce, instinctively, then he coloured. It was - odd that he should have been taken off his guard. - </p> - <p> - The servant showed him into the library. A glance proved that Everard no - longer inhabited it. No trace of the dilettante was visible in its homely - comfort. Presently the door opened, and the Rector, a kindly grey-bearded - man, entered the room. Joyce made his apology for intrusion. - </p> - <p> - “I came down expecting to find Canon Chisely. I am a distant - relation of his, not long come from abroad.” - </p> - <p> - “I fear you have come on a vain errand,” said the Rector with - a smile. “He took over his diocese in New Zealand some months ago.” - </p> - <p> - “His diocese?” repeated Joyce. - </p> - <p> - “Dear me, have n’t you heard? Canon Chisely accepted the - bishopric of Taroofa at the beginning of the year.” - </p> - <p> - “How very extraordinary!” said Joyce, nonplussed. But the - other took his remark literally. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, it is singular. Most people think he has thrown himself away. - A very able man, you know—quite young. He might have had an English - bishopric if he had waited.” - </p> - <p> - “And Mrs. Chisely?” asked Joyce, interrogatively. - </p> - <p> - The Rector raised a deprecative hand. - </p> - <p> - “That’s where the whole trouble came in, apparently. It - weighed on his mind—a very proud man. He took the first chance that - offered.” - </p> - <p> - “Pardon my questioning you,” said Joyce, “but I am quite - in the dark as to what you are referring to. The last letter, two years - back, that I received from Mrs. Chisely was dated from here. She was - happily married and all that. I am an old friend of hers. What has - happened?” - </p> - <p> - “I can only repeat the gossip, Mr. Chisely. It seems that just about - then some misfortune arose—a first husband of Mrs. Chisely’s, - supposed dead, turned up, and so there was a separation.” - </p> - <p> - “And where is Mrs. Chisely now?” - </p> - <p> - “That’s more than I can say. A lady—a great friend of - mine—also I believe a connexion of your own—” - </p> - <p> - “Mrs. Winstanley?” - </p> - <p> - “The same. I see you know her. She may be able to inform you. I - believe she has said authoritatively that the late Mrs. Chisely went back - to her former husband.” - </p> - <p> - “That I can’t believe,” said Joyce, indignantly. - </p> - <p> - “I can only give you what I hear,” said the Rector, placidly. - “I know Bishop Chisely went to Paris, where they were supposed to - be, before starting for New Zealand. But Mrs. Winstanley will tell you.” - </p> - <p> - “I think I know enough,” said Joyce, hurriedly, and rising - from his chair. “I am greatly indebted to you for your kindness, Mr. - Abdy.” - </p> - <p> - “Can I offer you some lunch? It will be on the table in a moment.” - </p> - <p> - Joyce declined, pleaded a train. He would have liked to sit with this kind - gossipy old man, but he could not accept such hospitality under false - pretences. Perhaps it was well that he acted thus, for later in the - afternoon the Rector described his visitor to Mrs. Winstanley. She - listened for some time, and at last broke out:— - </p> - <p> - “Why, my dear Mr. Abdy, it could have been no one else than the - convict cousin! He must have come to get money out of Everard.” - </p> - <p> - “Dear me,” said Mr. Abdy, arresting his hand in a downward - stroke of his beard. “Who would have thought it? He seemed such a - gentlemanly fellow. And I asked him to lunch!” - </p> - <p> - “I ’ll write and put the dear Bishop on his guard,” said - Mr. Winstanley, virtuously. - </p> - <p> - Meanwhile, Joyce went away full of wonder and pity. It was an amazing - story. Poor Yvonne! He could not believe that she had returned to the - scamp of a first husband. The thought was repulsive. At any rate - communication between Everard and Yvonne seemed to have been cut off. He - was not very sorry for Everard. - </p> - <p> - “A little trouble will do him good,” he muttered to himself. - And he found a certain grim amusement in the contemplation of the - chastened Bishop, his cousin. But he felt a great concern for poor fragile - little Yvonne cast adrift again upon the world. “I will find out - what has become of her, at any rate,” he said, digging his stick - into the road. - </p> - <p> - The natural course was to write to Miss Geraldine Vicary, whose address he - fortunately remembered. If she had lost count of Yvonne, he would set to - work to find her some other way. He felt as eager now to recover Yvonne’s - friendship as he had been apathetic before. To lose no time, while waiting - for the early return excursion train, he went into a post-office and wrote - and despatched his letter. - </p> - <p> - The following morning he resumed his newly schemed out life of literary - work. Three days passed and no reply came from Miss Vicary. On the fourth - morning he received a black-edged envelope bearing the Swansea postmark. - He opened it and read:— - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - Dear Sir,—Your letter to Miss Geraldine Vicary was, - according to instructions, forwarded to me. I regret to - inform you that my poor sister died three weeks ago, of - diphtheria. She caught the disease whilst nursing the lady - concerning whom, I believe, you inquire. Madame Latour had - been living with her for the past two years. Shortly after - my poor sister’s death, Madame Latour was removed to St. - Mary’s Hospital, where, as far as I know, she still lies - very ill. - - Trusting this sad information may be of service to you, - - I am yours faithfully, - - Henrietta Dasent. -</pre> - <p> - Joyce hurried through his dressing, bolted his breakfast, and rushed out - into the street, with one idea in his head. Yvonne alone and uncared for, - dying in a London hospital—it was incredible. The apparent - heartlessness of the woman who wrote, her calm disclaimer of all interest - in her dead sister’s dying friend, made his blood boil. A London - hospital—an open common ward, with medical students chattering round—it - was a cruel place for the sweet delicate woman he remembered as Yvonne. - Where were all her friends? - </p> - <p> - In the dismay, excitement, and indignation of the moment, he forgot his - poverty, and jumped into the first hansom-cab he saw. - </p> - <p> - “St. Mary’s Hospital, quick!” - </p> - <p> - And the cabman, thinking it a matter of life and death, went at a - breakneck pace. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XVI—LA CIGALE - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">S</span>eeing Yvonne at - that time of the morning was out of the question. But he penetrated to the - landing outside the ward and had a few words with the sister in charge. - She was a fresh, pleasant-faced woman, who, having fallen in love with - Yvonne, felt kindly disposed toward her friends. - </p> - <p> - Madame Latour was slowly recovering. One of the most lingering of the - sequelae of diphtheria, diphtheritic paralysis, had set in. It was her - larynx and left arm that were affected. At present she was suffering from - general weakness. It would be some time yet before she could be moved. - </p> - <p> - “Do you think I could see her?” asked Joyce—“that - is to say, if she would care about it.” - </p> - <p> - “Certainly,” replied the sister. “It would probably do - her good. To-day is a visiting day—after two o’clock.” - </p> - <p> - “I wonder whether she would like it,” said Joyce, - questioningly. - </p> - <p> - “I will take her a message,” said the sister. - </p> - <p> - He scribbled a few words on a scrap of paper and handed it to her. She - retired and presently returned, smiling. - </p> - <p> - “She will be delighted. I have not seen her look like that since she - has been here. ‘Tell him it will be a joy to see him.’ Those - were her words.” - </p> - <p> - Joyce thanked her warmly, rased his hat, and departed. It was a fine crisp - morning. The message seemed to bring a breath of something sweet into the - air. He walked along almost buoyantly in spite of the sad plight of - Yvonne. The appalling weight of loneliness was lifted from his shoulders. - The sight of him would be a joy to one living creature. It was a new - conception, and it winged his feet. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - On the stroke of two the great doors of the ward opened, and he entered - with a group of visitors, chiefly women of the poorer classes, some - carrying babies. It was bewildering at first—the long double row of - beds, each with its pale, wistful woman’s face. Some of the patients - were sitting up, with shawls or wraps around them; the greater number lay - back on their pillows, turning eyes of languid interest towards the - visitors. Two beds curtained round broke the uniformity of the two white - lines of bedsteads. At the end of the ward, a great open fireplace, with - glowing blocks of coal, struck a note of cheerfulness in the grey November - light, that streamed through the series of high windows. Joyce felt a man’s - shyness in walking among these strange sick women, and looked helplessly - down the ward from the doorway, to try to discover Yvonne. The sister came - to his help from a neighbouring bedside. - </p> - <p> - “At the very end. The last bed on the left.” - </p> - <p> - Joyce walked down the druggetted aisle, and as soon as he saw her and knew - himself to be recognised, he quickened his pace. - </p> - <p> - There she was, half sitting in the bed, propped up by pillows, her wavy - dark hair like a nimbus around her pale face. In honour of the visit she - had done up her hair, with infinite difficulty, poor child, and put on a - pretty white dressing-jacket tied with knots of crimson ribbon. His heart - was smitten with pity. She was so changed, so wasted. Her delicate - features were pinched, her childlike lips blanched. Only the old Yvonne’s - eyes remained—the great, pathetic, winning dark eyes. They gave him - glad and grateful welcome. - </p> - <p> - “Yvonne.” - </p> - <p> - It was all he could find in his head to say as he pressed her little thin - hand. - </p> - <p> - “How good of you to come to see me,” she said. - </p> - <p> - Joyce was unprepared. It was not Yvonne’s voice—once as sweet - in speech as in singing; but a toneless, distressed sound devoid of - quality, like that of a cracked silver bell. He could not conceal the - shadow of dismay on his face. She was quick to note it. - </p> - <p> - “I am afraid I speak like a wicked old raven,” she said with a - smile; “but you mustn’t mind.” - </p> - <p> - “I can’t tell you how grieved I am to see you like this,” - he said, sitting down by the bedside. “You must have been very ill. - Poor Yvonne.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes. Awfully ill. You would have been quite sorry to see how ill I - was. Do you mind moving your chair further down, so that I can look at - you? I can’t turn my head, you know. Is n’t it silly not to be - able to turn one’s head?” - </p> - <p> - “You must make haste and get well,” he said, after he had - complied with her request “I’m afraid I can’t,” - she said, looking at him wistfully. “They all say it’s going - to be a long, long business. But I want to know how you came here—to - England, I mean,” she added more brightly, after a pause. “It - was such a startling surprise when Sister brought me your note this - morning. Why have you left Africa? I ’ve been dying to know all day.” - </p> - <p> - Joyce sketched rapidly the events that had led him back—the death of - Noakes, the year of wretched apathy, the purchase of his book by the - publishers, the craving for civilisation. - </p> - <p> - “So I sold out and came home,” he concluded. “I have - been back a fortnight.” - </p> - <p> - “You must have been very sad at losing your friend,” said - Yvonne. “Death is an awful, awful thing. Have you ever thought of - it? A person is living and feeling, like you and me, to-day—and - to-morrow—gone—out of the world—for ever and ever.” - </p> - <p> - Her voice sank to a whisper and she looked at him out of great, - awe-stricken eyes. - </p> - <p> - “I have lost my dear friend too—just lately. Did you know?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” he replied gently. “I wrote to her for your - address and her sister answered the letter, telling me of her death.” - </p> - <p> - “Wasn’t it terrible? And she so bright and brave and strong. I - never loved anybody as I loved her. It was only after she was buried that - I knew—and then I wished I had died instead—I who am no good - to any one at all. And I am alive. Isn’t it an awful mystery?” - </p> - <p> - The man’s eyes fell for a moment beneath the intense, child-like - earnestness of hers. Silence fell upon them. He stretched out his arm and - took her hand that rested outside the coverlet. A man is often - instinctively driven to express his sympathy by touch, where a woman would - find words. - </p> - <p> - After a while she withdrew her hand gently, as if to break the current of - thoughts. - </p> - <p> - “I was wondering why you looked different,” she said. “You - have grown a beard.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” he said, with a sudden laugh—the transition was - so abrupt. “I was too slack to shave in South Africa. Don’t - you like it?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, not at all. It spoils you.” - </p> - <p> - “I will cut it off at once.” - </p> - <p> - “Not just to please me?” - </p> - <p> - “Just to please you. It will be a new sensation.” - </p> - <p> - “To have it off?” - </p> - <p> - “No—to please you, Yvonne.” - </p> - <p> - Her eyes smiled gratefully at him. - </p> - <p> - “Tell me when I must go,” he said, after a while. “I - must n’t tire you. And you may have other visitors.” - </p> - <p> - “Don’t go yet. No one else will come.” - </p> - <p> - “How do you know?” - </p> - <p> - “You are the only person who has been to see me since I was brought - here,” she replied sadly. - </p> - <p> - Joyce looked at her for a moment incredulously. - </p> - <p> - “Do you mean to say you have been quite alone here, among strangers, - all these weeks?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” she said. “But Sister is kind to me, and they - allow me all sorts of little indulgences.” - </p> - <p> - “But you should be among loving friends, Yvonne,” said Joyce. - </p> - <p> - “I have so few. And I have told no one that I am here. I couldn’t. - Besides, whom could I tell?” - </p> - <p> - Joyce could not understand. It was so strange for Yvonne to be friendless. - Delicacy forbade him to question further. - </p> - <p> - “I have had a lot of trouble, you know,” she said. “It - has been nearly all trouble for over two years. I wrote and told you what - had happened. Then I went to live with Geraldine Vicary, and began to sing - again. But I was always being laid up with my throat and I never knew - whether I could fulfil an engagement when I made it—so I didn’t - get on as I used to. People won’t employ you if they fear you may - have to throw them over at the last moment, will they? And Geraldine used - to keep me in a great deal, for fear I should hurt my voice. But, you see, - I had to make some money. So I went out and sang just before this illness, - when I ought not, and my throat became inflamed and I caught another cold, - and it got worse and worse until diphtheria came on. Then poor Dina caught - it and there was no one to nurse me. You could n’t expect her - sister, who did n’t know me, to do much, could you? And then Dina - was just giving up her flat, and of course I couldn’t keep it on—so - the doctor thought I had better come here. ‘J’y suis, j’y - reste. It is not a gay little story, is it?” - </p> - <p> - “It is a heart-rending story altogether,” said Joyce, with a - concerned puckering of the forehead. “I wish I could do something to - brighten you, Yvonne.” - </p> - <p> - “You have done so,” she said with a smile, “by coming to - see me. How good of you to remember—and, you know, by your not - writing, I thought you had quite forgotten.” - </p> - <p> - “Forgive me, Yvonne—a kind of dull brutishness came over me—I - couldn’t.” - </p> - <p> - “And I could n’t either, after the one I wrote—about my - trouble—at Fulminster. You never answered it, and I thought—It - was n’t because you despised me, was it?” - </p> - <p> - “I did n’t get the letter, Yvonne,” he said, unable to - disregard this second reference as he had done the first. “It must - have been the one I heard was lost. I will explain afterwards. I thought - you were happy at Fulminster—so why should I inflict my eternal - grumblings on you?” - </p> - <p> - “Then don’t you know what has happened?” asked Yvonne, - with wider eyes and a little quiver of the lip. - </p> - <p> - “I learned it a few days ago. I went to Fulminster to find you, as - my letters were returned to me through the Post Office. I was determined - to discover you, but I never dreamed of finding you here. I came as soon I - got the news this morning.” - </p> - <p> - “I have one friend left,” said Yvonne. - </p> - <p> - “And you shall always have him, if you will,” said Joyce. - “You are the only one he has.” - </p> - <p> - “Poor fellow,” said Yvonne. - </p> - <p> - Though the sweet voice was broken and hard, there was the same tender pity - in the words as when she had uttered them four years back, on their first - re-meeting. - </p> - <p> - “We are two lonesome bodies, are n’t we?” she added. - </p> - <p> - “We ’ll do our best to comfort each other,” said Joyce. - </p> - <p> - The visiting hour was nearly at an end, and the ward was growing silent - again. The sister came down the aisle and stood by Yvonne’s bed and - smoothed her pillows. - </p> - <p> - “You have had quite enough talking for one day,” she said - pleasantly. “It has given you quite a colour—but we mustn’t - overdo it.” - </p> - <p> - Joyce rose to take his leave. - </p> - <p> - “I may come again, the next time?” he asked. - </p> - <p> - “Would you?” said Yvonne, with an eager look. - </p> - <p> - “I would come to-morrow—every day, if they would let me,” - he said with conviction. - </p> - <p> - He shook hands with her and walked away. At the end of the ward he turned, - looked back and saw the mass of black against the white pillow and the - specks of crimson that showed Yvonne. He hated leaving her among strangers - and the rough comforts of an open ward in a hospital. An odd feeling of - personal responsibility was mingled with his resentment against the freaks - of fortune—an irrational sense of mean-spiritedness in letting her - lie there. - </p> - <p> - He went back to his work, cheered and strengthened within; but his outlook - on life was darkened by one more shadow of the inexorable cruelty of fate. - That he should have suffered—well and good. It was a penalty he was - paying. But Yvonne, the sweetest, innocentest soul alive—why should - her head be brought low? And thus the pages that he wrote grew darker by - the shadow. - </p> - <p> - A fortnight passed, during which he saw her as often as the visiting hours - allowed. He brought her whatever little trifles he could afford, and she - accepted them with the eager gratification of a child. There was a - secondhand bookshop he had come across during his late wanderings, in - Upper Street, Islington, which had a speciality in cheap, tattered French - novels. Thither he tramped one day in order to gratify a desire she had - expressed, and spent an hour turning over the stock. It seemed hard not to - be able to go into a West End shop and order the newest Paris fiction; but - a poor devil must do as best he can and be cheerful. Yvonne’s - delight repaid him for wounded pride. She dipped into them all, while he - was there, turning to the last page to see how they ended. And then the - rakish air their soiled yellow covers gave to the bed, as they sprawled - upon it, amused them both. - </p> - <p> - They talked of many things. Yvonne interested herself in the patients and - gossiped about their progress and their eccentricities. Often her artless - candour and innate love of laughter gave him details unfit perhaps for - ears masculine. Then she would catch herself up, while a faint tinge of - colour came into her cheek, and with still smiling eyes, say: - </p> - <p> - “I always forget that you’re a man. You ought to remind me.” - </p> - <p> - Joyce, for his part, strove to amuse her with whatever gleams of - brightness he could find in his colonial adventures. Noakes grew to be the - hero of an Arthurian cycle. As for the fat Boer woman, he was surprised at - the amount of grim humour he extracted from her doings. - </p> - <p> - “I hope you are going to put it in a book,” Yvonne would say, - with her little air of wisdom. “You must n’t waste it all upon - me.” - </p> - <p> - And Joyce, by thus disintegrating incidents from his confused mass of - impressions, found the talks of material benefit as well as a delight. For - a delight they were; the more so, because Yvonne’s gladness at his - visits was so obviously genuine and spontaneous. She told him that she - counted the hours between them. And Yvonne scarcely exaggerated. His - visits were bright spots in a sorrowful, fear-haunted time. When he came, - she summoned up all her strength and courage so as to make the hour pass - pleasantly. Men do not like crying, complaining women, thought poor - Yvonne. Unless she was bright for him, he might grow tired of coming, and - then she would be lonelier than before. So Yvonne told him little of the - anxieties that lay like a dead weight upon her poor little soul and kept - her awake at nights, amid the moans of the sleeping women, that sounded - faint and ghostly in the dim ward. - </p> - <p> - Her patient acceptance of her lot won Joyce’s admiration. But of her - real position he had no idea. The gentleman in him that had survived his - shame and degradation forbade him to pry into her private affairs. - Besides, he took it for granted that when she recovered, she would live by - herself again, in the old way, and that her drawing-room would be a haven - of rest to him for indefinite years. The question of nursing alone, he - thought, and her incomprehensible friendlessness, had brought her to the - hospital. He longed for her to leave it. - </p> - <p> - One day, however, he found her lying down in bed, her hair in dark loose - masses over the pillow, her face turned away towards the sister who was - sitting by her side. The latter rose on seeing him, and hurried forward to - meet him in the aisle. - </p> - <p> - “Be as kind as you can to her,” she said; “she is in - great trouble to-day, poor little thing.” - </p> - <p> - “What is the matter?” asked Joyce, anxiously. - </p> - <p> - “Let her speak for herself. I was to send you away when you came. - She was not fit to see you, she said. But I am sure it will comfort her to - talk to a friend.” - </p> - <p> - The sister moved away, and Joyce approached Yvonne’s bedside with - quick steps. Something serious must have happened. - </p> - <p> - Yvonne rased a wan, desolate face and eyes heavy with crying, and put out - her hand timidly from beneath the bedclothes. He retained it, as he sat - down upon the chair just vacated by the sister. The few little cakes he - had brought her he placed on the stand near by. She looked too woe-begone - for cakes. - </p> - <p> - “I have come in spite of your message,” he said. “Why - did you want to send me away?” - </p> - <p> - “I am too miserable,” murmured Yvonne, in her broken voice. - </p> - <p> - “What has happened to make you miserable?” he asked very - softly. “Tell me, if it is anything I can hear.” - </p> - <p> - “It’s my voice that has gone,” cried Yvonne in a sob. - “They told me this morning—the doctor brought a throat - specialist—I shall never be able to sing again—never.” - </p> - <p> - Before this sudden calamity the man was powerless for comfort. - </p> - <p> - “My poor little woman!” he said. - </p> - <p> - “It is worse than losing a limb,” moaned Yvonne. “I have - been dreading it—hoping against hope all along. I wished I had died - instead of Dina. I wish I could die now.” The tears came again. She - drew away her hand and dabbed her eyes with a miserable little wet rag of - a handkerchief. - </p> - <p> - “Don’t,” said Joyce, helplessly. “If you give way - you will make yourself worse. They may be mistaken. Perhaps it will come - again after a year or two.” - </p> - <p> - He strove to cheer her, brought forward all the arguments he could think - of, all the tender phrases his unaccustomed mind could suggest. At last - the tears ceased for a time. - </p> - <p> - “But it is my means of livelihood gone,” she said. “When - I leave here I shall starve.” - </p> - <p> - “Not while I live,” said Joyce, impulsively. Then he - reflected. Surely she could not be entirely without means. He coloured - slightly at his remark, as at an impertinence. - </p> - <p> - “I shall never get any money any more as long as I live,” said - Yvonne. “I can only go from this hospital into the workhouse. And I - won’t go there. I will pray to die rather.” - </p> - <p> - “But,” began Joyce, in an embarrassed way, - </p> - <p> - “I don’t understand. Forgive me for touching upon it—but - has not Everard—?” - </p> - <p> - “No, oh, no! I refused. I could n’t take his money, if I was - not his wife.” - </p> - <p> - “That’s absurd,” said Joyce. But his opinion did not - alter the facts. He remained for a moment in thought. “Don’t - lose heart,” he said at length. “Things are never as bad as - they seem. I ’ve had awfully bad times and yet I have pulled - through, somehow. You can live quietly for a little on what you have, and - then—” - </p> - <p> - “But I have n’t a penny, Stephen,” she cried piteously. - “Not a penny in the world. I earned scarcely anything the last year. - If it hadn’t been for Dina, I don’t know what I should have - done. I don’t own anything but a few sticks of furniture and some - clothes—” - </p> - <p> - “Where are they?” - </p> - <p> - “The porter’s wife at the mansions is keeping them for me, I - believe. They may be sold. I was too ill to trouble.” - </p> - <p> - “I ’ll see about them for you,” said Joyce. His heart - was moved with great pity for the sweet, helpless little soul. It seemed - hard to realise that, when they had met four years ago, he had looked upon - her as a Lady Bountiful, who had only to stretch out her kind arm to save - him from starvation. Oh, the whirligig of time! And yet the memory of her - help was very precious to him. - </p> - <p> - “You must let me act for you, Yvonne, will you?” - </p> - <p> - “You have your own troubles, poor fellow,” said Yvonne. - </p> - <p> - “Yours will drive mine away, so they will be a blessing in disguise. - I wonder if you could trust me?” - </p> - <p> - “I have always done so—and I do. Are n’t you the only - friend I have?” - </p> - <p> - “That is what beats me entirely,” he said. “What are all - your friends doing?” - </p> - <p> - “They have all disappeared gradually,” said Yvonne. “My - poor marriage cut me adrift from my old circle. And at Fulminster—I - did n’t make many real friends.” - </p> - <p> - “There was a girl you wrote to me about once or twice.” - </p> - <p> - “Sophia Wilmington? She’s married and gone out to India. I - should have written to her if she had been in England, for she was fond of - me.” - </p> - <p> - “I should have thought that the whole world was fond of you, Yvonne.” - </p> - <p> - “I don’t know,” she said wistfully. “It seems that - I have always been a kind of waif. I never had any solid kinds of friends, - families and so forth—except your dear mother. I once knew a lot of - professionals—but I saw men mostly—I could never tell why—and - they don’t bother about you much when they’ve lost sight of - you, do they? I thought Vandeleur might have wondered what had become of - me.” - </p> - <p> - “Dear, dear!” said Joyce, reflectively. “I remember - Vandeleur from the long ago.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, he’s an old friend. But, you see, it was through Dina. - He behaved badly to her and married Elsie Carnegie—and so they were - cuts. I only saw him once all last year. I heard she was awfully jealous. - Is n’t it silly of a woman? I think, if he knew I was here he’d - come. But what would be the use?” - </p> - <p> - “Not much, except to say a friendly word to you. But still—while - you were living with Miss Vicary, you must have made some acquaintances. - It seems so extraordinary.” - </p> - <p> - “We lived so very much alone,” explained Yvonne. “Poor - Dina didn’t know many people—no one liked her. With one - exception—and he died long ago—I think I am the only one in - the world who ever loved Dina. No—I am just a waif—that’s - what I am.” - </p> - <p> - In her simple way she had accounted to him accurately for her life since - her rupture with Everard. At first she had been too sore at heart to go - much into the world. Then Geraldine, whose influence with her was - paramount, continually discouraged her from renewing old - acquaintanceships. Her friends had literally melted away. Had she so - chosen, she might have interested in her misfortunes a score of - professional well-wishers. But Yvonne was proud in many unexpected ways, - and would have died rather than have the shame of sending the hat round - for relief. As for communicating with Fulminster, it was not to be thought - of. - </p> - <p> - “I don’t care,” she added, after a pause; “I have - found you again.” - </p> - <p> - “Then dry your poor eyes,” he said comfortingly; “and - don’t think any more of the worries. Don’t you remember how - happy you made me once, when I was in desperate straits—when all the - world cast me off but you? You are still the only being who knows me and - cares whether I live or die. You are neither going to starve, Yvonne, nor - die in a workhouse. As long as I have a penny you shall have half of it. - Don’t think of anything more than the immediate future, little - woman. We will manage that all right. Be comforted.” - </p> - <p> - He spoke earnestly, leaning forward with his arm on the bed. The - precariousness of his own fortunes scarcely occurred to him. He was deeply - moved. At that moment he would have cut off his right hand for her. - </p> - <p> - Yvonne thanked him with her eyes, which grew very soft and grateful. His - man’s strength brought her comfort. She trusted him implicitly, as - she had all her life trusted those who were kind to her. She closed her - eyes for a moment with a little sigh of relief. She was so content to - yield to the generous hand that was taking the terrible burden from her - shoulders, felt as if she could go to sleep like a tired child. When she - opened her eyes they were almost smiling. - </p> - <p> - “I ’ll try to be happy again, so as to thank you, Stephen,” - she said. - </p> - <p> - “Well, here is something for you—what you like—eat one - to show me you are comforted.” - </p> - <p> - He put the paper bag into her hand, and, tilting back his chair, watched - her pleased expression as she peeped into the mouth and drew out one of - the cakes. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, how sweet of you!” she said, with a flash of her old - sunlight. - </p> - <p> - Suddenly he rose, and stood, hands in pockets, by the window, frowning - absently at the gathering mist of evening outside. A conviction was - forcing itself on his mind—a cold douche for his quixotic impulses. - Obvious right and common-sense prevailed. - </p> - <p> - “Yvonne,” he said turning round. “You had no quarrel - with Everard, had you, at parting?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, no,” she replied, looking up round-eyed from her - paper-bag. “He was very kind to me.” - </p> - <p> - “Have you written to him about this?” - </p> - <p> - “No. We arranged we should not correspond. He sent me word when he - was going out to New Zealand. But I couldn’t let him know—I - should be ashamed. Oh, no, Stephen, I could n’t write to him and - say, ‘I am a beggar now, please give me charity.’ Why should - he support me?” - </p> - <p> - “I hate questioning you,” said Joyce in some embarrassment, - “but—is it repugnant to you to—to think of Everard?” - </p> - <p> - “Why, of course not, Stephen. It was a time of awful pain and misery—but - if he came to take me back as his wife, I would go to him. If he ever can, - I have promised that I will.” - </p> - <p> - With all his knowledge of her, Joyce was taken aback by her simple - candour. - </p> - <p> - “If that is so, why on earth shrink from reconsidering, now, his - former offer?” he asked, exceedingly puzzled at her point of view. - </p> - <p> - “You tell me what I ought to do, and I will do it,” said - Yvonne. - </p> - <p> - “You must write to Everard.” - </p> - <p> - “Very well.” - </p> - <p> - “Then you need not have any fears at all for the future. It will be - all so simple.” - </p> - <p> - “How can I thank you?” said Yvonne. “Oh, if I could only - sing for you! But nothing will ever give me back my voice—I am a - useless little creature. And you have been so good to me to-day. I shall - never forget it all my life.” - </p> - <p> - But Joyce’s heart was at ebb-tide again. He rose soon, and took his - hat and stick. - </p> - <p> - “There is no reason to thank me, Yvonne,” he said, with - bitterness. “What I have done for you has cost me nothing—the - cheapest of all services; I have only given you advice.” - </p> - <p> - Yvonne looked at him wistfully. - </p> - <p> - “If you talk like that, you will make me cry again.” - </p> - <p> - “Forgive me,” said Joyce. “I am a beast.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XVII—YVONNE PROPOSES - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t was night. - Yvonne lay wide awake. A suffused sound of breathing filled the air. Now - and then a moan or a smothered cry of pain broke sharply upon the - stillness. The woman in the adjacent bed began to murmur broken words in - her sleep: “For the children’s sake, Joe—my poor little - children—I wish we was all dead.” Some poor tragedy reenacting - itself in slumber. Yvonne listened pityingly. The woman had seemed as - broken down that day with misery as she herself. Then silence again, and - Yvonne fell back upon her own tragedy, which seemed to be working itself - out in the staring wakeful hours. - </p> - <p> - She had not written to Everard. Pen, ink, and paper had been brought. The - sister had propped her up with pillows in a posture especially comfortable - for writing. But her strength had failed her. To ask him for money was - more than her pride could do. - </p> - <p> - Instead, she had written a long outpouring to Joyce, which lay unposted - under her pillow. - </p> - <p> - This pride was a seam of flint in her soft nature. She would have returned - to Everard as his wife, willingly, gratefully, glad to lay her tired head - on his shoulder, and feel his strong protection around her once more. But - from any one rather than him would she accept charity. Illogical, - irrational, absurd—but a reality none the less in her heart. - </p> - <p> - Perhaps it was a protest of wounded sex. If Everard had treated her - differently on that disastrous day, the quivering feminine might have gone - unscathed. But in his anger, pain and disillusion he had driven her wrongs - towards him into her flesh, almost like infidelities. She was too generous - to feel resentful. An offer of remarriage would be a natural - acknowledgment of error. To accept his support, apart from him, stung her - to the soul with a sense of being cast off as faithless wife or dishonest - mistress, to whom, however, he was forgivingly and charitably disposed. - And yet what was she to do? Joyce would save her from immediate want, but - she could not look to him for anything but temporary assistance. More was - preposterous. - </p> - <p> - At last she gave up thinking. Joyce, with his cleverness, would see some - way out of her difficulties. Somewhat comforted, she fell asleep. The next - day was long and intensely dismal. The more clearly she saw that Joyce’s - counsel was the only course to follow, the more hateful it seemed to her - to write the letter. She put it off from hour to hour. And then the - terrible blow that had befallen her weighed upon her mind. She strove to - realise herself moving about the world without a voice. It was as hard to - grasp as the conception of herself as a bodiless shade on the banks of - Acheron. When the elusiveness ceased, and the reality loomed upon her in - all its grimness, she wept bitterly. The consequence was that, in her - still weak state, she broke down with the mental worry, and, when Joyce - next came, he found her in a far worse state than before. She could - scarcely move or speak. Letter-writing was out of the question. By the - merest chance he learned, during the five minutes the sister allowed him - to have with her, that she had not yet written to Everard. - </p> - <p> - “But the mail goes to-morrow,” he said. “I have been - making enquiries. If we don’t write now, we shall lose a month. - Shall I write to Everard, seeing that your poor little self is incapable?” - </p> - <p> - She murmured assent, and sighed as if in grateful relief. Joyce comforted - her as best he could and left her reluctantly. When he got home, he wrote - the letter, a bald statement of facts to which he appended his signature - and the address of his lodgings. He sealed it, directed it, in his - nervous, characteristic handwriting and hurried out to post it at once. It - was a most disagreeable duty over, for to communicate with his cousin went - sorely against the grain. A pleasanter duty awaited him, as soon as he - could settle down to his evening’s work, the correction of the first - batch of proofs from the publishers. - </p> - <p> - In the course of time, Yvonne recovered her spirits and was on the mend - again. Signs of returning strength showed themselves in her left arm, - which, together with the throat on that side, had been affected by the - disease. Her speaking voice also began to regain some of its old - sweetness, though the surgeons confirmed their statement that the singing - voice was irrevocably gone. - </p> - <p> - “Do say they are wrong,” said Yvonne casting a pleading look - at Joyce. - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps they are,” said he; “let us hope.” - </p> - <p> - “Then I may not need Everard’s money, after all.” - </p> - <p> - “You will for a couple of years, at least,” he said kindly. - “But you may be able to pay it back afterwards.” - </p> - <p> - This consoled her, and she began to build great schemes. On another - occasion she said to him irrelevantly:— - </p> - <p> - “Do you think I ought to write to Everard?” She had raised him - by this time to the position of father confessor. A certain feminine - weakness in Joyce’s nature, developing gradually, through his - intercourse with her, into a finer sensitiveness, made it easy for her to - give him her confidence, to speak with him much as she used to speak with - Geraldine. And yet, he being a man, his utterances on such questions, had - for her all their masculine weight. - </p> - <p> - “It is a matter entirely of your own inclination,” he replied - oracularly. - </p> - <p> - “But I don’t know what my inclination is,” said Yvonne. - “Everard once told me that it was a much harder thing to know what - one’s duty was than to do it when you know what it is.” - </p> - <p> - “He was plagiarising from George Eliot,” said Joyce, not - ill-pleased at a malicious hit at the Bishop. And then, teasingly to - Yvonne: “And I’m sure they both put it a little more - grammatically.” - </p> - <p> - “I won’t talk grammar,” cried Yvonne. “I always - hated it. It is silly stuff. You understood perfectly what I meant, did n’t - you?” - </p> - <p> - “Perfectly,” said Joyce. - </p> - <p> - “Then what’s the good of grammar?” cried Yvonne, - triumphantly. “But you make me forget what I was going to say. It - was something quite clever. Oh yes! Substitute ‘inclination’ for - ‘duty,’ and you have my difficulty. Now do tell me what I am - to do.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, wait until you hear from Everard, and then write him a nice - long letter,” said Joyce. - </p> - <p> - “That’s just what I wanted to do,” said she; “you - are so good to me.” - </p> - <p> - She was to leave the hospital in January. The time was rapidly - approaching. Much of their time together was spent in the discussion of - plans for the immediate future. Yvonne wanted to sell her furniture, which - Joyce had inspected and found in safe hands. He opposed the idea. What was - the use, when she would want it again, as soon as she was comfortably - situated? In three months she would be in receipt of funds. Everard might - cable her back a remittance long before. In the meantime, he could advance - her a lump sum out of his capital. - </p> - <p> - “Then you can take unfurnished rooms and put in your own things at - once. It will be much cheaper.” - </p> - <p> - “But suppose I don’t pay you back,” said Yvonne. “How - can you make me?” - </p> - <p> - “I can suggest nothing but a bill of sale on the furniture,” - he replied laughingly. - </p> - <p> - “What is that?” - </p> - <p> - “Well, you sign a paper saying that if the debt is not paid in three - months, at the end of that time I can put in the brokers and sell your - furniture and take all the money.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, that would be lovely!” cried Yvonne. “Do let me do - it. I should feel so businesslike. Draw it up now and I ’ll sign it.” - </p> - <p> - “It will have to be registered,” said Joyce. - </p> - <p> - “Well, register it then. What’s to prevent you?” - </p> - <p> - “I was only jesting,” said Joyce. - </p> - <p> - “But I’m quite serious. Don’t you see how serious I am? - Come—to please me.” - </p> - <p> - The idea caught her childish fancy, and she spoke quite in her old, gay - mood. She was sitting up now, partially dressed, and, being able to move - her limbs more freely, reached for writing materials that lay on the - little table by her bed. - </p> - <p> - “There, draw it up at once, as fearfully legally as you can, with - all kinds of ‘afore-saids’ in it.” - </p> - <p> - Joyce fell into her humour, and drew up the document in due form, read it - over to her solemnly, and called one of the nurses to witness the - signatures. Then he wrote out a cheque for the amount of the loan, which - she locked up in her despatch-box. He went away with the bill of sale in - his pocket. On his next visit he informed her that it had been registered - and that he would be a merciless creditor. The frivolity of the - proceedings cheered him. - </p> - <p> - Meanwhile, the real problem of Yvonne’s arrangements presented - itself. The idea of going at once into unfurnished rooms was abandoned. - She was far too weak and helpless as yet for the worries of housekeeping. - He suggested a boarding-house. But Yvonne shrank from the prospect of - living among strangers. - </p> - <p> - “Besides, you could n’t come and see me as often as I should - like,” she added, with a little air of worldly wisdom. “You - haven’t an idea what scandal is talked in those places.” So - Joyce quickly acquiesced in her taboo of boarding-houses, and found the - choice of domicile narrowed down to furnished apartments. - </p> - <p> - Yvonne was beginning to be a vital interest in his life. On the days that - the hospital was not open to him, he sent her little notes of his doings - and of such things as might amuse her. In her helpless dependence she grew - to be what Noakes had been to him in his latter days—with the sweet - and subtle difference made by her sex. He had moods almost of happiness. - Yet, like Noakes, Yvonne had not the power of freeing him from himself, - from the awful memories, from the taint that clung to him. His crime and - its punishment was his hair-shirt, for ever next the sensitive skin, never - for the shortest intervals forgotten. Small incidents were never wanting - to bring back the old burning anguish. Already in the streets he had - passed, unrecognised, two old prison-associates. The sight of them was - hateful. Once, in the Strand, he came face to face with a man, his chief - intimate in that fashionable demi-reputable world which had drawn him to - his precipice. The man cut him dead. On another occasion he met a troop of - his cousins from Holland Park on the terrace of the British Museum. He - noticed a girl recognize him and turn round another way, with a start, as - he sprang hurriedly by through the folding doors. After such encounters, - he cowered under the sense of everlasting disgrace. The old longing that - always had lain dormant within him revived with intense poignancy; the - longing to redeem his self-respect by some wild heroic deed of atonement. - Sometimes he thought of realising all his capital, including the publisher’s - eighty pounds and giving it to Yvonne. But soon she would be beyond the - need of his help and his sacrifice would be merely silly. Common-sense - leads us generally to the most hopeless commonplace. Nor did patient - bearing of his lot appeal to his sensitive fancy as an expiation. The - self-respect that would enable him to free the world’s back with - cheerful calm could only be purchased by some great self-sacrifice. But - what chances for such were offered in his humdrum, poverty-stricken life? - </p> - <p> - The days passed uneventfully. He wrote from morning to night, either in - the Museum or in his attic, with a fierce determination to earn a - livelihood that braced his powers. His attempts at occasional journalism - were fairly encouraging. The new novel grew daily in gloomy bulk. Often, - on Yvonne-less days, he strolled up to the secondhand bookshop, where he - had bought the French novels, and chatted with the proprietor, with whom - he had struck up an acquaintance. He was a snuffy, rheumy-eyed old man, - Ebenezer Runcle by name, with chronic bronchitis and a deep disdain for - the remnant of the universe outside his bookshop. But for the lumbering, - chaotic, higgledy-piggledy world of volumes within its book-lined walls, - he had a passionate veneration. Joyce found him a mine of extraordinary - and useless information. To sit on a pile of books and listen to unceasing - gossip about Gregory Nazianzene, Sozomen, Evagrius, Photius—about - Aristotle, Averrhoes, Duns Scotus, and the Schoolmen—about Hakluyt - and Purchas—about forgotten historians, churchmen, poets, - dramatists, of all countries in Europe; to turn over musty old editions of - famous printers, the Aldi, Junta, Elzevirs, Stephani, Allobrandi, Jehans, - which the old man shuffled off to procure from dim recesses of the - shelves, was a new intellectual delight. It was a renewal of the keen - book-interest of his Oxford days, and a mental stimulus such as he had not - received for many weary years. Gradually it appeared that Mr. Runcle looked forward to his visits; and Joyce, who had been shy at first of trespassing - upon his time, gladly took advantage of his welcome. Sometimes he helped - the old man in the constant work of rearranging and cataloguing the stock. - One afternoon, he found him wheezing so painfully with his complaint, that - he persuaded him to sit in the little back parlour, while he himself took - charge of the establishment and served customers till closing time. After - that he dropped into the habit of playing salesman. The old man seemed a - lonely, pathetic figure. Joyce’s heart instinctively warmed toward - him. - </p> - <p> - One afternoon, toward the middle of January, he visited Yvonne for the - last time in the hospital. She received him, as on the last two or three - occasions, in the sister’s little sitting-room just outside the - ward. For the first time, however, she was completely dressed, and only - now did Joyce realise how thin and fragile she had become. She looked - absurdly small in the great cane armchair before the fire. - </p> - <p> - “So I am to call for you on Thursday at twelve and carry you off to - your new abode,” he said. - </p> - <p> - “Have you settled yet?” asked Yvonne. - </p> - <p> - “No, not yet. If I can get the place in Elm Park, I shall give up - the other. I shall hear to-morrow.” - </p> - <p> - Yvonne looked wistfully into the fire, and sighed. - </p> - <p> - “I shall feel awfully lonesome there, by myself. I am beginning to - dread it. You won’t think me silly, will you? I used not to mind - living alone. But then it was different. You ’ll come and see me - very, very often. Bring your writing, and I ’ll be as quiet as a - mouse and won’t disturb you. You don’t know how frightened and - nervous I am. I suppose it’s because I have been so ill.” - </p> - <p> - “You poor little thing,” said Joyce, looking down upon her, as - he stood on the hearthrug, “I wish I knew some motherly soul to take - care of you—or that I could take care of you myself,” he - added, with a smile. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I wish you could,” cried Yvonne, piteously, with an - appealing glance. “Oh, Stephen—could n’t you? I would n’t - give you much trouble.” - </p> - <p> - “Do you mean, Yvonne, that you would like me to get lodgings in the - same house as you?” asked Joyce, with a sudden flash in his eyes. - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” said Yvonne. “Just at first. Until I feel - stronger. I have been longing to ask you, but I didn’t dare. Don’t - think me selfish and horrid.” - </p> - <p> - The notion dawned upon him like an inspiration. Why had he not thought of - it before? Why should he not find a garret above her rooms whence he could - look protectingly down upon her, in brotherly affection, instead of - leaving her ill and alone to the dubious mercy of landladies and - lodging-house servants? He was quite bewildered by the charm of her - proposal. - </p> - <p> - “But, Yvonne, do you know what undreamed of happiness you are - offering me?” he said. - </p> - <p> - “Then you would like it?” she cried gladly. - </p> - <p> - “Why, my dear child!” said Joyce; and he walked about the room - to express his feelings. - </p> - <p> - “I have thought it all out,” said Yvonne, sagely. “We - can go to much cheaper rooms than you intended me to have, so that you can - pay the same for your own lodgings as you pay now. I would n’t lead - you into extravagances for anything in the world.” - </p> - <p> - “If it comes to that,” said Joyce, “the second floor is - vacant where I lodge now.” - </p> - <p> - “But that is delightful!” cried Yvonne. “The fates have - arranged it on purpose for us.” They talked for a while over the new - plan. Joyce’s acquiescence, relieving her of much nervous dread of - loneliness, raised her spirits wonderfully. - </p> - <p> - “You won’t tyrannise over me too much, will you? If I am going - out with tan shoes, you won’t send me indoors to put on black ones? - Promise me.” - </p> - <p> - He laughed. The idea of such an attitude towards her seemed to belong more - to comic opera than to real life. And yet he felt his authority. She - regarded him with the implicit trust of a stray child. - </p> - <p> - The sister came in and stayed whilst afternoon tea was in progress. She - had built up a lone woman’s romance for these two, and had taken - them both into her friendship. Hence the use of the sitting-room, the tea - and her wise counsels to Joyce as to the proper care of Yvonne. When she - left them alone again, a silence fell upon them, and with it the gloomy - cloud upon Joyce, that no sunshine could dispel for long. He looked - broodingly into the fire, the lines deepening on his face, the old pain in - his eyes. - </p> - <p> - Was it a right thing that he was about to do—to associate his - tarnished name with hers? It was all very well to dream of the sweetness - and light that daily companionship with her would bring into his life—but - was he fit, socially, morally, spiritually, to live with her? It was - taking advantage of her innocence. His sensitiveness shrank, as if from - the suggestion of a baser disloyalty to her trustingness. - </p> - <p> - Yvonne, leaning back in her long chair, kept her dark eyes fixed upon him. - At first she wondered at his sudden gloom, and fancied distressedly that - it proceeded from her proposal. But suddenly an illumination, such as she - had never in her life experienced, lit up her mind, and caused her a - strange little thrill. She called his name softly. He started, turned, - rose at her sign and bent low over her chair. - </p> - <p> - “I want to come and live with you more than ever now, Stephen,” - she said; and as she spoke her voice seemed to have regained its musical - softness. “I mean to try and drive away the sad thoughts from you. - Perhaps, after all, though I can’t sing, I may do a little good in - the world.” - </p> - <p> - Her tenderness touched him. He wished she was a child that he might kiss - her. The temptation to receive this boon the gods were giving him was too - strong. He yielded entirely. And from that hour began Yvonne’s - conscious battle with the powers of darkness in the desolate depths of a - man’s heart. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XVIII—DRIFTWOOD - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>hey lived together - four months, Yvonne in her comfortable rooms, Joyce in his attic overhead. - At first she had been helpless, requiring much aid both from Joyce and - from the landlady, over whom she had cast her accustomed charm; but with - the early spring weather she recovered full use of her limbs, and strength - enough to fight her small battles for herself. To Joyce it had been a time - of consolation in many black moods. He dreaded the arrival of the New - Zealand mail, which he calculated would bring Yvonne her freedom. It was - almost a relief when he assured himself by enquiries that no news had come - from the Bishop. He had another month of Yvonne’s companionship to - look forward to. When that passed, however, and the second mail from New - Zealand proved as fruitless as the first, he was forced to look at matters - from a practical point of view. He had already far exceeded the original - advance he had made to Yvonne. Under the assurance that he would be - reimbursed, he had not scrupled to spend money freely on little luxuries - and comforts. At the present rate of living, therefore, another two months - would see him at the end of his resources, which included money that he - had received in advance for the copyright of his book. His current income - from occasional journalism was ridiculously small. The new novel was only - half-way towards completion. Poverty stared him in the face. - </p> - <p> - As a last resource he went to Everard’s bankers, but only to learn - that his cousin had withdrawn his account. He found Yvonne anxiously - awaiting the result of this errand. As he entered, she rose impulsively, - scattering scissors and spool of cotton from her lap. She read his failure - in his face. - </p> - <p> - “What is to be done?” she asked, when he had finished his - report. - </p> - <p> - “I don’t know,” replied Joyce, truthfully. - </p> - <p> - He looked at her, puzzled and distressed. - </p> - <p> - “You must pay yourself out of the furniture and let me go,” - said Yvonne. - </p> - <p> - “Where would you go to?” - </p> - <p> - “I don’t know,” said Yvonne in her turn. - </p> - <p> - At the picture of helpless dismay Joyce broke into a laugh. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, how <i>can</i> you laugh, when I owe you all this money?” - she said, with a choke in her voice. - </p> - <p> - “Because I am glad, Yvonne, that fate seems to compel me to go on - looking after you.” - </p> - <p> - “But how can you go on? How can I burden you any further?” - </p> - <p> - “Don’t talk about burdens,” he said gently. “You - repay me twice over for what little I have given you.” - </p> - <p> - “But the furniture is not worth all that,” said Yvonne. - </p> - <p> - “What has the furniture to do with it?” - </p> - <p> - “Why it is yours, is n’t it?” - </p> - <p> - “How, mine?” - </p> - <p> - “The bill of sale,” replied Yvonne seriously. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, you dear little goose,” cried Joyce, “you don’t - suppose I am going to sell you up!” - </p> - <p> - “Why not—if you need the money? The furniture is all your own.” - </p> - <p> - “How can it be when I don’t claim it?” - </p> - <p> - Yvonne shook her head. Ordinarily the most easily swayed of women, now and - then she was inconvincible. She had got it into her head that the - furniture had lapsed by sheer law of England into his possession, and no - argument could move her. He explained that he could renew the bill. She - dismissed the explanation with a little foreign gesture. - </p> - <p> - “I own nothing in the world but what I stand up in,” she - persisted. - </p> - <p> - “Then you’re worse off than ever,” said Joyce. - </p> - <p> - “I am,” she said despondently. “Is n’t it strange - to want money! I never knew what it was before.” - </p> - <p> - There was an odd pathos in her face that touched him. - </p> - <p> - “Cheer up, little woman. Nothing is ever so bad as it looks.” - </p> - <p> - Comforting words were nice, but they did not change the position. Money - had to be obtained. Where was it to come from? - </p> - <p> - “I suppose I must write to Everard, since your letter has - miscarried.” - </p> - <p> - “Letters don’t miscarry nowadays,” said Joyce. “They - don’t even do so in novels. Still, you had better write. I wish you - felt you need n’t.” - </p> - <p> - “So do I.” - </p> - <p> - “We shall have to part as soon as he cables a remittance.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I wish we could get along as we are,” said Yvonne. - “I have been so happy here with you.” - </p> -<p> -“Then let us fight it out between us,” exclaimed Joyce resolutely. “You -’ll soon be able to get some singing lessons, and I ’ll find a situation -as railway porter, or something, and we ’ll rub along somehow till better -times.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, you don’t know how much gladder I should be!” cried - Yvonne with a sparkle in her eyes. “If I only could earn something—not - be a drag upon you! Oh, I would sooner lead the life of a poor, poor - woman, in the humblest way, than take Everard’s money—you know - that.” - </p> - <p> - “We can’t go on living here,” said Joyce, gently. - </p> - <p> - “Of course not. We will go to much cheaper rooms and live like - working-folks. I can do lots of things, lay fires, make pastry—” - </p> - <p> - “Dumplings will be as far as we can get,” said Joyce. - </p> - <p> - “Well, then, they ’ll be beautiful dumplings,” said - Yvonne. - </p> - <p> - “And I dare say we can find a way to settle the furniture question,” - said Joyce. “I shall begin to look about for a cheap place at once.” - So the trouble fell from Yvonne for a time. Now that she had decided to - make no further appeal to Everard, but to endeavour once more to earn her - livelihood, she felt lighter-hearted. Her attachment to Stephen had grown - so strong that she had contemplated the loss of his daily protection with - dismay. The solitary life frightened her. The vicissitudes through which - she had passed, the loss of her voice especially, had taken away her - nerve. At first, she had been so weak from her long illness and her - helpless arm, that she found Stephen’s presence an unspeakable - comfort, and did not speculate upon any anomaly in her position. By the - time she regained health, their life under the same roof appeared in the - natural order of every-day things. And it was very pleasant. Besides, with - the daily intercourse, came a deeper comprehension of his shipwreck. She - began to realise that the material dependence on her side was reciprocated - by a spiritual dependence on his. It awoke new and delicious stirrings of - pride to feel her influence over him, to find herself of use to a man. - Once she could sing, amuse—yield her lips with kind passivity to - satisfy strange unknown needs. She had regarded herself with wistful - seriousness in her relations with men, as a poor little instrument for men - to play on. They fingered the stops, extracted what music they could, and - then laid the pipe aside while they devoted themselves to the business of - the world. But Stephen approached her differently from other men. He did - not want her for her voice; he did not throw himself weary into a chair - and say, “Chatter and amuse me;” and he did not look at her - with eyes yearning for her lips. But his needs, quite other than she had - known before, were revealing themselves to her with gradual distinctness. - She was learning his humbled pride, his lacerated self-respect, his - ingrained sense of degradation, his crying need of sympathy and - encouragement and ennobling object in life. The strong man came to her, - Yvonne, to be healed and strengthened; and, from some fresh-discovered - fountain within her, she was finding remedy for maladies and sustaining - draughts for weakness. A new conception of herself was dawning before her, - in a great, quiet happiness; and her nature unconsciously expanded. - </p> - <p> - Thus a twofold instinct urged her to throw in her lot with Joyce. - </p> - <p> - He passed a very anxious week. It seemed as if his old bitter and - fruitless search for work was to be repeated. Neither could he find - suitable apartments. “I’m afraid it will have to come to the - workhouse,” he said in dejected jest. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, that will never do!” cried Yvonne. “They would - separate us.” - </p> - <p> - She had been more successful. Two or three of the ex-pupils to whom she - had written had replied, promising their recommendation. With a shrewdness - that won Joyce’s admiration she used the address of her former - agents, who willingly forwarded her letters. But the sight of the familiar - office, whither she had gone to beg this favour, had brought her a bitter - pang of regret for the lost voice. She had cried all the way home and then - looked anxiously in the glass, afraid lest Joyce should perceive the - traces of her tears. She strove valiantly to cheer him in his worries. - </p> - <p> - At last Joyce went to his friend, the secondhand bookseller in Islington, - whom he had seen less frequently since his life with Yvonne, and there, to - his delighted surprise, found a solution for all his difficulties. The old - man was growing too infirm to carry on the business single-handed. He - wanted an assistant “And where am I to get one?” he said - querulously. “I don’t want a damned fool who does n’t - know an Elzevir from a Catnach.” - </p> - <p> - “I ’ll come like a shot if you ’ll have me,” said - Joyce, eagerly. - </p> - <p> - “You? Why, you’re a gentleman and a scholar,” said the - old man. - </p> - <p> - “So much the better,” returned Joyce, laughing. “There - will be something mediaeval about the arrangement.” - </p> - <p> - The bargain was quickly struck. Furthermore, when Joyce explained his - domestic considerations, the old man offered him, at a small rent, three - rooms in the house, above the shop. There they were, he said; they were - not used; he once took in lodgers, but they pestered his life out; so he - had made up his mind not to be worried with them any more. However, Joyce - was an exception. He was quite welcome to them; he himself only wanted a - bedroom and the little back-parlour on the ground-floor. - </p> - <p> - These reserved quarters, the vacant three rooms and a kitchen with an - adjoining servant’s bedroom, made up the internal arrangements of - the old-fashioned, rather dilapidated house. Joyce went up to inspect. At - first his heart sank. The rooms were only half-furnished, the paper was - mouldy, dirt abounded, the ceilings were low and blackened. However, many - of these drawbacks could be remedied. Mr. Runcle promised a thorough - cleansing and repapering, whereat Joyce’s spirits rose again. Next - to the sitting-room was a fair-sized bedroom for Yvonne; upstairs a little - room for himself. He enquired about attendance. The old man explained that - a woman lived on the premises. She did for him and would doubtless be glad - to do for Joyce also, for a small sum per week. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - By the end of a few days they were settled in their new abode. The bits of - furniture, that had been the subject of such dispute, made the place - habitable. Re-papered and whitewashed and hung with curtains and a few - pictures out of Yvonne’s salvage, it looked almost cosy. But the - threadbare carpet and rug, the horsehair sofa, and odd, rickety chairs and - the small-paned, cheaply-painted windows gave it an aspect of poverty that - nothing could efface. - </p> - <p> - “It’s not a palace,” said Joyce ruefully, looking round - him on the day they took definite possession. “You will miss many - comforts, Yvonne.” - </p> - <p> - “I’m not going to miss anything,” she replied, “except - worry and anxiety. I am going to be perfectly happy here.” - </p> - <p> - “You don’t know what a sweet incongruity you are among these - surroundings,” he said; “you remind one of a dainty piece of - lace sewn on to corduroys. Oh, I hope this life won’t be too rough - for you—we shall have to practise so many miserable little economies—coals, - gas, food—” - </p> - <p> - Yvonne broke into a sunny laugh. “Oh, that’s just like a man! - Did you ever hear of a well-regulated woman that did n’t love to - economise? When I was at Fulminster, you have no idea how I cut down - expenses!” - </p> - <p> - She turned to take off her hat before the discoloured gilt mirror over the - mantelpiece, and then threw it quickly on the round centre table and faced - him again. - </p> - <p> - “I shall be quite as happy here as I was in Fulminster. Perhaps - happier, in a sense. You know, I always felt so small in that big house. - This just suits me.” - </p> - <p> - Thus began the odd life together of these two waifs, abandoned by the - world. The previous four months had been invested with an air of - transience. Yvonne’s presence beneath the same roof as Joyce had - been a temporary arrangement until supplies should come from the Bishop. - They had not joined in housekeeping. Whenever Joyce went down to Yvonne, - he had done so purely in the character of a visitor. From that state of - things to this life in common was a great step. And yet to each it seemed - natural. Society being unaware of their existence, they felt no particular - need of observing Society’s conventions. To the old bookseller, to - the servant, to each other, they were brother and sister, and that was - enough. - </p> - <p> - Joyce found his work fairly light. The important part of the business was - carried on by orders through the post. Purchases of “rare and - curious books” at prices per volume from three pounds upwards are - rarely made casually over the counter. Joyce knew this, of course, but he - was nevertheless surprised at the extensiveness of Ebenezer Runcle’s - connection. Every morning there was considerable correspondence to be got - through, parcels of books to be made up and despatched, the slips for the - monthly catalogue to be kept up to date. After that, if no new stock was - brought in, there was little else to do but wait for customers. The long - spells of leisure were invaluable to him for writing. He found his mind - worked smoothly in the quiet, musty atmosphere of the books. There they - were in brilliant rows around the walls, on bookcases running - longitudinally through the shop, piled in stacks by the doorway, in - comers, upon trestles, anywhere. A great rampart of them cut off the - draught of the door. In the small enclosed space thus formed was a stove, - on one side of which he placed his writing-table, while on the other, in a - dilapidated cane armchair, sat the old man, a bent, wheezing figure, deep - in his beloved patristic literature. - </p> - <p> - At intervals during the day he saw Yvonne, who was proud and happy in the - superintendence of her humble establishment. Not long after the move, some - welcome singing-lessons came, at a house in Russell Square, and enabled - her to contribute her mite towards the household expenses. It was a hard - problem to make ends meet sometimes, on what Joyce was able to set apart - for housekeeping, and at first, through lack of experience in close - economy, she made dreadful blunders. Then she came in tearful penitence to - Joyce. On one of these occasions, he had arrived for dinner, and found her - gazing piteously upon three meatless bones, standing like ribs of wreck in - a beach of potatoes. She had thought enough had been left from yesterday - for two more meals. He consoled her as best he could, and tackled the - potatoes. But she watched him with so miserable and remorse-stricken a - face that at last he broke out laughing. And then, Yvonne, who was quick - to see the light side of things, laughed too and forgot her troubles. - After a time, no housewife in the neighbourhood kept a shrewder eye upon - the butcher. - </p> - <p> - The evenings they usually spent together, working or talking. Now and - then, at Joyce’s invitation, the old man would come in, and the trio - would talk literature, the old man vaunting the ancients and Joyce - defending the moderns, until a veritable Battle of the Books was - recontested, while Yvonne sat by, in awed silence, wondering at the - vastness of human learning. Often he wrote or discussed the novel with - her. In this she took the deepest interest. The intellectual processes - involved were a perpetual mystery to her, and caused her to place Joyce on - a pinnacle of genius. But her sympathy and enthusiasm helped him as few - other things could. And gradually her influence made itself felt in his - writing. His sympathies widened, his aspect upon life softened. Planned to - reveal the bitter sordidness of broken lives, and half written in a grey, - hopeless atmosphere, imperceptibly the book lost in harshness, grew in - tenderness and humanity. And this corresponded to the softening in the - nature of the man himself. - </p> - <p> - Yet now and then incidents occurred that brought back the past in all its - gloom. One in particular weighed for many days afterwards upon his mind. - </p> - <p> - It was a sultry night. He had come out for a stroll down Upper Street and - High Street, before going to bed. Outside the Angel, the limit of his - walk, he lingered a moment and was looking with idle interest at the great - block of omnibuses, when he became aware that a poorly-dressed woman was - standing by him, gazing rigidly into his face. He started, tried to fix - her identity. - </p> - <p> - “Good God! It is you!” said the woman. - </p> - <p> - Then he remembered. It was Annie Stevens, the girl who had betrayed him so - miserably to the theatrical company years before. - </p> - <p> - “Won’t you speak to me?” she asked, somewhat humbly, as - he remained silent. - </p> - <p> - “You recall a very bitter time to me,” said Joyce. - </p> - <p> - “Do you think it is any sweeter to me?” she asked. - </p> - <p> - And then, with a quick glance round at an approaching policeman:— - </p> - <p> - “Walk on a little way with me, will you?” - </p> - <p> - He hesitated for a moment, but a beseeching look in her eyes touched him. - Her presence at that place, at that hour, spoke of tragedy. She had never - been pretty. Now she had grown thin and hard-featured. - </p> - <p> - “You need n’t fear I’m going to ask you for anything—you - of all people in the world. Of course, if you don’t want to be seen - with me, don’t come. You can’t hurt me. I’m past that. - But I’d like to speak with you for a minute or two.” - </p> - <p> - He had moved on with her while she was talking. Then there were a few - moments’ silence. - </p> - <p> - “Well?” he enquired. “What do you wish to say?” - </p> - <p> - “God knows—anything—just to ask you, perhaps, whether - you’re right again. I have thought of you enough.” - </p> - <p> - He glanced at her curiously. - </p> - <p> - “Why have you come to this?” - </p> - <p> - “Why did you go to prison?” she retorted. - </p> - <p> - “I did wrong and was punished for it.” - </p> - <p> - “So did I. This is my punishment. After you had gone, I could have - torn my heart out. I went on the drink—could n’t get - engagements—went downhill. I can’t go much lower, can I? If - you want revenge, you ’ve got it.” - </p> - <p> - She tossed her head in her old, defiant way. Joyce, perceiving her - association of himself in her downfall, felt somewhat moved with pity. - </p> - <p> - “God knows, revenge is the last thing I want. On the contrary, I am - distressed to see you come to this. If I could help you, I would do so. - But that, you know as well as I, is out of my power.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes; the only thing you could do, would be to marry me and make an - honest woman of me, and that is n’t likely,” she said, - cynically. - </p> - <p> - “No, it is n’t likely,” said Joyce. “I can only be - deeply sorry for you.” - </p> - <p> - “I wonder whether you could tell what it is to me to talk to you - even in this way. Oh, God! if you knew how I longed to see you!” - </p> - <p> - “Why did you act as you did toward me?” he asked. - </p> - <p> - “I don’t know. Don’t ask me. Because every woman’s - got a tiger in her somewhere, I suppose. I used to think men were the - brutes. Now I know it’s women. We’re all the same. I hate - myself. I wish you would take me up a back street and kill me. This is a - hell of a life. Do you remember the last words you said to me? ‘Some - people are better dead.’ It’s the truest thing I ’ve - ever heard from man or woman.” - </p> - <p> - “It’s easy enough to get out of the world, if we want to,” - said Joyce. “But perhaps it’s better to fight it out. You must - make an effort and get out of this life—a proud girl like you.” - </p> - <p> - “I have n’t much pride left.” - </p> - <p> - “I thought so too. But it takes a lot of killing. I ’ve come - out fairly straight. Why shouldn’t you?” - </p> - <p> - “I ’ll come out straight, the only way—a corpse. But I’m - glad things are better with you. It relieves me to know it. I thought I - had sent you to the devil, and that’s why I went there myself, I - suppose. Well, I won’t keep you any longer. I know you hate being - seen with me.” - </p> - <p> - “Can’t I do anything for you?” said Joyce, feeling in - his pocket. - </p> - <p> - “Yes—flay me alive by offering me money. You did once—do - you remember?” - </p> - <p> - She stopped abruptly, took Joyce’s proffered hand, and said in a - softer voice:— - </p> - <p> - “It’s good of you to shake hands with me. Men are better than - women. Thank God I ’ve seen you at last. Good-bye.” - </p> - <p> - “Good-bye,” said Joyce, kindly. - </p> - <p> - They parted, and went their different ways, Annie Stevens to the horror of - her life and Joyce to the home that held Yvonne. The parallel and the - contrast smote him as he walked along the familiar street. Both himself and - this girl that had fallen were derelicts, both were expiating the past, - both were carrying within them a degraded self, that with a nobler self - waged cruel and eternal warfare. For the injury she had done him he - cherished no resentment. He felt a great pity for her, and judged her - gently. - </p> - <p> - It was strange how his rudderless course through the last six years had - been influenced by other lonely and drifting craft. Annie Stevens, who had - loved and nearly wrecked him, had been the cause of his linking fortunes - with poor Noakes; and it was through Yvonne—with whom, sweetest of - derelicts, he was now voyaging on unruffled waters—that he had first - drifted towards Annie Stevens. He was pondering over this one day during - an idle hour in the shop with the old bookseller, when a whimsical fancy - seized him. - </p> - <p> - “You lead a very lonely life, Mr. Runcle,” he said suddenly. - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” replied the old man. “I suppose I do. Beyond one - sister, who has been dying for many months, I have neither kith nor kin in - the world.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XIX—FERMENT - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>s all this true?” - asked Yvonne, mournfully. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, worse luck,” replied Joyce, looking up from his Sunday - newspaper. - </p> - <p> - “It is very dreadful,” said Yvonne. - </p> - <p> - She was finishing “The Wasters,” Joyce’s lately - published novel. It was not a success. Its cultivated style received - recognition everywhere, but the unrelieved pessimism, powerfully as it was - presented, repelled most readers. He was inclined to be depressed at its - reception. To Yvonne, however, it was a revelation. She closed the book - with a sigh, and remained for some time gazing absently at the cover. Then - she rose in her quick way. - </p> - <p> - “Let us go out—into the sunshine—or I shall cry. I feel - miserable, Stephen.” - </p> - <p> - “On account of that wretched book?” - </p> - <p> - “That and other things. Take me to Regent’s Park—to see - the flowers.” - </p> - <p> - He assented gladly and Yvonne went to put on her things. Shortly - afterwards they were side by side on the garden seat of a westward bound - omnibus. - </p> - <p> - “I feel better,” said Yvonne, breathing in the summer air. - “Don’t you?” - </p> - <p> - “It is nice,” answered Joyce. “I shall be better pleased - when we are out of these joyless streets. The Pentonville Road on a Sunday - is depressing. I haven’t seen a smile on a human face since we have - been out. What grey lives people lead.” - </p> - <p> - “But they can’t all be unhappy,” she said. - </p> - <p> - The ’bus stopped for a moment. Three or four young roughs, in Sunday - clothes, with coarse, animal faces and discordant speech passed by below - on the pavement, and noisily greeted a couple of quiet-looking girls, - evidently acquaintances. - </p> - <p> - “These seem cheerful enough,” said Yvonne. - </p> - <p> - Joyce shrugged his shoulders. - </p> - <p> - “Did it ever occur to you what misery men of that type work in the - world? By the laws of their class they will all marry—and marry - young. Fancy a woman’s life in the hands of any of those fellows.” - </p> - <p> - The ’bus moved on. Yvonne was silent. - </p> - <p> - His tone was that of the book she had just been reading. She stole a side - glance at him. His face in repose was always sad and brooding. To-day she - seemed to read more clearly in it the lines that the breaking of the - spirit had caused. She identified him with the characters in the sordid - scenes he had described. Presently she laid her hand lightly on his arm. - </p> - <p> - “Do you think we live a very grey life—now?” - </p> - <p> - “You have a very hard, dull, monotonous life,” he replied. - </p> - <p> - “I don’t,” said Yvonne stoutly. “I am very pleased - and contented. I only want one thing to make me perfectly happy.” - </p> - <p> - “So does every one. The one thing just makes the difference. It’s - the one thing we can’t possibly get.” - </p> - <p> - “It is n’t what you imagine,” said Yvonne. “You - are thinking of money and all that.” - </p> - <p> - “No. It’s your voice.” - </p> - <p> - “It is n’t!” cried Yvonne, with a touch of petulant - earnestness. “It is to see you bright and happy—as you used to - be long, long ago. You might have known.” - </p> - <p> - “It is very dear of you,” he answered, after a pause. “I - am selfish—and can’t understand your sweet spirit. Sometimes I - seem to have a stone heart, like the man in the German story.” - </p> - <p> - “You have a warm, generous heart, Stephen. What other man would have - done what you have for me?” - </p> - <p> - “It was pure selfishness on my part,” he replied. “The - loneliness was too appalling. And then, further, I am never quite sure I - have acted rightly by you.” - </p> - <p> - “I am,” she said. “And I’m the best judge, I - think.” - </p> - <p> - But Joyce was correct in his bitter self-analysis. Now and then his - sensitive fibres vibrated. But generally the weight of the past years was - on his heart, and repressed continuous emotion. To live on these intimate - terms with Yvonne and never consider the possibility of loving her, after - the way of men, was absurd. The chivalrous instincts awakened by her - implicit trust in him, and the double barrier which forbade a love that - could result in marriage, made him dismiss such considerations. But often, - in gloomy introspective moods, his self-contempt denied these instincts as - arrogant pretensions, and attributed the absence of warmer feelings - towards Yvonne to the petrifaction of all emotional chords. Of late, - however, he had ceased to speculate, taking his insensibility for granted. - </p> - <p> - When they arrived at the Regent’s Park, they proceeded for some - distance northwards up the great avenue. It was crowded. Joyce looked - about him, with a fidgeted air, at the stream of passers-by. - </p> - <p> - “Let us get away from the people and sit under a tree,” he - said at length. - </p> - <p> - Yvonne slipped her hand impulsively through his arm. - </p> - <p> - “I wish you knew how proud I am of you,” she said. - </p> - <p> - “It’s for your sake, too, Yvonne, dear,” he replied in a - touched voice. - </p> - <p> - She made one of her magnificent little gestures with the hand holding her - sunshade. - </p> - <p> - “I have never done anything to be ashamed of yet,” she said - proudly, and glanced from Joyce to a pompous elderly couple with an air of - defiance. Then she brought him abruptly to a stand before a flower-bed - bright in its summer glory. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, how lovely! Look!” - </p> - <p> - She broke into little joyous exclamations. Colour affected her like music. - A glow came into her cheek. She became again the thing of warmth and - sunshine that had gladdened him four years before, when his degradation - lay heavy on him. - </p> - <p> - “It <i>is</i> a beautiful world, Stephen.” - </p> - <p> - “You are right, dear. It is. And you are the most beautiful thing in - it.” - </p> - <p> - The glow deepened on her face, and a bright moisture appeared in her eyes - as she glanced upwards. - </p> - <p> - “That’s very, very foolish. But you said it as if you meant - it.” - </p> - <p> - “I did indeed, Yvonne.” - </p> - <p> - “Let us go and find a place under the trees,” she said softly. - </p> - <p> - They left the main avenue and wandered on over the green turf, seeking for - a long time a piece of shade untenanted by sprawling men, or lovers, or - heterogeneous families. At last they found a lonely tree and sat down - beneath it. - </p> - <p> - “Are you happier here?” she asked. - </p> - <p> - “Much. It is so peaceful. When I was in South Africa I yearned for - civilisation and men and women. Now I am in London, I am happiest away - from them. Men are funny animals, Yvonne.” - </p> - <p> - Yvonne looked down at the ground and nervously plucked at the grass. Then - she raised her eyes quickly. - </p> - <p> - “When are you going to be quite happy, Stephen?” - </p> - <p> - “I am happy enough now.” - </p> - <p> - “But when you get home, the black mood may come over you again. Can’t - you forget all the horrid past—the prison—and all that?” - It was the first time she had ever alluded to it directly; her voice - quavered on the word. - </p> - <p> - “No, I can never forget it,” he replied in a low tone. “If - I live to be a hundred, I shall remember it on my deathbed.” - </p> - <p> - “You seem to feel it—just like a woman does—who has been - on the streets—as if nothing could wipe it away.” - </p> - <p> - He was startled. Signs had not been wanting of a change coming over - Yvonne, but he had never heard a saying on her lips of such perceptive - earnestness. It was strange, too, that she had hit upon a parallel that - had been in his mind since the night he had met Annie Stevens. - </p> - <p> - “Nothing can wipe it away, Yvonne. It is like a woman’s sense - of degradation—just as you say.” - </p> - <p> - “I would give anything—my voice over again, if I had it—to - help you. You have never told me about it—the dreadful part of it—I - want to know—every bit—tell me now, will you?” - </p> - <p> - “You would loathe me, as much as I loathe myself, if I told you.” - </p> - <p> - He was lying on one elbow, by her side. She ventured a gossamer touch upon - his forehead. - </p> - <p> - “You don’t know much about a woman, although you do write - books,” she said. - </p> - <p> - The touch and the tone awoke a great need of expansion. He struggled for a - few moments, and at last gave way. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, I ’ll tell you—from the very beginning.” And - there in the quasi-solitude of their tree—one of innumerable - camping-spots for recumbent figures, that met the eye on all sides—he - gave, for the first time, definite utterance to the horrors that had - haunted him for six years. He told her the old story of the earthenware - pot careering down the stream in company with the brazen vessels; of his - debts, staring ruin, and his yielding to the great temptation; of his - trial, his sentence rendered heavier by the fact that his malversations - had brought misery into other lives. He described to her in lurid detail - just what the prison-life was, what it meant, how its manifold degradation - ate into a man’s flesh, became infused in his blood and ran for ever - through his veins. He spared her nothing of which decency permitted the - telling. Now and then Yvonne shivered a little and drew in a quick breath; - but her great eyes never left his face—save once when he showed her - his hands still scarred by the toil from which delicate fingers never - recover. - </p> - <p> - He had spoken jerkily, in hard, dry tones; so he ended abruptly. There was - silence. Yvonne’s little gloved hand crept to his and pressed it. - Then, with a common impulse, they rose to their feet. - </p> - <p> - “Thank you for telling me,” she said, coming near to him and - taking his arm. “I did not know how how terrible it has been—and - I never realised what a brave man you are.” - </p> - <p> - “I—brave, Yvonne?” he cried with a bitter laugh. - </p> - <p> - “Yes—to have gone through that and to be the loyal, tender, - true-hearted gentleman that you are.” - </p> - <p> - He looked down at her and saw her soft eyes filled with tears and her lips - quivering. - </p> - <p> - “You still feel the same to me, Yvonne, now that you know it all?” - he asked, bending forward on his stick. - </p> - <p> - “More,” she answered. “Oh,—much more.” - </p> - <p> - They walked back to the Park gates in a happy silence, drawn very near to - one another, since both hearts were very full. So close together did they - walk, so softened was the man’s face, and so sweetly proud the woman’s, - that they might have been taken for lovers. But if love was hovering over - them, he touched neither with an awakening feather. And so they passed on - their way untroubled. - </p> - <p> - That day was, in a certain sense, a landmark in their lives. Yvonne never - referred to the prison again, but she learned to know when its shadow was - over him and at such times her nature melted in tenderness towards him. - </p> - <p> - The days wore on. The second novel, over whose pages Yvonne had cast - gleams of sunshine, was finished and disposed of to the same publishers. - His source of income from occasional journalism showed signs of becoming - steadier. But all the same, the struggle with poverty continued hard. - Yvonne fell ill again and lost her music-lessons. It took some time after - her recovery to pay off the debts incurred for doctor, medicine, and - invalid necessaries. To obtain funds to take her to the seaside for a few - days, Joyce was forced to ask his publishers for an advance. However, the - trip restored Yvonne to health again, and their uneventful life pursued - its usual course. - </p> - <p> - One day a strange phenomenon occurred. A visitor was announced. It was the - sister who had tended Yvonne in the hospital. Once before, while Yvonne - was living in the Pimlico lodgings, she had paid a flying visit. On this - occasion she stayed for a couple of hours with Yvonne, who, happy as she - was with Joyce, felt a wonderful relief in talking again familiarly with - one of her own sex. She poured forth the little history of all that had - befallen her since she had left the hospital. - </p> - <p> - “Do you mean to tell me,” the sister said at last, “that - you keep house together on this romantically Platonic basis?” - </p> - <p> - Yvonne regarded her, wide-eyed. - </p> - <p> - “Of course. Why should n’t we?” - </p> - <p> - The sister was a woman of the world. When she had entered the room and - perceived the unmistakable signs of a man’s general presence, she - had drawn her own conclusions. - </p> - <p> - That these were erroneous, Yvonne’s innocent candour most clearly - proved. Yet she was astonished, perhaps a little disappointed. The - offending Eve lingers in many women, even after much self-whipping—for - the greater comfort of their lives. - </p> - <p> - “But how can a man look at you and not fall in love with you?” - she asked downright. - </p> - <p> - Yvonne laughed, and ran to the kettle that was boiling over on the - gas-stove—she was making tea for her visitor. