FLAMES

 BY ROBERT HICHENS

 AUTHOR OF THE GARDEN OF ALLAH, ETC. 

COPYRIGHT, 1897, BY HERBERT S. STONE & CO. 

This edition published July, 1906, by Duffield & Company

BOOK I--VALENTINE

CHAPTER I

THE SAINT OF VICTORIA STREET

Refinement had more power over the soul of Valentine Cresswell thanreligion. It governed him with a curious ease of supremacy, and heldhim back without effort from most of the young man's sins. Each agehas its special sins. Each age passes them, like troops in review, beforeit decides what regiment it will join. Valentine had never decided tojoin any regiment. The trumpets of vice rang in his ears in vain, mingledwith the more classical music of his life as the retreat from thebarracks of Seville mingled with the click of Carmen's castanets. But heheeded them not. If he listened to them sometimes, it was only to wonderat the harsh and blatant nature of their voices, only to pity the poorcreatures who hastened to the prison, which youth thinks freedom and oldage protection, at their shrieking summons. He preferred to be master ofhis soul, and had no desire to set it drilling at the command of paintedwomen, or to drown it in wine, or to suffocate it in the smoke atwhich the voluptuary tries to warm his hands, mistaking it for fire. Intellectuality is to some men what religion is to many women, a trellisof roses that bars out the larger world. Valentine loved to watch theroses bud and bloom as he sat in his flower-walled cell, a deliberate andrejoicing prisoner. For a long time he loved to watch them. And hethought that it must always be so, for he was not greatly given to moods, and therefore scarcely appreciated the thrilling meaning of the wordchange, that is the key-word of so many a life cipher. He loved thepleasures of the intellect so much that he made the mistake of opposingthem, as enemies, to the pleasures of the body. The reverse mistake ismade by the generality of men; and those who deem it wise to mingle thesharply contrasted ingredients that form a good recipe for happinessare often dubbed incomprehensible, or worse. But there were moments ata period of Valentine's life when he felt discontented at his strangeinability to long for sin; when he wondered, rather wearily, why he wasrapt from the follies that other men enjoyed; why he could refuse, without effort, the things that they clamoured after year by year withan unceasing gluttony of appetite. The saint quarrelled mutely with hisholiness of intellectuality, and argued, almost fiercely, with his coldand delicate purity. 

"Why am I like some ivory statue?" he thought sometimes, "instead of likea human being, with drumming pulses, and dancing longings, and voicescalling forever in my ears, like voices of sirens, 'Come, come, rest inour arms, sleep on our bosoms, for we are they who have given joy to allmen from the beginning of time. We are they who have drawn good men fromtheir sad goodness, and they have blessed us. We are they who have beenthe allegory of the sage and the story of the world. In our soft arms theworld has learned the glory of embracing. On our melodious hearts thehearts of men have learned the sweet religion of singing. ' Why cannotI be as other men are, instead of the Saint--the saint of VictoriaStreet--that I am?"

For, absurdly enough, that was the name his world gave to Valentine. This is not an age of romance, and he did not dwell, like the saints ofold centuries, in the clear solitudes of the great desert, but in whatthe advertisement writer calls a "commodious flat" in Victoria Street. No little jackals thronged about him in sinful circle by night. No schoolof picturesque disciples surrounded him by day. If he peeped above hisblinds he could see the radiant procession of omnibuses on their haltingway towards Westminster. The melodies of wandering organs sang in hisascetic ears, not once, nor twice, but many times a week. The milk-boycame, it must be presumed, to pay his visit in the morning; and thesparrows made the air alive, poising above the chimneys, instead of thewild eagles, whose home is near the sun. Valentine was a modern youngman of twenty-four, dealt at the Army and Navy Stores, was extremelywell off, and knew everybody. He belonged to the best clubs and wentoccasionally to the best parties. His tailor had a habitation inSackville Street, and his gloves came from the Burlington Arcade. Heoften lunched at the Berkeley and frequently dined at Willis's. Alsohe had laughed at the antics of Arthur Roberts, and gazed through a pairof gold-mounted opera-glasses at Empire ballets and at the discreetjuggleries of Paul Cinquevalli. The romance of cloistered saintlinesswas not his. If it had been he might never have rebelled. For how oftenit is romance which makes a home for religion in the heart of man, romance which feathers the nest of purity in which the hermit souldelights to dwell! Is it not that bizarre silence of the Algerian wastewhich leads many a Trappist to his fate, rather than the strange thoughtof God calling his soul to heavenly dreams and ecstatic renunciations? Isit not the wild poetry of the sleeping snows by night that gives to theSt. Bernard monk his holiest meditations? When the organ murmurs, and hekneels in that remote chapel of the clouds to pray, is it not thereligion of his wonderful earthly situation and prospect that speaks tohim loudly, rather than the religion of the far-off Power whose hands hebelieves to hold the threads of his destinies? Even the tonsure is apsalm to some, and the robe and cowl a litany. The knotted cord is a massand the sandal a prayer. 

But Valentine had been a saint by temperament, it seemed, and would be asaint by temperament to the end. He had not been scourged to a prayerfulattitude by sorrow or by pain. Tears had not made a sea to float him torepentance or to purity. Apparently he had been given what men callgoodness as others are given moustaches or a cheerful temper. When hiscontemporaries wondered at him, he often found himself wondering stillmore at them. Why did they love coarse sins? he thought. Why did theyfling themselves down, like dogs, to roll in offal? He could notunderstand, and for a long time he did not wish to understand. But onenight the wish came to him, and he expressed it to his bosom friend, Julian Addison. 

CHAPTER II

A QUESTION OF EXCHANGE

Most of us need an opposite to sit by the hearth with us sometimes, andto stir us to wonder or to war. Julian was Valentine's singularlycomplete and perfect opposite, in nature if not in deeds. But, after all, it is the thoughts that are of account rather than the acts, to a mindlike Valentine's. He knew that Julian's nature was totally unlike hisown, so singularly unlike that Julian struck just the right note togive the strength of a discord to the chord--that often seemed a commonchord--of his own harmony. Long ago, for this reason, or for no specialreason, he had grown to love Julian. Theirs was a fine, clean specimenof friendship. How fine, Valentine never rightly knew until this evening. 

They were sitting together in Valentine's flat in that hour when hebecame serious and expansive. He had rather a habit of becoming serioustoward midnight, especially if he was with only one person; and no desireto please interfered with his natural play of mind and of feeling when hewas with Julian. To affect any feeling with Julian would have seemed likebeing on conventional terms with an element, or endeavouring to deceiveone's valet about one's personal habits. Long ago Julian and he had, inmind, taken up their residence together, fallen into the pleasant customof breakfasting, lunching, and dining on all topics in common. Valentineknew of no barriers between them. And so, now, as they sat smoking, heexpressed his mood without fear or hesitation. 

The room in which they were was small. It was named the tentroom, beinghung with dull-green draperies, which hid the ceiling and fell loosely tothe floor on every side. A heavy curtain shrouded the one door. On thehearth flickered a fire, before which lay Valentine's fox-terrier, Rip. Julian was half lying down on a divan in an unbuttoned attitude. Valentine leaned forward in an arm-chair. They were smoking cigarettes. 

"Julian, " Valentine said, meditatively, "I sometimes wonder why you andI are such great friends. "

"How abominable of you! To seek a reason for friendship is as inhuman asto probe for the causes of love. Don't, for goodness' sake, let yourintellect triumph over your humanity, Valentine. Of all modern vices, that seems to me the most loathsome. But you could never fall intoanything loathsome. You are sheeted against that danger with platearmour. "

"Nonsense!"

"But you are. It sometimes seems to me that you and I are like Elijah andElisha, in a way. But I am covetous of your mantle. "

"Then you want me to be caught from you into heaven?"

"No. I should like you to give me your mantle, your powers, your nature, that is, and to stay here as well. "

"And send the chariot of fire to the coach-house, and the horses of fireto the nearest stables?"

"Exactly!"

"Well, but give me a reason for this rascally craving. "

"A reason! Oh, I hate my nature and I love yours. What a curse it is togo through life eternally haunted by one's self; worse than being marriedto an ugly and boring wife. "

"Now you are being morbid. "

"Well, I'm telling you just how I feel. "

"That is being morbid. Recording to some people who claim to directSociety. "

"The world's County Council, who would like to abolish all the publicbars. "

"And force us to do our drinking in the privacy of our bedrooms. "

"You would never do any drinking, Valentine. How could you, the Saint ofVictoria Street?"

"I begin to hate that nickname. "

And he frowned slowly. Tall, fair, curiously innocent-looking, hisface was the face of a blonde ascetic. His blue eyes were certainly notcold, but nobody could imagine that they would ever gleam with passion orwith desire as they looked upon sin. His mouth seemed made for prayer, not for kisses; and so women often longed to kiss it. Over him, indeed, intellectuality hung like a light veil, setting him apart from the uproarwhich the world raises while it breaks the ten commandments. Julian, onthe other hand, was brown, with bright, eager eyes, and the expression ofone who was above all things intensely human. Valentine had ever been, and still remained, to him a perpetual wonder, a sort of beautifulmystery. He actually reverenced this youth who stood apart from all themuddy ways of sin, too refined, as it seemed, rather than too religious, to be attracted by any wile of the devil's, too completely artistic tofeel any impulse towards the subtle violence which lurks in all thevagaries of the body. Valentine was to Julian a god, but in their mutualrelations this fact never became apparent. On the contrary, Valentinewas apt to look up to Julian with admiration, and the curious respectoften felt by those who are good by temperament for those who arecompletely human. And Julian loved Valentine for looking up to him, finding in this absurd modesty of his friend a crowning beauty ofcharacter. He had never told Valentine the fact that Valentine kepthim pure, held his bounding nature in leash, was the wall of fire thathedged him from sin, the armour that protected him against the assaultsof self. He had never told Valentine this secret, which he cherishedwith the exceeding and watchful care men so often display in hidingthat which does them credit. For who is not a pocket Byron nowadays?But to-night was fated by the Immortals to be a night of self-revelation. And Valentine led the way by taking a step that surprised Julian not alittle. For as Valentine frowned he said:

"Yes, I begin to hate my nickname, and I begin to hate myself. "

Julian could not help smiling at the absurdity of this bemoaning. 

"What is it in yourself that you hate so much?" he asked, with a decidedcuriosity. 

Valentine sat considering. 

"Well, " he replied at length, "I think it is my inhumanity, which robs meof many things. I don't desire the pleasures that most men desire, as youknow. But lately I have often wished to desire them. "

"Rather an elaborate state of mind. "

"Yet a state easy to understand, surely. Julian, emotions pass me by. Whyis that? Deep love, deep hate, despair, desire, won't stop to speak tome. Men tell me I am a marvel because I never do as they do. But I am notdriven as they are evidently driven. The fact of the matter is thatdesire is not in me. My nature shrinks from sin; but it is not virtuethat shrinks: it is rather reserve. I have no more temptation to besensual, for instance, than I have to be vulgar. "

"Hang it, Val, you don't want to have the temptation, do you?"

Valentine looked at Julian curiously. 

"You have the temptation, Julian?" he said. 

"You know I have--horribly. "

"But you fight it and conquer it?"

"I fight it, and now I am beginning to conquer it, to get it under. "

"Now? Since when?"

Julian replied by asking another question. 

"Look here, how long have we known each other?"

"Let me see. I'm twenty-four, you twenty-three. Just five years. "

"Ah! For just five years I've fought, Val, been able to fight. "

"And before then?"

"I didn't fight; I revelled in the enemy's camp. "

"You have never told me this before. Did you suddenly get conversion, asSalvationists say?"

"Something like it. But my conversion had nothing to do with trumpets andtambourines. "

"What then? This is interesting. "

A certain confusion had come into Julian's expression, even a certainechoing awkwardness into his attitude. He looked away into the fire andlighted another cigarette before he answered. Then he said ratherunevenly:

"I dare say you'll be surprised when I tell you. But I never meant totell you at all. "

"Don't, if you would rather not. "

"Yes, I think I will. I must stop you from disliking yourself at anycost, dear old boy. Well, you converted me, so far as I am converted;and that's not very far, I'm afraid. "

"I?" said Valentine, with genuine surprise. "Why, I never tried to. "

"Exactly. If you had, no doubt you'd have failed. "

"But explain. "

"I've never told you all you do for me, Val. You are my armour againstall these damned things. When I'm with you, I hate the notion of being asinner. I never hated it before I met you. In fact, I loved it. I wantedsin more than I wanted anything in heaven or earth. And then--just at thecritical moment when I was passing from boyhood into manhood, I met you. "

He stopped. His brown cheeks were glowing, and he avoided Valentine'sgaze. 

"Go on, Julian, " Valentine said. "I want to hear this. "

"All right, I'll finish now, but I don't know why I ever began. Perhapsyou'll think me a fool, or a sentimentalist. "

"Nonsense!"

"Well, I don't know how it is, but when I saw you I first understoodthat there is a good deal in what the parsons say, that sin is beastlyin itself, don't you know, even apart from one's religious convictions, or the injury one may do to others. When I saw you, I understood thatsin degrades one's self, Valentine. For you had never sinned as I had, and you were so different from me. You are the only sinless man I know, and you have made me know what beasts we men are. Why can't we be whatwe might be?"

Valentine did not reply. He seemed lost in thought, and Julian continued, throwing off his original shamefacedness:

"Ever since then you've kept me straight. If I feel inclined to throwmyself down in the gutter, one look at you makes me loathe the notion. Preaching often drives one wrong out of sheer 'cussedness, ' I suppose. But you don't preach and don't care. You just live beautifully, becauseyou're made differently from all of us. So you do for me what nopreachers could ever do. There--now you know. "

He lay back, puffing violently at his cigarette. 

"It is strange, " Valentine said, seeing he had finished. "You know, tolive as I do is no effort to me, and so it is absurd to praise me. "

"I won't praise you, but it's outrageous of you to want to feel as I andother men feel. "

"Is it? I don't think so. I think it is very natural. My life is a deadcalm, and a dead calm is monotonous. "

"It's better than an everlasting storm. "

"I wonder!" Valentine said. "How curious that I should protect you. I am glad it is so. And yet, Julian, in spite of what you say, I wouldgive a great deal to change souls with you, if only for a day or two. You will laugh at me, but I do long to feel a real, keen temptation. Those agonizing struggles of holy men that one reads of, what can theybe like? I can hardly imagine. There have been ascetics who have wept, and dashed themselves down on the ground, and injured, wounded theirbodies to distract their thoughts from vice. To me they seem as madmen. You know the story of the monk who rescued a great courtesan from herlife of shame. He placed her in a convent and went into the desert. Buther image haunted him, maddened him. He slunk back to the convent, andfound her dying in the arms of God. And he tried to drag her away, thatshe might sin only once again with him, with him, her saviour. But shedied, giving herself to God, and he went out cursing and blaspheming. This is only a dramatic fable to me. And yet I suppose it is apossibility. "

"Of course. Val, I could imagine myself doing as that monk did, but foryou. Only that I could never have been a monk at all. "

"I am glad if I help you to any happiness, Julian. But--but--oh! to feeltemptation!"

"Oh, not to feel it! By Jove, I long to have done with the infernal thingthat's always ready to bother me. Fighting it is no fun, Val, I can tellyou. If you would like to have my soul for a day or two, I should love tohave yours in exchange. "

Valentine smoked in silence for two or three minutes. His pure, pale, beautiful face was rather wistful as he gazed at the fire. 

"Why can't these affairs be managed?" he sighed out at length. 

"Why can't we do just the one thing more? We can kill a man's body. Wecan kill a woman's purity. And here you and I sit, the closest friends, and neither of us can have the same experiences, as the other, even fora moment. Why isn't it possible?"

"Perhaps it is. "

"Why? How do you mean?"

"Well, of course I'm rather a sceptic, and entirely an ignoramus. ButI met a man the other day who would have laughed at us for doubting. He was an awfully strange fellow. His name is Marr. I met him at LadyCrichton's. "

"Who is he?"

"Haven't an idea. I never saw or heard of him before. We talked a gooddeal at dessert. He came over from the other side of the table to sit byme, and somehow, in five minutes, we'd got into spiritualism and all thatsort of thing. He is evidently a believer in it, calls himself anoccultist. "

"But do you mean to tell me he said souls could be exchanged at will?Come, Julian?"

"I won't say that. But he set no limit at all to what can be done. Hedeclares that if people seriously set themselves to develop the latentpowers that lie hidden within them, they can do almost anything. Onlythey must be en rapport. Each must respond closely, definitely, to theother. Now, you and I are as much in sympathy with one another as anytwo men in London, I suppose. "

"Surely!"

"Then half the battle's won--according to Marr. "

"You are joking. "

"He wasn't. He would declare that, with time and perseverance, we couldaccomplish an exchange of souls. "

Valentine laughed. 

"Well, but how?"

Julian laughed too. 

"Oh, it seems absurd--but he'd tell us to sit together. "

"Well, we are sitting together now. "

"No; at a table, I mean. "

"Table-turning!" Valentine cried, with a sort of contempt. "That is forchildren, and for all of us at Christmas, when we want to make fools ofourselves. "

"Just what I am inclined to think. But Marr--and he's really a verysmart, clever chap, Val--denies it. He swears it is possible for twopeople who sit together often to get up a marvellous sympathy, whichlasts on even when they are no longer sitting. He says you can evensee your companion's thoughts take form in the darkness before youreyes, and pass in procession like living things. "

"He must be mad. "

"Perhaps. I don't know. If he is, he can put his madness to you verylucidly, very ingeniously. "

Valentine stroked the white back of Rip meditatively with his foot. 

"You have never sat, have you?" he asked. 

"Never. "

"Nor I. I have always thought it an idiotic and very dull way of wastingone's time. Now, what on earth can a table have to do with one's soul?"

"I don't know. What is one's soul?"

"One's essence, I suppose; the inner light that spreads its rays outwardin actions, and that is extinguished, or expelled, at the hour of death. "

"Expelled, I think. "

"I think so too. That which is so full of strange power cannot surely dieso soon. Even my soul, so frigid, so passionless, has, you say, held youback from sins like a leash of steel, And I did not even try to forge thesteel. If we could exchange souls, would yours hold me back in the sameway?"

"No doubt. "

"I wonder, " Valentine said thoughtfully. After a moment he added, "shallwe make this absurd experiment of sitting, just for a phantasy?"

"Why not? It would be rather fun. "

"It might be. We will just do it once to see whether you can get some ofmy feelings, and I some of yours. "

"That's it. But you could never get mine. I know you too well, Val. You're my rock of defence. You've kept me straight because you're sostraight yourself; and, with that face, you'll never alter. If anythingshould happen, it will be that you'll drag me up to where you are. Ishan't drag you down to my level, you old saint!"

And he laid his hand affectionately on his friend's shoulder. 

Valentine smiled. 

"Your level is not low, " he said. 

"No, perhaps; but, by Jove, it could be, though. If you hadn't beenchucked into the world, I often think the devil must have had mealtogether. You keep him off. How he must hate you, Val. Hulloh!What's that?"

"What?"

"Who's that laughing outside? Has Wade got a friend in to-night?"

"Not that I know of. I didn't hear anything. "

Valentine touched the electric bell, and his man appeared. 

"Any one in with you to-night, Wade?" he asked. 

The man looked surprised. 

"No, sir; certainly not, sir. "

"Oh! Don't sit up; we may be late to-night. And we don't want anythingmore, except--yes, bring another couple of sodas. "

"Yes, sir. "

He brought them and vanished. A moment later they heard the front doorof the flat close. The butler was married and slept out of the house. Valentine had no servant sleeping in the flat. He preferred to be aloneat night. 

CHAPTER III

EPISODE OF THE FIRST SITTING

"Now, then, " said Valentine, "let us be absurd and try this sitting. Shall we clear this little table?"

"Yes. It's just the right size. It might do for three people, butcertainly not for more. "

"There! Now, then. "

And, as the clock struck twelve, Valentine turned off the electriclight, and they sat down with their hands upon the table. The room wasonly very dimly illuminated by the fire on the hearth, where Rip slepton, indifferent to their proceedings. 

"I suppose nothing could go wrong, " Julian said, after a moment ofsilence. 

"Wrong!"

"Yes. I don't know exactly what Marr meant, but he said that ifunsuitable people sit together any amount of harm can result from it. "

"What sort of harm?"

"I don't know. "

"H'm! I expect that is all nonsense, like the rest of his remarks. Anyhow, Julian, no two people could ever hit it off better than youand I do. Wait a second. "

He jumped up and drew the curtain over the door. Wade had pulled it backwhen he came in. 

"I must have that curtain altered, " Valentine said. "It is so badlyhung that whenever the door is opened, it falls half way back, andlooks hideous. That is better. "

He sat down again. 

"We won't talk, " he said. 

"No. We'll give the--whatever it is every chance. "

They were silent. 

Presently--it might have been a quarter of an hour--Julian said suddenly:

"Do you feel anything?"

"'M--no, " Valentine answered, rather doubtfully. 

"Sure?"

"I think so. "

"You can't merely think you are sure, old chap. "

"Well, then--yes, I'll say I am sure. "

"Right, " rejoined Julian. 

Again there was a silence, broken this time by Valentine. 

"Why did you ask me?" he said. 

"Oh! no special reason. I just wanted to know. "

"Then you didn't?"

"Didn't what?"

"Feel anything?"

"No; nothing particular. "

"Well, what do you mean by that?"

"What I say. I can't be sure it was anything. "

"That's vague. "

"So was my--I can't even call it exactly sensation. It was so veryslight. In fact, I'm as good as sure I felt nothing at all. It was a merefancy. Nothing more. "

And then again they were silent. The fire gradually died down until theroom grew quite dark. Presently Valentine said:

"Hulloh! here is Rip up against my foot. He is cold without the fire, poor little beggar. "

"Shall we stop?" asked Julian. 

"Yes; I vote we do--for to-night. "

Valentine struck a match, felt for the knob of the electric light, andturned it on. Julian and he looked at each other, blinking. 

"Think there's anything in it?" asked Julian. 

"I don't know, " said Valentine. "I suppose not. Rip! Rip! He is cold. Didyou ever see a dog shiver like that?"

He picked the little creature up in his arms. It nestled against hisshoulder with a deep sigh. 

"Well, we have made a beginning, " he said, turning to pour out a drink. "It is rather interesting. "

Julian was lighting a cigarette. 

"Yes; it is--very. " he answered. 

Valentine gave him a brandy and soda; then, as if struck by a suddenthought, asked:

"You really didn't feel anything?"

"No. "

"Nor I. But then, Julian, why do we find it interesting?"

Julian looked puzzled. 

"Hang it! I don't know, " he answered, after an instant of reflection. "Why do we? I wonder. "

"That is what I am wondering. "

He flicked the ash from his cigarette. 

"But I don't come to any conclusion, " he presently added, meditatively. "We sit in the dark for an hour and a quarter, with our hands solemnlyspread out upon a table; we don't talk; the table doesn't move; we hearno sound; we see nothing; we feel nothing that we have not felt before. And yet we find the function interesting. This problem of sensation issimply insoluble. I cannot work it out. "

"It is awfully puzzling, " said Julian. "I suppose our nerves must havebeen subtly excited because the thing was an absolute novelty. "

"Possibly. But, if so, we are a couple of children, mere schoolboys. "

"That's rather refreshing, however undignified. If we sit long enough, we may even recover our long-lost babyhood. "

And so they laughed the matter easily away. Soon afterwards, however, Julian got up to go home to his chambers. Valentine went towards thedoor, intending to open it and get his friend's coat. Suddenly hestopped. 

"Strange!" he exclaimed. 

"What's the row?"

"Look at the door, Julian. "

"Well?"

"Don't you see?"

"What?"

"The curtain is half drawn back again. "

Julian gave vent to a long, low whistle. 

"So it is!"

"It always does that when the door is opened. "

"And only then, of course?"

"Of course. "

"But the door hasn't been opened. "

"I know. "

They regarded each other almost uneasily. Then Valentine added, with ashort laugh:

"I can't have drawn it thoroughly over the door when Wade went away. "

"I suppose not. Well, good-night, Val. "

"Good-night. Shall we sit again tomorrow?"

"Yes; I vote we do. "

Valentine let his friend out. As he shut the front door, he said tohimself:

"I am positive I did draw the curtain thoroughly. "

He went back into the tentroom and glanced again at the curtain. 

"Yes; I am positive. "

After an instant of puzzled wonder, he seemed to put the matterdeliberately from him. 

"Come along, Rip, " he said. "Why, you are cold and miserable to-night!Must I carry you then?"

He picked the dog up, turned out the light, and walked slowly into hisbedroom. 

CHAPTER IV

THE SECOND SITTING

On the following night Valentine sat waiting for Julian's arrival inhis drawing-room, which looked out upon Victoria Street, whereas theonly window of the tentroom opened upon some waste ground where oncea panorama of Jerusalem, or some notorious city, stood, and wherebuilding operations were now being generally carried on. Valentinevery seldom used his drawing-room. Sometimes pretty women came to teawith him, and he did them honour there. Sometimes musicians came. Thenthere was always a silent group gathered round the Steinway grand piano. For Valentine was inordinately fond of music, and played so admirablythat even professionals never hurled at him a jeering "amateur!" Butwhen Valentine was alone, or when he expected one or two men to smoke, he invariably sat in the tentroom, where the long lounges and theshaded electric light were suggestive of desultory conversation, andseemed tacitly to forbid all things that savour of a hind-leg attitude. To-night, however, some whim, no doubt, had prompted him to forsake hisusual haunt. Perhaps he had been seized with a dislike for completesilence, such as comes upon men in recurring hours of depression, whenthe mind is submerged by a thin tide of unreasoning melancholy, and soundof one kind or another is as ardently sought as at other times it isavoided. In this room Valentine could hear the vague traffic of the dimstreet outside, the dull tumult of an omnibus, the furtive, flashingclamour of a hansom, the cry of an occasional newsboy, explanatory ofthe crimes and tragedies of the passing hour. Or perhaps the eyes ofValentine were, for the moment, weary of the monotonous green walls ofhis sanctum, leaning tent-wise towards the peaked apex of the ceiling, and longed to rest on the many beautiful pictures that hung in one linearound his drawing-room. It seemed so, for now, as he sat in a chairbefore the fire, holding Rip upon his knee, his blue eyes were fixedmeditatively upon a picture called "The Merciful Knight, " which facedhim over the mantelpiece. This was the only picture containing a figureof the Christ which Valentine possessed. He had no holy children, noMadonnas. But he loved this Christ, this exquisitely imagined dead, drooping figure, which, roused into life by an act of noble renunciation, bent down and kissed the armed hero who had been great enough to forgivehis enemy. He loved those weary, tender lips, those faded limbs, thesacred tenuity of the ascetic figure, the wonderful posture of benignfamiliarity that was more majestic than any reserve. Yes, Valentine lovedthis Christ, and Julian knew it well. Often, late at night, Julian hadleaned back lazily listening while Valentine played, improvising in alight so dim as to be near to darkness. And Julian had noticed that theplayer's eyes perpetually sought this picture, and rested on it, whilehis soul, through the touch of the fingers, called to the soul of musicthat slept in the piano, stirred it from sleep, carried it throughstrange and flashing scenes, taught it to strive and to agonize, thenhushed it again to sleep and peace. And as Julian looked from the pictureto the player, who seemed drawing inspiration from it, he often mutelycompared the imagined beauty of the soul of the Christ with the knownbeauty of the soul of his friend. And the two lovelinesses seemed tomeet, and to mingle as easily as two streams one with the other. Yet thebeauty of the Christ soul sprang from a strange parentage, was a sublimeinheritance, had been tried in the fiercest fires of pity and of pain. The beauty of Valentine's soul seemed curiously innate, and mingled witha dazzling snow of almost inhuman purity. His was not a great soul thathad striven successfully, and must always strive. His was a soul thateasily triumphed, that was almost coldly perfect without effort, thathad surely never longed even for a moment to fall, had never desiredand refused the shadowy pleasures of passion. The wonderful purity ofhis friend's face continually struck Julian anew. It suggested to himthe ivory peak of an Alp, the luminous pallor of a pearl. What otheryoung man in London looked like that? Valentine was indeed an uniquefigure in the modern London world. Had he strayed into it from thefragrant pages of a missal, or condescended to it from the beatificvistas of some far-off Paradise? Julian had often wondered, as he lookedinto the clear, calm eyes of the friend who had been for so long thevigilant, yet unconscious guardian of his soul. 

To-night, as Valentine sat looking at the Christ, a curious wonder athimself came into his mind. He was musing on the confession of Julian, solong withheld, so shyly made at last. This confession caused him, for thefirst time, to look self-consciously upon himself, to stand away from hisnature, as the artist stands away from the picture he is painting, and toexamine it with a sideways head, with a peering, contracted gaze. Thisthing that protected a soul from sin--what was it like? What was it? Hecould not easily surmise. He had a clear vision of the Christ soul, ofthe exquisite essence of a divine individuality that prompted life tospring out of death for one perfect moment that it might miraculouslyreward a great human act of humanity. Yes, that soul floated before himalmost visibly. He could call it up before his mind as a man can call upthe vision of a supremely beautiful rose he has admired. And there was ascent from the Christ soul as ineffably delicious as the scent of therose. But when Valentine tried to see his own soul, he could not see it. He could not comprehend how its aspect affected others, even quite how itaffected Julian. Only he could comprehend, as he looked at the Christ, its imperfection, and a longing, not felt before, came to him to bebetter than he was. This new aspiration was given to him by Julian'sconfession. He knew that well. He protected his friend now withouteffort. Could he not protect him more certainly with effort? Can a soulbe beautiful that never strives consciously after beauty? A child'snature is beautiful in its innocence because it has never striven to beinnocent. But is not an innocent woman more wonderful, more beautiful, than an innocent child? Valentine felt within him that night a distinctaspiration, and he vaguely connected it with the drooping Christ, whotouched with wan, rewarding lips the ardent face of the merciful knight. And he no longer had the desire to know desire of sin. He no longersought to understand the power of temptation or the joy of yielding tothat power. A subtle change swept over him. Whether it was permanent, oronly passing, he could not tell. 

A tingling cry from the electric bell in the passage told of Julian'sarrival, and in a moment he entered. He looked gay, almost rowdy, andclapped Valentine on the shoulder rather boisterously. 

"Why on earth are you in here?" he exclaimed. "Have you been playing?"

"No. "

"Are you in an exalted state of mind, that demands the best parlour forits environment?"

"Hardly. "

"But why then have you let out the fire in the den and enthroned yourselfhere?"

"A whim, Julian. I felt a strong inclination to sit in this roomto-night. It seems to me a less nervous room than the other, and Iwant to be as cold-blooded as possible. "

"O, I see! But, my dear fellow, what is there nervous about the tent?Do you imagine ghosts lurking in the hangings, or phantoms of dead Arabsclinging, like bats, round that rosette in the roof? You got it up theNile, didn't you?"

"Yes. Where have you been?"

"Dining out. And, oddly enough, I met Marr again, the man I told youabout. It seems he is in universal request just now. "

"On account of his mystery-mongering, I suppose. "

"Probably. "

"Did you tell him anything about our sitting?"

"Only that we had sat, and that nothing had happened. "

"What did he say?"

"He said, 'Pooh, pooh! these processes are, and always must be, gradual. Another time there may be some manifestation. '"

"Manifestation! Did you ask him of what nature the manifestation waslikely to be? These people are so vague in the terms they employ. "

"Yes, I asked him; but I couldn't get much out of him. I must tell you, Val, that he seemed curiously doubtful about my statement that nothinghad happened. I can't think why. He said, 'Are you quite sure?'"

"Of course you answered Yes?"

"Of course. "

Valentine looked at him for a moment and then said:

"You didn't mention the--the curtain by any chance?"

"No. You thought you had left it only partially drawn, didn't you?"

Valentine made no reply. His face was rather grave. Julian did notrepeat the question. He felt instinctively that Valentine did notwish to be obliged to answer it. Oddly enough, during the short silencewhich followed, he was conscious of a slight constraint such as he hadcertainly never felt with Valentine before. His gaiety seemed droppingfrom him in this quiet room to which he was so often a visitor. Therowdy expression faded out of his face and he found himself glancinghalf furtively at his friend. 

"Valentine, " he presently said, "shall we really sit to-night?"

"Yes, surely. You meant to when you came here, didn't you?"

"I don't believe there is anything in it. "

"We will find out. Remember that I want to get hold of your soul. "

Julian laughed. 

"If you ever do it will prove an old man of the sea to you, " he said. 

"I will risk that, " Valentine answered. 

And then he added:

"But, come, don't let us waste time. I will go and send away Wade. Clear that little table by the piano. "

Julian began removing the photographs and books which stood on it, while Valentine went out of the room and told his man to go. 

As soon as they heard the front door close upon him they sat downopposite to each other as on the previous night. 

They kept silence and sat for what seemed a very long time. At lastJulian said:

"Val!"

"Well?"

"Let us go back into the tentroom. "

"Why?"

"Nothing will ever happen here. "

"Why should anything happen there?"

"I don't know. Let us go. The fire is burning too brightly here. We oughtto have complete darkness. "

"Very well, though I can't believe it will make the slightestdifference. "

They got up and went into the tentroom, which looked rather cheerlesswith its fireless grate. 

"I know this will be better, " Julian said. "We'll have the same table aslast night. "

Valentine carefully drew the green curtain quite over the door andcalled Julian's attention to the fact that he had done so. Then theysat down again. Rip lay on the divan in his basket with a rug over him, so that he might not disturb them by any movement in search of warmthand of companionship. 

The arrangements seemed careful and complete. They were absolutelyisolated from the rest of the world. They were in darkness and thesilence might almost be felt. As Julian said, they were safe fromtrickery, and, as Valentine rejoined in his calm _voix d'or_, theywere therefore probably also safe from what Marr had mysteriouslycalled "manifestations. "

Dead, dumb silence. Their four hands, not touching, lay loosely onthe oval table. Rip slept unutterably, shrouded head and body in hiscosy rug. So--till the last gleam of the fire faded. So--till anothertwenty minutes had passed. The friends had not exchanged a word, hadscarcely made the slightest movement. Could a stranger have beensuddenly introduced into the black room, and have remained listeningattentively, he might easily have been deceived into the belief that, but for himself, it was deserted. To both Valentine and Julian thesilence seemed progressive. With each gliding moment they could havedeclared that it grew deeper, more dense, more prominent, even moregrotesque and living. There seemed to be a sort of pressure in it whichhandled them more and more definitely. The sensation was interestingand acute. Each gave himself to it, and each had a, perhaps deceptive, consciousness of yielding up something, something impalpable, evanescent, fluent. Valentine, more especially, felt as if he were pouring away fromhimself, by this act of sitting, a vital liquid, and he thought with amental smile:

"Am I letting my soul out of its cage, here and now?"

"No doubt, " his common sense replied; "no doubt this sensation is themerest fancy. "

He played with it in the darkness, and had no feeling of weariness. 

Nearly an hour had passed in this morose way, when, with, it seemed, appalling abruptness, Rip barked. 

Although the bark was half stifled in rug, both Valentine and Julianstarted perceptibly. 

"'Sh!" Valentine hissed to the little dog. "'Sh! Rip! Quiet!"

The response of Rip was, with a violent scramble, to disentangle himselffrom his covering, emerging from which he again barked with shrill andpiercing vehemence, at the same time leaping to the floor. By the sound, which he could locate, Valentine felt certain that the dog had gone overto the door. 

"What on earth is he barking at?" Julian said in the darkness. 

"I can't imagine. Hush, Rip! S-sh!"

"Val, turn on the light, quick! You're nearest to it. "

Valentine stretched out his hand hastily, and in a flash the room spranginto view. He was right. Rip was crouched--his front legs extended alongthe floor, his hind legs standing almost straight--close to the door, and facing it full. His head was down, and moving, darting this way andthat, as if he were worrying the feet of some person who was trying toadvance from the door into the centre of the room. All his teeth showed, and his yellow eyes were glaring fiercely. 

Julian, who had thrown a hasty and searching glance round the room whenthe light was turned on, sprang forward and bent down to him. 

"Rip! Rip!" he said. "Silly! What's the matter? Silly dog!" and he beganto stroke him. 

Either this action of his, or something else not known by the young men, had an effect on the terrier, for he suddenly ceased barking, and beganto snuffle eagerly, excitedly, at the bottom of the door. 

"It's as if he were mad, " said Julian, turning round. "Hulloh, Val! Whatthe devil's come to you?"

For he found Valentine standing up by the table with an expression ofdeep astonishment on his face. 

He pointed in silence to the door. 

"By Jove! that curtain again!" said Julian, with an accent of amazement. "I'm damned!"

The curtain was, in fact, drawn back from the door. Valentine struck amatch and put it to a candle. Then he opened the door. Rip immediatelydarted out of the room and pattered excitedly down the passage, as ifsearching for something, his sharp nose investigating the ground with avehement attention. The young men followed him. He ran to the front door, then back into Valentine's bedroom; then, by turns, into the four otherapartments--bedroom, drawing-room, bathroom and kitchen--that formed thesuite. The doors of the two latter were opened by Valentine. Havingcompleted this useless progress, Rip once more resorted to the passageand the front door, by which he paused, whimpering, in an uncertain, almost a wistful attitude. 

"Open it!" said Julian. 

Valentine did so. 

They looked out upon the broad and dreary stone steps, and waited, listening. There was no sound. Rip still whimpered, rather feebly. Hisexcitement was evidently dying away. At last Valentine shut the door, and they went back again to the tentroom, accompanied closely by thedog, who gradually regained his calmness, and who presently jumped ofhis own accord into his basket, and, after turning quickly round somehalf-dozen times, composed himself once more to sleep. 

"I wish, after all, we had stayed in the other room by the fire, " Juliansaid. "Give me some brandy. "

Valentine poured some into a glass and Julian swallowed it at a gulp. 

"We mustn't have Rip in the room another time, " he added. "He spoilt thewhole thing. "

"What whole thing?" Valentine asked, sinking down in a chair. 

"Well, the sitting. Perhaps--perhaps one of Marr's mysteriousmanifestations might have come off to-night. "

Valentine did not reply at first. When he did, he startled Julian bysaying:

"Perhaps one of them did come off. "

"Did?"

"Yes. "

"How?"

"What was Rip barking at?"

"There's no accounting for what dogs will do. They often bark atshadows. "

"At shadows--yes, exactly. But what cast a shadow to-night?"

Julian laughed with some apparent uneasiness. 

"Perhaps a coming event, " he exclaimed. 

Valentine looked at him rather gravely. 

"That is exactly what I felt, " he said. 

"Explain. For I was only joking. "

"I felt, perhaps it was only a fancy, that this second sitting of oursbrought some event a stage nearer, a stage nearer on its journey. "

"To what?"

"I felt--to us. "

"Fancy. "

"Probably. You didn't feel it?"

"I? Oh, I scarcely know what I felt. I must say, though, that squattingin the dark, and saying nothing for such an age, and--and all the rest ofit, doesn't exactly toughen one's nerves. That little demon of a Ripquite gave me the horrors when he started barking. What fools we are! Ishould think nothing of mounting a dangerous horse, or sailing a boat inrough weather, or risking my life as we all do half our time in one wayor another. Yet a dog and a dark room give me the shudders. Funny, Val, isn't it?"

Valentine answered, "If it is a dog and a dark room. "

"What else can it possibly be?" Julian said with an accent of ratherunreasonable annoyance. 

"I don't know. But I did draw the curtain completely over the doorto-night. Julian, I am getting interested in this. Perhaps--whoknows?--in the end I shall have your soul, you mine. "

He laughed as he spoke; then added:

"No, no; I don't believe in such an exchange; and, Julian, I scarcelydesire it. But let us go on. This gives a slight new excitement to life. "

"Yes. But it is selfish of you to wish to keep your soul to yourself. I want it. Well, _au revoir_, Val; to-morrow night. "

"_Au revoir_. "

After Julian had gone Valentine went back into the drawing-room and stoodfor a long while before the "Merciful Knight. " He had a strange fancythat the picture of the bending Christ protected the room from theintrusion of--what?

He could not tell yet. Perhaps he could never tell. 

CHAPTER V

THE THIRD SITTING

"Isn't it an extraordinary thing, " Julian said, on the following evening, "that if you meet a man once in London you keep knocking up against himday after day? While, if--"

"You don't meet him, you don't. "

"No. I mean that if you don't happen to be introduced to him, youprobably never set eyes on him at all. "

"I know. But whom have you met to-day?"

"Marr again. "

"That's odd. He is beginning to haunt you. "

"I met him at my club. He has just been elected a member. "

"Did he make any more inquiries into our sittings?"

"Rather. He talked of nothing else. He's an extraordinary fellow, extraordinary. "

"Why? What is he like?"

"In appearance? Oh, the sort of chap little pink women call Satanic;white complexion showing blue where he shaves, big dark eyes rathersunken, black hair, tall, very thin and quiet. Very well dressed. Heis that uncanny kind of a man who has a silent manner and a noisyexpression. You know what I mean?"

"Yes, perfectly. "

"I think he's very morbid. He never reads the evening papers. "

"That proves it absolutely. Does he smoke?"

"Always. I found him in the smoking-room. He showed the most persistentinterest in our proceedings, Val. I couldn't get him to talk of anythingelse, so at last I told him exactly what had happened. "

"Did you tell him that we began to sit last night in a different room?"

"Yes. That was curious. Directly I said it he began making minuteinquiries as to what the room was like, how the furniture was placed, even what pictures hung on the walls. "

"The pictures!"

"Yes. I described them. "

"All of them?"

"No, one or two; that favorite of yours, 'The Merciful Knight, ' theTurner, those girls of Solomon's with the man playing to them, and--yes, I think those were all. "

"Oh!"

"He said, 'You made a great mistake in changing your venue to that room, a great mistake. ' Then I explained how we moved back to the tentroom inthe middle of the sitting, and all about Rip. "

"Did he make any remark?"

"One that struck me as very quaint, 'You are _en route_. '"

"Enigmatic again. He was playing the wizard. "

"He spoke very gravely. "

"Of course. Great gravity is part of the business. "

"Afterwards he said, 'Turn that dog out next time. '"

"And that was all?"

"I think so. "

Valentine sat musing. Presently he said:

"I should rather like to meet this Marr. "

"Oh, I don't think--I fancy--"

"Well?"

"I'd as soon you didn't. "

"Why?"

"I don't think you'd get on. You wouldn't like him. "

"For what reason?"

"I don't know. I've a notion he's something exceptional in the way of ablackguard. Perhaps I am wrong. I haven't an idea what sort of areputation he has. But he is black, Valentine, not at all your colour. Oh! and, by the way, he doesn't want to meet you. "

"How charming of him!"

"I had half suggested it, I don't know why, and he said, 'Thanks! Thanks!Chance will bring us together later on if we ought to meet. ' And now Iam glad he wasn't keen. Shall we begin? Put Rip into your bedroom, as headvised. Besides, I can't stand his barking. "

Valentine carried the little dog away. When he came back he shut thetentroom door and was about to draw the curtain over it. But Julianstopped him. 

"No, don't, " Julian said. 

"Why not?"

"I would rather you didn't. I hate that curtain. If I were you I wouldhave it taken down altogether. "

Valentine looked at him in surprise. He had uttered the words with anenergy almost violent. But even as Valentine looked Julian switched offthe electric light and the leaping darkness hid his face. 

"Come now. Business! Business!" he cried. 

And again they sat with their hands loosely on the table, not touchingeach other. 

Valentine felt that Julian was being less frank with him than usual. Perhaps for this reason he was immediately conscious that they werenot so much in sympathy as on the two former occasions of their sittings. Or there might have been some other reason which he could not identify. It is certain that he gradually became acutely aware of a stifling senseof constraint, which he believed to be greatly intensified by thesurrounding darkness and silence. He wondered if Julian was consciousof it also, and at moments longed to ask. But something held him back, that curious something which we all feel at times like a strong handlaid upon us. He made up his mind that this discomfort of his soul, unreasonably considerable though it was, must be due solely to Julian'sabrupt demeanour and obvious desire to check his curiosity aboutthe drawing of the curtain. But, as the moments ran by, his sense ofuneasiness assumed such fantastic proportions that he began to castabout for some more definite, more concrete, cause. At one instant hefound it in the condition of his health. The day had been damp anddreary, and he had suffered from neuralgia. Doubtless the pain hadacted upon his nervous system, and was accountable for his present andperpetually increasing anxiety. A little later he was fain to dismissthis supposition as untenable. His sense of constraint was changing intoa positive dread, and not at all of Julian, around whom he had believedthat his thoughts were in flight. Something, he knew not at all what, interposed between him and Julian, and so definitely that Valentine feltas if he could have fixed the exact moment in which the interpositionhad taken place, as one can fix the exact moment in which a person entersa room where one is sitting. And the interposition was one of greathorror, --entirely malignant, Valentine believed. 

He had an impulse to spring up from the table, to turn on the light, and to say, "Let us make an end of this jugglery!" Yet he sat still, wondering why he did so. A curiosity walked in his mind, pacing abouttill he could almost fancy he heard its footsteps. He sat, then, as oneawaiting an arrival, that has been heralded in some way, by a telegram, a message, a carrier-pigeon flown in at an open window. But the herald, too, was horrible. What then would follow it? What was coming? Valentinefelt that he began to understand Marr's queer remark, "You are _enroute_. " At the first sitting he had felt a very vague suggestion ofimmoderate possibilities, made possibilities by the apparently futileposition assumed at a table by himself and Julian. To-night the vagueseemed on march towards the definite. Fancy was surely moving towardsfact. 

With his eyes wide open Valentine gazed in the direction of Julian, sitting invisible opposite to him. He wondered how Julian was feeling, what he was thinking. And then he remembered that strange saying ofMarr's, that thoughts could take form, materialize. What would he giveto witness that monstrous procession of embodied brain-actions troopingfrom the mind of his friend! He imagined them small, spare, phantom-likethings, fringed with fire, as weapon against the darkness, silent-footedas spirits, moving with a level impetus, as pale ghosts treading a sea, onward to the vast world of clashing minds, to which we carelesslycast out our thoughts as a man who shoots rubbish into a cart. Thevagrant fancies danced along with attenuated steps and tiny, whimsicalgestures of fairies, fluttering their flame-veined wings. The sadthoughts moved slowly with drooped heads and monotonous hands, andtears fell forever about their feet. The thoughts that were evil--andJulian had acknowledged them many, though combatted--were endowed witha strangely sinister gait, like the gait of those modern sinners whoexpress, ignorantly, in their motions the hidden deeds their tonguesdecline to speak. The wayward thoughts had faces like women, who kissand frown within the limits of an hour. On the cheeks of the libertinethoughts a rosy cloud of rouge shone softly, and their haggard eyeswere brightened by a cunning pigment. And the noble thoughts, grandin gesture, godlike in bearing, did not pass them by, but spoke to themserene words, and sought to bring them out from their degradation. Andthere was no music in this imagined procession which Valentine longedto see. All was silent as from the gulf of Julian's mind the inhabitantsstole furtively to do their mission. Yes, Valentine knew to-night thathe should feel no wonder if thought took form, if a disembodied voicespoke, or a detached hand moved into ripples of the air. Only he wasirritated and alarmed by the abiding sense of some surrounding danger, which stayed with him, which he fought against in vain. His common sensehad not deserted him. On the contrary, it was argumentative, cogent inexplanation and in rebuke. It strove to sneer his distress down withstinging epithets, and shot arrows of laughter against his aimlessfears. But the combat was, nevertheless, tamely unequal. Common sensewas routed by this enigmatic enemy, and at length Valentine's spiritsbecame so violently perturbed that he could keep silence no longer. 

"Julian, " he said, with a pressure of chained alarm in his voice, "Julian!"

"Yes, " Julian replied, tensely. 

"Anything wrong with you?"

"No, no. Or with you?"

"Nothing definite. "

"What then?"

"I will confess to you that to-night I feel--I feel, well, horriblyafraid. "

"Of what?"

"I have no idea. The feeling is totally unreasonable. That gives it aninexplicable horror. "

"Ah! then that is why you joined your left hand with my right fiveminutes ago. I wondered why you did it. "

"I! Joined hands!"

"Yes. "

"I haven't moved my hand. "

"My dear Val! How is it holding mine then?"

"Don't be absurd, Julian; my hand is not near yours. Both my hands arejust where they were when we sat down, on my side of the table. "

"Just where they were! Your little finger has been tightly linked in minefor the last five minutes. You know that as well as I do. "

"Nonsense!"

"But it is linked now while I am speaking. "

"I tell you it isn't. "

"I'll soon let you know it too. There! Ah! no wonder you have snatched itaway. You forget that my muscles are like steel, and that I can pinch asa gin pinches a rabbit's leg. I say, I didn't really hurt you, did I? Itwas only a joke to stop your little game. "

"I tell you, " Valentine said, almost angrily, "your hand has never oncetouched mine, nor mine yours. "

His accent of irritable sincerity appeared suddenly to carry convictionto the mind of Julian, for he sprang violently up from the table, andcried, in the darkness:

"Then who the devil's in the room with us?"

Valentine also, convinced that Julian had not been joking, wasappalled. He switched on the light, and saw Julian standing oppositeto him, looking very white. They both threw a rapid glance upon theroom, whose dull green draperies returned their inquiry with thecomplete indifference of artistic inanimation. 

"Who the devil's got in here?" Julian repeated, with the savage accent ofextreme uneasiness. 

"Nobody, " Valentine replied. "You know the thing's impossible. "

"Impossible or not, somebody has found means to get in. "

Valentine shook his head. 

"Then you were lying?"

"Julian, what are you saying? Don't go too far. "

"Either you were, or else a man has been sitting at that table betweenus, and I have held his hand, the hand of some stranger. Ouf!"

He shook his broad shoulders in an irrepressible shudder. 

"I was not lying, Julian. I tell you so, and I mean it. "

Valentine's eyes met Julian's, and Julian believed him. 

"Put your hands on the table again, " Julian said. 

Valentine obeyed, and Julian laid his beside them, linking one of hislittle fingers tightly in one of Valentine's, and at the same timeshutting his eyes. After a long pause he grew visibly whiter, and hastilyunlinked his finger. 

"No, damn it, Val, I hadn't hold of your hand. The hand I touched wasmuch harder, and the finger was bigger, thicker. I say, this is ghastly. "

Again he shook himself, and cast a searching glance upon the little room. 

"Somebody has been in here with us, sitting between us in the dark, " herepeated. "Good God, who is it?"

Valentine looked doubtful, but uneasy too. 

"Let us go through the rooms, " he said. 

They took a candle, and, as on the previous night, searched, but invain. They found no trace of any alien presence in the flat. No book, no ornament, had been moved. No door stood open. There was no sound ofany footsteps except their own. When they came to Valentine's bedroom, Rip leaped to greet them, and seemed in excellent spirits. He showedno excitement until he had followed them back into the tentroom. But, arrived there, he suddenly stood still, raised one white paw from theground, and emitted a long and dreary howl. The young men stared at him, and then at each other. 

"Rip knows somebody has been here, " Julian said. 

Valentine was much more uncomfortably impressed by the demeanour ofthe dog than by Julian's declaration and subsequent agitation. He hadbeen inclined to attribute the whole affair to a trick of his friend'snerves. But the nervous system of a fox-terrier was surely, under suchcircumstances as these, more truth-telling than that of a man. 

"But the thing is absolutely impossible, " he repeated, with somedisturbance of manner. 

"Is anything that we can't investigate straight away absolutelyimpossible?"

Valentine did not reply directly. 

"Here is a cigarette, " he said. "Let us sit down, soothe our nerves, and talk things over calmly and openly. We have not been quite frankwith each other about these sittings yet. "

Julian accepted Valentine's offer with his usual readiness. The fire wasrelit with some difficulty. Rip was coaxed into silence. 

Presently, as the smoke curled upward with its lazy demeanour, thehorror that had hung like a thin vapour in the atmosphere seemed tobe dissipated. 

"Now I think we are ourselves again, and can be reasonable, " Valentinebegan. "Don't let us be hysterical. Spiritualists always suffer fromhysteria. "

"The sceptics say, Val. "

"And probably they are generally right. Now--yes, do drink some more ofthat brandy and soda. Now, Julian, do you still believe that a hand heldyours just now?"

Julian answered quietly, showing no irritation at the question:

"I simply know it as surely as I know that I am sitting with youat this moment. And, --look here, you may laugh at me as much as you. Like, --although I supposed the hand to be yours, until you denied itI had previously felt the most curious sensation. "

"Of what?"

"Well, that something was coming, even had actually come, into the room. "

Valentine answered nothing to this, so Julian went on. 

"I thought it was a trick of the nerves, and determined to drive itaway, and I succeeded. And then, just as I was internally laughing atmyself, this hand, as if groping about in the dark, was first laid onmine, full on it, Val, and then slid off onto the table and linked itslittle finger tightly in mine. I, of course, supposed the hand was yours, and this finger was crooked round mine for fully five minutes, I shouldsay. After you spoke, thinking that you were trying to deceive me for ajoke, I caught the hand in mine, and pinched it with all my strengthuntil it was forcibly dragged away. "

"Strange, " Valentine murmured. 

"Deucedly strange! and, what's more, diabolically unpleasant. "

"I wonder what that fellow, Marr, would say to this. "

"Marr! By Jove, is this one of the manifestations which he spoke about sovaguely?"

"It seems like it. "

"But describe your sensations. You say you felt horribly afraid. Why wasthat?"

"I can't tell. That, I think, made part of the horror. There was a sortof definite vagueness, if you can imagine such a seeming contradiction, in my state of mind. But the feeling is really indescribable. That itwas more strange and more terrible than anything I have known is certain. I should like to ask Dr. Levillier about all this. "

"Levillier--yes. But he would--"

"Be reasonable about it, as he is about everything. Dear, sensible, odd, saintly, emotional, strong-headed, soft-hearted little doctor. He isunique. "

They talked on for some time, arriving at no conclusion, until itseemed they had talked the whole matter thoroughly out. Yet Valentine, who was curiously instinctive, had, all the time, a secret knowledgethat Julian was keeping something from him, was not being perfectlyfrank. The conviction pained him. At last Julian got up to go. Hestood putting on his overcoat. 

"Good-night, " he said. 

"Good-night, Julian. "

"Now--is this to be our last sitting?"

Valentine hesitated. 

"What do you wish?" he asked at length. 

"What do you?"

"Well, I--yes, I think I would rather it was the last. "

Julian caught his hand impulsively. 

"So would I. Good-night. "

"Good-night. "

Julian went out into the hall, got as far as the front door, opened it, then suddenly called out:

"Valentine!"

"Yes. "

"Come here for a moment. "

Valentine went, and found him standing with his hand on the door, lookingflushed and rather excited. 

"There is one thing I haven't told you, " he began. 

"I knew that. "

"I guessed you did. The most horrible sensation I have had. During oursitting to-night--don't be vexed--an extraordinary apprehension of--well, of you, came over me. There! Now I have told you. "

Valentine was greatly astonished. 

"Of me?" he said. 

"Yes. There was a moment when the idea that I was alone with you made myblood run cold. "

"Good heavens!"

"Do you wish I hadn't told you?"

"No, of course not. But it is so extraordinary, so unnatural. "

"It is utterly gone now, thank God. I say, we have resolved that we won'tsit again, haven't we?"

"Yes; and what you have just told me makes me hate the whole thing. Thegame seems a game no longer. "

When the door had closed upon Julian, Valentine sat down and wrote anote. 

He addressed it to--

"Doctor Hermann Levillier, "Harley Street, W. , "

and laid it on his writing-table, so that it might be posted early thenext morning. 

CHAPTER VI

A CONVERSATION AT THE CLUB

Doctor Levillier was not a materialist, although he concerned himselfmuch with the functions of the body, and with that strange spider'sweb of tingling threads which we call the nervous system. The man whosweeps out the temple, who polishes the marble steps and dusts thepainted windows, may yet find time to bend in prayer before the altarshe helps to keep beautiful, may yet find a heart to wonder at the spiritwhich the temple holds as an envelope holds a letter. Reversing theprocess of mind which seems to lead so many medical students to atheism, Dr. Levillier had found that the more he understood the weaknesses, thenastinesses, the dreary failures, the unimaginable impulses of the flesh, the more he grew to believe in the existence, within it, of the soul. Oneday a worn-out dyspeptic, famous for his intellectual acquirements overtwo continents, sat with the little great doctor in his consulting-room. The author, with dry, white lips, had been recounting a series of sordidsymptoms, and, as the recital grew, their sordidness seemed suddenly tostrike him with a mighty disgust. 

"Ah, doctor, " he said. "And do you know there are people thousands ofmiles away from Harley Street who actually admire me, who are stirredand moved by what I write, who make a cult and a hero of me. They say Ihave soul, forsooth. But I am all body; you know that. You doctors knowthat it is only body that we put on paper, body that lifts us high, ordrags us low. Why, my best romances come straight from my liver. Mypathos springs from its condition of disorder, and my imaginative forceis only due to an unnatural state of body which I can deliberatelyproduce by drinking tea that has stood a long while and become full oftannin. When my prose glows with fiery beauty, the tea is getting wellhold of my digestive organs, and by the time it has begun to prove itspower by giving me a violent pain in the stomach, I have wrung from ita fine scene which will help to consolidate my fame. When a man winsthe Victoria Cross, his healthy body has done the deed, unprompted byanything higher. Good air, or a muscular life, has strung his nervesstrongly so that he can't, even if he would, appreciate danger. On theother hand, when a man shows funk, turns tail and bolts, and is dubbed acoward, it's his beastly body again. Some obscure physical misfortune isthe cause of his disgrace, and if he'd only been to you he would have wonthe Cross too. Isn't it so? How you doctors must laugh at mystics, and atthose who are ascetics, save for sake of their health. Why, I supposeeven the saint owes his so-called goodness to some analyzable proceedingthat has gone on in his inside, and that you could diagnose. Eh?"

Doctor Levillier was writing a prescription in which bismuth was an item. He glanced up quietly. 

"The more I know of the body, the more I think of and believe in thepower of the soul, " he said. "Have that made up. Take it three times aday and come to me again in a fortnight. Good-morning. "

Indeed, this little man was writing prescriptions for the body andthinking prescriptions for the soul all day long. Within him theredwelt a double mind, the mind of a great doctor and the mind of a greatpriest, and these two minds linked hands and lived as friends. The onenever strove against the other. There was never a moment of estrangement. And if there were frequent arguments and discussions between the two, they were the arguments and discussions that make friendship firmer, not enmity more bitter. And, as Dr. Levillier very well knew, it wasoften the mind of the priest within him that gave to him his healingpower over the body. It was the mind of the priest that had won himtestimonial clocks and silver salvers from grateful patients. Often ashe sat with some dingy-faced complainant, listening to a recital ofsickness or uttering directions about avoidance of green meat, sauces, pastry, and liquids, till the atmosphere seemed that of a hospital, apastry-cook's shop and a bar combined, he was silently examining thepatient's soul, facing its probable vagaries, mapping out the tours ithad taken, scheming for its welfare. And, perhaps, after the dietary wasarranged and the prescription was written, he would say carelessly:

"Do you read much? What do you read? Ah! such and such books. Yes, veryinteresting. Do you know this book which has struck me greatly? No? Allowme to lend it to you. Good-bye. "

And the patient departed, ignorant that he had received a pill for hissoul from the priest as well as a pill for his body from the doctor. 

In appearance Dr. Levillier was small, slight, and delicate looking. His complexion was clear and white. His eyes were blue. What hair hepossessed was rather soft, fluffy and reddish, with a dash of lightbrown in it. He wore neither beard nor moustache, was always very neatlyand simply dressed, and was remarkable for his polished boots, said to bethe most perfectly varnished in London. Although he must have been nearlyfifty-five, he had never married, and some people declared that he hadthe intention of starting a new "order" of medical celibates, who wouldbe father-confessors as well as physicians, and who would pray for thesouls of their patients after tending their bodily needs. 

For some years Valentine had been very intimate with the doctor, whom headmired for his intellect and loved for his nature. So now he resolved tolay the case of the sittings with Julian before him and hear his opinionof the matter. In all their conversations Valentine could not rememberthat they had ever discussed spiritualism or occultism. As a rule, theytalked about books, painting, or music, of which Dr. Levillier was adevoted lover. Valentine's note asked the doctor to dine with him thatnight at his club. The messenger brought back an acceptance. 

They dined at a corner table and the room was rather empty. A few menchatted desultorily of burlesques, horses, the legs of actresses, thechances of politics. The waiters moved quietly about with pathetic masksof satisfied servitude. Valentine and the doctor conversed earnestly. 

At first they spoke of a new symphony composed by a daring youngFrenchman, who had striven to reproduce vices in notes and to summonup visions of things damnable by harmonic progressions which frequentlydefied the laws of harmony. Levillier gently condemned him for puttinga great art to a small and degraded use. 

"His very success makes me regret the waste of his time more deeply, Cresswell, " he said. "He is a marvellous painter in sound. He hasimproved upon Berlioz, if it is improvement to cry sin with a clearer, more determinate voice. Think what a heaven that man could reproducein music. "

"Because he has reproduced a hell. But do you think that follows? Canthe man who wallows with force and originality soar with force andoriginality too?"

"I believe he could learn to. The main thing is to possess genius inany form, the genius to imagine, to construct, to present things thatseize upon the minds of men. But to possess genius is only a beginning. We have to train it, to lead it, to coax it even, until it learns to beobedient. "

"Genius and obedience. Don't the two terms quarrel?"

"They should not. Obedience is a very magnificent thing, Cresswell, justas to have to struggle, to be obliged to fight, is a very magnificentthing. "

"Yes, " Valentine answered, thoughtfully. "I believe you are right. But, if you are right, I have missed a great deal. "

"How do you deduce that?"

"In this way. I have never had to be obedient. I have never had tostruggle. "

"Surely the latter, " the little doctor said, fixing his clear, kindeyes on Valentine's face. "I don't think, in all my experience, thatI have ever met a man who lived a fine, pure life without fixing thebayonet and using the sword at moments. There must be an occasional_mêlée_. "

"Indeed not; that is to say, " Valentine rather hastily added, "as regardsthe pure life. For I cannot lay claim to anything fine. But I assure youthat my life has been pure without a struggle. "

"Without one? Think!"

"Without one. Perhaps that is what wearies me at moments, doctor, thecompleteness of my coldness. Perhaps it is this lack of necessity tostruggle that has at last begun to render me dissatisfied. "

"I thought you were free from that evil humour of dissatisfaction, that evil humour which crowds my consulting-rooms and wastes away thevery tissues of the body. "

"I have been, until quite lately. I have been neither pessimist noroptimist--just myself, and I believe happy. "

"And what is this change? and what has it led to?"

"It was to tell you that I asked you here to-night. "

They had finished dinner, and rose from the table. Passing through thehall of the club, they went into a huge high room, papered with books. Valentine led the way to a secluded corner, and gave the doctor a cigar. When he had lit it and settled himself comfortably, his rather smallfeet, in their marvellously polished boots, lightly crossed, his headreposing serenely on the back of his chair, Valentine continued, answering his attentive silence. 

"It has led to what I suppose you would call an absurdity. But first, the change itself. A sort of dissatisfaction has been creeping over me, perhaps for a long while, I being unconscious of it. At length I becameconscious. I found that I was weary of being so free from the impulseto sin--to sin, I mean, in definite, active ways, as young men sin. Itseemed to me that I was missing a great deal, missing the delight sin issaid to give to natures, or at least missing the invigorating necessityyou have just mentioned, the necessity to fight, to wage war againstimpulses. "

"I understand. "

"And one night I expressed this feeling to Julian. "

"To Addison?" the doctor said, an expression of keen interest slidinginto his face. "I should much like to know how he received it. "

"He said, of course, that such a dissatisfaction was rather monstrous. "

"Was that all?"

"No. He told me he considered temptation rather a curse than otherwise, and then he surprised me very much. "

"He told you a secret?"

"Why, yes. "

"The secret of your great influence over his life?"

"You knew of this secret, then?"

"He didn't tell it to me. Long ago I divined it. Addison is a veryinteresting fellow to a doctor, and the fact of his strong friendshipwith you has made him more interesting even than he would otherwisehave been. His physique is tremendous. He has a quite unusual vitality, and stronger passions by far than most Englishmen. I confess that myknowledge of human nature led me to foresee a very troubled and toovehement future for him. My anticipation being utterly falsified ledme naturally to look round for the reason of its falsification. I verysoon found that reason in you. "

"I had never suspected it. "

"Your lack of suspicion was not the least reason of the influence youexercised. "

"Possibly. He told me of the strength of his evil impulses, of how hehated their assaults, and of how being with me enabled him to conquerthem. Apparently the contemplation of my unnatural nature is an armourto him. "

"It is. "

"Well, I continued to bewail my condition, which he envied, and it endedin our sitting down, in jest, to make an experiment to try to exchangeour souls. "

"What means did you take?"

And then Valentine told Dr. Levillier the exact circumstances of thethree sittings, without embellishment, without omission of any kind. He listened with keen attention, and without attempting interruptionor intruding comment. When Valentine had finished he made no remark. 

"What do you think of it, doctor?"

"Of what part of it?"

"Of any part. Do you attach any importance to it?"

"I do, certainly. "

"I thought you would laugh at the whole thing. "

"Why should I? Why should I laugh at any circumstances which stronglyaffect men whom I know, or, indeed, any men?"

"But then, tell me, do you believe in some strange, unseen agency? Do youbelieve that Julian absolutely held the hand of some being dwelling inanother sphere, some being attracted to us, or, say, enabled to come tous by such an action as our sitting at a table in the dark?"

"No. I don't believe that. "

"You attribute the whole thing to bodily causes?"

"I am inclined to attribute it to the action and reaction of mind andbody, undoubtedly. If you had sat in the light, for instance, I don'tthink Addison would have felt that hand. The hand is indeed the least ofthe circumstances you have related, in my opinion. The incidents of thedog and of the curtain are far more mysterious. You are positive the doorwas securely shut?"

"Quite positive. "

"Could you, after having drawn the curtain, have allowed your hand toslip slightly back, pulling the curtain with it?"

"I don't think so. I feel sure not. "

"You know we all constantly make involuntary motions--motions that ourminds are quite unaware of. "

"I do feel sure, nevertheless. And the dog? What do you say to that?"

"I don't know what to say. But dogs are extraordinarily sensitive. I donot think it beyond the bounds of possibility that the tumult of yournerves--for there was tumult; you confess it--communicated itself tohim. "

"And was the cause of his conduct?"

"Yes. In the course of my career I have been consulted by a great manypatients whose nervous systems have been disastrously upset by thepractices you describe, by so-called spiritualism, table-turning, andso forth. One man I knew, trying to cultivate himself onto what hecalled 'a higher plane, ' cultivated himself into a lunatic asylum, where he still remains. "

"Then you consider spiritualism--?"

"I have too much respect for the soul, too much belief in its greatdestiny, Cresswell, to juggle with it, or to play tricks with it. Whenone meets a genius one does not want to have a game at puss-in-the-cornerwith him. One is rather anxious to hear him talk seriously and displayhis mind. When I come into contact with a soul, I don't want to try todetach it from the home in which a divine power has placed it for a time. I glory in many limitations against which it is the prevailing fashionto fight uselessly. The soul can do all its work where it is--in thebody. The influence you exercise over your friend Addison convinces meof the existence of spirits, things which will eventually be freed fromthe body, more certainly than any amount of material manifestations, sights, sounds, apparent physical sensations. Why should we not besatisfied with remaining, for a time, as we are? I consider that you andAddison were ill-advised in making this--no doubt absurd--experiment. Supposing it to be absurd, the _raison d'être_ of the sittings is gone atonce. Supposing it not to be--"

"Yes. What, then?"

"Then the danger is great. Imagine yourself with Addison's soul ornature, him with yours. To what might not you be led? How do you knowthat your nature in him would exert any control over his nature in you?"

"Why should it not?"

"There comes in the power of the body, which is very great. I believe, as you know, absolutely in the existence of the soul, and in its immortaldestiny; but that does not blind me to the extraordinary influence, theextraordinary kingship, which a mere body, a mere husk and shell, as somegood people call it--I don't feel with them--can obtain not only overanother body, but, strangely, over the soul which is in that body. Yourinfluence over Addison has been, and is, immense. Do you imagine that itis simply your nature which governs him?"

"I suppose so. "

"Your mere appearance may have an immense deal to do with the matter. You have the look, the expression, of one who has not sinned. It ispartly that which keeps Addison from giving the reins to his impulses. I consider that if it were possible for your nature to change secretlyand for your face to remain unchanged, if you sinned perpetually andretained your exact appearance, and if Addison did not know you sinned, you could still be his guardian, while, really, yourself far worse inevery way than him. "

"But surely that fights against your theory that the existence of a soulis proved by such an influence as I possess over Addison?"

"Not at all. I said if it were possible for the body not to express thesoul, if--but that's just the difficulty, it is not possible. The bodymanifests the soul. Supposing it were not so, the power of evil, thedevil, if you choose to name it and imply a personal existence for it, might have hold of the world even more tightly than now. Just conceive, under such conditions, how you might lure Addison to destruction if youdesired to do so. Looking at you, and seeing the same face in which hehas learned to see what he thinks entire goodness, he would be unable tobelieve that any action you could suggest and take part in could be evil. You could wreck his future with a perfect ease. But, as things are, didyour nature change and become malignant, your face would change too, andyou might quickly cease to exercise a strong influence over Addison. Hemight even, having now been unconsciously trained into a curiousintegrity, learn to hate and to despise you. You remember ourconversation to-night about that symphony?"

"Yes. "

"I said that the soul which could reproduce hell should be able toreproduce heaven. "

"I know. "

"Well, my boy--for you are a boy to me--the reverse of that might happenalso. "

"Perhaps. But I don't quite see. "

"The application--to you?"

"To me?"

"Yes, to you, Cresswell. You have been given a strangely perfect nature. As you say, you seem to have nothing to do with the matter. You have evenbeen inclined to rebel against your gift. But, take my advice. Cherishit. Don't play with it, as you have been playing. Remember, if you loseheaven, the space once filled by heaven will not be left empty. "

"Ah! now I see. You think that I--"

"Might swing from a great height to an equally great depth. That hasbeen my experience--that the man who is once extreme is always extreme, but not always in the same way. The greatest libertines have made thegreatest ascetics. But, within my own experience, I have known thereverse process to obtain. And you, if you changed, might carry Addisonwith you. "

"But then, doctor, you do believe in these manifestations?"

"Not necessarily. But I believe that the minds of men are often verycarefully, very deftly, poised, and that a little push can send them oneway or the other. Have you ever balanced one billiard-ball on the top ofanother?"

"Yes. "

"Then you know that a breath will upset it and send it rolling. Be careful. Your mind, your very nature, may be poised like thatbilliard-ball. Addison's may be the same. Indeed, I feel sureAddison's is. That curious dread of you which overcame him at yourlast sitting is a sign of it. The whole thing is wrong--bad for bodyand for mind. "

"Perhaps. Well, we have definitely agreed to give it up. "

"That's well. Eleven o'clock! I must be going. Are you doing anythingto-morrow night?"

"No. "

"I have got a box for this new play at the Duke's Theatre. Will youcome?"

"With pleasure. "

"I will ask Addison also. "

They put on their overcoats, and walked a little way along Pall Mallbefore they parted. Near the Atheneaum they passed a tall, thin man, who was coming in the opposite direction. He turned round as they wentby, and stood directly regarding them till they were out of sight. 

CHAPTER VII

THE REGENT STREET EPISODE

The things we do apparently by chance often have a curious applicabilityto the things we have thought. John the Baptist was sent to prepare theway of the Lord. These thoughts are the John the Baptists of the mind, and prepare the way for facts that often startlingly illustrate them. It is as if our thoughts were gradually materialized by the action of themind; as if, by the act of thinking, we projected them. 

When Doctor Levillier got a box for the first night of the new play atthe Duke's Theatre, and when he invited Valentine and Julian to make uphis party, he had no idea what the subject of the piece was, no notionthat it would have anything to do with the conversation which took placebetween him and Valentine at the club. But the plot applied with almostamazing fidelity to much that he had said upon that occasion. The playwas a modern allegory of the struggle between good and evil, which hasbeen illustrated in so many different ways since the birth of the Faustlegend. But the piece had a certain curious originality which sprangfrom the daring of the author. Instead of showing one result of thestruggle, a good man drawn gradually down, or a bad man drawn graduallyup, he set forth, with a great deal of detail, a great deal of vividness, a modern wobbler, a human pendulum, and simply noted down, as it were, his slow swinging backwards and forwards. His hero, an evil liver, amodern man of wrath in the first act, dominated by a particular vice, was drawn, by an outside personal influence, from the mire in whichhe was wallowing, to purity, to real elevation. But his author, havingled him up to the pinnacle, had no intention of leaving him there, blessed by the proclaimed admiration of the gods in the gallery. In thesucceeding acts he introduced a second personal influence, exerted thistime on the side of evil, and permitted it to act upon his central figuresuccessfully. The man fell again into the mire, and was left there at theconclusion of the piece, but hugging a different sin, not the sin he hadbeen embracing when the curtain rose upon the first act. This dramaticscheme took away the breath of the house for a moment, but only for amoment. Then the lungs once more did their accustomed duty, and enableda large number of excited persons to hiss with a wonderful penetration. Their well-meant efforts did not have the effect of terrorizing theauthor. On the contrary, he quickly responded to the hostile uproar, and, coming forward in a very neat Jaeger suit, a flannel shirt, and apair of admirably fitting doeskin gloves, bowed with great gravity andperfect self-possession. The hisses thereupon suddenly faded intopiercing entreaties for a speech, in which a gallery lady with a powerfulsoprano voice became notorious as the leader. But the Jaeger author wasnot to be prevailed upon. He waved the doeskin gloves in token of adieu, and retreated once more into the excited obscurity of the wings, wherehis manager was trembling like an aspen, in the midst of a perspiringcompany. The lights were turned down. The orchestra burst into a tunefuljig, and the lingering audience at length began to disperse. 

Dr. Levillier, Julian, and Valentine left their box in silence. Itseemed that this odd play, which dared to be natural, had impressedthem. They walked into the vestibule without a word, and, avoiding manyvoluble friends who were letting off the steam as they gathered theircoats and hats from a weary lady in a white cap, they threaded their waythrough the crowd and emerged into the street. Just as they reached theportico, Julian suddenly started and laid his hand on Valentine's arm. 

"What is it?" asked Valentine, looking round. 

"Ah! you're just too late. He's gone!"

"He--who?"

"Marr. "

"Oh, " Valentine said, showing considerable interest; "I wish I had seenhim. Where was he sitting?"

"I haven't an idea. Didn't know he was in the theatre. "

Doctor Levillier made an exception to his rule of being in bed by twelveo'clock that night, and accepted Valentine's invitation to sup inVictoria Street. He had always been greatly drawn to Valentine, attractedby the latter's exceptional clarity of character, and he was scarcelyless interested in Julian. Nor did the considerable difference betweenhis age and the ages of the two youths in any way interfere with theirpleasant intercourse. For Levillier had a heart that was ageless. Thecorroding years did not act as acid upon it. All his sympathies were askeen, all his power of enjoyment was as great, as when he had been adelightfully gay and delightfully pleasant boy at school. Youth alwaysloved him, and age always respected him. He possessed the great secretof a beautiful life. He was absolutely genuine, and he meant nothingbut good to all with whom he was brought into contact. 

The three friends spoke but little as they went back to the flat, butwhen they had sat down to supper, and Dr. Levillier had expressed hiscomplete satisfaction with the champagne that Valentine's butler hadpolitely insinuated into his glass, the silence took to itself wingsand lightly departed. They talked of the play, and it appeared thatthey were all impressed by it, but in slightly different ways, and fordifferent reasons. Valentine, who was intensely, but sometimes almostcoldly, artistic, appreciated it, he said, because it did not obviouslyendeavour to work out a problem or to teach a lesson. It simply, witha great deal of literary finish and dramatic force, stated a curiouslyhuman character, showed the nature of a man at work, and left him, after some scenes of his life, still at work upon his own salvation ordestruction, not telling the audience what his end would be, scarcelyeven trying to imply his innate tendency one way or the other. Thissatisfied Valentine. This had made him feel as if he had seen a blockcut out of life. 

"I do not want to learn what becomes of that man, " he said. "I haveknown him, good and bad. That is enough. That satisfies me more thanthe sight of a thousand bombastic heroes, a thousand equally bombasticvillains. Life is neither ebony nor ivory. That man is something to mymind forever, as Ibsen's 'Master Builder' is something. I can neverforget the one or the other. "

"Your life is ivory, Val, " Julian said. 

He had liked the play because the violent struggle between good and evilwoke up many responsive memories in his mind. The hero of the play hadbeen shown feeling precisely as Julian had often felt. That was enough. He did not very much care for the brilliant artifice, which Valentine hadremarked with so much pleasure. He did not specially note the peculiareffect of nature produced by the simplicity and thoughtful directnessof the dialogue. He only knew that he had seen somebody whose naturewas akin to his own nature, although placed in different, perhaps moredramatic, circumstances. 

Dr. Levillier combined, to some appreciable extent, the different joysof his two companions, and obtained another that was quite his own. Hehad seen two horses running in double harness that night, the body andmind of the hero, and had taken delight in observing what had practicallyescaped the definite notice of his companions, the ingenuity and subtletywith which the author, without being obtrusive or insistent, haddisplayed their _liaison_; the effect of each upon the other, theiranswering excursions and alarums, their attempts at separate _amours_, _amours_ that always had an inevitable effect upon the one which theother had, for the moment, endeavoured to exclude from its life. Thedoctor in him and the priest in him had both enjoyed a glorious eveningof bracing activity. As they discussed the piece, and each advanced hisreason of pleasure, the doctor expanded into a sort of saintly geniality, which was peculiarly attractive even to sinners. And when supper wasover, and they strolled into the drawing-room to smoke and to make music, he sank into a chair, stretched out his polished boots with a sigh, andsaid:

"And people say there is so little joy in life!"

Julian laughed at the satisfied whimsicality of his exclamation and ofthe expression which shadowed it. 

"Light up, doctor, " he cried. "You are a boon to this modern world. Foryou see all the sorrows of life, I suppose, and yet you always manage toconvey the impression that the joys win the battle after all. "

Valentine had gone over to the piano and was dreamily opening it. He didnot seem to hear what they were saying. The doctor obeyed the injunctionto light up. He was one of the hardest and most assiduous toilers inall London, and he appreciated a good cigar and a comfortable arm-chairmore than some men could appreciate Paradise, or some women appreciatelove. 

"And I believe that joy will win the battle in the end, " he said, with apuff that proved successful. 

"Why?"

"I see evidences of it, or think I do. The colour will fade out of badacts, Addison, but the colour of a good act is eternal. A noble deed willnever emulate a Sir Joshua Reynolds--never. Play to us, Cresswell. "

"Yes, but I wish you to talk. I want to improvise to-night. The murmur ofyour conversation will help me. "

Julian sat down by the doctor. He, too, looked very happy. It was apleasant hour. Sympathy was in that pretty room, complete human sympathy, and a sympathy that sprang from their vitality, avoiding the duskydumbness of the phlegmatic. Valentine sat down at the piano and begangently to play. The smoke from the cigars curled away towards thewatching pictures; the room was full of soft music. 

"Yes, Addison, " Doctor Levillier continued, in a low voice, "I amperpetually sitting with sorrow, communing with disease. Thatconsulting-room of mine is as a pool of Bethesda, only not all who cometo it, alas! can be healed. I sit day by day in my confessional--I liketo call it that; perhaps I was meant to be a priest--and I read thestories of the lives of men and of women, most of them necessarily, fromthe circumstances which bring them to me, sad. And yet I have a beliefin joy and its triumph which nothing can ever shake, a belief in thefinal glory of good which nothing can ever conquer. "

"That's fine, doctor. But do you know why you have it?"

"I daresay that question is difficult to answer. I often seek for myreasons, Addison, and I find many, though I can hardly say which isthe best, or whether any quite explains the faith that is always in me. _Apropos_ of this evening, by the bye, I long ago found one of my reasonsin the theatre, the theatre which some really good men hate and condemn. "

"What was that?"

"Oh, a very simple one. I believe that men in the mass express eternaltruths more readily, more certainly, than men as individuals. Put a lotof bad men, or--we won't call them bad, why should we?--loose, careless, thoughtless men, together in the pit of a theatre. Many of them, perhaps, drink, and are rendered cruel by drink. Many of them care nothing formorality, and have wounded, in the worst way, the souls of women. Manyof them show incessant hardness in most of the relations of life. What, then, is it, that makes all these individuals respond so directly, socertainly, to every touch of goodness, and gentleness, and unselfishness, and purity, and faith, that is put before them upon the stage? I think itmust be that eternal truth--the rocks of good that lie forever beneaththe wild seas of evil. Those men don't know themselves; don't know thatit is all useless for them to try to hide the nobility which has been putinto them, to thrust it down, and, metaphorically, to dance on it. Theycan't get rid of it, do what they will. I like to think of goodness asthe shadow of evil through life, the shadow that, at death, or perhapslong after death, becomes the substance. "

"You think we cannot kill the good that is in us?"

"Not quite. But I think we can go near to killing it, so near that itwill take longer to recover and to be itself again, longer far than themost relapsing typhoid patient. "

"And have you other reasons for your belief?"

"Perhaps. But some of them are difficult to define, and would carry noconviction to any one but myself. There is one in this very room withus. "

Julian glanced up, surprised. 

"What is that, doctor?" he said. 

"You ought to know better than I, " Levillier answered. 

He was looking at Valentine, who, apparently quite unconscious of theirpresence, was still playing rather softly. Julian followed his eyes. 

The light in the room was dim, a carefully manufactured twilight. It isstrange how many things, and how slight, stir, control, influence in onedirection or another, the emotions. Light and the absence of light candivert a heart as easily as the pressing of a button can give a warshipto the sea. Twilight and music can change a beast into a man, a man intoan angel, for the moment. Long after that evening was dead, both Julianand Doctor Levillier anxiously, and in their different ways analytically, considered it. They submitted it to a secret process of probing, such asmany men enforce upon what they imagine to be great causes in theirlives. That hour became an hour of wonder, an hour of amazement, viewedin the illumination of subsequent events. They found in it a curiousclimax of misunderstanding, a culmination of all deceptive things. 

And yet, in that hour they only watched a young man of London, a modernintellectual youth, playing in a Victoria Street drawing-room upon aSteinway grand piano. 

They were sitting sideways to Valentine, and a little behind him. Therefore he could not easily see them unless he slightly turned hishead. But they could observe him, and, obeying Doctor Levillier's muteinjunction, Julian now did so. 

Valentine was gazing straight before him over the top, of the piano, andhis eyes seemed to be fixed upon the dim figure of Christ in the pictureof "The Merciful Knight. " Was he not playing to the picture, playing tothat figure in it? And did not his musical imagination seek to reproducein sound the vision of the life of that mailed knight who never lived anddied? The purity of his expression, always consummate, was to-night morepeculiar, more unearthly, than before in any place, at any moment. And, as mere line can convey to the senses of man a conception of a greatvirtue or of a great vice, the actual shape of his features, thus seen inprofile, was the embodiment of an exquisitely ascetic purity, as much anembodiment as is a drop of water pierced by a sunbeam. This struck bothDoctor Levillier and Julian, and the doctor was amazed anew at the silentdecree that the invisible shall be made visible in forms comprehensibleto the commonest minds. Sin would surely flee from a temple sculpturedin such a shape as the body of Valentine, as a vampire would flee fromthe bloodless courts of the heaven of the Revelation. Lust cannot lieat ease on a crystal couch, or rest its dark head upon a pillow of paleivory. And the message of this strange, unearthly youth now given inmusic, and to the air and the dust--for Valentine had lost knowledgeof his friends--was crystalline too. In his improvisation he journeyedthrough many themes of varying characters. He hymned the knight'stemptation no less than his triumph. But purity was in the hymn evenat the hour of temptation, and sang like a bird in every scene of thelife, --a purity classical, detached, so refined as to be almostphysically cold. 

"I understand you, " Julian whispered to the little doctor. "Yes, youare right. He is a great reason why what you think may be true. Andyet"--here Julian lowered his voice to a breath, lest he might disturbthe player--"he is not religious, as--as--well, as you are. Forgive theallusion--. "

"Are the angels religious?" said Doctor Levillier. "Why should yourefrain, my dear boy? But you are right. There is a curiousunconsciousness about Cresswell--about Valentine--which seems toexclude even definite religious belief as something in a wayself-conscious, and so impossible to him. There is an extraordinarystrain of the child in Cresswell, such as I conceive to be in unearthlybeings, who have never had the power to sin. And the best-behaved, sweetest child in the world might catch flies or go to sleep duringthe Litany or a sermon. This very absence of controversial or dogmaticreligion gives Valentine much of his power, seems positively to lift himhigher than religionists of any creed. "

"You think--you think that perhaps it is something in him of which he isunconscious which does so much for me?"

"Perhaps it is. "

Valentine now glided into an accompaniment, and began to sing. Andthe doctor and Julian ceased to talk. Valentine certainly did not singwith such peculiar skill as he showed in playing, but he had a charmingvoice which he used with great ease, and he never sang a single note, or phrased a passage, without complete intelligence and understandingof his composer. Only he lacked power. This scarcely interfered with thepleasure he could give in a drawing-room, and to-night both Levillier andJulian were rather in a mood for supreme delicacy than for great passion. They listened with silent pleasure for a time. Then Levillier said:

"Do you remark how wonderfully the timbre of Cresswell's voice expressesthe timbre of his mind? The parallel is exact. "

Julian nodded. 

"That is his soul written in sound, " the doctor added. 

It was at this point that Valentine ceased and got up from the piano. 

"I must smoke too, " he said. "No, not a cigar, I'll have a cigaretteto-night. "

"You are fond of that picture, Cresswell?" said Doctor Levillier asValentine sat down. 

"'The Merciful Knight'? Yes, I love it. Have you told Julian your opinionof our sittings, doctor?"

"No. He didn't ask me for it. "

"I should be glad to have it, all the same, " Julian said. 

"Well, my opinion is entirely adverse to your proceedings, " Levilliersaid, with his usual frankness. 

"You are, in fact, at the opposite pole from Marr, " Julian answered. 

"Marr! Who is Marr? I never heard of him. "

"Nor I, until the other evening, " Julian said. "But now I see him everyday. He was at the theatre to-night. I saw him as we came out. "

"What is he, a spiritualist? A professional?"

"Oh dear, no! He calls himself an occultist. He goes out in society agreat deal, apparently. I met him at dinner first. Since then he hastaken the keenest interest in my sittings with Valentine. "

"Indeed! You know him, Cresswell?"

Valentine shook his head, and Julian laughed. 

"The fun of it is that Marr doesn't wish to know Valentine, " he said. 

"Why?" the doctor asked. 

Julian told him the words Marr had used in reference to Valentine, andgave a fairly minute description of Marr's attitude towards theirproceedings. Levillier listened with great attention. 

"Then this man urges you to go on with your sittings?" he said whenJulian had finished. 

"Scarcely that. But he certainly seems anxious that we should. "

"You have both resolved to give them up, haven't you?"

"Certainly, doctor, " Valentine replied. 

"Does Marr know that?" Levillier asked of Julian. 

"No. I haven't seen him to speak to since our final sitting. "

The little doctor sat in apparent meditation for two or three minutes. Then he remarked, with abruptness:

"Addison, will you think me an impertinent elderly person if I give you apiece of advice?"

"You--doctor! Of course not. What is it?"

"Well, you young fellows know me, know that I am not a meresentimentalist or believer in every humbug that is the fashion ofthe moment. But one thing I do firmly believe, that certain peopleare born with a power to command, or direct others, which amounts toforce. The world doesn't completely recognize this. The law doesn'trecognize, perhaps ought not to recognize it. Some call it hypnotism. I call it suggestion. "

He paused, as if he had finished. 

"But your advice, doctor?" Julian said, wondering. 

"Oh, h'm! I don't mean to give it to you, after all. "

"Why?"

Doctor Levillier became enigmatic. 

"Because I have just remembered that to warn is often to supply a causeof stumbling, " he said. 

Dr. Levillier and Julian drove together as far as the latter'schambers that evening, and, after bidding Julian good-night, the doctordismissed the cab and set out to walk to Harley Street. He proceededat a leisurely pace along Piccadilly, threading his way abstractedlyamong the wandering wisps of painted humanity that dye the London nightwith rouge. Occasionally a passing man in evening dress would bid himgood-night, for he was universally known in the town. But he did notreply. With his firm round chin pressed down upon his fur coat, and hiseyelids lowered, he moved thoughtfully. The problem of the relationsexisting between youth and life eternally fascinated him. He ponderedover them now. What a strange, complicated _liaison_ it was, sometimesso happy, sometimes so disastrous, always, to him, pathetic. Youth setsup house with life as a lover sets up house with his mistress, takes anattic near the stars, or builds a mansion that amazes the street-urchins. And they dwell together. And youth strives in every way to know hismistress. He tests her, tries her, kisses and cuffs her, gives herpresents, weeps at her knees. And at first she is magical, and a wonder, and a dream, and eternity. And then, perhaps, she is a faded creature, and terrible as a lost girl whom one has known in innocence. She is grimand arid. She fills youth with a great horror and with a great fear. Hedare not kiss her any more. And then, perhaps, at last he prays, "Deliverme from this bondage!" And he thinks that he knows his mistress. But, happy or sad, does he ever quite know her? Is she not always a mystery, this life, a sphinx who jealously guards a great secret?

His evening with the two boys, for so the doctor called them in histhoughts, had set him musing thus definitely. Was there not a wonderand a secret in their dual life of friendship? For is not the potentinfluence of one soul over another one of the marvels of time? Thedoctor loved Valentine as a human saint loves another saint. But heloved Julian as a saint loves a sinner. Not that he named Julian sinner, but it was impossible to be with him, observantly, sensitively, and notto feel the thrill of his warm, passionate humanity, which cried aloudfor governance, for protection. Julian could be great, with the greatnessonly attained by purged humanity, superior surely to the peaceful purityof angels. But he could be a castaway, oh! as much a castaway as thefainting shipwrecked man whom the hoarse surf rolls to the sad island ofa desert sea. 

Without Valentine what might he not have been? And the little doctorlet his imagination run loose until his light eyes were dim with absurdtears. He winked them away as he turned into Regent Street. The hourwas nearly two, and the great curved thoroughfare was rather deserted. Those few persons who were about had a curious aspect of wolves. Theireyes were watchful; their gait denoted a ghastly readiness for pause, for colloquy. Poor creatures! What was their _liaison_ with life? Athing like a cry for help in the dark. The doctor longed to be amiracle-worker, to lift up his hands, just there where he was by theNew Gallery, and to say, "Be ye healed!" He had a true love for everyhuman thing. And that love sometimes seared his heart, despite hisfervent faith and hope. 

But now, as he pursued his way, a physical sensation intruded itself uponhis mind, and gradually excluded all his reflections. A sense of bodilyuneasiness came upon him, of a curious irritation and contempt, mingledwith fear. He at first ascribed it to the coffee he had imprudentlydrunk at Valentine's flat, and to the strength of the two cigars he hadsmoked, or to some ordinary, trifling cause of diet. But by the time hecrossed Oxford Street, and was in the desert of Vere Street, he feltthat there was a reason for his distress, outside of him. 

"I am being followed, " he said to himself. "I am being followed, and bysome utterly abominable person. "

He went by the Chapel, and struck across to the right, not looking behindhim, but analyzing his feelings. Being strongly intuitive, he had no needto turn his head. He knew now for certain the cause of his uneasiness. Some dreadful human being was very near to him, full of hateful thoughts, sinister recollections, possibly evil intentions. Something, the veryvibrations of the night air, it might be, carried, as a telegraph wireconveys a message, the soul-aroma of this human being to the doctor. Ashe walked on, not hurrying, he mutely diagnosed the heart of this unseenbeing. It seemed full of deadly disease. Never had he suspected man orwoman of such wickedness as he divined here; never had he felt from anyof his kind such a sick repulsion as from this unseen monster who wasjourneying steadily in his steps. Doctor Levillier was puzzled at thedepth of the horror which beleaguered him. He remembered once driving astaid, well-behaved horse in a country lane. The animal ambled forwardat a gentle pace, flicking its ears lazily to circumvent the flies, apparently at ease with its driver and with the world. But suddenly itraised its head, drew the air into its distended nostrils, stopped, quivered in every limb, and then, with a strange cry, bolted like amad thing. Far away a travelling menagerie was encamping. It had scentedthe wild animals. 

Doctor Levillier felt like that horse. A longing to bolt for his lifecame upon him. He had an impulse to cry out, to run forward, to escapeout of the atmosphere created by this evil nature, this deadly life. Hecould have crept like a coward into the shadow of one of the areas ofHenrietta Street, and sheltered there till the thing went past. And, justbecause he had this almost overmastering desire to flee, he stood still, paused abruptly, and, without turning his head, listened. At a distance, and he judged, round the corner of the street he heard the sound of aquickening footstep advancing in his direction. He waited, under theobligation of exerting all his powers of self-control; for his limbstrembled to movement, his heart beat to the march, and every separatevein, every separate hair of his body, seemed crying out piercingly tobegone. The footstep approached. Doctor Levillier heard it turning thecorner. 

"Now, " thought he, "this person will see me waiting here. Will he comeon? Will he pass me? And if he does, shall I be able to await, to endurethe incident?"

And he listened, as a scout might listen in the night for sounds of thehidden enemy. Upon turning the corner, the footsteps advanced a pace ortwo, faltered, slackened, stopped. For an instant there was silence. The doctor knew that the man had been struck by his attentive figure, andwas pausing to regard it, to consider it. What would be the result of theinspection? In a moment the doctor knew. The footsteps sounded again, this time in retreat. 

On this the impulse of the doctor to flee changed, giving way to astrict desire and determination. He was resolved to interview thisnight-wanderer, to see his face. A greedy anxiety for view, forquestion, of this person came upon him. He, too, wheeled round, andfollowed hastily in pursuit. The man had already escaped from his sightinto Vere Street, and the doctor broke into a soft run until he reachedthe corner, skirting which, the man was immediately in his view, butat a considerable distance from him. As the doctor sprang upon thepavement the man turned round, and, evidently observing that he waspursued, quickened his steps impulsively. The doctor was now absolutelydetermined to address him, and began openly to run. And he was not farfrom coming up with the fellow when he suddenly whistled a passinghansom, bounded in, and thrust up the trapdoor in the roof. The directiongiven was sufficiently obvious, for the cabby glanced round at thedoctor, lifted his whip, brought it down with a sweep over the horse'sloins, and the cab disappeared down Oxford Street at a rocking gallop. 

The doctor paused. He was breathing hard, and the perspiration stood uponhis face. His disappointment was absurdly keen, and for an instant he hadeven some idea of hailing another cab, and of following in pursuit. But, upon reflection, he deemed it more reasonable to return upon his steps, and to seek his bed in Harley Street. This accordingly he did, wonderingwhat had moved him so strangely, and wondering, also, not a little, atthe abrupt flight of the unknown person. In the brief and distant viewof him, which was all that the doctor had obtained, he judged him to betall, spare, and pale of countenance, with the figure of a gentleman. The aspect of his face had not been revealed before the shelter of thecab concealed him. 

CHAPTER VIII

PAUSE

It chanced that for three or four days after the night of the theatreexpedition Valentine and Julian did not meet. They were rarely apartfor so long a period, and each was moved to wonder at this unwontedabstinence of their friendship. What was the cause of it? Each found itin a curious hesitation that enveloped him, and impelled him to avoidanceof the other. Valentine went about as usual. He looked in at White's, dined out, rode in the park, visited two theatres, lived the habitualLondon life which contents so many and disgusts not a few. But he didnot ask Julian to share any of these well-worn doings, and at first hedid not acknowledge to himself why he did not do so. He sought, moredefinitely than ever before, to gain amusement from amusements, andthis definite intention, of course, frustrated his purpose. His powerof pleasure was, in fact, clogged by an abiding sense of dissatisfactionand depression. And it was really his eventual knowledge of thisdepression's cause that led him to bar Julian out from these few daysof his life. All that he did bored him, and the more decidedly becausehe came to know that there was something which did not bore, which evenexcited him, something which he had resolved to give up. He was, infact, strangely pursued by an unreasonable desire to fly in the face ofDoctor Levillier's advice, and of his own secondary antagonistic desire, and to sit again with Julian. Everything in which he sought to finddistraction, lacked savour. As he sat watching a ballet that glitteredwith electricity, and was one twinkle of coloured movement, he foundhimself longing for the silence, the gloom, the live expectation ofthe tentroom, night, and Julian. At White's the conversation of the menstruck him as even more scrappy, more desultorily scandalous, than usual. His morning ride was an active _ennui_, an _ennui_ revolving, like ahorse in a circus, round and round the weariness of the park. 

Yet he had made up his mind quite fully that it would be better notto sit any more. It was not merely Doctor Levillier's urgency thathad impressed him thus. A personal conviction had gradually forceditself upon him that if anything resulted from such apparently imbecileproceedings it would certainly not be of an agreeable nature. But, too, this very sense that a secret danger might be lurking against him andJulian, if only they would consent together to give it power by theunited action of sitting, spurred him on to restless desire. It isnot only the soldier who has a bizarre love of peril. Many of thosewho sit at home in apparent calmness of safety seek perils with amaniacal persistence, perils to the intricate scheme of bodily health, perils to the mind. More human mules than the men of the banner and thesword delight in journeying at the extreme edge of the precipice. AndValentine now had to the full this secret hankering after danger. As heknew it, he despised himself for it, for this attitude of the schoolboyin which he held himself. Until now he had believed that he was freefrom such a preposterous and morbid bondage, free on account of hisconstitutional indifference towards vice, his innate love of the broodingcalms of refinement and of the upper snowfields of the intellect. Thediscovery of his mistake irritated him, but the irritation could notconquer its cause, and each day the longing to sit once more grew uponhim until it became almost painful. It was this longing which occasionedValentine's avoidance of Julian. He knew that if they were together hewould yield to this foolish, witless temptation, and at any rate try topersuade Julian into an act which might be attended with misfortune, ifnot with disaster. And then Valentine's profound respect for DoctorLevillier, a respect which the doctor inspired without effort in everyone who knew him, was a chain almost of steel to hold the young man backfrom gratification of his longing. Valentine never sought any one'sadvice except the little doctor's, and he had a strong feeling of theobligation laid upon him by such sought advice. To ask it and to rejectit was a short course to insult. 

He resolved to avoid Julian until this gripping desire was shaken fromthe shoulders of his mind. 

Once or twice he tacitly wondered whether Julian was also the prey ofthis desire, but then he felt certain that his friend could not be soafflicted. Had he been, Julian would surely have found a swift occasionto call. But he did not call. His feet did not turn their accustomedway to Victoria Street. And it did not occur to Valentine that Julianmight be immersed in the same sort of struggle as himself. He thought heknew Julian well enough to be sure that he would not have joined issuewith such an enemy without instant consultation. A council of war wouldcertainly have been convened. 

So Valentine believed himself lonely in his feeling. One night hereturned from the theatre and a succeeding supper party at half-pasttwelve, let himself into the flat with a latchkey, threw off his coatand stood before the fire. His usually smooth, white forehead waspuckered in a frown. He contemplated the inevitable hours of bedwith dissatisfaction. When a man has allowed a vice to obtain dominionover him there are moments when an enforced abstinence from it, evenof only a few hours, seems intolerably irksome. So Valentine felt now. It seemed to him that he must sit again; that he could not go to bed, could not rest and sleep, until he gratified his desire. Yet what was heto do? He thought at first of starting out, late as the hour was, toJulian's rooms. But that would be ridiculous, more especially aftertheir mutual resolution. Julian might refuse, would probably, in anyevent, wish to refuse, the request which he came to make. Valentinestrove sincerely to dismiss the desire from his mind, but his effortwas entirely vain. Presently he went into his bedroom with the intentionof forcing himself to go, as usual, to bed. He began to undress slowly, and had taken off his coat and waistcoat when he felt that he mustresume them; that he must remain, unnecessarily, up. He allowed themental prompting to govern him, and hardly had he once more fully attiredhimself when the electric bell in the passage rang twice. Valentine wentto the door, opened it, and descended the flight of stone steps to themain door of the house, which was locked at night. Julian was standingoutside on the pavement. 

"You are still up, then, " he exclaimed. "That's good. May I come in?"

"Yes, of course. Where have you been to-night?"

They were going up, their footsteps echoing hoarsely in the dim light. 

"Nowhere. "

"Then what made you turn out so late?"

"Oh, " Julian said, with an elaborate carelessness; "I don't know. Ithought we were becoming strangers, I suppose. And suddenly I resolvedto look you up. "

"I see, " Valentine said, wondering why Julian was lying. 

By this time they were in the flat and had shut the door behind them. 

"Why haven't you been near me?" Julian said. 

"Why haven't you been near me?"

"Oh--well--do you want to know really?"

"Yes; if you have got a definite reason. "

"To tell the truth, I have; but it is such an absurd one. "

Julian looked at Valentine and then added, with a decidedly forced laugh:

"You'll be awfully surprised when I tell you what it is, Val. I wantto sit again. "

"Now I know why I stopped undressing just now, " said Valentine. "I musthave had a sense that you were coming. Were you thinking very hard of meto-night and of our sittings?"

"Rather! It is the oddest thing, but even since we had that talk withthe doctor and agreed to give the whole thing up, I've been perfectlymiserable. I haven't enjoyed a single thing I've done since that night. "

"Nor I, " said Valentine. 

"What! you have been as bad? And without having Marr continually at yourelbow!"

"Marr again!"

