TANTE

by

ANNE DOUGLAS SEDGWICK(MRS. BASIL DE SÉLINCOURT)

Author of "Franklin Winslow Kane, " "A Fountain Sealed, " "AmabelChannice, " "The Shadow of Life, " Etc. 

New YorkThe Century Co. 1912

Copyright, 1911, byThe Century Co. 

Published, December, 1911. 

TANTE

PART I

CHAPTER I

It was the evening of Madame Okraska's concert at the old St. James'sHall. London was still the place of the muffled roar and the endearingugliness. Horse-'buses plied soberly in an unwidened Piccadilly. Theprivate motor was a curiosity. Berlin had not been emulated in analtered Mall nor New York in the façades of giant hotels. The Saturdayand Monday pops were still an institution; and the bell of themuffin-man, in such a wintry season, passed frequently along the foggystreets and squares. Already the epoch seems remote. 

Madame Okraska was pausing on her way from St. Petersburg to New Yorkand this was the only concert she was to give in London that winter. Formany hours the enthusiasts who had come to secure unreserved seats hadbeen sitting on the stone stairs that led to the balcony or gallery, oron the still narrower, darker and colder flight that led to theorchestra from Piccadilly Place. From the adjacent hall they could hearthe strains of the Moore & Burgess Minstrels, blatant and innocuouslyvulgar; and the determined mirth, anatomized by distance, sounded alittle melancholy. To those of an imaginative turn of mind it might haveseemed that they waited in a tunnel at one far end of which could beperceived the tiny memory of tea at an Aerated Bread shop and at theother the vision of the delights to which they would emerge. For therewas no one in the world like Madame Okraska, and to see and hear her wasworth cold and weariness and hunger. Not only was she the most famous ofliving pianists but one of the most beautiful of women; and upon thisrestoring fact many of the most weary stayed themselves, returning againand again to gaze at the pictured face that adorned the outer cover ofthe programme. 

Illuminated by chill gas-jets, armed with books and sandwiches, theserried and devoted ranks were composed of typical concert-goers, oftypes, in some cases, becoming as extinct as the muffin-man; youngart-students from the suburbs, dressed in Liberty serges and velveteens, and reading ninepenny editions of Browning and Rossetti--though a few, already, were reading Yeats; middle-aged spinsters from Bayswater orSouth Kensington, who took their weekly concert as they took their dailybath; many earnest young men, soft-hatted and long-haired, studyingscores; the usual contingent of the fashionable and economical lady; andthe pale-faced business man, bringing an air of duty to the pursuit ofpleasure. 

Some time before the doors opened a growing urgency began to make itselffelt. People got up from their insecurely balanced camp-stools or rosestiffly from the stone steps to turn and stand shoulder to shoulder, subtly transformed from comrades in discomfort to combatants for ahazardous reward. The field for personal endeavour was small; the stairswere narrow and their occupants packed like sardines; yet everybodyhoped to get a better seat than their positions entitled them to hopefor. Hope and fear increased in intensity with the distance from thedoors, those mute, mystic doors behind which had not yet been heard achink or a shuffle and against which leaned, now balefully visible, theearliest comers of all, jaded, pallid, but insufferably assured. Thesummons came at length in the sound of drawn bolts and chains and aperemptory official voice, blood-tingling as a trumpet-call; and thecrowd, shoulder to shoulder and foot to foot, with rigid lips and eyesuplifted, began to mount like one man. Step by step they went, steadyand wary, each pressing upon those who went before and presenting aresistant back to those who followed after. The close, emulous contactsbred stealthy strifes and hatreds. A small lady, with short grey hairand thin red face and the conscienceless, smiling eye of a hypnotizedcreature, drove her way along the wall and mounted with the agility of alizard to a place several steps above. Others were infected by thesuccessful outlawry and there were some moments of swaying and strivingbefore the crowd adjusted itself to its self-protective solidity. Emerged upon the broader stairs they ascended panting and scurrying, ina wild stampede, to the sudden quiet and chill and emptiness of thefamiliar hall, with its high-ranged plaster cupids, whose cheeks andbreasts and thighs were thrown comically into relief by a thick coatingof dust. Here a permanent fog seemed to hang under the roof; only a fewlights twinkled frugally; and the querulous voice of theprogramme-seller punctuated the monotonous torrent of feet. Row uponrow, the seats were filled as if by tumultuous waters entering appointedchannels, programmes rustled, sandwiches were drawn from clammy packets, and the thin-faced lady, iniquitously ensconced in the middle of thefront row in the gallery, had taken out a strip of knitting and wasblandly ready for the evening. 

"I always come up here, " said one of the ladies from Kensington to afriend. "One hears her pianissimo more perfectly than anywhere else. What a magnificent programme! I shall be glad to hear her give theSchumann Fantaisie in C Major again. "

"I think I look forward more to the Bach Fantaisie than to anything, "said her companion. 

She exposed herself to a pained protest: "Oh surely not; not Bach; I donot come for my Bach to Okraska. She belongs too definitely to theromantics to grasp Bach. Beethoven, if you will; she may give us theAppassionata superbly; but not Bach; she lacks self-effacement. "

"Liszt said that no one played Bach as she did. "

Authority did not serve her. "Liszt may have said it; Brahms would nothave;" was the rejoinder. 

Down in the orchestra chairs the audience was roughly to be divided intothe technical and the personal devotees; those who chose seats fromwhich they could dwell upon Madame Okraska's full face over the shiningsurfaces of the piano or upon her profile from the side; and those who, from behind her back, were dedicated to the study of her magical hands. 

"I do hope, " said a girl in the centre of the front row of chairs, aplace of dizzy joy, for one might almost touch the goddess as she sat atthe piano, "I do hope she's not getting fat. Someone said they heard shewas. I never want to see her again if she gets fat. It would be tooawful. "

The girl with her conjectured sadly that Madame Okraska must be wellover forty. 

"I beg your pardon, " a massive lady dressed in an embroidered sack-likegarment, and wearing many strings of iridescent shells around herthroat, leaned forward from behind to say: "She is forty-six; I happento know; a friend of mine has met Madame Okraska's secretary. Forty-six;but she keeps her beauty wonderfully; her figure is quite beautiful. "

An element of personal excitement was evident in the people who sat inthese nearest chairs; it constituted a bond, though by no means afriendly one. Emulation, the irrepressible desire to impart knowledge, broke down normal barriers. The massive lady was slightly flushed andher manner almost menacing. Her information was received with a vague, half resentful murmur. 

"She looks younger, " she continued, while her listeners gave her anunwilling yet alert attention. "It is extraordinary how she retains heryouth. But it tells, it tells, the tragic life; one sees it in her eyesand lips. "

The first girl now put forward with resolution her pawn of knowledge. 

"It has been tragic, hasn't it. The dreadful man she was married to byher relations when she was hardly more than a child, and the death ofher second husband. He was the Baron von Marwitz; her real name is vonMarwitz; Okraska is her maiden name. He was drowned in saving her life, you know. "

"The Baron von Marwitz was drowned no one knows how; he was founddrowned; she found his body. She went into a convent after his death. "

"A convent? I was reading a life of her in a magazine the other day andnothing was said about a convent. "

The massive lady smiled tolerantly: "Nothing would be. She has a horrorof publicity. Yes, she is a mystic as well as an artist; she onlyresigned the religious life because of what she felt to be her duty toher adopted daughter. One sees the mystical side in her face and hearsit in her music. "

Madame Okraska was one of those about whose footsteps legends rise, andlegend could add little to the romantic facts of her life;--the povertyof her youth; her _début_ as a child prodigy at Warsaw and the suddenfame that had followed it; the coronets that had been laid at her feet;her private tragedies, cosmopolitan friendships, her scholarship, caprices and generosities. She had been the Egeria, smiling in mystery, of half a dozen famous men. And it was as satisfactory to the devotee tohear that she always wore white and drank coffee for her breakfast, asthat Rubinstein and Liszt had blessed her and Leschetitsky said that shehad nothing to learn. Her very origin belonged to the realm of romanticfiction. Her father, a Polish music-master in New Orleans, had run awaywith his pupil, a beautiful Spanish girl of a good Creole family. Theirchild had been born in Cracow while the Austrians were bombarding it in1848. 

The lights were now all up and the stalls filling. Ladies and gentlemenfrom the suburbs, over early, were the first comers; eager schoolgirlsmarshalled by governesses; scrupulous students with music under theirarms, and, finally, the rustling, shining, chattering crowd offashionable London. 

The massive lady had by now her little audience, cowed, if stillslightly sulky, well in hand. She pointed out each notability to them, and indirectly, to all her neighbours. The Duchess of Bannister and LadyChampney, the famous beauty; the Prime Minister, whom the girls couldhave recognized for themselves, and Sir Alliston Compton, the poet. Hadthey read his sonnet to Madame Okraska, last year, in the "Fortnightly"?They had not. "I wonder who that odd looking girl is with him and theold lady?" one of them ventured. 

"A little grand-daughter, a little niece, " said the massive lady, whodid not know. "Poor Sir Alliston's wife is in a lunatic asylum; isn't ita melancholy head?"

But now one of her listeners, a lady also in the front row, leanedforward to say hurriedly and deprecatingly, her face suffused withshyness: "That nice young girl is Madame Okraska's adopted daughter. Theold lady is Mrs. Forrester, Madame Okraska's great friend; mysister-in-law was for many years a governess in her family, and that ishow I come to know. "

All those who had heard her turned their eyes upon the young girl, who, in an old-fashioned white cloak, with a collar of swansdown turned upround her fair hair, was taking her place with her companions in thefront row of the orchestra-stalls. Even the massive lady was rapt awayto silence. 

"But I thought the adopted daughter was an Italian, " one girl at lastcommented, having gazed her fill at the being so exalted by fortune. "Her skin is rather dark, but that yellow hair doesn't look Italian. "

"She is a Norwegian, " said the massive lady, keeping however an eye onthe relative of Mrs. Forrester's governess; "the child of Norwegianpeasants. Don't you know the story? Madame Okraska found the poor littlecreature lost in a Norwegian forest, leaped from her carriage and tookher into her arms; the parents were destitute and she bought the childfrom them. She is the very soul of generosity. "

"She doesn't look like a peasant, " said the girl, with a flavour ofdiscontent, as though a more apparent rusticity would have lent specialmagnanimity to Madame Okraska's benevolence. But the massive ladyassured her: "Oh yes, it is the true Norse type; their peasantry has itspatrician quality. I have been to Norway. Sir Alliston looks very muchmoved, doesn't he? He has been in love with Madame Okraska for years. "And she added with a deep sigh of satisfaction: "There has never been aword whispered against her reputation; never a word--'Pure as the foamon midmost ocean tossed. '"

Among the crowds thronging densely to their places, a young man ofsoldierly aspect, with a dark, narrow face, black hair and square blueeyes, was making his way to a seat in the third row of stalls. His namewas Gregory Jardine; he was not a soldier--though he looked one--but abarrister, and he was content to count himself, not altogetherincorrectly, a Philistine in all matters æsthetic. Good music helistened to with, as he put it, unintelligent and barbarous enjoyment;and since he had, shamefully, never yet heard the great pianist, he hadbought the best stall procurable some weeks before, and now, after ataxing day in the law courts, had foregone his after-dinner coffee inorder not to miss one note of the opening Appassionata; it was a sonatahe was very fond of. He sometimes picked out the air of the slowmovement on the piano with heavy deliberation; his musical equipment didnot carry him as far as the variations. 

When he reached his seat he found it to be by chance next that of hissister-in-law, his brother Oliver's wife, a pretty, jewelled andjewel-like young woman, an American of a complicatedly cosmopolitantype. Gregory liked Betty Jardine, and always wondered how she had cometo marry Oliver, whom he rather scorned; but he was not altogetherpleased to find her near him. He preferred to take his music insolitude; and Betty was very talkative. 

"Well, this is nice, Gregory!" she said. "You and Captain Ashton knoweach other, don't you. No, I couldn't persuade Oliver to come; hewouldn't give up his whist. Isn't Oliver dreadful; he moves from thesaddle to the whist-table, and back again; and that is all. CaptainAshton and I have been comparing notes; we find that we have missedhardly any of Madame Okraska's concerts in London. I was only ten when Iheard the first she ever gave here; my governess took me; and actuallyCaptain Ashton was here on that day, too. Wasn't she a miracle ofloveliness? It was twenty years ago; she had already her Europeanreputation. It was just after she had divorced that horrible firsthusband of hers and married the Baron von Marwitz. This isn't yourinitiation, of course, Gregory?"

"Actually my initiation, " said Gregory, examining the portrait of MadameOkraska on the cover of the programme. 

"But you've seen her at Mrs. Forrester's? She always stays with Mrs. Forrester. "

"I know; but I've always missed her, or, at all events, never been askedto meet her. "

"I certainly never have been, " said Betty Jardine. "But Mrs. Forresterthinks of me as frivolity personified, I know, and doesn't care to admitanything lower than a cabinet minister or a poet laureate when she hasher lion domiciled. She is an old darling; but, between ourselves, shedoes take her lions a little too seriously, doesn't she. Well, preparefor a _coup de foudre_, Gregory. You'll be sure to fall in love withher. Everybody falls in love with her. Captain Ashton has been in lovewith her for twenty years. She is extraordinary. "

"I'm ready to be subjugated, " said Gregory. "Do people really hang onher hands and kiss them? Shall I want to hang on her hands and kissthem?"

"There is no telling what she will do with us, " said Lady Jardine. 

Gregory Jardine's face, however, was not framed to express enthusiasm. It was caustic, cold and delicate. His eyes were as clear and as hard asa sky of frosty morning, and his small, firm lips were hard. His chinand lower lip advanced slightly, so that when he smiled his teeth metedge to edge, and the little black moustache, to which he often gave anabsent upward twist, lent an ironic quality to this chill, gay smile, attimes almost Mephistophelian. He sat twisting the moustache now, leaninghis head to listen, amidst the babel of voices, to Betty Jardine'schatter, and the thrills of infectious expectancy that passed over theaudience like breezes over a corn-field left him unaffected. Hisobservant, indifferent glance had in it something of the schoolboy'sbarbarian calm and something of the disabused impersonality of worldlyexperience. 

"Who is the young lady with Mrs. Forrester?" he asked presently. "Inwhite, with yellow hair. Just in front of us. Do you know?"

Betty had leaned forward to look. "Don't you even know her by sight?"she said. "That is Miss Woodruff, the girl who follows Madame Okraskaeverywhere. She attached herself to her years ago, I believe, in Rome orParis;--some sort of little art-student she was. What a bore that sortof devotion must be. Isn't she queer?"

"I had heard that she's an adopted daughter, " said Captain Ashton; "thechild of Norwegian peasants, and that Madame Okraska found her in aNorwegian forest--by moonlight;--a most romantic story. "

"A fable, I think. Someone was telling me about her the other day. Sheis only a camp-follower and _protégée_; and a compatriot of mine. She isan orphan and Madame Okraska supports her. "

"She doesn't look like a _protégée_, " said Gregory Jardine, his eyes onthe young person thus described; "she looks like a protector. "

"I should think she must be most of all a problem, " said Betty. "What aprice to pay for celebrity--these hangers-on who make one ridiculous bytheir infatuation. Madame Okraska is incapable of defending herselfagainst them, I hear. The child's clothes might have come from Norway!"

The _protégée_, protector or problem, who turned to them now and thenher oddly blunted, oddly resolute young profile, had tawny hair, and asun-browned skin. She wore a little white silk frock with flat bows ofdull blue upon it. Her evening cloak was bordered with swansdown. Twoblack bows, one at the crown of her head and one at the nape of herneck, secured the thick plaits of her hair, which was parted and brushedup from her forehead in a bygone school-girlish fashion. She madeGregory think of a picture by Alfred Stevens he had seen somewhere andof an archaic Greek statue, and her appearance and demeanour interestedhim. He continued to look at her while the unrest and expectancy of theaudience rolled into billows of excitement. 

A staid, melancholy man, forerunner of the great artist, had appearedand performed his customary and cryptic function. "Why do they alwaysscrew up the piano-stool at the last moment!" Betty Jardine murmured. "Is it to pepper our tongues with anguish before the claret?--Oh, shemust be coming now! She always keeps one waiting like this!"

The billows had surged to a storm. Signs of frenzy were visible in thefaces on the platform. They had caught a glimpse of the approachingdivinity. 

"Here she is!" cried Betty Jardine. Like everybody else she was clappingfrantically, like everybody, that is, except Gregory Jardine; forGregory, his elbow in his hand, his fingers still neatly twisting theend of his moustache, continued to observe the young girl in the frontrow, whose face, illuminated and irradiated, was upturned to the figurenow mounting to the platform. 

CHAPTER II

The hush that had fallen was like the hush that falls on Alpine watchersin the moment before sunrise, and, with the great musician's slowemerging from below, it was as if the sun had risen. 

She came, with her indolent step, the thunder of hands and voicesgreeting her; and those who gazed at her from the platform saw thepearl-wreathed hair and opulent white shoulders, and those who gazed ather from beneath saw the strange and musing face. Then she stood beforethem and her dark eyes dwelt, impassive and melancholy, upon the sea offaces, tumultuous and blurred with clapping hands. The sound was likethe roaring of the sea and she stood as a goddess might have stood atthe brink of the ocean, indifferent and unaware, absorbed in dreams ofancient sorrow. The ovation was so prolonged and she stood there for solong--hardly less the indifferent goddess because, from time to time, she bowed her own famous bow, stately, old-fashioned, formally andsublimely submissive, --that every eye in the great audience could feastupon her in a rapturous assurance of leisure. 

She was a woman of forty-eight, of an ample though still beautifulfigure. Her flowing dress of white brocade made no attempt to compress, to sustain or to attenuate. No one could say that a woman who stood asshe did, with the port of a goddess--the small head majestically poisedover such shoulders and such a breast--was getting fat; yet no one coulddeny that there was redundancy. She was not redundant as other womenwere; she was not elegant as other women were; she seemed in nothinglike others. Her dress was strange; it had folds and amplitudes and dimdisks of silver broideries at breast and knee that made it like thedress of some Venetian lady, drawn at random from an ancestral marriagecoffer and put on dreamily with no thought of aptness. Her hair wasstrange; no other woman's hair was massed and folded as was hers, hairdark as night and intertwined and looped with twisted strands of pearland diamond. Her face was strange, that crowning face, known to all theworld. Disparate racial elements mingled in the long Southern oval andthe Slavonic modelling of brow and cheek-bone. The lips, serene andpassionate, deeply sunken at the corners and shadowed with a pencillingof down, were the lips of Spain; all the mystery of the South was in thegrave and tragic eyes. Yet the eyes were cold; and touches of wildancestral suffering, like the sudden clash of spurs in the languors of aPolonaise, marked the wide nostrils and the heavy eyelids and the broad, black crooked eyebrows that seemed to stammer a little in the perfectsentence of her face. 

She subjugated and she appealed. Her adorers were divided between thelonging to lie down under her feet and to fold her protectingly in theirarms. Calf-love is an undying element in human-nature, a shame-facedderogatory name for the romantic, self-immolating emotion woven fromfancy, yearning and the infection of other's ardour. Love of this foamand flame quality, too tender to be mere æsthetic absorption in abeautiful object, too selfless to be sensual, too intense to be onlyabsurd, rose up towards Madame Okraska and encompassed her from hundredsof hearts and eyes. The whole audience was for her one vast heart ofadoration, one fixed face of half-hypnotized tenderness. And there shestood before them;--Madame Okraska whom crowned heads delighted tohonour; Madame Okraska who got a thousand pounds a night; Madame Okraskawho played as no one in the world could play; looking down over them, looking up and around at them, as if, now, a little troubled by theprolonged adulation, patient yet weary, like a mistress assaulted, afterlong absence, by the violent joy of a great Newfoundland dog; smiling alittle, though buffeted, and unwilling to chill the ardent heart by areprimand. And more than all she was like a great white rose that, fading in the soft, thick, scented air of a hot-house, droops languidlywith loosened petals. 

They let her go at last and she took her place at the piano. Her handsfell softly on a group of dreamy ascending chords. Her face, then, in along pause, took on a rapt expectancy and power. She was the priestesswaiting before her altar for the descent of the god, glorious anddreadful. And it was as if with the chill and shudder of a possessionthat, breathing deeply, drawing her shoulders a little together, shelifted her hands and played. She became the possessed and articulatepriestess, her soul, her mind, her passion lent to the message spokenthrough her. The tumult and insatiable outcry of the Appassionata spreadlike a river over her listeners. And as she played her face grew morerapt in its brooding concentration, the eyes half-closed, the nostrilswide, the jaw dropping and giving to the mouth an expression at oncerelaxed and vigilant. 

To criticize with the spell of Madame Okraska's personality upon one washardly possible. Emerged from the glamour, there were those, pretendingto professional discriminations, who suggested that she lacked themasculine and classic disciplines of interpretation; that her rendering, though breathed through with noble dignities, was coloured by acapricious and passionate personality; that it was the feeling ratherthan the thought of the music that she excelled in expressing, itssuffering rather than its serenity. Only a rare listener, here and thereamong her world-wide audiences, was aware of deeper deficiencies and ofthe slow changes that time had wrought in her art. For it wasinspiration no longer; it was the memory of inspiration. The Nemesis ofthe artist who expresses, not what he feels, but what he is expected tofeel, what he has undertaken to feel, had fallen upon the great woman. Her art, too, showed the fragrant taint of an artificial atmosphere. Shehad played ten times when she should have played once. She lived on hercapital of experience, no longer renewing her life, and her renderingshad lost that quality of the greatest, the living communication with theexperience embodied in the music. It was on the stereotyped memories ofsuch communication that she depended, on the half hypnotic possession bythe past; filling in vacancies with temperamental caprice or an emotionno longer the music's but her own. 

But to the enchanted ear of the multitude, professional andunprofessional, the essential vitality was there, the vitality embodiedto the enchanted eye by the white figure with its drooping, pearl-wreathed head and face sunken in sombre ecstasy. She gave them allthey craved:--passion, stormy struggle, the tears of hopeless love, thechill smile of lassitude in accepted defeat, the unappeasable longingfor the past. They listened, and their hearts lapsed back from thehallucinated unity of enthusiasm each to its own identity, an identityisolated, intensified, tortured exquisitely by the expression of dimyearnings. All that had been beautiful in the pain and joy that throughlong ages had gone to the building up of each human consciousness, re-entered and possessed it; the fragrance of blossoming trees, thefarewell gaze of dying eyes, the speechless smile of lovers, ancestralmemories of Spring-times, loves, and partings, evoked by this poignantlure from dim realms of sub-consciousness, like subterranean riversrising through creaks and crannies towards the lifted wand of thediviner. It seemed the quintessence of human experience, the ecstasy ofperfect and enfranchising sorrow, distilled from the shackling, smirching half-sorrows of actual life. Some of the listening facessmiled; some were sodden, stupefied rather than enlightened; some showeda sensual rudimentary gratification; some, lapped in the tide, yetunaware of its significance, were merely silly. But no Orpheus, wildlyharping through the woods, ever led more enthralled and subjugatedlisteners. 

Gregory Jardine's face was neither sodden nor silly nor sensual; but itdid not wear the enchanted look of the true votary. Instinctively thisyoung man, though it was emotion that he found in music, resisted anytoo obvious assault upon his feelings, taking refuge in irony from theirforce when roused. For the form of music, and its intellectual content, he had little appreciation, and he was thus the more exposed to itsemotional appeal; but his intuition of the source and significance ofthe appeal remained singularly just and accurate. He could not now haveanalysed his sense of protest and dissatisfaction; yet, while the charmgrasped and encircled him, making him, as he said to himself, idiotically grovel or inanely soar, he repelled the poignant sweetnessand the thrills that went through him were thrills of a half-unwillingjoy. 

He sat straightly, his arms folded, his head bent as he twisted the endof his moustache, his eye fixed on the great musician; and he wonderedwhat was the matter with him, or with her. It was as if he couldn't getat the music. Something interfered, something exquisite yet ambiguous, alluring yet never satisfying. 

His glance fell presently from the pianist's drooping head to the faceof the _protégée_, and the contrast between what was expressed by thisyoung person's gaze and attitude and what he was himself feeling againdrew his attention to her. No grovelling and no soaring was here, but anelation almost stern, a brooding concentration almost maternal, adedicated power. Madame Okraska, he reflected, must be an extraordinaryperson if she really deserved that gaze. He didn't believe that shequite did. His dissatisfaction with the music extended itself to themusician and, looking from her face to the girl's, he remembered withscepticism Betty's account of their relation. 

A group of Chopin Preludes and a Brahms Rhapsodie Hongroise brought thefirst half of the concert to a close, and Gregory watched withamusement, during the ensuing scene, the vagaries of the intoxicatedcrowd. People rose to their feet, clapping, shouting, bellowing, screaming. He saw on the platform the face of the massive lady, haggard, fierce, devouring; the face of the shy lady, suffused, the eyes halfdazed with adoration like those of a saint in rapture. Old Mrs. Forrester, with her juvenile auburn head, laughed irrepressibly whileshe clapped, like a happy child. The old poet was nearly moved to tears. Only the _protégée_ remained, as it were, outside the infection. Shesmiled slightly and steadily, as if in a proud contentment, and clappednow and then quite softly, and she turned once and scanned the audiencewith eyes accustomed to ovations and appraising the significance of thisone. 

Madame Okraska was recalled six times, but she could not be prevailedupon to give an encore, though for a long time a voice bayedintermittently:--"The Berceuse! Chopin's Berceuse!" The vast harmoniesof entreaty and delight died down to sporadic solos, taken up more andmore faint-heartedly by weary yet still hopeful hands. 

Still smiling slightly, with a preoccupied air, the young girl lookedabout her, or leaned forward to listen to some kindly banteringaddressed to her by Sir Alliston. She hardly spoke, but Gregoryperceived that she was by no means shy. She so pleasantly engaged hisattention that when Sir Alliston got up from his seat next hers therewas another motive than the mere wish to speak to his old friend in hisintention of joining Mrs. Forrester for a few moments. The project wasnot definite and he abandoned it when his relative, Miss EleanorScrotton, tense, significant and wearing the sacramental expressioncustomary with her on such occasions, hurried to the empty seat anddropped into it. Eleanor's enthusiasms oppressed him and Betty had toldhim that Madame Okraska was become the most absorbing of them. Hismother and Eleanor's had been cousins. Her father, the late Sir JonasScrotton, heavily distinguished in the world of literature and politics, had died only the year before. Gregory remembered him as a vindictiveand portentous old man presiding at Miss Scrotton's tea-parties in ablack silk skull-cap, and one could but admire in Miss Scrotton thereverence and devotion that had not only borne with but gloried in him. If the amplitude of his mantle had not descended upon her one mightmetaphorically say that the black skull-cap had. Gregory felt that hemight have liked Eleanor better if she hadn't been so unintermittentlyand unilluminatingly intelligent. She wrote scholarly articles in thegraver reviews--articles that he invariably skipped--she was alwaysarmed with an appreciation and she had the air of thinking theintellectual reputation of London very much her responsibility. Aboveall she was dowered with an overwhelming power of enthusiasm. Eleanordressed well and had a handsome, commanding profile with small, compressed lips and large, prominent, melancholy eyes that wickedlyreminded Gregory of the eyes of a beetle. Beneath the black feather boathat was thrown round her neck, her thin shoulder-blades, while shetalked to Mrs. Forrester and sketched with pouncing fingers the phrasingof certain passages, jerked and vibrated oddly. Mrs. Forrester nodded, smiled, acquiesced. She was rather fond of Eleanor. Their talk was foreach other. Miss Woodruff, unheeded, but with nothing of the air of oneconsciously insignificant, sat looking before her. Beside Eleanor'svehemence and Mrs. Forrester's vivacity she made Gregory think of atranquil landscape seen at dawn. 

He was thus thinking, and looking at her, when, as thoughsub-consciously aware of his gaze, she suddenly turned her head andlooked round at him. 

Her eyes, in the long moment while their glances were interchanged, wereso clear and deliberate, so unmoved by anything but a certain surprise, that he felt no impulse to pretend politely that he had not been caughtstaring. They scrutinized each other, gravely, serenely, intently, untila thunder of applause, like a tidal wave surging over the hall, seemedto engulf their gaze. Madame Okraska was once more emerging. MissScrotton, catching up her boa, her programme and her fan, scuttled backto her seat with an air of desperate gravity; Sir Alliston returned tohis; Mrs. Forrester welcomed him with a smile and a finger at her lips;and as the pianist seated herself and cast a long glance over the stilldisarranged and cautiously rustling audience, Gregory saw that MissWoodruff had no further thought for him. 

CHAPTER III

Mrs. Forrester was dispensing tea in her lofty drawing-room which, withits illumined heights and dim recesses, gave to the ceremony an almostritualistic state. Mrs. Forrester's drawing-room and Mrs. Forresterherself were long-established features of London, and not to have satbeneath the Louis Quinze chandelier nor have drunk tea out of the blueWorcester cups was to have missed something significant of the typicalLondon spectacle. 

The drawing-room seemed most characteristic when one came to it from afog outside, as people had done to-day, and when Mrs. Forrester wasfound presiding over the blue cups. She was an old lady with auburn hairelaborately dressed and singularly bound in snoods of velvet. She woreflowing silken trains and loose ruffled sacques of a curious bygone cut, and upon each wrist was clasped, mounted on a velvet band, a largesquare emerald, set in heavily chased gold. The glance of her eyes wasas surprisingly youthful as the color of her hair, and her face, thoughcomplicatedly wrinkled, had an almost girlish gaiety and vigour. Abruptand merry, Mrs. Forrester was arresting to the attention and ratheralarming. She swept aside bores; she selected the significant; sociallyshe could be rather merciless; but her kindness was without limits whenshe attached herself, and in private life she suffered fools, if notgladly at all events humorously, in the persons of her three heavy andexemplary sons, who had married wives as unimpeachable and asuninteresting as themselves and provided her with a multitude ofgrandchildren. Mrs. Forrester fulfilled punctiliously all her dutiestowards these young folk, and it never occurred to her sons anddaughters-in-law that they and their interests were not her chiefpreoccupation. The energy and variety of her nature were, however, given, to her social relations and to her personal friendships, whichwere many and engrossing. These friendships were always highlyflavoured. Mrs. Forrester had a _flair_ for genius and needed no popularaccrediting to make it manifest to her. And it wasn't enough to bemerely a genius; there were many of the species, eminent and emblazoned, who were never asked to come under the Louis Quinze chandelier. Sheasked of her talented friends personal distinction, the power of beinginteresting in more than their art. 

Such a genius, pre-eminently such a one, was Madame von Marwitz. She wasmore than under the chandelier; Mrs. Forrester's house, when she was inLondon, was her home. "I am safe with you, " she had said to Mrs. Forrester, "with you I am never pursued and never bored. " Where Mrs. Forrester evaded and relegated bores, Madame von Marwitz sombrely andhelplessly hated them. "What can I do?" she said. "If no one willprotect me I am delivered to them. It is a plague of locusts. Theydevour me. Oh their letters! Oh their flowers! Oh their love and theirstupidity! No, the earth is black with them. "

Madame von Marwitz was protected from the swarms while she visited herold friend. The habits of the house were altered to suit hers. Shestayed in her rooms or came down as she chose. She had complete libertyin everything. 

To-day she had not as yet appeared, and everyone had come with the hopeof seeing her. There was Lady Campion, the most tactful and discreet ofadmirers; and Sir Alliston, who would be perhaps asked to go up to herif she did not come down; and Eleanor Scrotton who would certainly go upunasked; and old Miss Harding, a former governess of Mrs. Forrester'ssons and a person privileged, who had come leading an evident yetpathetic locust, her brother's widow, little Mrs. Harding, the shy ladyof the platform. Miss Harding had told Mrs. Forrester about thissister-in-law and of how, since her husband's death, she had lived forphilanthropy, and music in the person of Madame Okraska. She had nevermet her. She did not ask to meet her now. She would only sit in a cornerand gaze. Mrs. Forrester had been moved by the account of such humblefaith and had told Miss Harding to bring her sister-in-law. 

"I have sent for Karen, " Mrs. Forrester said, greeting Gregory Jardine, who came in after Miss and Mrs. Harding; "she will tell us if ourchances are good. It was your first time, last night, wasn't it, Gregory? I do hope that she may come down. "

Gregory Jardine was not a bore, but Mrs. Forrester suspected him to beone of the infatuated. He belonged, she imagined, seeing him appear sopromptly after his initiation, to the category of dazzled circlers whofell into her drawing-room in their myriads while Mercedes was with her, like frizzled moths into a candle. Mrs. Forrester had sympathy withmoths, and was fond of Gregory, whom she greeted with significantkindliness. 

"I never ask her to come down, " she went on now to explain to him and tothe Hardings. "Never, never. She could not bear that. But she often doescome; and she has heard to-day from Karen Woodruff that special friendsare hoping to see her. So your chances are good, I think. Ah, here isKaren. "

Gregory did not trouble to undeceive his old friend. It was his habit tohave tea with her once or twice a month, and his motive in coming to-dayhad hardly been distinguishable from his usual impulse. If he had comehoping to see anybody, it had been to see the _protégée_, and he watchedher now as she advanced down the great room with her cheerful, unembarrassed look, the look of a person serenely accustomed to apublicity in which she had no part. 

Seen thus at full length and in full face he found her more than everlike an Alfred Stevens and an archaic Greek statue. Long-limbed, thick-waisted, spare and strong, she wore a straight, grey dress--thedress of a little convent girl coming into the _parloir_ on a day ofvisits--which emphasized the boyish aspect of her figure. Narrow frillsof white were at wrist and neck; her shoes were low heeled and squaretoed; and around her neck a gold locket hung on a black velvet ribbon. 

Mrs. Forrester held out her hand to her with the undiscerning kindlinessthat greets the mere emissary. "Well, my dear, what news of our Tante?Is she coming, do you think?" she inquired. "This is Lady Campion; shehas never yet met Tante. " The word was pronounced in German fashion. 

"I am not sure that she will come, " said Miss Woodruff, looking aroundthe assembled circle, while Mrs. Forrester still held her hand. "She isstill very tired, so I cannot be sure; I hope so. " She smiled calmly atSir Alliston and Miss Scrotton who were talking together and then liftedher eyes to Gregory who stood near. 

"You know Mr. Jardine?" Mrs. Forrester asked, seeing the pleasedrecognition on the girl's face. "It was his first time last night. "

"No, I do not know him, " said Miss Woodruff, "but I saw him at theconcert. Was it his first time? Think of that. "

"Now sit here, child, and tell me about Tante, " said Mrs. Forrester, drawing the girl down to a chair beside her. "I saw that she was verytired this morning. She had her massage?" Mrs. Forrester questioned in alower voice. 

"Yes; and fortunately she was able to sleep for two hours after that. Then Mr. Schultz came and she had to see him, and that was tiring. "

Mr. Schultz was Madame Okraska's secretary. 

"Dear, dear, what a pity that he had to bother her. Did she drink theegg-flip I had sent up to her? Mrs. Jenkins makes them excellently as arule. "

"I did my best to persuade her, " said Miss Woodruff, "but she did notseem to care for it. "

"Didn't care for it? Was it too sweet? I warned Mrs. Jenkins that hertendency was to put in too much sugar. "

"That was it, " Miss Woodruff smiled at the other's penetration. "Shetasted it and said: '_Trop sucré_, ' and put it down. But it was reallyvery nice. I drank it!" said Miss Woodruff. 

"But I am so grieved. I shall speak severely to Mrs. Jenkins, " Mrs. Forrester murmured, preoccupied. "I am afraid our chances aren't goodto-day, Lady Campion, " she turned from Miss Woodruff to say. "You mustcome and dine one night while she is with me. I am always sure of herfor dinner. "

"She really isn't coming down?" Miss Scrotton leaned over the back ofMiss Woodruff's chair to ask with some asperity of manner. "Shall I waitfor a little before I go up to her?"

"I can't tell, " the young girl replied. "She said she did not knowwhether she would come or not. She is lying down and reading. "

"She does not forget that she comes to me for tea to-morrow?"

"I do not think so, Miss Scrotton. "

"Lady Campion wants to talk to you, Karen, " Mrs. Forrester now said;"come to this side of the table. " And as Sir Alliston was engaged withMiss and Mrs. Harding, Gregory was left to Eleanor Scrotton. 

Miss Scrotton felt irritation rather than affection for Gregory Jardine. Yet he was not unimportant to her. Deeper than her pride in old SirJonas was her pride in her connection with the Fanshawes, and Gregory'smother had been a Fanshawe. Gregory's very indifference to her and tothe standards of the Scrottons had always given to intercourse with hima savour at once acid yet interesting. Though she knew many men of moresignificance, she remained far more aware of him and his opinions thanof theirs. She would have liked Gregory to show more consciousness ofher and his relationship, of the fact that she, too, had Fanshawe bloodin her veins. She would have liked to impress, or please or, at worst, to displease him. She would very much have liked to secure him morefrequently for her dinners and her teas. He vexed and he allured her. 

"Do you really mean that last night was the first time you ever heardMercedes Okraska?" she said, moving to a sofa, to which, somewhatunwillingly, Gregory followed her. "It makes me sorry for you. It's asif a person were to tell you that they'd never before seen the mountainsor the sea. If I'd realised that you'd never met her I could havearranged that you should. She often comes to me quite quietly and meetsa few friends. She was so devoted to dear father; she called him TheHammer of the Gods. I have the most wonderful letter that she wrote mewhen he died, " Miss Scrotton said, lowering her voice to a reverentpause. "Between ourselves, " she went on, "I do sometimes think that ourdear Mrs. Forrester cherishes her a little too closely. I confess that Ilove nothing more than to share my good things. I don't mean that dearMrs. Forrester doesn't; but I should ask more people, frequently anddefinitely, to meet Mercedes, if I were in her place. "

"But if Madame Okraska won't come down and see them?" Gregory inquired. 

"Ah, but she will; she will, " Miss Scrotton said earnestly; "if it isthought out; arranged for carefully. She doesn't, naturally, care tocome down on chance, like to-day. She does want to know whom she's tomeet if she makes the effort. She knows of course that Sir Alliston andI are here, and that may bring her; I do hope so for your sake; but ofcourse if she does not come I go up to her. With Mrs. Forrester I am, Ithink, her nearest friend in England. She has stayed with me in thecountry;--my tiny flat here would hardly accommodate her. I am going, did you know it, to America with her next week. "

"No; really; for a tour?"

"Yes; through the States. We shall be gone till next summer. I knowseveral very charming people in New York and Boston and can help to makeit pleasant for Mercedes. Of course for me it is the opportunity of alife-time. Quite apart from her music, she is the most remarkable womanI have ever known. "

"She's clever?"

"Clever is too trivial a word. Her genius goes through everything. Weread a great deal together--Dante, Goethe, French essayists, our Englishpoets. To hear her read poetry is almost as wonderful an experience asto hear her play. Isn't it an extraordinary face? One sees it all in herface, I think. "

"She is very unusual looking. "

"Her face, " Miss Scrotton pursued, ignoring her companion's tritecomments, "embodies the thoughts and dreams of many races. It makes mealways think of Pater's Mona Lisa--you remember: 'Hers is the head uponwhich all the ends of the world are come and the eyelids are a littleweary. ' She is, of course, a profoundly tragic person. "

"Has she been very unfortunate?"

"Unfortunate indeed. Her youth was passed in bitter poverty; her firstmarriage was disastrous, and when joy came at last in an ideal secondmarriage it was shattered by her husband's mysterious death. Yes; he wasdrowned; found drowned in the lake on their estate in Germany. Mercedeshas never been there since. She has never recovered. She is abroken-hearted woman. She sees life as a dark riddle. She counts herselfas one of the entombed. "

"Dear me, " Gregory murmured. 

Miss Scrotton glanced at him with some sharpness; but finding his blueeyes fixed abstractedly on Karen Woodruff exonerated him from intendingto be disagreeable. "Her childlessness has been a final grief, " sheadded; "a child, as she has often told me, would be a resurrection fromthe dead. "

"And the little girl?" Gregory inquired. "Is she any solace? What is theexact relationship? I hear that she calls her Tante. "

"The right to call her Tante is one of Mercedes's gifts to her. She isno relation at all. Mercedes picked her up, literally from the roadside. She is twenty-four, you know; not a child. "

"So the story is true, about the Norwegian peasants and the forest?"

"I have to contradict that story at least twice a day, " said MissScrotton with a smile half indulgent and half weary. "It is true thatKaren was found in a forest, but it was the forest of Fontainebleau, _tout simplement_; and it is true that she has Norwegian blood; hermother was a Norwegian; she was the wife of a Norwegian artist in Rome, and there Karen's father, an American, a sculptor of some talent, Ibelieve, met her and ran away with her. They were never married. Theylived on chestnuts up among the mountains in Tuscany, I believe, and themother died when Karen was a little child and the father when she wastwelve. Some relatives of the father's put her in a convent school inParis and she ran away from it and Mercedes found her on the verge ofstarvation in the forest of Fontainebleau. The Baron von Marwitz hadknown Mr. Woodruff in Rome and Mercedes persuaded him to take the childinto their lives. She hadn't a friend or a penny in the world. Thefather's relatives were delighted to be rid of her and Mercedes has hadher on her hands ever since. That is the true story. "

"Isn't she fond of her?" Gregory asked. 

"Yes, she is fond of her, " Miss Scrotton with some impatience replied;"but she is none the less a burden. For a woman like Mercedes, with alife over-full and a strength continually overtaxed, the care andresponsibility is an additional weight and weariness. "

"Well, but if she misses children so much; this takes the place, "Gregory objected. 

"Takes the place, " Miss Scrotton repeated, "of a child of her own? Thislittle nobody, and an uninteresting nobody, too? Oh, she is a good girl, a very good girl; and she makes herself fairly useful in elementaryways; but how can you imagine that such a tie can satisfy maternalcraving?"

"How does she make herself useful?" Gregory asked, waiving the questionof maternal cravings. He had vexed Miss Scrotton a good deal, but thetheme was one upon which she could not resist enlarging; anythingconnected with Madame von Marwitz was for her of absorbing interest. 

"Well, she is a great deal in Cornwall, at Mercedes's place there, " sheinformed him. "It's a wonderfully lovely place; Les Solitudes; Mercedesbuilt the house. Karen and old Mrs. Talcott look after the little farmand keep things in order. "

"Old Mrs. Talcott? Where does she come in?"

"Ah, that is another of Mercedes's romantic benevolences. Mrs. Talcottis a sort of old pensioner; a distant family connection; the funniestold American woman you can conceive of. She has been with Mercedes sinceher childhood, and, like everybody else, she is so devotedly attached toher that she regards it as a matter of course that she should be takencare of by her for ever. The way Karen takes her advantages as a matterof course has always vexed me just a little. "

"Is Mrs. Talcott interesting?" Gregory pursued his questions with aplacid persistence that seemed to indicate real curiosity. 

"Good heavens, no!" Miss Scrotton said. "The epitome of the commonplace. She looks like some of the queer old American women one sees in theNational Gallery with Baedekers in their hands and bags at their belts;fat, sallow, provincial, with defective grammar and horrible twangs; thekind of American, you know, " said Miss Scrotton, warming to herdescription as she felt that she was amusing Gregory Jardine, "that theother kind always tell you they never by any chance would meet at home. "

"And what kind of American is Miss Woodruff? The other kind or Mrs. Talcott's kind?"

"By the other kind I mean Lady Jardine's, " said Miss Scrotton; "or--no;she constitutes a further variety; the rarest of all; the kind who wouldnever think about Mrs. Talcott one way or the other. But surely Karen isno kind at all. Could you call her an American? She has never beenthere. She is a sort of racial waif. The only root, the only nationalityshe seems to have is Mercedes; her very character is constituted by herrelation to Mercedes; her only charm is her devotion--for she is indeedsincerely and wholeheartedly devoted. Mercedes is a sort offairy-godmother to her, a sun-goddess, who lifted her out of the dustand whirled her away in her chariot. But she isn't interesting, " MissScrotton again assured him. "She is literal and unemotional, and, insome ways, distinctly dull. I have seen the poor fairy-godmother sighand shrug sometimes over her inordinately long letters. She writes toher with relentless regularity and I really believe that she imaginesthat Mercedes quite depends on hearing from her. No; I don't mean thatshe is conceited; it's not that exactly; she is only dull; very, verydull; and I don't know how Mercedes endures having her so much with her. She feels that the girl depends on her, of course, and she is helplesslygenerous. "

Gregory Jardine listened to these elucidations, leaning back in thesofa, a hand clasping his ankle, his eyes turning now on Miss Scrottonand now on the subject of their conversation. Miss Scrotton had amusedhim. She was entertainingly simple if at moments entertaininglyintelligent, and he had divined that she was jealous of the crumbs thatfell to Miss Woodruff's share from the table of Madame von Marwitz'sbounty. A slight malice that had gathered in him during his talk withEleanor Scrotton found expression in his next remark. "She is certainlycharming looking; anyone so charming looking has a right to be dull. "But Miss Scrotton did not heed him. She had risen to her feet. "Here sheis!" she exclaimed, looking towards the door in radiant satisfaction. "You will meet her after all. I'll do my very best so that you shallhave a little talk with her. "

The door had been thrown open and Madame Okraska had appeared upon thethreshold. 

CHAPTER IV

She stood for a moment, with her hand resting on the lintel, and shesurveyed an apparently unexpected audience with contemplativemelancholy. If she was not pleased to find them so many, she was, at allevents unresentful, and Gregory imagined, from Mrs. Forrester's brightflutter in rising, that resentment from the sun-goddess was a peril tobe reckoned with. Smiling, though languidly smiling, she advanced up theroom, after her graceful and involuntary pause. White fringes rippledsoftly round her; a white train trailed behind her; on her breast thesilken cloak that she wore over a transparent under-robe was claspedwith pearls and silver. She was very lovely, very stately, very simple;but she struck her one hypercritical observer as somewhat prepared;calculated and conscious, as well. 

"Thanks, dearest friend, " she said to Mrs. Forrester, who, meeting herhalfway down the room and taking her hand, asked her solicitously howshe did; "I am now a little rested; but it has been a bad night and abusy morning. " She spoke with a slightly foreign accent in a voice atonce fatigued and sonorous. Her eyes, clear, penetrating and singularlysteady, passed over the assembled faces, turned, all of them, towardsherself. 

She greeted Sir Alliston with a welcoming smile and a lift of thestrange crooked eyebrows, and to Miss Scrotton, who, eager andilluminated, was beside her: "_Ah, ma chérie_, " she said, resting herhand affectionately on her shoulder. Mrs. Forrester had her other hand, and, so standing between her two friends, she bowed gravely andgraciously to Lady Campion, to Miss Harding, to Mrs. Harding--who, inthe stress of this fulfilment had become plum-coloured--and to GregoryJardine. Then she was seated. Mrs. Forrester poured out her tea, MissHarding passed her cake and bread-and-butter, Lady Campion bent to herwith frank and graceful compliments, Miss Scrotton sat at her feet on alow settle, and Sir Alliston, leaning on the back of her chair, lookeddown at her with eyes of antique devotion. Gregory was left on theoutskirts of the group and his attention was attracted by the face oflittle Mrs. Harding, who, all unnoticed and unseated, gazed upon MadameOkraska with the intent liquid eye of a pious dog; the wavering, uncertain smile that played upon her lips was like the humble thuddingof the dog's tail. Gregory remembered her face now as one of those, raptand hypnotized, that he had seen on the platform the night before. Inthe ovation that Madame Okraska had received at the end of the concerthe had noticed this same plum-coloured little lady seizing and kissingthe great woman's hand. Shy, by temperament, as he saw, to the point ofsuffering, he felt sure that only the infection of the crowd had carriedher to the act of uncharacteristic daring. He watched her now, findingher piteous and absurd. 

But someone beside himself was aware of Mrs. Harding. Miss Woodruffapproached her, smiling impersonally, with rather the air of a kindlyverger at a church. Yes, she seemed to say, she could find a seat forher. She pointed to the one she had risen from. Mrs. Harding, almosttearful in her gratitude, slid into it with the precaution of thereverent sight-seer who fears to disturb a congregation at prayer, andMiss Woodruff, moving away, went to a table and began to turn over theillustrated papers that lay upon it. Her manner, retired and cheerful, had no humility, none of the poor dependent's unobtrusiveness; rather, Gregory felt, it showed a happy pride, as if, a fortunate priestess inthe temple, she had opportunities and felicities denied to mereworshippers. She was interested in her papers. She examined the pictureswith something of a child's attentive pleasure. 

Gregory came up to her and raising her eyes she smiled at him as though, on the basis of last night's encounter, she took him for granted aspotentially a friend. 

"What are you looking at?" he asked her, as he might have asked afriendly child. 

She turned the paper to him. "The Great Wall of China. They arewonderful pictures. "

Gregory stood beside her and looked. The photographs were indeedimpressive. The sombre landscape, the pallid sky, and, winding as if forever over hill and valley, the astonishing structure, like an infinitelonely consciousness. "I should like to see that, " said Miss Woodruff. 

"Well, you travel a great deal, don't you?" said Gregory. "No doubtMadame Okraska will go to China some day. "

Miss Woodruff contemplated the desolate wall. "But this is thousands andthousands of miles from the places where concerts could be given; and Ido not know that my guardian has ever thought of China; no, it is notprobable that she will ever go there. And then, unfortunately, I do notalways go with her. I travel a great deal; but I stop at home a greatdeal, too. My guardian likes best to be called von Marwitz in privatelife, by those who know her personally, " Miss Woodruff added, smilingagain as she presented him with the authorized liturgy. 

Gregory was slightly taken aback. He couldn't have defined MissWoodruff's manner as assured, yet it was singularly competent; and noone could have been in less need of benevolent attentions. 

"I see, " he said. "She looks so much more Polish than German, doesn'tshe? What do you call home?" he added. "Have you lived much in England?"

"By home I mean Cornwall, " said Miss Woodruff, who was evidently used tobeing asked questions. "My guardian has a house there; but it has notbeen for long. It used to be in Germany, and then for a little in Italy;she has only had Les Solitudes for four years. " She looked across at thegroup under the chandelier. "There is still room for a chair. " Herglance indicated a gap in Madame von Marwitz's circle. 

This kindly solicitude amused Gregory very much. She had him on her mindas a sight-seer, as she had had Mrs. Harding; and she was full ofsympathy for sight-seers. "Oh--thanks--no, " he said, his eyes followinghers. "I won't go crowding in. "

"She won't mind. She will not even notice;" Miss Woodruff assured him. 

"Oh, well, I like to be noticed if I do crowd, " Gregory returnedsmiling. 

His slight irony was lost upon her; yet, he was sure of it, she was notdull. Her smile showed him that she congratulated him on an ambitiousspirit. "Well, later, then, we will hope, " she said. "You would ofcourse rather talk with her. And here is Mr. Drew, so that this chanceis gone. "

"Who is that singular young man?" Gregory inquired watching with MissWoodruff the newcomer, who found a place at once in the gap near Madamevon Marwitz and was greeted by her with a brighter interest than she hadyet shown. 

"Mr. Claude Drew?" Miss Woodruff replied with some surprise. "Do you notknow? I thought that everybody in London knew him. He is quite a famouswriter. He has written poetry and essays. 'Artemis Wedded' is byhim--that is poetry; and 'The Bow of Ulysses'--the essay on my guardiancomes in that. Oh, he is quite well known. "

Mr. Claude Drew was suave and elegant, and his high, stock-like collarand folded satin neck-gear gave him a somewhat recondite appearance. With his dark eyes, pale skin, full, smooth, golden hair, and the vividred of an advancing Hapsburgian lip, he had the look of a young Frenchdandy drawn by Ingres. 

"My guardian is very much interested in him, " Miss Woodruff went on. "She believes that he has a great future. She is always interested inpromising young men. " This, no doubt, was why Miss Woodruff had sokindly encouraged him to take his chances. 

"He looks a clever fellow, " said Gregory. 

"Do you like his face?" Miss Woodruff inquired. Mr. Drew, as if aware oftheir scrutiny, had turned his eyes upon them for a moment. They werelarge, jaded eyes, lustrous, yet with the lustre of a surface ratherthan of depth; dense, velvety and impenetrable. 

"Well, no, I don't, " said Gregory, genially decisive. "He looksunwholesome, I think. "

"Oh! Unwholesome?" Miss Woodruff repeated the word thoughtfully ratherthan interrogatively. "Yes; perhaps it is that. It is a danger oftalented modern young men, isn't it. They are not strong enough to be sointelligent; one must be very strong--in character, I mean--if one is tobe so intelligent. Perhaps he is not strong in character. Perhaps thatis what one feels. Because I do not like his face, either; and I gogreatly by faces. "

"So do I, " said Gregory. After a moment, in which they both continued tolook at Mr. Drew, he went on. "I wondered last night what nationalityyou belonged to. I had been wondering about you for a long while beforeyou looked round at me. "

"You had heard about me?" she asked. 

He was pleased to be able to say: "Oh, I wondered about you before Iheard. "

"People are so often interested in me because of my guardian, " said MissWoodruff; "everything about her interests them. But I am an American--ifyou were not told; that is to say my father was an American--and mymother was a Norwegian; but though I have never been to America I countmyself as an American, and with right, I think, " she added. "We alwaysspoke English when I was a child, and I remember so many of my father'sfriends. Some day I hope I may go to America. Have you been there? Doyou know New England? My father came from New England. "

"No; I've never been there. I'm very insular and untravelled. "

"Are you? It is a pity not to travel, isn't it, " Miss Woodruff remarked. 

"But you like it here in England?"

"Yes, I like it here, with Mrs. Forrester; and in Cornwall. But herewith Mrs. Forrester always seems to me more like the life of Europe. English life, as a rule, is, I think, rather like boxes one inside theother. " She was perfectly sweet and undogmatic, but her air ofcosmopolitan competence amused Gregory, serenely of opinion, for hispart, that English was the only life. 

"Well, the great thing is that the boxes should fit comfortably into oneanother, isn't it, " he observed; "and I think that on the whole we'vecome to fit pretty well in England. And we all come out of our boxes, don't we, " he added, pleased with his application of her simile, "for aMadame von Marwitz. "

"Yes, I know, " said Miss Woodruff, also, evidently, pleased. "That isquite true; you all come out of your boxes for her. But, as a nation, they are not artists, the English, are they? They are kind to thebeautiful things; they like to see them; they will take great trouble tosee them; but they do not make them. Beauty does not grow here--that iswhat I mean. It is in its box, too, and it is taken out and passed roundfrom time to time. You do not mind my saying this? You, perhaps, areyourself an artist?"

"Dear me, no; I'm only a lawyer. I'm shut up in the tightest of theboxes, " said Gregory. 

Miss Woodruff scrutinized him with a smile. "I should not think that ofyou, " she said. "You do not look like an artist, it is true; few of uscan be artists; but you do not look shut into a box, either. Beauty, toyou, is something real; not a pastime, a fashion; no, I cannot think it. When I saw your face last night I thought: Here is one who cares. Onecounts those faces on one's fingers--even at a great concert. So manythink they care who only want to care. To you art is a serious thing andan artist the greatest thing a country can produce. Is not that so?"

Gregory continued to be amused by what he felt to be Miss Woodruff's_naiveté_. He was inclined to think that artists, however admirable intheir functions, were undesirable in their persons, and the reverententhusiasm that Miss Woodruff imagined in him was singularlyuncharacteristic. He didn't quite know how to tell her so withoutseeming rude, so he contented himself with confessing that beauty, inhis life, was kept, he feared, very much in its box. 

They, went on talking, going to an adjacent sofa where Miss Woodruff, while they talked, stroked the deep fur of an immense Persian cat, Hieronimus by name, who established himself between them. Gregory foundher very easy to talk to, though they had so few themes in common, andher face he discovered to be even more charming than he had thought itthe night before. She was not at all beautiful and he imagined that inher world of artists she would not be particularly appreciated; norwould she be appreciated in his own world of convention--a girl withsuch a thick waist, such queer clothes, a face so broad, so brown, soabruptly modelled. She was, he felt, a grave and responsible youngperson, and something in her face suggested that she might have beenthrough a great deal; but she was very cheerful and she laughed withfacility at things he said and that she herself said; and when shelaughed her eyes nearly closed and the tip of her tongue was caught, with an effect of child-like gaiety, between her teeth. The darkness ofher skin made her lips, by contrast, of a pale rose, and her hair, whereit grew thickly around her brows and neck, of an almost infantilefairness. Her broad, brown eyebrows lay far apart and her grey eyes weredirect, deliberate and limpid. 

From where Gregory sat he had Madame von Marwitz in profile and heobserved that once or twice, when they laughed, she turned her head andlooked at them. Presently she leaned a little to question Mrs. Forresterand then, rather vexed at a sequence, natural but unforeseen, he sawthat Mrs. Forrester got up to fetch him. 

"Tante has sent for you!" Miss Woodruff exclaimed. "I am so glad. "

It really vexed him a little that he should still be supposed to bepining for an introduction; he would so much rather have stayed talkingto her. On the sofa she continued to stroke Hieronimus and to keep acongratulatory gaze upon him while he was conducted to a seat beside thegreat woman. 

Madame von Marwitz was very lovely. She was the type of woman with whom, as a boy, he would have fallen desperately in love, seeing her as poetrypersonified. And she was the type of woman, all indolent and indifferentas she was, who took it for granted that people would fall desperatelyin love with her. Her long gaze, now, told him that. It seemed to givehim time, as it were, to take her in and to arrange with himself howbest to adjust himself to a changed life. It was not the glance of aflirt; it held no petty consciousness; it was the gaze of an enchantressaware of her own inevitable power. Gregory met the cold, sweet, melancholy eyes. But as she gazed, as she slowly smiled, he was aware, with a perverse pleasure, that his present seasoned self was completelyimmune from her magic. He opposed commonplace to enchantment, and in himMadame von Marwitz would find no victim. 

"I have never seen you here before, I think, " she said. She spoke with abeautiful precision; that of the foreigner perfectly at ease in an alientongue, yet not loving it sufficiently to take liberties with it. 

Gregory said, no, she had never seen him there before. 

"Mrs. Forrester is, it seems, a mutual friend, " said Madame von Marwitz. "She has known you since boyhood. You have been very fortunate. "

Gregory assented. 

"She tells me that you are in the law, " Madame von Marwitz pursued; "abarrister. I should not have thought that. A diplomat; a soldier, itshould have been. Is it not so?"

Gregory had not wanted to be a barrister. It did not please him thatMadame von Marwitz should guess so accurately at a disappointment thathad made his youth bitter. "I'm a younger son, you see, " he said. "And Ihad to make my living. "

When Madame von Marwitz's gaze grew more intent she did not narrow hereyes, but opened them more widely. She opened them more widely now, putting back her head a little. "Ah, " she said. "That was hard. Thatmeant suffering. You are caged in a calling you do not care for. "

"Oh, no, " said Gregory, smiling; "I'm very well off; I'm quitecontented. "

"Contented?" she raised her crooked eyebrow. "Are you indeed sofortunate?--or so unfortunate?"

To this large question Gregory made no reply, continuing to offer herthe non-committal coolness of his smile. He was not liking Madame vonMarwitz, and he was becoming aware that if one didn't like her one didnot appear to advantage in talking with her. He cast about in his mindfor an excuse to get away. 

"The law, " Madame von Marwitz mused, her eyes dwelling on him. "It isstony; yet with stone one builds. You would not be content, I think, with the journeyman's work of the average lawyer. You shape; you create;you have before you the vision of the strong fortress to be built wherethe weak may find refuge. You are an architect, not a mason. Only socould you find contentment in your calling. "

"I'm afraid that I don't think about it like that, " said Gregory. "Ishould say that the fortress is built already. "

There was now a change in her cold sweetness; her smile became a littleambiguous. "You remind me, " she said, "that I was speaking in somewhatpretentious similes. I was not asking you what had been done, but whatyou hoped to do. I was asking--it was that that interested me in you, asit does in all the young men I meet--what was the ideal you brought toyour calling. "

It was as though, with all her sweetness, she had seen through hiscritical complacency and were correcting the manners of a conceited boy. Gregory was a good deal taken aback. And it was with a touch of boyishsulkiness that he replied: "I don't think, really, that I can claimideals. "

Definitely, now, the light of mockery shone in her eye. In evading her, in refusing to be drawn within her magic circle, he had aroused an ironythat matched his own. She was not the mere phrase-making woman; by nomeans the mere siren. "How afraid you English are of your ideals, " shesaid. "You live by them, but you will not look at them. I could say toyou--as Statius to Virgil in the Purgatorio--that you carry your lightbehind you so that you light those who follow, but walk yourselves indarkness. You will not claim them; no, and above all, you will not talkabout them. Do not be afraid, my young friend; I shall not tamper withyour soul. " So she spoke, sweetly, deliberately, yet tersely, too, asthough to make him feel that she had done all she could for him and thathe had proved himself not worth her trouble. Mr. Claude Drew was stillon her other hand, carrying on an obviously desultory conversation withMiss Scrotton, and to him Madame von Marwitz turned, saying: "And whatis it you wished to tell me of your Carducci? You will send me theproofs? Good. Oh, I shall not be too tired to read what you havewritten. "

Here was a young man, evidently, who was worth her trouble. Gregory satdisposed of and a good deal discomposed, the more so since he had to ownthat he had opened himself to the rebuff. He rose and moved away, looking about and seeing that Miss Woodruff had left the room; but Mrs. Forrester came to him, her brilliant little face somewhat clouded. 

"What is it, my dear Gregory?" she questioned. "She asked to have youbrought. Haven't you pleased her?"

Mrs. Forrester, who had known not only himself, but his father inboyhood, was fond of him, but was not disposed to think of him asimportant. And she expected the unimportant to know, in a sense, theirplace and to show the important that they did know it. There was a hint, now, of severity, in her countenance. 

It would sound, he knew, merely boyish and sulky to say: "She hasn'tpleased me. " But he couldn't resist: "I wasn't _à la hauteur_. "

Mrs. Forrester, at this, looked at him hard for a moment. She thendiagnosed his case as, one of bad temper rather than of malice, andcould forgive it in one who had failed to interest the great woman andbeen discarded in consequence; Mercedes, she knew, could discard withdecision. 

"Well, when you talk to a woman like Madame von Marwitz, you must try tobe worthy of your opportunities, " she commented, tempering her severitywith understanding. "You really had an opportunity. Your face interestedher, and your kindness to little Karen. She always likes people who arekind to little Karen. "

It was pleasantly open to him now to say: "Little Karen has been kind tome. "

"A dear, good child, " said Mrs. Forrester. "I am glad that you talked toher. You pleased Mercedes in that. "

"She is a delightful girl, " said Gregory. 

He now took his departure. But he was again to encounter Miss Woodruff. She was in the hall, talking French to a sallow little woman in black, evidently a ladies' maid, who had the oppressed, anxious countenance andbright, melancholy eyes of a monkey. 

"_Allons_, " Miss Woodruff was saying in encouraging tones, while shepaused on the first step of the stairs, her hand on the banister; "_cen'est pas une cause perdue, Louise; nous arrangerons la chose_. "

"_Ah, Mademoiselle, c'est que Madame ne sera pas contente, pas contentedu tout quand elle verra la robe_, " was Louise's mournful reply asGregory came up. 

"I hoped we might go on with our talk, " he said. He still addressed hersomewhat as one addresses a friendly child; "I wanted to hear the end ofthat story about the Hungarian student. "

"He died, in Davos, poor boy, " said Miss Woodruff, looking down at himfrom her slightly higher place, while Louise stood by dejectedly. "Hewrote to my guardian and we went to him there and she played to him. Itmade him so happy. We were with him till he died. "

"Shall I see you again?" Gregory asked. "Will you be here for any time?Are you staying in London?"

"My guardian goes to America next week--did you not know?--with MissScrotton. "

"Oh yes, Eleanor told me. And you're not going too? You're not to seeAmerica yet?"

"No; not this time. I go to Cornwall. "

"You are to be alone with Mrs. Talcott all the winter?"

"You know Mrs. Talcott?" Miss Woodruff exclaimed in pleasedastonishment. 

"No; I don't know her; Eleanor told me about her, too. "

"It is not being alone, " said Miss Woodruff. "She and I have a mosthappy time together. I thought it strange that you should know Mrs. Talcott. I never met anyone who knew her unless they knew my guardianvery well. "

"And when are you coming back?"

"From Cornwall? I do not know. I am afraid we shall not see eachother--oh, for a very long time, " said Miss Woodruff. She smiled. Shegave him her hand, leaning down to him from behind the banister. Gregorysaid that he had friends in Cornwall and that he might run down and seethem one day--and then he might see her and Les Solitudes, too. And MissWoodruff said that that would be very nice. 

He heard the last words of the colloquy with Louise as his coat was puton in the hall. "_Alors il ne faut pas renvoyer la robe, Mademoiselle?_"

"_Mais non, mais non; nous nous tirerons d'affaire_, " Miss Woodruffreplied, springing gaily up the stairs, her arm, with a sort ofdignified familiarity, in which was encouragement and protection, castround Louise's shoulders. 

CHAPTER V

Gregory walked at a brisk pace from Mrs. Forrester's house in WiltonCrescent to Hyde Park Corner, and from there, through St. James's Park, to Queen Anne's Mansions where he had a flat. He had moved into it fromdismal rooms when prosperity had first come to him, five or six yearsago, and was much attached to it. It was high up in the large block ofbuildings and its windows looked over the greys and greens and silversof the park, the water shining in the midst, and the dim silhouettes ofWhitehall rising in stately significance on the evening sky. Gregorywent to the balcony and overhung his view contemplatively for a while. The fog had lifted, and all London was alight. 

The drawing-room behind him expressed an accepted convention rather thana personal predilection. It was not the room of a young man of conscioustastes. It was solid, cheerful and somewhat _naif_. There was a greatdeal of very clean white paint and a great deal of bright wall-paper. There were deep chairs covered with brighter chintz. There were blue andwhite tiles around the fireplace and heavy, polished brass before. Onthe tables lay buff and blue reviews and folded evening papers, massivepaper-cutters and large silver boxes. Photographs in silver frames alsostood there, of female relatives in court dress and of male relatives inuniform. Behind the photographs were pots of growing flowers; and on thewalls etchings and engravings after well-known landscapes. It was theroom of a young man uninfluenced by Whistler, unaware of Chinese screensand indifferent to the rival claims of Jacobean and Chippendalefurniture. It was civilised, not cultivated; and it was thoroughlycommonplace. 

Gregory thought of himself as the most commonplace of types;--theyounger son whose father hadn't been able to do anything for him beyondeducating him; the younger son who, after years of uncongenial drudgeryhad emerged, tough, stringy, professional, his boyish dreams dead andhis boyish tastes atrophied; a useful hard-working, clear-sighted memberof society. And there was truth in this conception of himself. There wastruth, too, in Madame von Marwitz's probe. He had more than the normalEnglish sensitiveness where ideals were concerned and more than thenormal English instinct for a protective literalness. He didn't intendthat anybody should lay their hand on his heart and tell him of loftyaims that it would have made him feel awkward to look at by himself; hisfastidiousness was far from commonplace, and so were his disdains; theymade cheap successes and cheap ambitions impossible to him. He wouldnever make a fortune out of the law; yet already he was distinguishedamong the younger men at the bar. With nothing of the air of a paladinhe brought into the courts a flavour of classic calm and courtesy. Hewas punctiliously fair. He never frightened or bullied or confused. Hisimpartiality could become alarming at times to his own clients, andshady cases passed him by. Everybody respected Gregory Jardine and agood many people disliked him. A few old friends, comrades at Eton andOxford, were devoted to him and looked upon him, in spite of hisreputation for almost merciless common-sense, as still potentiallyQuixotic. As a boy he had been exceptionally tender-hearted; but now hewas hard, or thought himself so. He had no vanity and looked upon hisown resolution and dignity as the heritage of all men worth their salt;in consequence he was inclined to theoretic severity towards theworsted. The sensitiveness of youth had steeled itself in irony; he wasimpatient of delusions and exaltations, and scornful of the shambling, shame-faced motives that moved so many of the people who came under hisobservation. 

Yet, leaning on the iron railing, his gaze softening to a grave, peaceful smile as he looked over the vast, vaporous scene, laced withits moving and motionless lines of light, it was this, and itsmysteries, its delicacies, its reticent radiance, that expressed himmore truly than the commonplaces of the room behind him, accurately asthese symbolized the activities of his life. The boy and youth, emotional and poetic, dreamy if also shrewdly humorous, still survivedin a sub-conscious region of his nature, an Atlantis sunken beneath thetraffic of the surface; and, when he leaned and gazed, as now, at thelovely evocations of the evening, it was like hearing dimly, from fardepths, the bells of the buried city ringing. 

He was thinking of nothing as he leaned there, though memories, linkedin their associated loveliness, floated across his mind--larch-boughsbrushed exquisitely against a frosty sky on a winter morning inNorthumberland, when, a boy, with gun and dogs, he had paused on thewooded slopes near his home to look round him; or the little well ofchill, clear water that he had found one summer day gushing from a mossysource under a canopy of leaves; or the silver sky, and hills folded ingreys and purples, that had surrounded him on a day in late autumn whenhe had walked for miles in loneliness and, again, had paused to look, receiving the scene ineffaceably, so that certain moods always made itrise before him. And linked by some thread of affinity with thesepictures, the face of the young girl he had met that afternoon rosebefore him. Not as he had just seen her, but as he had seen her, for thefirst time, the night before at the concert. Her face came back to himwith the larch-boughs and the spring of water and the lonely hills, while he looked at London beneath him. She touched and interested him, and appealed to something sub-conscious, as music did. But when hepassed from picturing her to thinking about her, about her origin andenvironment and future, it was with much the same lucid and unmovedinsight with which he would have examined some unfortunate creature inthe witness-box. 

