Bot-S: The Complete Works of Edith Wharton


THE TOUCHSTONE

By Edith Wharton




I


“Professor Joslin, who, as our readers are doubtless aware, is engaged in
writing the life of Mrs. Aubyn, asks us to state that he will be greatly
indebted to any of the famous novelist’s friends who will furnish
him with information concerning the period previous to her coming to
England. Mrs. Aubyn had so few intimate friends, and consequently so few
regular correspondents, that letters will be of special value. Professor
Joslin’s address is 10 Augusta Gardens, Kensington, and he begs us to
say that he will promptly return any documents entrusted to him.”

Glennard dropped the SPECTATOR and sat looking into the fire. The club
was filling up, but he still had to himself the small inner room, with
its darkening outlook down the rain-streaked prospect of Fifth Avenue.
It was all dull and dismal enough, yet a moment earlier his boredom had
been perversely tinged by a sense of resentment at the thought that, as
things were going, he might in time have to surrender even the despised
privilege of boring himself within those particular four walls. It was
not that he cared much for the club, but that the remote contingency of
having to give it up stood to him, just then, perhaps by very reason
of its insignificance and remoteness, for the symbol of his increasing
abnegations; of that perpetual paring-off that was gradually reducing
existence to the naked business of keeping himself alive. It was the
futility of his multiplied shifts and privations that made them
seem unworthy of a high attitude; the sense that, however rapidly he
eliminated the superfluous, his cleared horizon was likely to offer no
nearer view of the one prospect toward which he strained. To give up
things in order to marry the woman one loves is easier than to give them
up without being brought appreciably nearer to such a conclusion.

Through the open door he saw young Hollingsworth rise with a yawn
from the ineffectual solace of a brandy-and-soda and transport his
purposeless person to the window. Glennard measured his course with a
contemptuous eye. It was so like Hollingsworth to get up and look out of
the window just as it was growing too dark to see anything! There was
a man rich enough to do what he pleased--had he been capable of
being pleased--yet barred from all conceivable achievement by his own
impervious dulness; while, a few feet off, Glennard, who wanted only
enough to keep a decent coat on his back and a roof over the head of the
woman he loved Glennard, who had sweated, toiled, denied himself for
the scant measure of opportunity that his zeal would have converted into
a kingdom--sat wretchedly calculating that, even when he had resigned
from the club, and knocked off his cigars, and given up his Sundays out
of town, he would still be no nearer attainment.

The SPECTATOR had slipped to his feet and as he picked it up his eye
fell again on the paragraph addressed to the friends of Mrs. Aubyn. He
had read it for the first time with a scarcely perceptible quickening of
attention: her name had so long been public property that his eye passed
it unseeingly, as the crowd in the street hurries without a glance by
some familiar monument.

“Information concerning the period previous to her coming to
England....” The words were an evocation. He saw her again as she had
looked at their first meeting, the poor woman of genius with her long
pale face and short-sighted eyes, softened a little by the grace of
youth and inexperience, but so incapable even then of any hold upon
the pulses. When she spoke, indeed, she was wonderful, more wonderful,
perhaps, than when later, to Glennard’s fancy at least, the consciousness
of memorable things uttered seemed to take from even her most intimate
speech the perfect bloom of privacy. It was in those earliest days, if
ever, that he had come near loving her; though even then his sentiment
had lived only in the intervals of its expression. Later, when to
be loved by her had been a state to touch any man’s imagination, the
physical reluctance had, inexplicably, so overborne the intellectual
attraction, that the last years had been, to both of them, an agony of
conflicting impulses. Even now, if, in turning over old papers, his hand
lit on her letters, the touch filled him with inarticulate misery....

“She had so few intimate friends... that letters will be of special
value.” So few intimate friends! For years she had had but one; one
who in the last years had requited her wonderful pages, her tragic
outpourings of love, humility, and pardon, with the scant phrases by
which a man evades the vulgarest of sentimental importunities. He
had been a brute in spite of himself, and sometimes, now that the
remembrance of her face had faded, and only her voice and words remained
with him, he chafed at his own inadequacy, his stupid inability to rise
to the height of her passion. His egoism was not of a kind to mirror its
complacency in the adventure. To have been loved by the most brilliant
woman of her day, and to have been incapable of loving her, seemed to
him, in looking back, the most derisive evidence of his limitations; and
his remorseful tenderness for her memory was complicated with a sense of
irritation against her for having given him once for all the measure of
his emotional capacity. It was not often, however, that he thus probed
the past. The public, in taking possession of Mrs. Aubyn, had eased his
shoulders of their burden. There was something fatuous in an attitude of
sentimental apology toward a memory already classic: to reproach one’s
self for not having loved Margaret Aubyn was a good deal like being
disturbed by an inability to admire the Venus of Milo. From her
cold niche of fame she looked down ironically enough on his
self-flagellations.... It was only when he came on something that
belonged to her that he felt a sudden renewal of the old feeling, the
strange dual impulse that drew him to her voice but drove him from her
hand, so that even now, at sight of anything she had touched, his heart
contracted painfully. It happened seldom nowadays. Her little presents,
one by one, had disappeared from his rooms, and her letters, kept from
some unacknowledged puerile vanity in the possession of such treasures,
seldom came beneath his hand....

“Her letters will be of special value--” Her letters! Why, he must have
hundreds of them--enough to fill a volume. Sometimes it used to seem
to him that they came with every post--he used to avoid looking in his
letter-box when he came home to his rooms--but her writing seemed to
spring out at him as he put his key in the door--.

He stood up and strolled into the other room. Hollingsworth, lounging
away from the window, had joined himself to a languidly convivial group
of men to whom, in phrases as halting as though they struggled to define
an ultimate idea, he was expounding the cursed nuisance of living in
a hole with such a damned climate that one had to get out of it by
February, with the contingent difficulty of there being no place to take
one’s yacht to in winter but that other played-out hole, the Riviera.
From the outskirts of this group Glennard wandered to another, where
a voice as different as possible from Hollingsworth’s colorless organ
dominated another circle of languid listeners.

“Come and hear Dinslow talk about his patent: admission free,” one of
the men sang out in a tone of mock resignation.

Dinslow turned to Glennard the confident pugnacity of his smile. “Give
it another six months and it’ll be talking about itself,” he declared.
“It’s pretty nearly articulate now.”

“Can it say papa?” someone else inquired.

Dinslow’s smile broadened. “You’ll be deuced glad to say papa to IT
a year from now,” he retorted. “It’ll be able to support even you in
affluence. Look here, now, just let me explain to you--”

Glennard moved away impatiently. The men at the club--all but those who
were “in it”--were proverbially “tired” of Dinslow’s patent, and none
more so than Glennard, whose knowledge of its merits made it loom large
in the depressing catalogue of lost opportunities. The relations between
the two men had always been friendly, and Dinslow’s urgent offers to
“take him in on the ground floor” had of late intensified Glennard’s
sense of his own inability to meet good luck half way. Some of the men
who had paused to listen were already in evening clothes, others on
their way home to dress; and Glennard, with an accustomed twinge of
humiliation, said to himself that if he lingered among them it was in
the miserable hope that one of the number might ask him to dine. Miss
Trent had told him that she was to go to the opera that evening with her
rich aunt; and if he should have the luck to pick up a dinner-invitation
he might join her there without extra outlay.

He moved about the room, lingering here and there in a tentative
affectation of interest; but though the men greeted him pleasantly no
one asked him to dine. Doubtless they were all engaged, these men who
could afford to pay for their dinners, who did not have to hunt for
invitations as a beggar rummages for a crust in an ash-barrel! But
no--as Hollingsworth left the lessening circle about the table an
admiring youth called out--“Holly, stop and dine!”

Hollingsworth turned on him the crude countenance that looked like the
wrong side of a more finished face. “Sorry I can’t. I’m in for a beastly
banquet.”

Glennard threw himself into an arm-chair. Why go home in the rain to
dress? It was folly to take a cab to the opera, it was worse folly to go
there at all. His perpetual meetings with Alexa Trent were as unfair to
the girl as they were unnerving to himself. Since he couldn’t marry her,
it was time to stand aside and give a better man the chance--and
his thought admitted the ironical implication that in the terms of
expediency the phrase might stand for Hollingsworth.




II


He dined alone and walked home to his rooms in the rain. As he turned
into Fifth Avenue he caught the wet gleam of carriages on their way to
the opera, and he took the first side street, in a moment of irritation
against the petty restrictions that thwarted every impulse. It was
ridiculous to give up the opera, not because one might possibly be bored
there, but because one must pay for the experiment.

In his sitting-room, the tacit connivance of the inanimate had centred
the lamp-light on a photograph of Alexa Trent, placed, in the obligatory
silver frame, just where, as memory officiously reminded him, Margaret
Aubyn’s picture had long throned in its stead. Miss Trent’s features
cruelly justified the usurpation. She had the kind of beauty that comes
of a happy accord of face and spirit. It is not given to many to have
the lips and eyes of their rarest mood, and some women go through life
behind a mask expressing only their anxiety about the butcher’s bill or
their inability to see a joke. With Miss Trent, face and mind had the
same high serious contour. She looked like a throned Justice by some
grave Florentine painter; and it seemed to Glennard that her most
salient attribute, or that at least to which her conduct gave most
consistent expression, was a kind of passionate justice--the intuitive
feminine justness that is so much rarer than a reasoned impartiality.
Circumstances had tragically combined to develop this instinct into a
conscious habit. She had seen more than most girls of the shabby side of
life, of the perpetual tendency of want to cramp the noblest attitude.
Poverty and misfortune had overhung her childhood and she had none of
the pretty delusions about life that are supposed to be the crowning
grace of girlhood. This very competence, which gave her a touching
reasonableness, made Glennard’s situation more difficult than if he had
aspired to a princess bred in the purple. Between them they asked
so little--they knew so well how to make that little do--but they
understood also, and she especially did not for a moment let him forget,
that without that little the future they dreamed of was impossible.

The sight of her photograph quickened Glennard’s exasperation. He was
sick and ashamed of the part he was playing. He had loved her now for
two years, with the tranquil tenderness that gathers depth and volume
as it nears fulfilment; he knew that she would wait for him--but the
certitude was an added pang. There are times when the constancy of the
woman one cannot marry is almost as trying as that of the woman one does
not want to.

Glennard turned up his reading-lamp and stirred the fire. He had a long
evening before him and he wanted to crowd out thought with action. He
had brought some papers from his office and he spread them out on his
table and squared himself to the task....

It must have been an hour later that he found himself automatically
fitting a key into a locked drawer. He had no more notion than a
somnambulist of the mental process that had led up to this action. He
was just dimly aware of having pushed aside the papers and the heavy
calf volumes that a moment before had bounded his horizon, and of laying
in their place, without a trace of conscious volition, the parcel he had
taken from the drawer.

The letters were tied in packets of thirty or forty. There were a great
many packets. On some of the envelopes the ink was fading; on others,
which bore the English post-mark, it was still fresh. She had been dead
hardly three years, and she had written, at lengthening intervals, to
the last....

He undid one of the earlier packets--little notes written during their
first acquaintance at Hillbridge. Glennard, on leaving college, had
begun life in his uncle’s law office in the old university town. It was
there that, at the house of her father, Professor Forth, he had first
met the young lady then chiefly distinguished for having, after two
years of a conspicuously unhappy marriage, returned to the protection of
the paternal roof.

Mrs. Aubyn was at that time an eager and somewhat tragic young woman,
of complex mind and undeveloped manners, whom her crude experience of
matrimony had fitted out with a stock of generalizations that exploded
like bombs in the academic air of Hillbridge. In her choice of a husband
she had been fortunate enough, if the paradox be permitted, to light on
one so signally gifted with the faculty of putting himself in the wrong
that her leaving him had the dignity of a manifesto--made her, as
it were, the spokeswoman of outraged wifehood. In this light she was
cherished by that dominant portion of Hillbridge society which was
least indulgent to conjugal differences, and which found a proportionate
pleasure in being for once able to feast openly on a dish liberally
seasoned with the outrageous. So much did this endear Mrs. Aubyn to the
university ladies that they were disposed from the first to allow her
more latitude of speech and action than the ill-used wife was generally
accorded in Hillbridge, where misfortune was still regarded as a
visitation designed to put people in their proper place and make them
feel the superiority of their neighbors. The young woman so privileged
combined with a kind of personal shyness an intellectual audacity that
was like a deflected impulse of coquetry: one felt that if she had been
prettier she would have had emotions instead of ideas. She was in fact
even then what she had always remained: a genius capable of the
acutest generalizations, but curiously undiscerning where her personal
susceptibilities were concerned. Her psychology failed her just where it
serves most women and one felt that her brains would never be a guide
to her heart. Of all this, however, Glennard thought little in the first
year of their acquaintance. He was at an age when all the gifts and
graces are but so much undiscriminated food to the ravening egoism of
youth. In seeking Mrs. Aubyn’s company he was prompted by an intuitive
taste for the best as a pledge of his own superiority. The sympathy
of the cleverest woman in Hillbridge was balm to his craving for
distinction: it was public confirmation of his secret sense that he was
cut out for a bigger place. It must not be understood that Glennard was
vain. Vanity contents itself with the coarsest diet; there is no
palate so fastidious as that of self-distrust. To a youth of Glennard’s
aspirations the encouragement of a clever woman stood for the symbol
of all success. Later, when he had begun to feel his way, to gain a
foothold, he would not need such support; but it served to carry
him lightly and easily over what is often a period of insecurity and
discouragement.

It would be unjust, however, to represent his interest in Mrs. Aubyn as
a matter of calculation. It was as instinctive as love, and it missed
being love by just such a hair-breadth deflection from the line of
beauty as had determined the curve of Mrs. Aubyn’s lips. When they met
she had just published her first novel, and Glennard, who afterward had
an ambitious man’s impatience of distinguished women, was young enough
to be dazzled by the semi-publicity it gave her. It was the kind of book
that makes elderly ladies lower their voices and call each other “my
dear” when they furtively discuss it; and Glennard exulted in the
superior knowledge of the world that enabled him to take as a matter of
course sentiments over which the university shook its head. Still
more delightful was it to hear Mrs. Aubyn waken the echoes of academic
drawing-rooms with audacities surpassing those of her printed page. Her
intellectual independence gave a touch of comradeship to their intimacy,
prolonging the illusion of college friendships based on a joyous
interchange of heresies. Mrs. Aubyn and Glennard represented to each
other the augur’s wink behind the Hillbridge idol: they walked together
in that light of young omniscience from which fate so curiously excludes
one’s elders.

Husbands who are notoriously inopportune, may even die inopportunely,
and this was the revenge that Mr. Aubyn, some two years after her return
to Hillbridge, took upon his injured wife. He died precisely at the
moment when Glennard was beginning to criticise her. It was not that
she bored him; she did what was infinitely worse--she made him feel his
inferiority. The sense of mental equality had been gratifying to his raw
ambition; but as his self-knowledge defined itself, his understanding of
her also increased; and if man is at times indirectly flattered by the
moral superiority of woman, her mental ascendency is extenuated by no
such oblique tribute to his powers. The attitude of looking up is a
strain on the muscles; and it was becoming more and more Glennard’s
opinion that brains, in a woman, should be merely the obverse of beauty.
To beauty Mrs. Aubyn could lay no claim; and while she had enough
prettiness to exasperate him by her incapacity to make use of it, she
seemed invincibly ignorant of any of the little artifices whereby women
contrive to palliate their defects and even to turn them into graces.
Her dress never seemed a part of her; all her clothes had an impersonal
air, as though they had belonged to someone else and been borrowed in an
emergency that had somehow become chronic. She was conscious enough of
her deficiencies to try to amend them by rash imitations of the most
approved models; but no woman who does not dress well intuitively will
ever do so by the light of reason, and Mrs. Aubyn’s plagiarisms, to
borrow a metaphor of her trade, somehow never seemed to be incorporated
with the text.

Genius is of small use to a woman who does not know how to do her hair.
The fame that came to Mrs. Aubyn with her second book left Glennard’s
imagination untouched, or had at most the negative effect of removing
her still farther from the circle of his contracting sympathies. We are
all the sport of time; and fate had so perversely ordered the chronology
of Margaret Aubyn’s romance that when her husband died Glennard felt as
though he had lost a friend.

It was not in his nature to be needlessly unkind; and though he was
in the impregnable position of the man who has given a woman no more
definable claim on him than that of letting her fancy that he loves
her, he would not for the world have accentuated his advantage by any
betrayal of indifference. During the first year of her widowhood their
friendship dragged on with halting renewals of sentiment, becoming more
and more a banquet of empty dishes from which the covers were never
removed; then Glennard went to New York to live and exchanged the faded
pleasures of intercourse for the comparative novelty of correspondence.
Her letters, oddly enough, seemed at first to bring her nearer than her
presence. She had adopted, and she successfully maintained, a note as
affectionately impersonal as his own; she wrote ardently of her work,
she questioned him about his, she even bantered him on the inevitable
pretty girl who was certain before long to divert the current of his
confidences. To Glennard, who was almost a stranger in New York,
the sight of Mrs. Aubyn’s writing was like a voice of reassurance in
surroundings as yet insufficiently aware of him. His vanity found a
retrospective enjoyment in the sentiment his heart had rejected, and
this factitious emotion drove him once or twice to Hillbridge, whence,
after scenes of evasive tenderness, he returned dissatisfied with
himself and her. As he made room for himself in New York and peopled the
space he had cleared with the sympathies at the disposal of agreeable
and self-confident young men, it seemed to him natural to infer that
Mrs. Aubyn had refurnished in the same manner the void he was not
unwilling his departure should have left. But in the dissolution of
sentimental partnerships it is seldom that both associates are able to
withdraw their funds at the same time; and Glennard gradually learned
that he stood for the venture on which Mrs. Aubyn had irretrievably
staked her all. It was not the kind of figure he cared to cut. He had
no fancy for leaving havoc in his wake and would have preferred to sow
a quick growth of oblivion in the spaces wasted by his unconsidered
inroads; but if he supplied the seed it was clearly Mrs. Aubyn’s
business to see to the raising of the crop. Her attitude seemed indeed
to throw his own reasonableness into distincter relief: so that they
might have stood for thrift and improvidence in an allegory of the
affections.

It was not that Mrs. Aubyn permitted herself to be a pensioner on his
bounty. He knew she had no wish to keep herself alive on the small
change of sentiment; she simply fed on her own funded passion, and the
luxuries it allowed her made him, even then, dimly aware that she had
the secret of an inexhaustible alchemy.

Their relations remained thus negatively tender till she suddenly wrote
him of her decision to go abroad to live. Her father had died, she had
no near ties in Hillbridge, and London offered more scope than New York
to her expanding personality. She was already famous and her laurels
were yet unharvested.

For a moment the news roused Glennard to a jealous sense of lost
opportunities. He wanted, at any rate, to reassert his power before she
made the final effort of escape. They had not met for over a year, but
of course he could not let her sail without seeing her. She came to
New York the day before her departure, and they spent its last hours
together. Glennard had planned no course of action--he simply meant to
let himself drift. They both drifted, for a long time, down the languid
current of reminiscence; she seemed to sit passive, letting him push
his way back through the overgrown channels of the past. At length she
reminded him that they must bring their explorations to an end. He rose
to leave, and stood looking at her with the same uncertainty in his
heart. He was tired of her already--he was always tired of her--yet he
was not sure that he wanted her to go.

“I may never see you again,” he said, as though confidently appealing to
her compassion.

Her look enveloped him. “And I shall see you always--always!”

“Why go then--?” escaped him.

“To be nearer you,” she answered; and the words dismissed him like a
closing door.

The door was never to reopen; but through its narrow crack Glennard, as
the years went on, became more and more conscious of an inextinguishable
light directing its small ray toward the past which consumed so little
of his own commemorative oil. The reproach was taken from this thought
by Mrs. Aubyn’s gradual translation into terms of universality. In
becoming a personage she so naturally ceased to be a person that
Glennard could almost look back to his explorations of her spirit as on
a visit to some famous shrine, immortalized, but in a sense desecrated,
by popular veneration.

Her letters, from London, continued to come with the same tender
punctuality; but the altered conditions of her life, the vistas of new
relationships disclosed by every phrase, made her communications as
impersonal as a piece of journalism. It was as though the state, the
world, indeed, had taken her off his hands, assuming the maintenance of
a temperament that had long exhausted his slender store of reciprocity.

In the retrospective light shed by the letters he was blinded to
their specific meaning. He was not a man who concerned himself with
literature, and they had been to him, at first, simply the extension of
her brilliant talk, later the dreaded vehicle of a tragic importunity.
He knew, of course, that they were wonderful; that, unlike the authors
who give their essence to the public and keep only a dry rind for their
friends, Mrs. Aubyn had stored of her rarest vintage for this hidden
sacrament of tenderness. Sometimes, indeed, he had been oppressed,
humiliated almost, by the multiplicity of her allusions, the wide scope
of her interests, her persistence in forcing her superabundance of
thought and emotion into the shallow receptacle of his sympathy; but
he had never thought of the letters objectively, as the production of a
distinguished woman; had never measured the literary significance of her
oppressive prodigality. He was almost frightened now at the wealth in
his hands; the obligation of her love had never weighed on him like
this gift of her imagination: it was as though he had accepted from her
something to which even a reciprocal tenderness could not have justified
his claim.

He sat a long time staring at the scattered pages on his desk; and in
the sudden realization of what they meant he could almost fancy some
alchemistic process changing them to gold as he stared. He had the
sense of not being alone in the room, of the presence of another self
observing from without the stirring of subconscious impulses that sent
flushes of humiliation to his forehead. At length he stood up, and
with the gesture of a man who wishes to give outward expression to his
purpose--to establish, as it were, a moral alibi--swept the letters into
a heap and carried them toward the grate. But it would have taken too
long to burn all the packets. He turned back to the table and one by one
fitted the pages into their envelopes; then he tied up the letters and
put them back into the locked drawer.




III


It was one of the laws of Glennard’s intercourse with Miss Trent that
he always went to see her the day after he had resolved to give her up.
There was a special charm about the moments thus snatched from the
jaws of renunciation; and his sense of their significance was on
this occasion so keen that he hardly noticed the added gravity of her
welcome.

His feeling for her had become so vital a part of him that her nearness
had the quality of imperceptibly readjusting his point of view, so
that the jumbled phenomena of experience fell at once into a rational
perspective. In this redistribution of values the sombre retrospect
of the previous evening shrank to a mere cloud on the edge of
consciousness. Perhaps the only service an unloved woman can render the
man she loves is to enhance and prolong his illusions about her rival.
It was the fate of Margaret Aubyn’s memory to serve as a foil to Miss
Trent’s presence, and never had the poor lady thrown her successor into
more vivid relief.

Miss Trent had the charm of still waters that are felt to be renewed
by rapid currents. Her attention spread a tranquil surface to the
demonstrations of others, and it was only in days of storm that one felt
the pressure of the tides. This inscrutable composure was perhaps her
chief grace in Glennard’s eyes. Reserve, in some natures, implies merely
the locking of empty rooms or the dissimulation of awkward encumbrances;
but Miss Trent’s reticence was to Glennard like the closed door to the
sanctuary, and his certainty of divining the hidden treasure made him
content to remain outside in the happy expectancy of the neophyte.

“You didn’t come to the opera last night,” she began, in the tone that
seemed always rather to record a fact than to offer a reflection on it.

He answered with a discouraged gesture. “What was the use? We couldn’t
have talked.”

“Not as well as here,” she assented; adding, after a meditative pause,
“As you didn’t come I talked to Aunt Virginia instead.”

“Ah!” he returned, the fact being hardly striking enough to detach him
from the contemplation of her hands, which had fallen, as was their
wont, into an attitude full of plastic possibilities. One felt them to
be hands that, moving only to some purpose, were capable of intervals of
serene inaction.

“We had a long talk,” Miss Trent went on; and she waited again before
adding, with the increased absence of stress that marked her graver
communications, “Aunt Virginia wants me to go abroad with her.”

Glennard looked up with a start. “Abroad? When?”

“Now--next month. To be gone two years.”

He permitted himself a movement of tender derision. “Does she really?
Well, I want you to go abroad with ME--for any number of years. Which
offer do you accept?”

“Only one of them seems to require immediate consideration,” she
returned, with a smile.

Glennard looked at her again. “You’re not thinking of it?”

Her gaze dropped and she unclasped her hands. Her movements were so rare
that they might have been said to italicize her words. “Aunt Virginia
talked to me very seriously. It will be a great relief to mother and the
others to have me provided for in that way for two years. I must
think of that, you know.” She glanced down at her gown which, under a
renovated surface, dated back to the first days of Glennard’s wooing. “I
try not to cost much--but I do.”

“Good Lord!” Glennard groaned.

They sat silent till at length she gently took up the argument. “As the
eldest, you know, I’m bound to consider these things. Women are such a
burden. Jim does what he can for mother, but with his own children to
provide for it isn’t very much. You see, we’re all poor together.”

“Your aunt isn’t. She might help your mother.”

“She does--in her own way.”

“Exactly--that’s the rich relation all over! You may be miserable in
any way you like, but if you’re to be happy you’ve got to be so in her
way--and in her old gowns.”

“I could be very happy in Aunt Virginia’s old gowns,” Miss Trent
interposed.

“Abroad, you mean?”

“I mean wherever I felt that I was helping. And my going abroad will
help.”

“Of course--I see that. And I see your considerateness in putting its
advantages negatively.”

“Negatively?”

“In dwelling simply on what the going will take you from, not on what
it will bring you to. It means a lot to a woman, of course, to get
away from a life like this.” He summed up in a disparaging glance the
background of indigent furniture. “The question is how you’ll like
coming back to it.”

She seemed to accept the full consequences of his thought. “I only know
I don’t like leaving it.”

He flung back sombrely, “You don’t even put it conditionally then?”

Her gaze deepened. “On what?”

He stood up and walked across the room. Then he came back and paused
before her. “On the alternative of marrying me.”

The slow color--even her blushes seemed deliberate--rose to her lower
lids; her lips stirred, but the words resolved themselves into a smile
and she waited.

He took another turn, with the thwarted step of the man whose nervous
exasperation escapes through his muscles.

“And to think that in fifteen years I shall have a big practice!”

Her eyes triumphed for him. “In less!”

“The cursed irony of it! What do I care for the man I shall be then?
It’s slaving one’s life away for a stranger!” He took her hands
abruptly. “You’ll go to Cannes, I suppose, or Monte Carlo? I heard
Hollingsworth say to-day that he meant to take his yacht over to the
Mediterranean--”

She released herself. “If you think that--”

“I don’t. I almost wish I did. It would be easier, I mean.” He broke off
incoherently. “I believe your Aunt Virginia does, though. She somehow
connotes Hollingsworth and the Mediterranean.” He caught her hands
again. “Alexa--if we could manage a little hole somewhere out of town?”

“Could we?” she sighed, half yielding.

“In one of those places where they make jokes about the mosquitoes,” he
pressed her. “Could you get on with one servant?”

“Could you get on without varnished boots?”

“Promise me you won’t go, then!”

“What are you thinking of, Stephen?”

“I don’t know,” he stammered, the question giving unexpected form to his
intention. “It’s all in the air yet, of course; but I picked up a tip
the other day--”

“You’re not speculating?” she cried, with a kind of superstitious
terror.

“Lord, no. This is a sure thing--I almost wish it wasn’t; I mean if I
can work it--” He had a sudden vision of the comprehensiveness of the
temptation. If only he had been less sure of Dinslow! His assurance gave
the situation the base element of safety.

“I don’t understand you,” she faltered.

“Trust me, instead!” he adjured her, with sudden energy; and turning on
her abruptly, “If you go, you know, you go free,” he concluded.

She drew back, paling a little. “Why do you make it harder for me?”

“To make it easier for myself,” he retorted.




IV


Glennard, the next afternoon, leaving his office earlier than usual,
turned, on his way home, into one of the public libraries.

He had the place to himself at that closing hour, and the librarian
was able to give an undivided attention to his tentative request for
letters--collections of letters. The librarian suggested Walpole.

“I meant women--women’s letters.”

The librarian proffered Hannah More and Miss Martineau.

Glennard cursed his own inarticulateness. “I mean letters to--to some
one person--a man; their husband--or--”

“Ah,” said the inspired librarian, “Eloise and Abailard.”

“Well--something a little nearer, perhaps,” said Glennard, with
lightness. “Didn’t Merimee--”

“The lady’s letters, in that case, were not published.”

“Of course not,” said Glennard, vexed at his blunder.

“There are George Sand’s letters to Flaubert.”

“Ah!” Glennard hesitated. “Was she--were they--?” He chafed at his own
ignorance of the sentimental by-paths of literature.

“If you want love-letters, perhaps some of the French eighteenth
century correspondences might suit you better--Mlle. Aisse or Madame de
Sabran--”

But Glennard insisted. “I want something modern--English or American. I
want to look something up,” he lamely concluded.

The librarian could only suggest George Eliot.

“Well, give me some of the French things, then--and I’ll have Merimee’s
letters. It was the woman who published them, wasn’t it?”

He caught up his armful, transferring it, on the doorstep, to a cab
which carried him to his rooms. He dined alone, hurriedly, at a small
restaurant near by, and returned at once to his books.

Late that night, as he undressed, he wondered what contemptible impulse
had forced from him his last words to Alexa Trent. It was bad enough to
interfere with the girl’s chances by hanging about her to the obvious
exclusion of other men, but it was worse to seem to justify his weakness
by dressing up the future in delusive ambiguities. He saw himself
sinking from depth to depth of sentimental cowardice in his reluctance
to renounce his hold on her; and it filled him with self-disgust to
think that the highest feeling of which he supposed himself capable was
blent with such base elements.

His awakening was hardly cheered by the sight of her writing. He tore
her note open and took in the few lines--she seldom exceeded the first
page--with the lucidity of apprehension that is the forerunner of evil.

“My aunt sails on Saturday and I must give her my answer the day after
to-morrow. Please don’t come till then--I want to think the question
over by myself. I know I ought to go. Won’t you help me to be
reasonable?”

It was settled, then. Well, he would be reasonable; he wouldn’t stand
in her way; he would let her go. For two years he had been living some
other, luckier man’s life; the time had come when he must drop back into
his own. He no longer tried to look ahead, to grope his way through
the endless labyrinth of his material difficulties; a sense of dull
resignation closed in on him like a fog.

“Hullo, Glennard!” a voice said, as an electric-car, late that
afternoon, dropped him at an uptown corner.

He looked up and met the interrogative smile of Barton Flamel, who
stood on the curbstone watching the retreating car with the eye of a man
philosophic enough to remember that it will be followed by another.

Glennard felt his usual impulse of pleasure at meeting Flamel; but
it was not in this case curtailed by the reaction of contempt that
habitually succeeded it. Probably even the few men who had known Flamel
since his youth could have given no good reason for the vague mistrust
that he inspired. Some people are judged by their actions, others by
their ideas; and perhaps the shortest way of defining Flamel is to say
that his well-known leniency of view was vaguely divined to include
himself. Simple minds may have resented the discovery that his opinions
were based on his perceptions; but there was certainly no more definite
charge against him than that implied in the doubt as to how he would
behave in an emergency, and his company was looked upon as one of those
mildly unwholesome dissipations to which the prudent may occasionally
yield. It now offered itself to Glennard as an easy escape from the
obsession of moral problems, which somehow could no more be worn in
Flamel’s presence than a surplice in the street.

“Where are you going? To the club?” Flamel asked; adding, as the younger
man assented, “Why not come to my studio instead? You’ll see one bore
instead of twenty.”

The apartment which Flamel described as his studio showed, as its one
claim to the designation, a perennially empty easel; the rest of its
space being filled with the evidences of a comprehensive dilettanteism.
Against this background, which seemed the visible expression of its
owner’s intellectual tolerance, rows of fine books detached themselves
with a prominence, showing them to be Flamel’s chief care.

Glennard glanced with the eye of untrained curiosity at the lines of
warm-toned morocco, while his host busied himself with the uncorking of
Apollinaris.

“You’ve got a splendid lot of books,” he said.

“They’re fairly decent,” the other assented, in the curt tone of the
collector who will not talk of his passion for fear of talking of
nothing else; then, as Glennard, his hands in his pockets, began to
stroll perfunctorily down the long line of bookcases--“Some men,” Flamel
irresistibly added, “think of books merely as tools, others as tooling.
I’m between the two; there are days when I use them as scenery, other
days when I want them as society; so that, as you see, my library
represents a makeshift compromise between looks and brains, and the
collectors look down on me almost as much as the students.”

Glennard, without answering, was mechanically taking one book after
another from the shelves. His hands slipped curiously over the smooth
covers and the noiseless subsidence of opening pages. Suddenly he came
on a thin volume of faded manuscript.

“What’s this?” he asked, with a listless sense of wonder.

“Ah, you’re at my manuscript shelf. I’ve been going in for that sort of
thing lately.” Flamel came up and looked over his shoulders. “That’s a
bit of Stendhal--one of the Italian stories--and here are some letters
of Balzac to Madame Commanville.”

Glennard took the book with sudden eagerness. “Who was Madame
Commanville?”

“His sister.” He was conscious that Flamel was looking at him with the
smile that was like an interrogation point. “I didn’t know you cared for
this kind of thing.”

“I don’t--at least I’ve never had the chance. Have you many collections
of letters?”

“Lord, no--very few. I’m just beginning, and most of the interesting
ones are out of my reach. Here’s a queer little collection, though--the
rarest thing I’ve got--half a dozen of Shelley’s letters to Harriet
Westbrook. I had a devil of a time getting them--a lot of collectors
were after them.”

Glennard, taking the volume from his hand, glanced with a kind of
repugnance at the interleaving of yellow cris-crossed sheets. “She was
the one who drowned herself, wasn’t she?”

Flamel nodded. “I suppose that little episode adds about fifty per cent.
to their value,” he said, meditatively.

Glennard laid the book down. He wondered why he had joined Flamel.
He was in no humor to be amused by the older man’s talk, and a
recrudescence of personal misery rose about him like an icy tide.

“I believe I must take myself off,” he said. “I’d forgotten an
engagement.”

He turned to go; but almost at the same moment he was conscious of a
duality of intention wherein his apparent wish to leave revealed itself
as a last effort of the will against the overmastering desire to stay
and unbosom himself to Flamel.

The older man, as though divining the conflict, laid a detaining
pressure on his arm.

“Won’t the engagement keep? Sit down and try one of these cigars. I
don’t often have the luck of seeing you here.”

“I’m rather driven just now,” said Glennard, vaguely. He found himself
seated again, and Flamel had pushed to his side a low stand holding a
bottle of Apollinaris and a decanter of cognac.

Flamel, thrown back in his capacious arm-chair, surveyed him through
a cloud of smoke with the comfortable tolerance of the man to whom no
inconsistencies need be explained. Connivance was implicit in the air.
It was the kind of atmosphere in which the outrageous loses its edge.
Glennard felt a gradual relaxing of his nerves.

“I suppose one has to pay a lot for letters like that?” he heard himself
asking, with a glance in the direction of the volume he had laid aside.

“Oh, so-so--depends on circumstances.” Flamel viewed him thoughtfully.
“Are you thinking of collecting?”

Glennard laughed. “Lord, no. The other way round.”

“Selling?”

“Oh, I hardly know. I was thinking of a poor chap--”

Flamel filled the pause with a nod of interest.

“A poor chap I used to know--who died--he died last year--and who left
me a lot of letters, letters he thought a great deal of--he was fond
of me and left ‘em to me outright, with the idea, I suppose, that
they might benefit me somehow--I don’t know--I’m not much up on such
things--” he reached his hand to the tall glass his host had filled.

“A collection of autograph letters, eh? Any big names?”

“Oh, only one name. They’re all letters written to him--by one person,
you understand; a woman, in fact--”

“Oh, a woman,” said Flamel, negligently.

Glennard was nettled by his obvious loss of interest. “I rather think
they’d attract a good deal of notice if they were published.”

Flamel still looked uninterested. “Love-letters, I suppose?”

“Oh, just--the letters a woman would write to a man she knew well. They
were tremendous friends, he and she.”

“And she wrote a clever letter?”

“Clever? It was Margaret Aubyn.”

A great silence filled the room. It seemed to Glennard that the words
had burst from him as blood gushes from a wound.

“Great Scott!” said Flamel, sitting up. “A collection of Margaret
Aubyn’s letters? Did you say YOU had them?”

“They were left me--by my friend.”

“I see. Was he--well, no matter. You’re to be congratulated, at any
rate. What are you going to do with them?”

Glennard stood up with a sense of weariness in all his bones. “Oh, I
don’t know. I haven’t thought much about it. I just happened to see that
some fellow was writing her life--”

“Joslin; yes. You didn’t think of giving them to him?”

Glennard had lounged across the room and stood staring up at a bronze
Bacchus who drooped his garlanded head above the pediment of an Italian
cabinet. “What ought I to do? You’re just the fellow to advise me.” He
felt the blood in his cheek as he spoke.

Flamel sat with meditative eye. “What do you WANT to do with them?” he
asked.

“I want to publish them,” said Glennard, swinging round with sudden
energy--“If I can--”

“If you can? They’re yours, you say?”

“They’re mine fast enough. There’s no one to prevent--I mean there are
no restrictions--” he was arrested by the sense that these accumulated
proofs of impunity might precisely stand as the strongest check on his
action.

“And Mrs. Aubyn had no family, I believe?”

“No.”

“Then I don’t see who’s to interfere,” said Flamel, studying his
cigar-tip.

Glennard had turned his unseeing stare on an ecstatic Saint Catherine
framed in tarnished gilding.

“It’s just this way,” he began again, with an effort. “When letters are
as personal as--as these of my friend’s.... Well, I don’t mind telling
you that the cash would make a heap of difference to me; such a lot that
it rather obscures my judgment--the fact is if I could lay my hand on a
few thousands now I could get into a big thing, and without appreciable
risk; and I’d like to know whether you think I’d be justified--under the
circumstances....” He paused, with a dry throat. It seemed to him at the
moment that it would be impossible for him ever to sink lower in his own
estimation. He was in truth less ashamed of weighing the temptation than
of submitting his scruples to a man like Flamel, and affecting to appeal
to sentiments of delicacy on the absence of which he had consciously
reckoned. But he had reached a point where each word seemed to compel
another, as each wave in a stream is forced forward by the pressure
behind it; and before Flamel could speak he had faltered out--“You don’t
think people could say... could criticise the man....”

“But the man’s dead, isn’t he?”

“He’s dead--yes; but can I assume the responsibility without--”

Flamel hesitated; and almost immediately Glennard’s scruples gave way
to irritation. If at this hour Flamel were to affect an inopportune
reluctance--!

The older man’s answer reassured him. “Why need you assume any
responsibility? Your name won’t appear, of course; and as to your
friend’s, I don’t see why his should, either. He wasn’t a celebrity
himself, I suppose?”

“No, no.”

“Then the letters can be addressed to Mr. Blank. Doesn’t that make it
all right?”

Glennard’s hesitation revived. “For the public, yes. But I don’t see
that it alters the case for me. The question is, ought I to publish them
at all?”

“Of course you ought to.” Flamel spoke with invigorating emphasis. “I
doubt if you’d be justified in keeping them back. Anything of Margaret
Aubyn’s is more or less public property by this time. She’s too great
for any one of us. I was only wondering how you could use them to the
best advantage--to yourself, I mean. How many are there?”

“Oh, a lot; perhaps a hundred--I haven’t counted. There may be more....”

“Gad! What a haul! When were they written?”

“I don’t know--that is--they corresponded for years. What’s the odds?”
 He moved toward his hat with a vague impulse of flight.

“It all counts,” said Flamel, imperturbably. “A long
correspondence--one, I mean, that covers a great deal of time--is
obviously worth more than if the same number of letters had been written
within a year. At any rate, you won’t give them to Joslin? They’d fill a
book, wouldn’t they?”

“I suppose so. I don’t know how much it takes to fill a book.”

“Not love-letters, you say?”

“Why?” flashed from Glennard.

“Oh, nothing--only the big public is sentimental, and if they WERE--why,
you could get any money for Margaret Aubyn’s love-letters.”

Glennard was silent.

“Are the letters interesting in themselves? I mean apart from the
association with her name?”

“I’m no judge.” Glennard took up his hat and thrust himself into his
overcoat. “I dare say I sha’n’t do anything about it. And, Flamel--you
won’t mention this to anyone?”

“Lord, no. Well, I congratulate you. You’ve got a big thing.” Flamel was
smiling at him from the hearth.

Glennard, on the threshold, forced a response to the smile, while he
questioned with loitering indifference--“Financially, eh?”

“Rather; I should say so.”

Glennard’s hand lingered on the knob. “How much--should you say? You
know about such things.”

“Oh, I should have to see the letters; but I should say--well, if you’ve
got enough to fill a book and they’re fairly readable, and the book is
brought out at the right time--say ten thousand down from the publisher,
and possibly one or two more in royalties. If you got the publishers
bidding against each other you might do even better; but of course I’m
talking in the dark.”

“Of course,” said Glennard, with sudden dizziness. His hand had slipped
from the knob and he stood staring down at the exotic spirals of the
Persian rug beneath his feet.

“I’d have to see the letters,” Flamel repeated.

“Of course--you’d have to see them....” Glennard stammered; and, without
turning, he flung over his shoulder an inarticulate “Good-by....”




V


The little house, as Glennard strolled up to it between the trees,
seemed no more than a gay tent pitched against the sunshine. It had the
crispness of a freshly starched summer gown, and the geraniums on the
veranda bloomed as simultaneously as the flowers in a bonnet. The garden
was prospering absurdly. Seed they had sown at random--amid laughing
counter-charges of incompetence--had shot up in fragrant defiance of
their blunders. He smiled to see the clematis unfolding its punctual
wings about the porch. The tiny lawn was smooth as a shaven cheek, and a
crimson rambler mounted to the nursery-window of a baby who never cried.
A breeze shook the awning above the tea-table, and his wife, as he drew
near, could be seen bending above a kettle that was just about to boil.
So vividly did the whole scene suggest the painted bliss of a stage
setting, that it would have been hardly surprising to see her step
forward among the flowers and trill out her virtuous happiness from the
veranda-rail.

The stale heat of the long day in town, the dusty promiscuity of the
suburban train were now but the requisite foil to an evening of scented
breezes and tranquil talk. They had been married more than a year,
and each home-coming still reflected the freshness of their first day
together. If, indeed, their happiness had a flaw, it was in resembling
too closely the bright impermanence of their surroundings. Their love as
yet was but the gay tent of holiday-makers.

His wife looked up with a smile. The country life suited her, and her
beauty had gained depth from a stillness in which certain faces might
have grown opaque.

“Are you very tired?” she asked, pouring his tea.

“Just enough to enjoy this.” He rose from the chair in which he had
thrown himself and bent over the tray for his cream. “You’ve had a
visitor?” he commented, noticing a half-empty cup beside her own.

“Only Mr. Flamel,” she said, indifferently.

“Flamel? Again?”

She answered without show of surprise. “He left just now. His yacht is
down at Laurel Bay and he borrowed a trap of the Dreshams to drive over
here.”

Glennard made no comment, and she went on, leaning her head back against
the cushions of her bamboo-seat, “He wants us to go for a sail with him
next Sunday.”

Glennard meditatively stirred his tea. He was trying to think of the
most natural and unartificial thing to say, and his voice seemed to come
from the outside, as though he were speaking behind a marionette. “Do
you want to?”

“Just as you please,” she said, compliantly. No affectation of
indifference could have been as baffling as her compliance. Glennard, of
late, was beginning to feel that the surface which, a year ago, he
had taken for a sheet of clear glass, might, after all, be a mirror
reflecting merely his own conception of what lay behind it.

“Do you like Flamel?” he suddenly asked; to which, still engaged with
her tea, she returned the feminine answer--“I thought you did.”

“I do, of course,” he agreed, vexed at his own incorrigible tendency to
magnify Flamel’s importance by hovering about the topic. “A sail would
be rather jolly; let’s go.”

She made no reply and he drew forth the rolled-up evening papers which
he had thrust into his pocket on leaving the train. As he smoothed them
out his own countenance seemed to undergo the same process. He ran his
eye down the list of stocks and Flamel’s importunate personality receded
behind the rows of figures pushing forward into notice like so many
bearers of good news. Glennard’s investments were flowering like his
garden: the dryest shares blossomed into dividends, and a golden harvest
awaited his sickle.

He glanced at his wife with the tranquil air of the man who digests
good luck as naturally as the dry ground absorbs a shower. “Things are
looking uncommonly well. I believe we shall be able to go to town for
two or three months next winter if we can find something cheap.”

She smiled luxuriously: it was pleasant to be able to say, with an air
of balancing relative advantages, “Really, on the baby’s account I shall
be almost sorry; but if we do go, there’s Kate Erskine’s house... she’ll
let us have it for almost nothing....”

“Well, write her about it,” he recommended, his eyes travelling on
in search of the weather report. He had turned to the wrong page; and
suddenly a line of black characters leapt out at him as from an ambush.

“‘Margaret Aubyn’s Letters.’ Two volumes. Out to-day. First edition of
five thousand sold out before leaving the press. Second edition ready
next week. THE BOOK OF THE YEAR....”

He looked up stupidly. His wife still sat with her head thrown back,
her pure profile detached against the cushions. She was smiling a little
over the prospect his last words had opened. Behind her head shivers
of sun and shade ran across the striped awning. A row of maples and
a privet hedge hid their neighbor’s gables, giving them undivided
possession of their leafy half-acre; and life, a moment before, had
been like their plot of ground, shut off, hedged in from importunities,
impenetrably his and hers. Now it seemed to him that every maple-leaf,
every privet-bud, was a relentless human gaze, pressing close upon their
privacy. It was as though they sat in a brightly lit room, uncurtained
from a darkness full of hostile watchers.... His wife still smiled; and
her unconsciousness of danger seemed, in some horrible way, to put her
beyond the reach of rescue....

He had not known that it would be like this. After the first odious
weeks, spent in preparing the letters for publication, in submitting
them to Flamel, and in negotiating with the publishers, the transaction
had dropped out of his consciousness into that unvisited limbo to which
we relegate the deeds we would rather not have done but have no notion
of undoing. From the moment he had obtained Miss Trent’s promise not
to sail with her aunt he had tried to imagine himself irrevocably
committed. After that, he argued, his first duty was to her--she had
become his conscience. The sum obtained from the publishers by Flamel’s
adroit manipulations and opportunely transferred to Dinslow’s successful
venture, already yielded a return which, combined with Glennard’s
professional earnings, took the edge of compulsion from their way of
living, making it appear the expression of a graceful preference for
simplicity. It was the mitigated poverty which can subscribe to a review
or two and have a few flowers on the dinner-table. And already in
a small way Glennard was beginning to feel the magnetic quality of
prosperity. Clients who had passed his door in the hungry days sought
it out now that it bore the name of a successful man. It was understood
that a small inheritance, cleverly invested, was the source of his
fortune; and there was a feeling that a man who could do so well for
himself was likely to know how to turn over other people’s money.

But it was in the more intimate reward of his wife’s happiness that
Glennard tasted the full flavor of success. Coming out of conditions so
narrow that those he offered her seemed spacious, she fitted into her
new life without any of those manifest efforts at adjustment that are
as sore to a husband’s pride as the critical rearrangement of the bridal
furniture. She had given him, instead, the delicate pleasure of watching
her expand like a sea-creature restored to its element, stretching out
the atrophied tentacles of girlish vanity and enjoyment to the rising
tide of opportunity. And somehow--in the windowless inner cell of his
consciousness where self-criticism cowered--Glennard’s course seemed
justified by its merely material success. How could such a crop of
innocent blessedness have sprung from tainted soil?



Now he had the injured sense of a man entrapped into a disadvantageous
bargain. He had not known it would be like this; and a dull anger
gathered at his heart. Anger against whom? Against his wife, for not
knowing what he suffered? Against Flamel, for being the unconscious
instrument of his wrong-doing? Or against that mute memory to which his
own act had suddenly given a voice of accusation? Yes, that was it;
and his punishment henceforth would be the presence, the unescapable
presence, of the woman he had so persistently evaded. She would always
be there now. It was as though he had married her instead of the other.
It was what she had always wanted--to be with him--and she had gained
her point at last....

He sprang up, as though in an impulse of flight.... The sudden movement
lifted his wife’s lids, and she asked, in the incurious voice of the
woman whose life is enclosed in a magic circle of prosperity--“Any
news?”

“No--none--” he said, roused to a sense of immediate peril. The papers
lay scattered at his feet--what if she were to see them? He stretched
his arm to gather them up, but his next thought showed him the futility
of such concealment. The same advertisement would appear every day, for
weeks to come, in every newspaper; how could he prevent her seeing it?
He could not always be hiding the papers from her.... Well, and what if
she did see it? It would signify nothing to her, the chances were that
she would never even read the book.... As she ceased to be an element of
fear in his calculations the distance between them seemed to lessen
and he took her again, as it were, into the circle of his conjugal
protection.... Yet a moment before he had almost hated her!... He
laughed aloud at his senseless terrors.... He was off his balance,
decidedly.

“What are you laughing at?” she asked.

He explained, elaborately, that he was laughing at the recollection
of an old woman in the train, an old woman with a lot of bundles, who
couldn’t find her ticket.... But somehow, in the telling, the humor of
the story seemed to evaporate, and he felt the conventionality of her
smile. He glanced at his watch, “Isn’t it time to dress?”

She rose with serene reluctance. “It’s a pity to go in. The garden looks
so lovely.”

They lingered side by side, surveying their domain. There was not space
in it, at this hour, for the shadow of the elm-tree in the angle of the
hedge; it crossed the lawn, cut the flower-border in two, and ran up the
side of the house to the nursery window. She bent to flick a caterpillar
from the honey-suckle; then, as they turned indoors, “If we mean to
go on the yacht next Sunday,” she suggested, “oughtn’t you to let Mr.
Flamel know?”

Glennard’s exasperation deflected suddenly. “Of course I shall let him
know. You always seem to imply that I’m going to do something rude to
Flamel.”

The words reverberated through her silence; she had a way of thus
leaving one space in which to contemplate one’s folly at arm’s length.
Glennard turned on his heel and went upstairs. As he dropped into a
chair before his dressing-table he said to himself that in the last hour
he had sounded the depths of his humiliation and that the lowest dregs
of it, the very bottom-slime, was the hateful necessity of having
always, as long as the two men lived, to be civil to Barton Flamel.




VI


THE week in town had been sultry, and the men, in the Sunday
emancipation of white flannel and duck, filled the deck-chairs of the
yacht with their outstretched apathy, following, through a mist of
cigarette-smoke, the flitting inconsequences of the women. The party
was a small one--Flamel had few intimate friends--but composed of more
heterogeneous atoms than the little pools into which society usually
runs. The reaction from the chief episode of his earlier life had
bred in Glennard an uneasy distaste for any kind of personal saliency.
Cleverness was useful in business; but in society it seemed to him as
futile as the sham cascades formed by a stream that might have been used
to drive a mill. He liked the collective point of view that goes with
the civilized uniformity of dress-clothes, and his wife’s attitude
implied the same preference; yet they found themselves slipping more
and more into Flamel’s intimacy. Alexa had once or twice said that she
enjoyed meeting clever people; but her enjoyment took the negative form
of a smiling receptivity; and Glennard felt a growing preference for the
kind of people who have their thinking done for them by the community.

Still, the deck of the yacht was a pleasant refuge from the heat on
shore, and his wife’s profile, serenely projected against the changing
blue, lay on his retina like a cool hand on the nerves. He had never
been more impressed by the kind of absoluteness that lifted her beauty
above the transient effects of other women, making the most harmonious
face seem an accidental collocation of features.

The ladies who directly suggested this comparison were of a kind
accustomed to take similar risks with more gratifying results. Mrs.
Armiger had in fact long been the triumphant alternative of those who
couldn’t “see” Alexa Glennard’s looks; and Mrs. Touchett’s claims to
consideration were founded on that distribution of effects which is the
wonder of those who admire a highly cultivated country. The third lady
of the trio which Glennard’s fancy had put to such unflattering uses,
was bound by circumstances to support the claims of the other two. This
was Mrs. Dresham, the wife of the editor of the RADIATOR. Mrs. Dresham
was a lady who had rescued herself from social obscurity by assuming the
role of her husband’s exponent and interpreter; and Dresham’s leisure
being devoted to the cultivation of remarkable women, his
wife’s attitude committed her to the public celebration of their
remarkableness. For the conceivable tedium of this duty, Mrs. Dresham
was repaid by the fact that there were people who took HER for a
remarkable woman; and who in turn probably purchased similar distinction
with the small change of her reflected importance. As to the other
ladies of the party, they were simply the wives of some of the men--the
kind of women who expect to be talked to collectively and to have their
questions left unanswered.

Mrs. Armiger, the latest embodiment of Dresham’s instinct for the
remarkable, was an innocent beauty who for years had distilled
dulness among a set of people now self-condemned by their inability
to appreciate her. Under Dresham’s tutelage she had developed into a
“thoughtful woman,” who read his leaders in the RADIATOR and bought the
books he recommended. When a new novel appeared, people wanted to know
what Mrs. Armiger thought of it; and a young gentleman who had made a
trip in Touraine had recently inscribed to her the wide-margined result
of his explorations.

Glennard, leaning back with his head against the rail and a slit of
fugitive blue between his half-closed lids, vaguely wished she wouldn’t
spoil the afternoon by making people talk; though he reduced his
annoyance to the minimum by not listening to what was said, there
remained a latent irritation against the general futility of words.

His wife’s gift of silence seemed to him the most vivid commentary on
the clumsiness of speech as a means of intercourse, and his eyes had
turned to her in renewed appreciation of this finer faculty when
Mrs. Armiger’s voice abruptly brought home to him the underrated
potentialities of language.

“You’ve read them, of course, Mrs. Glennard?” he heard her ask; and, in
reply to Alexa’s vague interrogation--“Why, the ‘Aubyn Letters’--it’s
the only book people are talking of this week.”

Mrs. Dresham immediately saw her advantage. “You HAVEN’T read them? How
very extraordinary! As Mrs. Armiger says, the book’s in the air; one
breathes it in like the influenza.”

Glennard sat motionless, watching his wife.

“Perhaps it hasn’t reached the suburbs yet,” she said, with her
unruffled smile.

“Oh, DO let me come to you, then!” Mrs. Touchett cried; “anything for a
change of air! I’m positively sick of the book and I can’t put it down.
Can’t you sail us beyond its reach, Mr. Flamel?”

Flamel shook his head. “Not even with this breeze. Literature travels
faster than steam nowadays. And the worst of it is that we can’t any
of us give up reading; it’s as insidious as a vice and as tiresome as a
virtue.”

“I believe it IS a vice, almost, to read such a book as the ‘Letters,’”
 said Mrs. Touchett. “It’s the woman’s soul, absolutely torn up by the
roots--her whole self laid bare; and to a man who evidently didn’t care;
who couldn’t have cared. I don’t mean to read another line; it’s too
much like listening at a keyhole.”

“But if she wanted it published?”

“Wanted it? How do we know she did?”

“Why, I heard she’d left the letters to the man--whoever he is--with
directions that they should be published after his death--”

“I don’t believe it,” Mrs. Touchett declared.

“He’s dead then, is he?” one of the men asked.

“Why, you don’t suppose if he were alive he could ever hold up his
head again, with these letters being read by everybody?” Mrs. Touchett
protested. “It must have been horrible enough to know they’d been
written to him; but to publish them! No man could have done it and no
woman could have told him to--”

“Oh, come, come,” Dresham judicially interposed; “after all, they’re not
love-letters.”

“No--that’s the worst of it; they’re unloved letters,” Mrs. Touchett
retorted.

“Then, obviously, she needn’t have written them; whereas the man, poor
devil, could hardly help receiving them.”

“Perhaps he counted on the public to save him the trouble of reading
them,” said young Hartly, who was in the cynical stage.

Mrs. Armiger turned her reproachful loveliness to Dresham. “From the way
you defend him, I believe you know who he is.”

Everyone looked at Dresham, and his wife smiled with the superior air of
the woman who is in her husband’s professional secrets. Dresham shrugged
his shoulders.

“What have I said to defend him?”

“You called him a poor devil--you pitied him.”

“A man who could let Margaret Aubyn write to him in that way? Of course
I pity him.”

“Then you MUST know who he is,” cried Mrs. Armiger, with a triumphant
air of penetration.

Hartly and Flamel laughed and Dresham shook his head. “No one knows; not
even the publishers; so they tell me at least.”

“So they tell you to tell us,” Hartly astutely amended; and Mrs. Armiger
added, with the appearance of carrying the argument a point farther,
“But even if HE’S dead and SHE’S dead, somebody must have given the
letters to the publishers.”

“A little bird, probably,” said Dresham, smiling indulgently on her
deduction.

“A little bird of prey then--a vulture, I should say--” another man
interpolated.

“Oh, I’m not with you there,” said Dresham, easily. “Those letters
belonged to the public.”

“How can any letters belong to the public that weren’t written to the
public?” Mrs. Touchett interposed.

“Well, these were, in a sense. A personality as big as Margaret Aubyn’s
belongs to the world. Such a mind is part of the general fund of
thought. It’s the penalty of greatness--one becomes a monument
historique. Posterity pays the cost of keeping one up, but on condition
that one is always open to the public.”

“I don’t see that that exonerates the man who gives up the keys of the
sanctuary, as it were.”

“Who WAS he?” another voice inquired.

“Who was he? Oh, nobody, I fancy--the letter-box, the slit in the wall
through which the letters passed to posterity....”

“But she never meant them for posterity!”

“A woman shouldn’t write such letters if she doesn’t mean them to be
published....”

“She shouldn’t write them to such a man!” Mrs. Touchett scornfully
corrected.

“I never keep letters,” said Mrs. Armiger, under the obvious impression
that she was contributing a valuable point to the discussion.

There was a general laugh, and Flamel, who had not spoken, said, lazily,
“You women are too incurably subjective. I venture to say that most men
would see in those letters merely their immense literary value, their
significance as documents. The personal side doesn’t count where there’s
so much else.”

“Oh, we all know you haven’t any principles,” Mrs. Armiger declared; and
Alexa Glennard, lifting an indolent smile, said: “I shall never write
you a love-letter, Mr. Flamel.”

Glennard moved away impatiently. Such talk was as tedious as the buzzing
of gnats. He wondered why his wife had wanted to drag him on such a
senseless expedition.... He hated Flamel’s crowd--and what business had
Flamel himself to interfere in that way, standing up for the publication
of the letters as though Glennard needed his defence?...

Glennard turned his head and saw that Flamel had drawn a seat to Alexa’s
elbow and was speaking to her in a low tone. The other groups had
scattered, straying in twos along the deck. It came over Glennard that
he should never again be able to see Flamel speaking to his wife without
the sense of sick mistrust that now loosened his joints....


Alexa, the next morning, over their early breakfast, surprised her
husband by an unexpected request.

“Will you bring me those letters from town?” she asked.

“What letters?” he said, putting down his cup. He felt himself as
helplessly vulnerable as a man who is lunged at in the dark.

“Mrs. Aubyn’s. The book they were all talking about yesterday.”

Glennard, carefully measuring his second cup of tea, said, with
deliberation, “I didn’t know you cared about that sort of thing.”

She was, in fact, not a great reader, and a new book seldom reached her
till it was, so to speak, on the home stretch; but she replied, with a
gentle tenacity, “I think it would interest me because I read her life
last year.”

“Her life? Where did you get that?”

“Someone lent it to me when it came out--Mr. Flamel, I think.”

His first impulse was to exclaim, “Why the devil do you borrow books of
Flamel? I can buy you all you want--” but he felt himself irresistibly
forced into an attitude of smiling compliance. “Flamel always has the
newest books going, hasn’t he? You must be careful, by the way, about
returning what he lends you. He’s rather crotchety about his library.”

“Oh, I’m always very careful,” she said, with a touch of competence that
struck him; and she added, as he caught up his hat: “Don’t forget the
letters.”

Why had she asked for the book? Was her sudden wish to see it the result
of some hint of Flamel’s? The thought turned Glennard sick, but he
preserved sufficient lucidity to tell himself, a moment later, that his
last hope of self-control would be lost if he yielded to the temptation
of seeing a hidden purpose in everything she said and did. How much
Flamel guessed, he had no means of divining; nor could he predicate,
from what he knew of the man, to what use his inferences might be put.
The very qualities that had made Flamel a useful adviser made him the
most dangerous of accomplices. Glennard felt himself agrope among alien
forces that his own act had set in motion....

Alexa was a woman of few requirements; but her wishes, even in trifles,
had a definiteness that distinguished them from the fluid impulses of
her kind. He knew that, having once asked for the book, she would not
forget it; and he put aside, as an ineffectual expedient, his momentary
idea of applying for it at the circulating library and telling her that
all the copies were out. If the book was to be bought it had better be
bought at once. He left his office earlier than usual and turned in at
the first book-shop on his way to the train. The show-window was stacked
with conspicuously lettered volumes. “Margaret Aubyn” flashed back
at him in endless repetition. He plunged into the shop and came on a
counter where the name reiterated itself on row after row of bindings.
It seemed to have driven the rest of literature to the back shelves. He
caught up a copy, tossing the money to an astonished clerk who pursued
him to the door with the unheeded offer to wrap up the volumes.

In the street he was seized with a sudden apprehension. What if he were
to meet Flamel? The thought was intolerable. He called a cab and drove
straight to the station where, amid the palm-leaf fans of a perspiring
crowd, he waited a long half-hour for his train to start.

He had thrust a volume in either pocket and in the train he dared not
draw them out; but the detested words leaped at him from the folds of
the evening paper. The air seemed full of Margaret Aubyn’s name. The
motion of the train set it dancing up and down on the page of a magazine
that a man in front of him was reading....

At the door he was told that Mrs. Glennard was still out, and he went
upstairs to his room and dragged the books from his pocket. They lay
on the table before him like live things that he feared to touch.... At
length he opened the first volume. A familiar letter sprang out at
him, each word quickened by its glaring garb of type. The little broken
phrases fled across the page like wounded animals in the open.... It was
a horrible sight.... A battue of helpless things driven savagely out of
shelter. He had not known it would be like this....

He understood now that, at the moment of selling the letters, he had
viewed the transaction solely as it affected himself: as an unfortunate
blemish on an otherwise presentable record. He had scarcely considered
the act in relation to Margaret Aubyn; for death, if it hallows,
also makes innocuous. Glennard’s God was a god of the living, of the
immediate, the actual, the tangible; all his days he had lived in the
presence of that god, heedless of the divinities who, below the surface
of our deeds and passions, silently forge the fatal weapons of the dead.




VII


A knock roused him and looking up he saw his wife. He met her glance in
silence, and she faltered out, “Are you ill?”

The words restored his self-possession. “Ill? Of course not. They told
me you were out and I came upstairs.”

The books lay between them on the table; he wondered when she would see
them. She lingered tentatively on the threshold, with the air of leaving
his explanation on his hands. She was not the kind of woman who could be
counted on to fortify an excuse by appearing to dispute it.

“Where have you been?” Glennard asked, moving forward so that he
obstructed her vision of the books.

“I walked over to the Dreshams for tea.”

“I can’t think what you see in those people,” he said with a shrug;
adding, uncontrollably--“I suppose Flamel was there?”

“No; he left on the yacht this morning.”

An answer so obstructing to the natural escape of his irritation left
Glennard with no momentary resource but that of strolling impatiently to
the window. As her eyes followed him they lit on the books.

“Ah, you’ve brought them! I’m so glad,” she exclaimed.

He answered over his shoulder, “For a woman who never reads you make the
most astounding exceptions!”

Her smile was an exasperating concession to the probability that it had
been hot in town or that something had bothered him.

“Do you mean it’s not nice to want to read the book?” she asked. “It was
not nice to publish it, certainly; but after all, I’m not responsible
for that, am I?” She paused, and, as he made no answer, went on, still
smiling, “I do read sometimes, you know; and I’m very fond of Margaret
Aubyn’s books. I was reading ‘Pomegranate Seed’ when we first met. Don’t
you remember? It was then you told me all about her.”

Glennard had turned back into the room and stood staring at his wife.
“All about her?” he repeated, and with the words remembrance came to
him. He had found Miss Trent one afternoon with the novel in her hand,
and moved by the lover’s fatuous impulse to associate himself in some
way with whatever fills the mind of the beloved, had broken through
his habitual silence about the past. Rewarded by the consciousness of
figuring impressively in Miss Trent’s imagination he had gone on from
one anecdote to another, reviving dormant details of his old Hillbridge
life, and pasturing his vanity on the eagerness with which she received
his reminiscences of a being already clothed in the impersonality of
greatness.

The incident had left no trace in his mind; but it sprang up now like an
old enemy, the more dangerous for having been forgotten. The instinct
of self-preservation--sometimes the most perilous that man can
exercise--made him awkwardly declare--“Oh, I used to see her at people’s
houses, that was all;” and her silence as usual leaving room for a
multiplication of blunders, he added, with increased indifference, “I
simply can’t see what you can find to interest you in such a book.”

She seemed to consider this intently. “You’ve read it, then?”

“I glanced at it--I never read such things.”

“Is it true that she didn’t wish the letters to be published?”

Glennard felt the sudden dizziness of the mountaineer on a narrow ledge,
and with it the sense that he was lost if he looked more than a step
ahead.

“I’m sure I don’t know,” he said; then, summoning a smile, he passed
his hand through her arm. “I didn’t have tea at the Dreshams, you know;
won’t you give me some now?” he suggested.

That evening Glennard, under pretext of work to be done, shut himself
into the small study opening off the drawing-room. As he gathered up his
papers he said to his wife: “You’re not going to sit indoors on such a
night as this? I’ll join you presently outside.”

But she had drawn her armchair to the lamp. “I want to look at my book,”
 she said, taking up the first volume of the “Letters.”

Glennard, with a shrug, withdrew into the study. “I’m going to shut
the door; I want to be quiet,” he explained from the threshold; and she
nodded without lifting her eyes from the book.

He sank into a chair, staring aimlessly at the outspread papers. How was
he to work, while on the other side of the door she sat with that volume
in her hand? The door did not shut her out--he saw her distinctly, felt
her close to him in a contact as painful as the pressure on a bruise.

The sensation was part of the general strangeness that made him feel
like a man waking from a long sleep to find himself in an unknown
country among people of alien tongue. We live in our own souls as in
an unmapped region, a few acres of which we have cleared for our
habitation; while of the nature of those nearest us we know but the
boundaries that march with ours. Of the points in his wife’s character
not in direct contact with his own, Glennard now discerned his
ignorance; and the baffling sense of her remoteness was intensified by
the discovery that, in one way, she was closer to him than ever before.
As one may live for years in happy unconsciousness of the possession
of a sensitive nerve, he had lived beside his wife unaware that her
individuality had become a part of the texture of his life, ineradicable
as some growth on a vital organ; and he now felt himself at once
incapable of forecasting her judgment and powerless to evade its
effects.

To escape, the next morning, the confidences of the breakfast-table, he
went to town earlier than usual. His wife, who read slowly, was given to
talking over what she read, and at present his first object in life was
to postpone the inevitable discussion of the letters. This instinct of
protection in the afternoon, on his way uptown, guided him to the club
in search of a man who might be persuaded to come out to the country to
dine. The only man in the club was Flamel.

Glennard, as he heard himself almost involuntarily pressing Flamel to
come and dine, felt the full irony of the situation. To use Flamel as
a shield against his wife’s scrutiny was only a shade less humiliating
than to reckon on his wife as a defence against Flamel.

He felt a contradictory movement of annoyance at the latter’s ready
acceptance, and the two men drove in silence to the station. As they
passed the bookstall in the waiting-room Flamel lingered a moment and
the eyes of both fell on Margaret Aubyn’s name, conspicuously displayed
above a counter stacked with the familiar volumes.

“We shall be late, you know,” Glennard remonstrated, pulling out his
watch.

“Go ahead,” said Flamel, imperturbably. “I want to get something--”

Glennard turned on his heel and walked down the platform. Flamel
rejoined him with an innocent-looking magazine in his hand; but Glennard
dared not even glance at the cover, lest it should show the syllables he
feared.

The train was full of people they knew, and they were kept apart till
it dropped them at the little suburban station. As they strolled up the
shaded hill, Glennard talked volubly, pointing out the improvements
in the neighborhood, deploring the threatened approach of an electric
railway, and screening himself by a series of reflex adjustments from
the imminent risk of any allusion to the “Letters.” Flamel suffered his
discourse with the bland inattention that we accord to the affairs of
someone else’s suburb, and they reached the shelter of Alexa’s tea-table
without a perceptible turn toward the dreaded topic.

The dinner passed off safely. Flamel, always at his best in Alexa’s
presence, gave her the kind of attention which is like a beaconing light
thrown on the speaker’s words: his answers seemed to bring out a latent
significance in her phrases, as the sculptor draws his statue from the
block. Glennard, under his wife’s composure, detected a sensibility to
this manoeuvre, and the discovery was like the lightning-flash across a
nocturnal landscape. Thus far these momentary illuminations had served
only to reveal the strangeness of the intervening country: each fresh
observation seemed to increase the sum-total of his ignorance. Her
simplicity of outline was more puzzling than a complex surface. One may
conceivably work one’s way through a labyrinth; but Alexa’s candor
was like a snow-covered plain where, the road once lost, there are no
landmarks to travel by.

Dinner over, they returned to the veranda, where a moon, rising behind
the old elm, was combining with that complaisant tree a romantic
enlargement of their borders. Glennard had forgotten the cigars. He went
to his study to fetch them, and in passing through the drawing-room he
saw the second volume of the “Letters” lying open on his wife’s table.
He picked up the book and looked at the date of the letter she had been
reading. It was one of the last... he knew the few lines by heart. He
dropped the book and leaned against the wall. Why had he included that
one among the others? Or was it possible that now they would all seem
like that...?

Alexa’s voice came suddenly out of the dusk. “May Touchett was right--it
IS like listening at a key-hole. I wish I hadn’t read it!”

Flamel returned, in the leisurely tone of the man whose phrases are
punctuated by a cigarette, “It seems so to us, perhaps; but to another
generation the book will be a classic.”

“Then it ought not to have been published till it had become a classic.
It’s horrible, it’s degrading almost, to read the secrets of a woman one
might have known.” She added, in a lower tone, “Stephen DID know her--”

“Did he?” came from Flamel.

“He knew her very well, at Hillbridge, years ago. The book has made him
feel dreadfully... he wouldn’t read it... he didn’t want me to read it.
I didn’t understand at first, but now I can see how horribly disloyal it
must seem to him. It’s so much worse to surprise a friend’s secrets than
a stranger’s.”

“Oh, Glennard’s such a sensitive chap,” Flamel said, easily; and Alexa
almost rebukingly rejoined, “If you’d known her I’m sure you’d feel as
he does....”

