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diff --git a/old/60121-0.txt b/old/60121-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index c296f0b..0000000 --- a/old/60121-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,14442 +0,0 @@ -Project Gutenberg's The Glory of Clementina Wing, by William J. Locke - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: The Glory of Clementina Wing - -Author: William J. Locke - -Release Date: August 18, 2019 [EBook #60121] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GLORY OF CLEMENTINA WING *** - - - - -Produced by Marcia Brooks, Al Haines, Jen Haines & the -online Distributed Proofreaders Canada team at -http://www.pgdpcanada.net - - - - - - - - - - - [Cover Illustration] - - - - - : THE GLORY OF : - CLEMENTINA WING - - - - - _BY THE SAME AUTHOR_ - -IDOLS -SEPTIMUS -DERELICTS -THE USURPER -WHERE LOVE IS -THE WHITE DOVE -SIMON THE JESTER -A STUDY IN SHADOWS -THE BELOVED VAGABOND -AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA -THE MORALS OF MARCUS ORDEYNE -THE DEMAGOGUE AND LADY PHAYRE - - - - - :: THE GLORY OF :: - CLEMENTINA WING - - BY - WILLIAM J. LOCKE - - LONDON: JOHN LANE THE BODLEY HEAD - NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY MCMXI - - - - - THE BALLANTYNE PRESS TAVISTOCK STREET COVENT GARDEN LONDON - - - - - : THE GLORY OF : - CLEMENTINA WING - - - - - CHAPTER I - - -Unless you knew that by taking a few turnings in any direction and -walking for five minutes you would inevitably come into one of the -great, clashing, shrieking thoroughfares of London, you might think that -Romney Place, Chelsea, was situated in some world-forgotten cathedral -city. Why it is called a “place,” history does not record. It is simply -a street, or double terrace, the quietest, sedatest, most unruffled, -most old-maidish street you can imagine. Its primness is painful. It is -rigorously closed to organ-grinders and German bands; and itinerant -vendors of coal would have as much hope of selling their wares inside -the British Museum as of attracting custom in Romney Place by their -raucous appeal. Little dogs on leads and lazy Persian cats are its -_genii loci_. It consists of a double row of little Early Victorian -houses, each having a basement protected by area railings, an entrance -floor reached by a prim little flight of steps, and an upper floor. -Three little houses close one end of the street, a sleepy little modern -church masks the other. Each house has a tiny back garden which, on the -south side, owing to the gradual slope of the ground riverwards, is on a -level with the basement floor and thus on a lower level than the street. -Some of the houses on this south side are constructed with a studio on -the garden level running the whole height of the house. A sloping -skylight in the roof admits the precious north light, and a French -window leads on to the garden. A gallery runs round the studio, on a -level and in communication with the entrance floor; and from this to the -ground is a spiral staircase. - -From such a gallery did Tommy Burgrave, one November afternoon, look -down into the studio of Clementina Wing. She was not alone, as he had -expected; for in front of an easel carrying a nearly finished portrait -stood the original, a pretty, dainty girl accompanied by a well-dressed, -well-fed, bullet-headed, bull-necked, commonplace young man. Clementina, -on hearing footsteps, looked up. - -“I’m sorry——” he began. “They didn’t tell me——” - -“Don’t run away. We’re quite through with the sitting. Come down. This -is Mr. Burgrave, a neighbour of mine,” she explained. “Tries to paint, -too—Miss Etta Concannon—Captain Hilyard.” - -She performed perfunctory introductions. The group lingered round the -portrait for a few moments, and then the girl and the young man went -away. Clementina scrutinised the picture, sighed, pushed the easel to a -corner of the studio and drew up another one into the light. Tommy sat -on the model-throne and lit a cigarette. - -“Who’s the man?” - -“This?” asked Clementina, pointing to the new portrait, that of a stout -and comfortable-looking gentleman. - -“No. The man with Miss Etta Something. I like the name Etta.” - -“He’s engaged to her. I told you his name, Captain Hilyard. He called -for her. I don’t like him,” replied Clementina, whose language was -abrupt. - -“He looks rather a brute—and she’s as pretty as paint. It must be awful -hard lines on a girl when she gets hold of a bad lot.” - -“You’re right,” she said, gathering up palette and brushes. Then she -turned on him. “What are you wasting precious daylight for? Why aren’t -you at work?” - -“I feel rather limp this afternoon, and want stimulating. So I thought -I’d come in. Can I stay?” - -“Oh Lord, yes, you can stay,” said Clementina, dabbing a vicious bit of -paint on the canvas and stepping back to observe the effect. “Though you -limp young men who need stimulating make me tired—as tired,” she added, -with another stroke, “as this horrible fat man’s trousers.” - -“I don’t see why you need have painted his trousers. Why not have made -him half-length?” - -“Because he’s the kind of cheesemonger that wants value for his money. -If I cut him off at the waist he would think he was cheated. He pays to -have his hideous trousers painted, and so I paint them.” - -“But you’re an artist, Clementina.” - -“I got over the disease long ago,” she replied grimly, still dabbing at -the creases of the abominable and unmentionable garments. “A woman of my -age and appearance hasn’t any illusions left. If she has, she’s a fool. -I paint portraits for money, so that one of these days I may be able to -retire from trade and be a lady. Bah! Art! Look at that!” - -“Hi! Stop!” laughed Tommy, as soon as the result of the fresh -brush-stroke was revealed. “Don’t make the infernal things more hideous -than they are already.” - -“That’s where I get ‘character,’” she said sarcastically. “People like -it. They say ‘How rugged! How strong! How expressive!’ Look at the fat, -self-satisfied old pig!—and they pay me in guineas where the rest of -you high artistic people get shillings. If I had the courage of my -convictions and painted him with a snout, they’d pay me in lacs of -rupees. Art! Don’t talk of it. I’m sick of it.” - -“All right,” said Tommy, calmly puffing away at his cigarette, “I won’t. -Art is long and the talk about it is longer, thank God. So it will -keep.” - -He was a fresh-faced, fair-haired boy of two-and-twenty, and the -chartered libertine of Clementina’s exclusive studio. His uncle, Ephraim -Quixtus, had married a distant relation of Clementina, so, in a vague -way, she was a family connection. To this fact he owed acquaintance with -her—indeed, he had known her dimly from boyhood; but his intimacy he -owed to a certain charm and candour of youth which found him favour in -her not very tolerant eyes. - -He sat on the model-throne, clasping his knee, and, wonderingly, -admiringly, watched her paint. For all her cynical depreciation of her -art, she was a portrait-painter of high rank, possessing the -portrait-painter’s magical gift of getting at essentials, of splashing -the very soul, miserable or noble, of the subject upon the canvas. She -had a rough, brilliant method, direct and uncompromising as her speech. -To see her at work was at once Tommy Burgrave’s delight and his despair. -Had she been a young and pretty woman, his masculine vanity might have -smarted. But Clementina, with her ugliness, gruffness, and untidiness, -scarcely ranked as a woman in his disingenuous mind. You couldn’t -possibly fall in love with her; no one could ever have fallen in love -with her. And she, of course, had never had the remotest idea of falling -in love with anybody. To his boyish fancy, Clementina in love was a -grotesque conception. Besides, she might be any age. He decided that she -must be about fifty. But when you made allowances for her gruffness and -eccentricities, you found that she was a good sort—and, there was no -doubt about it, she could paint. - -Of course, Clementina might have made herself look much younger and more -prepossessing, and thereby have pleased the fancy of Tommy Burgrave. As -a matter of fact she was only thirty-five. Many a woman with more years -and even less foundation of beauty than Clementina flaunts about the -world breaking men’s hearts, obfuscating their common sense, and -exerting all the bewildering influences of a seductive sex. She only has -to do her hair, attend to her skin, and attire herself in more or less -becoming raiment. Very little care suffices. Men are ludicrously easy to -please in the way of female attractiveness—but they draw the line -somewhere. It must be confessed that they drew it at Clementina Wing. -Her coarse black hair straggled perpetually in uncared-for strands -between fortuitous hair-pins. Her complexion was dark and oily; her nose -had never been powdered since its early infancy; and her face, even when -she walked abroad, was often disfigured, as it was now, by a smudge of -paint. She had heedlessly suffered the invasion of lines and wrinkles. A -deep vertical furrow had settled hard between her black, overhanging -brows. She had intensified and perpetuated the crow’s-feet between her -eyes by a trick, when concentrating her painter’s vision on a sitter, of -screwing her face into a monkey’s myriad wrinkles. She dressed, -habitually, in any old blouse, any old skirt, any old hat picked up at -random in bedroom or studio, and picked up originally, with equal lack -of selection, in any miscellaneous emporium of feminine attire. When her -figure, which, as women acquaintances would whisper to each other, but -never (not daring) to Clementina, had, after all, its possibilities, was -hidden by a straight, shapeless, colour-smeared painting-smock, and all -of Clementina as God made her that was visible, save her capable hands, -was the swarthy face with its harsh contours, its high cheekbones, its -unlovely, premature furrows, surmounted by the bedraggled hair that -would have disgraced a wigwam, Tommy Burgrave may be pardoned for -regarding her less as a woman than a painter of genius who somehow did -not happen to be a man. - -Presently she laid down palette and brushes and pushed the easel to one -side. - -“I can’t do any more at it without a model. Besides, it’s getting dark. -Ring for tea.” - -She threw off her painting-smock, revealing herself in an old brown -skirt and a soiled white blouse gaping at the back, and sank with a sigh -of relief into a chair. It was good to sit down, she said. She had been -standing all day. She would be glad to have some tea. It would take the -taste of the trousers out of her mouth. - -“If you dislike them so much, why did you rush at them, as soon as those -people had gone?” - -“To get the girl’s face out of my mind. Look here, _mon petit_,” she -said, turning on him suddenly, “if you ask questions I’ll turn you into -the street. I’m tired; give me something to smoke.” - -He disinterred a yellow, crumpled packet of French tobacco and -cigarette-papers from among a litter on the table, and lit the cigarette -for her when she had rolled it. - -“I suppose you’re the only woman in London who rolls her own -cigarettes.” - -“Well?” asked Clementina. - -He laughed. “That’s all.” - -“It was an idiotic remark,” said Clementina. - -The maid brought in tea, and it was Tommy who played host. She softened -a little as he waited on her. - -“I was meant to be a lady, Tommy, and do nothing. This paint-brush -walloping—after all, what is it? What’s the good of painting these -fools’ portraits?” - -“Each of them is work of genius,” said Tommy. - -“Rot and rubbish,” said Clementina. “Let me clear your mind of a lot of -foolish nonsense you hear at your high-art tea-parties, where women -drivel and talk of their mission in the world. A woman has only one -mission; to marry and get babies. Keep that fact in front of you when -you’re taking up with any of ’em. Genius! I can’t be a genius for the -simple reason that I’m a woman. Did you ever hear of a man-mother? No. -It’s a contradiction in terms. So there can’t be a woman-genius.” - -“But surely,” Tommy objected, more out of politeness, perhaps, than -conviction, for every male creature loves to be conscious of his sex’s -superiority. “Surely there was Rosa Bonheur—and—and in your line, -Madame Vigée Le Brun.” - -“Very pretty,” said Clementina, “but stick them beside Paul Potter and -Gainsborough, and what do they look like? Could a woman have painted -Paul Potter’s bull?” - -“What’s your definition of genius?” asked Tommy, evading the direct -question. He had visited The Hague, and stood in rapt wonder before what -is perhaps the most essentially masculine bit of painting in the world. -Certainly no woman could have painted it. - -“Genius,” said Clementina, screwing up her face and looking at the tip -of a discoloured thumb, “is the quality the creative spirit assumes as -soon as it can liberate itself from the bond of the flesh.” - -“Good,” said Tommy. “Did you make up that all at once? It knocks -Carlyle’s definition silly. But I don’t see why it doesn’t apply equally -to men and women.” - -“Woman,” said Clementina, “has always her sex hanging round the neck of -her spirit.” - -Tommy stared. This was a new conception of woman which he was too young -and candid to understand. For him women—or rather that class of the sex -that counted for him as women, the mothers and sisters and wives of his -friends, the women from whose midst one of these days he would select a -wife himself—were very spiritual creatures indeed. That twilight region -of their being in which their sex had a home was holy ground before -entering which a man must take the shoes from off his feet. He took it -for granted that every unmarried woman believed in the stork or -gooseberry bush theory of the population of the world. A girl allowed -you to kiss her because she was kind and good and altruistic, realising -that it gave you considerable pleasure; but as for the girl craving the -kiss for the satisfaction of her own needs, that was undreamed of in his -ingenuous philosophy. And here was Clementina laying it down as a -fundamental axiom that woman has her sex always hanging round the neck -of her spirit. He was both mystified and shocked. - -“I’m afraid you don’t know what you’re talking about, Clementina,” he -said at last, with some severity. - -Indeed, how on earth could Clementina know? - -“Perhaps I don’t, Tommy,” she said, with ironical meekness, realising -the gulf between them and the reverence, which, as the Latin Grammar -tells us, is especially due to tender youth. She looked into the fire, a -half-smile playing round her grim, unsmiling lips, and there was silence -for a few moments. Then she asked, brusquely; - -“How’s that uncle of yours?” - -“All right,” said Tommy. “I’m dining with him this evening.” - -“I hear he has taken to calling himself Dr. Quixtus lately.” - -“He’s entitled to do so. He’s a Ph.D. of Heidelberg. I wish you didn’t -have your knife into him so much, Clementina. He’s the best and dearest -chap in the world. Of course, he’s getting rather elderly and precise. -He’ll be forty next birthday, you know——” - -“Lord save us,” said Clementina. - -“—— but one has to make allowances for that. Anyway,” he added, with a -flash of championship, “he’s the most courtly gentleman I’ve ever met.” - -“He’s civil enough,” said Clementina. “But if I were his wife, I’m sure -I would throw him out of a window.” - -Tommy stared again for a moment, and then laughed—more at the idea of -the quaint old thing that was Clementina being married than at the -picture of his uncle’s grotesque ejectment. - -“I don’t think that’s ever likely to happen,” he remarked. - -“Nor do I,” said Clementina. - -Soon after that Tommy departed as unceremoniously as he had entered. Not -that Tommy Burgrave was by nature unceremonious, being a boy of -excellent breeding; but no one stood on ceremony with Clementina; the -elaborate politeness of the Petit Trianon was out of place in the studio -of a lady who would tell you to go to the devil as soon as look at you. - -When the door at the end of the gallery closed behind him she gave a -sigh of relief, and rolled another cigarette. There are times when the -most obstinate woman’s nerves are set on edge, and she craves either -solitude or a sympathetic presence. Now, she was very fond of Tommy; but -what, save painting and cricket and the young animal’s joy of life, -could Tommy understand? She regretted having spoken of sex and spirit to -his uncomprehending ears. Generally she held herself and even her unruly -tongue under control. But this afternoon she had lost grip. The sitting -had strangely affected her, for she had divined, as she had not done on -previous occasions, the wistful terror that lurked in the depths of the -young girl’s soul—a divination that had been confirmed by the quick -look of fear with which she had greeted the bullet-headed young man when -he had arrived to escort her home. And Tommy, with his keen young -vision, had summed him up in a few words. - -She turned on the great lamp suspended in the middle of the studio, and -drew the easel containing the girl’s portrait into the light. She gazed -at it for a while intently, and then, throwing herself into her chair by -the fire, remained there motionless, with parted lips, in the attitude -of a woman overwhelmed by memories. - -They went back fifteen years, when she was this girl’s age. She had not -this girl’s bearing and flower-like grace; but she had her youth and -everything in it that stood for the promise of life. She had memories of -her mirrored self—quite a dainty slip of a girl in spite of her homely -face, her hair wound around a not unshapely head in glossy coils, and -her figure set off by delicately fitting clothes. And there was a light -in her eyes because a man loved her and she had given all the richness -of herself to the man. They were engaged to be married. Yet, for all her -tremulous happiness, terror lurked in the depths of her soul. Many a -night she awoke, gripped by the nameless fear, unreasonable, absurd; for -the man in her eyes was as handsome and debonair as any prince out of a -fairy tale. Her mother and father, who were then both alive, came under -the spell of the man’s fascinations. He was of good family, fair private -income, and was making a position for himself in the higher walks of -journalism; a man too of unsullied reputation. A gallant lover, he loved -her as in her dreams she had dreamed of being loved. The future held no -flaw. - -Suddenly, something so grotesque happened as to awaken all her laughter -and indignation. Roland Thorne was arrested on a charge of theft. A -lady, a stranger, the only other occupant of a railway-carriage in which -he happened to be travelling from Plymouth to London, missed some -valuable diamonds from a jewel-case beside her on the seat. At Bath she -had left the carriage for a minute to buy a novel at the bookstall, -leaving the case in the compartment. She brought evidence to prove that -the diamonds were there when she left Plymouth and were not there when -she arrived at her destination in London. The only person, according to -the prosecution, who could have stolen them was Roland Thorne, during -her temporary absence at Bath. Thorne treated the matter as a ludicrous -annoyance. So did Clementina, as soon as her love and anger gave place -to her sense of humour. And so did the magistrate who dismissed the -charge, saying that it ought never to have been brought. - -With closed eyes, the woman in front of the fire recalled their first -long passionate kiss after he had brought the news of his acquittal, and -she shivered. She remembered how he had drawn back his handsome head and -looked into her eyes. - -“You never for one second thought me guilty?” - -Something in his gaze checked the cry of scorn at her lips. The nameless -terror clutched her heart. She drew herself slowly, gradually, out of -his embrace, keeping her widened eyes fixed on him. He stood motionless -as she recoiled. The horrible truth dawned on her. He was guilty. She -sat on the nearest chair, white-lipped and shaken. - -“You? You?” - -Whether the man had meant to make the confession, probably he himself -did not know. Overwrought nerves may have given way. But there he stood -at that moment, self-confessed. In a kind of dream paralysis she heard -him make his apologia. He said something of sins of his youth, of -blackmail, of large sums of money to be paid, so as to avert ruin; how -he had idly touched the jewel-case, without thought of theft, how it had -opened easily, how the temptation to slip the case of diamonds into his -pocket had been irresistible. His voice seemed a toneless echo, far -away. He said many things that she did not hear. Afterwards she had a -confused memory that he pleaded for mercy at her hands. He had only -yielded in a moment of desperate madness; he would make secret -restitution of the diamonds. He threw himself on the ground at her feet -and kissed her skirt, but she sat petrified, speechless, stricken to her -soul. Then without a word or a sign from her, he went out. - -The woman by the fire recalled the anguish of the hour of returning -life. It returned with the pain of blood returning to frost-bitten -flesh. She loved him with every quivering fibre. No crime or weakness in -the world could alter that. Her place was by his side, to champion him -through evil, to ward off temptation, to comfort him in his time of -need. Her generous nature cried aloud for him, craved to take him into -her arms and lay his head against her bosom. She scorned herself for -having turned to him a heart of stone, for letting him go broken and -desperate into the world. A touch would have changed his hell to heaven, -and she had not given it. She rose and stood for a while, this girl of -twenty, transfigured, vibrating with a great purpose—the woman of -thirty-five remembered (ah God!) the thrill of it. The flames of the -sunrise spread through her veins. - -In a few minutes she was driving through the busy streets to the man’s -chambers; in a few minutes more she reached them. She mounted the -stairs. She had no need to ring, as the outer door stood open. She -entered. Called: - -“Roland, are you here?” - -There was no reply. She crossed the hall and went into the sitting-room. -There on the floor lay Roland Thorne with a revolver bullet through his -head. - - - - - CHAPTER II - - -Such were the memories that overwhelmed Clementina Wing as she sat grim -and lonely by the fire. - -In the tragedy the girl Clementina perished, and from her ashes arose -the phœnix of dingy plumage who had developed into the Clementina of -to-day. As soon as she could envisage life again, she plunged into the -strenuous art-world of Paris, living solitary, morose, and heedless of -external things. The joyousness of the light-hearted crowd into which -she was thrown jarred upon her. It was like Bacchanalian revelry at a -funeral. She made no friends. Good-natured importunates she drove away -with rough usage. The pairs of young men and maidens who flaunted their -foolish happiness in places of public resort she regarded with -misanthropic eye. She hated them—at one-and-twenty—because they were -fools; because they deluded themselves into the belief that the world -was rose and blue and gold, whereas she, of her own bitter knowledge, -knew it to be drab. And from a drab world what was there more vain than -the attempt to extract colour? Beauty left her unmoved because it had no -basis in actuality. The dainty rags in which she had been accustomed to -garb herself she threw aside with contempt. Sackcloth was the only wear. - -It must be remembered that Clementina at this period was young, and that -it is only given to youth to plumb the depths of existence. She was -young, strong-fibred, desperately conscious of herself. She had left her -home rejecting sympathy. To no one could she exhibit the torture of her -soul; to no one could she confess the remorse and shame that consumed -her. She was a failure in essentials. She had failed the man in his hour -of need. She had let him go forth to his death. She, Clementina Wing, -was a failure. She, Clementina Wing, was the world. Therefore was the -world a failure. She saw life drab. Her vision was infallible. Therefore -life was drab. Syllogisms, with the eternal fallacy of youth in their -minor premises. Work saved her reason. She went at it feverishly, -indefatigably, unremittingly, as only a woman can—and only a woman who -has lost sense of values. Her talent was great—in those days she did -not scout the suggestion of genius—and by her indomitable pains she -acquired the marvellous technique which had brought her fame. The years -slipped away. Suddenly she awakened. A picture exhibited in the Salon -obtained for her a gold medal, which pleased her mightily. She was not -as dead as she had fancied, having still the power to feel the thrill of -triumph. Money much more than would satisfy her modest wants jingled in -her pockets with a jocund sound. Folks whom she had kept snarlingly at -bay whispered honeyed flattery in her ears. Philosophy, which (of a -bitter nature) she had cultivated during her period of darkness, enabled -her to estimate the flattery at its true value; but no philosophy in the -world could do away with the sweetness of it. So it came to pass that on -her pleasant road to success, Clementina realised that there was such a -thing as light and shade in life as well as in pictures. But though she -came out of the underworld a different woman from the one who had -sojourned there, she was still a far more different woman from the girl -who was flung herself into it headlong. She emerged cynical, rough, -dictatorial, eccentric in speech, habits, and attire. As she had -emancipated herself from the gloom of remorse and self-torture, so did -she emancipate herself from convention. Youth had flown early, and with -it the freshness that had given charm to her young face. Lines had come, -bones had set, the mouth had hardened. She had lost the trick of -personal adornment. Years of loose and casual corseting had ruined her -figure. Even were she to preen and primp herself, what man would look at -her with favour? As for women, she let them go hang. She was always -impatient of the weaknesses, frailties, and vanities of her own sex, -especially when they were marked by an outer show of strength. The -helpless she had been known to take to her bosom as she would have taken -a wounded bird—but her sex as a whole attracted her but little. Women -could go hang, because she did not want them. Men could go hang -likewise, because they did not want her. Thus dismissing from her -horizon all the human race, she found compensation in the freedom so -acquired. If she chose to run bareheaded and slipshod into the King’s -Road and come back with a lump of beef wrapped in a bloodstained bit of -newspaper (as her acquaintance, Mrs. Venables, had caught her doing—“My -dear, you never saw such an appalling sight in your life,” she said when -reporting the incident, “and she had the impudence to make me shake -hands with her—and the hand, my dear, in which she had been holding the -beef”)—if she chose to do this, what mattered it to any one of God’s -creatures, save perhaps Mrs. Venables’s glove-maker to whom it was an -advantage? Her servant had a bad cold, time—the morning light was -precious—and the putting on of hat and boots a retarding vanity. If she -chose to bring in a shivering ragamuffin from the streets and warm him -before the fire and stuff him with the tomato sandwiches and plum-cake -set out for a visitor’s tea, who could say her nay? The visitor in -revolt against the sight and smell of the ragamuffin, could get up and -depart. It was a matter of no concern to Clementina. Eventually folks -recognised Clementina’s eccentricity, classed it in the established -order of things, ceased to regard it—just as dwellers by a cataract -lose the sound of the thunder, and as a human wife ceases to be -conscious of the wart on her husband’s nose. To this enviable height of -freedom had Clementina risen. - -She sat by the fire, overwhelmed by memories. They had been conjured up -by the girl with the terror at the back of her eyes; but their mass was -no longer crushing. They came over her like a weightless grey cloud that -had arisen from some remote past with which she had no concern. She had -grown to look upon the tragedy impersonally, as though it were a -melodramatic tale written by a young and inexperienced writer, in which -the characters were overdrawn and untrue to life. The reading of the -tale left her with the impression that Roland Thorne was an unprincipled -weakling, Clementina Wing an hysterical little fool. - -Presently she rose, rubbed her face hard with both hands, a proceeding -which had the effect of spreading the paint smudge into a bright gamboge -over her cheeks, pushed the easel aside, and, taking down “Tristram -Shandy” from her shelves, read the story of the King of Bohemia and his -Seven Castles, by way of a change of fiction, till her maid summoned her -to her solitary dinner. - -Early the next morning, as soon as she had entered the studio and had -begun to set her palette, preparatory to the day’s work, Tommy Burgrave -appeared on the gallery, with a “Hullo, Clementina!” and ran down the -spiral staircase. Clementina paused with a paint tube in her hand. - -“Look, my young friend, you don’t live here, you know,” she said coolly. - -“I’ll clear out in half a second,” he replied, smiling. “I’m bringing -you news. You ought to be very grateful to me. I’ve got you a -commission.” - -“Who’s the fool?” asked Clementina. - -“It isn’t a fool,” said Tommy, buttoning the belt of his Norfolk jacket, -as if to brace himself to the encounter. “It’s my uncle.” - -“Lord save us!” said Clementina. - -“I thought I would give you a surprise,” said Tommy. - -Clementina shrugged her shoulders and went on squeezing paint out of -tubes. - -“He must have softening of the brain.” - -“Why?” - -“First for wanting to have his portrait painted at all, and secondly for -thinking of coming to me. Go back and tell him I’m not a caricaturist.” - -Tommy planted a painting-stool in the middle of the floor and sat upon -it, with legs apart. - -“Let us talk business, Clementina. In the first place, he has nothing to -do with it. He doesn’t want his portrait painted, bless you. It’s the -other prehistoric fossils he foregathers with. I met chunks of them at -dinner last night. They belong to the Anthropological Society, you know, -they fool around with antediluvian stones and bones and bits of -iron—and my uncle’s president. They want to have his portrait to hang -up in the cave where they meet. They were talking about it at my end of -the table. They didn’t know what painter to go to, so they consulted me. -My uncle had introduced me as an artist, you know, and they looked on me -as a sort of young prophet. I asked them how much they were prepared to -give. They said about five hundred pounds—they evidently have a lot of -money to throw about—one of them, all over gold chains and rings, -seemed to perspire money, looked like a bucket-shop keeper. I think it’s -he who is presenting the Society with the portrait. Anyway that’s about -your figure, so I said there was only one person to paint my uncle and -that was Clementina Wing. It struck them as a brilliant idea, and the -end of it was that they told my uncle and requested me to sound you on -the matter. I’ve sounded.” - -She looked at his confident boyish face, and uttered a grim sound, -halfway between a laugh and a sniff, which was her nearest approach to -exhibition of mirth, and might have betokened amusement or pity or -contempt or any two of these taken together or the three combined. Then -she turned away and, screwing up her eyes, looked out for a few moments -into the sodden back garden. - -“Did you ever hear of a barber refusing to shave a man because he didn’t -like the shape of his whiskers?” - -“Only one,” said Tommy, “and he cut the man’s throat from ear to ear -with the razor.” - -He laughed loud at his own jest, and, going up to the window where -Clementina stood with her back to him, laid a hand on her shoulder. - -“That means you’ll do it.” - -“Guineas, not pounds,” said Clementina, facing him. “Five hundred -guineas. I couldn’t endure Ephraim Quixtus for less.” - -“Leave it to me, I’ll fix it up. So long.” He ran up the spiral -staircase, in high good-humour. On the gallery he paused and leaned over -the balustrade. - -“I say, Clementina, if the ugly young man calls to-day for that pretty -Miss Etta, and you want any murdering done, send for me.” - -She looked up at him smiling down upon her, gay and handsome, so rich in -his springtide, and she obeyed a sudden impulse. - -“Come down, Tommy.” - -When he had descended she unhooked from the wall over the fireplace a -Della Robbia plaque—a child’s white head against a background of yellow -and blue—a cherished possession—and thrust it into Tommy’s arms. He -stared at her, but clutched the precious thing tight for fear of -dropping it. - -“Take it. You can give it as a wedding present to your wife when you -have one. I want you to have it.” - -He stammered, overwhelmed by her magnificent and unprecedented -generosity. He could not accept the plaque. It was too priceless a gift. - -“That’s why I give it to you, you silly young idiot,” she cried -impatiently. “Do you think I’d give you a pair of embroidered braces or -a hymn-book? Take it and go.” - -What Tommy did then, nine hundred and ninety-nine young men out of a -thousand would not have done. He held out his hand—“Rubbish,” said -Clementina; but she held out hers—he gripped it, swung her to him and -gave her a good, full, sounding, honest kiss. Then, holding the thing of -beauty against his heart he leaped up the stairs and disappeared, with -an exultant “Good-bye,” through the door. - -A dark flush rose on the kissed spot on Clementina’s cheek. Softness -crept into her hard eyes. She looked at the vacant place on the wall -where the cherished thing of beauty had hung. By some queer optical -illusion it appeared even brighter than before. - -Tommy, being a young man of energy and enthusiasm with modern notions as -to the reckoning of time, rushed the Anthropologists, who were -accustomed to reckon time by epochs instead of minutes, off their -leisurely feet. His uncle had said words of protest at this indecent -haste; “My dear Tommy, if you were more of a reflective human being and -less of a whirlwind, it would frequently add to your peace and comfort.” -But Tommy triumphed. Within a very short period everything was settled, -the formal letters had been exchanged, and Ephraim Quixtus found himself -paying a visit, in a new character, to Clementina Wing. - -She received him in her prim little drawing-room—as prim and -old-maidish as Romney Place itself—a striking contrast to the -chaotically equipped studio which, as Tommy declared, resembled nothing -so much as a show-room after a bargain-sale. The furniture was the -stiffest of Sheraton, the innocent colour engravings of Tomkins, -Cipriani, and Bartolozzi hung round the walls, and in a corner stood a -spinning-wheel with a bunch of flax on the distaff. The room afforded -Clementina perpetual grim amusement. Except when she received puzzled -visitors she rarely sat in it from one year’s end to the other. - -“I haven’t seen you since the Deluge, Ephraim,” she said, as he bent -over her hand in an old-fashioned un-English way. “How’s prehistoric man -getting on?” - -“As well,” said he, gravely, “as can be expected.” - -Ephraim Quixtus, Ph.D., was a tall gaunt man of forty, with a sallow -complexion, raven black hair thinning at the temples and on the crown of -his head, and great, mild, china-blue eyes. A reluctant moustache gave -his face a certain lack of finish. Clementina’s quick eye noted it at -once. She screwed up her face and watched him. - -“I could make a much more presentable thing of you if you were clean -shaven,” she said brusquely. - -“I couldn’t shave off my moustache.” - -“Why not?” - -He started in alarm. - -“I think the Society would prefer to have their President in the guise -in which he presided over them.” - -“Umph!” said Clementina. She looked at him again, and with a touch of -irony; “Perhaps it’s just as well. Sit down.” - -“Thank you,” said Quixtus, seating himself on one of the stiff Sheraton -chairs. And then, courteously; “You have travelled far since we last -met, Clementina. You are famous. I wonder what it feels like to be a -celebrity.” - -She shrugged her shoulders. “In my case it feels like leading apes in -hell. By the way, when did I last see you?” - -“It was at poor Angela’s funeral, five years ago.” - -“So it was,” said Clementina. - -There was a short silence. Angela was his dead wife and her distant -relation. - -“What has become of Will Hammersley?” she asked suddenly. “He has given -up writing to me.” - -“Still in Shanghai, I think. He went out, you know, to take over the -China branch of his firm—just before Angela’s death, wasn’t it? It’s a -couple of years or more since I have heard from him.” - -“That’s strange; he was an intimate friend of yours,” said Clementina. - -“The only intimate friend I’ve ever had in my life. We were at school -and at Cambridge together. Somehow, although I have many acquaintances -and, so to speak, friends, yet I’ve never formed the intimacies that -most men have. I suppose,” he added, with a sweet smile, “it’s because -I’m rather a dry stick.” - -“You’re ten years older than your age,” said Clementina, frankly. “You -want shaking up. It’s a pity Will Hammersley isn’t here. He used to do -you a lot of good.” - -“I’m glad you think so much of Hammersley,” said Quixtus. - -“I don’t think much of most people, do I?” she said. “But Hammersley was -a friend in need. He was to me, at any rate.” - -“Are you still fond of Sterne?” he asked. “I think you are the only -woman who ever was.” - -She nodded. “Why do you ask?” - -“I was thinking,” he said, in his quiet, courtly way, “that we have many -bonds of sympathy, after all; Angela, Hammersley, Sterne, and my -scapegrace nephew, Tommy.” - -“Tommy is a good boy,” said Clementina, “and he’ll learn to paint some -day.” - -“I must thank you for your very great kindness to him.” - -“Bosh!” said Clementina. - -“It’s a great thing for a young fellow—wild and impulsive like -Tommy—to have a good friend in a woman older than himself.” - -“If you think, my good man,” snapped Clementina, reverting to her -ordinary manner, “that I look after his morals, you are very much -mistaken. What has it got to do with me if he kisses models and takes -them out to dinner in Soho?” - -The lingering Eve in her resented the suggestion of a maternal attitude -towards the boy. After all, she was not five-and-fifty; she was younger, -five years younger than the stick of an uncle who was talking to her as -if he had stepped out of the pages of a Sunday-school prize. - -“He never tells me of the models,” replied Quixtus, “and I’m very glad -he tells you. It shows there is no harm in it.” - -“Let us talk sense,” said Clementina, “and not waste time. You’ve come -to me to have your portrait painted. I’ve been looking at you. I think a -half-length, sitting down, would be the best—unless you want to stand -up in evening-dress behind a table, with presidential gold chains and -badges of office and hammers and water-bottles——” - -“Heaven forbid!” cried Quixtus, who was as modest a man as ever stepped. -“What you suggest will quite do.” - -“I suppose you will wear that frock-coat and turn-down collar? Don’t you -ever wear a narrow black tie?” - -“My dear Clementina,” he cried horrified, “I may not be the latest thing -in dandyism, but I’ve no desire to look like a Scotch deacon in his -Sunday clothes.” - -“Vanity again,” said Clementina. “I could have got something much better -out of you in a narrow black tie. Still, I daresay I’ll manage—though -what your bone-digging friends want with a portrait of you at all for, -I’m blest if I can understand.” - -With which gracious remark she dismissed him, after having arranged a -date for the first sitting. - -“A poor creature,” muttered Clementina, when the door closed behind him. - -The poor creature, however, walked smartly homewards through the murky -November evening, perfectly contented with God and man—even with -Clementina herself. In this well-ordered world, even the tongue of an -eccentric woman must serve some divine purpose. He mused whimsically on -the purpose. Well, at any rate, she belonged to a dear and regretted -past, which without throwing an absolute glamour around Clementina still -shed upon her its softening rays. His thoughts were peculiarly -retrospective this evening. It was a Tuesday, and his Tuesday nights for -some years had been devoted to a secret and sacred gathering of pale -ghosts. His Tuesday nights were mysteries to all his friends. When -pressed for the reason of this perennial weekly engagement, he would say -vaguely; “It’s a club to which I belong.” But what was the nature of the -club, what the grim and ghastly penalty if he skipped a meeting, those -were questions which he left, with a certain innocent mirth, to the -conjecture of the curious. - -The evening was fine, with a touch of shrewdness in the air. He found -himself in the exhilarated frame of mind which is consonant with brisk -walking. He looked at his watch. He could easily reach Russell Square by -seven o’clock. He timed his walk exactly. It was five minutes to seven -when he let himself in by his latchkey. The parlour-maid, emerging from -the dining-room, met him in the hall and helped him off with his coat. - -“The gentlemen have come, sir.” - -“Dear, dear,” said Quixtus, self-reproachfully. - -“They’re before their time. It isn’t seven yet, sir,” said the -parlour-maid, flinging the blame upon the gentlemen. In speaking of them -she had just the slightest little supercilious tilt of the nose. - -Quixtus waited until she had retired, then, drawing something from his -own pocket, he put something into the pocket of each of three greatcoats -that hung in the hall. After that he ran upstairs into the drawing-room. -Three men rose to receive him. - -“How do you do, Huckaby? So glad to see you, Vandermeer. My dear -Billiter.” - -He apologised for being late. They murmured excuses for being early. -Quixtus asked leave to wash his hands, went out and returned rubbing -them, as though in anticipation of enjoyment. Two of the men standing in -front of the fire made way for him. He thrust them back courteously. - -“No, no, I’m warm. Been walking for miles. I’ve not seen an evening -paper. What’s the news?” - -Quixtus never saw an evening paper on Tuesdays. The question was a -time-honoured opening to the kindly game he played with his guests. - -Now there is a reason for most things, even for a parlour-maid’s tilt of -the nose. The personal appearance of the guests would have tilted the -nose of any self-respecting parlour-maid in Russell Square. They were a -strange trio. All were shabby and out-at-elbows. All wore the insecure, -apologetic collar which is one of the most curious badges of the -down-at-heel. All bore on their faces the signs of privation and -suffering; Huckaby, lantern-jawed, black-bearded and watery-eyed; -Vandermeer, small, decrepit, pinched of feature, with crisp, sparse red -hair and the bright eyes of a hungry wolf; Billiter, the flabby remains -of a heavily built florid man, with a black moustache turning grey. They -were ghosts of the past, who once a week came back to the plentiful -earth, lived for a few brief hours in the land that had been their -heritage, talked of the things they had once loved, and went forth (so -Quixtus hoped) cheered and comforted for their next week’s wandering on -the banks of Acheron. Once a week they sat at a friend’s table and ate -generous food, drank generous wine, and accepted help from a friend’s -generous hand. Help they all needed, and like desperate men would snatch -it from any hand held out to them. Huckaby had been a successful coach -at Cambridge; Vandermeer, who had forsaken early in life a banking -office for the Temple of Literary Fame, had starved for years on -free-lance journalism; Billiter, of Rugby and Oxford, had run through a -fortune. All waste products of the world’s factory. Among the many -things they had in common was an unquenchable thirst, which they -dissimulated in Russell Square; but they made up for it by patronising -their host. When a beneficiary is humble he is either deserving or has -touched the lowest depths of degradation. - -Quixtus presided happily at the meal. With strangers he was shy and -diffident; but here he was at his ease, among old friends none the less -valued because they had fallen by the wayside. Into the reason of their -fall it did not concern him to inquire. All that mattered was their -obvious affection and the obvious brightness that fortune had enabled -him to shed on their lives. - -“I wonder,” said he, with one of his sudden smiles, “I wonder if you -fellows know how I prize these evenings of ours.” - -“They’re Attic Symposia,” said Huckaby. - -“I’ve been thinking of a series of articles on them, after the manner of -the _Noctes Ambrosianæ_,” said Vandermeer. - -“They would quite bear it,” Huckaby agreed. “I think we get better talk -here than anywhere else I know. I’m a sometime Fellow of Corpus Christi -College, Cambridge,”—he rolled out the alliterative phrase with great -sonority—“and I know the talk in the Combination Room; but it’s -pedantic—pedantic. Not ripe and mellow like ours.” - -“I’m not a brainy chap like you others,” said Billiter, wiping his -dragoon’s moustache, “but I like to have my mind improved, now and -then.” - -“Do you know the _Noctes_, Huckaby?” asked Quixtus. “Of course you do. -What do you think of them?” - -“I suppose you like them,” replied Huckaby, “because you are an -essentially scientific and not a literary man. But I think them dull.” - -“I don’t call them dull,” Quixtus argued, “but to my mind they’re -pretentious. I don’t like their sham heartiness, their -slap-on-the-back-and-how-are-you-old-fellow tone, their impossible -Pantagruelian banquets——” - -The hungry wolf’s face of Vandermeer lit up. “That’s what I like about -them—the capons—the pies—the cockaleeky—the haggises——” - -“I remember a supper-party at Oxford,” said Billiter, “when there was a -haggis, and one chap who was awfully tight insisted that a haggis ought -to be turned like an omelette or tossed like a pancake. He tossed it. My -God! You never saw such a thing in your life!” - -So they all talked according to the several necessities of their -natures, and at last Quixtus informed his guests that he was to sit for -his portrait to Miss Clementina Wing. - -“I believe she is really quite capable,” said Huckaby, judicially, -stroking his straggling beard. - -“I know her,” cried Vandermeer. “A most charming woman.” - -Quixtus raised his eyebrows. - -“I’m glad to hear you say so,” said he. “She is a sort of distant -connection of mine by marriage.” - -“I interviewed her,” said Vandermeer. - -“Good Lord!” The exclamation on the part of Quixtus was inaudible. - -“I was doing a series of articles—very important articles,” said -Vandermeer, with an assertive glance around the table, “on Women Workers -of To-day, and of course Miss Clementina Wing came into it. I called and -put the matter before her.” - -He paused dramatically. - -“And then?” asked Quixtus amused. - -“We went out to lunch in a restaurant and she gave me all the material -necessary for my article. A most charming woman, who I think will do you -justice, Quixtus.” - -When his friends had gone, each, by the way, diving furtive and -searching hands into their great-coat pockets, as soon as they had been -helped into these garments by the butler—and here, by the way also, be -it stated that, no matter how sultry the breath of summer or how frigid -that of fortune, they never failed to bring overcoats to hang, for all -the world like children’s stockings for Santa Claus, on the familiar -pegs—when his friends were gone, Quixtus, who had an elementary sense -of humour, failed entirely to see an expansive and notoriety-seeking -Clementina lunching tête-à-tête at the Carlton or the Savoy with -Theodore Vandermeer. In point of fact, he fell asleep smiling at the -picture. - -The next day, while he was at breakfast—he breakfasted rather -late—Tommy Burgrave was announced. Tommy, who had already eaten with -the appetite of youth, immediately after his cold bath, declined to join -his uncle in a meal, but for the sake of sociability trifled with -porridge, kidneys, cold ham, hot rolls and marmalade, while Quixtus -feasted on a soft-boiled egg and a piece of dry toast. When his -barmecide meal was over, Tommy came to the business of the day. For some -inexplicable, unconjecturable reason his monthly allowance had gone, -disappeared, vanished into the _Ewigkeit_. What in the world was he to -do? - -Now it must be explained that Tommy Burgrave was an orphan, the son of -Ephraim Quixtus’s only sister, and his whole personal estate a sum of -money invested in a mortgage which brought him in fifty pounds a year. -On fifty pounds a year a young man cannot lead the plenteous life as far -as food and raiment are concerned, rent a studio (even though it be a -converted first-floor back, as Tommy’s was) and a bedroom in Romney -Place, travel (even on a bicycle, as Tommy did) about England, and -entertain ladies to dinner at restaurants—even though the ladies may be -only models, and the restaurants in Soho. He must have other financial -support. This other financial support came to him in the guise of a -generous allowance from his uncle. But as the generosity of his -instincts—and who in the world would be a cynic, animated blight, -curmudgeon enough to check the generous instincts of youth?—as, I say, -the generosity of his instincts outran the generosity of his allowance, -towards the end of every month Tommy found himself in a most naturally -inexplicable position. At the end of the month, therefore, Tommy came to -Russell Square and trifled with porridge, kidneys, cold ham, hot rolls -and marmalade, while his uncle feasted on a soft-boiled egg and a piece -of dried toast, and, at the end of his barmecide feast, came to -business. - -On the satisfactory conclusion thereof (and it had never been known to -be otherwise) Tommy lit a cigar—he liked his uncle’s cigars. - -“Well,” said he, “what do you think of Clementina?” - -“I think,” said Quixtus, with a faint luminosity lighting his china-blue -eyes, “I think that Clementina, being an artist, is a problem. But if -she weren’t an artist and in a different class of life, she would be a -model old family servant in a great house in which the family, by no -chance whatever, resided.” - -Tommy laughed. “It seemed tremendously funny to bring you two together.” - -Quixtus smiled indulgently. “So it was a practical joke on your part?” - -“Oh no!” cried Tommy, flaring up. “You mustn’t think that. There’s only -one painter living who has, her power—and I’m one of the people who -know it—and I wanted her to paint you. Besides, she is a thorough good -sort—through and through.” - -“My dear boy, I was only jesting,” said Quixtus, touched by his -earnestness. “I know that not only are you a devotee—and very rightly -so—of Clementina—but that she is a very great painter.” - -“All the same,” said Tommy, with a twinkle in his eyes, “I’m afraid that -you’re in for an awful time.” - -“I’m afraid so, too,” said Quixtus, whimsically, “but I’ll get through -it somehow.” - -He did get through it; but it was only “somehow.” This quiet, courtly, -dreamy gentleman irritated Clementina as he had irritated her years ago. -He was a learned man; that went without saying; but he was a fool all -the same, and Clementina had not trained herself to suffer fools gladly. -The portrait became her despair. The man had no character. There was -nothing beneath the surface of those china-blue eyes. She was afraid, -she said, of getting on the canvas the portrait of a congenital idiot. -His attitude towards life—the dilettante attitude which she as a worker -despised—made her impatient. By profession he was a solicitor, head of -the old-fashioned firm of Quixtus and Son; but, on his open avowal, he -neglected the business, leaving it all in the hands of his partner. - -“He’ll do you, sure as a gun,” said Clementina. - -Quixtus smiled. “My father trusted him implicitly, and so do I.” - -“A man or a woman’s a fool to trust anybody,” said Clementina. - -“I’ve trusted everybody around me all my life, and no one has done me -any harm, and therefore I’m a happy man.” - -“Rubbish,” said Clementina. “Any fraud gets the better of you. What -about your German friend Tommy was telling me of?” - -This was a sore point. A most innocent, spectacled, bearded, but -obviously poverty-stricken German had called on him a few weeks before -with a collection of flint instruments for sale, which he alleged to -have come from the valley of the Weser, near Hameln. They were of shapes -and peculiarities which he had not met with before, and, after a cursory -and admiring examination, he had given the starving Teuton twice as much -as he had asked for the collection, and sent him on his way rejoicing. -With a brother palæontologist summoned in haste he had proceeded to a -minute scrutiny of his treasures. They were impudent forgeries. - -“I told Tommy in confidence. He ought not to have repeated the story,” -he said, with dignity. - -“Which shows,” said Clementina, pausing so as to make her point and an -important brush-stroke—“which shows that you can’t even trust Tommy.” - -On another occasion he referred to Vandermeer’s famous interview. - -“You know a friend of mine, Vandermeer,” said he. - -Clementina shook her head. - -“Never heard the name.” - -He explained. Vandermeer was a journalist. He had interviewed her and -lunched with her at a restaurant. - -Clementina could not remember. At last her knitted brow cleared. - -“Good lord, do you mean a half-starved, foxy-faced man with his toes -through his boots?” - -“The portrait is unflattering,” said he, “but I’m afraid there’s a kind -of resemblance.” - -“He looked so hungry and _was_ so hungry—he told me—that I took him to -the ham-and-beef shop round the corner and stuffed his head with copy -while he stuffed himself with ham and beef. To say that he lunched with -me at a restaurant is infernal impudence.” - -“Poor fellow,” said Quixtus. “He has to live rather fatly in imagination -so as to make up for the meagreness of his living in reality. It’s only -human nature.” - -“Bah,” said Clementina, “I believe you’d find human nature in the -devil.” - -Quixtus smiled one of his sweet smiles. - -“I find it in you, Clementina,” he said. - -Thus it may be perceived that the sittings were not marked by the usual -amenities of the studio. The natures of the two were antagonistic. He -shrank from her downrightness; she disdained his ineffectuality. Each -bore with the other for the sake of past associations; but each drew a -breath of relief when freed from the presence of the other. Although he -was a man of wide culture beyond the bounds of his own particular -subject, and could talk well in a half-humorous, half-pedantic manner, -her influence often kept him as dumb as a mummy. This irritated -Clementina still further. She wanted him to talk, to show some -animation, so that she could seize upon something to put upon the -dismaying canvas. She talked nonsense, in order to stimulate him. - -“To live in the past as you do without any regard for the present is as -worthless as to go to bed in a darkened room and stay there for the rest -of your life. It’s the existence of a mole, not of a man.” - -He indicated, with a wave of the hand, a Siennese _predella_ on the -wall. “You go to the past.” - -“For its lessons,” said Clementina. “Because the Old Masters can teach -me things. How on earth do you think I should be able to paint you if it -hadn’t been for Velasquez? To say nothing of the æsthetic side. But you -only go to the past to satisfy an idle curiosity.” - -“Perhaps I do, perhaps I do,” he assented, mildly. “A knowledge of the -process by which a prehistoric lady fashioned her petticoat out of skins -by means of a flint needle and reindeer sinews would be of no value to -Worth or Paquin. But it soothes me personally to contemplate the -intimacies of the toilette of the prehistoric lady.” - -“I call that abnormal,” said Clementina, “and you ought to be ashamed of -yourself.” - -And that was the end of that conversation. - -Meanwhile, in spite of her half-comic despair, the portrait progressed. -She had seized, at any rate, the man’s air of intellectuality, of -aloofness from the practical affairs of life. Unconsciously she had -invested the face with a spirituality which had eluded her conscious -analysis. The artist had worked with the inner vision, as the artist -always does when he produces a great work. For the great work of an -artist is not that before which he stands, and, sighing, says; “This is -fair, but how far away from my dreams!” That is the popular fallacy. The -great work is that which, when he regards it on completion, causes him -to say in humble admiration and modest stupefaction: “How on earth did -the dull clod that is I manage to do it?” For he does not know how he -accomplished it. When a man is conscious of every step he takes in the -execution of a work of art, he is obeying the letter and not the spirit; -he is a juggler with formulas; and formulas, being mere analytical -results, have no place in that glorious synthesis which is -creation—either of a world or a flower or a poem. Clementina, to her -astonishment, regarded the portrait of Ephraim Quixtus, and, like the -First Creator regarding His work, saw that it was good. - -“I should never have believed it,” she said. - -“What?” asked Quixtus. - -“That I should have got all this out of you,” said Clementina. - - - - - CHAPTER III - - -We have heard much of a man in the land of Uz whose name was Job. We -know that he was perfect and upright, feared God, and eschewed evil; and -we are told how, on a disastrous afternoon, messenger after messenger -came to him to announce one calamity after the other, culminating in the -annihilation of his entire family, and how the final scorbutic -affliction came shortly afterwards, the anti-climax, it must be -confessed, of his woes, which drove the patient man to open his mouth -and curse his day. Between Job and Dr. Quixtus I doubt whether the like -avalanche of disasters, Pelion on Ossa and Kinchinjunga on Pelion of -misfortunes, ever came thundering down on the head of an upright and -evil-eschewing human creature. - -The tale of these successive misfortunes can only be briefly narrated; -for to examine in detail the train of circumstances which led up to -them, and the intricate nexus of human motive in which they were -complicated would be foreign to the purpose of this chronicle. Except -passively or negatively, perhaps, Quixtus had no hand in their -happening. As in the case of Job the thunderbolts fell from a cloudless -sky. His moral character was blameless, his position as assured, his -life as happy as the patriarch’s. He had done no man harm all his days, -and he had no cause to fear evil from any quarter. A tithe or more of -his goods he gave in generous charity; and not only did he not proclaim -the fact aloud like the Pharisee, but never mentioned the matter to -himself—for the simple reason that keeping no accounts of his -expenditure he had not the remotest notion of the amount of his -eleemosynary expenses. You would have far to go to meet a man more free -from petty-mindedness or vanity than Ephraim Quixtus. He was mild, -urbane, and for all his scholarly reading, palæolithic knowledge, and -wide travel, singularly modest. If you contradicted him, instead of -asserting himself, as most men do, with increased vigour, he forthwith -put back to find, if possible, the flaw in his own argument. When -complimented on his undoubted attainments, he always sought to -depreciate them. The achievement of others, even in his own special -department of learning, moved his generous admiration. Yet he had one -extraordinary vanity—which made him fall short of the perfection of his -prototype in the land of Uz—the doctorial title which he possessed by -virtue of his Ph.D. degree from the University of Heidelberg. Through -signing his articles in learned publications “Ephraim Quixtus, Ph.D.,” -his brethren among the learned who rent him respectfully to pieces in -other learned publications, invariably alluded to him as Dr. Quixtus. -Through being thus styled by his brethren both in print and -conversation, he began to give his name as Dr. Quixtus to the stentorian -functionary at the doors of banquets and receptions of the learned, and -derived infinite gratification from hearing it loudly proclaimed to all -assembled. From that to announcing himself as “Dr. Quixtus” to the -parlour-maid or butler in the homes of the worldly was but a step. - -Now it may be questioned whether on the rolls kept by the Incorporated -Law Society there is a solicitor who would style himself Doctor. It -would be as foreign to the ordinary solicitor’s notions of professional -propriety as to interview his clients in a surplice. The title does not -suggest a solicitor—any more than Quixtus himself did in person. He was -a stranger, an anomaly, a changeling in the Corporation. He ought never -to have been a solicitor. He was a very bad solicitor—and that was what -the judge said, among other things of a devastating nature, when he was -giving evidence at a certain memorable trial, which took place not long -after he had re-entered the stormy horizon of Clementina Wing, and his -portrait had been hung above the presidential chair of the -Anthropological Society. - -It is but justice to say that Quixtus was a solicitor not by choice but -by inheritance and filial affection. His father had an old-fashioned -lucrative family practice, into which, as it was his father’s earnest -desire, his kindly nature allowed him to drift. When his father died -suddenly, almost as soon as his articles were completed and he was -admitted into partnership, he stared in dismay at the prospect before -him. He could no more draw up a conveyance of land, or administer a -bankrupt estate, or prepare a brief for a barrister, than he could have -steered an Atlantic liner into New York Harbour. And he had not the -faintest desire to know how to draw up a conveyance or administer an -estate. Beyond acquiring from text-books the bare information requisite -for the passing of his examinations, he had never attempted to probe -deeper into the machinery of the law. His mind attributed far greater -importance to the sharp flint instruments wherewith primitive men -settled their quarrels by whanging each other over the head than to the -miserable instruments on parchment which adjusted the sordid wrangles of -the present generation. By entering the profession he had merely -gratified a paternal whim. There had been a “Quixtus and Son” in -Lincoln’s Inn for a hundred years, and it was the dearest wish of the -old man’s heart that “Quixtus and Son” should remain there _in sæcula -sæculorum_. While his father was alive Ephraim had scarcely thought of -this desirable continuity. But his father dead, it behoved him to see -piously to its establishment. - -The irksome part of the matter was that he had no financial reason for -proceeding with an abominated profession. As hunger drives the wolves -abroad, according to François Villon, so might hunger have driven him -from his palæolithic forest. But there was no chance of his being -hungry. Not only did his father and his mother each leave him a -comfortable fortune, but he was the declared heir of an uncle, his -father’s elder brother, who possessed large estates in Devonshire, and -had impressed Ephraim from his boyhood up as one in advanced and palsied -old age. - -Yet “Quixtus and Son” had to be carried on. How? He consulted the -confidential clerk, Marrable, who had been in the office since boyhood. -Marrable at once suggested a solution of the difficulty which almost -caused Ephraim to throw himself into his arms for joy. It was wonderful! -It was immense! Quixtus welcomed it as Henry VIII. welcomed Cromwell’s -suggestion for getting rid of Queen Katherine. The solution was nothing -less than that Ephraim should take him into partnership on generous -terms. The deed of partnership was drawn up and signed, and Quixtus -entered upon a series of happy and prosperous years. He attended the -office occasionally, signed letters and interviewed old family clients, -whom he entertained with instructive though irrelevant gossip until they -went away comforted. When they insisted on business advice instead of -comfort, he rang the bell, and Marrable appeared like a djinn out of a -bottle. Nothing could be simpler, nothing could work more -satisfactorily. Not only did clients find their affairs thoroughly -looked after, but they were flattered at having bestowed upon them the -concentrated legal acumen and experience of the firm. You may say that, -as a solicitor, Quixtus was a humbug; that he ought never to have -accepted the position. But show me a man who has never done that which -he ought not to have done, and you will show me either an irresponsible -idiot or an angel masquerading in mortal vesture. I have my doubts -whether Job himself before his trials was quite as perfect as he is made -out to be. Quixtus was neither idiot nor angel. At the most he was a -scholarly ineffectual gentleman of comfortable means, forced by filial -tenderness into a distasteful and bewildering pursuit. He had neither -the hard-heartedness to kill the one, nor the strength of will to devote -himself to the mastery of the other. He compromised, you may say, with -the devil. Well, the devil is notoriously insidious, and Quixtus was -entirely unconscious of subscribing to a bargain. At any rate, the devil -had a hand in his undoing and appointed a zealous agent of iniquity in -the person of Mr. Samuel Marrable. - -When Quixtus went to Lincoln’s Inn Fields one morning and found, instead -of his partner, a letter from him stating that he had gone abroad and -would remain there without an address for an indefinite time, Quixtus -was surprised. When he had summoned the managing clerk and together they -had opened Marrable’s safe, both he and the clerk were bewildered; and -after he had spent an hour or two with a chartered accountant, for whom -he had hurriedly telephoned, he grew sick from horror and amazement. -Later in the day he heard through the police that a warrant was out for -Samuel Marrable’s arrest. In the course of time he learned that Samuel -Marrable had done everything that a solicitor should not do. He had -misappropriated trust-funds; he had made away with bearer-bonds; he had -falsified accounts; he had forged transfers; he had speculated in -wild-cat concerns; he had become the dupe of a gang of company promoters -known throughout the City as “Gehenna Unlimited.” He had robbed the -widow; he had robbed the orphan; he had robbed the firm; he had robbed -with impunity for many years; but when, in desperation, he had tried to -rob “Gehenna Unlimited,” they were too much for him. So Samuel Marrable -had fled the country. - -Thus fell the first thunderbolt. Quixtus saw the fair repute of “Quixtus -and Son” shattered in an instant, his own name tarnished, himself—and -this was the most cruel part of the matter—betrayed and fooled by the -man in whom he had placed his boundless trust. Marrable, whom he had -known since he was a child of five; with whom he had gone to pantomimes, -exhibitions, and such like junketings when he was a boy; who had first -guided his reluctant feet through the mazes of the law; who had stood -with him by his father’s death-bed; who was bound to him by all the -intimacies of a lifetime; on whose devotion he had counted as -unquestioningly as a child on his mother’s love—Marrable to be a rogue -and a rascal, not a man at his wits’ end yielding to a sudden -temptation, but a deliberate, systematic villain—it was all but -unthinkable. Yet here were irrefragable proofs, as the law took its -course. And all through the nightmare time that followed until the -trial—for the poor fugitive was soon hunted down and haled back to -London—when his days were spent in helpless examination of confusing -figures and bewildering transactions, the insoluble human problem was -uppermost in his mind. How could the man have done these things? -Marrable had sobbed over his father’s grave and had put his arm -affectionately round his shoulders and led him away to the mourning -coach. Marrable had stood with him by another open grave, that of his -dead wife, and had comforted him with affectionate sympathy. To the very -end not a sinister look had appeared in his honest, capable eyes. On the -very day of his flight he had lunched with Quixtus in the Savoy -grill-room. He had laughed and jested and told Quixtus a funny story or -two. When they parted: - -“Shall I see you at the office this afternoon? No? Well good-bye, -Ephraim. God bless you.” - -He had smiled and waved a cheery hand. How could a man shower upon -another his tears, his sympathy, his laughter, his implied loyalty, his -blessings, and all the time be a treacherous scoundrel working his ruin? -All his knowledge of Prehistoric Man would not answer the question. - -“I wonder whether there are many people in the world like Marrable?” he -questioned. - -And from that moment he began to look at all clear-eyed honest folk and -speculate, in a dreary way, whether they were like Marrable. - -The family honour being imperilled, duty summoned him to an interview -with Matthew Quixtus, his father’s elder brother, the head of the -family, and owner of a large estate at Croxton, in Devonshire, and other -vast possessions. He paid him a week-end visit. The old man, nearly -ninety, received him with every mark of courtesy. He went out of his way -to pay deference to him as a man of high position in the learned world. -Instead of the “Mr. Ephraim,” which had been his designation in the -house ever since the “Master Ephraim” had been dropped in the dim past, -it was pointedly as “Dr. Quixtus” that butler and coachman and the rest -of the household heard him referred to. Quixtus, who had always regarded -his uncle as a fiery ancient, hot with family pride and quick to quarrel -on the point of honour, was greatly relieved by his unexpected suavity -of demeanour. He listened to his nephew’s account of the great betrayal -with a kindly smile, and wasted upon him bottles of the precious ‘54 -port which the butler, with appropriate ritual, only brought up for the -Inner Brotherhood of Dionysus. On all previous occasions, Ephraim, at -whose deplorably uncultivated palate the old man had shrugged pitying -shoulders, had been treated to an unconsidered vintage put upon the -table after dinner rather as a convention than (in the host’s opinion) -as a liquid fit for human throttle. He was sympathetic over the disaster -and alluded to Marrable in picturesquely old-world terms of -depreciation. - -“It’ll cost you a pretty penny, one way or the other,” said he. - -“I shall have to make good the losses. I dare say I can make -arrangements extending over a period of years.” - -“Fly kites, eh? Well, I shan’t live for ever. But I’m not dead yet. By -George, sir, no!” and his poor old hand shook pitifully as he raised his -glass to his lips. “My grandfather—your great grandfather lived to be a -hundred and four.” - -“It will be a matter of pride and delight to all who know you,” said -Quixtus smiling and bowing, glass in hand, across the table, “if you -champion the modern world and surpass him in longevity.” - -“The property will come in very handy though, won’t it?” asked the old -man. - -“I confess,” said Quixtus, “that, if I pay the liabilities out of my own -resources, I may be somewhat embarrassed.” - -“And what will you do with yourself when you’ve shut up the shop?” - -“I shall devote myself more closely to my favourite pursuits.” - -The old man nodded and finished his glass of port. - -“A damned gentlemanly occupation,” said he, “without any confounded -modern commercialism about it.” - -Quixtus was pleased. Hitherto his uncle had not regarded his -anthropological studies with too sympathetic an eye. He had lived, all -his life, a country gentleman, looking shrewdly after his estates, -building cottages, draining fields, riding to hounds and shooting all -things that were to be shot in their season. In science and scholarship -he took no interest. It was therefore all the more gratifying to Quixtus -to hear his studious scheme of life so heartily commended. The end of -the visit was marked by the same amenity as the beginning, and Quixtus -returned to town somewhat strengthened for the ordeal that lay before -him. - -Up to the time of the trial he had met with nothing but the kindly -sympathy of friends and the courteous addressing of those with whom he -came into business relations. His first battering against the sharp and -merciless edges of the world took place in open court. He stood in the -witness-box a lone, piteous spectacle, a Saint Sebastian among -witnesses, unsaved by miraculous interposition, like the lucky -Sebastian, from personal discomfort. That he was an upright sensitive -gentleman mattered nothing to judge and counsel; just as the fact of -Sebastian’s being a goodly and gallant youth did not affect his would-be -executioners. At every barb shot at him by judge and counsel he quivered -visibly. They were within their rights. In their opinion, he deserved to -quiver. At the back of their legal minds they were all kindly gentlemen, -and out of court had human minds like yours and mine—but in their legal -minds, Judge, Counsel for the Prosecution, Counsel for the Defence, all -considered Quixtus a fortunate man in being in the witness-box at all; -he ought to have been in the dock. There had never been such -fantastically culpable negligence. He did not know this; he had not -inquired into that; such a transaction he had just been aware of but -never understood; he had not examined the documents in question. -Everything brought him by Marrable for signature, he signed as a matter -of course, without looking at it. - -“If Mr. Marrable had brought you a cheque for £20,000 drawn in his -favour on your own private bankers, would you have signed it?” asked -Counsel. - -“Certainly,” said Quixtus. - -“Why?” - -“I should not have looked at it.” - -“But supposing the writing on the cheque had, as it were, leaped to your -eyes?” - -“I should have taken it for granted that it had to do with the -legitimate business of the firm.” - -“If that is the case,” remarked the judge, “I don’t think that men like -you ought to be allowed to go about loose.” - -Whereat there arose laughter in court, and sudden, hellish hatred of -judges in the heart of Quixtus. - -“Can you give the court any reason why you drifted into such criminal -carelessness?” asked Counsel. - -“It never entered my head to doubt my partner’s integrity.” - -“Do you carry this childlike faith in human nature into all departments -of life?” - -“Up to now I have had no reason to distrust my fellow creatures.” - -“I congratulate you as a solicitor on having had a unique experience,” -said the judge acidly. - -Counsel continued. “I put it to you—suppose two or three plausible -strangers told you a glittering tale, and one asked you to entrust him -with a hundred pounds to show your confidence in him—would you do it?” - -“I am not in the habit of consorting with vulgar strangers,” retorted -Quixtus, with twitching lip. - -“Which means that you are too learned and lofty a person to deal with -the common clay of this low world?” - -“I cannot deal with you,” said Quixtus. - -Counsel grew red and angry, as there was laughter in which the judge -joined. - -“The witness,” said the latter, “is not quite such a fool as he would -give us to imagine, Mr. Smithers.” - -Thus the only blow that Quixtus could give was turned against him. Also, -Counsel, smarting under the hit, mishandled him severely, so that at the -end of his examination he stepped down from the witness-box, less a man -than a sentient bruise. He remained in court till the very end, deathly -pale, pain in his eyes, and his mouth drawn into the lines of that of a -child about to cry. The trial proceeded. There was no doubt of the guilt -of the miserable wretch in the dock. The judge summed up, and it was -then that he said the devastating things about Quixtus that inflamed his -newly born hatred of judges to such an extent that it thenceforth -blackened his candid and benevolent soul. The jury gave their verdict -without retiring, and Marrable, at the age of sixty, was condemned to -seven years’ penal servitude. - -Quixtus left the court dazed and broken. He was met in the corridor by -Tommy, who gripped him by the arm, led him down into the street and put -him into a cab. He had not been in court, being a boy of delicate -feelings. - -“You must buck up, you know,” he said to the silent, grey-faced man -beside him. “It will all come right. What you want now is a jolly stiff -brandy-and-soda.” - -Quixtus smiled faintly. “I think I do,” said he. - -A few minutes later Tommy superintended the taking of his prescription -in the dining-room in Russell Square, and eyed Quixtus triumphantly as -he set down the empty glass. - -“There! That’ll set you straight. There’s nothing like it.” - -Quixtus held out his hand. “You’re a good boy, Tommy. Thanks for taking -care of me. I’ll be all right now.” - -“Don’t you think I might be of some use if I stayed? It’s a bit lonesome -here.” - -“I have a big box of stuff from the valley of the Dordogne, which I -haven’t opened yet,” said Quixtus. “I was saving it up for this evening, -so I shan’t be lonesome.” - -“Well be sure to have a good dinner and a bottle of fizz,” said Tommy. -After which sage counsel he went reluctantly away. - -Just as Clementina was sitting down to dinner Tommy rushed in with a -crumpled evening newspaper in his hand, incoherent with rage. Had she -seen the full report? What did she think of it? How dared they say such -things of a high-minded honourable gentleman? Counsel on both sides were -a disgrace to the bar, the judge a blot on the bench. They ought not to -be allowed to cumber the earth. They ought to be shot on sight. Out West -they would never have left the court alive. Had he lived in a simpler -age, or in a more primitive society, the young Paladin would have gone -forth and slaughtered them in the bosom of their families. Fortunately, -all he could do by way of wreaking his vengeance was to tear the -newspaper in half, throw it on the floor, and stamp on it. - -“Feel better?” asked Clementina, who had listened to his heroics rather -sourly. “If so, sit down and have some food.” - -But Tommy declined nourishment. He was too sore to eat. His young spirit -revolted against the injustice of the world. It clamoured for sympathy. - -“Say you think it damnable.” - -“Anything to do with the law is always damnable,” said Clementina. “You -shouldn’t put yourself within its clutches. Please pass me the -potatoes.” - -Tommy handed her the dish. “I believe you’re as hard as nails, -Clementina.” - -“All right, believe it,” she replied grimly. And she would not say more, -for in what she thought was her heart she agreed with the judge. - - - - - CHAPTER IV - - -Quixtus was still bowing his head over the dishonoured grave of “Quixtus -and Son” when the second thunderbolt fell. The public disgrace drove a -temperamentally hermit-like nature into more rigid seclusion. He -resigned his presidency of the Anthropological Society. The Council met -and unanimously refused to accept his resignation. They wrote in such -terms that he could not do otherwise than yield. But he gave up his -attendance at their meetings. To a man, his friends among the learned -professed their sympathy. It hurt rather than healed. Those who wrote -received courteous and formal replies. Those who knocked at his door -were refused admittance. Even Clementina, repenting of her harshness and -pitying the lonely and helpless man, pinned on a shameless thing that -had once resembled a hat, and went up by omnibus to Russell Square, only -to find the door closed against her. The woman thus scorned became the -fury which, according to the poet, is unknown in Hades. She expressed -her opinion of Quixtus pretty freely. But Quixtus shrank from her as he -shrank from every one, as he even shrank from his own servants. These he -dismissed, with the exception of Mrs. Pennycook, his housekeeper, who, -since the death of his wife had held a high position of trust in his -household, and a vague female of humble and heterogeneous appearance who -lived out, and had the air of apologising for inability to squeeze -through the wall when he passed by. In view of he knew not what changes -in his immediate financial circumstances, economy, he said, was -desirable. He also shut up the greater part of the big house, finding a -dim sort of pleasure in such retrenchment. He lived in his museum at the -back, ate his meals in the little dark room at the head of the kitchen -stairs, and changed his luxurious bedroom for a murky, cheerless little -chamber adjoining the museum. When a man takes misery for a bride he may -be forgiven for exaggeration in his early transports. - -Only on Tuesday nights did he throw open dining-room and drawing-room, -where he received Huckaby, Vandermeer, and Billiter as in the past. To -them his smile and his old self were given. Indeed he found a newer -sympathy with them. He, even as they, had been the victim of outrageous -fortune. He, too, had suffered from the treachery of man and the -insolence of office. The three found an extra guerdon in their -great-coat pockets. - -There were times, however, when the museum grew wearisome through -familiarity, when he found no novelty in the Quaternary skull from -Silesia, or the engraved reindeers on the neolithic axe-heads, or the -necklet of the lady of the bronze age; when he craved things nearer to -his own time which could give him some message of modernity. On such -occasions he would either walk abroad, or if the weather were foul, take -a childish pleasure in exploring the sealed chambers of the house. For, -shut up a room, exclude from it the light of day, cover the furniture -with dust-sheets till you get the semblance of a morgue of strange -beasts, forget it for a while, and, on re-entering it, you will have all -the elements of mystery which gradually and agreeably give place to -little pleasant shocks of discovery of the familiar. The neglected -pictures that have hung on the walls, the huddled knick-knacks on a -table, the heap of books on the floor, all have messages of gentle -reproach. A newspaper of years ago, wrapped round a cushion, once opened -by eager hands and containing in its headlines world-shaking news (now -so stale and forgotten) is a pathetic object. In drawers are garments -out of date, preserved heaven knows why, keepsakes worked by fair hands, -unused but negligently treasured, faded curtains which will never be -rehung—a thousand old stimulating things, down to ends of sealing-wax -and carefully rolled bits of twine. And some drawers are empty, and from -them rises the odour of lavender poignant with memories of the things -that are no more. - -It was a large, old-fashioned house which had been his father’s before -him, in which he had been born; and it was full of memories. In the -recess of a dark cupboard in one of the attics he found a glass jar, -which had escaped the vigilance or commanded the respect of generations -of housemaids, covered with a parchment on which was written in his -mother’s hand, “Damson Jam.” His mother had died a quarter of a century -ago. - -An old hair-trunk in the corner of the box-room, such a hair trunk as -the boldest man during Quixtus’s lifetime would have shrunk from having -attached to him on his travels, contained correspondence of his -grandfather’s and old daguerreotypes and photographs of stiff, staring, -faded people long since gone to a (let us hope) more becomingly attired -world. There was a miniature on ivory, villainously painted, of a chubby -red-cheeked child, and on the back was written “My Son Mathew, aged two -years and six months.” Could the shrivelled, myriad-wrinkled, palsied -old man whom Ephraim had visited but a short while since ever have -remotely resembled this? The hair-trunk also contained a pistol with a -label “Carried by my father at Waterloo.” That was the old gentleman who -had lived to a hundred and four. Why had this relic of family honour -remained hidden all his life? - -The more he searched into odd corners the more did his discoveries -stimulate his interest. Of his own life he found records in unexpected -places. A bundle of school-reports. He opened it at random, and his eye -fell upon the Headmaster’s Report at the foot of a sheet; “Studious but -unpractical. It seems impossible to arouse in him a sense of ambition, -or even of the responsibilities of life.” He smiled somewhat wistfully -and put the bundle in his pocket with a view to the further acquisition -of self-knowledge. A set of Cambridge college bills tied with red tape, -a broken microscope, a case of geometrical drawing instruments, a -manuscript book of early poems, mimetic echoes of Keats, Tennyson, -Shelley, Swinburne, who were all clamouring together in his brain, his -college blazer, much moth-eaten, his Heidelberg student’s cap, -ditto. . . . _Ah! qu’ils sont loin ces jours si regrettés!