[Illustration: It was his great arms that lifted her feather-weight withextraordinary sureness and gentleness. (_See page 165_)]

JAFFERY

BY

WILLIAM J. LOCKE

ILLUSTRATIONS BYF. MATANIA

NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY

1915

Press ofJ. J. Little & Ives CompanyNew York, U. S. A. 

TO MY WIFE

This book on which it has pleased you to bestow your especial affectionI dedicate to you with my love. It is a memory of many happy hours andmany dreams that we have shared. 

You remember how it was begun, one spring morning two years ago, withthe opening scene of the first chapter gay before my eyes as I wrote. You remember the excitement of ending it before the Christmas of 1913;so that we could start with free consciences, early in the New Year, onour Egyptian journey. 

_C'est bien loin, tout cela_! War overtook it in its serial course; andnow, in book form, it must go out to the world as an expression of themoods and fancies almost of a past incarnation. 

These dream figures with whom we delighted, like children, to people ourhome, are now replaced by other guests tragically real, as big-heartedas those most loved of our shadow-folk. Yet sometimes they seem still tolive. . . . While correcting the final proofs we have been tempted tomodify the end, to bring the story of Jaffery more or less up to date;but we have felt that any addition would be out of key, so far are wefrom that happy Christmastide when, in gaiety of heart, I wrote the lastwords. 

Yet we know, you and I, that Jaffery Chayne is even now over there, across the Channel; no longer writing of war, but doing his soldier'swork in the thick of it, like a gallant gentleman. And don't you feelthat one day he will come again and we shall hear his mighty voicethundering across the lawn. . . ?

W. J. L. 

ILLUSTRATIONS

 FACING PAGE

It was his great arms that lifted her feather-weight withextraordinary sureness and gentleness _Frontispiece_

Where the lonely figure in black and white sat brooding 64

Jaffery, considerably disconcerted, handled the cleek 78

He drew out a great thick clump of galley-proofs 186

"Go! You're nothing but a brute" 228

Before I realized the danger . . . I was flung aside 300

And there, in a wilderness of ransacked drawers andstrewn papers, . . . Lay a tiny, black, moaningheap of a woman 316

There is war going on in the Balkans. Jaffery is thereas war correspondent. Liosha is there, too 350

THEWILLIAM J. LOCKEYEAR-BOOK

A _bon-mot_ for each day inevery year, selected fromthis popular author's works. 

_Decorated Cloth. $1. 00 net_

CHAPTER I

I received a letter the day before yesterday from my old friend, JafferyChayne, which has inspired me to write the following account of thatdear, bull-headed, Pantagruelian being. I must say that I have beenegged on to do so by my wife, of whom hereafter. A man of my somewhaturbane and dilettante temperament does not do these things without beingworried into them. I had the inspiration, however. I told Barbara (mywife), and she agreed, at the time, dutifully, that I ought to recordour friend Jaffery's doings. But now, womanlike, she declares that thefirst suggestion, the root germ of the idea, came from her; that the"egging on" is merely the vain man's way of misdefining a woman's sereneinsistence; that she has given me, out of her intimate knowledge, allthe facts of the story--although Jaffery Chayne and Adrian Boldero andpoor Tom Castleton, and others involved in the imbroglio, countedthemselves as my bosom cronies, while she, poor wretch (a man must gethome somewhere), was in the nursery; and that, finally, if she had beentaught English grammar and spelling at school, she would have dispensedentirely with my pedantic assistance and written the story herself. Anyhow, man-like, I am broad minded enough to proclaim that it doesn'tvery much matter. Man and wife are one. She thinks they are one wife. Iknow they are one husband. Between speculation and knowledge why sofutile a thing as a quarrel? I proceed therefore to my originallyself-appointed and fantastic task. 

But on reflection, before beginning, I must honestly admit that if ithad not been for Barbara I should write of these things withhalf-knowledge. Sex is a queer and incalculable solvent of humanconfidence. There are certain revelations that men will make only to aman, certain revelations likewise that women will make only to a man. Onthe other hand, a woman is told things by her sister women and herbrother men which, but for her, would never reach a man's ears. So bycombining the information obtained from our family encyclopædia underthe feminine heading of China with that obtained under the masculineheading of Philosophy, I can, figuratively speaking, like the famousstudent, issue my treatise on Chinese Philosophy. 

 * * * * *

One miraculous morning in late May, not so very many years ago, when theparrot-tulips in my garden were expanding themselves wantonly to thesun, and the lilac and laburnum which I caught, as I sat at my table, with the tail of one eye, and the pink may which I caught with the tailof the other, bloomed in splendid arrogance, my quiet outlook ongreenery and colour was obscured by a human form. I may mention that mystudy-table is placed in the bay of a window, on the ground floor. It isa French window, opening on a terrace. Beyond the parapet of theterrace, the garden, with its apple and walnut trees, its beeches, itslawn, its beds of tulips, its lilac and laburnum and may and all sortsof other pleasant things, slopes lazily upwards to a horizon of ironrailings separating the garden from a meadow where now and then a cow, when she desires to be peculiarly agreeable to the sight, poses herselfin silhouette against the sky. I like to gaze on that adventitious cow. Her ruminatory attitude falls in with mine. . . . But I digress. . . . 

I glanced up at the obscuring human form and recognized my wife. Shelooked, I must confess, remarkably pretty, with her fair hair _blondcomme les blés_, and her mocking cornflower blue eyes, and her mutinousmouth, which has never yet (after all these years) assumed a responsibleparent's austerity. She wore a fresh white dress with coquettish bits ofblue about the bodice. In her hand she grasped a dilapidated newspaper, the _Daily Telegraph_, which looked as if she had been to bed in it. 

"Am I disturbing you, Hilary?"

She was. She knew she was. But she looked so charming, a petal ofspring, a quick incarnation of pink may and forget-me-not and laburnum, that I put down my pen and I smiled. 

"You are, my dear, " said I, "but it doesn't matter. "

"What are you doing?" She remained on the threshold. 

"I am writing my presidential address, " said I, "for the Grand Meeting, next month, of the Hafiz Society. "

"I wonder, " said Barbara, "why Hafiz always makes me think of sherbet. "

I remonstrated, waving a dismissing hand. 

"If that's all you've got to say--"

"But it isn't. "

She crossed the threshold, stepped in, swished round the end of my longoak table and took possession of my library. I wheeled round politely inmy chair. 

"Then, what is it?" I asked. 

"Have you read the paper this morning?"

"I've glanced through the _Times_, " said I. 

She patted her handful of bedclothing and let fall a blanket and abed-spread or two--("Look at my beautifully, orderly folded _Times_, "said I, with an indicatory gesture) She looked and sniffed--and shedVallombrosa leaves of the _Daily Telegraph_ about the library until shehad discovered the page for which she was searching. Then she held amangled sheet before my eyes. 

"There!" she cried, "what do you think of that?"

"What do I think of what?" I asked, regarding the acre of print. 

"Adrian Boldero has written a novel!"

"Adrian?" said I. "Well, my dear, what of it? Poor old Adrian is capableof anything. Nothing he did would ever surprise me. He might write asonnet to a Royal Princess's first set of false teeth or steal the tincup from a blind beggar's dog, and he would be still the same beautiful, charming, futile Adrian. "

Barbara pished and insisted. "But this is apparently a wonderful novel. There's a whole column about it. They say it's the most astounding bookpublished in our generation. Look! A work of genius. "

"Rubbish, darling, " said I, knowing my Adrian. 

"Take the trouble to read the notice, " said Barbara, thrusting the paperat me in a superior manner. 

I took it from her and read. She was right. Somebody calling himselfAdrian Boldero had written a novel called "The Diamond Gate, " which ausually sane and distinguished critic proclaimed to be a work of genius. He sketched the outline of the story, indicated its peculiar wonder. Thereview impressed me. 

"Barbara, my dear, " said I, "this is somebody else--not our Adrian. "

"How many people in the world are called Adrian Boldero?"

"Thousands, " said I. 

She pished again and tossed her pretty head. 

"I'll go and telephone straight away to Adrian and find out all aboutit. "

She departed through the library door into the recesses of the housewhere the telephone has its being. I resumed consideration of mypresidential address. But Hafiz eluded me, and Adrian occupied mythoughts. I took up the paper and read the review again; and the more Iread, the more absurd did it seem to me that the author of "The DiamondGate" and my Adrian Boldero could be one and the same person. 

You see, we had, all four of us, Adrian, Jaffery Chayne, Tom Castletonand myself, been at Cambridge together, and formed after the manner ofyouth a somewhat incongruous brotherhood. We knew one another'sshortcomings to a nicety and whenever three of the quartette weregathered together, the physical prowess, the morals and the intellectualcapacity of the absent fourth were discussed with admirable lack ofreticence. So it came to pass that we gauged one another prettyaccurately and remained devoted friends. There were other men, ofcourse, on the fringe of the brotherhood, and each of us had our littleseparate circle; we did not form a mutual admiration society andadvertise ourselves as a kind of exclusive, Athos, Porthos, Aramis andd'Artagnan swashbucklery; but, in a quiet way, we recognised ourquadruple union of hearts, and talked amazing rubbish and committedunspeakable acts of lunacy and dreamed impossible dreams in a verydelightful, and perhaps unsuspected, intimacy. We were now in our middleand late thirties--all save poor Tom Castleton, over whom, in an aliengrave, the years of the Lord passed unheeded. Poor old chap! He was theson of the acting-manager of a well-known theatre and used to talk to usof the starry theatre-folk, his family intimates, as though they werehaphazard occupants of an omnibus. How we envied him! And he was foreverwriting plays which he read to us; which plays, I remember, were alwayson the verge of being produced by Irving. We believed in him firmly. Healone of the little crew had a touch of genius. 

Blond, bull-necked Jaffery who rowed in the college boat, and wouldcertainly have got his blue if he had been amenable to discipline and, because he was not, got sent down ingloriously from the University atthe beginning of his third year, certainly did not show a sign of it. Adrian was a bit unaccountable. He wrote poems for the Cambridge Review, and became Vice-President of the Union; but he ran disastrously to fancywaistcoats, and shuddered at Dickens because his style was not that ofWalter Pater. For myself, Hilary Freeth--well--I am a happy nonentity. Ihave a very mild scholarly taste which sufficient private means, accruing to me through my late father's acumen in buying a few founder'sshares in a now colossal universal providing emporium, enable me togratify. I am a harmless person of no account. But the other threemattered. They were definite--Jaffery, blatantly definite; AdrianBoldero, in his queer, silky way, incisively definite; Tom Castleton, romantically definite. And poor old Tom was dead. Dear, impossible, feckless fellow. He took a first class in the Classical Tripos and wethought his brilliant career was assured--but somehow circumstancesbaffled him; he had a terrible time for a dozen years or so, takingpupils, acting, free-lancing in journalism, his father having, in themeanwhile, died suddenly penniless; and then Fortune smiled on him. Hesecured a professorship at an Australian University. The three ofus--Jaffery and Adrian and I--saw him off at Southampton. He neverreached Australia. He died on the voyage. Poor old Tom!

So I sat, with the review of Adrian's book before me, looking out at myPleasant garden, and my mind went irresistibly back to the old days andthen wandered on to the present. Tom was dead: I flourished, acomfortable cumberer of the earth; Jaffery was doing somethingidiotically desperate somewhere or the other--he was a war-correspondentby trade (as regular an employment as that of the maker of hot-crossbuns), and a desperado by predilection--I had not heard from him for ayear; and now Adrian--if indeed the Adrian Boldero of the review washe--had written an epoch-making novel. 

But Adrian--the precious, finnikin Adrian--how on earth could he havewritten this same epoch-making novel? Beyond doubt he was a cleverfellow. He had obtained a First Class in the Law Tripos and had donewell in his Bar examination. But after fourteen years or so he wasmaking twopence halfpenny per annum at his profession. He made anotherthree-farthings, say, by selling elegant verses to magazines. He dinedout a great deal and spent much of his time at country houses, being avery popular and agreeable person. His other means of livelihoodconsisted of an allowance of four hundred a year made him by his mother. Beyond the social graces he had not distinguished himself. And now--

"It _is_ Adrian, " cried my wife, bursting into the library. "I knew itwas. He has had several other glorious reviews which we haven't seen. Isn't it splendid?"

Her eyes danced with loyalty and gladness. Now that I too knew it wasour Adrian I caught her enthusiasm. 

"Splendid, " I echoed. "To think of old Adrian making good at last! I'mmore than glad. Telephone at once, dear, for a copy of the book. "

"Adrian is bringing one with him. He's coming down to dine and stay thenight. He said he had an engagement, but I told him it was rubbish, andhe's coming. "

Barbara had a despotic way with her men friends, especially with Adrianand Jaffery, who, each after his kind, paid her very pretty homage. 

"And now, I've got a hundred things to do, so you must excuse me, " saidBarbara--for all the world as if I had invited her into my library andwas detaining her against her will. 

My reply was smilingly ironical. She disappeared. I returned to Hafiz. Soon a bumble-bee, a great fellow splendid in gold and black andcrimson, blundered into the room and immediately made furious racketagainst a window pane. Now I can't concentrate my mind on seriousthings, if there's a bumble-bee buzzing about. So I had to get up anddevote ten minutes to persuading the dunderhead to leave the glass andestablish himself firmly on the piece of paper that would waft him intothe open air and sunlight. When I lost sight of him in the glad greeneryI again came back to my work. But two minutes afterwards my little sevenyear old daughter, rather the worse for amateur gardening, and holding acage of white mice in her hand, appeared on the threshold, smiled at mewith refreshing absence of apology, darted in, dumped the white mice onan open volume of my precious Turner Macan's edition of Firdusi, andclambering into my lap and seizing pencil and paper, instantly ordainedmy participation in her favourite game of "head, body and legs. "

An hour afterwards a radiant angel of a nurse claimed her for purposesof ablution. I once more returned to Hafiz. Then Barbara put her head inat the door. 

"Haven't you thought how delighted Doria will be?"

"I haven't, " said I. "I've more important things to think about. "

"But, " said Barbara, entering and closing the door with softdeliberation behind her and coming to my side--"if Adrian makes a bigsuccess, they'll be able to marry. "

"Well?" said I. 

"Well, " said she, with a different intonation. "Don't you see?"

"See what?"

It is wise to irritate your wife on occasion, so as to manifest yoursuperiority. She shook me by the collar and stamped her foot. 

"Don't you care a bit whether your friends get married or not?"

"Not a bit, " said I. 

Barbara lifted the Macan's Firdusi, still suffering the desecration ofthe forgotten cage of white mice, onto my manuscript and hoisted herselfon the cleared corner of the table. 

"Doria is my dearest friend. She did my sums for me at school, althoughI was three years older. If it hadn't been for us, she and Adrian wouldnever have met. "

"That I admit, " I interrupted. "But having started on the path of crimewe're not bound to pursue it to the end. "

"You're simply horrid!" she cried. "We've talked for years of the sadstory of these two poor young things, and now, when there's a chance oftheir marrying, you say you don't care a bit!"

"My dear, " said I, rising, "what with you and Adrian and a bumble-beeand the child and two white mice, and now Doria, my morning's work isruined. Let us go out into the garden and watch the starlings resting inthe walnut trees. Incidentally we might discuss Doria and Adrian. "

"Now you're talking sense, " said Barbara. 

So we went into the garden--and discussed the formation next autumn of anew rose-bed. 

 * * * * *

By the afternoon train came Adrian, impeccably vestured and feverishwith excitement. Two evening papers which he brandished nervously, proclaimed "The Diamond Gate" a masterpiece. The book had been only outa week--(we country mice knew nothing of it)--and already, so hispublisher informed him, repeat orders were coming in from the librariesand distributing agents. 

"Wittekind, my publisher, declares it's going to be the biggest thing infirst novels ever known. And though I say it as shouldn't, dear oldHilary, "--he clapped me on the shoulder--"it's a damned fine book. "

I shall always remember him as he said this, in the pride of hismanhood, a defiant triumph in his eyes, his head thrown back, and asmile revealing the teeth below his well-trimmed moustache. He hadconquered at last. He had put poor old Jaffery and fortune-favoured mein the shade. At one leap he had mounted to planes beyond our dreams. All this his attitude betokened. He removed the hand from my shoulderand flourished it in a happy gesture. 

"My fortune's made, " he cried. 

"But, my dear fellow, " I asked, "why have you sprung this surprise onus? I had no idea you were writing a novel. "

He laughed. "No one had. Not even Doria. It was on her account I kept itsecret. I didn't want to arouse possible false hopes. It's very simple. Besides, I like being a dark horse. It's exciting. Don't you rememberhow paralysed you all were when I got my First at Cambridge? Everybodythought I hadn't done a stroke of work--but I had sweated like mad allthe time. "

This was quite true, the sudden brilliance of the end of Adrian'sUniversity career had dazzled the whole of his acquaintance. Barbara, impatient of retrospect, came to the all-important point. 

"How does Doria take it?"

He turned on her and beamed. He was one of those dapper, slim-built menwho can turn with quick grace. 

"She's as pleased as Punch. Gave it to old man Jornicroft to read andinsisted on his reading it. He's impressed. Never thought I had it inme. Can't see, however, where the commercial value of it comes in. "

"Wait till you show him your first thumping cheque, " sympathised mywife. 

"I'm going to, " he exclaimed boyishly. "I might have done it thisafternoon. Wittekind was off his head with delight and if I had askedhim to give me a bogus cheque for ten thousand to show to old manJornicroft, he would have written it without a murmur. "

"How much did he really write a cheque for this afternoon?" I asked, knowing (as I have said before) my Adrian. 

Barbara looked shocked. "Hilary!" she remonstrated. 

But Adrian laughed in high good humour. "He gave me a hundred pounds onaccount. "

"That won't impress Mr. Jornicroft at all, " said I. 

"It impressed my tailor, who cashed it, deducting a quarter of hisbill. "

"Do you mean to say, my dear Adrian, " I questioned, "that you went toyour tailor with a cheque for a hundred pounds and said, 'I want to payyou a quarter of what I owe you, will you give me change?'"

"Of course. "

"But why didn't you pass the cheque through your banking account andpost him your own cheque?"

"Did you ever hear such an innocent?" he cried gaily. "I wanted toimpress him, I did. One must do these things with an air. He stuffed mypockets with notes and gold--there has never been any one so all overmoney as I am at this particular minute--and then I gave him an orderfor half-a-dozen suits straight away. "

"Good God!" I cried aghast. "I've never had six suits of clothes at atime since I was born. "

"And more shame for you. Look!" said he, drawing my wife's attention tomy comfortable but old and deliberately unfashionable raiment. "I loveyou, my dear Barbara, but you are to blame. "

"Hilary, " said my wife, "the next time you go to town you'll orderhalf-a-dozen suits and I'll come with you to see you do it. Who is yourtailor, Adrian?"

He gave the address. "The best in London. And if you go to him on myintroduction--Good Lord!"--it seemed to amuse him vastly--"I can orderhalf-a-dozen more!"

All this seemed to me, who am not devoid of a sense of humour and anappreciation of the pleasant flippancies of life, somewhat futile andfrothy talk, unworthy of the author of "The Diamond Gate" and the loverof Doria Jornicroft. I expressed this opinion and Barbara, for once, agreed with me. 

"Yes. Let us be serious. In the first place you oughtn't to allude toDoria's father as 'old man Jornicroft. ' It isn't respectful. "

"But I don't respect him. Who could? He is bursting with money, butwon't give Doria a farthing, won't hear of our marriage, and practicallyforbids me the house. What possible feeling can one have for an oldinsect like that?"

"I've never seen any reason, " said Barbara, who is a brave little woman, "why Doria shouldn't run away and marry you. "

"She would like a shot, " cried Adrian; "but I won't let her. How can Iallow her to rush to the martyrdom of married misery on four hundred ayear, which I don't even earn?"

I looked at my watch. "It's time, my friends, " said I, "to dress fordinner. Afterwards we can continue the discussion. In the meanwhile I'llorder up some of the '89 Pol Roger so that we can drink to the successof the book. "

"The '89 Pol Roger?" cried Adrian. "A man with '89 Pol Roger in hiscellar is the noblest work of God!"

"I was thinking, " Barbara remarked drily, "of asking Doria to spend afew days here next week. "

"All I can say is, " he retorted, with his quick turn and smile, "thatyou are the Divinity Itself. "

So, a short time afterwards, a very happy Adrian sat down to dinner andbrought a cultivated taste to the appreciation of a now, alas!historical wine, under whose influence he expanded and told us of thegenesis and the making of "The Diamond Gate. "

Now it is a very odd coincidence, one however which had little, ifanything, to do with the curious entanglement of my friend's affairsinto which I was afterwards drawn, but an odd coincidence all the same, that on passing from the dining room with Adrian to join Barbara in thedrawing room, I found among the last post letters lying on the halltable one which, with a thrill of pleasure, I held up before Adrian'seyes. 

"Do you recognise the handwriting?"

"Good Lord!" cried he. "It's from Jaffery Chayne. And"--he scanned thestamp and postmark--"from Cettinje. What the deuce is he doing there?"

"Let us see!" said I. 

I opened the letter and scanned it through; then I read it aloud. 

 "Dear Hilary, "A line to let you know that I'm coming back soon. I haven't quite finished my job--"

 "What was his job?"

 "Heaven knows, " I replied. "The last time I heard from him he was cruising about the Sargasso Sea. "

 I resumed my reading. 

 "--for the usual reason, a woman. If it wasn't for women what a thundering amount of work a man could get through. Anyhow--I'm coming back, with an encumbrance. A wife. Not my wife, thank Olympus, but another man's wife--"

 "Poor old devil!" cried Adrian. "I knew he would come a mucker one of these days!"

 "Wait, " said I, and I read--

 "--poor Prescott's wife. I don't think you ever knew Prescott, but he was a good sort. He died of typhoid. Only quaggas and yaks and other iron-gutted creatures like myself can stand Albania. I'm escorting her to England, so look out for us. How's everybody? Do you ever hear of Adrian? If so, collar him. I want to work the widow off on him. She has a goodish deal of money and is a kind of human dynamo. The best thing in the world for Adrian. "

 Adrian confounded the fellow. I continued--

 "Prepare then for the Dynamic Widow. Love to Barbara, the fairy grasshopper--"

 "Who's that?"

 "My daughter, Susan Freeth. The last time he saw her, she was hopping about in a green jumper--Barbara would give you the elementary costume's commercial name. "

 "--and yourself, " I read. "By the way, do you know of a granite-built, iron-gated, portcullised, barbicaned, really comfortable home for widows?

 Yours, Jaffery. "

Without waiting for comment from Adrian, I went with the letter into thedrawing room, he following. I handed it to Barbara, who ran it through. 

"That's just like Jaffery. He tells us nothing. "

"I think he has told us everything, " said I. 

"But who and what and whence is this lady?"

"Goodness knows!" said I. 

"Therefore, he has told us nothing, " retorted Barbara. "My own belief isthat she's a Brazilian. "

"But what, " asked Adrian, "would a lone Brazilian female be doing in theBalkans?"

"Looking for a husband, of course, " said Barbara. 

And like all wise men when staggered by serene feminine asseveration webowed our heads and agreed that nothing could be more obvious. 

CHAPTER II

Some weeks passed; but we heard no more of Jaffery Chayne. If he hadplanted his widow there, in Cettinje, and gone off to Central Africa weshould not have been surprised. On the other hand, he might have walkedin at any minute, just as though he lived round the corner and haddropped in casually to see us. 

In the meantime events had moved rapidly for Adrian. Everybody wastalking about his book; everybody was buying it. The rare phenomenon ofthe instantaneous success of a first book by an unknown author wasoccurring also in America. Golden opinions were being backed by goldencash. Adrian continued to draw on his publishers, who, fortunately forthem, had an American house. Anticipating possible alluring proposalsfrom other publishers, they offered what to him were dazzling andfantastic terms for his next two novels. He accepted. He went about theworld wearing Fortune like a halo. He achieved sudden fame; fame sowidespread that Mr. Jornicroft heard of it in the city, where hepromoted (and still promotes) companies with monotonous success. Theresult was an interview to which Adrian came wisely armed with a notefrom his publisher as to sales up to date, and the amazing contractwhich he had just signed. He left the house with a father's blessing inhis ears and an affianced bride's kisses on his lips. The wedding wasfixed for September. Adrian declared himself to be the happiest of God'screatures and spent his days in joy-sodden idleness. His mother, withtears in her eyes, increased his allowance. 

The book that created all this commotion, I frankly admit, held mespellbound. It deserved the highest encomiums by the most enthusiasticreviewers. It was one of the most irresistible books I had ever read. Itwas a modern high romance of love and pity, of tears iridescent withlaughter, of strong and beautiful though erring souls; it was at oncepoignant and tender; it vibrated with drama; it was instinct with calmand kindly wisdom. In my humility, I found I had not known my Adrian onelittle bit. As the shepherd of old who had a sort of patronizingaffection for the irresponsible, dancing, flute-playing, goat-footedcreature of the woodland was stricken with panic when he recognised thegod, so was I convulsed when I recognised the genius of my friendAdrian. And the fellow still went on dancing and flute-playing and Istared at him open-mouthed. 

Mr. Jornicroft, who was a widower, gave a great dinner party at hishouse in Park Crescent, in honour of the engagement. My wife and Iattended, fishes somewhat out of water amid this brilliant but solidassembly of what it pleased Barbara to call "merchantates. " Sheexpressed a desire to shrink out of the glare of the diamonds; but shewore her grandmother's pearls, and, being by far the youngest andprettiest matron present, held her own with the best of them. There werestout women, thin women, white-haired women, women who ought to havebeen white-haired, but were not; sprightly and fashionable women; butbesides Barbara, the only other young woman was Doria herself. 

She took us aside, as soon as we were released from the formal welcomeof Mr. Jornicroft, a thickset man with a very bald head and heavy blackmoustache. 

"The sight of you two is like a breath of fresh air. Did you ever meetwith anything so stuffy?"

Now, considering that all these prosperous folks had come to do herhomage I thought the remark rather ungracious. 

"It's apt to be stuffy in July in London, " I said. 

She laid her hand on Barbara's wrist and pointed at me with her fan. 

"He thinks he's rebuking me. But I don't care. I'm glad to see him allthe same. These people mean nothing but money and music-halls and bridgeand restaurants--I'm so sick of it. You two mean something else. "

"Don't speak sacrilegiously of restaurants, even though you are going tomarry a genius, " said I. "There is one in Paris to which Adrian willtake you straight--like a homing bird. "

"Wherever Adrian takes me, it will be beautiful, " she said defiantly. 

My little critical humour vanished, for she looked so valiantly adorablein her love for the man. She was very small and slenderly made, withdark hair, luminous eyes, and ivory-white complexion, a sensitive noseand mouth, a wisp of nerves and passion. She carried her head high and, for so diminutive a person, appeared vastly important. 

Adrian, released from an ex-Lady Mayoress, came up all smiles, to greetus. Doria gave him a glance which in spite of my devotion to Barbara andmy abhorrence of hair's breadth deviation from strict monogamy dealt mea pang of unregenerate jealousy. There is only one man in the universeworthy of being so regarded by a woman; and he is oneself. Everytrue-minded man will agree with me. She was inordinately proud of him;proud too of herself in that she had believed in him and given him herlove long before he became famous. Adrian's eyes softened as they metthe glance. He turned to Barbara. 

"It's in a crowd like this that she looks so mysterious--an Elemental;but whether of Earth, Air, Fire or Water, I shall spend my life tryingto discover. "

The faintest flush possible mounted to that pure ivory-white cheek ofhers. She laughed and caught me by the arm. 

"I must carry you to Lady Bagshawe--you're taking her in to dinner. Herhusband is Master of the Organ-Grinders' Company--"

"No, no, Doria, " said I. 

"--Well, it's some city company--I don't know--and she is a museum ofdiseases and a gazetteer of cure places. Now you know where you are. "

She led me to Lady Bagshawe. Soon afterwards we trooped down to dinner, during which I learned more of my inside than I knew before, and more ofthat of Lady Bagshawe than any of her most fervent adorers in theirwildest dreams could have ever hoped to ascertain; during which, also, Iendeavoured to convince an unknown, but agreeable lady on my left that Idid not play polo, whereat, it seemed, her eight brothers were experts;and that Omar Khayyam was a contemporary not of the Prophet Isaiah, butof William the Conqueror. As for the setting--I am not an observantman--but I had an impression of much gold and silver and rare flora onthe table, great gold frames enclosing (I doubt not) costly pictures onthe walls, many desirable jewels on undesirable bosoms, strong thoughunsympathetic masculine faces, and such food and drink as Lucullus, poorfellow, did not live long enough to discover. 

When the ladies retired, and we moved up towards our host, I foundmyself between two groups; one discussing the mercantile depravity of agentleman called Wilmot, of whom I had never heard, the other arguingon dark dilemmas connected with an Abyssinian loan. A vacant chairhappening to be by my side, Adrian, glass in hand, came round the tableand sat down. 

"How are you getting on?"

"Well, " said I. "Very well. " I sipped my port. I recognised Cockburn1870. 

"You seemed rather at a loose end. "

"When one has 1870 port to drink, " said I, "why fritter away its flavourin vain words?"

"It is damned good port, " Adrian admitted. 

"Earth holds nothing better, " said I. 

We lapsed into silence amid the talk on each side of us. I confess thatI rather surrendered myself to the wine. A little taper for cigaretteshappened to be in front of me; I held my glass in its light and lostmyself in the wine's pure depths of mystery and colour; and my mindwandered to the lusty sunshine of "Lusitanian summers" that was thereimprisoned. I inhaled its fragrance, I accepted its exquisite andspacious generosity. Wine, like bread and oil--"God's three chiefwords"--is a thing of itself--a thing of earth and air and sun--one ofthe great natural things, such as the stars and the flowers and the eyesof a dog. Even the most mouth-twisting new wine of Northern Italy hasits fascination for me, in that it is essentially something apart fromthe dust and empty racket of the world; how much more then this radiantvintage suddenly awakened from its slumber in the darkness of fortyyears. So I mused, as I think an honest man is justified in musing, soberly, over a great wine, when suddenly my left eye caught Adrian'sface. He too was musing; but musing on unhappy things, for a hand seemedto have swept his face and wiped the joy from it. He was gazing at hishalf-emptied glass, with the short stem of which his fingers werenervously toying. There was a quick snap. The stem broke and the wineflowed over the cloth. He started, and with a flash the old Adrian cameback, manifesting itself in his smiling dismay, his boyish apology toMr. Jornicroft for smashing a rare glass, spoiling the tablecloth andwasting precious wine. The incident served to disequilibrate, as onemight say, the two discussions on Wilmot and Abyssinia. Coffee came andliqueurs. I bade farewell to Lusitanian dreams and found myself in heartto heart conversation with my neighbour on the right, a florid, simple-minded sugar-broker, a certain next-year's Sheriff of the City ofLondon, whose consuming ambition was to become a member of the AthenæumClub. When I informed him that I was privileged to enter that Valley ofDry Bones--my late father, an eminent Assyriologist and a disastrousMaster of Fox hounds, had put me up for all sorts of weird institutions, I think, before I was born--my sugar broker almost fell at my feet andworshipped me. Although I told him that the premises were overrun withBishops and that we had laid down all kinds of episcopicide to no avail, he refused to be disillusioned. I told him that on the occasion of mylast visit to the Megatherium--Thackeray, I explained--a RoyalAcademician, with whom I had a slight acquaintance, reading desolate"The Hibbert Journal" in the smoking-room, embraced me as fondly as theausterity of the place permitted and related a non-drawing-room storywhich was current at my preparatory school--and that in the library Iran into an equally desolate, though even less familiar Archdeacon, whoseized me, like the Ancient Mariner, and never let me go until he hadimpressed upon my mind the name and address of the only man in Londonwho could cut clerical gaiters. But the simple child of sugar would havehis way. There was but one Valhalla in London, and it was built byDecimus Burton. 

After that we joined the ladies for an unimportant half hour or so, andthen Barbara and I took our leave. As we were motoring home--we livesome thirty miles out of London--we discussed the dinner party, according to the way of married folks, home-bound after a feast, and Imentioned the trivial incident of Adrian and the broken glass. Whyshould his face have been so haggard when he had everything to make himhappy?

"He was thinking of Mr. Jornicroft's previous insulting behaviour. "

"How do you know?"

"He told me, " said Barbara. 

"I never knew Adrian to be seriously vindictive, " said I. 

"It strikes me, my dear, " replied Barbara, taking my hand, "that you arean old ignoramus. "

And this from a woman who actively glories in not knowing how many "r's"there are in "harassed. "

She nestled up to me. "We're not going abroad in August, are we?"

"What?" I cried, "leave the English country during the only part of theyear that is not 'deformed with dripping rains or withered by a frost'?Certainly not. "

"But we did last year, and the year before. "

"Pure accident. The year before, Susan was recovering from the measlesand you had some pretty frocks which you thought would look lovely atDinard. And last year you also had some frocks and insisted thatHoulgate was the only place where Susan could avoid being stricken downby scarlet-fever. "

"Anyhow, " said my wife, "we're not going away this year, for I've fixedup with Doria and Adrian to spend August at Northlands. "

"Why didn't you tell me so at once? Why did you ask me whether we weregoing away?"

"Because I knew we weren't, " she answered. 

In putting two questions at the same time, I blundered. The first was aposer and might have elicited some interesting revelation of femininemental process. In forlorn hope I repeated it. 

"Why, I've told you, stupid, " said Barbara. "You've no objection totheir coming, have you?"

"Good Lord, no. I'm delighted. "

"From the way you've argued, any one would have thought you didn't wantthem. "

Outraged by the illogic, I gasped; but she broke into a laugh. 

"You silly old Hilary, " she said. "Don't you see that Doria must get hertrousseau together and Adrian must find a house or a flat, that has tobe decorated and furnished, and the poor child hasn't a mother or anysensible woman in the world to look after her but me?"

"I see, " said I, "that you intend having the time of your life. "

 * * * * *

My prevision proved correct. In August came the engaged couple and everyday Barbara took them up to town and whirled them about from house-agentto house-agent until she found a flat to suit them, and then fromemporium to emporium until she found furniture to suit the flat, andfrom raiment-vendor to raiment-vendor until she equipped Doria to suitthe furniture. She used to return almost speechless with exhaustion; butpantingly and with the glaze of victory in her eyes, she fought all herbattles o'er again and told of bargains won. In the meantime had it notbeen for Susan, I should have lived in the solitude of an anchorite. Wespent much time in the garden which we (she less conscious of irony thanI) called our desert island. I was Robinson Crusoe and she was ManFriday, and on the whole we were quite happy; perhaps I should have beenhappier in a temperature of 80° in the shade if I had not been forced towear the Polar bear rug from the drawing-room in representation ofCrusoe's goatskins. I did suggest that I should be Robinson Crusoe'sbrother, who wore ordinary flannels, and that she should be WomanWednesday. But Susan saw through the subterfuge and that game didn'twork. One afternoon, however, Barbara, returning earlier than usual, caught us at it and expressing horror and indignation at the uses towhich the bearskin was put, metaphorically whipped me and sent me to bedas being the elder of the naughty ones. After that we played at fairiesin a glade, which was much cooler. 

It was in the evenings that I was loneliest; for then Barbara went earlyto bed, and the lovers strolled about together in the moonlight. Withthe intention, half-malicious, half-pitiful, of filling up my time, Doria taught me a new and complicated Patience. Then finally, whenDoria, having spent a couple of polite minutes in the drawing-room, hadretired, and when I was tired out from the strain of the day andhalf-asleep through weariness, Adrian would mix himself the longestpossible brandy and soda, light the longest possible cigar and try tokeep me up all night listening to his conversation. 

At last, one Friday evening, while I was engaged in my forlorn andunprofitable game, the butler entered the drawing-room with unperturbedannouncement:

"Mr. Chayne on the telephone, sir. "

I sent the card table flying amid the wreckage of my lay-out and rushedto the telephone. 

"Hullo! That you, Jaff?"

"Yes, old man. Very much me. A devil of a lot of me. How are you?"

His strong bass boomed through the receiver. I have always found aqueer comfort in Jaffery's voice. It wraps you round about in thunderingwaves. We exchanged the commonplaces of delighted greeting. I asked:

"When did you arrive?"

"A couple of days ago. "

"Why on earth didn't you let me know at once?"

I heard him laugh. "I'll tell you when I see you. By the way, canBarbara have me for the week-end?"

This was like Jaffery. Most men would have asked me, taking Barbara forgranted. 

"Barbara would have you for the rest of time, " said I. "And so wouldSusan. I'll expect you by the 11 o'clock train. "

"Right, " said he. 

"And, I say!"

"Yes?"

"Talking of fair ladies--what about--?"

"Oh, Hell!" came Jaffery's great voice. "She's here right enough. "

"Where?" I asked. 

"The Savoy. So is Euphemia--"

Euphemia was Jaffery's unmarried sister, as like to her brother as alittle wizened raisin is to a fat, bursting muscat grape. 

"Euphemia has taken her on. Wants to convert her. "

"Good Lord!" I cried. "Is she a Turk?"

"She's a problem. " And his great laugh vibrated in my ears. 

"Why not bring her down with Euphemia?"

"I want a couple of days off. I want a good quiet time, with no femalewomen about save Barbara and my fairy grasshopper whom, as you know, Ilove to distraction. "

"But will Euphemia be all right with her?"

I had not the faintest notion what kind of a creature the "problem" was. 

"Right as rain. Euphemia has fixed up to take her to-morrow night to alecture on Tolstoi at the Lyceum Club, and to the City Temple on Sunday. Ho! ho! ho!"

His Homeric laughter must have shattered the Trunk Telephone system ofGreat Britain, for after that there was silence cold and merciless. Well, perhaps it was just as well, for if we had been allowed toconverse further I might have told him that another female woman, DoriaJornicroft, was staying at Northlands, and he might not have come. Jaffery was always a queer fish where women were concerned. Not achilly, fishy fish, but a sort of Laodicean fish, now hot, now cold. Ihave seen him shrink like a sensitive plant in the presence of aningenue of nineteen and royster in Pantagruelian fashion with a maturemember of the chorus of the Paris Opera; I ham e also known him to fly, a scared Joseph, from the allurements of the charming wife of a RightHonourable Sir Cornifer Potiphar, G. C. M. G. , and sigh like a furnace infront of an obdurate little milliner's place of business in Bond Street. I do not, for the world, wish it to be supposed that I am insinuatingthat my dear old Jaffery had no morals. He had--lots of them. He wasstuffed with them. But what they were, neither he nor I nor any one elsewas ever able to define. As a general rule, however, he was shy ofstrange women, and to that category did Doria belong. 

When the lovers came in I told them my news. Adrian expressedextravagant delight. A little tiny cloud flitted over Doria's brow. 

"Shall I like him?" she asked. 

"You'll adore him, " cried Adrian. 

"I'll try to, dear, because he seems to mean so much to you. Are yougoing up to town with us to-morrow?"

"There's only a morning's fitting at a dressmaker--no place for me, " helaughed. "I'll stay and welcome old Jaffery. "

Again the most transient of tiny little clouds. But I could not helpthinking that if Jaffery had been a woman instead of a mere man, therewould have been a thunderstorm. 

When we were alone Adrian threw himself into a chair. 

"Women are funny beings, " he said. "I do believe Doria is jealous of oldJaffery. "

"You have every reason to be proud, " said I, "of your psychologicalacumen. "

CHAPTER III

A fair-bearded, red-faced, blue-eyed, grinning giant got out of thetrain and catching sight of us ran up and laid a couple of greatsun-glazed hands on my shoulders. 

"Hullo! hullo! hullo!" he shouted, and gripping Adrian in his turn, shouted it again. He made such an uproar that people stuck wonderingheads out of the carriage windows. Then he thrust himself between us, linked our arms in his and made us charge with him down the quietcountry platform. A porter followed with his suit-case. 

"Why didn't you tell me that the Man of Fame was with you?"

"I thought I'd give you a pleasant surprise, " said I. 

"I met Robson of the Embassy in Constantinople--you remember Robson ofPembroke--fussy little cock-sparrow--he'd just come from England and wasfull of it. You seem to have got 'em in the neck. Bully! Bully!"

Adrian took advantage of the narrow width of the exit to release himselfand I, who went on with Jaffery, looking back, saw him rub himselfruefully, as though he had been mauled by a bear. 

"And how's everybody?" Jaffery's voice reverberated through the subway. "Barbara and the fairy grasshopper? I'm longing to see 'em. That's thepull of being free. You can adopt other fellows' wives and families. I'mcoming home now to my adopted wife and daughter. How are they?"

I answered explicitly. He boomed on till we reached the station yard, where his eye fell upon a familiar object. 

"What?" cried he. "Have you still got the Chinese Puffhard?"

The vehicle thus disrespectfully alluded to was an ancient, ancient car, the pride of many a year ago, which sentiment (together with theimpossibility of finding a purchaser) would not allow me to sell. It hadbeen a splendid thing in those far-off days. It kept me in health. Itmade me walk miles and miles along unknown and unfrequented roads. Inthe aggregate I must have spent months of my life doing physical cultureexercises underneath it. You got into it at the back; it was about tenfeet high, and you started it at the side by a handle in its midriff. But I loved it. It still went, if treated kindly. Barbara loathed it andinsulted it, so that with her as passenger, it sulked and refused to go. But Susan's adoration surpassed even mine. Its demoniac groans andrattles and convulsive quakings appealed to her unspoiled sense ofadventure. 

"Barbara has gone away with the Daimler, " said I, "and as I don't keep afleet of cars, I had to choose between this and the donkey-cart. Get inand don't be so fastidious--unless you're afraid--"

He took no account of my sarcasm. His face fell. He made no attempt toenter the car. 

"Barbara gone away?"

I burst out laughing. His disappointment at not being welcomed byBarbara at Northlands was so genuine and so childishly unconcealed. 

"She'll be back in time for lunch. She had to run up to town onbusiness. She sent you her love and Susie will do the honours. "

His face brightened. "That's all right. But you gave me a shock. Northlands without Barbara--" He shook his head. 

We drove off. The Chinese Puffhard excelled herself, and though shechoked asthmatically did not really stop once until we were half way upthe drive, when I abandoned her to the gardeners, who later on harnessedthe donkey to her and pulled her into the motor-house. We dismounted, however, in the drive. A tiny figure in a blue smock came scuttling overthe sloping lawn. The next thing I saw was the small blue patchsomewhere in the upland region of Jaffery's beard. Then boomed forthfrom him idiotic exclamations which are not worth chronicling, accompanied by a duet of bass and treble laughter. Then he set herastride of his bull neck and pitched his soft felt hat to Adrian tohold. 

"Hang on to my hair. It won't hurt, " he commanded. 

She obeyed literally, clawing two handfuls of his thick reddish shock inher tiny grasp, and Jaffery lumbered along like an elephant with a robinon his head, unconscious of her weight. We mounted to the terrace infront of the house and having established my guests in easy chairs, Iwent indoors to order such drink as would be refreshing on a sultryAugust noon. When I returned I found Jaffery, with Susan on his knee, questioning Adrian, after the manner of a primitive savage, on thesubject of "The Diamond Gate, " and Adrian, delighted at the opportunity, dazzling our simple-minded friend with publisher's statistics. 

"And you're writing another? Deep down in another?" asked Jaffery. "Doyou know, Susie, Uncle Adrian has just got to take a pen and jab it intoa piece of paper, and--tchick!--up comes a golden sovereign every timehe does it. "

Susan turned her serene gaze on Adrian. "Do it now, " she commanded. 

"I haven't got a pen, " said he. 

"I'll fetch you one from Daddy's study, " she said, sliding fromJaffery's knee. 

Both Jaffery and Adrian looked scared. I, who was not the father of afeminine thing of seven years old for nothing, interposed, I think, rather tactfully. 

"Uncle Adrian can only do it with a great gold pen, and poor old daddyhasn't got one. "

"I call that silly, " replied my daughter. "Uncle Jaffery, have you gotone?"

"No, " said he, "You have to be born, like Uncle Adrian, with a goldenpen in your mouth. "

The lucky advent of the Archangel Gabriel, with a grin on his face and adoll in his mouth--the Archangel Gabriel, commonly known as Gabs, and sotermed on account of his archi-angelic disposition, a hideous mongrelwith a white patch over one eye and a brown patch over the other, withthe nose of a collie and the legs of a Great Dane and the tail of afox-terrier, whose mongreldom, however, Adrian repudiated by the boldassertion that he was a Zanzibar bloodhound--the lucky advent of thispampered and over-affectionate quadruped directed Susan's mind from thesomewhat difficult conversation. She ran off, forthwith, to the rescueor her doll; but later (I heard) her nurse was sore put to it to explainthe mystery of the golden pen. 

"So much for Adrian. I'm tired of the auriferous person, " said I, wavinga hand. "What about yourself? What about the dynamic widow?"

"Oh, damn the dynamic widow, " he replied, corrugating his serene andsunburnt forehead. "I've come down here to forget her. I'll tell youabout her later. " Then he grinned, in his silly, familiar way, showingtwo rows of astonishingly white, strong teeth, between the hair on lipand chin. 

"Well, " said I, "at any rate give some account of yourself. What wereyou doing in Albania, for instance?"

"Prospecting, " said he. 

"In what--gold, coal, iron?"

"War, " said he. "There's going to be a hell of a bust-up one of thesedays--and one of these days very soon--in the Balkans. From Scutari toSalonica to Rodosto, the whole blooming triangle--it's going to be abattlefield. The war correspondent who goes out there not knowing hisground will be a silly ass. The slim statesman like me won't. See? Sopoor old Prescott--you must know Prescott of Reuter's?--anyhow that wasthe chap--poor old Prescott and I went out exploring. When he pegged outwith enteric I hadn't finished, so I dumped his widow down at Cettinjewhere I have some pals, and started out again on my own. That's all. "

He filled another pint tumbler with the iced liquid (one always had toprovide largely for Jaffery's needs) and poured it down his throat. 

"I don't call that a very picturesque account of your adventures, " saidAdrian. 

Jaffery grinned. "I'll tell you all sorts of funny things, if you'llgive me time, " said he, wiping his lips with a vast red and whitehandkerchief about the size of a ship's Union Jack. 

But we did not give him time; we plied him with questions and for thenext hour he entertained us pleasantly with stories of his wanderings. He had a Rabelaisian way of laughing over must of his experiences, eventhose which had a touch of the gruesome, and the laughter got into hisspeech, so that many amusing episodes were told in the roars of ahilarious lion. 

Presently the familiar sound of the horn announced the return ofBarbara. We sprang to our feet and descended to meet the car at thefront porch. Jaffery, grinning with delight, opened the door, appearedto lift a radiant Barbara out of the car like a parcel and almost huggedher. And there they stood holding on to each other's hands and smilinginto each other's faces and saying how well they looked, regardless ofthe fact that they were blocking the way for Doria, who remained in thecar, I had to move them on with the reminder that they had the wholeweek-end for their effusions. Adrian helped Doria to alight, and toDoria then, for the first time, was presented Jaffery Chayne. Jafferyblinked at her oddly as he held her little gloved fingers in hisenormous hand. And, indeed, I could excuse him; for she was a verystriking object to come suddenly into the immediate range of a man'svision, with her chiffon and her slenderness, and her black hat beneathwhich her great eyes shone from the startling, nervous, ivory-whiteface. 

She smiled on him graciously. "I'm so glad to meet you. " Then after afraction of a second came the explanation. "I've heard so much of you. "

He murmured something into his beard. Meeting his childlike gaze ofadmiration, she turned away and put her arm round Barbara's waist. Theladies went indoors to take off their things, accompanied by Adrian, whowanted a lover's word with Doria on the way. Jaffery followed her withhis eyes until she had disappeared at the corner of the hall-stairs. Then he took me by the arm and led me up towards the terrace. 

"Who is that singularly beautiful girl?" he asked. 

"Doria Jornicroft, " said I. 

"She's the most astonishing thing I've ever seen in my life. "

"I wouldn't find her too astonishing, if I were you, " said I with alaugh, "because there might be complications. She's engaged to Adrian. "

He dropped my arm. "Do you mean--she's going to marry him?"

"Next month, " said I. 

"Well, I'm damned, " said Jaffery. I asked him why. He did not enlightenme. "Isn't he a lucky devil?" he asked, instead. "The mostpestilentially lucky devil under the sun. But why the deuce didn't youtell me before?"

"You expressed such a distaste for female women that we thought we wouldgive you as long a respite as possible. "

"That's all very well, " he grumbled. "But if I had known that Adrian'sfiancée was knocking around I'd have lumped her in my heart with Barbaraand Susie. "

"You're not prevented from doing that now, " said I. 

His brow cleared. "True, sonny. " He broke into a guffaw. "Fancy oldAdrian getting married!"

"I see nothing funny in it, " said I. "Lots of people get married. I'mmarried. "

"Oh, you--you were born to be married, " he said crushingly. 

"And so are you, " I retorted. 

"I? I tie myself to the stay-strings of a flip of a thing in petticoats, whom I should have to swear to love, honour and obey--?"

"My good fellow, " I interrupted, "it is the woman who swears obedience. "

"And the man practises it. Ho! Ho! Ho!"

His laughter (at this very poor repartee) so resounded that theadventitious cow, in the field some hundred yards away, lifted her tailin the air and scampered away, in terror. 

"And as to the stay-strings, to continue your delicate metaphor, you canalways cut them when you like. "

"Yes. And then there's the devil to pay. She shows you the ends andmakes you believe they're dripping blood and tears. Don't I know 'em?They're the same from Cape Horn to Alaska, from Dublin to Rio. "

He bellowed forth his invective. He had no quarrel with marriage as aninstitution. It was most useful and salutary--apparently because itprovided him, Jaffery, with comfortable conditions wherein to exist. Themultitude of harmless, necessary males (like myself) were doomed to it. But there was a race of Chosen Ones, to which he belonged, whoseuntamable and omni-concupiscent essence kept them outside the dullconjugal pale. For such as him, nineteen hundred women at once, scattered within the regions of the seven circumferential seas. He lovedthem all. Woman as woman was the joy of the earth. It was only the sillyspectrum of civilisation that broke Woman up into primarycolours--black, yellow, brunette, blonde--he damned civilisation. 

"To listen to you, " said I, when he paused for breath, "one would thinkyou were a devil of a fellow. "

"I am, " he declared. "I'm a Universalist. At any rate in theory, orrather in the conviction of what best suits myself. I'm one of those menwho are born to be free, who've got to fill their lungs with air, whomust get out into the wilds if they're to live--God! I'd sooner besnowed up on a battlefield than smirk at a damned afternoon tea-partyany day in the week! If I want a woman, I like to take her by her hairand swing her up behind me on the saddle and ride away with her--"

"Lord! That's lovely, " said I. "How often have you done it?"

"I've never done that exactly, you silly ass, " said he. "But that's myattitude, my philosophy. You see how impossible it would be for me totie myself for life to the stay-strings of one flip of a thing inpetticoats. "

"You're a blessed innocent, " said I. 

Adrian sauntering through the French window of my library joined us onthe terrace. Jaffery, forgetful of his attitude, his philosophy, caughthim by the shoulders and shook him in pain-dealing exuberance. OldAdrian was going to be married. He wished him joy. Yet it was no use hiswishing him joy because he already had it--it was assured. Thatexquisite wonder of a girl. Adrian was a lucky devil, a pestilentiallylucky devil. He, Jaffery, had fallen in love with her on sight. . . . 

"And if I hadn't told him that Miss Jornicroft was engaged to you, " saidI, "he would have taken her by the hair of her head and swung her upbehind him on the saddle and ridden away with her. It's a little wayJaffery has. "

In spite of sunburn, freckles and pervading hairiness of face, Jafferygrew red. 

"Shut up, you silly fool!" said he, like the overgrown schoolboy that hewas. 

And I shut up--not because he commanded, but because Barbara, likespring in deep summer, and Doria, like night at noontide, appeared onthe terrace. 

Soon afterwards lunch was announced. By common conspiracy Jaffery andSusan upset the table arrangements, insisting that they should sit nexteach other. He helped the child to impossible viands, much to my wife'sdismay, and told her apocalyptic stories of Bulgaria, somewhat to herpuzzledom, but wholly to her delight. But when he proposed to fill hersilver mug (which he, as godfather, had given her on her baptism) withthe liquefied dream of Paradise that Barbara, _sola mortalium_, canprepare, consisting of hock and champagne and fruits and cucumber andborage and a blend of liqueurs whose subtlety transcends human thought, Barbara's Medusa glare petrified him into a living statue, the crystaljug of joy poised in his hand. 

"Why mayn't I have some, mummy?"

"Because Uncle Jaff's your godfather, " said I. "And your mother'shock-cup is a sinful lust of the flesh. Spare the child and fill up yourown glass. "

"Don't you know, " said Barbara, "that this is Berkshire, not theBalkans? We don't intoxicate infants here to make a summer holiday!"

At this rebuke he exchanged winks with my daughter, and refusing ahanded dish of cutlets asked to be allowed to help himself to some coldbeef on the sideboard. The butler's assistance he declined. No Christianbutler could carve for Jaffery Chayne. After a longish absence hereturned to the table with half the joint on his plate. Susan regardedit wide-eyed. 

"Uncle Jaff, are you going to eat all that?" she asked in an audiblewhisper. 

"Yes, and you too, " he roared, "and mummy and daddy and Uncle Adrian, ifI don't get enough to eat!"

"And Aunt Doria?"

Again he reddened--but he turned to Doria and bowed. 

"In my quality of ogre only--a _bonne bouche_, " said he. 

It was said very charmingly, and we laughed. Of course Susan began theinevitable question, but Barbara hurriedly notified some derelictionwith regard to gravy, and my small daughter was, so to speak, hustledout of the conversation. Jaffery by way of apology for his Gargantuanappetite discoursed on the privations of travel in uncivilised lands. Alump of sour butter for lunch and a sardine and a hazelnut for dinner. We were to fancy the infinite accumulation of hunger-pangs. And as hedevoured cold beef and talked, Doria watched him with the somewhat aloofinterest of one who stands daintily outside the railed enclosure of anew kind of hippopotamus. 

The meal over we sought the deep shade of the terrace which faces dueeast. Jaffery, in his barbaric fashion, took Doria by the elbow andswept her far away from the wistaria arbour beneath which the remainingthree of us were gathered, and when he fondly thought he was out ofearshot, he set her beside him on the low parapet. My wife, with theresponsibilities of all the Chancelleries of Europe knitted in her brow, discussed wedding preparations with Adrian. I, to whom the quality ofthe bath towels wherewith Adrian and his wife were to dry themselves andthat of the sheets between which their housemaid was to lie, werematters of black and awful indifference, gave my more worthily appliedattention to one of a new brand of cigars, a corona corona, that had itsmerits but lacked an indefinable soul-satisfying aroma; and I was on thepleasurable and elusive point of critical formulation, when Jaffery'svoice, booming down the terrace, knocked the discriminating nicety outof my head. I lazily shifted my position and watched the pair. 

"You're subtle and psychological and introspective and analytic and allthat, " Jaffery was saying--his light word about an ogre at lunch was nota bad one; sitting side by side on the low parapet they looked like avast red-bearded ogre and a feminine black-haired elf--she had taken offher hat--engaged in a conversation in which the elf looked very much onthe defensive--"and you're always tracking down motives to their roots, and you're not contented, like me, with the jolly face of things--"

"For an accurate diagnosis, " I reflected, "of an individual woman'snature, the blatant universalist has his points. "

"Whereas, I, you see, " he continued, "just buzz about life like adunderheaded old bumble-bee. I'm always busting myself up against glasspanes, not seeing, as you would, the open window a few inches off. Doyou see what I'm driving at?"

Apparently she didn't; for while she was speaking, he threw away hiscorona corona--a dream of a cigar for nine hundred and ninety-nine menout of a thousand (I glanced at Adrian who had religiously preserved twoinches of ash on his)--and hauled out pipe and tobacco-pouch. I couldnot hear what she said. When she had finished, he edged a span nearer. 

"What I want you to understand, " said he, "is that I'm a simple sort ofsavage. I can't follow all these intricate henry Jamesian complicationsof feeling. I've had in my life"--he stuck pouch and pipe on the stonebeside him--"I've had in my life just a few men I've loved--I don'tcount women--men--men I've cared for, God knows why. Do you know why onecares for people?"

She smiled, shrugged her shoulders and shook her head. 

"The latest was poor Prescott--he has just pegged out--you'll hear soonenough about Prescott. There was Tom Castleton--has Adrian told youabout Castleton--?"

Again she shook her head. 

"He will--of course--a wonder of a fellow--up with us at Cambridge. He'sdead. There only remains Hilary, our host, and Adrian. "

As far as I could gather--for she spoke in the ordinary tones ofcivilised womanhood, whereas Jaffery, under the impression that he waswhispering confidentially, bellowed like an honest bull--as far as Icould gather, she said:

"You must have met hundreds of men more sympathetic to you than Mr. Freeth and Adrian. "

"I haven't, " he cried. "That's the funny devil of it. I haven't. If Iwas struck a helpless paralytic with not a cent and no prospect ofearning a cent, I know I could come to those two and say, 'Keep me forthe rest of my life'--and they would do it"

"And would you do the same for either of them?"

Jaffery rose and stuffed his hands in his jacket pockets and toweredover her. 

"I'd do it for them and their wives and their children and theirchildren's children. "

He sat down again in confusion at having been led into hyperbole. But hetook her shoulders in his huge but kindly hands, somewhat to heralarm--for, in her world, she was not accustomed to gigantic maleslaying unceremonious hold of her--

"All I wanted to convey to you, my dear girl, is this--that if Adrian'swife won't look on me as a true friend, I'm ready to go away and cut mythroat"

Doria smiled at him with pretty civility and assured him of herwillingness to admit him into her inner circle of friends; whereupon hecaught up his pouch and pipe and lumbered down the terrace towards us, shouting out his news. 

"I've fixed it up with Doria"--he turned his head--"I can call youDoria, can't I?" She nodded permission--what else could she do? "We'regoing to be friends. And I say, Barbara, they'll want a wedding-present. What shall I give 'em? What would you like?"

The latter question was levelled direct at Doria, who had followeddemurely in his footsteps. But it was not answered; for from thedrawing-room there emerged Franklin, the butler, who marched up straightto Jaffery. 

"A lady to see you, sir"

"A lady? Good God! What kind of a lady?"

He stared at Franklin, in dismay. 

"She came in a taxi, sir. The driver mistook the way, and put her downat the back entrance. She would not give her name. "

"Tall, rather handsome, dressed in black?"

"Yes, sir. "

"Lord Almighty!" cried Jaffery, including us all in the sweep of adesperate gaze. "It's Liosha! I thought I had given her the slip. "

Barbara rose, and confronted him. "And pray who is Liosha?"

Adrian hugged his knee and laughed:

"The dynamic widow, " said he. 

"I'll go and see what in thunder she wants, " said Jaffery. 

But Barbara's eyes twinkled. "You'll do nothing of the sort. She has nobusiness to come running after you like this. She must be taughtmanners. Franklin, will you show the lady out here?"

She drew herself up to her full height of five feet nothing, therebydemonstrating the obvious fact that she was mistress in her own house. 

Presently Franklin reappeared. 

"Mrs. Prescott, " said he. 

CHAPTER IV

That there should have been in the uncommon-tall young woman of buxomstateliness and prepossessing features, attired (to the mere masculineeye) in quite elegant black raiment--a thing called, I think, a picturehat, broad-brimmed with a sweeping ostrich feather, tickled my especialfancy, but was afterwards reviled by my wife as being entirely unsuitedto fresh widowhood--what there should have been in this remarkableJunoesque young person who followed on the heels of Franklin to striketerror into Jaffery's soul, I could not, for the life of me, imagine. Inthe light of her personality I thought Barbara's _coup de théâtre_rather cruel. . . . Of course Barbara received her courteously. She, too, was surprised at her outward aspect, having expected to behold afantastic personage of comic opera. 

"I am very pleased to see you, Mrs. Prescott. "

Liosha--I must call her that from the start, for she exists to me asLiosha and as nothing else--shook hands with Barbara, making a queerdeep formal bow, and turned her calm, brown eyes on Jaffery. There wasjust a little quarter-second of silence, during which we all wondered inwhat kind of outlandish tongue she would address him. To our gaspingastonishment she said with an unmistakable American intonation: "Mr. Chayne, will you have the kindness to introduce me to your friends?"

I broke into a nervous laugh and grasped her hand "Pray allow me. I amMr. Freeth, your much honoured host, and this is my wife, and . . . Miss Jornicroft . . . And Mr. Boldero. Mr. Chayne has been deceiving us. We thought you were an Albanian. "

"I guess I am, " said the lady, after having made four ceremonious bows, "I am the daughter of Albanian patriots. They were murdered. One day I'mgoing back to do a little murdering on my own account. "

Barbara drew an audible short breath and Doria instinctively movedwithin the protective area of Adrian's arm. Jaffery, with knitted brow, leaned against one of the posts supporting the old wistaria arbour andsaid nothing, leaving me to exploit the lady. 

"But you speak perfect English, " said I. 