Glennard stood motionless, overcome by the singular infelicity with
which he had contrived to put Flamel in possession of the two points
most damaging to his case: the fact that he had been a friend of
Margaret Aubyn’s, and that he had concealed from Alexa his share in the
publication of the letters. To a man of less than Flamel’s astuteness
it must now be clear to whom the letters were addressed; and the
possibility once suggested, nothing could be easier than to confirm it
by discreet research. An impulse of self-accusal drove Glennard to the
window. Why not anticipate betrayal by telling his wife the truth in
Flamel’s presence? If the man had a drop of decent feeling in him, such
a course would be the surest means of securing his silence; and above
all, it would rid Glennard of the necessity of defending himself against
the perpetual criticism of his wife’s belief in him....

The impulse was strong enough to carry him to the window; but there
a reaction of defiance set in. What had he done, after all, to need
defence and explanation? Both Dresham and Flamel had, in his hearing,
declared the publication of the letters to be not only justifiable but
obligatory; and if the disinterestedness of Flamel’s verdict might be
questioned, Dresham’s at least represented the impartial view of the
man of letters. As to Alexa’s words, they were simply the conventional
utterance of the “nice” woman on a question already decided for her by
other “nice” women. She had said the proper thing as mechanically as she
would have put on the appropriate gown or written the correct form of
dinner-invitation. Glennard had small faith in the abstract judgments
of the other sex; he knew that half the women who were horrified by
the publication of Mrs. Aubyn’s letters would have betrayed her secrets
without a scruple.

The sudden lowering of his emotional pitch brought a proportionate
relief. He told himself that now the worst was over and things would
fall into perspective again. His wife and Flamel had turned to other
topics, and coming out on the veranda, he handed the cigars to Flamel,
saying, cheerfully--and yet he could have sworn they were the last words
he meant to utter!--“Look here, old man, before you go down to Newport
you must come out and spend a few days with us--mustn’t he, Alexa?”




VIII


Glennard had, perhaps unconsciously, counted on the continuance of this
easier mood. He had always taken pride in a certain robustness of fibre
that enabled him to harden himself against the inevitable, to convert
his failures into the building materials of success. Though it did not
even now occur to him that what he called the inevitable had hitherto
been the alternative he happened to prefer, he was yet obscurely
aware that his present difficulty was one not to be conjured by any
affectation of indifference. Some griefs build the soul a spacious
house--but in this misery of Glennard’s he could not stand upright. It
pressed against him at every turn. He told himself that this was because
there was no escape from the visible evidences of his act. The “Letters”
 confronted him everywhere. People who had never opened a book discussed
them with critical reservations; to have read them had become a social
obligation in circles to which literature never penetrates except in a
personal guise.

Glennard did himself injustice, it was from the unexpected discovery of
his own pettiness that he chiefly suffered. Our self-esteem is apt to
be based on the hypothetical great act we have never had occasion to
perform; and even the most self-scrutinizing modesty credits itself
negatively with a high standard of conduct. Glennard had never thought
himself a hero; but he had been certain that he was incapable of
baseness. We all like our wrong-doings to have a becoming cut, to be
made to order, as it were; and Glennard found himself suddenly thrust
into a garb of dishonor surely meant for a meaner figure.

The immediate result of his first weeks of wretchedness was the resolve
to go to town for the winter. He knew that such a course was just beyond
the limit of prudence; but it was easy to allay the fears of Alexa who,
scrupulously vigilant in the management of the household, preserved
the American wife’s usual aloofness from her husband’s business cares.
Glennard felt that he could not trust himself to a winter’s solitude
with her. He had an unspeakable dread of her learning the truth about
the letters, yet could not be sure of steeling himself against the
suicidal impulse of avowal. His very soul was parched for sympathy; he
thirsted for a voice of pity and comprehension. But would his wife pity?
Would she understand? Again he found himself brought up abruptly against
his incredible ignorance of her nature. The fact that he knew well
enough how she would behave in the ordinary emergencies of life, that
he could count, in such contingencies, on the kind of high courage and
directness he had always divined in her, made him the more hopeless of
her entering into the torturous psychology of an act that he himself
could no longer explain or understand. It would have been easier had
she been more complex, more feminine--if he could have counted on
her imaginative sympathy or her moral obtuseness--but he was sure of
neither. He was sure of nothing but that, for a time, he must avoid her.
Glennard could not rid himself of the delusion that by and by his action
would cease to make its consequences felt. He would not have cared to
own to himself that he counted on the dulling of his sensibilities: he
preferred to indulge the vague hypothesis that extraneous circumstances
would somehow efface the blot upon his conscience. In his worst moments
of self-abasement he tried to find solace in the thought that Flamel had
sanctioned his course. Flamel, at the outset, must have guessed to
whom the letters were addressed; yet neither then nor afterward had he
hesitated to advise their publication. This thought drew Glennard to
him in fitful impulses of friendliness, from each of which there was a
sharper reaction of distrust and aversion. When Flamel was not at the
house, he missed the support of his tacit connivance; when he was there,
his presence seemed the assertion of an intolerable claim.

Early in the winter the Glennards took possession of the little house
that was to cost them almost nothing. The change brought Glennard the
immediate relief of seeing less of his wife, and of being protected, in
her presence, by the multiplied preoccupations of town life. Alexa, who
could never appear hurried, showed the smiling abstraction of a pretty
woman to whom the social side of married life has not lost its novelty.
Glennard, with the recklessness of a man fresh from his first financial
imprudence, encouraged her in such little extravagances as her good
sense at first resisted. Since they had come to town, he argued, they
might as well enjoy themselves. He took a sympathetic view of the
necessity of new gowns, he gave her a set of furs at Christmas, and
before the New Year they had agreed on the obligation of adding a
parlour-maid to their small establishment.

Providence the very next day hastened to justify this measure by placing
on Glennard’s breakfast-plate an envelope bearing the name of the
publishers to whom he had sold Mrs. Aubyn’s letters. It happened to be
the only letter the early post had brought, and he glanced across the
table at his wife, who had come down before him and had probably
laid the envelope on his plate. She was not the woman to ask awkward
questions, but he felt the conjecture of her glance, and he was debating
whether to affect surprise at the receipt of the letter, or to pass it
off as a business communication that had strayed to his house, when a
check fell from the envelope. It was the royalty on the first edition of
the letters. His first feeling was one of simple satisfaction. The
money had come with such infernal opportuneness that he could not help
welcoming it. Before long, too, there would be more; he knew the book
was still selling far beyond the publisher’s previsions. He put the
check in his pocket and left the room without looking at his wife.

On the way to his office the habitual reaction set in. The money he had
received was the first tangible reminder that he was living on the
sale of his self-esteem. The thought of material benefit had been
overshadowed by his sense of the intrinsic baseness of making the
letters known; now he saw what an element of sordidness it added to the
situation and how the fact that he needed the money, and must use it,
pledged him more irrevocably than ever to the consequences of his act.
It seemed to him, in that first hour of misery, that he had betrayed his
friend anew.

When, that afternoon, he reached home earlier than usual, Alexa’s
drawing-room was full of a gayety that overflowed to the stairs. Flamel,
for a wonder, was not there; but Dresham and young Hartly, grouped about
the tea-table, were receiving with resonant mirth a narrative delivered
in the fluttered staccato that made Mrs. Armiger’s conversation like the
ejaculations of a startled aviary.

She paused as Glennard entered, and he had time to notice that his wife,
who was busied about the tea-tray, had not joined in the laughter of the
men.

“Oh, go on, go on,” young Hartly rapturously groaned; and Mrs. Armiger
met Glennard’s inquiry with the deprecating cry that really she didn’t
see what there was to laugh at. “I’m sure I feel more like crying. I
don’t know what I should have done if Alexa hadn’t been home to give me
a cup of tea. My nerves are in shreds--yes, another, dear, please--” and
as Glennard looked his perplexity, she went on, after pondering on
the selection of a second lump of sugar, “Why, I’ve just come from the
reading, you know--the reading at the Waldorf.”

“I haven’t been in town long enough to know anything,” said Glennard,
taking the cup his wife handed him. “Who has been reading what?”

“That lovely girl from the South--Georgie--Georgie what’s her name--Mrs.
Dresham’s protegee--unless she’s YOURS, Mr. Dresham! Why, the big
ball-room was PACKED, and all the women were crying like idiots--it was
the most harrowing thing I ever heard--”

“What DID you hear?” Glennard asked; and his wife interposed: “Won’t you
have another bit of cake, Julia? Or, Stephen, ring for some hot
toast, please.” Her tone betrayed a polite satiety of the topic under
discussion. Glennard turned to the bell, but Mrs. Armiger pursued him
with her lovely amazement.

“Why, the ‘Aubyn Letters’--didn’t you know about it? The girl read them
so beautifully that it was quite horrible--I should have fainted if
there’d been a man near enough to carry me out.”

Hartly’s glee redoubled, and Dresham said, jovially, “How like you women
to raise a shriek over the book and then do all you can to encourage the
blatant publicity of the readings!”

Mrs. Armiger met him more than half-way on a torrent of self-accusal.
“It WAS horrid; it was disgraceful. I told your wife we ought all to
be ashamed of ourselves for going, and I think Alexa was quite right to
refuse to take any tickets--even if it was for a charity.”

“Oh,” her hostess murmured, indifferently, “with me charity begins at
home. I can’t afford emotional luxuries.”

“A charity? A charity?” Hartly exulted. “I hadn’t seized the full beauty
of it. Reading poor Margaret Aubyn’s love-letters at the Waldorf before
five hundred people for a charity! WHAT charity, dear Mrs. Armiger?”

“Why, the Home for Friendless Women--”

“It was well chosen,” Dresham commented; and Hartly buried his mirth in
the sofa-cushions.

When they were alone Glennard, still holding his untouched cup of tea,
turned to his wife, who sat silently behind the kettle. “Who asked you
to take a ticket for that reading?”

“I don’t know, really--Kate Dresham, I fancy. It was she who got it up.”

“It’s just the sort of damnable vulgarity she’s capable of! It’s
loathsome--it’s monstrous--”

His wife, without looking up, answered gravely, “I thought so too. It
was for that reason I didn’t go. But you must remember that very few
people feel about Mrs. Aubyn as you do--”

Glennard managed to set down his cup with a steady hand, but the room
swung round with him and he dropped into the nearest chair. “As I do?”
 he repeated.

“I mean that very few people knew her when she lived in New York. To
most of the women who went to the reading she was a mere name, too
remote to have any personality. With me, of course, it was different--”

Glennard gave her a startled look. “Different? Why different?”

“Since you were her friend--”

“Her friend!” He stood up impatiently. “You speak as if she had had only
one--the most famous woman of her day!” He moved vaguely about the room,
bending down to look at some books on the table. “I hope,” he added,
“you didn’t give that as a reason, by the way?”

“A reason?”

“For not going. A woman who gives reasons for getting out of social
obligations is sure to make herself unpopular or ridiculous.

The words were uncalculated; but in an instant he saw that they had
strangely bridged the distance between his wife and himself. He felt her
close on him, like a panting foe; and her answer was a flash that showed
the hand on the trigger.

“I seem,” she said from the threshold, “to have done both in giving my
reason to you.”


The fact that they were dining out that evening made it easy for him to
avoid Alexa till she came downstairs in her opera-cloak. Mrs. Touchett,
who was going to the same dinner, had offered to call for her, and
Glennard, refusing a precarious seat between the ladies’ draperies,
followed on foot. The evening was interminable. The reading at the
Waldorf, at which all the women had been present, had revived the
discussion of the “Aubyn Letters” and Glennard, hearing his wife
questioned as to her absence, felt himself miserably wishing that she
had gone, rather than that her staying away should have been remarked.
He was rapidly losing all sense of proportion where the “Letters” were
concerned. He could no longer hear them mentioned without suspecting
a purpose in the allusion; he even yielded himself for a moment to
the extravagance of imagining that Mrs. Dresham, whom he disliked, had
organized the reading in the hope of making him betray himself--for he
was already sure that Dresham had divined his share in the transaction.

The attempt to keep a smooth surface on this inner tumult was as endless
and unavailing as efforts made in a nightmare. He lost all sense of what
he was saying to his neighbors and once when he looked up his wife’s
glance struck him cold.

She sat nearly opposite him, at Flamel’s side, and it appeared to
Glennard that they had built about themselves one of those airy barriers
of talk behind which two people can say what they please. While the
reading was discussed they were silent. Their silence seemed to Glennard
almost cynical--it stripped the last disguise from their complicity. A
throb of anger rose in him, but suddenly it fell, and he felt, with
a curious sense of relief, that at bottom he no longer cared whether
Flamel had told his wife or not. The assumption that Flamel knew about
the letters had become a fact to Glennard; and it now seemed to him
better that Alexa should know too.

He was frightened at first by the discovery of his own indifference. The
last barriers of his will seemed to be breaking down before a flood of
moral lassitude. How could he continue to play his part, to keep his
front to the enemy, with this poison of indifference stealing through
his veins? He tried to brace himself with the remembrance of his wife’s
scorn. He had not forgotten the note on which their conversation had
closed. If he had ever wondered how she would receive the truth
he wondered no longer--she would despise him. But this lent a new
insidiousness to his temptation, since her contempt would be a refuge
from his own. He said to himself that, since he no longer cared for
the consequences, he could at least acquit himself of speaking in
self-defence. What he wanted now was not immunity but castigation: his
wife’s indignation might still reconcile him to himself. Therein lay
his one hope of regeneration; her scorn was the moral antiseptic that he
needed, her comprehension the one balm that could heal him....

When they left the dinner he was so afraid of speaking that he let her
drive home alone, and went to the club with Flamel.




IX


HE rose next morning with the resolve to know what Alexa thought of him.
It was not anchoring in a haven, but lying to in a storm--he felt the
need of a temporary lull in the turmoil of his sensations.

He came home late, for they were dining alone and he knew that
they would have the evening together. When he followed her to the
drawing-room after dinner he thought himself on the point of speaking;
but as she handed him his coffee he said, involuntarily: “I shall have
to carry this off to the study, I’ve got a lot of work to-night.”

Alone in the study he cursed his cowardice. What was it that had
withheld him? A certain bright unapproachableness seemed to keep him at
arm’s length. She was not the kind of woman whose compassion could be
circumvented; there was no chance of slipping past the outposts; he
would never take her by surprise. Well--why not face her, then? What he
shrank from could be no worse than what he was enduring. He had pushed
back his chair and turned to go upstairs when a new expedient presented
itself. What if, instead of telling her, he were to let her find out for
herself and watch the effect of the discovery before speaking? In this
way he made over to chance the burden of the revelation.

The idea had been suggested by the sight of the formula enclosing
the publisher’s check. He had deposited the money, but the notice
accompanying it dropped from his note-case as he cleared his table for
work. It was the formula usual in such cases and revealed clearly enough
that he was the recipient of a royalty on Margaret Aubyn’s letters. It
would be impossible for Alexa to read it without understanding at once
that the letters had been written to him and that he had sold them....

He sat downstairs till he heard her ring for the parlor-maid to put out
the lights; then he went up to the drawing-room with a bundle of papers
in his hand. Alexa was just rising from her seat and the lamplight fell
on the deep roll of hair that overhung her brow like the eaves of a
temple. Her face had often the high secluded look of a shrine; and it
was this touch of awe in her beauty that now made him feel himself on
the brink of sacrilege.

Lest the feeling should dominate him, he spoke at once. “I’ve brought
you a piece of work--a lot of old bills and things that I want you to
sort for me. Some are not worth keeping--but you’ll be able to judge of
that. There may be a letter or two among them--nothing of much account,
but I don’t like to throw away the whole lot without having them looked
over and I haven’t time to do it myself.”

He held out the papers and she took them with a smile that seemed to
recognize in the service he asked the tacit intention of making amends
for the incident of the previous day.

“Are you sure I shall know which to keep?”

“Oh, quite sure,” he answered, easily--“and besides, none are of much
importance.”

The next morning he invented an excuse for leaving the house without
seeing her, and when he returned, just before dinner, he found a
visitor’s hat and stick in the hall. The visitor was Flamel, who was in
the act of taking leave.

He had risen, but Alexa remained seated; and their attitude gave the
impression of a colloquy that had prolonged itself beyond the limits of
speech. Both turned a surprised eye on Glennard and he had the sense of
walking into a room grown suddenly empty, as though their thoughts were
conspirators dispersed by his approach. He felt the clutch of his old
fear. What if his wife had already sorted the papers and had told Flamel
of her discovery? Well, it was no news to Flamel that Glennard was in
receipt of a royalty on the “Aubyn Letters.”...

A sudden resolve to know the worst made him lift his eyes to his wife
as the door closed on Flamel. But Alexa had risen also, and bending over
her writing-table, with her back to Glennard, was beginning to speak
precipitately.

“I’m dining out to-night--you don’t mind my deserting you? Julia Armiger
sent me word just now that she had an extra ticket for the last Ambrose
concert. She told me to say how sorry she was that she hadn’t two--but I
knew YOU wouldn’t be sorry!” She ended with a laugh that had the effect
of being a strayed echo of Mrs. Armiger’s; and before Glennard could
speak she had added, with her hand on the door, “Mr. Flamel stayed so
late that I’ve hardly time to dress. The concert begins ridiculously
early, and Julia dines at half-past seven--”

Glennard stood alone in the empty room that seemed somehow full of
an ironical consciousness of what was happening. “She hates me,” he
murmured. “She hates me....”


The next day was Sunday, and Glennard purposely lingered late in
his room. When he came downstairs his wife was already seated at the
breakfast-table. She lifted her usual smile to his entrance and they
took shelter in the nearest topic, like wayfarers overtaken by a storm.
While he listened to her account of the concert he began to think that,
after all, she had not yet sorted the papers, and that her agitation of
the previous day must be ascribed to another cause, in which perhaps he
had but an indirect concern. He wondered it had never before occurred to
him that Flamel was the kind of man who might very well please a woman
at his own expense, without need of fortuitous assistance. If this
possibility cleared the outlook it did not brighten it. Glennard merely
felt himself left alone with his baseness.

Alexa left the breakfast-table before him and when he went up to the
drawing-room he found her dressed to go out.

“Aren’t you a little early for church?” he asked.

She replied that, on the way there, she meant to stop a moment at
her mother’s; and while she drew on her gloves, he fumbled among the
knick-knacks on the mantel-piece for a match to light his cigarette.

“Well, good-by,” she said, turning to go; and from the threshold she
added: “By the way, I’ve sorted the papers you gave me. Those that
I thought you would like to keep are on your study-table.” She went
downstairs and he heard the door close behind her.

She had sorted the papers--she knew, then--she MUST know--and she had
made no sign!

Glennard, he hardly knew how, found himself once more in the study. On
the table lay the packet he had given her. It was much smaller--she had
evidently gone over the papers with care, destroying the greater number.
He loosened the elastic band and spread the remaining envelopes on his
desk. The publisher’s notice was among them.




X


His wife knew and she made no sign. Glennard found himself in the case
of the seafarer who, closing his eyes at nightfall on a scene he thinks
to put leagues behind him before day, wakes to a port-hole framing the
same patch of shore. From the kind of exaltation to which his resolve
had lifted him he dropped to an unreasoning apathy. His impulse of
confession had acted as a drug to self-reproach. He had tried to shift
a portion of his burden to his wife’s shoulders and now that she had
tacitly refused to carry it, he felt the load too heavy to be taken up
again.

A fortunate interval of hard work brought respite from this phase of
sterile misery. He went West to argue an important case, won it, and
came back to fresh preoccupations. His own affairs were thriving enough
to engross him in the pauses of his professional work, and for over
two months he had little time to look himself in the face. Not
unnaturally--for he was as yet unskilled in the subtleties of
introspection--he mistook his temporary insensibility for a gradual
revival of moral health.

He told himself that he was recovering his sense of proportion, getting
to see things in their true light; and if he now thought of his rash
appeal to his wife’s sympathy it was as an act of folly from the
consequences of which he had been saved by the providence that watches
over madmen. He had little leisure to observe Alexa; but he concluded
that the common-sense momentarily denied him had counselled her
uncritical acceptance of the inevitable. If such a quality was a
poor substitute for the passionate justness that had once seemed to
characterize her, he accepted the alternative as a part of that general
lowering of the key that seems needful to the maintenance of the
matrimonial duet. What woman ever retained her abstract sense of justice
where another woman was concerned? Possibly the thought that he had
profited by Mrs. Aubyn’s tenderness was not wholly disagreeable to his
wife.

When the pressure of work began to lessen, and he found himself, in the
lengthening afternoons, able to reach home somewhat earlier, he noticed
that the little drawing-room was always full and that he and his wife
seldom had an evening alone together. When he was tired, as often
happened, she went out alone; the idea of giving up an engagement to
remain with him seemed not to occur to her. She had shown, as a girl,
little fondness for society, nor had she seemed to regret it during the
year they had spent in the country. He reflected, however, that he was
sharing the common lot of husbands, who proverbially mistake the early
ardors of housekeeping for a sign of settled domesticity. Alexa, at any
rate, was refuting his theory as inconsiderately as a seedling defeats
the gardener’s expectations. An undefinable change had come over her. In
one sense it was a happy one, since she had grown, if not handsomer,
at least more vivid and expressive; her beauty had become more
communicable: it was as though she had learned the conscious exercise of
intuitive attributes and now used her effects with the discrimination of
an artist skilled in values. To a dispassionate critic (as Glennard now
rated himself) the art may at times have been a little too obvious. Her
attempts at lightness lacked spontaneity, and she sometimes rasped
him by laughing like Julia Armiger; but he had enough imagination
to perceive that, in respect of the wife’s social arts, a husband
necessarily sees the wrong side of the tapestry.

In this ironical estimate of their relation Glennard found himself
strangely relieved of all concern as to his wife’s feelings for Flamel.
From an Olympian pinnacle of indifference he calmly surveyed their
inoffensive antics. It was surprising how his cheapening of his wife put
him at ease with himself. Far as he and she were from each other they
yet had, in a sense, the tacit nearness of complicity. Yes, they were
accomplices; he could no more be jealous of her than she could despise
him. The jealousy that would once have seemed a blur on her whiteness
now appeared like a tribute to ideals in which he no longer believed....


Glennard was little given to exploring the outskirts of literature. He
always skipped the “literary notices” in the papers and he had small
leisure for the intermittent pleasures of the periodical. He had
therefore no notion of the prolonged reverberations which the “Aubyn
Letters” had awakened in the precincts of criticism. When the book
ceased to be talked about he supposed it had ceased to be read; and this
apparent subsidence of the agitation about it brought the reassuring
sense that he had exaggerated its vitality. The conviction, if it did
not ease his conscience, at least offered him the relative relief of
obscurity: he felt like an offender taken down from the pillory and
thrust into the soothing darkness of a cell.

But one evening, when Alexa had left him to go to a dance, he chanced to
turn over the magazines on her table, and the copy of the Horoscope, to
which he settled down with his cigar, confronted him, on its first
page, with a portrait of Margaret Aubyn. It was a reproduction of the
photograph that had stood so long on his desk. The desiccating air of
memory had turned her into the mere abstraction of a woman, and this
unexpected evocation seemed to bring her nearer than she had ever been
in life. Was it because he understood her better? He looked long into
her eyes; little personal traits reached out to him like caresses--the
tired droop of her lids, her quick way of leaning forward as she spoke,
the movements of her long expressive hands. All that was feminine
in her, the quality he had always missed, stole toward him from her
unreproachful gaze; and now that it was too late life had developed
in him the subtler perceptions which could detect it in even this poor
semblance of herself. For a moment he found consolation in the thought
that, at any cost, they had thus been brought together; then a flood of
shame rushed over him. Face to face with her, he felt himself laid bare
to the inmost fold of consciousness. The shame was deep, but it was a
renovating anguish; he was like a man whom intolerable pain has roused
from the creeping lethargy of death....

He rose next morning to as fresh a sense of life as though his hour of
mute communion with Margaret Aubyn had been a more exquisite renewal
of their earlier meetings. His waking thought was that he must see her
again; and as consciousness affirmed itself he felt an intense fear of
losing the sense of her nearness. But she was still close to him; her
presence remained the sole reality in a world of shadows. All through
his working hours he was re-living with incredible minuteness every
incident of their obliterated past; as a man who has mastered the spirit
of a foreign tongue turns with renewed wonder to the pages his youth has
plodded over. In this lucidity of retrospection the most trivial detail
had its significance, and the rapture of recovery was embittered to
Glennard by the perception of all that he had missed. He had been
pitiably, grotesquely stupid; and there was irony in the thought that,
but for the crisis through which he was passing, he might have lived on
in complacent ignorance of his loss. It was as though she had bought him
with her blood....

That evening he and Alexa dined alone. After dinner he followed her to
the drawing-room. He no longer felt the need of avoiding her; he was
hardly conscious of her presence. After a few words they lapsed into
silence and he sat smoking with his eyes on the fire. It was not that he
was unwilling to talk to her; he felt a curious desire to be as kind
as possible; but he was always forgetting that she was there. Her full
bright presence, through which the currents of life flowed so warmly,
had grown as tenuous as a shadow, and he saw so far beyond her--

Presently she rose and began to move about the room. She seemed to be
looking for something and he roused himself to ask what she wanted.

“Only the last number of the Horoscope. I thought I’d left it on this
table.” He said nothing, and she went on: “You haven’t seen it?”

“No,” he returned coldly. The magazine was locked in his desk.

His wife had moved to the mantel-piece. She stood facing him and as he
looked up he met her tentative gaze. “I was reading an article in it--a
review of Mrs. Aubyn’s letters,” she added, slowly, with her deep,
deliberate blush.

Glennard stooped to toss his cigar into the fire. He felt a savage wish
that she would not speak the other woman’s name; nothing else seemed to
matter. “You seem to do a lot of reading,” he said.

She still earnestly confronted him. “I was keeping this for you--I
thought it might interest you,” she said, with an air of gentle
insistence.

He stood up and turned away. He was sure she knew that he had taken the
review and he felt that he was beginning to hate her again.

“I haven’t time for such things,” he said, indifferently. As he moved to
the door he heard her take a precipitate step forward; then she paused
and sank without speaking into the chair from which he had risen.




XI


As Glennard, in the raw February sunlight, mounted the road to the
cemetery, he felt the beatitude that comes with an abrupt cessation of
physical pain. He had reached the point where self-analysis ceases;
the impulse that moved him was purely intuitive. He did not even seek
a reason for it, beyond the obvious one that his desire to stand by
Margaret Aubyn’s grave was prompted by no attempt at a sentimental
reparation, but rather by the vague need to affirm in some way the
reality of the tie between them.

The ironical promiscuity of death had brought Mrs. Aubyn back to
share the narrow hospitality of her husband’s last lodging; but though
Glennard knew she had been buried near New York he had never visited
her grave. He was oppressed, as he now threaded the long avenues, by a
chilling vision of her return. There was no family to follow her hearse;
she had died alone, as she had lived; and the “distinguished mourners”
 who had formed the escort of the famous writer knew nothing of the woman
they were committing to the grave. Glennard could not even remember at
what season she had been buried; but his mood indulged the fancy that it
must have been on some such day of harsh sunlight, the incisive February
brightness that gives perspicuity without warmth. The white avenues
stretched before him interminably, lined with stereotyped emblems of
affliction, as though all the platitudes ever uttered had been turned to
marble and set up over the unresisting dead. Here and there, no doubt, a
frigid urn or an insipid angel imprisoned some fine-fibred grief, as the
most hackneyed words may become the vehicle of rare meanings; but for
the most part the endless alignment of monuments seemed to embody those
easy generalizations about death that do not disturb the repose of the
living. Glennard’s eye, as he followed the way indicated to him, had
instinctively sought some low mound with a quiet headstone. He had
forgotten that the dead seldom plan their own houses, and with a pang he
discovered the name he sought on the cyclopean base of a granite shaft
rearing its aggressive height at the angle of two avenues.

“How she would have hated it!” he murmured.

A bench stood near and he seated himself. The monument rose before him
like some pretentious uninhabited dwelling; he could not believe that
Margaret Aubyn lay there. It was a Sunday morning and black figures
moved among the paths, placing flowers on the frost-bound hillocks.
Glennard noticed that the neighboring graves had been thus newly
dressed; and he fancied a blind stir of expectancy through the sod, as
though the bare mounds spread a parched surface to that commemorative
rain. He rose presently and walked back to the entrance of the cemetery.
Several greenhouses stood near the gates, and turning in at the first he
asked for some flowers.

“Anything in the emblematic line?” asked the anaemic man behind the
dripping counter.

Glennard shook his head.

“Just cut flowers? This way, then.” The florist unlocked a glass door
and led him down a moist green aisle. The hot air was choked with the
scent of white azaleas, white lilies, white lilacs; all the flowers were
white; they were like a prolongation, a mystical efflorescence, of the
long rows of marble tombstones, and their perfume seemed to cover an
odor of decay. The rich atmosphere made Glennard dizzy. As he leaned
in the doorpost, waiting for the flowers, he had a penetrating sense of
Margaret Aubyn’s nearness--not the imponderable presence of his inner
vision, but a life that beat warm in his arms....

The sharp air caught him as he stepped out into it again. He walked back
and scattered the flowers over the grave. The edges of the white petals
shrivelled like burnt paper in the cold; and as he watched them the
illusion of her nearness faded, shrank back frozen.




XII


The motive of his visit to the cemetery remained undefined save as a
final effort of escape from his wife’s inexpressive acceptance of his
shame. It seemed to him that as long as he could keep himself alive to
that shame he would not wholly have succumbed to its consequences. His
chief fear was that he should become the creature of his act. His wife’s
indifference degraded him; it seemed to put him on a level with his
dishonor. Margaret Aubyn would have abhorred the deed in proportion to
her pity for the man. The sense of her potential pity drew him back to
her. The one woman knew but did not understand; the other, it sometimes
seemed, understood without knowing.

In its last disguise of retrospective remorse, his self-pity affected a
desire for solitude and meditation. He lost himself in morbid musings,
in futile visions of what life with Margaret Aubyn might have been.
There were moments when, in the strange dislocation of his view, the
wrong he had done her seemed a tie between them.

To indulge these emotions he fell into the habit, on Sunday afternoons,
of solitary walks prolonged till after dusk. The days were lengthening,
there was a touch of spring in the air, and his wanderings now usually
led him to the Park and its outlying regions.

One Sunday, tired of aimless locomotion, he took a cab at the Park gates
and let it carry him out to the Riverside Drive. It was a gray afternoon
streaked with east wind. Glennard’s cab advanced slowly, and as he
leaned back, gazing with absent intentness at the deserted paths that
wound under bare boughs between grass banks of premature vividness, his
attention was arrested by two figures walking ahead of him. This couple,
who had the path to themselves, moved at an uneven pace, as though
adapting their gait to a conversation marked by meditative intervals.
Now and then they paused, and in one of these pauses the lady, turning
toward her companion, showed Glennard the outline of his wife’s profile.
The man was Flamel.

The blood rushed to Glennard’s forehead. He sat up with a jerk and
pushed back the lid in the roof of the hansom; but when the cabman bent
down he dropped into his seat without speaking. Then, becoming
conscious of the prolonged interrogation of the lifted lid, he called
out--“Turn--drive back--anywhere--I’m in a hurry--”

As the cab swung round he caught a last glimpse of the two figures. They
had not moved; Alexa, with bent head, stood listening.

“My God, my God--” he groaned.

It was hideous--it was abominable--he could not understand it. The woman
was nothing to him--less than nothing--yet the blood hummed in his ears
and hung a cloud before him. He knew it was only the stirring of the
primal instinct, that it had no more to do with his reasoning self
than any reflex impulse of the body; but that merely lowered anguish
to disgust. Yes, it was disgust he felt--almost a physical nausea. The
poisonous fumes of life were in his lungs. He was sick, unutterably
sick....

He drove home and went to his room. They were giving a little dinner
that night, and when he came down the guests were arriving. He looked at
his wife: her beauty was extraordinary, but it seemed to him the beauty
of a smooth sea along an unlit coast. She frightened him.

He sat late that night in his study. He heard the parlor-maid lock the
front door; then his wife went upstairs and the lights were put out.
His brain was like some great empty hall with an echo in it; one thought
reverberated endlessly.... At length he drew his chair to the table and
began to write. He addressed an envelope and then slowly re-read what he
had written.


“MY DEAR FLAMEL,”

“Many apologies for not sending you sooner the enclosed check, which
represents the customary percentage on the sale of the Letters.”

“Trusting you will excuse the oversight,

“Yours truly,

“STEPHEN GLENNARD.”


He let himself out of the darkened house and dropped the letter in the
post-box at the corner.


The next afternoon he was detained late at his office, and as he was
preparing to leave he heard someone asking for him in the outer room. He
seated himself again and Flamel was shown in.

The two men, as Glennard pushed aside an obstructive chair, had a
moment to measure each other; then Flamel advanced, and drawing out his
note-case, laid a slip of paper on the desk.

“My dear fellow, what on earth does this mean?” Glennard recognized his
check.

“That I was remiss, simply. It ought to have gone to you before.”

Flamel’s tone had been that of unaffected surprise, but at this his
accent changed and he asked, quickly: “On what ground?”

Glennard had moved away from the desk and stood leaning against the
calf-backed volumes of the bookcase. “On the ground that you sold Mrs.
Aubyn’s letters for me, and that I find the intermediary in such cases
is entitled to a percentage on the sale.”

Flamel paused before answering. “You find, you say. It’s a recent
discovery?”

“Obviously, from my not sending the check sooner. You see I’m new to the
business.”

“And since when have you discovered that there was any question of
business, as far as I was concerned?”

Glennard flushed and his voice rose slightly. “Are you reproaching me
for not having remembered it sooner?”

Flamel, who had spoken in the rapid repressed tone of a man on the
verge of anger, stared a moment at this and then, in his natural voice,
rejoined, good-humoredly, “Upon my soul, I don’t understand you!”

The change of key seemed to disconcert Glennard. “It’s simple enough--”
 he muttered.

“Simple enough--your offering me money in return for a friendly service?
I don’t know what your other friends expect!”

“Some of my friends wouldn’t have undertaken the job. Those who would
have done so would probably have expected to be paid.”

He lifted his eyes to Flamel and the two men looked at each other.
Flamel had turned white and his lips stirred, but he held his temperate
note. “If you mean to imply that the job was not a nice one, you lay
yourself open to the retort that you proposed it. But for my part
I’ve never seen, I never shall see, any reason for not publishing the
letters.”

“That’s just it!”

“What--?”

“The certainty of your not seeing was what made me go to you. When
a man’s got stolen goods to pawn he doesn’t take them to the
police-station.”

“Stolen?” Flamel echoed. “The letters were stolen?”

Glennard burst into a coarse laugh. “How much longer do you expect me to
keep up that pretence about the letters? You knew well enough they were
written to me.”

Flamel looked at him in silence. “Were they?” he said at length. “I
didn’t know it.”

“And didn’t suspect it, I suppose,” Glennard sneered.

The other was again silent; then he said, “I may remind you that,
supposing I had felt any curiosity about the matter, I had no way of
finding out that the letters were written to you. You never showed me
the originals.”

“What does that prove? There were fifty ways of finding out. It’s the
kind of thing one can easily do.”

Flamel glanced at him with contempt. “Our ideas probably differ as to
what a man can easily do. It would not have been easy for me.”

Glennard’s anger vented itself in the words uppermost in his thought.
“It may, then, interest you to hear that my wife DOES know about the
letters--has known for some months....”

“Ah,” said the other, slowly. Glennard saw that, in his blind clutch at
a weapon, he had seized the one most apt to wound. Flamel’s muscles were
under control, but his face showed the undefinable change produced
by the slow infiltration of poison. Every implication that the words
contained had reached its mark; but Glennard felt that their obvious
intention was lost in the anguish of what they suggested. He was sure
now that Flamel would never have betrayed him; but the inference only
made a wider outlet for his anger. He paused breathlessly for Flamel to
speak.

“If she knows, it’s not through me.” It was what Glennard had waited
for.

“Through you, by God? Who said it was through you? Do you suppose I
leave it to you, or to anybody else, for that matter, to keep my wife
informed of my actions? I didn’t suppose even such egregious conceit as
yours could delude a man to that degree!” Struggling for a foothold in
the small landslide of his dignity, he added, in a steadier tone, “My
wife learned the facts from me.”

Flamel received this in silence. The other’s outbreak seemed to
have reinforced his self-control, and when he spoke it was with a
deliberation implying that his course was chosen. “In that case I
understand still less--”

“Still less--?”

“The meaning of this.” He pointed to the check. “When you began to speak
I supposed you had meant it as a bribe; now I can only infer it was
intended as a random insult. In either case, here’s my answer.”

He tore the slip of paper in two and tossed the fragments across the
desk to Glennard. Then he turned and walked out of the office.

Glennard dropped his head on his hands. If he had hoped to restore his
self-respect by the simple expedient of assailing Flamel’s, the result
had not justified his expectation. The blow he had struck had blunted
the edge of his anger, and the unforeseen extent of the hurt inflicted
did not alter the fact that his weapon had broken in his hands. He
saw now that his rage against Flamel was only the last projection of a
passionate self-disgust. This consciousness did not dull his dislike of
the man; it simply made reprisals ineffectual. Flamel’s unwillingness to
quarrel with him was the last stage of his abasement.

In the light of this final humiliation his assumption of his wife’s
indifference struck him as hardly so fatuous as the sentimental
resuscitation of his past. He had been living in a factitious world
wherein his emotions were the sycophants of his vanity, and it was with
instinctive relief that he felt its ruins crash about his head.

It was nearly dark when he left his office, and he walked slowly
homeward in the complete mental abeyance that follows on such a crisis.
He was not aware that he was thinking of his wife; yet when he reached
his own door he found that, in the involuntary readjustment of his
vision, she had once more become the central point of consciousness.




XIII


It had never before occurred to him that she might, after all, have
missed the purport of the document he had put in her way. What if, in
her hurried inspection of the papers, she had passed it over as related
to the private business of some client? What, for instance, was to
prevent her concluding that Glennard was the counsel of the unknown
person who had sold the “Aubyn Letters.” The subject was one not likely
to fix her attention--she was not a curious woman.

Glennard at this point laid down his fork and glanced at her between the
candle-shades. The alternative explanation of her indifference was not
slow in presenting itself. Her head had the same listening droop as
when he had caught sight of her the day before in Flamel’s company; the
attitude revived the vividness of his impression. It was simple enough,
after all. She had ceased to care for him because she cared for someone
else.

As he followed her upstairs he felt a sudden stirring of his dormant
anger. His sentiments had lost all their factitious complexity. He had
already acquitted her of any connivance in his baseness, and he felt
only that he loved her and that she had escaped him. This was now,
strangely enough, his dominating thought: the consciousness that he and
she had passed through the fusion of love and had emerged from it as
incommunicably apart as though the transmutation had never taken place.
Every other passion, he mused, left some mark upon the nature; but love
passed like the flight of a ship across the waters.

She sank into her usual seat near the lamp, and he leaned against the
chimney, moving about with an inattentive hand the knick-knacks on the
mantel.

Suddenly he caught sight of her reflection in the mirror. She was
looking at him. He turned and their eyes met.

He moved across the room and stood before her.

“There’s something that I want to say to you,” he began in a low tone.

She held his gaze, but her color deepened. He noticed again, with a
jealous pang, how her beauty had gained in warmth and meaning. It was
as though a transparent cup had been filled with wine. He looked at her
ironically.

“I’ve never prevented your seeing your friends here,” he broke out. “Why
do you meet Flamel in out-of-the-way places? Nothing makes a woman so
cheap--”

She rose abruptly and they faced each other a few feet apart.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“I saw you with him last Sunday on the Riverside Drive,” he went on, the
utterance of the charge reviving his anger.

“Ah,” she murmured. She sank into her chair again and began to play with
a paper-knife that lay on the table at her elbow.

Her silence exasperated him.

“Well?” he burst out. “Is that all you have to say?”

“Do you wish me to explain?” she asked, proudly.

“Do you imply I haven’t the right to?”

“I imply nothing. I will tell you whatever you wish to know. I went for
a walk with Mr. Flamel because he asked me to.”

“I didn’t suppose you went uninvited. But there are certain things a
sensible woman doesn’t do. She doesn’t slink about in out-of-the-way
streets with men. Why couldn’t you have seen him here?”

She hesitated. “Because he wanted to see me alone.”

“Did he, indeed? And may I ask if you gratify all his wishes with equal
alacrity?”

“I don’t know that he has any others where I am concerned.” She
paused again and then continued, in a lower voice that somehow had an
under-note of warning. “He wished to bid me good-by. He’s going away.”

Glennard turned on her a startled glance. “Going away?”

“He’s going to Europe to-morrow. He goes for a long time. I supposed you
knew.”

The last phrase revived his irritation. “You forget that I depend on you
for my information about Flamel. He’s your friend and not mine. In fact,
I’ve sometimes wondered at your going out of your way to be so civil to
him when you must see plainly enough that I don’t like him.”

Her answer to this was not immediate. She seemed to be choosing her
words with care, not so much for her own sake as for his, and his
exasperation was increased by the suspicion that she was trying to spare
him.

“He was your friend before he was mine. I never knew him till I was
married. It was you who brought him to the house and who seemed to wish
me to like him.”

Glennard gave a short laugh. The defence was feebler than he had
expected: she was certainly not a clever woman.

“Your deference to my wishes is really beautiful; but it’s not the first
time in history that a man has made a mistake in introducing his
friends to his wife. You must, at any rate, have seen since then that
my enthusiasm had cooled; but so, perhaps, has your eagerness to oblige
me.”

She met this with a silence that seemed to rob the taunt of half its
efficacy.

“Is that what you imply?” he pressed her.

“No,” she answered with sudden directness. “I noticed some time ago that
you seemed to dislike him, but since then--”

“Well--since then?”

“I’ve imagined that you had reasons for still wishing me to be civil to
him, as you call it.”

“Ah,” said Glennard, with an effort at lightness; but his irony dropped,
for something in her voice made him feel that he and she stood at last
in that naked desert of apprehension where meaning skulks vainly behind
speech.

“And why did you imagine this?” The blood mounted to his forehead.
“Because he told you that I was under obligations to him?”

She turned pale. “Under obligations?”

“Oh, don’t let’s beat about the bush. Didn’t he tell you it was I who
published Mrs. Aubyn’s letters? Answer me that.”

“No,” she said; and after a moment which seemed given to the weighing of
alternatives, she added: “No one told me.”

“You didn’t know then?”

She seemed to speak with an effort. “Not until--not until--”

“Till I gave you those papers to sort?”

Her head sank.

“You understood then?”

“Yes.”

He looked at her immovable face. “Had you suspected--before?” was slowly
wrung from him.

“At times--yes--” Her voice dropped to a whisper.

“Why? From anything that was said--?”

There was a shade of pity in her glance. “No one said anything--no one
told me anything.” She looked away from him. “It was your manner--”

“My manner?”

“Whenever the book was mentioned. Things you said--once or twice--your
irritation--I can’t explain--”

Glennard, unconsciously, had moved nearer. He breathed like a man who
has been running. “You knew, then, you knew”--he stammered. The avowal
of her love for Flamel would have hurt him less, would have rendered
her less remote. “You knew--you knew--” he repeated; and suddenly his
anguish gathered voice. “My God!” he cried, “you suspected it first, you
say--and then you knew it--this damnable, this accursed thing; you knew
it months ago--it’s months since I put that paper in your way--and yet
you’ve done nothing, you’ve said nothing, you’ve made no sign, you’ve
lived alongside of me as if it had made no difference--no difference in
either of our lives. What are you made of, I wonder? Don’t you see the
hideous ignominy of it? Don’t you see how you’ve shared in my disgrace?
Or haven’t you any sense of shame?”

He preserved sufficient lucidity, as the words poured from him, to see
how fatally they invited her derision; but something told him they had
both passed beyond the phase of obvious retaliations, and that if any
chord in her responded it would not be that of scorn.

He was right. She rose slowly and moved toward him.

“Haven’t you had enough--without that?” she said, in a strange voice of
pity.

He stared at her. “Enough--?”

“Of misery....”

An iron band seemed loosened from his temples. “You saw then...?” he
whispered.

“Oh, God----oh, God----” she sobbed. She dropped beside him and hid
her anguish against his knees. They clung thus in silence, a long time,
driven together down the same fierce blast of shame.

When at length she lifted her face he averted his. Her scorn would have
hurt him less than the tears on his hands.

She spoke languidly, like a child emerging from a passion of weeping.
“It was for the money--?”

His lips shaped an assent.

“That was the inheritance--that we married on?”

“Yes.”

She drew back and rose to her feet. He sat watching her as she wandered
away from him.

“You hate me,” broke from him.

She made no answer.

“Say you hate me!” he persisted.

“That would have been so simple,” she answered with a strange smile. She
dropped into a chair near the writing-table and rested a bowed forehead
on her hand.

“Was it much--?” she began at length.

“Much--?” he returned, vaguely.

“The money.”

“The money?” That part of it seemed to count so little that for a moment
he did not follow her thought.

“It must be paid back,” she insisted. “Can you do it?”

“Oh, yes,” he returned, listlessly. “I can do it.”

“I would make any sacrifice for that!” she urged.

He nodded. “Of course.” He sat staring at her in dry-eyed self-contempt.
“Do you count on its making much difference?”

“Much difference?”

“In the way I feel--or you feel about me?”

She shook her head.

“It’s the least part of it,” he groaned.

“It’s the only part we can repair.”

“Good heavens! If there were any reparation--” He rose quickly and
crossed the space that divided them. “Why did you never speak?” he
asked.

“Haven’t you answered that yourself?”

“Answered it?”

“Just now--when you told me you did it for me.” She paused a moment and
then went on with a deepening note--“I would have spoken if I could have
helped you.”

“But you must have despised me.”

“I’ve told you that would have been simpler.”

“But how could you go on like this--hating the money?”

“I knew you would speak in time. I wanted you, first, to hate it as I
did.”

He gazed at her with a kind of awe. “You’re wonderful,” he murmured.
“But you don’t yet know the depths I’ve reached.”

She raised an entreating hand. “I don’t want to!”

“You’re afraid, then, that you’ll hate me?”

“No--but that you’ll hate ME. Let me understand without your telling
me.”

“You can’t. It’s too base. I thought you didn’t care because you loved
Flamel.”

She blushed deeply. “Don’t--don’t--” she warned him.

“I haven’t the right to, you mean?”

“I mean that you’ll be sorry.”

He stood imploringly before her. “I want to say something
worse--something more outrageous. If you don’t understand THIS you’ll be
perfectly justified in ordering me out of the house.”

She answered him with a glance of divination. “I shall understand--but
you’ll be sorry.”

“I must take my chance of that.” He moved away and tossed the books
about the table. Then he swung round and faced her. “Does Flamel care
for you?” he asked.

Her flush deepened, but she still looked at him without anger. “What
would be the use?” she said with a note of sadness.

“Ah, I didn’t ask THAT,” he penitently murmured.

“Well, then--”

To this adjuration he made no response beyond that of gazing at her
with an eye which seemed now to view her as a mere factor in an immense
redistribution of meanings.

“I insulted Flamel to-day. I let him see that I suspected him of having
told you. I hated him because he knew about the letters.”

He caught the spreading horror of her eyes, and for an instant he had
to grapple with the new temptation they lit up. Then he said, with an
effort--“Don’t blame him--he’s impeccable. He helped me to get them
published; but I lied to him too; I pretended they were written to
another man... a man who was dead....”

She raised her arms in a gesture that seemed to ward off his blows.

“You DO despise me!” he insisted.

“Ah, that poor woman--that poor woman--” he heard her murmur.

“I spare no one, you see!” he triumphed over her. She kept her face
hidden.

“You do hate me, you do despise me!” he strangely exulted.

“Be silent!” she commanded him; but he seemed no longer conscious of any
check on his gathering purpose.

“He cared for you--he cared for you,” he repeated, “and he never told
you of the letters--”

She sprang to her feet. “How can you?” she flamed. “How dare you?
THAT--!”

Glennard was ashy pale. “It’s a weapon... like another....”

“A scoundrel’s!”

He smiled wretchedly. “I should have used it in his place.”

“Stephen! Stephen!” she cried, as though to drown the blasphemy on his
lips. She swept to him with a rescuing gesture. “Don’t say such things.
I forbid you! It degrades us both.”

He put her back with trembling hands. “Nothing that I say of myself can
degrade you. We’re on different levels.”

“I’m on yours, whatever it is!”

He lifted his head and their gaze flowed together.




XIV


The great renewals take effect as imperceptibly as the first workings of
spring. Glennard, though he felt himself brought nearer to his wife,
was still, as it were, hardly within speaking distance. He was
but laboriously acquiring the rudiments of their new medium of
communication; and he had to grope for her through the dense fog of his
humiliation, the distorting vapor against which his personality loomed
grotesque and mean.

Only the fact that we are unaware how well our nearest know us
enables us to live with them. Love is the most impregnable refuge of
self-esteem, and we hate the eye that reaches to our nakedness. If
Glennard did not hate his wife it was slowly, sufferingly, that there
was born in him that profounder passion which made his earlier feeling
seem a mere commotion of the blood. He was like a child coming back to
the sense of an enveloping presence: her nearness was a breast on which
he leaned.

They did not, at first, talk much together, and each beat a devious
track about the outskirts of the subject that lay between them like a
haunted wood. But every word, every action, seemed to glance at it,
to draw toward it, as though a fount of healing sprang in its poisoned
shade. If only they might cut away through the thicket to that restoring
spring!

Glennard, watching his wife with the intentness of a wanderer to whom no
natural sign is negligible, saw that she had taken temporary refuge in
the purpose of renouncing the money. If both, theoretically, owned the
inefficacy of such amends, the woman’s instinctive subjectiveness made
her find relief in this crude form of penance. Glennard saw that she
meant to live as frugally as possible till what she deemed their debt
was discharged; and he prayed she might not discover how far-reaching,
in its merely material sense, was the obligation she thus hoped to
acquit. Her mind was fixed on the sum originally paid for the letters,
and this he knew he could lay aside in a year or two. He was touched,
meanwhile, by the spirit that made her discard the petty luxuries which
she regarded as the signs of their bondage. Their shared renunciations
drew her nearer to him, helped, in their evidence of her helplessness,
to restore the full protecting stature of his love. And still they did
not speak.

It was several weeks later that, one afternoon by the drawing-room fire,
she handed him a letter that she had been reading when he entered.

“I’ve heard from Mr. Flamel,” she said.

Glennard turned pale. It was as though a latent presence had suddenly
become visible to both. He took the letter mechanically.

“It’s from Smyrna,” she said. “Won’t you read it?”

He handed it back. “You can tell me about it--his hand’s so illegible.”
 He wandered to the other end of the room and then turned and stood
before her. “I’ve been thinking of writing to Flamel,” he said.

She looked up.

“There’s one point,” he continued, slowly, “that I ought to clear up.
I told him you’d known about the letters all along; for a long time, at
least; and I saw it hurt him horribly. It was just what I meant to do,
of course; but I can’t leave him to that false impression; I must write
him.”

She received this without outward movement, but he saw that the depths
were stirred. At length she returned, in a hesitating tone, “Why do you
call it a false impression? I did know.”

“Yes, but I implied you didn’t care.”

“Ah!”

He still stood looking down on her. “Don’t you want me to set that
right?” he tentatively pursued.

She lifted her head and fixed him bravely. “It isn’t necessary,” she
said.

Glennard flushed with the shock of the retort; then, with a gesture
of comprehension, “No,” he said, “with you it couldn’t be; but I might
still set myself right.”

She looked at him gently. “Don’t I,” she murmured, “do that?”

“In being yourself merely? Alas, the rehabilitation’s too complete!
You make me seem--to myself even--what I’m not; what I can never be.
I can’t, at times, defend myself from the delusion; but I can at least
enlighten others.”

The flood was loosened, and kneeling by her he caught her hands. “Don’t
you see that it’s become an obsession with me? That if I could strip
myself down to the last lie--only there’d always be another one left
under it!--and do penance naked in the market-place, I should at least
have the relief of easing one anguish by another? Don’t you see that the
worst of my torture is the impossibility of such amends?”

Her hands lay in his without returning pressure. “Ah, poor woman, poor
woman,” he heard her sigh.

“Don’t pity her, pity me! What have I done to her or to you, after all?
You’re both inaccessible! It was myself I sold.”

He took an abrupt turn away from her; then halted before her again. “How
much longer,” he burst out, “do you suppose you can stand it? You’ve
been magnificent, you’ve been inspired, but what’s the use? You can’t
wipe out the ignominy of it. It’s miserable for you and it does HER no
good!”

She lifted a vivid face. “That’s the thought I can’t bear!” she cried.

“What thought?”

“That it does her no good--all you’re feeling, all you’re suffering. Can
it be that it makes no difference?”

He avoided her challenging glance. “What’s done is done,” he muttered.

“Is it ever, quite, I wonder?” she mused. He made no answer and they
lapsed into one of the pauses that are a subterranean channel of
communication.

It was she who, after awhile, began to speak with a new suffusing
diffidence that made him turn a roused eye on her.

“Don’t they say,” she asked, feeling her way as in a kind of tender
apprehensiveness, “that the early Christians, instead of pulling down
the heathen temples--the temples of the unclean gods--purified them by
turning them to their own uses? I’ve always thought one might do that
with one’s actions--the actions one loathes but can’t undo. One can
make, I mean, a wrong the door to other wrongs or an impassable wall
against them....” Her voice wavered on the word. “We can’t always tear
down the temples we’ve built to the unclean gods, but we can put
good spirits in the house of evil--the spirits of mercy and shame and
understanding, that might never have come to us if we hadn’t been in
such great need....”

She moved over to him and laid a hesitating hand on his. His head was
bent and he did not change his attitude. She sat down beside him without
speaking; but their silences now were fertile as rain-clouds--they
quickened the seeds of understanding.

At length he looked up. “I don’t know,” he said, “what spirits have come
to live in the house of evil that I built--but you’re there and that’s
enough for me. It’s strange,” he went on after another pause, “she
wished the best for me so often, and now, at last, it’s through her that
it’s come to me. But for her I shouldn’t have known you--it’s through
her that I’ve found you. Sometimes, do you know?--that makes it
hardest--makes me most intolerable to myself. Can’t you see that it’s
the worst thing I’ve got to face? I sometimes think I could have
borne it better if you hadn’t understood! I took everything from
her--everything--even to the poor shelter of loyalty she’d trusted
in--the only thing I could have left her!--I took everything from her,
I deceived her, I despoiled her, I destroyed her--and she’s given me YOU
in return!”

His wife’s cry caught him up. “It isn’t that she’s given ME to you--it
is that she’s given you to yourself.” She leaned to him as though swept
forward on a wave of pity. “Don’t you see,” she went on, as his eyes
hung on her, “that that’s the gift you can’t escape from, the debt
you’re pledged to acquit? Don’t you see that you’ve never before been
what she thought you, and that now, so wonderfully, she’s made you into
the man she loved? THAT’S worth suffering for, worth dying for, to a
woman--that’s the gift she would have wished to give!”

“Ah,” he cried, “but woe to him by whom it cometh. What did I ever give
her?”

“The happiness of giving,” she said.



THE REEF

by Edith Wharton





BOOK I




I


“Unexpected obstacle. Please don’t come till thirtieth. Anna.”

All the way from Charing Cross to Dover the train had hammered the words
of the telegram into George Darrow’s ears, ringing every change of irony
on its commonplace syllables: rattling them out like a discharge of
musketry, letting them, one by one, drip slowly and coldly into his
brain, or shaking, tossing, transposing them like the dice in some game
of the gods of malice; and now, as he emerged from his compartment at
the pier, and stood facing the wind-swept platform and the angry sea
beyond, they leapt out at him as if from the crest of the waves, stung
and blinded him with a fresh fury of derision.

“Unexpected obstacle. Please don’t come till thirtieth. Anna.”

She had put him off at the very last moment, and for the second time:
put him off with all her sweet reasonableness, and for one of her usual
“good” reasons--he was certain that this reason, like the other, (the
visit of her husband’s uncle’s widow) would be “good”! But it was that
very certainty which chilled him. The fact of her dealing so reasonably
with their case shed an ironic light on the idea that there had been any
exceptional warmth in the greeting she had given him after their twelve
years apart.

They had found each other again, in London, some three months
previously, at a dinner at the American Embassy, and when she had caught
sight of him her smile had been like a red rose pinned on her widow’s
mourning. He still felt the throb of surprise with which, among
the stereotyped faces of the season’s diners, he had come upon her
unexpected face, with the dark hair banded above grave eyes; eyes in
which he had recognized every little curve and shadow as he would have
recognized, after half a life-time, the details of a room he had played
in as a child. And as, in the plumed starred crowd, she had stood out
for him, slender, secluded and different, so he had felt, the instant
their glances met, that he as sharply detached himself for her. All that
and more her smile had said; had said not merely “I remember,” but “I
remember just what you remember”; almost, indeed, as though her memory
had aided his, her glance flung back on their recaptured moment its
morning brightness. Certainly, when their distracted Ambassadress--with
the cry: “Oh, you know Mrs. Leath? That’s perfect, for General Farnham
has failed me”--had waved them together for the march to the dining-room,
Darrow had felt a slight pressure of the arm on his, a pressure faintly
but unmistakably emphasizing the exclamation: “Isn’t it wonderful?--In
London--in the season--in a mob?”

Little enough, on the part of most women; but it was a sign of Mrs.
Leath’s quality that every movement, every syllable, told with her. Even
in the old days, as an intent grave-eyed girl, she had seldom misplaced
her light strokes; and Darrow, on meeting her again, had immediately
felt how much finer and surer an instrument of expression she had
become.

Their evening together had been a long confirmation of this feeling. She
had talked to him, shyly yet frankly, of what had happened to her during
the years when they had so strangely failed to meet. She had told him
of her marriage to Fraser Leath, and of her subsequent life in France,
where her husband’s mother, left a widow in his youth, had been
re-married to the Marquis de Chantelle, and where, partly in consequence
of this second union, the son had permanently settled himself. She had
spoken also, with an intense eagerness of affection, of her little girl
Effie, who was now nine years old, and, in a strain hardly less tender,
of Owen Leath, the charming clever young stepson whom her husband’s
death had left to her care...


A porter, stumbling against Darrow’s bags, roused him to the fact that
he still obstructed the platform, inert and encumbering as his luggage.

“Crossing, sir?”

Was he crossing? He really didn’t know; but for lack of any more
compelling impulse he followed the porter to the luggage van, singled
out his property, and turned to march behind it down the gang-way. As
the fierce wind shouldered him, building up a crystal wall against his
efforts, he felt anew the derision of his case.

“Nasty weather to cross, sir,” the porter threw back at him as they beat
their way down the narrow walk to the pier. Nasty weather, indeed; but
luckily, as it had turned out, there was no earthly reason why Darrow
should cross.

While he pushed on in the wake of his luggage his thoughts slipped back
into the old groove. He had once or twice run across the man whom Anna
Summers had preferred to him, and since he had met her again he had been
exercising his imagination on the picture of what her married life must
have been. Her husband had struck him as a characteristic specimen of
the kind of American as to whom one is not quite clear whether he
lives in Europe in order to cultivate an art, or cultivates an art as a
pretext for living in Europe. Mr. Leath’s art was water-colour painting,
but he practised it furtively, almost clandestinely, with the disdain of
a man of the world for anything bordering on the professional, while
he devoted himself more openly, and with religious seriousness, to the
collection of enamelled snuff-boxes. He was blond and well-dressed, with
the physical distinction that comes from having a straight figure, a
thin nose, and the habit of looking slightly disgusted--as who should
not, in a world where authentic snuff-boxes were growing daily harder to
find, and the market was flooded with flagrant forgeries?

Darrow had often wondered what possibilities of communion there could
have been between Mr. Leath and his wife. Now he concluded that there
had probably been none. Mrs. Leath’s words gave no hint of her husband’s
having failed to justify her choice; but her very reticence betrayed
her. She spoke of him with a kind of impersonal seriousness, as if he
had been a character in a novel or a figure in history; and what she
said sounded as though it had been learned by heart and slightly dulled
by repetition. This fact immensely increased Darrow’s impression that
his meeting with her had annihilated the intervening years. She, who was
always so elusive and inaccessible, had grown suddenly communicative and
kind: had opened the doors of her past, and tacitly left him to draw his
own conclusions. As a result, he had taken leave of her with the
sense that he was a being singled out and privileged, to whom she had
entrusted something precious to keep. It was her happiness in their
meeting that she had given him, had frankly left him to do with as he
willed; and the frankness of the gesture doubled the beauty of the gift.

Their next meeting had prolonged and deepened the impression. They had
found each other again, a few days later, in an old country house full
of books and pictures, in the soft landscape of southern England.
The presence of a large party, with all its aimless and agitated
displacements, had served only to isolate the pair and give them (at
least to the young man’s fancy) a deeper feeling of communion, and their
days there had been like some musical prelude, where the instruments,
breathing low, seem to hold back the waves of sound that press against
them.

Mrs. Leath, on this occasion, was no less kind than before; but she
contrived to make him understand that what was so inevitably coming was
not to come too soon. It was not that she showed any hesitation as to
the issue, but rather that she seemed to wish not to miss any stage in
the gradual reflowering of their intimacy.

Darrow, for his part, was content to wait if she wished it. He
remembered that once, in America, when she was a girl, and he had
gone to stay with her family in the country, she had been out when he
arrived, and her mother had told him to look for her in the garden. She
was not in the garden, but beyond it he had seen her approaching down a
long shady path. Without hastening her step she had smiled and signed to
him to wait; and charmed by the lights and shadows that played upon her
as she moved, and by the pleasure of watching her slow advance toward
him, he had obeyed her and stood still. And so she seemed now to be
walking to him down the years, the light and shade of old memories and
new hopes playing variously on her, and each step giving him the vision
of a different grace. She did not waver or turn aside; he knew she would
come straight to where he stood; but something in her eyes said “Wait”,
and again he obeyed and waited.

On the fourth day an unexpected event threw out his calculations.
Summoned to town by the arrival in England of her husband’s mother, she
left without giving Darrow the chance he had counted on, and he cursed
himself for a dilatory blunderer. Still, his disappointment was tempered
by the certainty of being with her again before she left for France;
and they did in fact see each other in London. There, however, the
atmosphere had changed with the conditions. He could not say that she
avoided him, or even that she was a shade less glad to see him; but
she was beset by family duties and, as he thought, a little too readily
resigned to them.

The Marquise de Chantelle, as Darrow soon perceived, had the same
mild formidableness as the late Mr. Leath: a sort of insistent
self-effacement before which every one about her gave way. It was
perhaps the shadow of this lady’s presence--pervasive even during her
actual brief eclipses--that subdued and silenced Mrs. Leath. The latter
was, moreover, preoccupied about her stepson, who, soon after receiving
his degree at Harvard, had been rescued from a stormy love-affair, and
finally, after some months of troubled drifting, had yielded to his
step-mother’s counsel and gone up to Oxford for a year of supplementary
study. Thither Mrs. Leath went once or twice to visit him, and her
remaining days were packed with family obligations: getting, as she
phrased it, “frocks and governesses” for her little girl, who had
been left in France, and having to devote the remaining hours to long
shopping expeditions with her mother-in-law. Nevertheless, during her
brief escapes from duty, Darrow had had time to feel her safe in the
custody of his devotion, set apart for some inevitable hour; and the
last evening, at the theatre, between the overshadowing Marquise and the
unsuspicious Owen, they had had an almost decisive exchange of words.

Now, in the rattle of the wind about his ears, Darrow continued to
hear the mocking echo of her message: “Unexpected obstacle.” In such an
existence as Mrs. Leath’s, at once so ordered and so exposed, he knew
how small a complication might assume the magnitude of an “obstacle;”
 yet, even allowing as impartially as his state of mind permitted for
the fact that, with her mother-in-law always, and her stepson
intermittently, under her roof, her lot involved a hundred small
accommodations generally foreign to the freedom of widowhood--even so,
he could not but think that the very ingenuity bred of such conditions
might have helped her to find a way out of them. No, her “reason”,
whatever it was, could, in this case, be nothing but a pretext; unless
he leaned to the less flattering alternative that any reason seemed good
enough for postponing him! Certainly, if her welcome had meant what he
imagined, she could not, for the second time within a few weeks,
have submitted so tamely to the disarrangement of their plans; a
disarrangement which--his official duties considered--might, for all she
knew, result in his not being able to go to her for months.

“Please don’t come till thirtieth.” The thirtieth--and it was now the
fifteenth! She flung back the fortnight on his hands as if he had been
an idler indifferent to dates, instead of an active young diplomatist
who, to respond to her call, had had to hew his way through a very
jungle of engagements! “Please don’t come till thirtieth.” That was all.
Not the shadow of an excuse or a regret; not even the perfunctory “have
written” with which it is usual to soften such blows. She didn’t want
him, and had taken the shortest way to tell him so. Even in his first
moment of exasperation it struck him as characteristic that she should
not have padded her postponement with a fib. Certainly her moral angles
were not draped!

“If I asked her to marry me, she’d have refused in the same language.
But thank heaven I haven’t!” he reflected.

These considerations, which had been with him every yard of the way from
London, reached a climax of irony as he was drawn into the crowd on the
pier. It did not soften his feelings to remember that, but for her lack
of forethought, he might, at this harsh end of the stormy May day, have
been sitting before his club fire in London instead of shivering in the
damp human herd on the pier. Admitting the sex’s traditional right to
change, she might at least have advised him of hers by telegraphing
directly to his rooms. But in spite of their exchange of letters she
had apparently failed to note his address, and a breathless emissary had
rushed from the Embassy to pitch her telegram into his compartment as
the train was moving from the station.

Yes, he had given her chance enough to learn where he lived; and this
minor proof of her indifference became, as he jammed his way through the
crowd, the main point of his grievance against her and of his derision
of himself. Half way down the pier the prod of an umbrella increased his
exasperation by rousing him to the fact that it was raining. Instantly
the narrow ledge became a battle-ground of thrusting, slanting, parrying
domes. The wind rose with the rain, and the harried wretches exposed to
this double assault wreaked on their neighbours the vengeance they could
not take on the elements.

Darrow, whose healthy enjoyment of life made him in general a good
traveller, tolerant of agglutinated humanity, felt himself obscurely
outraged by these promiscuous contacts. It was as though all the people
about him had taken his measure and known his plight; as though they
were contemptuously bumping and shoving him like the inconsiderable
thing he had become. “She doesn’t want you, doesn’t want you, doesn’t
want you,” their umbrellas and their elbows seemed to say.

He had rashly vowed, when the telegram was flung into his window: “At
any rate I won’t turn back”--as though it might cause the sender a
malicious joy to have him retrace his steps rather than keep on to
Paris! Now he perceived the absurdity of the vow, and thanked his stars
that he need not plunge, to no purpose, into the fury of waves outside
the harbour.

With this thought in his mind he turned back to look for his porter;
but the contiguity of dripping umbrellas made signalling impossible and,
perceiving that he had lost sight of the man, he scrambled up again to
the platform. As he reached it, a descending umbrella caught him in the
collar-bone; and the next moment, bent sideways by the wind, it turned
inside out and soared up, kite-wise, at the end of a helpless female
arm.

Darrow caught the umbrella, lowered its inverted ribs, and looked up at
the face it exposed to him.

“Wait a minute,” he said; “you can’t stay here.”

As he spoke, a surge of the crowd drove the owner of the umbrella
abruptly down on him. Darrow steadied her with extended arms, and
regaining her footing she cried out: “Oh, dear, oh, dear! It’s in
ribbons!”

Her lifted face, fresh and flushed in the driving rain, woke in him
a memory of having seen it at a distant time and in a vaguely
unsympathetic setting; but it was no moment to follow up such clues, and
the face was obviously one to make its way on its own merits.

Its possessor had dropped her bag and bundles to clutch at the tattered
umbrella. “I bought it only yesterday at the Stores; and--yes--it’s
utterly done for!” she lamented.

Darrow smiled at the intensity of her distress. It was food for the
moralist that, side by side with such catastrophes as his, human nature
was still agitating itself over its microscopic woes!

“Here’s mine if you want it!” he shouted back at her through the
shouting of the gale.

The offer caused the young lady to look at him more intently. “Why,
it’s Mr. Darrow!” she exclaimed; and then, all radiant recognition: “Oh,
thank you! We’ll share it, if you will.”

She knew him, then; and he knew her; but how and where had they met? He
put aside the problem for subsequent solution, and drawing her into a
more sheltered corner, bade her wait till he could find his porter.

When, a few minutes later, he came back with his recovered property,
and the news that the boat would not leave till the tide had turned, she
showed no concern.

“Not for two hours? How lucky--then I can find my trunk!”

Ordinarily Darrow would have felt little disposed to involve himself
in the adventure of a young female who had lost her trunk; but at the
moment he was glad of any pretext for activity. Even should he decide to
take the next up train from Dover he still had a yawning hour to fill;
and the obvious remedy was to devote it to the loveliness in distress
under his umbrella.

“You’ve lost a trunk? Let me see if I can find it.”

It pleased him that she did not return the conventional “Oh, WOULD you?”
 Instead, she corrected him with a laugh--“Not a trunk, but my trunk; I’ve
no other--” and then added briskly: “You’d better first see to getting
your own things on the boat.”

This made him answer, as if to give substance to his plans by discussing
them: “I don’t actually know that I’m going over.”

“Not going over?”

“Well ... perhaps not by this boat.” Again he felt a stealing indecision.
“I may probably have to go back to London. I’m--I’m waiting ... expecting
a letter...(She’ll think me a defaulter,” he reflected.) “But meanwhile
there’s plenty of time to find your trunk.”

He picked up his companion’s bundles, and offered her an arm which
enabled her to press her slight person more closely under his umbrella;
and as, thus linked, they beat their way back to the platform, pulled
together and apart like marionettes on the wires of the wind, he
continued to wonder where he could have seen her. He had immediately
classed her as a compatriot; her small nose, her clear tints, a kind
of sketchy delicacy in her face, as though she had been brightly but
lightly washed in with water-colour, all confirmed the evidence of her
high sweet voice and of her quick incessant gestures. She was clearly an
American, but with the loose native quality strained through a closer
woof of manners: the composite product of an enquiring and adaptable
race. All this, however, did not help him to fit a name to her, for just
such instances were perpetually pouring through the London Embassy, and
the etched and angular American was becoming rarer than the fluid type.

More puzzling than the fact of his being unable to identify her was
the persistent sense connecting her with something uncomfortable and
distasteful. So pleasant a vision as that gleaming up at him between
wet brown hair and wet brown boa should have evoked only associations as
pleasing; but each effort to fit her image into his past resulted in the
same memories of boredom and a vague discomfort...




II


“Don’t you remember me now--at Mrs. Murrett’s?” She threw the question at
Darrow across a table of the quiet coffee-room to which, after a vainly
prolonged quest for her trunk, he had suggested taking her for a cup of
tea.

In this musty retreat she had removed her dripping hat, hung it on the
fender to dry, and stretched herself on tiptoe in front of the round
eagle-crowned mirror, above the mantel vases of dyed immortelles, while
she ran her fingers comb-wise through her hair. The gesture had acted on
Darrow’s numb feelings as the glow of the fire acted on his circulation;
and when he had asked: “Aren’t your feet wet, too?” and, after
frank inspection of a stout-shod sole, she had answered cheerfully:
“No--luckily I had on my new boots,” he began to feel that human
intercourse would still be tolerable if it were always as free from
formality.