_ . . . - -Of his wife, too, there were almost forgotten relics. An oak chest -opened unexpectedly disclosed a pair of little pink satin slippers -standing wistfully on the top of the tissue paper that protected the -dresses beneath. The key was in the lock. He closed the lid reverently, -locked the chest, and put the key in his pocket. They had had together -five years of placid happiness. She was a sweet, white-winged soul— -Angela. Her little boudoir on the second floor had not been used since -her death, and was much as she had left it. Only the dust-sheets and the -gloom invested it in a more ghostly atmosphere than other less sacred -chambers. Her work-basket stood by the window. He opened it and found it -still contained a reel of thread and a needle-case stuck full of rusty -needles. On the wall hung an enlarged portrait of himself at the age of -thirty—he was not quite so lantern-jawed then, and his hair was thicker -on the top. A water-colour sketch of Angela hung over the oak bureau, at -which she used to write her dinner-notes and puzzle her pretty head over -household accounts. He drew up the blind so as to see the picture more -clearly. Yes. It was like her. Dark-haired, fragile, with liquid brown -eyes. There was just that dimple in her chin. . . . He remembered it so -well; but, strangely, it had played no part in his customary mental -picture of her. In the rediscovery of the dimple he found a vague -melancholy pleasure. . . . Idly he drew down the slanting lids of the -bureau, and pulled out the long narrow drawers that supported it -underneath. The interior was empty. He recollected now that he had -cleared it of its contents when settling Angela’s affairs after her -death. He thrust up the slanting lid, pushed back the long right-hand -drawer, pushed the left hand one. It stuck. He tried to ease it in, but -it was jammed. He pulled it out with a jerk, and found that the cause of -the jam was a letter flat against the end of the drawer with a corner -turned over the edge. He took out the letter, closed the drawers, and -smiled sadly, glad to have discovered a new relic of Angela in the -bureau—probably a gossiping note from a friend, perhaps one from -himself. He went to the light of the window. - -“_My adored heart’s dearest and most beloved angel_”—so the letter -began. He scanned the words bewildered. Certainly in his wildest dreams -he had never imagined such a form of address. Besides, the handwriting -was not his. He turned the sheet rapidly and glanced at the end; “_God! -How I love you._ Will.” - -Will? Will Hammersley. It was Will Hammersley’s handwriting. What did it -mean? He paused for a few moments, breathing hard, looking with blind -eyes through the window over the square. At last he read the letter. -Then he thrust it, a crumpled ball, into his pocket and reeled out of -the room like a drunken man, down the stairs of the lonely house, and -flung himself into a chair in his museum, where he sat for hours staring -before him, paralysed with an awful dismay. - -At five o’clock his housekeeper entered with the tea-things. He did not -want tea. At seven she came again into the large dark room lit only by -the red glow of the fire. - -“The gentlemen are here, sir.” - -It was a Tuesday evening. He had forgotten. - -He stumbled to his feet. - -“All right,” he said. - -Then he shivered, feeling a deadly sickness of soul. No, he could not -meet his fellow creatures to-night. - -“Give them my compliments and apologies, and say I am unwell and unable -to dine with them this evening. See that they have all they want, as -usual.” - -“Very good, sir—but yourself? I’m sorry you are ill, sir. What can I -bring you?” - -“Nothing,” said Quixtus harshly. “Nothing. And please don’t trouble me -any more.” - -Mrs. Pennycook regarded him in some astonishment, not having heard him -speak in such a tone before. Probably no one else had, since he had -learned to speak. - -“If you’re not better in the morning, sir, I might fetch the doctor.” - -He turned in his chair. “Go. I tell you. Go. Leave me alone.” - -Later he rose and switched on the light and, mechanically descending to -the hall, like a sleep-walker, deposited his usual largesse in the -pockets of the three seedy, familiar overcoats. Then he went up to his -museum again. The effort, however, had cleared his mind. He reflected. -He had not been very well of late. There were such things as -hallucinations, to which men broken down by mental strain were subject. -Let him read the letter through once more. He took the crumpled paper -from his pocket, smoothed it out and read. No. There was no delusion. -The whole story was there—the treachery, the faithlessness, the guilty -passion that gloried in its repeated consummation. His wife Angela, his -friend Will Hammersley—the only woman and the only man he had ever -loved. A sudden memory smote him. He had entrusted her to Hammersley’s -keeping times out of number. - -“My God!” said he, beating his forehead with a clenched fist. “My God!” - -And so fell the second thunderbolt. - -Towards midnight there came a heavy knocking at his door. Startled by -the unusual sound he cried: - -“What’s that? Who’s there?” - -The door opened and Eustace Huckaby lurched solemnly into the room. His -ruffled hair stood up on end like a cockatoo’s crest, and his watery -eyes glistened. He pulled his straggling beard. - -“Sorry ole’ man to hear you’re seedy. Came to know—how—getting on.” - -Quixtus rose, a new sternness on his face, and confronted the intruder. - -“Huckaby, you’re drunk.” - -Huckaby laughed and waved a protesting hand, thereby nearly losing his -balance. - -“No,” said he. “Rid’klous. I’m not drunk. Other fellows are—drunk ash -owls—tha’s why—couldn’t come see you. They’re not qui’ sort of men -been acushtomed to assochate with—I’m—University man—like you, -Quishtus—sometime Fellow Corpus Christi College, Cambridge—I first -gave motto for club—didn’t I? _Procul, O procul este profani_—tha’s -Latin. Other two lobsters don’t know word of Latin—ignorant as -lobsters—lobsters—tha’s wha’ I call ’em.” He lurched heavily into a -chair. “Awful thirsty. Got a drink, old f’la?” - -“No,” said Quixtus. “I haven’t. And if I had, I wouldn’t give it to -you.” - -The reprobate pondered darkly over the announcement. Then he hiccoughed, -and his face brightened. - -“Look here, dear old frien’——” - -Quixtus interrupted him. - -“Do you mean to tell me those other men are drunk too?” - -“As owls—you go down—see ’em.” - -He threw back his head and broke out into sudden shrill laughter. Then, -checking himself, he said with an awful gravity; - -“I beg your pardon, Quishtus. Their conduc’s disgrace—humanity.” - -“You three have dined in this house once a week for years, and no one -has left it the worse for liquor. And now, the first time I leave you to -yourselves—I was really not able to join you to-night—you take -advantage of my absence, and——” - -Huckaby staggered to his feet and tried to lay his hand on Quixtus’s -shoulder. Having recovered himself, he put it on top of a case of -prehistoric implements. - -“Tha’s just what I want—explain to you. They’re lobsters, dear ole’ -friend—just lobsters—all claw and belly and no heart. I’m a University -man like you. Corpush Christi College, Cambridge—They’re not friends of -yours. They’re lobsters. Ruddy lobsters. I’m not drunk you know. I’m all -right. I’m telling you——” - -Quixtus took him by the arm. “I think you had better go away, Huckaby.” - -“No. Send other fellows away. I’m your frien’,” said he, pointing a -shaky forefinger. “I want to tell you. I’m a University man and so are -you, and I don’t care how much you made out of it. You’re all right, -Quishtus. I’m your frien’. Other lobsters said at dinner that if justice -were done you’d be in quod.” - -Quixtus took the gaunt sot by the shoulders and shook him. - -“What the devil do you mean?” - -“Don’t, don’t—don’t upset good dinner,” said Huckaby wriggling away. -“You won’t believe I’m your friend. Van and Billiter say you were in -with Parable—Paramour—wha’s his name? all the time, and it’s just your -rosy luck that you weren’t doing time too. Now I don’t care if you did -stand in with Parachute—‘tisn’t my business. But I’ll stan’ by you. I, -Eustace Huckaby, Master of Arts, sometime Fellow of Corpush Christi -College, Cambridge. There’sh my hand.” - -He extended it, but Quixtus regarded it not. - -“The three of you have not contented yourselves with getting drunk, but -you’ve been slandering me behind my back—foully slandering me.” - -He went to the door and flung it open. - -“I think it’s time, Huckaby, that we joined the others.” - -Huckaby shambled down the stairs, murmuring of lobsters and parables, -and turning every now and then to assure his host that adverse -circumstances made no difference to his imperishable affection; and so -they reached the dining-room. Huckaby had spoken truly. Billiter was -sprawling back in his chair, his coat and waistcoat covered with -cigar-ash; his bald head was crowned by the truncated cone of a -candle-shade (a jest of Huckaby’s) which gave him an appearance that -would have been comic to a casual observer, but to Quixtus was -peculiarly obscene. His dazed eyes were fixed stupidly on Vandermeer -who, the picture of woe, was weeping bitterly because he had no one to -love him. At the sight of Quixtus, Billiter made an effort to rise, but -fell back heavily on to his seat, the candle-shade falling likewise. He -muttered hoarsely and incoherently that it was the confounded gout again -in his ankles. Then he expressed a desire to slumber. Vandermeer raised -a maudlin face. - -“No one to love me,” he whined, and tried to pour from an empty -decanter; it slipped from his hand and broke a glass. “Not even a drop -of consolation left,” he said. - -“Disgrashful, isn’t it?” said Huckaby with a hiccough. - -Quixtus eyed them with disgust. Humanity was revolting. He turned to -Huckaby and said with a shudder; “For God’s sake, take them away.” - -Huckaby summed them up with an unsteady but practised eye. “Can’t walk. -Ruddy lobsters. Must have cabs.” - -Quixtus went to the street-door and whistled up a couple of -four-wheelers from the rank; and eventually, by the aid of Huckaby and -the cabmen whom he had to bribe heavily to drive the wretches home, they -were deposited in some sort of sitting posture each in a separate -vehicle. As soon as the sound of the departing wheels died away, Quixtus -held out Huckaby’s overcoat. - -“You’re sober enough to walk,” said he, helping him on with it. -“Good-night.” - -Huckaby turned on the doorstep. - -“Want you to remember—don’t care damn what a frien’ has done—ever want -help, come to me, sometime Fellow of Corp——” - -Quixtus closed the street door in his face and heard no more. These were -his friends; these the men who had lived on his bounty, who, for years, -for what they could get, had controlled their knavery, their hypocrisy. -These were the men for whom he had striven, these sots, these dogs, -these vulgar-hearted, slandering knaves! His very soul was sick. He -paused at the dining-room door and for a moment looked at the scene of -the debauch. Wine and coffee were spilled; glasses broken; a lighted -stump of cigar had burned a great brown hole in the tablecloth. He -grimly imagined the tipsy scene. If he had been with them, there would -have been smug faces, deprecating hands upheld at the second round of -the port, talk on art, literature, religion, and what-not, and, at -parting, whispered blessings and fervent hand-shakes; and all the time -there would have been slanderous venom in their hearts, and the raging -beast of drink within them cursing him for his repressing presence. - -“The canting rogues,” he murmured as he went back to his museum. “The -canting rogues!” - -He thrust his hands, in a gesture of anger and disgust, deep into his -jacket-pockets. His knuckles came against the crumpled letter. He turned -faint and clung to the newel-post on the landing for support. The -smaller treachery coming close before his eyes had for the time eclipsed -the greater. - -“My God,” he said, “is all the world against me?” - -Unfortunately there was a thunderbolt or two yet to fall. - - - - - CHAPTER V - - -“To my nephew Ephraim for his soul’s good I bequeath my cellar of wine -which I adjure him to drink with care, thought, diligence, and -appreciation, being convinced that a sound judge of wine is, or is on -the way to becoming what my nephew is not, a judge of men and affairs.” - -Quixtus stared at the ironical words written in Mathew Quixtus’s sharp -precise handwriting, and turned with a grey face to the lawyer who had -pointed them out. - -“Is that the only reference to me in the will, Mr. Henslow?” he asked. - -“Unfortunately, yes, Dr. Quixtus. You can see for yourself.” He handed -Quixtus the document. - -Mathew Quixtus had bequeathed large sums of money to charities, smaller -sums to old servants, the wine to Ephraim, and the residue of his estate -to a Quixtus unknown to Ephraim, save by hearsay, who had settled thirty -years before in New York. Even Tommy Burgrave, with whom he had been on -good terms, was not mentioned. But he had quarrelled years before with -his niece, Tommy’s mother, for making an impecunious marriage, and, to -do him justice, had never promised the boy anything. The will was dated -a few weeks back, and had been witnessed by the butler and the coachman. - -“I should like you to understand, Dr. Quixtus,” said Henslow, “that -until we found that envelope I had no idea that your uncle had made a -fresh will. I came here with the old one in my hand, which I drew up and -which has been in my office-safe for fifteen years. Under that, I need -not tell you, you were, with the exception of a few trifling legacies, -the sole legatee. I am deeply grieved.” - -“Let me see that date again,” said Quixtus. - -He pressed his hands to his eyes and thought. It was the day before his -arrival on his last visit. - -The telegram announcing Mathew Quixtus’s sudden death had brought a -gleam of light into a soul which for a week had been black with misery. -It awakened him to a sense of outer things. A sincere affection for the -old man had been a lifelong habit. It was a shock to realise that he was -no longer alive. Besides having always unconsciously taken a child’s -view of death, he felt genuinely sorry, for his uncle’s sake, that he -should have died. Impulses of pity, tenderness, regret, stirred in his -deadened heart. He forthwith set out for Devonshire, and when he arrived -at Croxton, stood over the pinched waxen face till the tears came into -his eyes. - -He had summoned Tommy Burgrave, the only other member of the family in -England, but Tommy had not been able to attend. He had caught cold while -painting in the open air, and was in bed with a slight attack of -congestion of the lungs. Quixtus was alone in the great house. With the -aid of Henslow he made the funeral arrangements. The old man was laid to -rest in the quiet churchyard of Croxton. Half the county came to pay -their tribute to his memory, and shook Quixtus by the hand. Then he came -back to the house, and in the presence of one or two of the old -servants, the will was read. - -It had been dated the day before his arrival on his last visit. The -thing had been written and signed and witnessed and sealed, and was -lying in that locked drawer in the library all the time that the old man -was welcoming him, flattering him, showing him deference. All the -suavity and deference had been mockery. The old man had made him a -notorious geck and gull. - -His pale blue eyes hardened, and he turned an expressionless face to the -lawyer. - -“I’m afraid it would not be possible,” said Henslow, “to have the will -set aside on the ground of, say—senility—on the part of the testator.” - -“My uncle had every faculty at its keenest when he wrote it,” said -Quixtus, “including that of merciless cruelty.” - -“It was a heartless jest,” the lawyer agreed. - -“If you will do me a service, Mr. Henslow, you might be kind enough to -instruct one of the servants to pack up my bag and forward it to my -London address. I am going now to the railway station.” - -The lawyer looked at his watch and put out a detaining hand. - -“There’s not a decent train for two or three hours.” - -“I would rather,” said Quixtus, “ride a tortoise home than stay in this -house another moment.” - -He walked out of the room and out of the house, and after waiting at the -station whence he despatched a telegram to his housekeeper, who was not -expecting him back for two or three days, took the first train—a slow -one—to London. - -In his corner of the railway carriage the much-afflicted man sat -motionless, brooding. Everything had happened that could shake to its -foundations a man’s faith in humanity, and swallow it up in abysmal -darkness. Suddenly, as though by a prearranged design—as we know was -the case with his forerunner in the land of Uz—cataclysm after -cataclysm had revealed to him the essential baseness, treachery, cruelty -of mankind. For in his eyes these were proved to be essential qualities. -Had they not been revealed to him, not by fitful gleams, but in one -steady lurid glare, in the nature of those who had been nearest to him -in the world—Angela, Will Hammersley, Marrable, Huckaby, Vandermeer, -Billiter, Mathew Quixtus? If the same hell-streak ran through the souls -of these, surely it must run through the souls of all the sons and -daughters of Adam. Now here came the great puzzle. Why should he, -Ephraim Quixtus, (as far as he could tell) vary from the unkindly race -of man? Why hitherto had baseness, treachery, and cruelty been as -foreign to his nature as an overpowering inclination towards arson or -homicide? Why had he been unequipped with these qualities which appeared -to serve mortals as weapons wherewith to fight the common battle of -life? The why, he could not tell. That he had them not, was obvious. -That he had gone to the wall through lack of them was obvious, too. -Instead of the dagger of baseness, the sword of cruelty, the shield of -treachery, all finely tempered implements of war, he had been fighting -with the wooden lath of virtue and the brawn-buckler of trust. Armed as -he should have been, he would have out-manœuvred Marrable at his own -game, kept his wife in chaste and wholesome terror of his jealousy, sent -Huckaby and Company long since to the limbo where they belonged, deluded -his uncle into the belief that he was a devil of a fellow, and now be -standing with flapping wings and crowing voice triumphant on this -dunghill of a world. But he had been hopelessly outmatched. Whoever had -taken upon himself the responsibility of equipping him for the battle of -life had been guilty of incredible negligence. But on whom could he call -to remedy this defect? Men called on the Unknown God to make them good; -but it would be idiotic as well as blasphemous to call on Him to make -one bad. How, then, were the essential qualities of baseness, treachery, -and cruelty to be captured and brought into his armoury? Perhaps the -Devil might help. But we are so matter-of-fact and scientific in these -days that even the simple soul of Quixtus could not quite believe in his -existence. If he had lived in the Middle Ages (so in scholarly gloom ran -his fancy) he could have drawn circles and pentagrams and things on the -floor, and uttered the incantations, and all the hierarchy of hell would -have been at his command, Satanas, Lucifer, Mephistopheles, Asmodeus, -Samael, Asael, Beelzebub, Azazel, Macathiel. . . . Quixtus rather leaned -towards Macathiel—the name suggested a merciless, bowelless, -high-cheek-boned devil in a kilt—— - -Impatiently he shook his thoughts free from the fantastic channel into -which they had wandered and brought them back into the ever-thickening -slough of his soul. The train lumbered on, stopping at pretty wayside -stations where fresh-faced folk with awkward gait and soft deep voices -clattered cheerily past Quixtus’s windows on their way to or from the -third-class carriages, or at the noisier, bustling stations of large -towns. Now and then a well-dressed traveller invaded his solitude for a -short distance. But Quixtus sat in his remote corner seeing, hearing -nothing, brooding on the baseness, treachery, and cruelty of mankind. He -had come to the end of love, the end of trust, the end of friendship. -When the shapes of those who were still loyal to him flitted across his -darkened fancy he cursed them in his heart. They were as corrupt as the -rest. That they had not been found out in their villainy only proved a -thicker mask of hypocrisy. He had finished with them all. If he had been -a more choleric man gifted with the power of picturesque vehemence of -language he might have outrivalled Timon of Athens in the denunciations -of his fellows. It must be a relief to any one in such a frame of mind -to stand up and, with violent gestures, express his views in terms of -sciatica, itches, blains, leprosy, venomed worms and ulcerous sores, and -to call upon the blessed breeding sun to draw from the earth rotten -humidity, and below his sister’s orb to infect the air. He knows exactly -what he feels, gives it full artistic expression, and finds himself all -the better for it. But Quixtus, inarticulate, had no such comfort. -Indeed, he could hardly have expressed the welter of horror, hate, and -misery that was his moral being, in any form of speech whatever. As the -train rumbled on, the phrase “Evil be thou my good” wove itself into the -rhythm of the machinery. He let it sing dully and stupidly in his ears, -and his mind worked subconsciously back to Macathiel. - -As yet he had imagined no future attitude towards life. His soul was in -a state of negation. The insistent invocation of Evil was but a -catchword, irritating his brain and having no real significance. At the -most he envisaged the future as a period of inactive misanthropy and -suspicion. He had as yet no stirrings to action. On the other hand, he -did not, like Job, after the first series of afflictions, rend his -clothes, shave his head, and bear his reverses with pious resignation. - -The train arrived an hour late, as slow trains are apt to do, and it was -nearly half-past eleven when he reached his house in Russell Square. He -opened the door with his latchkey. The hall was dark, contrary to -custom. He switched on the light, and, turning, saw that the letter-box -had not been cleared. Mechanically he took out the letters, and beneath -the hall lamp glanced at the outside of the envelopes. Among them was -the telegram he had sent from Devonshire. - -Even a man wallowing in the deepest abysses of spiritual misery needs -food; and when he finds that a telegram ordering supper (for his return -was unexpected) has not been opened, he may be pardoned purely material -disappointment and irritation. Mrs. Pennycook, the housekeeper, must -have profited by his absence to take a holiday. But what business had -she to take a holiday and leave the house uncared for at that time of -night? For, if she had returned, she would have lit the hall-light, and -cleared the letter-box. He resigned himself peevishly to the prospect of -a biscuit and a whisky-and-soda in the little back room where he ate his -meals. - -He strode down the passage to the head of the kitchen stairs and opened -the study door. A glare of light met his eyes, and a moment afterwards -something else. This was Mrs. Pennycook in an armchair, sleeping a -bedraggled sleep with two empty quart bottles of champagne and an empty -bottle of whisky by her side. He shook her hard by the shoulders; but -beyond stertorous and jerky breaths the blissful lady showed no signs of -animation. - -It was then that a constricting thread snapped in Quixtus’s brain. It -was then, as if by a trick of magic, that all the vaguely billowing -horrors, disillusions, disgusts, resentments and hatreds co-ordinated -themselves into a scheme of fierce vividness. - -Just as the boils made Job, who had borne the annihilation of his family -with equanimity, open his mouth and curse his day, so did a drunken -servant, who neglected to give him his supper, awaken Ephraim Quixtus to -the glorious thrill of a remorseless, relentless malignity. - -He threw up his hands and laughed aloud, peals of unearthly laughter -that woke the echoes of the empty house, that woke the canary in its -cage by the window, causing it to utter a few protesting “cheeps,” that -arrested the policeman on his beat outside, that did everything human -laughter in the way of noise can do, even stimulating the blissful lady -to open half a glazed eye for the fraction of a second. After his -paroxysm had subsided, he looked at the woman for a moment, and then -with an air of peculiar malevolence took a sheet of note-paper from a -small writing-table beneath the canary’s cage and wrote on it: - -“_Let me never see your face again.—E. Q._” - -This, by the aid of a hairpin that had fallen into her lap, he pinned to -her apron. Then, with another laugh, he left her beneath the glare of -the light, and went out into the street. He was thrilled, like a drunken -man, with a new sense of life. Years had fallen from his shoulders. He -had solved the riddle of the world. Baseness, treachery, cruelty, he -felt them pulsating in his heart with a maddening joy of existence. Evil -was his good. He was no longer even a base, treacherous, cruel man. He -was a devil incarnate. The long exultant years in front of him would be -spent in deeds of shame and crime and unprecedented wickedness. If there -was a throne to be waded to through slaughter, through slaughter would -he wade to it. He would shut the gates of Mercy on mankind. He held out -both hands in front of him with stiffened outspread fingers. If only -there was a human throat between them, how they would close around it, -how he would gloat over the dying agony! Caligula was the man for him. -He regretted his untimely death. What a colleague could have been made -of the fiend who wished that the whole human race had one neck so that -it could be severed at one blow! - -He had reached this stage in his exultant reflections when he found -himself outside a restaurant which he had never entered, at the Oxford -Street end of the Tottenham Court Road. He remembered that he was -hungry; that a new-born spirit of wickedness must be fed. He went in, -unconscious of the company or the surroundings, and ordered supper. The -waiter said that it was nearly closing time. Quixtus called for a plate -of cold beef and a whisky-and-soda. He devoured the meat ravenously, -forgetful of the bread by his side, and drank the drink at a gulp. -Having lit a cigar, he threw half a sovereign on the table and walked -out. He walked along the streets heedless of direction, down Shaftesbury -Avenue, across Piccadilly Circus blazing with light, through Leicester -Square, along the still hurrying Strand to Fleet Street noiseless and -empty, his brain on fire, weaving exquisite fabrics of devilry. Suddenly -he halted on a glorious thought. Why should he not begin there and then? -The whole of London, with its crime and sin and rottenness, lay before -him. He retraced his steps back to the Babylon of the West. What could -he do? Where could he find adequate wickedness? When he reached Charing -Cross again it was dark and deserted. A square mile of London has every -night about an hour of tearing, surging, hectic life. Then all of a -sudden the thousands of folk are swept away to the four comers of the -mighty city, and all is still. A woman, as Quixtus passed, quickened her -pace and murmured words. Here was a partner in wickedness to his hand. -But the flesh of the delicately fibred man revolted simultaneously with -the thought. No. That did not come within his scheme of wickedness. He -slipped a coin into the woman’s palm, because she looked so forlorn, and -went his way. She was useless for his purpose. What he sought was some -occasion for pitilessness, for doing evil to his fellow creatures. A -fine rain began to fall; but he heeded it not, burning with the sense of -adventure. A reminiscence of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde crossed his mind. -Hyde, like Caligula, was also the man for him. Didn’t he once throw a -child down in a lonely street and stamp on it? - -He walked and walked through the now silent places, and the more he -walked the less opening for wickedness did he see. The potentialities of -Babylon appeared to him overrated. After a wide and aimless détour he -found himself again at Charing Cross. He struck down Whitehall. But in -Whitehall and Parliament Street, the stately palaces on either side, -vast museums of an Empire’s decorum, forbade the suggestion of -wickedness. The belated omnibuses and cabs that passed along were -invested with a momentary hush of respectability. He turned up the -Thames Embankment and saw the mass of the great buildings with here and -there patches of lighted windows showing above the tree-tops of the -gardens, the benches below filled with huddled sodden shapes of human -misery, the broad silent thoroughfares, the parapet, the dimly flowing -river below—a black mirror marked by streaks of light, reflections from -lamps on parapet and bridges, the low-lying wharves on the opposite side -swallowed up in blackness—and no attractive wickedness was apparent; -nor was there any on the great bridge, disturbed only by the slow -waggons mountains high bringing food for the insatiable multitude of -London, and lumbering on in endless trail with an impressive -fatefulness; nor even at the coffee-stall at the corner of the Waterloo -Bridge Road, its damp little swarm of frequenters clustering to it like -bees, their faces illuminated by the segment of light cast by the -reflector at the back of the stall, all harmlessly drinking cocoa or -wistfully watching others drink it. For a moment he thought of joining -the swarm, as some of the faces looked alluringly vile; but the inbred -instinct of fastidiousness made him pass it by. He plunged into the -unsavoury streets beyond. They were still and ghostly. All things -diabolical could no doubt be found behind those silent windows; but at -two o’clock in the morning sin is generally asleep, and sleeping sin and -sleeping virtue are as alike as two pins. Meanwhile the fine rain fell -unceasingly, and the Earnest Seeker after Wickedness began to feel wet -and chilly. - -This is a degenerate age. A couple of centuries ago Quixtus could have -manned a ship with cut-throats, hoisted the skull and cross-bones, and -become the Terror of the Seas. Or, at a more recent date, if he had been -a Corsican he could have taken his gun and gone into the maquis and -declared war on the island. If he had lived in the fourteenth century he -could have become a condottiere after the fashion of the gentle Duke -Guarnieri, who, wearing on his breast a silver badge with the -inscription “The Enemy of God, of Pity, and of Mercy,” gained for -himself enviable unpopularity in Northern Italy. As a Malay, he could -have taken a queerly curving, businesslike knife and run amuck, to his -great personal satisfaction. In prehistoric times, he could have sat for -a couple of delicious months in a cave, polishing and sharpening a -beautiful axe-head, and, having fitted it to its haft, have gone forth -and (probably skulking behind trees so as to get his victims in the -rear) have had as gorgeous a time as was given to prehistoric man to -imagine. But nowadays, who can do these delightful, vindictive, and -misanthropical things with any feeling of security? If Quixtus, obeying -a logically developed impulse; had slaughtered a young man in evening -dress in Piccadilly, he most indubitably would have been hung, to say -nothing of being subjected to all the sordid procedure of a trial for -murder. - -Nor is this all. Owing to some flaw in our system of education, Quixtus -had not been trained to deeds of violence; no one had even set before -him the theoretical philosophy of the subject. You may argue, I am -aware, that we use other weapons now than the cutlass of the pirate or -the stone-axe of the quaternary age; we have the subtler vengeance of -voice and pen, which can give a more exquisite finish to the devastation -of human lives. But I would remind you that Quixtus, through the neglect -of his legal studies and practice, was ignorant of the ordinary laws of -chicane, and of the elementary principles of financial dishonesty that -guided the nefariousness of folk like “Gehenna, Unlimited.” - -It must be admitted, therefore, that Quixtus entered on his career of -depravity greatly handicapped. - -The grey light of a hopeless May dawn was just beginning to outline the -towers and spires of Westminster against the sky when Quixtus found -himself by the Westminster Hospital. He was damp and chill, somewhat -depressed. The thrill of adventure had passed away, leaving -disappointment and a little disillusion in its place. He was also -physically fatigued, and his shoulders and feet ached. One ghostly -hansom-cab stood on the rank, the horse drooping its dejected head into -a lean nosebag, the driver asleep inside. Quixtus resolved to arouse the -man from his slumbers, and, abandoning the pursuit of evil for the -night, drive home to Russell Square. But as he was crossing the road -towards the vehicle, a miserable object, starting up from the earth, ran -by his side and addressed him in a voice so hoarse that it scarcely rose -above a whisper. - -“For Gord’s sake, guv’nor, spare a poor man a copper or two. I’ve not -tasted food for twenty-four hours.” - -Quixtus stopped, his instinctive fingers diving into his pence-pocket. -Suddenly an idea struck him. - -“You must have led a very evil life,” said he, “to have come to this -stage of destitution.” - -“Whatcher gettin’ at?” growled the applicant, one eye fixed suspiciously -on Quixtus’s face, the other on the fumbling hand. - -“I’m not going to preach to you—far from it,” said Quixtus; “but I -should like to know. You must have seen a great deal of wickedness in -your time.” - -“If you arsk me,” opined the man, “there’s nothing but wickedness in -this blankety blank world.” - -He did not say “blankety blank,” but used other and more lurid epithets -which, though they were not exactly the ones that Quixtus himself would -have chosen, at least showed him that his companion and himself were -agreed on their fundamental conception of the universe. - -“If you will tell me where I can find some,” he said, “I will give you -half a crown.” - -A glimmer of astonished interest lit up the man’s dull eyes. “Whatcher -want to know for?” - -“That’s my business,” said Quixtus. - -The cabman, suddenly awakened, saw the possibility of a fare. He -clambered out of the vehicle. - -“Cab, sir?” he called across the road. - -“Yes,” said Quixtus. - -“‘Arf a crown?” said the battered man. - -“Certainly,” said Quixtus. - -“Then I’ll tell yer, guv’nor. I’ve been a bookie’s tout, see? Not a -slap-up bookie in the ring—but an outside one—one what did a bit of -welshing when he could, see?—and what I say is, that I seed more -wickedness there than anywhere else. If you want to see blankety blank -wickedness you go on the turf.” He cleared his throat, but his whisper -had grown almost inaudible. “I’ve gone and lost my voice,” he said. - -Quixtus looked at the drenched, starved, voiceless, unshorn horror of a -man standing outcast and dying of want and wickedness in the grey dawn, -under the shadow of the central symbols of the pomp and majesty of -England. - -“You look very ill,” said he. - -“Consumpshon,” breathed the man. - -Quixtus shivered. The cabman, who had hastily dispossessed the dejected -horse of the nosebag, had climbed into his dicky and was swinging the -cab round. - -“I thank you very much for your information,” said Quixtus. “Here’s half -a sovereign.” - -Voicelessness and wonder provoked an inarticulate wheeze like the -spitting of a cat. The man was still gaping at the unaccustomed coin in -his hand when the cab drove off. But Quixtus had not been many minutes -on his way when a thought smote him like a sledge-hammer. He brought his -fist down furiously on the leathern seat. - -“What a fool! What a monumental fool I’ve been!” he cried. - -He had just realised that the devil had offered him as pretty a little -chance of sheer wickedness as could be met with on a May morning, which -he had not taken. Instead of giving the man ten shillings, he ought to -have laughed in his face, taunted him with his emaciation and driven off -without paying the half-crown he had promised. To have let the very -first opportunity slip through his fingers! He would have to wear a -badge like that of the gentle Duke Guarnieri to keep his wits from -wandering. - -When he reached home he looked for a moment into the little room at the -head of the kitchen stairs. The Blissful One still slept, a happy smile -on her face, and the paper pinned to her apron. - -There was surely some chance of wickedness here. Quixtus _furens_ -scratched an inventive head. Suppose he carried her outside and set her -on the doorstep. He regarded her critically. She was buxom—about twelve -stone. He was a spare and unathletic man. A great yawn interrupted his -speculations, and turning off the light he stumbled off sleepily and -wearily to bed. - - - - - CHAPTER VI - - -The Blissful One carried out her master’s written injunction. He did not -see her face again. She packed up her trunks the next morning and -silently stole away with a racking headache and a set of gold teaspoons -which she took in lieu of a month’s wages. The vague female awakened -Quixtus and prepared his breakfast. When he asked her whether she could -cook lunch, she grew pale but said that she would try. She went to the -nearest butcher, bought a fibrous organic substance which he asserted to -be prime rump-steak, and coming back did something desperate with it in -a frying pan. After the first disastrous mouthful, Quixtus rose from the -table. - -“I give it to you for yourself, my good woman,” said he, priding himself -on his murderous intent. “I’ll get lunch elsewhere.” - -He back to his club, for the first time for many days. And this marked -his reappearance in the great world. - -He was halfway through his meal when a man, passing down the room from -pay-desk to door, caught sight of him and approached with extended hand. - -“My dear Quixtus. How good it is to see you again.” - -He was a bald, pink-faced little man, wearing great round gold -spectacles that seemed to be fitted on to his smiles. Kindliness and the -gladness of life emanated from him, as perfume does from a jar of attar -of roses. His name was Wonnacott, and he was a member of the council of -the Anthropological Society. Quixtus, who had known him for years, -scanned his glad cherubic face, and set him down as a false-hearted -scoundrel. With this mental reservation he greeted him cordially enough. - -“We want you badly,” said Wonnacott. “Things aren’t all they should be -at the Society.” - -“The monkey’s tail peeping out between their coat tails?” Quixtus asked -eagerly. - -“No. No. It’s only Griffiths.” Griffiths was the Vice-President. “He -knows his subject as well as anybody, but he’s a perfect fool in the -chair. We want you back.” - -“Very good of you to say so,” replied Quixtus, “but I’m thinking of -resigning from the Society altogether, giving up the study of -anthropology and presenting my collection to a criminal lunatic asylum.” - -Wonnacott, laughing, drew a chair from the vacant table next to -Quixtus’s and sat down. - -“Why—— What?” - -“We know how Primitive Man in most of the epochs slew his enemies, -cooked his food, and adorned or disfigured his person; but of the subtle -workings of his malignant mind we are hopelessly ignorant.” - -“I don’t suppose his mind was more essentially malignant than yours or -mine,” said Wonnacott. - -“Quite so,” Quixtus agreed. “But we can study the malignancy, the -brutality and bestiality of the minds of us living people. We are books -open for each other to read. Historic man too we can study—from -documents—Nero, Alexander the Sixth, Titus, Oates, Sweeny Tod the -Barber——” - -“But, my dear man,” smiled Wonnacott, “you are getting into the province -of criminology.” - -“It’s the only science worth studying,” said Quixtus. Then, after a -pause, during which the waiter put the Stilton in front of him and -handed him the basket of biscuits, “Do you ever go to race meetings?” - -“Sometimes—yes,” laughed the other, startled at the unexpectedness of -the question. “I have my little weaknesses like other people.” - -“There must be a great deal of wickedness to be found on race-courses.” - -“Possibly,” replied Wonnacott, apologetically, “but I’ve never seen any -myself.” - -Quixtus musingly buttered a piece of biscuit. “That’s a pity. A great -pity. I was thinking of going on the turf. I was told that nowhere else -could such depravity be found.” - -One or two of Wonnacott’s smiles dropped, as it were, from his face and -he looked keenly at Quixtus. He saw a hard glitter in the once mild, -china-blue eyes, and an unnatural hardness in the setting of the once -kindly lips. There was a curious new eagerness on a face that had always -been distinguished by a gentle repose. The hands, too, that manipulated -the knife and biscuits, shook feverishly. - -“I’m afraid you’re not very well, my dear fellow,” said he. - -“Not well?” Quixtus laughed, somewhat harshly. “Why I feel ten times -younger than I did this time yesterday. I’ve never been so well in my -life. Why, I could——” he stopped short and regarded Wonnacott -suspiciously—“No. I won’t tell you what I could do.” - -He drank the remainder of his glass of white wine, and threw his napkin -on the table. - -“Let us go and smoke,” said he. - -In the smoking-room, Wonnacott, still observing him narrowly, asked him -why he was so interested in the depravity of the turf. Quixtus met his -eyes with the same suspicious glance. - -“I told you I was going to take up the study of criminology. It’s a -useful and fascinating science. But as the subject does not seem to -interest you,” he added with a quick return to his courteous manner, -“let us drop it. You mustn’t suppose I’ve lost all interest in the -Society. What especially have you to complain of about Griffiths?” - -Wonnacott explained, and for the comfortable half-hour of coffee and -cigarettes after lunch they discussed the ineffectuality of Griffiths -and, as all good men will, exchanged views on the little foibles of -their colleagues on the Council of the Anthropological Society. Quixtus -discoursed so humanly, that Wonnacott, on his way office-wards, having -lit a cigar at the spirit-lamp in the club-vestibule, looked at the -burning end meditatively and said to himself: - -“I must have been mistaken after all.” - -But Quixtus remained for some time in the club deep in thought, scanning -a newspaper with unseeing eyes. He had been injudicious in his -conversation with Wonnacott. He had almost betrayed his secret. It -behoved him to walk warily. In these days the successful serpent has to -assume not only the voice, but the outer semblance and innocent manners -of the dove. If he went crawling and hissing about the world, -proclaiming his venomousness aloud like a rattle-snake, humanity would -either avoid him altogether, or hit him over the head out of -self-protection. He must ingratiate himself once more with mankind, and -only strike when opportunity offered. For that reason he would simulate -a continued interest in Prehistoric Man. - -On the other hand, the newly born idea of the study of criminology -hovered agreeably and comfortingly over his mind. So much so, that he -presently left the club, and, walking to a foreign library, ordered the -works of Cesare Lombroso, Ottolenghi, Ferri, Topinard, Corre and as many -other authorities on criminology as he could think of, and then, having -ransacked the second-hand bookshops in Charing Cross Road, drove home -exultant with an excellent set of “The Newgate Calendar.” - -Thus he entered upon a new phase of life. He began to mingle again with -his fellows, hateful and treacherous dogs though they were. He was no -longer morose and solitary. At the next meeting of the Anthropological -Society he occupied the Presidential Chair, amid a chorus of -(hypocritical) welcome. He accepted invitations to dinner. Also, finding -intense discomfort in the ministrations of the vague female, and -realising that after making good all Marrable’s defalcations, he was -still the possessor of a large fortune, he procured the services of a -cook and reinstated his former manservant—luckily disengaged—in -office, and again inhabited the commodious apartments which he had -abandoned. In fact, he not only resumed his former mode of life, but -exceeded it on the social side, walking more abroad into the busy ways -of men. In all of which he showed wisdom. For it is manifestly -impossible for a man to pursue a successful career of villainy if he -locks himself up in the impregnable recesses of a gloomy house and meets -no mortal on whom to practise. - -One afternoon, after deep and dark excogitation, he proceeded to Romney -Place and called upon Tommy Burgrave whom he had not seen since the day -of the trial. Tommy, just recovering from the attack of congestion of -the lungs, which had prevented him from attending his great uncle’s -funeral, was sitting in his dressing-gown before the bedroom fire, while -Clementina, unkempt as usual, was superintending his consumption of a -fried sole. - -Tommy greeted him boyishly. He couldn’t rise, as his lap was full of -trays and fat things. His uncle would find a chair somewhere in the -corner. It was jolly of him to come. - -“You might have come sooner,” snapped Clementina. “The boy has been half -dead. If it hadn’t been for me, he would have been quite dead.” - -“You nursed him through his illness?” - -“What else do you suppose I meant?” - -“He could have had a trained nurse,” said Quixtus. “There are such -things.” - -“Trained nurses!” cried Clementina, in disdain. “I’ve no patience with -them. If they’re ugly, they’re brutes—because they know that a -good-looking boy like Tommy won’t look at them. If they’re pretty, -they’re fools, because they’re always hoping that he will.” - -“I say, Clementina,” Tommy protested. “Nurses are the dearest people in -the world. A fellow crocked up is just a ‘case’ for them, and they never -think of anything but pulling him through. ‘Tisn’t fair of you to talk -like that.” - -“Isn’t it?” said Clementina, conscious of a greater gap than usual in -the back of her blouse, and struggling with one hand to reconcile button -and hole. “What on earth do you know about it? Just tell me, are you a -woman or am I?” - -Tommy laid down his fork with a sigh. “You’re an angel, Clementina, and -this sole was delicious; and I wish there were more of it.” - -She took the tray from his knees and put it on a side table. Tommy -turned to Quixtus, who sat Sphinx-like on a straight-backed chair, and -expressed his regret at not having been able to attend his great-uncle’s -funeral. - -“You missed an interesting ceremony,” said Quixtus. - -Tommy laughed. “I suppose the old man didn’t leave me anything?” - -He had heard nothing privately about the will, and, as probate had not -yet been taken out, the usual summary had not been published in the -newspapers. - -“I’m afraid not,” said Quixtus. “Did you expect anything?” - -“Oh Lord, no!” laughed Tommy, honestly. - -“Then more fool you, and more horrid old man he,” said Clementina. - -There was a pause. Quixtus, not feeling called upon to defend his -defunct and mocking kinsman, said nothing. Clementina drew the crumpled -yellow packet of Maryland tobacco and papers from a pocket in her skirt -(she insisted on having pockets in her skirts) and rolled a cigarette. -When she had licked it, she turned to Quixtus. - -“I suppose you know that I came like a fool to your house and was -refused admittance.” - -“Well trained servants,” said Quixtus, “have a knack of indiscriminate -obedience.” - -“You might have said something more civil,” she said, taken aback. - -“If you will dictate to me a formula of politeness I will repeat it with -very great pleasure,” he retorted. “Put a little honey on my tongue and -it will wag as mellifluously as that of any hypocrite who wins for -himself the adulation of mankind.” - -“Mercy’s sake man!” exclaimed Clementina, in her astonishment allowing -the smoke to mingle with her words. “Where on earth did you learn to -talk like that?” - -Their eyes met, and Clementina suddenly screwed up her face and looked -at him. She saw in those pale blue eyes something, she could not tell -what, but something which had not been in the eyes of the gentle, -sweet-souled man she had painted. Her grimace, although familiar through -the sittings, somewhat disconcerted him. She made the grim sound that -with her represented laughter. - -“I was only wondering whether I had got you right after all.” - -“Of course, you got him right,” cried Tommy the ingenuous. “It’s one of -the rippingest pieces of work you’ve ever done.” - -“The Anthropological Society find it quite satisfactory,” said Quixtus -stiffly. - -“Flattered, I’m sure,” said Clementina. - -Tommy, dimly aware now of antagonism, diplomatically introduced a fresh -topic of conversation. - -“You haven’t told him, Clementina,” said he, “of the letter you got the -other day from Shanghai.” - -“Shanghai?” echoed Quixtus. - -“Yes, from Will Hammersley,” said Clementina, her voice softening. “He’s -in very bad health, and hopes to come home within a year. I thought you, -too, might have heard from him.” - -Quixtus shook his head. For a moment he could not trust himself to -speak. The sudden mention of that detested name stunned him like a blow. -At last he said; “I never realised you were such friends.” - -“He used to come to me in my troubles.” - -Quixtus passed his hand between neck and collar, as if to free his -throat from clutching fingers. His voice, when he spoke, sounded hoarse -and far away in his ears. - -“You were in his confidence, I suppose.” - -“I think so,” said Clementina, simply. - -To the sorely afflicted man’s unbalanced and suspicious mind this was a -confession of complicity in the wrong he had suffered. He controlled -himself with a great effort, and turned his face away so that she should -not see the hate and anger in his eyes. She, too, had worked against -him. She, too, had mocked him as the poor blind fool. She, too, he swore -within himself, should suffer in the general devastation he would work -upon mankind. As in a dream he heard her summarise the letter which she -had received. Hammersley had of late been a victim to the low Eastern -fever. Once he had nearly died, but had recovered. It had taken hold, -however, of his system and nothing but home would cure him. In Shanghai -he had made fortune enough to retire. Once in England again he would -never leave it as long as he lived. - -“He writes one or two pages of description of what May must be in -England—the fresh sweet green of the country lanes, the cool lawns, the -old grey churches peeping through the trees, the restful, undulating -country, the smell of the hawthorn and blackthorn at dawn and eve—those -are his words—the poor man’s so sick for home that he has turned into a -twopenny ha’penny poet——” - -“I think it’s damned pathetic,” said Tommy. “Don’t you, Uncle Ephraim?” - -“I beg your pardon,” said Quixtus with a start. - -“Don’t you think it’s pathetic for a chap stranded sick in a -God-forsaken place in China, to write that high falutin’ stuff about -England? Clementina read it to me. It’s the sort of thing a girl of -fifteen might have written as a school essay—all the obvious things you -know—and it meant such a devil of a lot to him—everything on earth. It -fairly made me choke. I call it damned pathetic.” - -Quixtus said in a dry voice, “Yes, it’s pathetic—it’s comic—it’s -tragic—it’s melodramatic—it’s nostalgic—it’s climatic—— Yes,” he -added, absently, “it’s climatic.” - -“I wonder you don’t say it’s dyspeptic and psychic and fantastic,” said -Clementina, snatching an old hat from the bed. “Do you know you’ve -talked nothing but rubbish ever since you entered this room?” - -“Language, my dear Clementina,” he quoted; “was given to us to conceal -our thoughts.” - -“Bah!” said Clementina. She held out her hand abruptly. “Good-bye. I’ll -run in later, Tommy; and see how you’re getting on.” - -Quixtus opened the door for her to pass out and returned to his -straight-backed chair. Tommy handed him a box of cigarettes. - -“Won’t you smoke? I tried one cigarette to-day for the first time, but -the beastly thing tasted horrid—just as if I were smoking oatmeal.” - -Quixtus declined the cigarette. He remained silent; looking gloomily at -the young, eager face which masked heaven knows what faithlessness and -guile. Being in league with Clementina, whom he knew now was his enemy, -Tommy was his enemy too. And yet, for the life of him, he could not -carry out the malignant object of his visit. For some time Tommy -directed the conversation. He upbraided the treacherous English climate -which had enticed him out of doors, and then stretched him on a bed of -sickness. It was rough luck. Just as he was beginning to find himself as -a landscape painter. It was a beautiful little bit of river—all pale -golden lights and silver greys—now that May was beginning and all the -trees in early leaf he could not get that spring effect again—could -not, in fact, finish the picture. By the way, his uncle had not heard -the news. The little picture that had got (by a mistake, according to -Clementina) into a corner of the New Gallery, had just been sold. -Twenty-five guineas. Wasn’t it ripping? A man called Smythe, whom he had -never heard of, had bought it. - -“You see, it wasn’t as if some one I knew had bought it, so as to give a -chap some encouragement,” he remarked naïvely. “It was a stranger who -had the whole show to pick from, and just jumped at my landscape.” - -Quixtus, who had filled up by monosyllables the various pauses in -Tommy’s discourse, at last rose to take his leave. He had tried now and -then to say what he had come to say; but his tongue had grown thick and -the roof of his mouth dry, and his words literally stuck in his throat. - -“It’s awfully good of you, Uncle Ephraim,” said Tommy, “to have come to -see me. As soon as I get about again, I’ll try to do something jolly for -you. There’s a bit of wall in your drawing-room that’s just dying for a -picture. And I say”—he twisted his boyish face whimsically and looked -at him with a twinkle in his dark blue eyes—“I don’t know how in the -world it has happened—but if you _could_ let me draw my allowance now -instead of the first of the month——” - -This was the monthly euphemism. Against his will Quixtus made the -customary reply. - -“I’ll send you a cheque as usual.” - -“You _are_ a good sort,” said Tommy. “And one of these days I’ll get -there and you won’t be ashamed of me.” - -But Quixtus went away deeply ashamed of himself, disgusted with his -weakness. He had started out with the fixed and diabolical intention of -telling the lad that he was about to disinherit him. - -He had schemed this exquisite cruelty in the coolness of solitude. In -its craft and subtlety it appeared peculiarly perfect. He had come fully -prepared to perform the deed of wickedness. Not only had Clementina’s -gentle presence not caused him to waver in his design, but his discovery -of her complicity in his great betrayal had inflamed his desire for -vengeance. Yet, when the time came for the wreaking thereof, his valour -was of the oozing nature lamented by Bob Acres. He was shocked at his -pusillanimity. In the middle of Sloane Square he stopped and cursed -himself, and was nearly run over by a taxi-cab. As it was empty he -hailed it, and continued his maledictions in the security of its -interior. - -Manifestly there was something wrong in his psychological economy which -no reading of Lombroso or “The Newgate Calendar” could remedy. Or was he -merely suffering from a lack of experience in evil doing? Did he not -need a guide in the Whole Art and Practice of Wickedness? - -He walked up and down his museum in anxious thought. At last a smile lit -up his gaunt features. He sat down and wrote notes of invitation to -Huckaby, Vandermeer, and Billiter to dinner on the following Tuesday. - - - - - CHAPTER VII - - -Quixtus received them in the museum, a long room mainly furnished with -specimen cases whose glass tops formed a double inclined plane, diagrams -of geological formations, and bookcases full of palæontological -literature—a cold, inhuman, inhospitable place. The three looked more -dilapidated than ever. Huckaby’s straggling whiskers had grown deeper -into his cheek; Vandermeer’s face had become foxier, Billiter’s more -pallid and puffy. No overcoats hung on the accustomed pegs, for the -cessation of the eleemosynary deposits had led, among other misfortunes, -to the pawning of these once indispensable articles of attire. The three -wore, therefore, the dismally apologetic appearance of the man who had -no wedding garment. The only one of them who put on a simulated -heartiness of address was Billiter. He thrust out a shaky hand— - -“My dear Quixtus, how delightful——” - -But the sight of his host’s unwelcoming face chilled his enthusiasm. -Quixtus bowed slightly and motioned them, with his grave courtesy, to -comfortless seats. He commanded the situation. So might a scholar prince -of the school of Machiavelli have received his chief poisoner, -strangler, and confidential abductor. They went down to dinner. It was -not an hilarious meal. The conversation which used to flow now fell in -spattering drops amid a dead silence. - -“It’s a fine day,” said Quixtus. - -“Very,” said Huckaby. - -“Finer than yesterday,” said Vandermeer. - -“It promises well for to-morrow,” said Billiter. - -“It always breaks its promise,” said Quixtus. - -“H’m,” said Huckaby. - -They made up for the lacking feast of reason by material voracity. A -microscopic uplifting of Spriggs the butler’s eyebrows betokened wonder -at their Gargantuan helpings. Vandermeer, sitting at the foot of the -table opposite to Quixtus, bent his foxy face downwards till the -circumference of the plate became the horizon of his universe. Billiter -ate with stolid cynicism; Huckaby, with a faint air of bravado. Once he -said: - -“I’m afraid Quixtus we got a bit merry the last time.” - -“It’s to the memory of that,” replied Quixtus; “that I owe the pleasure -of your company to-night.” - -“I’m beastly sorry—” began Billiter. - -“Pray don’t mention it,” Quixtus interrupted blandly. “I hope the quails -are to your liking.” - -“Fine,” said Vandermeer, without raising his eyes from his plate. - -Once more reigned the spell of silence which oppressed even the three -outcast men; but Quixtus, hardened by his fixed idea, felt curiously at -his ease. He sat in his chair with the same sense of security and -confidence as he had done before delivering his Presidential Address at -the meeting of the Anthropological Society, while the secretary went -through the preliminary formal business. The preliminary business here -was the meal. As soon, however, as the port had been sent round and -Spriggs had retired, Quixtus addressed his guests. - -“Gentlemen,” said he, and met in turns the three pairs of questioning -eyes. “You may wonder perhaps why I have invited you to dinner to-night, -and why, you being thus invited, the meal has not been warmed by its -accustomed glow of geniality. It is my duty and my pleasure now to tell -you. Hitherto at these dinners we have—let us say—worn the comic mask. -Beneath its rosy and smiling exterior we have dissimulated our own -individual sentiments. We have been actors, without realising it, in an -oft-repeated comedy. Only on the occasion of our last meeting did we put -aside the mask and show to each other what we were.” - -“I’ve already apologised,” murmured Billiter. - -“My dear fellow,” said Quixtus, raising his long thin hand, “that’s the -last thing I want you to do. In this world of fraud and deceit no man -ought to regret having bared his soul honestly to the world. Now, -gentlemen, I have not asked you here to insult you at my own table. I -have gathered you around me because I need your counsel and your -services for which I hope adequately to remunerate you.” - -A quiver of animation passed over the three faces. “Remunerate” was a -magic word; the master-word of an incantation. It meant money, and money -meant food and drink—especially alcoholic drink. - -“I know I am speaking for my two friends,” said Huckaby, “when I say -that our hearts are always at your service.” - -“The heart,” replied Quixtus, “is a physiological organ and a -sentimental delusion. There are no hearts in that sense. You know as -well as I do, my dear fellow, that there are no such things as love, -affection, honour, loyalty in the world. Self-interest and -self-indulgence are the guiding principles of conduct. Governed by a -morbid and futile tradition, we refuse to regard the world in the -malevolent light of day, but see it artificially through the -hypocritical coloured glasses of benevolence.” - -Huckaby and Vandermeer, who retained the rudiments of an intellect, -looked at their once simple-minded and tender-hearted host in blank -bewilderment. They hardly knew whether to wince under a highly educated -gentleman’s cutting irony, or to accept these remarkable propositions as -honest statements of opinion. But the ironical note was not perceptible. -Quixtus spoke in the same gentle tone of assurance as he would have used -when entering on a dissertation upon the dolichocephalic skulls in his -collection which had been found in a long barrow in Yorkshire. He was -the master of a subject laying down incontrovertible facts. So Huckaby -and Vandermeer, marvelling greatly, stared at him out of speculative -eyes. Billiter, before whom the incautious decanter of port had halted, -lost the drift of his host’s philosophic utterances. - -“The time has now come,” continued Quixtus, relighting (unsophisticated -soul!) the cigar which he had allowed to go out—“the time has now come -for us four to be honest with one another. Up to a recent date I was a -slave to this optical delusion of tradition. But things have happened to -clear my eyes, and to make me frankly confess myself no better than -yourselves—an entirely unscrupulous man.” - -“Pray remember that I’m a sometime Fellow—” began Huckaby. - -“I’m a gentleman of good family—” began Billiter, who had understood -the last sentence. - -“Yes. Yes,” replied Quixtus, interrupting them. “I know. That’s why your -assistance will be valuable. I need the counsels of men of breeding and -education. I find from my reading that the vulgar criminal would be -useless for my purpose. Now, you all have trusted men who have failed -you. So have I. You have felt the cowardly blows of Fortune. So have I. -You have no vestige of faith in your fellow man—you even believed me to -be a party to my late partner’s frauds—you can have, I say, no faith -left in humanity. Neither have I. You are Ishmaels, your hand against -every man. So am I. You would like to be revenged upon your fellow -creatures. So would I. You have passed your lives in pursuing evil -rather than good. You, in a word, are entirely unscrupulous. If you will -acknowledge this we can proceed to business. If not; we will part -finally as soon as this agreeable evening is at an end. Gentlemen what -do you say?” - -Billiter, looking upon the wine while it was red—there was not much -left to show the colour—laughed wheezily and shortly. - -“I suppose we’re wrong ‘uns,” said he. “At least I am. I own up.” - -Vandermeer said bitterly: “When a man is hunted by poverty he can’t run -straight, for at the end of the straight path is death.” - -“And you, Huckaby?” - -“I also have bolted into a drain or two in my time.” - -“Good,” said Quixtus. “Now we understand one another.” - -“You may understand us,” said Huckaby, tugging at his untidy beard, “but -I’m hanged, drawn, and quartered if we understand you.” - -“I thought I had made myself particularly clear,” said Quixtus. - -“For my part,” said Billiter, “I can’t make out what you’re getting at -except to make us confess that we’re wrong ‘uns.” - -“Dear, dear,” said Quixtus. - -“I can’t understand it,” said Vandermeer, looking intently at him across -the table out of his little sharp eyes. “I can’t understand it, unless -it is that you have some big scoop on and want us to come into it, so as -to do the dirty work. If that’s so I’m on, so long as it’s safe. But -I’ve steered clear of the law up to now and have no desire to run the -risk of penal servitude.” - -“Oh Lord no!” cried Billiter with a shiver. - -Quixtus pressed the burning stump of his cigar against his plate and -looked up with a smile. - -“Please make your minds easy on that score. I have been reading -criminology lately with considerable interest, and I have gone through a -volume or two of ‘The Newgate Calendar,’ and the result of my reading is -the conviction that crime is folly. It is a disease. It is also vulgar. -No, I have no desire to increase my personal possessions in any way; -neither do I contemplate the commission of acts of violence against the -person or the destruction of property. Anything therefore that comes -within the category of crime may be dismissed from our consideration.” - -“Then in the name of Gehenna,” exclaimed Huckaby, “what is it that you -want us to do?” - -“It is very simple,” said Quixtus. “I may plot out an attractive scheme -of wickedness, but the circumstances of my early training have left me -without the power to execute it. I should like to call on any one of you -for guidance, perhaps practical assistance. I may want to see and hear -of wickedness going on around me. I would count on you to gratify my -curiosity. Lastly, not having an inventive mind, it being rather -analytic than synthetic, I should welcome any suggestions that you might -bring me.” - -“It’s a rum go,” said Billiter, “but I’m on, so long as there’s money in -it.” - -“There will be money in it,” said Quixtus. - -“Then I’m on too,” said Vandermeer. - -“You will find us, my dear Quixtus,” said Huckaby, “your very devoted -Familiars—your Oliviers le Daim, your Eminences Grises, your _âmes -damnées_. We’ll be your ministering evil spirits, your genii from Eblis. -It’s a new occupation for a Fellow of Corpus Christi College, Cambridge, -but it’s not unalluring. And now, as Billiter has finished the decanter, -may I take the liberty of asking for another bottle, so that Vandermeer -and I can drink to the health of our chief.” - -“With all the pleasure in life,” said Quixtus. - - * * * * * - -As soon as the three newly constituted Evil Genii were out of earshot of -the house, they stopped on the pavement with one accord and burst into -unseemly laughter. - -“Did you ever hear anything like it?” cried Billiter. - -“He’s as mad as Bedlam,” said Vandermeer. - -“A sort of inverted Knight of the Round Table,” said Huckaby. “He yearns -to ride abroad committing human wrongs.” - -“Are we to call for orders every day like the butcher, the baker, and -the greengrocer?” said Vandermeer. - -“He was so sane at first,” said Vandermeer, “that I really thought he -had some definite scoop in view. But it all turns out to be utter -moonshine.” - -“If he doesn’t want to thieve or murder or paint the town red,” said -Billiter, “what the blazes in the way of wickedness is left for him to -do?” - -“It’s moonshine,” repeated Vandermeer. - -“If it wasn’t,” said Huckaby, “none of us would touch it. We can’t take -the matter seriously. We’re just lending ourselves to a farce, that’s -all.” - -“Naturally,” Billiter agreed. “We must humour him.” - -They walked on slowly, discussing the unprecedented situation. They were -unanimous in the opinion that the poor gentleman had gone distraught. -They had all noticed signs of his affliction on the last occasion of -their dining at his table. If he had been in his right senses then, he -would surely not have behaved with such discourtesy. They agreed to -forgive him for turning them out of doors. - -“It’s lucky for him,” said Huckaby, “that he has three old friends like -ourselves. He might have got into other hands, and then—God help him. -My only reason for falling in with his mood was in order to protect him -from himself—and from sharks and blood-suckers.” - -Billiter and Vandermeer declared that they, too, had acted only out of a -sense of loyalty to their old and distracted friend. They protested so -hard that their tongues clave to the roofs of their mouths, and each -acknowledged his thirst. They turned into the bar-parlour of the first -public-house, where they called for whisky, and, each man having found a -hat as good a substitute for the sacks of Joseph’s brethren as an -overcoat, they continued to call for whisky, and to drink it until the -tavern closed for the night. By that time they glowed with conscious -virtue. Huckaby swore that he would permit no ruddy lobsters to dig -their claws into Quixtus’s sacred person. - -“Here’s poor dear old chap’s health, drunk in very last drop,” cried -Billiter, enthusiastically draining his last glass. - -The tragedy of Quixtus’s loss of reason reduced Vandermeer to tears. He -was sorrowful in his cups. He, Vandermeer, had no one to love him; but -Quixtus should never find himself in that desolate predicament, as he, -Vandermeer, would love him like a friend, a brother, like a -silver-haired maiden aunt. - -“I’ve had a silver-haired maiden aunt myself,” he wailed. - -While Billiter comforted him, Huckaby again warned them against ruddy -lobsters. If they would swear to join him in a league to defend their -patron and benefactor, he would accept their comradeship. If they -preferred to be ruddy lobsters, he would wash his hands of them. They -repudiated the crustacean suggestion. They were more Quixtus’s friends -than he. A quarrel nearly broke out, each claiming to be the most loyal -and disinterested friend Quixtus ever had in his life. Finally they were -reconciled and wrung each other warmly by the hand. The barman called -closing time and pushed them gently into the street. They staggered -deviously to their several garrets and went to bed, each certain that he -had convinced the two others of his beauty and nobility of soul. - - * * * * * - -Vandermeer was the first of the Evil Genii to be summoned. Quixtus laid -before him the case of Tommy and the failure of his diabolical project. -Vandermeer listened attentively. There was method after all in his -patron’s madness. He wished to do some hurt to his nephew for the sheer -sake of evil-doing. As far as the intention went he was seriously trying -to carry out his malevolent principles. It was not all moonshine. -Vandermeer thought quickly. He was the craftiest of the three, and that -perhaps was why Quixtus had instinctively chosen him for the first -adventure. He saw profit in humouring the misanthrope, though he smiled -inwardly at the simplicity of his idea. - -“There’s nothing particularly diabolical in telling a young fellow with -a brilliant career before him that you’re going to cut him out of your -will.” - -“Isn’t there?” said Quixtus, with an air of disappointment. “What then -would you suggest?” - -“First,” answered Vandermeer, “what do you think would be a fair price -for a suggestion?” He regarded him with greedy eyes. “Would twenty -pounds be out of the way?” - -“I’ll give you twenty pounds,” said Quixtus. - -Vandermeer drew in his breath quickly, as a man does who wins a bet at -long odds. - -“There are all sorts of things you can do. The obvious one would be to -stop his allowance. But I take it you want something more artistic and -subtle. Wait—let me think—” He covered his eyes with his hand for a -moment. “Look. How will this do? It strikes me as infernally wicked. You -say he is devoted to his art. Well, make him give it up——” - -“Excellent! Excellent!” cried Quixtus. “But how?” - -“Can you get him into any business office in the City?” - -“Yes. My friend Griffiths of the Anthropological Society is secretary of -the Star Assurance Coy. A word from me would get the boy into the -office.” - -“Good. Then tell him that unless he accepts this position within a month -and promises never to touch a paint-brush again, he will not receive a -penny from you either during your lifetime or after your death. In this -way you will bring him up against an infernal temptation, and whichever -way he decides he’ll be wretched. I call that a pretty scheme.” - -“It’s an inspiration of genius,” exclaimed Quixtus excitedly. “I’ll -write the cheque now.” He sat down to his desk and pulled out his -cheque-book. “And you will go at once to my nephew—I’ll give you a card -of introduction—and acquaint him with my decision.” - -“What?” cried Vandermeer. - -Quixtus calmly repeated the last sentence. Vandermeer’s face went a -shade paler. He wrung his hands, which were naturally damp, until they -grew as bloodless as putty. He had never done any wanton harm in his -life. All the meanness and sharp-dealing he had practised were but a -poor devil’s shifts to fill an empty belly. Quixtus’s behest covered him -with dismay. It was unexpected. It is one thing to suggest to a crazy -and unpractical patron a theoretical fantasia of wickedness, and another -to be commanded to put it oneself into execution. It was less moonshine -than ever. - -“Don’t you want to do it?” asked Quixtus, unwittingly balancing -temptation, in the form of a fat cheque-book, in his hand. - -Vandermeer fell. What wolf-eyed son of Hagar would have resisted? - -“I think,” said he, with a catch in his throat, “that if the suggestion -alone is worth twenty pounds, the carrying out of it is worth—say—ten -more?” - -“Very well,” said Quixtus; “but,” he added drily, “the next time I hope -you’ll give an estimate to cover the whole operation.” - -The second of the three to receive a summons from the Master was -Billiter. - -“You know something about horse-racing,” remarked Quixtus. - -“What I don’t isn’t worth knowing. I’ve chucked away a fortune in -acquiring the knowledge.” - -“I want you to accompany me to race-meetings and show me the wickedness -of the turf,” said Quixtus. - -“So that’s my little job is it?” - -“That’s your little job.” - -“I think I can give you a run for your money,” remarked Billiter, a pale -sunshine of intelligence overspreading his puffy features. “But—” he -paused. - -“But what?” - -“I can’t go racing with you in this kit.” - -“I will provide you,” said Quixtus, “with whatever costume you think -necessary for the purpose.” - -Billiter went his way exulting and spent the remainder of the afternoon -in tracking a man down from his office in Soho, his house in Peckham, -several taverns on the Surrey side of the river, to a quiet café in -Regent Street. The man was a red-faced, thick-necked, hard, fishy-eyed -villain with a mouth like the slit of a