"Again! Yes, I should think so. That chap has taken a fancy to me, I suppose. Anyhow, directly I walk into the club, morning, noon, ornight, up he comes. He must live there. And the first thing he says is, 'Have you gone on with your sittings? You should, you should. ' To-dayhe changed his formula and said, 'You must, ' and when I was going away, he looked at me in a damned odd way and remarked in his low, tonelessvoice, 'You will. ' I declare I almost think he must have a sort ofinfluence over me, for I couldn't go to bed for the life of me, andhere I am. By the way, Marr seems to have a sort of power of divination. Last night, when I happened to see him, he began talking about doctors, and, by Jove, didn't he abuse them! He says they stand more in the wayof the development of the spiritual forces in man than any other bodyof people. He denounced them all as low materialists, immersed in thetinkering of the flesh. 'What does the flesh matter?' he said. 'It isnothing. It is only an envelope. And the more tightly it is fastenedtogether, the more it stifles the spirit. I would like to catch holdof some men's bodies and tear them in pieces to get at their souls. 'Val, as he made that cheerful remark, he looked more like a homicidalmaniac than anything I ever saw. "

"I suppose you didn't stand up for the doctors?"

"But I did--for our little man. D'you think I wasn't going to say a wordfor him?"

"What! you mentioned his name to this chap?"

"Certainly. Why not?"

"I don't know, " Valentine said, hesitatingly. 

"What objection could there possibly be?"

"None, of course--none. I simply had a quite unreasonable feeling that Iwished you hadn't. That is all. "

And then Valentine relapsed into silence, the silence some men keep whenthey are needlessly, uselessly irritated. The mention of Marr's name hadeffected him oddly. He now felt a perverse desire not to sit, not complywith the rather impertinent prediction of this dark-featured prophetwhom he had never seen. To carry out this prediction would seem likean obedience to a stranger, governing, unseen, and at a distance. Whydid this man concern himself in the affairs of those over whom he hadno sovereignty, with whom he had no friendship?

"Julian, " Valentine said at last, abruptly, "I wish you would promise mesomething. "

"What is it?"

"To drop this fellow, Marr. He has nothing to do with us, and it is adecided impertinence, this curiosity he shows in our doings. Don'tanswer any more of his questions. Tell him to keep his advice to himself. And if you really believe he is obtaining an influence over you, avoidhim. "

"You talk as if you disliked him. "

"I feel as if I hated him. "

"A man you have never even seen?"

"Yes. "

"Well, I don't take to him, and I have seen him. I will drop him as muchas I can. I promise you that. "

"Thank you, old boy. "

Julian fidgetted about rather uneasily, touching the ornaments on themantelpiece, opening and shutting his silver cigarette-case with a click. It was obvious that he felt restless and dissatisfied. Then he said:

"Well, are we going to--"

"Surely you don't mean to say that you came here to-night to persuademe into doing again what we both decided not to do any more?" askedValentine. 

"I came to try, " Julian replied with decision. 

He looked at Valentine and then added:

"And do you know I have been thinking, especially to-day, that you wereof the same mind as I. "

"How?"

"That you wanted to sit again as much as I did. "

"But I don't know Marr, " Valentine said, with unusual sarcasm. 

Julian flushed red, like a man who has been stung. 

"Perhaps he influences you through me, though, " he said with a laugh. 

"What nonsense, Julian! If I thought he had anything to do with thematter, I would never sit again. But he can have nothing to do with it. "

"Of course not. So will you sit? You want to give in. I know that. "

"I do"

"I was sure of it. "

"At the same time, remember the doctor's advice. "

"Oh, doctors are always against that sort of thing. "

"Julian, I have a strong feeling that, should we ever get anymanifestation at all, it will be inimical, even deadly, to one or bothof us. Each time we have sat a sensation of distress has taken hold ofme, and each time with greater force. "

"Nerves!"

"Well, then, the hand which you say you held was nerves?"

"Perhaps. But that is just it. I must know, or at least try to know. Itis inevitable. We can't stop now, Val, whether we are standing on thethreshold of good, or evil, or--nothing at all. We have got to go on. Besides, you and I have not effected an exchange. "

"Of souls? No. Perhaps it is an imbecile proceeding to try. "

"No matter. "

"Or a dangerous proceeding. "

"You are temporizing, and the night is running away as hard as it can. Come, now, will you do what I want--yes or no?"

After a long hesitation, Valentine slowly answered:

"Yes. "

And absurdly, as he said it, he felt like a man who tosses the dice forlife or death. 

CHAPTER IX

THE FOURTH SITTING

They turned the light off and sat down in silence. Then Julian said:

"Keep your hands well away from mine, Val. "

"I will. "

They had not been sitting for five minutes before Valentine felt that theatmosphere was becoming impregnated with a certain heaviness of mystery, with a certain steady and unyielding dreariness hanging round them like acloud. They were once again confronted by a strange reality. Surely theywere. Valentine felt it, silently knew it. 

In this blackness he seemed at length to step forward and to stand uponthe very threshold of an abyss, beyond which, in vague vapours, laythings unknown, creatures unsuspected hitherto. From this darknessanything might come to them, angel or devil, nymph or satyr. So, atleast, he dreamed for a while, giving his imagination the rein. Then, in a revulsion of feeling, he jeered at his folly, mutely scolded hisnerves for spurring him to such flagrant imbecilities. 

"This is all nonsense, " he told himself, "all fancy, all a world created, peopled, endowed with life by my desirous mind, which longs for a newsensation. I will not encourage this absurdity. I will be calm, cold, observant, discriminating. This is the same darkness in which everynight I sleep, with no sense of being surrounded by forms which I cannotsee, pressed upon by the denizens of some other sphere, not that in whichI breathe and live. "

He deliberately detached himself from his mood of keen expectation, andardently resolved to anticipate nothing. And at this moment the tablebegan to shift along the carpet, to twist under their hands, to rap, totremble, and to pulsate, as if breath had entered into it. Like some liveanimal it stirred beneath their pressing fingers. 

"It is beginning, " Julian whispered. 

"Animal magnetism, " Valentine murmured. 

"Yes, of course, " Julian replied. "Shall I ask--"

"Hush!" Valentine interrupted. 

Julian was silent. 

For some time the table continued its stereotyped performances. Thenit tremblingly ceased, and stood, mere dead furniture of every day, woodon which lay the four hands made deliberately limp. A long period ofunpopulated silence ensued, and through that silence, very gradually, came again to Valentine a growing sense of anxiety. At first he foughtagainst it as most men, perhaps out of self-respect, fight against theentrance of fear into their souls. Then he yielded to it, and let itcrawl over him, as the sea crawls over flat sands. And the sea left noinch of sand uncovered. Every cranny of Valentine's soul was flooded. There was no part of it which did not shudder with apprehension. Andoutwards flowed this invisible, unmurmuring tide, devouring his body, till the sweat was upon his face and his strained hands and tremblingfingers were cold like ice, and his knees fluttered as the knees ofpalsied age, and his teeth clicked, row against row, and his hairsstirred, and his head, under its thatch, tingled and burned and throbbed. Every faculty, too, seemed to stand straight up like a sentinel at itspost, staring into dust clouds through which rode an approaching enemy. Eyes watched, ears listened, brain was hideously alert. The whole bodykept itself tense, stiff, wary. For Valentine had a secret convictionat this moment that he was about to be attacked. By what? He was hardlymaster of himself enough to wonder. His thoughts no longer ran free. They crept like paralyzed things about his mind, and that despite theunnatural vitality of his brain. It was as if he thought intensely, violently, and yet could not think at all, as a man terrified may starewith wide open eyes and yet perceive nothing, lacking for a moment thefaculty of perceiving. So Valentine waited, like some blind man withglaring eyeballs. And then, passing into another stage of sensation, hefound himself vehemently and rapidly discussing possibilities of terror, forming mental pictures of all the things, of all the powers, that wecannot see. He embodied, materialized, the wind, the voice of the sea, the angry, hot scent of certain flowers, of the white lily, the tuberose, the hyacinth. He created figures for light, for darkness, for a wail, fora laugh, and set them in array all around him in the blackness. But noneof these imagined figures could cause the horror which he felt. He droveaway the whole pack of them with a silent cry, a motionless dismissingwave of his hands. But there might be other beings round us, condemnedto eternal invisibility lest the sight of them should drive men mad. Wecannot see them, he thought. As a rule, we have no sensation of thesegaunt neighbours, no suspicion of their approach, of their companionship. We do not hear their footsteps. We are utterly unconscious of them. Yetmay there not be physical or mental paroxysms, during which we becomeconscious of them, during which we know, beyond all power of doubt, thatthey are near us, with us? And, in such paroxysms, is it not possible forthem to break through the intangible and yet all-powerful barriers thatdivide them from us, and to touch us, caress us, attack us? Valentinebelieved that he was immersed in such a paroxysm, and that the barrierswere in process of being broken down. He seemed actually to hear thefaint cry of an approaching being, the dim uproar of its violent effortsto obtain its sinister will, and gain the power to make itself known tohim by some ghastly and malignant deed. He was unutterably afraid. 

"The hand again!" Julian suddenly cried. "Valentine, is it yours? Whydon't you answer? I say, is it yours?"

"No, " Valentine forced himself, with difficulty, to reply. 

"For God's sake then--the light!"

Valentine felt for it, but his hand shook and did not find the button. 

"Make haste, Val. What are you doing? Ah!"

The room sprang into view, and Julian's eyes, with a furious, sickeagerness, sought his hands. 

"Valentine, " he exclaimed hoarsely, "I see nothing, but I've got hold ofthe hand still. I've got it tight. Put your hand here--that's it--undermine. Now d'you feel the thing?"

Julian's hand, contracted as if grasping another, was in the air, aboutan inch, or an inch and a half, above the surface of the table. Valentineobediently thrust his hand beneath it. He now shook his head. 

"I feel nothing, " he said. "There is nothing. "

"Then am I mad?" said Julian. "I'm holding flesh and blood. I'll swearthat. Yes, I can feel the fingers twitching, the muscles, the bones. Ican even trace the veins. What does this mean?"

"I can't tell. "

"You look very strange, Valentine. You are certain you see and feelnothing?"

"Nothing whatever, " Valentine forced himself to answer calmly. 

"We'll see this through, " said Julian with a sort of angry determination. "I won't be frightened by a hand. We'll see it through. Out with thelight. "

Valentine turned it off. The action was purely mechanical. He had toperform it, whether he would or no. 

"Don't speak, " he whispered to Julian in the darkness. "Don't speak, whatever happens, till I ask you to speak. "

"Why?"

"Don't; don't!"

"All right. "

They sat still. 

And now the horror that had possessed Valentine so utterly began tofade away, making its exit from his body and soul with infinitesimallysmall steps. At length it had quite gone, and its place was taken by anumb calm, level and still at first, then curiously definite, almosttoo definite to be calm at all. Gradually this calm withdrew intoexhaustion, an exhaustion such as dwells incessantly with the anemic, with those whose hearts beat feebly and whose vitality flickers low tofading. That was like a delicious arrival of death, of death delicateand serene, ivory white and pure, death desirable, grateful. Valentineindeed believed that he was dying, there in the darkness beside hisfriend, and, impersonally as it seemed, something of him, his brainperhaps, seemed to be floating high up, as a bird floats over the sea, and listening, and noting all that he did in this crisis. This attentivespirit heard a strange movement of his soul in its bodily prison, heardhis soul stir, as if waking out of sleep, heard it shift, and rise upslowly, noted its pause of hesitation. Then, as the vitality of the bodyebbed lower, there grew in the soul an excitement that aspired like aleaping flame. It was as if a madman, prisoned in his narrow cell in avast asylum, secluded with his company of phantoms, heard the cracklingof the fire that devoured his habitation, and was stirred into anignorant and yet tumultuous passion. As the madman, with a childish, increasing uneasiness, awed by the sinuous approach of the unseen fire, might pace to and fro, round and round about his cell, so it seemed tothis poised, watching faculty of Valentine that his soul wandered inits confined cell of the body, at first with the cushioned softnessof an animal, moving mechanically, driven by an endless and unmeaningrestlessness, then with an increasing energy, a fervour, a crescendo ofendeavour. What drove his soul? Surely it was struggling with an unseenpower. And the steady diminuendo of his bodily forces continued, untilhe was a corpse in which a fury dwelt. That fury was the soul. He had astrange fancy that he, unlike all the rest of humanity, would die, yetstill retain his spirit in its fleshy prison, and that the spiritscreamed and fought to be free on its wayward pilgrimage to heaven orhell. All its brother and sister spirits had fled, since the beginningsof time, from their bodies at the crisis of dissolution, had gone topunishment or to reward. His soul alone was to meet a different fate, was to be confined in a decaying body, to breathe physical corruption, and to be at home in a crumbling dwelling to which no light, no air, could ever penetrate. And the soul, which knows instinctively its eternal_mêtier_, rebelled with a fantastic violence. And still, ever, the bodydied. The pulses ceased from beating. The warm blood was mixed with snowuntil it grew cold and gradually congealed in the veins. The little doorof the heart swung slower and slower upon its hinges, more feebly--morefeebly. And then there came a supreme moment. The soul of Valentine, witha frantic vehemence, beat down at last its prison door, and, even as hisbody died, escaped with a cry through the air. 

 * * * * *

"Valentine, did you hear that strange cry?"

 * * * * *

"Valentine, what was it? I never heard any sound like that before, sothin and small, and yet so horribly clear and piercing; neither like thecry of a child nor of an animal, nor like the wail that could come fromany instrument. Valentine, now I see a little flame come from where youare sitting. It's so tiny and faint. Don't you see it? It is floatingtoward me. Now it is passing me. It's beyond. It's going. There, it hasvanished. Valentine! Valentine!"

BOOK II--JULIAN

CHAPTER I

THE TRANCE

Gaining no reply to his call, Julian grew alarmed. He sprang up fromthe table and turned on the electric light. Valentine was leaning backnervelessly in his chair. His face was quite pale and cold. His lips wereslightly parted. His eyes were wide open and stared before him withoutexpression. His head hung far back over the edge of his chair. He lookedexactly like a man who had just died, and died in a convulsion. Forthough the lips were parted, the teeth set tightly together grinnedthrough them, and the hands were intensely contracted into fists. Julianseized Valentine in his arms, lifted the drooping body from the chairand laid it out at length on the divan. He put a pillow under the head, which fell on it grotesquely and lay sideways, still smiling horribly atnothing. Then he poured out a glass of brandy and strove to force someof it between Valentine's teeth, dashed water in the glaring eyes, beatthe air with a fan which he tore from the mantelpiece. All was in vain. There came no sign of returning life. Then Julian caught Valentine'shands in his and sought to unclench the rigid, cold fingers. He laidhis hand on the heart of his friend. No pulsation beat beneath hisanxious touch. Then a great horror overtook him. Suddenly he felt aconviction that Valentine had died beside him in the dark, had diedsitting up in his chair by the table. The cry he had heard, so thin, sostrange and piercing, the attenuated flame that he had seen, were thevoice and the vision of the flying soul which he had loved, seeking itsfinal freedom, _en route_ to the distant spheres believers dream of andsceptics deny. 

"Valentine! Valentine!" he cried again, with the desperate insistence ofthe hopeless. But the cold, staring creature upon the green divan did notreply. With a brusque and fearful movement Julian shut the eyelids. Wouldthey ever open again? He knelt upon the floor, leaning passionately overhis friend, or that which had been his friend. He bent his head down onthe silent breast, listening. Surely if Valentine were alive he wouldshow it by some sign, the least stir, breath, shiver, pulse. There wasnone. Julian might have been clasping stone or iron. If he could onlyknow for certain whether Valentine were really dead. Yet he dared notleave him alone and go to seek aid. Suddenly a thought struck him. In thehall of the flat was a handle which, when turned in a certain direction, communicated with one of those wooden and glass hutches in which sleepyboy-messengers harbour at night. Julian sprang to this handle, set thecommunicator in motion, then ran back into the tentroom. His intentionwas to write a note to Dr. Levillier. The writing-table was so placedthat, sitting at it, his back would be turned to that silent figure onthe divan. A shiver ran over him at the bare thought of such a blindposture. No, he must face that terror, once so dear. He caught up apen and a sheet of note paper, and, swerving round, was about to write, holding the paper on his knee, when the electric bell rang. The boy hadbeen very quick in his run from the hutch. Julian laid down the paper andwent to let the boy in. His knees shook as he descended the dark, echoingstairs and opened the door. There stood the messenger, a rosy-facedurchin of about twelve, with rather sleepy brown eyes. 

"Come up, " Julian said, and he hurried back to the flat, the little boyviolently emulating his giant stride up the stairs and arriving flushedand panting at the door. Julian, who was entirely abstracted in hisagitation, made for the tentroom without another word to the boy, seizedpen and paper and began to write, urgently requesting Dr. Levillier tocome at once to see Valentine. Abruptly a childish voice intruded itselfupon him. 

"Lor', sir, " it said. "Is the gentleman ill?"

Julian glanced up and found that the little boy had innocently followedhim into the tentroom, and was now standing near him, gazing with around-eyed concern upon the stretched figure on the divan. 

"Yes, " Julian replied; "ill, very ill. I want you to go for a doctor. "

The boy approached the divan, moved apparently by the impelling curiosityof tender years. Julian stopped writing and watched him. He leaned downand looked at the face, at the inertia of hands and limbs. As he raisedhimself up from a calm and close inspection he saw Julian staring at him. He shook his round bullet head, on which the thick hair grew in anunparted stubble. 

"No, I don't think he's ill, sir, " he remarked, with treble conviction. 

"Then why does he lie like that?"

"I expect it's because he's dead, sir, " the child replied, with graveserenity. 

This unbiased testimony in favour of his fears came to Julian's mind likea storm. 

"How do you know?" he exclaimed, with a harsh voice. 

"Lor', sir, " the boy said, not without a certain pride, "I knows a corpsewhen I sees it. My father died come a fortnight ago. See that?"

And he indicated, with stumpy finger, the black band upon his left arm. 

"Well, father looked just like the gentleman. "

Julian was petrified by this urchin's intimacy with death. It struckhim as utterly vicious and terrible. A horror of the rosy-faced littlecreature, with good-conduct medals gleaming on its breast, came over him. 

"Hush!" he said. 

"All right, sir; but you take my word for it, the gentleman's dead. "

Julian finished the note, thrust it into an envelope, and addressed it tothe doctor. 

"Run and get a cab and take that at once to Harley Street, " he said. 

The boy smiled. 

"I like cab-riding, " he said. 

"And, " Julian caught his arm, "that gentleman is not dead. He's alive, I tell you; only in a faint, and alive. "

The boy looked into Julian's face with the pitying grin of superiorknowledge of the world. 

"Ah, sir, you didn't see father, " he said. 

Then he turned and bounded eagerly down the stairs, in a hurry for thecab-ride. 

Loneliness and desolation descended like a cloud over Julian when he hadgone, for the frank belief of the boy, who cared nothing, struck like anarrow of truth to his heart, who cared everything. Was Valentine indeeddead? He would not believe it, for such a belief would bring the world inruins about his feet. Such a belief would people his soul with phantomsof despair and of wickedness. Could he not cry out against God inblasphemy, if God took his friend from him? The tears rushed into hiseyes, as he sat waiting there in the night. As before a drowning man, scenes of the last five years flashed before him, painted in vitalcolours, --scenes of his life with Valentine, --then scenes of all thatmight have been had he never met Valentine, never known his strangemastering influence. Could that influence have been given only to bewithdrawn? Of all the inexplicable things of life the most inexplicableare the abrupt intrusions and disappearances of those lovelymanifestations which give healing to tired hearts, to the woundedsoldiers of the campaign of the world. Why are they not permitted tostay? Bitterly Julian asked that question. Of all the men whom he knew, only Valentine did anything for him. Must Valentine, of all men, be theone who might not stay with him? The rest he could spare. He could notspare Valentine. He could not. The impotence of his patience tortured himphysically, like a disease. He sprang up from his chair. He must dosomething at once to know the truth. What could he do? He had noknowledge of medicine. He could not tabulate physical indications, andhe would not trust to his infernal instinct. For it was that which criedto him again and again, "Valentine is dead. " What--what could he do?

A thought darted into his mind. Dogs are miraculously instinctive. Ripmight know what he did not certainly know, might divine the truth. He raninto Valentine's bedroom. 

"Rip, " he cried; "Rip!"

The little dog sprang from its lonely sleep and accompanied Julianenergetically to the tentroom. Observing Valentine's attitude, it sprangupon the couch beside him, licked his white face eagerly, then, gainingno response, showed hesitation, alarm. It began to investigate the bodyeagerly with its sharp nose, snuffing at head, shoulders, legs, feet. Still it seemed in doubt, and paused at length with one fore foot plantedon Valentine's breast, the other raised in air. 

"Even Rip is at fault, " Julian said to himself. But as the words ranthrough his mind, the little dog grew suddenly calmer. It dropped thehesitating paw, again licked the face, then nestled quietly into thespace between Valentine's left breast and arm, rested its chin on thelatter, and with blinking eyes prepared evidently for repose. A wildhope came again to Julian. 

"Valentine is not dead, " he said to himself. "He is in some strangehypnotic trance. Presently he will recover from it. He will be well. Thank God! Thank God! I will watch!"

And so he kept an attentive and hopeful vigil, his eyes always uponValentine's face, his hand always touching Valentine's. Already lifeseemed blossoming anew with an inexplicable radiance. Valentine wouldspeak once more, would come back from this underworld of the senses. And Julian's hand closed on his cold hand with a warm, impulsivestrength, as if it might be possible to draw him back physically toconsciousness and to speech. But there was no answer. And again Julianwas assailed with doubts. Yet the dog slept on happily, a hostage topeace. 

Julian never knew how long that vigil lasted. It might have been fiveminutes, or a lifetime. The vehemence of his mental debate slew hispower of observation of normal things. He forgot what he was waitingfor. He forgot to expect Dr. Levillier. Two visions alternated in glaringcontrast before the eyes of his brain--life with Valentine, and lifewithout him. It is so we watch the trance, or death, --we know notwhich, --of those whom we love, with a greedy, beautiful selfishness. They are themselves only in relation to us. They live, they die, in thatwonderful relation. To live is to be with us; to die, to go away from us. There are women who love so much that they angrily expostulate with thedying, as if indeed the dying deliberately elected to depart out of theirarms. Do we not all feel at moments the "You could stay with me, if onlyyou had the will!" that is the last bitter cry of despairing affection?Julian, sitting there, while Valentine lay silent and the dog slept byhis breast, saw ever and ever those two lives, flashing and fading likelamps across a dark sea, life with, life without, him. The immensity ofthe contrast, the millions of airy miles between those two life-worlds, appalled him, for it revealed to him what mighty issues of joy and griefhung upon the almost visionary thin thread of one little life. It isghastly to be so idiotically dependent. Yet who, at some time, is not?And those who are independent lose, by their power, their possibleParadise. But such a time of uncertainty as that which Julian must nowendure is a great penalty to pay for even the greatest joy, when thejoy is past. He had his trance of the mind. He was hypnotized by hisignorance whether Valentine were alive or dead. And so he sat motionless, making the tour of an eternity of suffering, of wonder, of doubt, andhope, and yet, through it all, in some strange, indefinite way, numb, phlegmatic, and actually stupid. 

At last the bell rang. Dr. Levillier had arrived. He was struck at onceby Julian's heaviness of manner. 

"What is it? What is the matter?" he asked. 

"I don't know. You tell me. "

"He is fainting--unconscious?"

"Unconscious, yes. "

They were in the little hall now. Doctor Levillier narrowly scrutinizedJulian. For a moment he thought Julian had been drinking, and he took himby the arm. 

"No; it is fear, " he murmured, releasing him, and walking into thetentroom. 

Julian followed with a loud footstep, treading firmly. Each step said toDeath, "You are not here. You are not here. "

He stood at a little distance near the door, while Levillier approachedValentine and bent over him. Rip woke up and curled his top lip in aterrier smile of welcome. The doctor stroked his head, then liftedValentine's hand and held the wrist. He dropped it, and threw a glanceon Julian. There was a scream of interrogation in Julian's fixed eyes. Doctor Levillier avoided it by dropping his own, and again turning hisattention to the figure on the divan. He undid Valentine's shirt, baredthe breast, and laid his hand on the heart, keeping it there for a longtime. 

"Fetch me a hand-glass, " he said to Julian. 

Mechanically, Julian went into the bedroom, and groped in the dark uponthe dressing-table. 

"Well, have you got it? Why don't you turn up the light?"

"I don't know, " Julian answered, drily. 

Doctor Levillier saw that anxiety was beginning to unnerve him. When theglass was found the doctor led Julian back to the tentroom and pushed himgently down in a chair. 

"Keep quiet, " he said. "And--keep hoping. "

"There is--there is--hope?"

"Why not?"

Then the doctor held the little glass to Valentine's lips. The brightsurface was not dimmed. No breath of life tarnished it to dulness. Againthe doctor felt his heart, drew his eyelids apart, and carefully examinedthe eyes, then turned slowly round. 

"Doctor--doctor!" Julian whispered. "Why do you turn away? What are yougoing to do?"

Doctor Levillier made a gesture of finale, and knelt on the floor byValentine. His head was bowed. His lips moved silently. Julian saw thathe was praying, and sprang up fiercely. All the frost of his sensesthawed in a moment. He seized Levillier by the shoulders. 

"Don't pray!" he cried out; "don't pray. Curse! Curse as I do! If he'sdead you shall not pray. You shall not! You shall not!"

The little doctor drew him down to his knees. 

"Julian, hush! My science tells me Valentine is dead. "

Julian opened his white lips, but the doctor, with a motion, silencedhim, and added, pointing to Rip, who still lay happily by his master'sside:

"But that dog seems to tell me he is alive; that this is some strangelycomplete and perfect simulation of death, some unnatural sleep of thesenses. Pray, pray with me that Valentine may wake. "

And, kneeling by his friend, with bent head, Julian strove to pray. Theanswer to that double prayer pierced the two men. It was so instant, andso bizarre, fighting against probability, yet heralding light, and theend of that night's pale circumstances. 

Rip, relapsing quickly from his perfunctory smile on the doctor, hadagain fallen asleep with an evident exceeding confidence and comfort, snoring his way into an apparent peace that passed all understanding. Butscarcely had the doctor spoken, giving Julian hope, than the little dogsuddenly opened its eyes, shifted round in its nest of arm and bosom, smelt furtively at Valentine's hand. Then it turned from the hand to theside of its master, investigated it with a supreme anxiety, pursued itssearch as far as the white, strict face and bared bosom. From the faceit recoiled, and with a piercing howl like the scream of a dog run overby a cart, it sprang away, darted to the farthest corner of the room, and huddled close against the wall in an agony of terror. 

Julian turned cold. He believed implicitly that the trance at that verymoment had deepened into death, and that the sleepless instinct of thedog had divined it partially while he slept, and now knew it and wasafraid. And the same error of belief shook Dr. Levillier. A spasm crossedhis thin, earnest face. No death had ever hurt him so sharply as thisdeath hurt him. He saw Julian recoil in horror from the divan, and hecould say nothing. For he, too, felt horror. 

But in this moment of despair Valentine's hands slowly unclenchedthemselves, and the fingers were gradually extended as by a manstretching himself after a long sleep. 

The doctor saw this, but believed himself a victim of a delusion, trickedby the excitement of his mind into foolish visions. And Julian had turnedquite away, trembling. But now Valentine moved slightly, pressed hiselbows on the cushions that supported him, and half sat up, still withclosed eyes. 

"Julian, " Dr. Levillier said in a low, summoning voice, --"Julian, do yousee what I see? Is he indeed alive? Julian. "

Then Julian, turning, saw, with the doctor, Valentine sit up erect, openhis eyes and gaze upon his two friends with a grave, staring scrutiny. 

"Valentine, Valentine, how you frightened me! How you terrified me!"Julian at last found a voice to exclaim. "Thank God, thank God! you arealive. Oh, Valentine, you are alive; you are not dead. "

Valentine's lips smiled slowly. 

"Dead, " he answered. "No; I am not dead. "

And again he smiled quietly, as a man smiles at some secret thoughtwhich tickles him or whips the sense of humour in him till, like anobeying dog, it dances. 

Dr. Levillier, having regained his feet, stood silently looking atValentine, all his professional instinct wide awake to note thisapparent resurrection from the dead. 

"You here, doctor!" said Valentine. "Why, what does this all mean?"

"I want you to tell me that, " Levillier said. "And you, " he added, nowturning towards Julian. 

But Julian was too much excited to answer. His eyes were blazing with joyand with emotion. And Valentine seemed still to be informed with acurious, serpentine lassitude. The life seemed to be only very gentlyrunning again over his body, creeping from the centre, from the heart, tothe extremities, gradually growing in the eyes, stronger and stronger, adawn of life in a full-grown man. Dr. Levillier had never seen anythingquite like it before. There was something violently unnatural about it, he thought, yet he could not say what. He could only stand by the broadcouch, fascinated by the spectacle under his gaze. Once he had read atale of the revivifying of a mummy in a museum. That might have been likethis; or the raising of Lazarus. The streams of strength almost visiblytrickled through Valentine's veins. And this new life was so vigorous, so alert. It was as if during his strange sleep Valentine had beencarpentering his energies, polishing his powers, setting the templeof his soul in order, gaining almost a ruthlessness from rest. Hestretched his limbs now as an athlete might stretch them to win the fullconsciousness of their muscular force. When the doctor took hold of hishand to feel his pulse the hand was hard and tense like iron, the fingersgripped for a moment like thin bands of steel, and the life in the blueeyes bounded, raced, swirled as water swirls in a mill-stream. Indeed, Dr. Levillier felt as if there was too much life in them, as if the cuphad been filled with wine until the wine ran over. He put his fingerson the pulse. It was strong and rapid and did not fluctuate, but beatsteadily. He felt the heart. That, too, throbbed strongly. And while hemade his examination Valentine smiled at him. 

"I'm all right, you see, " Valentine said. 

"All right, " the doctor echoed, still possessed by the feeling that therelurked almost a danger in this apparently abounding health. 

"What was it all?" Julian asked eagerly. "Was it a trance?"

"A trance?" Valentine said. "Yes, I suppose so. "

He put his feet to the floor, stood up, and again stretched all hislimbs. His eyes fell upon Rip, who was still in the corner, huddled up, his teeth showing, his eyes almost starting out of his head. 

"Rip, " he said, holding out his hand and slapping his knee, "come here!Come along! Rip! Rip! What's the matter with him?"

"He thought you were dead, " said Julian. "Poor little chap. Rip, it's allright. Come!"

But the dog refused to be pacified, and still displayed every symptom ofangry fear. At last Valentine, weary of calling the dog, went towards itand stooped to pick it up. At the downward movement of its master the dogshrank back, gathered itself together, then suddenly sprang forward witha harsh snarl and tried to fasten its teeth in his face. Valentine jumpedback just in time. 

"He must have gone mad, " he exclaimed. "Julian, see what you can do withhim. "

Curiously enough, Rip welcomed Julian's advances with avidity, nestledinto his arms, but when he walked toward Valentine, struggled to escapeand trembled in every limb. 

"How extraordinary!" Julian said. "Since your trance he seems to havetaken a violent dislike to you. What can it mean?"

"Oh, nothing probably. He will get over it. Put him into the other room. "

Julian did so and returned. 

Doctor Levillier was now sitting in an arm-chair. His light, kindeyes were fixed on Valentine with a scrutiny so intense as to renderthe expression of his usually gentle face almost stern. But Valentineappeared quite unconscious of his gaze and mainly attentive to all thatJulian said and did. All this time the doctor had not said a word. Nowhe spoke. 

"You spoke of a trance?" he said, interrogatively. 

Julian looked as guilty as a cribbing schoolboy discovered in his dingyact. 

"Doctor, Val and I have to crawl to you for forgiveness, " he said. 

"To me--why?"

"We have disobeyed you. "

"But I should never give you an order. "

"Your advice is a command to those who know you, doctor, " said Valentine, with a sudden laugh. 

"And what advice of mine have you put in the corner with its face to thewall?"

"We have been table-turning again. "

"Ah!"

Doctor Levillier formed his lips into the shape assumed by one whistling. 

"And this has been the result?"

"Yes, " Julian cried. "Never, as long as I live, will I sit again. Val, ifyou go down on your knees to me--"

"I shall not do that, " Valentine quietly interposed. "I have no desire tosit again now. "

"You both seem set against such dangerous folly at last, " said thedoctor. "Give me your solemn promise to stick to what you have said. "

And the two young men gave it, Julian with a strong gravity, Valentinewith a light smile. Julian had by no means recovered his usual gaiety. The events of the night had seriously affected him. He was excited andemotional, and now he grasped Valentine by the arm as he exclaimed:

"Valentine, tell me, what made you give that strange cry just beforeyou went into your trance? Were you frightened? or did something--thathand--touch you? Or what was it?"

"A cry?"

"Yes. "

"It was not I. "

"Didn't you hear it?"

"No. "

Julian turned to the doctor. 

"It was an unearthly sound, " he said. "Like nothing I have ever heard orimagined. And, doctor, just afterward I saw something, something thatmade me believe Valentine was really dead. "

"What was it?"

Julian hesitated. Then he avoided directly replying to the question. 

"Doctor, " he said, "of course I needn't ask you if you have often been atdeathbeds?"

"I have. Very often, " Levillier replied. 

"I have never seen any one die, " Julian continued, still with excitement. "But people have told me, people who have watched by the dying, that atthe moment of death sometimes a tiny flame, a sort of shadow almost, comes from the lips of the corpse and evaporates into the air. And theysay that flame is the soul going out of the body. "

"I have never seen that, " Levillier said. "And I have watched manydeaths. "

"I saw such a flame to-night, " Julian said. "After I heard the cry, Idistinctly saw a flame come from where Valentine was sitting and float upand disappear in the darkness. And--and afterwards, when Valentine lay sostill and cold, I grew to believe that flame was his soul and that I hadactually seen him die in the dark. "

"Imagination, " Valentine said, rather abruptly. "All imagination. Wasn'tit, doctor?"

"Probably, " Levillier said. "Darkness certainly makes things visible thatdo not exist. I have patients who are perfectly sane, yet whom I forbidever to be entirely in the dark. Remove all objects from their sight, andthey immediately see non-existent things. "

"You think that flame came only from my inner consciousness?" Julianasked. 

"I suspect so. Shut your eyes now. "

Julian did so. Doctor Levillier bent over and pressed his two forefingershard on Julian's eyes. After a moment, "What do you see?" he asked. 

"Nothing, " Julian replied. 

"Wait a little longer. Now what do you see?"

"Now I see a broad ring of yellow light edged with ragged purple. "

"Exactly. You see flame-colour. "

He removed his fingers and Julian opened his eyes. 

"Yes, " he said. "But that cry. I most distinctly heard it. "

"Imitate it. "

"That would be impossible. It was too strange. Are the ears affected bydarkness?"

"The sense of hearing is intimately affected by suspense. If you do notlisten attentively you may fail to hear a sound that is. If you listentoo attentively you may succeed in hearing a sound that is not. Now, shutyour eyes again. "

Julian obeyed. 

"I am going to clap my hands presently, " said the doctor. "Tell me assoon as you have heard me do so. "

"Yes. "

Doctor Levillier made no movement for some time. Then he softly leantforward, extended his arms in the air, and made the motion of clappinghis hands close to Julian's face. In reality he did not touch one handwith the other, yet Julian cried out:

"I heard you clap them then. "

"I have not clapped them at all, " Levillier said. 

Julian expressed extreme surprise. 

"You see how very easy it is for the senses to be deceived, " the doctoradded. "Once stir the nervous system into an acute state of anticipation, and it will conjure up for you a veritable panorama of sights, sounds, bodily sensations. But throw it into that state once too often, and thepanorama, instead of passing and disappearing, may remain fixed for atime, even forever, before your eyes, your ears, your touch. And thatmeans recurrent or permanent madness. Valentine, I desire you mostespecially to remember that. "

He uttered the words weightily, with very definite intention. Valentine, who still seemed to be in an unusually lazy or careless mood, laughedeasily. 

"I will remember, " he said. 

He yawned. 

"My trance has made me sleepy, " he added. 

The doctor got up. 

"Yes; bed is the best place for you, " he said. 

"And for us all, I suppose, " added Julian. "Though I feel as if I couldnever sleep again. "

The doctor went out into the hall to get his coat, leaving the friendsalone for a moment. 

"I am still so excited, " Julian went on. "Dear old fellow! How good it isto see you yourself again. I made up my mind that you were dead. This islike a resurrection. Oh, Val, if you had been dead, really!"

"What would you have done?"

"Done! I don't know. Gone to the devil, probably. "

"Do you know where to find him?"

"My dear boy, he is in every London street, to begin with. "

"In Victoria Street, even. I was only laughing. "

"But tell me, what did you feel?"

"Nothing. As if I slept. "

"And you really heard, saw, nothing?"

"Nothing. "

"And that hand?"

Valentine smiled again, and seemed to hesitate. But then he replied, quietly:

"I told you I could not feel it. "

"I did, until I heard that dreadful cry, and then it was suddenly drawnaway from me. "

Doctor Levillier appeared in the doorway with his overcoat on, but Juliandid not notice him. Again his excitement was rising. He began to pace upand down the room. 

"My God!" he said, vehemently, "what would Marr say to all this? Whatdoes it mean? What can it mean?"

"Don't let us bother too much about it. "

"Excellent advice, " said Levillier, from the doorway. 

Julian stood still. 

"Doctor, I can understand your attitude, " he said. "But what an amazingbeing you are, Val. You are as calm and collected as if you had sat andheld converse with spirits all through your life. And yet something hasgoverned you, has temporarily deprived you of life. For you were to allintents and purposes dead while you were in that trance. "

"Death is simply nothing, and nothingness does not excite or terrify one. I never felt better than I do at this moment. "

"That's well, " said Levillier, cheerfully. 

Julian regarded Valentine's pure, beautiful face with astonishment. 

"And you never looked better. "

"I shall sleep exquisitely to-night, or rather this morning, " Valentinesaid. 

As he spoke he drew away the heavy green curtain that hung across thewindow. A very pale shaft of light stole in and lit up his white face. 

It was the dawn, and, standing there, he looked like the spirit of thedawn, painted against the dying night in such pale colours, white, blue, and shadowy gold, a wonder of death and of life. 

In the silence Dr. Levillier and Julian gazed at him, and he seemed amystery to them both, a strange enigma of purity and of unearthliness. 

"Good-bye, Cresswell, " Levillier said at last. 

"Good-bye, doctor. "

"Good-bye, Valentine. "

Julian held out his hand to grasp his friend's, but Valentine beganlooping up the curtain and did not take it. In his gentlest voice he saidto Julian:

"Good-bye, dear Julian, good-bye. The dawn is on our friendship, Julian. "

"Yes, Valentine. "

Valentine added, after a moment of apparent reflection:

"Take Rip away with you just for to-night. I don't want to be bitten inmy sleep. "

And when Julian went away, the little dog eagerly followed him, pressingclose to his heels, so close that several times Julian could not avoidkicking him. 

As soon as the flat door had closed on his two friends, Valentine walkeddown the passage to the drawing-room, which was shrouded in darkness. Heentered it without turning on the light, and closed the door behind him. He remained in the room for perhaps a quarter of an hour. At length thedoor opened again. He emerged out of the blackness. There was a calmsmile on his face. Two of his fingers were stained with blood, and to onea fragment of painted canvas adhered. 

When Valentine's man-servant went into the room in the morning and drewup the blinds, he found, to his horror, the picture of "The MercifulKnight" lying upon the floor. The canvas hung from the gold frame inshreds, as if rats had been gnawing it. 

CHAPTER II

THE PICCADILLY EPISODE

Doctor Levillier and Julian bade each other good-bye on the doorstep. The doctor hailed a hansom, but Julian preferred to walk. He wished to bealone, to feel the cold touch of the air on his face. The dawn was indeedjust breaking, ever so wearily. A strong wind came up with it over thehousetops, and Victoria Street looked dreary in the faint, dusky, greylight, which grew as slowly in the cloudy sky as hope in a long-starvedheart. Julian lived in Mayfair, and he now walked forward slowly towardsGrosvenor Place, making a deliberate detour for the sake of exercisinghis limbs. He was glad to be out under the sky, glad to feel the breezeon his face, and to be free from the horror of that little room in whichhe had kept so appalling a vigil. The dull lines of the houses stretchingaway through the foggy perspective were gracious to his eyes. His feetwelcomed the hard fibre of the pavement. They had learned in that nightalmost to shudder at the softness of a thick carpet. And all his sensesbegan to come out of their bondage and to renew their normal sanity. Onlynow did Julian realize how strenuous that bondage had been, a veritableslavery of the soul. Such a slavery could surely only have been possiblewithin the four walls of a building. An artificial environment must benecessary to such an artificial condition of feeling. For Julian nowgradually began to believe that Dr. Levillier was right, and that he hadsomehow allowed himself to become unnaturally affected and strung up. Hecould believe this in the air and in the dawn. For he escaped out ofprison as he walked, and heard the dirty sparrows begin to twitter asthey sank to the brown puddles in the roadway, or soared to the soot thatclung round the chimneys which they loved. 

And yet he had been communing with death, had for the first timecompletely realized the fact and the meaning of death. What a demonof the world it was, sly, bitter, chuckling at its power, the onething, surely, that has perfect enjoyment of all the things in thescheme of the earth. What a trick it had played on Julian and onValentine. What a trick! And as this idea struck into Julian's mind hefound himself on the pavement by the chemist's shop that is opposite tothe underground railway station of Victoria. His eyes fell on the hutchof the boy-messengers, and he beheld through the glass shutter threeheads. He crossed the road and tapped on the glass. A young man pulledit up. 

"Want to send a message, sir?"

"No. I wish to speak to one of your boys, if the one I mean is here. Ah, there he is. "

Julian pointed to his little Hermes of the midnight, who was crouchedwithin, uneasily sleeping, his chin nestling wearily among the medalswhich his exemplary conduct had won for him. The young man shook thechild by the shoulder. 

"Hulloh, Bob!" he yelled. "Here's a gentleman wants to speak to yer. "

Bob came from his dreams with a jerk, and stared upon Julian with his bigbrown eyes. Presently he began to realize matters. 

"Want another doctor, sir? It ain't no manner of good, " he remarkedairily, beginning to search for his cap, and to glow in the prospect ofanother cab-ride. 

"No, " said Julian. "I stopped to tell you that you were wrong. Thegentleman is quite well again. "

He put his hand into his pocket and produced half a crown. 

"There's something for your mistake, " he said. 

Bob took it solemnly, and, as Julian walked on, called after him:

"It wasn't my fault, sir; it was father's. "

He had more desire to shine as an intellectual authority on greatmatters of dissolution than to respect the departed. Julian could nothelp smiling at the child's evident discomfiture as he pursued his waytowards Grosvenor Place. On one of the doorsteps of the big houses thatdrive respect like a sharp nail into the hearts of the poor passers-by, a ragged old woman was tumultuously squatting. Her gin-soddened facecame, like a scarlet cloud, to the view from the embrace of a vagabondblack bonnet, braided with rags, viciously glittering here and therewith the stray bugles which survived from some bygone era of comparativerespectability. Her penetrating snores denoted that she was obliviousof the lounging approach of the policeman, whose blue and burly formwas visible in the extreme distance. Julian stopped to observe herreflectively. His eye, which loved the grotesque, was pleased by thebedragglement of her attitude, by the flat foot, in its bursting boot, which protruded from the ocean of her mud-stained petticoats, by thewisps of coarse hair wandering in the breeze above her brazen wrinkles. Poor soul! she kept a diary of her deeds, even though she could perhapsonly make a mark where her signature should have been. Julian stared ather very intently, and as he did so he started violently, for across thehuman background which her sleeping dissipation supplied there seemed tofloat the vague shadow, suggestion, call it what you will, of a tongue offlame. 

He walked hastily on, angrily blaming his nerves. As he passed thepoliceman he fancied he noticed that the man glanced at him with acertain flickering suspicion. Was horror legibly written in his face?he wondered uneasily, confessing to himself that even in the dawn andthe lap of Grosvenor Place a horror had again seized him. What did thisshadow which he had now twice seen portend? Surely his nerves were notpermanently upset. He was at first heartily ashamed of himself. Near St. George's Hospital, gaunt and grey in the morning, he stopped again, benthis left arm forcibly, and with his right hand felt the hard lump ofmuscle, that sprang up like a ball of iron under his coat sleeve. Andas he felt it he cursed himself for the greatest of all fools. Thin, meagre little men of the town, tea-party men whose thoughts were everon their ties and their moustaches, no doubt gave themselves up readilyto disturbances of the nerves. But Julian had always prided himself onbeing an athlete, able to hold his own in the world by mere muscularforce, if need be. He had found it possible to develop side by side brainand biceps, each to an adequate end. It had seemed grand to him to holdthese scales of his being evenly, to balance them to a hair. Those scaleshung badly now, lopsidedly. One was up in the clouds. He resolved thatthe other should correct it. After a cold bath and a sleep he would goround to Angelo's and have an hour's hard fencing. Cold water, theEnglishman's panacea for every ill, cold steel, the pioneer's Minerva, would tonic this errant brain of his and drill it into its customaryobedience. So he said to himself. 

And yet as he walked there came to him a notion that this little shadowof a flame was still his companion; that this night just passed, thisday just begun, were the birthnight and the birthday of this small, ghostlike thing which had come into being to bear him company, to haunthim. Yes, as he walked, followed always closely by Rip, and saw the talliron gates of the Park, Apsley House, the long line of Piccadilly, alluncertain, gentle, reduced to a whimsical mildness of aspect in thehalf-light of the dawning, he again recalled the fact, which he hadmentioned that night to Doctor Levillier, of people watching an invalidwho had seen, at the precise moment of dissolution, the soul escapingfurtively from its fleshy prison like a flame, which was immediatelylost in the air. Surely, wandering souls, if indeed there were suchthings, might still retain this faint semblance of a shape, a form. Andif so, they might perhaps occasionally conceive a fantastic attachmentto a human being, and companion him silently as the dog companions hismaster. He might have such a companion, whose nature he could notcomprehend, whose object in seeking him out he could not guess. Perhapsit felt affection toward him; perhaps, on the other hand, enmity. Alover, or a spy--it might be either. Or it might have no definitepurpose, but simply drift near him in the air, as some human beingsdrift feebly along together through life, because they have long agoloved each other, or thought each other useful, or fancied, in somemoment of madness, that God meant them for each other. It might be anaimless, dreary soul, unable to be gone from sheer dulness of purpose--asoul without temperament, without character. 

As this thought crossed Julian's mind he happened to glance at the frontof a shop on his left, and against the iron shutters the flame was dimlybut distinctly outlined. He stopped at once to look at it, but even as hestopped it was gone. Then he sternly brought himself back from the vagueregions of fancy, and was angry that he had permitted himself to wanderin them like a child lost in the forest. He bent down and patted Rip, and sought to wrench his mind from its wayward course, and to thrust itforcibly into its accustomed groove of healthy sanity. Yet sanity seemedto become abruptly commonplace, a sort of whining crossing-sweeper, chattering untimely, meaningless phrases to him. To divert himselfentirely he paused beside a peripatetic coffee-stall, presided overby a grey-faced, prematurely old youth, with sharp features and theglancing eyes of poverty-stricken avarice. 

"Give me a cup of coffee, " he said. 

The youth clattered his wares in excited obedience. 

While he was pouring out the steaming liquid there drifted down to Julianthrough the grey weariness of the morning a painted girl of the streets, crowned with a large hat, on which a forest of feathers waved in the weakand chilly breeze. Julian glanced at her idly enough and she glanced backat him. Horror, he thought, looked from her eyes as if from a window. Asshe returned his gaze she hovered near him in the peculiar desultory wayof such women, and Julian, glad of any distraction, offered her a cup ofcoffee. She drew nearer and accepted it. 

"And a bun, my dear, " she hinted to the sharp-featured youth. 

"And a bun, " echoed Julian, seeing his doubtful pause of hesitation. 

The bun came into view from a hidden basket, and the meal began, Julian, Rip, and the lady of the feathers forming a companionable groupupon the kerb. The lady's curious and almost thrilling expression, whichhad seemed to beacon from some height of her soul some exceptional anddreary deed, faded under the influence of the dough and currants. A smileoverspread her thin features. She examined Julian with a graciousinterest. 

"It's easy to see you've been makin' a night of it, Bertie, " she remarkedcasually at length, in the suffocated voice of one divided between desireof conversation and love of food. 

"You think so?" said Julian. 

"Think so, dear, I'm sure so! Ask me another as I _don't_ know; dodarlin'. "

Julian took another draught from the thick coffee-cup that held soamazingly little. 

"And what about yourself?" he said. "Why are you out here so early?"

The lady of the feathers cast a suspicious glance upon him. Then thehorror dawned again in her eyes. 

"I'm afraid to go home, " she said. "Yes, that's a fact. "

"Afraid--why?" Julian spoke abstractedly. In truth he merely talked tothis floating wisp of humanity to distract his mind, and thought of heras a strange female David of the streets sent to make a cockney musicin his ears that his soul might be rid of its evil spirit. 

"Never you mind why, " the lady answered. 

She shivered suddenly, violently, as a dog just come out of water. 

"Have another cup?" Julian said. 

"And a bun, dearie, " the lady again rejoined. She shook her head till allthe feathers danced. 

"Never you mind why, " she said, reverting again to his vagrant question. "There's some things as don't do to talk about. "

"I'm sure I've no wish to pry into your private affairs, " Julian rejoinedcarelessly. 

But again he noticed the worn terror of her face. Surely that night she, too, had passed through some unwonted experience, which had written itssign-manual amid the paint and powder of her shame. 

The lady stared back at him. Beneath her tinted eyelids the fear seemedto grow like a weed. Tears followed, rolling over her cheeks and minglingwith the coffee in her cup. 

"Oh dear, " she murmured lamentably. "Oh, dear, oh!"

"What's the matter?" said Julian. 

But she only shook her head, with the peevish persistence of weakobstinacy, and continued vaguely to weep as one worn down by chillcircumstance. 

Julian turned his eyes from her to the coffee-stall, in which thesharp-featured youth now negligently leant, well satisfied with thecustom he had secured. Behind the youth's head it seemed to Julian thatthe phantom flame hung trembling, as if blown by the light wind ofthe morning. He laid his hand on the lady's left arm and unconsciouslyclosed his fingers firmly over the flesh, while, in a low voice, hesaid to her:

"Look there!"

The lady of the feathers stopped crying abruptly, as if her tears weresuddenly frozen at their source. 

"Where, dearie?" she said jerkily. "Whatever do you mean?"

"There where the cups are hung up. Don't you see anything?"

But the lady was looking at him, and she now dropped her cup with a crashto the pavement. 

"There's a go, " said the sharp-featured youth. "You're a nice one, youare!"

Without regarding his protest, the lady violently wrenched her arm fromJulian's grasp and recoiled from the stall. 

"Le-go my arm, " she babbled hysterically. "Le-go, I say. I can't standany more--no, I can't. "

"I'm not going to hurt you, " said Julian, astonished at her outburst. 

But she only repeated vehemently:

"Let go, let me go!"

Backing away, she trod the fallen coffee-cup to fragments on thepavement, and began to drift down Piccadilly, her face under thefeathers set so completely round over her shoulder, in observation ofJulian, that she seemed to be promenading backwards. And as she wentshe uttered deplorable wailing sounds, which gradually increased involume. Apparently she considered that her life had been in imminentdanger, and that she saved herself by shrieks; for, still keeping herface toward the coffee-stall, she faded away in the morning, untilonly the faint noise of her retreat betokened her existence any longer. 

The sharp-featured youth winked wearily at Julian from the midst of hisgrove of coffee-cups. 

"Nice things, women, sir, " he ejaculated. "Good ayngels the books calls'm. O Gawd!"

Julian paid him and walked away. 

And as he went he found himself instinctively watching for the fleetingshadow of a flame, trying to perceive it against the grey face of ahouse, against the trunk of a tree, the dark green of a seat. But thelight of the mounting morning grew ever stronger and the flame-shapedshadow did not reappear. 

Julian reached his chambers, undressed abstractedly and went to bed. Before he fell asleep he looked at Rip reposing happily at the foot ofthe bed, and had a moment of shooting wonder that the little dog was socompletely comfortable with him. That it had flown at its master, whohad always been kind to it, whom it had always seemed to love hitherto, puzzled Julian. 

But then so many things had puzzled him within the last few days. 

He stroked Rip with a meditative hand and lay down. Soon his mind beganto wander in the maze whose clue is sleep. He was with Valentine, withDoctor Levillier, with the sharp-featured youth and the lady of thefeathers. They sat round a table and it was dark; yet he could see. Andthe lady's feathers grew like the beanstalk of Jack the Giant-killertowards heaven and the land of ogres. Then Julian climbed up and up tillhe reached the top of the ladder. And it seemed to him that the featherladder ended in blue space and in air, and that far away he saw theoutline of a golden bar. And on this bar two figures leaned. One seemedan angel, one a devil. Yet they had faces that were alike, and werebeautiful. They faded. 

Julian seemed vaguely to hear the sharp-featured youth say, "Goodayngels! O Gawd!"

Was that the motto of his sleep?

CHAPTER III

A DRIVE IN THE RAIN

When Julian returned from Angelo's the next morning he found lyingupon the breakfast table a note, and, after the custom of many people, before opening it he read the address on the envelope two or threetimes and considered who the writer might be. It struck him at oncethat the writing ought to be familiar to him and capable of instantidentification. The name of his correspondent was literally on the tip ofhis mind. Yet he could not utter it. And so at last he broke the seal. Before reading the note he glanced at the signature: "Valentine. "

Julian was surprised. He knew now why he had seemed to remember, yet hadnot actually remembered, the handwriting. Regarding it again, he found itcuriously changed from Valentine's usual hand, yet containing many pointsof resemblance. After a while he came to the conclusion that it was likea bad photograph of the original, imitating, closely enough, all the mainpoints of the original, yet leaving out all the character, all thedelicacy of it. For Valentine's handwriting had always seemed to Julianto express his nature. It was rather large and very clear, but delicate, the letters exquisitely formed, the lines perfectly even, neitherdepressed nor slanting upwards. This note was surely much more coarselywritten than usual. And yet, of course, it was Valentine's writing. Julian wondered he had not known. He read the note at last:

"DEAR JULIAN, "I am coming over to see you this afternoon about five, and shall try andpersuade Rip to restore me to his confidence. I hope you will be in. Areyou tired after last night's experiences? I never felt better. 

"Ever yours, "VALENTINE. "

"And yet, " Julian thought, "I should have guessed by your writing thatyou were in some unusual frame of mind, either tired, or--or--" he lookedagain, and closely, at the writing, --"or in a temper less delightfullycalm and seraphic than usual. Yes, it looks actually a bad-tempered hand. Valentine's!" Then he laughed, and tossed the note carelessly into thefire that was crackling upon the hearth. Rip lay by it, quietlysleeping. 

Punctually at five o'clock Valentine appeared. Rip was still lyinghappily before the fire, but directly the dog caught sight of its masterall the hair along the middle of its back bristled on end, and it showedevery symptom of acute distress and fury. Julian was obliged to put itout of the room. 

"What can have come over Rip, Valentine?" he said, as he came back. "Thissudden hatred of you is inexplicable. "

"Absolutely, " Valentine answered. "But it is sure to pass away. There wassomething uncanny about that trance of mine which frightened the littlebeggar. "

"Perhaps. But the oddest thing is, that while you were insensible Rip laywith his head upon your arm as contented as possible. It was only just asyou began to show signs of life that he seemed to turn against you. Ican't understand it. "

"Nor I. Have you seen Marr to-day?"

"No. I haven't been to the club. I am so glad you don't know him. "

Valentine laughed. He was lying back in a big chair, smoking a cigarette. His face was unclouded and serene, and he had never looked more entirelyhealthy. Indeed, he appeared much more decisively robust than usual. Julian noticed this. 

"Your trance seems positively to have done you good, " he said. 

"It certainly has not done me harm. My short death of the senses hasrested me wonderfully. I wonder if I am what is called a medium. "

"I shouldn't be surprised if you are, " Julian said. "But I don't think Icould be surprised at anything to-day. Indeed, I have found myselfdwelling with childish pleasure upon the most preposterous ideas, huggingthem to my soul, determining to believe in them. "

"Such as--what?"

"Well, such as this. "

And then Julian told Valentine of his curious notion that some wanderingsoul was beginning to companion him, and described how he had thought hesaw it when he was gazing at the old woman in Grosvenor Place, and againwhen he was with the lady of the feathers. 

"But, " Valentine said, "you say you were staring very hard at the oldwoman?"

"Yes. "

"That might account for the matter of the first appearance of the flamein daylight. If you look very steadily at some object, a kind of slightmirage will often intervene between you and it. "

"Perhaps. But I have seen this shadow of a flame when I was not thinkingof it or expecting it. "

"When?"

"Just now. As you came into the room I saw it float out at that door. "

"You are sure?"

"I believe so. Yes, I am. "

"But why should this soul, if soul it be, haunt you?"

"I can't tell. Perhaps, Val, you and I ought not to have played atspiritualism as we should play at a game. Perhaps--"

Julian paused. He was looking anxious, even worried. 

"Suppose we have not stopped in time, " he said. 

Valentine raised his eyebrows. 

"I don't understand. "

Julian was standing exactly opposite to him, leaning against themantelpiece and looking down at him. 

"We ought never to have sat again after our conversation with thedoctor, " Julian said. "I feel that to-day, so strongly. I feel thatperhaps we have taken just the one step too far, --the one step in thedark that may be fatal. "

"Fatal! My dear Julian, you are unstrung by the events of the night. "

But the calm of Valentine's voice did not seem to sway Julian. Hecontinued:

"Valentine, now that I am with you, I am attacked by a strange idea. "

"What is it?"

"That last night may have its consequences; yes, even though we strive toforget it, and to forget our sittings. If it should be so! If anything--"

He was curiously upset, and did not seem able to-day to take theinfluence of Valentine's mood. Indeed, this new anxiety of his wasonly born in Valentine's presence, was communicated apparently by him. 

"Everything one does has its following consequence, " Julian said. 

"It is the fashion to say so. I do not believe it. I believe, on thecontrary, that we often do things with a special view to the doctrine ofconsequence, and that our intentions are frustrated by the falseness ofthe doctrine. Suppose I kiss a woman. I may do so with intention to makeher love me, or, on the other hand, to make her hate me. The chances arethat she does neither the one nor the other. She simply forgets all aboutsuch a trifle, and we go on shaking hands politely for the rest of ournatural lives. Julian, the memories of most people are like winterdays--very short. "

"Perhaps. But there is some hidden thing in life whose memory iseverlasting. All the philosophers say so, especially those who areinclined to deny the Deity. They put their faith in the chain of causeand effect. What we have done, --you and I, Valentine, --must have aneffect of some sort. "

"It will have a very bad effect upon you, I can see, " said Valentine, smiling, "unless you pull yourself together. Come, this is nonsense. We have sat once too often, and the consequence followed, and is over:I went into a trance. I have fortunately come out of it, so the penaltywhich you so firmly believe in has been paid. The score is cleared, Julian. "

"I suppose so. "

"I have no doubt of it. Let us forget the whole matter, since to rememberit seems likely to affect those devils that make the hell of the physicalman--the nerves. Let us forget it. Where are you dining to-night?"

"Nowhere in particular. I have not thought about it, " Julian said, ratherlistlessly. 

"Dine with me then. "

"Yes, Valentine. "

Julian hesitated, then added:

"But not in Victoria Street, if you don't mind. "

"At the Savoy then; or shall we say the Berkeley?"

"Very well, --the Berkeley. "

"At eight o'clock. Good-bye till then. I must ask you to give the shelterof your roof to Rip till he returns to a more reasonable frame of mindabout me. "

When Valentine had gone Julian put on his coat, and walked down to theclub, ostensibly to look at the evening papers, really because he hada desire to see Marr. His intention, if he did meet the latter, was toquestion him closely as to the consequences which might follow upon asitting, or series of sittings, undertaken by two people for some reasonunsuited to carry out such an enterprise together. That Marr would bein the club he felt no shadow of doubt. Apparently the club had for Marrall the attraction that induces the new member to haunt the smoking andreading rooms of his freshly acquired home during the first week or twoof its possession. He was incessantly there, as Julian had had reason toknow. 

But to-day proved to be an exception. Julian explored the club from endto end without finding the object of his search. Finally he went to thehall-porter. 

"Is Mr. Marr in the club to-day?"

"No, sir; he has not been in at all since yesterday afternoon. "

"Oh, thanks. "

Julian felt strongly, even absurdly, disappointed, and found himselfwishing that he possessed Marr's private address. He would certainly havecalled upon him. However, he had no idea where Marr lived, so there wasnothing to be done. He went back to his rooms, dressed for dinner, andwas at the Berkeley by five minutes past eight. The restaurant was verycrowded that night, but Valentine had secured a table in the window, andwas waiting when Julian arrived. The table next to theirs was the onlyone unoccupied in the room. 

The two friends sat down and began to eat rather silently in the midst ofthe uproar of conversation round them. Valentine seemed quite unconsciousof the many glances directed towards him. He never succeeded in passingunnoticed anywhere, and although he had never done anything remarkable, was one of the best-known men in town merely by virtue of his unusualpersonality. 

"There's the Victoria Street Saint, " murmured a pretty girl to hercompanion. "What a fortune that man could make on the stage. "

"Yes, or as a pianist, " responded the man, rather enviously. "His lookswould crowd St. James's Hall even if he couldn't play a note. I never canunderstand how Cresswell manages to have such a complexion in London. Hemust take precious good care of himself. "

"Saints generally do. You see, we live for time, they for eternity. Weonly have to keep the wrinkles at bay for a few years, but they want tolook nice on the Judgment Day. "

She was a little actress, and at this point she laughed to indicatethat she had said something smart. As her laugh was dutifully echoedby the man who was paying for the dinner, she felt deliriously cleverfor the rest of the evening. 

Presently Julian said:

"I went to the club this afternoon. "

"Did you?"

"Yes. I wanted to have a talk with that fellow Marr. "

Valentine suddenly put down the glass of champagne which he was in theact of raising to his lips. 

"But surely, " he began, with some appearance of haste. Then he seemed tocheck himself, and finished calmly:

"You found him, I suppose?"

"No. "

"I thought he was perpetually there, apparently on the lookout for you. "

"Yes, but to-day he hadn't been in at all. Perhaps he has gone out oftown. "

"Ah, probably. "

At this moment two men entered the restaurant and strolled towards thetable next to that at which Valentine and Julian sat. One of them knewJulian and nodded as he passed. He was just on the point of sittingdown and unfolding his napkin when a sudden thought seemed to strike him, and he came over and said to Julian:

"You remember that dinner at Lady Crichton's, where we met the othernight?"

"Yes. "

"Startling bit of news to-night, wasn't it? Damned sudden!"

Julian looked puzzled. 

"What--is Lady Crichton ill, then?"

"Lady Crichton! No. I meant about that poor fellow, Marr. "

Julian swung round in his seat and regarded the man full in the face. 

"Marr! Why, what is it? Has he had an accident?"

"Dead!" the other man said laconically, arranging the gardenia in hiscoat, and taking a comprehensive survey of the room. 

"Dead!" Julian repeated, without expression. "Dead!"

"Yes. Well, bye-bye. Going on to the Empire!"

He turned to go, but Julian caught his arm. 

"Wait a moment. When did he die?"

"Last night. In the dead of the night, or in the early morning. "

"What of?"

"They don't know. There's going to be an inquest. The poor chap didn'tdie at home, but in a private hotel, in the Euston Road, the 'European. 'He's lying there now. Funny sort of chap, but not bad in his way. Iexpect--"

Here the man bent down and murmured something into Julian's ear. 

"Well, see you again presently. 'In the midst of life, ' eh?"

He lounged away and began applying his intellect to the dissection of asardine. 

Julian turned round in his chair and again faced Valentine. But he didnot go on eating the cutlet in aspic that lay upon his plate. He satlooking at Valentine, and at last said:

"How horribly sudden!"

"Yes, " Valentine answered sympathetically. "He must have had a weakheart. "

"I dare say. I suppose so. Valentine, I can't realize it. "

"It must be difficult. A man whom you saw so recently, and I supposeapparently quite well. "

"Quite. Absolutely. "

Julian sat silent again and allowed the waiter to take away his platewith the untouched cutlet. 

"I didn't like the man, " he began at last. "But still I'm sorry, damned sorry, about this. I wanted to see him again. He was an awfullyinteresting fellow, Val; and, as I told you, might, I believe, in timehave gained a sort of influence over me, --not like yours, of course, but he certainly had a power, a strength, about him, even a kind offascination. He was not like other people. Ah--" and he exclaimedimpatiently, "I wish you had met him. "

"Why?"

"I scarcely know. But I should like you to have had the experience. Andthen, you are so intuitive about people, you might have read him. I couldnot. And he was a fellow worth reading, that I'm certain of. No, I won'thave any mutton. I seem to have lost my appetite over this. "

Valentine calmly continued his dinner, while Julian talked on about Marrrather excitedly. When they were having coffee Valentine said:

"What shall we do to-night? It is only a quarter past nine. Shall we goanywhere?"

"Oh no, I think not--wait--yes, we will. "

Julian drank his coffee off at a gulp, in a way that would have made himthe despair of an epicure. 

"Where shall we go, then?"

Julian answered:

"To the Euston Road. To the 'European. '"

"The 'European'!"

"Yes, Valentine; I must see Marr once more, even dead. And I want youto see him. It was he who made the strangeness in our lives. But for himthese curious events of the last days would not have happened. And isn'tit peculiar that he must have died just about the time you were in yourtrance?"

"I do not see that. The two things were totally unconnected. "

"Perhaps. I suppose so. But I must know how he died. I must see what helooks like dead. You will come with me?"

"If you wish it. But we may not be admitted. "

"I will manage that somehow. Let us go. "

Valentine got up. He showed neither definite reluctance nor excitement. They put on their coats in the vestibule and went out into the street. While they had been dining the weather, fine during the day, had changed, and rain was falling in sheets. They stood in the doorway while thehall-porter called a cab. Piccadilly on such a night as this lookedperhaps more decisively dreary than a rain-soaked country lane, orstorm-driven sand-dunes by the sea. For wet humanity, with wispy hairand swishing petticoats, draggled with desire for shelter, is a piteousvision as it passes by. 

Valentine and Julian regarded it, turning up their coat collars andinstinctively thrusting their hands deep into their pockets. Two soldierspassed, pursued by a weary and tattered woman, at whom they laughinglyjeered as they adjusted the cloaks over their broad shoulders. They werehurrying back to barracks, and disregarded the woman's reiteratedexclamation that she would go with them, having no home. A hansom wentby with the glass down, a painted face staring through it upon the yellowmud that splashed round the horse's feet. Suddenly the horse slipped andcame down. The glass splintered as the painted and now screaming facewas dashed through it. A wet crowd of roughs and pavement vagabondsgathered and made hoarse remarks on the woman's dress as she was hauledout in her finery, bleeding and half fainting, her silk gown a prey tothe mud, her half-naked shoulders a hostage to the wind. Two men inopera-hats, walked towards their club, discussing a divorce case, andtelling funny stories through the rain. A very small, pale, and filthyboy stood with bare feet upon the kerbstone, and cried damp matches. 

"How horrible London is to-night, " Julian said as he and Valentine gotinto their cab. 

"Yes. Why add to our necessary contemplation of its horrors? Why go onthis mad errand?"

"I want you to see Marr, " Julian replied, with a curious obstinacy. Hepushed up the trap in the roof. 

"Drive to the European Hotel, in the Euston Road, " he said to the cabman. "D' you know it?"

"Yes, sir, " the cabman said. He was smiling on his perch as he crackedhis whip and drove towards the Circus. 

The glass had been let down and the two friends beheld a continuouslyblurred prospect of London framed in racing raindrops and intersectedby the wooden framework of the movable shutter. It was at the same timefantastic and tumultuous. The glare of light at the Circus shone overthe everlasting procession of converging omnibuses, the everlasting mobof prostitutes and of respectable citizens waiting to mount into thevehicles whose paint proclaimed their destination. Active walkers darteddexterously to and fro over the cobblestones, occasionally turningsharply to swear at a driver whose cab had bespattered their blackconventionality with clinging dirt. The drivers were impassivelyinsulting, as became men placed for the moment in a high station oflife. At the door of the Criterion Restaurant an enormously fat andwhite bookmaker in a curly hat and diamonds muttered remarks into theear of an unshaven music-hall singer. A gigantic "chucker-out" observedthem with the dull gaze of sullen habit, and a beggar-boy whined to themin vain for alms, then fluttered into obscurity. Fixed with corner stonesupon the wet pavement of the "island" lay in an unwinking row thecontents bill of the evening papers, proclaiming in gigantic black orred letters the facts of suicide, slander, divorce, murder, railwayaccidents, fires, and war complications. Dreary men read them withdreary, unexcited eyes, then forked out halfpence to raucous youthswhose arms were full of damp sheets of pink paper. A Guardsman kissed"good-bye" to his trembling sweetheart as he chivalrously assisted herinto a Marylebone 'bus, and two shop-girls, going home from work, nudgedeach other and giggled hysterically. Four fat Frenchmen stood in theporch of the Monico violently gesticulating and talking volubly at thetops of their voices. Two English undergraduates pushed past them witha look of contempt, and went speechlessly into the café beyond. A ladyfrom Paris, all red velvet and white ostrich-tips, smoothed her cheekwith her kid glove meditatively, and glanced about in search of her fateof the dark and silent hours. And then--Valentine and Julian were in thecomparative dimness of Shaftesbury Avenue--a huge red cross on a blackbackground started out of the gloom above a playhouse. Julian shudderedat it visibly. 

"You are quite unstrung to-night, Julian, " Valentine said. "Let us turnthe cab round and go home. "

"No, no, my dear fellow; I am all right. It is only that I see thingsto-night much more clearly than usual. I suppose it is owing to somethingphysical that every side of London seems to have sprung into prominence. Of course I go about every day in Piccadilly, St. James's Street, everywhere; but it is as if my eyes had been always shut, and now theyare open. I can see London to-night. And that cross looked so devilishlyironical up there, as if it were silently laughing at the tumult in therain. Don't you feel London to-night, too, Valentine?"

"I always feel it. "

"Tragically or comically?"

"I don't know that I could say truly either. Calmly or contemptuouslywould rather be the word. "

"You are always a philosopher. I can't be a philosopher when I seethose hordes of women standing hour after hour in the rain, and thoseboys searching among them. I should be one of those boys probably butfor you. "

"If you were, I doubt whether I should feel horrified. "

"Not morally horrified, I dare say, but intellectually disgusted. Eh?"

"I am not sure whether I shall permit my intellect quite so muchlicense in the future as I have permitted it in the past, " Valentinesaid thoughtfully. 

His blue eyes were on Julian, but Julian was gazing out on Oxford Street, which they were crossing at that moment. Julian, who had apparentlycontinued dwelling on the train of thoughts waked in him by the sightof the painted cross, ignored this remark and said:

"It is not my moral sense which shuddered just now, I believe, but myimagination. Sin is so full of prose, although many clever writers haverepresented it as splendidly decorated with poetry. Don't you think so, Val? And it is the prose of sin I realized so vividly just now. "

"The wet flowers on the waiting hats, the cold raindrops on the paintedfaces, the damp boots trudging to find sin, the dark clouds pouring abenediction on it. I know what you mean. But the whole question is oneof weather, I think. Vanity Fair on a hot, sweet summer night, with ahuge golden moon over Westminster, soft airs and dry pavements, wouldmake you see this city in a different light. And which of the lights isthe true one?"

"I dare say neither. "

"Why not both? The smartest coat has a lining, you know. I dare saythere are velvet sins as well as plush sins, and the man who can findthe velvet is the lucky fellow. Sins feel like plush to me, however, and I dislike plush. So I am not the lucky fellow. "

"No, Valentine; you are wrong. I'm pretty sure all virtue is velvet andall vice is plush. So you stick to velvet. "

"I don't know. Ask the next pretty dressmaker you meet. Bloomsburyis a genteel _inferno_ on a wet night. "

They traversed it smoothly on asphalt ways. All the time Valentine waswatching Julian with a fixed and narrow scrutiny, which Julian failed tonotice. The rows of dull houses seemed endless, and endlessly alike. 

"I am sure all of them are full of solicitors, " said Valentine. 

Presently in many fanlights they saw the mystic legend, "Apartments. "Then there were buildings that had an aged air and sported brokenwindows. Occasionally, on a background of red glass lit by a gas-jetfrom behind, sat the word "Hotel. " A certain grimy degradation swam inthe atmosphere of these streets. Their aspect was subtly different fromthe Bloomsbury thoroughfares, which look actively church-going, and arefull of the shadows of an everlasting respectability which pays itswater rates and sends occasional conscience-money to the Chancellor ofthe Exchequer. People looked furtive, and went in and out of the housesfurtively. They crawled rather than pranced, and their bodies borethemselves with a depression that seemed indiscreet. Occasionally menwith dripping umbrellas knocked at the doors under the red glass, anddisappeared into narrow passages inhabited by small iron umbrella-stands. Night brooded here like a dyspeptic raven with moulting tail-feathersand ragged wings. But London is eloquent of surprises. The cab turneda corner, and instantly they were in a wide and rain-swept street, longand straight, and lined with reserved houses, that shrank back from thepublicity of the passing traffic at the end of narrow alleys protectedby iron gates. Over many of these gates appeared lit arches of glass onwhich names were inscribed: "Albion Hotel, " "Valetta Hotel, " "ImperialHotel, " "Cosmopolitan Hotel, "--great names for small houses. These houseshad front doors with glass panels, and all the panels glowed dimly withgas. 

The cab flashed by them, and Julian read the fleeting names, until hiseyes were suddenly saluted with "European Hotel. "

Violently the cabman drew up. The smoking horse was squeezed upon itshaunches, and its feet slithered harshly along the stones. It tried tosit down, was hauled up by the reins, and stood trembling as the rightwheel of the cab collided with the pavement edge, and the water in thegutter splashed up as if projected from a spray. 

"Beg pardon, gents. I thought it was a bit further on, " said the cabby, leering down cheerfully. "Nice night, sir, ain't it?"

He shook the reluctant drops of moisture from his waterproof-shroudedhat, and drove off. 

Valentine opened the damp iron gate, and they walked up the paved alleyto the door. 

CHAPTER IV

THE EUSTON ROAD EPISODE

Opening the door, they found themselves in a squalid passage. A room onthe left was fronted by a sort of counter, above which was a long windowgiving onto the passage, and as the shrill tinkle of a bell announcedtheir entrance this window was pushed up, and the large red face andfurtive observant eyes of a man stared upon them inquiringly. 

"Do you require a room for the night?" he asked, in a husky voice, invaded by a strong French accent. "Because--"

"No, " interrupted Julian. 

The man nodded, and, strange to say, with apparent content. 

"There is trouble in my house, " he said. "I am unlucky; I come to Englandfrom my country to earn an honest living, and before two years, I havethe police here last night. "

"Yes, " said Julian, "I know. "

"What? You know it? Well, it is not my fault. The gentleman come lastnight with a lady, his wife, I suppose. How am I to know? He ask for aroom. He look perfectly well. I give them the room. They go to bed. Atfour o'clock in the morning I hear a bell ring. I get up. I go on thelanding to listen. I hear the bell again. I run to the chamber of thelady and gentleman. The lady is gone. The gentleman falls back on the bedas I come in and dies. Mon Dieu! It is--"

He suddenly paused in his excited narrative. Valentine had moved hisposition slightly and was now standing almost immediately under thegas-lamp that lit the glass door. 

"You--you are relation of him?" he said. "You come to see him?"

"I have come to see him, certainly, " said Valentine. "But I am norelation of his. This gentleman, " and he pointed to Julian, "knew himwell, and wished to look at him once more. "

The landlord seemed puzzled. He glanced from Valentine to Julian, thenback again to Valentine. 

"But, " he began, once more addressing himself to the latter, "you arelike--there is something; when the poor gentleman fell on the bed anddied he had your eyes. Yes, yes, you are relation of him. "

"No, " Valentine said; "you are mistaken. "

"I should think so, " exclaimed Julian. "Poor Marr's face was as utterlydifferent from yours, Valentine, as darkness is different from light. "

"No, no; it is not the eyes of the gentleman, " the landlord continued, leaning forward through his window, and still violently scrutinizingValentine, --"it is not the eyes. But there is something--the voice, themanner--yes, I say there is something, I cannot tell. "

"You are dreaming, my friend, " Valentine calmly interposed. "Now, Julian, what do you want to do?"

Julian came forward and leant his arm on the counter. 

"I am the poor gentleman's great friend, " he said. "You must let me seehim. "

The landlord held up his fat hands with a large gesticulation of refusal. 

"I cannot, sir. To-morrow they remove him. They sit on the poorgentleman--"

"I know, --the inquest. All this is very hard upon you, an honest mantrying to make an honest living. "

Julian put some money into one of the agitated hands. 

"My friend and I only wish to see him for a moment. "

"Monsieur, I cannot. I--"

Julian insinuated another sovereign into his protesting fingers. Theytook it as an anemone takes a shrimp, and made a gesture of abdication. 

"Well, if Monsieur is the friend of the poor gentleman, I have not theheart, I am tender-hearted, I am foolish--"

He disappeared muttering from the window, and in a moment appearedat a door on the left, disclosing himself now fully as a degraded, flaccid-looking, frouzy ruffian of a very low type, flashily dressed, and of a most unamiable expression. Taking a candlestick from a dirtymarble-topped slab that projected from the passage-wall, he struck amatch, lit the candle, and preceded them up the narrow flight of stairs, his boots creaking loudly at every step. On the landing at the top asmart maid-servant with a very pale face reconnoitered the party fora moment with furtive curiosity, then flitted away in the darkness tothe upper regions of the house. 

The landlord paused by a door numbered with a black number. 

"He is in here, " he whispered hoarsely. "Tomorrow they sit on him. Afterthat he go from me. Mon Dieu! I am glad when he is gone. My custom heis spoilt. My house get a bad name, and like a dog they hang him. MonDieu!"

He opened the door stealthily, forming "St!" with his fat, coarse lips. 

"I light the gas. It is all dark. "

"No, no, " Julian said, taking the candle from him, "I will do that. Godown. "

He motioned him away, and entered the room, followed by Valentine, atwhom the landlord again stared with a greedy consideration and curiosity, before turning to retreat softly down the narrow stairs. 

They found themselves in a good-sized room, typically of London. It wasfull of the peculiar and unmistakable metropolitan smell, a stale odorof the streets that suggests smuts to the mind. Two windows, with along dingy mirror set between them, looked out towards the Euston Road. Venetian blinds and thin white curtains looped with yellow ribbonshrouded them. On a slab that stuck out under the mirror was placed abundle of curling-pins tied with white tape, a small brush and comb, and a bottle of cherry-blossom scent. Near the mirror stood a narrowsofa covered with red rep. Upon this lay a man's upturned top-hat, in thecorner of which reposed a pair of reindeer gloves. A walking-stick witha gold top stood against the wall, in a corner by the marble mantlepiece. In the middle of the room lay a small open portmanteau, disclosing adisorder of shirts, handkerchiefs, and boots, a cheque-book, a bottleof brandy, and some brushes. By the fireplace there was a vulgar-lookingarm-chair upholstered in red. The room was full of the faint sound ofLondon voices and London traffic. 

Julian went straight up to the gas chandelier and lit all three jets. His action was hurried and abrupt. Then he set the candle down besidethe bundle of curling-pins, and turned sharply round to face the bed. The room was now a glare of light, and in this glare of light the broadbed with its white counterpane and sheets stood out harshly enough. Thesheets were turned smoothly down under the blue chin of the dead man, who lay there upon his back, his face with fast-shut eyes dusky white, or rather grey, among the pillows. As Julian looked upon him heexclaimed:

"Good God, it isn't Marr! Valentine, it isn't Marr!"

"Not?"

"No. And yet--wait a moment--"

Julian came nearer to the bed and bent right down over the corpse. Thenhe drew away and looked at Valentine, who was at the other side of thebed. 

"Oh, Valentine, this is strange, " he whispered, and drawing a chairto the bedside, he sank down upon it. "This is strange. What is itdeath does to a man? Yes; this is Marr. I see now; but so different, so altered! The whole expression, --oh, it is almost incredible. "

He stared again upon the face. 

It was long in shape, thin and swarthy, very weary looking, the face ofa man who had seen much, who had done very many, very various things. No face with shut eyes can look, perhaps, completely characteristic. Yet this face was full of a character that seemed curiously at war withthe shape of the features and with the position of the closed eyes, which were very near together. Julian, in describing Marr to Valentine, had pronounced him Satanic, and this dead face was, in truth, somewhatMephistophelean. An artist might well have painted it upon his canvas asa devil. But he must have reproduced merely the features and colouring, the blue, shaven cheeks, and hollow eye-sockets; for the expression ofhis devil he would have been obliged to seek another model. Marr, dead, looked serene, kind, gentle, satisfied, like a man who has shaken himselffree from a heavy burden, and who stretches himself to realize the suddenand wonderful ease for which he has longed, and who smiles, thinking, "That ghastly thrall is over. I am a slave no longer. I am free. " Thedead face was wonderfully happy. 

Julian seemed entirely fascinated by it. After his last smotheredexclamation to Valentine, he sat, leaning one arm upon the head of thebed, gazing till he looked stern, as all utterly ardent observers look. 

Valentine, too, was staring at the dead man. 

There was a very long silence in the room. The rain leaped upon the tallwindows on each side of the mirror and ran down them with an unceasingchilly vivacity. Lights from the street flickered through the blinds tojoin the glare of the gas. All the music of the town wandered round thehouse as a panther wanders round a bungalow by night. And the thin streamof people flowed by on the shining pavement beyond the iron railing ofthe narrow garden. They spoke, as they went, of all the minor things oflife, details of home, details of petty sins, details of common loves andcommon hopes and fears, all stirring feebly under umbrellas. And closeby these two friends, under three flaring gas-jets, watched the unwinkingdead man, whose face seemed full of relief. Presently Julian, withoutlooking up, said:

"Death has utterly changed him. He is no longer the same man. Formerlyhe looked all evil, and now it's just as if his body were thanking Godbecause it had got rid of a soul it had hated. Yes, it's just like that. Valentine, I feel as if Marr had been rescued. "

As he said the last words Julian looked up across the barrier of the bedat his friend. His lips opened as if to speak, but he said nothing; forhe was under the spell of a wild hallucination. It seemed to him thatthere, under the hard glare of the gas-lamps, the soul of Marr spoke, stared from the pure, proud face of Valentine. That was like a possessionof his friend. It was horrible, as if a devil chose for a moment to lurkand to do evil in the sanctuary of a church, to blaspheme at the veryaltar. Valentine did not speak. He was looking down on the dead serenityof Marr, vindictively. A busy intellect flashed in his clear blue eyes, meditating vigorously upon the dead man's escape from bondage, followinghim craftily to the very door of his freedom, to seize him surely, if itmight be. 

This is what Julian felt in his hallucination, that Valentine waspursuing Marr, uselessly, but with a deadly intention, a deadly hatred. 

"Valentine!" Julian cried at last. 

Valentine looked up. 

And in an instant the spell was removed. Julian saw his friendand protector rightly again, calm, pure, delicately reserved. Thedeath-chamber no longer contained a phantom. His eyes were no longerthe purveyors of a terrible deception to his mind. 

"Oh, Valentine, come here, " Julian said. 

Valentine came round by the end of the bed and stood beside him. 

Julian examined him narrowly. 

"Never stand opposite to me again, Valentine. "

"Opposite to you! Why not?"

"Nothing, nothing. Or--everything. What is the matter with this room?and me? and you? And why is Marr so changed?"

"How is he changed? You know I have never seen his face before. "

"You do not see it now. He has gone out of it. All that was Marr as Iknew him has utterly gone. Death has driven it away and left somethingquite different. Let us go. "

Julian got up. Valentine took up the candle from its place beside thecurling-pins and lifted his hand to the gas-chandelier. He had turnedout one of the burners, and was just going to turn out the two otherswhen Julian checked him. 

"No; leave them. Let the landlord put them out. Leave him in the light. "

They went out of the room, treading softly. A little way up thestaircase that led from the landing to the upper parts of the housea light flickered down to them, and they perceived the pale face ofthe housemaid diligently regarding them. Julian beckoned to her. 

"You showed the gentleman--the gentleman who is dead--to his room lastnight?"

"Yes, sir. Oh, sir, I can't believe he's really gone so sudden like. "

"Then you saw the lady with him?"

"Yes, of course. Oh--"

"Hush! What was she like?"

The housemaid's nose curled derisively. 

"Oh, sir, quite the usual sort. Oh, a very common person. Not at all likethe poor gentleman, sir. "

"Young?"

"Not to say old, sir. No; I couldn't bring that against her. She wore ahat, sir, and feathers--well, more than ever growed on one ostrich, I'llbe bound. "

"Feathers!"

A vision of the lady of the feathers sprang up before Julian, wrappedin the wan light of the early dawn. He put several rapid questions tothe housemaid. But she could only say again that Marr's companion hadbeen a very common person, a very common sort of person indeed, andflashily dressed, not at all as she--the housemaid--would care to go outof a Sunday. Julian tipped her and left her amazed upon the dim landing. Then he and Valentine descended the stairs. The landlord was waiting inthe passage in an attentive attitude against the wall. He seemed takenunawares by their appearance, but his eyes immediately sought Valentine'sface, still apparently questioning it with avidity. Julian noticed this, and recollected that the man had insisted on a likeness existing betweenMarr and Valentine. Possibly that fact, although apparently unremembered, had remained lurking in his mind, and was accountable for his own curiousdeception. Or could it be that there really was some vague, fleetingresemblance between the dead man and the living which the landlord sawcontinuously, he only at moments? Looking again at Valentine he couldnot believe it. No; the landlord was deceived now, as he had been inthe death-chamber above stairs. 

"May we come into your room for a moment?" Julian asked the man. "I wantto put to you a few questions. "

"But certainly, sir, with pleasure. "

He opened the side door and showed them into his sanctum beyond theglass window. It was a small, evil-looking room, crowded with fumes ofstale tobacco. On the walls hung two or three French prints of more thandoubtful decency. A table with a bottle and two or three glasses rangedon it occupied the middle of the floor. On a chair by the fire the GilBias was thrown in a crumpled attitude. One gas-burner flared, unshadedby any glass globe. Julian sat down on the Gil Bias. Valentine refusedthe landlord's offer of a chair, and stood looking rather contemptuouslyat the inartistic improprieties of the prints. 

"Did you let in the gentleman who came last night?" asked Julian. 

"But, sir, of course. I am always here. I mind my house. I see that onlyrespect-"

"Exactly. I don't doubt that for a moment. What was the lady like, --thelady who accompanied him?"

"Oh, sir, very chic, very pretty. "

"Didn't you hear her go out in the night?"

The landlord looked for a moment as if he were considering theadvisableness of a little bluster. He stared hard at Julian andthought better of it. 

"Not a sound, not a mouse. Till the bell rang I slept. Then she is gone!"

"Would you recognize her again?"

"But no. I hardly look at her, and I see so many. "

"Yes, yes, no doubt. And the gentleman. When you went into his room?"

"Ah! He was half sitting up. I come in. He just look at me. He fall back. He is dead. He say nothing. Then I--I run. "

"That's all I wanted to know, " Julian said. "Valentine, shall we go?"

"By all means. "

The landlord seemed relieved at their decision, and eagerly let themout into the pouring rain. When they were in the dismal strip of gardenJulian turned and looked up at the lit windows of the bedroom on thefirst story. Marr was lying there in the bright illumination at ease, relieved of his soul. But, as Julian looked, the two windows suddenlygrew dark. Evidently the economical landlord had hastened up, observedthe waste of the material he had to pay for, and abruptly stopped it. At the gate they called a cab. 

"No; let us have the glass up, " Julian said; "a drop of rain more or lessdoesn't matter. And I want some air. "

"So do I, " said Valentine. "The atmosphere of that house was abominable. "

"Of course there can be no two opinions as to its character, " Juliansaid. 

"Of course not. "

"What a dreary place to die in!"

"Yes. But does it matter where one dies? I think not. I attach immenseimportance to where one lives. "

"It seems horrible to come to an end in such a place, to have had thatwretched Frenchman as the only witness of one's death. Still, I supposeit is only foolish sentiment. Valentine, did you notice how happy Marrlooked?"

"No. "

"Didn't you? I thought you watched him almost as if you wondered as Idid. "

"How could I? I had never seen him before. "

"It was curious the landlord seeing a likeness between you and him. "

"Do you think so? The man naturally supposed one of us might be arelation, as we came to see Marr. I should not suppose there couldbe much resemblance. "

"There is none. It's impossible. There can be none!"

They rattled on towards Piccadilly, back through the dismalthoroughfares, towards the asphalt ways of Bloomsbury. PresentlyJulian said:

"I wish I had seen Marr die. "

"But why, Julian? Why this extraordinary interest in a man you knew soslightly and for so short a time?"

"It's because I can't get it out of my head that he had something to dowith our sittings, more than we know. "

"Impossible. "

"I am almost certain the doctor thought so. I must tell him about Marr'sdeath. Valentine, let us drive to Harley Street now. "

Valentine did not reply at once, and Julian said:

"I will tell the cabman. "

"Very well. "

Julian gave the order. 

"I wonder if he will be in, " Julian said presently. "What is the time?"

He took out his watch and held it up sideways until the light of agas-lamp flashed on it for a moment. 

"Just eleven. So late? I am surprised. "

"We were a good while at the 'European. '"

"Longer than I thought. Probably the doctor will have come in, even ifhe has been out dining. Ah, here we are!"

The cab drew up. Julian got out and rang the bell in the rain. 

"Is Doctor Levillier at home?"

"No, sir. He is out dining. But I expect him every moment. Will you comein and wait?" said the man-servant, who knew Julian well. 

"Thanks; I think I will. I rather want to see him. I will just ask Mr. Cresswell. He's with me to-night. "

Julian returned to the cab, in which Valentine was sitting. 

"The doctor will probably be home in a few minutes. Let us go in and waitfor him. "

"Yes, you go in. "

"But surely--"

"No, Julian, " Valentine said, and suddenly there came into his voice aweariness, "I am rather tired to-night. I think I'll go home to bed. "

"Oh, " Julian said. He was obviously disappointed. He hesitated. 

"Shall I come too, old chap? You're sure--you're certain that you are notfeeling ill after last night?"

He leant with his foot on the step of the cab to look at Valentine moreclosely. 

"No; I am all right. Only tired and sleepy, Julian. Well, will you comeor stay?"

"I think I will stay. I want badly to have a talk with the doctor. "

"All right. Good-night. "

"Good-night!"

Valentine called his address to the cabman, and the man whipped up hishorse. Just as the cab was turning round Valentine leaned out over thewooden door and cried to Julian, who was just going into the house:

"Give my best regards to the doctor, Julian. "

The cab disappeared, splashing through the puddles. 

Julian stood still on the doorstep. 

"Who said that, Lawler?" he asked. 

The servant looked at him in surprise. 

"Mr. Valentine, sir. "

"Mr. Valentine?"

"Yes, sir. "

"Of course, of course. But his voice, didn't--didn't you notice-"

"It was Mr. Valentine's usual voice, sir, " Lawler said, with increasingastonishment. 

"I'm upset to-night, " Julian muttered. 

He went into the house and Lawler closed the street door. 

CHAPTER V

THE HARLEY STREET EPISODE

Julian was a favourite in Harley Street, so Lawler did not hesitateto show him into the doctor's very private room, --a room dedicated toease, and to the cultivation of a busy man's hobbies. No patient evertold the sad secrets of his body here. Here were no medical books, noappliances for the writing of prescriptions, no hints of the professionof the owner. Several pots of growing roses gravely shadowed forth thedoctor's fondness for flowers. A grand piano mutely spoke of his lovefor music. Many of the books which lay about were novels; one, soberlydressed in a vellum binding, being Ouida's "Dog of Flanders. " All thephotographs which studded the silent chamber with a reflection of lifewere photographs of children, except one. That was Valentine's. Thehearth, on which a fire flashed, was wide and had two mighty occupants, Rupert and Mab, the doctor's mastiffs, who took their evening ease, pillowing their huge heads upon each other's heaving bodies. The tickingclock on the mantelpiece was an imitation of the Devil Clock of MasterZacharius. There were no newspapers in the room. That fact alone made itoriginal. A large cage of sleeping canaries was covered with a cloth. Theroom was long and rather narrow, the only door being at one end. On thewalls hung many pictures, some of them gifts from the artists. Somefoils lay on an ottoman in a far corner. The doctor fenced admirably, and believed in the exercise as a tonic to the muscles and a splendiddrill-sergeant to the eyes. 

As Julian came into the room, which was lit only by wax candles, he couldnot help comparing it with the room he had just left, in which the bodyof Marr lay. The atmosphere of a house is a strange thing, and almost asdefinite to the mind as is an appearance to the eye. A sensitive naturetakes it in like a breath of fetid or of fresh air. The atmosphere of theEuropean Hotel had been sinister and dreary, as of a building consecratedto hidden deeds, and inhabited mainly by wandering sinners. This home ofa great doctor was open-hearted and receptive, frank and refined. Thesleeping dogs, heaving gently in fawn-coloured beatitude, set upon it thebest hall-mark. It was a house--judging at least by this room--for happyrest. Yet it was the abode of incessant work, as the great world knewwell. This sanctum alone was the shrine of lotos-eating. The doctorsometimes laughingly boasted that he had never insulted it by even somuch as writing a post-card within its four walls. 

Julian stroked the dogs, who woke to wink upon him majestically, and sat down. Lawler quietly departed, and he was left alone. Whenhe first entered the house he had been disappointed at the departureof Valentine. Now he felt rather glad to have the doctor to himselffor a quiet half-hour. A conversation of two people is, under certaincircumstances, more complete than a conversation of three, howeverdelightful the third may chance to be. Julian placed Valentine beforeall the rest of the world. Nevertheless, to-night he was glad thatValentine had gone home to bed. It seems sometimes as if affectioncontributes to the making of a man self-conscious. Julian had avague notion that the presence of his greatest friend to-night mightrender him self-conscious. He scarcely knew why. Then he looked at themastiffs, and wondered at the extraordinary difference between men andthe companion animals whom they love and who love them. What man, however natural, however independent and serene, could emulate themajestic and deliberate _abandon_ of a big dog courted and caressedby a blazing fire and a soft rug? Man has not the dignity of soul tobe so grandly natural. Yet his very pert self-consciousness, the fringedpetticoats of affectation which he wears, give him the kennel, thecollar, the muzzle, the whip, weapons of power to bring the dog tosubjection. And Julian, as he watched Rupert and Mab wrapped in largelethargic dreams, found himself pitying them, as civilized man vaguelypities all other inhabitants of the round world. Poor old things! Sombreagitations were not theirs. They had nothing to aim at or to fightagainst. No devils and angels played at football with their souls. Their_liaisons_ were clear, uncomplicated by the violent mental drum-taps thatset the passions marching so often at a quickstep in the wrong direction. And Julian knelt down on the hearth-rug and laid his strong young handson their broad heads. Slowly they opened their veiled eyes and blinked. One, Rupert, struck a strict tail feebly upon the carpet in token ofacquiescence and gratified goodwill. Mab heaved herself over until sherested more completely upon her side, and allowed an enormous sigh torumble through her monotonously. Julian enjoyed that sigh. It made himfor the moment an optimist, as a happy child makes a dreary old manshivering on the edge of death an optimist. Dogs are blessed things. That was his thought. And just then the door at the end of the roomopened quietly, and Doctor Levillier came in, with a cloak on and hiscrush-hat in his hand. 

"I am glad to see you, Addison, " he said. 

The dogs shook themselves up onto their legs and laid their heads againsthis knees. 

"Lawler, please bring my gruel. "

"Yes, sir. "

"Addison, will you have brandy or whisky?"

"Whisky, please, doctor. "

Lawler took his master's cloak and hat, and the doctor came up to thefire. 

"So Valentine has gone home to bed?" he said. 

"Yes. "

"He's all right, I hope?"

"Yes. Indeed, doctor, I thought him looking more fit than usual to-day, more alive than I have often seen him. "

"I noticed that last night, when he revived from his trance. It struck mevery forcibly, very forcibly indeed. But you--" and the doctor's eyeswere on Julian's face--"look older than your age to-night, my boy. "

He sat down and lit a cigar. The mastiffs coiled themselves at his feetrapturously. They sighed, and he sighed too, quietly in satisfaction. He loved the one hour before midnight, the hour of perfect rest for him. Putting his feet on Rupert's back, he went on:

"Last night's events upset you seriously, I see, young and strong thoughyou are. But the most muscular men are more often the prey of theirnervous systems than most people are aware. Spend a few quiet days. Fencein the morning. Ride--out in the country, not in the Park. Get off yourhorse now and then, tie him up at a lych-gate and sit in a villagechurch. Listen to the amateur organist practising 'Abide with me, ' andthe 'Old Hundredth, ' on the Leiblich Gedacht and the Dulciana, with thebourdon on the pedals. There's nothing like that for making life seem aslow stepper instead of a racer. And take Valentine with you. I shouldlike to sit with him in a church at twilight, when the rooks were goinghome, and the organ was droning. Ah, well, but I must not think ofholidays. "

"Doctor, I like your prescription. Yes; I am feeling a bit out of sortsto-night. Last night, you see--and then to-day. "

"Surely, Addison, surely you haven't been sitting--but no, forgive me. I've got your promise. Well, what is it?"

Julian replied quickly:

"That man I told you about, Marr, is dead. "

Doctor Levillier looked decidedly startled. Julian's frequent allusionsto Marr and evident strange interest in the man, had impressed him as ithad impressed Valentine. However, he only said:

"Heart disease?"

"I don't know. There is going to be an inquest. "

"When did he die?"

"Last night, or rather at four in the morning; just as Valentine came outof his trance, it must have been. Don't you remember the clock striking?"

"Certainly, I do. But why do you connect the two circumstances?"

"Doctor, how can you tell that I do?"

"By your expression, the tone of your voice. "

"You are right. Somehow I can't help connecting them. I told Valentineso to-night. He has been with me to see Marr's body. "

"You have just come from that deathbed now?"

"Yes. "

Julian sketched rapidly the events of the European Hotel, but he leftto the last the immense impression made upon him by the expression ofthe dead man. 

"He looked so happy, so good, that at first I could not recognize him, "he said. "His face, dead, was the most absolutely direct contradictionpossible of his face, alive. He was not the same man. "

"The man was gone, you see, Addison. "

"Yes. But, then, what was it which remained to work this change in thebody?"

"Death gives a strange calm. The relaxing of sinews, the droop of limbsand features, the absolute absence of motion, of breathing, work up animpression. "

"But there was something more here, --more than peace. There was a--well, a strong happiness and a goodness. And Marr had always struck me as anatrociously bad lot. I think I told you. "

The doctor sat musing. Lawler came in with the tray, on which was asmall basin of gruel and soda-water bottles, a decanter of whisky, and a tall tumbler. Julian mixed himself a drink, and the doctor, still meditatively, took the basin of gruel onto his knees. As hesipped it, he looked a strange, little, serious ascetic, sittingthere in the light from the wax candles, his shining boots plantedgently on the broad back of the slumbering mastiff, his light eyesfixed on the fire. He did not speak again until he was half way throughhis gruel. Then he said:

"And you know absolutely nothing of Marr's past history?"

"No; nothing. "

"I gather from all you have told me that it would be worthy of study. IfI knew it I might understand the startling change from the aspect of evilto the aspect of good at death. I believe the man must have been far lessevil than you thought him, for dead faces express something that wasalways latent, if not known, in the departed natures. Ignorantly, youpossibly attributed to Marr a nature far more horrible than he everreally possessed. "

But Julian answered:

"I feel absolutely convinced that at the time I knew him he was one ofthe greatest rips, one of the most merciless men in London. I never feltabout any man as I did about him! And he impressed others in the sameway. "

"I wish I had seen him, " Doctor Levillier said. 

An idea, suggested by Julian's last remark, suddenly struck him. 

"He conveyed a strong impression of evil, you say?"

"Yes. "

"How? In what way, exactly?"

Julian hesitated. 

"It's difficult to say, " he answered. "Awfully difficult to put such athing into words. He interested me. I felt that he had a great power ofintellect, or of will, or something. But in every way he suggested a bad, a damnably bad, character. A woman said to me once about him that it waslike an emanation. "

"Ah!"

The doctor finished his gruel and put down the basin on the table besidehim. 

"By the way, where did Marr live? Anywhere in my direction? Would he, forinstance, go home from Piccadilly, or the theatres, by Regent Street?"

"I don't know at all where he lived. "

"Have you ever seen him with animals, --with dogs, for instance?"

"No. "

"If he had been as evil as you suppose, any dog would have avoided him. "

"Well, but dogs avoid perfection too. "

"Hardly, Addison. "

"But Rip and Valentine!"

The remark struck the doctor; that was obvious. He pushed his right footslowly backwards and forwards on Rupert's back, rucking up the dog'sloose skin in heavy folds. 

"Yes, " he said; "Rip is rather an inexplicable beggar. But do you meanto tell me he hasn't got over his horror of Valentine to-day?"

"This afternoon he was worse than ever. If Valentine had touched him, I believe he would have gone half mad. I had to put him out of the room. "

"H'm!"

"Isn't it unaccountable?"

"I must say that it is. Dogs are such faithful wretches. If Rupert andMab were to turn against me like that I believe it would strike at myheart more fiercely than the deed of any man could. "

He bent down and ran his hand over Rupert's heaving back. 

"The cheap satirist, " he said, "is forever comparing the ficklenessof men with the faithfulness of animals, but I don't mean to do that. I have a great belief in some human natures, and there are many menwhom I could, and would, implicitly trust. "

"There is one, doctor, whom we both know. "

"Cresswell. Yes. I could trust him through thick and thin. And yet hisown dog flies at him. "

Doctor Levillier returned to that fact, as if it puzzled him so utterlythat he could not dismiss it from his mind. 

"There must be some curious, subtle reason for that, " he said; "yet withall my intimate and affectionate knowledge of dogs I cannot divine it. Watch Rip carefully when he is not with Cresswell. Look after his health. Notice if he seems natural and happy. Does he eat as usual?"

"Rather. He did to-day. "

"And he seems contented with you?"

