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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Celibates, by George Moore
+#2 in our series by George Moore
+
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+Title: Celibates
+
+Author: George Moore
+
+Release Date: July, 2004 [EBook #6005]
+[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule]
+[This file was first posted on October 15, 2002]
+
+Edition: 10
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CELIBATES ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Charles Franks
+and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.
+
+
+
+
+CELIBATES
+
+BY
+
+GEORGE MOORE
+Author of
+"Spring Days," "A Mummer's Wife" Etc.
+
+With Introduction By
+TEMPLE SCOTT
+
+NEW YORK
+1915
+
+
+
+COPYRIGHT, 1895,
+BY MACMILLAN AND CO.
+
+COPYRIGHT, 1915,
+BY BRENTANO'S.
+
+
+
+
+INTRODUCTION.
+
+
+
+Looking back over the twenty years since "Celibates" was first
+published I find that the George Moore of the earlier year is the
+George Moore of to-day. The novelist of 1895 and the novelist of 1915
+are one and the same person. Each is really interested in himself;
+each is more concerned with how the world and its humanity appear to
+him than how they appear to the casual observer or how they may be in
+themselves. The writer is always expressing himself through the facts
+and personalities which have stirred his imagination to creative
+effort. George Moore has never been a reporter or a philosopher; he
+has always been an artist.
+
+Now to say that the author of "Celibates" is always expressing himself
+does not at all mean that he is recording merely his private
+sensations, emotions, and moods. Egoist as he is, George Moore could
+not write his autobiography. He tried to do this lately in "Ave,"
+"Vale," and "Salve," and failed--failed captivatingly. He is always
+most himself when he is dealing with what is not himself--with skies
+and hills and ocean and gardens and men and women. Moore is a
+naturalist in the finest sense of that word. He deals with nature as
+the artist must deal with it if nature is to be understood and
+enjoyed. For Moore's relationship with nature, and especially with
+human nature, is of that rare kind which is the experience of the very
+few--of those fine spirits endowed with the highest sympathy--a
+sympathy which is not a feeling with or for others but an actual union
+with others, a union which brings suffering as well as enjoyment. This
+is the artist's burden of sorrow and it is also his privilege. It is
+because of it that every true work of art has in it also something of
+a religious influence--a binding power which unites the separated
+onlookers in an experience of a common emotion. If the artist have not
+this peculiar sympathy he can have no vision and will never be a
+creator; he will never show us or tell us the new and strange
+mysteries of life which nature is continually unfolding. The artist's
+mission is to reveal to us the visions he alone has been vouchsafed to
+see, and to reveal them so that the revelation is a creation. The men
+and women he is introducing to us must be as real and as living to us
+as they are to him. That is what George Moore has done in "Celibates"
+and that is why I say he is an artist.
+
+"Celibates" consists of three stories--two of women and one of a man.
+Mildred Lawson and John Norton are celibates by nature. Agnes Lahens
+is a celibate from environment and circumstance. Each of the three is
+utterly different from the other, and yet all are alike in that they
+are the products of a modern civilization. Mildred and John are
+without that compulsive force which is known as the sexual passion. If
+they have it at all, it has been diluted by tradition and so-called
+culture into a mere sensation. Agnes's passion is an arrested one, so
+that what there is of it is easily diverted into an expression of
+religious aspiration.
+
+Mildred Lawson would be called a born flirt. She is pretty, charming,
+and talented; but she is cold, unresponsive, selfish, and futile. She
+is also eminently respectable after the English middle-class manner.
+She has ambition, but she lacks the will-power to school herself and
+the determination to accomplish. She is rich in goods but very poor in
+goodness. She is often moved profoundly by beautiful thoughts and
+uplifting emotions of which she herself is the pleasing, pulsating
+centre; but her soul is negative, so that her spiritual states
+evaporate when the opportunity is given her for transforming them into
+acts. She never gets anywhere. She is self-conscious to a degree and
+unstable as water. After breaking one man's heart and deadening the
+hearts of three other men, she finally accepts an old and rejected
+sweetheart, only to be torn by suspicions that he no longer cares for
+her and is marrying her only for her money. We leave her a prey to
+thoughts of a life which, unconsciously, she has brought on herself.
+
+John Norton might be called the born monk. He is, however, but the
+male embodiment of that cultured selfishness of which Mildred Lawson
+is the female expression. He is not a flirt. He takes life too
+seriously to be that; but he takes it so seriously that there is only
+room in the world for himself alone. He comes of a fine old English
+stock, is rich, and is his own master. He treats his mother as a cold-
+blooded English gentleman, with Norton's peculiar nature, would treat
+a mother--with polite but firm disregard of her claims. He has enough
+and to spare of will-power, but it is become degenerated into
+obstinacy. He fails because he wants too much, because he is unsocial
+at heart, and does not understand that life means giving as well as
+taking. His sexual passion finds expression in a religious fanaticism
+which is but the expression of utter selfishness, as all sexual
+passion is. In the company of Kitty he has moments of exaltation, when
+his degenerate passion scents the pure air of love; but he can never
+let himself go. When, on one occasion, he so far forgets himself as to
+allow his heart to be responsive to Kitty's natural purity and he
+kisses her, he is so shocked at what he has done that he runs away and
+leaves the girl to a terrible fate. We leave him also a prey to
+thoughts of what he might have prevented. He, too, like Mildred
+Lawson, must henceforth face a life of his own unconscious making.
+
+Agnes Lahens is the victim of a heartless, selfish society in which
+the abuse of love has made its world a desert and its products Dead
+Sea fruit. Out of a sheer impulse for self-protection she flies to the
+nunnery, which is ready to give her life at the price of her womanhood
+and her self-sacrifice.
+
+As portraits, these of Mildred Lawson and John Norton are exquisitely
+finished. They are half-lengths, with a quality of coloring
+fascinating in its repelling truth. Every tint and shade have been
+cunningly and caressingly laid in, so that the features, living and
+animated, are yet filled with suggestions of the spiritual barrenness
+in the originals. Very human they are, and yet they are without those
+gracious qualities which link humanity with what we feel to be divine.
+There is the touch of nature here, but it is not the touch which makes
+the whole world kin. That touch we ourselves supply; and it speaks
+eloquently for Moore's art that in picturing these unlovely beings he
+throws us back on our better selves. Beyond the vision of these
+celibates here revealed we see a passionate humanity, working, hating,
+sorrowing, and dying, yet always loving, and in loving finding its
+fullest life in an earthly salvation. True love is a mighty democrat.
+Knowing these "Celibates," we welcome the more gladly those who, even
+if less gifted, are ready to walk with us, hand in hand, along the
+common human highway of the "pilgrim's progress."
+
+TEMPLE SCOTT.
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS.
+
+
+MILDRED LAWSON
+
+JOHN NORTON
+
+AGNES LAHENS
+
+
+
+
+MILDRED LAWSON.
+
+I.
+
+
+
+The tall double stocks were breathing heavily in the dark garden; the
+delicate sweetness of the syringa moved as if on tip-toe towards the
+windows; but it was the aching smell of lilies that kept Mildred
+awake.
+
+As she tossed to and fro the recollections of the day turned and
+turned in her brain, ticking loudly, and she could see each event as
+distinctly as the figures on the dial of a great clock.
+
+'What a strange woman that Mrs. Fargus--her spectacles, her short
+hair, and that dreadful cap which she wore at the tennis party! It was
+impossible not to feel sorry for her, she did look so ridiculous. I
+wonder her husband allows her to make such a guy of herself. What a
+curious little man, his great cough and that foolish shouting manner;
+a good-natured, empty-headed little fellow. They are a funny couple!
+Harold knew her husband at Oxford; they were at the same college. She
+took honours at Oxford; that's why she seemed out of place in a little
+town like Sutton. She is quite different from her husband; he couldn't
+pass his examinations; he had been obliged to leave. ... What made
+them marry?
+
+'I don't know anything about Comte--I wish I did; it is so dreadful to
+be ignorant. I never felt my ignorance before, but that little woman
+does make me feel it, not that she intrudes her learning on any one; I
+wish she did, for I want to learn. I wish I could remember what she
+told me: that all knowledge passes through three states: the
+theological, the--the--metaphysical, and the scientific. We are
+religious when we are children, metaphysical when we are one-and-
+twenty, and as we get old we grow scientific. And I must not forget
+this, that what is true for the individual is true for the race. In
+the earliest ages man was religious (I wonder what our vicar would say
+if he heard this). In the Middle Ages man was metaphysical, and in
+these latter days he is growing scientific.
+
+'The other day when I came into the drawing-room she didn't say a
+word. I waited and waited to see if she would speak--no, not a word.
+She sat reading. Occasionally she would look up, stare at the ceiling,
+and then take a note. I wonder what she put down on that slip of
+paper? But when I spoke she seemed glad to talk, and she told me about
+Oxford. It evidently was the pleasantest time of her life. It must
+have been very curious. There were a hundred girls, and they used to
+run in and out of each other's rooms, and they had dances; they danced
+with each other, and never thought about men. She told me she never
+enjoyed any dances so much as those; and they had a gymnasium, and
+special clothes to wear there--a sort of bloomer costume. It must have
+been very jolly. I wish I had gone to Oxford. Girls dancing together,
+and never thinking about men. How nice!
+
+'At Oxford they say that marriage is not the only mission for women--
+that is to say, for some women. They don't despise marriage, but they
+think that for some women there is another mission. When I spoke to
+Mrs. Fargus about her marriage, she had to admit that she had written
+to her college friends to apologise--no, not to apologise, she said,
+but to explain. She was not ashamed, but she thought she owed them an
+explanation. Just fancy any of the girls in Sutton being ashamed of
+being married!'
+
+The darkness was thick with wandering scents, and Mildred's thoughts
+withered in the heat. She closed her eyes; she lay quite still, but
+the fever of the night devoured her; the sheet burned like a flame;
+she opened her eyes, and was soon thinking as eagerly as before.
+
+She thought of the various possibilities that marriage would shut out
+to her for ever. She reproached herself for having engaged herself to
+Alfred Stanby, and remembered that Harold had been opposed to the
+match, and had refused to give his consent until Alfred was in a
+position to settle five hundred a year upon her. ... Alfred would
+expect her to keep house for him exactly as she was now keeping house
+for her brother. Year after year the same thing, seeing Alfred go away
+in the morning, seeing him come home in the evening. That was how her
+life would pass. She did not wish to be cruel; she knew that Alfred
+would suffer terribly if she broke off her engagement, but it would be
+still more cruel to marry him if she did not think she would make him
+happy, and the conviction that she would not make him happy pressed
+heavily upon her. What was she to do? She could not, she dared not,
+face the life he offered her. It would be selfish of her to do so.
+
+The word 'selfish' suggested a new train of thought to Mildred. She
+argued that it was not for selfish motives that she desired freedom.
+If she thought that, she would marry him to-morrow. It was because she
+did not wish to lead a selfish life that she intended to break off her
+engagement. She wished to live for something; she wished to accomplish
+something; what could she do? There was art. She would like to be an
+artist! She paused, astonished at the possibility. But why not she as
+well as the other women whom she had met at Mrs. Fargus'? She had met
+many artists--ladies who had studios--at Mrs. Fargus'.
+
+She had been to their studios and had admired their independence. They
+had spoken of study in Paris, and of a village near Paris where they
+went to paint landscape. Each had a room at the inn; they met at meal
+times, and spent the day in the woods and fields. Mildred had once
+been fond of drawing, and in the heat of the summer night she wondered
+if she could do anything worth doing. She knew that she would like to
+try. She would do anything sooner than settle down with Alfred.
+Marriage and children were not the only possibilities in woman's life.
+The girls she knew thought so, but the girls Mrs. Fargus knew didn't
+think so.
+
+And rolling over in her hot bed she lamented that there was no escape
+for a girl from marriage. If so, why not Alfred Stanby--he as well as
+another? But no, she could not settle down to keep house for Alfred
+for the rest of her life. She asked herself again why she should marry
+at all--what it was that compelled all girls, rich or poor, it was all
+the same, to marry and keep house for their husbands. She remembered
+that she had five hundred a year, and that she would have four
+thousand a year if her brother died--the distillery was worth that.
+But money made no difference. There was something in life which forced
+all girls into marriage, with their will or against their will.
+Marriage, marriage, always marriage--always the eternal question of
+sex, as if there was nothing else in the world. But there was much
+else in life. There was a nobler purpose in life than keeping house
+for a man. Of that she felt quite sure, and she hoped that she would
+find a vocation. She must first educate herself, so far she knew, and
+that was all that was at present necessary for her to know.
+
+'But how hot it is; I shan't be able to go out in the cart to-morrow.
+... I wish everything would change, especially the weather. I want to
+go away. I hate living in a house without another woman. I wish Harold
+would let me have a companion--a nice elderly lady, but not too
+elderly--a woman about forty, who could talk; some one like Mrs.
+Fargus. When mother was alive it was different. She has been dead now
+three years. How long it seems! ... Poor mother! I wish she were here.
+I scarcely knew much of father; he went to the city every morning,
+just as Harold does, by that dreadful ten minutes past nine. It seems
+to me that I have never heard of anything all my life but that
+horrible ten minutes past nine and the half-past six from London
+Bridge. I don't hear so much about the half-past six, but the ten
+minutes past nine is never out of my head. Father is dead seven years,
+mother is dead three, and since her death I have kept house for
+Harold.'
+
+Then as sleep pressed upon her eyelids Mildred's thoughts grew
+disjointed. ... 'Alfred, I have thought it all over. I cannot marry
+you. ... Do not reproach me,' she said between dreaming and waking;
+and as the purple space of sky between the trees grew paler, she heard
+the first birds. Then dream and reality grew undistinguishable, and
+listening to the carolling of a thrush she saw a melancholy face, and
+then a dejected figure pass into the twilight.
+
+
+
+
+II.
+
+
+'What a fright I am looking! I did not get to sleep till after two
+o'clock; the heat was something dreadful, and to-day will be hotter
+still. One doesn't know what to wear.'
+
+She settled the ribbons in her white dress, and looked once again in
+the glass to see if the soft, almost fluffy, hair, which the least
+breath disturbed was disarranged. She smoothed it with her short white
+hand. There was a wistful expression in her brown eyes, a little
+pathetic won't-you-care-for-me expression which she cultivated,
+knowing its charm in her somewhat short, rather broad face, which
+ended in a pointed chin: the nose was slightly tip-tilted, her teeth
+were white, but too large. Her figure was delicate, and with quick
+steps she hurried along the passages and down the high staircase.
+Harold was standing before the fireplace, reading the _Times,_ when
+she entered.
+
+'You are rather late, Mildred. I am afraid I shall lose the ten
+minutes past nine.'
+
+'My dear Harold, you have gone up to town for the last ten years by
+that train, and every day we go through a little scene of fears and
+doubts; you have never yet missed it, I may safely assume you will not
+miss it this morning.'
+
+'I'm afraid I shall have to order the cart, and I like to get a walk
+if possible in the morning.'
+
+'I can walk it in twelve minutes.'
+
+'I shouldn't like to walk it in this broiling sun in fifteen. ... By
+the way, have you looked at the glass this morning?'
+
+'No; I am tired of looking at it. It never moves from "set fair."'
+
+'It is intolerably hot--can you sleep at night?'
+
+'No; I didn't get to sleep till after two. I lay awake thinking of
+Mrs. Fargus.'
+
+'I never saw you talk to a woman like that before. I wonder what you
+see in her. She's very plain. I daresay she's very clever, but she
+never says anything--at least not to me.'
+
+'She talks fast enough on her own subjects. You didn't try to draw her
+out. She requires drawing out. ... But it wasn't so much Mrs. Fargus
+as having a woman in the house. It makes one's life so different; one
+feels more at ease. I think I ought to have a companion.'
+
+'Have a middle-aged lady here, who would bore me with her conversation
+all through dinner when I come home from the City tired and worn out!'
+
+'But you don't think that your conversation when you "come home from
+the City tired and worn out" has no interest whatever for me; that
+this has turned out a good investment; that the shares have gone up,
+and will go up again? I should like to know how I am to interest
+myself in all that. What has it to do with me?'
+
+'What has it to do with you! How do you think that this house and
+grounds, carriages and horses and servants, glasshouses without end,
+are paid for? Do I ever grumble about the dressmakers' bills?--and
+heaven knows they are high enough. I believe all your hats and hosiery
+are put down to house expenses, but I never grumble. I let you have
+everything you want--horses, carriages, dresses, servants. You ought
+to be the happiest girl in the world in this beautiful place.'
+
+'Beautiful place! I hate the place; I hate it--a nasty, gaudy, vulgar
+place, in a vulgar suburb, where nothing but money-grubbing is thought
+of from morning, noon, till night; how much percentage can be got out
+of everything; cut down the salaries of the employees; work everything
+on the most economic basis; it does not matter what the employees
+suffer so long as seven per cent. dividend is declared at the end of
+the year. I hate the place.'
+
+'My dear, dear Mildred, what are you saying? I never heard you talk
+like this before. Mrs. Fargus has been filling your head with
+nonsense. I wish I had never asked her to the house; absurd little
+creature, with her eternal talk about culture, her cropped hair, and
+her spectacles glimmering. What nonsense she has filled your head
+with!'
+
+'Mrs. Fargus is a very clever woman. ... I think I should like go to
+Girton.'
+
+'Go to Girton!'
+
+'Yes, go to Girton. I've never had any proper education. I should like
+to learn Greek. Living here, cooped up with a man all one's life isn't
+my idea. I should like to see more of my own sex. Mrs. Fargus told me
+about the emulation of the class-rooms, about the gymnasium, about the
+dances the girls had in each other's rooms. She never enjoyed any
+dances like those. She said that I must feel lonely living in a house
+without another woman.'
+
+'I know what it'll be. I shall never hear the end of Mrs. Fargus. I
+wish I'd never asked them.'
+
+'Men are so selfish! If by any chance they do anything that pleases
+any one but themselves, how they regret it.'
+
+Harold was about the middle height, but he gave the impression of a
+small man. He was good-looking; but his features were without charm,
+for his mind was uninteresting--a dry, barren mind, a somewhat stubbly
+mind--but there was an honest kindliness in his little eyes which was
+absent from his sister's. The conversation had paused, and he glanced
+quickly every now and then at her pretty, wistful face, expressive at
+this moment of much irritated and nervous dissatisfaction; also an
+irritated obstinacy lurked in her eyes, and, knowing how obstinate she
+was in her ideas, Harold sincerely dreaded that she might go off to
+Girton to learn Greek--any slightest word might precipitate the
+catastrophe.
+
+'I think at least that I might have a companion,' she said at last.
+
+'Of course you can have a companion if you like, Mildred; but I
+thought you were going to marry Alfred Stanby?'
+
+'You objected to him; you said he had nothing--that he couldn't afford
+to marry.'
+
+'Yes, until he got his appointment; but I hear now that he's nearly
+certain of it.'
+
+'I don't think I could marry Alfred.'
+
+'You threw Lumly over, who was an excellent match, for Alfred. So long
+as Alfred wasn't in a position to marry you, you would hear of no one
+else, and now--but you don't mean to say you are going to throw him
+over.'
+
+'I don't know what I shall do.'
+
+'Well, I have no time to discuss the matter with you now. It is seven
+minutes to nine. I shall only have just time to catch the train by
+walking very fast. Good-bye.'
+
+'Please, mam, any orders to-day for the butcher?'
+
+'Always the same question--how tired I am of hearing the same words. I
+suppose it is very wicked of me to be so discontented,' thought
+Mildred, as she sat on the sofa with her key-basket in her hand; 'but
+I have got so tired of Sutton. I know I shouldn't bother Harold; he is
+very good and he does his best to please me. It is very odd. I was all
+right till Mrs. Fargus came, she upset me. It was all in my mind
+before, no doubt; but she brought it out. Now I can't interest myself
+in anything. I really don't care to go to this tennis party, and the
+people who go there are not in the least interesting. I am certain I
+should not meet a soul whom I should care to speak to. No, I won't go
+there. There's a lot to be done in the greenhouses, and in the
+afternoon I will write a long letter to Mrs. Fargus. She promised to
+send me a list of books to read.'
+
+There was nothing definite in her mind, but something was germinating
+within her, and when the work of the day was done, she wondered at the
+great tranquillity of the garden. A servant was there in a print
+dress, and the violet of the skies and the green of the trees seemed
+to be closing about her like a tomb. 'How beautiful!' Mildred mused
+softly; 'I wish I could paint that.'
+
+A little surprised and startled, she went upstairs to look for her box
+of water-colours; she had not used it since she left school. She found
+also an old block, with a few sheets remaining; and she worked on and
+on, conscious only of the green stillness of the trees and the romance
+of rose and grey that the sky unfolded. She had begun her second
+water-colour, and was so intent upon it as not to be aware that a new
+presence had come into the garden. Alfred Stanby was walking towards
+her. He was a tall, elegantly dressed, good-looking young man.
+
+'What! painting? I thought you had given it up. Let me see.'
+
+'Oh, Alfred, how you startled me!'
+
+He took the sketch from the girl's lap, and handing it back, he said:
+
+'I suppose you had nothing else to do this afternoon; it was too hot
+to go out in the cart. Do you like painting?'
+
+'Yes, I think I do.'
+
+They were looking at each other--and there was a questioning look in
+the girl's eyes--for she perceived in that moment more distinctly than
+she had before the difference in their natures.
+
+'Have you finished the smoking cap you are making for me?'
+
+'No; I did not feel inclined to go on with it.'
+
+Something in Mildred's tone of voice and manner struck Alfred, and,
+dropping his self-consciousness, he said:
+
+'You thought that I'd like a water-colour sketch better.'
+
+Mildred did not answer.
+
+'I should like to have some drawings to hang in the smoking-room when
+we're married. But I like figures better than landscapes. You never
+tried horses and dogs, did you?'
+
+'No, I never did,' Mildred answered languidly, and she continued to
+work on her sky. But her thoughts were far from it, and she noticed
+that she was spoiling it. 'No, I never tried horses and dogs.'
+
+'But you could, dearest, if you were to try. You could do anything you
+tried. You are so clever.'
+
+'I don't know that I am; I should like to be.'
+
+They looked at each other, and anxiously each strove to read the
+other's thoughts.
+
+'Landscapes are more suited to a drawing-room than a smoking-room. It
+will look very well in your drawing-room when we're married. We shall
+want some pictures to cover the walls.'
+
+At the word marriage, Mildred's lips seemed to grow thinner. The
+conversation paused. Alfred noticed that she hesitated, that she was
+striving to speak. She had broken off her engagement once before with
+him, and he had begun to fear that she was going to do so again. There
+was a look of mingled irresolution and determination in her face. She
+continued to work on her sky; but at every touch it grew worse, and,
+feeling that she had irretrievably spoilt her drawing, she said:
+
+'But do you think that we shall ever be married, Alfred?'
+
+'Of course. Why? Are you going to break it off?'
+
+'We have been engaged nearly two years, and there seems no prospect of
+our being married. Harold will never consent. It does not seem fair to
+keep you waiting any longer.'
+
+'I'd willingly wait twenty years for you, Mildred.'
+
+She looked at him a little tenderly, and he continued more
+confidently. 'But I'm glad to say there is no longer any question of
+waiting. My father has consented to settle four hundred a year upon
+me, the same sum as your brother proposes to settle on you. We can be
+married when you like.'
+
+She only looked at the spoilt water-colour, and it was with difficulty
+that Alfred restrained himself from snatching it out of her hands.
+
+'You do not answer. You heard what I said, that my father had agreed
+to settle four hundred a year upon me?'
+
+'I'm sure I'm very glad, for your sake.'
+
+'That's a very cold answer, Mildred. I think I can say that I'm sure
+of the appointment.'
+
+'I'm glad, indeed I am, Alfred.'
+
+'But only for my sake?'
+
+Mildred sat looking at the water-colour.
+
+'You see our marriage has been delayed so long; many things have come
+between us.'
+
+'What things?'
+
+'Much that I'm afraid you'd not understand. You've often reproached
+me,' she said, her voice quickening a little, 'with coldness. I'm
+cold; it is not my fault. I'm afraid I'm not like other girls. ... I
+don't think I want to be married.'
+
+'This is Mrs. Fargus' doing. What do you want?'
+
+'I'm not quite sure. I should like to study.'
+
+'This must be Mrs. Fargus.'
+
+'I should like to do something.'
+
+'But marriage--'
+
+'Marriage is not everything. There are other things. I should like to
+study art.'
+
+'But marriage won't prevent your studying art.'
+
+'I want to go away, to leave Sutton. I should like to travel.'
+
+'But we should travel--our honeymoon.'
+
+'I don't think I could give up my freedom, Alfred; I've thought it all
+over. I'm afraid I'm not the wife for you.'
+
+'Some one else has come between us? Some one richer. Who's this other
+fellow?'
+
+'No; there's no one else. I assure you there's no one else. I don't
+think I shall marry at all. There are other things besides
+marriage.... I'm not fitted for marriage. I'm not strong. I don't
+think I could have children. It would kill me.'
+
+'All this is the result of Mrs. Fargus. I can read her ideas in every
+word you say. Women like Mrs. Fargus ought to be ducked in the horse-
+pond. They're a curse.'
+
+Mildred smiled.
+
+'You're as strong as other girls. I never heard of anything being the
+matter with you. You're rather thin, that's all. You ought to go away
+for a change of air. I never heard such things; a young girl who has
+been brought up like you. I don't know what Harold would say--not
+fitted for marriage; not strong enough to bear children. What
+conversations you must have had with Mrs. Fargus; studying art, and
+the rest of it. Really, Mildred, I did not think a young girl ever
+thought of such things.'
+
+'We cannot discuss the subject. We had better let it drop.'
+
+'Yes,' he said, 'we'd better say no more; the least said the soonest
+mended. You're ill, you don't know what you're saying. You're not
+looking well; you've been brooding over things. You'd better go away
+for a change. When you come back you'll think differently.'
+
+'Go away for a change! Yes,' she said, 'I've been thinking over things
+and am not feeling well. But I know my own mind now. I can never love
+you as I should like to.'
+
+'Then you'd like to love me. Ah, I will make you love me.. I'll teach
+you to love me! Only give me the chance.'
+
+'I don't think I shall ever love--at least, not as other girls do.'
+
+He leaned forward and took her hand; he caught her other hand, and the
+movement expressed his belief in his power to make her love him.
+
+'No,' she said, resisting him. 'You cannot. I'm as cold as ice.'
+
+'Think what you're doing, Mildred. You're sacrificing a great love--
+(no man will ever love you as I do)--and for a lot of stuff about
+education that Mrs. Fargus has filled your head with. You're
+sacrificing your life for that,' he said, pointing to the sketch that
+had fallen on the grass. 'Is it worth it?'
+
+She picked up the sketch.
+
+'It was better before you came,' she said, examining it absent-
+mindedly. 'I went on working at it; I've spoiled it.' Then, noticing
+the incongruity, she added, 'But it doesn't matter. Art is not the
+only thing in the world. There is good to be done if one only knew how
+to do it. I don't mean charity, such goodness is only on the surface,
+it is merely a short cut to the real true goodness. Art may be only
+selfishness, indeed I'm inclined to think it is, but art is education,
+not the best, perhaps, but the best within my reach.'
+
+'Mildred, I really do not understand. You cannot be well, or you
+wouldn't talk so.'
+
+'I'm quite well,' she said. 'I hardly expected you would understand.
+But I beg you to believe that I cannot act otherwise. My life is not
+with you. I feel sure of that.'
+
+The words were spoken so decisively that he knew he would not succeed
+in changing her. Then his face grew pale with anger, and he said:
+'Then everything you've said--all your promises--everything was a lie,
+a wretched lie.'
+
+'No, Alfred, I tried to believe. I did believe, but I had not thought
+much then. Remember, I was only eighteen.' She gathered up her
+painting materials, and, holding out her hand, said, 'Won't you
+forgive me?'
+
+'No, I cannot forgive you.' She saw him walk down the pathway, she saw
+him disappear in the shadow. And this rupture was all that seemed real
+in their love story. It was in his departure that she felt, for the
+first time, the touch of reality.
+
+
+
+
+III.
+
+
+Mildred did not see Alfred again. In the pauses of her painting she
+wondered if he thought of her, if he missed her. Something had gone
+out of her life, but a great deal more had come into it.
+
+Mr. Hoskin, a young painter, whose pictures were sometimes rejected in
+the Academy, but who was a little lion in the minor exhibitions, came
+once a week to give her lessons, and when she went to town she called
+at his studio with her sketches. Mr. Hoskin's studio was near the
+King's Road, the last of a row of red houses, with gables, cross-
+beams, and palings. He was a good-looking, blond man, somewhat
+inclined to the poetical and melancholy type; his hair bristled, and
+he wore a close-cut red beard; the moustache was long and silky; there
+was a gentle, pathetic look in his pale blue eyes; and a slight
+hesitation of speech, an inability to express himself in words,
+created a passing impression of a rather foolish, tiresome person. But
+beneath this exterior there lay a deep, true nature, which found
+expression in twilit landscapes, the tenderness of cottage lights in
+the gloaming, vague silhouettes, and vague skies and fields. Ralph
+Hoskin was very poor: his pathetic pictures did not find many
+purchasers, and he lived principally by teaching.
+
+But he had not given Mildred her fourth lesson in landscape painting
+when he received an advantageous offer to copy two pictures by Turner
+in the National Gallery. Would it be convenient to her to take her
+lesson on Friday instead of on Thursday? She listened to him, her eyes
+wide open, and then in her little allusive way suggested that she
+would like to copy something. She might as well take her lesson in the
+National Gallery as in Sutton. Besides, he would be able to take her
+round the gallery and explain the merits of the pictures.
+
+She was anxious to get away from Sutton, and the prospect of long days
+spent in London pleased her, and on the following Thursday Harold took
+her up to London by the ten minutes past nine. For the first time she
+found something romantic in that train. They drove from Victoria in a.
+hansom. Mr. Hoskin was waiting for her on the steps of the National
+Gallery.
+
+'I'm so frightened,' she said; 'I'm afraid I don't paint well enough.'
+
+'You'll get on all right. I'll see you through. This way. I've got
+your easel, and your place is taken.'
+
+They went up to the galleries.
+
+'Oh, dear me, this seems rather alarming!' she exclaimed, stopping
+before the crowd of easels, the paint-boxes, the palettes on the
+thumbs, the sheaves of brushes, the maulsticks in the air. She glanced
+at the work, seeking eagerly for copies, worse than any she was likely
+to perpetrate. Mr. Hoskin assured her that there were many in the
+gallery who could not do as well as she. And she experienced a little
+thrill when he led her to the easel. A beautiful white canvas stood on
+it ready for her to begin, and on a chair by the side of the easel was
+her paint-box and brushes. He told her where she would find him, in
+the Turner room, and that she must not hesitate to come and fetch him
+whenever she was in difficulties.
+
+'I should like you to see the drawing,' she said, 'before I begin to
+paint.'
+
+'I shall look to your drawing many times before I allow you to begin
+painting. It will take you at least a couple of days to get it
+right.... Don't be afraid,' he said, glancing round; 'lots of them
+can't do as well as you. I shall be back about lunch time.'
+
+The picture that Mildred had elected to copy was Reynolds's angel
+heads. She looked at the brown gold of their hair, and wondered what
+combination of umber and sienna would produce it. She studied the
+delicate bloom of their cheeks, and wondered what mysterious
+proportions of white, ochre, and carmine she would have to use to
+obtain it. The bright blue and grey of the eyes frightened her. She
+felt sure that such colour did not exist in the little tin tubes that
+lay in rows in the black japanned box by her side. Already she
+despaired. But before she began to paint she would have to draw those
+heavenly faces in every feature. It was more difficult than sketching
+from nature. She could not follow the drawing, it seemed to escape
+her. It did not exist in lines which she could measure, which she
+could follow. It seemed to have grown out of the canvas rather than to
+have been placed there. The faces were leaned over--illusive
+foreshortenings which she could not hope to catch. The girl in front
+of her was making, it seemed to Mildred, a perfect copy. There seemed
+to be no difference, or very little, between her work and Reynolds's.
+Mildred felt that she could copy the copy easier than she could the
+original.
+
+But on the whole she got on better than she had expected, and it was
+not till she came to the fifth head, that she found she had drawn them
+all a little too large, and had not sufficient space left on her
+canvas. This was a disappointment. There was nothing for it but to
+dust out her drawing and begin it all again. She grew absorbed in her
+work; she did not see the girl in front of her, nor the young man
+copying opposite; she did not notice their visits to each other's
+easels; she forgot everything in the passion of drawing. Time went by
+without her perceiving it; she was startled by the sound of her
+master's voice and looked in glad surprise.
+
+'How are you getting on?' he said.
+
+'Very badly. Can't you see?'
+
+'No, not so badly. Will you let me sit down? Will you give me your
+charcoal?'
+
+'The first thing is to get the heads into their places on the canvas;
+don't think of detail; but of two or three points, the crown of the
+head, the point of the chin, the placing of the ear. If you get them
+exactly right the rest will come easily. You see there was not much to
+correct.' He worked on the drawing for some few minutes, and then
+getting up he said, 'But you'll want some lunch; it is one o'clock.
+There's a refreshment room downstairs. Let me introduce you to Miss
+Laurence,' he said. The women bowed. 'You're doing an excellent copy,
+Miss Laurence.'
+
+'Praise from you is praise indeed.'
+
+'I would give anything to paint like that,' said Mildred.
+
+'You've only just begun painting,' said Miss Laurence.
+
+'Only a few months,' said Mildred.
+
+'Miss Lawson does some very pretty sketches from nature,' said Mr.
+Hoskin; 'this is her first attempt at copying.'
+
+'I shall never get those colours,' said Mildred. 'You must tell me
+which you use.'
+
+'Mr. Hoskin can tell you better than I. You can't have a better
+master.'
+
+'Do you copy much here?' asked Mildred.
+
+'I paint portraits when I can get them to do; when I can't, I come
+here and copy.... We're in the same boat,' she said, turning to Mr.
+Hoskin. 'Mr. Hoskin paints beautiful landscapes as long as he can find
+customers; when he can't, he undertakes to copy a Turner.'
+
+Mildred noticed the expression that passed over her master's face. It
+quickly disappeared, and he said, 'Will you take Miss Lawson to the
+refreshment room, Miss Laurence? You're going there I suppose.'
+
+'Yes, I'm going to the lunch-room, and shall be very glad to show Miss
+Lawson the way.'
+
+And, in company with quite a number of students, they walked through
+the galleries. Mildred noticed that Miss Laurence's nose was hooked,
+that her feet were small, and that she wore brown-leather shoes.
+Suddenly Miss Laurence said 'This way,' and she went through a door
+marked 'Students only.' Mr. Hoskin held the door open for her, they
+went down some stone steps looking on a courtyard. Mr. Hoskin said, 'I
+always think of Peter De Hooch when I go down these stairs. The
+contrast between its twilight and the brightness of the courtyard is
+quite in his manner.'
+
+'And I always think how much I can afford to spend on my lunch,' said
+Elsie laughing.
+
+The men turned to the left top to go to their room, the women turned
+to the right to go to theirs.
+
+'This way,' said Miss Laurence, and she opened a glass door, and
+Mildred found herself in what looked like an eating-house of the
+poorer sort. There was a counter where tea and coffee and rolls and
+butter were sold. Plates of beef and ham could be had there, too. The
+students paid for their food at the counter, and carried it to the
+tables.
+
+'I can still afford a plate of beef,' said Miss Laurence, 'but I don't
+know how long I shall be able to if things go on as they've been
+going. But you don't know what it is to want money,' and in a rapid
+glance Miss Laurence roughly calculated the price of Mildred's
+clothes.
+
+A tall, rather handsome girl, with dark coarse hair and a face lit up
+by round grey eyes, entered.
+
+'So you are here, Elsie,' and she stared at Mildred.
+
+'Let me introduce you to Miss Lawson. Miss Lawson, Miss Cissy Clive.'
+
+'I'm as hungry as a hawk,' Cissy said, and she selected the plate on
+which there was most beef.
+
+'I haven't seen you here before, Miss Lawson. Is this your first day?'
+
+'Yes, this is my first day.'
+
+They took their food to the nearest table and Elsie asked Cissy if she
+had finished her copy of Etty's 'Bather.' Cissy told how the old
+gentleman in charge of the gallery had read her a lecture on the
+subject. He did not like to see such pictures copied, especially by
+young women. Copies of such pictures attracted visitors. But Cissy had
+insisted, and he had put her and the picture into a little room off
+the main gallery, where she could pursue her nefarious work
+unperceived.
+
+The girls laughed heartily. Elsie asked for whom Cissy was making the
+copy.
+
+'For a friend of Freddy's--a very rich fellow. Herbert is going to get
+him to give me a commission for a set of nude figures. Freddy has just
+come back from Monte Carlo. He has lost all his money.... He says he's
+"stony" and doesn't know how he'll pull through.'
+
+'Was he here this morning?'
+
+'He ran in for a moment to see me.... I'm dining with him to-night.'
+
+ You're not at home, then?'
+
+'No, I forgot to tell you, I'm staying with you, so be careful not to
+give me away if you should meet mother. Freddy will be back this
+afternoon. I'll get him to ask you if you'll come.'
+
+'I promised to go out with Walter to-night.'
+
+'You can put him off. Say that you've some work to finish--some black
+and white.'
+
+'Then he'd want to come round to the studio. I don't like to put him
+off.'
+
+'As you like.... It'll be a very jolly dinner. Johnny and Herbert are
+coming. But I daresay Freddy'll ask Walter. He'll do anything I ask
+him.'
+
+When lunch was over Cissy and Elsie took each other's arms and went
+upstairs together. Mildred heard Cissy ask who she was.
+
+Elsie whispered, 'A pupil of Ralph's. You shouldn't have talked so
+openly before her.'
+
+'So his name is Ralph,' Mildred said to herself, and thought that she
+liked the name.
+
+
+
+
+IV.
+
+
+Mildred soon began to perceive and to understand the intimate life of
+the galleries, a strange life full of its special idiosyncrasies.
+There were titled ladies who came with their maids and commanded
+respect from the keeper of the gallery, and there was a lady with
+bright yellow hair who occasioned him much anxiety. For she allowed
+visitors not only to enter into conversation with her, but if they
+pleased her fancy she would walk about the galleries with them and
+take them out to lunch. There was an old man who copied Hogarth, he
+was madly in love with a young woman who copied Rossetti. But she was
+in love with an academy student who patronised all the girls and spent
+his time in correcting their drawings. A little further away was
+another old man who copied Turner. By a special permission he came at
+eight o'clock, two hours before the galleries were open. It was said
+that with a tree from one picture, a foreground from another, a piece
+of distance from a third, a sky from a fourth, he had made a picture
+which had taken in the Academicians, and had been hung in Burlington
+House as an original work by Crome. Most of his work was done before
+the students entered the galleries; he did very little after ten
+o'clock; he pottered round from easel to easel chattering; but he
+never imparted the least of his secrets. He knew how to evade
+questions, and after ten minutes' cross-examination he would say 'Good
+morning,' and leave the student no wiser than he was before. A legend
+was in circulation that to imitate Turner's rough surfaces he covered
+his canvas with plaster of Paris and glazed upon it.
+
+The little life of the galleries was alive with story. Walter was a
+fair young man with abundant hair and conversation. Elsie hung about
+his easel. He covered a canvas with erratic blots of colour and quaint
+signs, but his plausive eloquence carried him through, and Elsie
+thought more highly of his talents than he did of hers. They were
+garrulous one as the other, and it was pleasant to see them strolling
+about the galleries criticising and admiring, until Elsie said:
+
+'Now, Walter, I must get back to my work, and don't you think it would
+be better if you went on with yours?'
+
+So far as Mildred could see, Elsie's life seemed from the beginning to
+have been made up of painting and young men. She was fond of Walter,
+but she wasn't sure that she did not like Henry best, and later,
+others--a Jim, a Hubert, and a Charles--knocked at her studio door,
+and they were all admitted, and they wasted Elsie's time and drank her
+tea. Very often they addressed their attentions to Mildred, but she
+said she could not encourage them, they were all fast, and she said
+she did not like fast men.
+
+'I never knew a girl like you; you're not like other girls. Did you
+never like a man? I never really. I once thought you liked Ralph.'
+
+'Yes, I do like him. But he's different from these men; he doesn't
+make love to me. I like him to like me, but I don't think I should
+like him if he made love to me.'
+
+'You're an odd girl; I don't believe there's another like you.'
+
+'I can't think how you can like all these men to make love to you.'
+
+'They don't all make love to me,' Elsie answered quickly. 'I hope you
+don't think there's anything wrong. It is merely Platonic.'
+
+'I should hope so. But they waste a great deal of your time.'
+
+'Yes, that's the worst of it. I like men, men are my life, I don't
+mind admitting it. But I know they've interfered with my painting.
+That's the worst of it.'
+
+Then the conversation turned on Cissy Clive. 'Cissy is a funny girl,'
+Elsie said. 'For nine months out of every twelve she leads a highly-
+respectable life in West Kensington. But every now and then the fit
+takes her, and she tells her mother, who believes every word she says,
+that she's staying with me. In reality, she takes rooms in Clarges
+Street, and has a high old time.'
+
+'I once heard her whispering to you something about not giving her
+away if you should happen to meet her mother.'
+
+'I remember, about Hopwood Blunt. He had just returned from Monte
+Carlo.'
+
+'But I suppose it is all right. She likes talking to him.'
+
+'I don't think she can find much to talk about to Hopwood Blunt,' said
+Elsie, laughing. 'Haven't you seen him? He is often in the galleries.'
+
+'What does she say?'
+
+'She says he's a great baby--that he amuses her.'
+
+Next day, Mildred went to visit Cissy in the unfrequented gallery
+where her 'Bather' would not give scandal to the visitors. She had
+nearly completed her copy; it was excellent, and Mildred could not
+praise it sufficiently. Then the girls spoke of Elsie and Walter.
+Mildred said:
+
+'She seems very fond of him.'
+
+'And of how many others? Elsie never could be true to a man. It was
+just the same in the Academy schools. And that studio of hers? Have
+you been to any of her tea-parties? They turn down the lights, don't
+they?'
+
+As Mildred was about to answer, Cissy said, 'Oh, here's Freddy.'
+
+Mr. Hopwood Blunt was tall and fair, a brawny young Englishman still,
+though the champagne of fashionable restaurants and racecourses was
+beginning to show itself in a slight puffiness in his handsome florid
+cheeks. He shook hands carelessly with Miss Clive, whom he called Cis,
+and declared himself dead beat. She hastened to hand him her chair.
+
+'I know what's the matter with you,' she said, 'too much champagne
+last night at the Cafe Royal.'
+
+'Wrong again. We weren't at the Cafe Royal, we dined at the Bristol.
+Don't like the place; give me the good old Cafe Savoy.'
+
+'How many bottles?'
+
+'Don't know; know that I didn't drink my share. It was something I had
+after.'
+
+Then followed an account of the company and the dinner. The
+conversation was carried on in allusions, and Mildred heard something
+about Tommy's girl and a horse that was worth backing at Kempton. At
+last it occurred to Cissy to introduce Mildred. Mr. Hopwood Blunt made
+a faint pretence of rising from his chair, and the conversation turned
+on the 'Bather.'
+
+'I think you ought to make her a little better looking. What do you
+say, Miss Lawson? Cis is painting that picture for a smoking-room, and
+in the smoking-room we like pretty girls.'
+
+He thought that they ought to see a little more of the lady's face;
+and he did not approve of the drapery. Cissy argued that she could not
+alter Etty's composition; she reproved him for his facetiousness, and
+was visibly annoyed at the glances he bestowed on Mildred. A moment
+after Ralph appeared.
+
+'Don't let me disturb you,' he said, 'I did not know where you were,
+Miss Lawson, that was all. I thought you might like me to see how
+you're getting on.'
+
+Ralph and Mildred walked through two galleries in silence. Elsie had
+gone out to lunch with Walter; the old lady with the grey ringlets,
+who copied Gainsborough's 'Watering Place,' was downstairs having a
+cup of coffee and a roll; the cripple leaned on his crutch, and
+compared his drawing of Mrs. Siddons's nose with Gainsborough's. Ralph
+waited till he hopped away, and Mildred was grateful to him for the
+delay; she did not care for her neighbours to see what work her master
+did on her picture.
+
+'You've got the background wrong,' he said, taking off a yellowish
+grey with the knife. 'The cloud in the left-hand corner is the deepest
+dark you have in the picture,' and he prepared a tone. 'What a lovely
+quality Reynolds has got into the sky! ... This face is not
+sufficiently foreshortened. Too long from the nose to the chin,' he
+said, taking off an eighth of an inch. Then the mouth had to be
+raised. Mildred watched, nervous with apprehension lest Elsie or the
+old lady or the cripple should return and interrupt him.
+
+'There, it is better now,' he said, surveying the picture, his head on
+one side.
+
+'I should think it was,' she answered enthusiastically. 'I shall be
+able to get on now. I could not get the drawing of that face right.
+And the sky--what a difference! I like it as well as the original.
+It's quite as good.'
+
+Ralph laughed, and they walked through the galleries. The question, of
+course, arose, which was the greater, the Turner or the Claude?
+
+Mildred thought that she liked the Claude.
+
+'One is romance, the other is common sense.'
+
+'If the Turner is romance, I wonder I don't prefer it to the Claude. I
+love romance.'
+
+'School-girl romance, very likely.' Mildred didn't answer and, without
+noticing her, Ralph continued, 'I like Turner best in the grey and
+English manner: that picture, for instance, on the other side of the
+doorway. How much simpler, how much more original, how much more
+beautiful. That grey and yellow sky, the delicacy of the purple in the
+clouds. But even in classical landscape Turner did better than Claude
+--Turner created--all that architecture is dreamed; Claude copied
+his.'
+
+At the end of each little sentence he stared at Mildred, half ashamed
+at having expressed himself so badly, half surprised at having
+expressed himself so well. Anxious to draw him out, she said:
+
+'But the picture you admire is merely a strip of sea with some
+fishing-boats. I've seen it a hundred times before--at Brighton, at
+Westgate, at whatever seaside place we go to, just like that, only not
+quite so dark.'
+
+'Yes, just like that, only not quite so dark. That "not quite so dark"
+makes the difference. Turner didn't copy, he transposed what he saw.
+Transposed what he saw,' he repeated. 'I don't explain myself very
+well, I don't know if you understand. But what I mean is that the more
+realistic you are the better; so long as you transpose, there must
+always be a transposition of tones.'
+
+Mildred admitted that she did not quite understand. Ralph stammered,
+and relinquished the attempt to explain. They walked in silence until
+they came to the Rembrandts--the portrait of the painter as a young
+man and the portrait of the 'Jew Merchant.' Mildred preferred the
+portrait of the young man. 'But not because it's a young man,' she
+pleaded, 'but because it is, it is---'
+
+'Compared with the "Jew Merchant" it is like a coloured photograph...
+Look at him, he rises up grand and mysterious as a pyramid, the other
+is as insignificant as life. Look at the Jew's face, it is done with
+one tint; a synthesis, a dark red, and the face is as it were made out
+of nothing--hardly anything, and yet everything is said... You can't
+say where the picture begins or ends, the Jew surges out of the
+darkness like a vision. Look at his robe, a few folds, that is all,
+and yet he's completely dressed, and his hand, how large, how great...
+Don't you see, don't you understand?'
+
+'I think I do,' Mildred replied a little wistfully, and she cast a
+last look on the young man whom she must admire no more. Ralph opened
+the door marked _students only_, and they went down the stone steps.
+When they came to where the men and women separated for their
+different rooms, Mildred asked Ralph if he were going out to lunch? He
+hesitated, and then answered that it took too long to go to a
+restaurant. Mildred guessed by his manner that he had no money.
+
+'There's no place in the gallery where we can get lunch--you women are
+luckier than us men. What do they give you in your room?'
+
+'You mean in the way of meat? Cold meat, beef and ham, pork pies. But
+I don't care for meat, I never touch it.'
+
+'What do you eat?'
+
+'There are some nice cakes. I'll go and get some; we'll share them.'
+
+'No, no, I really am not hungry, much obliged.'
+
+'Oh, do let me go and get some cakes, it'll be such fun, and so much
+nicer than sitting with a lot of women in that little room.'
+
+They shared their cakes, walking up and down the great stone passages,
+and this was the beginning of their intimacy. On the following week
+she wrote to say what train she was coming up by; he met her at the
+station, and they went together to the National Gallery. But their way
+led through St. James' Park; they lingered there, and, as the season
+advanced, their lingerings in the park grew longer and longer.
+
+'What a pretty park this is. It always seems to me like a lady's
+boudoir, or what I imagine a lady's boudoir must be like.'
+
+'Have you never seen a lady's boudoir?'
+
+'No; I don't think I have. I've never been in what you call society. I
+had to make my living ever since I was sixteen. My father was a small
+tradesman in Brixton. When I was sixteen I had to make my own living.
+I used to draw in the illustrated papers. I began by making two pounds
+a week. Then, as I got on, I used to live as much as possible in the
+country. You can't paint landscapes in London.'
+
+'You must have had a hard time.'
+
+'I suppose I had. It was all right as long as I kept to my newspaper
+work. But I was ambitious, and wanted to paint in oils; but I never
+had a hundred pounds in front of me. I could only get away for a
+fortnight or a month at a time. Then, as things got better, I had to
+help my family. My father died, and I had to look after my mother.'
+
+Mildred raised her eyes and looked at him affectionately.
+
+'I think I could have done something if I had had a fair chance.'
+
+'Done something? But you have done something. Have you forgotten what
+the _Spectator_ said of your farmyard?'
+
+'That's nothing. If I hadn't to think of getting my living I could do
+better than that. Oil painting is the easiest material of all until
+you come to a certain point; after that point, when you begin to think
+of quality and transparency, it is most difficult.'
+
+They were standing on the bridge. The water below them was full of
+ducks. The birds balanced themselves like little boats on the waves,
+and Mildred thought of her five hundred a year and the pleasure it
+would be to help Ralph to paint the pictures he wanted to paint. She
+imagined him a great artist; his success would be her doing. At that
+same moment he was thinking that there never had been any pleasure in
+his life; and Mildred--her hat, her expensive dress, her sunshade--
+seemed in such bitter contrast to himself, to his own life, that he
+could not hide a natural irritation.
+
+'Your life has been all pleasure,' he said, glancing at her
+disdainfully.
+
+'No, indeed, it has not. My life has been miserable enough. We are
+rich, it is true, but our riches have never brought me happiness. The
+best time I've had has been since I met you.'
+
+'Is that true? I wonder if that's true.'
+
+Their eyes met and she said hastily, with seeming desire to change the
+subject:
+
+'So you're a Londoner born and bred, and yet you'd like to live in the
+country.'
+
+'Only for my painting. I love London, but you can't paint landscapes
+in London.'
+
+'I wonder why not. You said you loved this park. There's nothing more
+beautiful in the country--those trees, this quiet, misty lake; it is
+exquisite, and yet I suppose it wouldn't make a picture.'
+
+'I don't know. I've often thought of trying to do something with it.
+But what's beautiful to look at doesn't do well in a picture. The
+hills and dales in the Green Park are perfect--their artificiality is
+their beauty. There's one bit that I like especially.'
+
+'Which is that?'
+
+'The bit by Buckingham Palace where the sheep feed; the trees there
+are beautiful, large spreading trees, and they give the place a false
+air of Arcady. But in a picture it wouldn't do.'
+
+'Why?'
+
+'I can't say. I don't think it would mean much if it were painted.'
+
+'You couldn't have a shepherd, or if you had he'd have to be cross-
+gartered, and his lady-love in flowery silk would have to be sitting
+on a bank, and there is not a bank there, you'd have to invent one.'
+
+'That's it; the park is eighteenth century, a comedy of the
+restoration.'
+
+'But why couldn't you paint that?' said Mildred, pointing to where a
+beautiful building passed across the vista.
+
+'I suppose one ought to be able to. The turrets in the distance are
+fine. But no, it wouldn't make a picture. The landscape painter never
+will be able to do much with London. He'll have to live in the
+country, and if he can't afford to do that he'd better turn it up.'
+
+'Elsie Laurence and Cissy Clive are going to France soon. They say
+that's the only place to study. In the summer they're going to a place
+called Barbizon, near Fontainebleau. I was thinking of going with
+them.'
+
+'Were you? I wish I were going. Especially to Barbizon. The country
+would suit me.'
+
+Mildred longed to say, 'I shall be glad if you'll let me lend you the
+money,' but she didn't dare. At the end of a long silence, Ralph said:
+
+'I think we'd better be going on. It must be nearly ten.'
+
+
+
+
+V.
+
+
+As the spring advanced they spent more and more time in the park. They
+learnt to know it in its slightest aspects; they anticipated each bend
+of the lake's bank; they looked out for the tall trees at the end of
+the island, and often thought of the tree that leaned until its lower
+leaves swept the water's edge. Close to this tree was their favourite
+seat. And, as they sat by the water's edge in the vaporous afternoons,
+the park seemed part and parcel of their love of each other; it was
+their refuge; it was only there that they were alone; the park was a
+relief from the promiscuity of the galleries. In the park they could
+talk without fear of being overheard, and they took interest in the
+changes that spring was effecting in this beautiful friendly nature--
+their friend and their accomplice.
+
+'The park is greener than it was yesterday,' he said. 'Look at that
+tree! How bright the green, and how strange it seems amid all the
+blackness.'
+
+'And that rose cloud and the reflection of the evening in the lake,
+how tranquil.'
+
+'And that great block of buildings, Queen Anne's Mansions, is it not
+beautiful in the blue atmosphere? In London the ugliest things are
+beautiful in the evening. No city has so pictorial an atmosphere.'
+
+'Not Paris?'
+
+'I've not seen Paris; I've never been out of England.'
+
+'Then you're speaking of things you haven't seen.'
+
+'Of things that I've only imagined.'
+
+The conversation paused a moment, and then Ralph said:
+
+'Are you still thinking of going to Paris with Elsie Laurence and
+Cissy Clive?'
+
+'I think so. Paris is the only place one can study art, so they say.'
+
+'You'll be away a long while--several months?'
+
+'It wouldn't be much good going if I didn't stop some time, six or
+seven months, would it?'
+
+'I suppose not.'
+
+Mildred raised her eyes cautiously and looked at him. His eyes were
+averted. He was looking where some ducks were swimming. They came
+towards the bank slowly--a drake and two ducks. A third duck paddled
+aimlessly about at some little distance. There was a slight mist on
+the water.
+
+'If you go to Paris I hope I may write to you. Send me your drawings
+to correct. Any advice I can give you is at your service; I shall only
+be too pleased.'
+
+'Oh, yes, I hope you will write to me. I shall be so glad to hear from
+you. I shall be lonely all that time away from home.'
+
+'And you'll write to me?'
+
+'Of course. And if I write to you, you won't misunderstand?'
+
+Ralph looked up surprised.
+
+'I mean, if I write affectionately you won't misunderstand. It will be
+because---'
+
+'Because you feel lonely?'
+
+'Partly. But you don't misunderstand, do you?'
+
+They watched the ducks in silence. At last Mildred said, 'That duck
+wanders about by herself; why doesn't she join the others?'
+
+'Perhaps she can't find a drake.'
+
+'Perhaps she prefers to be alone.'
+
+'We shall see--the drake is going to her.'
+
+'She is going away from him. She doesn't want him.'
+
+'She's jealous of the others. If there were no other she would.'
+
+'There are always others.'
+
+'Do you think so?'
+
+Mildred did not answer. Ralph waited a few moments, then he said:
+
+'So you're going away for six or seven months; the time will seem very
+long while you're away.'
+
+Again Mildred was tempted to ask him if she might lend him the money
+to go to Paris. She raised her eyes to his (he wondered what was
+passing in her mind), but he did not find courage to speak until some
+days later. He had asked her to come to his studio to see a picture he
+had begun. It was nearly six o'clock; Mildred had been there nearly an
+hour; the composition had been exhaustively admired; but something
+still unsaid seemed to float in the air, and every moment that
+something seemed to grow more imminent.
+
+'You are decided to go to France. When do you leave?'
+
+'Some time next week. The day is not yet fixed.'
+
+'Elsie Laurence and Cissy Clive are going?'
+
+'Yes.... Why don't you come too?'
+
+'I wish I could. I can't. I have no money.'
+
+'But I can lend you what you want. I have more than I require. Let me
+lend you a hundred pounds. Do.'
+
+Ralph smiled through his red moustache, and his grey gentle eyes
+smiled too, a melancholy little smile that passed quickly.
+
+'It is very kind of you. But it would be impossible for me to borrow
+money from you. Even if I had the money, I could hardly go with you.'
+
+'Why not, there's a party. Walter is going, and Hopwood Blunt is
+going. I'm the fifth wheel.'
+
+Ralph was about to say something, but he checked himself; he never
+spoke ill of any one. So, putting his criticism of her companions
+aside, he said:
+
+'Only under one condition could I go abroad with you. You know,
+Mildred, I love you.'
+
+An expression of pleasure came upon her face, and, seeing it, he threw
+his arms out to draw her closer. She drew away.
+
+'You shrink from me.... I suppose I'm too rough. You could never care
+for me.'
+
+'Yes, indeed, Ralph, I do care for you. I like you very much indeed,
+but not like that.'
+
+'You could not like me enough to marry me.'
+
+'I don't think I could marry any one.'
+
+'Why not?'
+
+'I don't know.'
+
+'Do you care for any one else?'
+
+'No, indeed I don't. I like you very much. I want you to be my
+friend.... But you don't understand. Men never do. I suppose affection
+would not satisfy you.'
+
+'But you could not marry me?'
+
+'I'd sooner marry you than any one. But---'
+
+'But what?'
+
+Mildred told the story of her engagement, and how in the end she had
+been forced to break it off.