letter-box, and went by the name -(which he wore inscribed on his hat at race-meetings) of Old Joe Jenks. -Billiter drew him into a corner and whispered gleeful tidings into his -ear. After which Old Joe Jenks drew Billiter to a table and filled him -up with the most seductive drinks the café could provide. - -Before the lessons in horse-racing under Billiter’s auspices began—for -gorgeous raiment, appropriate to Sandown and Kempton, like Rome, is not -built in a day—Quixtus sent for the remaining Evil Genius. - -“What have you to suggest?” he asked after some preliminary and -explanatory conversation. - -A humorous twinkle came into Huckaby’s eye, and a smile played round his -lips beneath the straggling brushwood of hair. - -“I have a great idea,” he said. - -“What is it?” - -“Break a woman’s heart,” said Huckaby. - -Quixtus reflected gravely. It would indeed be a charming, enticing piece -of wickedness. - -“I shouldn’t have to marry her?” he asked in some concern. - -“Heaven forbid.” - -“I like it,” said Quixtus, leaning back in his chair and smoothing his -scrappy moustache with his lean fingers. “I like it very much. The only -difficulty is: where can I find the woman whose heart I can break?” - -“Take a tour abroad,” said Huckaby. “On the Continent of Europe there -are thousands of English women only waiting to have their hearts -broken.” - -“That may be true,” said Quixtus; “but how shall I obtain the necessary -introductions?” - -“I,” cried Huckaby raising a bony hand that protruded through a very -frayed and dirty shirt-cuff. “I, Eustace Huckaby, will reassume my air -of academical distinction and will accompany you into the _pays du -tendre_ and introduce you to any woman you like. In other words, my dear -Quixtus, although I may not look like a Lothario at the present moment, -I have had considerable experience in amatory adventures—and I’m sure -you would find my assistance valuable.” - -Quixtus reflected again. Aware of his limitations he recognised the -futility of going alone on a heart-breaking expedition among strange -even though expectant females. But would Huckaby be an ideal companion? -Huckaby was self-assertive, not to say impudent, in manner; and Huckaby -had certain shocking habits. On the other hand, perhaps the impudence -was the very quality needed in the quest; and as for the habits—He -decided. - -“Very well. I accept your proposal—on one condition. What that is you -doubtless can guess.” - -“I can,” said Huckaby. “I give you my word of honour that you will never -see me otherwise than sober.” - -An undertaking which would not preclude him from taking a bottle of -whisky to bed whenever he felt so inclined. - -“We had better start at once,” said Huckaby, after some necessary -discussion of the question of wardrobe. - -“I must wait,” replied Quixtus, “until I’ve attended some race-meetings -with Billiter.” - -Huckaby frowned. He was not aware that to Billiter had already been -assigned a sphere of action. - -“I don’t want to say anything unfriendly. But if I were you I shouldn’t -trust Billiter too implicitly. He’s a—” he paused—being sober and -serious he rejected the scarlet epithet which, when used in allusion to -his friends, had given colour to his gayer speech—“He’s a man who knows -too much of the game.” - -“My dear Huckaby,” said Quixtus. “I shall never trust another human -being as long as I live.” - -That evening, somewhat wondering that he had heard no news of Tommy or -of Vandermeer, he unlocked the iron safe in his museum and took out his -will. He lit a candle and set it by the hearth. Now was the time to -destroy the benevolent document. He put it near the flame; then drew it -back. A new thought occurred to him. To practise on his nephew the same -trick as his uncle had played upon him was mere unintelligent -plagiarism. He felt a sudden disdain for the merely mimetic in -wickedness. - -“I will be original,” said he. “Yes, original.” He repeated the word as -a formula both of consolation and incentive, and blowing out the candle, -put the will back into the safe. - - - - - CHAPTER VIII - - -“Lord have mercy upon us!” cried Clementina. - -The pious ejaculation was in the nature of a reply to Miss Etta -Concannon, the fragile slip of a girl whose portrait she had painted and -in whose cornflower-blue eyes she had caught the haunting fear. There -was no fear, however, in the eyes to-day. They were bright, direct, and -abnormally serious. She had just announced her intention of becoming a -hospital nurse. Whereupon Clementina had cried: “Lord have mercy upon -us!” - -Now it must be stated that Etta Concannon had bestowed on an embarrassed -Clementina her young and ardent affection; secretly, during the sittings -for the portrait which her father had commissioned Clementina to paint -as a wedding present, and openly; when the sittings were ended and she -called upon Clementina as a friend. In the first flush of this avowed -adoration she would send shy little notes, asking whether she might come -to the studio to tea. As she lived quite close by, the missives were -despatched by hand. Clementina, disturbed in the midst of her painting, -would tear a ragged corner from the first bit of paper her eyes fell -upon—note-paper, brown-paper, cartridge-paper—once it was -sand-paper—scribble “Yes” on it with a bit of charcoal and send it out -to the waiting messenger. At last she was driven to desperation. - -“My good child,” she said, “can’t you drop in to tea without putting me -to this elaborate correspondence?” - -Etta Concannon thought she could, and thence-forward came to tea -unheralded, and, eventually such were her powers of seduction that she -enticed Clementina to her own little den in her father’s house in Cheyne -Walk—a fairy den all water-colour and gossamer very much like herself, -in which Clementina gave the impression of an ogress who had blundered -in by mistake. It was on the first visit that Clementina repudiated the -name of Miss Wing. She hated and loathed it. On Etta’s lips it suggested -a prim, starched governess—the conventional French caricature of the -English Old Maid with long teeth and sharp elbows. She might be an old -maid, but she wasn’t a prim governess. Everybody called her Clementina. -Upon which, to her professed discomfort, Etta threw her arms round her -neck and kissed her and called her a darling. Why Clementina wasted her -time over this chit of a girl she was at a loss to conjecture. She was -about as much use in the world as a rainbow. Yet for some fool reason -(her own expression) Clementina encouraged her, and felt less grim in -her company. The odd part of their intercourse was that the one thing -under heaven they did not talk about was the bullet-headed, bull-necked -young man to whom Etta was engaged—not until one day when, in response -to the following epistle, Clementina brusquely dismissed her sitter, -skewered on a battered hat, and rushed round to Cheyne Walk. - -“My dearest, dearest Clementina,—Do come to me. I am in abject misery. -The very worst has happened. I would come to you, but I’m not fit to be -seen. - - Your own unhappy - “Etta.” - -“My poor child,” cried Clementina, as she entered the bower and beheld a -very dim and watery fairy sobbing on a couch. “Who has been doing this -to you?” - -“It’s R-Raymond,” said Etta, chokingly. - -To her astonishment Clementina found herself sitting on the couch with -her arms round the girl. Now and then she did the most idiotic things -without knowing in the least why she did them. In this position she -listened to Etta’s heartrending story. It was much involved, here and -there incoherent, told with singular disregard of chronological -sequence. When properly pieced together and shorn of irrelevance, this -is what it amounted to: - -Certain doings of the bullet-headed young man, doings not at all -creditable—mean and brutal doings indeed—had reached the ears of -Etta’s father. Now Etta’s father was a retired admiral, and Etta the -beloved child of his old age. The report of Captain Hilyard’s doings had -wounded him in his weakest spot. In a fine fury he telephonically -commanded the alleged wrongdoer to wait upon him without delay. Captain -Hilyard obeyed. The scene of the interview was a private room in the -service club to which Admiral Concannon belonged. Admiral Concannon went -straight to the point—it is an uncomfortable characteristic of British -admirals. The bullet-headed young man not being able to deny the charges -brought against him, Admiral Concannon expressed himself in such terms -as are only polished to their brightest perfection on the quarter-deck -of a man-of-war. The young man showed resentment—amazing impudence, -according to the Admiral—whereupon the Admiral consigned him to the -devil and charged him never to let him (the Admiral) catch him (the -bullet-headed young man) lifting his scoundrelly eyes again to an -innocent young girl. Admiral Concannon came home and told his daughter -as much of the tale of turpitude as was meet for her ears. Captain -Hilyard repaired forthwith in unrighteous wrath to his quarters and -packed off Etta’s letters, with a covering note in which he insinuated -that he was not sorry to have seen the last of her amiable family. It -had all happened that day. - -Hence the tears. - -“I thought you wrote me that the worst had happened,” said Clementina. - -“Well, hasn’t it?” - -“Good Lord!” cried Clementina. “It’s the very best thing that ever -happened to you in all your born days.” - -In the course of a week Clementina brought the sorrowing damsel round to -her own way of thinking. - -“Do you know,” said Etta, “I used to be rather afraid of him.” - -“Any fool could see that,” said Clementina. - -“Did you guess?” This with wide-open cornflower eyes. - -“Look at your portrait and you’ll see,” said Clementina, mindful of the -avalanche of memories which the portrait of Tommy Burgrave’s -rough-and-ready criticism of the bullet-headed young man had started on -its overwhelming career. “Have you ever looked at it?” - -“Of course I have.” - -“To look at a thing and to see it,” remarked Clementina, “are two -entirely different propositions. For instance, you looked at that young -man, but you didn’t see him. Yet your soul saw him and was afraid. Your -father too—I can’t understand what he was about when he consented to -the engagement.” - -“Captain Hilyard’s father and he were old mess-mates,” said Etta. - -“Old messmakers!” snapped Clementina. “And what made you accept him?” - -Etta looked mournful. “I don’t know.” - -“The next time you engage yourself to a young man, just be sure that you -do know. I suppose this one said, ‘Dilly, dilly, come and be killed,’ -and you went like the foolish little geese in the nursery rhyme.” - -“They were ducks, dear,” laughed Etta, taking Clementina’s grim face -between her dainty hands. “Ducks like you.” - -Clementina suffered the caress with a wry mouth. - -“I think you’re getting better,” she said. “And I’m jolly glad of it. To -have one young idiot on my hands ill with congestion of the lungs and -another ill with congestion of the heart—both at the same time—is more -than I bargained for. I suppose you think I’m a sort of Sister of -Charity. Why don’t you do as your father tells you and go down to your -Aunt What’s-her-name in Somersetshire?” - -Etta made a grimace. “Aunt Elmira would drive me crazy. You’re much more -wholesome for me. And as for father”—she tossed her pretty head—“he -has to do what he’s told.” - -So Etta remained in town, her convalescence synchronising with that of -Tommy Burgrave. Clementina began to find time to breathe and to make up -arrears of work. As soon as Tommy was able to take his walks abroad, and -Etta to seek distraction in the society of her acquaintance, Clementina -shut herself up in her studio, forbidding the young people to come near -her, and for a week painted the livelong day. At last, one morning two -piteous letters were smuggled almost simultaneously into the studio. - -“. . . I haven’t seen you for months and months. Do let me come to -dinner to-night. . . . Tommy.” - -“. . . Oh darling, DO come to tea this afternoon. . . . Etta.” - -“I shall go and paint in the Sahara,” cried Clementina. But she seized -two dirty scraps of paper and scrawled on them: - -“Lord, yes, child, come to dinner.” - -“Lord, yes, child, I’ll come to tea.” and having folded them crookedly -despatched them to her young friends. - -It was during this visit of Clementina to the fairy bower in Cheyne Walk -that Etta informed her of her intention of becoming a hospital nurse. - -“Lord have mercy upon us!” cried Clementina. - -“I don’t see why I shouldn’t,” said Etta. - -“The idea is preposterous,” replied Clementina. “What need have you to -work for your living?” - -“I want to do something useful in the world.” - -“You’ll do much better by remaining ornamental,” said Clementina. “It’s -only when a woman is as ugly as sin and as poor as charity that she need -be useful; that’s to say while she’s unmarried. When she’s married she -has got as much as she can do to keep her husband and children in order. -A girl like you with plenty of money and the devil’s own prettiness has -got to stay at home and fulfil her destiny.” - -Etta, sitting on the window seat, looked at the Thames, seen in patches -of silver through the fresh greenery of the Embankment trees. - -“I know what you’re thinking of, dear,” she said, with the indulgent -solemnity of the Reverend Mother of a Convent, “but I shall never -marry.” - -“Rubbish,” said Clementina. - -“I’ve made up my mind, quite made up my mind.” - -Clementina sighed. Youth is so solemn, so futile, so like the youth of -all the generations that have passed away. The child was suffering from -one of the natural sequelæ of a ruptured engagement. Once maidens in her -predicament gat them into nunneries and became nuns and that was the end -of them. Whether they regretted their rash act or not, who can say? -Nowadays they rush into philanthropic or political activity, contriving -happy evenings for costermongers or unhappy afternoons for Cabinet -Ministers. The impulse driving them to nunnery, Whitechapel, or Caxton -Hall has always been merely a reaction of sex; and the duration of the -period of reaction is proportionate to the degree of brokenness of the -heart. As soon as the heart is mended, sex has her triumphant way again -and leaps in response to the eternal foolishness that the maiden blushes -to read in the eyes of a comely creature in trousers. This Clementina -knew, as all those—and only those—whose youth is behind them know it; -and so, when Etta with an air of cold finality said that she had made up -her mind, Clementina sighed. It was so ludicrously pathetic. Etta’s -heart had not even been broken; it had not sustained the wee-est, -tiniest fracture; it had been roughly handled; that was all. In a -month’s time she would no more yearn to become a hospital nurse than to -follow the profession of a chimney-sweep. In a month’s time she would be -flirting with merry, whole-hearted outrageousness. In a month’s time, if -the True Prince came along, she might be in love. Really in love. What a -wonderful gift to a man would be the love of this fragrant wisp of -womanhood! - -“I’ve quite made up my mind, dear,” she repeated. - -“Then there’s nothing more to be said,” replied Clementina. - -A shade of disappointment spread over the girl’s face, like a little -cloud over a May morning. She jumped from the window-seat and slid to a -stool by Clementina’s chair. - -“But there’s lots to be said. Lots. It’s a tremendously important -decision in life.” - -“Tremendous,” said Clementina. - -“It means that I’ll die an old maid.” - -“Like me,” said Clementina. - -“If I’m like you I won’t care a bit!” - -“Lord save us,” said Clementina. - -The girl actually took it for granted that she enjoyed being an old -maid. - -“I’ll have a little house in the country all covered with honeysuckle, -and a pony-trap and a dog and a cat and you’ll come and stay with me.” - -“I thought you were going to be a hospital nurse,” said Clementina. - -“So I am; but I’ll live in the house when I’m off duty.” - -Clementina rolled a cigarette. Etta knelt bolt upright and offered a -lighted match. Now when a lissom-figured girl kneels bolt upright, with -a shapely head thrown ever so little back, and stretches out her arm, -there are few things more adorable in this world of beauty. Clementina -looked at her for full ten seconds with the eyes of a Moses on Mount -Nebo—supposing (a bewildering hypothesis) that Moses had been an artist -and a woman—and then, disregarding cigarette and lighted match, she -laid her hands on the girl’s shoulders and shook her gently so that she -sank back on her heels, and the match went out. - -“Oh, you dear, delightful, silly, silly child.” - -She rose abruptly and went to the mantelpiece and lit the cigarette for -herself. Etta laughed in blushing confusion. - -“But darling, nurses do have times off now and then.” - -“I wasn’t thinking about nurses at all,” said Clementina. - -“Then what were you thinking of?” asked Etta; still sitting on her heels -and craning her head round. - -“Never mind,” said Clementina. “But what will you want an old frump like -me in your house for?” - -“To listen to my troubles,” said the girl. - -Clementina walked home through the soft May sunshine, a smile twinkling -in her little beady eyes and the corners of her lips twisted into an -expression of deep melancholy. If she had been ten years younger there -would have been no smile in her eyes. If she had been ten years older a -corroborative smile would have played about her lips. But at thirty-five -a woman in Clementina’s plight often does not know whether to laugh or -to cry, and if she is a woman with a sense of humour she does both at -once. The eternal promise, the eternal message vibrated through the air. -The woman of five-and-thirty heard it instinctively and rejected it -intellectually. She hurried her pace and gripped her -umbrella—Clementina always carried a great, untidy, bulging -umbrella—as if to assure herself that it would rain to-morrow from -leaden skies. But the day laughed at her, and the gardens which she -passed flaunted lilac and laburnum and pink may and springtide and youth -before her, and buttercups looked at her with a mocking air of -innocence. Forget-me-nots in window-boxes leaned forward and whispered, -“See how fresh and young we are.” A very young plane tree looked -impudently green; in its dainty fragility it suggested Etta. - -“Drat the child,” said Clementina, and she walked along, shutting her -eyes to the immature impertinences of the spring. But outside the window -of a fruiterer’s in the Royal Hospital Road she stopped short, with a -little inward gasp. A bunch of parrot-tulips—great riotous gold things -splashed all over with their crimson hearts’ blood, flared like the -sunset flames of a tropical summer. As a hungry tomtit flies straight to -a shred of meat, she went in and bought them. - -When she reached her house in Romney Place she peeped for the last (and -the hundredth) time into the open mouth of the twisted white paper -cornet. - -“They’ll make a nice bit of colour on the dinner-table for Tommy,” she -said to herself. - -O Clementina! O Woman! What in the name of Astarte had the gold and -crimson reprobates to do with Tommy? - -She let herself in with her key, traversed her Sheraton drawing-room, -and opened the door leading on to the studio gallery. Tommy was below, -walking up and down like a young wild beast in a cage. His usually tidy -hair was ruffled, as though frenzied fingers had disturbed its calm. -Clementina called out: - -“You asked if you could come to dinner. Six o’clock isn’t dinner-time.” - -“I know,” he cried up at her. “I’ve been here for an hour.” - -She went down the spiral staircase and confronted him. - -“What have you been doing to your hair? It’s like Ferdinand’s in _The -Tempest_. And;” noticing a new note of violence in the customary -peaceful chaos of the studio, “why have you been kicking my cushions -about?” - -“My uncle has gone stick, stark, staring, raving, lunatic mad,” said -Tommy. - -He turned on his heel and strode to the other end of the studio. -Clementina threw the parrot-tulips on a chair and drew off her left-hand -old cotton glove, which she cast on the tulips. Then for a while, during -Tommy’s retreat and approach, she gazed thoughtfully at the thumb-tip -which protruded from the right-hand glove. - -“I’m not at all surprised,” she said, when Tommy joined her. - -“How else can you account for it?” cried Tommy, flinging his arms wide. - -“Account for what?” - -“What he has done. Listen. A week ago he came to see me, as jolly as -could be. You were there——” - -“About as jolly as a slug,” said Clementina. - -“Anyway he was all right. I told the dear old chap I had unaccountably -exceeded my allowance—and he sent me a cheque next day, just as he -always does. This afternoon a card is brought up to me—my uncle’s card. -Written on it in his handwriting: ‘To introduce Mr. Theodore -Vandermeer.’” - -“What name?” asked Clementina, pricking her ears. - -“Vandermeer.” - -“Go on.” - -“I tell the servant to show him in—and in comes a dilapidated devil -looking like a mangy fox——” - -“That’s the man.” - -“Do you know him?” - -“All right. Go on.” - -“—— who squirms and wriggles and beats about the bush, and at last -tells me that he is commissioned by my uncle to inform me that unless I -give up painting and go into some infernal City office within a month -he’ll stop my allowance and cut me out of his will.” - -Clementina worked the thumb-tip through the hole in the right hand glove -until the entire thumb was visible. - -“What are you going to do?” she asked. - -Tommy waved his arms. “I must try to see my uncle and ask him what’s the -meaning of it. Of course I’ve no claim on him—but he’s a rich man and -fond of me and all that—and, when my poor mother died, he sort of -adopted me and gave me to understand that I needn’t worry. So I haven’t -worried. And when I took up with painting he encouraged me all he knew. -It’s damnable!” He paused, and strode three or four paces up the studio -and three or four back, as though to work off the dangerous excess of -damnability in the situation. “It isn’t as if I were an idle waster -going to the devil. I’ve worked jolly hard, haven’t I? I’ve put my back -into it, and I’m beginning to do something. Only last week I was telling -him about the New Gallery picture—he seemed quite pleased—and now, -without a minute’s warning, he sends this foxy-faced jackal to tell me -to go into an office. It’s—it’s—God knows what it isn’t!” - -“I believe,” said Clementina, looking at her thumb, “that there are -quite worthy young men in City offices.” - -“I would sooner go into a stoke-hole,” cried Tommy. “Oh, it’s -phantasmagorical!” - -He sat down on the platform of the throne and buried his head in his -hands. - -“Cheer up,” said Clementina. “The world hasn’t come to an end yet and we -haven’t had dinner.” - -She opened a door at the back of the studio that communicated with the -kitchen regions and, calling out for Eliza, was answered by a distant -voice. - -“Go to the grocer’s and fetch a bottle of champagne for dinner.” - -“Yes, ma’am,” said the voice, coming nearer. “What kind of champagne?” - -“I don’t know,” said Clementina. “But tell him to send the best bottle -he has got.” - -“What a good sort you are,” said Tommy. - -Neither were alarmed by the prospective quality of this vaguely selected -vintage. How holy is simplicity! It enables men and women to face and -pass through terrors without recognising them. - -Clementina took off her hat and right-hand glove, and rolled a -cigarette. Tommy burst out again: - -“Why didn’t he send for me and tell me so himself? Why didn’t he write? -Why did he charter this seedy, ugly scoundrel? I asked the wretch. He -said my uncle thought that such a delicate communication had better be -made through a third party. But what’s my uncle doing—associating with -such riff-raff? Why didn’t he choose a gentleman? This chap looks as if -he’d murder you for tuppence.” - -The young are apt to exaggerate the defects of those who have not gained -their esteem. As a matter of fact, acknowledged afterwards by Tommy, -Vandermeer had accomplished his unpleasant mission with considerable -tact and delicacy. Tommy was an upstanding, squarely built young Saxon, -with a bright blue eye, and there was a steep flight of stairs leading -down from his studio. - -“Once I fed him on ham and beef round the corner,” said Clementina. - -“The devil you did,” said Tommy. - -Clementina related the episode and her subsequent conversation with -Quixtus. - -“I give it up,” said Tommy. “I knew that my uncle was greatly upset by -the trial—and I have been thinking that perhaps it has rather unhinged -his mind—and that was why he took up with such a scarecrow. But he has -apparently been a friend of his for years. It shows you how little we -know of our fellow creatures,” he moralised. “If there ever was a chap I -thought I knew inside out it was my Uncle Ephraim.” Then pity smote him. -“If he’s really off his head, it’s tragic. He was the best and dearest -and kindest-hearted fellow in the world.” - -“Did you ask the man whether your uncle had gone mad?” - -“Of course I did—in so many words. Man seemed to look on it as an -astonishing suggestion. He said my uncle had long disapproved of my -taking up painting as a profession, and now had arrived at the -conviction that the best thing for me was a commercial career—a -commercial career!” - -So do Thrones and Dominations, I imagine, speak of the mundane -avocations of a mere Angel. - -“If you refuse, you’ll be giving up three hundred a year now and heaven -knows how much afterwards,” said Clementina. - -“And if I accepted I would be giving up my self-respect, my art, my -dreams, every thing that makes for Life—Life with the biggest of -capital L’s. By George, no! If my uncle won’t listen to reason I’ll not -listen to unreason, and there’s an end of it. I’ll pull through -somehow.” - -“Good,” said Clementina, who had remained remarkably silent. “I was -waiting to hear you say that. If you had hesitated I should have told -you to go home and dine by yourself. A little starvation and struggle -and fringe to your trousers will be the making of you. As for your -uncle, if he’s crazy he’s crazy, and there’s an end of it, as you say. -Let’s talk no more about it. What made you beg to come to dinner this -evening?” she asked, with a resumption of her aggressive manner. - -“The desire of the moth for the star,” he laughed. - -She responded in her grim way, and bade him amuse himself while she went -upstairs to wash her face and hands. Clementina did wash her face, -literally, scrubbing it with Old Brown Windsor soap and towelling it -vigorously afterwards, thereby accomplishing, as her feminine -acquaintances asserted, the ruin of her skin. She rose and went to the -foot of the stairs. Tommy’s eye fell on the parrot-tulips in their white -comet. - -“What are you going to do with those gaudy things?” - -Clementina had forgotten them. The curious impulse of the blood that had -led to their purchase had been spent. Tommy’s news had puzzled her and -had taken her mind off foolishness. She glanced at them somewhat -ashamedly. - -“Stick them in water, of course,” she replied. “You don’t suppose I’m -going to wear them?” - -“Why not?” cried Tommy, and, snatching out a great gold and crimson -bloom, he held it against her black hair and swarthy brow. “By Jove. You -look stunning!” - -Clementina, in a tone of some asperity, told him not to be a fool, and -mounted the stairs with unaccountably burning cheeks. - -At dinner, Tommy, inspired by more than three-fourths of the grocer’s -best bottle of champagne talked glowingly of his prospects in the event -of his uncle’s craziness not being a transitory disorder. After all, the -world was his oyster, and he knew the trick of opening it. Most people -bungled, and jabbed their fingers through trying to prize it open at the -wrong end. The wise man, said he, in the tone of an infant Solon, was he -who not only made a mock of misfortune, but bent it to his own use as an -instrument for the attainment of happiness. When challenged, he -confessed that he got this gem of sapience out of a book. But it was -jolly true, wasn’t it? Really, he was looking forward to poverty. He was -sick of silk hats and patent leather boots and the young women he met at -tea-parties. Nature beat the lot. Nature for him. Thoreau—“The boy’s -going as cracked as his uncle!” cried Clementina—Thoreau, he insisted, -had found out the truth. He would give up his studio, take a labourer’s -cottage in the country at two shillings a week, live on lentils, paint -immortal though perhaps not instantaneously remunerative landscapes by -day and do all sorts of things with his pencil for the sake of a -livelihood by night. He knew of a beautiful cottage, two rooms and a -kitchen, near Hagbourne, in Berkshire. The place was a forest of -cherry-trees. Nothing more breathlessly beautiful on the earth than the -whole of a countryside quivering with cherry-blossom—except the same -countryside when it was a purple mist of cherries. Geoffrey King had the -cottage last summer. There was a bit of a garden which he could -cultivate—cherry-trees in it, of course; also flowers and vegetables. -He would supply Clementina with pansies and potatoes all the year round. -There was a pig-sty, too—useful in case he wanted to run a pig. When -Clementina was tired of London, she could come to the cottage and he -would sleep in the pig-sty. - -For the second time that day she asked: - -“What will you want an old frump like me in the house for?” - -“To look at my pictures,” said Tommy. - -Clementina sniffed. “I thought as much,” she said. “Really, the callous -selfishness of old age is saint-like altruism compared with the fresh, -spontaneous egotism of youth.” - -Tommy, accustomed to her sharp sayings, only laughed boyishly. How was -he to guess the history of the parrot-tulips? He was mildly surprised, -however, when she decided to spend the evening, not in the studio, but -in the stiff, Sheraton drawing-room. He protested. It was so much -jollier in the studio. She asked why. - -“This place has no character, no personality. It looks like a show -drawing-room in a furniture dealer’s window. It has nothing to do with -you. It means nothing.” - -“That’s just why I want to sit in it,” said Clementina. “You can go to -the studio, if you like.” - -“That wouldn’t be polite,” said Tommy. - -She shrugged her shoulders and sat down at the piano and played scraps -of Mozart, Beethoven, and Grieg—memories of girlhood—with the inexpert -musician’s uncertainty of touch. Tommy wandered restlessly about the -room examining the Bartolozzis and the backs of the books in the -glass-protected cases. At last he became conscious of strain. He leant -over the piano, and waited until she had broken down hopelessly in a -fragment of Peer Gynt. - -“Have I said or done anything wrong, Clementina? If so, I’m dreadfully -sorry.” - -She shut the piano with a bang. - -“You poor, motherless babe,” she cried. “Whom would you go to with your -troubles, if you hadn’t got me?” - -Tommy smiled vaguely. - -“Deuce knows,” said he. - -“Then let us go down to the studio and talk about them,” said -Clementina. - - - - - CHAPTER IX - - -After leaving Clementina, Tommy went for a long brisk walk in order to -clear his mind, and on his homeward way along the Embankment, branched -off to the middle of old Chelsea Bridge in order to admire the moonlight -view; he also took off his hat in order to get cool. The treacherous May -wind cooled him effectually and sent him to bed for three days with a -chill. - -Clementina sat by his rueful bedside and rated him soundly. The idea of -one just recovering from pneumonia setting his blood boiling hot and -then cooling himself on a bridge at midnight in the bitter north-east -wind! He was about as sane as his uncle. They were a pretty and -well-matched pair. Both ought to be placed under restraint. A dark house -and a whip would have been their portion in the good old times. - -“I’ve got ’em both now,” said Tommy, grinning. “This confounded bedroom -is my dark house and your tongue is the whip.” - -“I hope it hurts like the devil,” said Clementina. - -Tommy wrote from his sick bed a dignified and manly letter to his uncle, -and, like Brutus, paused for a reply. None came. Quixtus read it, and -his warped vision saw ingratitude and hypocrisy in every line. He had -already spoken to Griffiths about the office-stool in the Star Insurance -Company. Tommy’s emphatic refusal to sit on it placed him in an awkward -position with regard to Griffiths. Openings in a large insurance office -are not as common as those for hop-pickers in August. Griffiths, a -sour-tempered man at times, would be annoyed. Quixtus, encouraged by -Vandermeer, regarded himself as an ill-used uncle, and not only missed -all the thrill of his deed of wickedness, but accepted Tommy’s decision -as a rebuff to his purely benevolent intentions. He therefore added the -unfortunate Tommy to the list of those whom he had tried and found -wanting. He had a grievance against Tommy. Such is the topsyturvydom of -man after a little thread has snapped in his brain. - -Now, it so happened that, on the selfsame day that Tommy crawled again -into the open air, Clementina, standing before her easel and painfully -painting drapery from the lay figure, suddenly felt the whole studio -gyrate in a whirling maelstrom into whose vortex of unconsciousness she -was swiftly sucked. She fell in a heap on the floor, and remained there -until she came to with a splitting headache and a sensation of carrying -masses of bruised pulp at various corners of her body instead of limbs. -Her maid, Eliza, finding her lying white and ill on the couch to which -she had dragged herself, administered water—there was no such thing as -smelling-salts in Clementina’s house—and, on her own responsibility, -summoned the nearest doctor. The result of his examination was a -diagnosis of overwork. Clementina jeered. Only idlers suffered from -overwork. Besides, she was as strong as a horse. The doctor reminded her -that she was a woman, with a woman’s delicately adjusted nervous system. -She also had her sex’s lack of restraint. A man, finding that he was -losing sleep, appetite, control of temper and artistic grip, would -abandon work and plunge utterly unashamed into hoggish idleness. A woman -always feels that by fighting against weakness she is upholding the -honour of her sex, and struggles on insanely till she drops. - -“I’m glad you realise I’m a woman,” said Clementina. - -“Why?” - -“Because you’re the first man who has done so for many years.” - -The doctor, a youngish man, very earnest, of the modern neuropathic -school, missed the note of irony. This was the first time he had seen -Clementina. - -“You’re one of the most highly strung women I’ve ever come across,” said -he, gravely. “I want you to appreciate the fact and not to strain the -tension to breaking-point.” - -“You wrap it up very nicely,” said Clementina, “but, to put it brutally, -your honest opinion is that I’m just a silly, unreasonable, excitable, -sex-ridden fool of a female like a million others. Isn’t that so?” - -The young doctor bore the scrutiny of those glittering, ironical points -of eyes with commendable professional stolidity. - -“It is,” said he, and in saying it he had the young practitioner’s -horrible conviction that he had lost an influential new patient. But -Clementina stretched out her hand. He took it very gladly. - -“I like you,” she said, “because you’re not afraid to talk sense. Now -I’ll do whatever you tell me.” - -“Go away for a complete change—anywhere will do—and don’t think of -work for a month at the very least.” - -“All right,” said Clementina. - -When Tommy, looking very much the worse for his relapse, came in the -next day to report himself in robust health once more, Clementina -acquainted him with her own bodily infirmities. It was absurd, she -declared, that she should break down, but absurdity was the guiding -principle of this comic planet. Holiday was ordained. She had spent a -sleepless night thinking how she should make it. Dawn had brought -solution of the problem. Why not make it in fantastic fashion, -harmonising with the absurd scheme of things? - -“What are you going to do?” asked Tommy. “Spend a frolicsome month in -Whitechapel, or put on male attire and go for a soldier?” - -“I shall hire an automobile and motor about France.” - -“It’s sporting enough,” said Tommy, judicially, “but I should hardly -call it fantastic.” - -“Wait till you’ve heard the rest,” said Clementina. “I had originally -intended to take Etta Concannon with me; but since you’ve come here -looking like three-ha’porth of misery, I’ve decided to take you.” - -“Me?” cried Tommy. “My dear Clementina, that’s absurd.” - -“I thought you would agree with me,” said Clementina, “but I’m going to -do it. Wouldn’t you like to come?” - -“I should think so!” he exclaimed, boyishly. “It would be gorgeous. -But——” - -“But what?” - -“How can I afford to go motoring abroad?” - -“You wouldn’t have to afford it. You would be my guest.” - -“It’s delightful of you, Clementina, to think of it—but it’s -impossible.” - -Whereupon an argument arose such as has often arisen between man and -woman. - -“I’m old enough to be your grandmother, or at least you think so, which -comes to the same thing,” said Clementina. - -Tommy’s young pride would not allow him to accept largesse from feminine -hands, however elderly and unromantic. - -“If I had a country house and hosts of servants and several motor-cars -and asked you to stay, you’d come without hesitation.” - -“That would be different. Don’t you see for yourself?” - -Clementina chose not to see for herself. Here was a dolorous baby of a -boy disinherited by a lunatic uncle, emaciated by illness and unable to -work, refusing a helping hand just because it was a woman’s. It was -preposterous. Clementina grew angry. Tommy held firm. - -“It’s merely selfish of you. Don’t you see I want a companion?” - -Tommy pointed out the companionable qualities of Etta Concannon. But she -would not hear of Etta. The sight of Tommy’s wan face had decided her, -and she was a woman who was accustomed to carry out her decisions. She -was somewhat dictatorial, somewhat hectoring. She had taken it into her -head to play fairy godmother to Tommy Burgrave, and she resented his -repudiation of her godmotherdom. Besides, there were purely selfish -reasons for choosing Tommy rather than Etta, which she acknowledged with -inward candour. Tommy was a man who would fetch and carry and keep the -chauffeur up to the mark, and inspire gendarmes and custom-house -officials and maitres-d’hotel with respect, and, although Clementina -feared neither man nor devil, she was aware of the value of a suit of -clothes filled with a male entity as a travelling adjunct to a lone -woman. With Etta the case would be different. Etta would fetch her -motor-veil and carry her gloves with the most adoringly submissive grace -in the world; but all the real fetching and carrying for the two of them -would have to be done by Clementina herself. Therein lay the difference -between Clementina and the type generally known as the emancipated -woman. She had no exaggerated notions of the equality of the sexes, -which in feminine logic generally means the high superiority of women. -Circumstance had emancipated her from dependence upon the other sex, but -on the circumstance and the emancipation she cast not too favourable an -eye. She had a crystal clear idea of the substantial usefulness of men -in this rough and not always ready cosmic scheme. Therefore, for -purposes of utility, she wanted Tommy. In her usual blunt manner she -told him so. - -“You run in here at all hours of the day and night, and it’s Clementina -this and Clementina that until I can’t call my soul my own—and now, the -first time I ask you to do me a service you fall back on your silly -little prejudices and vanity and pride, and say you can’t do it.” - -“I’m very sorry,” said Tommy, humbly. - -“I tell you what it is,” said Clementina, with a curiously vicious -feminine stroke, “you’d come if I was a smart-looking woman with fine -clothes who could be a credit to you—but you won’t face going about -with an animated rag-and-bone shop like me.” - -Tommy flushed as pink as only a fair youth can flush; he sprang forward -and seized her wrists and, unwittingly, hurt her in his strong and -indignant grip. - -“What you’re saying is abominable and you ought to be ashamed of -yourself. If I thought anything like that I’d be the most infernal cur -that ever trod the earth. I’d like to shake you for daring to say such -things about me.” - -He flung away her hands and stalked off to the other end of the studio, -leaving her with tingling wrists and unfindable retort. - -“If you really think I can be of service to you,” he said, in a -dignified way, having completed the return journey, “I shall be most -happy to come.” - -“I don’t want you to make a martyr of yourself,” she snapped. - -Tommy considered within himself for a moment or two, then broke into his -boyish laugh. - -“I’m an ungrateful pig, and I’ll follow you all over the world. Dear old -Clementina,” he added, more seriously, putting his hand on her shoulder, -“forgive me.” - -Clementina gently removed his hand. She preferred the grip on the wrists -that hurt. But, mollified, she forgave him. - -So in a few days they started on their travels. - - * * * * * - -The thirty-five horse-power car whirled them, a happy pair, through the -heart of summer. Above the blue sky blazed, and beneath the white road -gleamed a shivering streak. The exhilarating wind of their motion filled -their lungs and set their tired pulses throbbing. Now and then, for -miles, the great plane trees on each side of the way formed the -never-ending nave of an infinite cathedral, the roof a miracle of green -tracery. Through quiet, sun-baked villages they passed, at a snail’s -pace, hooting children and dogs from before their path—and because they -proceeded slowly and Tommy was goodly to look upon, the women smiled -from their doorways, or from the running laundry stream where they knelt -and beat the wet clothes, or from the fountain in the cool, flagged -little square jutting out like a tiny transept from the aisle of the -street. Babies stared stolidly. Here and there a bunch of little girls, -their hair tied in demure pigtails, the blue sarrau over their loud -check frocks; would laugh and whisper, and one more daring than the rest -would wave an audacious hand, and when Tommy blew her a kiss from his -fingers there came the little slut’s gracious response, amid mirth and -delight unspeakable. Men would look up from their dusty, bare, uneven -bowling-alley beneath the trees and watch them as they went by. An -automobile, in spite of its frequency, is always an event in a French -village. If it races mercilessly through; there is reasonable -opportunity to curse which always gladdens the heart of man. If it -proceeds slowly and shows deference to the inhabitants, it is an event -rare enough to command their admiration. Instead of shutting their eyes -against a sort of hell-chariot in a whirlwind; they can observe the -gracefully built car and its stranger though human occupants, which is -something deserving a note in the record of an eventless day. If they -stopped and quitted the car so as to glance at leisure at old church or -quaint fountain—and in many an out-of-the-way village in France the -water of the community gushes forth from a beautiful work of art—all -the idlers of the sunny place clustered round the car, while the British -chauffeur stood by the radiator, impeccably vestured and unembarrassed -as a Fate. At noon came the break for déjeuner; preferably in some -little world-forgotten townlet, where, after the hors-d’œuvre, omelette, -cutlet, chicken, and fruit—and where is the sad, plague-stricken hamlet -of France that cannot, in the twinkling of an eye, provide such a meal -for the hungry wayfarer?—they loved to take their coffee beneath the -awning of a café on the shady side of the great, sleepy square, and -absorb the sleepy, sunny, prosperous spirit of the place; the unpainted -bandstand in the centre, the low-lying houses with sleepy little shops -and cafés—Heavens! how many cafés!—around it, the modern, model-built -Hôtel de Ville, the fine avenue of plane trees without which no Grande -Place in France could exist, and, above the roofs of the houses, the -weather-beaten, crumbling Gothic tower of the church surmounted by its -extinguisher-shaped leaden belfry alive with vivid yellows and olives. -And then the road again past the rapidly becoming familiar objects; the -slow ox-carts; the herd of wayside goats in charge of a dirty, -tow-headed child; the squad of canvas-suited soldiers; the great -lumbering waggons drawn by a string of three gaudily and elaborately -yoked horses, the driver fast asleep on the top of his mountainous load; -the mongrel dogs that sought, and happily found not, euthanasia beneath -the wheels of the modern car of Juggernaut; the sober-vested peasant -women bending beneath their burdens with the calm unexpressive faces of -caryatides grown old and withered. Towards the late afternoon was -reached the larger town where they would halt for the night: first came -the eternal, but grateful, outer boulevard cool with foliage, running -between newly built, perky houses and shops and then leading into the -heart of the older city, grey, narrow-streeted, picturesque. As the -automobile clattered through the great gateway of the hotel into the -paved courtyard, out came the decent landlord and smiling landlady, -welcomed their guests, summoned unshaven men in green-baize aprons—who, -at dinner, were to appear in the decorous garb of waiters, and in the -morning, by a subtle modification of costume (dingy white aprons instead -of green-baize) were to do uncomplaining work as housemaids—to take -down the luggage, and showed the travellers to their clean, bare rooms. -After the summary removal of the journey’s dust came the delicious -saunter through the strange old town; the stimulus of the sudden burst -into view of the west front of a cathedral, with its deeply recessed and -sculptured doorways, and its great, flamboyant window struck by the -westering sun; the quick, indrawn breath of delight when, in a narrow, -evil-smelling, cobble-paved street, they came unexpectedly upon some -marvel of an early Renaissance façade, with its refined riot of -ornament, its unerring proportions, its laughing dignity—laughing all -the more and with all the more dignity, as became its mocking, -aristocratic soul, because the ground floor was given up to a dingy -tinsmith and its upper storeys to the same class of easy-going, -slatternly folk who sat at the windows of the other unconsidered houses -in the sallow and homely street; the gay relief of emerging from such -unsavoury and foot-massacring by-ways into the quarter of the town on -which the Syndicat d’Initiative prides itself—the wide, well-kept -thoroughfare or _place_ with its inevitable greenery, its flourishing -cafés thick with decorous folk beneath the awnings, its proud and -prosperous shops, its Municipal Theatre, Bourse, Hôtel de Ville, its -generously spouting fountain, its statue of the great son—poet, artist, -soldier—of the locality; its crowd of well-fed saunterers—fat and -greasy citizens, the supercilious aristocrat and the wolf-eyed anarchist -might perhaps join together in calling them—but still God’s very worthy -creatures; its general expression, not of the joy of life, for a -provincial town is, as a whole, governed by conditions which affect only -a part of a great capital, but of the undeniable usefulness and -pleasurableness of human existence. Then, after dinner, out again to the -cool terrace of a café—in provincial France no one lounges over coffee -and tobacco in an hotel—and lastly to bed, with wind and sun in their -eyes and in their hearts the peace of a beautiful land. - -They had planned the first part of their route—Boulogne, Abbeville, -Beauvais, Sens, Tonnerre, Dijon, through the Côté d’Or and down the -valley of the Rhone to Avignon. After that the roads of France were open -to them to go whithersoever they willed. The ground, the experience, the -freedom, all were new to them. To Clementina France had practically been -synonymous with Paris—not Paris of the Grands Boulevards, Montmartre, -and expensive restaurants, but Paris of the Left Bank, of the studios, -of struggle and toil—a place not of gaiety but grimness. To Tommy it -meant Paris, too—Paris of the young artist-tourist, a museum of great -pictures—the Louvre, the Luxembourg, the Pantheon immortalised by Puvis -de Chavannes; also Dieppe, Dinard, and such-like dependencies of -Britain. But of the true France such as they beheld it now they knew -nothing, and they beheld it with the wide-open eyes of children. - -After a few days the weariness fell from Clementina’s shoulders; new -life sped through her veins. Her hard lips caught the long-forgotten -trick of a smile. She almost lost the art of acid speech. She grew young -again. - -Tommy held the money-bag. - -“I’m not going to look like a maiden aunt treating a small boy to buns -at a confectioner’s,” she had declared. “I’m going to be a real lady for -once and see what it’s like.” - -So Clementina did nothing in the most ladylike manner, while Tommy -played courier and carried through all arrangements with the impressive -air of importance that only a young Briton in somebody else’s motor-car -can assume. He had forgotten the little sacrifice of his pride, he had -forgotten, or at least he disregarded, with the precious -irresponsibility of three-and-twenty, the fact that his income was -reduced to the negligible quantity of a pound a week; he gave himself up -to the enjoyment of the passing hour, and if ever he did cast a forward -glance at the clouded future, behold! the clouds were rosy with the -reflections of the present sunshine. - -He was proud of his newly discovered talent as a courier, and boasted in -his boyish way. - -“Aren’t you glad you’ve got me to take care of you?” - -“It’s a new sensation for me to be taken care of.” - -“But you don’t dislike it?” - -He was arranging at the bottom of the car a pile of rugs and wraps as a -footstool for Clementina, at the exact height and angle for her -luxurious comfort. - -Clementina sighed. She was beginning to like it very much indeed. - - - - - CHAPTER X - - -When they swung round the great bend of the Rhone, and Vienne came in -sight, Tommy uttered a cry of exultation. - -“Oh Clementina, let us stay here for a week!” - -When they stood an hour afterwards on the great suspension bridge that -connects Vienne with the little town of Sainte-Colombe, and drank in the -afternoon beauty of the place, Tommy amended his proposition. - -“Oh Clementina,” said he, “let us stay here for ever!” - -Clementina sighed, and watched the broad blue river sweeping in its -majestic curve between the wooded mountains from whose foliage peeped a -myriad human habitations, the ancient Château-Fort de la Bâtie standing -a brave and mutilated sentinel on its dominating hill, the nestling town -with its Byzantine towers and tiled roofs, the Gothic west front of the -Cathedral framed by the pylons of the bridge, the green boulevarded -embankment and the fort of Sainte-Colombe in its broader and more -smiling valley guarded, it too, by its grim square tower, the laughing -peace of the infinite web of afternoon shadow and afternoon sunlight. -Away up the stream a barge moved slowly down under a sail of burnished -gold. A few moments afterwards coming under the lee of the mountains, -the sail turned into what Tommy, who had pointed it out, called a -dream-coloured brown. From which it may be deduced that Tommy was -growing poetical. - -In former times Clementina would have rebuked so nonsensical a fancy. -But now, with a nod, she acquiesced. Nay more, she openly agreed. - -“We who live in a sunless room in the midst of paint-pots, know nothing -of the beauty of the world.” - -“That’s true,” said Tommy. - -“We hope, when we’re tired, that there is such a place as the Land of -Dreams, but we imagine it’s somewhere east of the sun, and west of the -moon. We don’t realise that all we’ve got to do to get there is to walk -out of our front door.” - -“It all depends upon the inward eye, doesn’t it?” said the boy. “Or, -perhaps, indeed, it needs a double inward eye—two personalities, you -know, harmonised in a subtle sort of way, so as to bring it into focus. -You see what I mean? I don’t think I could get the whole dreamy -adorableness of this if I hadn’t you beside me.” - -“Do you mean that, Tommy?” she asked, with eyes fixed on the Rhone. - -“Of course I do,” he replied, earnestly. - -Her lips worked themselves into a smile. - -“I never thought my personality could harmonise with any other on God’s -earth.” - -“You’ve lived a life of horrible, rank injustice.” - -She started, as if hurt. “Ah! don’t say that.” - -“To yourself, I mean, dearest Clementina. You’ve never allowed yourself -a good quality. Now you’re beginning to find out your mistake.” - -“When it’s pointed out that I can harmonise with your beautiful nature!” - -At the flash of the old Clementina, Tommy laughed. - -“I’m not going to deny that there’s good in me. Why should I? If there -wasn’t, I shouldn’t be here. You wouldn’t have asked me to be your -companion,” he added quickly, fearing lest she might put a wrong -construction on his words. “When a good woman does a man the honour of -admitting him to her intimate companionship, he knows he’s good—and it -makes him feel better.” - -Her left elbow rested on the parapet of the bridge, and her chin rested -on the palm of her hand. Without looking at him she stretched out the -other hand and touched him. - -“Thank you for saying that, Tommy,” she said in a low voice. - -Their mutual relations had modified considerably during the journey. The -change, in the first place, had come instinctively from Tommy. Hitherto, -Clementina had represented little to his ingenuous mind but the -rough-and-ready comrade, the good sort, the stunning portrait-painter. -With many of his men friends he was on practically the same terms. Quite -unconsciously he patronised her ever so little, as the Prince Charmings -of life’s fairy-tale are apt to patronise those who are not quite so -charming or quite so princely as themselves. When he had dined with the -proud and gorgeous he loved to strut before her aureoled in his -reflected splendour; not for a moment remembering that had Clementina -chosen to throw off her social nonconformity she could have sat in high -places at the houses of such a proud and gorgeous hierarchy as he, Tommy -Burgrave, could not hope, for many years, to consort with. Sometimes he -treated her as an old family nurse, who spoiled him, sometimes as a -bearded master; he teased her; chaffed her, laid traps to catch her -sharp sayings; greeted her with “Hullo,” and parted from her with an -airy wave of the hand. But as soon as they set off on their travels the -subtle change took place, for which the fact of his being her guest -could only, in small degree, account. Being in charge of all -arrangements, and thus asserting his masculinity, he saw Clementina in a -new light. For all her unloveliness she was a woman; for all her lack of -convention she was a lady born and bred. She was as much under his -protection as any dame or damsel of the proud and gorgeous to whom he -might have had the honour to act as escort; and without a moment’s -self-consciousness he began to treat Clementina with the same courteous -solicitude as he would have treated such dame or damsel, or, for the -matter of that, any other woman of his acquaintance. Whereas, a month or -two before he would have tramped by her side for miles without the -thought of her possible fatigue entering his honest head, now her -inability to stroll about the streets of these little provincial towns, -without physical exhaustion, caused him grave anxiety. He administered -to her comfort in a thousand ways. He saw to the proper working of the -shutters in her room, to the smooth opening of the drawers and presses; -put the fear of God into the hearts of chamber-maids and valets through -the medium of a terrific lingua franca of his own invention; supplied -her with flowers; rose early every morning to scour the town for a _New -York Herald_ so that it could be taken up to Clementina’s room with her -coffee, and _petit croissant_. His habit of speech, too, became more -deferential, and his discourse gained in depth and sincerity what it -lost in picturesque vernacular. To sum up the whole of the foregoing in -a phrase, Tommy’s attitude towards Clementina grew to be that of an -extremely nice boy towards an extremely nice maiden aunt. - -This change of attitude acted very powerfully on Clementina. As she had -remarked, it was a new sensation to be taken care of: one which she -liked very much indeed. All the sternly repressed feminine in her—all -that she called the silly fool woman—responded to the masculine -strength and delicacy of touch. She, on her side, saw Tommy in a new -light. He had developed from the boy into the man. He was responsible, -practical, imperious in his frank, kindly, Anglo-Saxon way. It was a new -joy for the woman, who, since girlhood, had fought single-handed for her -place in the world, to sit still and do nothing while difficulties -vanished before his bright presence just as the crests of alarming -steeps vanished before the irresistible rush of the car. - -Once when a loud report and the grinding of the wheels announced a -puncture, she cried involuntarily. - -“I’m so glad!” - -Tommy laughed. “Well, of all the feminine reasons for -gladness!”—Clementina basked in her femininity like a lizard in the -sun. “I suppose it’s because you can sit in the shade and watch Johnson -and me toiling and broiling like niggers on the road.” - -She blushed beneath her swarthy skin. That was just it. She loved to see -him throw off his coat and grapple like a young Hercules with the tyre. -For Johnson’s much more efficient exertions she cared not a scrap. - -Her heart was full of new delights. It was a new delight to feel -essentially what she in her irony used to term a lady; to be addressed -with deference and tenderness, to have her desires executed just that -instant before specific formulation which gives charm and surprise. -Every day she discovered a new and unsuspected quality in Tommy, and -every evening she dwelt upon the sweetness, freshness, and strength of -his nature. The lavender fragrance, the nice maiden-aunt-ity of her -relations with Tommy, I am afraid she missed. - -It gave her an odd little thrill of pleasure when Tommy propounded his -theory of the perfect focal adjustment of the good in their natures. -When he implicitly gave her rank as angel she was deeply moved. So she -stretched out her hand and touched him and said “Thank you.” - -“You said nothing about my proposal to stay here for ever,” he remarked, -after a while. - -“I’m quite ready,” she replied absently. “Why shouldn’t we?” - -Tommy pointed out a white château that flashed through the greenery of -the hill behind the cathedral. - -“That’s the place we’ll take. We’ll fill it with books—chiefly sermons, -and flowers—chiefly poppies, and we’ll smoke hashish instead of -tobacco, and we’ll sleep and paint dream-pictures all the rest of our -lives.” - -“I suppose you can’t conceive life—even a dream-life—without pictures -to paint in it?” - -“Not exactly,” said he. “Can you?” - -“I shouldn’t be painting pictures in my dream-life.” - -“What would you be doing?” - -But Clementina did not reply. She looked at the brave old sentinel fort -glowing red in the splendour of the westering sun. Tommy continued—“I’m -sure you would be painting. How do you think a musician could face an -existence without music? or a golfer without golf?” and he broke into -his fresh laugh. “I wonder what dream-golf would be like? It would be a -sort of mixed arrangement, I guess, with stars for balls and clouds for -bunkers and meads of asphodels for putting greens.” He suddenly lifted -his hands, palm facing palm, and looked through them at the framed -picture. “Clementina dear, if I don’t get that old Tour de la Bâtie with -the sunset on it, I’ll die. It will take eternity to get it right, and -that’s why we must stay here for ever.” - -“We’ll stay as long as you like,” said Clementina, “and you can paint to -your heart’s content.” - -“You’re the dearest thing in the world,” said Tommy. - -Dinner time drew near. They left the bridge reluctantly, and mounted the -great broad flight of forty steps that led to the west door of the -Cathedral. A few of the narrow side streets brought them into the Place -Miremont, where their hotel was situated. In the lazy late afternoon -warmth it looked the laziest and most peaceful spot inhabited by man. -The square, classic Town Library, hermetically closed, its inner -mysteries hidden behind drawn blinds, stood in its midst like a -mausoleum of dead and peaceful thoughts. Nothing living troubled it save -a mongrel dog asleep on the steps. No customer ruffled the tranquillity -of the shops around the _Place_. A red-trousered, blue-coated little -soldier—so little that he looked like a toy soldier—and an old man in -a blouse, who walked very slowly in the direction of the café, were the -only humans on foot. Even the hotel omnibus, rattling suddenly into the -square, failed to break the spell of quietude. For it was empty, and its -emptiness gave a pleasurable sense of distance from the fever and the -fret of life. - -It is even said that Pontius Pilate found peace in Vienne, lying, -according to popular tradition, under a comparatively modern monolith -termed the Aiguille. - -“Are you quite sure this place isn’t too dead-and-alive for you?” -Clementina asked, as they approached the hotel. - -He slid his hand under her arm. - -“Oh no!” he cried, with a little reassuring squeeze. “It’s heavenly.” - -While she was cleansing herself for dinner, Clementina looked in the -glass. Her hair, as usual, straggled untidily over her temples. She wore -it bunched up anyhow in a knot behind, and the resentful hair-pins -invariably failed in their office. This evening she removed the faithful -few, the saving remnant that for the world’s good remains in all -communities, even of hair-pins, and her hair thick and black fell about -her shoulders. She combed it, brushed it, brought it up to the top of -her head and twisting it into a neat coil held it there with her hand, -and for a moment or two studied the effect somewhat dreamily. Then, all -of a sudden, a change of mood swept over her. She let the hair down -again, almost savagely wound it into its accustomed clump into which she -thrust hair-pins at random, and turned away from the mirror, her mouth -drawn into its old grim lines. - -Tommy found her rather uncommunicative at dinner which was served to -them at a separate side table. At the table d’hôte in the middle of the -room, eight or nine men, habitués and commercial travellers fed in -stolid silence. She ate little. Tommy; noticing it, openly reproached -himself for having caused her fatigue. The day in the open air—and open -air pumped into the lungs at the rate of thirty or forty miles an -hour—was of itself tiring. He ought not to have dragged her about the -town. Besides, he added with an appearance of great wisdom, a surfeit of -beauty gave one a soul-ache. They had feasted on nothing but beauty -since they had left Chalon-sur-Saône that morning. He, too, had a touch -of soul-ache; but luckily it did not interfere with his carnal appetite. -It ought not to interfere with Clementina’s. Here was the whitest and -tenderest morsel of chicken that ever was and the crispest bit of -delectable salad. He helped her from the dish which she had refused at -the hands of the waiter, and she ate meekly. But after dinner, she sent -him off to the café by himself, saying that she would read a novel in -the salon and go to bed early. - -The loneliness of the salon, instead of resting her, got on her nerves; -which angered her. What business had she, Clementina Wing, with nerves? -Or was Tommy right? Perhaps it was soul-ache from which she was -suffering. Certainly, one strove to pack away into oneself anything of -beauty, making it a part of one’s spiritual being. One could be a -glutton and suffer from the consequences. The soul-ache, if such it -were, had nothing of origin in the emotions that had prompted her touch -on Tommy’s arm, or the coiling of her hair on the top of her head. -Nothing at all. Besides, it was a very silly novel, a modern French -version of Daphnis and Chloe, in which Daphnis figured as a despicable -young neuropath whom Tommy would have kicked on sight, and Chloe, a sly -hussy whom a sensible mother would have spanked. She threw it into a -corner and went to her room to brace her mind with Tristram Shandy. - -She had not been long there, however, when there came a knocking at her -door. On her invitation to enter, the door opened and Tommy stood -breathless on the threshold. His eyes were bright and he was quivering -with excitement. - -“Do come out. Do come out and see something. I hit upon it unawares, and -it knocked me silly. I’ve run all the way back to fetch you.” - -“What is it?” - -“Something too exquisite for words.” - -“What about the soul-ache?” - -“Oh! Let us have an orgy while we’re about it,” he cried recklessly. -“It’s worth it. Do come. I want you to feel the thing with me.” - -The appeal was irresistible. It was spirit summoning spirit. Without -thinking, but dimly conscious of a quick throbbing of the heart, -Clementina put on her hat and went with Tommy out of the hotel. The full -moon blazed from a cloudless sky, flooding the little silent square. She -paused on the pavement. - -“Yes, it’s beautiful,” she said. - -“Oh—that’s only the silly old moon,” cried Tommy. “I’ve got something -much better for you than that.” - -“What is it?” she asked again. - -“You wait,” said he. - -He took her across the square, through two or three turns of narrow -cobble-paved streets, whirled her swiftly round a corner and said; - -“Look!” - -Clementina looked, and walked straight into the living heart of the -majesty that once was Rome. There, in the midst of an open space, the -modern houses around it obscured, softened, de-characterised by the -magic-working moon, stood in its proud and perfect beauty the Temple of -Augustus and Livia. Twenty centuries, with all their meaning, vanished -in a second. It was the heart of Rome. There was the great Temple, -perfect, imperishable, with its fluted Corinthian columns, its -entablature, its pediment, its noble cornice throwing endless mysteries -of shadow. No ruin, from which imagination flogged by scholarship might -dimly picture forth what once had been; but the Temple itself, -untouched, haughty, defying Time, the companion for two thousand years -of the moon that now bathed it lovingly, as a friend of two thousand -years’ standing must do, in its softest splendour, and sharing with the -moon its godlike scorn of the hectic and transitory life of man. - -Clementina drew a sharp breath of wonder. Moisture clouded her eyes. She -could not speak for the suddenness of the shock of beauty. Tommy gently -took her arm, and they stood for a long time in silence, close together. -In their artists’ sensitiveness they were very near together, too, in -spirit. She glanced at his face in the moonlight, alive with the joy of -the thing, and her heart gave a sudden leap. All the beauty of the day -translated itself into something even more radiant that flooded her -soul, causing the rows of fluted columns to swim before her eyes until -she shut them with a little sigh of content. - -At last they moved and walked slowly round the building. - -“I just couldn’t help fetching you,” said Tommy. - -“Oh, I’m glad you did. Oh so glad. Why didn’t we know of this before we -came.” - -“Because we are two thrice-blessedly ignorant cockneys, dear. I hate to -know what I’m going to see. It’s much better to be like stout Cortez and -his men in the poem and discover things, isn’t it? By Jove, I shall -never forget running into this.” - -“Nor I,” said Clementina. - -“The moment the car turned the bend to-day I knew something was going to -happen here.” - -More had happened than Tommy dreamed of in his young philosophy. Nor did -Clementina enlighten him. She slid his arm from under hers and took it, -and leaned ever so little on it, for the first time for many, many years -a happy woman. - -When they left the Temple she pleaded for an extension of their walk. -She was no longer tired. She could go on for ever beneath such a moon. - -“A night made for lovers,” said Tommy, “and we aren’t the only -ones—look!” - -And indeed there were couples sauntering by, head to head, talking of -the things the moon had heard so many million times before. - -“I suppose they take us also for lovers,” said Clementina foolishly. - -“I don’t care if they do,” said Tommy. “Let us pretend.” - -“Yes,” said Clementina. “Let us pretend.” - -They wandered thus lover-like through the town, and came on the quay -where they sat on the coping of the parapet, and watched the moonlit -Rhone and the brave old Château-Fort on the hill. - -“Are you glad you came with me?” she asked. - -“It has been a sort of enchanted journey,” he replied, seriously. “And -to-night—well to-night is just to-night. There are no words for it. -I’ve never thanked you—there are things too deep for thanks. In return -I would give you everything I’ve got—in myself, you know—if you wanted -it. In fact,” he added, with a boyish laugh, “I’ve given it to you -already whether you want it or not.” - -“I do want it, Tommy,” she said, with a catch in her voice. “You don’t -know how much I want it.” - -“Then you have a devoted, devoted, devoted slave for the rest of your -life.” - -“I do believe you are fond of me.” - -“Fond of you!” he cried. “Why, of course I am. There’s not another woman -like you in the world.” He took her hand and kissed it. “Bless you,” he -said. Then he rose. “We’ve sat out here long enough. Your hands are -quite cold and you’ve only that silly blouse on. You’ll catch a chill.” - -“I’m quite warm,” said Clementina mendaciously; but she obeyed him with -surprising meekness. - -If any one had had a sufficiently fantastic imagination and sufficient -audacity to prophesy to Clementina before she started from London the -effect upon her temperament of a Roman Temple and moonshine, she would -have said things in her direct way uncomplimentary to his intelligence. -She would have forgotten her own epigram to the effect that woman always -has her sex hanging round the neck of her spirit. But her epigram had -proved its truth. She was feeling a peculiar graciousness in the focal -adjustment above considered, was letting her spirit soar with its -brother to planes of pure beauty, when lo! suddenly, spirit was hurled -from the empyrean into the abyss by the thing clinging round its neck, -which took its place on the said planes with a pretty gurgle of -exultation. - -That is what had happened. - -And is it not all too natural? There are plants which will keep within -them a pallid life in a coal-cellar—but put in the sun and the air and -the rain will break magically into riotous leaf and bud and flower. -Love, foolish, absurd, lunatic, reprehensible—what you will—had come -into the sun and the air and the rain, and it had broken magically into -blossom. Of course, she had no business to bring it into the air; she -ought to have kept it in the coal-cellar; she ought not to have let the -door be opened by the wheedlings of a captivating youth. In plain -language, a woman of six-and-thirty ought never to have fallen in love -with a boy of twenty-three. Of course not. A vehement passionate nature -is the easiest thing in the world to keep under control. A respectable -piece of British tape ought to be strong enough leash for any tiger of -the jungle. - -That Clementina, ill-favoured and dour, should have given herself up, in -the solitude of her room, to her intoxication is, no doubt, a matter for -censure. It was mad and bad and sad, but it was sweet. It was human. The -rare ones from whom no secrets of a woman’s pure heart are hid might say -that it was divine. But the many who pity let them not grudge her hour -of joy to a woman of barren life. - -But it was only an hour. The grey dawn crept into the sleepless room, -and the glamour of the moonlight had gone. And there was a desperate -struggle in the woman’s soul. The boy’s words rang in her ears. He was -fond of her, devoted to her, would give up his life to her. He spoke -sincerely. Why should she not take the words at a little above their -face-value? No strong-natured woman of five-and-thirty, with -Clementina’s fame and wealth and full great sympathy need fear rebuff -from a generous lad who professes himself to be her devoted, devoted, -devoted slave. All she has to do is to put up the banns. Whether -ultimate bliss will be achieved is another matter. But to marry him out -of hand is as easy as lying. It did not need Clementina’s acute -intelligence for her to be fully aware of this. And another temptation -crept over her pillow to her ear, peculiarly insidious. The boy would be -free to pursue his beloved art without sordid cares. There would be no -struggle and starvation and fringed hems to his trousers. A woman who -really loves a man would sooner her heart were frayed than his -trouser-hems. - -She rose and threw wide the shutters. The little Place Miremont looked -ghostly in the white light, and the classic Bibliothèque, with its -round-headed windows, more than ever a calm mausoleum of human wisdom. -It is strange how coldly suggestive of death is the birth of day. - -Clementina crept back to bed and, tired out, fell asleep. The waiter -bringing in the breakfast tray awakened her. On the _New York Herald_ -which Tommy had gone to the railway station to procure, lay a dewy -cluster of red and yellow roses; on a plate a pile of letters, the top -one addressed in Etta Concannon’s great girlish scrawl. - -Why in the world should a bunch of parrot-tulips have flared before her -eyes? They did. They had marked the beginning of it. The red and yellow -roses marked the end. - -“_Attendez un moment_,” she said to the waiter, while she tore open the -envelope and glanced through Etta’s unimportant letter. “Bring me a -telegraph form.” - -He produced one from his pocket. If you ask a waiter in a good French -provincial hotel for anything—a copy of Buckle’s History of -Civilisation or a boot-jack—he will produce it from his pocket. He also -handed her a pencil. - -This she bit musingly for a few seconds. Then she scribbled hastily on -the telegraph form: - -“_Join me at once. Book straight through to Lyons. Wire train. Will meet -you at station. Promise you_”—Her lips twisted into a wry smile as the -word she sought entered her head—“_heavenly time. My guest of course. -Clementina. Hôtel du Nord, Vienne._” - -“By the way, _garçon_,” she said, handing him the telegram, “why is this -called the Hôtel du Nord?” - -“_Parceque, Madame, c’est ici, à Vienne, que commence le Midi_,” replied -the waiter. - -He bowed himself out. A courtier of Versailles at the levée of the -Pompadour could not have made his speech and exit with better grace. - -Later in the day Clementina received the reply from Etta. - -“_You darling, starting to-morrow. Arrive Lyons seven o’clock morning -Thursday._” - -Tommy, fired by the picture made by the bend of the Rhone and the -Château-Fort de la Bâtie, spent most of the day on the quay, with the -paraphernalia of his trade, easel and canvas and box of colours and -brushes, painting delightedly, while Clementina, beneath an -uncompromising white umbrella with a green lining, bought on her -travels, sat near by reading many tales out of one uncomprehended novel. -Just before dinner she informed him of the almost immediate arrival of -Etta Concannon. - -“Oh, I say!” he exclaimed in an injured voice. “That spoils everything.” - -“I don’t think so,” said Clementina. - - - - - CHAPTER XI - - -Clementina motored to Lyons by herself; dined in gaunt and lonely -splendour at the Grand Hotel, and met Etta Concannon’s train very early -the next morning. Etta, dewy fresh after her all night train journey, -threw her arms round her neck and kissed her effusively. She was a -heaven-born darling, a priceless angel, and various other hyperbolical -things. Yes, she had had a comfortable journey; no trouble at all; all -sorts of nice men had come to her aid at the various stages. She had -been up since five standing in the corridor and looking at the country -which was fascinating. She had no idea it was so full of interest. - -“And did one of the nice men get up at five too, and stand in the -corridor?” asked Clementina. - -The girl flushed and laughed. “How did you guess? I couldn’t help it. -How could I? And it was quite safe. He was ever so old.” - -“I’m glad I’ve got you in charge now,” said Clementina. - -“I’ll be so good, dear,” said the girl. - -The luggage secured, they drove off. Etta’s eyes sparkled, as they went -through the ugly, monotonous, clattering streets of Lyons. - -“What an adorable town!” - -As it was not even lit by the cheap glamour of the sun, for the sky was -overcast and threatening, it looked peculiarly depressing to normal -vision. But youth found it adorable. O thrice blessed blindness of -youth! - -“What has happened to Mr. Burgrave?” she asked, after a while, “I -suppose his time was up and he had to go back.” - -“Oh, no,” said Clementina coolly. “He’s at Vienne.” - -“Oh-h!” said Etta, with a little touch of reproach. “I thought it was -just going to be you and I and us two.” - -“We’ll put him in front next to Johnson and have the back of the car all -to ourselves. But I thought you liked Tommy Burgrave.” - -“He’s quite harmless,” said Etta carelessly. - -“And he thinks of nothing in the world but his painting, so he won’t -bother his head much about you,” said Clementina. - -Etta fell at once into the trap. “I’m not going to let him treat me as -if I didn’t exist,” she cried. “I’m afraid you’ve been spoiling him, -darling. Men ought to be shown their place and taught how to behave.” - -His behaviour, however, on their first meeting was remarkably correct. -The car, entering Vienne, drew up by the side of the quay where he had -pitched his easel. He rose and ran to greet its occupants with the most -welcoming of smiles, which were not all directed at Clementina. Etta had -her share. It is not in the nature of three-and-twenty to look morosely -on so dainty a daughter of Eve—all the daintier by contrast with the -dowdy elder woman by her side. Tommy had spoken truly when he had -professed his downright honest affection for Clementina; truly also when -he had deprecated the summoning of the interloping damsel. But he had -not counted on the effect of contrast. He had seen Etta in his mind’s -eye as just an ordinary young woman who would disturb that harmonious -adjustment of artistic focus on whose discovery he had prided himself so -greatly. Now he realised her freshness and dewiness and goodness to look -upon. She adorned the car; made quite a different vehicle of it. -Standing by the door he noticed how passers-by turned round and glanced -at her with the frank admiration of their race. Tommy at once felt -himself to be an enviable fellow; he was going to take a great pride in -her; at the lowest, as a mere travelling adjunct, she did him credit. -Clementina watched him shrewdly, and the corners of her mouth curled in -an ironical twist. - -“It isn’t my fault, Miss Concannon, that I didn’t come to Lyons to meet -you. Clementina wouldn’t let me. You know what a martinet she is. So I -was here all last evening simply languishing in loneliness.” - -“Why wouldn’t you let poor Mr. Burgrave come to Lyons, Clementina?” -laughed Etta. - -“If you begin to pester me with questions,” replied Clementina, “I’ll -pack you off to England again.” - -“All inquiries to be addressed to the courier,” said Tommy. - -“And you’ll answer them?” - -“Every one,” said