"Quite. "

"Well, all I can say is, that Rip doesn't seem to possess a dog nature. He is uncanny. "

"Uncanny, " Julian said, seizing on the word. "But everything has becomeuncanny within the last few days. Upon my word, when I look back intothe past of, say, a fortnight ago, I ask myself whether I am a fool, or dreaming, or whether my health is going to the deuce. London seemsdifferent. I look on things strangely. I fancy, I imagine--"

He broke off. Then he said:

"By Jove, doctor, if half the men I know at White's could see into mymind they would think me fitted for a lunatic asylum. "

"It doesn't matter to you what half the men, or the whole of the men atWhite's think, so long as you keep a cool head and a good heart. But itis as you say. You and Valentine have run, as a train runs into the BlackCountry, into an unwholesome atmosphere. In a day or two probably yourlungs, which have drawn it in, will expel it again. "

He smiled rather whimsically. Then he said:

"You know, Addison, men talk of their strength, and are inclined tocall women nervous creatures, but the nerves play tricks among malemuscles. Yes, you want the foils, the bicycle, the droning organ, andthe village church. I advise you to go out of town for a week. ForgetMarr, a queer fish evidently, with possibly a power of mesmerism. Anddon't ask Valentine to go away with you. "

The last remark surprised Julian. 

"But why not?" he asked. 

"Merely because he is intimately connected with the events that haveturned you out of your usual, your right course. I see that your mindis moving in a rather narrow circle, which contains, besides yourself, two people only, Marr and Cresswell. "

"Darkness and light. Yes, it's true. How rotten of me, " Julian exclaimed, like a schoolboy. "I'm like a squirrel in a cage, going round and round. That's just it. Valentine and Marr are in that cursed circle of oursittings, and so I insanely connect them with one another. I actuallybegan to think to-night that Marr died, poor fellow, because--well--"

"Yes. "

"Oh, it's too ridiculous, that his death had something to do with ourlast sitting. Supposing, as you say, he had a hypnotic power of any kind. Could--could its exercise cause injury to his health?"

But the doctor ignored the question in his quiet and yet very completeand self-possessed manner. 

"Marr and Cresswell never met, " he said. "It is folly to connect themtogether. It is, as you said, " and he laughed, "rotten of you. Go awayto-morrow. "

"I will, you autocratic doctor. What fee do I owe you?"

"Your friendship, my boy. "

Dr. Levillier sat lower in his chair, and they smoked in silence, bothof them revelling in the warm peace and the ease of this night-hour. Since he had come into the Harley Street house Julian had been muchhappier. His perturbation had gradually evaporated until now scarcelya vestige of it remained. The little doctor's talk, above all the sightof his calm, thoughtful face and the aspect of his calm, satisfied room, gave the _coup de grâce_ to the uneasiness of a spurious and ill-omenedexcitement. When the power of wide medical knowledge is joined to thepower of goodness and of umbrageous intellectuality, a doctor is, amongall men, the man to lay the ghosts that human nature is perpetually atthe pains to set walking in their shrouds to cause alarm. All Julian'sghosts were laid. He smoked on and grew to feel perfectly natural andcomfortable. The dogs echoed and emphasized all the healing power oftheir small and elderly master. As they lay sleeping, a tangle oflarge limbs and supine strength, the fire shone over them till theirfawn-coloured coats gleamed almost like satin touched with gold. Thedelightful sanctity of unmeasured confidence, unmeasured satisfaction, sang in their gentle and large-hearted snores, which rose and fellwith the regularity of waves of the sea. Now and then one of themslowly stretched a leg or expanded the toes of a foot, as if intent onpresenting a larger surface of sensation to the embrace of comfort andof affection. And they, so it seemed to Julian, kept the pleasant silencenow come into existence between him and the doctor alive. That silencerested him immensely. In it the two cigars diminished steadily, steadilyas the length of a man's life, but glowing to the very end. And the greyashes dropped away of their own accord, and Julian's mind shed its greyashes too and glowed serenely. The dogs expanded their warm bodies on thehearth, and his nature expanded in a vague, wide-stretching generosityof mute evening emotion. 

"How comfortable this is, doctor, " he murmured at last. 

"Yes. It's a good hour, " the doctor replied, letting the words go slowlyfrom his lips. "I wish I could give to all the poor creatures in thiscity just one good hour. "

They smoked their cigars out. 

"I ought to go, " Julian said lazily. 

"No. Have one more. I know it is dangerous to prolong a pleasure. Itloses its savour. But I think, Addison, to-night, you and I can get noharm from the experiment. "

He handed Julian the cigar-box. 

"We won't stir up the dogs for another half-hour, " he added, looking attheir happiness with a shining satisfaction. "Here are the matches. Lightup. "

Julian obeyed, and they began the delightful era of the second cigar, and sank a little deeper down, surely, into serenity and peace. Occasional coals dropping into the fender with a hot tick, tick, chirrupped a lullaby to the four happy companions. And the men learnta fine silence from the fine silence of the dogs. 

Half way through the second cigar Rupert shifted under his master'spatent-leather boots and raised his huge head. His eyes blinked outof their sleep, then ceased to blink and became attentive. Then hisears, which had been lying down on each side of his head in the suavestattitude which such features of a dog can assume, lifted themselves upand pointed grimly forward as he listened to something. His flaccid legscontracted under him, and the muscles of his back quivered. Mab, lessreadily alert, quickly caught the infection of his attention, rolled overout of her sideways position and couched beside him. The movement of thedogs was not congenial to the doctor. Rupert's curious back, alert underhis feet, communicated an immediate sense of disquiet to the very centreof his being. He said to Julian:

"The acuteness of animal senses has its drawbacks. These dogs must haveheard some sound in the street that is entirely inaudible to us. Well, Rupert, what is it? Lie down again and go to sleep. "

Stooping forward he put his hand on the dog's neck, and gave him a push, expecting him to yield readily, and tumble over onto the warm rug tosleep once more. But Rupert resisted his hand, and instead, got up, andstood at attention. Mab immediately followed his example. 

"What are they after, doctor?" said Julian. 

As he spoke a bell rang in the house. 

"Nemesis for prolonging the pleasure, " Levillier said. "A summons to apatient, no doubt. "

As if in reply to the twitter of the bell, Rupert sprang forward andbarked. He remained beside the door, waiting, while Mab barked too, nearer the fire. The bell sounded again, and the footstep of Lawler, who always sat up as late as his master, was heard on the stairs fromthe servants' part of the house. It passed them on its errand to thefront door, but during its passage the excitement of the two dogsrapidly increased. They began to bark furiously and to bristle. 

"I never saw them like this before, " the doctor said, not withoutanxiety. 

As he spoke Lawler opened the hall door. They heard the latch go andthe faint voice of somebody in colloquy with him. For the dogs werenow abruptly silent, but displayed the most curious savage intentness, showing their teeth, and standing each by the door as if sentinelson guard. The colloquy ceasing, steps again sounded in the hall, butmore than Lawler's. Evidently the man was returning towards the roomaccompanied by somebody from the street. The doctor was keenly observingthe mastiffs, and just as Lawler's hand struck upon the handle of thedoor to turn it, he suddenly called out sharply:

"Lawler, you are not to open the door!"

And as he called, the doctor ran forward between the two dogs and caughttheir collars in his two hands. They tugged and leaped to get away, buthe held on. The surprised voice of the obedient Lawler was heard on thehither side of the door, saying:

"I beg your pardon, sir. "

The doctor said hastily to Julian:

"These dogs will tear the person who has just come into the house topieces if we don't take care. Catch on to Mab, Addison. "

Julian obeyed, and the dog was like live iron with determination underhis grasp. 

"Some one is with you, Lawler, " the doctor said. "Does he wish to seeme?"

"If you please, sir, it is Mr. Cresswell, Mr. Valentine come back for Mr. Addison. "

Julian felt himself go suddenly pale. 

CHAPTER VI

THE STRENGTH OF THE SPRING

Rather reluctantly, Julian acted on the advice of Doctor Levillier andwent out of town for a week on the following day. He took his way tothe sea, and tried to feel normal in a sailing-boat with a gnarled andcorrugated old salt for his only companion. But his success was onlypartial, for while his body gave itself to the whisper of the ungovernedbreezes, while his hands held the ropes, and his eyes watched the subtleproceedings of the weather, and his ears listened to the serial storiesof the waves, and to the conversational peregrinations of his AncientMariner about the China Seas in bygone days, his mind was still inLondon, still busily concerned itself with the very things that shouldnow undergo a sea change and vanish in ozone. Recent events oppressedhim, to the occasional undoing of the old salt, well accustomed to theseasick reverence of his despairing clients on board the _Star of theSea_. When the mind of a man has once fallen into the habit of prancingin a circle like a circus horse, it is difficult to drive it back intothe public streets, to make it trot serenely forward in its ordinaryways. And Julian had with him a ring-master in the person of the ignorantRip. Whenever his eyes fell on Rip, curled uneasily in the bottom of theswinging boat, he went at a tangent back to Harley Street, and thestrange finale of his evening with the doctor. 

It had been a curious tableau divided by a door. Levillier and he stoodon one side tugging mightily at the intent mastiffs, which strained attheir collars, dropping beads of foam from their grinning jaws, savages, instead of calm companions. On the other side, in the hall, Lawler andValentine paused in amazement, and a colloquy shot to and fro through thewooden barrier. On hearing the name of Valentine mentioned by the butler, the doctor had cast an instant glance of unbounded amazement upon Julian. And Julian had returned it, feeling in his heart the dawning of aninexplicable trouble. 

"Is anything the matter?" Valentine's voice had asked. 

"No, " said the doctor in reply. "But please go into the dining-room. Wewill come to you there. And Lawler--"

"Yes, sir. "

"When you have shown Mr. Cresswell to the dining-room, be careful to shutthe door, and to keep it shut till I come. "

"Yes, sir. "

The butler's well-trained voice had vibrated with surprise and Julian hadfound himself mechanically smiling as he noted this. Then the footstepsof servant and visitor had retreated. Presently a door was heard to shut. Lawler returned, and was passing discreetly by, to wonder, in his pantry, if his master had gone mad, when the doctor again called to him. 

"Go downstairs, Lawler, and in a moment I shall bring the dogs to you. "

"Yes, sir. "

The butler's voice was now almost shrill with scarcely governableastonishment, and his footsteps seemed to tremble uneasily upon thestairs as he retired. Then the doctor went to a corner of the roomand took down from a hook a whip with a heavy thong. 

"I haven't had to use this since they were both puppies, " he said, witha side glance at the dogs. "Now, Addison, keep hold of Mab and go infront of me down the servants' stairs. If the dogs once get out of handwe shall have trouble in the house to-night. "

The door was opened, and then a veritable affray began. The animalsseemed half mad. They tore at their collars, and struggled furiouslyto break loose, snarling and even snapping, their great heads turned inthe direction of the dining-room. The doctor, firmest as well as kindestof men, recognized necessity, and used the whip unsparingly, lashing theanimals through the door to the servants' quarters, and down the stairs. It was a violent procession to the lower regions. Julian could not get itout of his head. Entangled among the leaping dogs on the narrow stairway, he had a sense of whirling in the eddies of a stream, driven from thisside to the other. His arms were nearly pulled out of their sockets. Theshriek of the lash curling over and around the dogs, the dim vision ofthe doctor's compressed lips and eyes full of unaccustomed fire, thedamp foam on his hands as he rocked from one wall to the other, amid adull music of growls, and fierce, low barks, came back to him now as hetrimmed the sails to catch the undecided winds, or felt the tiller leapunder his hold. Each moment he had expected to be bitten, but somehowthey all tumbled together unhurt into Lawler's pantry, where they foundthat factotum standing grim and wire-strung with anticipation. Beyond thepantry were the dogs' night quarters, and they were quickly driven intothem and shut up. But they still bounded and beat against the door, andpresently began to howl a vain chorale. 

"Lord, Lord, sir! what's come to them?" Lawler exclaimed. 

His fat face had become as white as a sheet, and the doctor was scarcelyless pale as he leaned against the dresser, whip in hand, drawing pantingbreaths. 

"I can't tell. They will be all right in a minute. "

He pulled himself up. 

"Go to bed now if you like, Lawler, " he said, rather abruptly. "Come, Addison. "

They regained the hall, and made their way to Valentine. He was sittingby the dining-table in a watchful attitude, and sprang hastily up as theycame in. 

"My dear doctor, " he said, "what a pandemonium! I nearly came to yourassistance. "

"It's very lucky you didn't, Cresswell, " the doctor answered, almostgrimly. 

"Why?"

"Because if you had you might chance to be a dead man by this time. "

Out on the sea, under the streaming clouds that fled before the wind, Julian recalled the strange terseness of that reply, and the perhapsstranger silence that followed it. For Valentine had made no comment, had asked for no explanation. He had simply dropped the subject, andthe three men had remained together for a few minutes, constrained andill at ease. Then the doctor had said:

"Let us go back now to my room. "

Valentine and he assented, and got upon their feet to follow him, butwhen he opened the door there came up from the servants' quarters thehalf-strangled howling of the mastiffs. Involuntarily Dr. Levillierpaused to listen, his hand behind his ear. Then he turned to theyoung men, and held out his right hand. 

"Good-night, " he said. "I must go down to them, or there will be asummons applied for against me in the morning by one of my neighbours. "

And they let themselves out while he retreated once more down the stairs. 

The drive home had been a silent one. Only when Julian was biddingValentine good-night had he found a tongue to say to his friend:

"The devil's in all this, Valentine. "

And Valentine had merely nodded with a smile and driven off. 

Now, in the sea solitude that was to be a medicine to his soul, Julianwent round and round in his mental circus, treading ever the samesaw dust under foot, hearing ever the same whip crack to send himforward. His isolation bent him upon himself, and the old salt's hoarsemurmurings of the "Chiney" seas in no way drew him to a healthieroutlook. Why Valentine returned for him that night he did not know. That might have been merely the prompting of a vagrant impulse. Juliancursed that impulse, on account of the circumstances to which it directlyled; for there was a peculiar strain of enmity in them which hadaffected, and continued to affect, him most disagreeably. To beholdthe instinctive hostility of another towards a person whom one loves isoffensively grotesque to the observer, and at moments Julian hated thedoctor's mastiffs, and even hated the unconscious Rip, who lay, in acertain shivering discomfort and apprehension, seeking sleep with thedetermination of sorrow. There are things, feelings, and desires, whichshould surely be kicked out of men and dogs. Such a thing, beyond doubt, was a savage hatred of Valentine. What prompted it, and whence it came, were merely mysteries, which the dumbness of dogs must forever sustain. But what specially plunged Julian into concern was the latent fear thatDr. Levillier might echo the repulsion of his dogs and come to lookupon Valentine with different eyes. Julian's fine jealousy for hisfriend sharpened his faculties of observation and of deduction, andhe had observed the little doctor's dry reception of Valentine afterthe struggle on the stairs, and his eager dismissal of them both to thestreet door on the howling excuse that rose up from the basement. Sucha mood might probably be transient, and only engendered by the fatigueof excitement, or even by the physical exhaustion attendant upon thepreservation of Valentine from the rage of Rupert and Mab. Julian toldhimself that to dwell upon it, or to conceive of it as permanent, wasneither sensible nor acute, considering his intimate knowledge of thedoctor's nature, and of his firm friendship for Valentine. That he didcontinue most persistently to dwell upon it, and with a keen suspicion, must be due to the present desolation of his circumstances, and to thevain babble of the blue-coated Methuselah, whose intellect roamedincessantly through a marine past, peopled with love episodes of asomewhat Rabelaisian character. 

At the end of five days Julian abruptly threw up the sponge and returnedto London, abandoning the old salt to the tobacco-chewing, which was hisonly solace during the winter season, now fast drawing to a close. Hewent at once to see Valentine, who had a narrative to tell him concerningMarr. 

"You have probably read all about Marr in the papers?" he asked, when hemet Julian. 

The question came at once with his hand-grasp. 

"No, " Julian said. "I shunted the papers, tried to give myself upentirely to the sea, as the doctor advised. What has there been?"

"Oh, a good deal. I may as well tell it to you, or no doubt Lady Crichtonwill. People exaggerate so much. "

"Why--what is there to exaggerate about?"

"The inquest was held, " Valentine answered. "And every effort was madeto find the woman who came with Marr to the hotel and evaporated somysteriously, but there was no one to identify her. The Frenchman hadnot noticed her features, and the housemaid, as you remember, was afool, and could only say she was a common-looking person. "

"Well, " Julian said, rather eagerly, "but what was the cause of death?"

"That was entirely obscure. The body seemed healthy--at least the variousorgans were sound. There was no obvious reason for death, and the verdictwas, simply, 'Died from failure of the heart's action. '"

"Vague, but comprehensive. "

"Yes; I suppose we shall all die strictly from the same cause. "

"And that is all?"

"Not quite. It appears that a description of the dead man got into thepapers and that he was identified by his wife, who read the account insome remote part of the country, took the train to town, and found thatMarr was, as she suspected, the man whom she had married, from whom shehad separated, and whose real name was Wilson, the Wilson of a notoriousnewspaper case. Do you remember it?"

"What, an action against a husband for gross cruelty, for incredible, unspeakable inhumanity--some time ago?"

"Yes. The wife got a judicial separation. "

"And that is the history of Marr?"

"That is, such of his history as is known, " Valentine said in his calmvoice. 

While he had been speaking his blue eyes had always been fixed onJulian's face. When Julian looked up they were withdrawn. 

"I always had a feeling that Marr was secretly a wretch, a devil, " Juliansaid now. "It seems I was right. What has become of the wife?"

"I suppose she has gone back to her country home. Probably she is happy. Her first mate chastised her with whips. To fulfil her destiny as a womanshe ought now to seek another who is fond of scorpions. "

"Women are strange, " Julian said, voluptuously generalizing after themanner of young men. 

Valentine leaned forward as if the sentence stirred some depth in hismind and roused him to a certain excitement. 

"Julian, " he exclaimed, "are you and I wasting our lives, do you think?Since you have been away I have thought again over our conversationbefore we had our first sitting. Do you remember it?"

"Yes, Valentine. "

"You said then I had held you back from so much. "

"Yes. "

"And I have been asking myself whether I have not, perhaps, held youback, held myself back, from all that is worth having in life. "

Julian looked troubled. 

"From all that is not worth having, old boy, " he said. 

But he looked troubled. When Valentine spoke like this he felt as a manwho stands at a garden gate and gazes out into the world, and is stirredwith a thrill of anticipation and of desire to leap out from the greenand shadowy close, where trees are and flowers, into the dust and heatwhere passion hides as in a nest, and unspoken things lie warm. Julianwas vaguely afraid of himself. It is dangerous to lean on any one, however strong. Having met Valentine on the threshold of life, Julianhad never learned to walk alone. He trusted another, instead of trustinghimself. He had never forged his own sword. When Siegfried sang at hisanvil he sang a song of all the greatness of life. Julian was notablystrong as to his muscles. He had arms of iron, and the blood raced inhis veins, but he had never forged his sword. Mistrust of himself wasas a phantom that walked with him unless Valentine drove it away. 

"I thought you had got over that absurd feeling, Val, " he said. "Ithought you were content with your soul. "

"I think I have ceased to be content, " said Valentine. "Perhaps I havestolen a fragment of your nature, Julian, in those dark nights in thetentroom. Since you have been away I have wondered. An extraordinarysensation of bodily strength, of enormous vigour, has come to me. AndI want to test the sensation, to see if it is founded upon fact. "

He was sitting in a low chair, and as he spoke he slowly stretched hislimbs. It was as if all his body yawned, waking from sleep. 

"But how?" Julian asked. 

Already he looked rather interested than troubled. At Valentine's wordshe too became violently conscious of his own strength, and stirred by thewonder of youth dwelling in him. 

"How? That is what I wish to find out by going into the world withdifferent eyes. I have been living in the arts, Julian. But is thatliving at all?"

Julian got up and stood by the fire. Valentine excited him. He leaned onearm on the mantelpiece. His right hand kept closing and unclosing as hetalked. 

"Such a life is natural to you, " he said. "And you have made me love it. "

"I sometimes wonder, " responded Valentine, "whether I have not trainedmy head to slay my heart. Men of intellect are often strangely inhuman. Besides, what you call my purity and my refinement are due perhaps to mycowardice. I am called the Saint of Victoria Street because I live in asort of London cloister with you for my companion, and in the cloisterI read or I give myself up to music, and I hang my walls with pictures, and I wonder at the sins of men, and I believe I am that deadly thing, a Pharisee. "

"But you are perfectly tolerant. "

"Am I? I often find myself sneering at the follies of others, at what Icall their coarsenesses, their wallowing in the mire. "

"It is wallowing. "

"And which is most human, the man who drives in a carriage, or the manwho walks sturdily along the road, and gets the mud on his boots, andlets the rain fall on him and the wind be his friend? I suspect it isa fine thing to be out unsheltered in a storm, Julian. "

Julian's dark eyes were glowing. Valentine spoke with an unusual, almostwith an electric warmth, and Julian was conscious of drawing very near tohim tonight. Always in their friendship, hitherto, he had thought ofValentine as of one apart, walking at a distance from all men, even fromhim. And he had believed most honestly that this very detachment haddrawn him to Valentine more than to any other human being. But to-nighthe began suddenly to feel that to be actually side by side with hisfriend would be a very glorious thing. He could never hope to walkperpetually upon the vestal heights. If Valentine did really come downtowards the valley, what then? Just at first the idea had shocked him. Now he began almost to wish that it might be so, to feel that he wasshaking hands with Valentine more brotherly than ever before. 

"Extremes are wrong, desolate, abominable, I begin to think, " Valentinewent on. "Angel and devil, both should be scourged--the one to be purgedof excessive good, the other of excessive evil, and between them, midway, is man, natural man. Julian, you are natural man, and you are more rightthan I, who, it seems, have been educating you by presenting to you forcontemplation my own disease. "

"Well, but is natural man worth much? That is the question! I don'tknow. "

"He fights, and drinks, and loves, and, oftener than the renownedphilosopher thinks, he knows how to die. And then he lives thoroughly, and that is probably what we were sent into the world to do. "

"Can't we live thoroughly without, say, the fighting and the drinking, Val?"

Valentine got up, too, as if excited, and stood by the fire by Julian'sside. 

"Battle calls forth heroism, " he said, "which else would sleep. "

"And drinking?"

"Leads to good fellowship. "

This last remark was so preposterously unlike Valentine that Julian couldnot for a moment accept it as uttered seriously. His mood changed, and heburst out suddenly into a laugh. 

"You have been taking me in all the time, " he exclaimed, "and I actuallywas fool enough to think you serious. "

"And to agree with what I was saying?"

Valentine still spoke quite gravely and earnestly, and Julian began to bepuzzled. 

"You know I can never help agreeing with you when you really meananything, " he began. "I have proved so often that you are always rightin the end. So your real theory of life must be the true one: but yourreal theory, I know, is to reject what most people run after. "

"No longer that, I fancy, Julian. "

"But, then, what has changed you?"

Valentine met his eyes calmly. 

"I don't know, " he said. "Do you?"

"I? How should I?"

"Perhaps this change has been growing within me for a long while. Itis difficult to say; but to-night my nature culminates. I am at a point, Julian. "

"Then you have climbed to it. Don't you want to stay there?"

"No mere man can face the weather on a mountain peak forever, and lifelies rather in the plains. "

Valentine went over to the window and touched the blind. It shot up, leaving the naked window, through which the gas-lamps of Victoria Streetstared in the night. 

"I wish, " he said, "that we, in England, had the flat roofs of the East. "

He thrust up the glass, and the night air pushed in. 

"Come here, Julian, " he said. 

Julian obeyed, wondering rather. Valentine leaned a little out on thesill and made Julian lean beside him. It was early in the night andthe hum of London was yet loud, for the bees did not sleep, but werestill busy in their monstrous hive. There was already a gentleness ofspring among the discoloured houses. Spring will not be denied, evenamong men who dwell in flats. The cabs hurried past, and pedestrianswent by in twos and threes or solitary; soldiers walking vaguely, seekingcheap pleasures, or more gaily with adoring maidens; tired business men;journeying towards Victoria Station; a desolate shop-girl, in drearyvirtue defiant of mankind, but still unblessed; the Noah's ark figure ofa policeman, tramping emptily, standing wearily by turns, to keep publicorder. Lights starred here and there the long line of mansions opposite. 

"I often look out here at night, " Valentine said, "generally to wonderwhy people live as they do. When I see the soldiers going by, forinstance, I have often marvelled that they could find any pleasurein the servants, so often ugly, who hang on their arms, and languishpersistently at them under cheap hats and dyed feathers. And I gaze atthe policeman on his beat and pity him for the dead routine in which hestalks, seldom varied by the sordid capture of a starving cracksman, orthe triumphant seizure of an unmuzzled dog. The boys selling eveningpapers seem to me imps of desolation, screaming through life aimlesslyfor halfpence; and the cabmen, creatures driving for ever to stations, yet never able to get into the wide world. And yet they are all living, Julian; that is the thing: all having their experiences, all in strongtouch with humanity. The newspaper-boy has got his flower-girl to givehim grimy kisses; and the cabman is proud of the shine on his harness;and the soldier glories in his military faculty of seduction, and inhis quick capacity for getting drunk in the glittering gin-palace at thecorner of the street; and the policeman hopes to take some one up, and tobe praised by a magistrate; and in those houses opposite intrigues aregoing on, and jealousy is being born, and men and women are quarrellingover trifles and making it up again, and children--what matter iflegitimate or illegitimate?--are cooing and crying, and boys are wakingto the turmoil of manhood, and girls are dreaming of the things they darenot pretend to know. Why should I be like a bird hovering over it all?Why should not I--and you--be in it? If I can only cease to be as I havealways been, I can recreate London for myself, and make it a live city, fearing neither its vices nor its tears. I have made you fear them, Julian. I have done you an injury. Let us be quiet, and feel the rustleof spring over the gas-lamps, and hear the pulsing of the hearts aroundus. "

He put his arm through Julian's as they leaned out on the sill of thewindow, and to Julian his arm was like a line of living fire, compellingthat which touched it to a speechless fever of excitement. Was this manValentine? Julian's pulses throbbed and hammered as he looked upon thestreet, and he seemed to see all the passers-by with eyes from whichscales had fallen. If to die should be nothing to the wise man, to liveshould be much. Underneath, two drunken men passed, embracing each otherby the shoulders. They sang in, snatches and hiccoughed protestations ofeternal friendship. Valentine watched their wavering course with nodisgust. His blue eyes even seemed to praise them as they went. 

"Those men are more human than I, " he slowly said. "Why should I condemnthem?"

And, as if under the influence of a spell, Julian found himself thinkingof the wandering ruffians as fine fellows, full of warmth of heart andgenerous feeling. A boy and girl went by. Neither could have been morethan sixteen years old. They paused by a lamp-post, and the girl openlykissed the boy. He sturdily endured the compliment, staring firmly ather pale cheeks and tired eyes. Then the girl walked away, and he stoodalone till she was out of sight. Eventually he walked off slowly, singinga plantation song: "I want you, my honey; yes, I do!" Valentine andJulian had watched and listened, and now Valentine, moving round on thewindow-ledge till he faced Julian, said:

"That is it, Julian, put in the straightforward music-hall way. Peopleare happy because they want things; yes, they do. It is a philosophy oflife. That boy has a life because he wants that girl, and she wants him. And you, Julian, you want a thousand things--"

"Not since I have known you, " Julian said. 

He felt curiously excited and troubled. His arm was still linked inValentine's. Slowly he withdrew it. Valentine shut down the window andthey came back to the fire. 

"You know, " Valentine said, "that it is possible for two influences towork one upon the other, and for each to convert the other. I begin tothink that your nature has triumphed over mine. "

"What?" Julian said, in frank amazement. The Philistines could not havebeen more astounded when Samson pulled down the pillars. 

"I have taught you, as you say, to die to the ordinary man's life, Julian. But what if you have taught me to live to it?"

Julian did not answer for a moment. He was wondering whether Valentinecould possibly be serious. But his face was serious, even eager. Therewas an unwonted stain of red on his smooth, usually pale cheeks. Acertain wild boyishness had stolen over him, a reckless devil dancedin his blue eyes. Julian caught the infection of his mood. 

"And what's my lesson?" Julian said. 

His voice sounded thick and harsh. There was a surge of blood throughhis brain and a prickly heat behind his eyeballs. Suddenly a notion tookhim that Valentine had never been so magnificent as now, --now when a newfierceness glittered in his expression, and a wild wave of humanity ranthrough him like a surging tide. 

"What's my lesson, Valentine?"

"I will show you, this spring. But it is the lesson the spring teaches, the lesson of fulfilling your nature, of waking from your slumbers, offinding the air, of giving yourself to the rifling fingers of the sun, ofyielding all your scent to others, and of taking all their scent to you. That's the lesson of your strength, Julian, and of all the strength ofthe spring. Lie out in the showers, and let the clouds cover you withshadows, and listen to the song of every bird, and--and--ah!" he suddenlybroke off in a burst of laughter, "I am rhapsodizing. The spring has gotinto my veins even among these chimneypots of London. The spring is inme, and, who knows? your soul, Julian. For don't you feel wild blood inyour veins sometimes?"

"Yes, yes. "

"And humming passions that come to you and lift you from your feet?"

"You know I do. "

"But I never knew before that they might lift you towards heaven. That's the thing. I have thought that the exercise of the passionsdragged a man down; but why should it be so? I have talked of menwallowing in the mire. I must find out whether I have been lying whenI said that. Julian, this spring, you and I will see the world, at anyrate, with open eyes. We will watch the budding and blossoming of thesouls around us, the flowers in the garden of life. We will not beindifferent or afraid. I have been a coward in my ice prison ofrefinement. I keep a perpetual season of winter round me. I know it. I know it to-night. "

Julian did not speak. He was carried away by this outburst, whichgained so much, and so strange, force by its issue from the lips andfrom the heart of Valentine. But he was carried away as a weak swimmerby a resistless torrent, and instinctively he seemed to be aware ofdanger and to be stretching out his arms for some rock or tree-branchto stay his present course. Perhaps Valentine noticed this, for hisexcitement suddenly faded, and his face resumed its usual expressionof almost cold purity and refinement. 

"I generally translate this sort of thing into music, " he said. 

At the last word Julian looked up instinctively to the wall on which thepicture of "The Merciful Knight" usually hung. For Valentine's music wasinseparably connected in his mind with that picture. His eyes fell on agap. 

"Val, " he exclaimed, in astonishment, "what's become of--"

"Oh, 'The Merciful Knight'? It has gone to be cleaned. "

"Why? It was all right, surely?"

"No. I found it wanted cleaning badly and I am having it reframed. Itwill be away for some time. "

"You must miss it. "

"Yes, very much. "

The last words were spoken with cutting indifference. 

CHAPTER VII

JULIAN VISITS THE LADY OF THE FEATHERS

From that night, and almost imperceptibly, the relations existing betweenValentine and Julian slightly changed. It seemed to Julian as if a doorpreviously shut in his friend's soul opened and as if he entered intothis hitherto secret chamber. He found there an apparent strange humanitywhich, as he grew accustomed to it, warmed him. The curious refinedsaintliness of Valentine, almost chilly in its elevation, thawed gentlyas the days went by, but so gently that Julian scarcely knew it, couldscarcely define the difference which nevertheless led him to alter hisconduct almost unconsciously. One great sameness, perhaps, gave him asensation of safety and of continuity. Valentine's face still kept itsalmost unearthly expression of intellectuality and of purity. When Julianlooked at him no passions flamed in his blue eyes, no lust ever crawledin the lines about his mouth. His smooth cheeks never flushed withbeaconing desire, nor was his white forehead pencilled with the shadowywriting that is a pale warning to the libertine. And yet his speech aboutthe spring that night, as they leaned out over Victoria Street, hadevidently not been a mere reckless rhapsody. It had held a meaning andwas remembered. In Valentine there seemed to be flowering a number offaint-hued wants, such wants as had never flowered from his naturebefore. The fig-tree that had seemed so exquisitely barren began to putforth leaves, and when the warm showers sang to it, it sang in tremulousreply. 

And the spring grew in London. 

Never before had Julian been so conscious of the growth of the year asnow. The spring stirred inside him, as if he were indeed the MotherEarth. Tumults of nature shook him. With the bursting of the crocus, the pointing of its spear of gold to the sun, a life gathered itselftogether within him, a life that held, too, a golden shaft within itscolour-stained cup. And the bland scent of the innumerable troops ofhyacinths in Hyde Park was a language to him as he strolled in the suntowards the Row. Scents speak to the young of the future as they speakto the old of the past; to the one with an indefinite excitement, to theother with a vague regret. And especially when he was in the company ofValentine did Julian become intensely alive to the march of the earthtowards summer, and feel that he was in step with it, dragooned by thesame music. He began to learn, so he believed, what Valentine had calledthe lesson of his strength, and of all the strength of the spring. Hiswild blood leaped in his veins, and the world was walking with him to alarge prospect, as yet fancifully tricked out in mists and crowned withclouds. 

The spring brought to Valentine an abounding health such as he had neverknown before, a physical glory which, without actually changing him, gaveto him a certain novelty of aspect which Julian felt without actuallyseeing. One day, when they were out riding together in the Park, he said:

"How extraordinarily strong you look to-day, Val. "

Valentine spurred his horse into a short gallop. 

"I feel robust, " he said. "I think it is my mind working on my body. Ihave attained to a more healthy outlook on things, to a saner conceptionof life. For years you have been learning from me, Julian. Now I thinkthe positions are reversed. I am learning from you. "

Julian pressed his knees against his horse's sides with an iron grip, feeling the spirited animal's spirited life between them. They were nowon a level with the Serpentine and riding parallel to it. A few vigorousand determined bathers swam gaily in the pale warmth of the morning sun. Two boys raced along the grassy bank to dry themselves, whooping withexultation, and leaping as they ran. A man in a broad boat, ready to savelife, exchanged loud jokes with the swimmers. On a seat two filthyloafers watched the scene with vacant eyes. They had slept in the Parkall night, and their ragged clothes were drenched with dew. 

"I could race with those boys, " Valentine said. "But not so long ago Iwas like the men on the bench. I only cared to look on at the bathing ofothers. Now I could swim myself. "

He sent his horse along at a tremendous pace for a moment, then drew himin, and turned towards Julian. 

"We are learning the lesson of the spring, " he said. 

As he spoke a light from some hidden place shot for an instant into hiseyes and faded again. Julian laughed gaily. The ride spurred his spirits. He was conscious of the recklessness created in a man by exercise. 

"I could believe that you were actually growing, Val, " he said, "growingbefore my eyes. Only you're much too old. "

"Yes; I am too old for that, " Valentine said. 

A sudden weariness ran in the words, a sudden sound of age. 

"The truth is, " he added, but with more life, "my nature is expandinginside my body, and you feel it and fancy you can see the envelope echothe words of the letter it holds. You are clever enough to be fanciful. Gently, Raindrop, gently!"

He quieted the mare as they turned into the road. Just as they werepassing under the arch into the open space at Hyde Park corner a womanshot across in front of them. They nearly rode over her, and she uttereda little yell as she awkwardly gained the pavement. Her head was crownedwith a perfect pyramid of ostrich feathers, and as she turned to bestowupon the riders the contemptuous glance of a cockney pedestrian, whodemands possession of all London as a sacred right, Julian suddenlypulled up his horse. 

"Hulloh!" he said to the woman. 

"What is it?" asked Valentine, who was in front. 

"Wait a second, Val. I want a word with this lady. "

"Rather compromising, " Valentine said, laughing, as his eyes took in witha swift glance the woman's situation in the economy of the town. 

The woman now slowly advanced to the railing, apparently flattered atbeing thus hailed from horseback. Her kinsmen doubtless always walked. 

"Don't you remember me?" Julian said. 

She was in fact the lady of the feathers, with whom he had foregatheredat the coffee-stall in Piccadilly. The lady leaned her plush arms uponthe rail and surveyed him with her tinted eyes. 

"Can't say as I do, my dear, " she remarked. "What name?"

"Never mind that. But tell me, have you ever had a cup of coffee and abun in Piccadilly early in the morning?"

The mention of the bun struck home to the lady, swept the quiveringchords of her memory into a tune. She pushed her face nearer to Julianand stared at him hard. 

"So it is, " she said. "So it is. "

For a moment she seemed inclined to retreat. Then she stood her ground. Her nerves, perhaps, had grown stronger. 

"I should like to know you, " Julian said. 

The lady was obviously gratified. She tossed her head and giggled. 

"Where do you live?" Julian continued. 

The lady dived into the back part of her skirt, and, after a long andpassionate pursuit, ran a small purse to earth. Opening it withdeliberation, she extracted a good-sized card, and handed it up toJulian. 

"There you are, dearie, " she said. 

On the card was printed, "Cuckoo Bright, 400 Marylebone Road. "

"I will come at five this afternoon and take you out to tea, " saidJulian. 

"Right you are, Bertie, " the lady cried, in a voice thrilling with prideand exultation. 

Julian rode off, and she watched him go, preening herself against therail like some gaudy bird. She looked up at a policeman and laughedknowingly. 

"Well, copper, " she said; "how's that, eh?"

The policeman was equal to the occasion. 

"Not out, " he answered, with a stiff and semi-official smile. "Movealong. "

And Cuckoo Bright moved as one who walked on air. 

Julian had joined Valentine, who had observed the colloquy from afar, controlling with some difficulty the impatience of his mare, excited byher gallop. 

"You know that lady?" he asked, still laughing, with perhaps a touch ofcontempt. 

"Very platonically. We met at a coffee-stall in Piccadilly as I was goinghome after your trance. She was with me when I saw that strange flame. "

"When you imagined you saw it. "

"If you prefer it, Val. I am going to see her this afternoon. "

"My dear fellow--why?"

"I'll tell you, " Julian answered gravely. "I believe she is the womanwho went to the 'European' with Marr, who must have been with Marr whenhe was taken ill, and who fled. I have a reason for thinking so. "

"What is it?"

"I'll tell you later, when I have talked to her. "

"Surely you don't suspect the poor creature of foul play?"

"Not I. It's sheer curiosity that takes me to her. "

"Oh. "

They rode on a step or two. Then Valentine said:

"Are you going to take her out? She's--well, she is a trifleunmistakable, Julian. "

"Yes, I know. You are right. She's not for afternoon wear, poor soul. What damned scoundrels men are. "

Valentine did not join in the sentiment thus forcibly expressed. 

Between four and five that afternoon Julian hailed a cab and drove toMarylebone Road. The houses in it seemed endless, and dreary alike, butat length the cab drew up at number 400, tall, gaunt and haggard, likethe rest. Julian rang the bell, and immediately a shrill dog barked witha piping fury within the house. Then the door was opened by an old woman, whose arid face was cabalistic, and who looked as if she spent herexistence in expecting a raid from the police. 

"Is Miss Cuckoo Bright at home?"

"Miss Bright! I'll see. "

The old dame turned tail, and slithered, flat-footed, to a room openingfrom the dirty passage. She vanished and Julian heard two gentle voicesmuttering. The old woman returned. 

"This way, sir!" she said, in a voice that perpetually struggled to getthe whip-hand of an obvious bronchitis. 

A moment more and Julian stood in the acute presence of the lady ofthe feathers. At first he scarcely recognized her, for she had discardedher crown of glory and now faced him in the strange frivolity of herhatless touzled hair. She stood by the square table covered with a greencloth, that occupied the centre of the small room, which communicated byfolding doors with an inner chamber. A pastile was burning drowsily in acorner, and the shrill dog piped seditiously from its station on a blackhorsehair-covered sofa, over which a woolwork rug was thrown in easy_abandon_. Julian extended his hand. 

"How d'you do?" he said. 

"Pretty bobbish, my dear, " was the reply; but the voice was much lesspert than he remembered it, and looking at his hostess, Julian perceivedthat she was considerably younger than he had imagined, and that she wasactually--amazing luxury!--a little shy. She had a box of safety-matchesin her hand, and she now struck one, and applied it to a gas-burner. Theday was dark. 

"Pleased to see you, " she added, with an attempt at a hearty anduntutored air. "Jessie, shut up. "

Jessie, the dog, of the toy species, and arched into the shape of a noteof interrogation, obeyed, lay down and trembled into sleep. The gaslightrevealed the details of the sordid room, a satin box of sweetmeats on thetable, a penny bunch of sweet violets in a specimen-glass, one or twoyellow-backed novels, and a few photographs ranged upon the imitationmarble mantelpiece. There was one arm-chair, whose torn lining indecentlyrevealed the interior stuffing, and there were three other chairs withwooden backs. The lady of the feathers did not dwell in marble halls, unless, perhaps, imaginatively. 

"You've got cosey quarters, " Julian said, amiably lying. 

"Yes, they're not bad, but they do cost money. Sit down, won't you!"

The lady shoved the one arm-chair forward, and after a polite skirmish, Julian was forced to take it. He sat down, disguising from his companionhis sudden knowledge that the springs were broken. She, on her part, laidhold of Jessie, dumped the little creature into her lap, and assumed anair of abrupt gentility, pursing her painted lips, and shooting sidelongglances of inquiry at the furniture. Julian could not at once explain hiserrand. He felt that caution was imperative. Besides, the lady doubtlessexpected to be entertained at Verrey's or possibly even at Charbonnel's. But Julian had resolved to throw himself upon the lady's hospitality. 

"It's an awful day, " he said. 

The lady assented, adding that she had not been out. 

"We are very cosey here, " Julian continued, gazing at the small fire thatwas sputtering in the grate. 

The lady looked gratified. She felt that the meagre abode which she mustname home had received the hallmark of a "toff's" approval. 

"Now I am going to ask you something, " Julian said. "Will you let mehave tea with you to-day, and--and--come out with me some evening tothe Empire or somewhere, instead?"

The lady nodded her fringed head. 

"Certainly, my dear, " she responded. "Proud to give you tea, I'm sure. "

Suddenly she bounced up, scattering Jessie over the floor. She promenadedto the door, opened it and yelled:

"Mrs. Brigg! Mrs. Brigg!"

The expostulating feet of the old person ascended wearily from the lowerdepths of the house. 

"Lord! Lord! Whatever is it now?" she wheezed. 

"Please bring up tea for me and this gentleman. "

The lady assumed the voice of a sucking dove. 

"Tea! Why, I thought you'd be out to--"

The lady shot into the passage and shut the door behind her. After amoment she put her head in and said to Julian:

"I'll be back in a minute. She's in a rare tantrum. I must go down andhelp her. Pardon. "

And she vanished like a flash. 

Julian sat feeling rather guilty. To distract himself he got up andlooked at the photographs on the mantelpiece. Most of them were of men, but there were two or three girls in tights, and there was one of astout and venerable woman, evidently highly respectable, seated in anarm-chair, with staring bead-like eyes, but a sweet and gentle mouth. Herhair was arranged in glossy bands. Her hands held a large book, probablya Bible. Julian looked at her and wondered a little how she chanced to bein this _galère_. Then he started and almost exclaimed aloud. For there, at the end of the mantelpiece, was a cabinet photograph of Marr. He wasright then in his suspicion. The lady of the feathers was also the ladyat the "European. "

"Sorry to keep you waiting, " said a voice behind him. 

There was a clatter of crockery. His hostess entered bearing a tray, which held a teapot, cups, a large loaf of bread, and some butter, and amilk-jug and sugar-basin. She plumped it down on the table. 

"Mrs. Brigg _wouldn't_ make toast, " she explained. "And I didn't like tokeep you. "

"Let's make some ourselves, " said Julian, with a happy inspiration. 

He felt that to perform a common and a cosey act must draw them together, and awaken in the lady's breast a happy and progressive confidence. Shewas evidently surprised at the suggestion. 

"Well, I never!" she ejaculated. "You are a queer one. You are taking arise out of me now!"

"Not at all. I like making toast. Give me a fork. I'll do it, and you sitthere and direct me. "

She laughed and produced the fork from a mean cupboard which did duty asa sideboard. 

"Here you are, then. 'Cut it pretty thick. It ain't so high class, but iteats better. That's it. Sit on this stool, dear. "

She kicked an ancient leather one to the hearth, and Julian, tucking hislong-tailed frock coat under him, squatted down and thrust forward thebread to the bars of the grate. The lady opened the lid of the teapot andexamined the brew with an anxious eye. 

"It's drawin' beautiful, " she declared. "Well, I'm d--" she caughtherself up short. "Well this is bally funny, " she said. "Turn it, dearie. "

Julian obeyed, and they began to talk. For the ice was broken now, and the lady was quite at her ease, and simple and human in herhospitalities. 

"This is better than the bun, " Julian said. 

"I believe you, dear. And yet that bun did me a deal of good thatmornin'. "

Her voice became suddenly reflective. 

"A deal of good. "

"Are you often out at such a time?"

"Not I. But that night I'd--well, I didn't feel like bein' indoors. There's things--well, there, it don't matter. That toast's done, dearie. Bring it here, and let me butter it. "

Julian brought it, and cut another slice from the loaf. He toasted whilethe lady buttered, a fine division of labour which drew them closetogether. Jessie, meanwhile, attracted by these pleasant preparations, hovered about, wriggling in pathetic anxiety to share the good things oflife. 

"Anything wrong that night?" Julian said, carelessly. 

The lady buttered, like an angry machine. 

"Oh no, dearie, " she said. "Make haste, or the tea'll be as black ascoal. Jessie, you're a pig! I do spoil her. "

Julian called the little dog to him. She came voraciously, her minute andrat-like body tense with greed. 

"She's a pretty dog, " he said. 

"Yes, " the lady rejoined proudly. "She's a show dog. She was give tome, and I wouldn't part with her for nuts, no, nor for diamonds neither. Would I, Jessie? Ah, well, dogs stick to you when men don't. "

She was trying to be arch, but her voice was really quivering to tears, and in that sentence rang all the tragedy of her poor life. Julian lookedacross at her as she sat by the tray, buttering now almost mechanically. She was naturally a pretty girl, but was growing rapidly haggard, and wasbadly made up, rouged in wrong places consumptively, powdered everywheredisastrously. Her eyes were pathetic, but above them the hair wasdreadfully dyed, and frizzed into a desolate turmoil. She had a thinyoung figure and anxious hands. As he looked Julian felt a profound pityand a curious manly friendship for her. She had that saddest aspect of ahuman being about whom it doesn't matter. Only it matters about everyliving creature so much. 

The lady caught his eye, and extended her lips in a forced smile. 

"You never know your luck!" she cried. "So it don't do to be down on it. Come on, dearie. Now then for the tea. "

She poured it out, and Julian drew up to the table. Already he felt oddlyat home in this poor room, with this poor life, into which he longed tobring a little hope, a little safety. Jessie sprang to his knees, andthence, naughtily, to the table, snuffling towards the plate of toast. The lady drew it away and approached it to her nose by turns, playfully. 

"She is a funny one, " she said. "Is your tea right, dearie?"

"Perfect, " said Julian. "Is my toast right?"

"Right as ninepence, and righter. "

She munched. 

"I like you, " she said. "You're a gentleman. "

She spoke naturally, without coquetry. It was a fine experience for herto be treated with that thing some women never know--respect. She warmedunder it and glistened. 

"We must be friends, " Julian said. 

"Pals. Yes. Have some more sugar?"

She jumped two lumps into his cup, and laughed quite gaily when thetea spouted over into the saucer. And they chatted on, and fed Jessieinto joy and peace. Gradually Julian drew the conversation round to thephotographs. The lady was expansive. She gave short histories of someof the men, summing them up with considerable shrewdness, kodaking theircharacters with both humour and sarcasm. Julian and she progressedalong the mantelpiece together. Presently they arrived at the old ladywith the Bible. 

"And this?" Julian said. 

The lady's fund of spirits was suddenly exhausted. 

"Oh, that, " she said, and a sort of strange, suppressed blush struggledup under the rouge on her face. "Well, that's mother. "

"I like her face. "

"Yes. She thinks I'm dead. "

The lady turned away abruptly. 

"I'll just carry the tray down to Mrs. Brigg, " she said, and sheclattered out with it, and down the stairs. 

Julian heard her loudly humming a music-hall song as she went, therequiem of her dead life with the old woman who held the Bible on herknees. When she returned, her mouth was hard and her eyes were shiningominously. Julian was still standing by the mantelpiece. As she came inhe pointed to the photograph of Marr. 

"And this?" he asked. "Who's this?"

The lady burst into a shrill laugh of mingled fear and cunning. 

"That's the old gentleman!"

"What do you mean?"

"What I say, --the old gentleman, Nick, the devil, if you like it. "

"Now you are trying to take a rise out of me. "

"Not I, dear, " she said. "That's the devil, sure enough. "

Either the tea and toast had rendered her exuberant, or the thoughtof the old woman who believed her to be dead had driven her intorecklessness. She continued:

"I'd been with him that night I met you, and I was frightened, I tellyou. I'd been mad with fright. "

"Why? What had he done to you?"

Julian strove to conceal his eager interest under a light assumption ofcarelessness. 

"Done!--never mind. It don't do to talk about it. "

She laid her thin hand on his arm, as if impelled to be confidential. 

"Do you believe in people being struck?" she said. 

"Struck! I don't understand. "

"Struck, " she repeated superstitiously. "Down, from up there?"

Her eyes went up to the ceiling, like the child's when it thinks ofheaven. 

"Was he?" Julian asked. 

She nodded, pursing her red lips. 

"That's what I think. It came so sudden. Just when I was going toscream somethin' seemed to come over him, like madness it was. He seemedlistening. Then he says, 'Now--now!' And he seemed goin' right off. Hestared at me and didn't seem to know me. Lord, I was blue with it, I tellyou, dear! I was that frightened I just left him and bunked for it, andnever said a word to anybody. I ran downstairs and got out of the house, and I daren't go home. So I just walked about till I met you. "

She sighed. 

"I did enjoy that coffee, I tell you straight, but when you began aboutseein' things, I couldn't stow it. My nerves was shook. So off I trottedagain. "

Julian put a question to her. 

"Do you know what has become of him?"

"Not I. He'll never get in here again. Mrs. Brigg won't let him. Shenever could abide him. "

She shook her shoulders in an irrepressible shudder. 

"I wish he was dead, " she said. "I never go out but what I'm afraid Ishall meet him, or come back late but what I think I shall find himstandin' against the street door. I wish he was dead. "

"I knew him. He is dead. "

She looked at him, at first questioning, then awe-stricken. 

"Then he was struck? Lord!"

Her red mouth gaped. 

"It was in the papers, " Julian said, "At the European Hotel. "

"That was the place. Lord! I never see the papers. Dead is he? I amglad. "

Her relief was obvious, yet almost shocking, and Julian could notquestion her good faith. She had certainly not known. He longed to findout more about her relations with Marr, and his treatment of her, butshe shied away from the subject. Obviously she really loathed anddetested the remembrance of him. 

"But why do you keep his photograph?" Julian asked at last. 

The lady seemed puzzled. 

"I dunno, " she said at last. "I don't seem as if I could burn it. But ifhe is gone--dead, I mean--really--"

"He is. "

"I know. "

She sat thoughtfully. Then she said:

"He didn't look a fellow to die. It seems funny. No; he didn't look it. "

And then she dropped the subject, and nothing would induce her toreturn to it. Presently they heard a church clock strike. It chimedseven. Julian was astonished to find that time had gone so quickly. 

"I must be going, " he said. 

The lady looked at him with an odd, half-impudent, half-girlish, andwistful scrutiny. 

"I say, " she began, and stopped. 

"Yes?"

"I say--why ever did you come?"

The short question that expressed her wondering curiosity might well havedriven any thoughtful man into tears. And Julian, young and careless ashe often was, felt something of the terror and the pain enshrined in it. But he did not let her see this. 

"I wanted to have a talk with you, " he answered. 

"A talk; you like a talk with me?"

"Yes, surely. "

She still stared at him with pathetic eyes. He had stood up. 

"Oh, " she said. "Well, dearie, I'm glad. "

Julian took up his hat. 

"I'm going out too, " she said. 

"Are you?"

"Yes. "

She threw a sidelong glance at him, then added hardily, although herpainted lips were suddenly quivering:

"I've got to go to work. "

"I know, " Julian said. "Well, I will wait till you are ready and driveyou wherever you want to go. "

"_Want_ to go, " she began, with a little, shrill, hideous laugh. Then, pulling herself up, she added in a subdued voice:

"Thank you, dearie. I won't be long. "

She opened the folding doors and passed into the inner room, accompanied by Jessie. Julian waited for her. He found himselflistening to her movements in the other room, to the creak of wood, as she pulled out drawers, to the rustle of a dress lifted from ahook, the ripple of water poured from a jug into a basin. He heard thewhole tragedy of preparation, as this girl armed herself for the piteousbattle of the London streets. And then his ears caught the eager patterof Jessie to and fro, and a murmured expostulation from her mistress. Evidently the little dog had got hold of some article of attire and wasworrying it. There was a hidden chase and a hidden capture. Jessie wasscolded and kissed. Then the sitting-room slowly filled with the scentof cherry-blossom. A toothbrush in action was distinctly audible. Thistragedy had its comic relief, like almost all tragedies. Julian sighedand smiled, but his heart was heavy with the desolate and sordid wonderof life, as his mind heard--all over London--a thousand echoes of thebedchamber music of the lady of the feathers. 

The folding doors opened wide and she appeared, freshly painted andpowdered, crowned once again with the forest of ostrich tips, and holdingthe struggling Jessie in her arms. 

"Jessie must go to basket, " she said, and she dropped the dog into a tinybasket lined with red flannel, and held up a warning finger. 

"Naughty--go bials!" she cried. "Go bials, Jessie. "

"What's that?"

"Bials--by-bye. She don't like bein' left. Well, dearie, we've had a nicetime. "

Suddenly she put her hands on Julian's shoulders and kissed his mouth. 

"I wish there was more like you, " she whispered. 

He kissed her too, and put his arms around her. 

"If I give you something, will you--will you stay at home to-night, justto-night, with Jessie?" he said. 

But she drew away and shook her head. 

"I won't take it. "

"Yes. "

"I won't. No--we're pals--not--not the other thing. You're the only oneI've got--of that kind. I won't spoil it--no, I won't. "

Her decision was almost angry. Julian did not persist. 

"I'll come again, " he said. 

She looked at him wistfully. 

"Ah--but you won't, " she answered. 

"I will. "

He spoke with energy. She nodded. 

"I'd like you to. "

Then they went out into the evening and hailed a hansom. 

"Put me down at the Piccadilly end of Regent Street, " said the lady ofthe feathers. 

CHAPTER VIII

THE LADY OF THE FEATHERS VISITS VALENTINE

Julian was curiously touched by his interview in the Marylebone Road, andhe did not fail to recount it to Valentine, whose delicate imaginationwould, he felt certain, feel the pity and the pain of it. 

But Valentine did not respond to his generous emotion. 

"I thought she looked a very degraded young person, " he said, distantly. "And not interesting. The woman who is falling is interesting. The womanwho has reached the bottom, who has completely arrived at degradation, isdull enough. "

"But she is not utterly degraded, Val. For I know that she can see andunderstand something of the horror of her own condition. "

Valentine put his hand on Julian's shoulder. 

"I know what you are thinking, " he said. 

"What?"

"That you would like to rescue this girl. "

A dull blush ran over Julian's face. 

"I don't know that I had got quite so far as that, " he said. "Would it beabsurd if I had?"

"I am not sure that it would not be wrong. Probably this girl lives thelife she is best fitted for. "

"You surely don't mean--"

"That some human beings are born merely to further the necessitiesof sin in the scheme of creation? I don't know that. Nature, in certaincountries, demands and obtains pernicious and deadly snakes to live inher bosom. Man demands and obtains female snakes to live in his bosom. Are not such women literally created for this _métier_? How can onetell?"

"But if they are unhappy?"

"You think they would be happy in purity?"

"I believe she would. "

Valentine smiled and shook his head. 

"I expect her sorrows are not caused by the loss of her virtue, butmerely by her lack of the luxuries of life. These birds always wanttheir nests to be made of golden twigs and lined with satin. "

But Julian remained unconvinced. 

"You don't know her, " he said. "Why, Valentine, you have never known sucha woman! You! The very notion is ridiculous. "

"I have seen them in their Garden of Eden, offering men the fruit of thetree of knowledge. "

"You mean?"

"At the 'Empire. '"

"Ah! I have half promised to take her there one night. "

"Shall I come with you, Julian?"

Julian looked at him to see if he was in earnest as he made thisunutterable proposition. Valentine's clear, cold, thoughtful blueeyes met his eager, glowing, brown, ones with direct gravity. 

"You mean it, Val?"

"Certainly. "

"You will be seen at the 'Empire' with her?"

"Well--would not you?"

"But you are so different. "

"Julian, you remember that night when we leaned out over London, when wesaw what are called common people having common experiences? I said thenthat they, at any rate, were living. "

"Yes. "

"You and I will try to live with them. "

"But, Valentine--you--"

"Even I may learn to feel the strength of the spring if I order my liferather differently in the future. We three, you, I, the girl, will go onenight to the Garden of Eden, where the birds wear tights and sing comicsongs in French, and the scent that comes from the flowers is patchouli, and silk rustles instead of the leaves of the trees. We will go there onboat-race night. Ah, the strength of the spring! On boat-race night itbeats with hammering pulses among the groves of the Garden of Eden. "

Julian was surprised at this outburst, which sounded oddly deliberate, and was apparently spoken without real impulse. He was surprised, but, on consideration, he came to the conclusion that Valentine, havingsilently debated the question of his own life, had resolved to make adefinite effort to see if he could change the course of it. Julian feltthat such an effort must be useless. He knew Valentine so intimately, hethought, --knew the very groundwork of his nature, --that that nature wastoo strong to be carved into a different, and possibly grotesque, form. 

"Are you an experimentalist, Val?" he asked. 

Valentine threw a rapid glance on him. 

"I? I don't understand. Why should I experiment upon you?"

"No; not on me, but on yourself. "

"Oh, I see what you mean. No, Julian; I prefer to let fate experimentupon me. "

"At the 'Empire'?"

"If fate chooses. "

"I think you ought to know Cuckoo--"

"Is that her name?"

"Yes, Cuckoo Bright, before our meditated expedition. "

Valentine seemed struck by this idea. 

"So that we may all be at our ease. A capital notion. Julian, sit down, write a note asking her to come to tea on Thursday, in the flat. I willshow her my pictures, and you shall talk to her of Huxley and of HerbertSpencer. "

Julian regarded Valentine rather doubtfully. 

"Are you malicious?" he said, with a hesitating note in his voice. 

"Malicious--no!"

"You won't chaff her?"

"Chaff a lady who wears more feathers than ever 'growed on one ostrich, 'and who was the _intime_ of the mysterious Marr? Julian, Julian!"

Then, seeing that Julian still looked rather uncomfortable, Valentineadded, dropping his mock heroic manner:

"Don't be afraid. We will give the lady one good hour. "

"Ah!" Julian cried, struck by the expression, "that's what the doctorwished to give to every poor wretch in London. "

"We don't ask the doctor to our tea, " Valentine replied, with a suddencoldness. 

The invitation was conveyed to the lady of the feathers, and in duecourse an answer was received, a mosaic of misspelling and obviousgratification. 

"My dear, " ran the missive, "I will com. I shall be pleased to see youagane, but I thorght I shoold not. Men say--oh yes, I shall com back--butnot many does, and I thorght praps you was like the all the rest. Yourfriend is very good to assk me, and I am, "Yr loving, "Cuckoo. "

Valentine read the letter without comment and ordered an elaborate tea. Julian read it, and wondered whether he was a fool because he felttouched by the misspelt words, as he had sometimes felt touched whenhe saw some very poor woman attired in her ridiculous "best" clothes. 

The tea-time had been fixed for five o'clock, and Julian intended, ofcourse, to be in Victoria Street with Valentine to receive the expectedguest, but Cuckoo Bright threw his polite plans out of gear, andValentine was alone when, at half-past four, the electric bell rang, and, a moment later, Wade solemnly showed into the drawing-room astriking vision, such as had never "burst into that silent sea" ofartistic repose and refinement before. 

The lady undoubtedly wore what seemed to be her one hat, and the effectof it, at all times remarkable, was amazingly heightened by its proximityto the quiet and beautiful surroundings of the room. As a rule, it merelycried out. Now it seemed absolutely to yell bank-holiday vulgarity andimpropriety at the silent pictures. But her gown decidedly exceeded it inuproar, being of the very loudest scarlet hue, with large black lozengesscattered liberally over it. From her rather narrow shoulders depended ablack cape, whose silk foundation was suffocated with bugles. A shrillscent of cherry-blossom ran with her like a crowd, and in her hand shecarried an umbrella and a plush bag with a steel snap. Her face, in themidst of this whirlpool of finery, peeped out anxiously, covered as itwas with a smear of paint and powder, and when she saw Valentine standingalone to receive her, her nervous eyes ranged uncomfortably about inobvious quest of an acquaintance and protector. 

"I am sorry that Mr. Addison has not come yet, " Valentine said, holdingout his hand. "I expect him every minute. Won't you come and sit down?"

An ironical courtesy vibrated in his voice. The lady grew more obviouslynervous. She looked at Valentine through the veil which was drawn tightlyacross her face. His appearance seemed to carry awe into her heart, forshe stood staring and attempted no reply, allowing him to take her handwithout either protest or response. 

"Won't you sit down?" he repeated, smiling at her with humourouscontemplation of her awkward distress. 

The lady abruptly sat down on a sofa. 

"Allow me to put a cushion at your back, " Valentine said. And he passedbehind her to do so. But she quickly shifted round, almost as if in fear, and faced him as he stood with his hand on the back of the sofa. 

"No, " she said, in a hurry; "I don't know as I want one, thanks. "

She half got up. 

"Have I come right?" she asked uneasily. "Is this the house?"

"Certainly. It's so good of you to come. "

The words did not seem to carry any comfort to the lady. She passed thetip of her tongue along her painted lips and looked towards the door. 

"Pray, don't be alarmed, " Valentine said, sitting down on a chairimmediately opposite to her. 

"I ain't. But--but you're not the friend, are you?"

"I am; and the _ami des femmes_ too, I assure you. Be calm. "

He bent forward, looking closely into her face. The lady leaned quicklyback and uttered a little gasp. 

"What is the matter?" Valentine asked. 

"Nothin', nothin', " the lady answered, returning his glance as iffascinated into something that approached horror. "When's he comin'?When's he comin'?"

"Directly. But I trust you will not regret spending a few minutes alonein my company. What can I do to make you happy?"

"I'm all right, thank you, " she said, almost roughly. "Don't bother aboutme. "

"Who could help bothering about a pretty woman?" Valentine answeredsuavely, and approaching his chair a little more closely to her. "Doyou know that my friend Addison can talk of nobody but you?"

"Oh!"

"Nobody. He raves about you. "

"You're laughing, " the lady said, still uncomfortably. 

"Not at all. I never laugh. "

As he made this last remark, Valentine slowly frowned. The effect ofthis change of expression upon the lady was most extraordinary. Sheleaned far back upon the sofa as if in retreat from the face that staredupon her, mechanically thrusting out her hands in a faltering gesture ofself-defence. Then, planting her feet on the ground and using them as alever, she succeeded in moving the sofa backwards upon its castors, whichran easily over the thick carpet. Valentine, on his part, did not stir, but with immovable face regarded her apparent terror as a man regardssome spectacle neither new nor strange to him, silently awaiting itseventual closing tableau. What this would have been cannot be known, forat this moment the bell rang and the butler was heard moving in the hall. The frown faded from Valentine's face, and the lady sprang up from thesofa with a violent, almost a passionate, eagerness. Julian enteredhastily. 

"Why was you late?" Cuckoo Bright cried out, hastening up to himand speaking almost angrily. "Why was you late? I didn't think--Ididn't--oh!"

Her voice sounded like the voice of one on the verge of tears. Julianlooked astonished. 

"I am very sorry, " he began. "But I didn't know you would be here sosoon. "

He glanced from the lady to Valentine inquiringly, as much as to say:

"How have you been getting on?"

Valentine's expression was gay and reassuring. 

"I have been entertaining your friend, Julian, " he said. "But she hasbeen almost inconsolable in your absence. She was standing up because Iwas just about to show her the pictures. But now you are here, we willhave tea first instead. Ah, here is tea. Miss Bright, do come and sit bythe fire, and put your feet on this stool. We will wait upon you. "

Since the entrance of Julian, his manner had entirely changed. All theirony, all the mock politeness, had died out of it. He was now a kind anddelicately courteous host, desirous of putting his guests upon good termsand gilding the passing hour with a definite happiness. Cuckoo Brightseemed struck completely dumb by the transformation. She took the chairhe indicated, mechanically put her feet up on the stool he pushedforward, and with a rather trembling hand accepted a cup of tea. 

"Do you take sugar?" Valentine said, bending over her with thesugar-basin. 

"No, no, " she said. 

"Oh, but I thought you loved sweet things, " Julian interposed. "Surely--"

"I won't have none to-day, " she ejaculated, adding with an endeavourafter gentility; "thank you, all the same, " to Valentine. 

He offered her some delicious cakes, but she was apparently petrified bythe grandeur of her surroundings, or by some hidden sensation of shynessor of shame, and was refusing to eat anything, when Julian came to therescue. 

"Oh, but you must, " he said. "Have some of these sugar-biscuits. "

She took some from him and began to sip and munch steadily, but still insilence. Julian began to fear that the festival must be a dire failure, for her obvious and extreme constraint affected him, and he was alsoseized with an absurd sense of shyness in the presence of Valentine, and, instead of talking, found himself immersed in a boyish anxiety as toValentine's attitude of mind towards the girl. He looked at Cuckoo in thefirelight as she mutely ate and drank, and was all at once profoundlyconscious of the dreary vulgarity of her appearance, against which evenher original prettiness and her present youth fought in vain. Her hatcast a monstrous shadow upon the wall, a shadow so distorted andappalling that Julian almost grew red as he observed it, and felt thatValentine was probably observing it also. He wished poor Cuckoo had leftthe crying scarlet gown at home, and those black lozenges, which weresuited to the pavement of the hall of a financier. Everything she hadon expressed a mind such as Valentine must become acquainted with inamazement, and have intercourse with in sorrow. The pathetic side ofthis preposterous feathered and bugled degradation he would fail to see. Julian felt painfully certain of this. All the details of the woman wouldoffend him, who was so alive to the value of fine details in life. Hemust surely be wondering with all his soul how Julian could ever havecontemplated continuing the intercourse with Cuckoo which had been begunfor a definite purpose already accomplished. Yet Julian's feeling offriendship towards this rouged scarecrow with the pathetic eyes andthe anxious hands did not diminish as he blushed for her, but ratherincreased, fed, it seemed, by the discordant trifles in which her soulmoved as in a maze. He was so much in the thrall of thought that he hadbecome quite unconscious of the awkwardness of the brooding silence, whenhe heard Valentine's voice say:

"Are you fond of art, Miss Bright?"

The question sounded as if addressed to some society woman at home inMelbury Road. Addressed to Cuckoo it was entirely absurd, and Julianglanced at Valentine to deprecate the gay sarcasm which he suspected. But Valentine's face disarmed him, it was so gravely and serenely polite. 

"Eh?" said Cuckoo. 

"Are you fond of art? or do you prefer literature?"

"I don't know, " she said nervously. 

"Or perhaps music?"

"I like singing, " she said. "And the organs. "

"Do sing us something, Val, " Julian said, to create a diversion. 

But Valentine shook his head. 

"Not to-day. I have got a cold in my throat. "

"Well, then, play something. "

But Valentine did not seem to hear the last request. He had turned againto Cuckoo, who visibly shied away from him, and clattered the teacup andsaucer, which she held like one alarmed. 

"Music is a great art, " he said persuasively. "And appeals essentially toone's emotions. I am certain now that you are emotional. "

"I don't know, I'm sure, " she said, with an effort at self-confidence. 

"You feel strongly, whether it be love or hate. "

This last remark seemed to reach her, even to stir her to something moredefinite than mere _mauvaise honte_. She glanced quickly from Julian toValentine. 

"Love and hate, " she responded. "Yes, that's it; I could feel them both. You're right there, my d--, I mean yes. "

And again she looked from one young man to the other. She had put upher veil, which was stretched in a bunched-up mass across her powderedforehead, and Julian had an odd fancy that in the firelight he saw uponher haggard young face the rapid and fleeting expression of the twoviolently opposed emotions of which she spoke. Her face, turned uponhim, seemed to shine with a queer, almost with a ludicrous, vehemenceof yearning which might mean passion. This flashed into the sudden frownof a young harridan as her eyes travelled on to Valentine. But the frowndied quickly, and she looked downcast, and sat biting her thin lips, andcrumbling a biscuit into the tiny blue and white china plate upon herknee. 

"And do you give way to your impulses?" Valentine continued, still verygravely. 

"What?"

"Do you express what you feel?"

A flash of childish cunning crept into her eyes and mouth, giving her theaspect of a _gamin_. 

"No; I ain't such a fool, " she answered. "Men don't like to be told thetruth. Do they, now?"

The question went to Julian. 

"Why not?" he asked

"Oh, they like to be fooled. If you don't fool them, they fool you. "

"A sufficiently clear statement of the relations of the sexes through alltime, " said Valentine. "Have you ever studied Schopenhauer?"

"Ah, now, you're kiddin' me!" was her not inappropriate answer. 

She was getting a little more at her ease, but she still stole frequentfurtive glances at Valentine from time to time, and moved with anuncomfortable jerk if he bent forward to her or seemed about to come nearto her. He seemed now really interested in her personality, and Julianbegan to wonder if its very vulgarity came to him with a charm ofnovelty. 

"Kidding?" Valentine said, interrogatively. 

"Gettin' at me! Pullin' my leg! Oh, I know you!" cried Cuckoo. "I'm up toall them games. You don't get a rise out of me. "

"The lady speaks in parables, " Valentine murmured to Julian. "I assureyou, " he added aloud, "I am speaking quite seriously. "

"Oh, seriously be hanged!" said Cuckoo, recklessly. "You're a regularfunny feller. Oh yes. Only don't try to be funny with me, because I'm upto all that. "

She seemed suddenly bent on turning the tables on one whom sheapparently regarded as her adversary. Some people, when they domake an effort of will, are always carried forward by the unwontedexertion into an almost libertine excess. Miss Bright's timidity wasnow developing into violent impudence. She tossed her head till thegigantic shadow of the sarcophagus that crowned it aspired upon thewall almost to the ceiling. She stuck her feet out upon the stoolaggressively, and her arms instinctively sought the akimbo positionthat is the physical expression of mental hardihood in vulgar natures. 

"Go along!" she said. 

Valentine pretended to take her at her word. He got up. 

"Where shall I go? I am your slave!"

She laughed shrilly. 

"Go to blazes if you like. "

Valentine crossed to the door, and, before Julian had time to speak, opened it and quietly vanished. Julian and Cuckoo were left staring atone another. The latter's impudence had suddenly evaporated. Her face wasworking as if she was astonished and afraid. 

"What's he after? What's he after, I say?" she ejaculated. "Go and see. "

But Julian shook his head. 

"It's all right. He has only done it for a joke. He will be backdirectly. "

"Yes, but--but. "

She seemed really frightened. Julian supposed she realized her rudenessvaguely, and imagined she had made an abominable _faux pas_. Acting onthis supposition, he said reassuringly:

"He didn't mind your chaff. He knew you were only joking. "

"Lord, it isn't that, " she rejoined with trembling lips. "But what's hegoin' to do?"

"Do?"

"Yes. Go and see. Hark!"

She held up her hand and leaned forward in a strained attitude ofattention. But there was no sound in the flat. Then she turned againto Julian and said:

"And he's your friend. Well, I never!"

The words were spoken with an extraordinary conviction of astonishmentthat roused Julian to keen attention. 

"Why, what do you mean?" he asked. 

"He's a wicked fellow, " she said with a snatch of the breath. "A realdownright wicked fellow, like Marr. That's what he is. "

Julian was amazed. 

"You don't know what you are saying, " he answered. 

But she stuck to her guns with the animation of hysteria. 

"Don't I, though? Don't I? A girl that lives like me has to know, I tellyou. Where should I be if I didn't? Tell me that, then. Why, there's menin the streets I wouldn't speak to; not for twenty pounds, I wouldn't. And he's one of them. Why didn't you come? Why ever did you let me be onmy own with him? He's a devil. "

"Nonsense, " Julian said brusquely. 

She laid her hand on his, and hers was trembling. 

"Well, then, why's he gone off all sudden like that?"

"Only for a joke. Wait, I'll fetch him back. "

Cuckoo Bright looked frankly terrified at the idea. 

"No, " she cried; "don't. I'm goin'. I'm off. Help me on with my cloak, dearie. I'm off. "

Julian saw that it was useless to argue with her. He put the cloak roundher shoulders. As he did so he was standing behind her, with his face tothe fireplace. The leaping flames sprang from the coals in the grate, andtheir light was reflected on the wall, near the door, but only, ofcourse, to a certain height. Julian's eyes were attracted to theseleaping flames on the wall, and he saw one suddenly detach itself fromthe shadows of its brethren, take definite shape and life, develop whilehe looked from shadow into substance, float up on the background of thewall higher and higher, reach the ceiling and melt away. As it faded thedrawing-room door opened and Valentine reappeared. 

Miss Bright started violently, and caught at her cloak with both hands. Valentine came forward slowly. 

"You are not going already, surely, " he said. 

"I must, I must, " she ejaculated, already in movement towards the hall. 

"But I have just been to get you a box of sugar plums. "

He held a satin box in his hand and began to open it. But she hurried onwith a nod. 

"Good-bye. Sorry, but I can't stop. "

She was in the hall and out of the flat in the twinkling of an eye, followed by Julian. Valentine remained in the drawing-room. 

"Lord, I am glad to be out of it, " said the lady when she had gained thestreet and stood panting on the pavement. 

Julian hailed a hansom and put her into it. She gazed at him as if shewas almost afraid to part from him. 

"You'll--you'll come and see me again, " she said, wistfully. 

"Yes, I'll come, " he answered. 

"For God's sake, don't bring him, dearie, " she said, with an upward liftof her feathered head towards the block of mansions. 

Then she drove off into the darkness. 

CHAPTER IX

THE LADY OF THE FEATHERS WASHES HER FACE

It was at this point in his career that Julian, just for a time, begankeenly to observe Valentine, and to wonder if there were hidden depths inhis friend which he had never sounded. The cause of the dawning of thisconsideration lay in Cuckoo's strange assertion and fear of Valentine, primarily, but there were other reasons prompting him to an unusualattitude of attention, although he might not at first have been able toname them. He could not believe that there was any change in Valentine, but he fancied that there might be some side of Valentine's nature whichhe did not fully understand, which others vaguely felt and wronglyinterpreted. For it was the instinctive creatures in whom Valentine'spresence now seemed to awake distrust, and surely an instinct may betoo violent, or move in a wrong direction, and yet be inspired by somesubtlety in the character that awakens it, and prompts it, and drives itforward. Julian thought that he found a reason for Cuckoo's aversion inValentine's lofty refinement, which would naturally jar upon her natureof the streets. For her pathos, her better impulses, which had touchedhim and led him to sympathy with her, were perhaps only stars in a mindthat must be a dust-heap of horrible memories and coarse thoughts. Toprotect Valentine from even the most diminutive shadow of suspicion, Julian was ready silently to insist that Cuckoo was radically bad, although he really knew that she was rather a weak sacrifice than aneager sinner. 

Her declaration that Valentine was evil carried complete conviction ofits sincerity. Indeed, her obvious fear of him proved this. And this fearof a woman reminded Julian of the fear exhibited towards Valentine byRip, a terror which still continued, to such an extent, indeed, that thelittle dog was now never permitted to be in the presence of its master. 

"You are rather an awe-inspiring person, Valentine, " Julian said one day. 

Valentine looked surprised. 

"I never knew it, " he answered. "Who is afraid of me?"

"Oh, I don't know--well, Rip, for one, and--and that girl, Cuckoo, foranother. "

"Why is she afraid?"

"I can't imagine. "

"I could soon put her at her ease, and I will do so. "

He went over to the mantelpiece and took up an envelope that was lyingthere. From it he drew a slip of coloured paper. 

"This will be the talisman, " he said. "Have you forgotten that Saturdayis boat-race day?"

"What, you have really got a box for the 'Empire'?"

"Yes; and I mean to invite Miss Bright. "

Julian exclaimed with his usual frankness:

"Why the devil do you think of asking her?"

"Because I am certain she will be amusing company on such an occasion. "

"That's your real reason?"

"Yes. She will come, of course?"

Julian looked rather doubtful. 

"I don't know, " he said. "She may. "

"She must, Julian. Here is a note I have written to her. Do give it toher yourself. I can't be thought a bogey. She must come and learn thatI am harmless. "

As he said this Valentine's fingers unconsciously twisted the note theyheld so strongly that it was torn to shreds. 

"Why, you have torn it up, " Julian said, in surprise. 

"Oh yes. "

Valentine paused, then added:

"You had better ask her by word of mouth. Persuade her to come. "

"I will try. "

The lady of the feathers did indeed require a good deal of persuasion. When first Julian made the proposition her face shone with gratification, for he gave the invitation without mentioning Valentine's name. But thenthe clouds came down. The lady remembered him suddenly, and said:

"Are we two going alone, dearie?"

"Well--it's a big box, you see. We should be lost in it. "

"Oh. "

She waited for further explanation, an obvious anxiety in her eyes. 

"My friend Cresswell is coming with us. It's his box. "

The gratification died away from the painted face. Cuckoo shook her headand pursed her lips in obvious and absurd disapprobation. 

"Then I don't think I'll go. No; I won't. "

And upon this Julian had to launch forth over a sea of expostulation andprotest. Cuckoo possessed all the obstinacy of an ignorant and batterednature, taught by many a well-founded distrust, to rely upon its ownfeebleness, rather than upon the probably brutal strength of others. Shewas difficult to move, although she had no arguments with which to defendher assumption of the mule's attitude. At last Julian grew almost angryin defence of Valentine. 

"Half the women in London would be proud to go with him, " he said hotly. 

"Not if they knew as much about men as I do, " she answered. 

"But you know nothing whatever about him. That's just the point. "

"Ah, but I feel a lot, " she said, with an expressive twist of her thin, rather pretty face. "He's bad, rank bad. That's what he is. "

Julian was suddenly seized with a desire to probe this outrageousinstinct to its source, believing, like many people, that the streamof instinct must flow from some hidden spring of reason. 

"Now, look here, " he said, more quietly. "I want you to try to tell mewhat it is in him that you dislike so much. "

"It's everything, dearie. "

"No; but that's absurd. For instance, it can't be his looks. "

"It is. "

"Why, he's wonderfully handsome. "

"I don't care. I hate his face; yes, I do. "

Julian impatiently pitied her as one pities a blind man who knocks upagainst one in the street. But he thought it best to abandon Valentine'sappearance to its unhappy fate of her dislike, and sailed away on anothertack. 

"My friend likes you, " he said, as he thought, craftily. 

Cuckoo tossed her head without reply. 

"He said he would rather go with you on Saturday than with any one inLondon. "

This last remark seemed to produce a considerable effect upon the girl. 

"Did he, though?" she asked, one finger going up to her under lip, reflectively. "Really, truly?"

"Really, truly. "

"What should he want with me? He's--he's not one of the usual sort. "

"Valentine usual! I should think not. "

"And he wants me to go?"

Certainly she was impressed and flattered. 

"Yes, very much. "

Julian found himself again wondering, with Cuckoo, mightily atValentine's vagary of desire. She touched his hand with her long, thin fingers. 

"You'll stay with me all the time?"

"Why, of course. "

"You won't leave me? Not alone with him, I mean. "

"No; don't be so absurd. "

A new hesitation sprang into her face. 

"But what am I to go in?" she said. "He--he don't like my red. "

So her awe and dislike prompted her to a desire of pleasing Valentineafter all, and had led her shrewdly to read his verdict on her poorlysmart gown. Julian, pleased at his apparent victory, now ventured on acareful process of education, on the insertion of the thin edge of thewedge, as he mutely named it. 

"Cuckoo, " he said, "let me give you a present, --a dress. Now, " as shebegan to shake her tangled head, "don't be silly. I have never given youanything, and if we are to be pals you mustn't be so proud. Can you geta dress made in three days, --a black dress?"

"Yes, " she said. "But black! I shall look a dowdy. "

"No. "

"Oh, but I shall, " she murmured, dismally. "Colours suits me best. Yousee I'm thin now; not as I was when I--well, before I started. Ah, Ilooked different then, I did. I don't want to be a scarecrow and makeyou ashamed of me. "

Julian longed to tell her that it was the rouge, the feathers, thescarlet skirt, the effusive bugles, that made a scarecrow of her. But hehad a rough diplomacy that taught him to refrain. He stuck to his point, however. 

"I shall give you a black dress and hat--"

"Oh, my hat's all right now, " she interposed. "Them feathers isbeautiful. "

"Splendid; but I'll give you a hat to match the dress, and a feather boa, and black suede gloves. "

"But, dearie, I shall be a trottin' funeral, that I shall, " sheexpostulated, divided between excitement and perplexity. 

"No; you'll look splendid. And Cuckoo--"

He hesitated, aware that he was treading on the divine quicksand ofwoman's prejudices. 

"Cuckoo, I want you to make a little experiment for my sake. "

"Whatever is it, dearie?"

"Just on that one night take--take all that off. "

With an almost timid gesture, and growing boyishly red, he indicated theart decoration, pink and pale, that adorned her face. 

Poor Cuckoo looked completely flabbergasted. 

"What?" she said uncertainly; "don't you like me with it?"

"No. "

"Well, but, I don't know. "

Such an experiment evidently struck her as portentous, earth-shaking. Shestared into the dingy glass that stood over the mantelpiece in MaryleboneRoad. 

"I shall look a hag, " she muttered, with conviction. "I shall. "

"You never had it, before you started. "

Her eyes grew round. 

"Ah, that was jolly different, though, " she said. 

"Try it, " he urged. "Go and try it now, then come and show me. "

"I don't like to. "

The idea reduced her almost to shyness. But she got up falteringly, andmoved towards the bedroom. When she was by the folding door she said:

"I say. "

"Well?"

"I say, you won't laugh at me?"

"Of course not. "

"You won't--honour?"

"Honour!"

She disappeared. And there was the sound of many waters. Julian listenedto it, repeating under his breath that word of many meanings, thatpanorama-word, honour. Among thieves, among prostitutes, among murderers, rebels, the lost, the damned of this world, still does it not sing, likea bird that is too hopeful of some great and beautiful end ever to bequite silent?

Julian waited, while Cuckoo washed away her sin of paint and powder, atfirst nervously, then with a certain zest that was almost violent, thatsplashed the water on floor and walls, and sent the shivering Jessiebeneath the bed for shelter. Cuckoo scrubbed and scrubbed, then applied atowel, until her skin protested in patches. Finally, and with a disturbedheart, she approached the sitting-room. Her voice came in to Julian whileshe remained hidden:

"I say--"

"Yes. "

"I know you will laugh. "

"Honour, Cuckoo, honour. "

"Oh, all right. "

And she came in to him, hanging her head down, rather like a childamong strangers, ashamed, poor thing, of looking respectable. Julian wasastonished at the change the water had wrought. Cuckoo looked anotherwoman, or rather girl, oddly young, thin, and haggard certainly, and thereverse of dashing, but pretty, even fascinating, in her shyness. As helooked at her and saw the real red of nature run over her cheeks in wavesof faint rose color, Julian understood fully all that the girl gives upwhen she gives up herself, and the wish--smiled at by Valentine--came tohim again, the wish to reclaim her. 

"Ah!" he said. "Now you are yourself. "

He took her hand, and drew her in front of the mirror, but she refused tolift up her eyes and look at her reflection. 

"I'm a scarecrow, " she murmured, twisting the front of her gown in herfingers. Her lips began to twitch ominously. Julian felt uncomfortable. He thought she was going to cry. 

"You are prettier than ever, " he said. "Look!"

"No, no. It's all gone--all gone. "

"What?"

"My looks, dearie. I could do without the paint once. I can't now. "

Suddenly she turned to him with a sort of vulgar passion, that suspicionof the hard young harridan, typical of the pavement, which he hadobserved in her before. 

"I should like to get the whole lot of men in here, " she said, "and--andchew them up. "

She showed her teeth almost like an animal. Then the relapse, characteristic of the hysterical condition in which she was, came. 

"Never you treat me like the rest, " she said, bursting into sobs; "neveryou try anythin' on. If you do I'll kill myself. "

This outburst showed to Julian that she was capable of a curious depthof real sentiment that gave to her a glimpse of purity and the divinityof restraint. He tried to soothe her and quickly succeeded. When she hadrecovered they went out together to see about the making of the newblack dress, and before they parted he had persuaded Cuckoo to face the"Empire" multitude on the fateful evening without her panoply of paintand powder. She pleaded hard for a touch of black on the eyes, a line ofred on the lips. But he was inexorable. When he had gained his point hecomforted her anxiety with chocolates, a feat more easy than the soothingof her with reasoning could have been. 

When he told Valentine of the success of his embassy, Valentine simplysaid:

"I am glad. "

Julian did not mention the episode of the washing, the preparation of theblack gown, or the promise wrung from the lady of the feathers. Theresult springing from these three events was to come as a surprise toValentine on boat-race night. 

CHAPTER X

THE DANCE OF THE HOURS

Even so huge a city as London, full of so many varying personalities andclashing interests, assumes upon certain days of the year a particularand characteristic aspect, arising from a community of curiosity, ofexcitement, or of delight felt by its inhabitants. Such days are Derbyday and boat-race day. On the latter more especially London is leavenedby a huge mob of juveniles from the universities, and their femaleadmirers from the country, who cast a pleasant spell over the frigidindifference of town-bred dullards, and wake even the most vacuous of thePiccadilly loungers into a certain vivacity and boyishness. The cabmenblossom cheerily in dark and light blue favours. The butcher-boys arepartisans. Every _gamin_ in the gutter is all for one boat or for theother, and dances excitedly to know the result. London, in fact, losesseveral wrinkles on boat-race day, and smiles itself into a very pleasantappearance of briskness and of youth. As a rule, Julian went to see therace and to lunch with his friends at Putney or elsewhere, without eitherabnormal experience of excitement or any unusual vivacity. He wasnaturally full of life, and had hot blood in his veins, loved aspectacle, and especially a struggle of youth against youth. But noboat-race day had ever stirred him as this one did--found him soattentive to outside influence, so receptive of common things. ForJulian had recently been half-conscious that he was progressing, and withincreasing rapidity, though he knew not in what exact direction. Simply, he had the feeling of motion, of journeying, and it seemed to him that hehad been standing comparatively still for years. And this boat-race daycame to him like a flashing milestone upon the road of life. He felt asif it held in its hours a climax of episodes or of emotions, as if uponit either his body or his mind must prepare to undergo some largeexperience, to meet the searching eyes of a face new and unfamiliar. 

Possibly the reason of his own excitement lay in the excitement ofanother, in the curious preparations, which he had oddly shared, for thetransformation of the unmistakable into the vague. For the transformationof Cuckoo Bright had been preparing apace, and Julian was looking forwardlike a schoolboy to the effect which her novel respectability ofappearance would have upon Valentine. The rouge-box lay lonely anduntouched in a drawer. Even the powder-puff suffered an unaccustomedneglect. The black gown had been tried on and taught to fit the thinyoung figure, and a hat--with only one feather--kept company with thediscarded sarcophagus which had given to Cuckoo her original nickname. And Cuckoo herself was almost as excited as Francine when she receivedher muff. She had not seen Valentine since the day of the tea-party, yet her attitude of mind had undergone a change towards him, bent to itprobably by her vanity. Ever since Julian had given her the invitation tothe Empire she had displayed a furtive desire to meet him again, and wasperpetually talking of him and asking questions about him. Neverthelessher fear of him had not died away. Even now she sometimes exclaimedagainst him almost with vehemence, and made Julian renew his promise notto leave her during the evening. But Julian could see that she longed, aswell as dreaded, to meet him again. After all, had he not picked her outfrom all the girlhood of London as one to whom he wished, to do honour?Had he been the Minotaur, such a fact must have made her look upon himwith desirous interest. 

When the great day arrived poor Cuckoo had to struggle with a keen and asore temptation. She longed to deck herself out in her usual borrowedplumage, to take the habitual brilliant complexion out of the accustomeddrawer, to crown her frizzed head with feathers, and to look noisilydashing--her only idea of elegance and grace. Never before had she sodesired to create an impression. Yet she had given Julian her most solemnpromise, and she intended to keep it. As she slowly attired herself, however, she wondered very much why he was so set upon denuding her ofher accustomed magnificence. Her mind was entirely unable to grasp hisconception of beauty and of attractiveness. She thought all men preferredthe peony to the violet. To-night it was very certain that she would beno peony, scarcely even a violet. Her new gown had been expensive, but itwas terribly simple, and the skirt hung beautifully, but was surely mostdirefully sombre. Nevertheless, it rustled with a handsome sound, amelody of wealth, when she had put it on and promenaded about her dingybedroom, with Jessie at her heels, pretending to worry it playfully. Theblack bodice had some trimming. But it was all black. Cuckoo wished ithad been scarlet, or, at the least, orange--something to catch the eyeand hold it. When she was fully attired, and was staring into her glass, between two boldly flaring gas-jets, she nearly resolved to break herpromise to Julian. She even went so far as to paint her lips and eyes, and was charmed with the effect against the black. But then with a suddenfury she sponged her pale face clean, threw the new feather boa round herthroat, and, without daring to glance again at her funereal image, turnedout the gas, and went into the sitting-room. As usual, her last act wasto ensconse the pensive Jessie in the flannel-lined basket, and to giveher a kiss. To-night, as she did so, she let a tear fall on the littledog's head. She scarcely knew why she cried. Perhaps the quiet gown, thelack of paint and powder, the prospect of kind and even respectfultreatment from at least Julian, if not from Valentine, gave to her hearta vision of some existence in which Piccadilly Circus had no part. 

Jessie shivered as she felt the tear, and licked the face of her mistresseagerly. Then Cuckoo rustled forth, avoiding Mrs. Brigg, who might beheard laboriously ascending the kitchen stairs to view her in her galaattire. In the twinkling of an eye she was out in the street, and Mrs. Brigg returned, swearing gustily, to the lower regions. 

Cuckoo was to join the young men in their box, of which she had receivedthe number. She took a cab to the Empire, and was there in excellenttime. As she paid the man, she saw several women going noisily in, dressed in bright colours and gigantic hats. She looked at them, andfelt terribly mean and poor, and it was with no trace of her usual airyimpudence that she asked her way of the towering attendant in uniform whostood at the bottom of the carpeted staircase. 

Julian and Valentine were already there. They turned round as she camein, and stood up to receive her. Julian took her hand, but Valentinehesitated for a moment. Then he said:

"Is it--can it be really Miss Bright?"

"Sure enough it is, " Cuckoo answered, with an effort after liveliness. 

But her eyes were fixed on his. She had seen a curious expression ofmingled annoyance and contempt flit across his face as she came in. Why, why had she allowed Julian to over-persuade her? She was lookinghorrible, a scarecrow, a ghost of a woman. She was certain of it. Fora moment she felt almost angry with Julian for placing her in such abitter position. But he was glowing with a consciousness of successfuldiplomacy, and was delighted with her neat black aspect, and with hersmart, though small, hat. He was indeed surprised to find how reallypretty she still was when she allowed her true face to be seen, and wasonly wishing that she had made a little less of her hair, which was morevigorously arranged even than usual. He glanced to see Valentine'ssurprise. 

"You are so altered, " the latter continued. "I scarcely recognized you. "

Cuckoo's lips tightened. 

"Altered or not, it's me, though, " she said. 

Valentine did not reply to this. He only made her come to the front ofthe box, and placed a chair for her. She sat down feeling like a dog justwhipped. The young men were on each side of her, and the band played anoverture. Cuckoo peered out over the bar of the box, shifting ever solittle away from the side on which Valentine sat. In his presence all heroriginal and extreme discomfort returned, with an added enmity caused byher secret certainty that he thought her looking her worst. She peeredfrom the box and strove to interest herself in the huge crowd thatthronged the house, and in her own dignified and elevated position in it. For Valentine had taken one of the big boxes next the stage on thefirst tier, and Cuckoo had never been in such a situation before. Shecould survey the endless rows of heads in the stalls with a completenessof bird's-eye observation never previously attained. What multitudesthere were. Endless ranks of men, all staring in the same direction, all smoking, all with handkerchiefs peeping out of their cuffs, and goldrings on their little fingers. Some of them looked half asleep, others, who had evidently been dining, threw themselves back in their stalls, roaring with laughter, and leaning to tell each other stories that mustsurely have teemed with wit. Most of them were young. But here and therean elderly and lined figure-head appeared among them, a figure-headthat had faced many sorts of weather in many shifting days and nights, and that must soon face eternity--instead of time. Yet at the gates ofdeath it still sipped its brandy and soda, smiled over a French songwith tired lips, and sat forward with a pale gleam dawning in its eyesto reconnoitre the charms of a _ballet_. And if it looked aside at youthand was pierced by the sword of tragedy, yet it was too well bred or tooconventional to let even one of the world around witness the wound. Thereis much secret bravery in social life. But these elderly figure-headswere fewer than usual to-night. Youth seemed to have usurped theplaying-grounds of pleasure, to have driven old age away into theshadows. With flag flying, with trumpet and drum, it gaily held thefield. The lady of the feathers, Valentine, and Julian leaned out fromtheir box as from the car of a balloon and saw below them a world ofyouth hand in hand with the world of pleasure the gods offer to youth aswine. It was yet early in the evening, and the hours were only trippingalong, as women trip in the pictures of Albert Moore. They had not begunto dance, although the band was playing a laughing measure from an operaof Auber that foams with frivolity. Men kept dropping in, cigar in mouth, walking to their seats with that air of well-washed and stiff composurepeculiar to British youth, grim with self-consciousness, but affectingthe devil-may-care with a certain measure of success. Some of themescorted ladies, but by far the greater number were in couples, or inparties of three or four. The rose of health, or, in many cases, ofrepletion, sat enthroned upon their cheeks; on the upper lips of many themoustaches were budding delicately. These were just getting up on the boxand gripping the reins for the great coach-drive. Little wonder if theveins in their eager hands stood out. Little wonder if they flourishedthe whip with an unnecessary vehemence. But for them, too, so far thehours were only tripping, a slow and a dainty measure, a formal minuet. And they were but watching. Only later would they rise up and join thegreat dance of the hours, large, complicated, alluring, through whosemeasures the feet of eventual saints have trod, whose music rings in theears of many who, long after, try to pray and to forget. Some who werewith women made conversation jocosely, putting on travesties of militaryairs, and a knowingness of expression that might have put the wisdom ofthe Sphinx to shame. Nor did they hesitate to appear amorous in thepublic eye. On the contrary, their attitudes of attention were purposelyassumed silently to utter volumes. They lay, to all intents and purposes, at the feet of their houris, as Samson lay shorn at the feet of Delilah. In loud young voices they told the secrets of their hearts, until eventhe clash of the music could scarcely keep them hidden. And Delilah, who had shorn the locks of so many Samsons, and who had heard so manysecrets, gave ear with a clever affectation of interested surprise thatdeceived these gay deceivers and set them high on the peaks of their ownestimation. Two or three family parties, one obviously French, seemed outof place, indecently domestic in the midst of such a throng, in whichmatrimony was a Cinderella before the ball, cuffed in curl-papers ratherthan kissed in crystal slippers. They sat rather silent. One consisted ofa father, a mother and two daughters, the latter in large flowered hats. The father smoked. The mother looked furtive in a bonnet, and the twodaughters, with wide open eyes, examined the flirtations around them as achild examines a butterfly caught in a net. One of them blushed. But shedid not turn away her eyes. Nor were her girlish ears inactive. Familylife seemed suddenly to become dull to her. She wondered whether it werelife at all. And the father still smoked domestically. He knew it all. That was the difference. And perhaps it was his knowledge that made himserenely content with domesticity and the three women who belonged tohim. Two boys, who had come up from a public school for the race, and hadforgotten to go back, sat at the end of a row in glistening white collarsand neat ties, almost angrily observant of all that was going on aroundthem. For them the dance of the hours was already begun, and alreadybecome a can-can. They watched it with an eager interest and excitement, and the calm self-possession with which some of the men near them madejokes to magnificently dressed women with diamond earrings struck themdumb with admiration. Yet, later on, they too were fated to join in thedance, when the stars affected to sleep on the clouds and the moon laywearily inattentive to the pilgrims of the night, like an invalid in ablue boudoir. On the thick carpet by the wall attendants stood loadedwith programmes. One of them, very trim and respectable, in a white cap, was named Clara and offered a drink by an impudent Oxonian. She giggledwith all the vanity of sixteen, happily forgetful of her husband andof the seven children who called her mother. Yet the dance of the hourswas a venerable saraband to her, and she often wished she was in bed asshe stood listening to the familiar music. In the enclosure set apart forthe orchestra the massed musicians earned their living violently in themidst of the gaily dressed idlers, who heard them with indifference, andsaw them as wound-up marionettes. The drummer hammered on his blatantinstrument with all the crude skill of his tribe, producing occasionalterrific noises with darting fists, while his face remained as immovableas that of a Punchinello. A flautist piped romantically an Arcadianmeasure, while his prominent eyes stared about over the chatteringaudience as if in search of some one. Suddenly he gave a "couac. " He hadseen his sweetheart in the distance with a youth from Christ Church. Theconductor turned on the estrade in the centre of the orchestra andscowled at him, and he hastened to become Arcadian once again, gazing athis flute as if the devil had entered into it. In a doorway shrouded withheavy curtains two acting managers talked warily, their hands in retreatbehind their coat-tails. They surveyed the house and mentally calculatedthe amount of money in it, raising their eyes to the more distantpromenade, at the back of which large hats covered with flowers andfeathers moved steadily to and fro. One of them curled his lips andmurmured the word "Chant. " Then they both laughed and strolled out tothe bar. More men passed in. Many could not get seats, and these stood, smoking and exchanging remarks in the broad space between the stalls andthe wall. Some of them leaned nonchalantly against it and criticised theappearance of the seated audience, or nodded to acquaintances. Othersgathered round the bar, and a few looked at the drop-curtain as if theythought their ascetic glances would cause it to roll up and disappear. The overture at length ended. The stage was disclosed, and a man cameforward with a smirk, and a wriggle of gigantic feet, to sing a song. 

But Cuckoo Bright, Valentine, and Julian, from their balloon-car, stillsurveyed the world. Cuckoo had heard the man before. She was no strangerto the upper regions of the Empire, but the fascination of knowingherself watched and commented on from the stalls was a new experience, and she wished to make the most of it. Forgetting that she was notpainted and powdered, she stretched herself into view and believed shewas creating a sensation. So absorbed was she in the grand effort ofbeing seen, that when Valentine drew his chair a little closer to hershe did not notice it. One of her hands lay on her lap, the other beingon the ledge of the box supporting her chin. She returned eagerly theglances of the stalls. The hand that was in her lap felt another handclose on it. Instinctively Cuckoo turned towards Julian, ready to smile. But Julian was gazing absorbed at the crowd, and half abstractedlylistening to the song of the man in the huge, distorted boots. It wasValentine who held her hand. She tried to draw it away. He merelytightened his grip on it and continued sitting in silence, not evenlooking towards her. And as he held her hand a sense of helplessness cameover Cuckoo. Even through his kid glove she could feel the burning heatof his palm, of the fingers that clutched hers with the strength of anathlete. She gazed towards him through the new black veil that was drawnover her face, and it seemed even to her limited intelligence that theman who was so brutally holding her against her will could not be the manat whom she was now looking. For Valentine, whose profile was set towardsher, was pale, calm, almost languid in appearance. His blue eyes wereglancing quietly over the multitude, with an air of indifferentobservation. His lips were slightly parted in a sort of dawning smile, and his whole attitude was that of a man lazily at ease and taking hispleasure in a desultory mood. Yet the hand on Cuckoo's knees was viciousin its grasp. This startling and silent contradiction threw her into acomplete panic, but she did not dare to say anything in protest. Shesat silently trembling, and drawing her lips together in growingperturbation, till Julian happened to turn towards them. Then Valentine'sfingers relaxed their grasp quietly, and slipped away. At the same timehe moved with an air of energy, and broke into gay conversation. Hislanguor vanished. His blue eyes sparkled. Julian was astonished at hisintense vivacity. He laughed, made jokes, became absolutely boyish. 

"Why, Val, how gay you are!" Julian said. 

"Every one is gay to-night. "

He was interrupted by a roar of laughter. The man in the boots wasbecoming immoderately whimsical. His feet seemed to have escaped fromcontrol, and to be prancing in Paradise while he looked on in Purgatory. 

"Every one is gay. "

As Valentine repeated the words, and the huge theatre laughed like oneenormous person, Julian felt again the strange thrill of overmasteringexcitement that had shaken him on the night when he and Valentine hadleaned out of the Victoria Street window. The strength of the springand of his long tended and repressed young instincts stirred withinhim mightily. Scales fell from his eyes. From the car of the balloonhe gazed down, and it seemed to him that they--Valentine, Cuckoo, and himself--were drifting over a new country, of which all theinhabitants were young, gay, careless, rightly irresponsible. Therows of open-mouthed, laughing faces called to him to join in theirmirth, --more, to join in their lives, and in the lives of the pirouettinghours. He moved in his chair as if he were impelled to get up and leavehis seat. And as he moved a voice whispered in his ear:

"Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die. "

Was it Valentine's voice? He turned round hastily, curiously perturbed. 

"Val, was that you? Did you speak to me?"

"No. "

Julian looked at Cuckoo. Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes shone withdancing excitement. 

"Did you, Cuckoo?"

"Not I, dearie. I say, ain't he funny to-night?"

Then the voice must have spoken in his own brain. He listened for it andfancied he could hear it again and again, driving him on like a phantomfate. But the voice was in timbre like the voice of Valentine, and hefelt as if Valentine spoke with a strange insistence and reiteration. His heart, his whole being, made answer to the whisper. 