The removal of his companion’s hat, besides provoking this reflection,
gave him his first full sight of her face; and this was so
favourable that the name she now pronounced fell on him with a quite
disproportionate shock of dismay.

“Oh, Mrs. Murrett’s--was it THERE?”

He remembered her now, of course: remembered her as one of the shadowy
sidling presences in the background of that awful house in Chelsea, one
of the dumb appendages of the shrieking unescapable Mrs. Murrett, into
whose talons he had fallen in the course of his head-long pursuit of
Lady Ulrica Crispin. Oh, the taste of stale follies! How insipid it was,
yet how it clung!

“I used to pass you on the stairs,” she reminded him.

Yes: he had seen her slip by--he recalled it now--as he dashed up to
the drawing-room in quest of Lady Ulrica. The thought made him steal a
longer look. How could such a face have been merged in the Murrett
mob? Its fugitive slanting lines, that lent themselves to all manner of
tender tilts and foreshortenings, had the freakish grace of some young
head of the Italian comedy. The hair stood up from her forehead in a
boyish elf-lock, and its colour matched her auburn eyes flecked with
black, and the little brown spot on her cheek, between the ear that was
meant to have a rose behind it and the chin that should have rested on
a ruff. When she smiled, the left corner of her mouth went up a little
higher than the right; and her smile began in her eyes and ran down to
her lips in two lines of light. He had dashed past that to reach Lady
Ulrica Crispin!

“But of course you wouldn’t remember me,” she was saying. “My name is
Viner--Sophy Viner.”

Not remember her? But of course he DID! He was genuinely sure of it now.
“You’re Mrs. Murrett’s niece,” he declared.

She shook her head. “No; not even that. Only her reader.”

“Her reader? Do you mean to say she ever reads?”

Miss Viner enjoyed his wonder. “Dear, no! But I wrote notes, and made up
the visiting-book, and walked the dogs, and saw bores for her.”

Darrow groaned. “That must have been rather bad!”

“Yes; but nothing like as bad as being her niece.”

“That I can well believe. I’m glad to hear,” he added, “that you put it
all in the past tense.”

She seemed to droop a little at the allusion; then she lifted her chin
with a jerk of defiance. “Yes. All is at an end between us. We’ve just
parted in tears--but not in silence!”

“Just parted? Do you mean to say you’ve been there all this time?”

“Ever since you used to come there to see Lady Ulrica? Does it seem to
you so awfully long ago?”

The unexpectedness of the thrust--as well as its doubtful taste--chilled
his growing enjoyment of her chatter. He had really been getting to
like her--had recovered, under the candid approval of her eye, his
usual sense of being a personable young man, with all the privileges
pertaining to the state, instead of the anonymous rag of humanity he
had felt himself in the crowd on the pier. It annoyed him, at that
particular moment, to be reminded that naturalness is not always
consonant with taste.

She seemed to guess his thought. “You don’t like my saying that you came
for Lady Ulrica?” she asked, leaning over the table to pour herself a
second cup of tea.

He liked her quickness, at any rate. “It’s better,” he laughed, “than
your thinking I came for Mrs. Murrett!”

“Oh, we never thought anybody came for Mrs. Murrett! It was always for
something else: the music, or the cook--when there was a good one--or
the other people; generally ONE of the other people.”

“I see.”

She was amusing, and that, in his present mood, was more to his purpose
than the exact shade of her taste. It was odd, too, to discover suddenly
that the blurred tapestry of Mrs. Murrett’s background had all the while
been alive and full of eyes. Now, with a pair of them looking into his,
he was conscious of a queer reversal of perspective.

“Who were the ‘we’? Were you a cloud of witnesses?”

“There were a good many of us.” She smiled. “Let me see--who was there
in your time? Mrs. Bolt--and Mademoiselle--and Professor Didymus and
the Polish Countess. Don’t you remember the Polish Countess? She
crystal-gazed, and played accompaniments, and Mrs. Murrett chucked her
because Mrs. Didymus accused her of hypnotizing the Professor. But of
course you don’t remember. We were all invisible to you; but we could
see. And we all used to wonder about you----”

Again Darrow felt a redness in the temples. “What about me?”

“Well--whether it was you or she who...”

He winced, but hid his disapproval. It made the time pass to listen to
her.

“And what, if one may ask, was your conclusion?”

“Well, Mrs. Bolt and Mademoiselle and the Countess naturally thought it
was SHE; but Professor Didymus and Jimmy Brance--especially Jimmy----”

“Just a moment: who on earth is Jimmy Brance?”

She exclaimed in wonder: “You WERE absorbed--not to remember Jimmy
Brance! He must have been right about you, after all.” She let her
amused scrutiny dwell on him. “But how could you? She was false from
head to foot!”

“False----?” In spite of time and satiety, the male instinct of
ownership rose up and repudiated the charge.

Miss Viner caught his look and laughed. “Oh, I only meant externally!
You see, she often used to come to my room after tennis, or to touch
up in the evenings, when they were going on; and I assure you she took
apart like a puzzle. In fact I used to say to Jimmy--just to make him
wild--: ‘I’ll bet you anything you like there’s nothing wrong, because
I know she’d never dare un--’” She broke the word in two, and her quick
blush made her face like a shallow-petalled rose shading to the deeper
pink of the centre.

The situation was saved, for Darrow, by an abrupt rush of memories, and
he gave way to a mirth which she as frankly echoed. “Of course,” she
gasped through her laughter, “I only said it to tease Jimmy----”

Her amusement obscurely annoyed him. “Oh, you’re all alike!” he
exclaimed, moved by an unaccountable sense of disappointment.

She caught him up in a flash--she didn’t miss things! “You say that
because you think I’m spiteful and envious? Yes--I was envious of Lady
Ulrica...Oh, not on account of you or Jimmy Brance! Simply because
she had almost all the things I’ve always wanted: clothes and fun and
motors, and admiration and yachting and Paris--why, Paris alone would be
enough!--And how do you suppose a girl can see that sort of thing about
her day after day, and never wonder why some women, who don’t seem to
have any more right to it, have it all tumbled into their laps, while
others are writing dinner invitations, and straightening out accounts,
and copying visiting lists, and finishing golf-stockings, and matching
ribbons, and seeing that the dogs get their sulphur? One looks in one’s
glass, after all!”

She launched the closing words at him on a cry that lifted them above
the petulance of vanity; but his sense of her words was lost in the
surprise of her face. Under the flying clouds of her excitement it was
no longer a shallow flower-cup but a darkening gleaming mirror that
might give back strange depths of feeling. The girl had stuff in her--he
saw it; and she seemed to catch the perception in his eyes.

“That’s the kind of education I got at Mrs. Murrett’s--and I never had
any other,” she said with a shrug.

“Good Lord--were you there so long?”

“Five years. I stuck it out longer than any of the others.” She spoke as
though it were something to be proud of.

“Well, thank God you’re out of it now!”

Again a just perceptible shadow crossed her face. “Yes--I’m out of it
now fast enough.”

“And what--if I may ask--are you doing next?”

She brooded a moment behind drooped lids; then, with a touch of hauteur:
“I’m going to Paris: to study for the stage.”

“The stage?” Darrow stared at her, dismayed. All his confused
contradictory impressions assumed a new aspect at this announcement; and
to hide his surprise he added lightly: “Ah--then you will have Paris,
after all!”

“Hardly Lady Ulrica’s Paris. It s not likely to be roses, roses all the
way.”

“It’s not, indeed.” Real compassion prompted him to continue: “Have you
any--any influence you can count on?”

She gave a somewhat flippant little laugh. “None but my own. I’ve never
had any other to count on.”

He passed over the obvious reply. “But have you any idea how the
profession is over-crowded? I know I’m trite----”

“I’ve a very clear idea. But I couldn’t go on as I was.”

“Of course not. But since, as you say, you’d stuck it out longer than
any of the others, couldn’t you at least have held on till you were sure
of some kind of an opening?”

She made no reply for a moment; then she turned a listless glance to the
rain-beaten window. “Oughtn’t we be starting?” she asked, with a lofty
assumption of indifference that might have been Lady Ulrica’s.

Darrow, surprised by the change, but accepting her rebuff as a phase of
what he guessed to be a confused and tormented mood, rose from his seat
and lifted her jacket from the chair-back on which she had hung it to
dry. As he held it toward her she looked up at him quickly.

“The truth is, we quarrelled,” she broke out, “and I left last night
without my dinner--and without my salary.”

“Ah--” he groaned, with a sharp perception of all the sordid dangers
that might attend such a break with Mrs. Murrett.

“And without a character!” she added, as she slipped her arms into the
jacket. “And without a trunk, as it appears--but didn’t you say that,
before going, there’d be time for another look at the station?”

There was time for another look at the station; but the look again
resulted in disappointment, since her trunk was nowhere to be found in
the huge heap disgorged by the newly-arrived London express. The fact
caused Miss Viner a moment’s perturbation; but she promptly adjusted
herself to the necessity of proceeding on her journey, and her decision
confirmed Darrow’s vague resolve to go to Paris instead of retracing his
way to London.

Miss Viner seemed cheered at the prospect of his company, and sustained
by his offer to telegraph to Charing Cross for the missing trunk; and
he left her to wait in the fly while he hastened back to the telegraph
office. The enquiry despatched, he was turning away from the desk when
another thought struck him and he went back and indited a message to his
servant in London: “If any letters with French post-mark received since
departure forward immediately to Terminus Hotel Gare du Nord Paris.”

Then he rejoined Miss Viner, and they drove off through the rain to the
pier.




III


Almost as soon as the train left Calais her head had dropped back into
the corner, and she had fallen asleep.

Sitting opposite, in the compartment from which he had contrived to have
other travellers excluded, Darrow looked at her curiously. He had never
seen a face that changed so quickly. A moment since it had danced like
a field of daisies in a summer breeze; now, under the pallid oscillating
light of the lamp overhead, it wore the hard stamp of experience, as of
a soft thing chilled into shape before its curves had rounded: and it
moved him to see that care already stole upon her when she slept.

The story she had imparted to him in the wheezing shaking cabin, and at
the Calais buffet--where he had insisted on offering her the dinner
she had missed at Mrs. Murrett’s--had given a distincter outline to
her figure. From the moment of entering the New York boarding-school to
which a preoccupied guardian had hastily consigned her after the death
of her parents, she had found herself alone in a busy and indifferent
world. Her youthful history might, in fact, have been summed up in
the statement that everybody had been too busy to look after her. Her
guardian, a drudge in a big banking house, was absorbed by “the office”;
the guardian’s wife, by her health and her religion; and an elder
sister, Laura, married, unmarried, remarried, and pursuing, through all
these alternating phases, some vaguely “artistic” ideal on which the
guardian and his wife looked askance, had (as Darrow conjectured) taken
their disapproval as a pretext for not troubling herself about
poor Sophy, to whom--perhaps for this reason--she had remained the
incarnation of remote romantic possibilities.

In the course of time a sudden “stroke” of the guardian’s had thrown his
personal affairs into a state of confusion from which--after his widely
lamented death--it became evident that it would not be possible to
extricate his ward’s inheritance. No one deplored this more sincerely
than his widow, who saw in it one more proof of her husband’s life
having been sacrificed to the innumerable duties imposed on him, and who
could hardly--but for the counsels of religion--have brought herself to
pardon the young girl for her indirect share in hastening his end. Sophy
did not resent this point of view. She was really much sorrier for her
guardian’s death than for the loss of her insignificant fortune. The
latter had represented only the means of holding her in bondage, and
its disappearance was the occasion of her immediate plunge into the
wide bright sea of life surrounding the island--of her captivity. She had
first landed--thanks to the intervention of the ladies who had directed
her education--in a Fifth Avenue school-room where, for a few months,
she acted as a buffer between three autocratic infants and their
bodyguard of nurses and teachers. The too-pressing attentions of their
father’s valet had caused her to fly this sheltered spot, against the
express advice of her educational superiors, who implied that, in their
own case, refinement and self-respect had always sufficed to keep the
most ungovernable passions at bay. The experience of the guardian’s
widow having been precisely similar, and the deplorable precedent of
Laura’s career being present to all their minds, none of these ladies
felt any obligation to intervene farther in Sophy’s affairs; and she was
accordingly left to her own resources.

A schoolmate from the Rocky Mountains, who was taking her father and
mother to Europe, had suggested Sophy’s accompanying them, and “going
round” with her while her progenitors, in the care of the courier,
nursed their ailments at a fashionable bath. Darrow gathered that the
“going round” with Mamie Hoke was a varied and diverting process; but
this relatively brilliant phase of Sophy’s career was cut short by
the elopement of the inconsiderate Mamie with a “matinee idol” who had
followed her from New York, and by the precipitate return of her parents
to negotiate for the repurchase of their child.

It was then--after an interval of repose with compassionate but
impecunious American friends in Paris--that Miss Viner had been drawn
into the turbid current of Mrs. Murrett’s career. The impecunious
compatriots had found Mrs. Murrett for her, and it was partly on
their account (because they were such dears, and so unconscious, poor
confiding things, of what they were letting her in for) that Sophy had
stuck it out so long in the dreadful house in Chelsea. The Farlows, she
explained to Darrow, were the best friends she had ever had (and the
only ones who had ever “been decent” about Laura, whom they had seen
once, and intensely admired); but even after twenty years of Paris they
were the most incorrigibly inexperienced angels, and quite persuaded
that Mrs. Murrett was a woman of great intellectual eminence, and the
house at Chelsea “the last of the salons”--Darrow knew what she meant?
And she hadn’t liked to undeceive them, knowing that to do so would be
virtually to throw herself back on their hands, and feeling, moreover,
after her previous experiences, the urgent need of gaining, at any cost,
a name for stability; besides which--she threw it off with a slight
laugh--no other chance, in all these years, had happened to come to her.

She had brushed in this outline of her career with light rapid strokes,
and in a tone of fatalism oddly untinged by bitterness. Darrow perceived
that she classified people according to their greater or less “luck” in
life, but she appeared to harbour no resentment against the undefined
power which dispensed the gift in such unequal measure. Things came
one’s way or they didn’t; and meanwhile one could only look on, and make
the most of small compensations, such as watching “the show” at Mrs.
Murrett’s, and talking over the Lady Ulricas and other footlight
figures. And at any moment, of course, a turn of the kaleidoscope might
suddenly toss a bright spangle into the grey pattern of one’s days.

This light-hearted philosophy was not without charm to a young man
accustomed to more traditional views. George Darrow had had a fairly
varied experience of feminine types, but the women he had frequented had
either been pronouncedly “ladies” or they had not. Grateful to both for
ministering to the more complex masculine nature, and disposed to
assume that they had been evolved, if not designed, to that end, he
had instinctively kept the two groups apart in his mind, avoiding that
intermediate society which attempts to conciliate both theories of life.
“Bohemianism” seemed to him a cheaper convention than the other two, and
he liked, above all, people who went as far as they could in their own
line--liked his “ladies” and their rivals to be equally unashamed of
showing for exactly what they were. He had not indeed--the fact of Lady
Ulrica was there to remind him--been without his experience of a third
type; but that experience had left him with a contemptuous distaste for
the woman who uses the privileges of one class to shelter the customs of
another.

As to young girls, he had never thought much about them since his early
love for the girl who had become Mrs. Leath. That episode seemed, as
he looked back on it, to bear no more relation to reality than a pale
decorative design to the confused richness of a summer landscape. He
no longer understood the violent impulses and dreamy pauses of his own
young heart, or the inscrutable abandonments and reluctances of hers. He
had known a moment of anguish at losing her--the mad plunge of youthful
instincts against the barrier of fate; but the first wave of stronger
sensation had swept away all but the outline of their story, and the
memory of Anna Summers had made the image of the young girl sacred, but
the class uninteresting.

Such generalisations belonged, however, to an earlier stage of his
experience. The more he saw of life the more incalculable he found
it; and he had learned to yield to his impressions without feeling
the youthful need of relating them to others. It was the girl in the
opposite seat who had roused in him the dormant habit of comparison.
She was distinguished from the daughters of wealth by her avowed
acquaintance with the real business of living, a familiarity as
different as possible from their theoretical proficiency; yet it seemed
to Darrow that her experience had made her free without hardness and
self-assured without assertiveness.


The rush into Amiens, and the flash of the station lights into their
compartment, broke Miss Viner’s sleep, and without changing her position
she lifted her lids and looked at Darrow. There was neither surprise nor
bewilderment in the look. She seemed instantly conscious, not so much
of where she was, as of the fact that she was with him; and that fact
seemed enough to reassure her. She did not even turn her head to look
out; her eyes continued to rest on him with a vague smile which appeared
to light her face from within, while her lips kept their sleepy droop.

Shouts and the hurried tread of travellers came to them through the
confusing cross-lights of the platform. A head appeared at the window,
and Darrow threw himself forward to defend their solitude; but the
intruder was only a train hand going his round of inspection. He passed
on, and the lights and cries of the station dropped away, merged in a
wider haze and a hollower resonance, as the train gathered itself up
with a long shake and rolled out again into the darkness.

Miss Viner’s head sank back against the cushion, pushing out a dusky
wave of hair above her forehead. The swaying of the train loosened a
lock over her ear, and she shook it back with a movement like a boy’s,
while her gaze still rested on her companion.

“You’re not too tired?”

She shook her head with a smile.

“We shall be in before midnight. We’re very nearly on time.” He verified
the statement by holding up his watch to the lamp.

She nodded dreamily. “It’s all right. I telegraphed Mrs. Farlow that
they mustn’t think of coming to the station; but they’ll have told the
concierge to look out for me.”

“You’ll let me drive you there?”

She nodded again, and her eyes closed. It was very pleasant to Darrow
that she made no effort to talk or to dissemble her sleepiness. He sat
watching her till the upper lashes met and mingled with the lower,
and their blent shadow lay on her cheek; then he stood up and drew the
curtain over the lamp, drowning the compartment in a bluish twilight.

As he sank back into his seat he thought how differently Anna
Summers--or even Anna Leath--would have behaved. She would not have
talked too much; she would not have been either restless or embarrassed;
but her adaptability, her appropriateness, would not have been
nature but “tact.” The oddness of the situation would have made sleep
impossible, or, if weariness had overcome her for a moment, she would
have waked with a start, wondering where she was, and how she had come
there, and if her hair were tidy; and nothing short of hairpins and a
glass would have restored her self-possession...

The reflection set him wondering whether the “sheltered” girl’s
bringing-up might not unfit her for all subsequent contact with life.
How much nearer to it had Mrs. Leath been brought by marriage and
motherhood, and the passage of fourteen years? What were all her
reticences and evasions but the result of the deadening process of
forming a “lady”? The freshness he had marvelled at was like the
unnatural whiteness of flowers forced in the dark.

As he looked back at their few days together he saw that their
intercourse had been marked, on her part, by the same hesitations and
reserves which had chilled their earlier intimacy. Once more they had
had their hour together and she had wasted it. As in her girlhood, her
eyes had made promises which her lips were afraid to keep. She was still
afraid of life, of its ruthlessness, its danger and mystery. She was
still the petted little girl who cannot be left alone in the dark...His
memory flew back to their youthful story, and long-forgotten details
took shape before him. How frail and faint the picture was! They seemed,
he and she, like the ghostly lovers of the Grecian Urn, forever pursuing
without ever clasping each other. To this day he did not quite know
what had parted them: the break had been as fortuitous as the fluttering
apart of two seed-vessels on a wave of summer air...

The very slightness, vagueness, of the memory gave it an added
poignancy. He felt the mystic pang of the parent for a child which
has just breathed and died. Why had it happened thus, when the least
shifting of influences might have made it all so different? If she had
been given to him then he would have put warmth in her veins and light
in her eyes: would have made her a woman through and through. Musing
thus, he had the sense of waste that is the bitterest harvest of
experience. A love like his might have given her the divine gift of
self-renewal; and now he saw her fated to wane into old age repeating
the same gestures, echoing the words she had always heard, and
perhaps never guessing that, just outside her glazed and curtained
consciousness, life rolled away, a vast blackness starred with lights,
like the night landscape beyond the windows of the train.

The engine lowered its speed for the passage through a sleeping station.
In the light of the platform lamp Darrow looked across at his companion.
Her head had dropped toward one shoulder, and her lips were just far
enough apart for the reflection of the upper one to deepen the colour
of the other. The jolting of the train had again shaken loose the lock
above her ear. It danced on her cheek like the flit of a brown wing over
flowers, and Darrow felt an intense desire to lean forward and put it
back behind her ear.




IV


As their motor-cab, on the way from the Gare du Nord, turned into the
central glitter of the Boulevard, Darrow had bent over to point out an
incandescent threshold.

“There!”

Above the doorway, an arch of flame flashed out the name of a great
actress, whose closing performances in a play of unusual originality
had been the theme of long articles in the Paris papers which Darrow had
tossed into their compartment at Calais.

“That’s what you must see before you’re twenty-four hours older!”

The girl followed his gesture eagerly. She was all awake and alive now,
as if the heady rumours of the streets, with their long effervescences
of light, had passed into her veins like wine.

“Cerdine? Is that where she acts?” She put her head out of the window,
straining back for a glimpse of the sacred threshold. As they flew past
it she sank into her seat with a satisfied sigh.

“It’s delicious enough just to KNOW she’s there! I’ve never seen her,
you know. When I was here with Mamie Hoke we never went anywhere but to
the music halls, because she couldn’t understand any French; and when
I came back afterward to the Farlows’ I was dead broke, and couldn’t
afford the play, and neither could they; so the only chance we had was
when friends of theirs invited us--and once it was to see a tragedy by
a Roumanian lady, and the other time it was for ‘L’Ami Fritz’ at the
Francais.”

Darrow laughed. “You must do better than that now. ‘Le Vertige’ is a
fine thing, and Cerdine gets some wonderful effects out of it. You
must come with me tomorrow evening to see it--with your friends, of
course.--That is,” he added, “if there’s any sort of chance of getting
seats.”

The flash of a street lamp lit up her radiant face. “Oh, will you really
take us? What fun to think that it’s tomorrow already!”

It was wonderfully pleasant to be able to give such pleasure. Darrow was
not rich, but it was almost impossible for him to picture the state of
persons with tastes and perceptions like his own, to whom an evening at
the theatre was an unattainable indulgence. There floated through his
mind an answer of Mrs. Leath’s to his enquiry whether she had seen the
play in question. “No. I meant to, of course, but one is so overwhelmed
with things in Paris. And then I’m rather sick of Cerdine--one is always
being dragged to see her.”

That, among the people he frequented, was the usual attitude toward such
opportunities. There were too many, they were a nuisance, one had to
defend one’s self! He even remembered wondering, at the moment,
whether to a really fine taste the exceptional thing could ever become
indifferent through habit; whether the appetite for beauty was so soon
dulled that it could be kept alive only by privation. Here, at any rate,
was a fine chance to experiment with such a hunger: he almost wished he
might stay on in Paris long enough to take the measure of Miss Viner’s
receptivity.

She was still dwelling on his promise, “It’s too beautiful of you! Oh,
don’t you THINK you’ll be able to get seats?” And then, after a pause of
brimming appreciation: “I wonder if you’ll think me horrid?--but it may
be my only chance; and if you can’t get places for us all, wouldn’t you
perhaps just take ME? After all, the Farlows may have seen it!”

He had not, of course, thought her horrid, but only the more engaging,
for being so natural, and so unashamed of showing the frank greed of her
famished youth. “Oh, you shall go somehow!” he had gaily promised her;
and she had dropped back with a sigh of pleasure as their cab passed
into the dimly-lit streets of the Farlows’ quarter beyond the Seine...


This little passage came back to him the next morning, as he opened his
hotel window on the early roar of the Northern Terminus.

The girl was there, in the room next to him. That had been the first
point in his waking consciousness. The second was a sense of relief at
the obligation imposed on him by this unexpected turn of everts. To
wake to the necessity of action, to postpone perforce the fruitless
contemplation of his private grievance, was cause enough for gratitude,
even if the small adventure in which he found himself involved had not,
on its own merits, roused an instinctive curiosity to see it through.

When he and his companion, the night before, had reached the Farlows’
door in the rue de la Chaise, it was only to find, after repeated
assaults on its panels, that the Farlows were no longer there. They
had moved away the week before, not only from their apartment but from
Paris; and Miss Viner’s breach with Mrs. Murrett had been too sudden to
permit her letter and telegram to overtake them. Both communications,
no doubt, still reposed in a pigeon-hole of the loge; but its custodian,
when drawn from his lair, sulkily declined to let Miss Viner verify the
fact, and only flung out, in return for Darrow’s bribe, the statement
that the Americans had gone to Joigny.

To pursue them there at that hour was manifestly impossible, and Miss
Viner, disturbed but not disconcerted by this new obstacle, had quite
simply acceded to Darrow’s suggestion that she should return for what
remained of the night to the hotel where he had sent his luggage.

The drive back through the dark hush before dawn, with the nocturnal
blaze of the Boulevard fading around them like the false lights of
a magician’s palace, had so played on her impressionability that she
seemed to give no farther thought to her own predicament. Darrow noticed
that she did not feel the beauty and mystery of the spectacle as much
as its pressure of human significance, all its hidden implications
of emotion and adventure. As they passed the shadowy colonnade of the
Francais, remote and temple-like in the paling lights, he felt a clutch
on his arm, and heard the cry: “There are things THERE that I want so
desperately to see!” and all the way back to the hotel she continued to
question him, with shrewd precision and an artless thirst for detail,
about the theatrical life of Paris. He was struck afresh, as he
listened, by the way in which her naturalness eased the situation of
constraint, leaving to it only a pleasant savour of good fellowship. It
was the kind of episode that one might, in advance, have characterized
as “awkward”, yet that was proving, in the event, as much outside such
definitions as a sunrise stroll with a dryad in a dew-drenched forest;
and Darrow reflected that mankind would never have needed to invent tact
if it had not first invented social complications.

It had been understood, with his good-night to Miss Viner, that the next
morning he was to look up the Joigny trains, and see her safely to
the station; but, while he breakfasted and waited for a time-table, he
recalled again her cry of joy at the prospect of seeing Cerdine. It was
certainly a pity, since that most elusive and incalculable of artists
was leaving the next week for South America, to miss what might be a
last sight of her in her greatest part; and Darrow, having dressed and
made the requisite excerpts from the time-table, decided to carry the
result of his deliberations to his neighbour’s door.

It instantly opened at his knock, and she came forth looking as if she
had been plunged into some sparkling element which had curled up all her
drooping tendrils and wrapped her in a shimmer of fresh leaves.

“Well, what do you think of me?” she cried; and with a hand at her waist
she spun about as if to show off some miracle of Parisian dress-making.

“I think the missing trunk has come--and that it was worth waiting for!”

“You DO like my dress?”

“I adore it! I always adore new dresses--why, you don’t mean to say it’s
NOT a new one?”

She laughed out her triumph.

“No, no, no! My trunk hasn’t come, and this is only my old rag of
yesterday--but I never knew the trick to fail!” And, as he stared: “You
see,” she joyously explained, “I’ve always had to dress in all kinds of
dreary left-overs, and sometimes, when everybody else was smart and
new, it used to make me awfully miserable. So one day, when Mrs. Murrett
dragged me down unexpectedly to fill a place at dinner, I suddenly
thought I’d try spinning around like that, and say to every one: ‘WELL,
WHAT DO YOU THINK OF ME?’ And, do you know, they were all taken in,
including Mrs. Murrett, who didn’t recognize my old turned and dyed
rags, and told me afterward it was awfully bad form to dress as if I
were somebody that people would expect to know! And ever since, whenever
I’ve particularly wanted to look nice, I’ve just asked people what they
thought of my new frock; and they’re always, always taken in!”

She dramatized her explanation so vividly that Darrow felt as if his
point were gained.

“Ah, but this confirms your vocation--of course,” he cried, “you must
see Cerdine!” and, seeing her face fall at this reminder of the change
in her prospects, he hastened to set forth his plan. As he did so, he
saw how easy it was to explain things to her. She would either accept
his suggestion, or she would not: but at least she would waste no time
in protestations and objections, or any vain sacrifice to the idols of
conformity. The conviction that one could, on any given point, almost
predicate this of her, gave him the sense of having advanced far enough
in her intimacy to urge his arguments against a hasty pursuit of her
friends.

Yes, it would certainly be foolish--she at once agreed--in the case
of such dear indefinite angels as the Farlows, to dash off after them
without more positive proof that they were established at Joigny, and
so established that they could take her in. She owned it was but too
probable that they had gone there to “cut down”, and might be doing so
in quarters too contracted to receive her; and it would be unfair, on
that chance, to impose herself on them unannounced. The simplest way of
getting farther light on the question would be to go back to the rue de
la Chaise, where, at that more conversable hour, the concierge might be
less chary of detail; and she could decide on her next step in the light
of such facts as he imparted.

Point by point, she fell in with the suggestion, recognizing, in the
light of their unexplained flight, that the Farlows might indeed be in a
situation on which one could not too rashly intrude. Her concern for her
friends seemed to have effaced all thought of herself, and this little
indication of character gave Darrow a quite disproportionate pleasure.
She agreed that it would be well to go at once to the rue de la Chaise,
but met his proposal that they should drive by the declaration that it
was a “waste” not to walk in Paris; so they set off on foot through the
cheerful tumult of the streets.

The walk was long enough for him to learn many things about her. The
storm of the previous night had cleared the air, and Paris shone in
morning beauty under a sky that was all broad wet washes of white and
blue; but Darrow again noticed that her visual sensitiveness was less
keen than her feeling for what he was sure the good Farlows--whom he
already seemed to know--would have called “the human interest.” She
seemed hardly conscious of sensations of form and colour, or of any
imaginative suggestion, and the spectacle before them--always, in
its scenic splendour, so moving to her companion--broke up, under her
scrutiny, into a thousand minor points: the things in the shops, the
types of character and manner of occupation shown in the passing faces,
the street signs, the names of the hotels they passed, the motley
brightness of the flower-carts, the identity of the churches and public
buildings that caught her eye. But what she liked best, he divined, was
the mere fact of being free to walk abroad in the bright air, her
tongue rattling on as it pleased, while her feet kept time to the mighty
orchestration of the city’s sounds. Her delight in the fresh air, in
the freedom, light and sparkle of the morning, gave him a sudden insight
into her stifled past; nor was it indifferent to him to perceive
how much his presence evidently added to her enjoyment. If only as a
sympathetic ear, he guessed what he must be worth to her. The girl
had been dying for some one to talk to, some one before whom she could
unfold and shake out to the light her poor little shut-away emotions.
Years of repression were revealed in her sudden burst of confidence; and
the pity she inspired made Darrow long to fill her few free hours to the
brim.

She had the gift of rapid definition, and his questions as to the life
she had led with the Farlows, during the interregnum between the Hoke
and Murrett eras, called up before him a queer little corner of Parisian
existence. The Farlows themselves--he a painter, she a “magazine
writer”--rose before him in all their incorruptible simplicity: an
elderly New England couple, with vague yearnings for enfranchisement,
who lived in Paris as if it were a Massachusetts suburb, and dwelt
hopefully on the “higher side” of the Gallic nature. With equal
vividness she set before him the component figures of the circle from
which Mrs. Farlow drew the “Inner Glimpses of French Life” appearing
over her name in a leading New England journal: the Roumanian lady who
had sent them tickets for her tragedy, an elderly French gentleman
who, on the strength of a week’s stay at Folkestone, translated English
fiction for the provincial press, a lady from Wichita, Kansas, who
advocated free love and the abolition of the corset, a clergyman’s
widow from Torquay who had written an “English Ladies’ Guide to Foreign
Galleries” and a Russian sculptor who lived on nuts and was “almost
certainly” an anarchist. It was this nucleus, and its outer ring
of musical, architectural and other American students, which posed
successively to Mrs. Farlow’s versatile fancy as a centre of “University
Life”, a “Salon of the Faubourg St. Germain”, a group of Parisian
“Intellectuals” or a “Cross-section of Montmartre”; but even her faculty
for extracting from it the most varied literary effects had not sufficed
to create a permanent demand for the “Inner Glimpses”, and there
were days when--Mr. Farlow’s landscapes being equally unmarketable--a
temporary withdrawal to the country (subsequently utilized as “Peeps
into Chateau Life”) became necessary to the courageous couple.

Five years of Mrs. Murrett’s world, while increasing Sophy’s tenderness
for the Farlows, had left her with few illusions as to their power of
advancing her fortunes; and she did not conceal from Darrow that
her theatrical projects were of the vaguest. They hung mainly on the
problematical good-will of an ancient comedienne, with whom Mrs. Farlow
had a slight acquaintance (extensively utilized in “Stars of the French
Footlights” and “Behind the Scenes at the Francais”), and who had once,
with signs of approval, heard Miss Viner recite the Nuit de Mai.

“But of course I know how much that’s worth,” the girl broke off, with
one of her flashes of shrewdness. “And besides, it isn’t likely that a
poor old fossil like Mme. Dolle could get anybody to listen to her now,
even if she really thought I had talent. But she might introduce me to
people; or at least give me a few tips. If I could manage to earn enough
to pay for lessons I’d go straight to some of the big people and work
with them. I’m rather hoping the Farlows may find me a chance of that
kind--an engagement with some American family in Paris who would want to
be ‘gone round’ with like the Hokes, and who’d leave me time enough to
study.”

In the rue de la Chaise they learned little except the exact address
of the Farlows, and the fact that they had sub-let their flat before
leaving. This information obtained, Darrow proposed to Miss Viner that
they should stroll along the quays to a little restaurant looking out on
the Seine, and there, over the plat du jour, consider the next step
to be taken. The long walk had given her cheeks a glow indicative of
wholesome hunger, and she made no difficulty about satisfying it in
Darrow’s company. Regaining the river they walked on in the direction
of Notre Dame, delayed now and again by the young man’s irresistible
tendency to linger over the bookstalls, and by his ever-fresh response
to the shifting beauties of the scene. For two years his eyes had been
subdued to the atmospheric effects of London, to the mysterious fusion
of darkly-piled city and low-lying bituminous sky; and the transparency
of the French air, which left the green gardens and silvery stones so
classically clear yet so softly harmonized, struck him as having a kind
of conscious intelligence. Every line of the architecture, every arch
of the bridges, the very sweep of the strong bright river between them,
while contributing to this effect, sent forth each a separate appeal
to some sensitive memory; so that, for Darrow, a walk through the Paris
streets was always like the unrolling of a vast tapestry from which
countless stored fragrances were shaken out.

It was a proof of the richness and multiplicity of the spectacle that
it served, without incongruity, for so different a purpose as the
background of Miss Viner’s enjoyment. As a mere drop-scene for her
personal adventure it was just as much in its place as in the evocation
of great perspectives of feeling. For her, as he again perceived when
they were seated at their table in a low window above the Seine, Paris
was “Paris” by virtue of all its entertaining details, its endless
ingenuities of pleasantness. Where else, for instance, could one
find the dear little dishes of hors d’oeuvre, the symmetrically-laid
anchovies and radishes, the thin golden shells of butter, or the wood
strawberries and brown jars of cream that gave to their repast the last
refinement of rusticity? Hadn’t he noticed, she asked, that cooking
always expressed the national character, and that French food was
clever and amusing just because the people were? And in private houses,
everywhere, how the dishes always resembled the talk--how the very
same platitudes seemed to go into people’s mouths and come out of them?
Couldn’t he see just what kind of menu it would make, if a fairy waved a
wand and suddenly turned the conversation at a London dinner into joints
and puddings? She always thought it a good sign when people liked Irish
stew; it meant that they enjoyed changes and surprises, and taking life
as it came; and such a beautiful Parisian version of the dish as the
navarin that was just being set before them was like the very best kind
of talk--the kind when one could never tell before-hand just what was
going to be said!

Darrow, as he watched her enjoyment of their innocent feast, wondered if
her vividness and vivacity were signs of her calling. She was the kind
of girl in whom certain people would instantly have recognized the
histrionic gift. But experience had led him to think that, except at the
creative moment, the divine flame burns low in its possessors. The one
or two really intelligent actresses he had known had struck him, in
conversation, as either bovine or primitively “jolly”. He had a notion
that, save in the mind of genius, the creative process absorbs too
much of the whole stuff of being to leave much surplus for personal
expression; and the girl before him, with her changing face and flexible
fancies, seemed destined to work in life itself rather than in any of
its counterfeits.

The coffee and liqueurs were already on the table when her mind suddenly
sprang back to the Farlows. She jumped up with one of her subversive
movements and declared that she must telegraph at once. Darrow called
for writing materials and room was made at her elbow for the parched
ink-bottle and saturated blotter of the Parisian restaurant; but the
mere sight of these jaded implements seemed to paralyze Miss Viner’s
faculties. She hung over the telegraph-form with anxiously-drawn brow,
the tip of the pen-handle pressed against her lip; and at length she
raised her troubled eyes to Darrow’s.

“I simply can’t think how to say it.”

“What--that you’re staying over to see Cerdine?”

“But AM I--am I, really?” The joy of it flamed over her face.

Darrow looked at his watch. “You could hardly get an answer to your
telegram in time to take a train to Joigny this afternoon, even if you
found your friends could have you.”

She mused for a moment, tapping her lip with the pen. “But I must let
them know I’m here. I must find out as soon as possible if they CAN,
have me.” She laid the pen down despairingly. “I never COULD write a
telegram!” she sighed.

“Try a letter, then and tell them you’ll arrive tomorrow.”

This suggestion produced immediate relief, and she gave an energetic dab
at the ink-bottle; but after another interval of uncertain scratching
she paused again. “Oh, it’s fearful! I don’t know what on earth to say. I
wouldn’t for the world have them know how beastly Mrs. Murrett’s been.”

Darrow did not think it necessary to answer. It was no business of his,
after all. He lit a cigar and leaned back in his seat, letting his eyes
take their fill of indolent pleasure. In the throes of invention she
had pushed back her hat, loosening the stray lock which had invited his
touch the night before. After looking at it for a while he stood up and
wandered to the window.

Behind him he heard her pen scrape on.

“I don’t want to worry them--I’m so certain they’ve got bothers of their
own.” The faltering scratches ceased again. “I wish I weren’t such an
idiot about writing: all the words get frightened and scurry away when
I try to catch them.” He glanced back at her with a smile as she bent
above her task like a school-girl struggling with a “composition.” Her
flushed cheek and frowning brow showed that her difficulty was genuine
and not an artless device to draw him to her side. She was really
powerless to put her thoughts in writing, and the inability seemed
characteristic of her quick impressionable mind, and of the incessant
come-and-go of her sensations. He thought of Anna Leath’s letters, or
rather of the few he had received, years ago, from the girl who had been
Anna Summers. He saw the slender firm strokes of the pen, recalled the
clear structure of the phrases, and, by an abrupt association of ideas,
remembered that, at that very hour, just such a document might be
awaiting him at the hotel.

What if it were there, indeed, and had brought him a complete
explanation of her telegram? The revulsion of feeling produced by this
thought made him look at the girl with sudden impatience. She struck him
as positively stupid, and he wondered how he could have wasted half his
day with her, when all the while Mrs. Leath’s letter might be lying on
his table. At that moment, if he could have chosen, he would have left
his companion on the spot; but he had her on his hands, and must accept
the consequences.

Some odd intuition seemed to make her conscious of his change of mood,
for she sprang from her seat, crumpling the letter in her hand.

“I’m too stupid; but I won’t keep you any longer. I’ll go back to the
hotel and write there.”

Her colour deepened, and for the first time, as their eyes met, he
noticed a faint embarrassment in hers. Could it be that his nearness
was, after all, the cause of her confusion? The thought turned his vague
impatience with her into a definite resentment toward himself. There was
really no excuse for his having blundered into such an adventure. Why
had he not shipped the girl off to Joigny by the evening train, instead
of urging her to delay, and using Cerdine as a pretext? Paris was full
of people he knew, and his annoyance was increased by the thought that
some friend of Mrs. Leath’s might see him at the play, and report his
presence there with a suspiciously good-looking companion. The idea was
distinctly disagreeable: he did not want the woman he adored to think he
could forget her for a moment. And by this time he had fully persuaded
himself that a letter from her was awaiting him, and had even gone so
far as to imagine that its contents might annul the writer’s telegraphed
injunction, and call him to her side at once...




V


At the porter’s desk a brief “Pas de lettres” fell destructively on the
fabric of these hopes. Mrs. Leath had not written--she had not taken the
trouble to explain her telegram. Darrow turned away with a sharp pang
of humiliation. Her frugal silence mocked his prodigality of hopes and
fears. He had put his question to the porter once before, on returning
to the hotel after luncheon; and now, coming back again in the late
afternoon, he was met by the same denial. The second post was in, and
had brought him nothing.

A glance at his watch showed that he had barely time to dress before
taking Miss Viner out to dine; but as he turned to the lift a new
thought struck him, and hurrying back into the hall he dashed off
another telegram to his servant: “Have you forwarded any letter with
French postmark today? Telegraph answer Terminus.”

Some kind of reply would be certain to reach him on his return from the
theatre, and he would then know definitely whether Mrs. Leath meant
to write or not. He hastened up to his room and dressed with a lighter
heart.

Miss Viner’s vagrant trunk had finally found its way to its owner;
and, clad in such modest splendour as it furnished, she shone at Darrow
across their restaurant table. In the reaction of his wounded vanity he
found her prettier and more interesting than before. Her dress, sloping
away from the throat, showed the graceful set of her head on its slender
neck, and the wide brim of her hat arched above her hair like a dusky
halo. Pleasure danced in her eyes and on her lips, and as she shone on
him between the candle-shades Darrow felt that he should not be at all
sorry to be seen with her in public. He even sent a careless glance
about him in the vague hope that it might fall on an acquaintance.

At the theatre her vivacity sank into a breathless hush, and she sat
intent in her corner of their baignoire, with the gaze of a neophyte
about to be initiated into the sacred mysteries. Darrow placed himself
behind her, that he might catch her profile between himself and the
stage. He was touched by the youthful seriousness of her expression. In
spite of the experiences she must have had, and of the twenty-four
years to which she owned, she struck him as intrinsically young; and he
wondered how so evanescent a quality could have been preserved in the
desiccating Murrett air. As the play progressed he noticed that her
immobility was traversed by swift flashes of perception. She was not
missing anything, and her intensity of attention when Cerdine was on the
stage drew an anxious line between her brows.

After the first act she remained for a few minutes rapt and motionless;
then she turned to her companion with a quick patter of questions. He
gathered from them that she had been less interested in following
the general drift of the play than in observing the details of its
interpretation. Every gesture and inflection of the great actress’s
had been marked and analyzed; and Darrow felt a secret gratification in
being appealed to as an authority on the histrionic art. His interest in
it had hitherto been merely that of the cultivated young man curious of
all forms of artistic expression; but in reply to her questions he found
things to say about it which evidently struck his listener as impressive
and original, and with which he himself was not, on the whole,
dissatisfied. Miss Viner was much more concerned to hear his views
than to express her own, and the deference with which she received his
comments called from him more ideas about the theatre than he had ever
supposed himself to possess.

With the second act she began to give more attention to the development
of the play, though her interest was excited rather by what she called
“the story” than by the conflict of character producing it. Oddly
combined with her sharp apprehension of things theatrical, her knowledge
of technical “dodges” and green-room precedents, her glibness about
“lines” and “curtains”, was the primitive simplicity of her attitude
toward the tale itself, as toward something that was “really happening”
 and at which one assisted as at a street-accident or a quarrel overheard
in the next room. She wanted to know if Darrow thought the lovers
“really would” be involved in the catastrophe that threatened them,
and when he reminded her that his predictions were disqualified by his
having already seen the play, she exclaimed: “Oh, then, please don’t
tell me what’s going to happen!” and the next moment was questioning
him about Cerdine’s theatrical situation and her private history. On the
latter point some of her enquiries were of a kind that it is not in
the habit of young girls to make, or even to know how to make; but her
apparent unconsciousness of the fact seemed rather to reflect on her
past associates than on herself.

When the second act was over, Darrow suggested their taking a turn
in the foyer; and seated on one of its cramped red velvet sofas they
watched the crowd surge up and down in a glare of lights and gilding.
Then, as she complained of the heat, he led her through the press to the
congested cafe at the foot of the stairs, where orangeades were thrust
at them between the shoulders of packed consommateurs and Darrow,
lighting a cigarette while she sucked her straw, knew the primitive
complacency of the man at whose companion other men stare.

On a corner of their table lay a smeared copy of a theatrical journal.
It caught Sophy’s eye and after poring over the page she looked up with
an excited exclamation.

“They’re giving Oedipe tomorrow afternoon at the Francais! I suppose
you’ve seen it heaps and heaps of times?”

He smiled back at her. “You must see it too. We’ll go tomorrow.”

She sighed at his suggestion, but without discarding it. “How can I? The
last train for Joigny leaves at four.”

“But you don’t know yet that your friends will want you.”

“I shall know tomorrow early. I asked Mrs. Farlow to telegraph as soon
as she got my letter.” A twinge of compunction shot through Darrow. Her
words recalled to him that on their return to the hotel after luncheon
she had given him her letter to post, and that he had never thought of
it again. No doubt it was still in the pocket of the coat he had taken
off when he dressed for dinner. In his perturbation he pushed back his
chair, and the movement made her look up at him.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. Only--you know I don’t fancy that letter can have caught this
afternoon’s post.”

“Not caught it? Why not?”

“Why, I’m afraid it will have been too late.” He bent his head to light
another cigarette.

She struck her hands together with a gesture which, to his amusement, he
noticed she had caught from Cerdine.

“Oh, dear, I hadn’t thought of that! But surely it will reach them in
the morning?”

“Some time in the morning, I suppose. You know the French provincial
post is never in a hurry. I don’t believe your letter would have been
delivered this evening in any case.” As this idea occurred to him he
felt himself almost absolved.

“Perhaps, then, I ought to have telegraphed?”

“I’ll telegraph for you in the morning if you say so.”

The bell announcing the close of the entr’-acte shrilled through the
cafe, and she sprang to her feet.

“Oh, come, come! We mustn’t miss it!”

Instantly forgetful of the Farlows, she slipped her arm through his and
turned to push her way back to the theatre.

As soon as the curtain went up she as promptly forgot her companion.
Watching her from the corner to which he had returned, Darrow saw that
great waves of sensation were beating deliciously against her brain. It
was as though every starved sensibility were throwing out feelers to the
mounting tide; as though everything she was seeing, hearing, imagining,
rushed in to fill the void of all she had always been denied.

Darrow, as he observed her, again felt a detached enjoyment in her
pleasure. She was an extraordinary conductor of sensation: she seemed to
transmit it physically, in emanations that set the blood dancing in his
veins. He had not often had the opportunity of studying the effects of a
perfectly fresh impression on so responsive a temperament, and he felt a
fleeting desire to make its chords vibrate for his own amusement.

At the end of the next act she discovered with dismay that in their
transit to the cafe she had lost the beautiful pictured programme he
had bought for her. She wanted to go back and hunt for it, but Darrow
assured her that he would have no trouble in getting her another. When
he went out in quest of it she followed him protestingly to the door of
the box, and he saw that she was distressed at the thought of his having
to spend an additional franc for her. This frugality smote Darrow by its
contrast to her natural bright profusion; and again he felt the desire
to right so clumsy an injustice.

When he returned to the box she was still standing in the doorway,
and he noticed that his were not the only eyes attracted to her. Then
another impression sharply diverted his attention. Above the fagged
faces of the Parisian crowd he had caught the fresh fair countenance
of Owen Leath signalling a joyful recognition. The young man, slim and
eager, had detached himself from two companions of his own type, and
was seeking to push through the press to his step-mother’s friend. The
encounter, to Darrow, could hardly have been more inopportune; it woke
in him a confusion of feelings of which only the uppermost was allayed
by seeing Sophy Viner, as if instinctively warned, melt back into the
shadow of their box.

A minute later Owen Leath was at his side. “I was sure it was you! Such
luck to run across you! Won’t you come off with us to supper after it’s
over? Montmartre, or wherever else you please. Those two chaps over
there are friends of mine, at the Beaux Arts; both of them rather good
fellows--and we’d be so glad----”

For half a second Darrow read in his hospitable eye the termination “if
you’d bring the lady too”; then it deflected into: “We’d all be so glad
if you’d come.”

Darrow, excusing himself with thanks, lingered on for a few minutes’
chat, in which every word, and every tone of his companion’s voice, was
like a sharp light flashed into aching eyes. He was glad when the bell
called the audience to their seats, and young Leath left him with the
friendly question: “We’ll see you at Givre later on?”

When he rejoined Miss Viner, Darrow’s first care was to find out, by a
rapid inspection of the house, whether Owen Leath’s seat had given him a
view of their box. But the young man was not visible from it, and Darrow
concluded that he had been recognized in the corridor and not at his
companion’s side. He scarcely knew why it seemed to him so important
that this point should be settled; certainly his sense of reassurance
was less due to regard for Miss Viner than to the persistent vision of
grave offended eyes...

During the drive back to the hotel this vision was persistently kept
before him by the thought that the evening post might have brought a
letter from Mrs. Leath. Even if no letter had yet come, his servant
might have telegraphed to say that one was on its way; and at the
thought his interest in the girl at his side again cooled to the
fraternal, the almost fatherly. She was no more to him, after all, than
an appealing young creature to whom it was mildly agreeable to have
offered an evening’s diversion; and when, as they rolled into the
illuminated court of the hotel, she turned with a quick movement which
brought her happy face close to his, he leaned away, affecting to be
absorbed in opening the door of the cab.

At the desk the night porter, after a vain search through the
pigeon-holes, was disposed to think that a letter or telegram had in
fact been sent up for the gentleman; and Darrow, at the announcement,
could hardly wait to ascend to his room. Upstairs, he and his companion
had the long dimly-lit corridor to themselves, and Sophy paused on her
threshold, gathering up in one hand the pale folds of her cloak, while
she held the other out to Darrow.

“If the telegram comes early I shall be off by the first train; so I
suppose this is good-bye,” she said, her eyes dimmed by a little shadow
of regret.

Darrow, with a renewed start of contrition, perceived that he had again
forgotten her letter; and as their hands met he vowed to himself that
the moment she had left him he would dash down stairs to post it.

“Oh, I’ll see you in the morning, of course!”

A tremor of pleasure crossed her face as he stood before her, smiling a
little uncertainly.

“At any rate,” she said, “I want to thank you now for my good day.”

He felt in her hand the same tremor he had seen in her face. “But it’s
YOU, on the contrary--” he began, lifting the hand to his lips.

As he dropped it, and their eyes met, something passed through hers that
was like a light carried rapidly behind a curtained window.

“Good night; you must be awfully tired,” he said with a friendly
abruptness, turning away without even waiting to see her pass into her
room. He unlocked his door, and stumbling over the threshold groped in
the darkness for the electric button. The light showed him a telegram on
the table, and he forgot everything else as he caught it up.

“No letter from France,” the message read.

It fell from Darrow’s hand to the floor, and he dropped into a chair
by the table and sat gazing at the dingy drab and olive pattern of
the carpet. She had not written, then; she had not written, and it
was manifest now that she did not mean to write. If she had had any
intention of explaining her telegram she would certainly, within
twenty-four hours, have followed it up by a letter. But she evidently
did not intend to explain it, and her silence could mean only that she
had no explanation to give, or else that she was too indifferent to be
aware that one was needed.

Darrow, face to face with these alternatives, felt a recrudescence of
boyish misery. It was no longer his hurt vanity that cried out. He told
himself that he could have borne an equal amount of pain, if only it had
left Mrs. Leath’s image untouched; but he could not bear to think of her
as trivial or insincere. The thought was so intolerable that he felt a
blind desire to punish some one else for the pain it caused him.

As he sat moodily staring at the carpet its silly intricacies melted
into a blur from which the eyes of Mrs. Leath again looked out at him.
He saw the fine sweep of her brows, and the deep look beneath them as
she had turned from him on their last evening in London. “This will be
good-bye, then,” she had said; and it occurred to him that her parting
phrase had been the same as Sophy Viner’s.

At the thought he jumped to his feet and took down from its hook the
coat in which he had left Miss Viner’s letter. The clock marked the
third quarter after midnight, and he knew it would make no difference
if he went down to the post-box now or early the next morning; but he
wanted to clear his conscience, and having found the letter he went to
the door.

A sound in the next room made him pause. He had become conscious again
that, a few feet off, on the other side of a thin partition, a small
keen flame of life was quivering and agitating the air. Sophy’s face
came back to him insistently. It was as vivid now as Mrs. Leath’s had
been a moment earlier. He recalled with a faint smile of retrospective
pleasure the girl’s enjoyment of her evening, and the innumerable fine
feelers of sensation she had thrown out to its impressions.

It gave him a curiously close sense of her presence to think that at
that moment she was living over her enjoyment as intensely as he was
living over his unhappiness. His own case was irremediable, but it was
easy enough to give her a few more hours of pleasure. And did she not
perhaps secretly expect it of him? After all, if she had been very
anxious to join her friends she would have telegraphed them on reaching
Paris, instead of writing. He wondered now that he had not been struck
at the moment by so artless a device to gain more time. The fact of her
having practised it did not make him think less well of her; it merely
strengthened the impulse to use his opportunity. She was starving, poor
child, for a little amusement, a little personal life--why not give
her the chance of another day in Paris? If he did so, should he not be
merely falling in with her own hopes?

At the thought his sympathy for her revived. She became of absorbing
interest to him as an escape from himself and an object about which his
thwarted activities could cluster. He felt less drearily alone because
of her being there, on the other side of the door, and in his gratitude
to her for giving him this relief he began, with indolent amusement, to
plan new ways of detaining her. He dropped back into his chair, lit a
cigar, and smiled a little at the image of her smiling face. He tried to
imagine what incident of the day she was likely to be recalling at that
particular moment, and what part he probably played in it. That it
was not a small part he was certain, and the knowledge was undeniably
pleasant.

Now and then a sound from her room brought before him more vividly
the reality of the situation and the strangeness of the vast swarming
solitude in which he and she were momentarily isolated, amid long lines
of rooms each holding its separate secret. The nearness of all these
other mysteries enclosing theirs gave Darrow a more intimate sense of
the girl’s presence, and through the fumes of his cigar his imagination
continued to follow her to and fro, traced the curve of her slim young
arms as she raised them to undo her hair, pictured the sliding down of
her dress to the waist and then to the knees, and the whiteness of her
feet as she slipped across the floor to bed...

He stood up and shook himself with a yawn, throwing away the end of
his cigar. His glance, in following it, lit on the telegram which had
dropped to the floor. The sounds in the next room had ceased, and once
more he felt alone and unhappy.

Opening the window, he folded his arms on the sill and looked out on the
vast light-spangled mass of the city, and then up at the dark sky, in
which the morning planet stood.




VI


At the Theatre Francais, the next afternoon, Darrow yawned and fidgeted
in his seat.

The day was warm, the theatre crowded and airless, and the performance,
it seemed to him, intolerably bad. He stole a glance at his companion,
wondering if she shared his feelings. Her rapt profile betrayed no
unrest, but politeness might have caused her to feign an interest that
she did not feel. He leaned back impatiently, stifling another yawn,
and trying to fix his attention on the stage. Great things were going
forward there, and he was not insensible to the stern beauties of the
ancient drama. But the interpretation of the play seemed to him as
airless and lifeless as the atmosphere of the theatre. The players were
the same whom he had often applauded in those very parts, and perhaps
that fact added to the impression of staleness and conventionality
produced by their performance. Surely it was time to infuse new blood
into the veins of the moribund art. He had the impression that the
ghosts of actors were giving a spectral performance on the shores of
Styx.

Certainly it was not the most profitable way for a young man with a
pretty companion to pass the golden hours of a spring afternoon. The
freshness of the face at his side, reflecting the freshness of the
season, suggested dapplings of sunlight through new leaves, the sound of
a brook in the grass, the ripple of tree-shadows over breezy meadows...

When at length the fateful march of the cothurns was stayed by the
single pause in the play, and Darrow had led Miss Viner out on the
balcony overhanging the square before the theatre, he turned to see if
she shared his feelings. But the rapturous look she gave him checked the
depreciation on his lips.

“Oh, why did you bring me out here? One ought to creep away and sit in
the dark till it begins again!”

“Is THAT the way they made you feel?”

“Didn’t they _YOU?_...As if the gods were there all the while, just behind
them, pulling the strings?” Her hands were pressed against the railing,
her face shining and darkening under the wing-beats of successive
impressions.

Darrow smiled in enjoyment of her pleasure. After all, he had felt all
that, long ago; perhaps it was his own fault, rather than that of the
actors, that the poetry of the play seemed to have evaporated...But no,
he had been right in judging the performance to be dull and stale:
it was simply his companion’s inexperience, her lack of occasions to
compare and estimate, that made her think it brilliant.

“I was afraid you were bored and wanted to come away.”

“BORED?” She made a little aggrieved grimace. “You mean you thought me
too ignorant and stupid to appreciate it?”

“No; not that.” The hand nearest him still lay on the railing of the
balcony, and he covered it for a moment with his. As he did so he saw
the colour rise and tremble in her cheek.

“Tell me just what you think,” he said, bending his head a little, and
only half-aware of his words.

She did not turn her face to his, but began to talk rapidly, trying
to convey something of what she felt. But she was evidently unused to
analyzing her aesthetic emotions, and the tumultuous rush of the drama
seemed to have left her in a state of panting wonder, as though it had
been a storm or some other natural cataclysm. She had no literary or
historic associations to which to attach her impressions: her education
had evidently not comprised a course in Greek literature. But she felt
what would probably have been unperceived by many a young lady who had
taken a first in classics: the ineluctable fatality of the tale, the
dread sway in it of the same mysterious “luck” which pulled the threads
of her own small destiny. It was not literature to her, it was fact: as
actual, as near by, as what was happening to her at the moment and what
the next hour held in store. Seen in this light, the play regained for
Darrow its supreme and poignant reality. He pierced to the heart of
its significance through all the artificial accretions with which his
theories of art and the conventions of the stage had clothed it, and saw
it as he had never seen it: as life.

After this there could be no question of flight, and he took her back to
the theatre, content to receive his own sensations through the medium of
hers. But with the continuation of the play, and the oppression of the
heavy air, his attention again began to wander, straying back over the
incidents of the morning.

He had been with Sophy Viner all day, and he was surprised to find
how quickly the time had gone. She had hardly attempted, as the hours
passed, to conceal her satisfaction on finding that no telegram came
from the Farlows. “They’ll have written,” she had simply said; and her
mind had at once flown on to the golden prospect of an afternoon at the
theatre. The intervening hours had been disposed of in a stroll through
the lively streets, and a repast, luxuriously lingered over, under
the chestnut-boughs of a restaurant in the Champs Elysees. Everything
entertained and interested her, and Darrow remarked, with an amused
detachment, that she was not insensible to the impression her charms
produced. Yet there was no hard edge of vanity in her sense of her
prettiness: she seemed simply to be aware of it as a note in the general
harmony, and to enjoy sounding the note as a singer enjoys singing.

After luncheon, as they sat over their coffee, she had again asked
an immense number of questions and delivered herself of a remarkable
variety of opinions. Her questions testified to a wholesome and
comprehensive human curiosity, and her comments showed, like her
face and her whole attitude, an odd mingling of precocious wisdom and
disarming ignorance. When she talked to him about “life”--the word was
often on her lips--she seemed to him like a child playing with a tiger’s
cub; and he said to himself that some day the child would grow up--and
so would the tiger. Meanwhile, such expertness qualified by such candour
made it impossible to guess the extent of her personal experience, or
to estimate its effect on her character. She might be any one of a dozen
definable types, or she might--more disconcertingly to her companion and
more perilously to herself--be a shifting and uncrystallized mixture of
them all.

Her talk, as usual, had promptly reverted to the stage. She was eager
to learn about every form of dramatic expression which the metropolis
of things theatrical had to offer, and her curiosity ranged from the
official temples of the art to its less hallowed haunts. Her searching
enquiries about a play whose production, on one of the latter scenes,
had provoked a considerable amount of scandal, led Darrow to throw out
laughingly: “To see THAT you’ll have to wait till you’re married!” and
his answer had sent her off at a tangent.

“Oh, I never mean to marry,” she had rejoined in a tone of youthful
finality.

“I seem to have heard that before!”

“Yes; from girls who’ve only got to choose!” Her eyes had grown suddenly
almost old. “I’d like you to see the only men who’ve ever wanted to
marry me! One was the doctor on the steamer, when I came abroad with the
Hokes: he’d been cashiered from the navy for drunkenness. The other was
a deaf widower with three grown-up daughters, who kept a clock-shop in
Bayswater!--Besides,” she rambled on, “I’m not so sure that I believe
in marriage. You see I’m all for self-development and the chance to live
one’s life. I’m awfully modern, you know.”

It was just when she proclaimed herself most awfully modern that she
struck him as most helplessly backward; yet the moment after, without
any bravado, or apparent desire to assume an attitude, she would
propound some social axiom which could have been gathered only in the
bitter soil of experience.

All these things came back to him as he sat beside her in the theatre
and watched her ingenuous absorption. It was on “the story” that her
mind was fixed, and in life also, he suspected, it would always be “the
story”, rather than its remoter imaginative issues, that would hold her.
He did not believe there were ever any echoes in her soul...

There was no question, however, that what she felt was felt with
intensity: to the actual, the immediate, she spread vibrating strings.
When the play was over, and they came out once more into the sunlight,
Darrow looked down at her with a smile.

“Well?” he asked.

She made no answer. Her dark gaze seemed to rest on him without seeing
him. Her cheeks and lips were pale, and the loose hair under her
hat-brim clung to her forehead in damp rings. She looked like a young
priestess still dazed by the fumes of the cavern.

“You poor child--it’s been almost too much for you!”

She shook her head with a vague smile.

“Come,” he went on, putting his hand on her arm, “let’s jump into a taxi
and get some air and sunshine. Look, there are hours of daylight left;
and see what a night it’s going to be!”

He pointed over their heads, to where a white moon hung in the misty
blue above the roofs of the rue de Rivoli.

She made no answer, and he signed to a motor-cab, calling out to the
driver: “To the Bois!”

As the carriage turned toward the Tuileries she roused herself. “I must
go first to the hotel. There may be a message--at any rate I must decide
on something.”

Darrow saw that the reality of the situation had suddenly forced itself
upon her. “I MUST decide on something,” she repeated.

He would have liked to postpone the return, to persuade her to drive
directly to the Bois for dinner. It would have been easy enough to
remind her that she could not start for Joigny that evening, and that
therefore it was of no moment whether she received the Farlows’ answer
then or a few hours later; but for some reason he hesitated to use this
argument, which had come so naturally to him the day before. After all,
he knew she would find nothing at the hotel--so what did it matter if
they went there?

The porter, interrogated, was not sure. He himself had received nothing
for the lady, but in his absence his subordinate might have sent a
letter upstairs.

Darrow and Sophy mounted together in the lift, and the young man, while
she went into her room, unlocked his own door and glanced at the empty
table. For him at least no message had come; and on her threshold, a
moment later, she met him with the expected: “No--there’s nothing!”

He feigned an unregretful surprise. “So much the better! And now, shall
we drive out somewhere? Or would you rather take a boat to Bellevue?
Have you ever dined there, on the terrace, by moonlight? It’s not at all
bad. And there’s no earthly use in sitting here waiting.”

She stood before him in perplexity.

“But when I wrote yesterday I asked them to telegraph. I suppose they’re
horribly hard up, the poor dears, and they thought a letter would do
as well as a telegram.” The colour had risen to her face. “That’s why I
wrote instead of telegraphing; I haven’t a penny to spare myself!”

Nothing she could have said could have filled her listener with a deeper
contrition. He felt the red in his own face as he recalled the motive
with which he had credited her in his midnight musings. But that motive,
after all, had simply been trumped up to justify his own disloyalty: he
had never really believed in it. The reflection deepened his confusion,
and he would have liked to take her hand in his and confess the
injustice he had done her.

She may have interpreted his change of colour as an involuntary protest
at being initiated into such shabby details, for she went on with a
laugh: “I suppose you can hardly understand what it means to have to
stop and think whether one can afford a telegram? But I’ve always had to
consider such things. And I mustn’t stay here any longer now--I must try
to get a night train for Joigny. Even if the Farlows can’t take me in,
I can go to the hotel: it will cost less than staying here.” She paused
again and then exclaimed: “I ought to have thought of that sooner; I
ought to have telegraphed yesterday! But I was sure I should hear from
them today; and I wanted--oh, I DID so awfully want to stay!” She threw
a troubled look at Darrow. “Do you happen to remember,” she asked, “what
time it was when you posted my letter?”




VII


Darrow was still standing on her threshold. As she put the question he
entered the room and closed the door behind him.

His heart was beating a little faster than usual and he had no clear
idea of what he was about to do or say, beyond the definite conviction
that, whatever passing impulse of expiation moved him, he would not be
fool enough to tell her that he had not sent her letter. He knew that
most wrongdoing works, on the whole, less mischief than its useless
confession; and this was clearly a case where a passing folly might be
turned, by avowal, into a serious offense.

“I’m so sorry--so sorry; but you must let me help you...You will let me
help you?” he said.

He took her hands and pressed them together between his, counting on a
friendly touch to help out the insufficiency of words. He felt her yield
slightly to his clasp, and hurried on without giving her time to answer.

“Isn’t it a pity to spoil our good time together by regretting anything
you might have done to prevent our having it?”

She drew back, freeing her hands. Her face, losing its look of appealing
confidence, was suddenly sharpened by distrust.

“You didn’t forget to post my letter?”

Darrow stood before her, constrained and ashamed, and ever more keenly
aware that the betrayal of his distress must be a greater offense than
its concealment.

“What an insinuation!” he cried, throwing out his hands with a laugh.

Her face instantly melted to laughter. “Well, then--I WON’T be sorry; I
won’t regret anything except that our good time is over!”

The words were so unexpected that they routed all his resolves. If she
had gone on doubting him he could probably have gone on deceiving her;
but her unhesitating acceptance of his word made him hate the part he
was playing. At the same moment a doubt shot up its serpent-head in his
own bosom. Was it not he rather than she who was childishly trustful?
Was she not almost too ready to take his word, and dismiss once for all
the tiresome question of the letter? Considering what her experiences
must have been, such trustfulness seemed open to suspicion. But the
moment his eyes fell on her he was ashamed of the thought, and knew it
for what it really was: another pretext to lessen his own delinquency.

“Why should our good time be over?” he asked. “Why shouldn’t it last a
little longer?”

She looked up, her lips parted in surprise; but before she could speak
he went on: “I want you to stay with me--I want you, just for a few
days, to have all the things you’ve never had. It’s not always May
and Paris--why not make the most of them now? You know me--we’re not
strangers--why shouldn’t you treat me like a friend?”

While he spoke she had drawn away a little, but her hand still lay in
his. She was pale, and her eyes were fixed on him in a gaze in which
there was neither distrust or resentment, but only an ingenuous wonder.
He was extraordinarily touched by her expression.

“Oh, do! You must. Listen: to prove that I’m sincere I’ll tell
you...I’ll tell you I didn’t post your letter...I didn’t post it because
I wanted so much to give you a few good hours ... and because I couldn’t
bear to have you go.”

He had the feeling that the words were being uttered in spite of him by
some malicious witness of the scene, and yet that he was not sorry to
have them spoken.

The girl had listened to him in silence. She remained motionless for a
moment after he had ceased to speak; then she snatched away her hand.

“You didn’t post my letter? You kept it back on purpose? And you tell
me so NOW, to prove to me that I’d better put myself under your
protection?” She burst into a laugh that had in it all the piercing
echoes of her Murrett past, and her face, at the same moment, underwent
the same change, shrinking into a small malevolent white mask in which
the eyes burned black. “Thank you--thank you most awfully for
telling me! And for all your other kind intentions! The plan’s
delightful--really quite delightful, and I’m extremely flattered and
obliged.”

She dropped into a seat beside her dressing-table, resting her chin on
her lifted hands, and laughing out at him under the elf-lock which had
shaken itself down over her eyes.

Her outburst did not offend the young man; its immediate effect was that
of allaying his agitation. The theatrical touch in her manner made his
offense seem more venial than he had thought it a moment before.

He drew up a chair and sat down beside her. “After all,” he said, in a
tone of good-humoured protest, “I needn’t have told you I’d kept back
your letter; and my telling you seems rather strong proof that I hadn’t
any very nefarious designs on you.”

She met this with a shrug, but he did not give her time to answer. “My
designs,” he continued with a smile, “were not nefarious. I saw you’d
been through a bad time with Mrs. Murrett, and that there didn’t seem
to be much fun ahead for you; and I didn’t see--and I don’t yet see--the
harm of trying to give you a few hours of amusement between a depressing
past and a not particularly cheerful future.” He paused again, and then
went on, in the same tone of friendly reasonableness: “The mistake I
made was not to tell you this at once--not to ask you straight out to
give me a day or two, and let me try to make you forget all the things
that are troubling you. I was a fool not to see that if I’d put it to
you in that way you’d have accepted or refused, as you chose; but that
at least you wouldn’t have mistaken my intentions.--Intentions!” He
stood up, walked the length of the room, and turned back to where she
still sat motionless, her elbows propped on the dressing-table, her chin
on her hands. “What rubbish we talk about intentions! The truth is I
hadn’t any: I just liked being with you. Perhaps you don’t know how
extraordinarily one can like being with you...I was depressed and adrift
myself; and you made me forget my bothers; and when I found you were
going--and going back to dreariness, as I was--I didn’t see why we
shouldn’t have a few hours together first; so I left your letter in my
pocket.”

He saw her face melt as she listened, and suddenly she unclasped her
hands and leaned to him.

“But are YOU unhappy too? Oh, I never understood--I never dreamed it! I
thought you’d always had everything in the world you wanted!”

Darrow broke into a laugh at this ingenuous picture of his state. He
was ashamed of trying to better his case by an appeal to her pity, and
annoyed with himself for alluding to a subject he would rather have
kept out of his thoughts. But her look of sympathy had disarmed him; his
heart was bitter and distracted; she was near him, her eyes were shining
with compassion--he bent over her and kissed her hand.

“Forgive me--do forgive me,” he said.

She stood up with a smiling head-shake. “Oh, it’s not so often that
people try to give me any pleasure--much less two whole days of it!
I sha’n’t forget how kind you’ve been. I shall have plenty of time to
remember. But this IS good-bye, you know. I must telegraph at once to
say I’m coming.”

“To say you’re coming? Then I’m not forgiven?”

“Oh, you’re forgiven--if that’s any comfort.”

“It’s not, the very least, if your way of proving it is to go away!”

She hung her head in meditation. “But I can’t stay.--How CAN I stay?”
 she broke out, as if arguing with some unseen monitor.

“Why can’t you? No one knows you’re here...No one need ever know.”