+
+'And you think if you engaged yourself to me it might end in the same
+way?'
+
+'Yes. And I would not cause you pain. Forgive me.'
+
+'But if you never intend to marry, what do you intend to do?'
+
+'There are other things to do surely.'
+
+'What?'
+
+'There's art.'
+
+'Art!'
+
+'You think I shall not succeed with my painting?'
+
+'No. I did not mean that. I hope you will. But painting is very
+difficult. I've found it so. It seems hopeless.'
+
+'You think I shall be a failure? You think that I'd better remain at
+home and marry than go to France and study?'
+
+'It's impossible to say who will succeed. I only know it is very
+difficult--too difficult for me.... Women never have succeeded in
+painting.'
+
+'Some have, to a certain extent.'
+
+'But you're not angry, offended at my having spoken?'
+
+'No; I hope we shall always be friends. You know that I like you very
+much.'
+
+'Then why not, why not be engaged? It will give you time to consider,
+to find out if you could.'
+
+'But, you see, I've broken off one engagement, so that I might be free
+to devote myself to painting.'
+
+'But that man was not congenial to you. He was not an artist, he would
+have opposed your painting; you'd have had to give up painting if you
+had married him. But I'm quite different. I should help and encourage
+you in your art. All you know I have taught you. I could teach you a
+great deal more. Mildred---'
+
+'Do you think that you could?'
+
+'Yes; will you let me try?'
+
+'But, you see, I'm going away. Shall I see you again before I go?'
+
+'When you like. When? To-morrow?'
+
+'To-morrow would be nice.'
+
+'Where--in the National?'
+
+'No, in the park. It will be nicer in the park. Then about eleven.'
+
+At five minutes past eleven he saw her coming through the trees, and
+she signed to him with a little movement of her parasol, which was
+particularly charming, and which seemed to him to express her. They
+walked from the bridge along the western bank; the trees were prettier
+there, and from their favourite seat they saw the morning light silver
+the water, the light mist evaporate, and the trees on the other bank
+emerge from vague masses into individualities of trunk and bough. The
+day was warm, though there was little sun, and the park swung a great
+mass of greenery under a soft, grey sky.
+
+The drake and the two ducks came swimming towards them--the drake, of
+course, in the middle, looking very handsome and pleased, and at a
+little distance the third duck pursued her rejected and disconsolate
+courtship. Whenever she approached too near, the drake rushed at her
+with open beak, and drove her back. Then she affected not to know
+where she was going, wandering in an aimless, absent-minded fashion,
+getting near and nearer her recalcitrant drake. But these ruses were
+wasted upon him; he saw through them all, and at last he attacked the
+poor broken-hearted duck so determinedly that she was obliged to seek
+safety in flight. And the entire while of the little aquatic comedy
+the wisdom of an engagement had been discussed between Ralph and
+Mildred. She had consented. But her promise had not convinced Ralph,
+and he said, referring to the duck which they had both been watching:
+
+'I shall dangle round you for a time, and when I come too near you'll
+chase me away until at last you'll make up your mind that you can
+stand it no longer, and will refuse ever to see me again.'
+
+
+
+
+VI.
+
+
+She had had a rough passage: sea sickness still haunted in her, she
+was pale with fatigue, and her eyes longed for sleep. But Elsie and
+Cissy were coming to take her to the studio at ten o'clock. So she
+asked to be called at nine, and she got up when she was called.
+
+The gilt clock was striking ten in the empty drawing-room when she
+entered. 'I didn't expect her to get up at six to receive me, but she
+might be up at ten, I think. However, it doesn't much matter. I
+suppose she's looking after her sick husband. ... Well, I don't think
+much of her drawing-room. Red plush sofas and chairs. It is just like
+an hotel, and the street is dingy enough,' thought Mildred, as she
+pulled one of the narrow lace curtains aside: I don't think much of
+Paris. But it doesn't matter, I shall be at the studio nearly all
+day.'
+
+A moment after Mrs. Fargus entered. 'I'm so sorry,' she said, 'I
+wasn't up to receive you, but---'
+
+'I didn't expect you to get up at five, which you would have had to
+do. I was here soon after six.'
+
+Mrs. Fargus asked her if she had had a good passage, if she felt
+fatigued, and what she thought of Paris. And then the conversation
+dropped.
+
+'She's a good little soul,' thought Mildred, 'even though she does
+dress shabbily. It is pure kindness of her to have me here; she
+doesn't want the three pounds a week I pay her. But I had to pay
+something. I couldn't sponge on her hospitality for six months... I
+wonder she doesn't say something. I suppose I must.'
+
+'You know it is very kind of you to have me here. I don't know how to
+thank you.'
+
+Mrs. Fargus' thoughts seemed on their way back from a thousand miles.
+'From the depths of Comte,' thought Mildred.
+
+'My dear, you wanted to study.'
+
+'Yes, but if it hadn't been for you I should never have got the
+chance. As it was Harold did his best to keep me. He said he'd have to
+get a housekeeper, and it would put him to a great deal of
+inconvenience: men are so selfish. He'd like me to keep house for him
+always.'
+
+'We're all selfish, Mildred. Men aren't worse than women, only it
+takes another form. We only recognise selfishness when it takes a form
+different from our practice.'
+
+Mildred listened intently, but Mrs. Fargus said no more, and the
+conversation seemed as if it were going to drop. Suddenly, to
+Mildred's surprise, Mrs. Fargus said:
+
+'When do you propose to begin work?'
+
+'This morning. Elsie Laurence and Cissy Clive are coming to take me to
+the studio. I'm expecting them every moment. They're late.'
+
+'They know the studio they're taking you to, I suppose?'
+
+'Oh yes, they've worked there before... The question is whether I
+ought to work in the men's studio, or if it would be better, safer, to
+join the ladies' class.'
+
+'What does Miss Laurence say?'
+
+'Oh, Elsie and Cissy are going to work with the men. They wouldn't
+work with a lot of women.'
+
+'Why?'
+
+'Because they like being with men in the first place.'
+
+'Oh! But you?'
+
+'No, I don't mind, and yet I don't think I should care to be cooped up
+all day with a lot of women.'
+
+'You mean that there would be more emulation in a mixed class?'
+
+'Yes; and Elsie says it is better to work in the men's studio. There
+are cleverer pupils there than in the ladies' studio, and one learns
+as much from one's neighbours as from the professor; more.'
+
+'Are you sure of that? Do you not think that we are all far too ready
+to assume that whatever men do is the best?'
+
+'I suppose we are.'
+
+'Men kept us uneducated till a hundred years ago; we are only gaining
+our rights inch by inch, prejudice is only being overcome very slowly,
+and whenever women have had equal, or nearly equal, advantages they
+have proved themselves equal or superior to men. Women's inferiority
+in physical strength is immaterial, for, as mankind grows more
+civilised, force will be found in the brain and not in the muscles.'
+
+Mrs. Fargus was now fairly afloat on her favourite theme, viz., if men
+were kind to women, their kindness was worse than their cruelty--it
+was demoralising.
+
+Eventually the conversation returned whence it had started, and Mrs.
+Fargus said:
+
+'Then why do you hesitate? What is the objection to the men's studio?'
+
+'I do not know that there is any particular objection, nothing that I
+ought to let stand in the way of my studies. It was only something
+that Elsie and Cissy said. They said the men's conversation wasn't
+always very nice. But they weren't sure, for they understand French
+hardly at all--they may have been mistaken. But if the conversation
+were coarse it would be very unpleasant for me; the students would
+know that I understood... Then there's the model, there's that to be
+got over. But Elsie and Cissy say that the model's nothing; no more
+than a statue.'
+
+'The model is undraped?'
+
+'Oh, yes.'
+
+'Really Mildred---'
+
+'That's the disadvantage of being a girl. Prejudice closes the
+opportunity of study to one.'
+
+Mrs. Fargus did not speak for a long time. At last she said:
+
+'Of course, Mildred, you must consult your own feeling; if it's the
+custom, if it's necessary--Your vocation is of course everything.'
+
+Then it was Mildred's turn to pause before answering. At last she
+said:
+
+'It does seem rather--well, disgusting, but if it is necessary for
+one's art. In a way I'd as soon work in the ladies' studio.'
+
+'I daresay you derive just as much advantage.'
+
+'Do you think so? It's from the students round one that one learns,
+and there's no use coming to Paris if one doesn't make the most of
+one's opportunities.'
+
+'You might give the ladies' studio a trial, and if you didn't find you
+were getting on you could join the men's.'
+
+'After having wasted three months! As you say my vocation is
+everything. It would be useless for me to think of taking up painting
+as a profession, if I did not work in the men's studio.'
+
+'But are you going there?'
+
+'I can't make up my mind. You have frightened me, you've put me off
+it.'
+
+'I think I hardly offered an opinion.'
+
+'Perhaps Harold would not like me to go there.'
+
+'You might write to him. Yes, write to him.'
+
+'Write to Harold about such a thing--the most conventional man in the
+world!'
+
+At that moment the servant announced Elsie and Cissy. They wore their
+best dresses and were clearly atingle with desire of conversation and
+Paris.
+
+'We're a little late, aren't we, dear. We're so sorry,' said Elsie.
+
+'How do you do, dear,' said Cissy.
+
+Mildred introduced her friends. They bowed, and shook hands with Mrs.
+Fargus, but were at no pains to conceal their indifference to the drab
+and dowdy little woman in the soiled sage green, and the glimmering
+spectacles. 'What a complexion,' whispered Elsie the moment they were
+outside the door. 'What's her husband like?' asked Cissy as they
+descended the first flight. Mildred answered that Mr. Fargus suffered
+from asthma, and hoped no further questions would be asked, so happy
+was she in the sense of real emancipation from the bondage of home--so
+delighted was she in the spectacle of the great boulevard, now radiant
+with spring sunlight.
+
+She wondered at the large blue cravats of idlers, sitting in cafes
+freshly strewn with bright clean sand, at the aprons of the waiters,--
+the waiters were now pouring out green absinthe,--at the little shop
+girls in tight black dresses and frizzled hair, passing three together
+arm in arm; all the boulevard amused and interested Mildred. It looked
+so different, she said, from what it had done four hours before. 'But
+none of us look our best at six in the morning,' she added laughing,
+and her friends laughed too. Elsie and Cissy chattered of some project
+to dine with Walter, and go to the theatre afterwards, and
+incidentally Mildred learnt that Hopwood Blunt would not be in Paris
+before the end of the week. But where was the studio? The _kiosques_
+were now open, the morning papers were selling briskly, the roadway
+was full of _fiacres_ plying for hire, or were drawn up in lines three
+deep, the red waistcoated coachmen slept on their box-seats. But where
+was the studio?
+
+Suddenly they turned into an Arcade. The shops on either side were
+filled with jet ornaments, fancy glass, bon-bons, boxes, and fans.
+Cissy thought of a present for Hopwood--that case of liqueur glasses.
+Mildred examined a jet brooch which she thought would suit Mrs.
+Fargus. Elsie wished that Walter would present her with a fan; and
+then they went up a flight of wooden stairs and pushed open a swing
+door. In a small room furnished with a divan, a desk, and a couple of
+cane chairs, they met M. Daveau. He wore a short jacket and a brown-
+black beard. He shook hands with Elsie and Cissy, and was introduced
+to Mildred. Elsie said:
+
+'You speak better than we do. Tell him you've come here to study.'
+
+'I've come to Paris to study painting,' said Mildred. 'But I don't
+know which I shall join, the ladies' studio or the men's studio. Miss
+Laurence and Miss Clive advised me to work here, in the men's studio.'
+
+'I know Miss Laurence and Miss Clive very well.' There was charm in
+his voice, and Mildred was already interested in him. Cissy and Elsie
+had drawn a curtain at the end of the room and were peeping into the
+studio. 'Miss Laurence and Miss Clive,' he said, 'worked here for more
+than a year. They made a great deal of progress--a great deal. They
+worked also in the ladies' studio, opposite.'
+
+'Ah, that is what I wanted to speak to you about. Would you advise me
+to work in the men's studio? Do you think it would be advisable? Do
+you think there would be any advantages?'
+
+'We have some very clever pupils here--very clever; of course it is of
+great advantage to work with clever pupils.'
+
+'That is what I think, but I am not certain.'
+
+'If Mademoiselle intends to study painting seriously.'
+
+'Oh, but I do; I am very serious.'
+
+'Then I do not think there can be any doubt which studio she should
+choose.'
+
+'Very well.'
+
+'This studio is a hundred francs a month--for a lady; the ladies'
+studio is sixty francs a month.'
+
+'Why is that?'
+
+'Because, if it were not so, we should be overcrowded. Ladies prefer
+to work in this studio, it is much more advantageous. If you would
+like to see the studio first?'
+
+There were more than thirty in the studio; about twenty men and
+fifteen women. Some sat on low stools close under the platform whereon
+the model stood, some worked at easels drawn close together in a
+semicircle round the room. The model was less shocking than Mildred
+had imagined; he stood with his hands on his hip, a staff in his hand;
+and, had it not been for a slight swaying motion, she would hardly
+have known he was alive. She had never drawn before from the living
+model, and was puzzled to know how to begin. She was going to ask
+Elsie to tell her, when M. Daveau drew the curtain aside, and picking
+his way through the pupils, came straight to her. He took the stool
+next her, and with a pleasant smile asked if she had ever drawn from
+the life.
+
+'No,' she said, 'I have only copied a few pictures, you learn nothing
+from copying.'
+
+He told her how she must count the number of heads, and explained to
+her the advantage of the plumb-line in determining the action of the
+figure. Mildred was much interested; she wondered if she would be able
+to put the instruction she was receiving into practice, and was
+disappointed when the model got down from the table and put on his
+trousers.
+
+'The model rests for ten minutes every three quarters of an hour.
+He'll take the pose again presently. It is now eleven o'clock.'
+
+M. Daveau laid the charcoal upon her easel, and promised to come and
+see how she was getting on later in the afternoon. But, just as the
+model was about to take the pose again, a young girl entered the
+studio.
+
+'Do you want a model?'
+
+'Yes, if she has a good figure,' said a student. 'Have you a good
+figure?' he added with a smile.
+
+'Some people think so. You must judge for yourselves,' she answered,
+taking off her hat.
+
+'Surely she is not going to undress in public!' said Mildred to Elsie,
+who had come to her easel.
+
+
+
+
+VII.
+
+
+Mildred worked hard in the studio. She was always one of the first to
+arrive, and she did not leave till the model had finished sitting, and
+during the eight hours, interrupted only by an hour in the middle of
+the day for lunch, she applied herself to her drawing, eschewing
+conversation with the students, whether French or English. She did not
+leave her easel when the model rested; she waited patiently sharpening
+her pencils or reading--she never came to the studio unprovided with a
+book. And she made a pretty picture sitting on her high stool, and the
+students often sketched her during the rests. Although quietly, she
+was always beautifully dressed. Simple though they appeared to be, her
+black _crepe de chine_ skirts told of large sums of money spent in
+fashionable millinery establishments, and her large hats profusely
+trimmed with ostrich feathers, which suited her so well, contrasted
+strangely with the poor head-gear of the other girls; and when the
+weather grew warmer she appeared in a charming shot silk grey and
+pink, and a black straw hat lightly trimmed with red flowers. In
+answer to Elsie, who had said that she looked as if she were going to
+a garden-party, Mildred said:
+
+'I don't see why, because you're an artist, you should be a slattern.
+I don't feel comfortable in a dirty dress. It makes me feel quite
+ill.'
+
+Although Mildred was constantly with Elsie and Cissy she never seemed
+to be of their company; and seeing them sitting together in the
+_Bouillon Duval_, at their table next the window, an observer would be
+sure to wonder what accident had sent out that rare and subtle girl
+with such cheerful commonness as Elsie and Cissy. The contrast was
+even more striking when they entered the eating-house, Mildred looking
+a little annoyed, and always forgetful of the tariff card which she
+should take from the door-keeper. Elsie and Cissy triumphant, making
+for the staircase, as Mildred said to herself, 'with a flourish of
+cards.' Mildred instinctively hated the _Bouillon Duval_, and only
+went there because her friends could not afford a restaurant. The
+traffic of the _Bouillon_ disgusted her; the food, she admitted, was
+well enough, but, as she said, it was mealing--feeding like an animal
+in a cage,--not dining or breakfasting. Very often she protested.
+
+'Oh, nonsense,' said Cissy, 'we shall get one of Catherine's tables if
+we make haste.'
+
+Catherine was their favourite waitress. Like a hen she seemed to have
+taken them under her protection. And she told them what were the best
+dishes, and devoted a large part of her time to attending on them. She
+liked Mildred especially; she paid her compliments and so became a
+contrary influence in Mildred's dislike of the _Bouillon_. She seemed
+to understand them thoroughly from the first. Elsie and Cissy she knew
+would eat everything, they were never without their appetites, but
+Mildred very often said she could eat nothing. Then Catherine would
+come to the rescue with a tempting suggestion, _Une belle aile de
+poulet avec sauce remoulade_. 'Well, perhaps I could pick a bone,'
+Mildred would answer, and these wings of chicken seemed to her the
+best she had ever eaten. She liked the tiny strawberries which were
+beginning to come into season; she liked _les petites suisses_; and
+she liked the chatter of her friends, and her own chatter across the
+little marble table. She thought that she had never enjoyed talking so
+much before.
+
+One evening, as they stirred their coffee, Elsie said, looking down
+the street, 'What a pretty effect.'
+
+Mildred leaned over her friend's shoulder and saw the jagged outline
+of the street and a spire beautiful in the sunset. She was annoyed
+that she had not first discovered the picturesqueness of the
+perspective, and, when Elsie sketched the street on the marble table,
+she felt that she would never be able to draw like that.
+
+The weather grew warmer, and, in June, M. Daveau and three or four of
+the leading students proposed that they should make up a party to
+spend Sunday at Bas Mendon. To arrive at Bas Mendon in time for
+breakfast they would have to catch the ten o'clock boat from the Pont
+Neuf. Cissy, Elsie, and Mildred were asked: there were no French girls
+to ask, so, as Elsie said, 'they'd have the men to themselves.'
+
+The day impressed itself singularly on Mildred's mind. She never
+forgot the drive to the Pont Neuf in the early morning, the sunshine
+had seemed especially lovely; she did not forget her fear lest she
+should be late--she was only just in time; they were waiting for her,
+their paint-boxes slung over their shoulders, and the boat was moving
+alongside as she ran down the steps. She did not forget M. Daveau's
+black beard; she saw it and remembered it long afterwards. But she
+never could recall her impressions of the journey--she only remembered
+that it had seemed a long while, and that she was very hungry when
+they arrived. She remembered the trellis and the boiled eggs and the
+cutlets, and that after breakfast M. Daveau had painted a high
+stairway that led to the top of the hill and she remembered how she
+had stood behind him wondering at the ease with which he drew in the
+steps. In the evening there had been a little exhibition of sketches,
+and in the boat going home he had talked to her; and she had enjoyed
+talking to him. Of his conversation she only recalled one sentence.
+She had asked him if he liked classical music, and he had answered,
+'There is no music except classical music.' And it was this chance
+phrase that made the day memorable; its very sententiousness had
+pleased her; in that calm bright evening she had realised and it had
+helped her to realise that there existed a higher plane of
+appreciation and feeling than that on which her mind moved.
+
+At the end of July, Elsie and Cissy spoke of going into the country,
+and they asked Mildred to come with them. Barbizon was a village close
+to the Forest of Fontainebleau. There was an inn where they would be
+comfortable: all the clever young fellows went to Barbizon for the
+summer. But Mildred thought that on the whole it would be better for
+her to continue working in the studio without interruption. Elsie and
+Cissy did not agree with her. They told her that she would find the
+studio almost deserted and quite intolerable in August. Bad tobacco,
+drains, and Italian models--Faugh! But their description of what the
+studio would become in the hot weather did not stir Mildred's
+resolution. M. Daveau had told her that landscape painting would come
+to her very easily when she had learnt to draw, and that the way to
+learn to draw was to draw from the nude. So she bore with the heat and
+the smells for eight hours a day. There were but four or five other
+pupils beside herself; this was an advantage in a way, but these few
+were not inclined for work; idleness is contagious, and Mildred
+experienced much difficulty in remaining at her easel.
+
+In the evenings her only distraction was to go for a drive with Mrs.
+Fargus. But too often Mrs. Fargus could not leave her husband, and
+these evenings Mildred spent in reading or in writing letters. The
+dullness of her life and the narrowness and aridity of her
+acquaintance induced her to write very often to Ralph, and depression
+of spirits often tempted her to express herself more affectionately
+than she would have done in wider and pleasanter circumstances. She
+once spoke of the pleasure it would give her to see him, she said that
+she would like to see him walk into the studio. But when he took her
+at her word and she saw him draw aside the curtain and look in, a
+cloud of annoyance gathered on her face. But she easily assumed her
+pretty mysterious smile and said:
+
+'When did you arrive?'
+
+'Only this morning. You said you'd like to see me. I had to come.... I
+hope you are not angry.'
+
+Then noticing that the girl next them was an English girl, Ralph spoke
+about Mildred's drawing. She did not like him to see it, but he asked
+her for the charcoal and said if she would give him her place he would
+see if he could find out what was wrong; he did not think she had got
+enough movement into the figure.
+
+'Ah, that's what the professor says when he comes round _toujours un
+peu froid comme mouvement._ I can get the proportions; it is the
+movement that bothers me.'
+
+'Movement is drawing in the real sense of the word. If they would only
+teach you to draw by the movement.'
+
+He continued to correct Mildred's drawing for some time. When he laid
+down the charcoal, he said:
+
+'How hot it is here! I wonder how you can bear it.'
+
+'Yes, the heat is dreadful. I'm too exhausted to do much work.
+Supposing we go out.'
+
+They went downstairs and some way along the Passage des Panoramas
+without speaking. At last Mildred said:
+
+'Are you going to be in Paris for long?'
+
+'No, I'm going back at once, perhaps to-morrow. You know I've a lot of
+work on hand. I'm getting on, luck has turned. I've sold several
+pictures. I must get back.'
+
+'Why, to-morrow?--it was hardly worth while coming for so short a
+time.'
+
+'I only came to see you. You know I couldn't--you know--I mean that I
+felt that I must see you.'
+
+Mildred looked up, it was an affectionate glance; and she swung her
+parasol in a way that recalled their walks in the Green Park. They
+passed out of the _passage_ into the boulevard. As they crossed the
+Rue Vivienne, Ralph said in his abrupt fragmentary way:
+
+'You said you'd like to see me, I could see from your letters that you
+were unhappy.'
+
+'No, I'm not unhappy--a little dull at times, that is all.'
+
+'You wrote me some charming letters. I hope you meant all you said.'
+
+'Did I say so much, then? I daresay I said more than I intended.'
+
+'No, don't say that, don't say that.'
+
+The absinthe drinkers, the green trees, the blue roofs of the great
+houses, all these signs of the boulevard, intruded upon and
+interrupted their thoughts; then the boulevard passed out of their
+sight and they were again conscious of nothing but each other.
+
+'I met your brother. He was anxious about you. He wondered if you were
+getting on and I said that I'd go and see.'
+
+'And do you think I'm getting on?'
+
+ Yes, I think you've made progress. You couldn't have done that
+drawing before you went to Paris.'
+
+'You really think so.... I was right to go to Paris.... I must show
+you my other drawings. I've some better than that.'
+
+The artistic question was discussed till they reached the Place de
+l'Opera.
+
+'That is the opera-house,' Mildred said, 'and that is the Cafe de la
+Paix.... You haven't been to Paris before?'
+
+'No; this is my first visit. But I didn't come to Paris to see Paris.
+I came to see you. I could not help myself. Your letters were so
+charming. I have read them over a thousand times. I couldn't go on
+reading them without seeing you.... I got afraid that you'd find some
+one here you'd fall in love with. Some one whom you'd prefer to me.
+Have you?'
+
+'No; I don't know that I have.'
+
+'Then why shouldn't we be married? That's what I've come to ask you.'
+
+'You mean now, in Paris?'
+
+'Why not? If you haven't met any one you like better, you know.'
+
+'And give up my painting, and just at the time I'm beginning to get
+on! You said I had improved in my drawing.'
+
+'Ah, your drawing interests you more than I.'
+
+'I'd give anything to draw like Misal. You don't know him--a student
+of the _Beaux Arts._'
+
+'When you'd learnt all he knows, you wouldn't be any nearer to
+painting a picture.'
+
+'That isn't very polite. You don't think much of my chances of
+success.... But we shall see.'
+
+'Mildred, you don't understand me. This is not fair to me. Only say
+when you'll marry me, and I'll wait, I'll wait, yes, as long as you
+like--only fix a time.'
+
+'When I've learnt to draw.'
+
+'You're laughing at me.'
+
+Her face darkened, and they did not speak again till the green roof of
+the Madeleine appeared, striking sharp against a piece of blue sky.
+Mildred said:
+
+'This is my way,' and she turned to the right.
+
+'You take offence without cause. When you have learnt to draw! We're
+always learning to draw. No one has ever learnt to draw perfectly.'
+
+'I have no other answer.'
+
+'Mildred, this isn't fair.'
+
+'If you're not satisfied I release you from your engagement. Yes, I
+release you from your engagement.'
+
+'Mildred, you're cruel. You seem to take pleasure in torturing me. But
+this cannot be. I cannot live without you. What am I to do?'
+
+'You must try.'
+
+'No, I shall not try,' he answered sullenly.
+
+'What will you do?'
+
+'My plans are made. I shall not live.'
+
+'Oh, Ralph, you will not kill yourself. It would not be worth while.
+You've your art to live for. You are--how old are you--thirty? You're
+no longer a sentimental boy. You've got your man's life to lead. You
+must think of it.'
+
+'I don't feel as if I could. Life seems impossible.'
+
+She looked into his pale gentle eyes and the thought crossed her mind
+that his was perhaps one of those narrow, gentle natures that cannot
+outlive such a disappointment as she intended to inflict. It would be
+very terrible if he did commit suicide, the object of his visit to
+Paris would transpire. But no, he would not commit suicide, she was
+quite safe, and on that thought she said:
+
+'I cannot remain out any longer.'
+
+
+
+
+VIII.
+
+
+She stopped in the middle of the room, and, holding in her hand her
+large hat decorated with ostrich feathers, she assured herself that it
+was not at all likely that he would commit suicide. Yet men did commit
+suicide.... She did not want him to kill himself, that anything so
+terrible should happen would grieve her very much. She was quite
+sincere, yet the thought persisted that it would be very wonderful if
+he did do so. It would make a great scandal. That a man should kill
+himself for her! No woman had ever obtained more than that. Standing
+in the middle of the room, twirling her hat, she asked herself if she
+really wished him to kill himself. Of course not. Then she thought of
+herself, of how strange she was. She was very strange, she had never
+quite understood herself.
+
+Mechanically, as if in a dream, she opened a bandbox and put her hat
+away. She smoothed her soft hair before the glass. Her appearance
+pleased her, and she wondered if she were worth a man's life. She was
+a dainty morsel, no doubt, so dainty that life was unendurable without
+her. But she was wronging herself, she did not wish him to kill
+himself.... Men had done so before for women.... If it came to the
+point, she would do everything in her power to prevent such a thing.
+She would do everything, yes, everything except marry him. She
+couldn't settle down to watch him painting pictures. She wanted to
+paint pictures herself. Would she succeed? He didn't think so, but
+that was because he wanted her to marry him. And, if she didn't
+succeed, she would have to marry him or some one else. She would have
+to live with a man, give up her whole life to him, submit herself to
+him. She must succeed. Success meant so much. If she succeeded, she
+would be spoken of in the newspapers, and, best of all, she would hear
+people say when she came into a room, 'That is Mildred Lawson....'
+
+She didn't want to marry, but she would like to have all the nicest
+men in love with her.... Meanwhile she was doing the right thing. She
+must learn to draw, and the studio was the only place she could learn.
+But she did not want to paint large portraits with dark backgrounds.
+She could not see herself doing things like that. Chaplin was her
+idea. She had always admired him. His women were so dainty, so
+elegant, so eighteenth century--wicked little women in swings, as
+wicked as their ankles, as their lovers' guitars.
+
+But she would have to work two or three years before any one could
+tell her whether she would succeed. Two or three years! It was a long
+time, but a woman must do something if she wishes to attract
+attention, to be a success. A little success in art went a long way in
+society. But Paris was so dull, Elsie and Cissy were still away. There
+was no one in the studio who interested her; moreover, Elsie had told
+her that any flirtation there might easily bring banishment to the
+ladies' studio across the way. So it was provoking that Ralph had
+forced her to throw him over at that particular moment. She would have
+liked to have kept him on, at least till the end of the month, when
+Elsie and Cissy would return. The break with Ralph was certainly not
+convenient. She still felt some interest in him. She would write to
+him.
+
+
+
+
+IX.
+
+
+'We've come back,' said Elsie. 'We heard at the studio that you had
+gone away feeling ill, so we came on here to find out how you were.'
+
+'Oh, it is nothing,' said Mildred. 'I've been working rather hard
+lately, that's all.'
+
+'You should have come with us,' said Cissy. 'We've had an awfully
+jolly time.'
+
+'We'll go into the drawing-room. Wait a minute till I find my
+slippers.'
+
+'Oh, don't trouble to get up; we only came to see how you were,' said
+Elsie.
+
+'But I'm quite well, there's really nothing the matter. It was only
+that I felt I couldn't go on working this afternoon. The model bored
+me, and it was so hot. It was very good of you to come and see me like
+this.'
+
+'We've had a jolly time and have done a lot of work.'
+
+'Elsie has done a girl weaving a daisy-chain in a meadow. It is
+wonderful how she has got the sunlight on the grass. All our things
+are in the studio, you will see them to-morrow.'
+
+'I don't see why I shouldn't see them to-day. I'll dress myself.'
+
+The account they gave of their summer outing was tantalising to the
+tired and jaded girl. She imagined the hushed and shady places, the
+murmuring mystery of bird and insect life. She could see them going
+forth in the mornings with their painting materials, sitting at their
+easels under the tall trees, intent on their work or lying on rugs
+spread in the shade, the blue smoke of cigarettes curling and going
+out, or later in the evening packing up easels and paint-boxes, and
+finding their way out of the forest.
+
+It was Elsie who did most of the talking. Cissy reminded her now and
+then of something she had forgotten, and, when they turned into the
+Passage des Panoramas, Elsie was deep in an explanation of the folly
+of square brush work. Both were converts to open brush work. They had
+learnt it from a very clever fellow, an impressionist. All his shadows
+were violet. She did not hold with his theory regarding the division
+of the tones: at least not yet. Perhaps she would come to it in time.
+
+Mildred liked Elsie's lady in a white dress reading under a
+rhododendron tree in full blossom. Cissy had painted a naked woman in
+the garden sunshine. Mildred did not think that flesh could be so
+violet as that, but there was a dash and go about it that she felt she
+would never attain. It seemed to her a miracle, and, in her admiration
+for her friend's work, she forgot her own failure. The girls dined at
+a Bouillon Duval and afterwards they went to the theatre together.
+Next morning they met, all three, in the studio; the model was
+interesting, Mildred caught the movement more happily than usual; her
+friends' advice had helped her.
+
+But at least two years would have to pass before she would know if she
+had the necessary talent to succeed as an artist. For that while she
+must endure the drudgery of the studio and the boredom of evenings
+alone with Mrs. Fargus. She went out with Elsie and Cissy sometimes,
+but the men they introduced her to were not to her taste. She had seen
+no one who interested her in Paris, except perhaps M. Daveau. That
+thick-set, black-bearded southern, with his subtle southern manner,
+had appealed to her, in a way. But M. Daveau had been ordered suddenly
+to Royon for gout and rheumatism, and Mildred was left without any one
+to exercise her attractions upon. She spent evening after evening with
+Mrs. Fargus, until the cropped hair, the spectacles, above all, the
+black satin dress with the crimson scarf, getting more and more
+twisted, became intolerable. And Mr. Fargus' cough and his vacuous
+conversation, in which no shadow of an idea ever appeared, tried her
+temper. But she forebore, seeing how anxious they were to please her.
+That was the worst. These simple kind-hearted people saw that their
+sitting-room bored Mildred, and they often took her for drives in the
+Bois after dinner. Crazed with boredom Mildred cast side-long glances
+of hatred at Mrs. Fargus, who sat by her side a mute little figure
+lost in Comte. Mr. Fargus' sallow-complexioned face was always
+opposite her; he uttered commonplaces in a loud voice, and Mildred
+longed to fling herself from the carriage. At last, unable to bear
+with reality, she chattered, laughed, and told stories and joked until
+her morose friends wondered at her happiness. Her friends were her
+audience; they sufficed to stimulate the histrionic spirit in her, and
+she felt pleased like an actor who has amused an audience which he
+despises.
+
+She had now been in Paris seven months, but she had seen little of
+Paris except the studio and the Bouillon Duval where she went to
+breakfast with Elsie and Cissy. The spectacle of the Boulevards, the
+trees and the cafes always the same, had begun to weary her. Her
+health, too, troubled her a little, she was not very strong, and she
+had begun to think that a change would do her good. She would return
+to Paris in the spring; she would spend next summer in Barbizon; she
+was determined to allow nothing to interfere with her education; but,
+for the moment, she felt that she must go back to Sutton. Every day
+her craving for England grew more intolerable. She craved for England,
+for her home, for its food, for its associations. She longed for her
+own room, for her garden, for the trap. She wanted to see all the
+girls, to hear what they thought of her absence. She wanted to see
+Harold.
+
+At first his letters had irritated her, she had said that he wanted
+her to look after his house; she had argued that a man never hesitates
+to put aside a woman's education, if it suits his convenience. But now
+it seemed to her that it would be unkind to leave Harold alone any
+longer. It was manifestly her duty to go home, to spend Christmas with
+him. She was only going to Sutton for a while. She loved France, and
+would certainly return. She knew now what Paris was like, and when she
+returned it would be alone, or in different company. Mrs. Fargus was
+very well, but she could not go on living with her for ever. She would
+come in useful another time. But, for the moment, she could not go on
+living with her, she had become a sort of Old Man of the Sea, and the
+only way to rid herself of her was by returning to England.
+
+An imperative instinct was drawing her back to England, but another
+instinct equally strong said: 'As soon as I am rested, nothing shall
+prevent me from returning to Paris.'
+
+
+
+
+X.
+
+
+The sea was calm and full of old-fashioned brigs and barques. She
+watched them growing small like pictures floating between a green sea
+and a mauve sky; and then was surprised to see the white cliffs so
+near; and the blowing woodland was welcome after the treeless French
+plain.
+
+Harold was to meet her at Victoria, and when she had answered his
+questions regarding the crossing, and they had taken their seats in
+the suburban train, he said:
+
+'You're looking a little tired, you've been over-doing it.'
+
+'Yes, I've been working pretty hard,' she said, and the conversation
+paused.
+
+The trap was waiting for them at the station and, when they got in,
+Mildred said: 'I wonder what there will be for dinner.'
+
+'I think there is boiled salmon and a roast leg of mutton. Will that
+suit you?'
+
+'Well,' said Mildred, 'isn't that taking a somewhat sudden leap?'
+
+'Leap where?'
+
+'Why, into England. I should have thought that some sort of dish--a
+roast chicken or a boiled chicken would have been a _pas de Calais_
+kind of dish.'
+
+'You shall have roast chicken to-morrow, or would you like them
+boiled?'
+
+'I don't mind,' said Mildred, more disappointed at the failure of her
+joke than at the too substantial fare that awaited her. 'Poor Harold,'
+she thought, 'is the best of fellows, but, like all of them, he can't
+see a joke. The cooking I can alter, but he'll always remain boiled
+and roast leg of mutton.'
+
+But, though with little sense of humour, Harold was not as dense as
+Mildred thought. He saw that her spirits were forced, that she was in
+ill-health, and required a long rest. So he was not surprised to hear
+in the morning that she was too tired to come down to breakfast; she
+had a cup of tea in her room, and when she came down to the dining-
+room she turned from the breakfast table. She could touch nothing, and
+went out of doors to see what kind of day it was.
+
+The skies were grey and lowering, the little avenue that led to the
+gate was full of dead leaves; they fluttered down from the branches;
+the lawn was soaked, and the few flowers that remained were pale and
+worn. A sense of death and desolation pervaded the damp, moist air;
+Mildred felt sorrow mounting in her throat, and a sense of dread,
+occasioned by the sudden showering of a bough, caused her to burst
+into tears. She had no strength left, she felt that she was going to
+be ill, and trembled lest she should die.
+
+To die, and she so young! No, she would live, she would succeed. But
+to do that she must take more care of her health. She would eat no
+more bon-bons; she threw the box away. And, conquering her repugnance
+to butchers' meat, she finished a chop and drank a couple of glasses
+of wine for lunch. The food did her good, and she determined to take a
+long rest. For a month she would do nothing but rest, she would not
+think of painting, she would not even draw on the blotting-pad. Rest
+was what she wanted, and there was no better place to rest than
+Sutton.
+
+'If it weren't so dull.' She sighed and looked out on the wet lawn. No
+one would call, no one knew she had come home. Was it wise for her to
+venture out, and on such a day? She felt that it was not, and
+immediately after ordered the trap.
+
+She went to call on some friends.... If they would allow her to bring
+Mabel back to dinner it would be nice, she could show Mabel her
+dresses and tell her about Paris. But Mabel was staying with friends
+in London. This was very disappointing, but determined to see some one
+Mildred went a long way in search of a girl who used to bore her
+dreadfully. But she too was out. Coming home Mildred was caught in the
+rain; the exertion of changing her clothes had exhausted her, and
+sitting in the warmth of the drawing-room fire she grew fainter and
+fainter. The footman brought in the lamp. She got up in some vague
+intention of fetching a book, but, as she crossed the room, she fell
+full length along the floor.
+
+
+
+
+XI.
+
+
+When she was able to leave her room she was ordered to the sea-side.
+After a fortnight in Brighton she went to stay with some friends in
+town. Christmas she spent in Sutton. There was a large party of
+Harold's friends, business folk, whom Mildred hated. She was glad when
+they left, and she was free to choose the room that suited her purpose
+best. She purchased draperies, and hired models, and commenced a
+picture. She commenced a second picture, but that too went wrong; she
+then tried a few studies. She got on better with these, but it soon
+became clear to her that she could not carry out her ideas until she
+had learned to draw.
+
+Another two years of hard work in the studio were necessary. But as
+she was not going to Paris till the spring her thoughts turned to the
+National Gallery, and on the following week she commenced copying a
+head by Greuse. She had barely finished sketching in the head when
+Miss Brand told her that Ralph was very ill and was not expected to
+live. She laid her charcoal on the easel, the movement was very slow,
+and she lifted a frightened face.
+
+'What is the matter with him? Do you know?'
+
+'He caught a bad cold about a month ago, he doesn't seem ever to have
+got over it. But for a long time he has been looking worried, you know
+the look of a man who has something on his mind.'
+
+A close observer might have noticed that the expression on Mildred's
+face changed a little. 'He is dying for me,' she thought. 'He is dying
+for love of me.' And as in a ray of sunlight she basked for a moment
+in a little glow of self-satisfaction. Then, almost angrily, she
+defended herself against herself. She was not responsible for so
+casual a thought, the greatest saint might be the victim of a
+wandering thought. She was, of course, glad that he liked her, but she
+was sorry that she had caused him suffering. He must have suffered.
+Men will sacrifice anything for their passions. But no, Ralph had
+always been nice with her, she owed him a great deal; they had had
+pleasant times together--in this very gallery. She could remember
+almost every word he said. She had liked him to lean over her
+shoulder, and correct her drawing. He would never do so again.
+
+Good heavens! ... Just before Miss Brand came up to speak to her she
+was wondering if she should meet him in the gallery, and what he would
+think of the Greuse. He wouldn't care much about it. He didn't care
+much about the French eighteenth century, of course he admired
+Watteau, but it was an impersonal admiration, there was nothing of the
+Watteau, Greuse, Pater, or Lancret in him. He was purely English. He
+took no interest in the unreal charm that that head expressed. Of
+course, no such girl had ever existed or could exist, those melting
+eyes and the impossible innocence of that mouth! It was the soul of a
+courtesan in the body of a virgin. She was like that, somewhat like
+that; and, inspired by the likeness between herself and the picture,
+Mildred took up her charcoal and continued her drawing.
+
+But she must have been thinking vaguely all the while of Ralph, for
+suddenly her thoughts became clear and she heard the words as if they
+had been read to her: 'Lots of men have killed themselves for women,
+but to die of a broken heart proves a great deal more. Few women have
+inspired such a love as that.... If it were known--if--she pushed the
+thought angrily aside as one might a piece of furniture over which one
+has stumbled in the dark. It was shocking that thoughts should come
+uncalled for, and such thoughts! the very opposite of what she really
+felt. That man had been very good to her; she had liked him very much.
+It was shocking that she had been the cause of his death. It was too
+terrible. But it was most improbable, it was much more likely that his
+illness was the effect of the cold he had caught last month. Men did
+not die of broken hearts. She had nothing whatever to do with it....
+And yet she didn't know. When men like him set their hearts on a
+woman--she was very sorry, she was sorry. But there was no use
+thinking any more about it...
+
+So she locked up her paint-box and left the gallery. She was nervous;
+her egotism had frightened her a little. He was dying, and for her,
+yet she felt nothing. Not only were her eyes dry, but her heart was
+too. A pebble with her own name written on it, that was her heart. She
+wished to feel, she longed for the long ache of regret which she read
+of in books, she yearned for tears. Tears were a divine solace, grief
+was beautiful. And all along the streets she continued to woo sorrow--
+she thought of his tenderness, the real goodness of his nature, his
+solicitude for her, and she allowed her thoughts to dwell on the
+pleasant hours they had passed together.
+
+Her heart remained unmoved, but her feet led her towards St. James'
+Park. She thought she would like to see it again, and when she stood
+on the bridge where they had so often stood, when she visited the seat
+where they had often sat chatting under the budding trees her eyes
+would surely fill with tears, and she would grieve for her dying lover
+as appropriately as any other woman.
+
+But that day the park was submerged in blue mist. The shadows of the
+island fell into the lake, still as death; and the birds, moving
+through the little light that lingered on the water, seemed like
+shadows, strange and woe-begone. To Mildred it seemed all like death.
+She would never again walk with him in the pretty spring mornings when
+light mist and faint sunlight play together, and the trees shake out
+their foliage in the warm air. How sad it all was. But she did feel
+sorry for him, she really was sorry, though she wasn't overcome with
+grief. But she had done nothing wrong. In justice to herself she could
+not admit that she had. She always knew just where to draw the line,
+and if other girls did not, so much the worse for them. He had wanted
+to marry her, but that was no reason why she should marry him. She may
+have led him to expect that she would sooner or later, but in breaking
+with him she had done the wisest thing. She would not have made him
+happy; she was not sure that she could make any man happy...
+
+Awaking from her thoughts she reproached herself for her selfishness,
+she was always thinking of herself... and that poor fellow was dying
+for love of her! She knew what death was; she too had been ill. She
+was quite well now, but she had been ill enough to see to the edge of
+that narrow little slit in the ground, that terrible black little slit
+whence Ralph was going, going out of her sight for ever, out of sight
+of the park, this park which would be as beautiful as ever in another
+couple of months, and where he had walked with her. How terrible it
+was, how awful--and how cold, she could not stand on the bridge any
+longer. She shivered and said, 'I'm catching a cold.'
+
+For the sake of her figure she never wore quite enough clothes, and
+she regretted her imprudence in standing so long on the misty bridge.
+She must take care of herself, for her to feel ill would serve no
+purpose--she would not be able to see Ralph, and she wanted to see him
+above all things. As she crossed the open space in front of Buckingham
+Palace the desire to see him laid hold of her. She must know if he
+were really dying. She would, drive straight to his studio. She had
+been there before, but then she knew no one would be there. She would
+have to risk the chance of some one seeing her going in and coming
+out. But no matter who saw her, she must go. She hailed a hansom, and
+the discovery that she was capable of so much adventure, pleased her.
+She thought of his poor sick-bed in the dark room behind the studio.
+She had caught sight of his bedroom as she had passed through the
+passage. She believed herself capable and willing to sit by his sick-
+bed and nurse him. She did not as a rule care for sick people, but she
+thought she would like to nurse him.
+
+The hansom turned through the Chelsea streets getting nearer and
+nearer to the studio. She wondered who was nursing him--there must be
+some one there.... The hansom stopped. She got out and knocked. The
+door was opened by a young woman who looked like a servant, but
+Mildred was not deceived by her appearance. 'One of his models come to
+nurse him,' she thought.
+
+'I have heard,' she said, 'that Mr. Hoskin is ill.'
+
+'Yes, he is very ill, I'm sorry to say.'
+
+'I should like to see him. Will you inquire?'
+
+'He's not well enough to see any one to-day. He has just dozed off. I
+couldn't awake him. But I'll give him any message.'
+
+'Give him my card and say I would like to see him. Stay, I'll write a
+word upon it.'
+
+While Mildred wrote on the card the girl watched her--her face was
+full of suspicion; and when she read the name, an involuntary 'Oh'
+escaped from her, and Mildred knew that Ralph had spoken of her.
+'Probably,' she thought, 'she has been his mistress. She wouldn't be
+here nursing, if she hadn't been.'
+
+'I'll give him your card.'
+
+There was nothing for it but to lower her eyes and murmur 'thank you,'
+and before she reached the end of the street her discomfort had
+materially increased. She was humiliated and angry, humiliated that
+that girl should have seen through her so easily, angry that Ralph
+should have spoken about her to his mistress; for she was sure that
+the woman was, or had been, his mistress. She regretted having asked
+to see Ralph, but she had asked for an appointment, she could hardly
+get out of it now.... She would have to meet that woman again, but she
+wanted to see Ralph.
+
+'Ralph, I suppose, told her the truth.'
+
+A moment's reflection convinced Mildred that that was probably the
+case, and reassured, she went to bed wondering when she would get a
+letter. She might get one in the morning. She was. not disappointed;
+the first letter she opened read as follows:--
+
+MADAM,--Mr. Hoskin begs me to thank you for your kind inquiry. He is
+feeling a little stronger and will be glad to see you. His best time
+is in the afternoon about three o'clock. Could you make it convenient
+to call about that time?
+
+'I think it right to warn you that it would be well not to speak of
+anything that would be likely to excite him, for the doctor says that
+all hope of his recovery depends on his being kept quiet.--I am,
+Madam, yours truly,
+
+'ELLEN GIBBS.'
+
+'Ellen Gibbs, so that is her name,' thought Mildred. There was a note
+of authority in the letter which did not escape Mildred's notice and
+which she easily translated into a note of animosity, if not of
+hatred. Mildred did not like meeting this woman, something told her
+that it would be wiser not, but she wanted to see Ralph, and an
+expression of vindictiveness came into her cunning eyes. 'If she dares
+to try to oppose me, she'll soon find out her mistake. I'll very soon
+settle her, a common woman like that. Moreover she has been his
+mistress, I have not, she will quail before me, I shall have no
+difficulty in getting the best of her.'
+
+'To-morrow. This letter was written last night, so I have to go to see
+him to-day, this afternoon, three o'clock, I shall have to go up after
+lunch by the two o'clock train. That will get me there by three.... I
+wonder if he is really dying? If I were to go and see him and he were
+to recover it would be like beginning it over again.... But I don't
+know why every base thought and calculation enter my head. I don't
+know why such thoughts should come into my head, I don't know why they
+do come, I don't call them nor do their promptings affect me. I am
+going to see him because I was once very fond of him, because I caused
+him, through no fault of mine, a great deal of suffering--because it
+appears that he's dying for love of me. I know he'd like to see me
+before he dies, that's why I am going, and yet horrid thoughts will
+come into my head; to hear me thinking, any one would imagine it was
+only on account of my own vanity that I wanted to see him, whereas it
+is quite the contrary. As a rule I hate sick people, and I'm sure it
+is most disagreeable to me to meet that woman.'
+
+The two o'clock train took her to town, a hansom from Victoria to the
+studio; she dismissed the hansom at the corner and walked up the
+street thinking of the woman who would open the door to her. There was
+something about the woman she didn't like. But it didn't matter; she
+would be shown in at once, and of course left alone with Ralph...
+Supposing the woman were to sit there all the while. But it was too
+late now, she had knocked.
+
+'I've come to see Mr. Hoskin.' Feeling that her speech was too abrupt
+she added, 'I hope he is better to-day.'
+
+'Yes, I'm thankful to say he's a little better.'
+
+Mildred stopped in the passage, and Ellen said:
+
+'Mr. Hoskin isn't in his bedroom. We've put him into the studio.'
+
+'I hope she doesn't think that I've been in his bedroom,' thought
+Mildred. Ralph lay in a small iron bed, hardly more than a foot from
+the floor, and his large features, wasted by illness, seemed larger
+than ever. But a glow appeared in his dying eyes at the sight of
+Mildred. Ellen placed a chair by his bedside and said:
+
+'I will go out for a short walk. I shan't be away more than half an
+hour.'
+
+Their eyes said, 'We shall be alone for half an hour,' and she took
+the thin hand he extended to her.
+
+'Oh, Ralph, I'm sorry to find you ill.... But you're better to-day,
+aren't you?'
+
+'Yes, I feel a little better to-day. It was good of you to come.'
+
+'I came at once.'
+
+'How did you hear I was ill? We've not written to each other for a
+long while.'
+
+'I heard it in the National. Miss Brand told me.'
+
+'You know her?'
+
+'I remember, she wrote about the new pictures for an American paper.'
+
+'Yes. How familiar it sounds, those dear days in the National.'
+
+Ralph's eyes were fixed upon her. She could not bear their
+wistfulness, and she lowered hers.
+
+'She told me you were ill.'
+
+'But when did you return from France? Tell me.'
+
+'About six weeks ago. I fell ill the moment I got back.'
+
+'What was the matter?'
+
+'I had overdone it. I had overworked myself. I had let myself run
+down. The doctor said that I didn't eat enough meat. You know I never
+did care for meat.'
+
+'I remember.'
+
+'When I got better I was ordered to the seaside, then I went on a
+visit to some friends and didn't get back to Sutton till Christmas. We
+had a lot of stupid people staying with us. I couldn't do any work
+while they were in the house. When they left I began a picture, but I
+tried too difficult subjects and got into trouble with my drawing. You
+said I'd never succeed. I often thought of what you said. Well, then,
+I went to the National. Nellie Brand told me you were ill, that you
+had been ill for some time, at least a month.'
+
+A thin smile curled Ralph's red lips and his eyes seemed to grow more
+wistful. 'I've been ill more than a month,' he said. 'But no matter,
+Nellie Brand told you and---'
+
+'Of course I could not stay at the National. I felt I must see you. I
+didn't know how. ... My feet turned towards St. James' Park. I stood
+on the little bridge thinking. You know I was very fond of you, Ralph,
+only it was in my way and you weren't satisfied.' She looked at him
+sideways, so that her bright brown eyes might have all their charm;
+his pale eyes, wistful and dying, were fixed on her, not intently as a
+few moments before, but vaguely, and the thought stirred in her that
+he might die before her eyes. In that case what was she to do? 'Are
+you listening?' she said.
+
+'Oh yes, I'm listening,' he answered, his smile was reassuring, and
+she said:
+
+'Suddenly I felt that--that I must see you. I felt I must know what
+was the matter, so I took a cab and came straight here. Your
+servant---'
+
+'You mean Ellen.'
+
+'I thought she was your servant, she said that you were lying down and
+could not be disturbed. She did not seem to wish me to see you or to
+know what was the matter.'
+
+'I was asleep when you called yesterday, but when I heard of your
+visit I told her to write the letter which you received this morning.
+It was kind of you to come.'
+
+'Kind of me to come! You must think badly of me if you think I could
+have stayed away. ... But now tell me, Ralph, what is the matter, what
+does the doctor say? Have you had the best medical advice, are you in
+want of anything? Can I do anything? Pray, don't hesitate. You know
+that I was, that I am, very fond of you, that I would do anything. You
+have been ill a long while now--what is the matter?'
+
+'Thank you, dear. Things must take their course. What that course is
+it is impossible to say. I've had excellent medical advice and Ellen
+takes care of me.'
+
+'But what is your illness? Nellie Brand told me that you caught a bad
+cold about a month ago. Perhaps a specialist---'
+
+'Yes, I had a bad attack of influenza about a month or six weeks ago
+and I hadn't strength, the doctor said, to recover from it. I have
+been in bad health for some time. I've been disappointed. My painting
+hasn't gone very well lately. That was a disappointment.
+Disappointment, I think, is as often the cause of a man's death as
+anything else. The doctors give it a name: influenza, or paralysis of
+the brain, failure of the heart's action, but these are the
+superficial causes of death. There is often a deeper reason: one which
+medical science is unable to take into account.'
+
+'Oh, Ralph, you mean me. Don't say that I am the cause. It was not my
+fault. If I broke my engagement it was because I knew I could not have
+made you happy. There's no reason to be jealous, it wasn't for any
+other man. There never will be another man. I was really very fond of
+you. ... It wasn't my fault.'
+
+'No, dear, it wasn't your fault. It wasn't any one's fault, it was the
+fault of luck.'
+
+Mildred longed for tears, but her eyes remained dry, and they wandered
+round the studio examining and wondering at the various canvases. A
+woman who had just left her bath passed her arms into the sleeves of a
+long white wrapper. There was something peculiarly attractive in the
+picture. The picture said something that had not been said before, and
+Mildred admired its naturalness. But she was still more interested in
+the fact that the picture had been painted from the woman who had
+opened the door to her.
+
+'She sits for the figure and attends on him when he is ill, she must
+be his mistress. Since when I wonder?'
+
+'How do you like it?' he asked.
+
+'Very much. It is beautifully drawn, so natural and so original. How
+did you think of that movement? That is just how a woman passes her
+arms into her wrapper when she get out of her bath. How did you think
+of it?'
+
+'I don't know. She took the pose. I think the movement is all right.'
+
+'Yes; it is a movement that happens every morning, yet no one thought
+of it before. How did you think of it?'
+
+'I don't know, I asked her to take some poses and it came like that. I
+think it is good. I'm glad you like it.'
+
+'It is very different from the stupid things we draw in the studio.'
+
+'I told you that you'd do no good by going to France.' 'I learnt a
+good deal there. Every one cannot learn by themselves as you did. Only
+genius can do that.'
+
+'Genius! A few little pictures ... I think I might have done something
+if I had got the chance. I should have liked to have finished that
+picture. It is a good beginning. I never did better.'
+
+'Dearest, you will live to paint your picture. I want you to finish
+it. I want you to: live for my sake. ... I will buy that picture.'
+
+'There's only one thing I should care to live for.'
+
+'And that you shall have.' 'Then I'll try to live.' He raised himself
+a little in bed. His eyes were fixed on her and he tried hard to
+believe. 'I'm afraid,' he said, 'it's too late now.' She watched him
+with the eyes she knew he loved, and though ashamed of the question,
+she could not put it back, and it slipped through her lips.
+
+'Would you sooner live for me than for that picture?'
+
+'One never knows what one would choose,' he said. 'Such speculations
+are always vain, and never were they vainer than now. ... But I'm glad
+you like that movement. It doesn't matter even if I never finish it, I
+don't think it looks bad in its present state, does it?'
+
+'It is a sketch, one of those things that could not be finished. ... I
+recognise the model. _She_ sat for it, didn't she?'
+
+'Yes.'
+
+'You seem very intimate. ... She seems very devoted.'
+
+'She has been very good to me. ... Don't say anything against her.
+I've nothing to conceal, Mildred. It is an old story. It began long
+before I knew you.'
+
+'And continued while you knew me?'
+
+'Yes.'
+
+'And you never told me. Oh, Ralph, while you were telling me you loved
+me you were living with this woman.'
+
+'It happened so. Things don't come out as straight or as nice as we'd
+like them to--that's the way things come out in life--a bit crooked,
+tangled, cracked. I only know that I loved you, I couldn't have done
+otherwise. That's the way things happened to come out. There's no
+other explanation.'
+
+'And if I had consented to marry you, you'd have put her away.'
+
+'Mildred, don't scold me. Things happened that way.'
+
+Mildred did not answer and Ralph said:
+
+'What are you thinking of?'
+
+'Of the cruelty, of the wretchedness of it all.'
+
+'Why look at that side of it? If I did wrong, I've been punished. She
+knows all. She has forgiven me. You can do as much? Forgive me, kiss
+me. I've never kissed you.'
+
+'I cannot kiss you now. I hear her coming. Wipe those tears away. The
+doctor said that you were to be kept quiet.'
+
+'Shall I see you again?'
+
+'I don't think I can come again. She'll be here.'
+
+'Mildred! What difference can it make?'
+
+'We shall see. ...'
+
+The door opened. Ellen came in, and Mildred got up to go.
+
+'I hope you've enjoyed your walk, Miss Gibbs.'
+
+'Yes, thank you. I haven't been out for some days.'
+
+'Nursing is very fatiguing. ... Good-bye, Mr. Hoskin. I hope I shall
+soon hear that you're better. Perhaps Miss Gibbs will write.'
+
+'Yes, I'll write, but I'm afraid Mr. Hoskin has been talking too much.
+... Let me open the door for you.'
+
+
+
+
+XII.
+
+
+When she got home she went to her room. She took off her dress and put
+on an old wrapper, and then lay on the floor and cried. She could not
+cry in a pair of stays. To abandon herself wholly to grief she must
+have her figure free.
+
+And all that evening she hardly spoke; she lay back in her chair, her
+soul lost in one of her most miserable of moods. Harold spoke a few
+words from time to time so that she should not perceive that he was
+aware of her depression.
+
+Her novel lay on her knees unread, and she sat, her eyes fixed,
+staring into the heart of life. She had never seen so far into life
+before; she was looking into the heart of life, which is death. He was
+about to die--he had loved her even unto death; he had loved her even
+while he was living with another woman. As she sat thinking, her novel
+on her knees, she could see that other woman sitting by his death-bed.