Tommy. - -Thus the freemasonry of youth was at once established between them. Etta -smiled sweetly on him as the car drove off to the hotel, and Tommy -returned to his easel with the happy impression that everything, -especially the intervention of interloping damsels, was for the best in -this best of all possible worlds. - -They met shortly afterwards at déjeuner, the brightest of meals, whereat -Etta talked her girlish nonsense, which Tommy took for peculiarly -sparkling discourse. Clementina, wearing the mask of the indulgent -chaperon, let the babble flow unchecked. - -“Do you think Etta will spoil everything?” she asked him, as soon as -they were alone for a moment. - -“Oh no,” cried the ingenuous Tommy. “She’s going to be great fun.” - -“H’m!” said Clementina, feeling as though she might make the historic -reply of the frog at whom the boys threw stones. But she had -deliberately brought about the lapidation. She winced; but she could not -complain. - -It must not be imagined, however, that Tommy transferred his allegiance -in youth’s debonair, thoughtless way to the newer and prettier princess. -On the contrary, in all the little outward shows of devotion he -demonstrated himself more zealously than ever to be Clementina’s vassal. -In the excursions that they made during the next few days keeping Vienne -as a base—to La Tour du Pin, Grenoble, Saint-Marcellin, Mont-Pilat—it -was to Clementina that he turned and pointed out the beauties of the -road, and her unsteady footsteps that he guided over rough and -declivitous paths. To her he also turned for serious conversation. The -flowers and the _New York Herald_ came to her room as unfailingly as the -morning coffee. He manifested the same tender solicitude as to her -possible sufferings from hunger, drought, dust or fatigue. He paid her -regal honour. In this he was aided and abetted by Etta Concannon, who -had her own pretty ways of performing homage. In fact, the care of -Clementina soon became at once a rivalry and a bond between them, and -Clementina, so far from being neglected, found herself the victim of -emulous and sometimes embarrassing ministrations. As she herself phrased -it in a moment of bitter irony, they were making love over her live -body. - -They left Vienne, Tommy having made sufficient studies for immortal -studio paintings, and took up their quarters at Valence. There is a -spaciousness about Valence rare in provincial towns of France. You stand -in the middle of wide boulevards, the long vista closed at one end by -the far blue tops of the mountains of the Vivarais, and at the other by -the distant Alps, and you think you are dwelling in some sweet city in -the air. In the clear sunshine it is as bright and as crisp as a cameo. - -“I love Vienne, but I adore Valence,” said Etta Concannon. “Here I can -breathe.” - -They were sitting on the terrace of a café in the Place de la République -in front of the great monument to Emile Augier. It was the cool of the -evening and a fresh breeze came from the mountains. - -“I, too, am glad to get out of Vienne,” said Clementina. - -Tommy protested. “That’s treason, Clementina. We had such ripping times -there. Do you remember the evening I fetched you out to see the Temple -of Augustus and Livia?” - -Clementina gave one of her non-committal grunts. She did indeed remember -it. But for that night the three of them would not have been sitting -together over coffee at Valence. - -“Tommy’s so sentimental,” Etta remarked. - -“Since when have you been calling him ‘Tommy’?” asked Clementina. - -“We fixed that up this afternoon,” he said, cheerfully. ‘Mr. Burgrave’ -suggests an afternoon party where one carts tea and food about—not a -chummy motor tour.” - -“We agreed to adopt each other as cousins,” said Etta. - -“We were kind of lonely, you know,” laughed Tommy. “We happen to have no -cousins of our own, and, besides, you deserted us to-day, and we felt -like two abandoned babes in the car.” - -“I don’t think you were much to be pitied,” said Clementina. - -In pursuance of her scheme of self-annihilation she had several times -sent them out on jaunts together, while she herself went for a grim walk -in the dust and heat. This afternoon Etta had returned radiant. She had -had the time of her life, and Tommy was the dearest thing that ever -happened. Etta was addicted to the hyperbole of her generation. At -dinner Tommy had admitted the general amenity of their excursion to -Valence Crest—and now came the avowal of the establishment of their -cousinly and intimate relations. The scheme was succeeding admirably. -How could it fail? Throw together two bright, impressionable and -innocent young humans of opposite sexes, and of the same social -position, link them by a common tie, let them spend hours in each -other’s company, withdraw the ordinary restrictions that limit the -intercourse of such beings in everyday society, bathe them in sunshine -and drench their souls with beauty, and you have the Garden of Eden over -again, the Serpent being replaced by his chubby and winged successor. -The result is almost inevitable. But you can withdraw with certainty the -qualifying adverb, when one of the potentially high contracting parties -has been suffering from heart-scratch, and has announced her intention -of becoming a hospital nurse. - -I am quite aware that in the eyes of the world Clementina’s conduct was -outrageous. Etta was the only child of a wealthy admiral; Tommy, a -penniless painter. Admiral Concannon had confidently entrusted his -daughter to her care and had not the least idea of what was going on. -When the disastrous story should reach his ears, he would foam -righteously at the mouth, and use, with perfect justification, the most -esoteric of quarter-deck language. I do not attempt to defend -Clementina. All the same, you must remember that in Tommy Burgrave she -was giving to Etta as a free gift her most priceless possession. Tommy -in her eyes was the real Prince Charming—at present, as often happens -in fairy tales, under a cloud, but destined in real life, as in the -fairy tales, to come, by a speedy wave of the magic wand, into his -principality. As to the waving of the magic wand, she had her own ideas. -She was quite prepared to weather the admiral’s storm. - -“There was never anything so sudden but the fight of two rams,” is -Rosalind’s startling description of the courtship between Oliver and -Celia. These lovers, however, were Elizabethans who did things in a -large, splendid and unhesitating way. The case with Tommy and Etta, who -were moderns, governed by all kinds of subtleties and delicacies, three -centuries’ growth, was not quite so instantaneous. The ordinary modern -youth and maiden, of such clean upbringing, walk along together, hand in -hand in perfect innocence, for a long time, never realising that they -are in love with one another till something happens. The maiden may be -sent into the country by an infuriated mother. Hence revelation with -anguish. The indiscreet jesting of a friend, a tragedy causing both to -come hard against the bed-rock facts of life, may shatter the guileless -shell of their love. I know of two young things who came by the -knowledge through bumping their heads together beneath a table while -searching for a fallen penny. A shock, a jar is all that is needed. But -with Tommy and Etta nothing yet had happened. They walked along together -sweetly imagining themselves to be fancy-free. If the truth were known -it would be found that the main subject of their conversation was -Clementina. - -When the time came for them to leave the café, Tommy helped both ladies -to put on their jackets. The human warmth of the crowded terrace -sheltered from the mountain breeze by the awnings had rendered wraps -unnecessary. But outside they discovered the air to be chill. Clementina -first was invested—with the slightest hint of hurry. She turned and saw -Tommy snatch Etta’s jacket from a far too ready waiter’s hand. In his -investiture of Etta there was the slightest hint of lingering. In the -nice adjustment of the collar their fingers touched. The girl raised -laughing eyes which his met tenderly. A knife was thrust through -Clementina’s heart and she closed her thin lips tightly to dissimulate -the pain. - -Etta came into her room that night under the vague pretence of playing -maid and helping her to undress. Her aid chiefly consisted in sitting on -the bed and chattering out of a bird-like happiness. - -“It’s all just heaven,” she declared. “I wish I could show you how -grateful I am. I’ve had nothing like it all my life. When I get home I -won’t rest till I’ve teased father into getting a car—he’s so -old-fashioned you know, and thinks his fat old horses and the family -omnibus make up the only equipage for a gentleman. But I’ll worry him -into a car, and then we’ll go all over Europe. But it won’t be quite the -same without—without you, Clementina, dear.” - -Clementina wriggled into an old flannel dressing jacket and began to -roll a cigarette. - -“I thought you were going to be a hospital nurse.” - -“So did I,” said the girl, a shadow flitting swiftly over her face. “But -I don’t seem to want to now, I should hate it.” - -“What has made you change your mind?” asked Clementina, after the first -puff of smoke. - -Etta, on the bed, nursed her knee. Her fair hair fell in a mass about -her shoulders. She looked the picture of innocence—a female child -Samuel out of an illustrated Family Bible. - -“The sight of you, darling, at Lyons Station.” - -“Little liar!” murmured Clementina. - -But she forebore to question the girl further. She had no intention of -supplying the necessary shock above mentioned. The observance of the -gradual absorption of these two young souls one in the other was far too -delicious an agony to be wantonly broken. Besides, it hardened her -nature (so she fondly imagined), dried up the newly found well-head of -passion, reduced the soft full woman back to the stony-hearted; -wooden-faced, bitter-tongued, cynical, portrait-painting automaton, the -enviable, self-mutilated Clementina of a few months ago. When a woman -wants to punish herself she does so conscientiously. The offending Eve -should be thoroughly whipped out of her. - -The car of thirty-five million dove-power sped through the highways of -sunny France—through enchanted forest glades, over mountains of the -moon; through cities of wonderland, so, at least, it seemed to two young -souls. For Clementina, alas, the glamour of sky and sunshine and -greenery had departed. For Johnson, happy possessor of a carburation in -lieu of a temperament it had never existed. From Valence they struck -north-west, though St. Etienne, Roanne, Nevers, Bourges. It was at -Bourges that she came upon the two young people unawares. - -She had entered, not knowing where they were, for they had gone off -together, the cloistered courtyard of the Hôtel de Jacques Cœur. Now the -cloister forms an arcaded gallery a few feet above the ground, which is -reached by a flight of steps. She heard voices, approached hidden from -them, beheld the pair sitting on the bottom step, in the cool shadow. - -“I should never get the whole adorableness of this,” said Tommy, “if I -hadn’t you beside me. You and I seem to be like the two barrels of a -field-glass—adjusted to one focus.” - -Clementina, hugging the wall, tip-toed out of the cloister. There was -only one alternative, a whirlwind, a hurricane of a temptation which she -was strong enough to resist: to descend then and there and box his ears -soundly. - - - - - CHAPTER XII - - -While Clementina, in her own fashion, was shattering an idyll to pieces, -Quixtus under the tutelage of Billiter pursued the most distasteful -occupation in which he had ever engaged. Had some Rhadamanthine Arbiter -of his Destiny compelled him, under penalty of death, to choose between -horse-racing and laborious practice as a solicitor, he would -unhesitatingly have chosen the latter. Course and stand and paddock and -ring, the whole machinery of the sport, wearied him to exasperation. -Just as there are some men to whom, as the saying goes, music is the -most expensive form of noise, so are there others to whom the racing of -horses is merely the most extravagantly cumbersome form of gambling. Why -train valuable animals, they ask; to run round a field, when the same -end could be attained by making little leaden horses gyrate mechanically -round a disk, at a millionth part of the cost? Of the delight of -studying pedigree, of following form, of catching the precious trickles -of information that percolate through the litter of stables, of backing -their judgment thus misguided they have no notion. They cannot even feel -a thrill of excitement at the sight of the far-off specks of galloping -horses. They wonder at the futility of it all as the quadrupeds scrabble -down the straight. An automobile, they plead, can go ten times as fast. -That such purblind folk exist is sad; but after all they are God’s -creatures, just the same as jockeys and professional tipsters. - -At first there was one feature of the race-course which fascinated -Quixtus—the ring. Then he imagined he had come into contact with -incarnate evil. Those coarse animal faces, swollen with the effort of -bawling the odds, those hard greedy eyes bulging from purple cheeks, -those voices raucous, inhuman, suggested to his mild fancy a peculiarly -depraved corner of Tophet. But what practical evil resulted from this -Masque of Hades was not quite apparent. Nobody seemed any the worse. The -bookmaker smiled widely on those who won, and those who lost smiled on -the world with undaunted cheerfulness. So, in the course of time, -Quixtus began to regard the bookmakers with feelings of disappointment, -which gave place after a while to indifference, and eventually to -weariness and irritation. - -Even Old Joe Jenks, thick-necked, fishy-eyed villain, to whom Billiter -personally introduced him, proved himself, in all his dealings, to be a -scrupulously honest man. The turf, in spite of its depressing ugliness, -appeared but a manœuvring ground for the dull virtues. Where was its -wickedness? He complained, at length, to Billiter. - -Billiter seemed for the moment to be in a bad humour. He tugged at his -heavy moustache. - -“I don’t see what fault you can find with racing. You’re making a very -good thing out of it.” - -Which was true. Fortune, who had played him such scurvy tricks, was now -turning on him her sunniest smile. He was winning prodigiously, -fantastically. Billiter selected the horses which he was to back, he -backed them to the amount advised by Billiter, and in most instances the -horses won. - -“If you think the mere gaining of money gives me any pleasure, my dear -Billiter,” said he, “you’re very much mistaken. I have sufficient means -of my own to satisfy my modest requirements, and to accept large sums of -money from your friend, Mr. Jenks, is humiliating and repulsive.” - -“If that’s the matter, you can turn them over to me,” said Billiter, “I -don’t get much out of the business.” - -They were walking about the paddock, between the races. Quixtus halted -and regarded his morose companion with cold inquiry. - -“You gave me to understand that you were betting on the same horses as I -was.” - -Billiter cursed himself for an incautious fool. - -“Only now and then,” said he, “and for small stakes. How can I afford to -plunge like you?” - -“What is the dismal quadruped I am betting on for this next race?” asked -Quixtus looking at his card. - -“Punchinello. Forty-five to one. Dead cert.” - -“Then,” said Quixtus, “here are five pounds. Put them on Punchinello and -if he wins you will have two hundred and twenty-five.” - -Billiter left him, made his way out of the paddock to that part of the -race-course where the outside bookmakers have their habitation. Old Joe -Jenks in the flaming check suit and a white hat adorned with his name -and quality stood on a stool shouting the odds, taking bets and giving -directions to the clerk at his side. Business for a moment was slack. - -“Another fiver for the governor on Punchinello,” said Billiter. - -Old Joe Jenks jumped from his stool and took Billiter aside. - -“Look here, old friend,” said he, “chuck it. Come off it. I’m not -playing any more. I poured a couple of quarts of champagne over your -head because you told me you had got hold of a mug, and instead of the -mug you bring up a ruddy miracle who backs every wrong ‘un at a hundred -to one—and romps in. And thinking you straight, Mr. Billiter, sir, I’ve -stretched out the odds—to oblige you. And you’ve damn well landed me. -It’s getting monotonous. See? I’m tired.” - -“It’s not my fault, Joe,” said Billiter, humbly. “Look. Just an extra -fiver on Punchinello. He’s got no earthly—you know that as well as I -do.” - -“Do I?” growled the bookmaker angrily, convinced that Billiter was -over-reaching him. “How do I know what you know? You want to have it -both ways, do you? Well you won’t get it out of me.” - -“I swear to God, Joe,” said Billiter, earnestly, “that I’m straight. So -little did I expect him to win that I’ve not asked a penny commission.” - -“Then ask it now, and be hanged to you,” cried the angry bookmaker, and -leaping back to his stool, he resumed his brazen-throated trade. - -Billiter kept his five-pound note, unwilling to risk it with another -bookmaker on the laughing-stock of a Punchinello, and sauntered away -moodily. He was a most injured man. Old Joe Jenks doubted his good -faith. Now, was there a single horse selected for his patron to back -upon which any student of racing outside a lunatic asylum would have -staked money? Not one. He could lay his hand on his honest heart and -swear it. And had he staked a penny on his selections? No. He could -swear to that, too. He had not (fool that he was) asked Quixtus for a -commission. Through his honourable dealing he was a poor man. The -thought was bitter. He had run straight with Jenks. It was not his fault -if the devil had got into the horses so that every shocking outsider, -backed by Quixtus, revealed ultra-equine capacities. What could a horse -do against the superhorse? Nothing. What could Billiter himself do? -Nothing. Except have a drink. In the circumstances it was the only thing -to do. He went into the bar of the grand stand and ordered a whisky and -soda. It sizzled gratefully down a throat burning with a sense of wrong. -His moral tone restored, he determined to live in poverty no more for -the sake of a quixotic principle, and, proceeding to a ready-money -bookmaker of his acquaintance, pulled out his five-pound note and backed -Rosemary, a certain winner (such was his private and infallible -information) at eight to one. This duty to himself accomplished, he went -to the grand stand to view the race, leaving Quixtus to do that which -seemed best to him. - -The bell rang, the course was cleared, the numbers put up; the horses -cantered gaily past. At the sight of Rosemary, a shiny bay in beautiful -condition, Billiter’s heart warmed; at the sight of Punchinello, a -scraggy crock who had never won a race in his inglorious life, Billiter -sniffed scornfully. If Old Joe Jenks was such a fool as to refuse a free -gift of two pounds ten—they had agreed to halve the spoils—the folly -thereof lay entirely on Old Joe Jenks’s head. - -The start was made. For a long time the horses ran in a bunch. Then -Rosemary crept ahead. Billiter’s moustache beneath the levelled -field-glasses betrayed a happy smile. Rosemary increased her lead. At -the turn into the straight, something happened. She swerved and lost her -stride. Three others dashed by, among them the despised Punchinello. -They passed the post in a flash, Punchinello first. Billiter murmured -things at which the world, had it heard them, would have grown pale, and -again sought the bar. Emerging thence he went in quest of his patron. He -had not far to go. Quixtus sat on a wooden chair at the back of the -grand stand reading a vellum covered _Elzevir_ duodecimo edition of -Saint Augustine’s Confessions. When Billiter approached he rose and -thrust the volume into the tail pocket of his frock-coat. - -“Was that a race?” he asked. - -“Race. Of course it was. _The_ race. Didn’t you see it?” - -“Thank goodness, no,” said Quixtus. “Did any horse win?” - -The sodden and simple wit of Billiter rose like a salmon at this gaudy -fly of irony. He lost his temper. - -“Your damned, spavined, bow-legged, mule-be-gotten crock of a -Punchinello won.” - -Quixtus regarded him mildly; but a transient gleam of light flickered in -his china-blue eyes. - -“Then, my dear Billiter,” said he, “I have won nine hundred pounds, -which, in view of my opinion of the turf, based on experience, I think I -shall hand over to the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel to be -earmarked for the conversion of the Mahommedans in Mecca. As for you, -Billiter, you have won two hundred and twenty-five pounds”—Billiter -quivered with sub-aspirate anathema—“which ought to satisfy the -momentary cupidity of any man. Let us go. The more I see of it the more -am I convinced that the race-course is no place for me. It is too good.” - -Billiter glanced at him with wrathful suspicion. Was he speaking in -childish simplicity or in mordant sarcasm? The grave, unsmiling face, -the expressionless blue eyes gave him no clue. - -Thus, however, ended Quixtus’s career on the Turf. To stand about -wearily in all weathers in order to witness what, to his fastidious mind -was merely a dull and vulgar spectacle, was an act of self-sacrifice -from which he derived no compensating thrill. The injured Billiter -having patched up a peace with Old Joe Jenks, convincing him of his own -ingenuousness and of the inevitable change in his patron’s luck, in vain -persuaded Quixtus to resume his investigations. He offered to introduce -him to a fraternity of so-called commission agents and touts, in whose -company he could saturate himself with vileness. - -“I have no taste for disgusting society,” said Quixtus. - -“Then I don’t know what the deuce you do want,” exclaimed Billiter in a -fume. - -“You can’t touch pitch without being defiled.” - -“I thought that was just what you were trying to be.” - -“In one way, yes,” replied Quixtus, musingly; “But I loathe touching the -pitch.” - -In spite of his confessed belief in the altruistic purity of the turf, -he regarded as unspeakable defilement the cheques which he had received -from Old Joe Jenks. He had kept them in his drawer, and the more he -looked at them the more did the bestial face of Old Joe Jenks obtrude -itself before his eyes, and the more repugnant did it become to his now -abnormal fastidiousness to pay them into his own banking account. To -destroy them, as was his first impulse, merely signified a benefit -conferred on the odious Jenks, who would be only too glad to repocket -his filthy money. What should he do? At last a malignant idea occurred -to his morbidly and curiously working mind. He would cast all this pitch -and defilement upon another’s head. Some one else should shiver with the -disgust of it. But who? The inspiration came from Tartarus. He endorsed -the cheques to the value of nearly two thousand pounds, and paid them -into the banking account of his nephew Tommy Burgrave. - -He would be as diabolically and defiledly wicked as you please, but the -intermediary pitch he would not touch. - -That was his attitude towards all the suggestions for wickedness laid -before him by his three counsellors. They, for their part, although they -recognised great advantage in fostering the gloomy humour of their mad -patron, began to be weary in evil-doing. After they had taxed their -invention for an attractive scheme of villainy, they found that it -either came within the tabooed category of crime or, by its lack of -refinement, failed to commend itself to the sensitive scholar. They were -at their wits’ end. The only one to whose proposal Quixtus turned an -attentive ear was Huckaby, who had suggested the heart-breaking -expedition through the fashionable resorts of Europe. And, to the credit -of Huckaby, be it here mentioned that, beyond certain fantastical and -mocking suggestions, such as the devastation of old women’s wards in -workhouses by means of an anonymous Christmas gifts of nitroglycerine -plum-puddings, this was the only serious proposal he submitted. Anxious, -however, lest the idea should lose its attraction, he urged Quixtus to -start immediately. It is not every day that a down-at-heel wastrel has -the opportunity of luxurious foreign travel, to say nothing of the -humorous object of this particular excursion. But Quixtus, very -sensibly, pointed out to his eager follower that the fashionable resorts -of Europe, save the great capitals, are empty during the months of May -and June, and that it would be much better to postpone their journey -until August filled them with the thousand women waiting to have their -hearts broken. - -Vandermeer, unemployed since his embassy to Tommy Burgrave, unsuccessful -in his suggestions and envious of Billiter and Huckaby, at last hit upon -an ingenious idea. He brought Quixtus a dirty letter. It ran: - -“Dear Mr. Vandermeer,—You, who were an old friend of my husband’s in -our better days and know how valiantly I have struggled to keep the home -together, can’t you help me now? I am ill in bed, my children are -starving. The little ones are lying now even too weak to cry out for -bread. It would break a wolf’s heart to see them. If you can’t help me, -for I know how things are with you, can’t you bring my case before your -rich friend, Mr. Quixtus, of whose kindness and generosity you have so -often spoken? . . . - - “Yours sincerely, - “Emily Wellgood.” - -It bore the address “2, Transiter Street, Clerkenwell Road, N.W.” - -“What do you bring me this for?” asked Quixtus as soon as he had read -it. - -“I am satisfying my own conscience as far as Mrs. Wellgood is -concerned,” replied Vandermeer, “and at the same time giving you an -opportunity of being wicked. It’s a genuine case. You can let them die -of starvation.” - -Quixtus leaned back in his chair and gave the matter his consideration. -Vandermeer had interrupted him in the midst of a paper which he was -writing to controvert a new theory as to the juxtaposition of the -palæolithic and neolithic tombs at Solutré, and he required time to -fetch back his mind from the quaternary age to the present day. The -prospect of a whole family perishing of hunger by an act; as it were, of -his will, pleased his fancy. - -“Very good. Very good, Vandermeer. Let them starve,” said he. “Let them -starve,” he murmured to himself, as he took up his pen. - -Vandermeer, hanging about, hinted at payment for the service rendered. -Quixtus met his crafty eyes with equal cunning. - -“You would be too soft-hearted—you would give them some of the money. -Wait till some of them are dead.” He rolled the last words delectably -round his tongue. “And now, my dear Vandermeer, I’m very busy. Many -thanks and good-bye.” - -Vandermeer left reluctantly and Quixtus resumed his work. - -“The bizygomatic transverse diameter,” he wrote, putting down the -beginning of the sentence that was in his head when Vandermeer was -announced. He paused. He had lost the thread of his ideas. It was a -subtle argument depending on the comparative measurements of newly -discovered skulls. He threw down his pen impatiently, and in mild and -gentlemanly language anathematised Vandermeer. He attacked the -bizygomatic transverse diameter again; but the starving family occupied -his thoughts. Presently he abandoned work for the morning and gave -himself up to the relish of his wickedness. It had a delicious flavour. -Practically he was slaying mother and babes, while he stood outside the -ordinary repulsive and sordid circumstances of murder. Vandermeer should -have his reward. After lunch, he felt impelled to visit them. A force -stronger than a strong inclination to return to his paper led him out of -the front-door and into a taxi-cab summoned from the neighbouring rank. -He promised himself the thrill of gloating over the sufferings of his -victims. Besides, the letter contained a challenge. “It would break a -wolf’s heart to see them.” He would show the writer that his heart was -harder than any wolf’s. Instinctively his hand sought the waistcoat -pocket in which he kept his loose gold. Yes; there were three -sovereigns. He smiled. It would be the finished craft of devildom to lay -them out on a table before the woman’s hungering and ravished eyes and -then, with a merciless chuckle, to pocket them again and walk out of the -house. - -“I will _not_ be a fool,” he asserted, as the taxi-cab entered the -Clerkenwell Road. - -The taxi-cab driver signed that he wished to communicate with his fare. -Quixtus leaned forward over the door. - -“Do you know where Transiter Street is, Sir?” - -Quixtus did not. Does any easy London gentleman know the mean streets in -the purlieus of Clerkenwell? But, oddly enough, a milkman of the -locality knew not Transiter Street either. Nor did a policeman on duty. -Nor did a postman. Perplexed, Quixtus drove to the nearest District Post -Office and made inquiries. There was no such street in Clerkenwell at -all. He consulted the Post Office London Directory. There was no such -street as Transiter Street in London. - -Quixtus drove home in an angry mood. Once more he had been deceived. -Vandermeer had invented the emaciated family for the sake of the fee. -Did the earth hold a more abandoned villain? He grimly set about -devising some punishment for his disingenuous counsellor. Nothing -adequate occurred to him till some days afterwards when Vandermeer sent -him another forged letter announcing the demise, in horrible torment, of -the youngest child. He took up his pen and wrote as follows: - -“My Dear Vandermeer,—I am sending Mrs. Wellgood the burial expenses. I -have also enclosed a cheque for yourself. Will you kindly go to -Transiter Street and claim it. For the present I have no further need of -you. - - “Yours sincerely, - “Ephraim Quixtus.” - -He posted the letter himself on his way to lunch at the club where -Wonnacott remarked on his high good humour. - -Since the discontinuance of the Tuesday dinners (for they were not -resumed after the establishment of the new relations), Huckaby, -Billiter, and Vandermeer had contracted the habit of meeting once a week -in the bar-parlour of a quiet tavern for a companionable fuddle. There -they exchanged views on religion and alcohol, and related unveracious -(and uncredited) anecdotes of their former high estate. Jealous of each -other, however, they spoke little of Quixtus, and then only in general -terms. The poor gentleman was still distraught. It was a sad case, -causing them to wag their heads sorrowfully and order another round of -whisky. - -But one evening of depression, Quixtus having for some time refused -their ministrations, and pockets having become woefully empty, they -talked with greater freedom of their respective dealings with their -patron. Vandermeer related the practical joke he had played upon him; -Billiter described his astounding luck, and his crazy reason for -retiring from the turf; and Huckaby, by way of illustrating the -unbalanced state of Quixtus’s mind, confided to them the project of -breaking a woman’s heart. - -“What are you going to get out of it?” asked Vandermeer brutally, for -the first time breaking through the pretence that they were three -devoted friends banded together to protect the poor mad gentleman’s -interests. - -Huckaby raised a protesting hand. “My dear Van!” - -“Oh, drop it,” cried Vandermeer. “You make me tired.” He repeated the -question. - -“Simply amusement. What else?” said Huckaby. - -They wrangled foolishly for a while. At last Billiter, who had remained -silent, brought his fist down, with a bang, on the table. - -“I’ve got an idea,” said he. “Have you any particular woman in view?” - -“Lord, no,” said Huckaby. - -“I can put you on to one,” said Billiter. “No need to go abroad. She’s -here in London.” - -Huckaby called him uncomplimentary names. The Continental trip, as far -as he was concerned, was the essence of the suggestion; the capture of -the wild goose a remote consideration. - -“Besides, old man,” said he, “this is my show.” - -Billiter looked glum. After all, the idea was of no great value. -Vandermeer’s cunning brain began to work. He asked Billiter for a -description of the lady. - -“She’s the widow of an old pal of mine,” replied Billiter. “Lady and all -that sort of thing. Her husband, poor old chap, came to grief—Dragoon -Guards—in the running for a title—went it too hot, you know—died -leaving her with nothing at all. She has pulled through, somehow—lives -in devilish good style, dresses expensively, and has the cleverness to -hang on to her social position. Damned nice woman—but as for her heart, -you could go at it with a pickaxe without risk of breaking it. I thought -she would just suit the case.” - -“Where does the money come from to live in good style and dress -expensively?” asked Huckaby. - -“Billiter thinks it might just as well come from Quixtus as from any one -else. Don’t you, Billiter?” - -Billiter nodded sagaciously and gulped down some whisky and water. - -“And then we’d all stand in,” cried Vandermeer. - -“That may be all very well in its way,” said Huckaby, “but I’m not going -to give up my one chance of getting abroad.” - -“Go abroad then,” retorted Vandermeer. “If the lady is of the kind I -take her to be, she won’t mind crossing the Channel when she knows -there’s a golden feathered coot in Boulogne just dying to moult in her -hand.” - -“You are crude and vulgar in your ideas, Van,” said Huckaby. “Gentlemen -of Quixtus’s position no more go to Boulogne for a holiday than they -frequent Ramsgate boarding-houses. And they don’t give large sums of -money to expensively dressed ladies with conjecturable means of -support.” - -“He’s such a fool that he would never guess anything,” argued -Vandermeer. - -“Hold on,” said Billiter, “you’re on the wrong tack altogether. I told -you she was a lady.” His manner changed subtly, the moribund instinct of -birth crackling suddening into a tiny flame. “I don’t know if you two -quite realise what that means, but to Quixtus it would mean everything.” - -“I’m a sometime Fellow of Corpus Christi College, Cambridge——” began -Huckaby, ruffled. - -“Then you must have met a lady connected with somebody in your damned -Academy,” said Billiter, who had been sent down from Oxford. - -“The University of Cambridge isn’t an Academy,” said Huckaby, waxing -quarrelsome. - -“And a woman who subsists on gifts from her gentlemen friends can’t be a -real lady,” said Vandermeer. - -“Oh go to blazes, both of you!” cried Billiter, angrily. - -He clapped on his hat and rose. But as he had been sitting in the corner -of the divan, between Huckaby and Vandermeer, with the table in front of -him, a dignified exit was impracticable. Indeed, he was immediately -plumped down again on his seat by a tug on each side of his coat, and -adjured in the vernacular not to stray from the paths of wisdom. - -“What’s the use of quarrelling?” asked Huckaby. “She’s a lady if you say -so.” - -“Of course, old man,” Vandermeer agreed. “Have a drink?” - -Billiter being mollified, and the refinement of the Dragoon Guardsman’s -widow being accepted as indisputable, a long and confidential conference -took place, the conspirators speaking in whispers, with heads close -together, although they happened to be alone in the saloon-bar. It was -the first time they had contemplated concerted action, the first time -they had discussed anything of real interest; so, for the first time -they forgot to get fuddled. The plot was simple. Billiter was to -approach Mrs. Fontaine (at last he disclosed the lady’s identity) with -all the delicacy such a mission demanded, and lay the proposal before -her. If she fell in with it she would hold herself in readiness to -repair to whatever Continental resort might be indicated, and then -having made herself known to Huckaby, would be introduced by him to -Quixtus. The rest would follow, as the night the day. - -“The part I don’t like about it,” objected Vandermeer, “is not only -letting a fourth into our own private concern, but giving her the lion’s -share. We’re not a syndicate of philanthropists.” - -“I’m by way of thinking it won’t be our concern much longer,” replied -Billiter. - -“And nobody asked you to come in,” said Huckaby. “You can stand out if -you like.” - -An ugly look overspread Vandermeer’s foxy face. - -“Oh can I? You see what happens if you try that game on.” - -“Besides,” continued Billiter, disregarding the snarl, “it will be to -our advantage. Which of us is going to touch our demented friend for a -hundred pounds? We didn’t do it in former days; much less now. But I’ll -back Mrs. Fontaine to get at least three thousand out of him. Thirty per -cent, is our commission without which we don’t play, and that gives us -three hundred each. I could do with three hundred myself very nicely.” - -“How are we to know what she gets?” - -“That’s easily managed,” said Huckaby, pulling his ragged beard. “She’ll -make her returns to Billiter and I’ll undertake to get the figures out -of Quixtus.” - -“But where do I come in?” asked Vandermeer. “How shall I know if you two -are playing straight?” - -“You’ll have your damned head punched in a minute,” said Billiter, -looking fierce. “To hear you one would think we were a set of crooks.” - -“If we aren’t, what the devil are we, then?” muttered Vandermeer -bitterly. - -But Billiter had turned his broad back on him and did not catch the -words, whereby possibly he escaped a broken head. Billiter was sometimes -sensitive on the point of honour. He had sunk to lower depths of -meanness and petty villainy than the other two in whom the moral sense -still lingered. He would acknowledge himself to be a “wrong ‘un” because -that vague term connoted in his mind merely a gentleman of broken -fortune who was put to shifts (such as his disastrous bargain with Old -Joe Jenks and the present conspiracy) for his living; but a crook was a -common thief or swindler, a member of the criminal classes, of a -confraternity to which he, Billiter, deemed it impossible that he could -belong, especially during a period like the present, when he found -himself, after many years of dingy linen, apparelled in the gorgeous -raiment of his gentlemanly days. He had sunk below the line of -self-realisation. But the others had not. Vandermeer, who hitherto had -merely snapped like a jackal at passing food to satisfy his hunger, did -not deceive himself as to what he had become. Cynical, he felt no -remorse. On the other hand, Huckaby, who went to bed that night sober, -had a bad attack of conscience during the small hours and woke up next -morning with a headache. Whereupon he upbraided himself for his folly; -first, in confiding to his companions the project of his whimsical -adventure; secondly, in allowing it to drift into such a despicable -entanglement; thirdly, in associating himself with a scarlet crustacean -of Billiter’s claw-power; and fourthly, in not getting drunk. - -Huckaby was nearer Quixtus than the others in education and point of -view. Though willing to accept any alms thrown to him he was not -rapacious; he had not regarded his mad and wealthy patron entirely as a -pigeon to be plucked; and beneath all the corruption of his nature there -burnt a spark of affection for the kindly man who had befriended him and -whose trust he had betrayed. He spent most of the ineffectual day in -shaping a resolution to withdraw from the discreditable compact. But by -the last post in the evening he received a laconic postcard from -Billiter: “_The Fountain plays_.” - -The sapped will-power gave way before the march of practical events. -With a shrug he accepted the message as a decree of destiny, and -wandered forth into congenial haunts, where, in one respect at least, he -did not repeat the folly of the previous evening. - - - - - CHAPTER XIII - - -Not long after this Quixtus announced to Huckaby his intention of going -to Paris to attend a small Congress of the Anthropological Societies of -the North-West of France, to which he, as president of the -Anthropological Society of London, had been invited. He had gradually, -in spite of his preoccupation, resumed his interest in his favourite -pursuit, and, though he knew his learned friends to be villains at -heart, he enjoyed their learned and even their lighter conversation. -Human society had begun to attract him again. It afforded him saturnine -amusement to speculate on the corruption that lay hidden beneath the -fair exterior of men and women. He also had a half-crazy pleasure in -wearing the mask himself. When he smiled in his grave and benevolent -manner on the woman by his side at the dinner-table, how could she -suspect the malignant ferocity of his nature? He was playing a part. He -was fooling her to the top of her bent. She went away with the -impression that she had been talking to a mild, scholarly gentleman of -philanthropic tendencies. She possibly asked the monster to tea. He -hugged himself with delight. When it was a question, however, of -identifying remains of aurochs and mammoths and reindeer, or -establishing the date of a flint hatchet, he took the matter seriously -and gave it his profound attention. A palæolithic carving of a cave lion -on mammoth ivory recently discovered in the Seine-et-Oise was to be -exhibited at the Congress and form the subject of a paper. As soon as he -heard this he accepted the invitation with enthusiasm. The carving was -supposed to be the most perfect of its kind yet discovered, and Quixtus -burned to behold it. - -Huckaby, whose financial affairs were in the saddest condition and who -had called with the vague hope of a trifle on account of services to be -rendered, pricked up his ears at the announcement. Even though the main -heart-breaking quest was deferred to August, why should they not seek a -minor adventure during Quixtus’s visit to Paris? It would be a kind of -trial trip. At the suggestion Quixtus shook his head. The Congress would -occupy all his time and attention. - -“Quite so,” said Huckaby. “While you’re busy with prehistoric man, I’ll -be hunting down modern woman. By the time I’ve found her, you’ll have -finished. Having done with the bones, you can devote a few extra days to -the flesh.” - -Quixtus winced. “That’s rather an unfortunate way of putting it.” - -“To the spirit then—the Evil Spirit,” said Huckaby, unabashed. “That -is, if we discover a subject. We’re bound to try various experiments -before we finally succeed.” - -“I’m afraid it will be more trouble than the thing is worth,” said -Quixtus, musingly. - -Here was something happening which Huckaby dreaded. Quixtus was -beginning to lose interest in the adventure. In another month he might -regard it with repugnance. He must start it now with Mrs. Fontaine in -Paris, or the whole conspiracy must collapse. The thought urged Huckaby -to fresh efforts of persuasion. - -“Revenge is sweet and worth the trouble,” he said at last. - -“Yes,” replied Quixtus, in a low voice. “Revenge would be sweet.” - -Huckaby glanced at him swiftly. Beyond the iniquity of Marrable, he was -ignorant of the precise nature of the injuries which Quixtus had -sustained at the hands of fortune. Was it possible that a woman had -played him false? But what had this fossil of a man to do with women? - -“I, too,” said he, with malicious intent; “would like to pay off old -scores against a faithless sex. You have found them faithless, haven’t -you?” - -Quixtus’s brow darkened. “As false as hell,” said he. - -“I knew a woman had treated you shamefully,” said Huckaby, after a pause -during which Quixtus had fallen into a dull reverie. - -“Infamously,” replied Quixtus, below his breath. He looked away into the -distance, madness gathering in his eyes. For the moment he seemed to -forget the other’s presence. Huckaby took his opportunity. He said in a -whisper: - -“She betrayed you?” - -Quixtus nodded. Huckaby watched him narrowly, an absurd suspicion -beginning to form itself in his mind. By his chance phrase about revenge -he had put his friend’s unsound mind on the track of a haunting tragedy. -Who was the woman? His wife? But she had died beloved of him, and for -years, until this madness overtook him, he had spoken of her with the -reverence due to a departed saint. It was a puzzle; the solution -peculiarly interesting. How should he obtain it? Quixtus was not the man -to blab his intimate secrets into the ear of his hired bravo—for as -such he knew that Quixtus regarded him. It behoved him not to change the -minor key of this conversation. - -“A man’s foes,” he quoted in a murmur, “are ever of his own household.” - -Quixtus nodded again three or four times, with parted lips. - -“His own household. Those dearest to him. The woman he loved and his -best friend.” - -In spite of his suspicion, Huckaby was astounded at the inadvertent -confession. In his last days of grace he had known Mrs. Quixtus and the -best friend. Swiftly his mind went back. He remembered vaguely their -familiar intercourse. What was the man’s name? He groped and found it. - -“Hammersley,” he said, aloud. - -At the word, Quixtus started to his feet and swept his hand over his -face. - -“What are you talking about? What do you know against Hammersley?” - -A lurid ray shot athwart his darkened mind. He realised the betrayal of -his most jealously guarded secret to Huckaby. He shrank back, growing -hot and cold through shame. - -“Hammersley played me false over some money affairs,” he said, -cunningly. “It’s a black business which I will tell you about one of -these days.” - -“And the woman?” asked Huckaby. - -“The woman—she—she married. I am glad to say she’s giving her husband -a devil of a time.” - -He laughed nervously. Huckaby, with surprising tact, followed on the -wrong scent like a puppy. - -“You can avenge the poor fellow and yourself at the same time,” said he. -“Women are all alike. It’s right that one of them should be made to -suffer. You have it in your power to make one of them suffer the -tortures of hell.” - -“Yes, yes, I’ll do it,” cried Quixtus. - -“No time like the present.” - -“You’re right,” said Quixtus. “We’ll go to Paris together.” - - * * * * * - -For the first few days in Paris Quixtus had little time to devote to the -secondary object of his visit. The meetings and excursions of the -Congress absorbed his attention. His Parisian confrères took him to -their homes and exhibited their collections of flint instruments, their -wives and their daughters. He attended intimate dinners, the words _sans -cérémonie_ being underlined in the invitation, where all the men, who -had worn evening dress in the morning at a formal function of the -Congress, assembled in the salon gravely attired in tightly-buttoned -frock-coats and wearing dogskin gloves which they only took off when -they sat down to table. His good provincial colleagues, who thought they -might just as well hear the chimes at midnight while they were in Paris -as not, insisted on his accompanying them in their mild dissipation: -This generally consisted in drinking beer at a brasserie filled with -parti-coloured ladies and talking palæolithic gossip amid the -bewildering uproar of a Tzigane band. Now and again Huckaby, who assured -him that he was prosecuting his researches in the fauna of the Hôtel -Continental, where, on Huckaby’s advice, they were staying, would -accompany him on such adventures. - -Curiously enough, Quixtus had begun to like the man again. Admitted on a -social equality and dressed in reputable garments, Huckaby began to lose -the assertiveness of manner mingled with furtive flattery which of late -had characterised him. He began to assume an air of self-respect, even -of good-breeding. Quixtus noticed with interest the change wrought in -him by clothes and environment, and contrasted him favourably with -Billiter, whom new and gorgeous raiment had rendered peculiarly -offensive. There were times when he could forget the sorry mission which -Huckaby had undertaken, and find pleasure in his conversation. -Scrupulous sobriety aided the temporary metamorphosis. As he spoke -French passably and had retained a considerable amount of scholarship, -Quixtus (to his astonishment) found that he could introduce him with a -certain pride to his brother anthropologists, as one who would cast no -discredit on his country. Huckaby was quick to perceive his patron’s -change of attitude, and took pains to maintain it. The novelty, too, of -mingling again with clean-living, intellectual and kindly men afforded -him a keen pleasure which was worth a week’s abstinence from whisky. -Whether it was worth a whole life of respectability and endeavour was -another matter. The present sufficed him. - -He played the scholarly gentleman so well that Quixtus was not -surprised, one afternoon, when passing through the great lounge of the -Continental, to see a lady rise from a tea-table and greet his companion -in the friendliest manner. - -“Eustace Huckaby, can that possibly be you—or is it your ghost?” - -Huckaby bowed over the proffered hand. “What an unexpected delight.” - -“It’s years and years since we met. How many?” - -“I daren’t count them, for both our sakes,” said Huckaby. - -“Why have you dropped out of my horizon for all this time?” asked the -lady. - -“_Mea maxima culpa._” He smiled, bowed in the best-bred way in the -world, and half turned, so as to bring Quixtus into the group. “May I -introduce my friend Dr. Quixtus? Mrs. Fontaine.” - -The lady smiled sweetly. “You are Dr. Quixtus, the anthropologist?” - -“I am interested in the subject,” said Quixtus. - -“More than that. I have read your book; _The Household Arts of the -Neolithic Age_.” - -“An indiscretion of youth,” said Quixtus. - -“Oh, please don’t tell me it’s all wrong,” cried Mrs. Fontaine, in -alarm. “I’m always quoting it. It forms part of my little stock-in-trade -of learning.” - -“Oh, no. It’s not exactly incorrect,” said Quixtus, with a smile, -pleased that so pretty a lady should count among his disciples, “but -it’s superficial. So much has been discovered since I wrote it.” - -“But it’s a standard work, all the same. I happened to see an account of -the Anthropological Congress in the paper this morning, in which you are -referred to as the _éminent anthropologue anglais_ and the author of my -book. I was so pleased. I should have been more so had I known I was to -meet you this afternoon. Have you turned anthropologist too, Mr. -Huckaby?” - -Huckaby explained that he was taking advantage of the Congress to make -holiday in the company of his distinguished friend. That was the first -afternoon the Congress had allowed him leisure, and they had devoted it -to contemplation of the acres of fresh paint in the Grand Palais. They -had come home exhausted. - -“Home? Then you’re staying in the hotel?” - -“Yes,” said Huckaby. “And you?” - -“I too. And in its vastness I feel the most lonesome widow woman that -ever was. I’m waiting here for Lady Louisa Mailing, who promised to join -me; but I think something must have happened, for there is no sign of -her.” - -A waiter brought the tray with tea which she had ordered before the -men’s entrance, and set it on the basket table. Mrs. Fontaine motioned -to it. - -“Won’t you share my solitude and join me?” - -“With pleasure,” said Huckaby. - -Quixtus accepted the invitation, and with his grave courtesy withdrew a -chair to make a passage for Mrs. Fontaine, who gave the additional order -to the waiter. The lounge and the courtyard were thronged with a -well-dressed cosmopolitan crowd, tea-drinking, smoking, and chattering. -A band discoursed discreet music at a convenient distance. The scene was -cool to eyes tired by the vivid colours of the salon and the hot -streets. Quixtus sat down restfully by the side of his hostess and let -her minister to his wants. He was surprised to find how pleasant a -change was the company of a soft-voiced and attractive woman after that -of his somewhat ponderous and none too picturesque confrères. She was -good to look upon; an English blonde in a pale lilac dress and hat—the -incarnation of early summer; not beautiful, but pleasing; at the same -time simple and exquisite. The arrangement of her blonde hair, the fine -oval contour of her face, the thin delicate lips, gave her an air of -chastity which was curiously belied by dark grey eyes dreaming behind -long lashes. All her movements, supple and natural, spoke of breeding; -unmistakably a lady. Evidently a friend of Huckaby’s before his fall. -Quixtus wondered cynically whether she would have greeted with such -frank gladness the bloodshot-eyed scarecrow of a fortnight before. From -their talk, he concluded that she had no idea of the man’s degradation. - -“Mr. Huckaby and I knew each other when the world was young,” she said. -“Centuries ago—in the palæolithic age—before my marriage.” - -“Alas!” said Huckaby, sipping the unaccustomed tea. “You threw aside the -injunction: _arma cedant togæ_. In our case it was the gown that had to -yield to the arms. You married a soldier.” - -She sighed and looked down pensively at her wedding-ring. Then she -glanced up with a laugh, and handed Quixtus the bread and butter. - -“Believe me, Dr. Quixtus, this is the first time I ever heard of the -rivalry. He only invented it for the sake of the epigram. Isn’t that -true?” - -“In one way,” replied Huckaby. “I was so insignificant that you never -even noticed it.” - -She laughed again and turned to Quixtus. - -“How long are you going to stay in Paris?” - -“Just a day or two longer—till the end of my Congress.” - -“Oh! How can you leave Paris when she’s looking her best without -devoting a few days to admiring her? It’s unkind.” - -“I’m afraid Paris must get over the slight.” - -“But don’t you love Paris? I do. It is so fascinating; dangerous, -treacherous. Plunge into it for a moment or two and it is the Fountain -of Youth. Remain in the water a little longer than is prudent, and you -come out shrivelled and wrinkled, with all your youth and beauty gone -from you.” - -“Perhaps I have already had my prudent plunge,” said Quixtus; with a -smile. - -“I’m sure you haven’t. You’ve been on dry land all the time. Worse than -that—in a quaternary formation. Have you dined at Armenonville?” - -“In my time I have; but not this time.” - -“_Voilà_,” said Mrs. Fontaine. “The warm June nights, the Bois in the -moonlight with all its mysteries of shadow, the fairy palace in the -midst of it where you eat fairy things surrounded by the gaiety and -sparkle and laughter of the world—essential and symbolical Paris—you -disregard it all. And that is only one little instance. There are a -thousand others. You’ve not even wetted your feet.” - -She embroidered her thesis very gracefully, clothing the woman of the -world in a diaphanous robe of pretty fancy, revealing a mind ever so -little baffling, here material, there imaginative—a mind as -contradictory as her face, with its chaste contours and its alluring -eyes. Quixtus listened to her with amused interest. She represented a -type with which he, accustomed to the less vivid womenfolk of the -learned, was unfamiliar. Without leaving Huckaby, her girlhood’s friend, -out in the cold, she made it delicately evident that, of the two, -Quixtus was the more worthy of attention on account of his attainments -and the more attractive in his personality. Quixtus, flattered, thought -her a woman of great discernment. - -“But you,” said he, at last. “Have you made your plunge—not that you -need it—into the Fountain of Youth? Have you fed on the honeydew of the -Bois de Boulogne and drunk the milk of Armenonville?” - -“I only arrived last night,” she explained. “And I must remain more or -less in quarantine, being an unprotected woman, till my friend Lady -Louisa Mailing comes, or till my friends in Paris get to know I am here. -But I always like a day or two of freedom before announcing myself—so -that I can do the foolish things that Parisians would jeer at. I always -go to the Louvre and look at the little laughing Faun and the Giaconda; -and I always go down the Seine in a steamboat, and from the Madeleine to -the Bastille on the top of an omnibus. Then I’m ready for my plunge.” - -“I should have thought that bath of innocence was in itself the Fountain -of Youth,” said Huckaby. - -The least suspicion of a frown passed over Mrs. Fontaine’s candid brow. -But she replied with a smile: - -“On the contrary, my friend. That is a penitential dipping in the waters -of the past.” - -“Why penitential?” asked Quixtus. - -“Isn’t it wholesome discipline to give oneself pain sometimes?” Her face -grew wistful. “To re-visit scenes where one has been happy—and sharpen -the knife of memory?” - -“It is the instinct of the ascetic,” smiled Quixtus. - -“I suppose I have a bit of it,” she replied, demurely. Then her face -brightened. “I don’t wear a hair shirt—I’ve got to appear in an evening -gown sometimes—but I find an odd little satisfaction in doing penance. -If I were a Roman Catholic I would embarrass my confessor.” - -Huckaby’s lips twitched in a smile beneath his moustache. If all the -tales that Billiter told of Lena Fontaine were true, a confessor would -be exceedingly embarrassed. He regarded her with admiration. She was an -entirely different woman from the hard and contemptuous partner in -iniquity to whom Billiter had introduced him before he left London. It -had not been a pleasant interview—just the details of their Paris -meeting arranged, the story of their past acquaintance rehearsed, and -nothing more. Huckaby, descending her stairs with Billiter, had felt as -if he had been whipped, and prophesied failure. She was not the woman -for Quixtus. But Billiter grinned and bade him wait. He had waited, and -now had the satisfaction of seeing Quixtus caught immediately in the -gossamer web of her charm. He wondered, too, how she could have -maintained her relations with so undesirable a person as Billiter, for -whom he himself entertained a profound contempt. Billiter was unusually -silent on the matter, letting it be vaguely understood that he had been -in the Dragoon Guardsman’s set before running through his money, and -that he had accidentally done her a service in later years. What that -service was he declined to mention. Huckaby sniffed blackmail. That was -the more likely influence keeping together a well-received woman of -hidden life and a shabby and unpresentable sot like Billiter. He -remembered that Billiter had confessed to a mysterious source of income. -What more natural an explanation thereof than the fact that, having once -surprised a woman’s secret and holding her reputation in his hands, he -should have been accepted by her, in desperation, as her paid doer of -unavowable offices? He knew that a woman of Lena Fontaine’s type, with -an assured social position in the great world, does not descend into the -half-world without a desperate struggle. Her back is against the wall, -and she uses any weapon to hand. Hence her use of Billiter. At all -events, in the present case there had been no pretence of friendship. To -her it had obviously been a hateful matter of business, which she had -been anxious to conclude as soon as possible. One condition she -rigorously exacted; that her acquaintance with Billiter should not be -revealed to Quixtus. She was not proud of Billiter. Huckaby took what -comfort he could from the thought. - -Mrs. Fontaine sat talking to the two men until the tea-drinking and -chattering crowd had melted away. Then she rose, thanked them prettily -for wasting their science-filled time on an irresponsible woman’s -loneliness, and expressed to Huckaby the hope that she would see him -again before he left Paris. - -“I trust I, too, may have the pleasure,” said Quixtus. - -“You might lead us to the Fountain of Youth one of these evenings,” said -Huckaby. - -“It would be delightful,” said the lady, with a questioning glance at -Quixtus. - -“I could dream of nothing more pleasant,” he replied, bowing in his -old-fashioned way. - -When she had gone, the men resumed their seats. Quixtus lit a cigarette. - -“A very charming woman.” - -Huckaby agreed. “It has been one of my great regrets of the past few -years that I have not been able to keep up our old friendship. We moved -in different worlds.” He paused, as if thinking sorrowfully of his -misspent life. “I hope you don’t mind my suggesting the little -dinner-party,” he said, after a while. “My position was a delicate one.” - -“It was a very good idea,” said Quixtus. - -Huckaby said little more, preferring to leave well alone. The plot, up -to this point, had succeeded. Quixtus gave complete credence to the -story, unsuspecting that Mrs. Fontaine was the woman selected for his -heart-breaking experiment, and already considerably attracted by her -personality. Diabolical possibilities could be insinuated later. In the -meanwhile; Huckaby had played his part. Future success now lay in Mrs. -Fontaine’s hands. - -Quixtus dined that evening with one of his colleagues, and Huckaby, -after a meal at a restaurant, went to the Comédie Française and sat -through _Phèdre_ from beginning to end, with great enjoyment. The -re-awakening of his æsthetic sense, dulled for so many years, surprised -and gratified him. - -When he met his patron the next morning, he said abruptly; - -“If I had a chance of getting back again, I’d take it.” - -“Getting back where?” asked Quixtus. “To London?” - -Huckaby explained. “I’m tired of running crooked,” he added. “If I could -only get regular work to bring me in a few pounds a week, I’d run -straight and sober for the rest of my life.” - -“I don’t think I can help you to attain your wishes, my dear Huckaby,” -replied Quixtus, reflectively. “If I did; I should be committing a good -action, which, as you know, is entirely against my principles.” - -“I don’t yearn so much after goodness,” said Huckaby, “as after decency -and cleanliness. I’ve no ambition to die a white-haired saint.” - -“All white-haired saints are whited sepulchres,” said Quixtus. - -In spite of regenerative impulses, Huckaby persuaded his patron to lunch -at the hotel where he knew that Mrs. Fontaine and the newly arrived Lady -Louisa Mailing had planned to lunch also. The establishment of informal -relations was important. They entered the table d’hôte room, and, -preceded by the maître d’hôtel, marched to the table reserved for them. -About six tables away sat Mrs. Fontaine and her friend. She smiled a -pleasant greeting. - -“Women can sometimes be exceedingly decorative,” remarked Quixtus, -helping himself to sardines. - -“If they are not, they leave unfulfilled one of the main functions of -their existence.” - -“Did you ever know a good woman?” - -“Mrs. Fontaine is one of the best I’ve ever known,” replied Huckaby, at -a venture. - -The heart-breaking could be practised on a sweet and virtuous flower of -a woman with much more villainous success than on a hardened coquette. - -Quixtus said nothing. His natural delicacy forbade the discussion of a -specific woman’s moral attributes. - -The occupants of the two tables met after lunch in the lounge, and had -coffee and cigarettes together. The men were presented to Lady Louisa -Mailing, an aimless, dowdy woman of forty, running to fat. As far as -could be gathered from her conversation, her two interests in life were -Lena Fontaine and food in restaurants. In Mrs. Fontaine’s presence she -spoke chiefly of the latter. When Mrs. Fontaine went up to her room for -a forgotten powder-puff, leaving her with the men, she plunged with -animation into eulogy of Mrs. Fontaine’s virtues. In this she was -sincere. She believed in Mrs. Fontaine’s virtues, which, like the -costermonger’s giant strawberries, lay ostentatiously at the top of her -basket of qualities; and she was so stupid that her friend could always -dissimulate from her incurious eyes the crushed and festering fruit -below. - -“I always think it so sad for a sweet, beautiful woman like Lena to be -alone in the world,” said Lady Louisa, in a soft, even voice. “But she’s -so brave, so cheerful, so gentle.” - -“It’s a wonder she hasn’t married again,” said Huckaby. - -“I don’t think she ever will,” replied Lady Louisa; “unless she gets a -man to understand her. And where is he to be found?” - -“Ah where?” said Huckaby, to whom as Mrs. Fontaine’s childhood friend -this talk had been mainly addressed. - -Lady Louisa sighed sentimentally. She was an old maid, the seventh of -eleven daughters of an impecunious Irish earl now defunct. Her face, -such as it was, had been her fortune, and it had attracted no suitors. - -“Not that she isn’t very much admired. She knows hundreds of nice men, -and I’m sure heaps of them want to marry her; but, no. She likes them as -friends. As a husband she wants something more. The modern man is so -material and unintellectual, don’t you think so?” - -This Diana (with a touch of Minerva) among widows came up, swinging the -little bag of which she had gone in search. - -“I’m sure Lady Louisa has been talking about me,” she laughed. - -“She has not been taking away your character. I assure you,” said -Quixtus. - -“I know. She has been giving me one. And the worst of it is, I have to -live up to it—or at least try. I suppose it’s always worth while having -an ideal before one, though it may be somebody else’s.” - -“You believe in an ideal of goodness?” asked Quixtus. - -She raised her dreamy eyes to his and looked at him candidly. - -“Why, yes, don’t you?” - -“No,” he replied, with a darkening brow. “There is only one force in -nature, which is wickedness. Man sometimes resists it for fear of the -consequences, and the measure of his cowardly resistance is by a curious -inversion taken by him to be the measure of his striving towards an -ideal.” - -Mrs. Fontaine exclaimed warmly; “I must cure you of your pessimism.” - -“There is only one remedy.” - -“And that?” - -“The same as will cure the disease of life.” - -“You mean death?” - -“Yes,” said Quixtus. - -“It’s a remedy; but not the only one.” Her pale cheeks flushed adorably. -“In fact, it’s only by a twist of language you can call it a remedy. The -only remedy against the malady of life is life itself. The bane is its -own antidote. The only cure for loss of illusions is fresh illusions, -more illusions, and always illusions.” - -“Supposing for argument’s sake you are right—where are they to come -from?” - -“They form of themselves, like fresh tissue of the flesh, without your -volition.” - -“Only in healthy flesh,” said Quixtus, with his tired smile. “So in a -gangrened soul there can be built up no fresh tissue of illusions.” - -Womanlike, she begged the question, maintaining that there was no such -thing as a gangrened soul. She shuddered prettily. Belief therein was a -horrible superstition. She proclaimed her faith in the ultimate good of -things. Quixtus said ironically: - -“The ultimate good takes a long time coming. In the ages in which I, as -a student, am interested, men slew each other with honest hatchets. Now -they slay by the poisoned word and the treacherous deed. The development -of mind has for its history the development of craft and cunning, of -which the supreme results are a religion as to whose essential tenets -scarcely two persons can agree, a rule of thumb arrangement of purely -mechanical appliances, which is the so-called wonder of wireless -telegraphy, and an infinite capacity for cruelty which has rendered Hell -a mild and futile shadow in human speculation. Whatever hellishness -human imagination could invent as the work of devils, calm history, the -daily newspaper, your own experience of life tells you has already been -surpassed by the work of man. Sometimes one is tempted to cry, like -Ferdinand in _The Tempest_, ‘Hell is empty, and all the devils are -here!’ But if it was, and the devils were here, they would be hard put -to it to find a society in which they should not be compelled to hold up -their tails before their snouts in shame and horror. You would find them -meeker than the meekest of the Young Men’s Christian Association.” - -He spoke with a certain crazy earnestness which arrested Lena Fontaine. -Heartless, desperate, cynical though she was, intelligent too and swift -of brain, she had never formulated to herself so disastrous a -philosophy. She leaned forward, an elbow on the wickerwork table. - -“Such a faith is dreadful,” she said, seriously. “It reduces living -among one’s fellow creatures to walking through a horde of -savages—never knowing whether some one may not club you on the head or -stab you in the back.” - -“Can you ever tell whether your dearest friend isn’t going to stab you -in the back?” asked Quixtus. - -His pale blue eyes held her with a curious insistence. Her eyelids -flickered with something like shame, as though she had divined a -personal application of the question. She shivered; this time naturally. - -“Oh, I love to believe in goodness,” she exclaimed, “although I may not -practise every virtue myself. There would be no sunshine in a purely -wicked world.” She plucked up courage and looked him in the face. - -“Do you think I, for instance, am just one mass of badness?” - -“My dear Mrs. Fontaine,” replied the pessimist, with his courtly smile, -“you must not crush me by using the privilege of your sex—arguing from -general to particular.” - -“But do you?” she insisted. - -“I believe,” said he, with a little inclination of his head, “all that -Lady Louisa has been telling me.” - -The talk ran for awhile in lighter channels. Lady Louisa and Huckaby who -had been discussing cookery—he had held her in watery-mouthed attention -while he gave her from memory Izaac Walton’s recipe for roasting a -jack—joined in the conversation. - -“You two have been having a very deep argument,” said Lady Louisa. - -“I have been trying to convert him to optimism,” laughed Mrs. Fontaine. -“It seems to be difficult. But I’ll do so in time. I’m a determined -woman. I’ve a good mind to forbid you to leave Paris before your -conversion.” - -“The process would be pleasant, though the result would be -problematical.” - -“I’m not going to argue with you. I just want to make you see things for -yourself.” - -“I will submit gladly to your guidance,” said Quixtus. - -She looked at the little watch on her bracelet, and her rising brought -the little party to their feet. - -“Shall we begin now? I’m going to walk up the Rue de la Paix and see the -shops.” - -Quixtus also consulted his watch. “I shall be honoured if you will let -me walk up the Rue de la Paix with you. But then I must reluctantly -leave you. I must meet my confrères of the Congress at the -railway-station to go to Sèvres to see Monsieur Sardanel’s collection.” - -“What has Sèvres china to do with anthropology?” - -He smiled at her ignorance. Monsieur Sardanel had the famous collection -of Mexican antiquities—terra-cotta rattles and masks and obsidian-edged -swords. - -Her long lashes swept shyly upwards. “I’m sure I could show you much -more interesting things than those.” - -It was a long time since a pretty and fascinating woman had evinced a -desire for his company. He was a man, as well as a diabolically minded -anthropologist. Yet there was a green avanturine quartz axe-head in the -collection which he particularly lusted to behold. He stood irresolute, -while Mrs. Fontaine turned with a laugh and took Lady Louisa aside. He -caught Huckaby’s glance, in which he surprised a flicker of anxiety. -Huckaby was wondering whether this was the right moment to speak. It -seemed so. Yet the more he thought over the matter, the less was he -inclined to cut the disgraceful figure in Quixtus’s eyes of the base -betrayer of his supposed childhood’s flower-like friend. Here, however, -was the wished-for opportunity, when Quixtus was evidently hesitating -between primitive clay masks and a living woman’s face. He resolved to -throw all the onus of the decision on Quixtus’s shoulders. - -“I’m afraid these dear ladies rather interfere with the prospects of our -little adventure,” he said, drawing him a step or two from the table -where they had been sitting. - -“I never thought of it,” said Quixtus, truthfully. - -Then an idea of malignant cunning took possession of his brain. Mrs. -Fontaine should be the woman; and Huckaby should not know. Her heart he -would break and, when it was broken, he would confound Huckaby with the -piteous shards and enjoy a doubly diabolical triumph. In the meantime he -must dissemble; for Huckaby would not deliberately allow his old -friend’s happiness to be wrecked. To hide a smile he crossed the passage -of the lounge and lit a cigarette from matches on one of the tables. -Then he turned. - -“My dear fellow,” said he, “let us talk no more about the adventure, as -you call it. It never really pleased me.” - -“But surely——” Huckaby began. - -“It’s distasteful,” he interrupted, “and there’s an end of it.” - -“As you will,” said Huckaby, for the moment uncertain. - -Mrs. Fontaine approached them smiling, provocative in the dainty candour -of her white dress and hat. - -“Well? Have you decided?” - -Quixtus paused for the fraction of a second. The lady swept him with her -dreamy glance. A modern Merlin, he yielded. This delicious wickedness at -last on foot, Sardanel and all his spoils of Mexico could go hang. - -“For the afternoon,” said he, “I am your humble disciple.” - -They went forth together, outwardly as gay a company as ever issued -through the great gates of the Hôtel Continental into the fairyland of -Paris; inwardly, save one of their number, psychological complexities as -dark as any that have emerged into its mocking and inscrutable spirit. -Of the three, Quixtus, the tender-hearted scholar of darkened mind, who -could no more have broken a woman’s heart than have trampled on a baby, -pathetically bent on his intellectually conceived career of Evil and -entirely unconscious of being himself the dupe and victim—of the three, -Quixtus was certainly the happiest. Huckaby, touched with shame, avoided -meeting his accomplice’s eye. He walked in front with Lady Louisa, -finding refuge in her placid dulness. - -Once during the afternoon, when Lena Fontaine found herself for a moment -by his side, she laughed cynically. - -“Do you know what you two remind me of? Martha and Mephistopheles.” - -“And you are Gretchen to the life.” - -The retort was obvious; but apparently it was not anticipated. Mrs. -Fontaine flushed scarlet at the sneer. She looked at him hard-eyed, and -said, with set teeth: - -“I wish to God I were.” - - - - - CHAPTER XIV - - -Something was wrong with Tommy Burgrave. Instead of flinging excited -hands in the direction of splendid equipage or beautiful woman, he sat -glum by Clementina’s side, while the most dazzling procession in Europe -passed before his eyes. Of course it was a little cockneyfied to sit on -a public bench on the edge of the great Avenue of the Champs Elysées; -but Clementina knew that consciousness of cockneydom would not disturb -the serenity of Tommy’s soul. Something else was the matter. He was ill -at ease. Gloom darkened his brow and care perched on his shoulders. - -The car of thirty-five million dove-power which had brought the -wanderers, the day before, to Paris, had deposited Etta Concannon at the -house of some friends for a few hours’ visit, and Tommy and Clementina -at Ledoyen’s, where they had lunched. It was over the _truite à la -gelée_ that Tommy’s conversation had begun to flag. His melancholy -deepened as the meal proceeded. When they strolled, after lunch; across -to the Avenue, his face assumed an expression of acute misery. He sat -forward, elbows on knees, and traced sad diagrams on the gravel with the -point of his cane. - -“My good Tommy,” said Clementina, at last—what on earth was the matter -with the boy?