She looked up, and their eyes exchanged meanings for a rapid minute. Her
gaze was as clear as a boy’s. “Oh, it’s not THAT,” she exclaimed,
almost impatiently; “it’s not people I’m afraid of! They’ve never put
themselves out for me--why on earth should I care about them?”

He liked her directness as he had never liked it before. “Well, then,
what is it? Not ME, I hope?”

“No, not you: I like you. It’s the money! With me that’s always the root
of the matter. I could never yet afford a treat in my life!”

“Is _THAT_ all?” He laughed, relieved by her naturalness. “Look here;
since we re talking as man to man--can’t you trust me about that too?”

“Trust you? How do you mean? You’d better not trust ME!” she laughed
back sharply. “I might never be able to pay up!”

His gesture brushed aside the allusion. “Money may be the root of the
matter; it can’t be the whole of it, between friends. Don’t you think
one friend may accept a small service from another without looking too
far ahead or weighing too many chances? The question turns entirely on
what you think of me. If you like me well enough to be willing to take
a few days’ holiday with me, just for the pleasure of the thing, and the
pleasure you’ll be giving me, let’s shake hands on it. If you don’t like
me well enough we’ll shake hands too; only I shall be sorry,” he ended.

“Oh, but I shall be sorry too!” Her face, as she lifted it to his,
looked so small and young that Darrow felt a fugitive twinge of
compunction, instantly effaced by the excitement of pursuit.

“Well, then?” He stood looking down on her, his eyes persuading her.
He was now intensely aware that his nearness was having an effect which
made it less and less necessary for him to choose his words, and he went
on, more mindful of the inflections of his voice than of what he was
actually saying: “Why on earth should we say good-bye if we’re both
sorry to? Won’t you tell me your reason? It’s not a bit like you to let
anything stand in the way of your saying just what you feel. You mustn’t
mind offending me, you know!”

She hung before him like a leaf on the meeting of cross-currents, that
the next ripple may sweep forward or whirl back. Then she flung up
her head with the odd boyish movement habitual to her in moments of
excitement. “What I feel? Do you want to know what I feel? That you’re
giving me the only chance I’ve ever had!”

She turned about on her heel and, dropping into the nearest chair, sank
forward, her face hidden against the dressing-table.

Under the folds of her thin summer dress the modelling of her back and
of her lifted arms, and the slight hollow between her shoulder-blades,
recalled the faint curves of a terra-cotta statuette, some young image
of grace hardly more than sketched in the clay. Darrow, as he stood
looking at her, reflected that her character, for all its seeming
firmness, its flashing edges of “opinion”, was probably no less
immature. He had not expected her to yield so suddenly to his
suggestion, or to confess her yielding in that way. At first he was
slightly disconcerted; then he saw how her attitude simplified his own.
Her behaviour had all the indecision and awkwardness of inexperience. It
showed that she was a child after all; and all he could do--all he had
ever meant to do--was to give her a child’s holiday to look back to.

For a moment he fancied she was crying; but the next she was on her feet
and had swept round on him a face she must have turned away only to hide
the first rush of her pleasure.

For a while they shone on each other without speaking; then she sprang
to him and held out both hands.

“Is it true? Is it really true? Is it really going to happen to ME?”

He felt like answering: “You’re the very creature to whom it was bound
to happen”; but the words had a double sense that made him wince, and
instead he caught her proffered hands and stood looking at her across
the length of her arms, without attempting to bend them or to draw
her closer. He wanted her to know how her words had moved him; but his
thoughts were blurred by the rush of the same emotion that possessed
her, and his own words came with an effort.

He ended by giving her back a laugh as frank as her own, and declaring,
as he dropped her hands: “All that and more too--you’ll see!”




VIII


All day, since the late reluctant dawn, the rain had come down in
torrents. It streamed against Darrow’s high-perched windows, reduced
their vast prospect of roofs and chimneys to a black oily huddle, and
filled the room with the drab twilight of an underground aquarium.

The streams descended with the regularity of a third day’s rain, when
trimming and shuffling are over, and the weather has settled down to do
its worst. There were no variations of rhythm, no lyrical ups and downs:
the grey lines streaking the panes were as dense and uniform as a page
of unparagraphed narrative.

George Darrow had drawn his armchair to the fire. The time-table he
had been studying lay on the floor, and he sat staring with dull
acquiescence into the boundless blur of rain, which affected him like a
vast projection of his own state of mind. Then his eyes travelled slowly
about the room.

It was exactly ten days since his hurried unpacking had strewn it with
the contents of his portmanteaux. His brushes and razors were spread out
on the blotched marble of the chest of drawers. A stack of newspapers
had accumulated on the centre table under the “electrolier”, and half a
dozen paper novels lay on the mantelpiece among cigar-cases and toilet
bottles; but these traces of his passage had made no mark on the
featureless dulness of the room, its look of being the makeshift setting
of innumerable transient collocations. There was something sardonic,
almost sinister, in its appearance of having deliberately “made up” for
its anonymous part, all in noncommittal drabs and browns, with a
carpet and paper that nobody would remember, and chairs and tables as
impersonal as railway porters.

Darrow picked up the time-table and tossed it on to the table. Then he
rose to his feet, lit a cigar and went to the window. Through the rain
he could just discover the face of a clock in a tall building beyond the
railway roofs. He pulled out his watch, compared the two time-pieces,
and started the hands of his with such a rush that they flew past the
hour and he had to make them repeat the circuit more deliberately. He
felt a quite disproportionate irritation at the trifling blunder. When
he had corrected it he went back to his chair and threw himself down,
leaning back his head against his hands. Presently his cigar went out,
and he got up, hunted for the matches, lit it again and returned to his
seat.

The room was getting on his nerves. During the first few days, while
the skies were clear, he had not noticed it, or had felt for it only the
contemptuous indifference of the traveller toward a provisional shelter.
But now that he was leaving it, was looking at it for the last time,
it seemed to have taken complete possession of his mind, to be soaking
itself into him like an ugly indelible blot. Every detail pressed itself
on his notice with the familiarity of an accidental confidant: whichever
way he turned, he felt the nudge of a transient intimacy...

The one fixed point in his immediate future was that his leave was over
and that he must be back at his post in London the next morning. Within
twenty-four hours he would again be in a daylight world of recognized
activities, himself a busy, responsible, relatively necessary factor in
the big whirring social and official machine. That fixed obligation
was the fact he could think of with the least discomfort, yet for some
unaccountable reason it was the one on which he found it most difficult
to fix his thoughts. Whenever he did so, the room jerked him back into
the circle of its insistent associations. It was extraordinary with what
a microscopic minuteness of loathing he hated it all: the grimy carpet
and wallpaper, the black marble mantel-piece, the clock with a gilt
allegory under a dusty bell, the high-bolstered brown-counterpaned bed,
the framed card of printed rules under the electric light switch, and
the door of communication with the next room. He hated the door most of
all...

At the outset, he had felt no special sense of responsibility. He was
satisfied that he had struck the right note, and convinced of his power
of sustaining it. The whole incident had somehow seemed, in spite of its
vulgar setting and its inevitable prosaic propinquities, to be enacting
itself in some unmapped region outside the pale of the usual. It was not
like anything that had ever happened to him before, or in which he had
ever pictured himself as likely to be involved; but that, at first, had
seemed no argument against his fitness to deal with it.

Perhaps but for the three days’ rain he might have got away without a
doubt as to his adequacy. The rain had made all the difference. It had
thrown the whole picture out of perspective, blotted out the mystery
of the remoter planes and the enchantment of the middle distance, and
thrust into prominence every commonplace fact of the foreground. It was
the kind of situation that was not helped by being thought over; and
by the perversity of circumstance he had been forced into the unwilling
contemplation of its every aspect...

His cigar had gone out again, and he threw it into the fire and vaguely
meditated getting up to find another. But the mere act of leaving his
chair seemed to call for a greater exertion of the will than he was
capable of, and he leaned his head back with closed eyes and listened to
the drumming of the rain.

A different noise aroused him. It was the opening and closing of
the door leading from the corridor into the adjoining room. He sat
motionless, without opening his eyes; but now another sight forced
itself under his lowered lids. It was the precise photographic picture
of that other room. Everything in it rose before him and pressed itself
upon his vision with the same acuity of distinctness as the objects
surrounding him. A step sounded on the floor, and he knew which way the
step was directed, what pieces of furniture it had to skirt, where it
would probably pause, and what was likely to arrest it. He heard another
sound, and recognized it as that of a wet umbrella placed in the black
marble jamb of the chimney-piece, against the hearth. He caught the
creak of a hinge, and instantly differentiated it as that of the
wardrobe against the opposite wall. Then he heard the mouse-like squeal
of a reluctant drawer, and knew it was the upper one in the chest of
drawers beside the bed: the clatter which followed was caused by the
mahogany toilet-glass jumping on its loosened pivots...

The step crossed the floor again. It was strange how much better he knew
it than the person to whom it belonged! Now it was drawing near the door
of communication between the two rooms. He opened his eyes and looked.
The step had ceased and for a moment there was silence. Then he heard
a low knock. He made no response, and after an interval he saw that
the door handle was being tentatively turned. He closed his eyes once
more...

The door opened, and the step was in the room, coming cautiously toward
him. He kept his eyes shut, relaxing his body to feign sleep. There
was another pause, then a wavering soft advance, the rustle of a dress
behind his chair, the warmth of two hands pressed for a moment on his
lids. The palms of the hands had the lingering scent of some stuff that
he had bought on the Boulevard...He looked up and saw a letter falling
over his shoulder to his knee...

“Did I disturb you? I’m so sorry! They gave me this just now when I came
in.”

The letter, before he could catch it, had slipped between his knees to
the floor. It lay there, address upward, at his feet, and while he sat
staring down at the strong slender characters on the blue-gray envelope
an arm reached out from behind to pick it up.

“Oh, don’t--DON’T” broke from him, and he bent over and caught the arm.
The face above it was close to his.

“Don’t what?”

----“take the trouble,” he stammered.

He dropped the arm and stooped down. His grasp closed over the letter,
he fingered its thickness and weight and calculated the number of sheets
it must contain.

Suddenly he felt the pressure of the hand on his shoulder, and became
aware that the face was still leaning over him, and that in a moment he
would have to look up and kiss it...

He bent forward first and threw the unopened letter into the middle of
the fire.




BOOK II




IX


The light of the October afternoon lay on an old high-roofed house which
enclosed in its long expanse of brick and yellowish stone the breadth of
a grassy court filled with the shadow and sound of limes.

From the escutcheoned piers at the entrance of the court a level drive,
also shaded by limes, extended to a white-barred gate beyond which
an equally level avenue of grass, cut through a wood, dwindled to a
blue-green blur against a sky banked with still white slopes of cloud.

In the court, half-way between house and drive, a lady stood. She held
a parasol above her head, and looked now at the house-front, with its
double flight of steps meeting before a glazed door under sculptured
trophies, now down the drive toward the grassy cutting through the wood.
Her air was less of expectancy than of contemplation: she seemed not so
much to be watching for any one, or listening for an approaching sound,
as letting the whole aspect of the place sink into her while she held
herself open to its influence. Yet it was no less apparent that the
scene was not new to her. There was no eagerness of investigation in her
survey: she seemed rather to be looking about her with eyes to which,
for some intimate inward reason, details long since familiar had
suddenly acquired an unwonted freshness.

This was in fact the exact sensation of which Mrs. Leath was conscious
as she came forth from the house and descended into the sunlit court.
She had come to meet her step-son, who was likely to be returning
at that hour from an afternoon’s shooting in one of the more distant
plantations, and she carried in her hand the letter which had sent her
in search of him; but with her first step out of the house all thought
of him had been effaced by another series of impressions.

The scene about her was known to satiety. She had seen Givre at all
seasons of the year, and for the greater part of every year, since the
far-off day of her marriage; the day when, ostensibly driving through
its gates at her husband’s side, she had actually been carried there on
a cloud of iris-winged visions.

The possibilities which the place had then represented were still
vividly present to her. The mere phrase “a French chateau” had called
up to her youthful fancy a throng of romantic associations, poetic,
pictorial and emotional; and the serene face of the old house seated in
its park among the poplar-bordered meadows of middle France, had
seemed, on her first sight of it, to hold out to her a fate as noble and
dignified as its own mien.

Though she could still call up that phase of feeling it had long since
passed, and the house had for a time become to her the very symbol
of narrowness and monotony. Then, with the passing of years, it had
gradually acquired a less inimical character, had become, not again a
castle of dreams, evoker of fair images and romantic legend, but the
shell of a life slowly adjusted to its dwelling: the place one came back
to, the place where one had one’s duties, one’s habits and one’s books,
the place one would naturally live in till one died: a dull house, an
inconvenient house, of which one knew all the defects, the shabbinesses,
the discomforts, but to which one was so used that one could hardly,
after so long a time, think one’s self away from it without suffering a
certain loss of identity.

Now, as it lay before her in the autumn mildness, its mistress was
surprised at her own insensibility. She had been trying to see the
house through the eyes of an old friend who, the next morning, would be
driving up to it for the first time; and in so doing she seemed to be
opening her own eyes upon it after a long interval of blindness.

The court was very still, yet full of a latent life: the wheeling and
rustling of pigeons about the rectangular yews and across the sunny
gravel; the sweep of rooks above the lustrous greyish-purple slates of
the roof, and the stir of the tree-tops as they met the breeze which
every day, at that hour, came punctually up from the river.

Just such a latent animation glowed in Anna Leath. In every nerve and
vein she was conscious of that equipoise of bliss which the fearful
human heart scarce dares acknowledge. She was not used to strong or
full emotions; but she had always known that she should not be afraid of
them. She was not afraid now; but she felt a deep inward stillness.

The immediate effect of the feeling had been to send her forth in quest
of her step-son. She wanted to stroll back with him and have a quiet
talk before they re-entered the house. It was always easy to talk to
him, and at this moment he was the one person to whom she could have
spoken without fear of disturbing her inner stillness. She was glad, for
all sorts of reasons, that Madame de Chantelle and Effie were still
at Ouchy with the governess, and that she and Owen had the house to
themselves. And she was glad that even he was not yet in sight. She
wanted to be alone a little longer; not to think, but to let the long
slow waves of joy break over her one by one.

She walked out of the court and sat down on one of the benches that
bordered the drive. From her seat she had a diagonal view of the long
house-front and of the domed chapel terminating one of the wings. Beyond
a gate in the court-yard wall the flower-garden drew its dark-green
squares and raised its statues against the yellowing background of the
park. In the borders only a few late pinks and crimsons smouldered,
but a peacock strutting in the sun seemed to have gathered into his
out-spread fan all the summer glories of the place.

In Mrs. Leath’s hand was the letter which had opened her eyes to these
things, and a smile rose to her lips at the mere feeling of the paper
between her fingers. The thrill it sent through her gave a keener edge
to every sense. She felt, saw, breathed the shining world as though a
thin impenetrable veil had suddenly been removed from it.

Just such a veil, she now perceived, had always hung between herself and
life. It had been like the stage gauze which gives an illusive air of
reality to the painted scene behind it, yet proves it, after all, to be
no more than a painted scene.

She had been hardly aware, in her girlhood, of differing from others in
this respect. In the well-regulated well-fed Summers world the unusual
was regarded as either immoral or ill-bred, and people with emotions
were not visited. Sometimes, with a sense of groping in a topsy-turvy
universe, Anna had wondered why everybody about her seemed to ignore all
the passions and sensations which formed the stuff of great poetry and
memorable action. In a community composed entirely of people like her
parents and her parents’ friends she did not see how the magnificent
things one read about could ever have happened. She was sure that if
anything of the kind had occurred in her immediate circle her mother
would have consulted the family clergyman, and her father perhaps even
have rung up the police; and her sense of humour compelled her to own
that, in the given conditions, these precautions might not have been
unjustified.

Little by little the conditions conquered her, and she learned to regard
the substance of life as a mere canvas for the embroideries of poet
and painter, and its little swept and fenced and tended surface as its
actual substance. It was in the visioned region of action and emotion
that her fullest hours were spent; but it hardly occurred to her that
they might be translated into experience, or connected with anything
likely to happen to a young lady living in West Fifty-fifth Street.

She perceived, indeed, that other girls, leading outwardly the same life
as herself, and seemingly unaware of her world of hidden beauty, were
yet possessed of some vital secret which escaped her. There seemed to be
a kind of freemasonry between them; they were wider awake than she, more
alert, and surer of their wants if not of their opinions. She supposed
they were “cleverer”, and accepted her inferiority good-humouredly, half
aware, within herself, of a reserve of unused power which the others
gave no sign of possessing.

This partly consoled her for missing so much of what made their “good
time”; but the resulting sense of exclusion, of being somehow laughingly
but firmly debarred from a share of their privileges, threw her back on
herself and deepened the reserve which made envious mothers cite her as
a model of ladylike repression. Love, she told herself, would one day
release her from this spell of unreality. She was persuaded that the
sublime passion was the key to the enigma; but it was difficult to
relate her conception of love to the forms it wore in her experience.
Two or three of the girls she had envied for their superior acquaintance
with the arts of life had contracted, in the course of time, what were
variously described as “romantic” or “foolish” marriages; one even made
a runaway match, and languished for a while under a cloud of social
reprobation. Here, then, was passion in action, romance converted
to reality; yet the heroines of these exploits returned from them
untransfigured, and their husbands were as dull as ever when one had to
sit next to them at dinner.

Her own case, of course, would be different. Some day she would find the
magic bridge between West Fifty-fifth Street and life; once or twice she
had even fancied that the clue was in her hand. The first time was
when she had met young Darrow. She recalled even now the stir of the
encounter. But his passion swept over her like a wind that shakes the
roof of the forest without reaching its still glades or rippling its
hidden pools. He was extraordinarily intelligent and agreeable, and her
heart beat faster when he was with her. He had a tall fair easy presence
and a mind in which the lights of irony played pleasantly through the
shades of feeling. She liked to hear his voice almost as much as to
listen to what he was saying, and to listen to what he was saying almost
as much as to feel that he was looking at her; but he wanted to kiss
her, and she wanted to talk to him about books and pictures, and have
him insinuate the eternal theme of their love into every subject they
discussed.

Whenever they were apart a reaction set in. She wondered how she could
have been so cold, called herself a prude and an idiot, questioned if
any man could really care for her, and got up in the dead of night to
try new ways of doing her hair. But as soon as he reappeared her head
straightened itself on her slim neck and she sped her little shafts of
irony, or flew her little kites of erudition, while hot and cold waves
swept over her, and the things she really wanted to say choked in her
throat and burned the palms of her hands.

Often she told herself that any silly girl who had waltzed through a
season would know better than she how to attract a man and hold him; but
when she said “a man” she did not really mean George Darrow.

Then one day, at a dinner, she saw him sitting next to one of the silly
girls in question: the heroine of the elopement which had shaken West
Fifty-fifth Street to its base. The young lady had come back from her
adventure no less silly than when she went; and across the table the
partner of her flight, a fat young man with eye-glasses, sat stolidly
eating terrapin and talking about polo and investments.

The young woman was undoubtedly as silly as ever; yet after watching
her for a few minutes Miss Summers perceived that she had somehow grown
luminous, perilous, obscurely menacing to nice girls and the young men
they intended eventually to accept. Suddenly, at the sight, a rage of
possessorship awoke in her. She must save Darrow, assert her right
to him at any price. Pride and reticence went down in a hurricane
of jealousy. She heard him laugh, and there was something new in his
laugh...She watched him talking, talking...He sat slightly sideways, a
faint smile beneath his lids, lowering his voice as he lowered it when
he talked to her. She caught the same inflections, but his eyes were
different. It would have offended her once if he had looked at her like
that. Now her one thought was that none but she had a right to be so
looked at. And that girl of all others! What illusions could he have
about a girl who, hardly a year ago, had made a fool of herself over
the fat young man stolidly eating terrapin across the table? If that
was where romance and passion ended, it was better to take to district
visiting or algebra!

All night she lay awake and wondered: “What was she saying to him? How
shall I learn to say such things?” and she decided that her heart would
tell her--that the next time they were alone together the irresistible
word would spring to her lips. He came the next day, and they were
alone, and all she found was: “I didn’t know that you and Kitty Mayne
were such friends.”

He answered with indifference that he didn’t know it either, and in the
reaction of relief she declared: “She’s certainly ever so much prettier
than she was...”

“She’s rather good fun,” he admitted, as though he had not noticed her
other advantages; and suddenly Anna saw in his eyes the look she had
seen there the previous evening.

She felt as if he were leagues and leagues away from her. All her hopes
dissolved, and she was conscious of sitting rigidly, with high head and
straight lips, while the irresistible word fled with a last wing-beat
into the golden mist of her illusions...


She was still quivering with the pain and bewilderment of this adventure
when Fraser Leath appeared. She met him first in Italy, where she was
travelling with her parents; and the following winter he came to
New York. In Italy he had seemed interesting: in New York he became
remarkable. He seldom spoke of his life in Europe, and let drop but the
most incidental allusions to the friends, the tastes, the pursuits which
filled his cosmopolitan days; but in the atmosphere of West Fifty-fifth
Street he seemed the embodiment of a storied past. He presented Miss
Summers with a prettily-bound anthology of the old French poets and,
when she showed a discriminating pleasure in the gift, observed with his
grave smile: “I didn’t suppose I should find any one here who would feel
about these things as I do.” On another occasion he asked her acceptance
of a half-effaced eighteenth century pastel which he had surprisingly
picked up in a New York auction-room. “I know no one but you who would
really appreciate it,” he explained.

He permitted himself no other comments, but these conveyed with
sufficient directness that he thought her worthy of a different setting.
That she should be so regarded by a man living in an atmosphere of art
and beauty, and esteeming them the vital elements of life, made her
feel for the first time that she was understood. Here was some one whose
scale of values was the same as hers, and who thought her opinion
worth hearing on the very matters which they both considered of supreme
importance. The discovery restored her self-confidence, and she revealed
herself to Mr. Leath as she had never known how to reveal herself to
Darrow.

As the courtship progressed, and they grew more confidential, her
suitor surprised and delighted her by little explosions of revolutionary
sentiment. He said: “Shall you mind, I wonder, if I tell you that you
live in a dread-fully conventional atmosphere?” and, seeing that she
manifestly did not mind: “Of course I shall say things now and then that
will horrify your dear delightful parents--I shall shock them awfully, I
warn you.”

In confirmation of this warning he permitted himself an occasional
playful fling at the regular church-going of Mr. and Mrs. Summers, at
the innocuous character of the literature in their library, and at their
guileless appreciations in art. He even ventured to banter Mrs. Summers
on her refusal to receive the irrepressible Kitty Mayne who, after a
rapid passage with George Darrow, was now involved in another and more
flagrant adventure.

“In Europe, you know, the husband is regarded as the only judge in such
matters. As long as he accepts the situation--” Mr. Leath explained
to Anna, who took his view the more emphatically in order to convince
herself that, personally, she had none but the most tolerant sentiments
toward the lady.

The subversiveness of Mr. Leath’s opinions was enhanced by the
distinction of his appearance and the reserve of his manners. He was
like the anarchist with a gardenia in his buttonhole who figures in
the higher melodrama. Every word, every allusion, every note of his
agreeably-modulated voice, gave Anna a glimpse of a society at once
freer and finer, which observed the traditional forms but had discarded
the underlying prejudices; whereas the world she knew had discarded many
of the forms and kept almost all the prejudices.

In such an atmosphere as his an eager young woman, curious as to all the
manifestations of life, yet instinctively desiring that they should come
to her in terms of beauty and fine feeling, must surely find the largest
scope for self-expression. Study, travel, the contact of the world, the
comradeship of a polished and enlightened mind, would combine to enrich
her days and form her character; and it was only in the rare moments
when Mr. Leath’s symmetrical blond mask bent over hers, and his kiss
dropped on her like a cold smooth pebble, that she questioned the
completeness of the joys he offered.

There had been a time when the walls on which her gaze now rested had
shed a glare of irony on these early dreams. In the first years of her
marriage the sober symmetry of Givre had suggested only her husband’s
neatly-balanced mind. It was a mind, she soon learned, contentedly
absorbed in formulating the conventions of the unconventional. West
Fifty-fifth Street was no more conscientiously concerned than Givre with
the momentous question of “what people did”; it was only the type of
deed investigated that was different. Mr. Leath collected his social
instances with the same seriousness and patience as his snuff-boxes.
He exacted a rigid conformity to his rules of non-conformity and his
scepticism had the absolute accent of a dogma. He even cherished certain
exceptions to his rules as the book-collector prizes a “defective” first
edition. The Protestant church-going of Anna’s parents had provoked
his gentle sarcasm; but he prided himself on his mother’s devoutness,
because Madame de Chantelle, in embracing her second husband’s creed,
had become part of a society which still observes the outward rites of
piety.

Anna, in fact, had discovered in her amiable and elegant mother-in-law
an unexpected embodiment of the West Fifty-fifth Street ideal. Mrs.
Summers and Madame de Chantelle, however strongly they would have
disagreed as to the authorized source of Christian dogma, would have
found themselves completely in accord on all the momentous minutiae of
drawing-room conduct; yet Mr. Leath treated his mother’s foibles with a
respect which Anna’s experience of him forbade her to attribute wholly
to filial affection.

In the early days, when she was still questioning the Sphinx instead of
trying to find an answer to it, she ventured to tax her husband with his
inconsistency.

“You say your mother won’t like it if I call on that amusing little
woman who came here the other day, and was let in by mistake; but
Madame de Chantelle tells me she lives with her husband, and when mother
refused to visit Kitty Mayne you said----”

Mr. Leath’s smile arrested her. “My dear child, I don’t pretend to apply
the principles of logic to my poor mother’s prejudices.”

“But if you admit that they ARE prejudices----?”

“There are prejudices and prejudices. My mother, of course, got hers
from Monsieur de Chantelle, and they seem to me as much in their place
in this house as the pot-pourri in your hawthorn jar. They preserve a
social tradition of which I should be sorry to lose the least perfume.
Of course I don’t expect you, just at first, to feel the difference, to
see the nuance. In the case of little Madame de Vireville, for instance:
you point out that she’s still under her husband’s roof. Very true; and
if she were merely a Paris acquaintance--especially if you had met her,
as one still might, in the RIGHT KIND of house in Paris--I should be the
last to object to your visiting her. But in the country it’s different.
Even the best provincial society is what you would call narrow: I
don’t deny it; and if some of our friends met Madame de Vireville at
Givre--well, it would produce a bad impression. You’re inclined to
ridicule such considerations, but gradually you’ll come to see their
importance; and meanwhile, do trust me when I ask you to be guided by
my mother. It is always well for a stranger in an old society to err a
little on the side of what you call its prejudices but I should rather
describe as its traditions.”

After that she no longer tried to laugh or argue her husband out of his
convictions. They WERE convictions, and therefore unassailable. Nor
was any insincerity implied in the fact that they sometimes seemed to
coincide with hers. There were occasions when he really did look at
things as she did; but for reasons so different as to make the distance
between them all the greater. Life, to Mr. Leath, was like a walk
through a carefully classified museum, where, in moments of doubt, one
had only to look at the number and refer to one’s catalogue; to his wife
it was like groping about in a huge dark lumber-room where the exploring
ray of curiosity lit up now some shape of breathing beauty and now a
mummy’s grin.

In the first bewilderment of her new state these discoveries had had the
effect of dropping another layer of gauze between herself and reality.
She seemed farther than ever removed from the strong joys and pangs for
which she felt herself made. She did not adopt her husband’s views, but
insensibly she began to live his life. She tried to throw a compensating
ardour into the secret excursions of her spirit, and thus the old
vicious distinction between romance and reality was re-established for
her, and she resigned herself again to the belief that “real life” was
neither real nor alive.

The birth of her little girl swept away this delusion. At last she felt
herself in contact with the actual business of living: but even this
impression was not enduring.

Everything but the irreducible crude fact of child-bearing assumed, in
the Leath household, the same ghostly tinge of unreality. Her husband,
at the time, was all that his own ideal of a husband required. He was
attentive, and even suitably moved: but as he sat by her bedside, and
thoughtfully proffered to her the list of people who had “called to
enquire”, she looked first at him, and then at the child between them,
and wondered at the blundering alchemy of Nature...

With the exception of the little girl herself, everything connected with
that time had grown curiously remote and unimportant. The days that had
moved so slowly as they passed seemed now to have plunged down head-long
steeps of time; and as she sat in the autumn sun, with Darrow’s letter
in her hand, the history of Anna Leath appeared to its heroine like some
grey shadowy tale that she might have read in an old book, one night as
she was falling asleep...




X


Two brown blurs emerging from the farther end of the wood-vista
gradually defined themselves as her step-son and an attendant
game-keeper. They grew slowly upon the bluish background, with
occasional delays and re-effacements, and she sat still, waiting till
they should reach the gate at the end of the drive, where the keeper
would turn off to his cottage and Owen continue on to the house.

She watched his approach with a smile. From the first days of her
marriage she had been drawn to the boy, but it was not until after
Effie’s birth that she had really begun to know him. The eager
observation of her own child had shown her how much she had still to
learn about the slight fair boy whom the holidays periodically restored
to Givre. Owen, even then, both physically and morally, furnished her
with the oddest of commentaries on his father’s mien and mind. He would
never, the family sighingly recognized, be nearly as handsome as Mr.
Leath; but his rather charmingly unbalanced face, with its brooding
forehead and petulant boyish smile, suggested to Anna what his father’s
countenance might have been could one have pictured its neat features
disordered by a rattling breeze. She even pushed the analogy farther,
and descried in her step-son’s mind a quaintly-twisted reflection of
her husband’s. With his bursts of door-slamming activity, his fits of
bookish indolence, his crude revolutionary dogmatizing and his flashes
of precocious irony, the boy was not unlike a boisterous embodiment of
his father’s theories. It was as though Fraser Leath’s ideas, accustomed
to hang like marionettes on their pegs, should suddenly come down
and walk. There were moments, indeed, when Owen’s humours must have
suggested to his progenitor the gambols of an infant Frankenstein; but
to Anna they were the voice of her secret rebellions, and her tenderness
to her step-son was partly based on her severity toward herself. As he
had the courage she had lacked, so she meant him to have the chances
she had missed; and every effort she made for him helped to keep her own
hopes alive.

Her interest in Owen led her to think more often of his mother, and
sometimes she would slip away and stand alone before her predecessor’s
portrait. Since her arrival at Givre the picture--a “full-length” by a
once fashionable artist--had undergone the successive displacements of
an exiled consort removed farther and farther from the throne; and
Anna could not help noting that these stages coincided with the gradual
decline of the artist’s fame. She had a fancy that if his credit had
been in the ascendant the first Mrs. Leath might have continued to
throne over the drawing-room mantel-piece, even to the exclusion of
her successor’s effigy. Instead of this, her peregrinations had finally
landed her in the shrouded solitude of the billiard-room, an apartment
which no one ever entered, but where it was understood that “the light
was better,” or might have been if the shutters had not been always
closed.

Here the poor lady, elegantly dressed, and seated in the middle of a
large lonely canvas, in the blank contemplation of a gilt console, had
always seemed to Anna to be waiting for visitors who never came.

“Of course they never came, you poor thing! I wonder how long it
took you to find out that they never would?” Anna had more than once
apostrophized her, with a derision addressed rather to herself than to
the dead; but it was only after Effie’s birth that it occurred to her to
study more closely the face in the picture, and speculate on the kind of
visitors that Owen’s mother might have hoped for.

“She certainly doesn’t look as if they would have been the same kind as
mine: but there’s no telling, from a portrait that was so obviously done
‘to please the family’, and that leaves Owen so unaccounted for. Well,
they never came, the visitors; they never came; and she died of it. She
died of it long before they buried her: I’m certain of that. Those are
stone-dead eyes in the picture...The loneliness must have been awful, if
even Owen couldn’t keep her from dying of it. And to feel it so she must
have HAD feelings--real live ones, the kind that twitch and tug. And all
she had to look at all her life was a gilt console--yes, that’s it, a
gilt console screwed to the wall! That’s exactly and absolutely what he
is!”

She did not mean, if she could help it, that either Effie or Owen should
know that loneliness, or let her know it again. They were three, now, to
keep each other warm, and she embraced both children in the same passion
of motherhood, as though one were not enough to shield her from her
predecessor’s fate.

Sometimes she fancied that Owen Leath’s response was warmer than that
of her own child. But then Effie was still hardly more than a baby,
and Owen, from the first, had been almost “old enough to understand”:
certainly DID understand now, in a tacit way that yet perpetually spoke
to her. This sense of his understanding was the deepest element in their
feeling for each other. There were so many things between them that were
never spoken of, or even indirectly alluded to, yet that, even in their
occasional discussions and differences, formed the unadduced arguments
making for final agreement...

Musing on this, she continued to watch his approach; and her heart began
to beat a little faster at the thought of what she had to say to him.
But when he reached the gate she saw him pause, and after a moment he
turned aside as if to gain a cross-road through the park.

She started up and waved her sunshade, but he did not see her. No doubt
he meant to go back with the gamekeeper, perhaps to the kennels, to see
a retriever who had hurt his leg. Suddenly she was seized by the whim
to overtake him. She threw down the parasol, thrust her letter into her
bodice, and catching up her skirts began to run.

She was slight and light, with a natural ease and quickness of gait, but
she could not recall having run a yard since she had romped with Owen in
his school-days; nor did she know what impulse moved her now. She only
knew that run she must, that no other motion, short of flight, would
have been buoyant enough for her humour. She seemed to be keeping pace
with some inward rhythm, seeking to give bodily expression to the lyric
rush of her thoughts. The earth always felt elastic under her, and she
had a conscious joy in treading it; but never had it been as soft and
springy as today. It seemed actually to rise and meet her as she went,
so that she had the feeling, which sometimes came to her in dreams, of
skimming miraculously over short bright waves. The air, too, seemed to
break in waves against her, sweeping by on its current all the slanted
lights and moist sharp perfumes of the failing day. She panted to
herself: “This is nonsense!” her blood hummed back: “But it’s glorious!”
 and she sped on till she saw that Owen had caught sight of her and was
striding back in her direction.

Then she stopped and waited, flushed and laughing, her hands clasped
against the letter in her breast.

“No, I’m not mad,” she called out; “but there’s something in the air
today--don’t you feel it?--And I wanted to have a little talk with you,”
 she added as he came up to her, smiling at him and linking her arm in
his.

He smiled back, but above the smile she saw the shade of anxiety which,
for the last two months, had kept its fixed line between his handsome
eyes.

“Owen, don’t look like that! I don’t want you to!” she said imperiously.

He laughed. “You said that exactly like Effie. What do you want me to
do? To race with you as I do Effie? But I shouldn’t have a show!” he
protested, still with the little frown between his eyes.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“To the kennels. But there’s not the least need. The vet has seen Garry
and he’s all right. If there’s anything you wanted to tell me----”

“Did I say there was? I just came out to meet you--I wanted to know if
you’d had good sport.”

The shadow dropped on him again. “None at all. The fact is I didn’t try.
Jean and I have just been knocking about in the woods. I wasn’t in a
sanguinary mood.”

They walked on with the same light gait, so nearly of a height that
keeping step came as naturally to them as breathing. Anna stole another
look at the young face on a level with her own.

“You DID say there was something you wanted to tell me,” her step-son
began after a pause.

“Well, there is.” She slackened her pace involuntarily, and they came to
a pause and stood facing each other under the limes.

“Is Darrow coming?” he asked.

She seldom blushed, but at the question a sudden heat suffused her. She
held her head high.

“Yes: he’s coming. I’ve just heard. He arrives to-morrow. But that’s
not----” She saw her blunder and tried to rectify it. “Or rather, yes,
in a way it is my reason for wanting to speak to you----”

“Because he’s coming?”

“Because he’s not yet here.”

“It’s about him, then?”

He looked at her kindly, half-humourously, an almost fraternal wisdom in
his smile.

“About----? No, no: I meant that I wanted to speak today because it’s
our last day alone together.”

“Oh, I see.” He had slipped his hands into the pockets of his tweed
shooting jacket and lounged along at her side, his eyes bent on the
moist ruts of the drive, as though the matter had lost all interest for
him.

“Owen----”

He stopped again and faced her. “Look here, my dear, it’s no sort of
use.”

“What’s no use?”

“Anything on earth you can any of you say.”

She challenged him: “Am I one of ‘any of you’?”

He did not yield. “Well, then--anything on earth that even YOU can say.”
 “You don’t in the least know what I can say--or what I mean to.”

“Don’t I, generally?”

She gave him this point, but only to make another. “Yes; but this is
particularly. I want to say...Owen, you’ve been admirable all through.”

He broke into a laugh in which the odd elder-brotherly note was once
more perceptible.

“Admirable,” she emphasized. “And so has SHE.”

“Oh, and so have you to HER!” His voice broke down to boyishness. “I’ve
never lost sight of that for a minute. It’s been altogether easier for
her, though,” he threw off presently.

“On the whole, I suppose it has. Well----” she summed up with a laugh,
“aren’t you all the better pleased to be told you’ve behaved as well as
she?”

“Oh, you know, I’ve not done it for you,” he tossed back at her, without
the least note of hostility in the affected lightness of his tone.

“Haven’t you, though, perhaps--the least bit? Because, after all, you
knew I understood?”

“You’ve been awfully kind about pretending to.”

She laughed. “You don’t believe me? You must remember I had your
grandmother to consider.”

“Yes: and my father--and Effie, I suppose--and the outraged shades of
Givre!” He paused, as if to lay more stress on the boyish sneer: “Do you
likewise include the late Monsieur de Chantelle?”

His step-mother did not appear to resent the thrust. She went on, in the
same tone of affectionate persuasion: “Yes: I must have seemed to you
too subject to Givre. Perhaps I have been. But you know that was not my
real object in asking you to wait, to say nothing to your grandmother
before her return.”

He considered. “Your real object, of course, was to gain time.”

“Yes--but for whom? Why not for YOU?”

“For me?” He flushed up quickly. “You don’t mean----?”

She laid her hand on his arm and looked gravely into his handsome eyes.

“I mean that when your grandmother gets back from Ouchy I shall speak to
her----” “You’ll speak to her...?”

“Yes; if only you’ll promise to give me time----”

“Time for her to send for Adelaide Painter?”

“Oh, she’ll undoubtedly send for Adelaide Painter!”

The allusion touched a spring of mirth in both their minds, and they
exchanged a laughing look.

“Only you must promise not to rush things. You must give me time to
prepare Adelaide too,” Mrs. Leath went on.

“Prepare her too?” He drew away for a better look at her. “Prepare her
for what?”

“Why, to prepare your grandmother! For your marriage. Yes, that’s what I
mean. I’m going to see you through, you know----”

His feint of indifference broke down and he caught her hand. “Oh, you
dear divine thing! I didn’t dream----”

“I know you didn’t.” She dropped her gaze and began to walk on slowly.
“I can’t say you’ve convinced me of the wisdom of the step. Only I
seem to see that other things matter more--and that not missing things
matters most. Perhaps I’ve changed--or YOUR not changing has convinced
me. I’m certain now that you won’t budge. And that was really all I ever
cared about.”

“Oh, as to not budging--I told you so months ago: you might have been
sure of that! And how can you be any surer today than yesterday?”

“I don’t know. I suppose one learns something every day----”

“Not at Givre!” he laughed, and shot a half-ironic look at her. “But you
haven’t really BEEN at Givre lately--not for months! Don’t you suppose
I’ve noticed that, my dear?”

She echoed his laugh to merge it in an undenying sigh. “Poor Givre...”

“Poor empty Givre! With so many rooms full and yet not a soul in
it--except of course my grandmother, who is its soul!”

They had reached the gateway of the court and stood looking with a
common accord at the long soft-hued facade on which the autumn light was
dying. “It looks so made to be happy in----” she murmured.

“Yes--today, today!” He pressed her arm a little. “Oh, you darling--to
have given it that look for me!” He paused, and then went on in a lower
voice: “Don’t you feel we owe it to the poor old place to do what we can
to give it that look? You, too, I mean? Come, let’s make it grin
from wing to wing! I’ve such a mad desire to say outrageous things to
it--haven’t you? After all, in old times there must have been living
people here!”

Loosening her arm from his she continued to gaze up at the house-front,
which seemed, in the plaintive decline of light, to send her back the
mute appeal of something doomed.

“It IS beautiful,” she said.

“A beautiful memory! Quite perfect to take out and turn over when I’m
grinding at the law in New York, and you’re----” He broke off and looked
at her with a questioning smile. “Come! Tell me. You and I don’t have
to say things to talk to each other. When you turn suddenly absentminded
and mysterious I always feel like saying: ‘Come back. All is
discovered’.”

She returned his smile. “You know as much as I know. I promise you
that.”

He wavered, as if for the first time uncertain how far he might go. “I
don’t know Darrow as much as you know him,” he presently risked.

She frowned a little. “You said just now we didn’t need to say things”

“Was I speaking? I thought it was your eyes----” He caught her by both
elbows and spun her halfway round, so that the late sun shed a betraying
gleam on her face. “They’re such awfully conversational eyes! Don’t you
suppose they told me long ago why it’s just today you’ve made up your
mind that people have got to live their own lives--even at Givre?”




XI


“This is the south terrace,” Anna said. “Should you like to walk down to
the river?”

She seemed to listen to herself speaking from a far-off airy height, and
yet to be wholly gathered into the circle of consciousness which drew
its glowing ring about herself and Darrow. To the aerial listener her
words sounded flat and colourless, but to the self within the ring each
one beat with a separate heart.

It was the day after Darrow’s arrival, and he had come down early, drawn
by the sweetness of the light on the lawns and gardens below his window.
Anna had heard the echo of his step on the stairs, his pause in the
stone-flagged hall, his voice as he asked a servant where to find her.
She was at the end of the house, in the brown-panelled sitting-room
which she frequented at that season because it caught the sunlight first
and kept it longest. She stood near the window, in the pale band of
brightness, arranging some salmon-pink geraniums in a shallow porcelain
bowl. Every sensation of touch and sight was thrice-alive in her. The
grey-green fur of the geranium leaves caressed her fingers and the
sunlight wavering across the irregular surface of the old parquet floor
made it seem as bright and shifting as the brown bed of a stream.

Darrow stood framed in the door-way of the farthest drawing-room, a
light-grey figure against the black and white flagging of the hall; then
he began to move toward her down the empty pale-panelled vista, crossing
one after another the long reflections which a projecting cabinet or
screen cast here and there upon the shining floors.

As he drew nearer, his figure was suddenly displaced by that of her
husband, whom, from the same point, she had so often seen advancing down
the same perspective. Straight, spare, erect, looking to right and
left with quick precise turns of the head, and stopping now and then to
straighten a chair or alter the position of a vase, Fraser Leath used
to march toward her through the double file of furniture like a general
reviewing a regiment drawn up for his inspection. At a certain point,
midway across the second room, he always stopped before the mantel-piece
of pinkish-yellow marble and looked at himself in the tall garlanded
glass that surmounted it. She could not remember that he had ever found
anything to straighten or alter in his own studied attire, but she had
never known him to omit the inspection when he passed that particular
mirror.

When it was over he continued more briskly on his way, and the resulting
expression of satisfaction was still on his face when he entered the oak
sitting-room to greet his wife...

The spectral projection of this little daily scene hung but for a moment
before Anna, but in that moment she had time to fling a wondering glance
across the distance between her past and present. Then the footsteps of
the present came close, and she had to drop the geraniums to give her
hand to Darrow...

“Yes, let us walk down to the river.”

They had neither of them, as yet, found much to say to each other.
Darrow had arrived late on the previous afternoon, and during the
evening they had had between them Owen Leath and their own thoughts. Now
they were alone for the first time and the fact was enough in itself.
Yet Anna was intensely aware that as soon as they began to talk more
intimately they would feel that they knew each other less well.

They passed out onto the terrace and down the steps to the gravel walk
below. The delicate frosting of dew gave the grass a bluish shimmer, and
the sunlight, sliding in emerald streaks along the tree-boles, gathered
itself into great luminous blurs at the end of the wood-walks, and hung
above the fields a watery glory like the ring about an autumn moon.

“It’s good to be here,” Darrow said.

They took a turn to the left and stopped for a moment to look back at
the long pink house-front, plainer, friendlier, less adorned than on the
side toward the court. So prolonged yet delicate had been the friction
of time upon its bricks that certain expanses had the bloom and texture
of old red velvet, and the patches of gold lichen spreading over them
looked like the last traces of a dim embroidery. The dome of the chapel,
with its gilded cross, rose above one wing, and the other ended in a
conical pigeon-house, above which the birds were flying, lustrous and
slatey, their breasts merged in the blue of the roof when they dropped
down on it.

“And this is where you’ve been all these years.”

They turned away and began to walk down a long tunnel of yellowing
trees. Benches with mossy feet stood against the mossy edges of the
path, and at its farther end it widened into a circle about a basin
rimmed with stone, in which the opaque water strewn with leaves looked
like a slab of gold-flecked agate. The path, growing narrower, wound on
circuitously through the woods, between slender serried trunks twined
with ivy. Patches of blue appeared above them through the dwindling
leaves, and presently the trees drew back and showed the open fields
along the river.

They walked on across the fields to the tow-path. In a curve of the wall
some steps led up to a crumbling pavilion with openings choked with ivy.
Anna and Darrow seated themselves on the bench projecting from the inner
wall of the pavilion and looked across the river at the slopes divided
into blocks of green and fawn-colour, and at the chalk-tinted village
lifting its squat church-tower and grey roofs against the precisely
drawn lines of the landscape. Anna sat silent, so intensely aware of
Darrow’s nearness that there was no surprise in the touch he laid on her
hand. They looked at each other, and he smiled and said: “There are to
be no more obstacles now.”

“Obstacles?” The word startled her. “What obstacles?”

“Don’t you remember the wording of the telegram that turned me back
last May? ‘Unforeseen obstacle’: that was it. What was the earth-shaking
problem, by the way? Finding a governess for Effie, wasn’t it?”

“But I gave you my reason: the reason why it was an obstacle. I wrote
you fully about it.”

“Yes, I know you did.” He lifted her hand and kissed it. “How far off it
all seems, and how little it all matters today!”

She looked at him quickly. “Do you feel that? I suppose I’m different. I
want to draw all those wasted months into today--to make them a part of
it.”

“But they are, to me. You reach back and take everything--back to the
first days of all.”

She frowned a little, as if struggling with an inarticulate perplexity.
“It’s curious how, in those first days, too, something that I didn’t
understand came between us.”

“Oh, in those days we neither of us understood, did we? It’s part of
what’s called the bliss of being young.”

“Yes, I thought that, too: thought it, I mean, in looking back. But it
couldn’t, even then, have been as true of you as of me; and now----”

“Now,” he said, “the only thing that matters is that we’re sitting here
together.”

He dismissed the rest with a lightness that might have seemed conclusive
evidence of her power over him. But she took no pride in such triumphs.
It seemed to her that she wanted his allegiance and his adoration not so
much for herself as for their mutual love, and that in treating lightly
any past phase of their relation he took something from its present
beauty. The colour rose to her face.

“Between you and me everything matters.”

“Of course!” She felt the unperceiving sweetness of his smile. “That’s
why,” he went on, “‘everything,’ for me, is here and now: on this bench,
between you and me.”

She caught at the phrase. “That’s what I meant: it’s here and now; we
can’t get away from it.”

“Get away from it? Do you want to? AGAIN?”

Her heart was beating unsteadily. Something in her, fitfully and with
reluctance, struggled to free itself, but the warmth of his nearness
penetrated every sense as the sunlight steeped the landscape. Then,
suddenly, she felt that she wanted no less than the whole of her
happiness.

“‘Again’? But wasn’t it YOU, the last time----?”

She paused, the tremor in her of Psyche holding up the lamp. But in the
interrogative light of her pause her companion’s features underwent no
change.

“The last time? Last spring? But it was you who--for the best of
reasons, as you’ve told me--turned me back from your very door last
spring!”

She saw that he was good-humouredly ready to “thresh out,” for her
sentimental satisfaction, a question which, for his own, Time had so
conclusively dealt with; and the sense of his readiness reassured her.

“I wrote as soon as I could,” she rejoined. “I explained the delay and
asked you to come. And you never even answered my letter.”

“It was impossible to come then. I had to go back to my post.”

“And impossible to write and tell me so?”

“Your letter was a long time coming. I had waited a week--ten days. I
had some excuse for thinking, when it came, that you were in no great
hurry for an answer.”

“You thought that--really--after reading it?”

“I thought it.”

Her heart leaped up to her throat. “Then why are you here today?”

He turned on her with a quick look of wonder. “God knows--if you can ask
me that!”

“You see I was right to say I didn’t understand.”

He stood up abruptly and stood facing her, blocking the view over the
river and the checkered slopes. “Perhaps I might say so too.”

“No, no: we must neither of us have any reason for saying it again.”
 She looked at him gravely. “Surely you and I needn’t arrange the lights
before we show ourselves to each other. I want you to see me just as I
am, with all my irrational doubts and scruples; the old ones and the new
ones too.”

He came back to his seat beside her. “Never mind the old ones. They were
justified--I’m willing to admit it. With the governess having suddenly
to be packed off, and Effie on your hands, and your mother-in-law ill,
I see the impossibility of your letting me come. I even see that, at the
moment, it was difficult to write and explain. But what does all that
matter now? The new scruples are the ones I want to tackle.”

Again her heart trembled. She felt her happiness so near, so sure, that
to strain it closer might be like a child’s crushing a pet bird in its
caress. But her very security urged her on. For so long her doubts had
been knife-edged: now they had turned into bright harmless toys that she
could toss and catch without peril!

“You didn’t come, and you didn’t answer my letter; and after waiting
four months I wrote another.” “And I answered that one; and I’m here.”

“Yes.” She held his eyes. “But in my last letter I repeated exactly what
I’d said in the first--the one I wrote you last June. I told you then
that I was ready to give you the answer to what you’d asked me in
London; and in telling you that, I told you what the answer was.”

“My dearest! My dearest!” Darrow murmured.

“You ignored that letter. All summer you made no sign. And all I ask now
is, that you should frankly tell me why.”

“I can only repeat what I’ve just said. I was hurt and unhappy and
I doubted you. I suppose if I’d cared less I should have been more
confident. I cared so much that I couldn’t risk another failure. For
you’d made me feel that I’d miserably failed. So I shut my eyes and set
my teeth and turned my back. There’s the whole pusillanimous truth of
it!”

“Oh, if it’s the WHOLE truth!----” She let him clasp her. “There’s my
torment, you see. I thought that was what your silence meant till I made
you break it. Now I want to be sure that I was right.”

“What can I tell you to make you sure?”

“You can let me tell YOU everything first.” She drew away, but without
taking her hands from him. “Owen saw you in Paris,” she began.

She looked at him and he faced her steadily. The light was full on his
pleasantly-browned face, his grey eyes, his frank white forehead. She
noticed for the first time a seal-ring in a setting of twisted silver on
the hand he had kept on hers.

“In Paris? Oh, yes...So he did.”

“He came back and told me. I think you talked to him a moment in a
theatre. I asked if you’d spoken of my having put you off--or if you’d
sent me any message. He didn’t remember that you had.”

“In a crush--in a Paris foyer? My dear!”

“It was absurd of me! But Owen and I have always been on odd kind of
brother-and-sister terms. I think he guessed about us when he saw you
with me in London. So he teased me a little and tried to make me curious
about you; and when he saw he’d succeeded he told me he hadn’t had time
to say much to you because you were in such a hurry to get back to the
lady you were with.”

He still held her hands, but she felt no tremor in his, and the blood
did not stir in his brown cheek. He seemed to be honestly turning over
his memories. “Yes: and what else did he tell you?”

“Oh, not much, except that she was awfully pretty. When I asked him
to describe her he said you had her tucked away in a baignoire and he
hadn’t actually seen her; but he saw the tail of her cloak, and somehow
knew from that that she was pretty. One DOES, you know...I think he said
the cloak was pink.”

Darrow broke into a laugh. “Of course it was--they always are! So that
was at the bottom of your doubts?”

“Not at first. I only laughed. But afterward, when I wrote you and you
didn’t answer----Oh, you DO see?” she appealed to him.

He was looking at her gently. “Yes: I see.”

“It’s not as if this were a light thing between us. I want you to know
me as I am. If I thought that at that moment ... when you were on your way
here, almost----”

He dropped her hand and stood up. “Yes, yes--I understand.”

“But do you?” Her look followed him. “I’m not a goose of a girl. I
know ... of course I KNOW...but there are things a woman feels ... when
what she knows doesn’t make any difference. It’s not that I want you to
explain--I mean about that particular evening. It’s only that I want you
to have the whole of my feeling. I didn’t know what it was till I saw
you again. I never dreamed I should say such things to you!”

“I never dreamed I should be here to hear you say them!” He turned back
and lifting a floating end of her scarf put his lips to it. “But now
that you have, I know--I know,” he smiled down at her.

“You know?”

“That this is no light thing between us. Now you may ask me anything you
please! That was all I wanted to ask YOU.”

For a long moment they looked at each other without speaking. She saw
the dancing spirit in his eyes turn grave and darken to a passionate
sternness. He stooped and kissed her, and she sat as if folded in wings.




XII


It was in the natural order of things that, on the way back to the
house, their talk should have turned to the future.

Anna was not eager to define it. She had an extraordinary sensitiveness
to the impalpable elements of happiness, and as she walked at Darrow’s
side her imagination flew back and forth, spinning luminous webs of
feeling between herself and the scene about her. Every heightening of
emotion produced for her a new effusion of beauty in visible things, and
with it the sense that such moments should be lingered over and absorbed
like some unrenewable miracle. She understood Darrow’s impatience to see
their plans take shape. She knew it must be so, she would not have had
it otherwise; but to reach a point where she could fix her mind on his
appeal for dates and decisions was like trying to break her way through
the silver tangle of an April wood.

Darrow wished to use his diplomatic opportunities as a means of studying
certain economic and social problems with which he presently hoped to
deal in print; and with this in view he had asked for, and obtained, a
South American appointment. Anna was ready to follow where he led, and
not reluctant to put new sights as well as new thoughts between herself
and her past. She had, in a direct way, only Effie and Effie’s education
to consider; and there seemed, after due reflection, no reason why the
most anxious regard for these should not be conciliated with the demands
of Darrow’s career. Effie, it was evident, could be left to Madame de
Chantelle’s care till the couple should have organized their life; and
she might even, as long as her future step-father’s work retained him
in distant posts, continue to divide her year between Givre and the
antipodes.

As for Owen, who had reached his legal majority two years before, and
was soon to attain the age fixed for the taking over of his paternal
inheritance, the arrival of this date would reduce his step-mother’s
responsibility to a friendly concern for his welfare. This made for the
prompt realization of Darrow’s wishes, and there seemed no reason why
the marriage should not take place within the six weeks that remained of
his leave.

They passed out of the wood-walk into the open brightness of the garden.
The noon sunlight sheeted with gold the bronze flanks of the polygonal
yews. Chrysanthemums, russet, saffron and orange, glowed like the
efflorescence of an enchanted forest; belts of red begonia purpling to
wine-colour ran like smouldering flame among the borders; and above
this outspread tapestry the house extended its harmonious length, the
soberness of its lines softened to grace in the luminous misty air.

Darrow stood still, and Anna felt that his glance was travelling from
her to the scene about them and then back to her face.

“You’re sure you’re prepared to give up Givre? You look so made for each
other!”

“Oh, Givre----” She broke off suddenly, feeling as if her too careless
tone had delivered all her past into his hands; and with one of her
instinctive movements of recoil she added: “When Owen marries I shall
have to give it up.”

“When Owen marries? That’s looking some distance ahead! I want to be
told that meanwhile you’ll have no regrets.”

She hesitated. Why did he press her to uncover to him her poor starved
past? A vague feeling of loyalty, a desire to spare what could no
longer harm her, made her answer evasively: “There will probably be no
‘meanwhile.’ Owen may marry before long.”

She had not meant to touch on the subject, for her step-son had sworn
her to provisional secrecy; but since the shortness of Darrow’s leave
necessitated a prompt adjustment of their own plans, it was, after all,
inevitable that she should give him at least a hint of Owen’s.

“Owen marry? Why, he always seems like a faun in flannels! I hope he’s
found a dryad. There might easily be one left in these blue-and-gold
woods.”

“I can’t tell you yet where he found his dryad, but she IS one, I
believe: at any rate she’ll become the Givre woods better than I do.
Only there may be difficulties----”

“Well! At that age they’re not always to be wished away.”

She hesitated. “Owen, at any rate, has made up his mind to overcome
them; and I’ve promised to see him through.”

She went on, after a moment’s consideration, to explain that her
step-son’s choice was, for various reasons, not likely to commend itself
to his grandmother. “She must be prepared for it, and I’ve promised to
do the preparing. You know I always HAVE seen him through things, and he
rather counts on me now.”

She fancied that Darrow’s exclamation had in it a faint note of
annoyance, and wondered if he again suspected her of seeking a pretext
for postponement.

“But once Owen’s future is settled, you won’t, surely, for the sake
of what you call seeing him through, ask that I should go away again
without you?” He drew her closer as they walked. “Owen will understand,
if you don’t. Since he’s in the same case himself I’ll throw myself on
his mercy. He’ll see that I have the first claim on you; he won’t even
want you not to see it.”

“Owen sees everything: I’m not afraid of that. But his future isn’t
settled. He’s very young to marry--too young, his grandmother is sure to
think--and the marriage he wants to make is not likely to convince her
to the contrary.”

“You don’t mean that it’s like his first choice?”

“Oh, no! But it’s not what Madame de Chantelle would call a good match;
it’s not even what I call a wise one.”

“Yet you’re backing him up?”

“Yet I’m backing him up.” She paused. “I wonder if you’ll understand?
What I’ve most wanted for him, and shall want for Effie, is that
they shall always feel free to make their own mistakes, and never, if
possible, be persuaded to make other people’s. Even if Owen’s marriage
is a mistake, and has to be paid for, I believe he’ll learn and grow in
the paying. Of course I can’t make Madame de Chantelle see this; but I
can remind her that, with his character--his big rushes of impulse,
his odd intervals of ebb and apathy--she may drive him into some worse
blunder if she thwarts him now.”

“And you mean to break the news to her as soon as she comes back from
Ouchy?”

“As soon as I see my way to it. She knows the girl and likes her: that’s
our hope. And yet it may, in the end, prove our danger, make it harder
for us all, when she learns the truth, than if Owen had chosen a
stranger. I can’t tell you more till I’ve told her: I’ve promised Owen
not to tell any one. All I ask you is to give me time, to give me a few
days at any rate She’s been wonderfully ‘nice,’ as she would call it,
about you, and about the fact of my having soon to leave Givre; but
that, again, may make it harder for Owen. At any rate, you can see,
can’t you, how it makes me want to stand by him? You see, I couldn’t
bear it if the least fraction of my happiness seemed to be stolen from
his--as if it were a little scrap of happiness that had to be pieced out
with other people’s!” She clasped her hands on Darrow’s arm. “I want
our life to be like a house with all the windows lit: I’d like to string
lanterns from the roof and chimneys!”

She ended with an inward tremor. All through her exposition and her
appeal she had told herself that the moment could hardly have been less
well chosen. In Darrow’s place she would have felt, as he doubtless
did, that her carefully developed argument was only the disguise of an
habitual indecision. It was the hour of all others when she would have
liked to affirm herself by brushing aside every obstacle to his wishes;
yet it was only by opposing them that she could show the strength of
character she wanted him to feel in her.

But as she talked she began to see that Darrow’s face gave back no
reflection of her words, that he continued to wear the abstracted look
of a man who is not listening to what is said to him. It caused her a
slight pang to discover that his thoughts could wander at such a moment;
then, with a flush of joy she perceived the reason.

In some undefinable way she had become aware, without turning her
head, that he was steeped in the sense of her nearness, absorbed in
contemplating the details of her face and dress; and the discovery
made the words throng to her lips. She felt herself speak with ease,
authority, conviction. She said to herself: “He doesn’t care what I
say--it’s enough that I say it--even if it’s stupid he’ll like me better
for it...” She knew that every inflexion of her voice, every gesture,
every characteristic of her person--its very defects, the fact that her
forehead was too high, that her eyes were not large enough, that her
hands, though slender, were not small, and that the fingers did not
taper--she knew that these deficiencies were so many channels through
which her influence streamed to him; that she pleased him in spite of
them, perhaps because of them; that he wanted her as she was, and not as
she would have liked to be; and for the first time she felt in her veins
the security and lightness of happy love.

They reached the court and walked under the limes toward the house. The
hall door stood wide, and through the windows opening on the terrace the
sun slanted across the black and white floor, the faded tapestry chairs,
and Darrow’s travelling coat and cap, which lay among the cloaks and
rugs piled on a bench against the wall.

The sight of these garments, lying among her own wraps, gave her a sense
of homely intimacy. It was as if her happiness came down from the skies
and took on the plain dress of daily things. At last she seemed to hold
it in her hand.

As they entered the hall her eye lit on an unstamped note conspicuously
placed on the table.

“From Owen! He must have rushed off somewhere in the motor.”

She felt a secret stir of pleasure at the immediate inference that she
and Darrow would probably lunch alone. Then she opened the note and
stared at it in wonder.

“Dear,” Owen wrote, “after what you said yesterday I can’t wait another
hour, and I’m off to Francheuil, to catch the Dijon express and travel
back with them. Don’t be frightened; I won’t speak unless it’s safe to.
Trust me for that--but I had to go.”

She looked up slowly.

“He’s gone to Dijon to meet his grandmother. Oh, I hope I haven’t made a
mistake!”

“You? Why, what have you to do with his going to Dijon?”

She hesitated. “The day before yesterday I told him, for the first time,
that I meant to see him through, no matter what happened. And I’m afraid
he’s lost his head, and will be imprudent and spoil things. You see, I
hadn’t meant to say a word to him till I’d had time to prepare Madame de
Chantelle.”

She felt that Darrow was looking at her and reading her thoughts, and
the colour flew to her face. “Yes: it was when I heard you were coming
that I told him. I wanted him to feel as I felt ... it seemed too unkind
to make him wait!” Her hand was in his, and his arm rested for a moment
on her shoulder.

“It WOULD have been too unkind to make him wait.”

They moved side by side toward the stairs. Through the haze of bliss
enveloping her, Owen’s affairs seemed curiously unimportant and remote.
Nothing really mattered but this torrent of light in her veins. She put
her foot on the lowest step, saying: “It’s nearly luncheon time--I must
take off my hat...” and as she started up the stairs Darrow stood below
in the hall and watched her. But the distance between them did not make
him seem less near: it was as if his thoughts moved with her and touched
her like endearing hands.

In her bedroom she shut the door and stood still, looking about her in
a fit of dreamy wonder. Her feelings were unlike any she had ever known:
richer, deeper, more complete. For the first time everything in her,
from head to foot, seemed to be feeding the same full current of
sensation.

She took off her hat and went to the dressing-table to smooth her hair.
The pressure of the hat had flattened the dark strands on her forehead;
her face was paler than usual, with shadows about the eyes. She felt a
pang of regret for the wasted years. “If I look like this today,” she
said to herself, “what will he think of me when I’m ill or worried?” She
began to run her fingers through her hair, rejoicing in its thickness;
then she desisted and sat still, resting her chin on her hands.

“I want him to see me as I am,” she thought.

Deeper than the deepest fibre of her vanity was the triumphant sense
that AS SHE WAS, with her flattened hair, her tired pallor, her thin
sleeves a little tumbled by the weight of her jacket, he would like her
even better, feel her nearer, dearer, more desirable, than in all the
splendours she might put on for him. In the light of this discovery she
studied her face with a new intentness, seeing its defects as she had
never seen them, yet seeing them through a kind of radiance, as though
love were a luminous medium into which she had been bodily plunged.

She was glad now that she had confessed her doubts and her jealousy.
She divined that a man in love may be flattered by such involuntary
betrayals, that there are moments when respect for his liberty appeals
to him less than the inability to respect it: moments so propitious
that a woman’s very mistakes and indiscretions may help to establish her
dominion. The sense of power she had been aware of in talking to Darrow
came back with ten-fold force. She felt like testing him by the most
fantastic exactions, and at the same moment she longed to humble herself
before him, to make herself the shadow and echo of his mood. She wanted
to linger with him in a world of fancy and yet to walk at his side in
the world of fact. She wanted him to feel her power and yet to love her
for her ignorance and humility. She felt like a slave, and a goddess,
and a girl in her teens...




XIII


Darrow, late that evening, threw himself into an armchair before his
fire and mused.

The room was propitious to meditation. The red-veiled lamp, the corners
of shadow, the splashes of firelight on the curves of old full-bodied
wardrobes and cabinets, gave it an air of intimacy increased by its
faded hangings, its slightly frayed and threadbare rugs. Everything in
it was harmoniously shabby, with a subtle sought-for shabbiness in which
Darrow fancied he discerned the touch of Fraser Leath. But Fraser Leath
had grown so unimportant a factor in the scheme of things that these
marks of his presence caused the young man no emotion beyond that of a
faint retrospective amusement.

The afternoon and evening had been perfect.

After a moment of concern over her step-son’s departure, Anna had
surrendered herself to her happiness with an impetuosity that Darrow had
never suspected in her. Early in the afternoon they had gone out in the
motor, traversing miles of sober-tinted landscape in which, here and
there, a scarlet vineyard flamed, clattering through the streets of
stony villages, coming out on low slopes above the river, or winding
through the pale gold of narrow wood-roads with the blue of clear-cut
hills at their end. Over everything lay a faint sunshine that seemed
dissolved in the still air, and the smell of wet roots and decaying
leaves was merged in the pungent scent of burning underbrush. Once, at
the turn of a wall, they stopped the motor before a ruined gateway and,
stumbling along a road full of ruts, stood before a little old deserted
house, fantastically carved and chimneyed, which lay in a moat under the
shade of ancient trees. They paced the paths between the trees, found
a mouldy Temple of Love on an islet among reeds and plantains, and,
sitting on a bench in the stable-yard, watched the pigeons circling
against the sunset over their cot of patterned brick. Then the motor
flew on into the dusk...

When they came in they sat beside the fire in the oak drawing-room,
and Darrow noticed how delicately her head stood out against the sombre
panelling, and mused on the enjoyment there would always be in the mere
fact of watching her hands as they moved about among the tea-things...

They dined late, and facing her across the table, with its low lights
and flowers, he felt an extraordinary pleasure in seeing her again in
evening dress, and in letting his eyes dwell on the proud shy set of her
head, the way her dark hair clasped it, and the girlish thinness of her
neck above the slight swell of the breast. His imagination was struck
by the quality of reticence in her beauty. She suggested a fine portrait
kept down to a few tones, or a Greek vase on which the play of light is
the only pattern.

After dinner they went out on the terrace for a look at the moon-misted
park. Through the crepuscular whiteness the trees hung in blotted
masses. Below the terrace, the garden drew its dark diagrams between
statues that stood like muffled conspirators on the edge of the shadow.
Farther off, the meadows unrolled a silver-shot tissue to the mantling
of mist above the river; and the autumn stars trembled overhead like
their own reflections seen in dim water.

He lit his cigar, and they walked slowly up and down the flags in the
languid air, till he put an arm about her, saying: “You mustn’t stay
till you’re chilled”; then they went back into the room and drew up
their chairs to the fire.

It seemed only a moment later that she said: “It must be after eleven,”
 and stood up and looked down on him, smiling faintly. He sat
still, absorbing the look, and thinking: “There’ll be evenings and
evenings”--till she came nearer, bent over him, and with a hand on his
shoulder said: “Good night.”

He got to his feet and put his arms about her.

“Good night,” he answered, and held her fast; and they gave each other a
long kiss of promise and communion.

The memory of it glowed in him still as he sat over his crumbling fire;
but beneath his physical exultation he felt a certain gravity of mood.
His happiness was in some sort the rallying-point of many scattered
purposes. He summed it up vaguely by saying to himself that to be loved
by a woman like that made “all the difference”...He was a little tired
of experimenting on life; he wanted to “take a line”, to follow things
up, to centralize and concentrate, and produce results. Two or three
more years of diplomacy--with her beside him!--and then their real life
would begin: study, travel and book-making for him, and for her--well,
the joy, at any rate, of getting out of an atmosphere of bric-a-brac and
card-leaving into the open air of competing activities.

The desire for change had for some time been latent in him, and his
meeting with Mrs. Leath the previous spring had given it a definite
direction. With such a comrade to focus and stimulate his energies he
felt modestly but agreeably sure of “doing something”. And under this
assurance was the lurking sense that he was somehow worthy of his
opportunity. His life, on the whole, had been a creditable affair. Out
of modest chances and middling talents he had built himself a fairly
marked personality, known some exceptional people, done a number of
interesting and a few rather difficult things, and found himself, at
thirty-seven, possessed of an intellectual ambition sufficient to occupy
the passage to a robust and energetic old age. As for the private and
personal side of his life, it had come up to the current standards, and
if it had dropped, now and then, below a more ideal measure, even these
declines had been brief, parenthetic, incidental. In the recognized
essentials he had always remained strictly within the limit of his
scruples.

From this reassuring survey of his case he came back to the
contemplation of its crowning felicity. His mind turned again to his
first meeting with Anna Summers and took up one by one the threads of
their faintly sketched romance. He dwelt with pardonable pride on
the fact that fate had so early marked him for the high privilege of
possessing her: it seemed to mean that they had really, in the truest
sense of the ill-used phrase, been made for each other.

Deeper still than all these satisfactions was the mere elemental sense
of well-being in her presence. That, after all, was what proved her to
be the woman for him: the pleasure he took in the set of her head, the
way her hair grew on her forehead and at the nape, her steady gaze when
he spoke, the grave freedom of her gait and gestures. He recalled every
detail of her face, the fine veinings of the temples, the bluish-brown
shadows in her upper lids, and the way the reflections of two stars
seemed to form and break up in her eyes when he held her close to him...

If he had had any doubt as to the nature of her feeling for him those
dissolving stars would have allayed it. She was reserved, she was shy
even, was what the shallow and effusive would call “cold”. She was like
a picture so hung that it can be seen only at a certain angle: an angle
known to no one but its possessor. The thought flattered his sense
of possessorship...He felt that the smile on his lips would have been
fatuous had it had a witness. He was thinking of her look when she had
questioned him about his meeting with Owen at the theatre: less of her
words than of her look, and of the effort the question cost her: the
reddening of her cheek, the deepening of the strained line between her
brows, the way her eyes sought shelter and then turned and drew on him.
Pride and passion were in the conflict--magnificent qualities in a wife!
The sight almost made up for his momentary embarrassment at the rousing
of a memory which had no place in his present picture of himself.

Yes! It was worth a good deal to watch that fight between her instinct
and her intelligence, and know one’s self the object of the struggle...

Mingled with these sensations were considerations of another order. He
reflected with satisfaction that she was the kind of woman with whom
one would like to be seen in public. It would be distinctly agreeable
to follow her into drawing-rooms, to walk after her down the aisle of a
theatre, to get in and out of trains with her, to say “my wife” of her
to all sorts of people. He draped these details in the handsome
phrase “She’s a woman to be proud of”, and felt that this fact somehow
justified and ennobled his instinctive boyish satisfaction in loving
her.