+Two candles were burning in the vast studio, and by their dim light
+she saw the shadow of the profile on the pillow. She thought of him as
+a man yearning for an ideal which he could never attain, and dying of
+his yearning in the end! And that so beautiful and so holy an
+aspiration should proceed from the common concubinage of a studio!
+Suddenly she decided that Ralph was not worthy of her. Her instinct
+had told her from the first that something was wrong. She had never
+known why she had refused him. Now she knew.
+
+But in the morning she was, as she put it herself, better able to see
+things from a man's point of view, and she found some excuses for
+Ralph's life. This connection had been contracted long ago. ... Ralph
+had had to earn his living since he was sixteen--he had never been in
+society; he had never known nice women: the only women he had known
+were his models; what was he to do? A lonely life in a studio, his
+meals brought in from the public-house, no society but those women.
+... She could understand. ... Nevertheless, it was a miserable thing
+to think that all the time he had been making love to her he had been
+living with that woman. 'He used to leave her to come to meet me in
+the park.'
+
+This was a great bitterness. She thought that she hated him. But
+hatred was inconsistent with her present mood, and she reflected that,
+after all, Ralph was dying for love of her, that was a fact, and
+behind that fact it were not wise to look. No man could do more than
+die for the woman he loved, no man could prove his love more
+completely. ... But it was so sad to think he was dying. Could nothing
+be done to save him? Would he recover if she were to promise to be his
+wife? She need not carry out her promise; she didn't know if she
+could. But if a promise would cure him, she would promise. She would
+go as far as that. ... But for what good? To get him well so that he
+might continue living with that woman. ...
+
+If he hadn't confessed, if she hadn't known of this shameful
+connection, if it hadn't been dragged under her eyes! Ralph might have
+spared her that. If he had spared her that she felt that she could
+promise to be his wife, and perhaps to keep her promise, for in the
+end she supposed she would have to marry some one. She didn't see how
+she was going to escape. ... Yes, if he had not told her, or better
+still, if he had not proved himself unworthy of her, she felt she
+would have been capable of the sacrifice.
+
+She had been to see him! She knew that she ought not to have gone. Her
+instinct had told her not to go. But she had conquered her feeling. If
+she had known that she was going to meet that woman she would not have
+gone. Whenever we allow ourselves to be led by our better feelings we
+come to grief. That woman hated her; she knew she did. She could see
+it in her look. She wouldn't put herself in such a false position
+again. ... A moment after she was considering if she should go to
+Ellen and propose that she, Mildred, should offer to marry Ralph, but
+not seriously, only just to help him to get well. If the plan
+succeeded she would persuade Ralph that his duty was to marry Ellen.
+And intoxicated with her own altruism, Mildred's thoughts passed on
+and she imagined a dozen different dramas, in every one of which she
+appeared in the character of a heroine.
+
+'Mildred, what is the matter?'
+
+'Nothing, dear, I've only forgotten my pocket-handkerchief.'
+
+How irritating were Harold's stupid interruptions. She had to ask him
+if he would take another cup of tea. He said that he thought he would
+just have time. He had still five minutes. She poured out the tea,
+thinking all the while of the sick man lying on his poor narrow bed in
+the corner of the great studio. It was shameful that he should die;
+tears rose to her eyes, and she had to walk across the room to hide
+them. It was a pitiful story. He was dying for her, and she wasn't
+worth it. She hadn't much heart; she knew it, perhaps one of these
+days she would meet some one who would make her feel. She hoped so,
+she wanted to feel. She wanted to love; if her brother were to die to-
+morrow, she didn't believe she would really care. It was terrible; if
+people only knew what she was like they would look the other way when
+she passed down the street.... But, no, all this was morbid nonsense;
+she was overwrought, and nervous, and that proved that she had a
+heart. Perhaps too much heart.
+
+In the next few days Ralph died a hundred times, and had been rescued
+from death at least a dozen times by Mildred; she had watched by his
+bedside, she had even visited his grave. And at the end of each dream
+came the question: 'Would he live, would he die?' At last, unable to
+bear the suspense any longer, she went to the National Gallery to
+obtain news of him. But Miss Brand had little news of him. She was
+leaving the gallery, and the two girls went for a little walk. Mildred
+was glad of company, anything to save her from thinking of Ralph, and
+she laughed and talked with Nellie on the bridge in St. James' Park,
+until she began to feel that the girl must think her very heartless.
+
+'How pale and ill you're looking, Mildred.'
+
+'Am I? I feel all right.'
+
+Nellie's remark delighted Mildred, 'Then I have a heart,' she thought,
+'I'm not so unfeeling as I thought.'
+
+The girls separated at Buckingham Palace. Mildred walked a little way,
+and then suddenly called a hansom and told the man to drive to
+Chelsea. But he had not driven far before thoughts of the woman he was
+living with obtruded upon her pity, and she decided that it would be
+unwise for her to venture on a second visit. The emotion of seeing her
+again might make him worse, might kill him. So she poked her parasol
+through the trap, and told the cabby to drive to Victoria Station.
+There she bought some violets, she kept a little bunch for herself,
+and sent him a large bouquet. 'They'll look nice in the studio,' she
+said, 'I think that will be best.'
+
+Two days after she received a letter from Ellen Gibbs.
+
+'MADAM,--It is my sad duty to inform you that Mr. Ralph Hoskin died
+this afternoon at two o'clock. He begged me to write and thank you for
+the violets you sent him, and he expressed a hope that you would come
+and see him when he was dead.
+
+'The funeral will take place on Monday. If you come here to-morrow,
+you will see him before he is put into his coffin.--I am, yours truly,
+
+'ELLEN GIBBS.'
+
+The desire to see her dead lover was an instinct, and the journey from
+Sutton to Chelsea was unperceived by her, and she did not recover from
+the febrile obedience her desire imposed until Ellen opened the studio
+door.
+
+'I received a letter from you....'
+
+'Yes, I know, come in.'
+
+Mildred hated the plain middle-class appearance and dress of this
+girl. She hated the tone of her voice. She walked straight into the
+studio. There was a sensation of judgment in the white profile, cold,
+calm, severe, and Mildred drew back affrighted. But she recovered a
+little when she saw that her violets lay under the dead hand. 'He
+thought of me to the end. I forgive him everything.'
+
+As she stood watching the dead man, she could hear Ellen moving in the
+passage. She did not know what Ellen knew of her relations with Ralph.
+But there could be no doubt that Ellen was aware that they were of an
+intimate nature. She hoped, hurriedly, that Ellen did not suspect her
+of being Ralph's mistress, and listened again, wondering if Ellen
+would come into the studio. Or would she have the tact to leave her
+alone with the dead? If she did come in it would be rather awkward.
+She did not wish to appear heartless before Ellen, but tears might
+lead Ellen to suspect. As Mildred knelt down, Ellen entered. Mildred
+turned round.
+
+'Don't let me disturb you,' said Ellen, 'when you have finished.'
+
+'Will you not say a prayer with me?'
+
+'I have said my prayers. Our prayers would not mingle.'
+
+'What does she mean?' thought Mildred. She buried her face in her
+hands and asked herself what Ellen meant. 'Our prayers would not
+mingle. Why? Because I'm a pure woman, and she isn't. I wonder if she
+meant that. I hope she does not intend any violence. I must say
+nothing to annoy, her.' Her heart throbbed with fear, her knees
+trembled, she thought she would faint. Then it occurred to her that it
+would be a good idea to faint. Ellen would have to carry her into the
+street, and in the street she would be safe.
+
+And resolved to faint on the slightest provocation she rose from her
+knees, and stood facing the other woman, whom she noticed, with some
+farther alarm, stood between her and the door. If she could get out of
+this difficulty she never would place herself in such a position
+again.... Mildred tried to speak, but words stuck fast in her throat,
+and it was some time before her terror allowed her to notice that the
+expression on Ellen's face was not one of anger, but of resignation.
+
+She was safe.
+
+'She has pretty eyes,' thought Mildred, 'a weak, nervous creature; I
+can do with her what I like. ... If she thinks that she can get the
+better of me, I'll very soon show her that she is mistaken. Of course,
+if it came to violence, I could do nothing but scream. I'm not
+strong.'
+
+Then Mildred said in a firm voice:
+
+'I'm much obliged to you for your letter. This is very sad, I'll send
+some more flowers for the coffin. Good morning.'
+
+But a light came into Ellen's eyes, which Mildred did not like.
+
+'Well,' she said, 'I hope you're satisfied. He died thinking of you. I
+hope you're satisfied.'
+
+'Mr. Hoskin and I were intimate friends. It is only natural that he
+should think of me.'
+
+'We were happy until you came... you've made dust and ashes of my
+life. Why did you take the trouble to do this? You were not in love
+with him, and I did you no injury.'
+
+'I didn't know of your existence till the other day. I heard that---'
+
+'That I was his mistress. Well, so I was. It appears that you were
+not. But, I should like to know which of us two is the most virtuous,
+which has done the least harm. I made him happy, you killed him.'
+
+'This is madness.'
+
+'No, it is not madness. I know all about you, Ralph told me
+everything.'
+
+'It surprises me very much that he should have spoken about me. It was
+not like him. I hope that he didn't tell you, that he didn't suggest
+that there were any improper relations between me and him.'
+
+'I daresay that you were virtuous, more or less, as far as your own
+body is concerned. Faugh! Women like you make virtue seem odious.'
+
+'I cannot discuss such questions with you,' Mildred said timidly, and,
+swinging her parasol vaguely, she tried to pass Ellen by. But it was
+difficult to get by. The picture she had admired the other day blocked
+the way. Mildred's eyes glanced at it vindictively.
+
+'Yes,' said Ellen in her sad doleful voice, 'You can look at it. I sat
+for it. I'm not ashamed, and perhaps I did more good by sitting for it
+than you'll do with your painting.... But look at him--there he lies.
+He might have been a great artist if he had not met you and I should
+have been a happy woman. Now I've nothing to live for.... You said
+that you didn't know of my existence till the other day. But you knew
+that, in making that man love you, you were robbing another woman.'
+
+'That is very subtle.'
+
+'You knew that you did not love him, and that it could end only in
+unhappiness. It has ended in death.'
+
+Mildred looked at the cold face, so claylike, and trembled. The horror
+of the situation crept over her; she had no strength to go, and
+listened meekly to Ellen.
+
+'He smiled a little, it was a little sad smile, when he told me that I
+was to write, saying that he would be glad if you would come to see
+him when he was dead. I think I know what was passing in his mind--he
+hoped that his death might be a warning to you. Not many men die of
+broken hearts, but one never knows. One did. Look at him, take your
+lesson.'
+
+'I assure you that we were merely friends. He liked me, I know--he
+loved me, if you will; I could not help that,' Mildred drew on the
+floor of the studio with her parasol. 'I am very sorry, it is most
+unfortunate. I did nothing wrong. I'm sure he never suggested---'
+
+'How that one idea does run in your head. I wonder if your thoughts
+are equally chaste.'
+
+Mildred did not answer.
+
+'I read you in the first glance, one glance was enough, your eyes tell
+the tale of your cunning, mean little soul. Perhaps you sometimes try
+to resist, maybe your nature turns naturally to evil. There are people
+like that.'
+
+'If I had done what you seem to think I ought to have done, he would
+have abandoned you.' And Mildred looked at her rival triumphantly.
+
+'That would have been better than what has happened. Then there would
+have been only one heart broken, now there are two.'
+
+Mildred hated the woman for the humiliation she was imposing upon her,
+but in her heart she could not but feel admiration for such single
+heartedness. Noticing on Mildred's face the change of expression, but
+misinterpreting it, Ellen said:
+
+'I can read you through and through. You have wrecked two lives. Oh,
+that any one should be so wicked, that any one should delight in
+wickedness. I cannot understand.'
+
+'You are accusing me wrongly.... But let me go. It is not likely that
+we shall arrive at any understanding.'
+
+'Go then, you came to gloat; you have gloated, go.
+
+Ellen threw herself on a chair by the bedside. Her head fell on her
+hands. Mildred whisked her black crape dress out of the studio.
+
+
+
+
+XIII.
+
+
+It was not until the spring was far advanced that the nostalgia of the
+boulevards began to creep into her life. Then, without intermission,
+the desire to get away grew more persistent, at last she could think
+of nothing else. Harold oppressed her. But Mrs. Fargus was not in
+France, she could not live alone. But why could she not live alone?
+
+Although she asked herself this question, Mildred felt that she could
+not live alone in Paris. But she must go to Paris! but with whom? Not
+with Elsie or Cissy--they both had studios in London. Moreover, they
+were not quite the girls she would like to live with; they were very
+well as studio friends. Mildred thought she might hire a chaperon;
+that would be very expensive! And for the solution of her difficulty
+Mildred sought in vain until one day, in the National Gallery, Miss
+Brand suggested that they should go to Paris together.
+
+Miss Brand had told Mildred how she had begun life as a musician. When
+she was thirteen she had followed Rubenstein from London to
+Birmingham, from Birmingham to Manchester, and then to Liverpool. Her
+parents did not know what had become of her. Afterwards she studied
+counterpoint and harmony with Rubenstein in St. Petersburg, and also
+with Von Bulow in Leipsic. But she had given up music for journalism.
+Her specialty was musical criticism, to which, having been thrown a
+good deal with artists, she had added art criticism. Mildred could
+help her with her art criticism.... She thought they'd get on very
+well together.... She would willingly share the expenses, of a little
+flat.
+
+Mildred was fascinated by the project; if she could possibly get
+Harold to agree.... He must agree. He would raise many objections. But
+that did not matter; she was determined. And at the end of the month
+Mildred and Miss Brand left for Paris.
+
+They had decided that for fifteen hundred or two thousand francs a
+year they could find an apartment that would suit them, five or six
+rooms within easy reach of the studio, and, leaning back in their cab
+discussing the advantages or the disadvantages of the apartment they
+had seen, they grew conscious of their intimacy and Mildred rejoiced
+in the freedom of her life. Their only trouble was the furnishing.
+Mildred did not like to ask Harold for any more money, and credit was
+difficult to obtain. But even this difficulty was surmounted: and they
+found an upholsterer who agreed to furnish the apartment they had
+taken in the Rue Hauteville for five thousand francs, payable in
+monthly instalments. To have to pay five hundred francs every month
+would keep them very short of money for the first year, but that could
+not be helped. They would get on somehow; and the first dinner in the
+half-furnished dining-room, with the white porcelain stove in the
+corner, seemed to them the most delicious they had ever tasted.
+Josephine, their servant, was certainly an excellent cook; and so
+obliging; they could find no fault with her. But the upholsterer was
+dilatory, and days elapsed before he brought the chairs that were to
+match the sofa; nearly every piece of drapery was hung separately, and
+they had given up hope of the _etageres_ and girondoles. For a long
+while a grand piano was their principal piece of furniture. Though she
+never touched it, Miss Brand could not live without, a grand piano.
+'What's the use?' she'd say. 'I've only to open the score to remember
+--to hear Rubenstein play the passage.'
+
+When they were _tout a fait bien installees,_ they had friends to
+dinner, and they were especially proud of M. Daveau's company. Mildred
+liked this large, stout man. There was something strangely winning in
+his manner; a mystery seemed to surround him, and it was impossible
+not to wish to penetrate this mystery. Besides, was he not their
+master, the lord of the studio? Though a large, fat man, none was more
+illusive, more difficult to realise, harder to get on terms of
+intimacy with. These were temptations which appealed to Mildred and
+she had determined on his subduction. But the wily Southerner had read
+her through. Those little brown eyes of his had searched the bottom of
+her soul, and, with pleasant smiles and engaging courtesies, he had
+answered all her coquetries. But the difficulty of conquest only
+whetted her appetite for victory, and she might even have pursued her
+quest with ridiculous attentions if accident had not made known to her
+the fact that M. Daveau was not only the lover of another lady in the
+studio, but that he loved her to the perfect exclusion of every other
+woman. Mildred's face darkened between the eyes, a black little cloud
+of hatred appeared and settled there. She invented strange stories
+about M. Daveau; and it surprised her that M. Daveau took no notice of
+her calumnies. She desired above all things to annoy the large
+mysterious Southerner who had resisted her attractions, who had
+preferred another, and who now seemed indifferent to anything she
+might say about him. But M. Daveau was only biding his time; and when
+Mildred came to renew her subscription to the studio, he told her that
+he was very sorry, but that he could not accept her any longer as a
+pupil. Mildred asked for a reason. M. Daveau smiled sweetly,
+enigmatically, and answered, that he wished to reduce the number of
+ladies in his studio. There were too many.
+
+Expulsion from the studio made shipwreck of her life in Paris. There
+was no room in the flat in which she could paint. She had spent all
+her money, and could not afford to hire a studio. She took lessons in
+French and music, and began a novel, and when she wearied of her novel
+she joined another studio, a ladies' class. But Mildred did not like
+women; the admiration of men was the breath of her nostrils. With a
+difference, men were her life as much as they were Elsie's. She pined
+in this new studio; it grew hateful to her, and she spoke of returning
+to England.
+
+But Miss Brand said that one of these days she would meet M. Daveau;
+that he would apologise if he had offended her, and that all would be
+made right. For Mildred had given Miss Brand to understand that M.
+Daveau had made love to her; then she said that he had tried to kiss
+her, and that it would be unpleasant for her to meet him again. And
+her story had been accepted as the true one by the American and
+English girls; the other students had assumed that Miss Lawson had
+given up painting or had taken a holiday. So she had got herself out
+of her difficulty very cleverly. And she listened complacently to Miss
+Brand's advice. There was something in what Nellie said. If she were
+to meet M. Daveau she felt that she could talk him over. But she did
+not know if she could bring herself to try after what had happened....
+She hated him, and the desire, as she put it, to get even with him
+often rose up in her heart. At last she caught sight of him in the
+Louvre. He was looking at a picture on the other side of the gallery,
+and she crossed over so that he should see her. He bowed, and was
+about to pass on; but Mildred insisted, and, responding to the
+question why he had refused her subscription, he said:
+
+'I think I told you at the time that I found myself obliged to reduce
+the number of pupils. But, tell me, are you copying here?'
+
+'One doesn't learn anything from copying. Won't you allow me to come
+back?'
+
+'I don't see how I can. There are so many ladies at present in the
+studio.'
+
+'I hear that some have left? ... Madlle. Berge has left, hasn't she?'
+
+'Yes, she has left.'
+
+'If Madlle. Berge has left, there is no reason why I should not
+return.'
+
+M. Daveau did not answer; he smiled satirically and bade her good-bye.
+Mildred hated him more than ever, but when a subscription was started
+by the pupils to present him with a testimonial she did not neglect to
+subscribe. The presentation took place in the studio. 'I think this is
+an occasion to forget our differences,' he said, when he had finished
+his speech. 'If you wish to return you'll find my studio open to you.'
+And to show that he wished to let bygones be bygones, he often came
+and helped her with her drawing; he seemed to take an interest in her;
+and she tried to lead him on. But one day she discovered that she
+could not deceive him, and again she began to hate him; but
+remembering the price of her past indiscretions she refrained, and the
+matter was forgotten in another of more importance. Miss Brand
+suddenly fell out of health and was obliged to return to England.
+
+Then the little flat became too expensive for Mildred; she let it, and
+went to live in a boarding-house on the other side of the water, where
+Cissy was staying. But, at the end of the first quarter, Mildred
+thought the neighbourhood did not suit her, and she went to live near
+St. Augustine. She remained there till the autumn, till Elsie came
+over, and then she went to Elsie's boarding-house. Elsie returned to
+England in the spring, and Mildred wandered from boarding-house to
+boarding-house. She took a studio and spent a good deal of money on
+models, frames, and costumes. But nothing she did satisfied her, and,
+after various failures, she returned to Daveau's, convinced that she
+must improve her drawing. She was, moreover, determined to put her
+talent to the test of severe study. She got to the studio every
+morning at eight, she worked there till five. As she did not know how
+to employ her evenings, she took M. Daveau's advice and joined his
+night-class.
+
+For three months she bore the strain of these long days easily; but
+the fourth month pressed heavily upon her, and in the fifth month she
+was a mere mechanism. She counted the number of heads more correctly
+than she used to, she was more familiar with the proportions of the
+human figure. Alas! her drawing was no better. It was blacker, harder,
+less alive. And to drag her weariness all the way along the boulevards
+seemed impossible. That foul smelling studio repelled her from afar,
+the prospect of the eternal model--a man with his hand on his hip--a
+woman leaning one hand on a stool, frightened her; and her blackened
+drawing, that would not move out of its insipid ugliness, tempted her
+no more with false hopes.
+
+Mildred paused in her dressing; it seemed that she could not get her
+clothes on. She had to sit down to rest. Tears welled up into her
+eyes; and, in the midst of much mental and physical weakness, the maid
+knocked at her door and handed her a letter. It was from Elsie.
+
+'DEAREST MILDRED,--Here we are again in Barbizon, painting in the day
+and dancing in the evening. There are a nice lot of fellows here, one
+or two very clever ones. I have already picked up a lot of hints. How
+we did waste our time in that studio. Square brush work, drawing by
+the masses, what rot! I suppose you have abandoned it all long ago....
+Cissy is here, she has thrown over Hopwood Blunt for good and all. She
+is at present much interested in a division of the tones man. A clever
+fellow, but not nearly so good-looking as mine. The inn stands in a
+large garden, and we dine and walk after dinner under the trees, and
+watch the stars come out. There's a fellow here who might interest
+you--his painting would, even if he failed to respond to the gentle
+Platonism of your flirtations. The forest, too, would interest you. It
+is an immense joy. I'm sure you want change of air. Life here is very
+cheap, only five francs, room and meals--breakfast and dinner,
+everything included except coffee.'
+
+Mildred rejoiced in the prospect of escape from the studio; and her
+life quickened at the thought of the inn with its young men, its new
+ideas, the friends, the open air, and the great forest that Elsie
+described as an immense joy. There was no reason why she should not go
+at once, that very day. And the knowledge that she could thus
+peremptorily decide her life was in itself a pleasure which she would
+not have dispensed with. There were difficulties in the way of
+clothes, she wanted some summer dresses. It would be difficult to get
+all she wanted before four o'clock. She would have to get the things
+ready made, others she could have sent after her. Muslins, trimmings,
+hats, stockings, shoes, and sunshades occupied Mildred all the
+morning, and she only just got to the Gare de Lyons in time to catch
+the four o'clock train. Elsie's letter gave explicit directions, she
+was not to go to Fontainebleau, she was to book to Melun, that was the
+nearest station, there she would find an omnibus waiting, which would
+take her to Barbizon, or, if she did not mind the expense, she could
+take a fly which would be pleasanter and quicker.
+
+
+
+
+XIV.
+
+
+A formal avenue of trim trees led out of the town of Melun. But these
+were soon exchanged for rough forest growths; and out of cabbage and
+corn lands the irruptive forest broke into islands; and the plain was
+girdled with a dark green belt of distant forest.
+
+She lay back in the fly tasting in the pure air, the keen joy of
+returning health, and she thrilled a little at the delight of an
+expensive white muslin and a black sash which accentuated the
+smallness of her waist. She liked her little brown shoes and brown
+stockings and the white sunshade through whose strained silk the red
+sun showed.
+
+At the cross roads she noticed a still more formal avenue, trees
+planted in single line and curving like a regiment of soldiers
+marching across country. The whitewashed stead and the lonely peasant
+scratching like an insect in the long tilth were painful impressions.
+She missed the familiar hedgerows which make England like a garden;
+and she noticed that there were trees everywhere except about the
+dwellings; and that there were neither hollybush or sunflowers in the
+white village they rolled through--a gaunt white village which was not
+Barbizon. The driver mentioned the name, but Mildred did not heed him.
+She looked from the blank white walls to her prettily posed feet and
+heard him say that Barbizon was still a mile away.
+
+It lay at the end of the plain, and when the carriage entered the long
+street, it rocked over huge stones so that Mildred was nearly thrown
+out. She called to the driver to go slower; he smiled, and pointing
+with his whip said that the hotel that Mademoiselle wanted was at the
+end of the village, on the verge of the forest.
+
+A few moments after the carriage drew up before an iron gateway, and
+Mildred saw a small house at the bottom of a small garden. There was a
+pavilion on the left and a numerous company were dining beneath the
+branches of a cedar. Elsie and Cissy got up, and dropping their
+napkins ran to meet their friend. She was led in triumph to the table,
+and all through dinner she had a rough impression of English girls in
+cheap linen dresses and of men in rough suits and flowing neck-ties.
+
+She was given some soup, and when the plate of veal had been handed
+round, and Elsie and Cissy had exhausted their first store of
+questions, she was introduced to Morton Mitchell. His singularly small
+head was higher by some inches than any other, bright eyes, and white
+teeth showing through a red moustache, and a note of defiance in his
+open-hearted voice made him attractive. Mildred was also introduced to
+Rose Turner, the girl who sat next him, a weak girl with pretty eyes.
+Rose already looked at Mildred as if she anticipated rivalry, and was
+clearly jealous of every word that Morton did not address to her.
+Mildred looked at him again. He was better dressed than the others,
+and an air of success in his face made him seem younger than he was.
+He leaned across the table, and Mildred liked his brusque, but withal
+well-bred manner. She wondered what his pictures were like. At
+Daveau's only the names of the principal exhibitors at the Salon were
+known, and he had told her that he had not sent there for the last
+three years. He didn't care to send to the vulgar place more than he
+could help.
+
+Mildred noticed that all listened to Morton; and she was sorry to
+leave the table, so interesting was his conversation. But Elsie and
+Cissy wanted to talk to her, and they marched about the grass plot,
+their arms about each other's waists; and, while questioning Mildred
+about herself and telling her about themselves, they frequently looked
+whither their lovers sat smoking. Sometimes Mildred felt them press
+her along the walk which passed by the dining table. But for half an
+hour their attractions were arrayed vainly against those of cigarettes
+and _petits verres_. Rose was the only woman who remained at table.
+She hung over her lover, desirous that he should listen to her.
+Mildred thought, 'What a fool.... We shall see presently.'
+
+The moment the young men got up Cissy and Elsie forgot Mildred. An
+angry expression came upon her face and she went into the house. The
+walls had been painted all over--landscapes, still life, nude figures,
+rustic, and elegiac subjects. Every artist had painted something in
+memory of his visit, and Mildred sought vaguely for what Mr. Mitchell
+had painted. Then, remembering that he had chosen to walk about with
+the Turner girl, she abandoned her search and, leaning on the window-
+sill, watched the light fading in the garden. She could hear the frogs
+in a distant pond, and thought of the night in the forest amid
+millions of trees and stars.
+
+Suddenly she heard some one behind her say:
+
+'Do you like being alone?'
+
+It was Morton.
+
+'I'm so used to being alone.'
+
+'Use is a second nature, I will not interrupt your solitude.'
+
+'But sometimes one gets tired of solitude.'
+
+'Would you like to share your solitude? You can have half of mine.'
+
+'I'm sure it is very kind of you, but---' It was on Mildred's tongue
+to ask him what he had done with Rose Turner. She said instead, 'and
+where does your solitude hang out?'
+
+'Chiefly in the forest. Shall we go there?'
+
+'Is it far? I don't know where the others have gone.'
+
+'They're in the forest, we walk there every evening; we shall meet
+them.'
+
+'How far is the forest?'
+
+'At our door. We're in the forest. Come and see. There is the forest,'
+he said, pointing to a long avenue. 'How bright the moonlight is, one
+can read by this light.'
+
+'And how wonderfully the shadows of the tall trunks fall across the
+white road. How unreal, how phantasmal, is that grey avenue shimmering
+in the moonlight.'
+
+'Yes, isn't the forest ghostlike. And isn't that picturesque,' he
+said, pointing to a booth that had been set up by the wayside. On a
+tiny stage a foot or so from the ground, by the light of a lantern and
+a few candle ends, a man and a woman were acting some rude
+improvisation.
+
+Morton and Mildred stayed; but neither was in the mood to listen. They
+contributed a trifle each to these poor mummers of the lane's end, and
+it seemed that their charity had advanced them in their intimacy.
+Without hesitation they left the road, taking a sandy path which led
+through some rocks. Mildred's feet sank in the loose sand, and very
+soon it seemed to her that they had left Barbizon far behind. For the
+great grey rocks and the dismantled tree trunk which they had suddenly
+come upon frightened her; and she could hardly bear with the ghostly
+appearance the forest took in the stream of glittering light which
+flowed down from the moon.
+
+She wished to turn back. But Morton said that they would meet the
+others beyond the hill, and she followed him through great rocks,
+filled with strange shadows. The pines stood round the hill-top making
+it seem like a shrine; a round yellow moon looked through; there was
+the awe of death in the lurid silence, and so clear was the sky that
+the points of the needles could be seen upon it.
+
+'We must go back,' she said.
+
+'If you like.'
+
+But, at that moment, voices were heard coming over the brow of the
+hill.
+
+'You see I did not deceive you. There are your friends, I knew we
+should meet them. That is Miss Laurence's voice, one can always
+recognise it.'
+
+'Then let us go to them.'
+
+'If you like. But we can talk better here. Let me find you a place to
+sit down.' Before Mildred could answer, Elsie cried across the glade:
+
+'So there you are.'
+
+'What do you think of the forest?' shouted Cissy.
+
+'Wonderful,' replied Mildred.
+
+'Well, we won't disturb you... we shall be back presently.'
+
+And, like ghosts, they passed into the shadow and mystery of the
+trees.
+
+'So you work in the men's studio?'
+
+'Does that shock you?'
+
+'No, nothing shocks me.'
+
+'In the studio a woman puts off her sex. There's no sex in art.'
+
+'I quite agree with you. There's no sex in art, and a woman would be
+very foolish to let anything stand between her and her art.'
+
+'I'm glad you think that. I've made great sacrifices for painting.'
+
+'What sacrifices?'
+
+'I'll tell you one of these days when I know you better.'
+
+'Will you?'
+
+The conversation paused a moment, and Mildred said:
+
+'How wonderful it is here. Those pines, that sky, one hears the
+silence; it enters into one's very bones. It is a pity one cannot
+paint silence.'
+
+'Millet painted silence. "The Angelus" is full of silence, the air
+trembles with silence and sunset.'
+
+'But the silence of the moonlight is more awful, it really is very
+awful, I'm afraid.'
+
+'Afraid of what? there's nothing to be afraid of. You asked me just
+now if I believed in Daveau's, I didn't like to say; I had only just
+been introduced to you; but it seems to me that I know you better
+now... Daveau's is a curse. It is the sterilisation of art. You must
+give up Daveau's, and come and work here.'
+
+'I'm afraid it would make no difference. Elsie and Cissy have spent
+years here, and what they do does not amount to much. They wander from
+method to method, abandoning each in turn. I am utterly discouraged,
+and made up my mind to give up painting.'
+
+'What are you going to do?'
+
+'I don't know. One of these days I shall find out my true vocation.'
+
+'You're young, you are beautiful---'
+
+'No, I'm not beautiful, but there are times when I look nice.'
+
+'Yes, indeed there are. Those hands, how white they are in the
+moonlight.' He took her hands. 'Why do you trouble and rack your soul
+about painting? A woman's hands are too beautiful for a palette and
+brushes.'
+
+The words were on her tongue to ask him if he did not admire Rose's
+hands equally, but remembering the place, the hour, and the fact of
+her having made his acquaintance only a few hours before, she thought
+it more becoming to withdraw her hands, and to say:
+
+'The others do not seem to be coming back. We had better return.'
+
+They moved out of the shadows of the pines, and stood looking down the
+sandy pathway.
+
+'How filmy and grey those top branches, did you ever see anything so
+delicate?'
+
+'I never saw anything like this before. This is primeval.... I used to
+walk a good deal with a friend of mine in St. James' Park.'
+
+'The park where the ducks are, and a little bridge. Your friend was
+not an artist.'
+
+'Yes, he was, and a very clever artist too.'
+
+'Then he admired the park because you were with him.'
+
+'Perhaps that had something to do with it. But the park is very
+beautiful.'
+
+'I don't think I care much about cultivated nature.'
+
+'Don't you like a garden?'
+
+'Yes; a disordered garden, a garden that has been let run wild.'
+
+They walked down the sandy pathway, and came unexpectedly upon Elsie
+and her lover sitting behind a rock. They asked where the others were.
+Elsie did not know. But at that moment voices were heard, and Cissy
+cried from the bottom of the glade:
+
+'So there you are; we've been looking for you.'
+
+'Looking for us indeed,' said Mildred.
+
+ Now, Mildred, don't be prudish, this is Liberty Hall. You must lend
+us Mr. Mitchell, we want to dance.'
+
+'What, here in the sand!'
+
+'No, in the Salon.... Come along, Rose will play for us.'
+
+
+
+
+XV.
+
+
+Mildred was the first down. She wore a pretty _robe a fleurs,_ and her
+straw hat was trimmed with tremulous grasses and cornflowers. A faint
+sunshine floated in the wet garden.
+
+A moment after Elsie cried from the door-step:
+
+'Well, you have got yourself up. We don't run to anything like that
+here. You're going out flirting. It's easy to see that.'
+
+'My flirtations don't amount to much. Kisses don't thrill me as they
+do you. I'm afraid I've never been what you call "in love."'
+
+'You seem on the way there, if I'm to judge by last night,' Elsie
+answered rather tartly. 'You know, Mildred, I don't believe all you
+say, not quite all.'
+
+A pained and perplexed expression came upon Mildred's face and she
+said:
+
+'Perhaps I shall meet a man one of these days who will inspire passion
+in me.'
+
+'I hope so. It would be a relief to all of us. I wouldn't mind
+subscribing to present that man with a testimonial.'
+
+Mildred laughed.
+
+'I often wonder what will become of me. I've changed a good deal in
+the last two years. I've had a great deal of trouble.'
+
+'I'm sorry you're so depressed. I know what it is. That wretched
+painting, we give ourselves to it heart and soul, and it deceives us
+as you deceive your lovers.'
+
+'So it does. I had not thought of it like that. Yes, I've been
+deceived just as I have deceived others. But you, Elsie, you've not
+been deceived, you can do something. If I could do what you do. You
+had a picture in the Salon. Cissy had a picture in the Salon.'
+
+'That doesn't mean much. What we do doesn't amount to much.'
+
+'But do you think that I shall ever do as much?'
+
+Elsie did not think so, and the doubt caused her to hesitate. Mildred
+perceived the hesitation and said:
+
+'Oh, there's no necessity for you to lie. I know the truth well
+enough. I have resolved to give up painting. I have given it up.'
+
+ You've given up painting! Do you really mean it?'
+
+'Yes, I feel that I must. When I got your letter I was nearly dead
+with weariness and disappointment--what a relief your letter was--what
+a relief to be here!'
+
+'Well, you see something has happened. Barbizon has happened, Morton
+has happened.'
+
+'I wonder if anything will come of it. He's a nice fellow. I like
+him.'
+
+'You're not the first. All the women are crazy about him. He was the
+lover of Merac, the actress of the _Francais_. They say she could only
+play Phedre when he was in the stage-box. He always produced that
+effect upon her. Then he was the lover of the Marquise de la--de la
+Per----I can't remember the name.'
+
+'Is he in love with any one now?'
+
+'No; we thought he was going to marry Rose.'
+
+'That little thing!'
+
+'Well, he seemed devoted to her. He seemed inclined to settle down.'
+
+'Did he ever flirt with you?'
+
+'No; he's not my style.'
+
+'I know what that means,' thought Mildred.
+
+The conversation paused, and then Elsie said:
+
+'It really is a shame to upset him with Rose, unless you mean to marry
+him. Even the impressionists admit that he has talent. He belongs to
+the old school, it is true, but his work is interesting all the same.'
+
+The English and American girls were dressed like Elsie and Cissy in
+cheap linen dresses; one of the French artists was living with a
+cocotte. She was dressed more elaborately; somewhat like Mildred,
+Elsie remarked, and the girls laughed, and sat down to their bowls of
+coffee.
+
+Morton and Elsie's young man were almost the last to arrive. Swinging
+their paint-boxes they came forward talking gaily.
+
+'Yours is the best looking,' said Elsie.
+
+'Perhaps you'd like to get him from me.'
+
+'No, I never do that.'
+
+'What about Rose?'
+
+Mildred bit her lips, and Elsie couldn't help thinking, 'How cruel she
+is, she likes to make that poor little thing miserable. It's only
+vanity, for I don't suppose she cares for Morton.'
+
+Those who were painting in the adjoining fields and forest said they
+would be back to the second breakfast at noon, those who were going
+further, and whose convenience it did not suit to return, took
+sandwiches with them. Morton was talking to Rose, but Mildred soon got
+his attention.
+
+'You're going to paint in the forest,' she said, 'I wonder what your
+picture is like: you haven't shown it to me.'
+
+'It's all packed up. But aren't you going into the forest? If you're
+going with Miss Laurence and Miss Clive you might come with me. You'd
+better take your painting materials; you'll find the time hang
+heavily, if you don't.'
+
+'Oh no, the very thought of painting bores me.'
+
+'Very well then. If you are ready we might make a start, mine is a
+mid-day effect. I hope you're a good walker. But you'll never be able
+to get along in those shoes and that dress--that's no dress for the
+forest. You've dressed as if for a garden-party.'
+
+'It is only a little _robe a fleurs,_ there's nothing to spoil, and as
+for my shoes, you'll see I shall get along all right, unless it is
+very far.'
+
+'It is more than a mile. I shall have to take you down to the local
+cobbler and get you measured. I never saw such feet.'
+
+He was oddly matter of fact. There was something naive and childish
+about him, and he amused and interested Mildred.
+
+'With whom,' she said, 'do you go out painting when I'm not here?
+Every Jack seems to have his own Jill in Barbizon.'
+
+'And don't they everywhere else? It would be damned dull without.'
+
+'Do you think it would? Have you always got a Jill?'
+
+'I've been down in my luck lately.'
+
+Mildred laughed.
+
+'Which of the women here has the most talent?'
+
+'Perhaps Miss Laurence. But Miss Clive does a nice thing
+occasionally.'
+
+'What do you think of Miss Turner's work?'
+
+'It's pretty good. She has talent. She had two pictures in the Salon
+last year.'
+
+Mildred bit her lips. 'Have you ever been out with her?'
+
+'Yes, but why do you ask?'
+
+'Because I think she likes you. She looked very miserable when she
+heard that we were going out together. Just as if she were going to
+cry. If I thought I was making another person unhappy I would sooner
+give you--give up the pleasure of going out with you.'
+
+'And what about me? Don't I count for anything?'
+
+'I must not do a direct wrong to another. Each of us has a path to
+walk in, and if we deviate from our path we bring unhappiness upon
+ourselves and upon others.'
+
+Morton stopped and looked at her, his stolid childish stare made her
+laugh, and it made her like him.
+
+'I wonder if I am selfish?' said Mildred reflectively. 'Sometimes I
+think I am, sometimes I think I am not. I've suffered so much, my life
+has been all suffering. There's no heart left in me for anything. I
+wonder what will become of me. I often think I shall commit suicide.
+Or I might go into a convent.'
+
+'You'd much better commit suicide than go into a convent. Those poor
+devils of nuns! as if there wasn't enough misery in this world. We are
+certain of the misery, and if we give up the pleasures, I should like
+to know where we are.'
+
+Each had been so interested in the other that they had seen nothing
+else. But now the road led through an open space where every tree was
+torn and broken; Mildred stopped to wonder at the splintered trunks;
+and out of the charred spectre of a great oak crows flew and settled
+among the rocks, in the fissures of a rocky hill.
+
+'But you're not going to ask me to climb those rocks,' said Mildred.
+'There are miles and miles of rocks. It is like a landscape by
+Salvator Rosa.'
+
+'Climb that hill! you couldn't. I'll wait until our cobbler has made
+you a pair of boots. But isn't that desolate region of blasted oaks
+and sundered rocks wonderful? You find everything in the forest. In a
+few minutes I shall show you some lovely underwood.'
+
+And they had walked a very little way when he stopped and said: 'Don't
+you call that beautiful?' and, leaning against the same tree, Morton
+and Mildred looked into the dreamy depth of a summer wood. The trunks
+of the young elms rose straight, and through the pale leafage the
+sunlight quivered, full of the impulse of the morning. The ground was
+thick with grass and young shoots.... Something ran through the grass,
+paused, and then ran again.
+
+'What is that?' Mildred asked.
+
+'A squirrel, I think... yes, he's going up that tree.'
+
+'How pretty he is, his paws set against the bark.'
+
+'Come this way and we shall see him better.'
+
+But they caught no further sight of the squirrel, and Morton asked
+Mildred the time.
+
+'A quarter-past ten,' she said, glancing at the tiny watch which she
+wore in a bracelet.
+
+'Then we must be moving on. I ought to be at work at half-past. One
+can't work more than a couple of hours in this light.'
+
+They passed out of the wood and crossed an open space where rough
+grass grew in patches. Mildred opened her parasol.
+
+'You asked me just now if I ever went to England. Do you intend to go
+back, or do you intend to live in France?'
+
+'That's my difficulty. So long as I was painting there was a reason
+for my remaining in France, now that I've given it up---'
+
+'But you've not given it up.'
+
+'Yes, I have. If I don't find something else to do I suppose I must go
+back. That's what I dread. We live in Sutton. But that conveys no idea
+to your mind. Sutton is a little town in Surrey. It was very nice
+once, but now it is little better than a London suburb. My brother is
+a distiller. He goes to town every day by the ten minutes past nine
+and he returns by the six o'clock. I've heard of nothing but those two
+trains all my life. We have ten acres of ground--gardens, greenhouses,
+and a number of servants. Then there's the cart--I go out for drives
+in the cart. We have tennis parties--the neighbours, you know, and I
+shall have to choose whether I shall look after my brother's house, or
+marry and look after my husband's.'
+
+'It must be very lonely in Sutton.'
+
+'Yes, it is very lonely. There are a number of people about, but I've
+no friends that I care about. There's Mrs. Fargus.'
+
+'Who's Mrs. Fargus?'
+
+'Oh, you should see Mrs. Fargus, she reads Comte, and has worn the
+same dinner dress ever since I knew her--a black satin with a crimson
+scarf. Her husband suffers from asthma, and speaks of his wife as a
+very clever woman. He wears an eyeglass and she wears spectacles. Does
+that give you an idea of my friends?'
+
+'I should think it did. What damned bores they must be.'
+
+'He bores me, she doesn't. I owe a good deal to Mrs. Fargus. If it
+hadn't been for her I shouldn't be here now.'
+
+'What do you mean?'
+
+They again passed out of the sunlight into the green shade of some
+beech trees. Mildred closed her parasol, and swaying it to and fro
+amid the ferns she continued in a low laughing voice her tale of Mrs.
+Fargus and the influence that this lady had exercised upon her. Her
+words floated along a current of quiet humour cadenced by the gentle
+swaying of her parasol, and brought into relief by a certain
+intentness of manner which was peculiar to her. And gradually Morton
+became more and more conscious of her, the charm of her voice stole
+upon him, and once he lingered, allowing her to get a few yards in
+front so that he might notice the quiet figure, a little demure, and
+intensely itself, in a yellow gown. When he first saw her she had
+seemed to him a little sedate, even a little dowdy, and when she had
+spoken of her intention to abandon painting, although her manner was
+far from cheerless, he had feared a bore. He now perceived that this
+she at least was not--moreover, her determination to paint no more
+announced, an excellent sense of the realities of things in which the
+other women--the Elsies and the Cissys--seemed to him to be strangely
+deficient. And when he set up his easel her appreciation of his work
+helped him to further appreciation of her. He had spread the rug for
+her in a shady place, but for the present she preferred to stand
+behind him, her parasol slanted slightly, talking, he thought very
+well, of the art of the great men who had made Barbizon rememberable.
+And the light tone of banter in which she now admitted her failure
+seemed to Morton to be just the tone which she should adopt, and her
+ridicule of the impressionists and, above all, of the dottists amused
+him.
+
+'I don't know why they come here at all,' he said, 'unless it be to
+prove to themselves that nature falls far short of their pictures. I
+wonder why they come here? They could paint their gummy tapestry stuff
+anywhere.'
+
+'I can imagine your asking them what they thought of Corot. Their
+faces would assume a puzzled expression, I can see them scratching
+their heads reflectively; at last one of them would say:
+
+'"Yes, there is _Chose_ who lives behind the Odeon--he admires Corot.
+_Pas de blague_, he really does." Then all the others in chorus: "he
+really does admire Corot; we'll bring him to see you next Tuesday."'
+
+Morton laughed loudly, Mildred laughed quietly, and there was an
+intense intimacy of enjoyment in her laughter.
+
+'I can see them,' she said, 'bringing _Chose, le petit Chose_, who
+lives behind the Odeon and admires Corot, to see you, bringing him,
+you know, as a sort of strange survival, a curious relic. It really is
+very funny.'
+
+He was sorry when she said the sun was getting too hot for her, and
+she went and lay on the rug he had spread for her in the shade of the
+oak. She had brought a book to read, but she only read a line here and
+there. Her thoughts followed the white clouds for a while, and then
+she admired the man sitting easily on his camp-stool, his long legs
+wide apart. His small head, his big hat, the line of his bent back
+amused and interested her; she liked his abrupt speech, and wondered
+if she could love him. A couple of peasant women came by, bent under
+the weight of the faggots they had picked, and Mildred could see that
+Morton was watching the movement of these women, and she thought how
+well they would come into the picture he was painting.
+
+Soon after he rose from his easel and walked towards her.
+
+'Have you finished?' she said. 'No, not quite, but the light has
+changed. I cannot go on any more to-day. One can't work in the
+sunlight above an hour and a half.'
+
+'You've been working longer than that.'
+
+'But haven't touched the effect. I've been painting in some figures--
+two peasant women picking sticks, come and look.'
+
+
+
+
+XVI.
+
+
+Three days after Morton finished his picture. Mildred had been with
+him most of the time. And now lunch was over, and they lay on the rug
+under the oak tree talking eagerly.
+
+'Corot never married,' Morton remarked, as he shaded his eyes with his
+hand, and asked himself if any paint appeared in his sky. There was a
+corner on the left that troubled him. 'He doesn't seem to have ever
+cared for any woman. They say he never had a mistress.'
+
+'I hear that you have not followed his example.'
+
+'Not more than I could help.'
+
+His childish candour amused her so that she laughed outright, and she
+watched the stolid childish stare that she liked, until a longing to
+take him in her arms and kiss him came upon her. Her voice softened,
+and she asked him if he had ever been in love?
+
+'Yes, I think I was.'
+
+'How long did it last?'
+
+'About five years.'
+
+'And then?'
+
+'A lot of rot about scruples of conscience. I said, I give you a week
+to think it over, and if I don't hear from you in that time I'm off to
+Italy.'
+
+'Did she write?'
+
+'Not until I had left Paris. Then she spent five-and-twenty pounds in
+telegrams trying to get me back.'
+
+'But you wouldn't go back.'
+
+'Not I; with me, when an affair of that sort is over, it is really
+over. Don't you think I'm right?'
+
+'Perhaps so.... But I'm afraid we've learnt love in different
+schools.'
+
+'Then the sooner you relearn it in my school the better.'
+
+At that moment a light breeze came up the sandy path, carrying some
+dust on to the picture. Morton stamped and swore. For three minutes it
+was damn, damn, damn.
+
+'Do you always swear like that in the presence of ladies?'
+
+'What's a fellow to do when a blasted wind comes up smothering his
+picture in sand?'
+
+Mildred could only laugh at him; and, while he packed up his canvases,
+paint-box, and easel, she thought about him. She thought that she
+understood him, and fancied that she would be able to manage him. And
+convinced of her power she said aloud, as they plunged into the
+forest:
+
+'I always think it is a pity that it is considered vulgar to walk arm
+in arm. I like to take an arm.... I suppose we can do what we like in
+the forest of Fontainebleau. But you're too heavily laden--'
+
+'No, not a bit. I should like it.'
+
+She took his arm and walked by his side with a sweet caressing
+movement, and they talked eagerly until they reached the motive of his
+second picture.
+
+'What I've got on the canvas isn't very much like the view in front of
+you, is it?'
+
+'No, not much, I don't like it as well as the other picture.'
+
+'I began it late one evening. I've never been able to get the same
+effect again. Now it looks like a Puvis de Chavannes--not my picture,
+but that hillside, that large space of blue sky and the wood-cutters.'
+
+'It does a little. Are you going on with it?'
+
+'Why?'
+
+'Because there is no shade for me to sit in. I shall be roasted if we
+remain here.'
+
+'What shall we do? Lie down in some shady place?'
+
+'We might do that.... I know what I should like.'
+
+'What?'
+
+'A long drive in the forest.'
+
+'A capital idea. We can do that. We shall meet some one going to
+Barbizon. We'll ask them to send us a fly.'
+
+Their way lay through a pine wood where the heat was stifling; the dry
+trees were like firewood scorched and ready to break into flame; and
+their steps dragged through the loose sand. And, when they had passed
+this wood, they came to a place where the trees had all been felled,
+and a green undergrowth of pines, two or three feet high, had sprung
+up. It was difficult to force their way through; the prickly branches
+were disagreeable to touch, and underneath the ground was spongy, with
+layers of fallen needles hardly covered with coarse grass.
+
+Morton missed the way, and his paint-box and canvases had begun to
+weigh heavy when they came upon the road they were seeking. But where
+they came upon it, there was only a little burnt grass, and Morton
+proposed that they should toil on until they came to a pleasanter
+place.
+
+The road ascended along the verge of a steep hill, at the top of which
+they met a bicyclist who promised to deliver Morton's note. There was
+an opening in the trees, and below them the dark green forest waved
+for miles. It was pleasant to rest--they were tired. The forest
+murmured like a shell. They could distinguish here and there a tree,
+and their thoughts went to that tree. But, absorbed though they were
+by this vast nature, each was thinking intensely of the other. Mildred
+knew she was near the moment when Morton would take her hand and tell
+her that he loved her. She wondered what he would say. She did not
+think he would say he loved her, he would say: 'You're a damned pretty
+woman.' She could see he was thinking of something, and suspected him
+of thinking out a phrase or an oath appropriate to the occasion. She
+was nearly right. Morton was thinking how he should act. Mildred was
+not the common Barbizon art student whose one idea is to become the
+mistress of a painter so that she may learn to paint. She had
+encouraged him, but she had kept her little dignity. Moreover, he did
+not feel sure of her. So the minutes went by in awkward expectancy,
+and Morton had not kissed her before the carriage arrived.
+
+She lay back in the fly smiling, Morton thought, superciliously. It
+seemed to him stupid to put his arm round her waist and try to kiss
+her. But, sooner or later, he would have to do this. Once this Rubicon
+was passed he would know where he was.... As he debated, the tall
+trunks rose branchless for thirty or forty feet; and Mildred said that
+they were like plumed lances.
+
+'So they are,' he said, 'like plumed lances. And how beautifully that
+beech bends, what an exquisite curve, like a lance bent in the shock
+of the encounter.'
+
+The underwood seemed to promise endless peace, happy life amid leaves
+and birds; and Mildred thought of a duel under the tall trees. She saw
+two men fighting to the death for her. A romantic story begun in a
+ball-room, she was not quite certain how. Morton remembered a drawing
+of fauns and nymphs. But there was hardly cover for a nymph to hide
+her whiteness. The ground was too open, the faun would soon overtake
+her. She could better elude his pursuit in the opposite wood. There
+the long branches of the beeches swept the heads of the ferns, and, in
+mysterious hollows, ferns made mysterious shade, places where nymphs
+and fauns might make noonday festival.
+
+'What are you thinking of?' said Mildred.
+
+'Of fauns and nymphs,' he answered. 'These woods seem to breathe
+antiquity.'
+
+'But you never paint antiquity.'
+
+'I try to. Millet got its spirit. Do you know the peasant girl who has
+taken off her clothes to bathe in a forest pool, her sheep wandering
+through the wood? By God! I should like you to see that picture.'
+
+At the corner of the _carrefour_, the serpent catcher showed them two
+vipers in a low flat box. They darted their forked tongues against the
+wire netting, and the large green snake, which he took out of a bag,
+curled round his arm, seeking to escape. In questioning him they
+learnt that the snakes were on their way to the laboratory of a
+vivisectionist. This dissipated the mystery which they had suggested,
+and the carriage drove in silence down the long forest road.
+
+'We might have bought those snakes from him, and set them at liberty.'
+
+'We might have, but we didn't.'
+
+'Why didn't we?'
+
+'What would be the good? ... If we had, he would have caught others.'
+
+'I suppose so. But I don't like the idea of that beautiful snake,
+which you compared to me, being vivisected.'
+
+The forest now extended like a great temple, hushed in the beautiful
+ritual of the sunset. The light that suffused the green leaves
+overhead glossed the brown leaves underfoot, marking the smooth
+grosund as with a pattern. And, like chapels, every dell seemed in the
+tranquil light, and leading from them a labyrinthine architecture
+without design or end. Mildred's eyes wandered from the colonnades to
+the underwoods. She thought of the forest as of a great green prison;
+and then her soul fled to the scraps of blue that appeared through the
+thick leafage, and she longed for large spaces of sky, for a view of a
+plain, for a pine-plumed hill-top. Once more she admired, once more
+she wearied of the forest aisles, and was about to suggest returning
+to Barbizon when Morton said:
+
+'We are nearly there now; I'm going to show you our lake.'
+
+'A lake! Is there a lake?'
+
+'Yes, there's a lake--not a very large one, it is true, but still a
+lake--on the top of a hill where you can see the forest. Under a
+sunset sky the view is magnificent.'
+
+The carriage was to wait for them, and, a little excited by the
+adventure, Mildred followed Morton through rocks and furze bushes.
+When it was possible she took his arm, and once accidentally, or
+nearly accidentally, she sprang from a rock into his arms. She was
+surprised that he did not take advantage of the occasion to kiss her.
+
+'Standing on this flat rock we're like figures in a landscape, by
+Wilson,' Mildred said.
+
+'So we are,' said Morton, who was struck by the truth of the
+comparison. 'But there is too much colour in the scene for Wilson--he
+would have reduced it all to a beautiful blue, with only a yellow
+flush to tell where the sun had gone.'
+
+'It would be very nice if you would make me a sketch of the lake. I'll
+lend you a lead pencil, the back of an envelope will do.'
+
+'I've a water-colour box in my pocket and a block. Sit down there and
+I'll do you a sketch.'
+
+'And, while you are accomplishing a work of genius, I'll supply the
+levity, and don't you think I'm just the person to supply the
+necessary leaven of lightness? Look at my frock and my sunshade.'
+
+Morton laughed, the conversation paused, and the water-colour
+progressed. Suddenly Mildred said:
+
+'What did you think of me the first time you saw me? What impression
+did I produce on you?'
+
+'Do you want me to tell you, to tell you exactly?'
+
+'Yes, indeed I do.'
+
+'I don't think I can.'
+
+'What was it?' Mildred asked in a low affectionate tone, and she
+leaned towards him in an intimate affectionate way.
+
+'Well--you struck me as being a little dowdy.'
+
+'Dowdy! I had a nice new frock on. I don't think I could have looked
+dowdy, and among the dreadful old rags that the girls wear here.'
+
+'It had nothing to do with the clothes you wore. It was a little
+quiet, sedate air.'
+
+'I wasn't in good spirits when I came down here.'
+
+'No, you weren't. I thought you might be a bore.'
+
+'But I haven't been that, have I?'
+
+'No, I'm damned if you're that.'
+
+'But what a charming sketch you're making. You take that ordinary
+common grey from the palette, and it becomes beautiful. If I were to
+take the very same tint, and put it on the paper, it would be mud.'
+
+Morton placed his sketch against a rock, and surveyed it from a little
+distance. 'I don't call it bad, do you? I think I've got the sensation
+of the lonely lake. But the effect changes so rapidly. Those clouds
+are quite different from what they were just now. I never saw a finer
+sky, it is wonderful. It is splendid as a battle'...
+
+'Write underneath it, "That night the sky was like a battle."'
+
+'No, it would do for my sketch.'
+
+'You think the suggestion would overpower the reality.... But it is a
+charming sketch. It will remind me of a charming day, of a very happy
+day.'
+
+She raised her eyes. The moment had come.
+
+He threw one arm round her, and raised her face with the other hand.
+She gave her lips easily, with a naturalness that surprised and
+deceived him. He might marry her, or she might be his mistress, he
+didn't know which, but he was quite sure that he liked her better than
+any woman he had seen for a long time. He had not known her a week,
+and she already absorbed his thoughts. And, during the drive home, he
+hardly saw the forest. Once a birch, whose faint leaves and branches
+dissolved in a glittering light, drew his thoughts away from Mildred.
+She lay upon his shoulder, his arm was affectionately around her, and,
+looking at him out of eyes whose brown seemed to soften in affection,
+she said:
+
+'Elsie said you'd get round me.'
+
+'What did she mean?'
+
+'Well,' said Mildred, nestling a little closer, and laughing low,
+'haven't you got round me?'
+
+Her playfulness enchanted her lover, and, when she discreetly sought
+his hand, he felt that he understood her account of Alfred's
+brutality. But her tenderness, in speaking of Ralph, quickened his
+jealousy.
+
+'My violets lay under his hand, he must have died thinking of me.'
+
+'But the woman who wrote to you, his mistress, she must have known all
+about his love for you. What did she say?'
+
+'She said very little. She was very nice to me. She could see that I
+was a good woman....'
+
+'But that made no difference so far as she was concerned. You took her
+lover away from her.'
+
+'She knew that I hadn't done anything wrong, that we were merely
+friends.'
+
+The conversation paused a moment, then Morton said: 'It seems to have
+been a mysterious kind of death. What did he die of?'
+
+'Ah, no one ever knew. The doctors could make nothing of his case. He
+had been complaining a long time. They spoke of overwork, but--'
+
+'But, what?'