—“you look as merry as a museum.” - -He groaned. “I’m in a devil of a fix, Clementina.” - -“Indeed?” - -What could he be in a fix about? Anything more aggravatingly, -insolently, excruciatingly happy than the pair of young idiots whom she -had accompanied in the thirty-five million dove-power car aforesaid, she -had never beheld in her life. Sometimes it was as much as she could do -to restrain herself from stopping the car and dumping the pair of them -down by the wayside and telling them to go and play Daphnis and Chloe by -themselves in the sylvan solitudes of France, instead of conducting -their antic gambols over her heartstrings. The air re-echoed deafeningly -with cooings, and the sky grew sickly with smiles. What could a young -man in love want more? - -“It’s the biggest, awfullest mess that ever a fellow got into,” said -Tommy. - -“Well, I suppose it’s your own fault,” she remarked, with just a touch -of the vindictive. She had emptied her heart of heaven and thrown it at -the boy’s feet, and he had not so much as said “thank you.” - -“I’m not so sure,” said Tommy. - -“That’s just like a man,” said Clementina. “Every one of you is ready -enough to cry _peccavi_, but it’s invariably somebody else’s _maxima -culpa_.” - -“I didn’t cry _peccavi_ at all,” said Tommy. “I suppose I had better do -so, though,” he added, after a gloomy pause. “I’ve been a cad. I’ve been -abusing your hospitality. Any man of honour would kick me all over the -place. But I swear to you it was not my fault. How the deuce could I -help it?” - -“Help what, my good Tommy?” - -Tommy dug his stick fiercely in the gravel. “Help falling in love with -Etta. There! now it’s out. Of course you had no idea of it.” - -“Of course not,” said Clementina; with a wry twist of her mouth, not -knowing whether to shriek with insane laughter or with pain at the final -cut of the whip with which she had flagellated the offending Eve. But -her grim sense of humour prevailed, though her strength allowed it to -manifest itself only in the twinkling of her keen eyes. - -“I don’t know what you can think of me,” said Tommy. - -She made no reply, reflecting on the success of her comedy. As she had -planned, so had it fallen out. She had saved her own self-respect—more, -her self-honour—and she had saved him from making muddy disaster of his -own life. The simplicity of the boy touched her deeply. The dear, -ostrich reasoning of youth! Of course she had no idea of it! She looked -at him, sitting there, as a man sometimes looks at a very pure -woman—with a pitying reverence in her eyes. But Tommy did not see the -look, contemplating as he was the blackness of his turpitude. For each -of them it was a wholesome moment. - -“You see, not only was I your guest, but I held a kind of position of -trust,” continued Tommy. “She was, as it were, in my charge. If I had -millions, I oughtn’t to have fallen in love with her. As I’m absolutely -penniless, it’s a crime.” - -“I don’t think falling in love with a sweet girl is a crime,” said -Clementina gently. “There’s one in that automobile”—she nodded in the -direction of a rosebud piece of womanhood in a carriage that was held up -by a block in the traffic, just in front of them. “If any man fell in -love with her right off; as she sat there, not knowing her, it wouldn’t -be a crime. It would be a divine adventure.” - -“She’s not worth two penn’orth of paint,” said Tommy disparagingly—now -Clementina has told me that this was a singularly beautiful girl—such -are other women than his Dulcinea in the eyes of the true lover—“she -isn’t even doll-pretty. But suppose she were, for the sake of -argument—it might be a divine adventure for the fool who fell in love -with her and never told her; but for the penniless cad who went up and -told her—and got her love in return—it would be a crime.” - -Now it must be remembered that Tommy was entirely ignorant of the fact -that a fortune of two thousand pounds, the spoils of Old Joe Jenks, was -coyly lying at his banker’s, who had made the usual acknowledgment to -the payer-in and not to the payee. - -“So you’ve told Etta?” said Clementina, feeling curiously remote from -him and yet curiously drawn to him. - -“This morning,” said Tommy, glowering at the ground. “In the hall of the -hotel, waiting for you to come down.” - -“Oh!” said Clementina, who had deliberately lingered. - -“It wasn’t your fault,” said Tommy with dark magnanimity. “It was the -fault of that damned glove. She asked me to button it for her. Why do -women wear gloves thirty sizes too small for them? Why can’t they wear -sensible easy things like a man? I was fussing over the infernal -thing—I had somehow got her arm perpendicular in front of her face and -I was bending down and she was looking up—oh, can’t you see?” He broke -off impatiently. - -“Oh yes, I can see,” replied Clementina. “And I suppose Etta was utterly -indignant?” - -“That’s the devil of it,” said the conquering but miserable lover. “She -wasn’t.” - -“She wasn’t?” asked Clementina. - -“No,” said Tommy. - -“Then I’m shocked at her,” said Clementina. “She was in my charge, -enjoying my hospitality. She had no business to fall in love with—with -my—” she floundered for a second—“with my invalid guest.” - -“Pretty sort of invalid I am,” said Tommy, who; through the masquerade -of woe, appealed to passers-by, especially to those of the opposite sex, -as the embodiment of fair Anglo-Saxon lustiness. “She isn’t to blame, -poor dear. I am, and yet, confound it! I’m not—for how could I help it? -But what the deuce there is in me, Clementina dear, for the most -exquisite thing God ever made to care for, God only knows.” - -Clementina put her hand—the glove on it, so different from Etta’s, was -thirty sizes too large; it was of white cotton, and new—she had sent -the page-boy of the hotel that morning to buy her a pair—she put her -gloved hand on his. At the touch he raised his eyes to hers. He saw in -them something—he was too young and ingenuous to know what—but -something he had not seen in Clementina’s eyes before. - -“You’re right, my dear boy,” she said. “God knows. That being so, it is -up to Him, as the Americans say, to make good. And He’ll make good. That -is, if you really love that little girl.” - -“Love her!” cried Tommy. “Why——” - -“Yes, yes,” Clementina interrupted hastily. “I’m convinced of it. You -needn’t go into raptures.” She had endured much the last few weeks. She -felt now that the penance of listening to amatory dithyrambics was -supererogatory. “All I want to know is that you love her like a man.” - -“That I do,” said Tommy. - -“And she loves you?” - -Tommy nodded lugubriously. She loved him for nodding. - -“Then why the devil are you trying to make me miserable on this -beautiful afternoon?” - -He twisted round on the bench and faced her. “Then you’re not angry with -me—you don’t think I’ve been a blackguard?” - -“I think the two of you are innocent lambs,” said Clementina. - -Tommy grinned. He, the seasoned man of the world of twenty-three, to be -called an innocent lamb! Much Clementina knew about it. - -“All the same,” said he, reverting to his gloom, “you’re different from -other people; you have your own way of looking at things. Ordinary folk -would say I had behaved abominably. Admiral Concannon would kick me out -of the house if I went and asked him for his daughter. It’s Gilbertian! -There’s a Bab Ballad almost on the same theme,” he laughed. “I guess I’d -better not speak to the Admiral yet awhile.” - -“I guess not,” said Clementina. “Leave well alone for the present.” - -This advice she gave to Etta when that young person, before going to -bed, told her the marvellous news. But Etta’s anxiety as to future ways -and means was the least of her preoccupations, which consisted, in the -main, of wonder at Tommy’s transcendent perfections, and at her -extraordinary good fortune in winning the favour of such a miracle of a -man. Clementina left her radiant and went to bed with a headache and a -bit of a heartache. The one little Elf of Romance that had crossed her -grey path she had snubbed unmercifully. Would ever another chance come -by? Would he not go back and tell his congeners of the flinty-bosomed, -sour-avised female who had nearly frightened him to death; and bid them -all beware of her devastating presence? It was no use her saying that -she loved the Elf with all her heart, but had to dissemble her love, for -the Elf, like the lover in the poem, would naturally ask the historic -question. Yet she did love him, and in the secrecy of her soul longed -for such another—but one perhaps who would put before her a less -Puckish proposition. How could she attract one? With what lure could she -entice him? - -“Bosh!” she said, after a couple of sleepless hours. “It’s high time I -was back at work again.” - -Now, be it here definitely stated that Clementina misjudged the Elf. He -was mightily amused by her treatment of him, and ran away with his elfin -thumb to his elfin nose in the most graceless and delicious manner -possible. He swore revenge. In his cobweb seat he thought hard. Then he -slapped his thighs and laughed, and returned to Elfland where he raised -a prodigious commotion. - -The result of this will be duly set forth in the following pages. - -“We leave Paris to-morrow,” said Clementina; buttoning her cotton -gloves. “I must work, and Tommy must work, and Etta must learn to cook -and sew and scrub saucepans. The holiday is about to end.” - -Two sighs greeted the announcement. - -“Can’t we have one other day?” Etta pleaded. - -“You just need the extra day to make you quite fit again,” said Tommy. - -Clementina, unmoved by pleading or sophistry, replied, “We start -to-morrow.” - -Etta looked at Tommy and sorrowfully licked from her finger-tips the -squirted cream of an _éclair_. They had just finished tea at Colombin’s, -a form of amusement to which Etta was addicted. She liked the crowded -room, the band, the bustle of the waitresses and the warm smell of tea -and chocolate and pastry. She also had the perverted craving of female -youth to destroy its appetite for dinner. She looked at Tommy and -cleansed herself from _éclair_ like a dainty kitten; but Tommy’s eyes -were fixed to the entrance of the tea-room. He half rose from his chair. - -“Lord Almighty, if that isn’t Uncle Ephraim!” - -“Where?” cried Clementina. - -He nodded, and Clementina, turning her head, saw Quixtus, one of a party -of four, two men and two ladies, threading their way between the -chattering tables under the guidance of a waitress. They found places -not far off. Quixtus sat down with his back to Clementina. - -“I wonder whom he has got hold of,” said Tommy. - -“She’s _awfully_ pretty,” said Etta, glancing at Mrs. Fontaine. - -“Passable,” said Tommy. “I don’t care for women who look like nuns.” - -“She doesn’t look a bit like a nun,” she contradicted. “She’s talking -and laughing like anything.” - -Clementina said nothing, but studied the woman’s face. The portrait -painter’s instinct arose. She would like to get her in the sitter’s -chair and see what sort of a thing would come out on the canvas. The -woman seemed to be the mistress of the feast. It was she who apportioned -the seats and gave the orders; also it was she who led the animated -conversation. The party seemed to be intimate. - -“Whatever the crowd is, they’re having a good time,” said Tommy, “An -unusual thing for my uncle.” - -“Perhaps that’s because he’s crazy,” suggested Etta. - -“Perhaps,” said Tommy. “I should like to knock some sanity into him, -though,” he added ruefully; “especially as things are at present.” - -“So should I,” remarked Clementina, and again she scrutinised the -woman’s face. - -“Perhaps his reason will come back when he sees Etta!” cried Tommy, -laughing boyishly. “I’ll go and present her.” - -“You’ll do no such thing,” said Clementina. - -But Clementina, when they had risen to leave the tea-room, found that -she had counted without her hosts, who had arranged the crowded tables -in such a manner that in order to reach the exit door, she and her -charges had to pass immediately behind Huckaby, who sat facing Quixtus. -Chance had also caused a temporary blocking of the gangway a little -further on. The trio came to a compulsory standstill beside the -quartette. Tommy stretched out a frank hand. - -“Hullo, Uncle Ephraim! What are you doing here?” - -Quixtus rose and took the proffered hand, but he did not answer the -indiscreet question. - -“How d’ye do, Tommy? I hope I see you well.” Then he became conscious of -Clementina, whom he greeted with stiff courtesy. - -“I must present you to Miss Etta Concannon,” said Tommy. “This is my -uncle, Dr. Quixtus. We’ve been motoring all over France with Clementina. -Had a gorgeous time.” - -Again Clementina looked at the woman with the nun’s face and the -alluring eyes, and this time the woman looked at Clementina. Between the -two pairs of eyes was a second’s invisible rapier play. Mrs. Fontaine -broke into a laugh. - -“Won’t you introduce me, Dr. Quixtus?” And then, the introductions being -effected—“I hope you’re staying a long while in Paris.” - -“We leave to-morrow,” snapped Clementina. “And you?” she asked, turning -to Quixtus. - -He made a vague gesture. A week’s Seine water had flowed beneath the -bridges since he had first walked up the Rue de la Paix with Mrs. -Fontaine, and that week had been full of interest, morbid and otherwise. -Not only did he hug himself in his imaginary wrap of diabolical -wickedness, but also—if he could admit the truth—he was enjoying -himself enormously in the most blameless fashion. Mrs. Fontaine showing -no particular desire to leave Paris, he had adjourned his own departure -_sine die_. - -“I am remaining some time yet,” he replied. - -“In the interests of Prehistoric Man?” - -The implication was brutal. Two little red spots rose to Mrs. Fontaine’s -cheeks. She conceived a sudden hatred for the rough-voiced, keen-eyed -creature with her untidy hair and caricature of a hat. A retort; -containing the counter-implication of Clementina’s resemblance to a -prehistoric woman, was tempting. But it would lay herself open to -obvious attack. She laughed. - -“We are all helping Dr. Quixtus to recover from Prehistoric Man. He has -just been attending an Anthropological Congress.” - -“Umph!” said Clementina. - -“Where are you staying, Uncle Ephraim?” asked Tommy. - -“At the Hôtel Continental.” - -“I’ll come and look you up—to-night or to-morrow morning.” - -Why should he not treat Quixtus as hard-hearted uncles are treated in -the story-books? _Videlicet_, why should not Etta and himself go hand in -hand before him, tell him their tragic and romantic history, and, -falling pathetically on their knees, beg for his blessing and -subvention? To thrust so fair a flower as Etta from him—surely he could -not be as crazy as all that? But Quixtus threw cold water on the ardent -fancy. - -“I’m sorry to say that both to-night and to-morrow morning I shall be -engaged.” - -“Then I’ll look you up in London when you get back,” said Tommy -cheerfully. - -A gangway to the door being now clear, Clementina made perfunctory -adieux to Quixtus and his friends; and henlike, marshalling her two -chickens in front of her, sailed out of the tea-room. - -“He doesn’t look at all horrid,” said Etta, when they reached the -street. “I wonder what makes him behave so. And how generous of you, -Tommy, to be so sweet to him!” - -Tommy smiled as if he were compact of lofty qualities. - -“I’ve been blessing him all the time,” he whispered in her ear, “for if -it hadn’t been for his craziness I shouldn’t be here with you.” - -Clementina trudged on in silence until they turned into the Rue -Saint-Honoré, where their hotel was situated. Then she said suddenly: - -“I don’t like your uncle, and I don’t like his friends. I’m sorry we ran -into them. If we stayed on in Paris we should be running into them every -day. I’m glad we’re clearing out to-morrow.” - -Whereupon the Elf, who had returned from Elfland to haunt her, laughed -immoderately; for he knew that at the bureau of the hotel a telegram was -awaiting her. - - - - - CHAPTER XV - - -Clementina sat in the vestibule and fanned herself with the telegram. It -was from Marseilles and had been telegraphed on from London. It ran: - -“Doctors say I am dying. Come at once here Hôtel Louvre. Matter of life -and death. Am wiring Quixtus also. For Heaven’s sake both come.—Will -Hammersley.” - -It was a shock. Hammersley’s letter of a few weeks ago had prepared her -for his indefinite advent; but the thought of death had not come to her. -Will Hammersley was dying, apparently alone, in an hotel at Marseilles; -dying, too, in an atmosphere of mystery, for he must see her, and -Quixtus too, before he died. The message was urgent, the appeal -imperative. - -“Oh, Clementina, I hope it’s not bad news,” cried Etta. - -Clementina handed the telegram to Tommy. - -“It’s from the sick man of Shanghai who pined for the English lanes.” - -“Poor chap,” said Tommy very gently. “Poor chap! I remember him well. A -fine upstanding fellow, one of the best. Once he gave me a cricket-bat.” -The artist in him shivered. “It’s awful to think of a man like that -dying. What are you going to do?” - -“What do you think?” - -“Take the night train to Marseilles,” replied Tommy. - -“Then why did you ask?” said Clementina. - -“But what shall we do?” cried Etta. - -“Oh, you and Tommy can stay here till I come back.” - -Etta gasped and blushed crimson. “That would be very nice—but—but—I -don’t think dad would quite like it.” - -“Oh Lord!” cried Clementina, “I was forgetting those confounded -conventions. They do complicate life so. And I suppose I can’t send you -away with Tommy in the motor either. And now I come to think of it, I -can’t go away to-night and leave you two to travel together to London -to-morrow. What on earth are women put in the world for, especially -young ones? They’re more worry than they’re worth. And if I left Tommy -here and took you with me to Marseilles, you’d be as handy to travel -with, in the circumstances, as a wedding-cake. I don’t know what to do -with you.” - -Etta suggested that the Jacksons—the friends whom she had visited the -previous day—might take her in till Clementina came back. Indeed, they -had invited her to stay with them. - -“Go and telephone them at once,” said Clementina. - -“You’ll have Uncle Ephraim as a travelling companion,” Tommy remarked as -Etta was leaving them. - -Clementina rubbed a distracted brow, not to the well-being of her front -hair. - -“Lord save us! He’ll be worse than Etta.” - -“Poor dear Clementina,” he said, and turned away to administer help and -counsel to his beloved in the complicated matter of the telephone. - -Suddenly Clementina started to her feet. Perhaps Quixtus’s telegram had -not been forwarded as hers had been. In this contingency it was her duty -to let him know the unhappy news, and she must let him know at once. An -ordinary woman would have sent Tommy round with the telegram. But -Clementina; accustomed all her life long to act for herself, gave no -thought to this possibility. She bolted out of the door of the hotel and -made her way back to the tea-room. - -The crowd had thinned, but Quixtus and his friends still lingered. Mrs. -Fontaine, her elbows on the table, leaning her cheek against her -daintily gloved hands, was engaged in earnest talk with him, to the -exclusion of the other pair. Lady Louisa Mailing was eating pastry and -drinking chocolate with an air of great enjoyment, while Huckaby, hands -in pockets, leant back in his seat, a very bored Mephistopheles. He had -exhausted his Martha’s conversation long ago, and he was weary of the -eternal companionship. Why should not Faust have a turn at Martha now -and again? Decidedly it was an unfair world. To add, also, to his -present discomfort, the confused frame of mind in which he had -originally introduced his patron to Mrs. Fontaine had gradually become -more tangled. Clean living had grown more to his taste, abstinence from -whisky much more simple to accomplish than his most remorseful dreams of -reform had ever conceived. And that morning a letter from Billiter had -filled him with disgust. Billiter upbraided him for silence; wanted to -know what was going on, hinted that a dividend ought to be due by this -time, and expressed, none too delicately, a suspicion of his partner’s -business integrity. The cheap tavern-supplied note-paper offended -against the nicety of Huckaby’s refined surroundings. The gross -vulgarity of Billiter himself revolted him. A week had passed and Mrs. -Fontaine had shown no signs of having accomplished her ends. He had not -dared question her. He had begun; too; to loathe his part in the sordid -plot. But that morning he had summoned up courage enough to say to Mrs. -Fontaine; - -“I’ve just had a letter from Billiter.” - -Whereupon her pale cheeks had flushed red and her alluring eyes had -gleamed dangerously. - -“I wish to God I had never seen that brute in all my life!” - -And he had said; “I wish to God I had never done so either.” - -She had looked at him full, searchingly, inscrutably, for a long moment -and saying nothing, had turned away. What was to be the outcome of it -all? Huckaby was perplexed. The week had passed pleasantly. Even his -enforced and sardonic attendance on Martha had not been able to spoil -the charm of the new life, bastard though it was. Mrs. Fontaine had -continued not to let her friends in Paris know of her presence in the -city, and the week had been a history of peaceful jaunts—to Chantilly, -Fontainebleau, Sèvres (where Monsieur Sardanel had spread before their -ravished eyes his collection of Mexican rattles and masks and -obsidian-edged swords); to “Robinson” on the island in the Seine, where -they had lunched in the tree restaurant; in a word, to all sorts of -sweet summer places where the trees were green and the world was bathed -in sunshine and innocence. The week had evidently passed pleasantly for -Quixtus, who had given no intimation of the date of his return to -London. He was lotus eating; obviously, too, under the charm of the -sorceress, wax in her hands. Of his fiendish purpose Huckaby still had -no suspicion. As far as Huckaby could see, Mrs. Fontaine had made an -easy conquest of his patron, and why she had up to now forborne to carry -out the essential part of the plot, he could not understand. Perhaps she -loathed the idea as much as he did. Her outburst against Billiter gave -weight to the theory. It was all very complicated. And here were these -two engaged in a deep and semi-sentimental conversation while Lady -Louisa stuffed herself with chocolate, and he, Huckaby, was bored to -death. What was going to happen? - -The thing that did happen was Clementina’s inrush. She marched straight -up to the table, and, disregarding startled eyes, thrust the telegram -into Quixtus’s hand. - -“Read that. You may find one like it at your hotel, or you may not. I -thought it right to bring it.” - -Mrs. Fontaine kept her elbows on the table, and regarded Clementina with -well-bred insolence. Lady Louisa finished her chocolate. Quixtus read -the telegram and his face grew a shade paler and his fingers trembled a -little. Huckaby rose and, drawing a chair from another table, offered it -to Clementina. She waved it away, with a curt acknowledgment. Quixtus -looked up at her. - -“This is terrible—Will Hammersley dying——” - -He made an attempt to rise, but Clementina put her hand on his shoulder. - -“Don’t get up. I’m going.” - -A sudden hardening change came over Quixtus’s features. - -“Stay,” said he. “It was very kind of you to bring this; but I’m afraid -it has nothing to do with me.” - -“Nothing to do with you?” - -She regarded him in amazement. “Your lifelong friend is dying and -implores you to come to him, and you say it’s nothing to do with you?” - -“He was a villain, a base villain,” said Quixtus, with quivering lips. - -“Stuff and nonsense!” cried Clementina indignantly. - -Had the man gone absolutely crazy after all? - -“I am saying what I know,” he returned darkly. “He was no friend to me.” - -“And he wants you to go to his death-bed?” asked Mrs. Fontaine, taking -her elbows off the table. “How very painful!” - -“You had better put such lunatic ideas out of your head, and take the -night train to Marseilles,” said Clementina roughly. - -Quixtus bit his knuckles and stared at the litter of tea in front of -him. The orchestra for their last number played a common little jiggety -air. - -“Are you coming?” asked Clementina. - -“Why should Dr. Quixtus,” said Mrs. Fontaine; “travel all the way to -Marseilles to witness the death of a man whom he dislikes? I think it’s -unreasonable to ask it.” - -“Yes, yes,” said Quixtus. “It’s unreasonable.” - -“And it would break up our pleasant little party,” pleaded Lady Louisa. - -“Confound your party!” exclaimed Clementina; whereat Lady Louisa -withered up in astonishment. “I’m telling him to perform an act of -humanity.” - -“He was my enemy,” said Quixtus in a low voice. - -“And so you can hardly ask him to go and gloat over his death,” said -Lady Louisa stupidly. - -“Eh? What’s that?” cried Quixtus, straightening himself up. - -“We’re dealing with Christian gentlemen, not devils,” Clementina -retorted. - -“No, not devils—oh, certainly not devils,” said Quixtus with a -chuckling catch in his voice. - -Clementina plucked him by the sleeve. - -“I can’t stand here all the afternoon arguing with you. Even if you have -got it into your head that the man offended you, you did care for him -once, and it’s only common charity to go to him now that he’s at the -point of death. Are you going or not?” - -Quixtus looked helplessly from one woman to the other. - -“There’s such a thing as straining quixotism too far, my dear Dr. -Quixtus,” said Mrs. Fontaine. “I see no reason why you should go.” - -“I’m a decent woman and I see every reason,” said Clementina, infuriated -at the other’s intervention. “I’ll see that he goes. I’ll get tickets -now from Cook’s and come round to the Continental in a taxi and fetch -you.” - -Quixtus rose and extended his hand to Clementina. - -“I shall go. I promise you,” he said with all his courtliness of manner. -“And I shall not trouble you to get my ticket or call for me. _Au -revoir._” - -He accompanied her to the door. On parting he said with a smile; - -“I have my reasons for going—reasons that no one but myself can -understand.” - -And when he returned to Mrs. Fontaine, who was biting her lips with -annoyance at Clementina’s apparent victory, he repeated the words with -the same smile and the curious gleam of cunning that sometimes marred -the blandness of his eyes. He had his reasons. - -“After all,” said the lady, during their Faust and Marguerite walk to -the Hôtel Continental entrance in the Rue Castiglione, “I can’t blame -you. It’s an errand of mercy. Doubtless he wishes to absolve his -conscience from the wrong, whatever it was, that he did you. Your -_pétroleuse_ friend was right. It is a noble action.” - -“I have my reasons,” said Quixtus. - -“We have become such friends,” she said, after a little pause—“at least -I hope so—that I shall miss you very much. I have very few friends,” -she added with a sigh. - -“If I am one, I esteem it a great honour,” said Quixtus. - -“I wonder whether you’ll care to see me when you get back to Paris.” - -“Will you still be here?” - -“If you promise to stay a little while and finish up our holiday.” - -He met her upturned alluring eyes. For all his visionary malignancy he -was a man—and a man who never before had been in the hands of the -seductress; an unaccustomed thrill ran through him, causing him to catch -his breath. - -“I promise,” said he huskily, “to stay here as long as it is your good -pleasure.” - -“Then you do care to see me?” - -“You ought to know,” said the infatuated one. - -“What signs have you given me?” - -“Signs that every woman must read.” - -She laughed. “Every man to his method. I like yours. It’s neither -Cinquecento nor Louis XV. nor Directoire. The nearest to it is Jane -Austen. But it’s really Quixtine.” - -Now nothing can flatter a man more than to be assured that he has an -original method of love-making. Quixtus glowed with conscious -idiosyncrasy. He also felt most humanly drawn towards the flatterer. - -“You may count on my returning to you at the earliest possible moment,” -said he. “May I be commonplace enough to remark that I shall count the -hours?” - -“Everything beautiful on the earth,” she replied with a sweet -sentimentalism, “is but the apotheosis of the commonplace.” - -The shrieking siren of a passing motor-car drowned this last remark. He -begged her to repeat it and bowed his ear to her lips. Her breath caught -his cheek and made his pulses throb. - -“I have a plan,” she said, as they entered the hotel. “Why shouldn’t we -have a little dinner to ourselves? Your train doesn’t go till 9.35. I’m -learned in trains, you see. And I’m also learned in Paris restaurants.” - -“Nothing could be more delightful,” said Quixtus. - - * * * * * - -It was only when he found himself alone in his room and reflected on the -“reasons” for his journey to Marseilles that the crazy part of his brain -summed up his amatory situation. He laughed sedately. He held the -woman’s heart in his hands. At any hour he could dash it on the pavement -of Paris, whereon so many hearts of women had been broken. At any hour -could he work this great wickedness. But not to-night. To-night he would -take the heart in a firmer grip. He would dally with the delicious -malignity. Besides, his fastidiousness forbade an orgy of pleasure. One -wickedness at a time. Was he not bound even now for Marseilles, on a -merciless errand? This deed of darkness must be accomplished swiftly. -The other could wait. As a crown to his contentment came the realisation -that these, his supreme projects of devildom, lay hidden in his own -heart, secret from Huckaby and his fellow minions. They were futile -knaves, all of them. Well, perhaps not Huckaby. Huckaby had more than -once expressed the desire to reform. . . . - -By the way, what should be done with Huckaby during his absence in -Marseilles? He was useless in Paris. Why not send him back to London? - -He summoned Huckaby to his room, and, whilst packing, laid the question -before him. - -“For God’s sake don’t,” said Huckaby, almost in terror. - -“Why shouldn’t I?” - -“I can’t go back,” said he, tugging at his beard, no longer straggly, -but neatly cut to a point. “I can’t go back to it all—to the squalor -and drunkenness—it’s no use mincing words with you—I can’t do it. -You’ve set me on the clean road, and you’ve got to see that I keep -there. You’ve given me chances in the past and I abused them. You have -the power to give me another—and I won’t abuse it. I swear I won’t. To -kick me back again would be hellish wickedness.” - -“You’re quite right,” replied Quixtus gravely, balancing in his hand an -ill-folded pair of trousers which he was about to put into his -suit-case. “I appreciate your position perfectly. But, as I have implied -to you before, in a similar conversation, hellish wickedness is what -I—what I, in fact, am devoting my life to accomplish.” - -He packed the trousers and walked up and down the room, pondering -darkly. It was a tempting piece of villainy to kick Huckaby back into -the gutter. In a flash it could be done. But, as in all his attempted -acts of vileness, the co-ordination between brain and will failed at the -critical moment. A new aspect of the case flashed upon his disordered -mind, showing an even more diabolical way of achieving Huckaby’s ruin -than throwing him back into the gutter. By a curious transmogrification, -it was he, Quixtus, who now blazed luridly as the Master of Mischief, -and Huckaby as the shrinking innocent. The enforced association of the -shrinking innocent with the Master of Mischief could have no other -result than the constant sapping of the victim’s volition and the -gradual but certain degradation of his soul. To accomplish this was a -refinement of devilry far beyond the imagination of his favourite fiend -Macathiel. He decided promptly and halted in front of his former -myrmidon. It was once more necessary for him, however, like the villain -in the old melodrama, to dissemble. He smiled and laid his hand on -Huckaby’s shoulder. - -“All right,” said he, in the old, kind voice that in the past had so -often stabbed Huckaby’s conscience. “I’ll give you the chance. Just -stick loyally to me. Stay with the ladies in Paris, and when I come back -we can talk about things.” - -Huckaby gripped his hand. - -“Thank you, Quixtus. I wish I could tell you—I’ve known all along—” he -stammered in a hoarse voice—“Oh, I’ve played the devil with -everything—and I don’t know which is the damneder fool of us two.” - -“I am quite certain,” said Quixtus with a conscious smile, which he -assumed was Mephistophelean. “I am quite certain, my dear Huckaby, that -you are.” - -In spite of the exultation that he felt (or deluded himself into -feeling) at the triple wickedness wherewith he purposed to burden his -soul, Quixtus dined with Mrs. Fontaine in a subdued frame of mind. It -was not the fault of the dinner, for it was carefully selected by Mrs. -Fontaine, who smiled pityingly at Quixtus’s gastronomic ignorance; nor -was it that of the place, a cosy little restaurant in the Passage -Jouffroy; nor that of the lady, who appeared bent on pleasing. Deep down -in his soul were stirrings of pity which his clouded brain could not -interpret. Their effect, however, was a mild melancholy. Mrs. Fontaine’s -trained senses quickly noticed it, and she tuned her talk in key. She -prided herself on being a sympathetic woman. By this time she had -learned to discount his pessimistic utterances which she knew proceeded -from the same psychological source as the lunatic desire to break a -woman’s heart which had been the inspiration of the plot. She discerned -the essential gentleness of the man, his tender impulses, his integral -innocence, and established him in her own eyes as a pathetic spectacle. -As to the heart-breaking, she felt secure. It was the only element of -humour in the ghastly game, which day by day had grown more repulsive. - -It was in this chastened mood that she met Huckaby, on their return to -the Continental. Quixtus went up to his room by the lift, and left them -standing in the lounge. - -“I can’t do it,” she said hurriedly. “Billiter and the whole lot of you -can go to the devil. I’m out of it. With a man who can take care of -himself, yes. I’ve no compunction. It’s a fair fight. But this is too -low down. It’s like robbing a blind beggar. It revolts me. -Understand—this is the end of it.” - -“Will you believe me,” said Huckaby, “when I say that it’s more than I -can swallow either? I’m honest. I’m out of it too. Billiter can go to -the devil.” - -She looked at him, as she had done before that day; long and -searchingly, and her hard eyes gradually softened. - -“Yes, I believe you.” - -Huckaby bowed. “I thank you, Mrs. Fontaine. And as we are on this -painful subject, I should like to be frank with you. You know how this -thing started. I began it in the first place as a joke, a wild jest, to -humour him in his madness. The idea of Quixtus breaking a woman’s heart -is comic. But—God knows how—it developed into our—our association. -The important part now is this—if you think you have been fooling him -to the top of his bent, you’re mistaken. When it came to the point of -beginning his heart-breaking career, he shied at it. Told me the whole -thing was profoundly distasteful and I must never mention the matter -again.” - -“Well?” asked Mrs. Fontaine, “what does that mean?” - -“It means,” said Huckaby, “that you’ve succeeded in making him fond of -your society, for its own sake.” - -She drew a deep breath. “Thank goodness, this nightmare of a farce is -over.” - -“Now, I suppose you’ll go back to London,” said Huckaby. - -She looked away from him, unseeing, down the long lounge, and her gloved -hands unconsciously gripped each other hard; her bosom heaved. In the -woman’s dark soul strange things were happening, a curious, desperate -hope was dawning. She remained like this for a few moments while -Huckaby, unconscious of tensity, selected and lit a cigarette. - -“No, I shan’t go to London,” she said at last, without turning her head. -“I’ll stay in Paris. I owe myself a holiday.” - -Ten minutes afterwards Quixtus had gone. They watched the wheels of the -taxi that was carrying him to the Lyons station disappear beneath the -great archway, and, with something like a sigh, they returned slowly to -the lounge. Lena Fontaine threw herself on a seat, her hands by her -side, in an attitude of weariness. - -“Oh God, I’m tired,” she whispered. - -Huckaby suggested bed. She shrugged her shoulders. It was not her body -that was tired, she explained, but the ridiculous something that people -called a soul. That was dead beat. She looked up at him as he stood -before her wondering to hear her talk so frankly. - -“What was it that played the devil with you? A woman?” - -“Drink,” replied Huckaby laconically. - -“I hadn’t even that excuse,” said Lena Fontaine. She laughed -mirthlessly. “Don’t you wish you were good?” - -He sat down by her side. - -“Why shouldn’t we try to be?” - -“Because the world isn’t a Sunday School, my dear friend.” - -Huckaby ventured to touch her hand with the tip of his finger. - -“Let us try,” said he. - -She smiled—this time only in half derision. - -“Let us,” she said. - -A great silence fell upon them, and they sat there side by side for a -long, long time, pretending to watch, like many other couples and groups -in the lounge, the shifting life of the great hotel, but really far away -from it all, feeling drawn together in their new-found shame like two -dreary souls who had escaped from Purgatory and were wandering through -darkness they knew not whither. - - - - - CHAPTER XVI - - -The great train thundered on straight down through the heart of France. -Almost the length of it separated Quixtus and Clementina. They had seen -each other only for a few moments amid the bustle of the hurrying -platform—just long enough for her quick vision to perceive, in the -uncertain blue light of the arc-lamps, a haunted look in his eyes that -was absent when she had first met him that afternoon. He had spoken a -few courteous phrases; he had inquired whether Tommy and Etta, who clung -to her to the last, were to be fellow travellers, whereon Clementina had -very definitely informed him that Etta was staying with friends in -Paris, while Tommy had arranged to visit a painter chum at Barbizon; he -had expressed the hope that when they arrived at Marseilles she would -command his services, and, after a bareheaded leave-taking of the two -ladies, which caused Etta afterwards to remark that it was only her -short skirt that had prevented her from making her court curtsey, he had -gone in search of his own compartment. - -Etta had flung her arms round Clementina’s neck. - -“Oh, Clementina darling, do come back soon! The Jacksons are kind, but, -oh, so stuffy! And Tommy is going to Barbizon, and I shan’t see him, and -if you don’t come back soon, he’ll have forgotten all about me.” - -Tommy had given her a great hug and kissed her. - -“Good-bye, dear. God bless you. Come back soon. We can’t do without -you.” - -And Clementina, pausing on the first step of the railway carriage, had -turned and raised her hand—the unfilled finger-ends of her cotton -gloves projecting comically—and cried: - -“Good-bye, you dear, selfish, detestable, beloved children!” - -And neither of the twain had known what in the world she meant. - -The great train thundered on through the country which Clementina had -traversed a month or so before with Tommy—Dijon, Macon, Lyons. . . . -Things had changed since then. Then a sweet rejuvenescence had crept -through her veins; then she had amused herself with the idea of being a -lady. The towns, whose names shouted through the awful stillness of the -stations otherwise only broken by the eerie clank of the wheel-testers’ -hammers were now but abstract stages on her journey, then had a magical -significance. . . . That must be Vienne through which they were -dashing. . . . If the bitter-sweet, the tragi-comedy, the cardiac -surgery of Vienne had not brought a smile to Clementina’s lips in the -dark solitude of her compartment, would she have been the sturdy, -humorous Clementina who had cried her farewell to the children? Things -had changed since then, she assured herself. She was just Clementina -again, fighting her battles alone, impatient, contemptuous, unfeeling; -no longer a lady, merely a female dauber, ready once more to paint -elderly magnates’ trousers at so much per leg. . . . She sighed and -laughed. Those had been pleasant times. . . . That she should be going -over the same ground now with Quixtus seemed a freakish trick of -destiny. - -At nine o’clock in the morning the train entered Marseilles Station. -Quixtus came speedily up to Clementina as she stepped on to the -platform, and offered his services. He trusted she had slept well and -had a comfortable journey. - -“Didn’t sleep a wink,” said Clementina. “Did you?” - -Quixtus admitted broken slumbers. The strangeness of the adventure had -kept him awake. - -“You’re looking ill this morning,” said Clementina, glancing at him -sharply. “What’s the matter with you?” - -He seemed careworn, feverish, and an unnatural glitter had replaced the -haunted look in his eyes. Clementina did not know how the approaching -consummation of a deed of real wickedness terrified the mild and -gentle-natured man. Hitherto his evil doings had been fantastic, -repaired almost at once as if mechanically by the underlying instinct of -generosity; his visions of sin had been fantastic, too, harmless, -unpractical; but this sin of vengeance which he had intellectually -conceived and fostered loomed great and terrible. So does the braggart -who has sworn to eat up a lion alive, totter at the knees when he hears -the lion’s roar. His night had been that of a soul on fire. - -“Something’s wrong. What is it?” asked Clementina. - -He answered vaguely. This summons had upset him. It had set him -thinking, a tiring mental process. He remembered, said he, how -Hammersley, when they were boys together, had called him to see a dying -butterfly on a rose-bush. The yellow wings were still flapping -languidly; then slower and slower; then strength gave out and they -quivered in the last effort; and then the hold on the rose-bush relaxed -and the butterfly fell to the earth—dead. - -“What does Monsieur wish done with the baggage?” asked the attendant -porter, who had listened uncomprehendingly to the long and tragical -tale. - -Quixtus passed his hand across his forehead and looked at the porter as -if awakening out of a dream. - -“What you like,” said he. - -So forlorn and hag-ridden did he appear, that a wave of pity swept -through Clementina. The deadly phrase of the judge in the Marrable trial -occurred to her: “Such men as you ought not to be allowed to go about -loose.” The mothering instinct more than her natural forcefulness, made -her take charge of the situation. - -“The omnibus of the Hôtel du Louvre,” she said to the man, and taking -Quixtus by the arm, she led him like a child out of the station. - -“Get in,” she said with rough kindliness, pushing him towards the step -of the omnibus. But he moved aside for her to precede him. Clementina -said “Rubbish!” and entered the vehicle. She was no longer playing at -being a lady. Quixtus followed her, and the omnibus clattered down the -steep streets and jolted and swayed through the traffic and between the -myriad tramcars that deface and deafen the city. The morning sun shone -fiercely. The pavements baked. The sun-drenched buildings burned hot to -the eye and the very awnings in the front of shops and over stalls in -the markets suggested heat rather than coolness. Far away at the end of -the Cannebière, the strip of sea visible glittered like a steel blade. - -“Whew!” gasped Clementina, “what heat!” - -“I feel it rather chilly,” said Quixtus. - -She stared at him, wiping a damp forehead. What was the matter with the -man? - -When they entered the fairly cool vestibule of the hotel, the manager -met them and assigned the rooms. They asked for Hammersley. Alas, said -the manager, he was very ill. The doctor was with him even now. An -elderly man in thin, sunstained tweeds, who had been sitting in a corner -playing with a child of five or six in charge of a Chinese nurse, came -forward and greeted them. - -“Are you the friends Mr. Hammersley telegraphed for? Miss Wing and Dr. -Quixtus? My name is Poynter. I was a fellow passenger of Mr. -Hammersley’s on the ‘Moronia.’ He was a sick man when he started; and -got worse on the voyage. Impossible to land at Brindisi. Arrived here, -he could go no further either by boat or train. He was quite helpless, -so I stayed on till his friends could come. It was I who wrote out and -sent the telegrams.” - -“That was very good of you,” said Clementina. - -Quixtus bowed vaguely, but spoke not a word. His lips were white. He -held the front edges of his jacket crushed in a nervous grip. Poynter’s -voice sounded far away. He barely grasped the meaning of his words. A -dynamo throbbed in his head instead of a brain. - -“Is he dying?” asked Clementina. - -Mr. Poynter made an expressive gesture. “I’m afraid so. He collapsed -during the night and they’ve been giving him oxygen this morning. -Yesterday he was desperately anxious to see you both.” - -“Is it possible or judicious to go to him now?” asked Clementina. - -“You may inquire. If you will allow me, I’ll show you the way to his -room.” - -He led the way to the lift. They entered. For Quixtus his companions had -ceased to exist. He was conscious only of going to the dying man, and -the dynamo throbbed, throbbed. During the ascent Clementina said -abruptly to Poynter: - -“How long is it since you’ve been home?” - -“Twenty-five years,” he replied with a grim smile. “And it has been the -dream of my life for ten.” - -“And you’ve stopped off in this Hades of a place for the sake of a sick -stranger? You must be a good sort.” - -“You would have done the same,” said Poynter. - -“Not I.” - -He smiled again and looked at her with his calm, certain eyes. “A man -does not live in the far Orient for nothing. I know you would. This -way,” he said, as the lift-door opened. He led them down a corridor, -Quixtus following, a step or two behind, like a man in a trance. - -The awful moment was at hand, the moment which, in the tea-shop and in -the hotel, had seemed far, far distant, hidden in the mists of some -unreal devil-land; which at dinner had begun to loom through the mists; -which all night long had seemed to grow nearer and nearer with every -rhythmic thud of the thundering train, until, at times, it touched him -like some material horror. The moment was at hand. At last he was about -to fulfil his destiny of evil. His enemy lay dying, the spirit faintly -flapping its wings like the butterfly. In a moment they would enter a -room. He would behold the dying man. He would curse him and send a -blackened, anguished soul into eternity. - -The dynamo in his brain and the beating of his heart made him fancy that -they were walking to the sound of muffled drums. Nearer, nearer. This -was real, actual. He was a devil walking to the sound of muffled drums. - -Poynter and Clementina stopped before a door. Quixtus stood still -shaking all over, like a horse in front of a nameless terror. - -“This is his room,” said Poynter, grasping the handle. - -Quixtus gave a queer cry and suddenly threw himself forward and clutched -Poynter’s arm convulsively, his features distorted with terror. - -“Wait—wait! I can’t do it! I can’t do it! It’s monstrous!” - -He leaned up against the wall and closed his eyes. - -“Overwrought nerves,” whispered Poynter. - -There happened to be a bench near by, placed for the convenience of the -chambermaid of the floor. Clementina made him sit down. - -“I don’t think you’re quite up to seeing him just now,” she said. - -He shook his head. “No. Not just now. I feel faint. It’s death. I’m not -used to death. You go in. Give him my love. I’ll see him later. But give -him my love.” - -“Very well,” said Clementina. - -She rapped gently at the door. It was opened and a sister of charity in -a great white coif appeared on the threshold. - -She looked at the visitors sadly. - -“_C’est fini_,” she whispered. - -Quixtus staggered to his feet. - -“Dead?” - -“_Oui, Monsieur._” - -The sweat broke out in great drops on his forehead. - -“Dead!” he repeated. - -“_Vous pouvez entrer si vous voulez_,” said the sister. - -Then Quixtus reeled as if some one had dealt him a crushing blow. -Poynter saved him from falling and guided him to the seat. For a long, -long second all was darkness. The dynamo stopped suddenly. Then, as had -happened once before, a little thread seemed to snap in his brain. He -opened his eyes feeling sick and giddy. The sister quickly disappeared -into the room, and returned with some brandy. The others stood anxiously -by. Presently the spirits took effect and enabled him to co-ordinate his -faculties. With an effort of will he rose and straightened himself. - -“I am better now. Let us go in.” - -“Wiser not,” said Clementina, a thousand miles from suspecting the -psychological phenomenon that had occurred. - -Quixtus slightly raised a protesting hand. - -“I assure you there is no reason why I should not go in,” he said in a -shaky voice. - -“All right,” said Clementina. “But you can’t go tumbling all over the -place.” - -Once more she took his arm in her strong grip, and, leaving Poynter -outside, they entered the death-chamber together. The windows were flung -wide, but the outside shutters were closed, darkening the room and -cooling it from the baking sun. A man in a frock coat and narrow black -tie—the doctor—was aiding his assistant in the repacking of the oxygen -apparatus. On the bed, gaunt, hollow-cheeked, and pinched, lay all that -was left of Hammersley. Only his blonde hair and beard, with scarcely a -touch of grey, remained of that which was familiar. The laughing eyes -which had charmed men and women were hidden for ever beneath the lids. -Clementina’s hand crept half-mechanically downwards and clasped that of -Quixtus, which returned the pressure. So hand in hand they stood, in -silence, by the death-bed. - -At last Clementina whispered: - -“Whatever may have been the misunderstanding between you, all is over -now. May his sins be forgiven him.” - -“Amen,” said Quixtus. - -Tears rolled down Clementina’s cheeks and fell on her bodice. The dead -man had belonged to her youth—the dreary youth that had taken itself -for grim, grey eld. He had brought into it a little laughter, a little -buoyancy, much strength, much comfort; all, so simply, so kindly. At -first, in her fierce mood of revolt, she had rebuffed him and scorned -his friendship. But he was one of the gifted ones who could divine a -woman’s needs and minister to them; so he smiled at her rejection of his -offerings, knowing that she craved them, and presented them again and -again until at last, worn out with longing, she clutched at them -frantically and hugged them to her bosom. A generous gentleman, a loyal -friend, a very help in time of trouble, he lay there dead before her in -the prime of his manhood. She let the tears fall unchecked, until they -blinded her. - -A dry, queer voice broke a long silence, whispering in her ear: - -“I told you to give him my love, didn’t I?” - -She nodded and squeezed Quixtus’s hand. - -The doctor stood by waiting till their scrutiny of the dead should be -over. Clementina was the first to turn to him and to ask for information -as to the death. In a few words the doctor told her. When she entered -the room he had been dead five minutes. - -“Who, Madame, you or this gentleman, is responsible for what remains to -be done?” - -“I am. Don’t you think so, Ephraim?” - -Quixtus bowed his head. - -“I sent him my love,” he murmured. - -“And now,” said the Sister of Charity, “we must make the _toilette du -mort_. Will you have the kindness to retire?” - -She smiled sadly and opened the door. - -“There is a packet in the drawer for this lady and gentleman,” said -Poynter, who had stood waiting for them in the corridor. - -“_Ah! bon_,” said the Sister. She crossed the room and returned with the -packet, which she handed to Clementina. It was sealed and addressed to -them jointly. “To Ephraim Quixtus and Clementina Wing. To be opened -after my death.” Clementina stuffed it in the pocket of her skirt. - -“We’ll open it together by-and-by. Now we’d better go to our rooms and -tidy up and have some food. Only a fool goes through such a day as is -before us on an empty stomach. What’s your number? I’ll tell them to -send you up some coffee and rolls.” - -He thanked her dreamily. She arranged a meeting at noon in order to go -through the packet. They walked along the corridor, Poynter accompanying -them. He proposed, it being convenient to them, to take the night train -to Paris and home. In the meanwhile his services were at their disposal. - -“I wish I could pack you off to Piccadilly by Hertzian wave, right -away,” said Clementina. - -“It’s Devonshire I’m longing for,” said he. - -They arrived at the lift door. - -“You’ll love it all the better for having played the Angel in Hades,” -said Clementina with moist eyes. “Good-bye for the present.” - -She extended her hand. He took it, held it in a hesitating way. An -expression of puzzledom came over his tanned, lined features. - -“Are you going to your room now?” - -“Yes,” said Clementina. - -“Pardon my presumption,” said he, “but—but aren’t you going to see the -child?” - -“Child?” cried Clementina. “What child?” - -“Why—Mr. Hammersley’s—didn’t you know? She’s here——” - -“Here?” - -“When you came into the vestibule, didn’t you notice a little girl I was -playing with—and a Chinese nurse——” - -“Lord have mercy upon us!” exclaimed Clementina. “Do you hear that, -Ephraim?” - -“Yes, I hear,” said Quixtus tonelessly. The conflict within him between -Mithra and Ahriman had left him weak and non-recipient of new -impressions. “Hammersley has a little daughter. I wasn’t aware of it. I -wonder how he got her. She must have a mother somewhere.” - -“The mother’s dead,” said Poynter. “From what I could gather from -Hammersley, the child has no kith or kin in the world. That was why he -was so desperately anxious for you to come.” - -Clementina peered at him with screwed-up monkey face, as if he were -sitting for his portrait. - -“It’s the most amazing thing I’ve ever heard in my life!” She clapped -her hand to her pocket. “And this sealed envelope? Do you know anything -about it?” - -“I do,” said Poynter. “It contains a letter and a will. I wrote them -both at his dictation ten days ago. The will is a properly attested -document appointing Dr. Quixtus and yourself his executors and joint -trustees of the little girl. A dear little girl,” he added, with a touch -of wistfulness. “You’ll love her.” - -“God grant it!” cried Clementina fervently. “But what an old maid like -me and an old bachelor like him are going to do with a child between us, -the Lord Almighty alone knows.” - -Yet, as she spoke, the picture of the child—in spite of her -preoccupation on entering the hotel, her sharp vision had noted the -fairy fragility of the English scrap contrasting with the picturesque -materialism of the fat Chinese nurse—the picture of the child enthroned -on cushions (a feminine setting!) in the studio in Romney Place, flashed -with acute distinctness before her mind, and some foolish thing within -her leapt and stabbed her with a delicious pain. - -Quixtus brushed his thinning hair from his forehead. - -“I understand,” said he faintly. “I understand that I am a trustee for -Hammersley’s daughter. I wasn’t expecting it. I hope you’ll not think it -discourteous if I leave you? I’m not quite myself to-day. I’ll go and -rest.” - -He entered the lift which had been standing open for some time. There is -not a feverish hurry in Marseilles hotels between steamers in June. -Clementina with a gesture checked the lift-boy. The man must be looked -after at once. She turned to Poynter. - -“Like a dear good soul,” she said, in her frank way, “go down and -prepare the child for such a rough-and-tumble stepmother as me. I’ll be -with you in a few minutes. What’s your number, Ephraim?” He showed her -the ticket. “Two hundred and seventy?” - -“_Au troisième, Madame._” - -The lift gate clicked. They mounted a couple of floors. The chambermaid -of the _étage_ showed them into number two hundred and seventy. Then -Clementina took command. In less than two minutes windows were opened -and shutters adjusted, the waiter was despatched for coffee, the valet -was unpacking and arranging Quixtus’s personal belongings, and the -chambermaid spreading the bed invitingly open. When Clementina was a -lady, she behaved in the most self-effacing and early Victorian ladylike -way in the world. But when she was Clementina and wanted to do things, -she would have ordered the devil about like a common lackey, and boxed -the ears of any archangel who ventured to interfere with her. - -Quixtus, unprepared for this whirlwind ministration on the part of -Clementina, whom he had hitherto regarded rather as an antagonistic -principle than as a sympathetic woman, sat bolt upright on the edge of -the sofa and looked on with an air of mystification. Yet, feeling weak -and broken, he was content to let her tend him. - -“Take off your clothes and go to bed,” said Clementina, standing, hands -on hips, in front of him. “For two pins I’d undress you myself and put -you to sleep like a baby.” - -A wan smile flickered over his features. - -“I’m very grateful to you for your kindness. Perhaps a little rest will -bring mental adjustment. That’s what I think I need—mental adjustment.” - -He repeated the words several times, and sat staring in front of him. - -On the threshold Clementina turned and crossed the room again. - -“Ephraim,” she said, “I think if you and I had been better friends all -these years, there wouldn’t have been so much of this adjusting -necessary. It has been my fault. I’m sorry. But now that we have a child -to bring up, I’ll look after you. You poor man,” she added, touching his -arm very kindly and feeling ridiculously sentimental. “You must be the -loneliest thing that ever happened.” She caught up his suit of pyjamas -and threw them by his side on the sofa. “Now for God’s sake stick on -these things and go to bed.” - -Downstairs, in the vestibule, she found Poynter with the little girl on -his knees. The Chinese nurse sat like a good-tempered idol a few feet -away. - -“This is your new auntie,” said Poynter, as Clementina approached. - -The child slipped from his knees and looked up at her with timorous -earnestness. She was fair, with the transparent pallor of most children -born and bred in the East, a creature of delicate fragility and grace. -Clementina saw that she had her father’s frank hazel eyes. The child -held out her hand. - -“Good morning, auntie,” she said in a curiously sweet contralto. - -Clementina took the seat vacated by Poynter, and drew the child towards -her. - -“Won’t you give me a kiss?” - -“Of course.” - -She put up her little lips. The appeal to the woman was irresistible. -She caught the child to her and clasped her to her bosom, and kissed her -and said foolish things. When her embrace relaxed as abruptly as it had -begun, the child said: - -“I like that. Do that again.” - -“Bless you, my darling, I could do it all day long,” cried Clementina. - -She held the child with one arm, the little face pillowed on her bosom, -and with her free hand groped in her pocket for her handkerchief. This -found, she blew her nose loudly and glanced at Poynter who was surveying -the pair with his grave, wise smile. - -“I’m sure you don’t mind if I make a fool of myself,” she said. “And I’m -sure I don’t.” - - - - - CHAPTER XVII - - -For as much of the day as she could spare from the miserable formalities -and arrangements attendant on the death of a human being, Clementina -made a fool of herself over the child. It was a feminine scrap hungering -for love, kitten-like in its demand for caresses. Contentedly nestling -in Clementina’s arms, she related, piecemeal, her tiny history. Her name -was Sheila, and she loved her father who was very ill. So ill that she -had only been able to see him once since they had come off the ship. -That was yesterday, and she had been frightened, for he said that he was -going to mummy. Now mummy had gone to heaven, and when people go to -heaven you never see them again. With a pang Clementina asked her if she -remembered when her mummy went to heaven. Oh yes. It was ever so long -ago—when she was quite little. Daddy cried, cried, cried. She, too, -would cry if daddy were to go to heaven. . . . Clementina thought it -best to wait and accustom the child both to the idea of the eternal -parting and to herself, before breaking the disastrous news. But her -heart was wrung. Sometimes Sheila revolted and clamoured to see him; but -on the whole she showed herself to be reasonable and docile. She hugged -to her side a shapeless and very dirty white plush cat, her inseparable -companion. . . . They had lived in a big house in Shanghai, with lots of -servants; but her father had sold it and sold all the furniture, and -they were going to live in England for ever and ever. England was a -place all full of green trees and grass and cows and flowers. Did -Clementina know England? - -“Suppose daddy goes to heaven, would you like to come and live with me?” -asked Clementina. - -Sheila replied seriously that she would sooner live with her than with -Na. Na was a new Na. Her old Na was in Shanghai. Her husband wouldn’t -let her come to England. Only Clementina would have to cuddle her to -sleep every night, like her daddy. Na didn’t cuddle her to sleep. She -thought she didn’t know how. Daddy, she repeated like a young parrot, -had said that was the worst of getting a nurse who had never had -children of her own. They were so darned helpless. Clementina winced; -but she put her arm round the child again. - -“You’re not afraid of my not being able to cuddle you, Sheila?” - -“Oh, you—you cuddle lovely,” murmured Sheila. - -Who was her mother? Clementina had no notion. Hammersley had never -announced the fact of his marriage. The last time she had seen him was -six years ago. The child gave herself out to be five and a half. -Hammersley must have married just before leaving England. He had -breathed not a word to anybody. But so had Will Hammersley acted all his -life. He was one who gave and never sought; a man who received the -confidence of all who knew him, and kept the secrets both of joy and -sorrow of his own life hidden behind his smiling eyes. - -One of the secrets—the dainty secret that lay in her arms—was out now; -a fact in flesh and blood. And for the guidance of this sensitive wisp -of humanity to womanhood she, Clementina, and Ephraim Quixtus were -jointly responsible. It was a Puckish destiny that had brought their -lives to this point of convergence. With the dead man lying cold and -stark upstairs, the humour of it appeared too grim for smiles. She -wished that the quiet, capable man of wise understanding and unselfish -heart, who had missed the express train at Brindisi that would have sped -him swiftly to his longed-for Devonshire, and had come on to Marseilles -with the sick stranger, had been appointed her coadjutor. Poynter could -have helped her mightily with his kindly wisdom and his knowledge of the -hearts and the ways of men, as he was helping her that day in the -performance of the dreary duties to the dead. But Quixtus! He was as -much of a child as the one confided to his care. Anxious, however, that -Sheila should be prepossessed in his favour, she drew a flattering -picture of the new uncle that would shortly come into her life. - -“Is he your husband?” asked Sheila. - -“Good Lord, no!” cried Clementina, aghast at the grotesque suggestion. -“Whatever put that in your head, child?” - -It appeared that Dora Smith, one of her little friends in Shanghai, had -an uncle and aunt who were married. She thought all uncles and aunts -were married. - -“Do you think he’ll like my frock?” asked Sheila. - -The vanity of the feminine thing! Clementina laughed for the first time -that dismal day. - -“Do you think he’ll like mine?” - -Sheila looked critically at the soiled, ill-fitting blouse, and the -rusty old brown skirt, and reddened. She paused for a moment. - -“I’m sure he’ll say that he does,” she replied sedately. - -Clementina caught a whimsical gleam in Poynter’s eye. - -“Oriental diplomacy!” she remarked. - -He shook his head. “You’re wrong. Go deeper.” - -Clementina flushed and stroked the child’s fair hair. - -“I’m afraid I’ve got to learn a lot of things.” - -“In the most exquisite school in the world,” said Poynter. - -Quixtus came downstairs about four o’clock, pale and shaky, and found -Clementina in the dark and stuffy writing-room of the hotel. She had -petted the child to her afternoon sleep, about half an hour before, and -had left her in the joint care of the Chinese nurse and the dirty white -plush cat tightly clasped to her breast. She had just finished a letter -to Tommy. Either through the fault of the deeply encrusted hotel pen, or -by force of painting habit, a smear of violet ink ran a comet’s course -across her cheek. She had written to Tommy: - -“If you don’t want to know what has happened, you ought to. I find my -poor friend dead on my arrival. Elysian fields for him, which I’m sure -are not as beautiful as the English lanes his soul longed for. To my -amazement he has left a fairy child to the joint guardianship of your -uncle and myself. Your uncle’s a sick man, and needs looking after. What -I’m going to do with all you helpless chickens, when I ought to be -painting trousers, God alone knows. I once was an artist. Now I’m a hen. -Yours, Clementina.” - -She had also written to Etta in similar strain, and at the same -inordinate length, and was addressing the envelope when Quixtus entered -the room. - -She wheeled round. - -“Better?” - -“Thank you,” said he. “Though I’m ashamed of myself for sleeping all -this time.” - -“Jolly good thing you did go to sleep,” replied Clementina. “It has -probably saved you from a breakdown. You were on the verge of one.” - -“Can I help you with any of the unhappy arrangements that have to be -made in these circumstances?” - -“Made ’em,” said Clementina. “Sit down.” - -Quixtus obeyed, meekly. He wore an air of great lassitude, like a man -who has just risen from a bed of sickness. He passed his hands over his -eyes: - -“There was a sealed packet, if I remember rightly, and a child. I think -we might see now what the packet contains.” - -“Are you fit to read it?” she asked. He smiled vaguely, for her tone -softened the abruptness of the question. - -“I am anxious to do so,” he replied. - -Clementina opened the envelope and drew out the two documents, the -letter and the will, and read them aloud. Neither added greatly to the -information given by Poynter. Hammersley charged them as his two oldest, -most loved and trusted friends, to regard themselves as the parents and -guardians of his orphaned child, to whom he bequeathed a small but -comfortable fortune, to be administered by them jointly in trust, until -she should marry or reach the age of twenty-five years. No mention being -made of the dead wife, her identity still remained a mystery. Like -Clementina, Quixtus had not heard of his marriage, could think of no -woman whom, six years ago, while he was in England, he could have -married. - -But six years ago. . .! Quixtus buried his face in his hands and -shuddered. Had the man been false to every one—even to the wife of the -friend he had betrayed? - -Suddenly he rose with a great cry and a passionate gesture of both arms. - -“I am lost! I am lost! I am floundering in quicksands. The meaning of -the earth has gone from me. I’m in a land of grotesques—shapes that mop -and mow at me and have no reality. The things they do the human brain -can’t conceive. They have been driving me mad, mad!” he cried, beating -his head with his knuckles, “and yet I am sane now. Did you ever know -what it was to be so sane that your soul was tortured with sanity? Oh, -my God!” - -He walked about the room quivering from the outburst. Clementina -regarded him with amazed interest. This was a new, undreamed of Quixtus, -a human creature that had passed through torment. - -“Tell me what is on your mind,” she said quietly. “It might ease it.” - -“No,” said he, halting before her. “Not to my dying day. There are -things one must keep within oneself till they eat away one’s vitals. I -wish I had never come here.” - -“You came here on an errand of mercy, and as far as you were concerned -you performed it.” - -“I came here with hate in my heart, I tell you. I came here on an errand -of evil. And outside the door of his room my purpose failed me—and I -sent him my love. And then I went in and saw him—dead.” - -“And you forgave him,” said Clementina. - -“No; I prayed that God would.” - -He turned away. Clementina rose from her chair by the writing-table and -followed him. - -“What was between you and Will Hammersley?” - -For an instant he had an impulse to tell her, she looked so strong, so -honest. But he checked it. Confidence was impossible. The shame of the -dead must be buried with the dead. He pointed to the documents lying on -the table. - -“He thought I never knew. I never knew,” said he. - -“I give it up,” said Clementina. - -A memory smote him. He bent his brows upon her. His eyes were sad and -clear. - -“You have no inkling of the matter?” - -“None in the least. Good Lord!” she broke out impatiently, “if I had, do -you suppose I’d be cross-questioning you? I’d be trying to help you, as -I want to do.” - -He threw himself wearily into a chair and leant his head on his hand. - -“I’ve had queer experiences of late,” he said. “I’ve learned to trust -nobody. How can I tell that you’re sincere in saying you want to help -me?” - -Clementina puckered up her face. - -“What’s that? Here am I, who have been abusing you all your life, now -doing violence to my traditions and saying let us kiss and be -friends—just at the very moment when you want friends more than you -ever did in your born days—and you ask me if I’m sincere! Lord in -heaven! Did you ever know me to be even decently polite to creatures I -didn’t care about?” - -Clementina was indignant. The faint shadow of a smile passed across -Quixtus’s face. - -“You’ve not always been polite to me, Clementina. This change to -solicitude is surprising. _Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes._ Which -means——” - -“Do you suppose you’re the only person who knows tags out of the Latin -grammar?” she snapped. Then she laughed in her dry way. “Don’t let us -begin to quarrel. We’ve got a child, you and I. I hope you realise that. -If we were its real father and mother we might quarrel with impunity. As -we’re not, we can’t. What are we going to do?” - -Quixtus thought deeply for a long time. His sensitive nature shrank from -the duty imposed. If he accepted it he would be the dead man’s dupe to -the end of the chapter. - -“You have seen the little girl?” he inquired at last. - -“Yes. Been with her most of the day.” - -“Do you like her?” - -She regarded him with whimsical pity. - -“Oh yes, I like her,” she said. - -“Then why not keep her to yourself? I am not bound by Hammersley’s -wishes. All I have to do is to decline to act either as executor or -trustee.” - -Clementina’s heart leaped in the most unregenerate manner. To have -Sheila all to herself, without let or hindrance from her impossible -co-trustee! She was staggered by the sudden, swift temptation which -struck at the roots of her unfulfilled womanhood. For a while she -dallied with it deliciously. - -“If it’s agreeable to you, I’ll decline to act,” said Quixtus, after the -spell of silence. - -Clementina strangled the serpent in a flash and cast it from her. To -purchase happiness at the price of human infirmity? No. She would play -squarely with life. Feminine instinct told her that the care of the -child was needful for this weary man’s salvation. She attacked him with -more roughness than she intended—the eddy of her own struggle. - -“What right have you to shirk your responsibilities? That’s what you’ve -always done—and see where it has landed you. I’m not going to be a -party to it. It’s pure and simple cowardice, and I have no patience with -it.” - -“Perhaps I deserve your reproaches,” said Quixtus mildly. “But the -present circumstances are so painful——” - -“Painful!” she interrupted. “Lord above, man, what does it matter -whether they’re painful or not? Do you suppose I’ve gone through six and -thirty years without pain? I’ve had awful pain, hellish pain, as much -pain as a woman and an artist and a scarecrow can suffer. That’s new to -you, isn’t it? But you’ve never seen me making a hullabaloo about it. -We’ve got to bear pain in the world, and the more we grin, the better we -bear it, and—what is a precious sight more useful—the more we help -others to bear it. Who are you, Ephraim Quixtus, that you should be -exempt from pain?” - -She turned to the yellow packet of “Maryland” on the marble mantlepiece -and rolled a cigarette. Quixtus said nothing, but sat tugging at his -scrubby moustache. - -“That child,” she said—and she paused to lick the cigarette—“That -child of five is doomed to pain. Some of it all the love in the world -can’t prevent. It’s a law of life. But some it can. That’s another law -of life, thank God. By taking pain upon us, we can also save others -pain. That’s another law. I suppose we have to thank Jesus Christ for -that. And fate has put this tender thing into our hands to save it, if -possible, from the pain that both you and I have endured. To reject the -privilege is the act of a cowardly devil, not of a man.” - -As she stood there in her slatternly blouse and tousled hair, -brandishing the wetted cigarette between nicotine stained fingers, yet -enunciating as she had seldom condescended to do to a fellow creature -her ruggedly tender philosophy of life, she looked almost beautiful in -the eyes of the man who had awakened from a nightmare into the sober -greyness of an actual dawn. - -She lit the cigarette with fingers unwontedly trembling, and feverishly -drew in the first few puffs. - -“Well? What are you going to do?” - -Quixtus breathed hard, with parted lips, and stared at the future. It is -difficult, after a nightmare madness, to adjust the mind to the sane -outlook. But she had moved him to the depths—the depths that through -all his madness had remained untroubled. - -“You are right, Clementina,” he said at last, in a low voice. “I will -share with you this great responsibility.” - -She blew out a puff of smoke; “I don’t think it ought to turn our hair -white, anyhow,” she said, sitting on the arm of the sofa. “The child’s -past teething, so we shan’t have to sit up at nights over ‘Advice to -Mothers,’ and our common sense will tell us not to fill her up every day -with pâté de foie gras. When she’s ill we’ll send for a doctor, and when -we want to do business we’ll send for a lawyer. It strikes me, Ephraim, -that having another interest in life besides dead men’s jawbones, will -do you a thundering lot of good.” - -“Would you like something to do me good?” he asked, with a touch of -wistful banter. - -Clementina, as she afterwards confessed, felt herself to be on such a -sky-high plane of self-abnegation and altruism, that she thrust down, -figuratively speaking; angelic arms towards him. Really, the mothering -instinct again clamoured. She threw her half-smoked cigarette away and -came and, standing over him; clutched his shoulder. - -“My good Ephraim,” she said, “I would give anything to see you a happy -human being.” - -Then, in her abrupt fashion, she sent him out to take the air. That also -would do him good. She thrust his hat and stick in his hand. - -“What are you going to do, Clementina?” he asked. - -“A thousand things. First I must go upstairs and see whether the child’s -awake. I hate trusting her with that heathen imbecile.” - -“Au revoir, then,” said Quixtus, moving away. - -“Come back in good time to make the child’s acquaintance,” she shouted -after him. - -He paused on the threshold and looked at her irresolutely. He had a -nervous dread of meeting the child. - -He walked through the sun-filled streets, down the Cannebière, absently -watched the baking quays, and then, returning to the main thoroughfare, -sat down beneath the awning of a café. An hour passed. It was time to go -back and see his ward. He shrank morbidly from the ordeal. With a great -effort he rose at last and walked to the hotel. - -Clementina, Poynter, and the child were in the vestibule, the two elders -seated in the wickerwork chairs; the little one squatting on the ground -at their feet and playing with the mongrel and somewhat supercilious dog -of the hotel. Quixtus halted in front of the group. The child lifted her -flower-like face to the new-comer. - -“Is this——” he began. - -“This is Sheila,” said Clementina. “Get up, dear, and say how d’ye do to -your new uncle.” - -She held out her hand with shy politeness—he looked so long and gaunt, -and towered over her tiny self. - -“How do you do, uncle—uncle——?” she turned to Clementina. - -“Ephraim,” she prompted. - -“Uncle Ephraim.” - -“No wonder the poor innocent doesn’t remember such a name,” said -Clementina. - -He bent and solemnly wagged the soft hand for some time; then, not -knowing what to do with it, he let it go. - -“Do you know Bimbo?” - -“No,” said Quixtus. - -“Bimbo—_patte_.” - -The mongrel lifted his paw. - -“You must shake hands with him and then you will know him,” she said -seriously. - -Quixtus, with a grave face, bent lower and shook hands with the dog. - -“And Pinkie.” - -She lifted the dirty white plush cat. In an embarrassed way he wagged a -stumpy fore-foot. - -Sheila turned to Clementina. “Now he knows everybody.” - -Clementina kissed her and rose from her seat; Poynter rising also. - -“You’ll be a good girl if I leave you with Uncle Ephraim for a while?” - -“My dear Clementina!” cried Quixtus aghast. “What do you mean?” - -A gleam of kind malice flickered in her eyes. - -“I find I must have some air, in my turn—and some absinthe which Mr. -Poynter has promised to give me. Au revoir! I shan’t be long, Sheila -dear.” - -She moved with Poynter towards the door. - -“But, Clementina——” - -“If she bites you’ve only to call that lump of Celestial idiocy over -there,” pointing to the fat Chinese nurse who sat smiling in her dark -corner. “You’re protected. And, by the way,” she added in a whisper, -“She doesn’t know her father’s dead yet. Leave it to me to break the -news.” - -She was gone. Quixtus sank; a perspiring embarrassment, into one of the -wicker chairs. A scurvy trick; he thought, of Clementina to leave him in -this appalling situation. Yet shame prevented flight. He sat there -bending his mild, china-blue eyes on Sheila, who had returned -unconcernedly to Bimbo; putting him through his tricks. He gave his paw -and sat up on end, and while doing so yawned in a bored fashion. During -this latter posture Sheila sat up on her little haunches and held her -hands in front of her and yawned in imitation. Then she set Pinkie on -end facing the dog. Lastly she looked up at her new uncle. - -“You do that too. Then we’ll all be doing it.” - -“God bless my soul,” said the startled man. “I—I can’t.” - -“Why not?” - -“I’m too old.” - -She seemed, for the moment, satisfied with the reason and resumed her -game with Bimbo. After the yawn he grinned with doggy fatuity, and his -red long tongue lolled from the corner of his mouth. Sheila stuck out -her little red tongue; in droll mimicry. - -“Don’t wag your tail, Bimbo. It isn’t fair, because I’ve got no tail. -Why haven’t I a tail, Uncle Eph—Eph—Uncle Ephim?” - -“Because you’re a little girl and not a dog.” - -At that moment the plush cat, insecurely balanced; toppled over. - -“God bless my soul,” cried the little parrot, “you’re too old, Pinkie.” - -“Sheila,” said Quixtus, realising in a frightened way his -responsibility. “Come here.” - -With perfect docility she rose, and laid a hand on his knee. Bimbo, -perceiving himself liberated from the boredom of mountebank duty, -twisted himself up and snarled comfortably at fleas in the middle of his -back. - -“You mustn’t say ‘God bless my soul,’ my dear.” - -“Why not? You said it.” - -There are instinctive answers in grown-ups, just as instinctive -questions in children. - -“Old people can say things that little girls mustn’t—just as old people -can sit up later than little girls.” - -She regarded him with frank seriousness. - -“I know. Daddy says ‘damn,’ but I mustn’t. I never say it. Pinkie said -it once, and I put her in a dark, dark hole for twenty million years. It -wasn’t _really_ twenty million years, you know—it was only ten -minutes—but Pinkie thought it was.” - -“She must have been very frightened,” said Quixtus, involuntarily—and -the echo of the words after passing his lips sounded strange in his -ears. - -“She got quite white,” said Sheila. She picked up the shapeless animal. -“She never recovered. Look!” - -“She also lost one side of her whiskers,” said Quixtus, inspecting the -beast held within two inches of his nose. - -“Oh no,” she replied, getting in the most entangling way between his -legs. “Pinkie’s a fairy princess, and one day she’ll have a crown and a -pink dress and a gold sword. It’s a wicked fairy that keeps her like a -cat. And it was the wicked fairy in the shape of a big rat, bigger than -twenty million, billion, _hillion_ houses, that bit off her whiskers. -Daddy told me.” - -Quixtus could not follow these transcendental flights of faërie. But he -had to make some reply, as she was looking with straight challenge into -his eyes. To his astonishment, he found himself expressing the hope -that, when Pinkie came into her own again, the loss of one set of -whiskers would not impair her beauty. Sheila explained that princesses -didn’t have whiskers, so no harm was done. The bad fairy in the form of -a rat wanted to bite off Pinkie’s nose, in which case her beauty would -have been ruined; but Pinkie was protected by a good fairy, and just -when the bad fairy was going to bite off her nose, the good fairy shook -a pepper pot and the bad fairy sneezed and was only able to bite off the -whiskers. - -“That was very fortunate for Pinkie,” said Quixtus. - -“Very,” said Sheila. She stood against him on one leg, swinging the -other. Conversation came to a standstill. The man found himself -tongue-tied. All kinds of idiotic remarks came into his head. He -dismissed them as not being suitable to the comprehension of a child of -five. His fingers mechanically twisted themselves in her soft hair. -Presently came the eternal command of childhood. - -“Tell me a story.” - -“Good gracious!” said he, “I’m afraid I don’t know any.” - -“You _must_ know little Red Riding-Hood,” she said, with a touch of -scorn. - -“Perhaps I do. I wonder,” said Quixtus. He clutched eagerly at a straw. -“But what’s the use of my telling it to you if you know it already?” - -She ran and picked up the sprawling cat and calmly established herself -on his knees. Bimbo, neglected, uttered a whining growl, and curling -himself up with his chin by his tail, dropped into a morose slumber. - -“Tell it to Pinkie. She’s stupid and always forgets the stories. Now -begin.” - -Quixtus hummed and ha’d and at last plunged desperately. “There was once -a wolf who ate up Red Riding-Hood’s grandmother.” - -“That’s not it,” cried Sheila. “There was once a sweet little girl who -lived with her grandmother. That’s the proper way.” - -Quixtus floundered. Let any one who has never told a tale to a child and -has never heard of Red Riding-Hood for at least five-and-thirty years, -try to recount her tragical history. Quixtus had to tell it to an expert -in the legend, a fearsome undertaking. At last, with her aid he stumbled -through. Pinkie, staring at him through her bead eyes, evidently -couldn’t make head or tail of it. Being punched in the midriff by her -young protectress, she emitted a wheezy squeak. - -“Pinkie says ‘thank you,’” Sheila remarked politely. - -“And what do you say?” asked the blundering elder. - -Now what had been good enough to merit Pinkie’s thanks had not been good -enough to merit hers. Besides, such as it was, she had told half the -story. With delicate diplomacy she had handled a difficult situation. -Her eyes filled with tears. - -“Good God!” murmured Quixtus in terror. “She is going to cry. What on -earth can I do?” - -His wits worked quickly. He remembered a recent sitting in the Folk-lore -section of the Anthropological Congress. - -“I suppose, my dear, a story current among the aborigines of Papua -wouldn’t interest you?” - -Her eyes dried magically. She snuggled up against him. - -“Tell me.” - -So Quixtus began a story about serpents and tigers and shiny -copper-coloured children, and knowing the facts of the folk tale, -gradually grew interested and unconsciously discovered a new talent for -picturesque narration. One story led to another. He forgot himself and -his wrongs, and pathetically strove to interest his audience and explain -to her childish mind the significance of tribal mysteries which were -woven into the texture of the tales. The explanation left her -comparatively cold; but so long as there were tigers whose -blood-curdling ferocity she adored, she found the story entrancing. - -“There!” said he, laughing, when he had come to an end. “What do you -think of that?” - -“It’s booful,” she cried, and clambering on to both knees on his lap, -she put both hands on his shoulders and held up her mouth for a kiss. - -In this touching attitude Clementina and Poynter discovered them. The -new-comers exchanged a whimsical glance of intelligence. - -“Wise woman,” Poynter murmured. - -“Obvious to any fool,” she retorted—and advanced further into the -vestibule. “Feeling decidedly better?” - -Quixtus blushed in confusion. Sheila climbed down from her perch and ran -to Clementina. - -“Oh, Auntie, Uncle Ephim has been telling me such lovely stories.” - -“Lord save us!”