Miss Woodruff seemed to him very unfortunate. For her irregular birth hehad contempt and for her haphazard upbringing only pity. He saw no placein a well-ordered society for sculptors who ran away with other men'swives and lived on chestnuts and left their illegitimate children to bepicked up at the roadside. He was the type of young man who, theoretically, admitted of and indeed admired all independences inwomen; practically he preferred them to be sheltered by their malerelatives and to read no French novels until they married--if then. MissWoodruff struck him as at once sheltered and exposed. Her niche underthe extended wing of the great woman seemed to him precarious. He saw noreal foothold for her in her present _milieu_. She only entered Mrs. Forrester's orbit, that was evident, as a tiny satellite in attendanceon the streaming comet. In the wake of the comet she touched, it wastrue, larger orbits than the artistic; but it was in this accidental andtransitory fashion, and his accurate knowledge of the world saw in thenameless and penniless girl the probable bride of some second-rateartist, some wandering, dishevelled musician, or ill-educated, ill-regulated poet. Girls like that, who had the aristocrat's assuranceand simplicity and unconsciousness of worldly lore, without thearistocrat's secure standing in the world, were peculiarly in danger ofsinking below the level of their own type. 

He went in to dress. He was dining with the Armytages and after thinkingof Miss Woodruff it was indeed like passing from memories of larch-woodsinto the chintzes and metals and potted flowers of the drawing-room tothink of Constance Armytage. Yet Gregory thought of her very contentedlywhile he dressed. She was well-dowered, well-educated, well-bred; anextremely nice and extremely pretty young woman with whom he had danced, dined and boated frequently during her first two seasons. The Armytageshad a house at Pangbourne and he spent several week-ends with them everysummer. Constance liked him and he liked her. He was not in love withher; but he wondered if he might not be. To get married to somebody likeConstance seemed the next step in his sensible career. He could see herestablished most appropriately in the flat. He could see her beautifullyburnished chestnut hair, her pretty profile and bright blue eyes abovethe tea-table; he could see her at the end of the dinner-table presidingcharmingly at a dinner. She would be a charming mother, too; thechildren, when babies, would wear blue sashes and would grow up doingall the proper things at the proper times, from the French _bonne_ andthe German _Fräulein_ to Eton and Oxford and dances and happy marriages. She would continue all the traditions of his outer life, would fulfil itand carry it on peacefully and honourably into the future. 

The Armytages lived in a large house in Queen's Gate Gardens. They werenot interesting people, but Gregory liked them none the less for that. He approved of the Armytage type--the kind, courageous, intolerant oldGeneral who managed to find Gladstone responsible for every misfortunethat befell the Empire--blithe, easy-going Lady Armytage, the two sonsin the army and the son in the navy and the two unmarried girls, of whomConstance was one and the other still in the school-room. It was a smalldinner-party that night; most of the family were there and they hadmusic after it, Constance singing very prettily--she was takinglessons--the last two songs she had learned, one by Widor and one byTosti. 

Yet as he drove home late Gregory was aware that Constance stillremained a pleasant possibility to contemplate and that he had come nonearer to being in love with her. It might be easier, he mused, if onlyshe could offer some trivial trick or imperfection, if she had beenfreckled, say, or had had a stammer, or prominent teeth. He couldimagine being married to her so much more easily than being in love withher, and he was a little vexed with himself for his owninsusceptibility. 

Constance was the last thing that he thought of before going to sleep;yet it was not of her he dreamed. He dreamed, very strangely, of thelittle cosmopolitan waif whom he had met that afternoon. He was walkingdown a road in a forest. The sky above was blue, with white cloudsheaving above the dark tree-tops, and it was a still, clear day. Hismood was the boyish mood of romance and expectancy, touched with alittle fear. At a turning of the road he came suddenly upon KarenWoodruff. She was standing at the edge of the forest as if waiting forhim, and she held a basket of berries, not wild-strawberry and notbramble, but a fairy-tale fruit that a Hans Andersen heroine might havegathered, and she looked like such a heroine herself, young, andstrange, and kind, and wearing the funny little dress of the concert, the white dress with the flat blue bows. She held out the basket to himas he approached, and, smiling at each other in silence, they ate thefruit with its wild, sweet savour. Then, as if he had spoken and shewere answering him, she said: "And I love you. "

Gregory woke with this. He lay for some moments still half dreaming, with no surprise, conscious only of a peaceful wonder. He had forgottenthe dream in the morning; but it returned to him later in the day, andoften afterwards. It persisted in his memory like a cluster ofunforgettable sensations. The taste of the berries, the scent of thepine-trees, the sweetness of the girl's smile, these things, rather thanany significance that they embodied, remained with him like one of thedeep impressions of his boyhood. 

CHAPTER VI

On the morning that Gregory Jardine had waked from his dream, Madame vonMarwitz sat at her writing-table tearing open, with an air of impatientmelancholy, note after note and letter after letter, and dropping theenvelopes into a waste-paper basket beside her. A cigarette was betweenher lips; her hair, not dressed, was coiled loosely upon her head; shewore a white silk _peignoir_ bordered with white fur and girdled with asash of silver tissue. She had just come from her bath and her face, though weary, had the freshness of a prolonged toilet. 

The room where she sat, with its grand piano and its deep chairs, itssofa and its capacious writing-table, was accurately adjusted to herneeds. It, too, was all in white, carpet, curtains and dimity coverings. Madame von Marwitz laughed at her own vagary; but it had had only onceto be clearly expressed, and the greens and pinks that had adorned hersitting-room at Mrs. Forrester's were banished as well as therose-sprigged toilet set and hangings of the bedroom. "I cannot breatheamong colours, " she had said. "They seem to press upon me. White is likethe air; to live among colours, with all their beauty, is like swimmingunder the water; I can only do it with comfort for a little while. "

Madame von Marwitz looked up presently at a wonderful little clock ofgold and enamel that stood before her and then struck, not impatiently, but with an intensification of the air of melancholy, an antique silverbell that stood beside the clock. Louise entered. 

"Where is Mademoiselle?" Madame von Marwitz asked, speaking in French. Louise answered that Mademoiselle had gone out to take Victor for hiswalk, Victor being Madame von Marwitz's St. Bernard who remained inEngland during his mistress's absences. 

"You should have taken Victor yourself, Louise, " said Madame vonMarwitz, not at all unkindly, but with decisive condemnation. "You knowthat I like Mademoiselle to help me with my letters in the morning. "

Louise, her permanent plaintiveness enhanced, murmured that she had abad headache and that Mademoiselle had kindly offered to take Victor, had said that she would enjoy taking him. 

"Moreover, " Madame von Marwitz pursued, as though these excuses were notworthy of reply, "I do not care for Mademoiselle to be out alone in sucha fog. You should have known that, too. As for the dress, don't fail tosend it back this morning--as you should have done last night. "

"Mademoiselle thought we might arrange it to please Madame. "

"You should have known better, if Mademoiselle did not. Mademoiselle hasvery little taste in such matters, as you are well aware. Do my feetnow; I think that the nails need a little polishing; but very little; Ido not wish you to make them look as though they had been varnished; itis a trick of yours. "

Madame von Marwitz then resumed her cigarette and her letters whileLouise, fetching files and scissors, powders and polishers, mournfullyknelt before her mistress, and, drawing the _mule_ from a beautifullyundeformed white foot, began to bring each nail to a state of perfectedart. In the midst of this ceremony Karen Woodruff appeared. She led thegreat dog by a leash and was still wearing her cap and coat. 

"I hope I am not late, Tante, " she said, speaking in English and goingto kiss her guardian's cheek, while Victor stood by, majesticallybenignant. 

"You are late, my Karen, and you had no business to take out Victor atthis hour. If you want to walk with him let it be in the afternoon. _Aïe! aïe!_ Louise! what are you doing? Have mercy I beg of you!" Louisehad used the file awkwardly. "What is that you have, Karen?" Madame vonMarwitz went on. Miss Woodruff held in her hand a large bouquetenveloped in white paper. 

"An offering, Tante; they just arrived as I came in. Roses, I think. "

"I have already sent half a dozen boxes downstairs for Mrs. Forrester todispose of in the drawing-room. You will take off your things now, child, and help me, please, with all these weary people. _Bon Dieu!_ dothey really imagine that I am going to answer their inept effusions?"

Miss Woodruff had unwrapped a magnificent bunch of pink roses and laidthem beside her guardian. "From that good little dark-faced lady ofyesterday, Tante. "

Madame von Marwitz, pausing meditatively over a note, glanced at them. "The dark-faced lady?"

"Don't you remember? Mrs. Harding. Here is her card. She sat and gazedat you, so devoutly, while you talked to Mr. Drew and Lady Campion. Andshe looked very poor. It must mean a great deal for her to buy roses inJanuary--_un suprême effort_, " Miss Woodruff quoted, she and herguardian having a host of such playful allusions. 

"I see her now, " said Madame von Marwitz. "I see her face;_congestionnée d'émotion, n'est-ce-pas_. " She read the card that Karenpresented. 

"Silly woman. Take them away, child. "

"But no, Tante, it is not silly; it is very touching, I think; and youhave liked pink roses sometimes. It makes me sorry for that good littlelady that you shouldn't even look at her roses. "

"No. I see her. Dark red and very foolish. I do not like her or herflowers. They look stupid flowers--thick and pink, like fat, smilingcheeks. Take them away. "

"You have read what she says, Tante, here on the back? I call that verypretty. "

"I see it. I see it too often. No. Go now, and take your hat off. Goodheavens, child, why did you wear that ancient sealskin cap?"

Karen paused at the door, the rejected roses in her arms. "Why, Tante, it was snowing a little; I didn't want to wear my best hat for a morningwalk. "

"Have you no other hat beside the best?"

"No, Tante. And I like my little cap. You gave it to me--yearsago--don't you remember; the first time that we went to Russiatogether. "

"Years ago, indeed, I should imagine from its appearance. Well; it makesno difference; you will soon be leaving town and it will do for Cornwalland Tallie. "

When Karen returned, Madame von Marwitz, whose feet were now finished, took her place in an easy chair and said: "Now to work. Leave theaccounts for Schultz. I've glanced at some of them this morning and, asusual, I seem to be spending twice as much as I make. How the money runsaway I cannot imagine. And Tallie sends me a great batch of bills fromCornwall, _bon Dieu_!" _Bon Dieu_ was a frequent ejaculation with Madamevon Marwitz, often half sighed, and with the stress laid on the firstword. 

"Never mind, you will soon be making a great deal more money, " saidKaren. 

"It would be more to the point if I could manage to keep a little ofwhat I make. Schultz tells me that my investments in the Chineserailroads are going badly, too. Put aside the bills. We will go throughthe rest of the letters. "

For some time they worked at the pile of correspondence. Karen wouldopen each letter and read the signature; letters from those known toMadame von Marwitz, or from her friends, were handed to her; the letterssigned by unknown names Karen read aloud:--begging letters; lettersrequesting an autograph; letters recommending to the great woman'skindly notice some budding genius, and letters of sheer adulation, listened to, these last, sometimes with a dreamy indifference to theend, interrupted sometimes with a sudden "_Assez_. "

There were a dozen such letters this morning and when Karen read thesignature of the last: "Your two little adorers Gladys and EthelBocock, " Madame von Marwitz remarked: "We need not have that. Put itinto the basket. "

"But, Tante, " Karen protested, looking round at her with a smile, "youmust hear it; it is so funny and so nice. "

"So stupid I call it, my dear. They should not be encouraged. "

"But you must be kind, you will be kind, even to the stupid. See, hereare two of your photographs, they ask you to sign them. There is astamped and addressed envelope to return them in. Such love, Tante! suchtorrents of love! You must listen. "

Madame von Marwitz resigned herself, her eyes fixed absently on thesmoke curling from her cigarette as if, in its fluctuating evanescence, she saw a symbol of human folly. Gladys and Ethel lived in Clapham andtold her that they came in to all her concerts and sat for hours waitingon the stairs. Their letter ended: "Everyone adores you, but no one canadore you like we do. Oh, would you tell us the colour of your eyes?Gladys thinks deep, dark grey, but I think velvety brown; we talk andtalk about it and can't decide. We mustn't take up any more of yourprecious time. --Your two little adorers, Gladys and Ethel Bocock. "

"Bocock, " Madame von Marwitz commented. "No one can adore me like theydo. Let us hope not. _Petites sottes. _"

"You will sign the photographs, Tante--and you will say, yes, youmust--'To my kind little admirers. ' Now be merciful. "

"Bocock, " Madame von Marwitz mused, holding out an indulgent hand forthe pen that Karen gave her and allowing the blotter with thephotographs upon it to be placed upon her knee. "And they care formusic, _parbleu_! How many of such appreciators are there, do you think, among my adorers? I do this to please you, Karen. It is against myprinciples to encourage the _schwärmerei_ of schoolgirls. There, " shesigned quickly across each picture in a large, graceful and illegiblehand, adding, with a smile up at Karen, --"To my kind little admirers. "

Karen, satisfied, examined the signatures, held them to the fire for amoment to preserve their vivid black in bold relief, and then put theminto their envelope, dropping in a small slip of paper upon which shehad written: "Her eyes are grey, flecked with black, and are notvelvety. "

They had now reached the end of the letters. 

"A very good, helpful child it is, " said Madame von Marwitz. "You aremethodical, Karen. You will make a good housewife. That has never beenmy talent. "

"And it is my only one, " said Karen. 

"Ah, well, no; it is a good, solid little head in other directions, too. And it is no mean musician that the child has become. Yes; there aremany well-known artists to whom I would listen less willingly than to myKaren. It is only in the direction of _la toilette_, " Madame von Marwitzsmiled with a touch of roguishness, "only in the direction of _latoilette_ that the taste is rather rudimentary as yet. I was very crosslast night, _hein_?"

"It was disappointing not to have pleased you, " said Karen, smiling. 

"And I was cross. Louise has her _souffre-douleur_ expression thismorning to an exasperating degree. "

"We thought we were going to make the dress quite right, " said Karen. "It seemed very simple to arrange the lace around the shoulders; I stoodand Louise draped me; and Louise is clever, you know. "

"Not clever enough for that. It was all because with your solicitudeabout Louise you wanted her to escape a scolding. She took the lace toMrs. Rolley too late and did not explain as I told her to do. And youdid not save her, you see. Put those two letters of Mr. Drew's in theportfolio; so. And now come and sit, there. I want to have a serioustalk with you, Karen. "

Karen obeyed. Madame von Marwitz sat in her deep chair, the windowbehind her. The fog had lifted and the pale morning sunlight strucksoftly on the coils of her hair and fell on the face of the young girlsitting before her. With her grey dress and folded hands and serene gazeKaren looked very like the little convent _pensionnaire_. Madame vonMarwitz scrutinized her thoughtfully for some moments. 

"You are--how old is it, Karen?" she said at last. 

"I shall be twenty-four in March, " said Karen. 

"_Bon Dieu!_ I had not realised that it was so much; you are singularlyyoung for your years. "

"Am I, Tante? I don't know, " Karen reflected, genially. "I often feel, oh far older than the people I talk with. "

"Do you, _mon enfant_. Some children, it is true, are far wiser thantheir elders. You are a wise child; but you are young, Karen, very youngfor your years, in appearance, in demeanour, in candour of outlook. Tellme; have you ever contemplated your future? asked yourself about it?"

Karen, looking gravely at her, shook her head. "Hardly at all, Tante. Isthat very stupid?"

"Not stupid, perhaps; but, again, very child-like. You live in thepresent. "

"The past was so sad, Tante, and since I have been with you I have beenso happy. There has seemed no reason for thinking of anything but thepresent. "

"Well, that is right. It is my wish to have you happy. As far asmaterial things go, too, your future shall be assured; I see to that. But, you are twenty-three years old, Karen; you are a woman, and a childno longer. Do you never dream dreams of _un prince charmant_; of a homeof your own, and children, and a life to build with one who loves you?If I were to die--and one can count on nothing in life--you would bevery desolate. "

Karen, for some silent moments, looked at her guardian, intently andwith a touch of alarm. "No; I don't dream, " she said then. "And perhapsthat is because you fill my life so, Tante. If someone came who loved mevery much and whom I loved, I should of course be glad to marry;--onlynot if it would take me from you; I mean that I should want to be oftenwith you. And when I look forward at all I always take it for grantedthat that will come in time--a husband and children, and a home of myown. But there seems no reason to think of it now. I am quite contentedas I am. "

The kindly melancholy of Madame von Marwitz's gaze continued to fix her. "But I am not contented for you, " she observed. "I wish to see youestablished. Youth passes, all too quickly, and its opportunities pass, too. I should blame myself if our tie were to cut you off from a widerlife. Good husbands are by no means picked up on every bush. One cannottake these things for granted. It is of a possible marriage I wish tospeak to you this morning, my Karen. We will talk of it quietly. " Madamevon Marwitz raised herself in her chair to stretch her hand and takefrom the mantelpiece a letter lying there. "This came this morning, myKaren, " she said. "From our good Lise Lippheim. "

Frau Lippheim was a warm-hearted, talented, exuberant Jewess who hadbeen a fellow student of Madame von Marwitz's in girlhood. Theeagle-flights of genius had always been beyond her, yet her pinions werewide and, unburdened by domestic solicitudes, she might have gone far. As it was, married to a German musician much her inferior, and immersedin the care and support of a huge family, she ranked only as second orthird rate. She gave music-lessons in Leipsig and from time to time, playing in a quintet made up of herself, her eldest son and three eldestgirls, gave recitals in Germany, France and England. The Lippheimquintet, in its sober way, held a small but dignified position. 

Karen had been deposited by her guardian more than once under theLippheim's overflowing roof in Leipsig, and it was a vision of FrauLippheim that came to her as her guardian unfolded the letter--of thenear-sighted, pale blue eyes, heavy, benignant features, and crinkled, red-brown hair. So very ugly, almost repulsively so; yet so kind, sovaliant, so untiring. The thought of her was touching, and affectionatesolicitude almost effaced Karen's personal anxiety; for she could notconnect Frau Lippheim with any matrimonial project. 

Madame von Marwitz, glancing through her letter, looked up from the lastsheet. "I have talked with the good Lise more than once, Karen, " shesaid, "about a hope of hers. She first spoke of it some two years ago;but I told her then that I would say nothing to you till you were older. Now, hearing that I am going away, to leave you for so long, she writesof it again. Did you know that Franz was very much attached to you, Karen?" Franz was Frau Lippheim's eldest son. 

The vision that now flashed, luridly, for Karen, was that of an immenseGermanic face with bright, blinking eyes behind glasses; huge lips; aflattened nose, modelled thickly at the corners, and an enormous laughthat rolled back the lips and revealed suddenly the Semitic element anda boundless energy and kindliness. She had always felt fond of Franzuntil this moment. Now, amazed, appalled, a violent repulsion wentthrough her. She became pale. "No. I had not guessed that, " she said. 

Her eyes were averted. Madame von Marwitz glanced at her and vexationclouded her countenance. She knew that flinty, unresponsive look. Inmoments of deep emotion Karen could almost disconcert her. Her faceexpressed no hostility; but a sternness, blind and resisting, like thatof a rock. At such moments she did not look young. 

Madame von Marwitz, after her glance, also averted her eyes, sighingimpatiently. "I see that you do not care for the poor boy. He had hoped, with his mother to back him, that he might have some chance of winningyou;--though it is not Franz who writes. "

She paused; but Karen said nothing. "You know that Franz has talent andis beginning, now, to make money steadily. Lise tells me that. And Iwould give you a little _dot_; enough to assure your future, and his. Ionly speak of the material things because it is part of yourchildishness never to consider them. Of him I would not have spoken atall, had I not believed that you felt friendship and affection for him. He is so good, so strong, so loyal that I did not think it impossible. "

After another silence Karen found something to say. "I have friendshipfor him. That is quite different. "

"Why so, Karen?" Madame von Marwitz inquired. "Since you are not aromantic school-girl, let us speak soberly. Friendship, true friendship, for a man whose tastes are yours, whose pursuits you understand, is thesoundest basis upon which to build a marriage. "

"No. Only as a friend, a friend not too near, do I feel affection forFranz. It is repulsive to me--the thought of anything else. It makes mehate him, " said Karen. 

"_Tiens!_" Madame von Marwitz opened her eyes in genuine surprise. "Icould not have imagined such, decisive feeling. I could not haveimagined that you despised the good Franz. I need not tell you that I donot agree with you there. "

"I do not despise him. "

"Ah, there is more than mere negation in your look, your voice, mychild. It is pride, wounded pride, that speaks; and it is as if you toldme that I had less care for your pride than you had, and thought less ofyour claims. "

"I do not think of my claims. "

"You feel them. You feel Franz your inferior. "

"I did not think of such things. I thought of his face, near me, and itmade me hate him. "

Karen continued to look aside with a sombre gaze. And, after examiningher for another moment, Madame von Marwitz held out her hand. "Come, "she said, "come here, child. I have blundered. I see that I haveblundered. Franz shall be sent about his business. Have I hurt you? Donot think of it again. "

The girl got up slowly, as if her stress of feeling made her awkward. Stumbling, she knelt down beside her guardian and, taking the hand andholding it against her eyes, she said in a voice heavy with unshedtears: "Am I a burden? Am I an anxiety? Let me go away, then. I canteach. I can teach music and languages. I can do translations, so manythings. You have educated me so well. You will always be my dear friendand I shall see you from time to time. But it is as you say, I am awoman now. I would rather go away than have you troubled by me. "

Madame von Marwitz's face, as she listened to the heavy voice, thattrembled a little over its careful words, darkened. "It is not well whatyou say, Karen, " she replied. "No. You speak to me as you have no rightto speak, as though you had a grievance against me. What have I everdone that you should ask me whether you are a burden to me?"

"Only--" said Karen, her voice more noticeably trembling--"only that itseemed to me that I must be in the way if you could think of Franz as ahusband for me. I do not know why I feel that. But it hurt me so muchthat it seemed to me to be true. "

"It has always been my joy to care for you, " said Madame von Marwitz. "Ihave always loved you like my own child. I do not admit that to think ofFranz as a husband for you was to do you a wrong. I would not listen toan unfitting suitor for my child. It is you who have hurt me--deeplyhurt me--by so misunderstanding me. " Sorrow and reproach grew in hervoice. 

"Forgive me, " said Karen, who still held the hand before her eyes. 

Madame von Marwitz drew her hand gently away and raising Karen's head sothat she could look at her, "I forgive you, indeed, Karen, " she said. "How could I not forgive you? But, child, do not hurt me so again. Neverspeak of leaving me again. You must never leave me except to go where afuller happiness beckons. You do not know how they stabbed--those wordsof yours. That you could think them, believe them! No, Karen, it was notwell. Not only are you dear to me for yourself; there is another bond. You were dear to him. You were beside me in the hour of my supremeagony. You desecrate our sacred memories when you allow small suspicionsand fears to enter your thoughts of me. So much has failed me in mylife. May I not trust that my child will never fail me?"

Tragic grief gazed from her eyes and Karen's eyes echoed it. 

"Forgive me, Tante, I have hurt you. I have been stupid, " she spokealmost dully; but Madame von Marwitz was looking into the eyes, deepwells of pain and self-reproach. 

"Yes, you have hurt me, _ma chérie_, " she replied, leaning now her cheekagainst Karen's head. "And it is not loving to forget that when a cup ofsuffering brims, a drop the more makes it overflow. You are harshsometimes, Karen, strangely harsh. "

"Forgive me, " Karen repeated. 

Madame von Marwitz put her arms around her, still leaning her headagainst hers. "With all my heart, my child, with all my heart, " shesaid. "But do not hurt me so again. Do not forget that I live at theedge of a precipice; an inadvertent footstep, and I crash down to thebottom, to lie mangled. Ah, my child, may life never tear you, burn you, freeze you, as it has torn and burned and frozen me. Ah, the memories, the cruel memories!" Great sighs lifted her breast. She murmured, whileKaren knelt enfolding her, "His dead face rises before me. The face thatwe saw, Karen. And I know to the full again my unutterable woe. " It wasrare with Madame von Marwitz to allude thus explicitly to the tragedy ofher life, the ambiguous, the dreadful death of her husband. Karen kneltholding her, pale with the shared memory. They were so for a long time. Then, sighing softly, "_Bon Dieu! bon Dieu!_" Madame von Marwitz roseand, gently putting the girl aside, she went into her bedroom and closedthe door. 

CHAPTER VII

It was a hard, chill morning and Gregory, sauntering up and down theplatform at Euston beside the open doors of the long steamer-train, feltthat the taste and smell of London was, as nowhere else, concentrated, compressed, and presented to one in tabloid form, as it were, at aLondon station on a winter morning. It was a taste and smell that he, personally, rather liked, singularly compounded as it was, to his fancy, of cold metals and warm sooty surfaces; of the savour of kippers cookingover innumerable London grates and the aroma of mugs of beer served outover innumerable London bars; something at once acrid yet genial, suggesting sordidness and unlimited possibility. The vibration ofadventure was in it and the sentiment, oddly intermingled, of humansolidarity and personal detachment. 

Gregory, as he strolled and waited for his old friend and whilom Oxfordtutor, Professor Blackburn, whom he had promised to see off, had oftento pause or to deviate in his course; for, though it was still early, and the season not a favourite one for crossing, the platform was quitesufficiently crowded, and crowded, evidently, with homeward-boundAmericans, mostly women. Gregory tended to think of America and itspeople with the kindly lightness common to his type. Their samenessesdidn't interest him, and their differences were sometimes vexatious. Hehad a vague feeling that they'd really better have been Colonials and bedone with it. Professor Blackburn last night had reproved this insularlevity. He was going over with an array of discriminations that Gregoryhad likened to an explorer's charts and instruments. He intended toinvestigate the most minute and measure the most immense, to lecturecontinually, to dine out every evening and to write a book of some realappropriateness when he came home. Gregory said that all that he askedof America was that it should keep its institutions to itself and shareits pretty girls, and the professor told him that he knew more about thelatter than the former. There were not many pretty girls on the platformthis morning, though he remarked one rather pleasing young person whosat idly on a pile of luggage and fixed large, speculative, innocentlyassured eyes upon him when he went by, while near her her mother and atawny sister disputed bitterly with a porter. Most of the ladies whohastened to and fro seemed, while very energetic, also very jaded. Theywere packed as tightly with experiences as their boxes with contrabandclothing, and they had both, perhaps, rather heavily on their minds, wondering, it was probable, how they were to get them through. Some ofthem, strenuous, eye-glassed and scholastic, looked, however, as theymarshalled their pathetically lean luggage, quite innocent of materialtrophies. 

Among these alien and unfamiliar visages, Gregory caught sight suddenlyof one that was alien yet recognizable. He had seen the melancholy, simian features before, and after a moment he placed the neat, blackperson, walking beside a truck piled high with enormous boxes, asLouise, Madame von Marwitz's maid. To recognise Louise was to think ofMiss Woodruff. Gregory looked around the platform with a new interest. 

Miss Woodruff was nowhere to be seen, but a new element pervaded thedingy place, and it hardly needed the presence of four or five richlydressed ladies bearing sheaves of flowers, or that of two silk-hattedimpresario-looking gentlemen with Jewish noses, to lead Gregory to inferthat the element was Madame von Marwitz's, and that he had, inadvertently, fallen upon the very morning of her departure. Already anawareness and an expectancy was abroad that reminded him of that in theconcert hall. The contagion of celebrity had made itself felt evenbefore the celebrity herself was visible; but, in another moment, Madamevon Marwitz had appeared upon the platform, surrounded by cohorts offriends. Dressed in a long white cloak and flowing in sables, a whitelace veil drooping about her shoulders, a sumptuous white feathercurving from her brow to her back, she moved amidst the scene like asplendid, dreamy ship entering some grimy Northern harbour. 

Mrs. Forrester, on heels as high as a fairy-godmother's and wearing astrange velvet cloak and a stranger velvet bonnet, trotted beside her;Sir Alliston was on the other hand, his delicate Vandyke features nippedwith the cold; Mr. Claude Drew walked behind and before went EleanorScrotton, smiling a tight, stricken smile of triumph and responsibility. As the group passed Gregory, Miss Scrotton caught sight of him. 

"We are in plenty of time, I see, " she said. "Dear me! it has been amorning! Mercedes is always late. Could you, I wonder, induce thesepeople to move away. She so detests being stared at. "

Eleanor, as usual, roused a mischievous spirit in Gregory. "I'm afraidI'm helpless, " he replied. "We're in a public place, and a cat may lookat a king. Besides, who could help looking at those marvellous clothes. "

"It isn't a question of cats but of impertinent human beings, " MissScrotton returned with displeasure. "Allow me, Madam, " she forged amajestic way through a gazing group. 

"Where is Miss Woodruff?" Gregory inquired. He was wondering. 

"Tiresome girl, " Miss Scrotton said, watching the ladies with theflowers who gathered around her idol. "She will be late, I'm afraid. Shehad forgotten Victor. "

"Victor? Is Victor the courier? Why does Miss Woodruff have to rememberhim?"

"No, no. Victor is Mercedes's dog, her dearly loved dog, " said MissScrotton, her impatience with an ignorance that she suspected ofwilfulness tempered, as usual, by the satisfaction of giving any andevery information about Madame von Marwitz. "It is a sort ofsuperstition with her that he should always be on the platform to seeher off. It will be serious, really serious, if Karen doesn't get himhere in time. It may depress Mercedes for the whole of the voyage. "

"And where has she gone to get him?"

"Oh, she turned back nearly at once. She was with us in the carriage andwe passed Louise in the omnibus with the boxes and fortunately Karennoticed that Victor wasn't with her. It turned out, when we stopped andasked Louise about him, that she had given him to the footman to takefor a walk and she thought he had been brought back to Karen. Karen tooka hansom at once and went back. She really ought to have seen to itbefore starting. I do hope she will get him here in time. Madam, if youplease; we really can't get by. "

A little woman, stout but sprightly, in whom Gregory recognized theagitated mother of the pretty girl, evaded Miss Scrotton's extended handand darted past her to place herself in front of Madame von Marwitz. Shewore a large, box-like hat from which a blue veil hung. Her smallfeatures, indeterminate in form and incoherent in assemblage, expressedto an extraordinary degree determination and strategy. She faced thegreat woman. 

"Baroness, " she said, in swift yet deliberate tones; "allow me topresent myself; Mrs. Hamilton K. Slifer. We have mutual friends; Mrs. Tollman, Mrs. General Tollman of St. Louis, Missouri. She had thepleasure of meeting you in Paris some years ago. An old family friend ofours. My girls, Baroness; Maude and Beatrice. They won't forget thisday. We're simply wild about you, Baroness. We were at your concert theother night. " Maude, the lean and tawny, and Beatrice, the dark andpretty, had followed deftly in their mother's wake and were smiling, Maude with steely brightness, Beatrice with nonchalant assurance, atMadame von Marwitz. 

"_Bon Dieu!_" the great woman muttered. She gazed away from the Slifersand about her with helpless consternation. Then, slightly bowing herhead and murmuring: "I thank you, Madam, " she moved on, her friendsclosing round her. Miss Scrotton, pale with wrath, put the Slifers asideas she passed them. 

"Well, girls, I knew I could do it!" Mrs. Slifer ejaculated, drawing adeep breath. They stood near Gregory, and Beatrice, who had adjusted hercamera, was taking a series of snaps of the retreating celebrity. "We'vemet her, anyway, and perhaps if she ever comes on deck we'll get anotherchance. That's a real impertinent woman she's got with her. Did you seeher try and shove me back?"

"Never mind, mother, " said Beatrice, who was evidently easy-going; "Isnapped her as she did it and she looked ugly enough to turn milk sour. My! do look at that girl with the queer cap and the big dog. She's afreak and no mistake! Stand back, Maude, and let me have a shot at her. "

"Why, I believe it's the adopted daughter!" Maude exclaimed. "Don't youremember. She was in the front row and we heard those people talkingabout her. I think she's _distinguée_ myself. She looks like a Russiancountess. "

It was indeed Miss Woodruff who had arrived and Gregory, whose eyesfollowed the Slifers', was aware of a sudden emotion on seeing her. Itwas the emotion of his dream, touched and startled and sweet, and evenmore than in his dream she made him think of a Hans Andersen heroinewith the little sealskin cap on her fair hair, and a long furred coatreaching to her ankles. She stood holding Victor by a leash, lookingabout her with a certain anxiety. 

Gregory made his way to her and when she saw him she started to meethim, gladly, but without surprise. "Where is Tante?" she said, "Is shealready in the train? Did she send you for me?"

"You are in very good time, " he reassured her. "She is over there--yousee her feather now, don't you. I'll take you to her. "

"Thank you so much. It has been a great rush. You have heard of themisfortunes? By good chance I found the quickest cab. "

She was walking beside him, her eyes fixed before them on the groupwhere she saw her guardian's plume and veil. "I don't know what Tantewould have done if Victor had not been here in time to say good-bye toher. "

Madame von Marwitz was holding a parting reception before the open doorof her saloon carriage. Flowers and fruits lay on the tables. Louise andMiss Scrotton's maid piled rugs and cushions on the chairs and divans. One of the Jewish gentlemen stood with his hat pushed off his foreheadtalking in low, important tones to a pallid young newspaper man who maderapid notes. 

Madame von Marwitz at once caught sight of Karen and Victor. Past theintervening heads she beckoned Karen to come to her and she and Gregoryexchanged salutes. In her swift smile on seeing him he read a mildamusement; she could only think that, like everybody else, he had cometo see her off. 

The cohorts opened to receive Miss Woodruff and Madame von Marwitzenfolded her and stooped to kiss Victor's head. 

Gregory watched the little scene, which was evidently touching to allwho witnessed it, and then turned to find Professor Blackburn at hiselbow. He, too, it appeared, had been watching Madame von Marwitz. "Yes;I heard her two years ago in Oxford, " he said; "and even my antiqueblood was stirred, as much by her personality as by her music. A mostromantic, most pathetic woman. What eyes and what a smile!"

"I see that you are one of the stricken, " said Gregory. "Shall Iintroduce you to my old friend, Mrs. Forrester? She'll no doubt be ableto get you a word with Madame Okraska, if you want to hear her speak. "

No, the professor said, he preferred to keep his idols remote andvaguely blurred with incense. "Who is the young Norse maiden?" heinquired; "the one you were with. Those singular ladies are accostingher now. "

Karen Woodruff, on the outskirts of the group, had been gazing at herguardian with a constrained smile in which Gregory detectedself-mastery, and turned her eyes upon the Slifers as the professorasked his question. Mrs. Slifer, marshalling her girls, and stooping topat Victor, was introducing herself, and while Gregory told theprofessor that that was Miss Woodruff, Madame Okraska's ward, she bentto expound to the Slifers the inscription on Victor's collar, speaking, it was evident, with kindness. Gregory was touched by the tolerance withwhich, in the midst of her own sad thoughts, she satisfied the Slifers'curiosity. 

"Then she really is Norse, " said the professor. 

"Really half Norse. "

"I like her geniality and her reticence, " said the professor, watchingthe humours of the little scene. "Those enterprising ladies won't getmuch out of her. Ah, they must relinquish her now; her guardian isasking for her. I suppose it's time that I got into my compartment. "

The groups were breaking up and the travellers, detaching themselvesfrom their friends, were taking their places. Madame von Marwitz, poisedabove a sea of upturned faces on the steps of her carriage, bent toenfold Karen Woodruff once more. Doors then slammed, whistles blew, green flags fluttered, and the long train moved slowly out of thestation. 

Standing at a little distance from the crowd, and holding Victor by hisleash, Miss Woodruff looked after the train with a fixed and stiffenedsmile. She was near tears. The moment was not a propitious one forspeaking to her; yet Gregory felt that he could not go without sayinggood-bye. He approached her and she turned grave eyes upon him. 

"And you are going to Cornwall, now?" said Gregory, patting Victor'shead. 

"Yes; I go to-morrow, " said Miss Woodruff in a gentle voice. 

"Have you friends there?" Gregory asked, "and books? Things to amuseyou?"

"We see the rector and his wife and one or two old ladies now and then. But it is very remote, you know. That is why my guardian loves it somuch. She needs the solitude after her rushing life. But books; oh yes;my guardian has an excellent library there; she is a great reader; Icould read all day, in every language, if I wanted to. As for amusement, Mrs. Talcott and I are very busy; we see after the garden and the littlefarm; I practice and take Victor out for walks. "

She had quite mastered her emotion and Gregory could look up at herfrankly. "Isn't there something I could send you, " he said, "to help topass the time? Magazines? Do you have them? And sweets? Do you likesweets?" His manner was half playful and he smiled at her as he mighthave smiled at a young school-girl. If only those wide braids under thelittle cap had been hanging over her shoulders the manner would havebeen justified. As it was, Gregory felt with some bewilderment that hisbehaviour was hardly normal. He was not in the habit of offeringmagazines and sweets to young women. But his solicitude expressed itselfin these unconventional forms and luckily she found nothing amiss withthem. She was accustomed, no doubt, to a world where such offeringspassed freely. 

"It is very kind of you, " said Miss Woodruff. "I should indeed like tosee a review now and then. Mr. Drew is writing another little article onmy guardian, in one of this month's reviews, I did not hear which one;and I would like to see that very much. But sweets? No; when I like themI like them too much and eat too many and then I am sorry. Please don'tsend me sweets. " She was smiling. 

"What do you like to eat, then, that doesn't make you sorry--even whenyou eat a great deal?"

"Roast-beef!" she said, laughing, and the tip of her tongue was caughtbetween her teeth. He was charmed to feel that, for the moment, atleast, he had won her from her sadness. 

"But you get roast-beef in Cornwall. "

"Oh, excellent. I will not have roast-beef, please. "

"Fruit, then? You like fruit?"

"Yes; indeed. "

"And you don't get much fruit in Cornwall in winter. "

"Only apples, " she confessed, "and dried apricots. "

He elicited from her that nectarines and grapes were her favouritefruits. But in the midst of their talk she became suddenly grave again. 

"I do not believe that you had a single word with her after I came!"

His face betrayed his bewilderment. 

"Tante, " she enlightened him. "But before then? You did speak with her?She had sent you to look for me?" The depths of her misconception as tohis presence were apparent. 

"No; it was by chance I saw you, " he said. "And I didn't have any talkwith Madame von Marwitz. " He had no time to undeceive her further if ithad been worth while to undeceive her, for Mrs. Forrester, detachingherself from the larger group of bereaved ones, joined them. 

"I can't give you a lift, Gregory?" she asked. "You are going citywards?We are all feeling very bleak and despoiled, aren't we? What an awfulplace a station is when someone has gone away from it. "

"Mrs. Forrester, " said Karen Woodruff, with wide eyes, "he did not haveone single word with her; Mr. Jardine did not get any talk at all withTante. Oh, that should have been managed. "

But Mrs. Forrester, though granting to his supposed plight a glance ofsympathetic concern, was in a hurry to get home and he was, again, spared the necessity of a graceless confession. He piloted them throughthe crowd, saw them--Miss Woodruff, Mrs. Forrester and Victor, --fittedinto Mrs. Forrester's brougham, and then himself got into a hansom. Itwas still the atmosphere of the dream that hovered about him as hedecided at what big fruit-shop he should stop to order a box ofnectarines. He wanted her to find them waiting for her in Cornwall. Andthe very box of nectarines, the globes of sombre red fruit nested incotton-wool, seemed part of the dream. He knew that he was behavingcuriously; but she was, after all, the little Hans Andersen heroine andone needn't think of ordinary customs where she was concerned. 

CHAPTER VIII

 "Les Solitudes, "February 2nd. 

 "Dear Mr. Jardine, --How very, very kind of you. I could hardly believe it when Mrs. Talcott told me that a box was here for me. I could think of nothing to explain it. Then when we opened it and saw, row upon row, those beautiful things like pearls in a casket--it made me feel quite dazed. Nectarines are not things that you expect to have, in rows, all to yourself. Mrs. Talcott and I ate two at once, standing there in the hall where we opened them; we couldn't wait for chairs and plates and silver knives; things taste best of all when eaten greedily, I think, and I think that these will all be eaten greedily. It is so kind of you. I thank you very much. --Yours sincerely, "Karen Woodruff. "

 * * * * *

 "Les Solitudes, "February 9th. 

 "Dear Mr. Jardine, --It is most kind of you to write me this nice note and to send me these reviews. I often have to miss the things that come out in the reviews about my guardian, for the press-cuttings go to her. Mr. Drew says many clever things, does he not; he understands music and he understands--at least almost--what my guardian is to music; but he does not, of course, understand her. He only sees the greatness and sees it made out of great things. When one knows a great person intimately one sees all the little things that make them great; often such very little things; things that Mr. Drew could not know. That is why his article is, to me, rather pretentious; nor will you like it, I think. He fills up with subtleties the gaps in his knowledge, and that makes it all so artificial. But I am most glad to have, it. --Sincerely yours, "Karen Woodruff. "

 * * * * *

 "Les Solitudes, "February 18th. 

 "Dear Mr. Jardine, --The beautiful great box of fruit arrived to-day. It is too good and kind of you. I am wondering now whether muscatel grapes are not even more my favourites than nectarines! This is a day of rain and wind, soft rain blowing in gusts and the wind almost warm. Victor and I have come in very wet and now we are both before the large wood fire. London seems so far away that New York hardly seems further. You heard of the great ovation that my guardian had. I had a note from her yesterday and two of the New York papers. If you care to read them I will gladly send them; they tell in full about the first great concert she has given and the criticism is good. I will ask you to let me have them back when you have read them. --With many, many thanks. --Sincerely yours, "Karen Woodruff. "

 * * * * *

 "Les Solitudes, "February 28th. 

 "Dear Mr. Jardine, --I am glad that you liked the box of snowdrops and that they reached you safely, packed in their moss. I got them in a little copse a few miles from here. The primroses will soon be coming now and, if you like, I will send you some of them. I know one gets them early in London; but don't you like best to open yourself a box from the country and see them lying in bunches with their leaves. I like even the slight flatness they have; but mine are very little flattened; I am good at packing flowers! My guardian always tells me so! You are probably right in not caring to see the papers; they are always much alike in what they say. It was only the glimpse of the great enthusiasm they gave that I thought might have interested you. Next week she goes to Chicago. I am afraid she will be very tired. But Miss Scrotton will take care of her. --Sincerely yours, "Karen Woodruff. "

 * * * * *

 "Les Solitudes, "March 17th. 

 "Dear Mr. Jardine, --I have taken up my pen for only two purposes since I left London--to write my weekly letter to my guardian--and to thank you over and over again. Only now you have quite spoiled Mrs. Talcott and me for our stewed dried fruit that we used to think so nice before we lived on grapes and nectarines. Indeed I have not forgotten the primroses and I shall be so delighted to pick them for you when the time comes, though I suspect it is sheer kindness in you that gives me the pleasure of sending you something. Your nice letter interested me very much. Yes, we have 'Dominique' in the library here, and I will perhaps soon read it; I say perhaps, because I am reading 'Wilhelm Meister'--my guardian was quite horrified with me when she found I had never read it--and must finish that first, and it is very long. Is 'Dominique' indeed your favourite French novel? My guardian places Stendahl and Flaubert first. For myself I do not care much for French novels. I like the Russians best. --Sincerely yours, "Karen Woodruff. "

 * * * * *

 "Les Solitudes, "April 2nd. 

 "Dear Mr. Jardine, --You make a charming picture of the primroses in the blue and white bowls for me. And of your view over the park. London can be so beautiful; I, too, care for it very much. It is beautiful here now; the hedges all white with blackthorn and the woods full of primroses. My guardian must now be in San Francisco! She is back in New York in May, and is to give three more great concerts there. I am impatiently waiting for my next letter from her. I am so glad you like the primroses. Many, many thanks for the fruit. --Yours sincerely, "Karen Woodruff. "

 * * * * *

 "Les Solitudes, "April 5th. 

 "Dear Mr. Jardine, --What you say makes me feel quite troubled. I know you write playfully, yet sometimes one can _dire la vérité en riant_, and it is as if you had found my letters very empty and unresponsive. I did not mean them to be that of course; but I am not at all in the habit of writing letters except to people I am very intimate with. Indeed, I am in the habit only of writing to my guardian, and it is difficult for me to think that other people will be interested in the things I am doing. And in one way I do so little here. Nothing that I could believe interesting to you; nothing really but have walks and practise my music and read; and talk sometimes with Mrs. Talcott. About once in two months the vicar's wife has tea with us, and about once in two months we have tea with her; that is all. And I am sure you cannot like descriptions of landscapes. I love to look at landscapes and dislike reading what other people have to say about them; and is not that the same with you? It is quite different that you should write to me of things and people; for you see so many and you do so much and you know that to someone in the depths of the country all this must be very interesting. So do not punish me for my dullness by ceasing to write to me. --Sincerely yours, "Karen Woodruff. "

 * * * * *

 "Les Solitudes, "April 10th. 

 "Dear Mr. Jardine, --Of course I will write you descriptions of landscapes!--and of all my daily routine, if you really care to hear. No; I am not lonely, though of course I miss my guardian very much. I have the long, long walks with Victor, in wet weather over the inland moors along the roads, and in fine weather along the high cliff paths; sometimes we walk ten miles in an afternoon and come back very tired for tea. In the evenings I sit with Mrs. Talcott over the fire. You ask me to describe Mrs. Talcott to you, and to tell you all about her. She is with me now, and we are in the morning room, where we always sit; for the great music-room that opens on the verandah and fronts the sea is shut when my guardian is not here. This room looks over the sea, too, but from the side of the house and through an arabesque of trees. The walls are filled with books and flowering bulbs stand in the windows. We have had our tea and the sunlight slants in over the white freesia and white hyacinths. There are primroses everywhere, too, and they make the room seem more full of sunlight. You could hardly see a more beautiful room. Mrs. Talcott sits before the fire with her skirt turned up and her feet in square-toed shoes on the fender and looks into the fire. She is short and thick and very old, but she does not seem old; she is hard; not soft and withered. She has a large, calm face with very yellow skin, and very light blue eyes set deeply under white eyebrows. Her hair is white and drawn up tightly to a knot at the top of her head. She wears no cap and dresses always in black; very plain, with, in the daytime, a collar of white lawn turning over a black silk stock and bow, such as young girls wear, and, in the evening, a little fichu of white net, very often washed, and thin and starchy. And since her skirts are always very short, and her figure so square, she makes one think of a funny little girl as well as of an old woman. She comes from the State of Maine, and she remembers a striving, rough existence in a little town on the edge of wildernesses. She is a very distant relation of my guardian's. My guardian's maternal grandparents were Spanish and lived in New Orleans, and a sister of Señor Bastida's (Bastida was the name of my guardian's grandfather)--married a New Englander, from Vermont--and that New Englander was an uncle of Mrs. Talcott's--do you follow!--her uncle married my guardian's aunt, you see. Mrs. Talcott, in her youth, stayed sometimes in New Orleans, and dearly loved the beautiful Dolores Bastida who left her home to follow Pavelek Okraska. Poor Dolores Okraska had many sorrows. Her husband was not a good husband and her parents died. She was very unhappy and before her baby came--she was in Poland then, --she sent for Mrs. Talcott. Mrs. Talcott had been married, too, and had lost her husband and was very poor. But she left everything and crossed to Europe in the steerage--and what it must have been in those days!--imagine!--to join her unfortunate relative. My guardian has told me of it; she calls Mrs. Talcott: '_Un coeur d'or dans un corps de bois. _' She stayed with Dolores Okraska until she died a little time after. She brought up her child. They were in great want; my guardian remembers that she had sometimes not enough to eat. When she was older and had already become famous, some relatives of the Bastidas heard of her and helped; but those were years of great struggle for Mrs. Talcott; and it is so strange to think of that provincial, simple American woman with her rustic ways and accent, living in Cracow and Warsaw, and Vienna, and steadily doing what she had set herself to do. She speaks French with a most funny accent even yet, though she spent so many years abroad, so many in Paris. I do not know what would have become of my guardian if it had not been for her. Her father loved her, but was very erratic and undisciplined. Mrs. Talcott has been with my guardian for almost all the time ever since. It is a great and silent devotion. She is very reticent. She never speaks of herself. She talks to me sometimes in the evenings about her youth in Maine, and the long white winters and the sleigh-rides; and the tapping of the maple-trees in Spring; and the nutting parties in the fall of the year. I think that she likes to remember all this; and I love to hear her, for it reminds me of what my father used to tell me of his youth; and I love especially to hear of the trailing arbutus, that lovely little flower that grows beneath the snow; how one brushes back the snow in early Spring and finds the waxen, sweet, pink flowers and dark, shining leaves under it. And I always imagine that it is a doubled nostalgia that I feel and that my mother's Norway in Spring was like it, with snow and wet woods. There is a line that brings it all over me: 'In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes. ' It is by Emerson. The Spring here is very lovely, too, but it has not the sweetness that arises from snow and a long winter. Through the whole winter the fuchsias keep their green against the white walls of the little village, huddled in between the headlands at the edge of the sea beneath us. You know this country, don't you? The cliffs are so beautiful. I love best the great headlands towards the Lizard, black rock or grey, all spotted with rosettes of orange lichen with sweeps of grey-green sward sloping to them. Victor becomes quite intoxicated with the wind on these heights and goes in circles round and round, like a puppy. Later on, all the slopes are veiled in the delicate little pink thrift, and the stone walls are festooned with white campion. 

 "Then Mrs. Talcott and I have a great deal to do about the little farm. Mrs. Talcott is so clever at this. She makes it pay besides giving my guardian all the milk and eggs and bacon, too, she needs. There is a farmer and his wife, and a gardener and a boy; but with the beautiful garden we have here it takes most of the day to see to everything. The farmer's wife is a stern looking woman, but really very gentle, and she sings hymns all the day long while she works. She has a very good voice, so that it is sweet to hear her. Yes; I do play. I have a piano here in the morning-room, and I am very fond of my music. And, as I have told you, I read a good deal, too. So there you have all the descriptions and the details. I liked so much what you told me of the home of your boyhood. When I saw you, I knew that you were a person who cared for all these things, even if you were not an artist. What you tell me, too, of the law-courts and the strange people you see there, and the ugly, funny side of human life amused me, though it seems to me more sorrowful than you perhaps feel it. People amuse me very much sometimes, too; but I have not your eye for their foibles. You draw them rather as Forain does; I should do it, I suspect, with more sentimentality. The fruit comes regularly once a week, and punctual thanks seem inappropriate for what has become an institution. But you know how grateful I am. And for the weekly _Punch_;--so _gemütlich_ and _bien pensant_ and, often, very, very funny, with a funniness that the Continental papers never give one; their jests are never the jests of the _bien pensant_. It is the acrid atmosphere of the café they bring, not that of the dinner party, or, better still, for _Punch_, the picnic. The reviews, too, are very interesting. Mrs. Talcott reads them a good deal, she who seldom reads. She says sometimes very acute and amusing things about politics. My guardian has a horror of politics; but they rather interest Mrs. Talcott. I know nothing of them; but I do not think that my guardian would agree with what you say; I think that she would belong more to your party of freedom and progress. What a long letter I have written to you! I have never written such a long one in my life before, except to my guardian. --Sincerely yours, "Karen Woodruff. "

 * * * * *

 "Les Solitudes, "April 15th. 

 "Dear Mr. Jardine, --How very nice to hear that you are coming to Cornwall for Easter and will be near us--at least Falmouth is quite near with a motor. It is beautiful country there, too; I have driven there with my guardian, and it is a beautiful town to see, lying in a wide curve around its blue bay. It is softer and milder than here. A bend of the coast makes so much difference. But why am I telling you all this, when of course you know it! I forget that anyone knows Cornwall but Mrs. Talcott and my guardian and me. But you have not seen this bit of the coast, and it excites me to think that I shall introduce you to our cliffs and to Les Solitudes. If only my guardian were here! It is not itself, this place, without her. It is not to see Les Solitudes if you do not see the great music-room opening its four long windows on the sea and sky; and my guardian sitting in the shade of the verandah looking over the sea. But Mrs. Talcott and I will do the honours as best we may and tell you everything about my guardian that you will wish to know. Let us hear beforehand the day you are coming; for the cook makes excellent cakes, and we will have some baked specially for you. How very nice to see you again. --Sincerely yours, "Karen Woodruff. "

CHAPTER IX

On a chill, sunny morning in April, Gregory Jardine went out on to hisbalcony before breakfast and stood leaning there as was his wont, looking down over his view. The purpling tree-tops in the park emergedfrom a light morning mist. The sky, of the palest blue, seemed very highand was streaked with white. Spring was in the air and he could seedaffodils shining here and there on the slopes of green. 

He had just read Karen Woodruff's last letter, and he was in the mood, charmed, amused and touched, that her letters always brought. Never, hethought, had there been such sweet and such funny letters; so frank andso impersonal; so simple and so mature. During these months of theircorrespondence the thought of her had been constantly in his mind, mingling now not only with his own deep and distant memories, but, itseemed, with hers, so that while she still walked with him over thehills of his boyhood and stooped to look with him at the spring gushingfrom under the bracken, they also brushed together the dry, soft snowfrom the trailing arbutus, or stood above the sea on the Cornishheadlands. Never in his life had he so possessed the past and been soaware of it. His youth was with him, even though he still thought of hisrelation to Karen Woodruff as a paternal and unequal one; imagining acrisis in which his wisdom and knowledge of the world might serve her; afoolish love-affair, perhaps, that he would disentangle; or a disasterconnected with the great woman under whose protection she lived; hecould so easily imagine disasters befalling Madame von Marwitz andinvolving everyone around her. And now in a week's time he would be inCornwall and seeing again the little Hans Andersen heroine. This was thethought that emerged from the sweet vagrancy of his mood; and, as itcame, he was pierced suddenly with a strange rapture and fear that hadin it the very essence of the spring-time. 

Gregory had continued to think of the girl he was to marry in the guiseof a Constance Armytage, and although Constance Armytage's engagement toanother man found him unmoved, except with relief for the solution ofwhat had really ceased to be a perplexity--since, apparently, he couldnot manage to fall in love with her--this fact had not been revealing, since he still continued to think of Constance as the type, if she hadceased to be the person. Karen Woodruff was almost the last type hecould have fixed upon. She fitted nowhere into his actual life. She onlyfitted into the life of dreams and memories. 

So now, still looking down at the trees and daffodils, he drew a longbreath and tried to smile over what had been a trick of the imaginationand to relegate Karen to the place of half-humorous dreams. He tried tothink calmly of her. He visualized her in her oddity and child-likeness;seeing the flat blue bows of the concert; the old-fashioned gold locketof the tea; the sealskin cap of the station. But still, it was apparent, the infection of the season was working in him; for these trivial bitsof her personality had become overwhelmingly sweet and wonderful. Theessential Karen infused them. Her limpid grey eyes looked into his. Shesaid, so ridiculously, so adorably: "My guardian likes best to be calledvon Marwitz by those who know her personally. " She laughed, the tip ofher tongue caught between her teeth. From the place of dream and memory, the living longing for her actual self emerged indomitably. 

Gregory turned from the balcony and went inside. He was dazed. Herprimroses stood about the room in the white and blue bowls. He wanted tokiss them. Controlling the impulse, which seemed to him almost insane, he looked at them instead and argued with himself. In love? But onedidn't fall in love like that between shaving and breakfast. Whatpossessed him was a transient form of _idée fixe_, and he had behavedvery foolishly in playing fairy-godfather to a dear little girl. But atthis relegating phrase his sense of humour rose to mock him. He couldnot relegate Karen Woodruff as a dear little girl. It was he who hadbehaved like a boy, while she had maintained the calm simplicities ofthe mature. He hadn't the faintest right to hope that she saw anythingin his correspondence but what she had herself brought to it. Fear fellmore strongly upon him. He sat down to his breakfast, his thoughts ininextricable confusion. And while he drank his coffee and glancednervously down the columns of his newspaper, a hundred little filamentsof memory ran back and linked the beginning to the present. It had notbeen so sudden. It had been there beside him, in him; and he had notseen it. The meeting of their eyes in the long, grave interchange at theconcert had been full of presage. And why had he gone to tea at Mrs. Forrester's? And why, above all why, had he dreamed that dream? It washis real self who had felt no surprise when, at the edge of the forest, she had said: "And I love you. " The words had been spoken in answer tohis love. 

Gregory laid down his paper and stared before him. He was in love. Should he get over it? Did he want to get over it? Was it possible toget over it if he did want to? And, this was the culmination, would shehave him? These questions drove him forth. 

When Barker, his man, came to clear away the breakfast things he foundthat the bacon and eggs had not been eaten. Barker was a stone-greypersonage who looked like a mid-Victorian Liberal statesman. His gravityoften passed into an air of despondent responsibility. "Mr. Jardinehasn't eaten his breakfast, " he said to his wife, who was Gregory'scook. "It's this engagement of Miss Armytage's. He was more taken withher than we'd thought. "

Gregory had intended to motor down to Cornwall, still a rare opportunityin those days; a friend who was going abroad had placed his car at hisdisposal. But he sent the car ahead of him and, on the first day of hisfreedom, started by train. Next day he motored over to the littlevillage near the Lizard. 

It was a pale, crystalline Spring day. From heights, where the carseemed to poise like a bird in mid-air, one saw the tranquil blue of thesea. The woods were veiled in young green and the hedges thickly starredwith blackthorn. Over the great Goonhilly Downs a silvery sheen trembledwith impalpable colour and the gorse everywhere was breaking into gold. It was a day of azure, illimitable distances; of exultation and delight. Even if one were not in love one would feel oneself a lover on such aday. 

Gregory had told himself that he would be wise; that he would godiscreetly and make sure not only that he was really in love, but thatthere was in his love a basis for life. Marriage must assure and securehis life, not disturb and disintegrate it; and a love resisted and putaside unspoken may soon be relegated to the place of fond and transientdream. Perhaps the little Hans Andersen heroine would settle happilyinto such a dream. How little he had seen of her. But while he thusschooled himself, while the white roads curved and beckoned and unrolledtheir long ribbons, the certainties he needed of himself merged more andmore into the certainties he needed of her. And he felt his heart, inthe singing speed, lift and fly towards the beloved. 

He had written to her and told her the hour of his arrival, and at aturning he suddenly saw her standing above the road on one of the stonestiles of the country. Dressed in white and poised against the blue, while she kept watch for his coming, she was like a calm, far-gazingfigure-head on a ship, and the ship that bore her seemed to have soaredinto sight. 

She was new, yet unchanged. Her attitude, her smile, as she held up anarresting hand to the chauffeur, filled him with delight and anxiety. Itdisconcerted him to find how new she was. He felt that he spokeconfusedly to her when she came to shake his hand. 

"People often lose their way in coming to see Tante, " she said, and itstruck him, even in the midst of his preoccupation with her, as toosweetly absurd that the first sentence she spoke to him should sound thefamiliar chime. "They have gone mistakenly down the lane that leads tothe cliff path, that one there, or the road that leads out to the moors. And one poor man was quite lost and never found his way to us at all. Itmeant, for he had only a day or two to spend in England, that he did notsee her for another year. Tante has had signs put up since then; buteven now people can go wrong. "

She mounted beside the chauffeur so that she could guide him down thelast bit of road, sitting sideways, her arm laid along the back of theseat. From time to time she smiled at Gregory. 

She was a person who accepted the unusual easily and with no personalconjecture. She was so accustomed, no doubt, to the sudden appearance ofall sorts of people, that she had no discriminations to apply to hiscase. There was no shyness and no surmise in her manner. She smiled athim as composedly as she had smiled over the Great Wall of China in Mrs. Forrester's drawing-room, and her pleasure in seeing him was neitherless frank nor more intimate. 

She wore a broad hat of sun-burnt straw and a white serge coat and skirtthat looked as if they had shrunk in frequent washings. Her white blousehad the little frills at neck and wrists and around her throat was thegold locket on its black ribbon. Her eyes, when she turned them on himand smiled, seemed to open distances like the limitlessness of themoorland. Her tawny skin and shining golden hair were like the gorse andprimroses and she in her serenity and gladness like the day personified. 

They did not attempt to talk through the loudly purring monotones of thecar, which picked its way swiftly and delicately down the turning roadand then skimmed lightly on the level ground between hedges of fuchsiaand veronica. As the prospect opened Karen pointed to the goldenshoulder of a headland bathed in sunlight and the horizon line of thesea beyond. They turned among wind-bitten Cornish elms, leaning inland, and Gregory saw among them the glimmer of Les Solitudes. 

It was a white-walled house with a high-pitched roof of grey shingles, delicately rippling; a house almost rustic, yet more nearly noble, verybeautiful; simple, yet unobtrusively adapted to luxury. Simplicityreigned within, though one felt luxury there in a chrysalis condition, folded exquisitely and elaborately away and waiting the return of theenchantress. 

Karen led him across the shining spaces of the hall and into themorning-room. Books, flowers and sunlight seemed to furnish it, and, with something austere and primitive, to make it the most fittingbackground for herself. But while her presence perfected it for him, itwas her guardian's absence that preoccupied Karen. Again, and comically, she reminded Gregory of the sacristan explaining to the sight-seer thatthe famous altar-piece had been temporarily removed and that he couldnot really judge the chapel without its culminating and consecratingobject. "If only Tante were here!" she said. "It seems so strange thatanyone should see Les Solitudes who has not seen her in it. I do notremember that it has ever happened before. This is the dining-room--yes, I like to show it all to you--she planned it all herself, you know--isit not a beautiful room? You see, though we are Les Solitudes, we canseat a large dinner-party and Tante has sometimes many guests; not oftenthough; this is her place of peace and rest. She collected all thisJacobean furniture; connoisseurs say that it is very beautiful. Themusic-room, alas, is closed; but I will show you the garden--and Mrs. Talcott in it. I am eager for you and Mrs. Talcott to meet. "

He would rather have stayed and talked to her in the morning-room; butshe compelled him, rather as a sacristan compels the slightly bewilderedsight-seer, to pass on to the next point of interest. She led him out tothe upper terrace of the garden, which dropped, ledge by ledge, with lowwalls and winding hedges, down the cliff-side. She pointed out to himthe sea-front of the house, with its wide verandah and clustered treesand the beautiful dip of the roof over the upper windows, far gazinglittle dormer windows above these. Tante, she told him, had designed thehouse. "That is her room, the corner one, " she said. "She can see thesunrise from her bed. "

Gregory was interested neither in Madame von Marwitz's advantages nor inher achievements. He asked Karen where her own room was. It was at theback of the house, she said; a dear little room, far up. She, too, had aglimpse of the Eastern headland and of the sunrise. 

They were walking along the paths, their borders starred as yet frugallywith hints of later glories; but already the aubrietia and arabis madebosses of white or purple on the walls, and in a little copse daffodilsgrew thickly. 

"There is Mrs. Talcott, " said Karen, quickening her pace. Evidently sheconsidered Mrs. Talcott, in her relation to Tante, as an importantfeature of Les Solitudes. 

It was her relation to Karen that caused Gregory to look with interestat the stout old lady, dressed in black alpaca, who was stooping over aflower-border at a little distance from them. He had often wondered whatthis sole companion of Karen's cloistered life was like. Mrs. Talcott'sskirts were short; her shoes thick-soled and square-toed, fastening witha strap and button over white stockings at the ankle. She wore a roundstraw hat, like a child's, and had a basket of gardening implementsbeside her. 

"Mrs. Talcott, here is Mr. Jardine, " Karen announced, as they approachedher. 

Mrs. Talcott raised herself slowly and turned to them, drawing off hergardening gloves. She was a funny looking old woman, funnier than Karenhad prepared him for finding her, and uglier. Her large face, wallet-shaped and sallow, was scattered over with white moles, orrather, warts, one of which, on her eyelid, caused it to droop over hereye and to blink sometimes, suddenly. She had a short, indefinite noseand long, large lips firmly folded. With its updrawn hair andimpassivity her face recalled that of a Chinese image; but more than ofanything else she gave Gregory the impression, vaguely and incongruouslytragic, of an old shipwrecked piece of oaken timber, washed up, finally, out of reach of the waves, on some high, lonely beach; battered, thoughstill so solid; salted through and through; crusted with brine, and withodd, bleached excrescences, like barnacles, adhering to it. Her look ofalmost inhuman cleanliness added force to the simile. 

"Mr. Jardine heard Tante last winter, you know, " said Karen, "and mether at Mrs. Forrester's. "

"I'm very happy to make your acquaintance, Sir, " said Mrs. Talcott, giving Gregory her hand. 

"Mrs. Talcott is a great gardener, " Karen went on. "Tante has the ideasand Mrs. Talcott carries them out. And sometimes they aren't easy tocarry out, are they, Mrs. Talcott!"

Mrs. Talcott, her hands folded at her waist, contemplated her work. 

"Mitchell made a mistake about the campanulas, Karen, " she remarked. "He's put the clump of blue over yonder, instead of the white. "

"Oh, Mrs. Talcott!" Karen turned to look. "And Tante specially wantedthe white there so that they should be against the sea. How very stupidof Mitchell. "

"They'll have to come out, I presume, " said Mrs. Talcott, but withoutemotion. 

"And where is the _pyramidalis alba_?"

"Well, he's got that up in the flagged garden where she wanted theblue, " said Mrs. Talcott. 

"And it will be so bad for them to move them again! What a pity! Theyhave been sent for specially, " Karen explained to Gregory. "My guardianheard of a particularly beautiful kind, and the white were to be forthis corner of the wall, you see that they would look very lovelyagainst the sea, and the blue were to be among the white veronica andwhite lupins in the flagged garden. And now they are all planted wrong, and so accurately and solidly wrong, " she walked ahead of Mrs. Talcottexamining the offending plants. "Are you quite sure they're wrong, Mrs. Talcott?"

"Dead sure, " Mrs. Talcott made reply. "He did it this morning when I wasin the dairy. He didn't understand, or got muddled, or something. I'llcommence changing them round as soon as I've done this weeding. It'll bea good two hours' work. "

"No, you must not do it till I can help you, " said Karen. "To-morrowmorning. " She had a manner at once deferential and masterful ofaddressing the old lady. They were friendly without being intimate. "Nowpromise me that you will wait till I can help you. "

"Well, I guess I won't promise. I like to get things off my mind rightaway, " said Mrs. Talcott. If Karen was masterful, she was not yielding. "I'll see how the time goes after tea. Don't you bother about it. "

They left her bending again over her beds. "She is very strong, but Ithink sometimes she works too hard, " said Karen. 

By a winding way she led him to the high flagged garden with itsencompassing trees and far blue prospect, and here they sat for a littlewhile in the sunlight and talked. "How different all this must be fromyour home in Northumberland, " said Karen. "I have never been toNorthumberland. Is your brother much there? Is he like you? Have youbrothers and sisters?"

She questioned him with the frank interest with which he wished toquestion her. He told her about Oliver and said that he wasn't likehimself. A faint flavour of irony came into his voice in speaking of hiselder brother and finding Karen's calm eyes dwelling on him he wonderedif she thought him unfair. "We always get on well enough, " he said, "butwe haven't much in common. He is a good, dull fellow, half alive. "

"And you are very much alive. "

"Yes, on the whole, I think so, " he answered, smiling, but sensitivelyaware of a possible hint of irony in her. But she had intended none. Shecontinued to look at him calmly. "You are making use of all of yourself;that is to be alive, Tante always says; and I feel that it is true ofyou. And his wife? the wife of the dull hunting brother? Does she hunttoo and think of foxes most?"

He could assure her that Betty quite made up in the variety of heractivities for Oliver's deficiencies. Karen was interested in theAmerican Betty and especially in hearing that she had been at theconcert from which their own acquaintance dated. She asked him, walkingback to the house, if he had seen Mrs. Forrester. "She is an old friendof yours, isn't she?" she said. 

"That must be nice. She was so kind to me that last day in London. Tanteis very fond of her; very, very fond. I hardly think there is anyone ofall her friends she has more feeling for. Here is Victor, come to greetyou. You remember Victor, and how he nearly missed the train. "

The great, benignant dog came down the path to them and as they walkedKaren laid her hand upon his head, telling Gregory that Sir Alliston hadgiven him to Tante when he was quite a tiny puppy. "You saw SirAlliston, that sad, gentle poet? There is another person that Tanteloves. " It was with a slight stir of discomfort that Gregory realisedmore fully from these assessments how final for Karen was the questionof Tante's likes and dislikes. 

They were on the verandah when she paused. "But I think, though themusic-room is closed, that you must see the portrait. "

"The portrait? Of you?" Actually, and sincerely, he was off the track. 

"Of me? Oh no, " said Karen, laughing a little. "Why should it be of me?Of my guardian, of course. Perhaps you know it. It is by Sargent and wasin the Royal Academy some years ago. "

"I must have missed it. Am I to see it now?"

"Yes. I will ask Mrs. Talcott for the key and we will draw all theblinds and you shall see it. " They walked back to the garden in searchof Mrs. Talcott. 