+
+'I believe he died of slow poisoning.'
+
+'Slow poisoning! Who could have poisoned him?'
+
+'Ellen Gibbs.'
+
+'What an awful thing to say.... I suppose you have some reason for
+suspecting her?'
+
+'His death was very mysterious. The doctors could not account for it.
+There ought to have been a _post-mortem_ examination.' Feeling that
+this was not sufficient reason, and remembering suddenly that Ralph
+held socialistic theories and was a member of a sect of socialists,
+she said: 'Ralph was a member of a secret society.... He was an
+anarchist--no one suspected it, but he told me everything, and it was
+I who persuaded him to leave the Brotherhood.'
+
+'I do not see what that has to do with his death by slow poisoning.'
+
+'Those who retire from these societies usually die.'
+
+'But why Ellen Gibbs?'
+
+'She was a member of the same society, it was she who got him to join.
+When he resigned it was her duty to--'
+
+'Kill him! What a terrible story. I wonder if you're right.'
+
+'I know I am right.'
+
+At the end of a long silence, Morton said:
+
+'I wonder if you like me as much as you liked Ralph.'
+
+'It is very different. He was very good to me.'
+
+'And do you think that I shall not be good to you?'
+
+'Yes, I think you will,' she said looking up and taking the hand which
+pressed against her waist.
+
+'You say he was a very clever artist. Do you like his work better than
+mine?'
+
+'It was as different as you yourselves are.'
+
+'I wonder if I should like it?'
+
+'He would have liked that,' and she pointed with her parasol towards
+an oak glade, golden hearted and hushed.
+
+'A sort of Diaz, then?'
+
+'No, not the least like that. No, it wasn't the Rousseau palette.'
+
+'That's a regular Diaz motive. It would be difficult to treat it
+differently.'
+
+The carriage rolled through a tender summer twilight, through a
+whispering forest.
+
+
+
+
+XVII.
+
+
+At the end of September the green was duskier, yellow had begun to
+appear; and the crisped leaf falling through the still air stirred the
+heart like a memory.
+
+The skies which rose above the dying forest had acquired gentler
+tints, a wistfulness had come into the blue which was in keeping with
+the fall of the leaf.
+
+There was a scent of moisture in the underwoods, rills had begun to
+babble; on the hazel rods leaves fluttered pathetically, the branches
+of the plane trees hung out like plumes, their drooping leaves making
+wonderful patterns.
+
+In the hotel gardens a sunflower watched the yellowing forest, then
+bent its head and died.
+
+The great cedar was deserted, and in October Morton was painting
+chrysanthemums on the walls of the dining-room. He called them the
+flowers of twilight, the flowers of the summer's twilight. Mildred
+watched him adding the last sprays to his bouquet of white and purple
+bloom.
+
+The inveigling sweetness of these last bright days entered into life,
+quickening it with desire to catch and detain some tinge of autumn's
+melancholy. All were away in the fields and the forest; and, though
+little of their emotion transpired on their canvases, they were moved,
+as were Rousseau and Millet, by the grandeur of the blasted oak and
+the lonely byre standing against the long forest fringes, dimming in
+the violet twilight.
+
+Elsie was delighted with her birch, and Cissy considered her rocks
+approvingly.
+
+'You've caught the beauty of that birch,' said Cissy. 'How graceful it
+is in the languid air. It seems sad about something.'
+
+'About the pine at the end of the glade,' said Elsie laughing. 'I
+brought the pine a little nearer. I think it composes better.'
+
+'Yes, I think it does. You must come and see my rocks and ferns.
+There's one corner I don't know what to do with. But I like my oak.'
+
+'I will come presently. I'm working at the effect; the light will have
+changed in another half hour.'
+
+'I've done all I can do to mine. It would make a nice background for a
+hunting picture. There's a hunt to-day in the forest. Mildred and
+Morton are going to see the meet.'
+
+Elsie continued painting, Cissy sat down on a stone and soon lost
+herself in meditations. She thought about the man she was in love
+with; he had gone back to Paris. She was now sure that she hated his
+method of painting, and, finding that his influence had not been a
+good one, she strove to look on the landscape with her own eyes. But
+she saw only various painters in it. The last was Morton Mitchell, and
+she thought if he had been her lover she might have learnt something
+from him. But he was entirely taken up with Mildred. She did not like
+Mildred any more, she had behaved very badly to that poor little Rose
+Turner. 'Poor little thing, she trembles like that birch.'
+
+'What are you saying, Cissy? Who trembles like that birch?'
+
+'I was thinking of Rose, she seems dreadfully upset, Morton never
+looks at her now.'
+
+'I think that Morton would have married her if Mildred hadn't appeared
+on the scene. I know he was thinking of settling down.'
+
+'Mildred is a mystery. Her pleasure seems to be to upset people's
+lives. You remember poor Ralph Hoskin. He died of a broken heart. I
+can't make Mildred out, she tells a lot of lies. She's always talking
+about her virtue. But I hardly think that Morton would be as devoted
+to her as he is if he weren't her lover. Do you think so?'
+
+'I don't know, men are very strange.'
+
+Elsie rose to her feet. She put aside her camp stool, walked back a
+few yards, and looked at her picture. The motive of her picture was a
+bending birch at the end of the glade. Rough forest growth made clear
+its delicate drawing, and in the pale sky, washed by rains to a faded
+blue, clouds arose and evaporated. The road passed at the bottom of
+the hill and several huntsmen had already ridden by. Now a private
+carriage with a pair of horses stood waiting.
+
+'That's Madame Delacour's carriage, she is waiting for Mildred and
+Morton.'
+
+'The people at Fontainebleau?'
+
+'Yes, the wife of the great Socialist Deputy. They're at Fontainebleau
+for the season. M. Delacour has taken the hunting. They say he has a
+fine collection of pictures. He buys Morton's pictures.... It was he
+who bought his "Sheepfold."'
+
+Elsie did not admire Morton's masterpiece as much as Cissy. But they
+were agreed that Mildred might prove a disintegrating influence in the
+development of his talent. He had done no work since he had made her
+acquaintance. She was a mere society woman. She had never cared for
+painting; she had taken up painting because she thought that it would
+help her socially. She had taken up Morton for the same reason. He had
+introduced her to the Delacours. She had been a great success at the
+dinner they had given last week. No doubt she had exaggerated her
+success, but old Dedyier, who had been there too, had said that every
+one was talking of _la belle et la spirituelle anglaise_.
+
+The girls sat watching the carriage stationed at the bottom of the
+hill. The conversation paused, a sound of wheels was heard, and a fly
+was seen approaching. The fly was dismissed, and Mildred took her seat
+next to Madame Delacour. Morton sat opposite. He settled the rug over
+the ladies' knees and the carriage drove rapidly away.
+
+'They'll be late for the meet,' said Cissy.
+
+And all the afternoon the girls listened to the hunting. In the
+afternoon three huntsmen crashed through the brushwood at the end of a
+glade, winding the long horns they wore about their shoulders. Once a
+strayed hound came very near them, Elsie threw the dog a piece of
+bread. It did not see the bread, and pricking up its ears it trotted
+away. The horns came nearer and nearer, and the girls were affrighted
+lest they should meet the hunted boar and be attacked. It must have
+turned at the bottom of the hill. The horns died through the twilight,
+a spectral moon was afloat in the sky, and some wood-cutters told them
+that they were three kilometres from Barbizon.
+
+When about a mile from the village they were overtaken by the
+Delacours' carriage. Morton and Mildred bade Madame good-bye and
+walked home with them. Their talk was of hunting. The boar had been
+taken close to the central _carrefour,_ they had watched the fight
+with the dogs, seven of which he had disabled before M. Delacour
+succeeded in finally despatching him. The edible value of boar's head
+was discussed, until Mildred mentioned that Madame Delacour was going
+to give a ball. Elsie and Cissy were both jealous of Mildred, but they
+hoped she would get them invited. She said that she did not know
+Madame Delacour well enough to ask for invitations. Later on she would
+see what could be done; Morton thought that there would be no
+difficulty, and Elsie asked Mildred what dress she was going to wear.
+Mildred said she was going to Paris to order some clothes and the
+conversation dropped.
+
+At the end of the week the Delacours drove over to Barbizon and
+lunched at Lunions. The horses, the carriage, liveries, the dresses,
+the great name of the Deputy made a fine stir in the village.
+
+'I wonder if she'll get us invited,' said Elsie.
+
+'Not she,' said Cissy.
+
+But Mildred was always unexpected. She introduced Monsieur and Madame
+Delacour to Elsie and Cissy; she insisted on their showing their
+paintings; they were invited to the ball, and Mildred drove away
+nodding and smiling.
+
+Her dress was coming from Paris; she was staying with the Delacours
+until after the ball, so, as Cissy said, her way was nice and smooth
+and easy--very different indeed from theirs. They had to struggle with
+the inability and ignorance of a provincial dressmaker, working
+against time. At the last moment it became clear that their frocks
+could not be sent to Barbizon, that they would have to dress for the
+ball in Fontainebleau. But where! They would have to hire rooms at the
+hotel, and, having gone to the expense of hiring rooms, they had as
+well sleep at Fontainebleau. They could return with Mildred--she would
+have the Delacours' carriage. They could all four return together,
+that would be very jolly. The hotel omnibus was going to Melun to
+catch the half-past six train. If they went by train they would
+economise sufficiently in carriage hire to pay their hotel expenses,
+or very nearly. Morton agreed to accompany them. He got their tickets
+and found them places, but they noticed that he seemed a little
+thoughtful, not to say gloomy. Not the least,' as Elsie said, 'like a
+man who was going to meet his sweetheart at a ball.'
+
+'I think,' whispered Cissy, 'that he's beginning to regret that he
+introduced her to the Delacours. He feels that it is as likely as not
+that she'll throw him over for some of the grand people she will meet
+there.'
+
+Cissy had guessed rightly. A suspicion had entered into his heart that
+Mildred was beginning to perceive that her interest lay rather with
+the Delacours than with him. And he had not engaged himself to Mildred
+for any dances, because he wished to see if she would reserve any
+dances for him. This ball he felt would prove a turning-point in his
+love story. He suspected M. Delacour of entertaining some very
+personal admiration for Mildred; he would see if his suspicion were
+well founded; he would not rush to her at once; and, having shaken
+hands with his host and hostess, he sought a corner whence he could
+watch Mildred and the ball.
+
+The rooms were already thronged, but the men were still separated from
+the women; the fusion of the sexes, which was the mission of the dance
+to accomplish, had hardly begun. Some few officers were selecting
+partners up and down the room, but the politicians, their secretaries,
+the prefects, and the sub-prefects had not yet moved from the
+doorways. The platitudes of public life were written in their eyes.
+But these made expressions were broken at the sight of some young
+girl's fragility, or the paraded charms of a woman of thirty; and then
+each feared that his neighbour had discovered thoughts in him
+unappropriate to the red ribbon which he wore in his buttonhole.
+
+'A cross between clergymen and actors,' thought Morton, and he
+indulged in philosophical reflections. The military had lost its
+prestige in the boudoir, Nothing short of a continental war could
+revive it, the actor and the tenor never did more than to lift the
+fringe of society's garment. The curate continues a very solid innings
+in the country; but in town the political lover is in the ascendent.
+'A possible under-secretary is just the man to cut me out with
+Mildred.... They'd discuss the elections between kisses.' At that
+moment he saw Mildred struggling through the crowd with a young
+diplomatist, Le Comte de la Ferriere.
+
+She wore white tulle laid upon white silk. The bodice was silver fish-
+scales, and she shimmered like a moonbeam. She laid her hand on her
+dancer's shoulder, moving forward with a motion that permeated her
+whole body. A silver shoe appeared, and Morton thought:
+
+'What a vanity, only a vanity; but what a delicious and beautiful
+vanity.'
+
+The waltz ended, some dancers passed out of the ball-room, and Mildred
+was surrounded. It looked as if her card would be filled before Morton
+could get near her. But she stood on tiptoe and, looking over the
+surrounding shoulders, cried that she would keep the fourteenth for
+him. 'Why did you not come before,' she asked smiling, and went out of
+the room on the arm of the young comte.
+
+At that moment M. Delacour took Morton's arm and asked when would the
+picture he had ordered be finished. Morton hoped by the end of next
+week, and the men walked through the room talking of pictures... On
+the way back they met Mildred. She told Morton that she would make it
+all right later on. He must now go and talk to Madame Delacour. She
+had promised M. Delacour the next dance.
+
+M. Delacour was fifty, but he was straight and thin, and there was no
+sign of grey in his black hair, which fitted close and tight as a
+skull cap. His face was red and brown, but he did not seem very old,
+and Morton wondered if it were possible for Mildred to love so old a
+man.
+
+Madame Delacour sat in a high chair within the doorway, out of reach
+of any draught that might happen on the staircase. Her blond hair was
+drawn high up in an eighteenth century coiffure, and her high pale
+face looked like a cameo or an old coin. She spoke in a high clear
+voice, and expressed herself in French a little unfamiliar to her
+present company. 'She must have married beneath her,' thought Morton,
+and he wondered on what terms she lived with her husband. He spoke of
+Mildred as the prettiest woman in the room, and was disappointed that
+Madame Delacour did not contest the point...
+
+When Cissy and Elsie came whirling by, Cissy unnecessarily large and
+bare, and Elsie intolerably pert and middle class, Morton regretted
+that he would have to ask them to dance. And, when he had danced with
+them and the three young ladies Madame Delacour had introduced him to,
+and had taken a comtesse into supper, he found that the fourteenth
+waltz was over. But Mildred bade him not to look so depressed, she had
+kept the cotillion for him. It was going to begin very soon. He had
+better look after chairs. So he tied his handkerchief round a couple.
+But he knew what the cotillion meant. She would be always dancing with
+others. And the cotillion proved as he had expected. Everything
+happened, but it was all the same to him. Dancers had gone from the
+dancing-room and returned in masks and dominoes. A paper imitation of
+a sixteenth-century house had been brought in, ladies had shown
+themselves at the lattice, they had been serenaded, and had chosen
+serenaders to dance with. And when at the end of his inventions the
+leader fell back on the hand glass and the cushion, Mildred refused
+dance after dance. At last the leader called to Morton, he came up
+certain of triumph, but Mildred passed the handkerchief over the glass
+and drew the cushion from his knee. She danced both figures with M.
+Delacour.
+
+She was covered with flowers and ribbons, and, though a little woman,
+she looked very handsome in her triumph. Morton hated her triumph,
+knowing that it robbed him of her. But he hid his jealousy as he would
+his hand in a game of cards, and, when the last guests were going, he
+bade her good-night with a calm face. He saw her go upstairs with M.
+Delacour. Madame Delacour had gone to her room; she had felt so tired
+that she could sit up no longer and had begged her husband to excuse
+her, and as Mildred went upstairs, three or four steps in front of M.
+Delacour, she stopped to arrange with Elsie and Cissy when she should
+come to fetch them, they were all going home together.
+
+At that moment Morton saw her so clearly that the thought struck him
+that he had never seen her before. She appeared in that instant as a
+toy, a trivial toy made of coloured glass; and as a maleficent toy,
+for he felt if he played with it any longer that it would break and
+splinter in his fingers. 'As brilliant, as hard, and as dangerous as a
+piece of broken glass.' He wondered why he had been attracted by this
+bit of coloured glass; he laughed at his folly and went home certain
+that he could lose her without pain. But memory of her delicate neck
+and her wistful eyes suddenly assailed him; he threw himself over on
+his pillow, aching to clasp the lissome mould of her body--a mould
+which he knew so well that he seemed to feel its every shape in his
+arms; his nostrils recalled its perfume, and he asked himself if he
+would destroy his picture, 'The Sheepfold,' if, by destroying it, he
+could gain her. For six months with her in Italy he would destroy it,
+and he would not regret its destruction. But had she the qualities
+that make a nice mistress? Candidly, he did not think she had. He'd
+have to risk that. Anyhow, she wasn't common like the others.... In
+time she would become common; time makes all things common.
+
+'But this is God-damned madness,' he cried out, and lay staring into
+the darkness, his eyes and heart on fire. Visions of Mildred and
+Delacour haunted his pillow, he did not know whether he slept or
+waked; and he rose from his bed weary, heavy-eyed, and pale.
+
+He was to meet her at eleven on the terrace by the fish-pond, and had
+determined to come to an understanding with her, but his heart choked
+him when he saw her coming toward him along the gravel path. He bought
+some bread at the stall for the fish; and talking to her he grew so
+happy that he feared to imperil his happiness by reproaches. They
+wondered if they would see the fabled carp in whose noses rings had
+been put in the time of Louis XIV. The statues on their pedestals,
+high up in the clear, bright air, were singularly beautiful, and they
+saw the outlines of the red castle and the display of terraces
+reaching to the edge of the withering forest. They were conscious that
+the place was worthy of its name, Fontainebleau. The name is evocative
+of stately days and traditions, and Mildred fancied herself a king's
+mistress--La Pompadour. The name is a romance, an excitement, and,
+throwing her arms on Morton's shoulders, she said:
+
+'Morton, dear, don't be angry. I'm very fond of you, I really am.... I
+only stop with the Delacours because they amuse me.... It means
+nothing.'
+
+'If I could only believe you,' said Morton, holding her arms in his
+hands and looking into her brown eyes.
+
+'Why don't you believe me?' she said; but there was no longer any
+earnestness in her voice. It had again become a demure insincerity.
+
+'If you were really fond of me, you'd give yourself.'
+
+'Perhaps I will one of these days.'
+
+'When... when you return to Barbizon?'
+
+'I won't promise. When I promise I like to keep my promise.... You ask
+too much. You don't realise what it means to a woman to give herself.
+Have you never had a scruple about anything?'
+
+'Scruple about anything! I don't know what you mean.... What scruple
+can you have? you're not a religious woman.'
+
+'It isn't religion, it is--well, something.... I don't know.'
+
+'This has gone on too long,' he said, 'if I don't get you now I shall
+lose you.'
+
+'If you were really afraid of losing me you would ask me to marry
+you.'
+
+Morton was taken aback.
+
+'I never thought of marriage; but I would marry you. Do you mean it?'
+
+'Yes, I mean it.'
+
+'When?'
+
+'One of these days.'
+
+'I don't believe you. ... You're a bundle of falsehoods.'
+
+'I'm not as false as you say. There's no use making me out worse than
+I am. I'm very fond of you, Morton.'
+
+'I wonder,' said Morton. 'I asked you just now to be my mistress; you
+said you'd prefer to marry me. Very well, when will you marry me?'
+
+'Don't ask me. I cannot say when. Besides, you don't want to marry
+me.'
+
+'You think so?'
+
+'You hesitated just now. A woman always knows. ... If you had wanted
+to marry me you would have begun by asking me.'
+
+'This is tomfoolery. I asked you to be my mistress, and then, at your
+suggestion, I asked you to be my wife; I really don't see what more I
+can do. You say you're very fond of me, and yet you want to be neither
+mistress nor wife.'
+
+A little dark cloud gathered between her eyes. She did not answer. She
+did not know what to answer, for she was acting in contradiction to
+her reason. Her liking for Morton was quite real; there were even
+moments when she thought that she would end by marrying. But
+mysterious occult influences which she could neither explain nor
+control were drawing her away from him. She asked herself, what was
+this power which abided in the bottom of her heart, from which she
+could not rid herself, and which said, 'thou shalt not marry him.' She
+asked herself if this essential force was the life of pleasure and
+publicity which the Delacours offered her. She had to admit that she
+was drawn to this life, and that she had felt strangely at ease in it.
+In the few days that she had spent with the Delacours she had, for the
+first time in her life, felt in agreement with her surroundings. She
+had always hated that dirty studio, and still more its dirty slangy
+frequenters.
+
+And she lay awake a great part of the night thinking. She felt that
+she must act in obedience to her instinct whatever it might cost her,
+and her instinct drew her towards the Delacours and away from Morton.
+But her desire for Morton was not yet exhausted, and the struggle
+between the two forces resulted in one of her moods. Its blackness lay
+on forehead, between her eyes, and, in the influence of its mesmerism,
+she began to hate him. As she put it to herself, she began to feel
+ugly towards him. She hated to return to Barbizon, and when they met,
+she gave her cheek instead of her lips, and words which provoked and
+wounded him rose to her tongue's tip; she could not save herself from
+speaking them, and each day their estrangement grew more and more
+accentuated.
+
+She came down one morning nervously calm, her face set in a definite
+and gathering expression of resolution. Elsie could see that something
+serious had happened. But Mildred did not seem inclined to explain,
+she only said that she must leave Barbizon at once. That she was going
+that very morning, that her boxes were packed, that she had ordered a
+carriage.
+
+'Are you going back to Paris?'
+
+'Yes, but I don't think I shall go to Melun, I shall go to
+Fontainebleau. I'd like to say good-bye to the Delacours.'
+
+'This is hardly a day for a drive through the forest; you'll be blown
+to pieces.'
+
+'I don't mind a little wind. I shall tie my veil tighter.'
+
+Mildred admitted that she had quarrelled with Morton. But she would
+say no more. She declared, however, that she would not see him again.
+Her intention was to leave before he came down; and, as if unable to
+bear the delay any longer, she asked Cissy and Elsie to walk a little
+way with her. The carriage could follow.
+
+The wind was rough, but they were burning to hear what Morton had
+done, and, hoping that Mildred would become more communicative when
+they got out of the village, they consented to accompany her.
+
+'I'm sorry to leave,' said Mildred, 'but I cannot stay after what
+happened last night. Oh, dear!' she exclaimed, 'my hat nearly went
+that time. I'm afraid I shall have a rough drive.'
+
+'You will indeed. You'd better stay,' said Elsie.
+
+'I cannot. It would be impossible for me to see him again.'
+
+'But what did he say to offend you?'
+
+'It wasn't what he said, it was what he did.'
+
+'What did he do?'
+
+'He came into my room last night.'
+
+'Did he! were you in bed?'
+
+'Yes; I was in bed reading. I was awfully frightened. I never saw a
+man in such a state. I think he was mad.'
+
+'What did you do?'
+
+'I tried to calm him. I felt that I must not lose my presence of mind.
+I spoke to him gently. I appealed to his honour, and at last I
+persuaded him to go.'
+
+'What did you say?'
+
+'I at last persuaded him to go.'
+
+'We can't talk in this wind,' screamed Elsie, 'we'd better go back.'
+
+'We shall be killed,' cried Cissy starting back in alarm, for a young
+pine had crashed across the road not very far from where they were
+standing, and the girls could hear the wind trumpeting, careering,
+springing forward; it rushed, leaped, it paused, and the whole forest
+echoed its wrath.
+
+When the first strength of the blast seemed ebbing, the girls looked
+round for shelter. They felt if they remained where they were, holding
+on to roots and grasses, that they would be carried away.
+
+'Those rocks,' cried Cissy.
+
+'We shan't get there in time, the trees will fall,' cried Elsie.
+
+'Not a minute to lose,' said Mildred. 'Come!'
+
+And the girls ran through the swaying trees at the peril of their
+lives. And, as they ran, the earth gave forth a rumbling sound and was
+lifted beneath their feet. It seemed as if subterranean had joined
+with aerial forces, for the crumbling sound they had heard as they ran
+through the scattered pines increased; it was the roots giving way;
+and the pines bent, wavered, and fell this way and that. But about the
+rocks, where the girls crouched the trees grew so thickly that the
+wind could not destroy them singly; so it had taken the wood in
+violent and passionate grasp, and was striving to beat it down. But
+under the rocks all was quiet, the storm was above in the branches,
+and, hearing almost human cries, the girls looked up and saw great
+branches interlocked like serpents in the writhe of battle.
+
+In half an hour the storm had blown itself out. But a loud wind shook
+through the stripped and broken forest; lament was in all the
+branches, the wind forced them upwards and they gesticulated their
+despair. The leaves rose and sank like cries of woe adown the raw air,
+and the roadway was littered with ruin. The whirl of the wind still
+continued and the frightened girls dreaded lest the storm should
+return, overtaking them as they passed through the avenue.
+
+The avenue was nearly impassable with fallen trees, and Elsie said:
+
+'You'll not be able to go to Fontainebleau to-day.'
+
+'Then I shall go to Melun.'
+
+As they entered the village they met the carriage, and Mildred bade
+her friends good-bye.
+
+
+
+
+XVIII.
+
+
+In the long autumn and winter evenings Harold often thought of his
+sister. His eyes often wandered to the writing table, and he asked
+himself if he should write to her again. There seemed little use. She
+either ignored his questions altogether, or alluded to them in a few
+words and passed from them into various descriptive writing, the
+aspects of the towns she had visited, and the general vegetation of
+the landscapes she had seen; or she dilated on the discovery of a
+piece of china, a bronze, or an old engraving in some forgotten
+corner. Her intention to say nothing about herself was obvious.
+
+In a general way he gathered that she had been to Nice and Monte
+Carlo, and he wondered why she had gone to the Pyrenees, and with whom
+she was living in the Boulevard Poissonier. That was her last address.
+The letter was dated the fifteenth of December, she had not written
+since, and it was now March. But scraps of news of her had reached
+him. One day he learnt from a paragraph in a newspaper that Miss
+Mildred Lawson had been received into the Church of Rome, he wrote to
+inquire if this was true, and a few days after a lady told him that
+she had heard that Mildred had entered a Carmelite convent and taken
+the veil. The lady's information did not seem very trustworthy, but
+Harold was nevertheless seriously alarmed, and, without waiting for an
+answer to the letter he had written the day before, he telegraphed to
+Mildred.
+
+'I have not entered a convent and have no present intention of doing
+so.'
+
+'Could anything be more unsatisfactory,' Harold thought. 'She does not
+say whether she has gone over to Rome. Perhaps that is untrue too.
+Shall I telegraph again?' He hesitated and then decided that he would
+not. She did not wish to be questioned, and would find an evasive
+answer that would leave him only more bewildered than before.
+
+He hoped for an answer to his letter, but Mildred did not write, no
+doubt, being of opinion that her telegram met the necessity of the
+case, and he heard no more until some news of her came to him through
+Elsie Laurence, whom Harold met one afternoon as he was coming home
+from the city. From Elsie he learnt that Mildred was a great social
+success in Paris. She was living with the Delacours, she had met them
+at Fontainebleau. Morton Mitchell, that was the man she had thrown
+over, had introduced her to them. Harold had never heard of the
+Delacours, and he hastened to acquaint himself with them; Morton
+Mitchell he reserved for some future time; one flirtation more or less
+mattered little; but that his sister should be living with the
+Delacours, a radical and socialist deputy, a questionable financier, a
+company promoter, a journalist, was very shocking. Delacour was all
+these things and many more, according to Elsie, and she rattled on
+until Harold's brain whirled. He learnt, too, that it was with the
+Delacours that Mildred had been in the South.
+
+'She wrote to me from some place in the Pyrenees.'
+
+'From Lourdes? she was there.'
+
+A cloud gathered on Harold's face.
+
+'She didn't write to me from Lourdes,' he said. 'But Lourdes is, I
+suppose, the reason of her perversion to Rome?'
+
+'No; Mildred told me that Lourdes had nothing to do with it.'
+
+'You say that she now lives with these people, the Delacours.'
+
+'Yes; she's just like one of the family. She invites her friends to
+dinner. She invited me to dinner. The Delacours are very rich, and
+Mildred is now all the rage in Paris.'
+
+'And Madame Delacour, what kind of a woman is she?'
+
+'Madame Delacour has very poor health, they say she was once a great
+beauty, but there's very little of her beauty left. ... She's very
+fond of Mildred. They are great friends.'
+
+The next time that Harold heard of Mildred was through his solicitors.
+In the course of conversation regarding some investments, Messrs.
+Blunt and Hume mentioned that Miss Lawson had taken 5000 pounds out of
+mortgage. They did not know if she had re-invested it, she had merely
+requested them to pay the money into her banking account.
+
+'Why did you not mention this to me before?'
+
+'Miss Lawson has complete control over her private fortune. On a
+former occasion, you remember, when she required five hundred pounds
+to hire and furnish a studio, she wrote very sharply because we had
+written to you on the subject. She spoke of a breach of professional
+etiquette.'
+
+'Then why do you tell me now about this 5000 pounds?'
+
+'Strictly speaking we ought not to have done so, but we thought that
+we might venture on a confidential statement.'
+
+Harold thought that Messrs. Blunt and Hume had acted very stupidly,
+and he asked himself what Mildred proposed to do with the money. Did
+she intend to re-invest it in French securities? Or had the Roman
+Catholics persuaded her to leave it to a convent or to spend it in
+building a church? Or perhaps, Delacour and the Socialists have got
+hold of the money. But Mildred was never very generous with her money.
+... He stepped into a telegraph office and stepped out again without
+having sent a message. He wrote a long letter when he arrived home,
+and tore it up when he had finished it. It was not a case for a letter
+or telegram, but for an immediate journey. He could send a telegram to
+the office, saying he would not be there to-morrow; he remembered a
+business appointment for Friday, which could not be broken. But he
+could return on Thursday morning. ... Arrive on Wednesday night,
+return on Thursday morning or Thursday night, if he did not succeed in
+seeing Mildred on Wednesday night. ... Yes, that would do it, but it
+would mean a tedious journey on the coldest month of the year. But
+5000 English pounds was a large sum of money, he must do what he could
+to save it. Save it! Yes, for he hadn't a doubt that it was in danger.
+... He would take the train at Charing Cross to-morrow morning. ... He
+would arrive in Paris about eight.... He would then go to his hotel,
+change his clothes, dine, and get to Mildred's about nine or half-
+past.
+
+This was the course he adopted, and on Wednesday night at half-past
+nine, he crossed the Rue Richlieu, and inquired the way to Boulevard
+Poissonier.... If Mildred were going to a ball he would be able to get
+half an hour's conversation were her before she went upstairs to
+dress. If she were dining out, he could wait until she came in. She
+would not be later than eleven, he thought as he entered a courtyard.
+There were a number of staircases, and he at last found himself in the
+corridors and the salons of _La voix du Peuple_, which was printed and
+published on the first floor. He addressed questions to various men
+who passed him with proofs in their hands, and, when a door was opened
+on the left, he saw a glare of gas and the compositors bending over
+the cases.
+
+Then he found his way to the floor above, and there doors were open on
+both sides of the landing; footmen hurried to and fro. He asked for
+Mademoiselle Lawson, and was led through rooms decorated with flowers.
+'They are giving a ball here to-night,' he thought, and the footmen
+drew aside a curtain; and in a small end room, a boudoir dimly lighted
+and hung with tapestry and small pictures in gold frames, he found
+Mildred sitting on a couch with an elderly man, about fifty.
+
+They seemed to be engaged in intimate conversation; and they rose
+abruptly, as if disconcerted by his sudden intrusion.
+
+'Oh, Harold,' said Mildred.... 'Why didn't you write to say that you
+were coming _vous tombez comme une tuile.... Permettez-moi, Monsieur
+Delacour, de vous presenter a won frere_.' Harold bowed and shook
+hands with the tall thin man with the high-bridged nose and the close-
+cut black hair, fitting close to his head. In the keen grey eyes,
+which shone out of a studiously formal face, there was a look which
+passed from disdain to swift interrogation, and then to an expression
+of courteous and polite welcome. M. Delacour professed himself
+delighted to make Harold's acquaintance, and he hoped that Harold was
+staying some time in Paris. Harold regretted that he was obliged to
+return on the following morning, and M. Delacour's face assumed an
+expression of disappointment. He said that it would have been his
+pleasure to make Harold's stay as agreeable as possible. However, on
+the occasion of Harold's next visit, M. Delacour hoped that he could
+stay with them. He went so far as to say that he hoped that Harold
+would consider this house as his own. Harold thanked him, and again
+expressed regret that he was obliged to leave the following morning.
+He noticed a slight change of expression on the diplomatist's face
+when he mentioned that he had come over in a hurry to discuss some
+business matters with his sister. A moment later M. Delacour was
+smiling perfect approval and comprehension and moving towards the
+door. At the door he lingered to express a hope that Harold would stay
+for the ball. He said that Mildred must do her best to persuade her
+brother to remain.
+
+The musicians had just come, she could hear them tuning their
+instruments. Guests would soon arrive, so she hoped that the interview
+would not be prolonged. The way to shorten it was to say nothing. She
+could see that Harold was embarrassed, silence would increase his
+embarrassment. She knew that he had come to speak about the 4000
+pounds which she had taken out of mortgage. She knew that he hoped to
+induce her to re-invest it in some good security at five per cent. But
+she did not intend to take his advice, or to inform him regarding her
+relations with the Delacours. She knew, too, that he disapproved of
+her dress: it was certainly cut a little lower than she had intended,
+and then she saw that his eyes had wandered to the newspaper, which
+lay open on the table. In a moment he would see her name at the bottom
+of the first article. If he were to read the article, he would be more
+shocked than he was by her dress. It was even more _decolletee_ than
+her dress, both had come out a little more _decolletee_ than she had
+intended.
+
+'I see,' he said, 'that you write in this paper.'
+
+'A little, I'm doing a series of articles under the title of _Bal
+Blanc_. My articles are a success. I like that one as well as any, you
+shall take the number of the paper away with you.'
+
+'But how do you manage about writing in French?'
+
+'I write very easily in French now, as easily as in English. M.
+Delacour looks over my proof, but he hardly finds anything to
+correct.'
+
+Mildred suppressed a smile, she had taken in the entire situation, and
+was determined to act up to it. It offered an excellent opportunity
+for acting, and Mildred was only happy when she could get outside
+herself. She crossed her hands and composed her most demure air; and,
+for the sake of the audience which it pleased her to imagine; and when
+Harold was not looking she allowed her malicious eyes to say what she
+was really thinking. And he, unconscious of the amusement he afforded,
+made delightful comedy. He tried to come to the point, but feared to
+speak too suddenly of the money she had drawn out of the mortgage,
+and, in his embarrassment, he took a book from the table. The
+character of the illustrations caused his face to flush, and an
+expression of shame to appear. Mildred snatched the book out of his
+hand, saying:
+
+'That is one of M. Delacour's books.'
+
+'You know the book, then?'
+
+'One knows everything. You are not an artist, and see things in a
+different light.'
+
+'I don't think that art has much to do with a book of that kind. You
+must have changed very much, Mildred.'
+
+'No,' she said, 'that shows me how little you understand me. I have
+not changed at all.'
+
+The word suggested the idea, and he said, 'you have changed your
+religion. You've become a Roman Catholic. I must say, if that book
+is---'
+
+'That book has nothing to do with me. I glanced at it once, that was
+all, and, when I saw what it was, I put it down.'
+
+The subject was a painful one, and Harold was willing to let it drop.
+
+'But why,' he said, 'did you go over to Rome? Wasn't the religion you
+were brought up in good enough for you?'
+
+'I was so unhappy at the time. I had suffered a great deal, I didn't
+believe in anything--I did not know what was going to become of me.'
+
+'Didn't believe in anything, Mildred--I'm very sorry.... But, if you
+found difficulty in accepting Protestantism, Catholicism, I should
+have thought, would be still more impossible. It makes so much a
+larger demand on faith.'
+
+The discovery of the book had for a moment forced her out of the part
+she was playing, but religious discussion afforded her ample facility,
+which she eagerly availed herself of, to return to it.
+
+'You do not understand women.'
+
+'But what has understanding women to do with a religious question?'
+Harold asked a little more petulantly than usual.
+
+These were the words and intonation she had expected, and she smiled
+inwardly.
+
+'Women's lives are so different from men, we need a more intimate
+consolation than Protestantism can give us. Our sense of the beauty--'
+
+'The old story, those who find difficulty in believing in the divinity
+of our Lord will swallow infallibility, transubstantiation, and the
+rest of it--all the miracles, and the entire hierarchy of the saints,
+male and female, if they may be gratified by music, candles, incense,
+gold vestments, and ceremonial display. ... It is not love of God, it
+is love of the senses.'
+
+_'Ou fait la guerre avec de la musique, des panaches, des drapeaux,
+des harnais d'or, un deploiement de ceremonie.'_
+
+'What's that?'
+
+'That is from the _Tentation de Saint Antoine_. It comes in the
+dialogue between Death and Lust. They make war with music, with
+banners, with plumes, with golden trappings, and ceremonial display.'
+
+'What's that got to do with what we were saying?'
+
+'Only that you accidentally made use of nearly the same words as
+Flaubert. "Ceremonial display" is not so good as _deploiement de
+ceremonie_, but---'
+
+'Mildred.'
+
+'Well.'
+
+She wore a little subdued look, and he did not detect the malice that
+it superficially veiled. She did not wish him to see that she was
+playing with him, but she wished to fret him with some slight
+suspicion that she was. She was at the same time conscious of his
+goodness, and her own baseness; she even longed to throw herself into
+his arms, and thank him for having come to Paris; she knew that it was
+in her interest that he had come, but an instinct stronger than her
+will forced her to continue improvising the words of her part, and it
+was her pleasure to provide it with suitable gesture, expression of
+face, and inflection of voice. She could hear the fiddles in the ball-
+room, and wished the wall away, and the company ranged behind a
+curtain. And, as these desires crossed her mind, she pitied poor
+Harold with his one idea, 'how he may serve _me_.' When she came to
+the word _me_ her heart softened towards him, but the temptation to
+discuss her conversion with him was imperative, and she watched him,
+guessing easily how his idea of Catholicism turned in his narrow
+brain, and she knew that turn it as he pleased, that he would get no
+nearer to any understanding of it or of her. Religion was a fixed
+principle in his life; it was there as his head, neck, and arms were
+there; and it played a very definite part in his life; his religion
+was not a doll that could be dressed to suit the humours of the day,
+but an unchanging principle that ruled, that was obeyed, and that
+visited all fallings away with remorse. So this opportunity to play
+with her brother's religious consciousness was to be gainsayed no more
+than an opportunity to persuade a lover into exhibition of passion.
+And she remembered how Harold and Alfred used to sit over the dining-
+room fire shaking their heads over the serious scandal that had been
+caused in the parish by the new Vicar, who had introduced the
+dangerous innovation of preaching in his surplice. She had laughed and
+sneered at her brother's hesitations and scruples about accepting the
+surplice for the black robe, and now she wondered if he would ask her
+if she considered it a matter of no importance if the priests put on
+vestments to say Mass, or if there were wine and water in the cruets.
+
+She had, as she had told her brother, embraced Catholicism in a time
+of suffering and depression, when she had fancied herself very near to
+suicide, when she didn't know what else was going to become of her.
+Her painting had failed, and she had gone to Barbizon a wreck of
+abandoned hopes. She had gone there because at that moment it was
+necessary to create some interest in her life. And Barbizon had
+succeeded in a way--she had liked Morton, and it was not her fault if
+he had failed to understand her, that was one of the reasons why she
+had left Barbizon, and her distress of mind on leaving was the result
+of indiscretions which she did not like to remember. True it was that
+she had not actually been his mistress, but she had gone further than
+she had intended to go, and she had felt that she must leave Barbizon
+at once. For her chastity was her one safeguard, if she were to lose
+that, she had always felt, and never more strongly than after the
+Barbizon episode, that there would be no safety for her. She knew that
+her safety lay in her chastity, others might do without chastity, and
+come out all right in the end, but she could not: an instinct told her
+so.
+
+There had been moments when she had wondered if she were really quite
+sane. Something had to happen--Catholicism had happened, and she had
+gone to travel with the Delacours. Madame Delacour was a strict
+Catholic and was therefore interested in Mildred's conversion. And
+with her Mildred went to Mass, high and low, vespers and benediction.
+She selected an old priest for confessor, who gave her absolution
+without hearing half she said; and she went to communion and besought
+of M. Delacour never to laugh at her when she was in one of her
+religious moods. These occurred at undetermined intervals, speaking
+broadly, about every two months; they lasted sometimes a week,
+sometimes a fortnight. In her moods she was a strict Catholic, but as
+they wore away she grew more loose, and Madame Delacour noticed
+Mildred's absentations from Mass. Mildred answered that she was a
+Newmanite and was more concerned with the essential spirit of
+Catholicism than with its outward practice; and she adopted the same
+train of argument when Harold asked her if she believed that the bread
+and wine consecrated and swallowed by the priest was the real Body and
+Blood of God. She replied:
+
+'I take all that as a symbol.'
+
+'But Catholicism imposes the belief that it is the real Body and
+Blood.'
+
+Mildred passed off her perplexity with a short laugh, 'You're always
+the same,' she said, 'you never get farther than externals. I remember
+how you and Alfred used to shake your heads over the surplice and the
+black robe question.... You're an enemy of ritualism, and yet I know
+no one more ritualistic than you are, only your ritual is not ours.
+You cannot listen to a sermon if the preacher wears a surplice, you
+waive the entire merit of the sermon, and see nothing but the impudent
+surplice. All the beautiful instruction passes unheeded, and your
+brows gather into a frown black as the robe that isn't there.... I
+believe that you would insist that Christ Himself should ascend into
+Heaven in a black robe, and you would send the goats to hell draped in
+samite and white linen.' Her paradoxical imagination of the ascent
+into Heaven and the judgment-seat amused her, and the glimpse she had
+caught of her brother's portentous gravity curled her up like a
+cigarette paper. But he was too shocked for speech, and Mildred strove
+to curb her hilarity.
+
+'No,' she said, 'you can never get farther than externals, you are the
+true ritualist, the Pope is not more so.' Harold's face now wore an
+expression of such awful gravity that Mildred could hardly contain
+herself, she bit her lips and continued: 'But ritual hardly concerns
+me at all. I was received into the Church before I had ever heard
+Mass. I am not interested in externals; I think of the essentials, and
+Catholicism seems to me to be essentially right. A great deal of it I
+look upon as symbolism. I am a Catholic, but my Catholicism is my own:
+I am a Newmanite. If there be no future life and all is mistake, then
+Catholicism is a sublime mistake; if there be a future life, then
+we're on the right side.'
+
+'I'm afraid there is little use in our discussing this subject,
+Mildred. We feel religion very differently. You say that I don't
+understand women, it seems to me that some women do not understand
+religion.... They have never originated any religious movement.'
+
+'There have been great saints among women; there have been great Roman
+Catholic saints.'
+
+'Mildred, really this discussion is futile, not to say exasperating.
+Don't you hear the fiddles in the next room, they're playing a waltz.'
+
+Mildred had heard the fiddlers all the while, without them the
+conversation would have been shorn of most of its interest for her.
+
+'We have wandered very far from the subject on which I came to talk to
+you--the matter which I came to Paris to talk to you about.'
+
+Mildred suppressed a smile. She had annoyed him sufficiently, there
+was no reason why she should press this interview towards a quarrel.
+Harold paused a moment and then said:
+
+'I hear from our solicitors that you have drawn five thousand pounds
+out of first-class mortgages. Now, this is a large sum of money. How
+do you intend to re-invest it? I don't see how you could get better
+interest than you have been getting unless you accept doubtful
+security. I hope that neither this paper _La Voix du Peuple_ or
+Panama has tempted you.'
+
+'It is very kind of you, Harold, to come to Paris to inquire into this
+matter. You won't think that I am ungrateful, will you?'
+
+'No.'
+
+'Then I would sooner say nothing about this money.... I have re-
+invested it, and I think well invested it. I am satisfied, it is my
+own money. I am of age and quite capable of judging.'
+
+'You know a great deal more than I do, Mildred, about art and
+literature and all that kind of thing, but I have had business
+experience that you have not, and I feel it my duty to tell you if you
+have invested your money in _La Voix du Peuple_ that I can only look
+upon it as lost.'
+
+'Come, Harold. Let us admit, for the sake of argument, that I have
+invested the whole or part of my money in this paper.'
+
+'Then you have done so. If you hadn't, you would not feel inclined to
+discuss hypothetical investments.'
+
+'Why not? For you impugn the integrity of my dearest friends. The
+circulation of the paper is going up steadily. When we reach sixty
+thousand I shall have invested my money, supposing I have put it into
+the paper at twenty per cent., and will then receive not 250 pounds
+but 1000 pounds a year. You will admit there is a difference.'
+
+'I should think there was. I wish I could get twenty per cent, for my
+money. But I thought that getting a big interest for money was against
+your principles. I thought that the Socialists said that interest was
+"unpaid labour." Isn't that the expression you use?'
+
+'Yes, it is. I had scruples on this point, but M. Delacour overruled
+my scruples. Your objection is answered by the theory that individual
+sacrifice is unavailing: indeed, it is as useless as giving charity,
+quite. A case of intense suffering is brought under the notice of a
+_bourgeois;_ it awakens in him a certain hysterical pity, or, I should
+say, remorse, for he feels that a system that permits such things to
+be cannot be wholly right. He relieves this suffering, and then he
+thinks he is a virtuous man; he thinks he has done a good action; but
+a moment's reflection shows us that this good action is only
+selfishness in disguise--that it is nothing more than a personal
+gratification, a balm to his wound, which, by a sort of reflective
+action, he has received from outraged humanity. Charity is of no use;
+it is individual, and nothing individual is of any value; the movement
+must be general.'
+
+'It seems to me that pity is a human sentiment, that it always
+existed. In all ages there has been pity for the blind, the lame, the
+deformed, never was pity so general, or so ardent as in the nineteenth
+century, but it always existed for the poor of spirit and the feeble
+of body, and these are not the victims of our social system; they are
+nature's victims.' Mildred did not answer, and they heard the fiddles,
+the piano, and then the cornet.
+
+'The Delacours entertain a great deal, I suppose: on the first floor
+the editor writes that property is robbery, and advocates an equal
+division of property; on the second floor he spends the money he gets
+out of the people by holding illusory hopes of an approaching
+spoliation of the rich, and advocating investment in a fraudulent
+enterprise like Panama.... You always accuse me of want of humour, but
+I have sufficient to appreciate _The Voice of the People_ on the first
+floor and the voice of the ball on the second.'
+
+At that moment M. Delacour opened the door of the boudoir:
+
+'Forgive me,' he said, 'for interrupting you, but I wanted to tell
+that every one has read your article. It is a great success,
+_spirituel, charmant, surtout tres parisien,_ that's what is said
+on every side.'
+
+Mildred's face flushed with pleasure, and, turning to Harold, she
+said:
+
+'I am writing a series of articles in _La Voix du Peuple_ under the
+title of _Bal Blanc_.'
+
+'Have you not seen your sister's articles, M. Lawson?' asked M.
+Delacour.
+
+'No, Mildred did not send them to me, and I rarely see the French
+papers in London.'
+
+Mildred looked at M. Delacour, and Harold read in her eyes that she
+was annoyed that M. Delacour had called attention to the article. He
+asked himself why this was, and, when M. Delacour left the room, he
+took up the paper. He read a few lines and then Mildred said:
+
+'I cannot remain much longer away from my guests.'
+
+'Your guests?'
+
+'Yes; they are my guests in a way, the ball was given for me.'
+
+'You can go to them; I can remain here I suppose. I can see you later
+on.'
+
+Mildred did not answer, and, while Harold looked through the article,
+her face darkened, and she bit her lips twice. At last she said:
+
+'We had better finish: I cannot remain away any longer from my guests,
+and I shall be engaged the rest of the evening. There's no use in your
+reading that article. You won't like it. You won't approve of it.'
+
+'I certainly do not approve of it, and are all the articles you write
+under this title of the same character?'
+
+'I can't see anything wrong in it. Of course you can read meanings
+into it that I don't intend if you like.'
+
+'I am afraid that your articles must give people a very false idea of
+you.'
+
+'Every one who knows me knows that I would not do anything wrong, that
+I am not that kind of woman. You need not be afraid, I shall not
+disgrace you.'
+
+'I'm not thinking of myself, Mildred. I am sure you would not do
+anything wrong, that you would not disgrace yourself; I was merely
+wondering what people would think. Do the priests approve of this kind
+of writing?'
+
+'I don't submit my writings to my Confessor,' Mildred answered
+laughing.
+
+'And your position in this house. Your intimacy with M. Delacour. I
+found you sitting side by side on this sofa.'
+
+'I never heard before that there was any harm in sitting on a sofa
+with a man. But there are people who see immorality in every piece of
+furniture in a drawing-room.'
+
+'You seemed very intimate, that's all. What does Madame Delacour say?
+Does she approve of this intimacy?'
+
+'I don't know what you mean. What intimacy? Madame Delacour does not
+see any harm in my sitting on a sofa with her husband. She knows me
+very well. She knows that I wouldn't do anything wrong. She's my most
+intimate friend; she is quite satisfied, I can assure you. I'll
+introduce you to her as you go out.'
+
+'I see you are anxious to join your company, I must not keep you from
+your guests any longer. I suppose I shall not see you again, I return
+to-morrow.'
+
+'Then it is good-bye.'
+
+'I suppose so, unless you return with me.'
+
+'Return to Sutton to look after your house!'
+
+'I don't want you to look after my house; you can have a housekeeper.
+I'm sorry you think that is why I want you to return. Perhaps you
+think that is why I came over. Oh, Mildred!'
+
+'Harold, I'm sorry. I did not think such a thing. It was good of you
+to come to Paris. Harold, you're not angry?'
+
+'No, Mildred, I'm not angry. But all this seems strange to me: this
+house, these people, this paper.'
+
+'I know, I know. But we cannot all think alike. We never did think
+alike. But that should not interfere in our affection for one another.
+We should love each other. We are alone in the world, father and
+mother both gone, only a few aunts and cousins that we don't care
+about.' 'Do you ever think of what father and mother would say if they
+knew? What would they think of your choosing to leave home to live
+with these people?'
+
+'Do not let us argue these things, we shall never agree.'
+
+The affection which had suddenly warmed her had departed, and her
+heart had grown cold as stone again.
+
+'Each must be free to choose his or her life.'
+
+'You surely don't intend always to live here?'
+
+'Always? I don't know about always, for the present certainly.'
+
+'Then there is nothing but to say good-bye.'
+
+
+
+
+XIX.
+
+
+One evening in spring Mildred returned home. Harold had not long
+returned from the city, the candles were lighted. He was sitting in
+the drawing-room thinking, thinking of her.
+
+'Mildred! is that you?'
+
+'Yes, how do you do, Harold?'
+
+'Come and sit near the fire, you've had a cold journey. When did you
+return?'
+
+'Last night. We had a dreadful crossing, I stayed in bed all the
+morning. That was why I didn't come to see you in the city.'
+
+Harold sat for some moments without speaking, looking into the fire.
+
+Reticence was natural to him; he refrained from questioning her, and
+thought instead of some harmless subject of conversation. Her
+painting? But she had abandoned painting. Her money? she had lost
+it! ... that was the trouble she was in. He had warned her against
+putting her money into that paper.... But there was no use worrying
+her, she would tell him presently. Besides, there was not time to talk
+about it now, dinner would soon be ready.
+
+'It is now half-past six, don't you think you'd better go upstairs and
+get ready?'
+
+'Oh, don't bother me about the dinner, Harold. What does it matter if
+it is a few minutes late. I can't go upstairs yet. I want to sit
+here.'
+
+She looked round the room and remembered how her father used to sit in
+the chair Harold was sitting in. He was getting bald just like father.
+He looked just like father, his head seen against the book-cases, the
+light catching the ends of his bristly hair. But who was she like? she
+didn't know, not like poor dear mother who thought of nothing but her
+husband and her children. From whom had she got her tastes, her taste
+for painting--her ideas, God knows. She wished she were like other
+people. Like Harold. Yet she didn't know that she would like to be
+quite so simple, so matter of fact. They were only like in one thing,
+neither had married. She had never thought of that before, and
+wondered why. But he would marry one of these days. He wasn't forty
+yet. Then she would have to leave Sutton, she couldn't live there with
+a step-sister.
+
+'So you're not married yet, Harold.'
+
+'No, not yet.'
+
+'Not even engaged?'
+
+'No, not even engaged.'
+
+'I suppose you will one of these days.'
+
+'Perhaps, one of these days, but I'm in no hurry. And you, are you as
+much set against marriage as ever? Alfred Stanby has never married, I
+don't think he ever will. I think you broke his heart.'
+
+'I don't believe in breaking men's hearts.'
+
+'You are just the kind of woman who does break men's hearts.'
+
+'Why do you say that? You think me heartless.'
+
+'No, Mildred, I don't think you heartless--only you're not like other
+girls.'
+
+ No, I'm not. I've too much heart, that's been my misfortune, I should
+have got on better if I had less.'
+
+Harold had no aptitude or taste of philosophical reflections, so he
+merely mentioned that Alfred was living in Sutton, and hoped that
+Mildred would not mind meeting him.
+
+'No, I don't mind meeting him, but he may not like to meet me. Does he
+ever speak of me?'
+
+'Yes, he does sometimes.... I never knew why you threw him over. He's
+really a very good fellow. He has worked hard and is now making a fair
+income.'
+
+'I'm glad of that.... I suppose I did treat him badly. But no worse
+than men treat women every day.'
+
+'Why did you throw him over?'
+
+'I don't know. It's so long ago. He didn't understand me. I thought I
+should find some one who did.... I know the world better now.'
+
+'Would you marry him if he were to propose again?'
+
+'I don't know, I don't know.... I don't know what I should do now.
+Don't question me, Harold.'
+
+At that moment the gong sounded for dinner. Harold refrained from
+saying 'I knew you'd be late.' An hour after, brother and sister were
+sitting by the library fire. At last Harold said:
+
+'I'm glad you're going to stop here for the present, that you're not
+going back to Paris. Do you never intend to live there again?'
+
+'There's no reason why I should go back, certainly none that I should
+live there again, my life in Paris is ended.'
+
+She did not recount her misfortunes in plain straightforward
+narrative, her story fluctuated and transpired in inflections of voice
+and picturesque glances. She was always aware of the effect of herself
+on others, and she forgot a great deal of her disappointment in the
+pleasure of astonishing Harold. The story unwound itself like spun
+silk. The principal spool was the Panama scandals.... But around it
+there were little spools full of various thread, a little of which
+Mildred unwound from time to time.
+
+ When the first accusations against the Deputies were made, I warned
+him. I told him that the matter would not stop there, but he was over
+confident. Moreover, I warned him against Darres.'
+
+'Who's Darres?'
+
+'Oh, he was the _secretaire de la redaction_ and a sort of partner.
+But I never liked him. I gave him one look.... I told M. Delacour not
+to trust him. ... And he knew that I suspected him. He admired me, I
+could see that, but he wasn't my kind of man: a tall, bullet--headed
+fellow, shoulders thrown well back, the type of the _sous officier, le
+beau soudard,_ smelling of the cafe and a cigarette. A plain
+sensualist. I can tell them at once, and when he saw that I was not
+that kind of person, he went and made love to Madame Delacour. She was
+only too glad to listen to him.'
+
+'Is Madame Delacour good-looking?'
+
+'I daresay she's what some people would call good-looking. But she has
+wretched health, she never got over the birth of her last child.'
+
+Madame Delacour's health was the subject of many disparaging remarks,
+in the course of which Mildred called into question the legitimacy of
+one of her children, and the honourability of Darres as a card-player.
+The conversation at last turned on Panama. M. Delacour had, of course,
+denied the charge of blackmail and bribery. Neither had been proved
+against him. Nevertheless, his constituency had refused to re-elect
+him. That, of course, had ruined him politically. Nothing had been
+proved against him, but he had merely failed to explain how he had
+lived at the rate of twelve thousand a year for the last three years.
+
+'But the paper?'
+
+'The paper never was a pecuniary success.'
+
+'The money you put into it, I suppose, is lost.'
+
+'For the present at all events. Things may right themselves, Delacour
+may come up to the top of the wheel again.'
+
+'He must have cheated you, he swindled you.'
+
+'I suppose he did, but he was very hard pressed at the time. He didn't
+know where to turn for money.'
+
+Harold was surprised by the gentleness of Mildred's tone.
+
+'You must give me the particulars, and I'll do all that can be done to
+get back your money. Now tell me how--'
+
+'Yes, you shall have all the particulars,' she said, 'but I'm afraid
+that you'll not be able to do much.'
+
+'What were the conditions?'
+
+'I cannot talk about them now, I'm too tired.'
+
+There was a petulant note in her voice which told Harold that it would
+be useless to question her. He smoked his pipe and listened, and, in
+her low musical and so well-modulated voice, she continued her tale
+about herself, M. Delacour, _La Voix du Peuple_, and M. Darres. Her
+conversation was full of names and allusions to matters of which
+Harold knew nothing. He failed to follow her tale, and his thoughts
+reverted to the loss of three thousand pounds in the shocking _Voix
+du Peuple_ and two thousand in scandalous Panama. Every now and then
+something surprising in her tale caught his ear, he asked for precise
+information, but Mildred answered evasively and turned the
+conversation. She was much more interested in the influence M.
+Delacour had exercised over her. She admitted that she had liked him
+very much, and attributed the influence he had exercised to hypnotism
+and subordination of will. She had, however, refused to run away with
+him when he had asked her.
+
+'You mean to say that he asked you to run away with him--a married
+man?'
+
+'Yes; but I said no. I knew that it would ruin him to run away with
+me. I told him that he must not go away either with me or alone, that
+he must face his enemies and overcome them. I was a true friend.'
+
+'It is most extraordinary. You must have been very intimate for him to
+propose such a thing.'
+
+'Yes; we were very intimate, but, when it came to the point, I felt
+that I couldn't.'
+
+'Came to the point!'
+
+It was impossible to lead Mildred into further explanation, and she
+spoke of the loss of the paper. It had passed into the hands of M.
+Darres; he had changed the staff; he had refused her articles, that
+was the extraordinary part; explained the unwisdom Darres had showed
+in his editorship. The paper was now a wreck. He had changed its
+policy, and the circulation had sunk from sixty to twenty-five
+thousand. Harold cared nothing whether _La Voix du Peuple_ was well or
+badly edited, except so far as its prosperity promised hope of the
+recovery of the money Mildred had invested in it; and he had begun
+to feel that the paper was not responsible for M. Delacour's debts,
+and that Mildred's money was lost irretrievably. He was thinking of M.