"I was raised in Chicago. My parents were employed in the stockyards ofArmour. My father was the man who slit the throats of the pigs. He was adandy, " she said in unemotional tones--and I noticed a little shiver ofrepulsion ripple through Barbara and Doria. "When I was twelve, myfather kind of inherited lands in Albania, and we went back. Is thereanything more you'd like to know?"

She looked us all up and down, rather down than up, for she toweredabove us, perfectly unconcerned mistress of the situation. Naturally wemade mute appeal to Jaffery. He stirred his huge bulk from the post andplunged his hands into his pockets. 

"I should like to know, Liosha, " said he, in a rumble like thunder, "whyyou have left my sister Euphemia and what you are doing here?"

"Euphemia is a damn fool, " she said serenely. "She's a freak. She oughtto go round in a show. "

"What have you been quarrelling about?" he asked. 

"I never quarrel, " she replied, regarding him with her calm brown eyes. "It is not dignified. "

"Then I repeat, most politely, Liosha--what are you doing here?"

She looked at Barbara. "I guess it isn't right to talk of money beforestrangers. "

Barbara smiled--glanced at me rebukingly. I pulled forward a chair andinvited the lady to sit--for she had been standing and her astonishingentrance had flabbergasted ceremonious observance out of me. Whilst shewas accepting my belated courtesy, Barbara continued to smile and said:

"You mustn't look on us as strangers, Mrs. Prescott. We are all Mr. Chayne's oldest and most intimate friends. "

"Do tell us what the row was?" said Jaffery. 

Liosha took calm stock of us, and seeing that we were a pleasant-facedand by no means an antagonistic assembly--even Doria's curiosity lenther a semblance of a sense of humour--she relaxed her Olympian serenityand laughed a little, shewing teeth young and strong and exquisitelywhite. 

"I am here, Jaff Chayne, " she said, "because Euphemia is a damn fool. She took me this morning to your big street--the one where all the shopsare--"

"My dear lady, " said Adrian, "there are about a hundred miles of suchstreets in London. "

"There's only one--" she snapped her fingers, recalling the name--"onlyone Regent Street, I ever heard of, " she replied crushingly. "It wasRegent Street. Euphemia took me there to shew me the shops. She made memad. For when I wanted to go in and buy things she dragged me away. Ifshe didn't want me to buy things why did she shew me the shops?" Shebent forward and laid her hand on Barbara's knee. "She must he a damnfool, don't you think so?"

Said Barbara, somewhat embarrassed:

"It's an amusement here to look at shops without any idea of buying. "

"But if one wants to buy? If one has the money to buy?--I did not wantanything foolish. I saw jewels that would buy up the whole of Albania. But I didn't want to buy up Albania. Not yet. But I saw a glass cage ina shop window full of little chickens, and I said to Euphemia: 'I wantthat. I must have those chickens. ' I said, 'Give me money to go in andbuy them. ' Do you know, Jaff Chayne, she refused. I said, 'Give me mymoney, my husband's money, this minute, to buy those chickens in theglass cage. ' She said she couldn't give me my husband's money to spendon chickens. "

"That was very foolish of her, " said Adrian solemnly, "for if there'sone thing the management of the Savoy Hotel love, it's chickenincubators. They keep a specially heated suite of apartments for them. "

"I was aware of it, " said Liosha seriously. "Euphemia was not. She knowsless than nothing. I asked her for the money. She refused. I saw anautomobile close by. I entered. I said, 'Drive me to Mr. Jaff Chayne, hewill give me the money. ' He asked where Mr. Jaff Chayne was. I said hewas staying with Mr. Freeth, at Northlands, Harston, Berkshire. I am nota fool like Euphemia. I remember. I left Euphemia standing on thesidewalk with her mouth open like that"--she made the funniest grimacein the world--"and the automobile brought me here to get some money tobuy the chickens. " She held out her hand to Jaffery. 

"Confound the chickens, " he cried. "It's the taxi I'm thinkingof--ticking out tuppences, to say nothing of the mileage. Liosha, " saidhe, in a milder roar, "it's no use thinking of buying chickens thisafternoon. It's Saturday and the shops are shut. You go home before thatautomobile has ticked out bankruptcy and ruin. Go back to the Savoy andmake your peace with Euphemia, like a good girl, and on Monday I'll talkto you about the chickens. "

She sat up straight in her chair. 

"You must take me somewhere else. I've got no use for Euphemia. "

"But where else can I take you?" cried Jaffery aghast. 

"I don't know. You know best where people go to in England. Doesn't he?"She included us all in a smile. 

"But you must go back to Euphemia till Monday, at any rate. "

"And she has arranged such a nice little programme for you, " saidAdrian. "A lecture on Tolstoi to-night and the City Temple to-morrow. Pity to miss 'em. "

"If I saw any more of Euphemia, I might hurt her, " said Liosha. 

"Oh, Lord!" said Jaffery. "But you must go somewhere. " He turned to mewith a groan. "Look here, old chap. It's awfully rough luck, but I musttake her back to the Savoy and mount guard over her so that she doesn'tbreak my poor sister's neck. "

"I wouldn't go so far as that, " said Liosha. 

"How far would you go?" Adrian asked politely, with the air of oneseeking information. 

"Oh, shut up, you idiot, " Jaffery turned on him savagely. "Can't you seethe position I'm in?"

"I'm very sorry you're angry, Jaff Chayne, " said Liosha with a certainkind dignity. "But these are your friends. Their house is yours. Whyshould I not stay here with you?"

"Here? Good God!" cried Jaffery. 

"Yes, why not?" said Barbara, who had set out to teach this ladymanners. 

"The very thing, " said I. 

Jaffery declared the idea to be nonsense. Barbara and I protested, growing warmer in our protestations as the argument continued. Nothingwould give us such unimaginable pleasure as to entertain Mrs. Prescott. Liosha laid her hand on Jaffery's arm. 

"But why shouldn't they have me? When a stranger asks for hospitality inAlbania he is invited to walk right in and own the place. Is it refusedin England?"

"Strangers don't ask, " growled Jaffery. 

"It would make life much more pleasant if they did, " said Barbara, smiling. "Mrs. Prescott, this bear of a guardian or trustee or whateverhe is of yours, makes a terrible noise--but he's quite harmless. "

"I know that, " said Liosha. 

"He does what I tell him, " the little lady continued, drawing herself upmajestically beside Jaffery's great bulk. "He's going to stay here, andso will you, if you will so far honour us. "

Liosha rose and bowed. "The honour is mine. "

"Then will you come this way--I will shew you your room. "

She motioned to Liosha to precede her through the French window of thedrawing-room. Before disappearing Liosha bowed again. I caught upBarbara. 

"My dear, what about clothes and things?"

"My dear, " she said, "there's a telephone, there's a taxi, there's amaid, there's the Savoy hotel, and there's a train to bring back maidand clothes. "

When Barbara takes command like this, the wise man effaces himself. Shewould run an Empire with far less fuss than most people devote to therunning of a small sweet-stuff shop. I smiled and returned to theothers. Jaffery was again filling his huge pipe. 

"I'm awfully sorry, old man, " he said gloomily. 

Adrian burst out laughing "But she's immense, your widow! The mostrefreshing thing I've seen for many a day. The way she clears the placeof the cobwebs of convention! She's great. Isn't she, Doria?"

"I can quite understand Mr. Chayne finding her an uncomfortable charge. "

"Thank you, " said Jaffery, with rather unnecessary vehemence. "I knewyou would be sympathetic. " He dropped into a chair by her side. "Youcan't tell what an awful thing it is to be responsible for another humanbeing. "

"Heaps of people manage to get through with it--every husband andwife--every mother and father. "

"Yes; but not many poor chaps who are neither father nor husband areresponsible for another fellow's grown-up widow. "

Doria smiled. "You must find her another husband. "

"That's a great idea. Will you help me? Before I knew of Adrian's greatgood fortune, I wrote to Hilary--ho! ho! ho! But we must find somebodyelse. "

"Has she any money?" asked Doria, who smiled but faintly at the jocularnotion of a Liosha-bound Adrian. 

"Prescott left her about a thousand a year. He was pretty well off, fora war-correspondent. "

"I don't think she'll have much difficulty. Do you know, " she added, after a moment or two of reflection, "if I were you, I would establishher in a really first-class boarding-house. "

"Would that be a good way?" Jaffery asked simply. 

She nodded. "The best. She seems to have fallen foul of your sister. "

"The dearest old soul that ever lived, " said Jaffery. 

"That's why. I'm sure I know your sister perfectly. The daughter of anAlbanian patriot who used to kill pigs in Chicago--why, what can yourpoor sister do with her? Your sister is much older than you, isn't she?"

"Ten years. How did you guess?"

Doria smiled with feminine wisdom. "She's the gentlest maiden lady thatever was. It's only a man that could have thought of saddling her withour friend. Well--that's impossible. She would be the death of yoursister in a week. You can't look after her yourself--that wouldn't beproper. "

"And it would be the death of me too!" said Jaffery. 

"You can't leave her in lodgings or a flat by herself, for the poorwoman would die of boredom. The only thing that remains is theboarding-house. "

Jaffery regarded her with the open-eyed adoration of a heathen Gothreceiving the Gospel from Saint Ursula. 

"By Jove!" he murmured. "You're wonderful. "

"Let us stretch our legs, Hilary, " said Adrian, who had not displayedenthusiastic interest in the housing of Liosha. 

So we went off, leaving the two together, and we discoursed on themystic ways of women, omitting all reference, as men do, to theexceptional paragon of femininity who reigned in our respective hearts. Perhaps we did a foolish thing in thus abandoning saint and hungryconvert to their sympathetic intercourse. The saint could hold her own;she had vowed herself to Adrian, and she belonged to the type for whomvows are irrefragable; but poor old Jaffery had made no vows, save ofloyalty to his friends; which vows, provided they are kept, areperfectly consistent with a man's falling hopelessly, despairingly inlove with his friend's affianced bride. And, as far as Barbara andmyself have been able to make out, it was during this intimate talk thatJaffery fell in love with Doria. Of course, what the French call _lecoup de foudre_, the thunderbolt of love had smitten him when he hadfirst beheld Doria alighting from the motor-car. But he did not realisethe stupefying effect of this bang on the heart till he had thus sat ather little feet and drunk in her godlike wisdom. 

The fairy tales are very true. The rumbustious ogre has a hithertoundescribed, but quite imaginable, gap-toothed, beetle-browed ogress ofa wife. Why he married her has never been told. Why the mortal male whomwe meet for the first time at a dinner party has married the amazingmortal female sitting somewhere on the other side of the table is aninsoluble mystery, and if we can't tell even why men mate, what can weexpect to know about ogres? At all events, as far as the humdrum ofmatrimony is concerned, the fairy tales are truer than real life. Theogre marries his ogress. It is like to like. But when it comes tolove--and if love were proclaimed and universally recognised as humdrum, there would never be a tale, fairy or otherwise, ever told again in theworld worth the hearing--we have quite a different condition of affairs. Did you ever hear of an ogre sighing himself to a shadow for love of agap-toothed ogress? No. He goes out into the fairy world, and, sendinghis ogress-wife to Jericho, becomes desperately enamoured of the elfinprincess. There he is, great, ruddy, hairy wretch: there she is, awraith of a creature made up of thistledown and fountain-bubbles andstars. He stares at her, stretches out his huge paw to grab a fairy, feathery tress of her dark hair. Defensive, she puts up her little hand. Its touch is an electric shock to the marauder. He blinks, and rubs hisarm. He has a mighty respect for her. He could take her up in hisfingers and eat her like a quail--the one satisfactory method of eatinga quail is unfortunately practised only by ogres--but he does not wantto eat her. He goes on his knees, and invites her to chew any portion ofhim that may please her dainty taste. In short he makes the verysilliest ass of himself, and the elfin princess, who of course has comeinto contact with the Real Beautiful Young Man of the Story Books, won'thave anything to do with the Ogre; and if he is more rumbustious than heought to be, generally finds a way to send him packing. And so the poorOgre remains, planted there. The Fairy Tales, I remark again, are verytrue in demonstrating that the Ogre loves the elf and not the Ogress. But all the same they are deucedly unsympathetic towards the poor Ogre. The only sympathetic one I know is Beauty and the Beast; and even thatis a mere begging of the question, for the Beast was a handsome youngnincompoop of a Prince all the time!

Barbara says that this figurative, allusive adumbration of Jaffery'slove affair is pure nonsense. Anything less like an ogre than ourovergrown baby of a friend it would he impossible to imagine. But I holdto my theory; all the more because when Adrian and I returned from ourstroll round the garden, we found Jaffery standing over her, legs apart, like a Colossus of Rhodes, and roaring at her like a sucking dove. Inoticed a scared, please-don't-eat-me look in her eyes. It was the ogre(trying to make himself agreeable) and the princess to the life. 

Presently tea was brought out, and with it came Barbara, a quiet laughabout her lips, and Liosha, stately and smiling. My wife to put her ather ease (though she had displayed singularly little shyness), afterdealing with maid and taxi, had taken her over the house, exhibitedSusan at tea in the nursery, and as much of Doria's trousseau as wasvisible in the sewing-room. The approaching marriage aroused her keeninterest. She said very little during the meal, but smiledembarrassingly on the engaged pair. Jaffery stood glumly devouringcucumber sandwiches, till Barbara took him aside. 

"She's rather a dear, in spite of everything, and I think you'retreating her abominably. "

Jaffery grew scarlet beneath the brick-coloured glaze. 

"I wouldn't treat any woman abominably, if I could help it. "

"Well, you can help it--" and taking pity on him, she laughed in hisface. "Can't you take her as a joke?"

He glanced quietly at the lady. "Rather a heavy one, " he said. 

"Anyhow come and talk to us and be civil to her. Imagine she's theVicar's wife come to call. "

Jaffery's elementary sense of humour was tickled and he broke out into aloud guffaw that sent the house cat, a delicate mendicant for food, scuttling across the lawn. The sight of the terror-stricken animalaroused the rest of the party to harmless mirth. 

"Tell me, Mrs. Prescott, " said Adrian, "was he allowed to do that inAlbania?"

"I guess there aren't many things Jaff Chayne can't do in Albania, "replied Liosha. "He has the _bessas_ that carry him through and he's asbrave as a lion. "

"I suppose you like brave men?" said Doria. 

"A woman who married a coward would be a damn fool--especially inAlbania. I guess there aren't many in my mountains. "

"I wish you would tell us about your mountains, " said Barbarapleasantly. 

"And at the same time, " said I, "Jaff might let us hear his story. Thatis to say if you have no objection, Mrs. Prescott. "

"With us, " said Liosha, "the guest is expected to talk about himself;for if he's a guest he's one of the family. "

"Shall I go ahead then?" asked Jaffery, "and you chip in whenever youfeel like it?"

"That would be best, " replied Liosha. 

And having lit a cigarette and settled herself in her deck-chair, shemotioned to Jaffery to proceed. And there in the shade of the oldwistaria arbour, surrounded by such dainty products of civilisation asAdrian (in speckless white flannels and violet socks) and the tea-table(in silver and egg-shell china) this pair of barbarians told their tale. 

CHAPTER V

It is some years now since that golden August afternoon, and my memoryof the details of the story of Liosha as told by Jaffery and illustratedpicturesquely by the lady herself is none of the most precise. Incidentally I gathered, then and later in the smoking-room from Jafferyalone, a prodigious amount of information about Albania which, if I hadimprisoned it in writing that same evening as the perfect diarist issupposed to do, would have been vastly useful to me at the presentmoment. But I am as a diarist hopelessly imperfect. I stare, now, as Iwrite, at the bald, uninspiring page. This is my entry for Aug. 4th, 19--. 

"Weighed Susan. 4 st. 3. 

"Met Jaffery at station. 

"Albanian widow turned up unexpectedly after lunch. Fine woman. Going tobe a handful. Staying week-end. Story of meeting and Prescott marriage. 

"Promised Susan a donkey ride. Where the deuce does one get donkeyswarranted quiet and guaranteed to carry a lady? _Mem:_ Ask TornFletcher. 

"_Mem:_ Write to Launebeck about cigars. "

Why I didn't write straight off to Launebeck about the cigars, insteadof "mem-ing" it, may seem a mystery. It isn't. It is a comfortable habitof mine. Once having "mem-ed" an unpleasant thing in my diary, thematter is over. I dismiss it from my mind. But to return to Liosha--Ifind in my entry of sixty-two words thirty-five devoted to Susan, herdonkey and the cigars, and only twenty-seven to the really astonishingevents of the day. Of course I am angry. Of course I consult Barbara. Ofcourse she pats the little bald patch on the top of my head and laughsin a superior way and invents, with a paralysing air of verity, animpossible amplification of the "story of meeting and Prescottmarriage. " And of course, the frivolous Jaffery, now that one reallywants him, is sitting astride of a cannon, and smoking a pipe and, notebook and pencil in hand, is writing a picturesque description of thebungling decapitation by shrapnel of the general who has just beenunfolding to him the whole plan of the campaign, and consequently isprovokingly un-getatable by serious persons like myself[A]. 

[Footnote A: Hilary is writing at the end of the late Balkanwar. --W. J. L. ]

So for what I learned that day I must trust to the elusive witch, Memory. I have never been to Albania. I have never wanted to go toAlbania. Even now, I haven't the remotest desire to go to Albania. Ishould loathe it. Wherever I go nowadays, I claim as my right bedroomand bath and viands succulent to the palate and tender to the teeth. Mydemands are modest. But could I get them in Albania? No. Could onetravel from Scutari to Monastir in the same comfort as one travels fromLondon to Paris or from New York to Chicago? No. Does any sensible manof domestic instincts and scholarly tastes like to find himself halfwayup an inaccessible mountain, surrounded by a band of moustachioeddesperadoes in fustanella petticoats engirdled with an armoury ofpistols, daggers and yataghans, who if they are unkind make a surgicaldemonstration with these lethal implements, and if they are smitten witha mania of amiability, hand you over, for superintendence of yourrepose, to an army of satellites of whom you are only too glad to callthe flea brother? I trow not. Personally, I dislike mountains. They weremade for goats and cascades and lunatics and other irresponsiblephenomena of nature. They have their uses, I admit, as windscreens andwater-sheds; and beheld from the valley they can assume very prettycolours, owing to varying atmospheric conditions; and the more jaggedand unenticing they are, the greater is their specious air ofstupendousness. . . . At any rate they are hindrances to convenienttravel and so I go among them as little as possible. 

To judge from the fervid descriptions given us by Jaffery and Liosha, Albania must be a pestilentially uncomfortable place to live in. It isdivided into three religious sects, then re-divided into heaven knowshow many tribes. What it will be when it gets autonomy and a governmentand a parliament and picture-palaces no one yet knows. But at the timewhen my two friends met it was in about as chaotic a condition as ajungle. Some tribes acknowledged the rule of the Turk. Others did not. Every mountainside had a pretty little anarchical system of its own. Every family had a pretty little blood feud with some other family. Accordingly every man was handy with knife and gun and it was everymaiden's dream to be sold as a wife to the most bloodthirsty scoundrelin the neighbourhood. At least that was the impression given me byLiosha. 

When the tragedy occurred she herself was about to be sold to aprosperous young cutthroat of whom she had seen but little, as he lived, I gathered, a couple of mountains off. They had been betrothed yearsbefore. The price her father demanded was high. Not only did he hold anotable position on his mountain, but he had travelled to the fabulousland of America and could read and write and could speak English andcould handle a knife with peculiar dexterity. Again, Liosha was noordinary Albanian maiden. She too had seen the world and could read andwrite and speak English. She had a will of her own and had imbibedduring her Chicago childhood curiously un-Albanian notions of feminineindependence. Being beautiful as well, she ranked as a sort of prizebride worth (in her father's eyes) her weight in gold. 

It was to try to reduce this excessive valuation that the youngcutthroat visited his father's house. During the night two families, oneof whom had a feud with the host and another with the guest, eachattended by an army of merry brigands, fell upon the sleeping homestead, murdered everybody except Liosha, who managed to escape, plunderedeverything plunderable, money, valuables, household goods and livestock, and then set fire to the house and everything within sight thatcould burn. After which they marched away singing patriotic hymns. Whenthey had gone Liosha crept out of the cave wherein she had hidden, andsurveyed the scene of desolation. 

"I tell you, I felt just mad, " said Liosha at this stage of the story. 

 * * * * *

I remember Barbara and Doria staring at her open-mouthed. Instead offainting or going into hysterics or losing her wits at the sight of theannihilation of her entire kith and kin--including her bridegroom tobe--and of her whole worldly possessions, Liosha "felt just mad, " whichas all the world knows is the American vernacular for feeling veryangry. 

"It was enough to turn any woman into a raving lunatic, " gasped Barbara. 

"Guess it didn't turn me, " replied Liosha contemptuously. 

"But what did you do?" asked Dora. 

"I sat down on a stone and thought how I could get even with thatcrowd. " She bit her lip and her soft brown eyes hardened. 

[Illustration: Where the lonely figure in black and white satbrooding. ]

"And that's where we came in, don't you see?" interposed Jafferyhastily. 

You can imagine the scene. The two Englishmen, one gigantic, red andhairy, the other wiry and hawk-like, jogging up the mountain path onragged ponies and suddenly emerging onto that plateau of despair wherethe lonely figure in black and white sat brooding. 

Under such unusual conditions, it was not difficult to formacquaintance. She told her story to the two horror-stricken men. Britishinstinct cried out for justice. They would take her straight to the Valior whatever authority ruled in the wild land, so that punishment shouldbe inflicted on the murderers. But she laughed at them. It would take anarmy to dislodge her enemies from their mountain fastnesses. And whocould send an army but the Sultan, a most unlikely person to trouble hishead over the massacre of a few Christians? As for a local government, the _mallisori_, the mountain tribes, did not acknowledge any. TheEnglishmen swore softly. Liosha nodded her head and agreed with them. What was to be done? The Englishmen, alter giving her food and drinkwhich she seemed to need, offered their escort to a place where shecould find relations or friends. Again she laughed scornfully. 

"All my relations lie there"--she pointed to the smoking ruins. "And Ihave no friends. And as for your escorting me--why I guess it would bemuch more use my escorting you. "

"And where would you escort us?"

"God knows, " she said. 

Whereupon they realised that she was alone in the wide world, homelessand penniless, and that for a time, at least, they were responsible toGod and man for this picturesque Albanian damsel who spoke the Englishof the stockyards of Chicago. Again what was to be done? They could takeher back to Scutari, whence they had come, in the hope of finding aRoman Catholic sisterhood. The proposal evoked but lukewarm enthusiasm. Liosha being convinced that they would turn her into a nun--the lastavocation in the world she desired to adopt. Her simple idea was to goout to America, like her father, return with many bags of gold anddevote her life to the linked sweetness of a gradual extermination ofher enemies. When asked how she would manage to amass the gold shereplied that she would work in the packing-houses like her mother. Buthow, they asked, would she get the money to take her to Chicago? "Itmust come from you!" she said. And the men looked at each other, feelingmean dogs in not having offered to settle her there themselves. Then, being a young woman of an apparently practical mind, she asked them whatthey were doing in Albania. They explained. They were travellers fromEngland, wandering for pleasure through the Balkans. They had come fromScutari, as far as they could, in a motor-car. Liosha had never heard ofa motor-car. They described it as a kind of little railway-engine thatdidn't need rails to run upon. At the foot of the mountains they hadleft it at a village inn and bought the ragged ponies. They were justgoing ahead exploring. 

"Do you know the way?" she asked with a touch of contempt. 

They didn't. 

"Then I guess I'll guide you. You pay me wages every day until you'retired and I'll use the money to go out to Chicago. " And seeing themhesitate, she added: "No one's going to hurt me. A woman is safe inAlbania. And if I'm with you, no one will hurt you. But if you go on byyourselves you'll very likely get murdered. "

Fantastic as was her intention, they knew that, as far as theythemselves were concerned, she spoke common-sense. So it came to passthat Liosha, having left them for a few moments to take grim farewell ofthe charred remains of her family lying hidden beneath the smoulderingwreckage, returned to them with a calm face, mounted one of the poniesand pointing before her, led the way into the mountains. 

Now, if old Jaff would only sit down and write this absurd Odyssey inthe vivid manner in which he has related bits of it to me, he wouldproduce the queerest book of travel ever written. But he never will. Asa matter of fact, although he saw Albania as few Westerners have doneand learned useful bits of language and made invaluable friends, andalthough he appreciated the journey's adventurous and humorous side, itdid not afford him complete satisfaction. A day or two after theirstart, Prescott began to shew signs of peculiar interest in their guide. In spite of her unquestioning readiness to shoulder burdens, Prescottwould run to relieve her. Liosha has assured me that Jaffery did thesame--and indeed I cannot conceive Jaffery allowing a female companionto stagger along under a load which he could swing onto his huge backand carry like a walnut. To go further--she maintains that the twoquarrelled dreadfully over the alleviation of her labours, so much so, that often before they had ended their quarrel, she had performed thetask in dispute. This of course Jaffery has blusteringly denied. She wasthere, paid to do certain things, and she had to do them. The wayPrescott spoiled her and indulged her, as though she were a littledressed-up cat in a London drawing-room, instead of a great hefty womanaccustomed to throw steers and balance a sack of potatoes on her head, was simply sickening. And it became more sickening still as Prescott'sinfatuation clouded more and more the poor fellow's brain. Jafferytalked (not before Liosha, but to Adrian and myself, that night, afterthe ladies had gone to bed) as if the girl had woven a Vivien spellaround his poor friend. We smiled, knowing it was Jaffery's way. . . . 

At all events, whether Jaffery was jealous or not, it is certain thatPrescott fell wildly, blindly, overwhelmingly in love with Liosha. Considering the close intimacy of their lives; considering that theywere in ceaseless contact with this splendid creature, untrammelled byany convention, daughter of the earth, yet chaste as her own mountainwinds; and considering that both of them were hot-blooded men, the onlywonder is that they did not fly at each other's throats, or dash in eachother's heads with stones, after the fashion of prehistoric males. It ismy well-supported conviction, however, that Jaffery, honest old bear, seeing his comrade's very soul set upon the honey, trotted off and lefthim to it, and made pretence (to satisfy his ursine conscience) ofgrowling his sarcastic disapproval. 

"The devil of it was, " he declared that night, with a sweep of his armthat sent a full glass of whiskey and soda hurtling across space to mybookshelves and ruining some choice bindings--"the devil of it was, "said he, after expressing rueful contrition, "that she treated him likea dog, whereas I could do anything I liked with her. But she marriedhim. "

Of course she married him. Most Albanian young women in her positionwould have married a brave and handsome Englishman of incalculablewealth--even if they had not Liosha's ulterior motives. And beyondquestion Liosha had ulterior motives. Prescott espoused her cause hotly. He convinced her that he was a power in Europe. As a Reutercorrespondent he did indeed possess power. He would make the civilisedworld ring with this tale of bloodshed and horror. He would beardSultans in their lairs and Emperors in their dens. He would bring downawful vengeance on the heads of her enemies. How Sultans and Emperorswere to do it was as obscure as at the horror-filled hour of their firstmeeting. But a man vehemently in love is notoriously blind to practicalconsiderations. Prescott put his life into her hands. She accepted itcalmly; and I think it was this calmness of acceptance that infuriatedJaffery. If she had been likewise caught in the whirlpool of a madpassion, Jaffery would have had nothing to say. But she did not (so hemaintained) care a button for Prescott, and Prescott would not believeit. She had promised to marry him. That ideal of magnificent womanhoodhad promised to marry him. They were to be married--think of that, myboy!--as soon as they got back to Scutari and found a British Consul anda priest or two to marry them. "Then for God's sake, " roared Jaffery, "let us trek to Scutari. I'm fed up with playing gooseberry. The GiantGooseberry. Ho! ho! ho!"

So they shortened their projected journey and, making a circuit, pickedup the motor-car--a joy and wonder to Liosha. She wanted to driveit--over the rutted wagon-tracks that pass for roads in Albania--andsuch was Prescott's infatuation that he would have allowed her to do so. But Jaffery sat an immovable mountain of flesh at the wheel and broughtthem safely to Scutari. There arrangements were made for the marriagebefore the British Vice-Consul. On the morning of the ceremony Prescottfell ill. The ceremony was, however, performed. Towards evening he wasin high fever. The next morning typhoid declared itself. In two or threedays he was dead. He had made a will leaving everything to his wife, with Jaffery as sole executor and trustee. 

This sorry ending of poor Prescott's romance--I never knew him, butshall always think of him as a swift and vehement spirit--was told veryhuskily by Jaffery beneath the wistaria arbour. Tears rolled downBarbara's and Doria's cheeks. My wife's sympathetic little hand slidinto Liosha's. With her other hand Liosha fondled it. I am sure it wasrather gratitude for this little feminine act than poignant emotion thatmoistened Liosha's beautiful eyes. 

"I haven't had much luck, have I?"

"No, my poor dear, you haven't, " cried Barbara in a gush of kindness. 

In the course of a few weeks to have one's affianced husband murderedand one's legal though nominal husband spirited away by disease, seemedin the eyes of my gentle wife to transcend all records of human tragedy. Very soon afterwards she made a pretext for taking Liosha away from us, and I had the extraordinary experience of seeing my proud littleBarbara, who loathes the caressive insincerities prevalent among women, cross the lawn with her arm around Liosha's waist. 

The rest of the bare bones of the story I have already told you. Jaffery, after burying his poor comrade, took ship with Liosha and wentto Cettinje, where he entrusted her to the care of old friends of his, the Austrian Consul and his wife, and made her known as the widow ofPrescott of Reuter's to the British diplomatic authorities. Then havinghis work to do, he started forth again, a heavy-hearted adventurer, and, when it was over, he picked up Liosha, for whom Frau von Hagen hadmanaged to procure a stock of more or less civilised raiment, andbrought her to London to make good her claim, under Prescott's will, toher dead husband's fortune. 

Now this is Jaffery all over. Put him on a battlefield with guns goingoff in all directions, or in a shipwreck, or in the midst of a herd ofcrocodiles, and he will be cool master of the situation, and willtelegraph to his newspaper the graphic, nervous stuff of the bornjournalist; but set him a simple problem in social life, which a childof fifteen would solve in a walk across the room, and he is scared todeath. Instead of sending for Barbara, for instance, when he arrived inLondon, or any other sensible woman, say, like Frau von Hagen ofCettinje, he drags poor Euphemia, a timid maiden lady of forty-five, from her tea-parties and Bible-classes and Dorcas-meetings at TunbridgeWells, and plants her down as guide, philosopher and friend to thisdisconcerting product of Chicago and Albania. Of course the poor ladywas at her wits' ends, not knowing whether to treat her as a new-bornbaby or a buffalo. With equal inevitability, Liosha, unaccustomed tothis type of Western woman, summed her up in a drastic epithet. And inthe meanwhile Jaffery went about tearing hair and beard and cursing thefate that put him in charge of a volcano in petticoats. 

"I have a great regard for Euphemia, " said Barbara, later in theday--they were walking up and down the terrace in, the dusk beforedinner--"but I have some sympathy with Liosha. Tolstoi! My dear Jaffery!And the City Temple! If she wanted to take the girl to church, why nother own church, the Brompton Oratory or Farm Street?"

"Euphemia wouldn't attend a Popish place of worship--she still calls itPopish, poor dear--to save her soul alive, or anybody else's soul, "replied Jaffery. 

"Then pack her off at once to Tunbridge Wells, " said Barbara. "She'seven more helpless than you, which is saying a great deal. I'll see toLiosha. "

Jaffery protested. It was dear of her, sweet of her, miraculous of her, but he couldn't dream of it. 

"Then don't, " she retorted. "Put it out of your mind. And there'sFranklin. Come to dinner. "

"I'm not a bit hungry, " he said gloomily. 

We dined; as far as I was concerned, very pleasantly. Liosha, who sat onmy right, refreshingly free in her table manners (embarrassingly so tomy most correct butler), was equally free in her speech. She provided mewith excellent entertainment. I learned many frank truths about Albanianwomen, for whom, on account of their vaccine subjection, she proclaimedthe most scathing contempt. Her details, in architectural phrase, werefull size. Once or twice Doria, who sat on my left, lowered her eyesdisapprovingly. At her age, her mother would have been shocked; hergrandmother would have blushed from toes to forehead; hergreat-grandmother might have fainted. But Doria, a Twentieth Centuryproduct, on the Committee of a Maternity Home and a Rescue Laundry, merely looked down her nose . . . I gathered that Liosha, for all heryearning to shoot, flay alive, crucify and otherwise annoy her enemies, did not greatly regret the loss of the distinguished young Albaniancutthroat who was her affianced. Had he lived she would have spent therest of her days in saying, like Melisande, "I am not happy. " She wouldhave been an instrument of pleasure, a producer of children, a slavingdrudge, while he went triumphantly about, a predatory ravisher, amongthe scattered Bulgarian peasantry. In fact, she expressed awhole-hearted detestation for her betrothed. I am pretty sure, too, thatthe death of her father did not leave in her life the aching gap that itmight have done. 

You see, it came to this. Her father, an American-Albanian, wanted torun with the hare of barbarism and hunt with the hounds of civilisation. His daughter (woman the world over) was all for hunting. He had spenttwenty years in America. By a law of gravitation, natural only in thatMelting Pot of Nations, Chicago, he had come across an Albanianwife. . . . 

Chicago is the Melting Pot of the nations of the world. Let me tell youa true tale. It has nothing whatever to do with Jaffery Chayne orLiosha--except perhaps to shew that there is no reason why a Tierra delFuegan foundling should not run across his long-lost brother on MichiganAvenue, and still less reason why Albanian male should not meet Albanianfemale in Armour's stockyards. And besides, considering that I was eggedon, as I said on the first page, to write these memoirs, I really don'tsee why I should not put into them anything I choose. 

An English novelist of my acquaintance visiting Chicago received arepresentative of a great daily newspaper who desired to interview him. The interviewer was a typical American reporter, blue-eyed, highcheekboned, keen, nervous, finely strung, courteous, intensely alive, desirous to get to the heart of my friend's mystery, and charminglyresponsive to his frank welcome. They talked. My friend, to give theyoung man his story, discoursed on Chicago's amazingly solved problem ofthe conglomeration of all the races under Heaven. To point his remarksand mark his contrasts he used the words "we English" and "youAmericans. " After a time the young man smiled and said: "But am not anAmerican--at least I'm an American citizen, but I'm not a bornAmerican. "

"But, " cried my friend, "you're the essence of America. "

"No, " said the young man, "I'm an Icelander. "

Thus it was natural for Liosha's father to find an Albanian wife inChicago. She too was superficially Americanised. When they returned toAlbania with their purely American daughter, they at first found itdifficult to appear superficial Albanians. Liosha had to learn Albanianas a foreign language, her parents and herself always speaking Englishamong themselves. But the call of the blood rang strong in the veins ofthe elders. Robbery and assassination on the heroic scale held for theman an irresistible attraction, and he acquired great skill at thebusiness; and the woman, who seems to have been of a lymphatictemperament, sank without murmuring into the domestic subjection intowhich she had been born. It was only Liosha who rebelled. Hence hercomplicated attitude towards life, and hence her entertaining talk atthe dinner table. 

I enjoyed myself. So, I think, did everybody. When the ladies rose, Jaffery, who was nearest the door, opened it for them to pass out, Barbara, the last, lingered for a second or two and laid her hand onJaffery's arm and looked up at him out of her teasing blue eyes. 

"My dear Jaff, " she said, "what kind of a dinner do you eat when you_are_ hungry?"

CHAPTER VI

Barbara having freed Jaffery from immediate anxieties with regard toLiosha, easily persuaded him to pay a longer visit than he had proposed. A telephonic conversation with a first distracted, thenconscience-smitten and then much relieved Euphemia had for effect thepayment of bills at the Savoy and the retreat of the gentle lady toTunbridge Wells. Liosha remained with us, pending certain negotiationsdarkly carried on by my wife and Doria in concert. During this time Ihad some opportunity of observing her from a more philosophic standpointand my judgment was--I will not say formed--but aided by Barbara'sconfidential revelations. When not directly thwarted, she seemed to begood-natured. She took to Susan--a good sign; and Susan took to her--abetter. Finding that her idea of happiness was to sprawl about thegarden and let the child run over her and inveigle her into childishgames and call her "Loshie" (a disrespectful mode of address which I hadall the pains in the world in persuading Barbara to permit) andgenerally treat her as an animate instrument of entertainment, wesmoothed down every obstacle that might lie in this particular path tobeatitude. So many difficulties were solved. Not only were we spared theproblem of what the deuce to do with Liosha during the daytime, but alsoBarbara was able to send the nurse away for a short and much neededholiday. Of course Barbara herself undertook all practical duties; butwhen she discovered that Liosha experienced primitive delight inbathing Susan--Susan's bath being a heathen rite in which ducks and fishand swimming women and horrible spiders played orgiac parts, and ingetting up at seven in the morning--("Good God! Is there such an hour?"asked Adrian, when he heard about it)--in order to breakfast with Susan, and in dressing and undressing her and brushing her hair, and intramping for miles by her side while with Basset, her vassal, inattendance, Susan rode out on her pony; when Barbara, in short, becameaware of this useful infatuation, she pandered to it, somewhatshamelessly, all the time, however, keeping an acute eye on the zealousamateur. If, for instance, Liosha had picked a bushel of nectarines andhad established herself with Susan, in the corner of the fruit garden, for a debauch, which would have had, for consequence, a child's funeral, Barbara, by some magic of motherhood, sprang from the earth in front ofthem with her funny little smile and her "Only one--and a very ripeone--for Susan, dear Liosha. " And in these matters Liosha was as muchoverawed by Barbara as was Susan. 

This, I repeat, was a good sign in Liosha. I don't say that she wouldhave fallen captive to any ordinary child, but Susan being my child wasnaturally different from the vulgar run of children. She was _rarissiniaavis_ in the lands of small girls--one of the few points on whichBarbara and I are in unclouded agreement. No one could have helpedfalling captive to Susan. But, I admit, in the case of Liosha, who wasan out-of-the-way, incalculable sort of creature--it was a good sign. Perhaps, considering the short period during which I had her under closeobservation, it was the best sign. She had grievous faults. 

One evening, while I was dressing for dinner, Barbara burst into mydressing-room. 

"Reynolds has given me notice. "

"Oh, " said I, not desisting (as is the callous way of husbands the worldover) from the absorbing and delicate manipulation of my tie. "Whatfor?"

"Liosha has just gone for her with a pair of scissors. "

"Horrible!" said I, getting the ends even. "I can imagine nothing morefinnikin in ghastliness than to cut anybody's throat with nail scissors, especially when the subject is unwilling. "

Barbara pished and pshawed. It was no occasion for levity. 

"I agree, " said I. The dressing hour is the calmest and most philosophicperiod of the day. 

Barbara came up to me blue eyed and innocent, and with a traitorousjerk, undid my beautiful white bow. 

"There, now listen. "

And I, dilapidated wretch, had to listen to the tale of crime. Itappeared that Reynolds, my wife's maid, in putting Liosha into aready-made gown--a model gown I believe is the correct term--insisted onher being properly corseted. Liosha, agonisingly constricted, rebelled. The maid was obdurate. Liosha flew at her with a pair of scissors. Ithink I should have done the same. Reynolds bolted from the room. Soshould I have done. I sympathised with both of them. Reynolds fled toher mistress, and, declaring it to be no part of her duty to wait ontigers, gave notice. 

"We can't lose Reynolds, " said I. 

"Of course we can't. "

"And we can't pack Liosha off at a moment's notice, so as to pleaseReynolds. "

"Oh, you're too wise altogether, " said my wife, and left me to thetranquil completion of my dressing. 

Liosha came down to dinner very subdued, after a short, sharp interviewwith Barbara, who, for so small a person, can put on a prodigious air ofauthority. As a punishment for bloodthirsty behaviour she had made herwear the gown in the manner prescribed by Reynolds; and she hadapologised to Reynolds, who thereupon withdrew her notice. So serenityagain prevailed. 

In some respects Liosha was very childish. The receipt of letters, nomatter from whom--even bills, receipts and circulars--gave heroverwhelming joy and sense of importance. This harmless craze, however, led to another outburst of ferocity. Meeting the postman outside thegate she demanded a letter. The man looked through his bundle. 

"Nothing for you this morning, ma'am. "

"I wrote to the dressmaker yesterday, " said Liosha, "and you've got thereply right there. "

"I assure you I haven't, " said the postman. 

"You're a liar, " cried Liosha, "and I guess I'm going to see. "

Whereupon Liosha, who was as strong as a young horse, sprang todeath-grapple with the postman, a puny little man, pitched him onto theside of the road and calmly entered into felonious possession of HisMajesty's mails. Then finding no letter she cast the whole delivery overthe supine and gasping postman and marched contemptuously into thehouse. 

The most astonishing part of the business was that in these outbreaks ofbarbarity she did not seem to be impelled by blind rage. Most people whoheave a postman about a peaceful county would do so in a fit of passion, through loss of nerve-control. Not so Liosha. She did these things withthe bland and deadly air of an inexorable Fate. 

The perspiration still beads on my brow when I think of the cajoling andbribing and blustering and lying I had to practise in order to hush upthe matter. As for Liosha, both Jaffery and I rated her soundly. Iexplained loftily that not so many years ago, transportation, lifelongimprisonment, death were the penalties for the felony which she hadcommitted. 

[Illustration: Jaffery, considerably disconcerted, handled the cleek. ]

"You ought to have a jolly good thrashing, " roared Jaffery. 

At this Liosha, who had endured our abuse with the downcast eyes ofangelic meekness, took a golfclub from a bag lying on the hall table andhanded it to the red-bearded giant. 

"I guess I do, " she said. "Beat me. "

And, as I am a living man, I swear that if Jaffery had taken her at herword and laid on lustily she would have taken her thrashing without amurmur. What was one to do with such a woman?

Jaffery, considerably disconcerted, fingered the cleek. Gradually sheraised her glorious eyes to him, and in them I was startled to see themost extraordinary doglike submission. He frowned portentously and shookhis head. Her lips worked, and after a convulsive sob or two, she threwherself on the ground, clasped his knees, and to our dismay burst into apassion of weeping. Barbara, rushing into the hall at this juncture, like a fairy tornado, released us from our embarrassing position. Sheannihilated us with a sweeping glance of scorn. 

"Oh, go away, both of you, go away!"

So we went away and left her to deal with Liosha. 

Save for such little excursions and alarms the days passed verypleasantly. Jaffery spent most of the sweltering hours of daylight (itwas a blazing summer) in playing golf on the local course. Adrian andDoria trod the path of the perfect lovers, while I, to justify myposition as President of the Hafiz Society, worked hard at a PersianGrammar. Barbara, the never idle, was in the meantime arranging forLiosha's future. Her organising genius had brought Doria's suggestion asto the First Class London Boarding House into the sphere of practicalthings. The Boarding House idea alone would not work; but, combine itwith Mrs. Considine, and the scheme ran on wheels. 

"Even you, " said Barbara, as though I were a sort of Schopenhauer, aprofessional disparager of her sex--"even you have a high opinion ofMrs. Considine. "

I had. Every one had a high opinion of Mrs. Considine. She was not verybeautiful or very clever or very fascinating or very angelic or veryanything--but she was one of those women of whom everybody has a highopinion. The impoverished widow of an Indian soldierman, with a sonsoldiering somewhere in India, she managed to do a great deal on verysmall means. She was a woman of the world, a woman of character. Sheknew how to deal with people of queer races. Heaven indicated her forappointment by Barbara as Liosha's duenna in the Boarding House. Mrs. Considine, herself compelled to live in these homes for the homeless, gladly accepted the proposal, came down, interviewed her charge, whohappened then to be in a mood of meekness indescribable, and went away, so to speak, with her contract in her pocket. It was part of theprogramme that Mrs. Considine should tactfully carry on Liosha'seducation, which had been arrested at the age of twelve, instil into hera sense of Western decorum, extend her acquaintance, and gradually rootout of her heart the yearning to do her enemies to death. It was acapital programme; and I gave it the benediction of a smile, in which, seeing Barbara's shrewd blue eyes fixed on me, I suppressed the irony. 

When this was all settled Jaffery proclaimed himself the most care-freefellow alive. His hitherto grumpy and resentful attitude towards Lioshachanged. He established himself as fellow slave with her under the whipof Susan's tyranny. It did one good to see these two magnificentcreatures sporting together for the child's, and incidentally their own, amusement. For the first time during their intercourse they met on thesame plane. 

"She's really quite a good sort, " said Jaffery. 

But if it was pleasant to see him with Liosha, it was still moretouching to watch his protective attitude towards Doria. He seemed soanxious to do her service, so deferential to her views, sopuzzle-headedly eager to reconcile them with his own. She took uponherself to read him little lectures. 

"Don't you think you're rather wasting your life?" she asked him oneday. 

"Do you think I am?"

"Yes. "

"Oh! But I work hard at my job, you know, " he said apologetically--"whenthere's one for me to do. And when there isn't I kind of prepare myselffor the next. For instance I've got to keep myself always fit. "

"But that's all physical and outside. " She smiled, in her littlesuperior way. "It's the inside, the personal, the essential self thatmatters. Life, properly understood, is a process of self-development. Ifa human being is the same at the end of a year as he was at thebeginning he has made no spiritual progress. "

Jaffery pulled his red beard. "In other words, he hasn't lived, " saidhe. 

"Precisely. "

"And you think that I'm just the same sort of old animal from one year'send to another and that I don't progress worth a cent, and so, that Idon't live. "

"I don't want to say quite that, " she replied graciously. "Every onemust advance a little bit unless they deteriorate. But the consciousstriving after spiritual progress is so necessary--and you seem to putit aside. It is such waste of life. "

"I suppose it is, in a way, " Jaffery admitted. 

She pursued the theme, a flattered Egeria. "You see--well, what do youdo? You travel about in out-of-the-way places and make notes about themin case the knowledge may be useful to you in the future. When you comeacross anything to kill, you kill it. It also pleases you to come acrossanything that calls for an exercise of strength. When there is a war ora revolution or anything that takes you to your real work, as you callit, you've only got to go through it and report what you see. "

"But that's just the difficulty, " cried Jaffery. "It isn't every chapthat's tough enough to come out rosy at the end of a campaign. And itisn't every chap that can _see_ the things he ought to write about. That's when the training comes in. "

Again she smiled. "I've no idea of belittling your profession, my dearJaffery. I think it's a noble one. But should it be the Alpha and Omegaof things? Don't you see? The real life is intellectual, spiritual, emotional. What are your ideals?"

Jaffery looked at her ruefully. Beneath those dark pools of eyes lay thespirituality that made her a mystery so sacred. He, great hulkingfellow, was a gross lump of clay. Ideals?

"I don't suppose I have any, " said he. 

"But you must. Everybody has, to a certain extent. "

"Well, to ride straight and tell the truth--like the ancient Persians, Isuppose it was the Persians--anyway it's a sort of rough code I've got. "

"Have you read Nietzsche?" she asked suddenly. 

He frowned perplexedly. "Nietzsche--that's the mad superman chap, isn'tit? No. I've not read a word. "

"I do wish you would. You'll find him so exhilarating. You mightpossibly agree with a lot of what he says. I don't. But he sets youthinking. "

She sketched her somewhat prim conception of the Nietzschean philosophy, and after listening to it in dumb wonder, he promised to carry out herwishes. So, when I came down to my library that evening dressed fordinner, I found him, still in morning clothes, with "Thus SpakeZarathustra" on his knees, and a bewildered expression on his face. 

"Have you read this, Hilary?" he asked. 

"Yes, " said I. 

"Understand it?"

"More or less. "

"Gosh!" said he, shutting the book, "and I suppose Doria understands ittoo, or she wouldn't have recommended it. But, " he rose ponderously andlooked down on me with serious eyes--"what the Hell is it all about?"

I drew out my watch. "The five seconds that you have before rushingup-stairs to dress, " said I, "don't give me adequate time to expound aphilosophic system. "

Now if Adrian or I had talked to Jaffery about soul-progression and theWill to Power and suggested that he was missing the essentials of life, we should have been met with bellows of rude and profane derision. Idon't believe he had even roughly considered what kind of anindividuality he had, still less enquired into the state of hisspiritual being. But the flip of a girl he professed so much to despisecame along and reduced him to a condition of helpless introspection. Icannot say that it lasted very long. Psychology and metaphysics andæsthetics lay outside Jaffery's sphere. But while seeing no harm in hisown simple creed of straight-riding and truth-speaking, he added to itan unshakable faith in Doria's intellectual and spiritual superiority. On his first meeting with her he had disclaimed the subtler mentalqualities, videlicet his similitude of the bumble-bee; now, however, hewent further, declaring himself, to a subrident host, to be achuckle-headed ass, only fit to herd with savages. He would listen, withchildlike envy, to Adrian, glib of tongue, exchanging with Doria theshibboleths of the Higher Life. He had been considerably impressed byAdrian as the author of a successful novel; but Adrian as a co-treaderof the stars with Doria, appeared to him in the light of an immortal. 

Adrian and I, when alone, laughed over old Jaff, as we had laughed overhim for goodness knows how many years. I, who had guessed (withBarbara's aid) the incidence of the thunderbolt, found in his humilitysomething pathetic which was lost to Adrian. The latter only saw theblustering, woman-scorning hulk of thews and sinews, at the mercy ofanything in petticoats, from Susan upward. I disagreed. He was not atthe mercy of Liosha. 

"You burrowing mole, " cried Adrian one morning in the library, Jafferyhaving gone off to golf, "can't you see that he goes about in mortalterror of her?"

"No such thing!" I retorted hotly. "He has regarded her as an abominablenuisance--a millstone round his neck--a responsibility--"

"A huntress of men, " he interrupted. "Especially an all too probablehuntress of Jaffery Chayne. With Susan and Barbara and Doria he knowshe's safe--spared the worst--so he yields and they pick him up--look athim and stand him on his head and do whatever they darn well like tohim; but with Liosha he knows he isn't safe. You see, " Adrian continued, after having lit a cigarette, "Jaffery's an honourable old chap, in hisway. With Liosha, his friend Prescott's widow, it would be a question ofmarriage or nothing. "

"You're talking rubbish, " said I. "Jaffery would just as soon think ofmarrying the Statue of Liberty in New York Harbour. "

"That's what I'm telling you, " said Adrian. "He's in a mortal funk lesthis animated Statue of Liberty should descend from her pedestal and withresistless hands take him away and marry him. "

"For one who has been hailed as the acutest psychologist of the day, "said I, "you seem to have very limited powers of observation. "

For some unaccountable reason Adrian's pale face flushed scarlet. Hebroke out vexedly:

"I don't see what my imaginative work has got to do with thetrivialities of ordinary life. As a matter of fact, " he added, after apause, "the psychology in a novel is all imagination, and it's the sameimaginative faculty that has been amusing itself with Jaffery and thisunqualifiable lady. "

"All right, my dear man, " said I, pacifically. "Probably you're rightand I'm wrong. I was only talking lightly. And speaking ofimagination--what about your next book?"

"Oh, damn the next book, " said he, flicking the ash off his cigarette. "I've got an idea, of course. A jolly good idea. But I'm not worryingabout it yet. "

"Why?" I asked. 

He threw his cigarette into the grate. How, in the name of common sense, could he settle down to work? Wasn't his head full of his approachingmarriage? Could he see at present anything beyond the thing of dream andwonder that was to be his wife? I was a cold-blooded fish to talk ofnovel-writing. 

"But you'll have to get into it sometime or other, " said I. 

"Of course. As soon as we come back from Venice, and settle down to anormal life in the flat. "

"What does Doria think of the new idea?"

Thousands who knew him not were looking forward to Adrian Boldero's newbook. We, who loved him, were peculiarly interested. Somehow or other wehad not touched before so intimately on the subject. To my surprise hefrowned and snapped impatient fingers. 

"I haven't told Doria anything about it. It isn't my way. My work's toopersonal a thing, even for Doria. She understands. I know some fellowstell their plots to any and everybody--and others, if they don't dothat, lay bare their artistic souls to those near and dear to them. Well, I can't. A word, no matter how loving, of adverse criticism, aglance even that was not sympathetic would paralyse me, it would shattermy faith in the whole structure I had built up. I can't help it. It's mynature. As I told you two or three months ago, it has always been myinstinct to work in the dark. I instanced my First at Cambridge. Howmuch more powerful is the instinct when it's a question of a vitalcreated thing like a novel? My dear Hilary, you're the man I'm fondestof in the world. You know that. But don't worry me about my work. Ican't stand it. It upsets me. Doria, heart of my heart and soul of mysoul, has promised not to worry me. She sees I must be free from outsideinfluences--no matter how closely near--but still outside. And you mustpromise too. "

"My dear old boy, " said I, somewhat confused by this impassionedexposition of the artistic temperament, "you've only got to express thewish--"

"I know, " said he. "Forgive me. " He laughed and lit another cigarette. "But Wittekind and the editor of _Fowler's_ in America--I've sold himthe serial rights--are shrieking out for a synopsis. I'm damned if I'mgoing to give 'em a synopsis. They get on my nerves. And--we're intimateenough friends, you and I, for me to confess it--so do our dearestBarbara and old Jaff, and you yourself, when you want to know how I'mgetting on. Look, dear old Hilary"--he laughed again and threw himselfinto an armchair--"giving birth to a book isn't very much unlike givingbirth to a baby. It's analogical in all sorts of ways. Well, some women, as soon as the thing is started, can talk quite freely--sweetly anddelicately--I haven't a word to say against them--to all their womenfriends about it. Others shrink. There's something about it too neartheir innermost souls for them to give their confidence to anyone. Well, dear old Hilary--that's how I feel about the novel. "

He spoke from his heart. I understood--like Doria. 

"Elizabeth Barrett Browning calls it 'the sorrowful, great gift, '" saidI. "We who haven't got it can only bow to those who have. "

Adrian rose and took a few strides about the library. 

"I'm afraid I've been talking a lot of inflated nonsense. It must soundawfully like swelled head. But you know it isn't, don't you?"

"Don't he an idiot, " said I. "Let us talk of something else. "

We did not return to the subject. 

In the course of time came Mrs. Considine to carry off Liosha to theFirst Class Boarding House which she had found in Queen's Gate. Lioshaleft us full of love for Barbara and Susan and I think of kindly feelingfor myself. A few days afterwards Jaffery went off to sail a small boatwith another lunatic in the Hebrides. A little later Doria and Adrianwent to pay a round of short family visits beginning with Mrs. Boldero. So before August was out, Barbara and Susan and I found ourselves alone. 

"Now, " said I, "I can get through some work. "

"Now, " said Barbara, "we can run over to Dinard. "

"What?" I shouted. 

"Dinard, " she said, softly. "We always go. We only put it off this yearon account of visitors. "

"We definitely made up our minds, " I retorted, "that we weren't going toleave this beautiful garden. You know I never change my mind. I'm notgoing away. "

Barbara left the room, whistling a musical comedy air. 

We went to Dinard. 

CHAPTER VII

There is a race of gifted people who make their livelihood by writingdescriptions of weddings. I envy them. They can crowd so many pebblyfacts into such a small compass. They know the names of everybody whoattended from the officiating clergy to the shyest of poor relations. With the cold accuracy of an encyclopædia, and with expert technicaldiscrimination, they mention the various fabrics of which the costumesof bride and bridesmaids were composed. They catalogue the weddingpresents with the correct names of the donors. They remember what hymnswere sung and who signed the register. They know the spot chosen for thehoneymoon. They know the exact hour of the train by which the happy pairdeparted. Their knowledge is astonishing in its detail. Their accountsnaturally lack imagination. Otherwise they would not be faithful recordsof fact. But they do lack colour, the magic word that brings a scenebefore the eye. Perhaps that is why they are never collected andpublished in book form. 

Now I have been wondering how to describe the wedding of Doria andAdrian. I have recourse to Barbara. 

"Why, I have the very thing for you, " she says, and runs away andpresently reappears with a long thing like a paper snake. "This is afull report of the wedding. I kept it. I felt it might come in usefulsome day, " she cried in triumph. "You can stick it in bodily. "

I began to read in hope the column of precise information. I end it indespair. It leaves me admiring but cold. It fails to conjure up to mymind the picture of a single mortal thing. Sadly I hand it back toBarbara. 

"I shan't describe the wedding at all, " I say. 

And indeed why should I? Our young friends were married as legally andirrevocably as half a dozen parsons in the presence of a distinguishedcongregation assembled in a fashionable London church could marry them. Of what actually took place I have the confused memory of the mere man. I know that it was magnificent. All the dinner parties of Mr. Jornicroftwere splendidly united. Adrian's troops of friends supported him. Doria, dark eyed, without a tinge of colour in the strange ivory of her cheek, looked more elfin than ever beneath the white veil. Jaffery, who wasbest man, vast in a loose frock coat, loomed like a monstrous effigy bythe altar-rails. Susan, at the head of the bridesmaids, kept the sternset face of one at grapple with awful responsibility. She told hermother afterwards that a pin was running into her all the time. . . . Well, I, for one, signed the register and I kissed the bride and shookhands with Adrian, who adopted the poor nonchalant attitude of oneaccustomed to get married every day of his life. Driving from church toreception with Barbara, I railed, in the orthodox manner of the superiorhusband, at the modern wedding. 

"A survival of barbarism, " said I. "What is the veil but a relic ofmarriage by barter, when the man bought a pig in a poke and never knewhis luck till he unveiled his bride? What is the ring but the symbol ofthe fetters of slavery? The rice, but the expression of a hope for aprolific union? The satin slipper tied on to the carriage or thrownafter it? Good luck? No such thing. It was once part of the marriageceremony for the bridegroom to tap the wife with a shoe to symbolisehis assertion of and her acquiescence in her entire subjection. "

"Where did Lady Bagshawe get that awful hat?" said Barbara sweetly. "Didyou notice it? It isn't a hat; it's a crime. "

I turned on her severely. "What has Lady Bagshawe's hat to do with thesubject under discussion? Haven't you been listening?"

She squeezed my hand and laughed. "No, you dear silly, of course not. "

Another instance of the essential inconvincibility of woman. 

It was Jaffery Chayne, who, on the pavement before the house in ParkCrescent, threw the satin slipper at the departing carriage. He had beenvery hearty and booming all the time, the human presentment of adevil-may-care lion out for a jaunt, and his great laugh thunderingcheerily above the clatter of talk had infected the heterogeneousgathering. Unconsciously dull eyes sparkled and pursy lips vibrated intosmiles. So gay a wedding reception I have never attended, and I am sureit was nothing but Jaffery's pervasive influence that infused vitalityinto the deadly and decorous mob. It was a miracle wrought by a richSilenic personality. I had never guessed before the magnetic power ofJaffery Chayne. Indeed I had often wondered how the overgrown andapparently irresponsible schoolboy who couldn't make head or tail ofNietzsche and from whom the music of Shelley was hid, had managed tomake a journalistic reputation as a great war and foreign correspondent. Now the veil of the mystery was drawn an inch or two aside. I saw himmingle with an alien crowd, and, by what On the surface appeared to besheer brute full-bloodedness, compel them to his will. The wedding wasnot to be a hollow clang of bells but a glad fanfare of trumpets in allhearts. In order that this wedding of Adrian and Doria should bememorable he had instinctively put out the forces that had carried himunscathed through the wildest and fiercest of the congregations of men. He could subdue and he could create. In the most pithless he had startedthe working of the sap of life. 

As for his own definite part of best man, he played it with anElizabethan spaciousness. . . . There was no hugger-mugger escape oftravel-clad bride and bridegroom. He contrived a triumphal progressthrough lines of guests led by a ruddy giant, Master of the Ceremonies, exuding Pantagruelian life. Joyously he conducted them to theirglittering carriage and pair--and, unconscious of anthropological truth, threw the slipper of woman's humiliation. The carriage drove off amidthe cheers of the multitude. Jaffery stood and watched it until itdisappeared round the curve. In my eagerness to throw the unnecessarilysymbolic rice I had followed and stayed a foot or two away from him; andthen I saw his face change--just for a few seconds. All the joyousnesswas stricken from it; his features puckered up into the familiar twistsof a child about to cry. His huge glazed hands clenched and unclenchedthemselves. It was astonishing and very pitiful. Quickly he gulpedsomething down and turned on me with a grin and shook me by theshoulders. 

"Now I'm the only free man of the bunch. The only one. Don't you wishyou were a bachelor and could go to Hell or Honolulu--wherever you chosewithout a care? Ho! ho! ho!" He linked his arm in mine, and said in whathe thought was a whisper: "For Heaven's sake let us go in and try tofind a real drink. "

We went into a deserted smoking-room where decanters and siphons wereset out. Jaffery helped himself to a mighty whisky and soda and pouredit down his throat. 

"You seemed to want that, " said I, drily. 

"It's this infernal kit, " said he, with a gesture including his frockcoat and patent leather boots. "For gossamer comfort give me a suit ofarmour. At any rate that's a man's kit. "

I made some jesting answer; but it had been given to me to see thattransient shadow of pain and despair, and I knew that the discomfort ofthe garments of civilisation had nothing to do with the swallowing ofthe huge jorum of alcohol. 