"Do you like it?" Gregory asked. 

Karen reflected for a moment and then said; "He understands her betterthan Mr. Drew does, or, at all events, does not try to make up for whathe does not understand by elaborations. But there are blanks!--ohblanks!--However, it is a very magnificent picture and you shall see. Mrs. Talcott, may I have the key of the music-room? I want to show theSargent to Mr. Jardine. "

They had come to the old woman again, and again she slowly rightedherself from her stooping posture. "It's in my room, I'll come and getit, " said Mrs. Talcott, and on Karen's protesting against this, sheobserved that it was about tea-time, anyway. She preceded them to thehouse. 

"But I do beg, " Karen stopped her in the hall. "Let me get it. You shalltell me where it is. "

Mrs. Talcott yielded. "In my left top drawer on the right hand sideunder the pile of handkerchiefs, " she recited. "Thanks, Karen. "

While Karen was gone, Mrs. Talcott in the hall stood in front of Gregoryand looked past him in silence into the morning-room. She did not seemto feel it in any sense incumbent upon her to entertain him, thoughthere was nothing forbidding in her manner. But happening presently, while they waited, to glance at the droll old woman, he found her eyesfixed on him in a singularly piercing, if singularly impassive, gaze. She looked away again with no change of expression, shifting her weightfrom one hip to the other, and something in the attitude suggested toGregory that she had spent a great part of her life in waiting. She hada capacity, he inferred, for indefinite waiting. Karen came happilyrunning down the stairs, holding the key. 

They went into the dim, white room where swathed presences stood as ifausterely welcoming them. Karen drew up the blind and Mrs. Talcott, going to the end of the room, mounted a chair and dexterously twitchedfrom its place the sheet that covered the great portrait. Then, standingbeside it, and still holding its covering, she looked, not at it, but, meditatively, out at the sea that crossed with its horizon line the fourlong windows. Karen, also in silence, came and stood beside Gregory. 

It was indeed a remarkable picture; white and black; silver and green. To a painter's eye the arresting balance of these colours would havefirst appealed and the defiant charm with which the angular surfacesof the grand piano and the soft curves of the woman seated at itwere combined. The almost impalpable white of an azalea with itsflame-green foliage, and a silver statuette, poised high on aslender column of white chalcedony, were the only accessories. Butafter the first delighted draught of wonder it was the face of MadameOkraska--pre-eminently Madame Okraska in this portrait--that compelledone to concentration. She sat, turning from the piano, her kneescrossed, one arm cast over them, the other resting along the edge of thekey-board. The head drooped slightly and the eyes looked out just belowthe spectator's eyes, so that in poise and glance it recalled somewhatMichael Angelo's Lorenzo da Medici. And something that Gregory had feltin her from the first, and that had roused in him dim hostilities andironies, was now more fully revealed. The artist seemed to have lookedthrough the soft mask of the woman's flesh, through the disturbing andcompelling forces of her own consciousness, to the very structure andanatomy of her character. Atavistic, sub-conscious revelations were inthe face. It was to see, in terms of art, a scientific demonstration ofrace, temperament, and the results of their interplay with environment. The languors, the feverish indolences, the caprice of generations ofSpanish exiles were there, and the ambiguity, the fierceness of Slavancestry. And, subtly interwoven, were the marks of her public life uponher. The face, so moulded to indifference, was yet so aware ofobservation, so adjusted to it, so insatiable of it, that, sittingthere, absorbed and brooding, lovely with her looped pearls anddiamonds, her silver broideries and silken fringes, she was a product ofthe public, a creature reared on adulation, breathing it in softly, peacefully, as the white flowers beside her breathed in light and air. Her craftsmanship, her genius, though indicated, were submerged in thispervasive quality of an indifference based securely on the ever presentconsciousness that none could be indifferent to her. And more than thepassive acceptance and security was indicated. Strange, sleepingpotentialities lurked in the face; as at the turn of a kaleidoscope, Gregory could fancy it suddenly transformed, by some hostile touch, somemenace, to a savage violence and rapacity. He was aware, standingbetween the girl who worshipped her and the devoted old woman, of thepang of a curious anxiety. 

"Well, " said Karen at last, and she looked from the picture to him. "What do you think of it?"

"It's splendid, " said Gregory. "It's very fine. And beautiful. "

"But does it altogether satisfy you?" Her eyes were again on theportrait. "What is lacking, I cannot say; but it seems to me that it ispainted with intelligence only, not with love. It is Madame Okraska, thegreat genius; but it is not Tante; it is not even Madame von Marwitz. "

The portrait seemed to Gregory to go so much further and so much deeperthan what he had himself seen that it was difficult to believe that hersmight be the deepest vision, but he was glad to take refuge in thepossibility. "It does seem to me wonderfully like, " he said. "But then Idon't know 'Tante. '"

Karen now glanced at Mrs. Talcott. "It is a great bone of contentionbetween us, " she said, smiling at the old lady, yet smiling, Gregoryobserved, with a touch of challenge. "She feels it quite complete. That, in someone who does know Tante, I cannot understand. "

Mrs. Talcott, making no reply, glanced up at the portrait and then, again, out at the sea. 

Gregory looked at her with awakened curiosity. This agreement was anunexpected prop for him. "You, too, think it a perfect likeness?" heasked her. Her old blue eyes, old in the antique tranquillity of theirregard, yet still of such a vivid, unfaded turquoise, turned on him andagain he had that impression of an impassive piercing. 

"It seems to me about as good a picture as anyone's likely to get, " saidMrs. Talcott. 

"Yes, but, oh Mrs. Talcott"--with controlled impatience Karen took herup--"surely you see, --it isn't Tante. It is a genius, a great woman, abeautiful woman, a beautiful and poetic creature, of course;--he hasseen all that--who wouldn't? but it is almost a woman without a heart. There is something heartless there. I always feel it. And when onethinks of Tante!" And Mrs. Talcott remaining silent, she insisted: "Canyou really say you don't see what I mean?"

"Well, I never cared much about pictures anyway, " Mrs. Talcott nowremarked. 

"Well, but you care for this one more than I do!" Karen returned, with alaugh of vexation. "It isn't a question of pictures; it's a question ofa likeness. You really think that this does Tante justice? It's that Ican't understand. "

Mrs. Talcott, thus pursued, again looked up at the portrait, andcontinued, now, to look at it for several moments. And as she stoodthere, looking up, she suddenly and comically reminded Gregory of theFrog gardener before the door in "Alice, " with his stubborn anddeliberate misunderstanding. He could almost have expected to see Mrs. Talcott advance her thumb and rub the portrait, as if to probe the causeof her questioner's persistence. When she finally spoke it was only tovary her former judgment: "It seems to me about as good a picture asMercedes is likely to get taken, " she said. She pronounced the Spanishname: "Mursadees. "

Karen, after this, abandoned her attempt to convince Mrs. Talcott. Teawas ready, and they went into the morning-room. Here Mrs. Talcottpresided at the tea-table, and for all his dominating preoccupation shecontinued to engage a large part of Gregory's attention. She sat, leaning back in her chair, slowly eating, her eyes, like tiny, bluestones, immeasurably remote, immeasurably sad, fixed on the sea. 

"Is it long since you were in America?" he asked her. He felt drawn toMrs. Talcott. 

"Why, I guess it's getting on for twenty-five years now, " she replied, after considering for a moment; "since I've lived there. I've been overthree or four times with Mercedes; on tours. "

"Twenty-five years since you came over here? That is a long time. "

"Oh, it's more than that since I came, " said Mrs. Talcott. "Twenty-fiveyears since I lived at home. I came over first nearly fifty years ago. Yes; it's a long time. "

"Dear me; you have lived most of your life here, then. "

"Yes; you may say I have. "

"And don't you ever want to go back to America to stay?"

"I don't know as I do, " said Mrs. Talcott. 

"You're fonder of it over here, like so many of your compatriots?"

"Well, I don't know as I am, " Mrs. Talcott, who had a genius it seemedfor non-committal statements, varied; and then, as though aware that heranswers might seem ungracious, she added: "All my folks are dead. There's no reason for my wanting to go home that I can think of. "

"Besides, Mrs. Talcott, " Karen now helped her on, "home to you is whereTante is, isn't it. Mrs. Talcott has lived with Tante ever since Tantewas born. No one in the world knows her as well as she does. It israther wonderful to think about. " She had the air, finding Mrs. Talcottappreciated, of putting forward for her her great claim to distinction. 

"Yes; I know Mercedes pretty well, " Mrs. Talcott conceded. 

"How I love to hear about it, " said Karen; "about her first concert, youknow, Mrs. Talcott, when you curled her hair--such long, bright brownhair, she had, and so thick, falling below her waist, didn't it?" Mrs. Talcott nodded with a certain complacency. "And she wore a little whitemuslin frock and white shoes and a blue sash; she was only nine yearsold; it was a great concert in Warsaw. And she didn't want her haircurled, and combed it all out with her fingers just before going on tothe platform--didn't she?"

Mrs. Talcott was slightly smiling over these reminiscences. "Smartlittle thing, " she commented. "She did it the last minute so as it wastoo late for me to fix it again. It made me feel dreadful her going onto the platform with her head all mussed up like that. She looked mightypretty all the same. "

"And she was right, too, wasn't she?" said Karen, elated, evidently, athaving so successfully drawn Mrs. Talcott out. "Her hair was nevercurly, was it. It looked better straight, I'm sure. "

"Well, I don't know about that, " said Mrs. Talcott. "I always like itcurled best, when she was little. But I had to own to myself she lookedmighty pretty, though I was so mad at her. "

"Tante has always had her own way, I imagine, " said Karen, "aboutanything she set her mind on. She had her way about being an infantprodigy; though you were so right about that--she has often said so, hasn't she, and how thankful she is that you were able to stop it beforeit did her harm. I must show you our photographs of Tante, Mr. Jardine. We have volumes and volumes, and boxes and boxes of them. They are farmore like her, I think, many of them, than the portrait. Some of themtoo dear and quaint--when she was quite tiny. "

Tea was over and Karen, rising, looked towards the shelves where, evidently, the volumes and boxes were kept. 

"I really think I'd rather see some more of this lovely place, first, "said Gregory. "Do take me further along the cliff. I could see thephotographs, you know, the next time I come. "

He, too, had risen and was smiling at her with a little constraint. 

Karen, arrested on her way to the photographs, looked at him insurprise. "Will you come again? You are to be in Cornwall so long?"

"I'm to be here about a fortnight and I should like to come often, if Imay. " She was unaware, disconcertingly unaware; yet her surprise showedthe frankest pleasure. 

"How very nice, " she said. "I did not think that you could come all thatway more than once. "

While they spoke, Mrs. Talcott's ancient, turquoise eyes were upon them, and in her presence Gregory found it easier to say things than it wouldhave been to say them to Karen alone. Already, he felt sure, Mrs. Talcott understood, and if it was easy to say things in her presencemight that not be because he guessed that she sympathised? "But I camedown to Cornwall to see you, " he said, leaning on his chair back andtilting it a little while he smiled at Karen. 

Her pleasure rose in a flush to her cheek. "To see me?"

"Yes; I felt from our letters that we ought to become great friends. "

She looked at him, pondering the unlooked-for possibility he put beforeher. "Great friends?" she repeated. "I have never had a great friend ofmy own. Friends, of course; the Lippheims and the Belots; and Strepoff;and you, of course, Mrs. Talcott; but never, really, a great friendquite of my own, for they are Tante's friends first and come throughTante. Of course you have come through Tante, too, " said Karen, withevident satisfaction; "only not quite in the same way. "

"Not at all in the same way, " said Gregory. "Don't forget. We met at theconcert, and without any introduction! It has nothing to do with Madamevon Marwitz this time. It's quite on our own. "

"Oh, but I would so much rather have it come through her, if we are tobe great friends, " Karen returned, smiling, though reflectively. "Ithink we are to be, for I felt you to be my friend from that firstmoment. But it was at the concert that we met and it was Tante'sconcert. So that it was not quite on our own. I want it to be throughTante, " she went on, "because it pleases me very much to think that wemay be great friends, and my happy things have come to me through Tante, always. "

CHAPTER X

He came next day and every day. They were favoured with the rarely givengift of a perfect spring. They walked along the cliffs and headlands. They sat and talked in the garden. He took her with Mrs. Talcott forlong drives to distant parts of the coast which he and Karen wouldexplore, while Mrs. Talcott in the car sat, with apparently interminablepatience, waiting for them. 

Karen played to him in the morning-room; and this was a new revelationof her. She was not a finished performer and her music was limited byher incapacity; but she had the gift for imparting, with transparentsincerity and unfailing sensitiveness, the very heart of what sheplayed. There were Arias from Schubert Sonatas, and Bach Preludes, andloving little pieces of Schumann, that Gregory thought he had neverheard so beautifully played before. Everything they had to say was said, though, it might be, said very softly. He told her that he cared morefor her music than for any he had listened to, and Karen laughed, not atall taking him seriously. "But you do care for music, though you are nomusician, " she said. "I like to play to you; and to someone who does notcare it is impossible. "

Her acceptances of their bond might give ground for all hope or fornone. As for himself there had been, from the moment of seeing heragain, of knowing in her presence that fear and that delight, no furtherdoubt as to his own state and its finality. Yet his first perplexitieslingered and could at moments become painful. 

He felt the beloved creature to be at once inappropriate and inevitable. With all that was deepest and most instinctive in him her nature chimed;the surfaces, the prejudices, the principles of his life shecontradicted and confused. She talked to him a great deal, in answer tohis questions, about her past life, and what she told him was oftendisconcerting. The protective tenderness he had felt for her from thefirst was troubled by his realisation of the books she had placidlyread--under Tante's guidance--the people whose queer relationships sheplacidly took for granted as in no need of condonation. When heintimated to her that he disapproved of such contacts and customs, shelooked at him, puzzled, and then said, with an air of kindly maturity atonce touching and vexatious: "But that is the morality of thePhilistines. "

It was, of course, and Gregory considered it the very best ofmoralities; but remembering her mother he could not emphasize to her howdecisively he held by it. 

It was in no vulgar or vicious world that her life, as the child of theunconventional sculptor, as the _protégée_ of the great pianist, hadbeen passed. But it was a world without religion, without institutions, without order. Gregory, though his was not the religious temperament, had his reasoned beliefs in the spiritual realities expressed ininstitutions and he had his inherited instincts of reverence for therituals that embodied the spiritual life of his race. He was impatientwith dissent and with facile scepticisms. He did not expect a woman tohave reasoned beliefs, nor did he ask a credulous, uncritical orthodoxy;but he did want the Christian colouring of mind, the Christian outlook;he did want his wife to be a woman who would teach her children to saytheir prayers at her knees. It was with something like dismay that hegathered from Karen that her conception of life was as untouched by anyconsciousness of creed as that of a noble young pagan. He was angry athimself for feeling it and when he found himself applying his rules andmeasures to her; for what had it been from the first but her spiritualstrength and loveliness that had drawn him to her? Yet he longed to makeher accept the implications of the formulated faiths that she lived by. "Oh, no, you're not, " he said to her when, turning unperturbed eyes uponhim, she assured him: "Oh yes, I am quite, quite a pagan. " "I don'tthink you know what you mean when you say you're a pagan, " Gregorycontinued. 

"But, yes, " she returned. "I have no creed. I was brought up to think ofbeauty as the only religion. That is my guardian's religion. It is thereligion, she says, of all free souls. And my father thought so, too. "It was again the assurance of a wisdom, not her own, yet possessed byher, a wisdom that she did not dream of anybody challenging. Was it notTante's?

"Well, " he remarked, "beauty is a large term. Perhaps it includes morethan you think. "

Karen looked at him with approbation. "That is what Tante says; that itincludes everything. " And she went on, pleased to reveal to him stillmore of Tante's treasure, since he had proved himself thusunderstanding; "Tante, you know, belongs to the Catholic Church; it isthe only church of beauty, she says. But she is not _pratiquante_; not_croyante_ in any sense. Art is her refuge. "

"I see, " said Gregory. "And what is your refuge?"

Karen, at this, kept silence for a moment, and then said: "It is notthat; not art. I do not feel, perhaps, that I need refuges. And I amhappier than my dear guardian. I believe in immortality; oh yes, indeed. " She looked round gravely at him--they were sitting on the turfof a headland above the sea. "I believe, that is, in everything that isbeautiful and loving going on for ever. "

He felt abashed before her. The most dependent and child-like ofcreatures where her trust and love were engaged, she was, as well, themost serenely independent. Even Tante, he felt, could not touch herfaiths. 

"You mustn't say that you are a pagan, you see, " he said. 

"But Plato believed in immortality, " Karen returned, smiling. "And youwill not tell me that Plato was _pratiquant_ or _croyant_. "

He could not claim Plato as a member of the Church of England, though hefelt quite ready to demonstrate, before a competent body of listeners, that, as a nineteenth century Englishman, Plato would have been. Karenwas not likely to follow such an argument. She would smile at hisseeming sophistries. 

No; he must accept it, and as a very part of her lovableness, that shecould not be made to fit into the plan of his life as he had imaginedit. She would not carry on its traditions, for she would not understandthem. To win her would be, in a sense, to relinquish something of thatorderly progression as a professional and social creature that he hadmapped out for himself, though he knew himself to be, through hisexperience of her, already a creature more human, a creature enriched. Karen, if she came to love him, would be, through love, infinitelymalleable, but in the many adjustments that would lie before them itwould be his part to foresee complications and to do the adjusting. Change in her would be a gradual growth, and never towards mereconformity. 

He felt it to be the first step towards adjustments when he motoredKaren and Mrs. Talcott to Guillian House to lunch with his friends theLavingtons. The occasion must mark for him the subtle altering of an oldtie. Karen and the Lavingtons could never be to each other what he andthe Lavingtons had been. It was part of her breadth that congenialitycould never for her be based on the half automatic affinities of casteand occupation; and it was part of her narrowness, or, rather, of herinexperience, that she could see people only as individuals and wouldnot recognize the real charm of the Lavingtons, which consisted in theirbeing, like their house and park, part of the landscape and of anestablished order of things. Yet, once he had her there, he watched themetamorphosis that her presence worked in his old associations withpleasure rather than pain. It pleased him, intimately, that theLavingtons should see in him a lover as yet uncertain of his chances. Itpleased him that they should not find in Karen the type that they musthave expected the future Mrs. Jardine to be, the type of ConstanceArmytage and the type of Evelyn Lavington, Colonel and Mrs. Lavington'sunmarried daughter, who, but for Karen, might well have become Mrs. Jardine one day. He observed, with a lover's fond pride, that Karen, inher shrunken white serge and white straw hat, Karen, with her pleasantimperturbability, her mingled simplicity and sophistication, did, mostdecisively, make the Lavingtons seem flavourless. Among them, while Mrs. Lavington walked her round the garden and Evelyn elicited with kindlyconcern that she played neither golf, hockey nor tennis, and had neverridden to hounds, her demeanour was that of a little rustic princessbenignly doing her social duty. The only reason why she did not appearlike this to the Lavingtons was that, immutably unimaginative as theywere, they knew that she wasn't a princess, was, indeed, only the oddappendage of an odd celebrity with whom their friend had chosen, oddly, to fall in love. They weren't perplexed, because, since he had fallen inlove with her, she was placed. But they, in the complete contrast theyoffered, had little recognition of individual values and judged a dishby the platter it was served on. A princess was a princess, and anappendage an appendage, and a future Mrs. Jardine a very recognizableperson; just as, had a subtle _charlotte russe_ been brought up to lunchin company with the stewed rhubarb they would have eaten it withoutcomment and hardly been aware that it wasn't an everyday milk-pudding. 

"Did you and Mrs. Lavington and Evelyn and Mrs. Haverfield find much totalk of after lunch?" Gregory asked, as he motored Mrs. Talcott andKaren back to Les Solitudes. 

"Yes; we talked of a good many things, " said Karen. "But I know about sofew of their things and they about so few of mine. Miss Lavington wasvery much surprised to think that I had never been to a fox-hunt; andI, " Karen smiled, "was very much surprised to think that they had neverheard Tante play. "

"They hardly ever get up to town, you see, " said Gregory. "But surelythey knew about her?"

"Not much, " said Karen. "Mrs. Lavington asked me about her--forsomething pleasant to say--and they were such strange questions; asthough one should be asked whether Mr. Arthur Balfour were a Russiannihilist or Metchnikoff an Italian poet. " Karen spoke quite withoutgrievance or irony. 

"And after your Sargent, " said Gregory, "you must have been pained bythat portrait of Mrs. Haverfield in the drawing-room. "

"Mrs. Lavington pointed it out to me specially, " said Karen, laughing, "and told me that it had been in the Academy. What a sad thing; with allthose eyelashes! And yet opposite to it hung the beautiful Gainsboroughof a great-grandmother. Mrs. Lavington saw no difference, I think. "

"They haven't been trained to see differences, " said Gregory, and hesummed up the Lavingtons in the aphorism to himself as well as to Karen;"only to accept samenesses. " He hoped indeed, by sacrificing theæsthetic quality of the Lavingtons, to win some approbation of theirvirtues; but Karen, though not inclined to proffer unasked criticism, found, evidently, no occasion for commendation. Later on, when they wereback at Les Solitudes and walking in the garden, she returned to thesubject of his friends and said: "I was a little disturbed about Mrs. Talcott; did you notice? no one talked to her at all, hardly. It was asif they thought her my _dame de compagnie_. She isn't my _dame decompagnie_; and if she were, I think that she should have been talkedto. "

Gregory had observed this fact and had hoped that it might have escapedKaren's notice. To the Lavingtons Mrs. Talcott's platter had beenunrecognizable and they had tended to let its contents alone. 

"It's as I said, you know, " he put forward a mitigation; "they've notbeen trained to see differences; she is very different, isn't she?"

"Well, but so am I, " said Karen, "and they talked to me. I don't mean tocomplain of your friends; that would be very rude when they were so niceand kind; and, besides, are your friends. But people's thoughtlessnessdispleases me, not that I am not often very thoughtless myself. "

Gregory was anxious to exonerate himself. "I hope she didn't feel leftout;" he said. "I did notice that she wasn't talking. I found her in thegarden, alone--she seemed to be enjoying that, too--and she and I wentabout for quite a long time together. "

"I know you did, " said Karen. "You are not thoughtless. As for her, onenever knows what she feels. I don't think that she does feel things ofthat sort at all; she has been used to it all her life, one may say; butthere's very little she doesn't notice and understand. Sheunderstands--oh, perfectly well--that she is a queer old piece offurniture standing in the background, and one has to remember not totreat her like a piece of furniture. It's a part of grace and tact, isn't it, not to take such obvious things for granted. You didn't takethem for granted with her, or with me, " said Karen, smiling herrecognition at him. "For, of course, to most people I am furniture, too;and if Tante is about, there is, of course, nothing to blame in that;everybody becomes furniture when Tante is there. "

"Oh no; I can't agree to that, " said Gregory. "Not everybody. "

"You know what I mean, " Karen rejoined. "If you will not agree to it forme, it is because from the first you felt me to be your friend; that isdifferent. " They were walking in the flagged garden where the bluecampanulas were now safely established in their places and the lowafternoon sun slanted in among the trees. Karen still wore her hat andmotoring veil and the smoky grey substance flowed softly back about hershoulders. Her face seemed to emerge from a cloud. It had always toGregory's eyes the air of steadfast advance; the way in which her hairswept back and up from her brows gave it a wind-blown, lifted look. Heglanced at her now from time to time, while, in a meditative andcommunicative mood, she continued to share her reflections with him. Gregory was very happy. 

"Even Tante doesn't always remember enough about Mrs. Talcott, " she wenton. "That is of course because Mrs. Talcott is so much a part of herlife that she sometimes hardly sees her. She _is_, for her, the dear oldrestful chair that she sinks back into and forgets about. Besides, somepeople have a right not to see things. One doesn't ask from giants thesame sort of perception that one does from pygmies. "

This was indeed hard on the Lavingtons; but Gregory was not thinking ofthe Lavingtons, who could take care of themselves. He was wondering, ashe more and more wondered, about Madame von Marwitz, and what she sawand what she permitted herself not to see. 

"You aren't invisible to her sometimes?" he inquired. 

Her innocence before his ironies made him ashamed always of havingspoken them. "It is just that that makes me feel sometimes so badlyabout Mrs. Talcott, " she answered now; "just because she is, in a sense, sometimes invisible, and I'm not. Mrs. Talcott, of course, counts for agreat deal more in the way of comfort and confidence than I do; I don'tbelieve that Tante really is as intimate with anybody in the world aswith Mrs. Talcott; but she doesn't count as much as I do, I am nearlysure, in the way of tenderness. I really think that in the way oftenderness I am nearer than anybody. "

They left the flagged garden now, and came down to a lower terrace. Herethe sun shone fully; they walked to and fro in the radiance. "Ofcourse, " Karen continued to define and confide, "as far as interest goesany one of her real friends counts for more than I do, and you mustn'tthink that I mean to say that I believe myself the most loved; not atall. But I am the tender, home thing in her life; the thing to pet andcare for and find waiting. It is that that is so beautiful for me and sotragic for her. "

"Why tragic?"

"Oh, but you do not feel it? A woman like that, such a heart, and such aspirit--and no one nearer than I am? That she should have no husband andno child? I am a makeshift for all that she has lost, or never had. "

"And Mrs. Talcott?" said Gregory after a moment. "Is it Mrs. Talcott'stragedy to have missed even a makeshift?"

Karen now turned her eyes on him, and her face, as she scrutinized him, showed a slight severity. "Hardly that. She has Tante. "

"Has her as the chair has her, you mean?" He couldn't for the life ofhim control the question. It seemed indeed due to their friendship thathe should not conceal from her the fact that he found disproportionateelements in her devotion. Yet it was not the right way in which to befrank, and Karen showed him so in her reply. "I mean that Tante iseverything to her and that, in the nature of things, she cannot be somuch to Tante. You mustn't take quite literally what I said of thechair, you know. It can hardly be a makeshift to have somebody likeTante to love and care for. I don't quite know what you mean by speakinglike that, " Karen said. Her gaze, in meeting his, had become almoststern. She seemed to scan him from a distance. 

Gregory, though he felt a pang of disquietude, felt no disposition toretreat. He intended that she should be made to understand what hemeant. "I think that what it comes to is that it is you I am thinkingof, rather than of Mrs. Talcott, " he said. "I don't know your guardian, and I do know you, and it is what she gets rather than what she givesthat is most apparent to me. "

"Gets? From me? What may that be?" Karen continued to return his gazealmost with haughtiness. 

"The most precious thing I can imagine, " said Gregory. "Your love. Ihope that she is properly grateful for it. "

She looked at him and the slow colour mounted to her cheeks; but it wasas if in unconscious response to his feeling; it hardly, even yet, signified self-consciousness. She had stood still in asking her lastquestion and she still did not move as she said: "I do not like to hearyou speak so. It shows me that you understand nothing. "

"Does it? I want to understand everything. "

"You care for me, " said Karen, standing still, her eyes on his, "and Icare for you; but what I most wish in such a friend is that he shouldsee and understand. May I tell you something? Will you wait while Itell you about my life?"

"Please tell me. "

"I want you to see and understand Tante, " said Karen. "And how much Ilove her; and why. "

They walked on, from the terrace to the cliff-path. Karen stopped whenthey had gone a little way and leaned her elbows on the stone walllooking out at the sea. "She has been everything to me, " she said. "Everything. "

He was aware, as he leaned beside her in the mellow evening light, of agreat uneasiness mingling with the beautiful gravity of the moment. Shewas near him as she had never yet been near. She had almost recognizedhis love. It was there between them, and it was as if, not turning fromit, she yet pointed to something beyond and above it, something that itwas his deep instinct to evade and hers to show him. He must not take astep towards her, she seemed to tell him, until he had proved to herthat he had seen what she did. And nothing she could say would, he feltsure of it, alter his fundamental distrust of Madame von Marwitz. 

"I want to tell you about my life, " said Karen, looking out at the seafrom between her hands. "You have heard my story, of course; people arealways told it; but you have never heard it from my side. You have heardno doubt about my father and mother, and how she left the man she didnot love for him. My mother died when I was quite little; so, though Iremember her well she does not come into the part of my story that Iwant to tell you. But I was thirteen years old when my father died, andthat begins the part that leads to Tante. It was in Rome, in winter whenhe died; and I was alone with him; and there was no money, and I hadmore to bear than a child's mind and heart should have. He died. Andthen there were dreadful days. Cold, coarse people came and took me andput me in a convent in Paris. That convent was like hell to me. I was somiserable. And I had never known restraint or unkindness, and the Frenchgirls, so sly and so small in their thoughts, were hateful to me. And Idid not like the nuns. I was punished and punished--rightly no doubt. Iwas fierce and sullen, I remember, and would not obey. Then I heard, bychance, from a girl whose family had been to her concert in Paris, thatMadame Okraska was with her husband at Fontainebleau. Of her I knewnothing but the lovely face in the shop-windows. But her husband's namebrought back distant days to me. He had known my father; I rememberedhim--the fair, large, kindly smiling, very sad man--in my father'sstudio among the clay and marble. He bought once a little head my fatherhad done of me when I was a child. So I ran away from the convent--oh, it was very bad; I knocked down a nun and escaped the portress, and hidfor a long time in the streets. And I made my way through Paris andwalked for a day and night to Fontainebleau; and there in the forest, inthe evening, I was lost, and almost dead with hunger and fatigue. And asI stood by the road I saw the carriage approaching from very far awayand saw sitting in it, as it came nearer, the beautiful woman. Shall Iever forget it? The dark forest and the evening sky above and her facelooking at me--looking, looking, full of pity and wonder. She has toldme that I was the most unhappy thing that she had ever seen. My father'sfriend was with her; but though I saw him and knew that I was safe, Ihad eyes only for her. Her face was like heaven opening. When thecarriage stopped and she leaned to me, I sprang to her and she put herarms around me. They have been round me ever since, " said Karen, joiningher fingers over her eyes and leaning her forehead upon them so that herface was hidden; and for a moment she did not speak. "Ever since, " shewent on presently, "she has been joy and splendour and beauty. What shehas given me is nothing. It is what she is herself that lifts the livesof other people. Those who do not know her seem to me to have lives sosad and colourless compared to mine. You cannot imagine it, anyone sogreat, yet at the same time so little and so sweet. She is merry like noone else, and witty, and full of cajoleries, like a child. One cannot bedull with her, not for one moment. And there is through it all hergenius, the great flood of wonderful music; can you think what it islike to live with that? And under-lying everything is the greatirremediable sorrow. I was with her when it came; the terrible thing. Idid not live with them while he was alive, you know, my Onkel Ernst; hewas so good and kind--always the kindest of friends to me; but he lovedher too deeply to be able to share their life, and how well oneunderstands that in her husband. He had me put at a school in Dresden. Idid not like that much, either. But, even if I were lonely, I knew thatmy wonderful friends--my Tante and my Onkel--were there, like the sunbehind the grey day, and I tried to study and be dutiful to please them. And in my holidays I was always with them, twice it was, at theirbeautiful estate in Germany. And it was there that the horror came thatwrecked her life; her husband's death, his death that cannot beexplained or understood. He drowned himself. We never say it, but weknow it. That is the fear, the mystery. All his joy with her, his loveand happiness--to leave them;--it was madness; he had always been a sadman; one saw that in his face; the doctors said it was madness. Hedisappeared without a word one day. For three weeks--nothing. Tante waslike a creature crying out on the rack. And it was I who found him bythe lake-edge one morning. She was walking in the park, I knew; she usedto walk and walk fast, fast, quite silent; and with horrible fear Ithought: If I can keep her from seeing. I turned--and she was beside me. I could not save her. Ah--poor woman!" Karen closed her hands over herface. 

They stood for a long time in silence, Gregory leaning beside her andlooking down at the sea. His thought was not with the stricken figureshe put before him; it dwelt on the girl facing horror, on the childbearing more than a child should bear. Yet he was glad to feel, as abackground to his thoughts, that Madame von Marwitz was indeed verypitiful. 

"You understand, " said Karen, straightening herself at last and layingher hands on the wall. "You see how it is. "

"Yes, " said Gregory. 

"It is kind of you, and beautiful, to feel me, as your friend, a personof value, " said Karen. "But it does not please me to have the great factof my life belittled. "

"I haven't meant to do that, really. I see why it means so much, to you. But I see you before I see the facts of your life; they interest mebecause of you, " said Gregory. "You come first to me. It's that I wantyou to understand. "

Karen had at last turned her eyes upon his and they met them in a longencounter that recalled to Gregory their first. It was not the momentfor explicit recognitions or avowals; the shadow of the past lay toodarkly upon her. But that their relation had changed her deepened gazeaccepted. She took his hand, she had a fashion almost boyish of takinghis rather than giving her hand, and said: "We shall both understandmore and more; that is so, is it not? And some day you will know her. Until you know her you cannot really understand. "

CHAPTER XI

Karen and he had walked back to the house in silence, and at the door, where she stood to see him off, it had been arranged that he was tolunch at Les Solitudes next day and that she was to show him a favouriteheadland, one not far away, but that he had never yet been shown. Fromthe sweetness, yet gravity, of her look and voice he could infer nothingbut that she recognized change and a new significance. Her manner hadneither the confusion nor the pretended unconsciousness of ordinarygirlhood. She was calm, but with a new thoughtfulness. He arrived alittle early next day and found Mrs. Talcott alone in the morning-roomwriting letters. He noticed, as she rose from the bureau, her large, immature, considered writing. "Karen'll be down in a minute or two, Iguess, " she said. "Take a chair. "

"Don't let me interrupt you, " said Gregory, as Mrs. Talcott seatedherself before him, her hands folded at her waist. But Mrs. Talcott, remarking briefly, "Don't mention it, " did not move back to her formerplace. She examined him and he examined her and he felt that she probedthrough his composure to his unrest. "I wanted a little talk, " sheobserved presently. "You've gotten pretty fond of Karen, haven't you, Mr. Jardine?"

This was to come at once to the point. "Very fond, " said Gregory, wondering if she had been diagnosing his fondness in a letter to Madamevon Marwitz. 

"She hasn't got many friends, " Mrs. Talcott, after another moment ofcontemplation, went on. "She's always been a lonesome sort of child. "

"That's what has struck me, too, " said Gregory. 

"Sometimes Mercedes takes her along; but sometimes she don't, " Mrs. Talcott pursued. "It ain't a particularly lively sort of life for ayoung girl, going on in an out-of-the-way place like this with an oldwoman like me. She's spent most of her time with me, when you come toreckon it up. " There was no air of criticism or confidence in Mrs. Talcott. She put forward these remarks with unbiassed placidity. 

"I suppose Madame von Marwitz couldn't arrange always to take her?"Gregory asked after a pause. 

"It ain't always convenient toting a young girl round with you, " saidMrs. Talcott. "Sometimes Mercedes feels like it and sometimes she don't. Karen and I stay at home, now that I'm too old to go about with her, andwe see her when she's home. That's the idea. But she ain't much at home. She's mostly travelling and staying around with folks. "

"It isn't a particularly lively time, it seems to me, for either ofyou, " said Gregory. It was his instinct to blame Madame von Marwitz forthe featureless lives led by her dependents, though he could but ownthat it might, perhaps, be difficult to fit them into the vagabondage ofa great pianist's existence. 

"Well, it's good enough for me, " said Mrs. Talcott. "I'm very contentedif it comes to that; and so is Karen. She's known so much that's worse, the same as I have. But she's known what's better, too; she was a prettybig girl when her Poppa died and she was a companion to him and I reckonthat without figuring it up much to herself she's lonesome a good deal. "

Gregory for a moment was silent. Then he found it quite natural to sayto Mrs. Talcott: "What I hope is that she will marry me. "

"I hope so, too, " said Mrs. Talcott with no alteration of tone. "I hopedso the moment I set eyes on you. I saw that you were a good young manand that you'd make her a good kind husband. "

"Thanks, very much, " said Gregory, smiling yet deeply touched. "I hope Imay be. I intend to be if she will have me. "

"The child is mighty fond of you, " said Mrs. Talcott. "And it's not asif she took easy to people. She don't. She's never seemed to need folks. But I can see that she's mighty fond of you, and what I want to say is, even if it don't seem to work out like you want it to right away, youhang on, Mr. Jardine; that's my advice; an old woman like me understandsyoung girls better than they understand themselves. Karen is so wrappedup in Mercedes and thinks such a sight of her that perhaps she'll feelshe don't want to leave her and that sort of thing; but just you hangon. "

"I intend to, " said Gregory. "I can't say how much I thank you for beingon my side. "

"Yes; I'm on your side, and I'm on Karen's side; and I want to see thisthing put through, " said Mrs. Talcott. 

Something seemed to hover between them now, a fourth figure that must beadded to the trio they made. He wondered, if he did hang on successfullyand if it did work out as he intended that it should, how that fourthfigure would work in. He couldn't see a shared life with Karen fromwhich it could be eliminated, nor did he, of course, wish to see iteliminated; but he did not see himself, either, as forming one of a bandof satellites, and the main fact about the fourth figure seemed to bethat any relation to it involved one, apparently, in discipleship. Thereseemed even some disloyalty to Mrs. Talcott in accepting her sympathywhile anxieties and repudiations such as these were passing through hismind; for she, no doubt, saw in Karen's relation to Madame von Marwitzthe chief asset with which she could present a husband; and he expectedMrs. Talcott, now, to make some reference to this asset; but none came;and if she expected from him some recognition of it, no expectancy wasvisible in the old blue eyes fixed on his face. A silence fell betweenthem, and as it grew longer it grew the more consoling. Into theircompact of understanding she let him see, he could almost fancy, thatthe question of Madame von Marwitz was not to enter. 

Karen, when she appeared, was looking preoccupied, and after shaking hishand and giving him, for a moment, the sweet, grave smile with whichthey had parted, she glanced at the writing-table. "You are writing toTante, Mrs. Talcott?" she said. "You heard from her this morning?"

"Yes; I heard from her, " said Mrs. Talcott. Gregory at once inferredthat Madame von Marwitz had been writing for information concerninghimself. 

She must by now have become aware of his correspondence with Karen andits significant continuity. 

"Are there any messages?--any news?" asked Karen, and she could not keepdejection from her voice. She had had no letter. 

"It's only a business note, " said Mrs. Talcott. "Hasn't Miss Scrottonwritten?"

"Does my cousin keep you posted as a rule?" Gregory asked, as Karenshook her head. 

"No; but Tante asks her to write sometimes, when she is too tired orrushed; and I had a letter from her, giving me their plans, only a fewdays ago; so that I know that all is well. It is only that I am alwaysgreedy for Tante's letters, and this is the day on which they oftencome. "

They went in to lunch. Karen spoke little during the meal. Gregory andMrs. Talcott carried on a desultory conversation about hotels and thedifferent merits of different countries in this respect. Mrs. Talcotthad a vast experience of hotels. From Germany to Australia, from NewYork to St. Petersburg, they were known to her. 

After lunch he and Karen started on their walk. It had been a morning ofwhite fog and the mist still lay thickly over the sea, so that from thehigh cliff-path, a clear, pale sky above them, they looked down intomilky gulfs of space. Then, as the sun shone softly and a gentle breezearose, a rift of dark, still blue appeared below, as the sky appearsbehind dissolving clouds, and fold upon fold, slumbrously, the mistrolled back upon itself. The sea lay like a floor of polished sapphirebeneath the thick, soft webs. Far below, in a cavern, the sound oflapping water clucked, and a sea-gull, indolently intent, drifted byslowly on dazzling wings. 

Karen and Gregory reached their headland and, seating themselves on theshort, warm turf, looked out over the sea. During the walk they hadhardly spoken, and he had wondered whether her thoughts were with himand with their last words yesterday, or dwelling still on herdisappointment. But presently, as if her preoccupation had drifted fromher as the fog had drifted from the sea, Karen turned tranquil eyes uponhim and said: "I suddenly thought, and the stillness made me think it, and Mrs. Talcott's hotels, too, perhaps, of all that is going on in theworld while we sit here so lonely and so peaceful. Frenchmen with fatcheeks and flat-brimmed silk hats sitting at little tin tables inboulevards; isn't it difficult to realize that they exist? and Arabs oncamels crossing deserts; they are quite imaginable; and nuns praying inconvent cells; and stokers, all stripped and sweating, under the enginesof great steamers; and a little Japanese artist carving so carefully thesoles of the feet of some tiny image; there they are, all going on; asreal to themselves as we are, at the very moment that we sit here andfeel that only we, in all the world, are real. " She might almost havebeen confiding her fancies to a husband whose sympathy had been testedby years of fond companionship. 

Gregory, wondering at her, loving her, pulled at the short turf as helay, propped on an elbow, beside her, and said: "What nice thoughts youhave. "

"You have them, too, I think, " said Karen, smiling down at him. "Andnicer ones. Mine are usually only amusing, like those; but yours areoften beautiful. I see that in your face, you know. It is a face thatmakes me think always of a cold, clear, steely pool;--that is what itlooks like if one does not look down into it but only across it, as itwere; but if one bends over and looks down, deep down, one sees the skyand passing white clouds and boughs of trees. I saw deep down at once. That is why, " her eyes rested upon him, "we were friends from thefirst. "

"It's what you bring that you see, " said Gregory; "you make me think ofall those things. "

"Ah, but you think them for yourself, too; when you are alone you thinkthem. "

"But when I am alone and think them, without you in the thought of them, it's always with sadness, for something I've lost. You bring them back, with happiness. The thought of you is always happy. I have never knownanyone who seemed to me so peacefully happy as you do. You are veryhappy, aren't you?" Gregory looked down at his little tufts of turf ashe asked this question. 

"I am glad I seem to you like that, " said Karen. "I think I am usuallyquiet and gay and full of confidence; I sometimes wonder at myconfidence. But it is not always so. No, I am not always happy. Sometimes, when I think and remember, it is like feeling a great holebeing dug in my heart--as if the iron went down and turned up darkforgotten things. I have that feeling sometimes; and then I wonder thatI can ever be happy. "

"What things, dear Karen?"

"You know, I think. " Karen looked out at the sea. "Tante's face when Ifound her husband's body. And my father's face when he was dying; he didnot know what was to become of me; he was quite weak, like a littlechild, and he cried on my breast. And my mother's face when she died. Ihave not told you anything of my mother. "

"Will you? I want to hear everything about you; everything, " saidGregory. 

"This is her locket, " Karen said, putting her hand over it. "Her face isin it; would you like to see it?"

He held out his hand, and slipping the ribbon over her head she pressedthe little spring and laid the open locket in it. 

He saw the tinted photograph of a young girl's head, a girl younger thanKaren and with her fair hair and straight brows and square chin; but itwas a gentler face and a clumsier, and strange with its aliennationality. 

"I always feel as if she were my child and I her mother when I look atthat, " said Karen. "It was taken before I was born. She had a happylife, and yet my memory of her breaks my heart. She was so very youngand it frightened her so much to die; she could not bear to leave us. "

Gregory, holding the little locket, looked at it silently. Then he putit to his lips. "You care for me, don't you, Karen?" he said. 

"You know, I think, " said Karen, repeating her former words. 

He laid the locket in her hand, and the moment had for him a sacramentalholiness so that the locket was like a wedding-ring; holding it and herhand together he said, lifting his eyes to hers, "I love you. Do youlove me?"

Her eyes had filled with tears when he had kissed her mother's face, andthere was young awe in her gaze; but no shadow, no surprise. 

"Yes, " she said, unhesitatingly. "Yes, I love you, dear Gregory. "

The simplicity, the inevitableness of his bliss overwhelmed him. He heldher hand and looked down at it. All about them was the blue. All herpast, its beauty, its dark, forgotten things, she had given to him. Shewas his for ever. "Oh, my darling Karen, " he murmured. 

She bent down to look at him now, smiling and unclosing her hand fromhis gently, so that she could look at her mother's face. "How glad shewould be if she could know, " she said. "Perhaps she does know. Do younot think so?"

"Dear--I don't know what I think about those hopes. I hope. "

"Oh, it is more than hope, my belief that she is there; that she is notlost. Only one cannot tell how or when or where it all may be. For that, yes, it can be only hope. She, too, would love you, I am sure, " Karencontinued. 

"Would she? I'm glad you think so, darling. "

"We are so much alike, you see, that it is natural to feel sure that weshould think alike. Do you not think that her face is much like mine?What happiness! I am glad it is not a day of rain for our happiness. "And she then added, "I hope we may be married. "

"Why, we are to be married, dear child, " Gregory said, smiling at her. "There is no 'may' about it, since you love me. "

"Only one, " said Karen, who still looked at her mother's face. "Andperhaps it will be well not to speak much of our love till we can know. But I feel sure that she will say this happiness is for me. "

"She?" Gregory repeated. For a moment he imagined that she meant somesuperstition connected with her mother. 

Karen, slipping the ribbon over her head, had returned the locket to itsplace. "Yes; Tante, " she said, still with the locket in her hand. 

"Tante?" Gregory repeated. 

At his tone, its change, she lifted startled eyes to his. 

"What has she to do with it?" Gregory asked after a moment in which shecontinued to gaze at him. 

"What has Tante to do with it?" said Karen in a wondering voice. "Do youthink I could marry without Tante's consent?"

"But you love me?"

"I do not understand you. Was it wrong of me to have said so before Ihad her consent? Was that not right? Not fair to you?"

"Since you love me you ought to be willing to marry me whether you haveyour guardian's consent or not. " His voice strove to control itsbitterness; but the day had darkened; all his happiness was blurred. Hefelt as if a great injury had been done him. 

Karen continued to gaze at him in astonishment. "Would you have expectedme to marry you without my mother's consent? She is in my mother'splace. "

"If you loved me I should certainly expect you to say that you wouldmarry me whether your mother consented or not. You are of age. There isnothing against me. Those aren't English ideas at all, Karen. "

"But I am not English, " said Karen, "my guardian is not English. Theyare our ideas. "

"You mean, you seriously mean, that, loving me, you would give me up ifshe told you to?"

"Yes, " said Karen, now with the heaviness of their recognized division. "She would not refuse her consent unless it were right that I shouldgive you up. "

For some moments after this Gregory, in silence, looked down at thegrass between them, clasping his knees; for he now sat upright. Then, controlling his anger to argumentative rationality, he said, while againwrenching away at the strongly rooted tufts: "If she did refuse, whatreason could she give for refusing? As I say, there's absolutely nothingagainst me. "

Karen had kept her troubled eyes on his downcast face. "There might bethings she did not like; things she would not believe for my happinessin married life, " she replied. 

"And you would take her word against mine?"

"You forget, I think, " he had lifted his eyes to hers and she lookedback at him, steadily, with no entreaty, but with all the perplexity ofher deep pain. "She has known me for eleven years. I have only known youfor three months. "

He could not now control the bitterness or the dismay; for, coldly, cuttingly he knew it, it was quite possible that Madame von Marwitzwould not "like things" in him. Their one encounter had not been of anature to endear him to her. "It simply means, " he said, looking intoher eyes, "that you haven't any conception of what love is. It meansthat you don't love me. "

They looked at each other for a moment and then Karen said, "That ishard. " And after another moment she rose to her feet. Gregory got up andthey went down the cliff-path towards Les Solitudes. 

He had not spoken recklessly. His words expressed his sense of herremoteness. He could not imagine what sort of love it was that could socomposedly be put aside. And making no feminine appeal or protest, shewalked steadily, in silence, before him. Only at a turning of the waydid he see that her lips were compressed and tears upon her cheeks. 

"Karen, " he said, looking into her face as he now walked beside her;"won't you talk it over? You astonish me so unspeakably. Can she destroyour friendship, too? Would you give me up as a friend if she didn't likethings in me?"

The tears expressed no yielding, for she answered "Yes. "

"And how far do you push submission? If she told you to marry someoneshe chose for you, would you consent, whether you loved him or not?"

"It is not submission, " said Karen. "It is our love, hers and mine. Shewould not wish me to marry a man I did not love. The contrary is true. My guardian before she went away spoke to me of a young man she hadchosen for me, someone for whom she had the highest regard andaffection; and I, too, am very fond of him. She felt that it would befor my happiness to marry him, and she hoped that I would consent. But Idid not love him. I told her that I could never love him; and so itended immediately. You do her injustice in your thoughts of her; and youdo me injustice, too, if you think of me as a person who would marrywhere I did not love. "

He walked beside her, bitterly revolving the sorry comfort of this lastspeech. "Who was the young man?" he asked. Not that he really cared toknow. 

"His name is Herr Franz Lippheim, " said Karen, gravely. "He is a youngmusician. "

"Herr Franz Lippheim, " Gregory repeated, with an irritation glad towreak itself on this sudden object presented opportunely. "How could youhave been imagined as marrying someone called Lippheim?"

"Why not, pray?"

"Is he a German Jew?" Gregory inquired after a moment. 

"He is, indeed, of Joachim's nationality, " Karen answered, in a voicefrom which the tears were gone. 

They walked on, side by side, the estrangement cutting deep betweentheir new-won nearness. Yet in the estrangement was an intimacy deeperthan that of the merely blissful state. They seemed in the lastmiserable half hour to have advanced by years their knowledge of eachother. Mrs. Talcott and tea were waiting for them in the morning-room. The old woman fixed her eyes upon each face in turn and then gave herattention to her tea-pot. 

"I am sorry, Mrs. Talcott, that we are so late, " Karen said. Hercomposure was kept only by an effort that gave to her tones a statelyconventionality. 

"Don't mention it, " said Mrs. Talcott. "I'm only just in myself. "

"Has it not been a beautiful afternoon?" Karen continued. "What have youbeen doing in the garden, Mrs. Talcott?"

"I sowed a big bed of mignonette down by the arbour, and Mitchell and Iset out a good lot of plants. "

Mrs. Talcott made her replies to the questions that Karen continued toask, in an even voice in which Gregory, who kept his dismal eyes uponher, detected a melancholy patience. Mrs. Talcott must perceive hisstate to be already one of "hanging on. " Of her sympathy he was, at allevents, assured. She showed it by rising as soon as he and Karen haddrunk their tea. "I've got some more things to do, " she said. "Good-bye, Mr. Jardine. Are you coming over to-morrow?"

"No, " said Gregory taking Mrs. Talcott's hand. "My holiday is over. Ishall be going back to town to-morrow. "

Mrs. Talcott looked into his eyes. "Well, that's too bad, " she observed. 

"Isn't it? I'd far rather stay here, I can assure you, " said Gregory. 

"We'll miss you, I guess, " said Mrs. Talcott. "I'm very glad to have hadthe pleasure of making your acquaintance. "

"And I of making yours. "

Mrs. Talcott departed and Gregory turned to Karen. She was standing nearthe window, looking at him. 

"We must say good-bye, too, I suppose, " said Gregory, mastering hisgrief. "You will give me your guardian's address so that I can write toher at once?"

Her face had worn the aspect of a grey, passive sheet of water; aradiant pallor now seemed struck from its dulled surface. 

"You are going to write to Tante?" she said. 

"Isn't that the next step?" Gregory asked. "You will write, too, won'tyou? Or is it part of my ordeal that I'm to plead my cause alone?"

Karen had clasped her hands together on her breast and, in the eyesfixed on his, tears gathered. "Do not speak harshly, " she said. "I am sosorry there must be the ordeal. But so happy, too--so suddenly. BecauseI believed that you were going to leave me since you thought me so wrongand so unloving. "

"Going to leave you, Karen?" Gregory repeated in amazement. Desperateamusement struggled in his face with self-reproach. "My darling child, what must you think of me? And, actually, you'd have let me go?" He hadcome to her and taken her hands in his. 

"What else could I do?"

"Such an idiot would have deserved it? Could you believe me such anidiot? Darling, you so astonish me. What a strange, indomitable creatureyou are. "

"What else could I do, Gregory?" she repeated, looking into his face andnot smiling in answer to his smiling, frowning gaze. 

"Love me more; that's what you could have done--a great deal more, " saidGregory. "That's what you must do, Karen. I can't bear to think that youwouldn't marry me without her consent. I can't bear to think that youdon't love me enough. But leave you because you don't love me as much asI want you to love me! My darling, how little you understand. "

"You seemed very angry, " said Karen. "I was so unhappy. I don't know howI should have borne it if you had gone away and left me like this. Butlove should not make one weak, Gregory. There you are wrong, to think itis because I do not love you. "

"Ah, you'll find out if I'm wrong!" Gregory exclaimed with tenderconviction. "You'll find out how much more you are to love me. Oh, yes, I will kiss you good-bye, Karen. I don't care if all the Tantes in theworld forbid it!"

In thinking afterwards of these last moments that they had had together, the discomfitures and dismays of the afternoon tended to resolvethemselves for Gregory into the memory of the final yielding. She hadlet him take her into his arms, and with the joy was the added sweetnessof knowing that in permitting and reciprocating his unauthorized kissshe sacrificed some principles, at all events, for his sake. 

CHAPTER XII

Madame von Marwitz was sitting on the great terrace of a country-housein Massachusetts, opening and reading her post, as we have already seenher do. Impatient and weary as the occupation often made her, she yetdepended upon the morning waves of adulation that lapped in upon herfrom every quarter of the earth. To miss the fullness of the tide gaveher, when by chance there was deficiency, the feeling that badly made_café au lait_ gave her at the beginning of the day; something waswrong; the expected stimulant lacked in force or in flavour, and coffeethat was not strong and sweet and aromatic was a mishap so unusual that, when it occurred, it became an offence almost gross and unnatural, asdid a post that brought few letters of homage and appreciation. To-daythe mental coffee was as strong and as perfumed as that of which she hadshortly before partaken in her lovely little _Louis Quinze_ boudoir, after she had come in from her bath. The bath-room was like that of aRoman Empress, all white marble, with a square of emerald water intowhich one descended down shallow marble steps. Madame von Marwitz wasamused by the complexities of luxury among which she found herself, someof which, even to her, were novel. "_Eh, eh, ma chère_, " she had said toMiss Scrotton, "beautiful if you will, and very beautiful; but its nailsare too much polished, its hair too much _ondulé_. I prefer a porcelainto a marble bath-tub. " But the ingenuities of hospitality which theAspreys--earnest and accomplished millionaires--lavished upon theirguests made one, she owned, balmily comfortable. And as she sat now inher soft white draperies under a great silken sunshade, raised on astand above her and looking in the sunlight like a silver bell, thebeauty of her surroundings--the splendid Italian gardens, a miracle ofachievement even if lacking, as the miraculous may, an obvious relationwith its surroundings; the landscape with its inlaid lake and wood andhill and great arch of bluest sky; the tall, transparent, Turneresquetrees in the middle distance;--all this stately serenity seemed to havewrought in her an answering suavity and gladness. There was almost alatent gaiety in her glance, as, with her large, white, securely movinghands, which seemed to express their potential genius in every deft anddelicate gesture, she took up and cut open and unfolded her letters, pausing between them now and then to tweak off and eat a grape as largeas a plum from the bunch lying on its leaves in a Veronese-like silverplatter beside her. 

This suavity, this gladness and even gaiety of demeanour were apparentto Miss Eleanor Scrotton when she presently emerged from the house andadvanced slowly along the terrace, pausing at intervals beside itsbalustrade to gaze with a somewhat melancholy eye over the prospect. 

Miss Scrotton was struggling with a half formulated sense of grievance. It was she who had brought Madame von Marwitz and the Aspreys together. Madame von Marwitz already knew, of course, most of the people inAmerica who were worth knowing; if she hadn't met them there she had metthem in Europe; but the Aspreys she had, till then, never met, and theyhad been, indisputably, Miss Scrotton's possession. Miss Scrotton hadknown them slightly for several years; her father and Mr. Asprey hadcorresponded on some sociological theme and the Aspreys had called onhim in London in a mood of proper deference and awe. She had written tothe Aspreys before sailing with Mercedes, had found that they werewintering in Egypt, but would be back in America in Spring, ready toreceive Madame von Marwitz and herself with open arms; and within thosearms she had, a week ago, placed her treasure. No doubt someone elsewould have done it if she hadn't; and perhaps she had been too eager inher determination that no one else should do it. Perhaps she wasaltogether a little too eager. Madame von Marwitz liked people to carefor her and showed a pretty gratitude for pains endured on her behalf;at least she usually did so; but it may well have been that the greatwoman, at once vaguely aloof and ironically observant, had become alittle irked, or bored, or merely amused at hearing so continually, asit were, her good Scrotton panting beside her, tense, determined andwatchful of opportunity. However that may have been, Miss Scrotton, asMadame von Marwitz's glance now lifted and rested upon herself, detectedthe sharper gaiety defined by the French as "_malice_, " lighting, thoughever so mildly, her friend's eyes and lips. Like most devotees MissScrotton had something of the valet in her composition, and with thevalet's capacity for obsequiousness went a valet-like shrewdness ofperception. She hadn't spent four months travelling about America withMadame von Marwitz without seeing her in undress. She had long sincebecome uncomfortably aware that when Madame von Marwitz found one alittle ridiculous she could be unkind, and that when one addedplaintiveness to folly she often amused herself by giving one, to speakmetaphorically, soft yet sharp little pinches that left one nervouslyuncertain of whether a caress or an aggression had been intended. 

Miss Scrotton was plaintive, and she could not conceal it. Glory as shemight in the _rôle_ of second fiddle, she was very tenaciously aware ofwhat was due to that subservient but by no means insignificantperformer; and the Aspreys had not shown themselves enough aware, Mercedes had not shown herself aware at all, of what they all owed toher sustaining, discreet and harmonious accompaniment. In the carefullyselected party assembled at Belle Vue for Madame von Marwitz'sdelectation, she had been made a little to feel that she was but one ofthe indistinguishable orchestra that plucked out from accommodatingstrings a mellow bass to the one thrilling solo. Not for one moment didshe grudge any of the recognitions that were her great friend's due; butshe did expect to bask beside her; she did expect to find transmitted toher an important satellite's share of beams; and, it wasn't to bedenied, Mercedes had been too much occupied with other people--and withone other in particular--to shine upon her in any distinguishing degree. Mercedes had the faculty, chafe against it as one might--and her veryfondness, her very familiarity were a part of the effect--of making oneshow as an unimportant satellite, as something that would revolve whenwanted and be contentedly invisible when that was fitting. "I mightalmost as well be a paid _dame de compagnie_, " Miss Scrotton had morethan once murmured to herself with a lip that trembled; and, obscurely, she realised that close association with the great might reveal one asinsignificant rather than as glorified. It was therefore with her air ofmelancholy that she paused in her advance along the terrace to gaze outat the prospect, and with an air of emphasized calm and dignity that shefinally came towards her friend; and, as she came, thus armed, theblitheness deepened in the great woman's eyes. 

"Well, _ma chèrie_, " she remarked, "How goes it?" She spoke in French. 

"Very well, _ma bien aimée_, " Miss Scrotton replied in the samelanguage. Her French was correct, but Mercedes often made playfulsallies at the expense of her accent. She preferred not to talk inFrench. And when Madame von Marwitz went on to ask her where her fellow_convives_ were, it was in English that she answered, "I don't knowwhere they all are--I have been busy writing letters; Mrs. Asprey andLady Rose are driving, I know, and Mr. Asprey and Mr. Drew I saw in thesmoking-room as I passed. The Marquis I don't think is down yet, norMrs. Furnivall; the young people are playing tennis, I suppose. "

Miss Scrotton looked about the terrace with its rhythmic tubs offlowering trees, its groups of chairs, its white silk parasols, and thenwandered to the parapet to turn and glance up at the splendid copy of anItalian villa that rose above it. "It is really very beautiful, Mercedes, " she observed. "It becomes the more significant from being soisolated, so divorced from what we are accustomed to find in Europe as asetting for such a place, doesn't it? Just as, I always think, thepeople of the Asprey type, the best this country has to offer, are moresignificant, too, for being picked out from so much that isindistinguishable. I do flatter myself, darling, that in this visit, atleast, I've been able to offer you something really worth your while, something that adds to your experience of people and places. You _are_enjoying yourself, " said Miss Scrotton with a manner of sadsatisfaction. 

"Yes; truly, " Madame von Marwitz made genial reply. "The more so forfinding myself surrounded by so many old acquaintances. It is aparticular pleasure to see again Lady Rose and the vivacious andintelligent Mrs. Furnivall; it was in Venice that we last met; herPalazzo there you must one day see. Monsieur de Hautefeuille and Mr. Drew I counted already as friends in Europe. "

"And Mrs. Asprey you will soon count as one, I hope. She is really asomewhat remarkable woman. She comes, you know, of one of their best andoldest families. "

"Oh, for that, no; not remarkable. Good, if you will--_bon comme dupain_; it strikes me much, that goodness, among these American rich whomwe are accustomed to hear so crudely caricatured in Europe;--and it isquite a respectable little aristocracy. They ally themselves, as we seehere in our excellent host and hostess, with what there is of old bloodin the country and win tradition to guide their power. They are not theflaunting, vulgar rich, of whom we hear so much from those who do notknow them, but the anxious, thoughtful, virtuous rich, oppressed bytheir responsibilities and all studying so hard, poor dears, at stiff, deep books, in order to fulfil them worthily. They all go to_conférences_, these ladies, it seems, and study sociology. They takelife with a seriousness that I have never seen equalled. Mrs. Asprey islike them all; good, oh, but yes. And I am pleased to know her, too. Mrs. Furnivall had promised her long since, she tells me, that it shouldbe. She and Mrs. Furnivall are old school-mates. "

Miss Scrotton, all her merit thus mildly withdrawn from her, stoodsilent for some moments looking away at the lake and the Turneresquetrees. 

"It was so very kind of you, Mercedes, to have had Mr. Drew asked here, "she observed at last, very casually. "It is a real opportunity for ayoung bohemian of that type; you are a true fairy-godmother to him;first Mrs. Forrester and now the Aspreys. Curious, wasn't it, hisappearing over here so suddenly?"

"Curious? It did not strike me so, " said Madame von Marwitz, showing noconsciousness of the thrust her friend had ventured to essay. "Peoplecome to America a great deal, do they not; and often suddenly. It is thecountry of suddenness. His books are much read here, it seems, and hehad business with his publishers. He knew, too, that I was here; andthat to him was also an attraction. Why curious, my Scrotton?"

Miss Scrotton disliked intensely being called "my Scrotton;" but she hadnever yet found the necessary courage to protest against theappellation. "Oh, only because I had had no hint of it until heappeared, " she returned. "And I wondered if you had had. Yes; I supposehe would be a good deal read over here. It is a very derivative andartificial talent, don't you think, darling?"

"Rather derivative; rather artificial, " Madame von Marwitz repliedserenely. 

"He doesn't look well, does he?" Miss Scrotton pursued, after a littlepause. "I don't like that puffiness about the eyelids and chin. It willbe fatal for him to become fat. "

"No, " said Madame von Marwitz, as serenely as before, her eyes now on aletter that she held. "Ah, no; he could rise above fat, that young man. I can see him fat with impunity. Would it become, then, somewhat theTalleyrand type? How many distinguished men have been fat. Napoleon, Renan, Gibbon, Dr. Johnson--" she turned her sheet as she mildly broughtout the desultory list. "And all seem to end in n, do they not? I amglad that I asked Mr. Drew. He flavours the dish like an aromatic herb;and what a success he has been; _hein_? But he is the type of personalsuccess. He is independent, indifferent, individual. "

"Ah, my dear, you are too generous to that young man, " Miss Scrottonmused. "It's beautiful, it's wonderful to watch; but you are, indeed, too kind to him. " She mused, she was absent, yet she knew, and knew thatMercedes knew, that never before in all their intercourse had sheventured on such a speech. It implied watchfulness; it impliedcriticism; it implied, even, anxiety; it implied all manner of thingsthat it was not permitted for a satellite to say. 

The Baroness's eyes were on her letter, and though she did not raisethem her dark brows lifted. "_Tiens_, " she continued, "you find that Iam too kind to him?"

Miss Scrotton, to keep up the appearance of ingenuousness, was forced tofurther definition. "I don't think, darling, that in your sympathy, yoursolicitude, where young talent is concerned, you quite realize how muchyou give, how much you can be made use of. The man admires you, ofcourse, and has, of course, talent of a sort. Yet, when I see youtogether, I confess that I receive sometimes the impression of ascattering of pearls. "

Madame von Marwitz laid down her letter. "Ah! ah!--oh! oh!--_ma bonne_, "she said. She laughed out. Her eyes were lit with dancing sparks. "Doyou know you speak as if you were very, very jealous of this young manwho is found so charming?"

"Jealous, my dear Mercedes?" Miss Scrotton's emotion showed itself in adark flush. 

"_Mais oui; mais oui_; you tell me that my friend is a swine. Doesthat not mean that you, of late, have received too few pearls?"

"My dear Mercedes! Who called him a swine?"

"One doesn't speak of scattered pearls without rousing theseassociations. " Her tone was beaming. 

Was it possible to swallow such an affront? Was it possible not to? Andshe had brought it upon herself. There was comfort and a certainrestoration of dignity in this thought. Miss Scrotton, strugglinginwardly, feigned lightness. "So few of us are worthy of your pearls, dear. Unworthiness doesn't, I hope, consign us to the porcine category. Perhaps it is that being, like him, a little person, I'm able to see Mr. Drew's merits and demerits more impartially than you do. That is all. Ireally ought to know a good deal about Mr. Drew, " Miss Scrotton pursued, regaining more self-control, now that she had steered her way out of thedreadful shoals where her friend's words had threatened to sink her;"I've known him since the days when he was at Oxford and I used to staythere with my uncle the Dean. He was sitting, then, at the feet ofPater. It's a derivative, a _parvenu_ talent, and, I do feel it, Iconfess I do, a derivative personality altogether, like that of so manyof these clever young men nowadays. He is, you know, of anything butdistinguished antecedents, and his reaction from his own _milieu_ hasbeen, perhaps, from the first, a little marked. Unfortunately hismarriage is there to remind people of it, and I never see Mr. Drew _dansle monde_ without, irrepressibly, thinking of the dismal little wife inSurbiton whom I once called upon, and his swarms--but swarms, mydear--of large-mouthed children. "

Miss Scrotton wondered, as she proceeded, whether she had again too farabandoned discretion. 

The Baroness examined her next letter for a moment before opening it andif she, too, had received her sting, she abandoned nothing. 

She answered with complete, though perhaps ominous, mildness: "He israther like Shelley, I always think, a sophisticated Shelley who had satat the feet of Pater. Shelley, too, had swarms of children, and it ispossible that they were large-mouthed. The plebeian origin that you tellme of rather attracts me. I care, especially, for the fine flame thatmounts from darkness; and I, too, on one side, as you will remember, _mabonne_, am _du peuple_. "

"My dear Mercedes! Your father was an artist, a man of genius; and ifyour parents had risen from the gutter, you, by your own genius, transcend the question of rank as completely as a Shakespeare. "

The continued mildness was alarming Miss Scrotton; an eagerness to makeamends was in her eye. 

"Ah--but did he, poor man!" Madame von Marwitz mused, ratherirrelevantly, her eyes on her letter. "One hears now, not. But thankyou, my Scrotton, you mean to be consoling. I have, however, no dread ofthe gutter. _Tiens_, " she turned a page, "here is news indeed. "

Miss Scrotton had now taken a chair beside her and her fingers tapped alittle impatiently as the Baroness's eye--far from the thought of pearlsand swine--went over the letter. 

"_Tiens, tiens_, " Madame von Marwitz repeated; "the little Karen issought in marriage. "

"Really, " said Miss Scrotton, "how very fortunate for the poor littlething. Who is the young man, and how, in heaven's name, has she secureda young man in the wilds of Cornwall?"

Madame von Marwitz made no reply. She was absorbed in another letter. And Miss Scrotton now perceived, with amazement and indignation, thatthe one laid down was written in the hand of Gregory Jardine. 

"You don't mean to tell me, " Miss Scrotton said, after some moments ofhardly held patience, "that it's Gregory?"

Madame von Marwitz, having finished her second letter, was gazing beforeher with a somewhat ambiguous expression. 

"Tallie speaks well of him, " she remarked at last. "He has made a verygood impression on Tallie. "

"Are you speaking of Gregory Jardine, Mercedes?" Miss Scrotton repeated. 

Madame von Marwitz now looked at her and as she looked the tricksy lightof malice again grew in her eye. "_Mais oui; mais oui. _ You have guessedcorrectly, my Scrotton, " she said. "And you may read his letter. It ispleasant to me to see that stiff, self-satisfied young man brought tohis knees. Read it, _ma chère_, read it. It is an excellent letter. "

Miss Scrotton read, and, while she read, Madame von Marwitz's cold, deepeyes rested on her, still vaguely smiling. 

"How very extraordinary, " said Miss Scrotton. She handed back theletter. 

"Extraordinary? Now, why, _ma bonne_?" her friend inquired, all limpidfrankness. "He looked indeed, a stockish, chill young man, of thecold-nosed type--_ah, que je n'aime pas ça!_--but he is a good youngman; a most unimpeachable young man; and our little Karen has meltedhim; how much his letter shows. "

"Gregory Jardine is a very able and a very distinguished person, " saidMiss Scrotton, "and of an excellent county family. His mother and minewere cousins, as you know, and I have always taken the greatest interestin him. One can't but wonder how the child managed it. " Mercedes, sheknew, was drawing a peculiar satisfaction from her displeasure; but shecouldn't control it. 