"To-morrow we die. It is true. Ah, then, let us--let us eat and let usdrink. "

The man in the boots wriggled furiously into the wings, and the curtainrose on the ballet. Wenzel had ascended to the conductor's platform amidloud applause. The first weary melodies of "Faust" streamed plaintivelyfrom the orchestra, and a gravity came over the rows of faces in thestalls. Julian's face, too, was grave, but his excitement and his senseof his own power of youth grew as he looked on. The old Faust appeared, heavy with the years and with the trouble of useless thought, and Julianfelt that he could sneer at him for his venerable age. As he watched thephilosopher's grandiloquent pantomime of gesture, like a mist therefloated over him the keen imagination of the hell of regret in which theold age, that never used to the full its irrevocable youth, must move, and a passion of desire to use his own youth rushed over him as firerushes over a dry prairie. Even a sudden anger against Valentine came tohim, --against Valentine for the protection he had given through so manyyears. For had he not been protecting Julian against joy? and does notthe capacity for joy pass away with a tragic swiftness? As Faust wastransformed into youth, and the ballet danced in the market-place, Julianturned to Valentine and said:

"We will live to-night. "

Valentine laughed. 

"You look excited. "

"I feel excited. Don't you?"

Valentine answered:

"I may presently. We mustn't stay in here all the evening. "

There was a knock at the door of the box. An attendant appeared to asktheir orders. Valentine spoke some words to him, and in a few minutes hebrought three long drinks to the box. Julian drank his mechanically. Hiseyes were always on the ballet. The betrayal of poor Margaret had nowbeen accomplished and the soldiers were returning from the wars. Beyondthe wall of the garden the tramp of their feet was heard, a vision of thetops of their passing weapons was seen. The orchestra played the fragmentof a march. Cuckoo sipped her brandy and soda, and gazed sometimes at thestage indifferently, often at the audience eagerly, and then at Julian. When her eyes were on Julian's face a light came into them that made herexpression young, and even pure. A simplicity hovered about her lips, anda queer dawning of something that was almost refinement spoke in herattitude. But if she chanced to meet the eyes of Valentine her face wasfull of fear. 

And now the last great scene of the pageant approached, and the twoschoolboys leant forward in their stalls in a passion of greedyexcitement. Julian happened to see them, and instead of smiling at theirfrankly lustful attitudes with the superiority of the drilled man overthe child, he was conscious of an eager sympathy with their vigour ofenjoyment and of desire. His nature retrograded and became a schoolboy'snature, with the whole garden of life flowering before its feet. Suddenlythere came to him the need of touching something human. He stole his armclosely around Cuckoo's waist. She glanced at him surprised. But his eyeswere turned away to the stage. Valentine pushed his chair a littlebackwards. He was watching them, and when he saw the movement of Julian'sarm, he laughed to himself. The classical Sabbath sprang into view, andit seemed to be just then that the feet of the hours first began to movein the opening steps of their great dance of that night. Was it themagnificent Cleopatra that gave them the signal? Or did Venus herselfwhisper in their ears that the time for their _fête_ was come at length, that the paid vagaries of the stage demanded companionship, and that theaudience, too, must move in great processions, whirl in demon circles, rise up in heart to the clash of cymbals, bow down before the goddessesof the night, the women who gave to modern men the modern heaven thatthey desire in our days? The stage was a waving sea of scarlet, throughwhich one white woman floated, like a sin with pale cheeks in the midstof the rubicund virtues. She was, perhaps, not beautiful, but she wasprovocative and alluring, and her whiteness made her as voluptuous asinnocence is when it moves through the habitations of the wicked. Julianwatched her come to Faust and win him from the scarlet dancers and fromthe arms of Cleopatra, and the strange rejuvenation of this philosopherwho had been old, and known decaying faculties, and the flight of theheart from the warm closes of the summer to the white and iron winterplains, filled him with sympathy. It must be easy to use your youth afteryou have known the enforced reserve of age. For age is a bitter lesson. The dance grew more wild and rattling. The _frou-frou_ of the swingingscarlet skirts filled the great house with sound as the glitter ofspangles filled it with a shimmering light. Faust was surrounded byfluttering women moving in complicated evolutions with a trained air ofreckless devilry. And Julian gave himself to the illusion created by theskill of Katti Lanner, ignoring entirely the real care of the dancers, and choosing to consider them as merely driven by wild impulse, vagrantdesires of furious motion, and the dashing gaiety of keen sensualsensation. They danced to fire a real Faust, and he was Faust for themoment. His arm closed more firmly round the waist of Cuckoo, and hecould feel the throbbing of her heart against the palm of his hand. Hedid not look at her, and so he did not see the dawning anxiety with whichshe was beginning furtively to regard him. Entirely engrossed with thestage spectacle, the movement of his arm had been entirely mechanical, prompted by the hardening pressure of excitement in his mind. If he hadactually crushed Cuckoo and hurt her he would have been unconscious thathe was doing it. 

And Valentine all this time leaned back in his chair, that stood in theshadow of the box, and looked at the enlaced figures before him with anunvarying smile. 

Contrast and surprise are the essence of the successful "spectacle. "Just as the scarlet dervish whirl was at its height the character ofthe music changed, slackened, softened, died from the angrily sensuousinto an ethereal delicacy. The stage filled with clouds that faded ingolden light, and a huge and glittering stairway rose towards the paintedsky. On either side of it hung in the blue ether guardian angels withoutstretched wings, and between their attentive ranks stood the radiantfigure of the purified Margaret, at whose white feet the red crowd ofwomen, even the majestic Cleopatra and pale voluptuous Venus, sankabashed. Harps sounded frostily, suggesting that crystal heaven of St. John, in which the beauties we know in nature are ousted by unbreathingjewels, the lifeless pearl and chrysolite. The air filled with thin andwintry light, that deepened, and began to glow, through lemon to amberand to rose. The angels swam in it, and then the huge stairway leadingup to heaven shone with the violence of a gigantic star. Faust fell inrepentance before the girl he had ruined and failed to ruin, the girl whobent as if to bless him upon this fiery ascent to heaven. And Julian, absorbed, devoured the wide and glowing scene with his eyes, which wereattracted especially by the living flames that were half veiled and halfrevealed beneath the feet of Margaret. The music of the orchestra rippledfaintly, and then it seemed to Julian that, as if in answer, thererippled up from the golden stairs and from the hidden company of flamesthat faint, thin riband of shadowy fire which had already so strangelybeen with him in the dawn and in the dusk. It came from beneath thepausing feet of the girl who blessed Faust, and trembled upwards slowlyabove her glittering hair. Julian felt a burning sensation at his heart, as if the tiny fire found its way there. He turned round sharply, withdrawing his arm from Cuckoo's waist with an abruptness that startledher. 

"Valentine!" he exclaimed in a whisper. "There; now you see it. "

Valentine leaned to him. 

"See what?"

"The flame. It's no fancy. It's no chimera. Look, it is mounting upbehind Margaret. Watch it, Valentine, and tell me what it is. "

"I see nothing. "

Julian stared into his eyes, as if to make certain that he really spokethe truth. Then Valentine asked of Cuckoo:

"Miss Bright, can you see this flame of which Julian speaks?"

Cuckoo answered, with the roughness that always came to her in thecompany of alarm:

"Not I. There ain't nothing, no more than there was that day when I hadthe coffee. "

She added to Julian, reproachfully:

"You've been drinkin'. Now, dearie, you have. "

Suddenly his two companions became intolerable to Julian. He thought themstupid, boorish, dense, devoid of the senses of common humanity, not tosee what he saw, not to feel as he felt, --that this vague flame had ameaning and a message not yet interpreted, perhaps not even remotelydivined. With an angry exclamation he sprang to his feet, turning oncemore to the stage. And as the curtain fell, he distinctly saw the flameglowing like a long and curiously shaped star above the head of Margaret. 

And this man and woman would not see it! A sudden enmity to them bothcame to him in that moment. He abruptly opened the door of the box, andwent out without another word to either of them. Cuckoo's voice shrillycalling to him to stop did not affect his resolution and desire to escapefrom them if only for a moment. 

Out in the corridor at the back of the dress circle people were beginningto circulate, relieved from the tension of examining the ballet. Julianwas instantly swallowed up in a noisy crowd, hot, flushed, loud-voiced, bright-eyed. Masses of excited young men lounged to and fro, smokingcigarettes, and making fervent remarks upon the gaily dressed women, whoglided among them observantly. From the adjoining bar rose the music ofpopping corks and flowing liquids. The barmaids were besieged. Clouds ofsmoke hung in the air, and the heat was terrific. Julian felt it clingingto him as if with human arms as he slowly walked over the thick carpet, glancing about him. Humanity touched him on every side. At one moment anelderly woman, with yellow hair and a fat-lined face, enveloped him inher skirts of scarlet and black striped silk. The black chiffon thatswept about her neck and heaving shoulders fluttered against his face. Her high-heeled boots trod on his. He seemed one with her. Then she hadvanished, and instantly he was in the arms of a huge racing-man, who woregigantic pink pearls in his shirt front, and bellowed the latest slang toa thin and dissipated companion. It seemed to Julian that he was kickedlike a football from one life to another, and that from each life he drewaway something as he bounded from it, the fragment of a thought, thethrill of a desire, the indrawn breath of a hope. Like a machine thatwinds in threads of various coloured silks, he wound in threads from thevarious coloured hearts about him, --red, white, coarse, and fine. And, half-unconsciously, was he not weaving them into a fabric? Never beforehad he understood the meaning of a crowd, that strange congregation ofpassions and of fates which speaks in movements and is melodious inattitudes, which quarrels in all its parts, silently, yet is swayedthrough and through by large impulses, and as an intellect far more keenand assertively critical than the intellect of any one person in it. Andnow, when Julian began to feel the meaning of this surging mob of men andwomen, the hours danced, and he and all the crowd danced with them. Andthe music that accompanied and directed the feet through the figures ofthat night's quadrille was the music of words and of laughter, of hissingenticements and of whispered replies. Irresistible was the performanceof the hours and of the crowd that lived in them. Julian knew it when thedance began, marvelled at it for a little when the dance was ended. Therewas contagion in the air, furtive, but strong as the contagion ofcholera, --the contagion of human creatures gathered together in thenight. Only the youth who dwells--like Will-o'-the-Mill--forever by thelonely stream in the lonely mountain valley escapes it entirely. Agedsaints look backward on their lives, and remember at least one nightwhen it seized them in its embrace; and even the purest woman, throughits spell, has caught sight of the vision behind the veil of ourcivilization, and although she has shrunk from it, has had a moment ofwonder and of interest, never quite effaced from her memory. 

On every side the Oxford and Cambridge boys laughed and shouted, pushedand elbowed. They had begun to cast off restraint, and the god that isrowdy on a rowdy throne compelled them to their annual obeisance at hisfeet. Some of them moved along singing, and interrupting their song withshouts. Friends, when they met in the crowd, yelled shrill recognitionsat each other, and nicknames sang in the air like noisy birds. Rows ofmen linked arms, and, striding forward, compelled the throng to yieldthem difficult passage, swinging this way and that to make their progressmore comprehensive. The attendants, standing by the wall like giants, calmly smiled on the growing uproar, into which they darted now and thenwith a sudden frenzy of dutiful agility to eject some rude wit who hadtransgressed their code of propriety. The very spirit of lusty youth wasin this crowd of hot, careless, blatant, roving youths, mad to findthemselves away from the cool and grey Oxford towers, and from the vacantbanks of the Cam, in passionate Leicester Square, fired by the scarletballet, and the thunder of the orchestra, and the sight of smart women. Sudden emancipation is the most flaming torch to human passions thatexists in the world. It flared through all that mob, urging it toconflagration, to the flames that burst up in hearts that are fresh andardent, and that so curiously confuse joy with wickedness. 

Flames! flames! The word ran in Julian's mind, and in his breast flamessurely burned that night, for, when he suddenly ran against Valentine andCuckoo in the throng, he caught Valentine by the arm and said:

"Val, you were right just now. There was no flame; there could have beenno flame where Margaret stood. She was too pure. What can fire have to dowith snow? Cuckoo, I was a fool. Catch hold of my arm. "

He pulled her arm roughly through his, never noticing how pale the girl'sface was, how horror-stricken were her eyes. He wanted to bathe himself, and her, and Valentine, in this crowd that influenced him and that hehelped to influence. He felt as the diver feels, who, when he plunges, has a sacred passion for the depths. There are people who have an ardourfor going down comparable to the ardour felt by those who mount. Tonightsuch an ardour took hold of Julian. 

Valentine fell in with it, seeing the humour of his friend, and Cuckoo, prisoned between the two men, did not attempt to resist them. As theymoved on Valentine said, in a voice he made loud that it might be heard:

"Now, you feel the strength of the spring, Julian. Is it not better thanall my teachings of asceticism?"

"Yes, by ----, it is. "

And as he made that answer, Julian, for the first time, forgot to lookup to Valentine, and felt a splendid equality with him, the equalitythat men of the same age and temper feel when they are bent on the samepursuit. How can one of two Bacchanals stoop in adoration of the other, when both are bounding in the procession of Silenus? Valentine fell fromhis pedestal and became a comrade instead of a god. He was no longer thechaperon of the dancing hours, but their partner. And a new fire shone inhis blue eyes, an unaccustomed red ran over his cheeks, as he heardJulian's answer to his question. From that moment he ceased to play what, it seemed, had been but a part, the empty ivory _rôle_ of saint. ForJulian was no longer conscious or observant of him, no longer able towonder at his abrupt transformation. In a flash he cast off his habitualrestraint and passed from the reserve of thought to the rowdyism of act. 

He chattered unceasingly, dressing his English in all the slangembroidery of the day. He laughed and chaffed, exchanged repartees withthe flowing multitude through which they passed, stopped to speak to theflaunting women and loaded them with extravagant compliments, elbowedloungers out of his way, and made the most personal remarks on thosearound him. Two men went by, and one of them exclaimed, with a surprisedglance at Valentine:

"I'm damned! Why, there goes the Saint of Victoria Street. "

"Saint!" said the other; "I should think devil the more appropriate name. That chap looks up to anything. "

"Ah, well; when a saint turns sinner--, " answered the first speaker, witha laugh. 

Valentine heard the words and burst into a roar of laughter. He drewCuckoo to the left and Julian followed. They passed under an archway intothe bar, which was crowded with men, drinking and talking at the tops oftheir voices. Valentine called for drinks in a voice so loud andauthoritative that the barmaid hurried to serve him, deserting othercustomers, who protested vainly. He forced Cuckoo to drink, and Julianneeded no urging. Clinking glasses noisily with them, he gave as a toast:

"To the dance of the hours!"

These words, uttered with almost strident force, attracted attention evenamid the violent hubbub that was raging, and several young men pressedround Valentine as he stood with his back against the counter of the bar. They raised their glasses, too, half in ridicule, and shouting in chorus, "To the dance of the hours!" drained them to this toast, which they couldnot comprehend. Valentine dashed his glass down. It broke and wastrodden under foot. The barmaid protested. He threw her a sovereign. Theyoung men gathered round, broke theirs in imitation, and Julian, snatching Cuckoo's from her, flung it away. As he did so, Valentinethrust another, filled with champagne, into her hand, and again criedout the toast. 

"What the deuce does he mean by it?" one youth called out. "The dance ofthe hours; what's that?"

"The dance of the hours! The dance of the hours!" echoed other voices, and glasses were drained wildly. There was something exciting in the meresound of the words that seemed to set brains jigging, and feet moving, and the world spinning and bowing. For if Time itself danced, what couldthe most Puritan human being do but dance with it? Seeing the crowd roundValentine, men who were drinking at the other end of the bar joined it, and the toast passed quickly from mouth to mouth. Uttered by everyvariety of voice, with every variety of accent, it filled the stiflingatmosphere, and tickled many an empty brain, like the catchword politicalthat can set a nation behind one astute wire-puller. Boys yelled it, menmurmured it, and an elderly woman in a plush gown and yellow feathersscreamed it out in a piercing soprano that would have put many atrumpet-blast to shame. Glasses were emptied and filled again in itshonour. Yet nobody knew what it meant, and apparently nobody cared, except the Oxford boy who had already expressed his desire to be betterinformed on the subject. He had gradually edged his way through thethrong until he was close to Valentine, at whom he gazed with a sort oftipsy reverence. 

"I say, you chap, " he cried. "What are we drinking to--eh? What thedevil's the dance of the hours?"

Valentine brought his glass down on the counter. 

"What is it?" he exclaimed. "Why, the greatest dance in the world, thedance that youth sends out the invitations for, and women live for, andold men die with longing for. We set the hours dancing in the night, we--all who are gay and careless, who love life in the greatest way, andwho laugh at death, and who aren't afraid of the devil. The devil's onlya bogey to frighten old women and children. What do the hours care forhim? Not a snap. It's only cowards who fear him. Brave men do what theywill, and when the hours dance they dance with them, and drink with themall the night through. Who says there'll be another morning? I don'tbelieve it. Curse the sunshine. Give me the night and the dancing hours!"

The youth gave a yell, which was echoed by some of his rowdy companions, and by the two little schoolboys who had joined the throng in a frenzy ofchildish excitement, which they thought manly. 

"The dancing hours! The dancing hours!" they cried, and one who was witha girl suddenly caught her round the waist and broke into wild steps. Others joined in. The confusion became tremendous. Glasses were knockedover. Whiskies and sodas were poured out in libations upon the carpet. The protests of the barmaids were unheeded or unheard. Julian whirledCuckoo into the throng, and Valentine, snapping his long white fingerslike castanets, stamped his feet as if to the measure of a wild music. Against the wall some loungers looked on in contemptuous amusement, butby far the greater number of men present were young and eager for anyabsurdity, and not a few were half tipsy. These ardently welcomedanything in the nature of a row, and the romp became general and noisy. Men danced awkwardly with one another, roaring the latest music-halltunes at the pitch of their voices. The women screamed with laughter, or giggled piercingly as they were banged and trodden on in the tumult. The noise, penetrating to the promenade, drew the attention of theaudience, many of whom hurried to see what was going on, and the blockround the archways quickly became impenetrable. One or two of thegigantic chuckers-out forced their way into the throng and seized thedancers nearest to them, but they were entirely unable to stay theridiculous impulse which impelled this mob of young human beings tocapering and yelling. Indeed they merely increased the scuffle, whichrapidly developed towards a free fight. Hats were knocked off, dresseswere torn. The women got frightened and began to scream. The men swore, and some lost their tempers and struck out right and left. Valentinewatched the scene with laughing eyes as if he enjoyed it. Especially hewatched Julian, who, with scarlet face and sparkling eyes, still forcedCuckoo round and round in the midst of the tumult. Cuckoo was white, andseemed to be half fainting. Her head rested helplessly against Julian'sshoulder, and her eyes stared at him as if fascinated. Her dress wastorn, and her black veil hung awry. If she danced with the hours it waswithout joy or desire. 

But suddenly police appeared. The dancers, abruptly realizing that a jokewas dying in a disaster, ceased to prance. Some violently assumed airs ofindifference and of alarming respectability. Many sinuously wound theirway out to the promenade. A few, who had completely lost their heads, hustled the police, and were promptly taken into custody. Julian wouldhave been among these had it not been for the intervention of Valentine, who caught him by the shoulder, and drew him and Cuckoo away. 

"No; you mustn't end to-night in a cell, " he said in Julian's ear. "Thedancing hours want you still. Julian, you are only beginning your reallife to-night. "

Julian, like a man in an excited dream, followed Valentine to the bottomof the broad stairs, on, through the blooming masses of flowers, to theentrance. Two or three cabs were waiting. Valentine put Cuckoo into one. She had not spoken a word, and was trembling as if with fear. 

"Get in, Julian. "

Julian obeyed, and Valentine, standing on the pavement, leaned forwardand whispered to him:

"Take her home, Julian. "

Suddenly Julian shouted Cuckoo's address to the cabman hoarsely. 

The cab drove away. 

Valentine walked slowly towards Piccadilly Circus, whistling softly, "I want you, my honey; yes, I do. "

BOOK III--THE LADY OF THE FEATHERS

CHAPTER I

THE LADY OF THE FEATHERS

The thin afternoon light of an indefinite spring day shone over theMarylebone Road. A heavy warmth was in the air, and the weather waspeculiarly windless, but the sun only shone fitfully, and the streetlooked sulky. The faces of the passers-by were hot and weary. Womentrailed along under the weight of their parcels, and men returned fromwork grimmer than usual, and wondering almost with a fretfulness ofpassion why they were born predestined to toil. The cabmen about BakerStreet Station dozed with nodding heads upon their perches, and theomnibus conductors forgot to chaff, and collected their tolls with amechanical deliberation. At the crossings the policemen, helpless intheir uniforms of the winter, became dictatorial more readily than oncooler days. Some sorts of weather incline every one to temper or todepression. The day after the boat-race lay under a malign spell. Itseemed to feel all the weariness of reaction, and to fold all men andwomen in the embrace of its lassitude and heavy hopelessness. 

At number 400, Jessie whined pitifully in her basket, and her arched backquivered perpetually as her minute body expanded and contracted in theeffort of breathing. Her beady eyes were open and fixed furtively uponher mistress, as if in inquiry or alarm, and her whole soul was whirlingin a turmoil set in motion by the first slap she had ever received ingravity at the hands of Cuckoo. Jessie's inner nature was stung by thatslap. It knocked her world over, like a doll hit by a child. Her universelay prone upon its back. 

And Cuckoo's? She was sitting in the one arm-chair with her thin handsfolded in her lap. She wore the black dress given to her by Julian, butshe did not look prepared to go out, for her hair was standing up overher head in violent disorder, her cheeks were haggard and unwashed, andher boots--still muddy from the previous night's promenading--stoodin a corner near the grate in the first position, as if directed bya dancing-mistress. Cuckoo was neither reading nor working. She wassimply staring straight before her, without definite expression. Herface indeed wore a quite singularly blank look and her mouth was slightlyopen. Her feet, stuck out before her, rested on the edge of the fender, shoeless, and both her general appearance and attitude betokened acomplete absence of self-consciousness, and that lack of expectation ofany immediate event which is often dubbed stupidity. The lady of thefeathers sitting in the horsehair-covered chair in the cheap sitting-roomwith the folding doors looked indeed stupid, pale, and heavy. Fatigue layin the shadows of her eyes, but something more than ordinary fatiguehovered round her parted lips and spoke in her posture. A dull weariness, in which the mind took part with the body, held her in numbing captivity. She had only broken through it in some hours to repulse the anxiouseffort of Jessie to scramble into the nest of her lap. That slap given, she had again relapsed without a struggle into this waking sleep. 

The sun came out with a sudden violence, and an organ began to play afrisky tune in the street. Jessie whined and whimpered, formed her mouthinto the shape of an O, and, throwing up her head, emitted a vague andsmothered howl. Below stairs, Mrs. Brigg, who was afflicted with acomplaint that prompted her to perpetual anxious movement, laboured aboutthe kitchen, doing nothing in particular, among her pots and pans. Theoccasional clatter of them mingled with the sound of the organ, and withthe suffocated note of Jessie, in a depressing symphony. The sun went inagain, and some dust, stirred into motion by a passing omnibus, floatedin through the half-open window and settled in a light film upon thephotograph of Marr. Presently the organ moved away, and faded graduallyin pert tunes down the street. Jessie's nervous system, no longer playedupon, ceased to spend its pain in sound, and a London silence fell roundthe little room. Then, at length, Cuckoo shifted in her chair, stretchedher hands in her lap, and sat up slowly. The inward expression had notfaded from her eyes yet, for, leaning forward, she still stared blanklybefore her, looking, as it seemed, straight at Marr's photograph. Gradually she woke to a consciousness of what she was looking at, andputting up one hand she took the photograph from its place, laid it inher lap, and, bending down, gazed at it long and earnestly. Then sheshook her head as if puzzled. 

"I don't know, " she murmured; "I don't know. "

Encouraged by the sound of her mistress's voice, Jessie stepped fromher basket and gingerly approached, snuffling round Cuckoo's feet, andwriggling her body in token of anxious humility. Cuckoo picked her up andstroked her mechanically, but still with her eyes on the photograph. Twotears swam in them. She dashed the photograph down. It lay on the carpet, and was still there when a knock at the door was succeeded by theentrance of Julian. 

He, too, looked pale and rather weary, but excited. 

"Cuckoo, " he said. 

She sat still in the chair, looking at him. 

"Well?" she said, and closed her lips tightly. 

He came a step or two forward into the little room, and put his hat andstick down on the table. 

"You expected me to come, didn't you?"

"I don't know as I did. "

Her eyes were on Jessie now, and she stroked the little dog's backsteadily up and down, alternately smoothing and ruffling its short coat. Julian came over and stood by the mantelpiece. 

"I told you I should come. "

"Did you?"

"Don't you remember?"

She shifted round in the chair till he could only see her shoulder, andthe side of her head and neck, on which the loose hair was tumbling inugly confusion. Sitting thus she threw back at him the sentence:

"I don't want to remember nothing. I don't want to remember. "

Julian stood hesitating. He glanced at Cuckoo's hair and at the back ofher thin hand moving to and fro above the little contented dog. 

"Why not?" he said. 

At first she made no answer to this question, and seemed as if she hadnot heard it, but presently it appeared that her silence had been causedby the effect of consideration, for at length she said, still retainingher aloof attitude:

"I don't want to remember, because it's like a beastly dream, and when Iremember I know it ain't a dream. "

Julian said nothing, and suddenly Cuckoo turned round to him, and tookher hand from Jessie's back. 

"I say. You were mad last night. Now, weren't you?"

The words came from her almost pleadingly, and her eyes rested onJulian's insistently, as if demanding an affirmative. 

"He'd made you mad, " she continued. 

"He, " said Julian. "Who?"

"Your friend. "

"Valentine! He had nothing to do with it. "

"It was all his doing. "

Her voice grew shrill with feeling. 

"He's a devil, " she said. "I hate him. I hate him worse than I hatethat copper west side of Regent Street. And I hate you, too, --yes, Ido, --to-day. "

The tears gathered in her eyes and began to fall, tears of rage and shameand regret, tears of one who had lost a great possession. Julian lookedembarrassed and pained, almost guilty, too. He put out his hand and triedto take Cuckoo's. But she drew hers away and went on crying. She spokeagain with vehemence. 

"I told you what I wanted you to be; yes, I did, " she exclaimed. "Yes, I told you. You said you only come here to talk to me. "

"It was true. "

"No; it wasn't. You're just like all the others. And I did so want tohave a pal. I've never had one. "

With the words the sense of her desolation seemed to strike her withstunning force. She leaned her head against the back of the chair, andcried bitterly, catching at the horsehair with violent hands, as if shelonged to hurt something, to revenge her loss even upon an object withoutpower of feeling. Julian sprang up and went over to the window. He lookedout onto the road and watched the people moving by in the fitful sunshinebeyond the dirty railings. That day, he, too, was in a tumult. He feltlike a monk who had suddenly thrown off his habit, broken his vows, andcome forth into the world. The cell and the cloister were left behind, were things to be forgotten, with the grating of the confessional and thedim routine of service and of asceticism. He had been borne on by thewave of a brilliant, a violent hour, away from them. Let the angelus bellring; he no longer heard it. Let the drone of prayers and praises rise ina monotonous music by day and by night; he no longer had the will to heedthem. For there was another music in his ears. Soon it would be in hisheart. Imagine a Trappist suddenly transported from the desert of hislong silence to a gay _plage_ on which a brass band was playing. Julianwas that Trappist in mind. And though he knew Cuckoo was sobbing at hisback, and though his heart held a sense of pity for her trouble, yet heheard her grief with a strange cruelty, at which he wondered, withoutbeing able to soften it. That afternoon it seemed to him useless foranybody to cry. No grief was quite worth tears. The violence of life waspresent with him, gave him light and blinded him at the same time. Hefound delight in the thought of violence, because it held action in itsgrasp. Even cruelty was worth something. Was he cruel to Cuckoo?

He turned from the window and looked at her, with the observation of anature not generally his own. He noted the desolation of her hair, and henoted, too, that she wore the gown he had given to her. Would she haveput it on if she had hated him as she said she did? Somehow it scarcelyseemed to suit her to-day. It looked draggled, and as if it had been upall night, he thought. The black back of it heaved as Cuckoo sobbed, likea little black wave. Was the eternal movement of the sea caused by somehorrible, inward grief which, though secret, must come thus to the eye ofGod and of the world? Julian found himself wondering in an unreasonableabstraction as he contemplated the crying girl. Then suddenly his mindswerved to more normal paths; he was seized by the natural feeling of aman who has made a woman weep, and had the impulse to comfort. 

"Don't cry, Cuckoo, " he said, coming over to her and sitting on the edgeof her chair. "You must not. Let us say I was mad last night. Perhaps Iwas. Men are often mad, surely. To-day I'm sane, and I want you toforgive me. "

He put his arm round her shoulder. She glanced up at him. Then, with theodd penetration that so often gilds female ignorance till it dazzles anddistracts, she said quickly:

"You don't mean what you say; you don't really care. "

Julian was taken aback by her sharpness, and by the self-revelation thatimmediately stabbed him. 

"You mustn't say that, " he began. But she stopped him on the instant. 

"You don't care; you think it's nothing. So it ought to be to me, Iknow. "

That had perhaps actually been his thought, the thought of a mindunimaginative to-day, because deadened by the excitement of action. But if it was his thought he hastened to deny it. 

"You know I don't think of you in that way, " he said. 

"You will now. You do. "

That was the scourge that had lashed her all through this weary day ofmiserable reaction; that now stung her to a passion that was like thepassion of purity. As she made this statement there was a question inher eyes, but it was a question of despair, that scarcely even asked forthe negative which Julian hastened to give. He was both perplexed andtroubled by the unexpected violence of her emotion, and blamed himselfas the cause. But, though he blamed himself, his regret for what wasirrevocable had none of the poignancy of Cuckoo's. For a long time hehad gloried in living in a cloister with Valentine. Now he had left thecloister, he did not look back to it with the curious pathos which sooften gathers like moss upon even a dull and vacant past. He did not, for the moment, look back at all. Action had lifted scales from his eyes, had stirred the youth in him, had stung him as if with bright fire, andgiven him, at a breath, a thousand thoughts, visions, curiosities. Asense of power came to him. He did not ask whether the power made forevil or for good. Simply, he was inclined to glory in it, as a manglories in his recovered strength when he wakes from a long sleepfollowing fatigue. Cuckoo, with feeble hands, seemed tugging to hold backthis power, with feeble voice seemed crying against it as a deadly thing. And Julian, though he strove to console her, scarcely sympathized withher fully. He could not, if he would, be quite unhappy to-day. Only inCuckoo's grief he began to read a curious legend. In her tears there wasa passion, in her anger a vehemence that could only spring from thedepths of a nature. Julian began to suspect that through all her sinsand degradations this girl, his lady of the feathers, had managed tokeep shut one door, though all the others had been ruthlessly opened. And beyond this door was surely that holy of holies, an unspoiled woman'sheart. From what other dwelling could rush forth such a passion for aman's respect, such a fury to be rightly and chivalrously considered? Ashe half vaguely realized something of the true position of Cuckoo and ofhimself, Julian felt stirred by the wonder of life, in which such strangeblossoms flower out of the very dust. He looked at Cuckoo with new eyes. She looked back at him with the old ones of a girl who loves. 

As he looked she stopped crying. Perhaps the sudden understanding in hisgaze thrilled her. He put out his hand to touch hers, and again repeatedhis negative, but this time with greater conviction. 

"I do not think of you in that way. I never shall, " he said. 

Her face was still full of doubt, and thin with anxiety. She was notreassured, that seemed apparent; for in her ignorance she had a strangeknowledge of life, and especially a strange intuition which guided herinstincts as to the instinctive proceedings of men. 

"They always do, " she murmured. "Why should you be different?"

"All men aren't alike, " he said, pretending to laugh at her. 

"Yes, in some things, though, " she contradicted. "They all think dirt ofyou for doing what they want. "

Seeing how unsatisfied she was, and how restlessly her anxiety paced upand down, Julian resolved on more plain-speaking. 

"Look here, Cuckoo, " he said, and his voice had never sounded moreboyish, "last night I was drunk. Last night I woke up, and I'd beenasleep for years. "

"Eh?" she interrupted, looking puzzled, but he went on:

"I was emancipated, and I was mad. Mind, I didn't mean to do you anywrong, but if you have thought of me in a different way, I'm sorry. Tell me what you want me to be to you, and in future I'll be it. "

Hope and eagerness sprang up in her eyes then. 

"I say, " she began, "Yes. "

"You promise?"

"I promise. "

The dull blood rose in her tired face. 

"I want just a--just a friend, " she said, as if almost ashamed. 

Julian smiled. 

"Not a lover, " he said, with a fleeting air of gallantry. She shrankvisibly from the word, and hurriedly went on:

"Not I. I've had too much of love. " The last word was spoken with aviolence of contempt. "I want a man as likes me, just really likes me, as he might another man. See?"

"And you'll not love him?"

His eyes searched hers with a gaiety of inquiry that was almost laughter. Cuckoo looked away. 

"I'll not love him either, " she said steadily. "I'll just like him too. "

Seeing her earnestness and obvious emotion, Julian dropped his gentlyquizzing manner, and became earnest, too, in his degree. 

"Then it's a bargain, " he said. "You and I are to like each otherthoroughly, never anything more, never anything less. Like two men, eh?"

She began at last to look relieved and happier. 

"Yes, like that, " she said. "Ain't it--ain't it truer than the otherthing? There's something beastly about love; that's what I always think. "

And she spoke with the sincerest conviction. When Julian left her thatday, he shook hands with her by the door; she stood after he had done itas if still half expectant. 

"There's a man's good-bye to a man, " he said. "Better sort of thing thana man's good-bye to a woman, isn't it?"

"Rather!" she said hastily, and moved back into the sitting-room. She stepped on something, and bent down to pick it up. It was Marr'sphotograph. 

"What's that?" Julian asked. 

"Nothing, " she said, concealing it. She had a foolish fancy that eventhe photograph of the creature she had feared and hated might spoil thatgood-bye of theirs. Yet even as it was, when Julian had gone she stillseemed unsatisfied. 

She was a woman after all, and woman is most feminine in her farewells. 

CHAPTER II

VALENTINE SINGS

When Valentine heard of the scene in Marylebone Road he smiled. 

"How extraordinary women are, " he said. "A man might give his life tothem, I suppose, yet never understand them. "

"It would be rather jolly--making that gift, I mean, " said Julian. 

"You think so? Since last night. "

"I want to talk to you about that, Valentine, d'you blame me?"

"Not a bit. "

"Only wonder at me?"

"I don't even say that. "

"No; but of course you must wonder at me. "

Julian spoke almost wistfully, and as if he wanted Valentine to sweepaway the suggestion. Last night they had been comrades. To-day, in thelight and in the calm of afternoon, Valentine seemed much more remote, and Julian felt for the first time a sense of degradation. He wasuneasily conscious that he might have fallen in Valentine's esteem. ButValentine reassured him. 

"I don't wonder at you, either, Julian; I simply envy you, andmetaphorically sit at your feet. "

"That's absurd. "

"Not quite; and I may not always be sitting there, for I believe I havereally got a little bit of your soul. Last night I seemed to feel itstirring within me, and I liked its personality. "

"You did seem different last night, " Julian said, looking at Valentinewith a keen interest. "Can it be possible that those sittings of ourshave really had any effect?"

"On me they have; not on you. You haven't caught my coldness, but I havegained something of your warmth. Doesn't that perhaps show that mine was, after all, the wrong nature?"

"I don't know, " Julian said doubtfully; "you look the same. "

"Do I? Exactly?"

Valentine spoke with a sort of whimsical defiance, as if almost daringJulian to answer, Yes. And Julian, too, seemed suddenly doubtful whetherhe had stated what was the fact. He looked closely at Valentine. 

"Do you think your face has changed? Do you mean to say that?" he asked. 

"I only fancied there might be a little more humanity in it, that wasall. "

"Once or twice I have thought I noticed something, " Julian said, stilldoubtfully; "but I believe it's imagination. It doesn't stay. "

"When it does, I suppose I shall be able thoroughly to appreciate allyour temptations. Don't you begin to think now it's good to have them. "

"I don't know, " Julian said. But he was conscious that there had comea change in his attitude of mind towards temptation. Some men glory inresisting temptation, others in yielding to it. Hitherto Julian had notbeen able to range himself in either of these two opposed camps. He hadmerely hated his faculty for being tempted. Did he entirely hate it now?He could not say so to himself, whatever he might say to others, butsomething kept him from making confession of the truth to Valentine. Sohe professed ignorance of his own exact state of feeling; really, had heanalyzed his reticence, it sprang from a fine desire to give forth nobreath that might tarnish the clear mirror of Valentine's nature. Hewould not admit a change that might make his friend again fall into theabsurd dissatisfaction which he had combated on the night of their firstsitting in the tent-room. While they talked the afternoon had fallen intoa creeping twilight. In the twilight the front door bell rang. 

"Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door, " Valentinesaid, quoting Poe. "It must be the doctor. "

Julian reddened suddenly. 

"I hope not, " he said. 

"What?" Valentine cried. "You don't want our little doctor?"

"Somehow not--to-day. "

The door opened and Doctor Levillier entered. Valentine greeted himwarmly. They had not met since the night of the affray with the mastiffs. In Julian's manner there was a touch of awkwardness as he shook handswith the doctor. Levillier did not seem to notice it. He looked verytired and rather depressed. 

"Cresswell, " he said, "I have come to you for a tonic. "

"Doctor coming to patient!"

"Doctors take medicine oftener than you may suppose. I'm in bad spiritsto-day. I've been trying to cure too many people lately. It's hard work. "

"It must be. Sit down and forget. Imagine the world beautifully incurableand your occupation consequently gone. "

The doctor sat down, saying:

"My imagination stops short at that feat. "

He kept silence for a moment, then he said:

"You know what I want. "

"No, " Valentine answered. "But I'll do anything. You know that. "

"I want your music. "

Valentine suddenly became unresponsive. He didn't speak at first, andboth Julian and the doctor glanced at him in some surprise. 

"Oh, you want me to be David to your Saul, " he said at length. 

"Yes. "

"Do, Val, " said Julian. "I should like it too. "

Valentine, who was sitting near the doctor, looked down thoughtfully onthe carpet. 

"I'm not in the mood to-day, " he said slowly. 

"You are always in the mood enough to cheer and rest me, " Levillier said. 

He had driven all the way from Harley Street for his medicine, and it wasobvious that he meant to have it. But Valentine still hesitated, and acertain slight confusion became noticeable in his manner. Moving the toeof his right boot to and fro, following the pattern of the carpet, heglanced sideways at the doctor, and an odd smile curved his lips. 

"Doctor, " he said, "d'you believe that talents can die in us while weourselves live?"

"That's a strange question. "

"It's waiting an answer. "

"Well, my answer is, No; not wholly, unless through the approach of oldage, or the development of madness. "

"I'm neither old nor mad. "

Levillier and Julian both looked at Valentine with some amazement. 

"Are you talking about yourself?" the doctor asked. 

"Certainly. "

"Why? What talent is dead in you?"

"My talent for music. Do you know that for the last few days I've beenable neither to sing nor play?"

"Val, you're joking, " exclaimed Julian. 

"I am certainly not, " he answered, and quite gravely. "I am simplystating a fact. "

Doctor Levillier seemed unable to appreciate that he was speakingseriously. 

"I have come all this way to hear you sing, " he said. "I have never askedyou in vain yet. "

"Is it my fault if you ask me in vain now?"

Valentine looked him in the face and spoke with a complete sincerity. The doctor returned the glance, as he sometimes returned the glance ofa patient, very directly, with a clear and simple gravity. Having donethis he felt completely puzzled. 

"The talent for music has died in you?" he asked. 

"Entirely. I can do nothing with my piano. I have even locked it. "

As he spoke he went over to it and pulled at the lid to show them that hewas speaking the truth. 

"Where's the key?" asked the doctor. 

"Here, " said Valentine, producing it from his pocket. 

"Give it to me, " said the doctor. 

Valentine did so and the doctor quietly opened the piano, drew up themusic-stool, and signed to Valentine to sit down. 

"If you mean what you say, the explanation must simply be that you aresuffering from some form of hysteria, " he said, rather authoritatively. "Now sing me something. No; I won't let you off. "

Valentine, sitting on the stool, extended his hands and laid the tips ofhis long fingers upon the keys, but without sounding them. 

"You insist on my trying to sing?" he asked. 

"I do. "

"I warn you, doctor, you will be sorry if I do. My voice is quite out oforder. "

"No matter. "

"Go on, Val, " cried Julian, from his arm-chair. "Anybody would think youwere a young lady. "

Valentine bent his head, with a quick gesture of abnegation. 

"As you will, " he said. 

He struck his hand down upon the keys as he spoke. That was the strangestprelude ever heard. In their different ways Doctor Levillier and Julianwere both intensely fond of music, both quickly stirred by it when itwas good, not merely classical, but extravagant, violent, and in any wayinteresting. Each of them had heard Valentine play, not once only, but ahundred times. They knew not simply his large _répertoire_ of pieces andsongs through and through, but also the peculiar and characteristicprogressions of his improvisations, the ornaments he most delighted in, the wildness of his melancholy, the phantasy of his gaieties; and theyknew every tone of his voice, which expressed with an exquisite realismthe temperament of his soul. But now, as Valentine's hands powerfullystruck the keys, they both started and exchanged an involuntary glance ofkeen surprise. The first few bars gave the lie to Valentine's assertionthat he could no longer play. A cataract of notes streamed from beneathhis fingers, and of notes so curiously combined, or following each otherin such a fantastic array, that they seemed arranged in the musicalpattern by an intelligence of the strangest order. It is often easy for acultivated ear to detect whether a given composition has sprung from thebrain of a Frenchman, a German, a Hungarian, a Russian. The wildnessof Bohemia, too, may be identified, or the vague sorrow of that northernmelody which seems an echo of voices heard amid the fiords or in palevalleys near the farthest cape of Europe. And then there is that largeand lofty music of the stars and the spheres, of the mightiest passionsand of the deepest imaginings, that is of no definite country, but seemsto be of its own power and beauty, and not of the brain and heart of anyone man. It exists for eternity, and its creator can only wonder andworship before it, far from conceit as God was when He said, "Let therebe light. " Such music, too, is recognized on the instant by the men whohave loved and studied the secrets of the most divine of the arts, forprofound genius can utter itself as easily in five notes as in fifty. But the prelude now played by Valentine was neither the great music thatis of all time and of all countries, nor the music that is of any onecountry. It was not even distinctively northern or southern in character, impregnated with the mystery of the tuneless, wonderful East, or with thepeculiar homeliness that stirs Western hearts. Both the doctor and Julianfelt, as they listened, that it was music without an earthly home, without location, devoid of that sense of relation to humanity whichlinks the greatness of the arts to the smallness of those who followthem. Eccentric the music was, but the eccentricity of it seemed almostinhuman, so unmannerly as to be beyond the range of the most uncouth man, in advance of the invention of any mind, however coarse and criminal. That was the atmosphere of this prelude, excessive, unutterable, crude, sombre vulgarity of a detached and remote kind. As Levillier listened toit amazed, he found that he did not instinctively connect the vulgaritywith any human traits, or translate the notes into acts within hisexperience. He was simply conscious of being brought to the verge of somesphere in which the sordidness attained by our race would be sneered atas delicacy, in which our lowest grovellings of the pigsty would be aslofty flights through the skies. And the hideous eccentricity of themusic, its wanton desolation, deepened until both Levillier and Julianwere pale under its spell, shrank from its ardent, its merciless andlambent sarcasm against all things refined or beautiful. The prelude wasas fire and sword, as plague and famine, as plunder and war, as allinstruments that lay waste and that wound, a destroying angel beforewhose breath the first-born withered and the very sun shrivelled into aheap of grey ashes. 

As Doctor Levillier leaned forward, moved by an irresistible impulse, andstretched out his hand to enforce silence from this blare of deplorablemelody, Valentine looked up at him, into his eyes, and began to sing. Thedoctor's movement was arrested, his hand dropped to his side, he remainedtense, frigid, his eyes fastened on Valentine's like a man mesmerised. Atfirst he knew that he was wondering whether his brain was playing him atrick, whether his sense of hearing had, by some means, become impaired, so that he heard a voice, not dimly, as is the case with the partiallydeaf, but wrongly, as may be the case with the mad, or with those whohave suffered under a blow or through an injury to the brain. For thisvoice was not Valentine's at all, but the voice of a stranger, powerful, harsh, and malignant. It rang through the room noisily. A thickhoarseness dressed it as in disease, and at moments broke it and crushedit down. Then it would emerge as in a sigh or wail, pushing its way upwith all the mechanical power of the voice of a wild animal, and mountingto a desperate climax, sinister and alarming. So unlike ordinary singingwas the performance of this voice that, after the first paralysis ofsurprise and disgust had passed away from the doctor and Julian, theyboth felt the immediate necessity of putting a period to this deadlysong, to which no words gave the faintest touch of humanity. They knewthat it must attract and rivet the attention of others in the mansions, even possibly of passers-by in the street. The doctor withdrew his gazefrom Valentine's at length, and turned hastily to Julian, whom he foundregarding him with a glance almost of horror. 

"Stop him, " Julian murmured. 

"You!" answered Levillier. 

And then each knew that the other was in some nervous crisis thatrendered action almost an impossibility. And while they thus hesitatedthere came a loud, repeated, and unsteady knock at the door. Julianopened it. Valentine's man was standing outside, pale and anxious. 

"Good God, sir, " he ejaculated. "What is it? What on earth is thematter?"

The man's exclamation broke through Julian's frost of inaction. Hewhispered to Wade:

"It's all right, " pushed him out and shut the door. Then he went straightup to the piano, seized Valentine's hands and dragged them from thekeyboard. 

The silence was like a sweet blow. 

"I said my voice was out of order, " Valentine said, simply and with asmile. 

"You did not say you had another voice, the voice of--of a devil, " Juliansaid, almost falteringly, for he was still shaken by his distress of thesenses, into a mental condition that was almost anger. 

Dr. Levillier said nothing. More sensitive to musical sounds than Julian, he dared not speak, lest he should say something that might stand like afixed gulf to eternally separate him from Valentine. He knew the futurethat stretches out like a spear beyond one word. So he sat quietly withhis eyes on the ground. His lips were set firmly together. Valentineturned to observe him. 

"Doctor, you're not angry?" he asked. 

The doctor made no reply. 

"You know I warned you, " Valentine went on. "You brought this thing onyourself. "

"Yes, " said Levillier. 

But Julian interposed. 

"No Valentine, " he exclaimed. "For, of course, it is all a trick ofyours. You didn't want to sing. We made you. This is your revenge, eh?I didn't know you had it in you to be so--so beastly and cantankerous. "

Valentine shook his head. 

"It's no trick. It's simply as I said. My talent for music is dead. Youhave been listening to the voice of its corpse. "

Dr. Levillier looked up at length. 

"You really mean that?" he said, and there was an awakening within him ofhis normal ready interest in all things. 

"I mean it absolutely. "

"That is the only event in which I can forgive the torture you have beeninflicting upon me. "

"That is the true event. "

"But it's not possible, " Julian said. "It's not conceivable. Surely, doctor, you would not say--"

The doctor interrupted him. 

"I cannot believe that Cresswell would deliberately commit an outrageupon me, " he said. "And it would be an outrage to sing like that to atired man. Weeks of work would not fatigue me as I am fatigued byCresswell's music. "

Julian was silent and looked uneasy. Valentine repeated again:

"I couldn't help it. I am sorry. "

Doctor Levillier ignored the remark. His professional interest wasbeginning to be aroused. For the first time he felt convinced that somevery peculiar and bizarre change was dawning over the youth he knew sowell. He wanted to watch it grow or fade, to analyze it, to study it, tobe aware of its exact nature. But he did not want to put either Valentineor Julian upon the alert. So he spoke lightly as he said:

"But I shall soon get the better of my fatigue, even without the usualmedicine. Cresswell, take my advice, give your music a rest. Lock yourpiano again for a while. It will be better. "

Valentine shut down the lid on the instant, and turned the little key inthe lock. 

"Adieu to my companion of many lonely hours!" he said with a halfwhimsical pensiveness. Then, as if in joke, he held out his hand with thekey in it, to the doctor. 

"Will you take charge of this hostage?" he asked. 

"Yes, " the doctor replied. 

Quite gravely he took the key and put it into his pocket. 

And so it was that silence fell round the Saint of Victoria Street. 

CHAPTER III

THE FLIGHT OF THE BATS

Julian had resolved to keep his compact with the lady of the feathers. Hehad learned partially to understand the curious and beautiful attitudewhich her mind had assumed towards him, polluted as it must be by theterror and working out of her fate, by many dreary actions, and by manyvile imaginings. But although he held to his promise he did not, afterthat night of crisis, resume his former career of asceticism tempered bywinds of temptation which could never blow his casement open. There aremen who can vary the fine monotony of virtue by an occasional deliberateerror, and who return from such an excursion into dangerous by-pathsdrilled and comforted, as it appears, for further journeying along themain road of their respectability. But Julian was not such a man. Heresembled rather the morphia victim, or the inebriate, who must atall hazards abstain from any indulgence, even the smallest, in drugor draught, lest the demon who has such charm for him clasp him inimperturbable arms, and refuse with the steadfastness of a once-trickedVenus ever to let him go again. 

Valentine's empire of five years was broken in one night. 

At first Julian was scarcely conscious that his descent was notmomentary, but rather tending to the permanent. Certainly, at the first, he was inclined to have the schoolboy outlook upon it, and the schoolboyoutlook is as a glance through the wrong end of a telescope, dwindlinggiant sins to the stature of pigmies, and pigmy sins to mere points ofdarkness which equal nothingness. But, strangely enough, it was hisinterview with the weeping Cuckoo, that Magdalen of the streets, whichdrove the schoolboy to limbo, and set virtue and vice for the momentrightly on the throne and in the gutter. Despite his comparatively dullmood and tendency to a calm of self-satisfaction in the Marylebone Road, Julian could not be wholly unmoved by the passion of Cuckoo's regret, norentirely unaware that it was a passion in which he must have some share, whether now or at some more distant time, when the thrall of recentlymoved senses was weakened, and the numbness really born of excitementmelted in the quiet expansion of a manly and a reasonable calm. Hisunderstanding of her passion, none too definite at first, gave him amoment's wonder, both at her and at himself. It seemed strange that theshattered influence of Valentine should be of less account to him who hadknown and loved it than to her who had never known it. It seemed strangerstill that the streets--those wolves which tear one by one the rags ofgood from human nature, till it stands naked and tearless beneath thelamps, which are the eyes of the wolves--stranger that those streetsshould have left to one of their children a veil so bridal and sobeautiful as that which hung round Cuckoo when she wept. Julian wasalmost driven to believe that sin and purity can dwell together in onewoman, yet never have intercourse. Yet he knew that to be impossible. Thefact remained that the tarnished Cuckoo, in the first moments of regret, was more conscious of his sin for him than he was conscious of it forhimself; that she led him, with her dingy hands, to such repentance as heexperienced, and that she, too, guarded him against repetition of thesin, so far as she was concerned. Julian considered these circumstances;and there was a time when they were not without effect upon him, andwhen, with the assistance of a word from Valentine, they might haveworked upon him an easy salvation. But Valentine did not speak that word. His peculiar purity had saved Julian in the past by its mere existence. Its presence was enough. That _satis_ was dead now. Julian did not askwhy. Nor did he find himself troubled by its decease. There is nothinglike action for making man unobservant. Julian was no longer a ship indock, nor even a ship riding at anchor. The anchor was up, the sails wereset, the water ran back from the vessel's prow. 

Cuckoo was not conscious of this. Sometimes she was subtle by intuition;often she was not subtle at all. When she understood Julian's nature forthe moment, it was because his nature was, for the moment, in closerelation to hers. Her fate was affected by it, or its passages of armsclashed near her heart. Then intuition, woman's guardian, had eyes andears, saw and heard with a distinctness that was nearly brilliant. Butwhen Julian's nature wandered, and the wanderings did not bring it wherehers was dwelling, her observation slept soundly enough. So she was notconscious at first of Julian's gentle progress in a new direction. Whether Valentine was conscious of it did not immediately appear, forJulian said nothing. For five years he had not had a secret fromValentine. Now he had to have one. He ranked Valentine with DoctorLevillier as too good to be told of the evil thing. When he had hadtemptations and resisted them he had told Valentine of them frankly. Nowhe had temptations, and was beginning not to resist them; he kept silenceabout them. This silence lasted for a little while, and then Valentineswept it away, involuntarily it seemed, and by means of action, not ofwords. 

One day Julian met a man at his club, a lively, devil-may-care soldier offortune in the world. The man came to where he was sitting and said:

"So, Addison, your god has fallen from his pedestal. He's only a Dagonafter all. "

Julian looked at him ignorantly. 

"What god?" he asked. 

"Your saint has tumbled from his perch. I never believed in him. "

He was of the species that never believes in anything except vice and the_Sporting Times_. 

Julian rejoined:

"I don't understand you. "

"Cresswell, " said the man. 

Julian began to wonder what was coming, and silently got ready for thedefence, as he always did instinctively when Valentine was the subject ofattack. 

"What have you got to say about Cresswell?" he asked curtly. 

"My dear chap, now don't you get your frills out. Nothing that I shouldmind being said about me, I assure you. Only Cresswell will soon lose hisnickname if he goes on as he's going now. "

"I'm in the dark. "

"That's what he likes being, if what they say is true. Quite anight-bird, I'm told. "

"You'd better be more explicit. "

But the man glanced at Julian's face and seemed to think better of it. Hemoved off muttering:

"Damned rot, minding a little chaff. And when we're all in the same boattoo. "

Julian sat pondering over his veiled remarks. They surprised him, but atfirst he was inclined to consider them as meaningless and unfounded as somuch of the gossip of the clubs. Men like Valentine must always be atarget for the arrows of the cynical. Julian had heard his sanctitylaughed at in billiard-rooms and in bars many times, and had simply feltan easy contempt for the laughers, who could not understand that anynature could be finer than their own. But to-day his own faint change oflife--as yet in its gentle beginnings--led him presently to wonder, literally for the first time, whether there was a side of Valentine'slife that was not merely a side of feeling, but of action, and that heknew nothing of. If it were so, Julian felt an inward conviction that thevery nearest weeks of the past had seen its birth. He remembered oncemore Valentine's idle remark about his weariness of goodness, andwondered whether--in violation of his nature, in violent revolt againsthis own nobility--he was living at last that commonplace, theatricalpuppet-play of the world, a double life. 

Valentine a night-bird! What did that mean?

And then Julian thought of the great wheeling army of the bats, whoseevolutions every night of creation witnesses. In the day they do notsleep, but they are hidden. Their wings are folded so closely as to beinvisible. Nobody could tell that they ever flew through shadowy places, seeking that which never satiates, although it may transform, theappetite. Nobody could tell how the twilight affects them when it comes;how, in their obscurity, they have to keep a guard lest the involuntaryfluttering of a half-spread pinion betray them. And then when thetwilight, the blessed one of the twin twilights, one in course towardsday, one in course towards night, has deepened and has died, they candare to be themselves, to spread their short wings, and to flutter ontheir vagrant and monotonous courses. It is a great though secretarmy--the army of the bats. It scours through cities. No weather willkeep it quite restful in camp. No darkness will blind it into immobility. The mainspring of sin beats in it as drums beat in a Soudanese fantasia, as blood beats in a heart. The air of night is black with the movement ofthe bats. They fly so thickly round some lives that those lives can neversee the sky, never catch a glimpse of the stars, never hear the wings ofthe angels, but always and ever the wings of the bats. Nor can such liveshear the whisper of Nature and of the sirens who walk purely with Nature. The murmur of the bats drowns all other sounds, and makes a hoarse andmonotonous music. And the eyes of the bats are hungry, and the breath ofthe bats is poisonous, and the flight of the bats is a charade of thetragedy of the flight of the devils in hell. 

How could Valentine be one of the bats? It seemed to Julian that ifValentine tried to join them they would fall upon him, as certain birdswill fall upon one who is not of their tribe, and kill him. And yet?

Yet Julian began to know that he had been aware of a change in Valentine. He had believed it to be momentary. Perhaps it was not momentary. PerhapsValentine was concealing his new mode of life from some strange idea ofchivalry towards Julian. As Julian pondered he grew excited. He began tolong to tell Valentine now what he had not liked to tell him before. Suddenly he got up and hastened out of the club. He drove to VictoriaStreet. But Valentine was not at home. 

"I suppose Mr. Cresswell goes out every night Wade?" he asked the man, after a moment of hesitation. 

Wade looked very much astonished at such a question coming from Julian. 

"Yes, sir. At least, most nights, " Wade answered. 

"I see, " Julian said. 

He stood a minute longer. Then he turned away, after an abrupt:

"Say I called, will you?"

Wade looked after him as he went down the stairs, with the raisedeyebrows of the confidential butler. 

That night was warm and gentle, with a full moon riding in clear heavens. The season was growing towards its full height, and the streets werethronged with carriages till a late hour. There is one long pavement thatis generally trodden by many feet at every time of the year, and inalmost every hour of the wheeling twenty-four. It is the pavement onwhich the legend of London's disgrace is written in bold characters ofdefiance. Men from distant lands, having made the pilgrimage to ourMecca, the queen, by right of magnitude at least, of the world's cities, stare aghast upon the legend, almost as Belshazzar stared upon thewriting on the wall. Colonists seeking for the first time the comfortableembrace of that mother country which has been the fable of theirchildhood and the dream of their laborious years of maturity, gaze withwithering hearts at this cancer in her bosom. Pure women turn their eyesfrom it. Children seek it that they may learn in one sharp moment theknowledge of good and evil. The music of the feet on that pavement hascalled women to despair and men to destruction; has sung in the ears ofinnocence till they grew deaf to virtue, and murmured round the heart oflove till it became the heart of lust. And that pavement is thecamping-ground of the army of the bats. On wet nights they flit drearilythrough the rain. In winter they glide like shadows among the revealingsnows. But in the time of flowers and of soft airs, when the moon at thefull swims calmly above the towers of Westminster, and the Thames restsrocked in a silver dream among the ebony wharves and barges, theflight of the bats is gay and their number is legion. And their circle isjoined by many who are but recruits, or as camp-followers, treading inthe track of those whose names are on the roll-call. 

The lady of the feathers rarely failed to join the evening flight of thebats. Her acquaintance with Julian, even her curious passion for hisrespect and distant treatment, had not won her to different evenings, orto a new mode of life. But her feeling for Julian led her to ignore nowthe fact of this fate of hers. She chose to set him aside from it, tokeep him for a friend, as an innocent peasant-girl might keep somerecluse wandering after peace into her solitude. Julian was to be theone man who looked on her with quiet, habitual eyes, who touched herwith calm, gentle hand, who spoke to her with the voice of friendship, demanding nothing, and thought of her with a feeling that was neithergreed nor contempt. And that one fatal night in which Cuckoo's privateand secluded heart was so bitterly wounded she put out of herrecollection with a strength of determination soldier-like and almostfierce. It lay in the past, but she did not treat the past as a womantreats a drawer full of old, used things, opening it in quiet momentsand turning over its contents with a lingering and a loving hand. Sheshut it, locked it almost angrily, and never, never looked into it. Julian was to be her friend of leisure, never associated in any way withher tragic hours. All other men were the same, stamped with a similarhall-mark. He only was unstamped and was beautiful. 

On this evening of summer, Cuckoo, as usual, joined the flight of thebats with a tired wing. The heat tried her. Her cheeks were white asivory under their cloud of rouge. Her mouth was more plaintive even thanusual, and her heart felt dull and heavy. As she got out of the omnibusat the Circus one of her ankles turned, and she gave an awkward jump thatset all the feathers on her hat in commotion, and made the newspaper boyslaugh at her scornfully. They knew her by sight, and joked her everyevening when she arrived. At first--that was a long while ago--she hadresented their remarks, still more their shrewd unboyish questions, andhad answered them with angry bitterness. But--well, that was a long whileago. Now she simply recovered her footing, paused a moment on thekerbstone to arrange her dress, and then drifted away into the crowdslowly, without even glancing at her nightly critics, who were aware ofa new bow on her gown, recognized with imperturbable _sang-froid_ thechange in a trimming or the alteration of a waist-belt. 

Slowly she walked along. Piccadilly bats fly slowly. The moon went up. She had not met her fate. In the throng she saw Valentine pass. He lookedat her with a smile. She turned her eyes hastily away. She had met him onseveral evenings of late, but had never told Julian so, for she began tounderstand now his reverence for Valentine, and a new-born, ladylikeinstinct taught her not to hurt that reverence. Valentine disappeared. He had not tried to speak with her. Once, on encountering her, he hadpaused, but Cuckoo glided behind two large Frenchwomen and escaped withthe adroitness of a snake in the grass. Apparently he recognized hermovement as one of retreat, and was resolved to leave her alone, for hehad never followed her since that day, although he always lifted his hatwhen he saw her. The crowd grew thicker. It was very heterogeneous, butCuckoo did not thread it with the attention of a psychologist, or examineit with the pains of a philosopher of the dark hours. She staredlistlessly at the faces of the men, and if they stared back at her, smiled mechanically with a thin and stereotyped coquetry, moving onvacantly the while in a sort of dream, such as a tired journalist mayfall into as he drives his pen over the paper, leaving a train offamiliar words and phrases behind it. There are many dreamers like Cuckooon the thin riband of that pavement, moving in a maze created byeverlasting custom, beneath their flowers, half senseless to life, andyet alive to the least human notice, behind the stretched barriers oftheir veils. She walked from the Circus to Hyde Park corner and backagain; then turned, with an ever-growing lassitude, to repeat thedesolate experience. By this time the playhouses had vomited theirpatrons into the night, and locomotion was becoming more difficult. Sometimes there was a block, and Cuckoo found herself "hung up, " as shecalled it, squashed in a mass of people, all intent on some scheme oftheir own, and resentful of the enforced interruption to their movement. Then, by some unknown and mysterious means, the human knot was untied, and all the atoms murmured on again through the ocean of the town. Andstill Cuckoo was alone, and still the mechanical smile came and went uponher lips, and her feet seemed to grow heavier and heavier, till they wereas cannon-balls to be lifted and dragged by her protesting muscles. Andstill her senses seem to become more and more drugged by the familiarityof it all, the familiarity of smile, of tired limbs, of incessant slowmotion, of staring faces and watchful eyes; the familiarity of the cabsrolling home towards Knightsbridge and farther Kensington, with a dull, harsh noise; the familiarity of personal, intense loneliness and longingfor quiet; the familiarity of the knowledge that quiet could only beearned by failure, and that failure meant lack of food, debt, and deeperdegradation. 

At last--perhaps it was owing to the unusual heat of the night--Cuckoobecame so over-fatigued that she was scarcely conscious what she wasdoing. Her smile was utterly devoid of meaning, and had she been suddenlyasked, she could not have told whether she was at the Regent Streetend of Piccadilly, at Hyde Park Corner, or midway between the two. Once more there was a block. The people were pressed, or surged oftheir own will, together, and Cuckoo found herself leaning againstsome stranger. This sudden support gave to her an equally suddenknowledge of the extent to which she was fatigued, and when the blockceased and the stranger--unconscious that he was being used as a speciesof pillow--moved away, Cuckoo almost fell to the ground. Stretchingout her hands to save herself, she caught hold of a man's arm, and asshe did so her eyes moved to his face. It was Julian, and, before hergrasp had time to fix all his attention on her, Cuckoo saw why he was inPiccadilly. In an instant all her lassitude was gone; all the fatigue, sopassionless and complete, vanished. An extraordinary warmth, that offire, not of summer, swept into her heart. She stood still and trembled, as if from the accession of the abrupt strength that flows from an energypurely nervous. 

"Hulloh, Cuckoo!" Julian said. 

She nodded at him. He looked down at her, not quite knowing what to say, for he knew, by this time, that she objected to any hint from him on thesubject of her proceedings of the night. That was ignored between them, and when they met the situation was that of a lodger in the MaryleboneRoad holding friendly intercourse with a dweller in Mayfair, nothing moreand nothing less. 

"Taking a stroll?" Julian said at last. "Isn't it a lovely night?"

"Yes. I say, I'm tired, " she answered. 

"Shall I take you somewhere?" he asked. 

"Yes, do, " she said. 

They moved towards the Circus. 

"Where shall we go?" Julian said. "Have you any pet place?"

"I don't know--oh, the Monico, " she replied. 

The restaurant was right in front of them. They dodged across to theisland, thence to the opposite pavement, and passed in silently. Theouter hall was thronged with people. So was the long inner room, andfor a moment they stood in the doorway looking for a table. At lengthJulian caught sight of an empty one far down under the clock at the end. They made their way to it and sat down. 

"What will you have?" Julian asked Cuckoo. 

She considered, sinking back on the plush settee. 

"A glass of stout, I think, and--"

"And a bun, " he interposed, smiling in recollection of their firstinterview. 

But Cuckoo did not smile or seem to recognize the allusion. 

"Please, I'll have a sandwich, " she said. 

Julian ordered it, the stout, a cup of coffee and a liqueur brandy forhimself. While the waiter was getting the things he noticed Cuckoo'sextreme and active gravity, a gravity which seemed oddly to give herquite a formidable appearance under her feathers. Despite the obviousweariness written on her face, there was somehow a look of energy abouther, the aspect of a person full of intention and purpose. 

"Why, Cuckoo, " he said, "you look like a young judge about to deliver asentence on somebody. "

And indeed that was just how her expression and pose behind themarble-topped table affected him. Just then the waiter brought thestout and the other things. Cuckoo removed her cheap kid gloves, tookthe tumbler in her thin fingers and sipped at it. After a sip or twoshe put the glass down, and said to Julian:

"I say. "

"Well?"

"What are you about to-night?"

The question came from her painted lips very sternly. It seemedaddressed by one who had a right to condemn, and who was going toexercise that right. Julian was astonished by her tone, and had aninstant's inclination to resent it. But then he thought that there wasnothing in the words themselves, and that the odd manner probably sprangsimply from fatigue or some other womanish, undivined cause. So heanswered:

"Just taking a stroll. It's so fine, " and began to drink his coffee. 

But Cuckoo quickly showed that her manner meant all that it had seemed tosay. 

"That ain't it, " she said, with emphatic excitement, though she spoke ina low voice because of the people all round them. "You know it ain't. "

Julian was just lighting a cigarette. The match was flaming in his hand. He let it go out as he looked at her. 

"What do you mean?" he asked. "What's the matter?"

"What are you doin'?" she retorted. "That's what I want to know. Not as Ineed to ask, though, " she added, bitterly. 

Julian was distinctly taken aback by the emotion in her manner, and thepassion that she tried to keep quiet in her voice. He flushed rather red, a boyish trick which he could never quite get over. 

"I don't know what you're talking about, " he said, lighting anothermatch, and this time making it do its office on his cigarette. 

Cuckoo tossed her head in a way that was not wholly free from vulgarity, but that was certainly wholly unconscious and expressive of real feeling. 

"Oh yes, you do, " she rejoined. Then after a moment's silence, she added, with bitter emphasis, and a movement of her hand in the direction of thedoor:

"You out in that crowd, and doing the same as all of them?"

As she said the words tears started under her blackened eyelashes. If Julian had been taken aback before she spoke the last sentence, hewas ten times more astonished now. The whole situation struck him asunexampled, and but for something so passionate in the girl's mannerthat it overrode the natural feeling of the moment, his sense of humourmust have moved him to a smile. It was strange indeed to sit at midnightunder the electric moons of the Monico, and to be passionately condemnedfor dissipation by a girl with a painted face, dyed hair, and thatterribly unmistakable imprint of the streets. But Julian could not smile. Something in Cuckoo's demeanour, something so vehement and so unconsciousas to be not far from dignity, impressed him and took him well beyond thegates of laughter. 

"Why--but you were out in the crowd too, " he said. 

"I!" she said sharply, and with a touch of scathing contempt forherself, yet impatient, too, of any introduction of her entity into thediscussion; "of course I've got to be there. What's that to do with it?"

"Really, Cuckoo, " Julian began, but she interrupted him. 

"I ain't you, " she said. 

"No, of course, but--"

"I'm different. It's nothing to me where I go of a night, or what I do. But you ain't got to be there. You needn't go, need you?"

"Nobody need, " he said. "But--"

"Then what d'you do it for?" she reiterated, still in the same tone ofone sitting on high in condemnation, and moved by her own utterance to anincreasing excitement. This time she paused for a reply, and set herrouged lips together with the obvious intention of not speaking untilJulian had plainly put forward his defence. Strange to say, her mannerhad impressed him with a ridiculous feeling that defence of some kind wasactually necessary. It was a case of one denizen of the dock putting onthe black cap to sentence another. Julian glanced at Cuckoo before hemade any reply to her last question. If he had had any intention of notanswering it at all, of calmly disposing, in a word or two, of her rightto interrogate him on his proceedings, her fixed and passionate eyeskilled it instantly. He moved his coffee-cup round uneasily in thesaucer. 

"Men do many things they needn't do, as well as women, " he began. "I musthave my amusements. Why not?"

At the word "amusements" she drew in her breath with a little hiss ofcontempt. Julian flushed again. 

"You're the last person, " he began, and then caught himself up short. Itmust be confessed that she was very aggravating, and that the positionshe took up was wholly untenable. Having checked himself, he saidmore calmly:

"What's the good of talking about it? I live as other men do, naturally. "

"Are you a beast too, then?" she asked. 

She still kept her voice low, and the sentence came with all the moreeffect on this account. 

"I don't see that, " Julian exclaimed, evidently stung. "Women are alwaysready to say that about men. "

Cuckoo broke into a laugh. She picked up her glass, and drank all thatwas in it. Putting it down empty, she laughed again, with her eyes onJulian. That sound of mirth chilled him utterly. 

"Why d'you laugh?" he said. 

"I don't know--thinkin' that you're to be like all the rest, I suppose, "she answered. "Like all them brutes out there, and him too. "

"Him, " said Julian. "Whom are you speaking of?"

She had not meant to say those last words, and tried to get out of ananswer by asking for something more to drink. 

"Chartreuse, " she said, with the oddest imaginable accent. 

Julian ordered it hastily, and then immediately repeated his question. 

"Never mind, " Cuckoo replied. "It don't matter. "

But he was not to be denied. 

"D'you mean Valentine?" he asked. 

She nodded her head slowly. Although Julian had half suspected thatValentine might be there this confirmation of his suspicion gave him adecided shock. 

"Oh, he was just walking home from some party, " he exclaimed. 

"P'raps. "

"I'm certain of it. "

"He don't matter, " she said with a hard accent. 

She drank the chartreuse very slowly, and seemed to be reflecting, anda change came over her face. It softened as much as a painted face cansoften under dyed hair. 

"Dearie, " she said, "it makes me sick to see you like the rest. "

"I never pretended to be anything different. "

"But you was different, " she asserted. "I know you was different. "

How could she have divined the change in Julian that one night of theEmpire had wrought?

"I say, " she went on, and her voice was trembling with eagerness, "you'vegot to tell me somethin'. "

"Well?"

"That night I--I--it wasn't me made you different, was it?"

And as she spoke Julian knew that it was she. Perhaps a fleetingexpression in his face--telling naked truth as expressions may, thoughwords belie them--made her understand, for her cheeks turned grey beneaththe paint on them. 

"I wish I'd killed myself long ago, " she said in a whisper. 

"Hush!" he exclaimed, cursing his tell-tale features. "I'm not different;and if I was you could have nothing to do with it. "

She said no more, but he saw by her brooding expression that she clung toher intuition, and knew what he denied. 

The hands of the clock fixed on the wall above their heads pointed to thehalf-hour after midnight. The pale and weary waiters were racing to andfro clearing the tables, dodging this way and that with trays, stealingalong with arms full of long-stemmed, thick tumblers, eager for rest. Theelectric moons gave a sudden portentous wink. 

"Time!" a voice cried. 

People began to get up and move out, exchanging loud good-nights. Thelong room slowly assumed an aspect of desertion and greedy desolation. 

"We must go, " Julian said. 

Cuckoo woke out of that reverie, which seemed so chilly, so terribleeven. She glanced at Julian, and her eyes were again full of tears. Hewas standing, and he bent down to her with his two hands resting upon themarble of the table. He bent down and then suddenly stooped lower, lower, almost glaring into her eyes. She went back in her seat a little, halffrightened. 

"What's it?" she murmured. 

But Julian only remained fixedly looking into her eyes. In the pool ofthe tears of them he saw two tiny shadowy flames, flickering, as hethought, but quite clear, distinct, unmistakable. And there came a thickbeating in his side. His heart beat hard. Each time he had seen thevision of the flame he had been instantly impressed with a sense ofstrange mystery, as if at the vision of some holy thing, a flame upon aprayer-blessed altar, a flame ascending from a tear-washed sacrifice. And now he saw this thing that he fancied holy burning behind the tearsin Cuckoo's eyes!

Cuckoo got up. 

"Come on, " she said, abruptly. 

Julian followed her out of the café. 

The dream of the moon was with them as they came to the entrance, clearas a quiet soul, directly above them in a clear sky. Julian looked up atit, but Cuckoo looked, with eyes that were almost sullen, at the nightpanorama of the Circus. They waited a moment on the step. Julian waslighting a cigar, and many other voluble men, most of them French orItalian, were doing likewise. Having lighted it, and given a strong puffor two, Julian said to Cuckoo:

"Shall I drive you home?"

"I ain't going home yet, " she replied doggedly. "Are you?"

He hesitated. 

"Are you, or aren't you?" she reiterated. 

While she spoke, in her voice that was often a little hoarse, a youngvoice with a thread in it, he realized that somehow she--painted sinneras she was--had managed to make him ashamed of himself. Or was it that anawe had come to his soul with that strange flame? In any case his moodhad risen from the old night mood of a young man to something higher, something that could not be satisfied in the sordid way of the world. 

"I think I shall go home, " he said. 

"Right, " she answered, and for the first time there was an accent ofpleasure in her voice. 

"But I'll walk a little way with you first, " he added. 

Together they crossed the Circus and mingled with the humming mob at thecorner of Regent Street. They pushed their way towards Piccadilly withdifficulty, for numbers of people at this hour do not attempt to walk, but stand stock still, despite the cry of the policeman, staring at thepassers-by, or talking and laughing with the women who throng thepavement. Having elbowed their way along as far as the St. Jamesrestaurant, they began to move with a little more ease, and could havetalked as they went, but apparently neither of them felt conversational. Julian was comparing the vision of the moon with the vision of thestreet, a comparison no doubt often made even by young men in London onstill nights of summer, suggestive to most people, perhaps, of muchthe same thoughts--yet a comparison to thrill, as all the wild andeternal contrasts of life thrill. And Julian was thinking, too, rathersombrely of himself. Cuckoo walked on beside him, looking straight beforeher. Quite unconsciously, with the unconsciousness of a mechanical toy, expressive at the turning of a key in its interior, she had assumed herthin, invariable, professional smile. It came to her face in a flash whenthe pavement of Piccadilly came to her feet. She did not know it wasthere. 

The moon looked down on it, yet, if Julian had been able to see, perhapsthe little flame still flickered in those eyes which had been full oftears. But a little beyond St. James's Hall their silent progress wasarrested, for they both saw Valentine pass them swiftly in the crowd. He saw them, too, but did not attempt to speak to them. With a smile atJulian he walked on. Julian gazed after him, then turned to Cuckoo. 

"And you saw him here to-night before I met you?" he asked. 

"Yes. "

"How long ago?"

"Two hours, I dare say. "

After that Julian ceased to think of the vision of the moon. Butpresently he noticed that Cuckoo was walking more slowly. 

"You're tired?" he said. 

She nodded. 

"Have you been out all the evening?"

She nodded again. 

"Take a cab and go home. I'll pay the man. "

"No; I can't go yet. "

"Why not?"

"I can't, " she repeated, and a mulish look of obstinacy came into herface. 

Julian guessed the miserable reason. 

"Let me--" he began, and in a moment his hand would have been in hispocket. She stopped him. 

"I told you as I never would, not from you, " she said. "And I wouldn't, all the more since--since that night. "

Then, after an instant, she added:

"But you'd better leave me to myself now. "

And then Julian realized that his presence and company were ruining herchance. That thought turned him sick and dull. 

"I can't, " he began almost desperately. 

She gave with her hand a little twitch at his. 

"I say, " she whispered, and she spoke to him as if to Jessie in the tinyflannel-lined basket, "Go bials! will you?"

"But you?" he said, and there was something that was half a sob in hisvoice. 

"I can't. But you--go bials. "

And then, to please her, he held up his hand and hailed a hansom. Gettingin he gave the direction of his rooms, loud enough for her to hear. Shestood at the edge of the pavement and nodded at him as she heard it. 

Then she turned away, and Julian saw the feathers in her big hat waving, as she joined once more the flight of the bats. 

CHAPTER IV

THE FLAME IN A WOMAN'S EYES

"That girl loves you, " Valentine had said, when Julian told him ofCuckoo's strange fragmentary sermon in the Monico, and of its effect uponhimself. 

Valentine spoke without any emotion or sympathy, and the absence offeeling from his voice seemed almost to bring a certain slight vexationinto his manner. The love of Cuckoo, perhaps naturally, was to his finenature a thing of no account, or even of ill account. At least, his lookand manner faintly said so to Julian. 

"But if she loves me, " Julian said, and a certain wonder came into hisheart at the thought, "surely she wouldn't behave to me as she does, turning me from a lover into a friend, and keeping me almost angrily inthe latter relation. "

"Perhaps not, " Valentine said languidly. 

No doubt he understood what Julian did not entirely understand, thesubtleties of such a nature as Cuckoo's, a nature hammered out thin bycruel circumstance, drilled till it found the unspeakable ordinary andthe loathsome inevitable, worn as a stone by dropping water till thewater, ceasing to fall, must have left a loneliness of surprise. Juliandid not fully realize that Cuckoo's life might well lead her to displayreal affection, if she possessed it, by ways the reverse of thosenaturally sought and gloried in by pure and protected women. To give isthe act natural to the love of such women. It is at least their impulse, although restrained within strict limits, perhaps, by exigencies ofconscience or of religion. But to give is the impulse, giving being theunusual act, the strange new act in them. Cuckoo's profession being anordered routine of giving, how could she show her love better than bywithholding? To be to Julian as she was to all men could prove nothing, either to him or to herself. To be to him as she was not to any other manwhom she knew must mean something, argue something. So, at least, dimlyand without mental self-consciousness, her mind reasoned ratherinstinctively, for the lady of the feathers was, above all things, instinctive. Instead of logic, ethics, morals, the equipment of sage, philosopher, good women, she had instinct only. Instinct told her thesecret meaning of reticence in her relations with Julian. When she saidgood-bye to him, the hand-shake that passed between them had becomesomething more to her than a kiss. She kissed so many whom she hated, somany who were dolls of vice to her, who were walking sins, incarnate lustshadows, scarcely men. To be to Julian what another woman might have beenwould be to seem to make him as all those dolls of horrible London. SoCuckoo set him apart by her relations towards him, as she had previouslyset him apart in her heart. She pushed the chair of her beloved from theheart where the dolls sat night after night warming their expressivehands at the cheap and ever-burning fire. She pushed it out into a circleof cold that was the only sacred thing she could supply. The world andher situation in it had bereft her of the power of even proving thesimplicity of love by simplicity of natural action. She had to find a newway to show an old worship. She found it in refusal, where others find itin assent. 

But, after all, she was a woman, and perhaps she wished Julian to be ananchorite. That was what Valentine meant when, after Julian's account ofCuckoo's anger on finding him in Piccadilly, he simply said:

"That girl loves you. "

The sentence stirred Julian to a surprise warmer than seemed reasonable, for he had really known that Cuckoo had some feeling for him. But he hadalways at the back of his mind the idea, common to so many, that such agirl as Cuckoo could not be capable of the real love, the love ascetic, not the love Bacchanalian. Love among the roses is easy, but not manycan welcome love among the nettles; and, moreover, Julian, despite hisknowledge of the thorny paths along which Cuckoo walked habitually, alongwhich all her poor sisterhood walked incessantly, had not entirelydisabused himself of the fallacy that a life such as hers was, in somevague, undefined and indefinable way, a life of pleasure. Even when weknow a thing to be, we often cannot feel it to be. Knowledge in the minddoes not inevitably bring to the birth sensation in the heart, or eventhe mental apprehension, half reasonable and half emotional, on the baseand foundation of which it is comparatively easy to ground acts thatindicate an understanding. 

From Valentine's remark Julian understood him to mean that Cuckoo'sanger was entirely caused by jealousy, not at all by a fine desire ofprotecting some one stronger than herself from that which she knew sowell through her own original weakness. Yet that was what Julian hadbeen led to believe, not by any hint of Cuckoo's, but by somethingwithin himself. 

"I don't see why she should love me, " he said, presently. 

"You're well off, Julian, " Valentine rejoined. 

Almost for the first time in his life Julian felt angry with Valentine. 

"You don't know her at all, " he said, hotly. 

"I know her class. "

Julian looked at him, and his anger died, as his mind sailed off on a newtack. 

"Her class! Then you must have been studying it lately, Val. Not long agoyou could not have studied it. Your nature would not have let you. "

"That is true enough. "

"Were you studying it when we met you the other night?"

"Yes. "

"With what result?" Julian asked with eager curiosity. 

"That I understand something I never understood before--the charm ofsin. "

Julian was greatly surprised at this deliverance of his friend, whouttered it in his coldly pure voice, looking serenely high-minded andeven loftily intellectual. 

"You find the charm of sin in Piccadilly?"

"I begin to find it everywhere, in every place in which human beingsgather together. "

"You no longer feel yourself aloof from the average man, then?"

Valentine pressed his right hand slowly upon Julian's shoulder. 

"No longer, " he answered quietly. "Julian, you and I are emergingtogether from the hermitage in which we have dwelt retired for so long. I always thought you would emerge some day. I never thought I should. Butso it is. Don't think that I am standing still while you are travelling. It is not so. "

The strength of his hand's grip upon Julian's shoulder seemed to indicatea violence of feeling which the tones of his voice did not imply. Julianlistened, and then said, in a hesitating, irresolute manner:

"Yes, I see, Val; but I say, where are we travelling? or, at least, where shall we travel if we don't pull up, if we keep on? That's thething, I suppose. "

As he spoke he did not tell himself that it was nothing less than thedisconnected and ungrammatical remarks of the lady of the feathers whichprompted this consideration, this prophetic movement of his mind. Yet soit was. And when Valentine replied he, the saint, was fighting againsther, the sinner, and surely in the cause of evil. For he said lightly:

"After all, do human souls travel? I often think they are like eyeslooking at a whirling zoetrope. It is the zoetrope that travels. "

"You think souls don't go up or down?"

"I think that none of us knows really much about souls, and that, afterall, it is best not to bother ourselves too much about them. "

"Marr thought a great deal about them. I used to fancy that as somemaniacs have been known to murder people in order to tear out theirhearts, he could have murdered them to tear out their souls. "

Valentine took his hand from Julian's shoulder. 

"Marr is dead and forgotten, " he said almost sternly. 

"I can't quite forget him, Val; and I still feel as if he had hadsome influence over both of us. We have changed since those days ofthe sittings, since that night of your trance and his death. "

Julian was looking at Valentine in a puzzled way while he spoke. Valentine met his eyes calmly. 

"If I have changed, " he said slowly, "it cannot be in essentials. Look atme. Is my face altered? Is my expression different?"

"No, Valentine. "

Julian said the words with a sort of return to confidence and to greaterhappiness. To look into the face of his friend set all his doubts atrest. No man with eyes like that could ever fall into anything which wasreally and radically evil. Valentine perhaps was playing with life as aboy plays with a dog, making life jump up at him, dance round him, justto see the strength and grace of the creature, its possibilities of quickmotion, its powers of varied movement. Where could be the harm of that?And what Valentine could do safely he began to think he might do safelytoo. He gave expression to his thought with his usual frankness. 

"You mean you are beginning to play with life?" he said. 

"That is it exactly. I am putting life through its paces. After all, noman is worth his salt if he shuts himself up from that which is placed inthe world for him to see, to know, and perhaps--but only after he hasseen and known it--to reject. To do that is like living in the midst ofa number of people who may be either very agreeable or the reverse, anddeclining ever to be introduced to them on the ground that they must allbe horrible and certain to do one an infinity of harm. "

"Yes, yes, I see. Then you think that Cuckoo is jealous of me?--that thatwas all she meant?"

Julian again returned to the old question. Valentine replied:

"I feel sure of it. Women are always governed by their hearts. So much sothat my last sentence is a truism, scarcely worthy the saying. Besides, my dear Julian, what would it matter if she were not? What could theattitude of such a woman on any subject under the sun matter to you?"

The words were not spoken without intentional sarcasm. They stung Juliana little, but did not lead him, from any sense of false shame, to afeeble concealment of his real feeling. 

"It does seem absurd, I dare say, " he said. "But she's--well, she's notan ordinary woman, Val. "

"Let us hope not. "

"No; you don't understand. There's something strong about her. What shesays might really matter, I think, to a cleverer man than I. She knowsmen, and then, Valentine, there's something else. "

He stopped. There was a queer look of mystery in his face. 

"Something else! What is it? What can there be?"

"I saw the flame as if it was burning in her eyes. "

Valentine made an abrupt movement. It might have been caused by surprise, annoyance, anger, or simply by the desire to fidget which overcomes everyone, not paralyzed, at some time or another. His action knocked over achair, and he stooped to pick it up and set it in its place before hespoke. Then he said:

"The flame, you say! What on earth is your theory about thisextraordinary flame? You seem to attach a strange importance to it. Yetit can only be the fire of a fancy, a jet from the imagination. Tell me, have you any theory about it, honestly? and if so, what is it?"

Julian was rather taken aback by this very sledgehammer invitation. Hitherto the flame, and his thought of it, had seemed to have the palevagueness and the mystery of a dream. When the flame appeared, it istrue, he was oppressed by a sense of awe; but the awe was indefinite, blurred, resisting analysis, and quite inexplicable to another. 

"I did not say I had any theory about it, " he answered. 

"But then, why do you consider it at all? And why seem to think thatits supposed presence in the eyes of a woman makes that woman in anyway different from others?"

"But I did not say I thought so, " Julian said, rather hastily. "How youjump to conclusions to-day!"

"You implied it, and you meant it. Now, didn't you?"

"Perhaps I may have. "

"This is all too much for me, " Valentine said, showing now a very unusualirritation. He even began to pace up and down the room with a slow, softfootstep, monotonous and mechanical in its regularity. As he was walkinghe went on:

"I do really think, Julian, that it is a mistake to allow any fancy toget upon your nerves. You know what the doctor thought about this flame. "

"Yes. "

"And you know what I think. "

"Do I?"

"Yes, that it is a mere chimera. But my opinion on such a subject has noparticular value. The doctor is different. He is a great specialist. Thenerves have been his constant study for years. If this vision continuesto haunt you, you really ought to put yourself definitely into hishands. "

"Perhaps I will, " said Julian. 

He spoke rather seriously and meditatively. Valentine, possibly becausehe was in the sort of peculiarly irritable frame of mind that willsometimes cause a man to dislike having his tendered advice taken, seemedadditionally vexed by this reply, or at any rate struck by it. He pausedin his walk, and seemed for an instant as if he were going to saysomething sharply sarcastic. Then suddenly he laughed. 

"After all, " he exclaimed in a calmer voice, "we are taking an absurditymighty seriously. "

But Julian would not agree to this view of the matter. 

"I don't know that we are, " he said. 

"You don't know!"

"That is an absurdity. No, Valentine, I don't; I can't think that it is. I saw it in Cuckoo's eyes only once, and that was--just--"

"Tell me just when you saw it. "

The words came from Valentine's lips with a pressure, a hurry almost ofanxiety. He seemed curiously eager about the history of this chimera. ButJulian, eager too, and engrossed in thoughts that moved as yet in a mazefull of vapors and of mists, did not find time to notice it. 

"I noticed it just after, or when, she was begging me to go home. "

"Like a good boy, " Valentine hastily interposed. "Because her jealousyprompted her to hate the thought of your having any pleasure in which shedid not share. Oh, you noticed the flame then. Did it, too, tell you togo home?"

He spoke rather harshly and flippantly, and apparently put the questionwithout desire of an answer, and rather with the intention of ridiculethan for any other reason. But Julian took it seriously and replied toit. 

"Somehow I felt as if, perhaps, it did wish to speak some message to me, and that the message came, or might come, through her. "

He spoke slowly, for indeed it was this action of words that wasbeginning to make clear to himself his own impression, so vague and sounpresentable before. As he thus traced it out, like a man following theblurred letters of an old inscription with the point of his stick, andgradually coming at their meaning, his excitement grew. He said, speakingwith a rising emphasis of conviction:

"I'm not a mere fool. There is--there is something in all this; I feelit; I cannot be simply imagining. There is something. But I'm like a manin the dark. I can't see what it is; I can't tell. But you, Valentine, you, with your nature, so much better than I am, with so much deeperan insight, how is it you don't see this flame? Unless, "--and hereJulian struck his hand violently on the table, --"unless it comes, asit seemed to come that night in the darkness, from you. If it's partof yourself--but then"--and his manner clouded again--"how can that be?"

"How indeed?" said Valentine, who had been watching him all through thisoutburst with a scrutiny that seemed almost uneasy, so narrow and sodetermined was it. 

"Julian, listen to me; you trust me, don't you, and think my opinionworth something?"

"Worth everything. "

"Well, I believe you're getting into an unnatural, if you weren't a manI should say a hysterical--habit of mind. If you can't throw it off byyourself, I must help you to do so. "

"Perhaps you're right. But how will you help me?"

Valentine seemed to think and consider for a moment. Then he exclaimed:

"I'll tell you. By making you join with me in putting this life, thisold life--new enough to both of us--through its paces. Why should eachof us do it alone? We are friends. We can trust one another. You know methrough and through. You know the--chilliness I'll call it--of my nature, my natural bookishness--my bias towards contemning people too readily, and avoiding what all men ought to know. And I know you. Without you Ibelieve I should never go any distance. Without me you might go too far. Together we will strike the happy medium. For us life shall go throughall his paces, but he shall never lame us with a kick, like a vicioushorse, or give us a furtive bite when we're not looking. Men carry suchbites and kicks, the wounds from them, to their graves. We'll be morecareful. But we'll see the great play in all--all its acts. And, whenwe've seen it, we'll be as we were, only we'll be no longer blind. Andwe'll never forget our grand power of rejecting and refusing. "

"Ah!" said Julian. "Perhaps I haven't that power. "

"But I have. "

"Yes, you have. "

"And I'll share my power with you. We are friends and comrades. We oughtto share everything. "

"Yes, " exclaimed Julian, carried away. "Yes, by Jove, yes!"

"And as to this flame--"

"Ah!"

"We'll soon know if it's a vision or a reality. But it's a vision. Yousaw it in a woman's eyes. "

"I'll swear I did. "

"Then that proves it's a fraud. The flame in a woman's eyes never burnttrue yet--never, Julian, since the days of Delilah. "

CHAPTER V

JULIAN FEARS THE FLAME

Although Cuckoo knew well that Julian carried out his intention of goinghome after he left her in Piccadilly, the fact of his being there, of hismaking one of that crowd, that slowly-moving crowd, troubled her. Valentine and Julian had argued the question of her real feeling aboutthe matter. Cuckoo did not argue it. She never deliberately thought toherself, "I feel this or that. Why do I feel it?" She knew as much aboutastronomy as introspection, and that was simply nothing at all. Insteadof diving into the depths of her mind and laboriously tracing everylabelled and tabulated subtlety to its source, she sat in the squalidMarylebone Road sitting-room, with the folding doors open into thebedroom to temper the heat of summer with draughts from the frigid zoneof the back area, and babbled her sensations to Jessie, who riggled inresponse to every passing shadow that stole across the heart of hermistress. 

Jessie had learned much about Julian in these latter days. Into herpricked and pointed ear, leaf-shaped and the hue of India-rubber, hadbeen whispered a strange tale of the dawning of love in a battered heart, of the blossoming of respect in a warped mind. She had heard of themeeting in Piccadilly, of the meal at the Monico, of the farewell on thekerbstone. And she alone knew--or ought to have known--the mingling ofintense jealousy and of a grander feeling that burned in Cuckoo's breastwhenever she thought of Julian's life, the greater part of it that laybeyond her knowledge, her sight, or keeping. 

For the lady of the feathers, in most things a strange mixture, had neverdriven two more contrasted passions in double harness than those whichshe drove around the circle of which Julian was the core, the centre. Onewas a passion of jealousy; the other a curious passion of protection. Each backed up the other, urged it to its work. It would have been a hardtask, indeed, to tell at first which was the greater of the two. Cuckooneither knew nor cared. She did not even differentiate the two passionsor say to herself that there were two. That was not her way. She feltquickly and strongly, and she acted on her feelings with the peculiar andalmost wild promptitude that such a life as hers seems to breed inwoman's nature. It is the French lady of the feathers who scattersvitriol in the streets of Paris, the Italian or Spanish lady of thefeathers who snatches the dagger from her hair to stab an enemy. The windof Cuckoo's feelings blew her about like a dancing mote, and the feelingsawakened by Julian were the strongest her nature was capable of. 

Only Jessie knew that at present, unless indeed Valentine had divined it, as seemed possible from his words to Julian. 

And these twin passions were fed full by the peculiar circumstances ofCuckoo's relation to Julian, and by the depth of her knowledge concerninga certain side of life. 

She went home, that night of their meeting, very late, and in theweariness of the morning succeeding it, and of many following mornings, she began to brood over the change in Julian that she had intuitivelydivined. Her street-woman's instinct could not be at fault with a boy. For Julian was little more than a boy. She knew that when she first methim, when they made toast together on the foggy afternoon that she couldnever forget, Julian was unshadowed by the darkness that envelopes thesteps of so much human nature. Lively, bright, full of youth, strength, energy, as he was, Cuckoo knew that then he had been free from thebondage of sense which demands and obtains the sacrifice of so many liveslike hers. And she knew that now he was not free from that bondage, andthat she, by an irony of fate, had, with her own hands, fastened thefirst fetter upon him. 

Valentine had plotted that. 

Cuckoo's belief said so; but surely her curious instinct againstValentine must have tricked her here!

It was this knowledge of her unwilling action against Julian's peace thatfirst woke in her the strong protective feeling towards him, a feelingalmost akin to the maternal instinct. It was her strange love for himthat prompted the fiery antagonism against his relations with others thatcould only be called jealousy. And though one of her passions was noble, the other pitiable, they could but work together for the same end, aim ata similar salvation. 

Yet how could any salvation for a man come out of that dreary house inthe Marylebone Road, from that piteous rouged agent of the devil?

Cuckoo never stopped to ask such a question as that. She was a girl, andshe began to understand love. She had no time to stop. And each passingday soon began to give fresh vitality to the vision of Julian's need. 

Between him and her there had sprung up on the ruins of one night's follya tower of comradeship. Its foundations were not of sand. Even Cuckoo, despite her ceaseless jealously, felt that. But, after all, she had onlycome into his life as a desolate waif drifts into a settled community. She was neither of his class, his understanding, or his education. Shewas in the gutter; in the gutter to an extent that no man, as women feelat present, can ever be. And though through her inspiration he had not tocome into the gutter to find her and to be with her, yet she sometimeswrithed with the thought that he was so far above her. Nevertheless, herposition never once tempted her, in the struggle that the future quicklybrought with it, to shrink from effort, to fail in fight, to despair inendeavour for him. 

There are flames that burn the dross from humanity and reveal the gold. There are flames in the eyes and in the hearts of women. 

 * * * * *

Julian's visits to Cuckoo were irregular but fairly frequent. He alwayscame in the afternoon, an hour or two before the psychological moment ofher start out for the evening's duty. Sometimes he would take her out totea at a small Italian restaurant near Baker Street Station. More oftenthey would make tea together in the little sitting-room, with theecstatic assistance of Jessie. And Rip, Valentine's dog, generally madeone of the party. He and Jessie got on excellently together, and devoutlyshared the scraps that fell from the Marylebone Road table. The firsttime that Julian brought Rip to number 400, Cuckoo fell in love with him. 

"Why, you never said you had a dog, " she exclaimed. 

"Rip's not mine, " Julian answered. 

"Isn't he? Whose is he?"

"Valentine's. "

"Then why d'you have him with you?" asked Cuckoo, suddenly and ratherroughly pushing away Rip, who was swirling in her lap like a whirlpool. 

"Oh, he's taken a stupid dislike to Valentine, " Julian answeredthoughtlessly. "He won't stay with him. "

In a moment Cuckoo had caught the little dog back. 

"That's funny, " she said. 

"Yes, isn't it?" said Julian. 

Then, seeing her thoughtful gaze, and the odd way in which she suddenlycaressed the dog, he was angry with himself for having told her anythingabout the matter. 

"Rip's a little fool, " he said. "Perhaps Jessie will take a dislike toyou some day, Cuckoo. "

"Not she, never!" said Cuckoo, with conviction. And, after that, shecould never spoil Rip enough. 

These visits and teas ought to have been pleasant functions, brightoases in the desert of Cuckoo's life, but a cloud fell over them atthe beginning and deepened as the days went by. For Cuckoo, with hersharpness of the _gamin_ and her quick instinct of the London streets, was perpetually watching for and noting the signs in Julian's face, manner, or language, that fed those two passions of jealousy and ofprotection within her. And, at first, she allowed Julian to see whatshe was doing. 

One day, as they sat at the table in the middle of the room, Julian saidto her:

"I say, Cuckoo, why d'you look at me like that?"

"Like what?"

"Why d'you stare at me? Anything wrong?"

"I wasn't staring at you, " she asserted. "The sun gets in my eyes if Ilook the other way. "

"I'll draw the blind down, " he said. 

He got up from the table and shut the afternoon sun out. The tea-tray, the photographs, the little dogs, they two, were plunged in a greenishtwilight manufactured by the sun with the assistance of the Venetianblind. 

"There, " Julian said, sitting down again, "now we shall all lookghostly. "

"But if I do take a fancy to look at you, why shouldn't I, then?" Cuckooasked. 

"I don't mind, " he laughed. "But you didn't seem pleased with me, Ithought. "

"Rot!"

"Oh! you were pleased, then?"

"I don't say as I was, or wasn't. "

"You're rather like the Sphinx. "

"What's that?"

"Enigmatic. "

She didn't understand, and looked rather cross. 

"I told you I wasn't looking at you, " she exclaimed pettishly. 

"Then you told a lie, " Julian said, with supreme gravity. "Think of that, Cuckoo. "

"And what would you ever tell me but lies if I was to ask you things?"she rejoined quickly. 

Julian began to see that there was something lurking in the backgroundbehind her show of temper. He wondered what on earth it was. 

"Why should I tell you lies?" he said. 

"Oh! to kid me. Men like that. You're just like the rest, I suppose. "

"I suppose so. "

She seemed vexed at his assent, and went on:

"Now, aren't you, though?"

"I say, yes. "

"Well, you usen't to be, " she exclaimed, with actual bitterness ofaccent and of look. "That's just why I was lookin' at you, --for I waslookin', --makin' out the difference. "

"I'm just the same as I was, " Julian said, and he spoke with quitesincere conviction. 

"No, you ain't. "

Having uttered this very direct contradiction, Cuckoo proceeded withgreat energy:

"You've been lettin' him do it. I know you have. "

Julian was completely puzzled. 

"What do you mean?" he asked, with a real desire for information. 

"You know well enough. He's leadin' you wrong. "

Julian reddened with a sudden understanding. Her words touched him inhis sorest place. In the first place, no man likes to think he has beendoing a thing because he has been led by some one else. In the second, Julian had grown ardently to dislike Cuckoo's unreasoning antipathy toValentine. Originally, and for some time, he had believed that she wouldget over it. Finding later that there was no chance of that, he had oncetold her that he could not hear Valentine abused. Since that day she hadbeen careful not to mention his name. But now her bitterness against himpeeped out once more, and seemed even to have been gathering force duringthe interval. 

"Cuckoo, you're talking great nonsense, " he said, forcing himself tospeak quietly. 

But she was in one of her most mulish moods, and was not to be turnedfrom the subject or silenced. 

"No, I ain't, " she said. "Where was you last week? You didn't come inonce. "

"I was in Paris. "

Cuckoo's brow clouded still more. Her knowledge of Paris was notintimate, and, indeed, was confined to stories dropped from the lips ofmen who had been there for short periods, and for purposes the reverse ofgeographical or artistic. Julian's mention of the French capital drove asword into her. 

"With him?" she exclaimed. 

"Yes, with Valentine. "

"Oh, what did you do there?"

She spoke with angry insistence, and Julian could not help thinking ofValentine's remark, "That girl loves you. " It seemed indeed that Cuckoomust have some deep and wholly personal reason prompting her to thisstrange demonstration of vexation. 

"I can't tell you everything, " Julian answered. 

"Oh, you can't kid me over that. I know well enough what men go to Parisfor!" she rejoined, with almost hysterical bitterness. 

Julian was silent. It was curious, but this girl stirred his consciencefrom its sleep, as once Valentine alone could stir it. But by howdifferent a method! The stillness and calm of one who was sinless werereplaced by the vehemence and the passion of one who was steeped in sin. And yet the two opposites had, to some extent, the same effect. Juliandid not yet realize this thoroughly, and did not analyze it at all. Hadany one hinted to him that the waning influence of Valentine for goodcould ever be balanced by the waxing influence of the lady of thefeathers, he would have laughed at the crazy notion. And in the firstplace he would have denied that Valentine's spell upon him had changed innature; for Valentine was still as a god to him. And Cuckoo could neverbe a goddess, either to him or to any one else. But, though he wouldscarcely acknowledge it even to himself, he did not care for Cuckoo toknow fully the changing way of his life. Perhaps it was the curiouslystrong line she had from the first taken with regard to his actions thatmade him careful with her. Perhaps it was the incident of the vision ofthe flame--but no; remembrance of that had been well-nigh lulled to sleepby the lullabies of Valentine, by his disregard of it, his certainty thatit was an hallucination, a mirage. Whatever the cause might be, Julianfelt somewhat like a naughty boy in the angry presence of Cuckoo. As helooked at her the greenish twilight painted a chill and menacing gleam inher eyes, and made her twisting lips venomous and acrid to his glance. Her rouge vanished in the twilight, or seemed only as a dull, darkishcloud upon her thin and worn cheeks. She sat at the table almost like ascarecrow, giving the tables of some strange law to a trembling and anunwilling votary. 