—she turned on him—“What do you know about stories?” - -“They were tribal legends of Papua,” he confessed; modestly. - -“And what else have you been doing?” - -Quixtus made one of his old-world bows. - -“I’ve been falling in love.” - -“You’re getting on,” said Clementina. - - - - - CHAPTER XVIII - - -Let us take the case of a refined and sensitive man who has fallen, as -many have fallen, under the influence of drink. Let us suppose him to -have sunk lower and lower into the hell of it until delirium tremens -puts a temporary end to his excesses. Let us suppose him to be -convalescent, in sweet surroundings, in capable hands, relieved, for the -time at least, by the strange gold drug of his craving for alcohol. His -mind is clear, his perceptions are acute, he is once more a sane human -being. He looks back upon his degradation with wondering horror. It is -not as though he has passed through a period of dark madness of which -the memory is vague and elusive. He remembers it all—all the incidents, -all the besotted acts, all the benumbed, enslaved surrender of his soul. -His freed self regards perplexedly the self that was in bondage. They -are two different entities—and yet they are unquestionably the same. He -has not been mad, because he has felt all the time responsible for his -actions, and yet he must have been mad so to dishonour the divine spirit -within him. The latter argument prevails. “I have been mad,” he says, -and shivers with disgust. - -In some such puzzled frame of mind did Quixtus, freed from the obsession -of the Idea, regard his self of the last few months. He remembered how -it had happened. There had been several shocks; the Marrable disaster, -the discovery of Angela and Hammersley’s betrayal, that of the -disloyalty of his three pensioners, the cynical trick of his uncle. He -remembered toying with the Idea on his homeward journey, the farcical -faithlessness of the drunken housekeeper—and then, click! the hag Idea -had mounted on his shoulders and ridden away with him, as Al Kohol (the -very devil himself) rides away with the unresisting drunkard. Every -action, every thought of this strange period was clear in his memory. He -could not have been mad—and yet he must have been. - -To strain the analogy a trifle, the nightmare in the train and the -horror of the morning had been his delirium tremens. But here the -analogy suffers a solution of continuity. From that climax of devil -work, the drunkard descends but slowly and gradually through tortures -innumerable to the normal life of man. Shock is ineffective. But in -Quixtus’s case there was a double shock—the seismic convulsion of his -being at the climactic moment, and the sudden announcement of that, -which to all men born is the only Absolute, final, immutable. - -And then click! the hag that had ridden him had been thrown from his -shoulders, and he had looked upon the dead through the eyes of a sane -man. And now, through the eyes of a sane man he regarded the incredible -spectacle of his self of yesterday. He turned from it with shivers of -disgust. He must have been mad. A great depression came upon him. He had -suffered grievous wrongs, it is true; no man since Job had been more -sorely afflicted; the revelations of human baseness and treachery had -been such as to kill his once childlike faith in humanity. But why had -loss of faith sent him mad? What had his brain been doing to allow this -grotesque impulse to over-master it? At the present moment, he assured -himself, he had neither more nor less faith in mankind than when he had -walked a maniac through the London streets, or during last night’s -tortured journey in the train. Yet now he desired to commit no -wickedness. The thought of evil for evil’s sake was revolting. . . . The -self that he had striven to respect and keep clean all his life, had -been soiled. Wherein lay purification? - -Had he been mad? If so, how could he trust his memory as to what had -happened? By the grace of God those acts of wickedness whose -contemplation he remembered, had been rendered nugatory. Even Tommy had -not materially suffered, seeing that he had kept the will intact and had -placed two thousand pounds to his banking account. But could he actually -have committed deeds of wickedness which he had forgotten? Were there -any such which he had committed through the agency of the three evil -counsellors? He racked his memory in vain. - -The time at Marseilles passed gloomily. Poynter, the good Samaritan, -started the first evening for Devonshire to satisfy his hungry soul with -the unutterable comfort of English fields. Clementina and Quixtus saw -him off at the station and walked back through the sultry streets -together. The next day he was left much to his own company, as -Clementina broke the news of death to the child and stayed with her for -comfort. He wandered aimlessly about the town, seeking the shade, and -wrapping himself in his melancholy. When he saw Sheila in the afternoon -she was greatly subdued. She understood that her father had gone to -Heaven to stay with her mother. She realised that she would never see -him again. Clementina briefly informed Quixtus of the child’s grief. How -she had cried and called for him most of the morning, how she had fallen -asleep and had awakened more calm. To distract her mind and to give her -the air, they hired a taxi-cab and drove on the Corniche Road past the -Restaurant de la Réserve. Sheila’s tiny body easily nestled on the seat -between them, and she seemed comforted by the human contact. From Pinkie -she also derived great consolation. Pinkie was stupid, she explained, -and she couldn’t talk; but really she was a fairy princess, and fairy -princesses were always affectionate. Pinkie was stuffed with love as -tight as she could hold. - -“Have you ever been in a motor-car before?” asked Quixtus. - -“Oh yes. Of course I have,” she replied in her rich little voice. “Daddy -had one in Shanghai. He used to take me out in it.” - -Then her lips quivered and the tears started and she flung herself -weeping against Clementina. - -“Oh, daddy! I want my daddy!” - -The essential feminine in Clementina sprang to arms. - -“Why did you start her off like this by talking of motor-cars?” - -“I’m dreadfully sorry,” said Quixtus. “But how was I to know?” - -“Just like a man,” she retorted. “No intuition worth a cent.” - -At dinner, a melancholy meal—theirs was the only table occupied in the -vast, ghostly _salle à manger_—she apologised, in her gruff way. - -“I was wrong about the motor-car. How the deuce could you have known? -Besides, if you talked to the child about triple-expansion boiler, her -daddy would be sure to have had one at Shanghai. Poor little mite!” - -“Yes, poor little mite,” said Quixtus, meditatively. “I wonder what will -become of her.” - -“That has got to be our look-out,” she replied sharply. “You don’t seem -to realise that.” - -“I don’t think I do quite—even after what you said to me yesterday. I -must accustom myself to the idea.” - -“Yesterday,” said Clementina, “you declared that you had fallen in love -with her.” - -“Many a man,” replied Quixtus with a faint smile, “has fallen in love -with one of your sex and has not in the least known what to do with -her.” - -The grim setting of Clementina’s lips relaxed. - -“I think you’re becoming more human. And, talking of humanity—there’s a -question that must be cleared up between us, before we settle down to -this partnership. Are you intending to keep up your diabolical attitude -towards Tommy Burgrave?” - -The question had been burning her tongue for over twenty-four hours; -from the moment that he had appeared in the vestibule the day before, -after his sleep, and seemed to have recovered from the extraordinary -nervous collapse which had aroused her pity. With considerable -self-restraint she had awaited her opportunity. Now it had come—and -when an opportunity came to Clementina, she did not go by four roads to -take it. Quixtus laid down his knife and fork and leaned back in his -chair. Knowing her attachment to the boy, he had expected some reference -to his repudiation. But the direct question disconcerted him. Should he -have to render equally sudden account of all the fantastic iniquities of -the past? Then something he had not thought of before entered his amazed -head. He had never countermanded the order whereby the allowance was -automatically transferred from his own banking account to Tommy’s. He -had intended to write the letter after having destroyed the will, but -his reflections on plagiarism in wickedness which had led to the -preservation of that document, had also caused him to forget the other -matter entirely. And he had not thought of it from that day to this. - -“As a matter of fact,” said he, looking at his plate, “I have not -disinherited Tommy; I have not discontinued his allowance, and I have -placed a very large sum of money to his credit at the bank.” - -Clementina knitted her brows and stared at him. The man was a greater -puzzle than ever. Was he lying? If Tommy had found himself in opulence, -he would have told her. Tommy was veracity incarnate. - -“The boy hasn’t a penny to his name—nothing except his mother’s fifty -pounds a year.” - -He met her black, keen eyes steadily. - -“I am telling you the facts. He can’t have inquired about his bank -balance recently.” He passed his hand across his forehead, as -realisation of the past strange period came to him. “I suppose he can’t -have done so, as he has never written to acknowledge the—the large -amount of money.” - -The man was telling the truth. It was mystifying. - -“Then why in the name of Bedlam did you play the fool with him like -that?” - -“That is another matter,” said he, lowering his eyes. “For the sake of -an answer, let us say that I wanted to test his devotion to his art.” - -“We can say it as much as we please, but I don’t believe it.” - -“I will ask you, Clementina,” said he, courteously, “as a great personal -favour to let it pass at that.” - -“All right,” said Clementina. - -He went on with his dinner. Presently another thing struck him. He was -to find a plaguey lot of things to strike him in connection with his -lunacy. - -“If Tommy was penniless,” said he, “will you explain how he has managed -to take this expensive holiday in France.” - -“Look here, let us talk of something else,” she replied. “I’m sick of -Tommy.” - -Visions of Tommy’s whooping joy, of Etta’s radiance; when they should -hear the astounding news, floated before her. She could hear him telling -the chit of a girl to put on her orange-blossoms and go out with him at -once and get married. She could hear Etta say: “Darling Clementina, do -run out and buy me some orange-blossoms.” Much the two innocents cared -for darling Clementina! There were times when she really did not know -whether she wanted to take them both in her arms in a great splendid -hug, or to tie them up together in a sack and throw them into the Seine. - -“I’m sick of Tommy,” she declared. - -But the normal brain of the cultivated man had begun to work. - -“Clementina,” said he, “it is you that have been paying Tommy’s -expenses.” - -“Well, suppose I have?” she replied, defiantly. She added quickly, -womanlike divining the reproach to Tommy, underlying Quixtus’s -challenge: “He’s a child and I’m an old woman. I had the deuce’s own job -to make him accept. I couldn’t go careering about France all by -myself—I could, as a matter of practical fact—I could career all over -Gehenna if I chose—but it wouldn’t have been gay. He sacrificed his -pride to give me a holiday. What have you to say against it?” - -A flush of shame mounted to Quixtus’s cheek. It was intolerable that one -of his house—his sister’s son—should have been dependent for bread on -a woman. He himself was to blame. - -“Clementina,” said he, “this is a very delicate matter, and I hope you -won’t misjudge me; but as your great generosity was based on a most -unhappy misunderstanding——” - -“Ephraim Quixtus,” she interrupted, seeing whither he was tending, “go -on with your dinner and don’t be a fool!” - -There was nothing for it but for Quixtus to go on with his dinner. - -“I tell you what,” she said, after a pause, in spite of her weariness of -Tommy as a topic of conversation; “when Tommy met you in Paris, he -didn’t know what you’ve just told me. He thought you had unreasonably -and heartlessly cut him adrift. And yet he greeted you as affectionately -and frankly as if nothing had happened.” - -“That’s true,” Quixtus admitted. “He did.” - -“It proves to you what a sound-hearted fellow Tommy is.” - -“I see,” said Quixtus. “Well?” - -“That’s all,” said Clementina. “Or if it isn’t it ought to be.” - -Quixtus made no reply. There was no reply possible, save the real -explanation of his eccentric behaviour; and that he was not prepared to -offer. But Clementina’s rough words sank deep in his mind. Judged by -ordinary standards, his treatment of Tommy had been unqualifiable; -Tommy’s behaviour all that was most meritorious. In Tommy’s case wherein -lay the proof of the essential depravity of mankind? His gloomy faith -received a shock which caused him exceeding discomfort. You see, if you -take all the trouble of going mad for the sake of a gospel, you rather -cling to it when you recover sanity. You are rather eager to justify to -yourself the waste of time and energy. It is human nature. - -After dinner she dismissed him. He must go out to a café and see the -world. She had to look after the child’s slumbers, and write letters. -Quixtus went out into the broad, busy streets. The Cannebière was -crowded with gasping but contented citizens. On every side rose the -murmur of mirth and cheerfulness. Solid burgesses strolled arm in arm -with their solider wives. Youths and maidens laughed together. Swarthy -workmen with open shirt-collars showing their hairy throats, bareheaded -workgirls in giggling knots, little soldiers clinging amorously to -sweethearts—all the crowd wore an air of gaiety, of love of their kind, -of joy in comradeship. At the thronged cafés, too, men and women found -comfort in the swelter of gregariousness. Night had fallen over the -baking city, and the great thoroughfare blazed in light—from shop -windows, cafés, street lamps, from the myriad whirling lamps of trams -and motors. Above it all the full moon shone splendid from the intense -sky of a summer night. Quixtus and the moon appeared to be the only -lonely things in the Cannebière. - -He wandered down to the quay and back again in ever-growing depression. -He felt lost, an alien among this humanity that clung together for -mutual happiness; he envied the little soldier and his girl gazing -hungrily, their heads almost touching, into a cheap jeweller’s window. A -sudden craving such as he had never known in his life, awoke within him; -insistent, imperious—a craving for human companionship. Instinctively -he walked back to the hotel, scarcely realising why he had come; until -he saw Clementina in the vestibule. She had stuck on her crazy hat and -was pulling on her white cotton gloves; evidently preparing to go out. - -“Hullo! Back already?” - -“I have come to ask you a favour, Clementina,” said he. “Would it bore -you to come out with me—to give me the pleasure of your company?” - -“It wouldn’t bore me,” replied Clementina. “Precious few things do. But -what on earth can you want me for?” - -“If I tell you, you won’t mock at me?” - -“I only mock at you, as you call it, when you do idiotic things. Anyhow, -I won’t now. What’s the matter?” - -He hesitated. She saw that her brusqueness had checked something natural -and spontaneous. At once she strove to make amends, and laid her hand on -his sleeve. - -“We’ve got to be friends henceforth, Ephraim; if only for the child’s -sake. Tell me.” - -“It was only that I have never felt so dismally alone in my life, as I -did in that crowded street.” - -“And so you came back for me?” - -“I came back for you,” he said with a smile. - -“Let us go,” said Clementina, and she put her arm through his and they -went out together and walked arm in arm like hundreds of other solemn -couples in Marseilles. - -“That better?” she asked after a while, with a humorous and pleasant -sense of mothering this curiously pathetic and incomprehensible man. - -The unfamiliar tone in her voice touched him. - -“I had no idea you could be so kind, Clementina. Yesterday morning, when -I was ill—I can scarcely remember—but I feel you were kind then.” - -“I’m not always a rhinoceros,” said Clementina. “But what am I doing -that’s kind now?” - -He pressed her arm gently. “Just this,” said he. - -Then Clementina realised, with an odd thrill of pleasure, how much more -significance often lies in little things than in big ones. - -They walked along the quay and looked at the island of the Château d’If -standing out grim in the middle of the moonlit harbour, turned up one of -the short streets leading to the Rue de Rome, and so came into the -Cannebière again. A table, just vacated on the outer edge of the terrace -of one of the cafés, allured them. They sat down and ordered coffee. The -little sentimental walk arm in arm had done much to dispose each kindly -towards the other. Quixtus felt grateful for her rough yet subtle -sympathy, Clementina appreciated his appreciation. The atmosphere of -antagonism that had hitherto surrounded them had disappeared. For the -first time since their arrival in Marseilles they talked on general -topics. Almost for the first time in their lives they talked of general -topics naturally, without constraint. Hitherto she had always kept an -ear cocked for the pedant; he for the scoffer. She had been impatient of -his quietism; he had nervously dreaded her brutality. Now a truce was -declared. She forebore to jeer at his favourite pursuit, it not entering -her head to do so; Quixtus, a man of breeding, never rode his hobby -outside his ring, except in self-defence. They talked of music—a band -was playing in the adjoining café. They discovered a common ground in -Bach. Desultory talk led them to modern opera. There was a little -haunting air, said he, in _Hans Joueur de Flûte_. - -“This?” cried Clementina, leaning across the table and humming it. -“You’re the only English creature I’ve come across who has ever heard of -it.” - -They talked of other things—of travel. Her tour through France was -fresh in her mind. Sensitive artist, she was full of the architecture. -Wherever she had gone, Quixtus had gone before her. To her after -astonishment, for she was too much interested in the talk to consider it -at the time, he met her sympathetically on every point. - -“The priceless treasures of France,” said he, “are the remains of -expiring Gothic and the early Renaissance. Of the former you have the -Palais de Justice at Rouen—which everybody knows—and the west front of -the Cathedral at Vendôme.” - -“But I’ve just been to Vendôme!” cried Clementina. “That wonderful -flamboyant window!” - -“The last word of Gothic,” said Quixtus. “The funeral pyre of -Gothic—that tracery—the whole thing is on fire—it’s all leaping -flame—as if some God had said ‘Let this noble thing that is dead have a -stupendous end.’ Vendôme always seems to me like the end of the Viking. -They sent the hero away to sea in a blaze of fire.” - -Richelieu, the little town not far from Tours where every one goes, yet -so unknown—built by the great Cardinal for his court and to-day -standing with hardly change of stick or stone, just as Richelieu left -it, Quixtus had visited. - -“But that’s damnable!” cried Clementina. “I thought we had discovered -it.” - -He laughed. “So did I. And I suppose everybody who goes there views it -with the eyes of a little Columbus.” - -“What did you like best about it?” - -“The pictures of the past it evoked. The cavalcade of Richelieu’s -nobles—all in their Louis Treize finery—the clatter of the men-at-arms -down that broad, cobble-paved central street. The setting was all there. -It was so easy to fill it.” - -“That’s just what Tommy did,” said Clementina. “Tommy made a fancy -sketch on the spot of the Cardinal entering in state in his great heavy -_carrosse_ with his bodyguard around him.” - -This led them on to pictures. She found that he was familiar with all -the galleries in Europe—with most of the works of the moderns. She had -never suspected that he had ideas of his own on pictures. He hated what -he called the “nightmare of technique” of the ultra-modern school. -Clementina disliked it also. “All great art was simple,” he remarked. -“Put one of Hobbema’s sober landscapes, the Saint Michael of Raphael, -amidst the hysteria of the Salon des Indépendants, and the four walls -would crumble into chaotic paint. - -“Which reminds me,” said he, “of a curious little experience a good many -years ago. It was at the first International Art Exhibition in London. -Paris and Belgium and Holland poured out their violences to unfamiliar -eyes—mine were unfamiliar, at any rate. There were women sitting in -purple cafés with orange faces and magenta hair. There were hideous -nudes with muscles on their knee-caps, writhing in decadent symbolism. -There were portraits so flat that they gave you the impression of -insects squashed against the wall. I remember going through, not -understanding it one bit; and then in the midst of all this fever I came -across a little gem—so cool, so finished, so sane, and yet full of -grip, and I stood in front of it until I got better and then went away. -It was a most curious sensation, like a cool hand on a fevered brow. I -happened not to have a catalogue, so I’ve never known the painter.” - -“What kind of a picture was it?” asked Clementina. - -“Just a child, in a white frock and a blue sash, and not a remarkably -pretty child either. But it was a delightful piece of work.” - -“Do you remember,” she asked, “whether there was a mother-o’-pearl box -on a little table to the left of the girl?” - -“Yes,” said Quixtus. “There was. Do you know the picture?” - -Clementina smiled. She smiled so that her white, strong teeth became -visible. Quixtus had never seen Clementina’s teeth. - -“Painted it,” said Clementina, throwing forward both her hands in -triumph. - -One of her hands met the long glass of coffee and sent it scudding -across the table. Quixtus instinctively jerked his chair backward, but -he could not escape a great splash of coffee over his waistcoat. Full of -delight, gratitude, and dismay, Clementina whipped up her white cotton -gloves and before waiters with napkins could intervene, she wiped him -comparatively dry. - -“Your gloves! Your gloves!” he cried, protesting. - -She held up the unspeakable things and almost laughed as she threw them -on the pavement, whence they were picked up carefully by a passing -urchin—for nothing is wasted in France. - -“I would have wiped you clean with my—well, with anything I’ve got, in -return for your having remembered my picture.” - -“Well,” said he, “the compliment being quite unconscious, was all the -more sincere.” - -The waiter mopped up the flooded table. - -“Let us be depraved,” said Clementina in high good humour, “and have -some green chartreuse.” - -“Willingly,” smiled Quixtus. - -So they were depraved. - -And when Clementina went to bed she wondered why she had railed at -Quixtus all these years. - - - - - CHAPTER XIX - - -Clementina went to bed a happier woman than she had been for many a day. -Distrusting the ministrations of the Chinese nurse, she had set up a -little bed for Sheila in her own room. The child lay there fast asleep, -the faithful Pinkie projecting from a folded arm in a staring and -uncomfortable attitude of vigilance. Clementina’s heart throbbed as she -bent over her. All that she had struggled for and had attained, mastery -of her art, fame and fortune, shrank to triviality in comparison with -this glorious gift of heaven. She remembered scornful words she had once -spoken to Tommy: “Woman has always her sex hanging round the neck of her -spirit.” She recognised the truth of the saying and thanked God for it. -She undressed very quietly and walked about the room in stocking-feet, -feeling a strange sacredness in the presence of the sleeping child. - -She was happier, too, in that she had forgiven Quixtus; for the first -time since she had known him she felt a curiosity regarding him, a -desire for his friendship; scarcely formulated, arose a determination to -bring something vital into his life. As the notable housewife entering a -forlorn man’s neglected house longs to throw open windows, shake -carpets, sweep down cobwebs, abolish dingy curtains, and fill the place -with sunlight and chintz and other gaiety, so did Clementina long to -sweep and garnish Quixtus’s dusty heart. He had many human -possibilities. After all, there must be something sound in a man who had -treasured in his mind the memory of her picture. Sheila and herself, -between them, would transform him into a gaunt angel. She fell asleep -smiling at the thought. - -Clementina did not suffer fools gladly. That was why, thinking Quixtus a -fool, she had not been able to abide him for so many years. And that was -why she could not abide the fat Chinese nurse, who showed herself to be -a mass of smiling incompetence. “The way she washes the child makes me -sick,” she declared. “If I see much more of her heathen idol’s grin, -I’ll go mad and bite her.” So the next day Clementina, with Quixtus as a -decorative adjunct, hunted up consular and other authorities and made -with them the necessary arrangements for shipping her off to Shanghai, -for which she secretly pined, by the next outward-bound steamer. When -they got to London she would provide the child with a proper Christian -nurse, who would bring her up in the fear of the Lord and in habits of -tidiness; and in the meanwhile she herself would assume the -responsibility of Sheila’s physical well-being. - -“I’m not going to have a flighty young girl,” she remarked. “I could -tackle her, but you couldn’t.” - -“Why should I attempt to tackle her?” asked Quixtus. - -“You’ll be responsible for the child when she stays in Russell Square.” - -“Russell Square?” he echoed. - -“Yes. She will live partly with you and partly with me—three months -with each of us, alternately. Where did you expect the child to live?” - -“Upon my soul,” said he, “I haven’t considered the matter. -Well—well——” - -He walked about the vestibule, revolving this new and alarming -proposition. To have a little girl of five planted in his dismal, -decorous house—what in the world should he do with her? It would -revolutionise his habits. Clementina watched him out of a corner of her -eye. - -“You didn’t suppose I was going to have all the worry, did you?” - -“No, no,” he said hastily. “Of course not. I see I must share all -responsibilities with you. Only—won’t she find living with me rather -dull?” - -“You can keep a lot of cats and dogs and rocking-horses, and give -children’s parties,” said Clementina. - -Sheila, who had been apparently absorbed in the mysteries of the -Parisian toilet of a flaxen-haired doll which Clementina had bought for -her at an extravagant price, cheerfully lifted up her face. - -“Auntie says that when I come to stay with you, I’m to be mistress of -the house.” - -“Indeed?” said Quixtus. - -“And I’m to be a real lady and sit at the end of the table and entertain -the guests.” - -“I suppose that settles it?” he said, with a smile. - -“Of course it does,” said Clementina, and she wondered whether his -masculine mind would ever be in a condition to grasp the extent of the -sacrifice she was making. - -That day the remains of Will Hammersley were laid to rest in the little -Protestant cemetery. The consular chaplain read the service. Only the -two elders stood by the graveside, thinking the ordeal too harrowing for -the child. Clementina wept, for some of her wasted youth lay in the -coffin. But Quixtus stood with dry eyes and set features. Now he was -sane. Now he could view life calmly. He knew that his memory of the dead -would always be bitter. Reason could not sweeten it. It were better to -forget. Let the dead past bury its dead. The dead man’s child he would -take to his heart for her own helpless, sweet sake. Should she, in years -to come, turn round and repay him with treachery and ingratitude, it -would be but the way of all flesh. In the meanwhile he would be loyal to -his word. - -After the service came to a close he stood for a few moments gazing into -the grave. Clementina edged close to him and pointed down to the coffin. - -“He may have wronged you, but he trusted you,” she said in a low voice. - -“That’s true,” said Quixtus. And as they drove back in silence, he -murmured once or twice to himself, half audibly: - -“He wronged me, but he trusted me.” - -That evening they started for Paris. - -Undesirous of demonstrative welcome at half-past eight in the morning, -Clementina had not informed Tommy and Etta of the time of her arrival, -and Quixtus had not indulged in superfluous correspondence with Huckaby. -The odd trio now so closely related stood lonely at the exit of the -Lyons Station, while porters deposited their luggage in cabs. Each of -the elders felt a curious reluctance to part—even for a few hours, for -they had agreed to lunch together. Sheila shed a surprised tear. She had -adjusted her small mind to the entrance of her Uncle Ephraim into her -life. The sudden exit startled her. On his promising to see her very -soon, she put her arms prettily round his neck and kissed him. He drove -off feeling the flower-like pressure of the child’s lips to his, and it -was very sweet. - -It helped him to take up the threads of Paris where he had left them, a -difficult task. Deep shame smote him. What could be henceforward his -relations with Huckaby whom, with crazy, malevolent intent, he had -promised to maintain in the path of clean living? With what self-respect -could he look into the eyes of Mrs. Fontaine, innocent and -irreproachable woman, whose friendship he had cultivated with such -dastardly design? She had placed herself so frankly, so unsuspectingly -in his hands. To him, now, it was as unimaginable to betray her trust as -to betray that of the child whose kiss lingered on his lips. If ever a -woman deserved compensation, full and plenteous, at the hands of man, -that was the woman. An insult unrealised is none the less an insult; and -he, Quixtus, had insulted a woman. If only to cleanse his own honour -from the stain, he must make compensation to this sweet lady. But how? -By faithful and loyal service. - -When he solemnly reached this decision I think that more than one angel -wept and at the same time wanted to shake him. - -And behind these two whom he would meet in Paris, loomed the forbidding -faces of Billiter and Vandermeer. He shivered as at contact with -something unclean. He had chosen these men as ministers of evil. He had -taken them into his crazy confidence. With their tongues in their -cheeks, these rogues had exploited him. He remembered loathsome -scenarios of evil dramas they had submitted. Thank Heaven for the -pedantic fastidiousness that had rejected them! Billiter, Vandermeer, -Huckaby—the only three of all men living who knew the miserable secret -of his recent life! In a rocky wilderness he could have raced with wild -gestures like the leper, shouting “Unclean! Unclean!” But Paris is not a -rocky wilderness, and the semi-extinct quadruped in the shafts of the -modern Paris fiacre conveys no idea of racing. - -Yet while his soul cried this word of horror, the child’s kiss lingered -as a sign and a consecration. - -The first thing to do was to set himself right with Huckaby. -Companionship with the man on the recent basis was impossible. He made -known his arrival, and an hour afterwards, having bathed and -breakfasted, he sat with Huckaby in the pleasant courtyard of the hotel. -Huckaby, neat and trim and clear-eyed, clad in well-fitting blue serge, -gave him the news of the party. Mrs. Fontaine had introduced him to some -charming French people whose hospitality he had ventured to accept. She -was well and full of plans for little festas for the remainder of their -stay in Paris. Lady Louisa had found a cavalier, an elderly French -marquis of deep gastronomic knowledge. - -“Lady Louisa,” said he with a sigh of relief and a sly glance at -Quixtus, “is a charming lady, but not a highly intellectual companion.” - -“Do you really crave highly intellectual companions, Huckaby?” asked -Quixtus. - -Huckaby bit his lip. - -“Do you remember our last conversation?” he said at last. - -“I remember,” said Quixtus. - -“I asked you for a chance. You promised. I was in earnest.” - -“I wasn’t,” said Quixtus. - -Huckaby started and gripped the arm of his chair. He was about to -protest when Quixtus checked him. - -“I want you to know,” said he, “that great changes have taken place -since then. I left Paris in ill-health, I return sound. I should like -you to grasp the deep significance underlying those few words. I will -repeat them.” - -He did so. Huckaby looked hard at his patron, who stood the scrutiny -with a grave smile. - -“I think I understand,” he replied slowly. “Then Billiter and -Vandermeer?” - -“Billiter and Vandermeer I put out of my life for ever; but I shall see -they are kept from want.” - -“They can’t be kept from wanting more than you give them,” said Huckaby, -whose brain worked swiftly and foresaw blackmail. “You must impose -conditions.” - -“I never thought of that,” said Quixtus. - -“Set a thief to catch a thief,” said the other bitterly; “I’m telling -you for your own good.” - -“If they attempt to write to me or see me, their allowances will cease.” - -He covered his eyes with his hand, as though to shut out their hateful -faces. There was a short silence. Huckaby’s lips grew dry. He moistened -them with his tongue. - -“And what about me?” he asked at last. - -Quixtus drew away his hand with a despairing gesture, but made no reply. - -“I suppose you’re right in classing me with the others,” said Huckaby. -“Heaven knows I oughtn’t to judge them. I was in with them all the -time”—Quixtus winced—“but I can’t go back to them.” - -“My treating you just the same as them won’t necessitate your going back -to them.” - -Huckaby bent forward, quivering, in his chair. “As there’s a God in -Heaven, Quixtus, I wouldn’t accept a penny from you on those terms.” - -“And why not?” - -“Because I don’t want your money. I want to be put in a position to earn -some honourably for myself. I want your help as a man, your sympathy as -a human being. I want you to help me to live a clean, straight life. I -kept the promise, the important promise I made you, ever since we -started. You can’t say I haven’t. And since you left I’ve not touched a -drop of alcohol—and, if you promise to help me, I swear to God I never -will as long as I live. What can I do, man,” he cried, throwing out his -arms, “to prove to you that I’m in deadly earnest?” - -Quixtus lay back in his chair reflecting, his finger-tips joined -together. Presently a smile, half humorous, half kindly, lit up his -features—a smile such as Huckaby had not seen since before the days of -the hostless dinner of disaster, and it was manifest to Huckaby that -some at least of the Quixtus of old had come back to earth. - -“In the last day or two,” said Quixtus, “I have formed a staunch -friendship with one who was a crabbed and inveterate enemy. It is Miss -Clementina Wing, the painter, whom you saw, in somewhat painful -circumstances, the other day at the tea-room. I will give you an -opportunity—I hope many—of meeting her again. I don’t want to hurt -your feelings, my dear Huckaby—but so many strange things have happened -of late, that I, for the present, mistrust my own judgment. I hope you -understand.” - -“Not quite. You don’t mean to tell——” - -Quixtus flushed and drew himself up. - -“After twenty years, do you know me so little as that?” - -“I beg your pardon,” said the other humbly. - -Again Quixtus smiled, at a reminiscent phrase of Clementina’s. - -“At any rate, my dear fellow,” said he, “even if she doesn’t approve of -you, she will do you a thundering lot of good.” - -At the smile Huckaby took heart of grace; but at the same time the -memory of Clementina, storming over the tea-table, for all the world -like a French revolutionary general, filled his soul with wholesome -dismay. Well, there was no help for it; he must take his chance; so he -filled a philosophic pipe. - -A little later Quixtus met the spotless flower of womanhood whom he had -so grievously insulted. She greeted him with both hands outstretched. -Without him Paris had been a desert. Why had he not sent her the -smallest, tiniest line of news? Ah! she understood. It had been a -sojourn of pain. Never mind. Paris, she hoped, would prove to be an -anodyne. Only if she would administer it in the right doses; said -Quixtus gallantly. Dressed with exquisite demureness, she found favour -in his sight. He realised with a throb of thanksgiving that henceforward -he could meet her on equal terms—as an honourable gentleman—no -grotesque devilry haunting the back of his mind and clouding the -serenity of their intercourse. - -“Tell me what you have been doing with yourself,” she said, drawing him -to a seat. The little air of intimacy and ownership so delicately -assumed, captivated the remorseful man. He had not realised the charm -that awaited him in Paris. - -He touched lightly on Marseilles happenings, spoke of his guardianship, -of Sheila, of her clinging, feminine ways, drew a smiling picture of his -terror when Clementina had first left him alone with the child. - -Mrs. Fontaine laughed sympathetically at the tale, and then, with a -touch of tenderness in her voice that perhaps was not deliberate, said: - -“In spite of the worries, you have benefited by the change. You have -come back a different man.” - -“In what way?” - -“I can’t define it.” - -“Try.” - -A quick glance met earnest questioning in his eyes. She looked down and -daintily plucked at the sunshade across her lap. - -“I should say you had come back more human.” - -Quixtus’s eyelids flickered. Clementina had used the same word. Was -there then an obvious transformation from Quixtus _furens_ to Quixtus -sane? - -He remembered the child’s kiss. “Perhaps it’s my new responsibilities,” -he said with a smile. - -“I should so much like to see her. I wonder if I ever shall,” said Mrs. -Fontaine. - -“She is coming here to lunch with Miss Wing,” replied Quixtus, eager now -that his good friends should know and appreciate each other. “Won’t Lady -Louisa and yourself join us?” - -“Delighted,” said Mrs. Fontaine. “Miss Clementina Wing is quite a -character. I should like to see more of her.” - -Quixtus, his mind full of sweet atonement, did not detect any trace of -acidity in her words. - -On the stroke of one, the time appointed for luncheon, Clementina and -Sheila appeared at the end of the long lounge, Tommy and Etta straggling -in their wake. Quixtus rose from the table where his three friends were -seated, and advanced to meet them. Sheila ran forward and he took her in -his arms and kissed her. - -“You didn’t ask these children to lunch, but I brought ’em.” - -“They’re very welcome,” said Quixtus, smiling. - -Tommy, his fair face aflame with joy, wrung his hand. “I told you I -would look you up in the Hôtel Continental. By Jove! I am glad to see -you. I’ve been an awful ass, you know. Of course I thought——” - -“Hush! Hush!” said Quixtus. “My dear Miss Concannon, I am delighted to -see you.” - -“She goes by the name of Etta,” said Tommy, proudly. - -Clementina jerked her thumb towards them: - -“Engaged. Young idiots!” - -“My dear Miss Etta,” said Quixtus, taking the hand of the furiously -blushing girl—“My friend, Tommy, is an uncommonly lucky fellow.” He -nodded at Sheila, who hung on to his finger-tips. “Have you made friends -with this young lady?” - -“She’s a darling!” cried Etta. - -“Clementina,” said Tommy, “you’re a wretch. You shouldn’t have given us -away.” - -“You gave yourselves away, you silly geese. People have been grinning at -you all the time you were walking here.” Then her glance fell upon the -expectant trio a little way off. “Oh Lord!” she said, “those people -again!” - -“They’re my very good friends,” said Quixtus, “and I want you to meet -them again in normal circumstances. I want you to like them.” - -He looked at her in mild appeal. Clementina’s lips twisted into a wry -smile. - -“All right,” she said. “Don’t worry. I’ll be civil.” - -So it came to pass that the two women again faced each other; Mrs. -Fontaine all daintiness and fragrance in her simple but exquisitely cut -fawn costume, the chaste contours of her face set off by an equally -simple ten-guinea black hat with an ostrich feather; Clementina, rugged, -powerful, untidy in her ill-fitting mustardy brown stuff skirt and -jacket, and heavy, businesslike shoes; and again between the two pairs -of eyes was the flicker of rapiers. And as soon as they were disengaged -and Clementina turned to Lady Louisa, she felt the other’s swift glance -travel from the soles of her feet to the rickety old rose in her hat. -There are moments when sex gives a woman eyes in the back of her head. -She turned round quickly and surprised the most elusive ghost of a smile -imaginable. For the first time in her life Clementina felt herself at a -disadvantage. She winced; then mentally, so as to speak, snapped her -fingers. What had she to do with the woman, or the woman with her? - -All the presentations having been made, Quixtus led the way to the -restaurant of the hotel. - -“Clementina,” said he, “may I ask you to concede the place of honour for -this occasion to my unexpected but most charming and most welcome -guest?” - -He indicated Etta still blushing into whose ear Tommy whispered that his -uncle always spoke like a penny book with the covers off. - -“My dear man,” said Clementina, “stick me anywhere, so long as it’s next -the baby and I can see that nobody feeds her on anchovies and lobster -salad.” - -She understood perfectly. The second seat of honour was Mrs. Fontaine’s. -She confounded Mrs. Fontaine. But what was Mrs. Fontaine to her or she -to Mrs. Fontaine? - -They took their places at the round table laid for eight. On Quixtus’s -right, Etta; on his left, Mrs. Fontaine; then Sheila, somewhat awed at -the grown-up luncheon party and squeezing Pinkie very tight so as to -give her courage; then Clementina with Huckaby as left-hand neighbour; -then Lady Louisa, and Tommy next to Etta. - -Clementina kept her word and behaved with great civility. Tommy politely -addressed Lady Louisa to the immense relief of Huckaby, who thus -temporarily freed from his Martha, plunged into eager conversation with -Clementina about her picture in the Salon, which had attracted -considerable attention. He did not tell her that, in order to refresh -his memory of the masterpiece, he had revisited the Grand Palais that -morning. He praised the technique. There was in it that hint of -Velasquez which so many portrait-painters tried for and so few got. This -pleased Clementina. Velasquez was the god of her art. One bright space -in her dreary youth was her life with Velasquez in Madrid. - -“I too once tried to know something about him,” said Huckaby. “I wrote a -monograph—a wretched compilation only—in a series of Lives of Great -Painters for a firm of publishers.” - -Hack work or not, the authorship of a Life of Velasquez was enough to -prejudice her in Huckaby’s favour. She learned, too, that he was a -sometime Fellow of Corpus Christi College, Cambridge, and a university -contemporary of Quixtus. Huckaby, finding her not the rough-tongued -virago from whom Quixtus had always shrunk, and of whom, at their one -meeting in the tea-room, he, himself, had not received the suavest -impression, but a frank, intelligent woman, gradually forgot his anxiety -to please and talked naturally as became a man of his scholarship. The -result was that Clementina thought him a pleasant and sensible fellow, -an opinion which she expressed later in the day to Quixtus. - -With regard to Mrs. Fontaine, her promise of ladylike behaviour was -harder to keep. All through the meal her dislike grew stronger. That -Quixtus should bend towards Etta, in his courtly fashion, and pay her -little gallant attentions, was but natural; indeed it was charming -courtesy towards Tommy’s betrothed; but that he should do the same to -Mrs. Fontaine and add to it a subtle shade of intimacy, was -exasperating. In the lady’s attitude, too, towards Quixtus, Clementina -perceived an air of proprietorship, a triumphant consciousness of her -powers of fascination. When Quixtus addressed a remark across the table -to Clementina, Mrs. Fontaine adroitly drew his attention to herself. Her -manner gave Clementina to understand that, although a frump of a -portrait painter might be an important person in a studio, yet in the -big world outside, the attractive woman had victorious pre-eminence. Now -Clementina was a woman, and one whose nature had lately gone through -unusual convulsions. She found it difficult to be polite to Mrs. -Fontaine. Only once was there a tiny eruption of the volcano. - -Sheila’s seat at the table being too low for her small body, Clementina -demanded a cushion from the maître d’hôtel. When, after some delay, a -waiter brought it, she was engaged in talk with Huckaby. She turned in -time to see Mrs. Fontaine about to lift Sheila from her seat. With a -sudden, rough movement she all but snatched the child out of the other’s -arms, and herself saw to Sheila’s sedentary comfort. - -She didn’t care what Quixtus or any one else thought of her. She was not -going to have this alien woman touch her child. The hussy flirtation -with Quixtus she could not prevent. But no woman born of woman should -come between her and the beloved child of her adoption. - -The incident passed almost unnoticed. The meal ended pleasantly. With -the exception of the two women in their mutual attitude, everybody was -surprisedly delighted with everybody else. Etta thought Quixtus the very -dearest thing, next to Admiral Concannon, that had ever a bald spot on -the top of his head. Clementina, in a fit of graciousness, gave Huckaby -the precious freedom of her studio. He could come and look at her -pictures whenever he liked. Sheila, made much of, went away duly -impressed with her new friends. Quixtus rubbed his hands at the success -of his party. The apparently irreconcilable were reconciled, -difficulties were vanishing rapidly, his path stretched out before him -in rosy smoothness. - -But Tommy’s quick eyes had noticed the snatching of Sheila. - -“Etta,” said he, “I’ve known Clementina intimately all these years, and -I find I know nothing at all about her.” - -“What do you mean?” asked the girl. - -“For the first time in my life,” said he, “I’ve just discovered that the -dear old thing is as jealous as a cat.” - - - - - CHAPTER XX - - -“My good children, I tell you we’ll go by train,” said Clementina, -putting her foot down. “I don’t care a brass button for the chauffeur’s -loneliness, and the prospect of his pining away on his journey back to -London leaves me cold.” - -She had exhausted the delights of the car of thirty-five million -dove-power, and was anxious to settle Sheila in Romney Place as quickly -as possible. - -“As for you two,” she added, “you have had as big a dose of each other -as is good for you.” - -Only one thing tempted her to linger in Paris—curiosity as to the -sentimental degree of the friendship between the lady of her disfavour -and Quixtus. That she was a new friend and not an old friend, the -exchange of a few remarks with the ingenuous Lady Louisa had enabled her -very soon to discover. Clementina looked askance on such violent -intimacies. Quixtus, for whose welfare now she felt herself, in an -absurd way, responsible, had not the constitution to stand them. The -lady might be highly connected and move in the selectest of circles, but -she had a hard edge, betraying what Clementina was pleased to call the -society hack; she was shallow, insincere; talked out of a hastily -stuffed memory instead of an intellect; she had the vulgarity of good -breeding, as noticeable a quality as the good-breeding of one in lowly -station; she was insufferable—an impossible companion for a man of -Quixtus’s mental equipment and sensitive organisation. There was -something else about her that baffled Clementina, and further whetted -her curiosity. - -Neither was Clementina perfect, nor did she look for perfection in this -compromise of a world. As an artist she demanded light and shade. “I -wouldn’t paint an angel’s portrait,” she said once, “for fifty thousand -pounds. And if an angel came to tea with me, the first thing I should do -would be to claw off his wings.” Now, no one could deny the light and -shade in Lena Fontaine. But there is such a thing as false chiaroscuro, -and it offends and perplexes the artist. Lena Fontaine offended and -perplexed Clementina. - -Again, Clementina, with regard to the chambers of her heart, was -somewhat house-proud. Very few were admitted; but once admitted, the -favoured mortal was welcome to stay there for ever. Now, behold an -exasperating aggravation. She had just received Quixtus in the very best -guest-room, and, instead of admiring it and taking his ease in it, here -he was hanging halfway out of window, all ears to a common hussy. If she -had an insane desire to pull him back by the coat-tails, who can blame -her? - -No sensible purpose being attainable, however, by lingering in Paris, -she gruffly sent temptation packing, and, with her brood under her wing, -took the noon train from the Gare du Nord on the following day. - -Quixtus was there, at the station, to see them off, his arms filled with -packages. As he could not raise his hat when the party approached, he -smiled apologetically, looking, according to Tommy, like Father -Christmas detected at Midsummer. There was a great bouquet of orchids -for Clementina (such a handy, useful thing on the journey from Paris to -London!) an enormous bonbonnière of sweets for Etta; a stupendous woolly -lamb for Sheila which, on something being done to its anatomy, opened -its mouth and gramaphonically chanted the “Jewel Song” from _Faust_; and -a gold watch for Tommy. - -The singing of the lamb, incautiously exploited on the platform, to -Sheila’s ecstasy, caused considerable dislocation of railway business. A -crowd collected to see the gaunt, scholarly Englishman holding the -apocalyptic beast in his arms, all intent on the rapture of the tiny -flower-like thing standing open-mouthed before him. Even porters forgot -to say “_Faites attention_,” and stopped their barrows, to listen to the -magic song and view the unprecedented spectacle. It was only when the -lamb bleated his last note that Quixtus became conscious of his -surroundings. - -“Good heavens!” said he. - -“Do it again,” said Sheila, in her clear contralto, whereat the -bystanders laughed. - -“Not for anything in the world, my dear. Tommy, take the infernal thing. -My dear,” said he, lifting Sheila in his arms, “if I know anything of -Tommy, he will have that tune going for the next seven hours.” - -She allowed herself to be carried in seraphic content to the entrance of -the car in which was the compartment reserved for the party. Tommy -carrying the lamb, Clementina and Etta followed. - -“That kid’s a wonder,” said Tommy. “She would creep into the heart of a -parsnip.” - -Clementina, to whom the remark was addressed, walked three or four steps -in silence. Then she said: - -“Tommy, if I hear you say a thing like that again, I’ll box your ears.” - -He stared at her in amazement. He had paid a spontaneous and sincere -tribute to the child over whom she had gone crazy. What more could she -want? She moved a step in advance, leaving him free to justify himself -with Etta, who agreed with him in the proposition that Clementina for -the last two days was in a very cranky mood. Very natural, the -proposition of the two innocents. How could they divine that the -moisture in Clementina’s eyes had nothing whatsoever to do with Sheila’s -appreciation of the vocal lamb or her readiness to be carried by -Quixtus? How could they divine that, at the possibility of which the -cruelty and insolence of youth would have caused them both to shriek -with inextinguishable laughter? And how was Tommy, generous-hearted lad -that he was, to know that this one unperceptive speech of his sent him -hurtling out of the land of Romance down to common earth? Henceforward -Tommy, whilst retaining his chamber in Clementina’s heart, was to walk -in and out just as he chose. Not the tiniest pang was he again to cause -her. But what could Tommy know—what can you or I or any other male -thing ever born know of a woman? We walk, good easy men; with confident -and careless tread through the familiar garden, and then suddenly terra -firma miraculously ceases to exist, and head-over-heels we go down a -precipice. How came it that we were unaware of its existence? _Mystère!_ -Who could interpret the soul of La Giaconda? Leonardo da Vinci least of -all. It is all very well to give a man a vote; he is a transparent -animal, and you know the way the dunderhead is going to use it; but the -incalculable and pyrotechnic way in which women will use it will make -humanity blink. Let us therefore pardon Tommy for staring in amazement -at Clementina. He sought refuge in Etta. From Scylla, perhaps, to -Charybdis; but for the present, Charybdis sat smiling under her -fig-tree, the most innocent and bewitching monster in the world. - -Leaving the three children in the compartment, Clementina and Quixtus -walked, for the last few moments before the train started, up and down -the platform. - -“I suppose you’ll soon be coming back to London?” said Clementina. - -“I think so,” said he. “Now that the Grand Prix is over Paris is -emptying rapidly.” - -“Parrot!” thought Clementina, once more confounding the instructress; -but she said blandly; “What difference in the world can it make to you -whether Paris is empty or not?” - -He smiled good-naturedly. “To tell the honest truth, none. Yes. I must -be getting home again.” - -“Of course there’ll be a certain amount of worry over Hammersley’s -affairs,” she said; “but I hope you’ve got something else to do to -occupy your mind.” - -“I want to settle down to systematic work,” replied Quixtus. - -“What kind of work?” - -“Well,” said he, with an apologetic air, “I mean to extend my little -handbook on ‘The Household Arts of the Neolithic Age’ into an -authoritative and comprehensive treatise. I’ve been gathering material -for years. I’m anxious to begin.” - -“Begin to-morrow,” said Clementina. “And whenever you feel lonely come -and read bits of it to Sheila and me.” - -And thus came about the surprising and monstrous alliance between -Clementina and Prehistoric Man. Dead men’s jawbones had some use after -all. - -“_En voiture!_” cried the guard. - -“Good-bye, my dear Clementina,” said Quixtus, “we have had a memorable -meeting.” - -“We have, indeed. You are sending away three very happy people.” - -“Why not four?” - -But she only smiled wryly and said: “Good-bye, God bless you. And keep -out of mischief,” and clambered into the train. - -The train began to move, to the faint strains of the “Jewel Song” in -_Faust_, and Sheila blew him kisses from the carriage window. He -responded until the little white face disappeared. Then he thought of -Clementina. - -“The very best, but the most enigmatic woman in the world,” said he. - -Which was a very sweeping statement for a man of his scientific -accuracy. - -Entirely ignorant of the word of the enigma, he went back to the -spotless flower of insulted womanhood, who took him off to lunch with -her French friends. She welcomed his undivided homage. That fishfag of a -creature, as she characterised Clementina in conversation with Lady -Louisa, made her feel uncomfortable. Even now that she had gone, the -problem of Quixtus’s removal from her sphere of influence remained. The -child was the stake to which he was fettered within that sphere. Could -she break the chains? Therein seemed to lie the only solution—unless by -audacity and adroitness she uprooted the stake and carried it, with -Quixtus, chains and all, into her own territory. - -She had a talk after lunch with Huckaby. The luncheon-party had broken -up into groups of two or three, who wandered about the cool enclosure of -the Bois de Boulogne restaurant where the feast had been given, and, -half by chance, half by design, the two had joined company. Their -conversation on the evening of Quixtus’s departure from Paris had deeply -affected their mutual relations. Each felt conscious of presenting a -less tarnished front to the other, and each, not hypocritically, began -to assume a little halo of virtue in the pathetic hope that the other -would be impressed by its growing radiance. During the few days of -Quixtus’s absence they had become friends and exchanged confidences. -Huckaby convinced her of the sincerity of his desire to reform. He -described his life. He had worked when work came his way—but work has a -curious habit of shrinking from the drunkard’s way; a bit of teaching, a -bit of free-lance journalism, a bit of hack compilation in the British -Museum; he had borrowed far and wide; he had not been over-scrupulous on -the point of financial honour. Hunger had driven him. Lena Fontaine -shivered at the horrors through which he had struggled. All he desired -was cleanliness in life and body and surroundings. She understood. -Material cleanliness had been and would be hers; but cleanliness of life -she yearned for as much as he did. But for him, the man, with the given -boon of honourable employment, it was an easy matter. For her, the -woman, tired and soul-sick, what avenue lay open? She, in her turn, told -him of incidents in her career at which he shuddered. “Throw it up, -throw it up,” he counselled. She smiled bitterly. What could be the end -of the bird of prey who assumed the habits of the dove? She could marry, -he replied, before it was too late. Marry, ay! But whom? She had not -dared confide to him her hope. So close, however, being their relations, -Huckaby had not failed to acquaint her with the important scope of his -conversation with Quixtus the day before. Quixtus’s changed demeanour, -obvious to her at once, confirmed his announcement. She welcomed it with -more joy than Huckaby could appreciate. For behind the pity that had -paralysed beak and talon, the new-born hope and the curious liking she -had conceived for the mild, crazy gentleman, stalked the instinctive -aversion which the sane feel towards those whose wits have gone ever so -little astray. The news had come as an immense relief. Now she could -meet him on normal ground. All was fair. - -They found two chairs by a little table under a tree, at the back of the -Châlet Restaurant and secluded from the gaiety and laughter of the -front. Nothing human was in sight save, through the tall, masking -acacias and shrubs, the white gleams of cooks and hurrying, aproned -waiters. - -“Let us sit,” she said. “How good it is to get a little cool and quiet. -This _vie de cabaret_ is getting on my nerves. I’m weary to death of -it.” - -Huckaby laughed. “It’s still enough novelty to me to be pleasant.” - -She accepted a cigarette. They smoked for a while. - -“How’s goodness getting on?” she asked. - -“By leaps and bounds daily. I’m becoming a fanatical believer in the -copy-book. I’m virtuous. I’m happy. Industry is a virtue. My virtue is -to be rewarded by industry. Therefore virtue is its own reward.” - -“What industry?” - -“I’m going to collaborate with our friend in the new book he’s talking -about,” replied Huckaby, with a surviving touch of boastfulness. “There -is also a possibility of my taking over the secretaryship of the -Anthropological Society.” - -“You’re lucky,” said Lena Fontaine. - -“How’s goodness with you?” - -“The usual slump. Shares going dirt cheap. No one seems to have any use -for virtue in a woman.” - -“Husbands seem to have, as I’ve already suggested to you.” - -“Have you any particular husband to suggest?” - -He cast on her a glance of admiration, for in her outward seeming she -was an object for any man’s forgivable desire, and he said in a tone not -wholly of banter: - -“The humble individual in front of you would have no chance, I suppose?” - -She laughed. “None whatever.” - -“You’ll pardon my presumption in making the offer; but could I, _en -galant homme_, do otherwise?” - -“No,” she replied, good-humouredly, “you couldn’t. If you had five -thousand a year, it would give me to think, for you’re not -unsympathetic. But as you haven’t, I’ve no use for you—as a husband, -_bien entendu_.” - -It was a jest. They laughed. Presently a cloud obscured the sunshine of -her laughter. She leaned over the table. - -“Eustace Huckaby, are you or are you not my friend?” - -For once in her dealings with a man whose goodwill she desperately -craved, she was sincere. She dropped the conscious play of glance and -tone; but she forgot the liquid splendour of her eyes and the dangerous -nearness of her face to his. - -“Your friend?” he cried, laying his hand on her wrist. “Can you doubt -it? I am indeed. I swear it.” - -“Do you know why I’m staying here—apparently wasting my time?” - -“I’ve supposed something was up; but my supposition seemed too absurd!” - -“Why absurd?” - -“Quixtus as a husband?” - -“Yes. Why not?” - -He released her wrist and fell back in his chair. He frowned and tugged -at his beard. - -“Do you care for him?” - -“Yes. In a way. I sincerely do. If you mean—have I fallen desperately -in love with him?—well, I haven’t. That would be absurd. It’s not my -habit to fall in love.” - -“What would you get out of it?” - -She made an impatient gesture. “Rest. Peace. Happiness. He’s a wealthy -man and would give me all the comfort I need. I couldn’t face poverty. -And he would be kind to me.” - -“And he—pardon the brutality of my question—what would he get out of -it?” - -“I’m a lady, after all,” she said, “and I know how to run a large -house—and as a woman I’m not unattractive. And I’d run straight. -Temperamentally I am straight. That’s frank. Whatever impulses I’ve had -within me with regard to running off the rails have been the other way. -Oh, God, yes,” she added, with a little shiver and averted eyes, “I’d -run straight.” - -“What about ghosts of the past rising up and queering things?” - -“I’d take my chance. I’ve bluffed myself out of tight places already, -and I could bluff again.” - -Huckaby lit another cigarette. “He looks on you as a spotless angel of -purity,” said he. “If he married you on that assumption, and learned -things afterwards, there would be the devil to pay. He’s been hit like -that already, and he went off his head. I shouldn’t like him to have -another experience. Why not tell him something—just a little?” - -She raised both hands in nervous protest. “Oh, no, no. The woman who -does that is a fool. It never comes off. Let him take me for what he -thinks I am, and I’ll see that I remain so. Trust me. It will be all -right. You’re the only impediment.” - -“I?” - -“Of course. You have it in your power to give me away at any time. -That’s why I asked you whether you were my friend.” - -Huckaby tugged at his beard, and pondered deeply. He meant, with all the -fresh energy of new resolve, to be loyal to Quixtus. But how could he -stand in the way of a woman seeking salvation? Moral sense, however, is -a plant of gradual growth. Huckaby’s as yet was not adequate to the -solution of the perplexing problem. Lena Fontaine held out her hand, -palm upward, across the table. - -“Speak,” she said. - -He took her hand and pressed it. - -“I’ll be your friend in this,” said he. - -She thanked him with her eyes, and rose. - -“Let us go back to the others, or they’ll think we’re having a horrible -flirtation.” - -On this and on the succeeding days she discovered a subtle change in -Quixtus’s attitude towards her. His manner had grown, if possible, more -courteous; it betrayed a more delicate admiration, a more graceful -homage to the beautiful and charming woman. Before his Marseilles visit -she had found it an easy task to appeal to the fool that grins in every -man. A trick of eyes and voice was enough to set him love-making in what -she had termed the Quixtine manner. Now the task was more difficult. She -found herself confronted by a greater sensitiveness that did not respond -to the obvious invitation. He was up in the clouds, more chivalrous, -more idealistic. With a sigh, she gathered her skirts together and -climbed to the higher plane. - -And all this on Quixtus’s part was sheer remorse—atonement for the -unspeakable insult. The thought of having dared to make coarse love to -this exquisite creature filled him with horrified dismay. That the lady -had appeared rather to like the coarse love-making he did not stop to -consider. Certainly, in his crazy exultation, he had proclaimed her a -fruit ripe to his hand, but that was only an additional vulgarity which -had stained that peculiar phase of his being. The result of the reaction -was to accentuate the reverential conception of woman, which, by reason -of a temperament dreamy and poetic and of a scholarly life remote from -the disillusionising conflicts of sex, he had always entertained. He -comported himself therefore towards her with scrupulous delicacy, -resolved that not a word or intonation that could be construed into an -affront should ever pass his lips. - -The fine weather broke. Torrential rains swept Paris. The meteorologists -talked learnedly about cyclonic disturbances in the Atlantic which would -affect the weather adversely for some time to come. Lena Fontaine began -to reflect. Summer Paris in rain is no place for junketing, even on the -high planes. It offers to the visitor nothing but the boredom of hotel -and restaurant. She knew the elementary axiom of sex relations, that the -woman who bores a man is lost. The high planes were all right when you -looked down from them on charming objective things; but, after all, a -man has to be amused, and fun on the high planes is a humour dangerously -attenuated. She announced an immediate departure from Paris. - -“If you would accept the escort of Huckaby and myself, we should be -honoured,” said Quixtus. “Unless of course we should be in the way.” - -She laughed. “My dear friend, did you ever hear of men being in the way -when women were travelling? A lone woman is never more conspicuously -lonesome than _en voyage_. All the other women around who have men to -look after them look at one with a kind of patronising pity, as though -they said; ‘Poor thing that can’t rake up a man from anywhere.’ And it -makes one want to scratch.” - -“Does it really?” smiled Quixtus. - -“It does.” She laughed again and sighed. “A lone woman has much to put -up with. Malicious tongues not the least.” - -“My dear Mrs. Fontaine,” said he, “what tongue could be so malicious as -to speak evil of you?” - -“There are thousands in this gossipy world. Our little friendship and -_camaraderie_ of the last fortnight—sweetness and innocence itself—who -knows what misinterpretation slanderers might put on it?” - -Quixtus flushed, and drew his gaunt body to its full height. “I’m not -pugilistic by habit,” said he, “but if any man made such an insinuation, -I should knock him down.” - -“It would be more likely a woman.” - -“Then,” said he, “I think I could manage to convey to her, without -brutality, that she was a disgrace to her sex.” - -She fluttered a glance at him. “I should like to have you always as a -champion.” - -“If I understand the word gentleman aright,” said Quixtus, “he is always -the champion of the unprotected woman.” - -His tone assured her that this Early-Victorian sentiment was not mere -gallantry. He meant it, indignant still at the idea of misconstruction -of their friendship. - -“I happen to be a woman,” she said, “and seek the particular rather than -the general. I said _my_ champion, Dr. Quixtus. Now don’t say that the -greater includes the less, or I shall fall through the floor.” - -He was too much in earnest to smile with her in her coquetry. - -“Mrs. Fontaine,” said he, with a bow, “no one will ever dare speak evil -of you in my presence.” - -She rose—they were sitting in the lounge. - -“Thank you,” she said, falling in with his earnest mood. “Thank you. I -shall go back to London with a light heart.” - -And like a wise woman, she cut short the conversation, and went upstairs -to dress for dinner. - - - - - CHAPTER XXI - - -July brought in halcyon days for everybody. - -They were halcyon days for Clementina. There were neglected portraits to -complete, new sitters for whom to squeeze in appointments, a host of -stimulating things, not the least of which was the beloved atmosphere, -half-turpentine, half-poetry, of the studio. Only the painter can know -the delight of the mere feel of the long-forsaken brush, and the sight -of the blobs of colour oozing out from the tubes on to the palette. Most -of us, returning to toil after holiday, sigh over departed joys. To the -painter the joy of getting back to his easel is worth all the joys that -have departed. Clementina plunged into work as a long-stranded duck -plunges into water. By rising at dawn, a practice contrary to her habit, -she managed to keep pace with her work and to attend to the various -affairs which her new responsibilities entailed. Her days were filled to -overflowing, and filled with extraordinary happiness. A nurse was -engaged for Sheila, a kind and buxom widow who also found herself living -in halcyon days. She could do practically whatever she liked, as her -charge was seldom in her company. The child had her being in the studio, -playing happily and quietly in a corner, thus realising Clementina’s -dream, or watching her paint, with great, wondering eyes. The process -fascinated her. She would sit for an hour at a time, good as gold, -absorbed in the magic of the brush-strokes, clasping the dingy Pinkie -tight against her bosom. Tommy appeared one day with a box of paints, a -miniature easel, and a great mass of uncoloured fashion-plates of -beautiful ladies in gorgeous raiment. A lesson or two inspired Sheila -with artistic zeal, so that often a sitter would come upon the two of -them painting breathlessly, Clementina screwing up her eyes, darting -backwards and forwards to her canvas, and the dainty child seated on a -milking-stool and earnestly making animated rainbows of the beautiful -ladies in the fashion-plates. - -Then there was the tedious process of obtaining probate of Hammersley’s -will. Luckily, he had wound up all his affairs in Shanghai, to the -common satisfaction of himself and his London house, so that no -complications arose from the latter quarter. Indeed, the firm gave the -executors its cordial assistance. But the London house had to be -interviewed, and lawyers had to be interviewed, and Quixtus and all -kinds of other people, and papers had to be read and signed, and -affidavits to be made, and head-splitting intricacies of business and -investments to be mastered. All this ate up many of the sunny hours. - -Tommy and Etta had halcyon days of their own, which, but by the free use -of curmudgeonly roughness, would have merged into Clementina’s. Etta had -cajoled an infuriated admiral, raving round the room after a horsewhip, -into a stern parent who consented to receive Tommy, explicitly reserving -to himself the right to throw him out of window should the young man not -take his fancy. Tommy called and was allowed to depart peacefully by the -front door. Then Quixtus; incited thereto by Tommy, called upon the -Admiral with the awful solemnity of a father in a French play, with the -result that Tommy was invited to dinner at the Admiral’s and given as -much excellent old port as he could stand. After which the Admiral -called on Clementina, whom he had not met before. During the throes of -horsewhip hunting he had threatened to visit her there and then and give -her a piece of his mind—which at that moment was more like a hunk of -molten lava than anything else. But the arts and wiles of Etta had -prevailed so that the above scheduled sequence of events had been -observed. Clementina, caught in the middle of a hot afternoon’s -painting, received him, bedaubed and bedraggled, in the studio, whose -chaos happened to be that day more than usually confounded. The Admiral, -accustomed to the point-device females of his world, and making the -spick and span of the quarter-deck a matter of common morality in -material surroundings, went from Romney Place an obfuscated man. - -“I can’t make your friend out,” he said to Etta. “I don’t mind telling -you that if I had seen her, I should never have allowed you to visit -her. I found her looking more like a professional rabbit-skinner than a -lady, and when I went to sit down I had to clear away a horrid plate of -half-finished cold pie, by George, from the chair. She contradicted me -flatly in everything I said about you—as if I didn’t know my own -child—and filled me up with advice.” - -“And wasn’t it good, dear?” - -“No advice is ever good. Like Nebuchadnezzar’s food, it may be wholesome -but it isn’t good. And then she turned round and talked the most -downright common sense about women I’ve ever heard a woman utter. And -then, by Jove, I don’t know how it happened—I never talk shop, you -know——” - -“Of course you don’t, dear, never,” said Etta. - -“Of course I don’t—but somehow we got on to the subject, and she showed -a more intelligent appreciation of the state of naval affairs than any -man I’ve met for a long time! As for those superficial, theoretical -donkeys at the Club——” - -“And what else, darling?” said Etta, who had often heard about the -donkeys, but now was dying to hear about Clementina. “Do tell me what -she talked about. She must have talked about me. Didn’t she?” - -“About you! I’ve told you.” He took her chin in his hand—she was -sitting on a footstool, her arms about his knee. - -“You can’t have told me everything, dear.” - -“I think she informed me that her selection of a husband for you was a -damned sight better than mine—I beg your pardon, my dear, she didn’t -say ‘damned’—and then the little girl you’re always talking of came in, -and the rabbit-skinner seemed to turn into an ordinary sort of woman and -took me up, and, in a way, threw me down on the floor to play with the -child.” - -“What did you play at, dad? When I was little you used to pretend to -swallow a fork. Did you swallow a fork?” - -The iron features relaxed into a smile. - -“I did, my dear, and it was the cold pie fork, wiped on a bit of -newspaper. And last of all, what do you think she said?” - -“No one on earth could guess, dear, what Clementina might have said.” - -“She actually asked me to sit for a crayon sketch. Said my face was -interesting to her as an artist, and she would like to make a study of -it for her own pleasure. Now what pleasure could anybody on earth find -in looking at my ugly old mug?” - -“But, dear, you have a most beautiful mug,” cried Etta. “I don’t mean -beautiful like the photographs of popular actors—but full of strength -and character—just the fine face that appeals to the artist.” - -“Do you think so?” asked the Admiral. - -“I’m sure.” She ran to a little table and brought a Florentine mirror. -“Look.” - -He looked. Instinctively the man of sixty-five touched the -finely-curving grizzled hair about his temples. - -“You’re a silly child,” said he. - -She kissed him. “Now confess. You had the goodest of good times with -Clementina this afternoon.” - -“I don’t mind owning,” said the Admiral, “that I found her a most -intelligent woman.” - -And that is the way that all of us sons of Adam, even Admirals of the -British Fleet, can be beguiled by the daughters of Eve. - -Halcyon days were they for Quixtus, for whom London wore an entirely -different aspect from the Aceldama he had left. Instead of its streets -and squares stretching out before him as the scene of potential devilry, -it smiled upon him as the centre of manifold pleasant interests. He had -the great work to attack, the final picture that mortal knowledge could -draw of that far off, haunting phase of human life before the startling -use of iron was known to mankind. It was not to be a dull catalogue of -dead things. The dead things, a million facts, were to be the skeleton -on which he would build his great vivid flesh-and-blood story—the dream -of his life, which only now did he feel the vital impulse to realise. He -had his club and his cronies, harmless folk, beneath whose mild exterior -he no longer divined horrible corruption. From them all he received -congratulations on his altered mien. The change had done him good. He -was looking ten years younger. Some chaffed him, after the way of men. -Wonderful place, Paris. He found a stimulating interest in his new -responsibilities. Vestiges of his perfunctory legal training remained -and enabled him to unravel simple complications in the Hammersley -affairs, much to Clementina’s admiration and his own satisfaction. He -discovered a pleasure once more in the occasional society of Tommy, and -concerned himself seriously with his love-making and his painting. He -spoke of him to Dawkins, the rich donor of the Anthropological Society -portrait, to whom Tommy had alluded with such disrespect to Clementina. -Dawkins visited Tommy’s studio and walked away with a couple of -pictures, after having paid such a price as to make the young man regard -him as a fairy godfather in vast white waistcoat and baggy trousers. -Quixtus also entertained Tommy and Etta at lunch at the Carlton, Mrs. -Fontaine completing the quartette. “I should have liked it better,” said -Clementina, when she heard of the incident (as she heard all that -happened to the lovers), “I should have liked it better if he hadn’t -brought Mrs. Fontaine into it.” Whereat Tommy winked at Etta, unbeknown -to Clementina. - -Quixtus’s friendship with the spotless flower of womanhood continued. He -had tea with her in her prettily-furnished little house in Pont Street, -where he met several of her acquaintances, people of unquestionable -position in the London world, and attended one or two receptions and -even a dance at which she was present. Very skilfully she drew him into -her circle and adroitly played him in public as a serious aspirant to -her spotless hand. There were many who called him the variegated -synonyms of a fool, for to hard-bitten worldlings few illusions are left -concerning a woman like Lena Fontaine; but they shrugged their shoulders -cynically, and viewed the capture with amused interest. Only the most -jaded complained. If she wanted to give them a sensation, why did she -not go a step further and lead about a bishop on her string? But these -uncharitable remarks did not reach Quixtus’s ears. The word went round -that he was a man of distinguished scientific position—whether he was a -metallurgist or a brain specialist no one at the tired end