"Ah, the child is not a manager. She is so far from managing it, yousee, that she leaves it to me to manage. It touches and surprises me, Iconfess, to find that her devotion to me rules her even at a moment likethis. Yes; Karen has pleased me very much. "

"Of course that old-fashioned formality would in itself charm Gregory. He is very conventional. But I do hope, my dear Mercedes, that you willthink it over a little before giving your consent. It is really a mostunsuitable match. Karen's feelings are, evidently, not at all deeplyengaged and with Gregory it must be a momentary infatuation. He will getover it in time and thank you for saving him; and Karen will marry HerrLippheim, as you hoped she would. "

"Now upon my word, my Scrotton, " said Madame von Marwitz in a manner asnear insolence as its grace permitted, "I do not follow you. Abarrister, a dingy little London barrister, to marry my ward? You callthat an unsuitable marriage? I protest that I do not follow you and Iassert, to the contrary, that he has played his cards well. Who is he? Anobody. You speak of your county families; what do they signify outsidetheir county? Karen in herself is, I grant you, also a nobody; but shestands to me in a relation almost filial--if I chose to call it so; andI signify more than the families of many counties put together. Let usbe frank. He opens no doors to Karen. She opens doors to him. "

Miss Scrotton, addressed in these measured and determined tones, changedcolour. "My dear Mercedes, of course you are right there. Of course inone sense, if you take Gregory in as you have taken Karen in, you opendoors to him. I only meant that a young man in his position, with hisway to make in the world, ought to marry some well-born woman with alittle money. He must have money if he is to get on. He ought to be inparliament one day; and Karen is without a penny, you have often told meso, as well as illegitimate. Of course if you intend to make her a largeallowance, that is a different matter; but can you really afford to dothat, darling?"

"I consider your young man very fortunate to get Karen without onepenny, " Madame von Marwitz pursued, in the same measured tones, "and Ishall certainly make him no present of my hard-earned money. Let himearn the money for Karen, now, as I have done for so many years. Had shemarried my good Franz, it would have been a very different thing. Thisyoung man is well able to support her in comfort. No; it all comes mostopportunely. I wanted Karen to settle and to settle soon. I shall cablemy consent and my blessings to them at once. Will you kindly find me aservant, _ma chère_. "

Miss Scrotton, as she rose automatically to carry out this request, wasfeeling that it is possible almost to hate one's idols. She hadtransgressed, and she knew it, and Mercedes had been aware of what shehad done and had punished her for it. She even wondered if the quickdetermination to accept Gregory as Karen's suitor hadn't been part ofthe punishment. Mercedes knew that she had a pride in her cousin and haddetermined to humble it. She had perhaps herself to thank for havingriveted this most disastrous match upon him. It was with a bitter heartthat she walked on into the house. 

As she went in Mr. Claude Drew came out and Miss Scrotton gave him achill greeting. She certainly hated Mr. Claude Drew. 

Claude Drew blinked a little in the bright sunlight and had somewhat theair of a graceful, nocturnal bird emerging into the day. He was dressedwith an appropriateness to the circumstances of stately _villégiature_so exquisite as to have a touch of the fantastic. 

Madame von Marwitz sat with her back to him in the limpid shadow of thegreat white parasol and was again looking, not at Karen's, but atGregory Jardine's, letter. One hand hung over the arm of her chair. 

Mr. Drew approached with quiet paces and, taking this hand, beforeMadame von Marwitz could see him, he bowed over it and kissed it. Themanner of the salutation made of it at once a formality and a caress. 

Madame von Marwitz looked up quickly and withdrew her hand. "Youstartled me, my young friend, " she said. In her gaze was a mingledseverity and softness and she smiled as if irrepressibly. 

Mr. Drew smiled back. "I've been wearying to escape from our host andcome to you, " he said. "He will talk to me about the reform of Americanpolitics. Why reform them? They are much more amusing unreformed, aren'tthey? And why talk to me about them. I think he wants me to write aboutthem. If I were to write a book for the Americans, I would tell themthat it is their mission to be amusing. Democracies must be eitherabsurd or uninteresting. America began by being uninteresting; and nowit has quite taken its place as absurd. I love to hear about their fat, bribed, clean-shaven senators; just as I love to read the advertisementsof tooth-brushes and breakfast foods and underwear in their magazines, written in the language of persuasive, familiar fraternity. It wasdifficult not to confess this to Mr. Asprey; but I do not think he wouldhave understood me. " Mr. Drew spoke in a soft, slightly sibilant voice, with little smiling pauses between sentences that all seemed vaguelyshuffled together. He paused now, smiling, and looking down at Madamevon Marwitz. 

"You speak foolishly, " said Madame von Marwitz. "But he would havethought you wicked. "

"Because I like beauty and don't like democracy. I suppose so. " Stillsmiling at her he added, "One forgets democracies when one looks at you. You are very beautiful this morning. "

"I am not, this morning, in a mood for unconventionalities, " Madame vonMarwitz returned, meeting his gaze with her mingled severity andsoftness. 

And again, with composure, he ignored her severity and returned hersmile. It would have been unfair to say that there was effrontery in Mr. Drew's gaze; it merely had its way with you and, if you didn't like itsway, passed from you unperturbed. With all his rather sickly grace andambiguous placidity, Mr. Drew was not lacking in character. He had risensuperior to a good many things, the dismal wife at Surbiton and thelarge-mouthed children perhaps among them, and he had won hisdetachment. The homage he offered was not unalloyed by humour. To aperson of Madame von Marwitz's calibre, he seemed to say, he would notpretend to raptures or reverences they had both long since seen through. It would bore him to be rapturous or reverent, and if you didn't likehim, so his whole demeanour mildly demonstrated, you could leave him, or, rather, he could leave you. So that when Madame von Marwitz soughtto quell him she found herself met with a gentle unawareness, even agentle indifference. Cogitation and a certain disquiet were often in hereye when it rested on this devotee. 

"Does one make conventional speeches to the moon?" he now remarked, taking a chair beside her and turning the brim of his white hat over hiseyes so that of his face only the sensual, delicate mouth and chin werein sunlight. "I shouldn't want to make speeches to you if you wereconventional. You are done with your letters? I may talk to you?"

"Yes, I have done. You may talk, as foolishly as you please, but notunconventionally; whether I am or am not conventional is not a matterthat concerns you. I have had good news to-day. My little Karen is tomarry. "

"Your little Karen? Which of all the myriads is this adorer?"

"The child you saw with me in London. The one who stays in Cornwall. "

"You mean the fair, square girl who calls you Tante? I only remember ofher that she was fair and square and called you Tante. "

"That is she. She is to marry an excellent young man, a young man, " saidMadame von Marwitz, slightly smiling at him, "who would never wish tomake speeches to the moon, who is, indeed, not aware of the moon. But heis very much aware of Karen; so much so, " and she continued to smile, asif over an amusing if still slightly perplexing memory, "that when sheis there he is not aware of me. What do you say to that?"

"I say, " Mr. Drew replied, "that the barbarians will always be many andthe civilized few. Who is this barbarian?"

"A Mr. Gregory Jardine. "

"Jardine? _Connais-pas_, " said Mr. Drew. 

"He is a cousin of our Scrotton's, " said Madame von Marwitz, "and a manof law. Very stiff and clean like a roll of expensive paper. He hasasked me very nicely if he may inscribe the name of Mrs. Jardine upon apage of it. He is the sort of young man of law, I think I distinguish, "Madame von Marwitz mused, her eyes on the landscape, "who does not smokea briar wood pipe and ride on an omnibus, but who keeps good cigars in asilver box and always takes a hansom. He will make Karen comfortableand, I gather from her letter, happy. It will be a strange change of_milieu_ for the child, but I have, I think, made her independent of_milieus_. She will write more than Mrs. Jardine on his scroll. It is achild of character. "

"And she will no longer be in Cornwall, " Mr. Drew observed. "I am gladof that. "

"Why, pray? I am not glad of it. I shall miss my Karen at LesSolitudes. "

"But I, you see, don't want to have other worshippers there when I go tostay with you, " said Mr. Drew; "for, you know, you are going to let mestay a great deal with you in Cornwall. You will play to me, and I willwrite something that you will, perhaps, care to read. And the moon willbe very kind and listen to many speeches. You know, " he added, with achange of tone, "that I am in love with you. I must be alone with you atLes Solitudes. "

"Let us have none of that, if you please, " said Madame von Marwitz. Shelooked away from him along the sunny stretches of the terrace and shefrowned slightly, though smiling on, as if with tolerant affection. Andin her look was something half dazed and half resentful like the look ofa fierce wild bird, subdued by the warmth and firmness of an enclosinghand. 

CHAPTER XIII

Gregory went down to Cornwall again only nine days after he had left it. He and Karen met as if under an arch of infinite blessings. He had hiscable to show her and she hers to show him, and, although Gregory didnot see them as the exquisite documents that Karen felt them to be, theydid for him all that he asked Madame von Marwitz to do. 

"I give her to you. Be worthy of my trust. Mercedes von Marwitz"--hisread. And Karen's: "I could only yield you to a greater joy than you canfind with me--but it could not be to a greater love. Do not forget me inyour happiness. You are mine, my beloved child, not less but more thanever. --Tante. "

Karen's joy was unshadowed. It made him think of primroses and crystalsprings. She was not shy; he was shyer than she, made a little dumb, alittle helpless, by his man's reverence, his man's awed sense of thebeloved's dawn-like wonder. She was not changed; any change in Karenwould come as quiet growth, not as transformation. Gregory's gladnesshad not this simplicity. It revealed to him a new world, a world newlybeautiful but newly perilous, and a changed self, --the self of boyhood, renewed yet transformed, through whose joy ran the reactionarymelancholy that, in a happiness attained, glances at fear, and at aclimax of life, is aware of gulfs of sorrow as yet unsounded. More thanhis lover's passion was a tenderness for her and for her unquestioningacceptances that seemed near tears. Karen was in character so wroughtand in nature so simple. Her subtleties were all objective, subtletiesof sympathy, of recognition, of adaptation to the requirements ofdevoted action; her simplicity was that of a whole-heartedness unawareat high moments of all but the essential. 

She had to tell him fully, holding his hand and looking into his eyes, all about her side of it; what she had thought when she saw him at theconcert--certain assumptions there gave Gregory his stir ofuneasiness--"You were caring just as much as I was--in the same way--forher music"; what she had thought at Mrs. Forrester's, and at the railwaystation, and when the letters went on and on. She had of course seenwhat was coming that evening after they had been to the Lavington's;"When you didn't understand about me and Tante, you know; and I made youunderstand. " And then he had made her understand how much he cared forher and she for him; only it had all come so quietly; "I did not think agreat deal about it, or wonder; it sank into me--like stars one sees ina still lake, so that next day it was no surprise at all, when you toldme; it was like looking up and seeing all the real stars in the sky. Afterwards it was dreadful for a little while, wasn't it?" Karen heldhis hand for a moment to her cheek. 

When all the past had been looked at together, Gregory asked her if shewould not marry him quite soon; he hoped, indeed, that it might bewithin the month. "You see, why not?" he said. "I miss you so dreadfullyand I can't be here; and why should you be? Let me come down and marryyou in that nice little church on the other side of the village as soonas our banns can be called. "

But, for the first time, a slight anxiety showed in her eyes. "I missyou dreadfully, too, " she said. "But you forget, Tante will not be backtill July. We must wait for Tante, Gregory. We are in May now, it is notso far to July. You will not mind too much?"

He felt, sitting under the arch of blessings as he was, that it would bemost ungrateful and inappropriate to mind. But then, he said, if theymust put it off like that, Karen would have to come to London. She mustcome and stay with Betty. "And get your trousseau"; this was a brilliantidea. "You'll have to get your trousseau, you know, and Betty is anauthority on clothes. "

"Oh, but clothes. I never have clothes in that sense, " said Karen. "Alittle seamstress down here makes most of them and Louise helps hersometimes if she has time. Tante gave me twenty pounds before she wentaway; would twenty pounds do for a trousseau?"

"Betty would think twenty pounds just about enough for your gloves andstockings, I imagine, " said Gregory. 

"And will you expect me to be so luxurious? You are not rich? We shallnot live richly?"

"I'm not at all rich; but I want you to have pretty things--layers andlayers of the nice, white, soft things brides always have, and a greatmany new hats and dresses. Couldn't I give you a little tip--to beginthe trousseau?"

"Ah, it can wait, can't it?" said Karen easily. "No; you can't give me atip. Tante, I am sure, will see that I have a nice trousseau. She mayeven give me a little _dot_ when I marry. I have no money at all; notone penny, you know. Do you mind?"

"I'd far rather have you without a penny because I want to give youeverything. If Tante doesn't give you the little _dot_, I shall. "

Karen was pondering a little seriously. "I don't know what Tante willfeel since you have enough for us both. It was when she wished me tomarry Franz that she spoke of a _dot_. And Franz is of course very poorand has a great family of brothers and sisters to help support. You willknow Franz one day. You did not speak very nicely of Franz that time, you know; that was another reason why I thought you were so angry. Andit made me angry, too, " said Karen, smiling at him. 

"Wasn't I nice? I am sure Franz is. "

"Oh, so good and kind and true. And very talented. And his mother wouldbe a wonderful musician if she had not so many children to take care of;that has harmed her music. And she, too, is a golden-hearted person; sheused often to help me with my dresses. Do you remember that little whitesilk dress of mine? perhaps so; I wore it at the concert, such a prettydress, I think. Frau Lippheim helped me with that--she and a littleGerman seamstress in Leipsig. I see us now, all bending over therustling silk, round the table with the lamp on it. We had to make it soquickly. Tante had sent for me to come to her in Vienna and I hadnothing to wear at the great concert she was to give. We sat up tilltwelve to finish it. Franz and Lotta cooked our supper for us and weonly stopped long enough to eat. Dear Frau Lippheim. Some day you willknow all the Lippheims. "

He listened to her with dreamy, amused delight, seeing her bending inthe ugly German room over the little white silk dress and only vaguelyaware of the queer figures she put before him. He had no inclination toknow Franz and his mother, and no curiosity about them. But Karencontinued. "That is the one, the only thing I can give you, " she said, reflecting. "You know so few artists, don't you; so few people oftalent. As to people, your life is narrow, isn't it so? I have met somany great people in my life, first through my father and then throughTante. Painters, poets, musicians. You will probably know them now, too;some of them certainly, for some are also friends of mine. Strepoff, forexample; oh--how I shall like you to meet him. You have read him, ofcourse, and about his escape from Siberia and his long exile. "

"Strepoff? Yes, I think so. A dismal sort of fellow, isn't he?"

Gregory's delight was merging now in a more definite amusement, tinged, it may be confessed, with alarm. He remembered to have seen a photographof this celebrity, very turbulently haired and very fixed and fiery ofeye. He remembered a large bare throat and a defiant neck-tie. He had nowish to make Strepoff's acquaintance. It was quite enough to read abouthim in the magazines and admire his exploits from a distance. 

"Dismal?" Karen had repeated, with a touch of severity. "Who would notbe after such a life? Yes, he is a sad man, and the thought of Russianever leaves him. But he is full of gaiety, too. He spent some monthswith us two years ago at the Italian lakes and I grew so fond of him. Wehad great jokes together, he and I. And he sometimes writes to me now, such teasing, funny letters. The last was from San Francisco. He isgiving lectures out there, raising money; for he never ceases thestruggle. He calls me Liebchen. He is very fond of me. "

"What do you call him?" Gregory inquired. 

"Just Strepoff; everybody calls him that. Dear Belot, too, " Karenpursued. "He could not fail to interest you. Perhaps you have alreadymet him. He has been in London. "

"Belot? Does he write poetry?"

"Poetry? No. Belot is a painter; a great painter. Surely you have heardof Belot?"

"Well, I'm afraid that if I have I've forgotten. You see, as you say, Ilive so out of the world of art. "

"Did you not see his portrait of Susanne Mauret--the great Frenchactress? It has been exhibited through all the world. "

"Of course I have. Belot of course. The impressionist painter. It lookedto me, I confess, awfully queer; but I could see that it was veryclever. "

"Impressionist? No; Belot would not rank himself among theimpressionists. And he would not like to hear his work called clever; Iwarn you of that. He has a horror of cleverness. It was not a cleverpicture, but sober, strange, beautiful. Well, I know Belot and his wifequite intimately. They are great friends of the Lippheims, too, and callthemselves the Franco-Prussian alliance. Madame Belot is a dear littlewoman. You must have often seen his pictures of her and the children. Hehas numbers of children and adores them. _La petite_ Margot is myspecial pet and she always sends me a little present on my birthday. Madame Belot was once his model, " Karen added, "and is quite _dupeuple_, and I believe that some of his friends were sorry that hemarried her; but she makes him very happy. That beautiful nude in theLuxembourg by Chantefoy is of her--long before she married, of course. She does not sit for the _ensemble_ now, and indeed I fear it has lostall its beauty, for she is very fat. It would be nice to go to Paris onour wedding-tour and see the Belots, " said Karen. 

Gregory made an evasive answer. He reflected that once he had marriedher it would probably be easy to detach Karen from these mostundesirable associates. He hoped that she would take to Betty. Bettywould be an excellent antidote. "And you think your sister-in-law willwant me?" said Karen, when he brought her from the Belots back to Betty. "She doesn't know me. "

"She must begin to know you as soon as possible. You will have Mrs. Forrester at hand, you see, if my family should oppress you too much. Barring Betty, who hardly counts as one of them, they aren'tinteresting, I warn you. "

"I may oppress them, " said Karen, with the shrewdness that oftensurprised him. "Who will they take refuge with?"

"Oh, they have all London to fall back upon. They do nothing whenthey're up but go out. That's my plan; that they should leave you a gooddeal when they go out, and leave you to me. "

"That will be nice, " said Karen. "But Mrs. Forrester, you know, " shewent on, "is not exactly an intimate of mine that I could fall backupon. I am, in her eyes, only a little appendage of Tante's. "

"Ah, but you have ceased, now, to be an appendage of Tante's. And Mrs. Forrester is an intimate, an old one, of mine. "

"She'll take me in as your appendage, " Karen smiled. 

"Not at all. It's you, now, who are the person to whom the appendagebelongs. I'm your appendage. That quite alters the situation. You willhave to stand in the foreground and do all the conventional things. "

"Shall I?" smiled Karen, unperturbed. She was, as he knew, not to bedisconcerted by any novel social situation. She had witnessed so manysituations and such complicated ones that the merely conventional were, in her eyes, relatively insignificant and irrevelant. There would be forher none of the débutante's sense of awkwardness or insufficiency. Againshe reminded him of the rustic little princess, unaware of aliencustoms, and ready to learn and to laugh at her own blunders. 

It was arranged, Mrs. Talcott's appearance helping to decisions, that assoon as Karen heard from her guardian, who might have plans to suggest, she should come up to London and stay with Lady Jardine. 

Mrs. Talcott, on entering, had grasped Gregory's hand and shaken itvigorously, remarking: "I'm very pleased to see you back again. "

"I didn't tell Mrs. Talcott anything, Gregory, " said Karen. "But I amsure she guessed. "

"Mrs. Talcott and I had our understandings, " said Gregory, "but I'm sureshe guessed from the moment she saw me down here. She was much quickerthan you, Karen. "

"I've seen a good many young folks in my time, " Mrs. Talcott conceded. 

Gregory's sense of the deepened significance in all things lent aspecial pathos to his conjectures to-day about Mrs. Talcott. He did notknow how far her affection for Karen went and whether it were more thanthe mere kindly solicitude of the aged for the young; but the girl'spresence in her life must give at least interest and colour, and afterMrs. Talcott had spoken her congratulations and declared that shebelieved they'd be real happy together, he said, the idea striking himas an apt one, "And Mrs. Talcott, you must come up and stay with us inLondon sometimes, won't you?"

"Oh, Mrs. Talcott--yes, yes;" said Karen, delighted. He had never seenher kiss Mrs. Talcott, but she now clasped her arm, standing beside her. Mrs. Talcott did not smile; but, after a moment, the aspect of her facechanged; it always took some moments for Mrs. Talcott's expression tochange. Now it was like seeing the briny old piece of shipwrecked oakmildly illuminated with sunlight on its lonely beach. 

"That's real kind of you; real kind, " said Mrs. Talcott reflectively. "Idon't expect I'll get up there. I'm not much of a traveller these days. But it's real kind of you to have thought of it. "

"But it must be, " Karen declared. "Only think; I should pour out yourcoffee for you in the morning, after all these years when you've pouredout mine; and we would walk in the park--Gregory's flat overlooks thepark you know--and we would drive in hansoms--don't you likehansoms--and go to the play in the evening. But yes, indeed, you shallcome. "

Mrs. Talcott listened to these projects, still with her mildillumination, remarking when Karen had done, "I guess not, Karen; Iguess I'll stay here. I've been moving round considerable all my lifelong and now I expect I'll just stay put. There's no one to look afterthings here but me and they'd get pretty muddled if I was away, Iexpect. Mitchell isn't a very bright man. "

"The real difficulty is, " said Karen, holding Mrs. Talcott's arm andlooking at her with affectionate exasperation, "that she doesn't like toleave Les Solitudes lest she should miss a moment of Tante. Tantesometimes turns up almost at a moment's notice. We shall have to getTante safely away to Russia, or America again, before we can ask you;isn't that the truth, Mrs. Talcott?"

"Well, I don't know. Perhaps there's something in it, " Mrs. Talcottadmitted. "Mercedes likes to know I'm here seeing to things. Shemightn't feel easy in her mind if I was away. "

"We'll lay it before her, then, " said Karen. "I know she will say thatyou must come. "

CHAPTER XIV

It was not until some three weeks after that Karen paid her visit toLondon. Tante had not written at once and Gregory had to control hisdiscontent and impatience as best he might. He and Karen wrote to eachother every day and he was aware of a fretful anxiety in his letterswhich contrasted strangely with the serenity of hers. Once more she madehim feel that she was the more mature. In his brooding imaginativenesshe was like the most youthful of lovers, seeing his treasure menaced onevery hand by the hazards of life. He warned Karen against cliff-edges;he warned her, now that motors were every day becoming more common, against their sudden eruption in "cornery" lanes; he begged herrepeatedly to keep safe and sound until he could himself take care ofher. Karen replied with sober reassurances and promises and showed nocorresponding alarms on his behalf. She had, evidently, more confidencein the law of probability. 

She wired at last to say that she had heard from Tante and would come upnext day if Lady Jardine could have her at such short notice. Gregoryhad made his arrangements with Betty, who showed a most charmingsympathy for his situation, and when, at the station, he saw Karen'sface smiling at him from a window, when he seized her arm and drew herforth, it was with a sense of relief and triumph as great as though shewere restored to him after actual perils. 

"Darling, it has seemed such ages, " he said. 

He was conscious, delightedly, absorbedly, of everything about her. Shewore her little straw hat with the black bow and a long hooded cape ofthin grey cloth. In her hand she held a small basket containing herknitting--she was knitting him a pair of golf stockings--and a book. 

He piloted her to the cab he had in waiting. Her one small shabby boxwas put on the top and a very large dressing-case, curiously contrastingin its battered and discoloured magnificence with the box, placedinside; it was a discarded one of Madame von Marwitz's, as its tarnishedinitials told him. It was only as the cab rolled out of the station, after he had kissed Karen and was holding her hand, that he realizedthat she was far less aware of him than he of her. Not that she was notglad; she sighed deeply with content, smiling at him, holding his handclosely; but there was a shadow of preoccupation on her. 

"Tell me, darling, is everything all right?" he asked. "You have hadgood news from your guardian?"

She said nothing for a moment, looking out of the window, and then backat him. Then she said: "She is beautiful to me. But I have made hersad. "

"Made her sad? Why have you made her sad?" Gregory suppressed--only justsuppressed--an indignant note. 

"I did not think of it myself, " said Karen. "I didn't think of her sideat all, I'm afraid, because I did not realise how much I was to her. Butyou remember what I told you I was, the little home thing; I am thateven more deeply than I had thought; and she feels--dear, dear one--thatthat is gone from her, that it can never be the same again. " She turnedher eyes from him and the tears gathered thickly in them. 

"But, dearest, " said Gregory, "she can't want to make you sad, can she?She must really be glad to have you happy. She herself wanted you to getmarried, and had found Franz Lippheim for you, you know. " Instinctwarned him to go carefully. 

Karen shook her head with a little impatience. "One may be glad to havesomeone happy, yet sad for oneself. She is sad. Very, very sad. "

"May I see her letter?" Gregory asked after a moment, and Karen, hesitating, then drew it from the pocket of her cloak, saying, as shehanded it to him, and as if to atone for the impatience, "It doesn'tmake me love you any less--you understand that, dear Gregory--becauseshe is sad. It only makes me feel, in my own happiness, how much I loveher. "

Gregory read. The address was "Belle Vue. "

 "My Darling Child, --A week has passed since I had your letter and now the second has come and I must write to you. My Karen knows that when in pain it is my instinct to shut myself away, to be quite still, quite silent, and so to let the waves go over me. That is why, she will understand, I have not written yet. I have waited for the strength and courage to come back to me so that I might look my sorrow in the face. For though it is joy for you, and I rejoice in it, it is sorrow, could it be otherwise, for me. So the years go on and so our cherished flowers drop from us; so we feel our roots of life chilling and growing old; and the marriage-veil that we wrap round a beloved child becomes the symbol of the shroud that is to fold us from her. I knew that I should one day have to give up my Karen; I wished it; she knows that; but now that it has come and that the torch is in her hand, I can only feel the darkness in which her going leaves me. Not to find my little Karen there, in my life, part of my life;--that is the thought that pierces me. In how many places have I found her, for years and years; do you remember them all, Karen? I know that in heart we are not to be severed; I know that, as I cabled to you, you are not less but more mine than ever; but the body cries out for the dear presence; for the warm little hand in my tired hand, the loving eyes in my sad eyes, the loving heart to lean my stricken heart upon. How shall I bear the loneliness and the silence of my life without you?

 "Do not forget me, my Karen. Ah, I know you will not, yet the cry arises. Do not let this new love that has come to you in your youth and gladness shut me out more than it must. Do not forget the old, the lonely Tante. Ah, these poor tears, they fall and fall. I am sad, sad to death, my Karen. Great darknesses are behind me, and before me I see the darkness to which I go. 

 "Farewell, my darling. --_Lebewohl. _--Tell Mr. Jardine that he must make my child happy indeed if I am to forgive him for my loss. 

 "Yes; it shall be in July, when I return. I send you a little gift that my Karen may make herself the fine lady, ready for all the gaieties of the new life. He will wish it to be a joyful one, I know; he will wish her to drink deep of all that the world has to offer of splendid, and rare, and noble. My child is worthy of a great life, I have equipped her for it. Go forward, my Karen, with your husband, into the light. My heart is with you always. 

 "Tante. "

Gregory read, and instinctively, while he read, he glanced at Karen, steadying his face lest she should guess from its tremor of contempt howlatent antagonisms hardened to a more ironic dislike. But Karen gazedfrom the window--grave, preoccupied. Such suspicions were far indeedfrom her. Gregory could give himself to the letter and its intimationsundiscovered. Suffering? Perhaps Madame von Marwitz was suffering; butshe had no business to say it. Forgive him indeed; well, if those werethe terms of forgiveness, he promised himself that he should deserve it. Meanwhile he must conceal his resentment. 

"I'm so sorry, darling, " he said, giving the letter back to Karen. "Weshall have to cheer her up, shan't we? When she sees how very happy youare with me I am sure she'll feel happier. " He wasn't at all sure. 

"I don't know, Gregory. I am afraid that my happiness cannot make herless lonely. "

Karen's griefs were not to be lightly dispersed. But she was not aperson to enlarge upon them. After another moment she pointed outsomething from the window and laughed; but the unshadowed gladness thathe had imagined for their meeting was overcast. 

Betty awaited them with tea in her Pont Street drawing-room, a room ofpolished, glittering, softly lustrous surfaces. Precious objects stoodgrouped on little Empire tables or ranged in Empire cabinets. Flat, firmcushions of rose-coloured satin stood against the backs of Empire chairsand sofas. On the walls were French engravings and a delicate portraitof Betty done at the time of her marriage by Boutet de Monvel. The room, like Betty herself, combined elegance and cordiality. 

"I was there, you know, at the very beginning, " she said, taking Karen'shands and scanning her with her jewel-like eyes. "It was love at firstsight. He asked who you were at once and I'm pleased to think that itwas I who gave him his first information. Now that I look back upon it, "said Betty, taking her place at the tea-table and holding Karen stillwith her bright and friendly gaze, "I remember that he was far moreinterested in you than in anything else that evening. I don't believethat Madame Okraska existed for him. " Betty was drawing on herimagination in a manner that she took for granted to be pleasing. 

"I should be sorry to think that, " Karen observed and Gregory wasrelieved to see that she did not take Betty's supposition seriously. Shewatched her pretty hands move among the teacups with an air of pleasedinterest. 

"Would you really? You would want him to retain all his æstheticfaculties even while he was falling in love? Do you think one could?"Betty asked her questions smiling. "Or perhaps you think that one wouldfall in love the more securely from listening to Madame Okraska at thesame time. I think perhaps I should. I do admire her so much. I hope nowthat some day I shall know her. She must be, I am sure, as lovely as shelooks. "

"Yes, indeed, " said Karen. "And you will meet her very soon, you see, for she comes back in July. "

Gregory sat and listened to their talk, satisfied that they were to geton, yet with a slight discomfort. Betty questioned and Karen replied, unaware that she revealed aspects of her past that Betty might notinterpret as she would feel it natural that they should be interpreted, supremely unaware that any criticism could attach itself to her guardianas a result of these revelations. Yes; she had met so-and-so and thisand that, in Rome, in Paris, in London or St. Petersburg; but no, evidently, she could hardly say that she knew any of these people, friends of Tante's though they were. The ambiguity of her status aslittle camp-follower became defined for Betty's penetrating andappraising eyes and the inappropriateness of the letter, with itsbroken-hearted maternal tone, returned to Gregory with renewed irony. Hedidn't want to share with Betty his hidden animosities and once ortwice, when her eye glanced past Karen and rested reflectively uponhimself, he knew that Betty was wondering how much he saw and how heliked it. The Lippheims again made their socially unillustriousappearance; Karen had so often stayed with them before Les Solitudes hadbeen built and while Tante travelled with Mrs. Talcott; she had neverstayed--Gregory was thankful for small mercies--with the Belots; Tante, after all, had her own definite discriminations; she would not haveplaced Karen in the charge of Chantefoy's lady of the Luxembourg, however reputable her present position; but Gregory was uneasy lestKaren should disclose how simply she took Madame Belot's past. The factthat Karen's opportunities in regard to dress were so obviouslyhaphazard, coming up with the question of the trousseau, was somewhatatoned for by the sum that Madame von Marwitz now sent--Gregory hadforgotten to ask the amount. "A hundred pounds, " said Betty cheerfully;"Oh, yes; we can get you very nicely started on that. "

"Tante seems to think, " said Karen, "that I shall have to be very gayand have a great many dresses; but I hope it will not have to be so verymuch. I am fond of quiet things. "

"Well, especially at first, I suppose you will have a good many dinnersand dances; Gregory is fond of dancing, you know. But I don't think youlead such a taxing social life, do you, Gregory? You are a rather soberperson, aren't you?"

"That is what I thought, " said Karen. "For I am sober, too, and I wantto read so many things, in the evening, you know, Gregory. I want toread Political Economy and understand about politics; Tante does notcare for politics, but she always finds me too ignorant of the largesocial questions. You will teach me all that, won't you? And we musthear so much music; and travel, too, in your holidays; I do not see howwe can have much time for many dinners. As for dances, I do not know howto dance; would that make any difference, when you went? I could sit andlook on, couldn't I?"

"No, indeed; you can't sit and look on; you'll have to dance with me, "said Gregory. "I will teach you dancing as well as Political Economy. She must have lessons, mustn't she, Betty? Of course you must learn todance. "

"I do not think I shall learn easily, " Karen said, smiling from him toBetty. "I do not think I should do you credit in a ballroom. But I willtry, of course. "

Gregory was quite prepared for Betty's probes when Karen went upstairsto her room. "What a dear she is, Gregory, " she said; "and how clever itwas of you to find her, hidden away as she has been. I suppose the lifeof a great musician doesn't admit of formalities. She never had time tointroduce, as it were, her adopted daughter. "

"Well, no; a great musician could hardly take an adopted or a realdaughter around to dances; and Karen isn't exactly adopted. "

"No, I see. " Betty's eyes sounded him. "She is really very nice Isuppose, Madame von Marwitz? You like her very much? Mrs. Forresterdotes upon her, of course; but Mrs. Forrester is an enthusiast. "

"And I'm not, as you know, " Gregory returned, he flattered himself, withskill. "I don't think that I shall ever dote on Madame von Marwitz. WhenI know her I hope to like her very much. At present I hardly know herbetter than you do. "

"Ah--but you must know a great deal about her from Karen, " said Betty, who could combine tact with pertinacity; "but she, too, in that respect, is an enthusiast, I suppose. "

"Well, naturally. It's been a wonderful relationship. You remember youfelt that so much in telling me about Karen at the very first. "

"Of course; and it's all true, isn't it; the forest and all the rest ofit. Only, not having met Karen, one didn't realize how much Madame vonMarwitz was in luck. " Betty, it was evident, had already begun to wonderwhether Tante was as lovely as she looked. 

CHAPTER XV

"Dear Mrs. Forrester, you know that I worship the ground she treads on, "said Miss Scrotton; "but it can't be denied--can you deny it?--thatMercedes is capricious. "

It was one day only after Miss Scrotton's return from America and shehad returned alone, and it was to this fact that she alluded rather thanto the more general results of Madame von Marwitz's sudden postponement. Owing to the postponement, Karen to-day was being married in Cornwallwithout her guardian's presence. Miss Scrotton had touched on that. Shehad said that she didn't think Mercedes would like it, she had addedthat she couldn't herself, however inconvenient delay might have been, understand how Karen and Gregory could have done it. But she had not atfirst much conjecture to give to the bridal pair. It was upon the factthat Mercedes, at the last moment, had thrown all plans overboard, thatshe dwelt, with a nipped and tightened utterance and a gaze, fixed onthe wall above the tea-table, almost tragic. Mrs. Forrester was the oneperson in whom she could confide. It was through Mrs. Forrester that shehad met Mercedes; her devotion to Mercedes constituted to Mrs. Forrester, as she was aware, her chief merit. Not that Mrs. Forresterwasn't fond of her; she had been fond of her ever since, as a relativeof the Jardines' and a precociously intelligent little girl who hadpublished a book on Port-Royal at the age of eighteen, she had firstattracted her attention at a literary tea-party. But Mrs. Forresterwould not have sat so long or listened so patiently to any other themethan the one that so absorbed them both and that so united them in theirabsorption. Miss Scrotton even suspected that a tinge of bland andkindly pity coloured Mrs. Forrester's readiness to sympathize. She mustknow Mercedes well enough to know that she could give her devotees badhalf hours, though the galling thing was to suspect that Mrs. Forresterwas one of the few people to whom she wouldn't give them. Mrs. Forrestermight worship as devoutly as anybody, yet her devotion never let her infor so much forbearance and sacrifice. Perhaps, poor Miss Scrottonworked it out, the reason was that to Mrs. Forrester Mercedes was butone among many, whereas to herself Mercedes was the central prize andtreasure. Mrs. Forrester was incapable of a pang of jealousy oremulation; she was always delighted yet never eager. When, in the firstflow of intimacy with Mercedes, Miss Scrotton had actually imagined, foran ecstatic and solemn fortnight, that she stood first with her, Mrs. Forrester had met her air of irrepressible triumph with a geniality inwhich was no trace of grievance or humiliation. The downfall had beenswift; Mercedes had snubbed her one day, delicately and accurately, inMrs. Forrester's presence, and Miss Scrotton's cheek still burned whenshe remembered it. There were thus all sorts of unspoken things betweenher and Mrs. Forrester, and not the least of them was that her follyshould have endeared her. Miss Scrotton at once chafed against andrelied upon her old friend's magnanimity. Her intercourse with her waslargely made up of a gloomy demand for sympathy and a stately evasion ofit. 

Mrs. Forrester now poured her out a second cup of tea, answering, soothingly, "Yes, she is capricious. But what do you expect, my dearEleanor? She is a force of nature, above our little solidarities andlaws. What do you expect? When one worships a force of nature, _il fautsubir son sort_. " It was kind of Mrs. Forrester to include herself inthese submissions. 

"I had really built all my summer about the plans that we had made, "Miss Scrotton said. "Mercedes was to have come back with me, I was tohave stopped in Cornwall for Karen's marriage and after my month here inLondon I was to have joined her at Les Solitudes for August. Now Augustis empty and I had refused more than one very pleasant invitation inorder to go to Mercedes. She isn't coming back for another threemonths. "

"You didn't care to go with the Aspreys to the Adirondacks?"

"How could I go, dear Mrs. Forrester, when I was full of engagementshere in London for July? And, moreover, they didn't ask me. It is rathercurious when one comes to think of it. I brought the Aspreys andMercedes together, I gave her to them, one may say, but, I am afraid Imust own it, they seized her and looked upon me as a useful rung in theladder that reached her. It has been a disillusionizing experience, Ican't deny it; but _passons_ for the Aspreys and their kind. The factis, " said Miss Scrotton, dropping her voice a little, "the real fact is, dear Mrs. Forrester, that the Aspreys aren't responsible. It wasn't forthem she'd have stayed, and I think they must realize it. No, it is allClaude Drew. He is at the bottom of everything that I feel as strangeand altered in Mercedes. He has an unholy influence over her, oh, yes, Imean it, Mrs. Forrester. I have never seen Mercedes so swayed before. "

"Swayed?" Mrs. Forrester questioned. 

"Oh, but yes, indeed. He managed the whole thing--and when I think thathe would in all probability never have seen the Aspreys if it had notbeen for me!--Mercedes had him asked there, you know; they are very, butvery, very fashionable people, they know everybody worth knowing allover the world. I needn't tell you that, of course. But it was allarranged, he and Mercedes, and Lady Rose and the Marquis deHautefeuille, and a young American couple--with the Aspreys in thebackground as universal providers--it made a little group where I wasplainly _de trop_. Mr. Drew planned everything with her. She is to haveher piano and he is to write a book under her aegis. And they are tolive in the pinewoods with the most elaborate simplicity. However, I amsure the Adirondacks will soon bore her. "

"And how soon will Mr. Drew bore her?" asked Mrs. Forrester, who hadlistened to these rather pitiful revelations with, now and then, aslight elevation of her intelligent eyebrows. 

The question gave Miss Scrotton an opportunity for almost ominousemphasis; she paused over it, holding Mrs. Forrester with a broodingeye. 

"He won't bore her, " she then brought out. 

"What, never? never?" Mrs. Forrester questioned gaily. 

"Never, never, " Miss Scrotton repeated. "He is too clever. He will keepher interested--and uncertain. "

"Well, " Mrs. Forrester returned, as if this were all to the good, "it isa comfort to think that the poor darling has found a distraction. "

"You feel it that? I wish I could. I wish I could feel it anything butan infatuation. If only he weren't so much the type of a great woman'sfolly; if only he weren't so of the region of whispers. It isn't likeour wonderful Sir Alliston; one sees her there standing high on amountain peak with the winds of heaven about her. To see her with Mr. Drew is like seeing her through some ambiguous, sticky fog. Oh, I can'tdeny that it has all made me very, very unhappy. " Tears blinked in MissScrotton's eyes. 

Mrs. Forrester was kind, she leaned forward and patted Miss Scrotton'shand, she smiled reassuringly, and she refused, for a moment, to shareher anxiety. "No, no, no, " she said, "you are troubling yourself quiteneedlessly, my dear Eleanor. Mercedes is amusing herself and the youngman is an interesting young man; she has talked to me and written to meabout him. And I think she needed distraction just now, I think thismarriage of little Karen's has affected her a good deal. The child is ofcourse connected in her mind with so much that is dear and tragic in thepast. "

"Oh, Karen!" said Miss Scrotton, who, drying her eyes, had accepted Mrs. Forrester's consolations with a slight sulkiness, "she hasn't given athought to Karen, I can assure you. "

"No; you can't assure me, Eleanor, " Mrs. Forrester returned, now with atouch of severity. "I don't think you quite understand how deep a bondof that sort can be for Mercedes--even if she seldom speaks of it. Shehas written to me very affectingly about it. I only hope she will nottake it to heart that they could not wait for her. I could not blamethem. Everything was arranged; a house in the Highlands lent to them forthe honeymoon. "

"Take it to heart? Dear me no; she won't like it, probably; but that isa different matter. "

"Gregory is radiant, you know. "

"Is he?" said Miss Scrotton gloomily. "I wish I could feel radiant aboutthat match; but I can't. I did hope that Gregory would marry well. "

"It isn't perhaps quite what one would have expected for him, " Mrs. Forrester conceded; "but she is a dear girl. She behaved very prettilywhile she was here with Lady Jardine. "

"Did she? It is a very different marriage, isn't it, from the one thatMercedes had thought suitable. She told you, I suppose, about FranzLippheim. "

"Yes; I heard about that. Mercedes was a good deal disappointed. She isvery much attached to the young man and thought that Karen was, too. Ihave never seen him. "

"From what I've heard he seemed to me as eminently suitable a husbandfor Karen as my poor Gregory is unsuitable. What he can have discoveredin the girl, I can't imagine. But I remember now how much interested inher he was on that day that he met her here at tea. She is such a dullgirl, " said Miss Scrotton sadly. "Such a heavy, clumsy person. AndGregory has so much wit and irony. It is very curious. "

"These things always are. Well, they are married now, and I wish themjoy. "

"No one is at the wedding, I suppose, but old Mrs. Talcott. The nextthing we shall hear will be that Sir Alliston has fallen in love withMrs. Talcott, " said Miss Scrotton, indulging her gloomy humour. 

"Oh, yes; the Jardines went down, and Mrs. Morton;"--Mrs. Morton was amarried sister of Gregory's. "Lady Jardine has very much taken to thechild you know. They have given her a lovely little tiara. "

"Dear me, " said Miss Scrotton; "it is a case of Cinderella. No; I can'trejoice over it, though, of course I wish them joy; I wired to them thismorning and I'm sending them a very handsome paper-cutter of dearfather's. Gregory will appreciate that, I think. But no; I shall alwaysbe sorry that she didn't marry Franz Lippheim. "

CHAPTER XVI

The Jardines did not come back to London till October. They had spent amonth in Scotland and a month in Italy and two weeks in France, returning by way of Paris, where Gregory passed through the ordeal ofthe Belots. He saw Madame Belot clasp Karen to her breast and the longline of little Belots swarm up to be kissed successively, MonsieurBelot, a short, stout, ruddy man, with outstanding grey hair and asquare grey beard, watching the scene benignantly, his palette on histhumb. Madame Belot didn't any longer suggest Chantefoy's picture; shesuggested nothing artistic and everything domestic. From a wistfulBurne-Jones type with large eyes and a drooping mouth she had relapsedto her plebeian origins and now, fat, kind, cheerful, she was nothingbut wife and mother, with a figure like a sack and cheap tortoiseshellcombs stuck, apparently at random, in the untidy _bandeaux_ of her hair. 

Following Karen and Monsieur Belot about the big studio, among canvaseson easels and canvases leaned against the walls, Gregory felt himselfrather bewildered, and not quite as he had expected to be bewildered. They might be impossible, Madame Belot of course was impossible; butthey were not vulgar and they were extremely intelligent, and theirintelligence displayed itself in realms to which he was almostdisconcertingly a stranger. Even Madame Belot, holding a stalwart, brown-fisted baby on her arm, could comment on her husband's work with adiscerning aptness of phrase which made his own appreciation seem verytrite and tentative. He might be putting up with the Belots, but it wasquite as likely, he perceived, that they might be putting up with him. He realized, in this world of the Belots, the significance, thelaboriousness, the high level of vitality, and he realized that to theBelots his own world was probably seen as a dull, half useful, halfobstructive fact, significant mainly for its purchasing power. For itspower of appreciation they had no respect at all. "_Il radote, machèrie_, " Monsieur Belot said to Karen of a famous person, now, afteryears of neglect, loudly acclaimed in London at the moment when, byfellow-artists, he was seen as defunct. "He no longer lives; he repeatshimself. Ah, it is the peril, " Monsieur Belot turned kindly includingeyes on Gregory; "if one is not born anew, continually, the artist dies;it becomes machinery. "

Karen was at home among the Belot's standards. She talked with Belot, ofprocesses, methods, technique, the talk of artists, not artistic talk. "_Et la grande Tante?_" he asked her, when they were all seated at anondescript meal about a long table of uncovered oak, the childrenunpleasantly clamorous and Madame Belot dispensing, from one end, strange, tepid tea, but excellent chocolate, while Belot, from theother, sent round plates of fruit and buttered rolls. Karen was laughingwith _la petite Margot_, whom she held in her lap. 

"She is coming, " said Karen. "At last. In three weeks I shall see hernow. She has been spending the summer in America, you know; among themountains. "

One of the boys inquired whether there were not danger to Madame vonMarwitz from _les Peaux-Rouges_, and when he was reassured and thequestion of buffaloes disposed of Madame Belot was able to make herselfheard, informing Karen that the Lippheims, Franz, Frau Lippheim, Lotta, Minna and Elizabeth, were to give three concerts in Paris that winter. "You have not seen them yet, Karen?" she asked. "They have not yet metMonsieur Jardine?" And when Karen said no, not yet; but that she hadheard from Frau Lippheim that they were to come to London after Paris, Madame Belot suggested that the young couple might have time now totravel up to Leipsig and take the Lippheims by surprise. "_Voilà debraves gens et de bons artistes_, " said Monsieur Belot. 

"You did like my dear Belots, " Karen said, as she and Gregory droveaway. She had, since her marriage, grown in perception; Gregory wouldhave found it difficult, now, to hide ironies and antipathies from her. Even retrospectively she saw things which at the time she had not seen, saw, for instance, that the idea of the Belots had not been alluring tohim. He knew, too, that she would have considered dislike of the Belotsas showing defect in him not in them, but cheerfully, if with a touch ofher severity. She had an infinite tolerance for the defects and foiblesof those she loved. He was glad to be able to reply with full sincerity:"_Ils sont de braves gens et de bons artistes. _"

"But, " Karen said, looking closely at him, and with a smile, "you wouldnot care to pass your life with them. And you were quite disturbed lestI should say that I wanted to go and take the Lippheims by surprise atLeipsig. You like _les gens du monde_ better than artists, Gregory. "

"What are you?" Gregory smiled back at her. "I like you better. "

"I? I am _gens du monde manqué_ and _artiste manqué_. I am neither fish, flesh nor fowl, " said Karen. "I'm only--positively--my husband's wifeand Tante's ward. And that quite satisfies me. "

He knew that it did. Their happiness was flawless; flawless as far asher husband's wife was concerned. It was in regard to Tante's ward thatGregory was more and more conscious of keeping something from Karen, while more and more it grew difficult to keep anything from her. Already, if sub-consciously, she must have become aware that herguardian's unabated mournfulness did not affect her husband as it didherself. She had showed him no more of Tante's letters, and they hadbeen quite frequent. She had told him while they were in Scotland thatit had hurt Tante very much that they should not have waited till herreturn; but she did not enlarge on the theme; and Gregory knew why; toenlarge would have been to reproach him. Karen had yielded, against herown wishes, to his entreaties. She had agreed that their marriage shouldnot be so postponed at the last minute. In his vehemence Gregory hadbeen skilful; he had said not one word of reproach, against Madame vonMarwitz for her disconcerting change of plan. It was not surprising tohim; it was what he had expected of Madame von Marwitz, that she wouldput Karen aside for a whim. Karen would not see her guardian's action inthis light; yet she must know that her beloved was vulnerable to thecharge, at all events, of inconsiderateness, and she had been gratefulto him, no doubt, for showing no consciousness of it. She had consented, perhaps, partly through gratitude, though she had felt her pledged word, too, as binding. Once she had consented, whatever the results, Gregoryknew that she would not visit them on him. It was of her ownresponsibility that she was thinking when, with a grave face, she hadtold him of Tante's hurt. "After all, dearest, " Gregory had ventured, "we did want her, didn't we? It was really she who chose not to come, wasn't it?"

"I am sure that Tante wanted to see me married, " said Karen, touching onher own hidden wound. 

He helped her there, knowing, in his guile, that to exonerate Tante wasto help not only Karen but himself. "Of course; but she doesn't thinkthings out, does she? She is accustomed to having things arranged forher. I suppose she didn't a bit realise all that had been settled overhere, nor what an impatient lover it was who held you to your word. "

Her face cleared as he showed her that he recognised Tante's case as soexplicable. "I'm so glad that you see it all, " she said. "For you do. She is oh! so unpractical, poor darling; she would forget everything, you know, unless I or Mrs. Talcott were there to keep remindingher--except her music, of course; but that is like breathing to her. AndI am so sorry, so dreadfully sorry; because, of course, to know that shehurt me by not coming must hurt her more. But we will make it up to her. And oh! Gregory, only think, she says she may come and stay with us. "

One of her first exclamations on going over his flat with him was thatthey could put up Tante, if she would come. The drawing-room could bedevoted to her music; for there was ample room for the grandpiano--which accompanied Madame von Marwitz as invariably as hertooth-brush; and the spare-bedroom had a dressing-room attached thatwould do nicely for Louise. Now there seemed hope of this dream beingrealised. 

Karen had not yet received a wedding-present from her guardian, but inParis, on the homeward way, she heard that it had been dispatched fromNew York and would be awaiting her in London, and it was of this giftthat she had been talking as she and Gregory drove from the station toSt. James's on a warm October evening. Tante had not told her what thepresent was, but had written that Karen would care for it very much. "Tofind her present waiting for us is like having Tante to welcome us, "Karen said. After her surmise about the present she relapsed into happymusings and Gregory, too, was silent, able only to give a side-glance ofgratitude, as it were, at the thought that Tante was to welcome them byproxy. 

His mood was one of almost tremulous elation. He was bringing her homeafter bridal wanderings that had never lost their element of dream-likeunreality. There had always been the feeling that he might wake any dayto find Italy and Karen both equally illusory. But to see Karen in hishome, taking her place in his accustomed life, would be to feel his joylinking itself securely with reality. 

The look of London at this sunny hour of late afternoon and at thisautumnal season matched his consciousness of a tranquil metamorphosis. Idle still and empty of its more vivid significance, one yet felt in itthe soft stirrings of a re-entering tide of life. Cabs passed, piledwith brightly badged luggage; the drowsily reminiscent shop-windowsshowed here and there an adventurous forecast, and a house or two, amongthe rows of dumb, sleeping faces, opened wide eyes at the leisurelystreets. The pale, high pinks of the sky drooped and melted into thegreys and whites and buffs below, and blurred the heavy greens of thepark with falling veils of rose. The scene seemed drawn in flat delicatetones of pastel. 

Karen sat beside him in the cab and, while she gazed before her, she hadslipped her hand into his. She had preserved much of the look of theunmarried Karen in her dress. The difference was in the achievement ofan ideal rather than in a change. The line of her little grey travellinghat above her brows was still unusual; with her grey gloves and longgrey silken coat she had an air, cool, competent, prepared for anyemergency of travel. She would have looked equally appropriate dozingunder the hooded light in a railway carriage, taking her place at a_table d'hôte_ in a provincial French town, or walking in the wind andsun along a foreign _plage_. After looking at the London to which hebrought her, Gregory looked at her. Marriage had worked none of its evensuperficial disenchantments in him. After three months of intimacy, Karen still constantly arrested him with a sense of the undiscovered, the unforeseen. What it consisted in he could not have defined; she wassimple, even guileless, still; she had no reticences; yet she seemed toexpress so much of which she was unaware that he felt himself to becontinually making her acquaintance. That quiet slipping now of her handinto his, while her gaze maintained its calm detachment, the charm ofher mingled tenderness and independence, had its vague sting forGregory. She accepted him and whatever he might mean with something ofthe happy matter-of-fact with which she accepted all that was hers. Sheloved him with a completeness and selflessness that had made the worldsuddenly close round him with gentle arms; but Gregory often wondered ifshe were in love with him. Rapture, restlessness and fear all seemedalien to her, and to turn from thoughts of her and of their love toKaren herself was like passing from dreams of poignant, starry ecstasyto a clear, white dawn, with dew on the grass and a lark rising and thewaking sweetness of a world at once poetical and practical about one. She strengthened and stilled his passion for her. And she seemed unawareof passion. 

They arrived at the great, hive-like mansion and in the lift, which tookthem almost to the top, Karen, standing near him, again put her hand inhis and smiled at him. She was not feeling his tremor, but she waslimpidly happy and as conscious as he of an epoch-making moment. 

Barker opened the door to them, murmuring a decorous welcome and theywent down the passage towards the drawing-room. They must at onceinaugurate their home-coming, Gregory said, by going out on the balconyand looking at the view together. 

"I beg your pardon, sir, " said Barker, who followed after them, "but Ihope you and Mrs. Jardine will think it best what I've done with thelarge case, sir, that has come. I didn't know where you'd like it put, and it was a job getting it in anywhere. There wasn't room to leave itstanding here. "

"Tante's present!" Karen exclaimed. "Oh, where is it?"

"I had it put in the drawing-room, Ma'am, " said Barker. "It made a holein the wall and knocked down two prints, sir; I'm very sorry, but therewas no handling it conveniently. "

They turned down the next passage; the drawing-room was at the end. Gregory threw open the door and he and Karen paused upon the threshold. Standing in the middle of the room, high and dark against thehalf-obliterated windows, was a huge packing-case, an incredibly hugepacking-case. At a first glance it had blotted out the room. Thefurniture, huddled in the corners, seemed to have drawn back from theapparition, scared and startled, and Gregory, in confronting it, felt anactual twinge of fear. The vast, unexpected form loomed to hisimagination, for a moment, like a tidal-wave rising terrifically infamiliar surroundings and poised in menace above him and his wife. Hecontrolled an exclamation of dismay, and the ominous simile recededbefore a familiar indignation; that, too, he controlled; he could notsay: "How stupid!"

"Is it a piano?" Karen, after their long pause, asked in a hushed, tentative voice. 

"It's too high for a piano, darling, " said Gregory, who had her arm inhis--"and I have my little upright, you see. I can't imagine. "

"Shall I get the porter, sir, to help open it while you and Mrs. Jardinehave tea?" Barker asked. "I laid tea in the dining-room, Ma'am. "

"Yes; let us have it opened at once, " said Karen. "But I must be herewhen it is opened. " She drew her arm from Gregory's and made the tour ofthe case. "It is probably something very fragile and that is why it ispacked in such a great box; it cannot itself be so big. "

"Barker will begin peeling off the outer husks while we get ready fortea; we shall have plenty of time, " said Gregory. "Get the porter up atonce, Barker. I'm afraid your guardian has an exaggerated idea of thesize of our domain, darling. The present looks as if only baronial hallscould accommodate it. "

She glanced up at him while he led her to their room and he knew thatsomething in his voice struck her; he hadn't been able to control it andit sounded like ill-temper. Perhaps it was ill-temper. It was with afeeling of relief, and almost of escape, that he shut the door of theroom upon tidal-waves and put his arms around his wife. "Darling, " hesaid, "this is really it--at last--our home-coming. "

She returned his clasp and kiss with her frank, sweet fervour, though hesaw in her eyes a slight bewilderment. He insisted--he had often duringtheir travels been her maid--on taking off her hat and shoes for herbefore going into his adjoining dressing-room. Karen always protested. "It is so dear and foolish; I am so used to waiting on myself; I am sounused to being the fine idle lady. " And she protested now, adding, ashe knelt before her, and putting her hand on his head: "And besides, Ibelieve that in some ways I am stronger than you. It should not be youto take care of me. "

"Stronger? In what ways? Upon my word, Madam!" Gregory exclaimed smilingup at her, "Do you know that I was one of the best men of my time atOxford?"

"I don't mean in body, I mean in feelings, in nerves, " said Karen. "Itis more like Tante. "

He wondered, while in his little dressing-room he splashed restoringlyin hot water, what she quite did mean. Did she guess at the queer, morbid moment that had struck at his blissful mood? It was indeeddisconcerting to have her find him like Tante. 

"Do you mind, " said Karen, when he joined her again, smiling at him andclasping her hands in playful entreaty, "seeing at once what the presentis before we have tea? I do not know how I could eat tea while I had notseen it. "

"Mind? I'm eager to see it, too, " said Gregory, with a pang ofself-reproach. "Of course we must wait tea. "

The porter, in the passage, was carrying away the outer boards of thepacking-case and in the drawing-room they found Barker, knee deep instraw, ripping the heavy sacking covering that enveloped a muchdiminished but still enormous parcel. 

Gregory came to his aid. They drew forth fine shavings and unwrappedlayers of paper, neatly secured; slowly the core of the mysterydisclosed itself in a temple-like form with a roof of dull black lacquerand dimly gilded inner walls, a thickly swathed figure wedged betweenthem. The gift was, they now perceived, a Chinese Bouddha in his shrine, and, as Gregory and Barker disengaged the figure and laid it upon theground, amusement, though still of an acrid sort, overcame Gregory'svexation. "A Bouddha, upon my word!" he said. "This is a gorgeous gift. "

Karen stooped to help unroll as if from a mummy, the multitudinousbandages of fine paper; the passive bronze visage of the idol wasrevealed, and by degrees, the seated figure, ludicrously prone. Theymoved the temple to the end of the room, where two pictures were takendown and a sofa pushed away to make room for it; the Bouddha washoisted, with difficulty, on to its lotus, and there, dark on itsglimmering background of gold, it sat and ambiguously blessed them. 

Karen had worked with them neatly and expeditionary, and in silence, andGregory, glancing at her face from time to time, felt sure that she wasadjusting herself to a mingled bewilderment and disappointment; to thewish also, that she might be worthy of her new possession. She stood nowbefore the Bouddha and gazed at it. 

They had turned up the electric lights, but the curtains were not drawnand the scent, and light, and vague, diffused roar of London at thisevening hour came in at the open windows. Barker, the porter and thehousemaid were carrying away the litter of paper and straw. The brightcheerful room with its lovable banality and familiar comfort smiled itswelcome; and there, in the midst, the majestic and alien presence sat, overpowering, and grotesque in its inappropriateness. 

Karen now turned her eyes on her husband and slightly smiled. "It isvery wonderful, " she said, "but I feel as if Tante expected a great dealof me in giving it to me--a great deal more than is in me. It ought tobe a very deep and mystic person to have that Bouddha. "

"Yes, it's a wonderful thing; quite awesome. Perhaps she expects you tobecome deep and mystic, " said Gregory. "Please don't. "

"There is no danger of that, " said Karen. "Of course it is the beauty ofit and the strangeness, that made Tante care for it. It is the sort ofthing she would love to have herself. "

"Where on earth is he to go?" Gregory surmised. "Yes, he might look wellin that big music-room at Les Solitudes, or in some vast hall where hewould be more of an episode and less of a white elephant. I hardly thinghe'll fit anywhere into the passage, " he ventured. 

Karen had been looking from him to the Bouddha. "But Gregory, of coursehe must stay here, " she said, "in the room we live in. Tante, I am sure, meant that. " Her voice had a tremor. "I am sure it would hurt herdreadfully if we put him out of the way. "

Barker was now gone and Gregory put his arm around her. "But it makesall the room wrong, doesn't it? It will make us all wrong--that's what Irather feel. We aren't _à la hauteur_. " He remembered, after speakingthem, that these were the words he had used of his one colloquy withMadame von Marwitz. 

"I don't think, " said Karen after a moment, "that you are quite kind. "

"Darling--I'm only teasing you, " said Gregory. "I'll like the thing ifyou want me to, and make offerings to him every morning--he looks inneed of sacrifices and offerings, doesn't he? And what a queer Orientalscent is in the air. Rather nice, that. "

"Please don't call it the 'thing, '" said Karen. He saw into her dividedloyalty. And his comfort was to know that she didn't like the Bouddhaeither. 

"I won't, " he promised. "It isn't a thing, but a duty, a privilege, aresponsibility. He shall stay here, where he is. He really won't crowdus too impossibly, and that sofa can go. "

"You see, " said Karen, and tears now came to her eyes, "it would hurther so dreadfully if she could dream that we did not love it very, verymuch. "

"I know, " said Gregory, kissing her. "I perfectly understand. We willlove it very, very much. Come now, you must be hungry; let us have ourtea. "

CHAPTER XVII

Madame von Marwitz sat in the deep chintz sofa with Karen beside her, and while she talked to the young couple, Karen's hand in hers, her eyescontinually went about the room with an expression that did not seem tomatch her alert, if rather mechanical, conversation. Karen had alreadyseen her, the day before, when she had gone to the station to meet herand had driven with her to Mrs. Forrester's. But Miss Scrotton had beenthere, too, almost tearful in her welcoming back of her great friend, and there had been little opportunity for talk in the carriage. Tantehad smiled upon her, deeply, had held her hand, closely, and had asked, with the playful air which forestalls gratitude, how she liked herpresent. "You will see it, my Scrotton; a Bouddha in his shrine--of thebest period; a thing really rare and beautiful. Mr. Asprey told me ofit, at a sale in New York; and I was able to secure it. _Hein, mapetite_; you were pleased?"

"Oh, Tante, my letter told you that, " said Karen. 

"And your husband? He was pleased?"

"He thought that it was gorgeous, " said Karen, but after a momentaryhesitation not lost upon her guardian. 

"I was sorely tempted to keep it myself, " said Madame von Marwitz. "Icould see it in the music-room at Les Solitudes. But at once I felt--itis Karen's. My only anxiety was for its background. I have never seenMr. Jardine's flat. But I knew that I could trust the man my child hadchosen to have beauty about him. "

"It isn't exactly a beautiful room, " Karen confessed, smiling. "It isn'tlike the music-room; you won't expect that from a London flat--or fromus. But it is very bright and comfortable and, yes, pretty. I hope thatyou will like my home. "

Miss Scrotton, Karen felt, while she made these preparatory statements, had eyed her in a somewhat gaunt manner; but she was accustomed to agaunt manner from Miss Scrotton, and Miss Scrotton's drawing-room, certainly, was not as nice as Gregory's. Karen had not cared at all forits quality of earnest effort. Miss Scrotton, not many years ago, hadbeen surrounded with art-tinted hangings and photographs from Rossetti, and the austerity of her eighteenth-century reaction was now almostdefiant. Her drawing-room, in its arid chastity, challenged you, as itwere, to dare remember the æsthetics of South Kensington. 

Karen did not feel that Gregory's drawing-room required apologies andTante had been so mild and sweet, if also a little absent, that shetrusted her to show leniency. 

She had, as yet, to-day, said nothing about the Bouddha or thebackground on which she found him. She talked to Gregory, while theywaited for tea, asking him a great many questions, not seeming, always, to listen to his answers. "Ah, yes. Well done. Bravo, " she said atintervals, as he told her about their wedding-trip and how he and Karenhad enjoyed this or that. When Barker brought in the tea-tray and set iton a little table before Karen, she took up one of the cups--they wereof an old English ware with a wreath of roses inside and lines of halfobliterated gilt--and said--it was her first comment on thebackground--"_Tiens, c'est joli. _ Is this one of your presents, Karen?"

Karen told her that the tea-set was not a present; it had belonged to agreat-grandmother of Gregory's. 

Madame von Marwitz continued to examine the cup and, as she set it downamong the others, with the deliberate nicety of gesture that gave atonce power and grace to her slightest movement, she said: "You werefortunate in your great-grandmother, Mr. Jardine. "

Her voice, her glance, her gestures, were already affecting Gregoryunpleasantly. There was in them a quality of considered control, asthough she recognised difficulty and were gently and warily evading it. Seated on his chintz sofa in the bright, burnished room, all in white, with a white lace head-dress, half veil, half turban, binding her hairand falling on her shoulders, she made him think, in herinappropriateness and splendour, of her own Bouddha, who, in hisglimmering shrine, lifted his hand as if in a gesture of bland exorcismbefore which the mirage of a vulgar and trivial age must presently fadeaway. The Bouddha looked permanent and the room looked transient; theonly thing in it that could stand up against him, as it were, was Karen. To her husband's eye, newly aware of æsthetic discriminations, Karenseemed to interpret and justify her surroundings, to show theircommonplace as part of their charm and to make the Bouddha and Madamevon Marwitz herself, in all their portentous distinction, look likeincidental ornaments. 

Madame von Marwitz's silence in regard to the Bouddha had already becomea blight, but it was, perhaps, the growing crisp decision in Gregory'smanner that made Karen first aware of constraint. Her eyes then turnedfrom Tante to the shrine at the end of the room, and she said: "Youdon't care for the way it looks here, Tante, do you--your present?"

Madame von Marwitz had finished her tea and she turned in the sofa sothat she could consider the Bouddha no longer incidentally butdecisively. "I am glad that it is yours, _ma chérie_, " she said, afterthe pause of her contemplation. "Some day you must place it morehappily. You don't intend, do you, Mr. Jardine, to live for any lengthof time in these rooms?"

"Oh, but I like it here so much, Tante, " Karen took upon herself thereply. "I want to go on living where Gregory has lived for so long. Wehave such a view, you see; and such air. "

Madame von Marwitz mused upon her for a moment and then giving her china little pinch, half meditative, half caressing, she inquired, withContinental frankness: "A very pretty sentiment, _ma petite_, but whatwill you do when the babies come?"

Karen was not disconcerted. "I rather hope we may not have babies for ayear or two, Tante; and when they do come there will be room, quitehappily, for several. You don't know how big the flat is; you will see. Gregory has always been able to put up his married sister and herhusband; that gives us one quite big room over and a small one. "

"But then you can have no friends if your rooms are full of babies, "Madame von Marwitz objected, still with mild playfulness. 

"No, " Karen had to admit it; "but while they were very small I do notthink I should have much time for friends in the house, should I. And wethink, Gregory and I, of soon taking a tiny cottage in the country, too. "

"Then, while you remain here, and unless my Bouddha is to look veryfoolish, " said Madame von Marwitz, "you must, I think, change yourdrawing-room. It can be changed, " she gazed about her with a touch ofwildness. "Something could be done. It could be darkened; quieted; ittalks too much and too loudly now, does it not? But you could move theseso large chairs and couches away and have sober furniture, of a goodperiod; one can still pick up good things if one is clever; a Chinesescreen here and there; a fine old mirror; a touch of splendour; aflavour of dignity. The shape of the room is not impossible; theoutlook, as you say, gives space and breathing; something could bedone. "

Karen's gaze followed hers, cogitating but not acquiescent. "But yousee, Tante, " she remarked, "these are things that Gregory has livedwith. And I like them so, too. I should not like them changed. "

"But they are not things that you have lived with, _parbleu_!" saidMadame von Marwitz laughing gently. "It is a pretty sentiment, _mapetite_, it does you honour; you are--but oh! so deeply--the wife, already, are you not, my Karen? but I am sure that your husband will notwish you to sacrifice your taste to your devotion. Young men, many ofthem do not care for these domestic matters; do not see them. My Karenmust not pretend to me that she does not care and see. I am right, am Inot, Mr. Jardine? you would not wish to deprive Karen of the bride'sdistinctive pleasure--the furnishing of her own nest. "

Gregory's eyes met hers;--it seemed to be their second longencounter;--eyes like jewels, these of Madame von Marwitz; full ofintense life, intense colour, still, bright and cold, tragically cold. He seemed to see suddenly that all the face--the long eyebrows, with theplaintive ripple of irregularity bending their line, the languid lips, the mournful eyelids, the soft contours of cheek and throat, --were aveil for the coldness of her eyes. To look into them was like comingsuddenly through dusky woods to a lonely mountain tarn, lying fathomlessand icy beneath a moonlit sky. Gregory was aware, as if newly and morestrongly than before, of how ambiguous was her beauty, how sinister hercoldness. 

Above the depths where these impressions were received was hisconsciousness that he must be careful if Karen were not to guess howmuch he was disliking her guardian. It was not difficult for him tosmile at a person he disliked, but it was difficult not to smilesardonically. This was an apparently trivial occasion on which to feelthat it was a contest that she had inaugurated between them; but he didfeel it. "Karen knows that she can burn everything in the room as far asI'm concerned, " he said. "Even your Bouddha, " he added, smiling a littlemore nonchalantly, "I'd gladly sacrifice if it gave her pleasure. "

Nothing was lost upon Madame von Marwitz, of that he was convinced. Shesaw, perhaps, further than he did; for he did not see, nor wish to, beyond the moment of guarded hostility. And it was with the utmostgentleness and precaution, with, indeed, the air of one who draws softlyaside from a sleeping viper found upon the path, that she answered: "Itrust, indeed, that it may never be my Karen's pleasure, or yours, Mr. Jardine, to destroy what is precious; that would hurt me very much. Andnow, child, may I not see the rest of this beloved domain?" She turnedfrom him to Karen. 

Gregory rose; he had told Karen that he would leave them alone aftertea; he had letters to write and he would see Madame von Marwitz beforeshe went. He had the sense, as he closed the door, of flying beforetemptation. What might he not say to Madame von Marwitz if he saw toomuch of her?

When she and Karen were left alone, Madame von Marwitz's expressionchanged. The veils of lightness fell away; her face became profoundlymelancholy; she gazed in silence at Karen and then held out her arms toher; Karen came closer and was enfolded in their embrace. 