+Delacour and the proposal he had made to Mildred, that they should go
+away together. M. Delacour, a married man! But his wife must have been
+aware of her husband's intimacy, of his love for Mildred.
+
+'But wasn't Madame Delacour jealous of you, of your intimacy with her
+husband?'
+
+'She knew there was nothing wrong.... But she accused me of kissing
+her husband; that was spite.'
+
+'But it wasn't true?'
+
+'No; certainly it wasn't true. I wonder you can ask me. But, after
+that, it was impossible for me to stay any longer in the house.'
+
+'Where is Madame Delacour, is she with her husband?'
+
+'No; she's separated from him. She's gone back to her own people. She
+lives with them somewhere in the south near Pau, I think.'
+
+'She's not with Darres?'
+
+Mildred hesitated.
+
+'No; she's not living with him; but I daresay they see each other
+occasionally.'
+
+'They can't see each other very often if she's living near Pau, and
+he's editing a paper in Paris.'
+
+
+
+
+XX.
+
+
+One morning after breakfast Harold said as he rose from table, 'You
+must be very lonely here. Don't you think you would like some one to
+keep you company? Mrs. Fargus is in London; we might ask her, she'd be
+glad to come; you used to like her.'
+
+'That's a long while ago. I don't think she'd amuse me now.'
+
+'She'd talk about art, about things that interest you. I'm away all
+day, and when I come home in the evening I'm tired. I'm no society for
+you, I know that.'
+
+'No, Harold, I assure you I'm all right; don't worry about me. I
+shouldn't care to have Mrs. Fargus here. If I did I'd say so. I know
+that you're anxious to please me. I like you better than any one
+else.'
+
+'But I don't understand you, Mildred. We never did understand each
+other. Our tastes are so different,' he added hastily, lest his words
+might be construed into a reproach.
+
+'Oh yes, we understand each other very well. I used to think we
+didn't.... I don't think there's anything in me that any one could not
+understand. I am afraid I'm a very ordinary person.'
+
+'But I can see that you're bored. I don't mean that you show it. But
+it would be impossible otherwise, all alone in this house all day by
+yourself. You used to read a great deal. You never read now. Are there
+any books I can bring you from London? Do you want any paints,
+canvases? You haven't touched your paints since you've been back. You
+might have your drawing master here, you might go out painting with
+him. This is just the time of year.'
+
+'I've given up painting. No, Harold, thank you all the same. I know
+I'm dull, cheerless; you mustn't mind me, it is only a fit of the
+blues; it will wear off. One of these days I shall be all right.'
+
+'But do you mind my asking people to the house?'
+
+'Not if it pleases you. But don't do so for me.'
+
+Harold looked at his watch. 'I must say good-bye now. I've only just
+time to catch the train.'
+
+That same evening brother and sister sat together in the library;
+neither had spoken for some time, and, coming at the end of a long
+silence, Mildred's voice sounded clear and distinct.
+
+'Alfred Stanby called here to-day.'
+
+'I wonder he did not call before.' There was a note of surprise in his
+voice which did not quite correspond with his words.
+
+'Did he stay long?'
+
+'He stayed for tea.'
+
+'Did you find him changed? It must be five years since you met.'
+
+'He has grown stouter.'
+
+'What did he talk about?'
+
+'Ordinary things. He was very formal.'
+
+'He was very much cut up when you broke off your engagement.'
+
+'You never approved of it.'
+
+ No, but it was not for me that you broke it off.'
+
+'No, it wasn't on account of you.'
+
+The conversation paused. At last Harold said:
+
+'Are you as indisposed as ever towards marriage? If Alfred were to
+propose again would you have him?'
+
+'I really don't know. Do you want me to marry? I'm not very pleasant
+company, I'm well aware of that.'
+
+'You know that I didn't mean that, Mildred. I don't want to press you
+into any marriage. I've always wished you to do what you like.'
+
+'And I have done so.'
+
+'I still want you to do what you like. But I can't forget that if I
+were to die to-morrow you would be practically alone in the world--a
+few cousins----'
+
+'But what makes you think of dying? You're in as good health as ever.'
+
+'I'm forty-three, and father died when he was forty-eight. He died of
+heart disease; I have suffered from my heart, so it is not probable
+that I shall make very old bones. If I were to die, you would inherit
+everything. What would become of this place--of this business? Isn't
+it natural that I should wish to see you settled in life?'
+
+'You think that Alfred would be a suitable match? Would you like to
+see me marry him?'
+
+'There's nothing against him; he's not very well off. But he's got on
+while you've been away. He's making, I should say now, at least 500
+pounds a year. That isn't much, but to have increased his income from
+three to five hundred a year in five years proves that he is a steady
+man.'
+
+'No one ever doubted Alfred's steadiness.'
+
+'Mildred, it is time to have done with those sneers.'
+
+'I suppose it is. I suppose what you say is right. I've been from
+pillar to post and nothing has come of it. Perhaps I was only fitted
+for marriage after all.'
+
+'And for what better purpose could a woman be fitted?'
+
+'We won't discuss that subject,' Mildred answered. 'If I'm to marry
+any one, as well Alfred as another.'
+
+It was the deeper question that perplexed: Could she accept marriage
+at all? And in despair she decided that things must take their chance.
+If she couldn't marry when it came to the point, why, she couldn't; if
+she married and found marriage impossible, they would have to
+separate. The experience might be an unpleasant one, but it could not
+be more unpleasant than her present life which was driving her to
+suicide. Marriage seemed a thing that every one must get through; one
+of the penalties of existence. Why it should be so she couldn't think!
+but it was so. Marriage was supposed to be for ever, but nothing was
+for ever. Even if she did marry, she felt that it would not be for
+ever. No; it would not be for ever. Further into the future she could
+not see, nor did she care to look. She remembered that she was not
+acting fairly towards Alfred. But instead of considering that
+question, she repelled it. She had suffered enough, suffering had made
+her what she was; she must now think of herself. She must get out of
+her present life; marriage might be worse, but it would be a change,
+and change she must have. Things must take their course, she did not
+know whether she would accept or refuse: but she was sure she would
+like him to propose. He had loved her, and, as he had not married, it
+was probable that he still loved her, anyway she would like to find
+out.
+
+He interested her, yes, in a way, for she no longer understood him.
+Five years are a long while; he was practically a new man; and she
+wondered if he had changed as much as she. Perhaps he hated her.
+Perhaps he had forgiven her. Perhaps she was indifferent to him.
+Perhaps his conventional politeness was the real man. Perhaps no real
+man existed underneath it. In that case the pursuit would not prove
+very exciting. But she did not think that this was so. She remembered
+certain traits of character, certain looks.
+
+Thinking of Alfred carried her back to the first years of her
+girlhood. She was only eighteen when she first met him. He was the
+first man who had kissed her, and she had lain awake thinking of
+something which his sister Edith had told her. Edith knew that she did
+not love a man to whom she was engaged, because when he kissed her his
+kiss did not thrill her. Alfred's kiss had not thrilled, so far as
+Mildred could make out. But she had admired his frock coat, his
+gloves, and his general bearing had seemed to her most gentlemanly,
+not to say distinguished. She had felt that she would never feel
+ashamed of him; his appearance had flattered her girlish vanity, and
+for nearly two years they had been engaged. She remembered that she
+had not discovered any new attractions about him; he had always
+remained at the frock coat and the gloves stage; she remembered that
+she had, on more than one occasion, wearied of his society and
+suspected that there was little in him. They had nevertheless very
+nearly been married when she was twenty. But Harold had always been
+opposed to the match, and at the bottom of her heart she had never
+cared much about it. If she had, she would have married him then...
+
+The first stirring influence that had entered into her life was Mrs.
+Fargus. She could trace everything back to Mrs. Fargus. Mrs. Fargus
+had awakened all that lay dormant in her desire of self-realisation,
+and, although Mrs. Fargus had not directly impugned marriage, she had
+said enough to make her understand that it were possible to rebel
+against marriage; and that in proclaiming antipathy to marriage she
+would win admiration, and would in a measure distinguish herself.
+
+And, with the first discovery of a peculiarity of temperament, Mildred
+had grown intensely interested in herself; she remembered how day by
+day she had made new discoveries in herself, how she had wondered at
+this being which was she. Her faults at all times had especially
+interested her. She remembered how frightened, how delighted she had
+been, when she discovered that she was a cruel woman. She had not
+suspected this till the day she sat in the garden listening to
+Alfred's reproaches and expostulations. She had thrilled at the
+thought that she could make a man so unhappy. His grief was wonderful
+to witness, and involuntary remarks had escaped her admirably designed
+to draw it forth, to exhibit it; she was sorry for him, but in the
+background of her mind she could not help rejoicing; the instinct of
+cruelty would not be wholly repressed. But once the interview over,
+she had thought very little of him; there was little in his nature to
+attract hers; nothing beyond the mere antagonism of opposites--he was
+straightforward and gross, she was complex and artificial.
+
+But, in her relations with Ralph, there had been sympathy and
+affection, she had felt sorry that she would not marry him, and his
+death had come as a painful shock which had affected her life. She had
+not been able to grieve for him as violently as she would have liked,
+but she retained a very tender memory. Tears sometimes rose to her
+eyes when she thought of him, and that past in the National Gallery
+and in St. James' Park. For the sentiment of love, if not its
+realisation was largely appreciated by Mildred, and that a man should
+choose and, failing to obtain, should reject all else as inadequate,
+was singularly attractive to her. All the tenderness that her nature
+was capable of had vented itself in Ralph; he had been so good to her,
+so kind, so unquestioning; the time they had spent together had been
+peaceful, and full of gentle inspiration; she remembered and thought
+of him differently from the others. His love had gratified her vanity,
+but not grossly as Alfred's had done, there had been no feeling of
+cruelty; she would have been glad to have made him happy; she would
+have done so if she had been able.
+
+But at that time all her energy, will, and all her desire of personal
+fame were in art. She had striven on the thorny and rocky hill till
+she could climb no more, and then had crept away to Barbizon anxious
+to accept life unconditionally. But life, even as art, had been
+refused to her. She could not live as others lived; she could only
+enjoy in her way, and her way was not that of mankind. She had liked
+Morton very dearly. She had felt pleasure in his conversation, in
+himself, and, moved by the warmth of the night, she had been drawn to
+his side, and, as they strayed along the grass grown paths and had
+stooped under the mysterious darkness of the trees, she had taken his
+arm affectionately, conscious of the effect upon him, but still taking
+it from personal choice; and, as they leaned over the broken paling at
+the bottom of the garden in front of the stars, it had pleased her
+that he should put his arm round her, take her face in his hand and to
+kiss her lips. The forest, too, the enchantment of the tall trees, and
+the enigma of the moonlight falling through the branches and lighting
+up the banks over which he helped her, had wrought upon her
+imagination, upon her nerves, and there had been moments when she had
+thought that she could love him as other women loved.
+
+Perhaps she ought to have told no one. He was not altogether to blame,
+and her eyes softened as she dwelt on the recollection.... It was not
+his fault, nor her fault. She could not control her moods, and she was
+not responsible for what she said and did when they were upon her. She
+had felt that she must leave Barbizon, she had felt that she hated
+artists and studios, and a force, which she could not resist, had
+drawn her towards the Delacours. She remembered it all very well. She
+did not blame Morton. She had acted wrongly, but it was fate. Looking
+back she could honestly say that it was impossible for her to have
+acted otherwise. Those moods of hers!
+
+Delacour she had never cared about. He had made love to her, but she
+had done nothing wrong. Madame Delacour knew that she had done nothing
+wrong, and Mildred hated her for the accusation. 'She accused me of
+kissing her husband,' Mildred reflected. Mildred often liked to look
+the truth in the face, but, in this instance, the truth was unpleasant
+to look in the face; she shrank from it, and excused herself. She was
+at that time without hope, everything had gone wrong with her. She had
+to have a friend.... Moreover, she had resolved to break off with M.
+Delacour as soon as the Panama scandal had passed. But, owing to the
+accusations of that odious woman, her life had suddenly fallen to
+pieces. In two more years she would have mastered the French language,
+and might have won some place for herself in literature.... But in
+English she could do nothing. She hated the language. It did not suit
+her. No, there was nothing for her now to do but to live at Sutton and
+look after her brother's house or marry.... After all her striving she
+found herself back at the point whence she had started; she had
+accomplished the circle of life, or nearly so. To fulfil the circle
+she had to marry. There was nothing in life except a little fruitless
+striving, and then marriage. If she did not accept marriage, what
+should she do? She was tired asking herself that question; so she put
+it aside, and applied herself day by day with greater diligence to the
+conquest of Alfred.
+
+Their first letters were quite formal. But one day Alfred was
+surprised by a letter beginning My dear Mr. Stanby. He asked himself
+if the my was intentional or accidental, and, after some reflection,
+began his letter 'My dear Miss Lawson.' A fortnight later he received
+a letter without the first line of usual address. This seemed to him
+significant, and he too omitted the first line, and in signing changed
+the yours truly to yours always. They wrote to each other two or three
+times a week, and Alfred had frequent appointments with Mildred. She
+wished to consult him about various things, and made various pretexts
+for asking him to come and see her. Her flirtations had hitherto been
+conducted by the aid of books and pictures. But, in Alfred's case,
+books and pictures were not possible pretexts; he knew nothing about
+either, he played several instruments but could not talk music, and
+her attempts to play his accompaniments seemed to estrange them.
+Gardening and tennis she had to fall back upon, and tennis meant the
+invitation of the young men and women of the neighbourhood, and this
+did not coincide with Mildred's ideas; her flirtations were severely
+private, she was not herself in the presence of many people. But she
+had to make the best of things; and having set the young people of the
+neighbourhood playing their game she walked about the grounds with
+Alfred.
+
+She had tried on several occasions to allude to the past, the
+slightest allusion would precipitate a conclusion, and destroy the
+sentiment of distrust that separated and rendered their companionship
+uncomfortable. But Alfred persistently avoided all allusion to the
+past. He was very attentive, and clearly preferred her to other girls,
+but their conversation was strictly formal, and Mildred could not
+account for this discrepancy. If he cared for her no longer, why did
+he pay her so much attention. If he did care for her, why did he not
+tell her so. The wall of formality with which he opposed her puzzled
+and irritated her. Often she thought it would be well to abandon the
+adventure, but at least, in her flirtations, she had not failed. She
+recalled the number of her victims, the young poets who used to come
+to see Helene; none had ever hesitated between them. She had only to
+hold up her little finger to get any one of them away from Helene. It
+was strange that Alfred remained cold; she knew he was not cold; she
+remembered the storm of their interview when she broke off her
+engagement five years ago.
+
+He had grown stouter, he still wore a long black frock coat, and now
+looked like a policeman. His commonplace good looks had changed to a
+ponderous regularity of feature. But Alfred was instinctively a
+gentleman, and he made no allusion to her painting that might lead
+Mildred to suppose that he thought that she had failed. That a young
+girl like Mildred should have chosen to live with such people as the
+Delacours, worse still, to have wasted a large part of her fortune in
+their shocking paper, was a matter which he avoided as carefully as
+she would the Divorce Court, in the presence of a man whose wife has
+just left him. As for marrying Mildred he didn't know what to think.
+She was a pretty woman, and for him something of the old charm still
+lingered. But his practical mind saw the danger of taking so flighty a
+minded person into the respectability of a British home. He had loved
+her, he still liked her, he didn't mind admitting that, but he was no
+longer a fool about her. She had spent her money, nearly all of it,
+and he couldn't afford to marry a fortuneless girl. She would be an
+heiress if her brother died, and he might die at any moment, he
+suffered from heart disease. Alfred liked Harold, and did not wish his
+death, but if Harold did go off suddenly Alfred saw no reason why he
+should not ask Mildred to marry him. He liked her as well as any other
+girl; he thought he would make her a good husband, he would be able to
+manage her better than any other man, he was sure of that, because he
+understood her. She was a queer one: but he thought they'd get along
+all right. But all this was in the future, so long as Harold lived
+he'd keep on just as he was; if she met a man she liked better she
+could have him. He had got on very well without her for the last five
+years; there was no hurry, he could afford to wait if she couldn't.
+She had thrown him over to go to Paris to paint; she had come back a
+failure, and now she wanted him to marry, because it suited her
+convenience. She could wait.
+
+Sometimes his mood was gentler. 'If she did throw me over it wasn't
+for any other fellow, she always had odd ideas. It was because she was
+clever. I never cared for any girl as I did for her. By Jove, I think
+I'd sooner marry her than any one else. I wish she hadn't spent all
+her money on that damned socialistic paper.'
+
+At the thought of the paper Alfred's face clouded, and he remembered
+that Harold had gone into the house to get him a cigar: he was longing
+for a smoke. Mildred was standing at a little distance talking to a
+group of players who had just finished a set, and he was about to ask
+her where her brother was, when he thought he would go and look for
+Harold himself.
+
+He passed up the lawn and entered the house by one of the bow windows.
+He examined the pictures in the drawing-room, as do those to whom
+artistic work conveys no sense of merit. 'He paid three hundred for
+that at the Academy, I hear. It does not look much--a woman standing
+by a tree. I suppose it is very good; it--must be good; but I think
+one might find a better way of spending three hundred pounds. And that
+landscape cost a hundred and fifty--a lake and a few rushes, not a
+figure in it. I should have made the fellow put some figures in it,--
+before I paid all that money. The frames are very handsome, I wonder
+where that fellow has got to.... He must be worth six thousand a year,
+people say eight, but I always make a rule to deduct. If he has six
+thousand a year, he ought surely to give his only sister ten thousand
+pounds. But that cigar--I am dying for a smoke. Where is he? What's he
+doing all this while? I'll try the smoking-room.'
+
+The door was open, and the first thing Alfred saw was Harold sitting
+in a strange crumpled-up attitude on the sofa. He sat with his back to
+the light, and the room was lit only by one window. But, even so,
+Alfred could distinguish the strange pallor. 'Harold!' he called,--
+'Harold!' Receiving no answer, he stepped forward hastily and took the
+dead man by the shoulders. 'Harold!' The cold of the dead hand
+answered him, and Alfred said, 'He's dead.'... Then afraid of mistake,
+he shook the corpse and looked into the glassy eyes and the wide open
+mouth. 'By Jove! He is dead, there can be no doubt. Heart disease. He
+must have fallen just as he was opening the cigar-box. He was alive a
+quarter of an hour ago. Perhaps he's not dead a couple of minutes.
+Dead a couple of minutes or dead a thousand years, it is all the same.
+I must call some one. I had better ring.' He laid his hand on the
+bell, and then paused.
+
+'I hadn't thought of that. She is an heiress now--she is, there's no
+doubt. No one knows except me. No one saw me enter the house--no one;
+I might slip out and propose to her. I know she will accept me. If I
+don't propose now my chance will be lost, perhaps for ever. You can't
+propose to a girl immediately after her brother's death, particularly
+if his death makes her an heiress. Then, after the funeral, she may go
+away. She will probably go to London. I wouldn't give two pence for my
+chance. New influences! Besides, a girl with six thousand a year sees
+things in a very different light to a girl who has nothing, or next to
+nothing, even if it is the same girl. I shall lose her if I don't
+propose now. By Jove! What a chance! If I could only get out of this
+room without being seen! Hateful room! Curious place to choose to die
+in. Appropriate too--dark, gloomy, like a grave. I won't have it as a
+smoking-room. I'll put the smoking-room somewhere else. I wish that
+butler would stop moving about and get back to his pantry. Gad,
+supposing he were to catch me! I might be had up for murder. Awful! I
+had better ring the bell. If I do, I shall lose six thousand a year. A
+terrible game to play; but it is worth it. Here comes the butler.'
+
+Alfred slipped behind the door and the servant passed up the passage
+without entering the room.
+
+'By heavens, what a fool I am! What have I done? If I had been caught
+behind that door it would have gone hard with me. There would have
+been nothing for it but to have told the truth; that having
+accidentally found the brother dead, I was anxious to turn the
+discovery to account by proposing to the sister. I daresay I would be
+believed; improbable that I had murdered him. How still he does lie!
+Suppose he were only shamming. Oh, he is dead enough. I wish I were
+out of this room. Everything seems quiet now. I mustn't peep; I must
+walk boldly out, and take my chance. Not a sound.'
+
+Alfred walked into the wide passage. He avoided the boarded places,
+selected the rugs and carpets to walk on, and so made his way into the
+drawing-room, and hence on to the lawn. Then he slipped down a
+secluded path, and returned to the tennis players from a different
+side.
+
+'Where have you been?'
+
+'I went for a stroll round the grounds. I thought you would not like
+my cigar, that was all.'
+
+'Did Harold give you a cigar?'
+
+'No, I have not seen him.'
+
+'Let's go into the smoking-room and get one.'
+
+'No, thank you, I really don't care to smoke. I'd sooner talk to you.'
+
+'But you can do both.'
+
+Alfred did not reply, and they walked down the pathway in silence.
+'Good Heavens!' he thought, 'that cigar! If she insists on going to
+the smoking-room! I must say something, or she'll want to go and fetch
+a cigar. But I can't think of anything. How difficult it is to keep
+one's wits about one after what has happened.'
+
+'Do let me fetch you a cigar.'
+
+'No, I assure you, Miss Lawson, that I do not want to smoke. Let's
+play tennis.'
+
+'Would you like to?'
+
+'No, I don't think I should. I've no racquet, come for a walk
+instead.'
+
+'I'll lend you my racquet. You said you'd like to play with me.'
+
+'So I should another time; but now come and walk round the garden with
+me.'
+
+'I am so sorry I can't; I have promised to play in this set; it will
+look so rude if I leave my guests.'
+
+'Never mind being rude; it won't matter for once. Do this for me.'
+
+Mildred looked up wistfully; then she said:
+
+'Ethel and Mary, do you play Mr. Bates and Miss Shield. I will play in
+the next set; I am a little tired.'
+
+The girls looked round knowingly, and Mildred and Alfred Stanby walked
+towards the conservatories.
+
+
+
+
+XXI.
+
+
+Mildred sat in the long drawing-room writing. Not at the large
+writing-table in front of the window, but at an old English writing-
+desk, which had been moved from the corner where it had stood for
+generations. She bent over the little table. The paper-shaded lamp
+shed a soft and mellow light upon her vaporous hair, whitening the
+square white hands, till they seemed to be part of the writing paper.
+
+Once or twice she stopped writing and dashed tears from her eyes with
+a quick and passionate gesture; and amid the rich shadows and the
+lines of light floating up the tall red curtains, the soft Carlo
+Dolce-like picture of the weary and weeping girl was impressive and
+beautiful.
+
+The marble clock at length struck twelve short tingling sounds.
+Mildred closed the blotting-book. Then she closed the ink-stand, and
+went up the high staircase to her room.
+
+A sensation of chilliness, of loneliness was about her, and when she
+came to her door she entered her room abruptly, as if she feared the
+dead man. And, standing in the middle of her room watching the yellow
+flame of the candle, she thought of him. She could see him pale and
+stark, covered by a sheet, the watchers on either side. She would like
+to go to him, but she feared the lonely passage. And she sat watching
+the bright sky; and, without belief or even hope, she wondered if
+Harold's spirit were far beyond those stars sitting with God in some
+auroral heaven amid aureoled saints and choirs of seraphim. But this
+dream did not detain her thoughts. They turned into remembrances of a
+kind-hearted city man who went to town every day by the ten minutes
+past nine train, who had taken the world as he found it, and who,
+unlike her, had never sought to be what he was not. Then her thoughts
+moved away from herself, and she feared that she had been a great
+trial to him. But regrets were vain, there was no use regretting; he
+was gone--she would hear no more of the ten minutes past nine. He
+would go to the city no more; and in a few years he would be forgotten
+by every one but her. How unutterably sad, how unspeakably sad, how
+unthinkingly sad it all seemed, and, oh, how commonplace. In a few
+years she, too, would be forgotten; in a few years they would lie in
+the same ground forgotten; it would be the same as if they had not
+lived at all.... How sad, how infinitely sad, how unthinkingly sad,
+and yet how common-place.
+
+But what would happen in the few years that would intervene before she
+joined him in the earth! What? She had four thousand a year to dispose
+of as she pleased, to do with as she liked, but this fortune meant
+nothing to her. She had always had as much money as she had wanted.
+His purse had always been hers. Money did not bring happiness, at
+least it had not brought her happiness. And less now than ever would
+it bring her happiness, for she desired nothing; she had lived her
+life, there was nothing for her to do, she had tried and failed. She
+had tried everything, except marriage. Should she try that? She had
+promised Alfred that she would marry him. He had proposed to her that
+afternoon. One man dying, another proposing to marry. That was life.
+Every day the same situation. At this very moment, the same, and the
+same will continue till the end of time.
+
+What is it that forces us to live? There is nothing to live for except
+trouble and misery, and yet we must live. What forces us to live? What
+makes us live? Enigma. Nature, whatever that may be, forces us to
+live, wills that we should live. 'And I, too, like millions of others
+must live. But how am I to live? How am I to fill my life? If we live
+we must find something to live for. Take a studio and paint bad
+pictures? I couldn't. Go back to Paris and start a salon? I wonder!'
+
+Then the desire to weep overcame her, and, so as to be able to
+surrender herself wholly to grief and tears, she took off her gown and
+released herself of her stays. She put on an old wrapper and threw
+herself upon the floor. She threw herself over to this side and that;
+when she got to her feet her pocket-handkerchief was soaked, and she
+stood perplexed, and a little ashamed of this display of grief. For
+she was quite conscious of its seeming artificiality. Yet it was all
+quite real to her, only not quite real as she would have had it be.
+She had wept for herself and not for him! But no, it was not so; she
+had wept for them both. And she had taken off her gown, not because
+she was afraid of spoiling it, no such thought had crossed her brain;
+she did not care if she spoilt her dress or fifty dresses like it; no,
+it was not on account of the dress, but because she felt that she
+could find a fuller expression of grief in a loose wrapper than in a
+tight dress. That was the truth, she could not help things if they did
+seem a little incongruous. It was not her fault; she was quite
+sincere, though her grief to a third person might seem a little
+artificial. It was impossible to regret her brother more than she did.
+She would never forget him, no, not if they buried him ever so deep.
+She had been his little sister a long while; they had been children
+together. Since father and mother died they had been alone in the
+world. They had not understood each other very well; they were very
+different, but that had not prevented them loving each other very
+dearly. She did not know until this evening how dearly she loved him.
+
+She sat down by the window, took a pensive attitude, and abandoned
+herself to the consideration of the pitifulness of life. She could see
+her life from end to end. Her father had died when she was quite a
+child, but she preserved a distinct impression of his death. She and
+her mother had come to pray by the bedside for a last time. The face
+of the corpse was covered with a handkerchief, and the nurse had
+warned her mother not to remove the handkerchief. But, in a paroxysm
+of grief, her mother had snatched the handkerchief away, and Mildred
+had been shocked by the altered face. Though she had hidden her face
+in her hands, the dead man's face had looked through, and she had felt
+nothing but disgust. Her mother's illness had been protracted, she and
+Harold had known that she was going to die for at least six months
+before, and they had come to talk about it as they would of the coming
+of summer or the approach of winter. They had got so accustomed to the
+thought that they used to find themselves making plans as to where
+they should go for a change when all was over. But, when the day came,
+Harold's resignation broke down, he was whelmed in grief for days and
+weeks. He had said to her:
+
+'Mildred, if I had to remain here all day, I should go mad; it is my
+business in the city that keeps me alive.'
+
+Her mother was a simple old lady, full of love for her children,
+Mildred had despised her mother, she had despised herself for her want
+of love, and she had envied Harold his sincere love for his mother. He
+had never, but she had always been aware of her mother's absurdity,
+and therefore could not grieve quite so sincerely as Harold. She had
+known all the while that her mother's death did not matter much. Very
+soon she would be forgotten even by Harold. He could not always grieve
+for her. She would become a faint memory, occupying less and less of
+their thoughts, exercising no perceptible influence upon their lives.
+
+Mildred had always feared that she was without a heart, and the
+suspicion that she was heartless had always troubled her. In the
+course of their love-quarrels Morton had told her that her failure in
+painting was owing to her having no heart. She had felt that he was
+right. She had not loved painting for its own sake, but for the
+notoriety that she had hoped it would have brought her. She had never
+been carried away. She had tried to be religious; she had changed her
+religion. But she had never believed. There was no passion in her
+heart for God, and she had accepted literature just as she had
+accepted art. She had cared for literature only in proportion as
+literature helped her to social success. She had had to do something,
+literature was something, the Delacours were something, their
+newspaper was something, and the time in which her articles had
+appeared on the front page with her name at the bottom was the
+happiest in her life. She was some one in the Delacours' household,
+she was the pretty English girl who wrote French so well. She was some
+one, no one knew exactly what, a mysterious something, a thing apart,
+a thing in itself, and for which there was no match. She remembered
+the thrill of pleasure she had felt when some one said:
+
+'Je suis sur Mademoiselle, quil n'a fas une Francaise qui occupe la
+mime position a Londres, que vous occupez a Paris?'
+
+Self had been her ruin; she had never been able to get away from self,
+no, not for a single moment of her life. All her love stories had been
+ruined and disfigured by self-assertion, not a great unconscious self,
+in other words an instinct, but an extremely conscious, irritable,
+mean, and unworthy self. She knew it all, she was not deceived. She
+could no more cheat herself than she could change herself; that
+wretched self was as present in her at this moment as it had ever
+been; she was as much a slave to herself as she had ever been, and
+knowledge of her fault helped her nothing in its correction. She could
+not change herself, she would have to bear the burden of herself to
+the end. Even now, when she ought to be absorbed in grief for her
+brother's death she was thinking of herself, of how she should live,
+for live she must; she did not know why, she did not know how. She had
+tried everything and failed, and marriage stared her in the face as
+the only solution of the difficulty of her life. She had promised
+Alfred Stanby to marry him that afternoon. Should she keep that
+promise? Could she keep that promise? ... A thought fell into her
+mind. Did Alfred know of her brother's death when he proposed to her?
+She had heard something about a cigar; Harold had gone to the house to
+fetch one. A few minutes after she had seen Alfred walking towards the
+house. Had he gone to the smoking-room... found Harold dead on the
+sofa and come and proposed to her?
+
+'It is my money and not myself that has tempted him back,' she cried,
+and she looked down the long line of her lovers. She had given her
+money to M. Delacour.... But no, he had loved her whatever the others
+might think, she knew that was so.... She could have had the Comte de
+la Ferriere, and how many others?--rich men, too--men to whom money
+was no consideration. But she had come back to Sutton to be married
+for her money; and to whom? an old, discarded lover.
+
+
+
+
+XXII.
+
+
+As she tossed to and fro, the recollections of the day turned in her
+brain, ticking loudly; and she could see each event as distinctly as
+the figures on the dial of a great clock.
+
+She saw the girls playing tennis, and Alfred walking towards the
+house.... She did not see him enter the house, it is true; but she had
+met him coming from the house. They had walked to the end of the
+garden, and had sat down under the elms not very far from the spot
+where she had rejected him five years before.
+
+His hesitations had amused her. At last he had taken her hand and had
+asked her to marry him. There had been something strange in his
+manner. Something had struck her at the time, but the impression
+passed in the pride of seeing him fall a prey to her enchantment.
+
+But it was her money that he was thinking of all the while.... She
+wondered if she was accusing him unjustly, and this led her into a
+long analysis of his character. 'But all this thinking leads nowhere,'
+she cried, throwing herself over in her hot bed. 'The mere probability
+that a man should marry me for my money would poison my whole life.
+But I shall have to marry some one.... I'm weary of my present life,
+and marriage is the only way of changing it. I cannot live alone, I'd
+have to take a companion; that would be odious. I am not suited to
+marriage; but from marriage there did not seem to be any escape. All
+girls must marry, rich and poor alike; there seems no escape, though
+it is impossible to say why. I have tried all my life to find escape
+from marriage, and here I am back at the same point. Everything comes
+back to the same point in the end. But whom am I to marry? Alfred? No,
+I could not marry a man whom I suspected was marrying me for my money.
+But how is one ever to know? ...'
+
+She thought of Morton, and the remembrance of their life at Barbizon
+came upon her, actively as the odour of the lilies. He had loved her
+for herself; he had only thought of her.... He had always been nice,
+and she didn't know why she had spoken against him; it wasn't her
+fault.... Nor did she know why she had run away from Barbizon. Ah,
+those nights at Barbizon! those yellow moons shining upon the forest,
+upon the mist in the fields, and along the verge of the forest. Ah,
+how the scent of the fields and the forest used to fill their rooms at
+night, sweet influences, wonderful influences, which she would never
+forget.... This present night reminded her of the Barbizon nights. And
+as she got out of bed the sweetness of the syringa mingled with the
+sweetness of her body. She took a scarf from her wardrobe and wound it
+about her, because she feared a chill, and because she wished to look
+well as she stood in front of the soft night, calling upon her lover.
+
+'Come,' she said. 'I'm waiting for you. Come, oh, my lover, and you'll
+find me no longer cold. I'm a Juliet burning for Romeo's kisses. My
+lover, my husband, come.... I have lived too long on the surface of
+things. I want to know life, to drink of life... and with you. Your
+Juliet awaits you; delay not, Romeo; come now, this very instant, or
+come not at all, for to-morrow instead of living fire, you may find
+dead ashes.'
+
+She held her arms to the night, and the scents of night mingled with
+the passion of her bosom. But a wind rustled the leaves in the garden,
+and, drawing the scarf tightly about her, she said: 'Should I have
+turned from him if he had come, I wonder? Why should the idea
+transport, and the reality extinguish? Why cannot I live in natural
+instinct? ... I can, I will.... Morton shall come back.... He has not
+married Rose Turner; I should have heard of it if he had.... I've only
+to hold up my finger, and he will come back. But if I did get him
+back, and he did propose, how do I know that it would not be for my
+money? A love once dead cannot be revived; nothing ever happens
+twice.'
+
+She crept back to her bed, cold and despondent. The passing passion
+she had felt for Morton was but a passing sensation of the summer
+night, as transient as the snatches of perfume which the night wind
+carried into the room. Again she cared for nothing in the world. She
+did not know what was going to become of her; the burden of life
+seemed so unbearable; she felt so unhappy. She lay quite still, with
+her eyes wide open, seeing the questions go round like the hands of a
+clock; the very words sounded as loud and distinct in her brain as the
+ticking of a clock. Her nerves were shattered, and life grew terribly
+distinct in the insomnia of the hot summer night. ... She threw
+herself over and over in her burning bed until at last her soul cried
+out of its lucid misery: 'Give me a passion for God or man, but give
+me a passion. I cannot live without one.'
+
+
+
+
+JOHN NORTON
+
+
+
+
+
+I.
+
+
+
+Mrs. Norton walked with her quiet, decisive step to the window, and
+holding the gold-rimmed glasses to her eyes, she looked into the
+landscape. The day was grimy with clouds; mist had risen, and it hung
+out of the branches of the elms like a grey veil. She was a woman of
+forty-five, tall, strongly-built, her figure setting to the squareness
+of middle age. Her complexion was flushed, and her cold grey eyes were
+close together above a long thin nose. Her fashionably-cut silk fitted
+perfectly; the skirt was draped with grace and precision of style, and
+the glossy shawl with the long soft fringe fell gracefully over her
+shoulders. 'Surely,' she thought, 'he cannot have been foolish enough
+to have walked over the downs such a day as this;' then, raising her
+glasses again, she looked out at the smallest angle with the wall of
+the house, so that she should get sight of a vista through which any
+one coming from Shoreham would have to pass. At that moment a
+silhouette appeared on the sullen sky. Mrs. Norton moved precipitately
+from the window, and rang the bell.
+
+'James,' she said, 'Mr. Hare has been going in for one of his long
+walks. He is coming across the park. I am sure he has walked over the
+downs; if so, he must be wet through. Have a fire lighted, and put out
+a pair of slippers for him: Here is the key of Mr. Norton's wardrobe;
+let Mr. Hare have what he wants.'
+
+And having detached a key from one of the many bunches which filled
+her basket, Mrs. Norton went herself to open the door to her visitor.
+He was, however, still some distance away, and it was not until he
+climbed the iron fence which separated the park from the garden
+grounds that the figure grew into its individuality, into a man of
+about fifty, about the medium height, inclined to stoutness. His white
+neck-tie proclaimed him a parson, and the grey mud with which his
+boots were bespattered told of his long walk.
+
+'You are quite right, Lizzie, you are quite right,' he said; 'I
+shouldn't have done it. Had I known what a state the roads were in, I
+wouldn't have attempted it.'
+
+'If you don't know what these roads are like in winter by this time,
+you never will.'
+
+'I never saw them in the state they are now; such a slush of chalk and
+clay was never seen.' 'What can you expect after a month of heavy
+rain? You are wringing wet.'
+
+'Yes, I was caught in a heavy shower as I was crossing over by Fresh-
+Combe-bottom. I am certainly not in a fit state to come into your
+dining-room.'
+
+'I should think not, indeed! I really believe, if I were to allow it,
+you would sit the whole afternoon in your wet clothes. You'll find
+everything ready for you in John's room. I'll give you ten minutes.
+I'll tell them to bring up lunch in ten minutes. Stay, will you have a
+glass of wine before going upstairs?'
+
+'I am afraid of spoiling your carpet.'
+
+'Yes, indeed! not one step further! I'll fetch it for you.'
+
+When the parson had drunk the wine, and was following the butler
+upstairs, Mrs. Norton returned to the dining-room with the empty glass
+in her hand. She placed it on the chimney-piece; she stirred the fire,
+and her thoughts flowed pleasantly as she dwelt on the kindness of her
+old friend. They had known each other since they were children, and
+had lived for twenty years separated only by a strip of downland.
+
+'He only got my note this morning,' she mused. 'I wonder if he will be
+able to persuade John to return home.'
+
+And now, maturing her plans for getting her boy back, she stood by the
+black mantelpiece, her head leaning on her hand. She uttered an
+exclamation when Mr. Hare entered.
+
+'What,' she said, 'you haven't changed your things, and I told you you
+would find a suit of John's clothes. I must insist--'
+
+'My dear Lizzie, no amount of insistence would get me into a pair of
+John's trousers. I am thirteen stone and a half, and he is not much
+over ten.'
+
+'Ah! I had forgotten; but what are you to do? Something must be done;
+you will catch your death of cold if you remain in your wet
+clothes.... You are wringing wet.'
+
+'No, I assure you, I am not. My feet were a little wet, but I have
+changed my stockings and shoes. And now, tell me, Lizzie, what there
+is for lunch,' he said, speaking rapidly to silence Mrs. Norton, who
+he saw was going to protest again.
+
+'There is chicken and some curried rabbit, but I am afraid you will
+suffer for it if you remain the whole of the afternoon in those wet
+clothes; I really cannot, I will not allow it.'
+
+'My dear Lizzie, my dear Lizzie,' cried the parson, laughing all over
+his rosy-skinned and sandy-whiskered face, 'I must beg of you not to
+excite yourself. Give me a wing of that chicken. James, I'll take a
+glass of sherry... and while I am eating you shall explain the matter
+you are minded to consult me on, and I will advise you to the best of
+my power, and then start on my walk across the hills.'
+
+'What! you mean to say you are going to walk home? ... We shall have
+another downpour presently.'
+
+'I cannot come to much harm so long as I am walking, whereas if I
+drove home in your carriage I might catch a chill.... It is at least
+ten miles to Shoreham by the road, while across the hills it is not
+more than six.'
+
+'Six! it is eight if it is a yard!'
+
+'Well, perhaps it is; but tell me, I am curious to hear what you want
+to talk to me about.... Something about John, is it not?'
+
+'Of course it is; what else have I to think about? what else concerns
+middle-aged people like you and me but our children? Of course I want
+to talk to you about John. Something must be done; things cannot go on
+as they are. Why, it is nearly two years since he has been home. Why
+does he not come and live at his own beautiful place? Why does he not
+take up his position in the county? He is not a magistrate. Why does
+he not marry? ... he is the last; there is no one to follow him.'
+
+'Do you think he'll never marry?'
+
+'I'm afraid not.'
+
+'Does he give any reason?'
+
+'He says that he's afraid that a woman might prove a disturbing
+influence in his life.'
+
+'And what did you say to that?'
+
+'I told him that he was the last, and that it was his duty to marry.'
+
+'I don't think that women present any attraction to him. In a way that
+is a matter of congratulation.'
+
+'I would much sooner he were wild, like other young men. Young men get
+over those kind of faults, but he'll never get over his.'
+
+Mr. Hare looked as if he thought these opinions were of a doubtful
+orthodoxy.
+
+'He is quite different,' he said, 'from other young men. I never
+remember having seen him pay any woman the least attention. When he
+speaks of women it is only to sneer.'
+
+'He does that to annoy me.'
+
+'Do you think so? I was afraid it was owing to a natural dislike.' The
+conversation paused for a moment, and then Mr. Hare said:
+
+'Have you had any news of him lately?'
+
+'Yes, he wrote yesterday, but he did not speak of coming home.'
+
+'What did he say?'
+
+'He said he was meditating a book on the works of bishops and monks
+who wrote Latin in the early centuries. He has put up a thirteenth
+century window in the chapel, and he wants me to go up to London to
+make inquiries about organs. He is prepared to go as far as a thousand
+pounds. Did you ever hear of such a thing? Those Jesuits are
+encouraging him. Of course it would just suit them if he became a
+priest--nothing would suit them better; the whole property would fall
+into their hands. Now, what I want you to do, my dear friend, is to go
+to Stanton College to-morrow, or next day, as soon as you possibly
+can, and to talk to John. You must tell him how unwise it is to spend
+fifteen hundred pounds in one year building organs and putting up
+windows. His intentions are excellent, but his estate won't bear such
+extravagances; and everybody here thinks he is such a miser. I want
+you to tell him that he should marry. Just fancy what a terrible thing
+it would be if the estate passed away to distant relatives--to those
+terrible cousins of ours.'
+
+'This is very serious.'
+
+'Yes, it is very serious. If it weren't very serious I should not have
+put you to the trouble of coming over here to-day.'
+
+'There was no trouble; I was glad of the walk. But I don't see how I
+am to advise you in this matter.'
+
+'I don't want advice. It is John who wants advice. Will you go to
+Stanton College and talk to him?'
+
+'What am I to say?'
+
+'Tell him it is his duty to return home, to settle down and marry.'
+
+'I don't think John would listen to me--it would not be prudent to
+speak to him in that way. He is not the sort of man who allows himself
+to be driven. But I might suggest that he should come home.'
+
+'He certainly should come home for Christmas---'
+
+'Very well, Lizzie, that's what I'll say. I have not seen him for five
+years. The last time he was here I was away. I don't think it would be
+a bad notion to suggest that the Jesuits are after his money--that
+they are endeavouring to inveigle him into the priesthood in order
+that they may get hold of his property.'
+
+'No, no; you must not say such a thing. I will not have you say
+anything against his religion. I was very wrong to suggest such a
+thing. I am sure no such idea ever entered the Jesuits' heads. Perhaps
+I am wrong to send you.... But I want you to try to get him to come
+home. Try to get him to come home for Christmas.'
+
+
+
+
+II.
+
+
+In large serpentine curves the road wound through a wood of small
+beech trees--so small that in the November dishevelment the
+plantations were like brushwood; and lying behind the wind-swept
+opening were gravel walks, and the green spaces of the cricket field
+with a solitary divine reading his breviary. The drive turned and
+turned again in great sloping curves; more divines were passed, and
+then there came a terrace with a balustrade and a view of the open
+country. The high red walls of the college faced bleak terraces: a
+square tower squatted in the middle of the building, and out of it
+rose the octagon of the bell-tower, and in the tower wall was the
+great oak door studded with great nails.
+
+'How Birmingham the whole place does look,' thought Mr. Hare, as he
+laid his hand on an imitation mediaeval bell-pull.
+
+'Is Mr. John Norton at home?' he asked when the servant came. 'Will
+you give him my card, and say that I should like to see him.'
+
+On entering, Mr. Hare found himself in a tiled hall, around which was
+built a staircase in varnished oak. There was a quadrangle, and from
+three sides latticed windows looked on greensward; on the fourth there
+was an open corridor, with arches to imitate a cloister. All was
+strong and barren, and only about the varnished staircase was there
+any sign of comfort. There the ceiling was panelled in oak; and the
+banisters, the cocoa-nut matting, the bit of stained glass, and the
+religious prints, suggested a mock air of hieratic dignity. And the
+room Mr. Hare was shown into continued this impression. Cabinets in
+carved oak harmonised with high-backed chairs glowing with red Utrecht
+velvet, and a massive table, on which lay a folio edition of St.
+Augustine's _City of God_ and the _Epistolae Consolitoriae_ of St.
+Jerome.
+
+The bell continued to clang, and through the latticed windows Mr. Hare
+watched the divines hurrying along the windy terrace, and the tramp of
+the boys going to their class-rooms could be heard in passages below.
+Then a young man entered. He was thin, and he was dressed in black.
+His face was Roman, the profile especially was what you might expect
+to find on a Roman coin--a high nose, a high cheekbone, a strong chin,
+and a large ear. The eyes were prominent and luminous, and the lower
+part of the face was expressive of resolution and intelligence, but
+the temples retreated rapidly to the brown hair which grew luxuriantly
+on the top of the head. The mouth was large, the lips were thick, dim
+in colour, undefined in shape. The hands were large, powerful, and
+grasping; they were earthly hands; they were hands that could take and
+could hold, and their materialism was curiously opposed to the
+ideality of the eyes--an ideality that touched the confines of frenzy.
+The shoulders were square and carried well back, the head was round,
+with close-cut hair, the straight falling coat was buttoned high, and
+the fashionable collar, with a black satin cravat, beautifully tied
+and relieved with a rich pearl pin, set another unexpected detail to
+an aggregate of apparently irreconcilable characteristics.
+
+'And how do you do, my dear Mr. Hare? Who would have expected to see
+you here? I am so glad.'
+
+These words were spoken frankly and cordially, and there was a note of
+mundane cheerfulness in the voice which did not quite correspond with
+the sacerdotal elegance of this young man. Then he added quickly, as
+if to save himself from asking the reason of this very unexpected
+visit:
+
+'You'll stay and dine? I'll show you over the college: you have never
+been here before.... Now I come to reckon it up, I find I have not
+seen you for nearly five years.'
+
+'It must be very nearly that; I missed you the last time you were at
+Thornby Place, and that was three years ago.'
+
+'Three years! It sounds very shocking, doesn't it, to have a beautiful
+place in Sussex and not to live there?'
+
+The conversation paused a moment, and then John said:
+
+'But you did not travel two hundred miles to see Stanton College. You
+have, I fear, messages for me from my mother.'
+
+'It is at her request I am here.'
+
+'Quite so. You're here to advise me to return home and accept the
+marriage state.'
+
+'It is only natural that your mother should wish you to marry.'
+
+'Her determination to get me married is one of the reasons why I am
+here. My mother will not recognise my right to live my life in my own
+fashion. When she learns to respect my opinions I will return home. I
+wish you would impress that upon her. I wish you would try to get her
+to understand that.'
+
+'I will tell your mother what you say. It would be well for her to
+know why you choose to live here. I agree with you that no one but
+ourselves can determine what duties we should accept.'
+
+'Ah! if you would only explain that to my mother. You have expressed
+my feelings exactly. I have no pity for those who take up burdens and
+then say they are not fitted to carry them. And now that disagreeable
+matter is settled, come and I will show you over the college.'
+
+The two men descended the staircase into the long stony corridor.
+There were pictures along the walls of the corridor--pictures of
+upturned faces and clasped hands--and these drew words of
+commiseration for the artistic ignorance of the college authorities
+from John's lips.
+
+'And they actually believe that that dreadful monk with the skull is a
+real Ribera.... The chapel is on the right, the refectory on the left.
+Come, let us see the chapel; I am anxious to hear what you think of my
+window.'
+
+'It ought to be very handsome; it cost five hundred, did it not?'
+
+'No, not quite so much as that,' John answered abruptly; and then,
+passing through the communion rails, they stood under the multi-
+coloured glory of three bishops. Mr. Hare felt that a good deal of
+rapture was expected of him; but in his efforts to praise he felt that
+he was exposing his ignorance. John called his attention to the
+transparency of the green-watered skies; and turning their backs on
+the bishops, the blue ceiling with the gold stars was declared, all
+things considered, to be in excellent taste. The benches in the body
+of the church were for the boys; the carved chairs set along both
+walls, between the communion rails and the first steps of the altar,
+were for the divines. The president and vice-president knelt facing
+each other. The priests, deacons, and sub-deacons followed, according
+to their rank. There were slenderer benches, and these were for the
+choir; and from the great gold lectern the leader conducted the
+singing.
+
+The side altar, with the Turkey carpet spread over the steps, was St.
+George's, and further on, in an addition made lately, there were two
+more altars, dedicated respectively to the Virgin and St. Joseph,
+
+'The maid-servants kneel in that corner. I have often suggested that
+they should be moved out of sight.'
+
+'Why would you remove them out of sight? You will not deny their right
+to hear Mass?'
+
+'Of course not. But it seems to me that they would be better away.
+They present a temptation where there are a number of young men about.
+I have noticed that some of the young men look round when the maid-
+servants come into church. I have overheard remarks too.... I know not
+what attraction they can find in such ugliness. It is beastly.'
+
+'Maid-servants are not attractive; but if they were princesses you
+would dislike them equally. The severest moralists are those who have
+never known the pain of temptation.'
+
+'Perhaps the severest moralists are those who have conquered their
+temptations.'
+
+'Then you have been tempted!'
+
+John's face assumed a thoughtful expression, and he said:
+
+'I'm not going to tell you my inmost soul. This I can say, if I have
+had temptations I have conquered them. They have passed away.'
+
+The conversation paused, and, in a silence which was pregnant with
+suggestion, they went up to the organ-loft, and he depreciated the
+present instrument and enlarged upon some technical details anent the
+latest modern improvements in keys and stops. He would play his
+setting of St. Ambrose's hymn, 'Veni redemptor gentium,' if Mr. Hare
+would go to the bellows; and feeling as if he were being turned into
+ridicule, Mr. Hare took his place at the handle.
+
+In the sacristy the consideration of the censers, candle-sticks,
+chalices, and albs took some time, and John was a little aggressive in
+his explanation of Catholic ceremonial, and its grace and comeliness
+compared with the stiffness and materialism of the Protestant service.
+Handsome lads of sixteen were chosen for acolytes; the torch-bearers
+were selected from the smallest boys, the office of censer was filled
+by himself, and he was also the chief sacristan, and had charge of the
+altar plate and linen and the vestments.
+
+In answer to Mr. Hare, who asked him if he did not weary of the
+narrowness of ecclesiastical life, John said that when the desire of
+travel came upon him, he had to consult no one's taste or convenience
+but his own, merely to pack his portmanteau. Last year he had been
+through Russia, and had enjoyed his stay in Constantinople. And while
+speaking of the mosques he said that he had had an ancestor who had
+fought in the crusades. Perhaps it was from him he had inherited his
+love and comprehension of Byzantine art--he did not say so, but it
+might be so; one of the mysteries of atavism! Who shall say where they
+end?
+
+'You would have liked to have fought in the crusades?'
+
+'Yes, I think that I should have made a good knight. The hardships
+they underwent were no doubt quite extraordinary. But I am strong; my
+bones are heavy; my chest is deep; I can bear a great deal of
+fatigue.'
+
+Then laughing lightly he said:
+
+'You can't imagine me as a knight on the way to the Grail.'
+
+'Why not? I think you would have acquitted yourself very well.'
+
+'The crusades were once as real in life as tennis parties are to-day;
+and I think infinitely more beautiful.'
+
+'You would not have fought in the tournaments for a lady love?'
+
+'Perhaps not; I should have fought for the Grail, like Parsifal. I was
+at Bayreuth last year. But Bayreuth is no longer what it was. Popular
+innovations have been introduced into the performances. Would you
+believe it, the lovely music in the cupola, written by Wagner for
+boys' voices, is now sung by women.'
+
+'Surely a woman's voice is finer than a boy's.'
+
+'It is more powerful, of course; but it has not the same quality--the
+_timbre_ is so much grosser. Besides, women's voices are opposed to
+the ecclesiastical spirit.'
+
+'How closely you do run your hobby.'
+
+'No; in art I have no prejudices; I recognise the beauty of a woman's
+voice in its proper place--in opera. It is as inappropriate to have
+Palestrina sung by women as it would be to have Brunnhilde and Isolde
+sung by boys--at least so it seems to me. I was at Cologne last year--
+that is the only place where you can hear Palestrina. I was very
+lucky--I heard the great Mass, the Mass of Pope Marcellus. Wagner's
+music in the cupola is very lovely, but it does not compare with
+Palestrina.'
+
+From the sacristy they went to the boys' library, and while affecting
+to take an interest in the books Mr. Hare continued to encourage John
+to talk of himself. Did he never feel lonely?
+
+'No, I do not know what it is to feel lonely. In the morning I write;
+I ride in the afternoon; I read in the evening. I read a great deal--
+literature and music.'
+
+'But when you go abroad you go alone--do you feel no need of a
+companion? Do you never make acquaintances when you go abroad?'
+
+'People don't interest me. I am interested in things much more than in
+people--in pictures, in music, in sculpture. When I'm abroad I like
+the streets, I like to see people moving about, I like to watch the
+spectacle of life, but I do not care to make acquaintances. As I grow
+older it seems to me that a process of alienation is going on between
+me and others.'
+
+They stopped on the landings of the staircases; they lingered in the
+passages, and, speaking of his admiration of the pagan world, John
+said: 'It knew how to idealise, it delighted in the outward form, but
+it raised it, invested it with a sense of aloofness.... You know what
+I mean.' He looked inquiringly at Mr. Hare, and, gesticulating with
+his fingers, said, 'You know what I mean.' 'A beyond?'
+
+'Yes; that's the word--a beyond. There must be a beyond. In Wagner
+there is none. That is his weakness. He is too perfect. Never since
+the world began did an artist realise himself so completely. He
+achieved all he desired, therefore something is wanting. A beyond is
+wanting.... I do not say that I have changed my opinion regarding
+Wagner, I still admire him: but I no longer accept his astonishing
+ingenuities for inspiration. No, I'm not afraid to say it, I bar
+nearly the whole first act of Parsifal. For instance, Gurnemanz's long
+narrative, into which is introduced all the motives of the opera--is
+merely beautiful musical handicraft, and I cannot accept handicraft,
+however beautiful, for inspiration. I rank much higher the entrance of
+Kundry--her evocation of Arabia.... That is a real inspiration! The
+over-praised choruses are beautiful, but again I have to make
+reservations. These choruses are, you know, divided into three parts.
+The chorus of the knights is ordinary enough, the chorus of the young
+men I like better, but I can only give my unqualified admiration to
+the chorus of the children. Again, the chorus of the young girls in
+the second act is merely beautiful writing, and there is no real
+inspiration until we get to the great duet between Kundry and
+Parsifal. The moment Kundry calls to Parsifal, "Parsifal... Remain!"
+those are the words, I think, Wagner inspiration begins, then he is
+profound, then he says interesting things.' John opened the door of
+his room.
+
+In the centre of the floor was an oak table--a table made of sharp
+slabs of oak laid upon a frame that was evidently of ancient design,
+probably early German, a great, gold screen sheltered a high canonical
+chair with elaborate carvings, and on a reading-stand close by lay the
+manuscript of a Latin poem.
+
+The parson looked round for a seat, but the chairs were like cottage
+stools on high legs, and the angular backs looked terribly knife-like.
+
+'Shall I get you a pillow from the next room? Personally I cannot bear
+upholstery. I cannot conceive anything more hideous than a padded
+armchair. All design is lost in that infamous stuffing. Stuffing is a
+vicious excuse for the absence of design. If upholstery were forbidden
+by law to-morrow, in ten years we should have a school of design. Then
+the necessity of composition would be imperative.'
+
+'I daresay there is a good deal in what you say; but tell me, don't
+you find these chairs very uncomfortable? Don't you think that you
+would find a good comfortable arm-chair very useful for reading
+purposes?'
+
+'No, I should feel far more uncomfortable on a cushion than I do on
+this bit of hard oak. Our ancestors had an innate sense of form that
+we have not. Look at these chairs, nothing can be plainer; a cottage
+stool is hardly more simple, and yet they are not offensive to the
+eye. I had them made from a picture by Albert Durer.'
+
+Mr. Hare smoked in silence, uncertain how far John was in earnest, how
+far he was assuming an attitude of mind. Presently he walked over to
+the book-cases. There were two: one was filled with learned-looking
+volumes bearing the names of Latin authors; and the parson, who prided
+himself on his Latinity, was surprised, and a little nettled, to find
+so much ignorance proved upon him. With Tertullian, St. Jerome, and
+St. Augustine, he was acquainted, but of Lactantius Hibernicus Exul,
+Angilbert, he was obliged to admit he knew nothing--even the names
+were unknown to him.
+
+In the book-case on the opposite side of the room there were complete
+editions of Landor and Swift, then came two large volumes on Leonardo
+da Vinci. Raising his eyes, the parson read through the titles:
+Browning's works; Tennyson in a cheap seven-and-six edition;
+Swinburne, Pater, Rossetti, Morris, two novels by Rhoda Broughton,
+Dickens, Thackeray, Fielding, and Smollett; the complete works of
+Balzac, Gautier's _Emaux et Camees_, Salammbo, L'Assommoir; Carlyle,
+Newman, Byron, Shelley, Keats, and the dramatists of the Restoration.
+
+At the end of a long silence Mr. Hare said glancing once again at the
+Latin authors, and walking towards the fire:
+
+"Tell me, John, are those the books you are writing about? Supposing
+you explain to me, in a few words, the line you are taking. Your
+mother tells me that you intend to call your book the History of
+Christian Latin."