Of course I told Barbara all about it--it is best to establish your wifein the habit of thinking you tell her everything--and she was more thanusually gentle to Jaffery. We carried him down with us to Northlandsthat afternoon, calling at his club for a suit-case. In the car hetucked a very tired and comfort-desiring Susan in the shelter of hisgreat arm. There was something pathetically tender in the gathering ofthe child to him. Barbara with her delicate woman's sense felt theharmonics of chords swept within him. And when we reached home and werealone together, she said with tears very near her eyes:

"Poor old Jaff. What a waste of a life!"

"My dear, " I replied, "so said Doria. But you speak with the tongue ofan angel, whereas Doria, I'm afraid, is still earth-bound. "

The tear fell with a laugh. She touched my cheek with her hand. 

"When you're intelligent like that, " she said, "I really love you. "

For a mere man to be certified by Barbara as intelligent is praiseindeed. 

"I wonder, " she said, a little later, "whether those two are going to behappy?"

"As happy, " said I, "as a mutual admiration society of two people canpossibly be. "

She rebuked me for a tinge of cynicism in my estimate. They were both ofthem dears and the marriage was genuine Heaven-made goods. I avowedabsolute agreement. 

"But what would have happened, " she said reflectively, "if Jaffery hadcome along first and there had been no question of Adrian. Would theyhave been happy?"

Then I found my opportunity. "Woman, " said I, "aren't you satisfied? Youhave made one match--you, and you'll pardon me for saying so, notHeaven--and now you want to unmake it and make a brand-new hypotheticalone. "

"All your talk, " she said, "doesn't help poor Jaffery. "

I put my hand to my head to still the flickering in my brain, kissed herand retired to my dressing-room. Barbara smiled, conscious of triumphover me. 

During dinner and afterwards in the drawing-room, she played the part ofJaffery's fairy mother. She discussed his homelessness--she had an eerieway of treading on delicate ground. A bed in a tent or a club or an inn. That was his home. He had no possessions. 

"Good Lord!" cried Jaffery. "I should think I have. I've got about threehundred stuffed head of game stored in the London Repository, to saynothing of skins and as fine a collection of modern weapons as you eversaw. I could furnish a place in slap-up style to-morrow. "

"But have you a chest of drawers or a pillow slip or a book or a dinnerplate or a fork?"

"Thousands, my dear, " said Jaffery. "They're waiting to be called for inall the shops of London. "

He laughed his great laugh at Barbara's momentary discomfiture. Ilaughed too, for he had scored a point. When a man has, say, a thousandpounds wherewith to buy that much money's worth of household clutter, hecertainly is that household clutter's potential owner. Between us wedeveloped this incontrovertible proposition. 

"Then why, " said Barbara, "don't you go at once to Harrod's Stores andpurchase a comfortable home?"

"Because, my dear Barbara, " said Jaffery, "I'm starting off for theinterior of China the day after to-morrow. "

"China?" echoed Barbara vaguely. 

"The interior of China?" I reëchoed, with masculine definiteness. 

"Why not? It isn't in Neptune or Uranus. You wouldn't go into hystericsif I said I was going to Boulogne. Let him come with me, Barbara. Itwould do him a thundering lot of good. "

At this very faintly humorous proposal he laughed immoderately. I neednot say that I declined it. I should be as happy in the interior ofChina as on an Albanian mountain. I asked him how long he would be away. 

"A year or two, " he replied casually. 

"It must be a queer thing, " said I, "to be born with no conception oftime and space. "

"A couple of years pass pretty quick, " said Jaffery. 

"So does a lifetime, " said I. 

Well, this was just like Jaffery. No sooner home amid the amenities ofcivilisation than the wander-fever seizes him again. In vain he pleadedhis job, the valuable copy he would send to his paper. I proved to himit was but the mere lust of savagery. And he could not understand why weshould be startled by the announcement that within forty-eight hours hewould be on his way to lose himself for a couple of years in CrimTartary. 

"Suppose I sprang a thing like that on you, " said I. "Suppose I told youI was starting to-morrow morning for the South Pole. What would yousay?"

"I should say you were a liar. Ho! ho! ho!"

In his mirth he rubbed his hands and feet together like a colossal fly. The joke lasted him for the rest of the evening. 

So, the next morning Jaffery left us with a "See you as soon as ever Iget back, " and the day after that he sailed for China. We felt sad; notonly because Jaffery's vitality counted for something in the quietbackwater of our life, but also because we knew that he went away a lesshappy man than he had come. This time it was not sheer _Wanderlust_ thathad driven him into the wilderness. He had fled in the blind hope ofescaping from the unescapable. The ogre to whatsoever No Man's Land hebetook himself would forever be haunted by the phantom of the elf. . . . It was just as well he had gone, said Barbara. 

A man of intense appetites and primitive passions, like Jaffery, for allhis loyalty and lovable childishness, was better away from theneighbour's wife who had happened to engage his affections. If he losthis head. . . . 

I had once seen Jaffery lose his head and the spectacle did not make foredification. It was before I was married, when Jaffery, during hisLondon sojourn, had the spare bedroom in a set of rooms I rented inTavistock Square. At a florist's hard by, a young flower seller--a hussyif ever there was one--but bewitchingly pretty--carried on her poeticalavocation; and of her did my hulking and then susceptible friend becomeragingly enamoured. I repeat, she was a hussy. She had no intention ofgiving him more than the tip of her pretty little shoe to kiss; butJaffery, reading the promise of secular paradise in her eyes, had nonotion of her little hard intention. He squandered himself upon her andshe led him a dog's life. Of course I remonstrated, argued, implored. Itwas like asking a hurricane politely not to blow. Her name I rememberwas Gwenny. One summer evening she had promised to meet him outside thehouse in Tavistock Square--he had arranged to take her to some Earl'sCourt Exhibition, where she could satiate a depraved passion forswitch-backs, water-chutes and scenic railways. At the appointed hourJaffery stood in waiting on the pavement. I sat on the first floorbalcony, alternately reading a novel and watching him with a sardoniceye. Presently Gwenny turned the corner of the square--our house was afew doors up--and she appeared, on the opposite side of the road, by thesquare railings. But Gwenny was not alone. Gwenny, rigged out in theheight of Bloomsbury florists' fashion, was ostentatiously accompaniedby a young man, a very scrubby, pallid, ignoble young man; his arm wasround her waist, and her arm was around his, in the approved enlinkmentof couples in her class who are keeping company, or, in other words, are, or are about to be, engaged to be married. A curious shock vibratedthrough Jaffery's frame. He flamed red. He saw red. Gwenny shot asupercilious glance and tossed her chin. Jaffery crossed the road andbarred their path. He fished in his pocket for some coins and addressedthe scrubby man, who, poor wretch, had never heard of Jaffery'sexistence. 

"Here's twopence to go away. Take the twopence and go away. Damnyou--take the twopence. "

The man retreated in a scare. 

"Won't you take the twopence? I should advise you to. "

Anybody but a born fool or a hero would have taken the twopence. I thinkthe scrubby man had the makings of a hero. He looked up at the blazinggiant. 

"You be damned!" said he, retreating a pace. 

Then, suddenly, with the swiftness of a panther, Jaffery sprang on him, grasped him in the back by a clump of clothes--it seemed, with one hand, so quickly was it done--and hurled him yards away over the railings. Ican still see the flight of the poor devil's body in mid air until itfell into a holly-bush. With another spring he turned on the paralysedGwenny, caught her up like a doll and charged with her now screamingviolently against the shut solid oak front door. A flash of instinctsuggested a latchkey. Holding the girl anyhow, he fumbled in his pocket. It was an August London evening. The Square was deserted; but atGwenny's shrieks, neighbouring windows were thrown up and eager headsappeared. It was very funny. There was Jaffery holding a squalling girlin one arm and with the other exploring available pockets for hislatchkey. I had one of the inspirations of my life. I rushed into mybedroom, caught up the ewer from my washstand, went out onto the extremeedge of the balcony and cast the gallon or so of water over the heads ofthe struggling pair. The effect was amazing. Jaffery dropped the girl. The girl, once on her feet, fled like a cat. Jaffery looked upidiotically. I flourished the empty jug. I think I threatened to brainhim with it if he stirred. Then people began to pour out of the housesand a policeman sprang up from nowhere. I went down and joined theexcited throng. There was a dreadful to-do. It cost Jaffery five hundredpounds to mitigate the righteous wrath of the young man in theholly-bush, and save himself from a dungeon-cell. The scrubby young man, who, it appeared, had been brought up in the fishmongering trade, usedthe five hundred pounds to set up for himself in Ealing, where veryshortly afterwards Gwenny joined him, and that, save an enduringashamedness on the part of Jaffery, was the end of the matter. 

So, if Jaffery did lose his head over Doria, there might be the devil topay. We sighed and reconciled ourselves to his exile in Crim Tartary. After all, it was his business in life to visit the dark places of theearth and keep the world informed of history in the making. And it was abusiness which could not possibly be carried on in the most cunninglydevised home that could be purchased at Harrod's Stores. 

CHAPTER VIII

In the course of time Adrian and Doria returned from Venice, their headsfull of pictures and lagoons and palaces, and took proud possession oftheir spacious flat in St. John's Wood. They were radiantly happy, verymuch in love with each other. Having brought a common vision to bearupon the glories of nature and art which they had beheld, they werespared the little squabbles over matters of æsthetic taste which oftenare so disastrous to the serenity of a honeymoon. Touchingly theyexpounded their views in the first person plural. Even Adrian, whom Imust confess to have regarded as an unblushing egotist, seldom deliveredhimself of an egotistical opinion. "We don't despise the Eclectics, "said he. And--"We prefer the Lombardic architecture to the purelyVenetian, " said Doria. And "we" found good in Italian wines and "we"found nothing but hideousness in Murano glass. They were, therefore, inperfect accord over decoration and furnishing. The only difference Icould see between them was that Adrian loved to wallow in the comfort ofa club or another person's house, but insisted on elegant austerity inhis own home, whereas Doria loved elegant austerity everywhere. So theyhad a pure Jacobean entrance hall, a Louis XV drawing-room, an Empirebedroom, and as far as I could judge by the barrenness of the apartment, a Spartan study for Adrian. 

On our first visit, they triumphantly showed us round the establishment. We came last to the study. 

"No really fine imaginative work, " said Adrian, with a wave of the handindicating the ascetic table and chair, the iron safe, the bookcase andthe bare walls--"no really fine imaginative work can be done amongluxurious surroundings. Pictures distract one's attention, arm-chairsand sofas invite to sloth. This is my ideal of a novelist's workshop. "

"It's more like a workhouse, " said Barbara, with a shiver. "Or acondemned cell. But even a condemned cell would have a plank bed in it. "

"You don't understand a bit, " said Doria, with a touch of resentment atadverse criticism of her paragon's idiosyncrasies, "although Adrian hastried to explain it to you. It's specially arranged for concentration ofmind. If it weren't for the necessity of having something to sit uponand something to write at and a few necessary reference books and alock-up place, we should have had nothing in the room at all. WhenAdrian wants to relax and live his ordinary human life, he only has towalk out of the door and there he is in the midst of beautiful things. "

"Oh, I quite see, dear, " said Barbara, with a familiar little flash inher blue eyes. "But do you think a leather seat for that hard woodenchair--what the French call a _rond-de-cuir_--would very greatly impairthe poor fellow's imagination?"

"It might be economical, too, " said I, "in the way of savingshininess!--"

Adrian laughed. "It does look a bit hard, darling, " said he. 

"We'll get a leather seat to-day, " replied Doria. 

But she did not smile. Evidently to her the spot on which Adrian sat wassacrosanct. The room was the Holy of Holies where mortal man put onimmortality. Flippant comment sounded like blasphemy in her ears. Sheeven grew somewhat impatient at our lingering in the august precincts, although they had not yet been consecrated by inspired labour. Theirunblessed condition was obvious. On the large library table were acouple of brass candlesticks with fresh candles (Adrian could not workby electric light), a couple of reams of scribbling paper, an inkpot, animmaculate blotting pad, three virgin quill pens (it was one of Adrian'swhimsies to write always with quills), lying in a brass dish, and anoffice stationery case closed and aggressively new. The sight of thislast monstrosity, I thought, would play the deuce with my imaginationand send it on a devastating tour round the Tottenham Court Road, butnot having the artistic temperament and catching a glance of challengefrom Doria, I forebore to make ignorant criticism. 

In the bedroom while Barbara was putting on her veil and powdering hernose (this may be what grammarians call a _hysteron proteron_--but withwomen one never can tell)--Doria broke into confidences not meet formasculine ears. 

 * * * * *

"Oh, darling, " she cried, looking at Barbara with great awe-strickeneyes, "you can't tell what it means to be married to a genius likeAdrian. I feel like one of the Daughters of Men that has been lookedupon by one of the Sons of God. It's so strange. In ordinary life he'sso dear and human--responsive, you know, to everything I feel andthink--and sometimes I quite forget he's different from me. But atothers, I'm overwhelmed by the thought of the life going on inside hissoul that I can never, never share--I can only see the spirit thatconceived 'The Diamond Gate'--don't you understand, darling?--and thatis even now creating some new thing of wonder and beauty. I feel solittle beside him. What more can I give him beyond what I have given?"

Barbara took the girl's tense face between her two hands and smiled andkissed her. 

"Give him, " said she, "ammoniated quinine whenever he sneezes. "

Then she laughed and embraced the Heavenly One's wife, who, for themoment, had not quite decided whether to feel outraged or not, anddiscoursed sweet reasonableness. 

"I should treat your genius, dear, just as I treat my stupid oldHilary. "

She proceeded to describe the treatment. What it was, I do not know, because Barbara refused to tell me. But I can make a shrewd guess. It'sa subtle scheme which she thinks is hidden from me; but really it is sotransparent that a babe could see through it. I, like any wise husband, make, however, a fine assumption of blindness, and consequently lead alife of unruffled comfort. 

Whether Doria followed the advice I am not certain. I have my doubts. Barbara has never knelt by the side of her stupid old Hilary's chair andworshipped him as a god. She is an excellent wife and I've no fault tofind with her; but she has never done that, and she is the last woman inthe world to counsel any wife to do it. Personally, I should hate to beworshipped. In worship hours I should be smoking a cigar, and who with asense of congruity can imagine a god smoking a cigar? Besides, worshipwould bore me to paralysis. But Adrian loved it. He lived on it, just asthe new hand in a chocolate factory lives on chocolate creams. The morehe was worshipped the happier he became. And while consuming adorationhe had a young Dionysian way of inhaling a cigarette--a way whichDionysus, poor god, might have exhibited, had tobacco grown with thegrape on Mount Cithaeron--and a way of exhaling a cloud of smoke, holierthan the fumes of incense in the nostrils of the adorer, which moved meat once to envy and exasperation. 

Yes, there he would sprawl, whenever I saw them together, either intheir own flat or at our house (more luxuriously at Northlands than inSt. John's Wood, owing to the greater prevalence of upholsteredfurniture), cigarette between delicate fingers, paradox on his tongueand a Christopher Sly beatitude on his face, while Doria, chin on palm, and her great eyes set on him, drank in all the wonder of thismiraculous being. 

I said to Barbara: "She's making a besotted idiot of the man. "

Barbara professed rare agreement. But . . . The woman's point ofview. . . . 

"I don't worry about him, " she said. "It's of her I'm thinking. When shehas turned him into the idiot--"

"She'll adore him all the more, " I interrupted. 

"But when she finds out the idiot she has made?"

"No woman has ever done that since the world began, " said I. "Theunwavering love of woman for her home-made idiot is her soleconsistency. "

Barbara with much puckering of brow sought for argument, but found none, the proposition being incontrovertible. She mused for a while and then, quickly, a smile replaced the frown. 

"I suppose that is why I go on loving you, Hilary dear, " she saidsweetly. 

I turned upon her, with my hand, as it were, on the floodgates of atorrent of eloquence; but with her silvery mocking laugh she vanishedfrom the apartment. She did. The old-fashioned high-falutin' phrase isthe best description I can give of the elusive uncapturable nature ofthis wife of mine. It is a pity that she has so little to do with thestory of Jaffery which I am trying to relate, for I should like to makeher the heroine. You see, I know her so well, or imagine I do, whichcomes to the same thing, and I should love to present you with asolution, of this perplexing, exasperating, adorable, high-souledconundrum that is Barbara Freeth. But she, like myself, is but a_raisonneur_ in the drama, and so, reluctantly, I must keep her in thebackground. _Paullo majora canamus_. Let us come to the horses. 

All this, time we had not lost sight of Liosha. As deputies for theabsent trustee we received periodical reports from the admirable Mrs. Considine, and entertained both ladies for an occasional week-end. Onthe whole, her demeanour in the Queen's Gate boarding-house wassatisfactory. At first trouble arose over a young curly haired Swisswaiter who had won her sympathy in the matter of a broken heart. She hadentered the dining-room when he was laying the table and discovered himwatering the knives and forks with tears. Unaccustomed to see men weep, she enquired the cause. He dried his eyes with a napkin and told awoeful tale of a faithless love in Neuchatel, a widow plump andwell-to-do. He had looked forward to marry her at the end of the year, and to pass an unruffled life in the snugness of the _delicatessen_ shopwhich she conducted with such skill; but now alas, she had announced herengagement to another, and his dream of bliss among the chitterlings andliver-sausages was shattered. Herr Gott! what was he to do? Lioshacounselled immediate return to Neuchatel and assassination of his rival. To kill another man for her was the surest way to a woman's heart. Thewaiter approved the scheme, but lacked the courage--also the money to goto Neuchatel. Liosha, espousing his cause warmly, gave him the latter atonce. The former she set to work to instil into him. She waylaid him atodd corners in odd moments, much to the scandal of the guests, andsought to inspire him with the true Balkan spirit. She even supplied himwith an Albanian knife, dangerously sharp. At last, the poor craven, finding himself unwillingly driven into crime, sought from the mistressof the boarding-house protection against his champion. Mrs. Considine, called into consultation, was informed that Mrs. Prescott must eithercease from instigating the waiters to commit murder or find otherquarters. Liosha curled a contemptuous lip. 

"If you think I'm going to have anything more to do with the littleskunk, you're mistaken. "

And that evening when Josef, serving coffee in the drawing-room, approached her with the tray, she waved him off. 

"See here, " she said calmly, "just you keep out of my way or I mighttread on you. "

Whereupon the terrified Josef, amid the tittering hush of the genteelassembly, bolted from the room, and then solved the whole difficulty bybolting from the house, never to return. 

When taken to task by Barbara over the ethics of this matter, Lioshashrugged her shoulders and laughed. 

"I guess, " she said, "if a man loves a woman strongly enough to cry forher, he ought to know what to do with the guy that butted in, withoutbeing told. "

"But you don't seem to understand what a terrible thing it is to takethe life of a human being, " said Barbara. 

"I can understand how you feel, " Liosha admitted. "But I don't feelabout it the same as you. I've been brought up different. "

"You see, my dear Barbara, " I interposed judicially, "her father madehis living by slaughter before she was born. When he finished with thepigs he took on humans who displeased him. "

"And they were worse than the pigs, " said Liosha. 

Barbara sighed, for Liosha remained unconvinced; but she extracted apromise from our fair barbarian never to shoot or jab a knife intoanyone before consulting her as to the propriety of so doing. 

But for this and for one or two other trivial lapses from grace, Lioshaled a pretty equable existence at the boarding-house. If she now andthen scandalised the inmates by her unconventional habits and freeexpressions of opinion, she compensated by affording them a chronictopic of conversation. A large though somewhat scornful generosity alsoestablished her in their esteem. She would lend or give anything shepossessed. When one of the forlorn and woollen-shawled old maids fellill, she sat up of nights with her, and in spite of her ignorance ofnursing, which was as vast as that of a rhinoceros, magnetised thefragile lady into well-being. I think she was fairly happy. If Londonhad been situated amid gorges and crags and ravines and granite cliffsshe would have been completely so. She yearned for mountains. Mrs. Considine to satisfy this nostalgia took her for a week's trip to theEnglish Lakes. She returned railing at Scawfell and Skiddaw forunimportant undulations, and declaring her preference for London. So inLondon she remained. 

In these early stages of our acquaintance with Liosha, she counted inour lives for little more than a freakish interest. Even in the crisesof her naughtiness anxiety as to her welfare did not rob us of ournight's sleep. She existed for us rather as a toy personality whosequaint vagaries afforded us constant amusement than as an intense humansoul. The working out of her destiny did not come within the sphere ofour emotional sympathies like that of Adrian and Doria. The latter wereof our own kind and class, bound to us not only by the common traditionsof centuries, but by ties of many years' affection. It is only naturalthat we should have watched them more closely and involved ourselvesmore intimately in their scheme of things. 

The first fine rapture of house-pride having grown calm, the Bolderossettled down to the serene beatitude of the Higher Life tempered by theamenities of commonplace existence. When Adrian worked, Doria read Danteand attended performances of the Intellectual Drama; when Adrianrelaxed, she cooked dainties in a chafing dish and accompanied him toMusical Comedy. They entertained in a gracious modest way, and went outinto cultivated society. The Art of Life, they declared, was to catchatmosphere, whatever that might mean. Adrian explained, with the gentlepity of one addressing himself to the childish intelligence. 

"It's merely the perfect freedom of mental adaptation. To discusspragmatism while eating oysters would be destructive to the enjoymentafforded by the delicate sense of taste, whereas, to let one's mindwander from the plane of philosophic thought when preparing for aHauptmann or a Strindberg play would lead to nothing less than thedisaster of disequilibrium. "

Saying this he caught my cold, unsympathetic gaze, but I think I noticedthe flicker of an eyelid. Doria, however, nodded, in wide-eyed approval. So I suppose they really did practise between themselves these modalgymnastics. They were all of a piece with the "atmospheres" evoked inthe various rooms of the flat. To Barbara and myself, comfortablePhilistines, all this appeared exceeding lunatic. But every marriedcouple has a right to lay out its plan of happiness in its own way. Ifwe had made taboo of irrelevant gossip between the acts of a seriousplay our evening would have been a failure. Theirs would have been, and, in fact, was a success. Connubial felicity they certainly achieved: andwhat else but an impertinence is a criticism of the means?

Easter came. They had been married six months. "The Diamond Gate" hadbeen published for nearly a year and was still selling in England andAmerica. Adrian flourishing his first half-yearly cheque in January hadvowed he had no idea there was so much money in the world. He basked inFortune's sunshine. But for all the basking and all the syllabus of theperfect existence, and all his unquestionable love for Doria, and allher worship for him together with its manifestation in her admirablecare for his material well-being, Adrian, just at this Eastertide, beganto strike me as a man lacking some essential of happiness. They spent aweek or so with us at Northlands. Adrian confessed dog-weariness. Hislooks confirmed his words. A vertical furrow between the brows and alittle dragging line at each corner of the mouth below the fairmoustache forbade the familiar mockery in his pleasant face. In momentsof repose the cross of strain, almost suggestive of a squint, appearedin his blue eyes. He was no longer debonair, no longer the lightlylaughing philosopher, the preacher of paradox seeing flippancy in theMoney Article and sorrowful wisdom in Little Tich. He was morose andirritable. He had acquired a nervous habit of secretly rubbing histhumbs swiftly over his finger-tips when Doria, in her pride, spoke ofhis work, which amounted almost to ill-breeding. It was only late atnight during our last smoke that he assumed a semblance of the oldAdrian; and by that time he had consumed as much champagne and brandy aswould have rendered jocose the prophet Jeremiah. 

He was suffering, poor fellow, from a nervous breakdown. From Doria welearned the cause. For the last three months he had been working atinsane pressure. At seven he rose; at a quarter to eight hebreakfasted; at half past he betook himself to his ascetic workroom andremained there till half-past one. At four o'clock he began a three-hourspell of work. At night a four hours' spell--from nine to one, if theyhad no evening engagement, from midnight to four o'clock in the morningif they had been out. 

"But, my darling child!" cried Barbara, aghast when she heard of thismaniacal time-table, "you must put your foot down. You mustn't let himdo it. He is killing himself. "

"No man, " said I, in warm support of my wife, "can go on putting outcreative work for more than four hours a day. Quite famous novelistswhom I meet at the Athenæum have told me so themselves. Even prodigiouspeople like Sir Walter Scott and Zola--"

"Yes, yes, " said Doria. "But they were not Adrian. Every artist must bea law to himself. Adrian's different. Why--those two that you'vementioned--they slung out stuff by the bucketful. It didn't matter tothem what they wrote. But Adrian has to get the rhythm and the balanceand the beauty of every sentence he writes--to say nothing of thesubtlety of his analysis and the perfect drawing of his pictures. Mydear, good people"--she threw out her hands in an impatientgesture--"you don't know what you're talking about. How can you? It'simpossible for you to conceive--it's almost impossible even for me toconceive--the creative workings of the mind of a man of genius. Fourhours a day! Your mechanical fiction-monger, yes. Four hours a day isstamped all over the slack drivel they publish. But you can't imaginethat work like Adrian's is to be done in this dead mechanical way. "

"It is you that don't quite understand, " I protested. "My admiration forAdrian's genius is second to none but yours. But I repeat that no humanbrain since the beginning of time has been capable of spinning cobwebsof fancy for twelve hours a day, day in and day out for months at atime. Look at your husband. He has tried it. Does he sleep well?"

"No. "

"Has he a hearty appetite?"

"No. "

"Is he a light-hearted, cheery sort of chap to have about the place?"

"He's naturally tired, after his winter's work, " said Doria. 

"He's played out, " said I, "and if you are a wise woman, you'll take himaway for a couple of months' rest, and when he gets back, see that heworks at lower pressure. "

Doria promised to do her best; but she sighed. 

"You don't realise Adrian's iron will. "

Once more I recognised with a shock that I did not know my Adrian. Iused to think one could blow the thistledown fellow about whithersoeverone pleased. Of the two, Doria seemed to have unquestionably thestronger will-power. 

"Surely, " said I, "you can twist him round your little finger. "

Doria sighed again--and a wanly indulgent smile played about her lips. 

"You two dear people are so sensible, that it makes me almost angry tosee how you can't begin to understand Adrian. As a man, of course I havea certain influence over him. But as an artist--how can I? He's a thingapart from me altogether. I know perfectly well that thousands ofartists' wives wreck their happiness through sheer, stupid jealousy oftheir husbands' art. I'm not such a narrow-minded, contemptible woman. "She threw her little head up proudly. "I should loathe myself if Igrudged one hour that Adrian gave to his work instead of to me. "

This time Barbara and I sighed, for we realised how vain had been ourarguments. Our considerably greater knowledge of life, our starkcommon-sense, our deep affection for Adrian counted as naught beside thefact that we had no experience whatever in the rearing of a genius. 

That word "genius" came too often from Doria's lips. At first itirritated me; then I heard it with morbid detestation. In the course ofa more or less intimate conversation with Adrian, I let slip a mildexpression of my feelings. He groaned sympathetically. 

"I wish to heaven she wouldn't do it, " said he. "It puts a man into sucha horrible false position towards himself. It's beautiful of her, ofcourse--it's her love for me. But it gets on my nerves. Instead ofsitting down at my desk with nothing in my mind but my day's work toslog through, I hear her voice and I have to say to myself, 'Go to. I ama genius. I mustn't write like any common fellow. I must produce thework of a genius. ' It really plays the devil with me. "

He walked excitedly about the library, flourishing a cigar andscattering the ash about the carpet. I am pernicketty in a few ways andhate tobacco ash on my carpet; every room in the house is an arsenal ofash trays. In normal mood Adrian punctiliously observed the little lawsof the establishment. This scattering of cigar ash was a sign ofspiritual convulsion. 

"Have you explained the matter to Doria?" I asked. 

He halted before me performing his new uncomfortable trick of slitheringthumb over finger tips. 

"No, " he snapped. "How can I?"

I replied, mildly, that it seemed to be the simplest thing in the world. He broke away impatiently, saying that I couldn't understand. 

"All right, " said I, though what there was to understand in soelementary a proposition goodness only knows. I was beginning to resentthis perpetual charge of non-intelligence. 

"I think we had better clear out, " he said. "I'm only a damned nuisance. I've got this book of mine on the brain"--he held up his head with bothhands--"and I'm not a fit companion for anybody. "

I adjured him in familiar terms not to talk rubbish. He was here for therepose of country things and freedom from day-infesting cares. Alreadyhe was looking better for the change. But I could not refrain fromadding:

"You wrote 'The Diamond Gate' without turning a hair. Why should youworry yourself to death about this new book?"

When he answered I had the shivering impression of a wizened old manspeaking to me. The slight cast I had noticed in his blue eyes becameoddly accentuated. 

"'The Diamond Gate, '" he said, peering at me uncannily, "was just apretty amateur story. The new book is going to stagger the soul ofhumanity. "

"I wish you weren't such a secretive devil, " said I. "What's the bookabout? Tell an old friend. Get it off your mind. It will do you good. "

I put my arm round his shoulders and my hand gave him an affectionategrip. My heart ached for the dear fellow, and I longed, in the plainman's way, to break down the walls of reserve, which like those of theInquisition Chamber, I felt were closing tragically upon him. 

"Come, come, " I continued. "Get it out. It's obvious that the thing issuffocating you. I'll tell nobody--not even that you've told me--neitherDoria nor Barbara--it will be the confidence of the confessional. You'llbe all the better for it. Believe me. "

He shrugged himself free from my grasp and turned away; his nervousfingers plucked unconsciously at his evening tie until it was loosenedand the ends hung dissolutely over his shirt front. 

"You're very good, Hilary, " said he, looking at every spot in the roomexcept my eyes. "If I could tell you, I would. But it's an enormouscanvas. I could give you no idea--" The furrow deepened between hisbrows--"If I told you the scheme you would get about the same dramaticimpression as if you read, say, the letter R, in a dictionary. I'mputting into this novel, " he flickered his fingers in front ofme--"everything that ever happened in human life. "

I regarded him in some wonder. 

"My dear fellow, " said I, "you can't compress a Liebig's Extract ofExistence between the covers of a six-shilling novel. "

"I can, " said he, "I can!" He thumped my writing table, so that all theloose brass and glass on it rattled. "And by God! I'm going to do it. "

"But, my dearest friend, " I expostulated, "this is absurd. It'smegalomania--_la folie des grandeurs_. "

"It's the divinest folly in the world, " said he. 

He threw a cigar stump into the fireplace and poured himself out anddrank a stiff whisky and soda. Then he laughed in imitation of hisfamiliar self. 

"You dear prim old prig of a Hilary, don't worry. It's all going to comestraight. When the novel of the eighteenth, nineteenth and twentiethcenturies is published I guess you'll be proud of me. And now, good-night. "

He laughed, waved his arm in a cavalier gesture and went from the room, slamming the door masterfully behind him. 

CHAPTER IX

We kept the unreasonable pair at Northlands as long as we could, doingall that lay in our power to restore Adrian's idiotically impairedhealth. I motored him about the county; I took him to golf, a pastime atwhich I do not excel; and I initiated him into the invigoratingmysteries of playing at robbers with Susan. We gave a carefully selecteddinner-party or two, and accepted on his behalf a few discreetinvitations. At these entertainments--whether at Northlands orelsewhere--we caused it to be understood that the lion, being sick, should not be asked to roar. 

"It's so trying for him, " said Doria, "when people he doesn't know comeup and gush over 'The Diamond Gate'--especially now when his nerves areon edge. "

On the occasion of our second dinner-party, the guests having beenforewarned of the famous man's idiosyncrasies, no reference whatever wasmade to his achievements. We sat him between two pretty and charmingwomen who chattered amusingly to him with what I, who kept an eye openand an ear cocked, considered to be a very subtly flattering deference. Adrian responded with adequate animation. As an ordinary clever, well-bred man of the world he might have done this almost mechanically;but I fancied that he found real enjoyment in the light and picturesquetalk of his two neighbours. When the ladies left us, he discussed easypolitics with the Member for our own division of the County. In thedrawing-room, afterwards, he played a rubber at bridge, happened tohold good cards and smiled an hour away. When the last guest departed, he yawned, excused himself on the ground of healthy fatigue and wentstraight off to bed. Barbara and I congratulated ourselves on thesuccess of our dinner-party. The next day Adrian went about as glum as adinosaur in a museum, and conveyed, even to Susan's childish mind, hisdesire for solitude. His hang-dog dismalness so affected my wife, thatshe challenged Doria. 

"What in the world is the matter with him, to-day?"

Doria drew herself up and flashed a glance at Barbara--they were bothlittle bantams of women, one dark as wine, the other fair as corn. Ifever these two should come to a fight, thought I who looked on, it wouldbe to the death. 

"Your friends are very charming, my dear, and of course I've nothing tosay against them; but I was under the impression that every educatedperson in the English-speaking world knew my husband's name, and Iconsider the way he was ignored last night by those people wasdisgraceful. "

"But, my dear Doria, " cried Barbara, aghast, "we thought that Adrian washaving quite a good time. "

"You may think so, but he wasn't. Adrian's a gentleman and plays thegame; but you must see it was very galling to him--and to me--to betreated like any stockbroker--or architect--or idle man about town. "

"You are unfortunate in your examples, " said I, intervening judicially. "Pray reflect that there are architects alive whose artistic genius isnot far inferior to Adrian's. "

"You know very well what I mean, " she snapped. 

"No, we don't, dear, " said Barbara dangerously. "We think you're alittle idiot and ought to be ashamed of yourself. We took the trouble totell every one of those people that Adrian hated any reference to hiswork, and like decent folk they didn't refer to it. There--now roundupon us. "

The pallor deepened a shade in Doria's ivory cheek. 

"You have put me in the wrong, I admit it. But I think it would havebeen better to let us know. "

What could one do with such people? I was inclined to let them work outtheir salvation in their own eccentric fashion; but Barbara decidedotherwise. When one's friends reached such a degree of lunacy aswarranted confinement in an asylum, it was one's plain duty to lookafter them. So we continued to look after our genius and his worshipper, and we did it so successfully that before he left us he recovered hissleep in some measure, and lost the squinting look of strain in hiseyes. 

On the morning of their departure I mildly counselled him to temper hisfine frenzy with common-sense. 

"Knock off the night work, " said I. 

He frowned, fidgeted with his feet. 

"I wish to God I hadn't to work at all, " said he. "I hate it! I'd soonerbe a coal-heaver. "

"Bosh!" said I. "I know that you're an essentially idle beggar; butyou're as proud as Punch of your fame and success and all that it meansto you. "

"What does it mean after all?"

"If you talk in that pessimistic way, " I said, "you'll make me cry. Don't. It means every blessed thing in the world to you. At any rate ithas meant Doria. "

"I suppose that's true, " he grunted. "And I suppose I am essentiallyidle. But I wish the damned thing would get written of its own accord. It's having to sit down at that infernal desk that gets on my nerves. Ihave the same horrible apprehension of it--always have--as one hasbefore a visit to the dentist, when you know he's going to drill hellinto you. "

"Why do you work in such a depressing room?" I asked. "If I were shut upalone in it, I would stick my nose in the air and howl like a dog. "

"Oh, the room's all right, " said he. Then he looked away absently andmurmured as if to himself, "It isn't the room. "

"Then what is it?" I persisted. 

He turned with a dreary sort of smile. "It's the born butterfly beingcondemned to do the work of the busy bee. "

A short while afterwards we saw them drive off and watched the cardisappear round the bend of the drive. 

"Well, my dear, " said I, "thank goodness I'm not a man of genius. "

"Amen!" said Barbara, fervently. 

As soon as they had settled down in their flat, Adrian began to workagain, in the same unremitting fashion. The only concession he made toconsideration of health was to go to bed immediately on his return fromdinner-parties and theatres instead of spending three or four hours inhis study. Otherwise the routine of toil went on as before. Oneafternoon, happening to be in town and in the neighbourhood of St. John's Wood, I called at the flat with the idea of asking Doria for acup of tea. I also had in my pocket a letter from Jaffery which Ithought might interest Adrian. The maid who opened the door informed methat her mistress was out. Was Mr. Boldero in? Yes; but he was working. 

"That doesn't matter, " said I. "Tell him I'm here. "

The maid did not dare disturb him. Her orders were absolute. She couldnot refuse to admit me, seeing that I was already in the hall; but shestoutly refused to announce me. I argued with the damsel. 

"I may have business of the utmost importance with your master. "

She couldn't help it. She had her orders. 

"But, my good Ellen, " said I--the minx had actually been in our servicea couple of years before!--"suppose the place were on fire, what wouldyou do?"

She looked at me demurely. "I think I should call a policeman, sir. "

"You can call one now, " said I, "for I'm going to announce myself. Don'ttell me I'll have to walk over your dead body first, for it won't do. "

I know it is not looked upon as a friendly act to interrupt a man in hiswork and to disregard the orders given to his servants, but I wasirritated by all this Grand Llama atmosphere of mysterious seclusion. Besides, I had been walking and felt just a little hot and dusty andthirsty, and I felt all the hotter, dustier and thirstier for myargument with Ellen. 

"I'll announce myself, " I said, and marched to the door of Adrian'sstudy. It was locked. I rapped at the door. 

"Who's there?" came Adrian's voice. 

"Me. Hilary. "

"What's the matter?"

"I happen to be a guest under your roof, " said I, with a touch oftemper. 

"Wait a minute, " said he. 

I waited about two. Then the door was unlocked and opened and I strodein upon Adrian who looked rather pale and dishevelled. 

"Why the deuce, " said I, "did you keep me hanging about like that?"

"I'm sorry, " he replied. "But I make it a fixed rule to put away mywork"--he waved a hand towards the safe--"whenever anybody, even Doria, wants to come into the room. "

I glanced around the cheerless place. There were no traces of workvisible. Save that the quill pens and blotting pad were inky, hislibrary table seemed as immaculate, as unstained by toil, as it did onthe occasion of my first visit. 

"You needn't have made all that fuss, " said I. "I only dropped in for asecond or two. I wanted to ask for a drink and to show you a letter fromJaffery. "

"Oh, Jaffery!" He smiled. "How's the old barbarian getting on?"

"Tremendously. He's the guest of a Viceroy and living in sumptuousness. Read for yourself. "

I took from my pocket letter and envelope. Now I am a man who keeps fewletters and no envelopes. The second post bringing Jaffery's epistle hadjust arrived when I was leaving Northlands that morning, and it was butan accident of haste that the envelope had not been destroyed. I tookthe opportunity of tearing it up while Adrian was reading. With thepieces in my hand, I peered about the room. 

"What are you looking for?" he asked. 

"Your waste-paper basket. "

"Haven't got such a thing. "

I threw my litter into the grate. 

"Why?"

"I'm not going to pander to the curiosity of housemaids, " he repliedrather irritably. 

"What do you do with your waste paper, then?"

"Never have any, " he said, with his eyes on Jaffery's letter. 

"Good Lord!" I cried. "Do you pigeon-hole bills and money-lenders'circulars and second-hand booksellers' catalogues and all theirwrappers?"

He folded up the letter, took me by the arm and regarded me with a smileof forced patience. 

"My dear Hilary, can't you ever understand that this room is just aworkshop and nothing else? Here I think of nothing but my novel. I wouldas soon think of conducting my social correspondence in the bathroom. Ifyou want to see the waste-paper basket where I throw my bills andunanswered letters from duchesses, and the desk--I share it withDoria--where I dash off my brilliant replies to money-lenders, come intothe drawing-room. There, also, I shall be able to give you a drink. "

My eyes, following an unconscious glance from his, fell upon a new andhitherto unnoticed object--a little table, now startlingly obvious, in acorner of the all but unfurnished room, bearing a tray with half fulldecanter, syphon and glass. 

"You've got all I want here, " said I. 

"No. That's mere stimulant. _Sapit lucernam_. It has a horrible flavourof midnight oil. There's not what you understand by a drink in it. Let'sget out of the accursed hole. "

He dragged me almost by force into the drawing-room, where heentertained me courteously. It was curious to observe how his mannerchanged in--I have to use the Boldero jargon--in the differentatmosphere. He expounded the qualities of his whisky--a present from oldman Jornicroft, a rare blend which just a few "merchantates" (Barbara'sword, he declared, was delicious) in Glasgow and Dundee and here andthere a one in the City of London were able to procure. In its flavour, said he, lurked the mystery of strange and barbaric names. He showed mea Bonington water colour which he had picked up for a song. On enquiryas to the signification of a song as a unit of value, I learned thatsince eminent tenors and divas had sung into gramophones, the standardhad appreciated. 

"My dear man, " he laughed, in answer to my protest. "I can afford it. "

For the quarter of an hour that I spent with him in his owndrawing-room, he was quite the old Adrian. I drove to Paddington Stationunder the influence of his urbanity. But in the train, and afterwards athome, I was teased by vague apprehensions. Hitherto I had loosely andplayfully qualified his methods of work as lunatic, without a thought asto the exact significance of the term. Now a horrible thought harassedme. Had I been precise without knowing it?

Novelists may have their little idiosyncrasies, and the privacy of theirworking hours deserves respect; but none I have ever heard of are suchfearful wildfowl as to need the precautions with which Adrian surroundedhimself. Why should he put himself under lock and key? Why should he notallow human eye to fall, even from the distance prescribed by goodmanners, upon his precious manuscript? Why need he use care soscrupulous as not to expose even torn up bits of rough draft to theancillary publicity of a waste-paper basket? Soundness of mind did notlie that way. The terms in which he alluded to his book were not thoseof a sane man filled with the joy of his creation. None of us, not evenDoria, knew how the story was progressing. He had signed a contract withan American editor for serialisation to begin in July. Here we were inthe middle of May, and not a page of manuscript had been delivered. Doria told Barbara that the editor had been cabling frenziedly. How muchof the story was written? I recalled his wild talk at Easter aboutputting into the novel the whole of human life. I had jested with him, calling it a megalomaniac notion. But suppose, unwittingly, I had beenright? I thought of the ghastly name physicians give to the malady andshivered. 

Suddenly, a day or two afterwards, came news that, to some extent, relieved my mind. 

While the Bolderos were at breakfast, a cable arrived from the Editor. It ran: "Unless half of manuscript is delivered to-day at London Officewill cancel contract. " Adrian read it, frowned and handed it to Doria. It seems that in all business matters she had his confidence. 

"Well, dear?" she said, looking up at him. 

He broke out angrily. "Did you ever hear such amazing insolence? I givethis pettifogging tradesman the privilege of publishing my novel in hisrubbishy periodical and he dares to dictate terms to me! Half a novel, indeed! As if it were half a bale of calico. The besotted fool! As wellask a clock-maker to deliver half a clock. "

"Argument by analogy is rather dangerous, " she said gently, seeking toturn aside his wrath with a smile. "It's not quite the same thing. Can'tyou give him something to go on with?"

"I can, but I won't. I'll see him damned first. " He turned to the maidand demanded a telegraph form. 

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to teach him a lesson. He thinks I'm going to be taken in byhis bluff and run round with a brown paper parcel to Fleet Street orwherever his beastly office is. He's mistaken. There, " he wrote thecable hurriedly and read it aloud, "'Shall not deliver anything. Onlytoo glad to cancel contract. ' He'll he the most surprised and disgustedman in America!"

"Need you put it quite like that?" said Doria. 

"It's the only way to make him understand. He has been buzzing round melike a wasp for the past month. Now he's squashed. And now, " said he, getting up and lighting a cigarette, "I'm not going to do another strokeof work for three months. "

It was the news of this last announcement that relieved my mind: not thestory of Adrian's intolerable treatment of the editor, which was of apiece with his ordinary attitude towards his own genius. Thecapriciousness of the resolution startled me; but I approvedwhole-heartedly. I would have counselled immediate change of scene, hadnot Adrian anticipated my advice by rushing off then and there to Cook'sand taken tickets to Switzerland. Having some business in town, Imotored up with Barbara earlier than I need have done, and we saw themoff at Victoria Station. Adrian, in holiday spirits, talked ratherloudly. Now that he was free from the horror of that bestial vampiresucking his blood--that was his way of referring to the long sufferingand hardly used editor--life emerged from gloom into sunshine. Now hisspirit could soar untrammelled. It had taken its leap into the Empyrean. He beheld his book beneath him dazzlingly clear. Three months communingwith nature, three months solitude on the pure mountain heights, threemonths calm discipline of the soul--that was what he needed. Then towork, and in another three months, _currente calamo_, the book would bewritten. 

"And what is Doria going to do on top of the Matterhorn?" asked my wife. 

Doria cried out, "Oh, don't tease. We're not going near the Matterhorn. We're going to read beautiful books, and see beautiful things and thinkbeautiful thoughts. " She dragged Barbara a step or two aside. "Don't youthink this is the best thing that could have happened?" she asked, withher anxious, earnest gaze. 

"The very, very best, dear, " replied Barbara gently. 

And indeed it was. If ever a man realised himself to be on the verge ofthe abyss, I am sure it was Adrian Boldero. Some haunting fear was setat the back of his laughing eyes--the expression of an animal instinctfor self-preservation which discounted the balderdash about the soaringyet disciplined soul. 

I whispered to Doria: "Don't go too far into the wilds out of reach ofmedical advice. "

"Why?"

"You're taking away a sick man. "

"Do you really think so?"

"I do, " said I. 

She looked to right and left and then at me full in the face, and shegripped my hand. 

"You're a good friend, Hilary. God knows I thank you. "

From which I clearly understood that her passionately loyal heart wasgrievously sore for Adrian. 

During their absence abroad, which lasted much longer than three months, we heard fairly regularly from Doria; twice or thrice from Adrian. Aftera time he grew tired of mountaintops and solitude and declared that hisinspiration required steeping in the past, communion with the hallowedmonuments of mankind. So they wandered about the old Italian cities, until he discovered that the one thing essential to his work was thegaiety of cosmopolitan society; whereupon they went the round of Frenchwatering-places, where Adrian played recklessly at baccarat and spentinordinate sums on food. And all the time Doria wrote glowingly of theirdoings. Adrian had put the book out of his head, was always in the bestof spirits. He had completely recovered from the strain of work and waslooking forward joyously to the final spurt in London and theachievement of the masterpiece. 

Meanwhile we played the annual comedy of our August migration; the onlychange being that instead of Dinard we went to the West Coast ofScotland to stay with some of Barbara's relatives. One gleam of joyirradiated that grey and dismal sojourn--the news that Jaffery, hismission in Crim Tartary being accomplished, would be home for Christmas. Our host and hostess were sporting folk with red, weatherbeaten facesand a mania (which they expected us to share) for salmon-fishing in thepouring rain. As neither Barbara nor I were experts--I always trembledlest a strong young fish getting hold of the end of Barbara's lineshould whisk her over like a feather into the boiling current--and asfor myself, I prefer the more contemplative art of bottom fishing from apunt in dry weather--our friends caught all the salmon, while we merelycaught colds in the head. Many an hour of sodden misery was cheered bythe whispered word of comfort: Jaffery would be home for Christmas. Andwhen, at ten o'clock in the evening, just as we were beginning to awakefrom the nightmare of the day, and to desire sprightly conversation, ourhost and hostess fell into a lethargy, and staggered off to slumber, webeguiled the hour before bedtime with talk of Jaffery's homecoming. 

At last we escaped and took the good train south. The Bolderos hadalready returned to London. They came to spend our first week-end atNorthlands. Adrian professed to be in the robustest of health and tohave not a care in the world. The holiday, said he, had done himincalculable good. Already he had begun to work in the full glow ofinspiration. We thought him looking old and hag-ridden, but Doria seemedhappy. She had her own reason for happiness, which she confided toBarbara. It would be early in the New Year. . . . Her eyes, I noticed, were filled with a new and wonderful love for Adrian. On the Sundayafternoon as we were sauntering about the garden, Adrian touched uponthe subject in a man's shy way when speaking to his fellow man. 

"Why, " said I with a laugh, "that's just about the time you expect thebook to be out. "

He gave me a queer, slanting look. "Yes, " said he, "they'll both be borntogether. "

That night, to my consternation and sorrow, he went to bed quite fuddledwith whisky. 

CHAPTER X

Never shall I forget that Christmastide. Its shadow has fallen on everyChristmas since then. And, in the innocent insolence of our hearts, wehad planned such a merry one. It was the first since our marriage thatwe were spending at Northlands, for like dutiful folk we had hithertospent the two or three festival days in the solid London house ofBarbara's parents. Her father, Sir Edward Kennion, retired PermanentSecretary of a Government Office, was a courtly gentleman with afaultless taste in old china and wine, and Lady Kennion a charming oldlady almost worthy of being the mother of Barbara. To speak truly, I hadalways enjoyed my visits. But when the news came that, for the sake ofthe dear lady's health, the Kennions were starting for Bermuda, in themiddle of December, it did not strike us desolate. On the contraryBarbara clapped her hands in undisguised glee. 

"It will do mother no end of good, and we can give Susan a realChristmas of her own. "

So we laid deep schemes to fill the house to overflowing and to have aroystering time. First, for Susan's sake, we secured a widowed cousin ofmine, Eileen Wetherwood, with her four children; and we sent outinvitations to the _ban_ and _arrière ban_ of the county's juvenility, to say nothing of that of London, for a Boxing-day orgy. Havingaccounted satisfactorily for Susan's entertainment, we thought, I hopein a Christian spirit, of our adult circle. Dear old Jaffery would bewith us. Why not ask his sister Euphemia? They had a mouse and lionaffection for each other. Then there was Liosha. Both she and Jafferymet in Susan's heart, and it was Susan's Christmas. With Liosha wouldcome Mrs. Considine, admirable and lonely woman. We trusted to luck andto Mrs. Considine's urbane influence for amenable relations betweenLiosha and Euphemia Chayne. With Jaffery in the house, Adrian and Doriamust come. Last Christmas they had spent in the country with old Mrs. Boldero; old Mrs. Boldero was, therefore, summoned to Northlands. In thelightness of our hearts we invited Mr. Jornicroft. After the letter wasposted my spirits sank. What in the world would we do with ponderous oldman Jornicroft? But in the course of a few posts my gloom was lightenedby a refusal. Mr. Jornicroft had been in the habit for many years ofspending Christmas at the King's Hotel, Hastings, and had already madehis arrangements. 

"Who else is there?" asked Barbara. 

"My dear, " said I. "This is a modest country house, not an InternationalPalace Hotel. Including Eileen's children and their governess and nurseand Doria's maid, we shall have to find accommodation for fifteenpeople. "

"Nonsense!" she said. "We can't do it. "

"Count up, " said I. 

I lit a cigar and went out into the winter-stricken garden, and left herreckoning on her fingers, with knitted brow. When I returned she greetedme with a radiantly superior smile. 

"Who said it couldn't be done? I do wish men had some kind of practicalsense. It's as easy as anything. "

She unfolded her scheme. As far as my dazed wits could grasp it, Iunderstood that I should give up my dressing-room, that the maids shouldsleep eight in a bed, that Franklin, our excellent butler, should perchin a walnut-tree and that planks should be put up in the bath-rooms foras many more guests as we cared to invite. 

"That is excellent, " said I, "but do you realise that in this houseparty there are only three grown men--three ha'porth of grown men" (Icouldn't forbear allusiveness) "to this intolerable quantity of womenand children?"

"But who is preventing you from asking men, dear? Who are they?"

I mentioned my old friend Vansittart; also poor John Costello's son, whowould most likely be at a loose end at Christmas, and one or two others. 

"Well have them, dear, " said Barbara. 

So four unattached men were added to the party. That made nineteen. WhenI thought of their accommodation my brain reeled. In order to retain mywits I gave up thinking of it, and left the matter to Barbara. 

We were going to have a mighty Christmas. The house was filled withpreparations. Susan and I went to the village draper's and boughtbeautifully coloured cotton stockings to hang up at her little cousins'bedposts. We stirred the plum pudding. We planned out everything that weshould like to do, while Barbara, without much reference to us, settledwhat was to be done. In that way we divided the labour. Old Jaffery, back from China, came to us on the twentieth of December, and threwhimself heart and soul into our side of the work. He took up our lifejust as though he had left it the day before yesterday--just the samesun-glazed hairy red giant, noisy, laughter-loving and voracious. Susanwent about clapping her hands the day he arrived and shouting thatChristmas had already begun. 

The first thing he did was to clamour for Adrian, the man of fame. Butthe three Bolderos were not coming till the twenty-fourth. Adrian wasmaking one last glorious spurt, so Doria said, in order to finish thegreat book before Christmas. We had not seen much of them during theautumn. Trivial circumstances had prevented it. Susan had had measles. Ihad been laid up with a wrenched knee. One side happened to be engagedwhen the other suggested a meeting. A trumpery series of accidents. Besides, Adrian, with his new lease of health and inspiration, hadplunged deeper than ever into his work, so that it was almost impossibleto get hold of him. On the few occasions when he did emerge from hiswork-room into the light of friendly smiles, he gave glowing accounts ofprogress. He was satisfying his poet's dreams. He was writing like aninspired prophet. I saw him at the beginning of December. His face waswhite and ghastly, the furrow had deepened between his brows, and thestrained squint had become permanent in his eyes. He laughed when Irepeated my warnings of the spring. Small wonder, said he, that he didnot look robust; virtue was going from him into every drop of ink. Hecould easily get through another month. 

"And then"--he clapped me on the shoulder--"my boy--you shall see! Itwill be worth all the _enfantement prodigieux_. You thought I was goingoff my chump, you dear old fuss-box. But you were wrong. So didDoria--for a week or two. Bless her! she's an artist's wife in tenmillion. "

"Have you thought of a title?" I asked. 

"'God', " said he. "Yes--'God'--short like that. Isn't it good?"

I cried out that it was in the worst possible taste. It would offend. Hewould lose his public. The Non-conformists and Evangelicals would befrightened by the very name. He lost his temper and scoffed at my EarlyVictorianism. "Little Lily and her Pet Rabbit" was the kind of title Iadmired. He was going to call it "God. "

"My dear fellow, call it what you please, " said I, anxious to avoid aduel of plates and glasses, for we were lunching on opposite sides of atable at his club. 

"I please to call it, " said he, "by the only conceivable title that isadequate to such a work. " Then he laughed, with a gleam of his oldcharm, and filled up my wine glass. "Anyhow, Wittekind, who has thecommercial end of things in view, thinks it's ripping. " He lifted hisglass. "Here's to 'God. '"

"Here's to the new book under a different name, " said I. 

When I told Barbara about this, she rather agreed with Wittekind. It alldepended on the matter and quality of the book itself. 

"Well, anyhow, " said I, abhorrent of dissension, "thank Heaven thewretched composition's nearly finished. "

On the morning of the twenty-third came my cousin Eileen and heroffspring, and in the afternoon came Liosha and Mrs. Considine. Jafferymet his dynamic widow with frank heartiness, and for the hour beforebedtime, there were wild doings in the nursery, in which neither mywife, nor my cousin, nor Mrs. Considine, nor myself were allowed toparticipate. When nurses sounded the retreat, our two Brobdingnagiansappeared in the drawing-room, radiant, and dishevelled, with childrensticking to them like flies. It was only when I saw Liosha, by the sideof Jaffery, unconsciously challenging him, as it were, physical womanagainst physical man, with three children--two in her generous arms andone on her back--to his mere pair--that I realised, with the shock thatalways attends one's discovery of the obvious, the superb Olympiangreatness of the creature. She stood nearly six feet to his six feettwo. He stooped ever so little, as is the way of burly men. She heldherself as erect as a redwood pine. The depth of her bosom, in its calmmunificence, defied the vast, thick heave of his shoulders. Her lipswere parted in laughter shewing magnificent teeth. In her brown eyes onecould read all the mysteries and tenderness of infinite motherhood. Herhair was anyhow: a debauched wreckage of combs and wisps and hairpins. Her barbaric beauty seemed to hold sleekness in contempt. I wanted, justfor the picture, half her bodice torn away. For there they stood, maleand female of an heroic age, in a travesty of modern garb. Clap apepperpot helmet on Jaffery, give him a skin-tight suit of chain mail, moulding all his swelling muscles, consider his red sweeping moustache, his red beard, his intense blue eyes staring out of a red face; dressLiosha in flaming maize and purple, leaving a breast free, and twist agold torque through her hair, dark like the bronze-black shadows underautumn bracken; strip naked-fair the five nesting bits of humanity--itwas an unpresented scene from Lohengrin or the Götterdämmerung. 

I can only speak according to the impression produced by their entranceon an idle, dilettante mind. My cousin Eileen, a smiling lady of plumpunimportance, to whom I afterwards told my fancy, could not understandit. Speaking entirely of physical attributes, she saw nothing more inJaffery than an uncouth red bear, and considered Liosha far too big fora drawing-room. 

When the children departed after an orgy of osculation, Jaffery surveyedwith a twinkling eye the decorous quartette sitting by the fire. Then inhis familiar fashion, he took his companion by the arm. 

"They're too grown up for us, Liosha. Let's leave 'em. Come and I'llteach you how to play billiards. "

So off they went, to the satisfaction of Barbara and myself. Nothingcould be better for our Christmas merriment than such relations ofcomradeship. We had the cheeriest of dinners that evening. If only, saidJaffery, old Adrian and Doria were with us. Well, they were coming thenext day, together with Euphemia and the four unattached men. As I saidbefore, I had given up enquiring into the lodging of this host, butBarbara, doubtless, as is her magic way, had caused bedrooms and beds tosmile where all had been blank before. She herself was free from anycare, being in her brightest mood; and when Barbara gave herself up togaiety she was the most delicious thing in the wide world. 

In the morning the shadow fell. About eleven o'clock Franklin brought mea telegram into the library where Jaffery and I were sitting. I openedit. 

"_Terrible calamity. Come at once. Boldero_. "

I passed it to Jaffery. "My God!" said he, and we stared at each other. Franklin said:

"Any answer, sir?"

"Yes. 'Boldero. Coming at once. ' And order the car roundimmediately--for London. Also ask Mrs. Freeth kindly to come here. Saythe matter's important. " Franklin withdrew. "It's Adrian, " said I, mymind rushing back to my horrible apprehensions of the summer. 

"Or Doria. I understood--" He waved a hand. 

"Then Barbara must come. "

"She would in any case. It may be Adrian, so I'll come too, if you'lllet me. "

Let the great, capable fellow come? I should think I would. "ForHeaven's sake, do, " said I. 

Barbara entered swinging housewifely keys. 

"I'm dreadfully busy, dear. What is it?"

Then she saw our two set faces and stopped short. Her quick eyes fell onthe telegram which Jaffery had put down in the arm of a couch, andbefore we could do or say anything, she had snatched it up and read it. She turned pale and held her little body very erect. 

"Have you ordered the car?"

"Yes. Jaffery's coming with us. "

"Good, I'll get on my coat. Send Eileen to me. I must tell her abouthouse things. "

She went out. Jaffery laid his heavy hand on my shoulder. 

"What a wonder of a wife you've got!"

"I don't need you to tell me that, " said I. 

We went downstairs to put on our coats and then round to the garage tohurry up the car. 

"There's some dreadful trouble at Mr. Boldero's, " I said to thechauffeur. "You must drive like the devil. "

Barbara, veiled and coated, met us at the front door. She has a trick ofdoing things by lightning. We started; Barbara and Jaffery at the back, I sideways to them on one of the little chair seats. We had the caropen, as it was a muggy day. . . . It is astonishing how such trivialmatters stick in one's mind. . . . We went, as I had ordained, like thedevil. 

"Who sent that telegram?" asked Barbara. 

"Doria, " said I. 

"I think it's Adrian, " said Jaffery. 

"I think, " said Barbara, "it's that silly old woman, Adrian's mother. Either of the others would have said something definite. Ah!" she smoteher knee with her small hand, "I hate people with spinal marrow and nobackbone to hold it!"

We tore through Maidenhead at a terrific pace, the Christmas traffic inthe town clearing magically before us. Sometimes a car on an errand oflife or death is recognised, given way to, like a fire engine. 

"What makes you so dead sure something's happened to Adrian?" Jafferyasked me as we thundered through the railway arch. 

Then I remembered. I had told him little or nothing of my fears. Eversince I learned that Adrian was putting the finishing touches to hisnovel, I had dismissed them from my mind. Such accounts as I had givenof Adrian had been in a jocularly satirical vein. I had mentioned hispontifical attitude, the magnification of his office, his bombasticrhetoric over the Higher Life and the Inspiration of the Snows, and, allthat being part and parcel of our old Adrian, we had laughed. Six monthsbefore I would have told Jaffery quite a different story. But now thatAdrian had practically won through, what was the good of reviving thememory of ghastly apprehensions?

"Tell me, " said Jaffery. "There's something behind all this. "

I told him. It took some time. We sped through Slough and Hounslow, andpast the desolate winter fields. The grey air was as heavy as ourhearts. 

"In plain words, " said Jaffery, "it's G. P. --General Paralysis of theInsane. "

"That's what I fear, " said I. 

"And you?" He turned to Barbara. 

"I too. Hilary has told you the truth. "

"But Doria! Good God! Doria! It will kill her!"

Barbara put her little gloved fingers on Jaffery's great raw hand. Onlyat weddings or at the North Pole would Jaffery wear gloves. 