"My child, my child, " said Madame von Marwitz, leaning, as was her wontat these moments, her forehead against Karen's cheek. 

"Dear Tante, " said Karen. "You are not sad?" she murmured. 

"Sad?" her guardian repeated after a moment. "Am I ever anything butsad? But it is not of my sadness that I wish to speak. It is of you. Areyou happy, my dear one?"

"Oh, Tante--so happy, so very happy; more than I can say. "

"Is it so?" Madame von Marwitz lifted her head and stroked back thegirl's hair. "Is it so indeed? He loves you very much, Karen?"

"Oh, yes, Tante. "

"It is a great love? selfless? passionate? It is a love worthy of mychild?"

"Yes, indeed. " A slight austerity was now apparent in Karen's tone. Silence fell between them for a moment, and then, stroking again thegolden head, Madame von Marwitz continued, with great tenderness; "It iswell. It is what I have prayed for--for my child. And let me not castone shadow, even of memory, upon your happiness. Yet ah--ah Karen--ifyou could have let me share in the sunshine a little. If you could haveremembered how dark was my way, how lonely. That my child should havemarried without me. It hurts. It hurts--"

She did not wish to cast a shadow, yet she was weeping, the silent, undisfigured weeping that Karen knew so well, showing only in the slowwelling of tears from darkened eyes. 

"Oh, Tante, " Karen now leaned her head to her guardian's shoulder, "Idid not dream you would mind so much. It was so difficult to know whatto do. "

"Have I shown myself so indifferent to you in the past, my Karen, thatyou should have thought I would not mind?"

"I do not mean that, Tante. I thought that you would feel that it waswhat it was best for me to do. I had given my word. All the plans weremade. "

"You had given your word? Would he not have let you put me before yourword? For once? For that one time in all our lives?"

"It was not that, Tante. Gregory would have done what I wished. You mustnot think that I was forced in any way. " Karen now had raised her head. "But we had waited for you. We thought that you were coming. It was onlyat the last moment that you let us know, Tante, and you did not even saywhen you were coming back. "

Madame von Marwitz kept silence for some moments after this, savouringperhaps in the words--though Karen's eyes, in speaking them, had alsofilled with tears--some hint of resistance. She looked away from thegirl, keeping her hand in hers, as she said: "I could not come. I couldnot tell you when I was to come. There were reasons that bound me; ties;claims; a tangle of troubled human lives--the threads passing through myfingers. No; I was not free; and there I would have had you trust me. No, no, my Karen, we will speak of it no farther. I understand younghearts--they are forgetful; they cannot dwell on the shadowed places. Let us put it aside, the great grief. What surprises me is to find thatthe littlest, littlest ones cling so closely. I am foolish, Karen. Ihave had much to bear lately, and I cannot shake off the little griefs. That others than myself should have chosen my child's trousseau; oh, itis small--so very small a thing; yet it hurts; it hurts. That the joy ofseeking all the pretty clothes together--that, that, too, should havebeen taken from me. Do not weep, child. "

"Tante, you could not come, and the things had to be made ready. Theyall--Mrs. Forrester--Betty--seemed to feel there was no time to lose. And I have always chosen my own clothes; I did not know that you wouldfeel this so. "

"Betty? Who is Betty?" Madame von Marwitz mournfully yet alertlyinquired. 

"Lady Jardine, Gregory's sister-in-law. You remember, Tante, I havewritten of her. She has been so kind. "

"Betty, " Madame von Marwitz repeated, sadly. "Yes, I remember; she wasat your wedding, I think. There, dry your eyes, child. I understand. Itis a loving heart, but it forgot. The sad old Tante was crowded out bynew friends--new joys. "

"No, you must not say that, Tante. It is not true. "

The hardness that Madame von Marwitz knew how to interpret was showingitself on Karen's face, despite the tears. Her guardian rose, passingher arm around her shoulders. "It is not true, then, _chérie_. When oneis very sad one is foolish. Ah, I know it; one imagines too quicklythings that are not true. They float and then they cling, like the tinybarbed down of the thistle, and then, behold, one's brain is choked withthorny weeds. That is how it comes, my Karen. Forgive me. There; kissme. "

"Darling Tante, " Karen murmured, clasping her closely. "Nothing, nothingcrowded you out. Nothing could ever crowd you out. Say that you believeme. Say that all the thistles are rooted up and thrown away. "

"Rooted up and burned--burned root and branch, my child. I promise it. Itrust my child; she is mine; my loving one. _Ainsi soit-il. _ And now, "Madame von Marwitz spoke with sudden gaiety, "and now show me your home, my Karen, show me all over this home of yours to which already you areso attached. Ah--it is a child in love!"

They went from room to room, their arms around each other's waists. Madame von Marwitz cast her spell over Mrs. Barker in the kitchen, andsmiled a long smile upon Rose, the housemaid. "Yes, yes, very nice, verypretty, " she said, in the spare-room, the little dressing-room, thedining-room and kitchen. In Karen's room, with its rose-budded chintzand many photographs of herself, of Gregory, she paused and lookedabout. "Very, very pretty, " she repeated. "You like bedsteads of brass, my Karen?"

"Yes, Tante. They look so clean and bright. "

"So clean and bright. I do not think that I could sleep in brass, "Madame von Marwitz mused. "But it is a simple child. "

"Yes, that is just it, Tante, " said Karen, smiling. "And I wanted toexplain to you about the drawing-room. You see it is that; I am simple;not a sea-anemone of taste, like you. I quite well see things. I seethat Les Solitudes is beautiful, and that this is not like LesSolitudes. Yet I like it here just as it is. "

"Because it is his, is it not so, my child-in-love? Ah, she must not beteased. You can be happy, then, among so much brass?--so many thingsthat glitter and are highly coloured?"

"Yes, indeed. And it is a pretty bedroom, Tante. You must say that it isa pretty bedroom?"

"Is it? Must I? Pretty? Yes, no doubt it is pretty. Yet I could havewished that my Karen's nest had more distinction, expressed a finersense of personality. I imagine that every young woman in this vastbeehive of homes has just such a bedroom. "

"You think so, Tante? I am afraid that if you think this likeeverybody's room you will find Gregory's library even worse. You mustsee that now; it is all that you have not seen. " Karen took her lastbull by the horns, leading her out. 

"Has it red wall-paper, sealing-wax red; with racing prints on the wallsand a very large photograph over the mantelpiece of a rowing-crew atOxford?" Madame von Marwitz questioned with a mixture of roguishness andresignation. 

"Yes, yes, you wicked Tante. How did you know?"

"I know; I see it, " said Madame von Marwitz. "But a man's room expressesa man's past. One cannot complain of that. "

They went to the library. Madame von Marwitz had described it withsingular accuracy. Gregory rose from his letters and his eyes went fromher face to Karen's, both showing their traces of tears. 

"It is _au revoir_, then, " said Madame von Marwitz, standing before him, her arm round Karen's shoulders. "I am happy in my child's happiness, Mr. Jardine. You have made her happy, and I thank you. You will lend herto me, sometimes? You will be generous with me and let me see her?"

"Of course; whenever you want to; whenever she wants to, " said Gregory, leaning his hands on the back of his chair and tilting it a little whilehe smiled the fullest acquiescence. 

Madame von Marwitz's eyes brooded on him. "That is kind, " she saidgently. 

"Oh no, it isn't, " Gregory returned. 

"I think, " said Madame von Marwitz, becoming even more gentle, "that youmisunderstand my meaning. When people love, it is hard sometimes not tobe selfish in the joy of love, and the lesser claims tend to beforgotten. I only ask that you should make it easy for Karen to come tome. "

To this Gregory did not reply. He continued to tilt his chair and tosmile at Madame von Marwitz. 

"This husband of yours, Karen, " said Madame von Marwitz, "does notunderstand me yet. You must interpret me to him. Adieu, Mr. Jardine. Will you come with me alone to the door, Karen. It is our first farewellin a home I do not give you. "

She gave Gregory her hand. They left him and went down the passagetogether. Madame von Marwitz kept her arm round the girl's shoulders, but its grasp had tightened. 

"My child! my own child!" she murmured, as, at the door, she turned andclasped her. Her voice strove with deep emotion. 

"Dear, dear Tante, " said Karen, also with a faltering voice. 

Madame von Marwitz achieved an uncertain smile. "Farewell, my dear one. I bless you. My blessing be upon you. " Then, on the threshold shepaused. "Try to make your husband like me a little, my Karen, " she said. 

Karen did not come back to him in the smoking-room and Gregory presentlygot up and went to look for her. He found her in the drawing-room, sitting in the twilight, her elbow on her knee, her chin in her hand. Hedid not know what she could be feeling; the fact that dominated in hisown mind was that her guardian had made her weep. 

"Well, darling, " he said. He stooped over her and put his hand on hershoulder. 

The face she lifted to him was ambiguous. She had not wept again; on thecontrary, he felt sure that she had been intently thinking. The resultof her thought, now, was a look of resolute serenity. But he was surethat she did not feel serene. For the first time, Karen was hiding herfeeling from him. "Well, darling, " she replied. 

She got up and put her arms around his neck; she looked at him, smilingcalmly; then, as if struck by a sudden memory, she said: "It is thenight of the dance, Gregory. "

They were to dine at Edith Morton's and go on to Karen's first dance. Under Betty's supervision she had already made progress throughhalf-a-dozen lessons, though she had not, she confessed to Gregory, greatly distinguished herself at them. "_I'll_ get you round all right, "he had promised her. They looked forward to the dance. 

"So it is, " said Gregory. "It's not time to dress yet, is it?"

"It's only half-past six. Shall I wear my white silk, Gregory, with thelittle white rose wreath?"

"Yes, and the nice little square-toed white silk shoes--like a Reynoldslady's--and like nobody else's. I do so like your square toes. "

"I cannot bear pinched toes, " said Karen. "My father gave me a horror ofthat; and Tante. Her feet are as perfect as her hands. She has all hershoes made for her by a wonderful old man in Vienna who is an artist inshoes. She was looking well, wasn't she, Tante?" Karen added, in eventones. Gregory and she were sitting now on the sofa together, their armslinked and hand-in-hand. 

"Beautiful, " said Gregory with sincerity. "How well that odd head-dressbecame her. "

"Didn't it? It was nice that she liked those pretty teacups, wasn't it. And appreciated our view; even though, " Karen smiled, taking now anotherbull by the horns, "she was so hard on our flat. I'm afraid she feelsher Bouddha _en travestie_ here. "

"Well, he is, of course. I do hope, " said Gregory, also seizing hisbull, "that she didn't think me rude in my joke about being willing toburn him. And you will change everything--burn anything--barring theBouddha and the teacups--that you want to, won't you, dear?"

"No; I wouldn't, even if I wanted to; and I don't want to. Perhaps Tantedid not quite understand. I think it may take a little time for her tounderstand your jokes or you her outspokenness. She is like a child inher candour about the things she likes or dislikes. " A fuller ease hadcome to her voice. By her brave pretence that all was well she waspersuading herself that all could be made well. 

Perhaps it might be, thought Gregory, if only he could go on keeping histemper with Madame von Marwitz and if Karen, wise and courageousdarling, could accept the unspoken between them, and spare himdefinitions and declarations. A situation undefined is so often asituation saved. Life grows over and around it. It becomes a meremummied fly, preserved in amber; unsightly perhaps; but unpernicious. After all, he told himself--and he went on thinking over the incidentsof the afternoon while he dressed--after all, Madame von Marwitz mightnot be much in London; she was a comet and her course would lead herstreaming all over the world for the greater part of her time. And aboveall and mercifully, Madame von Marwitz was not a person upon whoseaffections one would have to count. He seemed to have found out allsorts of things about her this afternoon: he could have given Sargentpoints. The main strength of her feeling for anyone, deep instinct toldhim, was an insatiable demand that they should feel sufficiently forher. And the chief difficulty--he refused to dignify it by the name ofdanger--was that Madame von Marwitz had her deep instincts, too, andhad, no doubt, found out all sorts of things about him. He did not likeher; he had not liked her from the first; and she could hardly fail tofeel that he liked her less and less. He was able to do Madame vonMarwitz justice. Even a selflessly devoted mother could hardly rejoicewholeheartedly in the marriage of a daughter to a man who dislikedherself; and how much less could Madame von Marwitz, who was not amother and not selflessly devoted to anybody, rejoice in Karen'smarriage. She was right in feeling that it menaced her own position. Hedid her justice; he made every allowance for her; he intended to bestraight with her; but the fact that stood out for Gregory was that, already, she was not straight with him. Already she was pickingsurreptitiously, craftily, at his life; and this was to pick at Karen's. 

He would give her a long string and make every allowance for thevexations of her situation; but if she began seriously to tarnishKaren's happiness he would have to pull the string smartly. Thedifficulty--he refused to see this as danger either--was that he couldnot pull the string upon Madame von Marwitz without, by the samegesture, upsetting himself as well. 

CHAPTER XVIII

The unspoken, for the first month or so of Madame von Marwitz's return, remained accepted. There were no declarations and no definitions, andGregory's immunity was founded on something more reassuring than themere fact that Madame von Marwitz frequently went away. When she was inLondon, it became apparent, he was to see very little of her, and aslong as they did not meet too often he felt that he was, in so far, safe. Madame von Marwitz was tremendously busy. She paid many week-endvisits; she sat to Belot--who had come to London to paint it--for agreat portrait; she was to give three concerts in London during thewinter and two in Paris, and it was natural enough that she had notfound time to come to the flat again. 

But although Gregory saw so little of her, although she was not in hislife as a presence, he felt her in it as an influence. She might havebeen the invisible but portentous comet moving majestically on the farconfines of his solar system; and one accounted for oddities ofbehaviour in the visible planets by inferring that the comet was thecause of them. If he saw very little of Madame von Marwitz, he saw, too, much less of his twin planet, Karen. It was not so much that Karen'scourse was odd as that it was altered. If Madame von Marwitz sent forher very intermittently, she had, all the same, in all her life, as shetold Gregory, never seen so much of her guardian. She frankly displayedto him the radiance of her state, wishing him, as he guessed, to shareto the full every detail of her privileges, and to realise to the fullher gratitude to him for proving so conclusively to Tante that there wasnone of the selfishness of love in him. Tante must see that he made itvery easy for her to go to her, and Gregory derived his own secretsatisfaction from the thought that Karen's radiance was the best ofretorts to Madame von Marwitz's veiled intimations. As long as she madeKaren happy and let him alone, he seemed to himself to tell her, hewould get on very well; and he suspected that her clutch of Karen wouldsoon loosen when she found it unchallenged. In the meantime there wasnot much satisfaction for him elsewhere. Karen's altered course left himoften lonely. Not only had the readings of Political Economy, begun withso much ardour in in their spare evenings, almost lapsed for lack ofconsecutiveness; but he frequently found on coming home tired for histea, and eager for the sight of his wife, a little note from her tellinghim that she had been summoned to Mrs. Forrester's as Tante was "withFafner in his cave" and wanted her. 

Fafner was the name that Madame von Marwitz gave to her moods ofsometimes tragic and sometimes petulant melancholy. Karen had told himall about Fafner and how, in the cave, Tante would lie sometimes forlong hours, silent, her eyes closed, holding her hand; sometimes askingher to read to her, English, French, German or Italian poetry; theirrange of reading always astonished Gregory. 

He gathered, too, from Karen's confidences, how little, until now, hehad gauged the variety of the great woman's resources, how little donejustice to her capacity for being merely delightful. She could bewhimsically gay in the midst of melancholy, and her jests and merrimentwere the more touching, the more exquisite, from the fact that theyflowered upon the dark background of the cave. It was, he saw, with aricher flavour that Karen tasted again the charm of old days, when, after some great musical or social event, in which the girl had playedher part of contented observer, they had laughed together over folliesand appreciated qualities, in the familiar language of allusion evolvedfrom long community in experience. 

Karen repeated to him Tante's sallies at the expense of this or thatperson and the phrase with which she introduced these transformations ofhuman foolishness to the service of comedy. "Come, let us make_méringues_ of them. "

The dull or ludicrous creatures, so to be whipped up and baked crisp, revealed, in the light of the analogy, the tempting vacuity of a bowl ofwhite of egg. When Tante introduced her wit into the colourlesssubstance she frothed it to a sparkling work of art. 

Gregory was aware sometimes of a pang as he listened. He and Karen had, indeed, their many little jokes, and their stock of common associationwas growing; but there was nothing like the range of reference, nothinglike the variety of experience, that her life with Madame von Marwitzhad given her to draw upon. It was to her companionship, intermittent asit had been, with the world-wandering genius that she owed the securityof judgment that often amused yet often disconcerted him, thecatholicity of taste beside which, though he would not acknowledge itsfinal validity, he felt his own taste to be sometimes narrow andsometimes guileless. He saw that Karen had every ground for feeling herown point of view a larger one than his. It was no personal complacencythat her assurance expressed, but the modest recognition of privilege. Beyond their personal tie, so her whole demeanour showed him, he hadnothing to add to her highly dowered life. 

Gregory had known that his world would mean nothing to Karen; yet when, under Betty's guidance, she fulfilled her social duties, dined out, gavedinners, received and returned visits, the very compliance of herindifference, while always amusing, vexed him a little, and a littlealarmed him, too. He had known that he would have to make all theadjustments, but how adjust oneself to a permanent separation betweenone's private and one's social life? Old ties, lacking new elements ofgrowth, tended to become formalities. When Karen was not there, he didnot care to go without her to see people, and when she was with him thevery charm of her personality was a barrier between him and them. Hislife became narrower as well as lonelier. There was nothing much to bedone with people to whom one's wife was indifferent. 

It was very obvious to him that she found the sober, conventional peoplewho were his friends very flavourless, especially when she came to themfrom Fafner's cave. He had always taken his friends for granted, as partof the pleasant routine of life, like one's breakfast or one's bath; butnow, seeing them anew, through Karen's eyes, he was inclined more andmore to believe that they weren't as dull as she found them. She lackedthe fundamental experience of a rooted life. She was yet to learn--hehoped, he determined, she should learn--that a social system ofharmonious people, significant perhaps more because of their places inthe system than as units, and bound together by a highly evolved code, was, when all was said and done, a more satisfactory place in which tospend one's life than an anarchic world of erratic, undisciplined, independent individuals. Karen, however, did not understand the use ofthe system and she saw its members with eyes as clear to their defectsas were Gregory's to the defects of Madame von Marwitz. 

Gregory's friends belonged to that orderly and efficient section of thenation that moves contentedly between the simply professional and theultra fashionable. They had a great many duties, social, political anddomestic, which they took with a pleasant seriousness, and a great manypleasures which they took seriously, too. They "came up" from the quietresponsibilities of the country-side for a season and "did" the concertsand exhibitions as they "did" their shopping and their balls. Art, tomost of them, was a thing accepted on authority, like the latest cut forsleeves or the latest fashion for dressing the hair. A few of them, likethe Cornish Lavingtons, had never heard Madame Okraska; a great many ofthem had never heard of Belot. The Madame Okraskas and the Belots of theworld were to them a queer, alien people, regarded with only a mild, derivative interest. They recognized the artist as a decorativeappurtenance of civilized life, very much as they recognized the dentistor the undertaker as its convenient appurtenances. It still struck themas rather strange that one should meet artists socially and, perhaps, asrather regrettable, their traditional standard of good faith requiringthat the people one met socially should, on the whole, be people whomone wouldn't mind one's sons and daughters marrying; and they didn'tconceive of artists as entering that category. 

Gregory, with all his acuteness, did not gauge the astonishment withwhich Karen came to realize these standards of his world. Her cheerfulevenness of demeanour was a cloak, sometimes for indignation andsometimes for mirth. She could only face the fact that this world must, in a sense, be hers, by relegating it and all that it meant to themerest background in their lives. Her real life consisted in Gregory; inTante. All that she had to do with these people--oh, so nice and kindthey were, she saw that well, but oh so stupid, most of them, soinconceivably blind to everything of value in life--all that she had todo was, from time to time, to open their box, their well-padded, well-provendered box, and look at them pleasantly. She felt sure thatfor Gregory's sake, if not for theirs, she should always be able to lookpleasantly; unless--she had been afraid of this sometimes--they shouldsay or do things that in their blindness struck at Tante and at therealities that Tante stood for. But all had gone so well, so Karenbelieved, that she felt no misgivings when Tante expressed a wish tolook into the box with her and said, "You must give a littledinner-party for me, my Karen, so that I may see your new _milieu_. "

Gregory controlled a dry little grimace when Karen reported this speechto him. He couldn't but suspect Tante's motives in wanting them to givea little dinner-party for her. But he feigned the most genial interestin the plan and agreed with Karen that they must ask their very nicestto meet Tante. 

Betty had helped Karen with all her dinners; she had seen as yet verylittle of the great woman, and entered fully into Karen's eagerness thateverything should be very nice. 

"Gregory will take her in, " said Betty; "and we'll put Bertram Fraser onher other side. He's always delightful. And we'll have theCanning-Thompsons and the Overtons and the Byngs; the Byngs are sodecorative!" Constance Armytage was now Mrs. Byng. 

"And my dear old General, " said Karen, sitting at her desk with a paperon her knee and an obedient pencil in her hand; "I forget his name, butwe met him at the dinner that you gave after we married; you know, Betty, with the thin russet face and the little blue eyes. May he takeme in?"

"General Montgomery. Yes; that is a good idea; glorious old man. ThoughLady Montgomery is rather a stodge, " said Betty; "but Oliver can haveher. "

"I remember, a sleek, small head--like a turtle--with salmon-pinkfeathers on it. Poor Oliver. Will he mind?"

"Not a bit. He never minds anything but the dinner; and with Mrs. Barkerwe can trust to that. "

"Tante often likes soldiers, " said Karen, pleased with her good idea. "Our flags, she says, they are, and that the world would bedrab-coloured without them. "

So it was arranged. Bertram Fraser was an old family friend of theJardines'. His father was still the rector of their Northumberlandparish, and he and Gregory and Oliver had hunted and fished and shot andgone to Oxford together. Bertram had been a traveller in strangecountries since those days, had written one or two clever books and wasnow in Parliament. The Overtons, also country neighbours, were fond ofmusic as well as of hunting, and Mr. Canning-Thompson was an eminent, ifrather ponderous, Q. C. , for whose wife, the gentle and emaciated LadyMary, Gregory had a special affection. She was a great philanthropistand a patient student of early Italian art, and he and she talkedgardens and pictures together. 

Betty and Oliver were the first to arrive on the festal night, Betty'sefficiency, expressed by all her diamonds and a dress of rose-colouredvelvet, making up for whatever there might be of inefficiency in Karen'sappearance and deportment. Karen was still, touchingly so to herhusband's eyes, the little Hans Andersen heroine in appearance. She woreto-night the white silk dress and the wreath of little white roses. 

Oliver and Gregory chatted desultorily until the Byngs arrived. Oliverwas fair and ruddy and his air of dozing contentment was alwaysvexatious to his younger brother. He had every reason for contentment. Betty's money had securely buttressed the family fortunes and he hadthree delightful little boys to buttress Betty's money. Gregory grew alittle out of temper after talking for five minutes to Oliver and thiswas not a fortunate mood in which to realise, as the Montgomerys, theOvertons and the Canning-Thompsons followed the Byngs, at eight-fifteen, that Madame von Marwitz was probably going to be late. At eight-thirty, Karen, looking at him with some anxiety expressed in her raised brows, silently conveyed to him her fear that the soup, at the very least, would be spoiled. At eight-forty Betty murmured to Karen that they hadperhaps better begin without Madame von Marwitz--hadn't they? She must, for some reason, be unable to come. Dinner was for eight. "Oh, but wemust wait longer, " said Karen. "She would have telephoned--or Mrs. Forrester would--if she had not been coming. Tante is always late; butalways, always, " she added, without condemnation if with anxiety. "Andthere is the bell now. Yes, I heard it. "

It was a quarter to nine when Madame von Marwitz, with Karen, who hadhastened out to meet her, following behind, appeared at last, benign andunperturbed as a moon sliding from clouds. In the doorway she made heraccustomed pause, the pause of one not surveying her audience butindulgently allowing her audience to survey her. It was the attitude inwhich Belot was painting his great portrait of her. But it was not metto-night by the eyes to which she was accustomed. The hungry guestslooked at Madame von Marwitz with austere relief and looked only longenough to satisfy themselves that her appearance really meant dinner. 

Gregory led the way with her into the dining-room and suspected in herair of absent musing a certain discomfiture. 

She was, as usual, strangely and beautifully attired, as though for theoperatic stage rather than for a dinner-party. Strings of pearls fellfrom either side of her head to her shoulders and a wide tiara of pearlsbanded her forehead in a manner recalling a Russian head-dress. Shelooked, though so lovely, also so conspicuous that there was a certainludicrousness in her appearance. It apparently displeased or surprisedLady Montgomery, who, on Gregory's other hand, her head adorned with thesalmon-pink, ostrich feathers, raised a long tortoiseshell lorgnette andfixed Madame von Marwitz through it for a mute, resentful moment. Madamevon Marwitz, erect and sublime as a goddess in a shrine, looked back. Itwas a look lifted far above the region of Lady Montgomery's formal, andafter all only tentative, disapprobations; divine impertinence, sovereign disdain informed it. Lady Montgomery dropped her lorgnettewith a little clatter and, adjusting her heavy diamond bracelets, turnedher sleek mid-Victorian head to her neighbour. Gregory did not knowwhether to be amused or vexed. 

It was now his part to carry on a conversation with the great woman: andhe found the task difficult. She was not silent, nor unresponsive. Shelistened to his remarks with the almost disconcerting closeness ofattention that he had observed in her on their meeting of the other day, seeming to seek in them some savour that still escaped her good-will. She answered him alertly, swiftly, and often at random, as though by herintelligence and competence to cover his ineptitude. Her smile wasbrightly mechanical; her voice at once insistent and monotonous. She hadan air, which Gregory felt more and more to be almost insolent, of doingher duty. 

Bertram Fraser's turn came and he rose to it with his usual buoyancy. Hewas interested in meeting Madame von Marwitz; but he was a young man whohad made his way in the world and perhaps exaggerated his achievement. He expected people to be interested also in meeting him. He expectedfrom the great genius a reciprocal buoyancy. Madame von Marwitz bent herbrows upon him. Irony grew in her smile, a staccato crispness in herutterance. Cool and competent as he was, Bertram presently lookeddisconcerted; he did not easily forgive those who disconcerted him, and, making no further effort to carry on the conversation, he sat silent, smiling a little, and waited for his partner to turn to him again. HadGregory not taken up his talk, lamely and coldly, with Madame vonMarwitz, she would have been left in an awkward isolation. 

She answered him now in a voice of lassitude and melancholy. Leaningback in her chair, strange and almost stupefying object that she was, her eyes moved slowly round the table with a wintry desolation ofglance, until, meeting Karen's eyes, they beamed forth a brave warmth ofcherishing, encouraging sweetness. "Yes, _ma chérie_, " they seemed tosay; "Bear up, I am bearing up. I will make _méringues_ of them foryou. "

She could make _méringues_ of them; Gregory didn't doubt it. Yet, andhere was the glow of malicious satisfaction that atoned to him for thediscomforts he endured, they were, every one of them, making _méringues_of her. 

In their narrowness, in their defects, ran an instinct, as shrewd as itwas unconscious, that was a match for Madame von Marwitz's intelligence. They were so unperceiving that no one of them, except perhaps Betty andKaren--who of course didn't count among them at all--was aware of thewintry wind of Madame von Marwitz's boredom; yet if it had beenrecognised it would have been felt as insignificant. They knew that shewas a genius, and that she was very odd looking and that, as Mrs. Jardine's guardian, she had not come in a professional capacity andmight therefore not play to them after dinner. So defined, she was seen, with all her splendour of association, as incidental. 

Only perhaps in this particular section of the British people could thisparticular effect of cheerful imperviousness have been achieved. Theywere not of the voracious, cultured hordes who make their way by theirwell-trained appreciations, nor of the fashionable lion-collecting tribewho do not need to make their way but who need to have their way madeamusing. Well-bred, securely stationed, untouched by boredom or anxiety, they were at once too dull and too intelligent to be fluttered by thepresence of a celebrity. They wanted nothing of her, except, perhaps, that after their coffee she should give them some music, and they didnot want this at all eagerly. 

If Madame von Marwitz had come to crush, to subjugate or to enchant, shehad failed in every respect and Gregory saw that her failure was notlost upon her. Her manner, as the consciousness grew, became morefrankly that of the vain, ill-tempered child, ignored. She ceased tospeak; her eyes, fixed on the wall over Sir Oliver's head, enlarged in asullen despondency. 

Lady Montgomery was making her way through a bunch of grapes and LadyMary had only peeled her peach, when, suddenly, taking upon herself theprerogative of a hostess, Madame von Marwitz caught up her fan andgloves with a gesture of open impatience, and swept to the door almostbefore Gregory had time to reach it or the startled guests to rise fromtheir places. 

CHAPTER XIX

When the time came for going to the drawing-room, Gregory found Bettyentertaining the company there, while Karen, on a distant sofa, wasapparently engaged in showing her guardian a book of photographs. Hetook in the situation at a glance, and, as he took it in, he was awarethat part of its significance lay in the fact that it obliged him to aswift interchange with Betty, an interchange that irked him, defining asit did a community of understanding from which Karen, in her simplicity, was shut out. 

He went across to the couple on the sofa. Only sudden illness could haveexcused Madame von Marwitz's departure from the dining-room, yet hedetermined to ask no questions, and to leave any explanations to her. 

Karen's eyes, in looking at him, were grave and a little anxious; butthe anxiety, he saw, was not on his account. "Tante wanted to see ourkodaks, " she said. "Do sit here with us, Gregory. Betty is talking toeverybody so beautifully. "

"But you must go and talk to everybody beautifully, too, now, darling, "said Gregory. He put his hand on her shoulder and looked down at hersmiling. The gesture, with its marital assurance, the smile that wasalmost a caress, were involuntary; yet they expressed more than histender pride and solicitude, they defined his possession of her, andthey excluded Tante. "It's been a nice little dinner, hasn't it, " hewent on, continuing to look at her and not at Madame von Marwitz. "I sawthat the General was enjoying you immensely. There he is, looking overat you now; he wants to go on talking about Garibaldi with you. He saidhe'd never met a young woman so well up in modern history. "

Madame von Marwitz's brooding eyes were on him while he thus spoke. Heignored them. 

Karen looked a little perplexed. "Did you think it went so well, then, Gregory?"

"Why, didn't you?"

"I am not sure. I don't think I shall ever much like dinners, when Igive them, " she addressed herself to her guardian as well as to herhusband. "They make one feel so responsible. "

"Well, as far as you were responsible for this one you were responsiblefor its being very nice. Everybody enjoyed themselves. Now go and talkto the General. "

"I did enjoy him, " said Karen, half closing her book. "But Tante hasrather a headache--I am afraid she is tired. You saw at dinner that shewas tired. "

"Yes, oh yes, indeed, I thought that you must be feeling a little ill, perhaps, " Gregory observed blandly, turning his eyes now on Madame vonMarwitz. "Well, you see, Karen, I will take your place here, and it willgive me a chance for a quiet talk with your guardian. "

"People must not bother her, " Karen rose, pleased, he could see, withthis arrangement, and hoping, he knew, that the opportunity was apropitious one, and that in it her dear ones might draw together. "Youwill see that they don't bother her, Gregory, and go on showing herthese. "

"They won't bother a bit, I promise, " said Gregory, taking her place asshe rose. "They are all very happily engaged, and Madame von Marwitz andI will look at the photographs in perfect peace. "

Something in these words and in the manner with which her guardianreceived them, with a deepening of her long, steady glance, arrestedKaren's departure. She stood above them, half confident, yet halfhesitating. 

"Go, _mon enfant_, " said Madame von Marwitz, turning the steady glanceon her. "Go. Nobody here, as your husband truly says, is thinking of me. I shall be quite untroubled. "

Still with her look of preoccupation Karen moved away. 

Cheerfully and deliberately Gregory now proceeded to turn the pages ofthe kodak album, and to point out with painstaking geniality the charmsand associations of each view, "_Tu l'as voulu, Georges Dandin_, "expressed his thought, for he didn't believe that Madame von Marwitz, more than any person not completely self-abnegating, could toleratelooking at other people's kodaks. But since it was her chosenoccupation, the best she could find to do with their dinner-party, sheshould be gratified; should be shown Karen standing on a peak in theTyrol; Karen feeding the pigeons before St. Mark's; Karen, again--wasn'tit rather nice of her?--in a gondola. Madame von Marwitz bent her headwith its swinging pearls above the pictures, proffering now and then alow murmur of assent. 

But in the midst of the Paris pictures she lifted her head and looked athim. It was again the steady, penetrating look, and now it seemed, withthe smile that veiled it, to claim some common understanding rather thanseek it. "Enough, " she said. She dismissed the kodaks with a tap of herfan. "I wish to talk with you. I wish to talk with you of our Karen. "

Gregory closed the volume. Madame von Marwitz's attitude as she leanedback, her arms lightly folded, affected him in its deliberate grace andpower as newly significant. Keeping his frosty, observant eyes upon her, Gregory waited for what she had to say. "I am glad, very glad, that youhave given me this opportunity for a quiet conversation, " so she took upthe threads of her intention. "I have wanted, for long, to consult withyou about various matters concerning Karen, and, in especial, about herfuture life. Tell me--this is what I wish in particular to ask you--youare going, are you not, in time, when she has learned more skill insocial arts, to take my Karen into the world--_dans le monde_, " Madamevon Marwitz repeated, as though to make her meaning genially clear. "Skill she is as yet too young to have mastered--or cared to master. Butshe had always been at ease on the largest stage, and she will do youcredit, I assure you. "

It was rather, to Gregory's imagination--always quick at similes--asthough she had struck a well-aimed blow right in the centre of a hugegong hanging between them. There she was, the blow said. It was this shemeant. No open avowal of hostility could have been more reverberating orpurposeful, and no open avowal of hostility would have been so sinister. But Gregory, though his ears seemed to ring with the clang of it, wasready for her. He, too, with folded arms, sat leaning back and he, too, smiled genially. "That's rather crushing, you know, " he made reply, "ordidn't you? Karen is in my world. This is my world. "

Madame von Marwitz gazed at him for a moment as if to gauge hisseriousness. And then she turned her eyes on his world and gazed atthat. It was mildly chatting. It was placid, cheerful, unaware ofdeficiency. It thought that it was enjoying itself. It was, indeed, enjoying itself, if with the slightest of materials. Betty and BertramFraser laughed together; Lady Mary and Oliver ever so slowly conversed. Constance Byng and Mr. Overton discussed the latest opera, young Bynghad joined Karen and the General, and a comfortable drone of politicscame from Mrs. Overton and Mr. Canning-Thompson. Removed a little fromthese groups Lady Montgomery, very much like a turtle, sat with her headerect and her eyes half closed, evidently sleepy. It was upon LadyMontgomery that Madame von Marwitz's gaze dwelt longest. 

"You are contented, " she then said to Gregory, "with these good people;for yourself and for your wife?"

"Perfectly, " said Gregory. "You see, Karen has married a commonplaceperson. "

Madame von Marwitz paused again, and again her eyes dwelt on LadyMontgomery, whose pink feathers had given a sudden nod and then serenelyrighted themselves. "I see, " she then remarked. "But she is notcontented. "

"Ah, come, " said Gregory. "You can't shatter the conceit of a happyhusband so easily, Madame von Marwitz. You ask too much of me if you askme to believe that Karen makes confidences to you that she doesn't tome. I can't take it on, you know, " he continued to smile. 

He had already felt that the loveliness of Madame von Marwitz's face wasa veil for its coldness, and hints had come to him that it masked, also, some more sinister quality. And now, for a moment, as if a primevalcreature peeped at him from among delicate woodlands, a racial savagerycrossed her face with a strange, distorting tremor. The blood mounted toher brow; her skin darkened curiously, and her eyes became hot and heavyas though the very irises felt the glow. 

"You do not accept my word, Mr. Jardine?" she said. Her voice wascontrolled, but he had a disagreeable sensation of scorching, as thougha hot iron had been passed slowly before his face. 

Gregory shook his foot a little, clasping his ankle. "I don't say that, of course. But I'm glad to think you're mistaken. "

"Let me tell you, Mr. Jardine, " she returned, still with the curbedelemental fury colouring her face and voice, "that even a happyhusband's conceit is no match for a mother's intuition. Karen is like mychild to me; and to its mother a child makes confidences that it isunaware of making. Karen finds your world narrow; _borné_; it does notafford her the wide life she has known. "

"You mean, " said Gregory, "the life she led with Mrs. Talcott?"

He had not meant to say it. If he had paused to think it over he wouldhave seen that it exposed him to her as consciously hostile and also asalmost feminine in his malice. And, as if this recognition of his falsemove restored to her her full self-mastery, she met his irony with amasculine sincerity, putting him, as on the occasion of their firstencounter, lamentably in the wrong. "Ah, " she commented, her eyesdwelling on him. "Ah, I see. You have wondered. You have criticized. Youhave, I think, Mr. Jardine, misunderstood my life and its capacities. Allow me to explain. Your wife is the creature dearest to me in theworld, and if you misread my devotion to her you endanger our relation. You would not, I am sure, wish to do that; is it not so? Allow metherefore to exculpate myself. I am a woman who, since childhood, has had to labour for my livelihood and for that of those I love. You can know nothing of what that labour of the artist's lifeentails, --interminable journeys, suffocating ennui, the unwholesomemonotony and publicity of a life passed in hotels and trains. It was notfit that a young and growing girl should share that life. As much as hasbeen possible I have guarded Karen from its dust and weariness. I havehad, of necessity, to leave her much alone, and she has neededprotection, stability, peace. I could have placed her in no lovelierspot than my Cornish home, nor in safer hands than those of the guardianand companion of my own youth. Do you not feel it a little unworthy, Mr. Jardine, when you have all the present and all the future, to grudge meeven my past with my child?"

She spoke slowly, with a noble dignity, all hint of sultry menacepassed; willing, for Karen's sake, to stoop to this self-justificationbefore Karen's husband. And, for Karen's sake, she had the air ofholding in steady hands their relation, hers and his, assailed sogracelessly by his taunting words. Gregory, for the first time in hisknowledge of her, felt a little bewildered. It was she who had openedhostilities, yet she almost made him forget it; she almost made him feelthat he alone had been graceless. "I do beg your pardon, " he said. "Yes;I had wondered a little about it; and I understand better now. " But hegathered his wits together sufficiently to add, on a fairer foothold: "Iam sure you gave Karen all you could. What I meant was, I think, thatyou should be generous enough to believe that I am giving her all Ican. "

Madame von Marwitz rose as he said this and he also got up. It was notso much, Gregory was aware, that they had fought to a truce as that theyhad openly crossed swords. Her eyes still dwelt on him, and now as if ina sad wonder. "But you are young. You are a man. You have ambition. Youwish to give more to the loved woman. "

"I don't really quite know what you mean by more, Madame von Marwitz, "said Gregory. "If it applies to my world, I don't expect, or wish, togive Karen a better one. "

They stood and confronted each other for a moment of silence. 

"_Bien_, " Madame von Marwitz then said, unemphatically, mildly. "_Bien. _I must see what I can do. " She turned her eyes on Karen, who, immediately aware of her glance, hastened to her. Madame von Marwitzlaid an arm about her neck. "I must bid you good-night, _ma chérie_. Iam very tired. "

"Tante, dear, I saw that you were so tired, I am so sorry. It has allbeen a weariness to you, " Karen murmured. 

"No, my child; no, " Madame von Marwitz smiled down into her eyes, passing her hand lightly over the little white-rose wreath. "I have seenyou, and seen you happy; that is happiness enough for me. Good-night, Mr. Jardine. Karen will come with me. "

Pausing for no further farewells, Madame von Marwitz passed from theroom with a majestic, generalized bending of the head. 

Betty joined her brother-in-law. "Dear me, Gregory, " she said. "We'vehad the tragic muse to supper, haven't we. What is the matter, what hasbeen the matter with Madame von Marwitz? Is she ill?"

"She says she's tired, " said Gregory. 

"It was disconcerting, wasn't it, her trailing suddenly out of thedining-room in that singular fashion, " said Betty. "Do you know, Gregory, that I'm getting quite vexed with Madame von Marwitz. "

"Really? Why, Betty?"

"Well, it has been accumulating. I'm a very easy-going person, you know;but I've been noticing that whenever I want Karen, Madame von Marwitzalways nips in and cuts me out, so that I have hardly seen her at allsince her guardian came to London. And then it did rather rile me, Iconfess, to find that the one hat in Karen's trousseau that I speciallychose for her is the one--the only one--that Madame von Marwitz objectsto. Karen never wears it now. She certainly behaved very absurdlyto-night, Gregory. I suppose she expected us to sit round in a circleand stare. "

"Perhaps she did, " Gregory acquiesced. "Perhaps we should have. "

He was anxious to maintain the appearance of bland lightness beforeBetty. Karen had re-entered as they spoke and Betty called her to them. "Tell me, Karen dear, is Madame von Marwitz ill? She didn't give me achance to say good-night to her. " Betty had the air of wishing toexonerate herself. 

"She isn't ill, " said Karen, whose face was grave. "But very tired. "

"Now what made her tired, I wonder?" Betty mused. "She looks such arobust person. "

It was bad of Betty, and as Karen stood before them, looking from one tothe other, Gregory saw that she suspected them. Her face hardened. "Agreat artist needs to be robust, " she said. "My guardian works every dayat her piano for five or six hours. "

"Dear me, " Betty murmured. "How splendid. I'd no idea the big ones hadto keep it up like that. "

"There is great ignorance about an artist's life, " Karen continuedcoldly to inform her. "Do you not know what von Bulow said: If I miss mypractising for one day I notice it; if for two days my friends noticeit; if I miss it for three days the public notices it. The artist islike an acrobat, juggling always, intent always on his three goldenballs kept flying in the air. That is what it is like. Every atom oftheir strength is used. People, like my guardian, literally give theirlives for the world. "

"Oh, yes, it is wonderful, of course, " Betty assented. "But of coursethey must enjoy it; it can hardly be called a sacrifice. "

"Enjoy is a very small word to apply to such a great thing, " said Karen. "You may say also, if you like, that the saint enjoys his life ofsuffering for others. It is his life to give himself to goodness; it isthe artist's life to give himself to beauty. But it is beauty andgoodness they seek, not enjoyment; we must not try to measure thesegreat people by our standards. "

Before this arraignment Betty showed a tact for which Gregory wasgrateful to her. He, as so often, found Karen, in her innocentsententiousness, at once absurd and adorable, but he could grant that toBetty she might seem absurd only. 

"Don't be cross with me, Karen, " she said. "I suppose I am feeling soreat being snubbed by Madame von Marwitz. "

"But indeed she did not mean to snub you, Betty, " said Karen earnestly. "And I am not cross; please do not think that. Only I cannot bear tohear some of the things that are said of artists. "

"Well, prove that you're not cross, " said Betty, smiling, "by at lastgiving me an afternoon when we can do something together. Will you comeand see the pictures at Burlington House with me to-morrow and have teawith me afterwards? I've really seen nothing of you for so long. "

"To-morrow is promised to Tante, Betty. I'm so sorry. Her great concertis to be on Friday, you know; and till then, and on the Saturday, I havesaid that I will be with her. She gets so very tired. And I know how totake care of her when she is tired like that. "

"Oh, dear!" Betty sighed. "There is no hope for us poor little people, is there, while Madame von Marwitz is in London. Well, on Monday, then, Karen. Will you promise me Monday afternoon?"

"Monday is free, and I shall like so very much to come, Betty, " Karenreplied. 

When Gregory and his wife were left alone together, they stood for somemoments without speaking on either side of the fire, and, as Karen'seyes were on the flames, Gregory, looking at her carefully, read on herface the signs of stress and self-command. The irony, the irritation andthe oppression that Madame von Marwitz had aroused in him this eveningmerged suddenly, as he looked at Karen into intense anger. What had shenot done to them already, sinister woman? It was because of her thatconstraint, reticence and uncertainty were rising again between him andKaren. 

"Darling, " he said, putting out his hand and drawing her to him; "youlook very tired. "

She came, he fancied, with at first a little reluctance, but, as he puthis arm around her, she leaned her head against his shoulder with asigh. "I am tired, Gregory. "

They stood thus for some moments and then, as if the confidenttenderness their attitude expressed forced her to face with him theirdifficulty, she said carefully: "Gregory, dear, did you say anything todepress Tante this evening?"

"Why do you ask, darling?" Gregory, after a slight pause, also carefullyinquired. 

"Only that she seemed depressed, very much depressed. I thought, I hopedthat you and she were talking so nicely, so happily. "

There was another little pause and then Gregory said: "She ratherdepressed me, I think. "

"Depressed you? But how, Gregory?"

He must indeed be very careful. It was far too late, now, for simplefrankness; simple frankness had, perhaps, from the beginning beenimpossible and in that fact lay the insecurity of his position, and theimmense advantage of Madame von Marwitz's. And as he paused and soughthis words it was as if, in the image of the Bouddha, looking down uponhim and Karen, Madame von Marwitz were with them now, a tranquil andironic witness of his discomfiture. "Well, " he said, "she made me feelthat I had only a very dingy sort of life to offer you and that myfriends were all very tiresome--_borné_ was the word she used. That didrather--well--dash my spirits. "

Standing there within his arm, of her face, seen from above, only thebrow, the eyelashes, the cheek visible, she was very still for a longmoment. Then, gently, she said--and in the gentleness he felt that sheput aside the too natural suspicion that he was complaining of Tantebehind her back: "She doesn't realise that I don't care at all aboutpeople. And they are rather _bornés_, aren't they, Gregory. "

"I don't find them so, " said Gregory, reasonably. "They aren't geniuses, of course, or acrobats, or saints, or anything of that sort; but theyseem to me, on the whole, a very nice lot of people. "

"Very nice indeed, Gregory. But I don't think it is saints and geniusesthat Tante misses here; she misses minds that are able to recognisegenius. " Her quick ear had caught the involuntary irony of hisquotation. 

"Ah, but, dear, you mustn't expect to find the average nice person ableto pay homage at a dinner-party. There is a time and a place foreverything, isn't there. "

"It was not that I meant, Gregory, or that Tante meant. There is alwaysa place for intelligence. It wasn't an interesting dinner, you must havefelt that as well as I, not the sort of dinner Tante would naturallyexpect. They were only interested in their own things, weren't they? Andquite apart from homage, there is such a thing as realisation. Mr. Fraser talked to Tante--I saw it all quite well--as he might have talkedto the next dowager he met. Tante isn't used to being talked to as ifshe were _toute comme une autre_; she isn't _toute comme une autre_. "

"But one must pretend to be, at a dinner-party, " Gregory returned. Tohave to defend his friends when it was Tante who stood so lamentably inneed of defence had begun to work upon his nerves. "And some dowagersare as interesting as anybody. There are all sorts of ways of beinginteresting. Dowagers are as intelligent as geniuses sometimes. " Hislightness was not unprovocative. 

"It isn't funny, Gregory, to see Tante put into a false position. "

"But, my dear, we did the best we could for her. "

"I know that we did; and our best isn't good enough for her. That is allthat I ask you to realise, " said Karen. 

She was angry, and from the depths of his anger against Madame vonMarwitz Gregory felt a little gush of anger against Karen rise. "You aretelling me what she told me, " he said; "that my best isn't good enoughfor her. You may say it and think it, of course; but it's a thing thatMadame von Marwitz has no right to say. "

Karen moved away from his arm. Something more than the old girlishsternness was in the look with which she faced him, though that flashedat him, a shield rather than a weapon. He recognised the hidden pain andastonishment and his anger faded in tenderness. How could she but resentand repell any hint that belittled Tante's claims and justifications?how could she hear but with dismay the half threat of his last words, the intimation that from her he would accept what he would not acceptfrom Tante? The sudden compunction of his comprehension almost broughtthe tears to his eyes. Karen saw that his resistance melted and thesternness fell from her look. "But Gregory, " she said, her voice alittle trembling, "Tante did not say that. Please don't make mistakes. It is so dreadful to misunderstand; nothing frightens me so much. I sayit; that our best isn't good enough, and I am thinking of Tante; only ofTante; but she--too sweetly and mistakenly--was thinking of me. Tantedoesn't care, for herself, about our world; why should she? And she ismistaken to care about it for me; because it makes no difference, noneat all, to me, if it is _borné_. All that I care about, you know that, Gregory, is you and Tante. "

Gregory had his arms around her. "Do forgive me, darling, " he said. 

"But was I horrid?" Karen asked. 

"No. It was I who was stupid, " he said. "Do you know, I believe we werealmost quarrelling, Karen. "

"And we can quarrel safely--you and I, Gregory, can't we?" Karen said, her voice still trembling. 

He leaned his head against her hair. "Of course we can. Only--don't letus quarrel--ever. It is so dreadful. "

"Isn't it dreadful, Gregory. But we must not let it frighten us, ever, because of course we must quarrel now and then. And we often havealready, haven't we, " she went on, reassuring him, and herself. "Do youremember, in the Tyrol, about the black bread!--And I was right thattime. --And the terrible conflict in Paris, about _La Gaine d'Or_; when Isaid you were a Philistine. "

"Well, you owned afterwards, after you read about the beastly thing, that you were glad we hadn't gone. "

"Yes; I was glad. You were right there. Sometimes it is you andsometimes I, " Karen declared, as if that were the happy solution. 

So, in their mutual love, they put aside the menacing difference. Something had happened, they could but be aware of that; but their lovetided them over. They did not argue further as to who was right and whowrong that evening. 

CHAPTER XX

The first of Madame von Marwitz's great concerts was given on Friday, and Karen spent the whole of that day and of Saturday with her, summonedby an urgent telephone message early in the morning. On Sunday she wasstill secluded in her rooms, and Miss Scrotton, breaking in determinedlyupon her, found her lying prone upon the sofa, Karen beside her. 

"I cannot see you, my Scrotton, " said Madame von Marwitz, with kindlyyet listless decision. "Did they not tell you below that I was seeingnobody? Karen is with me to watch over my ill-temper. She is a soothinglittle milk-poultice and I can bear nothing else. I am worn out. "

Before poor Miss Scrotton's brow of gloom Karen suggested that sheshould herself go down to Mrs. Forrester for tea and leave her place toMiss Scrotton, but, with a weary shake of the head, Madame von Marwitzrejected the proposal. "No; Scrotton is too intelligent for me to-day, "she said. "You will go down to Mrs. Forrester for your tea, my Scrotton, and wait for another day to see me. "

Miss Scrotton went down nearly in tears. 

"She refused to see Sir Alliston, " Mrs. Forrester said, soothingly. "Shereally is fit for nothing. I have never seen her so exhausted. "

"Yet Karen Jardine always manages to force her way in, " said MissScrotton, controlling the tears with difficulty. "She has absolutelytaken possession of Mercedes. It really is almost absurd, such devotion, and in a married woman. Gregory doesn't like it at all. Oh, I know it. Betty Jardine gave me a hint only yesterday of how matters stand. "

"Lady Jardine has always seemed to me a rather trivial little person. Ishould not accept her impression of a situation, " said Mrs. Forrester. "Mercedes sends for Karen constantly. And I am sure that Gregory is gladto think that she can be of use to Mercedes. "

"Oh, Betty Jardine thinks, too, that it is Mercedes who takes Karen fromher husband. But I really can't agree with her, or with you, dear Mrs. Forrester, there. Mercedes is simply too indolent and kind-hearted todefend herself from the sort of habit the girl has imposed upon her. Asfor Gregory being grateful I can only assure you that you are entirelymistaken. My own impression is that he is beginning to dislike Mercedes. Oh, he is a very jealous temperament; I have always felt it in him. Heis one of those cold, passionate men who become the most infatuated andtyrannical of husbands. "

"My dear Eleanor, " Mrs. Forrester raised her eyebrows. "I see no sign oftyranny. He allows Karen to come here constantly. "

"Yes; because he knows that to refuse would be to endanger his relationto her. Mercedes is angelic to him of course, and doesn't give him achance for making things difficult for Karen. But it is quite obvious tome that he hates the whole situation. "

"I hope not, " said Mrs. Forrester, gravely now. "I hope not. It would betragical indeed if this last close relation in Mercedes's life were tobe spoiled for her. I could not forgive Gregory if he made it difficultin any way for Karen to be with her guardian. "

"Well, as long as he can conceal his jealousy, Mercedes will manage, Isuppose, to keep things smooth. But I can't see it as you do, Mrs. Forrester. I can't believe for a moment that Mercedes needs Karen orthat the tie is such a close one. She only likes to see her now becauseshe is bored and impatient and unhappy, and Karen is--she said it justnow, before the girl--a poultice for her nerves. And the reason for hernerves isn't far to seek. I must be frank with you, dear Mrs. Forrester;you know I always have been, and I'm distressed, deeply distressed aboutMercedes. She expected Claude Drew to be back from America by now and Iheard yesterday from that horrid young friend of his, Algernon Bently, that he has again postponed his return. It's that that agonizes andinfuriates Mercedes, it's that that makes her unwilling to be alone withme. I've seen too much; I know too much; she fears me, Mrs. Forrester. She knows that I know that Claude Drew is punishing her now for havingsnubbed him in America. "

"My dear Eleanor, " Mrs. Forrester murmured distressfully. "Youexaggerate that young man's significance. "

"Dear Mrs. Forrester, " Miss Scrotton returned, almost now with a solemnexasperation, "I wish it were possible to exaggerate it. I watched itgrow. His very effrontery fascinates her. We know, you and I, whatMercedes expects in devotion from a man who cares for her. They mustadore her on their knees. Now Mr. Drew adored standing nonchalantly onhis feet and looking coolly into her eyes. She resented it; she hadconstantly to put him in his place. But she would rather have him out ofhis place than not have him there at all. That is what she is feelingnow. That is why she is so worn out. She is wishing that Claude Drewwould come back from America, and she is wanting to write one letter tohis ten and finding that she writes five. He writes to her constantly, Isuppose?"

"I believe he does, " Mrs. Forrester conceded. "Mercedes is quite openabout the frequency of his letters. I am sure that you exaggerate, Eleanor. He interests her, and he charms her if you will. Like everywoman, she is aware of devotion and pleased by it. I don't believe it'sanything more. "

"I believe, " said Miss Scrotton, after a moment, and with resolution, "that it's a great passion; the last great passion of her life. "

"Oh, my dear!"

"A great passion, " Miss Scrotton persisted, "and for a man whom sheknows not to be in any way her equal. It is that that exasperates her. "

Mrs. Forrester meditated for a little while and then, owning to acertain mutual recognition of facts, she said: "I don't believe thatit's a great passion; but I think that a woman like Mercedes, a geniusof that scope, needs always to feel in her life the elements of a'situation'--and life always provides such women with a choice ofsituations. They are stimulants. Mr. Drew and his like, with whateverunrest and emotion they may cause her, nourish her art. Even a greatpassion would be a tempest that filled her sails and drove her on; inthe midst of it she would never lose the power of steering. She hasessentially the strength and detachment of genius. She watches her ownemotions and makes use of them. Did you ever hear her play moremagnificently than on Friday? If Mr. Drew _y était pour quelque chose_, it was in the sense that she made mincemeat of him and presented us inconsequence with a magnificent sausage. "

Miss Scrotton, who had somewhat forgotten her personal grievance in theexhilaration of these analyses, granted the sausage and granted thatMercedes made mincemeat of Mr. Drew--and of her friends into thebargain. "But my contention and my fear is, " she said, "that he willmake mincemeat of her before he is done with her. "

Miss Scrotton did not rank highly for wisdom in Mrs. Forrester'sestimation; but for her perspicacity and intelligence she had moreregard than she cared to admit. Echoes of Eleanor's distrusts and fearsremained with her, and, though it was but a minor one, such an echovibrated loudly on Monday afternoon when Betty Jardine appeared attea-time with Karen. 

It was the afternoon that Karen had promised to Betty, and when thisfact had been made known to Tante it was no grievance and no protestthat she showed, only a slight hesitation, a slight gravity, and then, as if with cheerful courage in the face of an old sadness: "_Eh bien_, "she said. "Bring her back here to tea, _ma chérie_. So I shall come toknow this new friend of my Karen's better. "

Betty was not at all pleased at being brought back to tea. But Karenasked her so gravely and prettily and said so urgently that Tante wantedespecially to know her better, and asked, moreover, if Betty would lether come to lunch with her instead of tea, so that they should havetheir full time together, that Betty once more pocketed her suspicionsof a design on Madame von Marwitz's part. The suspicion was there, however, in her pocket, and she kept her hand on it rather as if it werea small but efficacious pistol which she carried about in case of anemergency. Betty was one who could aim steadily and shoot straight whenoccasion demanded. It was a latent antagonist who entered Mrs. Forrester's drawing-room on that Monday afternoon, Karen, all guileless, following after. Mrs. Forrester and the Baroness were alone and, in adeep Chesterfield near the tea-table, Madame von Marwitz leaned an arm, bared to the elbow, in cushions and rested a meditative head on herhand. She half rose to greet Betty. "This is kind of you, Lady Jardine, "she said. "I feared that I had lost my Karen for the afternoon. _Elle memanqué toujours_; she knows that. " Smiling up at Karen she drew her downbeside her, studying her with eyes of fond, maternal solicitude. "Mychild looks well, does she not, Mrs. Forrester? And the pretty hat! I amglad not to see the foolish green one. "

"Oh, I like the green one very much, Tante, " said Karen. "But you shallnot see it again. "

"I hope I'm to see it again, " said Betty, turning over her pistol. "Ichose it, you know. "

Madame von Marwitz turned startled eyes upon her. "Ah--but I did notknow. Did you tell me this, Karen?" the eyes of distress now turned toKaren. "Have I forgotten? Was the green hat, the little green hat withthe wing, indeed of Lady Jardine's choosing? Have I been so very rude?"

"Betty will understand, Tante, " said Karen--while Mrs. Forrester, softlychinking among her blue Worcester teacups, kept a cogitating eye onBetty Jardine--"that I have so many new hats now that you must easilyforget which is which. "

"All I ask, " said Betty, laughing over her mishap, "is that I, sometimes, may see Karen in the green hat, for I think it charming. "

"Indeed, Betty, so do I, " said Karen, smiling. 

"And I must be forgiven for not liking the green hat, " Madame vonMarwitz returned. 

Betty and Karen were supplied with tea, and after they had selectedtheir cakes, and a few inconsequent remarks had been exchanged, Madamevon Marwitz said:

"And now, my Karen, I have a little plan to tell you of; a little treatthat I have arranged for you. We are to go together, on this nextSaturday, to stay at Thole Castle with my friends the Duke and Duchessof Bannister. I have told them that I wish to bring my child. "

"But how delightful, Tante. It is to be in the country? We shall bethere, you and I and Gregory, till Monday?"

"I thought that I should please you. Yes; till Monday. And in beautifulcountry. But it is to be our own small treat; yours and mine. Yourhusband will lend you to me for those two days. " Holding the girl's handMadame von Marwitz smiled indulgently at her, with eyes only for her. Betty, however, was listening. 

"But cannot Gregory come, too, Tante?" Karen questioned, her pleasuredashed. 

"These friends of mine, my Karen, " said Madame von Marwitz, "have heardof you as mine only. It is as my child that you will come with me; justas it is as your husband's wife that you see his friends. That is quiteclear, quite happy, quite understood. "

Karen's eyes now turned on Betty. They did not seek counsel, they askedno question of Betty; but they gave her, in their slight bewilderment, her opportunity. 

"But Karen, I think you are right, " so she took up the gage that Madamevon Marwitz had flung. "I don't think that you must accept thisinvitation without, at least, consulting Gregory. "

Madame von Marwitz did not look at her. She continued to gaze asserenely at Karen as though Betty were a dog that had barkedirrelevantly from the hearth-rug. But Karen fixed widened eyes upon her. 

"I do not need to consult Gregory, Betty, " she said. "We have, I know, no engagements for this Saturday to Monday, and he will be delighted forme that I am to go with Tante. "

"That may be, my dear, " Betty returned with a manner as imperturbable asMadame von Marwitz's; "but I think that you should give him anopportunity of saying so. He may not care for his wife to go tostrangers without him. "

"They are not strangers. They are friends of Tante's. "

"Gregory may not care for you to make--as Madame von Marwitz suggests--adifferent set of friends from his own. "

"If they become my friends they will become his, " said Karen. 

During this little altercation, Madame von Marwitz, large and white, herprofile turned to Betty, sat holding Karen's hand and gazing at her withan almost slumbrous melancholy. 

Mrs. Forrester, controlling her displeasure with some difficulty, interposed. "I don't think Lady Jardine really quite understands theposition, Karen, " she said. "It isn't the normal one, Lady Jardine. Madame von Marwitz stands, really, to Karen in a mother's place. "

"Oh, but I can't agree with you, Mrs. Forrester, " Betty replied. "Madamevon Marwitz doesn't strike me as being in the least like Karen's mother. And she isn't Karen's mother. And Karen's husband, now, should certainlystand first in her life. "

A silence followed the sharp report. Mrs. Forrester's and Karen's eyeshad turned on the Baroness who sat still, as though her breast hadreceived the shot. With tragic eyes she gazed out above Karen's head;then: "It is true, " she said in a low voice, as though communing withherself; "I am indeed alone. " She rose. With the slow step of a Niobeshe moved down the room and disappeared. 

"I do not forgive you for this, Betty, " said Karen, following herguardian. Betty, like a naughty school-girl, was left confronting Mrs. Forrester across the tea-table. 

"Lady Jardine, " said the old lady, fixing her bright eyes on her guest, "I don't think you can have realised what you were saying. Madame vonMarwitz's isolation is one of the many tragedies of her life, and youhave made it clear to her. "

"I'm very sorry, " said Betty. "But I feel what Madame von Marwitz isdoing to be so mistaken, so wrong. "

"These formalities don't obtain nowadays, especially if a wife is sosingularly related to a woman like Madame von Marwitz. And Mercedes isquite above all such little consciousnesses, I assure you. She is notaware of sets, in that petty way. It is merely a treat she is giving thechild, for she knows how much Karen loves to be with her. And it is onlyin her train that Karen goes. "

"Precisely. " Betty had risen and stood smoothing her muff and notfeigning to smile. "In her train. I don't think that Gregory's wifeshould go in anybody's train. "

"It was markedly in Mercedes's train that he found her. "

"All the more reason for wishing now to withdraw her from it. Karen hasbecome something more than Madame von Marwitz's _panache_. "

Mrs. Forrester at this fixed Betty very hard and echoes of Miss Scrottonrang loudly. "You must let me warn you, Lady Jardine, " she said, "thatyou are making a position, difficult already for Mercedes, moredifficult still. It would be a grievous thing if Karen were to recognizeher husband's jealousy. I'm afraid I can't avoid seeing what you havemade so plain to-day, that Gregory is trying to undermine Karen'srelation to her guardian. "

At this Betty had actually to laugh. "But don't you see that it issimply the other way round?" she said. "It is Madame von Marwitz who istrying to undermine Karen's relation to Gregory. It is she who isjealous. It's that I can't avoid seeing. "

"I don't think we have anything to gain by continuing thisconversation, " Mrs. Forrester replied. "May I give you some more teabefore you go?"

"No, thanks. Is Karen coming with me, I wonder? We had arranged that Iwas to take her home. "

Mrs. Forrester rang the bell and she and Betty stood in an uneasysilence until the man returned to say that Mrs. Jardine was to spend theevening with Madame von Marwitz who had suddenly been taken very ill. 

"Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" Mrs. Forrester almost moaned. "This means one ofher terrible headaches and we were to have dined out. I must telephoneexcuses at once. "

"I wish I hadn't had to make you think me such a pig, " said Betty. 

"I don't think you a pig, " said Mrs. Forrester, "but I do think you avery mistaken and a very unwise woman. And I do beg you, for Gregory andfor Karen's sake, to be careful what you do. "

CHAPTER XXI

"I'm afraid you think that I've made a dreadful mess of things, Gregory. I simply couldn't help myself, " said Betty, half an hour later. "If onlyshe hadn't gone on gazing at Karen in that aggressive way I might havecurbed my tongue, and if only, afterwards, Mrs. Forrester hadn't shownherself such an infatuated partisan. But I'm afraid she was right insaying that I was an unwise woman. Certainly I haven't made thingseasier for you, unless you want a _situation nette_. It's there to yourhand if you do want it, and in your place I should. It was a challengeshe gave, you know, to you through me. After the other night there wasno mistaking it. I should forbid Karen to go on Saturday. "

Gregory stood before her still wearing his overcoat, for they had drivenup simultaneously to the door below, his hands in his pockets and eyesof deep cogitation fixed on his sister-in-law. He was inclined to thinkthat she had made a dreadful mess of things; yet, at the same time, hewas feeling a certain elation in the chaos thus created. 

"You advise me to declare war on Madame von Marwitz?" he inquired. "Come; the situation is hardly _nette_ enough to warrant that; what?"

"Ah; you do see it then!" Betty from the sofa where she sat erect, herhands in her muff, almost joyfully declared. "You do see, then, what sheis after!"

He didn't intend to let Betty see what he saw, if that were nowpossible. "She's after Karen, of course; but why not? It's a jealous andexacting affection, that is evident; but as long as Karen cares tosatisfy it I'm quite pleased that she should. I can't declare war onMadame von Marwitz, Betty, even if I wanted to. Because, if she is fondof Karen, Karen is ten times fonder of her. "

"Expose her to Karen!" Betty magnificently urged. "You can I'm sure. You're been seeing things more and more clearly, just as I have; you'vebeen seeing that Madame von Marwitz, as far as her character goes, is afraud. Trip her up. Have things out. Gregory, I warn you, she's adangerous woman, and Karen is a very simple one. "

"But that's just it, my dear Betty. If Karen is too simple to see, now, that she's dangerous, how shall I make her look so? It's I who'll lookthe jealous idiot Mrs. Forrester thinks me, " Gregory half mused tohimself. "And, besides, I really don't know that I should want to tripher up. I don't know that I should like to have Karen disillusioned. She's a fraud if you like, and Karen, as I say, is ten times fonder ofher than she is of Karen; but she is fond of Karen; I do believe that. And she has been a fairy-godmother to her. And they have been throughall sorts of things together. No; their relationship is one that has itsrights. I see it, and I intend to make Madame von Marwitz feel that Isee it. So that my only plan is to go on being suave and acquiescent. "

"Well; you may have to sacrifice me, then. Karen is indignant with me, Iwarn you. "

"I'm a resourceful person, Betty. I shan't sacrifice you. And you mustbe patient with Karen. "

Betty, who had risen, stood for a moment looking at the Bouddha. "Patient? I should think so. She is the one I'm sorriest for. Are yougoing to keep that ridiculous thing in here permanently, Gregory?"

"It's symbolic, isn't it?" said Gregory. "It will stay here, I suppose, as long as Madame von Marwitz and Karen go on caring for each other. With all my griefs and suspicions I hope that the Bouddha is a fixture. "

He felt, after Betty had gone, that he had burned a good many of hisboats in thus making her, to some extent, his confidant. He hadconfessed that he had griefs and suspicions, and that, in itself, was toinvolve still further his relation to his wife. But he had kept fromBetty how grave were his grounds for suspicion. The bearing away ofKaren to the ducal week-end wasn't really, in itself, so alarming anincident; but, as a sequel to Madame von Marwitz's parting declarationof the other evening, her supremely insolent, "I must see what I cando, " it became sinister and affected him like the sound of a second, more prolonged, more reverberating clash upon the gong. To submit was toshow himself in Madame von Marwitz's eyes as contemptibly supine; toprotest was to appear in Karen's as meanly petty. 

His reflections were interrupted by the ringing of the telephone andwhen he went to it Karen's voice told him that she was spending theevening with Tante, who was ill, and that she would not be back tillten. Something chill and authoritative in the tones affected himunpleasantly. Karen considered that she had a grievance and perhapssuspected him of being its cause. After all, he thought, hanging up thereceiver with some abruptness, there was such a thing as being toosimple. One had, indeed, to be very patient with her. And one thing hepromised himself whatever came of it; he wasn't going to sacrifice Bettyby one jot or tittle to his duel with Madame von Marwitz. 

It was past ten when Karen returned and his mood of latent hostilitymelted when he saw how tired she looked and how unhappy. She, too, hadsteeled herself in advance against something that she expected to findin him and he was thankful to feel that she wouldn't find it. She was tofind him suave and acquiescent; he would consent without a murmur toMadame von Marwitz's plan for the week-end. 

"Darling, I'm so sorry that she's ill, your guardian, " he said, takingher hat and coat from her as she sank wearily on the sofa. "How is shenow?"

She looked up at him in the rosy light of the electric lamps and herface showed no temporizing recognitions or gratitudes. "Gregory, " shesaid abruptly, "do you mind--does it displease you--if I go with Tantenext Saturday to stay with some friends of hers?"

"Mind? Why should I?" said Gregory, standing before her with his handsin his pockets. "I'd rather have you here, of course. I've been feelinga little deserted lately. But I want you to do anything that gives youpleasure. "

She studied him. "Betty thought it a wrong thing for me to do. She hurtTante's feelings deeply this afternoon. She spoke as if she had someauthority to come between you and me and between me and Tante. I am verymuch displeased with her, " said Karen, with her strangely maturedecision. 