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, you can’t think of the number of people who have said - those same words to me! Why, that is why I am so happy with Stephen—he - has never dreamed of making love to me; never once—really. And, do - you know, he’s the only man I ’ve ever had much to do with who - has n’t.” - </p> - <p> - “He looks like a man who has seen a great deal of trouble,” - said the sister. - </p> - <p> - Yvonne’s laugh faded, and a great seriousness came into her eyes. - </p> - <p> - “Awful trouble,” she said in a very low and earnest voice. - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps that makes him different from other men,” said the - sister, taking her hand and smoothing it. - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps,” replied Yvonne. - </p> - <p> - It was a new light, quick and clear, flashed upon their relations. Her - woman’s instinct clamoured for confirmation. - </p> - <p> - “Do you think that if he had not this great trouble, he would - necessarily have fallen in love with me, like the others?” - </p> - <p> - “It stands to reason,” replied the elder woman gently—“if - he’s a man at all. And he is a man—one, too, that many women - could love and be proud of.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, thank you for saying that!” cried Yvonne, impulsively. - “I am proud of him.” An imperceptible smile played over the - sister’s plain, pleasant face. Her calling had brought her a certain - knowledge of human nature, and taught her to judge by suppressions. This - side-light on the inner lives of the two beings whose fortunes had long - ago interested her, quickened her sympathies for them. She determined to - keep them in view for the future—and with this intention she offered - Yvonne opportunities for continuing the friendship. - </p> - <p> - “So you ’ll come and see me often,” she said at last. - “I have n’t very many friends.” - </p> - <p> - “And I haven’t any at all,” said Yvonne, smiling. - “And oh! you don’t know what a comfort it would be to have a - woman to go to now and then!” - </p> - <p> - The visit left Yvonne thoughtful and happy. A new feeling towards Joyce - budded in her heart and the process was accompanied by tiny shocks of - tender resentment. So conscious was she of this, that that evening whilst - Joyce was working in the armchair opposite to her, she suddenly broke into - a little musical laugh. He looked up and caught the reflection of her - smile. - </p> - <p> - “What is amusing you, Yvonne?” - </p> - <p> - She still smiled, but a deep red flush showed beneath her dark skin. - </p> - <p> - “My thoughts,” she said, in a tone that admitted of no further - question. - </p> - <p> - Yet she would have liked to tell him. It was so humorous that she should - feel angry because he did not fall in love with her. - </p> - <p> - Sometimes light moods are delicate indexes to far-away, unknown - commotions. Afterwards, in the serious moments, when the birdlike - inconsequence fled away from her and she realised herself as a grown woman - to whom had come the knowledge of life, this that she had laughed and - blushed over appeared sad and painful. It kept her awake sometimes at - nights. Once she got out of bed, lit her candle, and looked closely at her - face in the glass. But she returned comforted. She was not getting old and - unattractive. - </p> - <p> - Yet a vague ferment in her nature began to puzzle her sorely. Her mind, - that was once as simple as a child’s and as clear as spring water, - seemed now tangled with many complexities; she saw into it, as in a glass, - darkly. Life, for the first time appeared to her incomplete. She was - weighed down with a sense of failure. The very facts that had caused the - happy possibility of her comradeship with Joyce smote her as proofs of the - inadequacy of her own womanhood. The essential fierce vanity of sex was - touched. - </p> - <p> - Once only before had she used her sex as a weapon—on that miserable - day at Ostend, to keep Everard by her side. Then she had felt the fire of - shame. Now she was tempted to use it again, and the shame burned deeper. - </p> - <p> - And Joyce, familiarised with the daily sweetness of her companionship, did - not notice the gradually stealing increase of tenderness in her ways. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XX—UPHEAVAL - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t was late in the - afternoon. The old man had gone away to Exeter, to bury his sister, his - only surviving relative. Joyce was alone in the shop busily sorting a job - lot of books that had come in during the morning. They were stacked in - great piles at the further end, forming a barrier between himself and the - doorway, where the falling light was creeping in upon the neatly-arranged - shelves. Above him flared a gas-jet. It was warm and dusty work, and Joyce - had taken off his coat and collar and rolled up the sleeves of his flannel - shirt. Some of the worthless books he threw on two piles on the floor, to - be placed in the twopenny and fourpenny boxes outside. Others he priced - and catalogued. Others, again, in good bindings, or otherwise obviously of - value, he dusted with a feather brush and put aside for the old man’s - inspection. Now and again space failed for the assorted lots, and he would - carry great strings of volumes supported under his chin to convenient - stacking-spaces on the shelves. Then he would proceed with his sorting, - cataloguing, and cleansing. - </p> - <p> - Presently the back-parlour door opened and Yvonne appeared. Joyce paused, - with a grimy volume in his hand, in the midst of a cloud of dust that rose - like incense, and his heart gave a little throb of gladness. She looked so - fresh and sweet as she stood there, daintily aproned, in the darkness of - the doorway, with the light from the gas-jet falling upon her face. - </p> - <p> - “Tea’s ready,” she remarked. - </p> - <p> - “Let me finish this lot,” he said, pointing to a pile, “and - then I ’ll come.” - </p> - <p> - She nodded, advanced a step and took up a great in-folio black-letter. - </p> - <p> - “What silly rubbish,” she said, with a superior little - grimace, as she turned over the pages. “Fancy any one wanting to buy - this.” - </p> - <p> - “You had better put it down, if you don’t want to cover - yourself with dirt,” said Joyce. - </p> - <p> - She dropped the book, looked at her soiled hands with a comic air of - disgust. - </p> - <p> - “Horrid things! Why did n’t you tell me?” - </p> - <p> - Joyce laughed for answer. It was so like Yvonne. After she had withdrawn, - with a further reminder about the tea, he went on smiling to himself. - </p> - <p> - It was very sweet, this brother and sister life of theirs, in spite of its - isolation. There seemed no reason why it should not continue for ever. - Indeed, he scarcely thought of change. Now that his small earnings seemed - practically assured and Yvonne could contribute from her singing lessons - something to the household expenses, the wolf was kept pretty far from the - door. - </p> - <p> - He was in one of his lighter moods, when Yvonne’s sunshine “scattered - the ghosts of the past,” and illuminated the dark places in his - heart. He hummed a song, forgetful of the gaol and his pariahdom, and - thought of Yvonne’s face awaiting him at the tea-table, as soon as - he had completed his task. - </p> - <p> - A hesitating step was heard in the shop. He thought it was the boy - returning from an errand. - </p> - <p> - “Another time you are sent out round the corner, don’t take a - quarter of an hour,” he cried, without turning round. - </p> - <p> - An irritated tap of the foot made him realise - that it was a customer. He sprang forward with apologies, and, - as it had grown dusk, he seized a taper and quickly lighted the gas in the - shop. - </p> - <p> - Then he looked at the man and started back in amazement; and the man - looked at him; and for a few seconds they remained staring at one another. - The visitor wore apron and gaiters and a bishop’s hat, and his - dignified presence was that of Everard Chisely. He surveyed Joyce’s - grimy and workaday figure with a curl of disgust on his lip. The glance - stung Joyce like a taunt. He flushed, drew himself up defiantly. - </p> - <p> - “You are the last person I expected to meet here,” said the - Bishop, haughtily. - </p> - <p> - “Your lordship is the last person I desired to see,” retorted - Joyce. - </p> - <p> - “Doubtless,” replied the Bishop. “And now we have met, I - have only one thing to say to you. I have traced Madame Latour to this - house. Where is she?” - </p> - <p> - “She is here—upstairs.” - </p> - <p> - “In this—” began the Bishop, looking round and seeking - for a word expressive of distaste. - </p> - <p> - “—hovel?” suggested Joyce. “Yes.” - </p> - <p> - “Under your protection?” - </p> - <p> - “Under my protection.” - </p> - <p> - Then Joyce noticed that his lips twitched, and that the perspiration - beaded on his forehead, and that an agony of questioning was in his eyes. - </p> - <p> - “Have you been villain enough—?” he began in a hoarse, - trembling voice. - </p> - <p> - But Joyce checked him with a sudden flash and an angry gesture. - </p> - <p> - “Stop! She is as pure as the stars. Let there be no doubt about - that. I tell you for her sake, not for yours.” - </p> - <p> - The Bishop drew a long breath and wiped his forehead. Joyce took his - silence for incredulity. - </p> - <p> - “If I were a villain,” he continued, “do you think it - would matter a brass button to me whether you knew it? I should say - ‘yes,’ and you would walk away and I should never see you - again.” - </p> - <p> - He thrust his hands in his pockets and faced his cousin. All the pariah’s - bitter hatred arose within him against the man who stood there, the - representative of the caste that had disowned and reviled him; conscious, - too, as he was, of standing for the moment on a higher plane. - </p> - <p> - “I believe you. Oh—indeed—I believe you,” replied - Everard, hurriedly. “But why is she here? Why has she sunk as low as - this?” - </p> - <p> - “Your lordship should be the last to ask such a question.” - </p> - <p> - “I don’t understand you.” - </p> - <p> - “I should have thought it was obvious,” said Joyce, with a - shrug of his shoulders. - </p> - <p> - The sarcasm sounded in the Bishop’s ears like cynicism. - </p> - <p> - “Do you mean that you have inveigled Madame Latour into supporting - you?” he asked in a tone of disgust. - </p> - <p> - Joyce laughed mirthlessly. - </p> - <p> - “Listen,” he said. “Let us come to some understanding. I - am a member of the criminal classes, and you are a bishop of the English - church. Perhaps the God you believe in may condescend to judge between us. - The woman who was once your wife appealed to you when she was sick and - penniless, and you disregarded her appeal. I, a poverty-stricken outcast - supported her, gave her a home, and reverenced her as a sacred trust. - 'Whether of them twain did the will of his father?’” - </p> - <p> - Everard stared at him in wide-eyed agitation. A customer entered with a - book he had selected from the stall outside. Joyce went forward, received - the money and returned to his former position by the Bishop. - </p> - <p> - “I received no appeal from her,” said the latter. - </p> - <p> - “You did, through me. She was too ill to write.” - </p> - <p> - “When was this?” - </p> - <p> - “Last November, a year ago.” - </p> - <p> - Everard reflected for a moment and then a sudden memory flashed upon him, - and an expression of deep pain came over his face. - </p> - <p> - “God forgive me! I threw your letter into the fire unopened.” - </p> - <p> - “Might I ask your reason?” asked Joyce, feeling a grim joy in - his cousin’s humiliation. - </p> - <p> - “I had been warned that you had gone to Fulminster on a begging - errand—” - </p> - <p> - “Did the Rector have the iniquity to write you that?” burst in - Joyce fiercely. - </p> - <p> - “It was not the Rector.” - </p> - <p> - “Who, then? I saw no one but him. I was simply seeking Madame - Latour.” - </p> - <p> - “I name no names,” replied the Bishop, stiffly. “I am - merely explaining. The letter, in fact, came by the same mail as yours. - Little suspecting that you could address me on any subject unconnected - with yourself, and keeping to my resolution to hold no further - communication with you, I destroyed, as I say, your letter unopened. - Believe me, the apology I tender to you—” - </p> - <p> - “Is neither here nor there,” said Joyce, coldly. “I am - past feeling such slights. I suppose your correspondent was that she-devil - Emmeline Winstanley. I congratulate you.” The Bishop made no reply, - but paced backwards and forwards two or three times with bent head, along - the book-lined shelves. Then he stopped and said abruptly:— - </p> - <p> - “Tell me the facts about Yvonne.” - </p> - <p> - The conciliatory mention of her by her Christian name thawed Joyce for the - moment. He rapidly sketched events, while Everard listened, looking at him - rigidly from under bent brows. - </p> - <p> - “I would have given the last drop of my blood rather than she should - have suffered so.” - </p> - <p> - “So would I,” replied Joyce. - </p> - <p> - “Would to God I had known of it!” - </p> - <p> - “It was your own doing.” - </p> - <p> - “You are right. My uncharitableness towards you has brought its - punishment.” - </p> - <p> - “I cannot say I am sorry,” said Joyce, grimly. - </p> - <p> - There was a short silence, compelled by the struggling emotions in each - man’s heart. In Joyce’s there was war, a sense of victory, of - the sweetness of revenge. He felt, too, that now Yvonne would - indubitatively reject the Bishop’s offer of help. He had won the - right to support her. - </p> - <p> - Suddenly her voice was heard from the back-parlour door. - </p> - <p> - “Do come. The tea is getting quite cold.” - </p> - <p> - Both men started. A quick flash came into Everard’s eyes and he made - a hasty step forward. But Joyce checked him with a gesture. - </p> - <p> - “I had better prepare her for the surprise of seeing you.” - </p> - <p> - The Bishop nodded assent. Joyce ran to the street door to see that the boy - had returned to his post, and, satisfied, left the Bishop and went to join - Yvonne in their little sitting-room upstairs. - </p> - <p> - She had just entered, was lifting a plate of hot toast from the fender. - She held it out threateningly with both hands. - </p> - <p> - “If it’s all dried up it is not my fault,” she scolded. - “And oh! you know I don’t allow you to sit down in your - shirt-sleeves!” - </p> - - <p> - He made no reply, but took the plate mechanically from her and placed it - on the table. - </p> - <p> - “What is the matter, Stephen?” she asked suddenly, scanning - his face. - </p> - <p> - “Some one has called to see you, Yvonne.” - </p> - <p> - “Me?” - </p> - <p> - She looked at him for a puzzled moment. Then something in his face told - her. She caught him by his shirt-sleeve. - </p> - <p> - “It can’t be Everard?” she cried, agitated. - </p> - <p> - “Yes. It is Everard.” - </p> - <p> - She grew deadly pale and her breath came fast. - </p> - <p> - “How has he managed to find me?” - </p> - <p> - “I don’t know. Possibly he will explain.” - </p> - <p> - Yvonne sat down by the table and put her hand to her heart. - </p> - <p> - “It is so sudden,” she said deprecatingly. - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps you would rather put off seeing him,” suggested - Joyce. - </p> - <p> - “Oh no, no. I will see him now—if you don’t mind, - Stephen, dear. I am quite strong again. Tell him to come. And don’t - be unhappy about me.” - </p> - <p> - She smiled up at him and held out her hand. He took it in his and kissed - it. - </p> - <p> - “My own brave, dear Yvonne,” he said impulsively. A flush and - a grateful glance rewarded him. - </p> - <p> - He found the Bishop scanning the book backs. - </p> - <p> - “Will you let me show you up to the sitting-room?” said Joyce. - </p> - <p> - The Bishop bowed and followed. At the foot of the stairs he paused. - </p> - <p> - “I think it right to tell you,” he said, “that I have - received authentic news of the death of Madame Latour’s first - husband. The object of my sudden visit to England is to take her back with - me as my wife.” - </p> - <p> - The unexpectedness of the announcement smote Joyce like a blast of icy - air. The loftiness of the Bishop’s assurance dwarfed him to - insignificance. As at previous crises of his life, the sudden check cowed - the spirit yet under the prison yoke. His defiance vanished. He turned - with one foot on the stair and one hand on the baluster and stared - stupidly at the Bishop. The latter motioned to him to proceed. He obeyed - mechanically, mounted, turned the handle of the sitting-room door in - silence, and descended again to the shop. - </p> - <p> - No sooner was he alone than a swift consciousness of his moral rout made - him hot with shame and anger. His heart rose in fierce revolt. Yvonne was - free. Free to marry whom she liked. What right over her had this man who - had cast her off, spent two whole years at the other end of the world - without once troubling to enquire after her welfare? What right had the - man to come and rob him of the one blessing that life held for him? - </p> - <p> - The prospect of life alone, without Yvonne, shimmered before him like a - bleak landscape revealed by sheet-lightning. A panic shook him. A second - flash revealed him to himself. This utter dependence upon Yvonne, this - intense need of her that had gone on strengthening, week by week, and day - by day, was love. Use, self-concentration, the mere unconcealed affection - of daily life had kept it dormant as it grew. Now it awakened under the - sudden terror of losing her. A thrill ran through his body. He loved her. - She was free. This other set aside, he could marry her. He paced among the - piles of books in strange excitement. - </p> - <p> - The boy, who had been rapping his heels against his box-seat by the door, - strolled in to see what was doing. Joyce abruptly ordered him to put up - the shutters and go home. - </p> - <p> - Meanwhile he made pretence to continue his work of cataloguing. But his - brain was in a whirl. His eyes fell upon the marks of Yvonne’s hands - and arms on the dust of the folio she had been handling. The mute - testimony of their intimacy eloquently moved him. She was part and parcel - of his life. He would not give her up without fierce fighting. - </p> - <p> - Then, in the midst of the glow came the fresh memory of his collapse. He - sat down by the little deal table, where he was wont to write, and buried - his face in his hands, and shivered. His manhood had gone. Nothing could - ever restore it. Its semblance was liable to be shattered at any moment by - an honest man’s self-assertion. It had perished during those awful - years; not to be revived, even by the pure passion of love that was - throbbing in his veins. - </p> - <p> - Too restless to sit long, he rose presently and walked about the shop, - among the books. The close, dusty air suffocated him. He longed to go out, - walk the streets, and shake off the burden that was round his neck. But - the feeling that he ought, for Yvonne’s sake, to remain until the - Bishop’s departure kept him an irritable prisoner. The minutes - passed slowly. Outside was the ceaseless hum and hurry of the street: - within, the flare of the gas-jets and the sound of his own purposeless - tread. And so for two hours he waited, running the gamut of his emotions - with maddening iteration. The terror of losing Yvonne brought at times the - perspiration to his forehead. With feverish intensity he argued out his - claim upon her. She could not throw him over to go and live with that - proud, unsympathetic man who must for ever be to her a stranger. Then his - jealous wrath burst forth again, and again came the old hated shiver of - degradation. How dare he match himself against one who, with all his - faults, had yet lived through his life a stainless gentleman? - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XXI—A DEMAND IN MARRIAGE - </h2> - <p> - “Yes, he is dead,” said the Bishop, gravely. “You are a - free woman. I have come from the other end of the world to tell you so.” - Yvonne, sitting opposite him, looked into the red coals of the fire, and - clasped her hands nervously. His presence dazed her. She had not yet - recovered from the shock of his sudden embrace. The pressure of his arms - was yet about her shoulders. The change wrought in her life by the loss of - her voice was almost like a change of identity. It was with an effort that - she realised the former closeness of their relations. He seemed - unfamiliar, out of place, to have dropped down from another sphere. The - oddity of his attire struck a note of the unusual. The dignity of his - title invested him with remoteness. His face too, did not correspond with - her remembered impression. It was thinner, more deeply lined. His hair had - grown scantier and greyer. - </p> - <p> - She had listened, almost in a dream, to the story of his coming. How, to - his bitter regret, he had destroyed Joyce’s letter. How, later, - growing anxious about her, he had written for news of her welfare. How his - letter had been returned to him through the post-office. How, meanwhile, - the detective whom he had employed for the purpose in Paris, had sent him - proofs of Bazouge’s death. How he had been unable to rest until he - had found her, and, impatient of the long weary posts, he had left New - Zealand; and lastly, how he had obtained her present address from the - musical agents, who had informed him of her illness and the loss of her - voice. - </p> - <p> - “You are free, Yvonne, at last,” repeated the Bishop. - </p> - <p> - The tidings scarcely affected her. She had counted Amédée so long as dead, - even after his disastrous resurrection, that now she could feel no shock - either of pain or relief. It was not until the after-sound of Everard’s - last words penetrated her consciousness, that she realised their import. - She started quickly from her attitude of bewilderment, and looked at him - with a dawning alarm in her eyes. - </p> - <p> - “It can make very little difference to me,” she said. - </p> - <p> - “I thought it might make all the difference in the world to me,” - said Everard. “Do you think I have ever ceased to love you?” - </p> - <p> - There was the note of pain in his voice which all her life long had had - power to move her simple nature. She trembled a little as she answered:— - </p> - <p> - “It is all so long ago, now. We have changed.” - </p> - <p> - “You have not changed,” he said, with grave tenderness. - “You are still the same sweet flower-like woman that was my wife. - And I have not changed. I have longed for you all through these bitter, - lonely years. Do you know why I left Fulminster?” - </p> - <p> - “No,” murmured Yvonne. - </p> - <p> - “Because it grew unbearable—without you. I thought a changed - scene and new responsibilities would fill my thoughts. I was mistaken. And - added to my want of you was remorse for harshness in that terrible hour.” - </p> - <p> - “I have only thought of your kindness, Everard,” said Yvonne, - with tears in her eyes. His emotion impressed her deeply with a sense of - his suffering. - </p> - <p> - He rose, came forward and bent over her chair. - </p> - <p> - “Will you come back with me, Yvonne?” - </p> - <p> - She would have given worlds to be away; to have, at least, a few hours to - consider her answer. He expected it at once. Feminine instinct desperately - sought evasion. - </p> - <p> - “I shall be of no use to you. I can’t sing any more. Listen.” - </p> - <p> - She turned sideways in her chair, and drawing back her head far from him, - began, with a smile, the “Aria” of the Angel in the Elijah. - The grave man drew himself up, shocked to the heart. He had not realised - what the loss of her voice meant. Instead of the pure dove-notes that had - stirred the passion of his manhood, nothing came from her lips but - toneless, wheezing sounds. She stopped, bravely tried to laugh, but the - laugh was choked in a sob and she burst into tears. - </p> - <p> - “Come back with me, my darling,” he said, bending down again. - “I will love you all the more tenderly.” - </p> - <p> - Yvonne dried her eyes in her impulsive way. - </p> - <p> - “I am foolish,” she said. “Crying can’t mend it.” - </p> - <p> - “I will devote the rest of my life to making compensation,” - said the Bishop. “Come, Yvonne.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, give me time to answer you, Everard,” she cried, driven - to bay at last. “It is all so strange and sudden.” - </p> - <p> - He left her side, with a kind of sigh, and resumed his former seat. He was - somewhat disappointed. He had not contemplated the chance of her refusal. - A glance, however, round the shabby, low-ceilinged room reassured him. The - coarse, not immaculate tablecloth, the homely crockery, the half-emptied - potted-meat tins on the table, the threadbare hearthrug at his feet—all - spoke, if not of poverty, at least of very narrow means. She could not - surely hesitate. But she did. - </p> - <p> - “Take your time—of course,” he said, crossing his - gaitered legs. There was a short silence. At last she said, with a little - quiver of the lip:— - </p> - <p> - “I promised you, I know. But things have altered so since then. I - thought I should always be free. But now I am not, you see.” - </p> - <p> - “What do you mean?” he cried, startled. - </p> - <p> - “It is Stephen,” Yvonne explained. “He saved me from - starvation, gave me all he had, to make me well again, and has been - staying all this time to support me. You don’t know how nobly he has - behaved to me—yes, nobly, Everard, there is no other word for it. He - has rights over me that a brother or father would have—I could not - leave him without his consent. It would be cruel and ungrateful. Don’t - you see that it would be wicked of me, Everard,” she added - earnestly. - </p> - <p> - His face clouded over. Pride rose in revolt. He crushed it down, however, - and suffered the humiliation. - </p> - <p> - “It would lift a responsibility from his shoulders,” he said. - “I myself am willing to take him by the hand again, and help him to - rise from his present position.” - </p> - <p> - “You will let bygones be bygones—quite?” - </p> - <p> - “With all my heart,” replied Everard. - </p> - <p> - “He suffers dreadfully still,” said Yvonne. -</p> - <p> -“I will do - my best to heal the wound,” replied the Bishop. “I own I have - judged him too harshly already.” - </p> - <p> - A flush of pleasure arose in Yvonne’s cheeks, and her eyes thanked - him. Then she reflected, and said somewhat sadly:— - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps if you help him in that way, he won’t miss me.” - </p> - <p> - “I will guarantee his prosperity,” he answered, with dignified - conviction. And then, changing his manner, after a pause, and leaning - forward and looking at her hungeringly, “Yvonne,” he said, - “you will come and share my life again—in a new world, where - everything is beautiful—? I have been growing old there, without - you. You will make me young again, and the blessing of God will be upon - us. I must have you with me, Yvonne. I cannot live in peace without your - smile and your happiness around me. My child—” - </p> - <p> - His voice grew thick with emotion. He stood up and stretched out his arms - to her. Yvonne rose timidly and advanced toward him, drawn by his - pleading. But just as his hands were about to touch her, she hung back. - </p> - <p> - “You must ask Stephen for me,” she said, in her serious, - simple way. - </p> - <p> - His hands fell to his sides, in a gesture of impatience. - </p> - <p> - “Impossible. How can I do such a thing? It would be absurd.” - </p> - <p> - “But I can’t,” she said. - </p> - <p> - Her tiny figure, the plaintiveness of her upturned face, the wistfulness - of her soft eyes, brought back to him a flood of memories. She was still - the same sweet, innocent soul. The lines about his lips relaxed into a - smile, and he took her, yielding passively, into his arms and kissed her - cheek. - </p> - <p> - “I will do what you like, dear,” he said, in a low voice. - “Anything in the world to win you again. I will ask him. It will be - making reparation. And then you will marry me?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” murmured Yvonne faintly, “I promised you.” - </p> - <p> - “Why did you not write to me again?” he asked, still holding - her hands. - </p> - <p> - “I was going to write when the answer came,” she said, looking - down. “But no answer did come. And then, I was content to help - Stephen.” - </p> - <p> - “You could have helped Stephen, all the same.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, no!” she cried, with a swift look upwards. “Don’t - you understand?” - </p> - <p> - The Bishop saw the delicacy of the point, and motioned an affirmative. But - he regarded Stephen with mingled feelings. It was intensely repugnant to - him to find his once reprobated cousin a barrier between himself and - Yvonne. An uneasy suspicion passed through his mind. Might not Stephen be - even a more serious rival? - </p> - <p> - “You are not marrying me merely on account of that promise years - ago, Yvonne?” he asked. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, no, Everard,” she replied gently. “It is because - you want me—and because it’s right.” - </p> - <p> - He kissed her good-bye. - </p> - <p> - “I shall not visit you here again, Yvonne,” he said. “When - I receive the final answer I shall make suitable arrangements. We shall be - married quietly, by special licence. Will that please you?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” said Yvonne. “Thank you.” - </p> - <p> - At the door he turned for a parting glance. Then he descended the stairs, - with the intention of broaching the matter to Joyce then and there. But - although he found lights burning in the shop, Joyce was nowhere to be - seen. Nor were there any apparent means of ascertaining his whereabouts. - The Bishop bit his lip with annoyance. He did not wish to procrastinate in - this affair. Suddenly his eye fell upon an old stationery-rack against the - wall, in which were visible the paper and envelopes used for the business. - With prompt decision the Bishop took what was necessary, sought and found - pen and ink, and wrote at Joyce’s table a letter, which he addressed - and left in a conspicuous position. Then he found with some difficulty the - street-door of the house and let himself out. - </p> - <p> - Joyce, whom a longing for air had at last driven outside, was walking up - and down the pavement, keeping his eye on the door. As soon as he - witnessed Everard’s departure, he entered and went through the - passage into the shop. The letter attracted his attention. He opened it - and read:— - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - Dear Stephen,—I wished for a word with you. But as the - matter is urgent, I write. I should like to express to you - my sense of the generous chivalry of your conduct toward - Yvonne. I should also like to hold out to you the hand of - sincere friendship. - - In earnest of this I approach you, as man to man, with - reference to one of the most solemn affairs in life. Yvonne, - gratefully acknowledging the vast obligations under which - she is bound to you, has made her acceptance of my offer of - remarriage dependent upon your consent. For this consent, - therefore, I earnestly beg you. - - For the future, in what way soever my friendship can be of - use to you, it will most gladly be directed. - - Yours sincerely, - - E. Chisely. - - Burgon’s Hotel, W. -</pre> - <p> - Joyce grew faint as he read. The words swam before his eyes. A great pain - shot through his heart. The letter contained one torturing fact—that - of Yvonne’s acquiescence. The Bishop’s acknowledgment of his - uprightness, the courtesy of the formal request, the offer of friendship—all - were meaningless phrases. Yvonne was going to leave him—of her own - free-will. Although his fears had anticipated the blow, it none the less - stunned him. He flung himself down by his table, with a groan, and buried - his face in his arms. The realisation of what Yvonne was to him flooded - him with a mighty rush. She was his hope of salvation in this world and - the next, his guardian angel, his universe. Without her all was chaos, - void and horrible. - </p> - <p> - Presently Yvonne’s voice was heard calling him from the top of the - stairs:— - </p> - <p> - “Stephen!” - </p> - <p> - He raised a haggard face, and with an effort steadied his voice to reply. - Then he rose, turned off the gas, from force of habit, and went with heavy - tread up the stairs. - </p> - <p> - “Your tea,” said Yvonne, busying herself with a kettle. - “I am making you some afresh.” - </p> - <p> - “I will go and wash my hands,” he said drearily. - </p> - <p> - He mounted to his bedroom and cleansed himself from the book-dust and - returned to Yvonne. He drew his chair to the table. She poured him out his - tea, and helped him to butter, according to a habit into which she had - fallen. She deplored the spoilt toast. He said that it did not matter. But - when he tried to eat, the food stuck in his throat. Yvonne made no - pretence at eating, but trifled with her teaspoon, with downcast eyes. - Joyce looked at her anxiously. She seemed to have grown older. The - childlike expression had changed into a sad, womanly seriousness. - Presently she raised her eyes, soft and appealing as ever, and met his. - </p> - <p> - “Did you see Everard?” she asked. - </p> - <p> - “No. I was out. But he left a note—that told me everything.” - </p> - <p> - “He asks for your consent?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes.” - </p> - <p> - “And will you give it?” she asked, below her breath. - </p> - <p> - “It would be worse than folly for me to try to withhold it,” - he said, bitterly. - </p> - <p> - “I will stay with you, and go on living this life, if you wish.” - </p> - <p> - “And yourself?” - </p> - <p> - “I don’t count,” she said, “I must do as I am - told.” - </p> - <p> - “Would you be happy with Everard?” he asked huskily. - </p> - <p> - “Yes—of course—I was before,” she replied. But her - cheek grew paler. - </p> - <p> - “And you would stay, if I asked you, and share all this struggle and - poverty with me?” - </p> - <p> - “How could I refuse? Don’t I owe you my life?” - </p> - <p> - He looked for a tremulous second into her pure eyes and knew that he was - master of her fate. The condition she had imposed upon Everard was no - graceful act of acknowledgment. It was a serious placing of her future in - his hands. He was silent for a few moments, deep in agitated thought, - trembling with a struggle against a fierce temptation. The hand that - nervously tugged at his moustache was shaking. Yvonne read the anxious - trouble on his face. - </p> - <p> - “Don’t worry over it now,” she said, gently. “There - is time, you know. Why should people always want to decide things straight - off?” - </p> - <p> - “You are right, Yvonne,” said Stephen. “Let us forget it - for a little.” - </p> - <p> - “Your poor tea,” add Yvonne, with pathetic return to her old - manner. “It will never be drunk. And do eat something, to please me.” - -</p> -<p> - - But it was a miserable meal. The tabooed subject filled the heart and - thoughts of each. It was with an effort that they caught the drift of - casual commonplaces uttered from time to time. Now and then, during the - long spells of silence, Yvonne stole a swift feminine glance at his face. - But his sombre expression seemed to tell her nothing of that which she - longed to know. At last the farce ended. They rose from the table and went - to their usual seats by the fireside. Joyce filled his pipe, and was - fumbling in his pockets for a match, when Yvonne came forward with a spill - and stood before him holding it until the pipe was alight. He tried to - thank her, but the words would not come. The tender act of intimacy made - his heart swell too painfully. Yvonne rang the bell and the elderly, - slatternly maid-of-all-work, cleared away the tea-things. Sarah was one of - the elements of the establishment that made Joyce hate his poverty. She - drank, was unclean, was a perpetual soil in the atmosphere that Yvonne - breathed. The sight of her was a new factor in the case against himself. - </p> - <p> - It was a terrible decision that he was called upon to make. On the one - hand, wealth and ease and social happiness for Yvonne, despair and misery - for himself. On the other, a selfish happiness for himself, and for Yvonne - this squalor and ostracism. He knew that her sweet, gentle nature would - accept the latter portion unmurmuringly. A voice rang in his ears the - certainty that she would marry him, if he pleaded. To repress the - temptation to cast all other thoughts but his yearning passion to the - winds was indescribable torture. - </p> - <p> - “I wish I could sing to you,” she said, breaking a long - silence. “I don’t know what to do now, when I feel things. - Once I could sing them.” - </p> - <p> - “I should ask you to sing Gounod’s ‘Serenade,’” - said Joyce. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, not that!” she cried quickly. “It was the last - thing I ever sang to you, and it brought us bad luck.” - </p> - <p> - For a moment he put a lover’s passionate interpretation upon her - words. His heart beat fast. He controlled the wild impulse that seized - him, biting through the amber of his pipe with the nervous effort. - </p> - <p> - And then he realised that he must be alone to work out this stern problem, - on whose solution depended the happiness of three human lives. He rose to - his feet. - </p> - <p> - “I am going out, Yvonne,” he said, in a constrained voice. - “All this is rather upsetting—and you had better go to bed - early. You look tired.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes. I have a splitting headache,” said Yvonne. - </p> - <p> - She tried to smile brightly, as he wished her good-night. But when the - door closed upon him, the smile faded, and her face grew drawn, almost - haggard. A spirit had descended, touched her with magical wings, and - changed at last the child into the woman. Her eyes were set in steadfast - envisaging of the future; and they beheld the responsibilities and - sadnesses of life, no longer as vague terrors and discomforts from which - her light bird-like nature shrank to the nearest refuge, but as dull - realities, commonplace in form and grey in hue. - </p> - <p> - It was her duty to go back to Everard, Stephen not wanting her; for she - had promised. It was her duty to ask Stephen for his consent. And it was - Stephen’s duty to give it, if he did not want her for more than - daily companionship. She had proved that Stephen did not love her. Never - had she felt so keenly the failure of her womanhood. It had not cleared - his life of haunting cares. If it had, his heart would have been stirred - with needs for closer union. The weapon of her sex was powerless. Newer - knowledge had come to her. He needed her less than Everard. She argued - with desperate logic. And yet there was a lingering, feverish hope—one - that made her now and then draw a sharp convulsive breath, as she sat - staring, with clear vision, at her life. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XXII—SEEKING SALVATION - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">H</span>e could walk no - longer through the drizzling rain, in futile struggle with his soul’s - needs. As possible to cut out his heart and fling it at Everard’s - feet as to surrender Yvonne. He called himself a fool. - </p> - <p> - The glare in front of a cheap music-hall attracted him. He entered, - mounted to the nine-penny balcony, where he stood leaning over the wooden - partition, wedged among a crowd of loungers. The air was filled with the - smoke of cheap tobacco and the fumes of the bar behind. A girl on the - stage was singing a song in the chorus of which the thronged house roared - lustily. Then came a tenor vocalist with drawing-room ballads. Joyce - attended absently, hearing and seeing in a confused dream. A neighbour - asking him for a light aroused him from his reverie. He wondered why he - had come. To-night of all nights, when he might be at home in the joy of - his heart’s desire. Yet he stayed. - </p> - <p> - A flashing family appeared riding on nondescript cycles. He watched them - with half-shut eyes, caressing a quaint conceit that they were his - thoughts whirling around in concrete form. The bursts of deafening - applause seemed to soothe him. Presently a street-scene cloth was let down - and a battered man appeared and sang a song about drink and twins and - brokers. He threw such humourous gusto into the performance that Joyce - laughed in spite of his preoccupation, and remained in amused anticipation - of his second turn. The bell tinkled. The “comedian” came on - and was greeted with vociferous applause. With music-hall realism he was - dressed in prison-clothes, glengarry, woollen stockings, and black-arrowed - suit all complete. He had made up his face into a startling brute. Joyce - felt sick. He did not catch the first verse; only the concluding lines of - the chorus, - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent25"> - "I ‘ve done my bit of time, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - For ’itting of my missus on the chump, chump, chump.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - But then the man began to speak, and Joyce could not help hearing. A - horrible fascination held him. The ignoble figure poured out with - grotesque and voluble cynicism the comic history of the prison-life; the - plank-bed, the skilly, the oakum, the exercise-yard. He sketched his pals, - detailed the sordid tricks for obtaining food, the mean malingering, the - debasing habits. And all with a horrible fidelity. The audience shrieked - with laughter. But Joyce lost sense of the mime. The man was real, one of - the degraded creatures with whom he himself had once been - indistinguishably mingled—a loathsome fact from the past. The smell - of the prison floated over the footlights and filled his nostrils. All his - overwrought nerves quivering with repulsion, he broke through the crowd - hemming him in against the partition, and rushed down into the street. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - How long and whither he walked he did not know. At last he found himself - within familiar latitudes, outside the Angel Tavern. He was wet through - from the fine, penetrating rain, tired, cold, and utterly miserable. The - revulsion of feeling in the music-hall had thrown him back years in his - self-esteem. The soil of the gaol had never seemed so ineffaceable. In the - blaze of light by the tavern door he paused, irresolute. Then, remembering - the disastrous results of an attempt years before to seek such - consolation, he shivered and turned away. It was too dangerous. - </p> - <p> - About a hundred yards further, a woman passed him, turned, and overtook - him. - </p> - <p> - “I thought it was you,” she said. He recognised the voice as - that of Annie Stevens. It was not far from the spot where he had first met - her, and where, some short time after, he had met her again. For months, - however, he had lost sight of her. He recognised her voice, but her - appearance was unfamiliar, and her face was half hidden by a Salvation - Army bonnet. The apparent cynicism of her attire revolted him. - </p> - <p> - “Why are you masquerading like this?” he asked, continuing to - walk onwards. - </p> - <p> - “It’s not masquerading. It’s real. I recognised you, and - thought perhaps you’d care to know.” - </p> - <p> - He slackened his pace imperceptibly, and she walked by his side. - </p> - <p> - “You don’t seem to believe it,” she resumed. “I - don’t tell lies. It’s the truth that has generally cursed me.” - </p> - <p> - “Then why are you walking up and down here at this time of night?” - </p> - <p> - “Doing rescue work.” - </p> - <p> - “Have you rescued any one yet?” asked Joyce, with a touch of - sarcasm. - </p> - <p> - “No. I scarce expect to.” - </p> - <p> - “Then why are you trying?” - </p> - <p> - “Because it’s the beastliest thing I could think of doing,” - she said, stopping abruptly, and facing him, as he turned, in the defiant - way he remembered from the theatre days. - </p> - <p> - “You ’re an odd girl,” he said. - </p> - <p> - “You don’t suppose I wear this disgusting bonnet and get - hustled by roughs and blackguarded by women because I like it! I haven’t - been converted, and I don’t shriek out ‘Hallelujah,’ and - I won’t,—but I earn an honest living at the Shelter during the - day, and at night I come out. It’s the beastliest thing I can think - of doing,” she repeated. “If I knew of anything beastlier I’d - do it. I ’ve had flames inside me since I gave you away,—I’d - have killed myself for you after,—and hell since I went on the - streets,—but I think the other was worse. I ’ve learned what - you felt like; now I’m trying to burn out the fire—” - </p> - <p> - “Stop for a moment,” he said, with a queer catch in his - throat. “Do you mean you are doing this for your own inner self?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” she replied, her direct intuition divining the implied - alternative. “I don’t know much about Jesus and my immortal - soul. That ’ll come. I want one day to be able to remember that I - loved you—without hating myself and feeling sick with the shame and - the horror of it all. You may think me a silly fool if you like, but that’s - why I’m doing it. Let us walk on. We need n’t attract - attention.” This was wise; for more than one passer-by had turned - round, struck by the two intent white faces. Joyce obeyed passively, but - continued for some moments to look down upon her in great wonder. An idea, - which he became dimly aware had been struggling for birth in the dark of - his soul for the past two hours, dawned upon him amid a strange, exulting - excitement. Suddenly he took her by the arm and held it very tightly. She - looked up at him, astonished. - </p> - <p> - “What is the matter with you?” - </p> - <p> - “Do you know what you have done tonight?” he said, in a - shaking voice. “You have shown me how to burn out my hell too. You - have retrieved any wrong you have done me. If my forgiveness is worth - having, you have it, from the depths of my soul.” - </p> - <p> - He was strangely moved. In the impulse of his exaltation, he drew her - quickly into the gloom of a doorway—the pavement was momentarily - deserted—and kissed her. She uttered a little cry and shrank back. - </p> - <p> - “Is that for forgiveness?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” he cried; and then he broke from her abruptly, and went - on along the pavement with great strides. - </p> - <p> - He was no longer uncertain. The problem of his life was solved. His mind - was crystal clear. At last the time had come for the great atonement to - his degraded self, the supreme sacrifice that should clear his being of - stain. - </p> - <p> - At last he could perform that act of renunciation that would give the - strength back into his eyes to meet calmly the scrutiny of his fellow-man. - Renunciation! The word rang in his ears and echoed to his footsteps. - </p> - <p> - He did not doubt that it would not be to Yvonne’s lesser happiness - to regain her lost environment of luxury and tender care. On the other - hand, he judged her rightly enough to know that she would have found - compensating pleasures in a life of privation with himself. Had it not - been so, mere manliness would have decided in the Bishop’s favour. - In perfect fairness (he saw now), he could have claimed her. His sacrifice - was made in pure loyalty to his conscience. - </p> - <p> - And it had been reserved, too, for that ignorant, wayward woman, who had - groped her unguided way thus grotesquely to the Principle, to have led him - thither and revealed its elemental application. He felt a stirring of - shame that strengthened his manhood. - </p> - <p> - The rain had stopped. The clouds broke and drifted across the heavens, and - a misty moon appeared at intervals, shedding its pale light upon the - unlovely thoroughfare. A fresh breeze sprang up and made Joyce, in his wet - things, shiver with cold. At the nearest tavern he stopped, entered, - called for some hot spirits, this time from no temptation to drown care, - and asked for writing materials. Then, in the midst of the noise of thick - voices and clatter of drinking vessels, he wrote at a corner of the bar - his letter of renunciation. - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - Dear Everard,—I accept your letter in the spirit in which - it was written. I put the sweetest and purest of God’s - creatures into your keeping. Cherish her. - - Yours sincerely, - - Stephen Joyce. -</pre> - <p> - A few minutes afterwards he dropped it into a pillar-box. The faint patter - of its fall inside struck like a death-note upon his ear, shocked him with - a sense of the irrevocable. Now that the act of renunciation was - accomplished, he felt frightened. The immensity of his sacrifice began to - loom before him. He became conscious of the dull premonitions of an agony - hitherto undreamed of, for all his suffering in the past. - </p> - <p> - Shiveringly he bent his steps homeward. The gas was burning dimly in the - sitting-room. As was usual on the rare occasions when he had spent the - evening out, Yvonne had brought down his bedroom candle and had laid his - modest supper neatly for him. His slippers were warming by the fire. At - the sight, his pain grew greater. Having taken off his wet boots and lit - his candle—he could eat no supper—he turned off the gas, and - went out of the room. On the landing outside Yvonne’s door were the - tiny shoes she had placed there for Sarah to clean. He looked at them for - a second or two and mounted the stairs hurriedly. - </p> - <p> - In the shock and excitement of battle a man can bear the amputation of a - mangled limb without great suffering. It is afterwards that the agony sets - in, when the nerves have quieted to responsiveness. So it was with Joyce - on that sleepless night of his great renunciation, and with his misery was - mingled despair lest all should prove to be futile, his theory of - renunciation; a ghastly fallacy. Time was when he would have mocked at the - proposition. Could he even now defend it upon rational grounds? Had he not - cut off his leg to compensate for the loss of an arm, thereby adding to - the gaiety of the high gods? He tossed about in the bed in anguish, - “burning out his hell.” - </p> - <p> - A man of sensitive, emotional temperament, however, cannot pass through - such an ordeal unchanged. Some fibres must be shrivelled up, whilst others - are toughened. Joyce rose in the morning with aching head and exhausted - nerves, but still with a dull sense of calm. Fallacy or not, at any rate - he had chosen the man’s part. The consciousness of it was an element - of strength. He dressed and went downstairs. - </p> - <p> - Yvonne was already in the room, neat and dainty as usual, making the toast - for breakfast. She was pale and had the faint rings below the eyes that - ever tell tales on a woman’s face. She looked round at him - anxiously, as she knelt before the fire. He saw her trouble and went and - sat in the armchair beside her and spread out his hands to warm them. - </p> - <p> - “You have been worrying, my poor little Yvonne,” he said - gently. “I was a selfish beast to let you think I wanted to make up - my mind, when my course was so plain. I wrote to Everard last night. I - told him to cherish the treasure that he has got. You shouldn’t have - worried over it.” - </p> - <p> - Yvonne turned away her face from him, and remained silent for some - moments, half kneeling, half sitting, the toasting-fork drooping idly from - her hand. - </p> - <p> - “It was foolish of me,” she replied at last “But it - seemed hard to leave you alone—and I ’ve got so used to this - little place—one gets attached to places, like a cat—Did you—were - you sorry to give me away?” - </p> - <p> - “Of course,” said Joyce. “I thought we could go on being - brother and sister till the end of all things. Well, all things have an - end, and this is it.” - </p> - <p> - “You would not prefer me to stay?” asked Yvonne, in her soft - voice. - </p> - <p> - He would have given his soul to have been able to throw his arms round - her, passionately and wildly—she was so near him, so maddeningly - desired. Did she realise, he wondered, what flame was in her words? He - leaned back in the chair, as if to avert the temptation by increasing the - distance between them. - </p> - <p> - “No,” he said, with a sharp breath, “I could not—it - will be a wrench breaking up the—partnership. But it is all for the - best. I know you will be happy and cared for, and that will be a happiness - to me.” - </p> - <p> - Sarah brought in the breakfast and retired. They sat down to table. - Somehow or other the meal proceeded. Two things had come by post for - Joyce, one a belated but laudatory notice of “The Wasters,” - the other a cheque from the office of a weekly paper. He passed them both - to her, according to custom. - </p> - <p> - “You mustn’t bother about me at all, Yvonne. I am in a - different way of business altogether from what I was when we first started - housekeeping. The new book will do ever so much better than ‘The - Wasters.’ I shall miss you terribly—at first—but it will - all dry straight, Yvonne. I dare say I shall go on living here. Runcle and - I are immense pals, you know—perhaps I may go into partnership with - him and bring some modern go-ahead ideas into the concern—become a - Quaritch or Sotheran—who knows? Yes, I should n’t like to - leave these quaint, dear old rooms,” he said, looking round, - anywhere but in Yvonne’s face, with an air of cheerfulness that he - felt in his heart must be ghastly. “Something of you and your dear - companionship will linger about them. I shall pretend, like the ‘Marchioness,’ - that you are with me.” - </p> - <p> - He passed his tea-cup, and, meeting her eyes, tried to smile. The comers - of her lips responded bravely. - </p> - <p> - “And at last you will come into indisputed possession of your - furniture,” she said. - </p> - <p> - He had not the heart to protest. So they continued to talk in this light - strain of the coming parting, until Joyce, looking at his watch, found it - was time to go down to the shop. At the door, on his way out, he paused to - relight his pipe. Then, without trusting himself to look round, he left - her. But if he had turned he would have seen her grow suddenly very white, - clutch the mantel-piece for support with one hand while the other pressed - her bosom hard, and sway for a second or two with shut eyes. - </p> - <p> - Downstairs he resumed his unfinished task of the evening before. He worked - at it doggedly, trying not to think. But it was as futile as trying to - hold one’s breath beyond a certain period. - </p> - <p> - “Yvonne is going—to marry Everard—going for ever—I - shall be alone—she will lie in his arms—I shall go mad—God - help me—if it is more than I can bear, there is a way out—I - can keep up till she goes—she shall not know—afterwards.” - His brain could not work beyond. The same thoughts throbbed with almost - rhythmic recurrence as he priced and catalogued the books. Once he opened - a tattered “Marcus Aurelius”:— - </p> - <p> - “If pain is an affliction, it must affect either the body or the - mind; if the body is hurt, let it say so; as for the soul, it is in her - power to preserve her serenity and calm, by supposing the accident no - evil.” - </p> - <p> - He laughed to himself mirthlessly, and threw the book on the fourpenny - heap. “Or pretending, like the Marchioness,” he said. He was - scarcely in a mood for “Marcus Aurelius.” - </p> - <p> - A messenger-boy appeared with a letter for Madame Latour. Joyce sent it up - to her by the shop-boy, who presently brought down a reply note. The - preparations for her departure had begun. Joyce’s heart seemed set - in a vice and he nearly cried aloud with the pain. - </p> - <p> - The hours wore on; the piles of books were disposed of; nothing to do, but - wait for customers. To keep himself employed he copied untidy pages of his - manuscript. He went up for dinner. Yvonne was more subdued than at - breakfast, and they scarcely spoke. When the meal was over, she told him - quietly of the letter she had received. - </p> - <p> - “Everard says that he is getting the special licence to-day, and the - marriage will take place to-morrow at St Luke’s, Islington. - Considering the circumstances, he thinks it best that there should be no - delay.” - </p> - <p> - “It is just as well,” he replied. “When changes come, it - is best that they should come swiftly. Has he made any more definite - arrangements—the hour?” - </p> - <p> - “He will send me a message later.” - </p> - <p> - “You will have to put up your things. If I can help you, Yvonne—” - </p> - <p> - “Thanks—no. I have so little. The few odds and ends I shall - leave you—as mementoes. You would like to keep them, would n’t - you?” - </p> - <p> - “Thank you, Yvonne,” he said, turning away. They had spoken in - subdued voices, as folks do when discussing funeral arrangements. Joyce, - blinded and dazed by his misery, was unperceptive of her joylessness. At - the most, he was conscious of a seriousness that, under the circumstances, - was not unnatural. His own pain he hid with anxious effort. - </p> - <p> - The afternoon hours passed. He lit the gas in the shop, and proceeded with - whatever mechanical employment he could find. It was a relief to be alone. - The old man’s gossip would have jarred upon him, driven him up to - the sitting-room where the ordeal was fiercest, or out into the - hard-featured streets. He would have two or three days of solitude before - Runcle returned from Exeter. - </p> - <p> - Messages came from the Bishop. One for Yvonne. Another for him, - acknowledging his letter, announcing that the hour of noon had been fixed - upon, shortly before which time a carriage would be sent to convey Yvonne - to the church, and begging him in most courteous terms to assist at the - ceremony and give Yvonne away. An echo of the Salvation Army girl’s - voice came back to him, and he smiled grimly. “It’s the - beastliest thing I can do.” - </p> - <p> - He scribbled a line of acquiescence and gave it to the waiting - messenger-boy. “I had not thought of the dregs,” he said to - himself. - </p> - <p> - That evening they sat drearily in their accustomed places by the fireside, - each knowing it to be their last together. Night after night they had - spent in each other’s society, Yvonne sewing or reading or dreaming - in a lazy, contented way, Joyce writing upon a board laid across his - knees. Sometimes she would come and lean over the back of his chair and - watch the words as they came from his pen, her soft wavy black hair very - near his fair, close-trimmed head. - </p> - <p> - “Send me away if I’m worrying you,” she used to say. - </p> - <p> - Whereupon he would laugh happily and answer:— - </p> - <p> - “See how beautifully I am writing. I should never have thought of - that remark if you had not been there.” - </p> - <p> - “I like to play at feeling a guardian angel,” she said once. - </p> - <p> - “You can feel it without the playing,” he replied, drawing his - head aside and looking round at her. “When your wings are over me - like that, I do work that I could n’t do unaided.” - </p> - <p> - And she had blushed and felt very happy. - </p> - <p> - But now, on this last evening, they sat apart—half the world already - between them—and talked constrainedly, with long silences. For the - greater part of the time he shaded his face with his hand, sparing himself - the sight of her hungered-for sweetness and saving her the sight of the - hunger he felt was in his eyes. When at last she rose to bid him - good-night, he nerved himself to meet her gaze calmly. And then for the - first time he was shocked at the change that the night and the day had - wrought in her. - </p> - <p> - She stood before him, infinitely sweet and simple; but more wan even than - she had been on that day in the hospital when she had learned the loss of - her voice. For the still unvanished pathos of childhood that had then - smoothed her face was gone, and the sterner pathos of the woman’s - experience had taken its place. Yet the interpretation did not come to - him. - </p> - <p> - “My poor child,” he said. “You are scarcely strong - enough yet to bear such an upheaval as this. Try to have a good sleep.” - He held the door for her to pass out. And then with a great gulp, he - continued, “You must look your best to-morrow.” - </p> - <p> - He caught her soft cold hand, put it to his lips, and shut the door - quickly. The prison seemed as comfort when compared with this torment. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XXIII—AN END AND A BEGINNING - </h2> - - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>n the middle of - the night he broke down utterly. - -If he had been a strong man he would not - have yielded to the series of temptations that had culminated in his crime - and his disgrace. Or, passing that, his spirit would not have been broken - during the months of his punishment If he had been even of slightly - robuster fibre, the sense of degradation would not have palsied his life. - He would have gone at once to a new land and made himself master of his - destiny. A strong man would not have been found by Yvonne, that August - morning, sitting, a self-abhorring outcast before his rich uncle’s - door. He would not have lost his wit and courage, when assailed by his - prison companion at Hull. He would not have joined fortunes with Noakes in - their futile African expedition. A strong man would not have clung for - comfort and moral support to the poor ridiculous creature, his own - protection of whom was that of the woman rather than that of the man. A - strong man would not have yielded to the numbing despair of the after - solitude in Africa, nor writhed that night in agony of spirit upon the - lonely star-lit veldt And lastly, a strong man would not have had that - terror of loneliness which had made him in the first place cling to Yvonne - much as a child, afraid of the dark, clings to the hand of another child - weaker than itself. - </p> - <p> - By the law of evolution the strong survive and the weak die. But in the - eternal struggle between humanity and the pitiless law, conditions are - modified, and the sympathy of the race, that expression of revolt which we - call civilisation, gives surviving power to the weak, so that not only the - strong man has claims to life and love. And when the weak man strives with - all his quivering fibres towards strength, he is doing a greater deed than - the strong wot of. - </p> - <p> - So Joyce, fool or hero, had performed an act of strength beyond his - nature. The strain of the day had been intense. Every nerve in his body - was stretched to breaking-point. At last, in the middle of the night, as - he was pacing the room, one of them seemed to snap, and he fell forwards - on to the bed and broke into a passion of sobbing. Ashamed he buried his - face in the blankets and bit them with his teeth. But a grown man’s - sobbing is not to be checked, like a child’s. It is a terrible - thing, which comes from the soul’s depths and convulses flesh and - spirit to their foundations; and it is horrible to hear. The shuddering - heaves came into his throat and forced their way in sound through his - lips. And the utterances of pain came from him, inarticulate prayers to - God to help him, and half-stifled cries for his love and for Yvonne. But - he knew that he was wrestling with his spirit for the last time, and that, - after this paroxysm of agony, would come calm and strength to meet his - fate. - </p> - <p> - And Yvonne, clad in dressing gown and bare-footed, with her hair about her - shoulders, stood trembling outside his door and heard. Although his room - was not immediately above hers, being over the sitting-room, yet in her - sleeplessness she had listened for hours and hours to his movements. At - last, obeying an incontrollable impulse, she had crept up the stairs. A - long time she waited, her hand upon the door, his name upon her lips, - shaking from head to foot with the revelation of the man’s agony. - Every sound was like a stab in her tender flesh. The warm, impulsive old - Yvonne within her would have burst at the first sob into his room, but the - newer womanhood held her back. When all was silent she crept downstairs - again into her bed, and lay there, throbbing and shivering until the - morning. - </p> - <p> - And Joyce, unconscious that she had been so near to him, that had he but - opened his door, he would have been caught in her arms and been given for - all eternity that which he was renouncing, lay down in his bed exhausted, - and when the morning was near at hand, sank into heavy sleep. He awoke - later than usual. The water that Sarah had put for him was nearly cold. He - drew up the blind and saw a cheerless grey morning—a fitting dawn - for his new life. The minor details of the day before him presented - themselves painfully. The first was the necessity of being well shaven, - groomed and dressed. He drew from the drawer the clothes of decent life - that he could now so seldom afford to wear. The last time he had put them - on was three weeks ago, when he had taken Yvonne to a ballad concert at - St. James’s Hall. He remembered how, in her bright way, she had - said, on their way thither, “You look so handsome and distinguished, - I feel quite proud.” - </p> - <p> - And now he was to wear them at her wedding with another man. And he was to - give her away. - </p> - <p> - He had regained his nerve, felt equal to the task. After dressing with - scrupulous care, he slowly went down to breakfast,—his last - breakfast with Yvonne. He contemplated the fact with the fatalistic - calmness with which men condemned to death often face their last meal on - earth. Yvonne had not yet appeared. Sarah had not even brought up the - breakfast. He sat down and waited, unfolded his halfpenny morning paper and - tried to read. After a time he became aware that he was studying the - advertisements. So he laid it aside. - </p> - <p> - Presently he went up to his room to get a handkerchief, and on his return - to the landing he noticed that Yvonne’s bedroom door was ajar. She - was stirring, evidently. He knocked gently and called her name. There was - no reply. Perhaps she was still sleeping, he thought; but it was odd that - her door should be open. He returned to the sitting-room, wandered about - nervously, looked out of the window into the dismal street. The pavement - was wet, people were hurrying by with umbrellas up, the capes of drivers - gleamed miserably in the misty air. He turned away and put some coals on a - sulky fire, and again took up the paper. But an undefined feeling of - uneasiness began to creep over him. It was long past nine o’clock. - He went again and knocked at Yvonne’s door. It opened a little wider - and he saw by the light in the room that the blind had been drawn up. He - called her in loud tones. His voice seemed to fall in a void. Agitated, he - ventured to take a swift glance into the room. The bed was empty. There - was no Yvonne. - </p> - <p> - He went back and rang the bell violently. After a short interval Sarah - appeared, leisurely bringing in the breakfast-tray. - </p> - <p> - “Where is Madame Latour?” asked Joyce. “Oh, she went out - early, and said you weren’t to wait breakfast for her.” - </p> - <p> - “At what time did she go out?” - </p> - <p> - “Shortly after eight.” - </p> - <p> - “Thank you,” said Joyce. - </p> - <p> - “I think she was took ill, and was going to see a doctor,” - said Sarah, unloading the tray noisily. - </p> - <p> - “Did Madame Latour tell you so?” - </p> - <p> - “No. But she was looking so bad I was frightened to see her.” - </p> - <p> - “Very well,” said Joyce, not wishing to show the servant his - agitation. “She will be back soon. Yes, you can leave the breakfast.” - Sarah quitted the room with her heavy, scuffling step. Joyce remained by - the fire tugging at his moustache, his mind filled with nameless - anxieties. The presentiment of ill grew in intensity. Why had Yvonne left - the house at that early hour? Sarah’s suggestion was manifestly - absurd. If Yvonne had been poorly, she would have sent for a doctor. Yet - the servant’s last remark frightened him. He remembered Yvonne’s - pallor of the night before. A dreadful surmise began to dawn upon him. Had - he been blind, all the way through, and condemned her to a fate impossible - to bear? Once, in South Africa, he had seen an innocent man sentenced to - death. The picture of the man’s face in its wistful despair rose - before him. It was terribly like Yvonne’s. Had she, then, pronounced - sentence on herself? - </p> - <p> - He walked to and fro in feverish helplessness, his heart weighed down by - the new load. The cheap American clock on the mantel-piece struck ten. - There came, soon after, a knock at the door. Joyce sprang to open it. But - it was only the boy from the shop wanting to know if any one was coming - down. Joyce put his hand to his forehead. He had entirely forgotten Mr. - Runcle’s absence and his own consequent responsibility. - </p> - <p> - “You can take the money for any book outside, Tommy,” he said, - after a little reflection. “If a customer wants anything inside, - come up and call me.” - </p> - <p> - The boy went away, proud at being left in charge. Joyce filled a cup with - the rapidly cooling coffee, and drank it at a draught. The minutes crept - on. If his wild and dreadful fancies were groundless, where could Yvonne - be? She could not have chosen a time before the shops were open to make - any necessary purchases before the ceremony. Or had she gone out of the - house so as to avoid spending a painful morning in his company? But that - was unlike Yvonne. At last he descended, and stood bareheaded in the raw - air, gazing up and down the street. - </p> - <p> - “I ‘ve taken eightpence already,” said the boy, handing - him a pile of coppers. - </p> - <p> - Joyce took them from him absently, and put them in his pocket, while Tommy - went back to his seat on the upturned box, and resumed his occupation of - blowing on his chilled fingers. No sign of Yvonne. Several passers-by - turned round and looked at Joyce. In his well-fitting clothes, and with - his refined, thorough-bred air, he seemed an incongruous figure standing - hatless in the doorway of the dingy secondhand book-shop. - </p> - <p> - Presently he became aware of an elderly man trying to pass him. He stepped - aside with apologies, and followed the customer. - </p> - <p> - “Are you serving here?” asked the latter, with some - diffidence. - </p> - <p> - On Joyce’s affirmative, he enquired after two editions of “Berquin,” - which he had seen in Runcle’s catalogue. Joyce took one from the - shelves,—the original edition. It was priced two guineas. The - customer haggled, then wished to see the other. As this was on the top - shelf at the back part of the shop, Joyce had to mount the ladder and hunt - for it in the dusky light. While thus employed, he felt something sweep - against the foot of the ladder, and, looking down, he saw Yvonne. She shot - a quick upward glance, and hurriedly disappeared. - </p> - <p> - His heart gave a great bound as he saw her, and he dropped the books he - was holding. He could not seek any more for the “Berquin.” In - another moment he was by the side of the customer. - </p> - <p> - “We must have sold the other copy. How much will you give for this?” - </p> - <p> - “Thirty-five shillings.” - </p> - <p> - “You can have it,” said Joyce. - </p> - <p> - Never was book tied up at greater speed. He thrust it into the man’s - hand, received the money without looking at it, and left the elderly man - standing in the middle of the shop, greatly astonished at the haste of the - transaction. - </p> - <p> - Joyce flew up the stairs into the sitting-room. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, where—” he began. - </p> - <p> - Then he stopped, dazed and bewildered, for Yvonne, her arms outstretched, - her head thrown back, her lips parted, and a great yearning light in her - eyes, came swiftly to him from where she stood, uttering a little cry, and - in another moment was sobbing in his arms. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, my love, my dear, dear love!” she cried, “I could - not leave you—take me—for always. I love you—I love you—I - could n’t leave you!” - </p> - <p> - “Yvonne,” he cried hoarsely, his pulses throbbing like a great - engine’s piston-rod, in the tremendous amazement, as he held her—how - tightly he did not know—and gazed down wildly into her face, “Yvonne, - what are you saying? What is it? Tell me—for God’s sake—the - marriage—Everard?” Then she threw back her head further - against his arm, and their eyes met and hung upon each other for a - breathless space. And there was that in Yvonne’s eyes—“the - light that never was on sea or land”—that no man yet had seen - or dreamed of seeing there. The straining, passionate love too deep for - smiling, glorified her pure face. - </p> - <p> - “There will be no marriage,” she murmured faintly, still - holding him with her eyes, “I went to Everard this morning.” - </p> - <p> - She raised her lips almost unconsciously toward him, and then the man’s - whole existence was drowned in the kiss. - </p> - <p> - For many moments they scarcely spoke. Passion plays its part in swift - burning utterances and tumultuous silences. At last, she freed herself - gently and moved towards the fire. But only to be taken once again into - his clasp. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, my darling, my darling, is this joy madness, or is it real?” - </p> - <p> - “It is real,” said Yvonne. “Nothing can ever part us, - until we die.” - </p> - <p> - He helped her off with her hat and jacket and led her to the great - armchair by the fire and knelt down by her side. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, Stephen dear,” she said in piteous happiness, “it - has been such suffering.” - </p> - <p> - “My poor child,” he said tenderly. - </p> - <p> - “I did n’t know that you cared about me—in this way—until - last night. I tried to make you tell me—Stephen darling, why didn’t - you? I was bound to go to Everard—I had promised, and he wanted me—and - what could I tell him? I could n’t say to him, dear, that I would go - on for ever living on your dear charity, a burden upon you—yes, in a - sense I must be one—rather than keep my promise and marry him, could - I, dear? I could only refer him to you—and when you said I must go, - it was miserable, for I hungered all the time to stay. And I knew you were - sad, it was natural—but I thought you found you did not love me - enough to want me as a wife and felt it your duty to give me up. Why did - you give me up when you loved me so?” - </p> - <p> - “I will tell you all, some day, dear, not now,” said Joyce. - “But one thing—I did not know either that you loved me—like - this. When did you begin to love me, Yvonne?” - </p> - <p> - “I think I must have begun in the years and years ago—but I - only knew it last night—knew it as I do now,” she added, with - a tremor in her voice. - </p> - <p> - She closed her eyes, gave herself up for a flooded moment to the lingering - sense of the first great kiss she had ever given. And before she opened - them, the memory had melted into actuality as she felt his lips again meet - hers. - </p> - <p> - “Thank God, I have got you, my own dear love,” she murmured. - “It has been a hard battle for you—this morning. I went out as - soon as I dared—to go to him. I seemed to be going to do an awful - thing—to give him that pain for our sakes. He told me I had not - treated him wickedly—but I felt as if I had been committing murder, - until I saw your face at the door. I told him all—all that I knew - about my own feelings and yours. I said that you did not know I loved you—that - your noble-heartedness was making the sacrifice—that I would marry - him and leave you and never see you again, and be a devoted wife to him, - if he wished it, but that my love was given to you. And he looked all the - time at me with an iron-grey face, and scarcely spoke a word. Tell me, - Stephen dear, does it pain you to hear?” - </p> - <p> - “No,” said Joyce, softly. “Your heart has been bursting - with it. It is best for us to share it, as we shall share all things, joy - and pain, to the far end.” - </p> - <p> - “I shall feel lighter for telling you. It was so terrible to see him—oh, - Stephen, if I had not loved you, I couldn’t have borne it—he - seemed stricken. Oh, why is there all this pain in the world? And to think - that I—Yvonne—should have had to inflict it—either on - him, who has been good and kind to me, or on you, whom I love better than - I thought I could love anything in the world! And when I had ended, he - said, ‘He is young, and I am old; he has had all the sufferings and - despair of life, and my lot has been cast in pleasant places; he has come - out of the furnace with love and charity in his heart, and I have pampered - my pride and uncharitableness. Go back to him—and I pray God to - bless you both.’ He spoke as if each word was a knife driven into - him—and his face—I shall never forget it—it seemed to - grow old, and ashen, and hardened.” - </p> - <p> - She covered her face with her hands for a moment, and then, suddenly, the - memory of the night flashing through her, she dashed them away with a - woman’s fierceness and clasped his head. - </p> - <p> - “But your need was greater, a million times greater than his,” - she cried in ringing tones, “and your sufferings greater, and your - heart nobler, and I should have died if I had not come to you—you - are my king, my lord, my God, my everything.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - In the formally appointed hotel sitting-room, where Yvonne had twice - parted from him, sat Everard Chisely, with grey, withered face. The blow - had fallen heavily. He had hungered for her of late years with a poor, - human, unidealising passion. The pitifulness of it had galled his pride, - and he had striven to put her out of his thoughts. He had lived an austere - life, seeking in an unfamiliar asceticism to conquer the inherited, - unregenerate cravings for a fuller aesthetic and emotional existence. Yet - he had longed intensely for the death of the man who stood between himself - and Yvonne. Twice a year his agent in Paris had reported news of Amédée - Bazouge. Such communications he had opened with trembling fingers: the man - was still alive; he prayed passionate prayers that the murder in his heart - might not be counted to him as a sin. At last, in the New Zealand spring, - came the news of Bazouge’s death. His blood tingled like the working - sap in the trees. He could not wait. He came and found Yvonne. - </p> - <p> - For thirty-six hours he had become a young man again, treading on air, - hurrying on events with a lover’s impatience. And now the crash had - come. He was an old man. He sat by his untasted breakfast, and covered his - face in his hands. His life rose up before him, self-complacent, - dignified, immaculate. Yet, somehow, he felt like a Pharisee. He was a - Churchman first, a Christian afterwards. His religion had given him very - little comfort. It had taken Yvonne from him once, at a time when he might - have won her to him forever, and it had brought him no consolation. A man - does not often get a glimpse at his own soul; when he does, he finds it - rather a pitiable sight. The Bishop saw in its depths poignant regret that - he then had not loved the woman enough to sin for her sake. And there, - too, was revealed to him miserably that outraged pride, disillusion, the - traditions of social morality, the authority of the Church’s - ordinances—all externals—had been the leading factors of his - life’s undoing. A great wish rose amid the bitterness of his heart - that he had been, like Stephen, one of the publicans and sinners, upon - whom could shine the Light of the World. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - Joyce and Yvonne were married one morning quietly at a registrar’s, - and came back to continue the day’s routine. The old bookseller did - not appear astonished when Joyce informed him of the unusual change of - relationship. - </p> - <p> - “You have both had your troubles,” he said, shrewdly, looking - up over his spectacles, and keeping his thumb in the volume of Origen he - was reading. “Any one can see that. You would n’t be here - otherwise. And I’m not enquiring into them. But I hope they’re - ended. And now,” he continued, rising with an old man’s - stiffness, “I ’ve got some old Madeira that I bought thirty - years ago with a job-lot of things out of a gentleman’s chambers, - and I’d like to open a bottle in your honour.” - </p> - <p> - Joyce brought Yvonne down to the back-parlour. The wine came out of the - dirt-encrusted bottle like sunshine breaking through a cloud, and - gladdened their hearts. And that was their marriage feast. Thus began the - wedded life of these two. Years of struggle, poverty, and ostracism lay - before them. They faced it all fearlessly. To each of them the long-denied - love had come, at last, new and vivifying, changing the meaning of - existence. Yet the final word of mutual revelation awaited the loosening - touch. It came with tragic unexpectedness. - </p> - <p> - One evening, not long after their marriage, Joyce, looking through the - shop copy of “The Islington Gazette,” caught the head-line, - “Salvation lassie commits suicide in New River.” A - presentiment of what would follow flashed upon him. It was true. Annie - Stevens had killed herself. - </p> - <p> - “Good God!” he said involuntarily. - </p> - <p> - Yvonne looked up from her sewing, and grew alarmed at the distress on his - face. - </p> - <p> - “What is it?” - </p> - <p> - He was silent for a few moments. To tell her would involve long - explanations. Yvonne knew of Annie Stevens in connection with his disgrace - on the tour of “The Diamond Door,” but he had not spoken of - after meetings. Yvonne put her work aside, in her quick way, and came and - sat down on the footstool by his feet. As he bent and kissed her, she drew - his arm round her neck, holding his hand. - </p> - <p> - “What has pained you?” - </p> - <p> - And then he told her the whole of the girl’s miserable story, her - love for him, her degradation and downfall, and her wild idea of - atonement. - </p> - <p> - “And this is the end,” he said, showing her the paragraph. - </p> - <p> - “Poor girl!” said Yvonne, deeply touched. “It was so - pathetically impossible, was n’t it?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, dear,” Joyce answered. “I, too, know that.” - </p> - <p> - “What?” - </p> - <p> - “The tragic futility of such self-crucifixion. I have never told you - the history of that night—why I gave you up—and the part this - poor dead girl played in it.” - </p> - <p> - In a low voice, he went over the old ground of degradation and his longing - for atonement, and briefly laid before her the facts of his renunciation. - </p> - <p> - “I know now,” he concluded, “that it could only add - misery to misery. Nothing that a man or a woman alone can do can restore - lost honour and self-reverence. No fasting or penance or sacrifice is of - any use.” - </p> - <p> - Yvonne drew her face away from him, so as to see him better. Pain was in - her eyes. Her lips quivered. - </p> - <p> - “Then—Stephen—dear—is it still the same with you - about the prison—the old horror and shame?” - </p> - <p> - “My dearest,” he said tenderly, “I said man alone was - powerless. It is the touch of your lips that has wiped away all stain for - ever.” - </p> - <p> - They looked deep into each other’s eyes for a long, speechless - moment And then Yvonne, like a foolish woman, fell a-sobbing on his knees. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, thank God, my dear, thank God!” she said. - </p> - <div style="height: 6em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Derelicts, by William J. 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-Title: Derelicts
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-Author: William J. Locke
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-
- <div style="height: 8em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h1>
- DERELICTS
- </h1>
- <h2>
- By William J. Locke
- </h2>
- <h4>
- Author of “At The Gate of Samaria” and “The Demagogue
- and Lady Phayre”
- </h4>
- <h4>
- John Lane: The Bodley Head London and New York
- </h4>
- <h3>
- 1897
- </h3>
- <div class="fig" style="width:50%;">
- <img src="images/0010.jpg" alt="0010 " width="100%" /><br />
- </div>
-
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <p>
- <b>CONTENTS</b>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_PART"> <b>Part I</b> </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I—BEYOND THE PALE </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II—YVONNE </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III—IN THE DEPTHS </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV—DEA EX MACHINA </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V—THE COMIC MUSE </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI—MELPOMENE </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII—A FORLORN HOPE </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII—THE CANON’S ANGEL </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX—PAST, PRESENT, AND FUTURE </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X—COUNSELS OF PERFECTION </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI—THE OUTCAST COUSIN </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII—HISTOIRE DE REVENANT </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII—Dis Aliter Visum </a>
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_PART2"> <b>Part II</b> </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XIV—“IN A STRANGE LAND”
- </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER XV—KNIGHT-ERRANT </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER XVI—LA CIGALE </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER XVII—YVONNE PROPOSES </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER XVIII—DRIFTWOOD </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER XIX—FERMENT </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER XX—UPHEAVAL </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER XXI—A DEMAND IN MARRIAGE </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0022"> CHAPTER XXII—SEEKING SALVATION </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER XXIII—AN END AND A BEGINNING </a>
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_PART" id="link2H_PART"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- Part I
- </h2>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER I—BEYOND THE PALE
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>arm day”
- said the policeman.