"We know nothing about it as yet. The more we tear ourselves to piecesnow, the less able we'll be to deal with things. "

Through the bottle-neck of Brentford, the most disgraceful main entrancein the world into any great city, with bare room for a criminal doubleline of tramways blocked by heavy, horse-drawn traffic, an officiallyorganised murder-trap for all save the shrinking pedestrian on the mean, narrow, greasy side-walk, we crawled as fast as we were able. Thenthrough Chiswick, over Hammersmith Bridge, into the heart of London. All London to cross. Never had it seemed longer. And the great city wassmitten by a blight. It was not a fog, for one could see clearly ahundred yards ahead. But there was no sky and the air was a queeryellow, almost olive green, in which the main buildings stood out instartling meanness, and the distant ones were providentially obscured. Though it was but little past noon, all the great shops blazed withlight, but they illuminated singularly little the yellow murk of theroadway. The interiors were sharply clear. We could see swarms of blackthings, seething with ant-like activity amid a phantasmagoria ofcolours, draperies, curtains, flashes of white linen, streaks of red andyellow meat gallant with rosettes and garlands, instantaneous, glistening vistas of gold, silver and crystal, warm reflections ofmahogany and walnut; on the pavements an agglutinated yet moving mass bythe shop fronts, the inner stream a garish pink ribbon of faces, theouter a herd of subfuse brown. And in the roadway, through thetranslucent olive, the swirling traffic seemed like armies of ghostsmightily and dashingly charioted. 

The darkness had deepened when we, at last, drew up at the mansions inSt. John's Wood. No lights were lit in the vestibule, and thehall-porter emerged as from a cavern of despair. He opened the car-doorand touched his peaked cap. I could see from the man's face that he hadbeen expecting us. He knew us, of course, as constant visitors of theBolderos. 

"What's the matter?" I asked. 

"Don't you know, sir?"

"No. "

He glanced at Barbara, as if afraid to give her the shock of his news, and bent forward and whispered to me:

"Mr. Boldero's dead, sir. "

I don't remember clearly what happened then. I have a vague memory ofthe man accompanying us in the lift and giving some unintelligibleaccount of things. I was stunned. We had interpreted the ambiguoustelegram in all other ways than this. Adrian was dead. That was all Icould think of. The only coherent remark I heard the man make was thatit was a dreadful thing to happen at Christmas. Barbara gripped my handtight and did not say a word. The next phase I remember only toovividly. When the flat door opened, in a blaze of electric light, it waslike a curtain being lifted on a scene of appalling tragedy. As soon aswe entered we were sucked into it. A horrible hospital smell ofanæsthetics, disinfectants--I know not what--greeted us. 

The maid Ellen who had admitted us, red-eyed and scared, flew down thecorridor into the kitchen, whence immediately afterwards emerged aprofessional nurse, who, carrying something, flitted into Doria's room. From the spare room came for a moment an elderly woman whom we did notknow. The study door was flung wide open--I noticed that the jamb wassplintered. From the drawing-room came sounds of awful moaning. Weentered and found Adrian's mother alone, helpless with grief. Barbarasat by her and took her in her arms and spoke to her. But she could tellus nothing. I heard a man's step in the hall and Jaffery and I went out. He was a young man, very much agitated; he looked relieved at seeing us. 

"I am a doctor, " said he, "I was called in. The usual medical man isapparently away for Christmas. I'm so glad you've come. Is there a Mrs. Freeth here?"

"Yes. My wife, " said I. 

"Thank goodness--" He drew a breath. "There's no one here capable ofdoing anything. I had to get in the nurse and the other woman. "

Jaffery had summoned Barbara from her vain task. 

"Mrs. Boldero is very ill--as ill as she can be. Of course you wereaware of her condition--well--the shock has had its not very uncommoneffect. "

"Life in danger?" Jaffery asked bluntly. 

"Life, reason, everything. Tell me. I'm a stranger. I know nothing--Iwas summoned and found a man lying dead on the floor in that room"--hepointed to the study--"and a woman in a dreadful state. I've only hadtime to make sure that the poor fellow was dead. Could you tell mesomething about them?"

So we told him, the three of us together, as people will, who AdrianBoldero was, and how he and his genius were all this world and a bit ofthe next to his wife. How I managed to talk sensibly I don't know, forbeating against the walls of my head was the thought that Adrian laythere in the room where I had seen the strange woman, lifeless andstiff, with the laughing eyes forever closed and the last mockery gonefrom his lips. Just then the woman appeared again. The young doctorbeckoned to her and said a few words. Jaffery and I followed her intothe death-chamber, leaving the doctor with Barbara. And then we stoodand looked at all that was left of Adrian. 

But how did it happen? It was not till long afterwards that I reallyknew more than the scared maid-servant and the porter of the mansionsthen told us. But that little more I will set down here. 

For the past few days he had been working early and late, scarcelysleeping at all. The night before he had gone to bed at five, had risensleepless at seven, and having dressed and breakfasted had lockedhimself in his study. The very last page, he told Doria, was to bewritten. He was to come down to us for Christmas, with his novel afinished thing. At ten o'clock, in accordance with custom, when he beganto work early, the maid came to his door with a cup of chicken-broth. She knocked. There was no reply. She knocked louder. She called hermistress. Doria hammered . . . She shrieked. You know how swiftly terrorgrips a woman. She sent for the porter. Between them they raised a dinto awaken--well--all but the dead. The man forced the door--hence thesplinters on the jamb--and there they found Adrian, in the great bareroom, hanging horribly over his writing chair, with not a scrap of papersave his blotting-pad in front of him. He must have died almost as soonas he had reached his study, before he had time to take out hismanuscript from the jealous safe. That this was so the harassed doctorafterwards affirmed, when he could leave the living to make examinationof the dead. Still later than that we heard the cause of death--a clotof blood on the brain. . . . 

To go back . . . They found him dead. And then arose an unpicturablescene of horror. It seems that the cook, a stolid woman, on the point ofstarting for a Christmas visit, took charge of the situation, sent forthe doctor, despatched the telegram to us, and with the help of theporter's wife, saw to Adrian. The elder Mrs. Boldero collapsed, a futilemass of sodden hysteria. Much that was fascinating and feminine inAdrian came from this amiable and incapable lady. 

We went into the dining-room and helped ourselves to whisky and soda--weneeded it--and talked of the catastrophe. As yet, of course, we knewnothing of the clot of blood. Presently Barbara came in and put herhands on my shoulders. 

"I must stay here, Hilary, dear. You must get a bed at your club. Jaffery will take the car and bring us what we want from Northlands, andwill look after things with Eileen. And put off Euphemia and the others, if you can. "

And that was the Christmas to which we had looked forward with suchjoyous anticipation. Adrian dead; his child stillborn: Doria hovering onthe brink of life and death. I did what was possible on a Christmas evein the way of last arrangements. But to-morrow was Christmas Day. Theday after, Boxing Day. The day after that, Sunday. The whole world wasdead. And all those awful days the thin yellow fog that was not fog butmere blight of darkness hung over the vast city. 

God spare me such another Christmastide. 

CHAPTER XI

The first stages of our grievous task were accomplished. We had buriedAdrian in Highgate Cemetery with the yellow fog around us. His motherhad been put into a train that would carry her to the quiet countrycottage wherein she longed to be alone with her sorrow. Doria still layin the Valley of the Shadow unconscious, perhaps fortunately, of thestealthy footsteps and muffled sounds that strike a note of agonythrough a house of death. And it was many days before she awoke toknowledge and despair. Barbara stayed with her. 

We had found Adrian's will, leaving everything to Doria and appointingJaffery and myself joint executors and trustees for his wife and thechild that was to come, among his private papers in the Louis XV cabinetin the drawing-room. We had consulted his bankers and put matters in asolicitor's hands with a view to probate. Everything was in order. Wefound his own personal bills and receipts filed, his old letters tied upin bundles and labelled, his contracts, his publisher's returns, hislease, his various certificates neatly docketed. It was the private deskof a careful business man, rather than that of our old unmethodicalAdrian. There are few things more painful than to pry into theintimacies of those we have loved; and Jaffery and I had to pry alone, because Doria, who might have saved our obligatory search fromimpertinence, lay, herself, on the Borderland. 

All that we required for the simple settlement of his affairs had beenfound in the cabinet. On the list of assets for probate we had placedthe manuscript of the new book, its value estimated on the sales of "TheDiamond Gate. " We had not as yet examined the safe in the study, knowingthat it held nothing but the manuscript, and indeed we had not enteredthe forbidding room in which our poor friend had died. We kept itlocked, out of half foolish and half affectionate deference to hisunspoken wishes. Besides, Barbara, most exquisitely balanced of women, who went in and out of the death-chamber without any morbid repulsion, hated the door of the study to be left ajar, and, when it was closed, professed relief from an inexplicable maccabre obsession, and being aninmate of the flat its deputy lady in charge of nurses and servants andhousehold things, she had a right to spare herself unnecessary nervousstrain. But, all else having been done for the dead and for the living, the time now came for us to take the manuscript from the safe and handit over to the publisher. 

So, one dark morning, Jaffery and I unlocked the study-door and enteredthe gloom-filled, barren room. The curtains were drawn apart, and theblinds drawn up, and the windows framed squares of unilluminatingyellow. It was bitterly cold. The fire had not been laid since themorning of the tragedy and the grate was littered with dim grey ash. Thestale smell of the week's fog hung about the place. I turned on theelectric light. With its white distempered, pictureless walls, and itsscanty office furniture, the room looked inexpressibly dreary. We wentto the library table. A quill pen lay on the blotting pad, its point inthe midst of a couple of square inches of idle arabesques. On threedifferent parts of the pad marked by singularly little blotted matterthe quill had scrawled "God. A Novel. By Adrian Boldero. " On a brassash-tray I noticed three cigarettes, of each of which only about aneighth of an inch had been smoked. Jaffery, who had the key that used tohang at the end of Adrian's watch-chain, unlocked the iron safe. Itsheavy door swung back and revealed its contents: Three shelves crammedfrom bottom to top with a chaos of loose sheets of paper. Nowhere a signof the trim block of well-ordered manuscript. 

"Pretty kind of hay, " growled Jaffery, surveying it with a perplexedlook. "We'll have our work cut out. "

"It'll be all right, " said I. "Lift out the top shelf as carefully asyou can. You may be sure Adrian had some sort of method. "

Onto the cleared library table Jaffery deposited three loose, raggedpiles. We looked through them in utter bewilderment. Some of the sheetsunnumbered, unconnected one with the other, were pages of definitemanuscript; these we put aside; others contained jottings, notes, fragments of dialogue, a confused multitude of names, incomprehensiblememoranda of incidents. Of the latter one has stuck in my memory. "Lancelot Sinlow seduces Guinevere the false 'Immaculata' and Jehovahsteps in. " Other sheets were covered with meaningless phrases, the crudedrawings that the writing man makes mechanically while he is thinkingover his work, and arabesques such as we found on the blotting pad. 

"What the blazes is all this?" muttered Jaffery, his fingers in hisbeard. 

"I can't make it out, " said I. And then suddenly I laughed in greatrelief, remembering the absence of the waste-paper basket. We wereturning over what evidently would have been its contents. I explainedAdrian's whimsy. 

"What a funny devil the poor old chap was, " said Jaffery, with a laughat the harmless foible of the artist who would not give even anincurious housemaid a clue to his mystery. "Well, clear the rubbishaway, and we'll look at the second shelf. "

The second shelf was more or less a replica of the first. There weremore pages of consecutive composition--of such we sorted out perhaps acouple of hundred, but the rest were filled with the same incoherentscribble, with the same drawings, and with bits of scenarios of a dozenstories. 

"The whole damn thing seems to be waste-paper basket, " said Jaffery, standing over me. There was but one chair in the room--Adrian's famouswooden writing chair with the leathern pad for which Barbara hadpleaded, the chair in which the poor fellow had died, and I was sittingin it, as I sorted the manuscript which rose in masses on the table. 

"There's quite a lot of completed pages, " said I, putting together thosefound on the two shelves. "Let us see what we can make of them. "

We piled the obvious rubbish on the floor, and examined the salvage. Wecould make nothing of it. Jaffery wrinkled a hopeless brow. 

"It will take weeks to fix it up. "

"What licks me, " said I, "is the difference between this and theold-maidish tidiness of his other papers. Anyhow let us go on. "

In a little while we tried to put the sheets together in their order, going by the grammatical sequence of the end of one page with thebeginning of the next, but rarely could we obtain more than three orfour of such consecutive pages. We were confused, too, by at least adozen headed "Chapter I. "

"There's another shelf, anyhow, " said Jaffery, turning away. 

I nodded and went on with my puzzling task of collation. But the more Iexamined the more did my brain reel. I could not find the nucleus of acoherent story. A great shout from Jaffery made me start in my chair. 

"Hooray! At last! I've got it! Here it is!"

He came with three thick clumps of manuscript neatly pinned together inbrown paper wrappers and dumped them with a bang in front of me. 

"There!" he cried, bringing down his great hand on the top of the pile. 

"Thank God!" said I. 

He removed his hand. Then, as he told me afterwards, I sprang to my feetwith a screech like a woman's. For there, staring me in the face, on awhite label gummed onto the brown paper, was the hand-writteninscription:

"The Diamond Gate. A Novel--by Thomas Castleton. "

"Look!" I cried, pointing; and Jaffery looked. And for a second or twowe both stood stock-still. 

The writing was Tom Castleton's; and the writing of the script hastilyflung open by Jaffery was Tom Castleton's--Tom Castleton, the one geniusof our boyish brotherhood, who had died on his voyage to Australia. There was no mistake. The great square virile hand was only toofamiliar--as different from Adrian's precise, academical writing as TomCastleton from Adrian. 

Then our eyes met and we realized the sin that had been committed. 

There was the original manuscript of "The Diamond Gate. " "The DiamondGate" was the work not of Adrian Boldero, but of Tom Castleton. Adrianhad stolen "The Diamond Gate" from a dead man. Not only from a dead man, but from the dead friend who had loved and trusted in him. 

We stared at each other open-mouthed. At last Jaffery threw up his handsand, without a word, cleared the lowest shelf of the safe. Quickly weran through the mass. We could not trust ourselves to speak. There aretimes when words are too idle a medium for interchange of thought. Wefound nothing different from the contents of the two upper shelves. Theapparently coherent manuscript we placed with the rest. Again weexamined it. A sickening fear gripped our hearts, and steadily grew intoan awful certainty. 

The great epoch-making novel did not exist. 

It had never existed. Even if Adrian had lived, it would have had nopossibility of existing. 

"What in God's name has he been playing at?" cried Jaffery, in hisgreat, hoarse bass. 

"God knows, " said I. 

But even as I spoke, I knew. 

I looked round the room which Barbara had once called the CondemnedCell. The ghastly truth of her prescience shook me, and I began toshudder with the horror of it, and with the hitherto unnoticed cold. Iwas chilled to the bone. Jaffery put his arm round my shoulders andhugged me kindly. 

"Go and get warm, " said he. 

"But this?" I pointed to the litter. 

"I'll see to it and join you in a minute. "

He pushed me outside the door and I went into the drawing-room, where Icrouched before a blazing fire with chattering teeth and benumbed feetand hands. I was alone. Doria had taken a faint turn for the better thatmorning and Barbara had run down to Northlands for the day. It was justas well she had gone, I thought. I should have a few hours to composesome story in mitigation of the tragedy. 

Soon Jaffery returned with a glass of brandy, which I drank. He sat downon a low chair by the fire, his elbows on his knees and his shouldershunched up, and the leaping firelight played queer tricks with theshadows on his bearded face, making him look old and seamed with coarseand innumerable furrows. But for the blaze the room was filled with theyellow darkness that was thickening outside; yet we did not think ofturning on the lights. 

"What have you done?" I asked. 

"Locked the stuff up again, " he replied. "This afternoon I'll bring aportmanteau and take it away. "

"What are you going to do with it?"

"Leave that to me, " said he. 

What was in his mind I did not know, but, for the moment, I was veryglad to leave it to him. In a vague way I comforted myself with thereflection that Jaffery was a specialist in crises. It was his job, ashe would have said. In the ordinary affairs of life he conducted himselflike an overgrown child. In time of cataclysm he was a professionaldemigod. He reassured me further. 

"That's where I come in. Don't worry about it any more. "

"All right, " said I. 

And for a while he said nothing and stared at the fire. Presently hebroke the silence. 

"What was the poor devil playing at?" he repeated. "What, in God'sname?"

And then I told him. It took a long time. I was still in the cold gripof the horror of that condemned cell, and my account was none tooconsecutive. There was also some argument and darting up side-tracks, which broke the continuity. It was also difficult to speak of Adrian interms that did not tear our hearts. As a despoiler of the dead, hisoffence was rank. But we had loved him; and we still loved him, and hehad expiated his crime by a year's unimaginable torture. 

Often have I said that I thought I knew my Adrian, but did not. Least ofall did I know my Adrian then, as I sat paralysed by the revelation ofhis fraud. Even now, as I write, looking at things more or less inperspective, I cannot say that I know my Adrian. With all his faults, his poses, his superficialities, his secrecies, his egotisms, I neverdreamed of him as aught but a loyal and honourable gentleman. When Ithink of him, I tremble before the awful isolation of the human soul. What does one man know of his brother? Yes; the coldest of poets wasright: "We mortal millions live alone. " It is only the unconquerablefaith in Humanity by which we live that saves us from standing aghastwith conjecture before those who are so near and dear to us that we feelthem part of our very selves. 

Adrian was dead and could not speak. What was it that in the first placemade him yield to temptation? What kink in the brain warped his moralsense? God is his judge, poor boy, not I. Tom Castleton had put themanuscript of "The Diamond Gate" into his hands. Undoubtedly he was toarrange for its publication. Castleton's appointment to theprofessorship in Australia had been a sudden matter, as I well remember, necessitating a feverish scramble to get his affairs in order before hesailed. Why did not Adrian in the affectionate glow of parting send themanuscript straight off to a publisher? At first it was merely aquestion of despatching a parcel and writing a covering letter. Why werenot parcel and letter sent? Merely through the sheer indolence that wascharacteristic of Adrian. Then came the news of Castleton's death. Fromthat moment the poison of temptation must have begun to work. For years, in his easy way, he struggled against it, until, perhaps, desperate forDoria, he succumbed. What script, type-written or hand-written, he sentto Wittekind, the publisher of "The Diamond Gate, " I did not learn tilllater. But why did he not destroy Tom Castleton's original manuscript?That was what Jaffery could not understand. Yet any one familiar withmorbid psychology will tell you of a hundred analogical instances. Somequeer superstition, some reflex action of conscience, some dim, relentless force compelling the hair shirt of penitence--that is theonly way in which I, who do not pretend to be a psychologist, canexplain the sustained act of folly. 

And when the book blazed into instantaneous success, and he accepted itgay and debonair, what could have been the state of that man's soul? Iremembered, with a shiver, the look on Adrian's face, at Mr. Jornicroft's dinner party, as if a hand had swept the joy from it, andthe snapping of the stem of the wineglass. In the light of knowledge Ilooked back and recognised the feverishness of a demeanour that had beenmerely gay before. Well . . . He had been swept off his feet. If any manever loved a woman passionately and devoutly, Adrian loved Doria. Forwhat it may be worth, put that to his credit: he sinned for love of awoman. And the rest? The tragic rest? His undertaking to write anothernovel? Indomitable self-confidence was the keynote of the man. Careless, casual lover of ease that he was, everything he had definitely sethimself to do heretofore, he had done. 

As I have said, he had got his First Class at Cambridge, to thestupefaction of his friends. With the exception of a brilliant barexamination, he had done nothing remarkable afterwards, merely for lackof incentive. When the incentive came, the writing of a novel to eclipse"The Diamond Gate, " I am absolutely certain that he had no doubt of hiscapacity. 

When he married, I think his sunny nature dispelled the cloud of guilt. He looked forward with a gambler's eagerness to the autumn's work, thebeginning of the apotheosis of his real imaginary self, the genius thatwas Adrian Boldero. And yet, behind all this light-hearted enthusiasm, must have run a vein of cunning, invariable symptom of an unbalancedmind, which prompted secrecy, the secrecy which he had always loved topractise, and inspired him with the idea of the mysterious, secretroom. The latter originated in his brain as a fantastic plaything, anintellectual Bluebeard's chamber whose sanctity he knew his awe-strickenwife would respect. It developed into a bleak prison; and finally intothe condemned cell. 

As I said to Jaffery, on that morning of fog and firelight, in the midstof Adrian's artificial French Lares and Penates, dimly seen, likespindle-shanked ghosts of chairs and tables, just consider themind-shattering facts. Here was a man whose whole literary output was afew precious essays and a few scraggy poems, who had never schemed out anovel before, not even, as far as I am aware, a short story; who hadnever, in any way, tested his imaginative capacity, setting out, ininsane self-conceit, to write, not merely a commercial work of fiction, but a novel which would outrival a universally proclaimed work ofgenius. And he had no imaginative capacity. His mind was essentiallycritical; and the critical mind is not creative. He was a clever man. All critics are clever men; if they were just a little more, or just alittle less than clever, they wouldn't be critics. Perhaps Adrian was, by a barleycorn, a little more; but he had a blind spot in his brainwhich prevented him from seeing that the power to do imaginative work ina literary medium is as much a special gift as the power to interprethuman life on canvas. It was exactly the same thing as if you or I, whohave not the remotest notion how to draw a man on horseback correctly, were to try to paint a Velasquez portrait. It did not seem to enter thepoor fellow's head that the novelist, in no matter how humble a way, nomatter how infinitesimal the invisible grain of muse may be, must havethe especial, incommunicable gift, the queer twist of brain, if youlike, but the essential quality of the artist. 

And there the man had sat in that stark cell of a room, for all thosemonths, whipping, in intolerable agony, a static imagination. He hadnever begun to get his central incident, his plot, his character scheme, such as all novelists must do. He had grasped at one elusive vision oflife, after another. His mind had become a medley of tags of the comedyand tragedy of human things. The more confused, the more universalbecame the poor limited vision. The whole of illimitable life, he hadtold me in his flogged, crazed exaltation, was to be captured in thiswondrous book. The pity of it!

How he had retained his sanity I cannot to this day understand--that isto say, if he had retained it. The hypothesis of madness comforted. Iwould give much to feel that he had really believed in his progress withthe work, that his assurance of having come to the end was genuine. Ifhe had deceived himself, God had been merciful. But if not, if he hadsat down day after day, with the appalling consciousness of hisimpotence, there have been few of the sons of men to whom God had metedout, in this world, greater punishment for sin. It is incredible that heshould have lasted so long alive. No wonder he could not sleep. Nowonder he drank in secret. Barbara, who had gone through the householdaccounts, had already been staggered by the wine-merchant's bills forwhisky. Had he stupefied himself day after day, night after night forthe last few months? I cannot but hope that he did. At any rate God wasmerciful at last. He killed him. 

Jaffery threw a couple of logs on the fire--the ship-logs that Adrianloved, and the sea-salts, barium, strontium and what-not, gave green andcrimson and lavender flames. 

"I've seen as much suffering in my time as any man living, " he said. "Awar-correspondent does. He sees samples of every conceivable sort ofhell. But this sample I haven't struck before and it's the worst of thelot. My God! and only the day before yesterday I took him to bemarried. "

"It was fifteen months ago, Jaff, and since then you've plucked hairsout of Prester John's beard, or been entertained by a Viceroy of China, which comes to the same thing. I was right in saying you had no idea oftime or space. "

He paid no attention to my poor, watery jest. 

"It was the day before yesterday. And now he's dead and the childstillborn--"

I uttered a short cry which interrupted him. A memory had smitten me;that of his words in September, and of the queer slanting look in hiseyes: "They'll both be born together. "

I told Jaffery. "Was there ever such a ghastly prophecy?" I said. "Bothstillborn together. The more one goes into the matter, the moreshudderingly awful it is. "

Jaffery nodded and stared into the fire. 

"And she at the point of death--to complete the tragedy, " he said belowhis breath. 

Then suddenly he shook himself like a great dog. 

"I would give the soul out of my body to save her, " he cried with astartling quaver in his deep voice. 

"I know you love her dearly, old man, " said I, "but is life the bestthing you can wish for her?"

"Why not?"

"Isn't it obvious? She recovers--she will, most probably, recover;Jephson said so this morning--she comes back to life to find what? Theshattering of her idol. That will kill her. My dear old Jaff, it'sbetter that she should die now. "

Rugged lines that I had never seen before came into his brow, and hiseyes blazed. 

"What do you mean--shattering of idols?"

"She is bound to learn the truth. "

He darted forward in his chair and gripped my knee in his mighty grasp, so that I winced with pain. 

"She's not going to learn the truth. She's not going to have any dimsuspicion of the truth. By God! I'd kill anybody, even you, who toldher. She's not to know. She must never know. " In his sudden fit ofpassion he sprang to his feet and towered over me with clenchedfists, --the sputtering flames casting a weird Brocken shadow on wall andceiling of the fog-darkened room--I shrank into my chair, for he seemednot a man but one of the primal forces of nature. He shouted in the samedeep, shaken voice. 

"Adrian is dead. The child is dead. But the book lives. You understand. "His great fist touched my face. "The book lives. You have seen it. "

"Very well, " said I, "I've seen it. "

"You swear you've seen it?"

"Yes, " said I, in some bewilderment. 

He turned away, passed his hand over his forehead and through his hair, and walked for a little about the room. 

"I'm sorry, Hilary, old chap, to have lost control of myself. It's amatter of life and death. I'm all right now. But you understand clearlywhat I mean?"

"Certainly. I'm to swear that I saw the manuscript. I'm to lend myselfto a pious fraud. That's all right for the present. But it can't lastforever. "

Jaffery thrust both hands in his pockets and bent and fixed the steel ofhis eyes on me. I should not like to be Jaffery's enemy. 

"It can. And it's going to. I'll see to that. "

"What do you mean?" I asked. "There's no book. We can't conjuresomething out of nothing. "

"There is a book, damn you, " he roared fiercely, "and you've seen it, and I've got it. And I'm responsible for it. And what the hell does itmatter to you what becomes of it?"

"Very well, " said I. "If you insist, I can wash my hands of the wholematter. I saw a completed manuscript. You are my co-executor andtrustee. You took it away. That's all I know. Will that do for you?"

"Yes. And I'll give you a receipt. Whatever happens, you're notresponsible. I can burn the damned thing if I like. Do anything Ichoose. But you've seen the outside of it. "

He went to the writing table by the gloomy window and scribbled amemorandum and duplicate, which we both signed. Each pocketed a copy. Then he turned on me. 

"I needn't mention that you're not going to give a hint to a human soulof what you have seen this day?"

I faced him and looked into his eyes. "What do you take me for? Butyou're forgetting. . . . There is one human soul who must know. "

He was silent for a minute or two. Then, with his great-hearted smile:

"You and Barbara are one, " said he. 

Presently, after a little desultory talk, he took a folded paper fromhis pocket and shook it out before me. I recognized the top sheet of theblotting-pad on which Adrian had written thrice: "God: A Novel: ByAdrian Boldero. "

"We had better burn this, " said he; and he threw it into the fire. 

CHAPTER XII

The slow weeks passed. Fog gave way to long rain and rain to a touch offrost and timid spring sunshine; and it was only then that Doria emergedfrom the Valley of the Shadow. The first time they allowed me to visither, I stood for a fraction of a second, almost in search of a humanoccupant of the room. Lying in the bed she looked such a pitiful scrap, all hair and eyes. She smiled and held droopingly out to me the mostfragile thing in hands I have ever seen. 

"I'm going to live, after all, they tell me. "

"Of course you are, " I answered cheerily. "It's the season for things tofind they're going to live. The crocuses and aconite have already madethe discovery. "

She sighed. "The garden at Northlands will soon be beautiful. I love itin the spring. The dancing daffodils--"

"We'll have you down to dance with them, " said I. 

"It's strange that I want to live, " she remarked after a pause. "Atfirst I longed to die--that was why my recovery was so slow. Butnow--odd, isn't it?"

"Life means infinitely more than one's own sorrow, no matter how greatit is, " I replied gently. 

"Yes, " she assented. "I can live now for Adrian's memory. "

I suppose most women in Doria's position would have said much the same. In ordinary circumstances one approves the pious aspiration. If it givesthem temporary comfort, why, in Heaven's name, shouldn't they have it?But in Doria's case, its utterance gave me a kind of stab in the heart. By way of reply I patted her poor little wrist sympathetically. 

"When will the book be out?" she asked. 

"I'm afraid I don't quite know, " said I. 

"I suppose they're busy printing it. "

"Jaffery's in charge, " I replied, according to instructions. 

"He must get it out at once. The early spring's the best time. It won'tdo to wait too long. Will you tell him?"

"I will, " said I. 

I don't think I have ever loathed a thing so wholly as that confoundedghost of a book. Naturally it was the dominant thought in the poorchild's mind. She had already worried Barbara about it. It formed thesubject of nearly her first question to me. I foresaw trouble. I couldnot plead bland ignorance forever; though for the present I did not knowthe nature of Jaffery's scheme. Anyhow I redeemed my promise and gavehim Doria's message. He received it with a grumpy nod and said nothing. He had become somewhat grumpy of late, even when I did not broach thedisastrous topic, and made excuses for not coming down to Northlands. 

I attributed the unusual moroseness to London in vile weather. At thebest of times Jaffery grew impatient of the narrow conditions of town;yet there he was week after week, staying in a poky set of furnishedchambers in Victoria Street, and doing nothing in particular, as far asI could make out, save riding on the tops of motor-omnibuses without anovercoat. 

After his silent acknowledgment of the message, he stuffed his pipethoughtfully--we were in the smoking-room of a club (not the Athenæum)to which we both belonged--and then he roared out:

"Do you think she could bear the sight of me?"

"What do you mean?" I asked. 

"Well"--he grinned a little--"I'm not exactly a kind of sick-roomflower. "

"I think you ought to see her--you're as much trustee and executor as Iam. You might also save Barbara and myself from nerve-rackingquestions. "

"All right, I'll go, " he said. 

The interview was only fairly successful. He told her that the bookwould be published as soon as possible. 

"When will that be?" she asked. 

Jaffery seemed to be as vague as myself. 

"Is it in the printer's hands?"

"Not yet. "

"Why?"

He explained that Adrian had practically finished the novel; but hereand there it needed the little trimming and tacking together, whichAdrian would have done had he lived to revise the manuscript. He himselfwas engaged on this necessary though purely mechanical task of revision. 

"I quite agree, " said Doria to this, "that Adrian's work could not begiven out in an imperfect state. But there can't be very much to do, sowhy are you taking all this time over it?"

"I'm afraid I've been rather busy, " said he. 

Which tactless, though I admit unavoidable, reply did not greatly pleaseDoria. When she saw Barbara, to whom she related this conversation, shecomplained of Jaffery's unfeeling conduct. He had no right to hang upAdrian's great novel on account of his own wretched business. Lettingthe latter slide would have been a tribute to his dead friend. Barbaradid her best to soothe her; but we agreed that Jaffery had made a badstart. 

A short while afterwards I was in the club again and there I cameacross Arbuthnot, the manager of Jaffery's newspaper, whom I had knownfor some years--originally I think through Jaffery. I accepted the offerof a seat at his luncheon table, and, as men will, we began to discussour common friend. 

"I wonder what has come over him lately, " said he after a while. 

"Have you noticed any difference?" I was startled. 

"Yes. Can't make him out. "

"Poor Adrian Boldero's death was a great shock. "

"Quite so, " Arbuthnot assented. "But Jaff Chayne, when he gets a shock, is the sort of fellow that goes into the middle of a wilderness androars. Yet here he is in London and won't be persuaded to leave it. "

"What do you mean?" I asked. 

"We wanted to send him out to Persia, and he refused to go. We had tosend young Brodie instead, who won't do the work half as well. "

"All this is news to me, " said I. 

"And it was a first-class business with armed escorts, caravans, wildtribes--a matter of great danger and subtle politics--railways, finance--the whole hang of the international situation and internalconditions--a big scoop--everything that usually is butter and honey toJaff Chayne--an ideal job for him in every way. But no. He was fed upwith scalliwagging all over the place. He wanted a season in town!"

At the idea of Jaffery yearning to play the Society butterfly I couldnot help laughing. Jaffery lounging down Bond Street in immaculatevesture! Jaffery sipping tea at afternoon At Homes! Jaffery dancing tillthree o'clock in the morning! It was all very comic, and Arbuthnotseeing the matter in that aspect laughed too. But, on the other hand, itwas all very incomprehensible. To Jaffery a job was a sacred affair, themeaning of his existence. He was a Mercury who took himself seriously. The more remote and rough and uncomfortable and dangerous his mission, the more he liked it. He had never spared himself. He had been a modelspecial correspondent ever ready at a moment's notice to set off to theends of the earth. And now, all of a sudden, behold him declining a taskafter his own heart, and, as I gathered from Arbuthnot, of the greatestpolitical significance, and thereby endangering his peculiar andhonourable position on the paper. 

"If it had been any other man alive who had turned us down like that, "said Arbuthnot, "we would have chucked him altogether. In fact we didn'ttell him that we wouldn't. "

It was very mysterious; all the more so because Jaffery had never been aman of mystery, like Adrian. I went away wondering. If it had occurredto me at the time that I was destined to play Boswell to Jaffery'sJohnson, perhaps I might have gone straight to him and demanded asolution of my difficulties. As it was, in my unawakened condition, Idid nothing of the kind. I spent an hour or two looking up something inthe British Museum, stopped at the bootmaker's to give an orderconcerning Susan's riding-boots (_vide_ diary) and drove home to dinner, to a comfortable chat with Barbara, during which I gave her an accountof the day's doings, and eventually to the peaceful slumber of thecontented and inoffensive man. 

A fortnight or so passed before I saw Jaffery again. Happening to be inWestminster in the forenoon--I had come up to town on business--Imounted to his cheerless eyrie in Victoria Street, and rang the bell. Adingy servitor in a dress suit, on transient duty, admitted me, and Ifound Jaffery collarless and minus jacket and waistcoat, smoking a pipein front of the fire. It wasn't even a good coal fire. Some austereformer tenant had installed an electric radiator in the oncecomfort-giving grate. But Jaffery did not seem to mind. The remains ofbreakfast were on the table which the dingy servitor began to clear. Jaffery rose from the depths of his easy chair like an agile mammoth. 

"Hullo, hullo, hullo!"

His usual greeting. We shook hands and commended the weather. When thealien attendant had departed, he began to curse London. It was a holefor sick dogs, not for sound men. He loathed its abominable suffocation. 

"Then why the deuce do you stay in it?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "I can't do anything else. "

This gave me an opening to satisfy my curiosity. 

"I understood you could have gone to Persia. "

He frowned and tugged his red beard. "How did you know that?"

"Arbuthnot--" I began. 

"Arbuthnot?" he boomed angrily. "What the blazes does he mean by tellingyou about my affairs? I'll punch his damned head!"

"Don't, " said I. "Your hands are so big and he's so small. You mighthurt him. "

"I'd like to hurt him. Why can't he keep his infernal tongue quiet?"

He proceeded to wither up the soul of Arbuthnot with awful anathema. Then in his infantile way he shouted: "I didn't want any of you to knowanything about it. "

"Why?" I asked. 

"Because I didn't. "

"But I suppose you wanted to go to Persia?"

He paused in his lumbering walk about the little room and collecting alitter of books and papers and a hat or two and a legging from a sofa, pitched it into a corner. 

"Here. Sit down. "

I had been warming my back at the fire hitherto and surveying thehalf-formal, half-unkempt sitting-room. It was by no means thecomfortable home from Harrod's Stores that Barbara had prescribed; andhe had not attempted to furnish it in slap-up style with the heads ofgame and skins and modern weapons which lay in the London Repository. Itwas the impersonal abode of the male bird of passage. 

"Sit down, " said he, "and have a drink. "

I declined, alleging the fact that a philosophically minded countrygentleman of domestic habits does not require alcohol at half pasteleven in the morning, except under the stress of peculiarcircumstances. 

"I'm going to have one anyway!"

He disappeared and presently reëntered with a battered two-handledsilver quart pot bearing defaced arms and inscription, a rowing trophyof Cambridge days, which he always carried about with him on no matterwhat lightly equipped expedition--it is always a matter of regret to methat Jaffery, as I have mentioned before, missed his seat in theCambridge boat; but when one despoils a Proctor of his square cap and itis found the central feature of one's rooms beneath a glass shade suchas used to protect wax flowers from the dust, what can one expect fromthe priggish judgment of university authority?--he reëntered, with thisvessel full of beer. He nodded, drank a huge draught and wiped hismoustache with his hand. 

"Better have some. I've got a cask in the bedroom. "

"Good God!" said I, aghast. "What else do you keep there? A side ofbacon and a Limburger cheese and Bombay duck?"

Now just imagine a civilised gentleman keeping a cask of beer in hisbedroom. 

Jaffery laughed and took another swig and called me a long, lean, puny-gutted insect; which was not polite, but I was glad to hear thedeep "Ho! ho! ho!" that followed his vituperation. 

"All the same, " said I, reclining on the cleared sofa and lighting acigarette, "I should like to know why you missed one of the chances ofyour life in not going out to Persia. "

He stood, for a moment or two, scrabbling in whisker and beard; and, turning over in his mind, I suppose, that Barbara was my wife, and Susanmy child, and I myself an inconsiderable human not evilly disposedtowards him, he apparently decided not to annihilate me. 

"It was hell, Hilary, old chap, to chuck the Persian proposition, " saidhe, his hands in his trouser pockets, looking out of the window at theinfinitely reaching landscape of the chimney pots of south London, theirgrey smoke making London's unique pearly haze below the crisp blue ofthe March sky. "Just hell!" he muttered in his bass whisper, and craninground my neck I could, with the tail of my eye, catch his gaze, whichwas very wistful and seemed directed not at the opalescent mystery ofthe London air, but at the clear vividness of the Persian desert. Awayand away, beyond the shimmering sand, gleamed the frosted town withwhite walls, white domes, white minarets against the horizon band oftopaz and amethystine vapours. And in his nostrils was the immemorablesmell of the East, and in his ears the startling jingle of the harnessand the pad of the camels, and the guttural cries of the drivers, and inhis heart the certainty of plucking out the secret from the soul of thisstrange land. . . . 

At last he swung round and throwing himself into the armchair enquiredpolitely after the health of Barbara and Susan. As far as the Persianjourney was concerned the palaver was ended. He did not intend to giveme his reasons for staying in England and I could not demand them moreinsistently. At any rate I had discovered the cause of his grumpiness. What creature of Jaffery's temperament could be contented with a softbed in the centre of civilisation, when he had the chance of sleeping inverminous caravanserais with a saddle for pillow? In spite of hisamazing predilections, Jaffery was very human. He would make a greatsacrifice without hesitation; but the consequences of the sacrificewould cause him to go about like a bear with a sore head. 

And the cause of the sacrifice? Obviously Doria. Once having beenadmitted to her bedside, he went there every day. Flowers and fruit hehad sent from the very beginning in absurd profusion; a grape for Doriafailed in adequacy unless it was the size of a pumpkin. Now he broughtthe offerings personally in embarrassing bulk. One offering was agramophone which nearly drove her mad. Even in its present stage ofdevelopment it offends the sensitive ear; but in its early days it wasan instrument of torturing cacophony. And Jaffery, thinking the brazenstrains music of the spheres, would turn on the hideous engine, when hecame to see her, and would grin and roar and expect her to shew evidenceof ravished senses. She did her best, poor child, out of politeness andrecognition of his desire to alleviate her lot; but I don't think thegramophone conveyed to her heart the poor dear fellow's unspokenmessage. But gently criticising the banality of the tunes the thingplayed and sending him forth in quest of records of recondite and"unrecorded" music, she succeeded in mitigating the terror. To thepresent moment, however, I don't think Jaffery has realised that she hada higher æsthetic equipment than the hypnotised fox-terrier in theadvertisement. . . . Jaffery also bought her puzzles and funny pennypavement toys and gallons of eau-de-cologne (which came in useful), andexpensive scent (which she abominated), and stacks of new novels, and afearsome machine of wood and brass and universal joints, by means ofwhich an invalid could read and breakfast and write and shave all at thesame time. The only thing he did not give her--the thing she craved morethan all--was a fresh-bound copy of Adrian's book. 

Obviously, as I have remarked, it was Doria that kept him out of Persia. But I could not help thinking that this same Persian journey might haveafforded a solution of the whole difficulty. Despatched suddenly to thatvaguely known country, he could have taken the mythical manuscript torevise on the journey: the convoy could have been attacked by a horde ofKurds or such-like desperadoes, all could have been slain save afortunate handful, and the manuscript could have been looted as animportant political document and carried off into Eternity. Doria wouldhave hated Jaffery forever after; but his chivalrous aim would have beenaccomplished. Adrian's honour would have been safe. But this simple wayout never occurred to him. Apparently he thought it wiser to sacrificehis career and remain in London so as to buoy Doria up with false hope, all the time praying God to burn down St. Quentin's Mansions (where helived) and Adrian's portmanteau of rubbish and himself all together. 

Suddenly, as soon as Doria could be moved, Mr. Jornicroft stepped in andcarried her to the south of France. Barbara and Jaffery and myself sawher off by the afternoon train at Charing Cross. She was to rest inParis for the night and the next day, and proceed the following night toNice. She looked the frailest thing under the sun. Her face wasstartling ivory beneath her widow's headgear. She had scarcely strengthto lift her head. Mr. Jornicroft had made luxurious arrangements for hercomfort--an ambulance carriage from St. John's Wood, a special invalidcompartment in the train; but at the station, as at Doria's wedding, Jaffery took command. It was his great arms that lifted herfeather-weight with extraordinary sureness and gentleness from thecarriage, carried her across the platform and deposited her tenderly onher couch in the compartment. Touched by his solicitude she thanked himwith much graciousness. He bent over her--we were standing at the doorand could not choose but hear:

"Don't you remember what I said the first day I met you?"

"Yes. "

"It stands, my dear; and more than that. " He paused for a second andtook her thin hand. "And don't you worry about that book. You get welland strong. "

He kissed her hand and spoiled the gallantry by squeezing hershoulder--half her little body it seemed to be--and emerging from thecompartment joined us on the platform. He put a great finger on the armof the rubicund, thickset, black-moustached Jornicroft. 

"I think I'll come with you as far as Paris, " said he. "I'll get into asmoker somewhere or the other. "

"But, my dear sir"--exclaimed Mr. Jornicroft in some amazement--"it'sawfully kind, but why should you?"

"Mrs. Boldero has got to be carried. I didn't realise it. She can't puther feet to the ground. Some one has got to lift her at every stage ofthe journey. And I'm not going to let any damned clumsy fellow handleher. I'll see her into the Nice train to-morrow night--perhaps I'll goon to Nice with you and fix her up in the hotel. As a matter of fact, Iwill. I shan't worry you. You won't see me, except at the right time. Don't be afraid. "

Mr. Jornicroft, most methodical of Britons, gasped. So, I must confess, did Barbara and I. When Jaffery met us at the station he had no moreintention of escorting Doria to Nice than we had ourselves. 

"I can't permit it--it's too kind--there's no necessity--we'll get onall right!" spluttered Mr. Jornicroft. 

"You won't. She has got to be carried. You're not going to take anyrisks. "

"But, my dear fellow--it's absurd--you haven't any luggage. "

"Luggage?" He looked at Mr. Jornicroft as if he had suggested theimpossibility of going abroad without a motor veil or the EncyclopædiaBritannica. "What the blazes has luggage got to do with it?" His roarcould be heard above the din of the hurrying station. "I don't want_luggage_. " The humour of the proposition appealed to him so mightilythat he went off into one of his reverberating explosions of mirth. 

"Ho! ho! ho!" Then recovering--"Don't you worry about that. "

"But have you enough on you--it's an expensive journey--of course Ishould be most happy--"

Jaffery stepped back and scanned the length of the platform and beckonedto an official, who came hurrying towards him. It was the stationmaster. 

"Have you ever seen me before, Mr. Winter?"

The official laughed. "Pretty often, Mr. Chayne. "

"Do you think I could get from here to Nice without buying a ticketnow?"

"Why, of course, our agent at Boulogne will arrange it if I send him awire. "

"Right, " said Jaffery. "Please do so, Mr. Winter. I'm crossing now andgoing to Nice by the Côte d'Azur Express to-morrow night. And see aftera seat for me, will you?"

"I'll reserve a compartment if possible, Mr. Chayne. "

The station master raised his hat and departed. Jaffery, his handsstuffed deep in his pockets, beamed upon us like a mountainous child. Wewere all impressed by his lordly command of the railway systems ofEurope. It was a question of credit, of course, but neither Mr. Jornicroft, solid man that he was, nor myself could have undertaken thatjourney with a few loose shillings in his possession. For the first timesince Adrian's death I saw Jaffery really enjoying himself. 

And that is how Jaffery without money or luggage or even an overcoattravelled from London to Nice, for no other purpose than to save Doria'ssacred little body from being profaned by the touch of ruder hands. 

Having carried her at every stage beginning with the transfer from trainto steamer at Folkestone and ending with a triumphant march up thestairs to the third floor of the Cimiez hotel, he took the first trainback straight through to London. 

He returned the same old grinning giant, without a shadow of grumpinesson his jolly face. 

CHAPTER XIII

About this time a bolt came from the blue or a bomb fell at ourfeet--the metaphor doesn't matter so long as it conveys a sense of anunlooked-for phenomenon. True, in relation to cosmic forces, it was buta trumpery bolt or a squib-like bomb; but it startled us all the same. The admirable Mrs. Considine got married. A retired warrior, a recentwidower, but a celibate of twenty years standing owing to the fact thathis late wife and himself had occupied separate continents (_on avaitfait continent à part_, as the French might say) during that period, aMajor-General fresh from India, an old flame and constant correspondent, had suddenly swooped down upon the boarding-house in Queen's Gate and, in swashbuckling fashion, had abducted the admirable and unresistinglady. It was a matter of special license, and off went the tardily happypair to Margate, before we had finished rubbing our eyes. 

It was grossly selfish on the part of Mrs. Considine, said Barbara. Shethought her--no; perhaps she didn't think her--God alone knows theconvolutions of feminine mental processes--but she proclaimed heranyhow--an unscrupulous woman. 

"There's Liosha, " she said, "left alone in that boarding-house. "

"My dear, " said I, "Mrs. Jupp--I admit it's deplorable taste to change aname of such gentility as Considine for that of Jupp, but it isn'tunscrupulous--Mrs. Jupp did not happen to be charged with a missionfrom on High to dry nurse Liosha for the rest of her life. "

"That's where you're wrong, " Barbara retorted. "She was. She was the oneperson in the world who could look after Liosha. See what she's done forher. It was her duty to stick to Liosha. As for those two old faggotsmarrying, they ought to be ashamed of themselves. "

Whether they were ashamed of themselves or not didn't matter. Liosharemained alone in the boarding-house. Not all Barbara's indignationcould turn Mrs. Jupp into the admirable Mrs. Considine and bring herback to Queen's Gate. What was to be done? We consulted Jaffery, who asLiosha's trustee ought to have consulted us. Jaffery pulled a long faceand smiled ruefully. For the first time he realised--in spite of tragichappenings--the comedy aspect of his position as the legal guardian oftwo young, well-to-do and attractive widows. He was the last man in theworld to whom one would have expected such a fate to befall. He tooswore lustily at the defaulting duenna. 

"I thought it was all fixed up nicely forever, " he growled. 

"Everything is transitory in this life, my dear fellow, " said I. "Everything except a trusteeship. That goes on forever. "

"That's the devil of it, " he growled. 

"You must get used to it, " said I. "You'll have lots more to look afterbefore you've done with this existence!"

His look hardened and seemed to say: "If you go and die and saddle mewith Barbara, I'll punch your head. "

He turned his back on me and, jerking a thumb, addressed Barbara. 

"Why do you take him out without a muzzle? Now you've got sense. Whatshall I do?"

Then Liosha superb and smiling sailed into the room. 

I ought to have mentioned that Barbara had convened this meeting at theboarding-house. The room into which Liosha sailed was the elegant"_bonbonnière_" of a chamber known as the "boudoir. " There was a greatdeal of ribbon and frill and photograph frame and artful feminine touchabout it, which Liosha and, doubtless, many other inmates thoughtmightily refined. 

Liosha kissed Barbara and shook hands with Jaffery and me, bade us beseated and put us at our ease with a social grace which could not havebeen excelled by the admirable Mrs. Considine (now Jupp) herself. Thatmaligned lady had performed her duties during the past two years withcharacteristic ability. Parenthetically I may remark that Liosha'stable-manners and formal demeanour were now irreproachable. Mrs. Considine had also taken up the Western education of the child of twelveat the point at which it had been arrested, and had brought Liosha'sinformation as to history, geography, politics and the world in generalto the standard of that of the average schoolgirl of fifteen. Again, shehad developed in our fair barbarian a natural taste in dress, curbing, on her emergence from mourning, a fierce desire for apparel in primarycolours, and leading her onwards to an appreciation of suaver harmonies. Again she had run her tactful hand over Liosha's stockyard vocabulary, erasing words and expressions that might offend Queen's Gate andsubstituting others that might charm; and she had done it with a touchof humour not lost on Liosha, who had retained the sense of values inwhich no child born and bred in Chicago can be deficient. 

"I suppose you're all fussed to death about this marriage, " she saidpleasantly. "Well, I couldn't help it. "

"Of course not, dear, " said Barbara. 

"You might have given us a hint as to what was going on, " said Jaffery. 

"What good could you have done? In Albania if the General had interferedwith your plans, you might have shot him from behind a stone andeveryone except Mrs. Considine would have been happy; but I've beentaught you don't do things like that in South Kensington. "

"Whoever wanted to shoot the chap?"

"I, for one, " said Barbara. "What are we to do now?"

"Find another dragon, " said Jaffery. 

"But supposing I don't want another dragon?"

"That doesn't matter in the least. You've got to have one. "

"Say, Jaff Chayne, " cried Liosha, "do you think I can't look aftermyself by this time? What do you take me for?"

I interposed. "Rather a lonely young woman, that's all. Jaffery, in histactless way, by using the absurd term 'dragon, ' has missed the pointaltogether. You want a companion, if only to go about with, say torestaurants and theatres. "

"I guess I can get heaps of those, " said Liosha, a smile in her eyes. "Don't you worry!"

"All the more reason for a dragon. "

"If you mean somebody who's going to sit on my back every time I talk toa man, I decidedly object. Mrs. Considine was different and you're notgoing to find another like her in a hurry. Besides--I had sense enoughto see that she was going to teach me things. But I don't want to betaught any more. I've learned enough. "

"But it's just a woman companion that we want to give you, dear, " saidBarbara. "Her mere presence about you is a protection against--well, anypretty young woman living alone is liable to chance impertinence andannoyance. "

Liosha's dark eyes flashed. "I'd like to see any man try to annoy me. Hewouldn't try twice. You ask Mrs. Jardine"--Mrs. Jardine was the keeperof the boarding-house--"she'll tell you a thing or two about my beingable to keep men from annoying me. "

Barbara did, afterwards, ask Mrs. Jardine, and obtained a few sidelightson Liosha's defensive methods. What they lacked in subtlety they made upin physical effectiveness. There were not many spruce young gentlemenwho, after a week's residence in that establishment, did not adopt apeculiarly deferential attitude towards Liosha. 

"Still, " said Jaffery, "I think you ought to have somebody, you know. "

"If you're so keen on a dragon, " replied Liosha defiantly, "why not takeon the job yourself?"

"I? Good Lord! Ho! ho! ho!"

Jaffery rose to his feet and roared with laughter. It was a fine joke. 

"There's a lot in Liosha's suggestion, " said Barbara, with an air ofseriousness. 

"You don't expect me to come and live here?" he cried, waving a hand tothe frills and ribbons. 

"It wouldn't be a bad idea, " said I. "You would get all the advantagesand refining influences of a first-class English home. "

He pivoted round. "Oh, you be--"

"Hush, " said Barbara. "Either you ought to stay here and look afterLiosha more than you do--"

He protested. Wasn't he always looking after her? Didn't he write?Didn't he drop in now and then to see how she was getting on?

"Have you ever taken the poor child out to dinner?" Barbara askedsternly. 

He stood before her in the confusion of a schoolboy detected in a lapsefrom grace, stammering explanations. Then Liosha rose, and I noticedjust the faintest little twitching of her lip. 

"I don't want Jaff Chayne to be made to take me out to dinner againsthis will. "

"But--God bless my soul! I should love to take you out. I never thoughtof it because I never take anybody out. I'm a barbarian, my dear girl, just like yourself. If you wanted to be taken out, why on earth didn'tyou say so?"

Liosha regarded him steadily. "I would rather cut my tongue out. "

Jaffery returned her gaze for a few seconds, then turned away puzzled. There seemed to be an unnecessary vehemence in Liosha's tone. He turnedagain and approached her with a smiling face. 

"I only meant that I didn't know you cared for that sort of thing, Liosha. You must forgive me. Come and dine with me at the Carlton thisevening and do a theatre afterwards. "

"No, I wont!" cried Liosha. "You insult me. "

Her cheeks paled and she shook in sudden wrath. She looked magnificent. Jaffery frowned. 

"I think I'll have to be a bit of a dragon after all. "

I recalled a scene of nearly two years before when he had frowned andspoken thus roughly and she had invited him to chastise her with acleek. She did not repeat the invitation, but a sob rose in her throatand she marched to the door, and at the door, turned splendidly, quivering. 

"I'm not going to have you or any one else for a dragon. And"--alas forthe superficiality of Mrs. Considine's training--"I'm going to do as Idamn well like. "

Her voice broke on the last word, as she dashed from the room. Iexchanged a glance with Barbara, who followed her. Barbara could conveya complicated set of instructions by her glance. Jaffery pulled outpouch and pipe and shook his head. 

"Woman is a remarkable phenomenon, " said he. 

"A more remarkable phenomenon still, " said I, "is the dunderheadedmale. "

"I did nothing to cause these heroics. "

"You asked her to ask you to ask her out to dinner. "

"I didn't, " he protested. 

I proved to him by all the rules of feminine logic that he had done so. Holding the match over the bowl of his pipe, he puffed savagely. 

"I wish I were a cannibal in Central Africa, where women are in propersubjection. There's no worry about 'em there. "

"Isn't there?" said I. "You just ask the next cannibal you meet. He isconfronted with the Great Conundrum, even as we are. "

"He can solve it by clubbing his wife on the head. "

"Quite so, " said I. "But do you think the poor fellow does it forpleasure? No. It worries him dreadfully to have to do it. "

"That's specious rot, and platitudinous rubbish such as any soft idiotwho's been glued all his life to an armchair can reel off by the mile. Iknow better. A couple of years ago Liosha would have eaten out of myhand, to say nothing of dining with me at the Canton. It's all thisinfernal civilisation. It has spoiled her. "

"You began this argument, " said I, "with the proposition that woman wasa remarkable phenomenon--a generalisation which includes woman infig-leaves and woman in diamonds. "

"Oh, dry up, " said Jaffery, "and tell me what I ought to do. I didn'twant to hurt the girl's feelings. Why should I? In fact I'm rather fondof her. She appeals to me as something big and primitive. Long ago, ifit hadn't been that poor old Prescott--you know what I mean--I gave upthinking of her in that way at once--and now I just want to befriends--we have been friends. She's a jolly good sort, and, if I hadthought of it, I would have taken her about a bit. . . . But what Ican't stand is these modern neurotics--"

"You called them heroics--"

"All the same thing. It's purely artificial. It's cultivated by everymodern woman. Instead of thinking in a straight line they're taught it'scorrect to think in a corkscrew. You never know where to have 'em. "

"That's their artfulness, " said I. "Who can blame them?"

Meanwhile Liosha, pursued by Barbara, had rushed to her bedroom, whereshe burst into a passion of tears. Jaff Chayne, she wailed, had alwaystreated her like dirt. It was true that her father had stuck pigs in thestockyards; but he was of an old Albanian family, quite as good a familyas Jaff Chayne's. It had numbered princes and great chieftains, themajority of whom had been most gloriously slain in warfare. She wouldlike to know which of Jaff Chayne's ancestors had died out of theirfeather beds. 

"His grandfather, " said Barbara, "was killed in the Indian Mutiny, andhis father in the Zulu War. "

Liosha didn't care. That only proved an equality. Jaff Chayne had noright to treat her like dirt. He had no right to put a female policemanover her. She was a free woman--she wouldn't go out to dinner with JaffChayne for a thousand pounds. Oh, she hated him; at which reneweddeclaration she burst into fresh weeping and wished she were dead. As aguardian of young and beautiful widows Jaffery did not seem to be asuccess. 

Barbara, in her wise way, said very little, and searched theparaphernalia on the dressing table for eau-de-cologne and such otherlotions as would remove the stain of tears. Holding these in front ofLiosha, like a stern nurse administering medicine, she waited till thefit had subsided. Then she spoke. 

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Liosha, going on like a sillyschoolgirl instead of a grown-up woman of the world. I wonder you didn'tannounce your intention of assassinating Jaffery. "

"I've a good mind to, " replied Liosha, nursing her grievance. 

"Well, why don't you do it?" Barbara whipped up a murderous-lookingknife that lay on a little table--it was the same weapon that she hadlent the Swiss waiter. "Here's a dagger. " She threw it on the girl'slap. "I'll ring the bell and send a message for Mr. Chayne to come up. As soon as he enters you can stick it into him. Then you can stick itinto me. Then if you like you can go downstairs and stick it intoHilary. And having destroyed everybody who cares for you and is good toyou, you'll feel a silly ass--such a silly ass that you'll forget tostick it into yourself. "

Liosha threw the knife into a corner. On its way it snicked a neatlittle chip out of a chair-back. 

"What do you want me to do?"

"Clean your face, " said Barbara, and presented the materials. 

Sitting on the bed and regarding herself in a hand-mirror Liosha obeyedmeekly. Barbara brought the powder puff. 

"Now your nose. There!" For the first time Barbara smiled. "Now you lookbetter. Oh, my dear girl!" she cried, seating herself beside Liosha andputting an arm round her waist. "That's not the way to deal with men. You must learn. They're only overgrown babies. Listen. "

And she poured into unsophisticated but sympathetic ears all theduplicity, all the treachery, all the insidious cunning and all theserpent-like wisdom of her unscrupulous sex. What she said neither I norany of the sons of men are ever likely to know! but so proud ofbelonging to that nefarious sisterhood, so overweening in hersex-conceit did she render Liosha, that when they entered the littleprivate sitting-room next door whither, according to the instructionsconveyed by Barbara's parting glance downstairs, I had dragged a softlyswearing Jaffery, she marched up to him and said serenely:

"If you really do want me to dine with you, I'll come with pleasure. Butthe next time you ask me, please do it in a decent way. "

I saw mischief lurking in my wife's eye and shook my head at herrebukingly. But Jaffery stared at Liosha and gasped. It was all verywell for Doria and Barbara to be ever putting him in the wrong: theywere daughters of a subtle civilisation; but here was Liosha, who hadonce asked him to beat her, doing the same--woman was a more curiousphenomenon than ever. 

"I'm sorry if my manners are not as they should be, " said he with atouch of irony. "I'll try to mend 'em. Anyhow, it's awfully good of youto come. "

She smiled and bowed; not the deep bow of Albania, but the delicatelittle inclination of South Kensington. The quarrel was healed, theincident closed. He arranged to call for her in a taxi at a quarter toseven. Barbara looked at the clock and said that we must be going. Werose to take our leave. Maliciously I said:

"But we've settled nothing about a remplaçante for Mrs. Considine. "

"I guess we've settled everything, " Liosha replied sweetly. "No one canreplace Mrs. Considine. "

I quite enjoyed our little silent walk downstairs. Evidently Jaffery'stheory of primitive woman had been knocked endways; and, to judge by thefaint knitting of her brow, Barbara was uneasily conscious of a missionunfulfilled. Liosha had gained her independence. 

 * * * * *

Our friends carried out the evening's programme. Liosha behaved withextreme propriety, modelling her outward demeanour upon that of Mrs. Considine, and her attitude towards Jaffery on a literal interpretationof Barbara's reprehensible precepts. She was so dignified that Jaffery, lest he should offend, was afraid to open his mouth except for thepurpose of shovelling in food, which he did, in astounding quantity. From what both of us gathered afterwards--and gleefully we comparednotes--they were vastly polite to each other. He might have beenentertaining the decorous wife of a Dutch Colonial Governor from whom hedesired facilities of travel. The simple Eve travestied in guile tookhim in completely. Aware that it was her duty to treat him like anovergrown baby and mould him to her fancy and twist him round her fingerand lead him whithersoever she willed, making him feel all the time thathe was pointing out the road, she did not know how to begin. She sattongue-tied, racking her brains to loss of appetite; which was a pity, for the maître d'hôtel, given a free hand by her barbarously ignoranthost, had composed a royal menu. As dinner proceeded she grew shyer thana chit of sixteen. Over the quails a great silence reigned. Hers shecould not touch, but she watched him fork, as it seemed to her, oneafter the other, whole, down his throat: and she adored him for it. Itwas her ideal of manly gusto. She nearly wept into her _FraisesDiane_--vast craggy strawberries (in March) rising from a drift of snowimpregnated by all the distillations of all the flowers of all thesummers of all the hills--because she would have given her soul to sitbeside him on the table with the bowl on her lap and feed him with atablespoon and, for her share of it, lick the spoon after his everymouthful. But it had been drummed into her that she was a woman of theworld, the fashionable and all but incomprehensible world, the Englishworld. She looked around and saw a hundred of her sex practising thewell-bred deportment that Mrs. Considine had preached. She reflectedthat to all of those women gently nurtured in this queer Englishcivilisation, equally remote from Armour's stockyards and from herAlbanian fastness, the wisdom that Barbara had imparted to her a fewhours before was but their A. B. C. Of life in their dealings with theirmale companions. She also reflected--and for the reflection not Mrs. Considine or Barbara, only her woman's heart was responsible--that tothe man whom she yearned to feed with great tablespoonfuls of delight, she counted no more than a pig or a cow--her instinctive similes, youmust remember, were pastoral--or that peculiar damfool of a sister ofhis, Euphemia. 