He stood up, rambled across the room and leaned out for a while into
the starry night. Then he dropped again into his armchair with a sigh of
deep content.

“Oh, hang it,” he suddenly exclaimed, “it’s the best thing that’s ever
happened to me, anyhow!”


The next day was even better. He felt, and knew she felt, that they had
reached a clearer understanding of each other. It was as if, after a
swim through bright opposing waves, with a dazzle of sun in their eyes,
they had gained an inlet in the shades of a cliff, where they could
float on the still surface and gaze far down into the depths.

Now and then, as they walked and talked, he felt a thrill of youthful
wonder at the coincidence of their views and their experiences, at the
way their minds leapt to the same point in the same instant.

“The old delusion, I suppose,” he smiled to himself. “Will Nature never
tire of the trick?”

But he knew it was more than that. There were moments in their talk when
he felt, distinctly and unmistakably, the solid ground of friendship
underneath the whirling dance of his sensations. “How I should like her
if I didn’t love her!” he summed it up, wondering at the miracle of such
a union.

In the course of the morning a telegram had come from Owen Leath,
announcing that he, his grandmother and Effie would arrive from Dijon
that afternoon at four. The station of the main line was eight or ten
miles from Givre, and Anna, soon after three, left in the motor to meet
the travellers.

When she had gone Darrow started for a walk, planning to get back late,
in order that the reunited family might have the end of the afternoon
to themselves. He roamed the country-side till long after dark, and the
stable-clock of Givre was striking seven as he walked up the avenue to
the court.

In the hall, coming down the stairs, he encountered Anna. Her face was
serene, and his first glance showed him that Owen had kept his word and
that none of her forebodings had been fulfilled.

She had just come down from the school-room, where Effie and the
governess were having supper; the little girl, she told him, looked
immensely better for her Swiss holiday, but was dropping with sleep
after the journey, and too tired to make her habitual appearance in the
drawing-room before being put to bed. Madame de Chantelle was resting,
but would be down for dinner; and as for Owen, Anna supposed he was off
somewhere in the park--he had a passion for prowling about the park at
nightfall...

Darrow followed her into the brown room, where the tea-table had been
left for him. He declined her offer of tea, but she lingered a moment
to tell him that Owen had in fact kept his word, and that Madame de
Chantelle had come back in the best of humours, and unsuspicious of the
blow about to fall.

“She has enjoyed her month at Ouchy, and it has given her a lot to talk
about--her symptoms, and the rival doctors, and the people at the hotel.
It seems she met your Ambassadress there, and Lady Wantley, and
some other London friends of yours, and she’s heard what she calls
‘delightful things’ about you: she told me to tell you so. She attaches
great importance to the fact that your grandmother was an Everard of
Albany. She’s prepared to open her arms to you. I don’t know whether it
won’t make it harder for poor Owen ... the contrast, I mean...There are no
Ambassadresses or Everards to vouch for HIS choice! But you’ll help me,
won’t you? You’ll help me to help him? To-morrow I’ll tell you the rest.
Now I must rush up and tuck in Effie...”

“Oh, you’ll see, we’ll pull it off for him!” he assured her; “together,
we can’t fail to pull it off.”

He stood and watched her with a smile as she fled down the half-lit
vista to the hall.




XIV


If Darrow, on entering the drawing-room before dinner, examined its new
occupant with unusual interest, it was more on Owen Leath’s account than
his own.

Anna’s hints had roused his interest in the lad’s love affair, and he
wondered what manner of girl the heroine of the coming conflict might
be. He had guessed that Owen’s rebellion symbolized for his step-mother
her own long struggle against the Leath conventions, and he understood
that if Anna so passionately abetted him it was partly because, as she
owned, she wanted his liberation to coincide with hers.

The lady who was to represent, in the impending struggle, the forces of
order and tradition was seated by the fire when Darrow entered. Among
the flowers and old furniture of the large pale-panelled room, Madame
de Chantelle had the inanimate elegance of a figure introduced into a
“still-life” to give the scale. And this, Darrow reflected, was exactly
what she doubtless regarded as her chief obligation: he was sure she
thought a great deal of “measure”, and approved of most things only
up to a certain point. She was a woman of sixty, with a figure at once
young and old-fashioned. Her fair faded tints, her quaint corseting,
the passementerie on her tight-waisted dress, the velvet band on her
tapering arm, made her resemble a “carte de visite” photograph of the
middle ’sixties. One saw her, younger but no less invincibly lady-like,
leaning on a chair with a fringed back, a curl in her neck, a locket
on her tuckered bosom, toward the end of an embossed morocco album
beginning with The Beauties of the Second Empire.

She received her daughter-in-law’s suitor with an affability which
implied her knowledge and approval of his suit. Darrow had already
guessed her to be a person who would instinctively oppose any suggested
changes, and then, after one had exhausted one’s main arguments,
unexpectedly yield to some small incidental reason, and adhere doggedly
to her new position. She boasted of her old-fashioned prejudices, talked
a good deal of being a grandmother, and made a show of reaching up to
tap Owen’s shoulder, though his height was little more than hers.

She was full of a small pale prattle about the people she had seen
at Ouchy, as to whom she had the minute statistical information of a
gazetteer, without any apparent sense of personal differences. She said
to Darrow: “They tell me things are very much changed in America...Of
course in my youth there WAS a Society”...She had no desire to return
there she was sure the standards must be so different. “There are
charming people everywhere ... and one must always look on the best
side ... but when one has lived among Traditions it’s difficult to adapt
one’s self to the new ideas...These dreadful views of marriage ... it’s
so hard to explain them to my French relations...I’m thankful to say I
don’t pretend to understand them myself! But YOU’RE an Everard--I told
Anna last spring in London that one sees that instantly”...

She wandered off to the cooking and the service of the hotel at Ouchy.
She attached great importance to gastronomic details and to the manners
of hotel servants. There, too, there was a falling off, she said. “I don
t know, of course; but people say it’s owing to the Americans. Certainly
my waiter had a way of slapping down the dishes ... they tell me that many
of them are Anarchists ... belong to Unions, you know.” She appealed
to Darrow’s reported knowledge of economic conditions to confirm this
ominous rumour.

After dinner Owen Leath wandered into the next room, where the piano
stood, and began to play among the shadows. His step-mother presently
joined him, and Darrow sat alone with Madame de Chantelle.

She took up the thread of her mild chat and carried it on at the
same pace as her knitting. Her conversation resembled the large
loose-stranded web between her fingers: now and then she dropped a
stitch, and went on regardless of the gap in the pattern.

Darrow listened with a lazy sense of well-being. In the mental lull of
the after-dinner hour, with harmonious memories murmuring through
his mind, and the soft tints and shadowy spaces of the fine old room
charming his eyes to indolence, Madame de Chantelle’s discourse seemed
not out of place. He could understand that, in the long run, the
atmosphere of Givre might be suffocating; but in his present mood its
very limitations had a grace.

Presently he found the chance to say a word in his own behalf; and
thereupon measured the advantage, never before particularly apparent to
him, of being related to the Everards of Albany. Madame de Chantelle’s
conception of her native country--to which she had not returned since
her twentieth year--reminded him of an ancient geographer’s map of the
Hyperborean regions. It was all a foggy blank, from which only one or
two fixed outlines emerged; and one of these belonged to the Everards of
Albany.

The fact that they offered such firm footing--formed, so to speak,
a friendly territory on which the opposing powers could meet and
treat--helped him through the task of explaining and justifying himself
as the successor of Fraser Leath. Madame de Chantelle could not resist
such incontestable claims. She seemed to feel her son’s hovering and
discriminating presence, and she gave Darrow the sense that he was being
tested and approved as a last addition to the Leath Collection.

She also made him aware of the immense advantage he possessed in
belonging to the diplomatic profession. She spoke of this humdrum
calling as a Career, and gave Darrow to understand that she supposed him
to have been seducing Duchesses when he was not negotiating Treaties.
He heard again quaint phrases which romantic old ladies had used in his
youth: “Brilliant diplomatic society ... social advantages ... the entree
everywhere ... nothing else FORMS a young man in the same way...” and she
sighingly added that she could have wished her grandson had chosen the
same path to glory.

Darrow prudently suppressed his own view of the profession, as well
as the fact that he had adopted it provisionally, and for reasons
less social than sociological; and the talk presently passed on to the
subject of his future plans.

Here again, Madame de Chantelle’s awe of the Career made her admit
the necessity of Anna’s consenting to an early marriage. The fact that
Darrow was “ordered” to South America seemed to put him in the romantic
light of a young soldier charged to lead a forlorn hope: she sighed and
said: “At such moments a wife’s duty is at her husband’s side.”

The problem of Effie’s future might have disturbed her, she added; but
since Anna, for a time, consented to leave the little girl with her,
that problem was at any rate deferred. She spoke plaintively of the
responsibility of looking after her granddaughter, but Darrow divined
that she enjoyed the flavour of the word more than she felt the weight
of the fact.

“Effie’s a perfect child. She’s more like my son, perhaps, than dear
Owen. She’ll never intentionally give me the least trouble. But of
course the responsibility will be great...I’m not sure I should dare
to undertake it if it were not for her having such a treasure of a
governess. Has Anna told you about our little governess? After all the
worry we had last year, with one impossible creature after another, it
seems providential, just now, to have found her. At first we were afraid
she was too young; but now we’ve the greatest confidence in her. So
clever and amusing--and SUCH a lady! I don’t say her education’s all it
might be ... no drawing or singing ... but one can’t have everything; and
she speaks Italian...”

Madame de Chantelle’s fond insistence on the likeness between Effie
Leath and her father, if not particularly gratifying to Darrow, had at
least increased his desire to see the little girl. It gave him an
odd feeling of discomfort to think that she should have any of the
characteristics of the late Fraser Leath: he had, somehow, fantastically
pictured her as the mystical offspring of the early tenderness between
himself and Anna Summers.

His encounter with Effie took place the next morning, on the lawn below
the terrace, where he found her, in the early sunshine, knocking about
golf balls with her brother. Almost at once, and with infinite relief,
he saw that the resemblance of which Madame de Chantelle boasted was
mainly external. Even that discovery was slightly distasteful, though
Darrow was forced to own that Fraser Leath’s straight-featured fairness
had lent itself to the production of a peculiarly finished image of
childish purity. But it was evident that other elements had also gone
to the making of Effie, and that another spirit sat in her eyes. Her
serious handshake, her “pretty” greeting, were worthy of the Leath
tradition, and he guessed her to be more malleable than Owen, more
subject to the influences of Givre; but the shout with which she
returned to her romp had in it the note of her mother’s emancipation.

He had begged a holiday for her, and when Mrs. Leath appeared he and she
and the little girl went off for a ramble. Anna wished her daughter to
have time to make friends with Darrow before learning in what relation
he was to stand to her; and the three roamed the woods and fields till
the distant chime of the stable-clock made them turn back for luncheon.

Effie, who was attended by a shaggy terrier, had picked up two or three
subordinate dogs at the stable; and as she trotted on ahead with her
yapping escort, Anna hung back to throw a look at Darrow.

“Yes,” he answered it, “she’s exquisite...Oh, I see what I’m asking of
you! But she’ll be quite happy here, won’t she? And you must remember it
won’t be for long...”

Anna sighed her acquiescence. “Oh, she’ll be happy here. It’s her nature
to be happy. She’ll apply herself to it, conscientiously, as she does
to her lessons, and to what she calls ‘being good’...In a way, you see,
that’s just what worries me. Her idea of ‘being good’ is to please the
person she’s with--she puts her whole dear little mind on it! And so, if
ever she’s with the wrong person----”

“But surely there’s no danger of that just now? Madame de Chantelle
tells me that you’ve at last put your hand on a perfect governess----”

Anna, without answering, glanced away from him toward her daughter.

“It’s lucky, at any rate,” Darrow continued, “that Madame de Chantelle
thinks her so.”

“Oh, I think very highly of her too.”

“Highly enough to feel quite satisfied to leave her with Effie?”

“Yes. She’s just the person for Effie. Only, of course, one never
knows...She’s young, and she might take it into her head to leave us...”
 After a pause she added: “I’m naturally anxious to know what you think
of her.”

When they entered the house the hands of the hall clock stood within a
few minutes of the luncheon hour. Anna led Effie off to have her hair
smoothed and Darrow wandered into the oak sitting-room, which he found
untenanted. The sun lay pleasantly on its brown walls, on the scattered
books and the flowers in old porcelain vases. In his eyes lingered the
vision of the dark-haired mother mounting the stairs with her little
fair daughter. The contrast between them seemed a last touch of grace
in the complex harmony of things. He stood in the window, looking out at
the park, and brooding inwardly upon his happiness...

He was roused by Effie’s voice and the scamper of her feet down the long
floors behind him.

“Here he is! Here he is!” she cried, flying over the threshold.

He turned and stooped to her with a smile, and as she caught his hand he
perceived that she was trying to draw him toward some one who had paused
behind her in the doorway, and whom he supposed to be her mother.

“HERE he is!” Effie repeated, with her sweet impatience.

The figure in the doorway came forward and Darrow, looking up, found
himself face to face with Sophy Viner. They stood still, a yard or two
apart, and looked at each other without speaking.

As they paused there, a shadow fell across one of the terrace windows,
and Owen Leath stepped whistling into the room. In his rough shooting
clothes, with the glow of exercise under his fair skin, he looked
extraordinarily light-hearted and happy. Darrow, with a quick
side-glance, noticed this, and perceived also that the glow on the
youth’s cheek had deepened suddenly to red. He too stopped short, and
the three stood there motionless for a barely perceptible beat of time.
During its lapse, Darrow’s eyes had turned back from Owen’s face to that
of the girl between them. He had the sense that, whatever was done, it
was he who must do it, and that it must be done immediately. He went
forward and held out his hand.

“How do you do, Miss Viner?”

She answered: “How do you do?” in a voice that sounded clear and
natural; and the next moment he again became aware of steps behind him,
and knew that Mrs. Leath was in the room.

To his strained senses there seemed to be another just measurable
pause before Anna said, looking gaily about the little group: “Has Owen
introduced you? This is Effie’s friend, Miss Viner.”

Effie, still hanging on her governess’s arm, pressed herself closer with
a little gesture of appropriation; and Miss Viner laid her hand on her
pupil’s hair.

Darrow felt that Anna’s eyes had turned to him.

“I think Miss Viner and I have met already--several years ago in
London.”

“I remember,” said Sophy Viner, in the same clear voice.

“How charming! Then we’re all friends. But luncheon must be ready,” said
Mrs. Leath.

She turned back to the door, and the little procession moved down the
two long drawing-rooms, with Effie waltzing on ahead.




XV


Madame de Chantelle and Anna had planned, for the afternoon, a visit to
a remotely situated acquaintance whom the introduction of the motor had
transformed into a neighbour. Effie was to pay for her morning’s holiday
by an hour or two in the school-room, and Owen suggested that he and
Darrow should betake themselves to a distant covert in the desultory
quest for pheasants.

Darrow was not an ardent sportsman, but any pretext for physical
activity would have been acceptable at the moment; and he was glad both
to get away from the house and not to be left to himself.

When he came downstairs the motor was at the door, and Anna stood before
the hall mirror, swathing her hat in veils. She turned at the sound of
his step and smiled at him for a long full moment.

“I’d no idea you knew Miss Viner,” she said, as he helped her into her
long coat.

“It came back to me, luckily, that I’d seen her two or three times in
London, several years ago. She was secretary, or something of the sort,
in the background of a house where I used to dine.”

He loathed the slighting indifference of the phrase, but he had uttered
it deliberately, had been secretly practising it all through the
interminable hour at the luncheon-table. Now that it was spoken, he
shivered at its note of condescension. In such cases one was almost sure
to overdo...But Anna seemed to notice nothing unusual.

“Was she really? You must tell me all about it--tell me exactly how she
struck you. I’m so glad it turns out that you know her.”

“‘Know’ is rather exaggerated: we used to pass each other on the
stairs.”

Madame de Chantelle and Owen appeared together as he spoke, and Anna,
gathering up her wraps, said: “You’ll tell me about that, then. Try and
remember everything you can.”

As he tramped through the woods at his young host’s side, Darrow felt
the partial relief from thought produced by exercise and the obligation
to talk. Little as he cared for shooting, he had the habit of
concentration which makes it natural for a man to throw himself wholly
into whatever business he has in hand, and there were moments of the
afternoon when a sudden whirr in the undergrowth, a vivider gleam
against the hazy browns and greys of the woods, was enough to fill the
foreground of his attention. But all the while, behind these voluntarily
emphasized sensations, his secret consciousness continued to revolve on
a loud wheel of thought. For a time it seemed to be sweeping him through
deep gulfs of darkness. His sensations were too swift and swarming to be
disentangled. He had an almost physical sense of struggling for air,
of battling helplessly with material obstructions, as though the russet
covert through which he trudged were the heart of a maleficent jungle...

Snatches of his companion’s talk drifted to him intermittently through
the confusion of his thoughts. He caught eager self-revealing phrases,
and understood that Owen was saying things about himself, perhaps
hinting indirectly at the hopes for which Darrow had been prepared by
Anna’s confidences. He had already become aware that the lad liked
him, and had meant to take the first opportunity of showing that he
reciprocated the feeling. But the effort of fixing his attention on
Owen’s words was so great that it left no power for more than the
briefest and most inexpressive replies.

Young Leath, it appeared, felt that he had reached a turning-point in
his career, a height from which he could impartially survey his past
progress and projected endeavour. At one time he had had musical and
literary yearnings, visions of desultory artistic indulgence; but these
had of late been superseded by the resolute determination to plunge into
practical life.

“I don’t want, you see,” Darrow heard him explaining, “to drift into
what my grandmother, poor dear, is trying to make of me: an adjunct of
Givre. I don’t want--hang it all!--to slip into collecting sensations
as my father collected snuff-boxes. I want Effie to have Givre--it’s my
grandmother’s, you know, to do as she likes with; and I’ve understood
lately that if it belonged to me it would gradually gobble me up. I want
to get out of it, into a life that’s big and ugly and struggling. If
I can extract beauty out of THAT, so much the better: that’ll prove my
vocation. But I want to MAKE beauty, not be drowned in the ready-made,
like a bee in a pot of honey.”

Darrow knew that he was being appealed to for corroboration of these
views and for encouragement in the course to which they pointed. To his
own ears his answers sounded now curt, now irrelevant: at one moment he
seemed chillingly indifferent, at another he heard himself launching out
on a flood of hazy discursiveness. He dared not look at Owen, for fear
of detecting the lad’s surprise at these senseless transitions. And
through the confusion of his inward struggles and outward loquacity he
heard the ceaseless trip-hammer beat of the question: “What in God’s
name shall I do?”...

To get back to the house before Anna’s return seemed his most pressing
necessity. He did not clearly know why: he simply felt that he ought to
be there. At one moment it occurred to him that Miss Viner might want to
speak to him alone--and again, in the same flash, that it would probably
be the last thing she would want...At any rate, he felt he ought to try
to speak to HER; or at least be prepared to do so, if the chance should
occur...

Finally, toward four, he told his companion that he had some letters
on his mind and must get back to the house and despatch them before the
ladies returned. He left Owen with the beater and walked on to the edge
of the covert. At the park gates he struck obliquely through the trees,
following a grass avenue at the end of which he had caught a glimpse
of the roof of the chapel. A grey haze had blotted out the sun and the
still air clung about him tepidly. At length the house-front raised
before him its expanse of damp-silvered brick, and he was struck afresh
by the high decorum of its calm lines and soberly massed surfaces. It
made him feel, in the turbid coil of his fears and passions, like a
muddy tramp forcing his way into some pure sequestered shrine...

By and bye, he knew, he should have to think the complex horror out,
slowly, systematically, bit by bit; but for the moment it was whirling
him about so fast that he could just clutch at its sharp spikes and
be tossed off again. Only one definite immediate fact stuck in his
quivering grasp. He must give the girl every chance--must hold himself
passive till she had taken them...

In the court Effie ran up to him with her leaping terrier.

“I was coming out to meet you--you and Owen. Miss Viner was coming, too,
and then she couldn’t because she’s got such a headache. I’m afraid I
gave it to her because I did my division so disgracefully. It’s too bad,
isn’t it? But won’t you walk back with me? Nurse won’t mind the least
bit; she’d so much rather go in to tea.”

Darrow excused himself laughingly, on the plea that he had letters to
write, which was much worse than having a headache, and not infrequently
resulted in one.

“Oh, then you can go and write them in Owen’s study. That’s where
gentlemen always write their letters.”

She flew on with her dog and Darrow pursued his way to the house.
Effie’s suggestion struck him as useful. He had pictured himself
as vaguely drifting about the drawing-rooms, and had perceived the
difficulty of Miss Viner’s having to seek him there; but the study,
a small room on the right of the hall, was in easy sight from the
staircase, and so situated that there would be nothing marked in his
being found there in talk with her.

He went in, leaving the door open, and sat down at the writing-table.
The room was a friendly heterogeneous place, the one repository, in the
well-ordered and amply-servanted house, of all its unclassified odds and
ends: Effie’s croquet-box and fishing rods, Owen’s guns and golf-sticks
and racquets, his step-mother’s flower-baskets and gardening implements,
even Madame de Chantelle’s embroidery frame, and the back numbers of the
Catholic Weekly. The early twilight had begun to fall, and presently
a slanting ray across the desk showed Darrow that a servant was coming
across the hall with a lamp. He pulled out a sheet of note-paper and
began to write at random, while the man, entering, put the lamp at his
elbow and vaguely “straightened” the heap of newspapers tossed on the
divan. Then his steps died away and Darrow sat leaning his head on his
locked hands.

Presently another step sounded on the stairs, wavered a moment and then
moved past the threshold of the study. Darrow got up and walked into
the hall, which was still unlighted. In the dimness he saw Sophy Viner
standing by the hall door in her hat and jacket. She stopped at sight
of him, her hand on the door-bolt, and they stood for a second without
speaking.

“Have you seen Effie?” she suddenly asked. “She went out to meet you.”

“She DID meet me, just now, in the court. She’s gone on to join her
brother.”

Darrow spoke as naturally as he could, but his voice sounded to his own
ears like an amateur actor’s in a “light” part.

Miss Viner, without answering, drew back the bolt. He watched her in
silence as the door swung open; then he said: “She has her nurse with
her. She won’t be long.”

She stood irresolute, and he added: “I was writing in there--won’t you
come and have a little talk? Every one’s out.”

The last words struck him as not well-chosen, but there was no time to
choose. She paused a second longer and then crossed the threshold of the
study. At luncheon she had sat with her back to the window, and beyond
noting that she had grown a little thinner, and had less colour and
vivacity, he had seen no change in her; but now, as the lamplight fell
on her face, its whiteness startled him.

“Poor thing ... poor thing ... what in heaven’s name can she suppose?” he
wondered.

“Do sit down--I want to talk to you,” he said and pushed a chair toward
her.

She did not seem to see it, or, if she did, she deliberately chose
another seat. He came back to his own chair and leaned his elbows on the
blotter. She faced him from the farther side of the table.

“You promised to let me hear from you now and then,” he began awkwardly,
and with a sharp sense of his awkwardness.

A faint smile made her face more tragic. “Did I? There was nothing to
tell. I’ve had no history--like the happy countries...”

He waited a moment before asking: “You ARE happy here?”

“I WAS,” she said with a faint emphasis.

“Why do you say ‘was’? You’re surely not thinking of going? There can’t
be kinder people anywhere.” Darrow hardly knew what he was saying; but
her answer came to him with deadly definiteness.

“I suppose it depends on you whether I go or stay.”

“On me?” He stared at her across Owen’s scattered papers. “Good God!
What can you think of me, to say that?”

The mockery of the question flashed back at him from her wretched face.
She stood up, wandered away, and leaned an instant in the darkening
window-frame. From there she turned to fling back at him: “Don’t imagine
I’m the least bit sorry for anything!”

He steadied his elbows on the table and hid his face in his hands.
It was harder, oh, damnably harder, than he had expected! Arguments,
expedients, palliations, evasions, all seemed to be slipping away
from him: he was left face to face with the mere graceless fact of his
inferiority. He lifted his head to ask at random: “You’ve been here,
then, ever since?”

“Since June; yes. It turned out that the Farlows were hunting for
me--all the while--for this.”

She stood facing him, her back to the window, evidently impatient to be
gone, yet with something still to say, or that she expected to hear him
say. The sense of her expectancy benumbed him. What in heaven’s name
could he say to her that was not an offense or a mockery?

“Your idea of the theatre--you gave that up at once, then?”

“Oh, the theatre!” She gave a little laugh. “I couldn’t wait for the
theatre. I had to take the first thing that offered; I took this.”

He pushed on haltingly: “I’m glad--extremely glad--you’re happy
here...I’d counted on your letting me know if there was anything I could
do...The theatre, now--if you still regret it--if you’re not contented
here...I know people in that line in London--I’m certain I can manage it
for you when I get back----”

She moved up to the table and leaned over it to ask, in a voice that was
hardly above a whisper: “Then you DO want me to leave? Is that it?”

He dropped his arms with a groan. “Good heavens! How can you think such
things? At the time, you know, I begged you to let me do what I could,
but you wouldn’t hear of it ... and ever since I’ve been wanting to be of
use--to do something, anything, to help you...”

She heard him through, motionless, without a quiver of the clasped hands
she rested on the edge of the table.

“If you want to help me, then--you can help me to stay here,” she
brought out with low-toned intensity.

Through the stillness of the pause which followed, the bray of a
motor-horn sounded far down the drive. Instantly she turned, with a last
white look at him, and fled from the room and up the stairs. He stood
motionless, benumbed by the shock of her last words. She was afraid,
then--afraid of him--sick with fear of him! The discovery beat him down
to a lower depth...

The motor-horn sounded again, close at hand, and he turned and went
up to his room. His letter-writing was a sufficient pretext for not
immediately joining the party about the tea-table, and he wanted to be
alone and try to put a little order into his tumultuous thinking.

Upstairs, the room held out the intimate welcome of its lamp and fire.
Everything in it exhaled the same sense of peace and stability which,
two evenings before, had lulled him to complacent meditation. His
armchair again invited him from the hearth, but he was too agitated to
sit still, and with sunk head and hands clasped behind his back he began
to wander up and down the room.

His five minutes with Sophy Viner had flashed strange lights into the
shadowy corners of his consciousness. The girl’s absolute candour,
her hard ardent honesty, was for the moment the vividest point in his
thoughts. He wondered anew, as he had wondered before, at the way in
which the harsh discipline of life had stripped her of false sentiment
without laying the least touch on her pride. When they had parted, five
months before, she had quietly but decidedly rejected all his offers
of help, even to the suggestion of his trying to further her theatrical
aims: she had made it clear that she wished their brief alliance to
leave no trace on their lives save that of its own smiling memory. But
now that they were unexpectedly confronted in a situation which seemed,
to her terrified fancy, to put her at his mercy, her first impulse was
to defend her right to the place she had won, and to learn as quickly
as possible if he meant to dispute it. While he had pictured her as
shrinking away from him in a tremor of self-effacement she had watched
his movements, made sure of her opportunity, and come straight down to
“have it out” with him. He was so struck by the frankness and energy of
the proceeding that for a moment he lost sight of the view of his own
character implied in it.

“Poor thing ... poor thing!” he could only go on saying; and with the
repetition of the words the picture of himself as she must see him
pitiably took shape again.

He understood then, for the first time, how vague, in comparison with
hers, had been his own vision of the part he had played in the brief
episode of their relation. The incident had left in him a sense of
exasperation and self-contempt, but that, as he now perceived, was
chiefly, if not altogether, as it bore on his preconceived ideal of his
attitude toward another woman. He had fallen below his own standard of
sentimental loyalty, and if he thought of Sophy Viner it was mainly
as the chance instrument of his lapse. These considerations were not
agreeable to his pride, but they were forced on him by the example of
her valiant common-sense. If he had cut a sorry figure in the business,
he owed it to her not to close his eyes to the fact any longer...

But when he opened them, what did he see? The situation, detestable at
best, would yet have been relatively simple if protecting Sophy Viner
had been the only duty involved in it. The fact that that duty was
paramount did not do away with the contingent obligations. It was
Darrow’s instinct, in difficult moments, to go straight to the bottom
of the difficulty; but he had never before had to take so dark a dive
as this, and for the minute he shivered on the brink...Well, his first
duty, at any rate, was to the girl: he must let her see that he meant to
fulfill it to the last jot, and then try to find out how to square the
fulfillment with the other problems already in his path...




XVI


In the oak room he found Mrs. Leath, her mother-in-law and Effie. The
group, as he came toward it down the long drawing-rooms, composed itself
prettily about the tea-table. The lamps and the fire crossed their
gleams on silver and porcelain, on the bright haze of Effie’s hair and
on the whiteness of Anna’s forehead, as she leaned back in her chair
behind the tea-urn.

She did not move at Darrow’s approach, but lifted to him a deep gaze of
peace and confidence. The look seemed to throw about him the spell of
a divine security: he felt the joy of a convalescent suddenly waking to
find the sunlight on his face.

Madame de Chantelle, across her knitting, discoursed of their
afternoon’s excursion, with occasional pauses induced by the hypnotic
effect of the fresh air; and Effie, kneeling, on the hearth, softly but
insistently sought to implant in her terrier’s mind some notion of the
relation between a vertical attitude and sugar.

Darrow took a chair behind the little girl, so that he might look across
at her mother. It was almost a necessity for him, at the moment, to
let his eyes rest on Anna’s face, and to meet, now and then, the proud
shyness of her gaze.

Madame de Chantelle presently enquired what had become of Owen, and
a moment later the window behind her opened, and her grandson, gun in
hand, came in from the terrace. As he stood there in the lamp-light,
with dead leaves and bits of bramble clinging to his mud-spattered
clothes, the scent of the night about him and its chill on his pale
bright face, he really had the look of a young faun strayed in from the
forest.

Effie abandoned the terrier to fly to him. “Oh, Owen, where in the world
have you been? I walked miles and miles with Nurse and couldn’t find
you, and we met Jean and he said he didn’t know where you’d gone.”

“Nobody knows where I go, or what I see when I get there--that’s the
beauty of it!” he laughed back at her. “But if you’re good,” he added,
“I’ll tell you about it one of these days.”

“Oh, now, Owen, now! I don’t really believe I’ll ever be much better
than I am now.”

“Let Owen have his tea first,” her mother suggested; but the young man,
declining the offer, propped his gun against the wall, and, lighting
a cigarette, began to pace up and down the room in a way that reminded
Darrow of his own caged wanderings. Effie pursued him with her
blandishments, and for a while he poured out to her a low-voiced stream
of nonsense; then he sat down beside his step-mother and leaned over to
help himself to tea.

“Where’s Miss Viner?” he asked, as Effie climbed up on him. “Why isn’t
she here to chain up this ungovernable infant?”

“Poor Miss Viner has a headache. Effie says she went to her room as soon
as lessons were over, and sent word that she wouldn’t be down for tea.”

“Ah,” said Owen, abruptly setting down his cup. He stood up, lit another
cigarette, and wandered away to the piano in the room beyond.

From the twilight where he sat a lonely music, borne on fantastic
chords, floated to the group about the tea-table. Under its influence
Madame de Chantelle’s meditative pauses increased in length and
frequency, and Effie stretched herself on the hearth, her drowsy head
against the dog. Presently her nurse appeared, and Anna rose at the same
time. “Stop a minute in my sitting-room on your way up,” she paused to
say to Darrow as she went.

A few hours earlier, her request would have brought him instantly to his
feet. She had given him, on the day of his arrival, an inviting glimpse
of the spacious book-lined room above stairs in which she had gathered
together all the tokens of her personal tastes: the retreat in which,
as one might fancy, Anna Leath had hidden the restless ghost of Anna
Summers; and the thought of a talk with her there had been in his mind
ever since. But now he sat motionless, as if spell-bound by the play of
Madame de Chantelle’s needles and the pulsations of Owen’s fitful music.

“She will want to ask me about the girl,” he repeated to himself, with a
fresh sense of the insidious taint that embittered all his thoughts;
the hand of the slender-columned clock on the mantel-piece had spanned
a half-hour before shame at his own indecision finally drew him to his
feet.

From her writing-table, where she sat over a pile of letters, Anna
lifted her happy smile. The impulse to press his lips to it made him
come close and draw her upward. She threw her head back, as if surprised
at the abruptness of the gesture; then her face leaned to his with the
slow droop of a flower. He felt again the sweep of the secret tides, and
all his fears went down in them.

She sat down in the sofa-corner by the fire and he drew an armchair
close to her. His gaze roamed peacefully about the quiet room.

“It’s just like you--it is you,” he said, as his eyes came back to her.

“It’s a good place to be alone in--I don’t think I’ve ever before cared
to talk with any one here.”

“Let’s be quiet, then: it’s the best way of talking.”

“Yes; but we must save it up till later. There are things I want to say
to you now.”

He leaned back in his chair. “Say them, then, and I’ll listen.”

“Oh, no. I want you to tell me about Miss Viner.”

“About Miss Viner?” He summoned up a look of faint interrogation.

He thought she seemed surprised at his surprise. “It’s important,
naturally,” she explained, “that I should find out all I can about her
before I leave.”

“Important on Effie’s account?”

“On Effie’s account--of course.”

“Of course...But you’ve every reason to be satisfied, haven’t you?”

“Every apparent reason. We all like her. Effie’s very fond of her, and
she seems to have a delightful influence on the child. But we know so
little, after all--about her antecedents, I mean, and her past history.
That’s why I want you to try and recall everything you heard about her
when you used to see her in London.”

“Oh, on that score I’m afraid I sha’n’t be of much use. As I told you,
she was a mere shadow in the background of the house I saw her in--and
that was four or five years ago...”

“When she was with a Mrs. Murrett?”

“Yes; an appalling woman who runs a roaring dinner-factory that used now
and then to catch me in its wheels. I escaped from them long ago; but
in my time there used to be half a dozen fagged ‘hands’ to tend the
machine, and Miss Viner was one of them. I’m glad she’s out of it, poor
girl!” “Then you never really saw anything of her there?”

“I never had the chance. Mrs. Murrett discouraged any competition on the
part of her subordinates.”

“Especially such pretty ones, I suppose?” Darrow made no comment, and
she continued: “And Mrs. Murrett’s own opinion--if she’d offered you
one--probably wouldn’t have been of much value?”

“Only in so far as her disapproval would, on general principles, have
been a good mark for Miss Viner. But surely,” he went on after a pause,
“you could have found out about her from the people through whom you
first heard of her?”

Anna smiled. “Oh, we heard of her through Adelaide Painter--;” and in
reply to his glance of interrogation she explained that the lady in
question was a spinster of South Braintree, Massachusetts, who, having
come to Paris some thirty years earlier, to nurse a brother through an
illness, had ever since protestingly and provisionally camped there in a
state of contemptuous protestation oddly manifested by her never taking
the slip-covers off her drawing-room chairs. Her long residence on
Gallic soil had not mitigated her hostility toward the creed and customs
of the race, but though she always referred to the Catholic Church as
the Scarlet Woman and took the darkest views of French private
life, Madame de Chantelle placed great reliance on her judgment and
experience, and in every domestic crisis the irreducible Adelaide was
immediately summoned to Givre.

“It’s all the odder because my mother-in-law, since her second marriage,
has lived so much in the country that she’s practically lost sight
of all her other American friends. Besides which, you can see how
completely she has identified herself with Monsieur de Chantelle’s
nationality and adopted French habits and prejudices. Yet when anything
goes wrong she always sends for Adelaide Painter, who’s more American
than the Stars and Stripes, and might have left South Braintree
yesterday, if she hadn’t, rather, brought it over with her in her
trunk.”

Darrow laughed. “Well, then, if South Braintree vouches for Miss
Viner----”

“Oh, but only indirectly. When we had that odious adventure with
Mademoiselle Grumeau, who’d been so highly recommended by Monsieur de
Chantelle’s aunt, the Chanoinesse, Adelaide was of course sent for, and
she said at once: ‘I’m not the least bit surprised. I’ve always told you
that what you wanted for Effie was a sweet American girl, and not one of
these nasty foreigners.’ Unluckily she couldn’t, at the moment, put her
hand on a sweet American; but she presently heard of Miss Viner through
the Farlows, an excellent couple who live in the Quartier Latin and
write about French life for the American papers. I was only too thankful
to find anyone who was vouched for by decent people; and so far I’ve had
no cause to regret my choice. But I know, after all, very little about
Miss Viner; and there are all kinds of reasons why I want, as soon as
possible, to find out more--to find out all I can.”

“Since you’ve got to leave Effie I understand your feeling in that way.
But is there, in such a case, any recommendation worth half as much as
your own direct experience?”

“No; and it’s been so favourable that I was ready to accept it as
conclusive. Only, naturally, when I found you’d known her in London I
was in hopes you’d give me some more specific reasons for liking her as
much as I do.”

“I’m afraid I can give you nothing more specific than my general vague
impression that she seems very plucky and extremely nice.”

“You don’t, at any rate, know anything specific to the contrary?”

“To the contrary? How should I? I’m not conscious of ever having heard
any one say two words about her. I only infer that she must have pluck
and character to have stuck it out so long at Mrs. Murrett’s.”

“Yes, poor thing! She has pluck, certainly; and pride, too; which must
have made it all the harder.” Anna rose to her feet. “You don’t know how
glad I am that your impression’s on the whole so good. I particularly
wanted you to like her.”

He drew her to him with a smile. “On that condition I’m prepared to love
even Adelaide Painter.”

“I almost hope you wont have the chance to--poor Adelaide! Her
appearance here always coincides with a catastrophe.”

“Oh, then I must manage to meet her elsewhere.” He held Anna closer,
saying to himself, as he smoothed back the hair from her forehead: “What
does anything matter but just THIS?--Must I go now?” he added aloud.

She answered absently: “It must be time to dress”; then she drew back a
little and laid her hands on his shoulders. “My love--oh, my dear love!”
 she said.

It came to him that they were the first words of endearment he had heard
her speak, and their rareness gave them a magic quality of reassurance,
as though no danger could strike through such a shield.

A knock on the door made them draw apart. Anna lifted her hand to
her hair and Darrow stooped to examine a photograph of Effie on the
writing-table.

“Come in!” Anna said.

The door opened and Sophy Viner entered. Seeing Darrow, she drew back.

“Do come in, Miss Viner,” Anna repeated, looking at her kindly.

The girl, a quick red in her cheeks, still hesitated on the threshold.

“I’m so sorry; but Effie has mislaid her Latin grammar, and I thought
she might have left it here. I need it to prepare for tomorrow’s
lesson.”

“Is this it?” Darrow asked, picking up a book from the table.

“Oh, thank you!”

He held it out to her and she took it and moved to the door.

“Wait a minute, please, Miss Viner,” Anna said; and as the girl turned
back, she went on with her quiet smile: “Effie told us you’d gone to
your room with a headache. You mustn’t sit up over tomorrow’s lessons if
you don’t feel well.”

Sophy’s blush deepened. “But you see I have to. Latin’s one of my weak
points, and there’s generally only one page of this book between me and
Effie.” She threw the words off with a half-ironic smile. “Do excuse my
disturbing you,” she added.

“You didn’t disturb me,” Anna answered. Darrow perceived that she was
looking intently at the girl, as though struck by something tense and
tremulous in her face, her voice, her whole mien and attitude. “You DO
look tired. You’d much better go straight to bed. Effie won’t be sorry
to skip her Latin.”

“Thank you--but I’m really all right,” murmured Sophy Viner. Her glance,
making a swift circuit of the room, dwelt for an appreciable instant on
the intimate propinquity of arm-chair and sofa-corner; then she turned
back to the door.




BOOK III




XVII


At dinner that evening Madame de Chantelle’s slender monologue was
thrown out over gulfs of silence. Owen was still in the same state of
moody abstraction as when Darrow had left him at the piano; and even
Anna’s face, to her friend’s vigilant eye, revealed not, perhaps, a
personal preoccupation, but a vague sense of impending disturbance.

She smiled, she bore a part in the talk, her eyes dwelt on Darrow’s with
their usual deep reliance; but beneath the surface of her serenity his
tense perceptions detected a hidden stir.

He was sufficiently self-possessed to tell himself that it was doubtless
due to causes with which he was not directly concerned. He knew the
question of Owen’s marriage was soon to be raised, and the abrupt
alteration in the young man’s mood made it seem probable that he was
himself the centre of the atmospheric disturbance. For a moment it
occurred to Darrow that Anna might have employed her afternoon in
preparing Madame de Chantelle for her grandson’s impending announcement;
but a glance at the elder lady’s unclouded brow showed that he must seek
elsewhere the clue to Owen’s taciturnity and his step-mother’s concern.
Possibly Anna had found reason to change her own attitude in the matter,
and had made the change known to Owen. But this, again, was negatived by
the fact that, during the afternoon’s shooting, young Leath had been in
a mood of almost extravagant expansiveness, and that, from the moment of
his late return to the house till just before dinner, there had been,
to Darrow’s certain knowledge, no possibility of a private talk between
himself and his step-mother.

This obscured, if it narrowed, the field of conjecture; and Darrow’s
gropings threw him back on the conclusion that he was probably reading
too much significance into the moods of a lad he hardly knew, and who
had been described to him as subject to sudden changes of humour. As to
Anna’s fancied perturbation, it might simply be due to the fact that she
had decided to plead Owen’s cause the next day, and had perhaps already
had a glimpse of the difficulties awaiting her. But Darrow knew that he
was too deep in his own perplexities to judge the mental state of those
about him. It might be, after all, that the variations he felt in the
currents of communication were caused by his own inward tremor.

Such, at any rate, was the conclusion he had reached when, shortly after
the two ladies left the drawing-room, he bade Owen good-night and went
up to his room. Ever since the rapid self-colloquy which had followed on
his first sight of Sophy Viner, he had known there were other questions
to be faced behind the one immediately confronting him. On the score
of that one, at least, his mind, if not easy, was relieved. He had
done what was possible to reassure the girl, and she had apparently
recognized the sincerity of his intention. He had patched up as decent a
conclusion as he could to an incident that should obviously have had
no sequel; but he had known all along that with the securing of Miss
Viner’s peace of mind only a part of his obligation was discharged, and
that with that part his remaining duty was in conflict. It had been his
first business to convince the girl that their secret was safe with
him; but it was far from easy to square this with the equally urgent
obligation of safe-guarding Anna’s responsibility toward her child.
Darrow was not much afraid of accidental disclosures. Both he and Sophy
Viner had too much at stake not to be on their guard. The fear that
beset him was of another kind, and had a profounder source. He wanted to
do all he could for the girl, but the fact of having had to urge Anna
to confide Effie to her was peculiarly repugnant to him. His own ideas
about Sophy Viner were too mixed and indeterminate for him not to feel
the risk of such an experiment; yet he found himself in the intolerable
position of appearing to press it on the woman he desired above all
others to protect...

Till late in the night his thoughts revolved in a turmoil of indecision.
His pride was humbled by the discrepancy between what Sophy Viner had
been to him and what he had thought of her. This discrepancy, which at
the time had seemed to simplify the incident, now turned out to be
its most galling complication. The bare truth, indeed, was that he had
hardly thought of her at all, either at the time or since, and that he
was ashamed to base his judgement of her on his meagre memory of their
adventure.

The essential cheapness of the whole affair--as far as his share in it
was concerned--came home to him with humiliating distinctness. He would
have liked to be able to feel that, at the time at least, he had
staked something more on it, and had somehow, in the sequel, had a more
palpable loss to show. But the plain fact was that he hadn’t spent a
penny on it; which was no doubt the reason of the prodigious score it
had since been rolling up. At any rate, beat about the case as he would,
it was clear that he owed it to Anna--and incidentally to his own peace
of mind--to find some way of securing Sophy Viner’s future without
leaving her installed at Givre when he and his wife should depart for
their new post.

The night brought no aid to the solving of this problem; but it gave
him, at any rate, the clear conviction that no time was to be lost. His
first step must be to obtain from Miss Viner the chance of another and
calmer talk; and he resolved to seek it at the earliest hour.

He had gathered that Effie’s lessons were preceded by an early scamper
in the park, and conjecturing that her governess might be with her he
betook himself the next morning to the terrace, whence he wandered on to
the gardens and the walks beyond.

The atmosphere was still and pale. The muffled sunlight gleamed like
gold tissue through grey gauze, and the beech alleys tapered away to a
blue haze blent of sky and forest. It was one of those elusive days
when the familiar forms of things seem about to dissolve in a prismatic
shimmer.

The stillness was presently broken by joyful barks, and Darrow, tracking
the sound, overtook Effie flying down one of the long alleys at the head
of her pack. Beyond her he saw Miss Viner seated near the stone-rimmed
basin beside which he and Anna had paused on their first walk to the
river.

The girl, coming forward at his approach, returned his greeting almost
gaily. His first glance showed him that she had regained her composure,
and the change in her appearance gave him the measure of her fears. For
the first time he saw in her again the sidelong grace that had charmed
his eyes in Paris; but he saw it now as in a painted picture.

“Shall we sit down a minute?” he asked, as Effie trotted off.

The girl looked away from him. “I’m afraid there’s not much time; we
must be back at lessons at half-past nine.”

“But it’s barely ten minutes past. Let’s at least walk a little way
toward the river.”

She glanced down the long walk ahead of them and then back in the
direction of the house. “If you like,” she said in a low voice, with one
of her quick fluctuations of colour; but instead of taking the way he
proposed she turned toward a narrow path which branched off obliquely
through the trees.

Darrow was struck, and vaguely troubled, by the change in her look
and tone. There was in them an undefinable appeal, whether for help or
forbearance he could not tell. Then it occurred to him that there might
have been something misleading in his so pointedly seeking her, and he
felt a momentary constraint. To ease it he made an abrupt dash at the
truth.

“I came out to look for you because our talk of yesterday was so
unsatisfactory. I want to hear more about you--about your plans and
prospects. I’ve been wondering ever since why you’ve so completely given
up the theatre.”

Her face instantly sharpened to distrust. “I had to live,” she said in
an off-hand tone.

“I understand perfectly that you should like it here--for a time.”
 His glance strayed down the gold-roofed windings ahead of them. “It’s
delightful: you couldn’t be better placed. Only I wonder a little at
your having so completely given up any idea of a different future.”

She waited for a moment before answering: “I suppose I’m less restless
than I used to be.”

“It’s certainly natural that you should be less restless here than at
Mrs. Murrett’s; yet somehow I don’t seem to see you permanently given up
to forming the young.”

“What--exactly--DO you seem to see me permanently given up to? You know
you warned me rather emphatically against the theatre.” She threw
off the statement without impatience, as though they were discussing
together the fate of a third person in whom both were benevolently
interested. Darrow considered his reply. “If I did, it was because you
so emphatically refused to let me help you to a start.”

She stopped short and faced him “And you think I may let you now?”

Darrow felt the blood in his cheek. He could not understand her
attitude--if indeed she had consciously taken one, and her changes of
tone did not merely reflect the involuntary alternations of her mood. It
humbled him to perceive once more how little he had to guide him in his
judgment of her. He said to himself: “If I’d ever cared a straw for
her I should know how to avoid hurting her now”--and his insensibility
struck him as no better than a vulgar obtuseness. But he had a fixed
purpose ahead and could only push on to it.

“I hope, at any rate, you’ll listen to my reasons. There’s been time,
on both sides, to think them over since----” He caught himself back
and hung helpless on the “since”: whatever words he chose, he seemed to
stumble among reminders of their past.

She walked on beside him, her eyes on the ground. “Then I’m to
understand--definitely--that you DO renew your offer?” she asked

“With all my heart! If you’ll only let me----”

She raised a hand, as though to check him. “It’s extremely friendly of
you--I DO believe you mean it as a friend--but I don’t quite understand
why, finding me, as you say, so well placed here, you should show more
anxiety about my future than at a time when I was actually, and rather
desperately, adrift.”

“Oh, no, not more!”

“If you show any at all, it must, at any rate, be for different
reasons.--In fact, it can only be,” she went on, with one of her
disconcerting flashes of astuteness, “for one of two reasons; either
because you feel you ought to help me, or because, for some reason, you
think you owe it to Mrs. Leath to let her know what you know of me.”

Darrow stood still in the path. Behind him he heard Effie’s call, and at
the child’s voice he saw Sophy turn her head with the alertness of one
who is obscurely on the watch. The look was so fugitive that he could
not have said wherein it differed from her normal professional air of
having her pupil on her mind.

Effie sprang past them, and Darrow took up the girl’s challenge.

“What you suggest about Mrs. Leath is hardly worth answering. As to my
reasons for wanting to help you, a good deal depends on the words one
uses to define rather indefinite things. It’s true enough that I want to
help you; but the wish isn’t due to ... to any past kindness on your part,
but simply to my own interest in you. Why not put it that our friendship
gives me the right to intervene for what I believe to be your benefit?”

She took a few hesitating steps and then paused again. Darrow noticed
that she had grown pale and that there were rings of shade about her
eyes.

“You’ve known Mrs. Leath a long time?” she asked him suddenly.

He paused with a sense of approaching peril. “A long time--yes.”

“She told me you were friends--great friends”

“Yes,” he admitted, “we’re great friends.”

“Then you might naturally feel yourself justified in telling her that
you don’t think I’m the right person for Effie.” He uttered a sound of
protest, but she disregarded it. “I don’t say you’d LIKE to do it. You
wouldn’t: you’d hate it. And the natural alternative would be to try
to persuade me that I’d be better off somewhere else than here. But
supposing that failed, and you saw I was determined to stay? THEN you
might think it your duty to tell Mrs. Leath.”

She laid the case before him with a cold lucidity. “I should, in your
place, I believe,” she ended with a little laugh.

“I shouldn’t feel justified in telling her, behind your back, if
I thought you unsuited for the place; but I should certainly feel
justified,” he rejoined after a pause, “in telling YOU if I thought the
place unsuited to you.”

“And that’s what you’re trying to tell me now?”

“Yes; but not for the reasons you imagine.”

“What, then, are your reasons, if you please?”

“I’ve already implied them in advising you not to give up all idea
of the theatre. You’re too various, too gifted, too personal, to tie
yourself down, at your age, to the dismal drudgery of teaching.”

“And is THAT what you’ve told Mrs. Leath?”

She rushed the question out at him as if she expected to trip him up
over it. He was moved by the simplicity of the stratagem.

“I’ve told her exactly nothing,” he replied.

“And what--exactly--do you mean by ‘nothing’? You and she were talking
about me when I came into her sitting-room yesterday.”

Darrow felt his blood rise at the thrust.

“I’ve told her, simply, that I’d seen you once or twice at Mrs.
Murrett’s.”

“And not that you’ve ever seen me since?”

“And not that I’ve ever seen you since...”

“And she believes you--she completely believes you?”

He uttered a protesting exclamation, and his flush reflected itself in
the girl’s cheek.

“Oh, I beg your pardon! I didn’t mean to ask you that.” She halted, and
again cast a rapid glance behind and ahead of her. Then she held out her
hand. “Well, then, thank you--and let me relieve your fears. I sha’n’t
be Effie’s governess much longer.”

At the announcement, Darrow tried to merge his look of relief into the
expression of friendly interest with which he grasped her hand. “You
really do agree with me, then? And you’ll give me a chance to talk
things over with you?”

She shook her head with a faint smile. “I’m not thinking of the stage.
I’ve had another offer: that’s all.”

The relief was hardly less great. After all, his personal responsibility
ceased with her departure from Givre.

“You’ll tell me about that, then--won’t you?”

Her smile flickered up. “Oh, you’ll hear about it soon...I must catch
Effie now and drag her back to the blackboard.”

She walked on for a few yards, and then paused again and confronted him.
“I’ve been odious to you--and not quite honest,” she broke out suddenly.

“Not quite honest?” he repeated, caught in a fresh wave of wonder.

“I mean, in seeming not to trust you. It’s come over me again as we
talked that, at heart, I’ve always KNOWN I could...”

Her colour rose in a bright wave, and her eyes clung to his for a swift
instant of reminder and appeal. For the same space of time the past
surged up in him confusedly; then a veil dropped between them.

“Here’s Effie now!” she exclaimed.

He turned and saw the little girl trotting back to them, her hand in
Owen Leath’s. Even through the stir of his subsiding excitement Darrow
was at once aware of the change effected by the young man’s approach.
For a moment Sophy Viner’s cheeks burned redder; then they faded to
the paleness of white petals. She lost, however, nothing of the bright
bravery which it was her way to turn on the unexpected. Perhaps no one
less familiar with her face than Darrow would have discerned the
tension of the smile she transferred from himself to Owen Leath, or
have remarked that her eyes had hardened from misty grey to a shining
darkness. But her observer was less struck by this than by the
corresponding change in Owen Leath. The latter, when he came in sight,
had been laughing and talking unconcernedly with Effie; but as his eye
fell on Miss Viner his expression altered as suddenly as hers.

The change, for Darrow, was less definable; but, perhaps for that
reason, it struck him as more sharply significant. Only--just what did
it signify? Owen, like Sophy Viner, had the kind of face which seems
less the stage on which emotions move than the very stuff they work
in. In moments of excitement his odd irregular features seemed to grow
fluid, to unmake and remake themselves like the shadows of clouds on a
stream. Darrow, through the rapid flight of the shadows, could not seize
on any specific indication of feeling: he merely perceived that the
young man was unaccountably surprised at finding him with Miss
Viner, and that the extent of his surprise might cover all manner of
implications.

Darrow’s first idea was that Owen, if he suspected that the conversation
was not the result of an accidental encounter, might wonder at his
step-mother’s suitor being engaged, at such an hour, in private talk
with her little girl’s governess. The thought was so disturbing that,
as the three turned back to the house, he was on the point of saying to
Owen: “I came out to look for your mother.” But, in the contingency he
feared, even so simple a phrase might seem like an awkward attempt at
explanation; and he walked on in silence at Miss Viner’s side. Presently
he was struck by the fact that Owen Leath and the girl were silent also;
and this gave a new turn to his thoughts. Silence may be as variously
shaded as speech; and that which enfolded Darrow and his two companions
seemed to his watchful perceptions to be quivering with cross-threads of
communication. At first he was aware only of those that centred in
his own troubled consciousness; then it occurred to him that an equal
activity of intercourse was going on outside of it. Something was in
fact passing mutely and rapidly between young Leath and Sophy Viner; but
what it was, and whither it tended, Darrow, when they reached the house,
was but just beginning to divine...




XVIII


Anna Leath, from the terrace, watched the return of the little group.

She looked down on them, as they advanced across the garden, from the
serene height of her unassailable happiness. There they were, coming
toward her in the mild morning light, her child, her step-son, her
promised husband: the three beings who filled her life. She smiled a
little at the happy picture they presented, Effie’s gambols encircling
it in a moving frame within which the two men came slowly forward in the
silence of friendly understanding. It seemed part of the deep intimacy
of the scene that they should not be talking to each other, and it did
not till afterward strike her as odd that neither of them apparently
felt it necessary to address a word to Sophy Viner.

Anna herself, at the moment, was floating in the mid-current of
felicity, on a tide so bright and buoyant that she seemed to be one with
its warm waves. The first rush of bliss had stunned and dazzled her;
but now that, each morning, she woke to the calm certainty of its
recurrence, she was growing used to the sense of security it gave.

“I feel as if I could trust my happiness to carry me; as if it had grown
out of me like wings.” So she phrased it to Darrow, as, later in the
morning, they paced the garden-paths together. His answering look gave
her the same assurance of safety. The evening before he had seemed
preoccupied, and the shadow of his mood had faintly encroached on the
great golden orb of their blessedness; but now it was uneclipsed again,
and hung above them high and bright as the sun at noon.

Upstairs in her sitting-room, that afternoon, she was thinking of
these things. The morning mists had turned to rain, compelling the
postponement of an excursion in which the whole party were to have
joined. Effie, with her governess, had been despatched in the motor to
do some shopping at Francheuil; and Anna had promised Darrow to join
him, later in the afternoon, for a quick walk in the rain.

He had gone to his room after luncheon to get some belated letters off
his conscience; and when he had left her she had continued to sit in the
same place, her hands crossed on her knees, her head slightly bent, in
an attitude of brooding retrospection. As she looked back at her past
life, it seemed to her to have consisted of one ceaseless effort to pack
into each hour enough to fill out its slack folds; but now each moment
was like a miser’s bag stretched to bursting with pure gold.

She was roused by the sound of Owen’s step in the gallery outside her
room. It paused at her door and in answer to his knock she called out
“Come in!”

As the door closed behind him she was struck by his look of pale
excitement, and an impulse of compunction made her say: “You’ve come to
ask me why I haven’t spoken to your grandmother!” He sent about him a
glance vaguely reminding her of the strange look with which Sophy Viner
had swept the room the night before; then his brilliant eyes came back
to her.

“I’ve spoken to her myself,” he said.

Anna started up, incredulous.

“You’ve spoken to her? When?”

“Just now. I left her to come here.”

Anna’s first feeling was one of annoyance. There was really something
comically incongruous in this boyish surrender to impulse on the part of
a young man so eager to assume the responsibilities of life. She looked
at him with a faintly veiled amusement.

“You asked me to help you and I promised you I would. It was hardly
worth while to work out such an elaborate plan of action if you intended
to take the matter out of my hands without telling me.”

“Oh, don’t take that tone with me!” he broke out, almost angrily.

“That tone? What tone?” She stared at his quivering face. “I might,” she
pursued, still half-laughing, “more properly make that request of YOU!”

Owen reddened and his vehemence suddenly subsided.

“I meant that I HAD to speak--that’s all. You don’t give me a chance to
explain...”

She looked at him gently, wondering a little at her own impatience.

“Owen! Don’t I always want to give you every chance? It’s because I DO
that I wanted to talk to your grandmother first--that I was waiting and
watching for the right moment...”

“The right moment? So was I. That’s why I’ve spoken.” His voice rose
again and took the sharp edge it had in moments of high pressure.

His step-mother turned away and seated herself in her sofa-corner. “Oh,
my dear, it’s not a privilege to quarrel over! You’ve taken a load off
my shoulders. Sit down and tell me all about it.”

He stood before her, irresolute. “I can’t sit down,” he said.

“Walk about, then. Only tell me: I’m impatient.”

His immediate response was to throw himself into the armchair at her
side, where he lounged for a moment without speaking, his legs stretched
out, his arms locked behind his thrown-back head. Anna, her eyes on his
face, waited quietly for him to speak.

“Well--of course it was just what one expected.”

“She takes it so badly, you mean?”

“All the heavy batteries were brought up: my father, Givre, Monsieur de
Chantelle, the throne and the altar. Even my poor mother was dragged out
of oblivion and armed with imaginary protests.”

Anna sighed out her sympathy. “Well--you were prepared for all that?”

“I thought I was, till I began to hear her say it. Then it sounded so
incredibly silly that I told her so.”

“Oh, Owen--Owen!”

“Yes: I know. I was a fool; but I couldn’t help it.”

“And you’ve mortally offended her, I suppose? That’s exactly what I
wanted to prevent.” She laid a hand on his shoulder. “You tiresome boy,
not to wait and let me speak for you!”

He moved slightly away, so that her hand slipped from its place. “You
don’t understand,” he said, frowning.

“I don’t see how I can, till you explain. If you thought the time had
come to tell your grandmother, why not have asked me to do it? I had my
reasons for waiting; but if you’d told me to speak I should have done
so, naturally.”

He evaded her appeal by a sudden turn. “What WERE your reasons for
waiting?”

Anna did not immediately answer. Her step-son’s eyes were on her face,
and under his gaze she felt a faint disquietude.

“I was feeling my way...I wanted to be absolutely sure...”

“Absolutely sure of what?”

She delayed again for a just perceptible instant. “Why, simply of OUR
side of the case.”

“But you told me you were, the other day, when we talked it over before
they came back from Ouchy.”

“Oh, my dear--if you think that, in such a complicated matter, every
day, every hour, doesn’t more or less modify one’s surest sureness!”

“That’s just what I’m driving at. I want to know what has modified
yours.”

She made a slight gesture of impatience. “What does it matter, now the
thing’s done? I don’t know that I could give any clear reason...”

He got to his feet and stood looking down on her with a tormented brow.
“But it’s absolutely necessary that you should.”

At his tone her impatience flared up. “It’s not necessary that I should
give you any explanation whatever, since you’ve taken the matter out of
my hands. All I can say is that I was trying to help you: that no other
thought ever entered my mind.” She paused a moment and then added: “If
you doubted it, you were right to do what you’ve done.”

“Oh, I never doubted YOU!” he retorted, with a fugitive stress on
the pronoun. His face had cleared to its old look of trust. “Don’t be
offended if I’ve seemed to,” he went on. “I can’t quite explain myself,
either ... it’s all a kind of tangle, isn’t it? That’s why I thought I’d
better speak at once; or rather why I didn’t think at all, but just
suddenly blurted the thing out----”

Anna gave him back his look of conciliation. “Well, the how and why
don’t much matter now. The point is how to deal with your grandmother.
You’ve not told me what she means to do.”

“Oh, she means to send for Adelaide Painter.”

The name drew a faint note of mirth from him and relaxed both their
faces to a smile.

“Perhaps,” Anna added, “it’s really the best thing for us all.”

Owen shrugged his shoulders. “It’s too preposterous and humiliating.
Dragging that woman into our secrets----!”

“This could hardly be a secret much longer.”

He had moved to the hearth, where he stood pushing about the small
ornaments on the mantel-shelf; but at her answer he turned back to her.

“You haven’t, of course, spoken of it to any one?”

“No; but I intend to now.”

She paused for his reply, and as it did not come she continued: “If
Adelaide Painter’s to be told there’s no possible reason why I shouldn’t
tell Mr. Darrow.” Owen abruptly set down the little statuette between
his fingers. “None whatever: I want every one to know.”

She smiled a little at his over-emphasis, and was about to meet it with
a word of banter when he continued, facing her: “You haven’t, as yet,
said a word to him?”

“I’ve told him nothing, except what the discussion of our own plans--his
and mine--obliged me to: that you were thinking of marrying, and that
I wasn’t willing to leave France till I’d done what I could to see you
through.”

At her first words the colour had rushed to his forehead; but as she
continued she saw his face compose itself and his blood subside.

“You’re a brick, my dear!” he exclaimed.

“You had my word, you know.”

“Yes; yes--I know.” His face had clouded again. “And that’s
all--positively all--you’ve ever said to him?”

“Positively all. But why do you ask?”

He had a moment’s embarrassed hesitation. “It was understood, wasn’t it,
that my grandmother was to be the first to know?”

“Well--and so she has been, hasn’t she, since you’ve told her?”

He turned back to his restless shifting of the knick-knacks.

“And you’re sure that nothing you’ve said to Darrow could possibly have
given him a hint----?”

“Nothing I’ve said to him--certainly.”

He swung about on her. “Why do you put it in that way?”

“In what way?”

“Why--as if you thought some one else might have spoken...”

“Some one else? Who else?” She rose to her feet. “What on earth, my dear
boy, can you be driving at?”

“I’m trying to find out whether you think he knows anything definite.”

“Why should I think so? Do YOU?”

“I don’t know. I want to find out.”

She laughed at his obstinate insistence. “To test my veracity, I
suppose?” At the sound of a step in the gallery she added: “Here he
is--you can ask him yourself.”

She met Darrow’s knock with an invitation to enter, and he came into the
room and paused between herself and Owen. She was struck, as he stood
there, by the contrast between his happy careless good-looks and her
step-son’s frowning agitation.

Darrow met her eyes with a smile. “Am I too soon? Or is our walk given
up?”

“No; I was just going to get ready.” She continued to linger between
the two, looking slowly from one to the other. “But there’s something we
want to tell you first: Owen is engaged to Miss Viner.”

The sense of an indefinable interrogation in Owen’s mind made her, as
she spoke, fix her eyes steadily on Darrow.

He had paused just opposite the window, so that, even in the rainy
afternoon light, his face was clearly open to her scrutiny. For a
second, immense surprise was alone visible on it: so visible that
she half turned to her step-son, with a faint smile for his refuted
suspicions. Why, she wondered, should Owen have thought that Darrow had
already guessed his secret, and what, after all, could be so disturbing
to him in this not improbable contingency? At any rate, his doubt
must have been dispelled: there was nothing feigned about Darrow’s
astonishment. When her eyes turned back to him he was already crossing
to Owen with outstretched hand, and she had, through an unaccountable
faint flutter of misgiving, a mere confused sense of their exchanging
the customary phrases. Her next perception was of Owen’s tranquillized
look, and of his smiling return of Darrow’s congratulatory grasp. She
had the eerie feeling of having been overswept by a shadow which there
had been no cloud to cast...

A moment later Owen had left the room and she and Darrow were alone. He
had turned away to the window and stood staring out into the down-pour.

“You’re surprised at Owen’s news?” she asked.

“Yes: I am surprised,” he answered.

“You hadn’t thought of its being Miss Viner?”

“Why should I have thought of Miss Viner?”

“You see now why I wanted so much to find out what you knew about her.”
 He made no comment, and she pursued: “Now that you DO know it’s she, if
there’s anything----”

He moved back into the room and went up to her. His face was serious,
with a slight shade of annoyance. “What on earth should there be? As I
told you, I’ve never in my life heard any one say two words about Miss
Viner.”

Anna made no answer and they continued to face each other without
moving. For the moment she had ceased to think about Sophy Viner and
Owen: the only thought in her mind was that Darrow was alone with her,
close to her, and that, for the first time, their hands and lips had not
met.

He glanced back doubtfully at the window. “It’s pouring. Perhaps you’d
rather not go out?”

She hesitated, as if waiting for him to urge her. “I suppose I’d better
not. I ought to go at once to my mother-in-law--Owen’s just been telling
her,” she said.

“Ah.” Darrow hazarded a smile. “That accounts for my having, on my way
up, heard some one telephoning for Miss Painter!”

At the allusion they laughed together, vaguely, and Anna moved toward
the door. He held it open for her and followed her out.




XIX


He left her at the door of Madame de Chantelle’s sitting-room, and
plunged out alone into the rain.

The wind flung about the stripped tree-tops of the avenue and dashed the
stinging streams into his face. He walked to the gate and then turned
into the high-road and strode along in the open, buffeted by slanting
gusts. The evenly ridged fields were a blurred waste of mud, and
the russet coverts which he and Owen had shot through the day before
shivered desolately against a driving sky.

Darrow walked on and on, indifferent to the direction he was taking. His
thoughts were tossing like the tree-tops. Anna’s announcement had not
come to him as a complete surprise: that morning, as he strolled back
to the house with Owen Leath and Miss Viner, he had had a momentary
intuition of the truth. But it had been no more than an intuition, the
merest faint cloud-puff of surmise; and now it was an attested fact,
darkening over the whole sky.

In respect of his own attitude, he saw at once that the discovery made
no appreciable change. If he had been bound to silence before, he was no
less bound to it now; the only difference lay in the fact that what he
had just learned had rendered his bondage more intolerable. Hitherto
he had felt for Sophy Viner’s defenseless state a sympathy profoundly
tinged with compunction. But now he was half-conscious of an obscure
indignation against her. Superior as he had fancied himself to
ready-made judgments, he was aware of cherishing the common doubt as to
the disinterestedness of the woman who tries to rise above her past. No
wonder she had been sick with fear on meeting him! It was in his power
to do her more harm than he had dreamed...

Assuredly he did not want to harm her; but he did desperately want to
prevent her marrying Owen Leath. He tried to get away from the feeling,
to isolate and exteriorize it sufficiently to see what motives it
was made of; but it remained a mere blind motion of his blood, the
instinctive recoil from the thing that no amount of arguing can make
“straight.” His tramp, prolonged as it was, carried him no nearer
to enlightenment; and after trudging through two or three sallow
mud-stained villages he turned about and wearily made his way back to
Givre. As he walked up the black avenue, making for the lights that
twinkled through its pitching branches, he had a sudden realisation
of his utter helplessness. He might think and combine as he would; but
there was nothing, absolutely nothing, that he could do...

He dropped his wet coat in the vestibule and began to mount the stairs
to his room. But on the landing he was overtaken by a sober-faced maid
who, in tones discreetly lowered, begged him to be so kind as to step,
for a moment, into the Marquise’s sitting-room. Somewhat disconcerted
by the summons, he followed its bearer to the door at which, a couple of
hours earlier, he had taken leave of Mrs. Leath. It opened to admit him
to a large lamp-lit room which he immediately perceived to be empty; and
the fact gave him time to note, even through his disturbance of mind,
the interesting degree to which Madame de Chantelle’s apartment “dated”
 and completed her. Its looped and corded curtains, its purple satin
upholstery, the Sevres jardinieres, the rosewood fire-screen, the little
velvet tables edged with lace and crowded with silver knick-knacks and
simpering miniatures, reconstituted an almost perfect setting for the
blonde beauty of the ’sixties. Darrow wondered that Fraser Leath’s
filial respect should have prevailed over his aesthetic scruples to the
extent of permitting such an anachronism among the eighteenth century
graces of Givre; but a moment’s reflection made it clear that, to its
late owner, the attitude would have seemed exactly in the traditions of
the place.

Madame de Chantelle’s emergence from an inner room snatched Darrow from
these irrelevant musings. She was already beaded and bugled for the
evening, and, save for a slight pinkness of the eye-lids, her elaborate
appearance revealed no mark of agitation; but Darrow noticed that,
in recognition of the solemnity of the occasion, she pinched a lace
handkerchief between her thumb and forefinger.

She plunged at once into the centre of the difficulty, appealing to him,
in the name of all the Everards, to descend there with her to the rescue
of her darling. She wasn’t, she was sure, addressing herself in vain to
one whose person, whose “tone,” whose traditions so brilliantly declared
his indebtedness to the principles she besought him to defend. Her own
reception of Darrow, the confidence she had at once accorded him,
must have shown him that she had instinctively felt their unanimity of
sentiment on these fundamental questions. She had in fact recognized in
him the one person whom, without pain to her maternal piety, she could
welcome as her son’s successor; and it was almost as to Owen’s father
that she now appealed to Darrow to aid in rescuing the wretched boy.

“Don’t think, please, that I’m casting the least reflection on Anna,
or showing any want of sympathy for her, when I say that I consider
her partly responsible for what’s happened. Anna is ‘modern’--I believe
that’s what it’s called when you read unsettling books and admire
hideous pictures. Indeed,” Madame de Chantelle continued, leaning
confidentially forward, “I myself have always more or less lived in that
atmosphere: my son, you know, was very revolutionary. Only he didn’t, of
course, apply his ideas: they were purely intellectual. That’s what dear
Anna has always failed to understand. And I’m afraid she’s created the
same kind of confusion in Owen’s mind--led him to mix up things you read
about with things you do...You know, of course, that she sides with him
in this wretched business?”