- </p>
- <p>
- The man thus addressed looked up from the steps, where he was sitting
- bareheaded, and nodded. Then, rather quickly, he put on his hat.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Not much Bank Holiday hereabouts.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “So much the better,” said the man.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It’s all very well for them as likes it,” said the
- policeman, wiping his forehead.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was the first Monday in August, and his beat was not a lively one.
- Curiosity had attracted him toward the sitting figure, and the social
- instinct prompted conversation. Receiving, however, an uninterested nod in
- reply to his last remark, he turned away reluctantly and continued his
- slow tramp up the street.
- </p>
- <p>
- The man took no notice of his departure, but, resting his chin on his
- hands, gazed wistfully across the road. Why he had come here to Holland
- Park he scarcely knew. Perhaps, in his aimless walk from his lodgings in
- Pimlico, he had unconsciously followed a once familiar track that had
- brought him to a spot filled with sweet and bitter associations.
- </p>
- <p>
- The blinds were drawn in the great house opposite that stared white in the
- noonday sun. A beer-can hanging on the area railings announced the
- caretaker. Like most of the mansions in the long, well-kept street, it
- seemed abandoned to sun and silence.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was the first time he had seen the house since the cloud had fallen
- upon his life. Once its interior had been as familiar to him as his own
- boyhood’s home. Its inmates gave him flattering welcome. He was
- courted for his brilliant promise and admired for his good looks. A
- whisper of feasting and riotous living that hovered around his reputation
- caused him to be petted by the household as the prodigal cousin. The
- comforts of wealth, the charm of refinement, the warmth of affection, were
- his whenever he chose to knock for admittance at that door. Now he had
- lost them all, as irrevocably as Adam lost Eden. He was an outcast among
- men. Not only had he forfeited his right to mount the steps, but he knew
- that the very mention of his existence in that household brought shame and
- fierce injunctions of silence.
- </p>
- <p>
- He gazed at the drawn blinds of the deserted house in an agony of
- hopelessness, craving the warm sympathy, the laughter, the dear human
- companionship, the mere sound of his Christian name which he had not heard
- uttered for over two years—ever since he had entered by that gate
- above which the <i>lasciate ogni speranza</i> seemed written in letters of
- flame. The lines deepened on his face. The touch of a friendly hand, a
- kind glance from familiar eyes, the daily, unnoted possession of millions,
- were to him a priceless treasure, forever beyond his reach. He was barely
- thirty. His life was wrecked. Nothing lay before him but pariahdom, and
- slinking from the gaze of honest men. And within him there burnt no fiery
- sense of injustice to keep alive the flame of noble impulse—only
- self-contempt, ignominy, the ineffaceable brand of the gaol.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was on the pavement opposite that he had been arrested. He had tripped
- down the steps in evening dress, his ears buzzing with the laughter
- within, in spite of tremulous throbbings of his heart, and had walked into
- the arms of the two quiet officers in plain clothes who had been patiently
- awaiting his exit. From that moment onward his life had been one pain and
- horror. Regained freedom had brought him little joy—had brought him
- in fact increased despair. During the last few months of his imprisonment
- he had yearned sickeningly for the day of release. It had come. Sometimes
- he regretted the benumbed hours of that mid-time in gaol, when pain had
- been lost in apathy. He had been free for five months. In all probability
- he would be free for the rest of his life. Sometimes he shuddered at the
- prospect.
- </p>
- <p>
- The policeman again passed by, and this time eyed him askance. Why was he
- sitting on those steps? A suspicion of felonious purpose relieved the
- monotony of his beat.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You ’ll be moving on soon,” he said. “You mustn’t
- doss on them doorsteps all day.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The man looked at him rather stupidly. His first impulse was one of
- servile obedience—an instinct of late habit, and he rose from
- his seat. Then his sense of independence asserted itself, and he
- said, in a somewhat defiant tone:—
- </p>
- <p>
- “I felt faint from the heat. You have no right to molest me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The policeman glanced at him from head to foot. A gentleman evidently, in
- spite of well-worn clothes and gloveless hands thrust into trousers
- pockets. He wore no watch-chain, and his shirt-cuffs were destitute of
- links. “Down upon his luck,” thought the policeman; “ill
- too.” The man’s face was pinched, and of the transparent white
- of a thin, fair man with delicately cut features. His eyes were heavy,
- deeply sunken, and wore an expression of weariness mingled with fear. The
- side muscles by his mouth were relaxed, as if a heavy drooping moustache
- had dragged them down; the scanty blonde hair on his upper lip, curled up
- at the ends, contrasted oddly with this impression. He looked careworn and
- ill. His clothes hung loosely upon him. The policeman surrendered his
- point.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, you ain’t obstructing the traffic,” he replied
- good-humouredly; and again he left the man alone, who reseated himself on
- the shady steps, as if disinclined to stir from comfortable quarters. But
- the spell of his meditations had been broken. He leaned his head against
- the stone pillar of the balustrade and tried to think of occupation for
- the day. He longed for to-morrow, when he could resume his weary search
- for work, interrupted since Saturday noon. At first he had plunged into
- the hopeless task with feverish anxiety, humiliated by rebuffs, agonised
- through the frustration of idle hopes. Now it had grown mechanical, a
- daily routine, devoid of pain or joy, to drag himself through the busy
- streets from office to office and from shop to shop. He resented the
- Sunday cessation of work, as interfering with the tenor of his life. This
- Bank Holiday added another Sunday to the week.
- </p>
- <p>
- The heat and glare and soundless solitude of the street made him drowsy.
- The thought of death passed through him: an euthanasia—to fade there
- peacefully out of existence. And then to be picked up dead on a doorstep—a
- fitting end. <i>Finis coronat opus</i>. He sniffed cynically at the idea.
- The minutes passed. The shade gradually encroached upon the sunlight of
- the pavement. A cat from one of the great deserted houses drew near with
- meditative step, smelt his boots, and, in the bored manner of her tribe,
- curled herself up to slumber. A butcher’s cart rattling past awoke
- the man, and he bent down and stroked the creature at his feet. Then he
- became aware of a figure approaching him, along the pavement—a tiny
- woman, neatly dressed. He watched her idly, with lack-lustre gaze. But
- when she came within distance of salutation, their eyes met, and each
- started in recognition. He rose hurriedly and made a step as if to cross
- the road, but the little lady stopped still.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Stephen Chisely!”
- </p>
- <p>
- She moved forward and laid a detaining touch upon his arm, and looked up
- questioningly into his face:—
- </p>
- <p>
- “Won’t you speak to me?”
- </p>
- <p>
- The voice was so soft and musical, the intonation so winning, that he
- checked his impulse of flight; but he stared at her half bewildered.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You haven’t forgotten me—Yvonne Latour?” she
- continued.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Forgotten you? No,” he replied, slowly. “But I am not
- accustomed to being recognised.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “The world is very full of hateful people,” she said. “Oh!
- how wretchedly ill you are looking! That was why you were sitting down on
- the doorstep. My poor fellow!”
- </p>
- <p>
- There was a suggestion of tears in her eyes. He turned his head away
- quickly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You mustn’t talk to me like that,” he said, huskily.
- “I’m not fit for you to speak to. When I went under, I went
- under—for good and all. Good-bye, Madame Latour—and God bless
- you for saying a kind word to me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why need you go away? Walk a little with me, won’t you? We
- can go along to the Park and sit quietly and talk.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Do you really mean it—that you would walk with me—in
- the public streets?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why, of course,” she replied, with a little air of surprise.
- “Did we not have many walks together in the old days? Do you think I
- have forgotten? And you want friends so, so badly that even poor little me
- may be of some good. Come.”
- </p>
- <p>
- They moved away together, and walked some steps in silence. He was too
- dazed with the sudden realisation of his yearning for human tenderness to
- find adequate speech. At last he said harshly:—
- </p>
- <p>
- “You know what you are doing? You are in the company of a man who
- committed a disgraceful crime and has rotted in a gaol for two years.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ah, don’t say such things,” said Madame Latour. “You
- hurt me. There are hundreds of people in this great London, honoured and
- respected, who have done far worse than you. Hundreds of thousands,”
- she added, with exaggerated conviction. “Besides, you are still my
- good, kind friend. What has passed cannot alter that.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I can’t understand it yet,” he said lamely. “You
- are the first who has said a kind word to me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Poor fellow!” said Yvonne again.
- </p>
- <p>
- They emerged into the Bayswater Road. Before he had time to remonstrate,
- she had hailed an omnibus going eastward. “We will get out at the
- corner of the Park. You mustn’t walk too much.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The ’bus stopped. He entered with her and sat down by her side. When
- the conductor came for the fares, Yvonne opened her purse quickly; but a
- flush came over her companion’s pale face as he divined her
- intention. “You must let me,” he said, producing a couple of
- pence from his pocket.
- </p>
- <p>
- The rattling of the vehicle prevented serious conversation. The talk
- drifted naturally into the desultory commonplace. Madame Latour explained
- that she had been giving the last singing lesson of the season at a house
- on the other side of Holland Park, that her pupil had neither ear nor
- voice, and that by the time she had learned the accompaniment to a song it
- had already grown out of date. “People are so stupid, you know.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She said it with such an air of conviction, as if she had discovered a
- brand-new truth, that the man smiled. She noted it with her quick,
- feminine glance, and felt gladdened. It was so much better to laugh than
- to cry. She was encouraged to chatter lightly upon passing glimpses of
- people in the street, of amusing incidents in her profession as a concert
- singer. When the ’bus stopped, she jumped out, disregarding his
- gravely offered hand, and laughed, her face glowing with animation.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, how nice it is to be with you again!” she said, as they
- crossed to the entrance gate of Kensington Gardens. “Say that you
- are glad you met me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It is like a drop of water on the tongue of the damned,” he
- said in a low voice—too low, however, for her to hear, for she
- continued to look up at him, all smiles and sweetness.
- </p>
- <p>
- She seemed a thing of warmth and sunshine, too impalpable for the rough
- uses of the world. One would have said she was the embodied spirit of the
- warm south of Keats’s ode. Her dark hair, massed in a hundred little
- waves over her forehead and temples, gave an indescribable softness to her
- face. A faint tinge of rose shone through her dark skin. Her great brown
- eyes contained immeasurable depths of tenderness. A subtly-mingled,
- all-pervading sense of summer and the exquisitely feminine enveloped her
- from the beautiful hair to her tiny feet. She was in the sweetest bloom of
- her womanhood and she had all the unconscious, half-pathetic charm of a
- child. In a crowded ball-room, amidst dazzling dresses and flashing arms
- and necks and under the electric light, Yvonne’s beauty might have
- passed unnoticed. But there, in the shady walk upon which they had just
- entered, in that quiet world of cool greens and shadowed yellows, she
- appeared to the man’s weary eyes the most beautiful thing on the
- earth.
- </p>
- <p>
- “How sweet it is here,” she said, as they sat down upon a
- bench.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Incomprehensibly sweet,” he replied.
- </p>
- <p>
- His tone touched her. She laid her tiny gloved hand upon his arm.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I wish I could help you—Mr. Chisely,” she said gently.
- </p>
- <p>
- “That is no longer my name,” he said. “And so you must n’t
- call me by it. I have given it up since—since I came out. Would you
- care to hear about me? It would help me to speak a little.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That’s why I brought you here,” said Yvonne.
- </p>
- <p>
- He bent forward, elbows on knees, covering his face in his hands.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don’t know, after all, that there’s much to say. My
- poor mother died while I was in prison—you know that; I suppose I
- broke her heart. Her money was sunk in an annuity. The furniture and
- things were sold to pay outstanding debts of mine. I came out five months
- ago, penniless. Everard’s bankers communicated with me. As the head
- of the family he had collected a lump sum of money, which was given to me
- on condition that I should change my name and never let any of the family
- hear of my existence again. My mother’s people refused to have
- anything to do with me. God knows why I was sitting outside their house
- to-day. Perhaps you think I ought n’t to have accepted Everard’s
- gift. A man hasn’t much pride left after two years’ hard
- labour.... I took the name of Joyce. I saw it on a tradesman’s cart
- as I reached the street after the interview. One name is as good as
- another.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But you are still Stephen?” said Yvonne.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I suppose so. I have hardly thought of it. Yes, I suppose I keep
- the Stephen.... I am husbanding this money. I have only that between me
- and starvation, if anything happened, you know. What I have passed through
- is not the best thing for one’s health. Meanwhile, I am trying to
- get work. It is a bit hopeless. I know I ought to go out of England, but
- London is in my blood somehow. I am loth to leave it. Besides, what should
- I do in the colonies? I am not fit for hard manual labour. They tried it
- in there, and I broke down; I made sacks and helped in the kitchen most of
- my time. If I could earn a pound a week in London, I should n’t
- care. It would keep body and soul together. Why I should want to keep them
- together I don’t know. I suppose my spirit is broken, and I am too
- apathetic to commit suicide. If I had the spirit of a louse I should do
- so. But I haven’t.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He stopped speaking and remained with his head bowed in his hands. Yvonne
- could find no words to reply. His almost brutal terseness had given her a
- momentary perception of his self-abasement which surprised and frightened
- her. Generous and tender-hearted as she was, she had ever found men
- insoluble enigmas. They knew so much, had so many strange wants, seemed to
- exist in a world of ideas, feelings, and actions beyond her ken. Here was
- one with nameless experiences and shames. She shrank a few inches along
- the seat, not from repulsion, but from a sudden sense of her own
- incapacity of comprehension. She felt tongue-tied and helpless. So there
- was a short silence.
- </p>
- <p>
- Joyce noticed the lack of spontaneous sympathy, and, raising a haggard
- face, said:—
- </p>
- <p>
- “I have shocked you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You talk so strangely,” said Yvonne—“as if you
- had a stone instead of a heart.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Forgive me,” he said, softening at the sight of her distress.
- “I am ungrateful to you. I ought to be happy to-day. I will be
- happy. I should like to bend down and kiss your feet for sitting here with
- me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The change in his tone brought the colour back into Yvonne’s face
- and the sun into her eyes. She was a creature of quick impulses.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Have I really made you happy? I am so glad. I seem to be always
- trying to make people happy and never succeeding.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “They must be strange people you have dealt with,” said Joyce
- with a weary smile.
- </p>
- <p>
- She shrugged her shoulders expressively.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I suppose it is that other people are so strange and I am so
- ordinary.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You are the kindest, sunniest soul on earth,” said Joyce.
- “You always were.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, how can you say so?” she cried, shaking her head. She was
- all brightness again. “I am such an insignificant little person.
- Everything about me seems so small. I have a small body, a small voice, a
- small sphere, a small mind, and oh! I live in such a small, tiny flat. You
- must come and see me. I will sing to you—that is my one small talent—and
- perhaps that will cheer you. You must be so lonely!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why are you so good to me?” Joyce asked.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Because you look wretched and ill and miserable.” she said
- impulsively, “and I can’t bear it. You were good to me once.
- Do you remember how kindly you settled everything for me after Amédée left
- me? I don’t know what I should have done without you. And then, your
- mother. Ah, I know,” she continued, lowering her voice a little,
- “I know, and I cried for you. I saw her just before the end came and
- she spoke of you. She said 'Yvonne, if ever you meet Stephen, give him a
- kind word for my sake. He will have the whole world against him.’
- And I promised—but I should have done just the same if I had n’t
- promised. There is n’t any goodness in it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He pressed her hand dumbly. Her eyes swam with starting tears, but his
- were dry. Sometimes when he thought of the devastation his crime had
- wrought, he would fall on his knees and bury his face, and long that he
- could ease his heart in a storm of weeping. But it seemed too dead for
- passionate outburst. Yet he had never felt so near to emotion as at that
- moment.
- </p>
- <p>
- They talked for a short while longer, of old days and home memories,
- bitter-sweet to the young man, and of his present position, whose
- hopelessness Yvonne refused to allow. She was anxious to effect a
- reconciliation between him and his family. His mother’s relations
- who lived in Holland Park she did not know. But his cousin, Everard
- Chisely, Canon of Winchester, might be brought to more Christian
- sentiments of forgiveness. She would plead with the Canon the first time
- that she met him. But Joyce shook his head. No. He was the black sheep.
- Everard had behaved generously. He must go his own way. No modern
- Christianity could make a man forget the disgrace that had been brought
- upon his name by felony. Besides, Everard never went back upon his word.
- Like Pilate, what he had written, he had written, and there was an end of
- the matter.
- </p>
- <p>
- “But how do you come to know Everard?” asked Joyce, wishing to
- turn the conversation.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I met him several times at your mother’s,” replied
- Yvonne. “He used to be so kind to her. And there he heard me sing—and
- somehow we have become immense friends. He comes to see me, and I sing to
- him. Dina Vicary says he comes up to town on purpose. Did you ever hear
- such a thing? But I can’t tell you how respectable it makes me feel—so
- impressive you know—a real live dignitary. Once he came when Elsie
- Carnegie and Vandeleur were there showing me her new song and dance. You
- should have seen their faces when he came in. Van, who sings in the choir
- of a West End church, began to talk hymns for all he was worth, while
- Elsie flicked her lighted cigarette into a flower-pot. It was so funny.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Yvonne broke into a contagious ripple of laughter. Then, remembering the
- flight of time, she looked at her watch and rose quickly from the seat.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I had no idea it was so late! I am going out to lunch. Now you will
- come and see me, won’t you? Come to-morrow evening. I live at 40
- Aberdare Mansions, Marylebone Road. By the way, do you still sing?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I had forgotten there was such a thing as song in the world,”
- said Joyce sadly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, you ’ll remember it to-morrow evening,” said
- Yvonne. “I have an idea. <i>Au revoir</i> then.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “God bless you,” said Joyce, shaking hands with her.
- </p>
- <p>
- She nodded brightly, and tripped away up the path. Joyce watched her
- dainty figure until it was out of sight, and then he wandered aimlessly
- through the Park, thinking of the past hour. And, for a short while, some
- of the contamination of the gaol seemed to be wiped away.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER II—YVONNE
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>hat evening Yvonne
- was standing by the door of a concert-hall, as her friend and
- fellow-artist Vandeleur adjusted a red wrap round her shoulders. He was a
- burly, pudding-faced Irishman with twinkling dark blue eyes and a
- persuasive manner. His fingers lingered about the wrap longer than was
- necessary.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Good-bye,” said Yvonne, “and thank you.” She was
- feeling a little upset. Vandeleur, a popular favourite, had preceded her
- on the programme, and his song had been met with rapturous applause.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You have ‘queered’ me, Van,” she had said, in
- pure jest.
- </p>
- <p>
- Whereupon, he had returned to the platform to give his enthusiastically
- demanded encore, and, to the disappointment of the audience, had sung the
- most villainous drawing-room ballad he could think of, without an attempt
- at expression. The applause had been perfunctory, and Yvonne’s
- appearance had created a quickening of interest. Vandeleur’s
- unnecessary quixotism put Yvonne into a false position. So she thanked him
- shyly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Let me just have ten minutes of a cigarette at home with you,”
- he pleaded.
- </p>
- <p>
- Yvonne was tired. It was very hot; she had been running hither and thither
- about London since the morning, and was longing in a feminine way to free
- herself of hampering garments, and to lie down with a French novel for an
- hour before going to bed. But when a man spoke to her with that note of
- entreaty in his voice she did not know how to refuse. She nodded assent.
- Vandeleur called a cab and they drove together to her flat.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was up many flights of stairs—the passage was very narrow, the
- drawing-room very tiny. The big Irishman standing on the hearthrug seemed
- to fill all the space left by the grand piano. How this article of
- furniture was ever brought into the flat puzzled Yvonne’s friends as
- much as the entrance of the apples into the dumplings puzzled George III.,
- until some one suggested the same solution of the problem—the flat
- had been built round the piano. Everything else in the room was small,
- like Yvonne herself, the armchairs, the couch, the three occasional
- tables. A few water-colours hung around the walls. The curtains and
- draperies were fresh and tasteful. All the room, with its dainty furniture
- and pretty feminine knick-knacks, was impressed with Yvonne’s
- graceful individuality—all except the immense grand piano, which
- asserted itself loudly, a polished rosewood solecism. It seemed such a
- very big instrument for so small a person as Yvonne.
- </p>
- <p>
- She threw herself into an armchair by the fire, with a little sigh. She
- had been unusually quiet during the drive home.
- </p>
- <p>
- “And what’s making you miserable?” asked Vandeleur, in a
- tone of concern.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I wish you had n’t done that, Van,” she said, with a
- wistful puckering of her forehead.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ah, there! now you’re vexed with me. There never was an
- animal like me for treading on my dearest friends. I’m like the
- elephant you may have heard of, that squashed the mother of a brood of
- chickens by mistake, and, taking it to heart, just like me, gathered the
- little ones under his wing, and, sitting down upon them, said: ‘Ah,
- be aisy now, I’ll be a mother to you’; he did n’t hurt
- the chickens’ feelings exactly—but it was mistaken kindness.
- Was it your feelings I trampled on?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ah, no, Van,” said Yvonne, smiling. “But don’t
- you see, it was doing a thing I can never pay you back for.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Faith, the sight of your sweet face is payment enough.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But you can have that for nothing—such as it is.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It’s the sweetest face that ever was made,” said the
- Irishman, flinging a freshly-lighted cigarette into the grate behind him.
- “I’d cut off my head any day to get a sight of it But are you
- wanting to pay me more than that? By my soul, there’s just an easy
- way out of your difficulty, Yvonne!”
- </p>
- <p>
- He looked down at her, his face very red, and questioning in his eyes. She
- caught his glance and sat upright, stretching out her hand appealingly.
- Men had looked at her like that before,—craving for something she
- had not in her to give. She had always, on such occasions, felt what a
- shallow, poverty-stricken little soul she was. What was in her that could
- bring the trouble into men’s eyes? Here was Van, the kind friend and
- good comrade, going the way of the others. She was frightened
- and distressed.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, Van, don’t!” she cried. “Not that. I can’t
- bear it!”
- </p>
- <p>
- She covered her face with her hands, as he came quickly forward and leaned
- over her chair. “Just a tiny bit of love, Yvonne. So small that you
- would n’t miss it. I could do with it all, but I know I can’t
- get that. I only ask for a sample. Come, Yvonne.”
- </p>
- <p>
- But Yvonne shook her head.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Don’t, Van,” she repeated, piteously; “you’re
- hurting me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Her tone was so pathetic that the big man drew himself up, thumped his
- chest, and seized his hat. “I’m a great big brute to come and
- take advantage of you like this. Of course you couldn’t care about a
- great fat bounder like me. And you’re half dropping with weariness.
- It’s a villain I am. I’ll leave you to your sleep, poor little
- woman. Good night.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He held out his hand, and she allowed hers to remain in it for a moment.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I have n’t been ungrateful to you, have I?” she asked.
- “I did n’t mean to be. But I thought you were different.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “How, different?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That you would never make love to me. Don’t, Van, please. It
- would spoil it all.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, perhaps it would,” replied Vandeleur, philosophically.
- “Only it is so devilish hard not to make love to you when one’s
- got the chance. And, begad! if you’d just give up looking like a
- little warm, brown saint, it would be better for the peace of mind of the
- men.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He stooped and touched her hand with his lips and strode buoyantly out of
- the room. She heard him humming one of his songs along the passage, then
- the slam of the front door; then there was silence, and Yvonne went to bed
- with a grateful sense of escape from unknown dangers. Still, she was sorry
- for Vandeleur, although she had a dim perception of the superficiality of
- his passion. It would have been nice, had it been possible, to make him
- happy. She had a queer, unreasonable little feeling that she had been
- selfish. She sighed as she settled herself to sleep. The ways of the world
- were very complicated.
- </p>
- <p>
- To those who knew her it was often a subject for marvel that she was not
- crushed in the fierce struggle of life. A creature so yielding, so simple,
- so unaffected by experience or the obvious external lessons of the world,
- and yet standing serenely in the midst of the turmoil, seemed an
- incongruity—gave a sense of shock, a prompting to rescue, such as
- would arise from the sight of a child in the middle of a roadway clashing
- with traffic. She was made for protection, tenderness, all the sheltering
- luxuries and amenities of life. It was a flaw in the eternal fitness of
- things that she was alone, earning her livelihood, with nothing but her
- sweetness and innocence to guard her from buffeting and downfall.
- </p>
- <p>
- Yet it was her very simplicity that saved her from outward strain; and
- inward stress was as yet spared her, through her unawakened
-child's nature. She laughed when folks pitied her. To earn her living was an easy
- matter. Born in the profession, trained for it from her earliest days, she
- had taken to it as a young swan to the water. Engagements came like the
- winds, the visits of her friends, and other such natural and commonplace
- phenomena. She sang, or gave her lessons, and the money was paid in to the
- branch of the City Bank close by her flat, and when she needed funds for
- her modest expenses she wrote a cheque and sent her maid to cash it When
- her balance was getting low, she practised little economies and postponed
- payment of bills; when it was high, she settled her debts, bought new
- clothes, and had a dozen oysters now and then for supper. It was very
- simple. She did not pity herself at all. Nor did she feel the trouble of
- her past married life. It had gone by like a cloudy day, forgotten in
- succeeding sunshine, and had left singularly little trace upon her
- character. Even the period of unhappiness had not weighed unduly. A more
- resistful nature might have been wrecked irretrievably; but Yvonne had
- been cast upon the shoals only for a season.
- </p>
- <p>
- When Amédée Bazouge, a Parisian tenor who had settled in London, first met
- her, he was surfeited with various blonde beauties of the baser sort, and
- in a sentimental mood, during which he frequently invoked the memory of
- his mother, he chose to fall desperately in love with little brown Yvonne,
- likening her to the Blessed Virgin and as many saints as he recollected.
- Yvonne was very young; this sudden worship was new to her; the pain in his
- heart that he so passionately dwelt upon seemed a terrible thing for her
- to have caused. She married him because he said that his life was at
- stake. She gave him herself as she would have given sixpence to a poor man
- in the street. Why she was necessary to his life’s happiness she
- could not guess. However, Amédée said so, and she took it on faith.
- </p>
- <p>
- For a while she was mildly content in his exuberant delight. He whispered,
- in soft honeymoon hours, “<i>m’aimes-tu?</i>”—and
- she said “Yes,” because she knew it would please him; but she
- was always happier at other times, when she was not called upon for
- display or expression of feeling. She liked him well enough. His somewhat
- common handsomeness pleased her, his effervescent fancy and boulevard wit
- kept her lightly amused, and his vehement passion provided her with an
- interest strangely compounded of fright, wonder, and pity.
- </p>
- <p>
- But Amédée Bazouge was not made either by nature or education for the
- domestic virtues. His repentant mood passed away; he forgot the memory of
- his mother, and found Yvonne’s innocence grow insipid. He hankered
- after the strange goddesses with their full-flavoured personalities, their
- cynicism, their passions, and their stimulating variety. Regret came to
- him for having broken with the last, who always kept him in a state of
- delicious uncertainty whether she would overwhelm him with passionate
- kisses or break the looking-glass in a tempest of wrath. So, gradually, he
- sought satisfaction for his reactionary yearnings and drifted away from
- Yvonne. And then she grew unhappy. He did not treat her unkindly. In all
- their dealings with each other a harsh word never passed the lips of
- either. But she felt cold and neglected. Instead of being met after a
- concert and accompanied to their little house at Staines, she went the
- long journey alone. The quiet evenings of music and singing together were
- things of the past. Often a week elapsed without their meeting. To
- complete her trouble, her mother died suddenly, and Yvonne felt very
- lonely. She would sit sometimes and cry like a lost child.
- </p>
- <p>
- At last they parted. Amédée returned to Paris, and Yvonne took her little
- flat in the Marylebone Road. The clouds passed by and Yvonne was happy
- again. She had retained professionally her maiden name of Latour, and now
- she assumed it altogether, only changing the former “Mademoiselle”
- into “Madame.” Her husband faded into a vague memory. When she
- received news of him it was through a paragraph in the “Figaro,”
- announcing his death in a Paris hospital. She wore a little crape bonnet
- to notify to the world the fact of her widowhood, but she had no tears to
- shed. When friends condoled with her over her sad lot, she opened her
- round eyes in astonishment.
- </p>
- <p>
- “But, my dear, I am as happy as I can possibly be,” she would
- say in remonstrance. And it was true. She had come through the ordeal of
- an unhappy marriage, pure and childlike, her heart unruffled by passion
- and her soul unclouded by disillusion.
- </p>
- <p>
- There are some women born to be loved by many men, yielding, trustful,
- appealing irresistibly to the masculine instincts of protection and
- possession. Sometimes they are carried off by one successful owner and
- bear him children, and hear nothing of the hopeless loves that they
- inspire. Sometimes, like Yvonne, they are at the mercy of every gust of
- passion that stirs the hearts of the men around them. They are too
- innocent of the meaning and scope of love to bide the time when love shall
- take them in its grip; too weak, tender, and compassionate to harden their
- hearts against the sufferings of men. If they fail, the world is unsparing
- in condemnation. If happy circumstance shelters them, they are canonised
- for virtues that stop short of their logical conclusion. Wherefore we are
- tempted to say hard things of the world.
- </p>
- <p>
- Fate, however, had dealt not unkindly with Yvonne. At times her path had
- been sadly tangled and she had sighed, as she did this night after
- Vandeleur’s unexpected declaration. But chance had always come to
- her aid and cleared her way. She trusted to it now as she fell asleep.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER III—IN THE DEPTHS
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>f you step this
- way, the manager will see you,” said the clerk, lifting the flap of
- the counter.
- </p>
- <p>
- Joyce rose from the cane-bottomed chair on which he had been sitting, and
- followed the clerk through the busy outer office into the private room
- beyond. An elderly man in gold spectacles looked up from his desk.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What can I do for you?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am seeking employment,” said Joyce, “can you give me
- any?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Employment?”
- </p>
- <p>
- If Joyce had asked him for Prester John’s cap, or the Cham of
- Tartary’s beard, his tone could not have expressed more surprise.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes,” replied Joyce. “I don’t mind what it is—clerk,
- copyist, handy-man, messenger—so long as it’s work.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Utterly impossible,” said the manager, shortly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Would it be of any use to leave my address?” asked Joyce.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Not a bit. Good day to you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Joyce walked out apathetically on to the landing. It was a nest of city
- offices in a great block of buildings in Fenchurch Street, a labyrinth of
- staircases, passages, and ground-glass doors black-lettered with the names
- of firms. He was going through them systematically. Often he could not
- gain access to a person in authority. When he succeeded, it was the same
- history of rebuff. He felt somewhat downcast at the result of this last
- interview, the cheerful alacrity with which he had been received having
- given him an unreasonable hope. He paused for a few moments deciding upon
- what door to try next. Some names looked encouraging, others forbidding—a
- futile superstition, yet one not without influence upon his unfed mind.
- Why “Griffith & Swan” should have attracted and “Willoughby
- Bros.” repelled him is a psychological problem that must forever
- remain insoluble. It is none the less a fact that he bent his steps along
- the passage to the door of the first-mentioned firm. But there he was
- repulsed at the outset. The chiefs were engaged. Had he an appointment?
- </p>
- <p>
- What was his business? The only way to see the chiefs was by writing to
- fix an interview. Joyce retired, climbed wearily up the stone staircase to
- the next floor. Everywhere the same monotonous result.
- </p>
- <p>
- At last his application was seriously entertained. His heart beat
- anxiously. It was at a firm of shipping agents. Two clerks had gone on
- their holiday, another one had just that morning fallen ill. They were
- short-handed. The junior partner, a brisk young fellow, looked shrewdly at
- Joyce, divining his education and capacity.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I could give you some temporary work, certainly. Only too glad, for
- we are in a hole. But of course we must have some references.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am afraid I can give you none,” replied Joyce. “I
- have had a good education and business training, and I could do your work.
- But I’m a lonely man—without friends.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “What have you been doing lately for a living.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The matter-of-fact question turned his heart sick. He had known that he
- would have to answer it before he could enter upon any employment; but he
- had always shrunk from formulating a plausible reply, weakly trusting to
- his mother-wit when the dreaded moment should come. Now his mother-wit
- deserted him. He could think of nothing but the past reality.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I would rather tell you nothing about myself,” he said
- lamely.
- </p>
- <p>
- The young partner shrugged his shoulders good-humouredly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, that’s your affair. But you see we can’t take a
- stranger into our office without his giving us some formal voucher for his
- honesty.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Joyce looked at him appealingly, with glistening eyes, a new Moses on
- Mount Nebo. Only then did he fully realise the utter hopelessness of his
- position. The veriest office-boy needed a certificate of character. He had
- none.
- </p>
- <p>
- The partner, clean-shaven, ruddy-cheeked, was lounging against the
- mantel-piece, hands in pockets, a whimsical smile playing around the
- comers of his mouth. His speech, though business-like, was kindly. He
- looked a gentleman. Joyce was seized with a mad, despairing impulse. He
- flushed to the roots of his hair, clenched his hands by his sides and
- advanced an involuntary step towards his interlocutor.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I will tell you the truth,” he cried breathlessly. “I
- must find work soon or I shall starve. Give it to me and I will work night
- and day for you. I took a double first at Oxford. I practised as a
- solicitor. I lived beyond my means and misappropriated trust-money. I
- could not pay it back. My name was struck off the rolls and I had two
- years’ hard labour. I have been looking for work every day for five
- months. I am not such a fool as to risk that hell again. For God’s
- sake give me a chance and set me on my feet again.” His voice rang
- with the agony of entreaty. His lips quivered. When he ceased speaking he
- was shaking from head to foot.
- </p>
- <p>
- The young man shifted the crossing of his feet and put up an eyeglass that
- had been dangling on his waistcoat.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, you have pretty damned cheek, I must say!” he remarked,
- with a drawl.
- </p>
- <p>
- Joyce stared at him for a moment stupidly, and then turned away without a
- word, crushed and humiliated to his soul. Round and round the rectangular
- well-staircase he went, dizzy with the reaction. He could knock at no more
- doors. The names seemed to swell large and to jeer at him as he passed. A
- burst of laughter from two men, issuing from some office above, echoed and
- rattled down the staircase and jarred upon every nerve of his body. He
- quickened his pace to a run, and did not stop until he reached the
- sweltering street. White and faint he leant against the wall, vaguely
- conscious of the ceaselessly hurrying mass that passed him by. After a
- minute or two he recovered self-possession enough to move onwards with the
- westward stream on the pavement. His quest of work was abandoned. He could
- only feel sickening regret for having given way to his insane impulse and
- shrink from the echoing tones of the other man’s cynical contempt.
- The last shred of his self-respect was torn away. He seemed to be the
- naked gaol-bird before those thousand eyes that glanced upon him. The idea
- grew into morbid exaggeration. A man or woman making way for him to pass
- appeared to be shrinking from the soil of his touch. Every policeman was
- identifying him. A penny-toy man by the Mansion House, who had taken off
- his cap and was scratching a closely-cropped head, grinned at him with the
- familiarity of an old acquaintance.
- </p>
- <p>
- It became unbearable. He fled into a public-house in Cheapside and ordered
- a glass of whisky. The spirit ran through his veins comfortingly. He drank
- another, and went out into the street. Soon the spirit, acting on an empty
- stomach, dulled his senses and provoked a vague suggestion of debauch as
- the only consoler. In the days of his vanity Joyce had known the flush of
- wine on joyous nights, but drunkenness had always been hateful to him. Yet
- now, in his morbid state, the temptation was irresistible. He went from
- tavern to tavern with dull, stupid recklessness, cognisant only of the
- motive to drink and of his own mechanical personality. At last, staggering
- out of a public-house in Fleet Street, he tripped at the threshold and
- fell insensible on the pavement.
- </p>
- <p>
- When he recovered consciousness it was quite dark. For a few moments he
- did not seek to discover where he was. But a chance movement caused him
- nearly to fall from where he lay, and he started to a sitting posture. His
- feet touched the ground sooner than he expected; the slight shock
- completed his awakening. Where was he? He stretched out his hand and felt
- the wall. It was stone. Stone, too, was the floor, as he found by stamping
- his foot. Then the truth burst upon him with indescribable terror. It was
- the cell of a police station. Although his head swam and his eyeballs
- ached, the flight of the discovery had thoroughly sobered him. It was the
- final calamity and degradation of the day. He was in prison again. He
- would again have to put on the hateful clothes and cower beneath the
- warder’s glance. Once more he would have to go through that dreadful
- ignominy. Exaggerating the consequences of his misdemeanour, he conjured
- up all the horrors of his previous term. A sense of utter self-loathing
- swelled within him like a nausea. He crouched on the narrow bench, holding
- his hair in a feverish grasp. The gaol had got him, body and soul. It was
- all that he was fit for.
- </p>
- <p>
- An hour passed. Then the door opened and a policeman appeared in the light
- of the passage. Joyce looked up at him haggardly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, you’re all right now, are you? Better come up and see the
- Inspector.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Joyce staggered to his feet and clutched the policeman’s supporting
- arm.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I was in great trouble,” he said hoarsely. “And then
- the heat—an empty stomach—a few glasses knocked me over.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Explain that upstairs,” replied the other. “Bless you,
- it ’ll be all square.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Brought before the Inspector, he pulled himself together and pleaded his
- cause with an intensity that amused the officials. They could see nothing
- tragic in a “drunk and incapable.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Very well,” said the Inspector at last. “I see it was
- an accident. Call it heat-apoplexy. I sha’n’t charge you. You
- had better get home to bed.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Joyce grew faint with the revulsion of feeling, and steadied himself by
- the iron railing. One of the men took him to the door, hailed a passing cab
- and helped him in. At first, ill and dizzy as he was, he felt the animal’s
- instinctive joy in suddenly regained liberty. The non-fulfilment of his
- agonising forebodings filled him with a wondering sense of relief. But
- this did not last long. Despair and self-abhorrence resumed their hold upon
- him, causing him to shiver in the cab as with an ague.
- </p>
- <p>
- He crawled upstairs to his attic, and after having procured some food, of
- which he ate as much as he could swallow, he went to bed and fell into a
- heavy sleep. In the middle of the night he woke with a start. The
- recollection of his engagement with Yvonne Latour had penetrated through
- the sub-consciousness of half-awakening. He uttered a cry of dismay.
- </p>
- <p>
- All the previous evening and all that morning he had thought of the
- promised visit. To sit in a lady’s room, to live for a moment a bit
- of the old life, to forget his pariahdom in Yvonne’s welcoming
- smile, to have the comfort of her exquisite pity—the prospect had
- rendered him almost buoyant during the early part of his round. But the
- pain and fever of after-events had driven her from his mind. Now, in his
- suffering state, it seemed as if he had lost an offered corner of
- Paradise, rejected the one hand that was stretched out to save him from
- perdition. He lay awake many hours. At last, toward dawn, he fell asleep
- again and did not wake till mid-day.
- </p>
- <p>
- He rose, rang for his breakfast, which was brought him, as usual, on a
- tray, by the slatternly maid-of-all-work. He was still feeling prostrated
- in mind and body. Having eaten what he could, he drew up the blind to look
- at the day. The fine weather was still lasting. But he felt no desire to
- go out. What was the use? Judging by the lesson of yesterday it would be
- futile to continue his search for employment. As he turned away from the
- window, he caught sight of his white haggard face and bloodshot eyes in
- the mirror, and he shrank back, as though it revealed to him the miserable
- weakness of his soul. Then he threw himself half-dressed upon the bed, and
- there he remained, abandoning himself to the hopeless inaction of defeat,
- and eating his heart out in remorse for the shipwreck he had made of his
- life.
- </p>
- <p>
- He did not pose before himself as a victim to circumstance. Could he have
- done so, he might have found some poor consolation. His criminal folly lay
- as much upon his soul as its punishment. Again, it had not been a grand
- stroke of villainy requiring for its execution a masterly coolness and
- genius for which he might at least have had an intellectual admiration.
- But it had been of the same petty sort as that of the shop-boy led astray
- by low turf associates, who pilfers day by day from his master’s
- till, hoping the luck will turn and enable him to replace the stolen
- shillings. The difference had been merely one of degree. His operations
- had been on a larger scale, his vices more fastidious, his circle of loose
- friends more aristocratic. But he had had the same contemptible motives
- for his crime, and the same contemptible excuses. He spared himself no
- arrow of self-scorn.
- </p>
- <p>
- Latterly, through sheer weariness, he had grown apathetic, taking his
- self-abasement as one of the conditions of life. A man is not
- physiologically capable of continuous outburst. But now the iron had
- entered deep into his soul, causing him to writhe in torment.
- </p>
- <p>
- What would be the end? The question haunted him, and yet it seemed
- scarcely worth consideration. There was no employment to be obtained by
- such as he. He would eke out his small capital as far as possible, and
- when that was exhausted, he could put an end to his worthless life. Or
- would his cowardice drag him down among the class of habitual criminals,
- lead him to crime as a means of livelihood? He shuddered, remembering his
- short spell of agony in the cell of yesterday.
- </p>
- <p>
- The hours passed. Towards evening he dressed himself and went out to a
- dingy Italian restaurant near Victoria station, where he usually dined. On
- coming out again into the street he hesitated for some time as to what he
- should do next. He thought of Yvonne with wistful longing, but had not the
- courage to go and seek her. The sense of degradation was too strong upon
- him. He shrank with morbid sensitiveness from taking advantage of her
- guilelessness by bringing his contamination into her presence. For,
- paradoxical as it may seem, an instinctive pride still remained in the
- man. Had he chosen to lay it aside, doubtless more than one of his former
- friends would have consented to receive him on some sort of terms of
- acquaintanceship. But he had sought out none, and if chance brought him
- into sight of a familiar face in the street, he effaced himself and
- hurried on. Yvonne was the only figure out of the past with whom he had
- communicated. And now he had cut himself adrift from her.
- </p>
- <p>
- After a few undecided turns up and down the pavement, he directed his
- steps mechanically to a customary haunt of his, the billiard-room of a
- public-house in Westminster. It was better than the wearying streets and
- the choking solitude of his attic. A couple of shabby men in dingy
- shirt-sleeves were playing at the table. On the raised divan, in the gloom
- of the walls, sat a silent company of lookers-on. With a group of these,
- Joyce exchanged nods, and took his place sombrely among them. They were a
- depressed, out-at-elbows crew, who came here night after night, speaking
- little, drinking less, and never playing billiards at all. They watched
- the game, now and then applauded, oftener condoled with the loser than
- congratulated the winner. They formed an orderly and appreciative gallery,
- and set, as it were, a tone of decorum in the room; and for this reason
- their presence was not discouraged by the landlord. Eight was their
- average number. They were mostly men in the prime of life, and belonged,
- as far as one could judge by their voluntary confidences, to the obscure
- fringes of journalism, the stage, and independence. Those who occupied the
- last position lived chiefly on their wives. There was a decayed medical
- student who did Heaven knows what for a living, and a red-headed, vulgar
- man, who gave out that he had thrown up a country rectorship, through
- conscientious scruples. Differing widely as they did in personality, yet
- they retained one common characteristic. Failure seemed written on each
- man’s face. A kind of mutual affinity had drawn them together. To
- Joyce’s cynical humour it appeared as if something more than mere
- chance had caused him to stumble upon them one evening two months before.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I’m afraid I have left my ’baccy at home,” said
- the man sitting next to Joyce, who was filling his pipe. “Thank you
- very much. A change in tobacco is very gratifying at times to the palate.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He was a man of singular appearance. The bones in his face were very
- large, the flesh scanty; his nose hooked, his eyebrows black and meeting.
- His long upper-lip and his chin were shaven; but he wore thick black
- mutton-chop whiskers which contrasted oddly with a bush of whitening hair
- above his temples and at the back of his head. Whether he was bald or not,
- no one ever knew, as he always retained his hat fixed in one
- never-changing, respectable angle. This hat was very, very old, an
- extravagantly curled silk hat of the masher days in the early eighties.
- But the most striking feature of his costume consisted in a long thick
- Chesterfield overcoat which he obviously wore without coat or waistcoat
- beneath. In the sultry August weather the sight of him made the beholder
- perspire. Although there was no trace of linen at his wrists or down the
- arms as far as one could see, a dirty frayed collar and a shirt-front
- adorned with a straight black tie appeared above the tightly buttoned
- overcoat. Joyce knew him by the name of Noakes.
- </p>
- <p>
- He looked at Joyce, as he spoke, out of pale-blue, unspeculative eyes, and
- returned the tobacco-pouch. “You had better take another fill or
- two, while you are about it,” said Joyce.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don’t like to trespass upon your generosity,” said
- Noakes. But he helped himself plentifully, tying up the tobacco in his
- pocket-handkerchief. They smoked on during a long silence, broken only by
- the click of the billiard-balls, the monotonous cry of the marker, and
- occasional murmurs of applause. The air was heavy with drink and
- tobacco-smoke, fresh and stale.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I must be getting back to work,” said Noakes at last.
- </p>
- <p>
- The word roused Joyce from the lethargy into which he had fallen. He had
- never associated Noakes with definite employment. For a moment he envied
- him.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I wish to heaven I could,” he said.
- </p>
- <p>
- “A man of your attainments,” replied Noakes, respectfully,
- “ought never to be at a loss. Now I should say you have been to a
- public school?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Joyce nodded.
- </p>
- <p>
- “And the university?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Joyce did not reply, but Noakes went on: “Yes; one can see it.
- Somehow a man of acute observation can always tell. I remember your
- correcting me the other night when I spoke of Plato’s dramatic
- unities. I looked up the matter in the British Museum, and found that you
- were right in attributing them to Aristotle. As I said before, a man of
- your education ought to have no difficulty.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You might suggest something,” said Joyce, with a shade of
- irony.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Authorship.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Are you an author?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “With all due modesty, I may say that I am,” returned Noakes,
- gravely. “I don’t find it very remunerative, but I attribute
- that solely to the deficiencies in my education.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “What do you write?” asked Joyce, interested in spite of
- himself in this odd, pathetic figure.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I have adopted two branches of the profession—one, the
- literary advertisement; the other, popular fiction.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He drew a halfpenny evening paper from his pocket, and, designating a
- half-column with his thumb, handed it to Joyce. It was headlined “Nihilism
- in Russia,” opened with an account of Siberian horrors, and ended,
- of course, with somebody’s pills.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I always pride myself upon there being more literary quality in my
- work than is usually given to that class of thing,” he remarked
- complacently, while Joyce idly ran through the column. “And in my
- fiction I always try to keep the best models before me, Stevenson and
- Mayne Reid. I happen to have a copy of one of my latest works in my
- pocket. Perhaps it might interest you to glance through it. In return for
- the tobacco,—with the author’s compliments.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Joyce received into his hands a thin volume in a gaudy paper wrapper. It
- was entitled “The Doom of the Floating Fiend.” The printing,
- in packed double-column, and the paper were execrable. The author’s
- name did not figure beneath the title. From the most cursory glance
- through the pages, Joyce could see they were deluged in blood.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I shall be glad to read it,” he said, mendaciously, putting
- it into his pocket.
- </p>
- <p>
- “If you find anything noteworthy of criticism in my style, I should
- feel grateful for you to tell me,” said Noakes. “My ambition
- is to write some day for a more cultured public. I have a pastoral idyll
- that I shall write when I have time. But, you see, there is a continuous
- market for books of adventure.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He spoke in a toneless, even voice, without a shade of enthusiasm or
- regret appearing in his eyes.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Do you think it would be of any use for an outsider to try it—one
- not in the swim with the publishers?” asked Joyce, curiously.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Certainly. But one needs the imaginative faculty. If you ’ll
- look at my forehead, you will see I have it firmly developed. Allow me to
- look at yours. Yes; I see it there. Once started, it is constant
- employment. They pay half a crown per thousand words. I do my three
- thousand a day.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Noakes rose to depart.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Thanks for the information,” said Joyce. “I may try my
- hand. Won’t you have a glass with me before you go?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No, thank you,” said Noakes. “I find stimulants
- interfere with brain-work. Good evening.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Noakes gone, Joyce found himself next to the red-headed ex-rector, who was
- fast asleep, his dirty, pudgy fingers clasped in his lap. He remained,
- therefore, solitary, and after having looked for some time dejectedly at
- the three ever-clicking balls on the table, he went out again into the
- street.
- </p>
- <p>
- Noakes’s hint had taken root in his mind. If that dilapidated man
- could maintain himself honestly by “popular fiction,” surely
- he could do so too. Off and on during the last five months he had striven
- to write an article or short story, but his mind had refused to work. The
- conviction that his intellect had been shattered during those two awful
- years had added to his despair. But now he told himself that this was work
- in which intellectual subtlety and fastidiousness would prove a hindrance.
- The one thing needful was imagination: also a terrible faculty for
- continuous quill-driving. To gain a livelihood there would have to be
- written daily stuff equal to three columns of the “Globe”
- newspaper. And seven-and-sixpence as the reward! A noble end, he thought
- bitterly to himself as he walked along, to the ambition of Stephen
- Chisely, double-first of New College, Oxford—to become a writer of
- “penny bloods.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Still, the suggestion had acted as a stimulus. When he entered his room,
- he did not feel so broken and purposeless as when he had left it. The
- intellectual effort he had made whilst walking home in scheming out an
- experimental chapter had broken the spell of morbid introspection. As soon
- as he had lit the gas, he drew out writing materials, and, sitting before
- his dressing-table, began the scene of slaughter he had arranged. At the
- end of a couple of hours he found he had written two slips of one hundred
- and fifty words each. He regarded them ruefully. At that rate it would
- take him twenty hours a day to earn his seven-and-sixpence. The idea
- occurred to him to look at the “Doom of the Floating Fiend.”
- He read a few pages and then dropped the work hopelessly on to the floor.
- The instinct of the scholar and man of culture awakened in revolt. His mind would not be prostituted to stuff like that.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Sooner death!” he said to himself, with whimsical bitterness.
- His own carefully elaborated efforts he tore up with a sigh. Then, tired
- out, he prepared to go to bed.
- </p>
- <p>
- Suddenly, in the midst of his undressing, he caught sight, to his immense
- surprise, of a letter lying on his counterpane, where the maid of all work
- had carelessly thrown it. From whom could it be? Letters were things of an
- almost forgotten past. It was in a woman’s hand. Then he remembered
- he had given his address to Yvonne. The letter was from her, and ran:—
- </p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
- “Dear Stephen,—Oh, why didn’t you come last night? I was
- <i>so</i> disappointed. You surely did n’t think I only asked you
- out of politeness. I hope nothing has happened to you. My
- head was running over all day with a little plan for you. Do
- come and catch it before it all runs away. I shall be in to-
- morrow afternoon.
-
- You know it’s just like old times—writing a silly little
- note to you.
-
- Yours sincerely,
-
- Yvonne Latour.”
- </pre>
- <p>
- Joyce went to bed and slept the sound sleep of a jaded man. But the letter
- lay under his pillow.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER IV—DEA EX MACHINA
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>here’s
- nothing like leather,” cried Yvonne, gaily. “If I had been a
- milliner, I should have thought what a gentlemanly shopwalker you would
- have made. As I am a singer, I can only think of the profession. You did n’t
- know I was so philosophical, did you?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But I can’t sing a note now, Madame Latour,” said
- Joyce.
- </p>
- <p>
- “We ’ll try after you have had some tea. But you ’ll be
- good enough for Brum, I’m quite sure. If he did n’t take you
- on I should never speak to him again.”
- </p>
- <p>
- With which terrible threat she poured the tea outside the cup into the
- saucer.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It seems too good to be true,” said Joyce, in a subdued tone.
- “It seemed impossible I should ever get work among honest men again.
- I am deeply grateful to you, Madame Latour—I cannot tell you how
- deeply.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Here is some tea,” said Yvonne, cup in hand, “I have
- put milk in, but no sugar. I am so glad you like my little scheme. I was
- afraid it was n’t worth your while.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Joyce laughed ironically.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You would n’t say that if you knew the posts I have sought
- after, the advertisements I have answered. It will be a fortune to me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And it may lead—how far, you don’t know. Why in two or
- three years you may be playing a leading part in a West End light opera.
- Or you may do dramatic business and come to the top. One never can tell.
- Won’t it be nice when you can command your £40 or £50 a week?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Yvonne was very happy. She had conceived the plan all by herself and had
- gone off impulsively to Brum to put it into execution. Joyce’s
- future was assured. His cleverness, of which she used to be a little
- afraid in earlier years, would soon lift him from the ranks. She was
- excited over this forecast of his success. But Joyce could not look so far
- ahead. All he could feel was a wondrous relief to find a door still open
- for him, gratitude to the woman who had led him to it. His spirit was too
- shrouded to catch a gleam of her enthusiasm. She strove to brighten him.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You will find Brum all right. He has always been good to me, since
- I stepped into a gap for him once at a charity matinée—-a medley
- entertainment, you know. When he has a theatre in London he always sends
- me a box, if there’s one vacant. You see, I knew he was taking out
- ‘The Diamond Door,’ into the provinces, and he pays pretty
- high salaries all round—so I did n’t see why you should n’t
- have a chance in the chorus. Oh, you ’ll like the stage so much. I
- wish I were on, instead of singing at concerts. I have always hankered
- after it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why don’t you make the change?” asked Joyce.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I’m not good enough. I am too insignificant. But I don’t
- really mind. I love singing for singing’s sake, no matter where it
- is. I only have one great anxiety in life—that I should lose my
- voice. Then I should put my head under my wing and die, like the <i>cigale</i>.
- That is to say, if the <i>cigale</i> has wings—has she?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, pretty brown wings—as yours must be. I believe you have
- them somewhere hidden from us.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You mustn’t make pretty speeches,” said Yvonne,
- pleased.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It expresses clumsily what I feel,” said Joyce, with a sudden
- rush of feeling. “I have been asking myself what are the common
- grounds on which we can meet—you, a pure, bright, beautiful soul—and
- I, a mean, degraded man, who knows it to be almost an outrage upon you to
- cross your threshold. I feel we are not of the same human clay. I wonder
- how it is that the sight of me does n’t frighten you. Thank God you
- don’t see me as I see myself.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Hush!” said Yvonne, gently.
- </p>
- <p>
- She glanced at him in a puzzled way, unable to comprehend. She knew that
- he felt his disgrace very deeply, but she could not understand the way in
- which he related it with herself. Beyond looking careworn and ill, he
- seemed almost the same externally as in the days of their former intimacy;
- and more so now than on the occasion of their meeting on the Bank Holiday,
- when he was shabbily attired. Now he was wearing a new blue serge suit and
- a carefully tied cravat—he had bought the clothes on the chance of
- his being suddenly required to be correctly dressed, and this was his
- first time of wearing them—and looked at all points the neat,
- well-groomed gentleman she had always known; so that she found it
- difficult to realize fully even the change in his material fortunes. The
- blight that had come over his soul was altogether beyond her power of
- perception. She could find no words to supplement her sympathetic
- exclamation, and so there was silence. When she looked at him again, as he
- sat opposite, his cheek resting on his hand, and his mournful eyes fixed
- upon her, she found herself thinking what a good-looking fellow he was,
- with his clear-cut face, refined features and trim blonde moustache. It
- was a pity he had those deep lines on each side of his mouth and wore so
- unsmiling an expression. There was sunshine in Yvonne’s heart that
- quickly dissipated clouds. She rose suddenly, and went round to the
- key-board of the great piano.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I ’ll sing you something first and then we ’ll try your
- voice.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She paused before she sat down, and asked:
- </p>
- <p>
- “Would you like something sad or something gay?”