+
+"Yes, I had thought of using that title, but I am afraid it is a
+little too ambitious. To write the history of a literature extending
+over at least eight centuries would entail an appalling amount of
+reading; and besides, only a few, say a couple of dozen writers out of
+some hundreds, are of the slightest literary interest, and very few
+indeed of any real aesthetic value.
+
+"Ah!" he said, as his eye lighted on a certain name, 'here is
+Marbodius, a great poet; how well he understood women! Listen to this:
+
+   '"Femina, dulce malum, pariter favus atque venenum,
+    Melle linens gladium cor confodit et sapientum.
+    Quis suasit primo vetitum gustare parenti?
+    Femina. Quis partem natas vitiare coegit?
+    Femina. Quis fortem spoliatum crine peremit?
+    Femina. Quis justi sacrum caput ense recidit?
+    Femina, quae matris cumulavit crimine crimen,
+    Incestum gravem graviori caede notavit....
+
+    "Chimeram
+    Cui non immerito fertur data forma triformis,
+    Nam pars prima leo, pars ultima cauda draconis,
+    Et mediae partes nil sunt nisi fervidus ignis."'
+
+'Well, of course, that quite carries out your views of women. And now
+tell me what I am to say to your mother. Will you come home for
+Christmas?'
+
+'I suppose I must. I suppose it would seem unkind if I didn't. I
+wonder why I dislike the place? I cannot think of it without a
+revulsion of feeling.'
+
+'I won't argue that point with you, but I think you ought to come
+home.'
+
+'Why come home? Come home and marry my neighbour's daughter--one of
+those Austin girls, for instance? Fancy my settling down to live with
+one them, and undertaking to look after her all my life; walking after
+her carrying a parasol and a shawl. Don't you see the ludicrous side?
+I always see a married man carrying a parasol and a shawl--a parasol
+and a shawl, the symbols of his office.' John laughed loudly.
+
+'The swinging of a censer and the chanting of Latin responses are
+equally absurd if--'
+
+'Do you think so?'
+
+'Ritual is surely not the whole of religion?'
+
+'No. But we were speaking of several rituals, and Catholic ritual
+seems to me more dignified than that of the shawl and parasol. The
+social life of the nineteenth century, that is to say, drawing-rooms,
+filled with half-dressed women, present no attraction for me. You and
+my mother think because I do not wish to marry and spend some small
+part of my time in this college that I intend to become a priest.
+Marry and bring up children, or enter the Church! There is nothing
+between, so you say, having regard for my Catholicism. But there is an
+intermediate state, the onlooker. However strange it may seem to you,
+I do assure you that no man in the world has less vocation for the
+priesthood than I. I am merely an onlooker, the world is my monastery.
+I am an onlooker.'
+
+'Is not that a very selfish attitude?'
+
+'My attitude is this. There is a mystery. No one denies that. An
+explanation is necessary, and I accept the explanation offered by the
+Roman Catholic Church. I obey Her in all her instruction for the
+regulation of life; I shirk nothing, I omit nothing, I allow nothing
+to come between me and my religion. Whatever the Church says I
+believe, and so all responsibility is removed from me. But this is an
+attitude of mind which you as a Protestant cannot sympathise with.'
+
+'I know, my dear John, I know your life is not a dissolute one; but
+your mother is very anxious--remember you are the last. Is there no
+chance of your ever marrying?'
+
+'I fear I am not suited to married life. There is a better and a purer
+life to lead... an inner life, coloured and permeated with feelings
+and tones that are intensely our own. He who may live this life
+shrinks from any adventitious presence that might jar it.'
+
+'Maybe, it certainly would take too long to discuss--I should miss my
+train. But tell me, are you coming home for Christmas?'
+
+'Yes, yes; I have some estate business to see to. I shall be home for
+Christmas. As for your train ... will find out all about your train
+presently... you must stay to dinner.'
+
+
+
+
+III.
+
+
+'I was very much alarmed, my dear John, about your not sleeping. Mr.
+Hare told me you said that you went two or three nights without
+closing your eyes, and that you had to have recourse to sleeping
+draughts.'
+
+'Not at all, mother, I never took a sleeping draught but twice in my
+life.'
+
+'Well, you don't sleep well, and I am sure it is those college beds.
+But you will be far more comfortable here. You are in the best bedroom
+in the house, the one in front of the staircase, the bridal chamber;
+and I have selected the largest and softest feather-bed in the house.'
+
+'My dear mother, if there is one thing more than another I dislike, it
+is a feather-bed. I should not be able to close my eyes; I beg of you
+to have it taken away.'
+
+Mrs. Norton's face flushed. 'I cannot understand, John; it is absurd
+to say that you cannot sleep on a feather-bed. Mr. Hare told me you
+complained of insomnia, and there is no surer way of losing your
+health. It is owing to the hardness of those college mattresses,
+whereas in a feather-bed--'
+
+'There is no use in our arguing that point, mother. I say I cannot
+sleep on a feather-bed---'
+
+'But you have not tried one; I don't believe you ever slept on a
+feather-bed in your life.'
+
+'Well, I am not going to begin now.'
+
+'We haven't another bed aired, and it is really too late to ask the
+servants to change your room.'
+
+'Well, then, I shall be obliged to sleep at the hotel in Henfield.'
+
+'You should not speak to your mother in that way; I will not have it.'
+
+'There! you see we are quarrelling already; I did wrong to come home.'
+
+'It was not to please me that you came home. You were afraid if you
+didn't you mightn't find another tenant for the Beeding farm. You were
+afraid you might have it on your hands. It was self-interest that
+brought you home. Don't try to make me believe it wasn't.'
+
+Then the conversation drifted into angry discussion.
+
+'You are not even a J. P., but there will be no difficulty about that;
+you must make application to the Lord-Lieutenant.... You have not seen
+any of the county people for years. We'll have the carriage out some
+day this week, and we'll pay a round of visits.'
+
+'We'll do nothing of the kind. I have no time for visiting; I must get
+on with my book. I hope to finish my study of St. Augustine before I
+leave here. I have my books to unpack, and a great deal of reading to
+get through. I have done no more than glance at the Anglo-Latin.
+Literature died in France with Gregory of Tours at the end of the
+sixth century; with St. Gregory the Great, in Italy, at the
+commencement of the seventh century; in Spain about the same time. And
+then the Anglo-Saxons became the representatives of the universal
+literature. All this is most important. I must re-read St. Aldhelm.'
+
+'Now, sir, we have had quite enough of that, and I would advise you
+not to go on with any of that nonsense here; you will be turned into
+dreadful ridicule.'
+
+'That's just why I wish to avoid them. Just fancy my having to listen
+to them! What is the use of growing wheat when we are only getting
+eight pounds ten a load? ... But we must grow something, and there is
+nothing else but wheat. We must procure a certain amount of straw, or
+we'd have no manure. I don't believe in the fish manure. But there is
+market gardening, and if we kept shops at Brighton, we could grow our
+own stuff and sell it at retail price.... And then there is a great
+deal to be done with flowers.'
+
+'Now, sir, that will do, that will do.... How dare you speak to me so!
+I will not allow it.' And then relapsing into an angry silence, Mrs.
+Norton drew her shawl about her shoulders.
+
+'Why will she continue to impose her will upon mine? Why has she not
+found out by this time the uselessness of her effort? She hopes at
+last to wear me down. She wants me to live the life she has marked out
+for me to live--to take up my position in the county, and, above all,
+to marry and give her an heir to the property. I see it all; that is
+why she wanted me to spend Christmas with her; that is why she has
+Kitty Hare here to meet me. How cunning, how mean women are! a man
+would not do that. Had I known it.... I have a mind to leave to-
+morrow. I wonder if the girl is in the little conspiracy.' And turning
+his head he looked at her.
+
+Tall and slight, a grey dress, pale as the wet sky, fell from her
+waist outward in the manner of a child's frock. There was a lightness,
+there was brightness in the clear eyes. The intense youth of her heart
+was evanescent; it seemed constantly rising upwards like the breath of
+a spring morning. The face sharpened to a tiny chin, and the face was
+pale, although there was bloom on the cheeks. The forehead was
+shadowed by a sparkling cloud of brown hair, the nose was straight,
+and each little nostril was pink tinted. The ears were like shells.
+There was a rigidity in her attitude. She laughed abruptly, perhaps a
+little nervously, and the abrupt laugh revealed the line of tiny white
+teeth. Thin arms fell straight to the translucent hands, and there was
+a recollection of Puritan England in look and in gesture. Her
+picturesqueness calmed John's ebullient discontent; he decided that
+she knew nothing of, and was not an accomplice in, his mother's
+scheme. And, for the sake of his guest, he strove to make himself
+agreeable during dinner, but it was clear that he missed the hierarchy
+of the college table. The conversation fell repeatedly. Mrs. Norton
+and Kitty spoke of making syrup for bees; and their discussion of the
+illness of poor Dr.---, who would no longer be able to get through the
+work of the parish single-handed, and would require a curate, was
+continued till the ladies rose from the table. Nor did matters mend in
+the library. The room seemed to him intolerably uncomfortable and
+ugly, and he went to the billiard-room to smoke a cigar. It was not
+clear to him that he would be able to spend two months in Thornby
+Place. If every evening passed like the present, it were a modern
+martyrdom.... But had they removed the feather-bed? He went upstairs.
+The feather-bed had been removed. But the room was draped with many
+curtains--pale curtains covered with walking birds and falling petals,
+a sort of Indian pattern. There was a sofa at the foot of the bed, and
+a toilet table hung out its skirts in the light of the fire. He
+thought of his ascetic college bed, of the great Christ upon the wall,
+of the _prie-dieu_ with the great rosary hanging. To lie in this great
+bed seemed ignoble; and he could not rid his mind of the distasteful
+feminine influences which had filled the day, and which now haunted
+the night.
+
+After breakfast next morning Mrs. Norton stopped John as he was going
+upstairs to unpack his books. 'Now,' she said, 'you must go out for a
+walk with Kitty Hare, and I hope you will make yourself agreeable. I
+want you to see the new greenhouse I have put up; she'll show it to
+you. And I told the bailiff to meet you in the yard. I thought you
+would like to see him.'
+
+'I wish, mother, you would not interfere in my business; had I wanted
+to see Burns I should have sent for him.'
+
+'If you don't want to see him, he wants to see you. There are some
+cottages on the farm that must be put into repair at once. As for
+interfering in your business, I don't know how you can talk like that;
+were it not for me the whole place would be falling to pieces.'
+
+'Quite true; I know you save me a great deal of expense; but really--'
+
+'Really what? You won't go out to walk with Kitty Hare?'
+
+'I did not say I wouldn't, but I must say that I am very busy just
+now. I had thought of doing a little reading, for I have an
+appointment with my solicitor in the afternoon.'
+
+'That man charges you 200 pounds a year for collecting the rents; now,
+if you were to do it yourself, you would save the money, and it would
+give you something to do.'
+
+'Something to do! I have too much to do as it is.... But if I am going
+out with Kitty I may as well go at once. Where is she?'
+
+'I saw her go into the library a moment ago.'
+
+It was preferable to go for a walk with Kitty than to continue the
+interview with his mother. John seized his hat and called Kitty,
+Kitty, Kitty! Presently she appeared, and they walked towards the
+garden, talking. She told him she had been at Thornby Place the whole
+time the greenhouse was being built, and when they opened the door
+they were greeted by Sammy, He sprang instantly on her shoulder.
+
+'This is my cat,' she said. 'I've fed him since he was a little
+kitten; isn't he sweet?'
+
+The girl's beauty appeared on the brilliant flower background; and the
+boyish slightness of her figure led John to think of a statuette done
+in a period of Greek decadence. 'Others,' he thought, 'would only see
+her as a somewhat too thin example of English maidenhood. I see her
+quite differently.' And when her two tame rooks alighted at her feet,
+he said:
+
+'I wonder how you can let them come near you.'
+
+'Why not; don't you like birds?'
+
+'No, they frighten me; there's something electric about birds.'
+
+'Poor little things, they fell out of the nest before they could fly,
+and I brought them up. You don't care for pets?'
+
+'I don't like birds. I couldn't sit in a room with a large bird.
+There's something in the sensation of feathers I can't bear.'
+
+'Don't like birds! Why, that seems as if you said that you didn't like
+flowers.'
+
+And while the young squire talked to his bailiff Kitty fed her rooks.
+They cawed, and flew to her hand for the scraps of meat. The coachman
+came to speak about oats and straw. They went to the stables. Kitty
+adored horses, and it amused John to see her pat them, and her
+vivacity and light-heartedness rather pleased him than otherwise.
+
+Nevertheless, during the whole of the following week the ladies held
+little communication with John. In the morning he went out with his
+bailiffs to inspect farms and consult about possible improvement and
+necessary repairs. He had appointments with his solicitor. There were
+accounts to be gone through. He never paid a bill without verifying
+every item. At four o'clock he came in to tea, his head full of
+calculations of such complex character that even his mother could not
+follow the different statements to his satisfaction. When she
+disagreed with him he took up the _Epistles of St. Columban of Bangor_
+the _Epistola ad Sethum,_ or the celebrated poem, _Epistola ad
+Fedolium,_ written when the saint was seventy-two, and continued his
+reading, making copious notes in a pocket-book.
+
+
+
+
+IV.
+
+
+On the morning of the meet of the hounds he was called an hour
+earlier. He drank a cup of tea and ate a piece of dry toast in a back
+room. The dining-room was full of servants, who laid out a long table
+rich with comestibles and glittering with glass. Mrs. Norton and Kitty
+were upstairs dressing.
+
+He wandered into the drawing-room and viewed the dead, cumbrous
+furniture; the two cabinets bright with brass and veneer. He stood at
+the window staring. It was raining. The yellow of the falling leaves
+was hidden in grey mist. 'This weather will keep many away; so much
+the better; there will be too many as it is. I wonder who this can
+be.' A melancholy brougham passed up the drive. There were three old
+maids, all looking sweetly alike; one was a cripple who walked with
+crutches, and her smile was the best and the gayest imaginable smile.
+
+'How little material welfare has to do with our happiness,' thought
+John. 'There is one whose path is the narrowest, and she is happier
+and better than I.' And then the three sweet old maids talked with
+their cousin of the weather; and they all wondered--a sweet feminine
+wonderment--if he would see a girl that day whom he would marry.
+
+Presently the house was full of people. The passage was full of girls;
+a few men sat at breakfast at the end of the long table. Some red-
+coats passed. The huntsman stopped in front of the house, the dogs
+sniffed here and there, the whips trotted their horses and drove them
+back. 'Get together, get together; get back there! Woodland Beauty,
+come up here.' The hounds rolled on the grass and leaned their fore-
+paws on the railings, willing to be caressed.
+
+'Now, John, try and make yourself agreeable; go over and talk to some
+of the young ladies. Why do you dress yourself in that way? Have you
+no other coat? You look like a young priest. Look at that young man
+over there; how nicely dressed he is! I wish you would let your
+moustache grow; it would improve you immensely.' With these and
+similar remarks whispered to him, Mrs. Norton continued to exasperate
+her son until the servants announced that lunch was ready. 'Take in
+Mrs. So-and-so,' she said to John, who would fain have escaped from
+the melting glances of the lady in the long seal-skin. He offered her
+his arm with an air of resignation, and set to work valiantly to carve
+a large turkey.
+
+As soon as the servants had cleared away after one set another came,
+and although the meet was a small one, John took six ladies in to
+lunch. About half-past three the men adjourned to the billiard-room to
+smoke. The numerous girls followed, and with their arms round each
+other's waists and interlacing fingers, they grouped themselves about
+the room. At five the huntsmen returned, and much to his annoyance,
+John had to furnish them with a change of clothes. There was tea in
+the drawing-room, and soon after the visitors began to take their
+leave.
+
+The wind blew very coldly, the roosting rooks rose out of the
+branches, and the carriages rolled into the night; but still a remnant
+of visitors stood on the steps talking to John. He felt very ill, and
+now a long sharp pain had grown through his left side, and momentarily
+it became more and more difficult to exchange polite words and smiles.
+The footmen stood waiting by the open door, the horses champed their
+bits, the green of the park was dark, and a group of girls moved about
+the loggia, wheels grated on the gravel... all were gone! The butler
+shut the door, and John went to the library fire. There his mother
+found him. She saw that something was seriously the matter. He was
+helped up to bed, and the doctor sent for.
+
+For more than a week he suffered. He lay bent over, unable to
+straighten himself, as if a nerve had been wound up too tightly in the
+left side. He was fed on gruel and beef-tea, the room was kept very
+warm; it was not until the twelfth day that he was taken out of bed.
+
+'You have had a narrow escape,' the doctor said to John, who, well
+wrapped up, lay back, looking very pale and weak, before a blazing
+fire. 'It was lucky I was sent for. Twenty-four hours later I would
+not have answered for your life.'
+
+'I was delirious, was I not?'
+
+'Yes; you cursed and swore fearfully at us when we rolled you up in
+the mustard plaster. It was very hot, and must have burnt you.'
+
+'It has scarcely left a bit of skin on me. But did I use very bad
+language? I suppose I could not help it.... I was delirious, was I
+not?'
+
+'Yes, slightly.'
+
+'I remember, and if I remember right, I used very bad language. But
+people when they are delirious do not know what they say. Is not that
+so, doctor?'
+
+'If they are really delirious they do not remember, but you were only
+slightly delirious... you were maddened by the pain occasioned by the
+pungency of the plaster.'
+
+'Yes; but do you think I knew what I was saying?'
+
+'You must have known what you were saying because you remember what
+you said.'
+
+'But could I be held accountable for what I said?'
+
+'Accountable? ... Well, I hardly know what you mean. You were
+certainly not in the full possession of your senses. Your mother (Mrs.
+Norton) was very much shocked, but I told her that you were not
+accountable for what you said.'
+
+'Then I could not be held accountable, I did not know what I was
+saying.'
+
+'I don't think you did exactly; people in a passion don't know what
+they say!'
+
+'Ah! yes, but we are answerable for sins committed in the heat of
+passion; we should restrain our passion; we were wrong in the first
+instance in giving way to passion.... But I was ill, it was not
+exactly passion. And I was very near death; I had a narrow escape,
+doctor?'
+
+'Yes, I think I can call it a narrow escape.' The voices ceased. The
+curtains were rosy with lamp-light, and conscience awoke in the
+languors of convalescent hours. 'I stood on the verge of death!' The
+whisper died away. John was still very weak, and he had not strength
+to think with much insistence, but now and then remembrance surprised
+him suddenly like pain; it came unexpectedly, he knew not whence or
+how, but he could not choose but listen. Was he responsible for those
+words? He could remember them all now; each like a burning arrow
+lacerated his bosom, and he pulled them to and fro.
+
+He could now distinguish the instantaneous sensation of wrong that had
+flashed on his excited mind in the moment of his sinning.... Then he
+could think no more, and in the twilight of contrition he dreamed
+vaguely of God's great goodness, of penance, of ideal atonements. And
+as strength returned, remembrance of his blasphemies grew stronger and
+fiercer, and often as he lay on his pillow, his thoughts passing in
+long procession, his soul would leap into intense suffering. 'I stood
+on the verge of death with blasphemies on my tongue. I might have been
+called to confront my Maker with horrible blasphemies in my heart and
+on my tongue; but He, in His Divine goodness, spared me; He gave me
+time to repent. Am I answerable, O my God, for those dreadful words
+that I uttered against Thee, because I suffered a little pain, against
+Thee who once died on the cross to save me! O God, Lord, in Thine
+infinite mercy look down on me, on me! Vouchsafe me Thy mercy, O my
+God, for I was weak! My sin is loathsome; I prostrate myself before
+Thee, I cry aloud for mercy!'
+
+Then seeing Christ amid His white million of youths, beautiful singing
+saints, gold curls and gold aureoles, lifted throats, and form of harp
+and dulcimer, he fell prone in great bitterness on the misery of
+earthly life. His happiness and ambitions appeared to him less than
+the scattering of a little sand on the sea-shore. Joy is passion,
+passion is suffering; we cannot desire what we possess; therefore
+desire is rebellion prolonged indefinitely against the realities of
+existence; when we attain the object of our desire, we must perforce
+neglect it in favour of something still unknown, and so we progress
+from illusion to illusion. The winds of folly and desolation howl
+about us; the sorrows of happiness are the worst to bear, and the wise
+soon learn that there is nothing to dream of but the end of desire.
+God is the one ideal, the Church the one shelter, from the incurable
+misery of life. The life of the cloister is far from the meanness of
+life. And oh! the voices of chanting boys, the cloud of incense, and
+the Latin hymn afloat on the tumult of the organ.
+
+In such religious aestheticisms the soul of John Norton had long
+slumbered, but now it awoke in remorse and pain, and, repulsing its
+habitual exaltations as if they were sins, he turned to the primal
+idea of the vileness of this life, and its sole utility in enabling
+man to gain heaven. A pessimist he admitted himself to be so far as
+this world was concerned. But the manifestations of modern pessimism
+were checked by constitutional mysticity. Schopenhauer, when he
+overstepped the line ruled by the Church, was repulsed. From him John
+Norton's faith had suffered nothing; the severest and most violent
+shocks had come from another side--a side which none would guess, so
+complex and contradictory are the involutions of the human brain.
+Hellenism, Greek culture and ideal; academic groves; young disciples,
+Plato and Socrates, the august nakedness of the Gods were equal, or
+almost equal, in his mind with the lacerated bodies of meagre saints;
+and his heart wavered between the temple of simple lines and the
+cathedral of a thousand arches. Once there had been a sharp struggle,
+but Christ, not Apollo, had been the victor, and the great cross in
+the bedroom of Stanton College overshadowed the beautiful slim body in
+which Divinity seemed to circulate like blood; and this photograph was
+all that now remained of much youthful anguish and much temptation.
+
+A fact to note is that his sense of reality had always remained in a
+rudimentary state; it was, as it were, diffused over the world and
+mankind. For instance, his belief in the misery and degradation of
+earthly life, and the natural bestiality of man, was incurable; but of
+this or that individual he had no opinion; he was to John Norton a
+blank sheet of paper, to which he could not affix even a title. His
+childhood had been one of tumult and sorrow; the different and
+dissident ideals growing up in his heart and striving for the mastery,
+had torn and tortured him, and he had long lain as upon a mental rack.
+Ignorance of the material laws of existence had extended even into his
+sixteenth year, and when, bit by bit, the veil fell, and he
+understood, he was filled with loathing of life and mad desire to wash
+himself free of its stain; and it was this very hatred of natural
+flesh that had precipitated a perilous worship of deified flesh. But
+the Gothic cathedral had intervened; he had been taken by the beauty
+of its architecture and the beauty of its Gregorian chant. But now he
+realised--if not in all its truth, at least in part--that his love of
+God had only taken the form of a gratification of the senses, a
+sensuality higher but as intense as those which he so much reproved.
+His life had been but a sin, an abomination. And as a woman rising
+from a bed of small-pox shrinks from destroying the fair remembrance
+of her face by pursuing the traces of the disease through every
+feature, he hid his face in his hands and called for forgiveness--for
+escape from the endless record of his conscience. He saw the Hell
+which awaits him who blasphemes. To the verge of that Hell he had
+drifted.... He pictured himself lost in eternal torment. The Christ he
+saw had grown pitiless. He saw Christ standing in judgment amid a
+white million of youths....
+
+Too weak to think clearly, he sat dreaming. The blazing fire decorated
+the darkness, and the twilight shed upon curtains purfled with birds
+and petals. He sat, his head resting on his large, strong fingers,
+pining for sharp-edged mediaeval tables and antique lamps. The soft,
+diffused light of the paper-shaded lamp jarred his intimate sense of
+things. However dim the light of his antique lamps, their beautiful
+shapes were always an admonition, and took his thoughts back to the
+age he loved--an age of temples and disciples. Recollection of Plato
+floated upon his weak brain, and he remembered that the great
+philosopher had said that there were men who were half women, and that
+these men must perforce delight in the society of women. That there
+were men too who were wholly men, and that these perforce could find
+neither pleasure nor interest away from their own sex. He had always
+felt himself to be wholly male, and this was why the present age, so
+essentially the age of women, was repellent to him.
+
+His thoughts floated from Greece to Palestine, and looking into the
+blaze he saw himself bearing the banner of the Cross into the land of
+the infidel, fighting with lance and sword for the Sepulchre. He saw
+the Saracen, and trembling with aspiration, he heard the great theme
+of salvation to the Saviour sung by the basses, by the tenors, by the
+altos; it was held by a divine boy's voice for four bars high up in
+the cupola, and the belief theme in harp arpeggios rained down like
+manna on the bent heads of the knights.
+
+Awaking a little, his thoughts returned to the consideration of his
+present condition. He had been ill, death had been by his bedside, and
+in that awful moment he had blasphemed. He could conceive nothing more
+terrible, and he thanked God for his great mercy. If worldly life was
+a peril he must fly from that peril, the salvation of his soul must be
+his first consideration. His thoughts lapsed into dreams--dreams of
+aisle and cloister, arches and legended panes. Palms rose in great
+curls like the sky, and beautiful harmonies of voices were gathered
+together, grouped and single voices, now the white of the treble, now
+the purple of the bass, and these, the souls of the carven stone, like
+birds hovering, like birds in swift flight, like birds poising,
+floated from the arches. Then the organ intoned the massive Gregorian,
+and the chant of the mass moved amid the opulence of gold vestments;
+the Latin responses filled the ear; and at the end of long abstinences
+the holy oil came like a bliss that never dies. In the ecstasy of
+ordination it seemed to him that the very savour and spirit of God had
+descended upon him.
+
+
+
+
+V.
+
+
+Mrs. Norton flung her black shawl over her shoulders, rattled her
+keys, and scolded the servants at the end of the long passage. Kitty,
+as she watered the flowers in the greenhouse, often wondered why John
+had chosen to become a priest and grieve his mother. One morning, as
+she stood watching the springtide, she saw him walking up the drive:
+the sky was bright with summer hours, and the beds were catching
+flower beneath the evergreen oaks. She ran to Mrs. Norton, who was
+attending to the canaries in the bow-window.
+
+'Look, look, Mrs. Norton, John is coming up the drive; it is he--
+look!' 'John!' said Mrs. Norton, seeking for her glasses nervously;
+'yes, so it is; let's run and meet him. But no; let's take him rather
+coolly. I believe half his eccentricity is only put on because he
+wishes to astonish us. We won't ask him any questions--we'll just wait
+and let him tell his own story---'
+
+'How do you do, mother?' said the young man, kissing Mrs. Norton with
+less reluctance than usual. 'You must forgive me for not having
+answered your letters. It really was not my fault.... And how do you
+do, Kitty? Have you been keeping my mother company ever since? It is
+very good of you; I am afraid you must think me a very undutiful son.
+But what is the news?'
+
+'One of the rooks is gone.'
+
+'Is that all? ... What about the ball at Steyning? I hear it was a
+great success.'
+
+'Oh, it was delightful.'
+
+'You must tell me about it after dinner. Now I must go round to the
+stables and tell Walls to fetch my things from the station.'
+
+'Are you going to be here for some time?' said Mrs. Norton with an
+indifferent air.
+
+'Yes, I think so; that is to say, for a couple of months--six weeks. I
+have some arrangements to make; but I will speak to you about all that
+after dinner.'
+
+With these words John left the room, and he left his mother agitated
+and frightened.
+
+'What can he mean by having arrangements to make?' she asked. Kitty
+could of course suggest no explanation, and the women waited the
+pleasure of the young man to speak his mind. He seemed, however, in no
+hurry to do so; and the manner in which he avoided the subject
+aggravated his mother's uneasiness. At last she said, unable to bear
+the suspense any longer--
+
+'Have you had a quarrel with the Jesuits?'
+
+'Not exactly a quarrel, but the order is so entirely opposed to the
+monastic spirit. What I mean is--well, their worldliness is repugnant
+to me--fashionable friends, confidences, meddling in family affairs,
+dining out, letters from ladies who need consolation.... I don't mean
+anything wrong; pray don't misunderstand me. I merely mean to say that
+I hate their meddling in family affairs. Their confessional is a kind
+of marriage bureau; they have always got some plan on for marrying
+this person to that, and I must say I hate all that sort of thing....
+If I were a priest I would disdain to... but perhaps I am wrong to
+speak like that. Yes, it is very wrong of me, and before... Kitty, you
+must not think I am speaking against the principles of religion; I am
+only speaking of matters of---'
+
+'And have you given up your rooms in Stanton College?'
+
+'Not yet--that is to say, nothing is settled definitely; but I do not
+think I shall go back there, at least not to live.'
+
+'And do you still think of becoming a priest?'
+
+'On that point I am not certain. I am not yet quite sure that I have a
+vocation for the priesthood. I would wish the world to be my
+monastery. Be that as it may, I intend altering the house a little
+here and there; you know how repugnant this mock Italian architecture
+is to my feelings. For the present I am determined only on a few
+alterations. I have them all in my head. The billiard-room, that
+addition of yours, can be turned into a chapel. And the casements of
+the dreadful bow-window might be removed; and instead of the present
+flat roof a sloping tiled roof might be carried up against the wall of
+the house. The cloisters would come at the back of the chapel.'
+
+His mother bit her thin lips, and her face tightened in an expression
+of settled grief. Kitty was sorry for Mrs. Norton, but Kitty was too
+young to understand, and her sorrow evaporated in laughter. She
+listened to John's explanations of the architectural changes as to a
+fairy tale. Her innocent gaiety attracted her to him; and as they
+walked about the grounds after breakfast he spoke to her about
+pictures and statues, of a trip he intended to take to Italy and
+Spain, and he did not seem to care to be reminded that this jarred
+with his project for immediate realisation of Thornby Priory.
+
+Leaning their backs against the iron railing which divided the
+greensward from the park, John and Kitty looked at the house.
+
+'From this view it really is not so bad, though the urns and loggia
+are so intolerably out of keeping with the landscape. But when I have
+made certain alterations it will harmonise with the downs and the flat
+flowing country, so English, with its barns and cottages and rich
+agriculture, and there will be then a charming recollection of old
+England, the England of the monastic ages, before the--but I forgot I
+must not speak to you on that subject.'
+
+'Do you think the house will look prettier than it does now? Mrs.
+Norton says that it will be impossible to alter Italian architecture
+into Gothic.'
+
+'Mother does not know what she is talking about. I have it all down in
+my pocket-book. I have various plans.... I admit it is not easy, but
+last night I fancy I hit on an idea. I shall of course consult an
+architect, although really I don't see there is any necessity for so
+doing, but just to be on the safe side; for in architecture there are
+many practical difficulties, and to be on the safe side I will consult
+an experienced man regarding the practical working out of my design. I
+made this drawing last night.' John produced a large pocket-book.
+
+'But, oh, how pretty! will it be really like that?'
+
+'Yes,' exclaimed John, delighted; 'it will be exactly like that. The
+billiard-room can be converted into a chapel by building a new high-
+pitched roof.'
+
+'Oh, John, why should you do away with the billiard-room; why
+shouldn't the monks play billiards? You played on the day of the
+meet.'
+
+'I am not a monk yet.' The conversation paused a moment and then John
+continued, 'That dreadful addition of my mother's cannot remain in its
+present form; it is hideous, but it can be converted very easily into
+a chapel. It will not be difficult. A high-pitched timber roof,
+throwing out an apse at the end, and putting in mullioned and
+traceried windows filled with stained glass.'
+
+'And the cloister you are speaking about--where will that be?'
+
+'The cloister will come at the back of the chapel, and an arched and
+vaulted ambulatory will be laid round the house. Later on I shall add
+a refectory, and put a lavatory at one end of the ambulatory.'
+
+'But don't you think, John, you may become tired of being a monk, and
+then the house will have to be built back again?'
+
+'No; the house will be from every point of view a better house when my
+alterations are carried into effect. And as for my becoming a monk,
+that is in the main an idea of my mother's. Monastic life, I admit,
+presents great attractions for me, but that does not mean that I shall
+become a monk. My mother does not understand an impersonal admiration
+for anything. She cannot understand that it is impossible to become a
+monk unless you have a vocation. It is all a question of vocation.'
+
+Later in the day Mrs. Norton stopped John as he was hurrying to his
+room. She was much excited by the news just received of the engagement
+of one of the Austin girls. She approved of the match, and spoke
+enthusiastically of the girl's beauty.
+
+'I could never see it. It never appealed to me in the least.'
+
+'But no woman does. You never think a woman good-looking.'
+
+'Yes, I do. But you never can understand an impersonal admiration for
+anything. You say I do not appreciate beauty in women because I do not
+marry. You say I am determined on becoming a monk, because I admire
+monastic life.'
+
+'But are you going to become a monk?' 'I am not sure that I should not
+prefer the world to be my monastery.'
+
+'Now you are talking nonsense.'
+
+'Now you are beginning to be rude, mother. ... We were discussing the
+question of beauty in women.'
+
+'Well, what fault, I should like to know, do you find with Lucy?'
+
+John laughed, and after a moment's hesitation, he said--
+
+'Her face is a pretty oval, but it conveys nothing to my mind; her
+eyes are large and soft, but there is no, no---' John gesticulated
+with his fingers.
+
+'No what?'
+
+'No beyond.'
+
+'No what?'
+
+'No suggestiveness in her face, no strangeness; she seems to me too
+much like a woman.'
+
+'I think a woman ought to be like a woman. You would not like a man to
+be like a woman, would you?'
+
+'That's different. Women are often beautiful, but their beauty is not
+of the highest type. You admit that Kitty is a pretty girl. Well,
+she's not nearly so womanly in face or figure as Lucy. Her figure is
+slight even to boyishness. She's like a little antique statue done in
+a period of decadence. She has the far-away look in the eyes which we
+find in antique sculpture, and which is so attractive to me. But you
+don't understand.'
+
+'I understand very well. I understand you far better than you think,'
+Mrs. Norton answered angrily. She was angered by what she deemed her
+son's affectations, and by the arrival of the architect before whom
+John was to lay his scheme for the reconstruction of the house.
+
+Mr. Egerton seemed to think John's architecture somewhat wild, but he
+promised to see what could be done to overcome the difficulties he
+foresaw, and in a week he forwarded John several drawings for his
+consideration. Judged by comparison with John's dreams, the practical
+architecture of the experienced man seemed altogether lacking in
+expression and in poetry of proportion; and comparing them with his
+own cherished project, John hung over the billiard-table, where the
+drawings were laid out.
+
+He could think of nothing but his monastery; his Latin authors were
+forgotten; he drew facades and turrets on the cloth during dinner, and
+he went up to his room, not to bed, but to reconsider the difficulties
+that rendered the construction of a central tower an impossibility.
+
+Once again he takes up the architect's notes.
+
+_'The interior would be so constructed as to make it impossible to
+carry up the central tower. The outer walls would not be strong enough
+to take the large gables and roof. Although the chapel could be done
+easily, the ambulatory would be of no use, as it would lead probably
+from the kitchen offices.
+
+'Would have to reduce work on front facade to putting in new arched
+entrance. Buttresses would take the place of pilasters.
+
+'The bow-window could remain.
+
+'The roof to be heightened somewhat. The front projection would throw
+the front rooms into almost total darkness.'_
+
+'But why not a light timber lantern tower?' thought John. 'Yes, that
+would get over the difficulty. Now, if we could only manage to keep my
+front.... If my design for the front cannot be preserved, I might as
+well abandon the whole thing! And then?'
+
+His face contracted in an expression of anger. He rose from the table,
+and looked round the room. The room seemed to him a symbol--the
+voluptuous bed, the corpulent arm-chair, the toilet-table shapeless
+with muslin--of the hideous laws of the world and the flesh, ever at
+variance and at war, and ever defeating the indomitable aspirations of
+the soul. John ordered his room to be changed; and in the face of much
+opposition from his mother, who declared that he would never be able
+to sleep there, and would lose his health, he selected a narrow room
+at the end of the passage. He would have no carpet. He placed a small
+iron bed against the wall; two plain chairs, a screen to keep off the
+draught from the door, a small basin-stand, such as you might find in
+a ship's cabin, and a _prie-dieu_ were all the furniture he permitted
+himself.
+
+'Oh, what a relief!' he murmured. 'Now there is line, there is
+definite shape. That formless upholstery frets my eye as false notes
+grate on my ear;' and, becoming suddenly conscious of the presence of
+God, he fell on his knees and prayed. He prayed that he might be
+guided aright in his undertaking, and that, if it were conducive to
+the greater honour and glory of God, he might be permitted to found a
+monastery, and that he might be given strength to surmount all
+difficulties.
+
+
+
+
+VI.
+
+
+'Either of two things: I must alter the architecture of this house, or
+I must return to Stanton College.'
+
+'Don't talk nonsense, do you think I don't know you; you are boring
+yourself because Kitty is upstairs in bed and cannot walk about with
+you.'
+
+'I do not know how you contrive, mother, always to say the most
+disagreeable things; the marvellous way in which you pitch on what
+will, at the moment, wound me most, is truly wonderful. I compliment
+you on your skill, but I confess I am at a loss to understand why you
+should, as if by right, expect me to remain here to serve as a target
+for the arrows of your scorn.'
+
+John walked out of the room. During dinner mother and son spoke very
+little, and he retired early, about ten o'clock, to his room. He was
+in high dudgeon, but the white walls, the _prie-dieu,_ the straight,
+narrow bed, were pleasant to see. His room was the first agreeable
+impression of the day. He picked up a drawing from the table, it
+seemed to him awkward and slovenly. He sharpened his pencil, cleared
+his crow-quill pens, got out his tracing-paper, and sat down to
+execute a better. But he had not finished his outline sketch before
+he leaned back in his chair, and as if overcome by the insidious
+warmth of the fire, lapsed into firelight attitudes and meditations.
+
+Nibbling his pencil's point, he looked into the glare. Wavering light
+and wavering shade flickered fast over the Roman profile, flowed
+fitfully--fitfully as his thoughts. Now his thoughts pursued
+architectural dreams, and now he thought of himself, of his unhappy
+youth, of how he had been misunderstood, of his solitary life; a
+bitter, unsatisfactory life, and yet a life not wanting in an ideal--a
+glorious ideal. He thought how his projects had always met with
+failure, with disapproval, above all, failure... and yet, and yet he
+felt, he almost knew, there was something great and noble in him. His
+eyes brightened, he slipped into thinking of schemes for a monastic
+life; and then he thought of his mother's hard disposition and how she
+misunderstood him. What would the end be? Would he succeed in creating
+the monastery he dreamed of so fondly? To reconstruct the ascetic life
+of the Middle Ages, that would be something worth doing, that would be
+a great ideal--that would make meaning in his life. If he failed...
+what should he do then? His life as it was, was unbearable... he must
+come to terms with life....
+
+That central tower! how could he manage it and that built-out front?
+Was it true, as the architect said, that it would throw all the front
+rooms into darkness? Without this front his design would be worthless.
+What a difference it made! Kitty had approved of it.
+
+For a woman she was strangely beautiful. She appealed to him as no
+other woman ever had. Other women, with their gross display of sex,
+disgusted him; but Kitty, with her strange, enigmatic eyes, appealed
+to him like--well, like an antique statuette.
+
+That was how she appealed to him--as an exquisite work of art. His
+mother had said that he found Thornby Place dull when she was ill,
+that he missed her, that--that it was because she was not there that
+he had found the day so wearisome. But this was because his mother
+could only understand men and women in one relation; she had no
+feeling for art, for that remoteness from life which is art, and which
+was everything to him. His thoughts paused, and returned slowly to his
+architectural projects. But Kitty was in them all; he saw her in
+decorations for the light timber lantern roof, and she flitted through
+the ambulatory which was to be constructed at the back of the house.
+Soon he was absorbed in remembrance of her looks and laughter, of
+their long talks of the monastery, the neighbours, the pet rooks,
+Sammy the great yellow cat, and the greenhouses. He remembered the
+pleasure he had taken in these conversations.
+
+Was it then true that he thought of her as men think of women, was
+there some alloy of animal passion in his admiration for her beauty?
+He asked himself this question, and remembered with shame some
+involuntary thoughts which had sprung upon him, and which, when he
+listened, he still could hear in the background of his mind; and,
+listening, he grew frightened and fled, like a lonely traveller from
+the sound of wolves.
+
+Pausing in his mental flight he asked himself what this must lead to?
+To a coarse affection, to marriage, to children, to general
+domesticity.
+
+And contrasted with this...
+
+The dignified and grave life of the cloister, the constant sensation
+of lofty and elevating thought, a high ideal, the communion of learned
+men, the charm of headship.
+
+Could he abandon this? No, a thousand times no. This was what was real
+in him, this was what was true to his nature. The thoughts he deplored
+were accidental. He could not be held accountable for them. He had
+repulsed them; and trembling and pale with passion, John fell on his
+knees and prayed for grace. But prayer was thin upon his lips, and he
+could only beg that the temptation might pass from him....
+
+'In the morning' he said, 'I shall be strong.'
+
+
+
+
+VII.
+
+
+But if in the morning he were strong, Kitty was more beautiful than
+ever.
+
+They walked towards the tennis seat, with its red-striped awning. They
+listened to the feeble cawing of young rooks swinging on the branches.
+They watched the larks nestle in and fly out of the golden meadow. It
+was May-time, and the air was bright with buds and summer bees. She
+was dressed in white, and the shadow of the straw hat fell across her
+eyes when she raised her face. He was dressed in black, and the
+clerical frock-coat, buttoned by one button at the throat, fell
+straight.
+
+They sat under the red-striped awning of the tennis seat. The large
+grasping hands holding the polished cane contrasted with the reedy,
+translucent hands laid upon the white folds. The low, sweet breath of
+the May-time breathed within them, and their hearts were light; hers
+was only conscious of the May-time, but his was awake with unconscious
+love, and he yielded to her, to the perfume of the garden, to the
+absorbing sweetness of the moment. He was no longer John Norton. His
+being was part of the May--time; it had gone forth and had mingled
+with the colour of the fields and sky; with the life of the flowers,
+with all vague scents and sounds.
+
+'How beautiful the day is,' he said, speaking slowly. 'Is it not all
+light and colour? And you, in your white dress, with the sunlight on
+your hair, seem more blossom--like than any flower. I wonder what
+flower I should compare you to? Shall I say a rose? No, not a rose,
+nor a lily, nor a violet; you remind me rather of a tall, delicate,
+pale carnation....'
+
+'Why, John, I never heard you speak like that before. I thought you
+never paid compliments.'
+
+The transparent green of the limes shivered, the young rooks cawed
+feebly, and the birds flew out of and nestled with amorous wings in
+the golden meadow. Kitty had taken off her straw hat, the sunlight
+caressed the delicate plenitudes of the bent neck, the delicate
+plenitudes bound with white cambric, cambric swelling gently over the
+bosom into the narrow of the waist, cambric fluting to the little
+wrist, reedy, translucid hands; cambric falling outwards, and flowing
+like a great white flower over the greensward, over the mauve
+stocking, and the little shoe set firmly. The ear like a rose leaf; a
+fluff of light hair trembling on the curving nape, and the head
+crowned with thick brown gold. And her pale marmoreal eyes were
+haunted by a yearning look which he had always loved, and which he had
+hitherto only found in some beautiful relics of antiquity. She seemed
+to him purged, as a Greek statue, of all life's grossness; and as the
+women of Botticelli and Mantegna she seemed to him to live in a long
+afternoon of unchanging aspiration.
+
+And it seemed to him that he thought of her as impersonally as he
+thought of these women, and the fact that she participated in the life
+of the flesh neither concerned him nor did it matter. That she lived
+in the flesh instead of in marble was an accident. He smiled at the
+paradox, for he had recovered from the fears of overnight and was
+certain that even the longing to strain her in his arms was only part
+of the impulse which compels our lips to the rose, which buries our
+hands in the earth when we lie at length, which fills our souls with
+longing for white peaks and valleys when the great clouds tower and
+shine.
+
+And that evening, as he sat in his study, his thoughts suddenly said:
+'She is the symbol of my inner life.' Surprised and perplexed, he
+sought the meaning of the words. He was forced to admit that her
+beauty had penetrated his soul. But was it not natural for him to
+admire all beautiful things, especially things on a certain plane of
+idea? He had admired other women: in what then did his admiration for
+this woman differ from that, which others had drawn from him? In his
+admiration for other women there had always been a sense of repulsion;
+this feeling of repulsion seemed to be absent from his admiration for
+Kitty.... He hardly perceived any sex in her; she was sexless as a
+work of art, as the women of the first Italian painters, as some Greek
+statues.
+
+Then by natural association of idea his mind was carried back to early
+youth, to struggles with himself, and to temptations which he had
+conquered, and the memory of which he was always careful to keep out
+of mind. In that critical time he had felt that it was essential for
+him 'to come to terms with life.' And the terms he had discovered were
+strictest adhesion to the rules laid down by the Catholic Church for
+the conduct of life. He had lived within these rules and had received
+peace. Now for the first time that peace was seriously assailed. His
+thoughts continued their questioning, and he found himself asking if
+sufficient change had come into his nature to allow him to accept
+marriage. But before answer could be given an opposing thought asked
+if this girl were more than a mere emissary of Satan; and with that
+thought all that was mediaeval in him arose.
+
+_Femina dulce mahim pariter favus atque venenum._
+
+'Not sweet evil,' he said, determined to outdo the monk in
+denunciation, 'but the vilest of evils, not honeycomb and venom but
+filth and venom. Though as fair as roses the beginning the end is gall
+and wormwood; heartache and misery are the end of love. Why then do we
+seek passion when we may find happiness only in calm?'
+
+He had known the truth, as if by instinct, from the first. No life was
+possible for him except an ascetic life. But he had no vocation for
+the priesthood. True that in a moment of weakness, after a severe
+illness, he had returned to Stanton College with the intention of
+taking orders; but with renewal of health the truth had come home to
+him that he was as unfitted to the priesthood as he was for marriage,
+or nearly so. The path of his life lay between the church and the
+world; he must remain in the world though he never could be of the
+world, he could only view the world as a spectator, as a passing
+pageant it interested him; and with art and literature and music, for
+necessary distraction, and the fixed resolve to save his soul--nothing
+really mattered but that--he hoped to achieve his destiny.
+
+
+
+
+VIII.
+
+
+'We play billiards here on Sunday, but you would think it wrong to do
+so.'
+
+'But to-day is not Sunday.'
+
+'No; I was only speaking in a general way. Yet I often wonder how you
+can feel satisfied with the protection your Church affords you against
+the miseries and trials of the world. A Protestant may believe pretty
+nearly as little or as much as he likes, whereas in our Church
+everything is defined; we know what we must believe to be saved. There
+is a sense of security in the Catholic Church which the Protestant has
+not.'
+
+'Do you think so? That is because you do not know our Church,' replied
+Kitty, who was a little astonished at this sudden outburst. 'I feel
+quite happy and safe. I know that our Lord Jesus Christ died on the
+Cross to save us, and we have the Bible to guide us.'
+
+'Yes, but the Bible without the interpretation of the Church is... may
+lead to error. For instance....'
+
+John stopped abruptly. Seized with a sudden scruple of conscience, he
+asked himself if he, in his own house, had a right to strive to
+undermine the faith of the daughter of his own friend.
+
+'Go on,' cried Kitty, laughing. 'I know the Bible better than you, and
+if I break down I will ask father.' And as if to emphasise her
+intention, she hit her ball, which was close under the cushion, as
+hard as she could.
+
+John hailed the rent in the cloth as a deliverance, for in the
+discussion as to how it could be repaired the religious question was
+forgotten.
+
+And this idyll was lived about the beautiful Italian house, with its
+urns and pilasters; through the beautiful English park, with its elms
+now with the splendour of summer upon them; in the pleasure-grounds
+with their rosery, and the fountain where the rose-leaves float, and
+the woodpigeons come at eventide to drink; in the greenhouse with its
+live glare of geraniums, where the great yellow cat, so soft and
+beautiful, springs on Kitty's shoulder, rounds its back, and, purring,
+insists on caresses; in the large, clean stables where the horses
+munch the corn lazily, and look round with round inquiring eyes, and
+the rooks croak and flutter, and strut about Kitty's feet.
+
+One morning he said, as they went into the garden, 'You must sometimes
+feel a little lonely here... when I am away... all alone here with
+mother.'
+
+'Oh dear no! we have lots to do. I look after the pets in the morning.
+I feed the cats and the rooks, and I see that the canaries have fresh
+water and seed. And then the bees take up a lot of our time. We have
+twenty-two hives. Mrs. Norton says she ought to make five pounds a
+year on each. Sometimes we lose a swarm or two, and then Mrs. Norton
+is cross. We were out for hours with the gardener the other day, but
+we could do no good; we could not get them out of that elm tree. You
+see that long branch leaning right over the wall; well, it was on that
+branch that they settled, and no ladder was tall enough to reach them;
+and when Bill climbed the tree and shook them out they flew right
+away. And in the afternoon we go out for drives; we pay visits. You
+never pay visits; you never go and call on your neighbours.'
+
+'Oh, yes I do; I went the other day to see your father.'
+
+'Ah yes, but that is only because he talks to you about Latin
+authors.'
+
+'No, I assure you it isn't. Once I have finished my book I shall never
+look at them again.'
+
+'Well, what will you do?'
+
+'I don't know; it depends on circumstances.'
+
+What circumstances?' said Kitty, innocently.
+
+The words _'Whether you will or will not have me'_ rose to John's
+lips, but all power to speak them seemed to desert him; he had grown
+suddenly as weak as snow, and in an instant the occasion had passed.
+
+On another occasion they were walking in the park.
+
+'I never would have believed, John, that you would care to go out for
+a walk with me.'
+
+'And why, Kitty?'
+
+Kitty laughed--her short, sudden laugh was strange and sweet, and
+John's heart was beating.
+
+'Well,' she said, without the faintest hesitation or shyness, 'we
+always thought you hated girls. I know I used to tease you when you
+came home for the first time, when you used to think of nothing but
+the Latin authors.'
+
+'What do you mean?'
+
+Kitty laughed again.
+
+'You promise not to tell?'
+
+'I promise.'
+
+This was their first confidence.
+
+'You told your mother when I came, when you were sitting by the fire
+reading, that the flutter of my skirts disturbed you.'
+
+'No, Kitty; I'm sure you never disturbed me, or at least for a long
+time. I wish my mother would not repeat conversations; it is most
+unfair.'
+
+'Mind, you promised not to repeat what I have told you. If you do, you
+will get me into an awful scrape.'
+
+'I promise.'
+
+The conversation came to a pause. Kitty looked up; and, overtaken by a
+sudden nervousness, John said--
+
+'We had better make haste; the storm is coming on; we shall get wet
+through.'
+
+And he made no further attempt to screw his courage up to the point of
+proposing, but asked himself if his powerlessness was a sign from God
+that he was abandoning his true vocation for a false one? He knew that
+he would not propose. If he did he would break his engagement when it
+came to the point of marriage. He was as unfitted for marriage as he
+was for the priesthood. He had deceived himself about the priesthood,
+as he was now deceiving himself about marriage. No, not deceiving
+himself, for at the bottom of his heart he could hear the truth. Then,
+why did he continue this,--it was no better than a comedy, an unworthy
+comedy, from which he did not seem to be able to disentangle himself;
+he could not say why. He could not understand himself; his brain was
+on fire, and he knelt down to pray, but when he prayed the thought of
+bringing a soul home to the fold tempted him like a star, and he asked
+himself if Kitty had not, in some of their conversations, shown
+leanings toward Catholicism. If this were so would it be right to
+desert her in a critical moment?
+
+
+
+
+IX.
+
+
+He had not proposed when Mr. Hare wrote for his daughter, and Kitty
+returned to Henfield. John at first thought that this absence was the
+solution of his difficulty; but he could not forget her, and it became
+one of his pleasures to start early in the morning, and having spent a
+long day with her, to return home across the downs.
+
+'What a beautiful walk you will have, Mr. Norton! But are you not
+tired? Seven miles in the morning and seven in the evening!'
+
+'But I have had the whole day to rest in.'
+
+'What a lovely evening! Let's all walk a little way with him,' said
+Kitty.
+
+'I should like to,' said the elder Miss Austin, 'but we promised
+father to be home for dinner. The one sure way of getting into his
+black books is to keep his dinner waiting, and he wouldn't dine
+without us.'
+
+'Well, good-bye, dear,' said Kitty, 'I shall walk as far as the
+burgh.'
+
+The Miss Austins turned into the trees that encircled Leywood, Kitty
+and John faced the hill, and ascending, they soon stood, tiny specks
+upon the evening hours.
+
+Speaking of the Devil's Dyke, Kitty said--
+
+'What! you mean to say you never heard the legend? You, a Sussex man!'
+
+'I have lived very little in Sussex, and I used to hate the place; I
+am only just beginning to like it. But tell me the legend.'
+
+'Very well; let's try and find a place where we can sit down. The
+grass is full of that horrid prickly gorse.'
+
+'Here's a nice soft place; there is no gorse here. Now tell me the
+legend.'
+
+'You do astonish me,' said Kitty, seating herself on the spot that had
+been chosen for her. 'You never heard of the legend of St. Cuthman!'
+
+'Won't you cross the poor gipsy's palm with a bit of silver, my pretty
+gentleman, and she'll tell you your fortune and that of your pretty
+lady.'
+
+Kitty uttered a startled cry and turning they found themselves facing
+a strong black-eyed girl.
+
+'What do you think, Kitty, would you like to have your fortune told?'
+
+Kitty laughed. 'It would be rather fun,' she said.
+
+And she listened to the usual story of a handsome young gentleman who
+would woo her, win her, and give her happiness and wealth.
+
+John threw the girl a shilling. She withdrew. They watched her passing
+through the furze.
+
+'What nonsense they talk; you don't believe that there's anything in
+what they say,' said Kitty, raising her eyes.
+
+John's eyes were fixed upon her. He tried to answer her question,
+which he had only half heard. But he could not form an intelligible
+sentence. There was a giddiness in his brain which he had never felt
+before; he trembled, and the victim of an impulse which forced him
+toward her, he threw his arms about her and kissed her violently.
+
+'Oh, don't,' cried the girl, 'let me go--oh, John, how could you,' and
+disengaging herself from his arms she looked at him. The expression of
+deep sorrow and regret on his face surprised her more even than his
+kiss. She said, 'What is the matter, John? Why did you--' She did not
+finish the sentence.
+
+'Do not ask me, I do not know. I cannot explain--a sudden impulse for
+which I am hardly accountable. You are so beautiful,' he said, taking
+her hand gently, 'that the temptation to kiss you--I don't know... I
+suppose it is natural desire to kiss what is beautiful. But you'll
+forget this, you will never mention it. I humbly beg your pardon.'
+
+John sat looking into space, and, seeing how troubled he was, Kitty
+excused the kiss.
+
+'I'm sure I forgive you, John. There was no great harm. I believe
+young men often kiss girls. The Austin girls do, I know, they have
+told me so. I shouldn't have cried out so if you hadn't taken me by
+surprise. I forgive you, John, I know you didn't mean it, you meant
+nothing.'
+
+His face frightened her.
+
+'You must never do so again. It is not right; but we have known each
+other always--I don't think it was a sin. I don't think that father or
+Mrs. Norton would think it---'
+
+'But they must never know. You promise me, Kitty. ... I am grateful to
+you for what you have said in my excuse. I daresay the Austin girls do
+kiss young men, but because they do so it does not follow that it is
+right. No girl should kiss a man unless she intends to marry him.'
+
+'But,' said Kitty, laughing, 'if he kisses her by force what is she to
+do?'
+
+For she failed to perceive that to snatch a kiss was as important as
+John seemed to think. But he told her that she must not laugh, that
+she must try to forgive him.
+
+'It is unpardonable,' he said, 'for I cannot marry you. We are not of
+the same religion....'
+
+'But you don't want to marry me, John--to marry just because you
+kissed me! People kiss every year under the mistletoe but they don't
+marry each other.'
+
+'It is as you like, Kitty.'
+
+But forced on by his conscience, he said:
+
+'We might obtain a dispensation.... You know nothing of our Church; if
+you did, you might become a convert. I wish you would consider the
+question. It is so simple; we surrender our own wretched
+understanding, and are content to accept the Church as wiser than we.
+Once man throws off restraint there is no happiness, there is only
+misery. One step leads to another; if he would be logical he must go
+on, and before long, for the descent is very rapid indeed, he finds
+himself in an abyss of darkness and doubt, a terrible abyss indeed,
+where nothing exists, and life has lost all meaning. The Reformation
+was the thin end of the wedge, it was the first denial of authority,
+and you see what it has led to--modern scepticism and modern
+pessimism.'
+
+'I don't know what that means, but I heard Mrs. Norton say you were a
+pessimist.'
+
+'I was; but I saw in time where it was leading me, and I crushed it
+out. I used to be a Republican too, but I saw what liberty meant, and
+what were its results, and I gave it up.'
+
+'So you gave up all your ideas for Catholicism....'
+
+John hesitated, he seemed a little startled, but he answered, 'I would
+give up anything for my Church....'
+
+'And did it cost you much to give up your ideas?'
+
+'Yes; I have suffered. But now I am happy, and my happiness would be
+complete if God would grant you grace to believe....'
+
+'But I do believe. I believe in our Lord Jesus who died to save us. Is
+not that enough?'
+
+There was no wind on the down. And still as a reflection in a glass
+the grey barren land rolled through the twilight. Beyond it the
+circling sea and the girl's figure distinct on a golden hour. John
+watched a moment, and then hastened homeward. He was overpowered by
+fear of the future; he trembled with anticipation, and prayed that
+accident might lead him out of the difficulty into which a chance
+moment had betrayed him.
+
+
+
+
+X.
+
+
+When she rose from the ground she saw a tall, gaunt figure passing
+away like a shadow.
+
+'What a horrible man... he attacked me, ill-treated me... what for?'