"I know!" she reiterated. 

Julian said nothing. He did not choose to deny what was in fact thetruth, that his stay in Paris had not been free from fault, and yet hedid not feel inclined to do what most men in his situation must by allmeans have done, challenge Cuckoo's right to sit in judgment, or even fora moment to criticise any action of his. There was something about her, afrankness perhaps, which made it impossible to put her out of court byany allusion to her own life. And indeed that must have been cowardiceand an impossibility. Besides, she put herself and her own deeds calmlyaway as unworthy and impossible of discussion, as things sunk downbeneath the wave of notice or comment, remote from criticism orcondemnation, because the life of their hopelessness had been so longand sunless. 

Cuckoo, with her eyes on Julian, was silent, too, now. She understoodthat what her suspicion had affirmed, without actually knowing, was true, and her stormy heart was swept by a whirlwind of jealousy, and ofwomanish pity for the man she was jealous of. In that moment she felta sickness of life more sharp than she had ever felt before, and a dulllonging to be a different woman, a woman of Julian's class, and clever, that she might be able to do something to keep him from sinking to thelevel of the men she hated. 

How could she, in her nakedness of permanent degradation, give a helpinghand to anybody? That was a clear rendering of the vague thought, vagueas this twilight in which they sat, that ran through her mind. Suddenlyshe turned to the tray and poured herself out a cup of tea. The tea hadbeen standing while they talked, and was black and strong. She drank iteagerly, and a wave of nervous energy rushed over her, surging up to herbrain like light and electricity. It gave to her a sort of recklessvalour to say just the thing she felt. She turned towards Julian with amanner that was half shrew, half wildcat--street girls cannot alwayscompass the impressive, though they may feel the great eternitiesnestling round their hearts--and cried out:

"I just hate you!"

All her jealousy rang in that cry, smothering the whisper of the maternalpassion that went ever with it. Julian could no longer doubt the truth ofValentine's words. 

"Cuckoo, don't be silly, " he said hastily, and awkwardly enough. 

"Silly!" she burst out. "What do I care for that? I ain't silly, either, and I ain't blind like you are. I can see where you're goin'. "

"I shall go away from here, " Julian said, trying to laugh, "if you talkin this ridiculous way. "

She sprang up and ran passionately in front of the door, as if shethought he was really going to escape. 

"No, you don't, " she said, and her accent seemed to draw near to that ofWhitechapel as her voice rose higher. "Not till I've said what I mean. "

"Hush, Cuckoo! We shall have Mrs. Brigg up, thinking I'm murdering you. "

"Let her come! And you are, that's what you are, murderin' me, and worse, seein' you go where you're goin'. He's takin' you. It's all him. Yes, itis! He'll make you as he is. "

"Cuckoo, I won't have it. "

Julian spoke sternly and got up. The little dogs, alarmed by the tumult, had begun to whine uneasily, and at his movement Jessie barked in a thinvoice. Julian went to Cuckoo, took her wrists in his two hands, and drewher away from the door; but she tore herself from his grasp with fury, for the touch of his hands gave a clearer vision to her jealousy of hissecret deeds, and made her understand better the depth of her presentfeeling. 

"You shall have it, " she cried. "You shall. I know men. I know whatyou'll be. I know what women'll make of you. "

"A man makes himself, " Julian interrupted. 

"Rot! That's all you know about it. I've seen them begin so nice and goright down, like a stone in a well. And they never come up again. Notthey. No more'll you. D'you hear that?"

"I shall hear you better if you speak lower. "

Cuckoo suddenly changed from a sort of frenzy to a violent calm. 

"You're different already, " she said. "Can't I see it?"

As if to emphasize her remark she approached her face quite close to hisin the twilight. While they had been arguing a cloud had passed over thesun, and dimness increased in the little room. Both of them were stillstanding up, and now Cuckoo peered into Julian's eyes with almost hungryscrutiny. Her lips were still trembling with excitement and her mouth wascontorted into a sideways grin, expressive of contemptuous knowledgeof the descent of Julian's nature. She was a mere mask of passion, nodoubt a ridiculous object enough, touzled, dishevelled and shaken withtemper, as she leaned forward to get a better view of him. And Julianwas both vexed and disgusted by her outbreak, and sick of a scene which, like all men, he ardently hated and would have given much to avoid. Hefaced her coldly, endeavouring to calm her by banishing every trace ofexcitement from his expression. 

And then, in the twilight of the dingy room, and in the twilight of hereyes, he saw the flame once more. A thin glint of sunshine found its wayin from the street, and threw a shadow near them. Cuckoo's eyes emitteda greenish ray like a cat's, and in this ray the flame swam andflickered, cold and pale, and, Julian fancied, menacing. 

Perhaps, because he was already irritated and slightly strung up byCuckoo's attack, he felt a sudden anger against the flame, almost as hemight have felt a rage against a person. As he stared upon it, he couldalmost believe that it, too, had eyes, scrutinizing, upbraiding, condemning him, and that in the thin riband and shade of its fire theredwelt a heart to hate him for the dear sin to which, at last, he began togive himself. For the moment Cuckoo and the flame were as one, and forthe moment he feared and hated them both. 

Abruptly he held up his hand to stop the further words that werefluttering on her thin and painted lips. 

"Hush!" he said, in a little hiss of protest against sound. 

For again, fighting with the anger, there was awe in his heart. 

There was something unusual in his expression which held her silent, afurtive horror and expectation which she did not understand. And whileshe waited, Julian turned suddenly, and left the room and the house. 

CHAPTER VI

THE LADY OF THE FEATHERS LEARNS WISDOM

Julian did not come again to the house in the Marylebone Road for atleast a fortnight, and during that time the lady of the feathers was leftalone with her life and with her sad thoughts. The summer days wentheavily by, and the sultry summer nights. No rain fell, and London wasveiled in dust. The pavements were so hot that they burned the feet thattrod them. Sometimes they seemed to burn Cuckoo's very soul, and to searher heart as she stood upon them for hours in the night, while the crowdsof Piccadilly flitted by like shadows in an evil dream. She staredmechanically at the faces of those passing as she strolled with a laggingfootstep along the line of houses. She turned to meet the eyes of thepale-faced loungers in the lighted entrance of the St. James'srestaurant, "Jimmy's, " as she called it. But her mind was preoccupied. Aproblem had fastened upon it with the tenacity of some vampire or strangeclinging creature of night. Cuckoo was wrestling with an angel; or was ita devil? And often, when she stopped on the pavement and exchanged a wordor two with some casual stranger, she scarcely knew what she said, or towhat kind of man she was speaking. She was possessed by one thought, thethought of Julian and of his danger. Valentine, in her thoughts, wasstrangely a pale shadow, incredibly evil, incredibly persistent, luringJulian downwards, beckoning him with the thin hand of a saint to depthsunpierced by the gaze of even the most sinful. And that hand of the saintwas only part of the appalling deception of his beautiful and tragicallylying body, a crystal temple in which a demon dwelt secretly, peeringfrom its concealment through the shadowy blue windows, in which Juliansaw truth and honour, but in which Cuckoo read things to terrify and todismay. 

For she was not wholly unaware of the mystery of Valentine, of the sharpcontrast between his appearance and the vision of his nature as it cameto her. She understood that there was something in the fine beauty ofhis face and figure to account for Julian's blindness and refusal to bewarned against him. Cuckoo's intuition, the intuition of an unlearned andinstinctive creature trained by the hardest circumstances to rely on whatshe called her wits, laid the crystal temple in ruins, and drove thedemon from its lurking-place naked and shrieking into the open. But, after all, was not she rather deceived than Julian? Julian, from thefirst moment of meeting Valentine, looked upon him as saint. Cuckoo, from the first moment of meeting, looked upon him as devil. Each puthim aside from the general run of humanity, the one in a heaven of theimagination, the other in a hell. Neither would allow him to be midwaybetween the two, containing possibilities of both, --ordinary, naturalman. Julian angrily scouted the notion of Valentine's being like othermen. Cuckoo felt instinctively that he was not. And so they glorifiedand cursed him. 

Cuckoo had at first cursed him plainly in the market-place and upon thehouse-top. But that was before she had learned wisdom. Slowly she learntit on these hot days and nights, when the London dust filtered over thepaint upon her cheeks and lips, clung round the shadows in the hollowsbeneath her eyes, and slept in the artificial primrose of her elaboratecloud of hair. Slowly she learnt it in many vague and struggling mentalarguments, in which logic was a dwarf and passion a giant, in whichinstinct strangled reason, and love wandered as a shamefaced fairy withtear-dimmed eyes. 

Julian's prolonged absence and silence first taught the lady of thefeathers the slow necessity of wisdom, otherwise, perhaps, her vehementignorance could never have absorbed the precious thing. Women of hertraining and vile experience, nerve-ridden, and clothed in hysteria asin a garment, often think to gain what they want by the mere shrillnessof outcry, the mere grabbing of ostentatious, eager hands and frenzy ofbody. Their lives lead them through a wonder of knowledge and of dangerto the demeanour of babyhood, and they cry for every rattle, much morefor every moon. So Cuckoo had thrown her feelings down before Julian. She had dashed her hatred of Valentine in his face; she had cried herfears of his downfall to that which she consorted with eternally andloathed--when she had still the energy to loathe it, which was notalways--in his ears with the ardent shrillness of a boatswain's whistle. She had, in fact, done all that her instinct prompted her to do, and theresult was the exit of Julian from her life. This set her, always in hersharp and yet childish way, sometimes oddly clear sighted, often muddledand distressed, to turn upon instinct with a contempt not known before, to discard it with the fury still of a child. And instinct thus forsakenby an essentially instinctive creature opened the gates of distress andof confusion. 

By day Cuckoo sat in her stuffy little parlour brooding wearily. Shewaited in day after day, always hoping that Julian would return, full ofresolutions, prompted by fear, to be gentle, even lively, to him when hedid come, full of excited intention which could not be fulfilled; for hedid not come. And by night, while she tramped the streets, still Cuckoo'sanxious mind revolved the question of her behaviour in the future. Forshe would not, passionately would not, allow herself to contemplate thepossibility that Julian's anger against her would keep him foreverbeyond reach either of her fury or of her tenderness. She insisted oncontemplating his ultimate reappearance, and her wits were at work todevise means to win him from Valentine's influence without stirring hishorror at any thought of disloyalty to his friend. Cuckoo, in fact, wanted to be subtle, intended to be subtle, and sought intensely theright way of subtlety. She sought it as she walked, as she hovered atstreet corners in the night, while the hours ran by, sometimes till thestreets were nearly deserted, sometimes even till the dawn sang in thesky to the wail of the hungry woman beneath it. She sought it even in thecompany of those strangers who stepped for a night into her life as intoa public room, and stepped from it on the morrow with a careless andeverlasting adieu, half-drowned in the chink of money. 

And sometimes she thought, with a sick dreariness, that she would neverfind it, and sometimes courage failed her, and, despite her passionateresolution, she did for a moment say to herself, "If he should never comeagain. " There were moments, too, when every other feeling was drowned bysheer jealousy of Julian, when the tiger-cat woke in this street-girl whohad always had to fight, when her thin frame shivered with the shakingviolence of the soul it held. Then she clenched her hands, and longed toplant her nails in the faces of those other women, divined, though neverseen, --those French women who had sung him, like sirens, to Paris, awayfrom the sea of her greedy love. Her similes were commonplace. In herheart she called such sirens hussies. Had she met them the battle ofwords would have been strong and singularly unclean. That she herself wasa hussy to other men, not to Julian, did not trouble her. She did notrealize it. Human nature has always one blind eye, even when the otherdoes not squint. This passion of jealousy, circling round an absent man, seized her at the strangest, the most inopportune moments. Sometimes itcame upon her in the street, and the meditation of it was so vital andcomplete that Cuckoo could not go on walking, lest she should, bymovement, miss the keenest edge of the agony. Then she would stopwherever she was, lean against the down-drawn shutter of a shop, or thecorner of a public house, among the gaping loungers, let her powderedchin drop upon her breast, and sink into a fit of desperate detectiveduty, during which she followed Julian like a shadow through imaginedwanderings, and watched him committing all those imagined actions thatcould cause her to feel the wildest and most inhuman despair. 

One night, when she was thus sunk and swallowed up in the maw ofmiserable inward contemplation, a young man, who was walking by, observedher. He was very young and eager, fresh from Cambridge, ardent after themysteries and the subtleties of life, as is the fashion of clever modernyouth. The sight of this painted girl leaning, motionless as some doll orpuppet, against the iron shutters of the vacant house, her head drooped, and her hands, as if the strings to manipulate her had fallen loose fromthe grasp that guided them, caught and eventually fascinated him. It wasa late hour of night. He passed on and returned, shooting each time adevouring, analytical glance upon Cuckoo. Again he came back, walking alittle nearer to the houses. His heart beat quicker as he approached thepuppet. Its complete immobility was almost appalling, and each time hecame within view of it he examined it violently to see if a limb wasdisplaced. No; one might almost suppose that it was the body of some onestruck dead so suddenly against the shop that she had not had time tofall, and so remained leaning thus. With shorter and shorter revolutions, like a dog working itself up to approach some motionless but strangeobject, the youth went by Cuckoo, hesitating more and more each time hecame in front of her with strange feelings of one being vaguely criminal. He longed to touch the puppet, to see if any quiver would convulse itslimbs, any light flicker into its eyes. And he was so fascinated andinterested that at last he did furtively stop precisely in front of it. For a second both of them were motionless, he from contemplation of theoutward, she of the inward. Then Cuckoo's thoughtful jealousy came to aghastly crisis. Her imagination had shown her frightful things andherself an utterly helpless and compelled spectator. The puppet openedits red lips to utter a sob, lifted up its white and heavy eyelids to letloose tears upon its unnaturally bright cheeks, stirred its hanging handsto clasp them in a crude gesture of dull fury. The youth started as at acorpse showing suddenly the pangs of life. His movement shot Cuckoo likea bullet into her real world. Through her tears she saw a man regardingher. In a flash, old habit brought to her a smile, a turned head ofcoquetry, an entreating hand, a hackneyed phrase that reiterationrendered parrot-like in intonation. The youth shrank back and fled awayin the darkness. Long afterwards that incident haunted him as an epitomeof all the horrors of cruel London. 

And Cuckoo, thus roused and deserted, put aside for the moment hernightmare, and started once more upon her promenade of the night. 

At last she began to fear that Julian would never come back, and by asudden impulse she wrote to him a short, very ill-spelt letter, hoping hewould come to tea with her on a certain afternoon. On the day mentionedshe waited in an agony of expectation. She had put on his black dress, removed all traces of paint and powder from her face, remembering hisformer request and her experiment, tricked Jessie out in a bright yellowsatin riband twisted into a bow almost larger than herself, and boughtflowers--large ones, sunflowers--to give to her dingy room an air ofrefinement and of gaiety. Amid all this brilliancy of yellow satin andyellow flowers she waited uneasily in her simple black gown. The day wasdull, not wet, but brooding and severe, iron-grey, like a hard-featuredPuritan, and still with the angry peace of coming thunder. The window wasopen to let in air, but no air seemed to enter, only the weariful andincessant street noises. Jessie wriggled about, biting sideways withanimation to get at her yellow adornment, and pattering around thefurniture seeking stray crumbs, which sometimes eluded her for a whileand, lying in hidden nooks and corners, unexpectedly rewarded herdesultory and impromptu search. Cuckoo leaned her arms across the table, glanced at the tea things for two, and listened. A cab stopped presently. She twisted in her chair to face the window. It had drawn up next door, and she subsided again into her fever of attention. Jessie found a crumband swallowed it with as much action and large air of tasting it as if ithad been a city dinner. The hands of the clock drew to the hour named inCuckoo's note, touched it, passed it. A sickness of despair began tocreep upon her like a thousand little biting insects. She shuffled in herseat, glanced this way and that, pressed her lips together, and, takingher arms from the table, clasped her hands tightly in her lap. Then shesat straight up and counted the tickings of the clock, the spots on thetablecloth, the gold stars upon the wallpaper of the room. She countedand counted until her head began to swim. And all the time she waited, the lady of the feathers was learning wisdom. The lesson was harsh, asthe lessons of time usually are; the lesson was bitter as Marah waters. And she thought the lesson was going to be a cross too heavy for hernarrow shoulders to bear when the iron gate of the garden sang itsinvariable little note of protest on being opened. Cuckoo's head turnedslowly to one side. Her haggard eyes swept the view of the path. Julianwas walking up it. 

She met him very quietly, almost seriously, and he shook hands withher as if they had been together quite recently and parted the best offriends. Only, as he held her hand, she noticed that he cast a hasty, andas she fancied a fearful, glance into her eyes. Then he seemed reassuredand they sat down to tea. Cuckoo supposed that he had for the momentdreaded what she called another row, and was satisfied by her expressionof good temper. They drank their tea, and after a short interval ofconstraint began chattering together very much as usual. At first Cuckoohad hardly dared to look much at Julian, lest he should see the joy shefelt at his coming, but when she was pouring out his second cup she lether eyes rest fully on his face, and only then did she realize that ashadow lay upon it, a shadow from which it had been free before. 

With a trembling hand she filled the cup and stared upon the shadow. She knew its brethren so well. In dead days she herself had helped tomanufacture such shadows upon the faces of men. She had seen them come, thin, faint, delicate, impalpable as a veil of mist before morning. Onlymorning light never followed them. And she had seen them stay and growand deepen and darken. Shadow over the eyes of the man, shadow round hislips, shadow like a cloud upon the forehead, shadow over the picturepainted by the soul, working through the features, that we callexpression. Many times had she seen the journey taken by a man's faceto that haunted bourne, arrived at which it is scarcely any more a man'sface, but only a mask expressive of one, or of many, sins. Had Julianthen definitely set foot upon that journey? As yet the shadow that layover him was no more than the lightest film, suggestive of a slightlyunnatural and forbidding fatigue. Yet Cuckoo shrank from it as from aghost. 

"Why, Cuckoo, your hand is trembling!" Julian said. 

"Oh, I was out late last night, " she answered, putting the teapot hastilydown. And they talked on, pretending there were only two of them and noshadowy third. 

Julian, having returned at last to the Marylebone Road, fell into hisold habit of coming there often. And each time that he came the lady ofthe feathers counted a fresh step on his hideous journey towards thehaunted bourne. Yet she never spoke of the dreary addition sum she wasdoing. She never reproached Julian, or wept, or let him see that herheart was growing cold as a pilgrim who kneels, bare, in long prayersupon the steps of a shrine. For she had learnt wisdom, and hugged it inher arms. Valentine was scarcely ever mentioned between them; but once, and evidently by accident, Julian allowed an expression to escape himwhich implied that Valentine now objected to the intimacy with Cuckoo. Immediately the words were uttered, Julian looked confused, and obviouslywould have wished to recall them, had it been possible. 

"Oh, I know as he don't like me, " Cuckoo said. 

Julian answered nothing. 

"Why d'you come, then?" she continued, with a certain desperation. "Thereain't nothin' here to bring you. I know that well enough. "

She cast a comprehensive glance round over the badly furnished room. 

"Nothin' at all, " she added with a sigh. 

While she spoke Julian began to wonder, too, why he came, why he likedto come there. As Cuckoo said, there was nothing at all to bring him sooften. He liked her, he was sorry for her, he had even a deep-runningsympathy for her, but he did not love her. Yet he was fascinated to cometo her, and there were sometimes moments when he seemed taken possessionof, led by the hand, to that squalid room and that squalid presence init. Why was that? What led him? He could not tell. 

"I like coming here, " he said; "and of course it's nothing to Valentinewhere I go. "

Cuckoo glanced up hastily at the words. A little serpent enmity surelyhissed in them. Julian spoke as if he were a man with some rebel feelingat his heart. But the serpent glided and was gone as he added:

"I'm always with him when I'm not with you, for I haven't seen the doctorfor ages. "

"The doctor! Who's that, then, " asked Cuckoo. 

"Doctor Levillier. Surely you've heard me talk about him. "

"No, dearie. "

"Oh, he's a nerve-doctor, and a sort of little saint, lives for his work, and is a deuced religious chap, never does anything, you know. "

Julian looked at her. 

"Oh, " she said. 

"And believes in everything. He's a dear little chap, the kindest heartin the world, good to every one, no matter who it is. He's devoted toValentine. "

"Eh?" said Cuckoo, with a long-drawn intonation of astonishment. 

"I say he's devoted to Valentine, " Julian repeated rather irritably. Histemper was much less certain and sunny lately than of old. "But I believehe's devoted to every one he can do any good to. We used to see himcontinually, but he's been abroad for weeks, looking after a bad case, aRussian Grand Duke in Italy, who would have him, and pays him all thefees he'd be getting in London. He'll be coming back directly, I think. "

"Where does he live?" said Cuckoo, ever so carelessly. 

Julian gave the number in Harley Street rather abstractedly. Theirconversation had led him to think of the little doctor. Would he be gladto see him again? And would Valentine? He tried to realize, and presentlyunderstood, and had a moment of shame at his own feeling. Soon afterwardshe went away. That night, before she went to Piccadilly, Cuckoo walkedround to Harley Street. She wandered slowly down the long thoroughfareand presently came to the doctor's house. There was a brass plate uponthe door. The light from a gas lamp, just lit, flickered upon it, andCuckoo, stopping, bent downwards and slowly read the printed name, "Doctor Levillier. " Did it look a nice name, a kind name? She consideredthat question childishly, standing there alone. Then, without making upher mind on the subject, she turned to go. As she did so she saw the tallfigure of a man motionless under the gas-lamp on the other side of thestreet. He was evidently regarding her, and Cuckoo felt a sudden thrillof terror as she recognized Valentine. They stood still on the twopavements for a minute, looking across at one another. Cuckoo could onlysee Valentine's face faintly, but she fancied it was angry and distorted, and her terror grew. She hesitated what to do, when he made what seemedto her a threatening gesture, and walked quickly away down the street. 

CHAPTER VII

THE LADY OF THE FEATHERS BUCKLES ON HER ARMOUR

That evening Cuckoo remained in a condition of mingled terror andresolution. There was something about Valentine that filled her, notmerely with alarm, but with a nameless horror, indescribable andinveterate. She felt that he was her deadly enemy and the enemy ofJulian. But he had cast such a spell over Julian that the latter wasblinded and ready to follow him anywhere, and not merely to follow him, but to defend every step he took. Cuckoo had a sense of entering upon acombat with Valentine. As she stood upon the doorstep in Harley Streetand faced him under the gas-lamp, were they not as antagonists definitelycrossing swords for the first time? It seemed so to her. And theimpression upon her was so strong and so exciting, that for once shebroke through her invariable routine. Instead of going to Piccadilly shewent home to her lodgings. It was about half-past nine when she arrivedand opened the door with her latchkey. Mrs. Brigg happened to be in thepassage _en route_ to the kitchen from some business in the upperregions. She stared upon Cuckoo with amazement. 

"What ever, " she began, her voice croaky with interrogation. "Are youill? What are you back for?"

"I'm all right, " said Cuckoo crossly. "Leave me alone, do. "

She turned into her sitting-room. Mrs. Brigg followed, open-mouthed. 

"Ain't you a-goin' out ag'in?"

"No; oh do leave off starin'. What's the matter with you?"

Mrs. Brigg heaved a thick sigh and shuffled round upon her heels, whichmade a noise upon the oilcloth like the boots of the comic man at amusic-hall. 

"Well, " she said with a sudden grimness, "I hope it'll be all right aboutthe rent, that's all. "

She vanished, shaking her head, on which a stray curl-paper, bereft ofits comrades of the morning, sat unique in a thin forest of iron-greywisps. 

Cuckoo shut her door and sat down to think. But at first she had toreceive the attentions of Jessie, who was even more surprised than Mrs. Brigg at her unexpected return, and who began to bark with shrill joyand run violently round the room with the speed of a rat emancipated froma cage. As she would not consent to repose herself again, Cuckoo at lastput her into the next room, on the bed, and shut the door on her. Thenshe returned, lit all the three gas-burners and turned them full on, before she removed her hat, and definitely settled herself in for theevening. She was fearful, and dreaded darkness, or even twilight. Thepulse of London beat round her while she stretched herself on the hardsofa, let down her touzled yellow hair, and frowned slowly as theunlearned do when they know that they want to meditate. 

Now and then she rose suddenly on her elbow, half turned her head towardsthe window and listened. She had thought she heard a step on the pavementpause, and the cry of the little iron gate. Then, reassured, she leanedback once more. She had taken off her boots, and her feet, in blackstockings gone a little white at the toes, were tilted up on the shoulderof the sofa. She fixed her eyes mechanically upon them while she began, all-confusedly, and with the blurred vagueness of the illiterate, to planout a campaign. Not that she said that word to herself; she did not knowits meaning. All that she knew was, that she wanted to put her backagainst the wall, or get into an angle, like a cornered animal, and useher teeth and claws against Valentine, that menacing figure with anangel's face. And what disgusted and drove Cuckoo almost mad as shelay there in the crude gaslight was the abominable fact that she wasdesperately afraid of Valentine. There was something about him whichfilled her not only with intense horror, but with something worse thanhorror, --intense fear. Why, she had all three gas-burners alight because, having met him that night and seen him watching her, she trembled at thefaintest shadow and must see things plainly, lest their dim outlinesshould appal her fancy by taking his form. 

Only once had the lady of the feathers known such enfeebling terror asthis, on the night when she fled from the hotel in the Euston Road andleft Marr dying on the bed between the tall windows. More than once, in her thoughts, had she loosely linked Marr with Valentine, puzzled, scarcely knowing why she did so. And, she repeated the mental operationnow more definitely. They had at least one thing in common, thisextraordinary power of striking fear into her soul. And Cuckoo wasnot accustomed to sit with fear. Her life had bred in her a strong, tough-fibred restlessness. She was essentially a careless creature, readyto argue, quarrel, hold her own with anybody, proud, as a rule, of beinga match for any man and well able to take care of herself. She hadknocked about, and was utterly familiar with many horrors of the streets, and of nameless houses. She had heard many rows at night; had been inbrawls; had been waked, in the dense hours, by sudden sharp cries forhelp; was accustomed to be alone with strangers, men of unknown history, of unknown deeds. And all these circumstances she met with absolutecarelessness, with a devil-may-care laugh, or the sigh of one weary, butnot afraid. She was no more timid than the average English street-boy. Only these two men, one dead, one alive, knew how to dress her in terrorfrom head to foot, brain, heart, and body. And so she joined them in aghastly brotherhood. 

But to-night she was making a conscious effort against the domination ofValentine, for the awakening of fear in her was counterbalanced by otherfeelings prompting her to fight. And once Cuckoo began to fight she feltthat she would not lack courage. For she clung to action, and hatedthought, walking clearly in the one, but through a maze in the other. 

Despite her fear of him, something drove her to fight Valentine; only shedid not know how to fight him. It was in a mood of doubt that she hadwandered into Harley Street and bent to read the name on the door ofDr. Levillier. Julian's description of the doctor had appealed to her. The mention of his goodness, of his pure life, of his care for others, had impressed her, she scarcely knew why, and brought into her mind adesire to see this little man. Yet he was devoted to Valentine. And thenCuckoo, lying back on the sofa, felt heart-sick, wondering at the powerof this man whom she hated and feared, wondering how she could ever fightagainst his influence over Julian; wondering, too, a little, why it wasthat she knew she must and certainly would fight it. For beyond themotive power of her love and jealousy, beyond the ordinary woman's desireto keep the man she admired from sinking to the level of the men shedespised, there was another fiery and strong and urging insistentinfluence working upon her, working within her, crying to her, like avoice, to buckle on her armour and to do battle with the enemy. Thisinfluence came silently from without, and spoke to the lady of thefeathers when she was alone, and never more clearly and powerfully thanto-night. It wrestled with her terror of Valentine, and told her to putit away, to come into closer relations with him fearlessly, not to fleefrom him, but rather to watch him, dog him, learn what he was and whathe was doing or trying to do. Yet fear fought this growing, stirring, strange warm influence that burned like a fire at Cuckoo's heart. Sheflushed and she paled as she lay there, with down-drawn brows and enlacedhands, her yellow hair falling over the hard, shiny horsehair of thesofa. She longed for some one to come to her who would give her counsel, help, courage, that she might fight for Julian, who was too spell-boundto fight for himself, and who was falling so fast, so terribly fast, into the abyss where men crawl like insects and women are as poisonousweeds in the slime of the pit. 

Oh, for some one!

Involuntarily she sat up and extended her thin arms almost as if in abeckoning gesture. 

As she did so the front door bell rang. 

Cuckoo was startled and felt as if it rang for her. But that wasunlikely; and there were other lodgers of her kind in the house. Nodoubt it was a visitor for one of them. 

Mrs. Brigg went in weary procession along the passage and opened thedoor. A few words were indistinctly spoken in a man's voice. Then thestreet door shut, and almost simultaneously the door of Cuckoo'ssitting-room opened very quietly and Valentine entered. 

CHAPTER VIII

VALENTINE EXPOUNDS THE GOSPEL OF INFLUENCE TO THE LADY OF THE FEATHERS

Valentine closed the door behind him and stood by it, looking at Cuckoogravely. She had pushed herself up on the sofa, using her elbows as alever, and in an awkward attitude, half sitting, half lying down, staredat him with startled eyes. Her unshod feet were drawn in towards herbody, and her dyed hair hung in a thick tangle round her face and on hershoulders. She said nothing. 

Valentine put his hat down on the table and began to take off his gloves. 

"I am glad to find you at home, " he said politely. 

Cuckoo shifted a little farther back on the sofa. Now that she wasactually shut up alone with Valentine, fear returned upon her andbanished every other feeling, every desire except the desire to beaway from him. She ran her tongue over her lips, which had suddenlybecome dry. 

"What are you come for?" she asked, never taking her eyes from his. 

"To see you. I have never yet returned your kind call upon me. "

"Eh?"

Cuckoo spoke in the tone of one who had become deaf, and she felt as ifthe agitation of her mind actually clamoured within her like a crowd ofhuman voices, deadening sounds from without. Valentine repeated hisremark, adding:

"Won't you ask me to sit down?"

He put his hand on the back of a chair. 

"May I?"

Cuckoo gave her body a jerk which brought her feet down to the floor, sothat she was sitting upright. She pushed out one of her hands as if inprotest. 

"You can't sit here, " she murmured. 

"I? Why not?"

"I can't have you here, nor I won't either. "

Her voice was growing louder and fiercer as the first paralysis ofsurprise died gradually away from her. After all, she had not buckledon her armour only to run away from the enemy in it. The street Arabimpudence was not quite killed in her by the strange influence of thisman. The mere fact of having her feet firmly planted upon the floor gaveCuckoo a certain fillip of courage, and she tossed her head with that oldvulgar gesture of hers which suggested the harridan. She pointed to thedoor. 

"Out you go!" she cried. 

For her intrepidity had not risen to calm contemplation of an interview. She was only bracing herself up to the necessary momentary endurance ofhis presence, which followed upon Mrs. Brigg's admittance of him withinthe door. 

Valentine heard the gentle hint unmoved, and replied to it by drawinga chair out from the table and sitting down upon it. A sort of rage, stirred by terror, ran over Cuckoo. She seized the back of his chairwith both hands and shook it violently. 

"No, you don't stay, " she ejaculated; "I won't have it!"

It was characteristic of her to lose all sense of dignity at an instant, when dignity might have served her purpose. Her outburst might have beendirected against a statue. Valentine neither moved nor looked in any wayaffected. Glancing at Cuckoo with a whimsical amusement, he said:

"What a child you are! When will you learn wisdom!"

Cuckoo took away her hands. A conviction pierced her that the weapons awoman may use with effect against an ordinary man could be of no servicenow, and with this man. She faded abruptly from anger and violence intofatigue, always closely accompanied by fear. 

"I'm awfully tired to-night, " she said. "Please do go! I'm home becauseI'm tired. "

"The walk from Harley Street was too much for you. You shouldn't makesuch exertions. "

For the first time a sinister note rang in his voice. 

"I shall go where I like, " Cuckoo answered, and this time with some realsturdiness of manner. "It ain't nothin' to you where I go, nor what Ido. "

"How can you tell that?"

She laid her chin in the upturned palms of her two hands, planting herelbows on her knees. 

"How can it be?" she said. "I'm nothin' to you, nor I ain't going to beeither. "

"That's what you say. "

"And it's God's truth too!" she cried again with violence, as the senseof Valentine's inflexible power grew in her. 

"I'm going to smoke if you will allow me, " Valentine said. 

Slowly he drew out and lit a cigarette, Cuckoo neither refusing norpermitting it. With protruding lips he threw the light smoke round him. Then speaking through it he said:

"Tell me why you go to Harley Street. "

"I ain't goin' to talk to you. "

"Tell me why. It lies out of your beat; it's a respectable thoroughfare. "

The words were said to sting. Cuckoo let them go by. She had been stungtoo often, and repetition of cruelty sometimes kills what it repeats. Sheset her lips to silence, with a look of obstinacy not impressive, butmerely mulish and childish. 

"Well?" Valentine said. 

She made no answer. He did not seem angry, but continued:

"You find few fish for your net there, I imagine. But perhaps you don'tgo for fish. What was the name you read upon the door while I watchedyou?"

This time Cuckoo, changing her mind, as she often did, with all theswiftness of a crude nature, answered him:

"You know well enough!"

"It was Dr. Levillier, wasn't it?"

She nodded her head silently. 

"Why do you go to his door? What do you want with him?"

Cuckoo's quick woman's instinct detected a suspicion of something thatwas like anxiety in his voice as he said the words. In an instant thewarm impulse that, in her silent meditation, had led her to buckle on herarmour and to think, with a certain courage, that she was to fight oneday, stirred and glowed and leaped up, an impulse greater than herself. The fear that had fallen upon her was lessened, for she felt that thisman, too, might, nay did, know fear. 

"What's that to you?"

She turned upon him boldly with the question, and he knew her forthe first time as an antagonist, who might actively attack as well aspassively hate. He leaned forward, and looked into her eyes searchingly, with a sort of rapture, of anxiety, too. It recalled something to Cuckoo. She tried to remember what, but for a moment could not. Then, as ifreassured, he resigned his eager and nervous posture of inquiry. Thatsecond movement brought the light that Cuckoo's puzzled mind sought. It was Julian who had looked first into her eyes with that strangewatchfulness. These men echoed one another in that glance which shecould not understand. What they sought in her eyes she could not tell. If it were the same thing it could not be love. And it seemed to be athing that they feared to find. 

"Doctor Levillier is a great friend of mine, " Valentine said. "He is afamous nerve-doctor. Seeing you hovering about his door led me to supposeyou might be ill, and were going to consult him. I hope you are not ill. "

"Not I!"

"Because he is away from home at present. "

"Oh!"

"Do you want to see him?"

"I suppose I can see him, like any one else, if I've a mind to. "

"Well! He's--he doesn't see quite every one. His practice is only amongthe richest and smartest people in town. Some one else might answer yourpurpose better. "

He spoke suavely, but the words he said cemented Cuckoo's previouslyvague thought of trying, perhaps, to see Doctor Levillier into a sudden, strong determination. She divined that, for some reason, Valentine wasanxious that she should not see him. That was enough. She would, atwhatever cost, make his acquaintance. 

"I'll see him if I like, " she said hastily, lost to any appreciationof wisdom, through the desire of aiming an instant blow at Valentine. 

"Of course! Why not?" was his reply. 

"You don't want me to. I can see that, " she went on, still moreunadvisedly. "You needn't think as you can get over me so easily. "

Valentine's smile showed a certain contempt that angered her. 

"I know you, " she cried. 

"Do you?" he said. "I wonder if you would like to know me? Do youremember Marr?"

The lady of the feathers turned cold. 

"Marr!" she faltered; "what of him?"

"You have not forgotten him. "

"He's dead!"

A pause. 

"He's dead, I say. "

"Exactly! As dead as a strong man who has lived long in the world evercan be. "

"What d'you mean? I say he's dead and buried and done with. " Her voicewas rather noisy and shrill. 

"That's just where you make a mistake, " Valentine said quite gravely, rather like a philosopher about to embark upon an argument. "He is notdone with. Suppose you fear a man, you hate him, you kill him, you puthim under the ground, you have not done with him. "

"I didn't kill him! I didn't, I didn't!" Cuckoo cried out, shrilly, half rising from the sofa. A wild suspicion suddenly came over her thatValentine was pursuing her as an avenger of blood, under the mistakenidea that she had done Marr to death in the night. 

"Hush! I know that. He died naturally, as a doctor would say, and he hasbeen buried; and by now probably he is a shell that can only contain thedarkness of his grave. Yet, for all that, he's not done with, MissBright. "

"He is! he is!" she persisted. 

The mention of Marr always woke terror in her. She sat, her eyes fixedon Valentine, her memory fixed on Marr. Perhaps for this reason what hermemory saw and what her eyes saw seemed gradually to float together, and fuse and mingle, till eyes and memory mingled, too, into one sense, observant of one being only, neither wholly Marr nor wholly Valentine, but both in one. She had linked them together vaguely before, but neveras now. Yet even now the clouds were floating round her and the vapours. She might think she saw, but she could not understand, and what she sawwas rather a phantom standing in a land of mirage than a man standingin the world of men. 

"Some day, perhaps, I will prove to you that he is not, " Valentine said. 

"Eh, how?"

She had lost all self-consciousness now, and in her eagerness of fear, wonder, and curiosity seemed tormented by the veil of yellow hair thatwas flopping in frizzy strands round her face and over her eyes. Sheseized it in her two hands, and with a few shooting gestures, in and out, wound it into a dishevelled lump, which she stuck to the back of her headwith two or three pins. All the time she was looking at Valentine for ananswer to her question. 

"Perhaps I don't know how yet. "

"Yes, you do, though. I can see you do. What have you got to do with him, with Marr?"

"I never said I had anything to do with him. "

"Ah! but you have. I always knew it!"

"Many men are linked together by thin, perhaps invisible threads, impalpable and impossible to define. "

The lady of the feathers was out of her depth in this sentence, so sheonly tossed her head and murmured:

"Oh, I dessay!" with an effort after contempt. 

But Valentine's mood seemed to change. An abstracted gaiety stole overhim. If it was simulated, the simulation was very perfect and complete. Sitting back in his chair, the cigarette smoke curling lightly roundhim, his large blue eyes glancing gravely now at Cuckoo crumpled up onthe horsehair sofa, now meditatively at some object in the little room, or at the ceiling, he spoke in a low, clear, level voice, as if utteringhis thoughts aloud, careless or oblivious of any listener. 

"Every man who lives, and who has a personality, has something to do withmany men whom he has never seen, whom he will never see. Messengers gofrom him as carrier-pigeons go from a ship. He may live alone, as a shipis alone in mid-ocean, but the messengers are winged, and their wings arestrong. They fly high and they fly far, and wherever they pause and rest, that man has left a mark, has stamped himself, has uttered himself, hasplanted a seed of his will. Have you a religion?"

Valentine stopped abruptly after uttering this question, and waited foran answer. It was characteristic enough. 

"What?" said the lady of the feathers, staring wide-eyed. 

"I say, have you a religion?"

"Not I. How can I when I don't go to no church?"

"That is, no doubt, a convincing proof of heathendom. And yet I have areligion that never leads me to a church door. My religion is will, mygospel is the gospel of influence, and my god is power. Will binds theworld into a net, whose strands are like iron. Will dies if it is weak, but if it is strong enough it becomes practically immortal. But, thoughit lives itself, it has the power to kill others. It can murder a soul ina man or a woman, and throw it into the grave to decay and go to dust, and in the man it can create a soul diametrically opposite to the corpse, and the world will say the man is the same; but he is not the same. He isanother man. Or if the will is not strong enough actually to kill asoul"--at this point Valentine spoke more slowly, and there was a certainnote of uneasiness, even almost of agitation, in his voice--"it can yetexpel it from the body in which it resides, and drive it, like a newIshmael, into the desert, where it must hover, useless, hopeless, degraded, and naked, because it has no body to work in. Yes! yes! thatmust be so! The soul can have no power divorced from the body! none!none!"

He got up from his chair, and began to pace the little room. Cuckoowatched him as a child might watch a wild animal in its cage. His facewas hard and thin with deep thought, and hers was contorted under heryellow hair--contorted in a frantic effort to grasp and to understandwhat he was saying; for, stupid, ignorant as the lady of the featherswas, she had a sharp demon in her that often told her the truth, andthis demon whispered now in her ear:

"Listen, and you may learn things that you long to know!"

And she listened motionless, her eyes bright and eager, her lips shuttogether, her slim body a-quiver with intensity, mental and physical. 

"How can it?" Valentine went on. "What is a soul without a body? Youcannot see it. You cannot hear it, and if you think you can, that isa vile trick of the mind, an hallucination. For if one man can see it, why not another? Here, let me look into your eyes again. "

As he said the last words, he stopped opposite to Cuckoo, suddenly caughther chin in his two hands, which felt hard and cold, and forcibly pushedup her face towards his. She was terrified, beginning now to think himmad, and to fear personal injury. Gazing hard and furtively into hereyes, he said:

"No; it's a lie! It is not there. It never was! It is dead and finishedwith, and I won't fear it. "

As if struck by the fatigue of some sudden reaction, he sank down againinto his chair, and went on with his apparently fantastic monologue:

"And if it was ever alive, what could it do? A soul can't work, exceptthrough a body; it must fasten on a body, and bend the body to itswill--man is such a creature that he can only be influenced through fleshand blood, nerves, sinews, eyes, things he can see, things that he canhear. He is so grovelling that nothing more delicate than these reallyappeals to him. "

Again, and this time with less abstraction, and with a sort ofcontemptuous humour, he turned to the lady of the feathers, andcontinued, as if once more aware of her presence:

"Are you imbibing my gospel, the gospel of will and of influence? I seeyou are by your pretty attitude and by the engaging face you are makingat me. Well, don't get it wrong. A gospel gone wrong in a mind isdangerous, and worse than no gospel at all. If you get this gospel wrongyou may become conceited, and fancy yourself possessed of a power whichyou haven't a notion of. To use will in any really affective way, youmust train your body, and take care of it, not ruin it, and let it runto seed, or grow disfigured, or a ghastly tell-tale, a truth-teller, atown-crier with a big bell going about and calling aloud all the sillyor criminal things you do. Now you have forgotten this, or perhaps younever knew it, and so will could not work in you; not even, I believe, a malign will to do mischief. You have thrown your body to the wolves, and whoever looks upon you must see the marks of their teeth. "

It was evident that he gloated on this idea that the body of the lady ofthe feathers was forever useless for good, and even powerless to do mucheffective evil. He seemed to revel in the notion that she was simply athing powerless, negative, and totally vain. 

"I was mad ever to imagine the contrary, " he said. Then, glancing awayfrom personality, he exclaimed with more energy:

"But sometimes a will is so great, so trained, so watchful ofopportunities, so acute and ready, that, instead of passing awaypractically on the passing away of the body in which it has been bornand has lived, and merely living and working through the emanationsof itself that have clung to men and women in many different places, instead--in fact--of being diffused--you understand me?" he brokeout, with an obvious delight in the grossness of her ignorance and thedenseness of her bewilderment and misunderstanding of him--"which is asort of death, it seizes, whole, as a body, with all the members sound, upon another home. It commits, in effect, a great act of brigandage. It lives on complete, powerful--even more powerful than ever before, because to all its original powers it adds a glory of deception, andis a living lie. If only you could understand me!"

Suddenly he burst into a peal of laughter that was a full stop to hisphilosophy. His cigarette had gone out. He threw it into the grate andstretched out his arms, still laughing. And Cuckoo gazing at him, as iffascinated, said silently to herself, "If only I could!"

For she felt as if Valentine were telling her a great secret, secure inthe hideous knowledge that, though she heard it, it must remain a secretfrom her on account of her ignorance and of her stupidity. There wassomething in that feeling peculiarly maddening, yet Cuckoo displayed noirritation. The sharp little demon at her elbow whispered to her to besilent, told her that she might learn, might yet understand, if she wouldplay a part, and be no more the wildcat, the foolishly impulsive lady ofthe feathers. Valentine struck his hand upon the table, and repeated:

"Why--why can't you understand?"

The piquancy of the situation evidently delighted his mind and hissense of mischief. He enjoyed playing the philosopher to a fool; andthe more the fool became a fool, the higher soared his philosophy andhis appreciation of it. There is always something paradoxical in wisdominstructing folly, for, after all, folly can never really learn, cannever really understand. Valentine hugged that thought. 

"Go on, " the lady of the feathers said, apparently in gaping wonderment. 

"Why? do you mean to tell me you are interested?"

"I'm listenin'! It sounds wonderful!"

"It is wonderful!" Valentine cried. "Every living lie is wonderful. But you don't know yet much about will. My gospel is full of secretsand of subtleties, and only a few people are beginning to guess at itsfar-reaching power, and to aim at learning its truths and soundingits depths. And many unbelievers play with it, and never know that theyare playing with fire. A man did this once. Shall I tell you about him?"

"Yes!" said Cuckoo. 

And her soul cried to the darkness in which she imagined some vague powerto dwell; cried aloud for understanding. This silent cry was so intensethat she lay back upon the hard sofa, almost exhausted, and as she laythere, something hot, like fire, seemed to make its nest in her heart, and to flame there, and to be alive, as a flame is alive, and to speak toher, but not aloud, as a flame speaks in the coals to the imagination ofthe watcher by the hearth. In that moment the lady of the feathers feltas if she were conscious of a new companion, a companion full of someintensity towards her, some anxiety about her, anxious and brilliant as aflame is, vital, keen, blazing, intense. Although she could not defineher sensation thus, that lack of analytical power could not deprive herof it. She knew that her vision became clearer, that her mind becamebrighter, that a light illumined her, that she was, for the moment, greater than herself. But Valentine did not know it. He looked towardsthe sofa and saw spread upon it a thin, painted, haggard young creaturecurled into a position at once passionate, languid, and merely awkward, with relentless, thickly tangled hair, staring eyes, and half-openedlips, glowering in rouged stupidity and a coarseness of the gutter. Hewas a philosopher, with a beauty of the stars and of snows, with arefinement, white in its brilliance. She was an image of Regent Street, a ghastly idol of the town; and he was telling her strange things thatshe could never comprehend, in a jargon that was to her as Greek or asHebrew. It was too absurd. Yet he loved to tell her, and he couldscarcely tell why he loved it. 

"Go on, " said the lady of the feathers. 

"This man, " Valentine said, assuming a devout earnestness to trick hermore, and watching for the puzzled expression to grow and to deepen inher eyes, --"this man had a holy nature, or I will say an unalterable willto do only things pure, reserved, refined--things that could not lead hisbody into difficulties, or his mind into quagmires. He was a saintwithout a religion. That is a possibility, I assure you; for a willcan be amazingly independent. He had the peculiar grace that is said tobelong to angels, a definite repugnance to sin. I know you understandme. "

She nodded bluntly. 

"I know--he couldn't go wrong, if it was ever so, " she ejaculated. 

"If it was ever so--as the housemaids say--you put the position of thisman in a nutshell, and if this strange will of his had never relented, the transformation I am going to describe, or--" he paused for a momentas if in doubt, then continued--"or rather to hint at, would never havetaken place. But he grew dissatisfied with his will. It bored him ever solittle. He fancied he would like to change it, and to substitute for itthe will of the world. And the will of the world, as you know well, mylady of the feathers, is to sin. For some time he longed, vaguely enough, to be different, to be, in fact, lower down in the scale than he was. But his longing to be able to desire sin did not lead him to desire itactually. One can force one's self to do a thing, you see, but one cannotforce one's self to wish to do it, or to enjoy doing it. And this man, being a selfish saint--saints are very often very selfish--would not sinwithout desiring it. So it seemed that he must remain forever as he was, a human piece of flawless porcelain, wishing to be cracked and commondelft. "

"Whatever did he wish it for?" asked Cuckoo, with the surprise of a zany. 

"Who can tell why one man wishes for one thing, another for another?That, too, is a mystery. The point is, that he did wish it, and that hedid something more. "

"What was that, eh?"

"He deliberately tried to weaken and to deface his will; to alter it. And he chose curious means, acting under suggestion from another willor influence that was more powerful than his own, because it was utterlyself-satisfied and desired only to be what it was. I don't think I willtell you what the means were. But his original dissatisfaction with hisown goodness was the weapon that brought about his own destruction. Hiswill did not change, as he believed; but what do you think actuallyhappened to it? I will tell you. It was expelled from his body. He lostit forever. He lost, in fact, his identity. For will is personality, soul, the ego, the man himself. And this soul, if you choose to call itso, was driven into the air. It went away in the darkness, like a bird. Do you see?"

He waved his hand upward, and lifted his eyes, as if following with themthe flight that he described. 

"It flew away!"

"Where did it go?" ejaculated Cuckoo. 

Valentine seemed suddenly to become fully aware of the depth of herinterest. 

"Ah! even you are fascinated by my gospel, you who cannot understand it, "he said. "But I cannot tell you where it went. I too have wondered. "

He knit his brows rather moodily over this question of location. "I toohave wondered. But I imagine that it died; that it ceased to be. Divorcedfrom the body that was its home, degraded by dissatisfaction with itself, of what use could it be to any one? Even if it still continues to be, itis practically dead, for it can work neither harm nor good to any one, and the thing that cannot be good or evil, or turn others towards theone or the other, is dead. It is no more a will. It is no more aninfluence. It is a heart without a pulse in it; in fact, it is nothing. "

A sort of joy had leapt into his face as he dwelt on this idea ofnothingness, and he added:

"It is something like your soul, my lady of the feathers. Do you hearme?"

"Yes. I hear!"

"But the will that ousted it gained in power by that triumph. Totallyself-satisfied, desirous of being only that which it is, having no enemyof yearning disappointment with itself in its camp, it can do what willnever did before. It can lead captive the soul that was formerly thecaptive of the soul that it drove away to die. Like an enemy it hasseized its opponent's camp, and the slave dwelling in that camp is nowits slave forever. "

As Valentine spoke he seemed to become almost intoxicated with thethoughts conjured up by his own words. His blue eyes blazed with a furyof shining excitement. His white cheeks were suffused with blood. 

"I have made myself, my will, a god!" he exclaimed passionately. 

At the words the lady of the feathers moved suddenly forward on the sofa. 

"What--_you_!" she said. 

The last word was uttered with an intensity that could surely onlyspring from something near akin to comprehension, if not from actualcomprehension itself. It certainly startled Valentine, or seemed tostartle him. His face showed an amazement like the amazement ofa man raving to an image of wood, to whom, abruptly, the wood speakswith a tongue. 

"What do you mean?" he said, and his voice faltered from its note oftriumph and of exultation. 

Cuckoo resumed her former position. 

"Only was you the will, or the man, or whatever it all is?" she repliedin the voice of one hopelessly muddled. 

Valentine was reassured as to her stupidity. 

"That has nothing to do with the story, " he said. 

"There was two of them, was there?" she persisted, but still with theaccent of a hopeless dullard. 

"Oh yes. One will must always work upon another, or else there could beno story worth the telling. "

"Oh, I see; that's it. "

Valentine again broke into laughter. 

"You see, do you?" he said. "You see that, but do you see the truth ofwhat I told you before about the connection of the will with the body?Do you see why you have no power now, can never have power again? Do youunderstand that the wreck of your body inevitably causes the wreck ofyour will, so that it really dies and ceases, because it can no moreinfluence others? Do you understand that? I'll make you understand itnow. Come here. "

He got up from his chair and seized her two hands in his, dragging heralmost violently up from the sofa. Her fear of him, always lurking near, came upon her with a rush at the contact of his hands, and she hung back, moved by an irresistible repulsion. The slight and momentary strugglebetween them caused her hair, carelessly turned up and loosely pinned, tocome down. It fell all round her in a loose shock of unnatural colour. Valentine's hands were strong, and Cuckoo soon felt that resistance wasuseless. She let her body yield, and he drew her in front of the glassthat stood over the mantelpiece. Pushing back the table behind them, hemade her stand still in the unwinking glare of the three gas-jets, whichshe had herself turned up earlier in the evening. 

"Look there!" he cried; "look at yourself well! How can you have powerover anybody?"

Their two faces, set close together as in a frame, stared at them fromthe mirror, and Cuckoo--forced to obedience--examined them as if indeedthey were a picture. She saw the man's face, fair, beautiful, refined, triumphant, full of the courage that is based upon experience of itselfand of its deeds and possibilities, full of a strange excitement thatfilled the face with amazingly vivid expression. She saw the bright blueeyes gazing at her, the red lips of the mouth curved in a smile. Therewas health in the face as well as thought. And there was power, which isgreater than health, more beautiful even than beauty. And then she turnedher eyes to the face's companion. Thin, sharp, faded, it met her eyes, half-shrouded in the thick, tumbled hair that shone in the mirror withthe peculiar frigid glare that can only be imparted by a chemical dye, and can never be simulated by nature. One cheek was chalk-white. Theother, which had been pressed against the horsehair of the sofa, showeda harsh, scarlet patch. All the varying haggard expressions of the worldseemed crowding in the eyes of this scarecrow, and peering beneath thethickly blackened eyelashes that struck a violent discord against theyellow hair. The thin lips of the mouth were pressed together in anexpression of pain, fear, and weariness. Shadows slept under the eyeswhere the face had fallen into hollows. To-night there seemed no vestigeof prettiness in those peaked features. Nothing of health, youth, gaiety, or even girlhood, was written in them, but only a terrible, a brutalrecord of spoliation and of wreckage, of plunder, and of despair. Andthe gaslight, striking the flat surface of the mirror, made the recordglitter with a thin, cheap sparkle, like the tinsel trappings of thelife whose story the mirror revealed in its reflection. 

How, indeed, could such a creature have power over fellow man or womanfor good or for evil? If weakness can be written without words, it seemedwritten in that wasted countenance, which Cuckoo examined with a creepinghorror that numbed her like frost. As she did so, Valentine was watchingthe ungraciousness of her face in the glass deepen and glide, moment bymoment, into greater ugliness, greater degradation. And as the littlelight there had ever been behind those unquiet eyes, faded graduallyaway, in his reflected eyes the light leaped up into fuller glare, sparkling to unbridled triumph. And his reflected lips smiled moredefiantly, until the smile was no longer touched merely with triumph, but with something more vehement and more malign! Cuckoo did not seethe change. She saw only herself, and her heart cried and wailed, Whatgood--what good to love Julian? What good to hate Valentine? What goodto fight for the man she loved against the man she loathed? As well seta doll to move its tense joints against an army, or a scarecrow to defya god! Never before had she realized thoroughly the complete tragedy ofher life. Hitherto she had assisted at it in fragments, coming in fora scene here, a scene there. Now she sat through the whole of the fiveacts, and the only thing she missed was the fall of the curtain. Thatremained up. But why? There was--there could be--nothing more to come, unless a dreary recapitulation of such dreary events as had already beendisplayed. Such a cup could hold no wine that was not foul, thick, andpoisonous. And she had known herself so little as to imagine that shecould really love, and that her love might fulfil itself in protectioninstead of sensual gratification. Yes, vaguely she had believed that. She had even believed that she could put on armour and do battleagainst--and at this point in her desperate meditation the lady of thefeathers shifted her eyes from her own face mirrored to the face besideit. As she did so, a sudden cry escaped from her lips. For a moment shethought she saw the face of the dead Marr, and the hallucination was sovivid that when it was gone and the mirror once more revealed the faceof Valentine, Cuckoo had no thought but that she had really seen Marr. She turned sharply round and cast a glance behind her. Then:

"Did you see him?" she whispered to Valentine. 

"Whom?"

"Him--Marr! He's not dead; he's here; he's here, I tell you. I see him inthe glass!"

She shivered. The room seemed spinning round with her, and the two facesdanced and sprang in the mirror, as if a hand shook it up and down, fromside to side. 

"If he is here, " Valentine said, "it is not in the way you fancy. Yourimagination has played you a trick. "

"Didn't you--didn't you see him? Don't you see him now?"

"I see only you and myself. "

As if for a joke he bent his head and peered closely at the mirror, likea man endeavouring to discern some very pale and dim reflection there. 

"No, he's--he's not there!" he murmured, "but--"

With a harsh exclamation he dashed his fist against the mirrored face ofthe lady of the feathers. The glass cracked and broke from top to bottom. Cuckoo cried out. Valentine's hand had blood upon it. He did not seem toknow this, and swung round upon her with an almost savage fury. 

"Don't--don't, for God's sake, " she cried, fearing an attack. 

But he made no movement against her. On the contrary, an expression ofrelief chased the anger from his lips and eyes. 

"Ah!" he said, "that's a lying mirror! It lied to you and to me. Ismashed it. Well, I'll give you another that is more truthful, and moreornamental too. "

"What was it you saw?" she murmured. 

"A silly vision, power where there is only weakness; a will, a soul, where there could not be one!"

"Eh? was it that you struck at?"

"Why do you ask?" he said with sudden suspicion. 

"You struck where my face was, " she said doggedly. "You did, you did!"

"Nonsense!"

"It ain't! Why did you do it, then?"

A gleam of hope had shot into her eyes, lit by his weird attack uponher mirrored image. After all, despite his sneers at her faded body, hisgibes at her faded and decaying soul, he struck at her as a man strikesat the thing he fears. In that faded soul a wild hope and courage leapedup, banishing all the sick despair which had preceded it. The lady of thefeathers faced Valentine with a deathless resolution of glance and ofattitude. 

"You've been telling lies, " she said "you've been telling me damnedlies!"

"What do you mean?"

"You said as I was--was done with. "

A forced smile came like a hissing snake on Valentine's lips. 

"So you are!"

"I ain't! I ain't! What's more, you know it!"

"You have broken yourself to pieces as I have broken that mirror!"

He spoke with an effort after scathing contempt, but she detected aquiver of agitation in his voice. 

"If I have, I'll break you yet!" she cried. 

"Me? What are you talking about?"

"You know well enough. "

"But do you know--do you know that I--I am Marr?"

He almost whispered the last words! A chill of awe fell over the lady ofthe feathers. She did not understand what he meant, and yet she felt asif he spoke the truth, as if this inexplicable mystery were yet indeed nofiction, no phantasy, but stern fact, and as if, strangely, she had atthe back of her mind divined it, known it when she first knew Valentine, yet only realized it now that he himself told her. She did not speak. Sheonly looked at him, turning white slowly as she looked. 

"I am Marr, " he repeated. "Now do you understand my gospel? Understand itif you can, for you are bereft of the power that belongs of right only tothe woman who is pure. Long ago, perhaps, you might have fought me. Whoknows, you might even have conquered me? But you have thrown yourself tothe wolves, and they have torn you till you are only a skeleton. And howcan a soul dwell in a skeleton? Your soul, your will, is as useless asthat vagrant soul of Valentine, which I expelled into the air and intothe night. It can do nothing; you can do nothing either. If I have everfeared you, and hated you because I feared you, I have fooled myself. Ihave divined your thoughts. I have known your enmity against me, and yourlove--_yours_!--for Julian. But if the soul and the will of Valentinecould not save Julian from my possession, how can yours? You are anoutcast of the streets! Go back to the streets. Live in them! Die inthem! They are your past, your present, your future. They are your hell, your heaven. They are everything to you. I tell you that you are as muchof them as are the stones of the pavement that the feet of such women asyou tread night after night. And what soul can a street thing have? Whatcan be the will of a creature who gives herself to every man who beckons, and who follows every voice that calls? I feared you. I might as wellhave feared a shadow, an echo, a sigh of the wind, or the fall of anautumn leaf. I might as well have feared that personal devil whom menraise up for themselves as a bogey. Will is God! Will is the Devil! Willis everything! And you--you, having tossed your will away--are nothing. "

He had spoken gravely, even sombrely. On the last word he was gone. 

The lady of the feathers stood alone in the ugly little room, and heardthe clock of the great church close by chime the hour of midnight. Herface was set and white under its rouge, in its frame of disorderedcanary-coloured hair. Her eyes were clouded with perplexity, with horror, and with awe. Yet she looked undaunted. Staring at the door through whichthe man men still called Valentine Cresswell had vanished, she whispered:

"It ain't true! It ain't! Nothin' does for a woman; not when she loves aman! Nothin'. Nothin'. "

She fell down against the hard horsehair sofa, and stretched her armsupon it, and laid her head against them, as if she prayed. 

BOOK IV--DOCTOR LEVILLIER

CHAPTER I

THE LADY VISITS DOCTOR LEVILLIER

The Russian Grand Duke, whose malady was mainly composed of twoingredients, unlimited wealth and almost unlimited power, was slowin recovering, and slower still in making up his mind to part with thelittle nerve-doctor whom he had summoned from England. And so Londonwas beginning to fall into its misty autumn mood before Doctor Levillierwas once more established in Harley Street. He had heard occasionallyfrom both Valentine and Julian during his long absence, but their lettershad not communicated much, and once or twice when he, in replying tothem, had put one or two friendly questions as to their doings, thosequestions had remained unanswered. The doctor had been particularlyreluctant to leave England at the time when the Grand Duke's summonsreached him, as his interest and curiosity about Valentine had just beenkeenly and thoroughly roused. But fate fought for the moment against hiscuriosity. It remained entirely ungratified. He had not once seenValentine since the afternoon in Victoria Street, when the lamentationof that thoroughfare's saint had struck consternation into the hearts ofmusical sinners. Nor had the doctor met any one who could give him newsof the two youths over whose welfare his soul had learned to watch. Now, when he returned to London, he found that both Valentine and Julian wereabroad. Only Rip, left in charge of Julian's servant, greeted him withjoy; Rip, whose conduct had given the first strong impulse to his wonderand doubt about Valentine. 

Doctor Levillier took up the threads of his long-forsaken practice, andgave himself to his work while autumn closed round London. One day heheard casually from a patient that Valentine and Julian had returned totown. He wondered that they had not let him know: the omission seemedcurious and unfriendly. 

During the day on which the news reached him he was, as usual, busily engaged from morning till evening in the reception ofpatients. His reputation was very great, and men and women throngedhis consulting-rooms. Although his rule was that nobody could evergain admission to him without an appointment, it was a rule made to bebroken. He never had the heart to turn any one from his door in distress, and so it frequently happened that his working-day was prolonged by theadmission of people who unexpectedly intruded themselves upon him. Greatladies, more especially, often came to him on the spur of the moment, prompted to seek his solace by sudden attacks of the nerves. A lover hadused them ill, perhaps, or a husband had turned upon them and had rent along dressmaker's bill into fragments, without paying it first. Or the_ennui_ of an exquisite life of unbridled pleasure had suddenly sprungupon them like a grisly spectre, torn their hearts, shaken them intotears. Or--and this happened often--a fantastic recognition of theobvious fact that even butterflies must die, had abruptly started intotheir minds, obtruding a skeleton head above the billowing _chiffons_, rattling its bones until the dismal sound outvied the _frou-frou_ ofsilk, the burr of great waving fans, the click of high heels from Paris. Then, in terror, they drove to Doctor Levillier's door and begged to seehim, if only for a moment. 

There was no doctor in London so universally sought by the sane lunaticsof society as Dr. Levillier. He was no mad-doctor. He had no privateasylum. He had never definitely aimed at becoming a famous specialist inlunacy. But the pretty lunatics came to him, nevertheless; the lunaticswho live at afternoon parties, till the grave yawns at their feet, andthey must go down the strange ways of another world, teacup in hand, scandal still fluttering upon their ashy lip; the lunatics who livefor themselves, until their eyes are hollow as tombs and their mouthsfall in from selfishness, and their cheeks are a greenish white fromsatiety, and lust's gratified flame beacons on their drawn cheeks andalong their crawling wrinkles; the lunatics who seek to be what they cannever be, the beauties of this world, the great Queens of the Sun, whosegaze shall glorify, whose smile shall crown and bless, whose touch shallcall hearts to agony and to worship, whose word shall take a man fromhis plough and send him out to win renown, or snatch a leader from hisambition and set him creeping in the dust, like a white mouse prisonedby a scarlet silken thread; the lunatics who dandle religions like dolls, and play with faiths as a boy plays with marbles, until the moment comeswhen the game is over, and the player is faced by the terror of a greatlesson; the lunatics who stare away their days behind prancing horses inthe Park, who worship in the sacred groves of bonnets, who burn incenseto rouged and powdered fashions, who turn literature into a "movement, "and art into a cult, and humanity into a bogey, and love into anadulterous sensation; the lunatics who think that to "live" is onlyanother word for to sin, that innocence is a prison and vice liberty; thelunatics who fill their boudoirs with false gods, and cry everlastingly, "Baal, hear us!" till the fire comes down from heaven, which is nopainted ceiling presided over by a plaster god. These came to DoctorLevillier day by day, overtaken by sad moments, by sudden, drearycrises of the soul, that set them impotently wailing, like Job amongthe potsherds. Many of them did not "curse God, " only because they didnot believe in Him. 

It is not the fashion in London to believe in God just now. 

Dr. Levillier had always, since he was a youth, walking hospitals andsearching the terror of life for all its secrets, felt a deep care, adeep solicitude, for each duet, body and soul, that walked the world. Hehad never set them apart, never lost sight of one in turning his gazeupon the other. This fact, no doubt, accounted partially for the factthat many looked upon him as the greatest nerve-doctor in London. For thenervous system is surely a network lacing the body to the soul, and _viceversa_. Every _liaison_ has its connecting links, the links that havebrought it into being. One lust stretches forth a hook and finds an eyein another, and there is union. So with faiths, with longings, with fineaspirations, with sordid grovellings. There is ever the hook seeking theappropriate eye. The body has a hook, the soul an eye. They meet at birthand part only at death. 

Dr. Levillier was constantly, and ignorantly, entreated to adjust theone comfortably in the other. It is a delicate business, this adjustment, sometimes an impossible business. Half of the Harley Street patients camesaying, "Make me well. " What they really meant was, "Make me happy. " Yetthe most of them would have resented a valuable mixed prescription, advice for the hook, and advice for the eye. Such prescriptions had tobe very deftly, sometimes very furtively, made up. Often the doctor feltan intense exhaustion steal over him towards the close of day. Thistremendous and eternal procession passing onwards through his life, filing before him like a march-past of sick soldiers, saluting himwith cries, and with questions, and with entreaties; this never-ceasingprogress fatigued him. There were moments when he longed to hide hisface, to turn away, to shut his ears to the murmuring voices, and hiseyes to the pale, expressive faces, to put his great profession fromhim, as one puts a beggar into the night. But these were only moments, and they passed quickly. And the little doctor was always bitterlyashamed of them, as a brave man is ashamed of a secret tug of cowardiceat his heart. For it seemed to him the greatest thing in all the world tohelp to make the unhappy rightly happier. 

And this was, and had always been, his tireless endeavour. Upon this dayone of these hated moments of mental and physical exhaustion had comeupon him, and he struggled hard against his enemy. The procession ofpatients had been long, and more than once in the tiny interval betweenthe exit of one and the entry of another, Dr. Levillier had peeped at hiswatch. His last appointment was at a quarter to five, then he would befree, and he said to himself that he would take a cab and drive down toVictoria Street. Valentine was often at home about six. The doctor putaside the little devil of pride that whispered, "You have been badlytreated, " and resolved to make the advance to this friend, who seemedto have forgotten him. In times of fatigue and depression he had oftensought Valentine in order to be solaced by his music. But this solace wasat an end, unless, indeed, the strange burden of musical impotence hadbeen lifted from Valentine, and his talent had been restored to him. 

The last patient came to the doctor's door punctually and was punctuallydismissed as the clock chimed the quarter of an hour after five. The lastprescription was written. The doctor drew in a deep breath of relief. Hetouched the bell and his servant appeared. 

"There is no one waiting?" he asked. 

"No, sir. "

"I have made no other appointment for to-day, and I am going out almostimmediately. If any patients should call casually tell them I cannotpossibly see them to-day. Ask them to make an appointment. But I cannotsee any one to-day under any circumstances. "

"Yes, sir. "

Dr. Levillier took his way upstairs, made a careful toilet, selected fromhis absurd array of boots a pair perfectly polished, put them on, tookhis hat and gloves, sighed once again heavily, almost as a dog sighspreparatory to its sleep, and turned to go downstairs. He forgot for themoment that he was prepared to watch Valentine. Perhaps, indeed, his longperiod of absence had dulled in his memory the recollection of anyapparent change in his friend. For at this moment of fatigue he onlyrecalled Valentine's expression of purity and high-souled health, andthe atmosphere of lofty serenity in which he seemed habitually to dwell. The doctor wanted relief. How Valentine's presence would refresh himafter this dreary array of patients, after the continuous murmurs oftheir plaintive voices! As he opened his bedroom door he perceived hisman-servant mounting the stairs. 

"Lawler, I can't see any one, " he said, more hastily than usual. "I toldyou so distinctly. I am going out immediately. "

The man paused. He had been with the doctor for many years, and bothadored and understood him. The doctor looked at him. 

"It is a patient, I suppose?" he asked. 

"Well, sir, I can't exactly say. "

"A lady?"

"Yes, sir. At least, sir--well, no, sir. "

"What do you mean?"

"A female, sir. "

"What does she want?"

"To see you, sir. I can't get her to go. I asked her to, sir; then I toldher to. "

"Well?"

"She only gave me this and said she'd come to see you, and if you were inshe'd wait. "

He handed a card to his master. The doctor took it and read:

"Cuckoo Bright, 400 Marylebone Road. "

The words conveyed nothing to his mind, for neither Julian nor Valentinehad ever talked to him of the lady of the feathers. 

"Cuckoo Bright, " he said. "An odd name! And an odd person, I suppose, Lawler?"

Lawler pursed his lips rather primly. 

"Very odd, sir. Not at all a usual sort of patient, sir. "

"H'm. Go and ask her if she comes as a patient or on private business. "

The man retreated and returned. 

"The--lady says she's ill and must see you, sir, if only for a moment. "

This was Cuckoo's ruse to get into the house, and was based upon Julian'slong-ago remark that the doctor could never resist helping any one whowas in trouble. Standing on the doorstep, she had histrionicallysimulated faintness for the special benefit of Lawler, who regardedher with deep suspicion. 

"I suppose I must see her, " the doctor said with a sigh. "Show her in, Lawler. "

Lawler departed, disapprovingly, to do so, and after a moment the doctorfollowed him. He walked into his consulting-room, where he found the ladyof the feathers standing by the writing table. The autumn day was growingdark, and the street was full of deepening mist. Cuckoo was but afantastic shadow in the room. Her dress rustled with an uneasy soundas the doctor came in. His first act was to turn on the electric light. In a flash the rustling shadow was converted into substance. Cuckoo andthe doctor stood face to face, and Cuckoo's tired eyes fastened with ahungry, almost a wolfish, scrutiny upon this stranger. She wanted so muchof him. The look was so full of intense meaning that, coming in a flashwith the electric flash, it startled the doctor. Yet he had seensomething like it before in the eyes of those who suspected that theycarried death within them, and came to ask him if it were true. He wassurprised, too, by her appearance. The women of the streets did not cometo him, although if they had been able to read the writing in his heartmany of them would surely have come. He shook hands with Cuckoo, toldher to sit down, and sat down himself opposite to her. 

"What is the matter? Please tell me your symptoms, " he said gently. 

"Eh?" was the reply, spoken in a thin and high voice. 

"What has been troubling you?"

Cuckoo, who was wholly unaccustomed to answer a doctor's questions, started violently. She fancied from his words that he had divined the lieshe had told when she said that she was ill, and knew that she came for amental reason. Instinctively she connected the word "trouble" with theheart, in a way that was oddly and pathetically girlish. Acting upon thisimpulse she exclaimed:

"Then you know as I ain't ill?"

Doctor Levillier was still more surprised. Not understanding what was inher mind, he entirely failed to keep pace with its agility. 

"Why do you come to me, then?" he asked. 

"Oh, " she returned, with a quickly gathering hesitation, "I thought asperhaps you knew. "

"I! But we have never met before. "

The doctor bent his eyes on her searchingly. For a moment he began towonder whether his visitor was quite right in her head. Cuckoo shuffledunder his gaze. The very kindliness of his face and gentleness of hisvoice made her feel hot and abashed. A prickly sensation ran over herbody as she cleared her throat and said, monosyllabically:

"No. "

The doctor waited. 

"What is it?" he said at length. "Tell me why you have called. If you arenot ill, what is it you want of me?"

"You'll laugh, p'r'aps. "

"Laugh? Is it something funny, then?"

"Funny! Not it!"

The sound of her voice seemed to give her some courage, for she went onwith more hardy resolution:

"Look here, you can see what I am--oh yes, you can--and you wonder whatI'm doin' here. Well, if I tell you, will you promise as you won't laughat me?"

This was Cuckoo's way of delicately sounding the doctor's depths. Shethought it decidedly subtle. 

"Yes, I'll promise that, " the doctor said. 

He looked at her faded young face and felt no inclination to laugh. 

"Well, then, " Cuckoo said, more excitedly, "you know Ju--Mr. Addison, don't you?"

The doctor began to see a ray of light. 

"Certainly I do, " he said. 

"And Mr. Cresswell?"

"He is one of my most intimate friends. "

The words were spoken with an unconscious warmth that chilled Cuckoo. Forsurely the man who spoke thus of the man she hated, must be her enemy. She faltered visibly, and a despairing expression crept into her eyes. 

"I don't know as it's any use my sayin' it, " she began as if half toherself. 

The doctor saw that she was much troubled and the kindness of his naturewas roused. 

"Don't be afraid of me, " he said. "You have come here to tell mesomething, tell it frankly. I am a friend of both the people youmention. "

"You can't be that, " she suddenly cried. "Nobody can't be that!"

"Why not?"

"You ought to know. "

She said it fiercely. All her self-consciousness was suddenly gone, sweptaway by the flood of thought and of remembrance that was surging throughher mind. 

"Why can't you see what he is, " she exclaimed, "any more than he can, than Julian--Mr. Addison, I mean? Any one'd think you was all mad, theywould. "

Doctor Levillier was glad he had admitted the lady of the feathers to hispresence. Interest sprang up in him, alive and searching. 

"Tell me what you mean, " he said. "Are you talking about Mr. Cresswell?"

"Yes, I am; and I say of all the beasts in London he's the greatest. "

Cuckoo did not choose her words carefully. She was highly excited and shewanted to be impressive. It seemed to her that to use strong language wasthe only way to be impressive. So she used it. The doctor's face grewgraver. 

"Surely you hardly know what you're saying, " he said very quietly. 

But his thoughts flew to that summer night when his mastiffs howledagainst Valentine, and he felt as if a mystery were deepening roundhim as the autumn mist of evening deepened in the street outside. 

"I do, " she reiterated. "I do. But nobody won't see it. And it's no usewhat I see. How can it be?"

The words were almost a wail. 

"Tell me what you see. "

Cuckoo looked into the doctor's sincere eyes, and a sudden rush of hopecame to her. 

"That's what I want to. But if you like him you'll only be angry. "

"No, I shall not. "

"Well, then. I see as he's ruinin' his friend. "

"Ruining Mr. Addison?"

"Yes. "

It struck the doctor as very strange that such a girl as Cuckoo obviouslywas should cry out in such a passionate way against the ruin of any youngman. Was it not her fate to ruin others as she herself had been ruined?He wondered what her connection with the two youths was, and perhaps hisface showed something of his wonder, for Cuckoo added, after a longglance at him:

"It's true; yes, it is, " as if she read his doubts. 

"How do you come to know it?" the doctor said, not at all unkindly, butas if anxious to elucidate matters. 

"Why, I tell you I can see it plain. Besides, " and here she dropped hervoice, "Valentine, as he calls himself--though he ain't--as good as toldme. He did tell me, only I couldn't understand. He knew I couldn't--d'yousee? That's why he told me. Oh, if he'd only tell you!"

Fragments of Valentine's exposition of his deeds and of his strangegospel were floating through Cuckoo's mind as fragments of broken woodfloat by on a stream, fragments of broken wood that were part of apuzzle, that should be rescued by some strong hand from the stream, and fitted together into a perfect whole. 

"Valentine! You say he told you that he was ruining Julian?"

Unconsciously the doctor used the Christian names. His doing so setCuckoo more at her ease. 

"Yes. Not like that. But he told me. He ain't what you think, nor whatJulian thinks. He's somebody else, and you can't tell it. He's laughingat you all. "

Thus the gospel came forth from the painted lips of Cuckoo, crude andgarbled, yet true gospel. The doctor was completely puzzled. All hegathered from this announcement was that Valentine seemed in some wayto have been confiding in this girl of the streets. Such a fact wassufficiently astounding. That they should ever have been associatedtogether in any way was almost incredible to any one who knew Valentine. Yet it was quite obvious that they did know each other, and in noordinary manner. 

"Do you know Mr. Cresswell well?" the doctor said. 

He saw that he could only make the tangle clear by being to some extentjudicial. Humanity merely excited Cuckoo to something that was violentlyinvolved, passionate, and almost hysterical. 

"Well enough. "

"And Mr. Addison?"

Cuckoo flushed slowly. 

"Yes, I know him--quite well. "

An almost similar answer, but given with such a change of manner as wouldbe possible only in a woman. It told the doctor much of the truth andgave him the first page of a true reading of Cuckoo's character. Buthe went on with apparently unconscious quietude:

"And you came here to tell me, who know and like them both, that the oneis ruining the other. What made you come to me?"

"Why, somethin' Julian said once. He thinks a lot of you. I was afraid tocome, but I--I thought I would. It's seein' them--at least Julian--sincethey got back made me come. "

"I haven't seen them yet, " the doctor said, and there was aninterrogation in the accent with which he spoke. Something in Cuckoo'sintense manner roused both wonder and alarm in him. She evidently spokedriven by tremendous impulse. What vision had given that impulse life?

"Ah!" she said, and fell suddenly into a dense silence, touching her leftcheek mechanically with her hand, which was covered by a long, black silkglove. She alternately pressed the fingers of it against the cheek boneand withdrew them, as one who marks the progress of a tune, hummed orplayed on some instrument. Her eyes were staring downwards upon thecarpet. The doctor watched her, and the wonder and fear grew in him. 

"Have you nothing more to tell me?" he said at last. 

"Eh?"

She put down her hand slowly and turned her eyes on him. 

"What do you wish me to do?" he said, "I do not know yet what may--" hechecked himself and substituted, "I must go and see my friends. "

"Yes, go. "

She nodded her head slowly, and then she shivered as she sat in thechair. 

"Go, and do somethin', " she said. "I would--I want to--but I can't. It'strue, I suppose, what he said. I'm nearly done with, I'm spoilt. I say, you're a doctor, aren't you? You know things? Tell me then, do, what'sthe good of goin' on being able to feel--I mean to feel just likeanybody, anybody as hasn't gone down, you know--if you can't do anythin'the same as they can, get round anybody to make 'em go right? I couldsend him right, I could, as well as any girl, if feelin' 'd only do it. But feelin' ain't a bit of good. It's looks, I suppose. Everythin' 'slooks. "

"No, not everything, " the doctor said. 

Cuckoo's speech both interested and touched him. Its confused wistfulnesscame straight from the heart. And then it recalled to the doctor aconversation he had had with Valentine, when they talked over theextraordinary influence that the mere appearance--will working throughfeatures--of one man or woman can have over another. The doctor couldonly at present rather dimly apprehend the feeling entertained for Julianby Cuckoo. But as he glanced at her, he understood very well the pathosof the contest raging at present between her heart and the painted shellwhich held it. 

"Nobody who feels goodness is utterly bereft of the power of bringinggood to another, " he said. "For we can seldom really feel what we cannever really be. "

Light shone through the shadows of the tired face at the words. 

"He said different from that, " she exclaimed. 

"He--who?"

"Him as you call Valentine. That's why he told me all about it, becausehe knew as I shouldn't understand, and because he thinks I can't donothin' for any one. But I say, you do somethin' for Julian, will you, will you?"

There was a passion of pleading in her voice. She had lost her fear ofhim, and, stretching out her hand, touched the sleeve of his coat. 

"I don't understand it all, " the doctor said. "I don't like to acceptwhat you say about Mr. Cresswell, even in thought. But I will go and seehim, and Julian. The dogs, " he added in a low and secret voice tohimself. "There is something terribly strange in all this. "

He fell into a silence of consideration that lasted longer than he knew. The lady of the feathers began to fidget in it uneasily. She felt thather mission was perhaps accomplished and that she ought to go. Shelooked across at the doctor, pulled her silk gloves up on her thin arms, and kicked one foot against the other. He did not seem to notice. Sheglanced towards the window. The fog was pressing its face against theglass like a dreary and terrible person looking upon them with haggardeyes. It was time, she supposed, for her to drift out into the arms thatbelonged to that dreary and terrible face. She got up. 

"I'll go now, " she said. 

The doctor did not hear. 

"I'll go now, please, " she repeated. 

This time he heard and got up. He looked at her and said, "I have youraddress. I will see you again. "

If misery chanced to stand once in his path, he seldom lost sight of ittill he had at least tried to bring a smile to its lips, a ray of hope toits eyes. But in the instance of Cuckoo he had other reasons, or mighthave other reasons, for seeing her in the future. 

"You are sure you have nothing more to say to me?" he asked. 

She shook her head. 

"No, I don't think, " she murmured. 

"Then good-bye. "

He held out his hand. She put hers in it, with an action that was oddlyladylike for Cuckoo. Then she went out, rather awkwardly, in a reaction, to the hall, the doctor following. He opened the door for her, and themist crawled instantly in. 

"It's a gloomy night, " he said. "Very autumnal. "

"Yes, ain't it? I do hate the nights. "

She spoke the words with an accent that was venemous. 

"C-r-r!" she said. 

And with that ejaculation, half an uttered shiver, half a muttered curse, she gave herself to the fog, and was gone. 

Doctor Levillier stood for a moment looking into the vague and dreamydarkness. Then he put on his coat and hat, caught up a cab whistle, andwith a breath, sent a shrill and piercing note into the night. Long andmournfully it sounded. And only the moist silence answered like thatparadox--a voice that is dumb. Again and again the cry went forth, and atlast there was an answering rattle. Two bright eyes advanced in the fogvery slowly, looking for the sound, it seemed, as for a thing visible. The doctor got into the cab, and set forth in the fog to visit Valentine. 

CHAPTER II

THE VOICE IN THE EMPTY ROOM

When the doctor arrived at the Victoria Street flat Valentine's mananswered his ring. Wade had been with Valentine for many years and wasalways famous for his great devotion to, and admiration of, his master. Wade was also especially partial--as he would have expressed himself--toDoctor Levillier, and when he saw who the visitor was, his face relaxedinto contentment that strongly suggested a smile. 

"Back at last Wade, you see, " the doctor said, cheerfully. "Is Mr. Cresswell in?"

"No, sir. But I expect him every minute to dress for dinner. He's diningout, and it's near seven now. Will you come in and wait?"

"Yes. "

The doctor entered and walked into the drawing-room, preceded by Wade, who turned on the light. 

"Why! what have you been doing to the room?" the doctor said, lookinground in some surprise. "Dear me. It's very much altered. "

In truth, the change in it was marked. The grand piano had vanished, andin its place stood an enormous cabinet made of wood, stained black, andcovered with grotesque gold figures, whose unnatural faces were twistedinto the expressions of all the vices. Some of these faces smiled, othersscowled, others protruded forked tongues like snakes and seemed to hissalong the blackness of the background. The shapes of the figures werevoluptuous and yet suggested, rather than fully revealed, deformity, asif the minds of these monsters sought to reveal their distortion by thevery lines of their curved and wanton limbs. Upon the top of this cabinetstood a gigantic rose-coloured jar filled with orchids, the Messalinas ofthe hothouse, whose mauve corruption and spotted faces leered down togreet the gold goblins beneath. It was easy to imagine them whispering toeach other soft histories of unknown sins, and jeering at the corruptrespectabilities of London, as they clustered together and leaned abovethe ruddy ramparts of the china, wild flowers as no hedgerow violet, orpale smirking primrose, is ever wild in the farthest wood. 

Glancing from this cabinet, and those that stood upon it, the doctorwas aware of a deep and dusty note of red in the room, sounding fromcarpet and walls, tingling drowsily in the window curtains and in thecushions that lay upon the couches. This was not the crude and cheerfulsealing-wax red with which the festive Philistine loves to dye thewhiteness of his dining-room walls, cooling its chubby absurdity withpanels of that old oak, which is forever new. It was a dim and deepcolour, such as a dust-filmed ruby might emit if illuminated by a softlight. And Valentine had shrouded it so adroitly that though it pervadedthe entire room, it always seemed distant and remote, a background, vastperhaps, but clouded and shadowed by nearer things. These nearer thingswere many, for Valentine's original asceticism, which had displayeditself essentially in the slight bareness of his principal sitting-roomhad apparently been swept away by a tumultuous greed for ornaments. Theroom was crowded with furniture, chairs, and sofas of the most peculiarshapes, divans and tables, bookstands and settees. One couch was made ofwood, carved and painted into the semblance of a woman, between whoseoutstretched arms was placed the pillow to receive the head of oneresting there. Another lay on the bent backs of two grinning Indianboys, whose crouching limbs seemed twined into a knot. Upon the tablesand cabinets stood a thousand ornaments, many of them silver toys, sweetmeat-boxes, tiny ivory figures and wriggling atrocities from theEast. But what struck the doctor most in the transformation of the roomwas the panorama presented upon its walls. The pictures that heremembered so well were all gone. The classical figures, the landscapesfull of atmosphere and of delicacy had vanished. And from their placesleered down jockeys and street-women painted by Jan Van Beers and Dégas, Chaplin and Gustav Courbet, while above the mantelpiece, where once hadhung "The Merciful Knight, " a Cocotte by Leibl smoked a pipe into theroom. It seemed incredible that Valentine could be at rest in such alivid chamber, and not even the vague communications of Cuckoo wokein the doctor such a definite and alive sensation of discomfort asthis vision of outward change that must surely betoken an inwardtransformation of the most vivid and unusual kind. And everywhere, asa deep and monotonous bell ringing relentlessly through a symphony ofdiscordant and crying passions, there sounded that sinister note of deepand dusty red. Despite his own complete health of mind, and the franticdisquisitions of the morbid Nordau, the little doctor felt as if he heardthe colour, as if it spoke from beneath his very feet, as if it sangunder his fingers when he laid them on the brocade of a couch, as if theroom palpitated with a heavy music which murmured drowsily in his earsa monotonous song of dull and weary change. No silence had ever beforespoken to him so powerfully. He was greatly affected, and did not scrupleto show his discomfort to Wade, who waited respectfully by the door. 

"What an alteration!" he said again, but in a lower and more withdrawnvoice. "I cannot recognize the room I once knew--and loved!"

"Mr. Valentine has been doing it up, sir. "

"But why, Wade; why?"

"I don't know, sir; a fancy, I suppose, sir. "

"An evil one, " the doctor murmured to himself. 

He glanced at Wade. It struck him that the man's mind might possiblymarch with Cuckoo's in detection of his master's transformation, iftransformation there were. Wade returned the doctor's glance with calm, good breeding. 

"Mr. Valentine is well, I hope, Wade?" he said. 

"Very well, sir, I believe. "

"And Mr. Addison?"

"I couldn't quite say, sir, as to that. "

"Do you mean that he looks ill?"

"I couldn't say, sir. Mr. Julian don't look quite what he was, to myview, sir. "

"Oh. "

The butler's level voice mingled with the clouded red of the room, andagain a prophetic chord of change was struck. 

"Thank you, Wade" said the doctor. 

The man retired, and the doctor was left alone in the empty room. 

 * * * * *

Although he was intensely sensitive, Doctor Levillier was not a man whosenerves played him tricks. He was, above all things, sane, both in mindand in body, full of a lively calm, and a bright power of observation. Indeed, having made the nervous system his special life study, he was, perhaps, less liable than most other human beings to be carried away bythe fancies that many people tabulate as realities, or to be governedby the beings that have no real existence and are merely projected bythe action of the imagination. Half, at least, of his great success inlife had been owing to his self-possession, which never verged onhardness or fused itself with its near relation, stolidity. No man, infact, was less likely to be upset by the creatures of his mind than he. Yet when Wade had gently closed the drawing-room door and retreated intohis private region, the doctor allowed himself to become the possessionof an influence which, to the end of his life, he believed to proceedfrom the empty room in which he sat, not from his mind who sat there. The electric light shone softly beneath the shades that shrouded it, andrevealed delicately but clearly every smallest detail of the crowdedchamber. 

The hour was quiet. No fire danced in the grate. Doctor Levillierleaned back in his low chair with the intention of composedly awaitingValentine's return. But the composure which had already been slightlyshaken by the visit of the lady of the feathers, and by the words ofWade, was destined to be curiously upset by the motionless vision of theempty room. 

Sitting thus in it alone the doctor examined it with more detail, andwith a more definite remembrance of Valentine's habit of mind thanbefore. And he found himself increasingly amazed and confounded. For notonly was the change great, but it was not governed and directed by goodtaste, or even by any definite taste, either good or bad. A number ofpeople might have devised the arrangement and selection of the mass offurniture and ornaments, and have thrown things down here and there insheer defiance of each other's predilections. Only in the setting, thered setting of the picture, was there evidence of the presence of apresiding genius. In that red setting the doctor supposed that he was toread Valentine. He could read nobody in the rest of the room, or perhapseverybody whose taste refused purity and calm as foolish Dead Seagrowths. Some of the silver ornaments might have assembled in the garishboudoir of a Parisian _fille de joie_, as the carved woman might havebeen the couch to which Thais tempted Paphnuce, and the Indian boys thelifeless slaves of Aphrodite. The jockeys on the wall would have been athome on the lid of a cigar box belonging to any average member of the_jeunesse dorée_ of any Continental city, while an etching of FelicienRops that lounged upon a sidetable would have been eminently suitable tothe house of a certain celebrity nicknamed the "Queen of Diamonds. " Thegolden figures that sprawled over the huge cabinet must have delightedcertain modern artists, whose rickety fingers can only portray in linea fanciful corruption totally devoid of relation to humanity, but suchfrail spectres would have shrunk with horror from certain robust works ofart, over which the most healthy of the beefy brigade might have smackedlarge lips for hours. The room was in fact one quarrel between themasculine and feminine, the corrupt "modern" and the flagrant Philistine, the vaguely suggestive Nineteenth Century Athenian and the larky andunbridled schoolboy. A neurotic woman seemed to have been at work here, asordid youth there. On a sidetable the hysterical man of our civilizationfought a duel in taste with some Amazon whose kept vow had evidentlywrought a cancer in her mind. In every corner there was the clash ofcivil war. Yet there was always the cloudy red, visible through thelattice-work of decoration, as the blue sky is visible through thelattice-work of a Tadema interior. In that clouded red the doctor felthimself reading a new yet powerful Valentine, and in the grotesqueorchids leaning their misshapen chins upon the rosy rim of their vase. Those flowers had evil faces, and they seemed strangely at home in thesilent room where no clock ticked and no caged bird twittered. Only thered cloud spoke like a dull voice, and Doctor Levillier sat and listenedto it, until he felt as if he began to know a new Valentine. There is aninfluence that emanates from lifeless things, strong, subtle, andpenetrating; an influence in form, in colour, in scent, even injuxtaposition. And such influence is like a voice speaking to the soul. There was a voice in that empty room; and the words it uttered stirredthe doctor to a greater surprise, a greater dread than the words ofCuckoo. Her painted lips related that which might well be a legend ofher fancy or of her hate. This voice related a reality and no legend. 

As the doctor sat there he conversed of many strange and evil matters, of many discomforting affairs. He was the interrogator, the perpetualanxious questioner, and the voice in the empty room gave vague andsinister answers. That was a terrible catechism, a catechism of thedevil, not of God. Question and answer flowed on, and in the doctor'ssoul the anxiety and the distress ever deepened. Nor could he controltheir development, although at moments his common sense broke into thecatechism like a cool voice from without, and sought to interrupt itfinally. But the twig could not stay the torrent. And the darknessdeepened, darkness in which there was a vision of fire, the vision of aman, fantastic and menacing. He was the genius of this room. This roomsang of him. Yes, even now the twisted silver goblins, the curvedmonstrosities on the cabinet, the crouched Indian boys, the leeringpictures, and always the dull red cloud on wall and carpet, cushion andhanging. And then a strange deception overtook the doctor and shook hisusually steady nerves. The red cloud seemed to his observing eyes totremble, like a flame shaken in a breath of wind, and to glow all aroundhim. He looked again, endeavouring to laugh at his delusion. But the glowdeepened and there was surely distinct movement. Everywhere on walls, floor, hangings, couches, faint, thin shadows took shape, grew moredefinite. He watched them and saw that they were tiny flames, glowing redrelieved against the red. It was as if he sat in the midst of a ghostlyfurnace; for these flames had no pleasant crackling voices. Silently theyburned, and fluttered upward noiselessly. He saw them move this way andthat. Some leaped up; others bent sideways; others wavered uncertainly, as if their desire were incomplete and their intention undecided. Thedoctor stared upon them, and listened for the chorus that fires singto tremble and to murmur from their lips. Yet they sang no chorus, butalways, in a ghostly silence, aspired around him. He knew himself to bethe victim of a delusion. He knew what he would have said to a patientseeking his aid against such a deception of the senses. In his commonsense he knew this, and yet he gradually lost the notion that he wasbeing deceived, and allowed himself to drift, as he had seen othersdrift, into the fancy that he was holding strange intercourse with theactual. These flames were real. They had forms. They moved. They enclosedhim in a circle. They embraced him. As he watched them he fancied thatthey longed to be near to him, and--and--yes--so ran his thoughts--tocommunicate something to him, to sigh out their fiery hearts on his. Theytrembled as if convulsed with emotion, with desire. They tried to escapefrom the sinister red background that held them in its grasp as in aleash. The doctor was impelled ardently to believe that they yearned tofind voices and to utter some word. And then, on a sudden, he recalledJulian's declaration on the night of Valentine's trance, that he had seena flame shine from his friend's lips, and fade away in the darkness. Herecalled, too, Julian's question about death-beds. Was the soul of a mana flame? And, if so, were these flames many souls, or one soul reproducedon all sides by his excitement, and by the intensity of his gaze afterthem?

They burned more clearly. Their forms were more defined. Then suddenlythey grew vague, blurred, faint all around him. They faded. They diedinto the red of the room. And once more the doctor sat alone. 

He listened and heard the click of a key in the front door. And thensuddenly the horror that he had felt long ago, on the night when he wasfollowed in Regent Street, once more possessed him. He got on his feetto face it, and, as the drawing-room door was pushed slowly open, facedValentine. 

CHAPTER III

THE DOCTOR MEETS TWO STRANGERS

Upon seeing the doctor, Valentine paused on the threshold of the door, and, as he paused, the doctor's horror fled. 

"Valentine, " he said, holding out his hand. 

"Doctor. "

Their hands met and their eyes. And then Levillier had an instantsensation that he shook hands with a stranger. He looked upon the face ofValentine certainly, but he was aware of a subtle, yet large, change init. All the features were surely coarser, heavier. There was a line ortwo near the eyes, a loose fullness about the mouth. Yet, as he lookedagain, he could not be certain if it were so, or if his memory were atfault, groping after a transformation that was not there. The words henow said truthfully expressed his real feeling in the matter. 

"You are quite a stranger to me, " he said. 

Valentine accepted the remark in the conventional sense. 

"Yes, quite a stranger. We have not met for an age. "

The voice was cool and careless. 

"I have been waiting for you, " the doctor went on, still unable to feelat his ease. "By the way, how you have changed your room. "

"Yes. Do you like it?"

"Well, frankly, no. "

"I am sorry for that, " Valentine replied, drawing off his gloves. "Julianchose a great many of the things in it. "

"Julian! Did he devise the colour scheme?"

"That curious red? No, that was my idea. But he had a great deal to dowith the new furniture and the ornaments. "

"I should have supposed many minds had been at work here. "

Valentine smiled, and the doctor was convinced that both his mouth andeyes had altered in expression. 

"That's true in a way, " he answered. "Julian has had various advisers--ofthe feminine gender. The love of the moment is visible all over thisroom. That is why it amuses me. Those silver ornaments were chosenby a pretty Circassian. A Parisian picked out that black cabinet in awarehouse of Boulogne. A little Italian insisted upon that vulgar-paintedsofa--and so on. "

"Why do you allow such people to have any intercourse with a room ofyours?"

"Oh, it amused Julian, and I was tired of my room as it was. After 'TheMerciful Knight' went to be cleaned, I resolved on a change. "

"For the worse. "

"Is it for the worse?"

"Surely. "

The eyes of the two men challenged each other. Valentine's glancewas carelessly impudent and hardy. The deference which he had alwaysgiven to the doctor was gone. If it had been genuine it was dead. Ifit had only been a mask it had apparently served its purpose and wasnow contemptuously thrown aside. Doctor Levillier was deeply movedby the transformation. His friend had become a stranger during theinterval of his absence. The man he admired was less admirable thanof old. He recognized that, although he was not yet fully aware of thetransformation of Valentine. Before he left England he vaguely suspecteda change. Now the change hit him full in the heart. So acute was itthat, in an age of miracles, he could well have believed Cuckoo Bright'sdisjointed statement. Valentine was, to his mind, even in some strangeway to his eye, at this moment no longer Valentine. He was talking with aman whose features he knew certainly, but whose mind he did not know, hadnever known. And his former resolution to watch Valentine closely wasconsolidated. It became a passion. The doctor woke in the man. Nor wasthe old friend and lover of humanity lulled to sleep. 

"How is Julian?" the doctor asked, dropping his eyes. 

"Very well, I think. He will be here directly. He's coming to fetch me. We are dining at the Prince's in Piccadilly in the same party. Thatreminds me, I must dress. But do stay, and have some coffee. "

"No coffee, thank you. "

"But you will stay and see Julian. I dare say he will be here early. "

"Yes, I will stay. I should like to meet him. "

After a word or two more Valentine vanished to dress, and the doctorwas once more alone. He was much perplexed and saddened, but keenlyinterested too, and, getting up from the chair in which he had beensitting, he moved about the grotesque and vulgar room, threading hisway through the graceless furniture with a silent and gentle caution. And as he walked meditatively he remembered a conversation he had heldwith Valentine long ago, when the latter had spoken complainingly ofthe tyranny of an instinctive purity. The very words he had used cameback to him now:

"The minds of men are often very carefully, very deftly poised, and alittle push can send them one way or the other. Remember if you loseheaven, the space once filled by heaven will not be left empty. "

Had not the little push been given? Had not heaven been lost? That wasthe problem. But Doctor Levillier, if he saw a little way into effect, was quite at a loss as to cause. And already he had a suspicion that thechange in Valentine was not quite on the lines of one of those strangeand dreadful human changes familiar to any observant man. This suspicion, already latent, and roused, perhaps, in the first instance long ago bythe mystery of Rip's avoidance of his master, and by the shattering ofValentine's musical powers, was confirmed in the strongest way whenJulian appeared a few minutes later. Yet the change in Julian wouldhave seemed to most people far more remarkable. 

He came into the drawing-room rather hastily, in evening dress witha coat over it. Wade had forewarned him of the doctor's presence, andhe entered, speaking loud words of welcome, and holding out a greetinghand. The too-ready voice and almost premature hand betokened his latentuneasiness. Vice makes some people unconscious, some self-conscious. Julian belonged at present to the latter tribe. Whether he was thoroughlyaware of self-alteration or not, he evidently stirred uneasily under anexpectation of the doctor's surprise. This drove his voice to loud notesand his manner to a boisterous heartiness, belied by the shifting glanceof his brown eyes. 

The doctor was astounded as he looked at him. Yet the change here wasfar less inexplicable than that other change in Valentine. Its mysterywas the familiar mystery of humanity. Its horror was the horror that weall accept as one of the elements of life. Deterioration, however rapid, however complete, does not come upon us like a ghost in the night topuzzle us absolutely. It is not altogether out of the range of ourexperience. Most men have seen a man crumble gradually, through theaction of some vice, as a wall crumbles through the action of time, fallsinto dust and decay, filters away into the weed-choked ditches of utterruin and degradation. Most women have watched some woman slip from thepurity and hope and innocence of girlhood into the faded hunger andpainted and wrinkled energies of animalism. Such tragedies are no moreunfamiliar to us than are the tragedies of Shakespeare. And such atragedy--not complete yet, but at a third-act point, perhaps--now facedDoctor Levillier in Julian. The wall that had been so straight and trim, so finely built and carefully preserved, was crumbling fast to decay. Aragged youth slunk in the face, beggared of virtue, of true cheerfulness, of all lofty aspiration and high intent. It was youth still, for nothingcan entirely massacre that gift of the gods, except inevitable Time. Butit was youth sadder than age, because it had run forward to meet thewearinesses that dog the steps of age but that should never be at homewith age's enemy. Julian had been the leaping child of healthy energy. He was now quite obviously the servant of lassitude. His foot left theground as if with a tired reluctance, and his hands were fidgetty, yetnerveless. The eyes, that looked at the doctor and looked away by swiftturns, burned with a haggard eagerness unutterably different from theirformer bright vivacity. Beneath them wrinkles crept on the puffy whiteface as worms about a corpse. Busy and tell-tale, they did not try toconceal the story of the body into which they had prematurely cutthemselves. Nor did Julian's features choose to back up any reservehis mind might possibly feel about acknowledging the consummatealteration of his life. They proclaimed, as from a watch-tower, thearrival of enemies. The cheeks were no longer firm, but heavy andflaccid. The mouth was deformed by the down-drawn looseness of thesensualist, and the complexion beaconed with an unnatural scarlet thatwas a story to be read by every street-boy. 

Yet, even so, the doctor, as he looked pitifully and with a gnawing griefupon Julian, felt not the mysterious thrill communicated to him byValentine. These two men, these old time friends of his, were both in asense strangers. But it was as if he had at least heard much of Julian, knew much of him, understood him, comprehended exactly why he was astranger. Valentine was the total stranger, the unknown, the undivined. Long ago the doctor had foreseen the possibility of the Julian who nowstood before him. He had never foreseen the possibility of the newValentine. The one change was summed up in an instant. The other walkedin utter mystery. The doctor had been swift to notice Julian's furtiveglance, and was equally swift in banishing all trace of surprise fromhis own manner. So they met with a fair show of cordiality, and Juliandeveloped a little of his old cheerfulness. 