- </p>
- <p>
- The afternoon light, slanting in through the further unshaded window, fell
- full upon her, and revealed the warmth of her cheeks and the smiling
- softness of her lips. To have demanded sadness of her would have been an
- act of unreason.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Something bright,” said Joyce, instinctively.
- </p>
- <p>
- She ran her fingers over the keys and broke into a <i>barcarolle</i> of
- Théophile Gautier.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p class="indent30">
- "Dites, la jeune belle,
- </p>
- <p class="indent30">
- Où voulez-vous aller?
- </p>
- <p class="indent30">
- La voile ouvre son aile,
- </p>
- <p class="indent30">
- La brise va souffler!
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p class="indent30">
- L’aviron est d’ivoire.
- </p>
- <p class="indent30">
- Le pavillon de moire,
- </p>
- <p class="indent30">
- Le gouvernail d’or fin;
- </p>
- <p class="indent30">
- J’ai pour lest une orange,
- </p>
- <p class="indent30">
- Pour voile une aile d’ange,
- </p>
- <p class="indent30">
- Pour mousse un séraphin.”
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p>
- Her exquisite voice, sounding like crystal in the little room, seemed to
- Joyce as if it came from the dainty boat. Her sweet face seemed to peep
- forth under the angel’s wing, mocking the seraphic cabin-boy.
- </p>
- <p>
- The setting was as perfect as her rendering. All the joy and inconsequence
- of life rang from her lips. She came to the last verse.
- </p>
- <p class="indent30">
- "Dites, la jeune belle,
- </p>
- <p class="indent30">
- Où voulez-vous aller?
- </p>
- <p class="indent30">
- La voile ouvre son aile,
- </p>
- <p class="indent30">
- La brise va souffler!
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p class="indent30">
- —Menez-moi, dit la belle,
- </p>
- <p class="indent30">
- À la rive fidèle
- </p>
- <p class="indent30">
- Où l’on aime toujours.
- </p>
- <p class="indent30">
- —Cette rive, ma chère,
- </p>
- <p class="indent30">
- On ne la connaît guère
- </p>
- <p class="indent30">
- Au pays des amours.”
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p>
- When she had finished, she looked up at him, as he leaned over the tail of
- the piano, with laughter in her eyes.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I adore that song. It is so lovely and irresponsible. Canon Chisely
- says it is cynical. But it always puts me in mind of a dragonfly.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am afraid Everard is right,” replied Joyce, with a smile.
- “But if you live in the fairyland of love, constancy must be a
- serious hindrance to affairs.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, now you talk just as you used to!” cried Yvonne, “I
- ’ll sing you something else.” She scamped the prelude in her
- impulsive way, and began, “Coming thro’ the Rye.” His
- black mood was lifted. The tender, mischievous charm of her voice held him
- in a spell, and he smiled at her like “a’ the lads” in
- the song.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Now it is your turn,” she said, reaching towards a pile of
- songs. “Help me to choose one.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He selected one that he used to sing and commenced it creditably. But
- after a few bars he broke down. Yvonne encouraged him to take it again,
- which he did with greater success. But his voice, a high baritone, was
- wofully out of condition. At a second breakdown, he looked at her in
- dismay.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I fear it’s no good,” he said.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, yes it is,” said Yvonne. “They don’t want a
- Santley in the chorus of the provincial company of a comic-opera. We
- ’ll have a good long time now. You shall do some scales. And you can
- come in to-morrow morning, before you go to Brum, and have half-an-hour
- more, and that will set you right.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The little authoritative air sat oddly upon her. Vandeleur used to say
- that Yvonne in a business mood was even more serious than a child playing
- at parson. But she knew she was giving a professional opinion; and that
- was bound to be serious. Taking him through the scales, then, in her best
- professional manner, she brought the practice to a satisfactory
- conclusion. Then she became the sunny Yvonne again, and, after he had
- gone, sat smiling to herself with the conscious happiness of a fairy
- god-mother.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <p>
- The interview with Brum, the manager, was satisfactory, and Joyce after
- accepting the engagement at thirty shillings a week, went straight on to
- rehearse with the rest of the chorus. And after this there were daily
- rehearsals extending to the Sunday two weeks ahead when the start was to
- be made for Newcastle, where the company opened. After the first two or
- three days, the rather helpless sense of unfamiliarity wore off, and Joyce
- found his task an easy one. His voice, by comparison, certainly warranted
- his selection, and in knowledge of music and general ability he was vastly
- superior to his colleagues, who received rough usage for stupidity at the
- hands of the stage-manager. He found them mostly dull, uneducated men, two
- or three with wives in the female chorus, very jealous of their rights and
- the order of precedence among them, but with little ambition and less
- capacity. In spite of the old suit, which he was careful to wear, he was
- looked upon at first, rather resentfully, as an amateur; but he bore
- disparaging remarks with philosophical unconcern, and, after a judicious
- drink or two at a “professional” bar near the stage-door of
- the theatre, he was accepted among them without further demur.
- </p>
- <p>
- But Joyce was too much exercised at this time with his own relations to
- himself to think much of his relations to others. The reaction from the
- most poignant despair he had known since his freedom, to sudden hope, had
- set working many springs of resolution. He would banish all thoughts of
- the past from his mind, forget Stephen Chisely in the new man Stephen
- Joyce, take up the new threads fate had spun for him, and weave them into
- a new life without allowing any of them to cross the old: a resolution
- which would be laughable, were it not so eternal, and so pathetic in its
- futility. The world will never know the enormous expenditure of will-power
- by its weak men.
- </p>
- <p>
- The fortnight, however, passed in something near to contentment and peace
- of soul. If we can cheat ourselves into serenity at times, it is a gift to
- be thankful for. Besides, occupation is a great anodyne to trouble; and
- the provincial production of a great London success offers considerable
- occupation for those concerned in it. Rehearsals were called twice a day,
- morning and evening. As Joyce did not leave the theatre until nearly
- midnight he had no time to look in at the familiar billiard-room, and so
- Noakes and his “penny bloods” were forgotten. On the other
- hand he spent several of his afternoons with Yvonne, who was delighted
- with his accounts of himself, and sent him away cheered and sanguine.
- </p>
- <p>
- “The only thing I regret,” said Joyce, during his farewell
- visit, “is that I shall be cutting myself off from you. I suppose
- every one is entitled to a grievance. And this is mine. Do you know you
- are the only friend I have in the world?”
- </p>
- <p>
- As Yvonne knew that the world was very big and that she herself was very
- small, the fact somewhat awed her. She regarded him pityingly for a moment
- “What a dreadful thing it must be to feel alone like that.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I have n’t felt it so, since I met you,” said Joyce.
- </p>
- <p>
- “But you won’t have even me, any more. I wish I could help
- you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Help me? Why, you ‘ve raised me out of the gutter, Madame
- Latour.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, don’t call me ‘Madame Latour,’” she
- said, “I don’t call you ‘Mr. Joyce.’ I am ‘Yvonne’
- to all my friends. You used to call me ‘Yvonne’ once.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You were not my benefactress then,” said Joyce.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Please don’t call me hard names,” she returned
- whimsically, “or I shall be afraid of you, as I used to be.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Afraid of me?” echoed Joyce.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes. Weren’t you dreadfully clever? I was always afraid you
- would think me silly. And then, often I could not quite understand what
- you were saying—how much you meant of what you said. Don’t you
- see?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I see I must have been insufferable,” he replied. “It
- makes what you are to me now all the more beautiful. But I scarcely dare
- call you 'Yvonne’—don’t you understand? But it would
- gladden me to write it. May I write to you on my pilgrimage?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It would be so good of you, if you would,” she answered
- eagerly. “I do love people to write to me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She had unconsciously slipped from her fairy-godmother attitude. Her
- simple mind could not look upon welcoming his letters as an act of
- graciousness.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Would you sing to me once more before I go?” he asked, a
- little later. “I don’t know when I shall see you again, and I
- should like to carry away a song of yours to cheer me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She sat down at the piano and sang Gounod’s Serenade. Something in
- its yearning tenderness touched the man in his softened mood. The pure
- passion of Yvonne’s voice pierced through the thick layers of shame
- and dead hopes and deadening memories that had encrusted round his heart,
- and met it in a tiny thrill. He leaned back in his chair, staring at the
- walls, which grew misty before his eyes. The scene changed and he was back
- again in his mother’s house and Yvonne was singing this song. The
- benumbing spell that had kept him dry-eyed since the news came to him of
- his mother’s death, was lifted for the moment. But, only when a
- sudden silence broke the charm, was he aware that tears were on his face.
- </p>
- <p>
- He brushed them away quickly, rose, took her hand and kissed it, and then
- he laughed awkwardly, and bade her good-bye.
- </p>
- <p>
- On his way downstairs he brushed against a man ascending. It was a
- squarely-built, keen-faced man of forty in clerical attire. Each stepped
- aside to apologise, and then came the flash of recognition. Joyce looked
- down in some confusion. But Canon Chisely turned on his heel and continued
- his ascent.
- </p>
- <p>
- Joyce walked away moodily. His cousin’s cut brought back the old
- familiar sense of degradation which Yvonne had charmed away. Again he
- realised that he was an outcast, a blot upon society, an object of scorn
- for men of good repute. No one but Yvonne could have befriended him and
- forgotten what he was. And Yvonne herself,—was her friendship not
- perhaps solely due to her childlike incapacity to appreciate the depths of
- his disgrace? He would have given anything not to have met the Canon on
- the stairs.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <p>
- Three weeks afterwards Yvonne was at Brighton for change of air and
- holiday, accompanied by Geraldine Vicary, her dearest friend, confidante,
- and chastener. They had taken lodgings in Lansdowne Place, where they
- shared a sitting-room and discussed Yvonne’s prospects and
- peccadilloes. Not but what the discussion was continued out of doors, on
- the Parade, or in a quiet nook on the sands at Shoreham; but it proceeded
- much more effectively within four walls, where there was nothing to
- distract Yvonne’s attention. Miss Vicary had her friend’s good
- most disinterestedly at heart, and Yvonne herself loved these discussions,
- very much as she loved church. She felt a great deal better and wiser,
- without in the least knowing why. In intervals of leisure they idled
- about, dissected passing finery, and ate prodigious quantities of ices—which,
- as all the world knows, is the proper way to enjoy Brighton.
- </p>
- <p>
- They were sitting in one of the shelters on the cliff overlooking the
- electric toy-railway. It was a lovely day. A sea-breeze ruffled the blue
- Channel into a myriad dancing ridges, and blew Yvonne’s mass of dark
- hair further back from her forehead. Suddenly she slipped her hand into
- her friend’s.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, Dina, is n’t this delicious!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Rapturous,” said Geraldine, with a smile. She was a tall,
- plainly-dressed young woman, some four years older than Yvonne, with a
- pleasant, frank face and a decided manner. She wore a plain sailor-hat, a
- blouse, and a grey-stuff skirt that hung rather badly
- beneath a buff belt; thus contrasting with Yvonne, who suggested dainty
- perfection of attire, from the diminutive bonnet to the toe of her little
- brown shoe. Miss Vicary gave the impression of the typical schoolmistress,
- which she would most probably have been, had not the possession of a
- magnificent voice decided her career otherwise.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I mean it’s delicious being here alone with you,”
- returned Yvonne. “Away from men altogether.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “They are a horrid lot,” said Geraldine, drily. “I
- wonder you see as much of them as you do.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But how can I help it? They will keep coming my way. Oh, I wish
- they were all women. It would be so much nicer!”
- </p>
- <p>
- Geraldine broke into a laugh.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You goose!” she said. “You wouldn’t have the
- women falling in love with you as the men do!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But I don’t want them to fall in love with me,” cried
- Yvonne. “It is so stupid. I don’t fall in love with them.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Then why do you give them encouragement? I am always at you about
- it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am only kind to them, as any one else would be.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Fiddlesticks, my dear. You should keep them in their place.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But what <i>is</i> their place?” asked Yvonne, pathetically.
- “I never know. That is why I wish they were women. Oh, I love so
- being here with you, Dina. I wish I had a lot of women friends that I
- could talk to when I can’t see you. But you’re the only real
- woman friend I ’ve got.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You dear little mite!” exclaimed Geraldine, with sudden
- impulse. “I can’t see why women don’t take to you. And I
- can understand all the men falling in love with you. Even the Canon.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, how can you say such a thing?” cried Yvonne, quickly, the
- colour coming into her cheeks.
- </p>
- <p>
- “By reason of the intelligence that God has given me, my dear,”
- replied Geraldine. “I would send him packing if I were you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It is very kind indeed of a man like that to come and see me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And to pick you out from among all the concert singers in London
- for his musical festival?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But we’re old friends, Dina. He is only doing me a good turn.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “So as to deserve another, you simple darling. In the meantime, I
- wouldn’t encourage Vandeleur or your new <i>protégé</i>, the Canon’s
- unmentionable cousin.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You know, I once thought there was something between you and Van,”
- remarked Yvonne, with guileless inconsequence.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Rubbish!” said Miss Vicary. And then she added, rising
- hastily, after a moment’s silence, “Look, you are getting
- chilly in this cold wind,—and I am sure you have next to nothing
- underneath.”
- </p>
- <p>
- To keep Yvonne out of draughts and other pretexts for catching cold was
- one of Miss Vicary’s self-imposed tasks, and she sought to
- compensate Yvonne’s reckless exposure of herself when alone by
- excess of vigilance on her own part when Yvonne was under her control—which
- is not an uncommon irrationality in women, who, geniuses or not, have an
- infinite capacity for taking superfluous pains. However, in spite of her
- maternal precautions, it happened that Yvonne was laid up two or three
- days afterwards with a cold which flew at once to her throat. Although in
- no way serious, it filled her with dismay. She knew her throat to be
- delicate. That her voice might one day fail her was the dread of her life.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What does he say about me?” she asked, pathetically, when
- Geraldine had returned from a short consultation with the doctor. “Is
- it going to hurt my voice? Oh, do tell me, Dina?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You must n’t talk, or else it will,” replied Geraldine,
- severely.
- </p>
- <p>
- Then she threw off the chastener, put on the consoler, and, sitting on the
- bed, petted Yvonne until she had restored her mind to a measure of peace.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Then I must throw up my engagements?” Yvonne asked,
- wistfully, after a while.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Certainly the one here next week. But don’t bother your dear
- little head about it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And the concerts at Fulminster for Canon Chisely. I must get well
- for them, Dina.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why, of course you will,” replied Geraldine. “They are
- weeks and weeks ahead. Besides, let the Canon go to Jericho!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why are you so hard upon Canon Chisely?” asked Yvonne.
- </p>
- <p>
- “A case of Dr. Fell, I suppose. I don’t like his always
- hanging about you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Yvonne burst out laughing.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I believe you are jealous, Dina,” she cried.
- </p>
- <p>
- Miss Vicary’s retort was checked by the entrance of the landlady
- with Yvonne’s supper. She busied herself with the arrangement of
- plates and dishes on the tray. But all the time the expression on her face
- was that of a woman who foresees a considerable amount of trouble to come.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER V—THE COMIC MUSE
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he common
- dressing-room appointed for the male members of the chorus was crowded
- with half-attired men, strangely painted and moustachioed. The low,
- blackened ceiling beat down the heat from the gas-jets over the
- dressing-ledges, and the air reeked of stuffiness, tobacco, and yellow
- soap. Everywhere was a confusion of garments, grease-paints, open bags,
- beer bottles, and half-emptied glasses. It wanted only five minutes to the
- rise of the curtain, and hurry prevailed among belated ones, who got in
- each other’s way and swore lustily.
- </p>
- <p>
- Joyce had finished dressing. He wore a mandarin’s hat, a green robe,
- a pigtail, and long, drooping moustaches, like the rest of his companions.
- Having nothing more to do, he was leaning back against the dressing-table
- with folded arms, and staring absently in front of him.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You are looking down in the mouth, old man,” said the man who
- dressed next to him, turning away from the mirror and buttoning his robe.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I beg your pardon, McKay?” said Joyce, with a start.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I asked why you were so blooming cheerful,” answered the
- other.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I was only thinking,” said Joyce.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It seems to be an unpleasant operation, old man.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Don’t you see it’s of <i>her</i>?” said another
- man standing by. “They’re always like that.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Perhaps it’s better to put her out of your mind and grin—isn’t
- it?” retorted Joyce, pointedly, for the railer’s
- quasi-matrimonial squabbles had already become a byword in the company.
- McKay burst into a loud laugh, in which those who heard joined, and the
- railer retired in discomfiture.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Had him there,” said McKay. “Well, how’s the
- world, anyway?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, all right!” replied Joyce, vaguely.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Blake and I took his missus and two of the girls for a sail to-day,”
- said the other. “If the whole crew hadn’t been sick, we should
- have had a gay old time. Been doing anything?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No. What is there to do?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “At Southpool? Why, there’s no end of things. I wish we went
- to some more seaside places, late as it is.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don’t think it matters much where we go,” said Joyce.
- “Life is just the same.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I suppose it is, if you moon around by yourself. Why don’t
- you get a pal?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Masculine or feminine?” asked Joyce; for there was as much
- pairing in the company as in the Ark.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Whichever you please. You pays—no you don’t—you
- takes your choice here without paying your money. But take my tip and keep
- clear of women. You never know when they ’ll turn round and scratch
- you—like cats. After all, what can you expect of ’em? I
- ’ve done with ’em all long ago.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “What about the sea-sick girls to-day?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I would n’t touch any of ’em with a ten-foot pole,”
- replied the misogynist, with bitter scorn. “I never was in an
- engagement where there was such an inferior lot of ladies. I don’t
- know where the management picked them up. And to think of the number of
- nice girls in London simply starving for work.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “They seem right enough,” said Joyce, indifferently.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Gad! You should have been with me in ‘Mother Goose’ at
- Leeds this winter. I was playing one of the men in the moon—they
- noticed me from the front. You should have seen the slap-up lot we had
- there. What kind of shop were you in for the winter?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I was in another walk of life,” replied Joyce, with a curl of
- his lips.
- </p>
- <p>
- At that moment the call-boy’s voice was heard in the passages:
- “Beginners for the first act;” and then he appeared himself at
- the door.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Everybody on the stage.”
- </p>
- <p>
- They trooped out, up the narrow stairs and along the dusty passages and
- through the wings on to the stage, where they were met by the ladies of
- the chorus, who came on from the other side; and then all grouped
- themselves in their customary attitudes under the stage-manager’s
- eye. Joyce was posed, second on the left, with a girl resting her head on
- his knee. He greeted her as she took her place.
- </p>
- <p>
- “How are you to-night, Miss Stevens?” he whispered.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, badly. The heat in the dressing-room is awful.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “So it is in ours. It is a wonder we don’t all melt together
- in a sticky lump.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It is the worst arranged theatre I was ever in.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am sorry,” said Joyce, “you look tired.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Hush—the orchestra—”
- </p>
- <p>
- The curtain rose slowly, revealing the glare of the footlights and the
- vague cavernous darkness of the auditorium, seen shimmering, as they
- reclined on the stage, through the band of unbumed gases above the jets.
- </p>
- <p>
- The opening chorus began with its nodding-mandarin business, followed by
- eccentric evolutions. Then the tenor came on alone. He jostled Joyce who
- was standing near the entrance.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Damn it, don’t take up all the stage,” he muttered
- irritably under cover of the radiant expression demanded by the business.
- </p>
- <p>
- He broke into his song, the chorus lining the sides. Then two minor
- characters appeared, and after some dialogue, interrupted by Chinese
- exclamations of delight on the part of the chorus, the latter danced off
- in pairs.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I do call that cheek,” said Miss Stevens, as soon as they had
- reached the wings, “why could n’t he look where he was going
- to?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, it was his fault,” said Joyce.
- </p>
- <p>
- “That’s the way with all these light tenors—simply eaten
- up with conceit. If I were you I’d give him a piece of my mind and
- ask him what the something he meant by it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I have n’t enough individuality here to make it worth while,”
- replied Joyce with a shrug of the shoulders.
- </p>
- <p>
- The girl did not quite understand, but she caught enough of his drift to
- perceive that he was not going to retaliate. Possibly she thought him a
- poor-spirited fellow. “Oh, well—if you like being insulted—”
- she said, turning away toward a group of girls.
- </p>
- <p>
- Joyce did not attempt to remonstrate. What did it matter whether a coxcomb
- had cursed him? What did it matter, either, whether he had fallen in Miss
- Stevens’s estimation? In fact, what did anything matter, so long as
- starvation was not staring you in the face, or your companion was not
- pointing at the trace of black arrows? He turned also and joined in
- desultory whispering with McKay and Blake. At the end of the first act,
- men and women went off at different sides to their dressing-rooms. It was
- only during a wait in the second act that he found himself next to Miss
- Stevens again.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Are you going to see me home again tonight after the performance?”
- she asked.
- </p>
- <p>
- “If you will allow me,” replied Joyce.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I’m sorry I was short with you,” she said, awkwardly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, it was nothing.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The polite indifference in his tone rather piqued her. She was naturally a
- plain, anaemic girl and the heavy make-up of grease-paint did not render
- her more attractive at close quarters. The knowledge of this irritated her
- the more.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You don’t seem to care about anything.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don’t much,” said Joyce.
- </p>
- <p>
- At that moment the leading lady came off the stage and passed by them as
- they stood leaning against the iron railings of the staircase. She was
- wearing the minimum of costume allowed by Celestial etiquette, and looked
- very fresh and charming.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, you are Mr. Joyce, aren’t you?” she said, pausing
- at the top of the stairs; and, as Joyce bowed,—“Some one told
- me you were a friend of Yvonne Latour’s.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes,” said Joyce, “I have known her for a very long
- time.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “How is she? I have n’t seen her for ages.” She moved
- down a couple of steps, so Joyce had to lean over the balustrade to reply.
- </p>
- <p>
- “She’s a dear little creature. I used to know her while she
- was living with that wretch of a husband of hers,” said the lady,
- looking up. “He’s dead, or something, is n’t he?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, thank goodness,” said Joyce, with more warmth perhaps
- than he was aware of; for she smiled and replied:—
- </p>
- <p>
- “You seem to look upon it as a personal favour on the part of
- Providence.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I think it is a personal boon to all Madame Latour’s friends.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, I am delighted,” she said, with a touch of raillery.
- “If ever there was a marriage that ought to have been labelled
- ‘made in heaven,’ that was one.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, it was a very cheap imitation of native goods,” replied
- Joyce, with a smile.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, if you were going to meet her soon, I should ask you to
- remember me to her; but as we are on a long tour—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I shall be writing shortly,” he interposed.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Then that will do. Good-night, Mr. Joyce.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She disappeared down the stairs. When Joyce turned round, he discovered
- that Miss Stevens had walked off, perhaps in dudgeon at having been
- neglected. Joyce felt sorry. She was the only girl with whom he cared to
- be on friendly terms outside the theatre, and who, accordingly, had
- manifested any interest in his doings. It would be a misfortune if she
- were offended. Meanwhile the late unexpected chat about Yvonne had been
- very pleasant. Miss Verrinder had been nice and frank, assuming from the
- first that he was a gentleman, and could be spoken to without restraint.
- Joyce felt the fillip to his spirits during the rest of the performance.
- </p>
- <p>
- When it was over, he dressed as quickly as the crowded confusion of the
- dressing-room rendered possible, and refusing an invitation on the part of
- McKay to drink at the adjoining public-house, went down the short street
- that led to the Parade, where he had arranged to meet Miss Stevens.
- </p>
- <p>
- She did not keep him long waiting. He relieved her of a bulky parcel she
- was carrying, and, holding it under his arm, walked gravely by her side.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I thought you said you were n’t an amateur,” she said
- suddenly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Neither am I. It’s my livelihood.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, yes—between you and starvation, I suppose.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Just so,” said Joyce.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Could n’t you do anything else?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I can’t get anything else to do.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Then how did you manage to come down in the world?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “How do you know I have come down?” asked Joyce, amused at the
- catechism.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Can’t I see you were up once? Miss Verrinder would n’t
- have talked to you like that if you had n’t belonged to her set. And
- I have heard of Yvonne Latour. She does n’t make friends with the
- likes of McKay and me and the rest of us. So you’re either an
- amateur come for the practice or the fun of the thing, or—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It’s hugely funny, I assure you,” he interrupted,
- “to live in a back-street bedroom—‘lodgings for
- respectable men’—on thirty shillings a week, and save out of
- that.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, then you’ve come a cropper.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Really, Miss Stevens,” he replied drily, “it would be
- rather embarrassing to have to account to you for all my misdeeds.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, I don’t want to hear ’em. Not I—I’m not
- that sort But when I like a man, I like to know just what he is. That’s
- all. Now my father was a butler, and my mother a housekeeper, and they
- used to let lodgings in Yarmouth. And they’re dead now, and I shift
- for myself. Now you know all about me. I think I’d better carry that
- parcel.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She was rather defiant. Joyce could not understand her. Surely something
- more than inconsequent bad taste had prompted her to draw this distinction
- between their respective origins. But he was too self-centred to speculate
- deeply upon feminine problems. He hugged the parcel closer, and said:—
- </p>
- <p>
- “Nonsense. The paper is torn and all the stuff will drop out.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, then I must carry it,” she cried, in quite a different
- tone. But he refused gallantly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What’s inside it?” he asked, glad to divert the
- conversation into less perplexing channels.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It’s a dress—the one I wear in the third act. Well, you
- can carry it. My head’s splitting. And I’m ready to drop.”
- </p>
- <p>
- They had reached the end of the Parade. Their way lay at right angles
- through the town. It was a gusty, though warm night, and the cloud-racked
- sky and sea were dimly visible.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Would you like to sit down for a few minutes?” he asked.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Would you like it?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Her white face was turned up earnestly toward his.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It might do you good,” he replied.
- </p>
- <p>
- “No,” she said abruptly, after a pause, “Let us get
- home.”
- </p>
- <p>
- They walked together in silence. Joyce’s thoughts were far away. He
- parted from her at the door of her lodgings and went on slowly to his own.
- </p>
- <p>
- He had accustomed himself quickly to the nomad life on tour, its
- mechanical regularity despite the weekly change of scene. Once, perhaps, a
- round like this among the large provincial towns would have been filled
- with interests. But now it was empty. He tried in vain to whet his dull
- curiosity, by strolling through the streets and seeking to busy his mind
- with the industrial or municipal aspects, the art treasures, the
- historical monuments of the various towns. But all intellectual keenness
- seemed to have been blunted during those deadening years. His lonely walks
- were at best but an aimless killing of time. All the towns presented to
- him the same essential features: one busy thoroughfare, the theatre with
- its flaring bills, and a poverty-stricken side-street where his bedroom
- was situated. His life was singularly monotonous. The long hours of the
- day, given up to lounging in solitude, or reading what cheap literature
- his means would allow, were succeeded by the uninspiring, almost
- impersonal work at the theatre. All that was required of him was to sing
- his parts correctly, and to execute automatically the “business”
- in which he had been drilled. It was painfully easy. But he doubted within
- himself whether he had any dramatic aptitude. He could never divest
- himself of the self-conscious idea that he looked a fool in theatrical
- garb. The green robe and pigtail gave him the sense of being a spectacle
- for gods and men. His spirit was too crushed to look upon life humorously.
- Still, the great anxiety was lifted from his mind. It was a livelihood,
- secured for an indefinite time. The tour was booked a year ahead, and, as
- the outset proved “The Diamond Door” to be as great a
- provincial success as it had been a London one, there seemed no reason
- against a continuous run for three or four years. In the meantime, he
- might advance a step or two. But he did not care to contemplate the
- future. He was thankful for the dull, unruffled present. He was working
- again among honest men, reckoned as one himself. Could he dare hope for
- more?
- </p>
- <p>
- At times he found himself half cynically content with his lot. At others,
- a yearning rose within him like a great pain to be able to look the world
- in the face without shrinking from its condemnation. A strange idea began
- to work in his brain; to win back by some great deed of sacrifice his
- self-honour and respect. But he knew himself to be a dreamer of dreams, of
- too sorry stuff for such stern action. He would go whither the wind
- drifted him. Of this he thought as he walked home after parting with Annie
- Stevens.
- </p>
- <p>
- He met her the next morning on the beach, a long way from the town,
- sitting, a lonely figure upon a great drain-pipe rising half above the
- sand. She was resting her chin upon her fingers, that grasped a crumpled
- copy of “Tit-Bits,” and she was looking out to sea. Their
- eight weeks of pairing on the stage had brought to Joyce a feeling of
- companionship with her, which he did not have as regards the others.
- Besides, those who were not either domestic or commonplace, belonged to
- the flaxen-haired, large-eyed, tawdrily-dressed type so common in the
- lower ranks of the profession. Miss Stevens had a personality which,
- though unrefined, was at least her own, and he honestly liked her.
- </p>
- <p>
- She gave a little start when she was aware of his presence, and a quick
- flush came into her cheeks. But he did not notice it With a pleasant
- greeting he sat down by her side and talked of current trifles. At last
- she broke out suddenly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, don’t let’s talk ‘shop.’ I’m sick
- of the piece and the theatre altogether.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, come, it is not so bad,” said Joyce, consolingly. “We
- both ought to be playing good parts, and having rosier prospects. But
- things might be very much worse.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He was feeling brighter this morning. Yvonne had written him a long,
- gossipy letter, full of encouragement and her own unconscious charm, thus
- lifting him on a little wave of cheerfulness. With a friend like Yvonne
- and daily bread, he ought to be thankful. As for Miss Stevens, he did not
- see what she had particularly to grumble at. If she had been beautiful or
- talented, she might have had reason to quarrel with her lot.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Besides,” he added after a pause. “Look what a lovely
- day it is!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “So you think we ought to be quite happy?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Moderately so.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She was in a taciturn mood, and did not reply, but turned a little away
- from him and began to dig the sand with the toe of her boot. Suddenly she
- said, rather petulantly:—
- </p>
- <p>
- “I wonder if you could ever love a woman.” He had grown
- accustomed to her late, discrete methods of conversation, so the question
- scarcely surprised him. He took off his hat, so as to enjoy the breeze,
- and rested both hands at his sides on the drain-pipe.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I suppose I could if I tried,” he said carelessly, “but
- I’m very much better as I am. Why do you ask?”
- </p>
- <p>
- She shrugged her shoulders.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don’t know. I thought I’d say something. We were n’t
- having exactly a rollicking time, you know.”
- </p>
- <p>
- This time the acerbity in her tone did strike him. Something had gone
- wrong with her. He bent forward so as to catch a sight of her averted
- face.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What is the matter, Miss Stevens?” he asked concernedly.
- “You are not yourself. Could I be of any service to you?”
- </p>
- <p>
- She did not reply. Her silence seemed an encouragement to press his
- sympathy. It was a new thing to be of help to a human being. He put his
- fingers on her sleeve and added:—
- </p>
- <p>
- “Tell me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She drew away her arm and started to her feet.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, I will tell you. I ’ve been making a miserable little
- fool of myself. Let’s go back.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Joyce rose and walked by her side.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You are not by any chance embarrassed in money matters?” he
- asked, in as delicate a tone as he could.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Money!”
- </p>
- <p>
- She looked at him incredulously for a moment, then broke into hysterical
- laughter.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Money!” she repeated. “Oh, you are too comic for
- anything!”
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER VI—MELPOMENE
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>wo weeks passed
- and Joyce found himself in Hull. During the previous week Miss Stevens had
- lodged quite near to the theatre, and there had been no occasion for his
- escort after the performance. Besides, she had maintained a distant
- attitude toward him which precluded further offer of sympathy in her
- affairs. He was sorry for her; she seemed lonely, like himself, and, like
- himself, to have some inward suffering that made life bitter. He was glad,
- then, to find at Hull that they lodged in the same street, some distance
- away from the Theatre Royal, so that he could propose, as a natural thing,
- the resumption of their former habit. She had acquiesced readily on the
- Monday night, and they had met as a matter of course on the four
- succeeding evenings. Her late aloofness was followed by a more intimate
- and submissive manner. There were no more defiant utterances and fits of
- petulance. She seemed anxious to atone for past irritability, and Joyce,
- vaguely remembering a spring-tide cynicism of his, that one must be
- astonished at nothing in a woman, received these advances kindly, and
- looked upon their friendly relations as consolidated.
- </p>
- <p>
- He also found himself progressing in favour with the rest of the company.
- Several desultory chats with Miss Verrinder, the friend of Yvonne, had not
- only brightened the dulness of the theatre life, but also given him a
- little <i>prestige</i> among his colleagues. For there is a good deal of
- humanity in man, including the chorus of comic opera. So, such as it was,
- Joyce’s contentment rose to high-level at Hull. He did not couple
- the town with Hell and Halifax in his litany of supplication, but, on the
- contrary, found it a not unpleasant place, which, moreover, was in process
- of undergoing a rare week of sunshine.
- </p>
- <p>
- His favourite spot was the Corporation Pier, with its double deck and
- comfortable seats and view across the Humber. His well-worn clothes were
- in harmony with its frequenters, and he felt more at ease than on the
- Parade of a seaside resort thronged with well-dressed people.
- Here he brought his book and pipe, read discursively, watched the
- shipping, fell into talk with seafaring men, who told him the tonnage of
- vessels and the ports from which they came. Often a great steamer
- performing the passenger service across the North Sea would come into the
- docks close by, and he would go and watch her land her passengers and
- cargo. The hurry and movement were welcome to him, breaking, as they did,
- the lethargy of the day. If the docks were quiet, there was always the
- mild excitement of witnessing the arrival of the Grimsby boat at the pier.
- </p>
- <p>
- On Saturday morning this last incident had attracted him from his seat on
- the lower gallery to the little knot of expectant idlers gathered by the
- railing. The steamer was within a quarter of a mile, the churn of her
- paddles the only break visible in the sluggish water of the river. He
- stood leaning over, pipe in mouth, idly watching her draw near. When she
- was moored alongside and the gangway pushed on to the landing-stage below,
- he moved with the others to the head of the slope to watch the passengers
- ascend. Why he should particularly interest himself in the passage of
- humdrum labourers, fishwives, artisans, and young women come to
- shop in Hull, he did not know. He watched them, with unspeculating gaze,
- pass hurrying by, until suddenly a pair of evil eyes looking straight into
- his own made him start back with a shiver of dismay.
- </p>
- <p>
- Escape was impossible; in another moment the man was by his side.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Hullo, old pal! Who would have thought of seeing you?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Joyce did not take the dirty hand that was proffered. He stuck his own
- deep in his pockets, frowned at the man, and turned away. But the other
- followed.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Look here, old pal, I don’t call this a friendly lead—bust
- me if I do. You might pass the time of day with a bloke—especially
- as it is n’t so long ago——”
- </p>
- <p>
- The man’s voice was loud, the pier busy with people. The air seemed
- to Joyce filled with a thousand listening ears. His blood tingled with
- shame. He faced round with an angry look.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What do you want with me?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, don’t take on, old pal,” replied the other, in
- lower tones. “I ain’t going to give you away—don’t
- you fear. It’s only pleasant to meet old pals again—in better
- circs. Ain’t it?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Joyce had always loathed him—a flabby, sallow, greasy-faced fellow,
- with blear eyes and a protruding under-lip. He had been sentenced for a
- foul offence against decency. Joyce’s soul used to revolt at the
- sight of him as they sat on either side of the reeking tub washing up the
- cooking utensils in the prison kitchen. The hateful stench rose again to
- his nostrils now and turned his stomach.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Can’t you see I am going to have nothing to do with you?”
- he said angrily.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Come, don’t be hard on a bloke when he’s down,”
- replied the man. “It ain’t everyone that gets on their legs
- again when they comes out. I ’ve been out two months, and I haven’t
- had a job yet. S’welp me! And there’s the wife and the kids
- starving. Give us a couple of quid to send to ’em and make ’em
- happy again. Just two thick uns.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Joyce stared at him, breathless with indignation at his impudence.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I ’ll see you damned first!” he cried fiercely.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, make it ten bob, or five, or the price of a drink, old pal.
- You can’t leave an old fellow-boarder in distress, or the luck will
- turn agen you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He leered up into Joyce’s face, disclosing a jagged row of yellow
- teeth. But Joyce started forward and took him by the collar.
- </p>
- <p>
- “If you try to blackmail me,” said he, pointing to a policeman
- on the quay, “I ’ll give you in charge. Just stay where you
- are and let me go my ways.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He released him and marched off. But the man did not attempt to follow. He
- slipped into a seat close by and sang out sarcastically: “If you
- ’ll leave your address, I ’ll send you a mourning card when
- the kids is dead!”
- </p>
- <p>
- Joyce caught the words as he hurried down the stairs. When he had crossed
- the quay to the hotels, he looked up at the pier, and saw the man leaning
- over with a grin on his face. It was only when he reached his lodging that
- he breathed freely again.
- </p>
- <p>
- What he had long expected had come to pass—recognition by a
- fellow-prisoner. It was a horrible experience. It might occur again and
- again indefinitely. He walked agitated up and down his poorly-furnished
- bedroom. Could he do nothing to guard against such things in the future?
- If he could only disguise himself! Then he remembered that the moustache
- which might have served him as a slight protection against casual glances
- had been sacrificed to theatrical exigencies. He ground his teeth at the
- futility of the idea. And at intervals wrath rose up hot within him at the
- man’s cool impudence. Two pounds—more than a week’s
- salary—to be thrown away on swine like that! He laughed savagely at
- the thought.
- </p>
- <p>
- He grew calm after a time, lay down on his bed and opened a book. But the
- face of the man, bringing with it scenes of a past in which they had been
- associated came between his eyes and the page.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Anyhow, it’s over,” he exclaimed at last, with a
- determined effort to banish the memories. “And, thank God, it’s
- Saturday, and I shall be in Leeds to-morrow.”
- </p>
- <p>
- To avoid the chance of meeting him in the streets, however, he stayed at
- home all day, sending round a note of excuse on the score of seediness to
- Miss Stevens, with whom he had arranged to take an afternoon stroll. On
- his way to the theatre he caught sight of the man standing by a gas-lamp
- at a street-corner on the other side of the way. He hurried on, glad at
- his escape, for the glance of the man’s eyes resting upon him was
- abhorrent.
- </p>
- <p>
- For the first time since he had started on the tour the rough
- companionship of the dressing-room was a comfort and delight. Here were
- kindly words, welcoming faces, the pleasant familiarity of common
- avocation. He forgot the heat, and the crush, and the tomfool aspect the
- dressing had always presented. The place was home-like, familiar,
- sheltering. His costume, as he took it down from the peg, seemed like an
- old friend. The jolly voices of his companions rang gratefully in his
- ears. The disgust of the day faded into the memory of a nightmare. This
- was a reality—this hearty good-fellowship with uncontaminated men.
- </p>
- <p>
- When he went out with them on to the stage, before the curtain rose, and
- met the ladies of the chorus, he greeted those that he liked with a newer
- sense of friendliness. Until then he had never been aware how pleasant it
- was to have Annie Stevens’s head resting on his knee. He thanked God
- he was a criminal no longer—not as that other man was. Certainly
- Phariseeism is justifiable at times.
- </p>
- <p>
- He was very kind to Miss Stevens all the evening during the waits, when
- they happened to be together. His apologies for having to put off their
- engagement met with her full acceptance. She was solicitous as to his
- health—asked him in her downright fashion whether he ate enough.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You are a gentleman, you know, and not accustomed to poor people’s
- ways and their privations.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “My dear,” he replied, dropping for the first time into the
- old professional’s mode of address. “I ’ve gone through
- privations in my life that you have never dreamed of. This is clover—knee-deep.”
- </p>
- <p>
- And he believed it; thought, too, what a fool he had been to grumble at
- this honest, pleasant theatrical life. The reaction had rather excited
- him.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I look upon myself as jolly well off here,” he said. “And
- I eat like an ox, I assure you. Do you know, it’s very good of you
- to take an interest in me?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Do you think so?” said the girl, with a little laugh, and
- turning away her head.
- </p>
- <p>
- At the end of the first act a fresh pleasure awaited him. It was a night
- of surprising sensations. The stage-manager called him into his room.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Walker has been telegraphed for—wife very ill—and he
- won’t be able to play on Monday. Do you think you could play his
- part till he comes back?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Rather!” said Joyce, delighted.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You are the only one of the crowd that can sing worth a cent,”
- said the stage-manager with a seasonable mixture of profanity. “I
- ’ll pull you through. Perhaps he’s not coming back at all. One
- never knows. If he does n’t and you go all right, there’s no
- reason why you should n’t stick to it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Walker spoke exactly four lines, sang once in a quartette and had a
- couplet solo. Otherwise he made himself useful in the chorus. But it was a
- part, his name was down in the bill. The value of the step, moral,
- pecuniary and professional was considerable. Joyce felt that his luck had
- turned at last. Here was the gate into the profession proper open to him.
- </p>
- <p>
- The news soon spread through the company. A “call” for
- rehearsal on Monday morning for the chorus and those of the principals
- concerned in the change was posted up. He felt himself a person of some
- importance. McKay congratulated him; and Blake, although he said, “You
- swells get all the fat,” spoke by no means enviously. The others
- cracked jokes and suggested drinks all round, which, being sent for by
- Joyce, were consumed in the dressing-room. Annie Stevens squeezed his
- hand, during their dance together, and whispered a word of pleasure. He
- had no idea that so infinitesimal a success could have masqueraded as such
- a triumph. He longed to get back to his room to write it all to Yvonne.
- </p>
- <p>
- At the stage-door, after the performance, he met Annie Stevens, who had
- hurried through her dressing.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I’m glad for your sake, but I’m sorry for my own,”
- she said, after they had walked a few steps.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why, what difference can it make to you?” asked Joyce
- laughing.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I shall have to play and sing with somebody else.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “True. I was forgetting. Yes, it will seem funny. I shall miss you
- too.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don’t believe you care one bit,” said the girl.
- </p>
- <p>
- To acquiesce would have been rude. He answered her with vague regrets. She
- interrupted him with a laugh in which was the faintest note of scorn.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, you’re very glad to get rid of me, and the stupid kissing
- and everything. You won’t have to give any one a Chinese kiss now.
- And they were very Chinese, you know.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “An English kiss would have been out of the picture,” said
- Joyce.
- </p>
- <p>
- “We’re not in the picture now,” she said softly.
- </p>
- <p>
- Joyce felt that he was doing something very foolish, perhaps dangerous. He
- had never had the remotest fancy for allowing his companionship with her
- to degenerate into a flirtation. But what could he do? He bent down and
- kissed her.
- </p>
- <p>
- There was an awkward silence for a few yards, which she broke at last in
- her irrelevant way.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I should so like a glass of port wine tonight.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “So should I,” said Joyce, cheerfully. “Or something
- like it. We ’ll go into the Crown yonder.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Two or three times before they had had a glass together on their way home.
- To-night, therefore, the suggestion seemed natural. They entered the
- private bar of the public-house, and Joyce ordered the liquors. Only one
- young man was there, reading a sporting paper on a high stool. It was a
- quiet place, with the view beyond the counter down the bar cut off by a
- ground-glass screen, through a low space under which the customers were
- served.
- </p>
- <p>
- Joyce pushed the port wine smilingly to Miss Stevens, and, with his back
- to the door, was pouring some water into his whisky, when a voice sounded
- in his ear, causing him to start violently and flood the counter.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I say, old pal, <i>are</i> you goin’ to help a poor feller?”
- </p>
- <p>
- The man was standing behind him, the leer upon his greasy face. Joyce had
- been blissfully unaware that he had dogged his steps from that street
- corner to the stage-door of the theatre, and from the stage-door hither.
- The sight of him was a stroke of cold terror.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Go away. I ’ll give you in charge,” he stammered,
- losing his head for the moment.
- </p>
- <p>
- Annie Stevens clutched his arm.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Who is this beastly man?” she said.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Only an old pal, miss,” said the man, edging towards the
- door. “We was in quod many months together, and now he won’t
- give me ’arf a crown to keep me from starving.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “By God!” cried Joyce, making a sudden dash at him.
- </p>
- <p>
- But the man was too quick; he had secured his retreat, and when Joyce
- reached the pavement—the house was at a corner of cross roads—he
- could not catch the fall of his footsteps. The man had vanished into the
- night, and pursuit was hopeless. It had all passed with the sudden
- unexpectedness of a dream. Joyce put his hand to his forehead and tried to
- think. He could scarcely realise exactly what had happened. He seemed to
- be enveloped with tiny tingling waves that drew his skin tight like a drum
- for his heart to beat against. He turned, and saw Annie Stevens standing
- by his side, in the light of the public-house, with anger on her face.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What have you got to say for yourself?” she asked brusquely.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Do you believe that man?” said Joyce, the words coming
- painfully.
- </p>
- <p>
- Their lack of conviction damned him. The girl drew back a step, and looked
- at him with revulsion in her eyes.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You can’t deny it! I see that you can’t. You’ve
- just come out of prison.”
- </p>
- <p>
- If the world had been at his feet he could not have lied convincingly at
- that moment. He could only stare at her haggardly and rack his brains for
- words that would not come. She moved away instinctively from the public
- glare and turned down the dark street that led toward their destination.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It’s a lie,” he said desperately, striding to her side.
- </p>
- <p>
- “No it is n’t. It’s truth. I read it on your face. That’s
- why you’ve come down in the world—that’s why you live by
- yourself—that’s why you didn’t dare come out this
- afternoon—and that’s where you’ve known all those
- privations I never dreamed of. It’s no good telling lies.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, it’s true,” said Joyce. “And I ’ve
- paid the penalty for my folly ten times over. Forget all this, Annie, for
- God’s sake.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Go away!” she cried, walking faster. “I don’t
- want to see you again. Oh, to think of it makes me sick! Go away, do!”
- </p>
- <p>
- But he followed her imploringly. He was at her mercy. “I don’t
- care what you think of me,” he said. “I will keep out of your
- way as much as you like. Only, a word from you would ruin me. Keep my
- story secret, like an honourable woman. I have done nothing to you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, you have!” she cried, stopping short and facing him.
- “You have dared to kiss me. Oh—a pretty fine gentleman you are—with
- your patronising superior ways—and I thinking myself an ignorant,
- common girl, not good enough for you! What were you? A pickpocket?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You abuse me as if I were one,” said Joyce, bitterly. “Good-night,
- Miss Stevens. I shall not molest you any further.” He motioned to
- her with his hand to pass on in front. She regarded him for a moment
- stonily, and then, with a short exclamation of disgust, swung round
- sharply and proceeded at a hurried pace down the dismal, ill-lighted
- street. Joyce watched her until she was swallowed up in the darkness, and
- had obtained sufficient start for him to follow in her footsteps without
- fear of overtaking her.
- </p>
- <p>
- But as he walked along, the dread of her indignation seized him. If only
- he could say another word to her before the morning, he might secure her
- pity and her silence. The idea grew more and more insistent, until he
- could bear it no longer. He started off at a run, at first on the pavement
- of the quiet side street, and then in the roadway by the kerb of the
- busier thoroughfare into which it led, and regardless of jostling and
- oaths, continued his way, until he succeeded in catching her up just as
- she was inserting the latchkey into her door.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Annie,” he cried, his chest heaving painfully from the
- exertion of running. “Promise me you won’t breathe a word of
- this to any one.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She let herself in deliberately and stood in the dark passage.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I ’ll promise nothing. I never want to set my eyes on you
- again!”
- </p>
- <p>
- And then she slammed the door in his face.
- </p>
- <p>
- He turned away sick at heart, and went to his own lodging. Resentment at
- her coarse anger, and speculation as to the motives of the sudden change
- from friendliness to hatred were things that did not come to him till
- afterwards. Sufficient for the night was the despair of the sleepless
- hours, the dread of the girl’s tongue, and the anguish of tottering
- hopes. He did not write to Yvonne. The little triumph of the evening
- seemed like a gay pagoda struck by lightning.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER VII—A FORLORN HOPE
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>t the railway
- station the next afternoon he found most of the company already assembled
- on the platform. Curious glances were cast upon him as he appeared; there
- were nudgings and whisperings; some giggling on the part of the chorus
- girls standing round Annie Stevens, who was looking paler and more defiant
- than usual. A group of his colleagues melted away at his approach. He saw
- at once what had happened. The fears that had haunted him all the night
- and all that day were realised. He felt his face and lips grow white, and
- his limbs trembled. With an instinctive remnant of self-assertion, he went
- up to Blake, who was standing by one of the reserved carriages. It seemed
- a long time before he could speak. At last he asked him stupidly at what
- time the train started.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Four-forty,” said Blake, curtly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “And when do we get to Leeds?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “How the devil should I know? If you want to know, there’s the
- guard. Ask him.”
- </p>
- <p>
- With which he moved away and joined two or three others a few steps off.
- Joyce felt too sick with misery to resent the rudeness. He walked a short
- distance along the train, and seeing one of his colleagues in a
- compartment, concluded that it was reserved for the chorus-men and crept
- into the far corner, where he sat down, holding a newspaper before his
- face.
- </p>
- <p>
- The compartment filled and the train started. At first there was a general
- constraint in the talk. Then a game at nap was instituted; but no one
- spoke to Joyce. At Selby there was over an hour’s wait. With a
- feeling that he must be alone at any cost, he rushed out of the station,
- and, avoiding the town, wandered aimlessly through lanes and fields until
- it was time to return. He was too dazed and overwhelmed by this sudden
- blow to think coherently. Now it was the girl’s deliberate cruelty
- that passed his comprehension; now the sickening shame at being known in
- his true colours to a whole society burned into his flesh. Only one
- thought stood out from the rest in lurid clearness—the impossibility
- of his continuing the tour. Even if the management took no notice of the
- discovery, he felt he would rather starve to death in a hole than live
- through that hell of daily aversion and contempt. To return to the company
- and travel with them as far as Leeds was pain enough. He would face that,
- however, and then—
- </p>
- <p>
- It was gathering dusk when he arrived at the station, just in time to see
- the guard about to wave the green flag. The handle of the compartment was
- in his grasp when he heard McKay say:—
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, because a fellow’s happened to be in quod, that doesn’t
- mean he’s likely to sneak your watches out of the dressing-room!”
- </p>
- <p>
- He opened the door and entered amid a dead silence, which lasted, with few
- interruptions, all the rest of the journey. Joyce looked round at his
- seven companions, with an awful sense of isolation. Only four-and-twenty
- hours before he had loved them for their warm good-fellowship. He was
- wrung with the pity of it. McKay’s words still sounded in his ear.
- They were horrible enough, but it was evident they were meant in his
- defence. Once he met his glance, and read in it a signal of kind intent.
- But the others steadily looked another way when his eye fell upon them.
- </p>
- <p>
- When they left the train at Leeds, McKay touched him on the shoulder and
- drew him apart from the hurrying stream of passengers and porters.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What’s all this yarn that Annie Stevens has been telling us?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, it’s true enough,” replied Joyce, wearily.
- </p>
- <p>
- “The damned little hell-cat,” said McKay. “I told you to
- keep clear of women.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It was bound to come out. One of you fellows might just as well
- have been with me in the pub last night.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Do you think a man would have given you away like this?”
- asked McKay, with great scorn.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I ’ve come to the conclusion that anything’s possible
- in this infernal world,” said Joyce, bitterly. “I suppose the
- whole crowd are against me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, there is a bit of feeling, certainly,” replied McKay,
- in an embarrassed tone. “And maybe it won’t be very pleasant
- for you. They all talk as if they were plaster of Paris saints,—and,
- dash it all—they made me sick; so I thought I’d come and say I’d
- stand by you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Thank you, McKay,” said Joyce, touched. “You are a good
- sort. But I sha’n’t ask you. I am not going on with the tour.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I think you’re just as well out of it, to tell you the truth,”
- said McKay. Then his anger against Annie Stevens broke out again in an
- unequivocal epithet.
- </p>
- <p>
- “The little————,” he said.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I suppose it is horrible in a woman’s eyes,” said
- Joyce, moving with McKay toward the crowd round the luggage-van. “But
- I can’t see why she should hate me like this, all of a sudden, and
- wish to ruin me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Can’t you? It’s pretty plain.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No,” said Joyce. “We have always been the best of
- friends.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Friends? You don’t mean to say you did n’t know she was
- gone on you—clean gone, all off her chump? No one liked to chaff you
- about it, because you have an infernal sarcastic way of scoring off
- fellows. But, Gawd! The way she used to look at you was enough to make a
- man sick!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Do you mean she was in love with me?” asked Joyce,
- falteringly, as the whole situation of affairs, past and present,
- began to dawn upon him.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, rather,” said McKay, with a chuckle. “What do you
- think?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Several of the company were still around the pile of luggage by the van,
- claiming their things and waiting for porters. Standing on one side was
- Annie Stevens, and, as it happened, Joyce recognised his Gladstone bag
- lying at her feet He went and picked it up, and was going off silently
- with it, when he felt her touch on his arm. Dim as the light was, he could
- see that her face was haggard and drawn. She met his stern gaze
- beseechingly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “For God’s sake, forgive me,” she whispered.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You have played too much havoc with my life,” replied Joyce
- coldly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I shall kill myself,” said the girl.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Some people are better dead,” said Joyce, turning away, bag
- in hand.
- </p>
- <p>
- On the platform beyond the barriers he met McKay again.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Good-bye, McKay,” he said. “I have only two friends in
- the world who know my story, and you are one.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Good-bye, old man,” said McKay. “Better luck next time.”
- </p>
- <p>
- They shook hands and parted, McKay to join his friend Blake at the
- lodgings they had secured already, Joyce to put up for the night at the
- first cheap hotel he could find.
- </p>
- <p>
- The next day he was in London again, in his old room in Pimlico—a
- broken-hearted, broken-spirited man. For two days he remained in a state
- of stupid misery, yearning for the life he had just abandoned; tortured,
- too, by reproaches for his cowardice. Why had he not faced the ignominy,
- and tried to live it down? Then the conviction of the hopelessness of the
- attempt was forced upon him. Even if he had continued in the profession,
- his name would soon have been known throughout it as the ex-convict,—and
- he had been in it long enough to perceive how narrow the theatrical circle
- is,—and all hope of advancement would have been worse than futile.
- On the third day he went to see Yvonne, but she had just gone out of town.
- The porter at the flat did not know how long she would be away. She was at
- Fulminster. Her letters were forwarded there. So Joyce wrote her a short
- note, explaining his situation, and set himself to wait patiently for her
- coming.
- </p>
- <p>
- But on that evening, out of sheer weariness and longing for human
- companionship, he turned into his old haunt, the billiard-room in
- Westminster. It seemed just the same as on the last evening he had been
- there. The occupants of the divan might never have moved from that night
- to this. His appearance was greeted with incurious, uninterested nods. The
- only one that offered his hand was Noakes, who was sitting at the end,
- still in his Chesterfield overcoat and old curly silk hat, but looking
- more woe-begone and pallid than ever. There was a touch of pain, too, in
- his usually expressionless pale-blue eyes. Joyce took his seat next to him
- and bent forward, elbows on knees and chin resting in his hands.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You have been absent from town?” asked Noakes, in his
- precise, toneless way.
- </p>
- <p>
- Joyce nodded, with a murmur of assent.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I, too, have not been here lately.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Press of literary work?” asked Joyce, without looking up.
- </p>
- <p>
- The other did not notice the shade of sarcasm. He passed his hand across
- his eyes and sighed.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I have given it up.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Have you come into a fortune?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No. I have had the deadliest misfortune that can befall a man.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Something genuinely tragic in his tone made Joyce start up from his
- dejected attitude and look at his neighbour.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I beg your pardon,” he said. “I did not know.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Of course not; no one does. At least, no one I can repose any
- confidence in.”
- </p>
- <p>
- There was an air of dignity in this oddly attired figure, with the
- ludicrous silk hat above the black mutton-chop whiskers and bushy white
- hair, and yet a mute appeal for sympathy which Joyce could not but
- perceive.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I, too, have been hard hit lately,” he said, in a low voice.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ah, not like me,” said the other, turning round in his seat,
- so that his words should reach only Joyce’s ear. “Until three
- weeks ago I had a wife and child. No man ever loved as I did. I worked for
- them till my brain almost gave way—fifteen hours a day, week after
- week, starved myself for them, denied myself the clothes on my back. Now I
- have them no longer. Life is valueless to me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Are they—dead?” asked Joyce.
- </p>
- <p>
- “No. Gone off with the lodger on the first floor,” replied
- Noakes, solemnly.
- </p>
- <p>
- Joyce remained silent. What could he say? He looked sympathetic. Noakes
- blew his nose in a dirty piece of calico with frayed edges that courtesy
- called a pocket-handkerchief, and continued:—
- </p>
- <p>
- “So my life is wrecked. My imagination is darkened and I can write
- no more. I have given up my literary ambitions. It is not worth while
- writing penny bloods at half a crown a thousand for one’s own
- support.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “What are you going to do then?” asked Joyce, interested in
- the quaint creature.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am going abroad. I have come here perhaps for the last time. On
- the day after to-morrow I sail for South Africa.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Was it a sudden inspiration? Was it the coming to a head of vague
- resolutions, despairs, workings, the final word of a destiny driving him
- from England? Was it a sudden sense of protecting brotherhood towards this
- forlorn, tragic scarecrow of a man? Joyce never knew. Possibly it was all
- bursting upon his soul at once. Springing to his feet, he held out his
- hand to Noakes.
- </p>
- <p>
- “By all that’s holy, I ’ll come with you!” he
- cried, in a strange voice.
- </p>
- <p>
- The other, after some hesitation, took his hand and looked at him
- pathetically.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Are you in earnest?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “In dead earnest.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am going in the very cheapest possible manner.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “So am I.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am going, with a few pounds I have scraped together, to try my
- luck.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “The same with me. It can’t be worse than England; starvation
- is certain here. Come, say, honour bright—will you be glad of me as
- a companion—as a friend if you like? I am a lonely bit of driftwood
- like yourself.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Then Noakes rose to his feet and this time squeezed Joyce’s hand and
- his pale eyes glistened.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I ’ll swear to be your friend in peace and in danger,”
- he said, in his quaint phraseology. “And I thank the God of all
- mercies for sending you to me in my hour of need.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “All right,” said Joyce. “And now let us have some
- whisky, and talk over details.”
- </p>
- <p>
- And so, in that dingy billiard-room, unknown to the moulting Bohemians
- huddled up in somnolent attitudes close by on the divan and unheeded by
- the shirt-sleeved men passing around the table intent on their game, was
- struck the strangest bargain of a friendship ever made between two outcast
- men; a friendship that was to last through want and sickness and despair
- and hope, and to leave behind it the ineffaceable stamp of nobler feeling.
- </p>
- <p>
- But at first there was much admixture of cynicism on Joyce’s side.
- He laughed aloud, in the bitterness of his heart, at the object he had
- taken for his bosom friend. It was only later, when he learned the
- patient, dog-like devotion of the man, that he felt humbled and ashamed at
- these beginnings.
- </p>
- <p>
- With a draft on a Cape Town bank for the remainder of his capital, and a
- last regretful letter from Yvonne in his pocket, he left Southampton. And
- as they steamed down Channel, in the mizzling rain of a grey November day,
- he leaned over the taffrail and stared at the land of his brilliant hopes,
- his crime, his punishment, his struggles and his dishonour, with a man’s
- agony of unshed tears.
- </p>
- <p>
- He was going to begin life anew in a strange undesired country; hopeless,
- aimless, friendless save for that useless creature who was pacing up and
- down the deck behind him, still in his ridiculous headgear. He had made no
- plans. The future to him when he should land at Cape Town was as unknown—as
- it is to any of the sons of men, did we but realise it.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER VIII—THE CANON’S ANGEL
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>hile Joyce was
- straining his eyes through the darkness for the last sight of land and
- eating out his heart in bitter regrets, Yvonne was busily engaged at
- Fulminster in rehearsing for the next day’s concert. She had spent
- four days at Fulminster, the guest of Mrs. Winstanley, and found herself
- somewhat lost among the very decorous society of which Canon Chisely was a
- leading member. And while she was scanning the social heavens in half
- pathetic search of her bearings, Joyce’s letters had arrived, with
- their tidings of catastrophe and exile. So, while there was a smile on her
- lip for the Canon and his friends, there was a tear in her eye for Joyce.
- His humiliation and her failure as fairy godmother brought her a pang of
- disappointment. She felt very tenderly towards Joyce. In her imagination,
- too, Africa was a dreadful place, made up of deserts, lions, and ferocious
- negroes in a state of nudity.
- </p>
- <p>
- If she had seen him before he started, she might have dissuaded him from
- encountering such discomforts. She thought of this tearfully in the
- intervals that Fulminster affairs allowed her for reflection.
- </p>
- <p>
- She was staying with Mrs. Winstanley. Now Mrs. Winstanley was the leading
- social authority in Fulminster. She was a distant cousin of Canon Chisely.
- In fact, she was an infinite number of irreproachable things. Mothers came
- to her as a matrimonial oracle. The Mayor consulted her on ticklish
- questions of civic etiquette. The affairs of the parish were in her hands.
- Although she inhabited a well-appointed house of her own, she
- superintended the domestic arrangements of the Rectory; and performed all
- the duties of hostess for her cousin when he entertained. Thus,
- parochially and socially she was invaluable to the Canon—his
- right-hand woman, one who could share his dignity, and, by so doing, add
- to its impressiveness. If he had been called upon to write her epitaph, he
- would have carved upon the stone, “Here lies a woman of sense.”
- Now, when a responsibly placed and grave bachelor of three-and-forty holds
- that opinion of a woman of his own years, and consults her in all his
- concerns, the result is not difficult to imagine. Cousin Emmeline ruled
- the Rectory, with exquisite tact it is true—for if there was one of
- her peculiar and original virtues of which she made a speciality, it was
- tact—but yet her influence was paramount.
- </p>
- <p>
- When the Canon had come to her with a request to invite Madame Yvonne
- Latour to stay with her, she had elevated polite eyebrows.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Whoever heard of such a thing!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It seems simple,” said the Canon. “I can’t invite
- her to my own house, so I beg you to invite her to yours.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You are not going to do this for all the professionals engaged at
- the festival?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Of course not,” answered the Canon; “who is suggesting
- anything so absurd?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Then why make an exception of Madame Latour, who is not even
- singing the leading parts?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “She is very delicate and requires comforts,” he replied.
- “If she is not taken care of, she may not be able to sing at all.
- Besides, it is my particular desire, Emmeline. I assume the privilege of
- expressing it to you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I take it she is a very great friend of yours?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “A very great friend,” said the Canon.
- </p>
- <p>
- Mrs. Winstanley reviewed many unpleasant possibilities. Certain weaknesses
- becoming apparent in her own impregnable position strongly tempted her to
- refuse. She bit her lip and looked at her manicured finger-nails.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Come, you’re a woman of sense,” added the Canon, after
- a pause.
- </p>
- <p>
- The tribute turned the tide of her judgment. She was a woman of sense. How
- absurd of her to have forgotten. An ironical smile played on her lips and
- lurked in her steel-grey eyes.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You want to present Madame Latour to Fulminster society, Everard,
- with whatever advantages may be attached to my chaperonage?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Precisely,” said the Canon.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, I will send the invitation. But will she accept it?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I ’ll see about that,” he replied briskly. “I am
- deeply indebted to you, Emmeline.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She smiled, shook hands and followed him, with a word of parting, to the
- door. Then as soon as it was shut upon him, she stamped her foot and
- walked across the room, with an exclamation of impatience.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I wonder what kind of a fool he is going to make of himself!”
- </p>
- <p>
- She soon saw. One is not a woman of sense for nothing. On the eve of the
- Festival, which was being held for the purpose of raising funds for the
- restoration of the old Abbey church, of which the Canon was rector, he
- gave a consecrating dinner-party.
- </p>
- <p>
- The Bishop of the diocese, who was staying at the Rectory, was there; Sir
- Joshua and Lady Santyre, and others of the high and solemn world of
- Fulminster. Yet the Canon, with a high-bred tact, delicately conveyed the
- impression that Madame Latour was the guest of the evening. Mrs.
- Winstanley kept eyes and ears on the alert. There was much talk of the
- Festival. On the morrow the “Elijah” was to be given, with
- Madame Latour in the contralto part. The Canon was solicitous as to her
- voice, beamed with pleasure when she offered, in her sweet, simple way to
- sing to his guests, and stood behind her as she sung, with what, in Mrs.
- Winstanley’s eyes, appeared an exasperating expression of fatuity.
- </p>
- <p>
- A little later in the evening, a young girl,
- Sophia Wilmington, went up to him with the charming insolence of youth.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why did n’t you tell us she was so sweet? I ’ve fallen
- head over ears in love with her.” The Canon smiled, bowed, and
- delivered himself of this extraordinary speech:—
- </p>
- <p>
- “My dear Sophia, next to falling in love with me, myself, you could
- not give me greater pleasure.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “She is so lovely,” said the girl.
- </p>
- <p>
- “A chance for a medallion,” said the Canon. Miss Wilmington
- had a pretty taste in medallion painting.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, I couldn’t get her colouring; but I should love to try—and
- her voice. To me, any one with a gift like that seems above ordinary
- mortals. You see I am quite ready to worship your angel.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “My angel?” said the Canon, sharply.
- </p>
- <p>
- Mrs. Winstanley, who was close by, discussing the Engadine with the
- Bishop, did not lose a word of the above conversation. At his last
- exclamation, she shot a swift side glance which caught the momentary
- confusion and flush on the Canon’s face. She was quite certain now
- of the sort of fool he was going to make of himself.
- </p>
- <p>
- Meanwhile, the girl broke into a gay laugh.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It did sound funny. I meant the angel in the ‘Elijah.’”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh,” said the Canon, “I was forgetting the ‘Elijah.’”
- </p>
- <p>
- Mrs. Winstanley resolved at least to say a warning word. Before she left,
- she managed to have a few words with him.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I hope you are keeping your eyes very wide open, Everard,”
- she said, in a whisper.
- </p>
- <p>
- The Canon took her literally and so regarded her. But she smiled and put
- her hand on his sleeve.
- </p>
- <p>
- “She is quite charming and all of that, I grant. But she is very
- much deeper than she looks.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Really, my dear Emmeline—” he began, drawing himself
- up.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Tut! my dear friend; don’t be offended. You have called me a
- wise woman so often that I believe I am one. Well, trust a wise woman, and
- look before you leap.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am not in the habit of leaping, Emmeline,” said the Canon,
- stiffly.
- </p>
- <p>
- Mrs. Winstanley laughed, as if she had a sense of humour; and in a few
- minutes was driving Yvonne homewards in her snug brougham.
- </p>
- <p>
- But the Canon, after he had performed his last duties as host towards his
- right reverend guest, sought the great leathern armchair before his study
- fire and lit a cigar. Emmeline’s words had disturbed him. That is
- the worst of keeping a consultant cousin—a woman of sense. Her
- advice <i>may</i> save you from months of regret, but it is sure to cause
- you bad quarters of an hour. You remember the woman and disregard the
- sense on such occasions; or <i>vice versa</i>. Hitherto Emmeline had been
- infallible. The fact annoyed him, and he let his cigar die out, another
- irritation. At last he rose impatiently, and going to a violin-case, drew
- from it a favourite Guarnerius fiddle, tenderly wrapped in a silk
- handkerchief. And then, having put on the <i>sourdine</i>, so as not to
- disturb right reverend slumbers, he played “O, rest in the Lord,”
- with considerable taste and execution.
- </p>
- <p>
- Perhaps it is well that Mrs. Winstanley did not hear him.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <p>
- The concert began at three o’clock. The new Town Hall was packed
- from ceiling to floor. Canon Chisely stood up by his seat near the
- platform and looked around at the great mass of the audience, which
- included the flower and influence of the county, and then, turning,
- scanned the serried hedgerow of the orchestra, the crowding terraces of
- the choir, and the thin line of professionals in front, among whom Yvonne’s
- tiny figure had just come to make a spot of grace; and he felt a glow of
- pride. It was all his doing. The dream of many years was in process of
- being realised—the completion of the Abbey Restoration Fund.
- Moreover, he had succeeded in developing his first conception of an
- unambitious concert into a musical event, to be chronicled by critics from
- the London dailies. He had other reasons, too, for satisfaction, neither
- professional nor aesthetic.