When I think of these two children of nature, sitting opposite to oneanother in the fashionable restaurant trying to behave likesuper-civilised dolls, I cannot help smiling. They were both sothoroughly in earnest; and they bored themselves and each other sodreadfully. Conversation patched sporadically great expanses of silenceand then they talked of the things that did not interest them in theleast. Of course they smiled at each other, the smirk being essential tothe polite atmosphere; and of course Jaffery played host in the orthodoxmanner, and Liosha acknowledged attentions with a courtesy equallyorthodox. But how much happier they both would have been on a bleakmountain-side eating stew out of a pot! Even champagne and old brandyfailed to exercise mellowing influences. The twain were petrified intheir own awful correctitude. Perhaps if they had proceeded to a musicalcomedy or a farce or a variety entertainment where Jaffery could haveexpanded his lungs in laughter, their evening as a whole might have beenless dismal. But a misapprehension as to the nature of the play hadcaused Jaffery to book seats for a gloomy drama with an ironical title, which stupefied them with depression. 

When they waited for the front door of the house in Queen's Gate to opento their ring, Liosha in her best manner thanked him for a mostenjoyable evening. 

"Most enjoyable indeed, " said Jaffery. "We must have another, if youwill do me the honour. What do you say to this day week?"

"I shall be delighted, " said Liosha. 

So that day week they repeated this extraordinary performance, and theweek after that, and so on until it became a grim and terrifyingfixture. And while Jaffery, in a fog of theory as to the EternalFeminine, was trying to do his duty, Liosha struggled hard to smotherher own tumultuous feelings and to carry out Barbara's prescription forthe treatment of overgrown babies; but the deuce of it was that thoughin her eyes Jaffery was pleasantly overgrown, she could not for the lifeof her regard him as a baby. So it came to pass that an unnatural paircontinued to meet and mystify and misunderstand each other to the greatcontent of the high gods and of one unimportant human philosopher wholooked on. 

"I told you all this artificiality was spoiling her, " Jaffery growled, one day. "She's as prim as an old maid. I can't get anything out ofher. "

"That's a pity, " said I. 

"It is. " He reflected for a moment. "And the more so because she looksso stunning in her evening gowns. She wipes the floor with all the otherwomen. "

I smiled. You can get a lot of quiet amusement out of your friends ifyou know how to set to work. 

CHAPTER XIV

It was a gorgeous April day--one of those days when young Spring inmadcap masquerade flaunts it in the borrowed mantle of summer. She couldassume the deep blue of the sky and the gold of the sunshine, butthrough all the travesty peeped her laughing youth, the little tenderleaves on the trees, the first shy bloom of the lilac, the swelling ofthe hawthorn buds, the pathetic immature barrenness of the walnuts. 

And even the leafless walnuts were full of alien life, for in theirhollow boles chippering starlings made furtive nests, and in theirtopmost forks jackdaws worked with clamorous zeal. A pale butterfly hereand there accomplished its early day, and queen wasps awakened fromtheir winter slumber in cosy crevices, the tiniest winter-palaces in theworld, sped like golden arrow tips to and from the homes they had tobuild alone for the swarms that were to come. The flower beds shone gaywith tulips and hyacinths; in the long grass beyond the lawn and underthe trees danced a thousand daffodils; and by their side warmly wrappedup in furs lay Doria on a long cane chair. 

She could not literally dance with the daffodils as I had prophesied, for her full strength had not yet returned, but there she was amongthem, and she smiled at them sympathetically as though they were dancingin her honour. She was, however, restored to health; the great circlesbeneath her eyes had disappeared and a tinge of colour shewed beneathher ivory cheek. Beside her, in the first sunbonnet of the year, satSusan, a prim monkey of nine. . . . Lord! It scarcely seemed two yearssince Jaffery came from Albania and tossed the seven year old up in hisarms and was struck all of a heap by Doria at their first meeting. Sothought I, looking from my study-table at the pretty picture some thirtyyards, away. And once again--pleasant self repetition ofhistory--Jaffery was expected. Doria, fresh from Nice, had spent a nightat her father's house and had come down to us the evening before tocomplete her convalescence. She had wanted to go straight to the flat inSt. John's Wood and begin her life anew with Adrian's beloved ghost, andshe had issued orders to servants to have everything in readiness forher arrival, but Barbara had intervened and so had Mr. Jornicroft, a manof limited sympathies and brutal common sense. All of us, includingJaffery, who seemed to regard advice to Doria as a presumption onlyequalled by that of a pilgrim on his road to Mecca giving hints to Allahas to the way to run the universe, had urged her to give up the abode oftragic memories and find a haven of quietude elsewhere. But she hadindignantly refused. The home of her wondrous married life was the homeof her widowhood. If she gave it up, how could she live in peace withthe consciousness ever in her brain that the Holy of Holies in whichAdrian had worked and died was being profaned by vulgar tread? Oursuggestions were callous, monstrous, everything that could arise fromearth-bound non-percipience of sacred things. We could only prevail uponher to postpone her return to the flat until such time as she wasphysically strong enough to grapple with changed conditions. 

The pink sunbonnet was very near the dark head; both were bending over abook on Doria's knee--_Les Malheurs de Sophie_, which Susan, proud ofher French scholarship, had proposed to read to Doria, who having justreturned from France was supposed to be the latest authority on thelanguage. I noticed that the severity of this intellectual communion wasmitigated by Susan's favourite black kitten, who, sitting on its littlehaunches, seemed to be turning over pages rather rapidly. Then all of asudden, from nowhere in particular, there stepped into the landscape(framed, you must remember, by the jambs of my door) a huge and familiarfigure, carrying a great suit-case. He put this on the ground, rushed upto Doria, shook her by both hands, swung Susan in the air and kissedher, and was still laughing and making the welkin ring--that is to say, making a thundering noise--when I, having sped across the lawn, joinedthe group. 

"Hello!" said I, "how did you get here?"

"Walked from the station, " said Jaffery. "Came down by an earlier train. No good staying in town on such a morning. Besides--" He glanced atDoria in significant aposiopesis. 

"And you lugged that infernal thing a mile and a half?" I asked, pointing to the suit-case, which must have weighed half a ton. "Whydidn't you leave it to be called for?"

"This? This little _sachet_?" He lifted it up by one finger and grinned. 

Susan regarded the feat, awe-stricken. "Oh, Uncle Jaff, you are strong!"

Doria smiled at him admiringly and declared she couldn't lift the thingan inch from the ground with both her hands. 

"Do you know, " she laughed, "when he used to carry me about, I felt asif I had been picked up by an iron crane. "

Jaffery beamed with delight. He was just a little vain of his physicalstrength. A colleague of his once told me that he had seen Jaffery in anasty row in Caracas during a revolution, bend from his saddle andwrench up two murderous villains by the armpits, one in each hand, anddash their heads together over his horse's neck. But that is the sort ofstory that Jaffery himself never told. 

Barbara, who, flitting about the house on domestic duty, had caughtsight of him through a window, came out to greet him. 

"Isn't it glorious to have her back?" he cried, waving his great handtowards Doria. "And looking so bonny. Nothing like the South. Thesunshine gets into your blood. By Jove! what a difference, eh? Rememberwhen we started for Nice?"

He stood, legs apart and hands on hips, looking down on her with as muchpride as if he had wrought the miracle himself. 

"Get some more chairs, dear, " said Barbara. 

By good fortune seeing one of the gardeners in the near distance, Ihailed him and shouted the necessary orders. That is the onedisadvantage of summer: during the whole of that otherwise happy season, Barbara expects me to be something between a scene-shifter and aFurniture Removing Van. 

The chairs were fetched from a far-off summer house and we settled down. Jaffery lit his pipe, smiled at Doria, and met a very wistful look. Heheld her eyes for a space, and laid his great hand very gently on hers. 

"I know what you're thinking of, " he said, with an arresting tendernessin his deep voice. "You won't have to wait much longer. "

"Is it at the printer's?"

"It's printed. "

Barbara and I gave each a little start--we looked at Jaffery, who wastaking no notice of us, and then questioningly at each other. What onearth did the man mean?

"From to-morrow onwards, till publication, the press will be floodedwith paragraphs about Adrian Boldero's new book. I fixed it up withWittekind, as a sort of welcome home to you. "

"That was very kind, Jaffery, " said Doria; "but was it necessary? Imean, couldn't Wittekind have done it before?"

"It was necessary in a way, " said Jaffery. "We wanted you to pass theproofs. "

Doria smiled proudly. "Pass Adrian's proofs? I? I wouldn't presume to dosuch a thing. "

"Well, here they are, anyway, " said Jaffery. 

And to the bewilderment of Barbara and myself, he snapped open the haspsof his suit-case and drew out a great thick clump of galley-proofsfastened by a clip at the left hand top corner, which he deposited onDoria's lap. She closed her eyes and her eyelids fluttered as shefingered the precious thing. For a moment we thought she was going tofaint. There was breathless silence. Even Susan, who had been left outin the cold, let the black kitten leap from her knee, and aware thatsomething out of the ordinary was happening, fixed her wondering eyes onDoria. Her mother and I wondered even more than Susan, for we had morereason. Of what manuscript, in heaven's name, were these the printedproofs? Was it possible that I had been mistaken and that Jaffery, inthe assiduity of love, had made coherence out of Adrian's farrago ofdespair?

Jaffery touched Doria's hand with his finger tips. She opened her eyesand smiled wanly, and looked at the front slip of the long proofs. Atonce she sat bolt upright. 

"'_The Greater Glory_. ' But that wasn't Adrian's title. His title was'_God_. ' Who has dared to change it?"

[Illustration: He drew out a great thick clump of galley-proofs. ]

Her eyes flashed; her little body quivered. She flamed an incarnateindignation. For some reason or other she turned accusingly on me. 

"I knew nothing of the change, " said I, "but I'm very glad to hear of itnow. "

Many times before had I been forced to disclaim knowledge of whatJaffery had been doing with the book. 

"Wittekind wouldn't have the old title, " cried Jaffery eagerly. "Thepublic are very narrow minded, and he felt that in certain quarters itmight be misunderstood. "

"Wittekind told dear Adrian that he thought it a perfect title. "

"Our dear Adrian, " said I, pacifically, "was a man of enormouswill-power and perhaps Wittekind hadn't the strength to stand up againsthim. "

"Of course he hadn't, " exclaimed Doria. "Of course he hadn't when Adrianwas alive: now Adrian's dead, he thinks he is going to do just as hechooses. He isn't! Not while I live, he isn't!"

Jaffery looked at me from beneath bent brows and his eyes were turned tocold blue steel. 

"Hilary!" said he, "will you kindly tell Doria what we found on Adrian'sblotting pad--the last words he ever wrote?"

What he desired me to say was obvious. 

"Written three or four times, " said I, "we found the words: 'The GreaterGlory: A Novel by Adrian Boldero. '"

"What has become of the blotting pad?"

"The sheet seemed to be of no value, so we destroyed it with a lot ofother unimportant papers. "

"And I came across further evidence, " said Jaffery, "of his intention torename the novel. "

Doria's anger died away. She looked past us into the void. "I shouldlike to have had Adrian's last words, " she whispered. Then bringingherself back to earth, she begged Jaffery's pardon very touchingly. Adrian's implied intention was a command. She too approved the change. "But I'm so jealous, " she said, with a catch in her voice, "of my dearhusband's work. You must forgive me. I'm sure you've done everythingthat was right and good, Jaffery. " She held out the great bundle andsmiled. "I pass the proofs. "

Jaffery took the bundle and laid it again on her lap. "It's awfully goodof you to say that. I appreciate it tremendously. But you can keep thisset. I've got another, with the corrections in duplicate. "

She looked at the proofs wistfully, turned over the long strips in atimid, reverent way, and abruptly handed them back. 

"I can't read it. I daren't read it. If Adrian had lived I shouldn'thave seen it before it was published. He would have given me the finallybound book--an advance copy. These things--you know--it's the same to meas if he were living. "

The tears started. She rose; and we all did the same. 

"I must go indoors for a little. No, no, Barbara dear. I'd rather bealone. " She put her arm round my small daughter. "Perhaps Susan will seeI don't break my neck across the lawn. "

Her voice ended in a queer little sob, and holding on to Susan, who wasmighty proud of being selected as an escort, walked slowly towards thehouse. Susan afterwards reported that, dismissed at the bedroom door, she had lingered for a moment outside and had heard Auntie Doria cryinglike anything. 

Barbara, who had said absolutely nothing since the miraculous draught ofproofs, advanced, a female David, up to Goliath Jaffery. 

"Look here, my friend, I'm not accustomed to sit still like a gravenimage and be mystified in my own house. Will you have the goodness toexplain?"

Jaffery looked down on her, his head on one side. 

"Explain what?"

"That!"

She pointed to the proofs of which I had possessed myself and waseagerly scanning. Unblenching he met her gaze. 

"That is the posthumous novel of Adrian Boldero, which I, as hisliterary executor, have revised for the press. Hilary saw the roughmanuscript, but he had no time to read it. "

They looked at one another for quite a long time. 

"Is that all you're going to tell me?"

"That's all. "

"And all you're going to tell Hilary?"

"Telling Hilary is the same as telling you. "

"Naturally. "

"And telling you is the same as telling Hilary. "

"By no manner of means, " said Barbara tartly. She took him by thesleeve. "Come and explain. "

"I've explained already, " said Jaffery. 

Barbara eyed him like a syren of the cornfields. "I'm going to dress acrab for lunch. A very big crab. "

Jaffery's face was transfigured into a vast, hairy smile. Barbara coulddress crab like no one else in the world. She herself disliked the tasteof crab. I, a carefully trained gastronomist, adored it, but a Puckishdigestion forbade my consuming one single shred of the ambrosialpreparation. Doria would pass it by through sheer unhappiness. And itwas not fit food for Susan's tender years. Old Jaff knew this. Onegigantic crab-shell filled with Barbara's juicy witchery and flanked bycool pink, meaty claws would be there for his own individualdelectation. Several times before had he taken the dish, with a "Oneman, one crab. Ho! ho! ho!" and had left nothing but clean shells. 

"I'm going to dress this crab, " said Barbara, "for the sake of theservants. But if you find I've put poison in it, don't blame me. "

She left us, her little head indignantly in the air. Jaffery laughed, sank into a chair and tugged at his pipe. 

"I wish Doria could be persuaded to read the thing, " said he. 

"Why?" I asked looking up from the proofs. 

"It's not quite up to the standard of 'The Diamond Gate. '"

"I shouldn't suppose it was, " said I drily. 

"Wittekind's delighted anyhow. It's a different _genre_; but he saysthat's all the better. "

Susan emerged from my study door on to the terrace. 

"My good fellow, " said I, "yonder is the daughter of the house, evidently at a loose end. Go and entertain her. I'm going to read thiswonderful novel and don't want to be disturbed till lunch. "

The good-humoured giant lumbered away, and Susan finding herself inundisputed possession took him off to remote recesses of the kitchengarden, far from casual intruders. Meanwhile I went on reading, verymuch puzzled. Naturally the style was not that of "The Diamond Gate, "which was the style of Tom Castleton and not of Adrian Boldero. But waswhat I read the style of Adrian Boldero? This vivid, virile opening?This scene of the two derelicts who hated one another, fortuitouslymeeting on the old tramp steamer? This cunning, evocation of smells, jute, bilge water, the warm oils of the engine room? This expertknowledge so carelessly displayed of the various parts of a ship? Howhad Adrian, man of luxury, who had never been on a tramp steamer in hislife, gained the knowledge? The people too were lustily drawn. They hada flavour of the sea and the breeziness of wide spaces; a deep-lungedfolk. So that I should not be interrupted I wandered off to a secludednook of the garden down the drive away from the house and gave myself upto the story. From the first it went with a rare swing, incidentfollowing incident, every trait of character presented objectively infine scorn of analysis. There were little pen pictures of grim scenesfaultless in their definition and restraint. There was a girl in it, awild, clean-limbed, woodland thing who especially moved my admiration. The more I read the more fascinated did I become, and the more did Idoubt whether a single line in it had been written by Adrian Boldero. 

After a long spell, I took out my watch. It was twenty past one. Welunched at half-past. I rose, went towards the house and came uponJaffery and Susan. The latter I despatched peremptorily to herablutions. Alone with Jaffery, I challenged him. 

"You hulking baby, " said I, "what's the good of pretending with me? Whydidn't you tell me at once that you had written it yourself?"

He looked at me anxiously. "What makes you think so?"

"The simple intelligence possessed by the average adult. First, " Icontinued, as he made no reply but stood staring at me in ingenuousdiscomfort, "you couldn't have got this out of poor Adrian's mush;secondly, Adrian hadn't the experience of life to have written it;thirdly, I have read many brilliant descriptive articles in _The DailyGazette_ and have little difficulty in recognising the hand of JafferyChayne. "

"Good Lord!" said he. "It isn't as obvious as all that?"

I laughed. "Then you did write it?"

"Of course, " he growled. "But I didn't want you to know. I tried to getas near Tom Castleton as I could. Look here"--he gripped myshoulder--"if it's such a transparent fraud, what the blazes is goingto happen?"

To some extent I reassured him. I was in a peculiar position, havingpeculiar knowledge. Save Barbara, no other soul in the world had thefaintest suspicion of Adrian's tragedy. The forthcoming book would bereceived without shadow of question as the work of the author of "_TheDiamond Gate_. " The difference of style and treatment would beattributed to the marvellous versatility of the dead genius. . . . Jaffery's brow began to clear. 

"What do you think of it--as far as you've gone?"

My enthusiastic answer expressed the sincerity of my appreciation. Hepositively blushed and looked at me rather guiltily, like a schoolboydetected in the act of helping an old woman across the road. 

"It's awful cheek, " said he, "but I was up against it. The onlyalternative was to say the damn thing had been lost or burnt and takethe consequences. Somehow I thought of this. I had written about half ofit all in bits and pieces about three or four years ago and put itaside. It wasn't my job. Then I pulled it out one day and read it and itseemed rather good, so, having the story in my head, I set to work. "

"And that's why you didn't go to Persia?"

"How the devil could I go to Persia? I couldn't write a novel on theback of a beastly camel!"

He walked a few steps in silence. Then he said with a rumble of a laugh. 

"I had an awful fright about that time. I suddenly dried up; couldn'tget along. I must have spent a week, night after night, staring at ablank sheet of paper. I thought I had bitten off more than I could chewand was going the way of Adrian. By George, it taught me something ofthe Hades the poor fellow must have passed through. I've been in prettytight corners in my day and I know what it is to have the cold fearcreeping down my spine; but that week gave me the fright of my life. "

"I wish you had told me, " said I, "I might have helped. Why didn't you?"

"I didn't like to. You see, if this idea hadn't come off, I should havelooked such a stupendous ass. "

"That's a reason, " I admitted. 

"And I didn't tell you at first because you would have thought I wasgoing off my chump. I don't look the sort of chap that could write anovel, do I? You would have said I was attempting the impossible, likeAdrian. You and Barbara would have been scared to death and you wouldhave put me off. "

Franklin came from the house. Luncheon was on the table. We hurried tothe dining-room. Jaffery sat down before a gigantic crab. 

"Is it all right?" he asked. 

"Doria has interceded for you, " said Barbara. "You owe her your life. "

Doria smiled. "It's the least I could do for you. "

Jaffery grinned by way of delicate rejoinder and immersed himself incrab. From its depths, as it seemed, he said:

"Hilary has read half the book. "

"What do you think of it?" Barbara asked. 

I repeated my dithyrambic eulogy. Doria's eyes shone. 

"I do wish you could see your way to read it, " said Jaffery. 

"I would give my heart to, " said Doria. "But I've told you why I can't. "

"Circumstances alter cases, " said I, platitudinously. "In happiercircumstances you would have been presented with the novelist's fine, finished product. As it happens, Jaffery has had to fill up little gaps, make bridges here and there. I'm sure if you had been well enough, " Iadded, with a touch of malice, for I had not quite forgiven his leavingme in the dark, "Jaffery would have consulted you on many points. "

I was very anxious to see what impression the book would make upon her. Although I had reassured Jaffery, I could, scarcely conceive thepossibility of the book being taken as the work of Adrian. 

"Of course I would, " said Jaffery eagerly. "But that's just it. Youweren't equal to the worry. Now you're all right and I agree withHilary. You ought to read it. You see, some of the bridges are so jollyclumsy. "

Doria turned to my wife. "Do you think I would be justified?"

"Decidedly, " said Barbara. "You ought to read it at once. "

So it came to pass that, after lunch, Doria came into my study anddemanded the set of proofs. She took them up to her bedroom, where sheremained all the afternoon. I was greatly relieved. It was right thatshe should know what was going to be published under Adrian's name. 

In Jaffery's presence, I disclosed to Barbara the identity of theauthor. He said to her much the same as he had said to me before lunch, with, perhaps, a little more shamefacedness. Were it not for reiterationupon reiteration of the same things in talk, life would be a starksilence broken only by staccato announcement of facts. At last Barbara'seyes grew uncomfortably moist. Impulsively she flew to Jaffery and puther arms round his vast shoulders--he was sitting, otherwise she couldnot have done it--and hugged him. 

"You're a blessed, blessed dear, " she said; and ashamed of thisexhibition of sentiment she bolted from the room. 

Jaffery, looking very shy and uncomfortable, suggested a game ofbilliards. 

To Barbara and myself awaiting our guests in the drawing-room beforedinner, the first to come was Doria, whom we hadn't seen since lunch; anarresting figure in her low evening dress; you can imagine a Tanagrafigure in black and white ivory. Her face, however, was a passion ofexcitement. 

"It's wonderful, " she cried. "More than wonderful. Even I didn't knowtill to-day what a great genius Adrian was. All these things hedescribes--he never saw them. He imagined, created. Oh, my God! If onlyhe had lived to finish it. " She put her two hands before her eyes anddashed them swiftly away--"Jaffery has done his best, poor fellow. Butoh! the bridges he speaks of--they're so crude, so crude! I can seeevery one. The murder--you remember?"

It occurred in the first part of the novel. I had read it. Three or foursplashes of blood on the page instead of ink and the thing was done. Admirable. The instinctive high light of the artist. 

"I thought it one of the best things in the book, " said I. 

"Oh!" she waved a gesture of disgust. "How can you say so? It'shorrible. It isn't Adrian. I can see the point where he left it to theimagination. Jaffery, with no imagination, has come in and spoiled it. And then the scene on the Barbary Coast of San Francisco, where Fentonfinds Ellina Ray, the broken-down star of London musical comedy. Adriannever wrote it. It's the sort of claptrap he hated. He has often told meso. Jaffery thought it was necessary to explain Ellina in the nextchapter, and so in his dull way, he stuck it in. "

That scene also had I read. It was a little flaming cameo of a low diveon the Barbary Coast, and a presentation of the thing seen, somewhatjournalistic, I admit--but such as very few journalists could give. 

"That's pure Adrian, " said I brazenly. 

"It isn't. There are disgusting little details that only a man that hadbeen there could have mentioned. Oh! do you suppose I don't know thedifference between Adrian's work and that of a penny-a-liner likeJaffery?"

The door opened and Jaffery appeared. Doria went up to him and took himby the lapels of his dress coat. 

"I've read it. It's a work of genius. But, oh! Jaffery, I do want it tobe without a flaw. Don't hate me, dear--I know you've done all thatmortal man could do for Adrian and for me. But it isn't your fault ifyou're not a professional novelist or an imaginative writer. And you, yourself, said the bridges were clumsy. Couldn't you--oh!--I loathehurting you, dear Jaffery--but it's all the world, all eternity tome--couldn't you get one of Adrian's colleagues--one of the famouspeople"--she rattled off a few names--"to look through the proofs andrevise them--just in honour of Adrian's memory? Couldn't you, dearJaffery?" She tugged convulsively at the poor old giant's coat. "You'reone of the best and noblest men who ever lived or I couldn't say this toyou. But you understand, don't you?"

Jaffery's ruddy face turned as white as chalk. She might have slapped itphysically and it would have worn the same dazed, paralysed lack ofexpression. 

"My life, " said he, in a queer toned voice, that wasn't Jaffery's atall, "my life is only an expression of your wishes. I'll do as you say. "

"It's for Adrian's sake, dear Jaffery, " said Doria. 

Jaffery passed his great glazed hand over his stricken face, from theroots of his hair to the point of his beard, and seemed to wipetherefrom all traces of day-infesting cares, revealing the sunnyReubens-like features that we all loved. 

"But apart from my amateur joining of the flats, you think the book'sworthy of Adrian?"

"Oh, I do, " she cried passionately. "I do. It's a work of genius. It'sAdrian in all his maturity, in all his greatness!"

The door opened. 

"Dinner is served, madam, " said Franklin. 

CHAPTER XV

When, by way of comforting Jaffery, I criticised Doria's outburst, hefell upon me as though about to devour me alive. After what he had donefor her, said I, given up one of the great chances of his career, carried her bodily from London to Nice, and made her a present of abrilliant novel so as to save Adrian's memory from shame, she ought togo on her knees and pray God to shower blessings on his head. As it was, she deserved whipping. 

Jaffery called me, among other things, an amazing ass--he has an Easternhabit of, facile vituperation--and roared about the drawing-room. Theladies, be it understood, had retired. 

"You don't seem to grip the elements of the situation. You haven't theintelligence of a rabbit. How in Hades could she know I've written therotten book? She thinks it's Adrian's. And she thinks I've spoiled it. She's perfectly justified. For the little footling services I renderedher on the journey, she's idiotically grateful--out of all proportion. As for Persia, she knows nothing about it--"

"She ought to, " said I. 

"If you tell her, I'll break your neck, " roared Jaffery. 

"All right, " said I, desiring to remain whole. "So long as you'resatisfied, it doesn't much matter to me. "

It didn't. After all, one has one's own life to live, and howeverunderstanding of one's friends and sympathetically inclined towardsthem one may be, one cannot follow them emotionally through all theirbleak despairs and furious passions. A man doing so would be dead in aweek. 

"It doesn't seem to strike you, " he went on, "that the poor girl'smental and moral balance depends on the successful carrying out of thisghastly farce. "

"I do, my dear chap. "

"You don't. I wrote the thing as best I could--a labour of love. Butit's nothing like Tom Castleton's work--which she thinks is Adrian's. Tokeep up the deception I had to crab it and say that the faults weremine. Naturally she believes me. "

"All right, " said I, again. "And when the book is published and Adrian'smemory flattered and Doria is assured of her mental and moralbalance--what then?"

"I hope she'll be happy, " he answered. "Why the blazes do you supposeI've worried if it wasn't to give her happiness?"

I could not press my point. I could not commit the gross indelicacy ofsaying: "My poor friend, where do you come in?" or words to that effect. Nor could I possibly lay down the proposition that a living secondhusband--stretching the imagination to the hypothesis of her takingone--is but an indifferent hero to the widow who spends her life inburning incense before the shrine of the demigod husband who is dead. Wecan't say these things to our friends. We expect them to have commonsense as we have ourselves. But we don't, and--for the curious reason, based on the intense individualism of sexual attraction, that no man canappreciate, save intellectually, another man's desire for a particularwoman--we can't realize the poor, fool hunger of his heart. The man whopours into our ears a torrential tale of passion moves us not tosympathy, but rather to psychological speculation, if we are kindlydisposed, or to murderous inclinations if we are not. On the otherhand, he who is silent moves us not at all. In any and every case, however, we entirely fail to comprehend why, if Neæra is obdurate, ourswain does not go afield and find, as assuredly he can, some complaisantAmaryllis. 

I confess, honestly, that during this conversation I felt somewhatimpatient with my dear, infatuated friend. There he was, casting thelargesse of his soul at the feet of a blind woman, a woman blinded bythe bedazzlement of a false fire, whose flare it was his religion tointensify. There he was doing this, and he did not see the imbecility ofit! In after time we can correlate incidents and circumstances, viewingthem in a perspective more or less correct. We see that we might havesaid and done a hundred helpful things. Well, we know that we did not, and there's an end on't. I felt, as I say, impatient with Jaffery, although--or was it because?--I recognised the bald fact that he was inlove with Doria to the maximum degree of besottedness. 

You see, when you say to a man: "Why do you let the woman kick you?" andhe replies, with a glare of indignation: "She has deigned to touch myunworthy carcass with her sacred boot!" what in the world are you to do, save resume the interrupted enjoyment of your cigar? This I did. I alsofound amusement in comparing his meek wooing, like that of an earlyItalian amorist, with his rumbustious theories as to marriage by captureand other primitive methods of bringing woman to heel. 

Doria, seeing him unresentful of kicking, continued to kick (whenBarbara wasn't looking--for Barbara had read her a lecture on the politetreatment of trustees and executors) and made him more her slave thanever. He fetched and carried. He read poetry. He was Custodian of theSacred Rubbers, when the grass was damp. He shielded her from over-roughincursions on the part of Susan. He chanted the responses in her Litanyof Saint Adrian. He sacrificed his golf so that he could sit near herand hold figurative wool for her to unwind. It was very pretty to watchthem. The contrast between them made its unceasing appeal. Besides, Doria did not kick all the time; there were long spells during which, touched by the giant's devotion, she repaid it in tokens of tenderregard. At such times she was as fascinating an elf as one could wish tomeet on a spring morning. He could bring, like no one else, the smileinto her dark, mournful eyes. There is no doubt that, in her way and asfar as her Adrian-bound emotional temperament permitted, she feltgrateful to Jaffery. She also felt safe in his company. He was like agreat St. Bernard dog, she declared to Barbara. 

These idyllic relations continued unruffled for some days, until aletter arrived from the eminent novelist to whom, with Doria's approval, Jaffery had sent the proofs. 

"A marvellous story, " was the great man's verdict; "singularly differentfrom 'The Diamond Gate, ' only resembling it in its largeness ofconception and the perfection of its kind. The alteration of a singleword would spoil it. If an alien hand is there, it is imperceptible. "

At this splendid tribute Jaffery beamed with happiness. He tossed theletter to Barbara across the breakfast table. 

"No alien hand perceptible. Ho! ho! ho! But it's stunning, isn't it? Ido believe the old fraud of a book is going to win through. This oughtto satisfy Doria, don't you think so?"

"It ought to, " said Barbara. "I'll send it up to her room. "

But Doria with Adrian's impeccability on the brain--and how could a workof Adrian's be impeccable when an alien hand, however imperceptible, had touched it?--was not satisfied. Towards noon, when she camedownstairs, she met Jaffery on the terrace, with a familiar littleknitting of the brow before which his welcoming smile faded. 

"It's all right up to a point, " she said, handing him back the letter. "Nobody with the rudiments of a brain could fail to recognise the meritsof Adrian's work. But no novelist is possessed of the critical faculty. "

"Then why, " asked Jaffery, after the way of men, "did you ask me to sendhim the novel?"

"I took it for granted he had common sense, " replied Doria, after theway of women. 

"And he hasn't any?"

"Read the thing again. "

Jaffery scanned the page mechanically and looked up: "Well, what's to bedone now?"

"I should like to compare the proofs with Adrian's original manuscript. Where is it?"

Here was the question we had all dreaded. Jaffery lied convincingly. 

"It went to the printers, my dear, and of course they've destroyed it. "

"I thought everything was typed nowadays. "

"Typing takes time, " replied Jaffery serenely. "And I'm not an advocateof feather-beds and rose-water baths for printers. As I wanted to rushthe book out as quickly as possible, I didn't see why I should pamperthem with type. Have you the original manuscript of 'The Diamond Gate'?"

"No, " said Doria. 

"Well--don't you see?" said Jaffery, with a smile. 

For the first time I praised Old Man Jornicroft. He had brought up hisdaughter far from the madding mechanics of the literary life. To mygreat relief, Doria swallowed the incredible story. 

"It was careless of you not to have given special instructions for themanuscript to be saved, I must say. But if it's gone, it's gone. I'm notunreasonable. "

"I think you are, " said Barbara, who had been arranging flowers in thedrawing-room, and had emerged onto the terrace. "You made Jaffery submithis careful editing to an expert, and you're honourably bound to acceptthe expert's verdict. "

"I do accept it, " she retorted with a toss of her head and a flash ofher eyes. "Have I ever said I didn't? But I'm at liberty to keep to myown opinion. "

Jaffery scratched his whiskers and beard and screwed up his face as hedid in moments of perplexity. 

"What exactly do you want changed?" he asked. 

"Just those few coarse touches you admit are yours. "

"Adrian wanted to get an atmosphere of rye-whisky and bad tobacco--nottea and strawberries. " The eminent novelist's encomium had aroused theartist's pride in his first-born. An altered word would spoil the book. "My dear girl, " said he, stretching out his great hand, from beneathwhich she wriggled an impatient shoulder, "my dear Doria, " said he, verygently, "the possessor of the Order of Merit is both a critic and a manof common sense. Anyway, he knows more about novels than either of usdo. If it weren't for him I would give you the proofs to blue pencil asmuch as you liked. But I'm sure you would make a thundering mess of it. "

Doria made a little gesture--a bit of a shrug--a bit of a resignedflicker of her hands. 

"Of course, do as you please, dear Jaffery. I'm quite alone, a womanwith nobody to turn to"--she smiled with her lips, but there was nocoordination of her eyes--"as I said before, I pass the proofs. "

She went quickly through the drawing-room door into the house, leavingJaffery still scratching a red whisker. 

"Oh, Lord!" said he, ruefully, "I've gone and done it now!"

He turned to follow her, but Barbara interposed her small body on thethreshold. 

"Don't be a silly fool, Jaff. You've pandered quite enough to her morbidvanity. It's your book, isn't it? You have given it birth. You knowbetter than anybody what is vital to it. Just you send those proofsstraight back to the publisher. If you let her persuade you to changeone word, as true as I'm standing here, I'll tell her the whole thing, and damn the consequences!"

My exquisite Barbara's rare "damns" were oaths in the strictest sense. They connoted the most irrefragable of obligations. She would no morethink of breaking a "damn" than her marriage vows or a baby's neck. 

"Of course, I'm not going to let her touch the thing, " said Jaffery. "But I don't want her to look on me as a bullying brute. "

"It would be better, both for you and her, if she did, " snapped Barbara. "The ordinary woman's like the dog and the walnut tree. It's only theexceptional woman that can take command. "

I, who had been sitting calm, on the low parapet beneath the tenderlysprouting wistaria arbour, broke my philosophic silence. 

"Observe the exceptional woman, " said I. 

 * * * * *

For a day or so Doria stood upon her dignity, treating Jaffery with coldpoliteness. In the mornings she allowed him to wrap her up in her gardenchair and attend to her comforts, and then, settled down, she would opena volume of Tolstoi and courteously signify his dismissal. Jaffery witha hang-dog expression went with me to the golf-course, where he drovewith prodigious muscular skill, and putted execrably. Had it not been aquestion of good taste, to say nothing of human sentiment, I would havereminded him that the thing he was hitting so violently was only alittle white ball and not poor Adrian's skull. If ever a man was loyalto a dead friend Jaffery Chayne was loyal to Adrian Boldero. But poorold Jaffery was being checked in every vital avenue, not by the memoryof the man whom he had known and loved, but by his cynical andmasquerading ghost. It is not given to me, thank God! to know fromdirect speech what Jaffery thought of Adrian--for Jaffery is toosplendid a fellow to have ever said a word in depreciation of his onceliving friend and afterward dead rival; but both I, who do not aspire tothese Quixotic heights and only, with masculine power of generalisation, deduce results from a quiet eye's harvest of mundane phenomena, andBarbara, whose rapier intuition penetrates the core of spiritual things, could, with little difficulty, divine the passionate struggle betweenlove and hatred, between loyalty and tenderness, between desire and dutythat took place in the soul of this chivalrous yet primitive and vastlyappetited gentleman. 

You may think I am trying to present Jaffery as a hero of romance. I amnot. I am merely trying to put before you, in my imperfect way, abarbarian at war with civilised instincts; a lusty son of Pantagruelforced into the incongruous rôle of Sir Galahad. . . . During the termof his punishment he behaved in a bearish and most unheroic manner. Atlast, however, Doria forgave him, and, smiling on him once more, permitted him to read Tolstoi aloud to her. Whereupon he mended hismanners. 

The day following this reconciliation was a Sunday. We had invitedLiosha (as we constantly did) to lunch and dine. She usually arrived byan early train in the forenoon and returned by the late train at night. But on Saturday evening, she asked Barbara, over the telephone, forpermission to bring a friend, a gentleman staying in the boarding house, the happy possessor of a car, who would motor her down. His name wasFendihook. Barbara replied that she would be delighted to see Liosha'sfriend, and of course came back to us and speculated as to who and whatthis Mr. Fendihook might be. 

"Why didn't you ask her?" said I. 

"It would scarcely have been polite. "

We consulted Jaffery. "Never heard of him, " he growled. "And I don'tlike to hear of him now. That young woman's running loose a vast dealtoo much. "

"What an old dog in the manger you are!" cried Barbara; and thus startedan old argument. 

On Sunday morning we saw Mr. Fendihook for ourselves. I met the car, atwo-seater, which he drove himself, at the front door, and perceivedbetween a motoring cap worn peak behind and a tightly buttoned Burberrycoat a pink, fleshy, clean shaven face, from the middle of whichprojected an enormous cigar. I helped Liosha out. 

"This is Mr. Fendihook. "

"Commonly called Ras Fendihook, at your service, " said he. 

I smiled and shook hands and gave the car into the charge of mychauffeur, who appeared from the stable-yard. In the hall, aided byFranklin, Mr. Ras Fendihook divested himself of his outer wrappings andrevealed a thickset man of medium height, rather flashily attired. Iknow it is narrow-minded, but I have a prejudice against a black andwhite check suit, and a red necktie threaded through a gold ring. 

"Against the rules?" he asked, holding up his cigar, a very good one, onwhich he had retained the band. 

"By no means, " said I, "we smoke all over the house. "

"Tiptop!" He looked around the hall. "You seem to have a bit of allright here. "

"I told you you would like it. Everybody does, " said Liosha. "Ah, Barbara, dear!" She ran up the stairs to meet her. We followed. Mr. Fendihook was presented. I noticed, with a little shock, that he hadkept on his gloves. 

"Very kind of you to let me come down, madam. I thought a bit of a blowwould do our fair friend good. "

Barbara took off Liosha, looking very handsome and fresh beneath themotor-veil, to her room, leaving me with Mr. Fendihook. As he precededme into the drawing-room I saw a bald patch like a tonsure in the middleof a crop of coarse brown hair. Again he looked round appreciatively andagain he said "Tiptop!" He advanced to the open French window. 

"Garden's all right. Must take a lot of doing. Who are our friends? Thelong and the short of it, aren't they?"

He alluded to Jaffery and Doria, who were strolling on the lawn. I toldhim their names. 

"Jaffery Chayne. Why, that's the chap Mrs. Prescott's always talkingabout, her guardian or something. "

"Her trustee, " said I, "and an intimate friend of her late husband. "

"Ah!" said he, with a twinkle in his eyes which, I will swear, signified"Then there was a Prescott after all!" He waved his cigar. "Introduceme. " And as I accompanied him across the lawn--"There's nothing likeknowing everybody--getting it over at once. Then one feels at home. "

"I hope you felt at home as soon as you entered the house, " said I. 

"Of course I did, old pal, " he replied heartily. "Of course I did. " Andthe amazing creature patted me on the back. 

I performed the introductions. Mr. Fendihook declared himself delightedto make the acquaintance of my friends. Then as conversation did notstart spontaneously, he once more looked around, nodded at the landscapeapprovingly, and once more said "Tiptop!"

"That's what I want to have, " he continued, "when I can afford to retireand settle down. None of your gimcrack modern villas in a desirableresidential neighbourhood, but an English gentleman's country house. "

"It's your ambition to be an English gentleman, Mr. Fendihook?" queriedDoria. 

He laughed good-humouredly. "Now you're pulling my leg. "

I saw that he was not lacking in shrewdness. 

Susan, never far from Jaffery during her off-time, came running up. 

"Hallo, is that your young 'un?" Mr. Fendihook asked. "Come and say howd'ye do, Gwendoline. "

Susan advanced shyly. He shook hands with her, chucked her under thechin and paid her the ill compliment of saying that she was the image ofher father. Jaffery stood with folded arms holding the bowl of his pipein one hand and looked down on Mr. Fendihook as on some puzzling insect. 

"Do you mind if I take off my gloves?" our strange visitor asked. 

"Pray do, " said I. The sight of the fellow wandering about a gardenbareheaded and gloved in yellow chamois leather had begun to affect mynerves. He peeled them off. 

"Look here, Gwendoline Arabella, my dear, " he cried. "Catch!"

He made a feint of throwing them. 

"Haven't you caught 'em?"

"No. "

She stared at the man open-mouthed, for behold, his hands were empty. 

"Tut, tut!" said he. "Perhaps you can catch a handkerchief. " He flickeda red silk handkerchief from his pocket, crumpled it into a ball andthrew; but like the gloves it vanished. "Now where has it gone to?"

Susan, who had shrunk beneath Jaffery's protecting shadow, crept forwardfascinated. Mr. Fendihook took a sudden step or two towards a flowerbed. 

"Why, there it is!"

He stretched out a hand and there before our eyes the handkerchief hunglimp over the pruned top of a standard rose. 

"Jolly good!" exclaimed Jaffery. 

"I hope you don't mind. I like amusing kiddies. Have you ever talked toangels, Araminta? No? Well, I have. Look. "

He threw half-crowns up into the air until they disappeared into thecentral blue, and then held a ventriloquial conversation, not in thebest of taste, with the celestial spirits, who having caught the coinsannounced their intention of sticking to them. But threats of reportingto headquarters prevailed, and one by one the coins dropped and jingledin his hand. We applauded. Susan regarded him as she would a god. 

"Can you do it again?" she asked breathlessly. 

"Lord bless you, Eustacia, I can keep on doing it all day long. "

He balanced his cigar on the tip of his nose and with a snap caught itin his mouth. He turned to me with a grin, which showed white strongteeth. "More than you could do, old pal!"

"You must have practised that a great deal, " said Doria. 

"Two hours a day solid year in and year out--not that trick alone, ofcourse. Here!" he burst into a laugh. "I'm blowed if you know who Iam--I'm the One and Only Ras Fendihook--Illusionist, Ventriloquist, andGeneral Variety Artist. Haven't you ever seen my turn?"

We confessed, with regret, that we had missed the privilege. 

"Well, well, it's a queer world, " he said philosophically. "You've neverheard of me--and perhaps you two gentlemen are big bugs in your ownline--and I've never heard of you. But anyhow, I never asked you, Mr. Chayne, to catch my gloves. "

"I haven't your gloves, " said Jaffery, with his eye on Susan. 

"You have. You've got 'em in your pocket. "

And diving into Jaffery's jacket pocket, he produced the wash-leathergloves. 

"There, Petronella, " said he, "that's the end of the matinéeperformance. "

Susan looked at him wide-eyed. "I'm not at all tired. "

"Aren't you? Then don't let that big black dog there chase the littleone. "

He pointed with his finger and from behind the old yew arbour came theshrill clamour of a little dog in agony. It brought Barbara flying outof the house. Liosha followed leisurely. The yelping ceased. Mr. RasFendihook went to meet his hostess. Doria, Jaffery and I looked at oneanother in mutual and dismayed comprehension. 

"Old pal, " quoted Doria. 

I glanced apprehensively across the strip of lawn. "I hope, for hissake, he's not calling Barbara 'old girl. '"

"He calls everybody funny names, " Susan chimed in. "See what a lot hecalled me. "

"Does your Royal Fairy Highness approve of him?" asked Jaffery. 

"I should think so, Uncle Jaff, " she replied fervently. "He's--he's_marvelious_!"

"He is, " said Jaffery, "and even that jewel of language doesn't expresshim. "

"My dear, " said I, "you stick close to him all day, as long as mummywill let you. "

I have never got the credit I deserved for the serene wisdom of thatsuggestion. All through lunch, all through the long afternoon until itwas Susan's bedtime, her obedience to my command saved over and overagain a tense situation. To the guest in her house Barbara was theperfection of courtesy. But beneath the mask of convention raged furywith Liosha. A woman can seldom take a queer social animal for what heis and suck the honey from his flowers of unconventionality. She hadnever heard a man say "Right oh!" to a butler when offered a secondhelping of pudding. She had never dreamed of the possibility of astrange table-neighbour laying his hand on hers and requesting her to"take it from me, my dear. " It sent awful shivers down her spine to hearmy august self alluded to as her "old man. " She looked down her nosewhen, to the apoplectic joy of Susan (supposed to be on her primmestbehaviour at meals), he, with a significant wink, threw a new potatointo the air, caught it on his fork and conveyed it to his mouth. Hersmile was that of the polite hostess and not of the enthusiasticlistener when he told her of triumphs in Manchester and Cincinnati. Toher confusion, he presupposed her intimate acquaintance with thepersonalities of the World of Variety. 

"That's where I came across little Evie Bostock, " he saidconfidentially. "A clipper, wasn't she? Just before she ran off withthat contortionist--you know who I mean--handsome chap--what's hisname?--oh, of course you know him. "

My poor Barbara! Daughter of a distinguished Civil servant, a K. C. B. , assumed to be on friendly terms with a Boneless Wonder!

"But indeed I don't, Mr. Fendihook, " she replied pathetically. 

"Yes, yes, you must. " He snapped his fingers. "Got it. Romeo! You musthave heard of Romeo. "

I sniggered--I couldn't help it--at Barbara's face. He went on with hisreminiscences. Barbara nearly wept, whilst I, though displeased withLiosha for introducing such an incongruous element into my familycircle, took the rational course of deriving from the fellowconsiderable entertainment. Jaffery would have done the same as myself, had not his responsibility as Liosha's guardian weighed heavily uponhim. He frowned, and ate in silence, vastly. Doria, like my wife, Icould see was shocked. The only two who, beside myself, enjoyed ourguest were Susan and Liosha. Well, Susan was nine years old and a mealat which a guest broke her whole decalogue of table manners at once--tosay nothing of the performance of such miracles as squeezing an orangeinto nothingness, without the juice running out, and subsequentlyextracting it from the neck of an agonised mother--was a feast ofmemorable gaudiness. Susan could be excused. But Liosha? Liosha, pupilof the admirable Mrs. Considine? Liosha, descendant of proud Albanianchieftains who had lain in gory beds for centuries? How could she admirethis peculiarly vulgar, although, in his own line, peculiarlyaccomplished person? Yet her admiration was obvious. She sat by my side, grand and radiant, proud of the wondrous gift she had bestowed on us. She acclaimed his tricks, she laughed at his anecdotes, she urged him onto further exhibition of prowess, and in a magnificent way appearedunconscious of the presence at the table of her trustee and would-bedragon, Jaffery Chayne. 

After lunch Susan obeyed my instructions and stuck very close to Mr. Fendihook. Doria retired for her afternoon rest. Jaffery, having invitedLiosha to go for a long walk with him and she having declined, with apolite smile, on the ground that her best Sunday-go-to-meeting long gownwas not suitable for country roads, went off by himself in dudgeon. Barbara took Liosha aside and cross-examined her on the subject of Mr. Fendihook and as far as hospitality allowed signified hernon-appreciation of the guest. After a time I took him into the billiardroom, Susan following. As he was a brilliant player, giving me onehundred and fifty in two hundred and running out easily before I hadmade thirty, he found less excitement in the game than in narrating hisexploits and performing tricks for the child. He did astonishing thingswith the billiard balls, making them run all over his body like mice andbalancing them on cues and juggling with them five at a time. I thinkthat day he must have gone through his whole répertoire. 

The party assembled for tea in the drawing-room. Fendihook's first wordsto Liosha were:

"Hallo, my Balkan Queen, how have you been getting on?"

"Very well, thank you, " smiled Liosha. 

He turned to Jaffery. "She's not up to her usual form to-day. Butsometimes she's a fair treat! I give you my word. "

He laughed loudly and winked. Jaffery, whose agility in repartee wasrather physical than mental, glowered at him, rumbled somethingunintelligible beneath his breath, and took tea out to Doria, who wasestablished on the terrace. 

"Seems to have got the pip, " Mr. Fendihook remarked cheerfully. 

Barbara, with icy politeness, offered him tea. He refused, explainingthat unless he sat down to a square meal, which, in view of theexcellence of his lunch, he was unable to do, he never drank tea in theafternoon. 

"Could I have a whisky and soda, old pal?"

The drink was brought. He pledged Barbara--"And may I drink to thesuccess of that promising little affair"--he jerked a backwardthumb--"between our pippy friend and the charming widow?"

Barbara had passed the gasping stage. 

"Mr. Chayne, " she said in the metallic voice that, before now, had madestrong men grow pale, "Mr. Chayne stands in the same relation of trusteeto Mrs. Boldero as he does to Mrs. Prescott. "

But Fendihook was undismayed. "Some fellows have all the luck! Here's tohim, and here's to you, Sheba's Queen. "

He nodded to Liosha and pulled at his drink. But Liosha did not respond. A hard look appeared in her eyes and the knuckles of her hand showedwhite. Presently she rose and went onto the terrace, where she foundJaffery fixing a rebellious rug round Doria's feet. And this is whathappened. 

"Jaff Chayne, " she said, "I want to have a word with you. You'll excuseme, Doria, but Jaff Chayne's as much my trustee as he is yours. I havebusiness to talk. "

Doria eyed her coldly. "Talk as much business as you like, my dear girl. I'm not preventing you. " Jaffery strode off with Liosha. As soon as theywere out of earshot, she said:

"Are you going to marry her?"

"Who?"

"Doria. "

Jaffery bent his brows on her. He was not in his most angelic mood. 

"What the blazes has that got to do with you? Just you mind your ownbusiness. "

"All right, " she retorted, "I will. "

"Glad to hear it, " said he. "And now I want a word with you. What do youmean by bringing that howling cad down here?"

"It's you who howl, not he. He's a very kind gentleman and very cleverand he makes me laugh. He's not like you. "

"He's a performing gorilla, " cried Jaffery. 

They were both exceedingly angry, and having walked very fast, theyfound themselves in front of the gate of the walled garden. Instinctively they entered and had the place to themselves. 

"And a confounded bounder of a gorilla at that!" Jaffery continued. 

"How dare you speak so of my friend?"

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself for having such a friend. Andyou're just going to drop him. Do you understand?"

"Shan't!" said Liosha. 

"You shall. You're not going to be seen outside the house with him. "

There was battle clamorous and a trifle undignified. They said the samethings over and over again. Both had worked themselves into a fury. 

"I forbid you to have anything to do with the fellow. "

"You, Jaff Chayne, told me to mind my own business. Just you mindyours. "

"It is my business, " he shouted, "to see that you don't disgraceyourself with a beast of a fellow like that. "

"What did you say? Disgrace myself?" She drew herself up magnificently. "Do you think I would disgrace myself with any man living? You insultme. "

"Rot!" cried Jaffery. "Every woman's liable to make a blessed fool ofherself--and you more than most. "

"I know one that's not going to make a fool of herself, " she taunted, and flung an arm in the direction of the house. 

Jaffery blazed. "You leave me alone. "

"And you leave me alone. "

They glared inimically into each other's eyes. Liosha turned, marchedsuperbly away, opened the garden door and, passing through, slammed itin his face. It had been a very pretty, primitive quarrel, free from allsubtlety. Elemental instinct flamed in Jaffery's veins. If he could havegiven her a good sound thrashing he would have been a happy man. Thisaccursed civilisation paralysed him. He stood for a few moments tearingat whiskers and beard. Then he started in pursuit, and overtook her inthe middle of the lawn. 

"Anyhow, you'll take the infernal fellow away now and never bring himhere again. "

"It's Hilary's house, not yours, " she remarked, looking straight beforeher. 

"Well, ask him. "

"I will. Hilary!"

At her hail and beckon I left the terrace where Mr. Fendihook had beendiscoursing irrepressibly on the Bohemian advantages of widowhood to aquivering Doria, and advanced to meet her, a flushed and bright-eyedJuno. 

"Would you like me to bring Ras Fendihook here again?"

"Tell her straight, " said Jaffery. 

Even Susan, looking from one to the other, would have been conscious ofstorms. I took her hand. 

"My dear Liosha, " said I, "our social system is so complicated that itis no wonder you don't appreciate the more delicate ramifications--"

"Oh! Talk sense to her, " growled Jaffery. 

"Mr. Fendihook is not quite"--I hesitated--"not quite the kind ofperson, my dear, that we're accustomed to meet. "

"I know, " said Liosha, "you want them all stamped out in a pattern, likelittle tin soldiers. "

"I see the point of your criticism, and it's true, as far as it goes. "

"Oh, go on--" Jaffery interrupted. 

"But--" I continued. 

"You'd rather not see him again?"

"No, " roared Jaffery. 

"I'm talking to Hilary, not you, " said Liosha. She turned to me. "Youand Barbara would like me to take him away right now?"

I still held her hand, which was growing moist--and I suppose mine wastoo--and I didn't like to drop it, for fear of hurting her feelings. Igave it a great squeeze. It was very difficult for me. Personally, Ienjoyed the frank, untrammelled and prodigiously accomplished scion of avulgar race. As a mere bachelor, isolated human, meeting him, I shouldhave taken him joyously, if not to my heart, at any rate to mymicroscope and studied him and savoured him and got out of him all thatthere was of grotesqueness. But to every one of my household, save Susanwho did not count, he was--I admit, deservedly--an object of loathing. So I squeezed Liosha's hand. 

"The beginning and end of the matter, my dear, " said I, "is that he'snot quite a gentleman. "

"All right, " said Liosha, liberating herself. "Now I know. "

She left me and sailed to the terrace. I use the metaphor advisedly. Shehad a way of walking like a full-rigged ship before a breeze. 

"Ras Fendihook, it's time we were going. "

Mr. Fendihook looked at his watch and jumped up. 

"We must hook it!"

Barbara asked conventionally: "Won't you stay to supper?"

"Great Scott, no!" he exclaimed. "No offence meant. You're very kind. But it's Ladies' Night at the Rabbits and I'm Buck Rabbit for theevening and the Queen of Sheba's coming as my guest. "

"Who are the Rabbits?" asked Doria. 

Even I had heard of this Bohemian confraternity; and I explained with alearned inaccuracy that evoked a semi-circular grin on the pink, fleshyface of Mr. Ras Fendihook. 

 * * * * *

"Ouf! Thank goodness!" said Barbara as the two-seater scuttered awaydown the drive. 

"Yes, indeed, " said Doria. 

Jaffery shook his fist at the disappearing car. 

"One of these days, I'll break his infernal neck!"

"Why?" asked Doria, on a sharp note of enquiry. 

"I don't like him, " said Jaffery. "And he's taking her out to dine amongall that circus crowd. It's damnable!"

"For the lady whose father stuck pigs in Chicago, " said Doria. "I shouldthink it was rather a rise in the social scale. "

And she went indoors with her nose in the air. To every one save thepuzzled Jaffery it was obvious that she disapproved of his interest inLiosha. 

CHAPTER XVI

"The Greater Glory" came out in due season, puzzled the reviewers andmade a sensation; a greater sensation even than a legitimate successorto "The Diamond Gate" dictated by the spirit of Tom Castleton. Thecontrast was so extraordinary, so inexplicable. It was generallyconcluded that no writer but Adrian Boldero, in the world's history, hadever revealed two such distinct literary personalities as those thatinformed the two novels. The protean nature of his genius arouseduniversal wonder. His death was deplored as the greatest loss sustainedby English letters since Keats. The press could do nothing but hail thenew book as a masterpiece. Barbara and myself, who, alone of mortals, knew the strange history of the two books, did not agree with the press. In sober truth "The Greater Glory" was not a work of genius; for, afterall, the only hallmark of a work of genius that you can put your fingeron is its haunting quality. That quality Tom Castleton's work possessed;Jaffery Chayne's did not. "The Greater Glory" vibrated with life, it waswide and generous, it was a capital story; but, unlike "The DiamondGate, " it could not rank with "The Vicar of Wakefield" and "DavidCopperfield. " I say this in no way to disparage my dear old friend, butmerely to present his work in true proportion. Published under his ownname it would doubtless have received recognition; probably it wouldhave made money; but it could not have met with the enthusiasticreception it enjoyed when published under the tragic and romantic nameof Adrian Boldero. 

Of course Jaffery beamed with delight. His forlorn hope had succeededbeyond his dreams. He had fulfilled the immediate needs of the woman heloved. He had also astonished himself enormously. 

"It's darned good to let you and Barbara know, " said he, "that I'm not amere six foot of beef and thirst, but that I'm a chap with brains, and"--he turned over a bundle of press-cuttings--"and 'poetic fancy' and'master of the human heart' and 'penetrating insight into the soul ofthings' and 'uncanny knowledge of the complexities of woman's nature. 'Ho! ho! ho! That's me, Jaff Chayne, whom you've disregarded all theseyears. Look at it in black and white: 'uncanny knowledge of thecomplexities of a woman's nature'! Ho! ho! ho! And it's selling likeblazes. "

It did not enter his honest head to envy the dead man his freshill-gotten fame. He accepted the success in the large simplicity ofspirit that had enabled him to conceive and write the book. His poorerhuman thoughts and emotions centred in the hope that now Adrian'srestless ghost would be laid forever and that for Doria there would opena new life in which, with the past behind her, she could find a glory inthe sun and an influence in the stars, and a spark in her own bosomresponsive to his devotion. For the tumultuous moment, however, whenAdrian's name was on all men's tongues, and before all men's eyes, theghost walked in triumphant verisimilitude of life. At all the meetingsof Jaffery and Doria, he was there smiling beneath his laurels, wheneverhe was evoked; and he was evoked continuously. Either by law of irony orperhaps for intrinsic merit, the bridges to whose clumsy constructionJaffery, like an idiot, had confessed, had been picked out by manyreviewers as typical instances of Adrian Boldero's new style. Suchblunders were flies in Doria's healing ointment. She alluded to thereviewers in disdainful terms. How dared editors employ men to write onAdrian's work who were unable to distinguish between it and that ofJaffery Chayne?

One day, when she talked like this, Barbara lost her temper. 

"I think you're an ungrateful little wretch. Here has Jaffery sacrificedhis work for three months and devoted himself to pulling togetherAdrian's unfinished manuscript and making a great success of it, and youtreat him as if he were a dog. "

Doria protested. "I don't. I _am_ grateful. I don't know what I shoulddo without Jaffery. But all my gratitude and fondness for Jaffery can'talter the fact that he has spoiled Adrian's work; and when I hear thosevery faults in the book praised, I am fit to be tied. "

"Well, go crazy and bite the furniture when you're all by yourself, "said Barbara; "but when you're with Jaffery try to be sane and civil. "

"I think you're horrid!" Doria exclaimed, "and if you weren't the wifeof Adrian's trusted friend, I would never speak to you again. "

"Rubbish!" said Barbara. "I'm talking to you for your good, and you knowit. "

Meanwhile Jaffery lingered on in London, in the cheerless little eyriein Victoria Street, with no apparent intention of ever leaving it. Arbuthnot of _The Daily Gazette_ satirically enquiring whether he wanteda job or still yearned for a season in Mayfair he consigned, in hisgrinning way, to perdition. Change was the essence of holiday-making, and this was his holiday. It was many years since he had one. When hewanted a job he would go round to the office. 

"All right, " said Arbuthnot, "and, in the meantime, if you want to keepyour hand in by doing a fire or a fashionable wedding, ring us up. "

Whereat Jaffery roared, this being the sort of joke he liked. 

The need of a holiday amid the bricks and mortar of Victoria Street mayhave impressed Arbuthnot, but it did not impress me. I dismissed theexcuse as fantastic. I tackled him one day, at lunch, at the club, assuming my most sceptical manner. 

"Well, " said he, "there's Doria. Somebody must look after her. "

"Doria, " said I, "is a young woman, now that she is in sound health, perfectly capable of looking after herself. And if she does want a man'sadvice, she can always turn to me. "

"And there's Liosha. "

"Liosha, " I remarked judiciously, "is also a young woman capable oflooking after herself. If she isn't, she has given you very definitelyto understand that she's going to try. Have you had any more interestingevenings out lately?"

"No, " he growled. "She's offended with me because I warned her off thatlow-down bounder. "

"I think you did your best, " said I, "to make her take up with him. "

He protested. We argued the point, and I think I got the best of theargument. 

"Well, anyhow, " he said with an air of infantile satisfaction, "shecan't marry him. "

"Who's going to prevent her, if she wants to?"