Developing at length upon this theme, she finally narrowed down to
the point of Darrow’s intervention. “My grandson, Mr. Darrow, calls me
illogical and uncharitable because my feelings toward Miss Viner have
changed since I’ve heard this news. Well! You’ve known her, it appears,
for some years: Anna tells me you used to see her when she was a
companion, or secretary or something, to a dreadfully vulgar Mrs.
Murrett. And I ask you as a friend, I ask you as one of US, to tell me
if you think a girl who has had to knock about the world in that kind
of position, and at the orders of all kinds of people, is fitted to be
Owen’s wife. I’m not implying anything against her! I LIKED the girl, Mr.
Darrow...But what’s that got to do with it? I don’t want her to marry
my grandson. If I’d been looking for a wife for Owen, I shouldn’t
have applied to the Farlows to find me one. That’s what Anna won’t
understand; and what you must help me to make her see.”

Darrow, to this appeal, could oppose only the repeated assurance of his
inability to interfere. He tried to make Madame de Chantelle see
that the very position he hoped to take in the household made his
intervention the more hazardous. He brought up the usual arguments, and
sounded the expected note of sympathy; but Madame de Chantelle’s alarm
had dispelled her habitual imprecision, and, though she had not many
reasons to advance, her argument clung to its point like a frightened
sharp-clawed animal.

“Well, then,” she summed up, in response to his repeated assertions that
he saw no way of helping her, “you can, at least, even if you won’t
say a word to the others, tell me frankly and fairly--and quite between
ourselves--your personal opinion of Miss Viner, since you’ve known her
so much longer than we have.”

He protested that, if he had known her longer, he had known her much
less well, and that he had already, on this point, convinced Anna of his
inability to pronounce an opinion.

Madame de Chantelle drew a deep sigh of intelligence. “Your opinion of
Mrs. Murrett is enough! I don’t suppose you pretend to conceal THAT? And
heaven knows what other unspeakable people she’s been mixed up with. The
only friends she can produce are called Hoke...Don’t try to reason with
me, Mr. Darrow. There are feelings that go deeper than facts...And
I KNOW she thought of studying for the stage...” Madame de Chantelle
raised the corner of her lace handkerchief to her eyes. “I’m
old-fashioned--like my furniture,” she murmured. “And I thought I could
count on you, Mr. Darrow...”


When Darrow, that night, regained his room, he reflected with a flash
of irony that each time he entered it he brought a fresh troop of
perplexities to trouble its serene seclusion. Since the day after his
arrival, only forty-eight hours before, when he had set his window
open to the night, and his hopes had seemed as many as its stars,
each evening had brought its new problem and its renewed distress. But
nothing, as yet, had approached the blank misery of mind with which he
now set himself to face the fresh questions confronting him.

Sophy Viner had not shown herself at dinner, so that he had had no
glimpse of her in her new character, and no means of divining the real
nature of the tie between herself and Owen Leath. One thing, however,
was clear: whatever her real feelings were, and however much or little
she had at stake, if she had made up her mind to marry Owen she had more
than enough skill and tenacity to defeat any arts that poor Madame de
Chantelle could oppose to her.

Darrow himself was in fact the only person who might possibly turn her
from her purpose: Madame de Chantelle, at haphazard, had hit on the
surest means of saving Owen--if to prevent his marriage were to save
him! Darrow, on this point, did not pretend to any fixed opinion; one
feeling alone was clear and insistent in him: he did not mean, if he
could help it, to let the marriage take place.

How he was to prevent it he did not know: to his tormented imagination
every issue seemed closed. For a fantastic instant he was moved to
follow Madame de Chantelle’s suggestion and urge Anna to withdraw her
approval. If his reticence, his efforts to avoid the subject, had not
escaped her, she had doubtless set them down to the fact of his knowing
more, and thinking less, of Sophy Viner than he had been willing to
admit; and he might take advantage of this to turn her mind gradually
from the project. Yet how do so without betraying his insincerity? If
he had had nothing to hide he could easily have said: “It’s one thing to
know nothing against the girl, it’s another to pretend that I think her
a good match for Owen.” But could he say even so much without betraying
more? It was not Anna’s questions, or his answers to them, that he
feared, but what might cry aloud in the intervals between them. He
understood now that ever since Sophy Viner’s arrival at Givre he had
felt in Anna the lurking sense of something unexpressed, and perhaps
inexpressible, between the girl and himself...When at last he fell
asleep he had fatalistically committed his next step to the chances of
the morrow.

The first that offered itself was an encounter with Mrs. Leath as he
descended the stairs the next morning. She had come down already hatted
and shod for a dash to the park lodge, where one of the gatekeeper’s
children had had an accident. In her compact dark dress she looked more
than usually straight and slim, and her face wore the pale glow it took
on at any call on her energy: a kind of warrior brightness that made her
small head, with its strong chin and close-bound hair, like that of an
amazon in a frieze.

It was their first moment alone since she had left him, the afternoon
before, at her mother-in-law’s door; and after a few words about the
injured child their talk inevitably reverted to Owen.

Anna spoke with a smile of her “scene” with Madame de Chantelle, who
belonged, poor dear, to a generation when “scenes” (in the ladylike
and lachrymal sense of the term) were the tribute which sensibility was
expected to pay to the unusual. Their conversation had been, in every
detail, so exactly what Anna had foreseen that it had clearly not made
much impression on her; but she was eager to know the result of Darrow’s
encounter with her mother-in-law.

“She told me she’d sent for you: she always ‘sends for’ people in
emergencies. That again, I suppose, is DE L’EPOQUE. And failing Adelaide
Painter, who can’t get here till this afternoon, there was no one but
poor you to turn to.”

She put it all lightly, with a lightness that seemed to his tight-strung
nerves slightly, undefinably over-done. But he was so aware of his own
tension that he wondered, the next moment, whether anything would ever
again seem to him quite usual and insignificant and in the common order
of things.

As they hastened on through the drizzle in which the storm of the night
was weeping itself out, Anna drew close under his umbrella, and at the
pressure of her arm against his he recalled his walk up the Dover
pier with Sophy Viner. The memory gave him a startled vision of the
inevitable occasions of contact, confidence, familiarity, which his
future relationship to the girl would entail, and the countless chances
of betrayal that every one of them involved.

“Do tell me just what you said,” he heard Anna pleading; and with sudden
resolution he affirmed: “I quite understand your mother-in-law’s feeling
as she does.”

The words, when uttered, seemed a good deal less significant than they
had sounded to his inner ear; and Anna replied without surprise: “Of
course. It’s inevitable that she should. But we shall bring her round
in time.” Under the dripping dome she raised her face to his. “Don’t you
remember what you said the day before yesterday? ‘Together we can’t
fail to pull it off for him!’ I’ve told Owen that, so you’re pledged and
there’s no going back.”

The day before yesterday! Was it possible that, no longer ago, life
had seemed a sufficiently simple business for a sane man to hazard such
assurances?

“Anna,” he questioned her abruptly, “why are you so anxious for this
marriage?”

She stopped short to face him. “Why? But surely I’ve explained to
you--or rather I’ve hardly had to, you seemed so in sympathy with my
reasons!”

“I didn’t know, then, who it was that Owen wanted to marry.”

The words were out with a spring and he felt a clearer air in his brain.
But her logic hemmed him in.

“You knew yesterday; and you assured me then that you hadn’t a word to
say----”

“Against Miss Viner?” The name, once uttered, sounded on and on in his
ears. “Of course not. But that doesn’t necessarily imply that I think
her a good match for Owen.”

Anna made no immediate answer. When she spoke it was to question: “Why
don’t you think her a good match for Owen?”

“Well--Madame de Chantelle’s reasons seem to me not quite as negligible
as you think.”

“You mean the fact that she’s been Mrs. Murrett’s secretary, and that
the people who employed her before were called Hoke? For, as far as Owen
and I can make out, these are the gravest charges against her.”

“Still, one can understand that the match is not what Madame de
Chantelle had dreamed of.”

“Oh, perfectly--if that’s all you mean.” The lodge was in sight, and she
hastened her step. He strode on beside her in silence, but at the gate
she checked him with the question: “Is it really all you mean?”

“Of course,” he heard himself declare.

“Oh, then I think I shall convince you--even if I can’t, like Madame
de Chantelle, summon all the Everards to my aid!” She lifted to him
the look of happy laughter that sometimes brushed her with a gleam of
spring.

Darrow watched her hasten along the path between the dripping
chrysanthemums and enter the lodge. After she had gone in he paced up
and down outside in the drizzle, waiting to learn if she had any message
to send back to the house; and after the lapse of a few minutes she came
out again.

The child, she said, was badly, though not dangerously, hurt, and the
village doctor, who was already on hand, had asked that the surgeon,
already summoned from Francheuil, should be told to bring with him
certain needful appliances. Owen had started by motor to fetch the
surgeon, but there was still time to communicate with the latter by
telephone. The doctor furthermore begged for an immediate provision of
such bandages and disinfectants as Givre itself could furnish, and Anna
bade Darrow address himself to Miss Viner, who would know where to find
the necessary things, and would direct one of the servants to bicycle
with them to the lodge.

Darrow, as he hurried off on this errand, had at once perceived the
opportunity it offered of a word with Sophy Viner. What that word was to
be he did not know; but now, if ever, was the moment to make it urgent
and conclusive. It was unlikely that he would again have such a chance
of unobserved talk with her.

He had supposed he should find her with her pupil in the school-room;
but he learned from a servant that Effie had gone to Francheuil with her
step-brother, and that Miss Viner was still in her room. Darrow sent her
word that he was the bearer of a message from the lodge, and a moment
later he heard her coming down the stairs.




XX


For a second, as she approached him, the quick tremor of her glance
showed her all intent on the same thought as himself. He transmitted
his instructions with mechanical precision, and she answered in the same
tone, repeating his words with the intensity of attention of a child not
quite sure of understanding. Then she disappeared up the stairs.

Darrow lingered on in the hall, not knowing if she meant to return, yet
inwardly sure she would. At length he saw her coming down in her hat and
jacket. The rain still streaked the window panes, and, in order to say
something, he said: “You’re not going to the lodge yourself?”

“I’ve sent one of the men ahead with the things; but I thought Mrs.
Leath might need me.”

“She didn’t ask for you,” he returned, wondering how he could detain
her; but she answered decidedly: “I’d better go.”

He held open the door, picked up his umbrella and followed her out. As
they went down the steps she glanced back at him. “You’ve forgotten your
mackintosh.”

“I sha’n’t need it.”

She had no umbrella, and he opened his and held it out to her. She
rejected it with a murmur of thanks and walked on through the thin
drizzle, and he kept the umbrella over his own head, without offering to
shelter her.

Rapidly and in silence they crossed the court and began to walk down
the avenue. They had traversed a third of its length before Darrow
said abruptly: “Wouldn’t it have been fairer, when we talked together
yesterday, to tell me what I’ve just heard from Mrs. Leath?”

“Fairer----?” She stopped short with a startled look.

“If I’d known that your future was already settled I should have spared
you my gratuitous suggestions.”

She walked on, more slowly, for a yard or two. “I couldn’t speak
yesterday. I meant to have told you today.”

“Oh, I’m not reproaching you for your lack of confidence. Only, if you
HAD told me, I should have been more sure of your really meaning what
you said to me yesterday.”

She did not ask him to what he referred, and he saw that her parting
words to him lived as vividly in her memory as in his.

“Is it so important that you should be sure?” she finally questioned.

“Not to you, naturally,” he returned with involuntary asperity. It was
incredible, yet it was a fact, that for the moment his immediate purpose
in seeking to speak to her was lost under a rush of resentment at
counting for so little in her fate. Of what stuff, then, was his feeling
for her made? A few hours earlier she had touched his thoughts as little
as his senses; but now he felt old sleeping instincts stir in him...
A rush of rain dashed against his face, and, catching Sophy’s hat,
strained it back from her loosened hair. She put her hands to her head
with a familiar gesture...He came closer and held his umbrella over
her...

At the lodge he waited while she went in. The rain continued to stream
down on him and he shivered in the dampness and stamped his feet on the
flags. It seemed to him that a long time elapsed before the door opened
and she reappeared. He glanced into the house for a glimpse of Anna, but
obtained none; yet the mere sense of her nearness had completely altered
his mood.

The child, Sophy told him, was doing well; but Mrs. Leath had decided to
wait till the surgeon came. Darrow, as they turned away, looked through
the gates, and saw the doctor’s old-fashioned carriage by the roadside.

“Let me tell the doctor’s boy to drive you back,” he suggested; but
Sophy answered: “No; I’ll walk,” and he moved on toward the house at her
side. She expressed no surprise at his not remaining at the lodge, and
again they walked on in silence through the rain. She had accepted
the shelter of his umbrella, but she kept herself at such a carefully
measured distance that even the slight swaying movements produced by
their quick pace did not once bring her arm in touch with his; and,
noticing this, he perceived that every drop of her blood must be alive
to his nearness.

“What I meant just now,” he began, “was that you ought to have been sure
of my good wishes.”

She seemed to weigh the words. “Sure enough for what?”

“To trust me a little farther than you did.”

“I’ve told you that yesterday I wasn’t free to speak.”

“Well, since you are now, may I say a word to you?”

She paused perceptibly, and when she spoke it was in so low a tone that
he had to bend his head to catch her answer. “I can’t think what you can
have to say.”

“It’s not easy to say here, at any rate. And indoors I sha’n’t know
where to say it.” He glanced about him in the rain. “Let’s walk over to
the spring-house for a minute.”

To the right of the drive, under a clump of trees, a little stucco
pavilion crowned by a balustrade rose on arches of mouldering brick over
a flight of steps that led down to a spring. Other steps curved up to a
door above. Darrow mounted these, and opening the door entered a
small circular room hung with loosened strips of painted paper whereon
spectrally faded Mandarins executed elongated gestures. Some black and
gold chairs with straw seats and an unsteady table of cracked lacquer
stood on the floor of red-glazed tile.

Sophy had followed him without comment. He closed the door after her,
and she stood motionless, as though waiting for him to speak.

“Now we can talk quietly,” he said, looking at her with a smile into
which he tried to put an intention of the frankest friendliness.

She merely repeated: “I can’t think what you can have to say.”

Her voice had lost the note of half-wistful confidence on which their
talk of the previous day had closed, and she looked at him with a kind
of pale hostility. Her tone made it evident that his task would be
difficult, but it did not shake his resolve to go on. He sat down, and
mechanically she followed his example. The table was between them and
she rested her arms on its cracked edge and her chin on her interlocked
hands. He looked at her and she gave him back his look.

“Have you nothing to say to ME?” he asked at length.

A faint smile lifted, in the remembered way, the left corner of her
narrowed lips.

“About my marriage?”

“About your marriage.”

She continued to consider him between half-drawn lids. “What can I say
that Mrs. Leath has not already told you?”

“Mrs. Leath has told me nothing whatever but the fact--and her pleasure
in it.”

“Well; aren’t those the two essential points?”

“The essential points to YOU? I should have thought----”

“Oh, to YOU, I meant,” she put in keenly.

He flushed at the retort, but steadied himself and rejoined: “The
essential point to me is, of course, that you should be doing what’s
really best for you.”

She sat silent, with lowered lashes. At length she stretched out her arm
and took up from the table a little threadbare Chinese hand-screen. She
turned its ebony stem once or twice between her fingers, and as she did
so Darrow was whimsically struck by the way in which their evanescent
slight romance was symbolized by the fading lines on the frail silk.

“Do you think my engagement to Mr. Leath not really best for me?” she
asked at length.

Darrow, before answering, waited long enough to get his words into the
tersest shape--not without a sense, as he did so, of his likeness to the
surgeon deliberately poising his lancet for a clean incision. “I’m not
sure,” he replied, “of its being the best thing for either of you.”

She took the stroke steadily, but a faint red swept her face like the
reflection of a blush. She continued to keep her lowered eyes on the
screen.

“From whose point of view do you speak?”

“Naturally, that of the persons most concerned.”

“From Owen’s, then, of course? You don’t think me a good match for him?”

“From yours, first of all. I don’t think him a good match for you.”

He brought the answer out abruptly, his eyes on her face. It had grown
extremely pale, but as the meaning of his words shaped itself in her
mind he saw a curious inner light dawn through her set look. She lifted
her lids just far enough for a veiled glance at him, and a smile slipped
through them to her trembling lips. For a moment the change merely
bewildered him; then it pulled him up with a sharp jerk of apprehension.

“I don’t think him a good match for you,” he stammered, groping for the
lost thread of his words.

She threw a vague look about the chilly rain-dimmed room. “And you’ve
brought me here to tell me why?”

The question roused him to the sense that their minutes were numbered,
and that if he did not immediately get to his point there might be no
other chance of making it.

“My chief reason is that I believe he’s too young and inexperienced to
give you the kind of support you need.”

At his words her face changed again, freezing to a tragic coldness. She
stared straight ahead of her, perceptibly struggling with the tremor of
her muscles; and when she had controlled it she flung out a pale-lipped
pleasantry. “But you see I’ve always had to support myself!”

“He’s a boy,” Darrow pushed on, “a charming, wonderful boy; but with
no more notion than a boy how to deal with the inevitable daily
problems ... the trivial stupid unimportant things that life is chiefly
made up of.” “I’ll deal with them for him,” she rejoined.

“They’ll be more than ordinarily difficult.”

She shot a challenging glance at him. “You must have some special reason
for saying so.”

“Only my clear perception of the facts.”

“What facts do you mean?”

Darrow hesitated. “You must know better than I,” he returned at length,
“that the way won’t be made easy to you.”

“Mrs. Leath, at any rate, has made it so.”

“Madame de Chantelle will not.”

“How do YOU know that?” she flung back.

He paused again, not sure how far it was prudent to reveal himself
in the confidence of the household. Then, to avoid involving Anna, he
answered: “Madame de Chantelle sent for me yesterday.”

“Sent for you--to talk to you about me?” The colour rose to her forehead
and her eyes burned black under lowered brows. “By what right, I should
like to know? What have you to do with me, or with anything in the world
that concerns me?”

Darrow instantly perceived what dread suspicion again possessed her, and
the sense that it was not wholly unjustified caused him a passing pang
of shame. But it did not turn him from his purpose.

“I’m an old friend of Mrs. Leath’s. It’s not unnatural that Madame de
Chantelle should talk to me.”

She dropped the screen on the table and stood up, turning on him the
same small mask of wrath and scorn which had glared at him, in Paris,
when he had confessed to his suppression of her letter. She walked away
a step or two and then came back.

“May I ask what Madame de Chantelle said to you?”

“She made it clear that she should not encourage the marriage.”

“And what was her object in making that clear to YOU?”

Darrow hesitated. “I suppose she thought----”

“That she could persuade you to turn Mrs. Leath against me?”

He was silent, and she pressed him: “Was that it?” “That was it.”

“But if you don’t--if you keep your promise----”

“My promise?”

“To say nothing ... nothing whatever...” Her strained look threw a haggard
light along the pause.

As she spoke, the whole odiousness of the scene rushed over him. “Of
course I shall say nothing ... you know that...” He leaned to her and laid
his hand on hers. “You know I wouldn’t for the world...”

She drew back and hid her face with a sob. Then she sank again into her
seat, stretched her arms across the table and laid her face upon them.
He sat still, overwhelmed with compunction. After a long interval, in
which he had painfully measured the seconds by her hard-drawn breathing,
she looked up at him with a face washed clear of bitterness.

“Don’t suppose I don’t know what you must have thought of me!”

The cry struck him down to a lower depth of self-abasement. “My poor
child,” he felt like answering, “the shame of it is that I’ve never
thought of you at all!” But he could only uselessly repeat: “I’ll do
anything I can to help you.”

She sat silent, drumming the table with her hand. He saw that her doubt
of him was allayed, and the perception made him more ashamed, as if her
trust had first revealed to him how near he had come to not deserving
it. Suddenly she began to speak.

“You think, then, I’ve no right to marry him?”

“No right? God forbid! I only meant----”

“That you’d rather I didn’t marry any friend of yours.” She brought
it out deliberately, not as a question, but as a mere dispassionate
statement of fact.

Darrow in turn stood up and wandered away helplessly to the window. He
stood staring out through its small discoloured panes at the dim brown
distances; then he moved back to the table.

“I’ll tell you exactly what I meant. You’ll be wretched if you marry a
man you’re not in love with.”

He knew the risk of misapprehension that he ran, but he estimated his
chances of success as precisely in proportion to his peril. If certain
signs meant what he thought they did, he might yet--at what cost he
would not stop to think--make his past pay for his future.

The girl, at his words, had lifted her head with a movement of surprise.
Her eyes slowly reached his face and rested there in a gaze of deep
interrogation. He held the look for a moment; then his own eyes dropped
and he waited.

At length she began to speak. “You’re mistaken--you’re quite mistaken.”

He waited a moment longer. “Mistaken----?”

“In thinking what you think. I’m as happy as if I deserved it!” she
suddenly proclaimed with a laugh.

She stood up and moved toward the door. “NOW are you satisfied?” she
asked, turning her vividest face to him from the threshold.




XXI


Down the avenue there came to them, with the opening of the door, the
voice of Owen’s motor. It was the signal which had interrupted their
first talk, and again, instinctively, they drew apart at the sound.
Without a word Darrow turned back into the room, while Sophy Viner went
down the steps and walked back alone toward the court.

At luncheon the presence of the surgeon, and the non-appearance
of Madame de Chantelle--who had excused herself on the plea of a
headache--combined to shift the conversational centre of gravity; and
Darrow, under shelter of the necessarily impersonal talk, had time to
adjust his disguise and to perceive that the others were engaged in the
same re-arrangement. It was the first time that he had seen young Leath
and Sophy Viner together since he had learned of their engagement; but
neither revealed more emotion than befitted the occasion. It was evident
that Owen was deeply under the girl’s charm, and that at the least
sign from her his bliss would have broken bounds; but her reticence
was justified by the tacitly recognized fact of Madame de Chantelle’s
disapproval. This also visibly weighed on Anna’s mind, making her manner
to Sophy, if no less kind, yet a trifle more constrained than if the
moment of final understanding had been reached. So Darrow interpreted
the tension perceptible under the fluent exchange of commonplaces in
which he was diligently sharing. But he was more and more aware of his
inability to test the moral atmosphere about him: he was like a man in
fever testing another’s temperature by the touch.

After luncheon Anna, who was to motor the surgeon home, suggested to
Darrow that he should accompany them. Effie was also of the party; and
Darrow inferred that Anna wished to give her step-son a chance to be
alone with his betrothed. On the way back, after the surgeon had been
left at his door, the little girl sat between her mother and Darrow, and
her presence kept their talk from taking a personal turn. Darrow knew
that Mrs. Leath had not yet told Effie of the relation in which he was
to stand to her. The premature divulging of Owen’s plans had thrown
their own into the background, and by common consent they continued, in
the little girl’s presence, on terms of an informal friendliness.

The sky had cleared after luncheon, and to prolong their excursion they
returned by way of the ivy-mantled ruin which was to have been the scene
of the projected picnic. This circuit brought them back to the park
gates not long before sunset, and as Anna wished to stop at the lodge
for news of the injured child Darrow left her there with Effie and
walked on alone to the house. He had the impression that she
was slightly surprised at his not waiting for her; but his inner
restlessness vented itself in an intense desire for bodily movement. He
would have liked to walk himself into a state of torpor; to tramp on
for hours through the moist winds and the healing darkness and come
back staggering with fatigue and sleep. But he had no pretext for such
a flight, and he feared that, at such a moment, his prolonged absence
might seem singular to Anna.

As he approached the house, the thought of her nearness produced a swift
reaction of mood. It was as if an intenser vision of her had scattered
his perplexities like morning mists. At this moment, wherever she was,
he knew he was safely shut away in her thoughts, and the knowledge made
every other fact dwindle away to a shadow. He and she loved each other,
and their love arched over them open and ample as the day: in all its
sunlit spaces there was no cranny for a fear to lurk. In a few minutes
he would be in her presence and would read his reassurance in her eyes.
And presently, before dinner, she would contrive that they should have
an hour by themselves in her sitting-room, and he would sit by the
hearth and watch her quiet movements, and the way the bluish lustre on
her hair purpled a little as she bent above the fire.

A carriage drove out of the court as he entered it, and in the hall his
vision was dispelled by the exceedingly substantial presence of a lady
in a waterproof and a tweed hat, who stood firmly planted in the centre
of a pile of luggage, as to which she was giving involved but lucid
directions to the footman who had just admitted her. She went on with
these directions regardless of Darrow’s entrance, merely fixing her
small pale eyes on him while she proceeded, in a deep contralto voice,
and a fluent French pronounced with the purest Boston accent, to specify
the destination of her bags; and this enabled Darrow to give her back a
gaze protracted enough to take in all the details of her plain thick-set
person, from the square sallow face beneath bands of grey hair to the
blunt boot-toes protruding under her wide walking skirt.

She submitted to this scrutiny with no more evidence of surprise than
a monument examined by a tourist; but when the fate of her luggage had
been settled she turned suddenly to Darrow and, dropping her eyes from
his face to his feet, asked in trenchant accents: “What sort of boots
have you got on?”

Before he could summon his wits to the consideration of this question
she continued in a tone of suppressed indignation: “Until Americans get
used to the fact that France is under water for half the year they’re
perpetually risking their lives by not being properly protected. I
suppose you’ve been tramping through all this nasty clammy mud as if
you’d been taking a stroll on Boston Common.”

Darrow, with a laugh, affirmed his previous experience of French
dampness, and the degree to which he was on his guard against it; but
the lady, with a contemptuous snort, rejoined: “You young men are all
alike----“; to which she appended, after another hard look at him:
“I suppose you’re George Darrow? I used to know one of your mother’s
cousins, who married a Tunstall of Mount Vernon Street. My name is
Adelaide Painter. Have you been in Boston lately? No? I’m sorry for
that. I hear there have been several new houses built at the lower
end of Commonwealth Avenue and I hoped you could tell me about them. I
haven’t been there for thirty years myself.”

Miss Painter’s arrival at Givre produced the same effect as the wind’s
hauling around to the north after days of languid weather. When Darrow
joined the group about the tea-table she had already given a tingle to
the air. Madame de Chantelle still remained invisible above stairs;
but Darrow had the impression that even through her drawn curtains and
bolted doors a stimulating whiff must have entered.

Anna was in her usual seat behind the tea-tray, and Sophy Viner
presently led in her pupil. Owen was also there, seated, as usual,
a little apart from the others, and following Miss Painter’s massive
movements and equally substantial utterances with a smile of secret
intelligence which gave Darrow the idea of his having been in
clandestine parley with the enemy. Darrow further took note that the
girl and her suitor perceptibly avoided each other; but this might be a
natural result of the tension Miss Painter had been summoned to relieve.

Sophy Viner would evidently permit no recognition of the situation save
that which it lay with Madame de Chantelle to accord; but meanwhile Miss
Painter had proclaimed her tacit sense of it by summoning the girl to a
seat at her side.

Darrow, as he continued to observe the newcomer, who was perched on her
arm-chair like a granite image on the edge of a cliff, was aware
that, in a more detached frame of mind, he would have found an extreme
interest in studying and classifying Miss Painter. It was not that she
said anything remarkable, or betrayed any of those unspoken perceptions
which give significance to the most commonplace utterances. She talked
of the lateness of her train, of an impending crisis in international
politics, of the difficulty of buying English tea in Paris and of the
enormities of which French servants were capable; and her views on these
subjects were enunciated with a uniformity of emphasis implying complete
unconsciousness of any difference in their interest and importance. She
always applied to the French race the distant epithet of “those people”,
but she betrayed an intimate acquaintance with many of its members,
and an encyclopaedic knowledge of the domestic habits, financial
difficulties and private complications of various persons of social
importance. Yet, as she evidently felt no incongruity in her
attitude, so she revealed no desire to parade her familiarity with the
fashionable, or indeed any sense of it as a fact to be paraded. It was
evident that the titled ladies whom she spoke of as Mimi or Simone or
Odette were as much “those people” to her as the bonne who tampered with
her tea and steamed the stamps off her letters (“when, by a miracle,
I don’t put them in the box myself.”) Her whole attitude was of a vast
grim tolerance of things-as-they-came, as though she had been some
wonderful automatic machine which recorded facts but had not yet been
perfected to the point of sorting or labelling them.

All this, as Darrow was aware, still fell short of accounting for the
influence she obviously exerted on the persons in contact with her.
It brought a slight relief to his state of tension to go on wondering,
while he watched and listened, just where the mystery lurked.
Perhaps, after all, it was in the fact of her blank insensibility,
an insensibility so devoid of egotism that it had no hardness and no
grimaces, but rather the freshness of a simpler mental state. After
living, as he had, as they all had, for the last few days, in an
atmosphere perpetually tremulous with echoes and implications, it was
restful and fortifying merely to walk into the big blank area of Miss
Painter’s mind, so vacuous for all its accumulated items, so echoless
for all its vacuity.

His hope of a word with Anna before dinner was dispelled by her rising
to take Miss Painter up to Madame de Chantelle; and he wandered away
to his own room, leaving Owen and Miss Viner engaged in working out a
picture-puzzle for Effie.

Madame de Chantelle--possibly as the result of her friend’s
ministrations--was able to appear at the dinner-table, rather pale and
pink-nosed, and casting tenderly reproachful glances at her grandson,
who faced them with impervious serenity; and the situation was relieved
by the fact that Miss Viner, as usual, had remained in the school-room
with her pupil.

Darrow conjectured that the real clash of arms would not take place till
the morrow; and wishing to leave the field open to the contestants he
set out early on a solitary walk. It was nearly luncheon-time when he
returned from it and came upon Anna just emerging from the house. She
had on her hat and jacket and was apparently coming forth to seek him,
for she said at once: “Madame de Chantelle wants you to go up to her.”

“To go up to her? Now?”

“That’s the message she sent. She appears to rely on you to do
something.” She added with a smile: “Whatever it is, let’s have it
over!”

Darrow, through his rising sense of apprehension, wondered why, instead
of merely going for a walk, he had not jumped into the first train and
got out of the way till Owen’s affairs were finally settled.

“But what in the name of goodness can I do?” he protested, following
Anna back into the hall.

“I don’t know. But Owen seems so to rely on you, too----”

“Owen! Is HE to be there?”

“No. But you know I told him he could count on you.”

“But I’ve said to your mother-in-law all I could.”

“Well, then you can only repeat it.”

This did not seem to Darrow to simplify his case as much as she appeared
to think; and once more he had a movement of recoil. “There’s no
possible reason for my being mixed up in this affair!”

Anna gave him a reproachful glance. “Not the fact that I am?” she
reminded him; but even this only stiffened his resistance.

“Why should you be, either--to this extent?”

The question made her pause. She glanced about the hall, as if to be
sure they had it to themselves; and then, in a lowered voice: “I don’t
know,” she suddenly confessed; “but, somehow, if THEY’RE not happy I
feel as if we shouldn’t be.”

“Oh, well--” Darrow acquiesced, in the tone of the man who perforce
yields to so lovely an unreasonableness. Escape was, after all,
impossible, and he could only resign himself to being led to Madame de
Chantelle’s door.

Within, among the bric-a-brac and furbelows, he found Miss Painter
seated in a redundant purple armchair with the incongruous air of a
horseman bestriding a heavy mount. Madame de Chantelle sat opposite,
still a little wan and disordered under her elaborate hair, and clasping
the handkerchief whose visibility symbolized her distress. On the
young man’s entrance she sighed out a plaintive welcome, to which she
immediately appended: “Mr. Darrow, I can’t help feeling that at heart
you’re with me!”

The directness of the challenge made it easier for Darrow to protest,
and he reiterated his inability to give an opinion on either side.

“But Anna declares you have--on hers!”

He could not restrain a smile at this faint flaw in an impartiality so
scrupulous. Every evidence of feminine inconsequence in Anna seemed to
attest her deeper subjection to the most inconsequent of passions. He
had certainly promised her his help--but before he knew what he was
promising.

He met Madame de Chantelle’s appeal by replying: “If there were anything
I could possibly say I should want it to be in Miss Viner’s favour.”

“You’d want it to be--yes! But could you make it so?”

“As far as facts go, I don’t see how I can make it either for or against
her. I’ve already said that I know nothing of her except that she’s
charming.”

“As if that weren’t enough--weren’t all there OUGHT to be!” Miss Painter
put in impatiently. She seemed to address herself to Darrow, though her
small eyes were fixed on her friend.

“Madame de Chantelle seems to imagine,” she pursued, “that a young
American girl ought to have a dossier--a police-record, or whatever you
call it: what those awful women in the streets have here. In our country
it’s enough to know that a young girl’s pure and lovely: people don’t
immediately ask her to show her bank-account and her visiting-list.”

Madame de Chantelle looked plaintively at her sturdy monitress. “You
don’t expect me not to ask if she’s got a family?”

“No; nor to think the worse of her if she hasn’t. The fact that she’s an
orphan ought, with your ideas, to be a merit. You won’t have to invite
her father and mother to Givre!”

“Adelaide--Adelaide!” the mistress of Givre lamented.

“Lucretia Mary,” the other returned--and Darrow spared an instant’s
amusement to the quaint incongruity of the name--“you know you sent for
Mr. Darrow to refute me; and how can he, till he knows what I think?”

“You think it’s perfectly simple to let Owen marry a girl we know
nothing about?”

“No; but I don’t think it’s perfectly simple to prevent him.”

The shrewdness of the answer increased Darrow’s interest in Miss
Painter. She had not hitherto struck him as being a person of much
penetration, but he now felt sure that her gimlet gaze might bore to the
heart of any practical problem.

Madame de Chantelle sighed out her recognition of the difficulty.

“I haven’t a word to say against Miss Viner; but she’s knocked about
so, as it’s called, that she must have been mixed up with some rather
dreadful people. If only Owen could be made to see that--if one could
get at a few facts, I mean. She says, for instance, that she has a
sister; but it seems she doesn’t even know her address!”

“If she does, she may not want to give it to you. I daresay the sister’s
one of the dreadful people. I’ve no doubt that with a little time you
could rake up dozens of them: have her ‘traced’, as they call it in
detective stories. I don’t think you’d frighten Owen, but you might:
it’s natural enough he should have been corrupted by those foreign
ideas. You might even manage to part him from the girl; but you couldn’t
keep him from being in love with her. I saw that when I looked them
over last evening. I said to myself: ‘It’s a real old-fashioned American
case, as sweet and sound as home-made bread.’ Well, if you take his loaf
away from him, what are you going to feed him with instead? Which of
your nasty Paris poisons do you think he’ll turn to? Supposing you
succeed in keeping him out of a really bad mess--and, knowing the young
man as I do, I rather think that, at this crisis, the only way to do it
would be to marry him slap off to somebody else--well, then, who, may I
ask, would you pick out? One of your sweet French ingenues, I suppose?
With as much mind as a minnow and as much snap as a soft-boiled egg. You
might hustle him into that kind of marriage; I daresay you could--but
if I know Owen, the natural thing would happen before the first baby was
weaned.”

“I don’t know why you insinuate such odious things against Owen!”

“Do you think it would be odious of him to return to his real love when
he’d been forcibly parted from her? At any rate, it’s what your French
friends do, every one of them! Only they don’t generally have the grace
to go back to an old love; and I believe, upon my word, Owen would!”

Madame de Chantelle looked at her with a mixture of awe and exultation.
“Of course you realize, Adelaide, that in suggesting this you’re
insinuating the most shocking things against Miss Viner?”

“When I say that if you part two young things who are dying to be happy
in the lawful way it’s ten to one they’ll come together in an unlawful
one? I’m insinuating shocking things against YOU, Lucretia Mary, in
suggesting for a moment that you’ll care to assume such a responsibility
before your Maker. And you wouldn’t, if you talked things straight out
with him, instead of merely sending him messages through a miserable
sinner like yourself!”

Darrow expected this assault on her adopted creed to provoke in Madame
de Chantelle an explosion of pious indignation; but to his surprise she
merely murmured: “I don’t know what Mr. Darrow’ll think of you!”

“Mr. Darrow probably knows his Bible as well as I do,” Miss Painter
calmly rejoined; adding a moment later, without the least perceptible
change of voice or expression: “I suppose you’ve heard that Gisele
de Folembray’s husband accuses her of being mixed up with the Duc
d’Arcachon in that business of trying to sell a lot of imitation pearls
to Mrs. Homer Pond, the Chicago woman the Duke’s engaged to? It seems
the jeweller says Gisele brought Mrs. Pond there, and got twenty-five
per cent--which of course she passed on to d’Arcachon. The poor old
Duchess is in a fearful state--so afraid her son’ll lose Mrs. Pond!
When I think that Gisele is old Bradford Wagstaff’s grand-daughter, I’m
thankful he’s safe in Mount Auburn!”




XXII


It was not until late that afternoon that Darrow could claim his
postponed hour with Anna. When at last he found her alone in her
sitting-room it was with a sense of liberation so great that he sought
no logical justification of it. He simply felt that all their destinies
were in Miss Painter’s grasp, and that, resistance being useless, he
could only enjoy the sweets of surrender.

Anna herself seemed as happy, and for more explicable reasons. She had
assisted, after luncheon, at another debate between Madame de Chantelle
and her confidant, and had surmised, when she withdrew from it, that
victory was permanently perched on Miss Painter’s banners.

“I don’t know how she does it, unless it’s by the dead weight of her
convictions. She detests the French so that she’d back up Owen even if
she knew nothing--or knew too much--of Miss Viner. She somehow regards
the match as a protest against the corruption of European morals. I told
Owen that was his great chance, and he’s made the most of it.”

“What a tactician you are! You make me feel that I hardly know the
rudiments of diplomacy,” Darrow smiled at her, abandoning himself to a
perilous sense of well-being.

She gave him back his smile. “I’m afraid I think nothing short of my own
happiness is worth wasting any diplomacy on!”

“That’s why I mean to resign from the service of my country,” he
rejoined with a laugh of deep content.

The feeling that both resistance and apprehension were vain was working
like wine in his veins. He had done what he could to deflect the course
of events: now he could only stand aside and take his chance of safety.
Underneath this fatalistic feeling was the deep sense of relief that
he had, after all, said and done nothing that could in the least degree
affect the welfare of Sophy Viner. That fact took a millstone off his
neck.

Meanwhile he gave himself up once more to the joy of Anna’s presence.
They had not been alone together for two long days, and he had the
lover’s sense that he had forgotten, or at least underestimated, the
strength of the spell she cast. Once more her eyes and her smile seemed
to bound his world. He felt that their light would always move with him
as the sunset moves before a ship at sea.


The next day his sense of security was increased by a decisive incident.
It became known to the expectant household that Madame de Chantelle had
yielded to the tremendous impact of Miss Painter’s determination and
that Sophy Viner had been “sent for” to the purple satin sitting-room.

At luncheon, Owen’s radiant countenance proclaimed the happy sequel, and
Darrow, when the party had moved back to the oak-room for coffee, deemed
it discreet to wander out alone to the terrace with his cigar. The
conclusion of Owen’s romance brought his own plans once more to the
front. Anna had promised that she would consider dates and settle
details as soon as Madame de Chantelle and her grandson had been
reconciled, and Darrow was eager to go into the question at once,
since it was necessary that the preparations for his marriage should
go forward as rapidly as possible. Anna, he knew, would not seek any
farther pretext for delay; and he strolled up and down contentedly in
the sunshine, certain that she would come out and reassure him as soon
as the reunited family had claimed its due share of her attention.

But when she finally joined him her first word was for the younger
lovers.

“I want to thank you for what you’ve done for Owen,” she began, with her
happiest smile.

“Who--I?” he laughed. “Are you confusing me with Miss Painter?”

“Perhaps I ought to say for ME,” she corrected herself. “You’ve been
even more of a help to us than Adelaide.”

“My dear child! What on earth have I done?”

“You’ve managed to hide from Madame de Chantelle that you don’t really
like poor Sophy.”

Darrow felt the pallour in his cheek. “Not like her? What put such an
idea into your head?”

“Oh, it’s more than an idea--it’s a feeling. But what difference does
it make, after all? You saw her in such a different setting that it’s
natural you should be a little doubtful. But when you know her better
I’m sure you’ll feel about her as I do.”

“It’s going to be hard for me not to feel about everything as you do.”

“Well, then--please begin with my daughter-in-law!”

He gave her back in the same tone of banter: “Agreed: if you ll agree to
feel as I do about the pressing necessity of our getting married.”

“I want to talk to you about that too. You don’t know what a weight is
off my mind! With Sophy here for good, I shall feel so differently
about leaving Effie. I’ve seen much more accomplished governesses--to
my cost!--but I’ve never seen a young thing more gay and kind and human.
You must have noticed, though you’ve seen them so little together, how
Effie expands when she’s with her. And that, you know, is what I want.
Madame de Chantelle will provide the necessary restraint.” She clasped
her hands on his arm. “Yes, I’m ready to go with you now. But first of
all--this very moment!--you must come with me to Effie. She knows, of
course, nothing of what’s been happening; and I want her to be told
first about YOU.”

Effie, sought throughout the house, was presently traced to the
school-room, and thither Darrow mounted with Anna. He had never seen
her so alight with happiness, and he had caught her buoyancy of mood. He
kept repeating to himself: “It’s over--it’s over,” as if some monstrous
midnight hallucination had been routed by the return of day.

As they approached the school-room door the terrier’s barks came to them
through laughing remonstrances.

“She’s giving him his dinner,” Anna whispered, her hand in Darrow’s.

“Don’t forget the gold-fish!” they heard another voice call out.

Darrow halted on the threshold. “Oh--not now!”

“Not now?”

“I mean--she’d rather have you tell her first. I’ll wait for you both
downstairs.”

He was aware that she glanced at him intently. “As you please. I’ll
bring her down at once.”

She opened the door, and as she went in he heard her say: “No, Sophy,
don’t go! I want you both.”


The rest of Darrow’s day was a succession of empty and agitating
scenes. On his way down to Givre, before he had seen Effie Leath, he
had pictured somewhat sentimentally the joy of the moment when he should
take her in his arms and receive her first filial kiss. Everything
in him that egotistically craved for rest, stability, a comfortably
organized middle-age, all the home-building instincts of the man who
has sufficiently wooed and wandered, combined to throw a charm about the
figure of the child who might--who should--have been his. Effie came to
him trailing the cloud of glory of his first romance, giving him
back the magic hour he had missed and mourned. And how different the
realization of his dream had been! The child’s radiant welcome, her
unquestioning acceptance of, this new figure in the family group, had
been all that he had hoped and fancied. If Mother was so awfully happy
about it, and Owen and Granny, too, how nice and cosy and comfortable
it was going to be for all of them, her beaming look seemed to say; and
then, suddenly, the small pink fingers he had been kissing were laid
on the one flaw in the circle, on the one point which must be settled
before Effie could, with complete unqualified assurance, admit the
new-comer to full equality with the other gods of her Olympus.

“And is Sophy awfully happy about it too?” she had asked, loosening her
hold on Darrow’s neck to tilt back her head and include her mother in
her questioning look.

“Why, dearest, didn’t you see she was?” Anna had exclaimed, leaning to
the group with radiant eyes.

“I think I should like to ask her,” the child rejoined, after a minute’s
shy consideration; and as Darrow set her down her mother laughed: “Do,
darling, do! Run off at once, and tell her we expect her to be awfully
happy too.”

The scene had been succeeded by others less poignant but almost as
trying. Darrow cursed his luck in having, at such a moment, to run
the gauntlet of a houseful of interested observers. The state of being
“engaged”, in itself an absurd enough predicament, even to a man only
intermittently exposed, became intolerable under the continuous scrutiny
of a small circle quivering with participation. Darrow was furthermore
aware that, though the case of the other couple ought to have made
his own less conspicuous, it was rather they who found a refuge in the
shadow of his prominence. Madame de Chantelle, though she had
consented to Owen’s engagement and formally welcomed his betrothed,
was nevertheless not sorry to show, by her reception of Darrow, of
what finely-shaded degrees of cordiality she was capable. Miss Painter,
having won the day for Owen, was also free to turn her attention to the
newer candidate for her sympathy; and Darrow and Anna found themselves
immersed in a warm bath of sentimental curiosity.

It was a relief to Darrow that he was under a positive obligation to end
his visit within the next forty-eight hours. When he left London, his
Ambassador had accorded him a ten days’ leave. His fate being definitely
settled and openly published he had no reason for asking to have the
time prolonged, and when it was over he was to return to his post till
the time fixed for taking up his new duties. Anna and he had therefore
decided to be married, in Paris, a day or two before the departure of
the steamer which was to take them to South America; and Anna, shortly
after his return to England, was to go up to Paris and begin her own
preparations.

In honour of the double betrothal Effie and Miss Viner were to appear
that evening at dinner; and Darrow, on leaving his room, met the little
girl springing down the stairs, her white ruffles and coral-coloured
bows making her look like a daisy with her yellow hair for its centre.
Sophy Viner was behind her pupil, and as she came into the light Darrow
noticed a change in her appearance and wondered vaguely why she looked
suddenly younger, more vivid, more like the little luminous ghost of his
Paris memories. Then it occurred to him that it was the first time she
had appeared at dinner since his arrival at Givre, and the first time,
consequently, that he had seen her in evening dress. She was still at
the age when the least adornment embellishes; and no doubt the mere
uncovering of her young throat and neck had given her back her former
brightness. But a second glance showed a more precise reason for his
impression. Vaguely though he retained such details, he felt sure she
was wearing the dress he had seen her in every evening in Paris. It was
a simple enough dress, black, and transparent on the arms and shoulders,
and he would probably not have recognized it if she had not called his
attention to it in Paris by confessing that she hadn’t any other. “The
same dress? That proves that she’s forgotten!” was his first half-ironic
thought; but the next moment, with a pang of compunction, he said to
himself that she had probably put it on for the same reason as before:
simply because she hadn’t any other.

He looked at her in silence, and for an instant, above Effie’s bobbing
head, she gave him back his look in a full bright gaze.

“Oh, there’s Owen!” Effie cried, and whirled away down the gallery to
the door from which her step-brother was emerging. As Owen bent to catch
her, Sophy Viner turned abruptly back to Darrow.

“You, too?” she said with a quick laugh. “I didn’t know----” And as Owen
came up to them she added, in a tone that might have been meant to reach
his ear: “I wish you all the luck that we can spare!”

About the dinner-table, which Effie, with Miss Viner’s aid, had lavishly
garlanded, the little party had an air of somewhat self-conscious
festivity. In spite of flowers, champagne and a unanimous attempt at
ease, there were frequent lapses in the talk, and moments of nervous
groping for new subjects. Miss Painter alone seemed not only
unaffected by the general perturbation but as tightly sealed up in
her unconsciousness of it as a diver in his bell. To Darrow’s strained
attention even Owen’s gusts of gaiety seemed to betray an inward sense
of insecurity. After dinner, however, at the piano, he broke into a mood
of extravagant hilarity and flooded the room with the splash and ripple
of his music.

Darrow, sunk in a sofa corner in the lee of Miss Painter’s granite
bulk, smoked and listened in silence, his eyes moving from one figure to
another. Madame de Chantelle, in her armchair near the fire, clasped her
little granddaughter to her with the gesture of a drawing-room Niobe,
and Anna, seated near them, had fallen into one of the attitudes of
vivid calm which seemed to Darrow to express her inmost quality. Sophy
Viner, after moving uncertainly about the room, had placed herself
beyond Mrs. Leath, in a chair near the piano, where she sat with head
thrown back and eyes attached to the musician, in the same rapt fixity
of attention with which she had followed the players at the Francais.
The accident of her having fallen into the same attitude, and of her
wearing the same dress, gave Darrow, as he watched her, a strange sense
of double consciousness. To escape from it, his glance turned back to
Anna; but from the point at which he was placed his eyes could not
take in the one face without the other, and that renewed the disturbing
duality of the impression. Suddenly Owen broke off with a crash of
chords and jumped to his feet.

“What’s the use of this, with such a moon to say it for us?”

Behind the uncurtained window a low golden orb hung like a ripe fruit
against the glass.

“Yes--let’s go out and listen,” Anna answered. Owen threw open the
window, and with his gesture a fold of the heavy star-sprinkled sky
seemed to droop into the room like a drawn-in curtain. The air that
entered with it had a frosty edge, and Anna bade Effie run to the hall
for wraps.

Darrow said: “You must have one too,” and started toward the door;
but Sophy, following her pupil, cried back: “We’ll bring things for
everybody.”

Owen had followed her, and in a moment the three reappeared, and the
party went out on the terrace. The deep blue purity of the night was
unveiled by mist, and the moonlight rimmed the edges of the trees with
a silver blur and blanched to unnatural whiteness the statues against
their walls of shade.

Darrow and Anna, with Effie between them, strolled to the farther corner
of the terrace. Below them, between the fringes of the park, the lawn
sloped dimly to the fields above the river. For a few minutes they stood
silently side by side, touched to peace beneath the trembling beauty of
the sky. When they turned back, Darrow saw that Owen and Sophy Viner,
who had gone down the steps to the garden, were also walking in the
direction of the house. As they advanced, Sophy paused in a patch of
moonlight, between the sharp shadows of the yews, and Darrow noticed
that she had thrown over her shoulders a long cloak of some light
colour, which suddenly evoked her image as she had entered the
restaurant at his side on the night of their first dinner in Paris. A
moment later they were all together again on the terrace, and when they
re-entered the drawing-room the older ladies were on their way to bed.

Effie, emboldened by the privileges of the evening, was for coaxing Owen
to round it off with a game of forfeits or some such reckless climax;
but Sophy, resuming her professional role, sounded the summons to bed.
In her pupil’s wake she made her round of good-nights; but when she
proffered her hand to Anna, the latter ignoring the gesture held out
both arms.

“Good-night, dear child,” she said impulsively, and drew the girl to her
kiss.




BOOK IV




XXIII


The next day was Darrow’s last at Givre and, foreseeing that the
afternoon and evening would have to be given to the family, he had asked
Anna to devote an early hour to the final consideration of their plans.
He was to meet her in the brown sitting-room at ten, and they were to
walk down to the river and talk over their future in the little pavilion
abutting on the wall of the park.

It was just a week since his arrival at Givre, and Anna wished, before
he left, to return to the place where they had sat on their first
afternoon together. Her sensitiveness to the appeal of inanimate things,
to the colour and texture of whatever wove itself into the substance of
her emotion, made her want to hear Darrow’s voice, and to feel his eyes
on her, in the spot where bliss had first flowed into her heart.

That bliss, in the interval, had wound itself into every fold of her
being. Passing, in the first days, from a high shy tenderness to the
rush of a secret surrender, it had gradually widened and deepened, to
flow on in redoubled beauty. She thought she now knew exactly how and
why she loved Darrow, and she could see her whole sky reflected in the
deep and tranquil current of her love.

Early the next day, in her sitting-room, she was glancing through the
letters which it was Effie’s morning privilege to carry up to her. Effie
meanwhile circled inquisitively about the room, where there was always
something new to engage her infant fancy; and Anna, looking up, saw her
suddenly arrested before a photograph of Darrow which, the day before,
had taken its place on the writing-table.

Anna held out her arms with a faint blush. “You do like him, don’t you,
dear?”

“Oh, most awfully, dearest,” Effie, against her breast, leaned back
to assure her with a limpid look. “And so do Granny and Owen--and I DO
think Sophy does too,” she added, after a moment’s earnest pondering.

“I hope so,” Anna laughed. She checked the impulse to continue: “Has she
talked to you about him, that you’re so sure?” She did not know what had
made the question spring to her lips, but she was glad she had closed
them before pronouncing it. Nothing could have been more distasteful to
her than to clear up such obscurities by turning on them the tiny flame
of her daughter’s observation. And what, after all, now that Owen’s
happiness was secured, did it matter if there were certain reserves in
Darrow’s approval of his marriage?

A knock on the door made Anna glance at the clock. “There’s Nurse to
carry you off.”

“It’s Sophy’s knock,” the little girl answered, jumping down to open the
door; and Miss Viner in fact stood on the threshold.

“Come in,” Anna said with a smile, instantly remarking how pale she
looked.

“May Effie go out for a turn with Nurse?” the girl asked. “I should like
to speak to you a moment.”

“Of course. This ought to be YOUR holiday, as yesterday was Effie’s. Run
off, dear,” she added, stooping to kiss the little girl.

When the door had closed she turned back to Sophy Viner with a look that
sought her confidence. “I’m so glad you came, my dear. We’ve got so many
things to talk about, just you and I together.”

The confused intercourse of the last days had, in fact, left little time
for any speech with Sophy but such as related to her marriage and the
means of overcoming Madame de Chantelle’s opposition to it. Anna had
exacted of Owen that no one, not even Sophy Viner, should be given a
hint of her own projects till all contingent questions had been disposed
of. She had felt, from the outset, a secret reluctance to intrude her
securer happiness on the doubts and fears of the young pair.

From the sofa-corner to which she had dropped back she pointed to
Darrow’s chair. “Come and sit by me, dear. I wanted to see you alone.
There’s so much to say that I hardly know where to begin.”

She leaned forward, her hands clasped on the arms of the sofa, her eyes
bent smilingly on Sophy’s. As she did so, she noticed that the girl’s
unusual pallour was partly due to the slight veil of powder on her
face. The discovery was distinctly disagreeable. Anna had never before
noticed, on Sophy’s part, any recourse to cosmetics, and, much as
she wished to think herself exempt from old-fashioned prejudices, she
suddenly became aware that she did not like her daughter’s governess to
have a powdered face. Then she reflected that the girl who sat opposite
her was no longer Effie’s governess, but her own future daughter-in-law;
and she wondered whether Miss Viner had chosen this odd way of
celebrating her independence, and whether, as Mrs. Owen Leath, she would
present to the world a bedizened countenance. This idea was scarcely
less distasteful than the other, and for a moment Anna continued to
consider her without speaking. Then, in a flash, the truth came to her:
Miss Viner had powdered her face because Miss Viner had been crying.

Anna leaned forward impulsively. “My dear child, what’s the matter?”
 She saw the girl’s blood rush up under the white mask, and hastened on:
“Please don’t be afraid to tell me. I do so want you to feel that you
can trust me as Owen does. And you know you mustn’t mind if, just at
first, Madame de Chantelle occasionally relapses.”

She spoke eagerly, persuasively, almost on a note of pleading. She had,
in truth, so many reasons for wanting Sophy to like her: her love for
Owen, her solicitude for Effie, and her own sense of the girl’s fine
mettle. She had always felt a romantic and almost humble admiration for
those members of her sex who, from force of will, or the constraint
of circumstances, had plunged into the conflict from which fate had
so persistently excluded her. There were even moments when she fancied
herself vaguely to blame for her immunity, and felt that she ought
somehow to have affronted the perils and hardships which refused to come
to her. And now, as she sat looking at Sophy Viner, so small, so slight,
so visibly defenceless and undone, she still felt, through all the
superiority of her worldly advantages and her seeming maturity, the same
odd sense of ignorance and inexperience. She could not have said what
there was in the girl’s manner and expression to give her this feeling,
but she was reminded, as she looked at Sophy Viner, of the other girls
she had known in her youth, the girls who seemed possessed of a secret
she had missed. Yes, Sophy Viner had their look--almost the obscurely
menacing look of Kitty Mayne...Anna, with an inward smile, brushed aside
the image of this forgotten rival. But she had felt, deep down, a
twinge of the old pain, and she was sorry that, even for the flash of
a thought, Owen’s betrothed should have reminded her of so different a
woman...

She laid her hand on the girl’s. “When his grandmother sees how happy
Owen is she’ll be quite happy herself. If it’s only that, don’t be
distressed. Just trust to Owen--and the future.”

Sophy Viner, with an almost imperceptible recoil of her whole slight
person, had drawn her hand from under the palm enclosing it.

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about--the future.”

“Of course! We’ve all so many plans to make--and to fit into each
other’s. Please let’s begin with yours.”

The girl paused a moment, her hands clasped on the arms of her chair,
her lids dropped under Anna’s gaze; then she said: “I should like to
make no plans at all ... just yet...”

“No plans?”

“No--I should like to go away ... my friends the Farlows would let me go
to them...” Her voice grew firmer and she lifted her eyes to add: “I
should like to leave today, if you don’t mind.”

Anna listened with a rising wonder.

“You want to leave Givre at once?” She gave the idea a moment’s swift
consideration. “You prefer to be with your friends till your marriage?
I understand that--but surely you needn’t rush off today? There are so
many details to discuss; and before long, you know, I shall be going
away too.”

“Yes, I know.” The girl was evidently trying to steady her voice. “But I
should like to wait a few days--to have a little more time to myself.”

Anna continued to consider her kindly. It was evident that she did not
care to say why she wished to leave Givre so suddenly, but her disturbed
face and shaken voice betrayed a more pressing motive than the natural
desire to spend the weeks before her marriage under her old friends’
roof. Since she had made no response to the allusion to Madame de
Chantelle, Anna could but conjecture that she had had a passing
disagreement with Owen; and if this were so, random interference might
do more harm than good.

“My dear child, if you really want to go at once I sha’n’t, of course,
urge you to stay. I suppose you have spoken to Owen?”

“No. Not yet...”

Anna threw an astonished glance at her. “You mean to say you haven’t
told him?”

“I wanted to tell you first. I thought I ought to, on account of Effie.”
 Her look cleared as she put forth this reason.

“Oh, Effie!--” Anna’s smile brushed away the scruple. “Owen has a right
to ask that you should consider him before you think of his sister...Of
course you shall do just as you wish,” she went on, after another
thoughtful interval.

“Oh, thank you,” Sophy Viner murmured and rose to her feet.

Anna rose also, vaguely seeking for some word that should break down the
girl’s resistance. “You’ll tell Owen at once?” she finally asked.

Miss Viner, instead of replying, stood before her in manifest
uncertainty, and as she did so there was a light tap on the door, and
Owen Leath walked into the room.

Anna’s first glance told her that his face was unclouded. He met her
greeting with his happiest smile and turned to lift Sophy’s hand to his
lips. The perception that he was utterly unconscious of any cause for
Miss Viner’s agitation came to his step-mother with a sharp thrill of
surprise.

“Darrow’s looking for you,” he said to her. “He asked me to remind you
that you’d promised to go for a walk with him.”

Anna glanced at the clock. “I’ll go down presently.” She waited and
looked again at Sophy Viner, whose troubled eyes seemed to commit their
message to her. “You’d better tell Owen, my dear.”

Owen’s look also turned on the girl. “Tell me what? Why, what’s
happened?”

Anna summoned a laugh to ease the vague tension of the moment. “Don’t
look so startled! Nothing, except that Sophy proposes to desert us for a
while for the Farlows.”

Owen’s brow cleared. “I was afraid she’d run off before long.” He
glanced at Anna. “Do please keep her here as long as you can!”

Sophy intervened: “Mrs. Leath’s already given me leave to go.”

“Already? To go when?”

“Today,” said Sophy in a low tone, her eyes on Anna’s.

“Today? Why on earth should you go today?” Owen dropped back a step or
two, flushing and paling under his bewildered frown. His eyes seemed to
search the girl more closely. “Something’s happened.” He too looked at
his step-mother. “I suppose she must have told you what it is?”

Anna was struck by the suddenness and vehemence of his appeal. It was as
though some smouldering apprehension had lain close under the surface of
his security.

“She’s told me nothing except that she wishes to be with her friends.
It’s quite natural that she should want to go to them.”

Owen visibly controlled himself. “Of course--quite natural.” He spoke
to Sophy. “But why didn’t you tell me so? Why did you come first to my
step-mother?”

Anna intervened with her calm smile. “That seems to me quite natural,
too. Sophy was considerate enough to tell me first because of Effie.”

He weighed it. “Very well, then: that’s quite natural, as you say. And
of course she must do exactly as she pleases.” He still kept his eyes on
the girl. “Tomorrow,” he abruptly announced, “I shall go up to Paris to
see you.”

“Oh, no--no!” she protested.

Owen turned back to Anna. “NOW do you say that nothing’s happened?”

Under the influence of his agitation Anna felt a vague tightening of
the heart. She seemed to herself like some one in a dark room about whom
unseen presences are groping.

“If it’s anything that Sophy wishes to tell you, no doubt she’ll do
so. I’m going down now, and I’ll leave you here to talk it over by
yourselves.”

As she moved to the door the girl caught up with her. “But there’s
nothing to tell: why should there be? I’ve explained that I simply want
to be quiet.” Her look seemed to detain Mrs. Leath.

Owen broke in: “Is that why I mayn’t go up tomorrow?”

“Not tomorrow!”

“Then when may I?”

“Later ... in a little while ... a few days...”

“In how many days?” “Owen!” his step-mother interposed; but he seemed
no longer aware of her. “If you go away today, the day that our
engagement’s made known, it’s only fair,” he persisted, “that you should
tell me when I am to see you.”

Sophy’s eyes wavered between the two and dropped down wearily. “It’s you
who are not fair--when I’ve said I wanted to be quiet.”

“But why should my coming disturb you? I’m not asking now to come
tomorrow. I only ask you not to leave without telling me when I’m to see
you.”

“Owen, I don’t understand you!” his step-mother exclaimed.

“You don’t understand my asking for some explanation, some assurance,
when I’m left in this way, without a word, without a sign? All I ask her
to tell me is when she’ll see me.”

Anna turned back to Sophy Viner, who stood straight and tremulous
between the two.

“After all, my dear, he’s not unreasonable!”

“I’ll write--I’ll write,” the girl repeated.

“WHAT will you write?” he pressed her vehemently.

“Owen,” Anna exclaimed, “you are unreasonable!”

He turned from Sophy to his step-mother. “I only want her to say what
she means: that she’s going to write to break off our engagement. Isn’t
that what you’re going away for?”

Anna felt the contagion of his excitement. She looked at Sophy, who
stood motionless, her lips set, her whole face drawn to a silent fixity
of resistance.

“You ought to speak, my dear--you ought to answer him.”

“I only ask him to wait----”

“Yes,” Owen, broke in, “and you won’t say how long!”

Both instinctively addressed themselves to Anna, who stood, nearly as
shaken as themselves, between the double shock of their struggle. She
looked again from Sophy’s inscrutable eyes to Owen’s stormy features;
then she said: “What can I do, when there’s clearly something between
you that I don’t know about?”

“Oh, if it WERE between us! Can’t you see it’s outside of us--outside
of her, dragging at her, dragging her away from me?” Owen wheeled round
again upon his step-mother.

Anna turned from him to the girl. “Is it true that you want to break
your engagement? If you do, you ought to tell him now.”

Owen burst into a laugh. “She doesn’t dare to--she’s afraid I’ll guess
the reason!”

A faint sound escaped from Sophy’s lips, but she kept them close on
whatever answer she had ready.

“If she doesn’t wish to marry you, why should she be afraid to have you
know the reason?”

“She’s afraid to have YOU know it--not me!”

“To have ME know it?”

He laughed again, and Anna, at his laugh, felt a sudden rush of
indignation.

“Owen, you must explain what you mean!”

He looked at her hard before answering; then: “Ask Darrow!” he said.

“Owen--Owen!” Sophy Viner murmured.




XXIV


Anna stood looking from one to the other. It had become apparent to her
in a flash that Owen’s retort, though it startled Sophy, did not take
her by surprise; and the discovery shot its light along dark distances
of fear.

The immediate inference was that Owen had guessed the reason of Darrow’s
disapproval of his marriage, or that, at least, he suspected Sophy Viner
of knowing and dreading it. This confirmation of her own obscure
doubt sent a tremor of alarm through Anna. For a moment she felt like
exclaiming: “All this is really no business of mine, and I refuse to
have you mix me up in it--” but her secret fear held her fast.

Sophy Viner was the first to speak.

“I should like to go now,” she said in a low voice, taking a few steps
toward the door.

Her tone woke Anna to the sense of her own share in the situation.
“I quite agree with you, my dear, that it’s useless to carry on this
discussion. But since Mr. Darrow’s name has been brought into it, for
reasons which I fail to guess, I want to tell you that you’re both
mistaken if you think he’s not in sympathy with your marriage. If that’s
what Owen means to imply, the idea’s a complete delusion.”

She spoke the words deliberately and incisively, as if hoping that the
sound of their utterance would stifle the whisper in her bosom.

Sophy’s only answer was a vague murmur, and a movement that brought
her nearer to the door; but before she could reach it Owen had placed
himself in her way.

“I don’t mean to imply what you think,” he said, addressing his
step-mother but keeping his eyes on the girl. “I don’t say Darrow
doesn’t like our marriage; I say it’s Sophy who’s hated it since
Darrow’s been here!”

He brought out the charge in a tone of forced composure, but his lips
were white and he grasped the doorknob to hide the tremor of his hand.

Anna’s anger surged up with her fears. “You’re absurd, Owen! I don’t
know why I listen to you. Why should Sophy dislike Mr. Darrow, and if
she does, why should that have anything to do with her wishing to break
her engagement?”

“I don’t say she dislikes him! I don’t say she likes him; I don’t know
what it is they say to each other when they’re shut up together alone.”

“Shut up together alone?” Anna stared. Owen seemed like a man in
delirium; such an exhibition was degrading to them all. But he pushed on
without seeing her look.

“Yes--the first evening she came, in the study; the next morning, early,
in the park; yesterday, again, in the spring-house, when you were at the
lodge with the doctor...I don’t know what they say to each other, but
they’ve taken every chance they could to say it ... and to say it when
they thought that no one saw them.”

Anna longed to silence him, but no words came to her. It was as though
all her confused apprehensions had suddenly taken definite shape. There
was “something”--yes, there was “something”...Darrow’s reticences and
evasions had been more than a figment of her doubts.

The next instant brought a recoil of pride. She turned indignantly on
her step-son.

“I don’t half understand what you’ve been saying; but what you seem to
hint is so preposterous, and so insulting both to Sophy and to me, that
I see no reason why we should listen to you any longer.”

Though her tone steadied Owen, she perceived at once that it would not
deflect him from his purpose. He spoke less vehemently, but with all the
more precision.

“How can it be preposterous, since it’s true? Or insulting, since I
don’t know, any more than YOU, the meaning of what I’ve been seeing?
If you’ll be patient with me I’ll try to put it quietly. What I mean is
that Sophy has completely changed since she met Darrow here, and that,
having noticed the change, I’m hardly to blame for having tried to find
out its cause.”

Anna made an effort to answer him with the same composure. “You’re to
blame, at any rate, for so recklessly assuming that you HAVE found it
out. You seem to forget that, till they met here, Sophy and Mr. Darrow
hardly knew each other.”

“If so, it’s all the stranger that they’ve been so often closeted
together!”

“Owen, Owen--” the girl sighed out.

He turned his haggard face to her. “Can I help it, if I’ve seen and
known what I wasn’t meant to? For God’s sake give me a reason--any
reason I can decently make out with! Is it my fault if, the day after
you arrived, when I came back late through the garden, the curtains of
the study hadn’t been drawn, and I saw you there alone with Darrow?”

Anna laughed impatiently. “Really, Owen, if you make it a grievance
that two people who are staying in the same house should be seen talking
together----!”

“They were not talking. That’s the point----”

“Not talking? How do you know? You could hardly hear them from the
garden!”

“No; but I could see. HE was sitting at my desk, with his face in his
hands. SHE was standing in the window, looking away from him...”

He waited, as if for Sophy Viner’s answer; but still she neither stirred
nor spoke.

“That was the first time,” he went on; “and the second was the next
morning in the park. It was natural enough, their meeting there. Sophy
had gone out with Effie, and Effie ran back to look for me. She told
me she’d left Sophy and Darrow in the path that leads to the river, and
presently we saw them ahead of us. They didn’t see us at first, because
they were standing looking at each other; and this time they were not
speaking either. We came up close before they heard us, and all that
time they never spoke, or stopped looking at each other. After that I
began to wonder; and so I watched them.”

“Oh, Owen!” “Oh, I only had to wait. Yesterday, when I motored you
and the doctor back from the lodge, I saw Sophy coming out of the
spring-house. I supposed she’d taken shelter from the rain, and when you
got out of the motor I strolled back down the avenue to meet her. But
she’d disappeared--she must have taken a short cut and come into the
house by the side door. I don’t know why I went on to the spring-house;
I suppose it was what you’d call spying. I went up the steps and found
the room empty; but two chairs had been moved out from the wall and were
standing near the table; and one of the Chinese screens that lie on it
had dropped to the floor.”

Anna sounded a faint note of irony. “Really? Sophy’d gone there for
shelter, and she dropped a screen and moved a chair?”

“I said two chairs----”

“Two? What damning evidence--of I don’t know what!”

“Simply of the fact that Darrow’d been there with her. As I looked out
of the window I saw him close by, walking away. He must have turned the
corner of the spring-house just as I got to the door.”

There was another silence, during which Anna paused, not only to collect
her own words but to wait for Sophy Viner’s; then, as the girl made no
sign, she turned to her.

“I’ve absolutely nothing to say to all this; but perhaps you’d like me
to wait and hear your answer?”

Sophy raised her head with a quick flash of colour. “I’ve no answer
either--except that Owen must be mad.”

In the interval since she had last spoken she seemed to have regained
her self-control, and her voice rang clear, with a cold edge of anger.

Anna looked at her step-son. He had grown extremely pale, and his hand
fell from the door with a discouraged gesture. “That’s all then? You
won’t give me any reason?”

“I didn’t suppose it was necessary to give you or any one else a reason
for talking with a friend of Mrs. Leath’s under Mrs. Leath’s own roof.”

Owen hardly seemed to feel the retort: he kept his dogged stare on her
face.

“I won’t ask for one, then. I’ll only ask you to give me your assurance
that your talks with Darrow have had nothing to do with your suddenly
deciding to leave Givre.”

She hesitated, not so much with the air of weighing her answer as of
questioning his right to exact any. “I give you my assurance; and now I
should like to go,” she said.

As she turned away, Anna intervened. “My dear, I think you ought to
speak.”

The girl drew herself up with a faint laugh. “To him--or to YOU?”

“To him.”

She stiffened. “I’ve said all there is to say.”

Anna drew back, her eyes on her step-son. He had left the threshold and
was advancing toward Sophy Viner with a motion of desperate appeal; but
as he did so there was a knock on the door. A moment’s silence fell on
the three; then Anna said: “Come in!”

Darrow came into the room. Seeing the three together, he looked rapidly
from one to the other; then he turned to Anna with a smile.

“I came up to see if you were ready; but please send me off if I’m not
wanted.”

His look, his voice, the simple sense of his presence, restored Anna’s
shaken balance. By Owen’s side he looked so strong, so urbane, so
experienced, that the lad’s passionate charges dwindled to mere boyish
vapourings. A moment ago she had dreaded Darrow’s coming; now she was
glad that he was there.

She turned to him with sudden decision. “Come in, please; I want you to
hear what Owen has been saying.”

She caught a murmur from Sophy Viner, but disregarded it. An
illuminating impulse urged her on. She, habitually so aware of her
own lack of penetration, her small skill in reading hidden motives and
detecting secret signals, now felt herself mysteriously inspired. She
addressed herself to Sophy Viner. “It’s much better for you both that
this absurd question should be cleared up now.” Then, turning to Darrow,
she continued: “For some reason that I don’t pretend to guess, Owen has
taken it into his head that you’ve influenced Miss Viner to break her
engagement.”