- </p>
- <p>
- Yvonne was feeling fluttered and happy. Fluttered, because it was an
- important engagement. There are very few chances, even for a real
- contralto, in oratorio music, and her voice was more mezzo. Hitherto she
- had contented herself with the scraps. If she had known that the “Elijah”
- had been deliberately selected because it was the one oratorio in which
- the contralto part not only suited her voice perfectly, but also rivalled
- the soprano in importance, the fluttering would have been intensified by
- perplexity. And she was happy, because all the world was smiling on her,
- particularly Geraldine Vicary and Vandeleur, with whom she was in
- immediate converse. Vandeleur had been engaged long since by the Canon for
- the name-part, partly on account of his magnificent bass voice, and partly
- to please Yvonne. Geraldine Vicary had stepped into a gap caused by the
- withdrawal of a more celebrated soprano at the last moment. Yvonne was
- smiling brightly upon Vandeleur. She liked him. He had made no subsequent
- reference to his declaration of love, and Yvonne, with her facile
- temperament, had almost forgotten the circumstance. Besides, he had gone
- back to his old allegiance to Geraldine, which pleased Yvonne greatly.
- </p>
- <p>
- The conductor stepped to his stand and tapped with his baton. Silence
- succeeded the buzz of talk and the din of the tuning of fiddles. Three
- chords from the orchestra, and Vandeleur sang the introduction; the
- overture, the opening chorus, and then Yvonne took up her part. Singing
- was her life. After the first bar, she sang spontaneously, like the birds,
- free from nervousness or self-consciousness. And during her waits the
- sublime music absorbed her senses. It swept on through its themes of
- despair, renunciation, revelation, and promise; through all its vivid
- contrasts—the great trumpet voice of the prophet, the rolling mass
- of sound of the chorus, the vibrating notes of the messenger—“Hear
- ye, Israel; hear what the Lord speaketh “—the calm, sweet
- voice of the angel, telling of peace.
- </p>
- <p>
- The Canon listened through all with the ear of a musician and the heart of
- a religious man. But there was a chord in his nature that remained
- untouched when Yvonne was not singing, and quivered strangely when her
- voice was raised. It was so pathetically weak, so different in quality
- from Geraldine Vicary’s powerful soprano, apparently so incapable of
- filling that vast hall; and yet so true, so exquisitely modulated that
- every note rang clear to the farthest gallery. The man forgot his
- three-and-forty years, the strange mingling of worldly wisdom and priestly
- dignity by which most of his judgments were formed, and he identified the
- woman with the voice, pure, angelic, irresistibly lovable.
- </p>
- <p>
- He turned to his neighbour, Mrs. Winstanley, after the “O, rest in
- the Lord,” his eyes glistening, and whispered, “What do you
- think?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “An unqualified success, Everard.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am so glad.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You deserve every congratulation.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Thanks, from my heart, Emmeline.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “The Obadiah man is delightful.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He looked blankly at her, unable to read what lay behind those calm, grey
- eyes. Then a great comfort fell upon him. The woman of sense had
- manifested a lack of intuition that could be called by no other name than
- stupidity. He hugged his knee, delighted. But he made no more references
- to Yvonne.
- </p>
- <p>
- The silence following the crash of the last “Amen,” announced
- the end. It woke him from a dream. He started to his feet with the impulse
- to seek Yvonne on the platform, but he was immediately hemmed in by a
- circle of congratulatory friends. As soon as he obtained breathing space,
- he turned round, to find that she had withdrawn to the ladies’
- dressing-room to put on her things. The hall cleared rapidly. Mrs.
- Winstanley waited for Yvonne, who did not come at once, having a flood of
- things to tell to Geraldine. The Canon grew impatient. It was getting
- late, and he had to drive the Bishop home in time to dress for dinner at a
- great house some distance away. It would be his only chance of seeing
- Yvonne that evening. At last she came through the side-door and down the
- platform with Miss Vicary. He advanced to assist them at the steps, and
- then, after a few courteous words of thanks to Geraldine, who walked on
- unconcernedly toward the waiting group, found himself alone with Yvonne.
- </p>
- <p>
- She wore high-standing fur at her throat and a tiny fur toque in the mass
- of dark hair, and she looked very winsome. Foolish speeches ran in his
- grave head, but he could not formulate them.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I hope you are not very tired,” he said, with dignified
- lameness, pacing by her side, his hands behind his back.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Not very. My throat is a bit stiff, but that will go off. Well, was
- I all right?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “My dear child—” began the Canon, stopping abruptly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I was afraid I might let the piece down, you know,” she said,
- with a serene smile. “I am not a great vocalist, like Miss Vicary.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Don’t speak like that,” he said, awkwardly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Besides, your voice has a charm that hers can never have.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “So you are quite pleased with me?” She looked up at him with
- such trustful simplicity that his rather stern face grew tender with a
- smile. It seemed as if a glimpse of her true nature was revealed to him.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You are like a child-angel, asking if it has been good.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, what a sweet, pretty thing to say!” cried Yvonne, gaily.
- “I shall always remember it, Canon Chisely. Now I know I sang
- nicely. And, you know, it’s almost like being in heaven to sing that
- part.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You called us all there to you,” said the Canon.
- </p>
- <p>
- Yvonne blushed, pleased to her heart by the sincerity of the compliment.
- Coming from Canon Chisely, it had singular force. There was an air of
- strength and dignity about his broad shoulders, his strongly-marked,
- thoughtful face, and his grave, yet kindly manner, that had always set him
- apart, in her estimation, from the other men with whom she came into
- contact. She never included him in her generalisations upon men and their
- strange ways. His profession and position, as well as his personality, put
- him into a category where her unremembered father, and Mr. Gladstone, and
- the great throat-surgeon whom she had once consulted, vaguely figured. She
- was always conscious of being on her very best behaviour while talking to
- him.
- </p>
- <p>
- The Canon glanced at his friends. They were conversing animatedly, as if
- in no great hurry to depart. So he leant back against the platform and
- lingered a while with Yvonne.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You must take care not to catch cold,” he said, after a
- while. “I believe it’s a horrid evening.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, don’t fear. I shall be all right tomorrow,” said
- Yvonne.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am not thinking of to-morrow at all, though any hitch then would
- be a misfortune, certainly. I am anxious about yourself. Your throat is
- already relaxed.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You mustn’t spoil me, Canon Chisely. I am used to going out
- in all kinds of weather. I have to, you know.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I wish you had n’t. You are far too fragile.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, I am stronger than I look. I am tough—really.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She brought out the incongruous epithet so prettily that he put back his
- head and laughed.
- </p>
- <p>
- “If I had any authority over you, you should not play tricks with
- yourself,” he said, in grave playfulness.
- </p>
- <p>
- “But you have a great deal of authority over me. I should never
- dream of disobeying you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He leaned his body forward, his hands resting on the platform edge behind
- him, and looked at her earnestly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Do you think so much of me as that?” he asked, in a low
- voice.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why, of course, I think everything of you,” replied Yvonne,
- innocently. “Don’t you know that?”
- </p>
- <p>
- An answer was on his lips, but, happening to look round, he caught Mrs.
- Winstanley’s ironical glance, an off-switch to sentiment. He stroked
- a grizzling whisker and drew himself up.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I mustn’t keep the Bishop waiting,” he said.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Nor I, Mrs. Winstanley.”
- </p>
- <p>
- They joined the group, where Yvonne received her congratulations and
- compliments with childish pleasure. In a few moments they separated, and
- the Canon drove off, regarding the Bishop by his side with uncanonical
- feelings.
- </p>
- <p>
- Late that evening Vandeleur was smoking a cigarette in Miss Vicary’s
- hotel sitting-room. As Yvonne’s friends, they had been dining with
- Mrs. Winstanley. Vandeleur was charmed with her urbanity, and sang her
- praises with Celtic hyperbole.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I should n’t trust her further than I could see her,”
- said Geraldine. “She hangs up her smile every night on her
- dressing-table.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Just hear a woman, now,” said the Irishman.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, just hear a woman,” retorted Geraldine, sarcastically.
- “I suppose you think she loves Yvonne, don’t you?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Of course I do. I’m sure she’s thinking how sweet she
- is this very minute.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “She would like to be poisoning Yvonne this very minute.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, I’m blest!” exclaimed Vandeleur, letting the
- match die out with which he was preparing to light a fresh cigarette.
- “It takes a woman to imagine gratuitous devilry!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And it takes a man to absorb himself in his dinner to the besotting
- of his intelligence! But I have eyes. And a logical mind—don’t
- tell me I have n’t. Now, hitherto, Mrs. Winstanley seems to have been
- the central figure in this wretched little provincial society. Who is, at
- the present moment?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Sure, it’s yourself, Geraldine—the great soprano from
- London.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She did not condescend to notice the flattery.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It’s Yvonne. I bet you she’s the most-talked-of person
- in Fulminster this evening. And Mrs. Winstanley the sickest. Oh, how dull
- men are! What is all this Festival, really, but the apotheosis of Yvonne?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It’s the canonisation of Yvonne, I should say,”
- remarked Vandeleur, drily.
- </p>
- <p>
- Miss Vicary’s expression relaxed, and she leaned back in her chair.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You’re not such a fool, after all, Van.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “So I ’ve been told before,” he replied, with a chuckle.
- “Anyhow, it will be a splendid thing for the dear child.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, how can it be? I have no patience with you!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That’s obvious,” said Vandeleur.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yvonne would give any man her head, if he whimpered or clamoured
- for it,” Geraldine, rising to her feet, “and then tell you in
- her pathetic way, ‘but he wanted it so, dear.’ And there isn’t
- a man living who could be good enough to Yvonne!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “There I agree with you,” said Vandeleur.
- </p>
- <p>
- Meanwhile, Yvonne was going to sleep, quite unconscious of the facts that
- had aroused Miss Vicary’s indignation. The memory of the artistic
- triumph of the day and the Canon’s generous praise lingered
- pleasantly around her pillow. But if there was any one man to whom her
- thoughts were tenderly given, it was the unhappy friend of her girlhood,
- who was then speeding into exile over the bleak autumn seas.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER IX—PAST, PRESENT, AND FUTURE
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>f genius is mad,
- sensitiveness degenerate, and emotionality neurotic, and if heredity is
- the determining principle in the causation of character, comparative
- psychology enables us to account for many things. On these lines it could
- fairly be argued that one family taint of neurosis, manifesting itself
- diversely, had driven Stephen Chisely to the gaol and brought his cousin,
- the Canon, to the feet of Yvonne. Though there may be fallacies in the
- premises, there is, however, a certain plausibility in the deduction.
- Through both men ran a vein of artistic feeling carrying with it a
- perception of the beautiful and an impulse toward its attainment This
- malady of sensitiveness—to speak by the book—had carried
- Stephen beyond the bounds of moral principle. It prevailed at times over
- Canon Chisely’s natural austerity and hardness. If in the one case
- it had been a curse, in the other it was a blessing.
- </p>
- <p>
- In politics a Tory, in social attitude proud of caste, in creed a rigid
- Anglican, in morals conventional, in affairs a man of cold, crystalline
- judgment, he had few of the undegenerate qualities that make for
- lovableness of character. The aesthetic sense, deeply spreading, was the
- redeeming vice of a sternly virtuous man. It was his social salvation, his
- vehicle of happiness, his bond of sympathy with his fellow-creatures.
- </p>
- <p>
- The beauty of Yvonne’s voice had attracted him toward her, years
- before—afterwards, the beauty of her face. But it was not until the
- conception of her nature’s beauty, idealised by he knew not what
- artistry within him from voice and face and simple thoughts and acts,
- arose within his mind, that he became conscious of deeper feelings. At
- first it seemed as if he had disintegrated the soul of his favourite
- Greuze—fathomed the unplumbed innocence of its eyes as its hand
- closes over the apple—and was regarding it with a poet’s
- wonder. But then his sterner nature asserted itself, restoring mental
- equilibrium. He realised that his feelings for her were what men call
- love, and soberly he thought of marriage.
- </p>
- <p>
- He had often, previously, considered the advantages of matrimony. It was
- an honourable estate, becoming to his position, involving parental
- responsibilities which, for God’s greater glory, it behoved a man of
- his calibre to seek. The wife he had contemplated was to be a woman of
- culture, reserve, high principle, who could grace his table, aid him in
- spiritual affairs, and bear him worthy offspring. He was called upon now
- to reorganise his conceptions. It is true that his idea of the advantages
- of the married state was unaffected, save by the addition of one undreamed
- of—the sunshine of a sweet woman’s face in his cold home. But
- the disparity between the ideal woman and the real one was alarming.
- Socially, parentally, spiritually, was Yvonne the woman to hold the high
- office of his wife? He gave the matter months of anxious reflection. He
- was marrying at leisure, certainly, he thought grimly; would he repent in
- haste? At length his love for Yvonne wove itself into his schemes for the
- Festival. Yvonne should come to Fulminster, take her place at once in
- society under Mrs. Winstanley’s chaperonage and win her welcome with
- her voice. Thus he would have an opportunity of judging her within his own
- environment. A complex mingling of passion and calculation.
- </p>
- <p>
- And Yvonne, demurely innocent, had passed through the ordeal. As the Canon
- drove away from the “Elijah,” he doubted no longer. Before she
- left Fulminster he would ask her to be his wife. It is characteristic of
- the man that he had no serious fears of her refusal.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <p>
- The Festival was over. It was the day after. Miss Vicary and Vandeleur had
- returned to town by an early train and Yvonne was spending an idle morning
- over the fire. She had wandered round the shelves of the morning-room in
- search of a novel, and had selected “Corinne” because it was
- French. But Yvonne was a child of the age, and children of the age do not
- appreciate Madame de Staël. One can understand a dear old lady in curls
- and cap sighing lovingly over “Corinne,” bringing back as it
- does memories of inky fingers and eternal friendships; but not—well,
- not Yvonne. She loved “Gyp.” An unread volume was in her trunk
- upstairs. She felt too tired and lazy to get it. Besides, she was not
- quite sure whether the sight of “Gyp” would not shock Mrs.
- Winstanley, who was engaged over her voluminous correspondence at a table
- by the window.
- </p>
- <p>
- “They have such queer prejudices,” thought Yvonne. “One
- never knows.”
- </p>
- <p>
- So she dropped “Corinne” on to the floor and looked at the
- fire. In spite of her awe of Mrs. Winstanley, she was sorry to leave
- Fulminster. Life had been made very pleasant for her the last few days.
- Her throat was somewhat relaxed after the strain. She wished she could
- give it a long rest. But on Monday she was engaged to sing at a club
- concert at the Crystal Palace and in the morning she was to resume her
- singing lessons; and the weather in London was wet and muggy. It would be
- bliss to be idle, not to think of earning money and just to sing when you
- wanted. She turned her head and caught a chance glimpse of her hostess’s
- face. The morning light streaming full upon it showed up pitilessly the
- network of lines beneath her eyes and the fallen contours of her lips and
- the roughness of her skin. Yvonne was startled at seeing her look so old
- and faded—a letter to a sister-in-law detailing Everard’s
- folly did not conduce to sweetness of expression—and she wondered
- whether she, Yvonne, would be happy when she came to look like that. She
- shivered a little at the thought. Yes, the years would pass, leaving their
- footprints, and she would grow old and her voice would pass away. It was
- dreadful. When Yvonne did enter the gloom, she made it very dark indeed,
- and summoned every available bogey. What should she do in her old age,
- when she could no longer earn her living? Geraldine was always preaching
- thrift, but she had put nothing by as yet. If she became incapacitated
- to-morrow, she did not know how she would live. She looked at the fire
- wistfully, her brow knitted in faint lines, and found her position very
- pathetic. But just then Bruce, Mrs. Winstanley’s collie, rose from
- the rug and came and laid his chin on her knees, looking at her with
- great, mournful eyes. Yvonne broke into a sudden laugh, which astonished
- both Bruce and his mistress, and taking the dog’s silky ears in her
- hands, she kissed his nose and rallied him gaily on his melancholy. So
- Yvonne stepped out of the darkness into the sunshine again.
- </p>
- <p>
- Presently a servant entered.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Canon Chisely would be glad if he could see Madame Latour for a
- moment.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Where is the Canon?” asked Mrs. Winstanley.
- </p>
- <p>
- “In the drawing-room, ma’am.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Yvonne rose quickly and went to her hostess, who slipped a sheet of
- blotting-paper over her half-finished page.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Shall I go down?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Naturally.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Yvonne spoke a word to the servant, who retired, and then gave her hair a
- few tidying touches before the mirror in the over-mantel.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I wonder if he has brought me those old Provençal songs.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I hope he has, my dear,” said Mrs. Winstanley, drily.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, he is sure to have something nice to tell me, at any rate,”
- replied Yvonne, in her sunny way.
- </p>
- <p>
- The Canon was standing on the hearthrug, his hands behind his back. On the
- table lay his hat and gloves. Yvonne advanced quickly across the room to
- meet him, her face lit with genuine pleasure. He greeted her gravely and
- held her hand in both of his.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I have come to have a serious talk with you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Have I been doing anything wrong?” asked Yvonne, looking up
- into his face.
- </p>
- <p>
- “We shall see,” he said, smiling. “Let us sit down.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Still holding her hand, he drew her to the couch by the fireside, and they
- sat down together.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It is about yourself, Yvonne—I may call you Yvonne?—and
- about myself too. You have always felt that you have had a friend in me?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ah! a dear friend, Canon. No one is to me the same as you. I shan’t
- mind at all if you scold me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She looked at him so guilelessly, so trustingly, that his heart melted
- over her. Verily she was the wife sent to him by heaven.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I was but jesting, Yvonne. Besides, how could I dare scold you? It
- is I who come as a suppliant to you, my dear. I love you, and it is the
- dearest wish of my heart to make you my wife.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The sun died out of Yvonne’s eyes, her heart stopped beating, she
- looked at him in piteous amazement.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You—want me—?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes. Is it so strange?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You are jesting still—I don’t understand—”
- She had withdrawn her hand from his clasp, and was sitting upright,
- twisting her handkerchief and trembling all over. It was so unexpected.
- She could scarcely trust her senses. She had regarded him more as an
- influence than as a man. To Geraldine’s wit she had given not a
- moment’s thought. To marry Canon Chisely—the idea seemed
- unreal, preposterous. And yet she heard his voice pleading. She was
- overwhelmed by the sudden magnitude of responsibility. He had swooped down
- and caught her up through the vast moral spaces that lay between them, and
- she was dizzy and breathless.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I do not press you for your answer,” she heard him saying.
- “To-morrow—a week, a month hence—what you will. Take
- your time. I can give you a good name, comfort in worldly things—the
- ease and freedom from care which, thank God, my means allow—an
- honourable position, and a deep, true affection. Would you like me to wait
- a month before I speak to you again?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “A month could make no difference,” murmured Yvonne. “It
- would seem as strange then as now.” There was a sudden pause in the
- whirl of her thoughts. Was it a bewildering device of his to show her
- kindness, provide for her future?
- </p>
- <p>
- “I could n’t accept it from you,” she added
- incoherently.
- </p>
- <p>
- “But it is I who want you, Yvonne,” said the Canon, earnestly.
- “It is I who must have you to brighten my home and comfort my life.
- If your life is lying idle, as it were, Yvonne, give it me to use for my
- happiness. For months I have given this my deepest, most anxious thought.
- I am not a man to talk lightly of love and marriage. When I say that I
- want you, it means that you are necessary to me. And you trust me?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Above all men—of course—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Then your answer—‘yes,’ or ‘no,’ or
- ‘wait.’”
- </p>
- <p>
- She was silent. He put his arm round her shoulders and drew her to him.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You must be my wife, Yvonne. Why not say ‘yes’ now?”
- </p>
- <p>
- She felt powerless beneath the strong will and authority of the man. Why
- he should wish to marry her, she could not understand; but his words had
- all the weight of an imperative.
- </p>
- <p>
- “If you must have me, then—” said she in a quavering
- little voice, “I must do as you say.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You will be happy, my child,” he said, reassuringly. “I
- will make it all sunshine for you—you need have no fears.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He drew her yet closer to him and kissed her forehead; then he released
- her gently.
- </p>
- <p>
- “So it’s a promise?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes,” said Yvonne.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Then look into my eyes and say, ‘Everard, I will take you for
- my husband.’”
- </p>
- <p>
- He said it loverwise, and, dignitary though he was, with a touch of a
- lover’s fatuity. The tone revived Yvonne’s animation.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, I could n’t,” she cried, with a queer little laugh,
- midway between despair and gaiety. “I shouldn’t dare—it
- wouldn’t sound respectful.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Try,” said he. “Say ‘Everard.’”
- </p>
- <p>
- But Yvonne shook her head. “I must practise it by myself.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The Canon laughed. He was well contented with the world. Her modesty and
- innocence charmed him. Married though she had been, the fragrance of
- maidenhood seemed still to hover round her. She was an exquisite thing to
- have taken possession of.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Are you happy?” he asked, taking her small brown hand that
- lay clasped with the other on her lap.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am too frightened to be happy—yet,” she replied
- softly, with a shy lift of her eyes.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don’t quite understand what has happened. Half an hour ago
- I was a poor little singer—and now—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You are my affianced wife,” said the Canon, with grave
- promptness.
- </p>
- <p>
- “That’s what I can’t realise. Everything seems
- topsy-turvy. Oh, it <i>is</i> your wish, Canon Chisely, isn’t it?
- You are so good and wise, you wouldn’t let me do anything that was
- not right?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Always trust to me for your happiness, Yvonne, and all will be
- well,” answered the Canon.
- </p>
- <p>
- Presently she rose, gave him her hand with simple dignity.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I must go and think it over by myself. You will let me? Another
- time I will stay with you as long as you want me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The Canon led her to the door, kissed her hand, bending low over it in an
- old-fashioned way, and bowed her out of the room. Then he rang for the
- servant and sent a message to Mrs. Winstanley. He was a man of prompt
- execution.
- </p>
- <p>
- In the interview that followed, the Canon came off triumphant. He parried
- his cousin’s thrusts of satire with a solicitude for her own welfare
- that was not free from irony. If she had not so openly showed him her
- distaste for the marriage, he might have displayed some sympathy for her
- in the loss of <i>prestige</i> that she was sustaining as lady ruler of
- the Rectory. As matters stood, he considered she had forfeited it by her
- caprice. Besides, he had shrewdly determined that there should not be a
- triple dominion in his house.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I hope she will extend your sphere of usefulness, Everard, as a
- wife should,” said Mrs. Winstanley. “But she is inexperienced
- in these matters. You will not be hard upon her.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am only hard on those who disregard my authority. Then it is duty
- and not severity. Have you ever found me a harsh taskmaster, Emmeline?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You would n’t compare us surely?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Certainly not. I could compare my wife with no other woman. It
- would be in all respects wrong.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well,” she replied, bidding him adieu, “I hope that you
- will be happy.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “My dear Emmeline,” said the Canon, “I have been humbly
- conscious for years that my happiness has always been one of your chief
- considerations.”
- </p>
- <p>
- From Mrs. Winstanley’s he proceeded at once to Lady Santyre’s,
- where he received congratulations and luncheon. He left with the
- comfortable certainty that all Fulminster would ring with the news of his
- engagement during the course of the afternoon. His announcement was as
- public as if he had proclaimed it from the pulpit. And Fulminster did ring
- as he had expected—not that it was unprepared, for the Canon’s
- attentions to Madame Latour had been a subject of universal speculation.
- Murmurings arose in certain quarters. The neighbourhood abounded in the
- aristocratic fair unwedded, and the Canon was highly eligible. One of the
- aggrieved declared that all the Chiselys were eccentric, and instanced the
- unfortunate Stephen.
- </p>
- <p>
- “My dear,” replied in remonstrance her interlocutor, who had
- just married her last daughter to the leading manufacturer in Fulminster,
- “You must not talk as if the Canon had run off with a ballet-girl.”
- </p>
- <p>
- But generally his indiscretion was condoned. It had been a stroke of
- genius to let Yvonne charm her critics from a public platform at the very
- outset.
- </p>
- <p>
- For Yvonne herself, the remainder of her visit passed in a whirl. Families
- called upon her; mothers congratulated her; the “Fulminster Gazette”
- interviewed her; the Santyres changed the small dinner-party, to which she
- had been already asked, into a solemn banquet in her honour; and the Canon
- was ever at her side, attentive, courteous, dignified, authoritative,
- playing his part to perfection. The flattery pleased her. The universal
- deference paid to the Canon, of which she had grown more keenly conscious,
- awakened a shy pride. But it all seemed an incongruous dream, out of which
- she would awake when she found herself in her tiny flat in the Marylebone
- Road. She was afraid to go back. If it was a dream, she would regret this
- sudden lifting from her shoulders of all sordid cares, the dread of losing
- her voice, of poverty, and the grasshopper’s wintry old age. If it
- continued true, she feared lest the familiar surroundings might pain her
- with regret for the life she was abandoning—the sweet artist’s
- life, with all its inconsequences and its purposes, its hopes and fears,
- its freedom and its claims. Even now, she cried a little at the prospect
- of giving it up. And then she wouldn’t know herself. Hitherto, her
- conception of herself had been Yvonne Latour, the singer. That was her
- Alpha and Omega. It would be like looking in the glass and seeing a total
- stranger. It was pathetic.
- </p>
- <p>
- On Sunday she received a series of sensations. She believed such elemental
- doctrines as she had received at her mother’s knee: in a beautiful
- heaven and a fearful hell, in Christ and the angels—she was not
- quite certain about the Virgin Mary—in the Lord’s Prayer,
- which she said every night at her bedside, and in the goodness of going to
- church. Her religion might have been that of a bird of the air for all the
- shackles it laid upon her soul. But the outer forms of worship impressed
- her strongly—church music, solemn silences, vestments, stained
- windows, even words. She felt very solemn when she called her innocent
- self a “miserable sinner” in the Litany, and the word “Sabbaoth,”
- in the “Te Deum,” always seemed fraught with mystic meaning.
- The symbolic hushed her into awe. Even the surplices of the choir-boys set
- them apart for the moment, in her mind, from the baser sort of urchins.
- And, <i>a fortiori</i>, the clergyman, in surplice and stole, had always
- appealed to her childish imagination as a being that moved in an especial
- odour of sanctity. It is fair to add that Yvonne’s church-going had
- never been as regular as might have been desired, so these reverential
- feelings had not been staled by custom. However, when the Canon appeared
- at the reading-desk, and his fine voice rang through the Abbey, Yvonne
- felt a sudden pang of alarm. The night before he had been so tender and
- playful that he had almost seemed to be upon her level. And now, he was
- far, far away. The distance between her, poor, insignificant little
- Yvonne, and him performing his sacred office, appeared immeasurably vast.
- And when he mounted the pulpit, her awe grew greater. She could not
- realise that he was her affianced husband.
- </p>
- <p>
- He preached on the text from the story of Nicodemus, “Except a man
- be born again.” The words caught her fancy as being apposite to her
- own case, and, disregarding the thread of the Canon’s discourse, she
- preached a little sermon to herself. She was going to be born again.
- Yvonne the singer would die, and a new, regenerate Yvonne, the lady of the
- Rectory, Mrs. Everard Chisely, would appear in her stead. She caught a
- phrase in which the Canon touched upon the spiritual pain attending on the
- death of the old Adam. She wondered whether she would be called upon to
- suffer the fire of purification. It was like the Phoenix. At this point
- she pulled herself up short. To mix up the Phoenix and Nicodemus might be
- profane. So she bestowed her best attention on the remainder of the
- sermon.
- </p>
- <p>
- That afternoon he took her through the Rectory—a great rambling
- Elizabethan house, with nineteenth-century additions. She followed him
- meekly from room to room, filled with wonder at the beauty of her future
- home. The Canon had spent much money over his collections—overmuch,
- some critics said—and the house was a museum of art treasures.
- Pictures, statuary, wood-carvings, rare furniture met her in every
- apartment, at every turn of the stairs. At first, the awe with which his
- sacerdotal character had inspired her kept her subdued, but gradually the
- new impressions effaced it. He spoke as if all these things were already
- hers—established, as it were, a joint ownership.
- </p>
- <p>
- “This is your own boudoir,” he said, as he led her into a
- pleasant room, overlooking the lawn and commanding a view of the Abbey.
- “Do you think you will be happy in it?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I must be,” she said, gratefully. “Not only because you
- have given me the most beautiful room in the whole house, but because you
- are so good to me in all things.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Who could help being good to you, my child?” said the Canon.
- </p>
- <p>
- He was sincere. Yvonne felt humbled and yet lifted. Her eyes dwelt for a
- shy moment on his. He seemed so kind, so loyal, so indulgent, and yet a
- man so greatly to be venerated and honoured, that all her sweet womanhood
- was moved. Standing, too, in this room that was to be her own, she felt
- the future melt into the present. Her hand slipped timidly through his
- arm.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I shall never know why you want me,” she said, in a low
- voice, “but I pray God I may be a good and loving and obedient wife
- to you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Amen, dear,” said the Canon, kissing her.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER X—COUNSELS OF PERFECTION
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">S</span>o Yvonne was
- married, and for six months was completely happy. Fulminster and the
- county entertained her, and she entertained Fulminster and the county. Her
- husband petted her and relieved her of serious responsibilities. She won
- the hearts of Mrs. Dirks the housekeeper, of Jordan the gardener, and
- Fletcher the coachman, three autocrats in their respective spheres of
- influence—victories whereby she controlled the menu, filled the
- house with whatever flowers struck her fancy, and had out the horses at
- the moment of her caprice. Her quick wit soon obtained a grasp upon
- domestic affairs and her headship in the household was a practical fact
- which the Canon proudly recognised. Her social duties she performed with
- the tact born of simplicity. Mrs. Winstanley went away raging after her
- first dinner-party. She had expected a consoling proof of incapacity and
- had witnessed a little triumph of hostess-ship.
- </p>
- <p>
- Not a cloud had appeared on her horizon since the wedding-day, when they
- had started upon a magic month in Italy, among blue lakes and bluer skies
- and gorgeous pictures and marble palaces. After that, there had been the
- excitement of home-coming, the fluttering sweetness of taking possession,
- the bewildering succession of fresh faces in her drawing-room, the long
- drives to return calls, and to attend parties in her honour. The new
- duties interested her. She revelled in an infants’ class at the
- Sunday school, which she instructed in a theology undreamed of by the
- Fathers. She sang at local concerts. She dressed herself in dainty raiment
- to please her husband’s eye. In fact she made a study of his
- æsthetic tastes from food to music, and delighted in gratifying them. With
- feminine pliancy she strove to adapt her moods to his. His face became a
- book which she loved to read when they met after a few hours’
- absence; and, according to what she read, she became demure, or gay, or
- businesslike. In her leisure hours she sang to herself, read French
- novels, which she obtained in unlimited supply from London, and sought the
- society of Sophia Wilmington and her brother, who quickly constituted
- themselves her chief friends and advisers in Fulminster. Often she sat
- idle and gave herself up to dreamy contemplation of her beatitude.
- </p>
- <p>
- In these moods comparisons would arise between her two marriages, and
- between the two men. Scenes, almost forgotten during the years of her
- widowhood, revived in her memory. Phases of present wedded relations
- brought back vividly analogous phases in the past. The contrast sometimes
- produced an emotion that seemed too great for self-containment, and she
- longed to open her heart to her husband. But she dared not. Love might
- have broken down barriers, but not the grateful, respectful affection she
- bore the Canon. Besides, beyond one little talk, two years ago, at the
- house of Stephen’s mother during her last illness, no mention had
- been made between them of Amédée Bazouge.
- </p>
- <p>
- Man-like, he preferred to dismiss the circumstance from his mind as
- unpleasant. But the woman found pleasure in remembering, and in using the
- contrasts to heighten her present happiness.
- </p>
- <p>
- Thus for six months she had known no trouble, and had laughed at her old
- tremulous misgivings as to her capacity for filling her present position.
- </p>
- <p>
- Suddenly, one afternoon in early June, as they were sitting in the shadow
- of the old Abbey, cast across half the lawn, the Canon laid down the
- review he was reading by the foot of his chair, and, deliberately folding
- his gold pince-nez and thrusting it in his waistcoat, looked at her and
- said, “Yvonne.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She closed “Le Petit Bob” with a snap, and became dutiful and
- smiling attention.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I have something to say to you,” he remarked gravely; “something
- perhaps painful—about certain possible little changes in our lives.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Changes?” echoed Yvonne blankly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, I have been wishing to speak for some months past. I think,
- dear, you ought to be more serious, and give me greater help than you have
- done hitherto. Do you follow me?”
- </p>
- <p>
- If the quiet Rectory garden had suddenly been transformed into a Sahara,
- and the golden laburnum by which she was sitting, into a pillar of fire,
- she could not have been more bewildered. But she felt a horrible pain, as
- from a stab, and the tears started to her eyes.
- </p>
- <p>
- “No. Not at all—what is it?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don’t wish to be unkind to you, Yvonne. I am only speaking
- from a sense of duty. Once said, it will be, I am sure, enough.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But what is it? What is it?” she repeated piteously. “What
- have I done to displease you?”
- </p>
- <p>
- He took up his parable, with crossed legs and joined finger tips, and in a
- quiet, unemotional voice catalogued her failings. She was not sufficiently
- alive to the deeper responsibilities of her position. Many parochial
- duties that devolved upon the Rector’s wife, she had left undone.
- She took no pains to improve her acquaintance with doctrinal and
- ecclesiastical affairs.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am not exaggerating,” he said, “for you did tell the
- Sunday-school children that St. John the Baptist was present at the
- Crucifixion, Yvonne, did n’t you?”
- </p>
- <p>
- He smiled, as if to soften the severity of his charges; but Yvonne’s
- face was fixed in tragic dismay, and the tears were rolling down her
- cheeks.
- </p>
- <p>
- He rose and advanced to her with outstretched arms. She obeyed his
- suggestion mechanically and allowed herself to stand in his embrace.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It is best to say it all out at once, Yvonne,” he said
- gently. “And you will think over it, I know. You must n’t be
- hurt, little wife.”
- </p>
- <p>
- But she was—to the depths of her heart. “I did n’t know
- you were not pleased with me,” she said with trembling lip. “I
- thought I was doing my very best to make you happy.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And you have, my child—very happy.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh no—I have n’t. I will try to do what you want,
- Everard. But I told you I was n’t fit for you—I can do
- nothing, nothing but just sing a little. But I will try Everard. Forgive
- me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Freely, freely, dearest,” said the magnanimous man, patting
- her on the shoulder. “There, there,” he added, kissing her
- forehead. “It pained me intensely to say what I did. But if duties
- were always pleasant, it would be a world of righteousness. Dry your eyes
- and smile, Yvonne. And come and play my accompaniment for a few minutes
- before dinner.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He drew her arm within his and led her into the house, through the open
- French window, talking of trifles to assure her of his affectionate
- forgiveness. It was not in Yvonne’s nature to show resentment. She
- fell outwardly into his humour, and thanked him sweetly for his somewhat
- exaggerated attentions in arranging the piano and music; but as she
- played, the notes became blurred.
- </p>
- <p>
- “A little out there,” he said, standing behind her, his violin
- under his chin. “Let us go back four bars.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She struggled on bravely, biting her lip to keep back the tears that would
- come and render the page illegible. At last a drop fell on a black note,
- as she was bending her head towards the music-book. The Canon stopped
- short and laid his violin and bow hastily on the piano.
- </p>
- <p>
- “My dearest,” he exclaimed, stooping over her. “It is
- all over. Don’t be unhappy. I did not mean to be unkind to you. I am
- afraid I was. It is I who am not fit for so tender and sensitive a nature.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He sat down by her on the broad piano-seat and let her cry upon his
- shoulder. He had an uncomfortable feeling that in some way he had been
- brutal. A man must be as hard as Mephistopheles not to experience this
- sensation the first time he makes a woman cry. The second or third time he
- calls his attitude firmness; afterwards he characterises her conduct as
- unreasonable. A wise woman makes the very most of the first tears of her
- married life. But Yvonne was not a wise woman. She dried her eyes as fast
- as she could, and felt ashamed and humbled, and went and bathed them in
- eau-de-cologne and water, and, seeing that the Canon desired her to be her
- old self, for that evening at any rate, did her best to humour him.
- </p>
- <p>
- After this, her life went on, not unhappily, but unlifted by the buoyancy
- of the first six months. Her illusions had been shattered. The spontaneity
- of her actions was checked. They became little tasks, whose excellence she
- could not judge until the Canon had pronounced upon them. She made
- prodigious efforts to fulfil his wishes. Some met with success. Others,
- such as attempts at parish organisation, failed. Mrs. Winstanley, like
- Betsy Jane in Artemus Ward’s book, would not be reorganised. The
- Canon intervened, but his cousin stood firm, and at last he had to yield.
- In district visiting, Yvonne had hard struggles. If she had carried her
- own charming <i>insouciance</i> into working homes, she would have won all
- hearts. But, morbidly conscious of the responsibilities of her position,
- she judged it her duty to cast frivolity from her and to put on the
- serious dignity of the Rector’s wife, which fitted her as easily as
- a suit of armour. As for theology, she read with a zeal only equalled by
- her incapacity of appreciating the drift of the science. To the end of her
- days Yvonne could see no other difference between a Churchman and a
- Dissenter, except that one had a pretty service and the other a dull one.
- So closely, however, did she pursue her studies that the Canon took pity
- on her, and came back from London one day with “Gyp’s”
- latest production in his pocket. It would have done an archbishop good to
- see the gleam of pleasure in Yvonne’s eyes.
- </p>
- <p>
- Six more months passed, and Yvonne began to weary of the strain of
- self-improvement. The sterner side of the Canon’s character showed
- itself in a hundred little ways. Small censurings became frequent, praise
- difficult to obtain. With the Canon’s gracious consent, she
- despatched at last an invitation to Geraldine, who had already paid her a
- visit in the spring. But that was in the days of her happiness.
- </p>
- <p>
- Geraldine came, and her keen wit very soon penetrated the situation.
- Yvonne had been too loyal to complain.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You’ve just got to tell me all about it,” she said in
- her determined fashion.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was their first evening, after dinner, as soon as the Canon had gone
- down to his library.
- </p>
- <p>
- “All about what, Dina?” asked Yvonne.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, don’t pretend not to know. You were as happy as a bird
- when I was here last, and now you don’t open your mouth.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I think I want a change,” said Yvonne. “I am getting
- too respectable. At first, you see, everything was new, and now I have got
- used to it. I think if I could run about London by myself for a month, and
- sing at lots of concerts, it would do me good. And oh, Dina—I should
- so much like to hear a man say ‘damn’ again!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, I’m not a man, but I’ ll say it for you—damn,
- damn, damn. Now do you feel better?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, you look so funny as you say it!” cried Yvonne, with a
- laugh. “I wish it was something artistic and you could teach it to
- the Canon.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It strikes me, if I were to set about it, I could teach the Canon a
- good many things. First of all, what a treasure he has got—which he
- does n’t seem quite aware of.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, Dina, you mustn’t say that,” said Yvonne, looking
- shocked. “He is all kindness and indulgence—really, dear. If I
- feel dull, it is because I am wicked and hanker after frivolous things—Van,
- for instance, and a comic song. Do you know you have n’t once spoken
- about Van?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, don’t talk of Van,” said Miss Vicary; “I am
- getting tired of him. He never knows his mind three days together. If I
- was n’t a fool I would give him up for good and all.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But why don’t you marry and make an end of it?” asked
- Yvonne. “I don’t understand.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ask Van. Don’t ask me. There’s somebody else now. Elsie
- Carnegie, of all people.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Poor Dina.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, not at all. Dina is not going to break her heart over Van’s
- infidelities. I’m quite content as I am. Only I’m a fool—there!
- I ’ve never told you I was a fool before, Yvonne. That’s
- because you are so sedate and respectable. I’m getting to venerate
- you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I should like to talk to him seriously about it—for his good.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, heavens, my child, he’d be falling in love with you again
- and having the whole artillery of the Church about his ears!” Yvonne
- laughed gaily. The talk was doing her good. Geraldine’s forcible
- phraseology was a tonic after the politer accents of Fulminster. They
- drifted away unconsciously from the main subject upon which they had
- started. Geraldine had many things to tell of the doings in the musical
- world.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, I wish I was back for a little,” cried poor Yvonne.
- “Singing in a amateur way is not like singing professionally, is it?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I think you are better where you are,” replied Geraldine,
- seriously, “in spite of all things. It is no use being discontented.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Not a bit,” sighed Yvonne. She was silent for a little, and
- then she turned round to Geraldine.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don’t think you would do very well married, Dina. You are
- too independent. A woman has to give in so much, you know; and do so much
- pretending, which you could never do.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And why pretend?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, I don’t know. You have to—in lots of things. I
- suppose we women were born for it. Men have all kinds of strange feelings,
- and they expect us to have the same, and we have n’t, Dina; and yet
- they would be hurt and miserable if we told them so—so we have to
- pretend.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Geraldine looked at her with an expression of pain on her strong face, and
- then she bent down—Yvonne was on a low stool by her side—and
- flung her arms about her.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, my dear little philosopher, I wish to God you could have loved
- a man—and married him! That is happiness—no need of
- pretending. I knew it once—years ago. It only lasted a few months,
- for he died before we announced our marriage—no one has ever known.
- Only you, now, dear. Try and love your husband, dear—give him your
- soul and passion. It is the only thing I can tell you to help you, dear.
- Then all the troubles will go. Oh, darling, to love a man vehemently—they
- say it is a woman’s greatest curse. It is n’t; it is the
- greatest blessing of God on her.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You are speaking as men have spoken,” replied Yvonne, in a
- whisper, holding her friend’s hand tightly. “I never knew
- before—but God will never bless me—like that.”
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER XI—THE OUTCAST COUSIN
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he autumn hardened
- into winter and the winter softened into spring, and the relations between
- Yvonne and the Canon seemed to follow the seasons’ difference. He
- had learned her limitations and no longer set her tasks beyond her powers.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You must not try to put a butterfly into harness,” said Mrs.
- Winstanley, who had gradually been gaining lost influence. He had called
- to consult her upon some parochial question and the talk had turned upon
- Yvonne. The Canon bit his lip. He had fallen into the habit of making
- confidences and regretting them a moment afterwards.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You do Yvonne injustice.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I did once, I grant,” she replied; “but now, as you
- see, I am pleading for her.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yvonne needs no advocate with me,” said the Canon, stiffly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “She may.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “What do you mean, Emmeline?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “If you don’t understand her nature, you may misinterpret her
- conduct. You see, Everard, she is young and light-natured—and so,
- like seeks like. You may always count upon me to keep things straight
- outside.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She had laid her hand upon his arm, and spoke in her quiet, authoritative
- voice. Her manner was too dignified to be intrusive. She was eminently the
- woman of sense. Her reference was well understood by him, but being a man
- accustomed to the broad issues of life, he did not appreciate the delicate
- pleasure such a conversation afforded her.
- </p>
- <p>
- On this occasion, he went from her house straight to the Rectory, and in
- the drawing-room found young Evan Wilmington bidding good-bye to Yvonne.
- Her sunniest smile rested on the young fellow; when the door shut upon
- him, the after-glow of amusement was still upon her face. The Canon felt
- an absurd pang of jealousy. Such had not been infrequent of late, since he
- had abandoned his scheme of reorganisation. In fact, as Yvonne had fallen
- from his conjugal ideal—the woman who, as an impeccable consort and
- mother of children was to lend added dignity to his days—his
- feelings as regards her had been growing more helplessly human. His
- conception of the dove-like innocence of her nature had suffered no
- change. Her pure voice had ever been to him the speech of a purer soul. It
- was no vulgar jealousy that pained him; but jealousy it was, all the same.
- </p>
- <p>
- He went to her and put his hands against her cheeks and held up her face.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Don’t smile too much on young Evan,” he said. “It
- is not good for him. I want all your best smiles for myself, sweetheart.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “He has been making me laugh,” said Yvonne.
- </p>
- <p>
- “And I cannot?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “He is a silly boy and you are the venerable Canon Chisely.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That’s it,” he said, rather bitterly, releasing her.
- </p>
- <p>
- Her expression changed. She caught him, as he was turning away, by the
- lapels of his coat.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Are you serious, Everard? You are! Forgive me if I have hurt you. I
- can’t bear to do it. Do you wish me to see less of Mr. Wilmington—really?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Looking into her eyes he felt ashamed of his pettiness.
- </p>
- <p>
- “See your friends as much as you like, my child,” he said, with
- a revulsion of feeling.
- </p>
- <p>
- The matter was settled for the time being, but thenceforward the even
- tenor of their life was disturbed occasionally by such outbursts. Once he
- grew angry. “You have the same smile for any man who speaks to you,
- Yvonne.” She replied with gentle logic, “That ought to prove
- that I like all equally.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Your husband included.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She turned away wounded. “You have no right to say that.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Then what have I a right to say, Yvonne?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Anything,” she cried, facing him with brightening eyes,
- “anything except that I do not try with all my heart and soul to be
- a good wife to you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- This time it was he who said “Forgive me.” Unconsciously her
- influence grew upon him in his lighter moods, as he excluded her from
- participation in his serious concerns. To win from her a flash other than
- dutiful he would humour any caprice. Yvonne was too shrewd not to perceive
- this. His tenderness touched her, saddened her a little. On her birthday
- he gave her a pair of tiny ponies and a diminutive phaeton—a perfect
- turn-out. He lived for a week on the delight in her face when they were
- brought round (an absolute surprise) to the front door. Yet that evening
- she said, with her little air of seriousness, after she had been
- meditating for some time in silence, with puckered brow:—
- </p>
- <p>
- “I wonder if I am quite such a child as you think me, Everard. I
- should like something to happen to show you that I am a woman.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Don’t say that, dear,” he replied, contentedly, holding
- up his glass of port to the light and peering into it—he was a
- specialist in ports—“such a chance would probably be some
- calamity.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Yvonne was not alone in noting the true inwardness of the Canon’s
- course of action. Mrs. Winstanley did so, to her own chagrin. The ponies
- were as distasteful to her as the beast of the Apocalypse. She was with
- Lady Santyre, in the latter’s barouche, when she first saw them.
- Yvonne, aglow with the effort of driving, was sending them down the
- Fulminster Road at a rattling pace. She nodded brightly as she passed,
- pointing to the ponies with her whip.
- </p>
- <p>
- “How fond the dear Canon is of that little woman,” said Lady
- Santyre, her thin lips closing as if on an acidulated drop.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Psha!” said Mrs. Winstanley, with one of her rare exhibitions
- of temper. “If he were a few years older, it would be senile
- infatuation! She is beginning to curl him round her finger.”
- </p>
- <p>
- But there was one subject near to Yvonne’s heart on which the Canon
- was inflexible—Joyce. Often Yvonne had sought to soften him toward
- the black sheep, but in his gentlest moods the mention of his cousin’s
- name turned him to adamant. He even resented Yvonne’s helpful
- friendship before her marriage. On the afternoon that he had passed Joyce
- on the stairs, he had spoken as strongly to Yvonne as good taste
- permitted. Now that he had authority over her, he forbade her to hold
- further communication with the man who had disgraced his name. Finally she
- abandoned her attempts at conciliation, but pity prevailing over wifely
- obedience, she kept up her correspondence with Joyce, unknown to the
- Canon. That is to say, she wrote cheery, gossipy letters now and then to
- the address she had received from Cape Town, trusting to luck for their
- ultimate delivery, but receiving very few in return, for Joyce had often
- not the heart to write.
- </p>
- <p>
- She was reading, one day, his last letter, many pages closely filled. It
- had come that morning, under Miss Vicary’s cover, according to her
- request. The envelope lay on the table in the centre of the room; but she
- had taken the letter to the broad, cushioned window-seat, her favourite
- place in summer, where she could see the old abbey, and enjoy the scent of
- the mignonette and syringa from the beds below. It was the quiet afternoon
- hour, before tea, when she generally read or idled or sang to herself. She
- was at peace with all the world, and her heart was full of pity for Joyce.
- </p>
- <p>
- Yet it was the most hopeful of the four letters she had received from him.
- The previous ones had told of struggles and privations innumerable; the
- aimless tramp from one town to another in the search for more than
- starvation wages; the hopeless attempts to live in mining camps, where
- unskilled labour was a drug in the market; sickness, and the dwindling of
- his little capital. This one took up the tale broken off some months
- before. Noakes and himself had left the mines, had wandered, sometimes
- alone, sometimes with other adventurers, into Bechuanaland, where he had
- purchased with his last remaining pounds a share in a small farm. It was a
- haven of rest. But the country was unhealthy. The work was hard. Noakes
- lay ill in bed; medical advice was a hundred and fifty miles away. To
- cheer the invalid, he had schemed out a novel on the life they had
- recently passed through, and was writing it at nights for Noakes to read
- during the day. He was writing it on a bundle of yellow package-paper
- which had remained over from the stock of a small “store” once
- run by the chief owner of the farm.
- </p>
- <p>
- He spoke of the comfort of her letters. Four of them had just come to his
- hands at once. He had read them aloud to Noakes, who was even more
- friendless than himself. Yvonne’s heart was touched at the thought
- of the poor man who never got a letter, and had to extract vicarious
- comfort from his friend’s. She knew him quite well through Joyce’s
- description, and loved him for the quaint lovableness that appeared in the
- narrative of their joint fortunes.
- </p>
- <p>
- “He shall have a letter all to himself,” said Yvonne aloud;
- and she rose to put her idea into execution.
- </p>
- <p>
- But just as she was bringing her writing materials to the window-seat,
- which was strewn with the sheets of Joyce’s letter, the Canon came
- into the room.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Can you give me some tea quickly, dear?” he said, ringing the
- bell. “I am called away to Bickerton.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He sank into a chair with a sigh of relief. It had been a busy day and the
- weather was hot.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Would you like me to drive you over?” asked Yvonne.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Dearly,” said the Canon. He leaned back, and stretched out
- his hand in a gesture of contented invitation.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It won’t be taking you from your correspondence? You seem up
- to your eyes in it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, it can wait,” said Yvonne, smiling down upon him as he
- held her hand.
- </p>
- <p>
- Soon the servant brought the tea, and Yvonne established herself over the
- tea-cups. The Canon, whilst waiting, glanced idly at the books and odds
- and ends on the table by his side. Suddenly he uttered an exclamation of
- surprise. He had become aware of the foreign envelope, with the Cape
- Colony stamp and its address to “Mrs. Chisely, care of Miss Vicary.”
- He also recognised Joyce’s handwriting which happened to be
- singularly striking in character. His brow grew dark.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What is the meaning of this, Yvonne?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “A letter from Stephen,” she replied with a sudden qualm.
- </p>
- <p>
- “And sent to you clandestinely. You have been corresponding with him
- secretly in defiance of my express desire. How dared you do it?”
- </p>
- <p>
- He spoke in harsh tones, bending upon her all the hardness of a stern
- face. She had never seen him angered like this before. She was frightened,
- but she steadied herself and looked him in the face.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I couldn’t help it, Everard,” she said, gently. “The
- poor fellow regards me as his only friend. I was forced to disobey you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That poor fellow has been guilty of mean robbery. He has herded
- with ruffians in a common gaol. He has dragged an old honoured name
- through the mire. For a man like that—once a knave always a knave. I
- don’t choose to have my wife keeping up friendly relations with an
- outcast member of my family. I am deeply offended with you—I pass
- over the underhand nature of the correspondence, which in itself deserves
- reprobation.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I believe in Stephen,” replied Yvonne, growing very white.
- “He has been punished a thousand times over. He will live an
- honourable man to the end of his life. And if you read how he speaks of
- the few silly letters I have written him—his joy and gratitude—you
- would not wish to deprive him of them.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Do you mean to say that you are deliberately setting yourself in
- opposition to my wishes, Yvonne?” asked the Canon in angry surprise.
- </p>
- <p>
- Yvonne was in great distress. She could not defy him openly, and yet she
- knew that no power on earth would prevent her from doing Joyce her little
- deeds of mercy.
- </p>
- <p>
- She looked at him piteously for a moment, and then sank by his chair and
- clasped his knees. “I can’t do what you want, Everard,”
- she cried. “We were such friends in days past—And when I met
- him again, he looked so broken and lonely—I could n’t in my
- heart let him go—and having given him my friendship, I can’t
- be so cruel as to take it from him now. I can’t feel what you do
- about the disgrace. I haven’t the capacity perhaps. And I promised
- his dead mother to be kind to him.
-======
-I did indeed. “I can’t do
- what you want, Everard,” she cried. “We were such friends in
- days past—And when I met him again, he looked so broken and lonely—I
- could n’t in my heart let him go—and having given him my
- friendship, I can’t be so cruel as to take it from him now. I can’t
- feel what you do about the disgrace. I haven’t the capacity perhaps.
- And I promised his dead mother to be kind to him.
-
-
-===
-
- I did indeed, Everard,
- friendship, I can’t be so cruel as to take it from him now. I can’t
- feel what you do about the disgrace. I haven’t the capacity perhaps.
- And I promised his dead mother to be kind to him. I did indeed. “I
- can’t do what you want, Everard,” she cried. “We were
- such friends in days past—And when I met him again, he looked so
- broken and lonely—I could n’t in my heart let him go—and
- having given him my friendship, I can’t be so cruel as to take it
- from him now. I can’t feel what you do about the disgrace. I haven’t
- the capacity perhaps. And I promised his dead mother to be kind to him. I
- did indeed, Everard—and a promise like that I must keep.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He put her not unkindly from him and, rising to his feet, took two or
- three turns about the room. Stopping, he said:—
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why did you not tell me of this promise before?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I was afraid to vex you,” said Yvonne.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You have vexed me much more by deceiving me,” he replied.
- </p>
- <p>
- But there the matter had to end. He could not bid her break her word, nor
- would he allow himself to yield to a tempting sophistry that women’s
- ante-nuptial promises were annulled by marriage. To regain his good
- graces, however, Yvonne pledged herself never to intercede with him on
- Joyce’s behalf in the future—in fact to preserve an absolute
- silence concerning the black sheep and his doings.
- </p>
- <p>
- This settled, she drove him over to Bickerton in her pony carriage. And
- the even tenor of her life went on.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <p>
- It was many weeks before the letters arrived at the farm in South Africa.
- The monthly ox-waggons that came from the nearest post-town brought them,
- together with the usual load of farm and household requisites, tinned
- provisions, and liquors. Day after day, Joyce had stood by the
- prickly-pear hedge on the rise behind the house, looking over the dreary
- plain, in wistful watch for the specks on the horizon that alone connected
- him with civilisation. They arrived at night—a blustering August
- night, with frost in the air, and a cloudless sky in which the Southern
- Cross gleamed. Before waiting to help unload and outspan the teams, he
- rushed into the house with the meagre post-bundle. It contained a few
- colonial newspapers, some letters for Wilson, the farmer who was away, and
- the two letters from Fulminster. The rough table, on which he sorted them
- by the light of a flaring chimneyless lamp, was drawn up to the bedside of
- Noakes.
- </p>
- <p>
- “One for you, old man,” said Joyce.
- </p>
- <p>
- “For me?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Noakes stretched out his thin arm eagerly, and clutched the undreamed of
- prize.
- </p>
- <p>
- “From Yvonne. It’s to cheer you up, old chap, I expect. It’s
- just like her, you know.”.
- </p>
- <p>
- Joyce ran through his letter rapidly and went out to superintend the
- unloading. But Noakes, who was past work, remained in bed and pored over
- Yvonne’s simple lines till the tears came into his eyes.
- </p>
- <p>
- When all was settled, the stores taken in, the teams secured, the natives
- who had driven them established in the huts, and finally the Englishman in
- charge provided with food and whisky and sent to sleep, Joyce sat down by
- his friend’s side and gave himself up to the greatest pleasure his
- life then held. The wind howled outside, and the draught swept in through
- the cracks on the doors, and the ill-fitting windows, and up the rude
- chimney beneath which a fire was smouldering. Noakes coughed incessantly.
- The atmosphere was tainted with the smell of the lamp, the thin smoke from
- the fuel, the piles of sacking and mealy-bags that lay in corners of the
- room, and the strips of bultong or dried beef hanging in the gloom of the
- rafters. The room itself, occupying nearly the whole area of the
- ground-floor of the rudely built wooden house, was cheerless in aspect.
- The table, two or three wooden chairs, some shelves holding cooking
- utensils and odds and ends of crockery, a litter of stores and boxes, a
- frameless dirty oleograph of the bubble-blowing boy, a churchman’s
- almanac, two years old, against the wall, and Noakes’s sack bed—that
- was all the room contained. In a corner was a ladder leading to the loft,
- where Joyce and the farmer slept, and whence now came the muffled sounds
- of the snoring of the English driver. But for a few moments Joyce forgot
- the cheerless surroundings.
- </p>
- <p>
- He sat late with Noakes, reading the letters aloud and talking of Yvonne.
- At last, after a short silence, Noakes raised himself on his elbow and
- gazed earnestly at his friend. He was very gaunt and wasted—
- </p>
- <p>
- “That’s the only tender thing a woman has ever done for me,”
- he said. “No,” he added in reply to Joyce’s questioning
- look, “my wife was never tender. God knows why she married me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “We ’ll make our fortunes and go back, and you shall know her,”
- said Joyce.
- </p>
- <p>
- “No. I shall never go back. I shall never get half a mile beyond
- this door again.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Nonsense,” said Joyce. “You ’ll pull round when
- the spring comes.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I have performed my allotted task. It was a severe portion and it
- has finished me off.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Look here, old man,” cried Joyce, “for God’s sake
- don’t talk like that. I can’t live in this accursed place by
- myself. You’ve been broken down by our hard times—but you
- ’ll get over it all, with this long rest.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am going to a longer one, Joyce. I don’t mind going, you
- know. And then you ’ll be free of me. I am but a cumberer of the
- ground—I am of no use—I never have been of any use—I
- have been carrying water in a sieve all my life.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He began to cough. Joyce put his arm around him for support, and tended
- him gently.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You have a lot to do, old man,” he said soon after. “The
- foolscap has come, and a great jar of ink, and you can start copying out
- the manuscript to-morrow.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ah yes, I can do that,” said Noakes.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Now go to sleep. I ’ll sit by you, if you like,” said
- Joyce.
- </p>
- <p>
- He moved the lamp to a ledge behind Noakes’s head, and sat down near
- by, with the budget of newspapers. Noakes composed himself to sleep. At
- last he spoke, without turning round.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Joyce.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, old man.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Make me a promise.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Willingly.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Bury that dear lady’s letter with me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Will it make you happy to promise?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Then I promise,” said Joyce, humouring him. “Now I’m
- not going to talk to you any more.”
- </p>
- <p>
- A few minutes later, his breathing told Joyce that he slept. The
- newspapers fell from Joyce’s hand, and he put his elbows on his
- knees and crouched over the smouldering logs. Noakes spoke truly. There
- was little chance of recovery. He would be left alone again soon. It would
- be very comfortless. The poor wreck who was dragging out his last days
- upon that wretched bed had been an unspeakable solace to him. Without his
- womanlike devotion he would have died of fever six months back on the
- Arato goldfield. Without the influence of his calm fatalism, he would have
- given up heart long ago. Without his steadfast purity of soul, he would
- have gone recklessly to the devil. The thought of losing him was a great
- pang.
- </p>
- <p>
- He himself, too, was far from strong. The climate, the hard manual labour
- for which he was physically unfit were telling upon him heavily. He
- yearned for home, for civilised life, for the lost heritage of honour.
- Yvonne’s letter, telling of the little commonplaces of the lost
- sweet life of decent living, had revived the ever dormant longing. He
- began to dream of her, of that last day he had seen her, of her voice
- singing Gounod’s serenade.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was difficult to picture her as married to his cousin Everard, whom, in
- the days of his vanity, he had despised as a prig and now dreaded as a
- scornful benefactor. It was a strange mating. And yet she seemed happy and
- unchanged.
- </p>
- <p>
- The wind blustered outside. The cold draught whistled through the room.
- Joyce rose to his feet with a shiver, went to a corner for a couple of
- sacks, which he threw over the sleeping man, and, after having wistfully
- read Yvonne’s letter once more, ascended the ladder to the loft,
- where the shapeless mattress of dried grass and sacking awaited him.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER XII—HISTOIRE DE REVENANT
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">O</span>stend is a
- magnificent white Kursaal on the Belgian coast. Certain requisites are
- attached to it in the way of great hotels and villas along a tiled <i>digue</i>,
- and innumerable bathing-machines on the sands below. There is an old town,
- it is true, somewhere behind it, with quaint narrow streets, a Place d’Armes
- dotted round with cafés, and a thronged market-square; there is
- also a bustling port and a fishing population. But the Ostend of practical
- life begins and ends at the Kursaal. Were it to perish during a night, the
- following day would see the exodus of twenty thousand visitors. The vast
- glass rotunda can hold thousands. Within its precincts you can do anything
- in reason and out of reason. You can knit all day long like Penelope, or
- you can go among the Sirens with or without the precautions of Ulysses.
- You can consume anything from a biscuit to a ten-course dinner. You can
- play dominoes at centime points or roulette with a forty-franc minimum.
- You can listen to music, you can dance, you can go to sleep. You can write
- letters, send telegrams, and open a savings-bank account. By moving to one
- side or the other of a glass screen you can sit in the warm sunshine or in
- the keen sea wind. You can study the fashions of Europe from St.
- Petersburg to Dublin, and if you are a woman, you can wear the most
- sumptuous garments Providence has deigned to bestow on you. And lastly, if
- you are looking for a place where you will be sure to find the very last
- person in the world you desire to see, you will meet with every success at
- the Kursaal of Ostend.
- </p>
- <p>
- Such was Mrs. Winstanley’s passing thought one day. She was there
- with Sophia and Evan Wilmington. It was always a great pleasure, she used
- to say, to have young people about her; and very naturally, since young
- people can be particularly useful in strange places to a middle-aged lady.
- The brother and sister fetched and carried for her all day long, which was
- very nice and suitable, and Mrs. Winstanley was in her most affable mood.
- On the day in question, however, she saw, to her astonishment and
- annoyance, Canon Chisely and Yvonne making their way towards her through
- the crowded lines of tables.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Good gracious, Everard!” she said as they came up. “How
- did you find your way here? I thought you were going to Switzerland.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “So we are,” replied the Canon. “We have broken our
- journey. And as for getting here, we took the boat from Dover and then
- walked.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “The frivolity of the place is infecting you already, Canon,”
- cried Sophia, with a laugh. “I hope you are going to stay a long
- time.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, not too long,” said Yvonne. “It wouldn’t be
- fair to the Canon, who needs some mountain air. This is just a little
- treat all for me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She glanced at him affectionately as she spoke. It was good of him to
- tarry for her sake in this Vanity Fair of a place.
- </p>
- <p>
- “We were going by Calais, as you know,” said the Canon,
- explanatively to Mrs. Winstanley. “We only changed our minds a day
- or two ago—we thought it would be a little surprise for you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Of course it is—a delightful one—to see dear Yvonne and
- yourself. Where are you staying?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “At the Océan,” said the Canon, “and you must all come
- and dine with us this evening.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And will you come to the <i>bal</i> here afterward?” asked
- Sophia. “Evan has run across some college friends—or won’t
- you think it proper?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am going to wear the whole suit of motley while I am here,”
- replied the Canon gaily.
- </p>
- <p>
- He kept his word, not being a man of half measures. No check should be
- placed on Yvonne’s enjoyment. She had been moping, as far as Yvonne
- could mope, during the latter dullness of Fulminster; now she expanded
- like a flower to the gaiety around her. The Canon found an aesthetic
- pleasure in watching her happiness. Her expressions of thanks too were
- charmingly conveyed. Since that unfortunate attempt on his part, over a
- twelvemonth back, to instruct her in the responsibilities of her position,
- she had never exhibited toward him such spontaneous feeling. He let her
- smile upon whom she would, without a twinge of jealousy.
- </p>
- <p>
- Yvonne enjoyed herself hugely. She danced and jested with the young men;
- she chattered in French to her table d’hôte neighbours, delighted to
- speak her mother’s tongue again; she staked two-franc pieces on the
- public table, and one afternoon came out of the gaming-room into the great
- hall where the Canon was sitting with Mrs. Winstanley, and poured a great
- mass of silver on to the table—as much as her two small hands joined
- could carry.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I thought gambling was against your principles, Everard,”
- said Mrs. Winstanley, after Yvonne had gone again.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am sacrificing them for my wife’s happiness, Emmeline,”
- he replied, with a touch of irony.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, it would be a pity to spoil her pleasure. She is such a child.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I wish we all had something of her nature,” said the Canon.
- </p>
- <p>
- Mrs. Winstanley noted the snub. She was treasuring up many resentments
- against Yvonne. In her heart she considered herself a long-suffering
- woman.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You seem to enjoy it too, Everard,” said Yvonne to him that
- evening. They were sitting near the entrance watching the smartly-dressed
- people. “And I am so glad to be alone with you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He was pleased, smiled at her, and throwing off his dignity, entered into
- the frivolous spirit of the place. Yvonne forgot the restraint she had
- always put upon her tongue when talking to him. She chattered about
- everything, holding her face near him, so as to be heard through the
- hubbub of thousands of voices, the eternal shuffling of passing feet, and
- the crash of the orchestra in the far gallery.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It is a <i>Revue des Deux Mondes,</i>” she said, looking
- rapidly around her, with bright eyes.
- </p>
- <p>
- “How?” asked the Canon.
- </p>
- <p>
- “The <i>beau</i> and the <i>demi</i>,” she replied, wickedly.
- She shook his knee. “Oh, do look at that woman! what does she think
- a man can see in her!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Powder,” answered the Canon. “She has been using her
- puff too freely.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “She has been putting it on with a <i>muff</i>,” cried Yvonne.
- </p>
- <p>
- He laughed. Yvonne had such a triumphant air in delivering herself of
- little witticisms.
- </p>
- <p>
- A magnificently dressed woman, in a great feathered hat and low-dress,
- with diamonds gleaming at her neck, passed by. “You are right, I
- fear, about the two worlds,” said the Canon.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Are n’t there crowds of them? I like to look at them because
- they wear such beautiful things. And they fit so. And then to rub
- shoulders with them makes one feel so delightfully wicked. You know, I
- knew a girl once—she went in for that life of her own accord and she
- was awfully happy. Really. Is n’t it odd?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “My dear Yvonne!” said the Canon, somewhat shocked, “I
- sincerely trust you did not continue the acquaintance, afterwards.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, no,” she replied, sagely. “It would not have done
- for me at all. A lone woman can’t be too careful. But I used to hear
- about her from my dressmaker.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Her point of view was not exactly the Canon’s. But further
- discussion was stopped by the arrival of the Wilmingtons, who carried off
- Yvonne to the dancing-room. The Canon, drawing the line at his own
- appearance there, strolled back contentedly to the hotel to finish the
- evening over a book.
- </p>
- <p>
- Two mornings afterwards Yvonne was walking by herself along the <i>digue</i>.
- They were to leave for Switzerland the next day, and she determined to
- make the most of her remaining time. Sophia Wilmington, for whom she had
- called, had already gone out. The Canon, who was engaged over his
- correspondence, she was to meet later at the Kursaal. It was a lovely
- morning. The line of white hotels, with their al fresco breakfast tables
- spread temptingly on the terraces, gleamed in the sun. The <i>digue</i>
- was bright with summer dresses. The sands below alive with tennis players,
- children making sand-castles, and loungers, and bathers, and horses moving
- among the bathing-machines. Yvonne tripped along with careless tread. Her
- heart was in harmony with the brightness and movement and the glint of the
- sun on the sea. Once a man, meeting her smiling glance, hesitated as if to
- speak to her, but seeing that the smile was addressed to the happy world
- in general, he passed on his way. It was easy to kill time. She went down
- the Rue Flammande and looked at the shops. The jewelry and the models of
- Paris dresses delighted her. The display of sweets at Nopenny’s
- allured her within. When she returned to the <i>digue</i>, it was time to
- seek the Canon at the Kursaal.
- </p>
- <p>
- The liveried attendants lifted their hats as she ran up the steps and
- passed the barrier. She gave them a smiling “<i>bonjour</i>.”
- Neither the Canon nor any of the friends being visible on the verandah,
- she entered the great hall, where the morning instrumental concert was
- going on. She scanned the talking, laughing crowd as she passed through.
- Many eyes followed her. For Yvonne, when happy, was sweet to look upon.
- She was turning back to retrace her steps, when, suddenly, a man started
- up from a group of three who were playing cards and drinking absinthe at a
- small table, and placed himself before her.
- </p>
- <p>
- “<i>Tiens! c’est Yvonne!</i>”
- </p>
- <p>
- She stared at him with dilated eyes and parted lips and uttered a little
- gasping cry. Seeing her grow deadly white and thinking she was going to
- faint, the man put out his arm. But Yvonne was mistress of herself.
- </p>
- <p>
- “<i>Allons d’ici</i>,” she whispered, turning a
- terrified glance around.