The moment had come, decisively, not to sacrifice Betty. "Betty seesthings more conventionally and perhaps more wisely, " he said, "than youor I--or Madame von Marwitz, even, perhaps. She feels a sense ofresponsibility towards you--and towards me. Anything she said she meantkindly, I'm sure. "

Karen listened carefully as though mastering herself. "Responsibilitytowards me? Why should she? I feel none towards her. "

"But, my dear child, that wouldn't be in your place, " he could notcontrol the ironic note. "You are a younger woman and a much moreinexperienced one. It's merely as if you'd married into a family wherethere was an elder sister to look after you. "

Karen's eyes dwelt on him and her face was cold, rocky. "Do you forget, as she does, that I have still with me a person who, for years, haslooked after me, a person older still and more experienced still thanthe little Betty? I don't need any guidance from your sister; for I havemy guardian to tell me, as she always has, what is best for me to do. Itis impertinent of Betty to imagine that she has any right to interfere. And she was more than impertinent. I had not wished to tell you; but youmust understand that Betty has been insolent. "

"Come, Karen; don't use such unsuitable words. Hasty perhaps; notinsolent. Betty herself has told me all about it. "

A steely penetration came to Karen's eyes. "She has told you? She hasbeen here?"

"Yes. "

"She complained of Tante to you?"

"She thinks her wrong. "

"And you; you think her wrong?"

Gregory paused and looked at the young girl on the sofa, his wife. Therewas that in her attitude, exhausted yet unappealing, in her face, wearyyet implacable, which, while it made her seem pitiful to him, made heralso almost a stranger; this armed hostility towards himself, who lovedher, this quickness of resentment, this cold assurance of right. Hecould understand and pity; but he, too, was tired and overwrought. Whathad he done to deserve such a look and such a tone from her exceptendure, with unexampled patience, the pressure upon his life, soft, unremitting, sinister, of something hateful to him and menacing to theirhappiness? What, above all, was his place in this deep but narrow youngheart? It seemed filled with but one absorbing preoccupation, onepassion of devotion. 

He turned from her and went to the mantelpiece, and shifting the vasesupon it as he spoke, remembering with a bitter upper layer ofconsciousness how Madame von Marwitz's blighting gaze had rested uponthese ornaments in her first visit;--"I'm not going to discuss yourguardian with you, Karen, " he said; "I haven't said that I thought herwrong. I've consented that you should do as she wishes. You have noright to ask anything more of me. I certainly am not going to be forcedby you into saying that I think Betty wrong. If you are not unfair toBetty you are certainly most unfair to me and it seems to me that it isyour tendency to be fair to one person only. I'm in no danger offorgetting her control and guidance of your life, I assure you. If youwere to let me forget it, she wouldn't. She is showing me now--aftertelling me the other night what she thought of my _monde_--how shecontrols you. It's very natural of her, no doubt, and very natural ofyou to feel her right; and I submit. So that you have no ground ofgrievance against me. " He turned to her again. "And now I think you hadbetter go to bed. You look very tired. I've some work to get through, soI'll say good-night to you, Karen dear. "

She rose with a curious automatic obedience, and, coming to him, liftedher forehead, like a child, for his kiss. Her face showed, perhaps, ableak wonder, but it showed no softness. She might be bewildered by thissudden change in their relation, but she was not weakened. She wentaway, softly closing the door behind her. 

In their room, Karen stood for a moment before undressing and lookedabout her. Something had happened, and though she could not clearly seewhat it was it seemed to have altered the aspect of everything, so thatthis pretty room, full of light and comfort, was strange to her. Shefelt an alien in it; and as she looked round it she thought of how herlittle room at Les Solitudes where, with such an untroubled heart, shehad slept and waked for so many years. 

Three large photographs of Tante hung on the walls, and their eyes methers as if with an unfaltering love and comprehension. And on thedressing-table was a photograph of Gregory; the new thing in her life;the thing that menaced the old. She went and took it up, and Gregory'sface, too, was suddenly strange to her; cold, hard, sardonic. Shewondered, gazing at it, that she had never seen before how cold and hardit was. Quickly undressing she lay down and closed her eyes. Asuccession of images passed with processional steadiness before hermind; the carriage in the Forest of Fontainebleau and Tante in itlooking at her; Tante in the hotel at Fontainebleau, her arm around thelittle waif, saying: "But it is a Norse child; her name and her hair andher eyes;" Tante's dreadful face as she tottered back to Karen's armsfrom the sight at the lake-edge; Tante that evening lying white andsombre on her pillows with eyelids pressed down as if on tears, saying:"Do they wish to take my child, too, from me?"

Then came the other face, the new face; like a sword; thrusting amongthe sacred visions. Consciously she saw her husband's face now, as shehad often, with a half wilful unconsciousness, seen it, looking atTante--ah, a fierce resentment flamed up in her at last with theunavoidable clearness of her vision--looking at Tante with a courteousblankness that cloaked hostility; with cold curiosity; with masteredirony, suspicion, dislike. He was, then, a man not generous, not largeand wise of heart, a man without the loving humour that would haveenabled him to see past the defects and flaws of greatness, nor with theheart and mind to recognize and love it when he saw it. He was petty, too, and narrow, and arrogantly sure of his own small measures. Hermemories heaped themselves into the overwhelming realisation. She wasmarried to a man who was hostile to what--until he had come--had beenthe dearest thing in her life. She had taken to her heart something thatkilled its very pulse. How could she love a man who looked such thingsat Tante--who thought such things of Tante? How love him withoutdisloyalty to the older tie? Already her forbearance, her hiding fromhim of her fear, had been disloyalty, a cowardly acquiescence insomething that, from the first hint of it, she should openly haverebelled against. Slow flames of shame and anger burned her. How couldshe not hate him? But how could she not love him? He was part of herlife, as unquestionably, as indissolubly, as Tante. 

Then, the visions crumbling, the flames falling, a chaos of mere feelingoverwhelmed her. It was as though her blood were running backward, knotting itself in clots of darkness and agony. He had sent her awayunlovingly--punishing her for her fidelity. Her love for Tante destroyedhis love for her. He must have known her pain; yet he could speak likethat to her; look like that. The tears rose to her eyes and rolled downher cheeks as she lay straightly in the bed, on her back, the clothesdrawn to her throat, her hands clasped tightly on her breast. Hours hadpassed and here she lay alone. 

Hours had passed and she heard at last his careful step along thepassage, and the shock of it tingled through her with a renewal of fearand irrepressible joy. He opened, carefully, the dressing-room door. Shelistened, stilling her breaths. 

He would come to her. They would speak together. He would not leave herwhen she was so unhappy. Even the thought of Tante's wrongs was effacedby the fear and yearning, and, as the bedroom door opened and Gregorycame in, her heart seemed to lift and dissolve in a throb of relief andblissfulness. 

But, with her joy, the thought of Tante hovered like a heavy darknessabove her eyes, keeping them closed. She lay still, ashamed of so muchgladness, yet knowing that if he took her in his arms her arms could butclose about him. 

The stillness deceived Gregory. In the dim light from the dressing-roomhe saw her, as he thought, sleeping placidly, her broad braids lyingalong the sheet. 

He looked at her for a moment. Then, not stooping to her, he turnedaway. 

CHAPTER XXII

If only, Gregory often felt, in thinking it over and over in the days ofouter unity and inner estrangement that followed, she had not been ableto go to sleep so placidly. 

All resentment had faded from his heart when he went in to her. He hadlonged for reconciliation and for reassurance. But as he had looked atthe seeming calm of Karen's face his tenderness and compunction passedinto a bitter consciousness of frustrated love. Her calm was like arepulse. Their personal estrangement and misunderstanding left herunmoved. She had said what she had to say to him; she had vindicated herguardian; and now she slept, unmindful of him. He asked himself, and forthe first time clearly and steadily, as he lay awake for hoursafterwards in the little dressing-room bed, whether Karen's feelings forhim passed beyond a faithful, sober affection that took him for granted, unhesitatingly and uncritically, as a new asset in a life dedicatedelsewhere. Romance for her was personified in Tante, and her husband wasa creature of mere kindly domesticity. It was to think too bitterly ofKaren's love for him to see it thus, he knew, even while the tormentgrasped him; but the pressure of his own love for her, the loveliness, the romance that she so supremely personified for him, surged toostrongly against the barrier of her mute, unanswering face, for him tofeel temperately and weigh fairly. There was a lack in her, and becauseof it she hurt him thus cruelly. 

They met next morning over a mutual misinterpretation, and, with a senseof mingled discord and relief, found themselves kissing and smiling asif nothing had happened. Pride sustained them; the hope that, since theother seemed so unconscious, a hurt dealt so unconsciously need not, forpride's sake, be resented; the fear that explanation or protest mightemphasise estrangement. The easiest thing to do was to go on acting asif nothing had happened. Karen poured out his coffee and questioned himabout the latest political news. He helped her to eggs and bacon andtook an interest in her letters. 

And since it was easiest to begin so, it was easiest so to go on. Theroutine of their shared life blurred for them the sharp realisations ofthe night. But while the fact that such suffering had come to them wasone that could, perhaps, be lived down, the fact that they did not speakof it spread through all their life with a strange, new savour. 

Karen went to her ducal week-end; but she did not, when she came backfrom it, regale her husband with her usual wealth of detaileddescription. She could no longer assume the air of happy confidencewhere Tante and her doings with Tante were concerned. That air ofdetermined cheerfulness, that pretence that nothing was really thematter and that Tante and Gregory were bound to get on together if shetook it for granted that they would, had broken down. There was relieffor Gregory, though relief of a chill, grey order, in seeing that Karenhad accepted the fact that he and Tante were not to get on. Yet hesmarted from the new sense of being shut out from her life. 

It was he who assumed the air; he who pretended that nothing was thematter. He questioned her genially about the visit, and Karen answeredall his questions as genially. Yes; it had been very nice; the greathouse sometimes very beautiful and sometimes very ugly; the beautyseemed, in a funny way, almost as accidental as the ugliness. The peoplehad been very interesting to look at; so many slender pretty women;there were no fat women and no ugly women at all, or, if they were, theycontrived not to look it. It all seemed perfectly arranged. 

Had she talked to many of them? Gregory asked. Had she come acrossanybody she liked? Karen shook her head. She had liked them all--to lookat--but it had gone no further than that; she had talked very littlewith any of them; and, soberly, unemphatically, she had added: "Theywere all too much occupied with Tante--or with each other--to think muchof me. I was the only one not slender and not beautiful!"

Gregory asked who had taken her in to dinner on the two nights, andmasked ironic inner comments when he heard that on Saturday it had beena young actor who, she thought, had been a little cross at having her ashis portion. "He didn't try to talk to me; nor I to him, when I foundthat he was cross, " she said. "I didn't like him at all. He had fatcheeks and very shrewd black eyes. " On Sunday it had been a young son ofthe house, a boy at Eton. "Very, very dear and nice. We had a great talkabout climbing Swiss mountains, which I have done a good deal, youknow. "

Tante, it appeared, had had the ambassador on Saturday and the Dukehimself on Sunday. And she and Tante, as usual, had had great fun intheir own rooms every night, talking everybody over when the day wasdone. Karen said nothing to emphasise the contrast between the duke'sfriends and Gregory's, but she couldn't have failed to draw hercomparison. Here was a _monde_ where Tante was fully appreciated. Thatshe herself had not been was not a matter to engage her thoughts. But itengaged Gregory's. The position in which she had been placed was afurther proof to him of Tante's lack of consideration. Where Karen wasplaced depended, precisely, he felt sure of it, on where Madame vonMarwitz wished her to be placed. It was as the little camp-follower thatshe had taken her. 

After this event came a pause in the fortunes of our young couple. Madame von Marwitz, with Mrs. Forrester, went to Paris to give her twoconcerts there and was gone for a fortnight. In this fortnight he andKaren resumed, though warily, as it were, some old customs. They readtheir political economy again in the evenings when they did not go out, and he found her at tea-time waiting for him as she had used to do. Sheshared his life; she was gentle and thoughtful; yet she had never beenless near. He felt that she guarded herself against admissions. To comenear now would be to grant that it had been Tante's presence that hadparted them. 

She wrote to Madame von Marwitz, and heard from her, constantly. Madamevon Marwitz sent her presents from Paris; a wonderful white silkdressing-gown; a box of chocolate; a charming bit of old enamel pickedup in a _rive gauche_ curiosity shop. Then one day she wrote to say thatTallie had been quite ill--_povera vecchia_--and would Karen be a kind, kind child and run down and see her at Les Solitudes. 

Gregory had not forgotten the plan for having Mrs. Talcott with themthat winter and had reminded Karen of it, but it appeared then that shehad not forgotten, either; had indeed, spoken to Tante of it; but thatTante had not seemed to think it a good plan. Tante said that Mrs. Talcott did not like leaving Les Solitudes; and, moreover, that sheherself, might be going down there for the inside of a week at anymoment and Karen knew how Tallie would hate the idea of not being on thespot to prepare for her. Let them postpone the idea of a visit; at allevents until she was no longer in England. 

Gregory now suggested that Karen might bring Mrs. Talcott back with her. There was some guile in the suggestion. Encircling this little oasis ofpeace where he and Karen could, at all events, draw their breaths, werestorms and arid wastes. Madame von Marwitz would soon be back. She mighteven be thinking of redeeming her promise of coming to stay with them. If old Mrs. Talcott, slightly invalided, could be installed before thegreat woman's return, she might keep her out for the rest of her stay inLondon, and must, certainly, keep Karen in to a greater extent than whenshe had no guest to entertain. 

Karen could not suspect his motive; he saw that from her frank look ofpleasure. She promised to do her best. It was worth while, he reflected, to lose her for a few days if she were to bring back such a bulwark asMrs. Talcott might prove herself to be. And, besides, he would besincerely glad to see the old woman. The thought of her gave him a senseof comfort and security. 

He saw Karen off next morning. She was to be at Les Solitudes for threeor four days, and on the second day of her stay he had his first letterfrom her. It was strange to hear from her again, from Cornwall. It wasthe first letter he had had from Karen since their marriage and, withall its odd recalling of the girlish formality of tone, it was a sweetone. She had found Mrs. Talcott much better, but still quite weak andjaded, and very glad indeed to see her. And Mrs. Talcott really seemedto think that she would like to get away. Karen believed that Mrs. Talcott had actually been feeling lonely, uncharacteristic as thatseemed. She would probably bring her back on Saturday. The letter ended:"My dear husband, your loving Karen. "

Mrs. Talcott, therefore, was expected, and Mrs. Barker was told to makeready for her. 

But on Saturday morning, when Karen was starting, he had a wire from hertelling him that plans were altered and that she was coming back alone. 

He went to meet her at Paddington, remembering the meeting when she hadcome up after their engagement. It was a different Karen, a Karen furredand finished and nearly elegant, who stepped from the train; but shehad, as then, her little basket with the knitting and the book; and thegirlish face was scarcely altered; there was even a preoccupation on itthat recalled still more vividly the former meeting at Paddington. "Well, dearest, and why isn't Mrs. Talcott here, too?" were his firstwords. 

Karen took his arm as he steered her towards the luggage. "It is onlyput off, I hope, that visit, " she said, "because I heard this morning, Gregory, and wired to you then, that Tante asks if she may come to usnext week. " Her voice was not artificial; it expressed determination aswell as gentleness and seemed to warn him that he must not show her ifhe were not pleased. Yet duplicity, in his unpleasant surprise, wasdifficult to assume. 

"Really. At last. How nice, " he said; and his voice rang oddly. "Butpoor old Mrs. Talcott. Madame von Marwitz didn't know, I suppose, " hewent on, "that we'd just been planning to have her?"

Karen, her arm still in his, stood looking over the heaped up luggageand now pointed out her box to the porter. Then, as they turned away andwent towards their cab, she said, more gently and more determinedly:"Yes; she did know we had planned it. I wrote and told her so, and thatis why she wrote back so quickly to ask if we could not put off Mrs. Talcott for her; because she will be leaving London very soon and itwill be, this next week, her only chance of being with us. Mrs. Talcottdid not mind at all. I don't think she really wanted to come so much, Gregory. It is as Tante says, you know, " Karen settled herself in acorner of the hansom, "she really does not like leaving Les Solitudes. "

Gregory had the feeling of being enmeshed. Why had Madame von Marwitzthrown this web? Had she really divined in a flash his hope and hisintention? Was there any truth in her sudden statement that this was theonly week she could give them? "Oh! Really, " was all that he found tosay to Karen's explanations, and then, "Where is Madame von Marwitzgoing when she leaves us then?"

"To the Riviera, with the Duchess of Bannister, I think it is arranged. I may wire to her, then, Gregory, at once, and say that she is to come?"

"Of course. How long are we to have the pleasure of entertaining her?"

"She did not say; for a week at least, I hope. Perhaps, even, for afortnight if that will be convenient for you. It will be a great joy tome, " Karen went on, "if only"--she was speaking with that determinedsteadiness, looking before her as they drove; now, suddenly, she turnedher eyes on him "if only you will try to enjoy it, too, Gregory. "

It was, in a sense, a challenge, yet it was, too, almost an appeal, andit brought them nearer than they had been for weeks. 

Gregory's hand caught hers and, holding it tightly, smiling at herrather tremulously, he said: "I enjoy anything, darling, that makes youhappy. "

"Ah, but, " said Karen, her voice keeping its earnest control, "I cannotbe happy with you and Tante unless you can enjoy her for yourself. Tryto know Tante, Gregory, " she went on, now with a little breathlessness;"she wants that so much. One of the first things she asked me when shecame back was that I should try to make you care for her. She felt atonce--and oh! so did I, Gregory--that something was not happy betweenyou. "

Her hand holding his tightly, her earnest eyes on his, Gregory felt hisblood turn a little cold as he recognized once more the soft, unremitting pressure. It had begun, then, so early. She had asked Karenthat when she first came back. "But you see, dearest, " he said, tryingto keep his head between realizations of Madame von Marwitz's craft andKaren's candour, "I've never been able to feel that Madame von Marwitzwanted me to care for her or to come in at all, as it were. I don't meananything unkind; only that I imagined that what she did ask of me was tokeep outside and leave your relation and hers alone. And that's whatI've tried to do. "

"Oh, you mistake Tante, Gregory, you mistake her. " Karen's hand graspedhis more tightly in the urgency of her opportunity. "She cared for metoo much--yes, it is there that you do not understand--to feel what youthink. For she knows that I cannot be happy while you shut yourself awayfrom her. "

"Then it's not she who shuts me out?" he tried to smile. 

"No; no; oh, no, Gregory. "

"I must push in, even when I seem to feel I'm not wanted?"

She would not yield to his attempted lightness. "You mustn't push in;you must be in; with us, with Tante and me. "

"Do you mean literally? I'm to be a third at your _tête-à-têtes_?"

"No, Gregory, I do not mean that; but in thought, in sympathy. You willtry to know Tante. You will make her feel that you and I are not partedwhen she is there. "

She saw it all, all Tante's side, with a dreadful clearness. And it wasimpossible that she should see what he did. He must submit to seemingblurred and dull, to pretending not to see anything. At all events herhand was in his. He felt able to face the duel at close quarters withMadame von Marwitz as long as Karen let him keep her hand. 

CHAPTER XXIII

Tante arrived on Monday afternoon and the arrival reminded Gregory ofthe Bouddha's installation; but, whereas the Bouddha had overflowed thedrawing-room only, Madame von Marwitz overflowed the flat. 

A multitude of boxes were borne into the passages where, end to end, like a good's train on a main line, they stood impeding traffic. 

Louise, harassed and sallow, hurried from room to room, expostulating, explaining, replying in shrill tones to Madame von Marwitz's sonorousorders. Victor, led by Mrs. Forrester's footman, made his appearanceshortly after his mistress, and, set at large, penetrated unerringly tothe kitchen where he lapped up a dish of custard; while Mrs. Barker, inthe drawing-room, already with signs of resentment on her face, wasreceiving minute directions from Madame von Marwitz in regard to a cupof chocolate. In the dining-room, Gregory found two strange-looking men, to whom Barker, also clouded, had served whisky and soda; one of thesewas Madame von Marwitz's secretary, Schultz; the other a concertimpresario. They greeted Gregory with a disconcerting affability. 

In the midst of the confusion Madame von Marwitz moved, weary andbenignant, her arm around Karen's shoulders, or seated herself at thepiano to run her fingers appraisingly over it in a majestic surge ofarpeggios. Gregory found her hat and veil tossed on the bed in his andKaren's room, and when he went into his dressing-room he stumbled overthree band-boxes, just arrived from a modiste's, and hastily thrustthere by Louise. 

Victor bounded to greet him as he sought refuge in the library, andoverturned a table that stood in the hall with two fine pieces oforiental china upon it. The splintering crash of crockery filled theflat. Mrs. Barker had taken the chocolate to the drawing-room some timesince, and Madame von Marwitz, the cup in her hand, appeared upon thethreshold with Karen. "Alas! The bad dog!" she said, surveying thewreckage while she sipped her chocolate. 

Rose was summoned to sweep up the pieces and Karen stooped over themwith murmured regret. 

"Were they wedding-presents, my Karen?" Madame von Marwitz asked. "Console yourself; they were not of a good period--I noticed them. Iwill give you better. "

The vases had belonged to Gregory's mother. He was aware that he stoodrather blankly looking at the fragments, as Rose collected them. "Oh, Gregory, I am so sorry, " said Karen, taking upon herself theresponsibility for Victor's mischance. "I am afraid they are broken tobits. See, this is the largest piece of all. They can't be mended. No, Tante, they were not wedding-presents; they belonged to Gregory and wewere very fond of them. "

"Alas!" said Madame von Marwitz above her chocolate, and on a deepernote. 

Gregory was convinced that she had known they were not wedding-presents. But her manner was flawless and he saw that she intended to keep it so. She dined with them alone and at the table addressed her talk to him, fixing, as ill-luck would have it, on the theatre as her theme, and on_La Gaine d'Or_ as the piece which, in Paris, had particularlyinterested her. "You and Karen, of course, saw it when you were there, "she said. 

It was the piece of sinister fame to which he had refused to take Karen. He owned that they had not seen it. 

"Ah, but that is a pity, truly a pity, " said Madame von Marwitz. "Howdid it happen? You cannot have failed to hear of it. "

Unable to plead Karen as the cause for his abstention since Madame vonMarwitz regretted that Karen had missed the piece, Gregory said that hehad heard too much perhaps. "I don't believe I should care for anythingthe man wrote, " he confessed. 

"_Tiens!_" said Madame von Marwitz, opening her eyes. "You know him?"

"Heaven forbid!" Gregory ejaculated, smiling with some tartness. 

"But why this rigour? What have you against M. Saumier?"

It was difficult for a young Englishman of conventional tastes toformulate what he had against M. Saumier. Gregory took refuge inevasions. "Oh, I've glanced at reviews of his plays; seen his face inillustrated papers. One gets an idea of a man's personality and the kindof thing he's likely to write. "

"A great artist, " Madame von Marwitz mildly suggested. "One of ourgreatest. "

"Is he really? I'd hardly grasped that. I had an idea that he was merelyone of the clever lot. But I never can see why one should put oneself, through a man's art, into contact with the sort of person one wouldavoid having anything to do with in life. "

Madame von Marwitz listened attentively. "Do you refuse to look at aCellini bronze?"

"Literature is different, isn't it? It's more personal. There's morelife in it. If a man's a low fellow I don't interest myself in hisinterpretation of life. He's seen nothing that I'm likely to want tosee. "

Madame von Marwitz smiled, now with a touch of irony. "But you frightenme. How am I to tell you that I know M. Saumier?"

Gregory was decidedly taken back. "That's a penalty you have to pay forbeing a celebrity, no doubt, " he said. "All celebrities know each other, I suppose. "

"By no means. I allow no one to be thrust upon me, I assure you. And Ihave the greatest admiration for M. Saumier's talent. A great artistcannot be a low fellow; if he were one he would be so much more thanthat that the social defect would be negligible. Few great artists, Iimagine, have been of such a character as would win the approval of agarden party at Lambeth Palace. I am sorry, indeed sorry, that you andKaren missed _La Gaine d'Or_. It is not a play for the _jeune fille_;no; though, holding as I do that nothing so fortifies and arms the tasteas liberty, I should have allowed Karen to see it even before hermarriage. It is a play cruel and acrid and beautiful. Yes; there isgreat beauty, and it flowers, as so often, on a bitter root. Ah, well, you will waive your scruples now, I trust. I will take Karen with me tosee it when we are next in Paris together, and that must be soon. Wewill go for a night or two. You would like to see Paris with me again;_pas vrai, chérie?_"

Gregory had been uncomfortably aware of Karen's contemplation while hedefended his prejudices, and he was prepared for an open espousal of herguardian's point of view; it was, he knew, her own. But he received oncemore, as he had received already on several occasions, an unexpected andgratifying proof of Karen's recognition of marital responsibility. "Ishould like to be in Paris with you again, Tante, " she said, "but not togo to that play. I agreed not to go to it when Gregory and I were there. I should not care to go when he so much dislikes it. " Her eyes met herguardian's while she spoke. They were gentle and non-committal; theygave Gregory no cause for triumph, nor Tante for humiliation; theyexpressed merely her own recognition of a bond. 

Madame von Marwitz rose to the occasion, but--oh, it was there, the softpressure, never more present to Gregory's consciousness than when itseemed most absent--she rose too emphatically, as if to a need. Her eyesmused on the girl's face, tenderly brooded and understood. And Karen'svoice and look had asked her not to understand. 

"Ah, that is right; that is a wife, " she murmured. "Though, believe me, _chérie_, I did not know that I was so transgressing. " And turning herglance on Gregory, "_Je vous fais mes compliments_, " she added. 

Karen said that he must bring his cigar into the drawing-room, for Tantewould smoke her cigarette with him, and there, until bedtime, thingswent as well as they had at dinner--or as badly; for part of theirbadness, Gregory more and more resentfully became aware, was that theywere made to seem to go well, from her side, not from his. 

She had a genius, veritably uncanny for, with all sweetness andhesitancy, revealing him as stiff and unresponsively complacent. It wasimpossible for him to talk freely with a person uncongenial to him ofthe things he felt deeply; and, pertinaciously, over her coffee andcigarettes, it was the deep things that she softly wooed him to sharewith her. 

He might be stiff and stupid, but he flattered himself that he wasn'tonce short or sharp--as he would have been over and over again with anyother woman who so bothered him. And he was sincerely unaware that hiscourtesy, in its dry evasiveness, was more repudiating than rudeness. 

When Karen went with her guardian to her room that night, the littleroom that looked so choked and overcrowded with the great woman'smultiplied necessities, Madame von Marwitz, sinking on the sofa, drewher to her and looked closely at her, with an intentness almost tragic, tenderly smoothing back her hair. 

Karen looked back at her very firmly. 

"Tell me, my child, " Madame von Marwitz said, as if, suddenly, takingrefuge in the inessential from the pressure of her own thoughts, "howdid you find our Tallie? I have not heard of that from you yet. "

"She is looking rather pale and thin, Tante; but she is quite wellagain; already she will go out into the garden, " Karen answered, with, perhaps, an evident relief. 

"That is well, " said Madame von Marwitz with quiet satisfaction. "Thatis well. I cannot think of Tallie as ill. She is never ill. It isperhaps the peaceful, happy life she leads--_povera_--that preservesher. And the air, the wonderful air of our Cornwall. I fixed on Cornwallfor the sake of Tallie, in great part; I sought for a truly halcyon spotwhere that faithful one might end her days in joy. You knew that, Karen?"

"No, Tante; you never told me that. "

"It is so, " Madame von Marwitz continued to muse, her eyes on the fire, "It is so. I have given great thought to my Tallie's happiness. She hasearned it. " And after a moment, in the same quiet tone, she went on. "This idea of yours, my Karen, of bringing Tallie up to town; was itwise, do you think?"

Karen, also, had been looking at the flames. She brought her eyes nowback to her guardian. "Wasn't it wise, Tante? We had asked her to comeand stay--long ago, you know. "

"Had she seemed eager?"

"Eager? No; I can't imagine Mrs. Talcott eager about anything. We hopedwe could persuade her, that was all. Why not wise, Tante?"

"Only, my child, that after the quiet life there, the solitude that sheloves and that I chose for her sake, the pure sea air and the life amongher flowers, London, I fear, would much weary and fatigue her. Tallie isgetting old. We must not forget that Tallie is very old. This illnesswarns us. It does not seem to me a good plan. It was your plan, Karen?"

Karen was listening, with a little bewilderment. "It seemed, to me verygood. I had not thought of Mrs. Talcott as so old as that. I alwaysthink of her as old, but so strong and tough. It was Gregory whosuggested it, in the first place, and this time, too. When I told himthat I was going he thought of our plan at once and told me that now Imust persuade her to come to us for a good long visit. He is really veryfond of Mrs. Talcott, Tante, and she of him, I think. It would pleaseyou to see them together. "

Karen spoke on innocently; but, as she spoke, she became aware from anew steadiness in her guardian's look, that her words had conveyed somesignificance of which she was herself unconscious. 

Madame von Marwitz's hand had tightened on hers. "Ah, " she said after amoment. She looked away. 

"What is it, Tante?" Karen asked. 

Madame von Marwitz had begun to draw deep, slow breaths. Karen knew thesound; it meant a painful control. "Tante, what is it?" she repeated. 

"Nothing. Nothing, my child. " Madame von Marwitz laid her arm aroundKaren's shoulders and continued to look away from her. 

"But it isn't nothing, " said Karen, after a little pause. "Somethingthat I have said troubles or hurts you. "

"Is it so? Perhaps you say the truth, my child. Hurts are not new to me. No, my Karen, no. It is nothing for us to speak of. I understand. Butyour husband, Karen, he must have found it thoughtless in me, indelicate, to force myself in when he had hoped so strongly for anotherguest. "

A slow flush mounted to Karen's cheek. She kept silence for a moment, then in a careful voice she said: "No, Tante; I do not believe that. "

"No?" said Madame von Marwitz. "No, my Karen?"

"He knew, on the contrary, that I hoped to have you soon--at any timethat you could come, " said Karen, in slightly trembling tones. 

Madame von Marwitz nodded. "He knew that, as you tell me; and, knowingit, he asked Tallie; hoping that with her installed--for a longvisit--my stay might be prevented. Do not let us hide from each other, my Karen. We have hidden too long and it is the beginning of the end ifwe may not say to each other what we see. "

Sitting with downcast eyes, Karen was silent, struggling perhaps withnew realisations. 

Madame von Marwitz bent to kiss her forehead and then, resuming thetender stroking of her hair, she went on: "Your husband dislikes me. Letus look the ugly thing full in the face. You know it, and I know it, and--_parbleu!_--he knows it well. There; the truth is out. Ah, thebrave little heart; it sought to hide its sorrow from me. But Tante isnot so dull a person. The loneliness of heart must cease for you. Andthe sorrow, too, may pass away. Be patient, Karen. You will see. He maycome to feel more kindly towards the woman who so loves his wife. Strange, is it not, and a chastisement for my egotism, if I have stillany of that frothy element lingering in my nature, that I should find, suddenly, at the end of my life--so near me, bound to me by suchties--one who is unwilling to trust me, oh, for the least little bit; sounwilling to accept me at merely my face value. Most people, " she added, "have loved me easily. "

Karen sat on in silence. Her guardian knew this apathetic silence, andthat it was symptomatic in her of deep emotion. And, the contagion ofthe suffering beside her gaining upon her, her own fictitious calmwavered. She bent again to look into the girl's averted face. "Karen, _chérie_, " she said, and now with a quicker utterance; "it is not worsethan I yet realise? You do not hide something that I have not yet seen. It is dislike; I accept it. It is aversion, even. But his love for you;that is strong, sincere? He will not make it too difficult for me? I amnot wrong in coming here to be with my child?"

Karen at length turned her eyes on her guardian with a heavy look. "Whatwould you find too difficult?" she asked. 

Madame von Marwitz hesitated slightly, taken aback. But she grasped inan instant her advantage. "That by being here I should feel that I camebetween you and your husband. That by being here I made it moredifficult for you. "

"I should not be happier if you were away--if what you think is true, should I?" said Karen. 

"Yes, my child, " Madame von Marwitz returned, and now almost withseverity. "You would. You would not so sharply feel your husband'saversion for me if I were not here. You would not have it in your ears;before your eyes. "

"I thought that you talked together quite easily to-night, " Karencontinued. "I saw, of course, that you did not understand each other;but with time that might be. I thought that if you were here he would bydegrees come to know you, for he does not know you yet. "

"We talked easily, did we not, my child, to shield you, and you were notmore deceived by the ease than he or I. He does not understand me? Ihope so indeed. But to say that I do not understand him shows alreadyyour wish to shield him, and at my expense. I do understand him; toowell. And if there is this repugnance in him now, may it not grow withthe enforced intimacy? That is my fear, my dread. "

"He has never said that he disliked you. "

"Said it? To you? I should imagine not, _parbleu_!"

"He has only said, " Karen pursued with a curious doggedness, "that hedid not feel that you cared for him to care. "

"Ah! Is it so? You have talked of it, then? And he has said that? Anddid you believe it? Of me?"

But the growing passion and urgency of her voice seemed to shut Karenmore closely in upon herself rather than sweep her into impulsiveconfidence. There was a hot exasperation in Madame von Marwitz's eye asit studied the averted, stubborn head. "No, " was the reply she received. 

"No, no, indeed. It was not the truth that he said to you and you knowthat it was not the truth. Oh, I make no accusation against yourhusband; he believed it the truth; but you cannot believe that I wouldrest satisfied with what must make you unhappy. And how can you be happyif your husband does not care for me? How can you be happy if he feelsrepugnance for me? You cannot be. Is it not so? Or am I wrong?"

"No, " Karen again repeated. 

"Then, " said Madame von Marwitz, and a sob now lifted her voice, "thendo not let him put it upon me. Not that! Oh promise me, my Karen! Forthat would be the end. "

Karen turned to her suddenly, and passed her arms around her. "Tante--Tante, " she said; "what are you saying? The end? There could notbe an end for us! Do not speak so. Do not. Do not. " She was trembling. 

"Ah--could there not! Could there not!" With the words Madame vonMarwitz broke into violent sobs. "Has it not been my doom, always--always to have what I love taken from me! You love this man whohates me! You defend him! He will part you from me! I foresee it! Fromthe first it has been my dread!"

"No one can ever part us, Tante. No one. Ever. " Karen whispered, holdingher tightly, and her face, bending above the sobbing woman, was suddenlyold and stricken in its tormented and almost maternal love. "Tante;remember your own words. You gave me courage. Will you not be patient?For my sake? Be patient, Tante. Be patient. He does not know you yet. "

CHAPTER XXIV

Gregory heard no word of the revealing talk; yet, when he and Karen werealone, he was aware of a new chill, or a new discretion, in theatmosphere. It was as if a veil of ice, invisible yet impassable, hungbetween them, and he could only infer that she had something to hide, hecould only suspect, with a bitterer resentment, that Madame von Marwitzhad been more directly exerting her pressure. 

The pressure, whatever it had been, had the effect of making Karen, whenthey were all three confronted, more calm, more mildly cheerful thanbefore, more than ever the fond wife who did not even suspect that aflaw might be imagined in her happiness. 

Gregory had an idea--his only comfort in this sorry maze where he foundhimself so involved--that this attitude of Karen's, combined with hisown undeviating consideration, had a disconcerting effect upon Madamevon Marwitz and at moments induced her to show her weapon too openly intheir wary duel. If he ever betrayed his dislike Karen must see that itwas Tante who wouldn't allow him to conceal it, who, sorrowfully andgently, turned herself about in the light she elicited and displayedherself to Karen as rejected and uncomplaining. He hoped that Karen sawit. But he could be sure of nothing that Karen saw. The flawless loyaltyof her outward bearing might be but the shield for a deepening hurt. Allthat he could do was what, in former days and in different conditions, Mrs. Talcott had advised him to do; "hang on, " and parry Madame vonMarwitz's thrusts. She had come, he more and more felt sure of it, urgedby her itching jealousy, for the purpose of making mischief; and if itwas not a motive of which she was conscious, that made her but the moredangerous with her deep, instinctive craft. 

Meanwhile if there were fundamental anxieties to fret one's heart, therewere superficial irritations that abraded one's nerves. 

Karen was accustomed to the turmoil that surrounded the guarded shrinewhere genius slept or worked, too much accustomed, without doubt, torealise its effect upon her husband. 

The electric bells were never silent. Seated figures, bearing band-boxesor rolls of music, filled the hall at all hours of the day and night. Alert interviewers button-holed him on his way in and out and asked fora few details about Mrs. Jardine's youth, and her relationship to MadameOkraska. 

Madame von Marwitz rose capriciously and ate capriciously; trays withstrange meals upon them were carried at strange hours to her rooms, andBarker, Mrs. Barker and Rose all quarrelled with Louise. 

Madame von Marwitz also showed oddities of temper which, with all herdetermination to appear at her best, it did not occur to her to control, oddities that met, from Karen, with a fond tolerance. 

It startled Gregory when they saw Madame von Marwitz, emerging from herroom, administer two smart boxes upon Louise's ears, remarking as shedid so, with gravity rather than anger: "_Voilà pour toi, ma fille. _"

"Is Madame von Marwitz in the habit of slapping her servants?" he askedKaren in their room, aware that his frigid mien required justification. 

She looked at him through the veil of ice. "Tante's servants adore her. "

"Well, it seems a pity to take such an advantage of their adoration. "

"Louise is sometimes very clumsy and impertinent. "

"I can't help thinking that that sort of treatment makes servantsimpertinent. "

"I do not care to hear your criticism of my guardian, Gregory. "

"I beg your pardon, " said Gregory. 

Betty Jardine met him on a windy April evening in Queen Anne's Gate. "Isee that you had to sacrifice me, Gregory, " she said. She smiled; shebore no grudge; but her smile was tinged with a shrewd pity. 

He felt that he flushed. "You mean that you've not been to see us sincethe occasion. "

"I've not been asked!" Betty laughed. 

"Madame von Marwitz is with us, you know, " Gregory proffered ratherlamely. 

"Yes; I do know. How do you like having a genius domiciled? I hear thatshe is introducing Karen into a very artistic set. After the Bannisters, Mr. Claude Drew. He is back from America at last, it seems, and is anassiduous adorer. You have seen a good deal of him?"

"I haven't seen him at all. Has he been back for long?"

"Four or five days only, I believe; but I don't know how often he andMadame von Marwitz and Karen have been seen together. Don't think me acat, Gregory; but if she is engaged in a flirtation with that mostunpleasant young man I hope you will see to it that Karen isn't used asa screen. There have been some really horrid stories about him, youknow. "

Gregory parted from his sister-in-law, perturbed. Indiscreet and naughtyshe might be, but Betty was not a cat. The veil of ice was soimpenetrable that no sound of Karen's daily life came to him through it. He had not an idea of what she did with herself when he wasn't there, or, rather, of what Madame von Marwitz did with her. 

"You've been seeing something of Mr. Claude Drew, I hear, " he said toKaren that evening. "Do you like him better than you used to do?" Theywere in the drawing-room before dinner and dinner had been, as usual, waiting for half an hour for Madame von Marwitz. 

Gregory's voice betrayed more than a kindly interest, and Karen answeredcoldly, if without suspicion; "No; I do not like him better. But Tantelikes him. It is not I who see him, it is Tante. I am only with themsometimes. "

"And I? Am I to be with them sometimes?" Gregory inquired with an air ofgaiety. 

"If you will come back to tea to-morrow, Gregory, " she answered gravely, "you will meet him. He comes to tea then. "

For the last few days Gregory had fallen into the habit of only gettingback in time for dinner. "You know it's only because I usually find thatyou've gone out with your guardian that I haven't come back in time fortea, " he observed. 

"I know, " Karen returned, without aggressiveness. "And so, to-morrow, you will find us if you come. "

He got back at tea-time next day, expecting to make a fourth only of thesmall group; but, on his way to the drawing-room, he paused, arrested, in the hall, where a collection of the oddest looking hats and coats hehad ever seen were piled and hung. 

One of the hats was a large, discoloured, cream-coloured felt, muchbattered, with its brown band awry; one was of the type of flat-brimmedsilk, known in Paris as the _Latin Quartier_; another was an enormoussombrero. Gregory stood frowning at these strange signs somewhat as ifthey had been a drove of cockroaches. He had, as never yet before, thesense of an alien and offensive invasion of his home, and an old, almostforgotten disquiet smote upon him in the thought that what to him wasstrange was to Karen normal. This was her life and she had never reallyentered his. 

In the drawing-room, he paused again at the door, and looked over thecompany assembled under the Bouddha's smile. Madame von Marwitz was itscentre; pearl-wreathed, silken and silver, she leaned opulently on thecushions of the sofa where she sat, and Karen at the tea-table seemedcuriously to have relapsed into the background place where he had firstfound her. She was watching, with her old contented placidity, a scenein which she had little part. No, mercifully, though in it she was notof it. This was Gregory's relieving thought as his eye ran over them, the women with powdered faces and extravagant clothes and the men withthe oddest collars and boots and hair. "Shoddy Bohemians, " was his tersedefinition of them; an inaccurate definition; for though, in the main, Bohemians, they were not, in the main, shoddy. 

Belot was there, with his massive head and sagacious eyes; and a famousactress, ugly, thin, with a long, slightly crooked face, tinted hair, and the melancholy, mysterious eyes of a llama. Claude Drew, at a littletable behind Madame von Marwitz, negligently turned the leaves of abook. Lady Rose Harding, the only one of the company with whom Gregoryfelt an affinity, though a dubious one, talked to the French actress andto Madame von Marwitz. Lady Rose had ridden across deserts on camels, and sketched strange Asiatic mountains, and paid a pilgrimage toTolstoi, and written books on all these exploits; and she had been tothe Adirondacks that summer with the Aspreys and Madame von Marwitz, andwas now writing a book on that. In a corner a vast, though youthful, German Jew, with finely crisped red-gold hair, large lips and small, kind eyes blinking near-sightedly behind gold-rimmed spectacles, satwith another young man, his hands on his widely parted knees, in anattitude suggesting a capacity to cope with the most unwieldyinstruments of an orchestra; his companion, black and emaciated, talkedin German, with violent gestures and a strange accent, jerkingconstantly a lock of hair out of his eyes. A squat, fat little woman, bundled up, clasping her knees with her joined hands, sat on a footstoolat Madame von Marwitz's feet, gazing at her and listening to her with asmile of obsequious attention, and now and then, suddenly, and as ifirrelevantly, breaking into a jubilant laugh. Her dusty hair looked asthough, like the White Queen's, a comb and brush might be entangled inits masses; the low cut neck of her bodice displayed a ruddy throatwreathed in many strings of dirty seed-pearls, and her grey satin dresswas garnished with dirty lace. 

Gregory had stood for an appreciable moment at the door surveying thescene, before either Karen or her guardian saw him, and it was then thelatter who did the honours of the occasion, naming him to the bundledlady, who was an English poetess, and to Mlle. Suzanne Mauret, theFrench actress. The inky-locked youth turned out to be a famous Russianviolinist, and the vast young German Jew none other than Herr FranzLippheim, to whom--this was the fact that at once, violently, engagedGregory's attention--Madame von Marwitz had destined Karen. 

Franz Lippheim, after Gregory had spoken to everybody and when he atlast was introduced, sprang to his feet and came forward, beaming sointently from behind his spectacles that Gregory, fearing that he might, conceivably, be about to kiss him, made an involuntary gesture ofwithdrawal. But Herr Lippheim, all unaware, grasped his hand the morevigorously. "Our little Karen's husband!" "Unserer kleinen Karen'sMann!" he uttered in a deeply moved German. 

In the driest of tones Gregory asked Karen for some tea, and while hestood above her Herr Lippheim's beam continued to include them both. 

"Sit down here, Franz, near me, " said Karen. She, too, had smiledjoyously as Herr Lippheim greeted her husband. The expression of herface now had changed. 

Herr Lippheim obeyed, placing, as before, his hands on his knees, theelbows turned outward, and contemplating Karen's husband with a gazethat might have softened a heart less steeled than Gregory's. 

This, then, was Madame von Marwitz's next move; her next experiment inseeing what she could "do. " Was not Herr Lippheim a taunt? And with whatdid he so unpleasantly associate the name of the French actress? Thelink clicked suddenly. _La Gaine d'Or_, in its veiling French, was aboutto be produced in London, and it was Mlle. Mauret who had created theheroine's role in Paris. These were the people by means of whom Madamevon Marwitz displayed her power over Karen's life;--a depraved woman (heknew and cared nothing about Mlle. Mauret's private morality; she wasthe more repulsive to him if her morals weren't bad; only a woman of nomorals should be capable of acting in _La Gaine d'Or_;) that impudentpuppy Drew, and this preposterous young man who addressed Karen by herChristian name and included himself in his inappropriate enthusiasm. 

He drank his tea, standing in silence by Karen's side, and avoiding allencounter with Herr Lippheim's genial eyes. 

"It is like old times, isn't it, Franz?" said Karen, ignoring herhusband and addressing her former suitor. "It has been--oh, years--sinceI have heard such talk. Tante needs all of you, really, to draw her out. She has been wonderful this afternoon, hasn't she?"

"_Ah, kolossal!_" said Herr Lippheim, making no gesture, but expressingthe depths of his appreciation by an emphasized solemnity of gaze. 

"You are right, I think, and so does Tante, evidently, " Karen continued, "about the _tempo rubato_ in the Mozart. It is strange that MonsieurIvanowski doesn't feel it. "

"Ah! but that is it, he does feel it; it is only that he does not thinkit, " said Herr Lippheim, now running his fingers through his hair. "Hearhim play the Mozart. He then contradicts in his music all that his wordshave said. "

But though Karen talked so pointedly to him, Herr Lippheim could notkeep his eyes or his thoughts from Gregory. "You are a musician, too, Mr. Jardine?" he smiled, bending forward, blinking up through hisglasses and laboriously carving out his excellent English. "You do notexpress, but you have the soul of an artist? Or perhaps you, too, play, like our Karen here. "

"No, " Gregory returned, with a chill utterance. "I know nothing aboutmusic. "

"Is it so, Karen?" Herr Lippheim questioned, his guileless warmth hardlytempered. 

"My husband is no artist, " Karen answered. 

It was from her tone rather than from Gregory's that Herr Lippheimseemed to receive his intimation; he was a little disconcerted; he couldinterpret Karen's tones. "Ach so! Ach so!" he said; but, his good-willstill seeking to find its way to the polished and ambiguous person whohad gained Karen's heart, --"But now you will live amongst artists, Mr. Jardine, and you will hear music, great music, played to you by thegreatest. So you will come to feel it in the heart. " And as Gregory, tothis, made no reply, "You will educate him, Karen; is it not so? Withyou and the great Tante, how could it be otherwise?"

"I am afraid that one cannot create the love of art when it is notthere, Franz, " Karen returned. She was neither plaintive nor confiding;yet there was an edge in her voice which Gregory felt and which, heknew, he was intended to feel. Karen was angry with him. 

"Have you seen Belot's portrait of Tante, yet, Franz?"--she againexcluded her husband;--"It is just finished. "

Herr Lippheim had seen it only that morning and he repeated, but now inpreoccupied tones, "_Kolossal_!"

They talked, and Gregory stood above them, aloof from their conversationfrigidly gazing over the company, his elbow in his hand, his neatfingers twisting his moustache. If he was giving Madame von Marwitz ahandle against him he couldn't help it. Over the heads of Karen and HerrLippheim his eyes for a moment encountered hers. They looked at eachother steadily and neither feigned a smile. 

Eleanor Scrotton arrived at six, flushed and flustered. 

"Thank heaven, I haven't missed her!" she said to Gregory, to whom, to-day, Eleanor was an almost welcome sight. Her eyes had fixedthemselves on Mlle. Mauret. "Have you had a talk with her yet?"

"I haven't had a talk and I yield my claim to you, " said Gregory. "Areyou very eager to meet the lady?"

"Who wouldn't be, my dear Gregory! What a wonderful face! What thoughtand suffering! Oh, it has been the most extraordinary of stories. Youdon't know? Well, I will tell you about her some time. She is, doubtless, one of the greatest living actresses. And she is still quiteyoung. Barely forty. "

He watched Eleanor make her way to the actress's side, reflectingsardonically upon the modern growths of British tolerance. Half therespectable matrons in London would, no doubt, take their girls to see_La Gaine d'Or_; mercifully, they would in all probability notunderstand it; but if they did, was there anything that inartisticLondon would not swallow in its terror of being accused of philistinism?

The company was dispersing. Herr Lippheim stood holding Karen's handssaying, as she shook them, that he would bring _das Mütterchen_ and _dieSchwesterchen_ to-morrow. Belot came for a last cup of tea and drank itin sonorous draughts, exchanging a few words with Gregory. He hadnothing against Belot. Mr. Drew leaned on Madame von Marwitz's sofa andspoke to her in a low voice while she looked at him inscrutably, hereyes half closed. 

"Lucky man, " said Lady Rose to Gregory, on her way out, "to have herunder your roof. I hope you are a scrupulous Boswell and taking notes. "In the hall Barker was assorting the sombrero, the _Latin Quartier_ andthe cream-coloured felt; the last belonged to Herr Lippheim, who wasputting it on when Gregory escorted Lady Rose to the door. 

Gregory gave the young man a listless hand. He couldn't forgive HerrLippheim. That he should ever, under whatever encouragements fromKaren's guardian, have dared to aspire to her, was a monstrous fact. 

He watched the thick rims of Herr Lippheim's ears, under thecream-coloured felt, descending in the lift and wondered if the sightwas to be often inflicted upon him. 

When he went back to the drawing-room, Karen was alone. Madame vonMarwitz had taken Miss Scrotton to her own room. Karen was standing bythe tea-table, looking down at it, her hands on the back of the chairfrom which she had risen to say good-bye to her guardian's guests. Sheraised her eyes as her husband came in and they rested on him with astrange expression. 

CHAPTER XXV

"Will you shut the door, Gregory?" Karen said. "I want to speak to you. "The feeling with which he looked at her was that with which he had facedher sleeping, as he thought, after their former dispute. The sense offailure and disillusion was upon him. As before, it was only of herguardian that she was thinking. He knew that he had given Madame vonMarwitz a handle against him. 

He obeyed her and when he came and stood before her she went on. "Beforewe all meet at dinner again, I must ask you something. Do not make yourcontempt of Tante's guests--and of mine--more plain to her than you havealready done this afternoon. "

"Did I make it plain?" Gregory asked, after a moment. 

"I think that if I felt it so strongly, Tante must have felt it, " saidKaren, and to this, after another pause, Gregory found nothing furtherto say than "I'm sorry. "

"I hardly think, " said Karen, holding the back of her chair tightly andlooking down again while she spoke, "that you can have realized thatHerr Lippheim is not only Tante's friend, but mine. I don't think youcan have realized how you treated him. I know that he is very simple andunworldly; but he is good and kind and faithful; he is a trueartist--almost a great one, and he has the heart of a child. And besidehim, while you were hurting and bewildering him so to-day, you looked tome--how shall I say it--petty, yes, and foolish, yes, and full ofself-conceit. "

The emotion with which Gregory heard her speak these words, deliberately, if in a hardened and controlled voice, expressed itself, as emotion did with him, in a slight, fixed smile. He could not pause toexamine Karen's possible justice; that she should speak so, to him, wasthe overpowering fact. 

"I imagined that I behaved with courtesy, " he said. 

"Yes, you were courteous, " Karen replied. "You made me think of apainted piece of wood while he was like a growing tree. "

"Your simile is certainly very mortifying, " said Gregory, continuing tosmile. But he was not mortified. He was cruelly hurt. 

"I do not wish to mortify you. I have not mortified you, because youthink yourself above it all. But I would like, if I could, " said Karen, "to make you see the truth. I would like to make you see that inbehaving as you have you show yourself not above it but below it. "

"And I would like to make you see the truth, too, " Gregory returned, inthe voice of his bitter hurt; "and I ask you, if your prejudice willpermit of it, to make some allowance for my feeling when I found yousurrounded by--this rabble. "

"Rabble? My guardian's friends?" Karen had grown ashen. 

"I hope they're not; but I'm not concerned with her friends; I'mconcerned with you. She can take people in, on the artistic plane, whomit's not fit that you should meet. That horrible actress, --I wouldn'thave her come within sight of you if I could help it. Your guardianknows my feeling about the parts she plays. She had no business to askher here. As for Herr Lippheim, I have no doubt that he is an admirableperson in his own walk of life, but he is a preposterous person, and itis preposterous that your guardian should have thought of him as apossible husband for you. " Gregory imagined that he was speakingcarefully and choosing his words, but he was aware that his angercoloured his voice. He had also been aware, some little time before, ina lower layer of consciousness, of the stir and rustle of steps anddresses in the passage outside--Madame von Marwitz conducting EleanorScrotton to the door. And now--had she actually been listening, or didhis words coincide with the sudden opening of the door?--Madame vonMarwitz herself appeared upon the threshold. 

Her face made the catastrophe all too evident. She had heard him. Shehad, he felt convinced, crept quietly back and stood to listen beforeentering. His memory reconstructed the long pause between the departingrustle and this apparition. 

Madame von Marwitz's face had its curious look of smothered heat. Thewhites of her eyes were suffused though her cheeks were pale. 

"I must apologise, " she said. "I overheard you as I entered, Mr. Jardine, and what I heard I cannot ignore. What is it that you say toKaren? What is it that you say of the man I thought of as a possiblehusband for her?"

She advanced into the room and laying her arm round Karen's shouldersshe stood confronting him. 

"I don't think I can discuss this with you, " said Gregory. "I am verysorry that you overheard me. " The slight smile of his pain had gone. Helooked at Madame von Marwitz with a flinty eye. 

"Ah, but you must discuss it; you shall, " said Madame von Marwitz. "Yousay things to my child that I am not to overhear. You seek to poison hermind against me. You take her from me and then blacken me in her eyes. Apossible husband! Would to God, " said Madame von Marwitz, with sombrefury, "that the possibility had been fulfilled! Would to God that itwere my brave, deep-hearted Franz who were her husband--not you, mostungrateful, most ungenerous of men. "

"Tante, " said Karen, who still stood looking down, grasping herchair-back and encircled by her guardian's arm, "he did not mean you tohear him. Forgive him. "

"I beg your pardon, Karen, " said Gregory, "I am very sorry that Madamevon Marwitz overheard me; but I have said nothing for which I wish toapologize. "

"Ah! You hear him!" cried Madame von Marwitz, and the innerconflagration now glittered in her eyes like flames behind the windowsof a burning house. "You hear him, Karen? Forgive him! How can I forgivehim when he has made you wretched! How can I ever forgive him when hetears your life by thrusting me forth from it--me--and everything I amand mean! You have witnessed it, Karen--you have seen my efforts to winyour husband. You have seen his contempt for me, his rancour, hishalf-hidden insolence. Never--ah, never in my life have I faced suchhumiliation as has been offered to me beneath his roof--humiliations, endured for your sake, Karen--for yours only! Ah"--releasing Karensuddenly, she advanced a step towards Gregory, with a startling cry, stretching out her arm--"ungrateful and ungenerous indeed! And you findyourself one to scorn my Franz! You find yourself one to sneer at myfriends, to stand and look at them and me as if we were vermin infestingyour room! Did I not see it! You! _justes cieux!_ with your bourgeoislittle world; your little--little world--so small--so small! your peoplelike dull beasts pacing in a cage, believing that in the meat thrust inbetween their bars and the number of steps to be taken from side to sidelies all the meaning of life; people who survey with their heavy eyes ofsurfeit the free souls of the world! Hypocrites! Pharisees! And to thiscage you have consigned my child! and you would make of her, too, acreature of counted paces and of unearned meat! You would shut her infrom the life of beauty and freedom that she has known! Ah never! never!there you do not triumph! You have taken her from me; you have won herlove; but her mind is not yours; she sees the cage as I do; you do notshare the deep things of the soul with her. And in her loyal heart--ah, I know it--will be the cry, undying, for one whose heart you have trodupon and broken!"

With these last words, gasped forth on rising sobs, Madame von Marwitzsank into the chair where Karen still leaned and broke into passionatetears. 

Gregory again was smiling, with the smile now of decorum at bay, ofembarrassment rather than contempt; but to Karen's eyes it was the smileof supercilious arrogance. She looked at him sternly over her guardian'sbowed and oddly rolling head. "Speak, Gregory! Speak!" she commanded. 

"My dear, " said Gregory--their voices seemed to pass above the clash anduproar of stormy waters, Madame von Marwitz had abandoned herself to anelemental grief--"I have nothing to say to your guardian. "

"To me, then, " Karen clenched her hands on the back of the chair; "tome, then, you have something to say. Is it not true? Have you notrepulsed her efforts to come near you? Have you not, behind her back, permitted yourself to speak with scorn of the man she hoped I wouldmarry?"

Gregory paused, and in the pause, as he observed, Madame von Marwitz wasable to withhold for a moment her strange groans and gaspings while shelistened. "I don't think there has been any such effort, " he said. "Wewere both keeping up appearances, your guardian and I; and I think thatI kept them up best. As for Herr Lippheim, it was only when you accusedme of rudeness to him that I confessed how much it astonished me to findthat he was the man your guardian had wished you to marry. It doesastonish me. Herr Lippheim isn't even a gentleman. "

"Enough!" cried Madame von Marwitz. She sprang to her feet. "Enough!"she said, half suffocated. "It is the voice of the cage! We will notstay to hear its standards applied. Come with me, Karen, that I may sayfarewell to you. "

She caught Karen by the arm. Her face was strange, savage, suffused. Gregory went to open the door for them. "Base one!" she said to him. "Ignominious one!"

She drew Karen swiftly along the passage and, still keeping her sharpclasp of her wrist while she opened and closed the door of her room, shesank, encircling her with her arms, upon the sofa, and wept loudly overher. 

Karen, too, was now weeping; heavy, shaking sobs. 

"My child! My poor child!" Madame von Marwitz murmured brokenly after alittle time had gone. "I would have spared you this. It has come. Wehave both seen it. And now, so that your life may not be ruined, I mustleave it. "

"But Tante--my Tante--" sobbed Karen--Madame von Marwitz did not rememberthat Karen had ever so sobbed before--"you cannot mean those words. Whatshall I do if you say this? What is left for me?"

"My child, your life is left you, " said Madame von Marwitz, holding herclose and speaking with her lips in the girl's hair. "Your husband'slove is left; the happiness that you chose and that I shall shatter if Istay; ah, yes, my Karen, how deny it now? I see my path. It is plainbefore me. To-night I go to Mrs. Forrester and to-morrow I breathe theair of Cornwall. "

"But Tante--wait--wait. You will see Gregory again? You will let himexplain? Oh, let me first talk with him! He says bitter things, but sodo you, Tante; and he does not mean to offend as much as you think. "

At this, after a little pause, Madame von Marwitz drew herself slightlyaway and put her handkerchief to her eyes and cheeks. The violence ofher grief was over. "Does he still so blind you, Karen?" she then asked. "Do you still not see that your husband hates me--and has hated me fromthe beginning?"

"Not hate!--Not hate!" Karen sobbed. "He does not understand you--thatis all. Only wait--till to-morrow. Only let me talk to him!"

"No. He does not understand. That is evident, " said Madame von Marwitzwith a bitter smile. "Nor will he ever understand. Will you talk to him, Karen, so that he shall explain why he smirches my love and mysincerity? You know as well as I what was the meaning of those words ofhis. Can you, loving me, ask me to sue further for the favour of a manwho has so insulted me? No. It cannot be. I cannot see him again. Youand I are still to meet, I trust; but it cannot again be under thisroof. "

Karen now sobbed helplessly, leaning forward, her face in her hands, andMadame von Marwitz, again laying an arm around her shoulders, gazed withmajestic sorrow into the fire. "Even so, " she said at last, when Karen'ssobs had sunken to long, broken breaths; "even so. It is the law oflife. Sacrifice: sacrifice: to the very end. Life, to the artist, mustbe this altar where he lays his joys. We are destined to be alone, Karen. We are driven forth into the wilderness for the sins of thepeople. So I have often seen it, and cried out against it in my torturedyouth, and struggled against it in my strength and in my folly. But now, with another strength, I am enabled to stand upright and to face thevision of my destiny. I am to be alone. So be it. "

No answer came, from Karen and Madame von Marwitz, after a pause, continued, in gentler, if no less solemn tones: "And my child, too, isbrave. She, too, will stand upright. She, too, has her destiny tofulfil--in the world--not in the wilderness. And if the burden shouldever grow too heavy, and the road cut her feet too sharply, and the joyturn to dust, she will remember--always--that Tante's arms and heart areopen to her--at all times, in all places, and to the end of life. Andnow, " this, with a sigh of fatigue, came on a more matter-of-factnote--"let a cab be called for me. Louise will follow with my boxes. "

Karen's tears had ceased. She made no further protest or appeal. 

Rising, she dried her eyes, rang and ordered the cab to be called andfound her guardian's white cloak and veiled hat. 

And while she shrouded her in these, Madame von Marwitz, still gazing, as if at visions, in the fire, lifted her arms and bent her head withalmost the passivity of a dead thing. Once or twice she murmured brokenphrases: "My ewe-lamb;--taken;--I am very weary. _Mon Dieu, monDieu_, --and is this, then, the end.... "

She rested heavily on Karen's shoulder in rising. "Forgive me, " shesaid, leaning her head against hers, "forgive me, beloved one. I havedone harm where I meant to make a safer happiness. Forgive me, too, formy bitter words. I should not have spoken as I did. My child knows thatit is a hot and passionate heart. "

Karen, in silence, turned her face to her guardian's breast. 

"And do not, " said Madame von Marwitz, speaking with infinitetenderness, while she stroked the bent head, "judge your husband toohardly because of this. He gives what love he can; as he knows love. Itis as my child said; he does not understand. It is not given to some tounderstand. He has lived in a narrow world. Do not judge him hardly, Karen; it is for the wiser, stronger, more loving soul to lift thesmaller towards the light. He can still give my child happiness. In thattrust I find my strength. "

They went down the passage together. Gregory came to the drawing-roomdoor. He would have spoken, have questioned, but, shrinking from him andagainst Karen, as if from an intolerable searing, Madame von Marwitzhastened past him. He heard the front door open and the last silentpause of farewell on the threshold. 

Louise scuttled by past him to her mistress's vacated rooms. She did notsee him and he heard that she muttered under her breath: "_Ah! parexemple! C'est trap fort, ma parole d'honneur!_"

As Karen came back from the door he went to meet her. 

"Karen, " he said, "will you come and talk with me, now?"

She put aside his hand. "I cannot talk. Do not come to me, " she said. "Imust think. " And going into their room she shut the door. 

CHAPTER XXVI

The telephone sounded while Gregory next morning ate his solitarybreakfast, and the voice of Mrs. Forrester, disembodied of all but itsgravity, asked him, if he would, to come and see her immediately. 

Gregory asked if Madame von Marwitz were with her. He was not willing, after the final affront that she had put upon him, to encounter Madamevon Marwitz again in circumstances where he might seem to be justifyinghimself. But, with a deeper drop, the disembodied voice informed himthat Madame von Marwitz, ten minutes before, had driven to the stationon her way to Cornwall. "You will understand, I think, Gregory, " saidMrs. Forrester, "that it is hardly possible for her to face in London, as yet, the situation that you have made for her. "

Gregory, to this, replied, shortly, that he would come to her at once, reserving his comments on the imputed blame. 

He had passed an almost sleepless night, lying in his littledressing-room bed where, by a tacit agreement, never explicitlyrecognized, he had slept, now, for so many nights. Cold fears, shaped atlast in definite forms, stood round him and bade him see the truth. Hiswife did not love him. From the beginning he had been as nothing to hercompared with her guardian. The pale, hard light of her eyes as she hadsaid to him that afternoon, "Speak!" seemed to light the darkness withbitter revelations. He knew that he was what would be called, sentimentally, a broken-hearted man; but it seemed that the process ofbreaking had been gradual; so that now, when his heart lay in pieces, his main feeling was not of sharp pain but of dull fatigue, not oftragic night, but of a grey commonplace from which all sunlight hadslowly ebbed away. 

He found Mrs. Forrester in her morning-room among loudly singingcanaries and pots of jonquils; and as he shook hands with her he sawthat this old friend, so old and so accustomed that she was like a partof his life, was embarrassed. The wrinkles on her withered, but oddlyjuvenile, face seemed to have shifted to a pattern of perplexity andpained resolution. He was not embarrassed, though he was beaten and donein a way Mrs. Forrester could not guess at; yet he felt an awkwardness. 

They had known each other for a life-time, he and Mrs. Forrester, butthey were not intimate; and how intimate they would have to become ifthey were to discuss with anything like frankness the causes andconsequences of Madame von Marwitz's conduct! A gloomy indifferencesettled on Gregory as he realized that her dear friend's conduct was theone factor in the causes and consequences that Mrs. Forrester would notbe able to appraise at its true significance. 

She shook his hand, and seating herself at a little table and slightlytapping it with her fingers, "Now, my dear Gregory, " she said, "willyou, please, tell me why you have acted like this?"

"Isn't my case prejudged?" Gregory asked, reconstructing the scene thatmust have taken place last night when Madame von Marwitz had appearedbefore her friend. 

"No, Gregory; it is not, " Mrs. Forrester returned with some terseness, for she felt his remark to be unbecoming. "I hope to have some sort ofexplanation from you. "

"I'm quite ready to explain; but it's hardly possible that myexplanation will satisfy you, " said Gregory. "You spoke, just now, whenyou called me up, of a situation and said I'd made it. My explanationcan only consist in saying that I didn't make it; that Madame vonMarwitz made it; that she came to us in order to make it and then to fixthe odium of it on me. "

Already Mrs. Forrester had flushed. She looked hard at the pot ofjonquils near her. "You really believe that?"

"I do. She can't forgive me for not liking her, " said Gregory. 

"And you don't like her. You own to it. "

"I don't like her. I own to it, " Gregory replied with a certain frostyrelief. It was like taking off damp, threadbare garments that hadchilled one for a long time and facing the winter wind, naked, butinvigorated. "I dislike her very much. "

"May I ask why?" Mrs. Forrester inquired, with careful courtesy. 

"I distrust her, " said Gregory. "I think she's dangerous, and tyrannous, and unscrupulous. I think that she's devoured by egotism. I'm sorry. Butif you ask me why, I can only tell you. "

Mrs. Forrester sat silent for a moment, and then, the flush on herdelicate old cheek deepening, she murmured: "It is worse, far worse, than Mercedes told me. Even Mercedes didn't suspect this. Gregory, --Imust ask you another question: Do you really imagine that you and yourcruel thoughts of her would be of the slightest consequence to MercedesOkraska, if you had not married the child for whose happiness she holdsherself responsible?"

"Of course not. She wouldn't give me another thought, if I weren'tthere, in her path; I am in her path, and she feels that I don't likeher, and she hasn't been able to let me alone. "

"She has not let you alone because she hoped to make your marriagesecure in the only way in which security was possible for you and Karen. What happiness could she see for Karen's future if she were to have cutherself apart from her life; dropped you, and Karen with you? That, doubtless, would have been the easy thing to do. There is indeed noreason why women like Mercedes Okraska, women with the world at theirfeet, should trouble to think of the young men they may chance to meet, whose exacting moral sense they don't satisfy. I am glad you see that, "said Mrs. Forrester, tapping her table. 

"It would have been far kinder to have dropped Karen than deliberatelyto set to work, as she has done, to ruin her happiness. She hasn't beenable to keep her hands off it. She couldn't stand it--a happiness shehadn't given; a happiness for which gratitude wasn't due to her. "

"Gregory, Gregory, " Mrs. Forrester raised her eyes to him now; "you arefrank with me, very frank; and I must be frank with you. There is morethan dislike here, and distrust, and morbid prejudice. There isjealousy. Hints of it have come to me; I've tried to put them aside;I've tried to believe, as my poor Mercedes did, that, by degrees, youwould adjust yourself to the claims on Karen's life, and be generous andunderstanding, even when you had no spontaneous sympathy to give. But itis all quite clear to me now. You can't accept the fact of your wife'srelation to Mercedes. You can't accept the fact of a devotion not whollydirected towards yourself. I've known you since boyhood, Gregory, andI've always had regard and fondness for you; but this is a seriousbreach between us. You seem to me more wrong and arrogant than I couldtrust myself to say. And you have behaved cruelly to a woman for whom myfeeling is more than mere friendship. In many ways my feeling forMercedes Okraska is one of reverence. She is one of the great people ofthe world. To know her has been a possession, a privilege. Anyone mightbe proud to know such a woman. And when I think of what you have nowsaid of her to me--when I think of how I saw her--here--lastnight, --broken--crushed, --after so many sorrows--"

Tears had risen to Mrs. Forrester's eyes. She turned her head aside. 

"Do you mean, " said Gregory after a moment, in which it seemed to himthat his grey world preceptibly, if slightly, darkened, "do you meanthat I've lost your friendship because of Madame von Marwitz?"

"I don't know, Gregory; I can't tell you, " said Mrs. Forrester, notlooking at him. "I don't recognize you. As to Karen, I cannot imaginewhat your position with her can be. How is she to bear it when she knowsthat it is said that you insulted her guardian's friends and then turnedher out of your house?"