of the London -season either knew or cared to know—and, his courtly and scholarly -demeanour confirming the rumour, the corner of Vanity Fair in which Lena -Fontaine fought to hold her position paid him considerable deference. -The flattery of the frivolous pleased him, as it has pleased many a -good, simple man before him. He thought Mrs. Fontaine’s friends very -charming, though perhaps not over-intellectual people. He went among -them, however, scarce knowing why. A card of invitation would come by -post from Lady Anything, whom he had once met. Before he had time to -obey his first impulse and decline, Lena Fontaine’s voice would be heard -over the telephone. - -“Are you going to Lady Anything’s on Friday?” - -“I don’t think so.” - -“She has asked you, I know. I’m going.” - -“Oh?” - -“Do come. Lady Anything tells me she has got some interesting people to -meet you; and I shall be so miserable if you’re not there.” - -Who was he to cause misery to the spotless lady? The victim yielded, and -blandly unconscious of feminine guile was paraded before the interesting -people as the latest and most lasting conquest of Lena Fontaine’s bow -and spear. - -August plans were discussed. She was thinking of Dinard. What was -Quixtus proposing to do? He had not considered the question. Had -contemplated work in London. She held up her hands. London in August! -How could he exist in the stuffy place? He needed a real holiday. - -“To tell you the truth, I don’t know where to go,” said he. - -Very delicately she suggested Dinard. He objected in his shy way. Dinard -was the haunt of fashion and frivolity. - -“I should walk about the place like a daw among peacocks,” said he. - -“But why should you be a daw? Why not do a little peacocking? Colour in -life would be good for you. And I would undertake to keep your feathers -trim.” - -He smiled, half-allured, half-repelled by the idea of strutting among -such gay birds. To refuse the spotless lady’s request downright was an -act of discourtesy of which he was incapable. He gave a vague and -qualified assent to the proposal, which she did not then tempt him to -make more definite. Content with her progress, she bided her time. - -Quixtus had little leisure to reflect on the sceptical attitude towards -humanity which, theoretically, he still maintained. In addition to all -these hour-absorbing interests, Sheila began to occupy a considerable -place in his life. Sometimes he would call at Romney Place; sometimes -Clementina would bring the child to Russell Square; sometimes, when -Clementina was too busy, Sheila came in the nurse’s charge. He cleared -out a large room at the top of the house, which was to be Sheila’s -nursery when she took up her quarters there. It needed re-papering, -re-carpeting, re-furnishing, he decided. Nothing like cheerful -surroundings for impressionable childhood. With this in view, he carried -off Sheila one day to a firm of wall-paper dealers, so that she could -choose a pattern for herself. Sheila sat solemnly on the sofa by his -side while the polite assistant turned over great strips of paper. At -last she decided. A bewildering number of parrots to the square yard, -all with red bodies and blue tails, darting about among green foliage on -which pink roses grew miraculously, was the chosen design. Quixtus -hesitated; but Sheila was firm. They proudly took home a strip to try -against the wall. Clementina, hearing from Sheila of her exploit, rushed -up the next afternoon to Russell Square, and blinked her eyes before the -dazzling thing. - -“It’s only you, Ephraim, that could have taken a child of five to select -wall-papers.” - -“I will own that the result is disastrous,” he said, ruefully. “But she -set her heart upon it.” - -She sighed. “You’re two babies together. I see I’ve got to fix up that -nursery myself.” She looked at him with a woman’s delicious pity. What -could a lone man know of the fitting up of nurseries? - -“You hear what your auntie says?” he asked—the child was sitting on his -knee. “We’re in disgrace.” - -“If you’re in disgrace you go in the corner,” said Sheila. - -“Let us go in the corner, then.” - -“If you hold me very tight,” said Sheila. - -But Clementina came up and forgave them, and kissed the little face -peeping over Quixtus’s shoulder. - -“It does my heart good to see you with her,” she cried, with rare -demonstrativeness. - -It was true. Sheila’s sweet ways with Tommy and Etta caused her ever so -little a pang of jealousy. Her increasing fondness for Quixtus made -Clementina thrill with pleasure. You may say that Clementina, -essentially just, was scrupulous not to encroach upon Quixtus’s legal -half-share in the child’s esteem. But a sense of justice is not an -emotion. And it was emotion, silly, feminine, romantic emotion, which -she did not try to explain to herself, that filled her eyes with -moisture whenever she saw the two happy together. - -She laid her hand upon the fair hair. - -“Do you love your Uncle Ephim?” - -“I adore him,” said Sheila. - -“Your uncle fully reciprocates the sentiment, my dear,” said Quixtus, -his hand also instinctively rising to caress the hair. - -So the hands of the guardians touched. Clementina withdrew hers and -turned away quickly, so that he should not see the flush that sprang -into her face. - -“We must be getting home now, dear,” she said. “Auntie is wasting -precious daylight.” And with her old abruptness she left him. - -He followed her down the stairs. “My dear Clementina,” said he, standing -bareheaded at his front door, “I wonder whether you realise how Sheila -and yourself light up this dull old house for me.” - -She sniffed scornfully. “_I_ light up?” - -“_You_,” said he, with smiling emphasis. - -She looked at him queerly for an instant, and then went her way. - -The next time he saw her, a few days afterwards, one late afternoon, -when she was tired after a heavy day’s painting, she railed at him, with -a return of her old biting manner. He looked surprised and pained. She -relented. - -“Forgive me, my good Ephraim,” she said, “but I’ve the rough luck to be -a woman. No man alive can ever conjecture what a devil of a thing that -is to be.” - -He smiled. “You mustn’t overwork,” said he. “A woman hasn’t the brute -strength of a man.” - -“You’re delicious!” she said. - -But she was kind—exceedingly kind, to him thereafter, and fitted up the -nursery in a way that made the two babies beam with delight. So Quixtus -lived halcyon days. - -In spite of qualms of conscience, these were halcyon days for Huckaby. -He had already entered on his duties as Quixtus’s assistant in the -preparation of the monumental work on “The Household Arts of the -Neolithic Age.” There were hundreds of marked passages in books to -transcribe, with accurate notes of reference, hundreds of learned -periodicals in all languages with articles bearing on the subject to be -condensed and indexed, thousands of notes of Quixtus’s to be collated, -thousands of photographs and drawings to be classified. Never having -been admitted into the inner factory of his patron’s work, he was -astonished at the enormous amount of material, the evidence of the -unsuspected patient labour of years. He began to feel a new respect for -Quixtus, whom hitherto he had regarded as a dilettante. Of course, he -knew that Quixtus had a European reputation. He had not taken the -reputation seriously. Like Clementina, he had been wont to scoff at -prehistoric man. Now he realised for the first time that a man cannot -gain a European reputation in any branch of human activity without -paying the price in toil; that there are qualities of energy, brain and -will inherent in any man who takes front rank; that there must be a -calm, infinite thoroughness in his work which is beyond the power of the -smaller man. No wonder his French colleagues called Quixtus _cher -maître_, and deferred to his judgment. In his workroom Quixtus was a -great man, and Huckaby, seeing him now in his workroom; recognised the -fact. - -The prospects of his appointment as secretary to the Anthropological -Society were also fair. Hitherto the responsibilities of that position -had been borne by one of the members in an honorary capacity, a paid and -unimportant underling performing the clerical duties. But for the last -year or so the operations of the society having extended, the -secretaryship had become too great a tax on the time of any unpaid and -no matter how enthusiastic gentleman. The Council therefore had -practically determined on the appointment of a salaried secretary, and -were much impressed by the qualifications of the President’s nominee. A -secretary who can print below his name on official papers the fact that -he is a Master of Arts and late Fellow of his College lends distinction -to any learned society. A snuffy, seedy, and crotchety member had been -put forward as an opposition candidate. But his chances were small. -Huckaby’s star was in the ascendant. - -It was a happy day for him when he moved his books and few other -belongings from the evil garret where he had lived to modest but -cheerful lodgings near Russell Square. He looked for the last time -around the room which had been the scene of so many degradations, of so -many despairs, of so many torturings of soul. All that was a part of his -past life; the greasy wall-paper, the rickety deal furniture, the -filth-sodden, ragged carpet, the slimy soot on the window-sill that had -crept in from the circumambient chimney-stacks through the ill-fitting -window-sash, the narrow, rank bed—all that had been part and parcel of -his being. The familiar smell of uncared-for, unclean human lives -saturated the house. He shuddered and slammed the door and tore down the -stairs. Never again! Never again, so help him God! A short while -afterwards he was busy arranging his books in the bright, clean -sitting-room of his new lodgings, and a neat maid in white cap, cuffs, -and apron brought in afternoon tea, which she disposed in decent fashion -on a little table. When she had gone, he stood and looked down upon the -dainty array. He realised that henceforward this was his home. He picked -up from a plate a little three-cornered watercress sandwich; but instead -of eating it, he stared at it, and the tears rolled down his face. - -One day, however, towards the end of July, was marked by a black cloud. -His day’s work being over he was walking with light step to his -lodgings, when he saw in the distance, awaiting him, almost on his -doorstep, the sinister forms of Billiter and Vandermeer. His first -impulse was to turn and flee; but they had already caught sight of him -and were advancing to meet him. He went on. - -“Hullo, old friend,” said Billiter, in a beery voice. “So we’ve tracked -you down, eh? We called at the old place, and found you had gone and -left no address. Thought you would give us the slip, eh?” - -He still wore the costume in which he had gone racing with Quixtus; but -after constant use it had begun to look shabby. His linen was of the -dingiest. His face had grown more bloated. Vandermeer, pinched, foxy, -and rusty, thrust his hard felt hat to the back of his head, and, hands -on hips, looked threateningly at Huckaby. - -“I suppose you know you’ve been playing a low-down game.” - -“I know nothing of the sort,” said Huckaby. - -“Oh, don’t you,” said Billiter. “Look at you and look at us. Who’s been -getting all the fat, and who all the lean? We have something to say to -you, old friend, so let’s get indoors and have it out between us.” - -He made a move, accompanied by Vandermeer, towards the front door. But -Huckaby checked them, stricken with sudden revolt. His past life should -not defile the sanctity of his new home. He would not admit them across -his threshold. - -“No,” said he. “Whatever we’ve got to say to one another can be said -here.” - -“All right,” said Vandermeer, sulkily. “There’s a quiet pub at the -corner.” - -“I’ve chucked pubs,” said Huckaby. - -“Come off it,” sneered Billiter. “At any rate, you can stand a round of -drinks.” - -“I’ve chucked drink, too,” said Huckaby. “I’ve sworn off. I’ll never -touch a drop of liquor as long as I live—and I advise you fellows to do -the same.” - -They burst out laughing, asked him for tickets for his next temperance -lecture, and then began to abuse him after the manner of their kind. - -“This is a decent street,” said Huckaby, “so please don’t make a row.” - -“We’re not making any row,” cried Billiter. “We only want our share of -the money.” - -“What money? Didn’t I write and tell you the whole thing was off? She -couldn’t stick it, and neither could I. Quixtus hasn’t given her one -penny piece.” - -“We’ll see what the lady has to say about that,” growled Billiter. - -“You’re going to leave that lady alone henceforth and for ever,” said -Huckaby, with a new ring of authority in his voice. - -The others sneered. Since when had Huckaby constituted himself squire of -dames? Billiter, with profane asseveration, would do exactly what he -chose. Wasn’t it his scheme? He deserved his share. Vandermeer gloomily -reminded him that he had cast doubts from the first on Huckaby’s -probity. He had put them in the cart in fine fashion. They refused to -believe in Lena Fontaine’s squeamishness. Huckaby grew impatient. - -“Haven’t you each received a letter from Quixtus’s solicitors? Haven’t -you each signed an agreement not to worry him—on forfeiture of your -allowance? Now I swear to God that if either of you molest her, you’ll -be molesting Quixtus. I’ll jolly well see to that. She’ll tell me, and -I’ll tell him—and bang! goes the monthly money.” - -Vandermeer’s shrewd wits began to work. - -“Molest her and we molest Quixtus? Oho! Is that the little game? She’s -going to marry him, eh?” - -“If she does, what the blazes has that got to do with you?” Huckaby -cried, fiercely. “You just let the woman alone. You’ve got a damned -sight more out of Quixtus than you ever expected, and you ought to be -satisfied.” - -“We ought to get more,” said Billiter, “considering what we’ve done for -him.” - -“You won’t,” said Huckaby, and seeing that they both still regarded -Quixtus as a subject for further exploitation, “Let me tell you -something,” said he, “a few simple facts that alter the situation -completely. Let us take a turn down the street.” - -And as they walked, he told them briefly of Hammersley’s death and the -Marseilles visit and the return of Quixtus, a changed man, with -Clementina and the child. The bee, on which they had reckoned for honey, -had left Quixtus’s bonnet. There was no more Bedlamite talk about -wickedness. Their occupation as evil counsellors had gone for ever. They -had better accept thankfully what they had, and disappear. Any action -directed against either Quixtus or Lena Fontaine would automatically -bring about the demise of the goose with the golden eggs. At last he -convinced them of the futility of blackmail; but they parted from him, -each with a burning sense of wrong. Lena Fontaine and Huckaby had put -them in the cart. They were left, they were done, they were stung—they -were all things that slang has invented to describe the position of men -deceived by those in whom they trusted. - -“And she’s going to marry him,” said Vandermeer. - -“Huckaby didn’t say so,” replied Billiter. - -“He didn’t contradict it. She’s going to marry him, and you bet that son -of a pawn-ticket will get his commission.” - -“Well, we can’t help ourselves,” said Billiter. - -“H’m!” said Vandermeer, darkly. - -Huckaby, conscious of victory, went home, and taking an old student’s -text of the “Phædo” from his shelves, abstracted his mind from the -sordid happenings of the modern world. - -It was a day or two after this adventure of Huckaby’s that Quixtus -informed Clementina of his intention of giving a dinner-party, in honour -of Tommy and Etta’s engagement. She commended the project; a nice little -intimate dinner—— - -“I’m afraid I’m planning rather a large affair,” said he, -apologetically. “A party of about twenty people.” - -“Lord save us!” cried Clementina, “where are you going to dig them up -from?” - -He stretched out his long, thin legs. They were sitting on a bench in -the gardens of Russell Square, Sheila having strayed a few yards to -investigate the contents of a perambulator in charge of a smiling and -friendly nursemaid. - -“There are people to whom I owe a return of hospitality,” said he, with -a smile, “and I think a certain amount of formality is due to Admiral -Concannon.” - -“All right,” said Clementina, “who are they?” - -“There are the Admiral and yourself and Tommy and Etta, Lord and Lady -Radfield, General and Mrs. Barnes, Sir Edward and Lady Quinn, -Doorly—the novelist, you know—Mrs. Fontaine and Lady Louisa -Malling——” - -Clementina stiffened. The blood seemed to flow from her heart, leaving -it an intolerable icicle. “Why Mrs. Fontaine?” - -“Why not?” - -“Why should Mrs. Fontaine be asked to Etta’s party?” - -“She’s a charming woman,” said Quixtus. - -“Just a shallow society hack,” said Clementina, to whom Quixtus had not -confided his adventures in the gay world, not through conscious -disingenuousness, but assuming that such chronicles would not interest -her. - -“I’m afraid you do her an injustice,” he said, warmly. “Mrs. Fontaine -has very brilliant social gifts. I’m sorry, my dear Clementina, that we -disagree on the point; but anyhow she must be invited. As a matter of -fact, it was she who suggested the party.” - -Clementina opened her lips to speak, and then closed them with a snap. -Mother Eve sat at her elbow and murmured words of good counsel. Not by -abuse is an infatuated and quixotic man weaned from seductresses. She -swallowed her anger and fierce jealousy. - -“In that case, my dear Ephraim,” she said, with mincing civility, “there -is no question about it. Of course she must be invited.” - -“Of course,” said he. - -“Who else are to come?” - -He ran through the list. One or two of the prospective guests she knew -personally, others by name; as to the personalities of those unknown to -her she made polite inquiries. So unwontedly sugared were her phrases -that Quixtus, simple man, forgot her outburst. - -“You haven’t given a dinner-party like this for a long time.” - -“Not for many years. Of course I have had men’s dinners—chiefly my -colleagues in the Anthropological Society. But this is a new venture.” - -“I wish it every success,” said Clementina, mendaciously. “The only -wrong note in it would be myself. Oh yes, my dear Ephraim,” she said, -anticipating his protest, “I’m not made for such a galaxy of fashion. I -tread upon daintily covered corns. I’m a savage—all right in my wigwam -with those I care for—but no use in a drawing-room. You must leave me -out of it.” - -Quixtus, shocked and hurt, turned and put out both hands in appeal. - -“My dearest friend, how can you say such things? You positively must -come.” - -“My dearest friend,” she replied, forcing her grim lips into a smile, “I -positively won’t.” - -And that was the end of the matter. She parted from him cordially, and -went home with more devils tearing her to pieces with redhot pincers -than had ever been dreamed of in Quixtus’s demonology. - - - - - CHAPTER XXII - - -Romney Place slumbered in the afternoon sunshine. Most of the blinds of -the Early-Victorian houses were drawn, symbols of quietude within. A -Persian cat, walking across the roadway, stopped in the middle, after -the manner of cats, and leisurely made her toilette. A milk-cart -progressed discreetly from door to door, and the milkman handed the cans -to hands upstretched from areas with unclattering and non-flirtatious -punctilio. When he had finished his round and disappeared by the church, -the street was empty for a moment. The cat resumed her journey and sat -on a doorstep blinking in the sun. Presently a foxy-faced man, shabbily -clad, entered this peaceful scene, and walked slowly down the pavement. - -It was Vandermeer, still burning with a sense of wrong, yearning for -vengeance, yet trembling at the prospect of wreaking it. At Tommy’s door -he hesitated. Of his former visit to the young man no pleasant -recollections lingered. Tommy’s manners were impulsive rather than -urbane. Would he listen to Vandermeer’s story or would he kick him out -of the house? Vandermeer, starting out on his pilgrimage to Romney -Place, had fortified himself with the former conjecture. Now that he had -come to the end of it the latter appeared inevitable. He always shrank -from physical violence. It would hurt very much to be kicked out of the -house, to say nothing of the moral damage. He hovered in agonising -uncertainty, and took off his hat, for the afternoon was warm. Now, -while he was mopping the brow of dubiety, a front door lower down the -street opened, and a nurse and a little girl appeared. They descended -the steps and walked past him. Vandermeer looked after them for a -moment, then stuck on his hat and punched the left-hand palm with the -right-hand fist with the air of a man to whom has occurred an -inspiration. Miss Clementina Wing also lived in Romney Place. That must -be the child, Quixtus’s ward, of whom Huckaby had spoken. It would be -much better to take his story to Clementina Wing, now so intimately -associated with Quixtus. Women, he argued, are much more easily -inveigled into intrigue than men, and they don’t kick you out of the -house in a manner to cause bodily pain. Besides, Clementina had once -befriended him. Why had he not thought of her before? He walked boldly -up the steps and rang the bell. - -Clementina was fiercely painting drapery from the lay figure—a grey -silk dress full of a thousand folds and shadows. The texture was not -coming right. The more she painted the less like silk did it look. Now -was it muddy canvas; now fluffy wool. Every touch was wrong. Every -stroke of the brush since her yesterday’s talk with Quixtus was wrong. -She could not paint. Yet in a frenzy of anger she determined to paint. -What had the woman invited to Quixtus’s dinner-party to do with her art? -She would make the thing come right. She would prove to herself that she -was a woman of genius, that she had not her sex hanging round the neck -of her spirit. If Quixtus chose to make a fool of himself with Mrs. -Fontaine, in Heaven’s name let him do so. She had her work to do. She -would do it, in spite of all the society hacks in Christendom. The skirt -began to look like a blanket stained with coffee. Let him have his -dinner-party. What was there of importance in so contemptible a thing as -a dinner-party? But this infernal woman had suggested it. How far was he -compromised with this infernal woman? She could wring her neck. The -dress began to suggest a humorously streaky London fog. - -“Damn the thing!” cried Clementina, wiping the whole skirt out. “I’ll -stand here for ever, until I get it right.” - -Her tea, on a little table at the other end of the studio, remained -untouched. Her hair fell in loose strands over her forehead, and she -pushed it back every now and then with impatient fingers. The front-door -bell rang, and soon her maid appeared at the gallery door. - -“A gentleman to see you, ma’am.” - -“I can’t see anybody. You know I can’t. Tell him to go away.” - -The maid came down the stairs. - -“I told him you weren’t in to anybody—but he insisted. He hadn’t a -card, but wrote his name on a slip of paper. Here it is, ma’am.” - -Clementina angrily took the slip; “Mr. Vandermeer would be glad to see -Miss Wing on the most urgent business.” - -“Tell him I can’t see him.” - -The maid mounted the stairs. Vandermeer? Vandermeer? Where had she heard -that name before? Suddenly she remembered. - -“All right. Show him down here,” she shouted to the disappearing maid. - -She might just as well see him. If she sent him away the buzzing worry -of conjecture as to his urgent business would flitter about her mind. -She threw down her palette and brush and impatiently rubbed her hands -together. Into what shape of moral flaccidity was she weakening? Five -months ago all the urgent business of all the Vandermeers in the world -could go hang when she was painting and could not get a thing right. Why -should she be different now from the Clementina of five months ago? Why, -why, why? With exasperated hands she further confounded the confusion of -her hair. - -The introduction of Vandermeer put a stop to these questionings. She -received him, arms akimbo, at a short distance from the foot of the -stairs. - -“I must apologise, Miss Wing, for this intrusion,” said he, “but perhaps -you may remember——” - -“Yes, yes,” she interrupted. “Ham-and-beef shop, which you -transmogrified into a restaurant. Also Mr. Burgrave. What do you want? -I’m very busy.” - -The sight of the mean little figure holding his felt hat with both hands -in front of him, with his pointed face, ferret eyes, and red, crinkly -hair, did not in any way redeem her remembered impression. - -“A very grave danger is threatening Dr. Quixtus,” said he. “It is -impossible for me to warn him myself, so I have come to you, as a friend -of his.” - -“Danger?” cried Clementina, taken off her guard. “What kind of danger?” - -“You will only understand, if I tell you rather a long story. But first -I must have your promise of secrecy as far as I am concerned.” - -“Don’t like secrecy,” said Clementina. - -“You can take whatever action you like,” he said, hastily. “It’s in -order that you may act in his interest that I’m here. I only want you to -give me your word that you won’t compromise me personally. I assure you, -you’ll see why when I tell you the story.” - -Clementina reflected for a moment. It was a danger threatening Quixtus. -It might be important. This little weasel of a man was of no account. - -“All right,” she said. “I give my word. Go ahead.” - -She took a pinch of tobacco from the yellow package and a cigarette -paper, and, sitting in a chair in the cool draught of the door opening -on to the garden, with shaky fingers rolled a cigarette. - -“Sit down. You can smoke if you like. You can also help yourself to tea. -I won’t have any.” - -Vandermeer poured himself out some tea and cut an enormous hunk of cake. - -“I warn you,” said he, drawing a chair within conversational distance, -“that the story will be a long one—I want to begin from the beginning.” - -“Go ahead, for goodness’ sake,” said Clementina. - -Vandermeer was astute enough to conjecture that a sudden denunciation of -Mrs. Fontaine might defeat his object by exciting her generous -indignation; whereas by gradually arousing her interest in the affairs -of Quixtus, the climactic introduction of the execrated lady might pass -almost unrecognised. - -“The story has to do, in the first place,” said he, “with three men, -John Billiter, Eustace Huckaby, and myself.” - -“Huckaby?” cried Clementina, startled. “What has he to do with you?” - -“The biggest blackguard of us all,” said Vandermeer. - -Clementina lay back in her chair, her attention caught at once. - -“Go on,” she said. - -Whereupon Vandermeer began, and with remorseless veracity—for here -truth was far more effective than fiction—told the story of the -relations of the three with Quixtus, in the days of their comparative -prosperity, when he himself was on the staff of a newspaper, Billiter in -possession of the fag-end of his fortune, and Huckaby a tutor at -Cambridge. He told how, one by one, they sank; how Quixtus held out the -helping hand. He told of the weekly dinners, the overcoat pockets. - -“Not a soul on earth but you three knew anything about it?” asked -Clementina, in a quavering voice. - -“As far as I know, not a soul.” - -He told of the drunken dinner; of Quixtus’s anger; of the cessation of -the intercourse; of the extraordinary evening when Quixtus had invited -them to be his ministers of evil; of his madness; of his fixed idea to -work wickedness; of his own suggestion as regards Tommy. - -“You infamous devil!” said Clementina, between her set teeth. In her -wildest conjectures, she had never imagined so grotesque and so pitiable -a history. She sat absorbed, pale-cheeked, holding the extinct stump of -cigarette between her fingers. - -Vandermeer paid no attention to the ejaculation. He proceeded with his -story; told of Billiter and the turf; of Huckaby and the heart-breaking -adventure. - -“Oh, my God!” cried Clementina. “Oh, my God!” He told of the meetings in -the tavern. Of the hunger and misery of the three. Of the plot to use a -decoy woman in Paris, who was to bleed him to the extent of three -thousand pounds. - -“What’s her name?” she cried, her lips parted in an awful surmise. - -“Lena Fontaine,” said Vandermeer. - -Clementina grew very white, and fell back into her chair. She felt -faint. She had worked violently, she had felt violently since early -morning. Vandermeer started up. - -“Can I get you anything? Some water—some tea?” - -“Nothing,” she said, shortly. The idea of receiving anything from his -abhorrent hands acted as a shock. “I’m all right. Go on. Tell me all you -know about her.” - -He related the unsavoury details that he had gleaned from Billiter, -scrupulously explaining that these were at second hand. Finally he -informed her with fair accuracy of Huckaby’s latest report, giving -however his own interpretation of Huckaby’s conduct, and laid the -position of Billiter and himself before her. - -“You see,” said he, “how important it was for me to obtain your pledge -of secrecy.” - -“And what do you get out of coming to me with this story?” - -Vandermeer rose, and held his hat tight. - -“Nothing except the satisfaction of having queered the damned pitch of -both of them.” - -Clementina shrank together in her chair, her hands tight over her face, -all her flesh a shuddering horror. Then she waved both hands at him -blindly. - -“Go away! Go away!” she said, in a hoarse whisper. - -Vandermeer’s shifty eyes glanced from Clementina to a stool beside his -chair. On it lay the great hunk of cake which he had cut but had not -been able to eat during his narration. She was not looking. He pocketed -the cake and turned. But Clementina had seen. She uttered a cry of -anguish and horror. - -“Oh, God! Are you as hungry as that? You’ll find some money in that end -drawer—” she pointed to an oak dresser against the gallery wall. “Take -what you want to buy food with, and go. Only go!” - -Vandermeer opened the drawer, took out a five-pound note, and, having -mounted the stairs, left the studio. - -Clementina staggered into the little garden; her brain reeling. She, who -thought she had fathomed the depths of life, and, scornful of her -knowledge thereof, rode serene on the surface, knew nothing. Nothing of -the wolf instinct of man when hunger drives. Nothing of the degradation -of a man when the drink fiend clutches at his throat. Lord! How sweet -the air, even in this ridiculous little London garden, after the awful -atmosphere of that beast of prey! - -Quixtus! All her heart went out to him in fierce love and pity. -Generous, high-souled gentleman, at the mercy of these ravening wolves! -She walked round and round the little garden path. Things obscure to her -gradually became clear. But many remained dark—maddeningly -impenetrable. Something had happened to throw the beloved man off his -balance. The Marrable trial might well be a factor. But was that enough? -Yet what did the past matter? The present held peril. The web was being -woven tight around him. She had hated the woman intuitively at first -sight. Had dreaded complications. It was a million times worse than she -had in her most jealous dreams conceived. If he were lured into -marriage, what but disaster could be the end? And Sheila! Her blood -froze at the thought of her darling coming into contact with the woman. -All her sex clamoured. - -Before she acted, every dark corner must be illuminated. There must be -no groping; no false movement. One man would certainly be able to throw -light—Huckaby, the trusted friend of Quixtus. The more she thought of -him the more she was amazed. Here was one of the ghastly band, an -illimitable scoundrel, the one who had openly suggested to Quixtus the -most despicable, yet the most fantastic, wickedness of all, now the -confidential secretary, the collaborator, the _fidus Achates_, of the -sane and disillusioned gentleman. - -With sudden decision she marched into the studio and took up the -telephone and gave a number. Quixtus’s voice eventually answered. Who -was there? - -“It’s me. Clementina. Is Mr. Huckaby still with you?” - -Huckaby had left half an hour ago. - -“Can you give me his address? I want to ask him to come and see me. To -come to tea. I like him so much, you know.” - -The address came through the telephone. She noted it in her memory. -Quixtus inquired for Sheila. Clementina gave him cheery news and rang -off. All this was arrant disingenuousness and duplicity. But Clementina -did not care. What woman ever does? - -She ran up to her bedroom, thrust on a coat; pinned on the hat with the -wobbly rose, and went out. In the King’s Road she found a taxi-cab. A -quarter of an hour brought her to Huckaby’s lodgings. - -He had spent a happy and untroubled day, and was finishing the “Phædo” -with great enjoyment, when Clementina burst into the room. He leaped -from his chair in amazement. - -“My dear Miss Wing!” - -“You infernal villain!” said Clementina. - -Huckaby staggered back. To such a salutation it is difficult to respond -in the ordinary terms of hospitality. - -“Will you take a seat,” said he, “and explain?” - -He drew a chair to the open window. She plumped herself down. - -“I think it’s for you to explain,” she said. - -“I presume,” said Huckaby, after a pause, “that something in connection -with my past life has come to your ears. I will grant that there was in -it much that was not particularly creditable. But my conscience now is -free from reproach.” - -Clementina sniffed. “You must have a very accommodating conscience. What -about Dr. Quixtus and Mrs. Fontaine?” - -“Well, what about it?” - -“You know the kind of woman Mrs. Fontaine is—you introduced her to -him—and yet you are allowing her to inveigle him into marriage. Oh, -don’t deny it. I know the whole infamous conspiracy from A to Z.” - -Huckaby stifled an oath. “Those brutes Vandermeer and Billiter have been -giving the woman away to you!” He clenched his fists. “The blackguards!” - -“I don’t know anything about Van-what’s-his-name or the other man. I -only know one thing. This marriage is not going to take place. I might -have gone straight to Dr. Quixtus; but I thought it best to see you -first. There are various things I want cleared up.” - -Huckaby looked at the woman’s strong, rugged face, and then his eyes -wandered round the little cool haven that was his home, and a great fear -fell upon him. If Quixtus learned the truth now about Mrs. Fontaine, he -would never be forgiven. He would be put on the same footing as the two -others; and then the abyss. Of course he could lie, and Mrs. Fontaine -could lie. But what would be the use? The revelation of the true facts -to Quixtus would fit in only too well with his past disingenuousness and -with his urgent insistence on the heart-breaking adventure. And his -iron-faced visitor would soon see to it that the lies were swept away. -His face grew ashen. - -“You have me in your power,” he said, humbly. “Once I was a gentleman -and a scholar. Then there were years of degradation. Now, thanks to -Quixtus, I’m on the way to becoming my former self. If you denounce me -to Quixtus, I go back. For sheer pity’s sake don’t do it.” - -“Let me hear what you’ve got to say for yourself,” said Clementina, -grimly. - -“What are Quixtus’s feelings with regard to Mrs. Fontaine I don’t know. -He has never spoken to me on the subject. But he certainly admires her -for what she really is—a charming, well-bred woman.” - -“Umph!” said Clementina. - -“Suppose,” continued Huckaby, “suppose we were drawn into this -conspiracy. Suppose when we came to put it into practice both our souls -revolted. Suppose she began to like Quixtus for his own sake. Suppose -her soul also revolted from her past life——” - -“Fiddlesticks!” said Clementina. - -“I assure you it’s true,” he said, earnestly. “Let us suppose it is, -anyhow. Suppose she saw in a marriage with a good man her salvation. -Suppose she was ready to make him a good wife. Suppose I thoroughly -believed her. How could I, clinging to the same plank as she, do -otherwise than I have done—keep silent?” - -“Your duty to your benefactor should certainly outweigh your supposed -duty to this worthless creature.” - -Huckaby sighed. “That’s the woman’s point of view.” - -Clementina made an angry gesture. “I suppose you’re right. Always the -confounded woman’s point of view—when one wants to look at things -judicially. Yes. You couldn’t give the woman away—a man’s perverted -notion—I see. Well—let us take it; for the sake of argument, that I -believe you. What then?” - -“I don’t know,” said he. “Mrs. Fontaine and myself are at your mercy.” - -“Umph!” said Clementina again. She paused, glanced shrewdly at his face, -as he sat forward in the chair on the opposite side of the window, -twisting nervous fingers and staring out across the street. - -“Tell me your story—frankly—of Dr. Quixtus,” she said at last, “from -the time of the Marrable trial. As many details as you can remember. I -want to know.” - -Huckaby obeyed. He was, as he said, at her mercy. His story confirmed -Vandermeer’s, but it covered a wider ground, and, told with truer -perception, cast the desired light on dark places. She learned for the -first time—for hitherto she had concerned herself little with Quixtus’s -affairs—the fact of his disinheritance, Quixtus having, one raging day, -revealed to Huckaby the history of the cynical will. She questioned him -about Will Hammersley. His account of Quixtus’s half-given and hastily -snatched confidence was a lightning flash. - -Clementina rose, aghast, and walked about the room. The idea of such a -horror had never entered her head. Hammersley and Angela—it was -incredible, impossible. There must have been some awful hallucination. -That Hammersley, Bayard without fear and without reproach, and Angela, -quiet, colourless saint, could have done this thing baffled all -imaginings of human passion. It was inconceivable, ludicrous, grotesque. -But to Quixtus it was real. He believed it. It lay at the root of his -disorder. Even now, with his disorder cured, he believed it still. She -was rent with his anguish. - -“My God! How he must have suffered!” - -“And in spite of everything,” said Huckaby, “he is as tender to -Hammersley’s little daughter as if she were his own.” - -She swooped upon him in her abrupt fashion. - -“Thank you for that. You’ve got a heart somewhere about you.” - -She sat down again. “When do you think this suspicion, or whatever it -was, crossed his mind? Let us go back.” - -They talked long and earnestly. At length, Huckaby having ransacked his -memory of things past, they fixed as a probable date the day of the -hostless dinner. Quixtus had sent down word that he was ill. The excuse -was entirely false. Nothing but severe mental trouble could have stood -in the way of his taking the head of the table. Obviously something had -happened. Huckaby had a vague memory of seeing Quixtus, as he entered -the museum, crush a letter in his hand and stuff it in his jacket -pocket. It might possibly have been a letter incriminating the pair. - -Whether the conjecture was right or wrong did not greatly matter. -Clementina felt now that she held the key to Quixtus’s mad conduct. Blow -after blow had fallen on him. Those whom he had trusted had betrayed -him. He had lost faith in humanity. The gentle nature could not -withstand this loss of faith. There had been shock. He had set out to -work devildom. The pity of it! - -She uttered a queer, choking laugh. “And not one piece of wickedness -could he commit!” - -The summer twilight began to creep over the quiet street, and the -darkness deepened at the back of the room. A long silence fell upon -them. Clementina sat as motionless as a dusky sphinx, absorbed by -strange thoughts and wrung by strange emotions that made her bosom heave -and her breath come quickly. A scheme, audacious, fantastic, romantic, -began to shape itself in her mind, sending the blood tingling down to -her feet, to her finger-tips. - -At last she made an abrupt movement. - -“It’s getting dark. What can the time be? I must go home.” - -She rose. - -“Before I go,” she said, “we must settle up about Mrs. Fontaine.” - -“I suppose we must,” groaned Huckaby. “All I ask you is to spare her as -much as you can.” - -“We must think first of Quixtus,” she replied, shortly. “What we’ve got -to do for him is to build up his faith in humanity again—not to give -the little he has left another knockdown blow. See?” - -Huckaby raised his head with swift hope. - -“Do you mean that he must not know about her?” - -“Or about you. That’s what I mean.” - -“God bless you!” gasped Huckaby. - -“All the same, this precious marriage project has got to be put a stop -to—for ever and ever, amen. I hope you realise that thoroughly.” - -Huckaby could not meet her keen eyes. He hung his head. - -“I suppose you mean me to break it gently to her that—that the game is -up.” - -“I don’t mean anything of the kind,” she snapped. “Now look here. Pay -strict attention. If you obey me implicitly and scrupulously, I’ll still -see whether I can’t be your friend—and I can be a good friend; but if -you don’t, God help you! I’ve given a pledge of secrecy to my informant -this afternoon. Of course I’ve broken it, like a woman. So you’ve got to -keep it for me. See? You’re not to let those two blackguards suffer in -any way on my account. Promise.” - -“I promise,” said Huckaby. - -“Then you’re not to breathe a single syllable to Mrs. Fontaine. Best -keep out of her way. Leave me to deal with her. I’ll let her down -gently, I’ll give you my word on it. Is that a bargain?” - -“Yes,” said Huckaby. - -She put out her hand frankly. - -“Good-bye.” - -He accompanied her to the front door. - -“Can I get you a taxi?” - -“Lord, no. When I’m a lady you can. I’ll walk till I find one.” - -Clementina sped to Romney Place with shining eyes, and a smile lurking -at the corners of her lips. The first thing she did on arrival was to -rush down to the telephone. - -“Is that you, Ephraim?” - -“Yes,” came the answer. - -“I’ve changed my mind, and I’m coming to your dinner-party.” - -“Delighted, my dear Clementina.” - -“Good-bye.” - -She rang off, and rushed upstairs to make a fool of herself over Sheila, -who, already put to bed, lay awake in anticipation of Clementina’s -good-night cuddle. - -“When you go to stay with your uncle, I wonder whether he’ll spoil you -like this.” - -“You’ll come too,” said Sheila, sedately, “and then you can go on -spoiling me.” - -“Lord preserve us!” cried Clementina. “What a scandal in Russell -Square!” - -Towards ten o’clock Tommy made his appearance. The daily calls to -inquire after her health and happiness had grown to be a sacred -observance. But as the studio was rigorously closed to him during the -daylight hours his visits were vespertilian. If she wanted him, she told -him to stay. If she didn’t, she sent him about his business. He had got -into the habit of kissing her, nephew fashion, when they met and parted. -She liked the habit now, for she felt that the boy loved her very -dearly. And in an aunt-like, and very satisfying and comfortful way, -she, too, loved him with all her heart. - -“Can I stay?” - -She nodded. He removed the set palette from the chair on to which she -had cast it when Vandermeer was announced, and sat down. - -“What have you been doing with yourself?” - -He entered upon a long story. Some picture or the other was shaping -splendidly. His uncle had taken Etta and himself to lunch at the Savoy. - -“Said he was thinking of going to Dinard for August. Rum place for him -to go, isn’t it?” - -Clementina repressed manifestation of interest in the announcement. But -it set her pulses throbbing. - -“I suppose he can go where he likes, can’t he?” she snapped. “What kind -of a lunch did you have?” - -Tommy ran through the menu. It was his own selection. He had given the -dear old chap some hints in gastronomy. It was wonderful how little he -knew of such essential things. Seemed to have set his heart on giving -them pheasant. In July. After that they had gone to see the New -Futurists. His uncle seemed to know all about them. Wonderful work; but -they were all erring after false gods. He thanked heaven he had her, -Clementina, to keep him orthodox. It was all absinthe and morphia. He -rattled on. Clementina, leaning far back in her chair, watched the curls -of cigarette smoke with shining eyes and a Leonardesque smile lurking at -the corners of her lips. - -“Why, Clementina!” he cried, with sudden indignation. “You’re paying not -the slightest attention to me.” - -“Never mind, Tommy,” she said. “You go on talking. It helps me to think. -I’m going to have a devil of a time—the time of my life!” - -“What in the world are you going to do?” - -“Never mind, Tommy. Never mind. Oh, what a fool I was not to think of it -before!” - - - - - CHAPTER XXIII - - -The next morning Clementina put off a sitter, a thing which she had -never done before, and, letting work go hang, made an unprecedented -irruption into Russell Square. - -“It’s about this dinner of yours,” she said as soon as Quixtus appeared. -“I telephoned you yesterday that I was coming.” - -“And I said, my dear Clementina, that I was more than delighted.” - -“It was the morose wart-hog inside me that made me decline,” she said -frankly. “But there’s a woman of sense also inside me that can cut the -throat of the wart-hog when it likes. So here I am, a woman of sense. -Now will you let a woman of sense run this dinner-party for you? Oh—I -know what you may be thinking,” she went on hastily without giving him -time to reply. “I’m not going to suggest liver and bacon and a boiled -potato. I know how things should be done, better than you.” - -“I’m afraid I’m inexperienced in entertainments of this kind,” said -Quixtus, with a smile. “Spriggs generally attends to such matters.” - -“Spriggs and I will put our heads together,” said Clementina. “I want -you to give rather a wonderful dinner-party. What kind of table -decorations have you?” - -Spriggs was summoned. He loaded the dining-room table with family plate -and table-centres and solid cut glass. His pride lay in a mid-Victorian -épergne that at every banquet in the house proudly took the place of -honour with a fat load of grapes and oranges and apples. Clementina set -apart a few articles of silver and condemned the rest including the -épergne as horrors. - -“You’ll let me have the pleasure, Ephraim,” she said, “of providing all -the flowers and making out a scheme of decoration. Anything I want I’ll -get myself and make you a present of it. I’m by way of being an artist, -you know, so it will be all right.” - -“Could any one doubt it?” said Quixtus. “I am very much indebted to you, -Clementina.” - -“A woman comes in useful now and then. I’ve never done a hand’s turn for -you and it’s time I began. You’ll want a hostess, won’t you?” - -“Dear me,” said Quixtus, somewhat taken aback. “I suppose I shall. I -never thought of it.” - -“I’ll be hostess,” said Clementina. “I’m a kind of aunt to Tommy and -Etta for whom you’re giving the party. I’m a kind of connection of -yours—and you and I are kind of father and mother to Sheila. So it will -be quite correct. Let me have your list of guests and don’t you worry -your head about anything.” - -Clementina in her sweeping mood was irresistible. Quixtus, mild man, -could do no more than acquiesce gratefully. It was most gracious of -Clementina to undertake these perplexing arrangements. New sides of her -character exhibited themselves every day. There was only one flaw in the -newly revealed Clementina—her unaccountable disparagement of Mrs. -Fontaine. But even this defect she remedied of her own accord. - -“I take back what I said about Mrs. Fontaine,” she said abruptly. “I was -in a wart-hoggy humour. She’s a charming woman, with brilliant social -gifts.” - -Quixtus beamed, whereat Clementina felt more wart-hoggy than ever; but -she beamed also, with a mansuetude that would have deceived Mrs. -Fontaine herself. - -Clementina, after an intimate interview with a first resentful, then -obfuscated and finally boneless and submissive Spriggs, went her way, a -sparkle of triumph in her eyes. And then began laborious days, during -which she sacrificed many glorious hours of daylight to the arrangements -for the dinner-party. She spent an incredible time in antique shops and -schools of art needlework, and even haunted places near the London docks -hunting for the glass and embroideries and other things she needed. She -ordered rare flowers from florists. She wasted her evenings over a -water-colour design for the table decoration, and over designs for the -menu and name-cards. - -“It’s going to be a dinner that people shall remember,” she said to -Etta. - -“It’s going to be splendid,” said Etta. “You think of everything, -darling, except the one thing—the most important.” - -“What’s that, child?” - -“Have you got a dress to wear, darling?” - -“Dress?” echoed Clementina, staring at the child. “Why, of course. I’ve -got my black.” - -Etta stood aghast. “That old thing you took with you packed anyhow on -the motor trip?” - -“Naturally. Isn’t it good enough for you?” - -“It’s not for me,” said Etta, growing bold. “I love you in anything. -It’s for the other people. Do go and get yourself a nice frock. There’s -still time. I’ve never liked to tell you before, dear, but the old one -_gapes_ at the back——“—she paused dramatically—“gapes dreadfully.” - -“Oh, Lord, let it gape,” cried Clementina impatiently. “Don’t worry me.” - -But Etta continued to worry, with partial success. Clementina -obstinately refused to buy new raiment, but consented to call in Miss -Pugsley, the little dressmaker round the corner in the King’s Road, who -fashioned such homely garments as Clementina deigned to wear, and to -hand over the old black dress to her for alterations and repairs. Etta -sighed and spent anxious hours with Miss Pugsley and forced a grumbling -and sarcastic Clementina to stand half clad while the frumpy rag -attained something resembling a fit. - -“At any rate there are no seams burst and it _does_ hook together,” said -Etta, dismally surveying the horror at the final fitting. - -“Humph!” said Clementina, contemplating herself wryly in the mirror. “I -suppose I look like a lady. Now I hope you’re satisfied.” - -Meanwhile such painting as she did in the intervals of her daily -excursions abroad, progressed exceedingly. Tommy coming into the studio -one evening caught sight of the picture of the lady in the grey dress -standing on its easel. - -“Stunning!” he cried. “Stunning! You can almost hear the stuff rustle. -How the dickens do you get your texture? You’re a holy mystery. By Jove, -you are! All this”—he ran his thumb parallel with a fold in the -drapery—“all this is a miracle.” He turned and faced her with -worshipping eyes in which the tears were ready to spring. “By God, -you’re great!” - -The artist was thrilled by the homage; the woman laughed inwardly. She -had dashed at the task triumphantly and as if by magic the thing had -come out right. She was living, these days, intensely. There was no -miracle that she could not work. - -A morning or two afterwards she issued a ukase to Tommy and Etta that -they were to accompany her on an automobile excursion. Tommy to whom she -had constituted herself taskmistress, boyishly glad of the holiday, flew -down Romney Place, and found a great luxurious hired motor standing at -her door. Presently Etta arrived, and then Clementina and Sheila and the -young lovers started. Where were they going? Clementina explained. As -she could not keep Sheila in London during August, she had decided on -taking a furnished cottage in the country. Estate agents had highly -recommended one at Moleham-on-Thames. She was going down to have a look -at it, and wanted their advice. The motor ploughed through the squalor -of Brentford and then sped along the Bath Road, through Colnbrook and -Slough and Maidenhead and through the glorious greenery in which Henley -is embowered, and on and on by winding shady roads, with here and there -a flashing glimpse of river, by fields lush in golden pasture, up and -down the gentle hills, through riverside villages where sleeping gaiety -brings a smile to the eyes, between the high hedges of Oxfordshire -lanes, through the cool verdant mystery of beech woods, until it entered -through a great gateway and proceeded up a long avenue of elms and -stopped before a slumbering red-brick manor-house. - -“This the cottage?” asked Tommy. - -“Do you think it’s a waterfall?” asked Clementina. - -They alighted. A caretaker took the order-to-view given by the estate -agents and conducted the party over the place. The more Tommy saw the -more amazed did he grow. There was a park; a garden; a pergola of roses; -a couple of tennis courts; a lawn reaching to the river. The house, -richly furnished throughout, contained rooms innumerable; four or five -sitting-rooms, large dining-room, billiard room, countless bedrooms, a -magnificent studio; in the grounds another studio. - -“I’ll take it,” said Clementina. - -“But, my dear,” gasped Tommy, “have you considered? I don’t want to be -impertinent—but the rent of this place must be a thousand pounds a -minute.” - -She drew him apart from Etta and Sheila. - -“My dear boy,” she said. “For no reason that I can see, I’ve lived all -my life on tuppence a year. It’s only quite lately that I’ve realised -that I’m a very rich woman and can do anything more or less I please. -I’m going to take this place for August and September and hire a -motor-car, and you and Etta are going to stay with me, and you can each -bring as many idiot boys and girls as you choose, and I shall paint and -you can paint and Sheila can run about the garden, and we’re all going -to enjoy ourselves.” - -Tommy thrust his hands into the pockets of his grey flannels and -declared she was a wonder. Whereupon they proceeded to Moleham and after -lunch at “The Black Boy,” motored back to Chelsea. - -These were days filled with a myriad activities. The dinner-party -engaged her curious attention. She sent back proofs of the menu and name -cards time after time to the firm of art printers before she was -satisfied. Then she took them to Quixtus. He was delighted. - -“But, my dear Clementina, why are you taking all this ridiculous -trouble?” - -She laughed in her gruff way, and summoned Spriggs to another dark and -awful interview. - -A day or two before the dinner, Mrs. Fontaine who, although she had -suggested the idea, did not view a dinner-party as a world-shaking -phenomenon, bethought her of the matter. A pretty little note had -summoned Quixtus to tea. They were alone. - -“I have been wondering, my dear Dr. Quixtus,” she said, sweetly, her -soft eyes on his, as soon as she had heard of the acceptances of the -people in whom she was interested—“I have been wondering whether we are -good enough friends for me to be audacious.” - -He smiled an assurance. - -“If I brought you a few flowers for the table would you accept them? And -if you did, would you let me come and arrange them for you? It would be -such a pleasure. Even the best trained servants can’t give the little -touch that a woman can.” - -Quixtus blushed. It was difficult to be ungracious to the flower of -womanhood; yet the flower of womanhood had come too late in the day with -her gracious proposal. He explained, wishing to soften the necessary -refusal, that he had already called in the help of his artistic friends, -Miss Clementina Wing and Tommy Burgrave. - -“Why didn’t you send for me? Didn’t you think of me?” - -“I did not venture,” said he. - -“I have been deluding myself with the fancy that we were friends.” She -sighed and looked at him with feminine significance. “Nothing venture -nothing win.” - -But Quixtus, simple soul, was too genuinely distressed by obvious -happenings to follow the insidious scent. With great wisdom Clementina -had shown him her water-colour design, and he knew that Mrs. Fontaine, -with all her daintiness, could not compete with the faultless taste and -poetic imagination of a great artist. He wondered why so finely -sensitive a nature as the flower of womanhood did not divine this. Her -insistence jarred on him ever so little. And yet he shrank from wounding -susceptibilities. - -“I never thought you would be interested in such trivial domestic -matters,” said he. - -“It is the little things that count.” - -For the first time in his intercourse with her, he felt uncomfortable. -Here was the lady maintaining her reproach of neglect. If she took so -much interest in this wretched dinner-party, why had she not offered her -services at once? Unwittingly he contrasted her inaction with -Clementina’s irresistible energy. In answer to her remark he said, -smiling: - -“I’m not so sure about that, although it’s often asserted. We lawyers -have an axiom: _De minimis non curat lex_.” - -“Pity a poor woman. What on earth does that mean?” - -He translated. - -“The law is one thing and human sentiment another.” - -With all her rough contradiction and violent assertion, Clementina never -pinned him down to a fine point of sentimental argument. There was a -spaciousness about Clementina wherein he could breathe freely. This -close atmosphere began to grow distasteful. There was a slight pause, -which Mrs. Fontaine filled in by handing him his second cup of tea. - -“Miss Clementina Wing,” said he, dashing for the open, “is so intimately -associated not only with the object of our little entertainment, but -also with myself in other matters, that I could do no less than consult -her.” - -Lena Fontaine bent forward, sugar-tongs in hand, ready to drop a lump -into his cup—a charmingly intimate pose. - -“Of course, I understand, dear Dr. Quixtus. And is she really coming to -the dinner?” - -“Why not?” - -“She’s so—so unconventional. I thought she never went into society.” - -“She is honouring me by making an exception in my case,” replied -Quixtus, a little stiffly. - -“I’m delighted to hear it,” she said sweetly; but in her heart she -bitterly resented Clementina’s interference. She would get even with the -fishfag for this. - -On the morning of the dinner-party Clementina sent for Tommy. He found -her, as usual, at work. She laid down her brush and handed him the -water-colour design. - -“I’m too busy to-day to fool about with this silly nonsense. I can’t -spare any more time for it. You can carry out the scheme quite as well -as I can. You’ll find everything there. Do you mind?” - -Tommy did not mind. In fact, he was delighted at the task. The artist in -him loved to deal with things of beauty and exquisite colours. - -“Shall I give an eye to the wines?” - -“Everything’s quite settled. I saw to it yesterday. Now clear out. I’m -busy. And look here,” she cried, as he was mounting the staircase, “I’m -not going to have you or Etta fooling round the place to-day. I’m going -to paint till the very last minute.” - -She resumed her painting. A short while afterwards, a note and parcel -came from Etta. From the parcel she drew a long pair of black gloves. -She threw them to the maid, Eliza. - -“What shall I do with them, ma’am?” - -“Wear ’em at your funeral,” said Clementina. - - * * * * * - -A few minutes before eight Quixtus stood in the great drawing-room -waiting to receive his guests. On the stroke came Admiral Concannon, -scrupulously punctual, and Etta followed by Tommy, who, having given the -last touches to the table, waylaid her on the stairs. Then came Lady -Louisa Malling and Lena Fontaine demure in pale heliotrope. After them -Lord and Lady Radfield, he, tall and distinguished, with white moustache -and imperial, she, much younger than he, dumpy, expensively dressed, -wearing a false air of vivacity. Then came in quick succession General -and Lady Barnes, Griffiths (Quixtus’s colleague in the Anthropological -Society), and his wife, John Powersfoot (the Royal Academician), Mr. and -Mrs. Wilmour-Jackson, physically polished, vacant, opulent, friends of -Mrs. Fontaine. Gradually the party assembled and the hum of talk filled -the room. During an interval Quixtus turned to Tommy. What had become of -Clementina, who had promised to play hostess? Tommy could give no -information. All he knew about her was that he had stopped at her door -and offered a lift in his cab, and Eliza had come down with a verbal -message to the effect that he was to go away and that Miss Wing was not -coming in his cab. Tommy opined that Clementina was in one of her -crotchety humours. Possibly she would not turn up at all. Etta took -Tommy aside. - -“I’m sure that old black frock has split down the back and Eliza is -mending it with black thread.” - -Only the Quinns and Clementina to arrive; and at ten minutes past the -Quinns, Sir Edward, Member of Parliament, and Lady, genial, flustered -folk with many apologies for lateness. The hands of the clock on the -mantelpiece marked the quarter. Still no Clementina. Quixtus grew -uneasy. What could have happened? Lena Fontaine turned from him and -whispered to Lord Radfield. - -“She has forgotten to put on her boots and is driving back for them.” - -Then Spriggs appeared at the door and announced: - -“Miss Clementina Wing.” - -And Clementina sailed into the room. - -For the first and only time in his life did Quixtus lose his courtliness -of manner. For a perceptible instant he stood stock still and stared -open-mouthed. It was a Clementina that he had never seen before; a -Clementina that no one had ever seen before. It was Clementina in a -hundred-guinea gown, gold silk gleaming through ambergris net, -Clementina exquisitely corseted and revealing a beautifully curved and -rounded figure; Clementina with a smooth, clear olive skin, with her -fine black hair coiled by a miracle of the hairdresser’s art, -majestically on her head, and set off with a great diamond comb; -Clementina wearing diamonds at her throat; Clementina perfectly gloved; -Clementina carrying an ostrich feather fan; Clementina erect, proud, -smiling, her strong face illuminated by her fine eyes a-glitter with -suppressed excitement; Clementina a very great lady and almost a -beautiful woman. Those who knew her stared like Quixtus; those who did -not looked at her appreciatively. - -She sailed across the room, hand outstretched to Quixtus. - -“I’m so sorry I’m late, and so sorry I could not run in to-day. I’ve -been up to my ears in work. I hope Tommy has been a satisfactory -lieutenant.” - -“He has most faithfully carried out your instructions,” said Quixtus, -recovering his balance. - -Clementina smiled on Mrs. Fontaine. “How d’ye do. How charming to meet -you again. But you’re looking pale to-night, my dear, quite fagged out, -I hope nothing’s the matter.” - -She turned round quickly leaving Lena Fontaine speechless with amazement -and indignation, and shook hands with the astonished Admiral. Was this -regal-looking woman the same paint-daubed rabbit-skinner of the studio? -He murmured vague nothings. - -“Well, my dears?” - -Tommy and Etta thus greeted stood paralysed before her like village -children at a school feast when they are addressed by the awe-inspiring -squire’s lady. - -“Pinch me. Pinch me hard,” Tommy whispered, when Clementina had turned -to meet Lord Radfield whom Quixtus was presenting. - -“I believe I have the pleasure of taking you down to dinner,” said Lord -Radfield. - -“I’m a sort of brevet hostess in this house,” said Clementina. “A bad -one, I’m afraid, seeing how late I am.” - -Spriggs announced dinner. Quixtus led the way with Lady Radfield, -Clementina on Lord Radfield’s arm closed the procession. The company -took their places in the great dining-room. Quixtus at the end of the -table by the door sat between Lady Radfield and Lady Louisa. Clementina -at the foot between Lord Radfield and General Barnes. Lena Fontaine had -her place as near Clementina as possible, between Lord Radfield and -Griffiths, a dry splenetic man who had taken her in. Clementina had thus -arranged the table-plan. - -The scheme of decoration was too striking in its beauty not to arouse -immediate and universal comment. It was half barbaric. Rich Chinese gold -embroideries on the damask; black and gold lacquer urns, a great -black-and-gold lacquer tray. Black irises, with golden tongues, in -gold-dust Venetian glass; tawny orchids flaring profusely among the -black and gold. Here and there shining though greenery the glow of -golden fruit, and, insistent down the long table, the cool sheen of -ambergris grapes. Glass and silver and damask; black and gold and -ambergris; audacious, startling; then appealing to the eye as perfect in -its harmony. - -Quixtus and Tommy each proclaimed the author. All eyes were directed to -Clementina. Attention was diverted to the name-and menu-cards. Lord -Radfield put his name-card into his pocket. - -“It is not every day in the week that one takes away a precious work of -art from a London dinner-party.” - -Clementina enjoyed a little triumph, the flush of which mounted to her -dark face. With the flush, and in the setting she had prepared for -herself, she looked radiant. Her late entrance had produced a dramatic -effect; the immediate concentration of every one on her work, added to -the commonplace of her reputation, had at once established her as the -central figure in the room; and she sat as hostess at the foot of the -table a symphony in ambergris, gold and black. Woman, in the use of -woman’s weapons, has evolved no laws of fence. - -“One might almost have said she did it on purpose,” murmured the -ingenuous Tommy. - -“Did what?” asked Etta. - -“Why used the table as a personal decoration. Don’t you see how it all -leads up to her—leads up, by Jove, to her eyes and the diamonds in her -hair. And, I say, doesn’t it wipe out Mrs. Fontaine?” - -Tommy was right. Lena Fontaine’s pale colouring, her white face and -chestnut hair faded into nothingness against the riot of colour. The -pale heliotrope of her dress was killed. She was insignificant to the -eye. Conscious of this eclipse, hating herself for having put on -heliotrope and yet wondering which of her usual half-tone costumes she -could have worn, she paid her tribute to the designer with acid -politeness. She wished she had not come. Clementina as fishfag and -Clementina as Princess were two totally different people. She could deal -with the one. How could she deal with the other? The irony in -Clementina’s glance made her quiver with fury; her heart still burned -hot with the indignation of the first greeting. She felt herself to be -in the midst of hostile influences. Griffiths, a man of unimaginative -fact, plunged headlong into a discourse on comparative statistics of -accidents to railway servants. She listened absently, angry with Quixtus -for pairing her with so dreary a fellow. Griffiths, irritated by her -non-intelligence, transferred the lecture to his other neighbour as soon -as an opportunity occurred. Lena Fontaine awaited her chance with Lord -Radfield. But Clementina held him amused and interested, and soon drew -General Barnes into the talk. With the slough of her old outer trappings -Clementina had cast off the slough of her abrupt and unconventional -speech. She was a woman of acute intellect, wide reading and wide -observation. She had ideas and wit and she had come out this evening -flamingly determined to use all her powers. Her success sent her pulses -throbbing. Here were two men, at the outset of her experiment, hanging -on her words, paying indubitable homage, not to the woman of brains, not -to the well-known painter, but to the essential woman herself. The talk -quickly became subtle, personal, a quick interchange of hinted -sentiment, that makes for charm. When Lord Radfield at last turned to -Lena Fontaine, she could offer him nothing but commonplaces; Goodwood, a -scandal or so, the fortunes of a bridge club. Clementina adroitly -brought them both quickly into her circle, and Lena Fontaine had the -chagrin to see the politely bored old face suddenly lit up with -reawakened interest. For a moment or two Lena Fontaine flashed into the -talk, determined to offer battle; but after a while she felt dominated, -cowed, with no fight left in her. The other woman ruled triumphant. - -Tommy could not keep his eyes off Clementina, and neglected Etta and his -left-hand neighbour shamefully. An unprecedented rosiness of fingernails -caught his keen vision. In awe-stricken tones he whispered to Etta: - -“Manicured!” - -“Go on with your dinner,” said Etta, “and don’t stare, Tommy. It’s -rude.” - -“She should have given us warning,” groaned Tommy. “We’re too young to -stand it.” - -The exquisitely cooked and served meal proceeded. The French chef whom -Clementina had engaged and to whom she had given full scope for his art -had felt like an architect unrestricted by site or expense who can put -into concrete form the dreams of a lifetime. John Powersfoot, the -sculptor, sitting next to Lady Louisa, cried out to his host: - -“This is not a dinner you’re giving us, Quixtus, it’s a poem.” - -Lady Louisa ate on, too much absorbed in flavours for articulate -thought. - -Quixtus smiled. “I’m not responsible. The mistress of the feast is -facing me at the other end.” - -Powersfoot, who knew the Clementina of everyday life, threw up his hands -in a Latin gesture which he had learned at the Beaux-Arts and of which -he was proud. - -“The most remarkable woman of the century.” - -“I think you’re right,” said Quixtus. - -He looked down the table and caught her eye and exchanged smiles. Now -that he could adjust his mind to the concept of Clementina transfigured, -he felt conscious of a breathless admiration. He grew absurdly impatient -of the social conventions which pinned him in his seat leagues of -lacquer and orchids away from her. Idiotic envy of the two men whom she -was fascinating by her talk entered his heart. She was laughing, showing -her white strong teeth, as only once before she had shown her teeth to -him. He longed to escape from the vivaciously inane Lady Radfield and -join the group at the other end of the table. Now and then his eye -rested on Lena Fontaine; but she had almost faded out of sight. - -At the end of the dinner he held the door open for the ladies to pass -out. Clementina, immediately preceded by Etta, whispered a needless -recommendation not to linger. The door closed. Etta put her arm round -Clementina’s waist. - -“Oh, darling, you look too magnificent for words. But why didn’t you -tell me? Why did you make a fool of me about the old black dress?” - -Clementina disengaged the girl’s arm gently. - -“My child,” she said. “If I have the extra pressure of a feather on me, -I’ll yell. I’m suffering the tortures of the damned.” - -“Oh, poor darling.” - -“It’s worth it, though,” said Clementina. - -When the men came upstairs, she again enjoyed a triumph. Men and women -crowded round her and ministered instinctively to her talk. All the -pent-up emotions, longings, laughter of years found torrential -utterance. Powersfoot, standing over her was amazed to discover how -shapely were her bare arms and how full and graceful her neck and -shoulders. - -Quixtus talked for a few moments with the spotless flower of womanhood. -In the stiff formality of the drawing-room she regained her -individuality. With a resumption of her air of possession she patted a -vacant seat on the couch beside her and invited him to sit down. He -obeyed. - -“I thought you were going to neglect me altogether,” she said. - -He protested courteously. They sparred a little. Then Wilmour-Jackson, -polished and opulent, eye-glass in eye, crossed over to the couch and -Quixtus, rising with an eagerness that made Lena Fontaine bite her lip, -yielded him the seat and joined the charmed circle around Clementina. A -little thrill of pleasure passed through him as she glanced a welcome. -He gazed at her, fascinated. Something magnetic, feminine, he was too -confused to know what, emanated from her and held him bound. Never in -all the years of his knowledge of her had she appealed to him in this -extraordinary manner. Why had the perfect neck and arms, the graceful -figure been hidden under shapeless garments? Why had the magnificence of -her hair never been revealed? Why had grim frown and tightened lips -locked within the features the laughter that now played about them? Once -he had seen her face illuminated—at the hotel in Marseilles—but then -it was with generous and noble feeling and he had forgotten the -disfiguring attire. But now she had the stateliness of a queen, and men -hung around her, irresistibly attracted. . . . - -At last Lady Radfield disentangled her lord and departed. Others -followed her example. The party broke up, with the curious suddenness of -London. In a brief interval between adieux, Quixtus and Clementina found -themselves alone together. - -“Well?” she asked. “Are you pleased?” - -“Pleased? What a word! I’m dumfounded. I’ve been blind and my eyes are -open. I never knew you before.” - -“Because I have a decent gown on? I couldn’t do less.” - -“Because,” said he, “I never knew what a beautiful woman you were.” - -The blood flew to her dark cheeks. She touched his arm, and looked at -him. - -“Do you really think I look nice?” - -His reply was cut short by the Quinns coming up to take leave, but she -read it on his face. The room thinned. Lena Fontaine came up. - -“It’s getting late. I must rescue Louisa and go. Your dinner-party was -quite a success, Dr. Quixtus.” - -“So glad you think so,” said Clementina. “Especially now that I hear you -were originally responsible for it. It was most kind of you to think of -our dear young people. But don’t go yet. Lady Louisa is quite happy with -Mr. Griffiths. He is feeding her with facts. Let us sit down for a -minute or two and chat comfortably.” - -She moved to a sofa near by and motioned Mrs. Fontaine to a seat. The -latter had to yield. Quixtus drew up a chair. - -“I’ve done a desperate thing,” said Clementina. “I’ve taken the old -Manor House at Moleham-on-Thames, for August and September. It’s as big -as a hotel and unless I fill it with people, I shall be lost in it. Now -every one who wants to paint can have a studio—I myself am going to -paint every morning—and any one who wants to write can have a library. -Sheila has picked out _the_ library for you, Ephraim—takes it for -granted that you’re coming. I hope you will. You’ll break her heart if -you don’t—and there’ll be a room for Mr. Huckaby too. There’ll be Etta -and Tommy, of course—and the Admiral has promised to put in a week or -two—and so on. And if you’ll only come and stay August with me, my dear -Mrs. Fontaine, my cup of happiness, unlike my house, will be full.” - -Lena Fontaine gasped for an outraged moment. Then a swift, fierce -temptation assailed her to take the enemy at her word and fight the -battle; but, glancing at her, she saw the irony and banter and deadly -purpose behind the glittering eyes, and her courage failed her. She was -dominated again by the intense personality, frightened by her sudden and -unexpected power. To stay under the woman’s roof was an impossibility. - -“I’m sorry I can’t accept such a charming invitation,” she said with a -smile of the lips, “for I’ve made an engagement with some friends to go -to Dinard.” - -“Oh—you’re going to Dinard too?” cried Clementina. - -“What do you mean by ‘too’?” asked the other shortly. - -“I heard a rumour that Dr. Quixtus was going there. It seemed so silly -that I paid no attention to it. Are you really going Ephraim?” - -It was a trap deliberately laid. It was a defiance, a challenge. From -the corner of the sofa she stretched out her bare arm at full length and -laid her hand on his shoulder. The other woman looked white and pinched; -her eyes lost their allurement, and regarded him almost with enmity. - -“You promised.” - -The words were snapped out before she could realise their significance. -The instant after she could have thrust hat-pins into herself in -punishment for folly. The manhood in Quixtus leapt at the lash. He knew -then, with a startling clarity of assurance, that nothing in the world -would induce him to strut about casinos with her in Dinard. He smiled -courteously. - -“Pardon me, dear Mrs. Fontaine. I made no promise. You must remember my -little—my little trope of the daw and the peacocks.” - -Clementina satisfied, withdrew her hand. - -“Of course, dear Ephraim, if you would prefer to go to Dinard with Mrs. -Fontaine——” - -Lena Fontaine rose. “Dr. Quixtus is obviously free to do what he -chooses. I wish you would kindly leave me out of it.” - -Clementina rose too, and held out her hand. - -“I will, my dear Mrs. Fontaine,” she said sweetly. “If I can. Good-bye. -It has been so delightful to have had you.” - -Her exit with Lady Louisa was confused with that of other stragglers. -The Admiral, Etta and Tommy remained. They all went down to Quixtus’s -study, the little back room of the adventure of the drunken housekeeper -now cheery with decanters and syphons and cigarettes, and chatted -intimately till the Admiral reminded Etta that the horses—such fat -horses, murmured Etta—had been standing for nearly an hour. Tommy -accompanied father and daughter to the carriage. Quixtus and Clementina -were left alone. - -“Can I tell Sheila to-morrow that you’re coming down to Moleham?” - -“I think you can,” said Quixtus. “I think you can quite safely.” - -“I’m sorry Mrs. Fontaine wasn’t able to join us.” - -“Now why?” he asked, vaguely conscious of outstretched claw and flying -fur. - -“Because she has such brilliant social gifts,” replied Clementina. - -There was a span of silence. Clementina inhaled a puff of the Turkish -cigarette she had lit and then threw it into the grate. - -“For God’s sake, my dear man, look in that drawer and give me some -tobacco I can smoke. I smuggled it in yesterday.” - -Quixtus gave her the yellow package and papers and she rolled a -cigarette of Maryland and smoked contentedly. Tommy came in. - -“Will you and these infants lunch with me to-morrow at the Carlton?” - -“With pleasure,” said Quixtus. - -“Do you know,” she said, “I’ve never been inside the place? It will be -quite an adventure.” - -A few moments later Tommy and herself were speeding westward in a -taxi-cab. The boy spoke little. All his darling conceptions of -Clementina had been upheaved, dynamited, tossed into the air and lay -around him in amorphous fragments. Nor was she conversationally -inclined. Tommy now was a tiny little speck in her horizon. Yet when the -motor drew up at her house in Romney Place and he opened the gate for -her, something significant happened. - -He put out his hand. “Good-night, Clementina.” - -She laughed. “Where are your manners, Tommy? Aren’t you going to kiss -me?” - -He hesitated, just the fraction of a second, and then kissed her. She -ran up to her room exultant; not because she had been kissed; far from -it. But because he had hesitated. Between Clementina fishfag and -Clementina princess was a mighty gulf. She knew it. She exulted. She -went to bed, but could not sleep. She had a headache; such a headache; a -glorious headache; a thunder and lightning of a headache! - - - - - CHAPTER XXIV - - -Tommy, calling for Clementina the next morning; was confronted at the -open door, not by Eliza, but by a demure damsel in a black frock, black -apron, and a black bow in her hair, who said “Oui, monsieur,” when -addressed. Tommy, still bewildered, asked whether she was a new lady’s -maid. “Oui; monsieur,” said the damsel, and showed him into the Sheraton -drawing-room. He sat down meekly and waited for Clementina. She came -down soon, a resplendent vision, exquisitely gowned, perfectly hatted, -delicately gloved, and in her hand she jingled a small goldsmith’s shop. -She pirouetted round. - -“Like it?” - -Tommy groaned. “Clementina, darling, tell me, in Heaven’s name, what -you’re playing at, or I’ll go raving mad.” - -“I told you that one of these days I was going to become a lady. The day -has come. Don’t I look like a lady?” - -“That’s the devil of it,” he laughed. “You look like an archduchess.” - -They picked up Etta and met Quixtus at the Carlton where they lunched in -the middle of the great gay room. The young people’s curious