- </p>
- <p>
- The man raised his hat to his companions and signed to her to come. He was
- a handsome, careless, dissipated-looking fellow, with curly hair and a
- twirled black moustache; short and slightly made. He wore a Tyrolese hat
- and a very low turned-down collar and a great silk bow outside his
- waistcoat. There was a devil-may-care charm in his swagger as he walked—also
- an indefinable touch of vulgarity; the type of the <i>cabotin</i> in easy
- circumstances.
- </p>
- <p>
- Yvonne, more dead than alive, followed him through the deserted <i>salle
- des jeux</i> on to the quiet bit of verandah, and sank into a chair that
- he offered. She looked at him, still white to the lips.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes,” he said laughingly, “why not? It is not
- astonishing.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But I thought you dead!” gasped Yvonne, trembling.
- </p>
- <p>
- “<i>A la bonne heure!</i> And I seem a ghost. Oh, I am solid. Pinch
- me. But how did you come to learn? Ah! I remember it was given out in
- Paris. A <i>canard</i>. It was in the hospital—paralysis, <i>ma
- chère</i>. See, I can only just move my arm now. <i>Cétait la verte, cette
- sacrée verte—</i>”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Absinthe?” asked Yvonne, almost mechanically.
- </p>
- <p>
- He nodded, went through the motions of preparing the drink, and laughed.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I had a touch lately,” he went on. “That was the
- second. The third I shall be <i>prrrt—flambé!</i> They tell me to
- give it up. Never in life.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But if it will kill you?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Bah. What do I care? When one lives, one amuses oneself. And I have
- well amused myself, eh, Yvonne? For the rest, <i>je m’en fiche!</i>”
- </p>
- <p>
- He went on talking with airy cynicism. To Yvonne it seemed some horrible
- dream. The husband she had looked upon as dead was before her, gay,
- mocking, just as she had known him of old. And he greeted her after all
- these years with the-same lightness as he had bidden her farewell.
- </p>
- <p>
- “<i>Et toi, Yvonne?</i>” said he at length. “<i>Ça roule
- toujours?</i> You look as if you were brewing money. Ravishing costume. <i>Crépon</i>—not
- twenty-five centimes a yard! A hat that looks like the Rue de la Paix! <i>Gants
- de reine et petites bottines de duchesse!</i> You must be doing golden
- business. But speak, <i>petite</i>, since I assure you I am not a ghost!”
- </p>
- <p>
- Yvonne forced a faint smile. She tried to answer him, but her heart was
- thumping violently and a lump rose in her throat.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am doing very well, Amédée,” she said. The dreadfulness of
- her position came over her. She felt sick and faint. What was going to
- happen? For some moments she did not hear him as he spoke. At last
- perception returned.
- </p>
- <p>
- “And you are pretty,” Amédée Bazouge was saying. “<i>Mais
- jolie à croquer</i>—prettier than you ever were. And I—I am
- going down the hill at the gallop. <i>Tiens</i>, Yvonne. Let us celebrate
- this meeting. Come and see me safe to the bottom. It won’t be long.
- I have money. I am always <i>bon enfant.</i> Let us remarry. From to-day.
- <i>Ce serait rigolo!</i> And I will love you—<i>mais énormément!</i>”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But I am already married!” cried Yvonne.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Thinking me dead?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He looked at her for a few seconds, then slapped his thigh and, rising
- from his chair, bent himself double and gave vent to a roar of laughter.
- The tears stood in Yvonne’s eyes.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, but it’s comic. You don’t find it so?”
- </p>
- <p>
- He leant back against the railings and laughed again in genuine merriment.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why, it’s all the more reason to come back to me. <i>Ça y met
- du salé</i>. Have you any children?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Yvonne shook her head.
- </p>
- <p>
- “<i>Eh bien!</i>” he exclaimed, triumphantly, stepping towards
- her with outstretched hands. But she shrank from him, outraged and
- bewildered.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Never, never!” she cried. “Go away. Have pity on me,
- for God’s sake!”
- </p>
- <p>
- Amédée Bazouge shrugged his shoulders carelessly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It’s a comedy, not a tragedy, <i>ma chère</i>. If you are
- happy, I am not going to be a spoilsport. It is not my way. Be tranquil
- with your good fat Englishman—I bet he’s an Englishman—In
- two years—bah! I can amuse myself always till then—my poor
- little Yvonne. No wonder I frightened you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The affair seemed to cause him intense amusement. A ray of light appeared
- to Yvonne.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You won’t interfere with me at all, Amédée—not claim
- anything?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, don’t be afraid. <i>Dès ce moment je vais me reflanquer
- au sapin!</i> I shall be as dead as dead can be for you. <i>Suis pas
- méchant va!</i>”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Thank you,” said Yvonne. “You were always kind-hearted,
- Amédée—oh, it was a horrible mistake—it can’t be
- altered. You see that I am helpless.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why, my child,” said he, seating himself again, “I keep
- on telling you it is a farce—like all the rest of life. I only
- laugh. And now let us talk a little before I pop into the coffin again.
- What is the name of the thrice happy being?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, don’t ask me, I beg you,” said Yvonne shivering.
- “It is all so painful. Tell me about yourself—your voice—Is
- it still in good condition?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Never better. I am singing here this afternoon.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “In the Kursaal?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why, yes. That’s why I am here. Oh, <i>ca marche—pas
- encore paralysée, celle-là</i>. Come and hear me. <i>Et ton petit organe à
- toi?</i>”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am out of practice. I have given up the profession.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ah, it’s a pity. You had such an exquisite little voice. I
- regretted it after we parted. Two or three times it nearly brought me back
- to you—<i>foi d’artiste!</i>”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I think I must go,” said Yvonne after a litde. “I am
- leaving Ostend to-morrow and I shall not see you again. You don’t
- think I am treating you unkindly, Amédée?”
- </p>
- <p>
- He laughed in his bantering way and lit a cigarette.
- </p>
- <p>
- “On the contrary, <i>cher ange</i>. It is very good of you to talk
- to a poor ghost. And you look so pathetic, like a poor little saint with
- its harp out of tune.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She rose, anxious to leave him and escape into solitude, where she could
- think. She still trembled with agitation. In the little cool park, on the
- other side of the square below, she could be by herself. She dreaded
- meeting the Canon yet awhile.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Do give up that vile absinthe,” she said, as a parting
- softness.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It is the only consoler that remains to me—sad widower.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, good-bye, Amédée.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ah—not yet. Since you are the wife of somebody else, I am
- dying to make love to you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He held her by the wrist, laughing at her. But at that moment Yvonne
- caught sight of the Canon and Mrs. Winstanley, entering upon the terrace.
- She wrenched her arm away.
- </p>
- <p>
- “There is my husband.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “<i>Nom de Dieu!</i>” cried Bazouge, stifling a guffaw before
- the austere decorum of the English churchman. “<i>Ça?</i> Oh, my
- poor Yvonne!” She shook hands rapidly with him and turned away. He
- bowed gracefully, including the new-comers in his salute. The Canon
- responded severely. Mrs. Winstanley stared at him through her
- tortoise-shell lorgnette.
- </p>
- <p>
- “We have been looking all over the place for you,” said the
- Canon, as they passed through the window into the <i>salle des jeux</i>,
- leaving Bazouge in the corner of the verandah.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I’m sorry,” said Yvonne penitently.
- </p>
- <p>
- “And who was that rakish-looking little Frenchman you were talking
- to?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “An old friend—I used to know him,” said Yvonne,
- struggling with her agitation. “A friend of my first husband—I
- had to speak to him—we went there to be quiet. I could n’t
- help it, Everard, really I could n’t.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “My dear child,” said the Canon, kindly, “I was not
- scolding you—though he did look rather undesirable.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I suppose you had to mix with all kinds of odd Bohemian people in
- your professional days?” said Mrs. Winstanley.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Of course,” faltered Yvonne.
- </p>
- <p>
- They went through the great hall. At the door they parted with Mrs.
- Winstanley, who was waiting for the Wilmingtons. “We will call for
- you on our way to the concert this afternoon,” said the Canon.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Thanks,” said Mrs. Winstanley, and then, suddenly looking at
- Yvonne—
- </p>
- <p>
- “Mercy, my dear! How white you are!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “There’s nothing the matter with me,” said Yvonne,
- trying to smile.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It’s past our <i>déjeuner</i> hour,” said the Canon,
- briskly. “You want some food.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Perhaps I do,” said Yvonne.
- </p>
- <p>
- She went with the Canon on to the <i>digue</i>, and walked along the shady
- side, by the hotels, past the gay terraces thronged with lunching guests.
- But all the glamour had gone from the place. An hour had changed it. And
- that hour seemed a black abyss separating her from happiness.
- </p>
- <p>
- An hour ago she had looked upon this kind, grave man who walked by her
- side as her husband. Now what was he to her? She shrank from the thought,
- terrified, and came nearer to him, touching the flying skirt of his coat
- as if to take strength from him.
- </p>
- <p>
- They entered the crowded dining-room, where the <i>maître d’hôtel</i>
- had reserved them a table. She struggled bravely through part of the meal,
- strove to keep up a conversation. But the strain was too great. Another
- five minutes, she felt, would make her hysterical. She rose, with an
- excuse to the Canon, and escaped to her room.
- </p>
- <p>
- There she flung herself down on the bed and buried her face in the cool
- pillows. It was a relief to be alone with her fright and dismay. She
- strove to think, but her head was in a whirl. The incidents of the late
- scene came luridly before her mind, and she shivered with revulsion. A
- rough hand had been laid on the butterfly and brushed the dust from its
- wings.
- </p>
- <p>
- The Canon came later to her room, kindly solicitous. Was she ill? Would
- she like to see a medical man? Should he sit with her? She clasped his
- hand impulsively and kissed it.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You are too good to me. I am not worth it. I am not ill. It was the
- sun, I think. Let me lie down this afternoon by myself and I shall be
- better.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Surprised and touched by her action, he bent down and kissed her.
- </p>
- <p>
- “My poor little wife.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He stepped to the window and pulled the curtain to shield her eyes from
- the glare, and promising to order some tea to be brought up later, he went
- out.
- </p>
- <p>
- The kiss, the term, and the little act of thoughtfulness comforted her,
- gave her a sense of protection. She had been so bruised and frightened.
- Now she could think a litde. Should she tell Everard? Then she broke down
- again and began to cry silently in a great soothing pity for herself.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It would only make him unhappy,” she moaned. “Why
- should I tell him?”
- </p>
- <p>
- She grew calmer. If Amédée would only keep his promise and leave her free,
- there was really nothing to fret about. She reassured herself with his
- words. Through all his failings toward her he had ever been “<i>bon
- enfant</i>.” There was no danger.
- </p>
- <p>
- Suddenly a thought came that made her spring from her bed in dismay. The
- concert. She had forgotten that Amédée was singing there. Everard was
- going. He would see the name on the programme, “Amédée Bazouge.”
- There could not be two tenors of that name in Europe. Everard must be kept
- away at all costs.
- </p>
- <p>
- She rushed from the room and down the stairs, in terrible anxiety lest he
- should have already left the hotel. To her intense relief, she saw him
- sitting in one of the cane chairs in the vestibule smoking his after-lunch
- cigar. He threw it away as he caught sight of her at the head of the
- stairs, breathless, and holding the balusters, and went up to meet her.
- </p>
- <p>
- “My poor child,” said he in an anxious tone. “What is
- the matter?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, Everard—I don’t want any more to be left alone. Don’t
- think me silly and cowardly. I am afraid of all kinds of things.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Of course I ’ll come and sit with you a little,” he
- replied kindly.
- </p>
- <p>
- They entered her room together. Yvonne lay down. Her head was splitting
- with nervous headache. The Canon tended her in his grave way and sat down
- by the window with a book. Yvonne felt very guilty, but yet comforted by
- his presence. At the end of an hour, he looked at his watch and rose from
- his seat.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Are you easier now?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You are not going to the Kursaal, Everard?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am afraid Emmeline is expecting me.” She signed to him to
- approach, and put her arms round his neck.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Don’t go. Send her an excuse—and take me for a drive.
- It would do me good, and I should so love to be alone with you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- It was the very first time in her life that Yvonne had consciously cajoled
- a man. Her face flushed hot with misgivings. It was with a mixture of her
- sex’s shame and triumph that she heard him say.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Whatever you like, dear. It is still your holiday.”
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER XIII—Dis Aliter Visum
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">B</span>ut the best laid
- schemes of Yvonnes and men often come to nothing. While she was devising,
- on her drive along the coast, a plan for spending a quiet dangerless
- evening at the hotel, Mrs. Winstanley was sitting in solitary dignity at
- the concert, nursing her wrath over Professor Drummond’s “Natural
- Law in the Spiritual world,” a book which she often perused when she
- wished to accentuate the rigorous attitude of her mind.
- </p>
- <p>
- Yvonne had reckoned without Mrs. Winstanley. Otherwise she would have
- offered her a seat in the carriage. As it was, Mrs. Winstanley felt more
- resentful than ever. Under the impression that the Canon was to accompany
- her to the Kursaal, she had graciously dispensed with the escort of the
- Wilmingtons, who had gone off to see bicycle races at the Vélodrome. She
- was left in the lurch.
- </p>
- <p>
- To dislike this is human. To wrap oneself up in one’s sore dignity
- is more human still, and there was much humanity that lurked, unsuspected
- by herself, in Mrs. Winstanley’s bosom. It asserted itself, further,
- in certain curiosities. She had seen that morning what had escaped the
- Canon’s notice—the stranger’s grasp on Yvonne’s
- arm and the insolent admiration on his face. This fact, coupled with
- Yvonne’s agitation, had put her upon the track of scandal. The
- result was, that at the concert she made interesting discoveries, and,
- piecing things together in her mind afterwards, bided her time to make use
- of them.
- </p>
- <p>
- It would be for the Canon’s sake, naturally. A woman of Mrs.
- Winstanley’s stamp is always the most disinterested of God’s
- creatures. She never performed an action of which her conscience did not
- approve. But she was such a superior woman that her conscience trembled a
- little before her, like most of the other friends whom she patronised. She
- did not have to wait long. The Canon called upon her soon after his return
- to invite herself and the Wilmingtons to dinner. It was his last evening
- at Ostend, and Yvonne was not feeling well enough to spend it, as usual,
- at the Kursaal.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yvonne is still poorly, Everard?” she asked, with her air of
- confidential responsibility.
- </p>
- <p>
- “A little. She has been gadding about somewhat too much lately, and
- it has knocked her up.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Has it not occurred to you that her encounter this morning may have
- had something to do with it?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Of course not,” replied the Canon, sharply. “It would
- be ridiculous.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I have reasons for not thinking so, Everard. The man was singing at
- the Kursaal this afternoon. Here is his name on the programme.” She
- handed him the slip of paper. He read the name among the artistes. “M.
- Bazouge.” He returned it to her.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Does it not seem odd to you?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Not at all. A relation of her first husband’s, I suppose. In
- fact Yvonne said as much.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I could not help being struck by the name, Everard. It is so
- peculiar. I remembered it from the publication of the banns.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I compliment you on your memory, Emmeline,” said the Canon.
- </p>
- <p>
- Mrs. Winstanley drew herself up, offended.
- </p>
- <p>
- She walked from the window where they were standing to a table, and
- fetched from it a newspaper.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Do you remember the Christian name of Yvonne’s first husband?”
- </p>
- <p>
- The Canon drew himself up too, and frowned.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What is the meaning of all this, Emmeline? What are you trying to
- insinuate?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “If I thought you were going to adopt this tone, Everard, I should
- have kept my suspicions to myself.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I certainly wish that you had,” said he, growing angry.
- “It is an insult to Yvonne which I cannot permit. My wife is above
- suspicion.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Like Caesar’s,” said the lady with a curl of the lip.
- “Do you know that we are beginning to quarrel, Everard? It is
- slightly vulgar. I am your oldest friend, remember, and I am trying to
- acquit myself of a painful duty to you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Duty is one of the chief instruments of the devil, if you will
- excuse my saying so,” replied the Canon.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, very well then, Everard,” she said hotly. “You can
- go on being a fool as long as you like. I saw your wife struggling in this
- man’s embrace, more or less, this morning. Two or three strange
- coincidences have been forced upon my notice. For your sake I have been
- excessively anxious. My conscience tells me I ought to take you into my
- confidence, and I can do no more. You can see the Christian name of this
- Bazouge in the Visitors’ List, and adopt what course of action you
- think fit. I wash my hands of the whole matter. And I must say that from
- the very beginning, two years ago, you have treated me all through with
- the greatest want of consideration.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The Canon did not heed the peroration. He stood with the flimsy sheet
- clenched in his hand and regarded her sternly. She shrank a little, for
- her soul seemed to be naked.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You have tried to ferret this out through spite against Yvonne.
- Whether the horrible thing you imply is true or not, I shall find it hard
- to forgive you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Mrs. Winstanley shrugged her shoulders. “In either case, you will
- come to your senses, I hope. Meanwhile, considering the present relations,
- it might be pleasanter not to meet at dinner to-night.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am sorry to have to agree with you, Emmeline,” said the
- Canon.
- </p>
- <p>
- She made him a formal bow and was leaving the room; but his voice stopped
- her.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Your anxiety cannot be very great, or you would wait to learn
- whether your suspicions are baseless or not.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She paused, in a dignified attitude, with her hand on the back of a chair,
- while he adjusted his gold pince-nez and ran through the list.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You are right so far,” he said coldly. “The names are
- identical.”
- </p>
- <p>
- They parted at the door. The Canon walked back to his hotel with anger in
- his heart. In spite of cumulative evidence, the theory that his cousin had
- insinuated was prima facie preposterous. It was important enough, however,
- to need some investigation. But the feeling uppermost in his mind was
- indignation with Mrs. Winstanley. He was too shrewd a man not to have
- perceived long ago her jealousy of Yvonne; but beyond keeping a watchful
- eye lest his wife should receive hurt, he had not condescended to take it
- into serious consideration. Now, beneath her impressive manner he clearly
- divined the desire to inflict on Yvonne a deadly injury. To have leaped at
- such a conclusion, to have sought subsequent proof from the Visitors’
- List, argued malicious design. He could never forgive her.
- </p>
- <p>
- Still the matter had to be cleared up at once. On his arrival at the
- Océan, he went forthwith to Yvonne’s room, and entered on receiving
- an acknowledgment of his knock. She was standing in the light of the
- window by the toilet table, doing her hair. The rest of the room was in
- the shadow of the gathering evening.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well,” she said, without turning, “are they coming?”
- </p>
- <p>
- The grace of her attitude, the intimacy of the scene, the pleasantness of
- her greeting, made his task hateful.
- </p>
- <p>
- “No,” he said, with an asperity directed towards the
- disinvited guest. “We shall dine alone to-night.”
- </p>
- <p>
- But his tone made Yvonne’s heart give a great throb, and she turned
- to him quickly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Has anything happened?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “A great deal,” said the Canon.
- </p>
- <p>
- Where he stood in the dusk of the doorway, the shadow accentuated the
- stern lines of his face and deepened the sombreness of his glance. His
- brows were bent in perplexities of repugnance. It was horrible to demand
- of her such explanations. To Yvonne’s scared fancy, his brows seemed
- bent in accusation. That was the pity of it. For a few seconds they looked
- at one another, the Canon severely, Yvonne in throbbing suspense.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What?” she asked at length.
- </p>
- <p>
- He paused for a moment, then threw his hat and the crumpled Visitors’
- List on to the table and plunged into the heart of things—but not
- before Yvonne had glanced at the paper with a sudden pang of intuition.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Emmeline has discovered, Yvonne, that the man—”
- </p>
- <p>
- He got no further. Yvonne rushed to him with a cry of pain, clung to his
- arm, broke into wild words.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Don’t say any more—don’t—don’t. Spare
- me—for pity’s sake. I did not want you to know. I tried to
- keep it from you, Everard! Don’t look at me like that?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Her voice ended in a note of fright. For the Canon’s face had grown
- ashen and wore an expression of incredulous horror. He shook her from him.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Do you mean that this is true? That you met your first husband this
- morning?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes,” said she, with quivering lips. Question and answer were
- too categorical for misunderstanding. For a moment he struggled against
- the overwhelming.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Are you in your right senses, Yvonne? Do you understand what I
- asked you? Your first husband is still alive and you saw him to-day?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes,” said Yvonne again. “Didn’t you know when
- you came in?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I did n’t know,” he repeated almost mechanically.
- </p>
- <p>
- The blow crushed him for a while. He stood quite rigid, drawing quick
- breaths, with his eyes fixed upon her. And she remained still,
- half-sitting on the edge of the bed, numb with a vague prescience of
- catastrophe, and a dim, uncomprehended intuition of the earthquake and
- wreck in the man’s soul. The silence grew appalling. She broke it
- with a faltering whisper.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Will you forgive me?”
- </p>
- <p>
- The poor little commonplace fell in the midst of devastating emotions—pathetically
- incongruous.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Did you know that this man was alive when you married me?” he
- asked in a hard voice.
- </p>
- <p>
- “No,” cried Yvonne. “How could I have married you? I
- thought he had been dead nearly three years.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “What proofs did you have of his death?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “A friend sent me a number of the Figaro, with the announcement.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Was that all?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes,” said Yvonne.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Do you mean to tell me,” he insisted, “that you married
- a second time, having no further proofs of your first husband’s
- death than a mere newspaper report?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It never occurred to me to doubt it,” she replied, opening
- piteous, innocent eyes.
- </p>
- <p>
- The childlike irresponsibility was above his comprehension. Her apparent
- insensibility to the most vital concerns of life was another shock to him.
- It seemed criminal.
- </p>
- <p>
- “God forgive you,” he said, “for the wrong you have done
- me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But I did it unknowingly, Everard,” cried poor Yvonne.
- “If one has to get greater proofs, why did you not ask for them,
- yourself?”
- </p>
- <p>
- The Canon turned away and paced the room slowly, without replying. At last
- he stood still before her.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Among ordinary honourable people one takes such things for granted,”
- he said.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Forgive me,” she said again, humbly.
- </p>
- <p>
- But he could find no pity for her in his heart. She had wronged him past
- redemption.
- </p>
- <p>
- “How much truth was there in the newspaper story?” he asked
- coldly.
- </p>
- <p>
- She told him rapidly what Amédée Bazouge had said concerning his attack in
- the hospital and his subsequent stroke.
- </p>
- <p>
- “So the man is wilfully killing himself with absinthe?” he
- said.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It appears so,” replied Yvonne with a shudder.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Could you tell me what passed between you otherwise—in
- general terms?” he asked, after a short silence. “You
- explained your position? Or did you leave him in ignorance, as you were
- going to leave me?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I told him—of course. It was necessary. And he laughed—I
- thought to spare you, Everard.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Spare me, Yvonne?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes,” she said, simply, “I could have borne all the
- pain and fright of it alone—why should I have made you unhappy? And
- <i>he</i> said he would never interfere with me, and I can trust his word.
- Why should I have told you, Everard?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Do you actually ask me such a question, honestly?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “God knows I do,” she replied pitifully.
- </p>
- <p>
- “And you would have gone on living with me—I not being your
- husband?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But you are my husband,” cried Yvonne, “nothing could
- ever alter that.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But good God! it does alter it,” cried the Canon in a voice
- of anguish, breaking the iron bonds he had placed on his passion. “Neither
- in the eyes of God nor of man are you my wife. You have no right to bear
- my name. After this hour I have no right to enter this room. Every caress
- I gave you would be sin. Don’t you understand it, child? Don’t
- you understand that this has brought ruin into our lives, the horror of
- loneliness and separation?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Separation?” said Yvonne.
- </p>
- <p>
- She rose slowly from her seat on the bed and stared at him aghast.
- </p>
- <p>
- The twilight in the room deepened; the shadow of a wall opposite the
- window fell darker. Their faces and Yvonne’s bare neck and arms
- gleamed white in the gloom. They had spoken with many silences; for how
- long neither knew.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes,” replied the Canon in his harder tones, recovering
- himself “It means all that.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am to go—not to live with you any more?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Could you imagine our past relations could continue?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don’t understand,” she began feebly. And then the
- darkness fell upon her, and her limbs relaxed. She swayed sideways and
- would have fallen, but he caught her in his arms and laid her on the
- couch.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Thank you,” she murmured faintly.
- </p>
- <p>
- She hid her face in her hands and remained, crouched up, quite still, in a
- stupor of misery. The Canon stood over her helplessly, unable to find a
- word of comfort.
- </p>
- <p>
- The sight of her prostration did not move him. He had been wounded to the
- very depths of his being. His pride, his honour, his dignity were
- lacerated in their vitals. He burned with the sense of unpardonable wrong.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It is self-evident,” he said at last, “that we must
- part. Our remaining together would be a sin against God and an outrage
- upon Society.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She rased herself wearily, with one hand on the couch, and shook her head
- slowly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Such things are beyond me. No one will ever know.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “There is One who will always know, Yvonne.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She pondered over the saying, as far as her tired, bewildered brain
- allowed. It conveyed very little meaning to her. Theology had not altered
- her child-like conception of the benevolence of the Creator. After a long
- time she was able to disentangle an idea from the confusion.
- </p>
- <p>
- “If it is a sin—don’t you love me enough to sin a little
- for my sake?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Not that sin,” he said.
- </p>
- <p>
- Yvonne lifted her shoulders helplessly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I would commit any sin for your sake,” she said. “It
- would seem so easy.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Curiously assorted as they were, a poetic idealism on the one side and
- grateful veneration on the other had hitherto bound them together. Now
- they were sundered leagues apart; mutual understanding was hopeless. Each
- was bewildered by the other’s moral attitude.
- </p>
- <p>
- The logical consequences of the discovery, that appeared so luridly
- devious to the Canon’s intellect, failed entirely to appeal to
- Yvonne. She referred them entirely to his personal inclinations. On the
- other hand, the Canon had a false insight into her soul that was a
- chilling disillusion.
- </p>
- <p>
- The beauty of her exquisite purity and innocence had always captivated in
- him the finer man. It was a mirage. It was gone. Emptiness remained. She
- was simply a graceful, non-moral being—a spiritual anomaly.
- </p>
- <p>
- Yvonne shivered, and rising, walked unsteadily to the wardrobe, whence she
- took a dressing-jacket. Putting it on, she returned to the couch. It was
- almost dark. The Canon watched her dim, slight figure as it passed him,
- with a strange feeling of remoteness. A hundred trivial instances of her
- want of moral sense crowded into his mind to support his view—her
- inability to see the wrong-doing of Stephen, her indefinite notions in
- religious matters, her mental attitude toward the girl that had gone
- astray, of whom she had been talking only the night before, her expressed
- intention of hiding this terrible discovery from him. He had been duped,
- not by her, but by his own romantic folly.
- </p>
- <p>
- Yet what would his life be without her—or rather without his
- illusion? An icy hand gripped his heart. He turned to the glimmering
- window and stared at the blank wall.
- </p>
- <p>
- Presently a moan struck upon his ear. He wheeled round sharply, and
- distinguished her lying with helpless outspread arms on the couch. Mere
- humanity brought him to her side.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am so tired,” she moaned.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You must go to bed,” he replied in a gentler voice than
- hitherto. “We had better part now. To-morrow, if you are well enough
- to travel, we will leave for England.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Let me go alone,” she murmured, “and you go on to
- Switzerland. Why should your holiday be spoiled?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It is my life that is spoiled,” he said ungenerously. “The
- holiday matters very little. It is best to return to England as soon as
- possible. Between now and to-morrow morning I shall have time to reflect
- upon the situation.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He struck a match and lit the candles and drew down the blind. The light
- revealed her to him so wan and exhausted that he was moved with
- compunction.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Don’t think me hard, my child,” he said, bending over
- her. “It is the bitterest day of our lives. We must pray to God for
- strength to bear it. I shall leave you now. I shall see that you have all
- you want. Try to sleep. Good-night.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Good-night,” she said miserably.
- </p>
- <p>
- And so, without touch of hand, they parted.
- </p>
- <p>
- The hours of the evening wore on, and night came. At last she cried
- herself to sleep. It had been a day of tears.
- </p>
- <p>
- They left Ostend quietly the following morning by the Dover boat. During
- the whole journey the Canon treated Yvonne with the deferential courtesy
- he could always assume to women, seeing to her comforts, anticipating her
- wants, even exchanging now and then casual remarks on passing objects of
- interest. But of the subject next his heart he said not a word. The
- crossing was smooth. The sea air revived Yvonne’s strength.
- </p>
- <p>
- His silence half comforted, half frightened her. Had he relented? She
- glanced often at his impassive face, in cruel anxiety to pierce to the
- thoughts that lay behind. Yet a little hope came to her; for fear of
- losing it she dared not speak. To her simple mind it seemed impossible
- that merely conscientious scruples could make him cast her off. If he
- loved her, his love would triumph. If he persisted in his resolve, he
- cared for her no longer. In this case her future was very simple. She
- would go back to London and sing.
- </p>
- <p>
- She seemed to have cried her feeling away during the night—such as
- he had left unbruised and untorn. For the quivering flesh is only
- sensitive up to a certain point of maceration. He had trodden upon her
- pitilessly; but she felt no resentment. In fact, she would have been quite
- happy if he had put his arms round her and said, “Let us forget,
- Yvonne.” By the end of the journey she had cajoled herself into the
- idea that he would do so.
- </p>
- <p>
- A suite of rooms received them in the quiet West End hotel where the Canon
- always stayed. They dined alone, the discreet butler waiting on them, for
- the Canon was an honoured guest. When the cloth was removed, the Canon
- said in his even voice:—
- </p>
- <p>
- “Are you sufficiently recovered, Yvonne, to discuss this painful
- subject?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am quite ready, Everard.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “We will make it as short as possible. What I said last night must
- remain, whatever be the suffering. I have loved you deeply—like a
- young man—in a way perhaps ill befitting my years. The memories, for
- they are innocent, will always be there, Yvonne. If I did not seek
- strength from Elsewhere, it might wreck my life to part from you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Her hope was dashed to the ground. She interrupted him with one more
- appeal. “Why need we part, Everard?” she said, in a low voice.
- “I mean, why cannot we live in the same house—before the world—?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It is impossible,” he replied. “You don’t know
- what you are asking.”
- </p>
- <p>
- His voice grew husky. He paused a few seconds, then, recovering himself
- continued in the same hard tones:—
- </p>
- <p>
- “As we must live apart, it is my duty to make provision for you. I
- shall alter my will, securing to you what would have come to you as my
- wife. During my lifetime I shall make you an allowance in fair proportion
- to my means. And it will be, of course, unconditional.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Then, for the first time, her gentle nature rose up in revolt against him.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I could not accept it, Everard,” she cried with kindling
- cheeks. “If I have no right to bear your name I have no right to
- your support. Don’t ask me to take it, for I can’t.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yvonne, listen to me—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No,” she went on passionately, “I am speaking as a
- woman now; the time has come, and you were right in your prophecy—I
- would sooner die than live away from you and be supported by you. You don’t
- understand—it is as if I had done something shameful and you were
- putting me away from you. Oh, don’t speak of it,—don’t
- speak of it. If I am not your wife before God, I have no claims on you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “To hear you speak like that pains me intensely,” he said.
- “Do you think I have lost all regard for you?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “If you loved me, you would not wish to part from me,” said
- Yvonne with her terrible logic.
- </p>
- <p>
- They were on different planes of thought and feeling. The Canon argued,
- insisted, but to no purpose. Yvonne was inconvincible.
- </p>
- <p>
- The talk continued, drifted away for a time to arrangements for the
- immediate future. A reply telegram came from Geraldine Vicary, to the
- effect that she would be with Yvonne in the morning. It was settled that
- Yvonne should stay with her provisionally, and that she, in order to avoid
- painful meetings and communications, should be Yvonne’s agent in the
- necessary settlement of affairs. Finally, the Canon returned to the
- subject of the allowance. He would settle a certain sum upon her, whether
- she would accept it or not. Yvonne flashed again into rebellion. The idea
- was hateful to her. He had no right to make her lose her self-respect.
- </p>
- <p>
- “But it is my solemn duty that I must perform. Will nothing I can
- say ever make you understand?” he exclaimed at last, in
- exasperation.
- </p>
- <p>
- Yvonne rose and came to where he sat, and laid her hand upon his shoulder
- with an action full of tenderness, and looked down upon him with her
- wistful dark eyes, all the more wistful for the rings beneath them.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Don’t be angry with me—over last evening. It is good
- and generous of you to wish to make provision for me. But I shall be much
- happier to feel myself no burden upon you. And it will be so easy for me
- to earn my living again. I shall be much happier, really.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The little word, with which she so often confirmed her statements, the
- familiar touch of her hand, the sense of her delicate, fragile figure so
- near him caused a spasm of pain to pass through his heart; disillusion had
- not touched his common, human want of her. He bowed his head in his hands.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Some day, Yvonne, it may be possible for me to ask you—to
- come back. If I give in to your wishes now, will you give in to mine then?”
- </p>
- <p>
- The emotion in his voice was too strong to escape her. It stirred all the
- yielding sweetness and tender pity of Yvonne. She forgot the reproaches,
- the pitilessness, the religious scruples comprehended only as unloving.
- His broad shoulders shook beneath her touch.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I will come whenever you want me,” she said.
- </p>
- <p>
- “If I have been ungenerous in word or thought to you, Yvonne,
- forgive me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Her hand strayed shyly to a lock of grizzling hair above his temples and
- smoothed it back gently.
- </p>
- <p>
- He raised his head, and looked at her for a second or two with an
- expression of anguish.
- </p>
- <p>
- Then he sprang to his feet, and before Yvonne, shrinking back, could
- realise his intention, his arms were about her in a tight clasp, and his
- kiss was on her face. “God help us. God help us both, my child.”
- He released her and went hurriedly from the room.
- </p>
- <p>
- And so they parted.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_PART2" id="link2H_PART2"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- Part II
- </h2>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER XIV—“IN A STRANGE LAND”
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>hey buried Noakes
- on the other side of the <i>kopje</i> behind the house. He had lasted
- through the winter and early spring, but the season of the rains and heat,
- when the damp oozed through wooden walls and mud floor, and hung clammily
- upon sheets and pillows, gave the remnants of his lungs no breathing
- chance, and Noakes went uncomplainingly to his place.
- </p>
- <p>
- Joyce laid “the dear lady’s” letter on his breast before
- nailing down the rough wooden coffin. It seemed as if most of his own
- heart too were enclosed with the letter, to be put away under the ground
- for ever and ever. Wilson the farmer, himself, and a Kaffir carried the
- coffin to the hole that had been dug beneath a blue gum-tree. There Wilson
- read the burial service of the Church of England.
- </p>
- <p>
- He was a religious man, when he was not drunk, and set great store by a
- prayer-book that he had saved from the wreckage of churchgoing times. Over
- a fat, phlegmatic, brick-red face the sun had spread a glaze, as if to
- shield the colour from other counteracting climatic influences. His speech
- was thick and uneducated. At first Joyce had resented his intention as a
- mockery, and only to avoid unseemly wrangling did he stand there and
- listen, while the Kaffir squatted by, scratching his limbs in meditative
- wonder at the incantation. But very soon the solemn beauty of the service
- appealed to him. “Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”
- He stooped and threw some handfuls of the red soil reverently into the
- grave. It seemed not unfitting that the rude voice should give the broken
- life this rude burial.
- </p>
- <p>
- The service over, Wilson signed to the Kaffir to fill in the grave, and
- flicking the perspiration from his forehead, for the sun beat down
- fiercely, turned to Joyce.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Come in now and have a drink.”
- </p>
- <p>
- But Joyce refused and remained there alone, with his head sunk on his
- breast, watching the Kaffir. When the task was done, he set at the
- grave-head a great stone he had previously brought there, and slowly went
- away. His steps took him mechanically back over the <i>kopje</i>. But when
- he arrived at the prickly-pear hedge on top, the sight of the mean shanty
- and the Kaffir huts and the straggling fields high with corn and maize,
- jarred upon his mood. He turned, and descending, struck across the rank,
- sodden veldt, that stretched eastward in a terrible monotony to the
- sky-line. There, at any rate, he could be alone, away from the sights and
- sounds of his dreary toil. A broad gully, half filled with a red, swollen
- stream, stopped his progress. Half a mile farther up was a bridge. But he
- was tired and hot and sick at heart. A slab in the shade of an overhanging
- edge of the ravine met his eye. He clambered down and sat there, looking
- into the small swirling flood.
- </p>
- <p>
- A centipede crawled close by. He drew his knife from his belt, cut the
- creature in two, and flicked the pieces into the water, which swept them
- instantaneously out of sight. He looked at his knife that had so speedily
- given death to the insect. Was he much better, more useful? One gash, a
- leap into the stream, and he would be carried away into eternity. Till
- yesterday his life had some meaning—the support of the poor forlorn
- man just buried. Now, what was the good of his living? There was no joy
- for himself, no service to one of God’s creatures. But after digging
- his knife idly into the crumbling slab, he returned it to his belt.
- </p>
- <p>
- Yet what he had dreaded with almost morbid heart-sinking these latter
- months had come about. He was alone. Noakes had gone—passed away
- like a shadow, as the burial service hath it. The phrase brought back to
- his mind a tag from old days of scholarship—[Greek]—“man
- is the dream of a shadow.” He mused upon the saying. Time was, he
- remembered, when he had wondered at the strange Greek melancholy
- underlying even Pindar’s gladness in outward things, thews and
- sinews and supple forms. Now he understood. What sane man who had watched
- the world could escape it—this overwhelming sense of the futility of
- things? To what ends had Noakes’s life been lived? The ceaseless
- awful toil of grinding out despicable literature at sweated wages; the
- begetting of a child to an inheritance of misery in the world’s
- tragedy; the crowning futility of his senseless exile—what purpose
- had it all served? Save for the pity of it, could it be taken seriously?
- And he himself dangling his legs over this gully? Verily, the dream of a
- shadow.
- </p>
- <p>
- The lines in which the passage occurred came into his head. He repeated
- them aloud. Such reminiscences of former culture occasionally visited him
- and smote him with their ironic incongruity. He broke into a mirthless
- laugh.
- </p>
- <p>
- The westering sun had already touched the top of the far distant High
- Veldt when he turned his steps homeward.
- </p>
- <p>
- Wilson was squirting tobacco juice over a gate and giving directions as to
- the repairing of one of the sluices, that drained the land into the gully,
- whence Joyce had come.
- </p>
- <p>
- “This damn thing will all go to glory soon,” he said.
- </p>
- <p>
- “We ought to get some pipes,” said Joyce.
- </p>
- <p>
- “And lay on gas and hot-water,” returned Wilson,
- sarcastically. “Where’s the money to come from?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Joyce shrugged his shoulders and continued his way to the house. He did
- not much care. Things were going badly. Well, things had gone badly with
- him since he stepped aside from the paths of honest living. He could
- expect nothing else.
- </p>
- <p>
- The sight of the rough bed, tenantless now for the first time for many
- months, was inexpressibly cheerless. The indentations too of the coffin
- still remained upon it. He smoothed them out mechanically. Then reaching
- for a thick pile of foolscap that was on the shelf, he sat down with it
- upon the bed. It was the MS. of the novel which Noakes had copied from the
- yellow package-paper—all written in his beautiful round hand. He had
- been a writing master in his youth and retained a professional pride in
- penmanship. For months this copying had been all he could do.
- </p>
- <p>
- Joyce read here and there, at last became interested. The work was good.
- And then for the first time he seriously contemplated mailing it to a
- publisher. When the Kaffir came in later to help him prepare supper, he
- had made up his mind.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was a gloomy book, dealing with the abject side of colonial pioneer
- work—a tragedy of wasted lives and hopes foredoomed to
- disappointment. A picture of wrecks and derelicts; men of broken fortunes,
- breaking hearts, degraded lives; poor fools, penniless, craftless, who had
- come hither like Noakes, allured by vague visions of El Dorado, to find no
- place for them in this new rude land where unskilled labour belongs to the
- natives, who defy competition. He called it “The Wasters.”
- Almost unconsciously, his intellectual powers had returned to him whilst
- writing it. The English was pure, the style vigorous and scholarly. And
- the feeling—he had written it with his heart’s blood. Before
- he went to sleep that night, he appended to it an alternative title,
- “The Dream of a Shadow.”
- </p>
- <p>
- In the course of time the manuscript was despatched and Joyce settled down
- to many months’ forgetfulness of it, and to humdrum loneliness and
- labour. Time went quickly, for he took no heed of its flight, having
- nothing to hope for. He tried to begin another book, but the stimulus of
- Noakes’s appreciation was gone and he sank again into intellectual
- apathy. In the long evenings he taught a Kaffir boy to read and write,
- while Wilson boozed away the profits of the farm. At the best of times
- there was little sympathy between the two men. Often mutual antipathy
- manifested itself actively under a thin disguise. The farmer despised
- Joyce for a broken-down gentleman unacquainted with any handicraft or the
- principles of farming, and Joyce considered his partner a dull sot, who
- was letting the farm go to rack and ruin. Still, a habit of life is a
- strange help in living. Often Joyce told himself that he must sell out and
- try his luck elsewhere. But there was no particular reason for bringing
- matters to a crisis on one day more than on another. So the months wore
- on.
- </p>
- <p>
- The work of the harvest knocked him up. He got ague and lay in bed for
- three weeks. Wilson cursed the day he ever took him into the place; and
- had it not been for the humaneness of their next neighbour, who farmed
- more healthy ground some forty miles away, towards the High Veldt, and
- carried Joyce off thither one day in an ox-waggon, he might have speedily
- followed Noakes. He returned to the farm cured but terribly gaunt. The
- lines had deepened in his face, over which the beard grew straggling,
- accentuating the hollows of his cheeks. His hands had whitened and thinned
- during his illness. Wilson sniffed contemptuously at them and looked at
- his own huge glazed and freckled paw.
- </p>
- <p>
- Winter set in. There was plenty to do—ricks to thatch, buildings to
- repair, fields to irrigate. Joyce did not spare himself. Work, if joyless,
- was at least an anodyne. It brought on prostrating fatigue, which in its
- turn brought long heavy hours of sleep. In that way it was as good as
- adulterated whisky.
- </p>
- <p>
- Some men thrive physically and morally in the wilds. The incessant
- conflict with the elemental forces of nature braces nerves and strengthens
- the will. And these are exclusive of such as find satisfaction of
- primitive instincts only in uncivilised lands—such as are a
- reversion to the savage type, and, in the forest or the desert, live a
- life truer to their natures than amid the decencies of civilisation. But
- the men who thrive are physically and morally adapted to the struggle—men
- of energy, ambition, daring, who see in it a means towards the yet
- ungained or forfeited place in civilisation. The pioneer work of new
- colonies is done by them, and they generally gain their reward. Joyce had
- found all the successful men in South Africa belonging to this type. He
- had looked at Noakes and himself and groaned inwardly. They were doomed to
- perish, it seemed, by natural selection. In the case of Noakes the
- foreboding had been fulfilled. Would it be so with himself? His unfitness
- for his environment weighed heavier day by day on his mind: all the more
- since the loss of the companionship that had cheered him in dark hours. A
- habit of brooding silence fell upon him. He spoke as little as in those
- awful years of prison. And as his life grew lonelier and more
- self-centred, softer memories faded, and those chiefly remained that had
- branded themselves in his brain. The gaol came back to his dreams. Once,
- in the shed where he had taken up his abode since the beginning of spring,
- he awoke in a sweating terror. The disposition of his bed as regards the
- window and the height of the latter from the ground corresponded with the
- arrangements of his cell. The nightmare held him paralysed. And this in
- some form or the other repeated itself at intervals, so that he was forced
- to rearrange his room.
- </p>
- <p>
- He had shifted his quarters owing to the arrival of a fat Boer woman who
- claimed connubial relations with Wilson. The suggestion had proceeded from
- himself from motives of delicacy and good-nature. At first he had welcomed
- her in spite of unprepossessing manners and appearance, and tried to win
- her esteem by little acts of civility. But the lady drank; and one day
- Wilson, finding her alone in Joyce’s hut, whither she had come to
- steal whisky, grew unreasonably jealous and blacked both her eyes. After
- which occurrence Joyce and she let each other severely alone. He relapsed
- into his sombre apathy.
- </p>
- <p>
- The life was killing him, brutalizing him. He lost even interest in the
- Kaffir boy’s education, which had not been without its light side of
- amusement. Hour after hour he would sit, on summer nights, on the doorstep
- of his shed, pipe in mouth, elbows on knees, thinking of nothing, his mind
- a dull blank. Now and then he thought of Yvonne, but only in a vague,
- far-off way. He never wrote or felt urged to write. What was the good? And
- he had received no letter from Yvonne since the one that had accompanied
- her line to Noakes. Once, several months afterwards, one of the ox-waggons
- from the town had been overturned in a swollen river, and many stores
- including the mail had been swept away. The driver told him there had been
- letters for him. Possibly one from Yvonne. At the time he regretted it,
- but his morbid indifferentism had already begun to darken his mind. He
- laid conjecture dully aside. The weeks and months passed and, with all his
- other longings for sweeter things, the desire for her letters died. And so
- the last strand wore through of the last thread that bound him to England.
- </p>
- <p>
- As for the novel, he had long since ceased to concern himself about its
- fate. Probably it had been lost in transit, either going or returning. The
- yellow sheets on which he had written the first draft lay on the mud floor
- in the corner of his hut and rotted and grew mildewed with the damp.
- </p>
- <p>
- At last, one day, like a bolt from the blue, came the publishers’
- letter, offering alternative terms for the book, the usual royalty the
- firm paid to unknown authors, or eighty pounds down for the copyright, to
- be paid on publication. It aroused him, with a shock, from his torpor.
- That night he could not sleep. He got up and wandered about the veldt
- through the dewy grasses, under the bright African starlight, his veins
- alive with a new excitement. Perhaps he had found a vocation—one to
- bring him money, congenial work, the right at last to take his forfeited
- place in a civilised land. He returned to the house at daybreak, worn out
- with fatigue, but throbbing with wild schemes for the future. And the
- following evening, as soon as the toil of the day was over, he lit his
- small, smoking lamp, and sat down in feverish haste to begin a new story,
- the scheme of which he had half-heartedly worked out soon after Noakes’s
- death. The copyright of the other he sold for the eighty pounds.
- </p>
- <p>
- And then gradually the longing for England grew more insistent, until at
- last it took the form of a settled determination. One day he saddled a
- rough farm-pony and rode to the good Samaritan who had taken him in during
- his illness. The farmer, a hard-headed Scotchman, shook his head dubiously
- when Joyce unfolded his plan.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Stick to the farm and buy Wilson out. You ’ll mak’ more
- money, and then you can retire in a few years.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “The profits are nearly swallowed up in improvements and transit,”
- said Joyce. “It is a bare subsistence.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That’s because you don’t go the right way to work. If I
- had the land, I’d make it pay soon enough.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You are a practical farmer, and I am not,” said Joyce.
- “Even if I desired to gain experience, it is precious little I could
- gain with Wilson—and I long for home again.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That’s all very well—but if you fail with your writing?
- I have heard it is a precarious trade.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I’m used to failure,” replied Joyce. “That’s
- what I came into the world for. You can’t say that I am a
- conspicuous success as a colonist.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Sell out from Wilson, and come here,” said the farmer,
- “on the metayer system. I will put you up to a few things.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Joyce looked round him; they were sitting on the verandah of the
- nicely-built house. Everything had the trim appearance of scientific
- English farming—the outbuildings solid and clean, the fields high
- with grain, the dams in perfect repair, the yard spick and span. A flower
- garden lay beneath him. A well-trimmed vine covered the lattice-work of
- the verandah. All was a striking contrast to his own ramshackle, neglected
- surroundings. A month ago he would have leaped at the offer. But now he
- declined it. He distrusted himself, his power of content. If he once put
- his hand to the plough, he would not be able to draw back. And he held
- ploughs in cordial detestation. He rode back, having thanked his friend
- and obtained his consent to act as arbiter, if need were, between Wilson
- and himself.
- </p>
- <p>
- A day or two later, he took advantage of a sober and quasi-friendly
- moment, to announce his intention to Wilson, who listened to him stolidly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I hope my sudden withdrawal won’t cause you inconvenience,”
- said he, politely. “If it does—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “My good friend,” replied Wilson, “I am only too damn
- glad to get rid of you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Then if you ’ll give me a lump sum down for my share, and
- lend me a team, I ’ll leave the infernal place this afternoon,”
- said Joyce, nettled.
- </p>
- <p>
- Wilson went into the house and came out with a roll of greasy notes.
- </p>
- <p>
- “There,” he said, “will that satisfy you? I ’ve
- been wanting to part company for a long time, and I ’ve kept ’em
- by me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Joyce counted the notes, and to his surprise found the sum exceeded that
- which he himself calculated to be his due. After half an hour’s
- joint examination of their roughly-kept accounts, he found that Wilson was
- right.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You are an honest man,” he said with a smile. “It is a
- pity you have so many other failings.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I can keep myself out of quod, at any rate,” replied Wilson,
- “which is more than some people can say.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The retort was like a blow in the face. Joyce staggered under it.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Another time don’t be so devilish smart with your tongue,”
- said Wilson. “I ain’t the one to cast a man’s
- misfortunes in his teeth, but, all the same, it’s best for a man
- like you to lie low.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “What the devil are you talking of?” said Joyce, fiercely.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What’s the good of bluff? You’ve given yourself away
- heaps of times.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I insist upon knowing what you mean,” said Joyce.
- </p>
- <p>
- How could this man have learned his history? Noakes could not have
- betrayed him. For the honour of his dead comrade he could not let the
- matter drop. Wilson tilted back his chair and squirted a stream of
- tobacco-juice over the floor, which aroused the indignation of the Boer
- woman, who was sitting on some sacks near the door, peeling potatoes. Her
- lord was a beastly Englander, and a great many other undesirable things.
- Wilson, who had not yet laced his heavy boots, took one off to throw at
- her head, but Joyce caught his arm.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What a brute you are!” he said angrily.
- </p>
- <p>
- Wilson broke into a laugh.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You’d better thank Mr. Joyce for saving your beauty from
- being damaged,” he said, pulling on the boot again.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Now,” said Joyce, as soon as domestic peace was restored,
- “tell me what you meant just now.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Wilson rose, went to the door and ostentatiously spat over the Boer woman’s
- head; then he turned round to Joyce:—
- </p>
- <p>
- “Look here,” he said, “I have my hands full enough of
- quarrelling as it is. You ’d better trek off with that waggon and a
- couple of niggers. And I ’ll give you a piece of advice. When next
- you shake down alongside of a man to sleep, just keep from blabbing all
- your private affairs to him. And that’s why I wanted to be shut of
- you. We can do without your kind hereabouts. No wonder you were surprised
- to find me honest.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I suppose I must beg your pardon,” said Joyce humiliated.
- “I had no right to speak to you as I did.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “If you had held your tongue, I should have held mine, as I have
- done for the last year and a half,” replied Wilson.
- </p>
- <p>
- A few hours later Joyce stood up in the ox-waggon and looked back at the
- detested place that had so long been his home. It was just a speck in the
- midst of the cheerless plain under the irregular mound, the <i>kopje</i>,
- behind which poor Noakes lay buried. He drew an envelope from his pocket
- and looked at the blade of grass he had picked from the grave. Ashamed of
- his sentimentality, he twirled it between his fingers, undecided whether
- to throw it away or not He ended by replacing it in his pocket. After all,
- it symbolised a pure, tender feeling, and he was not carrying away with
- him too many.
- </p>
- <p>
- He smoked in silence through the night, under the clear stars. He was sore
- at heart, deeply humiliated. The buoyancy of new hopes which his little
- literary success had occasioned during the last few weeks, had gone. The
- sense of the ineffaceable stain overpowered him. It was a fatality. Go
- where he would, he could not hide it from the knowledge of men. In his own
- land, accusing fingers pointed to it at street corners. In the uttermost
- ends of the earth he himself proclaimed it aloud.
- </p>
- <p>
- To have lived for months and months under the silent contempt of this
- drunken woman-beating brute, to have been watched narrowly in all his
- business dealings—as he knew, from Wilson’s nature, must have
- been the case—to have been forced to stand helpless, degraded before
- this sot, while he vaunted his one virtue, honesty—it was gall and
- wormwood and all things bitter.
- </p>
- <p>
- The Southern Cross flashed down from the myriad stars in its startling
- splendour. The moon shone bright over the vast silent plain, limitless,
- broken only by the undulating mounds and the infinitely stretching clumps
- of karroo bushes. The camp-fire, just replenished with damp twigs and
- shrubs, burned sulkily and the smoke ascended in spirals into the clear
- air. The hooded waggon depended helplessly on its shafts. The Kaffirs,
- wrapped in blankets, slept beneath. The oxen, outspanned some distance
- off, chewed the cud in sharp, rhythmic munches. The universe was still—awfully
- still. All gave the sense of the littleness of man and the immensity of
- space.
- </p>
- <p>
- In a strange, imperious need of expansion, Joyce threw himself down on the
- wet earth and clutched the grasses and cried aloud:—
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, God! I have suffered enough for my sin. Take this stain and
- degradation from my soul.”
- </p>
- <p>
- After a while he arose, ashamed of his weakness, the futility of his
- appeal. Relighting his pipe, he clambered into the waggon, and sitting on
- the floor against the back, watched the portion of starry sky framed by
- the hood, until the first streaks of dawn announced the hour for
- inspanning the oxen again and continuing his journey.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER XV—KNIGHT-ERRANT
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">F</span>or all the change
- about him and within him, the hand of time might have been put back four
- years, and the tender might have been nearing the outward bound ship,
- instead of the Southampton landing-stage. It was the same raw mizzling
- rain as when he had crossed the harbour four years before; the same wet,
- shivering crowd of second-class passengers, with the water streaming from
- waterproofs, umbrellas and hand luggage on to the sloppy deck. In his
- heart was the same mingling of anxiety and apathy, the same ineradicable
- sense of pariahdom. He had thought that the sight of England once more
- would have brought him a throb of gladness. It only intensified his
- depressing fears for the future.
- </p>
- <p>
- The circumstances reproduced themselves with startling actuality. One of
- the men in charge of the tender had a great ugly seam across his face.
- Joyce remembered having seen him before, in just the same attitude, with a
- coil of rope in his hand. Had he not awakened from a minute’s dream
- that had covered an illusory four years of his life? He looked around,
- almost expecting to see Noakes, in his ridiculous curly silk hat and old
- frieze overcoat.
- </p>
- <p>
- The tender came alongside the landing-stage, and he stepped ashore with
- the dripping crowd. The flurry of the Custom House and the transport of
- his meagre baggage to the railway station broke the illusion. He was in
- England at last, and it seemed a strange country. During the journey to
- London, he had the companionship of some of his fellow-travellers. At
- Waterloo they parted. Then he felt terribly lonely.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Cab, sir?” asked a porter.
- </p>
- <p>
- He was standing over his luggage, somewhat lost amid the bustle and tumult
- of the station. It was the late afternoon, and the platforms were hurrying
- with suburban passengers. The incessant movement through the blue glare of
- the electric light dazed his unaccustomed eyes. He declined the porter’s
- offer. Cabs were a luxury he could ill afford. Besides, one meagre
- Gladstone bag contained his whole possessions, and he could easily carry
- it. Leaving the station, he took an omnibus for Victoria, with the idea of
- seeking his old Pimlico lodgings. If he could not be taken in there, it
- would not be difficult to find a room in the neighbourhood. Still confused
- by the sudden transition to the midst of the roar of London, he peered
- through the glass sides at the wet pavements glistening in the gaslight,
- the shop fronts, the eternal hurrying by of vague forms, and the dash past
- of vehicles. From Westminster Bridge the face of Big Ben greeted him. He
- stared at it stupidly as long as he could see it. The light on the Clock
- Tower announced that the House was sitting. It was all curiously familiar,
- and yet he felt like an alien. There was not a soul in London to welcome
- his home-coming. His heart sank with the sense of loneliness. He was as
- infinitesimal and as isolated a unit in this seething, swarming ant-hill
- of humanity as amid the starry solitudes of the African veldt.
- </p>
- <p>
- As chance willed it, he found the house in Pimlico in the same hands as
- before, and his old room in the attics vacant. Nothing had altered, except
- that it looked smaller and four years shabbier. The same discoloured blind
- hung before the window, the same fly-blown texts adorned the walls. The
- same acrid smell of dust and ashes and earth and the unaired end of all
- human things met his nostrils. When he went to sleep that night, it seemed
- incredible that four years should have passed since he had last lain
- there.
- </p>
- <p>
- In a day or two the strangeness wore off. London is in a Londoner’s
- blood. No matter how long his exile, life there comes to him as naturally
- as swimming does to a swimmer after years of non-practice. He remembered
- how he had yearned for its sights and sounds and stimulating movement. Now
- they were his again, and he took a measure of content. His first care was
- to provide himself with some clothes; his next, to visit the publishers. A
- cordial reception gratified him. The book was bound to have some success.
- The manuscript was in the printer’s hands. Publication was announced
- for the spring. Joyce went home lighter-hearted after the interview. It
- was delightful to be treated as an intellectual man once more. His
- prospects too were not so very gloomy. With the little capital he had
- brought back from South Africa and the £80 for his book, he saw himself
- saved from starvation for two years, if he lived very, very humbly on a
- little over a pound a week. Meanwhile he could earn something by
- occasional odds and ends of writing, and also complete his second novel.
- He arranged his scheme of life as he walked along. He would leave his
- lodging punctually at a certain hour after breakfast, walk to the British
- Museum, write all day in the Reading Room, dine, walk home, and write or
- read in the evenings until it was time for bed.
- </p>
- <p>
- Thus, as ever, his sensitive nature reflected the little ray of hope. But,
- as usual, it was soon eclipsed by the darkening shadow in his soul,
- although he set to work with dogged determination. The prospect of
- life-long solitude appalled him. It was the terrible part of his
- never-ending punishment. To a nature like his, companionship and sympathy
- are essentials of development. Without them it withers like a parched
- plant And yet he dreaded making new acquaintances, on account of the shame
- that would inevitably follow if his identity and history leaked out He
- accepted loneliness as his portion. There were only two people in England
- whom, knowing his story, he could trust to shake him by the hand—Yvonne
- and the actor McKay. The latter was necessarily lost in the obscurities of
- his roving profession. Yvonne was married to his cousin, moving in the
- sphere to which beyond all others he was rigorously denied access. One
- day, however, when the memory of her sweet kind face came back to him, and
- he yearned for its bright sympathy, he wrote to her at Fulminster.
- </p>
- <p>
- He felt somewhat cheered after he had despatched the letter. And as
- comfortings often come in pairs, he was further cheered by seeing in an
- evening paper which he bought from a stand near the pillar-box, a general
- article he had sent up two or three days before. It was an encouraging
- beginning. At any rate, London streets were more stimulating to his
- intellectual powers than the dull, deadening life of the African farm. He
- made many good resolutions during these first days in London. He would win
- back his lost scholarship, begin to form a humble library. On his way home
- he bought out of a fourpenny box an old copy of Plato’s “Republic.”
- He sat up half the night reading it.
- </p>
- <p>
- To his surprise and disappointment, instead of a letter coming from
- Yvonne, his own was returned through the Dead Letter Office. “Left
- Fulminster two years ago—present address unknown.” He was
- puzzled. At the Museum he consulted the Clergy List for the year.
- According to it, Canon Chisely was still Rector of Fulminster. What had
- happened to Yvonne?
- </p>
- <p>
- “It must be some silly mistake,” he said to himself. He wrote
- again; but with the same result. He thought of writing to Everard, but
- reflected that he too must be ignorant of Yvonne’s address; also
- that in any case, perhaps, he would disregard his letter. There was some
- mystery. Both his affection for Yvonne and the novelty of a curiosity
- outside himself spurred his interest. A day or two afterwards, he noticed
- on a hoarding an advertisement of cheap excursion trains to the great
- provincial town next to Fulminster. The journey would be very inexpensive.
- Why should he not go down and pick up what information he could? The idea
- of the little excitement pleased him.
- </p>
- <p>
- He started the next morning at a very early hour, and arrived at
- Fulminster about noon. The place was well known to him. He had often
- visited his cousin in days gone by.
- </p>
- <p>
- Many bitter-sweet associations crowded upon him as he walked up from the
- station through the streets.
- </p>
- <p>
- He went on, without any definite idea as to his course of action. Almost
- mechanically he bent his steps toward the old abbey, whose spire rose
- above the housetops, at the end of the High Street. Soon the great mass
- towered above him. He stood for a while looking upwards at the wealth of
- tracery, and crocket, and pinnacle, feeling its beauty, and then wandered
- idly round. At last his eye fell upon a notice on the board by the vestry
- door. It was signed “J. Abdy, Rector”; other notices bore the
- same signature. This was a new surprise. Wondering what had occurred, he
- left the Abbey Close and proceeded round the familiar path to the front
- door of the Rectory. He would take the bull by the horns.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Is the Rector in?” he asked the servant who opened to him.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, sir.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Could I see him for a moment?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “What name, sir?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Chisely,” said Joyce, instinctively, then he coloured. It was
- odd that he should have been taken off his guard.
- </p>
- <p>
- The servant showed him into the library. A glance proved that Everard no
- longer inhabited it. No trace of the dilettante was visible in its homely
- comfort. Presently the door opened, and the Rector, a kindly grey-bearded
- man, entered the room. Joyce made his apology for intrusion.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I came down expecting to find Canon Chisely. I am a distant
- relation of his, not long come from abroad.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I fear you have come on a vain errand,” said the Rector with
- a smile. “He took over his diocese in New Zealand some months ago.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “His diocese?” repeated Joyce.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Dear me, have n’t you heard? Canon Chisely accepted the
- bishopric of Taroofa at the beginning of the year.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “How very extraordinary!” said Joyce, nonplussed. But the
- other took his remark literally.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, it is singular. Most people think he has thrown himself away.
- A very able man, you know—quite young. He might have had an English
- bishopric if he had waited.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And Mrs. Chisely?” asked Joyce, interrogatively.
- </p>
- <p>
- The Rector raised a deprecative hand.
- </p>
- <p>
- “That’s where the whole trouble came in, apparently. It
- weighed on his mind—a very proud man. He took the first chance that
- offered.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Pardon my questioning you,” said Joyce, “but I am quite
- in the dark as to what you are referring to. The last letter, two years
- back, that I received from Mrs. Chisely was dated from here. She was
- happily married and all that. I am an old friend of hers. What has
- happened?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I can only repeat the gossip, Mr. Chisely. It seems that just about
- then some misfortune arose—a first husband of Mrs. Chisely’s,
- supposed dead, turned up, and so there was a separation.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And where is Mrs. Chisely now?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That’s more than I can say. A lady—a great friend of
- mine—also I believe a connexion of your own—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Mrs. Winstanley?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “The same. I see you know her. She may be able to inform you. I
- believe she has said authoritatively that the late Mrs. Chisely went back
- to her former husband.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That I can’t believe,” said Joyce, indignantly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I can only give you what I hear,” said the Rector, placidly.
- “I know Bishop Chisely went to Paris, where they were supposed to
- be, before starting for New Zealand. But Mrs. Winstanley will tell you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I think I know enough,” said Joyce, hurriedly, and rising
- from his chair. “I am greatly indebted to you for your kindness, Mr.
- Abdy.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Can I offer you some lunch? It will be on the table in a moment.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Joyce declined, pleaded a train. He would have liked to sit with this kind
- gossipy old man, but he could not accept such hospitality under false
- pretences. Perhaps it was well that he acted thus, for later in the
- afternoon the Rector described his visitor to Mrs. Winstanley. She
- listened for some time, and at last broke out:—
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why, my dear Mr. Abdy, it could have been no one else than the
- convict cousin! He must have come to get money out of Everard.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Dear me,” said Mr. Abdy, arresting his hand in a downward
- stroke of his beard. “Who would have thought it? He seemed such a
- gentlemanly fellow. And I asked him to lunch!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I ’ll write and put the dear Bishop on his guard,” said
- Mr. Winstanley, virtuously.
- </p>
- <p>
- Meanwhile, Joyce went away full of wonder and pity. It was an amazing
- story. Poor Yvonne! He could not believe that she had returned to the
- scamp of a first husband. The thought was repulsive. At any rate
- communication between Everard and Yvonne seemed to have been cut off. He
- was not very sorry for Everard.
- </p>
- <p>
- “A little trouble will do him good,” he muttered to himself.
- And he found a certain grim amusement in the contemplation of the
- chastened Bishop, his cousin. But he felt a great concern for poor fragile
- little Yvonne cast adrift again upon the world. “I will find out
- what has become of her, at any rate,” he said, digging his stick
- into the road.
- </p>
- <p>
- The natural course was to write to Miss Geraldine Vicary, whose address he
- fortunately remembered. If she had lost count of Yvonne, he would set to
- work to find her some other way. He felt as eager now to recover Yvonne’s
- friendship as he had been apathetic before. To lose no time, while waiting
- for the early return excursion train, he went into a post-office and wrote
- and despatched his letter.
- </p>
- <p>
- The following morning he resumed his newly schemed out life of literary
- work. Three days passed and no reply came from Miss Vicary. On the fourth
- morning he received a black-edged envelope bearing the Swansea postmark.
- He opened it and read:—
- </p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
- Dear Sir,—Your letter to Miss Geraldine Vicary was,
- according to instructions, forwarded to me. I regret to
- inform you that my poor sister died three weeks ago, of
- diphtheria. She caught the disease whilst nursing the lady
- concerning whom, I believe, you inquire. Madame Latour had
- been living with her for the past two years. Shortly after
- my poor sister’s death, Madame Latour was removed to St.
- Mary’s Hospital, where, as far as I know, she still lies
- very ill.
-
- Trusting this sad information may be of service to you,
-
- I am yours faithfully,
-
- Henrietta Dasent.
-</pre>
- <p>
- Joyce hurried through his dressing, bolted his breakfast, and rushed out
- into the street, with one idea in his head. Yvonne alone and uncared for,
- dying in a London hospital—it was incredible. The apparent
- heartlessness of the woman who wrote, her calm disclaimer of all interest
- in her dead sister’s dying friend, made his blood boil. A London
- hospital—an open common ward, with medical students chattering round—it
- was a cruel place for the sweet delicate woman he remembered as Yvonne.
- Where were all her friends?
- </p>
- <p>
- In the dismay, excitement, and indignation of the moment, he forgot his
- poverty, and jumped into the first hansom-cab he saw.
- </p>
- <p>
- “St. Mary’s Hospital, quick!”
- </p>
- <p>
- And the cabman, thinking it a matter of life and death, went at a
- breakneck pace.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER XVI—LA CIGALE
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">S</span>eeing Yvonne at
- that time of the morning was out of the question. But he penetrated to the
- landing outside the ward and had a few words with the sister in charge.
- She was a fresh, pleasant-faced woman, who, having fallen in love with
- Yvonne, felt kindly disposed toward her friends.
- </p>
- <p>
- Madame Latour was slowly recovering. One of the most lingering of the
- sequelae of diphtheria, diphtheritic paralysis, had set in. It was her
- larynx and left arm that were affected. At present she was suffering from
- general weakness. It would be some time yet before she could be moved.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Do you think I could see her?” asked Joyce—“that
- is to say, if she would care about it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Certainly,” replied the sister. “It would probably do
- her good. To-day is a visiting day—after two o’clock.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I wonder whether she would like it,” said Joyce,
- questioningly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I will take her a message,” said the sister.
- </p>
- <p>
- He scribbled a few words on a scrap of paper and handed it to her. She
- retired and presently returned, smiling.
- </p>
- <p>
- “She will be delighted. I have not seen her look like that since she
- has been here. ‘Tell him it will be a joy to see him.’ Those
- were her words.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Joyce thanked her warmly, rased his hat, and departed. It was a fine crisp
- morning. The message seemed to bring a breath of something sweet into the
- air. He walked along almost buoyantly in spite of the sad plight of
- Yvonne. The appalling weight of loneliness was lifted from his shoulders.
- The sight of him would be a joy to one living creature. It was a new
- conception, and it winged his feet.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <p>
- On the stroke of two the great doors of the ward opened, and he entered
- with a group of visitors, chiefly women of the poorer classes, some
- carrying babies. It was bewildering at first—the long double row of
- beds, each with its pale, wistful woman’s face. Some of the patients
- were sitting up, with shawls or wraps around them; the greater number lay
- back on their pillows, turning eyes of languid interest towards the
- visitors. Two beds curtained round broke the uniformity of the two white
- lines of bedsteads. At the end of the ward, a great open fireplace, with
- glowing blocks of coal, struck a note of cheerfulness in the grey November
- light, that streamed through the series of high windows. Joyce felt a man’s
- shyness in walking among these strange sick women, and looked helplessly
- down the ward from the doorway, to try to discover Yvonne. The sister came
- to his help from a neighbouring bedside.