"I didn't turn her out, " said Gregory; he walked to the window andstared into the street. "She went because that was the most venomousthing she could do. And I didn't insult her friends. "

"You said to her that the man she had thought of as a husband for Karenwas not a gentleman. You said that you did not understand how Mercedescould have chosen such a man for her. You said this with the childstanding between you. Oh, you cannot deny it, Gregory. I have heard indetail what took place. Mercedes saw that unless she left you Karen'sposition was an impossible one. It was to save Karen--and your relationto Karen--that she went. "

Gregory, still standing at the window, was silent, and then asked: "Haveyou seen Herr Lippheim?"

"No, Gregory, " Mrs. Forrester returned, and now with trenchancy, theconcrete case being easier to deal with openly. "No; I have not seenhim; but Mercedes spoke to me about him last winter, when she hoped forthe match, and told me, moreover, that she was surprised by Karen'srefusal, as the child was much attached to him. I have not seen him; butI know the type--and intimately. He is a warm-hearted and intelligentmusician. "

"Your bootmaker may be warm-hearted and intelligent. "

"That is petulant--almost an insolent simile, Gregory. It only reveals, pitifully, your narrowness and prejudice--and, I will add, yourignorance. Herr Lippheim is an artist; a man of character andsignificance. Many of my dearest friends have been such; hearts of gold;the salt of the world. "

"Would you have allowed a daughter of yours, may I ask, to marry one ofthese hearts of gold?"

"Certainly; most certainly, " said Mrs. Forrester, but with a haste andheat somewhat suspicious. "If she loved him. "

"If he were personally fit, you mean. Herr Lippheim is undoubtedlywarm-hearted and, in his own way, intelligent, but he is as unfit to beKaren's husband as your bootmaker to be yours. "

They had come now, on this lower, easier level, to one of the pointswhere temper betrays itself as it cannot do on the heights of contest. Gregory's reiteration of the bootmaker greatly incensed Mrs. Forrester. 

"My dear Gregory, " she said, "I yield to no one in my appreciation ofKaren; owing to the education and opportunities that Mercedes has givenher, she is a charming young woman. But, since we are dealing with, facts, the bare, bald, worldly aspects of things, we must not forget thefacts of Karen's parentage and antecedents. Herr Lippheim is, in theserespects, I imagine, altogether her equal. A rising young musician, thefriend and _protégé_ of one of the world's great geniuses, and apenniless, illegitimate girl. Do not let your rancour, your jealousy, blind you so completely. "

Gregory turned from the window at this, smiling a pallid, frosty smileand Mrs. Forrester was now aware that she had made him very angry. "Imay be narrow, " he said, "and conventional and ignorant; but I'munconventional and clear-sighted enough to judge people by their actual, not their market, value. Of Herr Lippheim I know nothing, except thathis parentage and antecedents haven't made a gentleman, or anythingresembling one, of him; while of Karen I know that hers, unfortunate asthey certainly were, have made a lady and a very perfect one. I don'tforgive Madame von Marwitz for a great many things in regard to hertreatment of Karen, " Gregory went on with growing bitterness, "chiefamong them that she has taken her at her market value and allowed herfriends to do the same. I've been able, thank goodness, to rescue Karen, at all events, from that. Madame von Marwitz can't carry her about anylonger like a badge from some charitable society on her shoulder. Nowoman who really loved Karen, or who really appreciated her, " Gregoryadded, falling back on his concrete fact, "could have thought of HerrLippheim as a husband for her. "

Mrs. Forrester sat looking up at him, and she was genuinely aghast. 

"You are incredible to me, Gregory, " she said. "You set your one year ofdevotion to Karen against Mercedes's life-time, and you presume todiscredit hers. "

"Yes. I do. I don't believe in her devotion to Karen. "

"Do you realize that your attitude may mean a complete rupture betweenKaren and her guardian?"

"No such luck; I'm afraid!" said Gregory with a grim laugh. "My onlyhope is that it may mean a complete rupture between Madame von Marwitzand me. It goes without saying, feeling as I do, that, if it wouldn'tbreak Karen's heart, I'd do my best to prevent Madame von Marwitz fromever seeing her again. "

There was a little silence and then Mrs. Forrester got up sharply. 

"Very well, Gregory, " she said. "That will do. "

"Are you going to shake hands with me?" he asked, still with the grimsmile. 

"Yes. I will shake hands with you, Gregory, " Mrs. Forrester replied. "Because, in spite of everything, I am fond of you. But you must notcome here again. Not now. "

"Never any more, do you really mean?"

"Not until you are less wickedly blind. "

"I'm sorry, " said Gregory. "It's never any more then, I'm afraid. "

He was very sorry. He knew that as he walked away. 

CHAPTER XXVII

Mrs. Forrester remained among her canaries and jonquils, thinking. Shewas seriously perturbed. She was, as she had said, fond of Gregory, butshe was fonder, far, of Mercedes von Marwitz, whom Gregory had caused tosuffer and whom he would, evidently, cause to suffer still more. 

She controlled the impulse to telephone to Eleanor Scrotton and consultwith her; a vague instinct of loyalty towards Gregory restrained herfrom that. Eleanor would, in a day or two, hear from Cornwall and whatshe would hear could not be so bad as what Mrs. Forrester herself couldtell her. After thinking for the rest of the morning, Mrs. Forresterdecided to go and see Karen. She was not very fond of Karen. She hadalways been inclined to think that Mercedes exaggerated the significanceof the girl's devotion, and Gregory's exaggeration, now, of her generalsignificance--explicable as it might be in an infatuated younghusband--disposed her the less kindly towards her. She felt that Karenhad been clumsy, dull, in the whole affair. She felt that, at bottom, she was somewhat responsible for it. How had Gregory been able, livingwith Karen, to have formed such an insensate conception of Mercedes? Thegirl was stupid, acquiescent; she had shown no tact, no skill, noclarifying courage. Mrs. Forrester determined to show them all--to talkto Karen. 

She drove to St. James's at four o'clock that afternoon and Barker toldher that Mrs. Jardine was in the drawing-room. Visitors, evidently, werewith her, and it affected Mrs. Forrester very unpleasantly, as Barkerled her along the passage, to hear rich harmonies of music filling theflat. She had expected to be perhaps ushered into a darkened bedroom; toadminister comfort and sympathy to a shattered creature beforeadministering reproof and counsel. But Karen not only was up; she wasnot alone. The strains were those of chamber-music, and a half-perplexeddelight mingled with Mrs. Forrester's displeasure as she recognized theheavenly melodies of Schumann's Pianoforte Quintet. The performers werein the third movement. 

Karen rose, as Barker announced her, from the side of a stout lady atthe piano, and Mrs. Forrester, nodding, her finger at her lips, droppedinto a chair and listened. 

The stout lady at the piano had a pale, fat, pear-shaped face, hergrizzled hair parted above it and twisted to a large outstanding knobbehind. She wore eyeglasses and peered through them at her music withintelligent intensity and profound humility. The violin was played by anenormous young man with red hair, and the viola, second violin and'cello by three young women, all of the black-and-tan Semitic type. 

Mrs. Forrester was too much preoccupied with her wonder to listen as shewould have wished to, but by the time the end of the movement was comeshe had realized that they played extremely well. 

Karen came forward in the interval. She was undoubtedly pale andheavy-eyed; but in her little dress of dark blue silk, with her narrowlawn ruffles and locket and shining hair, she showed none of thedesperate signs appropriate to her circumstances nor any embarrassmentat the incongruous situation in which Mrs. Forrester found her. 

"This is Frau Lippheim, Mrs. Forrester, " she said. "And these areFräulein Lotta and Minna and Elizabeth, and this is Herr Franz. I thinkyou have often heard Tante speak of our friends. "

Her ears buzzing with the name of Lippheim since the night before, Mrs. Forrester was aware that she showed confusion, also that for a brief, sharp instant, while her eyes rested on Herr Franz, a pang of perversesympathy for Gregory, in a certain aspect of his wickedness, disintegrated her state of mind. He was singular looking indeed, thisuntidy young man, whose ill-kept clothes had a look of insecurity, likearrested avalanches on a mountain. "No, I can feel for Gregory somewhatin this, " Mrs. Forrester said to herself. 

"We are having some music, you see, " said Karen. "Herr Lippheim promisedme yesterday that they would all come and play to me. Can you stay andlisten for a little while? They must go before tea, for they have arehearsal for their concert, " she added, as though to let Mrs. Forresterknow that she was not unconscious of the matter that must have broughther. 

There was really no reason why she shouldn't stay. She could not verywell ask to have the Lippheims and their instruments turned out. Moreover she was very fond of the Quintet. Mrs. Forrester said that shewould be glad to stay. 

When they went on to the fourth movement, and while she listened, givingher mind to the music, Mrs. Forrester's disintegration slowly recomposeditself. It was not only that the music was heavenly and that they playedso well. She liked these people; they were the sort of people she hadalways liked. She forgot Herr Franz's uncouth and mountainous aspect. His great head leaning sideways, his eyes half closed, with themusician's look of mingled voluptuous rapture and cold, grave, listeningintellect, he had a certain majesty. The mother, too, all devoutconcentration, was an artist of the right sort; the girls had the gentlebenignity that comes of sincere self-dedication. They pleased Mrs. Forrester greatly and, as she listened, her severity towards Gregoryshaped itself anew and more forcibly. Narrow, blind, bigoted young man. And it was amusing to think, as a comment on his fierce consciousness ofHerr Lippheim's unfitness, that here Herr Lippheim was, admitted to thevery heart of Karen's sorrow. It was inconceivable that anyone but verynear and dear friends should have been tolerated by her to-day. Karen, too, after her fashion, was an artist. The music, no doubt, was helpfulto her. Soft thoughts of her great, lacerated friend, speeding nowtowards her solitudes, filled Mrs. Forrester's eyes more than once withtears. 

They finished and Frau Lippheim, rubbing her hands with herhandkerchief, stood smiling near-sightedly, while Mrs. Forresterexpressed her great pleasure and asked all the Lippheims to come and seeher. She planned already a musical. Karen's face showed a pale beam ofgladness. 

"And now, my dear child, " said Mrs. Forrester, when the Lippheims haddeparted and she and Karen were alone and seated side by side on thesofa, "we must talk. I have come, of course you know, to talk about thismiserable affair. " She put her hand on Karen's; but already something inthe girl's demeanour renewed her first displeasure. She looked heavy, she looked phlegmatic; there was no response, no softness in her glance. 

"You have perhaps a message to me, Mrs. Forrester, from Tante, " shesaid. 

"No, Karen, no, " Mrs. Forrester with irrepressible severity returned. "Ihave no message for you. Any message, I think should come from yourhusband and not from your guardian. "

Karen sat silent, her eyes moving away from her visitor's face andfixing themselves on the wall above her head. 

The impulse that had brought Mrs. Forrester was suffering alterations. 

Gregory had revealed the case to her as worse than she had supposed;Karen emphasized the revelation. And what of Mercedes between these twoyoung egoists? "I must ask you, Karen, " she said, "whether you realisehow Gregory has behaved, to the woman to whom you, and he, owe so much?"

Karen continued to look fixedly at the wall and after a moment ofdeliberation replied: "Tante did not speak rightly to Gregory, Mrs. Forrester. She lost her temper very much. You know that Tante can loseher temper. "

Mrs. Forrester, at this, almost lost hers. "You surprise me, Karen. Yourhusband had spoken insultingly of her friends--and yours--to her. Whyattempt to shield him? I heard the whole story, in detail, from yourguardian, you must remember. "

Again Karen withdrew into a considering silence; but, though her faceremained impassive, Mrs. Forrester observed that a slight flush rose toher cheeks. 

"Gregory did not intend Tante to overhear what he said, " she produced atlast. "It was said to me--and I had questioned him--not to her. Tantecame in by chance. It is not likely, Mrs. Forrester, that my versionwould differ in any way from hers. "

"You mustn't take offence at what I say, Karen, " Mrs. Forrester spokewith more severity; "your version does differ. To my astonishment youseem actually to defend your husband. "

"Yes; from what is not true: that is not to differ from Tante as to whattook place. " Karen brought her eyes to Mrs. Forrester's. 

"From what is not true. Very well. You will not deny that he sointensely dislikes your guardian and has shown it so plainly to her thatshe has had to leave you. You will not deny that, Karen?"

"No. I will not deny that, " Karen replied. 

"My poor child--it is true, and it is only a small part of the truth. Idon't know what Gregory has said to you in private, but even Mercedeshad not prepared me for what he said to me this morning. "

"What did he say to you this morning, Mrs. Forrester?"

"He believes her to be a bad woman, Karen; do you realise that; has hetold you that; can you bear it? Dangerous, unscrupulous, tyrannous, devoured by egotism, were the words he used of her. I shall not forgetthem. He accused her of hypocrisy in her feeling for you. He hoped thatyou might never see her again. It is terrible, Karen. Terrible. It putsus all--all of us who love Mercedes, and you through her, into the mostimpossible position. "

Karen sat, her head erect, her eyes downcast, with a rigidity ofexpression almost torpid. 

"Do you see the position he puts us in, Karen?" Mrs. Forrester went onwith insistence. "Have you had the matter out with Gregory? Did yourealise its gravity? I must really beg you to answer me. "

"I have not yet spoken with my husband, " said Karen, in a chill, lifeless tone. 

"But you will? You cannot let it pass?"

"No, Mrs. Forrester. I will not let it pass. "

"You will insist that he shall make a full apology to Mercedes?"

"Is he to apologise to her for hating her?" Karen at this askedsuddenly. 

"For hating her? What do you mean?" Mrs. Forrester was taken aback. 

"If he is to apologise, " said Karen, in a still colder, still morelifeless voice, "it must be for something that can be changed. How canhe apologise to her for hating her if he continues to hate her?"

"He can apologise for having spoken insultingly to her. "

"He has not done that. It was Tante who overheard what she was notintended to hear. And it was Tante who spoke with violence. "

"It amazes me to hear you put it on her shoulders, Karen. He canapologise, then, for what he has said to me, " said Mrs. Forrester withindignation. "You will not deny that what he said of her to me wasinsulting. "

"He is to tell her that he has said those words and then apologise, Mrs. Forrester? Oh, no; you do not think what you say. "

"Really, my dear Karen, you have a most singular fashion of speaking toa person three times your age!" Mrs. Forrester exclaimed, the moreincensed for the confusion of thought into which the girl's persistencethrew her. "The long and short of it is that he must make it possiblefor Mercedes to meet him, with decency, in the future. "

"But I do not know how that can be, " said Karen, rising as Mrs. Forrester rose; "I do not know how Tante, now, can see him. If he thinksthese things and does not say them, there may be pretence; but if hesays them, to Tante's friends, how can there be pretence?"

There was no appeal in her voice. She put the facts, so evident toherself, before her visitor and asked her to look at them. Mrs. Forrester was suddenly aware that her advice might have been somewhathasty. She also felt suddenly as though, on a reconnoitring march down arough but open path, she found herself merging in the gloomy mysteriesof a forest. There were hidden things in Karen's voice. 

"Well, well, " she said, taking the girl's hand and casting about in hermind for a retreat; "that's to see it as hopeless, isn't it, and wedon't want to do that, do we? We want to bring Gregory to reason, andyou are the person best fitted to do that. We want to clear up thesedreadful ideas he has got into his head, heaven knows how. And no onebut you can do it. No one in the world, my dear Karen, is more fittedthan you to make him understand what our wonderful Tante really is. There is the trouble, Karen, " said Mrs. Forrester, finding now theoriginal clue with which she had started on her expedition; "heshouldn't have been able, living with you, seeing your devotion, seeingfrom your life, as you must have told him of it, what it was founded on, he shouldn't have been able to form such a monstrous conception of ourgreat, dear one. You have been in fault there, my dear, you see it now, I am sure. At the first hint you should have made things clear to him. Iknow that it is hard for a young wife to oppose the man she loves; butlove mustn't make us cowardly, " Mrs. Forrester murmured on morecheerfully as they moved down the passage, "and Gregory will only loveyou more wisely and deeply if he is made to recognize, once for all, that you will not sacrifice your guardian to please him. "

They were now at the door and Karen had not said a word. 

"Well, good-bye, my dear, " said Mrs. Forrester. Oddly she did not feelable to urge more strongly upon Karen that she should not sacrifice herguardian to her husband. "I hope I've made things clearer by coming. Itwas better that you should, realize just what your guardian's friendsfelt--and would feel--about it, wasn't it?" Karen still made no replyand on the threshold Mrs. Forrester paused to add, with some urgency:"It was right, you see that, don't you, Karen, that you should know whatGregory is really feeling?"

"Yes, " Karen now assented. "It is better that I should know that. "

CHAPTER XXVIII

Gregory when he came in that evening thought at first, with a pang offear, that Karen had gone out. It was time for dressing and she was notin their room. In the drawing-room it was dark; he stood in the doorwayfor a moment and looked about it, sad and tired and troubled, wonderingif Karen had gone to Mrs. Forrester's, wondering whether, in her gravedispleasure with him, she had even followed her guardian. And then, frombeside him, came her voice. "I am here, Gregory. I have been waiting foryou. "

His relief was so intense that, turning up the lights, seeing hersitting there on a little sofa near the door, he bent involuntarily overher to kiss her. 

But her hand put him away. 

"No; I must speak to you, " she said. 

Gregory straightened himself, compressing his lips. 

Karen had evidently not thought of changing. She wore her dark-blue silkdress. She had, indeed, been sitting there since Mrs. Forrester went. Helooked about the room, noting, with dull wonder, the grouped chairs, andopen piano. "You have had people here?"

"Yes. The Lippheims came and played to me. I would have written to themand told them not to come; but I forgot. And Mrs. Forrester has beenhere. "

"Quite a reception, " said Gregory. He walked to the window and lookedout. "Well, " he said, not turning to his wife, "what have you to say tome, Karen?" His tone was dry and even ironic. 

"Mrs. Forrester came to tell me, " said Karen, "that you had seen herthis morning. "

"Yes. Well?"

"And she told me, " Karen went on, "that you had a great deal to say toher about my guardian--things that you have never dared to say to me. "

He turned to her now and her eyes from across the room fixed themselvesupon him. 

"I will say them to you if you like, " said Gregory, after a moment. Heleaned against the side of the window and folded his arms. And heexamined his wife with, apparently, the cold attention that he wouldhave given to a strange witness in the box. And indeed she was strangeto him. Over his aching and dispossessed heart he steeled himself in animpartial scrutiny. 

"It is true, then, " said Karen, "that you believe her tyrannous anddangerous and unscrupulous, and that you think her devoured by egotism, and hypocritical in her feeling for me, and that you hope that I maynever see her again?"

She catalogued the morning's declarations accurately, like the witnessgiving unimpeachable testimony. But it was rather absurd to see her asthe witness, when, so unmistakably, she considered herself the judge andhim the criminal in the dock. There was relief in pleading guilty toeverything. "Yes: it's perfectly true, " he said. 

She looked at him and he could discover no emotion on her face. 

"Why did you not tell me this when you asked me to marry you?" shequestioned. 

"Oh--I wasn't so sure of it then, " said Gregory. "And I loved you andhoped it would never come out. I didn't want to give you pain. That'swhy I never dared tell you, as you put it. "

"You wanted to marry me and you knew that if you told me the truth Iwould not marry you; that is the reason you did not dare, " said Karen. 

"Well, there's probably truth in that, " Gregory assented, smiling; "I'mafraid I was an infatuated creature, perhaps a dishonest one. I can'texpect you to make allowances for my condition, I know. "

She lowered her eyes and sat for so long in silence that presently, rather ashamed of the bitterness of his last words, he went on in akinder tone: "I know that I can never make you understand. You have yourinfatuation and it blinds you. You've been blind to the way in which, from the very beginning, she has tracked me down. You've been blind tothe fact that the thing that has moved her hasn't been love for you butspite, malicious spite, against me for not giving her the sort ofadmiration she's accustomed to. If I've come to hate her--I didn't inthe least at first, of course--it's only fair to say that she hates meten times worse. I only asked that she should let me alone. "

"And let me alone, " said Karen, who had listened without a movement. 

"Oh no, " Gregory said, "that's not at all true. You surely will be fairenough to own that it's not; that I did everything I could to give youboth complete liberty. "

"As when you applauded and upheld Betty for her insolent interference;as when you complained to me of my guardian because she asked that Ishould have a wider life; as when you hoped to have Mrs. Talcott here sothat my guardian might be kept out. "

"Did she suggest that?"

"She showed it to me. I had not seen it even then. Do you deny it?"

"No; I don't suppose I can, though it was nothing so definite. But Icertainly hoped that Madame von Marwitz would not come here. "

"And yet you can tell me that you have not tried to come between us. "

"Yes; I can. I never tried to come between you. I tried to keep away. It's been she, as I say, who has tracked me down. That was what I wasafraid of if she came here; that she'd force me to show my dislike. Canyou deny, Karen, I ask you this, that from the beginning she has madecapital to you out of my dislike, and pointed it out to you?"

"I will not discuss that with you, " said Karen; "I know that you cantwist all her words and actions. "

"I don't want to do that. I can see a certain justice in her malice. Itwas hard for her, of course, to find that you'd married a man she didn'ttake to and who didn't take to her; but why couldn't she have left it atthat?"

"It couldn't be left at that. It wasn't only that, " said Karen. "If shehad liked you, you would never have liked her; and if you had liked hershe would have liked you. "

The steadiness of her voice as she thus placed the heart of the matterbefore him brought him a certain relief. Perhaps, in spite of his coldrealizations and the death of all illusion as to Karen's love for him, they could really, now, come to an understanding, an acceptedcompromise. His heart ached and would go on aching until time hadblunted its hurts, and a compromise was all he had to hope for. He hadnothing to expect from Karen but acceptance of fact and faithfuldomesticity. But, after all the uncertainties and turmoils, this bitterpeace had its balms. He took up her last words. 

"Ah, well, she'd have liked my liking, " he analysed it. "I don't knowthat she'd have liked me;--unless I could have managed to give heractual worship, as you and her friends do. But I'm not going to sayanything more against her. She has forced the truth from me, and now wemay bury it. You shall see her, of course, whenever you want to. But Ihope that I shall never have to speak of her to you again. "

The talk seemed to have been brought to an end. Karen, had risen andBarker, entering at the moment, announced dinner. 

"By Jove, is it as late as that, " Gregory muttered, nodding to him. Heturned to Karen when Barker was gone and, the pink electric lightsfalling upon her face, he saw as he had not seen before how grey andsunken it was. She had made no movement towards the door. 

"Gregory, " she said, fixing her eyes upon him, and he then saw that hehad misinterpreted her quiet, "I tell you that these things are nottrue. They are not true. Will you believe me?"

"What things?" he asked. But he was temporizing. He saw that the end hadnot come. 

"The things you believe of Tante. That she is a heartless woman, usingthose who love her--feeding on their love. I say it is not true. Willyou believe me?"

She stood on the other side of the room, her arms hanging at her sides, her hands hanging open, all her being concentrated in the ultimatedemand of her compelling gaze. 

"Karen, " he said, "I know that she must be lovable; I know, of course, that she has power, and charm, and tenderness. I think I can understandwhy you feel for her as you do. But I don't think that there is anychance that I shall change my opinion of her; not for anything you say. I believe that she takes you in completely. "

Karen gazed at him. "You will still believe that she is tyrannous, anddangerous, and false, whatever I may say?"

"Yes, Karen. I know it sounds horrible to you. You must try to forgiveme for it. We won't speak of it again; I promise you. "

She turned from him, looking before her at the Bouddha, but not as ifshe saw it. "We shall never speak of it again, " she said. "I am going toleave you, Gregory. "

For a moment he stared at her. Then he smiled. "You mustn't punish mefor telling you the truth, Karen, by silly threats. "

"I do not punish you. You have done rightly to tell me the truth. But Icannot live with a man who believes these things. "

She still gazed at the Bouddha and again Gregory stared at her. His facehardened. "Don't be absurd, Karen. You cannot mean what you say. "

"I am going to-night. Now, " said Karen. 

"Going? Where?"

"To Cornwall, back to my guardian. She will take care of me again. Iwill not live with you. "

"If you really mean what you say, " said Gregory, after a moment, "youare telling me that you don't love me. I've suspected it for some time. "

"I feel as if that were true, " said Karen, looking now down upon theground. "I think I have no more love for you. I find you a petty man. "It was impossible to hope that she was speaking recklessly orpassionately. She had come to the conclusion with deliberation; she hadbeen thinking of it since last night. She was willing to cast him offbecause he could not love where she loved. How deeply the roots of hopestill knotted themselves in him he was now to realize. He felt his heartand mind rock with the reverberation of the shattering, the pulverizingexplosion, and he saw his life lying in a wilderness of dust about him. 

Yet the words he found were not the words of his despair. "Even if youfeel like this, Karen, " he said, "there is no necessity for behavinglike a lunatic. Go and stay with your guardian, by all means, andwhenever you like. Start to-morrow morning. Spend most of your time withher. I shall not put the smallest difficulty in your way. But--if onlyfor your own sake--have some common-sense and keep up appearances. Youmust remain my wife in name and the mistress of my house. "

"Thank you, you mean to be kind, I know, " said Karen, who had not lookedat him since her declaration; "But I am not a conventional woman and Ido not wish to live with a man who is no longer my husband. I do notwish to keep up appearances. I do not wish it to be said--by those whoknow my guardian and what she has done for me and been to me--that Ikeep up the appearance of regard for a man who hates her. I made amistake in marrying you; you allowed me to make it. Now, as far as Ican, I undo it by leaving you. Perhaps, " she added, "you could divorceme. That would set you free. "

The remark in its childishness, callousness, and considerateness struckhim as one of the most revealing she had made. He laughed icily. "Ourlaws only allow of divorce for one cause and I advise you not to seekfreedom for yourself--or for me--by disgracing yourself. It's not worthit. The conventions you scorn have their solid value. "

She had now turned her head and was looking at him. "I think you areinsulting me, " she said. 

For the first time he observed a trembling in her voice and interpretedit as anger. It gave him a hurting satisfaction to have made her angry. She had appalled and shattered him. 

"I am not insulting you, I am warning you, Karen, " he said. "A woman whocan behave as you are behaving is capable of acts of criminal folly. Youdon't believe in convention, and in your guardian's world you will meetmany men who don't. "

"What do you mean by criminal folly?"

"I mean living with a man you're not married to. "

He had simply and sincerely forgotten something. Karen's face grewashen. 

"You mean that my mother was a criminal?"

Even at this moment of his despair Gregory was horribly sorry. Yet thememory that she recalled brought a deeper fear for her future. He hadspoken with irony of her suggestion about divorce and freedom. But didnot her very blood, as well as her environment, give him reason toemphasise his warning?

"I didn't mean that. I wasn't thinking of that, " he said, "as you mustknow. And to be criminally foolish is a very different thing from beinga criminal. But I'm convinced that to break social laws--and these lawsabout men and women have deeper than merely social sanctions--to breakthem, I'm convinced, can bring no happiness. I feel about your mother, and what she did--I say it with all reverence--that she was as mistakenas she was unfortunate. And I beg of you, Karen, never to follow herexample. "

"It is not for you to speak of her!" Karen said, not moving from herplace but uttering the words with a still and sudden passion that he hadnever heard from her. "It is not for you to preach sermons to me on thetext of my mother's misfortunes. I do not call them misfortunes--nor didshe. I do not accept your laws, and she was not afraid of them. How dareyou call her unfortunate? She lost nothing that she valued and shegained great happiness, and gave it, for she was happy with my father. It was a truer marriage than any I have known. She was more married thanyou or I have ever been or could ever have been; for there was deep lovebetween them, and trust and understanding. Do not speak to me of her. Iforbid it. "

She turned to the door. Gregory sprang to her side and seized her wrist. "Karen! Where are you going? Wait till to-morrow!" he exclaimed, fearfor her actual safety surmounting every other feeling. 

She stood still under his hand and looked at him with her still passionof repudiation. "I will not wait. I shall go to-night to Frau Lippheim. And to-morrow I shall go to Cornwall. I shall tell Mrs. Barker to packmy clothes and send them to me there. "

"You have no money. "

"Frau Lippheim will lend me money. My guardian will take care of me. Itis not for you to have any thought for me. "

He dropped her arm. "Very well. Go then, " he said. 

He turned from her. He heard that she paused, the knob of the door inher hand. "Good-bye, " she then said. 

Again it was, inconceivably, the mingled childishness, callousness andconsiderateness. That, at the moment, she could think of the formality, suffocated him. "Good-bye, " he replied, not looking round. 

The door opened and closed. He heard her swift feet passing down thepassage to their room. 

She was not reckless. She needed her hat and coat at least. Quiet, rational determination was in all her actions. 

Yet, as he waited to hear her come out again, a hope that he knew to bechimerical rose in him. She would, perhaps, return, throw herself in hisarms and, weeping, say that she loved him and could not leave him. Gregory's heart beat quickly. 

But when he heard her footsteps again they were not returning. Theypassed along to the kitchen; she was speaking to Mrs. Barker--Gregoryhad a shoot of surface thought for Mrs. Barker's astonishment; theyentered the hall again, the hall door closed behind them. 

Gregory stood looking at the Bouddha. The tears kept mounting to histhroat and eyes and, furiously, he choked them back. He did not see theBouddha. 

But, suddenly becoming aware of the bland contemplative gaze of thegreat bronze image, his eyes fixed themselves on it. 

He had known it from the first to be an enemy. Its presage wasfulfilled. The tidal wave had broken over his life. 

PART II

CHAPTER XXIX

Karen sat in her corner of the railway carriage looking out at familiarscenery. 

Reading and the spring-tide beauties of the Thames valley had gone by inthe morning. Then, after the attendant had passed along the corridorannouncing lunch, and those who were lunching had followed him in singlefile, had come the lonely majesty of the Somerset downs, lying likegreat headlands along the plain, a vast sky of rippled blue and silverabove them. They had passed Plymouth where she had always used to lookdown from the high bridges and wonder over the lives of the midshipmenon the training-ships, and now they were winding through wooded Cornishvalleys. 

Karen had looked out of her window all day. She had not read, thoughkind Frau Lippheim had put the latest _tendenz-roman_, paper-bound, intothe little basket, which was also stocked with stout beef-sandwiches, abottle of milk, and the packet of chocolate and bun in paper bag thatFranz had added to it at the station. 

Poor Franz. He and his mother had come to see her off and they had bothwept as the train moved away, and strange indeed it must have been forthem to see the Karen Jardine who, only yesterday, had been, apparently, so happy, and so secure in her new life, carried back to the old; a wifewho had left her husband. 

Karen had slept little the night before, and kind Franz must have sleptless; for he had given her his meagre bedroom and spent the night on thenarrowest, hardest, most slippery of sofas in the sitting-room of theBayswater lodging-house where Karen had found the Lippheims verycheaply, very grimly, not to say greasily, installed. It was no wonderthat Franz's eyes had been so heavy, his face so puffed and pale thatmorning; and his tears had given the last touch of desolation to hiscountenance. 

Karen herself had not wept, either at the parting or at the meeting ofthe night before. She had told them, with no explanations at all, thatshe had left her husband and was going back to her guardian, and theLippheims had asked no questions. 

It might have been possible that Franz, as he sat at the table, hisfingers run through his hair, clutching his head while he and his motherlistened to her, was not so dazed and lost as was Frau Lippheim, who hadnot seen Gregory. Franz might have his vague perceptions. "_Ach! Ach!_"he had ejaculated once or twice while she spoke. 

And Frau Lippheim had only said: "_Liebes Kind! Liebes, armes Kind!_"

She was, after all, going back to the great Tante and they felt, nodoubt, that no grief could be ultimate which had that compensatoryrefuge. 

She was going back to Tante. As the valleys, in their deepened shadows, streamed past her, Karen remembered that it had hardly been at all ofTante that she had thought while the long hours passed and her eyesobserved the flying hills and fields. Perhaps she had thought ofnothing. The heavy feeling, as of a stone resting on her heart, of doom, defeat and bitterness, could hardly have been defined as thought. Shehad thought and thought and thought during these last dreadful days;every mental cog had been adjusted, every wheel had turned; she had heldherself together as never before in all her life, in order to givethought every chance. For wasn't that to give him every chance? andwasn't that, above all, to give herself any chance that might still beleft her?

And now the machinery seemed to lie wrecked. There was not an ember ofhope left with which to kindle its activity. How much hope there musthave been to have made it work so firmly and so furiously during theselast days! how much, she hadn't known until her husband had come in lastnight, and, at last, spoken openly. 

Even Mrs. Forrester's revelations, though they had paralyzed her, hadnot put out the fires. She had still hoped that he could deny, explain, recant, own that he had been hasty, perhaps; perhaps mistaken; give hersome loophole. She could have understood--oh, to a degree almostabject--his point of view. Mrs. Forrester had accused her of that. AndTante had accused her of it, too. But no; it had been slowly to freezeto stillness to hear his clear cold utterance of shameful words, see thefolly of his arrogance and his complacency, realise, in his glacial lookand glib, ironic smile, that he was blind to what he was destroying inher. For he could not have torn her heart to shreds and then stoodbland, unaware of what he had done, had he loved her. Her young spirit, unversed in irony, drank in the bitter draught of disillusion. They hadnever loved each other; or, worse, far worse, they had loved and lovewas this puny thing that a blow could kill. His love for her was dead. 

She still trembled when the ultimate realization surged over her, looking fixedly out of the window lest she should weep aloud. 

She had only one travelling companion, an old woman who got out atPlymouth. Karen had found her curiously repulsive and that was onereason why she had kept her eyes fixed on the landscape. She had beenafraid that the old woman would talk to her, perhaps offer herrefreshments, or sympathy; for she was a kind old woman, with bland eyesand a moist warm face and two oily curls hanging forward from herold-fashioned bonnet upon her shoulders. She was stout, dressed in tightblack cashmere, and she sat with her knees apart and her hands, glovedin grey thread gloves, lying on them. She held a handkerchief rolledinto a ball, and from time to time, as if furtively, she would raisethis handkerchief to her brow and wipe it. And all the time, Karen felt, she looked mildly and humbly at her and seemed to divine her distress. 

Karen was thankful when she got out. She had been ashamed of herantipathy. 

Bodmin Road was now passed and the early spring sunset shone over thetree-tops in the valleys below. Karen leaned her head back and closedher eyes. She was suddenly aware of her great fatigue, and when theyreached Gwinear Road she found that she had been dozing. 

The fresh, chill air, as she walked along the platform, waiting for thechange of trains, revived her. She had not been able to eat her beefsandwiches and the thought that so much of Frau Lippheim's good foodshould be wasted troubled her; she was glad to find a little wanderingfox-terrier who ate the meat eagerly. She herself, sitting beside thedog, nibbled at Franz's chocolate. She had had nothing on her journeybut the milk and part of the bun which Franz had given her. 

Now she was in the little local train and the bleak Cornish country, nearing the coast, spread before her eyes like a map of her future life. She began to think of the future, and of Tante. 

She had not sent word to Tante that she was coming. She felt that itwould be easiest to appear before her in silence and Tante wouldunderstand. There need be no explanations. 

She imagined that Tante would find it best that she should live, permanently now, in Cornwall with Mrs. Talcott. It could hardly beconvenient for her to take about with her a wife who had left herhusband. Karen quite realized that her status must be a very differentone from that of the unshadowed young girl. 

And it would be strange to take up the old life again and to look backfrom it at the months of life with Gregory--that mirage of happinessreceding as if to a blur of light seen over a stretch of desert. Stillwith her quiet and unrevealing young face turned towards the eveninglandscape, Karen felt as if she had grown very old and were lookingback, after a life-time without Gregory, at the mirage. How faint andfar it would seem to be when she was really old--like a nebulous startrembling on the horizon. But it would never grow invisible; she wouldnever forget it; oh never; nor the dreadful pain of loss. To the veryend of life, she was sure of it, she would keep the pang of the shiningmemory. 

When they reached Helston, dusk had fallen. She found a carriage thatwould drive her the twelve miles to the coast. It was a quiet, greyevening and as they jolted slowly along the dusty roads and climbed thesteep hills at a snail's pace, she leaned back too tired to feelanything any longer. And now they were out upon the moors where thegorse was breaking into flowers; and now, over the sea, she saw at lastthe great beacon of the Lizard lighthouse sweeping the country with itsvast, desolate, yet benignant beam. 

They reached the long road and the stile where, a year before, she hadmet Gregory. Here was the hedge of fuchsia; here the tamarisks on theirhigh bank; here the entrance to Les Solitudes. The steeply pitched greyroofs rose before her, and the white walls with their squares of orangelight glimmered among the trees. 

She alighted, paid the man, and rang. 

A maid, unknown to her, came to the door and showed surprise at seeingher there with her bag. 

Yes; Madame von Marwitz was within. Karen had entered with the asking. "Whom shall I announce, Madam?" the maid inquired. 

Karen looked at her vaguely. "She is in the music-room? I do not need tobe announced. That will go to my room. " She put down the bag and crossedthe hall. 

She was not aware of feeling any emotion; yet a sob had taken her by thethroat and tears had risen to her eyes; she opened them widely as sheentered the dusky room, presenting a strange face. 

Madame von Marwitz rose from a distant sofa. 

In her astonishment, she stood still for a moment; then, like a great, white, widely-winged moth, she came forward, rapidly, yet with hesitant, reconnoitring pauses, her eyes on the girl who stood in the doorwaylooking blindly towards her. 

"Karen!" she exclaimed sharply. "What brings you here?"

"I have come back to you, Tante, " said Karen. 

Tante stood before her, not taking her into her arms, not taking herhands. 

"Come back to me? What do you mean?"

"I have left Gregory, " said Karen. She was bewildered now. What hadhappened? She did not know; but it was something that made it impossibleto throw herself in Tante's arms and weep. 

Then she saw that another person was with them. A man was seated on thedistant sofa. He rose, wandering slowly down the room, and revealedhimself in the dim light that came from the evening sky and sea as Mr. Claude Drew. Pausing at some little distance he fixed his eyes on Karen, and in the midst of all the impressions, striking like chill, mouldingblows on the melted iron of her mood, she was aware of these large, darkeyes of Mr. Drew's and of their intent curiosity. 

The predominant impression, however, was of a changed aspect ineverything, and as Tante, now holding her hands, still stood silent, also looking at her with intent curiosity, the impression vaguely andterribly shaped itself for her as a piercing question: Was Tante notglad to have her back?

There came from Tante in another moment a more accustomed note. 

"You have left your husband--because of me--my poor child?"

Karen nodded. Mr. Drew's presence made speech impossible. 

"He made it too difficult for you?"

Karen nodded again. 

"And you have come back to me. " Madame von Marwitz summed it up ratherthan inquired. And then, after another pause, she folded Karen in herarms. 

The piercing question seemed answered. Yet Karen could not now havewept. A dry, hard desolation filled her. "May I go to my room, Tante?"

"Yes, my child. Go to your room. You will find Tallie. Tallie is in thehouse, I think--or did I send her in to Helston?--no, that was forto-morrow. " She held Karen's hand at a stretch of her arm while sheseemed, with difficulty still, to collect her thoughts. "But I will comewith you myself. Yes; that is best. Wait here, Claude. " This to thesilent, dusky figure behind them. 

"Do not let me be a trouble. " Karen controlled the trembling of hervoice. "I know my way. "

"No trouble, my child; no trouble. Or none that I am not glad to take. "

Tante had her now on the stair--her arm around her shoulders. "You willfind us at sixes and sevens; a household hastily organized, but Tallie, directed by wires, has done wonders. So. My poor Karen. You have lefthim. For good? Or is it only to punish him that you come to me?"

"I have left him for good. "

"So, " Madame von Marwitz repeated. 

With all the veils and fluctuations, one thing was growing clear toKaren. Tante might be glad to have her back; but she was confused, trying to think swiftly, to adjust her thoughts. They were in Karen'slittle room overlooking the trees at the corner of the house. It wasdismantled; a bare dressing-table, the ewer upturned in the basin, thebed and its piled bedding covered with a sheet. Madame von Marwitz satdown on the bed and drew Karen beside her. 

"But is not that to punish him too much?"

"It is not to punish him. I cannot live with him any longer. "

"I see; I see;" said Madame von Marwitz, with a certain briskness, asthough, still, to give herself time to think. "It might have been wiserto wait--to wait for a little. I would have written to you. We couldhave consulted. It is serious, you know, my Karen, very serious, toleave one's husband. I went away so that this should not come to you. "

"I could not wait. I could not stay with him any longer, " said Karenheavily. 

"There is more, you mean. You had words? He hates me more than youthought?"

Karen paused, and then assented: "Yes; more than I thought. "

Above the girl's head, which she held pressed down on her shoulder, Madame von Marwitz pondered for some moments. "Alas!" she then utteredin a deep voice. And, Karen saying nothing, she repeated on a yet moremelancholy note: "Alas!"

Karen now raised herself from Tante's shoulder; but, at the gesture ofwithdrawal, Madame von Marwitz caught her close again and embraced her. "I feared it, " she said. "I saw it. I hoped to hide it by my flight. Mypoor child! My beloved Karen!"

They held each other for some silent moments. Then Madame von Marwitzrose. "You are weary, my Karen; you must rest; is it not so? I will sendTallie to you. You will see Tallie--she is a perfection of discretion;you do not shrink from Tallie. And you need tell her nothing; she willnot question you. Between ourselves; is it not so? Yes; that is best. For the present. I will come again, later--I have guests, a guest, yousee. Rest here, my Karen. " She moved towards the door. 

Karen looked after her. An intolerable fear pressed on her. She couldnot bear, in her physical weakness, to be left alone with it. "Tante!"she exclaimed. 

Madame von Marwitz turned. "My child?"

"Tante--you are glad to have me back?"

Her pride broke in a sob. She hid her face in her hands. 

Madame von Marwitz returned to the bed. 

"Glad, my child?" she said. "For all the sorrow that it means? and toknow that I am the cause? How can I be glad for my child's unhappiness?"

She spoke with a touch of severity, as though in Karen's tears she feltan unexpressed accusation. 

"Not for that, " Karen spoke with difficulty. "But to have me with youagain. It will not be a trouble?"

There was a little silence and then, her severity passing to melancholyreproof, Madame von Marwitz said: "Did we not, long since, speak ofthis, Karen? Have you forgotten? Can you so wound me once again? Only mychild's grief can excuse her. It is a sorrow to see your life in ruins;I had hoped before I died to see it joyous and secure. It is a sorrow toknow that you have maimed yourself; that you are tied to an unworthyman. But how could it be a trouble to me to have you with me? It is aconsolation--my only consolation in this calamity. With me you shallfind peace and happiness again. "

She laid her hand on Karen's head. Karen put her hand to her lips. 

"There. That is well, " said Madame von Marwitz with a sigh, bending tokiss her. "That is my child. Tante is sad at heart. It is a heavy blow. But her child is welcome. "

When she had gone Karen lay, her face in the billows of the bed, whileshe fixed her thoughts on Tante's last words. 

They became a sing-song monotone. "Tante is sad at heart. But her childis welcome. It is a heavy blow. But her child is welcome. "

After the anguish there was a certain ease. She rested in the givenreassurance. Yet the sing-song monotone oppressed her. 

She felt presently that her hat, wrenched to one side, and still fixedto her hair by its pins, was hurting her. She unfastened it and droppedit to the floor. She felt too tired to do more just then. 

Soon after this the door opened and Mrs. Talcott appeared carrying acandle, a can of hot water, towels and sheets. 

Karen drew herself up, murmuring some vague words of welcome, and Mrs. Talcott, after setting the candle on the dressing-table and the hotwater in the basin, remarked: "Just you lie down again, Karen, and letme wash your face for you. You must be pretty tired and dirty after thatlong journey. "

But Karen put her feet to the ground. They just sustained her. "Thankyou, Mrs. Talcott. I will do it, " she said. 

She bent over the water, and, while she washed, Mrs. Talcott, withdeliberate skill, made up the bed. Karen sank in a chair. 

"You poor thing, " said Mrs. Talcott, turning to her as she smoothed downthe sheet; "Why you're green. Sit right there and I'll undress you. Yes;you're only fit to be put to bed. "

She spoke with mild authority, and Karen, under her hands, relapsed tochildhood. 

"This all the baggage you've brought?" Mrs. Talcott inquired, finding anightdress in Karen's dressing-case. She expressed no surprise whenKaren said that it was all, passed the nightdress over her head and, when she had lain down, tucked the bed-clothes round her. 

"Now what you want is a hot-water bottle and some dinner. I guess you'rehungry. Did you have any lunch on the train?"

"I've had some chocolate and a bun and some milk, oh yes, I had enough, "said Karen faintly, raising her hand to her forehead; "but I must behungry; for my head aches so badly. How kind you are, Mrs. Talcott. "

"You lie right there and I'll bring you some dinner. " Mrs. Talcott wasswiftly tidying the room. 

"But what of yours, Mrs. Talcott? Isn't it your dinner-time?"

"I've had my supper. I have supper early these days. "

Karen dimly reflected, when she was gone, that this was an innovation. Whoever Madame von Marwitz's guests, Mrs. Talcott had, until now, alwaysmade an _acte de présence_ at every meal. She was tired and not feelingwell enough after her illness, she thought. 

Mrs. Talcott soon returned with a tray on which were set out hot_consommée_ and chicken and salad, a peach beside them. Hot-house fruitwas never wanting when Madame von Marwitz was at Les Solitudes. 

"Lie back. I'll feed it to you, " said Mrs. Talcott. "It's good andstrong. You know Adolphe can make as good a _consommée_ as anybody, ifhe's a mind to. "

"Is Adolphe here?" Karen asked as she swallowed the spoonfuls. 

"Yes, I sent for Adolphe to Paris a week ago, " said Mrs. Talcott. "Mercedes wrote that she'd soon be coming with friends and wanted him. He'd just taken a situation, but he dropped it. Her new motor's here, too, down from London. The chauffeur seems a mighty nice man, a sightnicer than Hammond. " Hammond had been Madame von Marwitz's recentcoachman. Mrs. Talcott talked on mildly while she fed Karen who, in thewhirl of trivial thoughts, turning and turning like midges over a deeppool, questioned herself, with a vague wonder that she was too tired tofollow: "Did Tante say anything to me about coming to Cornwall?"

Mrs. Talcott, meanwhile, as Madame von Marwitz had prophesied, asked noquestions. 

"Now you have a good long sleep, " she said, when she rose to go. "That'swhat you need. "

She needed it very much. The midges turned more and more slowly, thensank into the pool; mist enveloped everything, and darkness. 

CHAPTER XXX

Karen was waked next morning by the familiar sound of the_Wohltemperirtes Clavier_. 

Tante was at work in the music-room and was playing the prelude in Dflat, a special favourite of Karen's. 

She lay and listened with a curious, cautious pleasure, like that withwhich, half awake, one may guide a charming dream, knowing it to be adream. There was so much waiting to be remembered; so much waiting to bethought. Tante's beautiful notes, rising to her like the bubbles of aspring through clear water, seemed to encircle her, ringing her in fromthe wider consciousness. 

While she listened she looked out at the branches of young leaves, softly stirring against the morning sky. There was her wall-paper, withthe little pink flower creeping up it. She was in her own little bed. Tante was practising. How sweet, how safe, it was. A drowsy peace filledher. It was slowly that memory, lapping in, like the sinister, darkwaters of a flood under doors and through crevices, made its way intoher mind, obliterating peace, at first, rather than revealing pain. There was a fear formless and featureless; and there was loss, dreadfulloss. And as the sense of loss grew upon her, consciousness grew morevivid, bringing its visions. 

This hour of awakening. Gregory's eyes smiling at her, not cold, nothard eyes then. His hand stretched out to hers; their morning kiss. Tears suddenly streamed down her face. 

It was impossible to hide them from Mrs. Talcott, who came in carrying abreakfast tray; but Karen checked them, and dried her eyes. 

Mrs. Talcott set the tray down on the little table near the bed. 

"Is it late, Mrs. Talcott?" Karen asked. 

"It's just nine; Mercedes is up early so as to get some work in beforeshe goes out motoring. "

"She is going motoring?"

"Yes, she and Mr. Drew are going off for the day. " Mrs. Talcott adjustedKaren's pillow. 

"But I shall see Tante before she goes?" It was the formless, featureless fear that came closer. 

"My, yes! You'll see her all right, " said Mrs. Talcott. "She was askingafter you the first thing and hoped you'd stay in bed till lunch. Nowyou eat your breakfast right away like a good girl. "

Karen tried to eat her breakfast like a good girl and the sound of the_Wohltemperirtes Clavier_ seemed again to encircle and sustain her. 

"How'd you sleep, honey?" Mrs. Talcott inquired. The term hardlyexpressed endearment, yet it was such an unusual one from Mrs. Talcottthat Karen could only surmise that her tears had touched the old woman. 

"Very, very well, " she said. 

"How'd you like me to bring up some mending I've got to do and sit byyou till Mercedes comes?" Mrs. Talcott pursued. 

"Oh, please do, Mrs. Talcott, " said Karen. She felt that she would liketo have Mrs. Talcott there with her very much. She would probably cryunless Mrs. Talcott stayed with her, and she did not want Tante to findher crying. 

So Mrs. Talcott brought her basket of mending and sat by the window, sewing in silence for the most part, but exchanging with Karen now andthen a quiet remark about the state of the garden and how the plantswere doing. 

At eleven the sound of the piano ceased and soon after the stately treadof Madame von Marwitz was heard outside. Mrs. Talcott, saying that shewould come back later on, gathered up her mending as she appeared. Shewas dressed for motoring, with a long white cloak lined with white furand her head bound in nun-like fashion with a white coif and veil. Beautiful she looked, and sad, and gentle; a succouring Madonna; andKaren's heart rose up to her. It clung to her and prayed; and therealisation of her own need, her own dependence, was a new thing. Shehad never before felt dependence on Tante as anything but proud andglad. To pray to her now that she should never belie her loveliness, tocling to that faith in her without which all her life would be a thingdistorted and unrecognisable, was not pride or gladness and seemed to bethe other side of fear. Yet so gentle were the eyes, so tender the smileand the firm clasp of the hands taking hers, while Tante murmured, stooping to kiss her: "Good morning to my child, " that the prayer seemedanswered, the faith approved. 

If Madame von Marwitz had been taken by surprise the night before, ifshe had had to give herself time to think, she had now, it was evident, done her thinking. The result was this warmly cherishing tenderness. 

"Ah, " she said, still stooping over Karen, while she put back her hair, "it is good to have my child back again, mine--quite mine--once more. "

"I have slept so well, Tante, " said Karen. She was able to smile up ather. 

Madame von Marwitz looked about the room. "And now it is to gather thedear old life closely about her again. Gardening, and reading; and quiettimes with Tante and Tallie. Though, for the moment, I must be much withmy guest; I am helping him with his work. He has talent, yes; it is astrange and complicated nature. You did not expect to find him here?"

Karen held Tante's hand and her gaze was innocent of surmise. Mr. Drewhad never entered her thoughts. "No. Yes. No, Tante. He came with you?"

"Yes, he came with me, " said Madame von Marwitz. "I had promised himthat he should see Les Solitudes one day. I was glad to find anoccupation for my thoughts in helping him. I told him that if he werefree he might join me. It is good, in great sorrow, to think of others. Now it is, for the young man and for me, our work. Work, work; we mustall work, _ma chérie_. It is our only clue in the darkness of life; ouronly nourishment in the desert places. " Again she looked about the room. "You came without boxes?"

"Yes, Mrs. Barker is to send them to me. "

"Ah, yes. When, " said Madame von Marwitz, in a lower voice, "did youleave? Yesterday morning?"

"No, Tante. The night before. "

"The night before? So? And where did you spend the night? With Mrs. Forrester? With Scrotton? I have not yet written to Scrotton. "

"No. I went to the Lippheims. "

"The Lippheims? So?"

"The others, Tante, would have talked to me; and questioned me. I couldnot have borne that. The Lippheims were so kind. "

"I can believe it. They have hearts of gold, those Lippheims. They wouldcut themselves in four to help one. And the good Lise? How is she? I amsorry to have missed Lise. "

"And she was, oh, so sorry to have missed you, Tante. She is well, Ithink, though tired; she is always tired, you remember. She has too muchto do. "

"Indeed, yes; poor Lise. She might have been an artist of the first rankif she had not given herself over to the making of children. Why did shenot stop at Franz and Lotta and Minna? That would have given her thequartette, "--Madame von Marwitz smiled--she was in a mildly merry mood. "But on they go--four, five, six, seven, eight--how many are there--_bonDieu!_ of how many am I the god-mother? One grows bewildered. It isalmost a rat's family. Lise is not unlike a white mother-rat, with thesmall round eye and the fat body. "

"Oh--not a rat, Tante, " Karen protested, a little pained. 

"A rabbit, you think? And a rabbit, too, is prolific. No; for the rabbithas not the sharpness, not the pointed nose, the anxious, eager look--isnot so the mother, indeed. Rat it is, my Karen; and rat with a goldenheart. How do you find Tallie? She has been with you all the morning?You have not talked with Tallie of our calamities?"

"Oh, no, Tante. "

"She is a wise person, Tallie; wise, silent, discreet. And I find herlooking well; but very, very well; this air preserves her. And how oldis Tallie now?" she mused. 

Though she talked so sweetly there was, Karen felt it now, aperfunctoriness in Tante's remarks. She was, for all the play of hernimble fancy, preoccupied, and the sound of the motor-horn below seemeda signal for release. "Tallie is, _mon Dieu_, " she computed, rising--"she was twenty-three when I was born--and I am nearlyfifty"--Madame von Marwitz was as far above cowardly reticences abouther age as a timeless goddess--"Tallie is actually seventy-two. Well, Imust be off, _ma chérie_. We have a long trip to make to-day. We go toFowey. He wishes to see Fowey. I pray the weather may continue fine. Youwill be with us this evening? You will get up? You will come to dinner?"

She paused at the mantelpiece to adjust her veil, and Karen, in theglass, saw that her eyes were fixed on hers with a certain intentness. 

"Yes, I will get up this morning, Tante, " she said. "I will help Mrs. Talcott with the garden. But dinner? Mrs. Talcott says that she hassupper now. Shall I not have my supper with her? Perhaps she would likethat?"

"That would perhaps be well, " said Madame von Marwitz. "That is perhapswell thought. " Still she paused and still, in the glass, she fixedcogitating eyes on Karen. She turned, then, abruptly. "But no; I do notthink so. On second thoughts I do not think so. You will dine with us. Tallie is quite happy alone. She is pleased with the early supper. Ishall see you, then, this evening. "

A slight irritation lay on her brows; but she leaned with all hertenderness to kiss Karen, murmuring, "_Adieu, mon enfant_. "

When the sound of the motor had died away Karen got up, dressed and wentdownstairs. 

The music-room, its windows open to the sea, was full of the signs ofoccupancy. 

The great piano stood open. Karen went to it and, standing over it, played softly the dearly loved notes of the prelude in D flat. 

She practised, always, on the upright piano in the morning-room; butwhen Tante was at home and left the grand piano open she often played onthat. It was a privilege rarely to be resisted and to-day she sat downand played the fugue through, still very softly. Then, covering thekeys, she shut the lid and looked more carefully about the room. 

Flowers and books were everywhere. Mrs. Talcott arranged flowersbeautifully; Karen recognized her skilful hand in the tall branches ofbudding green standing high in a corner, the glasses of violets, thebowls of anemones and the flat dishes of Italian earthenware filled withprimroses. 

On a table lay a pile of manuscript; she knew Mr. Drew's small, thickhandwriting. A square silver box for cigarettes stood near by; it wasmarked with Mr. Drew's initials in Tante's hand. How kind she was tothat young man; but Tante had always been lavish with those of whom shewas fond. 

Out on the verandah the vine-tendrils were already green against thesky, and on a lower terrace she saw Mrs. Talcott at work, as usual, among the borders. Mrs. Talcott then, had not yet gone to Helston andshe would not be alone and she was glad of that. In the little cupboardnear the pantry she found a pair of old gardening gloves and her own oldgardening hat. The day was peaceful and balmy; all was as it had alwaysbeen, except herself. 

She worked all the morning in the garden and walked in the afternoon onthe cliffs with Victor. Victor had come down with Tante. 

Mrs. Talcott had adjourned the trip to Helston; so they had teatogether. Her boxes had not yet come and when it was time to dress fordinner she had nothing to change to but the little white silk with theflat blue bows upon it, the dress in which Gregory had first seen her. She had left it behind her when she married and found it now hanging ina cupboard in her room. 

The horn of the returning motor did not sound until she was dressed andon going down she had the music-room to herself for nearly half an hour. Then Mr. Drew appeared. 

The tall white lamps with their white shades had been brought in, butthe light from the windows mingled a pale azure with the gold. Mr. Drew, Karen reflected, looked in the dual illumination like a portrait byBesnard. He had, certainly, an unusual and an interesting face, and itpleased her to verify and emphasize this fact; for, accustomed as shewas to watching Tante's preoccupations with interesting people, shecould not quite accustom herself to her preoccupation with Mr. Drew. Toaccount for it he must be so very interesting. 

She was not embarrassed by conjectures as to what, after her entry oflast night, Mr. Drew might be thinking about her. It occurred to her nomore than in the past to imagine that anybody attached to Tante couldspare thought to her. And as in the past, despite all the innerdesolation, it was easy to assume to this guest of Tante's the attitudeso habitual to her of the attendant in the temple, the attendant who, rising from his seat at the door, comes forward tranquilly to greet theworshipper and entertain him with quiet comment until the goddess shalldescend. 

"Did you have a nice drive?" she inquired. "The weather has beenbeautiful. "

Mr. Drew, coming up to her as she stood in the open window, looked ather with his impenetrable, melancholy eyes, smiling at her a little. 

There was no tastelessness in his gaze, nothing that suggested arecollection of what he had heard or seen last night; yet Karen was madevaguely aware from his look that she had acquired some sort ofsignificance for him. 

"Yes, it's been nice, " he said. "I'm very fond of motoring. I'd like tospend my days in a motor--always going faster and faster; and then dropdown in a blissful torpor at night. Madame von Marwitz was so kind andmade the chauffeur go very fast. "

Karen was somewhat disturbed by this suggestion. "I am sure that she, too, would like going very fast. I hope you will not tempt her. "

"Oh, but I'm afraid I do, " Mr. Drew confessed. "What is the good of amotor unless you go too fast in it? A motor has no meaning unless it's amethod of intoxication. "

Karen received the remark with inattention. She looked out over the sea, preoccupied with the thought of Tante's recklessness. "I do not thinkthat going so fast can be good for her music, " she said. 

"Oh, but yes, " Mr. Drew assured her, "nothing is so good for art asintoxication. Art is rooted in intoxication. It's all a question of howto get it. "

"But with motoring you only get torpor, you say, " Karen remarked. And, going on with her own train of thoughts, "So much shaking will be bad, perhaps, for the muscles. And there is always the danger to consider. Ihope she will not go too fast. She is too important a person to takerisks. " There was no suggestion that Mr. Drew should not take them. 

"Don't you like going fast? Don't you like taking risks? Don't you likeintoxication?" Mr. Drew inquired, and his eyes travelled from the bluebows on her breast to the blue bows on her elbow-sleeves. 

"I have never been intoxicated, " said Karen calmly--she was quiteaccustomed to all manner of fantastic visitors in the temple--"I do notthink that I should like it. And I prefer walking to any kind ofdriving. No, I do not like risks. "

"Ah yes, I can see that. Yes, that's altogether in character, " said Mr. Drew. He turned, then, as Madame von Marwitz came in, but remainedstanding in the window while Karen went forward to greet her guardian. Madame von Marwitz, as she took her hands and kissed her, looked overKaren's shoulder at Mr. Drew. 

"Why did you not come to my room, _chérie_?" she asked. "I had hoped tosee you alone before I came down. "

"I thought you might be tired and perhaps resting, Tante, " said Karen, who had, indeed, paused before her guardian's door on her way down, andthen passed on with a certain sense of shyness; she did not want in anyway to force herself on Tante. 

"But you know that I like to have you with me when I am tired, " Madamevon Marwitz returned. "And I am not tired: no: it has been a day ofwings. "

She walked down the long room, her arm around Karen, with a buoyancy oftread and demeanour in which, however, Karen, so deep an adept in hermoods discovered excitement rather than gaiety. "Has it been a good dayfor my child?" she questioned; "a happy, peaceful day? Yes? You havebeen much with Tallie? I told Tallie that she must postpone the trip toHelston so that she might stay with you. " Tante on the sofa encircledher and looked brightly at her; yet her eye swerved to the window whereMr. Drew remained looking at a paper. 

Karen said that she had been gardening and walking. 

"Good; bravo!" said Tante, and then, in a lower voice: "No news, Isuppose?"

"No; oh no. That could not be, Tante, " said Karen, with a startled look, and Tante went on quickly: "But no; I see. It could not be. And it has, then, been a happy day for my Karen. What is it you read, Claude?"

Karen's sense of slight perplexity in regard to Tante's interest in Mr. Drew was deepened when she called him Claude, and her tone now, halfvexed, half light, was perplexing. 

"Some silly things that are being said in the House, " Mr. Drew returned, going on reading. 

"What things?" said Tante sharply. 

"Oh, you wouldn't expect me to read a stupid debate to you, " said Mr. Drew, lifting his eyes with a smile. 

Dinner was announced and they went in, Tante keeping her arm aroundKaren's shoulders and sweeping ahead with an effect of unawareness as toher other guest. She had, perhaps, a little lost her temper with him;and his manner was, Karen reflected, by no means assiduous: At thetable, however, Tante showed herself suave and sweet. 

One reason why things seemed a little strange, Karen further reflected, was that Mrs. Talcott came no longer to dinner; and she was vaguelysorry for this. 

CHAPTER XXXI

Karen's boxes arrived next day, neatly packed by Mrs. Barker. And notonly her clothes were in them. She had left behind her the jewel-boxwith the pearl necklace that Gregory had given her, the pearl andsapphire ring, the old enamel brooch and clasp and chain, his presentsall. The box was kept locked, and in a cupboard of which Gregory had thekey; so that he must have given it to Mrs. Barker. The photographs, too, from their room, not those of him, but those of Tante; of her father;and a half a dozen little porcelain and silver trinkets from thedrawing-room, presents and purchases particularly hers. 

It was right, quite right, that he should send them. She knew it. It wasright that he should accept their parting as final. Yet that he shouldso accurately select and send to her everything that could remind him ofher seemed to roll the stone before the tomb. 

She looked at the necklace, the ring, all the pretty things, and shutthe box. Impossible that she should keep them yet impossible to sendthem back as if in a bandying of rebuffs. She would wait for some yearsto pass and then they should be returned without comment. 

And the clothes, all these dear clothes of her married life; every dressand hat was associated with Gregory. She could never wear them again. And it felt, not so much that she was locking them away, as that Gregoryhad locked her out into darkness and loneliness. She took up the roundof the days. She practised; she gardened, she walked and read. Of Tanteshe saw little. 

She was accustomed to seeing little of Tante, even when Tante was there;quite accustomed to Tante's preoccupations. Yet, through the fog of herown unhappiness, it came to her, like an object dimly perceived, that inthis preoccupation of Tante's there was a difference. It showed, itselfin a high-pitched restlessness, verging now and again on irritation--notwith her, Karen, but with Mr. Drew. To Karen she was brightly, punctually tender, yet it was a tenderness that held her away ratherthan drew her near. 

Karen did not need to be put aside. She had always known how to effaceherself; she needed no atonement for the so apparent fact that Tantewanted to be left alone with Mr. Drew as much as possible. Thedifficulty in leaving her came with perceiving that though Tante wantedher to go she did not want to seem to want it. 

She caressed Karen; she addressed her talk to her; she kept her; yet, under the smile of the eyes, there was an intentness that Karen couldinterpret. It devolved upon her to find the excuse, the necessity, forwithdrawal. Mrs. Talcott, in the morning-room, was a solution. Karencould go to her almost directly after dinner, as soon as coffee had beenserved; for on the first occasion when she rose, saying that she wouldhave her coffee with Mrs. Talcott, Tante said with some sharpness--aftera hesitation: "No; you will have your coffee here. Tallie does not havecoffee. " Groping her way, Karen seemed to touch strange forms. Tantecared so much about this young man; so much that it was almost as if shewould be willing to abandon her dignity for him. It was more than theindulgent, indolent interest, wholly Olympian, that she had so oftenseen her bestow. She really cared. And the strangeness for Karen was inpart made up of pain for Tante; for it almost seemed that Tante caredmore than Mr. Drew did. Karen had seen so many men care for Tante; somany who were, obviously, in love with her; but she had seen Tantealways throned high above the prostrate adorers, idly kind; holding outa hand, perhaps, for them to kiss; smiling, from time to time, if they, fortunately, pleased her; but never, oh never, stepping down towardsthem. 

It seemed to her now that she had seen Tante stepping down. It was onlya step; she could never become the suppliant, the pursuing goddess; and, as if with her hand still laid on the arm of her throne, she kept allher air of high command. 

But had she kept its power? Mr. Drew's demeanour reminded Karensometimes of a cat's. Before the glance and voice of authority he would, metaphorically, pace away; pausing to blink up at some object thatattracted his attention or to interest himself in the furbishing offlank or chest. At a hint of anger or coercion, he would tranquillydisappear. Tante, controlling indignation, was left to stare after himand to regain the throne as best she might, and at these moments Karenfelt that Tante's eye turned on her, gauging her power ofinterpretation, ready, did she not feign the right degree ofunconsciousness, to wreak on her something of the controlled emotion. The fear that had come on the night of her arrival pressed closely onKaren then, but, more closely still, the pain for Tante. Tante's cleardignity was blurred; her image, in its rebuffed and ineffectualautocracy, became hovering, uncertain, piteous. And, in seeing andfeeling all these things, as if with a lacerated sensitiveness, Karenwas aware that, in this last week of her life, she had grown much older. She felt herself in some ways older than her guardian. 

It was on the morning of her seventh day at Les Solitudes that she metMr. Drew walking early in the garden. 

The sea was glittering blue and gold; the air was melancholy in itssweetness; birds whistled. 

Karen examined Mr. Drew as he approached her along the sunny upperterrace. 

With his dense, dark eyes, delicate face and golden hair, his whiteclothes and loose black tie, she was able to recognize in him an objectthat might charm and even subjugate. To Karen he seemed but one amongthe many strange young men she had seen surrounding Tante; yet thismorning, clearly, and for the first time, she saw why he subjugatedTante and why she resented her subjugation. There was more in him thanmere pose and peculiarity; he had some power; the power of the cat: hewas sincerely indifferent to anything that did not attract him. And atthe same time he was unimportant; insignificant in all but hissincerity. He was not a great writer; Tante could never make a greatwriter out of him. And he was, when all was said and done, but one amongmany strange young men. 

"Good morning, " he said. He doffed his hat. He turned and walked besideher. They were in full view of the house. "I hoped that I might findyou. Let us go up to the flagged garden, " he suggested; "the sea isglittering like a million scimitars. One has a better view up there. "

"But it is not so warm, " said Karen. "I am walking here to be in thesun. "

Mr. Drew had also been walking there to be in the sun; but they were infull view of the house and he was aware of a hand at Madame vonMarwitz's window-curtain. He continued, however, to walk beside Karen upand down the terrace. 

"I think of you, " he said, "as a person always in the sun. You suggestglaciers and fields of snow and meadows full of flowers--the sun pouringdown on all of them. I always imagine Apollo as a Norse God. Are youreally a Norwegian?"

Karen was, as we have said, accustomed to young men who talked in afantastic manner. She answered placidly: "Yes. I am half Norwegian. "

"Your name, then, is really yours?--your untamed, yet intimate, name. Itis like a wild bird that feeds out of one's hand. "

"Yes; it is really mine. It is quite a common name in Norway. "

"Wild birds are common, " Mr. Drew observed, smiling softly. 

He found her literalness charming. He was finding her altogethercharming. From the moment that she had appeared at the door in the dusk, with her white, blind, searching face, she had begun to interest him. She was stupid and delightful; a limpid and indomitable young creaturewho, in a clash of loyalties, had chosen, without a hesitation, to leavethe obvious one. Also she was married yet unawakened, and this, to Mr. Drew, was a pre-eminently charming combination. The question of theawakened and the unawakened, of the human attitude to passion, preoccupied him, practically, more than any other. His art dealt mainlyin themes of emotion as an end in itself. 

The possibilities of passion in Madame von Marwitz, as artist andgenius, had strongly attracted him. He had genuinely been in love withMadame von Marwitz. But the mere woman, as she more and more helplesslyrevealed herself, was beginning to oppress and bore him. 