awe of the -transmogrified Clementina soon melted away. The big, warm-hearted -Clementina they loved was unchanged; but to her was added a -laughter-evoking, brilliant, joyous personage whose existence they had -never suspected. Quixtus went home stimulated and uplifted. He had never -enjoyed two hours so much in his life. - -And that was the beginning of the glory of Clementina Wing. - -Day by day the glory deepened. The pyrotechnic—a flash, a bedazzlement -and then darkness—was not in Clementina’s nature. She had deliberately -immolated the phœnix of dusky plumage and from its ashes had arisen this -second and radiant phœnix incarnation. She suffered, as she confessed to -herself, infernally; for a new fire-born phœnix must have its skin -peculiarly tender; but she grinned and bore it for the greater -glory—well, not of Clementina alone—but of God and her sex and the -happiness of those she loved and the things that stood for the right. - -She was fighting the interloping woman with her own weapons. She, -Clementina, the despised and rejected of men, was pitting her sex’s -fascinations against the professional seductress. She had won the first -pitched battle. She had swept the enemy from the field. Sheer fierceness -of love, almost animal, for the child, sheer pity flaming white for the -man grown dear to her, sheer sex, sheer womanhood—these were the forces -at work. It would have been easy to denounce the woman to Quixtus. But -that might have thrown him back into darkness. Easy, too, to have held -her knowledge as a threat over the woman’s head and bade her begone. But -where had been the triumph? Where the glory? Whereas to scorn the use of -her knowledge and conquer otherwise, therein lay matter for thrilling -exultation. It was an achievement worth the struggle. - -And the glory of the riot through her veins of the tumultuous Thing she -had kept strangled to torpor within her! The Thing that had been stirred -by the springtide in a girl’s heart, that had leapt at the parrot tulips -in the early May, that had almost escaped from grip on the moonlit night -at Vienne, that had remained awake and struggling ever since—the glory -to let it go free and carry her whithersoever it would! Art—to the -devil with it! What was Art in comparison with this new-found glory? - -It made her ten years younger. It took years from the man for whose -fascination she brought it into play. Hers was a double conquest, the -rout of the woman, the capture of the man. Daily she battled. Sheila, -the lovers, a new portrait of him which she suddenly conceived the -splendid notion of painting, all were pretexts for keeping the -unconscious man within the sphere of her influence. Any impression that -the other had made on his heart or his mind should be deleted, and her -impression stamped there in its place, so that when he met the other out -of her presence, as meet her he undoubtedly must, he would wear it as a -talisman against her arts and blandishments. Twice also during the dying -days of the season, late that year, she went out into the great world -and gave her adversary battle in the open. - -It was between these two engagements that she had a talk with Huckaby. - -Huckaby, doing his best to act loyally towards both parties, led a -precarious moral existence. The sight of Clementina queening it in -dazzling raiment about Quixtus’s house and the despairing confidences of -Lena Fontaine had enabled him to form a fairly accurate judgment of the -state of affairs. His heart began to bleed for Lena Fontaine. She would -come to his lodgings and claim sympathy. To not a soul in the world but -him could she talk freely. She was desperate. That abominable woman -insulted her, trampled on her, poisoned Quixtus’s mind against her. He -had changed suddenly, seemed to avoid her, and, when he found himself in -her company, he was just polite and courteous in his gentle way, and -smilingly eluded her. The Dinard intimacy, on which she had reckoned, -had faded into the land of dreams. He was being dragged off before her -eyes to some fool place up the river to be watched and guarded like a -lunatic. What was she to do? Ruin would soon be staring her in the face. -She had thought of upbraiding him for neglect, of reproaching him for -having played fast and loose with her affections, of putting him through -the ordeal of an emotional scene. Of that, however, she was afraid; it -might scare him away for good and all. She wept, an unhappy and -ill-treated woman, and Huckaby supplied sympathy and handkerchiefs and a -mirror so that she could repair the ravages of tears. - -One day Huckaby and Clementina met in the hall of the Russell Square -house. - -“Well,” she said. “Have you seen Mrs. Fontaine lately?” - -He admitted that he had. - -“Taking it rather badly, I suppose,” she remarked with a reversion to -her grim manner. - -“She is miserable. As I told you, it means all the world to her—her -very salvation.” - -Clementina caught the note of deep pleading in his voice and fixed him -with her shrewd eyes. - -“You seem to concern yourself very deeply about the lady.” - -Huckaby glanced at her for a moment hesitatingly; then shrugged his -shoulders. Clementina was a woman to whom straight dealing counted for -righteousness. He gave her his secret. - -“I’ve grown to care for her—to care for her very much. I know I’m a -fool, but I can’t help it.” - -“Do you know anything of the lady’s private affairs—financial, I -mean—how much she has honestly of her own?” - -“Four hundred pounds a year.” - -“And you?” - -“When I take up the appointment of the Anthropological Society I shall -have five hundred.” - -“Nine hundred pounds. Have you any idea of the minimum rate per annum at -which she would accept salvation?” - -“No,” said Huckaby in a dazed way. - -“Well, work it out,” said Clementina. “Good-bye.” - -Her second sortie into the great world was on the occasion of a -garden-party at the Quinns. Lady Quinn had asked her verbally at -Quixtus’s dinner and had sent her a formal card. Knowing that Quixtus -was going and more than suspecting that the enemy would be there too, -she had kept her own invitation a secret. Welcomed, flattered, -surrounded by the gay crowd in the large, pleasant Hampstead garden, it -was some time before she saw Mrs. Fontaine. At last she caught sight of -her sitting with Quixtus, at the end of the garden, half screened by a -tree-trunk from the mass of guests. As soon as Clementina could work her -way through, she advanced quickly and smiling towards them. Quixtus -sprang to his feet and seemed to take a deep breath as a man does when -he flings bedroom windows wide open on his first morning in mountain -air. - -“Clementina! I hadn’t the dimmest notion that you were coming! How -delightful!” He surveyed her for a moment as she stood before him; -parasol on shoulder. Clementina with a parasol! “Pray forgive my -impertinence,” said he, “but you’re wearing the most beautiful dress I -ever saw.” - -It was hand-painted muslin—a fabulous thing. She laughed, turned to -Lena Fontaine, demure in a simple fawn costume. - -“He’s improving. Have you ever known him to compliment a woman on her -dress before?” - -“Many times,” said Mrs. Fontaine, mendaciously. - -“It must be your excellent training,” said Clementina. She turned to -Quixtus. “I’ve seen Huckaby this morning, and everything’s quite -arranged for the transportation of your necessary books and specimens -down to Moleham. He’ll do it beautifully even though it takes a -pantechnicon van, and you won’t be worried about it at all. He’s a -splendid fellow.” - -“He is rendering me invaluable assistance.” - -“Dr. Quixtus tells me he is quite an old friend of yours, Mrs. -Fontaine,” said Clementina. “What a pity you can’t be persuaded to come -down to Moleham.” - -“Are you going to have a chaperon to your rather mixed house-party?” - -“I should if you would honour me by coming; my dear Mrs. Fontaine—a -dowager dragon of propriety. But an Admiral of the British navy is quite -safeguard enough for me.” - -The hostess, coming through the edge of the crowd, carried off Quixtus. -The two women were left alone. Lena Fontaine turned suddenly, -white-lipped, shaking with anger. - -“I’ve had enough of it. I’m not going to stand it. I’m not going to be -persecuted like this any longer.” - -“What will you do?” - -Lena Fontaine clenched her small hands. What could she do? - -“Come, come,” said Clementina. “Let us have a straight talk like -sensible women, and put the pussy-cat aside, if we can. Sit down. Do. -There’s only one point of dissension between us. You know very well what -it is—there’s no use fencing. Give it up. Give up all idea of it and -I’ll let you alone. Give it all up. You can see for yourself that I -won’t let you do it.” - -“It’s outrageous for you to speak to me like this,” said the other, half -hysterically. - -“I know it is,” said Clementina coolly. “I’m an outrageous woman. Been -so all my life. To do an outrageous thing is only part of the day’s -work. So I just say outrageously; give it up.” - -Lena Fontaine fluttered a glance at the strong face and caught the -magnetism of the black glittering eyes, and remained silent. She knew -that she was no match for this vital creature. She was confronting -overwhelming odds. The rough fishfag of Paris who could walk straight -into the mould of a great lady and carry everything contemptuously -before her suddenly impressed her with a paralysing sense of something -uncanny, relentless, irresistible. She was less a woman than an -implacable force. For the first time in her life of Hagardom, Lena -Fontaine felt beaten. The nun’s face grew drawn and haggard. Fright -replaced the allurement of her eyes. She said nothing, but twisted one -gloved hand nervously in the other. She was at the mercy of the victor. -There was silence for some moments. Then Clementina’s heart smote her. -All this elaborate wheel to break a butterfly—a very naughty, sordid, -frayed and empty little butterfly—but still a butterfly! - -“My dear,” she said, at last very gently. “I know how hard life is on a -lone and defenceless woman. I know you have many reasons to hate me for -preventing you from making that life softer and sweeter. But perhaps, -one of these days, you mayn’t hate me so much. I’m every infernal thing -you like to call me, and when I’m interfered with I’m a devil. But at -heart I’m a woman and a good sort. I won’t outrage you by saying such an -idiot thing as ‘Let us be friends,’ when you’ve every rational desire to -murder me; but I ask you to remember—and I’ve suffered enough not to be -a silly fool going round saying serious things I don’t mean—I ask you -to remember that if ever you want a woman to turn to, you can count on -me. I’m a good bit older than you,” she added generously, “I’m -thirty-six.” - -“Oh, God!” cried the other, bursting into tears, “I’m thirty-seven.” - -“Impossible,” said Clementina, in genuine amazement. “You look nothing -like it.” She rose and touched the weeping woman’s shoulder. “Anyhow,” -she said, “I’ve a certain amount of female horse-sense that might come -in useful if you want it.” - -Whereupon Clementina made her way straight through the throng to her -hostess, and after a swift farewell left the garden-party. - -The enemy was finally routed; the confession of age, a confession of -defeat. The victory had been achieved much more easily than she had -anticipated. When she went home she looked with a queer smile into one -of the hanging wardrobes with which she had been obliged to furnish her -bedroom so as to accommodate the prodigious quantity of new dresses. Why -all the lavish expenditure, the feverish preparation, the many hours -wasted at great dressmakers, modistes, and other vendors of -frippery—why the hairdressers, the face specialists—why the exquisite -torture of tight lacing—why the responsibility of valuable jewels, her -mother’s, up till then safely stored at the bank—why the renting of the -caravanserai at Moleham—why the revolution of her habits, her modes of -expression, her very life—why, in short, such fantastic means to gain -so simple an end? Was it worth it? Clementina slammed the wardrobe door -and glanced at herself in the long mirror that was exposed. She saw a -happy woman, and she laughed. It was worth it. She had gained infinitely -more than a victory over a poor sister of no account. Sheila came -running into the room. - -“Oh, what a beautiful auntie!” - -She caught the child to her and hugged her close. - -The legal formalities with regard to Will Hammersley’s affairs were -eventually concluded; but in spite of all inquiries the identity of -Sheila’s mother remained a curious mystery. No record of Hammersley’s -marriage could be found, either at Somerset House or at Shanghai. No -reference to his wife appeared in the papers he had left behind him. At -last, a day or two before her departure for Moleham, Clementina made a -discovery. - -A trunk of Hammersley’s merely containing suits of clothes and other -wearing apparel had remained undisposed of, and Clementina was going -through them with the object of packing them off to some charitable -association, when from the folds of a jacket there dropped a bundle of -letters tied round with a bit of tape. She glanced idly at the outer -sheet. The handwriting was a woman’s. The few words that met her eyes -showed that they were love-letters. Clementina sat on an empty packing -case—all Hammersley’s personal belongings had been dumped in her -box-room—and balanced the bundle in her hand. They were sacred things -belonging to the hearts of the dead. Ought she to read them? Yet she -became conscious of a feminine intuition that they might hold a secret -that would bring comfort to the living. So she undid the tape and spread -out the old crumpled pages, and as she read, a tragedy, a romance as old -as the world was revealed to her. The letters dated from seven years -back. They were from one, Nora Duglade, a woman wretchedly married, -breaking her heart for Will Hammersley. Clementina read on. Suddenly she -gave a sharp cry of astonishment and leaped to her feat. There was a -reference to Angela Quixtus, who was in her confidence. Clementina -rapidly scanned page after page and found more and more of Angela. The -writer; like most women, could not bear to destroy the beloved letters; -she dared not keep them at home; Angela had lent her a drawer in her -bureau. . . . - -Clementina telephoned to Quixtus to come immediately on urgent business. -In twenty minutes he arrived, somewhat scared. Was anything wrong with -Sheila? - -“I’ve found out who her mother was,” said Clementina. - -“Who was she?” he asked quickly. - -She bade him sit down. They were in the drawing room. - -“Some one called Nora Duglade. . . . I don’t remember her.” - -Quixtus passed his hand over his forehead as he threw back his thoughts. - -“Mrs. Duglade . . .” he said in bewilderment, “Mrs. Duglade . . .” - -“A friend of Angela’s,” said Clementina. - -“Yes. A school friend. They saw very little of each other. I met her -only once or twice. I had no notion Hammersley knew her. . . . Her -husband was a brute, I remember—used to beat her. . . . I think I heard -she had left him——” - -“For Will Hammersley.” - -“He died years ago . . . of drink. . . . Oh-h!” He shuddered and hid his -face in his hands. - -“Read these few pages,” said Clementina and she left the room very -quietly. - -About ten minutes afterwards she came in again. He sprang up from his -chair and grasped both her hands. His eyes were wet and his lips worked -tremulously. - -“I found a letter from Hammersley in Angela’s drawer—it had got stuck -at the back. . . . It was for the other woman, my dear——” his voice -quavered into the treble. “It was for the other woman.” - -She led him to the stiff sofa and sat beside him and held his hand. And -she had the joy of seeing a black cloud melt away from a man’s soul. - -From that hour when he had revealed to her the things deep and sacred, -dark and despairing of his heart, and had gone forth from her sympathy -aglow with a new-found faith in humanity, the bond between them was -strengthened a thousandfold. Quixtus found that he could obtain not only -swift response to his thoughts from a keen intelligence, but wide, -undreamed of understanding of all those subtle workings of the spirit, -regrets, hopes, judgments, prejudices, shrinkings, wonderings, impulses, -which are too elusive to be thoughts, too vague to be emotions. And yet, -she herself was never subtle. She was direct and uncompromising. As a -shivering man enters a cosy room and warms himself before a blazing -fire, so did he unquestioningly warm his heart in Clementina’s -personality. And as the shivering man knows, without speculating, that -the fire is intense and strong, so did he know that Clementina was -intense and strong. - -All through the idyll of the remaining summer; he felt this more and -more. She stood for something that he had missed in life, something that -Angela, pale, passionless, negative reflection of himself, had never -given him. She stood for richness, bigness, meaning. A simple man, not -given to introspection or analysis of motive, new sensations, new -realisations came to him as they come to a child and caused development. -And among other impressions that deepened on his mind—and his was the -mind of a scholar and dreamer, sweet and clean—was that of Clementina -(now appearing to the world as God Almighty intended her to appear) as a -physically fine and splendid creature. - -And, during all the summer idyll in the Manor House at -Moleham-on-Thames, Clementina, in her uncompromising way, maintained the -new phœnix’s plumage preened and shiny. The old habit of clawing at her -hair while she was painting she circumvented by tying her head in an -Angelica Kauffmann handkerchief. Tommy made her a present of one, in -cardinal red, in which she flamed gipsy-like about the studio. -Involuntarily, inevitably, the manner of all the men in her house-party, -Quixtus, Huckaby, Admiral Concannon, Poynter (who spent a week-end), -Tommy and Tommy’s cronies who came and went as they pleased, was tinged -with a deference and a homage which made life a thing of meaning and -delight. - -Sometimes a little scene like this would take place; - -To Clementina painting hard in the morning, enter the housekeeper. - -“Please, ma’am, we’ll soon be out of wine.” - -She would frown at the canvas. “Well, what of it?” - -“The gentlemen, ma’am.” - -“Oh, let them drink ginger-beer.” - -“Very well, ma’am.” - -Then with a laugh she would fling down her brushes, and go and attend to -her cellar. To make the men in her house comfortable, the commonplace -care of a hostess, gave her unimagined pleasure. Etta and her young -friends could look after themselves, being females and therefore -resourceful. But the men were helpless children, even the Admiral; -sometimes, she thought—especially the Admiral. Their nourishment became -a matter of peculiar solicitude. She invented wants for them which she -forthwith supplied. Sometimes she summoned Tommy to consultation. But -when he gravely prescribed a large bath powder-puff for his uncle she -upbraided him for making a jest of solemn things and dismissed him from -her counsels. Her painting suffered from these inroads on her time and -thoughts; but Clementina cared not. The happiness of the trustful men -around her was of more consequence than the successful application of -paint to canvas. Sometimes, sitting at the head of her table she would -feel herself a mother to them all, and her lips would twist themselves -into a new smile. - -Her happiest hours were those which she spent alone with Sheila and -Quixtus. Since the cloud had been lifted from his soul he loved the -child with a new tenderness, thus inarticulately expressing his -gratitude to God for having put it into his heart to love her while the -cloud hung heavy. And Clementina knew this, and invested his relations -with the child in a curious sanctity. She loved to share with him the -child’s affection in actual physical presence. The late afternoon was -Sheila’s hour. Clementina would sit with them beneath the great cedar -tree on the lawn and listen to the stories he had learned to pour into -Sheila’s insatiable ears. They were mostly odds and ends of folk-lore. -But now and then she suspected heterogeneous strains; and one day she -called out; - -“Are you inventing all that, Ephraim?” - -He confessed with the air of a detected schoolboy. - -“To hear you playing the deuce with folk-lore which you regard as a -strict and sacred science amazes me. From you it sounds almost immoral.” - -Quixtus fingered the soft curls. “What,” said he, “is all the science in -the world compared with this little head?” - -Clementina was silent for a moment. Then she said abruptly. “You feel -like that, too, do you?” - -Quixtus nodded and dreamed over the curls. - -“But what happened to the princess and the Ju-Ju man?” demanded Sheila, -and Quixtus had to pursue his immoral course. - -August melted into September, and September drew to its close. Admiral -Concannon and Etta and all the boys and girls, save Tommy, had gone, and -Huckaby was busy with the repacking of books and specimens. The weather -had broken. The trees dripped with rain and the leaves began to fall. -Mists rose from the meadows by the river and a blue haze, sweet and sad, -enveloped the low-lying hills. In the garden the sunflowers, a week -before so glorious, hung their heads with a dying grace. The birds, even -the thrushes, were mute. The hour under the cedar tree had become the -hour of deepening twilight by the fireside. The idyll was over. London -called. . . . - - * * * * * - -They had been sitting before the drawing-room fire for a long time -without speaking. Sheila, with a toy shop and an army of dolls for -customers, played on the floor between them, absorbed in her game. No -one of the three noticed that darkness had crept into the room, for the -fire leaped and flamed, throwing on them fierce lights and shadows. - -“The day after to-morrow,” said Clementina, breaking the silence, and -looking intently at the blaze. - -“Yes,” said Quixtus. “The day after to-morrow.” - -“I think you’ll find I’ve made all arrangements for Sheila, Atkins -understands.” Atkins was the nurse. “I’ve seen about the nursery fender -which I had overlooked. . . . You mustn’t let Atkins bully you, or -she’ll get out of hand. . . . How these three months have flown!” - -“If you didn’t insist,” said Quixtus, “I wouldn’t take her from you. But -you’ll miss her terribly.” - -“So will you when my turn comes again,” replied Clementina gruffly. -“What’s the good of talking rubbish?” - -There was another silence. He glanced at her, and a sudden flame from -the fire lit up her face and he saw that her brows were bent and her -mouth set grimly tight and that something glistened for a second on each -cheek and then fell quickly. And each time he glanced at her he saw the -same glistening drop fall. - -“Uncle Ephim,” said Sheila coming and insinuating herself between his -legs, “Mrs. Brown wants to buy some matches and I haven’t got any.” - -He gave her his silver match-box and Sheila went away happy to her game. - -Clementina choked a sob. - -“My dear,” said he, at last. - -“Yes?” said Clementina. - -“Why shouldn’t we have her always with us?” - -“You mean——?” said Clementina, after a pause, and still looking into -the fire. - -“Even with her, I can’t face that great lonely house. I can’t face my -empty, lonely existence. My dear,” said he, bending forward in his -chair; “it has come to this—that I can’t think a thought or feel an -emotion without you becoming inextricably interwoven with it. You have -grown into the texture of my life. I know I may be impertinent and -presumptuous in putting such a proposal before you——” - -“You haven’t put one yet,” said Clementina. - -“It is that you would do me the honour of marrying me,” replied Quixtus. - -Again there was silence. For the first time in her life she was afraid -to speak, lest she should betray the commotion in her being. She loved -him. She did not hide the fact from herself. It was not the mad, -gorgeous passion of romance; she knew it for something deeper, stronger, -based on essentials. He lay deeply rooted in her heart, half child for -her mothering, all man for her loving. When had she begun to care for -him? She scarcely knew. Perhaps at Marseilles, when he had returned to -her for companionship and they had walked out arm in arm. She knew that -he spoke truly of his need of her. But the words that mattered, the -foolish little words; he had not uttered. - -“Do you care for me enough to marry me?” she asked, at last. - -He glanced at Sheila weighing out matches in her toy scales. It is -difficult to carry on a love-scene with conviction in the presence of a -third party, even of that of a beloved child of five. - -“Very, very, deeply,” he said in a low voice. - -The dressing-bell rang and Clementina rose. “Put up your shop, darling. -It’s time to go to bed.” Then she crossed to Quixtus’s chair and stood -behind him and laid one arm on his shoulder. He kissed her hand. - -“Well?” said he, looking up. - -“I’ll tell you presently,” she said, and in withdrawing her hand, she -lightly brushed his cheek. - -Quixtus dressed quickly and came down early to the drawing-room, and -soon Clementina appeared. She was wearing a red dress which she had -bought during her wholesale purchasing of raiment, but had never yet -worn, thinking it too flaring, and she had a red dahlia in her hair. -Quixtus took both her hands and raised them to his shoulders, and she -stood away from him at the distance of her bare; shapely arms, and she -smiled into his eyes. - -“Your answer?” said he. - -“Tell me,” she said. “What do you really want me for?” - -“For yourself,” he cried, and he caught her in his arms with swift -passion and kissed her. - -“If you hadn’t said that,” she remarked a few moments afterwards, “I -don’t know what my answer would have been. At any rate,” she added, -touching her hair with uplifted hands, “it would not have been quite so -spontaneous.” - -He leaned his elbow on the mantelpiece and a great light came into his -pale blue eyes as he looked at her. - -“Do you think, my dear,” said he, “that I’m such a dry stick of a man as -not to want you for your great self—your great, splendid, and wonderful -self? I want you with everything in me.” - -She turned half aside and said gently; - -“That’s all a woman wants, Ephraim.” - -“What?” - -“To be wanted,” said Clementina. - -It was not till the next day that she told Tommy the great news. She -took him for a walk and broke it to him bluntly. But he was prepared for -it. Etta had foreseen and had prophesied to his sceptical ears. He -murmured well-bred congratulations. - -“But your painting,” said he, after a while. - -“It can go hang,” said Clementina. She laughed at his look of horror. -“Art for the polygamous man and the celibate woman. A man can throw his -soul into his pictures and also attend to his wife and family. That’s -out of a woman’s power. She must choose between her art on the one side, -and husband and children on the other—I’m telling you this, _mon -petit_, for your education. I’ve chosen husband and children as any -woman with blood in her veins would choose. It’s the women without blood -that choose art—don’t make any mistake about it. Now and then one of -’em chooses the other—and, as she doesn’t get any children and doesn’t -know what the deuce to do with a husband, falls back on her art again -and gives the poor devil soup with camel-hair brushes floating about it -and a painting-rag for a napkin, and then there are ructions, and she -goes among her weary pals and says that their sex is misunderstood and -down-trodden, and they must clamour for their rights. Bosh!” - -She sniffed in her old way. Tommy insisted. - -“But you’re a born painter, Clementina. A great painter. It means such a -tremendous sacrifice.” - -“You young men of the present day make me tired!” she exclaimed. “You -all seem to think that larks ought to fall ready roasted into your -mouth. There’s not a blessed thing in this world worth having without -sacrifice. The big people, the people that have the big things in life -are those that have paid or are prepared to pay the big price for them.” - -“I don’t see why you should round on me like that,” said Tommy. “After -all, a little while ago I made no bones about sacrificing the loaves and -fishes for the sake of my art—I don’t want to brag—but _fiat justitia_ -at any rate.” - -“I know what you did,” said Clementina, mollified, “and if you hadn’t -done it, I shouldn’t be talking like this to you. And you’re a painter -and my very dear Tommy, and you can understand—Of course, I’ll go on -painting—I’ve got it in my blood. I could no more do without a paint -brush handy than a tooth brush. But it’s going to be secondary. I’ll be -the gifted amateur. Clementina Wing, painter of portraits to the -nobility, gentry, mayoralty, and pork-butchery of Great Britain and -Ireland is dead. You can paraphrase the epitaph. ‘Here lies Clementina -Wing, the married woman.’ And, Tommy, my dear,” she added in a softer -voice, “You can add to it; ‘_Sic itur ad astra_.’” - -“I do hope you’ll be jolly happy,” said Tommy. - -On their way back it happened that the postman met them with the -household budget. She took the letters into the hall and sorted them. -Tommy went off with his precious epistle from Etta. Huckaby appeared in -quest of his chief’s correspondence, and, seeing her alone, -congratulated her on her approaching marriage. She thanked him and held -out a letter addressed to him from Dinard. - -“I’ve been dealing in quotations lately,” she said. “And I find I’ve got -one for you. ‘Go thou and do likewise.’” - -Huckaby sighed and laughed. - -“One of these days, perhaps,” said he. - -So the idyll that seemed to be coming to an end had only just begun. -They returned to London, and while Clementina (in whose charge Sheila -now remained) painted frenziedly to finish the work she had in hand, -Quixtus, with her help, reorganised the great gaunt house in Russell -Square. The worm-eaten scarecrow of a billiard table was removed from -the billiard-room built by Quixtus’s father over the garden at the back -of the house, and the room, spacious and top-lighted, was converted into -a studio for the bride to be. Tommy, enthusiastically iconoclast, being -given authority, under Clementina’s directions, to refurnish, condemned -rep curtains, mahogany mid-Victorian furniture—a dining-room sideboard -disfigured by carvings of plethoric fruit had sent shivers down his back -since infancy—Turkey carpets and all the gloom of a bygone age, and -converted the grim abode into a bower of delight. - -And towards the end of October the oddly mated pair were married, and -Clementina went to her husband’s home and the patter of the feet of the -beloved child of their adoption was heard about the house and great joy -fell upon them. - -One day, in the early spring, Quixtus burst into the studio, a letter in -hand. The greatest of all honours that the civilised world has to give -to the scholar had fallen on him—honorary membership of the Institut de -France. She must know of it at once. - -She was sitting before the easel, a bit of charcoal in hand, absorbed in -her drawing. What he saw on the drawing-paper put, for the moment, the -Institute of France out of his mind. Two arms came from the vague, -headless trunk of a draped woman; one arm clasped Sheila, a living -portrait, and the other something all chubby, kissable curves, such as -Murillo has rendered immortal. As soon as she was aware of his presence -she tore the sheet from the board, and looked at him somewhat defiantly. -He went up and put his arm round her, deeply moved. - -“My dear,” said he, “I saw. You’re the only woman in the world that -could have done it. Let me look. I can share it with you, dear.” - -She yielded. His delicate perception of the innermost sweetnesses of -life was infinitely dear to her. She set the drawing upright on the -ledge. He drew a chair close to her and sat down, and he forgot the -crowning glory of his intellectual life. - -“It’s not bad of Sheila, is it?” she said. - -“And the other?” - -She kissed him. “The very image. It’s bound to be.” - -Presently she laughed and said: - -“I’ve been thinking of the good St. Paul lately. He has a lot to say -about glory. Do you remember? About the glory of celestial bodies and -bodies terrestrial. ‘There is one glory of the sun and another glory of -the moon and another glory of the stars.’ But there is one glory which -that eminent bachelor never dreamed of.” - -“And what is that, my dear?” asked Quixtus. - -“The glory of being a woman,” said Clementina. - - THE END - - - - -NOVELS BY W. J. LOCKE - -MR. W. J. LOCKE’S LATEST NOVEL - -The Glory of Clementina Wing - - Crown 8vo, 6s. - - * * * * * - -Simon the Jester - - Crown 8vo, 6s. - -_PRESS OPINIONS_ - - W. L. Courtney in _The Daily Telegraph_.—“You will not put down - the book until you have read the last page. The story is not the - main part of Mr. Locke’s book. It is the style, the quality of - the writing, the atmosphere of the novel, the easy, pervasive - charm . . . which make us feel once more the stirring pulses and - eager blood of deathless romance.” - - * * * * * - -The Beloved Vagabond - - Crown 8vo, 6s. - -_PRESS OPINIONS_ - - _Morning Post._—“It would not be surprising if ‘Beloved - Vagabond’ became the favourite novel of the season. . . . This - fantastic and enlivening book.” - - _Truth._—“Certainly it is the most brilliant piece of work Mr. - Locke has done.” - - * * * * * - -The Morals of Marcus Ordeyne - - Crown 8vo, 6s. - -_PRESS OPINIONS_ - - _Truth._—“Mr. Locke’s new novel is one of the most artistic - pieces of work I have met with for many a day. He tells his - story with just that gentle ironic touch the subject requires, - with altogether delightful results.” - - * * * * * - -The White Dove - - Crown 8vo, 6s. - -_PRESS OPINIONS_ - - _Morning Post._—“It is an interesting story. The characters are - strongly conceived and vividly presented, and the dramatic - moments are powerfully realised.” - - * * * * * - -Derelicts - - Crown 8vo, 6s. - -_PRESS OPINIONS_ - - _Daily Chronicle._—“Mr. Locke tells his story in a very true, - very moving, and very noble book. If any one can read the last - chapter with dry eyes we shall be surprised. ‘Derelicts’ is an - impressive and important book. Yvonne is a character that any - artist might be proud of.” - - * * * * * - -Idols - - Crown 8vo, 6s. - -_PRESS OPINIONS_ - - _Daily Telegraph._—“A brilliantly written and eminently - readable book.” - - * * * * * - -The Usurper - - Crown 8vo, 6s. - -_PRESS OPINIONS_ - - _Daily Telegraph._—“Arresting is the right word to apply to Mr. - Locke’s book. Beyond all the excellence of the characterisation - and the interest the story evokes, which makes it one of the - most attractive novels of the year, there is true insight in - dealing with several of the problems of humanity, the stimulus - to thought which is alike rare and unforgettable.” - -At the Gate of Samaria - - Crown 8vo, 6s. - -_PRESS OPINIONS_ - - _Daily Chronicle._—“The heroine of this clever story attracts - our interest. . . . She is a clever and subtle study. . . . We - congratulate Mr. Locke.” - - * * * * * - -A Study in Shadows - - Crown 8vo, 6s. - -_PRESS OPINIONS_ - - _Athenœum._—“The character-drawing is distinctly good. All the - personages stand out well defined with strongly marked - individualities.” - - _Literary World._—“A striking and cleverly written book.” - - * * * * * - -The Demagogue & Lady Phayre - - Crown 8vo, 3s. 6d. - -JOHN LANE, The Bodley Head, Vigo Street, London, W. - -JOHN LANE’S LIST OF FICTION - - * * * * * - -BY ARTHUR H. ADAMS. - -=GALAHAD JONES.= A Tragic Farce. Crown 8vo. 6/- - -With 16 full-page Illustrations by Norman Lindsay. - - _Westminster Gazette._—“There is something extraordinarily - fresh about Galahad Jones.” - - _Times._—“With skilful touch.” - - _Athenœum._—“Mr. Adams has written a really charming and tender - romance.” - - * * * * * - -=A TOUCH OF FANTASY.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - * * * * * - -BY FRANCIS ADAMS. - -=A CHILD OF THE AGE.= Crown 8vo. 1/- net - - _Pall Mall Gazette_—“It comes recognisably near to great - excellence. There is a love episode in this book which is - certainly fine. Clearly conceived and expressed with point.” - - * * * * * - -BY JEAN AICARD. - -=THE DIVERTING ADVENTURES OF MAURIN.= Cr. 8vo. 6/- - -Translated from the French by Alfred Allinson, M.A. - - _Westminster Gazette_—Maurin, hunter, poacher, boaster, and - lover of women, is a magnificently drawn type of the Meridional, - who is in some ways the Irishman of France. . . . a fine, sane, - work. . . . The translation is excellent.” - - _Morning Leader_—“Indubitably laughable. An encyclopædia of the - best form of foolishness.” - -=MAURIN THE ILLUSTRIOUS.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - -Translated from the French by Alfred Allinson, M.A. - - _Evening Standard_—“If he had never done anything else M. - Aicard would have earned his seat in the French Academy by his - creation of Maurin. For Maurin is an addition to the world’s - stock of fictional characters—to that picture gallery where no - restorer is ever wanted.” - - * * * * * - -BY GRANT ALLEN. - -=THE BRITISH BARBARIANS.= Crown 8vo. 3/6 net - -Also Canvas Back Library 1/6 net. - - _Saturday Review_—“Mr. Allen takes occasion to say a good many - things that require saying, and suggests a good many reforms - that would, if adopted, bring our present legal code more into - harmony with modern humanity and the exigencies of its - development.” - - * * * * * - -BY MAUD ANNESLEY. - -=THE WINE OF LIFE.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - _Pall Mall Gazette_—“The story is full of life and interest and - the startling dénouement is led up to with considerable skill.” - -=THE DOOR OF DARKNESS.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - _Pall Mall Gazette_—“An enthralling story, powerfully imagined - and distinguished for artistry of no mean order.” - - * * * * * - -BY W. M. ARDAGH. - -=THE MAGADA.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - _Pall Mall Gazette_—“‘The Magada’ is a store-house of rare and - curious learning . . . it is a well-written and picturesque - story of high adventure and deeds of derring-do.” - - _Observer_—“The book has admirably caught the spirit of - romance.” - - _Daily Chronicle_—“‘The Magada’ is a fine and finely told - story, and we congratulate Mr. Ardagh.” - - * * * * * - -BY A. ARNOTT. - -=THE DEMPSEY DIAMONDS.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - * * * * * - -BY GERTRUDE ATHERTON. - -=SENATOR NORTH.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - _New York Herald_—“In the description of Washington life Mrs. - Atherton shows not only a very considerable knowledge of - externals, but also an insight into the underlying political - issues that is remarkable.” - - _Outlook_—“The novel has genuine historical value.” - -=THE ARISTOCRATS.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - -Also in paper boards, cloth back, at 1/6. - - _The Times_—“Clever and entertaining. . . . This gay volume is - written by some one with a pretty wit, an eye for scenery, and a - mind quick to grasp natural as well as individual - characteristics. Her investigations into the American character - are acute as well as amusing.” - -=THE DOOMSWOMAN.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - _Morning Post_—“A fine drama, finely conceived and finely - executed.” - - _Athenœum_—“Eminently picturesque . . . gorgeous colouring.” - -=A WHIRL ASUNDER.= Paper Cover. 1/- net - - _Bystander_—“It can be recommended as a fine romance. . . . - There is plenty of incident.” - - _Outlook_—“The story is a curious achievement in the violently - and crudely picturesque style that is peculiar to the author - writer.” - - - - -BY EX-LIEUTENANT BILSE. - -=LIFE IN A GARRISON TOWN.= Crown 8vo. 1/- net - -The suppressed German Novel. With a preface written by the author whilst -in London, and an introduction by Arnold White. - - _Truth_—“The disgraceful exposures of the book were expressly - admitted to be true by the Minister of War in the Reichstag. - What the book will probably suggest to you is, that German - militarism is cutting its own throat, and will one day be hoist - with its own petard.” - - * * * * * - -BY HORACE BLEACKLEY. - -=A GENTLEMAN OF THE ROAD.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - _Athenœum._—“It has plenty of spirit and incident.” - - _Westminster Gazette._—“Mr. Bleackley knows his period well, - and we are grateful to him for investing a well-worn theme with - interest and refreshment.” - - _Times._—“Breezy and stirring.” - - * * * * * - -BY SHELLAND BRADLEY. - -=ADVENTURES OF AN A.D.C.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - _Westminster Gazette_—“. . . makes better and more entertaining - reading than nine out of every ten novels of the day. . . . - Those who know nothing about Anglo-Indian social life will be as - well entertained by this story as those who know everything - about it.” - - _Times_—“Full of delightful humour.” - - * * * * * - -BY JOHN BUCHAN. - -=JOHN BURNET OF BARNS.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - _Truth_—“In short, this is a novel to lay aside and read a - second time, nor should we forget the spirited snatches of song - which show that the winner of the Newdigate has the soul of the - poet.” - -=A LOST LADY OF OLD YEARS.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - _Athenœum_—“Written in strong and scholarly fashion.” - - _Morning Post_—“We have nothing but praise for Mr. Buchan. The - book is of sterling merit and sustained interest.” - - _Evening Standard_—“Stirring and well told.” - - * * * * * - -BY DANIEL CHAUCER. - -=SIMPLE LIFE LIMITED.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - _Morning Post._—“One of the most delightful novels we have read - for a long time.” - - _Pall Mall Gazette._—“So distinguished in style that the reader - devours it with avidity. It is a modern novel with a sparkle and - freshness which should set everybody perusing it. The author - ought to feel proud of his achievement.” - - * * * * * - -BY GILBERT K. CHESTERTON. - -=THE NAPOLEON OF NOTTING HILL.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - -With 6 Illustrations by W. Graham Robertson. - - _Daily Mail_—“Mr. Chesterton, as our laughing philosopher, is - at his best in this delightful fantasy.” - - _Westminster Gazette_—“It is undeniably clever. It - scintillates—that is exactly the right word—with bright and - epigrammatic observations, and it is written throughout with - undoubted literary skill.” - - * * * * * - -BY T. B. CLEGG. - -=THE LOVE CHILD.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - _Truth_—“A singularly powerful book. . . . The painful story - grips you from first to last.” - - _Daily Telegraph_—“A strong and interesting story, the fruit of - careful thought and conscientious workmanship. . . . Mr. Clegg - has presented intensely dramatic situations without letting them - degenerate into the melodramatic.” - -=THE WILDERNESS.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - _Daily Telegraph_—“A really admirable story.” - - _Athenœum_—“Mr. Clegg claims the gift of powerful and truthful - writing.” - -=THE BISHOP’S SCAPEGOAT.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - _Athenœum_—“Inspired with a deep sense of the beautiful in - Nature and the instinctive goodness of the human heart, and the - divine meaning of life.” - - _Daily Mail_—“A really good novel. It is so good that we hope - Mr. Clegg will give us some more from the same store.” - -=JOAN OF THE HILLS.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - _Times_—“Another of Mr. Clegg’s admirable novels of Australian - life.” - - _Globe_—“A good story, interesting all through.” - - * * * * * - -BY W. BOURNE COOKE. - -=BELLCROFT PRIORY.= A Romance. Crown 8vo. 6/- - - _World._—“Exceedingly well-written and admirably constructed.” - - _Evening Standard._—“Good reading . . . It has originality.” - - * * * * * - -BY E. H. COOPER. - -=MY BROTHER THE KING.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - _Pall Mall Gazette._—“The story is admirably told. The book - should be in everyone’s hands.” - - _Daily Telegraph._—“The story is admirable, full of life and - touched with real feeling.” - - * * * * * - -BY FREDERICK BARON CORVO. - -=IN HIS OWN IMAGE.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - _Westminster Gazette_—“The book is cleverly written and the - author has obviously a very pretty literary talent.” - - _Pall Mall Gazette_—“Always delightful and well worth reading.” - - * * * * * - -BY VICTORIA CROSS. - -=THE WOMAN WHO DIDN’T.= Crown 8vo. 1/- net - - _Speaker_—“The feminine gift of intuition seems to be developed - with uncanny strength, and what she sees she has the power of - flashing upon her readers with wonderful vividness and felicity - of phrase. . . . A strong and subtle study of feminine nature, - biting irony, restrained passion, and a style that is both - forcible and polished.” - - * * * * * - -BY A. J. DAWSON. - -=MIDDLE GREYNESS.= (Canvas-back Library). 1/6 net - - _Daily Telegraph_—“The novel has distinct ability. The - descriptions of up-country manners are admirable.” - -=MERE SENTIMENT.= Crown 8vo. 3/6 net - - _Pall Mall Gazette_—“There is some clever writing in Mr. - Dawson’s short stories collected to form a new ‘Keynotes’ volume - under the title of ‘Mere Sentiment.’ . . . A very clever piece - of work. . . . Mr. Dawson has a pretty style shows dramatic - instinct.” - - * * * * * - -BY GEORGE EGERTON. - -=KEYNOTES.= Crown 8vo. Ninth Edition. 3/6 net - - _St. James’s Gazette_—“This is a collection of eight of the - prettiest short stories that have appeared for many a day. They - turn for the most part on feminine traits of character; in fact, - the book is a little psychological study of woman under various - circumstances. The characters are so admirably drawn, and the - scenes and landscapes are described with so much and so rare - vividness, that we cannot help being almost spell-bound by their - perusal.” - -=DISCORDS.= Crown 8vo. Sixth Edition. 3/6 net - - _Daily Telegraph_—“These masterly word-sketches.” - - _Speaker_—“The book is true to human nature, for the author has - genius, and let us add, has heart. It is representative; it is, - in the hackneyed phrase, a human document.” - -=SYMPHONIES.= Crown 8vo. Second Edition. 6/- - - _St. James’s Gazette_—“There is plenty of pathos and no little - power in the volume before us.” - - _Daily News_—“The impressionistic descriptive passages and the - human touches that abound in the book lay hold of the - imagination and linger in the memory of the reader.” - -=FANTASIAS.= Crown 8vo. Also Canvas Back Library 1/6 net. -3/6 - - _Daily Chronicle_—“These ‘Fantasias’ are pleasant - reading—typical scenes or tales upon the poetry and prose of - life, prostitution, and the beauty of dreams and truth.” - - * * * * * - -BY MARION FOX. - -=HAND OF THE NORTH.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - _Academy._—“This stirring tale . . . is very interesting.” - - _Evening Standard._—“This book should prove an acceptable - gift.” - - * * * * * - -BY A. C. FOX-DAVIES. - -=THE MAULEVERER MURDERS.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - -Also 1/-net. - - _Evening Standard_—“An entertaining blend of the Society novel - and the detective story.” - - _Westminster Gazette_—“We heartily recommend this book for a - holiday or a railway journey. An exciting and ingenious tale.” - -=THE FINANCES OF SIR JOHN KYNNERSLEY.= - -Crown 8vo. 6/- - - _Punch_—“I read every word of the book, and enjoyed nearly all - of them.” - - _Morning Post_—“Mr. Fox-Davies’ extremely clever and - entertaining book.” - - * * * * * - -BY HAROLD FREDERIC. - -=MARCH HARES.= Crown 8vo. Third Edition. 3/6 net - - _Daily Chronicle_—“Buoyant, fanciful, stimulating, a pure - creation of fancy and high spirits. ‘March Hares’ has a joyous - impetus which carries everything before it; and it enriches a - class of fiction which unfortunately is not copious.” - -=MRS. ALBERT GRUNDY.= Observations in Philistia. F’Cap. 8vo. Second -Edition. 3/6. net - - _Pall Mall Gazette_—“Mr. Frederic is at his very best in this - light and delicate satire, which is spread with laughter and - good humour.” - - * * * * * - -BY RICHARD GARNETT. - -=THE TWILIGHT OF THE GODS AND OTHER STORIES.= Crown 8vo. Second -Edition. 6/- - - _Daily Chronicle_—“A subtle compound of philosophy and irony. - Let the reader take these stories as pure fun—lively incident - and droll character—and he will be agreeably surprised to find - how stimulating they are.” - - _Times_—“Here is learning in plenty, drawn from all ages and - most languages, but of dryness or dulness not a sentence. The - book bubbles with laughter. . . . His sense of humour has a wide - range.” - - * * * * * - -BY ELIZABETH GODFREY. - -=THE WINDING ROAD.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - _Literary World_—“A carefully written story. . . . Miss Godfrey - has the mind of a poet; her pages breathe of the beautiful in - nature without giving long description, while the single-hearted - love between Jasper and Phenice is described with power and - charm.” - -=THE BRIDAL OF ANSTACE.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - _Westminster Gazette_—“An individual charm and a sympathetic - application have gone to the conception of Miss Godfrey’s book, - a remarkable power of characterisation to its making, and a - refined literary taste to its composition.” - -=THE CRADLE OF A POET.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - _Spectator._—“The whole story is pleasing and Miss Godfrey’s - ‘Seascapes’ are executed with great realism.” - - _Pall Mall Gazette._—“. . . the charm of beautiful writing, - which cannot fail to enhance Miss Godfrey’s literary - reputation.” - - * * * * * - -BY A. R. GORING THOMAS. - -=MRS. GRAMERCY PARK.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - _World_—“In the language of the heroine herself, this, her - story, is delightfully ‘bright and cute.’” - - _Observer_—“Fresh and amusing.” - -=THE LASS WITH THE DELICATE AIR.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - _Athenœum_—“. . . drawn with a humour that is distinctly - original. Mr. Goring-Thomas has the rare Dickensian gift of - imparting life and personality to his characters.” - - _Daily Chronicle_—“Mr. Goring-Thomas says many shrewd and - clever things, and, blending comedy with pathos has written an - enjoyable book.” - - * * * * * - -BY HANDASYDE. - -=FOR THE WEEK-END.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - _Standard_—“Only a woman, surely, would write such deep and - intimate truth about the heart of another woman and the things - that give her joy when a man loves her.” - -=A GIRL’S LIFE IN A HUNTING COUNTRY.= Crown 8vo. 3/6 - - _Daily News_—“A sweet and true representation of a girl’s - romance.” - - * * * * * - -BY HENRY HARLAND. - -=THE CARDINAL’S SNUFF BOX.= Crown 8vo. 6/- Illustrated by G. -C. Wilmhurst. 165th. Thousand. - - _Academy_—“The drawings are all excellent in style and really - illustrative of the tale.” - - _Pall Mall Gazette_—“Dainty and delicious.” - - _Times_—“A book among a thousand.” - -=MY FRIEND PROSPERO.= Crown 8vo. Third Edition. 6/- - - _Times_—“There is no denying the charm of the work, the - delicacy and fragrancy of the style, the sunny play of the - dialogue, the vivacity of the wit, and the graceful flight of - the fancy.” - - _World_—“The reading of it is a pleasure rare and unalloyed.” - -=THE LADY PARAMOUNT.= Crown 8vo. 55th Thousand. 6/- - - _Times_—“A fantastic, delightful love-idyll.” - - _Spectator_—“A roseate romance without a crumpled rose leaf.” - - _Daily Mail_—“Charming, dainty, delightful.” - -=COMEDIES AND ERRORS.= Crown 8vo. Third Edition. 6/- - - Mr. Henry James, in _Fortnightly Review_—“Mr. Harland has - clearly thought out a form. . . . He has mastered a method and - learned how to paint. . . . His art is all alive with felicities - and delicacies.” - -=GREY ROSES.= Crown 8vo. Fourth Edition. 3/6 net - - _Daily Telegraph_—“‘Grey Roses’ are entitled to rank among the - choicest flowers of the realms of romance.” - - _Spectator_—“Really delightful. ‘Castles near Spain’ is as near - perfection as it could well be.” - - _Daily Chronicle_—“Charming stories, simple, full of - freshness.” - -=MADEMOISELLE MISS.= Crown 8vo. Third Edition. 3/6 - - _Speaker_—“All through the book we are pleased and - entertained.” - - _Bookman_—“An interesting collection of early work. In it may - be noted the undoubted delicacy and strength of Mr. Harland’s - manner.” - - * * * * * - -BY E. CROSBY HEATH. - -=HENRIETTA.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - * * * * * - -BY ALICE HERBERT. - -=THE MEASURE OF OUR YOUTH.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - _Evening Standard_—“A very human, intelligible book. . . . - exceedingly clever and earnestly real.” - - _Morning Post_—“Reveals an unusual clearness of vision and - distinction of style and thought.” - - * * * * * - -BY MURIEL HINE. - -=HALF IN EARNEST.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - _Daily Telegraph._—“This is written with great spirit and a - considerable power of story-telling. It has sufficient - attractive qualities to make it a readable piece of work.” - - _Pall Mall Gazelle._—“The character-drawing throughout, indeed, - is of unusual merit.” - - _Morning Post._—“Miss Muriel Hine is to be congratulated.” - - * * * * * - -BY ARNOLD HOLCOMBE. - -=THE ODD MAN.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - _Morning Post_—“One of the most refreshing and amusing books - that we have read for some months. . . . ‘The Odd Man’ is a book - to put on one’s shelves and Mr. Holcombe’s is a name to - remember.” - - * * * * * - -BY ADELAIDE HOLT. - -=THE VALLEY OF REGRET.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - _Times._—“Strong individualities, freshly conceived and firmly - drawn. . . . The book is one which augurs well for the writer; - for she certainly has the gift of reaching the readers heart.” - - * * * * * - -BY WILFRID SCARBOROUGH JACKSON. - -=NINE POINTS OF THE LAW.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - _Manchester Guardian_—“The kindly humorous philosophy of this - most diverting story is as remarkable as its attractive style. - There is hardly a page without something quotable, some neat bit - of phrasing or apt wording of a truth.” - -=HELEN OF TROY. N.Y.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - _Daily Chronicle_—“The story is at once original, impossible, - artificial, and very amusing. Go, get the work and read.” - -=TRIAL BY MARRIAGE.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - _World_—“One can confidently promise the reader of this - skilfully treated and unconventional novel that he will not find - a page of it dull. It is one that will be not only read but - remembered.” - - * * * * * - -BY MRS. JOHN LANE. - -=KITWYK.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - -A Story with numerous illustrations by Howard Pyle, Albert Sterner and -George Wharton Edwards. - - _Times_—“Mrs. Lane has succeeded to admiration, and chiefly by - reason of being so much interested in her theme that she makes - no conscious effort to please. . . . Everyone who seeks to be - diverted will read ‘Kitwyk’ for its obvious qualities of - entertainment.” - -=THE CHAMPAGNE STANDARD.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - _Morning Post_—“The author’s champagne overflows with witty - sayings too numerous to cite.” - - _Pall Mall Gazette_—“Mrs. Lane’s papers on our social manners - and foibles are the most entertaining, the kindest and the - truest that have been offered us for a long time. . . . The book - shows an airy philosophy that will render it of service to the - social student.” - -=BALTHASAR AND OTHER STORIES.= Crown 8vo. 6/- Translated by -Mrs. John Lane from the French of Anatole France - - _Daily Graphic_—“The original charm and distinction of the - author’s style has survived the difficult ordeal of appearing in - another language. . . . ‘The Cure’s Mignonette’ is as perfect in - itself as some little delicate flower.” - -=ACCORDING TO MARIA.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - _Daily Telegraph_—“A more entertaining, companionable, - good-natured, and yet critical piece of portraiture we have not - had the good luck to encounter these many seasons. . . . - ‘According to Maria’ is as fresh, amusing, and human a book as - any man, woman, or girl could desire to bewitch a jaded moment, - or drive away a fit of the dumps.” - - _Daily Chronicle_—“This delightful novel, sparkling with - humour. . . . Maria’s world is real. . . . Thackeray might have - made such sheaves if he had been a woman.” - -=TALK O’ THE TOWN.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - * * * * * - -BY RICHARD LE GALLIENNE. - -=THE BOOK BILLS OF NARCISSUS.= Crown 8vo. 3/6 net -Second Edition. - - C. di B. (Mr. Bernard Shaw) _in the Star_—“If an unusually fine - literary instinct could make it a solid book, Mr. le Gallienne - would be at no loss for an enduring reputation . . . Nothing - could be prettier than his pleas and persuasions on behalf of - Narcissus and George Muncaster.” - -=THE WORSHIPPER OF THE IMAGE.= Crown 8vo. 3/6 - - _Daily Chronicle_—“Contains passages of a poignancy which Mr. - Le Gallienne has never before compassed.” - -=THE QUEST OF THE GOLDEN GIRL.= Cr. 8vo. 6/- -Fifteenth Edition. - - _Daily News_—“A piece of literary art which compels our - admiration.” - - Mr. Max Beerbohm in _Daily Mail_—“Mr. Le Gallienne’s gentle, - high spirits, and his sympathy with existence is exhibited - here. . . . His poetry, like his humour, suffuses the whole book - and gives a charm to the most prosaic objects and incidents of - life. . . . The whole book is delightful, for this reason, that - no one else could have written a book of the same kind.” - -=THE ROMANCE OF ZION CHAPEL.= Crown 8vo. 6/- -Second Edition. - - _St. James’s Gazette_—“Mr. Le Gallienne’s masterpiece.” - - _Times_—“Extremely clever and pathetic. As for sentiment - Dickens might have been justly proud of poor Jenny’s lingering - death, and readers whose hearts have the mastery over their - heads will certainly weep over it.” - -=PAINTED SHADOWS.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - _Scotsman_—“Material and workmanship are of the finest.” - - _Queen_—“Really delightful stories, Mr. Le Gallienne writes - prose like a poet.” - -=LITTLE DINNERS WITH THE SPHINX.= Cr. 8vo. 6/- - - _Daily Telegraph_—“Here is the same delicate phrasing, the same - tender revelation of emotions, always presented with a - daintiness of colouring that reveals the true literary artist.” - - _Star_—“Mr. Le Gallienne touches with exquisite tenderness on - the tragedy of things that change and pass and fade.” - - * * * * * - -BY A. E. J. LEGGE. - -=MUTINEERS.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - _Speaker_—“An interesting story related with admirable lucidity - and remarkable grasp of character. Mr. Legge writes with polish - and grace.” - -=BOTH GREAT AND SMALL.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - _Saturday Review_—“We read on and on with increasing pleasure.” - - _Times_—“The style of this book is terse and witty.” - -=THE FORD.= Crown 8vo. Second Edition. 6/- - - _Standard_—“An impressive work . . . clever and thoughtful. - ‘The Ford,’ deserves to be largely read.” - - * * * * * - -BY W. J. LOCKE. - -=DERELICTS.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - _Daily Chronicle_—“Mr. Locke tells his story in a very true, - very moving, and very noble book. If anyone can read the last - chapter with dry eyes we shall be surprised. ‘Derelicts’ is an - impressive and important book.” - - _Morning Post_—“Mr. Locke’s clever novel. One of the most - effective stories that have appeared for some time past.” - -=IDOLS.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - _Punch_—“The Baron strongly recommends Mr. W. J. Locke’s - ‘Idols’ to all novel readers. It is well written. No time is - wasted in superfluous descriptions; there is no fine writing for - fine writing’s sake, but the story will absorb the reader. . . . - It is a novel that, once taken up, cannot willingly be put down - until finished.” - -=A STUDY IN SHADOWS.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - _Daily Chronicle_—“Mr. Locke has achieved a distinct success in - this novel. He has struck many emotional chords and struck them - all with a firm sure hand.” - - _Athenœum_—“The character-drawing is distinctly good. All the - personages stand out well defined with strongly marked - individualities.” - -=THE WHITE DOVE.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - _Times_—“An interesting story, full of dramatic scenes.” - - _Morning Post_—“An interesting story. The characters are - strongly conceived and vividly presented, and the dramatic - moments are powerfully realized.” - -=THE USURPER.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - _World_—“This quite uncommon novel.” - - _Spectator_—“Character and plot are most ingeniously wrought, - and the conclusion, when it comes, is fully satisfying.” - - _Times_—“An impressive romance.” - -=THE DEMAGOGUE AND LADY PHAYRE.= Cr. 8vo. 3/6 - -=AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - _Daily Chronicle_—“The heroine of this clever story attracts - our interest . . . She is a clever and subtle study. . . . We - congratulate Mr. Locke.” - - _Morning Post_—“A cleverly written tale . . . the author’s - pictures of Bohemian life are bright and graphic.” - -=WHERE LOVE IS.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - Mr. James Douglas, in _Star_—“I do not often praise a book with - this exultant gusto, but it gave me so much spiritual stimulus - and moral pleasure that I feel bound to snatch the additional - delight of commending it to those readers who long for a novel - that is a piece of literature as well as a piece of life.” - - _Standard_—“A brilliant piece of work.” - - _Times_—“The author has the true gift; his people are alive.” - -=THE MORALS OF MARCUS ORDEYNE.= Cr. 8vo. 6/- - -Mr. C. K. Shorter, in _Sphere_—“A book which has just delighted my -heart.” - - _Truth._—“Mr. Locke’s new novel is one of the most artistic - pieces of work I have met with for many a day.” - - _Daily Chronicle._—“Mr. Locke succeeds, indeed, in every crisis - of this most original story.” - -=THE BELOVED VAGABOND.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - _Truth._—“Certainly it is the most brilliant piece of work Mr. - Locke has done.” - - _Evening Standard._—“Mr. Locke can hardly fail to write - beautifully. He has not failed now.” - -=SIMON THE JESTER.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - _Daily Telegraph._—“. . . something of the precision of the - pendant, combined with an easy garrulity which is absolutely - charming, and a literary style which carries us from the - beginning to the end with unfailing verve and ease . . . - Certainly you will not put down the book until you have read the - last page . . . The style, the quality of the writing, the - atmosphere of the novel, the easy, pervasive charm . . . make us - feel once more the stirring pulses and eager blood of deathless - romance.” - -=THE GLORY OF CLEMENTINA WING.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - * * * * * - -BY INGRAHAM LOVELL. - -=MARGARITA’S SOUL.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - _Punch._—“There have been a great many _ingénues_ (mock or - real) in modern fiction, and doubtless one or two in actual - life; but there never was one inside a book or out of it who - came within a four mile cab radius of Margarita. The book is - well worth reading.” - - _Westminster Gazette._—“A book which does not let the reader’s - interest flag for a moment. It is full of laughter and smiles, - of seriousness, comfortable philosophy and a few tears.” - - * * * * * - -BY CHARLES LOWE. - -=THE PRINCE’S PRANKS.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - _Evening Standard_—“The ‘pranks’ are good reading. All his - adventures go with a swing, and the escapes are as exciting as - anything we have read for a long time.” - - _Daily Chronicle_—“The book is always bright and often - brilliant.” - - _Globe_—“A very readable and pleasant book.” - - * * * * * - -BY LAURA BOGUE LUFFMAN. - -=A QUESTION OF LATITUDE.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - * * * * * - -BY A. NEIL LYONS. - -=ARTHUR’S.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - _Times._—“Not only a very entertaining and amusing work, but a - very kindly and tolerant work also. Incidentally the work is a - mirror of a phase of the low London life of to-day as true as - certain of Hogarth’s transcripts in the eighteenth century, and - far more tender.” - - _Punch._—“Mr. Neil Lyons seems to get right at the heart of - things, and I confess to a real admiration for this philosopher - of the coffee-stall.” - -=SIXPENNY PIECES.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - _Pall Mall Gazette._—“It is pure, fast, sheer life, salted with - a sense of humour.” - - _Evening Standard._—“‘Sixpenny Pieces’ is as good as - ‘Arthur’s’, and that is saying a great deal. A book full of - laughter and tears and hits innumerable that one feels impelled - to read aloud. ‘Sixpenny Pieces’ would be very hard indeed to - beat.” - -=COTTAGE PIE.= A Country Spread. Crown 8vo. 6/- - - _Daily Graphic_—“Mr. Lyons writes well and has literary - talent.” - - _Daily Express._—“Every story is masterly, clear, clean, - complete. Mr. Lyons is a rare literary craftsman and something - more.” - - _Athenœum._—“‘Cottage Pie’ is an achievement.” - - * * * * * - -BY FIONA MACLEOD (William Sharp). - -=THE MOUNTAIN LOVERS.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - _Literary World._—“We eagerly devour page after page; we are - taken captive by the speed and poetry of the book.” - - _Graphic._—“It is as sad, as sweet, as the Hebridean skies - themselves, but with that soothing sadness of Nature which is so - blessed a relief after a prolonged dose of the misery of ‘mean - streets.’” - - * * * * * - -BY FREDERICK NIVEN. - -=THE LOST CABIN MINE.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - _Athenœum._—“The book should be read by lovers of good - fiction.” - - _Westminster Gazette._—“The whole story is told with an amount - of spirit and realism that grips the reader throughout.” - -=THE ISLAND PROVIDENCE.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - _Daily Graphic._—“Its descriptive power is remarkable. The - author ‘springs imagination,’ to use George Meredith’s words, - and springs it with no more than the few words prescribed by - that master.” - - _Academy._—“Vigorous writing.” - - * * * * * - -BY FRANK NORRIS. - -=THE THIRD CIRCLE.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - _Morning Post._—“As a sketch by a great artist often reveals to - the amateur more of his power and skill than a large finished - work in which the effect is concealed, so in these virile little - studies we are made to realise quite clearly what powers of - observation and what a keen eye for effective incident Mr. - Norris had.” - - _Spectator._—“A series of remarkable sketches and short stories - by the late Mr. Frank Norris . . . well worth reading.” - - * * * * * - -BY JOHN PARKINSON. - -=A REFORMER BY PROXY.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - _Daily Chronicle._—“For a first it is quite an excellent - effort.” - - _Morning Leader._—“A very promising book.” - - _Literary World._—“A thoroughly sound, matured piece of work.” - -=OTHER LAWS.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - This book is distinctly the outcome of the latest “intellectual” - movement in novel-writing. The hero, Hawkins, is an African - explorer. During a holiday in England he falls in love with and - captivates Caroline Blackwood, a woman of strong personality. - Circumstances prevent him from entering upon a formal - engagement: and he departs again for Africa, without proposing - marriage. Caroline and Hawkins correspond fitfully for some - time; but then a startling combination of events causes Hawkins - to penetrate further and further into the interior; a native - village is burned, and a report, based apparently upon fact is - circulated of his death. Not until seven months have elapsed is - he able to return to England. He finds Caroline married to a man - who has found her money useful. Here the story, strong and - moving throughout, moves steadily to the close, describing - delicately and analytically the soul conflict of a man and a - woman, sundered and separate, with a yearning for each other’s - love. - - * * * * * - -BY F. J. RANDALL. - -=LOVE AND THE IRONMONGER.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - _Daily Telegraph._—“Since the gay days when Mr. F. Anstey was - writing his inimitable series of humourous novels, we can recall - no book of purely farcical imagination, so full of excellent - entertainment as this first effort of Mr. F. J. Randall. ‘Love - and the Ironmonger’ is certain to be a success.” - - _Times_—“As diverting a comedy of errors as the reader is - likely to meet with for a considerable time.” - - Mr. Clement Shorter in _The Sphere_—“I thank the author for a - delightful hour’s amusement.” - -=THE BERMONDSEY TWIN.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - _Pall Mall Gazette._—“Merry and bright farce. The incidents are - most deftly handled.” - - _Westminster Gazette._—“There is a good deal of humour in some - of the situations.” - - _Daily Telegraph._—“Mr. Randall has written a wonderfully - clever and thoroughly amusing humorous novel. The Bermondsey - Twin is a notable addition to the all-too-sparse ranks of novels - that are frankly designed to amuse.” - - * * * * * - -BY HUGH DE SÉLINCOURT. - -=A BOY’S MARRIAGE.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - _Evening Standard_—“Exceedingly realistic . . . but does not - give the impression that anything is expatiated upon for the - sake of effect. A daring but sincere and simple book . . . - likely to attract a good deal of attention.” - - _Athenœum_—“The best points in Mr. de Sélincourt’s novel are - his delicacy of treatment and sense of character. . . . He has - the making of a fine novelist.” - -=THE STRONGEST PLUME.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - _Academy_—“An uncomfortable story for the conventionally - minded. It deals a deadly blow to the ordinary accepted notions - of the respectable.” - - _Daily Telegraph_—“The story is a very commendable as well as a - very interesting piece of work.” - - _Daily Mail_—“A neat, artistic story.” - -=THE HIGH ADVENTURE.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - _Evening Standard._—“A novel for all lovers of the poetry of - life, uttered or unexpressed.” - - _Morning Post_—“Mr. de Sélincourt certainly has a talent for - describing rather nice young men.” - - _Observer._—“A clever and refreshing story.” - -=THE WAY THINGS HAPPEN.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - _Morning Post._—“The book has moments of grace and charm that - few contemporary writers give us.” - - _Pall Mall Gazette._—“‘The Way Things Happen’ confirms a - long-settled conviction that among the young generation of - writers there are few who can compete with Mr. de Sélincourt for - pride of place.” - - _Times._—“Reading this book is a surprising and a rare - experience.” - -=A FAIR HOUSE.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - _Athenœum._—“The book is tender and pathetic, and occasionally - exhibits considerable literary skill.” - - _Evening Standard._—“A skilful study of life. Mr. de Sélincourt - has a graceful style and moreover, he possesses the power to - make his reader share in his emotions. The book is clever, and - something more and better.” - - _Morning Post._—“‘A Fair House’ undoubtedly is a pretty book.” - - * * * * * - -BY G. S. STREET. - -=THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A BOY.= F’cap. 8vo. 3/6 net -Fifth Edition. - - _Pall Mall Gazette._—“A creation in which there appears to be - no flaw.” - - _Speaker._—“The conception is excellent and the style perfect. - One simmers with laughter from first to last.” - -=THE TRIALS OF THE BANTOCKS.= Crown 8vo. 3/6 - - _Westminster Gazette._—“Since Mr. Matthew Arnold left us we - remember nothing so incisive about the great British Middle, and - we know of nothing of Mr. Street’s that we like so well.” - - _Saturday Review._—“Mr. Street has a very delicate gift of - satire.” - - _Times._—“A piece of irony that is full of distinction and - wit.” - - * * * * * - -BY HERMANN SUDERMANN. - -=REGINA : or THE SINS OF THE FATHERS.= 6/- - -Crown 8vo. Also Canvas Back Library 1/6 net. Third Edition. - -A Translation of “Der Katzensteg,” by Beatrice Marshall. - - _St. James’s Gazette._—“A striking piece of work, full of - excitement and strongly drawn character.” - - _Globe._—“The novel is a striking one, and deserves a careful - and critical attention.” - - * * * * * - -BY MARCELLE TINAYRE. - -=THE SHADOW OF LOVE.= Crown 8vo. 6/- Translated from the -French by A. R. Allinson, M.A. - - Of the newer French novelists Marcelle Tinayre is perhaps the - best known. Her work has been crowned by the French Academy and - she possesses a very large public in Europe and in America. The - story deals with a girl’s love and a heroic sacrifice dictated - by love. “The Shadow of Love” is a book of extraordinary power, - uncompromising in its delineation of certain hard, some might - say repulsive facts of life, yet instinct all through with an - exquisitely tender and beautiful passion of human interest and - human sympathy. - - * * * * * - -BY CLARA VIEBIG. - -=ABSOLUTION.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - _Times._—“There is considerable strength in ‘Absolution’ . . . - As a realistic study the story has much merit.” - - _Daily Telegraph._—“The tale is powerfully told . . . the tale - will prove absorbing with its minute characterisation and real - passion.” - -=OUR DAILY BREAD.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - _Athenœum._—“The story is not only of great human interest, but - also extremely valuable as a study of the conditions in which a - large section of the poorer classes and small tradespeople of - German cities spend their lives. Clara Viebig manipulates her - material with extraordinary vigour. . . . Her characters are - alive.” - - _Daily Telegraph._—“Quite excellent.” - - * * * * * - -BY H. G. WELLS. - -=A NEW MACHIAVELLI.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - _Mr. Robert Ross in Bystander._—“It may safely be prophesied - that 1911 is not likely to produce another literary sensation of - so permanent a kind. It is impossible to lay down ‘The New - Machiavelli’ for longer than a few moments. . . . The most - various novel that has appeared since ‘Vanity Fair.’ . . . A - great piece of literature.” - - _The Times._—“The book is without doubt the most important - piece of work that Mr. Wells has yet given us. . . . The most - finished example of the form which the novel has gradually - arrived at in his hands. . . . Margaret, the betrayed and - deserted wife, is possibly, the most finely touched portrait - that Mr. Wells has drawn.” - - * * * * * - -BY MARGARET WESTRUP. - -=ELIZABETH’S CHILDREN.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - _Daily Telegraph._—“The book is charming . . . the author . . . - has a delicate fanciful touch, a charming imagination . . . - skilfully suggests character and moods . . . is bright and - witty, and writes about children with exquisite knowledge and - sympathy.” - -=HELEN ALLISTON.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - _Pall Mall Gazette._—“The book has vivacity, fluency, colour, - more than a touch of poetry and passion. . . . We shall look - forward with interest to future work by the author of ‘Helen - Alliston.’” - -=THE YOUNG O’BRIENS.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - _Saturday Review._—“Delightful . . . the author treats them - (the Young O’Briens) very skilfully.” - -=PHYLLIS IN MIDDLEWYCH.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - _Daily Telegraph._—“The author of ‘Elizabeth’s Children’ has - really excelled herself in this volume of stories in which - Phyllis Cartwright figures. Phyllis, who is called a little - angel by her mother and a little devil by her father, has - certainly a double share of the power of moving people to wrath - or mirth.” - - * * * * * - -BY EDITH WHARTON. - -=THE GREATER INCLINATION.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - _Daily Telegraph._—“Teems with literary ability and dramatic - force.” - - _Outlook._—“Miss Wharton writes with a sympathy, insight and - understanding that we have seldom seen equalled.” - - * * * * * - -BY IDA WILD. - -=ZOË THE DANCER.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - _Times._—“The literary style is a feature. There is a pleasing - originality about the account of the career of Zoë. We should - certainly like to hear again from the author.” - - _Morning Leader._—“Miss Wild can write, not only English, but - good English. Her style is often clever and brilliant. It shews - a real sense and mastery of words and idiom.” - - * * * * * - -BY M. P. WILLCOCKS. - -=WIDDICOMBE.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - _Evening Standard._—“Wonderfully alive and pulsating with a - curious fervour which brings round the reader the very - atmosphere which the author describes. . . . A fine, rather - unusual novel. . . . There are some striking studies of women.” - - _Queen._—“An unusually clever book.” - -=THE WINGLESS VICTORY.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - _Times_—“Such books are worth keeping on the shelves even by - the classics, for they are painted in colours that do not fade.” - - _Daily Telegraph_—“A novel of such power as should win for its - author a position in the front rank of contemporary writers of - fiction.” - -=A MAN OF GENIUS.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - _Daily Telegraph._—“‘Widdicombe’ was good, and ‘The Wingless - Victory’ was perhaps better, but in ‘A Man of Genius’ the author - has given us something that should assure her place in the front - rank of our living novelists.” - - _Punch._—“There is no excuse for not reading ‘A Man of Genius’ - and making a short stay in the ‘seventh Devon of delight.’” - -=THE WAY UP.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - _Morning Post._—“Admirable . . . ‘The Way Up’ grips one’s - attention more completely than any of Miss Willcocks’ three - previous novels.” - - _World._—“The author has given us her best. This is a real - literary achievement, a novel in a thousand and a work of art.” - - _Literary World._—“This is a novel that on every page bears the - hall-mark of a genius.” - - * * * * * - -BY F. E. MILLS YOUNG. - -=A MISTAKEN MARRIAGE.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - _Pall Mall Gazette._—“It is a very sincere and moving story. - The heroine claims our sympathies from the first, and we follow - her fortunes with absorbed interest.” - -=CHIP.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - _Morning Post._—“Original, vivid and realistic.” - - _Athenœum._—“A tale . . . of unusual romantic interest.” - -=ATONEMENT.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - _Morning Leader._—“The book is certainly very powerful, and the - end is extraordinarily moving. The characters are human beings, - and the whole thing has the stamp of strong rugged life . . . an - exceptional and strong book.” - - _Daily Chronicle._—“A vigorous and striking story . . . - unusually well told. The author’s power to describe places is as - clear and incisive as it is in defining his characters.” - -=SAM’S KID.= Crown 8vo. 6/- - - TRANSCRIBER NOTES - -Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected. Where multiple -spellings occur, majority use has been employed. - -Punctuation has been maintained except where obvious printer errors -occur. - - - - - - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's The Glory of Clementina Wing, by William J. 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