- </p>
- <p>
- “At the very end. The last bed on the left.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Joyce walked down the druggetted aisle, and as soon as he saw her and knew
- himself to be recognised, he quickened his pace.
- </p>
- <p>
- There she was, half sitting in the bed, propped up by pillows, her wavy
- dark hair like a nimbus around her pale face. In honour of the visit she
- had done up her hair, with infinite difficulty, poor child, and put on a
- pretty white dressing-jacket tied with knots of crimson ribbon. His heart
- was smitten with pity. She was so changed, so wasted. Her delicate
- features were pinched, her childlike lips blanched. Only the old Yvonne’s
- eyes remained—the great, pathetic, winning dark eyes. They gave him
- glad and grateful welcome.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yvonne.”
- </p>
- <p>
- It was all he could find in his head to say as he pressed her little thin
- hand.
- </p>
- <p>
- “How good of you to come to see me,” she said.
- </p>
- <p>
- Joyce was unprepared. It was not Yvonne’s voice—once as sweet
- in speech as in singing; but a toneless, distressed sound devoid of
- quality, like that of a cracked silver bell. He could not conceal the
- shadow of dismay on his face. She was quick to note it.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am afraid I speak like a wicked old raven,” she said with a
- smile; “but you mustn’t mind.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I can’t tell you how grieved I am to see you like this,”
- he said, sitting down by the bedside. “You must have been very ill.
- Poor Yvonne.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes. Awfully ill. You would have been quite sorry to see how ill I
- was. Do you mind moving your chair further down, so that I can look at
- you? I can’t turn my head, you know. Is n’t it silly not to be
- able to turn one’s head?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You must make haste and get well,” he said, after he had
- complied with her request “I’m afraid I can’t,”
- she said, looking at him wistfully. “They all say it’s going
- to be a long, long business. But I want to know how you came here—to
- England, I mean,” she added more brightly, after a pause. “It
- was such a startling surprise when Sister brought me your note this
- morning. Why have you left Africa? I ’ve been dying to know all day.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Joyce sketched rapidly the events that had led him back—the death of
- Noakes, the year of wretched apathy, the purchase of his book by the
- publishers, the craving for civilisation.
- </p>
- <p>
- “So I sold out and came home,” he concluded. “I have
- been back a fortnight.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You must have been very sad at losing your friend,” said
- Yvonne. “Death is an awful, awful thing. Have you ever thought of
- it? A person is living and feeling, like you and me, to-day—and
- to-morrow—gone—out of the world—for ever and ever.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Her voice sank to a whisper and she looked at him out of great,
- awe-stricken eyes.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I have lost my dear friend too—just lately. Did you know?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes,” he replied gently. “I wrote to her for your
- address and her sister answered the letter, telling me of her death.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Wasn’t it terrible? And she so bright and brave and strong. I
- never loved anybody as I loved her. It was only after she was buried that
- I knew—and then I wished I had died instead—I who am no good
- to any one at all. And I am alive. Isn’t it an awful mystery?”
- </p>
- <p>
- The man’s eyes fell for a moment beneath the intense, child-like
- earnestness of hers. Silence fell upon them. He stretched out his arm and
- took her hand that rested outside the coverlet. A man is often
- instinctively driven to express his sympathy by touch, where a woman would
- find words.
- </p>
- <p>
- After a while she withdrew her hand gently, as if to break the current of
- thoughts.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I was wondering why you looked different,” she said. “You
- have grown a beard.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes,” he said, with a sudden laugh—the transition was
- so abrupt. “I was too slack to shave in South Africa. Don’t
- you like it?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, not at all. It spoils you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I will cut it off at once.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Not just to please me?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Just to please you. It will be a new sensation.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “To have it off?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No—to please you, Yvonne.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Her eyes smiled gratefully at him.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Tell me when I must go,” he said, after a while. “I
- must n’t tire you. And you may have other visitors.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Don’t go yet. No one else will come.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “How do you know?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You are the only person who has been to see me since I was brought
- here,” she replied sadly.
- </p>
- <p>
- Joyce looked at her for a moment incredulously.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Do you mean to say you have been quite alone here, among strangers,
- all these weeks?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes,” she said. “But Sister is kind to me, and they
- allow me all sorts of little indulgences.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But you should be among loving friends, Yvonne,” said Joyce.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I have so few. And I have told no one that I am here. I couldn’t.
- Besides, whom could I tell?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Joyce could not understand. It was so strange for Yvonne to be friendless.
- Delicacy forbade him to question further.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I have had a lot of trouble, you know,” she said. “It
- has been nearly all trouble for over two years. I wrote and told you what
- had happened. Then I went to live with Geraldine Vicary, and began to sing
- again. But I was always being laid up with my throat and I never knew
- whether I could fulfil an engagement when I made it—so I didn’t
- get on as I used to. People won’t employ you if they fear you may
- have to throw them over at the last moment, will they? And Geraldine used
- to keep me in a great deal, for fear I should hurt my voice. But, you see,
- I had to make some money. So I went out and sang just before this illness,
- when I ought not, and my throat became inflamed and I caught another cold,
- and it got worse and worse until diphtheria came on. Then poor Dina caught
- it and there was no one to nurse me. You could n’t expect her
- sister, who did n’t know me, to do much, could you? And then Dina
- was just giving up her flat, and of course I couldn’t keep it on—so
- the doctor thought I had better come here. ‘J’y suis, j’y
- reste. It is not a gay little story, is it?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It is a heart-rending story altogether,” said Joyce, with a
- concerned puckering of the forehead. “I wish I could do something to
- brighten you, Yvonne.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You have done so,” she said with a smile, “by coming to
- see me. How good of you to remember—and, you know, by your not
- writing, I thought you had quite forgotten.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Forgive me, Yvonne—a kind of dull brutishness came over me—I
- couldn’t.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And I could n’t either, after the one I wrote—about my
- trouble—at Fulminster. You never answered it, and I thought—It
- was n’t because you despised me, was it?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I did n’t get the letter, Yvonne,” he said, unable to
- disregard this second reference as he had done the first. “It must
- have been the one I heard was lost. I will explain afterwards. I thought
- you were happy at Fulminster—so why should I inflict my eternal
- grumblings on you?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Then don’t you know what has happened?” asked Yvonne,
- with wider eyes and a little quiver of the lip.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I learned it a few days ago. I went to Fulminster to find you, as
- my letters were returned to me through the Post Office. I was determined
- to discover you, but I never dreamed of finding you here. I came as soon I
- got the news this morning.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I have one friend left,” said Yvonne.
- </p>
- <p>
- “And you shall always have him, if you will,” said Joyce.
- “You are the only one he has.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Poor fellow,” said Yvonne.
- </p>
- <p>
- Though the sweet voice was broken and hard, there was the same tender pity
- in the words as when she had uttered them four years back, on their first
- re-meeting.
- </p>
- <p>
- “We are two lonesome bodies, are n’t we?” she added.
- </p>
- <p>
- “We ’ll do our best to comfort each other,” said Joyce.
- </p>
- <p>
- The visiting hour was nearly at an end, and the ward was growing silent
- again. The sister came down the aisle and stood by Yvonne’s bed and
- smoothed her pillows.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You have had quite enough talking for one day,” she said
- pleasantly. “It has given you quite a colour—but we mustn’t
- overdo it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Joyce rose to take his leave.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I may come again, the next time?” he asked.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Would you?” said Yvonne, with an eager look.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I would come to-morrow—every day, if they would let me,”
- he said with conviction.
- </p>
- <p>
- He shook hands with her and walked away. At the end of the ward he turned,
- looked back and saw the mass of black against the white pillow and the
- specks of crimson that showed Yvonne. He hated leaving her among strangers
- and the rough comforts of an open ward in a hospital. An odd feeling of
- personal responsibility was mingled with his resentment against the freaks
- of fortune—an irrational sense of mean-spiritedness in letting her
- lie there.
- </p>
- <p>
- He went back to his work, cheered and strengthened within; but his outlook
- on life was darkened by one more shadow of the inexorable cruelty of fate.
- That he should have suffered—well and good. It was a penalty he was
- paying. But Yvonne, the sweetest, innocentest soul alive—why should
- her head be brought low? And thus the pages that he wrote grew darker by
- the shadow.
- </p>
- <p>
- A fortnight passed, during which he saw her as often as the visiting hours
- allowed. He brought her whatever little trifles he could afford, and she
- accepted them with the eager gratification of a child. There was a
- secondhand bookshop he had come across during his late wanderings, in
- Upper Street, Islington, which had a speciality in cheap, tattered French
- novels. Thither he tramped one day in order to gratify a desire she had
- expressed, and spent an hour turning over the stock. It seemed hard not to
- be able to go into a West End shop and order the newest Paris fiction; but
- a poor devil must do as best he can and be cheerful. Yvonne’s
- delight repaid him for wounded pride. She dipped into them all, while he
- was there, turning to the last page to see how they ended. And then the
- rakish air their soiled yellow covers gave to the bed, as they sprawled
- upon it, amused them both.
- </p>
- <p>
- They talked of many things. Yvonne interested herself in the patients and
- gossiped about their progress and their eccentricities. Often her artless
- candour and innate love of laughter gave him details unfit perhaps for
- ears masculine. Then she would catch herself up, while a faint tinge of
- colour came into her cheek, and with still smiling eyes, say:
- </p>
- <p>
- “I always forget that you’re a man. You ought to remind me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Joyce, for his part, strove to amuse her with whatever gleams of
- brightness he could find in his colonial adventures. Noakes grew to be the
- hero of an Arthurian cycle. As for the fat Boer woman, he was surprised at
- the amount of grim humour he extracted from her doings.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I hope you are going to put it in a book,” Yvonne would say,
- with her little air of wisdom. “You must n’t waste it all upon
- me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- And Joyce, by thus disintegrating incidents from his confused mass of
- impressions, found the talks of material benefit as well as a delight. For
- a delight they were; the more so, because Yvonne’s gladness at his
- visits was so obviously genuine and spontaneous. She told him that she
- counted the hours between them. And Yvonne scarcely exaggerated. His
- visits were bright spots in a sorrowful, fear-haunted time. When he came,
- she summoned up all her strength and courage so as to make the hour pass
- pleasantly. Men do not like crying, complaining women, thought poor
- Yvonne. Unless she was bright for him, he might grow tired of coming, and
- then she would be lonelier than before. So Yvonne told him little of the
- anxieties that lay like a dead weight upon her poor little soul and kept
- her awake at nights, amid the moans of the sleeping women, that sounded
- faint and ghostly in the dim ward.
- </p>
- <p>
- Her patient acceptance of her lot won Joyce’s admiration. But of her
- real position he had no idea. The gentleman in him that had survived his
- shame and degradation forbade him to pry into her private affairs.
- Besides, he took it for granted that when she recovered, she would live by
- herself again, in the old way, and that her drawing-room would be a haven
- of rest to him for indefinite years. The question of nursing alone, he
- thought, and her incomprehensible friendlessness, had brought her to the
- hospital. He longed for her to leave it.
- </p>
- <p>
- One day, however, he found her lying down in bed, her hair in dark loose
- masses over the pillow, her face turned away towards the sister who was
- sitting by her side. The latter rose on seeing him, and hurried forward to
- meet him in the aisle.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Be as kind as you can to her,” she said; “she is in
- great trouble to-day, poor little thing.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “What is the matter?” asked Joyce, anxiously.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Let her speak for herself. I was to send you away when you came.
- She was not fit to see you, she said. But I am sure it will comfort her to
- talk to a friend.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The sister moved away, and Joyce approached Yvonne’s bedside with
- quick steps. Something serious must have happened.
- </p>
- <p>
- Yvonne rased a wan, desolate face and eyes heavy with crying, and put out
- her hand timidly from beneath the bedclothes. He retained it, as he sat
- down upon the chair just vacated by the sister. The few little cakes he
- had brought her he placed on the stand near by. She looked too woe-begone
- for cakes.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I have come in spite of your message,” he said. “Why
- did you want to send me away?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am too miserable,” murmured Yvonne, in her broken voice.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What has happened to make you miserable?” he asked very
- softly. “Tell me, if it is anything I can hear.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It’s my voice that has gone,” cried Yvonne in a sob.
- “They told me this morning—the doctor brought a throat
- specialist—I shall never be able to sing again—never.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Before this sudden calamity the man was powerless for comfort.
- </p>
- <p>
- “My poor little woman!” he said.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It is worse than losing a limb,” moaned Yvonne. “I have
- been dreading it—hoping against hope all along. I wished I had died
- instead of Dina. I wish I could die now.” The tears came again. She
- drew away her hand and dabbed her eyes with a miserable little wet rag of
- a handkerchief.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Don’t,” said Joyce, helplessly. “If you give way
- you will make yourself worse. They may be mistaken. Perhaps it will come
- again after a year or two.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He strove to cheer her, brought forward all the arguments he could think
- of, all the tender phrases his unaccustomed mind could suggest. At last
- the tears ceased for a time.
- </p>
- <p>
- “But it is my means of livelihood gone,” she said. “When
- I leave here I shall starve.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Not while I live,” said Joyce, impulsively. Then he
- reflected. Surely she could not be entirely without means. He coloured
- slightly at his remark, as at an impertinence.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I shall never get any money any more as long as I live,” said
- Yvonne. “I can only go from this hospital into the workhouse. And I
- won’t go there. I will pray to die rather.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But,” began Joyce, in an embarrassed way,
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don’t understand. Forgive me for touching upon it—but
- has not Everard—?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No, oh, no! I refused. I could n’t take his money, if I was
- not his wife.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That’s absurd,” said Joyce. But his opinion did not
- alter the facts. He remained for a moment in thought. “Don’t
- lose heart,” he said at length. “Things are never as bad as
- they seem. I ’ve had awfully bad times and yet I have pulled
- through, somehow. You can live quietly for a little on what you have, and
- then—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But I have n’t a penny, Stephen,” she cried piteously.
- “Not a penny in the world. I earned scarcely anything the last year.
- If it hadn’t been for Dina, I don’t know what I should have
- done. I don’t own anything but a few sticks of furniture and some
- clothes—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Where are they?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “The porter’s wife at the mansions is keeping them for me, I
- believe. They may be sold. I was too ill to trouble.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I ’ll see about them for you,” said Joyce. His heart
- was moved with great pity for the sweet, helpless little soul. It seemed
- hard to realise that, when they had met four years ago, he had looked upon
- her as a Lady Bountiful, who had only to stretch out her kind arm to save
- him from starvation. Oh, the whirligig of time! And yet the memory of her
- help was very precious to him.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You must let me act for you, Yvonne, will you?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You have your own troubles, poor fellow,” said Yvonne.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yours will drive mine away, so they will be a blessing in disguise.
- I wonder if you could trust me?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I have always done so—and I do. Are n’t you the only
- friend I have?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That is what beats me entirely,” he said. “What are all
- your friends doing?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “They have all disappeared gradually,” said Yvonne. “My
- poor marriage cut me adrift from my old circle. And at Fulminster—I
- did n’t make many real friends.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “There was a girl you wrote to me about once or twice.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Sophia Wilmington? She’s married and gone out to India. I
- should have written to her if she had been in England, for she was fond of
- me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I should have thought that the whole world was fond of you, Yvonne.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don’t know,” she said wistfully. “It seems that
- I have always been a kind of waif. I never had any solid kinds of friends,
- families and so forth—except your dear mother. I once knew a lot of
- professionals—but I saw men mostly—I could never tell why—and
- they don’t bother about you much when they’ve lost sight of
- you, do they? I thought Vandeleur might have wondered what had become of
- me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Dear, dear!” said Joyce, reflectively. “I remember
- Vandeleur from the long ago.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, he’s an old friend. But, you see, it was through Dina.
- He behaved badly to her and married Elsie Carnegie—and so they were
- cuts. I only saw him once all last year. I heard she was awfully jealous.
- Is n’t it silly of a woman? I think, if he knew I was here he’d
- come. But what would be the use?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Not much, except to say a friendly word to you. But still—while
- you were living with Miss Vicary, you must have made some acquaintances.
- It seems so extraordinary.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “We lived so very much alone,” explained Yvonne. “Poor
- Dina didn’t know many people—no one liked her. With one
- exception—and he died long ago—I think I am the only one in
- the world who ever loved Dina. No—I am just a waif—that’s
- what I am.”
- </p>
- <p>
- In her simple way she had accounted to him accurately for her life since
- her rupture with Everard. At first she had been too sore at heart to go
- much into the world. Then Geraldine, whose influence with her was
- paramount, continually discouraged her from renewing old
- acquaintanceships. Her friends had literally melted away. Had she so
- chosen, she might have interested in her misfortunes a score of
- professional well-wishers. But Yvonne was proud in many unexpected ways,
- and would have died rather than have the shame of sending the hat round
- for relief. As for communicating with Fulminster, it was not to be thought
- of.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don’t care,” she added, after a pause; “I have
- found you again.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Then dry your poor eyes,” he said comfortingly; “and
- don’t think any more of the worries. Don’t you remember how
- happy you made me once, when I was in desperate straits—when all the
- world cast me off but you? You are still the only being who knows me and
- cares whether I live or die. You are neither going to starve, Yvonne, nor
- die in a workhouse. As long as I have a penny you shall have half of it.
- Don’t think of anything more than the immediate future, little
- woman. We will manage that all right. Be comforted.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He spoke earnestly, leaning forward with his arm on the bed. The
- precariousness of his own fortunes scarcely occurred to him. He was deeply
- moved. At that moment he would have cut off his right hand for her.
- </p>
- <p>
- Yvonne thanked him with her eyes, which grew very soft and grateful. His
- man’s strength brought her comfort. She trusted him implicitly, as
- she had all her life trusted those who were kind to her. She closed her
- eyes for a moment with a little sigh of relief. She was so content to
- yield to the generous hand that was taking the terrible burden from her
- shoulders, felt as if she could go to sleep like a tired child. When she
- opened her eyes they were almost smiling.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I ’ll try to be happy again, so as to thank you, Stephen,”
- she said.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, here is something for you—what you like—eat one
- to show me you are comforted.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He put the paper bag into her hand, and, tilting back his chair, watched
- her pleased expression as she peeped into the mouth and drew out one of
- the cakes.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, how sweet of you!” she said, with a flash of her old
- sunlight.
- </p>
- <p>
- Suddenly he rose, and stood, hands in pockets, by the window, frowning
- absently at the gathering mist of evening outside. A conviction was
- forcing itself on his mind—a cold douche for his quixotic impulses.
- Obvious right and common-sense prevailed.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yvonne,” he said turning round. “You had no quarrel
- with Everard, had you, at parting?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, no,” she replied, looking up round-eyed from her
- paper-bag. “He was very kind to me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Have you written to him about this?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No. We arranged we should not correspond. He sent me word when he
- was going out to New Zealand. But I couldn’t let him know—I
- should be ashamed. Oh, no, Stephen, I could n’t write to him and
- say, ‘I am a beggar now, please give me charity.’ Why should
- he support me?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I hate questioning you,” said Joyce in some embarrassment,
- “but—is it repugnant to you to—to think of Everard?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why, of course not, Stephen. It was a time of awful pain and misery—but
- if he came to take me back as his wife, I would go to him. If he ever can,
- I have promised that I will.”
- </p>
- <p>
- With all his knowledge of her, Joyce was taken aback by her simple
- candour.
- </p>
- <p>
- “If that is so, why on earth shrink from reconsidering, now, his
- former offer?” he asked, exceedingly puzzled at her point of view.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You tell me what I ought to do, and I will do it,” said
- Yvonne.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You must write to Everard.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Very well.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Then you need not have any fears at all for the future. It will be
- all so simple.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “How can I thank you?” said Yvonne. “Oh, if I could only
- sing for you! But nothing will ever give me back my voice—I am a
- useless little creature. And you have been so good to me to-day. I shall
- never forget it all my life.”
- </p>
- <p>
- But Joyce’s heart was at ebb-tide again. He rose soon, and took his
- hat and stick.
- </p>
- <p>
- “There is no reason to thank me, Yvonne,” he said, with
- bitterness. “What I have done for you has cost me nothing—the
- cheapest of all services; I have only given you advice.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Yvonne looked at him wistfully.
- </p>
- <p>
- “If you talk like that, you will make me cry again.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Forgive me,” said Joyce. “I am a beast.”
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER XVII—YVONNE PROPOSES
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t was night.
- Yvonne lay wide awake. A suffused sound of breathing filled the air. Now
- and then a moan or a smothered cry of pain broke sharply upon the
- stillness. The woman in the adjacent bed began to murmur broken words in
- her sleep: “For the children’s sake, Joe—my poor little
- children—I wish we was all dead.” Some poor tragedy reenacting
- itself in slumber. Yvonne listened pityingly. The woman had seemed as
- broken down that day with misery as she herself. Then silence again, and
- Yvonne fell back upon her own tragedy, which seemed to be working itself
- out in the staring wakeful hours.
- </p>
- <p>
- She had not written to Everard. Pen, ink, and paper had been brought. The
- sister had propped her up with pillows in a posture especially comfortable
- for writing. But her strength had failed her. To ask him for money was
- more than her pride could do.
- </p>
- <p>
- Instead, she had written a long outpouring to Joyce, which lay unposted
- under her pillow.
- </p>
- <p>
- This pride was a seam of flint in her soft nature. She would have returned
- to Everard as his wife, willingly, gratefully, glad to lay her tired head
- on his shoulder, and feel his strong protection around her once more. But
- from any one rather than him would she accept charity. Illogical,
- irrational, absurd—but a reality none the less in her heart.
- </p>
- <p>
- Perhaps it was a protest of wounded sex. If Everard had treated her
- differently on that disastrous day, the quivering feminine might have gone
- unscathed. But in his anger, pain and disillusion he had driven her wrongs
- towards him into her flesh, almost like infidelities. She was too generous
- to feel resentful. An offer of remarriage would be a natural
- acknowledgment of error. To accept his support, apart from him, stung her
- to the soul with a sense of being cast off as faithless wife or dishonest
- mistress, to whom, however, he was forgivingly and charitably disposed.
- And yet what was she to do? Joyce would save her from immediate want, but
- she could not look to him for anything but temporary assistance. More was
- preposterous.
- </p>
- <p>
- At last she gave up thinking. Joyce, with his cleverness, would see some
- way out of her difficulties. Somewhat comforted, she fell asleep. The next
- day was long and intensely dismal. The more clearly she saw that Joyce’s
- counsel was the only course to follow, the more hateful it seemed to her
- to write the letter. She put it off from hour to hour. And then the
- terrible blow that had befallen her weighed upon her mind. She strove to
- realise herself moving about the world without a voice. It was as hard to
- grasp as the conception of herself as a bodiless shade on the banks of
- Acheron. When the elusiveness ceased, and the reality loomed upon her in
- all its grimness, she wept bitterly. The consequence was that, in her
- still weak state, she broke down with the mental worry, and, when Joyce
- next came, he found her in a far worse state than before. She could
- scarcely move or speak. Letter-writing was out of the question. By the
- merest chance he learned, during the five minutes the sister allowed him
- to have with her, that she had not yet written to Everard.
- </p>
- <p>
- “But the mail goes to-morrow,” he said. “I have been
- making enquiries. If we don’t write now, we shall lose a month.
- Shall I write to Everard, seeing that your poor little self is incapable?”
- </p>
- <p>
- She murmured assent, and sighed as if in grateful relief. Joyce comforted
- her as best he could and left her reluctantly. When he got home, he wrote
- the letter, a bald statement of facts to which he appended his signature
- and the address of his lodgings. He sealed it, directed it, in his
- nervous, characteristic handwriting and hurried out to post it at once. It
- was a most disagreeable duty over, for to communicate with his cousin went
- sorely against the grain. A pleasanter duty awaited him, as soon as he
- could settle down to his evening’s work, the correction of the first
- batch of proofs from the publishers.
- </p>
- <p>
- In the course of time, Yvonne recovered her spirits and was on the mend
- again. Signs of returning strength showed themselves in her left arm,
- which, together with the throat on that side, had been affected by the
- disease. Her speaking voice also began to regain some of its old
- sweetness, though the surgeons confirmed their statement that the singing
- voice was irrevocably gone.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Do say they are wrong,” said Yvonne casting a pleading look
- at Joyce.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Perhaps they are,” said he; “let us hope.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Then I may not need Everard’s money, after all.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You will for a couple of years, at least,” he said kindly.
- “But you may be able to pay it back afterwards.”
- </p>
- <p>
- This consoled her, and she began to build great schemes. On another
- occasion she said to him irrelevantly:—
- </p>
- <p>
- “Do you think I ought to write to Everard?” She had raised him
- by this time to the position of father confessor. A certain feminine
- weakness in Joyce’s nature, developing gradually, through his
- intercourse with her, into a finer sensitiveness, made it easy for her to
- give him her confidence, to speak with him much as she used to speak with
- Geraldine. And yet, he being a man, his utterances on such questions, had
- for her all their masculine weight.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It is a matter entirely of your own inclination,” he replied
- oracularly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “But I don’t know what my inclination is,” said Yvonne.
- “Everard once told me that it was a much harder thing to know what
- one’s duty was than to do it when you know what it is.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “He was plagiarising from George Eliot,” said Joyce, not
- ill-pleased at a malicious hit at the Bishop. And then, teasingly to
- Yvonne: “And I’m sure they both put it a little more
- grammatically.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I won’t talk grammar,” cried Yvonne. “I always
- hated it. It is silly stuff. You understood perfectly what I meant, did n’t
- you?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Perfectly,” said Joyce.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Then what’s the good of grammar?” cried Yvonne,
- triumphantly. “But you make me forget what I was going to say. It
- was something quite clever. Oh yes! Substitute ‘inclination’ for
- ‘duty,’ and you have my difficulty. Now do tell me what I am
- to do.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, wait until you hear from Everard, and then write him a nice
- long letter,” said Joyce.
- </p>
- <p>
- “That’s just what I wanted to do,” said she; “you
- are so good to me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She was to leave the hospital in January. The time was rapidly
- approaching. Much of their time together was spent in the discussion of
- plans for the immediate future. Yvonne wanted to sell her furniture, which
- Joyce had inspected and found in safe hands. He opposed the idea. What was
- the use, when she would want it again, as soon as she was comfortably
- situated? In three months she would be in receipt of funds. Everard might
- cable her back a remittance long before. In the meantime, he could advance
- her a lump sum out of his capital.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Then you can take unfurnished rooms and put in your own things at
- once. It will be much cheaper.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But suppose I don’t pay you back,” said Yvonne. “How
- can you make me?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I can suggest nothing but a bill of sale on the furniture,”
- he replied laughingly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What is that?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, you sign a paper saying that if the debt is not paid in three
- months, at the end of that time I can put in the brokers and sell your
- furniture and take all the money.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, that would be lovely!” cried Yvonne. “Do let me do
- it. I should feel so businesslike. Draw it up now and I ’ll sign it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It will have to be registered,” said Joyce.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, register it then. What’s to prevent you?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I was only jesting,” said Joyce.
- </p>
- <p>
- “But I’m quite serious. Don’t you see how serious I am?
- Come—to please me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The idea caught her childish fancy, and she spoke quite in her old, gay
- mood. She was sitting up now, partially dressed, and, being able to move
- her limbs more freely, reached for writing materials that lay on the
- little table by her bed.
- </p>
- <p>
- “There, draw it up at once, as fearfully legally as you can, with
- all kinds of ‘afore-saids’ in it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Joyce fell into her humour, and drew up the document in due form, read it
- over to her solemnly, and called one of the nurses to witness the
- signatures. Then he wrote out a cheque for the amount of the loan, which
- she locked up in her despatch-box. He went away with the bill of sale in
- his pocket. On his next visit he informed her that it had been registered
- and that he would be a merciless creditor. The frivolity of the
- proceedings cheered him.
- </p>
- <p>
- Meanwhile, the real problem of Yvonne’s arrangements presented
- itself. The idea of going at once into unfurnished rooms was abandoned.
- She was far too weak and helpless as yet for the worries of housekeeping.
- He suggested a boarding-house. But Yvonne shrank from the prospect of
- living among strangers.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Besides, you could n’t come and see me as often as I should
- like,” she added, with a little air of worldly wisdom. “You
- haven’t an idea what scandal is talked in those places.” So
- Joyce quickly acquiesced in her taboo of boarding-houses, and found the
- choice of domicile narrowed down to furnished apartments.
- </p>
- <p>
- Yvonne was beginning to be a vital interest in his life. On the days that
- the hospital was not open to him, he sent her little notes of his doings
- and of such things as might amuse her. In her helpless dependence she grew
- to be what Noakes had been to him in his latter days—with the sweet
- and subtle difference made by her sex. He had moods almost of happiness.
- Yet, like Noakes, Yvonne had not the power of freeing him from himself,
- from the awful memories, from the taint that clung to him. His crime and
- its punishment was his hair-shirt, for ever next the sensitive skin, never
- for the shortest intervals forgotten. Small incidents were never wanting
- to bring back the old burning anguish. Already in the streets he had
- passed, unrecognised, two old prison-associates. The sight of them was
- hateful. Once, in the Strand, he came face to face with a man, his chief
- intimate in that fashionable demi-reputable world which had drawn him to
- his precipice. The man cut him dead. On another occasion he met a troop of
- his cousins from Holland Park on the terrace of the British Museum. He
- noticed a girl recognize him and turn round another way, with a start, as
- he sprang hurriedly by through the folding doors. After such encounters,
- he cowered under the sense of everlasting disgrace. The old longing that
- always had lain dormant within him revived with intense poignancy; the
- longing to redeem his self-respect by some wild heroic deed of atonement.
- Sometimes he thought of realising all his capital, including the publisher’s
- eighty pounds and giving it to Yvonne. But soon she would be beyond the
- need of his help and his sacrifice would be merely silly. Common-sense
- leads us generally to the most hopeless commonplace. Nor did patient
- bearing of his lot appeal to his sensitive fancy as an expiation. The
- self-respect that would enable him to free the world’s back with
- cheerful calm could only be purchased by some great self-sacrifice. But
- what chances for such were offered in his humdrum, poverty-stricken life?
- </p>
- <p>
- The days passed uneventfully. He wrote from morning to night, either in
- the Museum or in his attic, with a fierce determination to earn a
- livelihood that braced his powers. His attempts at occasional journalism
- were fairly encouraging. The new novel grew daily in gloomy bulk. Often,
- on Yvonne-less days, he strolled up to the secondhand bookshop, where he
- had bought the French novels, and chatted with the proprietor, with whom
- he had struck up an acquaintance. He was a snuffy, rheumy-eyed old man,
- Ebenezer Runcle by name, with chronic bronchitis and a deep disdain for
- the remnant of the universe outside his bookshop. But for the lumbering,
- chaotic, higgledy-piggledy world of volumes within its book-lined walls,
- he had a passionate veneration. Joyce found him a mine of extraordinary
- and useless information. To sit on a pile of books and listen to unceasing
- gossip about Gregory Nazianzene, Sozomen, Evagrius, Photius—about
- Aristotle, Averrhoes, Duns Scotus, and the Schoolmen—about Hakluyt
- and Purchas—about forgotten historians, churchmen, poets,
- dramatists, of all countries in Europe; to turn over musty old editions of
- famous printers, the Aldi, Junta, Elzevirs, Stephani, Allobrandi, Jehans,
- which the old man shuffled off to procure from dim recesses of the
- shelves, was a new intellectual delight. It was a renewal of the keen
- book-interest of his Oxford days, and a mental stimulus such as he had not
- received for many weary years. Gradually it appeared that Mr. Runcle looked forward to his visits; and Joyce, who had been shy at first of trespassing
- upon his time, gladly took advantage of his welcome. Sometimes he helped
- the old man in the constant work of rearranging and cataloguing the stock.
- One afternoon, he found him wheezing so painfully with his complaint, that
- he persuaded him to sit in the little back parlour, while he himself took
- charge of the establishment and served customers till closing time. After
- that he dropped into the habit of playing salesman. The old man seemed a
- lonely, pathetic figure. Joyce’s heart instinctively warmed toward
- him.
- </p>
- <p>
- One afternoon, toward the middle of January, he visited Yvonne for the
- last time in the hospital. She received him, as on the last two or three
- occasions, in the sister’s little sitting-room just outside the
- ward. For the first time, however, she was completely dressed, and only
- now did Joyce realise how thin and fragile she had become. She looked
- absurdly small in the great cane armchair before the fire.
- </p>
- <p>
- “So I am to call for you on Thursday at twelve and carry you off to
- your new abode,” he said.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Have you settled yet?” asked Yvonne.
- </p>
- <p>
- “No, not yet. If I can get the place in Elm Park, I shall give up
- the other. I shall hear to-morrow.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Yvonne looked wistfully into the fire, and sighed.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I shall feel awfully lonesome there, by myself. I am beginning to
- dread it. You won’t think me silly, will you? I used not to mind
- living alone. But then it was different. You ’ll come and see me
- very, very often. Bring your writing, and I ’ll be as quiet as a
- mouse and won’t disturb you. You don’t know how frightened and
- nervous I am. I suppose it’s because I have been so ill.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You poor little thing,” said Joyce, looking down upon her, as
- he stood on the hearthrug, “I wish I knew some motherly soul to take
- care of you—or that I could take care of you myself,” he
- added, with a smile.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, I wish you could,” cried Yvonne, piteously, with an
- appealing glance. “Oh, Stephen—could n’t you? I would n’t
- give you much trouble.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Do you mean, Yvonne, that you would like me to get lodgings in the
- same house as you?” asked Joyce, with a sudden flash in his eyes.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes,” said Yvonne. “Just at first. Until I feel
- stronger. I have been longing to ask you, but I didn’t dare. Don’t
- think me selfish and horrid.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The notion dawned upon him like an inspiration. Why had he not thought of
- it before? Why should he not find a garret above her rooms whence he could
- look protectingly down upon her, in brotherly affection, instead of
- leaving her ill and alone to the dubious mercy of landladies and
- lodging-house servants? He was quite bewildered by the charm of her
- proposal.
- </p>
- <p>
- “But, Yvonne, do you know what undreamed of happiness you are
- offering me?” he said.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Then you would like it?” she cried gladly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why, my dear child!” said Joyce; and he walked about the room
- to express his feelings.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I have thought it all out,” said Yvonne, sagely. “We
- can go to much cheaper rooms than you intended me to have, so that you can
- pay the same for your own lodgings as you pay now. I would n’t lead
- you into extravagances for anything in the world.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “If it comes to that,” said Joyce, “the second floor is
- vacant where I lodge now.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But that is delightful!” cried Yvonne. “The fates have
- arranged it on purpose for us.” They talked for a while over the new
- plan. Joyce’s acquiescence, relieving her of much nervous dread of
- loneliness, raised her spirits wonderfully.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You won’t tyrannise over me too much, will you? If I am going
- out with tan shoes, you won’t send me indoors to put on black ones?
- Promise me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He laughed. The idea of such an attitude towards her seemed to belong more
- to comic opera than to real life. And yet he felt his authority. She
- regarded him with the implicit trust of a stray child.
- </p>
- <p>
- The sister came in and stayed whilst afternoon tea was in progress. She
- had built up a lone woman’s romance for these two, and had taken
- them both into her friendship. Hence the use of the sitting-room, the tea
- and her wise counsels to Joyce as to the proper care of Yvonne. When she
- left them alone again, a silence fell upon them, and with it the gloomy
- cloud upon Joyce, that no sunshine could dispel for long. He looked
- broodingly into the fire, the lines deepening on his face, the old pain in
- his eyes.
- </p>
- <p>
- Was it a right thing that he was about to do—to associate his
- tarnished name with hers? It was all very well to dream of the sweetness
- and light that daily companionship with her would bring into his life—but
- was he fit, socially, morally, spiritually, to live with her? It was
- taking advantage of her innocence. His sensitiveness shrank, as if from
- the suggestion of a baser disloyalty to her trustingness.
- </p>
- <p>
- Yvonne, leaning back in her long chair, kept her dark eyes fixed upon him.
- At first she wondered at his sudden gloom, and fancied distressedly that
- it proceeded from her proposal. But suddenly an illumination, such as she
- had never in her life experienced, lit up her mind, and caused her a
- strange little thrill. She called his name softly. He started, turned,
- rose at her sign and bent low over her chair.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I want to come and live with you more than ever now, Stephen,”
- she said; and as she spoke her voice seemed to have regained its musical
- softness. “I mean to try and drive away the sad thoughts from you.
- Perhaps, after all, though I can’t sing, I may do a little good in
- the world.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Her tenderness touched him. He wished she was a child that he might kiss
- her. The temptation to receive this boon the gods were giving him was too
- strong. He yielded entirely. And from that hour began Yvonne’s
- conscious battle with the powers of darkness in the desolate depths of a
- man’s heart.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER XVIII—DRIFTWOOD
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>hey lived together
- four months, Yvonne in her comfortable rooms, Joyce in his attic overhead.
- At first she had been helpless, requiring much aid both from Joyce and
- from the landlady, over whom she had cast her accustomed charm; but with
- the early spring weather she recovered full use of her limbs, and strength
- enough to fight her small battles for herself. To Joyce it had been a time
- of consolation in many black moods. He dreaded the arrival of the New
- Zealand mail, which he calculated would bring Yvonne her freedom. It was
- almost a relief when he assured himself by enquiries that no news had come
- from the Bishop. He had another month of Yvonne’s companionship to
- look forward to. When that passed, however, and the second mail from New
- Zealand proved as fruitless as the first, he was forced to look at matters
- from a practical point of view. He had already far exceeded the original
- advance he had made to Yvonne. Under the assurance that he would be
- reimbursed, he had not scrupled to spend money freely on little luxuries
- and comforts. At the present rate of living, therefore, another two months
- would see him at the end of his resources, which included money that he
- had received in advance for the copyright of his book. His current income
- from occasional journalism was ridiculously small. The new novel was only
- half-way towards completion. Poverty stared him in the face.
- </p>
- <p>
- As a last resource he went to Everard’s bankers, but only to learn
- that his cousin had withdrawn his account. He found Yvonne anxiously
- awaiting the result of this errand. As he entered, she rose impulsively,
- scattering scissors and spool of cotton from her lap. She read his failure
- in his face.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What is to be done?” she asked, when he had finished his
- report.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don’t know,” replied Joyce, truthfully.
- </p>
- <p>
- He looked at her, puzzled and distressed.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You must pay yourself out of the furniture and let me go,”
- said Yvonne.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Where would you go to?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don’t know,” said Yvonne in her turn.
- </p>
- <p>
- At the picture of helpless dismay Joyce broke into a laugh.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, how <i>can</i> you laugh, when I owe you all this money?”
- she said, with a choke in her voice.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Because I am glad, Yvonne, that fate seems to compel me to go on
- looking after you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But how can you go on? How can I burden you any further?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Don’t talk about burdens,” he said gently. “You
- repay me twice over for what little I have given you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But the furniture is not worth all that,” said Yvonne.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What has the furniture to do with it?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why it is yours, is n’t it?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “How, mine?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “The bill of sale,” replied Yvonne seriously.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, you dear little goose,” cried Joyce, “you don’t
- suppose I am going to sell you up!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why not—if you need the money? The furniture is all your own.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “How can it be when I don’t claim it?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Yvonne shook her head. Ordinarily the most easily swayed of women, now and
- then she was inconvincible. She had got it into her head that the
- furniture had lapsed by sheer law of England into his possession, and no
- argument could move her. He explained that he could renew the bill. She
- dismissed the explanation with a little foreign gesture.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I own nothing in the world but what I stand up in,” she
- persisted.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Then you’re worse off than ever,” said Joyce.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am,” she said despondently. “Is n’t it strange
- to want money! I never knew what it was before.”
- </p>
- <p>
- There was an odd pathos in her face that touched him.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Cheer up, little woman. Nothing is ever so bad as it looks.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Comforting words were nice, but they did not change the position. Money
- had to be obtained. Where was it to come from?
- </p>
- <p>
- “I suppose I must write to Everard, since your letter has
- miscarried.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Letters don’t miscarry nowadays,” said Joyce. “They
- don’t even do so in novels. Still, you had better write. I wish you
- felt you need n’t.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “So do I.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “We shall have to part as soon as he cables a remittance.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, I wish we could get along as we are,” said Yvonne.
- “I have been so happy here with you.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Then let us fight it out between us,” exclaimed Joyce resolutely. “You
-’ll soon be able to get some singing lessons, and I ’ll find a situation
-as railway porter, or something, and we ’ll rub along somehow till better
-times.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, you don’t know how much gladder I should be!” cried
- Yvonne with a sparkle in her eyes. “If I only could earn something—not
- be a drag upon you! Oh, I would sooner lead the life of a poor, poor
- woman, in the humblest way, than take Everard’s money—you know
- that.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “We can’t go on living here,” said Joyce, gently.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Of course not. We will go to much cheaper rooms and live like
- working-folks. I can do lots of things, lay fires, make pastry—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Dumplings will be as far as we can get,” said Joyce.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, then, they ’ll be beautiful dumplings,” said
- Yvonne.
- </p>
- <p>
- “And I dare say we can find a way to settle the furniture question,”
- said Joyce. “I shall begin to look about for a cheap place at once.”
- So the trouble fell from Yvonne for a time. Now that she had decided to
- make no further appeal to Everard, but to endeavour once more to earn her
- livelihood, she felt lighter-hearted. Her attachment to Stephen had grown
- so strong that she had contemplated the loss of his daily protection with
- dismay. The solitary life frightened her. The vicissitudes through which
- she had passed, the loss of her voice especially, had taken away her
- nerve. At first, she had been so weak from her long illness and her
- helpless arm, that she found Stephen’s presence an unspeakable
- comfort, and did not speculate upon any anomaly in her position. By the
- time she regained health, their life under the same roof appeared in the
- natural order of every-day things. And it was very pleasant. Besides, with
- the daily intercourse, came a deeper comprehension of his shipwreck. She
- began to realise that the material dependence on her side was reciprocated
- by a spiritual dependence on his. It awoke new and delicious stirrings of
- pride to feel her influence over him, to find herself of use to a man.
- Once she could sing, amuse—yield her lips with kind passivity to
- satisfy strange unknown needs. She had regarded herself with wistful
- seriousness in her relations with men, as a poor little instrument for men
- to play on. They fingered the stops, extracted what music they could, and
- then laid the pipe aside while they devoted themselves to the business of
- the world. But Stephen approached her differently from other men. He did
- not want her for her voice; he did not throw himself weary into a chair
- and say, “Chatter and amuse me;” and he did not look at her
- with eyes yearning for her lips. But his needs, quite other than she had
- known before, were revealing themselves to her with gradual distinctness.
- She was learning his humbled pride, his lacerated self-respect, his
- ingrained sense of degradation, his crying need of sympathy and
- encouragement and ennobling object in life. The strong man came to her,
- Yvonne, to be healed and strengthened; and, from some fresh-discovered
- fountain within her, she was finding remedy for maladies and sustaining
- draughts for weakness. A new conception of herself was dawning before her,
- in a great, quiet happiness; and her nature unconsciously expanded.
- </p>
- <p>
- Thus a twofold instinct urged her to throw in her lot with Joyce.
- </p>
- <p>
- He passed a very anxious week. It seemed as if his old bitter and
- fruitless search for work was to be repeated. Neither could he find
- suitable apartments. “I’m afraid it will have to come to the
- workhouse,” he said in dejected jest.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, that will never do!” cried Yvonne. “They would
- separate us.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She had been more successful. Two or three of the ex-pupils to whom she
- had written had replied, promising their recommendation. With a shrewdness
- that won Joyce’s admiration she used the address of her former
- agents, who willingly forwarded her letters. But the sight of the familiar
- office, whither she had gone to beg this favour, had brought her a bitter
- pang of regret for the lost voice. She had cried all the way home and then
- looked anxiously in the glass, afraid lest Joyce should perceive the
- traces of her tears. She strove valiantly to cheer him in his worries.
- </p>
- <p>
- At last Joyce went to his friend, the secondhand bookseller in Islington,
- whom he had seen less frequently since his life with Yvonne, and there, to
- his delighted surprise, found a solution for all his difficulties. The old
- man was growing too infirm to carry on the business single-handed. He
- wanted an assistant “And where am I to get one?” he said
- querulously. “I don’t want a damned fool who does n’t
- know an Elzevir from a Catnach.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I ’ll come like a shot if you ’ll have me,” said
- Joyce, eagerly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You? Why, you’re a gentleman and a scholar,” said the
- old man.
- </p>
- <p>
- “So much the better,” returned Joyce, laughing. “There
- will be something mediaeval about the arrangement.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The bargain was quickly struck. Furthermore, when Joyce explained his
- domestic considerations, the old man offered him, at a small rent, three
- rooms in the house, above the shop. There they were, he said; they were
- not used; he once took in lodgers, but they pestered his life out; so he
- had made up his mind not to be worried with them any more. However, Joyce
- was an exception. He was quite welcome to them; he himself only wanted a
- bedroom and the little back-parlour on the ground-floor.
- </p>
- <p>
- These reserved quarters, the vacant three rooms and a kitchen with an
- adjoining servant’s bedroom, made up the internal arrangements of
- the old-fashioned, rather dilapidated house. Joyce went up to inspect. At
- first his heart sank. The rooms were only half-furnished, the paper was
- mouldy, dirt abounded, the ceilings were low and blackened. However, many
- of these drawbacks could be remedied. Mr. Runcle promised a thorough
- cleansing and repapering, whereat Joyce’s spirits rose again. Next
- to the sitting-room was a fair-sized bedroom for Yvonne; upstairs a little
- room for himself. He enquired about attendance. The old man explained that
- a woman lived on the premises. She did for him and would doubtless be glad
- to do for Joyce also, for a small sum per week.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <p>
- By the end of a few days they were settled in their new abode. The bits of
- furniture, that had been the subject of such dispute, made the place
- habitable. Re-papered and whitewashed and hung with curtains and a few
- pictures out of Yvonne’s salvage, it looked almost cosy. But the
- threadbare carpet and rug, the horsehair sofa, and odd, rickety chairs and
- the small-paned, cheaply-painted windows gave it an aspect of poverty that
- nothing could efface.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It’s not a palace,” said Joyce ruefully, looking round
- him on the day they took definite possession. “You will miss many
- comforts, Yvonne.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I’m not going to miss anything,” she replied, “except
- worry and anxiety. I am going to be perfectly happy here.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You don’t know what a sweet incongruity you are among these
- surroundings,” he said; “you remind one of a dainty piece of
- lace sewn on to corduroys. Oh, I hope this life won’t be too rough
- for you—we shall have to practise so many miserable little economies—coals,
- gas, food—”
- </p>
- <p>
- Yvonne broke into a sunny laugh. “Oh, that’s just like a man!
- Did you ever hear of a well-regulated woman that did n’t love to
- economise? When I was at Fulminster, you have no idea how I cut down
- expenses!”
- </p>
- <p>
- She turned to take off her hat before the discoloured gilt mirror over the
- mantelpiece, and then threw it quickly on the round centre table and faced
- him again.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I shall be quite as happy here as I was in Fulminster. Perhaps
- happier, in a sense. You know, I always felt so small in that big house.
- This just suits me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Thus began the odd life together of these two waifs, abandoned by the
- world. The previous four months had been invested with an air of
- transience. Yvonne’s presence beneath the same roof as Joyce had
- been a temporary arrangement until supplies should come from the Bishop.
- They had not joined in housekeeping. Whenever Joyce went down to Yvonne,
- he had done so purely in the character of a visitor. From that state of
- things to this life in common was a great step. And yet to each it seemed
- natural. Society being unaware of their existence, they felt no particular
- need of observing Society’s conventions. To the old bookseller, to
- the servant, to each other, they were brother and sister, and that was
- enough.
- </p>
- <p>
- Joyce found his work fairly light. The important part of the business was
- carried on by orders through the post. Purchases of “rare and
- curious books” at prices per volume from three pounds upwards are
- rarely made casually over the counter. Joyce knew this, of course, but he
- was nevertheless surprised at the extensiveness of Ebenezer Runcle’s
- connection. Every morning there was considerable correspondence to be got
- through, parcels of books to be made up and despatched, the slips for the
- monthly catalogue to be kept up to date. After that, if no new stock was
- brought in, there was little else to do but wait for customers. The long
- spells of leisure were invaluable to him for writing. He found his mind
- worked smoothly in the quiet, musty atmosphere of the books. There they
- were in brilliant rows around the walls, on bookcases running
- longitudinally through the shop, piled in stacks by the doorway, in
- comers, upon trestles, anywhere. A great rampart of them cut off the
- draught of the door. In the small enclosed space thus formed was a stove,
- on one side of which he placed his writing-table, while on the other, in a
- dilapidated cane armchair, sat the old man, a bent, wheezing figure, deep
- in his beloved patristic literature.
- </p>
- <p>
- At intervals during the day he saw Yvonne, who was proud and happy in the
- superintendence of her humble establishment. Not long after the move, some
- welcome singing-lessons came, at a house in Russell Square, and enabled
- her to contribute her mite towards the household expenses. It was a hard
- problem to make ends meet sometimes, on what Joyce was able to set apart
- for housekeeping, and at first, through lack of experience in close
- economy, she made dreadful blunders. Then she came in tearful penitence to
- Joyce. On one of these occasions, he had arrived for dinner, and found her
- gazing piteously upon three meatless bones, standing like ribs of wreck in
- a beach of potatoes. She had thought enough had been left from yesterday
- for two more meals. He consoled her as best he could, and tackled the
- potatoes. But she watched him with so miserable and remorse-stricken a
- face that at last he broke out laughing. And then, Yvonne, who was quick
- to see the light side of things, laughed too and forgot her troubles.
- After a time, no housewife in the neighbourhood kept a shrewder eye upon
- the butcher.
- </p>
- <p>
- The evenings they usually spent together, working or talking. Now and
- then, at Joyce’s invitation, the old man would come in, and the trio
- would talk literature, the old man vaunting the ancients and Joyce
- defending the moderns, until a veritable Battle of the Books was
- recontested, while Yvonne sat by, in awed silence, wondering at the
- vastness of human learning. Often he wrote or discussed the novel with
- her. In this she took the deepest interest. The intellectual processes
- involved were a perpetual mystery to her, and caused her to place Joyce on
- a pinnacle of genius. But her sympathy and enthusiasm helped him as few
- other things could. And gradually her influence made itself felt in his
- writing. His sympathies widened, his aspect upon life softened. Planned to
- reveal the bitter sordidness of broken lives, and half written in a grey,
- hopeless atmosphere, imperceptibly the book lost in harshness, grew in
- tenderness and humanity. And this corresponded to the softening in the
- nature of the man himself.
- </p>
- <p>
- Yet now and then incidents occurred that brought back the past in all its
- gloom. One in particular weighed for many days afterwards upon his mind.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was a sultry night. He had come out for a stroll down Upper Street and
- High Street, before going to bed. Outside the Angel, the limit of his
- walk, he lingered a moment and was looking with idle interest at the great
- block of omnibuses, when he became aware that a poorly-dressed woman was
- standing by him, gazing rigidly into his face. He started, tried to fix
- her identity.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Good God! It is you!” said the woman.
- </p>
- <p>
- Then he remembered. It was Annie Stevens, the girl who had betrayed him so
- miserably to the theatrical company years before.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Won’t you speak to me?” she asked, somewhat humbly, as
- he remained silent.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You recall a very bitter time to me,” said Joyce.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Do you think it is any sweeter to me?” she asked.
- </p>
- <p>
- And then, with a quick glance round at an approaching policeman:—
- </p>
- <p>
- “Walk on a little way with me, will you?”
- </p>
- <p>
- He hesitated for a moment, but a beseeching look in her eyes touched him.
- Her presence at that place, at that hour, spoke of tragedy. She had never
- been pretty. Now she had grown thin and hard-featured.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You need n’t fear I’m going to ask you for anything—you
- of all people in the world. Of course, if you don’t want to be seen
- with me, don’t come. You can’t hurt me. I’m past that.
- But I’d like to speak with you for a minute or two.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He had moved on with her while she was talking. Then there were a few
- moments’ silence.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well?” he enquired. “What do you wish to say?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “God knows—anything—just to ask you, perhaps, whether
- you’re right again. I have thought of you enough.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He glanced at her curiously.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why have you come to this?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why did you go to prison?” she retorted.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I did wrong and was punished for it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “So did I. This is my punishment. After you had gone, I could have
- torn my heart out. I went on the drink—could n’t get
- engagements—went downhill. I can’t go much lower, can I? If
- you want revenge, you ’ve got it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She tossed her head in her old, defiant way. Joyce, perceiving her
- association of himself in her downfall, felt somewhat moved with pity.
- </p>
- <p>
- “God knows, revenge is the last thing I want. On the contrary, I am
- distressed to see you come to this. If I could help you, I would do so.
- But that, you know as well as I, is out of my power.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes; the only thing you could do, would be to marry me and make an
- honest woman of me, and that is n’t likely,” she said,
- cynically.
- </p>
- <p>
- “No, it is n’t likely,” said Joyce. “I can only be
- deeply sorry for you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I wonder whether you could tell what it is to me to talk to you
- even in this way. Oh, God! if you knew how I longed to see you!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why did you act as you did toward me?” he asked.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don’t know. Don’t ask me. Because every woman’s
- got a tiger in her somewhere, I suppose. I used to think men were the
- brutes. Now I know it’s women. We’re all the same. I hate
- myself. I wish you would take me up a back street and kill me. This is a
- hell of a life. Do you remember the last words you said to me? ‘Some
- people are better dead.’ It’s the truest thing I ’ve
- ever heard from man or woman.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It’s easy enough to get out of the world, if we want to,”
- said Joyce. “But perhaps it’s better to fight it out. You must
- make an effort and get out of this life—a proud girl like you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I have n’t much pride left.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I thought so too. But it takes a lot of killing. I ’ve come
- out fairly straight. Why shouldn’t you?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I ’ll come out straight, the only way—a corpse. But I’m
- glad things are better with you. It relieves me to know it. I thought I
- had sent you to the devil, and that’s why I went there myself, I
- suppose. Well, I won’t keep you any longer. I know you hate being
- seen with me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Can’t I do anything for you?” said Joyce, feeling in
- his pocket.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes—flay me alive by offering me money. You did once—do
- you remember?”
- </p>
- <p>
- She stopped abruptly, took Joyce’s proffered hand, and said in a
- softer voice:—
- </p>
- <p>
- “It’s good of you to shake hands with me. Men are better than
- women. Thank God I ’ve seen you at last. Good-bye.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Good-bye,” said Joyce, kindly.
- </p>
- <p>
- They parted, and went their different ways, Annie Stevens to the horror of
- her life and Joyce to the home that held Yvonne. The parallel and the
- contrast smote him as he walked along the familiar street. Both himself and
- this girl that had fallen were derelicts, both were expiating the past,
- both were carrying within them a degraded self, that with a nobler self
- waged cruel and eternal warfare. For the injury she had done him he
- cherished no resentment. He felt a great pity for her, and judged her
- gently.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was strange how his rudderless course through the last six years had
- been influenced by other lonely and drifting craft. Annie Stevens, who had
- loved and nearly wrecked him, had been the cause of his linking fortunes
- with poor Noakes; and it was through Yvonne—with whom, sweetest of
- derelicts, he was now voyaging on unruffled waters—that he had first
- drifted towards Annie Stevens. He was pondering over this one day during
- an idle hour in the shop with the old bookseller, when a whimsical fancy
- seized him.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You lead a very lonely life, Mr. Runcle,” he said suddenly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes,” replied the old man. “I suppose I do. Beyond one
- sister, who has been dying for many months, I have neither kith nor kin in
- the world.”
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER XIX—FERMENT
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>s all this true?”
- asked Yvonne, mournfully.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, worse luck,” replied Joyce, looking up from his Sunday
- newspaper.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It is very dreadful,” said Yvonne.
- </p>
- <p>
- She was finishing “The Wasters,” Joyce’s lately
- published novel. It was not a success. Its cultivated style received
- recognition everywhere, but the unrelieved pessimism, powerfully as it was
- presented, repelled most readers. He was inclined to be depressed at its
- reception. To Yvonne, however, it was a revelation. She closed the book
- with a sigh, and remained for some time gazing absently at the cover. Then
- she rose in her quick way.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Let us go out—into the sunshine—or I shall cry. I feel
- miserable, Stephen.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “On account of that wretched book?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That and other things. Take me to Regent’s Park—to see
- the flowers.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He assented gladly and Yvonne went to put on her things. Shortly
- afterwards they were side by side on the garden seat of a westward bound
- omnibus.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I feel better,” said Yvonne, breathing in the summer air.
- “Don’t you?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It is nice,” answered Joyce. “I shall be better pleased
- when we are out of these joyless streets. The Pentonville Road on a Sunday
- is depressing. I haven’t seen a smile on a human face since we have
- been out. What grey lives people lead.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But they can’t all be unhappy,” she said.
- </p>
- <p>
- The ’bus stopped for a moment. Three or four young roughs, in Sunday
- clothes, with coarse, animal faces and discordant speech passed by below
- on the pavement, and noisily greeted a couple of quiet-looking girls,
- evidently acquaintances.
- </p>
- <p>
- “These seem cheerful enough,” said Yvonne.
- </p>
- <p>
- Joyce shrugged his shoulders.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Did it ever occur to you what misery men of that type work in the
- world? By the laws of their class they will all marry—and marry
- young. Fancy a woman’s life in the hands of any of those fellows.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The ’bus moved on. Yvonne was silent.
- </p>
- <p>
- His tone was that of the book she had just been reading. She stole a side
- glance at him. His face in repose was always sad and brooding. To-day she
- seemed to read more clearly in it the lines that the breaking of the
- spirit had caused. She identified him with the characters in the sordid
- scenes he had described. Presently she laid her hand lightly on his arm.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Do you think we live a very grey life—now?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You have a very hard, dull, monotonous life,” he replied.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don’t,” said Yvonne stoutly. “I am very pleased
- and contented. I only want one thing to make me perfectly happy.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “So does every one. The one thing just makes the difference. It’s
- the one thing we can’t possibly get.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It is n’t what you imagine,” said Yvonne. “You
- are thinking of money and all that.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No. It’s your voice.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It is n’t!” cried Yvonne, with a touch of petulant
- earnestness. “It is to see you bright and happy—as you used to
- be long, long ago. You might have known.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It is very dear of you,” he answered, after a pause. “I
- am selfish—and can’t understand your sweet spirit. Sometimes I
- seem to have a stone heart, like the man in the German story.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You have a warm, generous heart, Stephen. What other man would have
- done what you have for me?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It was pure selfishness on my part,” he replied. “The
- loneliness was too appalling. And then, further, I am never quite sure I
- have acted rightly by you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am,” she said. “And I’m the best judge, I
- think.”
- </p>
- <p>
- But Joyce was correct in his bitter self-analysis. Now and then his
- sensitive fibres vibrated. But generally the weight of the past years was
- on his heart, and repressed continuous emotion. To live on these intimate
- terms with Yvonne and never consider the possibility of loving her, after
- the way of men, was absurd. The chivalrous instincts awakened by her
- implicit trust in him, and the double barrier which forbade a love that
- could result in marriage, made him dismiss such considerations. But often,
- in gloomy introspective moods, his self-contempt denied these instincts as
- arrogant pretensions, and attributed the absence of warmer feelings
- towards Yvonne to the petrifaction of all emotional chords. Of late,
- however, he had ceased to speculate, taking his insensibility for granted.
- </p>
- <p>
- When they arrived at the Regent’s Park, they proceeded for some
- distance northwards up the great avenue. It was crowded. Joyce looked
- about him, with a fidgeted air, at the stream of passers-by.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Let us get away from the people and sit under a tree,” he
- said at length.
- </p>
- <p>
- Yvonne slipped her hand impulsively through his arm.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I wish you knew how proud I am of you,” she said.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It’s for your sake, too, Yvonne, dear,” he replied in a
- touched voice.
- </p>
- <p>
- She made one of her magnificent little gestures with the hand holding her
- sunshade.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I have never done anything to be ashamed of yet,” she said
- proudly, and glanced from Joyce to a pompous elderly couple with an air of
- defiance. Then she brought him abruptly to a stand before a flower-bed
- bright in its summer glory.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, how lovely! Look!”
- </p>
- <p>
- She broke into little joyous exclamations. Colour affected her like music.
- A glow came into her cheek. She became again the thing of warmth and
- sunshine that had gladdened him four years before, when his degradation
- lay heavy on him.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It <i>is</i> a beautiful world, Stephen.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You are right, dear. It is. And you are the most beautiful thing in
- it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The glow deepened on her face, and a bright moisture appeared in her eyes
- as she glanced upwards.
- </p>
- <p>
- “That’s very, very foolish. But you said it as if you meant
- it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I did indeed, Yvonne.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Let us go and find a place under the trees,” she said softly.
- </p>
- <p>
- They left the main avenue and wandered on over the green turf, seeking for
- a long time a piece of shade untenanted by sprawling men, or lovers, or
- heterogeneous families. At last they found a lonely tree and sat down
- beneath it.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Are you happier here?” she asked.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Much. It is so peaceful. When I was in South Africa I yearned for
- civilisation and men and women. Now I am in London, I am happiest away
- from them. Men are funny animals, Yvonne.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Yvonne looked down at the ground and nervously plucked at the grass. Then
- she raised her eyes quickly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “When are you going to be quite happy, Stephen?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am happy enough now.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But when you get home, the black mood may come over you again. Can’t
- you forget all the horrid past—the prison—and all that?”
- It was the first time she had ever alluded to it directly; her voice
- quavered on the word.
- </p>
- <p>
- “No, I can never forget it,” he replied in a low tone. “If
- I live to be a hundred, I shall remember it on my deathbed.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You seem to feel it—just like a woman does—who has been
- on the streets—as if nothing could wipe it away.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He was startled. Signs had not been wanting of a change coming over
- Yvonne, but he had never heard a saying on her lips of such perceptive
- earnestness. It was strange, too, that she had hit upon a parallel that
- had been in his mind since the night he had met Annie Stevens.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Nothing can wipe it away, Yvonne. It is like a woman’s sense
- of degradation—just as you say.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I would give anything—my voice over again, if I had it—to
- help you. You have never told me about it—the dreadful part of it—I
- want to know—every bit—tell me now, will you?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You would loathe me, as much as I loathe myself, if I told you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He was lying on one elbow, by her side. She ventured a gossamer touch upon
- his forehead.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You don’t know much about a woman, although you do write
- books,” she said.
- </p>
- <p>
- The touch and the tone awoke a great need of expansion. He struggled for a
- few moments, and at last gave way.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, I ’ll tell you—from the very beginning.” And
- there in the quasi-solitude of their tree—one of innumerable
- camping-spots for recumbent figures, that met the eye on all sides—he
- gave, for the first time, definite utterance to the horrors that had
- haunted him for six years. He told her the old story of the earthenware
- pot careering down the stream in company with the brazen vessels; of his
- debts, staring ruin, and his yielding to the great temptation; of his
- trial, his sentence rendered heavier by the fact that his malversations
- had brought misery into other lives. He described to her in lurid detail
- just what the prison-life was, what it meant, how its manifold degradation
- ate into a man’s flesh, became infused in his blood and ran for ever
- through his veins. He spared her nothing of which decency permitted the
- telling. Now and then Yvonne shivered a little and drew in a quick breath;
- but her great eyes never left his face—save once when he showed her
- his hands still scarred by the toil from which delicate fingers never
- recover.
- </p>
- <p>
- He had spoken jerkily, in hard, dry tones; so he ended abruptly. There was
- silence. Yvonne’s little gloved hand crept to his and pressed it.
- Then, with a common impulse, they rose to their feet.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Thank you for telling me,” she said, coming near to him and
- taking his arm. “I did not know how how terrible it has been—and
- I never realised what a brave man you are.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I—brave, Yvonne?” he cried with a bitter laugh.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes—to have gone through that and to be the loyal, tender,
- true-hearted gentleman that you are.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He looked down at her and saw her soft eyes filled with tears and her lips
- quivering.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You still feel the same to me, Yvonne, now that you know it all?”
- he asked, bending forward on his stick.
- </p>
- <p>
- “More,” she answered. “Oh,—much more.”
- </p>
- <p>
- They walked back to the Park gates in a happy silence, drawn very near to
- one another, since both hearts were very full. So close together did they
- walk, so softened was the man’s face, and so sweetly proud the woman’s,
- that they might have been taken for lovers. But if love was hovering over
- them, he touched neither with an awakening feather. And so they passed on
- their way untroubled.
- </p>
- <p>
- That day was, in a certain sense, a landmark in their lives. Yvonne never
- referred to the prison again, but she learned to know when its shadow was
- over him and at such times her nature melted in tenderness towards him.
- </p>
- <p>
- The days wore on. The second novel, over whose pages Yvonne had cast
- gleams of sunshine, was finished and disposed of to the same publishers.
- His source of income from occasional journalism showed signs of becoming
- steadier. But all the same, the struggle with poverty continued hard.
- Yvonne fell ill again and lost her music-lessons. It took some time after
- her recovery to pay off the debts incurred for doctor, medicine, and
- invalid necessaries. To obtain funds to take her to the seaside for a few
- days, Joyce was forced to ask his publishers for an advance. However, the
- trip restored Yvonne to health again, and their uneventful life pursued
- its usual course.
- </p>
- <p>
- One day a strange phenomenon occurred. A visitor was announced. It was the
- sister who had tended Yvonne in the hospital. Once before, while Yvonne
- was living in the Pimlico lodgings, she had paid a flying visit. On this
- occasion she stayed for a couple of hours with Yvonne, who, happy as she
- was with Joyce, felt a wonderful relief in talking again familiarly with
- one of her own sex. She poured forth the little history of all that had
- befallen her since she had left the hospital.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Do you mean to tell me,” the sister said at last, “that
- you keep house together on this romantically Platonic basis?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Yvonne regarded her, wide-eyed.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Of course. Why should n’t we?”
- </p>
- <p>
- The sister was a woman of the world. When she had entered the room and
- perceived the unmistakable signs of a man’s general presence, she
- had drawn her own conclusions.
- </p>
- <p>
- That these were erroneous, Yvonne’s innocent candour most clearly
- proved. Yet she was astonished, perhaps a little disappointed. The
- offending Eve lingers in many women, even after much self-whipping—for
- the greater comfort of their lives.
- </p>
- <p>
- “But how can a man look at you and not fall in love with you?”
- she asked downright.
- </p>
- <p>
- Yvonne laughed, and ran to the kettle that was boiling over on the
- gas-stove—she was making tea for her visitor.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, you can’t think of the number of people who have said
- those same words to me! Why, that is why I am so happy with Stephen—he
- has never dreamed of making love to me; never once—really. And, do
- you know, he’s the only man I ’ve ever had much to do with who
- has n’t.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “He looks like a man who has seen a great deal of trouble,”
- said the sister.
- </p>
- <p>
- Yvonne’s laugh faded, and a great seriousness came into her eyes.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Awful trouble,” she said in a very low and earnest voice.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Perhaps that makes him different from other men,” said the
- sister, taking her hand and smoothing it.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Perhaps,” replied Yvonne.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was a new light, quick and clear, flashed upon their relations. Her
- woman’s instinct clamoured for confirmation.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Do you think that if he had not this great trouble, he would
- necessarily have fallen in love with me, like the others?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It stands to reason,” replied the elder woman gently—“if
- he’s a man at all. And he is a man—one, too, that many women
- could love and be proud of.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, thank you for saying that!” cried Yvonne, impulsively.
- “I am proud of him.” An imperceptible smile played over the
- sister’s plain, pleasant face. Her calling had brought her a certain
- knowledge of human nature, and taught her to judge by suppressions. This
- side-light on the inner lives of the two beings whose fortunes had long
- ago interested her, quickened her sympathies for them. She determined to
- keep them in view for the future—and with this intention she offered
- Yvonne opportunities for continuing the friendship.
- </p>
- <p>
- “So you ’ll come and see me often,” she said at last.
- “I have n’t very many friends.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And I haven’t any at all,” said Yvonne, smiling.
- “And oh! you don’t know what a comfort it would be to have a
- woman to go to now and then!”
- </p>
- <p>
- The visit left Yvonne thoughtful and happy. A new feeling towards Joyce
- budded in her heart and the process was accompanied by tiny shocks of
- tender resentment. So conscious was she of this, that that evening whilst
- Joyce was working in the armchair opposite to her, she suddenly broke into
- a little musical laugh. He looked up and caught the reflection of her
- smile.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What is amusing you, Yvonne?”
- </p>
- <p>
- She still smiled, but a deep red flush showed beneath her dark skin.
- </p>
- <p>
- “My thoughts,” she said, in a tone that admitted of no further
- question.
- </p>
- <p>
- Yet she would have liked to tell him. It was so humorous that she should
- feel angry because he did not fall in love with her.