"The law of England. " He laughed, mightily pleased. "The beggar ismarried already. I've found that out. He's got three or four wives infact--oh, a dreadful hound--but only one real one with a wedding ring, and she lives up in the north with a pack of children. "

"All the more dangerous for Liosha to associate with such a villain. "

He waved the suggestion aside. No fear of that, said he. It was notLiosha's game. Hers was an Amazonian kind of chastity. Here I agreedwith him. 

"All the less reason, " said I, "for you to stay in London, so as to lookafter her. "

"But I don't like her to be seen about in the fellow's company. She'llget a bad name. "

"Look here, " said I, "the idea of a vast, hairy chap like you devotinghis life to keeping a couple of young widows out of mischief is toopreposterous. Try me with something else. "

Then, being in good humour, he told me the real reason. He was writinganother book. 

He was writing another novel and he did not want any one to know. He wasgetting along famously. He had had the story in his head for a longtime. Glad to talk about it; sketched the outline very picturesquely. Perhaps I was more vitally interested in the development of the manJaffery than in the story. A queer thing had happened. The born novelisthad just discovered himself and clamoured for artistic self-expression. He was writing this book just because he could not help it, findinggladness in the mere work, delighting in the mechanics of the thing, andletting himself go in the joy of the narrative. What was going to becomeof it when written, I did not enquire. It was rather too delicate amatter. Jaffery Chayne could be nothing else than Jaffery Chayne. A newnovel published by him would resemble "The Greater Glory" as closely as"Pendennis" resembles "Philip. " And then there would be the deuce topay. If he published it under his own name, he would render himselfliable to the charge of having stolen a novel from the dead author of"The Greater Glory, " and so complicate this already complicated web ofliterary theft; and if he threw sufficient dust into the eyes of Doriato enable him to publish under Adrian's name, he would be performing thetask of the altruistic bees immortalised by Virgil. 

Anyhow, there he was, perfectly happy, pegging away at his novel, looking after Doria, pretending to look after Liosha, and enjoying thesociety of the few cronies, chiefly adventurous birds of passage likehimself, who happened to be passing through London. Being a man ofmodest needs, save need of mere bulk of simple food, he found his smallpatrimony and the savings from his professional earnings quite adequatefor amenable existence. When he wanted healthy, fresh air he came downto us to see Susan; when he wanted anything else he went to see Doria, which was almost daily. 

Doria was living now in the flat surrounded by the Lares and Penatesconsecrated by Adrian. Now and then for purposes of airing and dusting, she entered the awful room--neither servants nor friends were allowed tocross the threshold; but otherwise it was always locked and the key layin her jewel case. Adrian was the focus of her being. She put heavytasks on Jaffery. There was to be a fitting monument on Adrian's grave, over which she kept him busy. In her blind perversity she counted on hiscoöperation. It was he who carried through negotiations with an eminentsculptor for a bust of Adrian, which in her will, made about that time, she bequeathed to the nation. She ordered him to see to the inclusion ofAdrian in the supplement to the Dictionary of National Biography. . . . And all the time Jaffery obeyed her sovereign behests without a murmurand without a hint that he desired reward for his servitude. But, tothose gifted with normal vision, signs were not wanting that he chafed, to put it mildly, under this forced worship of Adrian; and to those whoknew Jaffery it was obvious that his one-sided arrangement could notlast forever. Doria remained blind, taking it for granted that every oneshould kiss the feet of her idol and in that act of adoration findaugust recompense. That the man loved her she was fully aware; she wasnot devoid of elementary sense; but she accepted it, as she acceptedeverything else, as her due, and perhaps rather despised Jaffery for hismeekness. Why, again, she disregarded what her instinct must haverevealed to her of the primitive passions lurking beneath the exteriorof her kind and tender ogre, I cannot understand. For one thing, sheconsidered herself his intellectual superior; vanity perhaps blinded herjudgment. At all events she did not realise that a change was bound tocome in their relations. It came, inevitably. 

One day in June they sat together on the balcony of the St. John's Woodflat, in the soft afternoon shadow, both conscious of queer isolationfrom the world below, and from the strange world masked behind the vastsuperficies of brick against which they were perched. Jaffery saidsomething about a nest midway on a cliff side overlooking the sea. Healso, in bass incoherence, formulated the opinion that in such a nestmight he found true happiness. The pretty languor of early summerlaughed in the air. Their situation, 'twixt earth and heaven, had alittle sensuous charm. Doria replied sentimentally:

"Yes, a little house, covered with clematis, on a ledge of cliff, withthe sea-gulls wheeling about it--bringing messages from the sunset landsacross the blue, blue sea--" Poor dear! She forgot that sea lit by awestering sun is of no colour at all and that the blue water lies to theeast; but no matter; Jaffery, drinking in her words, forgot it likewise. "Away from everything, " she continued, "and two people who loved--with agreat, great love--"

Her eyes were fixed on the motor omnibuses passing up and down MaidaVale at the end of her road. Her lips were parted--the ripeness of youthand health rendered her adorable. A flush stained her ivory cheek--youwill find the exact simile in Virgil. She was too desirable forJaffery's self-control. He bent forward in his chair--they were sittingface to face, so that he had his back to the motor omnibuses--and puthis great hand on her knee. 

"Why not we two?"

It was silly, sentimental, schoolboyish--what you please; but everyman's first declaration of love is bathos--the zenith of his passionconnoting perhaps the nadir of his intelligence. Anyhow the declarationwas made, without shadow of mistake. 

Doria switched her knee away sharply, as her vision of sunset and gullsand blue sea and a clematis-covered house vanished from before her eyes, and she found herself on her balcony with Jaff Chayne. 

"What do you mean?" she asked. 

"You know very well what I mean. "

He rose like a leviathan and made a step towards her. The three-footbalustrade of the balcony seemed to come to his ankles. She put out ahand. 

"Oh, don't do that, Jaff. You might fall over. It makes me so nervous. "

He checked himself and stood up quite straight. Again he felt as if shehad dealt him a slap in the face. 

"You know very well what I mean, " he repeated. "I love you and I wantyou and I'll never be happy till I get you. "

She looked away from him and lifted her slender shoulders. 

"Why spoil things by talking of the impossible?"

"The word has no meaning. Doesn't exist, " said Jaffery. 

"It exists very much indeed, " she returned, with a quick upward glance. 

"Not with an obstinate devil like me. "

He leaned against the low balustrade. She rose. 

"You'll drive me into hysterics, " she cried and fled to thedrawing-room. 

He followed, impatiently. "I'm not such an ass as to fall off a footlingbalcony. What do you take me for?"

"I take you for Adrian's friend, " she said, very erect, brave elf facinghorrible ogre--and, either by chance or design, her hand touched andheld the tip of a great silver-framed photograph of her late husband. 

"I think I've proved it, " said Jaffery. 

"Are you proving it now? What value can you attach to Adrian's memorywhen you say such things to me?"

"I'm saying to you what every honest man has the right to say to thefree woman he loves. "

"But I'm not a free woman. I'm bound to Adrian. "

"You can't be bound to him forever and ever. "

"I am. That's why it's shameful and dishonourable of you, "--his blueeyes flashed dangerously and he clenched his hands, but heedless shewent on--"yes, mean and base and despicable of you to wish to betrayhim. Adrian--"

"Oh, don't talk drivel. It makes me sick. Leave Adrian alone and listento a living man, " he shouted, all the pent-up intellectual disgusts andsex-jealousies bursting out in a mad gush. "A real live man who wouldwalk through Hell for you!" He caught her frail body in his great grasp, and she vibrated like a bit of wire caught up by a dynamo. "My love foryou has nothing whatever to do with Adrian. I've been as loyal to him asone man can be to another, living and dead. By God, I have! Ask Hilaryand Barbara. But I want you. I've wanted you since the first moment Iset eyes on you. You've got into my blood. You're going to love me. You're going to marry me, Adrian or no Adrian. "

He bent over her and she met the passion in his eyes bravely. She didnot lack courage. And her eyes were hard and her lips were white and herface was pinched into a marble statuette of hate. And unconscious thathis grip was giving her physical pain he continued:

"I've waited for you. I've waited for you from the moment I heard youwere engaged to the other man. And I'll go on waiting. But, byGod!"--and, not knowing what he did, he shook her backwards andforwards--"I'll not go on waiting for ever. You--you little bit ofmystery--you little bit of eternity--you--you--ah!"

With a great gesture he released her. But the poor ogre had not countedon his strength. His unwitting violence sent her spinning, and she fell, knocking her head against a sofa. He uttered a gasp of horror and in aninstant lifted her and laid her on the sofa, and on his knees besideher, with remorse oversurging his passion, behaved like a penitent fool, accusing himself of all the unforgivable savageries ever practised bybarbaric male. Doria, who was not hurt in the least, sat up and pointedto the door. 

"Go!" she said. "Go. You're nothing but a brute. "

Jaffery rose from his knees and regarded her in the hebetude ofreaction. 

"I suppose I am, Doria, but it's my way of loving you. "

She still pointed. "Go, " she said tonelessly. "I can't turn you out, butif Adrian was alive--Ha! ha! ha!--" she laughed with a touch ofhysteria. "How do you dare, you barren rascal--how do you dare to thinkyou can take the place of a man like Adrian?"

[Illustration: "Go! You are nothing but a brute. "]

The whip of her tongue lashed him to sudden fury. He picked her upbodily and held her in spite of struggles, just as you or I would hold acat or a rabbit. 

"You little fool, " said he, "don't you know the difference between a manand a--"

Realisation of the tragedy struck him as a spent bullet might havestruck him on the side of the head. He turned white. 

"All right, " said he in a changed voice. "Easy on. I'm not going to hurtyou. "

He deposited her gently on the sofa and strode out of the room. 

CHAPTER XVII

If the old song be true which says that it is not so much the lover whowoos as the lover's way of wooing, Jaffery seemed to have thrown awayhis chances by adopting a very unfortunate way indeed. Doria proved toBarbara, urgently summoned to a bed of prostration and nervous collapse, that she would never set eyes again upon the unqualifiable savage bywhom her holiest sentiments had been outraged and her persondisgracefully mishandled. She poured out a blood-curdling story intosemi-sympathetic ears. Barbara made short work of her contention thatJaffery ought to have respected her as he would have respected the wifeof a living friend, characterising it as morbid and indecent nonsense;and with regard to the physical violence she declared that it would haveserved her right had he smacked her. 

"If you want to be faithful to the memory of your first husband, befaithful, " she said. "No one can prevent you. And if a good man comesalong with an honourable proposal of marriage, tell him in an honourableway why you can't marry him. But don't accept for months all a man hasto give, and then, when he tells you what you've known perfectly wellall along, treat him as if he were making shameful proposals toyou--especially a man like Jaffery; I have no patience with you. "

Doria wept. No one understood her. No one understood Adrian. No oneunderstood the bond there was between them. Of that she was aware. Butwhen it came to being brutally assaulted by Jaffery Chayne, she reallythought Barbara would sympathise. Wherefore Barbara, rather angry atbeing brought up to London on a needless errand, involving loss ofdinner and upset of household arrangements, administered asleeping-draught and bade her wake in the morning in a less idioticframe of mind. 

"Perhaps I behaved like a cat, " Barbara said to me later--to "behavelike a cat" is her way of signifying a display of the vilest phases offeminine nature--"but I couldn't help it. She didn't talk a great dealof sense. It isn't as if I had never warned her about the way she hasbeen treating Jaffery. I have, heaps of times. And as for Adrian--I'msick of his name--and if I am, what must poor old Jaff be?"

This she said during a private discussion that night on the wholesituation. I say the whole situation, because, when she returned toNorthlands, she found there a haggard ogre who for the first time in hislife had eaten a canary's share of an excellent dinner, imploring me totell him whether he should enlist for a soldier, or commit suicide, orlie prone on Doria's doormat until it should please her to come out andtrample on him. He seemed rather surprised--indeed a trifle hurt--thatneither of us called him a Satyr. How could we take his part and notDoria's--especially now that Barbara had come from the bedside of thescandalously entreated lady? He boomed and bellowed about thedrawing-room, recapitulating the whole story. 

"But, my good friend, " I remonstrated, "by the showing of both of you, she taunted you and insulted you all ends up. You--'a barrenrascal'--you? Good God!"

He flung out a deprecatory hand. What did it matter? We must take thisfrom her point of view. He oughtn't to have laid hands on her. Heoughtn't to have spoken to her at all. She was right. He was a savageunfit for the society of any woman outside a wigwam. 

"Oh, you make me tired, " cried Barbara, at last. "I'm going to bed. Hilary, give him a strait-waistcoat. He's a lunatic. "

The household resources not including a strait-waistcoat, I could notexactly obey her, but as he had come down luggageless, and with a largedisregard of the hours of homeward trains, I lent him a suit of mymeagre pyjamas, which must have served the same purpose. 

He left the next morning. Heedless of advice he called on Doria and wasdenied admittance. He wrote. His letter was returned unopened. He passeda miserable week, unable to work, at a loose end in London during theheight of the season. In despair he went to _The Daily Gazette_ officeand proclaimed himself ready for a job. But for the moment the earth wasfairly calm and the management could find no field for Jaffery's specialactivities. Arbuthnot again offered him reports of fires and fashionableweddings, but this time Jaffery did not enjoy the fine humour of theproposal. He blistered Arbuthnot with abuse, swung from the newspaperoffice, and barged mightily down Fleet Street, a disturber of traffic. Then he came down to Northlands for a while, where, for want ofsomething to do, he hired himself out to my gardener and dug up most ofthe kitchen garden. His usual occupation of romping with Susan was gone, for she lay abed with some childish ailment which Barbara feared mightturn into German measles. So when he was not perspiring over a spade oreating or sleeping he wandered about the place in his most restlessmood. At nights he ransacked my library for gazetteers and atlaseswherein he searched for abominable places likely to afford the explorerthe most horrible life and the bleakest possible death. He was toyingwith the idea of making a jaunt on his own account to Thibet, when amerciful Providence gave him something definite to think about. 

It was Saturday morning. I was shaving peacefully in my dressing-roomwhen Jaffery, after thunderously demanding admittance, rushed in, cladin bath gown and slippers, flourishing a letter. 

"Read that. "

I recognised Liosha's handwriting. I read:

 "Dear Jaff Chayne, "As you are my Trustee, I guess I ought to tell you what I'm going to do. I'm going to marry Ras Fendihook--"

I looked up. "But you told me the man was married already. "

"He is. Read on. "

 "We are going to be married at once. We are going to be married at Havre in France. Ras says that because I am a widow and an Albanian it would be an awful trouble for me to get married in England, and I would have to give up half my money to Government. But in France, owing to different laws, I can get married without any fuss at all. I don't understand it, but Ras has consulted a lawyer, so it's all right. I suppose when I am married you won't be my trustee any more. So, dear Jaff Chayne, I must say good-bye and thank you for all your great kindness to me. I am sorry you and Barbara and Hilary don't like Ras, which his real name really is Erasmus, but you will when you know him better. 

 "Yours affectionately, "LIOSHA PRESCOTT. "

The amazing epistle took my breath away. 

"Of all the infernal scoundrels!" I cried. 

"There's going to be trouble, " said Jaffery, and his look signified thatit was he who intended to cause it. 

"But why Havre of all places in the world?" said I. 

"I suppose it's the only one he knows, " replied Jaffery. "He must haveonce gone to Paris by that route. It's the cheapest. "

I glanced through the letter again, and I felt a warm gush of pity forour poor deluded Liosha. 

"We must get her out of this. "

"Going to, " said Jaffery. "Let us have in Barbara at once. "

I opened the communicating door and threw the letter into the room whereshe was dressing. After a moment or two she appeared in cap andpeignoir, and the three of us in dressing-gowns, I with lather crinklingover one-half of my face, held first an indignation meeting, and then acouncil of war. 

"I never dreamed the brute would do this, " said Jaffery. "He couldn'toffer her marriage in the ordinary way without committing bigamy, and Iknow she wouldn't consent to any other arrangement; so he has inventedthis poisonous plot to get her out of England. "

"And probably go through some fool form of ceremony, " said Barbara. 

"But how can she be such a thundering idiot as to swallow it?" askedJaffery. 

I was going to remark that women would believe anything, but Barbara'seye was upon me. Yet Liosha's unfamiliarity with the laws andformalities of English marriage was natural, considering the fact that, not so very long before, she was placidly prepared to be sold to a youngAlbanian cutthroat who met his death through coming to haggle over herprice. I myself had found unworthy amusement in telling her wild fablesof English life. Her ignorance in many ways was abysmal. Once havingseen a photograph in the papers of the King in a bowler-hat sheexpressed her disappointment that he wore no insignia of royalty; andwhen I consoled her by saying that, by Act of Parliament, the King wasobliged to wear his crown so many hours a day and therefore wore italways at breakfast, lunch and dinner in Buckingham Palace, she acceptedmy assurance with the credulity of a child of four. And when Barbararebuked me for taking advantage of her innocence, she was very angryindeed. How was she to know when and where not to believe me?

"She is fresh and ingenuous enough, " said I, "to swallow any kind ofplausible story. And her ingenuousness in writing you a full account ofit is a proof. "

"She has given the whole show away, " said Jaffery. He smiled. "IfFendihook knew, he would be as sick as a dog. "

"And the poor dear is so honest and truthful, " said Barbara. "Shethought she was doing the honourable thing in letting you know. "

"No doubt modelling herself on Mrs. Jupp, late Considine, " said I. 

"Who let us know at the last minute, " said Barbara with a quick knittingof the brow. 

"Precisely, " said I. 

"Good Lord!" cried Jaffery. "Do you think she's gone off with the fellowalready?"

"You had better ring up Queen's Gate and find out. "

He rushed from the room. I hastily finished shaving, while Barbaradiscoursed to me on the neglect of our duties with regard to Liosha. 

Presently Jaffery burst in like a rhinoceros. 

"She's gone! She went on Thursday. And this is Saturday. Fendihook leftlast Sunday. Evidently she has joined him. "

We regarded each other in dismay. 

"They're in Havre by now, " said Barbara. 

"I'm not so sure, " said Jaffery, sweeping his beard from moustachedownward. This I knew to be a sign of satisfaction. When he was puzzledhe scrabbled at the whisker. "I'm not so sure. Why should he leave theboarding-house on Sunday? I'll tell you. Because his London engagementwas over and he had to put in a week's engagement at some provincialmusic-hall. Theatrical folks always travel on Sunday. If he was stillworking in London and wanted to shift his lodgings he wouldn't havechosen Sunday. We can easily see by the advertisements in the morningpaper. His London engagement was at the Atrium. "

"I've got the _Daily Telegraph_ here, " said Barbara. 

She fetched it from her room, in the earthquake-stricken condition towhich she, as usual, had reduced it, and after earnest search among theruins disinterred the theatrical advertisement page. The attractions atthe Atrium were set out fully; but the name of Ras Fendihook did notappear. 

"I'm right, " said Jaffery. "The brute's not in town. Now where did shewrite from?" He fished the envelope from his bath-gown pocket. "Postmark, 'London, S. W. , 5. 45 p. M. ' Posted yesterday afternoon. Soshe's in London. " He glanced at the letter, which was written on her ownnote-paper headed with the Queen's Gate address, and then held it upbefore us. "See anything queer about this?"

We looked and saw that it was dated "Thursday. "

"There's something fishy, " said he. "Can I have the car?"

"Of course. "

"I'm going to run 'em both to earth. I want Barbara to come along. I cantackle men right enough, but when it comes to women, I seem to be a bitof an ass. Besides--you'll come, won't you?"

"With pleasure, if I can get back early this afternoon. "

"Early this afternoon? Why, my dear child, I want you to be prepared tocome to Havre--all over France, if necessary. "

"You've got rather a nerve, " said I, taken aback by the vast coolness ofthe proposal. 

"I have, " said he curtly. "I make my living by it. "

"I'd come like a shot, " said Barbara, "but I can't leave Susan. "

"Oh, blazes!" said Jaffery. "I forgot about that. Of course you can't. "He turned to me. "Then Hilary'll come. "

"Where?" I asked, stupidly. 

"Wherever I take you. "

"But, my dear fellow--" I remonstrated. 

He cut me short. "Send him to his bath, Barbara dear, and pack his bag, and see that he's ready to start at ten sharp. "

He strode out of the door. I caught him up in the corridor. 

"Why the deuce, " I cried, "can't you do your manhunting by yourself?"

"There are two of 'em and you may come in useful. " He faced me and I metthe cold steel in his eyes. "If you would rather not help me to save awoman we're both fond of from destruction, I can find somebody else. "

"Of course I'll come, " said I. 

"Good, " said he. "Ask Barbara to order a devil of a breakfast. "

He marched away, looking in his bath-gown like twenty Roman heroesrolled into one, quite a different Jaffery from the noisy, bellowingfellow to whom I had been accustomed. He spoke in the normal tones ofthe ordinary human, very coldly and incisively. 

I rejoined Barbara. "My dear, " said I, "what have we done that we shouldbe dragged into all these acute discomforts of other people's lives?"

She put her hand on my shoulder. "Perhaps, my dear boy, it's justbecause we've done nothing--nothing otherwise to justify our existence. We're too selfishly, sluggishly happy, you and I and Susan. If we didn'ttake a share of other people's troubles we should die of congestion ofthe soul. "

I kissed her to show that I understood my rare Barbara of the steadyvision. But all the same I fretted at having to start off at a moment'snotice for anywhere--perhaps Havre, perhaps Marseilles, perhapsSingapore with its horrible damp climate, which wouldn't suitme--anywhere that tough and discomfort-loving Jaffery might choose toordain. And I was getting on so nicely with my translation ofFirdusi. . . . 

"Don't forget, " said I, departing bathwards, "to tell Franklin to put inan Arctic sleeping-bag and a solar topee. "

 * * * * *

We drove first to the house in Queen's Gate and interviewed Mrs. Jardine, a pretentious woman with gold earrings and elaborately doneblack hair, who seemed to resent our examination as though we werecalling in question the moral character of her establishment. She didnot know where Mr. Fendihook and Mrs. Prescott had gone. She was not inthe habit of putting such enquiries to her guests. 

"But one or other may have mentioned it casually, " said I. 

"Mr. Fendihook went away on Sunday and Mrs. Prescott on Thursday. It wasnot my business to associate the two departures in any way. "

By pressing the various points we learned that Fendihook was an oldclient of the house. During Mrs. Considine's residence he had beentouring in America. It had been his habit to go and come without muchceremonial. As for Liosha, she had given up her rooms, paid her bill anddeparted with her trunks. 

"When did she give notice to leave you?"

"I knew nothing of her intentions till Thursday morning. Then she camewith her hat on and asked for her bill and said her things were packedand ready to be brought downstairs. "

"What address did she give to the cabman?"

Mrs. Jardine did not know. She rang for the luggage porter. Jafferyrepeated his question. 

"Westminster Abbey, sir, " answered the man. 

I laughed. It seemed rather comic. But every one else regarded it as themost natural thing in the world. Jaffery frowned on me. 

"I see nothing to laugh at. She was obeying instructions--covering upher tracks. When she got to Westminster she told the driver to cross thebridge--and what railway station is the other end of the bridge?"

"Waterloo, " said I. 

"And from Waterloo the train goes to Southampton, and from Southamptonthe boat leaves for Havre. There's nothing funny, believe me. "

I said no more. 

The porter was dismissed. Jaffery drew the letter from his pocket. 

"On the other hand she was in London yesterday afternoon in thisdistrict, for here is the 5:45 postmark. "

"Oh, I posted that letter, " said Mrs. Jardine. 

"You?" cried Jaffery. He slapped his thigh. "I said there was somethingfishy about it. "

"There was nothing fishy, as you call it, at all, Mr. Chayne, and I'msurprised at your casting such an aspersion on my character. I had ashort letter from Mrs. Prescott yesterday enclosing four other letterswhich she asked me to stamp and post, as I owed her fourpence change onher bill. "

"Where did she write from?" Jaffery asked eagerly. 

"Nowhere in particular, " said the provoking lady. 

"But the postmark on the envelope. "

She had not looked at the postmark and the envelope had been destroyed. 

"Then where is she?" I asked. 

"At Southampton, you idiot, " said Jaffery. "Let us get there at once. "

So after a visit to my bankers--for I am not the kind of person to setout for Santa Fé de Bogotà with twopence halfpenny in my pocket--andafter a hasty lunch at a restaurant, much to Jaffery's impatientdisgust--"Why the dickens, " cried he, "did I order a big breakfast ifwe're to fool about wasting time over lunch?"--but as I explained, if Idon't have regular meals, I get a headache--and after having made othersane preparations for a journey, including the purchase of a toothbrush, an indispensable toilet adjunct, which Franklin, admirable fellow thathe is, invariably forgets to put into my case, we started forSouthampton. And along the jolly Portsmouth Road we went, throughGuildford, along the Hog's Back, over the Surrey Downs rolling warm inthe sunshine, through Farnham, through grey, dreamy Winchester, past St. Cross, with its old-world almshouse, through Otterbourne and up the hilland down to Southampton, seventy-eight miles, in two hours and aquarter. Jaffery drove. 

We began our search. First we examined the playbills at the variousplaces of entertainment. Ras Fendihook was not playing in Southampton. We went round the hotels, the South-Western, the Royal, the Star, theDolphin, the Polygon--and found no trace of the runaways. Jafferyinterviewed officials at the stations and docks, dapper gentlemen withthe air of diplomatists, tremendous fellows in uniform, policemen, porters, with all of whom he seemed to be on terms of familiaracquaintance; but none of them could trace or remember such a couplehaving crossed by the midnight boats of Thursday or Friday. Nor weretheir names down on the list of those who had secured berths in advancefor this Saturday night. 

"You're rather at fault, " said I, rather maliciously, not displeased atmy masterful friend's failure. 

"Not a bit, " said he. "Fendihook's leaving on Sunday certainly meansthat he was starting to fulfill a provincial engagement on Monday. If itwas a week's engagement, he crosses to-night. We've only to wait andcatch them. If it was a three nights' engagement, which is possible, heand Liosha crossed on Thursday night. In that case we'll cross ourselvesand track them down. "

"Even if we have to go over the Andes and far away, " I murmured. 

"Even so, " said he. "Now listen. If he's had a week's engagement he mustbe finishing to-night. In order to catch the boat he must be working inthe neighbourhood. Savvy? The only possible place besides this isPortsmouth. We'll run over to Portsmouth, only seventeen miles. "

"All right, " said I, with a wistful look back at my peaceful, comfortable home, "let us go to Portsmouth. I'll resign myself to dineat Portsmouth. But supposing he isn't there?" I asked, as the car droveoff. 

"Then he went to Havre on Thursday. "

"But suppose he's at Birmingham. He would then take to-morrow night'sboat. "

"There isn't one on Sundays. "

"Then Monday night's boat. "

"Well, if he does, won't we be there on Tuesday morning to meet him onthe quay? Lord!" he laughed, and brought his huge grip down on my legabove the knee, thereby causing me physical agony, "I should like totake you on an expedition. It would do you a thundering lot of good. "

We arrived at Portsmouth, where we conducted the same kind of enquiriesas at Southampton. Neither there nor at adjoining Southsea could we finda sign of the Variety Star, Ras Fendihook, and still less of the obscureLiosha. We dined at a Southsea hotel. We dined very well. On that Iinsisted--without much expenditure of nervous force. Jaffery rails at mefor a Sybarite and what not, but I have never seen him refuse viands onaccount of succulency or wine on account of flavour. We had a quart ofexcellent champagne, a pint of decent port and a good cigar, and we feltthat the gods were good. That is how I like to feel. I felt it sogratefully that when Jaffery suggested it was time to start back toSouthampton in order to waylay the London train at the docks, on theoff-chance of our fugitives having come down by it, and to catch theHavre boat ourselves, I had not a weary word to say. I cheerfullycontemplated the prospect of a night's voyage to Havre. And as Jaffery(also humanised by good cheer) had been entertaining me with juicystories of China and other mythical lands, I felt equal to anydare-devil adventure. 

We went back to Southampton and collected our luggage at theSouth-Western Hotel--the hotel porter in charge thereof. Our uncertaintyas to whether we would cross or not horribly disturbed his dull brain. Ten shillings and Jaffery's peremptory order to stick to his side andobey him slavishly took the place of intellectual workings. It wasnearly midnight. We walked through the docks, a background ofdarkness, a foreground of confusing lights amid which shone vividilluminated placards before the brightly lit steamers--"St. Malo"--"Cherbourg"--"Jersey"--"Havre. " At the quiet gangway of theHavre boat we waited. The porter deposited our bags on the quay andstood patiently expectant like a dog who lays a stick at its master'sfeet. 

One London train came in. The carriage doors opened and a myriad antsswarmed to the various boats. At the Havre boat I took the fore, he theaft gangway. Thousands passed over, men and women, vague human formsencumbered with queer projecting excrescences of impedimenta. They allseemed alike--just a herd of Britons, impelled by irrational instinct, like the fate-driven lemmings of Norway, to cross the sea. And allaround, weird in the conflicting lights, hurried gnome-like figuresmountainously laden, and in the confusion of sounds could be heard theslither and thud of trunks being conveyed to the hold. At last the tailof the packed wedge disappeared on board and the gangway was clear. Iwent to the aft gangway to Jaffery and the porter. Neither of us hadseen Fendihook or Liosha. 

A second train produced results equally barren. 

There was nothing to do but carry out the prearranged plan. We wentaboard followed by the porter with the luggage. 

My method of travel has always been to arrange everything beforehandwith meticulous foresight. In the most crowded trains and boats I havethus secured luxurious accommodation. To hear therefore that there wereno berths free and that we should have to pass the night either on thewindy deck or in the red-plush discomfort of the open saloon caused menot unreasonable dismay. I had to choose and I chose the saloon. Jaffery, of course, chose the raw winds of heaven. All night I did notget a wink of sleep. There was a gross fellow in the next section ofred-plush whose snoring drowned the throb of the engines. Stewards longafter they had cleared away the remains of supper from the long centraltable chinked money at the desk and discussed the racing stables of theworld with a loudly dressed, red-faced man who, judging from the poppingof corks, absorbed whiskies and sodas at the rate of three a minute. Iunderstood then how thoughts of murder arose in the human brain. Idevised exquisite means of removing him from a nauseated world. Thenthere was a lamp which swung backwards and forwards and searched myeyeballs relentlessly, no matter how I covered them. 

What was I doing in this awful galley? Why had I left my wife and childand tranquil home? The wind freshened as soon as we got out to sea. There were horrible noises and rattling of tins and swift scurrying ofstewards. The ship rolled, which I particularly hate a ship to do. And Iwas fully dressed and it seemed as if all the tender parts of my bodywere tied up with twine. What was I doing in this galley?

When I awoke it was broad daylight, and Jaffery was grinning over me andall was deathly still. 

"Good God!" I cried, sitting up. "Why has the ship stopped? Is there afog?"

"Fog?" he boomed. "What are you talking of? We're alongside of Havre. "

"What time is it?" I asked. 

"Half-past six. "

"A Christian gentleman's hour of rising is nine o'clock, " said I, lyingdown again. 

He shook me rudely. "Get up, " said he. 

The sleepless, unshaven, unkempt, twine-bound, self-hating wreck ofHilary Freeth rose to his feet with a groan. 

"What a ghastly night!"

"Splendid, " said Jaffery, ruddy and fresh. "I must have tramped overtwenty miles. "

There was an onrush of blue-bloused porters, with metal plate numberson their arms. One took our baggage. We followed him up the companiononto the deck, and joined the crowd that awaited the releasing gangway. I stood resentful in the sardine pack of humans. The sky was overcast. It was very cold. The universe had an uncared-for, unswept appearance, like a house surprised at dawn, before the housemaids are up. The forcedappearance of a well-to-do philosopher at such an hour was nothing lessthan an outrage. I glared at the immature day. The day glared at me, andturned down its temperature about twenty degrees. From foolthoughtlessness I had not put on my overcoat, which was now far away incharge of the blue-bloused porter. I shivered. Jaffery was behind me. Iglanced over my shoulder. 

"This is our so-called civilisation, " I said bitterly. 

At the sound of my voice a tall woman in the rank five feet deep from usturned instinctively round, and Liosha and I looked into each other'seyes. 

CHAPTER XVIII

Jaffery caught sight of her at the same time and gripped my arm. Hereyes travelling from mine to his flashed indignant anger. Then sheturned haughtily. We tried to edge nearer her, but she was just beyondthe convergence of two side currents which pushed us even further away. The gangway was fixed and the movement of the conglomerate mass began. Presently Jaffery again seized my arm. 

"There's the brute waiting for her. "

And there on the quay, with a flower in his buttonhole and a smile onhis fat face, stood Mr. Ras Fendihook. He met her at the foot of thegangway, and obviously told at once of our presence, sought us anxiouslywith his gaze; then with an air of bravado waved his hat--a hard whitefelt--and cried out: "Cheer O!" We did not respond. He grinned at us andlinking his arm through Liosha's joined the stream of passengershurrying across the stones to the custom-sheds. 

"Stop, " Jaffery roared. 

They turned, as indeed did everybody within earshot. Fendihook wouldhave gone on, but Liosha very proudly drew him out of the stream into aclear space and, prepared for battle, awaited us. When we had struggledour slow way down and reached the quay she advanced a few steps lookingvery terrible in her wrath. 

"How dare you follow me?"

"Come further away from the crowd, " said Jaffery, and with an imperiousgesture he swept the three of us along the quay to the stern of theboat, where only a few idle sailor men were lounging, and a sergeant deville was pacing on his leisurely beat. 

"I said you would make a fool of yourself one of these days if I didn'tplay dragon, " he said, at a sudden halt. "I've come to play dragon witha vengeance. " He marched on Fendihook. "Now you. "

"How d'ye do, old cock? Didn't expect you here, " he said jauntily. 

"Don't be insolent, " replied Jaffery in a remarkably quiet tone. "Youknow very well why I'm here. "

"Jaff Chayne--" Liosha began. 

He waved her off. "Take her away, Hilary. "

"Come, " said I. "I'll tell you all about it. "

"He has got to tell me, not you. "

"I certainly don't know why the devil you're here, " said Fendihook, withsudden nastiness. 

"I've come to save this lady from a dirty blackguard. "

"How are you going to do it?"

Jaffery addressed Liosha. "You said in your letter--"

"You wrote to him, you crazy fool, after all my instructions?" snarledFendihook. 

"You said in your letter you were going to marry this man. "

"Sure, " said Liosha. 

"And are you going to marry this lady?"

"Certainly. "

"Why didn't you marry her in England?"

"I told you in my letter, " said Liosha. "See here--we don't want any ofyour interference. " And she planted herself by the side of her abductor, glaring defiance at Jaffery. 

Jaffery smiled. "You told her that because she was a widow and anAlbanian she would find considerable obstacles in her way and wouldforfeit half her money to the Government. You lying little skunk!"

The vibration in Jaffery's voice arrested Liosha. She looked swiftly atFendihook. 

"Wasn't it true what you told me?"

"Of course not, " I interposed. "You were as free to marry in England asMrs. Considine. "

She paid no attention to me. 

"Wasn't it true?" she repeated. 

Fendihook laughed in vulgar bluster. "You didn't take all that rotseriously, you silly cuckoo?"

Liosha drew a step away from him and regarded him wonderingly. For thefirst time doubt as to his straight-dealing rose in her candid mind. 

"She did, " said Jaffery. "She also took seriously your promise to marryher in France. "

"Well, ain't I going to marry her?"

"No, " said Jaffery. "You can't. "

"Who says I can't?"

"I do. You've got a wife already and three children. "

"I've divorced her. "

"You haven't. You've deserted her, which isn't the same thing. I'vefound out all about you. You shouldn't be such a famous character. "

Liosha stood speechless, for a moment, quivering all over, her eyesburning. 

"He's married already--" she gasped. 

"Certainly. He decoyed you here just to seduce you. "

Liosha made a sudden spring, like a tigress, and had it not been forJaffery's intervening boom of an arm, her hands would have been roundFendihook's throat. 

"Steady on, " growled Jaffery, controlling her with his iron strength. Fendihook, who had started back with an oath, grew as white as a sheet. I tapped him on the arm. 

"You had better hook it, " said I. "And keep out of her way if you don'twant a knife stuck into you. Yes, " I added, meeting a scared look, "you've been playing with the wrong kind of woman. You had better stickto the sort you're accustomed to. "

"Thank you for those kind words, " said he. "I will. "

"It would be wise also to keep out of the way of Jaffery Chayne. With myown eyes I've seen him pick up a man he didn't like and"--I made anexpressive gesture--"throw him clean away. "

"Right O!" said he. 

He nodded, winked impudently and walked away. A thought struck me. Iovertook him. 

"Where are you staying in Havre?"

He looked at me suspiciously. "What do you want to know for?"

"To save you from being murdered, as you would most certainly be if wechanced upon the same hotel. "

"I'm staying at the Phares--the swagger one on the beach near theCasino. "

"Excellent, " said I. "Go on swaggering. Good-bye. "

"Good-bye, old pal, " said he. 

He tilted his white hat to a rakish angle and marched away. 

I rejoined Jaffery and Liosha. He still held her wrists; but she stoodunresisting, tense and rigid, with averted head, looking sidewise down. Her lip quivered, her bosom heaved. Jaffery had mastered her fury, butnow we had to deal with her shame and humiliation. 

"Let her go!" I whispered. 

Jaffery freed her. She rubbed her wrists mechanically, without movingher head. I wished Barbara had been there; she would have known exactlywhat to do. As it was, we stood by her, somewhat helplessly. 

"_Monsieur_, " said a voice close by, and we saw our little blue-blousedporter. He explained that he had been seeking us everywhere. If we didnot make haste we would lose the Paris train. 

I replied that as we were not going to Paris, we were not pressed fortime; but this little outside happening broke the situation. 

"Better give this fellow your luggage ticket, Liosha, " said Jaffery. 

She looked about her bewildered and then I noticed on the ground aleather satchel which she had been carrying. I picked it up. Sheextracted the ticket and we all went to the custom-house. 

"What's the programme now?" I asked Jaffery. 

"Hotel, " said he. "This poor girl will want a rest. Besides, we'll haveto stay the night. "

"Our friend is staying at the Hotel des Phares. "

"Then we'll go to Tortoni's. "

An ordinary woman would have drawn down the motor veil which she worecockled-up on her travelling hat; but Liosha, grandly unconcerned withsuch vanities, showed her young shame-stricken face to all the world. Ifelt intensely sorry for her. She realised now from what a blatantscoundrel she had been saved; but she still bitterly resented ourintervention. "I felt as if I was stripped naked walking betweenthem"--that was her primitive account later of her state of mind. 

"Barbara, " said I, "sent you her very dear love. "

She nodded, without looking at me. 

"Barbara would have come too, if Susan had not been ill. "

She gave a little start. I thought she was about to speak; but sheremained silent. We entered the customs-shed, when she attendedmechanically to her declarations. 

On emerging free into the open air again, we found that the cheery sunhad pierced the morning clouds and gave promise of a glorious day. Theluggage was piled on the hotel omnibus. We took an open cab and rattledthrough the narrow flag-paved streets of the harbour quarter of thetown. As we emerged into a more spacious thoroughfare, suddenly from agaudy column at the corner flared the name of Ras Fendihook. I caughtthe heading of the _affiche_: "Music-Hall-Eldorado. " Part of the mysterywas solved. Jaffery had been right in his deduction that he had leftLondon on a professional engagement; but we had not thought of anengagement out of England. I had a correct answer now to my question:"Why Havre of all places?" Jaffery sitting with Liosha on the back seatof the victoria saw it too and we exchanged glances. But Liosha had eyesfor nothing save her hands tightly clasped in her lap. We passed anothercolumn before we entered the Place Gambetta, where already at that earlyhour, above its wide terrace, the striped awning of Tortoni's was flung. We alighted at the hotel and ordered our three rooms; coffee and roll tobe taken up to madame; we men would eat our petit déjeuner downstairs. Liosha left us without saying a word. 

Bathed, shaved, changed, refreshed by the good _café au lait_, gladdenedby the sunshine and smugly satisfied with our morning's work, quite adifferent Hilary Freeth sat with Jaffery on the terrace from thesleepless wreck he had awakened two hours before. My urbane dismissal ofRas Fendihook lingered suave in my memory. The glow of conscious heroismwarmed me, even like last night's dinner, to sympathy with my kind. After despatching, by the chasseur, a long telegram to Barbara, andsending up to Liosha's room a bunch of red roses we bought at aflorist's hard by, I surrendered myself idly to the contemplation of thematutinal Sunday life of provincial France, while Jaffery smoked hispipe and uttered staccato maledictions on Mr. Ras Fendihook. 

I love provincial France. It is narrow, it is bourgeois, it is regardingof its _sous_, it is what you will. But it lives a spacious, out-of-door, corporate life. On Sundays, it does not bury itself, likeprovincial England, in a cellular house. It walks abroad. It indulges inits modest pleasures. It is serious, it is intensely conscious offamily, but it can take deep breaths of freedom. It is not Sundayfiedinto our vacuous boredom. It clings to the picturesque, in which itfinds its dignified delight. The little soldier clad in blue tunic andred trousers struts along with his _fiancée_ or _maîtresse_ on his arm;the cuirassier swaggers by in brass helmet and horsehair plume; thecavalry officer, dapper in light blue, with his pretty wife, drinkssyrup at a neighbouring table in your café. The work-girls, even onSunday, go about bareheaded, as though they were at home in the friendlystreet. The curé in shovel hat and cassock; the workmen for whom Sundayhappens not to be the _jour de repos hebdomadaire_ ordained by law, intheir blue _sarreau_; the peasants from outlying villages--the men inqueer shell-jackets with a complication of buttons, the women indazzling white caps astonishingly gauffered; the lawyer in decent black, with his white cambric tie; the fat and greasy citizen with fat andgreasy wife and prim, pig-tailed little daughter clad in an exiguouscotton frock of loud and unauthentic tartan, and showing a quarter of aninch of sock above high yellow boots; the superb pair of gendarmes withtheir cocked hats, wooden epaulettes and swords; the white-apronedwaiters standing by café tables--all these types are distinct, pickedout pleasurably by the eye; they give a cheery sense of variety; thestage is dressed. 

So when Jaffery asked me what in the world we were going to do all day, I replied:

"Sit here. "

"Don't you want to see the place?"

"The place, " said I, "is parading before us. "

"We might hire a car and run over to Etretat. "

"There's Liosha, " I objected. "We can't leave her alone and she's not ina mood for jaunts. "

"She won't leave her room to-day, poor girl. It must be awful for her. Oh, that swine of a blighter!"

His wrath exploded again over the iniquitous Fendihook. For the dozenthtime we went over the story. 

"What on earth are we going to do with her?" he asked. "She can't goback to the boarding-house. "

"For the time being, at any rate, I'll take her down to Barbara. "

"Barbara's a wonder, " said he fervently. "And do you know, Hilary, there's the makings of a devilish fine woman in Liosha, if one only knewthe right way to take her. "

The right way, I think, was known to me, but I did not reveal it. Iassented to Jaffery's proposition. 

"She has a vile temper and the mind and facile passions of a Spanishgipsy, but she has stunning qualities. She's the soul of truth andhonour and as straight as a die. And brave. This has been a nasty knockfor her; but I don't mind betting you that as soon as she has pulledherself together she'll treat the thing quite in a big way. "

And as if to prove his assertion, who should come sailing towards uspast the long line of empty tables but Liosha herself. Another womanwould have lain weeping on her bed and one of us would have had tosoothe her and sympathise with her, and coax her to eat and cajole herinto revisiting the light of day. Not so Liosha. She arrayed herself infresh, fawn-coloured coat and skirt, fitting close to her splendidfigure, which she held erect, a smart hat with a feather, and new whitegloves, and came to us the incarnation of summer, clear-eyed as themorning, our roses pinned in her corsage. Of course she was pale and herlips were not quite under control, but she made a valiant show. 

We arose as she approached, but she motioned us back to our chairs. 

"Don't get up. I guess I'll join you. "

We drew up a chair and she seated herself between us. Then she lookedsteadily and unsmilingly from one to the other. 

"I want to thank you two. I've been a damn fool. "

"Well, old girl, " said Jaffery kindly, "I must own you've been ratherindiscreet. "

"I've been a damn fool, " she repeated. 

"Anyhow it's over now. Thank goodness, " said I. "Did you eat yourbreakfast?"

She made a little wry face. No, she could not touch it. What would shehave now? I sent a waiter for café-au-lait and a brioche and lecturedher on the folly of going without proper sustenance. The ghost of asmile crept into her eyes, in recognition, I suppose, of the hedonismwith which I am wrongly credited by my friends. Then she thanked us forthe roses. They were big, like her, she said. The waiter set out thelittle tray and the _verseur_ poured out the coffee and milk. We watchedher eat and drink. Having finished she said she felt better. 

"You've got some sense, Hilary, " she admitted. 

"Tell me, " said Jaffery. "How did we come to miss you on the boat? Wewatched the London trains carefully. "

"I came from Southsea about an hour before the boat started and went tobed at once. "

"Southsea? Why, we were there all the evening, " said I. "What were youdoing at Southsea?"

"Staying with Emma--Mrs. Jupp. The General lives there. I couldn't stickthat boarding-house by myself any longer so I wrote to Emma to ask herto put me up. "

"So that's why you went on Thursday?"

"That's why. "

"Pardon me if I'm inquisitive, " said I, "but did you take Mrs. Considine--I mean Mrs. Jupp--into your confidence?"

"Lord no! She's not my dragon any longer. She knew I was going toHavre--to meet friends. Of course I had to tell her that. But JaffChayne was the only person that had to know the truth. "

We questioned her as delicately as we could and gradually the intriguethat had puzzled us became clear. Ras Fendihook left London on Sundayfor a fortnight's engagement at the Eldorado of Havre. As there was noSunday night boat for Southampton he had to travel to Havre via Paris. Being a crafty villain, he would not run away with Liosha straight fromLondon. She was to join him a week later, after he had had time to spyout the land and make his nefarious schemes for a mock marriage. Hisfortnight up, he was sailing away again to America. Liosha was toaccompany him. In all probability, for I delight in thinking the worstof Mr. Ras Fendihook, he would have found occasion, towards the end ofhis tour, of sending her on a fool's errand, say, to Texas, while heworked his way to New York, where he would have an unembarrassed voyageback to England, leaving Liosha floundering helplessly in the railwaynetwork of the United States. I have made it my business to enquire intothe ways of this entertaining but unholy villain. This is what I am surehe would have done. One girl some half dozen years before he had leftpenniless in San Francisco and the door over which burns the Red Lampswallowed her up forever. 

For the present, however, Liosha was to join him in Havre. Not a soulmust know. He gave sordid instructions as to secrecy. As Jaffery hadguessed, he had instigated the comic destination of Westminster Abbey. Although her open nature abhorred the deception, she obeyed hisinstructions in minor details and thought she was acting in the spiritof the intrigue when she enclosed the letters to Mrs. Jardine to beposted in London. By risking discovery of her secret during her visit tothe admirable lady at Southsea and by ingenuously disclosing the plot toJaffery she showed herself to be a very sorry conspirator. 

She spoke so quietly and bravely that we had not the heart to touch uponthe sentimental side of her adventure. As we could not stay in Havre allday at the risk of meeting Mr. Ras Fendihook, who might swagger into thetown from his swagger hotel on the _plage_, we carried out Jaffery'sproposal, hired an automobile and drove to Etretat. We came straightfrom inland into the tiny place, so coquettish in its mingling offisher-folk and fashion, so cut off from the coast world by the jaggedneedle gates jutting out on each side of the small bay and by the suddengrass-grown bluff rising above them, so cleanly sparkling in thesunshine, and for the first time Liosha's face brightened. She drew adeep breath. 

"Oh, let us all come and live here. "

We laughed and wandered among the tarred, up-turned boats wherein thefishermen store their tackle and along the pebbly beach where a fewbelated bathers bobbed about in the water and up the curious steps tothe terrace and listened to the last number of the orchestra. Then lunchat the clean, old-fashioned Hotel Blanquet among the fishing boats; andafterwards coffee and liqueurs in the little shady courtyard. Jafferywas very gentle with Liosha, treating her tenderly like a bruised thing, and talked of his adventures and cracked little jokes and attendedsolicitously to her wants. Several times I saw her raise her eyes in shygratitude, and now and then she laughed. Her healthy youth also enabledher to make an excellent meal, and after it she smoked cigarettes andsipped _crême de menthe_ with frank gusto. To me she appeared like anaughty child who instead of meeting with expected punishment findsitself coddled in affectionate arms. All resentment had died away. Unreservedly she had laid herself as a "damn fool" at our feet--orrather at Jaffery's feet, for I did not count for much. Instead ofblundering over her and tugging her up and otherwise exacerbating herwounds, he lifted her with tactful kindness to her self-respect. For thefirst time, save when Susan was the connecting-link, he entered into aspiritual relation with Liosha. She fulfilled his prophecy--she wasdealing with a soul-shrivelling situation in a big way. He admired herimmensely, as his great robust nature admired immense things. At thesame time he realised all in her that was sore and grievously throbbingand needed the delicate touch. I shall never forget those few hours. 

To dream away a summer's afternoon had no place, however, in Jaffery'scategory of delights. He must be up and doing. I have threatened on manyrestless occasions to rig up at Northlands a gigantic wheel for hisbenefit similar to that in which Susan's white mice take futileexercise. If there was such a wheel he must, I am sure, get in and whirlit round; just as if there is a boat he must row it, or tree to befelled he must fell it, or a hill to be climbed he must climb it. AtEtretat, as it happens, there are two hills. He stretched forth his handto one, of course the highest, crowned by the fishermen's chapel andordained an ascent. Liosha was in the chastened mood in which she wouldhave dived with him to the depths of the English Channel. I, withgrudging meekness and a prayer for another five minutes devoted to thedeglutition of another liqueur brandy, acquiesced. 

It was not such an arduous climb after all. A light breeze tempered thefury of the July sun. The grass was crisp and agreeable to the feet. Thesmell of wild thyme mingling with the salt of the low-tide seaweedconveyed stimulating fragrance. When we reached the top and Jafferysuggested that we should lie down, I protested. Why not walk along theedge of the inspiring cliffs?

"It's all very well for you, who've slept like a log all night, " said hethrowing his huge bulk on the ground, "but Liosha and I need rest. "

Liosha stood glowing on the hilltop and panting a little after the quickascent. A little curly strand on her forehead played charmingly in thewind which blew her skirts close around her in fine modelling. I thoughtof the Winged Victory. 

"I'm not a bit tired, " she said. 

But seeing Jaffery definitely prone with his bearded chin on his fists, she glanced at me as though she should say: "Who are we to go contraryto his desires?" and settled down beside him. 

So I stretched myself, too, on the grass and we watched the dancing seaand the flashing sails of fishing boats and the long plume from asteamer in the offing and the little town beneath us and the tinygolfers on the cliff on the other side of the bay, and were in factgiving ourselves up to an idyllic afternoon, when suddenly Liosha brokethe spell. 

"If I had got hold of that man this morning I think I would have killedhim. "

Since leaving Havre we had not referred to unhappy things. 

"It would have served him right, " said Jaffery. 

"I did strike him once. "

"Oh?" said I. 

"Yes. " She looked out to sea. There was a pause. I longed to hear thedetails of the scene, which could not have lacked humorous elements. Butshe left them to my imagination. "After that, " she continued, "he saw Iwas an honest woman and talked about marriage. "

Jaffery's fingers fiddled with bits of grass. "What licks me, my dear, "said he, "is how you came to take up with the fellow. "

She shrugged her shoulders--it was the full shrug of the un-Englishchild of nature. "I don't know, " she said, with her gaze still far away. "He was so funny. "

"But he was such a bounder, old lady, " said Jaffery, in gentleremonstrance. 

"You all said so. But I thought you didn't like him because he wasdifferent and could make me laugh. I guess I hated you all very much. You seemed to want me to behave like Euphemia, and I couldn't behavelike Euphemia. I tried very hard when you used to take me out todinner. "

Jaffery looked at her comically. But all he said was: "Go on. "

"What can I say?"--she shrugged her shoulders again. "With him I hadn'tto be on my best behaviour. I could say anything I liked. You all thinkit dreadful because I know, like everybody else, how children come intothe world, and can make jokes about things like that. Emma used to sayit was not ladylike--but he--he did not say so. He laughed. His friendsused to laugh. With him and his friends, I could, so to speak, take offmy stays"--she threw out her hands largely--"ouf!"

"I see, " said Jaffery, frowning at his blades of grass. 

"But between liking, figuratively, to take off your corsets in a crowdof Bohemians and wanting to marry the worst of them lies a bigdifference. You must have got fond of the fellow, " he added, in a lowvoice. 

I said nothing. It was their affair. I was responsible to Barbara forher safe deliverance and here she was delivered. My attitude, as you canunderstand, was solely one of kindly curiosity. Liosha, for somemoments, also said nothing. Rather feverishly she pulled off her newwhite gloves and cast them away; and I noticed an all but imperceptiblesomething--something, for want of a better word, like a ripple--sweepthrough her, faintly shaking her bosom, infinitesimally ruffling herneck and dying away in a flush on her cheek. 

"You loved the fellow, " said Jaffery, still picking at the grass-blades. 

She bent forward, as she sat; hovered over him for a second or two andclutched his shoulder. 

"I didn't, " she cried. "I didn't. " She almost screamed. "I thought youunderstood. I would have married anybody who would have taken me out ofprison. He was going to take me out of prison to places where I couldbreathe. " She fell back onto her heels and beat her breast with bothhands. "I was dying for want of air. I was suffocating. "

Her intensity caught him. He lumbered to his feet. 

"What are you talking about?"

She rose, too, almost with a synchronous movement. An interestedspectator, I continued sitting, my hands clasped round my knees. 

"The little prison you put me into. I felt this in my throat"--andforgetful of the admirable Mrs. Considine's discipline she mimed herwords startlingly--"I was sick--sick--sick to death. You forget, JaffChayne, the mountains of Albania. "

"Perhaps I did, " said he, with his steady eyes fixed on her. "But Iremember 'em now. Would you like to go back?"

She put her hands for a few seconds before her face, as though to hideswift visions of slaughtered enemies, then dashed them away. "No. Notnow. Not after--No. But mountains, freedom--anything unlike prison. Oh, I've gone mad sometimes. I've wanted to take up a fender and smashthings. "

"I've felt like that myself, " said Jaffery. 

"And what have you done?"

"I've broken out of prison and run away. "

"That's what I did, " said Liosha. 

Then Jaffery burst into his great laugh and held her hands and looked ather with kindly, sympathetic mirth in his eyes. And Liosha laughed, too. 

"We're both of us savages under our skins, old lady. That's what itcomes to. "

No more was said of Ras Fendihook. The man's broad, flashy good-humourhad caught her fancy; his vagabond life stimulated her imagination ofwider horizons; he promised her release from the conventions andrestrictions of her artificial existence; she was ready to embark withhim, as his wife, into the Unknown; but it was evident that she had notgiven him the tiniest little scrap of her heart. 

"Why didn't you tell me all this long ago?" asked Jaffery. 

"I tried to be good to please you--you and Barbara and Hilary, who'vebeen so kind to me. "

"It's all this infernal civilisation, " he declared. "My dear girl, I'mas much fed up with it as you are; I want to go somewhere and wearbeads. "

"So do I, " said Liosha. 

I thought of Barbara's lecture on the whole duty of woman and Ichuckled. The attitude in which I was, my hands clasped round my knees, consorted with sardonic merriment. I was checked, however, a momentafterwards, by the sight of my barbarians in the perfect agreement ofbabyhood calmly walking away from me along the cliff road. I jumped tomy feet and pursued them. 

"At any rate while you're with me, " I panted, "you'll observe thedecencies of civilised life. "

CHAPTER XIX

"_Arrêtez! 'Arrêtez!_" roared Jaffery all of a sudden. 

We had just passed the Havre Casino on our way back from Etretat. Thechauffeur pulled up. Jaffery flung open the door, leaped out anddisappeared. In a few seconds we heard his voice reverberating from sideto side of the Boulevard Maritime. 

"Hullo! hullo! hullo!"

I raised myself and, looking over the back of the car, saw Jaffery incharacteristic attitude, shaking a strange man by the shoulders andlaughing in delighted welcome. He was a squat, broad, powerful-lookingfellow, with a heavy black beard trimmed to a point, and wearing acuriously ill-fitting suit of tweeds and a bowler-hat. I noticed that hecarried neither stick nor gloves. The ecstasies of encounter havingsubsided, Jaffery dragged him to the car. 

"This is my good old friend, Captain Maturin, " he shouted, opening thedoor. "Mrs. Prescott. Mr. Freeth. Get in. We'll have a drink atTortoni's. "

Captain Maturin, unconfused by Jaffery's unceremonious whirling, tookoff his hat very politely and entered the car in a grave, self-possessedmanner. He had clear, unblinking, grey-green eyes, the colour of astormy sea before the dawn. I was for surrendering him my seat nextLiosha, but with a courteous "Pray don't, " he quickly establishedhimself on the small seat facing us, hitherto occupied by Jaffery. Jaffery jumped up in front next the chauffeur and leaned over thepartition. The car started. 

"Captain and I are old shipmates. " All Havre must have heard him. "FromChristiania to Odessa, with all the Baltic and Mediterranean portsthrown in. In the depth of winter. Remember?"

"It was five years ago, " said Captain Maturin, twisting his head round. "We sailed from the port of Leith on the 27th of December. "

"And by gosh! Didn't it blow? Gales the whole time, there and back. "

"It was as dirty a voyage as ever I made, " said Captain Maturin. 

"A ripping time, anyhow, " said Jaffery. 

"Weren't you very seasick?" I asked. 

"Ho! ho! ho!" Jaffery roared derisively. 

"Mr. Chayne's pretty tough, sir, " said the Captain with a grave smile. "He has missed his vocation. He's a good sailor lost. "

"Remember that night off Vigo?"

"I don't ever want to see such another, Mr. Chayne. It was touch andgo. " Captain Maturin's smile faded. No commander likes to think of thetime when a freakish Providence and not his helpless self wasresponsible for the saving of his ship. 

"He was on the bridge sixty hours at a stretch, " said Jaffery. 

"Sixty hours?" I exclaimed. 

"Thousands have done it before and thousands have done it since, myselfincluded. On this occasion Mr. Chayne saw it through with me. "

Two days and nights and a day without sleep; standing on a few planks, holding on to a rail, while you are tossed up and down and from side toside and drenched with dashing tons of ice-cold water and fronting ahurricane that blows ice-tipped arrows, and all the time not knowingfrom one minute to the next whether you are going to Kingdom come--No. It is my idea of duty, but not my idea of fun. And even as duty--Ithanked merciful Heaven that never since the age of nine, when I wasviolently sick crossing to the Isle of Wight, have I had the remotestdesire to be a mariner, either professional or amateur. I looked at thetwo adventurers wonderingly; and so did Liosha. 

"I love the sea, " she said. "Don't you?"

"I can't say I do, ma'am. I've got a wife and child at Pinner, and Igrow sweet peas for exhibition. All of which I can't attend to on boardship. "

He said it very seriously. He was not the man to talk flippantly for theentertainment of a pretty woman. 

"But if he's a month ashore, he fumes to get back, " boomed Jaffery. 

"It's the work I was bred to, " replied the Captain soberly. "If a mandoesn't love his work, he's not worth his salt. But that's not sayingthat I love the sea. "

With such discourse did we beguile the short journey to the Hotel, Restaurant and Café Tortoni in the Place Gambetta. The terrace wasthronged with the good Havre folks, husbands and wives and familiesenjoying the Sunday afternoon _apéritif_. 

"Now let us have a drink, " cried Jaffery, huge pioneer through thecrowd. Liosha would have left us three men to our masculine devices. ButJaffery swept her along. Why shouldn't we have a pretty woman at ourtable as well as other people? She flushed at the compliment, the first, I think, he had ever paid her. A waiter conjured a vacant table andchairs from nowhere, in the midst of the sedentary throng. For Lioshawas brought grenadine syrup and soda, for me absinthe, at which CaptainMaturin, with the steady English sailor's suspicion of any other drinkthan Scotch whisky, glanced disapprovingly. Jaffery, to give himself anappetite for dinner, ordered half a litre of Munich beer. 

"And now, Captain, " said he genially, "what have you been doing withyourself? Still on the Baltic-Mediterranean?"

"No, Mr. Chayne. I left that some time ago. I'm on the Blue CrossLine--Ellershaw & Co. --trading between Havre and Mozambique. "

"Where's Mozambique?" Liosha asked me. 

I looked wise, but Captain Maturin supplied the information. "PortugueseEast Africa, ma'am. We also run every other trip to Madagascar. "

"That's a place I've never been to, " said Jaffery. 

"Interesting, " said the Captain. He poured the little bottle of sodainto his whisky, held up his glass, bowed to the lady, and to me, exchanged a solemnly confidential wink with Jaffery, and sipped hisdrink. Under Jaffery's questioning he informed us--for he was not aspontaneously communicative man--that he now had a very good command:steamship _Vesta_, one thousand five hundred tons, somewhat old, butsea-worthy, warranted to take more cargo than any vessel of her size hehad ever set eyes on. 