"Val's dressing, " he said. "Well, there's plenty of time. By the way, how's your Russian, doctor?"

"Better. "

"You've cured him! Bravo!"

"I hope I have persuaded him to cure himself. "

Julian looked up hastily. 

"Oh, that sort of complaint, was it?"

He laughed, not without a tinge of bitterness. 

"Perhaps he doesn't want to be cured. "

"I have persuaded him to want to be, I think. "

"Isn't that rather a priest's office?" Julian asked. 

The doctor noticed that a very faint hostility had crept into his manner. 

"Why?"

"Oh, I don't know. Such an illness is a matter of temperament, I daresay, and the clergy tinker at our temperaments, don't they? while youdoctors tinker at our bodies. "

"A nerve-doctor has as much to do with mind as body, and no doctor canpossibly do much good if he entirely ignores the mind. But you know mytheories. "

"Yes. They make you clergyman and doctor in one, a dangerous man. "

And he laughed again, jarringly, and shifted in his seat, looking aroundhim with quick eyes. 

"What do you think of the room?" he said abruptly. 

"I think it entirely spoilt and ruined, " the doctor answered gravely. 

"It's altered, certainly. "

"Yes, for the worse. It was a beautiful room, one of the most beautifulin London. "

A momentary change came over Julian. He dropped his hard manner, whichseemed an assumption to cover inward discomfort or shame. 

"Yes, " he said almost regretfully. "I suppose it was. But it's gayer now, got more things in it. Full of memories this room is. "

The last remark was evidently put forth as a feeler, to find out whatValentine had been talking about. Dr. Levillier was habitually truthful, although he could be very reserved if occasion seemed to require it. Atpresent he preferred to be frank. 

"Memories of women, " he remarked. 

"Oh, you've heard?"

"That several tastes helped to make his room the pandemonium which it is. Yes. "

"You're severe, doctor. "

"Perhaps you like the room for its memories, Addison. "

Julian looked doubtful. 

"I don't know. I suppose so, " he hesitated. 

"By the way, is there among these vagrant memories of Circassians, Greeks, and Italians anything chosen by Cuckoo Bright?"

Julian started violently. 

"Cuckoo Bright, " he exclaimed, "what do you know of her?"

As he spoke Valentine strolled into the room dressed for dinner. He wasdrawing on a pair of lavender gloves, and looked down sideways at hiscoat to see if his buttonhole of three very pale and very perfectlymatched pink roses was quite straight. 

"Cuckoo Bright?" he echoed. "Does everybody know her, then? How came sheinto your strict life, doctor?"

Doctor Levillier noticed that Valentine, like Julian, carefully set himaside as a being in some different sphere, much as a great many peopleinsist on setting clergymen. This fact alone showed that he was talkingwith two strangers, and seemed to give the lie to long years of the mostfriendly and almost brotherly intercourse. 

"Is my life so strict, then?" he asked gently. 

"I think little Cuckoo would call it so, eh, Julian?"

He glanced at Julian and laughed softly, still drawing on his gloves. Inevening dress he looked curiously young and handsome, and facially lessaltered than the doctor had at first supposed him to be. Still there wasa difference even in the face; but it was so slight that only a keenobserver would have noticed it. The almost frigid and glacial purity hadfloated away from it like a lovely cloud. Now it was unveiled, and therewas something hard and staring about it. The features were stillbeautiful, but their ivory lustre was gone. A line was penciled, too, here and there. Yet the doctor could understand that even Valentine's ownman might not appreciate the difference. The manner, however, was moreviolently altered. It was that which made the doctor think again andintensely of Cuckoo's vague yet startling statement. 

"Where did you meet Cuckoo, doctor?"

It was Julian who spoke, and the words were uttered with some excitement. 

"I have met her, " Levillier replied. 

It was sufficiently evident that he did not intend to say where. 

But Valentine broke in:

"She has called on you again, then, and this time found you at home. I scarcely thought she would take the trouble. "

"Again!" the doctor said. 

"Yes. One evening when you were away I saw her at your door and venturedto give her a piece of advice. "

"And that was?"

"Not to trouble you. I told her your patients were of a different class. "

"In that case I fear you misrepresented me, Cresswell. I do not choose mypatients. But Cuckoo Bright is no patient of mine. "

"If she's not ill, " Julian said, "why should she go to you?"

"That is her affair, and mine, " the doctor answered, in his quietest andmost finishing tone. 

Julian accepted the delicate little snub quietly, but Valentine sneered. 

"Perhaps she went to seek you in your capacity of a doctor of the mindrather than of the body. Perhaps, after all, she sought your aid. "

As he spoke the doctor could not help having driven into him theconviction that the words were spoken with meaning, that Valentine knewthe nature of Cuckoo's mission to Harley Street. There rose in himsuddenly a violent sensation of enmity against Valentine. He stroveto beat it down, but he could not. Never had he felt such enmity againstany man. It was like the fury so obviously felt by Cuckoo. The doctorwas ashamed to be so unreasonable, and believed for a moment that thepoor street-girl had absolutely swayed him, and predisposed him to thisanimus that surged up over his normal charity and good, clear impulsesof tenderness for all that lived. 

"My aid, " he said--and the turmoil within him caused him to speak withunusual sternness. "And if she did, what then?"

"Poor Cuckoo!" Julian said, and there was a touch of real tenderness inhis voice. 

"Oh, I have nothing to say against it, " Valentine replied, buttoningslowly and carefully the last button of the second glove. "Only, CuckooBright is beyond aid. She can neither help herself nor any one else. "

"How do you know, Cresswell?"

"Because I have observed, doctor. Once I, too, thought that evenCuckoo might--might--well, have some fight in her. I know now thatshe has not. Her corruption of body has led to worse than corruptionof mind, to corruption of will. Cuckoo Bright is as helpless as is aseabird with a shot through its wings, upon the sea. She can only driftin the present--die in the future. "

The doctor listened silently. But Julian said again:

"Poor, poor Cuckoo!"

The exclamation seemed to irritate Valentine, for he caught up his cloakand cried:

"Bah! Let's forget her. Doctor, we must say good-night. We are due at thePrince's. It has been good to meet you again. "

The last words sounded like the bitterest sarcasm. 

CHAPTER IV

THE DEATH OF RIP

Although Dr. Levillier's visit to Victoria Street had been such a painfulone, he had no intention whatever of letting the two young men drift awayout of his acquaintance. He wanted especially to be with them in publicplaces, and to see for himself, if possible, whether Cuckoo's accusationagainst Valentine were true. That a frightful change had taken place inJulian's life, and that he was rapidly sinking in a slough of whollyinordinate dissipation was clear enough. But did Valentine, this new, strange Valentine, lead him, or merely go with him, or stand aloofsmiling at him and letting him take his own way like a foolish boy? Thatquestion the doctor must decide for himself. He could only decide itsatisfactorily by ignoring Valentine's impertinence to himself, andendeavouring to resume his former relations of intimacy with these oldfriends who were strangers. He began by asking them both to dinner. Rather to his surprise they accepted and came. The mastiffs were shutclose in their den below, lest they should repeat their performance ofthe summer. The dinner passed off with some apparent cheerfulness, butit served to show the doctor the gulf that was now fixed between him andhis former dear associates. He was on one shore, they on another. Theirfaces were altered as if by the desolate influence of distance. Eventheir voices sounded strange and far away. Great spaces had widenedbetween their minds and his. He endeavoured at first to cover thosespaces, to bridge that gulf; but he soon came to learn the vanity ofsuch an attempt. He could not go to them, nor would they return to him. He could only pretend to bridge the gulf by the exercise of a suavediplomacy, and by carefully banishing from his manner every trace of thatdispraising elderliness which seems to the young the essence of pruderyarising, like an appalling Phoenix, from the ashes of past imprudence. In this way he drew a little nearer to Julian, who obviously feared atfirst to suffer condemnation at his hands, but, finding only geniality, lost his uneasiness and suffered himself to become more natural. 

But this thawing of Julian, the quick response of humanity to the adroittreatment of it, only threw into harsher relief the immobility ofValentine, and to him the doctor drew no nearer, but seemed, with eachmoment, more distant, more absolutely divided from him. And the gulfbetween them was full of icebergs, which filled the atmosphere with thebreath of a deadly frost. This was what the doctor felt. What Valentine, the new Valentine, felt could not be ascertained. He wore a brilliantmask, on whose gay mouth the society smile was singularly well painted. He wore a manner edged with tinkling bells of brilliancy. Happiness andease beamed in his eyes. Yet his look, his voice, his smile, his gaietychilled the doctor and set him mentally shivering. And with each brightsaying and merry laugh he struck a blow upon the former friendship. The doctor fancied he could actually hear the sound of the hammer atits work. 

The simile of the hammer was peculiarly consonant with his presentview of the new Valentine, for, despite the latter's gaiety, ease, andself-possession, his smiling sociability and expansiveness, the doctorwas perpetually conscious of a lurking violence, an incessant andforcible exigence in him. It might be a fancy, but the doctor was not, as a rule, the prey of fancies. Yet Valentine gave no outward hint ofinward turmoil. Rather did the doctor divine it as by a curious intuitionthat guided him to that which lay in hiding. And it was this apprehensionof a deep violence and peculiar, excessive animation in Valentine thatwoke the doctor's deepest wonder, and set the gulf between them sowidely. For all violence had once been so specially abhorred byValentine. He had so loved and sought all calm. The calm, he had oftensaid, were the true aristocrats of life. Fury and any wild movements ofthe passions were of the gutter. 

That dinner was returned. The doctor dined with Valentine and Julianmore than once, and accompanied them to the theatre. But he was unable tomake certain of Valentine's precise attitude towards Julian, although hesaw easily that the influence of the one over the other had rather waxedthan waned. This being so, it followed that Julian, having completelychanged, the influence that guided him must have completely changed also. The pendulum had swung back. That often happened in the record of men'slives. But not in such a way as this. The doctor, like Cuckoo, recognizedthe existence of a mystery. But he was by no means prepared to accepther fantastic and ignorantly vague explanation of it. That was a wildfable, a fairy tale for a child, not a reasonable elucidation for a manand a doctor. The most curious thing of all was that she declared thatValentine had actually told her the truth about the matter, knowing thatshe could not understand it. The doctor resolved to see her later, andto question her more minutely on this point. Meanwhile he began to watchValentine carefully, and with the most sedulous attention to every detailand _nuance_ of manner, look, and word. He understood Julian. His sadcase was to an extent due to his long happiness and freedom from thebondage in which so many men move wearily. It was as if his passions hadbeen dammed up by the original influence of Valentine. Through the years, behind the height of the dam, the waters had been rising, accumulating, pressing. Suddenly the dam was removed, and a devastating flood sweptforth, uncontrollable, headlong, and furious. Julian needed rescue, butthe only way to rescue seemed to lie through Valentine, within whosecircle of influence he was so closely bound. The mystery of Valentinemust be laid bare. 

And so the doctor watched and wondered, bringing all his knowledge of theworld and of the minds and bodies of men to help him. 

And meanwhile the lady of the feathers was seen nightly in Piccadilly. 

And Julian went his way steadily downwards. 

 * * * * *

One night there was a flicker of snow over London, and the air was chillwith the breath of coming winter. The dreary light of snow illumined thefaces of all who walked in the streets, painting the brightest cheekswith a murky grey pigment, and making the sweetest eyes hollow andexpressive of depression. Heavily the afternoon went by and the eveningcame sharply, like a blow. 

Dr. Levillier was engaged to dine with Julian and Valentine at theformer's rooms in Mayfair. Of late Valentine had seemed to seek himout, and especially to enjoy seeing him in the company of Julian. Andthe doctor fancied he detected something of a triumph that was almostblatant in Valentine's manner when they three were together, and when thedoctor's eyes rested sorrowfully upon that crumbling wall, which had oncebeen so fair and strong. Of late, too, the doctor, ever watching for thesigns of change in Valentine, had grown more and more aware that he wasan utterly, through and through, different man from the youth men hadcalled the Saint of Victoria Street. He felt the transformation to beinhuman, and, by slow and reluctant degrees, he was beginning to forman opinion. It was only in embryo as yet, a shadow hesitating in thebackground of his mind. He shrank from holding it. He shuddered at itscoming. Yet, if it were right, it might explain everything, might makewhat was otherwise incredible clear and comprehensible. 

Was this vile change in his friend caused by a radical distortion ofmind? Was Valentine a madman?

Lunacy turns temperaments upside down, transforms the lamb into thetiger, the saint into the murderer. 

Was Valentine then mad? and was the monstrous distortion of his brainplaying upon the life of Julian, who, like the rest of the world, believed him sane?

The thought came to the doctor, and once it had been born it was oftennear to him. Yet he would not encourage it unless he could rest it uponfacts. That a man should change was not a proof of his madness, howeverunaccountable the change might seem. The doctor watched Valentine, andwas compelled to admit to himself that in every way Valentine seemedperfectly sane. His cynicism, his love of ordinary life, his tolerationof common and wretched people, might seem amazing to one who had knownhim well years ago, but there were many perfectly sane men of the samehabits and opinions, of the same modes of speech and of action. If thedoctor's strange thought were to become a definite belief, much morewas needed, something at least of proof, something that would carryconviction not merely to the imagination, but to the cool and searchingintellect. 

On this night of the first snow the doctor's thought moved a step forwardtowards conviction. 

When he arrived at Julian's rooms, he was greeted by Valentine alone. 

"Our host has deserted us, " he said, leading the doctor into the fire. 

"What, is he ill?"

"He has not returned. He went away last night--on a quest of a certainpleasure. This afternoon he wired, asking me to entertain you. He wasunavoidably detained, but hoped to arrive in time for dessert. Hispresent love's arms are very strong. They keep him. "

"Oh!" the doctor said, slipping out of his cloak; "we dine here then?"

"We do, alone. I don't think we've dined alone since Julian and I cameback from abroad, and you deserted your Russian. "

"No. I will consider myself your guest. "

It struck the doctor that here was an excellent opportunity forconfirming or abandoning his dreary suspicion. Alone with Valentine, hewould be able to lead the conversation in any direction he chose. He wasglad that Julian had not returned, and resolved to use this opportunity. 

They went into the dining-room and sat down to dinner. Valentine wasapparently rather amused at playing the host in another man's house. It was novel, and entertained him. He was obviously in splendid spirits, ate with good appetite and drank the champagne with an elation notunlike the elation of the dancing wine. More than once, too, he alludedto Julian's absence and probable occupation, as if both the one andthe other were bouquets in his cap, or laurels in some crown which healone could wear. Dr. Levillier noticed it and sought to draw him onin that direction, and to lead him to some open acknowledgment of hisshare in Julian's rapidly proceeding ruin. But Valentine changed theconversation into another channel without apparently observing hiscompanion's intention, or deliberately frustrating it. He chatteredof a thousand things, mostly of topics that are the common converseof London dinner-tables. The doctor joined in. To a listening strangerthe two men would have seemed old friends, pleasantly at ease and securewith one another. Yet the doctor was doing detective duty all the time. And Valentine! was he not secretly revelling in that destruction of ahuman soul that was galloping apace?

Course succeeded course. At last dessert was placed upon the table. Valentine raised his glass with a smile:

"Let us drink the health of Julian's absence, " he said. "For you and Iget on so perfectly together. "

"Rather a cruel toast in Julian's own rooms, " said the doctor. 

"Ah, but he's happy enough where he is. "

"You know where that is?"

"No--I only suspect, " Valentine cried gaily. "In the wilds of SouthKensington, in a tiny house, all Morris tapestry and Burne-Jones stainedglass, dwells the latest siren who has been calling to our Ulysses. Heis there, I suspect. Wait a moment, though. His telegram might tell us. Where was it sent from?"

He sprang up, went to the writing-table near the window, and caught upthe crumpled thin paper that he had flung down there. Smoothing it out, he read, holding the paper close to a wax candle:

"Handed in at the Marylebone Road office at 5:50. "

His brow clouded. 

"Marylebone Road, " he repeated, looking at the doctor. "Why should he bethere?"

His words immediately set the doctor on the track. 

"Does not Cuckoo Bright live there?" he said. 

"Yes, she does. "

"May he not be with her?"

Valentine had dropped the telegram. He was standing at the table, and hepressed his two fists, clenched, upon the white cloth. 

"I have told him he must give Cuckoo up, " he said, almost in a snarl. 

The doctor glanced at him quickly. 

"You have told him?"

"Advised him, I mean. "

"You dislike her?"

"I! No. How can one dislike a painted rag? How can one dislike a pink andwhite shell that holds nothing?"

"Every body holds a soul. Every human shell holds its murmur of the greatsea. "

"The body of Cuckoo then contains a soul that's cankered with disease, moth-eaten with corruption, worn away to an atom not bigger than a grainof dust. I would not call it a soul at all. "

He spoke with more than a shade of excitement, and the gay expression ofhis face had changed to an uneasy anger. The doctor observed it, andrejoined quietly:

"How can you answer for another person's soul? We see the body, it istrue. But are we to divine the soul from that--wholly and solely?"

"The soul! Let us call it the will. "

"Why?"

"The will of man is the soul of man. It is possible to judge the willby the body. The will of such a woman as Cuckoo Bright is a negativequantity. Her body is the word 'weakness, ' written in flesh and bloodfor all to read. "

"Ah, you speak of her will for herself, " the doctor said, thinking ofCuckoo's broken wail to him, as she sat on that autumn evening in hisconsulting-room. "But what of her will for another, her soul foranother?"

He had spoken partly at random, partly led by the thought, the suspicion, that Cuckoo's abandoned body held a fine love for Julian. He was by nomeans prepared for the striking effect his remark had upon Valentine. No sooner were the words spoken than a strong expression of fear wasvisible in Valentine's face, of terror so keen that it killed the angerwhich had preceded it. He trembled as he stood, till the table shook; andapparently noticing this, and wishing to conceal so extreme an exhibitionof emotion, he slid hastily into a seat. 

"Her will for another, " he repeated, --"for another. What do you mean bythat? where's the other, then? who is it?"

The doctor looked upon him keenly. 

"Anybody for whom she has any desire, any solicitude, or any love--you, myself, or--Julian. "

"Julian!" Valentine repeated unsteadily. "Julian! you mean to say you--"

He pulled himself together abruptly. 

"Doctor, " he said, "forgive me for saying that you are scarcely talkingsense when you assume that such a creature as Cuckoo Bright can reallylove anybody. And even if she did, Julian's the last man--oh, but thewhole thing is absurd. Why should you and I talk about a street-girl, a drab whose life begins and ends in the gutter? Julian will be heredirectly. Meanwhile let us have coffee. "

He pushed his cigarette-case over to the doctor and touched the bell. 

"Coffee!" he said, when Julian's man answered it. 

The door stood open, and as the man murmured, "Yes, sir, " a dog close byhowled shrilly. 

The noise diverted Valentine's attention and roused him from theagitation into which he had fallen. He glanced at the doctor. 

"Rip, " he said. 

"Howling for his master, " said the doctor. 

"Wait a moment, " Valentine said to the man, who was preparing to leavethe room. Then, to the doctor:

"I am his master. "

"To be sure, " rejoined the doctor, who had, in truth, for the momentforgotten the fact, so long a time had elapsed since the little dog tookup his residence with Julian. 

"You think he's howling for me?" Valentine said. 

"I was thinking of Julian at the moment. "

"And what do you say now? Still that he is howling for his master?"

The dog's voice was heard again. It sounded almost like a shriek of fear. 

"No, " the doctor replied, wondering what intention was growing inValentine's face. 

"Oh!" Valentine said curtly. 

He turned to the man. 

"Bateman, bring Rip in here to us. "

The man hesitated. 

"I don't think he'll come, sir. "

"I said, bring him to us. "

The man went out, as if with reluctance. Valentine turned to the doctor. 

"We spoke about soul--that is, will--just now, " he said. "To deny thewill is death, despite Schopenhauer. Death? Worse than death--cowardice. To assert the will is life and victory. With each assertion a man stepsnearer to a god. With each conquest of another will a man mounts, andif any man wants to enjoy an eternity he must create it for himself byfeeding his will or soul with conquest till it is so strong that itcannot die. "

His eyes shone with excitement. It seemed to the doctor that he wascaught in the whirlpool of a violent reaction. He had shown fear, weakness; he was aware of it, and determined to reassert himself. Thedoctor answered nothing, neither agreeing with his fantastic philosophynor striving to controvert it. And at this moment there was the sound ofa struggle and of whining outside. The door was pushed open, and Julian'sman appeared, hauling Rip along by the collar. The little dog was hangingback, with all its force, and striving to get away. Having succeeded ingetting it into the room, the man quickly retreated, shutting the doorhastily behind him. The little dog was left with Valentine and thedoctor. It remained shrinking up against the door in a posture thatdenoted abject fear, its pretty head turned in the direction ofValentine, its eyes glaring, its teeth snapping at the air. The doctorlooked at it and at Valentine. His pity for the dog's condition was heldin check by a strange fascination of curiosity. He leaned his arms on thetable and his eyes were fixed on Valentine, who got up slowly from hischair. 

"I have let Rip be the prey of his absurd fancies long enough, doctor, "he said. "To-night I will make him like me as he used to, or at leastcome to me. "

And he whistled to the dog and called Rip, standing by the table. Riphowled and trembled in reply, and snapped more fiercely in the directionof Valentine. 

"Do you see that, doctor? But he shall come. I will make him. "

He shut his lips firmly and stared upon the animal. It was very evidentthat he was exerting himself strongly in some way. Indeed, he lookedlike a man performing some tremendous physical feat. Yet all his limbswere still. The violence of his mind created the illusion. Rip waveredagainst the door. There was foam on his jaws and his white legs trembled. Valentine snapped his fingers as one summoning or coaxing a dog. Thedoctor started at the sound and leaned further forward along the tableto see the upshot of this strange fight between a man's desire and ananimal's fear. Rip scarcely whined now, but turning his head rapidlyfrom one side to the other, with a motion that seemed to become merelymechanical, he made a hoarse noise that was like a terrified anddistressed growl half strangled in his throat. But though he waveredagainst the door, he did not obey Valentine and go to him, and thedoctor was conscious of a sudden thrill of joy in the dog's obstinacy. This obstinacy angered Valentine greatly. His face clouded. He bentforward. He put out his hands as if to seize Rip. The dog snapped athim frantically, wildly. But Valentine did not recoil. On the contrary, he advanced, bending down over the wretched little creature. Then Ripshrank down on all fours before the door. To the doctor's watchingeyes he seemed to wane visibly smaller. He dropped his head. Valentinebent lower. Rip lay right down, pressing himself upon the floor. AsValentine's hand touched him a quiver ran over him, succeeded by asurprising stillness. 

The doctor made a slight sound. He knew that Rip was dead. Valentine tookthe little dog by the scruff of its neck and lifted it up. Then he, too, saw what he held. He glanced at the doctor, and there was a glare ofdefeat in his eyes. Then he passed across the room to the window, stillholding the dog, pulled aside the curtain and thrust up the window. Theground was white and the snow was falling. With an angry gesture he flungthe body out. It dropped with a soft noise in the snow and lay there. 

Valentine closed the window, but the doctor felt as if he still saw thepoor little corpse in the snow. And he shuddered. 

A moment afterwards there was a step in the passage and Julian entered. He was looking haggard and excited, and ill with dissipation. His eyesshone in deep hollows that seemed to have been painted with indigo, and his lips were parched and feverish. 

"Where have you been, Julian?" said Valentine. 

"Oh, with her--with Molly, of course, " he replied. 

"What? Till now?"

Julian seemed uneasy under his scrutiny. 

"Till this morning, " he replied, almost suddenly. 

"Well, but since then?"

"With Cuckoo. Oh! don't bother me. "

He went over towards the window. 

"Oh, how hot it is here, " he said. 

He glanced at the bright fire. 

"Intolerably!" he murmured. 

And he opened the window to the drifting snow. 

"Am I mad?" he suddenly cried to them. "I saw the flame in her eyes againto-day, in Cuckoo's eyes. It held me with her. I'll swear it held me. Itwouldn't let me go--wouldn't let me--till now!"

He sank down in a chair by the window, and turning his back on them, pushed his head out to get air. 

"I say, " he suddenly called. "What's that, that lying there?"

Valentine and the doctor joined him. He was pointing to the body of Rip, which was already almost covered by the snow. 

"That, " Valentine said; "that is--"

"The body of a creature that died fighting, " the doctor interrupted. "Afine fashion of dying. Look at it, Julian. Its soul was indomitable tothe last, and so it won the battle it fought. It won by its very deatheven. Nature is at work on its winding-sheet. "

Valentine said nothing. 

CHAPTER V

DOCTOR LEVILLIER VISITS THE LADY OF THE FEATHERS

Julian's utterance about the flame that held him with the lady of thefeathers struck Dr. Levillier forcibly at the time it was made, andremained in his mind. He could not fail to connect it with his ownexperience in Valentine's empty room, and, going further back, withthe last sitting of the two young men which was succeeded by the longtrance of Valentine. And as he thought of these things, it suddenlyoccurred to him that the ghastly change which had taken place inValentine might well date from that night. Since the death of Rip thedoctor had formed the opinion that Valentine was no longer perfectlysane. His excitement, the fury of his eyes when he spoke of the triumphsof will, seemed to give the clue to his transformation. The insaneperpetually glorify themselves, and are transcendent egoists. Surelythe egoism of insanity had peeped out in Valentine's diatribe upon theeternity of a strong man's individual will. The night of the trance hadbeen a strange crisis of his life. He had seemed to recover from it, to come back from that wonderful simulation of death healthy, calm, reasonable as before. This might have been only seeming. In that sleepthe sane and beautiful Valentine might have died, the insane andunbeautiful Valentine have been born. There are many instances of asudden and acute shock to the nervous system leaving an indelible anddreary writing upon the nature. If Valentine had thus been tossed tomadness, it was very possible that his dog, an instinctive creature, should recognize the change with terror. It was even possible that otherinstinctive creatures should divine the hideous mind of a maniac hiddenin the beautiful body of an apparently normal man. And Cuckoo, she toowas instinctive, a girl without education, culture, the reading thatopens the mind and sometimes shuts the eyes. Cuckoo Bright, she haddivined the evil of Valentine. To her he had made confession. In hereyes Julian had seen the mysterious flame. Some influence from her hadkept him from his invited guests and from his house. Yes, Cuckoo, thelady of the feathers, the blessed damozel of Regent Street and PiccadillyCircus, the painted and possessed, faded and degraded, wanderer of thepavements, seemed to become the centre of this wheel of circumstances, as Doctor Levillier reflected upon her. 

It was time for him to go to Cuckoo. Julian's descent must be stayed, before he went down, like a new Orpheus without a mission, into Hades. Valentine's influence, whether mad or sane, must be fought. It was to bea struggle, a battle of wills, of what Valentine chose to consider souls. And some prompting led the doctor to think of Cuckoo as a possibleweapon. Why? Because she had even once held Julian against his will, against the intention of his soul. 

So the doctor at length sought the lady of the feathers. She had beenpassing through a period of great and benumbing desolation, believingthat her last appeal, her great effort for Julian, had been a failure. For the doctor had not come to her, and Cuckoo could not tell that hewas making observations for himself and that she was often in his mind. She supposed that he, like all others, laughed at her pretensions togravity, swept her exhibition of real and honest emotion away from hismemory with a sneer, considered her despair over another's ruin a viletravesty, a grinning absurdity and trick. Never had Cuckoo felt morelonely than in these days, though a vast loneliness is the constantcompanion of her large sisterhood. Even Jessie failed to comfort her, and she could find little courage within herself. And yet there weremoments when the vigour that had led her once to defy Valentine, whenthe fire that had sprung up in her, as a flame may burst forth in aswamp, seemed to be near to her again. She felt a new possibility withinher, stirring, striving. It was at such moments that she longed to seethe doctor, and could have cursed him for not coming to her. For atsuch moments she seemed only waiting for a touch of sympathy, a word ofencouragement, to perform some great action, some momentous deed. But thetouch, the word, were lacking, and her life and experience of constantand monotonous degradation dulled the impulse, stifled the enthusiasmthat she could not understand. And she fell again to brooding, and toan ignorant and vague consciousness of impotence. 

She bought a new hair-dye, painted her thin cheeks more heavily than everbefore, and sought, almost with a wild exultation that swiftly fled away, to sink lower. 

The monotony of sin is one of the scourges of sin. In those days Cuckoosuffered many stripes. Her eyes grew more weary, her smile in Piccadillymore mechanical, her walk more puppet-like than ever. Life was likea moving dream of horror. And yet no day passed without a gleam of thatstrange sensation of ignorant power, fluttering upward, fading away, pausing, passing, dead. 

She did not know what it meant. She could not keep it nor use it. Shecould not unravel its message nor rest upon its strength. It was gonealmost while it came, but it did something for the lady of the feathers. It gave to her the little seed of expectation that, quite alone in aweary desert, yet makes of that desert the plot men call a garden. Like athread of steel, it held up this girl from the uttermost abyss, until atlast the doctor's hand struck upon her door. 

Julian's occasional visits were as the scourgings of God, giving toCuckoo a vision of shifting ruin, in which she--so she told herself, thinking of the dance of the hours--had been the first to have a share. 

It was a wintry afternoon when the doctor came. Frost clung stealthilyround the grimy black trees, outlining their naked boughs with meagrelines of white sewn with smuts. Above the frost hung the fog as if incharge of the town, a despondent and gloomy sentinel. During the morningthe sun had lain in the fog like a faint blood-red jewel in a thick andawkward sulphur setting, but with the afternoon the jewel faded to adistant dim phantom, from that to blank nothingness. As if satisfiedwith this piteous exit, the fog drew closer, keeping especially heavywatch upon the long and bleak line of the Marylebone Road, and takingthe high and narrow house in which Cuckoo dwelt under its severestprotection. Twilight wanted to come as the afternoon drew on, but it hadbeen forestalled and was practically already there. Doubtless it didcome, but no one was much the wiser. The lamps had been alight all day, and no procession of gloomy things, advancing from whithersoever, could have added much to the volume of the crowding darkness, or haveappreciably increased its density. In the darkness the cold gathered, and the frost began to take a harder grip of everything, --of desolate, solitary pumps in tiny and squalid back yards, of pipes that crawled likeliver-coloured snakes over the unpresentable sides of houses, of poolsthick with orange-brown mud, and vagrant bushes creaking above thegrimy earth in places that children named gardens. 

Fog and frost had taken a strong grip, too, upon the heart of the ladyof the feathers. Somewhere about eleven o'clock in the morning she hadstirred wearily in her bed, had stretched out her arms to the stagnantair of the room, and crouched up on her pillow in a grotesque hump. For awhile the hump remained motionless. Then Cuckoo rolled round and extendeda bare thin leg to test the atmosphere. The leg was quickly withdrawn, the atmosphere having been evidently tried in the balance and foundwanting. Cuckoo's bell rang, and Mrs. Brigg was called for tea and toast, while once more the hump decorated the upper part of the disordered bed. Jessie, awakened in her basket at the foot of the bed, joined the hump, whining a greeting, and wriggling furiously in an effort to tunnel herway to the ultimate depths of sheets and blankets. Then Mrs. Brigg, ofyellowish and bleak aspect, beneath a tumbled appurtenance that shecalled a cap, appeared with a tray. 

"Going to stop abed?" she asked, in a husky voice, in which the smutsseemed floating. 

"Yes. What's there to get up for?" Cuckoo groaned. 

"Nothun' as I know of. "

And Mrs. Brigg was gone about her business. 

All the morning Cuckoo lay staring at the blank square of the window, andJessie snored under the blankets. The tea was drunk, the toast lay aboutin fragments. One bit, hard and many cornered as it seemed, somehowgained entrance to the bed, and greeted Cuckoo's every movement withuncompromising grittiness. No shaking of coverlet and sheet, no beatingof pillow, no kicks and scufflings could expel it. The bed seemed full ofhard bits of toast, and Cuckoo felt as if an additional burden were laidupon her by this slight evil. But, indeed, the horror of her existencereached a culminating point to-day, --a point of loneliness, vacantdreariness, squalor, and degradation that could not be surpassed. Thepreceding night had been peculiarly horrible, and as Cuckoo now lay onthe tumbled bed, in the dim, cold room, with the fog gazing in, theleaden hours of winter crawling by, she felt as if she could bear nomore. She could bear no more addition to her sick weariness; no moreaddition to her useless hunger of love for Julian, that could neverbe crowned with anything but despair; no more addition to her bodilyfatigue, born of tramping monotony succeeded by yet more enervatingweariness of the flesh. She could bear no more. Yes, but she must bearmore. For Cuckoo knew that she was not dying, was not even ill. She wasonly tired in body, prostrate in heart, deserted in life, and forced towitness the quick and running ruin of the man she had the farcicalabsurdity to love. Imaginative, for once, in her morbid fatigue, shebegan to wish that she could fade away and become part of the fog thatlay about London, be drawn into its murkiness, with all her murkyrecollections, her fiendish knowledge, her mechanical wiles of thestreets, her thin and ghostly despairs and desires. For they seemed thinand ghostly, they too, to-day, fit food for the fog, as indeed the wholeof her was. How could such as she evaporate into sweet air, a clearheaven?

She caught at the hand-glass, leaning far out on the bed, as the blesseddamozel o'er the bright bar of heaven, and tried to see, with staringeyes, how the new hair-dye that she was now using became her. Her mindwas vagrant, coming and going miserably, from that love of hers which wasstrangely strong and subtle, to the powder-box with its arsenic-greenlid, or the rouge-pot of dirty white china. And by each event it pausedand sank, as if benumbed by the increasing frost. Leaning again to putback the hand-glass she fell over too far and dropped it. The glass fellface downwards and was smashed. Cuckoo laughed aloud, revelling feebly inthe additional misery a superstitious mind now began to promise her. Thefragments of broken glass actually pleased her, and, on a sudden, sheresolved to set her feet in them, that she might be cut and wounded, thatshe might bleed outwardly as she had been bleeding inwardly for so long. She swung her legs over the breadth of the bed, disorganizing Jessie, planted her feet in the array of glass and stood up. As she did so thedoctor mounted her doorstep, plied the knocker and rang the bell. Cuckoostood listening. A fragment of glass had really penetrated the bare soleof her foot, which bled a little gently on the carpet. But she scarcelyknew it. She heard Mrs. Brigg go by, and then steps sounding in thepassage. Then there came to her ears a quiet voice with a verycharacteristic note of bright calmness in it. Standing in her frillednightdress among the bits of glass, Cuckoo flushed scarlet all over herface and neck. She knew who the visitor was. With one dart she reachedthe washhand-stand. Sponges, brushes, combs, all her weapons of thetoilet, were immediately in commotion, and when Mrs. Brigg opened herdoor, the room was a whirlpool of quick activities, in the midst ofwhich, as on a frouzy throne, Jessie stood upon the bed barkingexcitedly. Mrs. Brigg came in and closed the door. Her thin lips werepursed. 

"Light the fire!" Cuckoo called at her from the basin. 

"What do you want the doctor for?"

Mrs. Brigg uttered the words with some suspicion. 

"Hurry up and light the fire!"

Cuckoo turned round, her hands darting in her hair, and actually laughedwith a touch of merriment. 

"You old owl! He's not come to doctor me, only to see me. "

Mrs. Brigg looked relieved, but still surprised. 

"Oh, " she said. "That's it, is it?"

She paused as if in consideration. 

Suddenly Cuckoo sprang on her, twisted her round, and spun her out intothe cold passage. "Light the fire, I tell you!"

She banged the bedroom door and went on with her rapid toilet. 

When she came into the sitting-room an uneasy fire was sputtering inthe grate, one gas-jet flared, and Doctor Levillier was standing by thewindow looking out at the fog. He turned to greet her. 

"I thought you'd forgotten--or didn't mean to come, " Cuckoo said; "theyoften do--people that say they will to me, I mean. "

The doctor held out his hand with a smile. 

"No. Am I interrupting you?"

"Me!" said Cuckoo, in amazement, thinking of her empty days. "Lord, no. "

Her accent was convincing. The little doctor sat down by the fire and puthis hat and gloves on the table. 

"Mrs. Brigg thought I was ill--you bein' a doctor, " Cuckoo said, with anattempt at a laugh. She felt nervous now, and was not sustained today bythe strung-up enthusiasm which had supported her in Harley Street. "Funnythere bein' a fog again this time, ain't it?"

"Yes. I hope we shall meet some day in clear weather. "

As the doctor said that, following a tender thought of the girl, heglanced round the room and at Cuckoo. "I hope so, " he repeated. Then, rather abruptly:

"Two or three nights ago I went to dine with Mr. Addison. He was out. Hewas here with you. "

Cuckoo got red. She could still be very sensitive with a few people, andperhaps Mrs. Brigg and her kind had trained her into irritable suspicionof suspicion in others. 

"Only for a friendly visit, " she said hastily. "Nothin' else. He wouldstop. "

"I understand perfectly, " the doctor said gently. Cuckoo was reassured. 

"Did he say as he'd been?"

"Yes. "

Cuckoo looked at the doctor and a world of reproach dawned in her eyes. 

"I say, " she said, "you haven't done nothin'. He's worse than ever. He'sgettin'--oh, he's gettin' cruel bad. "

Tears came up over the world of reproach. 

"It's all him, all Valentine, " she said. 

And Doctor Levillier was moved to cast reticence, the usual loyalty ofone man to another who has been his friend, away. Somehow the dead bodyof Rip lying in the snow put that old friendship far off. And also aninward thrill caught him near to Cuckoo. An impulse, swift and vital, thrust his mind to hers. 

"You are right, " he answered. "I believe that it is all Valentine. "

"There! Didn't I tell you?" Cuckoo cried with eyes of triumph. "It's beenhim from the first. Oh, get him--get Julian away. "

The doctor laid his hand upon Cuckoo's, which was stretched upon thetablecloth, very gently, almost abstractedly. 

"Will you tell me something?" he said. 

"What's it?"

"You love Julian?"

"Me!" the lady of the feathers said. 

Her voice trembled over the word. She stole a hasty, hunted glance at thedoctor. Was he, too, going to jeer at her? Would no one allow her to havea clean corner in her heart?

"You're laughin' at me. What's the good of such as me doin' a thing likethat--lovin' a man?"

"I think you must love Julian. If you do, perhaps you are meant toprotect and save him. "

A secret voice prompted the doctor with the words he spoke, gave them tohim, bent him irresistibly to repeat them. Never before had he felt whatit is to be between the strong hands of destiny. 

"Me! Me save any one!" Cuckoo said, trembling. 

"Yes, you. There is something in you--I feel it and I can't tell you why, nor what it is--something that has hold of Julian. He told us so theother night. Don't you know what it is?"

"Eh?"

"Perhaps he feels that you love him--purely, cleanly. "

"I do--oh! I do that!" Cuckoo cried. 

A wonder as to the relations between Julian and this girl shot throughthe doctor. He was the last man in the world to think evil of any one, but just then, as Cuckoo moved, the gaslight struck fully on her. The dyeon her hair shone crudely. The red and white of her face burned as on theface of a clown. And then even the doctor's good heart wondered. Cuckooknew it in an instant, and her face hardened and looked older. 

"Oh, go on, " she said rudely. "Think as the others do. Damn you men! Damnyou! Damn you!"

And without warning she put her head down on the table and broke into awild passion of tears. She sobbed, and as she sobbed she cursed andclenched her hands. She lost herself in fury and in despair. The Fateshad stung her too hard this time, and she must blaspheme against themwith her voice of the streets, her language of the streets, her poorheart--not quite of the streets. The Fates had stung her too hard, forthey had put a flaw even in this one self-respect of hers. That onenight accused her whenever she thought of Julian, whenever she saw thedissipation deepen round his eyes. She was not to have even one thingthat she could be quite proud of; not one thing of which she could say, "This has been always pure. " And then she turned on the doctor and cried:

"Go on--think it--think it! Think what you like! But I'll tell you thetruth. There was only once I did him any harm, and that wasn't my fault. I never wanted to. I hated it. I told him I hated it. I didn't want himto be that, like the others. And that was Valentine, too. And now--justbecause of that I'm no use. And you'd said I might be, you'd said I mightbe. "

"And I say you shall be. "

The wail died in Cuckoo's throat. The tears were arrested as by a spell. Dr. Levillier had got upon his feet. All the truth and tenderness of hisheart was roused and quickened. He knew real passion, real grief, andfrom that moment he knew and trusted the lady of the feathers. And bythe strength of her bitterness, even by the broken curses that would haveshocked so many of the elect of this world, he measured the width andthe depth of her possibilities. She had sent to damnation--what? Thevile cruelty, the loathsome, unspeakable, dastardly mercilessness of theworld. To damnation with it! That was the loud echo in his man's heart. 

"That one night is nothing, " he said. "Or rather it is something that youmust redeem. It is good to have to pay for a thing. It is that makes onework. There is a work for you to do, a work which I believe no one elsecan do. You love Julian. Love him more. Make him love you. My will cannotfight the will of Valentine over him. No man's will can. A woman's may. Yours may, shall. "

His pale, small, delicate face flamed with excitement as he spoke. Fewof his patients looking upon him just then would have known their calmlittle doctor. But Cuckoo had cried to him out of the very depths, andout of the very depths he answered her, still prompted--though now heknew it not--by that secret voice which sometimes rules a man, at whichhe wonders ignorantly, the voice of some soul, some great influence, hidden from him in the spaces of the air, the voice of a flame, warm, keen, alive, and power-prompting. 

And Cuckoo, as she listened to the doctor, had once again a hint of herown strength, a thrill of hope, a sense that she, even she, was notbroken quite in pieces upon the cruel wheel of the world. 

"Whatever can I do?" she said; "Valentine's got him. "

As she spoke, the doctor, restless, as men are in excitement, had movedover to the mantelpiece, and stood with one foot upon the edge of thefender. Thinking deeply, he glanced over the photographs of Cuckoo'sacquaintance, without actually seeing them. But presently one, at whichhe had looked long and fixedly, dawned upon him, cruelly, powerfully. Itwas the face of Marr. 

"Who is that?" he said abruptly to Cuckoo. 

"That?" She too got up and came near to him, lowering her voice almost toa whisper. "That's really _him_. "

"Him?"

"Valentine. "

The doctor looked at her in blank astonishment. 

"Yes, it is, " Cuckoo reiterated, and nodding her head with the obstinacyof a child. 

"That--Valentine! It has no resemblance to him. "

The doctor took up the photograph, and examined it closely. "This is notValentine. "

"He told me it was. It's Marr--and somehow it's him now. "

"Marr, " said the doctor, sharply. "Why, he is dead. Julian told me so. He died--he died in the Euston Road on the night of Valentine's trance. Ah, but you know nothing about that. Did you know Marr, then?"

"Yes, I knew him. "

Cuckoo hesitated. But something taught her to be perfectly frank with thedoctor. So she added:

"I'd been with him at that hotel the night he died. "

"You were the woman! But, then, how can you say that this (he touched thephotograph with his finger) is Valentine?"

"He says he's really Marr. "

Cuckoo spoke in the most mulish manner, following her habit when she wascompletely puzzled, but sticking to what she believed to be the truth. 

"Marr and Valentine one man! He told you that?"

"He says to me--'I'm Marr. '"

Cuckoo repeated the words steadily, but like a parrot. The doctor saidnothing, only looked at her and at the photograph. He was thinking nowof his suspicion as to Valentine's sanity. Had he, perhaps in hismadness, been playing on the ignorance of the lady of the feathers?She went on:

"It was on the night he told me all that. I couldn't understand what heis and what he's doing. And he said that the real Valentine had gone. Andthen he said--'I am Marr. '"

"The real Valentine gone. Yes, " said the doctor, gravely, "that is true. Does he then know that he is--?" "Mad" was on his lips, but he checkedhimself. 

"What else did he say that night?" he asked. "Can you remember? If yousucceed, you may help Julian. "

Cuckoo frowned till her long, broad eyebrows nearly met. The grimace gaveher the aspect of a sinister boy, bold and audacious. For she protrudedher under lip, too, and the graces of ardent feeling, of pain and ofpassion, died out of her eyes. But this abrupt and hard mask was onlycaused by the effort she was making after thought, after understanding. She pressed her feet upon the ground, and the toes inside her worn shoescurved themselves inwards. What had Valentine said? What--what? Shestared dully at the doctor under her corrugated brows. 

"What did he say?" she murmured in an inward voice, "Well--he didn't wantme to see you. He came here about that--my seeing you. "

"Yes. "

"And--and Marr's not dead, he says, at least not done with. Yes, that wasit--he says as no strong man who's lived long's done with when he's putaway. See?"

Her face lighted up a little. She was beginning to trust her memory. 

"The influence of men lives after them, " the doctor said. "Marr's too. Yes. He said that?"

She nodded. Then with a flash of understanding, a flash of thatsmouldering power which she had felt in loneliness and longed to tearout from its prison, she cried:

"That's it. That's how he's Marr, then. "

She hesitated. 

"Isn't it?" she said, flushing with the thought that she might be showingherself a fool. For she scarcely understood what she really meant. 

"Valentine, no longer himself, but endowed with the influence of Marr, "the doctor muttered; "she means that he told her something like that. The phantasy of an unsteady brain. "--"Go on, " he added to her. 

But Cuckoo was relapsing into confusion already. 

"And then he talked a lot about will, as he called it. Can't rememberwhat he said. "

"Try to. "

She was silent, knitting her brows. 

"It's no use. I can't, " she said, despairingly. "But I know he says thathe's really Marr and that he's killed Valentine. He said that; I know hedid. "

She glanced eagerly at the doctor, in the obvious hope that hiscleverness, which she believed to be unlimited and profound, wouldin a flash divine all the strange secret from this exposition of herdisjointed recollection. With each word she spoke, however, the doctorbecame more and more convinced that Valentine had only been cruellyamusing himself with her, or weaving for her benefit some intricateweb of vain madness. And Cuckoo, noticing this now, and recollecting themomentary clearness of comprehension which had seized her at one point inValentine's wild sermon to her, was mad with herself for not being ableto seize again that current of inspiration, almost mad with the doctorfor not unravelling the mystery. This excess of feeling finally drownedand swept away as a corpse the memory of the gospel of influence. 

"I can't remember no more, " she said stolidly. "There was ever such a lotabout--about some one as was good and didn't want to be good any more, and so it was driven away--I don't know. P'rhaps he was only gamin' me. "

She stared moodily at her feet, which she had stuck out from under herdress. The doctor said nothing, but at her last speech his face had litup with a sort of excitement. For had she not described in those fewill-chosen words the very mental position of the former Valentine? Asaint at first with his will, a saint at last against his will--and nowa saint no more. That was, perhaps, the key to the whole matter. A goodman prays to be no longer good. His prayer is granted. His grievousdesire is fulfilled. And then he may pray forever in vain to be as heonce was. Yet the change in Valentine was more even than this, morethan the gliding from white purity to black sin. There was something. 

As Cuckoo and the doctor sat in silence, she staring vacantly and emptyof thought, being now utterly and chaotically puzzled, he thinkingdeeply, the door bell rang. In a moment Mrs. Brigg appeared, went toCuckoo and muttered in her ear:

"Mr. Haddison wants to come in. I told him you was busy. "

"Oh, " said Cuckoo, "I say--wait, " and then to the doctor, "It's him. It'sJulian. "

"Let him in, " the doctor said quickly. 

To see Cuckoo and Julian together might tell him much. 

Julian came in, stumbling rather heavily at the entrance of the room. 

CHAPTER VI

CLEAR WEATHER

"Damn that mat!" he exclaimed. "I say, Cuckoo, who the--?" The questionfaded on his lips as he saw Doctor Levillier, on whom he gazed with avacant surprise that, added to the unsteadiness of his movement uponthem, spoke his condition very plainly. 

"You, doctor! Well, I'm damned! What are you here for?"

"To see Miss Bright, " the doctor said, coolly. 

He had pushed forward a chair quickly with his foot. Julian collapsed init by the table. Beads of the fog lay all over his long greatcoat andupon his hat, which he had not yet taken off. His face was flushed anddull. 

"It's an infernal evening, " he said. "You doctoring Cuckoo, eh?"

"I have been talking to Miss Bright. "

"Oh, all right. I don't mind. Cuckoo, help me off with this coat. There'sa good girl. "

She obeyed without a word. When the coat was off Julian threw himselfback in the chair and heaved a long sigh. His hat fell onto the floorwith a bang, but he did not seem to notice it. His face was moody andmiserable. 

"Molly's thrown me over, " he said. 

Cuckoo caught her breath sharply and stole a glance at the doctor. 

"Have some tea?" she said. 

"No; a brandy and soda. "

"Haven't got it. You must do with tea. "

She rang the bell and ordered it despite his grumblings. Mrs. Brigg madeno difficulty. Julian had long ago soothed her delicate susceptibilitieswith gold. 

So, Cuckoo, oddly shy and excited, made tea for the doctor and Julian. The tea cleared the latter's fogged brain a little, but he was stillmorose and self-centred. He had evidently come to pour some woes outto Cuckoo and was restrained by the presence of the doctor, at whom helooked from time to time with an expression that was near to disfavour. But the doctor began to chat easily and cordially, and Julian graduallythawed. 

"I suppose you know Rip's dead, " he said presently. "Went out the othernight and got frozen in the snow. Poor little beggar. Val's awfully cutup about it. "

"Is he?" said the doctor. 

"Yes. Dear old Val. Dev'lish hard Rip's never making it up with himagain, wasn't it? Rip didn't know a good fellow, did he, doctor?"

"He was devoted to Valentine once, " the doctor said. 

"Ah, but he changed. Dogs are just like women, just like women, never thesame two days together. Curse them. "

He appeared to have forgotten Cuckoo's presence, and she sat listeningeagerly, quite unmoved by the dagger thrust at her sex. 

"Dogs don't usually change. Their faithfulness bears everything withoutbreaking. "

"Except a trance, then, " Julian said, still with a wavering in-and-outstolidity, at the same time mournful and almost ludicrous. 

"That trance did for Rip; did for him, I tell you. He never knew poor oldVal again. As if he thought him another man after that, another man. "

The doctor's eyes met Cuckoo's. She had a teacup at her rouged lips, andhad paused in the act of drinking, fascinated by the words that wound sonaturally into the legend of change which she knew and knew not. 

"As if Val wasn't just the same, " Julian pursued, shaking his headslowly. "Just the same. "

"You think so?" the doctor said, quickly. 

"Eh?"

"You think that trance made no difference to him?"

"Why, how should it?"

Cuckoo drank her tea hastily and put the cup down. 

"How should it?" Julian repeated, as if with a heavy challenge. 

"It might in many ways, to his health--"

"He's stronger than ever he was. "

"Or to his mind, his nature. You see no change there that might havefrightened Rip?"

"Not I. He's more of a man, good old Val, even than he was. "

"Ah! You acknowledge there is a change. "

"Give me some more tea, Cuckoo, " Julian said, thrusting his cup towardsher. "Make it strong. It's picking me up. " He sat forward in his chairand began to light a cigar, keeping his eyes on the doctor. 

"Well, if you call that a change; to get like other men. Old Val was asaint. I loved him then, but I love him ten times more now he's--a--theother thing, you know. Ten times more. He knows the world now, and hisadvice is worth having. I'd follow him anywhere. He can't go wrong. Takescare of himself, and of me too. I might have been anything--anything, butfor him. Instead of what I am--"

He drew himself up with some pride, and pulled at the cup which Cuckoopushed towards him. 

"I'm just what Val makes me; just what he makes me, " he said, takingobvious joy in the thought. "Val can make me do anything. You know that, doctor?"

"Yes. Then you have changed with him, become more of a man, as you callit, with him. Is that so, Julian?"

"I suppose so. "

Julian was drinking his tea, which had become very strong from standing. 

"And are you happier than you were before?"

The doctor spoke insistently and gravely. Cuckoo had taken Jessie ontoher lap and now stroked the little dog quickly and softly with a thin, fluttering hand. Julian seemed trying to think, to dive into his mind anddiscover its real feelings. 

"I suppose so, " he said presently. "But who's happy? I should like toknow. Cuckoo isn't. Are you, Cuckoo?"

It seemed a cruel question, addressed to that spectre of girlhood. 

"I dunno, " she answered swiftly. "It don't matter much either way. "

"She may be, " the doctor said. "And you were happy, Julian. "

The tea had certainly cleared the boy's brain. His manner was moresensible, and the heavy sensuality had gone from his eyes. Though hestill looked haggard and wretched, he was no longer the mere wreck ofvice he had seemed when he drifted into the little room out of the fog. 

"Was I?" he said slowly. "It seems a devil of a time ago. "

The doctor's heart warmed to these two young creatures, children tohim, yet who had seen so much, gone so far down into the depths thatlie beneath the feet of life. He thought in that moment that he couldwillingly give up all his own peace of mind, success, fame, restfulnessof heart, to set them straight up, face to face with strength and purityonce more. One was well born, educated, still handsome, the other aso-called lost woman, and originally only a very poor and hopelesslyignorant girl. Yet their community of misery and sorrow put them sideby side, like two children who gather violets in a lane together, ordrown together in some strong, sad river. 

"It is not so long, Julian, " he said. "Only before Valentine's trance. "

Julian caught him up quickly. 

"Why d'you say that, doctor?"

"Why? Simply because it is truth. "

"You're always at that trance. I believe it's just because you told usnot to sit again. But there was no harm done. "

"You are sure of that?"

As he put the question the doctor's mind was on a hunt round that sleepand waking. He had gradually come to think that night a night of somestrange crisis, through which Valentine had passed from what he hadbeen to what he was. Yet his knowledge could not set at the door of thatunnatural slumber the blame of all that followed it. His imaginationmight, but not his knowledge. He wondered whether Julian might not helphim to elucidation. 

"Sure? of course! Why not? Valentine's all right. I'm all right. Rip'sthe only one gone. And if he'd only stayed in the house that night he'dbe all right too. "

"No, Addison. "

Julian stared at this flat contradiction. 

"Not?"

"Rip never went out of the house. "

"But he died in the snow. "

"No, " the doctor said quietly. "He died in your dining-room, offear--fear of his old master, Valentine. "

"What?" said Julian, gripping the table with his right hand. "Val hadbeen at him?"

In two or three simple, straightforward words, the doctor described thedeath of Rip. When he had finished Cuckoo gave a little cry, and claspedthe astonished and squirming Jessie close in her arms. Julian's browclouded. 

"He might have left Rip alone, " he said. "It's odd dogs can't bear Valnow. "

"Again since that trance, " the doctor said. 

Julian looked at him with acute irritation, but said nothing. Then, turning his eyes on Cuckoo, who was still hugging Jessie, he snapped hisfingers at the little dog and called its name. Cuckoo extended her arms, holding Jessie, to Julian, and he took the small creature gently. And ashe took her he bent forward and gazed long and deeply into Cuckoo's eyes. She trembled and flushed, half with pleasure, half with a nervousconsciousness of the doctor's presence. 

"Oh, why do you?" she murmured, turning her head away. The action seemedto make Julian aware that perhaps his manner was odd, and his subsequentglance at the doctor was very plainly, and even rudely, explanatoryof a wish to be alone with Cuckoo. The doctor read its meaning andresolved to go away. With the quick observation and knowledge of menwhich long years of training had given to him, he saw that, strangelyenough, the only creature whose influence could in any way cope with theinfluence of Valentine was not himself, who once had been as a seer tothe two young men, but the thin, spectral, weary, painted Cuckoo. There, in that small room, with the long murmur of London outside, sat these twohuman beings, desolate woman, vice-ridden man, both fallen down in thedeep mire, both almost whelmed in the flood of Fate. And he stood strong, faithful, clean-souled, brave-hearted, yet impotent, regarding them. Forsome power willed it that misery alone could hold out a helping hand tomisery, that vice and degradation must rise to thrust back vice anddegradation. The fallen creature was to be the protector, the unredeemedto be the redeemer. Doctor Levillier knew this when he saw Julian'slong glance into the hollow eyes of Cuckoo. And he thrilled with theknowledge. It seemed to him a great demonstration of the root, the core, of divine pity which he believed to be the centre of the scheme of theworld. Round this centre revolved wheels within wheels of cruelty, ofagony, of ruthless passions and of lawless bitterness. Yet they radiatedfrom pity. They radiated from love. How it was so he could not tell, andthere the pessimist had him by the throat. But that it was so he felt inhis inmost heart, and never more than now, when the tired boy sneered athim, who was an old friend, clean of life, gentle of nature, and turnedto this girl, this thing that loathsome men played with and scorned. Cuckoo flushed and trembled; this divine pity outpainted her rouge, andshook that body which had so often betrayed itself to destroyers. Thisdivine pity gave to her, who had lost all, the power to find freedom foranother soul that lay in bondage. 

The doctor gazed for an instant at the boy and girl, and was deeplymoved. His lips breathed a word that was a prayer, for Julian, for thelady of the feathers. 

Then he got up. 

"I have to go, " he said. 

Julian said nothing; Cuckoo flushed again, and accompanied the doctor tothe hall door. When she had opened it, and they looked out, it was verycold, but the fog had lifted, and was floating away to reveal a sky fullof stars, which always seem to shine more brightly upon frost. The doctortook the girl's hand. 

"I see you in clear weather, " he said. 

"You don't--you don't think as he'll--as I'll--" stammered Cuckoo, glancing awkwardly towards the lighted doorway of the littlesitting-room, and then at the doctor. The church clock striking7:30 pointed the application of the hesitating murmur. It wasunconventionally late for an afternoon call. 

"It'll be all right, you know that?" said the lady of the feathers. 

"Yes, I know that, " he answered. "You have to fight, I feel that; onlyyou can do it. You have to fight this--this--" and here the doctor'sloyalty spoke, for he could not betray even this new Valentine, --"thisstrange madness of Valentine's. Pit your will against his, and conquerfor Julian's sake. "

"Will, " said Cuckoo. "That's what he says I can't have. "

"Won't you pray to have it given you?" said the little doctor. 

Cuckoo looked at him, wondering. Then she said:

"I believe I could fight better 'n pray. "

"Sometimes battle is the greatest of all prayers, " said the doctor. 

The iron gate clicked. He was gone. Cuckoo cast an oblique glance upat the stars before she shut the door, and retraced her steps down thepassage. 

CHAPTER VII

BATTLE ARRAY

When Julian left the Marylebone Road that night it was nearly teno'clock. He was quite sober, and looked preternaturally grave as heopened the little gate and stepped out into the frost-bound street. In the lighted aperture of the doorway behind him Cuckoo stood likea shadow half revealed peeping after him, and he turned and waved hishand to her. Then he walked away slowly, meditating. That night thefight for the possession of his will, his soul, had begun in deadlyearnest. He did not know it, yet he was vaguely aware that he began tomove in the midst of unwonted circumstances. Cuckoo had not been ablewholly to conceal from him her strong mental excitement. Since herconversation with the doctor she had become a different woman. For theone word had been spoken which could change weakness into strength, utter self-distrust into something that at least resembled self-reliance. The doctor had broken Valentine's spell over Cuckoo with that word. Hebelieved in her. He told her to fight. He assumed that she had somepower, even more power for Julian than he had. "Only you can do it, " hehad said. The sentence armed her from head to foot, put weapons in herhands, light in her hollow eyes, a leaping exultation in her heart. Theflickering power that she had marvelled at, and then despaired of, burntup at last into a strong flame. That evening it had dazzled Julian'seyes. He seemed to see a new Cuckoo, and he was thinking of her as hewalked along now in the frost under the stars. His meditation was notvery intellectual or very profound, for since the change in his lifeJulian had put his old intellectualities away from him. Passion, solong guarded, so bravely repressed, once it had broken loose stormedall the heights of his nature, and drove every sentiment that tried tooppose it into exile. The animalism that is so generally present in aboy physically strong took possession of him, and would not tolerateany divided allegiance. It declined to permit his life to be a thing ofmingled enjoyments, now rejoicing in the leaping desires of the body, nowdisregarding them for the aspirations and clear contentments of the mind. It seemed vengeful, like a man long kept fasting against his will, andhaving at last come into its empire made that empire an autocracy, atyranny. Julian had passed at a step from one extreme to another, and hadalready so lost the habit of following any mental process to a conclusionthat he could no longer think clearly with ease, or observe himself withany acuteness. He was for the time all body, knew his muscles, his flesh, his limbs, like intimates; his mind only distantly, like a stranger. Withpassion, with greed, he had seized on all those pleasures which he hadpreviously feared and shunned, until his brain was heavy as is the brainof a glutton and a drunkard, and his mind stepped in any direction with alanguid lethargy. So to-night he had the face of a man puzzled as hewalked in the frost under the stars. 

Once the hint of some power lurking in Cuckoo had thrilled and awedhim, as only a certain clearness--a certain receptive, appreciativeclearness--can be thrilled and awed. Now the abrupt development ofthat power almost distressed, because it confused him. He had gonedown lower in the interval between the two possibilities of sensation. 

"What the devil's come over Cuckoo?" so ran his thought with a schoolboygait. That something had come over her he recognized. She was no longerthe girl he had stared at in Piccadilly, the creature he had pitied inthe twilight hour of their first friendly interview. Nor was she thewoman whose soul he had injured by his cruel whim, the woman who hadbeaten him with reproaches, and made him for an instant almost ashamedof his lusts. All these humanities perhaps slept, or woke, in her still. Yet it was not they which heavily concerned him on his way to the MarbleArch. There is a vitality about power of whatever kind that makes itselfinstantly felt, even when it is not understood, even when it is neitherbeloved nor appreciated. Julian was confused by his dull and suddenrecognition of power in Cuckoo. No longer did it flash upon him, amystery of flame in her eyes, moving him to the awe and the constraintthat a man may feel at sight of an unearthly thing, a phantom, or avision of the night. (He had looked for the flame in her eyes, and hehad not found it. ) But it glowed upon him more steadily, with a warmth ofhumanity, of something inherent, rooted, not detached, and merely for themoment and as if by chance prisoned in some particular place, from whichat a breath it might escape. It drew him to Cuckoo, and at the same timeit slightly repelled him, the latter--though Julian did not know it--bythe sharp abruptness of its novelty. For the doctor had lit a blaze ofstrength in the girl by a word. Julian's eyes were dazzled by the blaze. Custom might teach them to face it more calmly. At present he could lookat the stars with greater ease. Indeed, as he walked, he did look atthem, and thought of the eyes of Cuckoo, and then of the eyes of allwomen, and of their strange intensities of suggestion and of realization, of their language of the devil and of the clouds, of their kindlingvigours. But the eyes of Cuckoo were no longer as the eyes of any otherwoman. Julian glanced at a girl who watched him from the corner of thestreet. He knew that Cuckoo looked each night at men as that girl lookedat him. He knew it, yet he felt that he did not believe it. For to himshe was dressed already in the fillet of some priestess, in the robesof one tending some strange and unnamed altar. She woke in him a littleof the uneasy fear and uneasy attraction that a creature whom a man feelsto be greater than himself often wakes in him. That evening, while Juliansat with her, he had been seized with curious conflicting desires tofall before her or to strike her, to draw her close or to fend her offfrom him, all dull, too, and vague as in heaviness of dreaming. Thosefeelings, vague in the house, were scarcely clearer in the cold and inthe open spaces of the night, and Julian was conscious of a sense ofirritation, of anger against himself. He felt as if he were an oaf, alout. Was it, could it be, Cuckoo who had made him feel so? After all, what was she? Julian tried to hug and soothe himself in the unworthyremembrance of Cuckoo's monotonous life and piteous deeds, to reinstatehimself in contented animalism by thoughts of the animalism of thispriestess! He laughed aloud under the stars, but the laugh rang hollow. He could not reinstate himself. He could only wearily repeat, "What thedevil's come over Cuckoo?" with an iteration of dull, moody petulance. 

A hansom suddenly pulled up beside him and a voice called:

"Julian! Julian, where are you coming from?"

It was Valentine. He was muffled in a fur coat, and stretched himselfover the wooden apron to attract his friend's attention. 

"I have been to your rooms, " he continued. "Don't you remember we hadarranged to dine together?"

Julian looked at him without animation. 

"I had forgotten it, " he answered. 

"Your memory is becoming very treacherous, " Valentine said. "Where areyou off to? Get in. I will drive you. "

"I hadn't any plan, " Julian said, getting into the cab. 

"Drive to the Savoy, " Valentine called to the cabman. "I want somesupper, " he added. 

"I can't come in. I'm not dressed. "

"We will have a private room, then. Have you dined?"

"I? No. "

Valentine looked at him narrowly. 

"Have you been in the Marylebone Road again?" he asked. 

"Yes. "

"Why?"

"I don't know. "

The answer was the bald truth. In making it Julian experienced a slightfeeling of relief. He was putting into words the vagueness that perplexedhim. He wondered why he did go to see Cuckoo. 

"But you must know. You must have a reason, " said Valentine. 

"If I have I don't know what it is. I wish you would tell me, oldfellow. "

"I can't supply you with reasons for all your actions. "

"And I can't supply myself with reasons for any of them, " Julian saidslowly. The words were leading him to a dawning wonder at his own way oflife, a dawning desire to know if there were really any reasons for thethings he did. But Valentine did not accept the reply as satisfactory. Onthe contrary, it evidently irritated him still more, for he said withunusual warmth:

"Your reason for dropping your engagements, throwing me over andwasting my evenings is quite obvious. The blessed damozel of thefeathers is attractive to you. Her freshness captivates you. Herbrilliant conversation entertains you. She is the powdered andpainted reason of these irrelevant escapades. "

"Don't sneer at her, Val. "

The words came quickly, like a bolt. Valentine frowned, and a deepeningsuspicion flashed in his eyes. 

"I did not think you were so easily flattered, " he continued. 

"Flattered?"

"Yes. Cuckoo Bright admires you, and you go to number 400 to smell therather rank fumes of the incense which she burns at your shrine. "

"Nonsense!" Julian cried warmly. 

"What other reason can you have? She has no beauty; she has noconversation, no gaiety, no distinction, no manners--she has nothing. She is nothing. "

"Ah, it's there you're wrong. "

"Wrong!"

"When you say she is nothing. "

"I say it again, " Valentine reiterated almost fiercely. 

"The lady of the feathers is nothing, nothing at all. God and thedevil--they have completely forgotten her. A creature like that isneither good, nor would I call her really evil, for she is evil merelythat she may go on living, not because she has a fine pleasure in sin. But if you sell your will for bread and butter, you slip out of theworld, the world that must be reckoned with. I say, Cuckoo Bright isnothing. "

"And I tell you she is something extraordinary. "

As Julian spoke the words the cab stopped at the Savoy. Valentine sprangout and paid the man. His face was flushed as if with heat, despite thepiercing cold of the night. 

"A private room and supper for two, " he said to the man in the vestibule. "Take my coat, " and he drew himself with obvious relief from the embraceof his huge coat. Julian and he said nothing more until they weresitting opposite to one another at a small oval table in a small andstrongly decorated room, whose windows faced the Thames Embankment. Thewaiter uncorked a bottle of champagne with the air of one performing areligious rite. The electric light gleamed and a fire chased the frostfrom recollection. Julian had already forgotten what they had beentalking about in the cab. The first sip of champagne swept the heavymeditativeness from him. But Valentine, unfolding his napkin slowly, andwith his eyes on the _menu_, said:

"In what way is she something extraordinary?"

"H'm?" Julian muttered. 

"Surely you can define it. "

"What, Val?"

"The peculiarity of Cuckoo Bright that you laid so much stress on justnow. "

"Oh, yes, now I remember. No, I can't define it. How good this soup is. The soup here--"

"Yes, yes; our coming here again and again to eat it proves ourappreciation. Julian, do endeavour to answer my question. I am reallyinterested to know exactly what it is that has taken you again toMarylebone Road. "

Julian drank some more champagne. His eyes began to sparkle. 

"Can you give a reason for everything you do?" he asked. 

"I think I certainly could for every act that I reiterate. "

"Then you're built differently from me. But I've told you all I can. I like Cuckoo. She's a damned nice girl. "

Valentine's lip curled. 

"I can't agree with you, Julian. "

"You don't know her as I do. "

"Not quite. "

Julian reddened. 

"Come, now, " he began, and then checked himself and laughedgood-naturedly. "You can't play the saint any more, you know, Val, "he said. 

"I have no wish to. I discovered long ago that a saint is only the corpseof a man, not a living man at all. But we are talking about this corpseof a woman. "

"Cuckoo's no corpse. By Jove, no. I believe she's got a power that noother woman has. "

"How so? You haven't been imagining that absurd flame in her eyes again?"

Valentine spoke with furtive uneasiness. He was scarcely eating ordrinking, but Julian was doing ample justice to the wine, and displayed avery tolerable appetite. He lifted his glass to his lips and put it downbefore he answered:

"No. It's gone. "

Valentine seemed relieved. 

"Of course. I knew it was an hallucination. You went to satisfy yourself, I suppose. And now--"

"Since it's gone Cuckoo seems to me--I don't know--changed somehow. Val, there must be a few people in the world with great power over others. Youare one. Marr was another, and--" He paused. 

"And what?" Valentine said rather loudly. 

"Well, " Julian paused again, as if conscious that he was about to saysomething that would seem ridiculous, "Cuckoo--"

"Is a third! You think it reasonable to bracket me with a woman likethat, to compare my will, mine, who have lived the life of thought aswell as the life of action, who have trained my powers to the highestpoint, and offered up sacrifices--yes, sacrifices--to my will, to thatdegraded, powerless creature! Julian!"

He stopped, clenching his hand as it lay upon the table. Never beforehad Julian seen him so profoundly moved. All his normal calm andself-possession seemed deserting him. His lips worked like those of aman in the very extremity of rage, and the red glow in his cheeksfaded into the grey of suppressed passion. Julian was utterly takenaback by such an exhibition of feeling. 

"My dear fellow, " he stammered, "I didn't mean--I had no idea--"

"You did mean that. You do. And I--I have been fool enough to believethat you relied upon me, on my judgment; that you looked up to me;that--good God, how absurd!"

He lay back in his chair and burst into a paroxysm of loud and mirthlesslaughter, while Julian, holding his champagne-glass between his fingers, and twisting it stealthily round and round, regarded him with a blankstare of utter confusion and perplexity. Valentine continued to laughso long that it seemed as if he were seized in the grip of a horriblehysteria. But just as the situation was becoming actually intolerable, he suddenly controlled himself with an obvious and painful effort. Afterremaining perfectly silent for two or three minutes, he said, in a voicethat struggled to be calm and succeeded in being icy:

"Julian, you have torn the veil of the Holy of Holies from the top to thebottom with a vengeance. But why have you kept up the deception so long, when, after all, there was nothing behind the veil? That was surelyunnecessary. "

"What is the matter with you, Val? I don't understand you. "

"Nor I you. And yet we say that we are intimate friends. There's anirony. "

At this point the waiter came in with an omelette, and the conversationceased, checked by his peripatetic presence. As soon as he had retreated, with all the hushed activity of a mute rolling on casters, Julianexclaimed:

"It's not an irony. You choose to make it so. You're not yourselfto-night, Valentine. I do not compare you with poor Cuckoo. How couldI? She's down in the dirt and you are far away from the dirt. And ofcourse your power over any one must be a thousand times greater thanhers. "

"If it came to a battle? If it came to a battle?" interrupted Valentine. "You say that, Julian?"

"A battle! of what?"

"Of wills, naturally, Cuckoo Bright's will against mine?"

"But what a strange idea--"

"You haven't answered my question. "

"Because I don't see the force of it. "

"Answer it nevertheless. "

"Then Cuckoo would be beaten at once, " Julian said. But there was noring of conviction in his voice, and he fell at once into silence afterhe had spoken the words. Valentine saw by his frowning face and puckeredforehead that the idea of such a battle had set in motion a train ofthought in his mind. 

"You are wondering, Julian, " Valentine said. 

Julian looked up. 

"Who doesn't wonder in this beastly world?" he said morosely. 

"I never do. I prefer to act. Drink some more champagne?"

He pushed the bottle over and went on:

"You are wondering why I spoke of a battle between Cuckoo Bright and me. Well, I'll tell you. I spoke because I see that there is to be such abattle. "

Julian drank his champagne and looked definitely and increasinglyastonished, as Valentine continued:

"There is to be such a battle. I have seen it for a long time. Julian, you may think you know women. You don't. I said just now that a womanlike Cuckoo Bright is nothing, but I said it for the sake of utteringa paradox. No woman is ever nothing in a world that is full of thethings called men. No woman's ever nothing so long as there is a bottleof hair-dye, a rouge-pot, a dressmaker, and--a man within reach. She maybe in the very gutter. That doesn't matter. For from the very gutter shecan see--not the stars, but the twinkling vanities of men, and they willlight her on her way to Mayfair drawing-rooms, even, perhaps, to Court. Who knows? And God--or the devil--has given to every woman the knowledgeof her possibilities. Men have only the ignorance of theirs. "

"What has this to do with Cuckoo and me?" Julian said. "This bottle isempty, Valentine. "

Valentine rang hastily for another. 

"And what on earth has it got to do with a battle between you andCuckoo?"

"Everything. She hates me. She has told you so again and again. "

Julian looked expressively uncomfortable. 

"I've always stood up for you, " he began. 

"I believe it. She hates me not because I am myself, but simply because Iam your closest friend. Hush, Julian. It's much better all this should besaid once for all. Many women are intensely jealous of the men friends ofmen whom they either love, or who they mean shall love them. Look at thewives who drive their husbands' old chums from intimacy into the outerdarkness of acquaintanceship. Wedding-days break, as well as bind, faith. And you have had your wedding-day with Cuckoo. "

"That was an accident. She loathes to think of it. "

"She may say so. But it puts a fine edge on her hatred of me, nevertheless. "

"No, Valentine, no. Her dislike of you is simply silly--instinctive. "

"She tells you so. Ah! I was wrong to call her nothing. But it is herhatred of me that must bring us to battle unless--"

"Unless what?"

"You give her up now, once and for all. "

"Give Cuckoo up!"

The words came slowly, and the voice that uttered them sounded startledand even shocked. Valentine began to gauge the new power of the lady ofthe feathers from that moment. 

"That's a--a strong thing to do, Val. "

"It won't hurt you to do a strong thing for once in your life. "

"Even if it didn't hurt me I think it would hurt her very much. For, Valentine, I believe you said the truth when you said to me once, 'Thatgirl loves you. ' Do you remember?"

"Perfectly. Loves you, your birth, your position, your money, your goodlooks, perhaps your standpoint above the gutter. I can well believe thatMiss Bright, like all her sisterhood, loves with undying love thatcombination of flesh-pots, her notion of the ego of a man. "

"She has never accepted a halfpenny from me. "

"Because she means eventually to have twenty-one shillings in the pound. Have some more champagne. "

"Yes. You are wrong, Val, utterly wrong. Cuckoo's not mercenary. If sucha girl could be good, she is good. "

There was just a touch of the maudlin in Julian's voice. He went on veryearnestly, and nodding his head emphatically over even his conjunctions. 

"And if she were what you say, she would have no influence over me, andI should hate her. But to me she is just what a good girl might be. Why, even the doctor--"

"Was he there to-night?" Valentine cried, with a sudden inspiration. 

"Of course he was. And you know what a particular little chap he is. "

"Why was he there?"

"Just to see Cuckoo, you know, in a friendly way. "

Valentine realized then that the battle had begun. He divined the meaningof the doctor's visit. He guessed what it had done for the lady of thefeathers. And he sat silent while Julian went on drinking morechampagne. 

"I believe he likes Cuckoo, Val. I am sure he does. And he behaved quiteas if--quite as if he--you know--respected her. And it's all nonsense herhating you, and having a battle, and all that kind of thing, with you. She's only fanciful. She's not--"

"Would you give her up if I asked you to? Mind, Julian, I don't say Iever shall ask you. But if I do?"

"Don't ask me to, don't ask me. Poor Cuckoo, poor girl, she's got nofriends, money, or--or anything. Poor Cuckoo. Poor Cuck--Cuck--"

He fell back in his chair, nodding his head, and reiterating hiscommiseration for the lady of the feathers in a faint and recurringhiccough. Valentine got up and rang the bell. 

"The bill, please, waiter. "

"Yes, sir. "

The man glanced at Julian with the shadow of a pleasing, and apparentlyalso pleased, smile and withdrew. Valentine stood for a moment lookingat the leaning figure on the chair, relaxed in the first throes of adrunken slumber. His anger and almost unbridled emotion completely diedaway as he looked. 

"Can it be called a battle after all?" he said to himself. "They may notknow it, but it is practically won already. "

The waiter re-entered. Valentine paid the bill, and the breath of thefrost shortly revived Julian into an attempt at conversation. 

"Don't ask me to give her up, Val; don't, don't ask me. Poor girl. Poor, poor Cuck--Cuck. "

The name of the lady of the feathers seemed a good one for a tipsy tongueto play with. 

CHAPTER VIII

THE DOCTOR RECEIVES A VISIT FROM MRS. WILSON

Doctor Levillier grew more puzzled day by day. His observation ofValentine taught him only one thing certainly, and beyond possibility ofdoubt and that was the death of the youth he had once loved, the livingpresence of a youth whom he could not love, whom he could only shrinkfrom and even fear. He held to the theory that this radical and ghastlychange must be caused by some obscure dementia, some secret overturningof the mind; but he was obliged to confess to himself that he held toit only because, otherwise, he would be floating helpless, and without aspar, upon a tide of perplexity and confusion. He could not honestly saythat he was able to put his finger upon any definite signs of madnessexhibited by Valentine, any that would satisfy a mad-doctor. He couldonly say that Valentine's character had been strangely beautiful and wasnow strangely evil, and that the soul of Julian was following rapidly thesoul of Valentine. The more closely he watched Valentine, the moreastounded did he become and the more eager to detach Julian from him. Butthe strangest thing of all, as the doctor allowed in one of his frequentself-communings, was, that though formerly he had loved Valentinebetter than Julian, it never occurred to him that the work of rescuemight be undertaken on behalf of the former. His mind dismissed the newValentine into a region that was beyond his scope and power. He feltinstinctively that here was a soul, a will, that his soul could not turnfrom its ends or detach from its pursuits. The new Valentine was a law tohimself. What moved the doctor to such horror was that the new Valentinewas a law to Julian. And there was something peculiarly dreadful in theidea which he held, that Julian, once under the beautiful influence ofValentine's sanity, was now under the baneful influence of his insanity. The doctor had gone the length of deciding, in his own mind, thatValentine's sane period of life and insane period lay one on each sideof a fixed gulf, and that fixed gulf was his long trance succeeding thefinal sitting of the two young men. This conclusion was arrived at withease, once the theory of a subtle lunacy was accepted as a fact. For, on sending his mind back along the ways of recollection, the doctor wasable to recall hints of the new Valentine dating from that very night, but never before it. The first hint was Rip's manifested fear, and thisled on to others which have been already mentioned. Having made up hismind that this trance was the motive power of Valentine's supposedmadness, the doctor sought in every direction to increase his knowledgeon the subject of simulations of death by the human body. He looked upagain the cases of innumerable hysterical patients whom he had himselftreated, sometimes with success, sometimes with failure. He consultedother doctors, of course without mentioning the object of his research. He endeavoured to apply to Valentine's case standards by which he wasquickly able to form a satisfactory opinion on the cases of others. Heeven went so far as to examine as closely as possible into the history oftable-turning, the uses ascribed to it by its votaries, and the resultsobtained from it by credible--as opposed to merely credulous--witnesses. But he found no case that seemed in any way analogous to the strange caseof Valentine. As was only natural, the doctor did not forget thepossibility of hypnotism, which had struck him during his secondconversation with the lady of the feathers. Her confused declarations onthe subject of Valentine and Marr being one person, if they were reallya true account of what Valentine had said to her--which seemed verydoubtful--could only be made clear by accepting as a fact that the deadMarr had laid a hypnotic spell upon Valentine, which continued to existactively long after its weaver slept in the grave. But Marr and Valentinehad never met. This fact seemed fully established. Valentine had alwaysdenied any knowledge of him before the trance. Julian had always assumedthat only he of the two friends had any acquaintance with Marr. Andagain, when the doctor, one day, quite casually, said to Valentine, "Bythe way, you never did meet Marr, did you?" Valentine replied, "Never, till I saw him lying dead in the Euston Road. "

The doctor could see no ray of light in the darkness that could guide himto the clue of the mystery. He could only say to himself, "It must be, itmust be an obscure and horrible madness, " and keep his theory to himself. Sometimes, as he sat pondering over the whole affair, he smiled, halfsadly, half sarcastically. For the event brought home to his readymodesty the sublime ignorance of all clever and instructed men, taughthim to wonder, as he had often wondered, that there exists in such aworld as ours such a fantastic growth as the flourishing weed, conceit. 

Another matter that puzzled him greatly was this: As the days went on, and as Valentine grew--and he did grow--more certain of his own power forevil over Julian, and as, consequently, he took less and less pains tohide the truth of his personality from the knowledge of the doctor, thelatter was frequently seized with the appalled sensation which had longago overtaken him when he was followed in Regent Street and in VereStreet. This recurrence of sensation, and the certainty forced graduallyupon the doctor that it was caused by the presence of Valentine, naturally led him to wonder whether it were possible that the man whohad dogged his steps, and eventually fled from him, could have beenValentine himself. If that were indeed so, then this madness--if it didexist--must surely have come upon Valentine before the trance. Nothingbut a madness could have led him thus in the night hours to steal outin pursuit of the friend who had just left his house and company. But thedoctor knew of no means by which he could satisfy himself of Valentine'smovements on the night in question. To ask Valentine himself would be tocourt a lie. Once the doctor thought for a moment of having recourse toWade. But then he remembered that the butler did not sleep in the flat, and had no doubt long gone home before the event of the night inquestion. So, again, he was confronted with a dead-wall, beyond whichhe could see no clear view or comprehensible country. 

About this time there happened an event which struck strongly uponthe doctor's mind. He was one day, as usual, in his consulting-room, receiving a multitude of patients, when his man-servant entered witha card on a salver. 

"A lady, sir, who wishes to see you. She has no appointment. "

The doctor took the card. On it was printed merely "Mrs. Wilson. "

"I cannot see the lady to-day, " he said, "unless she can call again afterfive o'clock. But I can see her then, or to-morrow morning at ten. Askher which she would prefer. "

After a moment's absence Lawler returned. 

"The lady will come at five o'clock this evening, sir. "

"Very well. "

And the doctor bent his mind once more steadily upon his work. 

At five o'clock the door opened, and a tall, square, and strong-lookingwoman, dressed in black, walked quietly into the room. She bowed to thedoctor and sat down. 

"I am glad you could see me to-day, " she said. "I leave London earlyto-morrow morning. I hate London. "

She spoke in a full and rather rich voice, with a slightly burringaccent, and looked the doctor full in the face with a pair of large andsensible grey eyes. Nature had certainly built her to be one of thosetowers of women, strong for themselves, for their sex, and often for menalso, who possess a peculiar power, given in quite full measure to nomale creature, of large sympathy and lofty composure. But the doctor sawat a glance that some adverse fate had disagreed with the intentions ofnature, and fought against them with success. Circumstances must havearisen in this woman's life to break down her unusual equipment ofcourage and resolution, or if not to break it down, to dint and batterthe shield she carried over her heart and life. For her fine face waslined with care, her naturally firm mouth was tormented by an apparentlyirresistible quivering, that, once prompted by long and painful emotion, had now become habitual and mechanical, and her eyes, although they metthe eyes of the doctor with a peculiar large reception and return ofscrutiny, held in their depths that hunted expression which is onlydeveloped by long agony, either physical or mental. So much the doctorread in a glance before his patient began to detail her symptoms. Shedetailed them with a certain obvious shame and a slow conquering ofreticence that made her speak very deliberately. 

She began by saying, in no insulting manner, that she had kept clear ofdoctors during almost the whole of her life; that she had meant to keepclear of them till her death. 

"For I was born with a constitution of iron, " she said, "and I havealways lived on the most sanitary principles, and with the utmostsimplicity. So I hoped to go to my grave without much suffering. Certainly I never expected to have to consult any one on the groundof nervous breakdown. Yet that is exactly why I am here with you atthis moment. The circumstances of my life have been too much for me, I suppose. "

There was a grave pathos in her voice as she uttered the last words. 

"At any rate, " she continued, after a pause, "I would like you to helpme if you can. The cause of my breakdown is remote enough, several yearsold. I had a tremendous burden to bear then, and I bore it, as I thoughtbravely, for a long time. At last it grew intolerable, and then Isucceeded at last in getting it removed, in getting rid of it, youunderstand, altogether. The odd thing is, that while I was bearing myburden my strength did not fail me, my courage did not utterly give way. Only when the burden was removed did I faint because of it. My troublewas partially physical--I had to endure grave physical cruelty at thattime--but chiefly mental. My agony of mind ran a race with my agony ofbody, and won easily. It's generally so with women, I believe?"

She waited as if for a reply. 

"Yes, it is often so, " Doctor Levillier answered. 

"Ever since the burden was lifted from my shoulders, " she continued, "Ihave been getting steadily worse. Each month, each year, I became moreand more degraded in my cowardice, my fear of trifles, even of thingswhich have no existence at all. All this is perhaps--perhaps--peculiarlypainful to me because I am naturally, you must understand, what sanepeople call a strong-minded woman. I had originally complete physicalcourage, didn't know the meaning of the word 'fear, ' despised those whodid, I am afraid. So you see this is very bad for me; it cuts so deepinto my mind, you see. It makes me hate and loathe myself so. I sleepbadly, and have the usual symptoms of nervous collapse, I believe. I'mstrong one moment, feeble, no good at all, the next. My appetite has longbeen bad, and so on. But it isn't that sort of thing I mind. I couldfight with that well enough. It's my horrible deterioration of mind thattroubles me, that has brought me here, to you, in spite of my hatred ofLondon, of every city. It was in a city, though not in London, that Ibore that burden I told you of. It doesn't seem possible to me, but I'mtold, and I read, that my mind diseased may be an effect, and that thecause may lie in my body. That's why I come to you. Doctor Levillier, root out the disease if you can. "

She ended speaking almost with passion, her lips trembling all the timeand her eyes never leaving his face. Then she added with a curiouscharacteristic abruptness:

"I will tell you that I've plenty of money. Lack of funds is no weaponagainst my return to health--if my return is in any way possible. "

Doctor Levillier smiled slightly. 

"You are anticipating the usual 'long-sea voyage' formula, I see, " hesaid. 

"Possibly. "

"I should not prescribe it for you off-hand, " he said. "Sea air is not aspecific for all nervous complaints, as some people seem to think. Youhave no bodily pain?"

"No. I often wish I had. "

"What you tell me about your gradual collapse coming on after the crisisof your troubles was over, and not during it, does not surprise me. Noram I puzzled by your malady increasing if, as I suppose, you are livingidly. "

"I am. I have no courage to do anything or see anybody. "

"Exactly. You live in a sort of hiding. "

"Why--yes. You see, once I was well known to a good many people. Mytroubles became known to them too. I could not get rid of that burden Itold you of except by blazoning them abroad. I shrink from meeting anypeople now. Therefore I live very quietly. I--"

Suddenly she seemed to grow tired of the half measures in frankness thathad so far governed her communications. She spread forth her hands witha very characteristic, ample gesture of sudden confidence. 

"I think I'll tell you exactly what it was, " she said. "You may haveread of me. Long ago, some years at least, I was obliged to take actionagainst my husband, a Mr. Wilson, who afterwards assumed the name ofMarr. I charged him with cruelty, won my case, and obtained a judicialseparation. "

Then Dr. Levillier knew that he looked on the former wife of the strange, cruel, dead man, whose influence had entered into the lives of his twofriends. 

"You may have heard of my case?" Mrs. Wilson said. 

"Certainly I have. "

"It was bad, even from a newspaper point of view, I believe. Peoplecongratulated me on getting rid of a brute, and thought I was all rightand ought to be happy. But the newspapers and the world never knew whatI had gone through, the real horrors, before I insisted on release. Youstarted when I called my husband a brute just now, Dr. Levillier; Inoticed it. The phrase hurt you, coming from any wife about any husband. I know why, a boy once told me that his mother was always drunk. He hurtme then into hating him for the rest of my days. But I called a strangera brute, not the man I loved and married, not the man I loved after Imarried him. Dr. Levillier, do you believe in possessions?"

She had been gradually getting excited while she spoke, and, on the lastwords, she leaned forward in her chair and struck her hand down in herlap. 

"Do you mean possession by the devil?" said the doctor, very quietly, opposing a strong calm to her intensity. 

"Yes. I do. My experience obliges me to. I knew, for a year before Imarried him, I married, I lived for two years after I married him, witha man who was my conception of what a man should be, strong, gentle, tender, brave, a hero to me. I got rid of a devil, after I had enduredtwo years of torture at his hands. It is no use to tell me those twodistinct men I knew were one and the same man. My soul, my heart, declarethat it's a lie. There were such differences. My husband loved music;this man hated it; yet had the power to use it as a means of tormentingme. But I needn't dwell on the evidences of change. Suffice it to saythat the thing that crushed me, the thing that has brought me down intothe dust where I am, dust of cowardice, and weakness, and impotence todo or to be anything, was the horror of awakening to a knowledge of thatchange, of having to live as wife with this devil, whom I knew not, whowas a stranger to me. Only the features were my husband's, nothing else. I got rid of a stranger. The man found dead in the Euston Road was astranger whom I hated, nothing more to me than that. "

As she spoke, in a deep, resonant voice that pulsated through the room, Dr. Levillier recalled, almost with a thrill, Julian's words to him inHarley Street, on the night of the _fracas_ with the mastiffs, wordsspoken about the dead Marr: "His face dead was the most absolutely directcontradiction possible to his face alive. He was not the same man. " Herecalled these words and the thought shot through his mind: "Did the manthis woman loved return at the moment of death?"

And that change in Valentine!

He said to Mrs. Wilson, betraying none of the excitement that he reallyfelt:

"You spoke of cruelty. You had to endure physical cruelty?"

"Worse, to see it endured by others, dumb, helpless creatures, by my owndog. "

A great shudder ran through her. 

"I can't talk of it, " she said. "But it made me what I am. Can you doanything for me? Why do you look at me like that?"

For, at her word about the dog, the doctor had fallen into a tensereverie, looking steadily upon her, yet as one who sees little ornothing. He roused himself quickly. 

"Tell me something of the symptoms of your mental malady, " he said. "These fancies that distress you, of what nature are they?"

She told him. Many of them were symptoms well known to all those who havesuffered acutely after some great shock, imagined sounds, movements, andso forth. The doctor listened. He had heard such a story many timesbefore. 

"I, _I_ am full of these ghastly, these degrading fancies, " Mrs. Wilsoncried, with a sort of large indignation against herself, and yet anuncertain terror. "Is it not--?"

She suddenly stopped speaking. 

"There's some one at your door, " she said, after a second or two ofapparent attention to some sound without. 

"I dare say. A patient. "

At this moment a voice, which Dr. Levillier immediately recognized as thevoice of Valentine, was audible in the hall. 

Mrs. Wilson turned suddenly very pale, and began to tremble and gnaw hernether lip with her teeth in an access of nervous disturbance. 

"In God's name tell me who that is, " she whispered, turning her head inthe direction of the door. "It can't be--it can't be--" Valentine's voicerose a little louder. "It _is_ his voice. "

"Fancy!" the doctor said firmly. "It is the voice of a friend of mine, Mr. Valentine Cresswell. "

Mrs. Wilson said nothing. She was trying to force herself to believethe evidence of another's sense against her own. Such a task is alwaysdifficult. At last she looked up and said:

"There, doctor, there you have an exhibition of my illness. It's horribleto me. Can you cure it?"

"I will try, " the doctor answered. 

But he found it very difficult just at that moment to say the threewords quietly, to let Valentine go after leaving his message, withoutconfronting him with this haggard patient who was entering the pool ofBethesda. 

CHAPTER IX

A SHADOW ON FIRE

When a naturally calm, clear, and courageous mind finds itself besiegedby what seem hysterical fancies, it is troubled and perplexed, and isinclined to take drastic measures to restore itself to its normalcondition. Dr. Levillier found himself the prey of such fancies afterhis interview with Mrs. Wilson. He had prescribed for her. He had verycarefully considered what way of life would be likely to restore herto health, and to banish the demons which had brought her strength andunusual self-reliance so low. He had received her gratitude, and haddismissed her to the following of his plans for her benefit. All thishe had done with calm deliberation, the very cheerful composure whichhe always practiced towards the victims of nervous complaints. But evenwhile he did this his own mind was in a turmoil. For this woman had letfall statements with regard to her dead husband which most curiouslybolstered up Cuckoo's fantastic assertion that Valentine and Marr werethe same man. Marr had been cruel to animals, to dogs, had evidentlytaken a keen enjoyment in torturing them, and on hearing Valentine'svoice she had turned pale and declared that it was the voice of herhusband. Then her strange declaration about her husband's use of musicas a mode of cruelty! These circumstances appealed powerfully to thedoctor's mind, or at least to that unscientific side of it which inclinedhim to romance, and to a certain sympathy with the mysteries of theworld. Many Europeans who go to India return to their own continentimbued with a belief in miracles, modern miracles, which no argument, nosarcasm, can shake. But there are miracles in Europe too. The magiciansof the East work wonders in the strange atmosphere of that strangecountry, whose very air is heavy with magic. Yet England, too, has hermagicians. London holds in the arms of its yellow fogs and dust-ladenclouds miracles. Doctor Levillier found himself assailed by ideas likethese as he thought of that transformed Marr, "possessed, " as the pale, strongly built wreck of a grand, powerful woman had named it, as hethought of the transformed Valentine, the hour of whose transformationcoincided with the hour of Marr's death. Why had this new, horrible, yet beautiful creature risen out of the ashes of the trance that waspractically a death? Why had he such amazing points of resemblance toMarr? Why had the influence of Marr been deliberately intruded into thecalm, happy, and safe lives of Julian and Valentine? Marr was cruel todogs, and dogs showed rage and terror when the new Valentine approachedthem. Marr had a hatred, yet a knowledge of music. The new Valentine, when forced to sing, sang like some wild, desolate thing, with reluctantand terrible voice. And at this point the doctor used the curb suddenlyand pulled himself up sharply. He felt that is was useless, that it wasunworthy, to plunge himself thus in romance, and to hang veils of mysteryaround these facts which he had to accept and to deal with. A touch ofhumanity is worth all the unhuman romance in the world. Humanity lay atthe doctor's gate, sore distressed, sinking to something that was beyonddistress. So, putting his fancies resolutely behind him, Doctor Levillierresolved to fight through that frail weapon, the lady of the feathers, the battle of Julian's will against the will--which he now fully andonce for all recognized as malign--of the man he must still callValentine. Valentine had said to Julian, at the Savoy, "If it came to abattle--Cuckoo Bright's will against mine!" The doctor had not heardthose words. Yet, under the stars on the doorstep of Cuckoo's dwellinghe, too, had spoken to the girl of a fight. Thus he had poured a greatardour into her heart. The three souls, Cuckoo's, Doctor Levillier's, Valentine's, were thus set in battle array. They understood what theyfaced, or at least that they faced warfare. Only Julian did notunderstand--yet. He was besotted by the spell of the one he called friendlaid upon him, and by the vices in which he had been taught to wallow. His brain was clouded and his eyes were dim, as the brains and eyes ofthe _malades imaginaires_ who carry on the scheme of sin and sorrow inthe world, and prolong by their deeds the long travail of their race. Julian did not understand. For now he seldom thought sincerely. Sincerethoughts and the incessant and violent acts of passion do not often dwelltogether. 

The progress of Julian towards degradation had now become so rapid thathis many acquaintances talked of him openly as of one who had practically"gone under. " Not that he had ever done any of those few things at whichsociety, whose door is generally ajar, with Mrs. Grundy's large ear gluedto the keyhole, resolutely shuts the door. He had not forged, or stolen awatch, or killed anybody, or married a grocer's widow, or anything ofthat kind. But he had thrown his life to the pleasures of the body, andmade no secret of the fact. And the pleasures of the body, like eagerrats, had gnawed away his power of self-control until he could resistnothing, no wish of the moment, no desire born illegitimately of passingexcitement or the prompting of wine. So he committed many follies, andhis follies had loud voices. They shrieked and shouted. And society heardtheir cries, held the door a little more ajar, and listened with thatpassion of attention which virtue accords to vice. But society, havingheard a good deal, shook its head over Julian. He had acquired such ataste for low company that he ought to have been born a peer. Certainly, he had money. That made his errors chink rather pleasantly, and filledthe bosoms of many mothers with an expansive charity towards him. Still, the general opinion was that he was sinking very low. In fact, the legendof Julian's shame was now written on his face in such legible and vitalcharacters that the most short-sighted eyes could not fail to read it. The eager beauty of untarnished youth had faded into the dull, and oftensulky, languors of the utterly indulged body. Julian was often exhaustedand passing through those leaden-footed dreams that fitfully entrancethe vicious, --those dreams that are colourless and sombre, that pressupon all the faculties, and yet have no real meaning, that stifle allintentions, and put an end, for the moment, to all active desires. Peopletalk of the vicious as "living, " but half their time they are curiouslydead, for their sins blunt their energies and lull them into a conditionthat resembles rather paralysis than slumber. 

Since the night on which he had supped with Valentine at the Savoy, Julian had given himself up to the company and influence of his friendmore than ever, and London, which had once nicknamed Valentine the Saintof Victoria Street, began to dub him with quite another name. For itgradually became apparent to those who only knew the two young menslightly that Valentine exerted an extraordinarily powerful influenceover Julian, and that the influence was imperatively evil. At firstmany were deceived by the clear beauty of Valentine's face, but that wasbeginning to fade. A thin line, pencilled here and there with a fairylikedelicacy, a slight puffiness beneath the blue eyes, a looseness of thecheeks, a droop of the lips, all very demure, as it were, and furtive, shed alteration upon his fair beauty. He himself noticed it, as he lookedin a mirror one night, and silently cursed the inevitable effect whichmind produces upon matter. No man's face can forever remain an entirelydeceptive mask. The saintly expression of Valentine's was rapidlybecoming a thing of the past. He wondered whether Julian noticed it. But Julian was too much preoccupied with his own energies of drearyaction and lacerating fatigues of subsequent thought, or it would betruer to say moodiness, to notice anything. He was self-centred, as areall sinners, immersed in his own downfall, like a man in an ocean. Hewas unconscious that he was the subject of battle, that four wills wereto contend for his soul's sake. Four wills, yet one expressed itself inno outward form. It was in exile, till the day of its redemption shoulddawn. 

 * * * * *

On the night when Valentine heard Julian babble incoherently the nameof the lady of the feathers, he said to himself that the battle shouldbe his, and he leaned upon his will to feel its power and its glory. That night he forgot its fury, the intense emotion that had overtakenhim at the supper-table as he gauged, or strove to gauge, the influencethat Cuckoo was obtaining over Julian. He forgot Doctor Levillier. Heremembered only himself and his own strength, which he was now to testto its foundations. And when he woke again to thoughts of others, it wasonly to laugh at the force arrayed against him. The lady of the feathersmoved, to his fancy, like the most piteous of puppets, a jeering fatemanipulating the strings. This manipulator had kept her long to one setof motions, stiff pleading arm, anxious head, interrogative joints, and a strut of wolfish eagerness and hunger. But such a game was nowto be abandoned. And behold the puppet a warrior forsooth, a veryAmazon, hounded to fight by the doctor's voice, the doctor's word ofencouragement, battling with the stiff arms that had abandoned thepleading gesture, stern in a wooden attitude of defiance. And Fate, in fits of laughter at the string-holding! Then Valentine lost his fear, and could have been angry that such a scarecrow was the creature selectedby Fate to draw a sword against him. He chose to forget the vision in themirror when he struck at the staring reflection of the lady of thefeathers and shivered under the influence of a cold terror. He choseto remember only the thin and fearful woman who had given her body tothe world, and so had surely given her soul to a mill that had long agoground it to powder. 