+Her thoughts turned aside. 'He should be put in prison.... If father
+knew it, or John knew it, he would be put in prison, and for a very
+long time.... Why did he attack me? ... Perhaps to rob me; yes, to rob
+me, of course, to rob me.' To rob her, and of what?... of her watch;
+where was it? It was gone. The watch was gone.... But, had she lost
+it? Should she go back and see if she could find it? Oh! impossible!
+see the place again--impossible! search among the gorse--impossible!
+
+Then, as her thoughts broke away, she thought of how she had escaped
+being murdered. How thankful she ought to be! But somehow she was not
+thankful. She was conscious of a horror of returning, of returning to
+where she would see men and women's faces. 'I cannot go home,' thought
+the girl, and acting in direct contradiction to her thoughts, she
+walked forward. Her parasol--where was it? It was broken. She brushed
+herself, she picked bits of furze from her dress. She held each away
+from her and let it drop in a silly, vacant way, all the while running
+the phrases over in her mind: 'He threw me down and ill-treated me; my
+frock is ruined, what a state it is in! I had a narrow escape of being
+murdered. I will tell them that... that will explain ... I had a
+narrow escape of being murdered.' But presently she grew conscious
+that these thoughts were fictitious thoughts, and that there was a
+thought, a real thought, lying in the background of her mind, which
+she dared not face; and failing to do so, she walked on hurriedly, she
+almost ran as if to force out of sight the thought that for a moment
+threatened to define itself. Suddenly she stopped; there were some
+children playing by the farm gate. They did not know that she was by,
+and she listened to their childish prattle.
+
+
+
+
+XI.
+
+
+The front door was open; she heard her father calling. But she felt
+she could not see him, she must hide from his sight, and dashing
+upstairs she double-locked her door.
+
+The sky was still flushed, there was light upon the sea, but the room
+was dim and quiet. Her room! she had lived in many years, had seen it
+under all aspects; then why did she look with strained eyes? Why did
+she shrink? Nothing has been changed.
+
+There is her little narrow bed, and her little book-case full of
+novels and prayer-books; there is her work-basket by the fireplace, by
+the fireplace closed in with curtains that she herself embroidered;
+above her pillow there is a crucifix; there are photographs of the
+Miss Austins, and pictures of pretty children, cut from the Christmas
+numbers, on the walls. She started at the sight of these familiar
+objects, and trembled in the room which she had thought of as a haven
+of refuge. Why? She didn't know; something that is at once remembrance
+and suspicion filled her mind, and she asked if this was her room?
+
+She sighed, and approaching her bedside, raised her hands to her neck.
+It was the instinctive movement of undressing. But she did not
+unbutton her collar. Resuming her walk, she picked up a blossom that
+had fallen from the fuchsia. She walked to and fro. Then she threw
+herself on her bed and closed her eyes.... She slept, and then the
+moonlight showed her face convulsed. She is the victim of a dream.
+Something follows her--she knows not what. She dare not look round.
+She falls over great leaves. She falls into the clefts of ruined
+tombs, and her hands, as she attempts to rise, are laid on sleeping
+snakes; they turn to attack her; they glide away and disappear in moss
+and inscriptions.
+
+Before her the trees extend in complex colonnades, silent ruins are
+grown through with giant roots, and about the mysterious entrances of
+the crypts there lingers yet the odour of ancient sacrifices. The stem
+of a rare column rises amid the branches, the fragment of an arch
+hangs over and is supported by a dismantled tree trunk. And through
+the torrid twilight of the approaching storm the cry of the hyena is
+heard. The claws of the hyena are heard upon the crumbling tombs and
+the suffocating girl strives with her last strength to free herself
+from the thrall of the great lianas. But there comes a hirsute smell;
+she turns with terrified eyes to plead, but meets only dull, liquorish
+eyes, and the breath of the obscene animal is hot on her face.
+
+She sprang from her bed. Was there any one in her room? No, only the
+moonlight. 'But the forest, the wild animal--was it then only a
+dream?' the girl thought. 'It was only a dream, a horrible dream, but
+after all, only a dream.' Then a voice within her said, 'But all was
+not a dream--there was something that was worse than the dream.'
+
+She walked to and fro, and when she lay down her eyelids strove
+against sleep. But sleep came again, and her dream was of a brown and
+yellow serpent. She saw it from afar rearing its tawny hide, scenting
+its prey.
+
+She takes refuge in the rosery. How will she save herself? By plucking
+roses and building a. wall between her and it. So she collects huge
+bouquets, armfuls of beautiful flowers, garlands and wreaths. The
+flower-wall rises, and hoping to combat the fury of the beast with
+purity, she goes whither snowy blossoms bloom in clustering millions.
+She gathers them in haste; her arms and hands stream with blood, but
+she pays no heed, and as the snake surmounts one barricade she builds
+another. But the reptile leans over the roses. The long, thin neck is
+upon her; she feels the horrid strength of the coils as they curl and
+slip about her, drawing her whole life into one knotted and loathsome
+embrace. Then she knows not how, but while the roses fall in a red and
+white rain about her she escapes from the stench of the scaly hide,
+from the strength of the coils.
+
+And, without any transition in place or time, she finds herself
+listening to the sound of rippling water. There is an iron drinking-
+cup close to her hand. She seems to recognise the spot. It is
+Shoreham. There are the streets she knows so well, the masts of the
+vessels, the downs. But something darkens the sunlight, the tawny body
+of the snake oscillates, the people cry to her to escape. She flies
+along the streets, like the wind she seems to pass. She calls for
+help. Sometimes the crowds are stationary, as if frozen into stone,
+sometimes they follow the snake and attack it with sticks and knives.
+One man with colossal shoulders wields a great sabre; it flashes about
+him like lightning. Will he kill it? He turns, chases a dog, and
+disappears. The people too have disappeared. She is now flying along a
+wild plain covered with coarse grass and wild poppies. The snake is
+near her, and there is no one to whom she can call for help. But the
+sea is in front of her. She will escape down the rocks--there is still
+a chance! The descent is sheer, but somehow she retains foothold. Then
+the snake drops--she feels its weight upon her, and with a shriek she
+awakes.
+
+The moon hung over the sea, the sea flowed with silver, the world was
+as chill as an icicle.
+
+'The roses, the snake, the cliff's edge, was it then only a dream?'
+the girl thought. 'It was only a dream, a terrible dream, but after
+all only a dream!' Then a voice within her said, 'But all was not a
+dream--there was something that was worse than the dream.'
+
+She uttered a low cry--she moaned. She drew herself up on her bed, and
+lay with her face buried in the pillow. Again she fought against
+sleep, but sleep came again, and in overpowering dream she lay as if
+dead. And she sees herself dead. All her friends are about her
+crowning her with flowers, beautiful garlands of white roses. They
+dress her in a long white robe, white as the snowiest cloud in heaven,
+and it lies in long, straight plaits about her limbs, like the robes
+of those who lie in marble in cathedral aisles. It falls over her
+feet, her hands are crossed over her breast, and all praise in low but
+ardent words the excessive whiteness of the garment. For none but she
+sees that there is a black spot upon the robe which they believe to be
+immaculate. She would warn them of their error, but she cannot; and
+when they avert their faces to wipe away their tears, the stain might
+be easily seen, but as they continue their last offices, folds or
+flowers fall over the stain and hide it from view.
+
+It is great pain to her to find herself unable to tell them of their
+error; for she well knows that when she is placed in the tomb, and the
+angels come, that they will not fail to perceive the stain, and seeing
+it, they will not fail to be shocked and sorrowful--and seeing it they
+will turn away weeping, saying, 'She is not for us, alas! she is not
+for us!' And Kitty, who is conscious of this fatal oversight, the
+results of which she so clearly foresees, is grievously afflicted, and
+she makes every effort to warn her friends of their error. But there
+is one amid the mourners who knows that she is endeavouring to tell of
+the black stain. And this one, whose face she cannot readily
+distinguish, maliciously, and with diabolical ingenuity, withdraws the
+attention of the others, so that they do not see it.
+
+And so it befell her to be buried in the stained robe. And she is
+taken away amid flowers and white cloths to a white tomb, where
+incense is burning, and where the walls are hung with votive wreaths,
+and things commemorative of virginal life. But upon all these, upon
+the flowers and images alike, there is some small stain which none
+sees but she and the one in shadow, the one whose face she cannot
+recognise. And although she is nailed fast in her coffin, she sees
+these stains vividly, and the one whose face she cannot recognise sees
+them too. And this is certain, for the shadow of the face is stirred
+by laughter.
+
+The mourners go; the evening darkens; the wild sunset floats for a
+while through the western heavens; the cemetery becomes a deep green,
+and in the wind that blows out of heaven the cypresses rock like
+things sad and mute. Then the blue night comes with stars in her
+tresses, and out of those stars angels float softly; their white feet
+hanging out of blown folds, their wings pointing to the stars. And
+from out of the earth, out of the mist--but whence and how it is
+impossible to say--there come other angels, dark of hue and foul
+smelling. But the white angels carry swords, and they wave these
+swords, and the scene is reflected in them as in a mirror; the dark
+angels cower in a corner of the cemetery, but they do not utterly
+retire.
+
+The tomb mysteriously opens, and the white angels enter the tomb. And
+the coffin is opened and the girl trembles lest the angels should
+discover the stain she knew of. But lo! to her great joy they do not
+see it, and they bear her away through the blue night, through the
+stars of heaven. And it is not until one whose face she cannot
+recognise, and whose presence among the angels of heaven she cannot
+comprehend, steals away one of the garlands with which she is
+entwined, that the fatal stain becomes visible. Then relinquishing
+their burden, the angels break into song, and the song they sing is
+one of grief; it travels through the spaces of heaven; she listens to
+its wailing echoes as she falls--as she falls towards the sea where
+the dark angels are waiting for her; and as she falls she leans with
+reverted neck and strives to see their faces, and as she nears them
+she distinguishes one.
+
+'Save me, save me!' she cried; and, bewildered and dazed with the
+dream, she stared on the room, now chill with summer dawn. Again she
+murmured, 'It was only a dream, it was only a dream;' again a sort of
+presentiment of happiness spread like light through her mind, and
+again the voice within her said, 'But all was not a dream--there was
+something that was worse than the dream.' And with despair in her
+heart she sat watching the cold sky turn to blue, the delicate, bright
+blue of morning, and the garden grow into yellow and purple and red.
+
+She did not weep, nor did she moan. She sat thinking. She dwelt on the
+remembrance of the hills and the tramp with strange persistency, and
+yet no more now than before did she attempt to come to conclusions
+with her thought; it was vague, she would not define it; she brooded
+over it sullenly and obtusely. Sometimes her thoughts slipped away
+from it, but with each returning a fresh stage was marked in the
+progress of her nervous despair.
+
+And so the hours went by. At eight o'clock the maid knocked at the
+door. Kitty opened it mechanically, and she fell into the woman's
+arms, weeping, sobbing. The sight of the female face brought relief;
+it interrupted the jarred and strained sense of the horrible; the
+secret affinities of sex quickened within her. The woman's presence
+filled Kitty with the feelings that the harmlessness of a lamb or a
+soft bird inspires.
+
+
+
+
+XII.
+
+
+'But what is it, Miss, what is it? Are you ill? Why, Miss, you haven't
+taken your things off; you haven't been to bed!'
+
+'No; I lay down.... I have had frightful dreams--that is all.'
+
+'But you must be ill, Miss; you look dreadful, Miss. Shall I tell Mr.
+Hare? Perhaps the doctor had better be sent for.'
+
+'No, no; pray say nothing about me. Tell my father that I did not
+sleep, that I am going to lie down for a little while, that he is not
+to expect me for breakfast.'
+
+'I really think, Miss, that it would be as well for you to see the
+doctor.'
+
+'No, no, no. I am going to lie down, and I am not to be disturbed.'
+
+'Shall I fill the bath, Miss? Shall I leave the hot water here, Miss?'
+
+'Bath ... hot water ...' Kitty repeated the words over as if she were
+striving to grasp a meaning, but which eluded her.
+
+Soon after the maid returned with a tray. The trivial jingle of the
+cups and plates was another suffering added to the ever-increasing
+stress of mind. Her dress was torn, it was muddy, there were bits of
+furze sticking to it. She picked these off; and as she did so,
+accurate remembrance and simple recollection of facts returned to her,
+and the succession was so complete that the effect was equivalent to a
+re-enduring of the crime, and with a foreknowledge of it, as if to
+sharpen its horror and increase the sense of the pollution. The vague
+hills, the vague sea, the sweet glow of evening--she saw it all again.
+And as if afraid that her brain, now strained like a body on the rack,
+would suddenly snap, she threw up her arms, and began to take off her
+dress, as if she would hush thought in abrupt movements. In a moment
+she was in stays and petticoat. The delicate and almost girlish arms
+were disfigured by great bruises. Great black and blue stains were
+spreading through the skin.
+
+Kitty lifted up her arm; she looked at it in surprise; then in horror
+she rushed to the door where her dressing-gown was hanging, and
+wrapped herself in it tightly, hid herself in it so that no bit of her
+flesh could be seen.
+
+
+
+
+XIII.
+
+
+The day grew into afternoon. She awoke from a dreamless sleep of about
+an hour, and, still under its soothing influence, she pinned up her
+hair, settled the ribbons of her dressing-gown, and went downstairs.
+She found her father and John in the drawing-room.
+
+'Oh, here is Kitty!' they exclaimed.
+
+'But what is the matter, dear? Why are you not dressed?' said Mr.
+Hare.
+
+'But what is the matter? ... Are you ill?' said John, and he extended
+his hand.
+
+'No, no, 'tis nothing,' she replied, and avoiding the outstretched
+hand with a shudder, she took the seat furthest away from her father
+and lover. They looked at her in amazement, and she at them in fear
+and trembling. She was conscious of two very distinct sensations--one
+the result of reason, the other of madness. She was not ignorant of
+the causes of each, although she was powerless to repress one in
+favour of the other. She knew she was looking at and talking to her
+dear, kind father, and that the young man sitting next him was John
+Norton, the son of her dear friend, Mrs. Norton; she knew he was the
+young man who loved her, and whom she was going to marry. At the same
+time she seemed to see that her father's kind, benign countenance was
+not a real face, but a mask which he wore over another face, and
+which, should the mask slip--and she prayed that it might not--would
+prove as horrible and revolting as---
+
+But the mask that John wore was as nothing--it was the veriest make-
+believe. And she could not but doubt now but that the face she had
+known him so long by was a fictitious face, and as the hallucination
+strengthened, she saw his large mild eyes grow small, and that vague,
+dreamy look turn to the dull, liquorish look, the chin came forward,
+the brows contracted... the large sinewy hands were, oh, so like! Then
+reason asserted itself; the vision vanished, and she saw John Norton
+as she had always seen him.
+
+But was she sure that she did? Yes, yes--but her head seemed to be
+growing lighter, and she did not appear to be able to judge things
+exactly as she should; a sort of new world seemed to be slipping like
+a painted veil between her and the old.
+
+John and Mr. Hare looked at her.
+
+John at length rose, and he said, 'My dear Kitty, I am afraid you are
+not well....'
+
+She strove to allow him to take her hand, but she could not overcome
+the instinctive feeling which caused her to shrink from him.
+
+'Don't come near me--I cannot bear it!' she cried; 'don't come near
+me, I beg of you.'
+
+More than this she could not do, and giving way utterly, she shrieked
+and rushed from the room. She rushed upstairs. She stood in the middle
+of the floor listening to the silence, her thoughts falling about her
+like shaken leaves. It was as if a thunderbolt had destroyed the
+world, and left her alone in a desert. The furniture of the room, the
+bed, the chairs, the books she loved, seemed to have become as grains
+of sand, and she forgot all connection between them and herself. She
+pressed her hands to her forehead, and strove to separate the horror
+that crowded upon her. But all was now one horror--the lonely hills
+were in the room, the grey sky, the green furze, the tramp; she was
+again fighting furiously with him; and her lover and her father and
+all sense of the world's life grew dark in the storm of madness.
+
+A step was heard on the stairs; her quick ears caught the sound, and
+she rushed to the door to lock it. But she was too late. John held it
+fast.
+
+'Kitty, Kitty,' he cried, 'for God's sake, tell me what is the
+matter?'
+
+'Save me! save me!' she cried, and she forced the door against him
+with her whole strength. He was, however, determined on questioning
+her, on seeing her, and he passed his head and shoulders into the
+room.
+
+'Save me, save me! help, help!' she cried, retreating from him.
+
+'Kitty, Kitty, what do you mean? Say, say--'
+
+'Save me; oh mercy, mercy! Let me go, and I will never say I saw you,
+I will not tell anything. Let me go!' she cried, retreating towards
+the window.
+
+'For heaven's sake, Kitty, take care--the window, the window!'
+
+But Kitty heard nothing, knew nothing, was conscious of nothing but a
+mad desire to escape. The window was lifted high--high above her head,
+and her face distorted with fear, she stood amid the soft greenery of
+the Virginia creeper.
+
+'Save me!' she cried.
+
+The white dress passed through the green leaves, and John heard a dull
+thud.
+
+
+
+
+XIV.
+
+
+Mr. Hare stood looking at his dead daughter; John Norton sat by the
+window. His brain was empty, everything was far away. He saw things
+moving, moving, but they were all far away. He could not re-knit
+himself with the weft of life; the thread that had made him part of it
+had been snapped. He knew that Kitty had thrown herself out of the
+window and was dead. The word shocked him, but there was no sense of
+realisation to meet it. She had walked with him on the hills, she had
+accompanied him as far as the burgh; she had waved her hand to him
+before they walked quite out of each other's sight. Now she was dead.
+
+Had he loved her? Why was there neither burning grief nor tears? He
+envied the hard-sobbing father's grief, the father who held his dead
+daughter's hand, and showed a face on which was printed so deeply the
+terror of the soul's emotion, that John felt a supernatural awe creep
+upon him; felt that his presence was a sort of sacrilege. He crept
+downstairs. He went into the drawing-room, and looked about for the
+place he had last seen her in.
+
+She usually sat on that sofa; how often had he seen her sitting there!
+And now he should not see her any more. Only three days ago she had
+been sitting in that basket-chair. How well he remembered her words,
+her laughter! Shadow-like is human life! one moment it is here, the
+next it is gone. Her work-basket; the very ball of wool which he had
+held for her to wind; the novel which she had lent to him, and which
+he had forgotten to take away. He would never read it now; or perhaps
+he should read it in memory of her, of her whom yesterday he had
+parted with on the hills--her little Puritan look, her external
+girlishness, her golden brown hair, and the sudden laugh so
+characteristic of her.... She had lent him this book--she who was now
+but clay.
+
+He took up his hat and set forth to walk home across the downs, all
+the while thinking, thinking over what had happened. He had asked her
+to be his wife. She had consented, and, alarmed at the prospect of the
+new duties he had contracted, he had returned home. These newly-
+contracted duties had stirred his being to its very depth; the chance
+appearance of a gipsy girl (without the aid of that circumstance he
+felt he would never have spoken) had set his life about with endless
+eventuality; he could not see to the end; the future he had
+indefinitely plighted, and his own intimate and personal life had been
+abandoned for ever. He had exchanged it for the life of the hearth, of
+the family; that private life--private, and yet so entirely
+impersonal-which he had hitherto loathed. He had often said he had no
+pity for those who accepted burdens and then complained that they had
+not sufficient strength to carry them. Such had been his theory; he
+must now make his theory and practice coincide.
+
+He had walked up and down his study, his mind aflame; he had sat in
+his arm-chair, facing the moonlight, considering a question, to him so
+important, so far-reaching, that his mind at moments seemed as if like
+to snap, to break, but which was accepted by nine-tenths of humanity
+without a second thought, as lightly as the most superficial detail of
+daily life. But how others acted was not his concern; he must consider
+his own competence to bear the burden--the perilous burden he had
+asked, and which had been promised to him.
+
+He must not adventure into a life he was not fitted for; he must not
+wreck another's life; in considering himself he was considering her;
+their interests were mutual, they were identical; there was no
+question of egotism. But this marriage question had been debated a
+thousand times in the last six months; it had haunted his thought, it
+had become his daily companion, his familiar spirit. Under what new
+aspect could he consider this question? It faced him always with the
+same unmovable, mysterious eyes in which he read nothing, which told
+him nothing of what he longed to know. He only knew that he had
+desired this girl as a wife. A desire had come he knew not whence; and
+he asked himself if it were a passing weakness of the flesh, or if
+this passion abided in him, if it had come at last to claim
+satisfaction? On this point he was uncertain, this was nature's
+secret.
+
+In the midst of his stress of mind his eyes had wandered over his
+books; they had been caught by the colour of a small thin volume, and,
+obeying an instinct, he had taken the volume down. He knew it well; a
+few hundred small pages containing the wisdom of a great Greek
+philosopher, Epictetus, and John had often before turned to this sage
+discourse for relief in his mental depressions and despair of life.
+
+'The subject for the good and wise man is his master faculty, as the
+body is for the physician and the trainer, and the soil is the subject
+for the husbandman. And the work of the good and wise man is to use
+appearances according to Nature. For it is the nature of every soul to
+consent to what is good and reject what is evil, and to hold back
+about what is uncertain; and thus to be moved to pursue the good and
+avoid the evil, and neither way for what is neither good nor evil.'
+
+In the light of these words John's mind grew serene as a landscape on
+which the moon is shining; and he asked himself why he had hesitated
+if marriage were the state which he was destined to fulfil?
+
+'If a habit affects us, against that must we endeavour to find some
+remedy? And what remedy is to be found against a habit? The contrary
+habit.'
+
+A temptation of the flesh had come upon him; he had yielded to it
+instead of opposing it with the contrary habit of chastity. For
+chastity had never afflicted him; it had ever been to him a source of
+strength and courage. Chastity had brought him peace of mind, but the
+passion to which he had in a measure yielded had robbed him of his
+peace of mind, and had given him instead weakness, and agitation of
+spirit and flesh. The last six months had been the unhappiest of his
+life. Nothing in this world, he thought, is worth our peace of mind,
+and love robs us of that, therefore it must be maleficent. 'And this
+passion which has caused me so much trouble, what is it? A passing
+emotion of which I am ashamed, of which I would speak to no one. An
+emotion which man shares with the lowest animals, but which his higher
+nature teaches him to check and subject.' Then he remembered that this
+emotion might come upon him again. But each time he thought, 'I shall
+be able to control it better than the last, and it will grow weaker
+and weaker until at last it will pass and to return no more.'
+
+But he had proposed to Kitty and had been accepted, and for some
+solution of this material difficulty he had to fall back upon the
+argument that he had no right to wreck another's life, that in
+considering his interests he was considering hers. And he had stood in
+the dawn light pondering a means of escape from a position into which
+a chance circumstance had led him.
+
+He had gone to bed hoping to find counsel in the night, and in the
+morning he had waked firm in his resolve, and had gone to Shoreham in
+the intention of breaking his engagement. But instead he had witnessed
+a cruel and terrible suicide, the reason of which was hidden from him.
+Possibly none would ever know the reason. Perhaps it were better so;
+the reasons that prompted suicide were better unrevealed....
+
+And now, as he returned home after the tragedy, about midway in his
+walk across the downs, the thought came upon him that the breaking off
+of his engagement might have been sufficient reason in an affected
+mind for suicide. But this was not so. He knew it was not so. He had
+been spared that!
+
+'She was here with me yesterday,' he said. And he looked down the
+landscape now wrapped in a white mist. The hills were like giants
+sleeping, the long distance vanished in mysterious moonlight. He could
+see Brighton, nearer was Southwick; and further away, past the shadowy
+shore, was Worthing.
+
+He sat down by the blown hawthorn bush that stands by the burgh. A
+ship sailed across the rays of the moon, and he said--
+
+'Illusion, illusion! so is it always with him who places his trust in
+life. Ah, life, life, what hast thou for giving save deceptions? Why
+did I leave my life of contemplation and prayer to enter into that of
+desire? Did I not know that there was no happiness save in calm and
+contemplation, and foolish is he who places his happiness in the
+things of this world?'
+
+But what had befallen her? She was mad when she threw herself out of
+the window to escape from him. But how had she become mad? Yesterday
+he had looked back and had seen her walking away and waving her
+parasol, a slight happy figure on the gold-tinted sky. What had
+happened? By what strange alienation of the brain, by what sudden
+snapping of the sense had madness come? Something must have happened.
+Did madness fall like that? like a bolt from the blue. If so she must
+have always been mad, and walking home the slight thread of sense half
+worn through had suddenly snapped. He knew that she liked him. Had she
+guessed that when it came to the point that he would not, that he
+might not have been able to marry her? If so, he was in a measure
+responsible. Ah, why had he ventured upon a path which he must have
+known he was not fitted to walk in?
+
+
+
+
+XV.
+
+
+Next morning John and Mrs. Norton drove to the Rectory, and without
+asking for Mr. Hare, they went to _her_ room. The windows were open;
+Annie and Mary Austin sat by the bedside watching. The blood had been
+washed out of the beautiful hair, and she lay very white and fair amid
+the roses her friends had brought her. She lay as she had lain in one
+of her terrible dreams--quite still, the slender body covered by a
+sheet. From the feet the linen curved and marked the inflections of
+the knees; there were long flowing folds, low-lying like the wash of
+retiring water. And beautiful indeed were the rounded shoulders, the
+neck, the calm and bloodless face, the little nose, and the drawing of
+the nostrils, the extraordinary waxen pallor, the eyelids laid like
+rose-leaves upon the eyes that death has closed for ever. An Ascension
+lily lay within the arm, in the pale hand.
+
+Candles were burning, and the soft smell of wax mixed with the perfume
+of the roses. For there were roses everywhere--great snowy bouquets
+and long lines of scattered blossoms, and single roses there and here,
+and the petals falling were as tears shed for the beautiful dead, and
+the white flowerage vied with the pallor and the immaculate stillness
+of the dead.
+
+When they next saw her she was in her coffin. It was almost full of
+white blossoms--jasmine, Eucharis lilies, white roses, and in the
+midst of the flowers the hands lay folded, and the face was veiled
+with some delicate, filmy handkerchief.
+
+For the funeral there were crosses and wreaths of white flowers,
+roses, and stephanotis. And the Austin girls and their cousins, who
+had come from Brighton and Worthing, carried loose flowers. Down the
+short drive, through the iron gate, through the farm gate, the bearers
+staggering a little under the weight of lead, the little _cortege_
+passed two by two. A broken-hearted lover, a grief-stricken father,
+and a dozen sweet girls, their eyes and cheeks streaming with tears.
+Kitty, their girl friend, was dead. The word 'dead' rang in their
+hearts in answer to the mournful tolling of the bell. The little by-
+way along which they went, the little green path leading over the
+hill, was strewn with blossoms fallen from the bier and the fingers of
+the weeping girls.
+
+The old church was all in white; great lilies in vases, wreaths of
+stephanotis; and, above all, roses--great garlands of white roses had
+been woven, and they hung along and across. A blossom fell, a sob
+sounded in the stillness. An hour of roses, an hour of sorrow, and the
+coffin sank out of sight, a snow-drift of delicate bloom descended
+into the earth.
+
+
+
+
+XVI.
+
+
+John wandered through the green woods and fields into the town. He
+stood by the railway gates. He saw the people coming and going in and
+out of the public-houses; and he watched the trains that whizzed past.
+
+A train stopped. He took a ticket and went to Brighton.
+
+He walked through the southern sunlight of the town. The brown sails
+of the fishing-boats waved in translucid green; and the white field of
+the sheer cliff, and all the roofs, gables, spires, balconies, and the
+green of the verandahs were exquisitely indicated and elusive in the
+bright air; and the beach was loud with acrobats and comic minstrels,
+and nurse-maids lay on the pebbles reading novels, children with their
+clothes tied tightly about them were busy building sand castles.
+
+But he saw not these things; on his mind was engraved a little country
+cemetery--graves, yews, a square, impressive spire. He heard not the
+laughter and the chatter of the beach, but the terrible words: _Earth
+to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust,_ and the dread, responsive
+rattle given back by the coffin lid. 'And these,' his soul cried, 'are
+the true realities, death, and after death Heaven or Hell!'
+
+Then he wondered at the fate that had led him from his calm student
+life.... He had come to Thornby Place with the intention of founding a
+monastery; instead, he had fallen in love (the word shocked him), and
+he asked himself if he had ever thought of her more as a wife than as
+a sister; if he could have been her husband? He feared that he had
+adventured perilously near to a life of which he could nowise sustain
+or fulfil, to a life for which he knew he was nowise suited, and which
+might have lost him his soul.
+
+He never could have married her--no, not when it came to the point. He
+thought of the wedding-breakfast, the cake, the speeches, the
+congratulations, and of the woman with whom he would have gone away,
+of the honeymoon, of the bridal chamber! He knew now that he could not
+have fulfilled the life of marriage. If those things had happened he
+would have had to tell her--ah! when it was too late--that he was
+mistaken, that he could not, in any real sense of the word, be her
+husband. They could not have lived together. They would have had to
+part. His life and hers would have been irretrievably ruined, and
+then? John remembered the story of Abelard and Heloise. A new Abelard
+--a new Heloise!
+
+The romance of the idea interested him. Then returning suddenly to
+reality, he asked himself what had happened to Kitty--what was the
+cause of her madness? Something had occurred. Once again, as he
+remembered the blithe innocence of her smiling eyes when they parted
+on the hill, and he recalled with terror the trembling, forlorn, half-
+crazy girl that had sat opposite him in the drawing-room next day. He
+remembered the twitch of her lips, the averted eyes, and the look of
+mad fear that had crept over her face, her flight from him, her cries
+for help, and her desperate escape through the window. His thoughts
+paused, and then, like a bolt from the blue, a thought fell into his
+mind. 'No,' he cried, 'not that.' He tried to shake himself free from
+the thought; it was not to be shaken off. That was the explanation. It
+could only be that--ah! it was that, that, and nothing but that.
+
+And as he viewed the delicate, elusive externality of the southern
+town, he remembered that he had kissed her--he had kissed her by
+force! 'My God! then the difference between us is only one of degree,
+and the vilest humanity claims kinship of instinct with me!' He
+ clasped his hands across his eyes, and feeling himself on the brink
+of madness, he cried out to God to save him; and he longed to speak
+the words that would take him from the world. Life was not for him. He
+had learnt his lesson. Thornby Place should soon be Thornby Abbey, and
+in the divine consolation of religion John Norton hoped to find escape
+from the ignominy of life.
+
+
+
+
+AGNES LAHENS.
+
+
+
+
+I.
+
+
+A grey, winter morning filtered through lace curtains into drawing-
+rooms typical of a fashionable London neighbourhood and a moderate
+income. There was neither excess of porcelain, nor of small tables,
+nor of screens. Two large vases hinted at some vulgarity of taste; a
+grand piano in the back room suggested a love of music, and Mrs.
+Lahens had but to sing a few notes to leave no doubt that she had
+bestowed much care on the cultivation of her voice. But method only
+disguised its cracks and thinness as powder and rouge did the fading
+and withering of her skin. She was like her voice.
+
+Lord Chadwick stood behind her, following the music bar by bar, and
+with an interest and a pleasure that did not concord with his
+appearance. For there was nothing in his appearance to indicate that
+his intelligence was on a higher plane than that of the mess-room. His
+appearance seemed to fluctuate between the mess-room and the company
+promoter's office. He was a good-looking solicitor, he was a good-
+looking officer; the eyes were attractive; the nose was too large, but
+it was well-shaped; a heavy military moustache curled over his cheeks,
+and, as he stood nodding his head, delighted with the music, the
+seeming commonness of his appearance wore away.
+
+Her song finished, Mrs. Lahens got up from the piano. She was tall and
+well-made; perhaps too full in the bosom, perhaps too wide in the
+hips, and perhaps the smallness of the waist was owing to her stays.
+Her figure suggested these questions. She wore a fashionable lilac
+blue silk, pleated over the bosom; and round her waist a chatelaine to
+which was attached a number of trinkets, a purse of gold net, a pencil
+case, some rings, a looking-glass, and small gold boxes jewelled--
+probably containing powder. Her hair was elaborately arranged, as if
+by the hairdresser, and she exhaled a faint odour of heliotrope as she
+crossed the room. She was still a handsome woman; she once had been
+beautiful, but too obviously beautiful to be really beautiful; there
+was nothing personal or distinguished in her face; it was made of too
+well-known shapes--the long, ordinary, clear-cut nose, and the eyes,
+forehead, cheeks, and chin proportioned according to the formula of
+the casts in vestibules. That she was slightly _declassee_ was clear
+in the first glance. And she represented all that the word could be
+made to mean--_liaisons,_ familiarity with fashionable restaurants,
+and the latest French literature.
+
+Lord Chadwick saw that she was out of temper, and wondered what was
+the cause. He had not yet spoken to her; she was singing when he came
+into the room. So laying his hand on her shoulder, he said:
+
+'What is the matter, Olive?'
+
+But it was some time before he could get an answer. At last she said:
+
+'I had an unpleasant scene with the Major this morning.'
+
+'I am glad it is no more than that,' and Lord Chadwick threw himself
+into an arm-chair. 'What further eccentricity has he been guilty of?
+Does he want to sweep the crossing, or to wait at table in the
+crossing-sweeper's clothes?' 'He has bought an old overcoat from the
+butler.'
+
+'And wants to wear it at lunch?'
+
+'No; he's got a new suit. I insisted on that. It came home last night.
+He had to give way, for I told him that if he would come down to lunch
+he must come decently dressed, otherwise he would do Agnes a great
+deal of harm.'
+
+'But you couldn't persuade him to stick to his type-writing, and keep
+out of the way?'
+
+'No, and I thought it better not to try. Agnes' return home has
+excited him dreadfully, and he fancies that it is his duty to watch
+over her--to protect her from my friends.'
+
+'Then I suppose we shall never get rid of him. He'll be here all day,
+night and day. Good Heavens!'
+
+'I don't say that. I hope that this new idea of his is only a freak.
+He will soon tire of his task of censor of morals. Meanwhile, we are
+to be most guarded in our conversation. And as for you----'
+
+'What has he got against me?' and Lord Chadwick looked at Mrs. Lahens.
+'About me!' he repeated, 'Nonsense.'
+
+'I don't mean that he's jealous, but he thinks that we should not
+continue to see one another.'
+
+'Does he give any reason?'
+
+'Agnes is coming home to-day. I shall have to take her into society.
+He says that society will not stand it, unless our relations are
+broken off.'
+
+'Society has stood it for the last seven years; society will stand
+anything except the Divorce Court, and there's no danger of that.'
+
+'The Major's very queer. I don't know what's the matter with him; I
+never saw him go on as he did this morning. He says that the girl
+shall not be sacrificed if he can help it.'
+
+'You don't think he'll make a row, do you?'
+
+'Are you afraid?'
+
+'Of what? For your sake I shouldn't like a row. Afraid of a madman
+like that! But he can do nothing. I don't see what he can do.'
+
+'That's what he said himself. He says he can do nothing--you should
+have seen him walking up and down the room, dressed in a suit of
+clothes out of a rag shop, yellow-grey things two sizes too big for
+him; he has to roll up the ends of the trousers. He had no collar on,
+and to keep his neck warm he had tied an old pink scarf round his
+throat. He couldn't walk either way above a couple of yards, for the
+roof slants down almost to the floor; he knocked his head against the
+roof, but he did not mind, he went on talking, half to me, half to
+himself.'
+
+'He sent for you, then?'
+
+'Yes; that he'd like to see me upstairs. I told my maid to say that he
+was to come down to my room, but she brought back word that the Major
+couldn't come down, would I go up to him. So I had to go up to his
+garret. You never saw such a place. At last I got tired of listening
+to him--I couldn't stand there in the cold any longer--I was catching
+cold.'
+
+'But you haven't told me what he said.'
+
+'The usual thing: that it was the loss of his money that had brought
+him where he was; that if he only had a little money, if he could only
+keep himself, he would take his daughter away to live with him. He
+didn't know what would become of her in this house. Oh, he did go on.
+At last he burst into tears, he threw himself at my feet and said he'd
+forgive me everything if I'd only think of my daughter.'
+
+'What did you say?'
+
+'I said the best way to consider his daughter's interests, was by
+avoiding all scandal and wearing proper clothes.'
+
+'And he promised he would wear the new suit?'
+
+'Yes; he promised he would. He said that he knew all I said was true.
+That it wasn't my fault, that a woman couldn't be expected to respect
+a man who couldn't keep her, that he felt the shame of his position in
+the house, that it had broken his heart, that if he had lost his money
+it was not his fault, that the world was full of rogues, you know--
+you've heard him go on.'
+
+'I should think I had. I don't know how I put up with him. Very often
+it is as much as I can do to prevent myself from running out of the
+room.'
+
+Mrs. Lahens looked at her lover angrily.
+
+'You don't think what I have to put up with. You come here when you
+like, you go away when you like.... Men are always the same, they only
+think of themselves. You don't think of me, you do not remember what I
+have put up with for your sake, of the sacrifices I have made for you.
+I should have left him years ago when he lost his money if it hadn't
+been for fear of compromising you.'
+
+'He never would have divorced you. He'd have been left without a cent
+if he had, and he couldn't have got anything out of me.'
+
+'Whatever my husband's faults are, he's not mercenary. There are many
+who think more of money and its advantages than he.'
+
+'Now, what are you angry about, Olive?' and Lord Chadwick laid his
+hand on her shoulder.
+
+'I don't like unjust accusations, not even against my husband. The
+Major is a fool, but he is not dishonourable; he is the most
+honourable man that comes to this house. It was not on account of my
+money that he did not divorce me.'
+
+'On account of you, then.'
+
+'Partly, strange as that may seem to you, and on account of his
+daughter.'
+
+Lord Chadwick did not answer. The conversation was taking a
+disagreeable turn, and as he looked into the fire he thought how he
+might change it.
+
+'So Agnes returns home to-day?'
+
+'Yes, her father insisted... She, poor dear, begged and prayed to be
+allowed to become a nun, but he would not listen to her any more than
+he would to me.... There was no use arguing.... You know what the
+Major is; you are never sure when he'll turn on you. If I opposed him
+he might come down some evening when there was a party, and inform my
+guests that I kept my daughter imprisoned in a convent, that I
+wouldn't let her out. No; I daren't oppose him on this point. Agnes
+must come home for a while. But the experiment won't succeed. I
+daresay you think so too. But for all that I'm right, as time will
+prove. A mother knows more about her own daughter than any one else,
+and I tell you that Agnes is no more fitted for the world than I am
+for a convent. I shall have to drag her about for a season or two. She
+won't succeed, and she'll be wretchedly unhappy. I shall be put to any
+amount of trouble and expense, that will be all.'
+
+'And then?'
+
+'I don't know. Even if I did give you up, I don't see what would be
+gained. All I could do would be to ask you not to come to the house
+any more.'
+
+'That is nonsense.'
+
+'Of course it is nonsense. Can I go back on my whole life? can I
+change all my friends? If I did I should only collect more exactly
+like them, and without knowing I was doing it. Lie low for a month or
+so, and then pursue the same old way. With the best intentions in the
+world we cannot change ourselves.' 'But you don't intend to give me
+up, Olive?'
+
+'Do you want me to, Reggie?'
+
+'No, dearest, we've held together a long time--seven years--we cannot
+give each other up.'
+
+'We can't give each other up,' said Mrs. Lahens. 'It never shall be
+broken off, unless you break it off.'
+
+Lord Chadwick asked himself if he desired to break with her? He looked
+at her, and thought that he had never seen her look so old; but he
+could not imagine his life without her. Apart from her, there was
+nothing for him. His name had been mixed up in questionable city
+transactions; his wife had divorced him, and he was over forty...
+Notwithstanding his title, he'd find it difficult to marry a girl with
+money; he couldn't marry one without. Besides, he loved Olive as well
+as a man could love a woman whose lover he has been for seven years.
+... Mrs. Lahens looked at him, and wondered what there was in him that
+attached her so firmly. They had once loved each other passionately.
+All that was over now... But still she loved him. ... He was all she
+had in the world. To live with her husband without Reggie! no, she
+could not think of it. Even if she did, Agnes would profit nothing by
+it. Every one knew of their _liaison_. No one talked about it any
+more, it had been in a way accepted, and for them to separate would
+only serve to set Mayfair gossiping again.
+
+'I know I appear selfish,' she said; 'not to want to see my daughter
+must seem selfish. But I am not selfish, Reggie. I've never been
+selfish where you have been concerned, have I?'
+
+'I at least can't accuse you of selfishness, Olive. You've always been
+a good friend to me. There was my bankruptcy---'
+
+'Do not speak of it. I only did for you what you would have done for
+me. I have been very unlucky; I was cursed with a husband who was a
+fool, and who lost all his money--no one can say he's in his right
+mind. They say that I have driven him out of his mind, but that is not
+so, you know that it is not so; I've not driven you out of your mind.
+There never was such a fool as my husband. He has acted as stupidly
+about his daughter as he did about his money. First he takes her away
+from me--I'm not good enough for her, this house isn't good enough for
+her; he shuts her up in a convent, and never has her home for fear she
+should hear or see anything that was not pious and good. Then, when
+she wants to become a nun, and her mind is made up, and her character
+is formed, he insists that she shall come home, and that I shall give
+up my lover and bring her into society. But not into the society that
+comes to my house, but into some other society, some highly
+respectable society that neither he nor I knows anything about. And to
+make my task the more easy, he insists on living in a servant's room,
+buying the butler's overcoat, and running down the street whistling
+for cabs, and carrying my trunks on his shoulder. There never was such
+madness; God knows how it will all end.'
+
+She turned her head slightly when her husband entered the room, and,
+without getting off the arm of Lord Chadwick's chair, said:
+
+'Doesn't he look well in that suit of clothes, Reggie?'
+
+The Major was a short man, shorter by nearly two inches than his wife
+or Lord Chadwick. His hair had once been red; it was now faded, and
+the tall forehead showed bald amid a slight gleaning. His beard and
+moustaches were thick, unkempt, and full of grey hair. The nose was
+small and aquiline, and the eyes, shallow and pale blue, wore a silly
+and vacant stare. The skin was coloured everywhere alike, a sort of
+conventional tone of flesh-colour seemed to have been poured over the
+face, forehead, and neck. His short thick hands were covered with
+reddish hair. They fidgeted at the trousers and waistcoat, too tightly
+strained across his little round stomach; and he did not desist till
+his wife said:
+
+'I hope you will have finished dressing before our guests arrive.'
+
+'Whom have you asked? Not the tall thin man who---'
+
+'Why not?'
+
+'You surely don't think he is a fit companion for Agnes?'
+
+'Companion for Agnes! no; but I don't intend every one that comes here
+to lunch as a companion for Agnes. I'm sick of hearing of that girl.
+I've heard of nothing else for the last week--the people she should
+meet--what we should say and not say before her. If we aren't good
+enough for her she should have remained in the convent. But what
+fault, may I ask, do you find with Moulton?'
+
+'Only what you've told me.... Am I not right, Reggie?'
+
+'Oh, Reggie will agree with you--he hates Moulton.'
+
+'I don't like the man.'
+
+'The truth is that he sent a note asking if he might come, and I knew
+if I refused he'd have nothing to eat.... You ought to be able to
+judge Moulton more fairly, for it is want of money that has reduced
+him to his present position. He was born a gentleman, and his uncle
+only allows him fifteen shillings a week. This pays for his lodging--
+one room, which costs five shillings a week--another five shillings a
+week goes for current expenses, a cup of tea in the morning, and a few
+omnibus fares; the remaining five shillings goes towards his clothes.
+So every day he finds himself face to face with the problem where he
+shall lunch, where he shall dine. He's good-looking, women like him,
+and any little present they make him is welcomed, I can assure you. He
+said the other day, "Look at my boot, there's a hole in it; I shall be
+laid up with a cold. You don't know what it is to be ill in a room for
+which you pay five shillings a week." What could I do but to tell him
+that he might order a pair at my shoemaker's?'
+
+'And he ordered a pair that cost three pounds,' said Lord Chadwick.
+
+'Yes; I did think that he might have chosen a cheaper pair. But you're
+rather hard on him,' said Mrs. Lahens; 'he's not the only man in
+London who takes money from women.'
+
+'I wonder he doesn't go to Mashonaland or to Canada?' said the Major.
+
+'If every one who could not make his living here went to Mashonaland
+or Canada, the London drawing-rooms would be pretty empty.'
+
+'You mean that for me, Olive,' said the Major. 'I would go to-morrow
+to Mashonaland if I were as young as Moulton.'
+
+At that moment a youngish-looking man, about five-and-thirty, came
+into the room quickly. Notwithstanding the wintry weather he was clad
+in a light grey summer suit; he wore a blue shirt and a blue linen
+tie, neatly tied and pinned. Mrs. Lahens, the Major, and Reggie
+glanced at the boots which had cost three pounds, and Mrs. Lahens
+thought how carefully that grey summer suit was folded and laid away
+in the tiny chest of drawers which stood next the wall by the little
+window. Mr. Moulton was clean shaved. His features were long and
+regular; a high Socratic forehead suggested an intelligence which his
+conversation did not confirm. His manners were stagey, and there was a
+hollow cordiality in the manner in which he said 'How do you do,' and
+shook hands. Immediately his blue, superficial, glassy eyes were
+turned to Mrs. Lahens; and he studied her figure in her new gown, and
+whispered that he had never seen her looking better.
+
+'So there he is, and in his new clothes. Curious little fellow he is,'
+said Moulton, eyeing the Major. 'Did he offer much resistance? You
+don't seem torn at all. Not a scratch.'
+
+'I did all I could to dissuade him, but----'
+
+'I know, suffering from daughter on the brain.... Tell me, shall we
+see much of him? Will he come down every day to lunch, and what about
+dinner?'
+
+'I hope not, I think not... he has his typewriting to attend to.'
+
+'At all events the mystery is cleared up. I don't think I ever was
+believed when I said that I had once spoken to him on the stairs.'
+
+'Do you hear that, Major? Mr. Moulton says that he doesn't think he
+ever was believed when he said that he had once spoken to you on the
+staircase. Major, do you hear?'
+
+'Yes, dear, I hear. But I am talking to Reggie about Miss Lahens. By
+the way, Mr. Moulton, my daughter, Miss Lahens, is coming home to-day,
+so I hope that you'll be guarded in your conversation, and will say
+nothing that a young girl may not hear.'
+
+'I shall be very pleased to see Agnes again,' said Moulton. 'If I had
+thought of it I would have read up the lives of the saints.'
+
+'I beg, Mr. Moulton, that you do not speak disrespectfully of Miss
+Lahens. Perhaps there is nothing in your conversation that is fit for
+her to hear.'
+
+Moulton looked at Mrs. Lahens, then taking in the situation, he said:
+
+'If I have the pleasure of talking to Miss Lahens I shall confine my
+conversation to those subjects with which she is familiar. I shall
+acquit myself better than you, I think, Major; I have a sister who is
+a nun. I know a good deal about convents.'
+
+'I'm glad to hear it,' said the Major. 'I wanted you to know that my
+daughter has been very strictly brought up.'
+
+'My dear Major,' said Mrs. Lahens, 'you had better write on a piece of
+paper "My daughter, Miss Lahens, comes home from school to-day, and my
+guests at lunch are particularly requested to be guarded in their
+conversation." You can put it up where every one can see it, then
+there can be no mistake. The only disadvantage of this will be that at
+the end of the week Agnes will be the talk of the town. If Lilian Dare
+were to hear you she would--'
+
+'But you haven't asked her?'
+
+'Why not? she's received everywhere.'
+
+'Not where there are young girls. You know how she got her money.'
+
+'Oh yes, we've all heard that story,' said Mrs. Lahens, and before the
+Major could reply the servant announced--
+
+'Miss Lahens and Father White.'
+
+'Who is Father White?' whispered Moulton.
+
+'I haven't the least idea,' said Mrs. Lahens.
+
+
+
+
+II.
+
+
+Agnes wore a jacket made of some dark material, she held a little fur
+muff in her hand, and under a black straw hat her blue eyes smiled;
+and when she caught sight of her mother she uttered a happy cry.
+
+Mrs. Lahens looked at Agnes curiously; at this thin girl; for, though
+Agnes' face was round and rosy, her waist was slender, and her hands,
+and hips, and bosom; and Mrs. Lahens was unconsciously affected by the
+contrast that her own regular and painted features, and her long life
+of social adventure, presented to this pretty, dovelike girl, this
+pale conventual rose, without instinct of the world, and into whose
+guileless mind no knowledge of the world would apparently ever enter.
+
+'Oh, father, how are you? I did not see you, the room is so dark.'
+Agnes kissed her father, and with her right hand in her mother's left
+hand, and her left hand in her father's left she looked at her
+parents, overcome by her affection for them. But suddenly remembering,
+she said:
+
+'But I haven't introduced you to Father White. How rude of me! Father
+White was good enough to see me home. The Mother Abbess was afraid I
+should get into a wrong train, or get run over in the streets.'
+
+The little priest came forward shyly. His black cloth trousers were
+too short, and did not hide his clumsy laced boots. His features were
+small and regular, and his light-brown hair grew thick on his little
+round head, which he carried on one side. He was young, seven or eight
+and twenty, and so good-looking that some unhappy romantic passion
+suggested itself as the cause of his long black coat and penitential
+air.
+
+'I'm sure that we're very much obliged to you for your kindness,
+Father White,' said Mrs. Lahens.
+
+'I was going to London, and the Mother Abbess asked me to take charge
+of Miss Lahens, and surrender her safe into your hands.'
+
+'Won't you sit down, Father White?' said Mrs. Lahens. 'I want to talk
+to you about Agnes. I hope you will stop to lunch.... I wish you
+would.'
+
+'Thank you, but I'm afraid I cannot. I have an engagement to lunch
+with the Dominicans.'
+
+'I'm sorry, but you can spare me a few minutes,' said Mrs. Lahens,
+leading him away.
+
+Lord Chadwick came forward and shook hands with Agnes.
+
+'I'm afraid you've forgotten me, Agnes. It is nearly five years---'
+
+'No; I haven't, at least not quite. It was in the country, at the
+cottage in Surrey. You're the gentleman who used to go out driving
+with mother.'
+
+'Yes; you're right so far, I used to go out driving with Mrs. Lahens.
+You used to come too.'
+
+'And very often you used to speak French to mother. I never could
+understand why--I used to think and think.'
+
+'And do you remember any of the things he used to say in French?' said
+Mr. Moulton.
+
+'No; I didn't understand French then.'
+
+'But you do now?'
+
+'Yes. Our school is one of the best; we are taught everything.'
+
+'I'm sorry for that. There'll be nothing for us to teach you.'
+
+'For you to teach me?' said Agnes, looking at him inquiringly.
+
+At that moment the servant announced Mr. Harding. The Major went
+forward and welcomed him cordially.
+
+'You see, you've lost your bet,' Moulton whispered to Harding.
+
+'We were very sorry to lose her,' said Father White, 'and she was
+sorry to leave, but it would not be right for her to take vows to
+enter a severe order until she has seen the world and had
+opportunities of knowing if she has a vocation. On that point I shall
+be very firm with her, you can rely on me, Mrs. Lahens.'
+
+'I'm afraid that she will never care for society. I'm afraid that this
+experience will not prove of much avail. She'll return to the convent,
+I shall be sorry to lose her.'
+
+'She's indeed a good girl, and if she finds that she has a vocation--'
+
+'Now, you are speaking about me,' said Agnes. 'I can hear the word
+vocation.'
+
+Mrs. Lahens smiled and was about to reply when the servant announced
+Miss Lilian Dare.
+
+Lilian was a red blonde; her rich chestnut hair fell over her ears
+like wings, and she was showily dressed in an expensive French gown
+which did not suit her, which made her seem older than she was.
+
+'So you have come alone?'
+
+'Yes, dear Lady Duckle was not feeling well this morning; she sends
+you her love, and begs you'll excuse her.'
+
+'Oh yes, we'll excuse her. But tell me, Lilian,' said Mrs. Lahens,
+taking the girl aside, 'how do you like living with her?'
+
+'It is delightful, you don't know what it means to me to get away from
+home--all those brothers and sisters--that hateful suburb.'
+
+'You must never speak of it again. Islington, where is that? you must
+say if Islington should happen in the conversation, which is not
+likely. I always told you that you'd have to throw your family over.
+We want you, not your family. Chaperons nowadays are a make-believe.
+Lady Duckle will suit you very well; she'll feel ill when you don't
+want her, when you do she'll be all there. She's an honest old thing,
+and will do all that's required of her for the money you pay her.
+Thirty pounds a month, that's it, isn't it, dear?'
+
+The servant announced Lady Castlerich.
+
+Lady Castlerich disguised her seventy years under youthful gowns and
+an extraordinary yellow wig. She wore a large black hat trimmed with
+black ostrich plumes, it became her; she looked quite handsome, and
+her cracked and tremulous voice was as full of sympathy as her manner
+was of high breeding. She seemed very fond of Lilian, and was soon
+engaged in conversation with her.
+
+'You mustn't disappoint me, my dear; you must come to my shootin'
+party on the twenty-fifth, and dear Lady Duckle, I hope she'll come
+too, though she is rather a bore. I shall have plenty of beaux for
+you, there is my neighbour Lord Westhorpe, he's young and handsome, a
+beautiful place, charmin', my dear. And if you don't like him, there's
+my old lover Appletown, you know, my dear, all that is a long while
+ago. I said to Appletown more than ten years ago--"Appletown, this
+must end, I am an old woman." You've no idea the look he gave me.
+"Florence," he said, "don't call yourself an old woman, I can't bear
+it. You'll never be an old woman, at least not in my eyes." Charmin',
+wasn't it; no one but a nice man could speak like that. So we've
+always remained friends, Appletown has his rooms at Morelands, and he
+does as he likes. He likes you, dear, he told me so. I've got a
+telegram from him, I'll show it to you after lunch.'
+
+The servant announced Mr. Herbert St. Clare, a fastidiously-dressed
+man. He was tall and thin, and his eyes were pale and agreeable; his
+beard was close-clipped, he played with his eye-glass, and shook hands
+absent-mindedly.
+
+'Oh, Mr. St. Clare, I'm enchanted with your last song,' said Lady
+Castlerich. 'Every one is talking of it, it is quite the rage,
+charmin', I wish I had had it ten years ago, my voice is gone now.'
+
+'You still sing charmingly, Lady Castlerich, not much voice is
+required if the singer is a musician.'
+
+'You're very kind,' and the old lady laughed with pleasure, and Mrs.
+Lahens smiled satirically, and whispered:
+
+'Oh, you fibber, St. Clare.'
+
+'I'm not fibbing,' he answered; 'she sings the old Italian airs
+charmingly.'
+
+Soon after lunch was announced, and Mrs. Lahens once more asked Father
+White to stay. He begged her to excuse him, and she went into the
+diningroom leaving him in the passage with Agnes.
+
+'Good-bye, my dear child, I shall see you next week. I will write
+telling you when I'm coming, and you'll tell me what you think of the
+world. The convent is only for those who have a vocation. You can
+serve God in the world as well as elsewhere.'
+
+'I wonder,' said Agnes, and she looked doubtfully into the priest's
+eyes. 'I wonder. I confess I'm a little curious. At present I do not
+understand at all.'
+
+'Of course the convent is very different from the world,' said Father
+White. 'You learnt to understand the convent, now you must learn to
+understand the life of the world.'
+
+'Must I? Why must I?'
+
+'So that you may be sure that you have a vocation. Good-bye, dear
+child. The Lord be with you.'
+
+Agnes went into the dining-room, and she noticed that every one was
+listening to her father, who was talking of the success her mother had
+had at a concert. She had sung two songs by Gounod and Cherubino's
+_Ave Maria_. He declared that he had never seen anything like it. He
+wished every one had been there. His wife was in splendid voice. It
+was a treat, and the public thought so too.
+
+Agnes listened and was touched by her father's admiration and love for
+her mother. But very soon she perceived that the others were listening
+superciliously. Suddenly Mrs. Lahens intervened. 'My dear Major,
+you're talking too much, remember your promise.' The Major said not
+another word, and Agnes felt sorry for her father. She remembered him
+far back in her childhood, always a little weak and kind, always
+devoted to her mother, always praising her, always attending on her,
+always carrying her music, reminding her of something she had
+forgotten, and running to fetch it. Looking at him now, after many
+years, she remembered that she used to see more of him than she did of
+her mother. He used to come to see her in the nursery, and she
+remembered how they used to go out together and sit on the stairs, so
+that they might hear mother, who was singing in the drawing-room. She
+remembered that she used to ask her father why they could not go to
+the drawing-room. He used to answer that mother had visitors. She used
+to hear men's voices, and then mother would call her father down to
+wish them good-bye.
+
+Her memories of her mother were not so distinct. She never saw her
+mother except on the rare occasions when she was admitted to the
+drawing-room; she remembered her standing in long shining dresses with
+long trains curled around her feet, which she kicked aside when she
+advanced to receive some visitor; or she remembered her mother on the
+stairs, a bouquet in her hand, a diamond star in her hair; the front
+door was open, and the lamps of the brougham gleamed in the dark
+street. Then her mother would kiss her, and tell her she must be a
+good girl, and go to sleep when she went to bed.
+
+There had never seemed to be but one person in the house, and that was
+mother. Where was mother going, to the theatre, to a dinner-party, to
+the opera? and the phrase 'When shall the carriage come to fetch
+mother' had fixed itself on her memory. And in her mother's bedroom--
+the largest and handsomest room in the house--she remembered the maid
+opening large wardrobes, putting away soft white garments, laces,
+green silk and pink petticoats, more beautiful than the dresses that
+covered them. The large white dressing-table, strewn with curious
+ivories, the uses of which she could not imagine, had likewise fixed
+itself on her memory. She remembered the hand-glasses, the scattered
+jewellery, the scent-bottles, and the little boxes of powder and
+rouge, and the pencil with which her mother darkened her eyebrows and
+eyelids. For Mrs. Lahens had always been addicted to the use of
+cosmetics, therefore the paint on her mother's face did not shock
+Agnes as it might otherwise have done. But she could not but notice
+that it had increased. Her mother's mouth seemed to her now like a red
+wound. Ashamed of the involuntary comment, Agnes repelled all
+criticism, and threw herself into the belief that all her mother did
+was right, that she was the best and most beautiful woman in London,
+that to be her daughter was the highest privilege.