She spoke slowly and deliberately, because she wished to give time and
to gain it; time for Darrow and Sophy to receive the full impact of what
she was saying, and time to observe its full effect on them. She had
said to herself: “If there’s nothing between them, they’ll look at each
other; if there IS something, they won’t;” and as she ceased to speak
she felt as if all her life were in her eyes.

Sophy, after a start of protest, remained motionless, her gaze on the
ground. Darrow, his face grown grave, glanced slowly from Owen Leath to
Anna. With his eyes on the latter he asked: “Has Miss Viner broken her
engagement?”

A moment’s silence followed his question; then the girl looked up and
said: “Yes!”

Owen, as she spoke, uttered a smothered exclamation and walked out of
the room. She continued to stand in the same place, without appearing
to notice his departure, and without vouchsafing an additional word of
explanation; then, before Anna could find a cry to detain her, she too
turned and went out.

“For God’s sake, what’s happened?” Darrow asked; but Anna, with a drop
of the heart, was saying to herself that he and Sophy Viner had not
looked at each other.




XXV


Anna stood in the middle of the room, her eyes on the door. Darrow’s
questioning gaze was still on her, and she said to herself with a
quick-drawn breath: “If only he doesn’t come near me!”

It seemed to her that she had been suddenly endowed with the fatal gift
of reading the secret sense of every seemingly spontaneous look and
movement, and that in his least gesture of affection she would detect a
cold design.

For a moment longer he continued to look at her enquiringly; then he
turned away and took up his habitual stand by the mantel-piece. She drew
a deep breath of relief.

“Won’t you please explain?” he said.

“I can’t explain: I don’t know. I didn’t even know--till she told
you--that she really meant to break her engagement. All I know is that
she came to me just now and said she wished to leave Givre today; and
that Owen, when he heard of it--for she hadn’t told him--at once accused
her of going away with the secret intention of throwing him over.”

“And you think it’s a definite break?” She perceived, as she spoke, that
his brow had cleared.

“How should I know? Perhaps you can tell me.”

“I?” She fancied his face clouded again, but he did not move from his
tranquil attitude.

“As I told you,” she went on, “Owen has worked himself up to imagining
that for some mysterious reason you’ve influenced Sophy against him.”

Darrow still visibly wondered. “It must indeed be a mysterious reason!
He knows how slightly I know Miss Viner. Why should he imagine anything
so wildly improbable?”

“I don’t know that either.”

“But he must have hinted at some reason.”

“No: he admits he doesn’t know your reason. He simply says that Sophy’s
manner to him has changed since she came back to Givre and that he’s
seen you together several times--in the park, the spring-house, I don’t
know where--talking alone in a way that seemed confidential--almost
secret; and he draws the preposterous conclusion that you’ve used your
influence to turn her against him.”

“My influence? What kind of influence?”

“He doesn’t say.”

Darrow again seemed to turn over the facts she gave him. His face
remained grave, but without the least trace of discomposure. “And what
does Miss Viner say?”

“She says it’s perfectly natural that she should occasionally talk to
my friends when she’s under my roof--and refuses to give him any other
explanation.”

“That at least is perfectly natural!”

Anna felt her cheeks flush as she answered: “Yes--but there is
something----”

“Something----?”

“Some reason for her sudden decision to break her engagement. I can
understand Owen’s feeling, sorry as I am for his way of showing it. The
girl owes him some sort of explanation, and as long as she refuses to
give it his imagination is sure to run wild.”

“She would have given it, no doubt, if he’d asked it in a different
tone.”

“I don’t defend Owen’s tone--but she knew what it was before she
accepted him. She knows he’s excitable and undisciplined.”

“Well, she’s been disciplining him a little--probably the best thing
that could happen. Why not let the matter rest there?”

“Leave Owen with the idea that you HAVE been the cause of the break?”

He met the question with his easy smile. “Oh, as to that--leave him with
any idea of me he chooses! But leave him, at any rate, free.”

“Free?” she echoed in surprise.

“Simply let things be. You’ve surely done all you could for him and Miss
Viner. If they don’t hit it off it’s their own affair. What possible
motive can you have for trying to interfere now?”

Her gaze widened to a deeper wonder. “Why--naturally, what he says of
you!”

“I don’t care a straw what he says of me! In such a situation a boy in
love will snatch at the most far-fetched reason rather than face the
mortifying fact that the lady may simply be tired of him.”

“You don t quite understand Owen. Things go deep with him, and last
long. It took him a long time to recover from his other unlucky love
affair. He’s romantic and extravagant: he can’t live on the interest
of his feelings. He worships Sophy and she seemed to be fond of him. If
she’s changed it’s been very sudden. And if they part like this, angrily
and inarticulately, it will hurt him horribly--hurt his very soul.
But that, as you say, is between the two. What concerns me is his
associating you with their quarrel. Owen’s like my own son--if you’d
seen him when I first came here you’d know why. We were like two
prisoners who talk to each other by tapping on the wall. He’s never
forgotten it, nor I. Whether he breaks with Sophy, or whether they make
it up, I can’t let him think you had anything to do with it.”

She raised her eyes entreatingly to Darrow’s, and read in them the
forbearance of the man resigned to the discussion of non-existent
problems.

“I’ll do whatever you want me to,” he said; “but I don’t yet know what
it is.”

His smile seemed to charge her with inconsequence, and the prick to her
pride made her continue: “After all, it’s not so unnatural that Owen,
knowing you and Sophy to be almost strangers, should wonder what you
were saying to each other when he saw you talking together.”

She felt a warning tremor as she spoke, as though some instinct deeper
than reason surged up in defense of its treasure. But Darrow’s face was
unstirred save by the flit of his half-amused smile.

“Well, my dear--and couldn’t you have told him?” “I?” she faltered out
through her blush.

“You seem to forget, one and all of you, the position you put me in when
I came down here: your appeal to me to see Owen through, your assurance
to him that I would, Madame de Chantelle’s attempt to win me over; and
most of all, my own sense of the fact you’ve just recalled to me: the
importance, for both of us, that Owen should like me. It seemed to me
that the first thing to do was to get as much light as I could on the
whole situation; and the obvious way of doing it was to try to know Miss
Viner better. Of course I’ve talked with her alone--I’ve talked with her
as often as I could. I’ve tried my best to find out if you were right in
encouraging Owen to marry her.”

She listened with a growing sense of reassurance, struggling to separate
the abstract sense of his words from the persuasion in which his eyes
and voice enveloped them.

“I see--I do see,” she murmured.

“You must see, also, that I could hardly say this to Owen without
offending him still more, and perhaps increasing the breach between Miss
Viner and himself. What sort of figure should I cut if I told him I’d
been trying to find out if he’d made a proper choice? In any case, it’s
none of my business to offer an explanation of what she justly says
doesn’t need one. If she declines to speak, it’s obviously on the ground
that Owen’s insinuations are absurd; and that surely pledges me to
silence.”

“Yes, yes! I see,” Anna repeated. “But I don’t want you to explain
anything to Owen.”

“You haven’t yet told me what you do want.”

She hesitated, conscious of the difficulty of justifying her request;
then: “I want you to speak to Sophy,” she said.

Darrow broke into an incredulous laugh. “Considering what my previous
attempts have resulted in----!”

She raised her eyes quickly. “They haven’t, at least, resulted in your
liking her less, in your thinking less well of her than you’ve told me?”

She fancied he frowned a little. “I wonder why you go back to that?”

“I want to be sure--I owe it to Owen. Won’t you tell me the exact
impression she’s produced on you?”

“I have told you--I like Miss Viner.”

“Do you still believe she’s in love with Owen?”

“There was nothing in our short talks to throw any particular light on
that.”

“You still believe, though, that there’s no reason why he shouldn’t
marry her?”

Again he betrayed a restrained impatience. “How can I answer that
without knowing her reasons for breaking with him?”

“That’s just what I want you to find out from her.”

“And why in the world should she tell me?”

“Because, whatever grievance she has against Owen, she can certainly
have none against me. She can’t want to have Owen connect me in his mind
with this wretched quarrel; and she must see that he will until he’s
convinced you’ve had no share in it.”

Darrow’s elbow dropped from the mantel-piece and he took a restless step
or two across the room. Then he halted before her.

“Why can’t you tell her this yourself?”

“Don’t you see?”

He eyed her intently, and she pressed on: “You must have guessed that
Owen’s jealous of you.”

“Jealous of me?” The blood flew up under his brown skin.

“Blind with it--what else would drive him to this folly? And I can’t
have her think me jealous too! I’ve said all I could, short of making
her think so; and she’s refused a word more to either of us. Our only
chance now is that she should listen to you--that you should make her
see the harm her silence may do.”

Darrow uttered a protesting exclamation. “It’s all too
preposterous--what you suggest! I can’t, at any rate, appeal to her on
such a ground as that!”

Anna laid her hand on his arm. “Appeal to her on the ground that I’m
almost Owen’s mother, and that any estrangement between you and him
would kill me. She knows what he is--she’ll understand. Tell her to say
anything, do anything, she wishes; but not to go away without speaking,
not to leave THAT between us when she goes!”

She drew back a step and lifted her face to his, trying to look into his
eyes more deeply than she had ever looked; but before she could discern
what they expressed he had taken hold of her hands and bent his head to
kiss them.

“You’ll see her? You’ll see her?” she entreated; and he answered: “I’ll
do anything in the world you want me to.”




XXVI


Darrow waited alone in the sitting-room.

No place could have been more distasteful as the scene of the talk that
lay before him; but he had acceded to Anna’s suggestion that it would
seem more natural for her to summon Sophy Viner than for him to go in
search of her. As his troubled pacings carried him back and forth a
relentless hand seemed to be tearing away all the tender fibres of
association that bound him to the peaceful room. Here, in this very
place, he had drunk his deepest draughts of happiness, had had his lips
at the fountain-head of its overflowing rivers; but now that source was
poisoned and he would taste no more of an untainted cup.

For a moment he felt an actual physical anguish; then his nerves
hardened for the coming struggle. He had no notion of what awaited him;
but after the first instinctive recoil he had seen in a flash the urgent
need of another word with Sophy Viner. He had been insincere in letting
Anna think that he had consented to speak because she asked it. In
reality he had been feverishly casting about for the pretext she had
given him; and for some reason this trivial hypocrisy weighed on him
more than all his heavy burden of deceit.

At length he heard a step behind him and Sophy Viner entered. When she
saw him she paused on the threshold and half drew back.

“I was told that Mrs. Leath had sent for me.”

“Mrs. Leath DID send for you. She’ll be here presently; but I asked her
to let me see you first.”

He spoke very gently, and there was no insincerity in his gentleness. He
was profoundly moved by the change in the girl’s appearance. At sight
of him she had forced a smile; but it lit up her wretchedness like a
candle-flame held to a dead face.

She made no reply, and Darrow went on: “You must understand my wanting
to speak to you, after what I was told just now.”

She interposed, with a gesture of protest: “I’m not responsible for
Owen’s ravings!”

“Of course----”. He broke off and they stood facing each other. She
lifted a hand and pushed back her loose lock with the gesture that was
burnt into his memory; then she looked about her and dropped into the
nearest chair.

“Well, you’ve got what you wanted,” she said.

“What do you mean by what I wanted?”

“My engagement’s broken--you heard me say so.”

“Why do you say that’s what I wanted? All I wished, from the beginning,
was to advise you, to help you as best I could----”

“That’s what you’ve done,” she rejoined. “You’ve convinced me that it’s
best I shouldn’t marry him.”

Darrow broke into a despairing laugh. “At the very moment when you’d
convinced me to the contrary!”

“Had I?” Her smile flickered up. “Well, I really believed it till you
showed me ... warned me...”

“Warned you?”

“That I’d be miserable if I married a man I didn’t love.”

“Don’t you love him?”

She made no answer, and Darrow started up and walked away to the
other end of the room. He stopped before the writing-table, where his
photograph, well-dressed, handsome, self-sufficient--the portrait of a
man of the world, confident of his ability to deal adequately with
the most delicate situations--offered its huge fatuity to his gaze. He
turned back to her. “It’s rather hard on Owen, isn’t it, that you should
have waited until now to tell him?”

She reflected a moment before answering. “I told him as soon as I knew.”

“Knew that you couldn’t marry him?”

“Knew that I could never live here with him.” She looked about the room,
as though the very walls must speak for her.

For a moment Darrow continued to search her face perplexedly; then their
eyes met in a long disastrous gaze.

“Yes----” she said, and stood up.

Below the window they heard Effie whistling for her dogs, and then, from
the terrace, her mother calling her.

“There--THAT for instance,” Sophy Viner said.

Darrow broke out: “It’s I who ought to go!”

She kept her small pale smile. “What good would that do any of us--now?”

He covered his face with his hands. “Good God!” he groaned. “How could I
tell?”

“You couldn’t tell. We neither of us could.” She seemed to turn the
problem over critically. “After all, it might have been YOU instead of
me!”

He took another distracted turn about the room and coming back to her
sat down in a chair at her side. A mocking hand seemed to dash the words
from his lips. There was nothing on earth that he could say to her that
wasn’t foolish or cruel or contemptible...

“My dear,” he began at last, “oughtn’t you, at any rate, to try?”

Her gaze grew grave. “Try to forget you?”

He flushed to the forehead. “I meant, try to give Owen more time; to
give him a chance. He’s madly in love with you; all the good that’s in
him is in your hands. His step-mother felt that from the first. And she
thought--she believed----”

“She thought I could make him happy. Would she think so now?”

“Now...? I don’t say now. But later? Time modifies ... rubs out ... more
quickly than you think...Go away, but let him hope...I’m going
too--WE’RE going--” he stumbled on the plural--“in a very few weeks:
going for a long time, probably. What you’re thinking of now may never
happen. We may not all be here together again for years.”

She heard him out in silence, her hands clasped on her knee, her eyes
bent on them. “For me,” she said, “you’ll always be here.”

“Don’t say that--oh, don’t! Things change ... people change...You’ll see!”

“You don’t understand. I don’t want anything to change. I don’t want to
forget--to rub out. At first I imagined I did; but that was a foolish
mistake. As soon as I saw you again I knew it... It’s not being here
with you that I’m afraid of--in the sense you think. It’s being here, or
anywhere, with Owen.” She stood up and bent her tragic smile on him. “I
want to keep you all to myself.”

The only words that came to him were futile denunciations of his
folly; but the sense of their futility checked them on his lips. “Poor
child--you poor child!” he heard himself vainly repeating.

Suddenly he felt the strong reaction of reality and its impetus brought
him to his feet. “Whatever happens, I intend to go--to go for good,”
 he exclaimed. “I want you to understand that. Oh, don’t be afraid--I’ll
find a reason. But it’s perfectly clear that I must go.”

She uttered a protesting cry. “Go away? You? Don’t you see that that
would tell everything--drag everybody into the horror?”

He found no answer, and her voice dropped back to its calmer note. “What
good would your going do? Do you suppose it would change anything for
me?” She looked at him with a musing wistfulness. “I wonder what your
feeling for me was? It seems queer that I’ve never really known--I
suppose we DON’T know much about that kind of feeling. Is it like taking
a drink when you’re thirsty?... I used to feel as if all of me was in the
palm of your hand...”

He bowed his humbled head, but she went on almost exultantly: “Don’t for
a minute think I’m sorry! It was worth every penny it cost. My mistake
was in being ashamed, just at first, of its having cost such a lot.
I tried to carry it off as a joke--to talk of it to myself as an
‘adventure’. I’d always wanted adventures, and you’d given me one, and
I tried to take your attitude about it, to ‘play the game’ and convince
myself that I hadn’t risked any more on it than you. Then, when I met
you again, I suddenly saw that I HAD risked more, but that I’d won more,
too--such worlds! I’d been trying all the while to put everything I
could between us; now I want to sweep everything away. I’d been trying
to forget how you looked; now I want to remember you always. I’d been
trying not to hear your voice; now I never want to hear any other. I’ve
made my choice--that’s all: I’ve had you and I mean to keep you.” Her
face was shining like her eyes. “To keep you hidden away here,” she
ended, and put her hand upon her breast.

After she had left him, Darrow continued to sit motionless, staring back
into their past. Hitherto it had lingered on the edge of his mind in a
vague pink blur, like one of the little rose-leaf clouds that a setting
sun drops from its disk. Now it was a huge looming darkness, through
which his eyes vainly strained. The whole episode was still obscure to
him, save where here and there, as they talked, some phrase or gesture
or intonation of the girl’s had lit up a little spot in the night.

She had said: “I wonder what your feeling for me was?” and he found
himself wondering too...He remembered distinctly enough that he had not
meant the perilous passion--even in its most transient form--to play
a part in their relation. In that respect his attitude had been above
reproach. She was an unusually original and attractive creature, to whom
he had wanted to give a few days of harmless pleasuring, and who was
alert and expert enough to understand his intention and spare him the
boredom of hesitations and misinterpretations. That had been his first
impression, and her subsequent demeanour had justified it. She had been,
from the outset, just the frank and easy comrade he had expected to find
her. Was it he, then, who, in the sequel, had grown impatient of the
bounds he had set himself? Was it his wounded vanity that, seeking
balm for its hurt, yearned to dip deeper into the healing pool of her
compassion? In his confused memory of the situation he seemed not to
have been guiltless of such yearnings...Yet for the first few days
the experiment had been perfectly successful. Her enjoyment had been
unclouded and his pleasure in it undisturbed. It was very gradually--he
seemed to see--that a shade of lassitude had crept over their
intercourse. Perhaps it was because, when her light chatter about people
failed, he found she had no other fund to draw on, or perhaps simply
because of the sweetness of her laugh, or of the charm of the gesture
with which, one day in the woods of Marly, she had tossed off her hat
and tilted back her head at the call of a cuckoo; or because, whenever
he looked at her unexpectedly, he found that she was looking at him and
did not want him to know it; or perhaps, in varying degrees, because of
all these things, that there had come a moment when no word seemed to
fly high enough or dive deep enough to utter the sense of well-being
each gave to the other, and the natural substitute for speech had been a
kiss.

The kiss, at all events, had come at the precise moment to save their
venture from disaster. They had reached the point when her amazing
reminiscences had begun to flag, when her future had been exhaustively
discussed, her theatrical prospects minutely studied, her quarrel with
Mrs. Murrett retold with the last amplification of detail, and when,
perhaps conscious of her exhausted resources and his dwindling interest,
she had committed the fatal error of saying that she could see he was
unhappy, and entreating him to tell her why...

From the brink of estranging confidences, and from the risk of
unfavourable comparisons, his gesture had snatched her back to safety;
and as soon as he had kissed her he felt that she would never bore him
again. She was one of the elemental creatures whose emotion is all in
their pulses, and who become inexpressive or sentimental when they
try to turn sensation into speech. His caress had restored her to her
natural place in the scheme of things, and Darrow felt as if he had
clasped a tree and a nymph had bloomed from it...

The mere fact of not having to listen to her any longer added immensely
to her charm. She continued, of course, to talk to him, but it didn’t
matter, because he no longer made any effort to follow her words, but
let her voice run on as a musical undercurrent to his thoughts.

She hadn’t a drop of poetry in her, but she had some of the qualities
that create it in others; and in moments of heat the imagination does
not always feel the difference...

Lying beside her in the shade, Darrow felt her presence as a part of
the charmed stillness of the summer woods, as the element of vague
well-being that suffused his senses and lulled to sleep the ache of
wounded pride. All he asked of her, as yet, was a touch on the hand or
on the lips--and that she should let him go on lying there through the
long warm hours, while a black-bird’s song throbbed like a fountain, and
the summer wind stirred in the trees, and close by, between the nearest
branches and the brim of his tilted hat, a slight white figure gathered
up all the floating threads of joy...

He recalled, too, having noticed, as he lay staring at a break in the
tree-tops, a stream of mares’-tails coming up the sky. He had said to
himself: “It will rain to-morrow,” and the thought had made the air seem
warmer and the sun more vivid on her hair...Perhaps if the mares’-tails
had not come up the sky their adventure might have had no sequel. But
the cloud brought rain, and next morning he looked out of his window
into a cold grey blur. They had planned an all-day excursion down the
Seine, to the two Andelys and Rouen, and now, with the long hours on
their hands, they were both a little at a loss...There was the Louvre,
of course, and the Luxembourg; but he had tried looking at pictures with
her, she had first so persistently admired the worst things, and then
so frankly lapsed into indifference, that he had no wish to repeat
the experiment. So they went out, aimlessly, and took a cold wet walk,
turning at length into the deserted arcades of the Palais Royal, and
finally drifting into one of its equally deserted restaurants, where
they lunched alone and somewhat dolefully, served by a wan old waiter
with the look of a castaway who has given up watching for a sail... It
was odd how the waiter’s face came back to him...

Perhaps but for the rain it might never have happened; but what was
the use of thinking of that now? He tried to turn his thoughts to more
urgent issues; but, by a strange perversity of association, every detail
of the day was forcing itself on his mind with an insistence from which
there was no escape. Reluctantly he relived the long wet walk back
to the hotel, after a tedious hour at a cinematograph show on the
Boulevard. It was still raining when they withdrew from this stale
spectacle, but she had obstinately refused to take a cab, had even,
on the way, insisted on loitering under the dripping awnings of
shop-windows and poking into draughty passages, and finally, when they
had nearly reached their destination, had gone so far as to suggest that
they should turn back to hunt up some show she had heard of in a theatre
at the Batignolles. But at that he had somewhat irritably protested: he
remembered that, for the first time, they were both rather irritable,
and vaguely disposed to resist one another’s suggestions. His feet
were wet, and he was tired of walking, and sick of the smell of stuffy
unaired theatres, and he had said he must really get back to write some
letters--and so they had kept on to the hotel...




XXVII


Darrow had no idea how long he had sat there when he heard Anna’s hand
on the door. The effort of rising, and of composing his face to meet
her, gave him a factitious sense of self-control. He said to himself: “I
must decide on something----” and that lifted him a hair’s breadth above
the whirling waters.

She came in with a lighter step, and he instantly perceived that
something unforeseen and reassuring had happened.

“She’s been with me. She came and found me on the terrace. We’ve had a
long talk and she’s explained everything. I feel as if I’d never known
her before!”

Her voice was so moved and tender that it checked his start of
apprehension.

“She’s explained----?”

“It’s natural, isn’t it, that she should have felt a little sore at the
kind of inspection she’s been subjected to? Oh, not from you--I don’t
mean that! But Madame de Chantelle’s opposition--and her sending for
Adelaide Painter! She told me frankly she didn’t care to owe her husband
to Adelaide Painter...She thinks now that her annoyance at feeling
herself so talked over and scrutinized may have shown itself in her
manner to Owen, and set him imagining the insane things he did...I
understand all she must have felt, and I agree with her that it’s best
she should go away for a while. She’s made me,” Anna summed up, “feel as
if I’d been dreadfully thick-skinned and obtuse!”

“YOU?”

“Yes. As if I’d treated her like the bric-a-brac that used to be sent
down here ‘on approval,’ to see if it would look well with the other
pieces.” She added, with a sudden flush of enthusiasm: “I’m glad she’s
got it in her to make one feel like that!”

She seemed to wait for Darrow to agree with her, or to put some other
question, and he finally found voice to ask: “Then you think it’s not a
final break?”

“I hope not--I’ve never hoped it more! I had a word with Owen, too,
after I left her, and I think he understands that he must let her go
without insisting on any positive promise. She’s excited ... he must let
her calm down...”

Again she waited, and Darrow said: “Surely you can make him see that.”

“She’ll help me to--she’s to see him, of course, before she goes. She
starts immediately, by the way, with Adelaide Painter, who is motoring
over to Francheuil to catch the one o’clock express--and who, of course,
knows nothing of all this, and is simply to be told that Sophy has been
sent for by the Farlows.”

Darrow mutely signed his comprehension, and she went on: “Owen is
particularly anxious that neither Adelaide nor his grandmother should
have the least inkling of what’s happened. The need of shielding Sophy
will help him to control himself. He’s coming to his senses, poor boy;
he’s ashamed of his wild talk already. He asked me to tell you so; no
doubt he’ll tell you so himself.”

Darrow made a movement of protest. “Oh, as to that--the thing’s not
worth another word.”

“Or another thought, either?” She brightened. “Promise me you won’t even
think of it--promise me you won’t be hard on him!”

He was finding it easier to smile back at her. “Why should you think it
necessary to ask my indulgence for Owen?”

She hesitated a moment, her eyes wandering from him. Then they came back
with a smile. “Perhaps because I need it for myself.”

“For yourself?”

“I mean, because I understand better how one can torture one’s self over
unrealities.”

As Darrow listened, the tension of his nerves began to relax. Her gaze,
so grave and yet so sweet, was like a deep pool into which he could
plunge and hide himself from the hard glare of his misery. As this
ecstatic sense enveloped him he found it more and more difficult to
follow her words and to frame an answer; but what did anything matter,
except that her voice should go on, and the syllables fall like soft
touches on his tortured brain?

“Don’t you know,” she continued, “the bliss of waking from a bad dream
in one’s own quiet room, and going slowly over all the horror without
being afraid of it any more? That’s what I’m doing now. And that’s why
I understand Owen...” She broke off, and he felt her touch on his arm.
“BECAUSE I’D DREAMED THE HORROR TOO!”

He understood her then, and stammered: “You?”

“Forgive me! And let me tell you!... It will help you to understand
Owen...There WERE little things ... little signs ... once I had begun to
watch for them: your reluctance to speak about her ... her reserve with
you ... a sort of constraint we’d never seen in her before...”

She laughed up at him, and with her hands in his he contrived to say:
“NOW you understand why?”

“Oh, I understand; of course I understand; and I want you to laugh
at me--with me! Because there were other things too ... crazier things
still...There was even--last night on the terrace--her pink cloak...”

“Her pink cloak?” Now he honestly wondered, and as she saw it she
blushed.

“You’ve forgotten about the cloak? The pink cloak that Owen saw you with
at the play in Paris? Yes ... yes...I was mad enough for that!... It does
me good to laugh about it now! But you ought to know that I’m going
to be a jealous woman ... a ridiculously jealous woman ... you ought to be
warned of it in time...”

He had dropped her hands, and she leaned close and lifted her arms to
his neck with one of her rare gestures of surrender.

“I don’t know why it is; but it makes me happier now to have been so
foolish!”

Her lips were parted in a noiseless laugh and the tremor of her lashes
made their shadow move on her cheek. He looked at her through a mist of
pain and saw all her offered beauty held up like a cup to his lips; but
as he stooped to it a darkness seemed to fall between them, her arms
slipped from his shoulders and she drew away from him abruptly.

“But she WAS with you, then?” she exclaimed; and then, as he stared at
her: “Oh, don’t say no! Only go and look at your eyes!”

He stood speechless, and she pressed on: “Don’t deny it--oh, don’t deny
it! What will be left for me to imagine if you do? Don’t you see how
every single thing cries it out? Owen sees it--he saw it again just now!
When I told him she’d relented, and would see him, he said: ‘Is that
Darrow’s doing too?’”

Darrow took the onslaught in silence. He might have spoken, have
summoned up the usual phrases of banter and denial; he was not even
certain that they might not, for the moment, have served their purpose
if he could have uttered them without being seen. But he was as
conscious of what had happened to his face as if he had obeyed Anna’s
bidding and looked at himself in the glass. He knew he could no more
hide from her what was written there than he could efface from his soul
the fiery record of what he had just lived through. There before him,
staring him in the eyes, and reflecting itself in all his lineaments,
was the overwhelming fact of Sophy Viner’s passion and of the act by
which she had attested it.

Anna was talking again, hurriedly, feverishly, and his soul was wrung
by the anguish in her voice. “Do speak at last--you must speak! I don’t
want to ask you to harm the girl; but you must see that your silence
is doing her more harm than your answering my questions could. You’re
leaving me only the worst things to think of her ... she’d see that
herself if she were here. What worse injury can you do her than to make
me hate her--to make me feel she’s plotted with you to deceive us?”

“Oh, not that!” Darrow heard his own voice before he was aware that he
meant to speak. “Yes; I did see her in Paris,” he went on after a pause;
“but I was bound to respect her reason for not wanting it known.”

Anna paled. “It was she at the theatre that night?”

“I was with her at the theatre one night.”

“Why should she have asked you not to say so?”

“She didn’t wish it known that I’d met her.”

“Why shouldn’t she have wished it known?”

“She had quarrelled with Mrs. Murrett and come over suddenly to Paris,
and she didn’t want the Farlows to hear of it. I came across her by
accident, and she asked me not to speak of having seen her.”

“Because of her quarrel? Because she was ashamed of her part in it?”

“Oh, no. There was nothing for her to be ashamed of. But the Farlows had
found the place for her, and she didn’t want them to know how suddenly
she’d had to leave, and how badly Mrs. Murrett had behaved. She was in
a terrible plight--the woman had even kept back her month’s salary. She
knew the Farlows would be awfully upset, and she wanted more time to
prepare them.”

Darrow heard himself speak as though the words had proceeded from other
lips. His explanation sounded plausible enough, and he half-fancied
Anna’s look grew lighter. She waited a moment, as though to be sure he
had no more to add; then she said: “But the Farlows DID know; they told
me all about it when they sent her to me.”

He flushed as if she had laid a deliberate trap for him. “They may know
NOW; they didn’t then----”

“That’s no reason for her continuing now to make a mystery of having met
you.”

“It’s the only reason I can give you.”

“Then I’ll go and ask her for one myself.” She turned and took a few
steps toward the door.

“Anna!” He started to follow her, and then checked himself. “Don’t do
that!”

“Why not?”

“It’s not like you ... not generous...”

She stood before him straight and pale, but under her rigid face he saw
the tumult of her doubt and misery.

“I don’t want to be ungenerous; I don’t want to pry into her secrets.
But things can’t be left like this. Wouldn’t it be better for me to go
to her? Surely she’ll understand--she’ll explain... It may be some mere
trifle she’s concealing: something that would horrify the Farlows, but
that I shouldn’t see any harm in...” She paused, her eyes searching his
face. “A love affair, I suppose ... that’s it? You met her with some man
at the theatre--and she was frightened and begged you to fib about
it? Those poor young things that have to go about among us like
machines--oh, if you knew how I pity them!”

“If you pity her, why not let her go?”

She stared. “Let her go--go for good, you mean? Is that the best you can
say for her?”

“Let things take their course. After all, it’s between herself and
Owen.”

“And you and me--and Effie, if Owen marries her, and I leave my child
with them! Don’t you see the impossibility of what you’re asking? We’re
all bound together in this coil.”

Darrow turned away with a groan. “Oh, let her go--let her go.”

“Then there IS something--something really bad? She WAS with some one
when you met her? Some one with whom she was----” She broke off, and
he saw her struggling with new thoughts. “If it’s THAT, of course...Oh,
don’t you see,” she desperately appealed to him, “that I must find out,
and that it’s too late now for you not to speak? Don’t be afraid that
I’ll betray you...I’ll never, never let a soul suspect. But I must know
the truth, and surely it’s best for her that I should find it out from
you.”

Darrow waited a moment; then he said slowly: “What you imagine’s mere
madness. She was at the theatre with me.”

“With you?” He saw a tremor pass through her, but she controlled it
instantly and faced him straight and motionless as a wounded creature in
the moment before it feels its wound. “Why should you both have made a
mystery of that?”

“I’ve told you the idea was not mine.” He cast about. “She may have been
afraid that Owen----”

“But that was not a reason for her asking you to tell me that you hardly
knew her--that you hadn’t even seen her for years.” She broke off and
the blood rose to her face and forehead. “Even if SHE had other reasons,
there could be only one reason for your obeying her----” Silence fell
between them, a silence in which the room seemed to become suddenly
resonant with voices. Darrow’s gaze wandered to the window and he
noticed that the gale of two days before had nearly stripped the tops
of the lime-trees in the court. Anna had moved away and was resting her
elbows against the mantel-piece, her head in her hands. As she stood
there he took in with a new intensity of vision little details of her
appearance that his eyes had often cherished: the branching blue veins
in the backs of her hands, the warm shadow that her hair cast on
her ear, and the colour of the hair itself, dull black with a tawny
under-surface, like the wings of certain birds. He felt it to be useless
to speak.

After a while she lifted her head and said: “I shall not see her again
before she goes.”

He made no answer, and turning to him she added: “That is why she’s
going, I suppose? Because she loves you and won’t give you up?”

Darrow waited. The paltriness of conventional denial was so apparent to
him that even if it could have delayed discovery he could no longer have
resorted to it. Under all his other fears was the dread of dishonouring
the hour.

“She HAS given me up,” he said at last.




XXVIII


When he had gone out of the room Anna stood where he had left her. “I
must believe him! I must believe him!” she said.

A moment before, at the moment when she had lifted her arms to his neck,
she had been wrapped in a sense of complete security. All the spirits
of doubt had been exorcised, and her love was once more the clear
habitation in which every thought and feeling could move in blissful
freedom. And then, as she raised her face to Darrow’s and met his eyes,
she had seemed to look into the very ruins of his soul. That was the
only way she could express it. It was as though he and she had been
looking at two sides of the same thing, and the side she had seen had
been all light and life, and his a place of graves...

She didn’t now recall who had spoken first, or even, very clearly, what
had been said. It seemed to her only a moment later that she had found
herself standing at the other end of the room--the room which had
suddenly grown so small that, even with its length between them, she
felt as if he touched her--crying out to him “It IS because of you she’s
going!” and reading the avowal in his face.

That was his secret, then, THEIR secret: he had met the girl in
Paris and helped her in her straits--lent her money, Anna vaguely
conjectured--and she had fallen in love with him, and on meeting him
again had been suddenly overmastered by her passion. Anna, dropping back
into her sofa-corner, sat staring these facts in the face.

The girl had been in a desperate plight--frightened, penniless, outraged
by what had happened, and not knowing (with a woman like Mrs. Murrett)
what fresh injury might impend; and Darrow, meeting her in this
distracted hour, had pitied, counselled, been kind to her, with the
fatal, the inevitable result. There were the facts as Anna made them
out: that, at least, was their external aspect, was as much of them as
she had been suffered to see; and into the secret intricacies they might
cover she dared not yet project her thoughts.

“I must believe him...I must believe him...” She kept on repeating the
words like a talisman. It was natural, after all, that he should have
behaved as he had: defended the girl’s piteous secret to the last. She
too began to feel the contagion of his pity--the stir, in her breast, of
feelings deeper and more native to her than the pains of jealousy.
From the security of her blessedness she longed to lean over with
compassionate hands...But Owen? What was Owen’s part to be? She owed
herself first to him--she was bound to protect him not only from all
knowledge of the secret she had surprised, but also--and chiefly!--from
its consequences. Yes: the girl must go--there could be no doubt of
it--Darrow himself had seen it from the first; and at the thought she
had a wild revulsion of relief, as though she had been trying to create
in her heart the delusion of a generosity she could not feel...

The one fact on which she could stay her mind was that Sophy was leaving
immediately; would be out of the house within an hour. Once she was
gone, it would be easier to bring Owen to the point of understanding
that the break was final; if necessary, to work upon the girl to make
him see it. But that, Anna was sure, would not be necessary. It was
clear that Sophy Viner was leaving Givre with no thought of ever seeing
it again...

Suddenly, as she tried to put some order in her thoughts, she heard
Owen’s call at the door: “Mother!----” a name he seldom gave her. There
was a new note in his voice: the note of a joyous impatience. It made
her turn hastily to the glass to see what face she was about to show
him; but before she had had time to compose it he was in the room and
she was caught in a school-boy hug.

“It’s all right! It’s all right! And it’s all your doing! I want to
do the worst kind of penance--bell and candle and the rest. I’ve been
through it with HER, and now she hands me on to you, and you’re to call
me any names you please.” He freed her with his happy laugh. “I’m to be
stood in the corner till next week, and then I’m to go up to see her.
And she says I owe it all to you!”

“To me?” It was the first phrase she found to clutch at as she tried to
steady herself in the eddies of his joy.

“Yes: you were so patient, and so dear to her; and you saw at once what
a damned ass I’d been!” She tried a smile, and it seemed to pass muster
with him, for he sent it back in a broad beam. “That’s not so difficult
to see? No, I admit it doesn’t take a microscope. But you were so wise
and wonderful--you always are. I’ve been mad these last days, simply
mad--you and she might well have washed your hands of me! And instead,
it’s all right--all right!”

She drew back a little, trying to keep the smile on her lips and not
let him get the least glimpse of what it hid. Now if ever, indeed, it
behoved her to be wise and wonderful!

“I’m so glad, dear; so glad. If only you’ll always feel like that about
me...” She stopped, hardly knowing what she said, and aghast at the
idea that her own hands should have retied the knot she imagined to be
broken. But she saw he had something more to say; something hard to get
out, but absolutely necessary to express. He caught her hands, pulled
her close, and, with his forehead drawn into its whimsical smiling
wrinkles, “Look here,” he cried, “if Darrow wants to call me a damned
ass too you’re not to stop him!”

It brought her back to a sharper sense of her central peril: of the
secret to be kept from him at whatever cost to her racked nerves.

“Oh, you know, he doesn’t always wait for orders!” On the whole it
sounded better than she’d feared.

“You mean he’s called me one already?” He accepted the fact with his
gayest laugh. “Well, that saves a lot of trouble; now we can pass to the
order of the day----” he broke off and glanced at the clock--“which is,
you know, dear, that she’s starting in about an hour; she and Adelaide
must already be snatching a hasty sandwich. You’ll come down to bid them
good-bye?”

“Yes--of course.”

There had, in fact, grown upon her while he spoke the urgency of seeing
Sophy Viner again before she left. The thought was deeply distasteful:
Anna shrank from encountering the girl till she had cleared a way
through her own perplexities. But it was obvious that since they had
separated, barely an hour earlier, the situation had taken a new shape.
Sophy Viner had apparently reconsidered her decision to break amicably
but definitely with Owen, and stood again in their path, a menace and a
mystery; and confused impulses of resistance stirred in Anna’s mind. She
felt Owen’s touch on her arm. “Are you coming?”

“Yes ... yes ... presently.”

“What’s the matter? You look so strange.”

“What do you mean by strange?”

“I don’t know: startled--surprised.” She read what her look must be by
its sudden reflection in his face.

“Do I? No wonder! You’ve given us all an exciting morning.”

He held to his point. “You’re more excited now that there’s no cause for
it. What on earth has happened since I saw you?”

He looked about the room, as if seeking the clue to her agitation, and
in her dread of what he might guess she answered: “What has happened is
simply that I’m rather tired. Will you ask Sophy to come up and see me
here?”


While she waited she tried to think what she should say when the girl
appeared; but she had never been more conscious of her inability to deal
with the oblique and the tortuous. She had lacked the hard teachings of
experience, and an instinctive disdain for whatever was less clear and
open than her own conscience had kept her from learning anything of the
intricacies and contradictions of other hearts. She said to herself:
“I must find out----” yet everything in her recoiled from the means by
which she felt it must be done...

Sophy Viner appeared almost immediately, dressed for departure, her
little bag on her arm. She was still pale to the point of haggardness,
but with a light upon her that struck Anna with surprise. Or was it,
perhaps, that she was looking at the girl with new eyes: seeing her, for
the first time, not as Effie’s governess, not as Owen’s bride, but as
the embodiment of that unknown peril lurking in the background of every
woman’s thoughts about her lover? Anna, at any rate, with a sudden sense
of estrangement, noted in her graces and snares never before perceived.
It was only the flash of a primitive instinct, but it lasted long enough
to make her ashamed of the darknesses it lit up in her heart...

She signed to Sophy to sit down on the sofa beside her. “I asked you to
come up to me because I wanted to say good-bye quietly,” she explained,
feeling her lips tremble, but trying to speak in a tone of friendly
naturalness.

The girl’s only answer was a faint smile of acquiescence, and Anna,
disconcerted by her silence, went on: “You’ve decided, then, not to
break your engagement?”

Sophy Viner raised her head with a look of surprise. Evidently the
question, thus abruptly put, must have sounded strangely on the lips
of so ardent a partisan as Mrs. Leath! “I thought that was what you
wished,” she said.

“What I wished?” Anna’s heart shook against her side. “I wish,
of course, whatever seems best for Owen... It’s natural, you must
understand, that that consideration should come first with me...”

Sophy was looking at her steadily. “I supposed it was the only one that
counted with you.”

The curtness of retort roused Anna’s latent antagonism. “It is,” she
said, in a hard voice that startled her as she heard it. Had she ever
spoken so to any one before? She felt frightened, as though her
very nature had changed without her knowing it...Feeling the girl’s
astonished gaze still on her, she continued: “The suddenness of the
change has naturally surprised me. When I left you it was understood
that you were to reserve your decision----”

“Yes.”

“And now----?” Anna waited for a reply that did not come. She did
not understand the girl’s attitude, the edge of irony in her short
syllables, the plainly premeditated determination to lay the burden
of proof on her interlocutor. Anna felt the sudden need to lift their
intercourse above this mean level of defiance and distrust. She looked
appealingly at Sophy.

“Isn’t it best that we should speak quite frankly? It’s this change on
your part that perplexes me. You can hardly be surprised at that. It’s
true, I asked you not to break with Owen too abruptly--and I asked it,
believe me, as much for your sake as for his: I wanted you to take time
to think over the difficulty that seems to have arisen between you. The
fact that you felt it required thinking over seemed to show you wouldn’t
take the final step lightly--wouldn’t, I mean, accept of Owen more
than you could give him. But your change of mind obliges me to ask the
question I thought you would have asked yourself. Is there any reason
why you shouldn’t marry Owen?”

She stopped a little breathlessly, her eyes on Sophy Viner’s burning
face. “Any reason----? What do you mean by a reason?”

Anna continued to look at her gravely. “Do you love some one else?” she
asked.

Sophy’s first look was one of wonder and a faint relief; then she gave
back the other’s scrutiny in a glance of indescribable reproach. “Ah,
you might have waited!” she exclaimed.

“Waited?”

“Till I’d gone: till I was out of the house. You might have known ... you
might have guessed...” She turned her eyes again on Anna. “I only meant
to let him hope a little longer, so that he shouldn’t suspect anything;
of course I can’t marry him,” she said.

Anna stood motionless, silenced by the shock of the avowal. She too
was trembling, less with anger than with a confused compassion. But the
feeling was so blent with others, less generous and more obscure, that
she found no words to express it, and the two women faced each other
without speaking.

“I’d better go,” Sophy murmured at length with lowered head.

The words roused in Anna a latent impulse of compunction. The girl
looked so young, so exposed and desolate! And what thoughts must she be
hiding in her heart! It was impossible that they should part in such a
spirit.

“I want you to know that no one said anything... It was I who...”

Sophy looked at her. “You mean that Mr. Darrow didn’t tell you? Of
course not: do you suppose I thought he did? You found it out, that’s
all--I knew you would. In your place I should have guessed it sooner.”

The words were spoken simply, without irony or emphasis; but they went
through Anna like a sword. Yes, the girl would have had divinations,
promptings that she had not had! She felt half envious of such a sad
precocity of wisdom.

“I’m so sorry ... so sorry...” she murmured.

“Things happen that way. Now I’d better go. I’d like to say good-bye to
Effie.”

“Oh----” it broke in a cry from Effie’s mother. “Not like this--you
mustn’t! I feel--you make me feel too horribly: as if I were driving you
away...” The words had rushed up from the depths of her bewildered pity.

“No one is driving me away: I had to go,” she heard the girl reply.

There was another silence, during which passionate impulses of
magnanimity warred in Anna with her doubts and dreads. At length, her
eyes on Sophy’s face: “Yes, you must go now,” she began; “but later
on ... after a while, when all this is over ... if there’s no reason why
you shouldn’t marry Owen----” she paused a moment on the words-- “I
shouldn’t want you to think I stood between you...”

“You?” Sophy flushed again, and then grew pale. She seemed to try to
speak, but no words came. “Yes! It was not true when I said just now
that I was thinking only of Owen. I’m sorry--oh, so sorry!--for you too.
Your life--I know how hard it’s been; and mine ... mine’s so full...Happy
women understand best!” Anna drew near and touched the girl’s hand; then
she began again, pouring all her soul into the broken phrases: “It’s
terrible now ... you see no future; but if, by and bye ... you know
best ... but you’re so young ... and at your age things DO pass. If there’s
no reason, no real reason, why you shouldn’t marry Owen, I WANT him to
hope, I’ll help him to hope ... if you say so....”

With the urgency of her pleading her clasp tightened on Sophy’s hand,
but it warmed to no responsive tremor: the girl seemed numb, and Anna
was frightened by the stony silence of her look. “I suppose I’m not more
than half a woman,” she mused, “for I don’t want my happiness to
hurt her;” and aloud she repeated: “If only you’ll tell me there’s no
reason----”

The girl did not speak; but suddenly, like a snapped branch, she bent,
stooped down to the hand that clasped her, and laid her lips upon it in
a stream of weeping. She cried silently, continuously, abundantly, as
though Anna’s touch had released the waters of some deep spring of pain;
then, as Anna, moved and half afraid, leaned over her with a sound of
pity, she stood up and turned away.

“You’re going, then--for good--like this?” Anna moved toward her and
stopped. Sophy stopped too, with eyes that shrank from her.

“Oh----” Anna cried, and hid her face.

The girl walked across the room and paused again in the doorway. From
there she flung back: “I wanted it--I chose it. He was good to me--no
one ever was so good!”

The door-handle turned, and Anna heard her go.




XXIX


Her first thought was: “He’s going too in a few hours--I needn’t see him
again before he leaves...” At that moment the possibility of having to
look in Darrow’s face and hear him speak seemed to her more unendurable
than anything else she could imagine. Then, on the next wave of feeling,
came the desire to confront him at once and wring from him she knew
not what: avowal, denial, justification, anything that should open some
channel of escape to the flood of her pent-up anguish.

She had told Owen she was tired, and this seemed a sufficient reason for
remaining upstairs when the motor came to the door and Miss Painter and
Sophy Viner were borne off in it; sufficient also for sending word to
Madame de Chantelle that she would not come down till after luncheon.
Having despatched her maid with this message, she lay down on her sofa
and stared before her into darkness...

She had been unhappy before, and the vision of old miseries flocked
like hungry ghosts about her fresh pain: she recalled her youthful
disappointment, the failure of her marriage, the wasted years that
followed; but those were negative sorrows, denials and postponements of
life. She seemed in no way related to their shadowy victim, she who
was stretched on this fiery rack of the irreparable. She had suffered
before--yes, but lucidly, reflectively, elegiacally: now she was
suffering as a hurt animal must, blindly, furiously, with the single
fierce animal longing that the awful pain should stop...

She heard her maid knock, and she hid her face and made no answer. The
knocking continued, and the discipline of habit at length made her lift
her head, compose her face and hold out her hand to the note the woman
brought her. It was a word from Darrow--“May I see you?”--and she said
at once, in a voice that sounded thin and empty: “Ask Mr. Darrow to come
up.”

The maid enquired if she wished to have her hair smoothed first, and
she answered that it didn’t matter; but when the door had closed, the
instinct of pride drew her to her feet and she looked at herself in the
glass above the mantelpiece and passed her hands over her hair. Her eyes
were burning and her face looked tired and thinner; otherwise she could
see no change in her appearance, and she wondered that at such a moment
her body should seem as unrelated to the self that writhed within her as
if it had been a statue or a picture.

The maid reopened the door to show in Darrow, and he paused a moment on
the threshold, as if waiting for Anna to speak. He was extremely pale,
but he looked neither ashamed nor uncertain, and she said to herself,
with a perverse thrill of appreciation: “He’s as proud as I am.”

Aloud she asked: “You wanted to see me?”

“Naturally,” he replied in a grave voice.

“Don’t! It’s useless. I know everything. Nothing you can say will help.”

At the direct affirmation he turned even paler, and his eyes, which he
kept resolutely fixed on her, confessed his misery.

“You allow me no voice in deciding that?”

“Deciding what?”

“That there’s nothing more to be said?” He waited for her to answer, and
then went on: “I don’t even know what you mean by ‘everything’.”

“Oh, I don’t know what more there is! I know enough. I implored her
to deny it, and she couldn’t...What can you and I have to say to each
other?” Her voice broke into a sob. The animal anguish was upon her
again--just a blind cry against her pain!

Darrow kept his head high and his eyes steady. “It must be as you wish;
and yet it’s not like you to be afraid.”

“Afraid?”

“To talk things out--to face them.”

“It’s for YOU to face this--not me!”

“All I ask is to face it--but with you.” Once more he paused. “Won’t you
tell me what Miss Viner told you?”

“Oh, she’s generous--to the utmost!” The pain caught her like a physical
throe. It suddenly came to her how the girl must have loved him to be so
generous--what memories there must be between them!

“Oh, go, please go. It’s too horrible. Why should I have to see you?”
 she stammered, lifting her hands to her eyes.

With her face hidden she waited to hear him move away, to hear the door
open and close again, as, a few hours earlier, it had opened and
closed on Sophy Viner. But Darrow made no sound or movement: he too was
waiting. Anna felt a thrill of resentment: his presence was an outrage
on her sorrow, a humiliation to her pride. It was strange that he should
wait for her to tell him so!

“You want me to leave Givre?” he asked at length. She made no answer,
and he went on: “Of course I’ll do as you wish; but if I go now am I not
to see you again?”

His voice was firm: his pride was answering her pride!

She faltered: “You must see it’s useless----”

“I might remind you that you’re dismissing me without a hearing----”

“Without a hearing? I’ve heard you both!”

----“but I won’t,” he continued, “remind you of that, or of anything or
any one but Owen.”

“Owen?”

“Yes; if we could somehow spare him----”

She had dropped her hands and turned her startled eyes on him. It seemed
to her an age since she had thought of Owen!

“You see, don’t you,” Darrow continued, “that if you send me away
now----”

She interrupted: “Yes, I see----” and there was a long silence between
them. At length she said, very low: “I don’t want any one else to suffer
as I’m suffering...”

“Owen knows I meant to leave tomorrow,” Darrow went on. “Any sudden
change of plan may make him think...”

Oh, she saw his inevitable logic: the horror of it was on every side of
her! It had seemed possible to control her grief and face Darrow
calmly while she was upheld by the belief that this was their last hour
together, that after he had passed out of the room there would be no
fear of seeing him again, no fear that his nearness, his look, his
voice, and all the unseen influences that flowed from him, would
dissolve her soul to weakness. But her courage failed at the idea of
having to conspire with him to shield Owen, of keeping up with him, for
Owen’s sake, a feint of union and felicity. To live at Darrow’s side in
seeming intimacy and harmony for another twenty-four hours seemed harder
than to live without him for all the rest of her days. Her strength
failed her, and she threw herself down and buried her sobs in the
cushions where she had so often hidden a face aglow with happiness.

“Anna----” His voice was close to her. “Let me talk to you quietly. It’s
not worthy of either of us to be afraid.”

Words of endearment would have offended her; but her heart rose at the
call to her courage.

“I’ve no defense to make,” he went on. “The facts are miserable enough;
but at least I want you to see them as they are. Above all, I want you
to know the truth about Miss Viner----”

The name sent the blood to Anna’s forehead. She raised her head and
faced him. “Why should I know more of her than what she’s told me? I
never wish to hear her name again!”

“It’s because you feel about her in that way that I ask you--in the name
of common charity--to let me give you the facts as they are, and not as
you’ve probably imagined them.”

“I’ve told you I don’t think uncharitably of her. I don’t want to think
of her at all!”

“That’s why I tell you you’re afraid.”

“Afraid?”

“Yes. You’ve always said you wanted, above all, to look at life, at the
human problem, as it is, without fear and without hypocrisy; and it’s
not always a pleasant thing to look at.” He broke off, and then began
again: “Don’t think this a plea for myself! I don’t want to say a word
to lessen my offense. I don’t want to talk of myself at all. Even if I
did, I probably couldn’t make you understand--I don’t, myself, as I look
back. Be just to me--it’s your right; all I ask you is to be generous to
Miss Viner...”

She stood up trembling. “You’re free to be as generous to her as you
please!”

“Yes: you’ve made it clear to me that I’m free. But there’s nothing I
can do for her that will help her half as much as your understanding her
would.”

“Nothing you can do for her? You can marry her!”

His face hardened. “You certainly couldn’t wish her a worse fate!”

“It must have been what she expected ... relied on...” He was silent, and
she broke out: “Or what is she? What are you? It’s too horrible! On your
way here ... to ME...” She felt the tears in her throat and stopped.

“That was it,” he said bluntly. She stared at him.

“I was on my way to you--after repeated delays and postponements of your
own making. At the very last you turned me back with a mere word--and
without explanation. I waited for a letter; and none came. I’m not
saying this to justify myself. I’m simply trying to make you understand.
I felt hurt and bitter and bewildered. I thought you meant to give me
up. And suddenly, in my way, I found some one to be sorry for, to be
of use to. That, I swear to you, was the way it began. The rest was a
moment’s folly ... a flash of madness ... as such things are. We’ve never
seen each other since...”

Anna was looking at him coldly. “You sufficiently describe her in saying
that!”

“Yes, if you measure her by conventional standards--which is what you
always declare you never do.”

“Conventional standards? A girl who----” She was checked by a sudden
rush of almost physical repugnance. Suddenly she broke out: “I always
thought her an adventuress!”

“Always?”

“I don’t mean always ... but after you came...”

“She’s not an adventuress.”

“You mean that she professes to act on the new theories? The stuff that
awful women rave about on platforms?”

“Oh, I don’t think she pretended to have a theory----”

“She hadn’t even that excuse?”

“She had the excuse of her loneliness, her unhappiness--of miseries and
humiliations that a woman like you can’t even guess. She had nothing to
look back to but indifference or unkindness--nothing to look forward to
but anxiety. She saw I was sorry for her and it touched her. She made
too much of it--she exaggerated it. I ought to have seen the danger, but
I didn’t. There’s no possible excuse for what I did.”

Anna listened to him in speechless misery. Every word he spoke threw
back a disintegrating light on their own past. He had come to her with
an open face and a clear conscience--come to her from this! If his
security was the security of falsehood it was horrible; if it meant that
he had forgotten, it was worse. She would have liked to stop her ears,
to close her eyes, to shut out every sight and sound and suggestion of
a world in which such things could be; and at the same time she was
tormented by the desire to know more, to understand better, to feel
herself less ignorant and inexpert in matters which made so much of
the stuff of human experience. What did he mean by “a moment’s folly, a
flash of madness”? How did people enter on such adventures, how pass
out of them without more visible traces of their havoc? Her imagination
recoiled from the vision of a sudden debasing familiarity: it seemed to
her that her thoughts would never again be pure...

“I swear to you,” she heard Darrow saying, “it was simply that, and
nothing more.”

She wondered at his composure, his competence, at his knowing so exactly
what to say. No doubt men often had to make such explanations: they had
the formulas by heart...A leaden lassitude descended on her. She passed
from flame and torment into a colourless cold world where everything
surrounding her seemed equally indifferent and remote. For a moment she
simply ceased to feel.

She became aware that Darrow was waiting for her to speak, and she made
an effort to represent to herself the meaning of what he had just said;
but her mind was as blank as a blurred mirror. Finally she brought out:
“I don’t think I understand what you’ve told me.”

“No; you don’t understand,” he returned with sudden bitterness; and on
his lips the charge of incomprehension seemed an offense to her.

“I don’t want to--about such things!”

He answered almost harshly: “Don’t be afraid ... you never will...”
 and for an instant they faced each other like enemies. Then the tears
swelled in her throat at his reproach.

“You mean I don’t feel things--I’m too hard?”

“No: you’re too high ... too fine ... such things are too far from you.”

He paused, as if conscious of the futility of going on with whatever
he had meant to say, and again, for a short space, they confronted
each other, no longer as enemies--so it seemed to her--but as beings of
different language who had forgotten the few words they had learned of
each other’s speech.

Darrow broke the silence. “It’s best, on all accounts, that I should
stay till tomorrow; but I needn’t intrude on you; we needn’t meet again
alone. I only want to be sure I know your wishes.” He spoke the short
sentences in a level voice, as though he were summing up the results of
a business conference.

Anna looked at him vaguely. “My wishes?”

“As to Owen----”

At that she started. “They must never meet again!”

“It’s not likely they will. What I meant was, that it depends on you to
spare him...”

She answered steadily: “He shall never know,” and after another interval
Darrow said: “This is good-bye, then.”

At the word she seemed to understand for the first time whither the
flying moments had been leading them. Resentment and indignation died
down, and all her consciousness resolved itself into the mere visual
sense that he was there before her, near enough for her to lift her
hand and touch him, and that in another instant the place where he stood
would be empty.

She felt a mortal weakness, a craven impulse to cry out to him to stay,
a longing to throw herself into his arms, and take refuge there from the
unendurable anguish he had caused her. Then the vision called up another
thought: “I shall never know what that girl has known...” and the recoil
of pride flung her back on the sharp edges of her anguish.

“Good-bye,” she said, in dread lest he should read her face; and she
stood motionless, her head high, while he walked to the door and went
out.




BOOK V




XXX


Anna Leath, three days later, sat in Miss Painter’s drawing-room in the
rue de Matignon.

Coming up precipitately that morning from the country, she had reached
Paris at one o’clock and Miss Painter’s landing some ten minutes later.
Miss Painter’s mouldy little man-servant, dissembling a napkin under his
arm, had mildly attempted to oppose her entrance; but Anna, insisting,
had gone straight to the dining-room and surprised her friend--who ate
as furtively as certain animals--over a strange meal of cold mutton and
lemonade. Ignoring the embarrassment she caused, she had set forth the
object of her journey, and Miss Painter, always hatted and booted for
action, had immediately hastened out, leaving her to the solitude of
the bare fireless drawing-room with its eternal slip-covers and “bowed”
 shutters.

In this inhospitable obscurity Anna had sat alone for close upon two
hours. Both obscurity and solitude were acceptable to her, and impatient
as she was to hear the result of the errand on which she had despatched
her hostess, she desired still more to be alone. During her long
meditation in a white-swathed chair before the muffled hearth she had
been able for the first time to clear a way through the darkness and
confusion of her thoughts. The way did not go far, and her attempt to
trace it was as weak and spasmodic as a convalescent’s first efforts
to pick up the thread of living. She seemed to herself like some one
struggling to rise from a long sickness of which it would have been so
much easier to die. At Givre she had fallen into a kind of torpor, a
deadness of soul traversed by wild flashes of pain; but whether she
suffered or whether she was numb, she seemed equally remote from her
real living and doing self.

It was only the discovery--that very morning--of Owen’s unannounced
departure for Paris that had caught her out of her dream and forced her
back to action. The dread of what this flight might imply, and of the
consequences that might result from it, had roused her to the sense of
her responsibility, and from the moment when she had resolved to follow
her step-son, and had made her rapid preparations for pursuit, her mind
had begun to work again, feverishly, fitfully, but still with something
of its normal order. In the train she had been too agitated, too
preoccupied with what might next await her, to give her thoughts to
anything but the turning over of dread alternatives; but Miss Painter’s
imperviousness had steadied her, and while she waited for the sound of
the latch-key she resolutely returned upon herself.

With respect to her outward course she could at least tell herself that
she had held to her purpose. She had, as people said, “kept up” during
the twenty-four hours preceding George Darrow’s departure; had gone
with a calm face about her usual business, and even contrived not too
obviously to avoid him. Then, the next day before dawn, from behind
the closed shutters where she had kept for half the night her dry-eyed
vigil, she had heard him drive off to the train which brought its
passengers to Paris in time for the Calais express.

The fact of his taking that train, of his travelling so straight and
far away from her, gave to what had happened the implacable outline of
reality. He was gone; he would not come back; and her life had ended
just as she had dreamed it was beginning. She had no doubt, at first, as
to the absolute inevitability of this conclusion. The man who had driven
away from her house in the autumn dawn was not the man she had loved; he
was a stranger with whom she had not a single thought in common. It was
terrible, indeed, that he wore the face and spoke in the voice of her
friend, and that, as long as he was under one roof with her, the mere
way in which he moved and looked could bridge at a stroke the gulf
between them. That, no doubt, was the fault of her exaggerated
sensibility to outward things: she was frightened to see how it enslaved
her. A day or two before she had supposed the sense of honour was her
deepest sentiment: if she had smiled at the conventions of others it was
because they were too trivial, not because they were too grave. There
were certain dishonours with which she had never dreamed that any pact
could be made: she had had an incorruptible passion for good faith and
fairness.

She had supposed that, once Darrow was gone, once she was safe from the
danger of seeing and hearing him, this high devotion would sustain her.
She had believed it would be possible to separate the image of the man
she had thought him from that of the man he was. She had even foreseen
the hour when she might raise a mournful shrine to the memory of the
Darrow she had loved, without fear that his double’s shadow would
desecrate it. But now she had begun to understand that the two men were
really one. The Darrow she worshipped was inseparable from the Darrow
she abhorred; and the inevitable conclusion was that both must go, and
she be left in the desert of a sorrow without memories...

But if the future was thus void, the present was all too full. Never had
blow more complex repercussions; and to remember Owen was to cease to
think of herself. What impulse, what apprehension, had sent him suddenly
to Paris? And why had he thought it needful to conceal his going from
her? When Sophy Viner had left, it had been with the understanding that
he was to await her summons; and it seemed improbable that he would
break his pledge, and seek her without leave, unless his lover’s
intuition had warned him of some fresh danger. Anna recalled how
quickly he had read the alarm in her face when he had rushed back to her
sitting-room with the news that Miss Viner had promised to see him again
in Paris. To be so promptly roused, his suspicions must have been but
half-asleep; and since then, no doubt, if she and Darrow had dissembled,
so had he. To her proud directness it was degrading to think that
they had been living together like enemies who spy upon each other’s
movements: she felt a desperate longing for the days which had seemed so
dull and narrow, but in which she had walked with her head high and her
eyes unguarded.

She had come up to Paris hardly knowing what peril she feared, and still
less how she could avert it. If Owen meant to see Miss Viner--and what
other object could he have?--they must already be together, and it was
too late to interfere. It had indeed occurred to Anna that Paris might
not be his objective point: that his real purpose in leaving Givre
without her knowledge had been to follow Darrow to London and exact
the truth of him. But even to her alarmed imagination this seemed
improbable. She and Darrow, to the last, had kept up so complete a feint
of harmony that, whatever Owen had surmised, he could scarcely have
risked acting on his suspicions. If he still felt the need of an
explanation, it was almost certainly of Sophy Viner that he would ask
it; and it was in quest of Sophy Viner that Anna had despatched Miss
Painter.

She had found a blessed refuge from her perplexities in the stolid
Adelaide’s unawareness. One could so absolutely count on Miss Painter’s
guessing no more than one chose, and yet acting astutely on such hints
as one vouchsafed her! She was like a well-trained retriever whose
interest in his prey ceases when he lays it at his master’s feet. Anna,
on arriving, had explained that Owen’s unannounced flight had made her
fear some fresh misunderstanding between himself and Miss Viner. In
the interests of peace she had thought it best to follow him; but she
hastily added that she did not wish to see Sophy, but only, if possible,
to learn from her where Owen was. With these brief instructions Miss
Painter had started out; but she was a woman of many occupations, and
had given her visitor to understand that before returning she should
have to call on a friend who had just arrived from Boston, and afterward
despatch to another exiled compatriot a supply of cranberries and
brandied peaches from the American grocery in the Champs Elysees.

Gradually, as the moments passed, Anna began to feel the reaction which,
in moments of extreme nervous tension, follows on any effort of the
will. She seemed to have gone as far as her courage would carry her,
and she shrank more and more from the thought of Miss Painter’s return,
since whatever information the latter brought would necessitate some
fresh decision. What should she say to Owen if she found him? What could
she say that should not betray the one thing she would give her life
to hide from him? “Give her life”--how the phrase derided her! It was a
gift she would not have bestowed on her worst enemy. She would not have
had Sophy Viner live the hours she was living now... She tried again
to look steadily and calmly at the picture that the image of the girl
evoked. She had an idea that she ought to accustom herself to its
contemplation. If life was like that, why the sooner one got used to it
the better...But no! Life was not like that. Her adventure was a hideous
accident. She dreaded above all the temptation to generalise from her
own case, to doubt the high things she had lived by and seek a cheap
solace in belittling what fate had refused her. There was such love as
she had dreamed, and she meant to go on believing in it, and cherishing
the thought that she was worthy of it. What had happened to her was
grotesque and mean and miserable; but she herself was none of these
things, and never, never would she make of herself the mock that fate
had made of her...

She could not, as yet, bear to think deliberately of Darrow; but she
kept on repeating to herself “By and bye that will come too.” Even now
she was determined not to let his image be distorted by her suffering.
As soon as she could, she would try to single out for remembrance
the individual things she had liked in him before she had loved him
altogether. No “spiritual exercise” devised by the discipline of piety
could have been more torturing; but its very cruelty attracted her. She
wanted to wear herself out with new pains...




XXXI


The sound of Miss Painter’s latch-key made her start. She was still a
bundle of quivering fears to whom each coming moment seemed a menace.

There was a slight interval, and a sound of voices in the hall; then
Miss Painter’s vigorous hand was on the door.

Anna stood up as she came in. “You’ve found him?”

“I’ve found Sophy.”

“And Owen?--has she seen him? Is he here?”

“SHE’S here: in the hall. She wants to speak to you.”

“Here--NOW?” Anna found no voice for more.

“She drove back with me,” Miss Painter continued in the tone of
impartial narrative. “The cabman was impertinent. I’ve got his number.”
 She fumbled in a stout black reticule.

“Oh, I can’t--” broke from Anna; but she collected herself, remembering
that to betray her unwillingness to see the girl was to risk revealing
much more.

“She thought you might be too tired to see her: she wouldn’t come in
till I’d found out.”

Anna drew a quick breath. An instant’s thought had told her that
Sophy Viner would hardly have taken such a step unless something more
important had happened. “Ask her to come, please,” she said.

Miss Painter, from the threshold, turned back to announce her intention
of going immediately to the police station to report the cabman’s
delinquency; then she passed out, and Sophy Viner entered.

The look in the girl’s face showed that she had indeed come unwillingly;
yet she seemed animated by an eager resoluteness that made Anna ashamed
of her tremors. For a moment they looked at each other in silence, as
if the thoughts between them were packed too thick for speech; then Anna
said, in a voice from which she strove to take the edge of hardness:
“You know where Owen is, Miss Painter tells me.”

“Yes; that was my reason for asking you to see me.” Sophy spoke simply,
without constraint or hesitation.

“I thought he’d promised you--” Anna interposed.

“He did; but he broke his promise. That’s what I thought I ought to tell
you.”

“Thank you.” Anna went on tentatively: “He left Givre this morning
without a word. I followed him because I was afraid...”

She broke off again and the girl took up her phrase. “You were afraid
he’d guessed? He HAS...”

“What do you mean--guessed what?”

“That you know something he doesn’t ... something that made you glad to
have me go.”

“Oh--” Anna moaned. If she had wanted more pain she had it now. “He’s
told you this?” she faltered.

“He hasn’t told me, because I haven’t seen him. I kept him off--I made
Mrs. Farlow get rid of him. But he’s written me what he came to say; and
that was it.”

“Oh, poor Owen!” broke from Anna. Through all the intricacies of her
suffering she felt the separate pang of his.

“And I want to ask you,” the girl continued, “to let me see him; for
of course,” she added in the same strange voice of energy, “I wouldn’t
unless you consented.”

“To see him?” Anna tried to gather together her startled thoughts. “What
use would it be? What could you tell him?”

“I want to tell him the truth,” said Sophy Viner.

The two women looked at each other, and a burning blush rose to Anna’s
forehead. “I don’t understand,” she faltered.

Sophy waited a moment; then she lowered her voice to say: “I don’t want
him to think worse of me than he need...”

“Worse?”

“Yes--to think such things as you’re thinking now...I want him to know
exactly what happened ... then I want to bid him good-bye.”

Anna tried to clear a way through her own wonder and confusion. She felt
herself obscurely moved.

“Wouldn’t it be worse for him?”

“To hear the truth? It would be better, at any rate, for you and Mr.
Darrow.”

At the sound of the name Anna lifted her head quickly. “I’ve only my
step-son to consider!”

The girl threw a startled look at her. “You don’t mean--you’re not going
to give him up?”

Anna felt her lips harden. “I don’t think it’s of any use to talk of
that.”

“Oh, I know! It’s my fault for not knowing how to say what I want you to
hear. Your words are different; you know how to choose them. Mine offend
you ... and the dread of it makes me blunder. That’s why, the other day, I
couldn’t say anything ... couldn’t make things clear to you. But now MUST,
even if you hate it!” She drew a step nearer, her slender figure swayed
forward in a passion of entreaty. “Do listen to me! What you’ve said is
dreadful. How can you speak of him in that voice? Don’t you see that I
went away so that he shouldn’t have to lose you?”

Anna looked at her coldly. “Are you speaking of Mr. Darrow? I don’t
know why you think your going or staying can in any way affect our
relations.”

“You mean that you HAVE given him up--because of me? Oh, how could you?
You can’t really love him!--And yet,” the girl suddenly added, “you
must, or you’d be more sorry for me!”

“I’m very sorry for you,” Anna said, feeling as if the iron band about
her heart pressed on it a little less inexorably.

“Then why won’t you hear me? Why won’t you try to understand? It’s all
so different from what you imagine!”

“I’ve never judged you.”

“I’m not thinking of myself. He loves you!”

“I thought you’d come to speak of Owen.”

Sophy Viner seemed not to hear her. “He’s never loved any one else. Even
those few days...I knew it all the while ... he never cared for me.”

“Please don’t say any more!” Anna said.

“I know it must seem strange to you that I should say so much. I shock
you, I offend you: you think me a creature without shame. So I am--but
not in the sense you think! I’m not ashamed of having loved him; no; and
I’m not ashamed of telling you so. It’s that that justifies me--and him
too...Oh, let me tell you how it happened! He was sorry for me: he saw I
cared. I KNEW that was all he ever felt. I could see he was thinking of
some one else. I knew it was only for a week...He never said a word to
mislead me...I wanted to be happy just once--and I didn’t dream of the
harm I might be doing him!”

Anna could not speak. She hardly knew, as yet, what the girl’s words
conveyed to her, save the sense of their tragic fervour; but she was
conscious of being in the presence of an intenser passion than she had
ever felt.

“I am sorry for you.” She paused. “But why do you say this to me?” After
another interval she exclaimed: “You’d no right to let Owen love you.”

“No; that was wrong. At least what’s happened since has made it so. If
things had been different I think I could have made Owen happy. You were
all so good to me--I wanted so to stay with you! I suppose you’ll say
that makes it worse: my daring to dream I had the right...But all that
doesn’t matter now. I won’t see Owen unless you’re willing. I should
have liked to tell him what I’ve tried to tell you; but you must know
better; you feel things in a finer way. Only you’ll have to help him if
I can’t. He cares a great deal ... it’s going to hurt him...”

Anna trembled. “Oh, I know! What can I do?”

“You can go straight back to Givre--now, at once! So that Owen shall
never know you’ve followed him.” Sophy’s clasped hands reached out
urgently. “And you can send for Mr. Darrow--bring him back. Owen must
be convinced that he’s mistaken, and nothing else will convince him.
Afterward I’ll find a pretext--oh, I promise you! But first he must see
for himself that nothing’s changed for you.”