"And when do you sail?" asked Jaffery. 

"To-morrow at daybreak. They're finishing loading her up now. "

Jaffery drained his tall glass mug of beer and ordered another. 

"Are you going to Madagascar this trip?"

"Yes, worse luck. "

"Why worse luck?" I asked. 

"It cuts short my time at Pinner, " replied Captain Maturin. 

Here was a man, I reflected, with the mystery and romance of Madagascarbefore him, who sighed for his little suburban villa and plot of gardenat Pinner. Some people are never satisfied. 

"I've not been to Madagascar, " said Jaffery again. 

Captain Maturin smiled gravely. "Why not come along with me. Mr. Chayne?"

Jaffery's eyes danced and his smile broadened so that his white teethshowed beneath his moustache. "Why not?" he cried. And bringing down hishand with a clamp on Liosha's shoulder--"Why not? You and I. Out of thisrotten civilisation?"

Liosha drew a deep breath and looked at him in awed amazement. So did I. I thought he was going mad. 

"Would you like it?" he asked. 

"Like it!" She had no words to express the glory that sprang into herface. 

Captain Maturin leaned forward. 

"I'm sorry, Mr. Chayne, we've no license for passengers, and certainlythere's no accommodation for ladies. "

Jaffery threw up a hand. "But she's not a lady--in your silly old sailorsense of the term. She's a hefty savage like me. When you had me aboard, did you think of having accommodation for a gentleman? Ho! ho! ho! Atany rate, " said he, at the end of the peal, "you've a sort of sparecabin? There's always one. "

"A kind of dog-hole--for you, Mr. Chayne. "

Jaffery's keen eye caught the Captain's and read things. He jumped tohis feet, upsetting his chair and causing disaster at two adjoining andcrowded tables, for which, dismayed and bareheaded--Jaffery could be avery courtly gentleman when he chose--he apologized in fluent French, and, turning, caught Captain Maturin beneath the arm. 

"Let us have a private palaver about this. "

They threaded their way through the tables to the spaciousness of thePlace Gambetta. Liosha followed them with her glance till theydisappeared; then she looked at me and asked breathlessly:

"Hilary! Do you think he means it?"

"He's demented enough to mean anything, " said I. 

"But, seriously. " She caught my wrist, and only then did I notice thather hands were bare, her gloves reposing where she had cast them on thehillside at Etretat. "Did he mean it? I'd give my immortal soul to go. "

I looked into her eyes, and if I did not see stick, stark, staringcraziness in them I don't know what stick, stark, staring craziness is. 

"Do you know what you're letting yourself in for?" said I, pretending tobelieve in her sanity. "Here's a rotten old tub of a tramp--withoutanother woman on board, with all the inherited smells of all the animalsin Noah's Ark, including the descendants of all the cockroaches thatNoah forgot to land, with a crew of Dagoes and Dutchmen, with awfulfood, without a bath, with a beast of an unventilated rabbit-hutch tosleep in--a wallowing, rolling, tossing, pitching, antiquated parody ofa steamer, a little trumpery cockleshell always wet, always shippingseas, always slithery, never a dry place to sit down upon, with peoplealways standing, sixty hours at a time, without sleep, on the bridge tosee that she doesn't burst asunder and go down--a floating--when shedoes float--a floating inferno of misery--here it is--I can tell you allabout it--any child in a board school could tell you--an inferno ofmisery in which you would be always hungry, always sleepless, alwayssuffering from indigestion, always wet through, always violently ill andalways dirty, with your hair in ropes and your face bloused by thewind--to say nothing of icebergs and fogs and the cargo of cotton goodscatching fire, and the wheezing mediæval boilers bursting and sendingyou all to glory--"

I paused for lack of breath. Liosha, who, elbows on table and chin onhands, had listened to me, first with amusement, then with absorbedinterest, and lastly with glowing rapture, cried in a shaky voice:

"I should love it! I should love it!"

"But it's lunatic, " said I. 

"So much the better. "

"But the proprieties. "

She shifted her position, threw herself back in her chair, and flung outher hands towards me. 

"You ought to be keeping Mrs. Jardine's boarding-house. What have JaffChayne and I to do with proprieties? Didn't he and I travel from Scutarito London?"

"Yes, " said I. "But aren't things just a little bit different now?"

It was a searching question. Her swift change of expression from glow todefensive sombreness admitted its significance. 

"Nothing is different, " she said curtly. "Things are exactly the same. "She bent forward and looked at me straight from beneath lowering brows. "If you think just because he and I are good friends now there's anydifference, you're making a great mistake. And just you tell Barbarathat. "

"I will do so--" said I. 

"And you can also tell her, " she continued, "that Liosha Prescott is notgoing to let herself be made a fool of by a man who's crazy mad overanother woman. No, sirree! Not this child. Not me. And as for theproprieties"--she snapped her fingers--"they be--they be anything'd!"

To this frank exposition of her feelings I could say nothing. I drankthe remainder of my absinthe and lit a cigarette. I fell back on themanifest lunacy of the Madagascar voyage. I urged, somewhatanti-climatically after my impassioned harangue, its discomfort. 

"You'll be the fifth wheel to a coach. Your petticoats, my dear, willalways be in the way. "

"I needn't wear petticoats, " said Liosha. 

We argued until a red, grinning Jaffery, beaming like the fiery sun nowabout to set, appeared winding his way through the tables, followed bythe black-bearded, grey-eyed sea captain. 

"It's all fixed up, " said he, taking his seat. "The Cap'en understandsthe whole position. If you want to come to 'Jerusalem and Madagascar andNorth and South Amerikee, ' come. "

"But this is midsummer madness, " said I. 

"Suppose it is, what matter?" He waved a great hand and fortuitouslycaught a waiter by the arm. "_Même chose pour tout le monde_. " Heflicked him away. "Now, this is business. Will you come and rough it?The _Vesta_ isn't a Cunard Liner. Not even a passenger boat. Noluxuries. I hope you understand. "

"Hilary has been telling me just what I'm to expect, " said Liosha. 

"We'll do our best for you, ma'am, " said Captain Maturin; "but youmustn't expect too much. I suppose you know you'll have to sign on asone of the crew?"

"And if you disobey orders, " said I, "the Captain can tie you up to thebinnacle, and give you forty lashes and put you in irons. "

"I guess I'll be obedient, Captain, " said Liosha, proud of herincredulity. 

"I don't allow my ship's company to bring many trunks and portmanteauxaboard, " smiled Captain Maturin. 

"I'll see to the dunnage, " said Jaffery. 

"The _what_?" I asked. 

"It's only passengers that have luggage. Sailor folk like Liosha and mehave dunnage. "

"I see, " said I. "And you bring it on board in a bundle together with aparrot in a cage. "

Earnest persuasion being of no avail, I must have recourse to lightmockery. But it met with little response. "And what, " I asked, "is tobecome of the forty-odd _colis_ that we passed through the customs thismorning?"

"You can take 'em home with you, " said Jaffery. He grinned over histhird foaming beaker of dark beer. "Isn't it a blessing I brought himalong? I told him he'd come in useful. "

"But, good Lord!" I protested, aghast, "what excuse can I, a lone man, give to the Southampton customs for the possession of all this baggage?They'll think I've murdered my wife on the voyage and I shall bearrested. No. There is the parcel post. There are agencies ofexpedition. We can forward the luggage by _grande vitesse_ or _petitevitesse_--how long are you likely to be away on this Theophile Gautiervoyage--'_Cueillir la fleur de neige. Ou la fleur d'Angsoka_'?"

"Four months, " said Captain Maturin. 

"Then if I send them by the Great Swiftness, they'll arrive just intime. "

I love my friends and perform altruistic feats of astonishingdifficulty; but I draw the line at being personally involved in anightmare of curved-top trunks and green canvas hat-containing cratesbelonging to a woman who is not my wife. 

There followed a conversation on what seemed to me fantastic, but to theothers practical details, in which I had no share. A suit of oilskinsand sea-boots for Liosha formed the subject of much complicatedargument, at the end of which Captain Maturin undertook to procure themfrom marine stores this peaceful Sunday night. Liosha, aglow withexcitement and looking exceedingly beautiful, also mentioned her need ofthick jersey and woollen cap and stout boots not quite sotempest-defying as the others; and these, too, the foolish andapparently infatuated mariner promised to provide. We driftedmechanically, still talking, into the interior of the Café-Restaurant, where we sat down to a dinner which I ordered to please myself, for notone of the others took the slightest interest in it. Jaffery, like aschoolboy son of Gargamelle, shovelled food into his mouth--it mighthave been tripe, or bullock's heart or chitterlings for all he knew orcared. His jolly laugh served as a bass for the more treble buzz andclatter of the pleasant place. I have never seen a man exude suchplentiful happiness. Liosha ate unthinkingly, her elbows on the table, after the manner of Albania, her hat not straight--I whispered theinformation as (through force of training) I should have whispered it toBarbara, with no other result than an impatient push which rendered itmore piquantly crooked than ever. Captain Maturin went through theperformance with the grave face of another classical devotee to duty;but his heart--poor fellow!--was not in his food. It was partly inPinner, partly in his antediluvian tramp, and partly in the prospect ofhaving as cook's mate during his voyage the superbly vital young womanof the stone-age, now accidentally tricked out in twentieth centuryfinery, who was sitting next to him. 

Captain Maturin took an early leave. He had various things to do beforeturning in--including, I suppose, the purchase of his cook's mate'soutfit--and he was to sail at five-thirty in the morning. If his newdeck-hand and cook's mate would come alongside at five or thereabouts, he would see to their adequate reception. 

"You wouldn't like to ship along with me, too, Mr. Freeth?" said he, with a grip like--like any horrible thing that is hard and iron andclamping in a steamer's machinery--and athwart his green-grey eyesfilled with wind and sea passed a gleam of humour--"There's stilltime. "

"I would come with pleasure, " said I, "were it not for the fact that allmy spare moments are devoted to the translation of a Persian poet. "

If I am not urbane, I am nothing. 

He went. Liosha bade me good-bye. She must retire early. Therearrangement of her luggage--"dunnage, " I corrected--would be a lengthyprocess. She thanked me, in her best Considine manner, for all thetrouble I had taken on her account, sent her love to Barbara and toSusan, whose sickness, she trusted, would be transitory, expressed thehope that the care of her belongings would not be too great a strainupon my household--and then, like a flash of lightning, in the verymiddle of the humming restaurant filled with all the notabilities andrespectabilities of Havre, she flung her generous arms around my neck ina great hug, and kissed me, and said: "Dear old Hilary, I do love you!"and marched away magnificently through the staring tables to the innerrecesses of the hotel. 

Puzzledom reigned in Havre that night. English people are credited inFrance with any form of eccentricity, so long as it conforms withtraditions of _le flègme britannique_; but there was not much _flègme_about Liosha's embrace, and so the good Havrais were mystified. 

There was no following Liosha. She had made her exit. To have run afterher were an artistic crime; and in real life we are more instinctivelyartistic and dramatic than the unthinking might suppose. Besides, therewas the bill to pay. We sat down again. 

"That little chap never seems to have any luck, " said Jaffery. "He's oneof the finest seamen afloat, with a nerve of steel and a damnable way ofgetting himself obeyed. He ought to be in command of a great linerinstead of a rotten old tramp of fifteen hundred tons. "

I beamed. "I'm glad you call it a rotten old tramp. I described it inthose terms to Liosha. "

"Oh!" said Jaffery. "Precious lot you know about it. " He yawnedcavernously. "I'll be turning in soon, myself. "

It was not yet ten o'clock. "And what shall I do?" I asked. 

"Better turn in, too, if you want to see us off. "

"My dear Jaff, " said I, "you have always bewildered me, and when Icontemplate this new caprice I am beyond the phenomenon of bewilderment. But in one respect my mind retains its serene equipoise. Nothing shortof an Act of God shall drag me from my bed at half-past four in themorning. "

"I wanted to give you a few last instructions. "

"Give them to me now, " said I. 

He handed me the key of his chambers. "If you wouldn't mind tidying up, some day--I left my papers in a deuce of a mess. "

"All right, " said I. 

"And I had better give you a power of attorney, in case anything shouldcrop up. "

He called for writing materials, and scribbled and signed the document, which I put into my letter case. 

"And what about letters?"

"Don't want any. Unless"--said he, after a little pause, frowning in theplenitude of his content--"if you and Barbara can make things rightagain with Doria--then one of you might drop me a line. I'll send you aschedule of dates. "

"Still harping on my daughter?" said I. 

"You may think it devilish funny, " he replied; "but for me there's onlyone woman in the world. "

"Let us have a final drink, " said I. 

We drank, chatted a while, and went to bed. 

When I awoke the next morning the _Vesta_ was already four hours on herway to Madagascar. 

CHAPTER XX

I have one failing. Even I, Hilary Freeth, of Northlands in the Countyof Berkshire, Esquire, Gent, have one failing, and I freely confess it. I cannot keep a key. Were I as other men are--which, thank Heaven, I amnot--I might wear a pound or so of hideous ironmongery chained to myperson. This I decline to do, with the result that, as I say, I cannotkeep a key. Of all the household stowaway places under my control (andBarbara limits their number) only one is locked; and that drawercontaining I know not what treasures or rubbish is likely to continue soforever and ever--for the key is lost. Such important documents as Idesire to place in security I send to bankers or solicitors, who aretrained from childhood in the expert use of safes and strong-boxes. Myother papers the world can read if it choose to waste its time; at anyrate, I am not going to lock them up and have the worry of a key preyingon my mind. I should only lose it as I lost the other one. Now, by afreak of fortune, the key of Jaffery's flat remained in the suit-casewherein I had flung it at Havre, until it was fished out by Franklin onmy arrival at Northlands. 

"For goodness' sake, my dear, " said I to Barbara, "take charge of thisthing. "

But she refused. She had too many already to look after. I must acceptthe responsibility as a moral discipline. So I tied a luggage label tothe elusive object, inscribed thereon the legend, "Key of Jaffery'sflat, " and hung it on a nail which I drove into the wall of my library. 

"Besides, " said Barbara, satirically watching the operation, "I am notgoing to have anything to do with this crack-brained adventure. "

"To hear you speak, " said I, for she had already spoken at considerablelength on the subject, "one would think that I could have prevented it. If Jaffery chooses to go Baresark and Liosha to throw her cap over thetopmasts, why in the world shouldn't they?"

"I suppose I'm conventional, " said Barbara. "And from the descriptionyou have given me of the boat, I'm sure the poor child will be utterlymiserable, and she'll ruin her hands and her figure and her skin. "

I wished I had drawn a little less lurid picture of the steamship_Vesta_. 

As soon as business or idleness took me to town, I visited St. Quentin'sMansions, and after consultation with the porter, who, knowing me to bea friend of Mr. Chayne's, assured me that I need not have burdenedmyself with the horrible key, I entered Jaffery's chambers. I found thesmall sitting-room in very much the same state of litter as when Jafferyleft it. He enjoyed litter and hated the devastating tidiness ofhousemaids. Give a young horse with a long, swishy tail a quarter of anhour's run in an ordinary bachelor's rooms, and you will have the normalappearance of Jaffery's home. As I knew he did not want me to dust hisbooks and pictures (such as they were) or to make order out of a chaos, of old newspapers, or to put his pipes in the rack or to remove spursand physical culture apparatus from the sofa, or to bestow tender careupon a cannon ball, an antiquated eighteen or twenty-pounder, whichreposed--most useful piece of furniture--in the middle of thehearth-rug, or to see to the comfortless electric radiator that took theplace of a grate, I let these things be, and concentrated my attentionon his papers which lay loose on desk and table. This was obviously thetidying up to which he had referred. I swept his correspondence into onedrawer. I gathered together the manuscript of his new novel and swept itinto another. On the top of a pedestal bookcase I discovered theoriginal manuscript of "The Greater Glory, " neatly bound in brown paperand threaded through with red tape. This I dropped into the third drawerof the desk, which already contained a mass of papers. I went into hisbedroom, where I found more letters lying about. I collected them andlooked around. There seemed to be little left for me to do. I noticedtwo photographs on his dressing-table--one of his mother, whom Iremembered, and, one of Doria--these I laid face downwards so that thelight should not fade them. I noticed also a battered portmanteau frombeneath the lid of which protruded three or four corners of scribblingpaper, and lastly my eyes fell upon the offending beer-barrel in a darkalcove. The basin set below the tap, in order to catch the drip, wasnearly full. In four months' time the room would be flooded with sourand horrible beer. Full of the thought, I deposited the letters in thedrawer with the rest of the correspondence, and, leaving the flat, summoned the lift, and in Jaffery's name presented a delighted porterwith the contents of a nine-gallon cask. I went away in the rich glowthat mantles from man's heart to check when he knows that he has made afriend for life. It was only afterwards, when I got home, and hung thelabelled key on my library wall, that I realised that old Jaffery andmyself had, at least, one thing in common--videlicet, the keyless habit. I had often suspected that deep in our souls lurked some hidden_trait-d'union_. Now I had found it. 

And looking back on that wreck of a room, I reflected how congenialJaffery must have found his surroundings on board the _Vesta_. Theweather had changed from summer calm to storm. The gentleman from themeteorological office who writes for the newspapers talked aboutcyclonic disturbances, and reported gales in the channel and on the westcoasts of France. The same was likely to continue. The wind blew hardenough in Berkshire, what must it have done in the Bay of Biscay? As amatter of fact, as we learned from a picture postcard from Jaffery and ashort letter from Liosha posted at Bordeaux, and from their lipsconsiderably later--for impossible as it may seem, they did not go tothe bottom or die of scurvy or the cannibal's pole-axe--they had madetheir way from Havre in an ever-increasing tempest, during which theyapparently had not slept or put on a dry rag. Heavy seas washed thedeck, and kept out the galley fires, so that warm food had not beenprocurable. It seemed that every horror I had prophesied had come topass. I should have pitied them, but for the blatant joyousness of theircommunications. "I was not seasick a minute, and I have never been sohappy in my life, " wrote Liosha. "Hilary should have been with us, "wrote Jaffery. "It would have made a man of him. Liosha in splendidfettle. She goes about in men's clothes and oilskins and can turn herhand to anything when she isn't lashed to a stanchion. " You can justimagine them having cast off all semblance of Christians and wallowingin wet and dirt. . . . 

About this time, according to the sequence of events recorded in my alltoo scraggy diary, Doria came to us for a week-end, her first visitsince Jaffery's outrageous conduct. She was glad to make friends with usonce more, and to prove it showed the pleasanter side of her character. She professed not to have forgiven Jaffery; but she referred to theterrible episode in less vehement terms. It was obvious to us both thatshe missed him more than she would confess, even to herself. In herreconstituted existence he had stood for an essential element. Unconsciously she had counted on his devotion, his companionship, hisconstant service, his bulky protection from the winds of heaven. Nowthat she had driven him away, she found a girder wanting in her life'sneat structure, which accordingly had begun to wobble uncomfortably. After all, she had provoked the man (this with some reluctance sheadmitted to Barbara), and he had only picked her up and shaken her. Hehad had no intention of dashing out her brains or even of giving her abeating. In her heart she repented. Otherwise why should she take so illJaffery's flight with Liosha, which she characterised as abominable, andLiosha's flight with Jaffery, which she characterised as monstrous?

"I can't talk to Barbara about it, " she said to me on the Sundaymorning, perching herself on the corner of my library table, adisrespectful trick which she had caught from my wife, while I sat backin my writing-chair. "Barbara seems to be bemused about the woman. Onewould think she was a kind of saint, incapable of stain. "

"In one specific way, " I replied, "I think she is. "

"Oh, rubbish, Hilary!" she smiled, and swung her little foot. "You, aman of the world, how can you talk so? First she runs off with thatdreadful fellow and a few hours afterwards runs off with Jaffery. Whatrespectable woman--well, what honest woman, according to the term of thelower classes--would run away with two men within twenty-five hours?"

"She went off with Fendihook, honourably, thinking he was going to marryher. She has joined Jaffery honourably, too, because there's no questionof marriage or anything else between them. "

"_Sancta simplicitas!_" She shook her head from side to side and lookedat me pityingly. "I'll allow Jaffery is just a fool. But she isn't. Thebest one can say for her is that she has no moral sense. I know thetype. "

"Where have you studied it, my dear?" I asked. 

She coloured, taken aback, but after half a second she replied with herready sureness:

"In my father's drawing-room among city people and in my own amongliterary people. "

"H'm!" said I. "Lioshas don't grow on every occasional chair. "

"You're as bemused as Barbara. "

"I haven't studied what you call the type, " I replied. "But I've studiedan individual, which you haven't. "

She swung off the table. "Oh, well, have it your own way--Paul andVirginia, if you like. What does it matter to me?"

"Yes, my dear, " said I. "That's just it--what the dickens does it matterto you?"

"Nothing at all. " She snapped a dainty finger and thumb. 

"You've turned Jaffery out of your house, " I continued, with maliciousintent. "You've sworn never to set eyes on him again. You've banishedhim beyond your horizon. His doings now can be no concern of yours. Ifhe chose to elope with the fat woman in a freak museum, why shouldn'the? What would it have to do with you?"

"Only this, " said Doria, coming back to the table corner but not sittingon it. "It would make Jaffery's declaration to me all the moreinsulting. "

"'Having known me to decline'?" I quoted. 

"Precisely. "

She tossed her head, in her wounded pride. But unknowingly she hadswallowed my bait. I had hooked my little fish. I smiled to myself. Shewas eaten up with jealousy. 

"Well, " said I, "you remember the French proverb about the absent beingalways in the wrong. Let us wait until they come back and hear whatthey've got to say for themselves. "

She put her hands behind her back. As she stood, her little black andivory head was not much above the level of mine. "What they may say is amatter of perfect indifference to me. "

I bent forward. "I think I ought to tell you whatJaffery's--practically--last words to me were: 'There's only one womanin the world for me. ' Meaning you. " She broke away with a laugh. "And toprove it, he elopes with the fat woman! Oh, Hilary"--with the tips ofher fingers she brushed my hair--"you really are a simple old dear!"

"All the same--" I began. 

"All the same, " she interrupted, "this is a very untidy conversation. Ididn't come in here to talk, but to borrow a copy of Baudelaire, if youhave one. "

She turned to scan my shelves. I joined her and took down _Les Fleurs duMal_. She thanked me, tucked the book under her arm, and went out. 

Rather uncharitably I rejoiced in her soreness. It was good discipline. It would give her a sense of values. Should she ever get Jaffery backagain, with no Liosha hanging round his neck, I was certain that notonly would she forgive past mishandling, but for the sake of keeping himwould put up with a little more. Whether she would marry him was anotherstory. I had every reason to believe that she would not. Adrian reignedher bosom's lord. In her worshipping fidelity she never wavered. Sheregarded a second marriage with horror. That was comprehensible enough, with her husband but seven months dead. No, should she ever get Jafferyback, I didn't think she would marry him; but beyond doubt she wouldtreat him with more consideration and respect. These, of course, were myconjectures and deductions (confirmed by Barbara) from the patent factthat she found herself lost without Jaffery and that she was furiouslyjealous of Liosha. 

It was several weeks before we saw her again. August arrived. Barbaraand I played the ever-fresh summer comedy. I swore by all my gods Iwould not leave Northlands. I went on vowing until I arrived with amountain of luggage, a wife and a child and a maid at a great hotel onthe Lido. Our days were unimportant. We bathed in the Adriatic. Werevisited familiar churches and picture galleries in Venice. We mingledwith a cosmopolitan crowd and developed the complexions (not only in ourfaces) of an Othello family. Doria, too, made holiday abroad. EveryAugust, Mr. Jornicroft repaired the ravages of eleven months' civic andother feasting at Marienbad, and Doria, as she had done before hermarriage, accompanied him. She and Barbara exchanged letters aboutnothing in particular. The time passed smoothly. 

Once or twice we had word from our runagates. The fury of the sea havingsubsided after they had left Bordeaux, they had settled down to thenormal life of shipboard, and Jaffery took his turn with the hands, coiled ropes, sweated over cargo, and kept his watch. Liosha, we weregiven to understand, besides helping in the galley and the cabin andswabbing decks, found much delight in painting the ship's boats withpaint which Jaffery had bought for the purpose at Bordeaux. She hadstruck up a friendship with the first mate, who, possessing a camera, had taken their photographs. They sent us one of the two standing sideby side, and a more villainous-looking yet widely smiling pair you couldnot wish to see. Both wore sailors' caps and jerseys and sea-boots, andBarbara's keen eye detected the fact that Liosha, for freedom's sake, had cut a foot or so off the bottom of her skirt without taking thetrouble to hem up the edge, which, now frayed, hung about her calves indisgraceful fringes. 

"I think you were wrong, my dear, " said I. "The poor thing looksanything but utterly miserable. "

"I'm sure I was right about her hands and skin, " she maintained. 

"Well, it's her own skin. "

"More's the pity, " Barbara retorted. 

What on earth she meant, I do not know; but, as usual, she had the lastword. 

The middle of September found us back in England, and shortly afterwardsDoria returned also, and resumed her lonely life in the Adrian-hauntedflat. But by and by she grew restless, complaining that no one but herfather, of whose society she had wearied, was in town, and went off on aseries of country-house visits. The flat, I suspected, for all itssacred memories, was dull without Jaffery. She still maintained herunrelenting attitude, and spoke scornfully of him; but once or twice sheasked when this mad voyage would be over, thereby betraying curiosityrather than indifference. 

Meanwhile the autumn publishing season was in full swing. Wittekind'slist of new novels in its deep black framing border stared at you fromthe advertisement pages of every periodical you picked up, and so didthe list of every other publisher. Day after day Doria's eyes fell onthis announcement of Wittekind, and day after day her indignationswelled at the continued omission of "The Greater Glory. " All thesenobodies, these ephemeral scribblers, were being thrust flamboyantly onpublic notice and her Adrian, the great Sun of the firm, was allowed toremain in eclipse. For what purpose had he lived and died if his memorywas treated with this dark ingratitude? I strove to reason with her. Adrian's book had been prodigally advertised in the spring. It had soldenormously. It was still selling. There was no need to advertise it anylonger. Besides, advertisement cost money, and poor Wittekind had to dohis duty by his other authors. He had to push his new wares. "Tradesman!" cried Doria. If he wasn't, I remonstrated, if he wasn't atradesman in a certain sense, an expert in the art of selling books, howcould Adrian's novels have attained their wide circulation? It was tohis interest to increase that circulation as much as possible. Why notlet him run his very successful business his own way? Doria loftilyassured me that she had no interest in his business, in the mere vulgarnumber of copies sold. Adrian's glory was above such sordid things. Offar higher importance was it that his name should be kept, like abeacon, before the public. Not to do so was callous ingratitude andtradesman's niggardliness on the part of Wittekind. Something ought tobe done. I confessed my inability to do anything. 

"I know you have nothing to do with the literary side of theexecutorship. Jaffery undertook it. And now, instead of looking afterhis duties, he has gone on this impossible voyage. "

Here was another grievance against the unfortunate Jaffery. I might haveasked her who drove him to Madagascar, for had she been kind, he wouldhave made short work of Liosha, after having rescued her from Fendihook, and would have returned meekly to Doria's feet. But what would have beenthe use? I was tired of these windy arguments with Doria, and worn outwith the awful irony of upholding our poor Adrian's genius. 

"I'm sorry he's not here, " said I, somewhat tartly, "because he mighthave prevailed upon you to listen to common sense. "

A little while after this, another firm of publishers announced an_édition de luxe_ of the works of a brilliant novelist cut off likeAdrian in the flower of his age. It was printed on special paper andillustrated by a famous artist, and limited to a certain number ofcopies. This set Doria aflare. From Scotland, where she was paying oneof her restless visits, she sent me the newspaper cutting. If thecommercial organism, she said, that passed with Wittekind for a soulwould not permit him to advertise Adrian's spring book in his autumnlist, why couldn't he do like Mackenzie & Co. , and advertise an _éditionde luxe_ of Adrian's two novels? And if Mackenzie & Co. Thought it worthwhile to bring out such an edition of an entirely second-rate author, surely it would be to Wittekind's advantage to treat Adrian equallysumptuously. I advised her to write to Wittekind. She did. Accompaniedby a fury of ink, she sent me his most courteous and sensible answer. Both books were doing splendidly. There was every prospect of a goldenaftermath of cheap editions. The time was not ripe for an _édition deluxe_. It would come, a pleasurable thing to look forward to, when othersales showed signs of exhaustion. 

"He talks about exhaustion, " she wrote. "I suppose he means when hesends the volumes to be pulped, 'remainder or waste'--there's a foolishwoman here who evidently has written a foolish book, and has shown meher silly contract with a publisher. 'Remainder or waste. ' That's whathe's thinking of. It's intolerable. I've no one, dear Hilary, to turn tobut you. Do advise me. "

I sent her a telegram. For one thing, it saved the trouble of concoctinga letter, and, for another, it was more likely to impress the recipient. It ran:

 * * * * *

"I advise you strongly to go to Wittekind yourself and bite him. "

I was rather pleased at the humour--may I venture to qualify it asmordant?--of the suggestion. Even Barbara smiled. Of course, I wasright. Let her fight it out herself with Wittekind. 

But I have regretted that telegram ever since. 

CHAPTER XXI

Luckily, I have kept most of Jaffery's letters written to me from allquarters of the globe. Excepting those concerned with the voyage of the_S. S. Vesta_, they were rare phenomena. Ordinarily, if I heard from himthrice a year I had to consider that he was indulging in an orgy ofcorrespondence. But what with Doria and Adrian and Liosha, and what withBarbara and myself being so intimately mixed up in the matters whichpreoccupied his mind, the voyage of the _Vesta_ covered a period ofabnormal epistolary activity. Instead of a wife, our amateur sailorfound a post office at every port. He wrote reams. He had thejournalist's trick of instantaneous composition. Like the Ouidaesquehero, who could ride a Derby Winner with one hand, and stroke aUniversity Crew to victory with the other, Jaffery could with one handhang on to a rope over a yawning abyss, while with the other he couldscribble a graphic account of the situation on a knee-supportedwriting-pad. In ordinary circumstances--that is to say in what, toJaffery, were ordinary circumstances--he performed these literarygymnastics for the sake of his newspaper; but the voyage of the _Vesta_was an exceptional affair. Save incidentally--for he did senddescriptive articles to _The Daily Gazette_--he was not out onprofessional business. The gymnastics were performed for my benefit--yetwith an ulterior motive. He had sailed away, not on a job, but tosatisfy a certain nostalgia, to escape from civilisation, to escape fromDoria, to escape from desire and from heartache . . . And the deeper heplunged into the fatness of primitive life, the closer did the poor ogrecome to heartache and to desire. He wrote spaciously, in the foolishhope that I would reply narrowly, following a Doria scent laid down withthe naïveté of childhood. I received constant telegrams informing me ofdates and addresses--I who, Jaffery out of England, never knew forcertain whether he was doing the giant's stride around the North Pole orhorizontal bar exercise on the Equator. It was rather pathetic, for Icould give him but little comfort. 

Besides the letters, he (and Liosha) deluged us with photographs takenchiefly by the absurd second mate, from which it was possible toreconstruct the _S. S. Vesta_ in all her dismalness. You have seen scoresof her rusty, grimy congeners in any port in the world. You have only topicture an old, two-masted, well-decked tramp with smokestack and foulclutter of bridge-house amidships, and fore and aft a miserable bit of adeck broken by hatches and capstans and donkey-engines and stanchionsand chains and other unholy stumbling blocks and offences to the casualpromenader. From the photographs and letters I learned that thedog-hole, intended by the Captain for Jaffery, but given over to Liosha, was away aft, beneath a kind of poop and immediately above the scrunchof the propeller; and that Jaffery, with singular lack of privacy, bunked in the stuffy, low cabin where the officers took their meals andrelaxations. The more vividly did they present the details of theirlife, the more heartfelt were my thanksgivings to a merciful Providencefor having been spared so dreadful an experience. 

Our two friends, however, found indiscriminate joy in everything; I havetheir letters to prove it. And Jaffery especially found perpetualenjoyment in the vagaries of Liosha. For instance, here is an extractfrom one of his letters:

"It's a grand life, my boy! You're up against realities all the time. Not a sham within the horizon. You eat till you burst, work till yousleep, and sleep till you're kicked awake. You should just see Liosha. Maturin says he has only met one other woman sailor like her, and thatwas the daughter of a trader sailing among the Islands, who had livedall her life since birth on his ship and had scarcely slept ashore. She's as much born to it as any shell-back on board. She has the amazinggift of looking part of the tub, like the stokers and the man at thewheel. Unlike another woman, she's never in the way, and the more workyou can give her to do, the happier she is. She's in magnificent healthand as strong as a horse. At first the hands didn't know what to make ofher; now she's friends with the whole bunch. The difficulty is to keepher from overfamiliar intercourse with them, for though she signed on ascook's mate, she eats in the cabin with the officers, and between thecabin and the fo'c'sle lies a great gulf. They come and tell her abouttheir wives and their girls and what rotten food they've got--'Everybodyhas got rotten food on board ship, you silly ass!' quoth Liosha. 'Whatdo you expect--sweetbreads and ices?'--and what soul-shatteringblighters they've shipped with, and what deeds of heroism (mostlyimaginary) they have performed in pursuit of their perilous calling. They're all children, you know, when you come to the bottom of them, these hell-tearing fellows--children afflicted with a perpetual thirstand a craving to punch heads--and Liosha's a child, too; so there's akind of freemasonry between them. 

"There was the devil's own row in the fo'c'sle the other evening. Thefirst mate went to look into it and found Liosha standing enraptured atthe hatch looking down upon a free fight. There were knives about. Themate, being a blasphemous and pugilistic dog, soon restored order. Thenhe came up to Liosha--you and Barbara should have seen her--it wassultry, not a breath of air--and she just had on a thin bodice open ather throat and the sleeves rolled up and a short ragged skirt and wasbareheaded. 

"'Why the Hades didn't you stop 'em, missus?'

"For some reason or the other, the whole ship's company, except theskipper and myself, call her 'missus. ' She gazed on him like an ox-eyedJuno; you know her way. 

"'Why should I interfere with their enjoyment?'

"'Enjoyment--!' he gasped. 'Oh, my Gawd!' He flung out his arms and cameover to me. I was smoking against the taffrail. 'There they was tryingto cut one another's throats, and she calls it enjoyment. '

"He went off spluttering. I watched Liosha. A Dutchman--what you wouldcall a Swede--a hulking beggar, came up from the fo'c'sle very much theworse for wear. Liosha says:

"'Mr. Andrews was very angry, Petersen. '

"He grinned. 'He was, missus. '

"'What was it all about?'

"He explained in his sea-English, which is not the English of thatmildewed Boarding House in South Kensington. Bill Figgins had called hima ----, he had retaliated, and the others had taken a hand, too. "

It is I who suppress the actual words reported by Jaffery. But, believeme, they were enough to annoy anybody. 

"She shouted down the stairway. 'Here you, Bill Figgins, come on deckfor a minute. '

"A lean, wiry, black-looking man-spawn of the Pool of London, emerged. 

"'What's the matter?'

"Why did you call Petersen a ----?' she asked pleasantly andword-perfect. 

"'Cos he is one. '

"'He isn't, ' said Liosha. 'He's a very nice man. And so are you. And youboth fought fine; I was looking on, and I was mad not to see the end ofit. But Mr. Andrews doesn't like fighting. So see here, if you two don'tshake hands, right now, and make friends and promise not to fight again, I'll not speak a word to either of you for the rest of the voyage. '

"If I had tackled them like this, hefty chap that I am, they would haveconsigned me to a shambles of perdition. And if any other woman hadattempted it, even our valiant Barbara, they would have told her inperhaps polite, but anyhow forcible, terms to mind her own business. Ineither case they would have resented to the depths of their simple soulsthe alien interference. But with Liosha it was different. Of course sextold. Naturally. But she was a child like themselves. She had looked on, placidly, and had caught the flash of knives without turning a hair. They felt that if she were drawn into a mêlée she would use a knife withthe best of them. I'm panning out about this, because it seems so deucedinteresting and I should like to know what you and Barbara think. Do youremember Gulliver? For all the world it was like Glumdalclitch makingthe peace between two little nine-year-old Brobdingnagians. The two menlooked at each other sheepishly. Half a dozen grinning heads appeared atthe fo'c'sle hatch. You never saw anything so funny in your life. Atlast the lean Bill Figgins stuck out his hand sideways to the Dutchman, without looking at him. 

"'All right, mate. '

"And the Swede shook it heartily, and the grimy hands cried 'Bravo, missus!' and Liosha, turning and catching sight of me just a bit abaftthe funnel beneath the bridge, for the first time, swung up the decktowards me, as pleased as Punch. "

 * * * * *

Here is another extract. . . . Well, wait for a minute. 

Jaffery's letters are an embarrassment of riches. If I printed them infull they would form a picturesque handbook to the coast of the Africancontinent from Casablanca in Morocco, all the way round by the Cape ofGood Hope to Port Said. But Jaffery, in his lavish way, duplicated thesetravel-pictures in articles to _The Daily Gazette_, which, supplementedby memory, he has already published in book form for all the world toread. Therefore, if I recorded his impressions of Grand Bassam, CapeLopez, Boma, Matadi, Delagoa Bay, Montirana, Mombasa and otherapocalyptic places, I should be merely plagiarising or infringingcopyright, or what-not; and in any case I should be introducing matterentirely irrelevant to this chronicle. You must just imagine the rusty_Vesta_ wallowing along, about nine knots an hour, around Africa, disgorging cotton goods and cheap jewelry at each God-forsaken port, andmaking up cargo with whatever raw material could find a European market. If I had gone this voyage, I would tell you all about it; but you see, Iremained in England. And if I subjected Jaffery's correspondence tomicroscopic examination, and read up blue books on the exports andimports of all the places on the South African coast line, and told youexactly what was taken out of the _S. S. Vesta_ and what was put intoher, I cannot conceive your being in the slightest degree interested. Todo so, would bore me to death. To me, cargo is just cargo. Thetransference of it from ship to shore and from shore to ship is a matterof awful noise and perspiring confusion. I have travelled, in so-calledcomfort, as a first-class passenger to Africa. I know all about it. Generally, the ship cannot get within quarter of a mile of the shore. Onone side of it lies a fleet of flat-bottomed lighters manned byglistening and excited negroes. On board is a donkey-engine working aderrick with a Tophetical clatter. Vast bales and packing cases arelifted from the holds. A dingily white-suited officer stands by withgreasy invoice sheets, while another at the yawning abyss whence thecargo emerges makes the tropical day hideous with horrible imprecations. And the merchandise swings over the side and is received in the lighter, by black uplifted arms, in the midst of a blood-curdling babel ofunmeaning ferocity. That is all that unloading cargo means to me; and Icannot imagine that it means any more to any of the sons or daughters ofmen who are not intimately concerned in a particular trade. . . . Youmust imagine, I say, the _S. S. Vesta_ repeating this monotonousperformance; Jaffery and Liosha and the little, black-bearded skipper, all clad in decent raiment, going ashore, and being entertainedscraggily or copiously by German, French, Portuguese, English, fever-eyed commissioners, who took them on the _tour du propriétaire_, among the white wooden government buildings, the palm-covered huts ofthe natives, and shewed them the Mission Chapels and the new CustomHouses and the pigeon-like fowls and the little dirty naked niggerchildren, and the exiguity of their stock of glass and china, and theyearning of their souls for the fleshpots of the respective Egypts towhich they belonged. You must imagine this. If anything relevant to thestory of Jaffery, which, as you will remember, is all that I have torelate, happened at any of these ports, I should tell you. I should havechapter and verse for it in Jaffery's letters. But as far as I can makeout, the moment they put foot on shore, they behaved like thebest-conducted globe-trotters who dwell habitually in a semi-detachedresidence in Peckham Rye. I know Jaffery will be furious when he readsthis. But great is the Truth, and it shall prevail. It was on the sea, away from ports and mission stations and exiles hungering for the lastword of civilisation, and shore-going clothes, that life as depicted byJaffery swelled with juiciness; and to my taste, the juiciest parts ofhis letters are those humoristically concerned with the doings ofLiosha. 

As to his hopeless passion for Doria, he says very little. When Jafferyput pen to paper he was objective, loving to describe what he saw andletting what he felt go hang. In consequence the shy references to Doriawere all the more poignant by reason of their rarity. But Liosha was thecentral figure in many a picture. 

Here, I say, is another extract:

 "Liosha continues to thrive exceedingly. But there's one thing that worries me about her. What the blazes are we going to do with her after this voyage? No doubt she would like to keep on going round and round Africa for the rest of her life. But I can't go with her. I must get back and begin to earn my living. And I don't see her settling down to afternoon tea and respectability again. I think I'll have to set her up as a gipsy with a caravan and a snarling tyke for company. How a creature with her physical energy has managed to lie listless for all these months I can't imagine. It shews strength of character anyway. But I don't see her putting in another long stretch. . . . 

 "She has taken her position as cook's mate seriously, and shares the galley with the cook, a sorrow-stricken little Portugee whose wife ran away with another man during the last trip. He pours out his woes to her while she wipes away the tears from the lobscouse. I don't know how she stands it, for even I, who've got a pretty strong stomach, draw the line at the galley. But she loves it. Now and again, when it's my watch--I'm on the starboard watch, you know--I see her turn out in the morning at two bells. She stands for a few moments right aft of her cabin-door, and fills her lungs. And the wind tugs at her hair beneath her cap, and at her skirts, and the spindrift from the pale grey sea of dawn stings at her face; and then she lurches like a sailor down the wet, slanting deck--and I can tell you, she looks a devilish fine figure of a woman. And soon afterwards there comes from the galley the smell of bacon and eggs--my son, if you don't know the conglomerate smell of fried bacon and eggs, bilge water, and the salt of the pure early morning ocean, your ideas of perfume are rudimentary. She and the Portugee between them, he contributing the science and she the good-will, give us excellent grub; of course you would turn your nose up at it--but you've never been hungry in your life! and there hasn't been a grumble in the cabin. Maturin has offered her the permanent job. Certainly she looks after us and attends to our comforts in a way sailor men on tramps aren't accustomed to. She's a great pal of the second mate's and at night they play spoiled-five at a corner of the table, with the greasiest pack of cards you ever saw, and she's perfectly happy. 

 "Now and again we discuss the future, without arriving at any result. A day or two ago I chaffed her about marriage. She considered the matter gravely. 

 "'I guess I'll have to. I'm twenty-four. But I haven't had much luck so far, have I?'

 "I replied: 'You won't always strike wrong 'uns. '

 "'I don't know what kind of a man I'm going to strike, ' she said. 'Not any of those little billy-goats in dinner jackets I used to meet at Mrs. Jardine's. No, sirree. And no more Ras Fendihooks!'

 "She rose--we had been sitting on the cabin sky-light--and leaned over the taffrail and looked wistfully out to sea. I joined her. She was silent for a bit. Then she said:

 "'I guess I'm not going to marry at all; for I'm not going to marry a man I don't love, and I couldn't love a man who couldn't beat me--and there ain't many. That's the kind of fool way I'm built. '

 "She turned and left me. I suppose she meant it. Liosha doesn't talk through her hat. But if she ever does fall in love with a man who can beat her, there'll be the devil to pay. Liosha in love would be a tornado of a spectacle. But I shouldn't like it. Honest--I shouldn't like it. I've got so used to this clean great Amazon of a Liosha, that I should loathe the fellow were he as decent a sort as you please. "

It is curious to observe how, as the voyage proceeded, Jaffery's horizongradually narrowed to the small shipboard circle, just as an invalid'sinterests become circumscribed by the walls of his sick-room. He tellsus of childish things, a catch of fish, a quarrel between the first andsecond mate over Liosha, second having accused first of a disrespectfulattitude towards the lady, the sail-cloth screen rigged up aft behindwhich Liosha had her morning tub of sea-water, the stubbing of Liosha'stoe and her temporary lameness, the illness of the Portugee cook andLiosha's supremacy in the galley. And he wrote it all with the air ofthe impresario vaunting the qualities of his prima donna, nay more--witha fatuous air of proprietorship, as though he himself had createdLiosha. 

Here is the beginning of another letter, addressed to us both:

 "A thousand thanks, dearest people, for what you tell me of Doria. If she just misses me a little bit, all may be well. I've bought some jolly gold barbaric ornaments that she may accept when I reach home; and do try to persuade her that the poor old bear is rough only on the outside. 

 "Things going on just as usual. Liosha has got a monkey given her by the donkey-man. . . . "

There follows a description of the monkey and its antics, and a longaccount of a chase all over the ship, in which all the ship's companyincluding the captain took part, to the subversion of discipline andnavigation. But you see--he switches off at once to Liosha and thetrivial records of the humdrum day. 

At last he had something less trivial to write about. They were in theMozambique Channel, making for Madagascar:

 "Now that this darned cabin table is comparatively straight, I can scribble a few lines to you. We've had a beast of a time. The dirtiest weather ever since we left Beira and the cranky old tub rolling and pitching and standing on her head as I've never known ship do before. Consequence was the cargo got shifted and there was a list to port, so that every time she ducked that side, she shipped half the channel. Skies black as thunder and the sea the colour of inky water. We had the devil's own job getting the cargo straight. Just imagine a black rolling dungeon full of great packing cases weighing about half a ton each all gone murderous mad. Just imagine getting down among them, as practically all hands had to do, save the engine-room, and sweating and fighting and straining and lashing for hour after hour. And half the time the port side of the lame old duck under water. How she didn't turn turtle is known only to Allah and Maturin; and One is great and the other's a damned fine sailor. Of course, I had to go down into the inferno of the hold like the others. Part of the day's work; but I didn't like it; no one liked it. 

 "When the order was given all hands tumbled up to the hatchway and began swarming down the iron ladder. It was a swaying, staggering crowd. When you stand on a wet deck at an angle of forty-five degrees one way and thirty degrees another and constantly shifting both angles, with nothing but a rope lashed athwart the ship to catch hold of, your mind is pretty well concentrated on yourself. I know mine was. I slipped and wallowed on my belly hanging on to the rope like grim death till my turn came for the ladder. I got my feet on the rungs. I was all right, when looking up into the livid daylight whom do you think I saw calmly preparing to follow me? Liosha. I hadn't noticed her. She had sea-boots and a jersey and looked just like a man. I roared:

 "'Clear out. This is no place for you. '

 "'I'm coming. Go along down. '

 "She put her foot on the rung just below my face. I gripped as much of her ankle as the stiff leather allowed. 

 "'Clear out. Don't be a fool. '

 "Andrews, the first mate, poured out a flood of blasphemy. What the this, that and the other were we waiting for?

 "'Mr. Andrews, ' I shouted, 'send this woman to her cabin. '

 "'Oh, go to hell! Tumble down every one of you, or I'll damn soon make you, ' cried Andrews. 

 "He was in a vile temper, being responsible for the snugness of the cargo, and the cargo lay about as snug as a dormitory of devils. He was sorry afterwards, poor chap, for his lack of courtesy, but at the moment he didn't care who went down into the hold, or who was killed, so long as this infernal cargo was righted and the crazy old tub didn't go down. 

 "So I descended. It was ordained. Liosha followed. And once down we were carried away out of ourselves by a nightmare of toil and peril. Andrews and second were there yelling orders. We obeyed in some subconscious way. How we heard I don't know. For peace and quiet give me a battlefield. Twenty men in semi-darkness, scarce able to stand, fighting blind, mad forces of half a ton each. The huge crates of deal seemed so innocent and harmless on the quay-side, but charging about that swaying, rocking lower deck, they looked malignant, like grimy blocks of Hell's anger. I don't know what I did. All I can say is that I never before felt my muscles about to snap--queer feeling that--and I think I'm about as tough as they make 'em. 

 "Liosha worked as well as any man in the bunch. I only caught sight of her now and then . . . You see what we had to do, don't you? . . . We had to secure all these infernal things that were running amuck and ease up the rest of the cargo that had got jammed on the port side. There were accidents. Three or four were knocked out. Petersen, the Swede, had his leg crushed. I don't know what was wrong at the time. He was working next me, and a roll of the ship brought an ugly crate over him. He couldn't get up. He looked ghastly. So I took him on my back and clawed my way up the iron ladder and reached the deck somehow, and staggered along, barging into everything--it was blowing half a gale--and once I fell and he screamed like a pig, poor devil. But I picked him up and got him into the fo'c'sle and stuck him in a bunk. The Portugee cook, sick of fever--I think he's a blighted malingerer--was the only creature there. I routed him out, in the dim mephitic place reeking of sour bedding, and put Petersen in his charge. Then I went back through the drenching seas to the hatch. There was just enough room for a man's body to squeeze through down the ladder. I went down into the same hell-broth of sweat and confusion. The ground you stood upon might have been the back of a super-Titanic butterfly. Stability was a nonexistent term. It was a helpless scuttering surge of men and vast wooden cubes. Most of the men had torn off their upper garments and fought half naked, the sweat glistening on their skins in the feeble light. Soon the heat became unbearable and I too tore off jersey and shirt. Liosha joined me and we worked together without speaking. Her long thick hair had come down and she had hastily tied it in a knot, just as you might tie a knot in a towel, and she had thrown off things like everybody else and only a flimsy cotton, sleeveless bodice, or whatever it's called, drenched through and sticking to her, made a pretence of covering her from her waist. 

 "You had to get like flies round these infernal things and wait your time--if you could--for the roll, and push and then scramble with ropes and make fast; awl at the same time dance out of the way of the slithering hulks that bore down on you with fantastic murderousness. And through it all thundered the roaring of the storm, the grind of the engines, the shattering of the propeller lifted above the waves, and the shrieks and creakings of every plank and plate of this steam-driven old Noah's Ark. 

 "We had just, with exhausted muscles, made a whole stack fast, and were standing by, panting, haggard eyed, the sweat running down anyhow, twenty of us, Dagoes, Dutchmen, Englishmen, in the dim twilight--just a shaft of pale illumination coming slick down the ladder where the hatch was open, --hanging on to edges and corners of cargo, when suddenly the ship, caught on top of a wave, vibrated in a sickening shudder, plunged, and then with an impetus of cataclysm wallowed to starboard. Andrews shrieked, 'Stand clear!' Most of the men leaped and flung themselves away. But I stumbled and fell. Before I realized the danger of a vast sliding crate, two strong arms were curled round my waist and I was flung aside, to slither and roll down the swaying deck until I was stopped by the bulkhead. When I picked myself up, I saw half the men securing the crate and the other half grovelling around something on the deck. It was Liosha. She lay white and senseless with blood streaming from her head. 

 [Illustration: Before I realized the danger . . . I was flung aside. ]

 "In a mortal funk I took her up the ladder with the help of another fellow, and carried her to her cabin. I never before realised the appalling length of this vessel. We got her into her bunk aft; I sent the other chap for brandy and first-aid appliances from the ship's stores, and did what I could to discover how far she was injured. . . . 

 "Thank God, nothing worse had happened than a nasty scalp wound. But her escape had been miraculous. She had saved my life; for as I lay on the deck, the crate charging direct would have squashed my skull into jelly, and crushed my body against the side of the hold. A fraction of a second later and it would have been her skull and her body instead of mine; but she just managed to roll practically clear until she got caught by the swerving side of the crate. I hope you'll understand what a heroic thing she did. She faced what seemed to be certain death for me; and it is thanks to Liosha that I'm able to tell you that I'm alive. And she, God bless her, walks about with her head bandaged, among an adoring ship's company, and refuses to admit having done anything wonderful. "

And, indeed, to confirm Jaffery's last statement, here is a bit of ascrawl from Liosha--her complete account of the incident:

 "We've just had the most awful storm I ever did see. The cargo go loose in the hold and we had to fix it up. I got a cut on the head and had to stay in bed till the storm finished. I must say it gave me an awful headache, but there I guess I'm better now. "

Well, that seems to be the most exciting thing that happened to them. Afterwards, in the mind of each, it loomed as the great event in theamazing voyage. A man does not forget having his life saved by a womanat the risk of her own; and a woman, no matter how heroic in action andhow magnanimous in after modesty, does not forget it either. Although hehad been credited (to his ingenuous delight) by reviewers of "TheGreater Glory" with uncanny knowledge of the complexities of a woman'snature, I have never met a more dunder-headed blunderer in his dealingswith women. He perceived the symptoms of this unforgetfulness onLiosha's part, but seems to have been absolutely fogged in diagnosis. 

 "Liosha flourishes, " he writes in one of his last _Vesta_ letters, "like a virgin forest of green bay trees. Gosh! She's splendid. I take back and swallow every presumptuous word I've said about her. And, I suppose, owing to our knockabout sort of intimacy, she has adopted a protective, motherly attitude towards me. In her great, spacious, kind way, she gives you the impression that she owns Jaffery Chayne, and knows exactly what is for his good. Women's ways are wonderful but weird. "

He must have thought himself vastly clever with his alliterativeepigram. But he hadn't the faintest idea of the fount of Liosha'smotherliness. 

"Owing to our knockabout sort of intimacy"! Oh, the silly ass!

CHAPTER XXII

It was not until the end of October that Doria completed her round ofcountry-house visits and returned to the flat in St. John's Wood. Themorning after her arrival in town she took my satirical counsel andcalled at Wittekind's office, and, I am afraid, tried to bite that verypleasant, well-intentioned gentleman. She went out to do battle, arraying herself in subtle panoply of war. This I gather from Barbara'saccount of the matter. She informs me that when a woman goes to see hersolicitor, her banker, her husband's uncle, a woman she hates, or a manwho really understands her, she wears in each case an entirely differentkind of hat. Judging from a warehouse of tissue-paper-covered millineryat the top of my residence, which I once accidentally discovered whentracking down a smell of fire, I know that this must be true. Costumesalso, Barbara implies, must correspond emotionally with the hats. Irecognised this, too, as philosophic truth; for it explained manypuzzling and apparently unnecessary transformations in my wee wife'spersonal appearance. And yet, the other morning when I was going up totown to see after some investments, and I asked her which was the morepsychological tie, a green or a violet, in which to visit mystockbroker, she lost as much of her temper as she allows herself tolose and bade me not he silly. . . . But this has nothing to do withDoria. 

Doria, I say, with beaver cocked and plumes ruffled, intent on strikingterror into the heart of Wittekind, presented herself in the outeroffice and sent in her card. At the name of Mrs. Adrian Boldero, doorsflew open, and Doria marched straight away into Wittekind's comfortablyfurnished private room. Wittekind himself, tall, loose-limbed, courteous, the least tradesman-like person you can imagine, rose toreceive her. For some reason or the other, or more likely againstreason, she had pictured a rather soapy, smug little man hiding craftyeyes behind spectacles; but here he was, obviously a man of goodbreeding, who smiled at her most charmingly and gave her to understandthat she was the one person in the world whom he had been longing tomeet. And the office was not a sort of human _charcuterie_ hung roundwith brains of authors for sale, but a quiet, restful place to whichvaluable prints on the walls and a few bits of real Chippendale gave anair of distinction. Doria admits to being disconcerted. She had come tobite and she remained to smile. He seated her in a nice old armchairwith a beautiful back--she was sensitive to such things--and spoke ofAdrian as of his own blood brother. She had not anticipated such warmthof genuine feeling, or so fine an appreciation of her Adrian's work. 

"Believe me, my dear Mrs. Boldero, " said he, "I am second only to you inmy admiration and grief, and there's nothing I wouldn't do to keep yourhusband's memory green. But it is green, thank goodness. How do I know?By two signs. One that people wherever the English language is spokenare eagerly reading his books--I say reading, because you deprecate thepurely commercial side of things; but you must forgive me if I say thatthe only proof of all their reading is the record of all their buying. And when people buy and read an author to this prodigious extent, theyalso discuss him. Adrian Boldero's name is a household word. You wantadvertisement and an _édition de luxe_. But it is only the little manthat needs the big drum. "

"But still, Mr. Wittekind, " Doria urged, "an _édition de luxe_ would besuch a beautiful monument to him. I don't care a bit about the money, "she went on with a splendid disregard of her rights that would have senta shiver down the incorporated back of the Incorporated Society ofAuthors, "I'm only too willing to contribute towards the expense. Pleaseunderstand me. It's a tribute and a monument. "

"You only put up monuments to those who are dead, " said Wittekind. 

"But my husband--"

"--isn't dead, " said he. 

"Oh!" said Doria. "Then--"

"The time for your _édition de luxe_ is not yet. "

"Yet? But--you don't think Adrian's work is going to die?"

She looked at him tragically. He reassured her. 

"Certainly not. Our future sumptuous edition will be a sign that he isamong the immortals. But an _édition de luxe_ now would be a wanton _Hicjacet_. "

All of this may have been a bit sophistical, but it was sound businessfrom the publisher's point of view, and conveyed through the medium ofWittekind's unaffected urbanity it convinced Doria. I listened to heraccount of it with a new moon of a smile across my soul--or acrosswhatever part of oneself one smiles with when one's face is constrainedto immobility. 

"I'm so glad I plucked up courage to come and see you, Mr. Wittekind, "she said. "I feel much happier. I'm quite content to leave Adrian'sreputation in your hands. I wish, indeed, I had come to see you before. ""I wish you had, " said he. 

"Mr. Chayne has been most kind; but--"

"Jaffery Chayne isn't you, " he laughed. "But all the same, he's asplendid fellow and an admirable man of business. "

"In what way?" she asked, rather coldly. 

"Well--so prompt. "

"That's the very last word I should apply to him. He took anunconscionable time, " said Doria. 

"He had a very difficult and delicate work of revision to do. Yourhusband's work was a first draft. The novel had to be pulled together. He did it admirably. That sort of thing takes time, although it was alabour of love. "

"It merely meant writing in bits of scenes. Oh, Mr. Wittekind, " shecried, reverting to an old grievance, "I do wish I could see exactlywhat he wrote and what Adrian wrote. I've been so worried! Why do yourprinters destroy authors' manuscripts?"

"They don't, " said Wittekind. "They don't get them nowadays. They printfrom a typed copy. "

"'The Greater Glory' was printed from my husband's original manuscript. "

Wittekind smiled and shook his head. "No, my dear Mrs. Boldero. From twotyped copies--one in England and one in America. "

"Mr. Chayne told me that in order to save time he sent you Adrian'soriginal manuscript with his revisions. "

"I'm sure you must have misunderstood him, " said Wittekind. "I read thetypescript myself. I've never seen a line of your husband's manuscript. "

"But 'The Diamond Gate' was printed from Adrian's manuscript. "

"No, no, no. That, too, I read in type. "

Doria rose and the colour fled from her cheeks and her great dark eyesgrew bigger, and she brought down her little gloved hand on the writingdesk by which the publisher, cross-kneed, was sitting. He rose, too. 

"Mr. Chayne has definitely told me that both Adrian's originalmanuscripts went to the printers and were destroyed by the printers. "

"It's impossible, " said Wittekind, in much perplexity. "You're makingsome extraordinary mistake. "

"I'm not. Mr. Chayne would not tell me a lie. "

Wittekind drew himself up. "Neither would I, Mrs. Boldero. Allow me. "

He took up his "house" telephone. "Ask Mr. Forest to come to me atonce. " He turned to Doria. "Let us get to the bottom of this. Mr. Forestis my literary adviser--everything goes through his hands. "

They waited in silence until Mr. Forest appeared. "You remember theBoldero manuscripts?"

"Of course. "

"What were they, manuscript or typescript?"

"Typescript. "

"Have you even seen any of Mr. Boldero's original manuscript?"

"No. "

"Do you think any of it has ever come into the office?"

"I'm sure it hasn't. "

"Thank you, Mr. Forest. "

The reader retired. 

"You see, " said Wittekind. 

"Then where are the original manuscripts of 'The Diamond Gate' and 'TheGreater Glory'?"

"I'm very sorry, dear Mrs. Boldero, but I have no means of knowing. "

"Mr. Chayne said they were sent here, and used by the printers anddestroyed by the printers. "

"I'm sure, " said Wittekind, "there's some muddling misunderstanding. Jaffery Chayne, in his own line, is a distinguished man--and a man ofunblemished honour. A word or two will clear up everything. "

"He's in Madagascar. "

"Then wait till he comes back. "

Doria insisted--and who in the world can blame her for insisting?

"You may think me a silly woman, Mr. Wittekind; but I'm not--not to theextent of an hysterical invention. Mr. Chayne has told me definitelythat those two manuscripts came to your office, that the books wereprinted from them and that they were destroyed by the printers. "

"And I, " said Wittekind, "give you my word of honour--and I have alsogiven you independent testimony--that no manuscript of your husband'shas ever entered this office. "

"Suppose they had come in his handwriting, would they have beendestroyed?"

"Certainly not. Every sheet would have been returned with the proofs. Typed copy may or may not be returned. "

"But autograph copy is valuable?"

"Naturally. "

"The manuscripts of Adrian's novels might be worth a lot of money?"

"Quite a lot of money. "

"So you don't think Mr. Chayne destroyed them?"

"It's an act of folly of which a literary man like Mr. Chayne would beincapable. "

"And you've never seen any of it?"

"I've given you my word of honour. "

"Then it's very extraordinary, " said Doria. 

"It is, " said Wittekind, stiffly. 

She thrust out her hand and flashed a generous glance. 