There is nothing so terrible to one screwed up to the highest pitch ofaction as a monotony of waiting. Scourging were better, the hemp or thefire. The lady of the feathers had been stirred to a strange enthusiasm, and to a belief in herself, a faith more wonderful to some, moreunaccustomed and remote than any faith in God or devil. A flood of energyflowed over her, warm as blood, strong as love, keen with the salt ofbeautiful novelty, turbulent as the seas when the great tides take holdon them. It was to her as if for the moment the world's centre was justthere where she was in the winter, and in the Marylebone Road, withinsound of the great church clock, the great church bells, the cries ofthe street, the very steam panting up from the Baker Street Station. Cuckoo was in the core of things, and the core of things is fierce andhot and action-prompting. That half-revealed shadow waving good-bye toJulian, as he stepped into the frosty night, was a shadow on fire. Yet hehad scarcely looked back at it. But Cuckoo was to learn to the last wordthe lesson of patience. Inspired by the sympathy of the doctor and bysomething deep in her own heart, she was, for the moment, all courage, all flame. She was ready to fight. She was ready to do supreme things, to touch the stars. The stars went out and she had not touched them. Themorning dawned very chilly, very dark, the morning that brought Mrs. Brigg to her room yellow and complaining. Still, Cuckoo was consciousof a high, beating courage that made summer in that winter day. Sheastonished the old keeper of that weary house by the vivacity of hermanner, the brightness of her look. For Mrs. Brigg was well accustomedto sad morning moods, to petulant lassitude, and dull grimness ofunpainted and unpowdered fatigue, but had long been a stranger to earlymoods of hope or of gaiety. Mornings in houses such as hers are recurringtragedies, desolating pulses of Time, shaking human hearts with each beatnearer and nearer to the ultimatum of sorrow. She knew not what to makeof this new morning mood of Cuckoo, and wagged a heavily pensive headover it, unresponsive and muttering. Jessie, too, was astonished, butmore pleasantly. The little dog, dwelling ignorantly in the midst ofdegradation, had learned quickly the swing of its beloved mistress'smoods. In the dim morning it was ever the comforter of misery it couldnot rightly understand, not the playfellow of happiness that stirred itto leaps and barks of wonder and excitement. In the mornings Cuckoo heldit long against her thin bosom, sometimes crushed it nearly breathless, pushing its little head down in the nest of her arms and telling it atale of the world's woe that sent long and thin whimpers twitteringthrough its body. The fluttering whisper of morning misery, or thesilence of vacant fatigue, these were accustomed things to Jessie. Evenif she did not thoroughly understand them, she was ready for them, andeagerly responsive, as dogs are, to emotions along whose verges theytread with the soft feet of sympathy, the sweeter for the ignorancethat paints their generosity in such tender colours. But Jessie was_bouleversée_ by this passionate, eager Cuckoo; this shadow on fire, whowas alive almost ere London was alive, instead of half dead until halfLondon slept. The shadow on fire snatched her out of her sleep, tossedher in air, spoke to her with a voice that thrilled her to quick barkingexcitement, played with her till the little dog's flux of emotionsthreatened to consummate in a canine apoplexy, and Mrs. Brigg battered atthe door with a shrill, "Keep that beast quiet, can't yer?" All this wasCuckoo fighting; battle in the bedclothes, battle with soap and water, curling-pins, corset, shoes. Each little act was performed with an energyit did not demand. The sponge was squeezed dry like a live thing beingstrangled; the toothbrush played as Maxim guns on an enemy; buttons wentinto button-holes with a manner of ramrods going into muskets; hooks meteyes as one army meets another. Battle in all that morning's commontasks, setting them high, dressing them with chivalry and strongendeavour. Cuckoo went into her sitting-room swiftly, with glowing cheeksand flaming eyes, as one ardently expectant. And then--? Mrs. Brigg hadlit the fire, but it had spluttered out into a mass of blackened, ghostlypaper and skeleton sticks. A little more battle in the relighting of it. But then--the blank day of the girl of the streets. Cuckoo sat down, watched the growing fire, and wondered what she had expected. She wasconscious that she had expected something, and something not small. Hermood had demanded it. But our moods are often like disappointed brigands, who, having waylaid a pauper, demand with levelled pistols that which thepauper has so vainly prayed for all his life. Moods come from within. They are not evoked to dance valses with suitable partners from without. And so Cuckoo's strong excitement and energy found nothing to dance with. She sat there growing gradually less alive, and wondering why she hadhastened to get up; why she was fully dressed instead of wrapped in theusual staring pink dressing-gown with the chiffon cascades down thefront. Mornings were of no use to her--never had been. God might as wellnever have included them in the scheme of His days, so far as she wasconcerned. But this morning she had thought, had felt--it seemedimpossible that she should feel so unusual and that nothing shouldhappen. She was ready, but Fate was in bed and asleep. That was reallythe gist of the feeling that came over her. She thought of Dr. Levillier, the man who had set a torch at last to her nature and fired it with a newardour. He was at his work in the morning, seeing, speaking to, thatpassing line of strangers, who walked on forever through his life. Hisenergies were employed. Perhaps he had forgotten Cuckoo and her emptymornings. Almost for the first time in her life the lady of the feathersdefinitely longed for a legitimate occupation. How she could have flownat it to-day. But already the bright mood was fading. It could not lastin such an atmosphere. As Cuckoo had said, she could fight better thanshe could pray. But it seemed to her, after a while, that there was onlyroom in this cheerless, dark house to pray, no room at all to fight. Shetried reading yesterday's evening paper, left on the horsehair sofa byJulian. But reading had never been a favourite occupation of hers, andto-day she wanted to save Julian, to make him love her, and so to win himfrom Valentine. She did not want to sit in the twilight of a winter's dayreading about people she had never seen, things she did not understand. And she threw the paper down. 

To make Julian love her. Cuckoo flushed, yes, even sitting there quitealone, for Jessie had retired to the warmth of the bedroom blankets, asshe said it in her mind. The doctor had told her to do so. Her heart hadtold her to try to do it long ago. But she trusted the doctor and she didnot trust her heart. And how could she trust her power to make Julianlove her? Cuckoo had once known very well how to make a man desire her. In the very early days of her career she had been a very pretty girl. Her old mother, who believed her dead, had often cried and said to theneighbours that her beauty had been Cuckoo's undoing. Thus do we layblame on the few fine gifts that should gild our lives. But Cuckoohad been very pretty and had soon learnt the first foul lesson of her_métier_, to wake swift desire. As time went on and she wasted her giftof beauty along the pavements of London, she found this poor powerfailing in strength and in certainty. As to the power of wakening thatslower, deeper, kindred, yet opposed desire of love, Cuckoo had neverknown whether she possessed it. She had had many lovers, but nobody tolove her really, and this in days of her beauty, or at any rate hergracious prettiness. No wonder, then, that now a chill ran over her atthe thought of the task that lay before her if she was to gain herbattle. To break Valentine's influence she had to make Julian love her. How? Instinctively, and with a sense of horror, she knew that her usualpractised arts, instead of helping, almost fatally handicapped her now. She loved Julian purely, so purely that she could not endure that heshould meet her degradation as he had met it on that one night she neverthought of but with repentance. Yet to her ignorance, to her, risingtowards purity now, yet ever steeped in the coarsest knowledge, itseemed that the thing called love could hardly utter itself save by somethreadbare blandishment, or parrot combination of words, used each nightby a hundred women of the town. Cuckoo knew no language of love that wasnot, so to say, bad language, inasmuch as it was used by those whom shehated. And hitherto she had been content to keep her love for Julian asilent love, except on the few occasions when she had obliquely showedit by the anger of jealousy or of reproach. She wished nothing bodilyfrom him, or if she did, stifled the wish in the mutely repeated recordof her own unworthiness. But now, if she was to draw his soul to hers, she must move forward, she must surely commit some sacrifice, performsome deed. What deed could she perform? What sacrifice could she makethat would win upon him, that would alter his relation towards her fromone of eccentric friendship to one of affection that might even begoverned?

The lady of the feathers did not reason this all out in her mind asshe sat before the spluttering fire, but she felt it, a tangled massof thoughts, catching her brain as in a net, catching her life as ina net too. How could she make Julian love her? What could she do? Andall the time, as she asked herself passionately that question, thehours were gliding by towards the evening refrain of her life. Cuckoobegan to consider this evening refrain as she had never considered itbefore, as it might affect another if he loved her. If she made Julianlove her, if she succeeded in this attempt that seemed as if it mustbe impossible, what of her evening refrain then? And what would be theconclusion of such a love? She could not tell; she could only wonder. The strange thing about the lady of the feathers, and about many of herkind, was, that she never dreamed of such a thing as owing a duty toherself, to her own body, her own soul, or nature. Cuckoo knew not themeaning of self-respect. Had you told her that her body was a temple--notof the Holy Ghost, but of a wonderful, exquisite thing called womanhood, and for that reason should not be defiled, she would have stared at youunder drawn eyebrows, like a fierce boy, and wondered what in heaven orearth you were talking jargon about. To get at her sympathy you must talkto her of duty to another; and if she had a soft feeling for that other, then she understood you, and then alone. It was the cause of Julian andhis safety that made her now consider this evening refrain of her life asshe sat there. And her mind ran back to Julian's first visit to her andto his first request. He asked her to stay at home just for one nightwith Jessie. And she refused. If she had not refused. If she had stayedat home. If she had at that moment, from that moment, given up her lifeof the street, would Julian have loved her then? Would she have been ableto do something for him? For hours Cuckoo sat there pondering in hervague, desolate way over questions such as these. But she could give noanswer to them. And then she thought of that horrible night when thehours danced to the music of the devil, when she gave Julian that firstlittle impetus which started him on his journey to the abyss. And at thatthought she grew white, and she grew hot, and she wondered why she hadbeen born to be the lady of the feathers, and the wrecker, not of men'slives--she never thought of men tenderly in the mass--but of this onelife, of this one man, whom she loved in a strange, wild, good-woman way. 

"C-r-r-r!" she said, her tongue flickering against her teeth. Jessiestirred in the blankets, came to the floor with a "t'bb" and ran into theroom with curved attitudes of submission. But Cuckoo would not noticethe little dog. She stared at the fire and looked so old, and almostintellectual. But there was nobody to see her. What a long, empty day ithad been, this day for which she had risen eagerly as to a day of battle!What a long, empty day, and no deed done in it. And now the hour of theevening refrain was come. Cuckoo had wanted this day to be a special day, for it was the first of those new days which were to come after thedoctor's word of hope. And nothing had happened in it. Nobody had come. The doctor was with his patients. Julian was--ah, surely--with Valentine. And she, Cuckoo, this poor, pale girl, who wanted to fight and to dobattle, was alone. And she had been so eager in the morning. And now thenight was falling and she had not struck a blow. The hour chimed. It wasthe hour of the evening refrain. 

Suddenly Cuckoo got up. She went over to the window and pulled down theblind so sharply that she nearly broke it. She struck a match violentlyand lit the gas. She ran into the bedroom, caught her hat, which layready for service on the top of the chest of drawers, and cast it witha crash into a cardboard box, jamming the lid down on it. She seized herjacket, which lay on the bed, and strung it up on a hook, as if she werehanging a criminal. Then she came back into the sitting-room, sat down inthe chair, took up the evening paper of yesterday and began to read, witheyes that gleamed under frowning brows, about "Foreign Affairs" and"Bimetallism. "

And that night the evening refrain of Cuckoo's life did not follow theverse of her day. 

She sat there all alone. 

It was her way--the only way she could devise--of beginning to fight thebattle for Julian. 

She did not stay at home with any thought of purifying herself by theaction. Another day she might go out as usual. But Julian had once askedher not to go. She had gone then. Now she obeyed him, and the obedienceseemed to bring him a little nearer to her. 

CHAPTER X

THE DOCTOR DRIVES OUT WITH THE LADY OF THE FEATHERS

Some days later Cuckoo received a telegram from Harley Street. It came inthe morning, and ran as follows:

"Call here to-day if possible. Important. Levillier. "

Cuckoo read it, trembling. In her early days telegrams came often to herdoor--"Meet me at Verrey's, four-thirty"; "Piccadilly Circus, fiveo'clock to-day. " Such messages flickered through her youth, forminggradually a legend of her life. But this summons from the doctor at thesame time frightened her and braced her heart. It might mean that Julianwas ill, in danger--she knew not what. But at least it broke through theappalling inaction, the dreary stagnation, of her days. The lady of thefeathers had fought indeed, of late, that worst enemy, mental despair, bred of grim patience at last grown weary. That was not the battle shehad been inspired to expect, to prepare for. The doctor's telegram atleast swept the unforeseen foe from the field, and seemed to set the realenemy full in view. 

"There ain't any answer, " the lady of the feathers said to Mrs. Brigg, who waited in an attitude expressive of greedy curiosity. 

"Which of 'em is it?" demanded that functionary. 

"Shan't tell you, " Cuckoo hissed at her. 

The filthy groove in which the landlady's mind forever ran began to rouseher to an intense animosity. 

"Well, it's all one to me so long as I'm paid regular, " muttered Mrs. Brigg, with a swing of her dusty skirts and a toss of her grey head, governed by pomade, since it was a Saturday. Mrs. Brigg must once haveheld Christian principles, as she always prepared the ground for certainSabbath curls the day before. 

Cuckoo ran to dress herself. It was seldom indeed that she stirred outin the morning, so seldom that that alone was an experience. Arrivedin the bedroom, she pounced mechanically on rouge and powder, and wasabout to decorate herself when she suddenly paused with outstretchedhands. She was going out into the bright wintry sunlight, and she wasgoing to the doctor's house, full, perhaps, of those smart patients ofwhom Valentine had once spoken to her. What sort of an apparition wouldshe be among them? She dropped her hands, hesitating. Then she turnedto a cupboard, drew out the one famous black gown, and put it on. Shecrowned her head with Julian's hat, hid her hands in black silk gloves, pulled down her veil and seized an umbrella. Somehow Cuckoo vaguelyconnected respectability with umbrellas, although even the most viciousare fain to carry them in showery London. Then she looked at herself inthe glass and wondered if her appearance were deceptive enough to trickthe sharp eyes of the patients. The glance reassured her. She seemed toherself an epitome of black propriety, and she set forth with a more easyheart. As she walked, her mind ran on before, seeking what this summonsmeant and debating possibilities without arriving at conclusions. Atthe end of Harley Street her walk, which had been rapid, achieved a_ritardando_ and nearly came to a full close before she gained thedoctor's door. Cuckoo could be a brazen hussy. A year ago she couldscarcely be anything else. But that love of hers for Julian had, itseemed, a strange power of undermining old habits. It laid hands upon somany perceptions, so many emotions, with which it should surely have hadnothing to do, and made subtle inroads upon every dark corner of thegirl's nature. From it came this _ritardando_. For Cuckoo was filled witha very human dread of exposing Doctor Levillier to misconception by herappearance in the midst of his patients. Had it been late afternooninstead of morning her fortitude would certainly have been greater, and might even have drawn near to impudence. But the clear light ofapproaching noontide set her mind blinking with rapid eyelids, andwhen she actually gained the street door her discomfort was acute. 

As she put up her hand to touch the bell the door opened softly and astout Duchess issued forth. Cuckoo didn't know she was a Duchess, but shequailed before the plethoric glance cast upon her, and her voice wasuneven as she asked for the doctor. 

"Have you an appointment, ma'am?" asked Lawler, who did not recognize herbehind her black veil. 

"I was asked to come, " Cuckoo murmured. 

"What name, ma'am?"

"Cuck--Miss Bright. "

She was admitted. The doctor, in a hurry of business, had omitted to giveLawler any instructions in the event of Cuckoo's prompt response to histelegram. So she was shown into the waiting-room, in which three or fourpeople were turning over illustrated papers with an air of watchfulidleness and attentive leisure. Cuckoo sat down in a corner as quietlyas possible, and Lawler vanished. The leaves of the illustrated papersrustled in the air with a dry sound. To Cuckoo they seemed to becrackling personal remarks about her, and to be impregnated withcondemnation. She cast a furtive glance upon the square room andperceived that they were returned by four ladies, and that three ofthese ladies were looking straight at her. The eight eyes met in aglance of inquiry and were instantly cast down. Again the leaves of theillustrateds rustled, this time, Cuckoo felt convinced, more fiercelythan before. The _frou-frou_ of the skirts of one of the ladies joinedin the chorus, which was far from crying "Hallelujah!" Cuckoo began tofeel a growing certainty that, despite the black veil and the neatumbrella, feminine instinct had divined her. She was totally unaccustomedto such an atmosphere as that which prevailed in this room, and beganto be the victim of an odd, prickly sensation, which she believed to bephysical, but which was certainly more than half moral. A wave of heatran over her body. It was like the heat which follows on a receivedslap. One of the illustrateds deleted its voice from the general chorus. Cuckoo was aware of this, and looked up again to find two eyes fixedupon her with an expression of thin distaste that was incapable ofmisinterpretation. A second illustrated ceased to sing, two heads wereinclined towards one another, and the "t'p, t'p, t'p" of a low whisperset the remaining two ladies at their posts as sentinels on the lady ofthe feathers. 

Cuckoo put her hand to her face to pull her veil a little lower down. Byaccident she tugged too hard, or it had been badly fastened to her hat, for one side got loose instantly and it fell down, revealing her facefrankly. 

The "t'p, t'p, t'p" sounded again, multiplied by two. Cuckoo, throwninto confusion by the malign behaviour of her veil, caught awkwardly atthe dropped end with an intention of readjusting it, but something inthe sound of the whispering suddenly moved her to a different action. She snatched the veil quite off, set her feet firmly against the thickTurkey carpet, raised her eyes and stared with all her might at the fourladies, hurling, as a man hurls a bomb, an expression of savage defianceinto her gaze. The whispers stopped; a thin and repeated cough, dry asSahara, attacked the silence, and eight eyes were vehemently cast down. Cuckoo continued staring, folding her hands in her lap. The pricklysensation increased, but she considered it now as a thing to be jumpedon. Recognizing that she was recognized, she was instantly moved toplay up to her part, and she longed to stare the four women out intoHarley Street. If the energy of a gaze could have achieved that object, they must have backed through the doctor's plate glass into the areaforthwith. They were, in fact, most obviously moved, and their attitudesexpressed, by a community of lines, virtue rampant and agitation gules. A shattering silence endured till Lawler appeared to bid two of thesevirgins with lit lamps of self-righteousness to the consulting-room. As they rose the two other ladies rose also and followed in their wake. Lawler politely protested, but they were now to proclaim their beautyof character. 

"We should prefer to wait in another room, " said the lady who had coughedas a communication with heaven. 

"Yes, another room, " added the other, and as she spoke she half turned, indicating the corner where Cuckoo sat. 

Without a word Lawler showed them out and closed the door. For anothertwenty minutes Cuckoo sat alone, glaring at the table by which thesemembers of her sex had sat, and seeing no material objects but only--asis the way of humanity--her own point of view. The ladies saw onlytheirs. In this respect, at least, they closely resembled the lady ofthe feathers. When Lawler at length returned with his grave: "This way, if you please, ma'am, " Cuckoo rose to her feet with the inflexibilityof some iron thing set in motion by mechanism, and marched in his waketo the doctor's presence. 

The doctor was standing up by a bright fire; he looked very grave. 

"I am very sorry to have kept you, " he said, "very sorry. I did not thinkyou could get here so quickly. "

Cuckoo cleared her throat. 

"I wish I hadn't, " she answered bluntly. 

"Why?"

"It don't matter. I started directly your wire came. "

"That was good of you. Please sit down. "

Cuckoo sat with a straight back in the straightest chair she couldperceive. The doctor still remained standing by the fire. He appearedto be thinking deeply. His eyes looked downward at his gaily shiningboots. After a minute or two he said:

"I speak to you now in strict confidence, trusting your secrecyimplicitly. "

The back of Cuckoo became less straight. Even a gentle curve made it moregracious if less admirable from the dancing-mistress point of view. 

"Honour!" she interjected rapidly, like a schoolboy. 

The doctor looked up at her and a smile came to his lips. And as helooked up he noticed the neatness of her black gown, the simplicity ofher hat, the absence of paint and powder. Being, after all, only a man, he was surprised at Cuckoo's appearance of propriety. The four ladies hadbeen surprised at her appearance of impropriety. But the doctor, seeingher so much better than usual, thought her--in looks--quite well, asindeed she was in comparison with the _tout ensemble_ of her usual days. He looked from her black gloves, which held the thick black veil, to thewinter sunshine sparkling, like a dancing, eager child, at the window. 

"Do you like driving?" he said. 

"What?"

"Driving--do you like it?"

"Pretty well, if the horse don't come down, " said Cuckoo, at onceconcentrated on cabs. 

"My horses won't. "

"Yours!"

"Yes. I have no more patients to-day. I have a half-holiday and I want totalk to you. Shall we go for a drive to Hampstead and talk out in theopen air and the sunshine?"

The four ladies, the illustrateds, the cough, dry as Sahara, wereinstantly forgotten. Cuckoo became all curves, almost like Jessie inmoments of supreme emotion. 

"Me and you?" she exclaimed. "Oh yes!"

The doctor rang the bell. 

"Take this lady to the dining-room and give her some lunch, " he said toLawler. "And please order the victoria round at once. "

"Yes, sir. "

"While you lunch, " he said to Cuckoo, "I'll just get through two lettersthat must be written, and then we'll start. "

Cuckoo followed Lawler with a sense of airy wonder and delight. 

A quarter of an hour later she was seated with the doctor in thevictoria, the veil tightly stretched across her face, her poor mode ofliving up to his trust in her, and deserving the honour now conferredupon her. The coachman let his horses go, and Harley Street was leftbehind. Such a bright day it was. Even the cold seemed a gay and festivething, spinning the circulation like a gold coin till it glittered, decorating the poorest cheeks with the brightest rose as if in honourof a festival. To Cuckoo London, as seen from a private carriage, wasa wonder and a dream of novelty, a city of kings instead of a city ofbeggars, a city of crystal morning instead of a city of dreadful night. She gazed at it out of a new heart as these horses--that never camedown--trotted briskly forward. Through the silk of her gloves her thumbsand fingers felt silently the warm sables of the rug that caressed herknees. And she thought that this feeling, and the feeling in her heart, must be constituent parts of the emotion called happiness. If the fourladies could see her now! If they could see her now, Cuckoo thought, shewould take off her veil, just for a moment. When the aspect of the streetbegan to change, when little gardens appeared, and bare trees standingbravely in the sun behind high walls and iron gates, the doctor said toCuckoo:

"Now I will tell you why I telegraphed to you. "

And then Cuckoo remembered that she was in this wonderful expedition fora reason. The doctor continued speaking in a low voice, with the obviousintention of being inaudible to the coachman, whose large furred backpresented an appearance of broad indifference to their two lives. 

"You remember what I said to you the other day--that perhaps you couldhelp Julian from great evil. "

Cuckoo nodded earnestly. 

"And you are prepared to do anything you can?"

"Yes. "

She had forgotten the smart carriage, and the horses that never camedown, now. 

"Good, " said the doctor, shortly and decisively. "I will speak to youquite plainly to-day, for something leads me to trust you, and to say toyou what I would say to no other person. Something leads me to believethat you can do more for Addison than any one else. Addison once impliedit; but what I have observed for myself in your house leads me to becertain of it. "

"Oh, " said Cuckoo. 

She had nothing more to say. She could have said nothing more. The stressof her excitement was too great. 

"Look at that holly tree. What a quantity of berries it has!" the doctorsaid. "That's because it is a hard winter. Miss Bright, you are right inyou conviction. Valentine Cresswell is--has been--totally evil, and isdeliberately, coldly, but with determination, compassing the utter ruinof the man who trusts him and believes in him--of Addison. "

Cuckoo nodded again, this time with a strangely matter-of-course air, which assured the doctor in a flash of the long certainty of herknowledge of Valentine. 

"Such a thing seemed to me entirely incredible, " the doctor pursued. "Iam forced--forced--to believe it is true. But remember this: I have knownMr. Cresswell for several years intimately. I have been again and againwith him and Julian. I have noticed the extraordinary influence he hadover Julian, and I know that influence used to be a noble influence, usedsolely for good. Mr. Cresswell was a man of extraordinary high-mindednessand purity of life. He had a brilliant intellect, " the doctor continued, forgetting to whom he was talking, as his mind went back to the Valentineof the old days. "But, far more than that, he was born with a verywonderful and unusual nature. It was written in his face in thegrandeur--I can call it nothing else--of his expression. And it waswritten in his life, in all his acts. But, most of all it was writtenin all he did for Julian. Ah, you look surprised!"

Indeed Cuckoo's face, such of it as was visible under the black shadow ofthe veil, was a mask of blank wonderment. She looked upon the doctor asall that was clever and perfect and extraordinary; so this, it seemedto her, idiocy of his outlook upon Valentine was too much for her manner. 

"Well, I never! Him!" she could not help ejaculating with a long breath, that was almost like a little puff. 

"Remember, " said Dr. Levillier, "this was before you knew him. "

He had taken the trouble to ascertain from Julian the exact date ofValentine's first introduction to the lady of the feathers. 

"Oh yes, " said Cuckoo, still with absolute incredulity of the truth ofthe doctor's panegyric expressed in voice and look. 

"Men change greatly, terribly. "

"Oh, not like that, " she jerked out suddenly, moved by an irresistibleimpulse to contradict his apparent deduction. 

"No, there you are right, " he answered with emphasis. "Sane men do not, can never, I believe, change so utterly. "

"That's what I say. I've seen men go down, lots of 'em, but it ain't likethat. "

Cuckoo spoke with some authority, as of one speaking from depths of adeep experience. She put her hands under the warm rug with a sensation ofsomething that was like dignity of mind. She and the doctor were talkingon equal terms of intellectuality just at this moment. She was sayingsensible things and he was obliged to agree with her. 

"Not like that, " she murmured again out of the embrace of the rug. 

He turned towards her so that he could see her more distinctly and makehis words more impressive. 

"Remember now that what I am going to say to you must not be mentionedto Julian on any account, or to any one, " he said. 

"I'll remember. Honour. I'll never tell. "

"I have a very sad theory to explain this great change in Mr. Cresswell, from what he was as I knew him, and you must take his beauty of characterfrom me--to what he is as you and I know him now. I believe that he hasbecome mad. " For the doctor had resolutely put away from his mind thefancies called up in it by the visit of Marr's wife. 

Cuckoo gave a little cry of surprise, then hastily glanced at thecoachman's back and pushed her hands under the rug up towards her mouth. 

"Hush, " said the doctor. "Only listen quietly. "

"Yes, pardon, " she said. "But he ain't--oh, he can't be. "

"I am forced to think it, forced to think it, " the doctor said, withpressure. "He has, in great measure, one of the most common, mostuniversal, of the fatuous beliefs of the insane, --a deep-rooted, analmost incredible belief in himself, in his own glory, power, will, personality. "

Cuckoo tried to throw in some remark here, but he went on without apause:

"There are madmen confined in asylums all over England who thinkthemselves the Messiah--this is the commonest form of religiousmania--emperors, kings, regenerators of the human race, doers of greatdeeds that must bring them everlasting fame. On all other points theyare sane, and you might spend hours alone with them and never discoverthe one crank in their mind that makes the whole mind out of joint. Soyou have been alone with Mr. Cresswell and have not suspected him. Yethe has a madness, and it is this madness which leads him to thisfrightful conduct of his towards Julian, conduct which you will neverknow the extent of. "

Here Cuckoo succeeded in getting in a remark:

"Will, " she said, catching hold of that one word and beginning to lookeager. "That's what he was at all the time he was talking to me thatnight. Will, he says, is this and that and the other; will, he says, iseverythin', I remember. Will, he says, is my God, or somethin' like it. He did. He did. "

"Ah! you see; even you have noticed it. "

"Yes; but he ain't mad, though, " Cuckoo concluded, with an echo of thatobstinacy which she could never completely conquer. She said what shefelt. She could not help it. The doctor was in no wise offended by thisunskilled opinion opposed to his skilled one. He even smiled slightly. 

"Why do you say that?" he asked. 

"He's too sharp. He's a sight too sharp. "

"Madmen are very cunning. "

"So are women, " Cuckoo exclaimed. "I could see if a man was mad. "

She was a little intoxicated with the swift motion, the bright sun, thekeen air, the clang of the horse's hoofs on the hard roads, and, most ofall, with this conference which the befurred coachman was on no accountto hear. This made her hold fast to her opinion, with no thought of beingrude or presuming. The doctor, accustomed to have duchesses and othershanging upon his words of wisdom, was whipped into a refreshed humourby this odd attitude of an ignorant girl, and he replied with extremevivacity:

"You will think as I do one day. Meanwhile listen to me. When Mr. Cresswell came to you and broke out into this tirade, which you sayyou remember, on the subject of will, did he not show any excitement?"

"Eh?"

"Did he get excited, very hot and eager? Did he speak unusually loud, or make any curious gestures with his hands? Did he do anything, thatyou can remember, such as an ordinary man would not do?"

"Why, yes, " Cuckoo answered. "So he did. "

"Ah! What was it? What did he do?"

"Well, after he'd been talkin' a bit he caught hold of me and pulled mein front of the glass. See?"

"Yes, yes. "

"And he made me look into it. "

"What for?"

But at this point Cuckoo got restive. 

"I--I can't remember, " she murmured, almost sullenly, recallingValentine's bitter sarcasms on her appearance and way of life. 

"Never mind, then. Leave that. But after; what came next?"

"While we was standin' like that he seemed to get frightened orsomethin', like he saw somethin' in the glass. He was frightened, scared, and he hit out all on a sudden, just where my face was in the glass, andsmashed it. "

"Smashed the glass?"

"Yes. And then he snatched hold of me and looked in my eyes awful queer, and then he burst out laughin' and says as the mirror was tellin' himlies. That's all. "

"He was perfectly sober?"

"Oh, he hadn't been on the booze. "

"Sober and did that, and then you can tell me that there is no madness inhim. "

The doctor spoke almost in a bantering tone, but Cuckoo stuck to herguns. 

"I don't think it, " she said, with her under lip sticking out. 

"Well, Miss Bright, I want you to assume something. "

"What's that?"

"To pretend to yourself that you think something, whether you do reallythink it or not. "

"Make believe!" cried Cuckoo, childishly. 

"Exactly. "

"What about?"

"I want you to 'make believe' that Mr. Cresswell is not himself--is notsane. "

"O-oh-h!" said Cuckoo, with a long intonation of surprise. 

"I do honestly believe it; you are to pretend to believe it. Now, remember that. "

"All right. "

"You are not to contradict any more, you see. "

"Oh, " began Cuckoo, in sudden distress. "Pardon. I didn't--"

"Hush! That's all right. Act with me on the make-believe or assumptionthat Mr. Cresswell is not himself at present. "

"Ah, but that ain't no make-believe. He told me as he wasn't himself whenhe says, 'I am Marr. '"

"Yes--yes, " said the doctor. Secretly, almost angrily, he said to himselfthat Valentine, in some access of insanity, had actually confessed to thelady of the feathers that he knew himself to be mad. 

"He says he ain't himself, " she repeated again, with an eager feelingthat perhaps, at last, she had got at the right interpretation of thegospel of Valentine. 

"That is practically the same thing as his saying to you that he was mad. Now you have told me what you feel for Julian. "

Cuckoo flushed, and muttered something unintelligible, twining her handsin the sables till she nearly pulled them from Doctor Levillier's knees. 

"And you have seen the terrible change that has come over him, and thatis fast, fast deepening to something that must end in utter ruin. Youhave not seen him these last few days, I think. "

"No", said Cuckoo, her eyes fixed hungrily on the doctor's face. Shebegan to tug at her veil. "What's it? Is he--is he?"

She collapsed into a nervous silence, still tugging with a futile hand atthe veil, which remained implacably stretched across her face. The doctorlooked at her, and said steadily:

"He has gone a little further--down. You understand me?"

"I ought to, " she said, bitterly. 

"As you are mounting upward, " the doctor rejoined, with a kind and firmgravity that seemed indeed to lift Cuckoo, as a sweet wind lifts afeather and sends it on high. 

The bitterness went out of her face, but she said nothing, only satlistening attentively while the doctor went on:

"My belief is this, and if you hold it you can perhaps act in this matterwith more boldness, more fearlessness, than if you do not hold it. Ibelieve that Mr. Cresswell, who played very foolish tricks with hisnerves some time ago, just before he got to know you, has become mad tothis extent, that he believes himself to have a power of will unlike thatpossessed by any other man, --an inhuman power, in fact. He fancies thathe has the will of a sort of god, and he wishes to prove this to himselfmore especially. Everything is for self in a madman. Now he looks aboutfor a means of proving that his will can do everything. He wants to makeit do something extraordinary, uncommon. What does he find for it to do?This, the ruin of Julian. And now I'll tell you why this ruin of Julianwould be a peculiar triumph for his will. Originally, when Cresswell wassane and splendid, his splendour of sanity guarded Julian from all thatwas dangerous. Julian was naturally inclined to be wild. He has an ardentnature, and five years ago, when he was a mere boy, might have falleninto a thousand follies. Cresswell's influence first kept him from thesefollies, and at last taught him to loathe and despise them. And Julian, remember this, told Cresswell at last that he had been to him a sort ofsaviour. You can follow me?"

"'M, " Cuckoo ejaculated with shut mouth and a nod of her head. 

"So that Cresswell knew what his will had been able to do in thedirection of lifting Julian high up, almost above his nature. Well, thenfollowed certain foolish practices which I need not describe. Cresswelland Julian joined in a certain trickery, often practised by people whocall themselves spiritualists and occultists. It certainly had an effectupon them at the time, and I advised them earnestly to drop it. Theydisregarded my advice, and the result was that Mr. Cresswell fell intoan extraordinary condition of body. He fell into a trance, became as ifhe were dead, and remained so for some hours on a certain night. I wascalled in to him, and actually thought that he was dead. But he revived. Now, I believe that though he seemed to recover, and did recover inbody, he never recovered from that insensibility in mind. I believe hewent into that sleep sane and came out of it mad, and that he remainsmad to this moment. Certainly, ever since then he has been an alteredman, the man you know, not at all the man he used to be. Since thatnight he, who used to be almost unconscious of the wonder of his ownwill, has become intensely self-conscious, and engrossed with it, andhas wished to make it obey him and perform miracles. And what is thespecial miracle to which he is devoting himself at this moment, as youhave observed? Just this: the ruin of the thing he originally saved. Itis like this, " he said, noting that Cuckoo was becoming puzzled andconfused, "Cresswell, by his influence, made Julian loathe sin. Comingout of this trance, as I believe, a madman, he seeks to make his willdo something extraordinary. What shall he make it do? His eyes fall onJulian, who is always with him, as you know. And he resolves to makeJulian love what he has taught him to loathe--sin, vice, degradation ofevery kind. So he sets to work with all the cunning of a diseased mind, and hour by hour, day by day, he works for this horrible end. At first heis quiet and careful. But at last he becomes almost intoxicated as hesees his own success. And he allows himself to be led into outbreaks oftriumph. One of those outbreaks you yourself seem to have witnessed. Ihave witnessed another--on the night I dined alone with Cresswell, whenhe killed the dog, Rip, and threw him out into the snow. Cresswell isintoxicated with the mental intoxication of mania, at the degradationinto which his will has forced Julian, who had learnt to love him, tothink that everything he did must be right. And this intoxication isleading him to excesses. It is my firm belief that he intends to dragJulian down into intolerable abysses of sin, to plunge him into utterruin, to bring him perhaps to prison, and to death. "

Cuckoo was listening now with a white face--even her lips looked almostgrey. The sunshine still lay over the winter world. The horses trotted. The sables were warm about her. They had nearly left the city behindthem and were gaining the heights, on which the air was keener and morelife-giving, and from which the outlook was larger and more inspiring. But the girl's gaiety and almost wild sense of vivacity and protectednesshad vanished. For the doctor's face and voice had become grave, and hiswords were weighty with a conviction, which, added to her own knowledgeof Julian and Valentine, made her fears unutterable. As the doctor pausedshe opened her lips as if to speak, but she said nothing. He could notbut perceive the cloud that had settled on her, and his manner quicklychanged. A brightness, a hopefulness, illumined his face, and he saidquickly:

"This tragedy is what you and I, but you especially, must prevent. "

Then Cuckoo spoke at last:

"How ever?" she said. 

"Remember this, " he answered. "If Cresswell is mad we must pity him, not condemn him. But we must, above all, fight him. Could I prove hismadness the danger would be averted? Possibly time will give me themeans of proving it. I have watched him. I shall continue to watch him. But as yet, although I see enough to convince me of his insanity, Idon't see enough to convince the world, or, above all, to convinceJulian. Therefore never give Julian the slightest hint of what I havetold you of to-day. His adoration of Valentine is such that even a hintmight easily lead him to regard both you and me as his enemies. Keep yourown counsel and mine, but act with me on the silent assumption thatCresswell being a madman, we are justified in fighting him to the bitterend, you and I, with all our forces. "

"I see, " Cuckoo said, a burning excitement beginning to wake in her. 

"Justified in fighting him, but not in hating him. "

"Oh, " she said, with a much more doubtful accent. 

"Scarcely any human being, if indeed any, is completely hateful. How thencan a human being, whose mind is ill and out of control, be hateful?"said the doctor, gently. 

She felt herself rebuked, and a quick thought of herself, of what shewas, rebuked her too. 

"I'll try not, " she murmured, but with no inward conviction of success. 

They were on the heath now, and the smoke of London hung in the wintryair beyond and below them. The sun was already beginning to wear theaspect of a traveller on the point of departure for a journey. His oncegolden face was sinister with that blood-red hue which it so oftenassumes on winter afternoons, and which seems to set it in a place morethan usually remote, more than usually distant from our world, and in aclime that is sad and strange. Winds danced over the heath like youngwitches. The horses, whipped by the more intense cold, pulled hardagainst the bit, and made the coachman's arms ache. The doctor lookedaway for a moment at the vapours that began to clothe the afternoon inthe hollows and depressions of the landscape, and at the sun, whosegathering change of aspect smote on his imagination as something akin tothe change that falls over the faces of men towards that hour when thesun of their glory makes ready for its setting. Still keeping his glanceon that sad red sun in its nest of radiating vapours, he said, in awithdrawn voice:

"We must hate nothing except the hatefulness of sin in ourselves and inothers. "

Cuckoo listened as to the voice of some one on a throne, and tears thatshe could not fully understand rose in her eyes. 

But now the doctor turned from the sun to the lady of the feathers, andthere was a bright light in his quiet eyes. 

"You and I must fight with all our forces, " he said. "Have you everthought about this thing will which Cresswell worships insanely? Have youever felt it in you, Miss Bright?"

"I don't know as I have, " Cuckoo said, secretly wondering if it werethat strange and fleeting power which had come to her of late, whichhad made her for a moment fearless of Valentine as she defied him in theloneliness of her room, which had stirred her even to a faith in herselfwhen she spoke with the doctor under the stars upon her doorstep. 

"I think you have. I think you will. It must be there, for Julian feelsit in you. He--he calls it a flame. "

"Eh? A flame?"

"Yes. He sees it in your eyes, and it holds him near you. "

So the doctor spoke, partly out of his conviction, partly because hehad definitely resolved to put away from him all the things that foughtagainst his reason and that his imagination perhaps loved too much. Such things, he thought, floated like clouds across the clearness ofhis vision, and drowned the light of his power to do good. So hisfancies that had fastened on the mystery of the dead Marr and the livingValentine, connecting them together, and weaving a veil of magic abouttheir strange connection, were banished. He would not hold more commercewith them, nor would he accept the fancies of others as realities. Thus, in his mind, Julian's legend of the flame in this girl's eyes, despitethe doctor's own vision of flames, became merely a story of the truthof human will and an acknowledgment of its power. 

"Is that why he looks at me so?" Cuckoo asked, in a manner unusuallymeditative. "But then he, Valentine, did the same! Why, could that bewhat scared him that night--what he struck at?"

"He too may feel that you have a power for good, to fight against hispower for evil. Yes, he does feel it. Make him feel it more. Rely onyourself. Trust that there's something great within you, something placedthere for you to use. Never mind what your life has been. Never mind yourown weakness. You are the home, the temple, of this power of will. Julianfeels it, and it draws him to you, but it is as nothing yet comparedwith the power of Cresswell. You have to make it more powerful, so thatyou may win Julian back from this danger. "

"Eh? How?"

"Rest on it; trust in it; teach it to act. Show Julian more and more thatyou have it. Can't you think of a way of showing that you have thispower?"

"Not I. No, " Cuckoo murmured. 

The doctor lowered his voice still more. Quite at a venture he drew abow, and with his first arrow smote the lady of the feathers to theheart. 

"Has Julian ever asked you to do anything?" he said. 

Suddenly Cuckoo's face was scarlet. 

"Why? How d' you know?" she stammered. 

"Anything for him that was not evil?" the doctor pursued, following outan abstract theory, not as Cuckoo fancied, dealing with known facts. "Iknow nothing. I only ask you to try and remember, to search your mind. "

There was no need for the lady of the feathers to do that. 

"Yes, he did once, " she said, looking still confused and furtive. 

"Was it difficult?"

She hesitated. 

"I s'pose so, " she answered at last. 

"Did you do it?"

"No. "

The doctor had noticed that his questions gave pain. 

"I don't want to know what it was and I don't ask, " he said. "I haveneither the right to, nor the desire to. But can't you do it, and showJulian that you have done it? If you do I think he will see that flame, which he fears and which fascinates him, burn more clearly, moresteadily, in your eyes. "

"I'll see, " Cuckoo said with a kind of gulp. 

"Do more than this. This is only a part, one weapon in the fight. Cresswell is always near Julian; you must be near him. Cresswellpursues Julian; you must pursue him, use your woman's wit, use all yourexperience of men; use your heart. Wake up and throw yourself into thisbattle, and make yourself worthy of fighting. Only you can tell how. Butthis is a fact. Our wills, our powers of doing things, are made strong, or made weak by our own lives. Each time we do a degradingly low, beastlything"--he chose the words most easily comprehended by such a woman asshe was--"we weaken our will, and make it less able to do anything goodfor another. If you commit loveless actions from to-day--though Julianhas nothing to do with them--with each loveless action you will lose apoint in the battle against the madness of Cresswell. And you must loseno points. Remember you are fighting a madman, as I believe, for thesafety of the man you love. If I could tell you what--"

The doctor pulled himself up short. 

"No, " he said, "no need to tell you more than that, within these lastfew days I have found that all you said about Cresswell's present_diablerie_"--he shook his head impatiently at the language he was usingto the lady of the feathers--"Cresswell's present impulse for evil isless horribly true than the truth. I shall watch him, day by day, fromnow. And if I can act, I shall do so. If his insanity is too sharp forme, as it may well be, I shall be checkmated in any effort to forciblykeep him from doing harm. In that case I can only trust to you, andhope that some chance circumstance may lead to the opening of Julian'seyes. But they are closed--closed fast. In any case you will help me andI will help you. You shall have opportunities of meeting Julian often. Iwill arrange that. And Cresswell--"

He paused as if in deep thought. 

"How to do it, " he murmured, almost to himself. "How to bring this battleto the issue!"

Then he turned his eyes on Cuckoo. 

She was sitting bolt upright in the carriage. Her cheeks were flushed. Her hollow eyes were sparkling. She had drawn her hands out from underthe rug and clasped them together in her lap. 

"Oh, I'll do anything I can, " she said, "anything. And--and I can do thatone thing!"

"Yes, " said the doctor. "Which?"

"The thing that he asked me once, and what I said no to, " she answered, but in such a low murmur that the doctor scarcely caught the words. 

He leaned forward in the carriage. 

"Home now, Grant, " he said to the coachman. "Or--no--drive first to 400Marylebone Road. "

The doctor turned again towards Cuckoo. She was looking away from him, somuch that he was obliged to believe that she wished to conceal her face, which was towards the sunset. 

The sky over London glowed with a dull red like a furnace. It deepened, while they looked, passing rapidly through the biting cold of the latewinter afternoon. 

The red cloud near the fainting sun broke and parted. 

Spears of gold were thrust forth. 

"Flames, " the doctor whispered to himself. "Flames! The will, the soul ofGod in nature. "

PART V--FLAMES

CHAPTER I

VALENTINE INVITES HIS GUESTS

Valentine and Julian sat together in the tentroom at night, as they sattogether many months ago, when Julian confessed his secret and Valentineexpressed his strange desire to have a different soul. Now it was deepwinter. The year was old. In three days it must die. It lay in the snow, like some abandoned beggar waiting for the inevitable end. Some, who werehappy, would fain have succoured it and kept it with them. Others, who were sad, said: "Let it go--this beggar. Already it has taken toomany alms from us. " But neither the happy nor the sad could affect itsfate. So it lay in the snow and in the wind, upon its deathbed. 

The tentroom had not been altered. Still the green draperies, veiledwalls, windows and door, meeting in a point at the ceiling. The firedanced and shone. The electric moons gleamed with a twilight softness. Only Rip was gone from the broad and cushioned divan upon which he hadloved to lie, half sleeping, half awake, while his master talked andJulian listened or replied. The room was the same, and this very factemphasized the transformation of the two men who sat in it. They leanedin their low chairs on each side of the fire, thinly veiled from time totime in cigarette-smoke. No sound of London reached them in this smallroom. Even the voice of the winter wind whispered and sang in vain. Stifled by the thick draperies, it failed in its effort to gain theirattention, and sighed among the chimney-tops the chagrin of its soul. Theface of Julian was drawn and heavy. His eyes were downcast. His arms hungover the cushioned elbows of his chair, in which he sat very low, in theshrivelled posture of one desperately fatigued. From time to time heopened his lips in a sort of dull gape, then shut his teeth tightly as ifhe ground them together. The drooping lids of his eyes were covered withlittle lines, and there were deeper lines at the corners of his mouth. The colour of his face was the colour of the misty cloud that haunts thesteps of evening on an autumn day--grey, as if it clothed processes ofdecay and desolation. Years seemed to crouch upon him like lean dogs upona doorstep. Within a few months he had stepped from boyhood to thecreaking threshold of premature age. 

The change in Valentine was far less marked to a careless eye. There wasstill a peculiar cleanness in his large blue eyes, a white delicacy inhis features. The lips of his mouth were red and soft, not dry, as werethe lips of Julian. The crisp gold of his hair caught the light, and hislithe figure rested in his chair in a calm posture of pleasant ease. Yethe, too, was changed. Expression of a new nature now no longer lurkedfurtively in his face, but boldly, even triumphantly, asserted itself. It did not shrink behind a soft smile, or glide and pass in a fleetinggaiety, but stared upon the world with something of the hard and fixedimmobility of a mask. Every mask, whatever expression be painted uponit, wears a certain aspect of shamelessness. Valentine's was a hard andshameless face, although his features, if coarser than of old, were stillnoble, and, in line, a silent legend of almost priestly intellectuality. 

He was looking across at Julian, who held idly between his lax fingersa letter written with violet ink upon pink paper, which had a little birdstamped in the left-hand corner. 

"When did you get it?" he said. 

"Two or three days ago, I think. I can't remember. I can't rememberanything now, " Julian answered heavily. 

"And you have had two since?"

"Yes. And to-day she called. "

"You were out?"

"Yes. "

"She shows herself very exigent all of a sudden. She is afraid of losingyou. I told you long ago she cherished absurd ambitions with regard toyou. Do you intend to answer her notes?"

"Oh yes, " Julian said. "Cuckoo has always been very fond of me; veryfond. "

He glanced at the absurdly vulgar little bird in the corner of theletter. "And that's something, " he added slowly. 

"You are weighed down with gratitude? No wonder. Are you grateful toothers who have always cared for you in a different way--unselfishly, that is?"

"I don't seem to feel very much about anybody now, " Julian said. "I dosuch a lot. The more you do, the less you feel. Damnable life! Allcruelty. I can't feel satisfied. But there must be something; somethingI haven't tried. I must find it, " he said, almost fiercely, and, stirringin a sudden energy, "I must find it--or--curse you, Val, why don't youfind it for me?"

Valentine laughed. 

"The last novelty has failed? You are a very discontented sinner, Julian. And yet London begins to think you too enterprising. I hear that LadyCrichton is the last person to shut her doors against you. What did shehear of?"

"How should I know?"

He laughed bitterly. 

"She oughtn't to be particular. She used to receive Marr. I met him firstin her yellow drawing-room. "

"London had not discussed him, perhaps. You are rapidly becoming a legendand a warning. That is fame. To be the accepted warning for others. "

"Or infamy; which is much the same thing. "

"But you are only at the first posting-station of your journey, "Valentine continued, looking at him with a smile. "If you aredissatisfied, it is because you have not tasted yet half that strengthof the spring we once talked of. You have not completely thrown offthe foolish yoke of public opinion. The chains still jangle about you. Cast them away and you will yet be happy. "

"Shall I? Shall I, Valentine?"

The exhausted, worn, and weary figure leaned abruptly forward in itschair. Julian's tired eyes glittered greedily. 

"To be happy, I'd commit any crime, " he said. 

"Crime is merely opinion, " Valentine answered. "Everything is opinion. You will commit crimes probably. Most brave men do. "

"But shall I be happy?"

"You are greedy, Julian, greedy of everything, knowledge of life, lust, joy. You are never satisfied. That's because you and I fasted for solong; and the greedy man is never quite happy while he is eating, forhe is always anticipating the next course. And, let philosophers say whatthey will, happiness does not lie in anticipation. Go on eating. Pass onfrom course to course. At last there will come a time, a beautiful time, when your appetite will be satisfied and you will rest contented. But, remember, not till you have journeyed through the whole _menu_, playedwith your dessert and even drunk your black coffee. Go on, only go on. Men and women are unhappy. They think it is because they have done toomuch. They reproach themselves for a thousand things that they have done. Fools! They are unhappy because they have not done enough. The textwhich will haunt me on my deathbed will be: 'I have left undone thosethings which I ought to have done. ' Yes, during my long cursed years ofinaction, when I was called the Saint of Victoria Street. Ah! Julian, youand I slept; we are awake now. You and I were dead; we are now alive. Butwe are only at the beginning of our lives. We have those years, thosewhite and empty years, to drown in the waters of Lethe. They are likemonstrous children that should have been strangled almost ere they wereborn, white, vacant children. And now, day by day, we are pressing themdown in the waters with our hands. At last they will sink. The waves willflow over their haggard faces. The waves will sweep them away. Then weshall be happy. We shall redeem those years on which the locust fed, andwe shall be happy. "

"Yes, by God, we shall be happy, we will--we will be happy. Only teach meto be happy, Valentine, anywhere, anyhow. "

"Not with the lady of the feathers. She will not make you happy. "

"Cuckoo? No! For she's terribly unhappy herself. Poor old Cuckoo. Iwonder what she's doing now. "

"Searching in the snow for her fate, " Valentine said, with a sneer. 

 * * * * *

It was not so. Cuckoo was sitting alone in the little room of theMarylebone Road looking a new spectre in the face, the spectre ofhunger, only shadowy as yet, scarcely defined, scarcely visible. Andthe lady of the feathers wondered, as she gazed, if she and the spectremust become better acquainted, clasp hands, kiss lips, be day-fellowsand night-fellows. 

 * * * * *

"I am going to write to Cuckoo, " Julian said a day later. "What shall Isay?"

Valentine hesitated. 

"What have you thought of saying?" he asked. 

"Oh, I don't know. First one thing, then another. Good-bye among thenumber. That's what you wish me to say, Val, isn't it?"

He spoke in a listless voice, monotonous in inflection and lifelessin timbre. The dominion of Valentine over him since the supper at theSavoy had increased, consolidating itself into an undoubted tyranny, which Julian accepted, carelessly, thoughtlessly, a prey to the internaldegradation of his mind. Once he had only been nobly susceptible, a finepower. Now he was drearily weak, an ungracious disability. But with hisweakness came, as is usual, a certain lassitude which even resembleddespair, an indifference peculiar to the slave, how opposed to theindifference peculiar to the autocrat. Valentine recognized in the voicethe badge of serfdom, even more than in the question, and he smiled witha cold triumph. He had intended telling Julian now, once for all, tobreak with the lady of the feathers, of whom even yet he stood in vaguefear. But the question, the voice of Julian, gave him pause, slid intohis soul a new and bizarre desire, child of the strange intoxication ofpower which was beginning to grip him, and which the doctor had remarked. If Julian broke with Cuckoo, repulsed her forever into the long streetthat was her pent and degraded world, would not the sharp salt ofValentine's triumph be taken from him? Would not the wheels of hisJuggernaut car fail to do their office in his sight--there was thepoint!--upon a precious victim? The lady of the feathers thusdeliberately abandoned by Julian would suffer perhaps almost to thelimit of her capability of pain, but Valentine would have lost sightof her in the dark, and though he would have conquered that spectralopposition which she had whimsically offered to him--he laughed tohimself now, thinking of his fear of it--he would not see that greatestvision, the flight of his enemy. These thoughts flashed through his mind, moving him to an answer that astonished Julian. 

"Good-bye!" he said. "Why should I wish that?"

"You said the other day at the Savoy that she hated you; that you and shemust have a battle unless I chose between you. "

"I was laughing. "

The lifelessness left Julian's voice as he exclaimed:

"Valentine! But you were--"

"Sober, and you were not. Can you deny it?"

Julian was silent. 

"I so little meant that nonsense, " Valentine continued, "that I haveconceived a plan. To-morrow is the last night of the old year. The doctorasked us to spend it with him. We refused. Providence directed thatrefusal, for now we are at liberty to celebrate the proper occasionfor burying hatchets by burying our particular hatchet. The lady of thefeathers, your friend, my enemy, shall see the new year in here, in thistentroom, where long ago we--you and I--with how ill success, sought toexchange our souls. "

Julian looked utterly astonished at this proposition. 

"Cuckoo wouldn't come here, " he began. 

"So you said once before. But she came then, and she will come now. "

"And then the doctor! If he gets to hear of it! We said we were diningout. "

Valentine's hard smile grew yet harder, and his eyes sparkled eagerly. 

"I'll arrange that, " he said. "The doctor shall come here too. "

It seemed indeed as if he meant that his triumph should culminate on thisfinal night of the year, his year. He laughed Julian's astonishment atthis vagary aside, sat down and wrote the two notes of invitation, andthen went out with Julian, saying:

"Julian, come out with me. You remember what I said about the greedy man?Come; Fate shall present you with another course, one more step towardsyour _café noir_ and--happiness. _Voilà!_"

Valentine was right in his supposition that both the lady of the feathersand the doctor would accept his invitation, but he did not understandthe precise motive which prompted their acceptance. Nor did he much careto understand it. Cuckoo, Doctor Levillier! After all, what were theyto him now? Spectators of his triumph. Interesting, therefore, to acertain extent, as an unpaying audience may be interesting to an actor. Interesting, inasmuch as they could contribute to swell the bladder ofhis vanity, and follow in procession behind his chariot wheels. But he nolonger cared to divine the shades of their emotions, or to busy himselfin fathoming their exact mental attitudes in relation to himself. So hethought, touched perhaps with a certain delirium, though not with thedelirium of insanity attributed to him by Doctor Levillier. 

The doctor had intended celebrating the last night of the year in HarleyStreet with Cuckoo and the two young men. The refusal of the latter putan end to the opening of his plan of campaign in this strange battle, and he was greatly astonished when he received Valentine's invitation. Still, he had no hesitation in accepting it. 

"So, " he said to himself, as he read the note, "we join issue within thevery wall of the enemy. Poor, deluded, twisted Valentine! that I shouldhave to call him, to think of him as an enemy! We begin the fight withinthe shadow of our opponent's tent. "

Literally that was the fact. 

Cuckoo's thoughts were less definite, more tinged with passion, lessshaped by the hands of intellect. They were as clouds, looming large, yet misty, hanging loose in torn fragments now, and now merging intoindistinguishable fog that yet seemed pregnant with possibilities. Poor thoughts, vague thoughts; yet they pressed upon her brain untilher tired head ached. And they stole down to her heart, and that achedtoo, and hoped and then despaired--then hoped again. 

CHAPTER II

CAFÉ NOIR

Snow fell, melodramatically, on the year's death-night. During the dayValentine occupied himself oddly in decorating his flat for the evening. But although he thus seemed to fall in with the consecrated humours ofthe season his decorations would scarcely have commanded the approval ofthose good English folk who think that no plant is genial unless it isprickly, and that prickly things represent appropriately to the eye theinward peace and good will that grows, like a cactus, perhaps within theheart. He did not put holly rigidly above his doors. No mistletoe droopedfrom the apex of the tentroom. Instead, he filled his flat with flowers, brought from English conservatories or from abroad. Crowds of strange andspotted orchids stood together in the drawing-room, staring upon thehurly-burly of furniture and ornaments. In the corners of the room wereimmense red flowers, such as hang among the crawling green jungles ofthe West Indies. They gleamed, like flames, amid a shower of cunninglyarranged green leaves, and palms sheltered them from the electric raysof the ceiling. The tentroom was a maze of tulips, in vases, in pots, in china bowls that hung by thin chains from the sloping green roof. Few of these tulips were whole coloured. They were slashed, and striped, and spotted with violent hues. Some were of the most vivid scarletstreaked with black. Others were orange-coloured with livid pink spots, circus-pink, such as you see round the eyes of horses bred specially forthe ring. There were white tulips, stained as if with blood, pale pinktulips tipped with deepest brown, rose-coloured tulips barred with woundswhose edges were saffron-hued, tulips of a warm wallflower tint dashedwith the stormy yellow of an evening sky. And hidden among thosescentless flowers, in secret places cunningly contrived, were greatgroups of hyacinths, which poured forth their thick and decadent scent, breathing heavily their hearts into the small atmosphere of the room, and giving a strange and unnatural soul to the tulips who had spentall their efforts in the attainment of form and daring combinations ofcolour. As if relapsing into sweet simplicity, after the vagaries of awayward nature had run their course, Valentine had filled his hall anddining-room with violets, purple and white, and a bell of violets hungfrom the ceiling over the chair which the lady of the feathers was tooccupy at dinner. These were white only, white and virginal, flowers forsome sweet woman dedicated to the service of God, or to the service ofsome eternal altar-flame burning, as the zeal of nature burns, throughall the dawning and fading changes of the world. 

Thus Valentine passed his day among flowers, and only when the lasttwilight of the year fell had he fixed the last blossom in its place. Then he rested, as after six days of creation, and from the midst ofhis flowers saw the snow falling delicately upon London. Lights beganto gleam in the tall houses opposite his drawing-room windows. He glancedat them, and they brought him thoughts at which he smiled. Behind thosesquares of light he imagined peace and good will in enormous whitewaistcoats and expansive shirt-fronts, red-faced, perhaps even whiskered, getting ready for good temper and turkey, journalistic geniality and plumpudding. And holly everywhere, with its prickly leaves and shining, phlegmatic surfaces. 

Peace and good will!

He glanced at his orchids and at the red West Indian flowers, and hethought of those crawling green jungles from which they should have come, and smiled gently. 

Peace and good will!

He went to dress. 

 * * * * *

Meanwhile, in the Marylebone Road the lady of the feathers achievedher toilet, assisted by Jessie. The only evening dress that Cuckoopossessed had been given to her long ago by a young man in the millinerydepartment of a large London shop. For a week he had adored Cuckoo. During that week he had presented her with this tremendous gift. Shewent into her bedroom now, took it out and looked at it. The gown rustleda great deal whenever it was moved; this had been the young man's idea. He considered that the more a gift rustled, the more aristocratic itwas, and, being well acquainted with all the different noises made bydifferent fabrics, he had selected one with a voice as of many waters. Cuckoo heard it now as in a dream. She laid it down upon the bed andregarded it by candle-light. The young man's taste in sound found itsequivalent in his taste in colour. The hue of the gown was also veryloud, the brightest possible green, trimmed with thick yellow imitationlace. Once it had enchanted Cuckoo, she had put it on with a thrill to goto music-halls with the young man. But now she gazed upon it with a lacklustre and a doubtful eye. The flickering flame of the candle lit it upin patches, and those patches had a lurid aspect. Remembering that Julianhad liked her best in black, she shrank from appearing before him inanything so determined. Yet it was her only dress for the evening, and at first she supposed the wearing of it to be inevitable. She putit on and went in front of the glass. In these days she had become eventhinner than of old, and more haggard. The gown increased her tenuityand pallor to the eye, and, after a long moment of painful consideration, Cuckoo resolved to abandon these green glories. Once her mind wasmade up, she was out of the dress in an instant; time was short. Shehurriedly extracted her black gown from the wardrobe, caught hold ofa pair of scissors, and in a few minutes had ripped the imitation lacefrom its foundations and was transferring it with trembling fingersto Julian's gift. Never before had she worked at any task with suchgrim determination, or with such deftness; inspired by exceptionalcircumstances, she might for twenty minutes have been a practiseddressmaker. Certainly, pins were called in as weapons to the attack;but what of that? Compromises are often only stuck together with pins. In any case Cuckoo was not entirely in despair with the new aspect ofan old friend, and when she was ready was able at least to hope thatthings might have been worse. 

Putting on over the dress a black jacket, she went out into the passageand called down to Mrs. Brigg, who, as usual, was wandering to and fro inher kitchen, like an uneasy shade in nethermost Hades. 

"Mrs. Brigg! Mrs. Brigg, I say!"

"Well?"

"Where's the whistle?"

Mrs. Brigg came to the bottom of the kitchen stairs. 

"What d' yer want it for?"

"A cab, of course, " cried Cuckoo, in the narrow voice of one in a hurry. 

"A cab!" rejoined Mrs. Brigg, ascending the dark stairs all the time shewas speaking. "And what do you want with cabs, I should like to know? Whopays for 'em, that's what I say; who's to do it?"

Her grey head hove in sight. 

"Where are you going? Piccadilly?"

"No; get the whistle. "

"What--and no hat!"

She was evidently impressed. 

"A toff is it?" she ejaculated, obviously appeased. "Well! so long as Iget the rent I--"

With a white glare Cuckoo seized the whistle from her claw, and in amoment was driving away through the snow. 

Mrs. Brigg trotted back to the kitchen decidedly relieved. Cuckoo'ssuddenly altered mode of life had tried her greatly. The girl had takento going out in the day and staying at home at night. Simultaneouslywith this changed _régime_ her funds had evidently become low. She hadbegun to live less well, to watch more keenly than of old the conditionin which her commons went down to the kitchen and returned from it onthe advent of the next meal. By various little symptoms the landladyknew that her lodger was getting hard up. Yet no amount of badgeringand argument would induce Cuckoo to say why she sat indoors at night. She acknowledged that she was not ill. Mrs. Brigg had been seriouslyexercised. But now her old heart was glad. Cuckoo was, perhaps, mountinginto higher circles, circles in which hats were not worn during theevening. And as Mrs. Brigg entered her nethermost hell she broke intoa thin, quavering song:

"In 'er 'air she wore a white cam-eeiyer, Dark blue was the colour of 'er heye. "

It was her song of praise. She always sang it on great occasions. 

When the lady of the feathers reached Victoria Street she found thelittle party already assembled. Valentine met her ceremoniously in theviolet-scented hall and helped her to slide out of her jacket. His glanceupon the imitation lace was quick and gay, but Cuckoo did not see it. Shewas gazing at the flowers, and when she entered the drawing-room andfound herself in the midst of the orchids, the West Indian flowers andthe palms, her astonishment knew no bounds. 

"I never!" she murmured under her breath. 

Then she forgot the flowers, having only time to remember to be shy. Dinner was immediately announced by Wade, whose years of traineddiscretion could not banish a faint accent of surprise from his voice. He was, in fact, _bouleversé_ by this celebration of the death of theold year. Valentine offered Cuckoo his arm. She took it awkwardly, witha shooting glance of question at the doctor, who seemed her only spar inthis deep social sea. Valentine placed her beneath the bell of violets, and took his seat beside her. Julian was on her other hand, the doctorexactly opposite. Wade presented her with _hors-d'oeuvres. _ Cuckooselected a sardine. She understood sardines, having met them at theMonico. Valentine and the doctor began to talk. Julian ate slowly, andCuckoo stole a glance at him. His aspect startled her so much that shewith difficulty repressed a murmur of astonishment. He had the appearanceof one so completely exhausted as to be scarcely alive. Most people, however stupid, however bored, have some air, when in society, oflistening even when they do not speak, of giving some sort of attentionto those about them, or to the place in which they find themselves. Theyglance this way and that, however phlegmatically. They bend in attentionor lean back in observation. It is seen that they are conscious of theirenvironment. But Julian was engrossed with fatigue. The lids drooped overhis eyes. His face wore a leaden hue. Even his lips were colourless. Heate slowly and mechanically till his plate was empty. Then he laid downhis fork and remained motionless, his eyes still cast down towards thetablecloth, his two hands laid against the table edge, while the fingerswere extended upon the cloth on either side of his plate. Cuckoo lookedat him with terror, wondering if he were ill. Then, glancing up, she metthe eyes of the doctor. They seemed to bid her take no heed of Julian'scondition, and she did not look at him again just then. Trying to controlher fears, she listened to Valentine's conversation with the doctor. 

"Doctors are sceptics by profession, " she heard him say. 

"I believe in individualism too firmly to allow that any beliefs orunbeliefs can be professional, Cresswell. "

"Possibly you are right, " Valentine answered lightly. "What a pity it isthat there is no profession of which all the members at least believe inthemselves. "

"Ah; would you enter it?"

"I scarcely think it would be necessary. "

He glanced first at the doctor, then at Cuckoo as he spoke. 

"I am thankful to say, " he added in his clear, cool voice, "that I haveno longer either the perpetual timidity of the self-doubter or even theoccasional anxiety of the egoist. "

"You have passed into a region which even egoism cannot enter. "

"Possibly--the average egoism. "

"The average egoism of the end of the century moves in a very rarefiedair. "

"Its feet touch ground nevertheless. "

"And yours?"

Valentine only laughed, as if he considered the question merelyrhetorical or jocose. 

"But we are getting away from the question, which was not personal, "he said. "I contend that doctors, as a body, are bound to combat thesemodern Athenians, who are inclined to attribute everything to someobscure action of the mind. For, if their beliefs are founded on rock, and if they can themselves sufficiently, by asceticism, or by followingany other fixed course of life which they may select as the right one, train their minds to do that which they believe can be done, theprofession of doctors may in time be abolished. Mind will be theuniversal medicine; will, not simply the cure, but the preventive, of disease. "

"And of death?" the doctor asked quietly. "Will man be able to thinkhimself into an eternity on earth?"

Valentine looked at him very strangely. 

"You ask that question seriously?" he said. 

"I ask seriously whether you think so. "

It was evident that the doctor meant to make the question above allthings a personal one. This time Valentine accepted that condition. He sat for a moment twisting his champagne-glass about in his longfingers, and glancing rapidly from the doctor to Cuckoo, who heard thisconversation without very well understanding it. Indeed, she sat beneathher bell of violets in much confusion, _distraite_ in her desire tocommand intellectual faculties which she did not possess. Valentinewatched her narrowly, though he seemed unattentive to her. Perhapshe thought of his delivery of his gospel to her, and wondered if sherecalled it at this moment; or perhaps once more he began to rejoicein her mental distress and alienation. 

"Wade, " he said "the champagne to Mr. Addison. Well, doctor, suppose Iacknowledged that I did so--mind, I don't acknowledge it!--you might, onyour side, think something too--that I am mad, for instance. Ah! MissBright has knocked over her glass!"

Cuckoo murmured a stumbling apology, gazing with nervous intentness atValentine. It seemed to her that he had a gift of divination. DoctorLevillier laughed gently. 

"I am not inclined to suppose all my opponents in thought mad, " he said. "Still, such a belief would certainly indicate in the holder of it thepossession of a mind so uncommon, so unique, I may say, that it wouldnaturally rouse one to very close attention and observation of it. "

"Exactly, " Valentine rejoined. 

A certain audacity was slowly creeping into his demeanour and growingwhile he talked. It manifested itself in slight gesticulations, conceitedmovements of the hand and head, in the colour of the voice and the bluntdirectness of his glances. 

"Exactly. Attention and observation directed towards the object ofsatisfying yourself that the man--myself, let us say--was mad? Youdon't reply. Let me ask you a question. Why should a profound beliefin human power of will indicate madness?"

"A belief that is not based on any foundation or proof--that is my point. An extraordinary belief, personal to one person, rejected by mankind inthe mass, and founded upon nothing, no fact, no inference even, in thehistory of mankind, is decidedly a strong indication of dementia. "

"But suppose it is a belief founded upon a fact?"

"Of course that would entirely alter the matter. "

The two men looked across at one another with a long and direct glancefull in the eyes. Cuckoo watched them anxiously. Julian sat with hiseyes cast down. He seemed unaware that there was any one near him, anyconversation going on around him. Wade moved softly about, ministeringto the wants of his master's guests. Course succeeded course. 

"Do you propose to give me a fact proving the reasonableness ofentertaining a belief that a man, by his own deliberate action of thewill, can compass immortality on earth, or even prolong his life in sucha way as this, for instance; by the successful domination, or banishment, of any disease recognized as mortal?--For I acknowledge that the will tolive may prolong for a certain time a life threatened merely by thesapping action of old age. --Do you propose to give me a fact to provethat?"

"I do not say that I intend to give it to you, " Valentine answered, withscarcely veiled insolence. 

"But you know of such a fact?" said the doctor, ignoring his host's tone. 

"Possibly. "

The voice of Valentine thrilled with triumph as he spoke the word. Againhe glanced at the lady of the feathers. 

"Cannot you convert the doctor?" he asked her, in tones full of sarcasticmeaning. "You know something of my theories, something of their puttinginto practice. "

"I don't know--I don't understand, " she murmured helplessly. 

She looked down at her plate, flushing scarlet with a sense of shame ather own complete mental impotence. 

"What's the matter, Cuckoo?"

The words came slowly from the lips of Julian, whose heavy eyes were nowraised and fixed with a stare of lethargic wonder upon Cuckoo. 

"What are they saying to you?"

His look travelled on, still slow and unwieldy, to the doctor and toValentine. 

"I won't have Cuckoo worried, " he said. And then he relapsed with amechanical abruptness upon the consideration of his food. Valentineseemed about to make some laughing rejoinder, but, after a glance atJulian, he apparently resigned the idea as absurd, and, turning againto the doctor, remarked:

"It is sometimes injudicious to state all that one knows. "

"Still more so all that one does not know. But I have no desire to pressyou, " the doctor said, lightly. "This is wonderful wine. Where did youget it?"

"At the _Cercle Blanc_ sale, " Valentine answered quickly. 

It seemed that he was slightly irritated. He frowned and cast a glancethat was almost threatening upon the doctor. 

"Would you assume weakness in every strong man who refuses to take offhis coat, roll up his shirt sleeve and display the muscle of his arm?"he said, harshly. 

"The case is not analogous. That muscle exists in the world is a provedfact. When I was at Eton, I was knocked down by a boy stronger than Iwas. Since then I acknowledge the power of muscle. "

"And have you never been knocked down mentally?"

"Not in the way you suggest. "

Valentine shifted in his seat. It did not escape the doctor that hehad the air of a man longing to either say or do something startling, but apparently held back by tugging considerations of prudence or ofexpediency. 

"Some day you may be, " he said at last, obviously conquered by thisprompting prudence. 

"When I am, the 'Christian scientist' who once declared to me that shecured a sprained ankle by walking on it many miles a day, and thinkingit was well while she walked, shall receive my respectful apologies, "the doctor answered, laughing. 

Valentine handed the lady of the feathers some strawberries. On hernervous refusal of them he exclaimed:

"I see you have finished your wine, doctor. No more? Really? Nor you, Julian?"

Julian made no reply. He simply pushed his glass a little away from him. 

"Then shall we accompany Miss Bright into the tentroom? I thought wewould have coffee there. You have never seen the tentroom, " he added toCuckoo, getting up from his seat as he spoke. 

"I usually sit in it when I am alone or with Julian. You will not mindour cigarettes, I know. "

He led the way down the scented corridor, scented with the thin, gentlybright scent of violets. 

"The tentroom has a history, " he continued to Cuckoo, opening a dooron the left. "It was once the scene of an--an absurd experiment. Eh, doctor?"

They entered the room. As they did so the hot, sticky scent of the hiddenhyacinths poured out to meet them. For a moment it seemed overwhelming, and Cuckoo hung back with an almost unconquerable sensation of aversionand even of fear. The aspect of this small room astonished her; she hadnever seen any chamber so arranged. Certainly, it looked very unusualto-night. The small fire was hidden by a large screen of white wood, withpanels of dull green brocade. Only one of the electric lamps was turnedon, and that was shaded, so that the diffused light was faint, a mereunflickering twilight. The masses of tulips hung like quantities ofmonotonously similar shadows from the tented ceiling, and the flood ofscent caused the room to seem even smaller than it really was, a tinytemple dedicated to the uncommon, perhaps to the sinister. 

"We will see the old year out and drink our _café noir_ here, " saidValentine. "Where will you sit, Miss Bright?"

"I don't mind. It's all one to me, " murmured Cuckoo. "What a funny room, though!" she could not help adding. "It ain't like a room at all. "

"Imagine it an Arab tent, the home of a Bedouin Sheik in a desert ofNubia, " said Valentine. "This divan is very comfortable. Let me arrangethe cushions for you. "

As he bent over her to do so, he murmured in her ear:

"And you, having tossed your will away, are nothing!"

They had been the last words of his gospel, proclaimed to her that nighton which she prayed!

The lady of the feathers looked up at him with a new knowledge, theknowledge of her recent lonely nights, of which he knew nothing as yet;the knowledge of that glancing spectre of want whom, by her own action, she summoned while she feared its gaunt presence; the knowledge of thedoctor's trust in her; the knowledge of her great love for Julian; theknowledge, perhaps, that leaning her arms upon the slippery horse-hairsofa in her little room, she had once thrown a muttered prayer, incoherent, unfinished, yet sincere, out into the great darkness thatencompasses the beginning, the progress, and the ending of all humanlives with mystery. She looked up at him with this world of minglingknowledge in her eyes, and Valentine drew away from her with a stiflingsensation of frigid awe. 

"What--what?" he began. Then, recovering himself, he turned suddenlyaway. 

"Sit down, doctor. Do you like my flowers? Julian, are you still tired?The coffee will wake you up. A cigarette, doctor, or a cigar? Here arethe matches. "

Julian came over heavily and sat down on the divan by Cuckoo. Hisunnatural lethargy was gradually passing away into a more explicablefatigue, no longer speechless. Leaning on his elbow, he looked intoher face with his weary eyes, in which to-night there was a curious dimpathos. It seemed that the only thing which had so far struck him duringthe evening was still Cuckoo's confusion over her own misunderstandingat dinner, for he now again referred to it. 

"Have they been chaffing you, Cuckoo?" he said, striking a match on theheel of his shoe and lighting a cigarette. "Have they been worrying you?Never mind. It's only Val's fun. He doesn't mean anything by it. I say, how awfully pale you look to-night, and thin. "

He paused, considering her with a glance that was almost severe. 

"I'm all right, " said Cuckoo, trying to repress the agitation she alwaysfelt now when speaking to Julian. "I ain't ill. Why don't you come to seeme now?" she added. "You don't never come. "

Julian glanced over to Valentine, who was standing by the hearth talkingto the doctor, who sat in an armchair. 

"I've been busy, " he said. "I've had a lot of things to do. Do you missme, Cuckoo, when I don't come?"

"Yes, " she replied, but without softness. Then she added, lowering hervoice almost to a whisper:

"Don't he want you to come?"

Julian did not reply, but puffed rather moodily at his cigarette, glancing towards Valentine. He was thinking of the conversation atthe Savoy and of the antagonism between Valentine and Cuckoo. Suddenlythere came into his mind a dull wish to reconcile these two on the lastnight of the year, to--in Valentine's own words--bury the hatchet. Hesat meditating over his plan and trying to revolve different and dramaticmethods of accomplishing it. Presently he said:

"Cuckoo, you and Val have got to be friends from to-night. "

She started, stirring uneasily on the great cushions that were heaped ather back. 

"We are, " she said. 

He shook his head. 

"Not real friends. "

"Oh, we are all right. "

"D'you hate him still?"

"He don't like me, " she answered, evasively. 

"Yet he invites you here, " Julian said. "Why does he do that?"

"I dunno, " Cuckoo said. 

She wondered why. Not so the doctor, to whom it had become evidentthat Valentine had asked his guests out of vanity, and with a view tosome peculiar and monstrous display of his power over Julian. WhileCuckoo and Julian talked together on the divan Valentine came over tothe doctor. His eyes still held an expression of awe created in him bythe strange new glance of the lady of the feathers. He sought to conquerthis sensation of awe, which fought fiercely against his intended blatanttriumph of to-night. 

"Your cigarette all right, doctor?" he said, in a quick voice. 

"A delicious one, thanks. "

Valentine began touching the ornaments on the mantelpiece with nervousfingers. 

"We didn't quite finish our conversation at dinner, " he said. 

"No?"

"I did not give you a reason for my belief. "

A deep interest woke in the doctor, but he did not show it. He thought:

"So, he must insanely return to this one subject, round which his brainmakes an eternal tour. "

"No, " he said aloud; "you have a reason then?"

"Yes. "

Valentine's voice vibrated with arrogance. His hand still darted toand fro on the mantelpiece while he stood looking down at the doctor. There was something in his manner that suggested a mixture of triumphand fighting anxiety in his mind. But, as he continued to speak, theformer got the upper hand. 

"A reason that might convince even you if you knew it. "

"Convince me, of exactly what?" the doctor asked, indifferently. 

His indifference seemed to pique Valentine, who replied with energy:

"That human will can be cultivated, has been developed, until it hasmoved the mountain, achieved the thing men call a miracle. "

"By whom has it been so developed?"

Valentine hesitated almost like one who fears to be led into a trap. Thedoctor could see "By me!" trembling upon his lips. He didn't actuallyutter it, but instead exclaimed with a laugh:

"Some day you will discover. "

And as he spoke he looked at Julian and the lady of the feathers. The doctor was anxious to lead him on, and leaning easily back in hiscomfortable chair, occupied himself with his cigarette for a minute, as aman calmly at ease. Between his whiffs he presently threw out carelessly:

"This man has compassed eternity by his own will?"

"Oh, I did not say that. "

"He has contented himself with curing a sprained ankle by walking uponit, like my Christian scientist?"

"Now you fly to the other extreme--from the very great to the verylittle. Take a middle course. "

"Where would that lead me?"

Valentine threw a glance round the dim, hot, scented little room, thenonce more his eyes rested on Julian and Cuckoo. 

"What if I said--To this little room, to Julian and that girl, tomyself?" he answered in a low voice. 

"And the miracle?" said the doctor. 

The door opened. Wade appeared with coffee. 

CHAPTER III

THE HEALTH OF THE NEW YEAR

Valentine turned quickly, with an air of mingled irritation and relief atthe interruption. 

"We must all take coffee, " he cried. "It will give us impetus, vitality, so that as the old year dies we may live more swiftly, more strongly. Ilike to feel that my life is increasing while that of another--the oldyear for instance--is decreasing. "

But the doctor noticed that his eyes had rested with a curiouslysignificant expression upon Julian as he spoke the last sentence. 

"Leave the coffee-pot on that little table, " he added to Wade, when theman had filled all four cups. "We may want it. "

Wade obeyed him and disappeared. 

"Your man makes wonderful coffee, " the doctor said, sipping. 

"Yes. Julian, have you reached that _café noir_ I spoke of the otherday?" Valentine asked laughingly, returning to his simile of the greedyman and happiness. 

"I don't know. Not yet, Val, I think, " Julian answered. This coffeeseemed to give him life at last. The heavy weariness disappeared fromhis face. His eyes gleamed with something of their old youthfulness andardour. 

"If so, I must be close on happiness, " he added. 

As he spoke he looked into the hollow eyes of Cuckoo, seeming, strangely, to seek in them the will-o'-the-wisp of which he spoke. 

"Never look for it in unfurnished rooms, " Valentine exclaimed with suddenviolence. 

This glance of Julian, so the doctor judged, precipitated his curious andsubtle insanity towards an outburst. 

"You will find it in the thing that is most definite, not in the thingthat is most indefinite. Isn't it so, doctor? Happiness lies in thepositive, not in the negative. "

"Happiness lies in many places. Each finds it in a different house. "

"Perhaps you can't tell where I should find it, Val, " Julian interposed, with a certain sturdiness of manner. 

"No, " said Cuckoo, eagerly. 

The coffee, it appeared, had an effect upon her too. There was a life, a keen intentness in her thin, white face, not visible there before. Valentine turned round upon her. He was holding his coffee cup in hisright hand. With the other he put his cigarette to his lips. 

"Can you tell us where Mr. Addison is likely to find happiness?" he said. "Can you tell us, lady of the feathers?"

"No. He can tell himself. That's all, " she said. "Let him find ithimself. "

"Each for himself and God for us all, eh?"

"I don't know about God, " she said, looking towards the doctor as if forassistance. 

"Each for another and God for us all is perhaps a better motto, " thedoctor interposed. 

"Ah, Charity!"

Valentine took out his watch and looked at it. 

"Charity! Midnight is approaching, and, of course, this is Charity'sbenefit-night by common consent. Thank you, doctor, for the hint. Didthe dying old year prompt you with its husky voice full of the wind andof the snow?"

"Possibly. "

"Let us have some more coffee. Julian, give me Miss Bright's cup. Youshall have your absinthe presently. Wade has not forgotten it. "

"Absinthe?" said the doctor. 

"Julian drinks it every night. He has got tired of whiskey. Doctor, yourcup too. "

"We shall not sleep a wink to-night. "

"All the better. Why should not we see the dawn in, as we did oncebefore? You recollect. "

"Ah, Val! on the night of your trance. "

"Yes. You were not here then, lady of the feathers. "

He spoke with a light mockery. 

"I fainted, or died--the doctor was deceived into thinking so--and wasborn again in the dawn of the very day on which Julian first met you. "

Cuckoo shivered with the recollection of Marr and her horror of thatnight. 

"Why do you shiver?" Valentine continued. "Do you find the room cold?"

"No, no. "

Indeed, the heat and the overpowering scent of the hyacinths hadpreviously weighed upon her physique, and increased the _malaise_into which her curious new dutifulness, and the faint spectre whichdrew near to her, had brought her. 

"Perhaps you shiver in the influence of this little room, " he continued, persistently. "Julian and I once did so. Eh, Julian?"

"Yes, in those sittings. "

"I didn't shiver, " Cuckoo said, bluntly and very obviously lying. 

She quickly drank some more coffee. 

"If you had, it might not have been astonishing, " said Valentine. "Forthis little room has seen marvels, and strange things that happen perhapsstamp their strange impression upon the places in which they happen. We ought to discuss the occult, doctor, on the last night of the year. "

"By all means. "

"How long ago it seems!" Julian said suddenly, with a sigh. 

"Yes, " Valentine answered. "Because so much has happened in the interval. The greedy man has eaten so many courses, Julian. "

He seemed to take a delight in throwing out allusions to one and theother of his guests, allusions which nobody but the person addressedcould understand rightly. For he now went on, addressing himself toCuckoo:

"In this little room was committed the great act of brigandage of whichI once spoke to you. Do you remember?"

She shook her head. 

"Never mind. But, though you cannot remember, that might make youshiver. "

"What act of brigandage, Valentine?" Julian asked. 

"Oh, the attempt--my attempt to seize upon a different soul. "

"But you failed. "

"Did I? Do you think so, doctor?"

His apparent audacity seemed to increase. In the twilight of the scentedroom he drew himself up as he stood by the brocaded screen that hid thefire. He closed and unclosed rapidly his left hand which hung at hisside. His foot tapped the thick carpet gently. 

"Did you not?" the doctor answered quietly. 

But Julian was roused to vivacity. 

"What do you mean, Valentine?" he said. "Of course you may have changed, or developed, or whatever you like to call it, since then. But to say youhave got a different soul!"

"Is absurd? Yes, you are right. Because if I had got a different soulthe original 'I, ' that was dissatisfied with itself, must have ceasedto be. Since the soul of a man--his will to do things, his will to feelthings--is the man himself, if I had a different soul I should be anotherman. The former man would have ceased to be. "

"Or would be elsewhere. "

It was the doctor who spoke, and he spoke without special interest, simply expressing his thought of what might happen in so whimsical anevent as that harped upon by Valentine. But Valentine seemed painfullystruck by the almost idle words. 

"Elsewhere!" he exclaimed, with a lowering expression. "What do you mean, doctor? What do you imply?"

The doctor looked at him surprised. 

"Merely that a thing expelled is not necessarily a thing slain. If youturn me out of this room I am not certain to expire on the doormat. "

Valentine broke into a nervous and uneasy laugh, and cast a quick glanceall around him, and especially on Cuckoo, who sat listening silently withher eyebrows drawn together in a pent frown of puzzled attention. 

"I see, I see, " he said hastily. And here Julian broke in. 

"But the whole thing's impossible, " he said with a laugh. 

"You would say so, doctor?"

Valentine addressed this question to Doctor Levillier in a very markedand urgent manner. 

"You would say so, since the will of man cannot perform miracles?"

"Certainly, I should say so, despite the triumphs of hypnotism. A manmay change greatly through outside influence, or perform occasional actsforeign to his nature under the influence of 'suggestion' or hypnotism. But I do not believe he can change radically and permanently, except fromone cause. "

The last words were spoken after a moment of hesitation. Valentinerejoined quickly:

"What? What? One cause, you say! You allow that--wait, though! What isthe cause?"

Doctor Levillier was silent. He was asking himself should he play thisforcing card, make this sharp, cutting experiment. He resolved that hewould make it. 

"A man may change radically, " he said, "if he becomes insane. "

A short breath, like a sigh, came from Cuckoo. Valentine stood quitestill, regarding the doctor closely for a moment. Then he saidcontemptuously:

"Mad! Oh, madmen don't interest me. "

The doctor had gained nothing from his experiment. It was impossibleto gather from Valentine's manner that he was in any way struck by thissuggestion, and indeed he abandoned all allusion to it with carelesshaste, and returned to that other suggestion of which the doctorhimself had thought nothing. 

"Supposing the soul of a man to be expelled, " he said, abruptly, "where--where do you suppose it would go, would be?"

It was obvious that he endeavoured to speak lightly, but there was a mostpeculiar anxiety visible in his manner. The doctor wondered from whatcause it sprang. 

"I have never formed a supposition on that matter, " he said. 

"Well--well--try to form one now. Yes, and you, Julian, too. "

He did not address himself to the lady of the feathers, but he lookedat her long and narrowly. The doctor lit another cigarette. He seemedto be seriously considering this odd question. Julian, whose lethargywas changing into an almost equally pronounced excitement, was not sohesitating. As if struck by a sudden flashing idea, he exclaimed:

"How if it was in the air? How if it was wandering about from place toplace. By God, Val!" he cried, with emphasis, "do you know what I read ina book I took up from your shelves the other day--something about soulsbeing like flames? It was in Rossetti: Flames!"

He turned to Cuckoo and stared into her eyes. 

"I was half asleep when I read it, " he said. "Why should I rememberit now? That flame--I saw that flame months ago. " He seemed like a manpuzzling something out, trying to trace a way through a tangled maze ofthought that yet might be clear. "It came from you, Val, that night, witha cry like a lost thing. A soul expelled, did you say?"

Suddenly his face was set in an awestruck gravity. 

"Why--but then, if so, that flame would be _you_. Valentine, the flamethat seemed to haunt me, that I have seen in--"

He looked at Cuckoo again and was silent. 

"Yes, Julian?" Valentine said in a hard, thin voice. "Go on, I amlistening. "

Julian stared at him with strong excitement. 

"And what are you, then, Valentine? Where do you come from?" he saidslowly. 

"From Marr. "

The words came from the divan, from the dry lips of Cuckoo. DoctorLevillier knew not why, but he was thrilled to the very soul by them, as by a revelation throwing strong light upon the depths of things. Whether it was the influence of this strange scented room, in whichstrange things had happened, or the influence of the hour and theclimax and death of the year, or a voice in his heart speaking to himwith authority, he could not tell. Only he knew that on a sudden allhis guiding reason, all his knowledge, all his cool contemplation ofthe physician and common sense of the man, were swept entirely away. His theory of insanity seemed in a moment the theory of a dwarfintellect trying to stick wretched, absurd pins through angels--whiteor black--that it thought butterflies. His conversation with Cuckoo onthe Hampstead Heights seemed the vain babble of a tricked and impotentobserver. His mind fell on its knees before the mind of the lady of thefeathers. Reason was stricken by instinct. The confused feeling of thewoman had conquered the logical inferences of the man. From that momentthe doctor secretly abandoned the old landmarks which had guided him allhis life, and entered into a new world--a world in which he would nothave dreamed of permitting any of his patients to walk if he could helpit. A strange magic floated round him like a mist blotting out the crudefamiliarities of the normal world. The tentroom, with its shadowy tulips, its scented warmth, its pale twilight, its quick silences when voicesceased, was a temple of wonder and a home of the miraculous. And thosegathered in it, what were they? Men and a woman? Bodies? Earthlycreatures? No. To his mind they were stripped bare of the clothes inwhich man--governed by decrees of some hidden power--must make his lifepilgrimage. They were stripped bare and naked of their bodies. They werewarm, stirring, disembodied things--they were flames leaping, waving, contending, aspiring. And he remembered the night when he sat alone inthe drawing-room of Valentine, and saw the red walls glow, and the lightdeepen, and saw the stillness grow to movement, and the shadows come awayfrom their background, and take forms--the forms of flames. Was thatnight a night of prophesy? Were those flames silent voices speakingto the ear of his mind? He looked around him like a man in a strangecountry, who takes a long breath and liberates his soul in wonder. Helooked around, and the shadowy, thin girl leaning forward on the divan, with one arm outstretched as if she gave a message, was among the otherflames as a flame upon an altar. At least his instinct had not playedhim false with regard to her. He knew it now. In the wild and sadstreets, where feet of men tread ever, where tears of women flow ever, grow flowers of Paradise, strange flowers, leap flames from the eternalfires of heaven. And the voice of Cuckoo thrilled him as the voice ofrevelation. 

Valentine turned upon the lady of the feathers, hearing her cry. 

"Marr!" he said, "your lover who died! Ah!"

The brutality of the remark was so unexpected, so savage, that it struckall those who heard it like a whip. Cuckoo shrank back among her cushionstrembling. Julian made a slight forward movement as if to stop Valentine. The doctor laid his hands on the arms of his chair and pressed them hard. He felt a need of physical energy. In the sudden silence Valentinetouched the electric bell. Before any one spoke it was answered by Wade, who carried a tray on which stood various bottles and glasses. 

"We must counteract the exciting effects of our _café noir_, " Valentinesaid, addressing his guests in a group. "Otherwise we shall be strungup to a pitch of tension that will make us think the requiem of churchbells, which we shall hear in a few minutes, the voices of spirits orof spectres. Julian, here is your absinthe. What will you drink, MissBright? Brandy, lemonade, whiskey?"

"Lemonade, please, " Cuckoo said, almost in a whisper. 

The tears were crowding in her eyes. She dared not look Julian in theface. Never before had her past risen up before her painted in such grimand undying colours. The reprise of Valentine had been as the reprise ofa Maxim gun to a volley fired by a child from an air-tube. So Cuckoofelt. But how greatly was she deceived! Perhaps physical conditionsplayed a subtle part in the terrible desolation that seized her now, after her outburst of daring and of excitement. The warmth and smallnessof the room, the penetrating scent that filled it, even the movementsof her companions, the sound of their voices, suddenly became almostinsupportable to Cuckoo. She was the victim of a reaction that was soswift and so intense as to be unnatural. And in it both her mind and bodywere bound in chains. Then she was petrified. Her very heart felt coldand cramped, and then hard, icy, inhuman. Her tears did not fall, butwere dried up in her eyes, like dew by a scorching sun. She looked atJulian, and felt as indifferent towards him as if he had been a shadow onthe grass in the evening time. Then he became remote, with a removednessattained by no shadow even. For a shadow is in the world, and Julianseemed beyond the world to Cuckoo. She thought, even repeated, withtiny lip-movements, the cruel words of Valentine, and they seemed to herno longer cruel, or of any meaning, bad or good. For they came from toofar away. They were as a cry of shrill music from a cave leagues onwardbeyond the caves of any winds. 

Valentine poured out some lemonade and gave it to her. She accepted itmechanically. She even put it to her lips and drank some of it. But herpalate was aware of no flavour, no coolness of liquid. And she continuedsipping without tasting anything. 

Meanwhile Julian was saying to Valentine:

"I don't think I'll take any absinthe to-night. Give me some lemonadetoo. "

"Lemonade for you? Nonsense. I ordered the absinthe specially. You musthave some. Here it is. "

As he spoke he poured some of the opalescent liquid into a tumbler andhanded it to Julian. While he did so his eyes were on the doctor and theygleamed again with a sort of audacity or triumph. He seemed recoveringhimself, returning to his former mood and veiled intentions. And DoctorLevillier thought he saw the flame of Valentine's soul glow more deeplyand fiercely. The three men, as if with one accord, ignored the lady ofthe feathers at this period of the evening. Valentine, having shot hisbolt, left his victim to shudder in the dust. Julian and the doctor, fullof pity or of wonder, were drawn instinctively to leave her for themoment outside of the circle of intimacy, lest the conflict should berenewed. They did not know how far outside of it she felt; how dim thetwilight was becoming to her eyes; how dim the voices to her ears. Shelay back on her pillows, in the shadow of the divan, and they supposedher to be listening, as before, to what they said; to be drawing into hernostrils the scent of the hyacinths, and into her soul--it might be--somefragments of their uttered thoughts. But for the moment they seemed toput her outside the door. 

Julian did not protest against the absinthe. He took it and placed iton a little table beside him, and as he talked he occasionally drank alittle of it, till his glass was empty. Valentine had again looked at hiswatch. 

"The flame of the year is flickering very low, " he said. 

This simile of the flame of the year, so ordinary, he had spokenagainst his will. He asked himself angrily why he had said flame, andagain the doctor saw the flame of Valentine's soul trying to leap higher, to aspire to some strange and further region than that in which it seemedto dwell. Julian sat looking at Valentine with a gaze that was surelynew in his eyes, the dawning gaze of inquiry which a man directs upona stranger just come into his life. He had not alluded in any way toCuckoo's startling and vehement interposition. Valentine had killed thatconversation with one blow, it seemed. They buried it by deserting it. Yet the thought of it was obviously with them, making quick interchangeof words on another subject difficult. Valentine had seized again on thepoor, prostrate year; yet he carried even to it the memory of that whichseemed to encompass them as with a ring of fire, and that despitehimself. 

"We shall hear the bells directly, " he added. "I hate bells at night. They will sound odd in this room. "

"Very odd, " the doctor said. 

"We ought to sit reviewing our past year, " Valentine went on. 

"Our past year and all it has done for us. "

"Do you think it has done much for you, Addison?" the doctor asked. And, despite his intention, there was a certain significance in his tone. 

Julian looked rather grave and moody, yet excited too, like a man whomight burst into either gaiety or anger at a moment's notice. 

"I suppose it has, " he answered. "Yes, more than any year since I wasquite a boy. "

"It has taught you how to live, " Valentine said quickly. 

"Or how to--die, " the doctor could not resist saying. 

"Why do you say that, doctor?" Valentine asked sharply. "Julian isneither sick nor sad; are you, Julian?"

"Oh, I don't know. Don't bother about me. "

But Valentine seemed suddenly determined that Julian should state inprecise terms his contentment with his present fate. 

"You are making your grand tour towards happiness, " he exclaimed. "Dessert, _café noir_--then the cigarette and contentment. "

"I have had the _café noir_, " Julian said, indicating his empty cup, which Wade had by accident omitted to clear away. "I have had thecigarette. "

"Well. What then? Are you unhappy?"

"I tell you I don't know. Give me some more absinthe. "

The doctor watched his excitement growing as he drank. It seemed anexcitement adverse to Valentine. 

"One may have too much black coffee, " he suddenly said. 

"And that exerts a very depressing effect upon the nerves, " said thedoctor, taking him literally. "Neither you nor I are likely to sleep wellto-night, Addison. "

"I never sleep well now, doctor, " Julian said. 

All this time he continued to regard Valentine in the peculiar, observant manner of a stranger who is trying to make up his mindabout the unfamiliar man at whom he looks. 

"Then you should not drink black coffee. "

As he spoke a very faint sound of bells penetrated to the tentroom. 

"The psychological moment!" said Valentine. 

And then they were all silent, listening. 

To the doctor, the prey of magic art since the soft cry of the lady ofthe feathers, the bells seemed magical and strange to-night, thin anddreamy and remote. They rang outside the circle of the flames, yet they, too, had an eerie meaning. Nor did their music come, he thought, from anychurch tower, from any belfry, summoned by the tugging hands of men. Verysoftly they rang. Their sound was deadened by the thick draperies. Theyceased. 

"My year is born, " Valentine said. 

"Your year?" the doctor repeated. 

"Yes. I feel that in this year I shall culminate; I shall touch a point;I shall put the corner-stone to the temple of my ambition. No one canprevent me now, no one. Look, she has fainted!"

He had been watching Cuckoo, and had seen her posture of mere restchange, almost imperceptibly, to the prostration of insensibility. 

The doctor sprang up from his chair. Julian uttered an exclamation. Valentine only smiled. The door was opened. A fan was used. Air waslet into the room. Presently Cuckoo stirred and sat up. The three menwere gathered round her, and suddenly Valentine said:

"My trance over again. The lady of the feathers imitates me. "

Julian turned round to him with abrupt irritation. 

"That's not so, " he said. "Cuckoo is herself always. " He turned again toher. 

"Are you better?" he asked, touching her hand gently. 

"Yes, I'm all right. It was--them. "

She glanced vaguely round at the tulips, as if searching for the cause ofthe scent which filled the room. 

"There are hyacinths somewhere, " the doctor said. 

"Yes, they are hidden!" said Valentine. "A hidden power is the greatestpower. But now you may see them. "

And he drew from a nook, guarded by some large ferns, a pot of redhyacinths. 

Cuckoo sat up and drank a little brandy, which the doctor gave to her. Some colour came into her pale and thin cheeks. 

"I'm as right as ninepence now, " she said, with an effort afterbrightness. 

The bells began again. 

"What's that?" she asked. "Not New Year, is it?"

"Yes, " answered Valentine. "A happy New Year to you, lady of thefeathers. "

Julian was struck by a sudden thought. 

"Val, " he said, "Cuckoo, I want you to be real friends this year. "

He caught hold of Valentine's hand and placed it in Cuckoo's. But then, again, a bewilderment seemed to take hold of him, for even as he touchedValentine's hand he looked at him askance, and the eagerness died awayfrom his face. 

"I don't know, " he muttered to himself, and getting up from the end ofthe divan, where he had been sitting, he moved away towards the fire, leaving Cuckoo's hand in the hand of Valentine. 

Valentine smiled coldly on Cuckoo. 

"Lady of the feathers, " he said, "we are to be allies. "

"What's that?" she asked, pulling her hand away, directly Julian hadturned his back upon them. 

"When people fight together against a common enemy they are allies. "

"Then we ain't, " she whispered, "New Year or not. "

"You defy me, " he said, raising his voice so that the doctor might hearthe words. 

"Yes, " she said. 

"Doctor, do you hear?"

He seemed suddenly bent on forcing a quarrel. Doctor Levillier felt againthat sense of dread and horror which had attacked him now more than onceof late in Valentine's presence. This time the sensation was so acutethat he could scarcely combat it sufficiently to reply. 

"I hear, " he murmured. 

"Julian!" Valentine called. "Julian, come here. Miss Bright wishes totell you something. "

Julian turned round. 

"Now, lady of the feathers!"

But Cuckoo burst into a shrill little laugh. Her head was spinning again. 

"I've nothing--nothing to say, " she cried out. "Give me some morebrandy. "

"Very well. Let us all drink to the health of the New Year. "

Valentine filled the glasses--Julian's with absinthe--and gave the toast:

"The New Year!"

They all raised their glasses to their lips simultaneously. One fell witha crash to the ground and was broken. It was Julian's. 

"I won't drink it, " he said, doggedly, looking at Valentine. 

There was a silence. Then Valentine said, calmly:

"Have you an animus against the thing you don't yet know?"

It was sufficiently obvious that he alluded to the year just coming inupon London. But the words were taken by the doctor, and apparently byJulian, in a hidden and different sense. 

"Perhaps because I don't yet know it thoroughly, and had thought I did, "Julian answered, staring him full in the face still with that strangeglance of mingled interrogation and bewilderment. 

Valentine watched him. 

"You are treating the poor thing--and my carpet--scurvily, Julian, " hesaid. "And you have startled Miss Bright. "

Cuckoo's eyes were shining. 

"No, " she ejaculated. 

Valentine rang the bell and directed Wade to collect the fragments ofglass. While the man was doing so silence again reigned, and the littleroom seemed full of uneasiness. Only Valentine either was or affected tobe nonchalant. As soon as Wade had gone he said to the doctor:

"This room is destined to be dedicated to strange uses, and to influencethose who come within it. Julian is not himself to-night. "

"Are you?" Julian asked. 

"Myself?"

"Yes. "

"My dear Julian, we shall be forced to think the absinthe has been atwork too busily in your brain. What is the matter?"

"Nothing. "

"One would think we had been having a sitting, you are so excited. "

Julian suddenly drew his breath sharply, as if struck by a shot of anidea. 

"Let us have one, " he cried. 

The distant bells rang faintly. The doctor thrilled to the suggestion, still bound by magic, surely. For now, since the inspiring exclamation ofCuckoo, which had broken his theories on the wheel and swept his reasonlike a dead flower along the wind, he no longer condemned, as a dangeronly, that which had produced the trance from which, as from a strangeprison, had come the new Valentine. The former sitting had, it seemed, beckoned that trance, and with the trance had beckoned an incredibly eviland powerful thing. What if that which had the power to give had also thepower to take away? Often it is so in ordinary conditions of life. Whynot also in extraordinary conditions? So his thoughts ran, fantasticallyenough, to the sound of the far-off bells. 

"A good notion, " he said on the spur of the moment and this quickreflection. 

"You think so?" said Valentine. "You who condemned us, even wrung apromise from us against sitting. "

His regard was suspicious. 

"Perhaps I have changed my mind. Perhaps I take the matter lessseriously, " said the doctor. 

He had never been more near lying, nor was he ashamed of hisdissimulation. There are creatures against which we must, whateverour principles, take up the nearest weapon that comes to hand. Thedoctor looked at Julian and at Valentine, and could have perjuredhimself a thousand times to wrest the one from the other. 

"But Miss Bright is ill, " said Valentine. 

"No, I ain't. I'm all right now, " Cuckoo said. 

She did not understand what was being proposed, but she gathered thatthe doctor desired it. That was enough for her. Valentine looked atthem all three with eyes that plainly betokened a busy mind, then a smileflickered over his lips. It was the smile of one in power watching hisslaves creeping at their work--for him. He touched the point--of which hehad spoken earlier in the evening--in that smile, a point of delirium. 

"Let them try to break me, " his mind said within itself. "Their verytrial shall consolidate my empire. "

And then his eyes left the others and rested only on Julian. 

"Very well, we will sit, " he said. 

CHAPTER IV

THE SIXTH SITTING

Julian was painfully excited, but he strove to repress all evidences ofhis inward turmoil as he began to pull out a table and arrange it in thecentre of the room. This act threw him with a jerk back into the days ofthe past, recalling so vividly the former life of himself and Valentinethat he could not help saying:

"This is like last year. "

"Like the year that the locust hath eaten, " Valentine answered. "We mustpush our empty white years down into the water, Julian. "

Julian made no reply. The table was soon arranged, the screen was drawnmore closely round the fire, which had been allowed to burn low. Fourchairs were set. Valentine turned to Cuckoo, who sat hunched on the divanstaring with wide open eyes at these preparations. 

"Will you come?" he said, with his hands on the back of one of thechairs. 

"Whatever are we going to do?" she asked nervously. 

"Something very simple--and perhaps very foolish, " said the doctor, wondering, indeed, now the moment for beginning the phantasy was arrived, whether he was not to blame for encouraging a thing that in his undermind he so thoroughly disapproved of. "We are going to sit round thattable in the dark with our hands upon it, and wait. "

"Whatever for?"