Anna stood motionless, subdued and dominated. The girl’s ardour swept
her like a wind.

“Oh, can’t I move you? Some day you’ll know!” Sophy pleaded, her eyes
full of tears.

Anna saw them, and felt a fullness in her throat. Again the band about
her heart seemed loosened. She wanted to find a word, but could not:
all within her was too dark and violent. She gave the girl a speechless
look.

“I do believe you,” she said suddenly; then she turned and walked out of
the room.




XXXII


She drove from Miss Painter’s to her own apartment. The maid-servant who
had it in charge had been apprised of her coming, and had opened one or
two of the rooms, and prepared a fire in her bedroom. Anna shut herself
in, refusing the woman’s ministrations. She felt cold and faint, and
after she had taken off her hat and cloak she knelt down by the fire and
stretched her hands to it.

In one respect, at least, it was clear to her that she would do well
to follow Sophy Viner’s counsel. It had been an act of folly to follow
Owen, and her first business was to get back to Givre before him. But
the only train leaving that evening was a slow one, which did not reach
Francheuil till midnight, and she knew that her taking it would excite
Madame de Chantelle’s wonder and lead to interminable talk. She had come
up to Paris on the pretext of finding a new governess for Effie, and the
natural thing was to defer her return till the next morning. She knew
Owen well enough to be sure that he would make another attempt to see
Miss Viner, and failing that, would write again and await her answer:
so that there was no likelihood of his reaching Givre till the following
evening.

Her sense of relief at not having to start out at once showed her for
the first time how tired she was. The bonne had suggested a cup of tea,
but the dread of having any one about her had made Anna refuse, and she
had eaten nothing since morning but a sandwich bought at a buffet. She
was too tired to get up, but stretching out her arm she drew toward her
the arm-chair which stood beside the hearth and rested her head against
its cushions. Gradually the warmth of the fire stole into her veins and
her heaviness of soul was replaced by a dreamy buoyancy. She seemed to
be seated on the hearth in her sitting-room at Givre, and Darrow was
beside her, in the chair against which she leaned. He put his arms about
her shoulders and drawing her head back looked into her eyes. “Of all
the ways you do your hair, that’s the way I like best,” he said...

A log dropped, and she sat up with a start. There was a warmth in her
heart, and she was smiling. Then she looked about her, and saw where she
was, and the glory fell. She hid her face and sobbed.

Presently she perceived that it was growing dark, and getting up
stiffly she began to undo the things in her bag and spread them on the
dressing-table. She shrank from lighting the lights, and groped her way
about, trying to find what she needed. She seemed immeasurably far
off from every one, and most of all from herself. It was as if her
consciousness had been transmitted to some stranger whose thoughts and
gestures were indifferent to her...

Suddenly she heard a shrill tinkle, and with a beating heart she
stood still in the middle of the room. It was the telephone in her
dressing-room--a call, no doubt, from Adelaide Painter. Or could Owen
have learned she was in town? The thought alarmed her and she opened the
door and stumbled across the unlit room to the instrument. She held it
to her ear, and heard Darrow’s voice pronounce her name.

“Will you let me see you? I’ve come back--I had to come. Miss Painter
told me you were here.”

She began to tremble, and feared that he would guess it from her voice.
She did not know what she answered: she heard him say: “I can’t
hear.” She called “Yes!” and laid the telephone down, and caught it up
again--but he was gone. She wondered if her “Yes” had reached him.

She sat in her chair and listened. Why had she said that she would see
him? What did she mean to say to him when he came? Now and then, as she
sat there, the sense of his presence enveloped her as in her dream, and
she shut her eyes and felt his arms about her. Then she woke to reality
and shivered. A long time elapsed, and at length she said to herself:
“He isn’t coming.”

The door-bell rang as she said it, and she stood up, cold and trembling.
She thought: “Can he imagine there’s any use in coming?” and moved
forward to bid the servant say she could not see him.

The door opened and she saw him standing in the drawing-room. The room
was cold and fireless, and a hard glare fell from the wall-lights on the
shrouded furniture and the white slips covering the curtains. He looked
pale and stern, with a frown of fatigue between his eyes; and she
remembered that in three days he had travelled from Givre to London and
back. It seemed incredible that all that had befallen her should have
been compressed within the space of three days!

“Thank you,” he said as she came in.

She answered: “It’s better, I suppose----”

He came toward her and took her in his arms. She struggled a little,
afraid of yielding, but he pressed her to him, not bending to her but
holding her fast, as though he had found her after a long search: she
heard his hurried breathing. It seemed to come from her own breast, so
close he held her; and it was she who, at last, lifted up her face and
drew down his.

She freed herself and went and sat on a sofa at the other end of the
room. A mirror between the shrouded window-curtains showed her crumpled
travelling dress and the white face under her disordered hair.

She found her voice, and asked him how he had been able to leave London.
He answered that he had managed--he’d arranged it; and she saw he hardly
heard what she was saying.

“I had to see you,” he went on, and moved nearer, sitting down at her
side.

“Yes; we must think of Owen----”

“Oh, Owen--!”

Her mind had flown back to Sophy Viner’s plea that she should let Darrow
return to Givre in order that Owen might be persuaded of the folly of
his suspicions. The suggestion was absurd, of course. She could not ask
Darrow to lend himself to such a fraud, even had she had the inhuman
courage to play her part in it. She was suddenly overwhelmed by the
futility of every attempt to reconstruct her ruined world. No, it was
useless; and since it was useless, every moment with Darrow was pure
pain...

“I’ve come to talk of myself, not of Owen,” she heard him saying.
“When you sent me away the other day I understood that it couldn’t be
otherwise--then. But it’s not possible that you and I should part like
that. If I’m to lose you, it must be for a better reason.”

“A better reason?”

“Yes: a deeper one. One that means a fundamental disaccord between us.
This one doesn’t--in spite of everything it doesn’t. That’s what I want
you to see, and have the courage to acknowledge.”

“If I saw it I should have the courage!”

“Yes: courage was the wrong word. You have that. That’s why I’m here.”

“But I don’t see it,” she continued sadly. “So it’s useless, isn’t
it?--and so cruel...” He was about to speak, but she went on: “I shall
never understand it--never!”

He looked at her. “You will some day: you were made to feel everything”

“I should have thought this was a case of not feeling----”

“On my part, you mean?” He faced her resolutely. “Yes, it was: to my
shame...What I meant was that when you’ve lived a little longer
you’ll see what complex blunderers we all are: how we’re struck blind
sometimes, and mad sometimes--and then, when our sight and our senses
come back, how we have to set to work, and build up, little by little,
bit by bit, the precious things we’d smashed to atoms without knowing
it. Life’s just a perpetual piecing together of broken bits.”

She looked up quickly. “That’s what I feel: that you ought to----”

He stood up, interrupting her with a gesture. “Oh, don’t--don’t say what
you’re going to! Men don’t give their lives away like that. If you won’t
have mine, it’s at least my own, to do the best I can with.”

“The best you can--that’s what I mean! How can there be a ‘best’ for you
that’s made of some one else’s worst?”

He sat down again with a groan. “I don’t know! It seemed such a slight
thing--all on the surface--and I’ve gone aground on it because it was on
the surface. I see the horror of it just as you do. But I see, a little
more clearly, the extent, and the limits, of my wrong. It’s not as black
as you imagine.”

She lowered her voice to say: “I suppose I shall never understand; but
she seems to love you...”

“There’s my shame! That I didn’t guess it, didn’t fly from it. You say
you’ll never understand: but why shouldn’t you? Is it anything to be
proud of, to know so little of the strings that pull us? If you knew a
little more, I could tell you how such things happen without offending
you; and perhaps you’d listen without condemning me.”

“I don’t condemn you.” She was dizzy with struggling impulses. She
longed to cry out: “I DO understand! I’ve understood ever since you’ve
been here!” For she was aware, in her own bosom, of sensations so
separate from her romantic thoughts of him that she saw her body and
soul divided against themselves. She recalled having read somewhere that
in ancient Rome the slaves were not allowed to wear a distinctive dress
lest they should recognize each other and learn their numbers and their
power. So, in herself, she discerned for the first time instincts
and desires, which, mute and unmarked, had gone to and fro in the dim
passages of her mind, and now hailed each other with a cry of mutiny.

“Oh, I don’t know what to think!” she broke out. “You say you didn’t
know she loved you. But you know it now. Doesn’t that show you how you
can put the broken bits together?”

“Can you seriously think it would be doing so to marry one woman while I
care for another?”

“Oh, I don’t know...I don’t know...” The sense of her weakness made her
try to harden herself against his arguments.

“You do know! We’ve often talked of such things: of the monstrousness of
useless sacrifices. If I’m to expiate, it’s not in that way.” He added
abruptly: “It’s in having to say this to you now...”

She found no answer.

Through the silent apartment they heard the sudden peal of the
door-bell, and she rose to her feet. “Owen!” she instantly exclaimed.

“Is Owen in Paris?”

She explained in a rapid undertone what she had learned from Sophy
Viner.

“Shall I leave you?” Darrow asked.

“Yes ... no...” She moved to the dining-room door, with the half-formed
purpose of making him pass out, and then turned back. “It may be
Adelaide.”

They heard the outer door open, and a moment later Owen walked into the
room. He was pale, with excited eyes: as they fell on Darrow, Anna saw
his start of wonder. He made a slight sign of recognition, and then went
up to his step-mother with an air of exaggerated gaiety.

“You furtive person! I ran across the omniscient Adelaide and heard from
her that you’d rushed up suddenly and secretly.” He stood between Anna
and Darrow, strained, questioning, dangerously on edge.

“I came up to meet Mr. Darrow,” Anna answered. “His leave’s been
prolonged--he’s going back with me.”

The words seemed to have uttered themselves without her will, yet she
felt a great sense of freedom as she spoke them.

The hard tension of Owen’s face changed to incredulous surprise. He
looked at Darrow. “The merest luck ... a colleague whose wife was ill...I
came straight back,” she heard the latter tranquilly explaining. His
self-command helped to steady her, and she smiled at Owen.

“We’ll all go back together tomorrow morning,” she said as she slipped
her arm through his.




XXXIII


Owen Leath did not go back with his step-mother to Givre. In reply to
her suggestion he announced his intention of staying on a day or two
longer in Paris.

Anna left alone by the first train the next morning. Darrow was to
follow in the afternoon. When Owen had left them the evening before,
Darrow waited a moment for her to speak; then, as she said nothing, he
asked her if she really wished him to return to Givre. She made a mute
sign of assent, and he added: “For you know that, much as I’m ready to
do for Owen, I can’t do that for him--I can’t go back to be sent away
again.”

“No--no!”

He came nearer, and looked at her, and she went to him. All her fears
seemed to fall from her as he held her. It was a different feeling from
any she had known before: confused and turbid, as if secret shames and
rancours stirred in it, yet richer, deeper, more enslaving. She leaned
her head back and shut her eyes beneath his kisses. She knew now that
she could never give him up.

Nevertheless she asked him, the next morning, to let her go back alone
to Givre. She wanted time to think. She was convinced that what had
happened was inevitable, that she and Darrow belonged to each other, and
that he was right in saying no past folly could ever put them asunder.
If there was a shade of difference in her feeling for him it was that
of an added intensity. She felt restless, insecure out of his sight:
she had a sense of incompleteness, of passionate dependence, that was
somehow at variance with her own conception of her character.

It was partly the consciousness of this change in herself that made her
want to be alone. The solitude of her inner life had given her the habit
of these hours of self-examination, and she needed them as she needed
her morning plunge into cold water.

During the journey she tried to review what had happened in the light
of her new decision and of her sudden relief from pain. She seemed to
herself to have passed through some fiery initiation from which she
had emerged seared and quivering, but clutching to her breast a magic
talisman. Sophy Viner had cried out to her: “Some day you’ll know!” and
Darrow had used the same words. They meant, she supposed, that when
she had explored the intricacies and darknesses of her own heart her
judgment of others would be less absolute. Well, she knew now--knew
weaknesses and strengths she had not dreamed of, and the deep discord
and still deeper complicities between what thought in her and what
blindly wanted...

Her mind turned anxiously to Owen. At least the blow that was to fall on
him would not seem to have been inflicted by her hand. He would be left
with the impression that his breach with Sophy Viner was due to one of
the ordinary causes of such disruptions: though he must lose her, his
memory of her would not be poisoned. Anna never for a moment permitted
herself the delusion that she had renewed her promise to Darrow in order
to spare her step-son this last refinement of misery. She knew she had
been prompted by the irresistible impulse to hold fast to what was
most precious to her, and that Owen’s arrival on the scene had been
the pretext for her decision, and not its cause; yet she felt herself
fortified by the thought of what she had spared him. It was as though
a star she had been used to follow had shed its familiar ray on ways
unknown to her.

All through these meditations ran the undercurrent of an absolute trust
in Sophy Viner. She thought of the girl with a mingling of antipathy
and confidence. It was humiliating to her pride to recognize kindred
impulses in a character which she would have liked to feel completely
alien to her. But what indeed was the girl really like? She seemed to
have no scruples and a thousand delicacies. She had given herself to
Darrow, and concealed the episode from Owen Leath, with no more apparent
sense of debasement than the vulgarest of adventuresses; yet she had
instantly obeyed the voice of her heart when it bade her part from the
one and serve the other.

Anna tried to picture what the girl’s life must have been: what
experiences, what initiations, had formed her. But her own training had
been too different: there were veils she could not lift. She looked back
at her married life, and its colourless uniformity took on an air of
high restraint and order. Was it because she had been so incurious that
it had worn that look to her? It struck her with amazement that she had
never given a thought to her husband’s past, or wondered what he did and
where he went when he was away from her. If she had been asked what she
supposed he thought about when they were apart, she would instantly have
answered: his snuff-boxes. It had never occurred to her that he might
have passions, interests, preoccupations of which she was absolutely
ignorant. Yet he went up to Paris rather regularly: ostensibly to attend
sales and exhibitions, or to confer with dealers and collectors. She
tried to picture him, straight, trim, beautifully brushed and varnished,
walking furtively down a quiet street, and looking about him before he
slipped into a doorway. She understood now that she had been cold to
him: what more likely than that he had sought compensations? All men
were like that, she supposed--no doubt her simplicity had amused him.

In the act of transposing Fraser Leath into a Don Juan she was pulled up
by the ironic perception that she was simply trying to justify Darrow.
She wanted to think that all men were “like that” because Darrow
was “like that”: she wanted to justify her acceptance of the fact by
persuading herself that only through such concessions could women like
herself hope to keep what they could not give up. And suddenly she was
filled with anger at her blindness, and then at her disastrous attempt
to see. Why had she forced the truth out of Darrow? If only she had held
her tongue nothing need ever have been known. Sophy Viner would have
broken her engagement, Owen would have been sent around the world, and
her own dream would have been unshattered. But she had probed, insisted,
cross-examined, not rested till she had dragged the secret to the light.
She was one of the luckless women who always have the wrong audacities,
and who always know it...

Was it she, Anna Leath, who was picturing herself to herself in that
way? She recoiled from her thoughts as if with a sense of demoniac
possession, and there flashed through her the longing to return to her
old state of fearless ignorance. If at that moment she could have kept
Darrow from following her to Givre she would have done so...

But he came; and with the sight of him the turmoil fell and she felt
herself reassured, rehabilitated. He arrived toward dusk, and she
motored to Francheuil to meet him. She wanted to see him as soon as
possible, for she had divined, through the new insight that was in her,
that only his presence could restore her to a normal view of things.
In the motor, as they left the town and turned into the high-road, he
lifted her hand and kissed it, and she leaned against him, and felt
the currents flow between them. She was grateful to him for not saying
anything, and for not expecting her to speak. She said to herself: “He
never makes a mistake--he always knows what to do”; and then she thought
with a start that it was doubtless because he had so often been in such
situations. The idea that his tact was a kind of professional expertness
filled her with repugnance, and insensibly she drew away from him. He
made no motion to bring her nearer, and she instantly thought that
that was calculated too. She sat beside him in frozen misery, wondering
whether, henceforth, she would measure in this way his every look and
gesture. Neither of them spoke again till the motor turned under the
dark arch of the avenue, and they saw the lights of Givre twinkling at
its end. Then Darrow laid his hand on hers and said: “I know, dear--”
 and the hardness in her melted. “He’s suffering as I am,” she thought;
and for a moment the baleful fact between them seemed to draw them
closer instead of walling them up in their separate wretchedness.

It was wonderful to be once more re-entering the doors of Givre with
him, and as the old house received them into its mellow silence she had
again the sense of passing out of a dreadful dream into the reassurance
of kindly and familiar things. It did not seem possible that these quiet
rooms, so full of the slowly-distilled accumulations of a fastidious
taste, should have been the scene of tragic dissensions. The memory of
them seemed to be shut out into the night with the closing and barring
of its doors.

At the tea-table in the oak-room they found Madame de Chantelle and
Effie. The little girl, catching sight of Darrow, raced down the
drawing-rooms to meet him, and returned in triumph on his shoulder. Anna
looked at them with a smile. Effie, for all her graces, was chary of
such favours, and her mother knew that in according them to Darrow she
had admitted him to the circle where Owen had hitherto ruled.

Over the tea-table Darrow gave Madame de Chantelle the explanation of
his sudden return from England. On reaching London, he told her, he had
found that the secretary he was to have replaced was detained there by
the illness of his wife. The Ambassador, knowing Darrow’s urgent reasons
for wishing to be in France, had immediately proposed his going back,
and awaiting at Givre the summons to relieve his colleague; and he had
jumped into the first train, without even waiting to telegraph the news
of his release. He spoke naturally, easily, in his usual quiet voice,
taking his tea from Effie, helping himself to the toast she handed, and
stooping now and then to stroke the dozing terrier. And suddenly, as
Anna listened to his explanation, she asked herself if it were true.

The question, of course, was absurd. There was no possible reason why he
should invent a false account of his return, and every probability that
the version he gave was the real one. But he had looked and spoken in
the same way when he had answered her probing questions about Sophy
Viner, and she reflected with a chill of fear that she would never again
know if he were speaking the truth or not. She was sure he loved her,
and she did not fear his insincerity as much as her own distrust of him.
For a moment it seemed to her that this must corrupt the very source of
love; then she said to herself: “By and bye, when I am altogether his,
we shall be so near each other that there will be no room for any
doubts between us.” But the doubts were there now, one moment lulled to
quiescence, the next more torturingly alert. When the nurse appeared to
summon Effie, the little girl, after kissing her grandmother, entrenched
herself on Darrow’s knee with the imperious demand to be carried up to
bed; and Anna, while she laughingly protested, said to herself with a
pang: “Can I give her a father about whom I think such things?”

The thought of Effie, and of what she owed to Effie, had been the
fundamental reason for her delays and hesitations when she and Darrow
had come together again in England. Her own feeling was so clear that
but for that scruple she would have put her hand in his at once. But
till she had seen him again she had never considered the possibility
of re-marriage, and when it suddenly confronted her it seemed, for the
moment, to disorganize the life she had planned for herself and her
child. She had not spoken of this to Darrow because it appeared to her a
subject to be debated within her own conscience. The question, then, was
not as to his fitness to become the guide and guardian of her child;
nor did she fear that her love for him would deprive Effie of the least
fraction of her tenderness, since she did not think of love as something
measured and exhaustible but as a treasure perpetually renewed. What she
questioned was her right to introduce into her life any interests
and duties which might rob Effie of a part of her time, or lessen the
closeness of their daily intercourse.

She had decided this question as it was inevitable that she should; but
now another was before her. Assuredly, at her age, there was no possible
reason why she should cloister herself to bring up her daughter; but
there was every reason for not marrying a man in whom her own faith was
not complete...




XXXIV


When she woke the next morning she felt a great lightness of heart. She
recalled her last awakening at Givre, three days before, when it had
seemed as though all her life had gone down in darkness. Now Darrow
was once more under the same roof with her, and once more his nearness
sufficed to make the looming horror drop away. She could almost have
smiled at her scruples of the night before: as she looked back on them
they seemed to belong to the old ignorant timorous time when she had
feared to look life in the face, and had been blind to the mysteries and
contradictions of the human heart because her own had not been revealed
to her. Darrow had said: “You were made to feel everything”; and to feel
was surely better than to judge.

When she came downstairs he was already in the oak-room with Effie and
Madame de Chantelle, and the sense of reassurance which his presence
gave her was merged in the relief of not being able to speak of what was
between them. But there it was, inevitably, and whenever they looked at
each other they saw it. In her dread of giving it a more tangible shape
she tried to devise means of keeping the little girl with her, and,
when the latter had been called away by the nurse, found an excuse for
following Madame de Chantelle upstairs to the purple sitting-room. But
a confidential talk with Madame de Chantelle implied the detailed
discussion of plans of which Anna could hardly yet bear to consider the
vaguest outline: the date of her marriage, the relative advantages of
sailing from London or Lisbon, the possibility of hiring a habitable
house at their new post; and, when these problems were exhausted, the
application of the same method to the subject of Owen’s future.

His grandmother, having no suspicion of the real reason of Sophy Viner’s
departure, had thought it “extremely suitable” of the young girl to
withdraw to the shelter of her old friends’ roof in the hour of bridal
preparation. This maidenly retreat had in fact impressed Madame de
Chantelle so favourably that she was disposed for the first time to talk
over Owen’s projects; and as every human event translated itself for her
into terms of social and domestic detail, Anna had perforce to travel
the same round again. She felt a momentary relief when Darrow presently
joined them; but his coming served only to draw the conversation back to
the question of their own future, and Anna felt a new pang as she heard
him calmly and lucidly discussing it. Did such self-possession imply
indifference or insincerity? In that problem her mind perpetually
revolved; and she dreaded the one answer as much as the other.

She was resolved to keep on her course as though nothing had happened:
to marry Darrow and never let the consciousness of the past intrude
itself between them; but she was beginning to feel that the only way of
attaining to this state of detachment from the irreparable was once for
all to turn back with him to its contemplation. As soon as this desire
had germinated it became so strong in her that she regretted having
promised Effie to take her out for the afternoon. But she could think
of no pretext for disappointing the little girl, and soon after luncheon
the three set forth in the motor to show Darrow a chateau famous in the
annals of the region. During their excursion Anna found it impossible to
guess from his demeanour if Effie’s presence between them was as much
of a strain to his composure as to hers. He remained imperturbably
good-humoured and appreciative while they went the round of the
monument, and she remarked only that when he thought himself unnoticed
his face grew grave and his answers came less promptly.

On the way back, two or three miles from Givre, she suddenly proposed
that they should walk home through the forest which skirted that side of
the park. Darrow acquiesced, and they got out and sent Effie on in the
motor. Their way led through a bit of sober French woodland, flat as a
faded tapestry, but with gleams of live emerald lingering here and there
among its browns and ochres. The luminous grey air gave vividness to its
dying colours, and veiled the distant glimpses of the landscape in soft
uncertainty. In such a solitude Anna had fancied it would be easier to
speak; but as she walked beside Darrow over the deep soundless flooring
of brown moss the words on her lips took flight again. It seemed
impossible to break the spell of quiet joy which his presence laid on
her, and when he began to talk of the place they had just visited she
answered his questions and then waited for what he should say next...No,
decidedly she could not speak; she no longer even knew what she had
meant to say...

The same experience repeated itself several times that day and the
next. When she and Darrow were apart she exhausted herself in appeal and
interrogation, she formulated with a fervent lucidity every point in
her imaginary argument. But as soon as she was alone with him something
deeper than reason and subtler than shyness laid its benumbing touch
upon her, and the desire to speak became merely a dim disquietude,
through which his looks, his words, his touch, reached her as through
a mist of bodily pain. Yet this inertia was torn by wild flashes of
resistance, and when they were apart she began to prepare again what she
meant to say to him.

She knew he could not be with her without being aware of this inner
turmoil, and she hoped he would break the spell by some releasing word.
But she presently understood that he recognized the futility of words,
and was resolutely bent on holding her to her own purpose of behaving
as if nothing had happened. Once more she inwardly accused him of
insensibility, and her imagination was beset by tormenting visions of
his past...Had such things happened to him before? If the episode had
been an isolated accident--“a moment of folly and madness”, as he had
called it--she could understand, or at least begin to understand (for
at a certain point her imagination always turned back); but if it were
a mere link in a chain of similar experiments, the thought of it
dishonoured her whole past...

Effie, in the interregnum between governesses, had been given leave to
dine downstairs; and Anna, on the evening of Darrow’s return, kept the
little girl with her till long after the nurse had signalled from
the drawing-room door. When at length she had been carried off, Anna
proposed a game of cards, and after this diversion had drawn to its
languid close she said good-night to Darrow and followed Madame de
Chantelle upstairs. But Madame de Chantelle never sat up late, and the
second evening, with the amiably implied intention of leaving Anna and
Darrow to themselves, she took an earlier leave of them than usual.

Anna sat silent, listening to her small stiff steps as they minced down
the hall and died out in the distance. Madame de Chantelle had broken
her wooden embroidery frame, and Darrow, having offered to repair it,
had drawn his chair up to a table that held a lamp. Anna watched him
as he sat with bent head and knitted brows, trying to fit together
the disjoined pieces. The sight of him, so tranquilly absorbed in
this trifling business, seemed to give to the quiet room a perfume of
intimacy, to fill it with a sense of sweet familiar habit; and it came
over her again that she knew nothing of the inner thoughts of this man
who was sitting by her as a husband might. The lamplight fell on his
white forehead, on the healthy brown of his cheek, the backs of his thin
sunburnt hands. As she watched the hands her sense of them became as
vivid as a touch, and she said to herself: “That other woman has sat
and watched him as I am doing. She has known him as I have never known
him...Perhaps he is thinking of that now. Or perhaps he has forgotten
it all as completely as I have forgotten everything that happened to me
before he came...”

He looked young, active, stored with strength and energy; not the man
for vain repinings or long memories. She wondered what she had to hold
or satisfy him. He loved her now; she had no doubt of that; but how
could she hope to keep him? They were so nearly of an age that already
she felt herself his senior. As yet the difference was not visible;
outwardly at least they were matched; but ill-health or unhappiness
would soon do away with this equality. She thought with a pang of
bitterness: “He won’t grow any older because he doesn’t feel things; and
because he doesn’t, I SHALL...”

And when she ceased to please him, what then? Had he the tradition of
faith to the spoken vow, or the deeper piety of the unspoken dedication?
What was his theory, what his inner conviction in such matters? But what
did she care for his convictions or his theories? No doubt he loved her
now, and believed he would always go on loving her, and was persuaded
that, if he ceased to, his loyalty would be proof against the change.
What she wanted to know was not what he thought about it in advance, but
what would impel or restrain him at the crucial hour. She put no faith
in her own arts: she was too sure of having none! And if some beneficent
enchanter had bestowed them on her, she knew now that she would have
rejected the gift. She could hardly conceive of wanting the kind of love
that was a state one could be cozened into...

Darrow, putting away the frame, walked across the room and sat down
beside her; and she felt he had something special to say.

“They’re sure to send for me in a day or two now,” he began.

She made no answer, and he continued: “You’ll tell me before I go what
day I’m to come back and get you?”

It was the first time since his return to Givre that he had made any
direct allusion to the date of their marriage; and instead of answering
him she broke out: “There’s something I’ve been wanting you to know. The
other day in Paris I saw Miss Viner.”

She saw him flush with the intensity of his surprise.

“You sent for her?”

“No; she heard from Adelaide that I was in Paris and she came. She came
because she wanted to urge me to marry you. I thought you ought to know
what she had done.”

Darrow stood up. “I’m glad you’ve told me.” He spoke with a visible
effort at composure. Her eyes followed him as he moved away.

“Is that all?” he asked after an interval.

“It seems to me a great deal.”

“It’s what she’d already asked me.” His voice showed her how deeply he
was moved, and a throb of jealousy shot through her.

“Oh, it was for your sake, I know!” He made no answer, and she added:
“She’s been exceedingly generous...Why shouldn’t we speak of it?”

She had lowered her head, but through her dropped lids she seemed to be
watching the crowded scene of his face.

“I’ve not shrunk from speaking of it.”

“Speaking of her, then, I mean. It seems to me that if I could talk to
you about her I should know better----”

She broke off, confused, and he questioned: “What is it you want to know
better?”

The colour rose to her forehead. How could she tell him what she
scarcely dared own to herself? There was nothing she did not want to
know, no fold or cranny of his secret that her awakened imagination did
not strain to penetrate; but she could not expose Sophy Viner to
the base fingerings of a retrospective jealousy, nor Darrow to the
temptation of belittling her in the effort to better his own case. The
girl had been magnificent, and the only worthy return that Anna could
make was to take Darrow from her without a question if she took him at
all...

She lifted her eyes to his face. “I think I only wanted to speak her
name. It’s not right that we should seem so afraid of it. If I were
really afraid of it I should have to give you up,” she said.

He bent over her and caught her to him. “Ah, you can’t give me up now!”
 he exclaimed.

She suffered him to hold her fast without speaking; but the old dread
was between them again, and it was on her lips to cry out: “How can I
help it, when I AM so afraid?”




XXXV


The next morning the dread was still there, and she understood that she
must snatch herself out of the torpor of the will into which she had
been gradually sinking, and tell Darrow that she could not be his wife.

The knowledge came to her in the watches of a sleepless night, when,
through the tears of disenchanted passion, she stared back upon her
past. There it lay before her, her sole romance, in all its paltry
poverty, the cheapest of cheap adventures, the most pitiful of
sentimental blunders. She looked about her room, the room where, for so
many years, if her heart had been quiescent her thoughts had been
alive, and pictured herself henceforth cowering before a throng of mean
suspicions, of unavowed compromises and concessions. In that moment of
self-searching she saw that Sophy Viner had chosen the better part, and
that certain renunciations might enrich where possession would have left
a desert.

Passionate reactions of instinct fought against these efforts of her
will. Why should past or future coerce her, when the present was so
securely hers? Why insanely surrender what the other would after all
never have? Her sense of irony whispered that if she sent away Darrow
it would not be to Sophy Viner, but to the first woman who crossed his
path--as, in a similar hour, Sophy Viner herself had crossed it...But
the mere fact that she could think such things of him sent her
shuddering back to the opposite pole. She pictured herself gradually
subdued to such a conception of life and love, she pictured
Effie growing up under the influence of the woman she saw herself
becoming--and she hid her eyes from the humiliation of the picture...


They were at luncheon when the summons that Darrow expected was brought
to him. He handed the telegram to Anna, and she learned that his
Ambassador, on the way to a German cure, was to be in Paris the next
evening and wished to confer with him there before he went back to
London. The idea that the decisive moment was at hand was so agitating
to her that when luncheon was over she slipped away to the terrace and
thence went down alone to the garden. The day was grey but mild, with
the heaviness of decay in the air. She rambled on aimlessly, following
under the denuded boughs the path she and Darrow had taken on their
first walk to the river. She was sure he would not try to overtake her:
sure he would guess why she wished to be alone. There were moments when
it seemed to double her loneliness to be so certain of his reading her
heart while she was so desperately ignorant of his...

She wandered on for more than an hour, and when she returned to the
house she saw, as she entered the hall, that Darrow was seated at the
desk in Owen’s study. He heard her step, and looking up turned in his
chair without rising. Their eyes met, and she saw that his were clear
and smiling. He had a heap of papers at his elbow and was evidently
engaged in some official correspondence. She wondered that he could
address himself so composedly to his task, and then ironically reflected
that such detachment was a sign of his superiority. She crossed the
threshold and went toward him; but as she advanced she had a sudden
vision of Owen, standing outside in the cold autumn dusk and watching
Darrow and Sophy Viner as they faced each other across the lamplit
desk...The evocation was so vivid that it caught her breath like a blow,
and she sank down helplessly on the divan among the piled-up books.
Distinctly, at the moment, she understood that the end had come. “When
he speaks to me I will tell him!” she thought...

Darrow, laying aside his pen, looked at her for a moment in silence;
then he stood up and shut the door.

“I must go to-morrow early,” he said, sitting down beside her. His voice
was grave, with a slight tinge of sadness. She said to herself: “He
knows what I am feeling...” and now the thought made her feel less
alone. The expression of his face was stern and yet tender: for the
first time she understood what he had suffered.

She had no doubt as to the necessity of giving him up, but it was
impossible to tell him so then. She stood up and said: “I’ll leave you
to your letters.” He made no protest, but merely answered: “You’ll come
down presently for a walk?” and it occurred to her at once that she
would walk down to the river with him, and give herself for the last
time the tragic luxury of sitting at his side in the little pavilion.
“Perhaps,” she thought, “it will be easier to tell him there.”

It did not, on the way home from their walk, become any easier to tell
him; but her secret decision to do so before he left gave her a kind
of factitious calm and laid a melancholy ecstasy upon the hour. Still
skirting the subject that fanned their very faces with its flame, they
clung persistently to other topics, and it seemed to Anna that their
minds had never been nearer together than in this hour when their hearts
were so separate. In the glow of interchanged love she had grown less
conscious of that other glow of interchanged thought which had once
illumined her mind. She had forgotten how Darrow had widened her world
and lengthened out all her perspectives, and with a pang of double
destitution she saw herself alone among her shrunken thoughts.

For the first time, then, she had a clear vision of what her life would
be without him. She imagined herself trying to take up the daily round,
and all that had lightened and animated it seemed equally lifeless and
vain. She tried to think of herself as wholly absorbed in her daughter’s
development, like other mothers she had seen; but she supposed those
mothers must have had stored memories of happiness to nourish them. She
had had nothing, and all her starved youth still claimed its due.

When she went up to dress for dinner she said to herself: “I’ll have
my last evening with him, and then, before we say good night, I’ll tell
him.”

This postponement did not seem unjustified. Darrow had shown her how
he dreaded vain words, how resolved he was to avoid all fruitless
discussion. He must have been intensely aware of what had been going on
in her mind since his return, yet when she had attempted to reveal it
to him he had turned from the revelation. She was therefore merely
following the line he had traced in behaving, till the final moment
came, as though there were nothing more to say...

That moment seemed at last to be at hand when, at her usual hour after
dinner, Madame de Chantelle rose to go upstairs. She lingered a little
to bid good-bye to Darrow, whom she was not likely to see in the
morning; and her affable allusions to his prompt return sounded in
Anna’s ear like the note of destiny.

A cold rain had fallen all day, and for greater warmth and intimacy they
had gone after dinner to the oak-room, shutting out the chilly vista of
the farther drawing-rooms. The autumn wind, coming up from the river,
cried about the house with a voice of loss and separation; and Anna and
Darrow sat silent, as if they feared to break the hush that shut them
in. The solitude, the fire-light, the harmony of soft hangings and old
dim pictures, wove about them a spell of security through which Anna
felt, far down in her heart, the muffled beat of an inextinguishable
bliss. How could she have thought that this last moment would be the
moment to speak to him, when it seemed to have gathered up into its
flight all the scattered splendours of her dream?




XXXVI


Darrow continued to stand by the door after it had closed. Anna felt
that he was looking at her, and sat still, disdaining to seek refuge in
any evasive word or movement. For the last time she wanted to let him
take from her the fulness of what the sight of her could give.

He crossed over and sat down on the sofa. For a moment neither of them
spoke; then he said: “To-night, dearest, I must have my answer.”

She straightened herself under the shock of his seeming to take the very
words from her lips.

“To-night?” was all that she could falter.

“I must be off by the early train. There won’t be more than a moment in
the morning.”

He had taken her hand, and she said to herself that she must free it
before she could go on with what she had to say. Then she rejected this
concession to a weakness she was resolved to defy. To the end she would
leave her hand in his hand, her eyes in his eyes: she would not, in
their final hour together, be afraid of any part of her love for him.

“You’ll tell me to-night, dear,” he insisted gently; and his insistence
gave her the strength to speak.

“There’s something I must ask you,” she broke out, perceiving, as she
heard her words, that they were not in the least what she had meant to
say.

He sat still, waiting, and she pressed on: “Do such things happen to men
often?”

The quiet room seemed to resound with the long reverberations of her
question. She looked away from him, and he released her and stood up.

“I don’t know what happens to other men. Such a thing never happened to
me...”

She turned her eyes back to his face. She felt like a traveller on a
giddy path between a cliff and a precipice: there was nothing for it now
but to go on.

“Had it ... had it begun ... before you met her in Paris?”

“No; a thousand times no! I’ve told you the facts as they were.”

“All the facts?”

He turned abruptly. “What do you mean?”

Her throat was dry and the loud pulses drummed in her temples.

“I mean--about her...Perhaps you knew ... knew things about
her ... beforehand.”

She stopped. The room had grown profoundly still. A log dropped to the
hearth and broke there in a hissing shower.

Darrow spoke in a clear voice. “I knew nothing, absolutely nothing,” he
said.

She had the answer to her inmost doubt--to her last shameful unavowed
hope. She sat powerless under her woe.

He walked to the fireplace and pushed back the broken log with his foot.
A flame shot out of it, and in the upward glare she saw his pale face,
stern with misery.

“Is that all?” he asked.

She made a slight sign with her head and he came slowly back to her.
“Then is this to be good-bye?”

Again she signed a faint assent, and he made no effort to touch her or
draw nearer. “You understand that I sha’n’t come back?”

He was looking at her, and she tried to return his look, but her eyes
were blind with tears, and in dread of his seeing them she got up and
walked away. He did not follow her, and she stood with her back to him,
staring at a bowl of carnations on a little table strewn with books. Her
tears magnified everything she looked at, and the streaked petals of the
carnations, their fringed edges and frail curled stamens, pressed upon
her, huge and vivid. She noticed among the books a volume of verse he
had sent her from England, and tried to remember whether it was before
or after...

She felt that he was waiting for her to speak, and at last she turned to
him. “I shall see you to-morrow before you go...”

He made no answer.

She moved toward the door and he held it open for her. She saw his hand
on the door, and his seal ring in its setting of twisted silver; and the
sense of the end of all things came to her.

They walked down the drawing-rooms, between the shadowy reflections of
screens and cabinets, and mounted the stairs side by side. At the end of
the gallery, a lamp brought out turbid gleams in the smoky battle-piece
above it.

On the landing Darrow stopped; his room was the nearest to the stairs.
“Good night,” he said, holding out his hand.

As Anna gave him hers the springs of grief broke loose in her. She
struggled with her sobs, and subdued them; but her breath came unevenly,
and to hide her agitation she leaned on him and pressed her face against
his arm.

“Don’t--don’t,” he whispered, soothing her.

Her troubled breathing sounded loudly in the silence of the sleeping
house. She pressed her lips tight, but could not stop the nervous
pulsations in her throat, and he put an arm about her and, opening his
door, drew her across the threshold of his room. The door shut
behind her and she sat down on the lounge at the foot of the bed. The
pulsations in her throat had ceased, but she knew they would begin again
if she tried to speak.

Darrow walked away and leaned against the mantelpiece. The red-veiled
lamp shone on his books and papers, on the arm-chair by the fire, and
the scattered objects on his dressing-table. A log glimmered on the
hearth, and the room was warm and faintly smoke-scented. It was the
first time she had ever been in a room he lived in, among his personal
possessions and the traces of his daily usage. Every object about her
seemed to contain a particle of himself: the whole air breathed of him,
steeping her in the sense of his intimate presence.

Suddenly she thought: “This is what Sophy Viner knew”...and with a
torturing precision she pictured them alone in such a scene...Had he
taken the girl to an hotel ... where did people go in such cases? Wherever
they were, the silence of night had been around them, and the things he
used had been strewn about the room...Anna, ashamed of dwelling on the
detested vision, stood up with a confused impulse of flight; then a wave
of contrary feeling arrested her and she paused with lowered head.

Darrow had come forward as she rose, and she perceived that he was
waiting for her to bid him good night. It was clear that no other
possibility had even brushed his mind; and the fact, for some dim
reason, humiliated her. “Why not ... why not?” something whispered in her,
as though his forbearance, his tacit recognition of her pride, were a
slight on other qualities she wanted him to feel in her.

“In the morning, then?” she heard him say.

“Yes, in the morning,” she repeated.

She continued to stand in the same place, looking vaguely about the
room. For once before they parted--since part they must--she longed to
be to him all that Sophy Viner had been; but she remained rooted to the
floor, unable to find a word or imagine a gesture that should express
her meaning. Exasperated by her helplessness, she thought: “Don’t I feel
things as other women do?”

Her eye fell on a note-case she had given him. It was worn at the
corners with the friction of his pocket and distended with thickly
packed papers. She wondered if he carried her letters in it, and she put
her hand out and touched it.

All that he and she had ever felt or seen, their close encounters
of word and look, and the closer contact of their silences, trembled
through her at the touch. She remembered things he had said that had
been like new skies above her head: ways he had that seemed a part of
the air she breathed. The faint warmth of her girlish love came back
to her, gathering heat as it passed through her thoughts; and her heart
rocked like a boat on the surge of its long long memories. “It’s because
I love him in too many ways,” she thought; and slowly she turned to the
door.

She was aware that Darrow was still silently watching her, but he
neither stirred nor spoke till she had reached the threshold. Then he
met her there and caught her in his arms.

“Not to-night--don’t tell me to-night!” he whispered; and she leaned
away from him, closing her eyes for an instant, and then slowly opening
them to the flood of light in his.




XXXVII


Anna and Darrow, the next day, sat alone in a compartment of the Paris
train.

Anna, when they entered it, had put herself in the farthest corner
and placed her bag on the adjoining seat. She had decided suddenly to
accompany Darrow to Paris, had even persuaded him to wait for a later
train in order that they might travel together. She had an intense
longing to be with him, an almost morbid terror of losing sight of him
for a moment: when he jumped out of the train and ran back along the
platform to buy a newspaper for her she felt as though she should never
see him again, and shivered with the cold misery of her last journey
to Paris, when she had thought herself parted from him forever. Yet she
wanted to keep him at a distance, on the other side of the compartment,
and as the train moved out of the station she drew from her bag the
letters she had thrust in it as she left the house, and began to glance
over them so that her lowered lids should hide her eyes from him.

She was his now, his for life: there could never again be any question
of sacrificing herself to Effie’s welfare, or to any other abstract
conception of duty. Effie of course would not suffer; Anna would pay for
her bliss as a wife by redoubled devotion as a mother. Her scruples
were not overcome; but for the time their voices were drowned in the
tumultuous rumour of her happiness.

As she opened her letters she was conscious that Darrow’s gaze was fixed
on her, and gradually it drew her eyes upward, and she drank deep of the
passionate tenderness in his. Then the blood rose to her face and she
felt again the desire to shield herself. She turned back to her letters
and her glance lit on an envelope inscribed in Owen’s hand.

Her heart began to beat oppressively: she was in a mood when the
simplest things seemed ominous. What could Owen have to say to her? Only
the first page was covered, and it contained simply the announcement
that, in the company of a young compatriot who was studying at the Beaux
Arts, he had planned to leave for Spain the following evening.

“He hasn’t seen her, then!” was Anna’s instant thought; and her feeling
was a strange compound of humiliation and relief. The girl had kept her
word, lived up to the line of conduct she had set herself; and Anna
had failed in the same attempt. She did not reproach herself with
her failure; but she would have been happier if there had been less
discrepancy between her words to Sophy Viner and the act which had
followed them. It irritated her obscurely that the girl should have been
so much surer of her power to carry out her purpose...

Anna looked up and saw that Darrow’s eyes were on the newspaper. He
seemed calm and secure, almost indifferent to her presence. “Will it
become a matter of course to him so soon?” she wondered with a twinge of
jealousy. She sat motionless, her eyes fixed on him, trying to make him
feel the attraction of her gaze as she felt his. It surprised and shamed
her to detect a new element in her love for him: a sort of suspicious
tyrannical tenderness that seemed to deprive it of all serenity. Finally
he looked up, his smile enveloped her, and she felt herself his in every
fibre, his so completely and inseparably that she saw the vanity of
imagining any other fate for herself.

To give herself a countenance she held out Owen’s letter. He took it and
glanced down the page, his face grown grave. She waited nervously till
he looked up.

“That’s a good plan; the best thing that could happen,” he said, a just
perceptible shade of constraint in his tone.

“Oh, yes,” she hastily assented. She was aware of a faint current of
relief silently circulating between them. They were both glad that Owen
was going, that for a while he would be out of their way; and it seemed
to her horrible that so much of the stuff of their happiness should be
made of such unavowed feelings...

“I shall see him this evening,” she said, wishing Darrow to feel that
she was not afraid of meeting her step-son.

“Yes, of course; perhaps he might dine with you.”

The words struck her as strangely obtuse. Darrow was to meet his
Ambassador at the station on the latter’s arrival, and would in all
probability have to spend the evening with him, and Anna knew he had
been concerned at the thought of having to leave her alone. But how
could he speak in that careless tone of her dining with Owen? She
lowered her voice to say: “I’m afraid he’s desperately unhappy.”

He answered, with a tinge of impatience: “It’s much the best thing that
he should travel.”

“Yes--but don’t you feel...” She broke off. She knew how he disliked
these idle returns on the irrevocable, and her fear of doing or saying
what he disliked was tinged by a new instinct of subserviency against
which her pride revolted. She thought to herself: “He will see the
change, and grow indifferent to me as he did to HER...” and for a moment
it seemed to her that she was reliving the experience of Sophy Viner.

Darrow made no attempt to learn the end of her unfinished sentence. He
handed back Owen’s letter and returned to his newspaper; and when he
looked up from it a few minutes later it was with a clear brow and a
smile that irresistibly drew her back to happier thoughts.

The train was just entering a station, and a moment later their
compartment was invaded by a commonplace couple preoccupied with
the bestowal of bulging packages. Anna, at their approach, felt the
possessive pride of the woman in love when strangers are between herself
and the man she loves. She asked Darrow to open the window, to place her
bag in the net, to roll her rug into a cushion for her feet; and while
he was thus busied with her she was conscious of a new devotion in his
tone, in his way of bending over her and meeting her eyes. He went back
to his seat, and they looked at each other like lovers smiling at a
happy secret.

Anna, before going back to Givre, had suggested Owen’s moving into her
apartment, but he had preferred to remain at the hotel to which he had
sent his luggage, and on arriving in Paris she decided to drive there at
once. She was impatient to have the meeting over, and glad that Darrow
was obliged to leave her at the station in order to look up a colleague
at the Embassy. She dreaded his seeing Owen again, and yet dared not
tell him so, and to ensure his remaining away she mentioned an urgent
engagement with her dress-maker and a long list of commissions to be
executed for Madame de Chantelle.

“I shall see you to-morrow morning,” she said; but he replied with a
smile that he would certainly find time to come to her for a moment on
his way back from meeting the Ambassador; and when he had put her in a
cab he leaned through the window to press his lips to hers.

She blushed like a girl, thinking, half vexed, half happy: “Yesterday he
would not have done it...” and a dozen scarcely definable differences
in his look and manner seemed all at once to be summed up in the boyish
act. “After all, I’m engaged to him,” she reflected, and then smiled
at the absurdity of the word. The next instant, with a pang of
self-reproach, she remembered Sophy Viner’s cry: “I knew all the while
he didn’t care...” “Poor thing, oh poor thing!” Anna murmured...


At Owen’s hotel she waited in a tremor while the porter went in search
of him. Word was presently brought back that he was in his room and
begged her to come up, and as she crossed the hall she caught sight of
his portmanteaux lying on the floor, already labelled for departure.

Owen sat at a table writing, his back to the door; and when he stood up
the window was behind him, so that, in the rainy afternoon light, his
features were barely discernible.

“Dearest--so you’re really off?” she said, hesitating a moment on the
threshold.

He pushed a chair forward, and they sat down, each waiting for the
other to speak. Finally she put some random question about his
travelling-companion, a slow shy meditative youth whom he had once or
twice brought down to Givre. She reflected that it was natural he should
have given this uncommunicative comrade the preference over his livelier
acquaintances, and aloud she said: “I’m so glad Fred Rempson can go with
you.”

Owen answered in the same tone, and for a few minutes their talk dragged
itself on over a dry waste of common-places. Anna noticed that, though
ready enough to impart his own plans, Owen studiously abstained from
putting any questions about hers. It was evident from his allusions that
he meant to be away for some time, and he presently asked her if she
would give instructions about packing and sending after him some winter
clothes he had left at Givre. This gave her the opportunity to say that
she expected to go back within a day or two and would attend to the
matter as soon as she returned. She added: “I came up this morning with
George, who is going on to London to-morrow,” intending, by the use
of Darrow’s Christian name, to give Owen the chance to speak of her
marriage. But he made no comment, and she continued to hear the name
sounding on unfamiliarly between them.

The room was almost dark, and she finally stood up and glanced about for
the light-switch, saying: “I can’t see you, dear.”

“Oh, don’t--I hate the light!” Owen exclaimed, catching her by the wrist
and pushing her back into her seat. He gave a nervous laugh and added:
“I’m half-blind with neuralgia. I suppose it’s this beastly rain.”

“Yes; it will do you good to get down to Spain.”

She asked if he had the remedies the doctor had given him for a previous
attack, and on his replying that he didn’t know what he’d done with the
stuff, she sprang up, offering to go to the chemist’s. It was a
relief to have something to do for him, and she knew from his “Oh,
thanks--would you?” that it was a relief to him to have a pretext for
not detaining her. His natural impulse would have been to declare that
he didn’t want any drugs, and would be all right in no time; and his
acquiescence showed her how profoundly he felt the uselessness of their
trying to prolong their talk. His face was now no more than a white blur
in the dusk, but she felt its indistinctness as a veil drawn over aching
intensities of expression. “He knows ... he knows...” she said to
herself, and wondered whether the truth had been revealed to him by some
corroborative fact or by the sheer force of divination.

He had risen also, and was clearly waiting for her to go, and she turned
to the door, saying: “I’ll be back in a moment.”

“Oh, don’t come up again, please!” He paused, embarrassed. “I mean--I
may not be here. I’ve got to go and pick up Rempson, and see about some
final things with him.” She stopped on the threshold with a sinking
heart. He meant this to be their leave-taking, then--and he had not
even asked her when she was to be married, or spoken of seeing her again
before she set out for the other side of the world.

“Owen!” she cried, and turned back.

He stood mutely before her in the dimness.

“You haven’t told me how long you’re to be gone.”

“How long? Oh, you see ... that’s rather vague...I hate definite dates,
you know...”

He paused and she saw he did not mean to help her out. She tried to say:
“You’ll be here for my wedding?” but could not bring the words to her
lips. Instead she murmured: “In six weeks I shall be going too...” and
he rejoined, as if he had expected the announcement and prepared his
answer: “Oh, by that time, very likely...”

“At any rate, I won’t say good-bye,” she stammered, feeling the tears
beneath her veil.

“No, no; rather not!” he declared; but he made no movement, and she went
up and threw her arms about him. “You’ll write me, won’t you?”

“Of course, of course----”

Her hands slipped down into his, and for a minute they held each other
dumbly in the darkness; then he gave a vague laugh and said: “It’s
really time to light up.” He pressed the electric button with one hand
while with the other he opened the door; and she passed out without
daring to turn back, lest the light on his face should show her what she
feared to see.




XXXVIII


Anna drove to the chemist’s for Owen’s remedy. On the way she stopped
her cab at a book-shop, and emerged from it laden with literature. She
knew what would interest Owen, and what he was likely to have read,
and she had made her choice among the newest publications with the
promptness of a discriminating reader. But on the way back to the hotel
she was overcome by the irony of adding this mental panacea to the
other. There was something grotesque and almost mocking in the idea of
offering a judicious selection of literature to a man setting out on
such a journey. “He knows ... he knows...” she kept on repeating; and
giving the porter the parcel from the chemist’s she drove away without
leaving the books. She went to her apartment, whither her maid had
preceded her. There was a fire in the drawing-room and the tea-table
stood ready by the hearth. The stormy rain beat against the uncurtained
windows, and she thought of Owen, who would soon be driving through it
to the station, alone with his bitter thoughts. She had been proud of
the fact that he had always sought her help in difficult hours; and now,
in the most difficult of all, she was the one being to whom he could
not turn. Between them, henceforth, there would always be the wall of an
insurmountable silence...She strained her aching thoughts to guess how
the truth had come to him. Had he seen the girl, and had she told him?
Instinctively, Anna rejected this conjecture. But what need was there of
assuming an explicit statement, when every breath they had drawn for the
last weeks had been charged with the immanent secret? As she looked back
over the days since Darrow’s first arrival at Givre she perceived
that at no time had any one deliberately spoken, or anything been
accidentally disclosed. The truth had come to light by the force of its
irresistible pressure; and the perception gave her a startled sense of
hidden powers, of a chaos of attractions and repulsions far beneath
the ordered surfaces of intercourse. She looked back with melancholy
derision on her old conception of life, as a kind of well-lit and well
policed suburb to dark places one need never know about. Here they were,
these dark places, in her own bosom, and henceforth she would always
have to traverse them to reach the beings she loved best!

She was still sitting beside the untouched tea-table when she heard
Darrow’s voice in the hall. She started up, saying to herself: “I must
tell him that Owen knows...” but when the door opened and she saw his
face, still lit by the same smile of boyish triumph, she felt anew the
uselessness of speaking...Had he ever supposed that Owen would not know?
Probably, from the height of his greater experience, he had seen long
since that all that happened was inevitable; and the thought of it, at
any rate, was clearly not weighing on him now.

He was already dressed for the evening, and as he came toward her he
said: “The Ambassador’s booked for an official dinner and I’m free after
all. Where shall we dine?”

Anna had pictured herself sitting alone all the evening with her
wretched thoughts, and the fact of having to put them out of her mind
for the next few hours gave her an immediate sensation of relief.
Already her pulses were dancing to the tune of Darrow’s, and as they
smiled at each other she thought: “Nothing can ever change the fact that
I belong to him.”

“Where shall we dine?” he repeated gaily, and she named a well-known
restaurant for which she had once heard him express a preference. But as
she did so she fancied she saw a shadow on his face, and instantly she
said to herself: “It was THERE he went with her!”

“Oh, no, not there, after all!” she interrupted herself; and now she was
sure his colour deepened.

“Where shall it be, then?”

She noticed that he did not ask the reason of her change, and this
convinced her that she had guessed the truth, and that he knew she had
guessed it. “He will always know what I am thinking, and he will
never dare to ask me,” she thought; and she saw between them the same
insurmountable wall of silence as between herself and Owen, a wall of
glass through which they could watch each other’s faintest motions but
which no sound could ever traverse...

They drove to a restaurant on the Boulevard, and there, in their
intimate corner of the serried scene, the sense of what was unspoken
between them gradually ceased to oppress her. He looked so light-hearted
and handsome, so ingenuously proud of her, so openly happy at being with
her, that no other fact could seem real in his presence. He had learned
that the Ambassador was to spend two days in Paris, and he had reason to
hope that in consequence his own departure for London would be deferred.
He was exhilarated by the prospect of being with Anna for a few hours
longer, and she did not ask herself if his exhilaration were a sign of
insensibility, for she was too conscious of his power of swaying her
moods not to be secretly proud of affecting his.

They lingered for some time over the fruit and coffee, and when they
rose to go Darrow suggested that, if she felt disposed for the play,
they were not too late for the second part of the programme at one of
the smaller theatres.

His mention of the hour recalled Owen to her thoughts. She saw his train
rushing southward through the storm, and, in a corner of the swaying
compartment, his face, white and indistinct as it had loomed on her in
the rainy twilight. It was horrible to be thus perpetually paying for
her happiness!

Darrow had called for a theatrical journal, and he presently looked up
from it to say: “I hear the second play at the Athenee is amusing.”

It was on Anna’s lips to acquiesce; but as she was about to speak she
wondered if it were not at the Athenee that Owen had seen Darrow with
Sophy Viner. She was not sure he had even mentioned the theatre, but the
mere possibility was enough to darken her sky. It was hateful to her to
think of accompanying Darrow to places where the girl had been with him.
She tried to reason away this scruple, she even reminded herself with
a bitter irony that whenever she was in Darrow’s arms she was where the
girl had been before her--but she could not shake off her superstitious
dread of being with him in any of the scenes of the Parisian episode.
She replied that she was too tired for the play, and they drove back
to her apartment. At the foot of the stairs she half-turned to wish him
good night, but he appeared not to notice her gesture and followed her
up to her door.

“This is ever so much better than the theatre,” he said as they entered
the drawing-room.

She had crossed the room and was bending over the hearth to light the
fire. She knew he was approaching her, and that in a moment he would
have drawn the cloak from her shoulders and laid his lips on her neck,
just below the gathered-up hair. These privileges were his and, however
deferently and tenderly he claimed them, the joyous ease of his manner
marked a difference and proclaimed a right.

“After the theatre they came home like this,” she thought; and at the
same instant she felt his hands on her shoulders and shrank back.

“Don’t--oh, don’t!” she cried, drawing her cloak about her. She saw from
his astonished stare that her face must be quivering with pain.

“Anna! What on earth is the matter?”

“Owen knows!” she broke out, with a confused desire to justify herself.

Darrow’s countenance changed. “Did he tell you so? What did he say?”

“Nothing! I knew it from the things he didn’t say.”

“You had a talk with him this afternoon?”

“Yes: for a few minutes. I could see he didn’t want me to stay.”

She had dropped into a chair, and sat there huddled, still holding her
cloak about her shoulders.

Darrow did not dispute her assumption, and she noticed that he expressed
no surprise. He sat down at a little distance from her, turning about in
his fingers the cigar-case he had drawn out as they came in. At length
he said: “Had he seen Miss Viner?”

She shrank from the sound of the name. “No...I don’t think so...I’m sure
he hadn’t...”

They remained silent, looking away from one another. Finally Darrow
stood up and took a few steps across the room. He came back and paused
before her, his eyes on her face.

“I think you ought to tell me what you mean to do.” She raised her head
and gave him back his look. “Nothing I do can help Owen!”

“No; but things can’t go on like this.” He paused, as if to measure his
words. “I fill you with aversion,” he exclaimed.

She started up, half-sobbing. “No--oh, no!”

“Poor child--you can’t see your face!”

She lifted her hands as if to hide it, and turning away from him bowed
her head upon the mantel-shelf. She felt that he was standing a little
way behind her, but he made no attempt to touch her or come nearer.

“I know you’ve felt as I’ve felt,” he said in a low voice--“that we
belong to each other and that nothing can alter that. But other thoughts
come, and you can’t banish them. Whenever you see me you remember ... you
associate me with things you abhor...You’ve been generous--immeasurably.
You’ve given me all the chances a woman could; but if it’s only made you
suffer, what’s the use?”

She turned to him with a tear-stained face. “It hasn’t only done that.”

“Oh, no! I know...There’ve been moments...” He took her hand and raised
it to his lips. “They’ll be with me as long as I live. But I can’t see
you paying such a price for them. I’m not worth what I’m costing you.”

She continued to gaze at him through tear-dilated eyes; and suddenly
she flung out the question: “Wasn’t it the Athenee you took her to that
evening?”

“Anna--Anna!”

“Yes; I want to know now: to know everything. Perhaps that will make
me forget. I ought to have made you tell me before. Wherever we go, I
imagine you’ve been there with her...I see you together. I want to know
how it began, where you went, why you left her...I can’t go on in this
darkness any longer!”

She did not know what had prompted her passionate outburst, but already
she felt lighter, freer, as if at last the evil spell were broken. “I
want to know everything,” she repeated. “It’s the only way to make me
forget.”

After she had ceased speaking Darrow remained where he was, his arms
folded, his eyes lowered, immovable. She waited, her gaze on his face.

“Aren’t you going to tell me?”

“No.” The blood rushed to her temples. “You won’t? Why not?”

“If I did, do you suppose you’d forget THAT?”

“Oh--” she moaned, and turned away from him.

“You see it’s impossible,” he went on. “I’ve done a thing I loathe,
and to atone for it you ask me to do another. What sort of satisfaction
would that give you? It would put something irremediable between us.”

She leaned her elbow against the mantel-shelf and hid her face in her
hands. She had the sense that she was vainly throwing away her last hope
of happiness, yet she could do nothing, think of nothing, to save it.
The conjecture flashed through her: “Should I be at peace if I gave him
up?” and she remembered the desolation of the days after she had sent
him away, and understood that that hope was vain. The tears welled
through her lids and ran slowly down between her fingers.

“Good-bye,” she heard him say, and his footsteps turned to the door.

She tried to raise her head, but the weight of her despair bowed it
down. She said to herself: “This is the end ... he won’t try to appeal to
me again...” and she remained in a sort of tranced rigidity, perceiving
without feeling the fateful lapse of the seconds. Then the cords that
bound her seemed to snap, and she lifted her head and saw him going.

“Why, he’s mine--he’s mine! He’s no one else’s!” His face was turned to
her and the look in his eyes swept away all her terrors. She no longer
understood what had prompted her senseless outcry; and the mortal
sweetness of loving him became again the one real fact in the world.




XXXIX


Anna, the next day, woke to a humiliated memory of the previous evening.

Darrow had been right in saying that their sacrifice would benefit no
one; yet she seemed dimly to discern that there were obligations not
to be tested by that standard. She owed it, at any rate, as much to his
pride as to hers to abstain from the repetition of such scenes; and
she had learned that it was beyond her power to do so while they
were together. Yet when he had given her the chance to free herself,
everything had vanished from her mind but the blind fear of losing him;
and she saw that he and she were as profoundly and inextricably bound
together as two trees with interwoven roots. For a long time she brooded
on her plight, vaguely conscious that the only escape from it must come
from some external chance. And slowly the occasion shaped itself in her
mind. It was Sophy Viner only who could save her--Sophy Viner only who
could give her back her lost serenity. She would seek the girl out and
tell her that she had given Darrow up; and that step once taken there
would be no retracing it, and she would perforce have to go forward
alone.

Any pretext for action was a kind of anodyne, and she despatched her
maid to the Farlows’ with a note asking if Miss Viner would receive her.
There was a long delay before the maid returned, and when at last she
appeared it was with a slip of paper on which an address was written,
and a verbal message to the effect that Miss Viner had left some days
previously, and was staying with her sister in a hotel near the Place de
l’Etoile. The maid added that Mrs. Farlow, on the plea that Miss Viner’s
plans were uncertain, had at first made some difficulty about giving
this information; and Anna guessed that the girl had left her friends’
roof, and instructed them to withhold her address, with the object
of avoiding Owen. “She’s kept faith with herself and I haven’t,” Anna
mused; and the thought was a fresh incentive to action.

Darrow had announced his intention of coming soon after luncheon, and
the morning was already so far advanced that Anna, still mistrustful of
her strength, decided to drive immediately to the address Mrs. Farlow
had given. On the way there she tried to recall what she had heard of
Sophy Viner’s sister, but beyond the girl’s enthusiastic report of
the absent Laura’s loveliness she could remember only certain vague
allusions of Mrs. Farlow’s to her artistic endowments and matrimonial
vicissitudes. Darrow had mentioned her but once, and in the briefest
terms, as having apparently very little concern for Sophy’s welfare, and
being, at any rate, too geographically remote to give her any practical
support; and Anna wondered what chance had brought her to her sister’s
side at this conjunction. Mrs. Farlow had spoken of her as a celebrity
(in what line Anna failed to recall); but Mrs. Farlow’s celebrities were
legion, and the name on the slip of paper--Mrs. McTarvie-Birch--did not
seem to have any definite association with fame.

While Anna waited in the dingy vestibule of the Hotel Chicago she had so
distinct a vision of what she meant to say to Sophy Viner that the girl
seemed already to be before her; and her heart dropped from all the
height of its courage when the porter, after a long delay, returned
with the announcement that Miss Viner was no longer in the hotel. Anna,
doubtful if she understood, asked if he merely meant that the young lady
was out at the moment; but he replied that she had gone away the
day before. Beyond this he had no information to impart, and after a
moment’s hesitation Anna sent him back to enquire if Mrs. McTarvie-Birch
would receive her. She reflected that Sophy had probably pledged her
sister to the same secrecy as Mrs. Farlow, and that a personal appeal to
Mrs. Birch might lead to less negative results.

There was another long interval of suspense before the porter reappeared
with an affirmative answer; and a third while an exiguous and hesitating
lift bore her up past a succession of shabby landings.

When the last was reached, and her guide had directed her down a winding
passage that smelt of sea-going luggage, she found herself before a door
through which a strong odour of tobacco reached her simultaneously with
the sounds of a suppressed altercation. Her knock was followed by a
silence, and after a minute or two the door was opened by a handsome
young man whose ruffled hair and general air of creased disorder led her
to conclude that he had just risen from a long-limbed sprawl on a sofa
strewn with tumbled cushions. This sofa, and a grand piano bearing a
basket of faded roses, a biscuit-tin and a devastated breakfast tray,
almost filled the narrow sitting-room, in the remaining corner of which
another man, short, swarthy and humble, sat examining the lining of his
hat.

Anna paused in doubt; but on her naming Mrs. Birch the young man
politely invited her to enter, at the same time casting an impatient
glance at the mute spectator in the background.

The latter, raising his eyes, which were round and bulging, fixed them,
not on the young man but on Anna, whom, for a moment, he scrutinized as
searchingly as the interior of his hat. Under his gaze she had the sense
of being minutely catalogued and valued; and the impression, when he
finally rose and moved toward the door, of having been accepted as
a better guarantee than he had had any reason to hope for. On the
threshold his glance crossed that of the young man in an exchange of
intelligence as full as it was rapid; and this brief scene left Anna so
oddly enlightened that she felt no surprise when her companion,
pushing an arm-chair forward, sociably asked her if she wouldn’t have
a cigarette. Her polite refusal provoked the remark that he would,
if she’d no objection; and while he groped for matches in his loose
pockets, and behind the photographs and letters crowding the narrow
mantel-shelf, she ventured another enquiry for Mrs. Birch.

“Just a minute,” he smiled; “I think the masseur’s with her.” He
spoke in a smooth denationalized English, which, like the look in his
long-lashed eyes and the promptness of his charming smile, suggested a
long training in all the arts of expediency. Having finally discovered a
match-box on the floor beside the sofa, he lit his cigarette and dropped
back among the cushions; and on Anna’s remarking that she was sorry
to disturb Mrs. Birch he replied that that was all right, and that she
always kept everybody waiting.

After this, through the haze of his perpetually renewed cigarettes, they
continued to chat for some time of indifferent topics; but when at last
Anna again suggested the possibility of her seeing Mrs. Birch he rose
from his corner with a slight shrug, and murmuring: “She’s perfectly
hopeless,” lounged off through an inner door.

Anna was still wondering when and in what conjunction of circumstances
the much-married Laura had acquired a partner so conspicuous for his
personal charms, when the young man returned to announce: “She says it’s
all right, if you don’t mind seeing her in bed.”

He drew aside to let Anna pass, and she found herself in a dim untidy
scented room, with a pink curtain pinned across its single window, and
a lady with a great deal of fair hair and uncovered neck smiling at her
from a pink bed on which an immense powder-puff trailed.

“You don’t mind, do you? He costs such a frightful lot that I
can’t afford to send him off,” Mrs. Birch explained, extending a
thickly-ringed hand to Anna, and leaving her in doubt as to whether the
person alluded to were her masseur or her husband. Before a reply was
possible there was a convulsive stir beneath the pink expanse, and
something that resembled another powder-puff hurled itself at Anna with
a volley of sounds like the popping of Lilliputian champagne corks. Mrs.
Birch, flinging herself forward, gasped out: “If you’d just give him
a caramel ... there, in that box on the dressing-table ... it’s the only
earthly thing to stop him...” and when Anna had proffered this sop to
her assailant, and he had withdrawn with it beneath the bedspread, his
mistress sank back with a laugh.

“Isn’t he a beauty? The Prince gave him to me down at Nice the other
day--but he’s perfectly awful,” she confessed, beaming intimately on her
visitor. In the roseate penumbra of the bed-curtains she presented to
Anna’s startled gaze an odd chromo-like resemblance to Sophy Viner, or
a suggestion, rather, of what Sophy Viner might, with the years and in
spite of the powder-puff, become. Larger, blonder, heavier-featured,
she yet had glances and movements that disturbingly suggested what was
freshest and most engaging in the girl; and as she stretched her bare
plump arm across the bed she seemed to be pulling back the veil from
dingy distances of family history.

“Do sit down, if there’s a place to sit on,” she cordially advised;
adding, as Anna took the edge of a chair hung with miscellaneous
raiment: “My singing takes so much time that I don’t get a chance to
walk the fat off--that’s the worst of being an artist.”

Anna murmured an assent. “I hope it hasn’t inconvenienced you to see me;
I told Mr. Birch--”

“Mr. WHO?” the recumbent beauty asked; and then: “Oh, JIMMY!” she
faintly laughed, as if more for her own enlightenment than Anna’s.

The latter continued eagerly: “I understand from Mrs. Farlow that your
sister was with you, and I ventured to come up because I wanted to ask
you when I should have a chance of finding her.”

Mrs. McTarvie-Birch threw back her head with a long stare. “Do you
mean to say the idiot at the door didn’t tell you? Sophy went away last
night.”

“Last night?” Anna echoed. A sudden terror had possessed her. Could it
be that the girl had tricked them all and gone with Owen? The idea was
incredible, yet it took such hold of her that she could hardly steady
her lips to say: “The porter did tell me, but I thought perhaps he was
mistaken. Mrs. Farlow seemed to think that I should find her here.”

“It was all so sudden that I don’t suppose she had time to let the
Farlows know. She didn’t get Mrs. Murrett’s wire till yesterday, and she
just pitched her things into a trunk and rushed----”

“Mrs. Murrett?”

“Why, yes. Sophy’s gone to India with Mrs. Murrett; they’re to meet at
Brindisi,” Sophy’s sister said with a calm smile.

Anna sat motionless, gazing at the disordered room, the pink bed, the
trivial face among the pillows.

Mrs. McTarvie-Birch pursued: “They had a fearful kick-up last spring--I
daresay you knew about it--but I told Sophy she’d better lump it, as
long as the old woman was willing to...As an artist, of course, it’s
perfectly impossible for me to have her with me...”

“Of course,” Anna mechanically assented.

Through the confused pain of her thoughts she was hardly aware that
Mrs. Birch’s explanations were still continuing. “Naturally I didn’t
altogether approve of her going back to that beast of a woman. I said
all I could...I told her she was a fool to chuck up such a place as
yours. But Sophy’s restless--always was--and she’s taken it into her
head she’d rather travel...”

Anna rose from her seat, groping for some formula of leave-taking. The
pushing back of her chair roused the white dog’s smouldering animosity,
and he drowned his mistress’s further confidences in another outburst
of hysterics. Through the tumult Anna signed an inaudible farewell, and
Mrs. Birch, having momentarily succeeded in suppressing her pet under a
pillow, called out: “Do come again! I’d love to sing to you.”

Anna murmured a word of thanks and turned to the door. As she opened it
she heard her hostess crying after her: “Jimmy! Do you hear me? Jimmy
BRANCE!” and then, there being no response from the person summoned: “DO
tell him he must go and call the lift for you!”
The Complete Works of Edith Wharton - Part 5