"Forgive me for being bewildered. But it's so upsetting. You havenothing whatever to do with it. It's all Jaffery Chayne. " She looked upat the loosely built, kindly man. "It's for him to give explanations. Inthe meanwhile, I leave my dear, dear husband's memory in your hands--tokeep green, as you say"--tears came into her eyes--"and you will, won'tyou?"

The pathos of her attitude dissolved all resentment. He bent over her, still holding her hand. 

"You may be quite sure of that, " said he. "Even we publishers have ourideals--and our purest is to distribute through the world the works of aman of genius. "

So Doria having telephoned for permission to come and see us on urgentbusiness, arrived at Northlands late in the afternoon, full of thevirtues of Wittekind and the vices of Jaffery. She gave us a fullaccount of her interview and appealed to me for explanations ofJaffery's extraordinary conduct. I upbraided myself bitterly for havingcounselled her to bite Wittekind. I ought, instead, to have thrown everypossible obstacle in the way of her meeting him. I ought to haveforeseen this question of the manuscripts, the one weak spot in our webof deception. Now I may be a liar when driven by necessity from thepaths of truth, but I am not an accomplished liar. It is not my fault. Mere providence has guided my life through such gentle pastures that Ihave had no practice worth speaking of. Barbara, too, is an amateur inmendacity. Both of us were sorely put to it under Doria's indignant andsuspicious cross-examination. 

"You saw the original manuscript of 'The Greater Glory'?"

"Yes, " I lied. 

"Did you see the original manuscript of 'The Diamond Gate'?"

"No, " I lied again. 

"Was it among Adrian's papers?"

"Not to my knowledge. Probably if Adrian didn't send it to the printers, he destroyed it. "

"I don't believe he destroyed it. Jaffery has got it, and he has alsogot the manuscript of 'The Greater Glory. ' What does he want them for?"

"That's a leading question, my dear, which I can't answer, because Idon't know whether he has them or not. In fact, I know nothing whateverabout them. "

"It sounds horrid and ungracious, Hilary, after all you've done for me, "said Doria, "but I really think you ought to know something. "

From her point of view, and from any outside person's point of view, shewas perfectly right. My bland ignorance was disgraceful. If she hadbrought an action against us for recovery of these wretched manuscriptsand we managed to keep the essential secret, both counsel and judgewould have flayed me alive. . . . Put yourself in her place for aminute--God knows I tried to do so hard enough--and you will see thelogic of her position, all through. She was not a woman of broad humansympathies and generous outlook; she was intense and narrow. Her wholebeing had been concentrated on Adrian during their brief married life;it was concentrated now on his memory. To her, as to all the world, heflamed a dazzling meteor. Her faults, which were many and hard to bearwith, all sprang from the bigotry of love. Nothing had happened to cloudher faith. She had come up against many incomprehensible things: thedelay in publication of Adrian's book; the change of title; the burningof Adrian's last written words on the blotting pad; the vivid picturesthat were obviously not Adrian's; the consignment to a printer's Limboof the original manuscripts; my own placid disassociation from theliterary side of the executorship. She had accepted them--not withoutprotest; but she had in fact accepted them. Now she struck a reef ofthings more incomprehensible still. Jaffery had lied to heroutrageously. I, for one, hold her justified in her indignation. 

But what on earth could I do? What on earth could my poor Barbara do? Wesat, both of us, racking our brains for some fantastic invention, whileDoria, like a diminutive tragedy queen, walked about my library, inveighing against Jaffery and crying for her manuscripts. And I darednot know anything at all about them. She had every reason to reproachme. 

Barbara, feeling very uncomfortable, said: "You mustn't blame Hilary. When Adrian died each of the executors took charge of a specialdepartment. Jaffery Chayne did not interfere with Hilary's management offinancial affairs, and Hilary left Jaffery free with the literary sideof things. It has worked very well. This silly muddle about themanuscripts doesn't matter a little bit. "

"But it does matter, " cried Doria. 

And it did. Now that she knew that those sacred manuscripts written bythe dear, dead hand had not been destroyed by printers, every fibre ofher passionate self craved their possession. We argued futilely, aspeople must, who haven't the ghost of a case. 

"But why has Jaffery lied?"

"The manuscript of 'The Diamond Gate, '" I declared, again perjuringmyself, "has nothing whatever to do with Jaffery and me. As I've toldyou it was not among Adrian's papers which we went through together. We're narrowed down to 'The Greater Glory. ' Possibly, " said I, with adespairing flash, "Jaffery had to pull it about so much and deface itwith his own great scrawl, that he thought it might pain you to see it, and so he told you that it had disappeared at the printer's. Now that Iremember, he did say something of the kind. "

"Yes, he did, " said Barbara. 

Doria brushed away the hypothesis. "You poor things! You're merelysaying that to shield him. A blind imbecile could see through you"--Ihave already apologised to you for our being the unconvincing liars thatwe were--"you know nothing more about it than I do. You ought to, asI've already said. But you don't. In fact, you know considerably less. Shall I tell you where the manuscripts are at the present moment?"

"No, my dear, " said Barbara, in the plaintive voice of one who has cometo the end of a profitless talk; for you cannot imagine how utterlywearied we were with the whole of the miserable business. "Let us waittill Jaffery comes home. It won't be so very long. "

"Yes, Doria, " said I, soothingly. "Barbara's right. You can't condemn aman without a hearing?"

Doria laughed scornfully. "Can't I? I'm a woman, my dear friend. Andwhen a woman condemns a man unheard she's much more merciful than whenshe condemns him after listening to his pleadings. Then she gets reallyangry, and perhaps does the man injustice. "

I gasped at the monstrous proposition; but Barbara did not seem todetect anything particularly wrong about it. 

"At any rate, " said I, "whether you condemn him or not, we can't doanything until he comes home. So we had better leave it at that. "

"Very well, " said Doria. "Let us leave it for the present. I don't wantto be more of a worry to you dear people than I can help. But that'swhere Adrian's manuscripts are, both of them"--and she pointed to thekey of Jaffery's flat hanging with its staring label against my librarywall. 

Of course it was rather mean to throw the entire onus on to Jaffery. Butagain, what could we do? Doria put her pistol at our heads and demandedAdrian's original manuscripts. She had every reason to believe in theirexistence. Wittekind had never seen them. Vandal and Goth and every kindof Barbarian that she considered Jaffery to be, it was inconceivablethat he had deliberately destroyed them. It was equally inconceivablethat he had sold the precious things for vulgar money. They remainedtherefore in his possession. Why did he lie? We could supply nosatisfactory answer; and the more solutions we offered the more did weconfirm in her mind the suspicion of dark and nefarious dealings. If itwere only to gain time in order to think and consult, we had to referher to the absent Jaffery. 

"My dear, " said I to Barbara, when we were alone, "we're in a deuce of amess. "

"I'm afraid we are. "

"Henceforward, " said I, "we're going to live like selfish pigs, with nothought about anybody but ourselves and our own little pig and aboutanything outside our nice comfortable sty. "

"We'll do nothing of the kind, " said Barbara. 

"You'll see, " said I. "I'm a lion of egotism when I'm roused. "

We dined and had a pleasant evening. Doria did not raise the disastroustopic, but talked of Marienbad and her visits, and discussed the moderntendencies of the drama. She prided herself on being in the forefront ofprogress, and found no dramatic salvation outside the most advancedproductions of the Incorporated Stage Society. I pleaded for beauty, which she called wedding-cake. She pleaded for courage and truth in thepresentation of actual life, which I called dull and stupid photographywhich any dismal fool could do. We had quite an exciting and entirelyprofitless argument. 

"I'm not going to listen any longer, " she cried at last, "to your sillyold early Victorian platitudes!"

"And I, " I retorted, "am not going to be browbeaten in my own home byone-foot-nothing of crankiness and chiffon. "

So, laughingly, we parted for the night, the best of friends. If only, Ithought, she could sweep her head clear of Adrian, what a fascinatinglittle person she might be. And I understood how it had come to passthat our hulking old ogre had fallen in love with her so desperately. 

The next morning I was in the garden, superintending the planting ofsome roses in a new, bed, when Doria, in hat and furs, came through mylibrary window, and sang out a good-bye. I hurried to her. 

"Surely not going already? I thought you were at least staying tolunch. "

No; she had to get back to town. The car, ordered by Barbara, waswaiting to take her to the station. 

"I'll see you into the train, " said I. 

"Oh, please don't trouble. "

"I will trouble, " I laughed, and I accompanied her down the slope to thefront door where stood Barbara by the car and Franklin with the luggage. Doria and I drove to the station. For the few minutes before the traincame in we walked up and down the platform. She was in high spirits, full of jest and laughter. An unwonted flush in her cheeks and abrightness in her deep eyes rendered her perfectly captivating. 

"I haven't seen you looking so well and so pretty for ever such a longtime, " I said. 

The flush deepened. "You and Barbara have done me all the good in theworld. You always do. Northlands is a sort of Fontaine de Jouvence forweary people. "

That was as graceful as could be. And when she shook hands with me ashort while afterwards through the carriage window, she thanked me forour long-sufferance with more spontaneous cordiality than she had everbefore exhibited. I returned to my roses, feeling that, after all, wehad done something to help the poor little lady on her way. If I hadbeen a cat, I should have purred. After an hour or so, Barbara summonedme from my contemplative occupation. 

"Yes, dear?" said I, at the library window. 

"Have you written to Rogers?"

Rogers was a plumber. 

"He's a degraded wretch, " said I, "and unworthy of receiving a letterfrom a clean-minded man. "

"Meanwhile, " said Barbara, "the servants' bathroom continues to beunusable. "

"Good God!" said I, "does Rogers hold the cleanliness of this householdin his awful hands?"

"He does. "

"Then I will sink my pride and write to him. "

"Write now, " said Barbara, leading me to my chair. "You ought to havedone it three days ago. "

So with three days' bathlessness of my domestic staff upon myconscience, and with Barbara at my elbow, I wrote my summons. I turnedin my chair, holding it up in my hand. 

"Is this sufficiently dignified and imperious?"

I began to declaim it. "Sir, it has been brought to my notice that thepipes--". I broke off short. "Hullo!" said I, my eyes on the wall, "whathas become of the key of Jaffery's flat?"

There was the brass-headed nail on which I had hung it, impertinentlyand nakedly bright. The labelled key had vanished. 

"You've got it in your pocket, as usual, " said Barbara. 

I may say that I have a habit of losing things and setting the householdfrom the butler to the lower myrmidons of the kitchen in frantic search, and calling in gardeners and chauffeurs and nurses and wives andchildren to help, only to discover that I have had the wretched objectin my pocket all the time. So accustomed is Barbara to this wolf-crythat if I came up to her without my head and informed her that I hadlost it, she would be profoundly sceptical. 

But this time I was blameless. "I haven't touched it, " I declared, "andI saw it this morning. "

"I don't know about this morning, " said Barbara. "But I grant you it wasthere yesterday evening, because Doria drew our attention to it. "

"Doria!" I cried, and I rose, with mouth agape, and our eyes met in asudden stare. 

"Good Heavens! do you think she has taken it?"

"Who else?" said I. "She came out from here to say good-bye to me in thegarden. She had the opportunity. She was preternaturally animated anddemonstrative at the station--your sex's little guileful way ever sincethe world began. She had the stolen key about her. She's going straightto Jaffery's flat to hunt for those manuscripts. "

"Well, let her, " said Barbara. "We know she can't find them, becausethey don't exist. "

"But, my darling Barbara, " I cried, "everything else does. Andeverything else is there. And there's not a blessed thing locked up inthe place!"

"Do you mean--?" she cried aghast. 

"Yes, I do. I must get up to town at once and stop her. "

"I'll come with you, " said Barbara. 

So once more, on altruistic errand, I motored post-haste to London. Wealighted at St. Quentin's Mansions. My friend the porter came out toreceive us. 

"Has a lady been here with a key of Mr. Chayne's flat?"

"No, sir, not to my knowledge. "

We drew breaths of relief. Our journey had been something of a strain. 

"Thank goodness!" said Barbara. 

"Should a lady come, don't allow her to enter the flat, " said I. 

[Illustration: And there, in a wilderness of ransacked drawers andstrewn papers, . . . Lay a tiny, black, moaning heap of a woman. ]

"I shouldn't give a strange lady entrance in any case, " said the porter. 

"Good!" said I, and I was about to go. But Barbara, with her readycommon-sense, took me aside and whispered:

"Why not take all these compromising manuscripts home with us?"

In my letter case I had the half-forgotten power of attorney thatJaffery had given me at Havre. I shewed it to the porter. 

"I want to get some things out of Mr. Chayne's flat. "

"Certainly, sir, " said the porter. "I'll take you up. "

We ascended in the lift. The porter opened Jaffery's door. We enteredthe sitting-room. And there, in a wilderness of ransacked drawers andstrewn papers, with her head against the cannon-ball on the hearthrug, lay a tiny, black, moaning heap of a woman. 

CHAPTER XXIII

If a ministering angel walks abroad through this world of many sorrows, it is my wife Barbara. To her and to her alone did the soul-strickenlittle creature owe her life and her reason. For a fortnight shescarcely left Doria's room, sleeping for odd hours anywhere, andsnatching meals with the casual swiftness of a swallow. For a wholefortnight she wrestled with the powers of darkness, which like Apollyonstraddled quite over all the breadth of the way, and by sheer valiancyand beauty of heart, she made them spread forth their dragon's wings andspeed them away so that Doria for a season saw them no more. How shefought and with what weapons, who am I to tell you? These things arewritten down; but in a Book which no human eye can see. 

We carried her moaning and distraught from that room of awfulrevelation, put her into the car, and brought her back to Northlands. Itwas the only thing to be done. Barbara's instinct foresaw madness if wetook her to the flat in St. John's Wood. Her father's house, her naturalrefuge, was equally impossible. For what explanation could we have givento the worthy but uncomprehending man? He would have called in doctorsto minister to a mind afflicted with a disease beyond their power ofdiagnosis. Unless, of course, we made public the facts of the tragedy;which was unthinkable. Barbara's instinct pierced surely through thegloom. The first coherent words that Doria said were:

"Let me stay with you for a little. I've nowhere in the world to go. Ican't ask father--and I can't go back home. It would drive me mad. "

Of course it would have driven her mad to return to the hauntedflat--haunted now by no gracious ghost, but by an Unutterable Presence, the thought of which, even in her quiet, lavender-scented countrybedroom, made her scream of nights. For she knew all. To save herreason, Barbara, with her wonderful tenderness, had bridged over thechasms between her stark peaks of discovery. She knew all that we knew. Further attempts at deception would have been vain cruelty. Barbaracould palliate the offence; she could show how irresistible had been thetemptation; she could prove how our love for Adrian had been unshaken bydisastrous knowledge and urge that Doria's love should be unshakenlikewise; she could apply all the healing remedies of which she only hasthe secret--but she could not leave the poor soul to stumble blindly inuncertainty. 

Doria could never enter her dishallowed paradise again. Even I, when Iwent through the place in order to make arrangements for closing italtogether, felt a teeth-chattering shiver in the condemned cell whereAdrian had worked out his doom. It had been sacrosanct; not a thing hadbeen disturbed; there was the iron safe empty, but yet a grim receptacleof abominable secrets; the quill pen, its point stained with idle ink, lay on the office writing-table. And the blotting-pad was still thereunder a clump of dusty, unused scribbling-paper. On a little stool inthe corner stood the half-emptied decanter of brandy and a glass and asyphon of soda-water. . . . Goodness knows, I'm not a superstitious oreven an imaginative man; I had been in that room before and had hatedit, on account of its poignant associations; nothing transcendental hadaffected me; but now I shuddered, physically shuddered, as though thecubic space were informed with a spirit in the torture of an everlastingdespair. Doria not knowing, he could have borne his punishment. But nowDoria knew. He had lost her love, the rock on which he had built hishope of salvation. He was damned to eternity. It is the supreme andunspeakable horror of eternal life that you cannot dash your headagainst a wall and plunge into nothingness. Yet he tried. The awfulPresence of Adrian was dashing his head against those bare and ghastlywalls. . . . 

I never was so glad to breathe God's honest November fog again. Ofcourse my affright was a silly matter of nerves. But I would not haveslept in that flat for anything in the world. 

I had to make, of course, another expedition to Jaffery's chambers, inorder to restore to order the chaos that Doria had made. She hadransacked every drawer in the place and strewn the contents of the oldportmanteau, Adrian's mass of incoherent manuscript, about the floor. Idid what I ought to have done on my first visit; I brought the tragiclumber to Northlands, and having made a bonfire in a corner of thekitchen garden, burned the whole lot. Why Jaffery had not got rid of theevidence of Adrian's guilt, I could not at the time imagine. It was onlylater that I heard the trivial and mechanical reason. He could not burnthe papers in his flat, because he had no fire--only the electricradiator. You try, in these circumstances, to destroy five or sixthousand sheets of thick paper, and see how you get on. Jaffery had hisidea, when he transferred the manuscript from Adrian's study; on hisnext voyage he would take the portmanteau with him, weight it with thecannon-ball, which he used after his bath for physical exercise, andthrow it overboard. By singular ill-luck, he had started on his twovoyages that year--if a channel crossing can be termed a voyage--at amoment's notice. In each case he had not had occasion to call at hischambers, and the destroying journey had yet to be made. As fordiscovery of the secrets lying in unlocked receptacles, who was there todiscover them? Such friends as he had would never pry into his privateconcerns; and as for housemaids and waiters and porters, the wholematter to them was unintelligible. While he was living in St. Quentin'sMansions, he considered himself secure. When he realised, at Havre, thathe would be absent for some months, he put things into my charge. That Ibitterly regretted not having put tinder lock and key or taken steps todestroy papers and manuscripts, I need not say. For a long time I feltthe guiltiest wretch outside prison in the three kingdoms. If I had beena wild man of the jungle like Jaffery, it would not have mattered; but Ihave always prided myself on being--not the last word, for that wouldnot be consonant with my natural modesty--but, say, the penultimate wordof our modern civilisation; and the memory of having acted like aningenuous child of nature still burns whenever it floats across mybrain. Metaphorically, Jaffery and I sobbed with remorse on each other'sbosoms, and called ourselves all the picturesque synonyms for carelessfools we could think of; but that, naturally, did not a bit of good toanybody. 

The fact was accomplished. Our dear Humpty-Dumpty had had his greatfall, and not all the king's horses and all the king's men could everset Humpty-Dumpty up again. 

Greek tragedies are all very well in their way. They are vastlyinteresting in the inevitableness of their prearranged doom. _Moi quivous parle_, I have read all of them; and I like them. I have even seensome of them acted. I have seen, for instance, the Agamemnon given bythe boys of Bradfield College, in their model open-air Greek theatre, built out of a chalk-pit, and I have sat gripped from beginning to endby the tremendous drama. I am not talking foolishly. I know as much asthe ordinary man need know about Greek tragedy. But in spite ofAristotle (who ought to have been strangled at birth, like all otherbland doctrinaires--and of all the doctrinaires on art, there has nonebeen so blandly egregious since the early morning long ago when thepre-historic artist who drew an elk on the omoplate of a bison wasclubbed by the superior person of his day who could not draw fornuts)--in spite of Aristotle and the rest of the theorists, I assertthat, as far as my experience goes, in the ordinary wary modern life towhich we are accustomed, doom and inevitableness do not matter a hang. If we have any common-sense we can dodge them. Most of us do. Of course, if a woman marries a congenital idiot there are bound to beructions--here we are entering the domain of pathology, which is asdoomful as you please; but in our ordinary modern life ninety per cent. Of the tragedies are determined by sheer million to one fortuities. Thehistory of our great criminal trials, for instance, is a romance ofcoincidence. It is your melodramatist and not your Aristotelian puristthat knows what he's talking about when he writes a play. He only has tolook about him and draw what happens in real life. That there may be anEternal Puckish Malice arranging and deranging human destinies isanother question. I am neither a theologian nor a metaphysician, and Ido not desire to discuss the subject. I only maintain that, had it notbeen for sheer chance, Adrian's secret would never have been discovereda second time. I cannot see any doom about it. A series of sheer, sillyaccidents on the part of Jaffery and myself had brought Doria face toface with these incriminating papers. As for her having gained accessto the flat without the porter's knowledge, that had been calculationon her part. She had watched at the street entrance until he had takensome one up in the lift, and then she had mounted the interminablestairs. 

I could have caught Jaffery by letter at Genoa or Marseilles; but inview of his imminent return, I did not write to him. What useful purposewould have been served? He would have left the steamship _Vesta_ andtravelled post-haste overland, dragging with him a resentful Liosha, andrushed like a mad bull into an upheaval in which he could have no place. We had arranged by correspondence that, after he had parted from thegood Captain Maturin at Havre, he would come straight to us, in order toleave Liosha temporarily in our care. For what else could be done withher? Let him bring her, then, according to programme. It would be farbetter, we agreed, Barbara and I, to let them fulfil their lunaticadventure undisturbed, and on Jaffery's arrival at Northlands to breakthe disastrous tidings. It would give us time to watch Doria and seewhat direction the resultant of the forces now tearing her soul wouldtake. 

"Let Jaffery stay away as long as possible, " said Barbara. "I can't bebothered with him. I wish his old voyage could be extended for a year. "

 * * * * *

The first time I met Doria, when she crawled out of her room, a greatpity smote my heart. The ivory of her face had turned to wax, and shehad dwindled into a fragile reed, and in her eyes quivered theapprehension of an ill-treated dog. I put my arm round her and huggedher reassuringly, not knowing what else to do, and mumbled a few sillywords. Then I settled her down before the drawing-room fire, and rushedout into the garden and cut the last poor lingering autumn roses, and, returning, cast them into her lap. And we talked hard about the roses;and I told her which were Madame Abel Chatenay, which Marquise deSalisbury, and which Frau Karl Druska, which Lady Ursula and which LadyHillingdon. We did not refer at all to unhappy things. 

It was only some days afterwards that she ventured to raise the veil ofher awful desolation. But she had no need to tell me. Any fool couldhave divined it. Together with far less shattering of idols has many awoman's reason been brought down. And in our poor Doria's case it wasnot only the shattering of idols. 

"Hilary, dear, " she said, with a mournful attempt at a smile. "I can'tgo on living here for ever. "

"Why not?" I asked. "This is a vast barrack of a place, and you're onlyjust a bit of a wee white mouse. And we love our pets. Why do you wantto go?"

We were walking up and down the drive. It was a warm, damp morning andthe trees shaken by the mild southwester shed their leaves around us ina golden shower; and the leaves that had fallen lay sodden on the grassborders. Here and there a surviving blossom of antirrhinum swaggeredamong its withered brethren as if to maintain the illusion of summer. Apartridge or two whirred across the path from copse to meadow. Thegentle sadness of the autumn day had moved her to discourse on themutability of mundane things. Hence, by chain of association, I suppose, her sudden remark. 

"I don't want to go, " she replied. "I should like to stay in the dreamypeace of Northlands for ever. But I have been a pet for such a longtime--for years, and I've shown myself to be such a bad pet--biting thehand that fed me. "

I bade her not talk foolishly. She moved her small shoulder. 

"It's true. While the three of you--you and Barbara and Jaffery--weredoing for me what has never been done for another human being, I was allthe time snarling and snapping. I can't make out how you can bear thesight of me. " She clenched her hands and straightened her arms downtense. "The thought of it scorches me, " she cried suddenly. 

"Whatever you did, dear, " said I, "was so natural; and we understood itall. How could we blame you?"

We had, in fact, blamed her on many occasions, not being as gods to whomhuman hearts are open books; but this was not the occasion on which totell her so. I don't like the devil being called the father of lies. Iam convinced that the discoverer of mendacity was a warm-heartedphilanthropist, who has never received due credit, and that the devilhaving seized hold of his discovery perverted it to his own diabolicaluses. It is the sort of plagiaristic thing that devils, whether theypromote ancient Gehennas or modern companies, have been doing since theworld began. 

"That doesn't make it any the easier to me, " said Doria. "The horriblethings I said and did--the ghastliness of it--"

"My dear girl, " I interrupted, as kindly as I could. "Don't let thismere fringe of tragedy worry you. "

She laughed shrilly, with a set, white face; which is the mostunmirthful kind of laugh you can imagine. 

"Don't you know that it's the fringe that is the maddening irritation?The big central thing numbs and stupefies, when it doesn't kill. And forsome reason"--she threw out her little gloved hands--"the big thinghasn't killed me--it has paralysed me. The springs of feeling"--sheclutched her bosom--"are dried up. My heart is withered and dead. Ican't explain. For all the dead things I'm not responsible. I've gonethrough Hell the last two or three weeks and they've been burned upaltogether. But what hasn't been burned up is the fringe, as you callit. That's only red-hot. It scorches me, and I can't sleep for thetorture of it. . . . " She stopped, and fronting me laid an appealingtouch on my arm. "Oh, Hilary, forgive me. I didn't mean to go on in thiswild way. I thought I had a better hold on myself. "

"I don't see, " said I, "why you shouldn't unburden your heart to one whohas proved himself to be a friend not only of yours, but of Adrian. "

She released me, and with a wide gesture, swayed across the gravel path. I stepped to her side and mechanically we walked on, a few paces, beforeeither of us spoke. 

"I have told you, " she said at last. "I have no heart to unburden. Therenever was an Adrian. "

"There was indeed, " said I, warmly. 

"Yours. Not mine. "

"Have you no forgiveness for him, then?" I asked earnestly. 

She halted again and looked at me and at the back of her great eyesgleamed black ice. 

"No, " she said. 

I went straight to bed-rock. 

"He was the father of your dead child, " said I. 

Her small frame heaved and she looked away from me down the drive. "Ican only thank God that the child didn't live. "

Barbara had told me something of the fear in which she seemed to holdAdrian's memory. But I had not in the least realised it till now when Iheard the profession from her own lips. In fact, I know that she hadnever yet spoken to Barbara with such passionate directness. 

"You oughtn't to say such a thing, Doria, " I said sternly. 

"I am as God made me. "

"Adrian loved you. He sinned for your sake--in order to get you. "

She dismissed the argument with a gesture. 

"You must have pity on him, " I insisted, "for the unspeakable torment ofthose months of barrenness, of abortive attempts at creation. "

She was silent for a moment. Having reached the front gates we turnedand began to walk up the drive. Then she said:

"Yes, I do pity him. It's enough to tear one's brain out, --his when hewas alive--and mine now. The thought of it will freeze my soul for alleternity. I can't tell you what I feel. " She cast out her handsimploringly to the autumn fields. "I pity him as I would pity some oneremote from me--a criminal whom I might have seen done to death by awfultortures. It's a matter of the brain, not of the heart. No. I have allthe understanding. But I can't find the pardon. "

"That will come, " said I. 

"In the next world, perhaps, not in this. "

Her tone of finality forbade argument. Besides what was there to argueabout? She had said: "There never was an Adrian. " From her point ofview, she was mercilessly right. 

"It's horrible to think, " she went on after a pause, "that all this timeI've been living, first on stolen property and now on charity--Jaffery'scharity--and he hasn't even had a word of thanks. Quite the contrary. "Again she laughed the shrill, dead laugh. "You see, I must go home--tomy father's--I'm strong enough now--and start my life, such as it is, all over again. I can't touch another penny of the Wittekind money. Castleton's people and Jaffery must be paid. "

"Tom Castleton, " I said, "was alone in the world, and Jaffery's not theman to take back a free gift beautifully given. If you don't like tokeep the money--I appreciate your feelings--you can devote it tophilanthropic purposes. "

"Yes, I might do that, " she agreed. "But is this fraud--this falsereputation--to go on forever?"

"I'm afraid it must, " said I. "Nobody would be benefited by throwingsuch a bombshell of scandal into society. If anybody living weresuffering from wrong it might be different. But there's no reason toblacken unnecessarily the name you bear. "

"Then you really think I should be justified in keeping the secret?" sheasked anxiously. 

"I think it would be outrageous of you to do anything else, " said I. 

"That eases my mind. If it were essential for me to make things public, I would do it. I'm not a coward. But I should die of the disgrace. "

"To poor Adrian, " said I. 

She flashed a quick, defiant glance. 

"To me. "

"To Adrian, " I insisted, smitten with a queer inspiration. "Hesinned--the unpardonable sin, if you like. But he expiated it. He'sexpiating it now. And you love him. And it's for his sake, not yours, that you shrink from public disgrace. You were so irrevocably wrapped upin him"--I pursued my advantage--"that you feel yourself a partner inhis guilt. Which means that you love him still. "

She raised a stark, terror-stricken face. I touched her shoulder. Then, all of a sudden, she collapsed, and broke into an agony of sobs andtears. I drew her to a desolate rustic bench and put my arm round herand let her sob herself out. 

After that we did not speak of Adrian. 

CHAPTER XXIV

At last news came from Havre of the end of the preposterous voyage. 

 "Crossing to-night. Coming straight to you. Send car to meet us Reading. Local trains beastly. Both fit as elephants. Love to all. 

 "JAFFERY. "

Such was the telegram. I wired to Southampton acquiescence in hisproposal. It was far more sensible to come direct to Reading than tomake a détour through London. Rooms were got ready. In the one destinedfor Liosha, we had already stowed the cargo of trunks which the GreatSwiftness had delivered in the nick of time. The next day I took the carto Reading and waited for the train. 

From the far end of it I saw two familiar figures descend, and a momentafterwards the station resounded with a familiar roar. 

"Hullo! hullo! hullo!"

Jaffery, red-bearded, grinning, perhaps a bit mightier, hairier, redderthan ever, his great hands uplifted, rushed at me and shook me in hislunatic way, so that train, passengers, porters and Liosha all rockedand reeled before my eyes. He let me go, and, before I could recover, Liosha threw her arms round my neck and kissed me. A porter who pickedup my hat restored me to mental equipoise. Then I looked at them, andanything more splendid in humanity than that simple, happy pair ofgigantic children I have never seen in my life. I, too, felt thelaughter of happiness swell in my heart, for their gladness at the sightof me was so true, so unaffected, and I wrung their hands and laughedaloud foolishly. It is good to be loved, especially when you've donenothing particular to deserve it. And in their primitive way these twoloved me. 

"Isn't she fit?" roared Jaffery. 

"Magnificent, " said I. 

She was. The thick tan of exposure to wind and sun gave her a gipsyswarthiness beneath which glowed the rich colour of health. When I hadparted from her at Havre there had been just a thread of soft increasein her generous figure; but now all superfluous flesh had hardened downinto muscle, and the superb lines proclaimed her splendour. And thereseemed to be more authority in her radiant face and a new masterfulnessand a quicker intelligence in her brown eyes. I noticed that it was shewho first broke away from the clamour of greeting and gave directions asto the transport of their "dunnage. " Jaffery followed her with the tailof his eye; then turned to me with a bass chuckle. 

"We're a sort of Jaff Chayne and Co. , according to her, and she thinksshe's managing director. Ho! ho! ho!" He put his arm round my shoulderand suddenly grew serious. "How's everybody?"

"Flourishing, " said I. 

"And Doria?"

"At Northlands. "

"She knows I'm coming?"

"Yes, " said I. 

Liosha joined us, accompanied by a porter, carrying their exiguousbaggage. We walked to the exit, without saying much, and settledourselves in the limousine, my guests in the back seat, I on one of thelittle chairs facing them. We started. 

"My dear old chap, " said I, leaning forward. "I've got something to tellyou. I didn't like to write about it. But it has got to be told, and Imay as well get it over now. "

 * * * * *

It was a subdued and half-scared Jaffery who greeted Barbara and Susanat our front door. The jollity had gone out of him. He was nothing but avast hulk filled with self-reproach. It was his fault, his very grievousand careless fault for having postponed the destruction of the papers, and for having left them loose and unsecured in his rooms. He all butbeat his breast. If Doria had died of the shock his would be the blame. He saluted Barbara with the air of one entering a house of mourning. 

"You mustn't look so woe-begone, " she said. "Something like this wasbound to happen. I have dreaded it all along--and now it has happenedand the earth hasn't come to an end. "

We stood in the hall, while Franklin divested the visitors of theirouter wraps and trappings. 

"And, Liosha, " Barbara continued, throwing her arms round as much ofLiosha as they could grasp--she had already kissed her a warmwelcome--"it's a shame, dear, to depress you the moment you come intothe place. You'll wish you were at sea again. "

"I guess not, " said Liosha. "I know now I'm among folks who love me. Isn't that true, Susan?"

"Daddy loves you and mummy loves you and I adore you, " cried Susan. 

Whereupon there was much hugging of a spoiled monkey. 

We went upstairs. At the drawing-room door Barbara gave me one of herqueer glances, which meant, on interpretation, that I should leave heralone with Jaffery for a few minutes so that she could pour the balm ofsense over his remorseful soul, and that in the meantime it would beadvisable for me to explain the situation to Liosha. Aloud, she said, before disappearing:

"Your old room, Liosha, dear--you'll find everything ready. "

In order to carry out my wife's orders, I had to disentangle Susan fromLiosha's embrace and pack her off rueful to the nursery. But the promiseto seat her at lunch between the two seafarers brought a measure ofconsolation. 

"Come into the library, Liosha, " said I, throwing the door open. Ifollowed her and settled her in an armchair before a big fire; and thenstood on the hearthrug, looking at her and feeling rather a fool. Ioffered her refreshment. She declined. I commented again on her finephysical appearance and asked her how she was. I drew her attention tosome beautiful narcissi and hyacinths that had come from the greenhouse. The more I talked and the longer she regarded me in her grave, directfashion, the less I knew how to tell her, or how much to tell her, ofDoria's story. The drive had been a short one, giving time only for anarration of the facts of the discovery. Liosha, although accepting myapology, had sat mystified; also profoundly disturbed by Jaffery'sunconcealed agitation. Her life with him during the past four months haddrawn her into the meshes of the little drama. For her own sake, foreverybody's sake, we could not allow her to remain in completeignorance. . . . I gave her a cigarette and took one myself. After thefirst puff, she smiled. 

"You want to tell me something. "

"I do. Something that is known only to four people in the world--andthey're in this house. "

"If you tell me, I guess it'll be known only to five, " said Liosha. 

To have questioned the loyalty of her eyes would have been to insulttruth itself. 

"All right, " said I. "You'll be the fifth and last. " And then, as simplyas I could, I told her all there was to know. She grasped the literarydetails more quickly than I had anticipated. I found afterwards that thelong months of the voyage had not been entirely taken up with thecooking of bacon and the swabbing of decks; there had been longstretches of tedium beguiled by talk on most things under heaven, andaided by her swift and jealous intelligence her mental horizon hadbroadened prodigiously through constant association with a cultivatedman. . . . When I reached the point in my story where Jaffery gave upthe Persian expedition, she gripped the arms of her chair, and her lipsworked in their familiar quiver. 

"He must have loved her to do that, " she said in a low voice. 

I went on, and the more involved I became in the disastrous affair, themore was I convinced that it would he better for her to understandclearly the imbroglio of Jaffery and Doria. You see, I knew all along, as all along I hope I have given you to understand--ever since the daywhen she asked him to beat her with a golf-stick--that the poor girlloved Jaffery, heart and soul. I knew also that she made for herself noillusions as to Jaffery's devotion to Doria. On that point her words tome at Havre had left me in no doubt whatever. But since Havre all sortsof extraordinary things had happened. There had been their intimatecomradeship in the savagery (from my point of view) of the last fewmonths. There was now Doria's awful change of soul-attitude towardsAdrian. It was right that Liosha should be made aware of the emotionalsubtleties that underlay the bare facts. It seemed cruel to tell her ofthe last scene, so pathetic, so tragic, so grotesque, between the manshe loved and the other woman. But her unflinching bravery and her greatheart demanded it. And as I told her, walking nervously about the room, she followed me with her steadfast eyes. 

"So that's why Jaff Chayne came abroad with me. "

"I suppose so, " said I. 

"If I had been a man I should have strangled her, or flung her out ofthe window. "

"I dare say. But you wouldn't have been Jaff Chayne. "

"That's true, " she assented. "No man like him ever walked the earth. Andhow a woman could be so puppy-blind as not to see it, I can't imagine. "

"Her head was full of another man, you see. "

"Oh yes, I see, " she said with a touch of contempt. "And such a man! Youwere fond of him I know. But he was a sham. He used to look on me, Iremember, as an amusing sort of animal out of the Zoological Gardens. Itnever occurred to him that I had sense. He was a fool. "

Intimately as we had known Liosha, this was the first time she had everexpressed an opinion regarding Adrian. We had assumed that, havingtouched her life so lightly, he had been but a shadowy figure in hermind, and that, save in so far as his death concerned us, she had viewedhim with entire indifference. But her keen feminine brain had picked outthe fatal flaw in poor Adrian's character, the shallow glitter that madeus laugh and the want of vision from which he died. 

"Go on, " said Liosha. 

I continued. In justice to Doria, I elaborated her reasons for settingAdrian on his towering pinnacle. Liosha nodded. She understood. Falsegods, whatever degree of godhead they usurped, had for a time themystifying power of concealing their falsehood. And during that timethey were gods, real live dwellers on Olympus, flaming Joves to poormortal Semeles. Liosha quite understood. 

I ended, more or less, a recapitulation of what she had heard, uncomprehending, in the car. 

"And that's how it stands, " said I. 

I was rather shaken, I must confess, by my narrative, and I turned asideand lit another cigarette. Liosha remained silent for a while, restingher cheek on her hand. At last she said in her deep tones:

"Poor little devil! Good God! Poor little devil!"

Tears flooded her eyes. 

"By heavens, " I cried, "you're a good creature. "

"I'm nothing of the sort, " said Liosha. She rose. "I guess I must have aclean up before lunch, " and she made for the door. 

I looked at my watch. "You just have time, " said I. 

I opened the door for her to pass out, and fell a-musing in front of thefire. Here was a new Liosha, as far apart from the serene youngbarbarian who had come to us two and a half years before blandlycharacterising Euphemia as a damn fool because she would not let her buya stocked chicken incubator and take it to the Savoy Hotel, as a prairiewolf from the noble Great Dane. Her nature had undergone remarkabledevelopments. As Jaffery had prophesied at Havre, she treated things ina big way, and she had learned restraint, not the restraint ofconvention, for not a convention would have stopped her from doing whatshe chose, but the restraint of self-discipline. And she had learnedpity. A year ago she would not have wept over Doria, whom she had everywoman's reason for hating. A new, generous tenderness had blossomed inher heart. If all the cutthroats of Albania who had murdered her familyhad been brought bound and set on their knees with bared necks beforeher and she had been presented with a sharp sword, I doubt whether shewould have cut off one single head. 

A tap at the window aroused me. It was Jaffery in the rain, which hadjust begun to fail, seeking admittance. I let him in. 

"This is an awful business, old man, " he said gloomily. 

From which I gather that for once Barbara's soothing had been of littleavail. 

"Have you seen Doria yet?" I asked. 

He shook his head. "Barbara is with her. She's coming in to lunch. "

At the anti-climax, I smiled. "That shews she's not quite dead yet. "

But to Jaffery it was no smiling matter. "Look here, Hilary, " he saidhoarsely, "don't you think it would be better for me to cut the wholething and go away right now?"

"Go away--?" I stared at him. "What for?"

"Why should I force myself on that poor, tortured child? Think of herfeelings towards me. She must loathe the sound of my name. "

"Jaff Chayne, " said I, "I believe you're afraid of mice. "

He frowned. "What the blazes do you mean?"

"You're in a blue funk at the idea of meeting Doria. "

"Rot, " said Jaffery. 

But he was. 

Franklin summoned us to luncheon. We went into the drawing-room wherethe rest of our little party were assembled, Susan and her governess, Liosha, Barbara and Doria. Doria stepped forward valiantly withoutstretched hand, looking him squarely in the face. 

"Welcome back, Jaffery. It's good to see you again. "

Jaffery grew very red and bending over her hand muttered something intohis beard. 

"You'll have to tell me about your wonderful voyage. "

"There was nothing so wonderful about it, " said Jaffery. 

That was all for the moment, for Barbara hustled us into thedining-room. But the terrible meeting that both had dreaded was over. Nobody had fainted or shed tears; it was over in a perfectly well-bredway. At lunch Susan, between Liosha and Jaffery, became the centre ofattention and saved conversation from constraint. 

To Doria, who had lingered at Northlands, in order to lose no time insetting herself right with Jaffery, --her own phrase--the ordinary tablesmall-talk would have been an ordeal. As it was, she sat on my left, opposite Liosha, lending a polite ear to the answers to Susan's eagerquestions. The child had not received such universal invitation tochatter at mealtime since she had learned to speak. But, in spite of herinspiring assistance, a depressing sense of destinies in the balancepervaded the room, and we were all glad when the meal came to an end. Susan, refusing to be parted from her beloved Liosha, carried her off tothe nursery to hear more fairy-tales of the steamship _Vesta_. Barbaraand Doria went into the drawing-room, where Jaffery and I, after aperfunctory liqueur brandy, soon joined them. We talked for a while ondifferent things, the child's robustious health, the garden, theweather, our summer holiday, much in the same dismal fashion asassembled mourners talk before the coffin is brought downstairs. At lastBarbara said:

"I must go and write some letters. "

And I said: "I'm going to have my afternoon nap. "

Both the others cried out with simultaneous anxiety and scarlet faces:

"Oh, don't go, Barbara, dear. "

"Can't you cut the sleep out for once?"

"I must!" said Barbara. 

"No, " said I. 

And we left our nervous ogre and our poor little elf to fight outbetween themselves whatever battle they had to fight. Perhaps it wascold-blooded cruelty on our part. But these two had to come to mutualunderstanding sooner or later. Why not at once? They had the afternoonbefore them. It was pouring with rain. They had nothing else to do. Inorder that they should be undisturbed, Barbara had given orders that wewere not at home to visitors. Besides, we were actuated by motives notentirely altruistic. If I seem to have posed before you as anoble-minded philanthropist, I have been guilty of carelessmisrepresentation. At the best I am but a not unkindly, easy-going manwho loathes being worried. And I (and Barbara even more than myself) hadbeen greatly worried over our friends' affairs for a considerableperiod. We therefore thought that the sooner we were freed from theseworries the better for us both. Deliberately we hardened our heartsagainst their joint appeal and left them together in the drawing-room. 

"Whew!" said I, as we walked along the corridor. "What's going tohappen?"

"She'll marry him, of course. "

"She won't, " said I. 

"She will. My dear Hilary, they always do. "

"If I have any knowledge of feminine character, " said I, "that youngwoman harbours in her soul a bitter resentment against Jaffery. "

"If, " she said. "But you haven't. "

"All right, " said I. 

"All right, " said Barbara. 

We paused at the library door. "What, " I asked, "is going to become ofLiosha?"

Barbara sighed. "We're not out of this wood yet. "

"And with Liosha on our hands, I don't think we ever shall be. "

"I should like to shake Jaffery, " said Barbara. 

"And I should like, " said I, "to kick him. "

CHAPTER XXV

So, as I have said, we left those two face to face in the bigdrawing-room. The man in an agony of self-reproach, helpless pity andrealised failure; the woman--as it seemed to me, smoking reflectively inmy library armchair, for sleep was impossible--the woman in the calm ofdesperation. The man who had performed a thousand chivalrous acts toshield her from harm, who lavished on her all the devotion andtenderness of his simple heart; the woman who owed him her life, and, but for fool accident and her own lack of faith in him, would still beowing him the twilight happiness of her Fool's Paradise. They had notmet, or exchanged written words, since the early summer day at the St. John's Wood flat, when he had told her that he loved her, and by thesheer mischance of his hulking strength had thrown her to the ground;since that day when she had spat out at him her hatred and contempt, when she had called him "a barren rascal, " and had lashed him into fury;when, white with realisation that the secret was about to escape fromhis lips, he had laid her on the sofa and had gone blindly into thestreet. Now facing each other for the first time after many months, theyremembered all too poignantly that parting. The barren rascal who stoodbefore her was the man who had written every word of Adrian's triumphantsecond novel, and had given it to her out of the largesse of his love. And he had borne with patience all her imperious strictures and hadobeyed all her crazy and jealous whims. He had fooled her--quixoticallyfooled her, it is true--but fooled her as never woman had been fooled inthe world before. And knowing Adrian to be the barren rascal, all thetime, never had he wavered in his loyalty, never had he uttered onedisparaging word. And he had secured the insertion of a life of Adrianin the next supplement to the Dictionary of National Biography; and hehad helped her to set up that staring white marble monument in HighgateCemetery, with its lying inscription. Never had human soul been investedin such a Nessus shirt of irony. No wonder she had passed throughHell-fire. No wonder her soul had been scorched and shrivelled up. Nowonder the licking fires of unutterable shame kept her awake of nights. And if she writhed in the flaming humiliation of it all when she wasalone, what was that woman's anguish of abasement when she stood face toface, and compelled to speech, with the man whose loving hand hadunwittingly kindled that burning torment?

The poor human love for Adrian was not dead. That secret I had pluckedout of her heart a few weeks ago in the garden. How did she regard theman who must have held Adrian in the worst of contempt, the contempt ofpity? She hated him. I was sure she hated him. I could not take my mindoff those two closeted together. What was happening? Again and again Iwent over the whole disastrous story. What would be the end? I weariedmyself for a long, long time with futile speculation. 

 * * * * *

My library door opened, and Liosha, bright-eyed, with quivering lip andtragic face, burst in, and seeing me, flung herself down by my side andburied her head on the arm of the chair and began to cry wretchedly. 

"My dear, my dear, " said I, bewildered by this tornado of misery. "Mydear, " said I, putting an arm round her shoulders, "what is the matter?"

"I'm a fool, " she wailed. "I know I'm a fool, but I can't help it. Iwent in there just now. I didn't know they were there. Susan's musicmistress came and I had to go out of the nursery--and I went into thedrawing-room. Oh, it's hard, Hilary, dear--it's damned hard. "

"My poor Liosha, " said I. 

"There doesn't seem to be a place in the world for me. "

"There's lots of places in our hearts, " I said as soothingly as I could. But the assurance gave her little comfort. Her body shook. 

"I wish the cargo had killed me, " she said. 

I waited for a little, then rose and made her sit in my chair. I drewanother near her. 

"Now, " said I. "Tell me all about it. "

And she told me in her broken way. 

 * * * * *

She walked into the drawing-room thinking to find Barbara. Instead, shesailed into a surging sea of passion. Doria crouched on a sofa hidingher face--the flame, poor little elf in the Nessus shirt, had beenlapping her round, and with both hands outstretched she motioned awayJaffery who stood over her. 

"Don't touch me, don't touch me! I couldn't bear it!" she cried; andthen, aware of Liosha's sudden presence, she started to her feet. Lioshadid not move. The two women glared at each other. 

"What do you mean by coming in here?" cried Doria. 

"You had better leave us, Liosha, " said Jaffery sombrely. 

But Liosha stood firm. The spurning of Jaffery by Doria struck a chordof the heroic that ran through her strange, wild nature. If this man sheloved was not for her, at least no other woman should scorn him. Shedrew herself up in her full-bosomed magnificence. 

"Instead of telling him not to touch you, you little fool, you ought tofall at his feet. For what he has done for you, you ought to steal thewide world and give it to him. And you refuse your footling littleinsignificant self. If you had a thousand selves, they wouldn't beenough for him. "

"Stop!" shouted Jaffery. 

She wheeled round on him. "Hold your tongue, Jaff Chayne. I guess I'vethe right, if anybody has, to fix up your concerns. "

"What right?" Doria demanded. 

"Never mind. " She took a step forward. "Oh, no; not that right! Don'tyou dare to think it. Jaff Chayne doesn't care a tinker's curse for methat way. But I have a right to speak, Jaff Chayne. Haven't I?"

Jaffery's mind went back to the Bedlam of the slithering cargo. Heturned to Doria. 

"Let her say what she wants. "

"I want nothing!" cried Liosha. "Nothing for myself. Not a thing! But Iwant Jaff Chayne to be happy. You think you know all he has done foryou, but you don't. You don't know a bit. They offered him thousands ofpounds to go to Persia, and he would have come back a great man, and hedidn't go because of you. "

"Persia? I never heard of that, " said Doria. 

"The job didn't suit me, " Jaffery growled. 

"And you told her all about it?"

"No, he didn't, " said Liosha. "Hilary told me to-day. "

"I take your word for it, " said Doria coldly. "It only shows that I'munder one more obligation than I thought to Mr. Chayne. "

From what I could gather, the word "obligation" infuriated Liosha. Sheuttered an avalanche of foolish things. And Jaffery (for what is man ina woman's battle but an impotent spectator?) looked in silence from one:to the other; from the little ivory, black and white Tanagra figure tothe great full creature whom he had seen, but a few days ago, with thesalt spray in her hair and the wind in her vestments. And at last shesaid:

"If I were a woman like you and wouldn't marry a man who loved me likeJaff Chayne, and who had done for me all that Jaff Chayne had done foryou, I'd pray to God to blast me and fill my body with worms. "

 * * * * *

And then she burst out of the room, and, like a child seekingprotection, came and threw herself down by my side. 

What happened when she left them I know, because Jaffery kept me up tillthree o'clock in the morning narrating it to me, while he poured intohis Gargantuan self hogsheads of whisky and soda. 

 * * * * *

When Liosha had gone, they eyed one another for a while in embarrassingsilence, until Doria spoke:

"She misunderstood--when she came in. Quite natural. It was your touchof pity that I couldn't bear. I wasn't repelling you, as she seemed tothink. "

"It cut me to the heart to see you in such grief, " said Jaffery. "I onlythought of comforting you. "

"I know. " She sat on a chair by the window and looked out at the pouringrain. 

"Tell me, " she said, without turning round, "what did she mean by sayingshe had the right to interfere in your affairs?"

"She saved my life at the risk of her own, " replied Jaffery. 

"I see. And you saved my life once; so perhaps you have rights overme. "

"That would be damnable!" he cried. "Such a thought has never entered myhead. "

"It is firmly fixed in mine, " said Doria. 

She sat for a while, with knitted brows deep in thought. Jaffery stooddejectedly by the fire, his hands in his pockets. Presently she rose. 

"Besides saving my life and doing for me the things I know, there mustbe many things you've done for me that I never heard of--like thissacrifice of the Persian expedition. Liosha was right. I ought to go onmy knees to you. But I can't very well do that, can I?"

"No, " replied Jaffery, scrabbling at whiskers and beard. "That would bestupid. You mustn't worry about me at all. Whatever I did for you, mydear, I'd do a thousand times over again!"

"You must have your reward, such as it is. God knows you have earnedit. "

"Don't talk about rights or rewards, " said he. "As I've said repeatedlythis afternoon, I've forfeited even your thanks. "

"And I've said I forgive you--if there's anything to forgive, " shesmiled, just a little wearily. "So that is wiped out. All the restremains. Let us bury all past unhappiness between us two. "

"I wish we could. But how?"

"There is a way. "

"What is that?"

"You make things somewhat hard for me. You might guess. But I'll tellyou. Liosha again was right. . . . If you want me still, I will marryyou. Not quite yet; but, say, in six months' time. You are agreat-hearted, loyal man"--she continued bravely, faltering under hisgaze--"and I will learn to love you and will devote my life to makingyou happy. "

She glanced downwards with averted head, awaiting some outcry ofgladness, surrendering herself to the quick clasp of strong arms. Butno outcry came, and no arms clasped. She glanced up, and met a strickenlook in the man's eyes. 

For Jaffery could not find a word to utter. A chill crept about hisheart and his blood became as water. He could not move; a nightmarehorror of dismay held him in its grip. The inconceivable had happened. He no longer desired her. The woman who had haunted his thoughts forover two years, for whom he had made quixotic sacrifices, for whom hehad made a mat of his great body so that she should tread stony pathswithout hurt to her delicate feet, was his now for the taking--noblyself-offered--and with all the world as an apanage he could not havetaken her. The phenomenon of sex he could not explain. Once he haddesired her passionately. The ivory-white of her daintiness had firedhis blood. He had fought with beasts. He had wrestled with his soul inthe night watches. He had loved her purely and sweetly, too. But now, asshe stood before him, recoiling a little from his fixed stare of pain, though she had suffered but little loss in beauty and in that of herwhich was desirable, he realised, in a kind of paralysis, that hedesired her no more, that he loved her no more with the idealised lovehe had given to the elfin princess of his dreams. Not that he would notstill do her infinite service. The pathos of her broken life moved himto an anguish of pity. For her soothing he would give all that life heldfor him, save one thing--which was no longer his to give. Another manglib of tongue and crafty of brain might have lied his way out of anabominable situation. But Jaffery's craft was of the simplest. He couldnot trick the dead love into smiling semblance of life. His nature wastoo primitive. He could only stare in spellbound affright at the icybarrier that separated him from Doria. 

"I see, " she said tonelessly, moving slowly away from him. "Yourfeelings have changed. I am sorry. "

Then he found power of motion and speech. He threw out his arms. "MyGod, dear, forgive me!" he groaned, and sat down and clutched his headin his hands. She returned to the window and looked out at the rain. Andthere she fought with her woman's indignant humiliation. And there was along, dead silence, broken only by the faintly heard notes of Susan'spiano in the nursery and the splash of water on the terrace. 

Presently all that was good in Doria conquered. She crossed the room andlaid a light hand on Jaffery's head. It was the finest moment in herlife. 

"One can't help these things. I know it too well. And no hearts arebroken. So it's all for the best. "

He groaned again. "I didn't know. I'd like to shoot myself. "

She smiled, conscious of feminine superiority. "If you did, I shoulddie, too. I tell you, it's all for the best. I love you as I never lovedyou before. I usen't to love you a little bit. But I should have had tolearn to love you as a wife--and it might have been difficult. "

A moment afterwards she appeared in the library, serenelymatter-of-fact. Liosha started round in her chair and looked defiantlyat her rival. 

"Would both of you mind coming into the drawing-room for a minute?"

We followed her. She held the door, which I was about to shut, and leftit open. Before Jaffery had time to rise at our entrance, I caught sightof him sitting as she had left him, great clumps of his red hairsticking through his fingers. His face was a picture of woe. I canimagine nothing more like it than that of a conscience smitten lion. Doria ran her arm through mine and kept me near the doorway. 

"I've asked Jaffery to marry me, " she said, in a steady voice, "and hedoesn't want to. It's because he loves a much better woman and wants tomarry her. "

Then while Jaffery and Liosha gasped in blank astonishment, she swung meabruptly out of the room and slammed the door behind her. 

"There, " she said, and flung up her little bead, "what do you think ofthat?"

"Magnificent, " said I, "but bewildering. Did Jaffery really--?"

In a few words, she put me into possession of the bare facts. 

"I'm not sorry, " she added. "Sometimes I love Jaffery--because he's solovable. Sometimes I hate him--because--oh, well--because of Adrian. Youcan't understand. "

"I'm not altogether a fool, " said I. 

"Well, that's how it is. I would have worn myself to death to try tomake him happy. You believe me?"

"I do indeed, my dear, " I replied. And I replied with unshakableconviction. She was a woman who once having come under the domination ofan idea would obey it blindly, ruthlessly, marching straight onwards, looking neither to right nor left. The very virtue that had made herovercruel to him in the past would have made her overkind to him in thefuture. Unwittingly she had used a phrase startlingly true. She wouldhave worn herself to death in her determination to please. Incidentallyshe would have driven him mad with conscientious dutifulness. 

"He would have found no fault with me that I could help, " she said. "Butwe needn't speak of it any more. I'm not the woman for him. Liosha is. It's all over. I'm glad. At any rate, I've made atonement--at least, I've tried--as far as things lay in my power. "

I took both her hands, greatly moved by her courage. 

"And what's going to happen to you, my dear?"

"Now that all this is straight, " she replied, with a faint smile, "I canturn round and remake my life. You and Barbara will help. "

"With all our hearts, " said I. 

"It won't be so hard for you, ever again, I promise. I shall be morereasonable. And the first favour I'll ask you, dear Hilary, is to let mego this afternoon. It would be a bit of a strain on me to stay. "

"I know, my dear, " I said. "The car is at your service. "

"Oh, no! I'll go by train. "

"You'll do as you're told, young woman, and go by car. "

At this rubbishy speech, the tears, for the first time, came into hereyes. She pulled down my shoulders--I am rather lank and tall--andkissed me. 

"You're a dear, " she said, and went off in search of Barbara. 

I returned to my library, rang the bell, and gave orders for thechauffeur to stand at Mrs. Boldero's disposal. Then I sat down at aloose end, very much like a young professional man, doctor orestate-agent, waiting for the next client. And like the youngprofessional man at a loose end, I made a pretence of looking throughpapers. Presently I became aware that I only had to open a window inorder to summon a couple of clients at once. For there in the gatheringNovember dusk and in the rain--it had ceased pouring, but it wasdrizzling, and therefore it was rain--I saw our pair of delectablesavages strolling across the wet, sodden lawn, in loverlike proximity, for all the world as though it were a flowery mead in May. I might havesummoned them, but it would have been an unprofessional thing to do. Instead, I drew my curtains and turned on the light, and continued towait. I waited a long time. At last Barbara rushed in. 

"Doria's ready. "

"You've heard all about it?" She nodded. "I said there would be nomarriage, " I remarked blandly. 

"You said she wouldn't marry him. I said she would. And so she would, ifhe had let her. I know you're prepared to argue, " she said, ratherexcitedly, "but it's no use. I was right all the time. "

I yielded. 

"You're always right, my dear, " said I. 

 * * * * *

That is practically all, up to the present, that I have to tell youabout Jaffery. What words passed between him and Liosha in thedrawing-room I have never known. Jaffery, with conscience still sore, and childishly anxious that I should not account him a traitor and ascoundrel, and a brute too despicable for human touch, told me, as Ihave already stated, over and over again, until I yawned for wearinessin the small hours of the morning, what had taken place in hisstaggering interview with Doria; but as regards Liosha, he was shylyevasive. After all, I fancy, it was a very simple affair. She had toldme bluntly that when the two men, Jaffery and Prescott, rode into thescene of Balkan desolation in which she was the central figure, Jafferywas the one who caused her heart to throb. And in her chaste, proud wayshe had loved him ever since that extraordinary moment. And thoughJaffery has never confessed it, I am absolutely certain that, just asMonsieur Jourdain spoke prose, _sans le savoir_, so, without knowing it, was Jaffery in love with Liosha when she drove away from Northlands inMr. Ras Fendihook's car. Perhaps before. _Quien sabe?_ But he imaginedhimself to be in love with a moonbeam. And the moonbeam shot like aglamorous, enchanted sword between him and Liosha, and kept them apartuntil the moment of dazed revelation, when he saw that the moonbeamwas merely a pale, earnest, anxious, suffering little human thing, aliento his every instinct, a firmament away, in every vital essential, fromthe goddess of his idolatry. 

[Illustration: There is war going on in the Balkans. Jaffery is there aswar correspondent. Liosha is there, too. ]

That is how I explain--and I have puzzled my head into aching over anyother possible explanation--the attitude of Jaffery towards Liosha onthe _Vesta_ voyage. Well, my conjectures are of not much value. I havedone my best to put the facts, as I know them, before you; and if youare interested in the matter you can go on conjecturing to your heart'scontent. "Look here, my friend, " said I, as soon as I could attune mymind to new conditions, "what about your new novel?"

He frowned portentously. "It can go to blazes!" "Aren't you going tofinish it?"

"No. "

"But you must. Don't you realise that you're a born novelist?"

"Don't you realise, " he growled, "that you're a born fool?"

"I don't, " said I. 

He walked about the library in his space--occupying way. 

"I'm going to tear the damned thing up! I'm never going to write a novelagain. I cut it out altogether. It's the least I can do for her. "

"Isn't that rather quixotic?" I asked. 

"Suppose it is. What have you to say against it?"

"Nothing, " said I. 

"Well, keep on saying it, " replied Jaffery, with the steel flash in hiseyes. 

 * * * * *

They were married. Our vicar performed the ceremony. I gave the brideaway. Liosha revealed the feminine kink in her otherwise splendidcharacter by insisting on the bridal panoply of white satin, veil andorange blossoms. I confess she looked superb. She looked like a Valkyr. A leather-visaged war correspondent, named Burchester, whom I had neverseen before, and have not seen since, acted as best man. Susan, tensewith the responsibilities of office, was the only bridesmaid. Mrs. Jupp(late Considine) and her General were our only guests. Doria excusedherself from attendance, but sent the bride a travelling-case fittedwith a myriad dazzling gold-stoppered bottles and a phantasmagoria ofgold-mounted toilette implements. 

And then they went on their honeymoon. And where do you think they went?They signed again on the steamship _Vesta_. And Captain Maturin gavethem his cabin, which is more than I would have done, and slept, Ipresume, in the dog-hole. And they were as happy as the ship wasabominable. 

Now, as I write, there is a war going on in the Balkans. Jaffery isthere as the correspondent of _The Daily Gazette_. Liosha is there, too, as the inseparable and peculiarly invaluable companion of JafferyChayne. They live impossible lives. But what has that got to do with youor me? They like it. They adore it. A more radiantly mated pair theearth cannot produce. Their two-year-old son is learning the practice ofthe heroic virtues at Cettinje, while his parents loaf aboutbattlefields in full eruption. 

"Poor little mite!" says Barbara. 

But I say:

"Lucky little Pantagruel!"

THE END