+
+Her thoughts were entirely with her parents; and she had hardly spoken
+to the men on either side of her. Mr. Moulton had asked her if she
+were glad to come home, if she rejoiced in the prospect of balls and
+parties, if she were sorry to leave her favourite nun. She had
+answered his questions briefly, and he had returned to his exchange of
+gallantries with Lady Castlerich, who he hoped would invite him to
+Morelands. Agnes did not quite like him. She liked Mr. St. Clare
+better. St. Clare had asked her if she sang, and when she told him
+that she was leading soprano in the convent choir he had talked
+agreeably until Miss Dare said:
+
+'Now, Mr. St. Clare, leave off flirting with Agnes.'
+
+Her remark made every one laugh, and in the midst of the laughter Mrs.
+Lahens said:
+
+'So my little girl is coming out of her shell.'
+
+'Out of cell,' said Mr. Moulton, laughing.
+
+'Out of her what?' asked Lady Castlerich.
+
+'You don't know, Lady Castlerich, that my Agnes wanted to become a
+nun, to enter a convent where they get up at four o'clock in the
+morning to say matins.'
+
+'Oh, how very dreadful,' said Lady Castlerich, 'Agnes must come to my
+shootin' party.'
+
+'Father White--the priest you saw here just now--brought her home.
+Fortunately he took our side, and he told Agnes she must see the
+world; it would be time enough a year hence to think if she had a
+vocation.'
+
+'Mother dear, he said six months.'
+
+'What, are you tired of us already, Agnes?'
+
+'No, mother, but--' Agnes hung down her head.
+
+'Agnes must come to my shootin' party, we must find a young man for
+her, there is Mr. Moulton, or would you like Mr. St. Clare better? I
+hope, Mr. Moulton, you'll be able to come to Morelands on the twenty-
+fifth.'
+
+Mr. Moulton said that nothing would give him more pleasure, and
+feeling that Lady Castlerich intended that his charms should for ever
+obliterate Agnes' conventual aspiration he leaned towards her and
+asked her if she knew Yorkshire. Morelands was in Yorkshire. His
+conversation was, however, interrupted by Lady Castlerich, who said in
+her clear cracked voice:
+
+'We must put Agnes in the haunted room amid the tapestries.'
+
+'No, no, don't frighten her,' whispered the Major.
+
+'But, father, I am not so easily frightened as that.'
+
+'Who haunts the tapestry-room?'
+
+'A nun, dear, so they say; Morelands was a monastery once--a nunnery,
+I mean. The monastery was opposite.'
+
+'That was convenient,' giggled Mr. Moulton.
+
+'And why does the nun haunt the tapestries?'
+
+'Ah, my dear, that I can't tell you.'
+
+'Perhaps the nun was a naughty nun,' suggested Mr. Moulton. 'Are there
+no naughty nuns in your convent?'
+
+'Oh, no, not in my convent, all the sisters are very good, you cannot
+imagine how good they are,' said Agnes, and she looked out of eyes so
+pale and so innocent that he almost felt ashamed.
+
+'But what a strange idea that was of yours, Agnes,' said Miss Dare
+across the table, 'to want to shut yourself up for ever among a lot of
+women, with nothing else to do but to say prayers.'
+
+'You think like that because you do not know convent life. There is, I
+assure you, plenty to do, plenty to think about.'
+
+'Fancy, they hardly ever speak, only at certain hours,' said Mrs.
+Lahens.
+
+'It is the getting up at four o'clock in the morning that seems to me
+the worst part,' said Miss Dare.
+
+'The monotony,' said St. Clare, 'must be terrible; always the same
+faces, never seeing anything new, knowing that you will never see
+anything else.'
+
+Agnes listened to these objections eagerly. 'The nuns are not sad at
+all,' she said. 'If you saw them playing at ball in the garden you
+would see that they were quite as happy as those who live in the
+world. I don't know if you are sad in the world; I don't know the
+world, but I can assure you that there is no sadness in the convent.'
+
+Agnes paused and looked round. Every one was listening, and it was
+with difficulty she was induced to speak again.... Then in answer to
+her mother's questions, she said:
+
+'We have our occupations and our interests. They would seem trivial
+enough to you, but they interest us and we are happy.'
+
+'There must be,' said Lilian, 'satisfaction in having something
+definite to do, to know where you are going and what you are striving
+for. We don't know what we are striving for or where we are going. And
+the trouble we give ourselves! Say what you will, it is something to
+be spared all that.'
+
+'Yet if we asked the ordinary man,' said Harding, 'what he'd do if he
+had ten thousand a year, he would answer that he would do nothing. But
+he may not. The only man who does nothing is the man who suddenly
+acquires ten thousand a year; he tries to live on his income; he
+doesn't, he dies of it.'
+
+'And those who are born rich?' asked Moulton.
+
+'They work hard enough, and their work is the hardest of all, their
+work is amusement. For by some strange misunderstanding all the most
+tedious and unsatisfactory means of distraction, are termed amusement,
+betting, gambling, travelling, dinner-parties, love-making. Whereas
+the valid and sufficient form of distraction, earning your livelihood
+by the sweat of your brow, is designated by the unpleasant word
+Labour.'
+
+'But if you are fortunate in love, you're happy,' said old Lady
+Castlerich, 'I think I have made my lovers happy.'
+
+Harding laughed. 'Happy! for how long?'
+
+'That depends. Love is not a joy that lasts for ever,' the old lady
+added with a chuckle.
+
+'But did no woman make you happy, Mr. Harding?' asked Lilian, and she
+fixed her round, prominent eyes upon him.
+
+'The woman who gives most happiness gives most pain. The man who
+leaves an adoring mistress at midnight suffers most. A few minutes of
+distracted happiness as he drives home. He falls asleep thanking God
+that he will see her at midday. But he awakes dreading a letter
+putting him off. He listens for the footstep of a messenger boy.'
+
+
+'If she doesn't disappoint him?'
+
+'She will disappoint him sooner or later.'
+
+'I have never disappointed you,' said Lilian, still looking at
+Harding.
+
+'But you have not been to see me.'
+
+'No; I've not been to see you,' she replied, and played distractedly
+with some dried fruit on her plate.
+
+'These are confessions,' said Lady Castlerich, laughing.
+
+'Confessions of missed opportunities,' said Moulton.
+
+'So, then, your creed is that love cannot endure,' said Lord Chadwick.
+
+'The love that endures is the heaviest burden of all,' Harding replied
+incautiously. A silence fell over the lunch table, and all feared to
+raise their eyes lest they should look at Mrs. Lahens and Lord
+Chadwick.
+
+'I suppose you are right,' said Mrs. Lahens. 'It is not well that
+anything should outlive its day. But sometimes it happens so. But
+look,' she exclaimed, laughing nervously, 'how Agnes is listening to
+St. Clare. Those two were made for each other. Celibacy and Work.
+Which is Celibacy and which is Work?'
+
+'I think, Olive,' said the Major, 'that you are rather hard upon the
+girl. You forget that she has only just come from school and doesn't
+understand,'
+
+'My dear Major,' said Mrs. Lahens, and her voice was full of contempt
+for her husband, 'is it you or I who has to take Agnes into society?
+As I told you before, Agnes will have to accept society as it is. She
+won't find her convent in any drawing-room I know, and the sooner she
+makes up her mind on that point, the better for her and the better for
+us.'
+
+'Society will listen for five minutes,' said Lilian, 'to tales of
+conventual innocence.'
+
+'And be interested in them,' said Lord Chadwick, 'as in an account of
+the last burlesque.'
+
+'With this difference,' said Moulton, 'that society will go to the
+burlesque, but not to the convent.'
+
+Agnes glanced at her mother, seeing very distinctly the painted,
+worldly face. That her mother should speak so cruelly to her cut her
+to the heart: and she longed to rush from the room--from all these
+cruel, hateful people; another word and she would have been unable to
+refrain, but in the few seconds which had appeared an eternity to
+Agnes, the conversation suddenly changed. Lilian Dare had returned to
+the idea expressed by Harding that he had only found happiness in
+work, and this was St. Clare's opportunity to speak of the opera he
+was writing.
+
+'In the first act barbarians are making a raft.'
+
+'What are they making the raft for?' asked Lady Castlerich.
+
+'To get to the other side of a lake. They have no women, and they hope
+to rob the folk on the other side of theirs.'
+
+St. Clare explained the various motives he was to employ; the motive
+of aspiration, or the woman motive, was repeated constantly on the
+horns during the building of the raft. St. Clare sang the motive. It
+was with this motive that he began the prelude. Then came two
+variations on the motive, and then the motive of jealousy. St. Clare
+was eager to explain the combinations of instruments he intended to
+employ, and the effect of his trumpets at a certain moment, but the
+servant was handing round coffee and liqueurs, and the story of what
+happened to the women who were carried off on the raft had to be
+postponed. St. Clare looked disappointed. But he was in a measure
+consoled when Lady Castlerich told him that they'd go through the
+opera together when he came to stay with her for her shooting party.
+
+'Won't you sing something, Lilian?' said Mrs. Lahens, as they went
+upstairs.
+
+'No, dear, I'd sooner not, but you will.'
+
+'I'd sooner sing a little later. I don't know where my music is, it
+has been all put away. But do you sing. St. Clare will accompany you.
+Do, to please me,' and Mrs. Lahens sat down in a distant corner.
+
+She had said that very morning, as she painted her face before the
+glass, 'I am an old woman, or nearly. How many more years? Three at
+most, then I shall be like Lady Castlerich.' And the five minutes she
+had spent looking into an undyed and unpainted old age had frightened
+her. She had hated the world she had worshipped so long. She had hated
+all things, and wished herself out of sight of all things. That she
+who had been so young, so beautiful, so delightful to men, should
+become old, ugly, and undesirable. That she should one day be like
+Lady Castlerich! That such things should happen to others were well
+enough; that they should happen to her seemed an unspeakable and
+revolting cruelty. And it was at that moment that her husband had sent
+for her. He had told her she must give up her lover for her daughter's
+sake. Should she do this? Could she do this? She did not know. But
+this she did know, that the present was not the time to speak to her
+of it. Give him up, hand him over to that horrid Mrs. Priestly, who
+was trying all she could to get him. Whatever else might be, that
+should not be.... She loved her daughter, and would do her duty by her
+daughter, but they must not ask too much of her.... She had lost her
+temper, she had said things that she regretted saying; but what
+matter, what did the poor Major matter--a poor, mad thing like him?
+
+These were the thoughts that filled Mrs. Lahens' mind while Lilian
+sang. The purity of Lilian's voice was bitterness to Mrs. Lahens, and
+it was bitterness to remember that St. Clare loved that face. For no
+one now loved her face except perhaps Chad, and they wanted her to
+give him up. It was the knowledge that the time of her youth was at an
+end that forced Mrs. Lahens to say that Lilian sang out of tune, and
+to revive an old scandal concerning her.
+
+'Surely, mother,' said Agnes, 'all you say did not happen to the young
+girl who has just left the room?'
+
+
+
+
+III.
+
+
+Through the house in Grosvenor Street men were always coming and
+going. Quite a number of men seemed to have acquired the right of
+taking their meals there. When Lord Chadwick absented himself he
+explained his enforced absence from the table; and Agnes noticed that
+while Lord Chadwick addressed her mother openly as Olive, Mr. Moulton
+did so surreptitiously, in a whisper, or when none but their intimate
+friends were present. They rarely assembled less than six or seven to
+lunch; after lunch they went to the drawing-room, and the eternal
+discussion on the relations of the sexes was only interrupted by the
+piano. St. Clare played better than Lord Chadwick, but Mrs. Lahens
+preferred Lord Chadwick to accompany her. He followed her voice,
+always making the most of it. At five o'clock the ladies had tea, very
+often the men chose brandies and sodas; cigarettes were permitted, and
+in these influences all the scandals of the fair ran glibly from the
+tongue, and surprising were the imaginations of Mrs. Lahens'
+scandalous brain.
+
+The reserve that Agnes' innocence imposed on the wit of the various
+narratives, and on the philosophy of the comments often became
+painfully irksome, and on noticing Harding's embarrassments Mrs.
+Lahens would suggest that Agnes went to her room. Agnes gladly availed
+herself of the permission, and without the slightest admission to
+herself that she hated the drawing-room. Such admission would be to
+impugn her mother's conduct, and Agnes was far too good a little girl
+to do that. She preferred to remember that she liked her own room: her
+mother let her have a fire there all day; it was a very comfortable
+room and she was never lonely when she was alone. She had her books,
+and there were the dear sisters she had left, to think about. Besides,
+she would meet the men again at dinner, so it would be just as well to
+save her little store of conversation. She did not want to appear more
+foolish and ignorant than she could help.
+
+After dinner, Mrs. Lahens and Lilian Dare went off somewhere in a
+hansom. They often went to the theatre. Sometimes Agnes went with
+them. She had been twice to the theatre. She had been thrilled by a
+melodrama and pleased by an operetta. But the rest of the party,
+mother, Mr. Moulton, Lilian, and Mr. St. Clare had declared that both
+pieces were very bad--very dull.
+
+But they were all anxious to see a comedy about which every one was
+talking; they were certain that they would be amused by it; and there
+was some discussion whether Agnes should be taken. Agnes instantly
+withdrew from the discussion. She did not care to go, she felt she was
+not wanted, and she even suspected that she would not like the play.
+So it was just as well that she was not going. But after dinner it was
+decided that she was to go. Lord Chadwick was with them; Agnes had
+never seen him more attentive to her mother, and Mr. St. Clare was
+absorbed in Lilian. She had, Agnes heard her mother say, succeeded in
+making him so jealous that he had asked her to marry him. But Mrs.
+Lahens did not think that Lilian would marry him; nowadays girls in
+society did not often marry their lovers; they knew that the qualities
+that charm in a lover are out of place in a husband.
+
+Agnes sat in the back of the box and wondered why Lilian's refusal to
+marry St. Clare had made no difference in his affection, nor in hers;
+they seemed as intimate as ever, and Agnes could hear them planning a
+_rendezvous_. Lilian was going south, but St. Clare was to meet her in
+Paris. Agnes wondered--a thought she did not like crossed her mind;
+she put it instantly aside and bent her attention on the play.
+
+There was a great deal in it that she did not understand, or that she
+only understood vaguely. She did seem to wish to understand it. But
+the others listened greedily, as well they might, for the conversation
+on the stage was like the conversation in the Grosvenor Street
+drawing-room, as like as if a phonograph was repeating it.
+
+'I should not make such a fuss if I heard that my dear Major had---'
+
+Agnes did not hear the rest of the sentence.
+
+'If I were to revenge myself on you, Lilian.'
+
+'You had better not.... Besides, there is nothing to revenge.'
+
+'Isn't there,' said St. Clare, and his face grew suddenly grave.
+
+'You are my first and you'll be my last,' Agnes heard her whisper, and
+she saw St. Clare look at her incredulously.
+
+'You don't believe me. Well, I don't care what you believe,' and she
+turned her back on him and listened to the play.
+
+And when the play was done Agnes went home in a hansom, sitting
+between her mother and Lord Chadwick. St. Clare and Lilian followed in
+another hansom, and the two hansoms drew up together in Grosvenor
+Street. After the theatre there was always supper, and Agnes knew that
+they would sit talking till one or two in the morning. She was not
+hungry; she was tired; she asked if she might go to her room; they
+were all glad to excuse her; and she ran up to her room and closed the
+door. She threw off her opera cloak hastily, and then stood looking
+into the fire. Suddenly her brain filled with thoughts which she could
+not repress, and involuntary sensation crowded upon her. There was the
+vivid sensation of her mother's painted face; there was the sensation
+of her father--his strange clothes, his shy, pathetic face.... She
+preferred to think of her father, and she asked herself why he did not
+go to the theatre with them; why he did not appear oftener at meals.
+His food was generally taken to him. Where did he live? Up that narrow
+flight of stairs? She had seen him run up those stairs in strange
+haste, as if he didn't wish to be seen, like a servant--an under
+servant whose presence in the front of the house is discrepant.
+
+Suddenly Agnes felt that she was very unhappy, and she unlaced her
+bodice quickly. The action of unlacing distracted her thoughts. She
+would not go to bed yet. She took a chair, and sat down in front of
+the fire, thinking. The convent appeared to her clear and distinct in
+all its quiet life of happy devotion and innocent recreation. She
+remembered the pleasure she used to take in the work of the sacristy,
+in laying out the vestments for the priest, for Father White; and in
+the games at ball in the garden with those dear nuns. She remembered
+them all; and, seen through the tender atmosphere of sorrow, they
+seemed dearer than ever they had done before. How happy she had been
+with them; she did not expect ever to be so happy again. The world was
+so lonely, so indifferent. She was very unhappy.... And her life
+seemed so fragile that the least touch would break it. Her tears
+flowed as from a crystal, and they did not cease until the silence in
+the street allowed her to hear her father's quick steps pacing it. She
+could hear his steps coming from Grosvenor Square. Her poor father!
+Every night it was the same ceaseless pacing to and fro. She had heard
+her mother say that he sometimes walked till three in the morning. She
+had watched him a night or two ago out of her window. It was freezing
+hard, and he had on only an old grey suit of clothes buttoned tightly,
+and a comforter round his neck. Her father's subordination in the
+house was one of the mysteries which confronted Agnes. She did not
+understand, but she knew by instinct that her father was not happy,
+and her unhappiness went out to his. She pitied him, she longed to
+make him happier. Others might think him strange, but she understood
+him. Their talk was strange to her, not his. Last Sunday he had taken
+her to mass, and they had walked in the park afterwards, and he had
+been happy until they met Mr. Moulton. A little later they had met her
+mother and Lord Chadwick. Mr. St. Clare and Miss Lilian Dare had come
+to lunch. She had seen no more of her father that day. She had hoped
+that Father White would come and see her, but he had not come; she had
+sat in her room alone, and after dinner her mother had scolded her
+because she did not talk to Lord Chiselhurst, an old man who had
+talked to her in a loud rasping voice. He was overpowering; her
+strength had given way, she had fainted, and she had been carried out
+of the room. When she opened her eyes St. Clare was standing by
+her.... She was glad it was he and not Lord Chiselhurst who had
+carried her out.
+
+But they would not let her back to the convent before six months. She
+had been a week at home, and it had seemed a century. The time would
+never pass. She did not think she would be able to endure it for six
+months. Her father did not like her to go back. Was it not her duty to
+remain by him? He was as unhappy as she, and she was very unhappy.
+Tears streamed down her cheeks, and she cried until her tears were
+interrupted by the sound of her father's latchkey.
+
+She listened to his footsteps as he came upstairs. When he arrived on
+her landing, instead of going to the end of the passage, and up the
+staircase, he stopped; it seemed as if he were hesitating about
+something. Agnes wondered, and hoped he was coming to see her. A
+moment after he knocked.
+
+'Is that you, father?'
+
+'Yes.'
+
+'Then wait a moment.'
+
+She slipped her arms into her dressing-gown and opened the door to
+him.
+
+'It is nice and snug here,' he said, coming towards the fire--' nice
+and snug. But bitterly cold in the street; I could not keep warm, yet
+I walked at the rate of five miles an hour. I ran round Grosvenor
+Square, but the moment I stopped running I began to get cold again. I
+couldn't keep up the circulation anyhow.'
+
+'Then sit down and warm yourself, father.'
+
+'No thank you, I like standing up best. I'll just stop a minute. I
+hope I am not in the way; tell me if I am.'
+
+'In the way, father; what do you mean?'
+
+'Nothing, dear, I only thought. Well, I'll just get the cold out of my
+bones before I go up to my room. It is cold up there, I can tell you.'
+
+The girl's keen, passionate eyes looking out of a grief-worn face, and
+a figure so thin that she looked tall, contrasted with the little fat
+man dressed in the yellow tweed suit buttoned across his rounding
+stomach. To see them together by the fire in the bedroom made a
+strange and moving picture. For the figures seemed united by
+mysterious analogies and the fragments of bread and cheese which the
+Major held in his old blued fingers were significant.
+
+'I could hear them singing in the drawing-room,' he said, 'when I came
+in, so I stepped into the dining-room. One feels a bit hungry after
+walking. How did you like the play, dear?'
+
+'Pretty well, father,' she answered, and she strove to check the tears
+which rose to her eyes.
+
+'You've been grieving, Agnes. What have you been grieving for--for
+your convent; tell me, dear? I can't bear to see you unhappy.'
+
+'No, father; don't think of me.'
+
+'Not think of you, Agnes! Of whom should I think, then? Tell me all,
+everything. If you're not happy here you shall go back. I won't see
+you unhappy. It is my fault; only I thought that you had better come
+home and see the world first. I _had_ thought that we might have
+altered things here, just for your sake.'
+
+'But you, father, you're not happy here; you would be still more
+unhappy if I went back to the convent. That is true, isn't it?'
+
+'Yes, that is true, dear; but you must not think about me. There's no
+use thinking about me; I'm not worth thinking about.'
+
+'Don't say that, father, you mustn't speak like that;' and unable to
+control her feelings any longer, Agnes threw herself into her father's
+arms. And she did not speak until she perceived that her father was
+weeping with her.
+
+'What are you weeping for, father?'
+
+'For you, dear, because you're not happy.'
+
+'There are other reasons,' she said, looking inquiringly and tenderly.
+
+'No, dear, there's nothing else now in the world for me to grieve for.
+You must go back to the convent if you're not happy.'
+
+'But you, father?'
+
+'It will be hard to lose you... things may change. You must have
+patience; wait a little while, will you?'
+
+'Of course, father, as long as you like, but you'll come down and talk
+to me here?'
+
+'Yes; I should have come oftener, but I know that I'm not clever, my
+conversation isn't amusing, so I stick at my work up there.'
+
+'You live up there?'
+
+'Yes; you've not seen my room--a little room under the slates--
+something like a monk's cell. I've often thought of going into a
+monastery. I daresay it is from me that you get the taste.'
+
+'You live up there, father; your room is up there. May I go up and see
+you sometimes; I shan't be disturbing you at your work, shall I?'
+
+'No; I should think not: just fancy you wishing to come to see me, and
+up there too!'
+
+'When may I come, father? When are you least busy?'
+
+'You can come now.'
+
+'May I?'
+
+'We mustn't make any noise; all the servants are asleep,' and he held
+the candle higher for her to see the last steps, and he pushed open a
+door. 'It is here.'
+
+It was a little loft under the roof, and the roof slanted so rapidly
+that it was possible to stand upright only in one part of the room.
+There was in one corner a truckle bed, which Agnes could hardly
+believe her father slept in, and in the midst of the uncarpeted floor
+stood the type-writing machine, the working of which the Major at once
+explained to Agnes. He told her how much he had already earned, and
+entered into a calculation of the number of hours he would have to
+work before he could pay off the debt he had incurred in buying the
+machine. His wife had advanced him the money to buy it--she must be
+paid back. When that was done, he would be able to see ahead, and he
+looked forward to the time when he would be independent. There were
+other debts, but the first debt was the heaviest. His wife had
+advanced the money for the clothes he had worn at the luncheon party,
+and there was the furniture of his room. But that could not be much--
+the bed, well that little iron framework, he had borrowed it; it had
+come from the kitchen-maid's room. She had wanted a larger bed. 'But,
+father, dear, you've hardly any bedclothes.' 'Yes, I have, dear. I
+have that overcoat, and I sleep very well under it too. I bought it
+from the butler, I paid him ten shillings for it, and I made the ten
+shillings by copying. The money ought to have gone to your mother, but
+I had to have something to cover me; it is very cold up here, and I
+thought I had better keep her waiting than contract a new debt.'
+
+'But what is mother's is yours, father.'
+
+'Ah, I've heard people say that, but it isn't true.'
+
+'How did you lose your money, father?' The Major told her how he had
+been robbed.
+
+'Then it was not your fault, father. And the man who robbed you you
+say is now---'
+
+'A great swell, and very highly thought of.'
+
+Agnes saw the coarse clothes, the common boots, and the rough
+comforter. And her eyes wandered round the room-the bare, miserable
+little attic garret in which he lived. 'And with that type-writing
+machine,' she thought, 'he is trying to redeem himself from the
+disrespect he has fallen into because he was robbed of his money.'
+
+'It must be getting very late, father; I had better go to my room.
+But, father, you are not comfortable here; sleep in my room; let me
+sleep here.'
+
+'Let you sleep here, my daughter--sleep up here among the servants!'
+
+He stayed a few minutes in her room, and while warming his hands, he
+said:
+
+'Everything in the world is dependent on money. We can preserve
+neither our own nor the respect of others if we have nothing. I have
+tried. It wasn't to be done.'
+
+
+
+
+IV.
+
+
+'I'm not disturbing you, father?'
+
+'No, dear: you never disturb me,' he said, getting up from the type-
+writer and giving her his chair. 'But what is the matter?'
+
+'Nothing, at least nothing in particular. I got tired of the drawing-
+room, and thought I'd like to come and sit with you. But I've taken
+your chair.'
+
+'It doesn't matter. I can stand, I've been sitting so long.'
+
+'But no, father, I can't take your chair. I don't want to stop you
+from working. I thought I'd like to sit and watch you. Here, take your
+chair.'
+
+'I can get another. I can get one out of the butler's room. He won't
+mind just for once. He's a very particular man. But I'll tell him I
+took it for you.'
+
+The Major returned a moment after with a chair. He gave it to Agnes
+and resumed his place at the machine.
+
+'I shan't be many minutes before I finish this lot,' he said; 'then we
+shall be able to talk. I promised to get them finished this evening.'
+
+She had never seen a type-writing machine at work before, and admired
+the nimbleness with which his fingers struck the letters, and the
+dexterity with which he passed fresh sheets of paper under the roller.
+When he had finished and was gathering the sheets together, she
+said,--
+
+'How clever you are.'
+
+'I think I picked it up pretty quickly. I can do seventy words a
+minute. Some typists can do eighty, but my fingers are too old for
+that. Still, seventy is a good average, and I have hardly any
+corrections to make. They are very pleased with my work.... I'll teach
+you--you'd soon pick it up.'
+
+'Will you, father? Then I should be able to assist you. We could sit
+together, you in that corner, I in this. I wonder if mother would buy
+me a machine. I could pay her back out of the money I earned, just
+like you.'
+
+'Your mother would say you were wasting your time. You've come home,
+she'd say, to go into society, and not to learn type-writing.'
+
+'I'm afraid she would. But father, there is no use my going into
+society. I shall never get on in society. Last night at Lord
+Chiselhurst's----'
+
+'Yes; tell me about it. You must have enjoyed yourself there.'
+
+Agnes did not answer for a long while, at last she said,--
+
+'There's something, father, dear, that I must speak to you about....
+Mother thinks I ought to marry Lord Chiselhurst, that I ought to make
+up to him and catch him if I can. She says that he likes very young
+girls, and that she could see that he liked me. But, father, I cannot
+marry him. He is--no, I cannot marry him. I do not like him, I'm only
+sixteen, and he's forty or fifty. But that isn't the reason, at least
+not the only reason. I don't want to marry any one, and mother doesn't
+seem to understand that. She said if that were so, she really didn't
+see why I left the convent.'
+
+She was too intent on what she was saying to notice the light which
+flashed in the Major's eyes.
+
+'I said, "Mother, I never wanted to leave the convent, it was you who
+wanted me home." "No," she said, "it was not I, it was your father.
+But now that you are here I should like you to make a good marriage."
+Then she turned and kissed me.... I don't want to say anything against
+mother; she loves me, I'm sure: but we're so different, I shall never
+understand mother, I shall never get on in society. I cannot, father,
+dear, I cannot, I feel so far away; I do not know what to say to the
+people I meet. I do not feel that I understand them when they speak to
+me; I am far away, that is what I feel; I shall never get over that
+feeling; I shall not succeed, and then mother will get to hate me....
+I am so unhappy, father, I'm so unhappy.'
+
+Agnes dropped on her knees, and throwing her arms on her father's
+shoulder, she said:
+
+'But, father, you're not listening. Listen to me, I've only you.'
+
+'I'm thinking.'
+
+'Of what?'
+
+'Of many things.'
+
+'Poor father, you have a great deal to think of, and I come
+interrupting your work. How selfish I am.'
+
+'No, dear, you're not selfish.... I'm very glad you told me. So you
+think you'll never get on in society.'
+
+'I don't think I'm suited for society.'
+
+'I'm afraid you think that all society is like our drawing-room?'
+
+'How was it, father, that our drawing-room came to be what it is?'
+
+'A great deal of it is my fault, dear. When I lost my money I got
+disheartened, and little by little I lost control. One day I was told
+that as I paid for nothing I had no right to grumble. Your mother
+said, in reply to some question about me, that I was "merely an
+expense." I believe the phrase was considered very clever, it went the
+round of society, and eventually was put into a play. And that is why
+I told you that money is everything, that it is difficult to be
+truthful, honourable, or respectable if you have no money, a little
+will do, but you must have a little, if you haven't you aren't
+respectable, you're nothing, you become like me, a mere expense....
+I've borne it for your sake, dearest.'
+
+'For my sake, father, what do you mean?'
+
+'Never mind, best not to ask.... My dearest daughter, I would bear it
+all over again for your sake. But it is maddening work, it goes to the
+head at last. It makes one feel as if something was giving way there,'
+he said, touching his forehead, 'it does indeed.'
+
+'But, father, you mustn't bear this any longer, not for my sake,
+father, no, not for my sake; you must find some way out of it.'
+
+'I have found a way out of it. It took me a long while, but I have
+found the way--there it is,' he said, pointing to the type-writing
+machine. 'They don't suspect anything, not they, the fools; they don't
+know what is hanging over their heads. I'll tell you, Agnes, but you
+must not breathe a word of it to any one, if you did, they would take
+the machine from me: for they'd like me to remain a mere expense. As
+long as I'm that, they can do what they like, but as soon as I gain an
+independence, as soon as I am able to pay for my meals,' he whispered,
+'I mean to put my house in order But you mustn't breathe a word.'
+
+'I'll never do anything, father, you ask me not to do.'
+
+'I shall be able to sweep out all those you don't like. There are too
+many men hanging about here?'
+
+'Tell me, father, do you like Lord Chadwick?' The Major's face changed
+expression. 'Have I said anything to wound you?' she said, pressing
+his hand.
+
+'No, dear. You asked me if I liked Lord Chadwick. I was thinking.
+Somehow it seems to me that I rather like him, though I have no reason
+to do so. He thinks me crazy, but so do others; I know that my
+conversation bores him, he always tries to get away from me, yet
+somehow it seems to me that I do like him.'
+
+'Is he a fast man, father, is he like Lord Chiselhurst?'
+
+'He is much the same as the other men that come here. I don't think
+he's a bad man--no worse than other men. Is he kind to you, dear; tell
+me that; do you like him?'
+
+'Yes, father; he and Mr. St. Clare are the men I like best here. But
+why is he here so much, father, he's no relation.'
+
+'He has dined and lunched here every day for the last ten years. He's
+been an expense too.'
+
+'Mother said he is so poor that she has often to lend him money.'
+
+'He should have spent some of the money she lent him, on a type-
+writing machine, and striven as I do to make an independence. When
+I've got together a little independence, when I can pay for my meals
+and my clothes, you shall see; none that you dislike shall ever come
+here, dearest. I'll put my house in order.'
+
+'But that will take a long time, father; in the meantime----'
+
+'What, dear?'
+
+'Mother will want me to marry.'
+
+'They shall not force you to marry, they shall not ask you to do
+anything you do not like. Lord Chiselhurst ought to be ashamed, a man
+of his age to want to marry a young girl like you. I will go and tell
+him so.'
+
+The Major stood up, he was pale, and Agnes noticed that his lips
+trembled.
+
+'No, father,' she said, 'do not go to him; I do not know that he wants
+to marry me; it is only mother's idea, she may be mistaken.'
+
+'You shall not be persecuted by his attentions.'
+
+'Lord Chiselhurst is a gentleman, father. Whatever his faults may be,
+I feel sure when he sees that I do not want him, that he will cease to
+think of me... Lord Chiselhurst is not the worst.'
+
+'Who, then, is the worst? Who is it that you wish me to rid you of?'
+
+'I don't wish you to be violent, father, but you might hint to Mr.
+Moulton that I do not wish----'
+
+'That man--he, too, is merely an expense.'
+
+'I am sure, father, that it is not right of him to put his arms round
+me--he tried to kiss me. I was alone in the drawing-room. And he
+speaks in a way that I do not like--I don't know.... I don't like him;
+he frightens me.'
+
+'Frightens you! That fellow--that fellow!'
+
+'Yes; he asks me questions.'
+
+'He never shall do so again. Is he in the drawing-room?'
+
+'Yes; but, father, you cannot speak to him now, there are people in
+the drawing-room.'
+
+'I don't care who's there.'
+
+'No, father, no; I beg of you. Mother will never forgive me....
+Father, you mustn't make a scene. Father, you cannot go to the
+drawing-room in those clothes,' and in desperate resolve, Agnes threw
+herself between the Major and the door, pressing him back with both
+hands.
+
+'They think me a sheep, I have been a sheep too long, but they shall
+see that even the sheep will turn to save its lamb from the butcher.
+I'll go to them, yes, and in these clothes--Agnes, let me go.'
+
+'I want you to speak to Mr. Moulton.... But not now, this is not the
+time.'
+
+He tried to push past her, but she resisted him, and sat down in front
+of his type-writing machine, pale and exhausted, the sweat pearling
+his bald forehead.
+
+She tried to calm him and to induce him to understand the scandal he
+would make if he were to go down to the drawing-room, dressed as he
+was. But her words did not seem to reach the Major's brain. He only
+muttered that the time had come to put his house in order. Agnes
+answered, 'Father, for my sake ... not now.' But he must obey the idea
+which pierced his brain, and before she could prevent him he slipped
+past her and opened the door.
+
+'Oh, father, don't, for my sake, please.'
+
+His lips moved but he did not speak.
+
+'I will not make a scene,' he said at last.
+
+'Father!'
+
+'I will not make a scene, but I must do something.... I promise you
+that I will not make a scene, but I must go down to the drawing-room
+in these clothes. In these clothes,' he repeated. There was something
+in his look which conveyed a sense of the inevitable, and Agnes
+watched him descend the stairs. She followed slowly, catching at the
+banisters leaning against the wall. She noticed that his step was
+heavy and irresolute and hoped he would refrain. But he went on, step
+after step.
+
+
+
+
+V.
+
+
+He had intended to turn the entire crew out of the house; but Agnes
+had induced him to relinquish this idea, and, as no fresh idea had
+taken its place, he entered the drawing-room with no more than a vague
+notion that he should parade his old clothes, and reprove the
+conversation.
+
+'Olive, I've come down for a cup of tea.'
+
+'I don't mind giving you a cup,' said Mrs. Lahens, 'but I think you
+might have taken the trouble to change your clothes: that's hardly a
+costume to receive ladies in. Look at him, Lady Castlerich--that's
+what I've to put up with.'
+
+'Lady Castlerich will excuse my clothes. You know, Lady Castlerich,
+that I'm very poor. Some years ago I lost my money, and since then
+I've been merely an expense. It is most humiliating to have to ask
+your wife for twopence to take the omnibus.'
+
+'My dear Major,' said Harding, 'what on earth is the matter with you?
+You've been working too hard.... But, by the way, I forgot to tell you
+I've just finished a novel which I shall be glad if you'll copy it for
+me. You haven't shown me your machine. Come.'
+
+'I shall be very glad to have your work to do, Harding, but I can't
+talk to you about it just at present. You must excuse me, I've an
+explanation to make. Oh, do not think of going, dear Lady Castlerich,
+do not let my costume frighten you away. These are my working clothes.
+The last money I took from my wife was sixteen pounds to buy a type-
+writing machine. I made five shillings last week, four shillings went
+towards paying for the machine. When I am clear of that debt I shall
+make enough to pay for my room and my meals. I had always intended
+then to put my house in order.'
+
+'But, my dear Major,' said Lady Castlerich, trying to get past him,
+'your house is charmin', the drawing-room is perfectly charmin', I
+don't know a more charmin' room.'
+
+'The room is well enough, it is what one hears in the room.'
+
+'Hears in the room! Major, I'm sure our conversation has been most
+agreeable.'
+
+'You'll agree with me that it is a little hard that my daughter should
+have to sit in her bedroom all day.'
+
+'But we should be charmed to have her here,' expostulated the old
+lady. 'She was here just now, but she ran away.'
+
+'Yes; she ran away from the conversation.'
+
+'Ran away from the conversation, Major! Now what were we talking
+about, Olive?'
+
+'I don't know.... He's in one of his mad humours, pay no attention to
+him, Lady Castlerich,' said Mrs. Lahens.
+
+'Perhaps you were talking about your lovers, Lady Castlerich,' said
+the Major.
+
+'I'm sure I couldn't have been, for the fact is I don't remember.'
+
+'I really must be going,' said Harding; 'goodbye, Mrs. Lahens. And
+now, Major, come with me and we'll talk about the typing of the
+novel.'
+
+'Later on, Harding, later on, I've to speak about my daughter. There's
+so much she doesn't understand. You know, Lady Castlerich, she has
+been very strictly brought up.'
+
+'How very strange. I must really be going. Good-bye, Major, charmin'
+afternoon, I'm sure.'
+
+'I hope,' he said, turning to Lilian, 'that I can congratulate you on
+your engagement?'
+
+'My engagement. With whom.... Mr. St. Clare? What makes you think
+that? We are not engaged; we're merely friends.'
+
+'It was given out that you were engaged. Mr. Harding said it was
+physically impossible for you to see more than you did of each other.'
+
+'My dear Major,' said Harding, 'you're mistaken; I never said such a
+thing, I assure you--'
+
+'Physically impossible,' giggled Lady Castlerich. 'That's good. But
+won't you see me to my carriage, Mr. Harding. Did you say physically
+impossible?'
+
+The Major looked round, uncertain whom to address next. Catching Mr.
+Moulton, who was stealing past him, by the arm, he said:
+
+'You, too, understand how humiliating it is to be a mere expense. Why
+don't you buy a type-writing machine?'
+
+'Perhaps I shall ... the first money I get,' Mr. Moulton answered, and
+disengaging his arm he hurried away, leaving the Major alone with his
+wife. She sat in her arm-chair looking into the fire. The Major
+waited, expecting her to speak, but she said not a word.
+
+'I want to talk to you, Olive.'
+
+'To hear what I have to say about your conduct, I suppose. I have
+nothing to say.'
+
+
+'I'm not clever, like you, and don't say the right thing, but
+something had to be done, and I did it as best I could.'
+
+'You're madder than I thought you were.'
+
+'Something had to be done?'
+
+'Something had to be done! What do you mean? But it doesn't matter.'
+
+'Yes, it does, Olive. I want you to understand that Agnes must be
+saved.'
+
+'Saved!'
+
+'Yes, saved from this drawing-room; you know that it is a pollution
+for one like her.'
+
+'I remember,' said Mrs. Lahens, turning suddenly, 'that you said
+something about putting your house in order. I didn't understand what
+you meant. Did you mean this house?'
+
+'Yes.'
+
+'But you forget that this is my house. So you intend to rescue Agnes
+from this drawing-room. You can go, both of you.... I'll have both of
+you put out of doors!'
+
+'You'll not turn your daughter out of doors!'
+
+'If my drawing-room is not good enough for her, let her go back to the
+convent. You took her from me years ago; you never thought I was good
+enough for your daughter.'
+
+'There was Chadwick. I begged of you to break with him for the sake of
+your daughter. You might have done that. I made sacrifices for her; I
+endured this house; I accepted your lover.'
+
+'Accepted my lover! You did not expect a woman to be faithful to a man
+like you.... You didn't think that possible, did you?'
+
+'What was I to do; what can a man do who is dependent on his wife for
+his support? Besides, there was more than myself to consider, there
+was Agnes; had I divorced you she would have suffered.'
+
+'Of course you never thought of yourself--of this house; I daresay you
+look upon yourself quite as a hero. Well, upon my word----' Mrs.
+Lahens laughed.
+
+'I don't think I thought of myself. I daresay the world put the worst
+construction on my conduct. But you can't say that I took much
+advantage of the fact that you were willing to let me live in the
+house. I gave up my room--I live in the meanest room--the kitchen-maid
+complained about it; she left it; there was no use for it. What I eat
+does not cost you much; I eat very little. Of course I know that that
+little is too much. Meantime, I'm trying to create a little
+independence.'
+
+'And meantime you shall respect my drawing-room.... But the mischief
+is done; you have insulted my friends; you have forced them out of my
+house. The story will be all over Mayfair to-morrow. It will be said
+that the sheep has turned at last. Nothing is to be gained by keeping
+you any longer.'
+
+'But Agnes?'
+
+'Agnes will remain with me.... You don't propose to take her with you,
+do you?'
+
+'I couldn't support her, at least not yet awhile, not even if Harding
+gave me the novel he was speaking of to copy.'
+
+'Support her! ... Harding give you his novel to copy.... You poor
+fool, you could not spell the words.'
+
+'True, that is my difficulty.... But Agnes cannot remain here without
+me. That is impossible. To remain here, seeing your friends in this
+drawing-room! things to go on as they are! that child! Olive, you must
+see that that is impossible. It would be worse than before.'
+
+'If I refuse to have you here any longer, you've no one but yourself
+to thank.'
+
+'Olive, remember that she is our child; we owe her something. I have
+suffered a great deal for her sake; you know I have. Do you now suffer
+something. You'll be better for it; you'll be happier. I am in a way
+happier for what I have suffered.'
+
+'You mean if I consent to let you stay here?'
+
+'I was not thinking of that; that is not enough.'
+
+'Not enough! Well, what is enough? But I cannot listen,' said Mrs.
+Lahens, speaking half to herself. 'I'm keeping him waiting. What a
+fright I shall be! Our evening will be spoilt.'
+
+'Where are you going?'
+
+'I'm going to dine with Chad, if you wish to know.'
+
+'You shall not go to Lord Chadwick,' said the Major, walking close to
+his wife. Mrs. Lahens turned from the glass. 'You shall not go,'
+repeated the Major. 'Go at your peril.' ... They stood looking at each
+other a moment with hatred in their eyes. Then with tears in his
+voice, the Major said, 'For our daughter's sake give him up. She
+already suspects, and it makes her so unhappy. She is so good, so
+innocent. Think of what a shock it would be to her if she were to
+discover the truth. Give up Chadwick for her sake. You'll never
+regret. One day or other it will have to end; if you let it end now
+you'll repair the past.'
+
+'Her innocence! her goodness! Had I married another man I might have
+been a virtuous woman. ... The world asks too much virtue from women.
+If I had not had Chad I should have gone mad long ago. He's been very
+good to me: why should I give him up? For why? What has my daughter
+done for me that I should give up all I have in the world; and what
+purpose would be served if I did? So that she should preserve her
+illusions a few months longer. That is all. If she remain in the world
+she must learn what the world is. If she doesn't want to learn what
+the world is, the sooner she goes back to the convent the better. And
+now I must go; I'm late.'
+
+'You shall not go. You shall see no more of Lord Chadwick. You shall
+receive no more of your infamous friends. My daughter's mind shall not
+be polluted.'
+
+'Don't talk nonsense, Major. Let me go, or I shall have you turned out
+of the house. I don't want to, but you'll force me to.... Now let me
+go.'
+
+The Major took his wife by the throat, and repeated his demand.
+
+'Say that this adultery shall cease, or else---'
+
+'Or else you'll kill me?'
+
+'Father!'
+
+Agnes had stolen downstairs. She had waited a few moments on the
+threshold before she entered the room necessity ordained... and she
+stood pale and courageous between her parents.
+
+Mrs. Lahens sat down on the ottoman, and, when the servant arrived
+with the lamp, Agnes saw that her mother, notwithstanding her paint,
+was like death. The servant looked under the lamp's shade and turned
+up the wicks; he drew the curtains, and at last the wide mahogany door
+swept noiselessly over the carpet, and the three were alone.
+
+'I'm sorry, Agnes, that you were present just now. Such a scene never
+happened before. I assure you. A point arose between us, and I'm
+afraid we both forgot ourselves. It would be better if you went
+upstairs.'
+
+'I see,' said Mrs. Lahens, 'that you understand each other. It is I
+who had better go.'
+
+'No, mother, don't go. I would not have you think that--that--oh, how
+am I to say it?'
+
+Mrs. Lahens looked at her daughter--a strange look it was, of surprise
+and inquiry.
+
+'Mother, I have been but an apple of discord thrown between you....
+But, indeed, it was not my fault. Mother, dear, it was not my fault.'
+
+For a moment it seemed as if Mrs. Lahens were going to take her
+daughter in her arms. But some thought or feeling checked the impulse,
+and she said:
+
+'Talk to your father, Agnes. I cannot stay.'
+
+'You shall not go,' said the Major, laying his hand on her arm. 'You
+shall not go to Lord Chadwick.'
+
+'Oh, father; oh, father, I beg of you.... It is with gentleness and
+love that we overcome our troubles. Let mother go if she wants to go.'
+
+The Major took his hand from his wife's arm, and Mrs. Lahens said:
+
+'You're a good girl, Agnes. I wish you had always remained with me. If
+your father had not taken you from me, I might---'
+
+She left the room hurriedly, and, a few moments after, they heard her
+drive away in a cab.
+
+'Father, I know everything.'
+
+'You overheard?'
+
+'Yes, father. As your voices grew more angry I crept downstairs. I
+heard about Lord Chadwick. You must have patience; you must be
+gentle.'
+
+'Agnes, I have been patient, I have been gentle. That was my mistake.'
+
+'Perhaps, father, it would have been better if you had acted
+differently at first, a long time ago. But I'm sure that the present
+is no time for anger. I know that it was on my account, that it was to
+save me, that you--that you--you know what I mean.'
+
+'You're right, Agnes. My mistake began long ago. But you must not
+judge me harshly. You do not know, you cannot realise what my position
+has been in this house. I could do nothing. When a man has lost his
+money----'
+
+'I do not judge you, father, nor mother either. It is not for me to
+judge. I am ignorant of the world and wish to remain ignorant of it. I
+always felt that it would be best so, now I am sure of it.'
+
+'Agnes, it is too soon for you to judge. This house--'
+
+'She's gone to meet that man; but she shall not. She shall not! I
+swear it! ... That man, I'll take him by the throat. I ought to have
+done so long ago; but it is not too late.'
+
+'Father, let us say a prayer together; I have not said one with you
+since I was a little child. Will you kneel down with me and say a
+prayer for mother?'
+
+She stretched out her hand to him, and they knelt down together in the
+drawing-room. Agnes said:
+
+'Oh, my God, we offer up an our Our Father and Hail Mary that thou
+may'st give us all grace to overcome temptation.'
+
+The Major repeated the prayers after his daughter, and, when they rose
+from their knees, Agnes said:
+
+'Father, I never asked a favour of you before. You'll not refuse me
+this?'
+
+The Major looked at his daughter tenderly.
+
+'You will never again be violent. You promise me this, father. I shall
+be miserable if you don't. You promise me this, father? You cannot
+refuse me. It is my first request and my last.'
+
+The Major's face was full of tears. There were none on Agnes' face;
+but her eyes shone with anticipation and desire.
+
+'Promise,' she said, 'promise.'
+
+'I promise.'
+
+'And when the temptation comes you'll remember your promise to me?'
+
+'Yes, Agnes, I'll remember.'
+
+The strain that the extortion of the promise had put upon her feelings
+had exhausted the girl; she then pressed her hands to her eyes and
+dropped on the ottoman. For a long while father and daughter sat
+opposite each other without speaking. At last the Major said:
+
+'I must go out; I cannot stop here.'
+
+'But, father, remember... you are not going to mother.'
+
+'No; only for a trot round the Square.'
+
+She pressed her hand to her forehead; she felt her eyes, they were dry
+and burning; and it was not until the servant announced Father White
+that her tears flowed.
+
+
+
+
+VI.
+
+
+'Then you've heard,' said Agnes, coming forward and taking the
+priest's hand. 'How did you hear? Did you meet father?'
+
+'No, my dear child, I've heard nothing. I did not meet your father. I
+was in London to-day for the first time since I last saw you. I ought
+to have called earlier, but I was detained.... I'm afraid I'm late, it
+must be getting late. It must be getting near your dinner hour.'
+
+'I see that you know nothing, and that I shall have to tell you all.'
+
+'Yes, my dear child, tell me everything.' Agnes sat on the ottoman,
+Father White took a chair near her. 'Tell me everything. I see you've
+been weeping. You're not happy at home then?'
+
+'Oh, Father; happy! if you only knew, if you only knew.... I cannot
+tell you.' Then seeing in the priest's arrival a means of escape from
+the danger of her position between her father and mother, she cried,
+'You must take me back to the convent to-night. I cannot meet mother
+when she comes home. Something dreadful might happen. Father White,
+you must take me back to the convent, say that you will, say that you
+will.'
+
+'My dear child, you are agitated, calm yourself. What has happened?
+Tell me.'
+
+'It is too long a story, it is too dreadful. I cannot tell it all to
+you now. Later I'll tell you. Take me back to the convent. I cannot
+meet mother. I cannot.'
+
+'But what has your mother done; has she been cruel to you--has she
+struck you?'
+
+'Struck me! if that were all! that would be nothing.' The priest's
+face turned a trifle paler. He felt that something dreadful had
+happened. The girl was overcome; her nerves had given way, and she
+could hardly speak. It were not well to insist that she should be put
+to the torture of a complete narrative.
+
+'Where is your father?' he said. 'Major Lahens will tell me, he knows,
+I suppose, all about it. Calm yourself, Agnes. Tell me where your
+father is, that will be sufficient.'
+
+'Father is walking round the Square. But don't leave me, don't. I
+cannot remain in this room alone,' she said, looking round with a
+frightened air.
+
+'I'll wait till he comes in.'
+
+'He may not come in for hours. Perhaps he'll never come back, anything
+may happen.'
+
+'If he's walking round the Square he can be sent for.'
+
+'No, Father White. I'll be calm. I'll tell you. I must tell you, but
+you'll not desert me, you'll not leave me here to meet mother.'
+
+'Don't you think, my dear child, that it would be better that I should
+see your father, that he should tell me?'
+
+'No, I'd sooner tell you myself. Father could not explain. To-morrow,
+or after in the convent I'll tell you. I'll tell you and the Mother
+Abbess.'
+
+'You must see, Agnes, that I cannot take you away from your father's
+house without his permission.'
+
+'It is not father's house.'
+
+'Well, your mother's house.'
+
+'That is quite different. I see that I must tell you--of course I
+must.'
+
+'Surely, Agnes, it would be better to postpone telling me till to-
+morrow, you're tired, you've been crying, you'll be able to tell me
+better in the morning. I'll call here early to-morrow morning.'
+
+'No; you must take me back to the convent to-night, I cannot remain
+here.... You'll agree with me that I cannot when I tell you all.'...
+
+Agnes looked at Father White, she was no longer crying, she had
+regained her self possession in the necessity of the moment, and she
+began with hardly a tremble In her voice.
+
+'Mother is not--is not--I'm afraid she is not--But how am I to accuse
+my own mother.'
+
+'I'm sure now, my dear child, that I was right when I suggested that I
+should speak to Major Lahens.'
+
+'Because you don't know the circumstances, nor do you know my father.
+No, it must be I. I must tell you.'
+
+There was a note of conviction in Agnes' voice which silenced further
+protestation, and Father White listened.
+
+'You see, this house and everything here belongs to mother. It is she
+who pays for everything. Father lost all his money some years ago; he
+was cheated out of it in the city. The loss of his money preyed upon
+his mind; he could not stand the humiliation of asking his wife, as he
+puts it, for twopence to take the omnibus. Mother did not care for
+father, she cared for some one else, and that of course made father's
+dependence still more humiliating. It preyed on his mind, and he lives
+in the house like a servant, in a little room under the roof that the
+kitchen-maid would not sleep in. He has a type-writing machine up
+there, and he makes a few shillings a week by copying; he bought the
+butler's old overcoat... It is very sad to see him up there at work,
+and to hear him talk.... I must tell you that the people who come here
+are not good people, I don't think that they can be very nice; the
+conversation in this drawing-room I'm sure is not. ... There is a man
+who comes here whom I don't like at all, a Mr. Moulton. He says things
+that are not nice, and he tried to kiss me the other day. I was afraid
+of him, and mother used to leave me alone with him. I had difficulty
+in getting away from him, so I asked father to speak. I thought that
+father, when he met him alone, would tell him not to talk as he did,
+but father got so angry, that notwithstanding all I could do to
+prevent him he went down in his old clothes to the drawing-room, and,
+I suppose, insulted every one. Anyhow they all went away. I felt that
+something was happening, so I listened on the stairs. Father and
+mother were talking violently, and when he grasped mother's throat--I
+rushed between them. That is the whole story.'
+
+'A very terrible story.'
+
+'So you see that it is impossible for me to remain here. I cannot meet
+mother after what has happened. You must take me to the convent to-
+night. Say that you will, Father White.'
+
+'Have you not thought, my child, that it may be your duty to remain
+here as mediator, as peace-maker?'
+
+'Father has promised me that he will never raise his hand to mother
+again. I made him understand that it was by gentleness and patience
+she must be won back.'
+
+'All the more reason that you should remain here to watch and
+encourage the good work you have begun.'
+
+'But, Father White, I feel that I have done all that I can do.... My
+prayers must do the rest.'
+
+'But your presence in this house would be an influence for good, and
+would check again, as it did to-day, these unhappy outbursts of
+violence.'
+
+'Father has promised me never to resort to violence again; my presence
+is the temptation to do so, things might happen--things would be sure
+to happen that would force him to forget his promise. He might kill
+mother--that is the way these things end. He has borne with a great
+deal; he has said nothing; people think that he feels nothing; he may
+think so himself, but something is all the while growing within him,
+and the day comes when he will stand it no longer, when he will kill
+mother. Very little suffices, I very nearly sufficed.... I must go,
+Father, you must take me away.'
+
+Agnes spoke out of the fulness of her instinct, and Father White
+wondered, for such knowledge of life seemed very strange in one of
+Agnes' age and ignorance.
+
+'I understand, my child. As you say, it is difficult for you to remain
+here. But I cannot take you away without consulting your father.'
+
+'Father will not oppose my returning to the convent, I have spoken to
+him. He knows how unhappy I am.'
+
+'But I cannot take you away without his authority.'
+
+'I did not intend to leave without bidding father good-bye. We can
+stop the cab as we go round the Square.'
+
+'But your clothes are not packed.'
+
+'They will lend me all I want at the convent, my clothes can be sent
+after me. Father, you must take me away, I cannot remain here and meet
+mother after what happened. My mission here is ended; prayer will do
+the rest. I want to go to the convent so that I shall be free to pray
+for mother.'
+
+Unable to resist the intensity of the girl's will, Father White
+answered that he would wait for her while she went upstairs to get her
+hat and jacket. As he paced the room he tried to think, but he could
+not catch a single thread of thought. He was merely aware of the
+horrible position that this dear, good and innocent girl had so
+unexpectedly found herself thrust into, and of the good sense and
+resource she had displayed in her time of trial. 'No doubt she is
+right,' he thought, 'she cannot remain here.... She must go back to
+the convent, at least for the present. But once she goes back she will
+never again be persuaded to leave it. So much the better, another soul
+for God and joy everlasting.'
+
+The door opened. Agnes wore the same dress as she had arrived in, the
+same little black fur jacket, and her hands were in the same little
+muff. They went downstairs without speaking, and Father White called a
+four-wheeled cab. As they got in he said:
+
+'You know that I cannot possibly take you away without first obtaining
+your father's authority.'
+
+'We shall meet him as we go round the Square. Tell the cabman to drive
+slowly, I'll keep watch this side, you keep watch that side, we can't
+miss him.'
+
+'I'm to drive round the Square till you see a gentleman walking?'
+
+'Yes, and then we'll stop you,' said Father White.
+
+Suddenly Agnes cried 'There is father, there.' Father White poked his
+umbrella through the window, and Agnes screamed, and she had to scream
+her loudest, so absorbed was the Major.
+
+'Father White called to see me. I've asked him to take me back to the
+convent. You'll let me go, father? I shall be happier there than at
+home.'
+
+The Major did not answer and the priest said:
+
+'If you'll allow me, Major Lahens, I'd like to have a few minutes'
+conversation with you.'
+
+He got out of the cab and Agnes waited anxiously. She could hear them
+talking, and she prayed that she might sleep at the convent that
+night. At last the Major came to the cab door and said:
+
+'If you wish, Agnes, to go back to the convent with Father White you
+can. I'll work hard and make some money and then you'll come and live
+with me.'
+
+'Yes, father.... Remember you'll always be in my thoughts... It is
+good of you to let me go, indeed it is. You must try not to miss me
+too much and you'll often come and see me.'
+
+'Yes, dear.'
+
+'And, father, dear, you'll remember your promise.'
+
+'Yes, dear... Good-bye.'
+
+She kissed her father on the forehead and burst into tears. The cab
+jangled on, the priest did not speak and gradually through the girl's
+grief there grew remembrance of the road leading to the convent. And,
+though they were still five miles away or more, she saw the gate at
+the corner of the lane, the porteress too. She saw the quiet sedate
+nuns hastening down the narrow passages towards their chapel. She saw
+them playing with their doves like innocent children, she saw them
+chase the ball down the gravel walks and across the swards. She saw
+her life from end to end, from the moment when the porteress would
+open the door to the time when she would be laid in the little
+cemetery at the end of the garden where the nuns go to rest.
+
+THE END.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Celibates, by George Moore
+
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