- </p>
- <p>
- Sometimes light moods are delicate indexes to far-away, unknown
- commotions. Afterwards, in the serious moments, when the birdlike
- inconsequence fled away from her and she realised herself as a grown woman
- to whom had come the knowledge of life, this that she had laughed and
- blushed over appeared sad and painful. It kept her awake sometimes at
- nights. Once she got out of bed, lit her candle, and looked closely at her
- face in the glass. But she returned comforted. She was not getting old and
- unattractive.
- </p>
- <p>
- Yet a vague ferment in her nature began to puzzle her sorely. Her mind,
- that was once as simple as a child’s and as clear as spring water,
- seemed now tangled with many complexities; she saw into it, as in a glass,
- darkly. Life, for the first time appeared to her incomplete. She was
- weighed down with a sense of failure. The very facts that had caused the
- happy possibility of her comradeship with Joyce smote her as proofs of the
- inadequacy of her own womanhood. The essential fierce vanity of sex was
- touched.
- </p>
- <p>
- Once only before had she used her sex as a weapon—on that miserable
- day at Ostend, to keep Everard by her side. Then she had felt the fire of
- shame. Now she was tempted to use it again, and the shame burned deeper.
- </p>
- <p>
- And Joyce, familiarised with the daily sweetness of her companionship, did
- not notice the gradually stealing increase of tenderness in her ways.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER XX—UPHEAVAL
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t was late in the
- afternoon. The old man had gone away to Exeter, to bury his sister, his
- only surviving relative. Joyce was alone in the shop busily sorting a job
- lot of books that had come in during the morning. They were stacked in
- great piles at the further end, forming a barrier between himself and the
- doorway, where the falling light was creeping in upon the neatly-arranged
- shelves. Above him flared a gas-jet. It was warm and dusty work, and Joyce
- had taken off his coat and collar and rolled up the sleeves of his flannel
- shirt. Some of the worthless books he threw on two piles on the floor, to
- be placed in the twopenny and fourpenny boxes outside. Others he priced
- and catalogued. Others, again, in good bindings, or otherwise obviously of
- value, he dusted with a feather brush and put aside for the old man’s
- inspection. Now and again space failed for the assorted lots, and he would
- carry great strings of volumes supported under his chin to convenient
- stacking-spaces on the shelves. Then he would proceed with his sorting,
- cataloguing, and cleansing.
- </p>
- <p>
- Presently the back-parlour door opened and Yvonne appeared. Joyce paused,
- with a grimy volume in his hand, in the midst of a cloud of dust that rose
- like incense, and his heart gave a little throb of gladness. She looked so
- fresh and sweet as she stood there, daintily aproned, in the darkness of
- the doorway, with the light from the gas-jet falling upon her face.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Tea’s ready,” she remarked.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Let me finish this lot,” he said, pointing to a pile, “and
- then I ’ll come.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She nodded, advanced a step and took up a great in-folio black-letter.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What silly rubbish,” she said, with a superior little
- grimace, as she turned over the pages. “Fancy any one wanting to buy
- this.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You had better put it down, if you don’t want to cover
- yourself with dirt,” said Joyce.
- </p>
- <p>
- She dropped the book, looked at her soiled hands with a comic air of
- disgust.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Horrid things! Why did n’t you tell me?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Joyce laughed for answer. It was so like Yvonne. After she had withdrawn,
- with a further reminder about the tea, he went on smiling to himself.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was very sweet, this brother and sister life of theirs, in spite of its
- isolation. There seemed no reason why it should not continue for ever.
- Indeed, he scarcely thought of change. Now that his small earnings seemed
- practically assured and Yvonne could contribute from her singing lessons
- something to the household expenses, the wolf was kept pretty far from the
- door.
- </p>
- <p>
- He was in one of his lighter moods, when Yvonne’s sunshine “scattered
- the ghosts of the past,” and illuminated the dark places in his
- heart. He hummed a song, forgetful of the gaol and his pariahdom, and
- thought of Yvonne’s face awaiting him at the tea-table, as soon as
- he had completed his task.
- </p>
- <p>
- A hesitating step was heard in the shop. He thought it was the boy
- returning from an errand.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Another time you are sent out round the corner, don’t take a
- quarter of an hour,” he cried, without turning round.
- </p>
- <p>
- An irritated tap of the foot made him realise
- that it was a customer. He sprang forward with apologies, and,
- as it had grown dusk, he seized a taper and quickly lighted the gas in the
- shop.
- </p>
- <p>
- Then he looked at the man and started back in amazement; and the man
- looked at him; and for a few seconds they remained staring at one another.
- The visitor wore apron and gaiters and a bishop’s hat, and his
- dignified presence was that of Everard Chisely. He surveyed Joyce’s
- grimy and workaday figure with a curl of disgust on his lip. The glance
- stung Joyce like a taunt. He flushed, drew himself up defiantly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You are the last person I expected to meet here,” said the
- Bishop, haughtily.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Your lordship is the last person I desired to see,” retorted
- Joyce.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Doubtless,” replied the Bishop. “And now we have met, I
- have only one thing to say to you. I have traced Madame Latour to this
- house. Where is she?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “She is here—upstairs.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “In this—” began the Bishop, looking round and seeking
- for a word expressive of distaste.
- </p>
- <p>
- “—hovel?” suggested Joyce. “Yes.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Under your protection?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Under my protection.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Then Joyce noticed that his lips twitched, and that the perspiration
- beaded on his forehead, and that an agony of questioning was in his eyes.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Have you been villain enough—?” he began in a hoarse,
- trembling voice.
- </p>
- <p>
- But Joyce checked him with a sudden flash and an angry gesture.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Stop! She is as pure as the stars. Let there be no doubt about
- that. I tell you for her sake, not for yours.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The Bishop drew a long breath and wiped his forehead. Joyce took his
- silence for incredulity.
- </p>
- <p>
- “If I were a villain,” he continued, “do you think it
- would matter a brass button to me whether you knew it? I should say
- ‘yes,’ and you would walk away and I should never see you
- again.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He thrust his hands in his pockets and faced his cousin. All the pariah’s
- bitter hatred arose within him against the man who stood there, the
- representative of the caste that had disowned and reviled him; conscious,
- too, as he was, of standing for the moment on a higher plane.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I believe you. Oh—indeed—I believe you,” replied
- Everard, hurriedly. “But why is she here? Why has she sunk as low as
- this?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Your lordship should be the last to ask such a question.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don’t understand you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I should have thought it was obvious,” said Joyce, with a
- shrug of his shoulders.
- </p>
- <p>
- The sarcasm sounded in the Bishop’s ears like cynicism.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Do you mean that you have inveigled Madame Latour into supporting
- you?” he asked in a tone of disgust.
- </p>
- <p>
- Joyce laughed mirthlessly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Listen,” he said. “Let us come to some understanding. I
- am a member of the criminal classes, and you are a bishop of the English
- church. Perhaps the God you believe in may condescend to judge between us.
- The woman who was once your wife appealed to you when she was sick and
- penniless, and you disregarded her appeal. I, a poverty-stricken outcast
- supported her, gave her a home, and reverenced her as a sacred trust.
- 'Whether of them twain did the will of his father?’”
- </p>
- <p>
- Everard stared at him in wide-eyed agitation. A customer entered with a
- book he had selected from the stall outside. Joyce went forward, received
- the money and returned to his former position by the Bishop.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I received no appeal from her,” said the latter.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You did, through me. She was too ill to write.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “When was this?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Last November, a year ago.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Everard reflected for a moment and then a sudden memory flashed upon him,
- and an expression of deep pain came over his face.
- </p>
- <p>
- “God forgive me! I threw your letter into the fire unopened.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Might I ask your reason?” asked Joyce, feeling a grim joy in
- his cousin’s humiliation.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I had been warned that you had gone to Fulminster on a begging
- errand—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Did the Rector have the iniquity to write you that?” burst in
- Joyce fiercely.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It was not the Rector.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Who, then? I saw no one but him. I was simply seeking Madame
- Latour.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I name no names,” replied the Bishop, stiffly. “I am
- merely explaining. The letter, in fact, came by the same mail as yours.
- Little suspecting that you could address me on any subject unconnected
- with yourself, and keeping to my resolution to hold no further
- communication with you, I destroyed, as I say, your letter unopened.
- Believe me, the apology I tender to you—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Is neither here nor there,” said Joyce, coldly. “I am
- past feeling such slights. I suppose your correspondent was that she-devil
- Emmeline Winstanley. I congratulate you.” The Bishop made no reply,
- but paced backwards and forwards two or three times with bent head, along
- the book-lined shelves. Then he stopped and said abruptly:—
- </p>
- <p>
- “Tell me the facts about Yvonne.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The conciliatory mention of her by her Christian name thawed Joyce for the
- moment. He rapidly sketched events, while Everard listened, looking at him
- rigidly from under bent brows.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I would have given the last drop of my blood rather than she should
- have suffered so.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “So would I,” replied Joyce.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Would to God I had known of it!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It was your own doing.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You are right. My uncharitableness towards you has brought its
- punishment.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I cannot say I am sorry,” said Joyce, grimly.
- </p>
- <p>
- There was a short silence, compelled by the struggling emotions in each
- man’s heart. In Joyce’s there was war, a sense of victory, of
- the sweetness of revenge. He felt, too, that now Yvonne would
- indubitatively reject the Bishop’s offer of help. He had won the
- right to support her.
- </p>
- <p>
- Suddenly her voice was heard from the back-parlour door.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Do come. The tea is getting quite cold.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Both men started. A quick flash came into Everard’s eyes and he made
- a hasty step forward. But Joyce checked him with a gesture.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I had better prepare her for the surprise of seeing you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The Bishop nodded assent. Joyce ran to the street door to see that the boy
- had returned to his post, and, satisfied, left the Bishop and went to join
- Yvonne in their little sitting-room upstairs.
- </p>
- <p>
- She had just entered, was lifting a plate of hot toast from the fender.
- She held it out threateningly with both hands.
- </p>
- <p>
- “If it’s all dried up it is not my fault,” she scolded.
- “And oh! you know I don’t allow you to sit down in your
- shirt-sleeves!”
- </p>
-
- <p>
- He made no reply, but took the plate mechanically from her and placed it
- on the table.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What is the matter, Stephen?” she asked suddenly, scanning
- his face.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Some one has called to see you, Yvonne.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Me?”
- </p>
- <p>
- She looked at him for a puzzled moment. Then something in his face told
- her. She caught him by his shirt-sleeve.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It can’t be Everard?” she cried, agitated.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes. It is Everard.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She grew deadly pale and her breath came fast.
- </p>
- <p>
- “How has he managed to find me?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don’t know. Possibly he will explain.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Yvonne sat down by the table and put her hand to her heart.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It is so sudden,” she said deprecatingly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Perhaps you would rather put off seeing him,” suggested
- Joyce.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh no, no. I will see him now—if you don’t mind,
- Stephen, dear. I am quite strong again. Tell him to come. And don’t
- be unhappy about me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She smiled up at him and held out her hand. He took it in his and kissed
- it.
- </p>
- <p>
- “My own brave, dear Yvonne,” he said impulsively. A flush and
- a grateful glance rewarded him.
- </p>
- <p>
- He found the Bishop scanning the book backs.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Will you let me show you up to the sitting-room?” said Joyce.
- </p>
- <p>
- The Bishop bowed and followed. At the foot of the stairs he paused.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I think it right to tell you,” he said, “that I have
- received authentic news of the death of Madame Latour’s first
- husband. The object of my sudden visit to England is to take her back with
- me as my wife.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The unexpectedness of the announcement smote Joyce like a blast of icy
- air. The loftiness of the Bishop’s assurance dwarfed him to
- insignificance. As at previous crises of his life, the sudden check cowed
- the spirit yet under the prison yoke. His defiance vanished. He turned
- with one foot on the stair and one hand on the baluster and stared
- stupidly at the Bishop. The latter motioned to him to proceed. He obeyed
- mechanically, mounted, turned the handle of the sitting-room door in
- silence, and descended again to the shop.
- </p>
- <p>
- No sooner was he alone than a swift consciousness of his moral rout made
- him hot with shame and anger. His heart rose in fierce revolt. Yvonne was
- free. Free to marry whom she liked. What right over her had this man who
- had cast her off, spent two whole years at the other end of the world
- without once troubling to enquire after her welfare? What right had the
- man to come and rob him of the one blessing that life held for him?
- </p>
- <p>
- The prospect of life alone, without Yvonne, shimmered before him like a
- bleak landscape revealed by sheet-lightning. A panic shook him. A second
- flash revealed him to himself. This utter dependence upon Yvonne, this
- intense need of her that had gone on strengthening, week by week, and day
- by day, was love. Use, self-concentration, the mere unconcealed affection
- of daily life had kept it dormant as it grew. Now it awakened under the
- sudden terror of losing her. A thrill ran through his body. He loved her.
- She was free. This other set aside, he could marry her. He paced among the
- piles of books in strange excitement.
- </p>
- <p>
- The boy, who had been rapping his heels against his box-seat by the door,
- strolled in to see what was doing. Joyce abruptly ordered him to put up
- the shutters and go home.
- </p>
- <p>
- Meanwhile he made pretence to continue his work of cataloguing. But his
- brain was in a whirl. His eyes fell upon the marks of Yvonne’s hands
- and arms on the dust of the folio she had been handling. The mute
- testimony of their intimacy eloquently moved him. She was part and parcel
- of his life. He would not give her up without fierce fighting.
- </p>
- <p>
- Then, in the midst of the glow came the fresh memory of his collapse. He
- sat down by the little deal table, where he was wont to write, and buried
- his face in his hands, and shivered. His manhood had gone. Nothing could
- ever restore it. Its semblance was liable to be shattered at any moment by
- an honest man’s self-assertion. It had perished during those awful
- years; not to be revived, even by the pure passion of love that was
- throbbing in his veins.
- </p>
- <p>
- Too restless to sit long, he rose presently and walked about the shop,
- among the books. The close, dusty air suffocated him. He longed to go out,
- walk the streets, and shake off the burden that was round his neck. But
- the feeling that he ought, for Yvonne’s sake, to remain until the
- Bishop’s departure kept him an irritable prisoner. The minutes
- passed slowly. Outside was the ceaseless hum and hurry of the street:
- within, the flare of the gas-jets and the sound of his own purposeless
- tread. And so for two hours he waited, running the gamut of his emotions
- with maddening iteration. The terror of losing Yvonne brought at times the
- perspiration to his forehead. With feverish intensity he argued out his
- claim upon her. She could not throw him over to go and live with that
- proud, unsympathetic man who must for ever be to her a stranger. Then his
- jealous wrath burst forth again, and again came the old hated shiver of
- degradation. How dare he match himself against one who, with all his
- faults, had yet lived through his life a stainless gentleman?
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER XXI—A DEMAND IN MARRIAGE
- </h2>
- <p>
- “Yes, he is dead,” said the Bishop, gravely. “You are a
- free woman. I have come from the other end of the world to tell you so.”
- Yvonne, sitting opposite him, looked into the red coals of the fire, and
- clasped her hands nervously. His presence dazed her. She had not yet
- recovered from the shock of his sudden embrace. The pressure of his arms
- was yet about her shoulders. The change wrought in her life by the loss of
- her voice was almost like a change of identity. It was with an effort that
- she realised the former closeness of their relations. He seemed
- unfamiliar, out of place, to have dropped down from another sphere. The
- oddity of his attire struck a note of the unusual. The dignity of his
- title invested him with remoteness. His face too, did not correspond with
- her remembered impression. It was thinner, more deeply lined. His hair had
- grown scantier and greyer.
- </p>
- <p>
- She had listened, almost in a dream, to the story of his coming. How, to
- his bitter regret, he had destroyed Joyce’s letter. How, later,
- growing anxious about her, he had written for news of her welfare. How his
- letter had been returned to him through the post-office. How, meanwhile,
- the detective whom he had employed for the purpose in Paris, had sent him
- proofs of Bazouge’s death. How he had been unable to rest until he
- had found her, and, impatient of the long weary posts, he had left New
- Zealand; and lastly, how he had obtained her present address from the
- musical agents, who had informed him of her illness and the loss of her
- voice.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You are free, Yvonne, at last,” repeated the Bishop.
- </p>
- <p>
- The tidings scarcely affected her. She had counted Amédée so long as dead,
- even after his disastrous resurrection, that now she could feel no shock
- either of pain or relief. It was not until the after-sound of Everard’s
- last words penetrated her consciousness, that she realised their import.
- She started quickly from her attitude of bewilderment, and looked at him
- with a dawning alarm in her eyes.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It can make very little difference to me,” she said.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I thought it might make all the difference in the world to me,”
- said Everard. “Do you think I have ever ceased to love you?”
- </p>
- <p>
- There was the note of pain in his voice which all her life long had had
- power to move her simple nature. She trembled a little as she answered:—
- </p>
- <p>
- “It is all so long ago, now. We have changed.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You have not changed,” he said, with grave tenderness.
- “You are still the same sweet flower-like woman that was my wife.
- And I have not changed. I have longed for you all through these bitter,
- lonely years. Do you know why I left Fulminster?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No,” murmured Yvonne.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Because it grew unbearable—without you. I thought a changed
- scene and new responsibilities would fill my thoughts. I was mistaken. And
- added to my want of you was remorse for harshness in that terrible hour.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I have only thought of your kindness, Everard,” said Yvonne,
- with tears in her eyes. His emotion impressed her deeply with a sense of
- his suffering.
- </p>
- <p>
- He rose, came forward and bent over her chair.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Will you come back with me, Yvonne?”
- </p>
- <p>
- She would have given worlds to be away; to have, at least, a few hours to
- consider her answer. He expected it at once. Feminine instinct desperately
- sought evasion.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I shall be of no use to you. I can’t sing any more. Listen.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She turned sideways in her chair, and drawing back her head far from him,
- began, with a smile, the “Aria” of the Angel in the Elijah.
- The grave man drew himself up, shocked to the heart. He had not realised
- what the loss of her voice meant. Instead of the pure dove-notes that had
- stirred the passion of his manhood, nothing came from her lips but
- toneless, wheezing sounds. She stopped, bravely tried to laugh, but the
- laugh was choked in a sob and she burst into tears.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Come back with me, my darling,” he said, bending down again.
- “I will love you all the more tenderly.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Yvonne dried her eyes in her impulsive way.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am foolish,” she said. “Crying can’t mend it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I will devote the rest of my life to making compensation,”
- said the Bishop. “Come, Yvonne.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, give me time to answer you, Everard,” she cried, driven
- to bay at last. “It is all so strange and sudden.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He left her side, with a kind of sigh, and resumed his former seat. He was
- somewhat disappointed. He had not contemplated the chance of her refusal.
- A glance, however, round the shabby, low-ceilinged room reassured him. The
- coarse, not immaculate tablecloth, the homely crockery, the half-emptied
- potted-meat tins on the table, the threadbare hearthrug at his feet—all
- spoke, if not of poverty, at least of very narrow means. She could not
- surely hesitate. But she did.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Take your time—of course,” he said, crossing his
- gaitered legs. There was a short silence. At last she said, with a little
- quiver of the lip:—
- </p>
- <p>
- “I promised you, I know. But things have altered so since then. I
- thought I should always be free. But now I am not, you see.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “What do you mean?” he cried, startled.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It is Stephen,” Yvonne explained. “He saved me from
- starvation, gave me all he had, to make me well again, and has been
- staying all this time to support me. You don’t know how nobly he has
- behaved to me—yes, nobly, Everard, there is no other word for it. He
- has rights over me that a brother or father would have—I could not
- leave him without his consent. It would be cruel and ungrateful. Don’t
- you see that it would be wicked of me, Everard,” she added
- earnestly.
- </p>
- <p>
- His face clouded over. Pride rose in revolt. He crushed it down, however,
- and suffered the humiliation.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It would lift a responsibility from his shoulders,” he said.
- “I myself am willing to take him by the hand again, and help him to
- rise from his present position.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You will let bygones be bygones—quite?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “With all my heart,” replied Everard.
- </p>
- <p>
- “He suffers dreadfully still,” said Yvonne.
-</p>
- <p>
-“I will do
- my best to heal the wound,” replied the Bishop. “I own I have
- judged him too harshly already.”
- </p>
- <p>
- A flush of pleasure arose in Yvonne’s cheeks, and her eyes thanked
- him. Then she reflected, and said somewhat sadly:—
- </p>
- <p>
- “Perhaps if you help him in that way, he won’t miss me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I will guarantee his prosperity,” he answered, with dignified
- conviction. And then, changing his manner, after a pause, and leaning
- forward and looking at her hungeringly, “Yvonne,” he said,
- “you will come and share my life again—in a new world, where
- everything is beautiful—? I have been growing old there, without
- you. You will make me young again, and the blessing of God will be upon
- us. I must have you with me, Yvonne. I cannot live in peace without your
- smile and your happiness around me. My child—”
- </p>
- <p>
- His voice grew thick with emotion. He stood up and stretched out his arms
- to her. Yvonne rose timidly and advanced toward him, drawn by his
- pleading. But just as his hands were about to touch her, she hung back.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You must ask Stephen for me,” she said, in her serious,
- simple way.
- </p>
- <p>
- His hands fell to his sides, in a gesture of impatience.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Impossible. How can I do such a thing? It would be absurd.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But I can’t,” she said.
- </p>
- <p>
- Her tiny figure, the plaintiveness of her upturned face, the wistfulness
- of her soft eyes, brought back to him a flood of memories. She was still
- the same sweet, innocent soul. The lines about his lips relaxed into a
- smile, and he took her, yielding passively, into his arms and kissed her
- cheek.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I will do what you like, dear,” he said, in a low voice.
- “Anything in the world to win you again. I will ask him. It will be
- making reparation. And then you will marry me?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes,” murmured Yvonne faintly, “I promised you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why did you not write to me again?” he asked, still holding
- her hands.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I was going to write when the answer came,” she said, looking
- down. “But no answer did come. And then, I was content to help
- Stephen.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You could have helped Stephen, all the same.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, no!” she cried, with a swift look upwards. “Don’t
- you understand?”
- </p>
- <p>
- The Bishop saw the delicacy of the point, and motioned an affirmative. But
- he regarded Stephen with mingled feelings. It was intensely repugnant to
- him to find his once reprobated cousin a barrier between himself and
- Yvonne. An uneasy suspicion passed through his mind. Might not Stephen be
- even a more serious rival?
- </p>
- <p>
- “You are not marrying me merely on account of that promise years
- ago, Yvonne?” he asked.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, no, Everard,” she replied gently. “It is because
- you want me—and because it’s right.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He kissed her good-bye.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I shall not visit you here again, Yvonne,” he said. “When
- I receive the final answer I shall make suitable arrangements. We shall be
- married quietly, by special licence. Will that please you?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes,” said Yvonne. “Thank you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- At the door he turned for a parting glance. Then he descended the stairs,
- with the intention of broaching the matter to Joyce then and there. But
- although he found lights burning in the shop, Joyce was nowhere to be
- seen. Nor were there any apparent means of ascertaining his whereabouts.
- The Bishop bit his lip with annoyance. He did not wish to procrastinate in
- this affair. Suddenly his eye fell upon an old stationery-rack against the
- wall, in which were visible the paper and envelopes used for the business.
- With prompt decision the Bishop took what was necessary, sought and found
- pen and ink, and wrote at Joyce’s table a letter, which he addressed
- and left in a conspicuous position. Then he found with some difficulty the
- street-door of the house and let himself out.
- </p>
- <p>
- Joyce, whom a longing for air had at last driven outside, was walking up
- and down the pavement, keeping his eye on the door. As soon as he
- witnessed Everard’s departure, he entered and went through the
- passage into the shop. The letter attracted his attention. He opened it
- and read:—
- </p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
- Dear Stephen,—I wished for a word with you. But as the
- matter is urgent, I write. I should like to express to you
- my sense of the generous chivalry of your conduct toward
- Yvonne. I should also like to hold out to you the hand of
- sincere friendship.
-
- In earnest of this I approach you, as man to man, with
- reference to one of the most solemn affairs in life. Yvonne,
- gratefully acknowledging the vast obligations under which
- she is bound to you, has made her acceptance of my offer of
- remarriage dependent upon your consent. For this consent,
- therefore, I earnestly beg you.
-
- For the future, in what way soever my friendship can be of
- use to you, it will most gladly be directed.
-
- Yours sincerely,
-
- E. Chisely.
-
- Burgon’s Hotel, W.
-</pre>
- <p>
- Joyce grew faint as he read. The words swam before his eyes. A great pain
- shot through his heart. The letter contained one torturing fact—that
- of Yvonne’s acquiescence. The Bishop’s acknowledgment of his
- uprightness, the courtesy of the formal request, the offer of friendship—all
- were meaningless phrases. Yvonne was going to leave him—of her own
- free-will. Although his fears had anticipated the blow, it none the less
- stunned him. He flung himself down by his table, with a groan, and buried
- his face in his arms. The realisation of what Yvonne was to him flooded
- him with a mighty rush. She was his hope of salvation in this world and
- the next, his guardian angel, his universe. Without her all was chaos,
- void and horrible.
- </p>
- <p>
- Presently Yvonne’s voice was heard calling him from the top of the
- stairs:—
- </p>
- <p>
- “Stephen!”
- </p>
- <p>
- He raised a haggard face, and with an effort steadied his voice to reply.
- Then he rose, turned off the gas, from force of habit, and went with heavy
- tread up the stairs.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Your tea,” said Yvonne, busying herself with a kettle.
- “I am making you some afresh.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I will go and wash my hands,” he said drearily.
- </p>
- <p>
- He mounted to his bedroom and cleansed himself from the book-dust and
- returned to Yvonne. He drew his chair to the table. She poured him out his
- tea, and helped him to butter, according to a habit into which she had
- fallen. She deplored the spoilt toast. He said that it did not matter. But
- when he tried to eat, the food stuck in his throat. Yvonne made no
- pretence at eating, but trifled with her teaspoon, with downcast eyes.
- Joyce looked at her anxiously. She seemed to have grown older. The
- childlike expression had changed into a sad, womanly seriousness.
- Presently she raised her eyes, soft and appealing as ever, and met his.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Did you see Everard?” she asked.
- </p>
- <p>
- “No. I was out. But he left a note—that told me everything.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “He asks for your consent?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And will you give it?” she asked, below her breath.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It would be worse than folly for me to try to withhold it,”
- he said, bitterly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I will stay with you, and go on living this life, if you wish.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And yourself?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don’t count,” she said, “I must do as I am
- told.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Would you be happy with Everard?” he asked huskily.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes—of course—I was before,” she replied. But her
- cheek grew paler.
- </p>
- <p>
- “And you would stay, if I asked you, and share all this struggle and
- poverty with me?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “How could I refuse? Don’t I owe you my life?”
- </p>
- <p>
- He looked for a tremulous second into her pure eyes and knew that he was
- master of her fate. The condition she had imposed upon Everard was no
- graceful act of acknowledgment. It was a serious placing of her future in
- his hands. He was silent for a few moments, deep in agitated thought,
- trembling with a struggle against a fierce temptation. The hand that
- nervously tugged at his moustache was shaking. Yvonne read the anxious
- trouble on his face.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Don’t worry over it now,” she said, gently. “There
- is time, you know. Why should people always want to decide things straight
- off?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You are right, Yvonne,” said Stephen. “Let us forget it
- for a little.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Your poor tea,” add Yvonne, with pathetic return to her old
- manner. “It will never be drunk. And do eat something, to please me.”
-
-</p>
-<p>
-
- But it was a miserable meal. The tabooed subject filled the heart and
- thoughts of each. It was with an effort that they caught the drift of
- casual commonplaces uttered from time to time. Now and then, during the
- long spells of silence, Yvonne stole a swift feminine glance at his face.
- But his sombre expression seemed to tell her nothing of that which she
- longed to know. At last the farce ended. They rose from the table and went
- to their usual seats by the fireside. Joyce filled his pipe, and was
- fumbling in his pockets for a match, when Yvonne came forward with a spill
- and stood before him holding it until the pipe was alight. He tried to
- thank her, but the words would not come. The tender act of intimacy made
- his heart swell too painfully. Yvonne rang the bell and the elderly,
- slatternly maid-of-all-work, cleared away the tea-things. Sarah was one of
- the elements of the establishment that made Joyce hate his poverty. She
- drank, was unclean, was a perpetual soil in the atmosphere that Yvonne
- breathed. The sight of her was a new factor in the case against himself.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was a terrible decision that he was called upon to make. On the one
- hand, wealth and ease and social happiness for Yvonne, despair and misery
- for himself. On the other, a selfish happiness for himself, and for Yvonne
- this squalor and ostracism. He knew that her sweet, gentle nature would
- accept the latter portion unmurmuringly. A voice rang in his ears the
- certainty that she would marry him, if he pleaded. To repress the
- temptation to cast all other thoughts but his yearning passion to the
- winds was indescribable torture.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I wish I could sing to you,” she said, breaking a long
- silence. “I don’t know what to do now, when I feel things.
- Once I could sing them.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I should ask you to sing Gounod’s ‘Serenade,’”
- said Joyce.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, not that!” she cried quickly. “It was the last
- thing I ever sang to you, and it brought us bad luck.”
- </p>
- <p>
- For a moment he put a lover’s passionate interpretation upon her
- words. His heart beat fast. He controlled the wild impulse that seized
- him, biting through the amber of his pipe with the nervous effort.
- </p>
- <p>
- And then he realised that he must be alone to work out this stern problem,
- on whose solution depended the happiness of three human lives. He rose to
- his feet.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am going out, Yvonne,” he said, in a constrained voice.
- “All this is rather upsetting—and you had better go to bed
- early. You look tired.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes. I have a splitting headache,” said Yvonne.
- </p>
- <p>
- She tried to smile brightly, as he wished her good-night. But when the
- door closed upon him, the smile faded, and her face grew drawn, almost
- haggard. A spirit had descended, touched her with magical wings, and
- changed at last the child into the woman. Her eyes were set in steadfast
- envisaging of the future; and they beheld the responsibilities and
- sadnesses of life, no longer as vague terrors and discomforts from which
- her light bird-like nature shrank to the nearest refuge, but as dull
- realities, commonplace in form and grey in hue.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was her duty to go back to Everard, Stephen not wanting her; for she
- had promised. It was her duty to ask Stephen for his consent. And it was
- Stephen’s duty to give it, if he did not want her for more than
- daily companionship. She had proved that Stephen did not love her. Never
- had she felt so keenly the failure of her womanhood. It had not cleared
- his life of haunting cares. If it had, his heart would have been stirred
- with needs for closer union. The weapon of her sex was powerless. Newer
- knowledge had come to her. He needed her less than Everard. She argued
- with desperate logic. And yet there was a lingering, feverish hope—one
- that made her now and then draw a sharp convulsive breath, as she sat
- staring, with clear vision, at her life.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER XXII—SEEKING SALVATION
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">H</span>e could walk no
- longer through the drizzling rain, in futile struggle with his soul’s
- needs. As possible to cut out his heart and fling it at Everard’s
- feet as to surrender Yvonne. He called himself a fool.
- </p>
- <p>
- The glare in front of a cheap music-hall attracted him. He entered,
- mounted to the nine-penny balcony, where he stood leaning over the wooden
- partition, wedged among a crowd of loungers. The air was filled with the
- smoke of cheap tobacco and the fumes of the bar behind. A girl on the
- stage was singing a song in the chorus of which the thronged house roared
- lustily. Then came a tenor vocalist with drawing-room ballads. Joyce
- attended absently, hearing and seeing in a confused dream. A neighbour
- asking him for a light aroused him from his reverie. He wondered why he
- had come. To-night of all nights, when he might be at home in the joy of
- his heart’s desire. Yet he stayed.
- </p>
- <p>
- A flashing family appeared riding on nondescript cycles. He watched them
- with half-shut eyes, caressing a quaint conceit that they were his
- thoughts whirling around in concrete form. The bursts of deafening
- applause seemed to soothe him. Presently a street-scene cloth was let down
- and a battered man appeared and sang a song about drink and twins and
- brokers. He threw such humourous gusto into the performance that Joyce
- laughed in spite of his preoccupation, and remained in amused anticipation
- of his second turn. The bell tinkled. The “comedian” came on
- and was greeted with vociferous applause. With music-hall realism he was
- dressed in prison-clothes, glengarry, woollen stockings, and black-arrowed
- suit all complete. He had made up his face into a startling brute. Joyce
- felt sick. He did not catch the first verse; only the concluding lines of
- the chorus,
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p class="indent25">
- "I ‘ve done my bit of time,
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- For ’itting of my missus on the chump, chump, chump.”
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p>
- But then the man began to speak, and Joyce could not help hearing. A
- horrible fascination held him. The ignoble figure poured out with
- grotesque and voluble cynicism the comic history of the prison-life; the
- plank-bed, the skilly, the oakum, the exercise-yard. He sketched his pals,
- detailed the sordid tricks for obtaining food, the mean malingering, the
- debasing habits. And all with a horrible fidelity. The audience shrieked
- with laughter. But Joyce lost sense of the mime. The man was real, one of
- the degraded creatures with whom he himself had once been
- indistinguishably mingled—a loathsome fact from the past. The smell
- of the prison floated over the footlights and filled his nostrils. All his
- overwrought nerves quivering with repulsion, he broke through the crowd
- hemming him in against the partition, and rushed down into the street.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <p>
- How long and whither he walked he did not know. At last he found himself
- within familiar latitudes, outside the Angel Tavern. He was wet through
- from the fine, penetrating rain, tired, cold, and utterly miserable. The
- revulsion of feeling in the music-hall had thrown him back years in his
- self-esteem. The soil of the gaol had never seemed so ineffaceable. In the
- blaze of light by the tavern door he paused, irresolute. Then, remembering
- the disastrous results of an attempt years before to seek such
- consolation, he shivered and turned away. It was too dangerous.
- </p>
- <p>
- About a hundred yards further, a woman passed him, turned, and overtook
- him.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I thought it was you,” she said. He recognised the voice as
- that of Annie Stevens. It was not far from the spot where he had first met
- her, and where, some short time after, he had met her again. For months,
- however, he had lost sight of her. He recognised her voice, but her
- appearance was unfamiliar, and her face was half hidden by a Salvation
- Army bonnet. The apparent cynicism of her attire revolted him.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why are you masquerading like this?” he asked, continuing to
- walk onwards.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It’s not masquerading. It’s real. I recognised you, and
- thought perhaps you’d care to know.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He slackened his pace imperceptibly, and she walked by his side.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You don’t seem to believe it,” she resumed. “I
- don’t tell lies. It’s the truth that has generally cursed me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Then why are you walking up and down here at this time of night?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Doing rescue work.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Have you rescued any one yet?” asked Joyce, with a touch of
- sarcasm.
- </p>
- <p>
- “No. I scarce expect to.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Then why are you trying?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Because it’s the beastliest thing I could think of doing,”
- she said, stopping abruptly, and facing him, as he turned, in the defiant
- way he remembered from the theatre days.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You ’re an odd girl,” he said.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You don’t suppose I wear this disgusting bonnet and get
- hustled by roughs and blackguarded by women because I like it! I haven’t
- been converted, and I don’t shriek out ‘Hallelujah,’ and
- I won’t,—but I earn an honest living at the Shelter during the
- day, and at night I come out. It’s the beastliest thing I can think
- of doing,” she repeated. “If I knew of anything beastlier I’d
- do it. I ’ve had flames inside me since I gave you away,—I’d
- have killed myself for you after,—and hell since I went on the
- streets,—but I think the other was worse. I ’ve learned what
- you felt like; now I’m trying to burn out the fire—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Stop for a moment,” he said, with a queer catch in his
- throat. “Do you mean you are doing this for your own inner self?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes,” she replied, her direct intuition divining the implied
- alternative. “I don’t know much about Jesus and my immortal
- soul. That ’ll come. I want one day to be able to remember that I
- loved you—without hating myself and feeling sick with the shame and
- the horror of it all. You may think me a silly fool if you like, but that’s
- why I’m doing it. Let us walk on. We need n’t attract
- attention.” This was wise; for more than one passer-by had turned
- round, struck by the two intent white faces. Joyce obeyed passively, but
- continued for some moments to look down upon her in great wonder. An idea,
- which he became dimly aware had been struggling for birth in the dark of
- his soul for the past two hours, dawned upon him amid a strange, exulting
- excitement. Suddenly he took her by the arm and held it very tightly. She
- looked up at him, astonished.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What is the matter with you?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Do you know what you have done tonight?” he said, in a
- shaking voice. “You have shown me how to burn out my hell too. You
- have retrieved any wrong you have done me. If my forgiveness is worth
- having, you have it, from the depths of my soul.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He was strangely moved. In the impulse of his exaltation, he drew her
- quickly into the gloom of a doorway—the pavement was momentarily
- deserted—and kissed her. She uttered a little cry and shrank back.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Is that for forgiveness?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes,” he cried; and then he broke from her abruptly, and went
- on along the pavement with great strides.
- </p>
- <p>
- He was no longer uncertain. The problem of his life was solved. His mind
- was crystal clear. At last the time had come for the great atonement to
- his degraded self, the supreme sacrifice that should clear his being of
- stain.
- </p>
- <p>
- At last he could perform that act of renunciation that would give the
- strength back into his eyes to meet calmly the scrutiny of his fellow-man.
- Renunciation! The word rang in his ears and echoed to his footsteps.
- </p>
- <p>
- He did not doubt that it would not be to Yvonne’s lesser happiness
- to regain her lost environment of luxury and tender care. On the other
- hand, he judged her rightly enough to know that she would have found
- compensating pleasures in a life of privation with himself. Had it not
- been so, mere manliness would have decided in the Bishop’s favour.
- In perfect fairness (he saw now), he could have claimed her. His sacrifice
- was made in pure loyalty to his conscience.
- </p>
- <p>
- And it had been reserved, too, for that ignorant, wayward woman, who had
- groped her unguided way thus grotesquely to the Principle, to have led him
- thither and revealed its elemental application. He felt a stirring of
- shame that strengthened his manhood.
- </p>
- <p>
- The rain had stopped. The clouds broke and drifted across the heavens, and
- a misty moon appeared at intervals, shedding its pale light upon the
- unlovely thoroughfare. A fresh breeze sprang up and made Joyce, in his wet
- things, shiver with cold. At the nearest tavern he stopped, entered,
- called for some hot spirits, this time from no temptation to drown care,
- and asked for writing materials. Then, in the midst of the noise of thick
- voices and clatter of drinking vessels, he wrote at a corner of the bar
- his letter of renunciation.
- </p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
- Dear Everard,—I accept your letter in the spirit in which
- it was written. I put the sweetest and purest of God’s
- creatures into your keeping. Cherish her.
-
- Yours sincerely,
-
- Stephen Joyce.
-</pre>
- <p>
- A few minutes afterwards he dropped it into a pillar-box. The faint patter
- of its fall inside struck like a death-note upon his ear, shocked him with
- a sense of the irrevocable. Now that the act of renunciation was
- accomplished, he felt frightened. The immensity of his sacrifice began to
- loom before him. He became conscious of the dull premonitions of an agony
- hitherto undreamed of, for all his suffering in the past.
- </p>
- <p>
- Shiveringly he bent his steps homeward. The gas was burning dimly in the
- sitting-room. As was usual on the rare occasions when he had spent the
- evening out, Yvonne had brought down his bedroom candle and had laid his
- modest supper neatly for him. His slippers were warming by the fire. At
- the sight, his pain grew greater. Having taken off his wet boots and lit
- his candle—he could eat no supper—he turned off the gas, and
- went out of the room. On the landing outside Yvonne’s door were the
- tiny shoes she had placed there for Sarah to clean. He looked at them for
- a second or two and mounted the stairs hurriedly.
- </p>
- <p>
- In the shock and excitement of battle a man can bear the amputation of a
- mangled limb without great suffering. It is afterwards that the agony sets
- in, when the nerves have quieted to responsiveness. So it was with Joyce
- on that sleepless night of his great renunciation, and with his misery was
- mingled despair lest all should prove to be futile, his theory of
- renunciation; a ghastly fallacy. Time was when he would have mocked at the
- proposition. Could he even now defend it upon rational grounds? Had he not
- cut off his leg to compensate for the loss of an arm, thereby adding to
- the gaiety of the high gods? He tossed about in the bed in anguish,
- “burning out his hell.”
- </p>
- <p>
- A man of sensitive, emotional temperament, however, cannot pass through
- such an ordeal unchanged. Some fibres must be shrivelled up, whilst others
- are toughened. Joyce rose in the morning with aching head and exhausted
- nerves, but still with a dull sense of calm. Fallacy or not, at any rate
- he had chosen the man’s part. The consciousness of it was an element
- of strength. He dressed and went downstairs.
- </p>
- <p>
- Yvonne was already in the room, neat and dainty as usual, making the toast
- for breakfast. She was pale and had the faint rings below the eyes that
- ever tell tales on a woman’s face. She looked round at him
- anxiously, as she knelt before the fire. He saw her trouble and went and
- sat in the armchair beside her and spread out his hands to warm them.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You have been worrying, my poor little Yvonne,” he said
- gently. “I was a selfish beast to let you think I wanted to make up
- my mind, when my course was so plain. I wrote to Everard last night. I
- told him to cherish the treasure that he has got. You shouldn’t have
- worried over it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Yvonne turned away her face from him, and remained silent for some
- moments, half kneeling, half sitting, the toasting-fork drooping idly from
- her hand.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It was foolish of me,” she replied at last “But it
- seemed hard to leave you alone—and I ’ve got so used to this
- little place—one gets attached to places, like a cat—Did you—were
- you sorry to give me away?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Of course,” said Joyce. “I thought we could go on being
- brother and sister till the end of all things. Well, all things have an
- end, and this is it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You would not prefer me to stay?” asked Yvonne, in her soft
- voice.
- </p>
- <p>
- He would have given his soul to have been able to throw his arms round
- her, passionately and wildly—she was so near him, so maddeningly
- desired. Did she realise, he wondered, what flame was in her words? He
- leaned back in the chair, as if to avert the temptation by increasing the
- distance between them.
- </p>
- <p>
- “No,” he said, with a sharp breath, “I could not—it
- will be a wrench breaking up the—partnership. But it is all for the
- best. I know you will be happy and cared for, and that will be a happiness
- to me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Sarah brought in the breakfast and retired. They sat down to table.
- Somehow or other the meal proceeded. Two things had come by post for
- Joyce, one a belated but laudatory notice of “The Wasters,”
- the other a cheque from the office of a weekly paper. He passed them both
- to her, according to custom.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You mustn’t bother about me at all, Yvonne. I am in a
- different way of business altogether from what I was when we first started
- housekeeping. The new book will do ever so much better than ‘The
- Wasters.’ I shall miss you terribly—at first—but it will
- all dry straight, Yvonne. I dare say I shall go on living here. Runcle and
- I are immense pals, you know—perhaps I may go into partnership with
- him and bring some modern go-ahead ideas into the concern—become a
- Quaritch or Sotheran—who knows? Yes, I should n’t like to
- leave these quaint, dear old rooms,” he said, looking round,
- anywhere but in Yvonne’s face, with an air of cheerfulness that he
- felt in his heart must be ghastly. “Something of you and your dear
- companionship will linger about them. I shall pretend, like the ‘Marchioness,’
- that you are with me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He passed his tea-cup, and, meeting her eyes, tried to smile. The comers
- of her lips responded bravely.
- </p>
- <p>
- “And at last you will come into indisputed possession of your
- furniture,” she said.
- </p>
- <p>
- He had not the heart to protest. So they continued to talk in this light
- strain of the coming parting, until Joyce, looking at his watch, found it
- was time to go down to the shop. At the door, on his way out, he paused to
- relight his pipe. Then, without trusting himself to look round, he left
- her. But if he had turned he would have seen her grow suddenly very white,
- clutch the mantel-piece for support with one hand while the other pressed
- her bosom hard, and sway for a second or two with shut eyes.
- </p>
- <p>
- Downstairs he resumed his unfinished task of the evening before. He worked
- at it doggedly, trying not to think. But it was as futile as trying to
- hold one’s breath beyond a certain period.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yvonne is going—to marry Everard—going for ever—I
- shall be alone—she will lie in his arms—I shall go mad—God
- help me—if it is more than I can bear, there is a way out—I
- can keep up till she goes—she shall not know—afterwards.”
- His brain could not work beyond. The same thoughts throbbed with almost
- rhythmic recurrence as he priced and catalogued the books. Once he opened
- a tattered “Marcus Aurelius”:—
- </p>
- <p>
- “If pain is an affliction, it must affect either the body or the
- mind; if the body is hurt, let it say so; as for the soul, it is in her
- power to preserve her serenity and calm, by supposing the accident no
- evil.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He laughed to himself mirthlessly, and threw the book on the fourpenny
- heap. “Or pretending, like the Marchioness,” he said. He was
- scarcely in a mood for “Marcus Aurelius.”
- </p>
- <p>
- A messenger-boy appeared with a letter for Madame Latour. Joyce sent it up
- to her by the shop-boy, who presently brought down a reply note. The
- preparations for her departure had begun. Joyce’s heart seemed set
- in a vice and he nearly cried aloud with the pain.
- </p>
- <p>
- The hours wore on; the piles of books were disposed of; nothing to do, but
- wait for customers. To keep himself employed he copied untidy pages of his
- manuscript. He went up for dinner. Yvonne was more subdued than at
- breakfast, and they scarcely spoke. When the meal was over, she told him
- quietly of the letter she had received.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Everard says that he is getting the special licence to-day, and the
- marriage will take place to-morrow at St Luke’s, Islington.
- Considering the circumstances, he thinks it best that there should be no
- delay.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It is just as well,” he replied. “When changes come, it
- is best that they should come swiftly. Has he made any more definite
- arrangements—the hour?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “He will send me a message later.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You will have to put up your things. If I can help you, Yvonne—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Thanks—no. I have so little. The few odds and ends I shall
- leave you—as mementoes. You would like to keep them, would n’t
- you?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Thank you, Yvonne,” he said, turning away. They had spoken in
- subdued voices, as folks do when discussing funeral arrangements. Joyce,
- blinded and dazed by his misery, was unperceptive of her joylessness. At
- the most, he was conscious of a seriousness that, under the circumstances,
- was not unnatural. His own pain he hid with anxious effort.
- </p>
- <p>
- The afternoon hours passed. He lit the gas in the shop, and proceeded with
- whatever mechanical employment he could find. It was a relief to be alone.
- The old man’s gossip would have jarred upon him, driven him up to
- the sitting-room where the ordeal was fiercest, or out into the
- hard-featured streets. He would have two or three days of solitude before
- Runcle returned from Exeter.
- </p>
- <p>
- Messages came from the Bishop. One for Yvonne. Another for him,
- acknowledging his letter, announcing that the hour of noon had been fixed
- upon, shortly before which time a carriage would be sent to convey Yvonne
- to the church, and begging him in most courteous terms to assist at the
- ceremony and give Yvonne away. An echo of the Salvation Army girl’s
- voice came back to him, and he smiled grimly. “It’s the
- beastliest thing I can do.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He scribbled a line of acquiescence and gave it to the waiting
- messenger-boy. “I had not thought of the dregs,” he said to
- himself.
- </p>
- <p>
- That evening they sat drearily in their accustomed places by the fireside,
- each knowing it to be their last together. Night after night they had
- spent in each other’s society, Yvonne sewing or reading or dreaming
- in a lazy, contented way, Joyce writing upon a board laid across his
- knees. Sometimes she would come and lean over the back of his chair and
- watch the words as they came from his pen, her soft wavy black hair very
- near his fair, close-trimmed head.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Send me away if I’m worrying you,” she used to say.
- </p>
- <p>
- Whereupon he would laugh happily and answer:—
- </p>
- <p>
- “See how beautifully I am writing. I should never have thought of
- that remark if you had not been there.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I like to play at feeling a guardian angel,” she said once.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You can feel it without the playing,” he replied, drawing his
- head aside and looking round at her. “When your wings are over me
- like that, I do work that I could n’t do unaided.”
- </p>
- <p>
- And she had blushed and felt very happy.
- </p>
- <p>
- But now, on this last evening, they sat apart—half the world already
- between them—and talked constrainedly, with long silences. For the
- greater part of the time he shaded his face with his hand, sparing himself
- the sight of her hungered-for sweetness and saving her the sight of the
- hunger he felt was in his eyes. When at last she rose to bid him
- good-night, he nerved himself to meet her gaze calmly. And then for the
- first time he was shocked at the change that the night and the day had
- wrought in her.
- </p>
- <p>
- She stood before him, infinitely sweet and simple; but more wan even than
- she had been on that day in the hospital when she had learned the loss of
- her voice. For the still unvanished pathos of childhood that had then
- smoothed her face was gone, and the sterner pathos of the woman’s
- experience had taken its place. Yet the interpretation did not come to
- him.
- </p>
- <p>
- “My poor child,” he said. “You are scarcely strong
- enough yet to bear such an upheaval as this. Try to have a good sleep.”
- He held the door for her to pass out. And then with a great gulp, he
- continued, “You must look your best to-morrow.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He caught her soft cold hand, put it to his lips, and shut the door
- quickly. The prison seemed as comfort when compared with this torment.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- CHAPTER XXIII—AN END AND A BEGINNING
- </h2>
-
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>n the middle of
- the night he broke down utterly.
-
-If he had been a strong man he would not
- have yielded to the series of temptations that had culminated in his crime
- and his disgrace. Or, passing that, his spirit would not have been broken
- during the months of his punishment If he had been even of slightly
- robuster fibre, the sense of degradation would not have palsied his life.
- He would have gone at once to a new land and made himself master of his
- destiny. A strong man would not have been found by Yvonne, that August
- morning, sitting, a self-abhorring outcast before his rich uncle’s
- door. He would not have lost his wit and courage, when assailed by his
- prison companion at Hull. He would not have joined fortunes with Noakes in
- their futile African expedition. A strong man would not have clung for
- comfort and moral support to the poor ridiculous creature, his own
- protection of whom was that of the woman rather than that of the man. A
- strong man would not have yielded to the numbing despair of the after
- solitude in Africa, nor writhed that night in agony of spirit upon the
- lonely star-lit veldt And lastly, a strong man would not have had that
- terror of loneliness which had made him in the first place cling to Yvonne
- much as a child, afraid of the dark, clings to the hand of another child
- weaker than itself.
- </p>
- <p>
- By the law of evolution the strong survive and the weak die. But in the
- eternal struggle between humanity and the pitiless law, conditions are
- modified, and the sympathy of the race, that expression of revolt which we
- call civilisation, gives surviving power to the weak, so that not only the
- strong man has claims to life and love. And when the weak man strives with
- all his quivering fibres towards strength, he is doing a greater deed than
- the strong wot of.
- </p>
- <p>
- So Joyce, fool or hero, had performed an act of strength beyond his
- nature. The strain of the day had been intense. Every nerve in his body
- was stretched to breaking-point. At last, in the middle of the night, as
- he was pacing the room, one of them seemed to snap, and he fell forwards
- on to the bed and broke into a passion of sobbing. Ashamed he buried his
- face in the blankets and bit them with his teeth. But a grown man’s
- sobbing is not to be checked, like a child’s. It is a terrible
- thing, which comes from the soul’s depths and convulses flesh and
- spirit to their foundations; and it is horrible to hear. The shuddering
- heaves came into his throat and forced their way in sound through his
- lips. And the utterances of pain came from him, inarticulate prayers to
- God to help him, and half-stifled cries for his love and for Yvonne. But
- he knew that he was wrestling with his spirit for the last time, and that,
- after this paroxysm of agony, would come calm and strength to meet his
- fate.
- </p>
- <p>
- And Yvonne, clad in dressing gown and bare-footed, with her hair about her
- shoulders, stood trembling outside his door and heard. Although his room
- was not immediately above hers, being over the sitting-room, yet in her
- sleeplessness she had listened for hours and hours to his movements. At
- last, obeying an incontrollable impulse, she had crept up the stairs. A
- long time she waited, her hand upon the door, his name upon her lips,
- shaking from head to foot with the revelation of the man’s agony.
- Every sound was like a stab in her tender flesh. The warm, impulsive old
- Yvonne within her would have burst at the first sob into his room, but the
- newer womanhood held her back. When all was silent she crept downstairs
- again into her bed, and lay there, throbbing and shivering until the
- morning.
- </p>
- <p>
- And Joyce, unconscious that she had been so near to him, that had he but
- opened his door, he would have been caught in her arms and been given for
- all eternity that which he was renouncing, lay down in his bed exhausted,
- and when the morning was near at hand, sank into heavy sleep. He awoke
- later than usual. The water that Sarah had put for him was nearly cold. He
- drew up the blind and saw a cheerless grey morning—a fitting dawn
- for his new life. The minor details of the day before him presented
- themselves painfully. The first was the necessity of being well shaven,
- groomed and dressed. He drew from the drawer the clothes of decent life
- that he could now so seldom afford to wear. The last time he had put them
- on was three weeks ago, when he had taken Yvonne to a ballad concert at
- St. James’s Hall. He remembered how, in her bright way, she had
- said, on their way thither, “You look so handsome and distinguished,
- I feel quite proud.”
- </p>
- <p>
- And now he was to wear them at her wedding with another man. And he was to
- give her away.
- </p>
- <p>
- He had regained his nerve, felt equal to the task. After dressing with
- scrupulous care, he slowly went down to breakfast,—his last
- breakfast with Yvonne. He contemplated the fact with the fatalistic
- calmness with which men condemned to death often face their last meal on
- earth. Yvonne had not yet appeared. Sarah had not even brought up the
- breakfast. He sat down and waited, unfolded his halfpenny morning paper and
- tried to read. After a time he became aware that he was studying the
- advertisements. So he laid it aside.
- </p>
- <p>
- Presently he went up to his room to get a handkerchief, and on his return
- to the landing he noticed that Yvonne’s bedroom door was ajar. She
- was stirring, evidently. He knocked gently and called her name. There was
- no reply. Perhaps she was still sleeping, he thought; but it was odd that
- her door should be open. He returned to the sitting-room, wandered about
- nervously, looked out of the window into the dismal street. The pavement
- was wet, people were hurrying by with umbrellas up, the capes of drivers
- gleamed miserably in the misty air. He turned away and put some coals on a
- sulky fire, and again took up the paper. But an undefined feeling of
- uneasiness began to creep over him. It was long past nine o’clock.
- He went again and knocked at Yvonne’s door. It opened a little wider
- and he saw by the light in the room that the blind had been drawn up. He
- called her in loud tones. His voice seemed to fall in a void. Agitated, he
- ventured to take a swift glance into the room. The bed was empty. There
- was no Yvonne.
- </p>
- <p>
- He went back and rang the bell violently. After a short interval Sarah
- appeared, leisurely bringing in the breakfast-tray.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Where is Madame Latour?” asked Joyce. “Oh, she went out
- early, and said you weren’t to wait breakfast for her.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “At what time did she go out?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Shortly after eight.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Thank you,” said Joyce.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I think she was took ill, and was going to see a doctor,”
- said Sarah, unloading the tray noisily.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Did Madame Latour tell you so?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No. But she was looking so bad I was frightened to see her.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Very well,” said Joyce, not wishing to show the servant his
- agitation. “She will be back soon. Yes, you can leave the breakfast.”
- Sarah quitted the room with her heavy, scuffling step. Joyce remained by
- the fire tugging at his moustache, his mind filled with nameless
- anxieties. The presentiment of ill grew in intensity. Why had Yvonne left
- the house at that early hour? Sarah’s suggestion was manifestly
- absurd. If Yvonne had been poorly, she would have sent for a doctor. Yet
- the servant’s last remark frightened him. He remembered Yvonne’s
- pallor of the night before. A dreadful surmise began to dawn upon him. Had
- he been blind, all the way through, and condemned her to a fate impossible
- to bear? Once, in South Africa, he had seen an innocent man sentenced to
- death. The picture of the man’s face in its wistful despair rose
- before him. It was terribly like Yvonne’s. Had she, then, pronounced
- sentence on herself?
- </p>
- <p>
- He walked to and fro in feverish helplessness, his heart weighed down by
- the new load. The cheap American clock on the mantel-piece struck ten.
- There came, soon after, a knock at the door. Joyce sprang to open it. But
- it was only the boy from the shop wanting to know if any one was coming
- down. Joyce put his hand to his forehead. He had entirely forgotten Mr.
- Runcle’s absence and his own consequent responsibility.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You can take the money for any book outside, Tommy,” he said,
- after a little reflection. “If a customer wants anything inside,
- come up and call me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The boy went away, proud at being left in charge. Joyce filled a cup with
- the rapidly cooling coffee, and drank it at a draught. The minutes crept
- on. If his wild and dreadful fancies were groundless, where could Yvonne
- be? She could not have chosen a time before the shops were open to make
- any necessary purchases before the ceremony. Or had she gone out of the
- house so as to avoid spending a painful morning in his company? But that
- was unlike Yvonne. At last he descended, and stood bareheaded in the raw
- air, gazing up and down the street.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I ‘ve taken eightpence already,” said the boy, handing
- him a pile of coppers.
- </p>
- <p>
- Joyce took them from him absently, and put them in his pocket, while Tommy
- went back to his seat on the upturned box, and resumed his occupation of
- blowing on his chilled fingers. No sign of Yvonne. Several passers-by
- turned round and looked at Joyce. In his well-fitting clothes, and with
- his refined, thorough-bred air, he seemed an incongruous figure standing
- hatless in the doorway of the dingy secondhand book-shop.
- </p>
- <p>
- Presently he became aware of an elderly man trying to pass him. He stepped
- aside with apologies, and followed the customer.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Are you serving here?” asked the latter, with some
- diffidence.
- </p>
- <p>
- On Joyce’s affirmative, he enquired after two editions of “Berquin,”
- which he had seen in Runcle’s catalogue. Joyce took one from the
- shelves,—the original edition. It was priced two guineas. The
- customer haggled, then wished to see the other. As this was on the top
- shelf at the back part of the shop, Joyce had to mount the ladder and hunt
- for it in the dusky light. While thus employed, he felt something sweep
- against the foot of the ladder, and, looking down, he saw Yvonne. She shot
- a quick upward glance, and hurriedly disappeared.
- </p>
- <p>
- His heart gave a great bound as he saw her, and he dropped the books he
- was holding. He could not seek any more for the “Berquin.” In
- another moment he was by the side of the customer.
- </p>
- <p>
- “We must have sold the other copy. How much will you give for this?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Thirty-five shillings.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You can have it,” said Joyce.
- </p>
- <p>
- Never was book tied up at greater speed. He thrust it into the man’s
- hand, received the money without looking at it, and left the elderly man
- standing in the middle of the shop, greatly astonished at the haste of the
- transaction.
- </p>
- <p>
- Joyce flew up the stairs into the sitting-room.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, where—” he began.
- </p>
- <p>
- Then he stopped, dazed and bewildered, for Yvonne, her arms outstretched,
- her head thrown back, her lips parted, and a great yearning light in her
- eyes, came swiftly to him from where she stood, uttering a little cry, and
- in another moment was sobbing in his arms.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, my love, my dear, dear love!” she cried, “I could
- not leave you—take me—for always. I love you—I love you—I
- could n’t leave you!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yvonne,” he cried hoarsely, his pulses throbbing like a great
- engine’s piston-rod, in the tremendous amazement, as he held her—how
- tightly he did not know—and gazed down wildly into her face, “Yvonne,
- what are you saying? What is it? Tell me—for God’s sake—the
- marriage—Everard?” Then she threw back her head further
- against his arm, and their eyes met and hung upon each other for a
- breathless space. And there was that in Yvonne’s eyes—“the
- light that never was on sea or land”—that no man yet had seen
- or dreamed of seeing there. The straining, passionate love too deep for
- smiling, glorified her pure face.
- </p>
- <p>
- “There will be no marriage,” she murmured faintly, still
- holding him with her eyes, “I went to Everard this morning.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She raised her lips almost unconsciously toward him, and then the man’s
- whole existence was drowned in the kiss.
- </p>
- <p>
- For many moments they scarcely spoke. Passion plays its part in swift
- burning utterances and tumultuous silences. At last, she freed herself
- gently and moved towards the fire. But only to be taken once again into
- his clasp.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, my darling, my darling, is this joy madness, or is it real?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It is real,” said Yvonne. “Nothing can ever part us,
- until we die.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He helped her off with her hat and jacket and led her to the great
- armchair by the fire and knelt down by her side.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, Stephen dear,” she said in piteous happiness, “it
- has been such suffering.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “My poor child,” he said tenderly.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I did n’t know that you cared about me—in this way—until
- last night. I tried to make you tell me—Stephen darling, why didn’t
- you? I was bound to go to Everard—I had promised, and he wanted me—and
- what could I tell him? I could n’t say to him, dear, that I would go
- on for ever living on your dear charity, a burden upon you—yes, in a
- sense I must be one—rather than keep my promise and marry him, could
- I, dear? I could only refer him to you—and when you said I must go,
- it was miserable, for I hungered all the time to stay. And I knew you were
- sad, it was natural—but I thought you found you did not love me
- enough to want me as a wife and felt it your duty to give me up. Why did
- you give me up when you loved me so?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I will tell you all, some day, dear, not now,” said Joyce.
- “But one thing—I did not know either that you loved me—like
- this. When did you begin to love me, Yvonne?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I think I must have begun in the years and years ago—but I
- only knew it last night—knew it as I do now,” she added, with
- a tremor in her voice.
- </p>
- <p>
- She closed her eyes, gave herself up for a flooded moment to the lingering
- sense of the first great kiss she had ever given. And before she opened
- them, the memory had melted into actuality as she felt his lips again meet
- hers.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Thank God, I have got you, my own dear love,” she murmured.
- “It has been a hard battle for you—this morning. I went out as
- soon as I dared—to go to him. I seemed to be going to do an awful
- thing—to give him that pain for our sakes. He told me I had not
- treated him wickedly—but I felt as if I had been committing murder,
- until I saw your face at the door. I told him all—all that I knew
- about my own feelings and yours. I said that you did not know I loved you—that
- your noble-heartedness was making the sacrifice—that I would marry
- him and leave you and never see you again, and be a devoted wife to him,
- if he wished it, but that my love was given to you. And he looked all the
- time at me with an iron-grey face, and scarcely spoke a word. Tell me,
- Stephen dear, does it pain you to hear?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No,” said Joyce, softly. “Your heart has been bursting
- with it. It is best for us to share it, as we shall share all things, joy
- and pain, to the far end.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I shall feel lighter for telling you. It was so terrible to see him—oh,
- Stephen, if I had not loved you, I couldn’t have borne it—he
- seemed stricken. Oh, why is there all this pain in the world? And to think
- that I—Yvonne—should have had to inflict it—either on
- him, who has been good and kind to me, or on you, whom I love better than
- I thought I could love anything in the world! And when I had ended, he
- said, ‘He is young, and I am old; he has had all the sufferings and
- despair of life, and my lot has been cast in pleasant places; he has come
- out of the furnace with love and charity in his heart, and I have pampered
- my pride and uncharitableness. Go back to him—and I pray God to
- bless you both.’ He spoke as if each word was a knife driven into
- him—and his face—I shall never forget it—it seemed to
- grow old, and ashen, and hardened.”
- </p>
- <p>
- She covered her face with her hands for a moment, and then, suddenly, the
- memory of the night flashing through her, she dashed them away with a
- woman’s fierceness and clasped his head.
- </p>
- <p>
- “But your need was greater, a million times greater than his,”
- she cried in ringing tones, “and your sufferings greater, and your
- heart nobler, and I should have died if I had not come to you—you
- are my king, my lord, my God, my everything.”
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <p>
- In the formally appointed hotel sitting-room, where Yvonne had twice
- parted from him, sat Everard Chisely, with grey, withered face. The blow
- had fallen heavily. He had hungered for her of late years with a poor,
- human, unidealising passion. The pitifulness of it had galled his pride,
- and he had striven to put her out of his thoughts. He had lived an austere
- life, seeking in an unfamiliar asceticism to conquer the inherited,
- unregenerate cravings for a fuller aesthetic and emotional existence. Yet
- he had longed intensely for the death of the man who stood between himself
- and Yvonne. Twice a year his agent in Paris had reported news of Amédée
- Bazouge. Such communications he had opened with trembling fingers: the man
- was still alive; he prayed passionate prayers that the murder in his heart
- might not be counted to him as a sin. At last, in the New Zealand spring,
- came the news of Bazouge’s death. His blood tingled like the working
- sap in the trees. He could not wait. He came and found Yvonne.
- </p>
- <p>
- For thirty-six hours he had become a young man again, treading on air,
- hurrying on events with a lover’s impatience. And now the crash had
- come. He was an old man. He sat by his untasted breakfast, and covered his
- face in his hands. His life rose up before him, self-complacent,
- dignified, immaculate. Yet, somehow, he felt like a Pharisee. He was a
- Churchman first, a Christian afterwards. His religion had given him very
- little comfort. It had taken Yvonne from him once, at a time when he might
- have won her to him forever, and it had brought him no consolation. A man
- does not often get a glimpse at his own soul; when he does, he finds it
- rather a pitiable sight. The Bishop saw in its depths poignant regret that
- he then had not loved the woman enough to sin for her sake. And there,
- too, was revealed to him miserably that outraged pride, disillusion, the
- traditions of social morality, the authority of the Church’s
- ordinances—all externals—had been the leading factors of his
- life’s undoing. A great wish rose amid the bitterness of his heart
- that he had been, like Stephen, one of the publicans and sinners, upon
- whom could shine the Light of the World.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <p>
- Joyce and Yvonne were married one morning quietly at a registrar’s,
- and came back to continue the day’s routine. The old bookseller did
- not appear astonished when Joyce informed him of the unusual change of
- relationship.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You have both had your troubles,” he said, shrewdly, looking
- up over his spectacles, and keeping his thumb in the volume of Origen he
- was reading. “Any one can see that. You would n’t be here
- otherwise. And I’m not enquiring into them. But I hope they’re
- ended. And now,” he continued, rising with an old man’s
- stiffness, “I ’ve got some old Madeira that I bought thirty
- years ago with a job-lot of things out of a gentleman’s chambers,
- and I’d like to open a bottle in your honour.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Joyce brought Yvonne down to the back-parlour. The wine came out of the
- dirt-encrusted bottle like sunshine breaking through a cloud, and
- gladdened their hearts. And that was their marriage feast. Thus began the
- wedded life of these two. Years of struggle, poverty, and ostracism lay
- before them. They faced it all fearlessly. To each of them the long-denied
- love had come, at last, new and vivifying, changing the meaning of
- existence. Yet the final word of mutual revelation awaited the loosening
- touch. It came with tragic unexpectedness.
- </p>
- <p>
- One evening, not long after their marriage, Joyce, looking through the
- shop copy of “The Islington Gazette,” caught the head-line,
- “Salvation lassie commits suicide in New River.” A
- presentiment of what would follow flashed upon him. It was true. Annie
- Stevens had killed herself.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Good God!” he said involuntarily.
- </p>
- <p>
- Yvonne looked up from her sewing, and grew alarmed at the distress on his
- face.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What is it?”
- </p>
- <p>
- He was silent for a few moments. To tell her would involve long
- explanations. Yvonne knew of Annie Stevens in connection with his disgrace
- on the tour of “The Diamond Door,” but he had not spoken of
- after meetings. Yvonne put her work aside, in her quick way, and came and
- sat down on the footstool by his feet. As he bent and kissed her, she drew
- his arm round her neck, holding his hand.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What has pained you?”
- </p>
- <p>
- And then he told her the whole of the girl’s miserable story, her
- love for him, her degradation and downfall, and her wild idea of
- atonement.
- </p>
- <p>
- “And this is the end,” he said, showing her the paragraph.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Poor girl!” said Yvonne, deeply touched. “It was so
- pathetically impossible, was n’t it?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, dear,” Joyce answered. “I, too, know that.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “What?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “The tragic futility of such self-crucifixion. I have never told you
- the history of that night—why I gave you up—and the part this
- poor dead girl played in it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- In a low voice, he went over the old ground of degradation and his longing
- for atonement, and briefly laid before her the facts of his renunciation.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I know now,” he concluded, “that it could only add
- misery to misery. Nothing that a man or a woman alone can do can restore
- lost honour and self-reverence. No fasting or penance or sacrifice is of
- any use.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Yvonne drew her face away from him, so as to see him better. Pain was in
- her eyes. Her lips quivered.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Then—Stephen—dear—is it still the same with you
- about the prison—the old horror and shame?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “My dearest,” he said tenderly, “I said man alone was
- powerless. It is the touch of your lips that has wiped away all stain for
- ever.”
- </p>
- <p>
- They looked deep into each other’s eyes for a long, speechless
- moment And then Yvonne, like a foolish woman, fell a-sobbing on his knees.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, thank God, my dear, thank God!” she said.
- </p>
- <div style="height: 6em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-<pre>
-
-
-
-
-
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