Her simple and blatant question caused the doctor actually to blush. Hisconfusion was quite obvious, but it was covered by Julian, who exclaimed, rather roughly:

"Now, Cuckoo, don't chatter, but come here and sit quiet. "

He drew her from the divan into a chair and sat down beside her. Valentine glided swiftly into the chair on her other side and said:

"Oh, doctor, I forgot the light. Do you mind turning it out?"

The doctor obeyed, felt his way to the chair opposite Cuckoo and satdown. 

Almost at the moment he turned out the light the bells that rang, "_Le roi est mort, vive le roi_, " ceased. Cuckoo was directed to layher hands on the table, and to touch with her fingers the fingers of hercompanions. She did so, trembling. This was a new experience to her, andher entire lack of knowledge of what was expected to happen filled thedarkness with immoderate possibilities, and her soul with awe and withconfusion. Then, to sit between the man she loved and the man sheloathed, thus in the blackness, was a nerve-shaking experience which herpreceding fainting-fit did not deprive of its normal terrors. The hand ofValentine and the hand of Julian were as ice and as fire to her. Thedarkness seemed crowded with nameless things. She could fancy that sheheard it whisper incessantly in her ear. 

But the real interest of this sitting, to any little demon gifted witha miraculous power of pushing its detective way into the minds of thesitters, would have lain, perhaps, chiefly in the mind of DoctorLevillier. It has been said that, suddenly struck to the soul by theconviction with which the instinctive Cuckoo pronounced those words, "From Marr, " Doctor Levillier entered into a new world, abandoning oldlandmarks. He remained in this new world of the senses certainly, butalready he was becoming accustomed to it, clear-headed, keen-sighted, even reasonable in it. Moved by some strange conviction that he was inthe presence of an inexplicable mystery, he no longer tried to explainit in some ordinary fashion. He abandoned his theory of insanity, or itabandoned him. In any case, it was dead, buried, whether he would or no. He recognized a mystery at present beyond his capacity to understand orto explain. Having got thus far, and having entered, at Julian's word, into this present circumstance of sitting, table-turning, or rapping, orwhatever you may choose to call it, he cleared any ordinary furniture ofdoctor's prejudices right out of his mind--made a clean sweep of them. That done--and the doing of it required some strong effort--his mindwas receptive, ready for anything, odd or ordinary, that might comealong. There he sat with his empty room waiting to be filled--the onlyreasonable way of waiting for that of which we have no knowledge. He didnot clamour "I won't, " or "I will. " He said nothing at all, only waitedwith the strict desire and intention of recognizing things to be whatthey truly were, neither dressing them up nor tearing their garmentsoff their backs. When he put out the light and sat down, what heexpected--so far as he expected anything--was this, that the additionof darkness would add a cloud to his mind, and endeavour to givevarious finishing-touches to any spurious excitement created in him, however much against his will, by the enemy's doings. In this expectationhe was entirely deceived. The falling of darkness drew a veil from hismind, leaving his mental sight singularly, even preternaturally, clear. The falling of silence gave an amazing acuteness to his innersense of hearing. Certain people are so made that they can, undercertain conditions, and at certain moments, hear the workings of theirneighbours' minds, as you and I can hear the whirr of machinery, or thecry of a child in the street. An ordinary man or woman can only hear amind when lips, teeth, and tongue utter it with living sounds that setthe air in vibration. These abnormal people hear, in these abnormalmoments, the silent murmurs of the mind making no effort at all to utteritself through the usual speech apparatus. Till this moment the doctorhad supposed himself to be an entirely normal man, but he had beensitting only a very short time before he began to become aware of thesilent murmurs of these three minds around him. The darkness set his ownmind free from clouds of excitement and from mists of unreason. That wasthe first step. But it did more. It developed in him this marvellousfaculty of the hearing of silence, called by some divination. All hissenses were rendered amazingly acute. A perfectly distinct impression ofthe precise feelings of Cuckoo, of Valentine, and of Julian respectivelycame to him as he sat there, although he could neither see nor hear them. Each of them seemed to pour his or her thoughts into the doctor's mind. Thus, at first, did his empty room become furnished with the thoughts ofhis companions. He was sitting in the circle between Julian and Valentineand held their hands. And it was Valentine who forged the first link inthis strange chain of unuttered communication. As the darkness clearedthe doctor's mind, and set him once more on his feet--although in a newworld--an aroma of triumph floated to him softly, like a scent in a dampwood at night. He heard then the mind of Valentine murmuring in thestillness the Litany of its glory, a long and an ornate Litany, deep andfull, and he knew that he had been right in supposing that Valentine hadinvited him to witness that glory. But the doctor became aware, too, thatat moments the Litany faltered, hesitated, as if the mind of Valentinegrew uncertain or was assailed by vague fears. And these fears ran likelittle pale furtive things to Valentine from the lady of the feathers. Bydegrees the doctor could imagine that he actually saw them stealing backand forth. Now one would come alone as if to listen to the Litany, andthen another would follow, and another, and, growing brave, they wouldcombine against it. Then Valentine would waver and become uneasy, as onewho hears little voices crying against him in the night, and knows notwhence they come or from whom. But the Litany would begin again, andValentine would triumph over the pale fears and they would shrink away. And in the Litany one name recurred again and again--the name of Julian. Over him was the triumph. In his ruin and fall and ultimate destructionthe glory lived. To witness the complete possibility of this ruin, thecomplete sovereignty of this glory, the doctor and the lady of thefeathers were there. And the doctor grew to feel that only some outsidecircumstance, alarming Valentine to anxiety and waking Julian to a newobservation, had hindered the intended triumph. What circumstance wasthat? He looked back along the past evening and found it in himself, inhis theory that a soul expelled was not necessarily a soul dead. The riftin the glory of the Litany came with that. Valentine was trying to closeit by this act of sitting, to impress the strength of his will upon hiscompanions in the darkness. The doctor felt his effort like a continuallyrepeated blow, stealthy and hard and merciless. 

And now, in the darkness and in the silence, the doctor heard the mind ofJulian. Another scent floated through that imagined damp and breathingwood from another--but how different--soul-flower. No Litany of triumphmurmured in the blackness where Julian sat, but a hoarse and broken solo, part despair, part fear, part anger, and all perplexed and flooded withbewilderment and with excitement. The doctor drew into him the murmurof Julian's mind until it seemed to become, for the time, the murmur ofhis own mind. He was conscious of a dreadful turmoil of doubt, and dreadand perplexity, so strong, so painful, that it lay upon him like a denseand a suffocating burden. In that moment he knew utterly that thegreatest load in the world laid on any man is the load of his own, perhaps beloved, sin. He was staggering wearily with Julian away fromthe light. His eyes were dim--with the eyes of Julian. His ears, likeJulian's, were assailed with the dastard clamour of the calling sin. "Listen! Listen! you want me. I am here. Take me! Take me!" And theweltering seas of heavy flooding impotence rolled round him as theyrolled round Julian. He grew numb and vacant and inert, then--alive everto the murmur of Julian's mind--caught a glimpse, through the waters ofthat whelming sea, of far-away light, and heard that the voices of theimportunate sins grew fainter. But whether the voices were loud or low, whether the seas flowed above his head or sank and failed, he was alwaysconscious of the dominating mood of almost wild perplexity and a madnessof bewilderment. For Julian stirred under the yoke that Valentine hadlaid upon him, as if at last conscious distinctly that it was indeed ayoke, and that it galled him; as if at last conscious, too, that withoutthat yoke was freedom. And he shot against Valentine in the darknessarrows of inquiry. But always he lived in doubt and almost in terror. 

And then, detaching himself from the triumph, touched with anxiety, ofValentine, and from the wild turmoil of Julian, Dr. Levillier opened thedoor of his mind wide, and the lady of the feathers entered in. 

He heard the thoughts of a woman. 

That was strangest of all--the most fantastic, eerie, wayward, wonderfulmusic the doctor had dreamed of. 

Have you listened to far-off and mingling melodies at night--melodies ofthings opposed and differing, yet drawn together, in strange places farfrom your home? Have you heard a woman wailing over some abominablesorrow in a dark house, and an organ--before which filthy children dancefantastically--playing a merry Neapolitan tune in front of it, while themutter of scowling men comes from the blazing corner where the gin-palacefaces the night? There you have sorrow, sunshine, crime, singing togetherin a great city. Or have you stood in a land not your own, and gleanedthe whisper of an ancient river, the sough of a desert wind, the hoarseand tuneless song of a black man at a waterwheel, the soprano ballad ofa warbling hotel English lady, and the remote and throbbing roar of asavage Soudanese hymn and beaten drums from the golden Eastern night?There you have nature, toil, shrill civilization and war claiming youwith one effort in a sad and sweet country. Or have you, in a bright anddewy morning, heard the "murmur of folk at their prayers, " the drone of achurch organ, and, beyond the hedgerow, two graceless lovers quarrelling, and an atheist, leaning over the church gate, sneering to his fellow atthe devotion of deluded Sabbath-keepers? There you have love of thehidden and faith, love of the visible and distrust, hatred of hidden loveand faithlessness, making a symphony for you. Such mingled music isstrange--strange as life. But to the doctor the music of this girl, Cuckoo, in the dark seemed stranger and more eerie far. Her mind sang tohim of a thousand things in a moment, as is the fashion of women. Onlymen normally hear but one, at most two or three, of the many femininemelodies. And now Doctor Levillier heard them all, as a man may hearthose differing songs already recounted, simultaneously and clearly. Degradation and the hopelessness that catches it by the hand, passionand the strength and purity of passion, hatred, fear, physical fatigue, ignorant nervousness, grossness of the gutter, which will cling even toa soul capable of great devotion and noble effort, and accompany it onthe upward journey, very far and very high, resolve and shrinking, merestreet-boy virulence of enmity, and mere angel tenderness of pity--allthese sang their song from the mind and heart of Cuckoo to the mind andheart of the doctor. It was a chorus of women in one woman, as it sooften is in the dearest women we know. In that choir a harlot sat, hating, by a girl who was all love and reverence. And they sang outof the same hymn-book. Jenny joined her voice with Susannah, MaryMagdalene with Mary Mother, so near together in one thing, so farapart in another--alike in this, that both were singing. And in thatchoir--celestial and infernal--sang the jealous woman with grey cheeksand haggard eyes, and the timorous woman, and she of the fearless face, and the woman who could scale the stars for the creature she worshipped, and the woman who could lie down in the mud and let the world see herthere, and the woman who had sold her soul for food, and a thin woman, such a thin, almost transparent, wistful creature, who was facing thething men call with bated breath--starvation. She sang too, but, of allthese women, she was the only one the doctor could not rightly hear norrightly see. For she, as yet, was remote, far down the level line of thatchoir, hardly perhaps one with it yet, faint of voice, dim of outline. 

The doctor heard the choir sing, and then--

His mind, as the time of the darkness grew longer, continued to growmore and more clear, until he felt thoroughly, and was able to try toanalyze its unnatural condition. Scales had fallen from him and fromhis companions for him. Their bodies were clothed, their souls, theirflames, seemed stripped bare and offered to him naked. He had examinedthem with this greedy, yet sane, attention and curiosity. He had led theminto the empty room and stayed with them there. He had heard the Litanyof the Glory of Valentine, and the suffocation, and the anger, and thestirring beneath his yoke of Julian. He had heard the many women sing inthe heart of the lady of the feathers. But all this seemed leading himforward and onward, step by step, as to a threshold beyond which was somegreater, some more importunate, thing. And he took the last step withCuckoo. It was as if he was handed on from one room to another, as is thefashion in the palace of a great king, his name being called in each, andsent before, like a voice sent on the wind, and as if Cuckoo was in thelast anteroom that gave upon the audience-chamber. Now he had arrived, and suddenly a great wave of mysterious expectation ran over him andfilled the cup of his soul. He felt that he stood still and waited. Thesense of Cuckoo, of all she felt and thought in the darkness, graduallydropped away from him, like leaves from a tree, till every branch wasleafless. And this autumnal ravishment, like the ravishment of nature, was but a preparation surely for a future spring. 

The doctor waited outside that door, beyond which, perhaps, springblossomed and sang. He lost at last all sense of being in a company ofpeople, and felt as one feels who is entirely alone, expectant, calm, ready. And still only the darkness and the silence. Nothing more atfirst. But presently what seemed to him a marvel. 

He had by this time grown at ease with his power of thought-reading, at ease with this new sense of the hearing of silence. The differingscents of these three flowers hidden in the night had been breathedout to him. With infallible certainty he had recognized each one, differentiated the one from the other. And as the scent of one flowerhad failed, the scent of another had risen upon him, until he had knownthe heart of each of the three. Then for a while was the night scentless, silent, blank, empty. But presently the doctor was aware of an uneasinessand of an anxiety stealing upon him. Whence it came he could not tell. Only this he knew, that he received it from something, but that it cameneither from the lady of the feathers, from Valentine, nor from Julian. From whom, then, could it emanate, this weird eagerness, this fluttering, pulsing fear, and hope, and intention? From himself only? He askedhimself that question. Was he communing in the dark with his own soul?He knew that he was not. The scent of this new and unknown flower grewstronger in the night, more penetrating and intentional. Yet was itvaguer, more distant, than that emitted by those other three flowers. The exact impression received by the doctor at this moment was verysubtle. Precisely it was this: It seemed to him that he was graduallycoming into communication with a fourth mind, or soul; that this soul wasactually more strong, more vehement, even more determined, than the soulsof his three companions, but that some barrier removed it from him, setit very far of. The flame of a match held to a man's eyes may dazzle himmore than the flame of a great fire on the horizon. This new flame was asthe latter in comparison to match-flames that had been flaring in thedoctor's eyes. And this great and distant flame burned slowly in a smokeof mystery and upon the verge of dense darkness. 

Never had the doctor known so peculiar, and even awe-striking, anexperience as that which he now underwent. What utterly bewildered himwas the circumstance of this undoubted new and definite personalityenclosed in this tiny room with him and with his three companions. Hewas receiving the impression of the thoughts of a stranger. Yet therewas no stranger in the chamber. And he was vexed and curiously irritatedby the fact of the impression being at the same time very vague and veryviolent, like the cry of a man which reaches you faintly from a very longdistance, but which you feel instinctively to have been uttered with thefrantic force of death or of despair. And the mind of this stranger wastugging at the doctor's mind, anxiously, insistently. There was a depthof distress in it that was as no mere human distress, and that moved thedoctor to a mood beyond the mood of tears or of prayers. There came overhim an awful sense of pity for this stranger-soul. What had it done? Howwas it circumstanced? In what ghastly train of events did it move? It wassurely powerful and helpless at the same time; a cripple with a mind onfire with fight; Samson blind. He felt that it wanted something--of him, or of his companions, some light in its severe desolation. Deeper anddeeper grew his horror and pity for it, deeper and deeper his sense ofits ill fate. The woe of it was unearthly, yet more than earthly woe. Similes came to the doctor to compare with its dreadful circumstance:a child motherless in a world all winter; a saint devoted to hell bysome great error of God; even one more blasphemous, and more _bizarre_still--God worsted by humanity, and, at the last, helpless to reclaimthe souls to which He had Himself given being; lonely God in a lonelyheaven, seeing far-off hell bursting with the countless multitudes ofthe writhing lost. This last simile stayed with him. He fancied, hefelt--not heard--the voice of this frustrate God calling to him: "Do whatI could not do. Strive to help My impotence. A little--a little--and evenyet hell would stand empty, the vacant courts of heaven be filled. Act--act--act. "

"Doctor, why are you trembling? Why are you trembling?"

It was the voice of Valentine that spoke. The doctor, by an effort sopainful that the memory of it remained with him to the end of his life, recalled his mind from its journey. 

"Trembling!" he said. "What do you mean? I am all right. I am quietly inmy place. How long have we been sitting?"

"An immense time I fancy. It seems fruitless, Julian!"

"Yes. "

Julian's voice sounded heavy and weary. 

"Don't you think we had better stop?"

"If you like. "

Valentine got up and turned on the light. 

Then they saw that the lady of the feathers, leaning back in her chair, was fallen asleep, no doubt from sheer weariness. Her face was verywhite, and in sleep its expression had become ethereal and purified. Herthin hands still rested nervelessly upon the table. She seemed like alittle child that had known sorrow early, and sought gently to lose thesense of it in rest. 

"Cuckoo, " Julian said, leaning over her, "Cuckoo!"

She stirred and woke. 

"I'm awfully done, " she murmured, in her street voice. "Pardon!"

She sat up. 

"I seemed as if I was put to sleep, " she said. 

"You were, " Valentine answered her. "I willed that you should sleep. "

He looked at the doctor, and his eyes said:

"I have had my triumph. You witness it. "

Cuckoo reddened with anger, but she said nothing. 

"Did you feel anything, Julian?" Valentine asked. 

Julian looked strangely hopeless. 

"Nothing, " he said. "It's all different from what it was; like a deadthing that used to be alive. "

It seemed as if the sitting had filled him with a dogged despair. 

"A dead thing, " he repeated. 

Then he went over to the spirit-stand and poured himself out moreabsinthe. 

"And you, doctor?" said Valentine. "What did you feel?"

"I was thinking all the time, " he said, "of other things. Not of thetable or of table-turning. "

When he and Cuckoo left the flat that night, or rather in the chill firstmorning of the new year, they left Julian with Valentine. 

He said he would stay, speaking in the voice of a man drugged almost intouncertainty of his surroundings. 

CHAPTER V

THE LADY OF THE FEATHERS STARVES

Down in her dreary kitchen, among her dingy pots and pans, Mrs. Brigg wasfilled with an anger that seemed to her as righteous as the anger of aPuritan against Museum-opening on Sunday. Her ground-floor lodger wasgoing to the bad. Analysed, reduced to its essence, that was her feelingabout the lady of the feathers. Cuckoo had lived at number 400 for aconsiderable time. Being, in some ways, easy-going, or perhaps one shouldsay rather reckless, she had given herself with a good enough grace to beplucked by the claws of the landlady. She had endured being ruthlesslyrooked, with but little murmuring, as do so many of her patient class, accustomed to be the prey of each unit in the large congregation of themodern Fates. For months and years she had paid a preposterous price forher badly furnished little rooms. She had been overcharged habitually forevery morsel of food she ate, every drop of beer or of tea she drank, every fire that was kindled in her badly cleaned grate, every candle thatlighted her, almost every match she struck. She and Mrs. Brigg had hadmany rows, had, times without number, lifted up their respective voicesin vituperation, and shown command of large and vile vocabularies. Butthese rows had not been on the occasion of the open cheating of theformer by the latter. Fallen women, as they are called, seldom resentbeing cheated by those in whose houses they live. Rather do they expectthe bleeding process as part of the penalty to be paid for a lostcharacter. The landlord of the leper is owed, for his charity andtolerance, good hard cash. The landlady of the Pariah puts down mentallyin each added-up bill this item: "To loss of character--so much. " And thePariah understands and pays. Such is the recognized dispensation. Mrs. Brigg had had a fine time of robbery during the stay of Cuckoo in herugly house, and, in consequence, a certain queer and slow respect forher lodger had very gradually grown up in her withered and gnarled oldnature. She had that feeling towards Cuckoo that a bad boy, too weakto steal apples, has towards a bad boy not too weak to steal them. Itcould hardly be called an actual liking. Of that the old creature inher nethermost Hades was nearly incapable. But she enjoyed seeing applesoff the tree lying in her kitchen, and so could have patted any handsthat had gathered them nefariously. So far as she looked into the futureshe saw there always Cuckoo, and herself robbing Cuckoo comfortably, faithfully, unblamed and unrepentant, while the years rolled along, the leech ever at its sucking profession. 

Now this agreeable vision was abruptly changed. This slide of the magiclantern was smashed to fragments. And Mrs. Brigg was filled with therighteous anger of a balked and venerable robber. As a mother, dependentupon the earnings of her child in some godly profession might feel on theabrupt and reasonless refusal of that child to continue in it, so didMrs. Brigg feel now. 

The lady of the feathers had, for the moment at least, given upher profession. She sat at home with folded hands at night. It wasearth-shaking. It stirred the depths of the Brigg being. Quakings of aworld in commotion were as nothing to it. And the sweet Brigg dream thathad dawned on the last night of the old year, dream of a rich "toff" inlove with Cuckoo and winding her up to gilded circles, in which the fallof night set gay ladies bareheaded, and scattered all feathered hats tolimbo, died childless and leaving no legacies. Certainly, Cuckoo was notmaking money on the quiet enough in one night to keep her as seven orfourteen nights would formerly have supplied. Mrs. Brigg questioned, remonstrated, stormed, sulked, was rude, insinuating, artful, blunt, andblackguardly--all to no purpose. Cuckoo would give no explanation of herconduct. In the day she went out, but Mrs. Brigg was not to be deceivedby that. She based her observations and conclusions on weighty mattersconnected with the culinary art and with things about which her trained, disgraceful intelligence could not be deceived. Cuckoo was falling intopoverty. In the eyes of Brigg she had formerly been in touch with riches, that is to say, she had--so the landlady considered--lived well. She hadgot along without falling into debt. The exorbitant rent, regularlyearned, had been as regularly paid. The Brigg perquisites had not beendisputed. No watchful eye had been directed upon the claws that grabbedand clung, the fingers that filched and retained. 

But now was come a devastating change. Cuckoo grown, or growing, poorwas no longer easy-going. Living much less well, she also began to keepa sharp eye on all she had. If it went mysteriously, without explanatoryaction of her own, she called loudly on Brigg for enlightment. Where hadit gone? The old lady, disgusted to be brought to subterfuge, a thing towhich she was frankly unaccustomed, lied freely and with a good courage. But her lies did not stand her in much stead with Cuckoo, who had, fromthe start, no intention whatever of believing any word she might say. So war of a novel kind came about between them. Mrs. Brigg was forced tolive and hear herself named thief, a distressing circumstance which shecould scarcely surmount with dignity, whatever she might manage in theway of fortitude. Denial only armed forces for the attack. Battles werenumerous and violent. Cuckoo, who had in some directions no perceptionat all of what was humiliating, took to measuring proportions of legs ofmutton going down to Hades and remeasuring them on their return. If theinches did not tally, Mrs. Brigg knew it. Her soul revolted against suchsurveyor's work on meat that her own hands had cooked. She called Cuckoonames, and was called worse names in reply. But still the measurings wenton, and still Cuckoo spent her evenings within doors, sometimes without afire in the winter cold. 

Mrs. Brigg therefore said within herself that Cuckoo had gone to the bad, and beheld, with fancy's agitated eye, a time in the near future when notonly prequisites would be no more, but the very rent itself would be injeopardy. Fury sparkled in her heart. 

Meanwhile the situation of Cuckoo above stairs was becoming at oncesordid and tragic. Starvation is always sordid. It exposes cheek-bones, puts sharp points on elbows, writes ugliness over a face, and sets awolf crouching in the heart. Tragic it must always be, for a peculiarsorrow walks with it; but when it is obstinate, and springs from the mulein a human being, the tragedy has a lustre, a colour of its own. The ladyof the feathers was forever obstinate. She had been obstinate in vice, she was now obstinate in virtue. In the old days Julian had said to her, "Take some of my money and let the streets alone--even for one night. "She had refused. Now Doctor Levillier had said to her, "Prove your will. Lean on it. Do something for Julian. " She could only do this one thing. She could only leave the street! With frowning, staring obstinacy sheleft it. There was always something pathetically blind about Cuckoo'sproceedings. She was not lucid. But once she had grasped an idea she waslike the limpet on the rock. So now she sat at home. Out of her earningsshe had managed to save a very little money. One or two men had made hersmall presents from time to time. For a little while she could exist. Asshe sat alone on those strange new evenings she did much mentalarithmetic, calculating how long, with these reduced expenses, whichbrought Mrs. Brigg's so low, she could live without earning. Sad sumswere these, whether rightly or wrongly worked out. The time must beshort. And afterwards? This question drove Cuckoo out in the mornings, vaguely seeking an occupation. She knew that London was full of "good"girls, who went forth to work while she lay in bed in the morning, andcame home to tea, and one boiled egg and watercress, when she started outin the evening. So she put on her hat and jacket and went forth to findout what work they did, and whether she could join in it. Those werevariegated pilgrimages full of astonishment. Cuckoo would stroll alongthe road till she saw, perhaps, a girl who looked good--that is, asunlike herself as possible--descend into the frost, or the mud from abus. Then she would dog the footsteps of this girl, find out where shewent, with a view of deducing from it what she did. In this manner sheonce came to a sewing-machine shop in Praed Street, on the trail of abright-looking stranger, who walked gaily as to pleasant toil. Cuckooremained outside while the stranger went in and disappeared. She examinedthe window--rows of sewing-machines, beyond them the dressed head of awoman in a black silk gown. What did the stranger do here to gain aliving, and that bright smile of hers? Suddenly Cuckoo walked into theshop and up to the lady with the dressed head. 

"A machine, ma'am?" said the lady, with a very female look at Cuckoo. 

Cuckoo shook her head. 

"What can I do for you?"

"I'd like some work. "

"Work!" said the lady, her voice travelling from the contralto to thesoprano register. 

"I ain't got nothing to do. I want something; I'll do anything, like shedoes, " this, with a nod in the direction of a door through which thepleasant stranger had vanished. 

"Miss King; our bookkeeper! You know her?"

"No. I only see her in the street. "

"Good morning, " came from the lady, and a back confronted Cuckoo. 

The pilgrimages were resumed. Cuckoo visited dressmakers, bonnet-shops, ABC establishments, with no success. Her face, even when unpainted, toldits tale. Nature can write down the truth of a sin better than art. Cuckoo learnt that fact by her walks. But still she trudged, learningeach day more truths, one of which--a finale to the long sermon, itseemed--was that there is no army on earth more difficult to enlist in, under certain circumstances her own, than the army of good working-girls. The day she thoroughly understood that finale Cuckoo went home and had aviolent row with Mrs. Brigg. A cold scrag of mutton was supposed to bethe bone of contention, but that was only supposition. Cuckoo was reallycursing Mrs. Brigg because the world is full of close boroughs, not atall because cold mutton has not learnt how to achieve eternal life, whileat the same time fulfilling its duties as an edible. Not understandingthis subtlety of emotion, Mrs. Brigg let herself loose in sarcasm. 

"Why don't yer go out of a night?" she screamed, battering with one handon a tea-tray, held perpendicularly, to emphasize her words. "What's cometo yer? Go out; go out of a night. "

"Shan't. "

"Turned pious, 'ave yer?" sneered the landlady. "Or waitin' for a'usband? Which is it to be? Mr. H'Addison, I dessey! Hee, hee, hee. "

She burst into a bitter snigger. Cuckoo flushed scarlet and uttered wordsof the pavement. Any one hearing her then must have put her down asutterly unredeemed and irredeemable, a harridan to bandy foul languagewith a cabman, or to outvie a street-urchin bumped against by a rival inthe newspaper trade. She covered Mrs. Brigg with abuse, prompted by thegnawings at her heart, the hunger of mind and body, fear of the future, wonder at the impossibilities of life. Her own greatness--for her loveand following obstinate unselfishness, without religious prompting orself-respect, as it was, might be called great--turned sour within herheart at such a moment. Her very virtue became as vinegar. Mrs. Briggwas drowned in epithets and finally pushed furiously out into thepassage. Cuckoo turned from the door to Jessie yelping, and directed akick at the little dog. Jessie wailed, as only a toy dog can, like the"mixture" stop of an organ, wailed and ran as one that runs to meet anunknown future. Then Cuckoo pursued, caught her, and burst into tearsover her. The little creature's domed skull and india-rubber ears werewet with the tears of her mistress. And she whimpered, too, but with muchrelief, for she was back in her world of Cuckoo's lap; and could not bequite unhappy there. But in what a world was Cuckoo!

It will be said that Dr. Levillier knew of her circumstances; butanxiously kind and thoughtful though he was, he did not yet realize theeffect of his advice given to the lady of the feathers during the driveon the Hampstead Heights. He had told her to prove her will by doing thething that Julian had asked of her. But he did not know what Julian hadasked. And he did not comprehend the bitter fruit that her following ofhis further advice to keep from low and loveless actions must bring tothe ripening. When he spoke, as the sun went down on London, he wascarried on by excitement, and was thinking rather of the fate of Julian, the _diablerie_ of Valentine, than of the individual life of the girl athis side. He was arming her for the battle. But he dreamed of weapons, not of rations, like many an enthusiast. He forgot that the soldier mustbe fed as well as armed. He said to Cuckoo: "Fight! Use your woman's wit;use your heart; wake up, and throw yourself into this battle. " And she, filled with determination, and with a puzzled, pent ardour to dosomething, did not know what to do except--starve. So she began tostarve for Julian's sake, and because the doctor had fired her heart. He had said: "Do what Julian asked you to do, and show Julian that youhave done it. " But something within Cuckoo forbade her to fulfil thislast injunction. She could give up the street, but an extraordinaryshyness, false shame, and awkwardness had so far prevented her fromletting Julian know it. If he knew it, he would understand what it meantfor her, and would force money on her, and Cuckoo, having once made upher mind that money and Julian should never be linked together in herrelations with him, stuck to secrecy on this subject with her normal dullpertinacity. So matters move slowly towards a deadlock. The lady of thefeathers did not neglect the pawnshop. Her few trinkets went there verysoon. Then things that were not trinkets, that green evening dress, forinstance, the imitation lace, and one day a sale took place. Cuckoodisposed, for an absurd sum, of her title deed, the headgear that hadgiven birth to her nickname. She was no longer the lady of the feathers. The hat that had seen so much of her life reposed upon the head ofvirtue, and knew Piccadilly no more. But Julian's present remained withher, and indeed came into every-day use. And still Jessie sported heryellow riband. Later there came a terrible time, when the eyes ofCuckoo--appraising everything on which they looked--fell with thatfateful expression, not merely upon Jessie's yellow riband, but uponJessie herself. But that time was not quite yet. 

While Cuckoo endured this fate, Dr. Levillier was in a perplexity ofanother kind. The first round of that battle had ended in apparentdecisive defeat of Valentine's accusers. During the evening the fortunesof war had certainly wavered to the doctor's side. Julian had displayedsudden strong signs of an awakening; but the sitting had thrown him backinto his dream, had pushed him more firmly beneath the yoke of hismaster. The doctor did not understand why, although he recognized thefact; he could not divine the exact effect that disappointment would haveupon sudden suspicious eagerness. Julian had been waked to wonder, toobserve Valentine for an instant with new eyes, to look the mystery ofthe great change in him in the face, and know it as a mystery. Yes, hehad even thought of Valentine as a stranger, and said to himself, "Where, then, is my friend?" The new Valentine had risen out of the ashes ofsleep. Julian pressed forward the sitting as a means, the only one, ofsearching among these ashes. In the old days each sitting had quickenedhis senses into a strange life, as the last sitting quickened the sensesof the doctor. But to Julian this last sitting brought nothing butdisappointment; the thing which had been alive was dead, and so thesudden hope which had come with the new wonder died too. He supposedthat he had been the prey of an absurd fancy created by the idle wordsof the doctor, or by an idiotic movement of his mind, which had criedto him on a sudden: "If the Valentine you love and revere is really goneaway, what are you worshipping now?" Now, in his heavy disappointment hethought of this cry as a mad exclamation, and he sought to drown allmemory of it, and every memory in fresh vices, and in his fatal habitof absinthe-drinking. He lay down under the yoke beneath which he hadpreviously wept, and so succeeded in going still lower. So that nightValentine had won his intended triumph, although for a while it had beenin jeopardy. 

Doctor Levillier was in perplexity; he had been brought to the verythreshold of revelation, and then thrust back into an every-day worldof thwarted hopes and broken ambitions. But the memory of magic wasstill with him, and gave him a feeling of unrest, and a pertinacity thatwas not to be without reward forever. Valentine's triumph held for theconqueror a poison seed from which a flower was to spring. The doctor'sdetermination to continue the fight was frustrated at this time byJulian, rather than by Valentine. Julian's disappointment plunged himin a deep sea of indifference, from which he declined to be rescued. Thedoctor's invitations to him remained unanswered. If he called, Julianwas never at home. Several times the doctor met Valentine, who, with adeprecating smile, told him that Julian was away on some mad errand. 

"I seldom see him now, " he even added upon one occasion. "He has gonebeyond me. Julian is living so fast that my poor agility cannot keep pacewith him. "

It seemed as if the whole affair was going completely out of the doctor'sknowledge, and that even Cuckoo had no longer any power of attraction forJulian. The doctor wrote to her and received an ill-spelt answer, tellinghim that Julian had not been near her since the last night of the year. In this event the doctor's only hope lay in keeping closely in touch withValentine. To do this proved an easy matter. Valentine responded readilyto his invitations, asked him out in return, seemed glad to be with him. The doctor believed he read the reason of this joy in Valentine's anxietyto prove the depth of Julian's degradation. He had now begun to playdevilishly upon a pathetic stop, and sought every occasion to descantupon the social ruin that was overtaking Julian, and his deep concernin the matter. This hypocrisy was so transparent and so offensive thatthere were moments when it stank in the doctor's nostrils, and he couldscarcely repress his horror and disgust. Yet to show them would be notonly impolitic, but would only add fuel to the flames of Valentine's pyreof triumph. So the doctor, too, sought to play his part, and neverwearied in seeking Julian, although his quest was in vain. From Valentinehe gathered that Julian was now dropped even by the gay world; that hisclubs looked askance at him; that men began to shun him, and to whisperagainst him. 

"The stone is going down in the sea, " Valentine said. 

"Who threw it into the sea?" the doctor asked. "Tell me that. "

Valentine shrugged whimsical shoulders. 

"Fate, I suppose, " he answered. "Fate is a mischievous boy, and is alwaysthrowing stones. Is the lady of the feathers disconsolate?"

The doctor did not trust himself to reply, but was silent, plottinganother meeting to sit. For he had begun, still magic-bound perhaps, todivine some possible salvation in that act which he had once condemned, led, as he thought, by knowledge and by experience, of the nervous systemforsooth! Now he was led unscientifically by pure feeling, like a childby a warm, close hand. The instinct that had guided Cuckoo seemed tostretch out fingers to him. He must respond. But how to reach Julian?While he strove to solve this problem it was solved for him in a mannerutterly surprising to him, although engineered by words of his. 

Cuckoo wrought a strange work with the skeleton hands of hunger and ofpain. 

CHAPTER VI

THE SELLING OF JESSIE

One chill morning of earliest February, a stirring of Jessie at the footof her bed wakened Cuckoo from a short and uneasy sleep. She opened hereyes to the faint light that filtered through the green Venetian blind. Jessie moved again, slowly rotating like a drowsy top, then suddenlydropped into the warm centre of a nest of bedclothes, breathing a bigdog-sigh of satisfaction that shook her tiny frame. She slept. But shehad wakened her mistress, who lay with her head resting on one hand, deep in thought while the day grew outside. Cuckoo, having directed hersteps down a blind-alley had, not unnaturally, reached a dead-wall, blotting out the horizon. Lying there, she faced it. She stared at thewall, and the wall seemed to stare back at her. Perhaps for that reasona dull blankness flowed over and filled her mind, and made her widelyopened eyes almost as expressionless as the eyes of a corpse. For along time she lay in this alive stupor. Then Jessie stirred again, andCuckoo, as she had been before spurred into wakefulness, was stirredinto thoughtfulness. She began to pass the near past, the present, eventually the future, in review. The past was a crescendo, solitudegrowing louder each night, poverty growing louder, obstinacy growinglouder, Mrs. Brigg growing louder. What an orchestra! Cuckoo had notseen Julian once. She had seen the doctor, to be told of his baffledefforts, of Julian's escape from all his friends, of Valentine'sdeclaration of the stone going down in the sea, of utter deadlock, utter stagnation. For the doctor treated Cuckoo frankly as a bravewoman, not deceitfully as a timid child to be buoyed on the waves ofill-circumstances with gas-filled bladders. Cuckoo knew the worst ofthings, and by the knowledge was confirmed in her mule's attitude whichso weighed upon Mrs. Brigg. Her hands were tied in every directionexcept one. She could only dumbly prove that Valentine was wrong; thather will was not dead, by exercising it to the detriment of her worldlysituation. Doggedly then she put her whole past behind her, despite theever-increasing curses of the landlady. She had given up her pilgrimagesin search of honest work. They were too hopeless. She had pawnedeverything she could pawn, and sold every trifle that was saleable. EvenJessie's broad band of yellow satin had been included in a heterogeneousparcel of odds and ends purchased by a phlegmatic German with eyes likemarbles and the manner of a stone image. Living less and less well, doingwithout fires, sitting often in the dark at night to save the expense ofgas, Cuckoo had managed to pay her rent until a week ago. Then money hadfailed, and the great earthquake had at length tossed and swallowed thewretched Mrs. Brigg. The scene had been tropical. Mrs. Brigg was reallymoved to the very depths of her being. For days she had been, as it were, eating and drinking apprehension. Now apprehension choked her. She wasshot up in the air by the cannon of climax. Limbs and mind were in theextreme of commotion. From her point of view it must be acknowledged thatthe situation was unduly exasperating. For Cuckoo would give no reasonwhatever for her reiterated formula of refusal to earn any money. And nowshe could not pay her week's rent, plunging Mrs. Brigg into the furthercircle of an _inferno_, and yet sat within doors day after day. Mrs. Brigg approached apoplexy by way of persuasion, was by turns patheticand paralytic with passion. She coaxed with the ardour of an executionerinveigling the victim's neck to the noose and in haste to be off tobreakfast. She threatened like Jove in curl-papers. Cuckoo wasinexorable. 

"Then out you go!" said Mrs. Brigg at last. "Out of my house you pack, you--" Nameless words followed. 

Cuckoo got up from her chair with no show of emotion and moved towardsher bedroom stonily to pack her box. She didn't care. She was in a moodto lie down in the gutter and wait the last blow of Fate, living only inher one obstinate determination to do what the doctor had told her, theone thing Julian had asked of her. She did not any longer war with wordsagainst the purple and hard-breathing landlady. And her silence and hermovement of obedience awed Mrs. Brigg for the moment into another mood. She shuffled after Cuckoo into the bedroom. 

"Eh? What is it?" she ejaculated. "What are you a-doing of?"

"Going, " Cuckoo threw at her. 

"Now?"

"Yes. "

"Where to?"

No answer. Cuckoo was thrusting the few things still left to her into theonly box she now possessed in the world. Mrs. Brigg stood in the foldingdoorway watching, and making mouths, as is the fashion of the elderlywhen emotional. 

"What are you going for?" she said presently, as Cuckoo, bending down, stuffed a white petticoat into the depths. 

"Can't pay, " snarled Cuckoo. 

"It don't matter--for a day or two, " said Mrs. Brigg, reluctantly. 

She stumped downstairs, torn by conflicting emotions. She had gotaccustomed to Cuckoo, and then both Julian and Valentine, Cuckoo'svisitors, had taught her the colour of the British sovereign. They hadnot been near 400 lately, but they might come again. And then DoctorLevillier. Cuckoo had some fine friends, who would surely do somethingfor her. Mrs. Brigg had no other possible lodger in her eye. On thewhole, prudence dictated a day or two's patience, just a day or two, or a week's, not more, not a moment more. Thus it came about that Cuckoohad now been another week beneath the roof of Mrs. Brigg without payinghard cash for the asylum. The previous evening the landlady had burstout again into fury, refusing to get in any more food for Cuckoo, anddemanding the fortnight's rent. She had even, carried away by cupidityand passion, striven to drive Cuckoo out to her night's work. A physicalstruggle had taken place between them, ending in the landlady'shysterics. Other lodgers had been drawn by the noise from their floorsto witness the row. Two of them had come, on the scene accompanied bymen, and to them Mrs. Brigg had shrieked her wrongs and explanations ofthis swindling virtue of a woman who had formerly paid her way honestlyfrom the street. The lodgers and their men had provided an accompanimentof jeering laughter to the Brigg solo, and Cuckoo, her clothes nearlytorn from her back, had flung at last into her sitting-room and lockedthe door. That was last night--the past which she now reviewed in themorning twilight. What was she to do? She was without food. She was indebt, must leave Mrs. Brigg, no doubt, but must pay her first, had nomeans to pay for another lodging. She might apply to Doctor Levillier. What held her back from taking that road was mainly this. She had thedumb desire to make a sacrifice for Julian, and the doctor had given herthe idea of the only sacrifice she could make--retention of herself fromthe degradation that kept her free of debt. If she asked the doctor topay the expenses of the sacrifice, whose would it be? His, not hers. Sothere was no banker in the world for Cuckoo. The dead-wall faced her. The horizon was shut out. She lay there and tried to think--and tried tothink. How to get some money? Something--the devil perhaps--prompted thesleeping Jessie to stir again at the bottom of the bed. Cuckoo felt thelittle dog's back shift against her stretched-out toes, and suddenly abitter flood of red ran over her thin, half-starved face, and she hid itin the tumbled pillow, pressing it down. The movement was the attemptedphysical negation of an abominable, treacherous thought which had juststabbed her mind. How could it have come to her, when she hated it so?She burrowed further into the pillow, at the same time caressing the backof Jessie with little movements of her toes. Horrible, horrible thought!It brought tears which stained the pillow. It brought a hard beating ofthe heart. And these manifestations showed plainly that Cuckoo had notdismissed it yet. She tried to dismiss it, shutting her eyes up tightly, shaking her head at the black, venomous thing. But it stayed and grewlarger and more dominant. Then she took her head from the pillow, facedit, and examined it. It was a clear-cut, definite thought now, perfectlyfinished, coldly complete. 

Jessie was embodied money, an embodied small sum of money. 

Long ago Cuckoo had said to Julian with pride:

"She's a show-dog. I wouldn't part with her for nuts. "

Now she remembered those words, and knew, could not help knowing, that ashow-dog was worth more than nuts. At that moment she wished Jessie wereworthless. Then the sting would be drawn from her horrible thought. Meanwhile Jessie slept calmly on, warm and cosey. 

Cuckoo was cold and trembling. She knew that she was on the verge ofstarvation. The doctor had said that one day she could help Julian, onlyshe. So she must not starve. Love alone would not let her do that. Between her and starvation lay Jessie, curved in sleep, unconscious thather small future was being debated with tears and with horror. 

Long ago the little dog had entered Cuckoo's heart to be cherishedthere. Many wretched London women own such a little dog, to whom theycling with a passion such as more fortunate women lavish upon theirchildren. A great many subtleties combine to elevate companions withtails to the best thrones the poor, the wicked, and the deserted cangive them. A dog has such a rich nature to give to the woman who is poor, so much innocence at hand for the woman who is wicked, such completenessof attachment ready for the woman who is lonely. It is so beautifullyhumble upon its throne, abased in its own eyes before the shrine of itsmistress, on whom it depends entirely for all its happiness. A littleking, perhaps, it has the pretty manners of a little servitor. And evenwhen it presumes to be determined in the expressed desire for the drynessof a biscuit or the warmth of a lap, with how small a word or glance canit be laid upon its back, in the abject renunciation of every pretension, anxious only for the forgiveness that nobody with a touch of tendernesscould withhold. Ah, there is much to be thankful for in a companion witha tail! Jessie had winning ways, the deep heart of a dog. A toy dog shewas, no doubt, but hers was no toy nature. Cuckoo could not have shedsuch tears as those she now shed over any toy. For she began to cryweakly at the mere thought that had come to her, although it was not yetbecome a resolve. Life with Jessie had been very sordid, very sad. Whatwould life be without her? What would such a morning as this be, forinstance? Cuckoo's imagination set tempestuously to work, with physicalaids--such as the following. She drew away her feet from the bottom ofthe bed, where they touched the little dog's back. Doing this she saidto herself, "Now, Jessie is gone. " Curled up, she set herself to realizethe lie. And perhaps she might have succeeded thoroughly in the sadattempt had not Jessie, in sleep missing the contact of her mistress, wriggled lazily on her side up the bed after Cuckoo's feet, discoveringwhich, she again composed herself to slumber. The renunciation wasnot to be complete in imagination. Jessie's love, when present, was toofrustrating. And Cuckoo, casting away her horrible thought in a sort ofhasty panic, caught her companion with a tail in her arms, and made herrest beside her, close, close. Jessie was well content, but still sleepy. She reposed her tiny head upon the pillow, lengthened herself between thesheets and dreamed again. And while she dreamed, the black thought abouther came back to Cuckoo. It was assertive, and Cuckoo began to fear it. The fear of a thought is a horrible thing; sometimes it is worse thanthe fear of death. This one made Cuckoo think herself more cruel thanany woman since the world began. Yet she could not exorcise it. On thecontrary, she grew familiar with it as the day marched on, until it puton a fatal expression of duty. All that day she revolved it. Mrs. Briggattacked her again. Food was lacking. Cuckoo's case became desperate. Sheturned over carefully all her few remaining possessions to see if therewas any inanimate thing that she had omitted to turn into money. Jessie, poor innocent, assisted with animation at the forlorn inventory, nestlingamong the tumbled garments, leaping on and off the bed. Her ingenuousnature supposed some odd game to be in progress, and was anxious to playa principal and effective part in it. Yet she was quieted by the lookCuckoo cast upon her when the wardrobe had been passed in review and nosaleable thing was to be found. She shrank into a corner, ready forwhimpering. That night Cuckoo did not sleep, and through all the longhours she held Jessie in her arms, and heard, as so often before, theregular breathing of this little companion of hers. And each drawn breathpierced her heart. 

Next morning she got up early. She was faint with hunger and with aresolve that she had made. She dressed herself, then carried Jessie tothe flannel-lined basket, put her into it and kissed her. 

"Go bials, " she said, with a raised finger. "Go bials. "

Jessie winked her eyes pathetically, her chin resting on the basket edge. Cuckoo went out into the passage and called down to Mrs. Brigg. 

"What is it?" cried Hades. 

"I'm going to get some money. "

Mrs. Brigg ran out. 

"Money!" she said in a keen treble. "Where are you going to git it?"

"Never you mind, " said Cuckoo, in a dull voice. 

She turned from Mrs. Brigg's flooding ejaculations and was gone. In herperegrinations about London she had sometimes encountered in a certainthoroughfare a broad old man with a face marked with small-pox, whowore a fur cap and leggings. This individual conveyed upon his thickestperson certain clinging rats, which crawled about him in the public viewwhile he walked, and he led in strings three or four terriers, sometimesa pup or two. Cuckoo had seen him more than once in conversation withsome young swell, even with gaily-dressed women, had noticed that histerriers here to-day were often gone to-morrow, replaced by other dogs, pugs perhaps, or a waddling, bow-legged dachshund. She drew her ownconclusions. And she had seen that the old man's eyes, in his poacherface, were kindly, that his trotting dogs often aimed their sharp, orblunt, noses at his hands and seemed to claim his notice. Her morningerrand was to him. 

She walked a long time in search of him, trembling with the fear offinding him, inconsistently. Her mind, reacting on her ill-fed body, planted a crawling weariness there, and at last she had to stop andexamine her pockets. She came upon two or three pence, went into a shop, bought a bun, and ate it sitting by a marble-topped table. It nearlychoked her. Yet she knew she needed it badly. With one penny the less sheresumed her pilgrimage. But nowhere could she see the old man in hisleggings, and suddenly a sort of joyful spasm shook her superstitiously. Fate opposed her cruel resolution. In a rush of eager contrition shestarted for home, walking as quickly as her abnormal fatigue would allowher. She had left the street in which the old man generally walked, andtook care, as she turned its corner, not to cast one glance behind her. She passed through the next street, and the next, and was far away fromhis neighbourhood, rejoicing, when suddenly she saw him coming straighttowards her slowly, the rats resting on his shoulders, various small dogsin strings pattering on each side of him. 

Cuckoo's heart gave a great thump, and then for an appreciable fragmentof time stopped beating. She muttered a bad word under her breath and hadan impulse to flee as from an enemy. She did not flee, but stood stilllike one condemned, while the old man stolidly approached with hismenagerie. When he reached her she lifted her head and looked him in theface. The little dogs were jumping to reach his hands. Evidently theyloved him. 

"I say, " Cuckoo said huskily. 

The old gentleman stopped, lifted a rat from his shoulder, placed it onhis breast, like a man who arranged his necktie, clicked his tongueagainst his teeth, and remarked:

"Parding, lydy. "

Cuckoo swallowed. She felt as if she had a ball in her throat shifting upand down. 

"I say, " she repeated. "You buy toy dogs, eh?"

"I buys 'em and I sells 'em, " answered the old man, with a large accenton the conjunction. "Buys 'em dear and sells 'em cheap. There's a wy tomike a living, lydy!"

His small eyes twinkled with humour as he spoke. 

Cuckoo swallowed again. The ball in her throat was getting larger. 

"Want to buy one this morning?" she asked. "A show little dog, eh?"

She choked. 

The old man did not appear to notice it. He looked at her with sharpconsideration. 

"Oh, you means selling!" he remarked. "Where is it, then?"

"What?"

"The show little dawg?"

Cuckoo gulped out her address. All this time the old man had been summingher up, and drawing his own conclusions from her thin figure and haggardface. He scented a possible bargain. 

"Trot along, lydy, " he said, turning on his heels with all his littledogs in commotion. "Trot along. I'm with yer. "

Cuckoo heard muffled drums of a dead-march as she walked. She, who hadlived a life so shameless, shivered with shame at the thought of whatshe was going to do. Her treachery laid her out in its winding-sheet. The old man tried to entertain her, as they went, by chatting about hisprofession, declaiming the merits of his rats, and spreading before hermind a verbal panorama of the canine life that had defiled through hischangeful existence. Cuckoo did not hear a word--they turned intothe Marylebone Road. She walked slower and slower, yet never had thestreet in which she lived seemed so short. At length the iron gate ofnumber 400 was reached. Cuckoo stopped. 

"In 'ere, lydy?" said the old man. 

She nodded, unable to speak. He turned in with his crowd of patteringdogs, and proceeded jauntily up the narrow path. Cuckoo followed slowlyand with a furtive step. She longed to open the front door, let him in, and then run away herself. Anywhere, anywhere, only to be away, out ofsight and hearing of the cruel scene that was coming. 

Now they were on the doorstep. The old man waited. She fumbled for herlatchkey, found it, thrust it into the door. Instantly the shrill bark ofJessie was heard. Cuckoo's guilty shining eyes met the twinkling eyes ofthe old man. 

"That she a-barkin'?" he inquired, with a professional air. 

Cuckoo nodded again. 

"A nice little pype, " he rejoined. "This wy, is it?"

The patter of feet in the oil-clothed passage roused Jessie to a frenziedexcitement. When the two opened the door of the sitting-room, the littlecreature, planted tree-like upon her four tiny feet, was barking her doglife into the air. Cuckoo, entering first, snatched her up and gave her asudden, vehement kiss. 

It was good-bye. 

Then she turned and faced the old man, who had paused in the doorway. Sheheld Jessie silently towards him. Transferring the strings held in hisright hand to his left, he took the wriggling dog from Cuckoo, lifted herup and down as if considering her weight, ran his eyes over her pointswith the quick decision of knowledge. 

"'Ardly a show dawg, lydy, " he said. 

Cuckoo flamed at him. 

"She is, she is, " she cried vehemently, all her passion trying to find avent in the words. "You shan't have her, you shan't have her, you shan'tif--"

"Neow, neow; I ain't sying nothink ag'in 'er, " he interposed. "She's apretty dawg, a very pretty dawg. 'Ow much do yer sy, lydy?"

Cuckoo sickened. She looked away. She could not have met the eyes ofJessie at that moment. 

"'Ow much, then?" repeated the old man, still weighing the whining Jessieup and down. 

"I dunno; you say. "

The old man mentioned a price. It was bigger than Cuckoo had expected. She nodded, moving her tongue across her lips. Then she looked away outof the window. She heard the chink of money. 

"Put it on the table, " she murmured. 

He did so, looking steadily at her. 

"You feels the parting, lydy, " he began. "Very nat'ral, very. I knowswhat it is. "

He extended Jessie, now whining furiously, towards Cuckoo. 

"Want to sy good-bye, lydy?" he said. 

Cuckoo shook her head. The old man popped Jessie into one of thecapacious side-pockets of his coat and buttoned the flap down. 

"Mornin', lydy, " he said, turning towards the door. 

Cuckoo made no reply. Her chest was heaving and her lips were working. The old man went out. Cuckoo heard the pattering feet of the little armyof dogs on the oilcloth of the passage. The hall door opened and shut. Apause. The iron gate clicked. She had never moved. The money lay on thetable. At last Cuckoo went out into the passage, and called in a strangevoice:

"Mrs. Brigg. "

The landlady came with hasty alacrity. 

"Come here, " said Cuckoo, leading the way into the sitting-room. "There--there's some money for you. "

Mrs. Brigg pounced on it with a vulture's eagerness. 

"'Owever did yer--" she began. 

But Cuckoo had rushed into the bedroom. The landlady stood with the moneyin her hand, and heard the key turned in the lock of the door. 

CHAPTER VII

A MEETING OF STARVATION AND EXCESS

Now an awful loneliness, like the loneliness of the grave, fell roundCuckoo. Like Judas, she could have gone out and hanged herself, but forone thing, the love in her heart that seemed so useless. In her muddled, illogical way, and to stifle gnawing thoughts of the betrayed Jessie, shedwelt upon this love of hers for Julian. What had it ever brought her?What had it brought him? To her it had given many sorrows, humiliations. She remembered them one by one, and they looked at her like ghosts. Herdawning recognition of her own degradation never yet come to surmise; hertearing jealousy when Julian went out to do as other men did, preceded byand linked with the knowledge of that dreary incident in which she playedthe part of accomplice, that incident which she always believed hadstarted him on his journey to destruction; her acquaintance withValentine and the arrows planted in her heart by him; her despair whenshe learned from him her own impotence; not yet counterbalanced by fulltrust in herself or in her power for good, despite the faith of thedoctor; her vision of the constantly falling Julian, of the stone goingdown in the deep sea; her desperate adherence to the doctor's request toprove her will, rewarded now by an apparently useless starvation, and bythis treacherous sale of Jessie, her truest, trustiest friend. Cuckooreviewed these ghosts, and no longer prayed, but cursed. So long as shehad Jessie--she knew it now--she had never been really quite hopeless, often as she had thought herself hopeless. She had never even beenutterly without self-respect, because Jessie had always deeply respectedher and had thus given her little moments of clean and cheeringconfidence. And she had never been absolutely alone. Now she was alone, and felt like Judas, a betrayer. By turns she thought of Julian lost andof Jessie sold to strange hands, strange hearts, in a cruel and a bitterworld. But even now she did not think much or often of herself, forCuckoo was no egotist. Her very lack of egotism must have been thedespair of any good woman trying to rescue her. She sat at home andstarved and betrayed now, not because her egoism shrank from the touch ofthe men of the street, not because she had any idea of the great duty awoman owes to herself--to keep herself pure--but simply moved by thedogged determination to do something for Julian. Were Julian dead Cuckoowould have gone out into Piccadilly again as of old, and earned the rentfor Mrs. Brigg, and food for herself, and a sovereign or two to buy backJessie. The circumstances of her life had stuffed cotton wool into theears of her soul and rendered it deaf to the voices that govern goodwomen. Cuckoo was pathetically incomprehensible to most people, becauseshe was pathetically twisted in mind. But her heart grew straight andsurely towards heaven. 

The sale of Jessie had brought in enough money to keep Mrs. Brigg quietfor a little while, but not enough to satisfy her claim against Cuckoo, or to give Cuckoo food. It went as an instalment towards the rent. Nowthe landlady began to clamour again, and Cuckoo was literally starving. One night her despair reached a point of cruelty which drove her out intothe street, not for the old reason, not at all for that. Cuckoo wassheathed in armour from head to foot against sin and its wages. Herobstinacy seemed to her the only thing that really lived in her miserablebody, her miserable soul. It was surely obstinacy which pulsed in herheart, which shone in her hollow eyes, tingled in her tired limbs, flushed her thin cheeks with blood, gave her mind a thought, her will theimpetus to mark time in this desolation. Cuckoo was like a hollow shellcontaining the everlasting murmur, "I'll starve--for him. " Whether herstarvation was useless or not did not concern her at this moment. She nolonger even saw those ghosts. She seemed blind and deaf and dull in afashion, yet driven by an active despair. Had Jessie been with her still, she could have stayed within doors. The little dog's faint and regularbreathing, her occasional rustling movements, had made just enough musicto keep Cuckoo still faintly singing even when her heart was saddest. Nowher room and her life were empty of all song, and Jessie's untenantedbasket--in which the red flannel seemed to Cuckoo like blood--was aspectre and a vision of hell. 

So, on this night, Cuckoo put on her hat and jacket. She meant to go out, to walk anywhere, just to move, to be in the open air. As she went intothe passage she ran against Mrs. Brigg. The gas-jet was alight, and thelandlady could see how she was dressed. Suddenly Mrs. Brigg fell onCuckoo and began slobbering her with kisses. 

The old wretch actually began to whimper. She had been sore tried, andmust have had a fragment of affection for Cuckoo somewhere about hernature. For she did not want to part with her, and the tears she now letfall were prompted not only by a prospect of money coming in to her, butalso of pleasure in the thought that Cuckoo had not entirely gone to thebad. She wept like the mother who sees her child return from its evilway. 

Cuckoo thrust her away without a word, violently. Mrs. Brigg did notresent the action, but fell against the passage wall sobbing andmurmuring, "My precious, my chickabiddy!" while Cuckoo banged the halldoor and went out into the night. Then the landlady, moved by a sacredimpulse of pardon, bolted down to her kitchen and began to rummageenthusiastically in her larder. She knew Cuckoo had been near tostarving, and had supported the knowledge with great equanimity whilethis prodigal daughter chose to wander in wicked ways of idleness. Butnow she killed the fatted calf with trembling hands, and made haste toset out a reverend supper in Cuckoo's parlour to welcome her on herreturn. The cold bacon, the pot of porter, the bread, the butter, allwere Mrs. Brigg's symbols of pardon and of peace! And as she laid themon the table she sang:

"In 'er 'air (_whimper_) she wore a white cam-eelyer, Dark blue (_whimper_) was the colour of 'er heye. " (_Whimper. _)

It was like a religious service with one devout worshipper. 

 * * * * *

Meanwhile Cuckoo walked slowly along. It was a dark night, very stilland very damp. The frost had gone. The stars were spending theirbrightness on clouds that were a carpet to them, a roof to poor humanbeings who could not see them. In the air was the unnatural, and soalmost unpleasant, warmth that, coming suddenly out of due season, strikes at the health of many people, and exhausts them as it wouldnever exhaust them in time of summer. Cuckoo, faint with hunger, fainteryet with sorrow, felt intensely fatigued. She did not consider where shewas going, but just walked on slowly and heavily; but the habit of herlife, profiting by her unconsciousness, led her towards that long streetin which she had passed hours which, if added together, would have made alarge part of her life. Piccadilly drew her to it as the whirlpool drawsthe thing which inadvertently touches even the farthest outpost of itsinfluence. Presently she was at the Circus. The little boys upon thekerb, crying newspapers, greeted her with excited comments and withlaughter. They had missed her for so long that they had imagined herill, perhaps dead. Seeing her turn up again, they were full of greedyardour for her news. They put to her searching and opprobrious questions. She did not hear them. Soon she was in the midst of the crowd. Yet shescarcely realized that she was not alone. No mechanical smile came to herface. It seemed as if she had forgotten the old wiles of the streets, putoff forever the frigid mask of vice, that freezes young blood, yet makesold blood sometimes run strangely faster. What was the street to Cuckoonow, or Cuckoo to the street? Once it had at least been much, almosteverything, to her. And she had been perhaps as much to it as one of thepaving-stones on which the feet of its travellers trod. Now things werechanged. The human wolf was in the snow still, but it no longer fearedstarvation. Rather did it live in starvation with a fervour that wasuntouched by anything animal. 

Cuckoo walked on. 

The crowd flowed up and down, in two opposed and gliding streams. Thewarm heaviness of this premature air of spring had brought many peopleout, and had even induced some of the women to assume costumes ofmid-summer. There were great white hats floating on the stream, likeswans. Bright and light coloured dresses touched the black gown of Cuckooas with fingers of contempt. She did not see them. Many women who knewher by sight murmured to each other their surprise at her reappearance. One, a huge negress in orange cotton, ejaculated a loud and guttural:"My sakes!"

Unheeding, Cuckoo walked on. 

A few of the men looked at her. More especially did those observe her wholove vice that is quiet, sedate, demure, and unobtrusive. To these herpale, unpainted cheeks, her unconscious demeanour, her downcast eyes, and severely plain black dress and hat appealed with emphasis. One or twoof them turned to follow her. She never heard their footsteps. One spoketo her. She did not reply. He persisted. When at last she was obliged toheed him she only shook her head. He fell away, abashed by the dullglance of her eyes, and wondering discontentedly why she was there andwhat she was doing. 

Forgetting him instantly, she walked on. 

Some one she had known in old days met her. It was the young man in themillinery establishment who had loved her for a week, and given her thegreen evening dress trimmed with the imitation lace. Since those dayshe had become strictly respectable, had married an assistant in the shop, rented a tiny villa at Clapham, added two childish lives to the teemingword, and developed on Sundays into a sidesman at a suburban church. Now he was on his way to Charing Cross from a solemn supper given by hisemployers at a restaurant to some of their staff. He recognized Cuckooand the spirit moved him to speak to her. He touched her arm. 

"Miss-er-Miss Bright, " he said. 

Cuckoo stopped. 

"Miss Bright, you remember me? Alf Heywood!"

He was a little man, with a whitish face and wispy light brown hair. Nowhis pale brown eyes glanced up at Cuckoo rather nervously under rapidlywinking lids. She stared at him. 

"Alf Heywood?" she repeated, without meaning. 

"Yes, yes; Alf Heywood, as was in Brenton's millinery establishment, topof Regent Street. Him as give you that green dress. Don't you recall?"

Cuckoo shook her head. 

"Green, with white lace on it, " he continued, with nervous emphasis. 

Suddenly Cuckoo said:

"White; no, it was yellow. "

Mr. Heywood was delighted at this evidence of recollection. 

"So it was, so it was, " he said. "But what I wanted to say was, that I'msorry to see you here still. "

"Eh?"

"Sorry to see you here. I'm married, you know, turned over a new leaf, with two children of my own, and come to see the error of my ways. Ihoped as you--"

Cuckoo walked on. 

Her dream of despair was not to be broken by Mr. Heywood and hisnew-found respectability. Fate shattered it to fragments in verydifferent fashion. A sudden thrill ran through the crowd, coming froma distance. People began to pause, to turn their heads, to murmur toone another, then to press forward in one direction, craning their necksas if to catch sight of something. The street was almost blocked, andCuckoo was entangled in this seething excitement, of which at first shecould not divine the cause. Presently she heard shouts. The crowd swayed. Then a man's fierce yell cut the general murmur with the sharpness of aknife. Suddenly Cuckoo's dream fled. She pushed her way forward in thedirection of the cry; she struggled; she crept under arms and glidedthrough narrow spaces with extraordinary dexterity and swiftness. 

"He's mad, " she heard a voice say. 

"No; only drunk. "

"He'll kill the other fellow if he gets at him. "

"The coppers will be on him in a minute. "

Cuckoo was panting with her effort, but she passed the voices and cameupon the core of the crowd, the man who had yelled--Julian. She saw ina moment that he was mad with drink. His hat was off; his coat was torn;his evening clothes were covered with mud. Apparently he had fallen whilegetting out of a cab. Two men--strangers of the street--were holding himforcibly back while he struggled furiously to attack another man, whofaced him calmly on the pavement with a smile of keen contempt. This manwas Valentine. Julian was screaming incoherent curses at him and wildthreats of murder. The crowd listened and jeered. 

Cuckoo caught Julian by the arm. He turned on her to strike her. Thenhis arm fell by his side. It seemed as if he recognized her even throughthe veil of his excess. The drunken man looked on the starving woman, andthe curses died upon his lips. He began to shiver and to tremble fromhead to foot. Valentine made a step towards him, but some in the crowdinterposed. 

"Let him alone, " they said. "You'll only make him worse. Leave him toher. "

The cab from which Julian had apparently just alighted was drawn up bythe kerbstone. Cuckoo, who had not uttered a word as yet, drew Juliantowards it. He staggered after her in silence, stumbled into the caband collapsed in a heap in the corner, half on the floor, half on theseat. She got in after him, watched by the crowd, who seemed awed by theabrupt silence of this yelling madman at the touch of this spectral girlin black. Cuckoo gave her address to the cabman. Just as he was whippingup his horse to drive away, she leaned forward out of the cab as if tothe crowd--really to one man in it. 

"He's my man!" she said, drawing her thick eyebrows together, and with anod of her head. "He's my man. I'll see to him. "

The cab drove off into the darkness. 

CHAPTER VIII

AN AWAKENING

That drive in the night was taken in silence. Julian, a crumpled heap ofdegraded humanity, slept. Cuckoo watched over him, half supporting himwith one thin arm. Exultation shone in her eyes and beat in her heart. The glory of being alone with this drunken creature, his protector, hisguide, lay round the girl like a glory of heaven. As she looked at hiswhite face, and pressed her handkerchief against the blood that trickledfrom his forehead, wild tears of triumph, passionate tears of joy anddetermination, swam to her eyes. She felt at last the pride and theself-respect of one who possesses a will, and who has exercised it. That was a justification of life to her mind. Something had given evento her the power to snatch this man to herself from the jaws of darkLondon, to carry him off, a succoured prey, from the world laughing athis degradation. She bent over him in the rattling cab and touched hisface with her lips. Was that a kiss? She, who had known so many kisses, wondered. It was the going forth of her soul to purify with flame thething it loved. 

The cab stopped; Cuckoo shook Julian. He stirred uneasily, opened hiseyes and shut them again, relapsing into something that seemed rather asort of fit than a slumber. She called to the cabman to come and helpher. Between them they carried Julian into the house and laid him outupon the horsehair sofa. 

"He'll come to all right, lady, " said the cabby, with a pleasant grin ofknowledge. "There's a many it takes like that. It ain't nothing. "

He paused for his payment, and then Cuckoo remembered that she had nomoney. The thought did not worry her; it seemed too far off. 

"I ain't got no money, " she said. 

Cabby's jaw dropped. 

"Wait a second, " she said. "Go out, I'll get some. "

The man withdrew doubtfully, then Cuckoo robbed Julian. She, who hadnever yet taken money from him, stole the price of his fare to herprotection. Then she let the cabman out, locked the street door, andreturned. She sat down by Julian, who still appeared to sleep. And nowsuddenly she felt that she was starving. She looked round the room; therewas nothing upon the table. Mrs. Brigg, an hour after her "Te Deum, " hadbeen seized in the claws of reaction, and had repented of her generosity. Suspicions and doubts obscured the previous rapture of her mind. Shebethought herself that Cuckoo might chance to return alone, stillpenniless; she remembered the rent still owing. Her impulse to killfatted calves suddenly struck her as the act of a mad woman. As locustsclear a smiling country of all that nourishes, she swept the table ofCuckoo clear, impounding to her larder with trembling, eager hands thefood that might never have been paid for. Thereupon she went to bed, nodding her old head, and muttering to herself with pursed lips. 

So the eyes of Cuckoo looked in vain for something to stay the bodilymisery that stole upon her as she watched by Julian. Starvation strippedaway all the mists from her soul and left it naked with the burdenedsoul it loved. Despite her increasing pain of body, Cuckoo was consciousgradually of a light and airy delicacy of sensation that was touched withsomething magical. This awful hunger made her feel strangely pure, asif her deeds, which for years had clung round her like a brood of filthyvampires, were falling away from her one by one. They dropped down intothe night; she was mounting into freedom. And, despite faint agonieswhich at moments threatened to overwhelm her, she had never felt sohappy. Instinct led her to get away from the consciousness of her bodyby leaning utterly upon her mind. She sat down by Julian, bent over him, absorbed herself in him. One of his hands she took gently in her own. The little act baptized him hers in her mind, and she was aware of agreat rush of happiness never known before. For she had him there in hernest, she alone. And she loved him. Even in his drunken sleep, even inhis massacred condition of ugliness and hatefulness, he was so beautifulto her that she could have wept from thankfulness. The world had takenfrom her everything, the very little that she had ever possessed, thepurity that every creature has once, the innocence that she had neverunderstood, left her this tipsy, degraded, abandoned, tragic atom ofevil. And a great glory was hers. She could have fallen upon her kneesin blessing and thankfulness, forgetful of all her tribe of sorrows, conscious only that she was a woman crowned and throned. By degrees sheforgot that she was starving, forgot everything in an ecstasy of purepassion and pride, an ecstasy that brought food, rest, calm, to her. 

In the dawn Julian stirred and murmured incoherent words. Cuckoo bentdown to hear them. But he slept again. And as the dawn grew, the lightand airy feeling within her grew with it, till she seemed to be floatingin the air and among soft, billowing clouds. At first there was lightthrough them, light of the sun, strong and beautiful. But then it faded. And darkness came, and strange sounds like far-off voices, and a murmuras of waters deepening in volume and rushing upon her. They reached her. She put out her hands and thought she cried out. 

The waters swept her away. 

 * * * * *

"Cuckoo! Cuckoo! What is it? Cuckoo!"

"She's a-comin'--she's a-comin' to. "

"Give me some more water, then. "

Cuckoo felt it very cold upon her face, and fancied at first that it wasthose rushing waters of her dream. But the darkness parted, showing hertwo faces close together, one old and withered and yellow, one young, butwhite and lined. At first she looked at them without recognition. Againshe felt the cold drops of water dashing against her cheeks and lips, andthen she knew Mrs. Brigg and Julian, and she saw her little room, andthat it was morning and light. They helped her to sit up. She glancedwearily towards the table. 

"What is it, Cuckoo?" Julian said. 

"Food; I'm starving, " she whispered, faintly. 

Horror was written on his face. 

"Starving! What the devil does she mean?"

He turned on Mrs. Brigg, who suddenly shrunk away muttering:

"I'll get something; breakfast--I'll get it. "

Julian looked dazed. He was only recovering gradually from his drunkenstupor. 

"Starving--starving, " he repeated, vacantly staring at Cuckoo, who saidnothing more, only lay back, trying to understand things, and to emergefrom the mists and noises in which she still seemed to be floating. Presently Mrs. Brigg returned and shuffled about the table with afurtive, contorted face, laying breakfast. The teapot smoked. 

"Come along, my dearie, " began the old creature. 

But Julian thrust her out of the room. He brought Cuckoo tea and food, fed her, put the cup to her lips. At first she had scarcely the strengthto swallow, but presently she began to revive, and then ate and drank soravenously that Julian, even in his vague condition, was appalled. 

"Good God, it's true!" he said. "Cuckoo starving!"

He sat by her turning this piercing matter over in his mind. Itsstrangeness helped to sober him. 

"You eat too, " she said. 

He shook his head. 

"Yes, yes, " she insisted feverishly. 

To pacify her he made a sort of attempt at breakfast, and felt the betterfor it. Together they progressed slowly towards the normal. At last themeal was over. Cuckoo lay back, feeling wonderfully better and calm andhappy. But Julian's eyes were searching hers insistently. 

"What have you been doing?" he said. "You've got to tell me. Starving!What's the meaning of it?"

His voice sounded almost angry and threatening. 

"I ain't got any money, " she said. 

"Why?"

She didn't answer. 

"Why--I say?" he repeated. 

"Because I've given up the street, " she said simply. 

"Given up the street--Cuckoo!"

He laid his hand down heavily upon one of hers. 

"Since when?"

"Oh--a little while. It don't matter how long. "

He sat glancing about the room. 

"Where's Jessie?" he asked suddenly. 

Cuckoo burst out crying. 

"I had to--I had to, " she sobbed. 

"To do what?"

"To part with her. "

"What! You've sold Jessie!"

Julian stood up. This last fact struck right home to him, banishing allhis vagueness, setting his mind on its feet firmly. 

"Jessie sold!" he exclaimed again, in a loud voice. "Cuckoo, why have youdone this? Tell me--tell me at once. "

She strove to control her sobs. 

"I didn't know what to do to get you away from him, " she said presently, flushing scarlet. "I didn't never see you; I didn't know where you was. Iknew as you didn't like me going on the street. Once you asked me not to. Remember?"

Julian nodded, with a piercing gaze on her. 

"So--so thinks I--I'll keep away; p'rhaps it'll get him back. "

"Me?"

He sat down with a white face. All about him there was flame. He seemedto understand what he had never understood before, the wonder of the ladyof the feathers, the mystery that had drawn him so strangely to her. Hecaught her in his arms. 

"Oh, Cuckoo, Cuckoo, " he said, brokenly. "You love me. "

He laid his lips on hers, and pressed her mouth in a passion of emotionthat was almost an assault. And still the fire was about him. She clungto him with her thin arms. 

"That's it, " she whispered, in reply to his words. 

Julian held her in silence, felt her heart beating, the piteous tenuityof her little body, the weak grasp of her arms round him. These thingsbroke upon him one by one with a crescendo of meaning that came like agreat revelation, came to him shod with flame, winged with flame, movingin flame, warm like flame. 

"You starved for me, sold Jessie for me, " he whispered. "How I love you!How I love you!"

And he crushed her close in an embrace that was almost brutal. 

The door bell rang. Julian let Cuckoo go. 

"He has come for me, " he said. 

She knew it too, and looked at him with a piteous, greedy questioning. 

"I hate him now, " he said in answer. 

The door of the room opened. They both turned towards it. Valentineentered. 

"I thought I should find you here, " he said, stopping near the door. "Areyou better, Julian?"

"Better?"

"Last night you were not yourself. "

"I have not been myself for a long time, " Julian replied. 

"I had not noticed any change. "

Julian made no reply. A dogged expression had come into his face. He wasstill sitting close to Cuckoo. Now he took her hand in his. As he did so, Valentine moved a little nearer, as if urged by a sudden impulse. He bentdown to gaze into Cuckoo's face, and uttered a short exclamation. 

"The battle!" he said. 

An expression almost of awe had come into his eyes, and for a moment hehesitated, even half turned as if to slink away. But then, with a strongeffort, he recovered himself and again fixed his eyes on Julian. 

"Come, Julian!" he said. 

"I will not come. "

"I have a cab here waiting. " Valentine spoke with an iron calm. "We hadarranged to go to Magdalen's. "

Julian uttered an oath. 

"That devil!" he exclaimed. "I won't go to her. I am half dead. I amkilling myself. "

He pulled himself up short, then cried out savagely, and halfdespairingly:

"No, by God, you are killing me!"

He began to tremble, and looked towards Cuckoo as a man looks who seeksfor refuge. 

"You are treating me very strangely, Julian, " Valentine said frigidly. "Last night you were drunk. You seemed to take me for some enemy, andstruck me. Many men would resent your conduct. I am too much yourfriend. "

"You--my friend!" Julian exclaimed bitterly. 

"You!"

Abruptly he sprang up, tearing his hand out of Cuckoo's. He went over toValentine and stared with a passion of perplexity and of loathing intohis eyes. 

"What, in God's name, are you?" he said, in an uncertain voice. "Are youman or devil? You are not Valentine--not the man I loved. I'll swear it. You are some damned stranger, and I have lived with you"--he shudderedirrepressibly--"and never knew it till now. "

"You say I am a stranger?"

"Yes, with the face of my friend. "

"How can that be?"

Again a misery of confusion and of fear swept over Julian. 

"Whence did I come, then?" Valentine asked. 

He began to have the air of a man bent on some revelation. An immensepower infused itself through him. His blue eyes were utterly fearless. The moment of open battle had come at last. Well, he would not attemptto avoid it, to gain further uneasy peace. He would strike a final blow, secure of his own victory. 

And Cuckoo sat watching silently. She remembered the night on whichValentine had half revealed the mystery to her, who could not understandit. Was he about to reveal it now to Julian? Her eyes flamed witheagerness, and again Valentine looked into them and faltered for amoment. Then he turned resolutely away from her, as if he gave his wholeheart and soul to the business before him, to this Julian who at lastbegan to shrink from him, to feel terror at his approach, even torepudiate him. 

"From what have I come, then?" he repeated. 

Julian paused, as if he sought an answer, looking backwards into thepast. Suddenly he cried:

"From that trance! Yes; it was then. That flame going away, it was--itmust have been--Valentine. "

"You talk like a madman. "

But Julian did not heed the sneer. He was passionately engrossed bythe flood of thoughts that had come to him. He was struggling to wakefinally from the dreary and infamous dream in which he had beenwalking--deceived, tricked, tyrant-ridden--for so long. 

"But then Valentine is dead, " he cried. 

His face went white. He sank down, clinging suddenly to Cuckoo. 

"Dead!" he repeated in a whisper. 

The girl's touch was strangely warm on his hands, like fire. He looked upinto her eyes, seeking passionately for that flame that now he beganvaguely to connect with the Valentine he had lost. 

"Or is he--?"

Julian hesitated, still gazing at the white and weary face of Cuckoo. Suddenly Valentine said loudly:

"You are right. He is dead. "

He laughed aloud. 

"I killed him, " he said, "when I took his place. Julian, you shallknow now, what the lady of the feathers knows already, what a humanwill can do, when it is utterly content with itself, when it is trained, developed, perfected. I came through Marr to Valentine. I was Marr. "

"Marr!" Julian said slowly. "You!"

"And Marr, too, was my prey. Like Valentine he was not content withhimself. His weakness of discontent was my opportunity. I expelled hiswill, for mine was stronger than his. I lived in his body until the timecame for me to be with you. Have you ever read of vampires?"

Julian muttered a hoarse assent. He seemed bound by a strange spell, inert, paralysed almost. 

"There are vampires in the modern world who feed, not upon bodies, butupon souls, wills. And each soul they feed upon gives to them greaterstrength, a longer reign upon the earth. Who knows? One of them intime may compass eternity. "

He seemed to tower up in the little room, to blaze with triumph. 

"When you see a man go down, sink into the mire, and you say, 'He isweak--he has come under a bad influence'--it is a vampire who feeds uponhis soul, who sucks the blood of his will. Sometimes the vampire comes inhis own form, sometimes he wears a mask--the mask of a friend's form andface. The influences that wreck men are the vampires of the soul at work, Julian, at work. "

His face was terrible. Julian shrank from it. He turned to Cuckoo. 

"They feed on women too, " he said. "On the souls of women. Men say thatmagic is a dream and a chimera. Women say that miracles are past, or thatthere never were such things. But the power of sin is magical. The deathof beauty and of innocence in a soul is a miracle. My power over you, Julian, is magic. The bondage of your soul to mine is a miracle. Comewith me. "

"I will not come. "

But Julian's face, his whole attitude, betokened the most piteous anddegraded irresolution. This man, this creature, governed him despitehimself. He felt once more for the hand of Cuckoo, and finding it, spokeagain more firmly:

"I'll not come, " he said. "I'll stay with her. I love her. "

Valentine cast a malign glance upon Cuckoo, but again fear seemed to drawnear to him. He made no answer. 

"Only once I'll come, " Julian said. "To-night. I lost Valentine in thedark. In the dark I'll seek for him, I'll find him again. Cuckoo shallcome too, and the doctor. That flame--it went into the air. I'll findit--I'll find it again. "

"Come, then--seek it--seek Valentine. But I, too, was with you in thedark. And in the dark I will destroy you. Till to-night then, Julian!"

He turned and went out. 

CHAPTER IX

THE LAST SITTING

That evening Julian drove Cuckoo down Victoria Street. On the waythey scarcely spoke. The doctor, summoned by a messenger, was therebefore them. He, although ignorant of what had passed been Julian andValentine, was deeply expectant. Cuckoo was exhausted by the sleeplessnight of her vigil over Julian, and by the severe joy, almost like pain, that had burst upon her with his avowal and with his savage embrace. 

When she entered the tentroom followed by Julian, she looked like ashadow gliding wearily through twilight. The doctor was there withValentine. Valentine's face was gay. His manner was ardent, almosttempestuous. The clear calmness so generally characteristic of him hadvanished, swept away by the flood of his triumph perhaps. Julian seemednervous, and his appearance was so haggard as to be engrossing to any onewho was observant. There was a hunted, fearful look in his eyes. Hishands were never for a moment still. He kept close to Cuckoo. He evenheld her hands as he sat by her, and she felt that his were burning hot. He scarcely noticed the doctor, who observed him closely. Valentinewatched his feverish excitement with laughing eyes. Of those four peoplehe alone seemed entirely untouched by any deep emotion, entirely masterof himself. For even Doctor Levillier was curiously moved that night, andwas unable to suppress every trace of abnormal emotion. 

They sat down. There were no flowers in the room. Valentine explainedthat he had remembered Cuckoo's fainting fit and feared its renewal. 

"I am afraid you are still scarcely yourself, " he added, with asolicitude that was too elaborate to be agreeable. "You are lookingpale and tired. You are sure to sleep again. "

"I'll not sleep to-night, " she answered, showing none of her usual fearof him. 

The assertion of her will, her momentary rescue of Julian, Julian'savowed love for her, his clinging to her as to a refuge--all thesethings, so Cuckoo thought, built up in her a great fearlessness. In herbodily weakness she felt strong. Her faded, weakly frame held now a largespirit of which she was finely conscious. And she attributed this leapingspirit, so brave, so intense to these things, these facts of which shecould make a list. She did not know that behind them all there was amotive power inspiring her, through them perhaps, but of itself. Howoften is the power behind the throne unsuspected, unheeded. Cuckoo didnot recognize it in this crisis, although there had been moments in thepast when the murmur of its voice had stolen upon her and stirred her towonder and to perturdation. And Valentine, to whom the combat came, sawnot his real foe. And Julian looked only into Cuckoo's faded eyes forrefuge, for comfort. And Doctor Levillier--? At present he could onlywait patiently in the hope, doubtful, fragmentary of revelation. 

Conversation that night was uneasy and disjointed. Cuckoo's defianceof Valentine was fully apparent. Julian's fear, obviously grown up tohatred, of his former friend shone clearly. There was a nakedness aboutthe manners of both tired woman and shattered man that was disquietingand unusual. Valentine did not seem to notice it or to be moved about it. If anything, it might be supposed to add to his pleasure an unnaturalrevelry in being hated. Doctor Levillier, glancing from him to Julian, found him self-involved in remembrances of Rip and Valentine. The terrorand the hate of the dog seemed to be reproduced vividly in the terror andthe hate of the man. Valentine watched both with smiling eyes and drewdraughts of power from that fountain of horror. 

At last conversation failed entirely. Julian was half stretched on thedivan, gazing at Cuckoo as one who aspires to salvation. It was apparentthat he was fully awake to the terror of his own situation; that hepierced the depths of the abyss into which he had fallen, in which he laycrippled, prisoned, ruined. Yet a hope had dawned on him with the dawningof the full knowledge of his fall, of his fantastic self-deception. Thegreat love in this woman's eyes shone down into the abyss, shone fromthat face pinched by starvation. There was Heaven in it. There was theflame. Yes, he saw it now, not literally as in the past days, when itsmystery had plunged him in awe, when its presence had touched him with agreat fear, but imaginatively, as men see flames of help, and of faith, and of purity, shining in the eyes of the good women they worship, withthe reverence of earth for the distant wonder of the sky. He saw it nowwithout fear, but with a passion of desire, a sharp consciousness of hisdegradation, that swept over him like a storm. And even yet, in this newknowledge, this rapture of awakening, he was still a bond slave, orfeared he was, to this stranger with the face of a friend, this enemywith the presence of his former guardian angel. Only Cuckoo could savehim, he said to himself, if indeed the day of salvation were not longago past--only Cuckoo. For despite her many sins, the flame shone in hereyes. And where the flame shone there alone was even the shadow of help, a shadow within the shadow of those eyes. 

In the silence that had come upon his guests, Valentine turned to them, and said:

"We are supposed to be here for a sitting. Well, shall we have it?"

"Yes--yes, " Julian said, "a last sitting. "

"Why--last?"

Julian sat up on the divan, and his hands were clenched on the cushions. 

"Because if nothing happens to-night I'll give it up. I'll never sitagain. And if Cuckoo sleeps--"

He paused. 

"She will sleep, " Valentine said. "I have the power to make her. "

"No, " said Cuckoo. 

"Don't you think so, doctor?"

"It seemed so the other night, " the doctor answered. 

"And with each sitting my power will increase. Do you hear, Julian?"

"You're very fond of talking about your power, " Julian said, roughly. 

"No. But I may be very fond of exercising it. Why help me, then, bysitting?"

He spoke in a bantering tone. Julian began to look doubtful. Could itbe that all was changed, that there was only danger in this act, that togrope thus in the darkness for lost hope, lost safety, a lost Valentine, with love, trust, beauty, still clinging about him, was to stumblefurther into a deepening night? It might be so. And if Cuckoo slept--!

Valentine smiled at this wavering approach of indecision. But DoctorLevillier said, decisively:

"I wish to sit. It interests me. Send me to sleep, too, if you can, Cresswell. "

"I will, " Valentine answered, lightly. "Come. "

The doctor saw him standing for a moment in the light, with a gloryof power and of triumph upon his face, and remembered that glory, evenseemed to see it, a clear vision, when darkness filled the room. 

Out of the darkness came the murmur of a voice. 

"The last sitting, " it said. 

Julian was the speaker. Nobody replied. Silence followed. As before, the doctor sat between Julian and Valentine and touched their hands. Asbefore, the darkness, and this mutual act in it, developed in him thefaculty of hearing, or of thinking he heard, the voices of the thoughtsof his companions. So far this night echoed the last night of the year. Would it echo that night farther still to the ultimate notes of thismusic of minds? The doctor wondered. He was soon to know. 

Once again the notes of Valentine's Litany stole upon his heart. Andto-night they seemed to him louder, more strident than before, as ifblared from a soul that held a veritable brass band of shrill egoismwithin it. The doctor listened. He remembered presently that the formerLitany had been broken sometimes, hesitating, that Valentine had beenassailed by vague fears that stole upon him like ghosts from the lady ofthe feathers. To-night those little ghosts were laid. They came not. Itseemed that Valentine had conquered them. No longer did they crowd tohear the bold fury of the Litany. No longer dared even one to creep alongalone to bend and to listen. The doctor knew then that this night was notdestined to be a mere echo of its fore-runner. It was at first as ifValentine had closed the rift in his lute, had bridged the gulf betweenhis trial and his triumph. A tremendous sadness came upon the doctor withthis thought, enveloping him in a cloud of cold. His heart fainted withinhim, as at some great catastrophe. He could have wept like a man whofinds the trust of his life ill-founded, the faith in which he has dweltbuilded upon the quicksand. He fancied that Valentine instantly becameaware of his distress, and that the knowledge swelled the mighty tide ofthe music of the Litany. And this thought struck him and roused the manin him, like the call of circumstance on valour, crying: "Will a man saythat anything is irrevocable, while there is breath in him to give thebattle-cry, strength in him to stir a limb?" Then the faintness left himwith the demeanour of that which is ashamed. The cold cloud evaporated. He heard the Litany without fear, but with a great desire to strike alightning silence through it, with a fine hatred that destroyed hisformer hopelessness. This blatant will that sang ever the song of self, that had no desire but to itself, no glory but in its own deeds, noaim but to impress itself upon some slave, some Julian of this world, stood before the doctor's imagination like a personality, a devilembodied, --more, like the devil of whom men and women speak, against whomreligion prays, and strives and rears great churches, and consecratespriests. Egoism developed to the utmost limits, is that the Devil? Thedoctor asked himself the question, and the great shadow that dogs thesteps of life went by him on its black mission in the likeness ofValentine singing. And all the modern world stood still to hear andwhispered: "Hark! It is an angel singing! If we but echo the song wetouch the stars. If we but echo the song we, who are weary of time, shallknow eternity. If we but echo the song we shall lay grief to rest beneathmany roses, and draw from its sculptured sepulchre the radiant form ofjoy. We shall sing that we shall be great. " And the modern world liftedup its voice, and when it sang, harmony was slain by discord. 

The doctor shuddered, seeing an inferno of many circles. But the cowardin him did not rise again. There was the gleam of a distant light uponhim, unquenchable and serene. He doubted the eternity of the triumph ofthis Valentine, though he knew not why he doubted, nor upon what hisdoubts were based. 

And as this doubt, which was a faith, blossomed within him he had a fancythat the music of the Litany wavered, faltered--that through it ran athrill like a faint shadow of some dull despair. 

At this moment Valentine spoke in the darkness. 

"What are you doing, Julian?" he asked, quickly. 

"Nothing, " Julian answered. 

"I heard you whisper. "

"I only said something to Cuckoo. "

"We must not talk. Let us link our fingers instead of only touching eachother. "

They all did so and were silent once more. 

 * * * * *

And now a fear seized the doctor. He became aware that a drowsy spiritlike the little sandman who threw the dust of slumber into the eyes ofthe children stole round the circle. In his hands were poppy-seeds andopiates, and his touch was magical with sleep. Valentine had surelyevoked him by a strange effort of will. He came, and his feet were shodso that he moved without noise. He filled the atmosphere with heaviness, and with a murmurous melody, like the melody of the drooping streams thathang their silver ribands over the hills of the far Lotus land. Passingthe doctor, he stole to the place where Cuckoo sat between Julian andValentine. And then he paused. The doctor divined his mission, to weavea veil and cast a cloud of sleep around the lady of the feathers. Theweariness of Cuckoo's life lay like a burden upon her, a heavy burdento-night, despite the wild wakefulness of her spirit, the passion ofher answered love, the strength of her resolution, the purity that drewnear to her at last with ivory wings along the miry ways. She, who was atlast awake, and conscious of the glory of a woman's will to rescue and toshelter, was to sleep again. The sentinel was to be overcome at her post, that the enemy might penetrate the lines and seize the citadel. How heavythe air was! To the doctor it seemed alive with sleep, as the waters ofthe great sea are alive with death for the sailor who sinks down in them. He saw the weaving of the veil that was dropping gently round Cuckoo. Hesaw the cloud shrouding her in a scarcely palpable mist. Or was it hisdream? Or was it his fancy? For it was dark. There stood the tiny, obstinate spirit by Cuckoo's side. His hands touched her forehead, andtouched her white and weary eyelids, and the doctor knew that all thefatigues of her life trooped together, as at a word of command, and cameupon her to conquer her. They pressed round, nameless wearinesses inducedby acts which had made Cuckoo that which she was. And they seemed towhisper to her: "You cannot fight. You cannot protect--it is all over. You can only sleep--you can only sleep. Sleep! You are so weary. Sleep, for life, which has taken everything else from you, has left you that. "Cuckoo's face was white with the story of her life, and with the wonderof her recent self-denial, and with the memory of her martyrdom when thelittle old man of the many dogs shuffled to the door, bearing from herthe friend of her loneliness. Her eyes were hollow and desolate. Itseemed that she gave heed to the voices and listened to the beautifullegend of the magic and the holiness of sleep. And as she seemed togive heed, the devil of the egoism of Valentine rose again before thedoctor, sharply outlined and distinct, and smiled with the triumph ofthe egoism--that modern vampire--of all the world, terrificallyunconquerable. Would Cuckoo sleep? The doctor debated this questionsilently and with an agony of anxiety. He felt as if the fate of worldshung upon it, and the destinies of kings. 

Would she sleep?

The obstinate spirit stood by her always, and the song of Valentine was aprocession of triumph in the night. 

 * * * * *

Julian's thoughts broke upon the doctor fiercely, and swept him from hiscontemplation of Cuckoo. No drowsy poppy-bed was Julian's. The shadowyspirit of sleep strove not to influence him. No opiates gave him peace. No veil of gentle forgetfulness descended upon him. He was a human beingplunged in the deepest abyss of fate, beneath the range of the starlightand the gaze of other worlds. He was trembling, stretching out his feeblehands in the blackness for guidance, sick with apprehension, betrayed, deluded. And now he began to writhe in the grasp of a new terror, for itseemed to the doctor that he, too, was conscious of the obstinate spiritthat stood beside Cuckoo, and that he dreaded the approach of his doom inher slumber. He, too, murmured silently, "Will she sleep? Will shesleep?" If indeed she slept at the word of Valentine--Julian's last hopewas gone. For he had now concentrated himself almost utterly on Cuckoo. No longer did he draw near to her half in awe, half in derision, led toher by the presence of the flame that flickered, something strangelyapart from her, in her sad eyes. No longer did he set her and the flameapart. To him she was the flame, the only refuge, the only safety. For hesought the lost Valentine indeed, but with a strange hopelessness of everfinding him again. She must not sleep. She must not sleep. In her slumberthe flame would die down, flicker lower and lower to a spark, to grey, cold ashes. And Julian in his distraction thought of himself asinevitably lost should the flame die, should Cuckoo sleep, ruled byValentine. The fight was between Cuckoo, the flame, and Valentine. Everything else fell away and left Julian's world bare of all things savethis one contest. This the doctor learnt in the darkness. But still thespirit of sleep kept vigil by Cuckoo, and the air grew heavy and full ofslumber. 

The doctor began to feel that his own powers were being strenuouslyattacked. Inertia grew in his body. He sat almost like one paralyzed. Hislimbs, at first heavy as if loaded with intolerable weights, graduallybecame numb, until he was no longer aware of them. He seemed to be merelya live mind poised there in the darkness, striving against the power thatsought to sweep from its path all those that fought against it or dared, however feebly, to resist it. But his mind, poised thus in this strangecircle of slumber, came by imperceptible degrees to have a grip upon thepast. Imitating the mind that is enclosed within a drowning body, itgazed upon the wildly flitting pictures of the years that were gone. Regent Street by night rose up before it. The doctor saw, painted uponthe background of the dense gloom in which they sat, the huge and vacantthoroughfare in the last watch of the night. Faint figures wandered hereand there, or paused beneath the shadow of the tall blind houses, assuming postures of fatigue or of leering and attentive evil. But onemoved onward steadily, scarcely glancing to the right or to the left. Thedoctor's mind, watching, knew that this moving figure was himself, and, as if with bodily eyes, he marked its course down the long vista of thedim street until it passed into more private ways of the town. It passedinto more private ways, but not alone. A shadow followed it, and the faceof the shadow was turned away. The doctor could not see it, but thererose in him the horror and the fear which had attacked him long ago, whenhe turned to pursue the thing that dogged him in the darkness. And he sawthe shadow waver, pause, then turn to flee. And as it turned he thoughtthat it had the soul, though not the face, of the new Valentine. Thensuddenly a great anger against himself was born in him. Why had he beenso blind, so deceived? He might have protected Julian. But he, too, hadbeen a foolish victim of outward beauty, the prey of the glory of a face. He had not read the book of the heart. And other pictures succeeded thisvision of the streets and of the shadows that walk in them by night. Hesaw Valentine singing while he and Julian listened. And the eyes ofValentine were as the eyes of a saint, but now he knew that behind themcrouched a soul that was filled with evil. Slowly the air grew heavy. Slumber paced in the tiny room. The doctor struggled against it. But thecolours of the brain-pictures faded. He saw them still, but only as onesees the world in a fog; looming forms that have lost their truecharacter, that have assumed a vagueness of mystery, outlines at onceheavy and remote, suggestive yet indefinite. And still the spirit ofsleep keep vigil by Cuckoo. 

 * * * * *

There was a slight hoarse cry in the night. 

"What is that?" Valentine said, sharply. 

There was no reply. The doctor could have told him that the cry came fromJulian, and that the lady of the feathers, leaning low in her chair, hadpassed from consciousness into insensibility. 

The spirit of sleep stole away. His work was accomplished. Julian sankforward upon the table with a gesture of utter abnegation. He thoughtthat Cuckoo was dead. He felt that she was dead, as long ago he had feltthat his loved friend, that Valentine who had protected him and taughthim the right way of life, was dead in the night. 

Doctor Levillier seemed to see Rip crouching down against the wall. 

And now Valentine's will prepared to assert itself finally. It rose up totriumph as it had risen up to triumph over Rip. Was that struggle goingto be repeated? Nothing had intruded upon it except the marvelloustenacity of the dog, who had died rather than yield obedience, diedfighting. That tenacity surely did not dwell in the nerveless Julian, utterly despairing, utterly wrecked. 

The doctor trembled, feeling that the close of the strange mystery wasat hand. And as he trembled he seemed to see in the dense darkness atiny flame. It shivered up in the blackness where Cuckoo slept, movedaway from her, like a thing blown on a light wind, and flickered abovethe bowed, despairing head of Julian. And, as he watched it, wondering, the doctor was conscious once more that there was a new presence in theroom, something mysterious, intent, vehement, yet touched with a strangeand pathetic helplessness, something that cried against itself, somethingthat had suffered a martyrdom unknown, unequalled, in all the palehistory of the martyrdoms of the world. The doctor recalled the sittingof the former night and his impression then--and again he was governed bythe tragedy of this unknown soul. Its despair laid upon him cold hands. Its impotence crushed him. He could have wept and prayed for it. This wasfor a moment. Then a new wonder grew in him. His eyes were on the flamewhich burned above the bowed head of Julian, and presently, while hegazed, he seemed to see, beyond and through it--as one who peers througha lit window--the face of Valentine, the beautiful, calm, lofty Valentinewhom once he had loved. The face was white with a soft glory ofendurance, and the eyes smiled like the eyes of a great king. And thedoctor knew comfort. For this face, although marred by the shadow intensesuffering ever leaves behind it, was instinct with the majesty oftriumph. And the eyes were bent on Julian. Then Julian moved in thedarkness and looked upward, despair seeking hope. 

The man who sat by the doctor, and who was now nameless to him, wasfilled with a passionate fury. The doctor heard the Litany of his glorycease, and the long pulse of his heart throbbing with effort. His soulrose up, as the cruel spectre of the new Valentine had risen up to seizeupon Rip, and moved towards Julian to dominate him finally, to draw himinto its own eternal evil and pride and passion of degraded power. ButJulian stretched his arms towards the flame which drew its brightness andits force from Cuckoo sleeping. That was a last battle of souls, and theallegory of it came clearly to the doctor's mind. 

He divined, as in a vision, or as in a dream that is more real thanreality, the story of his friend, the true Valentine, whom he had loved. He remembered Valentine's dissatisfaction with the glory of his ownbeautiful nature, his mad desire to change it. That dissatisfaction, thatdesire, had been the opportunity of the enemy. The soul that sighed insorrow as it contemplated its own loveliness had been expelled by thesoul that was completely satisfied with its own hatefulness. The weaknessof the flame of purity had built up the strength of the flame ofimpurity. And so beauty was driven out to wander in the wilderness of theair, and ugliness dwelled in its body, its temple swept and garnished, like the seven devils of the Scripture. For how long a time had thewandering flame or soul of beauty been helpless, impotent, tortured bythe appalling deception of the soul of Julian, whom it could no longerprotect! Unable to be at rest, it had stayed to contemplate the drearylegend of Julian's gradual fall. It had seen his confidence in his lovefor the stranger whom he thought his friend and his protector. In thepale and delicate dawn, shrouded in the mystery of night and day, enclosed between the clasping hands of the angels of darkness and oflight, it had hung in the air above the solitary Julian, as he walkedhomeward after his vigil by the lifeless body of Valentine. With apassionate effort it had sought to draw him to a knowledge of the truth, that he might wake from the dream in which lay his insecurity, at lasthis tragic danger. And faintly, even as the first sunbeam it had dawnedupon him, once as he met the lady of the feathers, again as he bent hisgaze upon the theatrical glories that attended the apotheosis ofMargaret. And it had flickered behind the film of the tears in a woman'seyes, seeking to make itself known through the beauty of the love thatclung inexorably to the heart of Cuckoo in the midst of the degradationand the corruption of her fate. Cuckoo had given it a home. She wasalone. It approached her. She was an outcast. It stayed with her. Shewas beaten by the thongs of a world that teems with Pharisees. It clungto her. She had, through all her days and nights, been put only to theblack uses of evil. It sought to use her only for good. And now at lastit drew strength and power from the soul of the lady of the feathers. Andthe doctor knew that the secret of Cuckoo's grand influence to succourlay in her completeness. Degraded, wretched, soiled, ignorant, pentwithin the prison-house of lust--yet she loved completely. And becauseshe loved completely, the sad, wandering, driven soul of Valentine choseher from all the world to help him in the rescue of Julian. For she, likethe widow, had given her all to feed the poor. Her starvation had set heron high, more than the starvation and the mortification of saints andhermits. For they crucify the flesh for the good of their own souls. Cuckoo thought ever and only of another. She had betrayed Jessie andtouched the stars. Now in her slumber, physical allegory of herabnegation of self, she fought in this battle of the souls. 

The flame above the head of Julian grew brighter. The flame of Marr, striving with the fury of despair, flickered lower. 

Doctor Levillier held his breath and prayed. Again he thought of Rip. Would Julian too die rather than yield to the final grip of evil? Wouldhe die fighting?

 * * * * *

A strange thin cry broke through the silence. The doctor saw two flamesfloat up together through the darkness. They passed before the face ofCuckoo and were lost in the air above her. Two happy flames. 

She stirred suddenly and murmured. 

The thing that sat by the doctor sprang up. Light flashed through theroom. 

As it flashed the doctor leaned towards Julian, who lay forward with hisarms stretched along the table. 

He was dead. 

Valentine--the spirit, at least, that had usurped the body ofValentine--stood looking down upon Julian, dead, in silence. 

Then it turned upon the doctor. The doctor stood up as one that nerveshimself to meet a great horror. 

He watched the light fade out of the eyes of this horror, the expressionslink from the features, the breath remove from the lips, the pulsescease in the veins and arteries, until an image, some lifeless andstaring idol, stood before him. 

It swayed. It tottered. It fell, crumpling itself together like thingsthat return to dust. The flesh, formerly kept alive by the spirit, nowdeserted finally by that which had dwelt within it and sought to use itfor destruction, went down to death. 

Then the lady of the feathers awoke at last from her sleep. The doctorbent over her and took her hands in his. It seemed to him that she hadwon a great battle. He felt awestruck as he looked into her eyes. Hetried to speak to her, but no words came to him except these, which hemurmured at last below his breath:

"Your victory. "

Cuckoo looked up at him. Her eyes were still lightly clouded with sleep, but they were smiling, as if they had been gazing upon the face ofbeauty. 

For how long had Cuckoo slept? Surely through all the length of her life, through all the tears that she had shed, through all the sad deeds thatshe had committed! Now, at last, she woke. 

Her slumber had been as the deep slumber of death. 

And from death do we not awake to a new understanding and to a new world?