He had amused himself, of late, by imaging his relation to her in thefable of the sun and the traveller. Her beams from their high, sublimesolitudes had filled him with delight and exhilaration. Then theradiance had concentrated itself, had begun to follow him--rather in themanner of stage sunlight--very unflaggingly. He had wished for intervalsof shade. He had been aware, even during his long absence in America, ofsultriness brooding over him, and now, at these close quarters, he hadbegun to throw off his cloak of allegiance. She bored him. It wasn'tgood enough. She pretended to be sublime and far; but she wasn't sublimeand far; she was near and watchful and exacting; as watchful andexacting as a mistress and as haughty as a Diana. She was not, and had, evidently, no intention of being, his mistress, and for the merepleasure of adoring her Mr. Drew found the price too high to pay. He didnot care to proffer, indefinitely, a reverent passion, and he did notlike people, when he showed his weariness, to lose their tempers withhim. Already Madame von Marwitz had lost hers. He did not forget whatshe looked like nor what she said on these occasions. She had mentionedthe large-mouthed children at Wimbledon--facts that he preferred toforget as much as possible--and he did not know that he forgave her. There was a tranquil malice in realizing that as Madame von Marwitzbecame more and more displeasing to him, Mrs. Jardine, more and more, became pleasing. A new savour had come into his life since herappearance and he had determined to postpone a final rupture with hisgreat friend and remain on for some time longer at Les Solitudes. Hewondered if it would be possible to awaken Mrs. Jardine. 

"Haven't I heard you practising, once or twice lately?" he asked hernow, as they turned at the end of the terrace and walked back. 

"Yes, " said Karen; "I practise every morning. "

"I'd no idea you played, too. "

"It is hardly a case of 'too', is it, " Karen said, mildly amused. 

"I don't know. Perhaps it is. One may look at a Memling after a MichaelAngelo, you know. I wish you'd play to me. "

"I am no Memling, I assure you. "

"You can't, until I hear you. Do play to me. Brahms; a little Brahms. "

"I have practised no Brahms for a long time. I find him too difficult. "

"I heard you doing a Bach prelude yesterday; play that. "

"Certainly, if you wish it, I will play it to you, " said Karen, "thoughI do not think that you will much enjoy it. "

Mrs. Talcott was in the morning-room over accounts; so Karen went withthe young man into the music-room and opened the grand piano there. 

She then played her prelude, delicately, carefully, composedly. She knewMr. Drew to be musicianly; she did not mind playing to him. 

More and more, Mr. Drew reflected, looking down at her, she reminded himof flower-brimmed, inaccessible mountain-slopes. He must discover somemethod of ascent; for the music brought her no nearer; he was aware, indeed, that it removed her. She quite forgot him as she played. 

The last bars had been reached when the door opened suddenly and Madamevon Marwitz appeared. 

She had come in haste--that was evident--and a mingled fatigue andexcitement was on her face. Her white cheeks had soft, soddendepressions and under her eyes were little pinches in the skin, asthough hot fingers had nipped her there. She looked almost old, and shesmiled a determined, adjusted smile, with heavy eyes. "_Tiens, tiens_, "she said, and, turning elaborately, she shut the door. 

Karen finished her bars and rose. 

"This is a new departure, " said Madame von Marwitz. She came swiftly tothem, her loose lace sleeves flowing back from her bare arms. "I do notlike my piano touched, you know, Karen, unless permission is given. Nomatter, no matter, my child. Let it not occur again, that is all. Youhave not found the right balance of that phrase, " she stooped andreiterated with emphasis a fragment of the prelude. "And now I willbegin my work, if you please. Tallie waits for you, I think, in thegarden, and would be glad of your help. Tallie grows old. It does not doto forget her. "

"Am I to go into the garden, too?" Mr. Drew inquired, as Madame vonMarwitz seated herself and ran her fingers over the keys. "I thought wewere to motor this morning. "

"We will motor when I have done my work. Go into the garden, by allmeans, if you wish to. "

"May I come into the garden with you? May I help you there?" Mr. Drewserenely drawled, addressing Karen, who, with a curious, concentratedlook, stood gazing at her guardian. 

She turned her eyes on him and her glance put him far, far away, like anobject scarcely perceived. "I am not going into the garden, " she said. "Mrs. Talcott is working in the morning-room and does not need me yet. "

"Ah. She is in the morning-room, " Madame von Marwitz murmured, still notraising her eyes, and still running loud and soft scales up and down. Karen left the room. 

As the door closed upon her, Madame von Marwitz, with a singular effectof control, began to weave a spider's-web of intricate, nearlyimpalpable, sound. "Go, if you please, " she said to Mr. Drew. 

He stood beside her, placid. "Why are you angry?" he asked. 

"I am not pleased that my rules should be broken. Karen has manyprivileges. She must learn not to take, always, the extra inch when theell is so gladly granted. "

He leaned on the piano. Her controlled face, bent with absorption abovethe lacey pattern of sound that she evoked, interested him. 

"When you are angry and harness your anger to your art like this, youbecome singularly beautiful, " he remarked. He felt it; and, after all, if he were to remain at Les Solitudes and attempt to scale those Alpineslopes he must keep on good terms with Madame von Marwitz. 

"So, " was her only reply. Yet her eyes softened. 

He raised the lace wing of her sleeve and kissed it, keeping it in hishand. 

"No foolishness if you please, " said Madame von Marwitz. "Of what haveyou and Karen been talking?"

"I can't get her to talk, " said Mr. Drew. "But I like to hear her play. "

"She plays with right feeling, " said Madame von Marwitz. "She is not achild to express herself in speech. Her music reveals her more truly. "

"_Nur wo du bist sei alles, immer kindlich_, " Mr. Drew mused. "That iswhat she makes me think of. " With anybody of Madame von Marwitz'sintelligence, frankness was far more likely to allay suspicion thanguile. And for very pride now she was forced to seem reassured. "Yes. That is so, " she said. And she continued to play. 

CHAPTER XXXII

Karen meanwhile made her way to the cliff-path and, seating herself on agrassy slope, she clasped her knees with her hands and gazed out overthe sea. She was thinking hard of something, and trying to think only ofthat. It was true, the permission had been that she was to play on thegrand-piano when it was left open. There had been no rule set; it hadnot been said that she was not to play at other times and indeed, onmany occasions, she had played unrebuked, before Tante came down. Butthe thing to remember now, with all her power, was that, technically, Tante had been right. To hold fast to that thought was to beat away afear that hovered about her, like a horrible bird of prey. She sat therefor a long time, and she became aware at last that though she held sotightly to her thought, it had, as it were, become something lifeless, inefficacious, and that fear had invaded her. Tante had been unkind, unjust, unloving. 

It was as though, in taking refuge with Tante, she had leaped from agreat height, seeing security beneath, and as though, alighting, sheslipped and stumbled on a sloping surface with no foothold anywhere. Since she came, there had been only this sliding, sliding, and now itseemed to be down to unseen depths. For this was more and worse than thefirst fear of her coming. Tante had been unkind, and she so loved Mr. Drew that she forgot herself when he bestowed his least attentionelsewhere. 

Karen rose to her feet suddenly, aware that she was trembling. 

She looked over the sea and the bright day was dreadful to her. Wherewas she and what was she, and what was Tante, if this fear were true?Not even on that far day of childhood when she had lost herself in theforest had such a horror of loneliness filled her. She was a lost, anunwanted creature. 

She turned from the unanswering immensities and ran down the cliff-pathtowards Les Solitudes. She could not be alone. To think these things wasto feel herself drowning in fear. 

Emerging from the higher trees she caught sight below her of Mrs. Talcott's old straw hat moving among the borders; and, in the midst ofthe emptiness, the sight was strength and hope. The whole world seemedto narrow to Mrs. Talcott. She was secure and real. She was a spar to beclung to. The nightmare would reveal itself as illusion if she kept nearMrs. Talcott. She ran down to her. 

Mrs. Talcott was slaying slugs. She had placed pieces of orange-peelaround cherished young plants to attract the depredators and she held ajar of soot; into the soot the slugs were dropped as she discoveredthem. 

The sight of her was like a draught of water to parching lips. Realityslowly grew round Karen once more. Tante had been hasty, even unkind;but she was piteous, absorbed in this great devotion; and Tante lovedher. 

She walked beside Mrs. Talcott and helped her with the slugs. 

"Been out for a walk, Karen?" Mrs. Talcott inquired. They had reachedthe end of the border and moved on to a higher one. 

"Only to the cliff, " said Karen. 

"You look kind of tired, " Mrs. Talcott remarked, and Karen owned thatshe felt tired. "It's so warm to-day, " she said. 

"Yes; it's real hot. Let's walk under the trees. " Mrs. Talcott took outher handkerchief and wiped her large, saffron-coloured forehead. 

They walked slowly in the thin shadow of the young foliage. 

"You're staying on for a while, aren't you?" Mrs. Talcott inquiredpresently. She had as yet asked Karen no question and Karen felt thatsomething in her own demeanour had caused this one. 

"For more than a while, " she said. "I am not going away again. " In thesound of the words she found a curious reassurance. Was it not her home, Les Solitudes?

Mrs. Talcott said nothing for some moments, stooping to nip a droopingleaf from a plant they passed. Then she questioned further: "Is Mr. Jardine coming down here?"

"I have left my husband, " said Karen. 

For some moments, Mrs. Talcott, again, said nothing, but she no longerhad an eye for the plants. Neither did she look at Karen; her gaze wasfixed before her. "Is that so, " was at last her comment. 

The phrase might have expressed amazement, commiseration or protest; itssound remained ambiguous. They had come to a rustic bench. "Let's sitdown for a while, " she said; "I'm not as young as I was. "

They sat down, the old woman heavily, and she drew a sigh of relief. Looking at her Karen saw that she, too, was very tired. And she, too--was it not strange that to-day she should see it for the firsttime?--was very lonely. A sudden pity, profound and almost passionate, filled her for Mrs. Talcott. 

"You'll not mind having me here--for all the time now--again, will you?"she asked, smiling a little, with determination, for she did not wishMrs. Talcott to guess what she had seen. 

"No, " said Mrs. Talcott, continuing to gaze before her, and shaking herhead. "No, I'll be glad of that. We get on real well together, I think. "And, after another moment of silence, she went on in the samecontemplative tone: "I used to quarrel pretty bad with my husband when Iwas first married, Karen. He was the nicest, mildest kind of man, asloving as could be. But I guess most young things find it hard to getused to each other all at once. It ain't easy, married life; at leastnot at the beginning. You expect such a high standard of each other andeverything seems to hurt. After a while you get so discouraged, perhaps, finding it isn't like what you expected, that you commence to think youdon't care any more and it was all a mistake. I guess every young wifethinks that in the first year, and it makes you feel mighty sick. Why, if marriage didn't tie people up so tight, most of 'em would fly apartin the first year and think they just hated each other, and that's whyit's such a good thing that they're tied so tight. Why I remember oncethe only thing that seemed to keep me back was thinking how Homer--Homerwas my husband's name, Homer G. Talcott--sort of snorted when helaughed. I was awful mad with him and it seemed as if he'd behaved somean and misunderstood me so that I'd got to go; but when I thought ofthat sort of childish snort he'd give sometimes, I felt I couldn't leavehim. It's mighty queer, human nature, and the teeny things that seem todecide your mind for you; I guess they're not as teeny as they seem. Butthose hurt feelings are almost always a mistake--I'm pretty sure of it. Any two people find it hard to live together and get used to each other;it don't make any difference how much in love they are. "

There was no urgency in Mrs. Talcott's voice and no pathos ofretrospect. Its contemplative placidity might have been inviting anothersad and wise old woman to recognize these facts of life with her. 

Karen's mood, while she listened to her, was hardening to the iron ofher final realization, the realization that had divided her and Gregory. "It isn't so with us, Mrs. Talcott, " she said. "He has shown himself aman I cannot live with. None of our feelings are the same. All my sacredthings he despises. "

"Mercedes, you mean?" Mrs. Talcott suggested after a moment's silence. 

"Yes. And more. " Karen could not name her mother. 

Mrs. Talcott sat silent. 

"Has Tante not told you why I was here?" Karen presently asked. 

"No, " said Mrs. Talcott. "I haven't had a real talk with Mercedes sinceshe got back. Her mind is pretty well taken up with this young man. "

To this Karen, glancing at Mrs. Talcott in a slight bewilderment, wasable to say nothing, and Mrs. Talcott pursued, resuming her former tone:"There's another upsetting thing about marriage, Karen, and that is thatyou can't expect your families to feel about each other like you feel. It isn't in nature that they should, and that's one of the things thatyoung married people can't make up their minds to. Now Mr. Jardine isn'tthe sort of young man to care about many people; few and far betweenthey are, I should infer, and Mercedes ain't one of them. Mercedeswouldn't appeal to him one mite. I saw that as plain as could be fromthe first. "

"He should have told me so, " said Karen, with her rocky face and voice. 

"Well, he didn't tell you he found her attractive, did he?"

"No. But though I saw that there was blindness, I thought it was becausehe did not know her. I thought that when he knew her he would care forher. And I could forgive his not caring. I could forgive so much. But itis worse, far worse than that. He accuses Tante of dreadful things. Itis hatred that he feels for her. He has confessed it. " The colour hadrisen to Karen's cheeks and burned there as she spoke. 

"Well now!" Mrs. Talcott imperturbably ejaculated. 

"You can see that I could not live with a man who hated Tante, " saidKaren. 

"What sort of things for instance?" Mrs. Talcott took up her formerstatement. 

"How can I tell you, Mrs. Talcott. It burns me to think of them. Hypocrisy in her feeling for me; selfishness and tyranny and deceit. Itis terrible. In his eyes she is a malignant woman. "

"Tch! Tch!" Mrs. Talcott made an indeterminate cluck with her tongue. 

"I struggled not to see, " said Karen, and her voice took on a sombreenergy, "and Tante struggled, too, for me. She, too, saw from the veryfirst what it might mean. She asked me, on the very first day that theymet, Mrs. Talcott, when she came back, she asked me to try and make himlike her. She was so sweet, so magnanimous, " her voice trembled. Oh thedeep relief, so deep that it seemed to cut like a knife--of remembering, pressing to her, what Tante had done for her, endured for her! "Sosweet, so magnanimous, Mrs. Talcott. She did all that she could--and sodid I--to give him time. For it was not that I lacked love for myhusband. No. I loved him. More, even more, than I loved Tante. There wasperhaps the wrong. I was perhaps cowardly, for his sake. I would notsee. And it was all useless. It grew worse and worse. He was not rude toher. It was not that. It was worse. He was so careful--oh I see itnow--not to put himself in the wrong. He tried, instead, to put her inthe wrong. He misread every word and look. He sneered--oh, I saw it, andshut my eyes--at her little foibles and weaknesses; why should she nothave them as well as other people, Mrs. Talcott? And he wasblind--blind--blind, " Karen's voice trembled more violently, "to all therest. So that it had to end, " she went on in broken sentences. "Tantewent because she could bear it no longer. And because she saw that Icould bear it no longer. She hoped, by leaving me, to save my happiness. But that could not be. Mrs. Talcott, even then I might have tried to goon living with that chasm--between Tante and my husband--in my life; butI learned the whole truth as even I hadn't seen it; as even she hadn'tseen it. Mrs. Forrester came to me, Mrs. Talcott, and told me whatGregory had said to her of Tante. He believes her a malignant woman, "said Karen, repeating her former words and rising as she spoke. "And tome he did not deny it. Everything, then, was finished for us. We sawthat we did not love each other any longer. "

She stood before Mrs. Talcott in the path, her hands hanging at hersides, her eyes fixed on the wall above Mrs. Talcott's head. 

Mrs. Talcott did not rise. She sat silent, looking up at Karen, and sofor some moments they said nothing, while in the spring sunshine aboutthem the birds whistled and an early white butterfly dipped andfluttered by. 

"I feel mighty tired, Karen, " Mrs. Talcott then said. Her eyelid withthe white mole twitched over her eye, the lines of her large, firm oldmouth were relaxed. Karen's eyes went to her and pity filled her. 

"It is my miserable story, " she said. "I am so sorry. "

"Yes, I feel mighty tired, " Mrs. Talcott repeated, looking away and outat the sea. "It's discouraging. I thought you were fixed up all safe andhappy for life. "

"Dear Mrs. Talcott, " said Karen, earnestly. 

"I don't like to see things that ought to turn out right turning outwrong, " Mrs. Talcott continued, "and I've seen a sight too many of themin my life. Things turning out wrong that were meant to go right. Thingsspoiled. People, nice, good people, like you and Mr. Jardine, all upsetand miserable. I've seen worse things, too, " Mrs. Talcott slowly rose asshe spoke. "Yes, I've seen about as bad things happen as can happen, andit's always been when Mercedes is about. "

She stood still beside Karen, her bleak, intense old gaze fixed on thesea. 

Karen thought that she had misheard her last words. "When Tante isabout?" she repeated. "You mean that dreadful things happen to her? Thatis one of the worst parts of it now, Mrs. Talcott--only that I am soselfish that I do not think of it enough--to know that I have added toTante's troubles. "

"No. " Mrs. Talcott now said, and with a curious mildness and firmness. "No, that ain't what I mean. Mercedes has had a sight of trouble. Idon't deny it, but that ain't what I mean. She makes trouble. She makesit for herself and she makes it for other people. There's always troublegoing, of some sort or other, when Mercedes is about. "

"I don't understand you, Mrs. Talcott, " said Karen. An uncanny feelinghad crept over her while the old woman spoke. It was as if, helplessly, she were listening to a sleep-walker who, in tranced unconsciousness, spoke forth mildly the hidden thought of his waking life. 

"No, you don't understand, yet, " said Mrs. Talcott. "Perhaps it's fairthat you don't. Perhaps she can't help it. She was born so, I guess. "Mrs. Talcott turned and walked towards the house. 

The panic of the cliff was rising in Karen again. Mrs. Talcott was worsethan the cliff and the unanswering immensities. She walked beside her, trying to control her terror. 

"You mean, I think, " she said, "that Tante is a tragic person and peoplewho love her must suffer because of all that she has had to suffer. "

"Yes, she's tragic all right, " said Mrs. Talcott. "She's had about asbad a time as they make 'em--off and on. But she spoils things. And itmakes me tired to see it going on. I've had too much of it, " said Mrs. Talcott, "and if this can't come right--this between you and your niceyoung husband--I don't feel like I could get over it somehow. " Leaningon Karen's arm with both hands she had paused and looked intently downat the path. 

"But Mrs. Talcott, " Karen's voice trembled; it was incredible, yet onewas forced by Mrs. Talcott's whole demeanour to ask the question withoutindignation--"you speak as if you were blaming Tante for something. Youdo not blame her, do you?"

Mrs. Talcott still paused and still looked down, as if deeply pondering. "I've done a lot of thinking about that very point, Karen, " she said. "And I don't know as I've made up my mind yet. It's a mighty intricatequestion. Perhaps we've all got only so much will-power and when most ofit is ladled out into one thing there's nothing left to ladle out intothe others. That's the way I try, sometimes, to figure it out to myself. Mercedes has got a powerful sight of will-power; but look at all she'sgot to use up in her piano-playing. There she is, working up to the lastnotch all the time, taking it out of herself, getting all wrought up. Well, to live so as you won't be spoiling things for other people needsabout as much will-power as piano-playing, I guess, when you're as big aperson as Mercedes and want as many things. And if you ain't got anywill-power left you just do the easiest thing; you just take what you'vea mind to; you just let yourself go in every other way to make up forthe one way you held yourself in. That's how it is, perhaps. "

"But Mrs. Talcott, " said Karen in a low voice, "all this--about me andmy husband--has come because Tante has thought too much of us and toolittle of herself. It would have been much easier for her to let usalone and not try and make Gregory like her. I do not recognise her inwhat you are saying. You are saying dreadful things. "

"Well, dreadful things have happened, I guess, " said Mrs. Talcott. "Iwant you to go back to your nice husband, Karen. "

"No; no. Never. I can never go back to him, " said Karen, walking on. 

"Because he hates Mercedes?"

"Not only that. No. He is not what I thought. Do not ask me, Mrs. Talcott. We do not love each other any longer. It is over. "

"Well, I won't say anything about it, then, " said Mrs. Talcott, who, walking beside her, kept her hand on her arm. "Only I liked Mr. Jardine. I took to him right off, and I don't take to people so easy. And I taketo you, Karen, more than you know, I guess. And I'll lay my bottomdollar there's some mistake between you and him, and that Mercedes isthe reason of it. "

They had reached the house. 

"But wait, " said Karen, turning to her. She laid both her hands on theold woman's arm while she steadied her voice to speak this last thought. "Wait. You are so kind to me, Mrs. Talcott; but you have made everythingstrange--and dreadful. I must ask you--one question, Mrs. Talcott. Youhave been with Tante all her life. No one knows her as you do. Tell me, Mrs. Talcott. You love Tante?"

They faced each other at the top of the steps, on the verandah. And theyoung eyes plunged deep into the old eyes, passionately searching. 

For a moment Mrs. Talcott did not reply. When she did speak, it wasdecisively as if, while recognising Karen's right to ask, Karen mustrecognise that the answer must suffice. "I'd be pretty badly off if Ididn't love Mercedes. She's all I've got in the world. "

CHAPTER XXXIII

The sound of the motor, whirring skilfully among the lanes, was heard atsix, and shortly after Madame von Marwitz's return Mrs. Talcott knockedat her door. 

Madame von Marwitz was lying on the sofa. Louise had removed her wrapsand dress and was drawing off her shoes. Her eyes were closed. Sheseemed weary. 

"I'll see to Madame, " said Mrs. Talcott with her air of composed andunassuming authority. It was somewhat the air of an old nurse, sure ofher prerogatives in the nursery. 

Louise went and Mrs. Talcott took off the other shoe and fetched thewhite silk _mules_. 

Madame von Marwitz had only opened her eye for a glimmer of recognition, but as Mrs. Talcott adjusted a _mule_, she tipped it off and mutteredgloomily: "Stockings, please. I want fresh stockings. "

There was oddity--as Mrs. Talcott found, and came back, with a pair ofwhite silk stockings--in the sight of the opulent, middle-aged figure onthe sofa, childishly stretching out first one large bare leg and thenthe other to be clothed; and it might have aroused in Mrs. Talcott avista of memories ending with the picture of a child in the sameattitude, a child as idle and as autocratic. 

"Thank you, Tallie, " Madame von Marwitz said, wearily but kindly, whenthe stockings were changed. 

Mrs. Talcott drew a chair in front of the sofa, seated herself andclasped her hands at her waist. "I've come for a talk, Mercedes, " shesaid. 

Madame von Marwitz now was sleepily observing her. 

"A talk! _Bon Dieu!_ But I have been talking all day long!"

She yawned, putting a folded arm under her head so that, slightlyraising it, she could look at Mrs. Talcott more comfortably. "What doyou want to talk about?" she inquired. 

Mrs. Talcott's eyes, with their melancholy, immovable gaze, rested uponher. "About Karen and her husband, " she said. "I gathered from some talkI had with Karen to-day that you let her think you came away from Londonsimply and solely because you'd had a quarrel with Mr. Jardine. "

Madame von Marwitz lay as if arrested by these words for some moments ofan almost lethargic interchange, and then in an impatient voice shereturned: "What business is it of Karen's, pray, if I didn't leaveLondon simply and solely on account of my quarrel with her husband? Ihad found it intolerable to be under his roof and I took the firstopportunity for leaving it. The opportunity happened to coincide with myarrangements for coming here. What has that to do with Karen?"

"It has to do with her, Mercedes, because the child believes you werethinking about her when, as a matter of fact, you weren't thinking abouther or about anyone but this young man you've gotten so taken up with. Karen believes you care for her something in the same way she does foryou, and it's a sin and a shame, Mercedes, " Mrs. Talcott spoke with novehemence at all of tone or look, but with decision, "a sin and a shameto let that child ruin her life because of you. "

Again Madame von Marwitz, now turning her eyes on the ceiling, seemed toreflect dispassionately. "I never conceived it possible that she wouldleave him, " she then said. "I found him insufferable and I saw thatunless I went Karen also would come to see him as insufferable. To sparethe poor child this I came away. And I was amazed when she appearedhere. Amazed and distressed, " said Madame von Marwitz. And after anothermoment she took up: "As for him, he has what he deserves. "

Mrs. Talcott eyed her. "And what do you deserve, I'd like to know, forgoing meddling with those poor happy young things? Why couldn't you letthem alone? Karen's been a bother to you for years. Why couldn't you besatisfied at having her nicely fixed up and let her tend to her ownpotato-patch while you tended to yours? You can't make me believe thatit wasn't your fault--the whole thing--right from the beginning. I knowyou too well, Mercedes. "

Again Madame von Marwitz lay, surprisingly still and surprisinglyunresentful. It was as if, placidly, she were willing to be undressed, body or soul, by her old nurse and guardian. But after a moment, andwith sudden indignation, she took up one of Mrs. Talcott's sentences. 

"A bother to me? I am very fond of Karen. I am devoted to Karen. Ishould much like to know what right you have to intimate that my feelingfor her isn't sincere. My life proves the contrary. As for saying thatit is my fault, that is merely your habit. Everything is always my faultwith you. "

"It always has been, as far as I've been able to keep an eye on yourtracks, " Mrs. Talcott remarked. 

"Well, this is not. I deny it. I absolutely, " said Madame von Marwitz, and now with some excitement, "deny it. Did I not give her to him? Did Inot go to them with tenderest solicitude and strive to make possiblebetween him and me some relation of bare good fellowship? Did I not curbmy spirit, and it is a proud and impatient one, as you know, to endure, lest she should see it, his veiled insolence and hostility? Oh! when Ithink of what I have borne with from that young man, I marvel at my ownforbearance. I have nothing to reproach myself with, Tallie; nothing;and if his life is ruined I can say, with my hand on my heart, "--Madamevon Marwitz laid it there--"that he alone is to blame for it. A moreodious, arrogant, ignorant being, " she added, "I have never encountered. Karen is well rid of him. "

Mrs. Talcott remained unmoved. "You don't like him because he don't likeyou and that's about all you've got against him, I reckon, if the truthwere known, " she said. "You can make yourself see it all like that ifyou've a mind to, but you can't make me; I know you too well, Mercedes. You were mad at him because he didn't admire you like you're used tobeing admired, and you went to work pinching and picking here and there, pretending it was all on Karen's account, but really so as you could geteven with him. You couldn't stand their being happy all off bythemselves without you. Why I can see it all as plain and clear as ifI'd been there right along. Just think of your telling that poor deludedchild that you wanted her to make her husband like you. That was a niceway, wasn't it, for setting her heart at rest about you and him. If youdidn't like him and saw he didn't like you, why didn't you keep yourmouth shut? That's all you had to do, and keep out of their way all youcould. If you'd been a stupid woman there might have been some excusefor you, but you ain't a stupid woman, and you know precious well whatyou're about all the time. I don't say you intended to blow up the wholeconcern like you've done; but you wanted to get even with Mr. Jardineand show him that Karen cared as much for you as she did for him, andyou didn't mind two straws what happened to Karen while you were doingit. "

Madame von Marwitz had listened, turning on her back and with her eyesstill on the ceiling, and the calm of her face might have been that ofindifference or meditation. But now, after a moment of receptivesilence, indignation again seemed to seize her. "It's false!" sheexclaimed. 

"No it ain't false, Mercedes, and you know it ain't, " said Mrs. Talcottgloomily. 

"False, and absolutely false!" Madame von Marwitz repeated. "How could Ikeep my mouth shut--as you delicately put it--when I saw that Karen saw?How keep my mouth shut without warping her relation to me? I spoke toher with lightest, most tender understanding, so that she should knowthat my heart was with her while never dreaming of the chasms that I sawin her happiness. It was he who forced me to an open declaration and hewho forced me to leave; for how was happiness possible for Karen if Iremained with them? No. He hated me, and was devoured by jealousy ofKaren's love for me. "

"I guess if it comes to jealousy you've got enough for two in anysituation. It don't do for you to talk to me about jealousy, Mercedes, "Mrs. Talcott returned, "I've seen too much of you. You can't persuade meit wasn't your fault, not if you were to talk till the cows come home. Idon't deny but what it was pretty hard for you to see that Mr. Jardinedidn't admire you. I make allowances for that; but my gracious me, " saidMrs. Talcott with melancholy emphasis, "was that any reason for a bigmiddle-aged woman like you behaving like a spiteful child? Was it anyreason for your setting to work to spoil Karen's life? No, Mercedes, you've done about as mean a thing as any I've seen you up to and what Iwant to know now is what you're going to do about it. "

"Do about it?" Madame von Marwitz wrathfully repeated. "What more can Ido? I open my house and my heart to the child. I take her back. I mendthe life that he has broken. What more do you expect of me?"

"Don't talk that sort of stage talk to me, Mercedes. What I want you todo is to make it possible so as he can get her back. "

"He is welcome to get her back if he can. I shall not stand in his way. It would be a profound relief to me were he to get her back. "

"I can see that well enough. But how'll you help standing in his way?The only thing you could do to get out of his way would be to help Karento be quit of you. Make her see that you're just as bad as he thinksyou. I guess if you told her some things about yourself she'd begin tosee that her husband wasn't so far wrong about you. "

"_Par exemple!_" said Madame von Marwitz with a short laugh. She raisedherself to give her pillow a blow and turning on her side andcontemplating more directly her ancient monitress she said, "I sometimeswonder what I keep you here for. "

"I do, too, sometimes, " said Mrs. Talcott, "and I make it out that youneed me. "

"I make it out, " Madame von Marwitz repeated the phrase with a nobledignity of manner, "that I am too kind of heart, too aware of what I oweyou in gratitude, to resent, as I have every right to do, the licenseyou allow yourself in speaking to me. "

"Yes; you'll always get plain speaking from me, Mercedes, " Mrs. Talcottremarked, "just as long as you have anything to do with me. "

"Indeed I shall. I am but too well aware of the fact, " said Madame vonMarwitz, "and I only tolerate it because of our life-long tie. "

"You'll go on tolerating it, I guess, Mercedes. You'd feel mighty queer, I expect, if the one person in the world who knew you through andthrough and had stood by you through everything wasn't there to fallback on. "

"I deny that you know me through and through, " Madame von Marwitzdeclared, but with a drop from her high manner; sulkily rather than withconviction. "You have always seen me with the eye of a lizard. " Hersimile amused her and she suddenly laughed. "You have somewhat thevision of a lizard, Tallie. You scrutinize the cracks and the fissures, but of the mountain itself you are unaware. I have cracks and fissures, no doubt, like all the rest of our sad humanity; but, _bon Dieu!_--I ama mountain, and you, Tallie, " she went on, laughing softly, "are alizard on the mountain. As for Mr. Jardine, he is a mole. But if youthink that Karen will be happier burrowing underground with him thanhere with me, I will do my best. Yes;" she reflected; "I will write toMrs. Forrester. She shall see the mole and tell him that when he sendsme an apology I send him Karen. It is a wild thing to leave one'shusband like this. I will make her see it. "

"Now you see here, Mercedes, " said Mrs. Talcott, rising and fixing anacute gaze upon her, "don't you go and make things worse than they are. Don't you go interfering between Karen and her husband. The first move'sgot to come from them. I don't trust you round the corner where yourvanity comes in, and I guess what you've got in your mind now is thatyou'd like to make it out to your friends how you've tried to reconcileKaren and her husband after he's treated you so bad. If you want to tellKaren that he was right in all the things he believed about you and thatthis isn't the first time by a long shot that you've wrecked people withyour jealousy, and that he loves her ten times more than you do, that'sa different thing, and I'll stand by you through it. But I won't haveyou meddling any more with those two poor young things, so you may aswell take it in right here. "

Madame von Marwitz's good humour fell away. "And for you, may I ask youkindly to mind your own business?" she demanded. 

"I'll make this affair of Karen's my business if you ain't real careful, Mercedes, " said Mrs. Talcott, standing solid and thick and black, in thecentre of the room. "Yes, you'd better go slow and sure or you'll findthere are some things I can't put up with. This affair of Karen has mademe feel pretty sick, I can tell you. I've seen you do a sight of meanthings in your life, but I don't know as I've seen you do a meaner. Iguess, " Mrs. Talcott continued, turning her eyes on the evening seaoutside, "it would make your friends sit up--all these folks who admireyou so much--if they could know a thing or two you've done. "

"Leave the room, " said Madame von Marwitz, now raising herself on herelbow and pointing to the door. "Leave the room at once. I refuse to liehere and be threatened and insulted and brow-beaten by you. Out of mysight. "

Mrs. Talcott looked at the sea for a moment longer, in no provocativemanner, but rather as if she had hardly heard the words addressed toher; and then she looked at Mercedes, who, still raised on her elbow, still held her arm very effectively outstretched. This, too, was nodoubt a scene to which she was fully accustomed. 

"All right, " she said, "I'm going. " She moved towards the door. At thedoor she halted, turned and faced Madame von Marwitz again. "But don'tyou forget, Mercedes Okraska, " she said, "that I'll make it my affair ifyou ain't careful. "

CHAPTER XXXIV

Karen, during the two or three days that followed her strangeconversation with Mrs. Talcott, felt that while she pitied and cared forMrs. Talcott as she had never yet pitied and cared for her, she was alsoafraid of her. Mrs. Talcott had spoken no further word and her eyesrested on her with no more than their customary steadiness; but Karenknew that there were many words she could speak. What were they? Whatwas it that Mrs. Talcott knew? What secrets were they that she carriedabout in her lonely, ancient heart?

Mrs. Talcott loomed before her like a veiled figure of destiny bearingan urn within which lay the ashes of dead hopes. Mrs. Talcott's eyeslooked at her above the urn. It was always with them. When they gardenedtogether it was as if Mrs. Talcott set it down on the ground betweenthem and as if she took it up again with a sigh of fatigue--it washeavy--when they turned to go. Karen felt herself tremble as shescrutinized the funereal shape. There was no refuge with Mrs. Talcott. Mrs. Talcott holding her urn was worse than the lonely fears. 

And, for those two or three days of balmy, melancholy spring, the lonelyfears did not press so closely. They wheeled far away against the blue. Tante was kinder to her and was more aware of her. She almost seemed alittle ashamed of the scene with the piano. She spoke to Karen of it, flushing a little, explaining that she had slept badly and that Karen'srendering of the Bach had made her nervous, emphasizing, too, the rule, new in its explicitness, that the grand piano was only to be played onby Karen when it was left open. "You did not understand. But it is wellto understand rules, is it not, my child?" said Madame von Marwitz. "Andthis one, I know, you will not transgress again. "

Karen said that she understood. She had something of her rocky manner inreceiving these implicit apologies and commands, yet her guardian couldsee an almost sick relief rising in her jaded young eyes. 

Other things were different. Tante seemed now to wish very constantly tohave her there when Mr. Drew was with her. She made much of her to Mr. Drew. She called his attention to her skill in gardening, to herdirectness of speech, to her individuality of taste in dress. Theseexpositions made Karen uncomfortable, yet they seemed an expression ofTante's desire to make amends. And Mr. Drew, with his vague, impenetrable regard, helped her to bear them. It was as if, a clumsychild, she were continually pushed forward by a fond, tactless mother, and as if, mildly shaking her hand, the guest before whom she wasdisplayed showed her, by kind, inattentive eyes, that he was paying verylittle attention to her. Mr. Drew put her at her ease and Tanteembarrassed her. She became, even, a little grateful to Mr. Drew. Butnow, aware of this strange bond, it was more difficult to talk to himwhen they were alone and when, once or twice, he met her in the gardenor house, she made always an excuse to leave him. She and Mr. Drew couldhave nothing to say to each other when Tante was not there. 

One evening, returning to Les Solitudes after a walk along the cliffs, Karen found that tea was over, as she had intended that it should be, Tante and Mr. Drew not yet come in from their motoring, and Mrs. Talcottsafely busied in the garden. There was not one of them with whom shecould be happily alone, and she was glad to find the morning-room empty. Mrs. Talcott had left the kettle boiling for her on the tea-table andthe small tea-pot, which they used in their usual _tête-à-tête_, ready, and Karen made herself a cup. 

She was tired. She sat down, when she had had her tea, near the windowand looked out over the ranged white flowers growing in their low whitepots on the window-seat, at the pale sea and sky. She sat quietly, hercheek on one hand, the other in her lap, and from time to time a greatinvoluntary sigh lifted her breast. It seemed nearer peace than fear, this mood of immeasurable, pale sorrow. It folded her round like thetwilight falling outside. 

The room was dim when she heard the sound of the returning motor and shesat on, believing that here she would be undisturbed. Tante rarely cameto the morning-room. But it was Tante who presently appeared, wearingstill her motoring cloak and veil, the nun-like veil bound round herhead. Karen thought, as she rose, and looked at her, that she was likeone of the ghost-like white flowers. And there was no joy for her inseeing her. She seemed to be part of the sadness. 

She turned and closed the door with some elaboration, and as she camenearer Karen recognized in her eyes the piteous look of quelledwatchfulness. 

"You are sitting here, alone, my child?" she said, laying her hand, butfor a moment only, on Karen's shoulder. Karen had resumed her seat, andTante moved away at once to take up a vase of flowers from themantelpiece, smell the flowers, and set it back. "Where is Tallie?"

"Still in the garden, I think. I worked with her this morning and beforetea. Since tea I have had a walk. "

"Where did you walk?" Madame von Marwitz inquired, moving now over tothe upright piano and bending to examine in the dusk the music thatstood on it. Karen described her route. 

"But it is lonely, very lonely, for you, is it not?" Tante murmuredafter a moment's silence. Karen said nothing and she went on, "And itwill be still more lonely if, as I think probable, I must leave you herebefore long. I shall be going; perhaps to Italy. "

A sensation of oppression that she could not have analyzed passed overKaren. Why was Tante going to Italy? Why must she leave Les Solitudes?Her mind could not rest on the supposition that her own presence droveTante forth, that the broken _tête-à-tête_ was to be resumed under lessdisturbing circumstances. She could not ask Tante if Mr. Drew was to bein Italy; yet this was the question that pressed on her heart. 

"Oh, but I am very used to Les Solitudes, " she said. 

"Used to it. Yes. Too used to it, " said Madame von Marwitz, seatingherself now near Karen, her eyes still moving about the room. "But it isnot right, it is not fitting, that you should spend your youth here. That was not the destiny I had hoped for you. I came here to find you, Karen, so that I might talk to you. " Her fingers slightly tapped herchair-arm. "We must talk. We must see what is to be done. "

"Do you mean about me, Tante?" Karen asked after a moment. The look ofthe ghostly room and of the white, enfolded figure seated before herwith its restless eyes seemed part of the chill that Tante's wordsbrought. 

"About you. Yes. About who else, _parbleu_!" said Madame von Marwitzwith a slight laugh, her eyes shifting about the room; and with a changeof tone she added: "I have it on my heart--your situation--day andnight. Something must be done and I am prepared to do it. "

"To do what?" asked Karen. Her voice, too, had changed, but not, asMadame von Marwitz's, to a greater sweetness. 

"Well, to save it--the situation; to help you. " Madame von Marwitz's earwas quick to catch the change. "And I have come, my Karen, to consultwith you. It is a matter, many would say, for my pride to consider; butI will not count my pride. Your happiness, your dignity, your future arethe things that weigh with me. I am prostrated, made ill, by themiserable affair; you see it, you see that I am not myself. I cannotsleep. It haunts me--you and your broken life. And what I have topropose, " Tante looked down at her tapping fingers while she spoke, "isthat I offer myself as intermediary. Your husband will not take thefirst step forward. So be it. I will take it. I will write to Mrs. Forrester. I will tell her that if your husband will but offer me theformal word of apology I will myself induce you to return to him. Whatdo you say, my Karen? Oh, to me, as you know, the forms are indifferent;it is of you and your dignity that I think. I know you; without thatapology from him to me you could not contemplate a reconciliation. Buthe has now had his lesson, your young man, and when he knows that, through me, you would hold out the olive-branch, he will, I predict, spring to grasp it. After all, he is in love with you and has had timeto find it out; and even if he were not, his mere man's pride mustwrithe to see himself abandoned. And you, too, have had your lesson, mypoor Karen, and have seen that romance is a treacherous sand to buildone's life upon. Dignity, fitness, one's rightful place in life havetheir claims. You are one, as I told you, to work out your destiny inthe world, not in the wilderness. What do you say, Karen? I would notwrite without consulting you. _Hein!_ What is it?"

Karen had risen, and Madame von Marwitz's eyelashes fluttered a littlein looking up at her. 

"I will never forgive you, I will never forgive you, " said Karen in aharsh voice, "if you speak of this again. "

"What is this that you say to me, Karen?" Madame von Marwitz, too, rose. 

"Never speak to me of this again, " said Karen. 

In the darkening room they looked at each other as they had never in alltheir lives looked before. They were equals in maturity of demand. 

For a strange moment sheer fury struggled with subtler emotions inMadame von Marwitz's face, and then self-pity, overpowering, engulfingall else. "And is this the return you make me for my love?" she cried. Her voice broke in desperate sobs and long-pent misery found relief. Shesank into her chair. 

"I asked for no reconciliation, " said Karen. "I left him and we knewthat we were parting forever. There is no love between us. Have you nounderstanding at all, and no thought of my pride?"

It was woman addressing woman. The child Karen was gone. 

"Your pride?" Madame von Marwitz repeated in her sobs. "And what ofmine? Was it not for you, stony-hearted girl? Is it not your happiness Iseek? If I have been mistaken in my hopes for you, is that a reason forturning upon me like a serpent!"

Karen had walked to the long window that opened to the verandah andlooked out, pressing her forehead to the pane. "You must forgive me if Iwas unkind. What you said burned me. "

"Ah, it is well for you to speak of burnings!" Madame von Marwitzsobbed, aware that Karen's wrath was quelled. "I am scorched by all ofyou! by all of you!" she repeated incoherently. "All the burdens fallupon me and, in reward, I am spurned and spat upon by those I seek toserve!"

"I am sorry, Tante. It was what you said. That you should think itpossible. "

"Sorry! Sorry! It is easy to say that you are sorry when you have rolledme in the dust of your insults and your ingratitude!" Yet the sobs werequieter. 

"Let us say, then, that it has been misunderstanding, " said Karen. Shestill stood in the window, but as she spoke the words she drew backsuddenly. She had found herself looking into Mr. Drew's eyes. His face, gazing in oddly upon her, was at the other side of the pane, and, in theapparition, its suddenness, its pallor, rising from the dusk, there wassomething almost horrible. 

"Who is that?" came Tante's voice, as Karen drew away. She had turned inher chair. 

It seemed to Karen, then, that the room was filled with the whirringwings of wild emotions, caught and crushed together. Tante had sprung upand came with long, swift strides to the window. She, too, pressed herface against the pane. "Ah! It is Claude, " she said, in a hushed strangevoice, "and he did not see that I was here. What does he mean by lookingin like that?" she spoke now angrily, drying her eyes as she spoke. Shethrew open the window. "Claude. Come here. "

Mr. Drew, whose face seemed to have sunk, like a drowned face, back intodark water, returned to the threshold and paused, arrested by hisfriend's wretched aspect. "Come in. Enter, " said Madame von Marwitz, with a withering stateliness of utterance. "You have the manner of aspy. Did you think that Karen and I were quarrelling?"

"I couldn't think that, " said Mr. Drew, stepping into the room, "for Ididn't see that you were here. "

"We have had a misunderstanding, " said Madame von Marwitz. "No more. Andnow we understand again. Is it not so, my Karen? You are going?"

"I think I will go to my room, " said Karen, who looked at neither Madamevon Marwitz nor Mr. Drew. "You will not mind if I do not come to dinnerto-night. "

"Certainly not. No. Do as you please. You are tired. I see it. And I, too, am tired. " She followed Karen to the door, murmuring: "_Sansrancune, n'est-ce-pas?_"

"Yes, Tante. "

As the door closed upon Karen, Madame von Marwitz turned to Mr. Drew. 

"If you wish to see her, why not seek her openly? Who makes it difficultfor you to approach her?" Her voice had the sharpness of splinteringice. 

"Why, no one, _ma chére_, " said Mr. Drew. "I wasn't seeking her. "

"No? And what did it mean, then, your face pressed close to hers, thereat the window?"

"It meant that I couldn't see who it was who stood there. Just as I canhardly now see more than that you are unhappy. What is the matter, mydear and beautiful friend?" His voice was solicitous. 

Madame von Marwitz dropped again into her chair and leaning forward, herhands hanging clasped between her knees, she again wept. "The matter isthe old one, " she sobbed. "Ingratitude! Ingratitude on every hand! Mycrime now has been that I have sought--at the sacrifice of my ownpride--to bring a reconciliation between that stubborn child and herhusband, and for my reward she overwhelms me with abuse!"

"Tell me about it, " said Mr. Drew, seating himself beside her and, unreproved, taking her hand. 

CHAPTER XXXV

Karen did not go to her room. She was afraid that Mrs. Talcott wouldcome to her there. She asked the cook for a few sandwiches and going toone of the lower terraces she found a seat there and sat down. She feltill. Her mind was sore and vague. She sat leaning her head on her hand, as she had sat in the morning-room, her eyes closed, and did not try tothink. 

She had escaped something--mercifully. Yes, the supreme humiliation thatTante had prepared for her was frustrated. And she had been strangelyhard and harsh to Tante and in return Tante had been piteous yetunmoving. Her heart was dulled towards Tante. She felt that she saw herfrom a great distance. 

The moon had risen and was shining brightly when she at last got up andclimbed the winding paths up to the house. 

A definite thought, after the hours that she had sat there, had at lastrisen through the dull waters of her mind. Why should Tante go away? Whyshould not she herself go? There need be no affront to Tante, noalienation. But, for a time, at least, would it not be well to prove toTante that she could be something more than a problem and a burden?Could she not go to the Lippheims in Germany and teach English andFrench and Italian there--she knew them all--and make a little money, and, when Tante wanted her again to come to Les Solitudes, come as anindependent person?

It was a curious thought. It contradicted the assumptions upon which herlife was founded; for was she not Tante's child and Tante's home herhome? So curious it was that she contemplated it like an intricateweapon laid in her hand, its oddity concealing its significance. 

She turned the weapon over. She might be Tante's child and Tante's homemight be hers; yet a child could gain its own bread, could it not? Whatwas there to pierce and shatter in the thought that it would be well forher to gain her bread? "Tante has worked for me too long, " she said toherself. She was not pierced or shattered. Something very strange was inher hand, but she was only reasonable. 

She had stood still, in the midst of her swift climbing towards thehouse, to think it all out clearly, and it was as she stood there thatshe saw the light of a cigarette approaching her. It was Mr. Drew and hehad seen her. Karen was aware of a deep stirring of displeasure andweariness. "But, please, " he said, as, slightly bowing her head, andmurmuring, "Good-night, " she passed him; "I want--I very particularlywant--to see you. " He turned to walk beside her, tossing away hiscigarette. "There is something I particularly want to say. "

His tone was grave and kind and urgent. It reproached her impatientimpulse. He might have come with a message from Tante. 

"Where is my guardian?" she asked. 

"She has gone to bed. She has a horrible headache, poor thing, " said Mr. Drew, who was leading her through the little copse of trees and alongthe upper paths. "Here, shall we sit down here? You are not cold?"

They were in the flagged garden. Karen, vaguely expectant, sat down onthe rustic bench and Mr. Drew sat beside her. The moonlight shonethrough the trees and fell fantastically on the young man's face andfigure and on Karen, sitting upright, her little shawl of white knittedwool drawn closely about her shoulders and enfolding her arms. "Not forlong, please, " she said. "It is growing late and although I am not coldI am tired. What have you to say, Mr. Drew?"

He had so much to say and it was, so obviously, his opportunity, hiscomplete opportunity at last, that, before the exquisite and periloustask of awakening this creature of flowers and glaciers, Mr. Drewcollected his resources with something of the skill and composure of anartist preparing canvas and palette. He must begin delicately anddiscreetly, and then he must be sudden and decisive. 

"I want to make you feel, in the first place, if I can, " he said, leaning forward to look into her face and observing with satisfactionthat she made no movement of withdrawal as he came a little nearer in sodoing, "that I'm your friend. Can I, do you think, succeed in making youfeel that?" His experience had told him that it really didn't matter somuch what one said. To come near was the point, and to look deeply. "I've had so few chances of showing you how much your friend I am. "

"Thank you, " said Karen. "You are kind. " She did not say that he wouldsucceed in making her feel him a friend. 

"We have been talking about you, talking a great deal, since you leftus, your guardian and I, " Mr. Drew continued, and he looked at the oneof Karen's hands that was visible, emerging from the shawl to clasp herelbow, the left hand with its wedding-ring, "and ludicrous as it mayseem to you, I can't but feel that I understand you a great deal betterthan she does. She still thinks of you as a child--a child whose littleproblems can be solved by facile solutions. Forgive me, I know it maysound fatuous to you, but I see what she does not see, that you are asuffering woman, and that for some problems there are no solutions. " Hiseyes now came back to hers and found them fixed on him with a wideastonished gaze. 

"Has my guardian asked you to say anything to me?" she said. 

"No, not exactly that, " said Mr. Drew, a little disconcerted by her toneand look, while at the same time he was marvelling at the greater andgreater beauty he found in the impassive moonlit face--how had he beenso unconscionably stupid as not to see for so long how beautiful shewas!--"No, she certainly hasn't asked me to say anything to you. She isgoing away, you know, to Italy; it's a sudden decision and she's beentelling me about it. I can't go with her. I don't think it a good plan. I can stay on here, but I can't go to Italy. Perhaps she'll give it up. She didn't find me altogether sympathetic and I'm afraid we've hadsomething of a disagreement. I am sure you've seen since you've beenhere that if your guardian doesn't understand you she doesn't understandme, either. "

"But I cannot speak of my guardian to you, " said Karen. She had kept hereyes steadily upon him waiting to hear what he might have to say, butnow the thought of Tante in her rejected queenliness broke insufferablyupon her making her sick with pity. This man did not love Tante. Sherose as she spoke. 

"Do not speak of her to me, " she said. 

"But we will not speak of her. I do not wish to speak of her, " said Mr. Drew, also rising, a stress of excitement and anxiety making itself feltin his soft, sibilant, hurried tones; "I understand every exquisiteloyalty that hedges your path. And I'm hedged, too; you see that. Wait, wait--please listen. We won't speak of her. What I want to speak of isyou. I want to ask you to make use of me. I want to ask you to trust me. You love her, but how can you depend on her? She is a child, anundisciplined, capricious child, and she is displeased with you, seriously displeased. Who is there in the world you can depend on? Youare unutterably alone. And I ask you to turn to me. "

Her frosty scrutiny disconcerted him. He had not touched her in theleast. 

"These are things you cannot say to me, " she said. "There is nothingthat you can do for me. I only know you as my guardian's friend; youforgot that, I think, when you brought me here. " She turned from him. 

"Oh, but you do not understand! I have made you angry! Oh, please, Mrs. Jardine;" his voice rose to sharp distress. He caught her hand with asupplicating yet determined grasp. "You can't understand. You are soinconceivably unaware. It is because of you; all because of you. Haven'tyou really seen or understood? She can't forgive you because I love you. I love you, you adorable child. I have only stayed on and borne with herbecause of you!"

His passion flamed before her frozen face. And as, for a transfixedmoment of stupor, she stood still, held by him, he read into herstillness the pause of the woman to whom the apple of the tree of lifeis proffered, amazed, afraid, yet thrilled through all her being, tempted by the very suddenness, incapable of swift repudiation. He threwhis arms around her, taking, in a draught of delight, the impression ofsilvery, glacial loveliness that sent dancing stars of metaphorstreaming in his head, and pressed his lips to her cheek. 

It was but one moment of attainment. The thrust that drove him from herwas that, indeed, of the strong young goddess, implacable and outraged. Yet even as he read his deep miscalculation in her aspect he felt thatthe moment had been worth it. Not many men, not even many poets, couldsay that they had held, in such a scene, on such a night, an unwillinggoddess to their breast. 

She did not speak. Her eyes did not pause to wither. They passed overhim. He had an image of the goddess wheeling to mount some chariot ofthe sky as, with no indignity of haste, she turned from him. She turned. And in the path, in the entrance to the flagged garden, Tante stoodconfronting them. 

She stood before them in the moonlight with a majesty at oncemagnificent and ludicrous. She had come swiftly, borne on the wings of adevouring suspicion, and she maintained for a long moment her Medusastare of horror. Then, it was the ugliest thing that Karen had everseen, the mask broke. Hatred, fury, malice, blind, atavistic passionsdistorted her face. It was to fall from one nightmare to another and aworse; for Tante seized her by the shoulders and shook and shook andshook her, till the blood sprang and rang in her ears and eyeballs, andher teeth chattered together, and her hair, loosened by the great jerks, fell down upon her shoulders and about her face. And while she shookher, Tante snarled--seeming to crush the words between her grindingteeth, "Ah! _perfide! perfide! perfide!_"

From behind, other hands grasped Karen's shoulders. Mr. Drew grappledwith Tante for possession of her. 

"Leave me--with my guardian, " she gathered her broken breath to say. Sherepeated it and Mr. Drew, invisible to her, replied, "I can't. She'lltear you to pieces. "

"Ah! You have still to hear from me--vile seducer!" Madame von Marwitzcried, addressing the young man over Karen's shoulder. "Do you daredispute my right to save her from you--foul serpent! Leave us! Does shenot tell you to leave us?"

"I'll see her safely out of your hands before I leave her, " said Mr. Drew. "How dare you speak of perfidy when you saw her repulse me? You'dhave found it easier to forgive, no doubt, if she hadn't. "

These insolent words, hurled at it, convulsed the livid face thatfronted Karen. And suddenly, holding Karen's shoulders and leaningforward, Madame von Marwitz broke into tears, horrible tears--in all herlife Karen had never pitied her as she pitied her then--sobbing withraking breaths: "No, no; it is too much. Have I not loved him with asaintly love, seeking to uplift what would draw me down? Has he notloved me? Has he not sought to be my lover? And he can spit upon me inthe dust!" She raised her head. "Did you believe me blind, infatuated?Did you think by your tricks and pretences to evade me? Did I not see, from the moment that she came, that your false heart had turned fromme?" Her eyes came back to Karen's face and fury again seized her. "Andas for you, ungrateful girl--perfidious, yes, and insolent one--youdeserve to be denounced to the world. Oh, we understand those retreats. What more alluring to the man who pursues than the woman who flees? Whatmore inflaming than the pose of white, idiotic innocence? You did notknow. You did not understand--" fiercely, in a mincing voice, shemimicked a supposed exculpation. "You are so young, so ignorant oflife--so _immer kindlich_! Ah!" she laughed, half strangled, "until theman seizes you in his arms you are quite unaware--but quite, quiteunaware--of what he seeks from you. Little fool! And more than fool. Have I not seen your wiles? From day to day have I not watched you? Nowit is the piano. You must play him your favourite little piece; sosmall; you have so little talent; but you will do your best. Now thechance meeting in the garden; you are so fond of flowers; you so lovethe open air, the sea, the wandering on the cliffs; such a free, wildcreature you are. And now we have the frustrated _rendezvous_ of thisevening; he should find you dreaming, among your flowers, in the dusk. The pretty picture. And no, you want no dinner; you will go to your ownroom. But you are not to be found in your own room. Oh, no; it is againthe garden; the moon; the sea and solitude that you seek! Be silent!"this was almost shouted at Claude Drew, who broke in with savagedenials. "Do you think still to impose on me--you traitor?--No, " hereyes burned on Karen's face. "No; you are wiser. You do not speak. Youknow that the time for insolence has passed. What! You take refuge withme here. You fly from your husband and throw yourself on my hands andsay to me, "--again she assumed the mincing tones--"Yes, here I am again. Continue, pray, to work for me; continue, pray, to clothe and feed andlodge me; continue to share your life with me and all of rich and wideand brilliant it can offer; continue, in a word, to hold me high--butvery high--above the gutter from which I came--and I take you, I receiveyou in my arms, I shelter you from malicious tongues, I humble myself inseeking to mend your shattered life; and for my reward you steal from methe heart of the one creature in the world I loved--the one--the onlyone! Until you came he was mine. Until you came he yearned for me--onlyfor me. Oh, my heart is broken! broken! broken!" She leaned forward, wildly sobbing, and raising herself she shook the girl with all herforce, crying: "Out of my sight! Be off! Let me see no more of you!"Covering her face with her hands, she reeled back, and Karen fled downthe path, hearing a clamour of sobs and outcries behind her. 

She fled along the cliff-path and an incomparable horror was in hersoul. Her life had been struck from her. It seemed a ghost that ran, watched by the moon, among the trees. 

On the open cliff-path it was very light. The sky was without a cloud. The sea lay like a vast cloth of silk, diapered in silver. 

Karen ran to where the path led to a rocky verge. 

From here, in daylight, one looked down into a vast hollow in the coastand saw at the bottom, far beneath, a stony beach, always sad, and setwith rocks. To-night the enormous cup was brimmed with blackness. 

Karen, pausing and leaning forward, resting on her hands, stared acrossthe appalling gulf of inky dark, and down into the nothingness. 

Horror had driven her to the spot, and horror, like a presence, rosefrom the void, and beckoned her down to oblivion. Why not? Why not? Thequestion of despair seemed, like a vast pendulum, to swing her to andfro between the sky and the blackness, so that, blind and deaf and dumb, she felt only the horror, and her own pulse of life suspended overannihilation. And while her fingers clutched tightly at the rock, thethought of Gregory's face, as it had loved her, dimly, like a farbeacon, flashed before her. Their love was dead. He did not love her. But they had loved. She moved back, trembling. She did not want to die. She lay down with her face to the ground on the grassy cliff. 

When she raised herself it was as if after a long slumber. She wasimmensely weary, with leaden limbs. Horror was spent; but a dulloppression urged her up and on. There was something that she must neversee again; something that would open before her again the black abyss ofnothingness; something like the moon, that once had lived, but was now aghost, white, ghastly, glittering. She must go. At once. And, as if faraway, a tiny picture rose before her of some little German town, whereshe might earn a living and be hidden and forgotten. 

But first she must see Mrs. Talcott. She must say good-bye to Mrs. Talcott. There was nothing now that Mrs. Talcott could show her. 

She went back softly and carefully, pausing to listen, pushing throughunused, overgrown paths and among thickets of gorse and stunted Cornishelms. In the garden all was still; the dreadful clamour had ceased. Bythe back way she stole up to her room. 

A form rose to meet her as she opened the door. Mrs. Talcott had beenwaiting for her. Taking her hand, Mrs. Talcott drew her in and closedthe door. 

CHAPTER XXXVI

Mrs. Talcott sat down on the bed and Karen knelt before her with herhead in her lap. The old woman's passed quietly over her hair while shewept, and the homely gentleness, like the simplicity of milk to famishedlips, flowed into her horror-haunted mind. 

She tried to tell Mrs. Talcott what had happened. "She does not love me, Mrs. Talcott. She has turned me out. Tante has told me to go. "

"I've seen her, " said Mrs. Talcott, stroking on. "I was just going outto look for you if you didn't come in. Did she tear your hair down likethis? It's all undone. "

"It was when she shook me, Mrs. Talcott. She found me with Mr. Drew. Hehad kissed me. I could not help it. She knew that I could not help it. She knows that I am not a bad woman. "

"You mustn't take Mercedes at her word when she's in a state like that, Karen. She's in an awful state. She's parted from that young man. "

"And I am going, Mrs. Talcott. "

"Well, I've wanted you to go, from the first. Now you've found her out, this ain't any place for you. You can't go hanging on for all your life, like I've done. "

"But Mrs. Talcott--what does it mean? What have I found out? What isTante?" Karen sobbed. "For all these years so beautiful--sobeautiful--to me, and suddenly to become my enemy--someone I do notknow. "

"You never got in her way before. She's got no mercy, Mercedes hasn't, if you get in her way. Where'd you thought of going, Karen?"

"To Frau Lippheim. She is still in London, I think. I could join herthere. You could lend me a little money, Mrs. Talcott. Enough to take meto London. "

Mrs. Talcott was silent for a moment. "Come up here, on the bed, Karen, "she then said. "Here, wrap this cloak around you; you're awful cold. That's right. Now I want you to sit quiet while I explain things to youthe best I can. I've made up my mind to do it. Mercedes will be in herright mind to-morrow and frantic to get hold of you again and get you toforgive her. Oh, I know her. And I don't want her to get hold of youagain. I want you to be quit of her. I want you to see, as clear as day, how your husband was right about Mercedes, all along. "

"Oh, do not speak of him--" Karen moaned, covering her face as she sat onthe bed beside Mrs. Talcott. 

"I ain't going to speak about him. I'm going to tell you about me andMercedes, " said Mrs. Talcott. "I'm going to explain Mercedes. And I'mgoing way back to the very beginning to do it. "

"Explain it to me. What is she? Has it all been false--all herloveliness?"

"I don't know about false, " said Mrs. Talcott. "Mercedes ain't all bad;not by a long shot. She feels good sometimes, like most folks, when itain't too much trouble. You know how it began, Karen. You know how I'm asort of connection of Mercedes's mother and I've told you about Dolores. The prettiest creature you ever set eyes on. Mercedes looks like her;only it was a softer face than Mercedes's with great, big black eyes. Ican see her now, walking round the galleries of that lovely house in NewOrleans with a big white camellia in her black hair and a white muslindress, standing out round her--like they wore then; singing--singing--soyoung and happy--it almost breaks my heart to think about her. I've toldyou about Mercedes's father, too, Pavelek Okraski, and how he came outto New Orleans and gave lessons to Dolores Bastida and made love to heron the sly and got her to run away with him--poor silly thing. When Ithink it all over I seem to piece things out and see how Mercedes cameto be what she is. Her mother was just as sweet and loving as she couldbe, but scatter-brained and hot-tempered. And Pavelek was a mighty meanman and a mighty bad man, too, a queer, tricky, sly sort of man; butgeniusy, with very attractive manners. Mercedes has got his eyes and hisway of laughing; she shows her teeth just like he used to do when helaughed. Well, he took Dolores off to Poland and spent all her money asfast as he could get it, and then Señor Bastida and the two boys--nice, hot-tempered boys they were and perfect pictures--all got killed in avendetta they had with another family in Louisiana, and poor SeñoraBastida got sick and died and all the family fortunes went to pieces andthere was no more home and no more money either, for Dolores. She justlost everything straight off. 

"She sent for me then. Her baby was coming and Pavelek had gone off andshe didn't know where he was and she was about distracted. I'd beenmarried before she ran away with Pavelek, but Homer only lived fouryears and I was a widow then. I had folks left still in Maine; but noone very near and there wasn't anybody I seemed to take to so much as Ialways had to Dolores. You may say she had a sort of fascination for me. So I sold out what I had and came. My, what a queer journey that was. Idon't know how I got to Cracow. I only spoke English and travellingwasn't what it is nowadays. But I got there somehow and found that poorchild. She was the wretchedest creature you ever set eyes on; thin asthin; and all haggard and wild. Pavelek neglected her and ran afterother women and drank, and when he got drunk and she used to fly out athim--for she was as hot-tempered as she could be--he used to beat her. Yes; that man used to beat Dolores. " A note of profound and enduringanger was in Mrs. Talcott's voice. 

"He came back after I got there. I guess he thought I'd brought somemoney, and he came in drunk one day and tried to hit her before me. Hedidn't ever try it again after that. I just got up and struck him withall my might and main right in the face and he fell down and hurt hishead pretty bad and Dolores began to shriek and said I'd killed herhusband; but he didn't try it again. He was sort of scared of me, Iguess. No: I ain't forgiven Pavelek Okraski yet and I reckon I nevershall. I don't seem to want to forgive him, neither in this world northe next--if there is a next, " Mrs. Talcott commented. 

"Well, the time for the baby came and on the day Mercedes was born theAustrians bombarded Cracow; it was in '48. I took Dolores down to thecellar and all day long we heard the shells bursting, and the peoplescreeching. And that was the time Mercedes came into the world. Doloresmost died, but she got through. But afterwards I couldn't get propercare for her, or food either. She just pined off and died five monthsafter the baby came. Pavelek most went off his head. He was always fondof her in his own mean way, and I guess he suffered considerable whenshe died. He went off, saying he'd send some money for me and the baby, but precious little of it did I ever see. I made some by sewing andgiving lessons in English--I reckon some of those young Poles got queerways of speaking from me, I was never what you'd call a polishedspeaker--and I scraped on. Time and time again we were near starving. My! that little garret room, and that big church--Panna Marya theycalled it--where I'd go and sit with the baby when the services were onto see if I could keep warm in the crowd! And the big fire in '50, whenI carried the baby out in a field with lots of other people and sleptout. It lasted for ten days that fire. 

"It seems like a dream sometimes, all that time, " Mrs. Talcott mused, and the distant sorrow of her voice was like the blowing of a winterwind. "It seems like a dream to think I got through with the childalive, and that my sweet, pretty little Dolores went under. There's somethings that don't bear thinking about. Well, I kept that baby warm and Ikept it fat, and it got to be the prettiest, proudest thing you ever seteyes on. She might have been a queen from the very beginning. And as forPavelek, she just ruled him from the time she began to have any sense. It was mighty queer to see that man, who had behaved so bad to hermother, cringing before that child. He doted on her, and she didn't carea button for him. It used to make me feel almost sorry for Pavelek, sometimes. She'd look at him, when he tried to please her and amuse her, like he was a performing dog. It kept Pavelek in order, I can tell you, and made things easier for me. She'd just say she wanted things and ifshe didn't get them straight off she'd go into a black rage, and he'd bescared out of his life and go and work and get 'em for her. And then shebegan to show she was a prodigy. Pavelek taught her the violin first andthen the piano and when he realized she was a genius he most went offhis head with pride. Why that man--the selfishest, laziest creature bynature--worked himself to skin and bone so that she should have the bestlessons and everything she needed. We both held our noses to thegrindstone just as tight as ever we could, and Mercedes was brought uppretty well, I think, considering. 

"She gave that first concert in Warsaw--we'd moved to Warsaw--and thenPavelek seemed to go to pieces. He just drank himself to death. Well, after that, rich relations of Mercedes's turned up--cousins of theBastidas', who lived in Paris. They hadn't lifted a finger to helpDolores, or me with the baby after Dolores died; but they rememberedabout us now Mercedes was famous and made us come to live with them inParis and said they had first claim on Mercedes. I didn't take to theBastidas. But I stayed on because of Mercedes. I got to be a sort ofnurse for her, you may say. Well, as she got older, and prettier andprettier, and everyone just crazy about her, I saw she didn't have muchuse for me. I didn't judge her too hard; but I began to see through herthen. She'd behaved mighty bad to me again and again, she used to fly atme and bite me and tear my hair, when she was a child, if I thwartedher; but I always believed she really loved me; perhaps she did, as muchas she can. But after these rich folks turned up and her life got sobright and easy she just seemed to forget all about me. So I went home. 

"I stayed home for four or five years and then Mercedes sent for me. Sheused to write now and then to her 'Dearest Tallie' as she always calledme, and I'd heard all about how she'd come out in Paris and Vienna as agreat pianist, and how she'd quarrelled with her relations and how she'drun away with a young English painter and got married to him. It was anawful silly match, and they'd all opposed it; but it pleased me somehow. I thought it showed that Mercedes was soft-hearted like her mother, andunworldly. Well, she wrote that she was miserable and that her husbandwas a fiend and broke her heart and that she hated all her relations andthey'd all behaved like serpents to her--Mercedes is always runningacross serpents--and how I was the only true friend she had and the onlyone who understood her, and how she longed for her dear Tallie. So Isold out again--I'd just started a sort of little farm near the oldplace in Maine, raising chickens and making jam--and came over again. Idon't know what it is about Mercedes, but she gets a hold over you. Andguess I always felt like she was my own baby. I had a baby, but it diedwhen it was born. Well, she was living in Paris then and they had a fineflat and a big studio, and when Mercedes got into a passion with herhusband she'd take a knife and slash up his canvases. She quarrelledwith him day and night, and I wasn't long with them before I saw that itwas all her fault and that he was a weak, harmless sort of youngcreature--he had yellow hair, longish, and used to wear a black velvetcap and paint sort of dismal pictures of girls with long necks and wildsort of eyes--but that the truth was she was sick of him and wanted tomarry the Baron von Marwitz. 

"You can commence to get hold of the story now, Karen. You remember theBaron. A sad, stately man he was, as cultured and intellectual as couldbe and going in the best society. Mercedes had found pretty quick thatthere wasn't much fun in being married to a yellow-haired boy who livedon the money she made and wasn't a mite in society. And the Baron wasjust crazy over her in his dignified, reverential way. Poor fellow!"said Mrs. Talcott pausing in a retrospect over this vanished figure, "Poor fellow! I guess he came to rue the day he ever set eyes on her. Well, Mercedes made out to him how terrible her life was and how she wastied to a dissipated, worthless man who lived on her and was unfaithfulto her. And it's true that Baldwin Tanner behaved as he shouldn't; buthe was a weak creature and she'd disillusionized him so and made him somiserable that he just got reckless. And he'd never asked any more thanto live in a garret with her and adore her, and paint his lanky peopleand eat bread and cheese; he told me so, poor boy; he just used to layhis head down on my lap and cry like a baby sometimes. But Mercedes madeit out that she was a victim and he was a serpent; and she believed it, too; that's the power of her; she's just determined to be in the rightalways. So at last she made it all out. She couldn't divorce Baldwin, being a Catholic; but she made it out that she wasn't really married tohim. It appears he didn't get baptized by his folks; they hadn'tbelieved in baptizing; they were free-thinkers. And the Baron got hispowerful friends to help and they all set to work at the Pope, and theygot him to fix it up, and Mercedes's marriage was annulled and she wasfree to marry again. That's what was in her mind in sending for me, yousee; she'd quarrelled with her folks and she wanted a steady respectableperson who knew all about her to stand by her and chaperon her while shewas getting rid of Baldwin. Mercedes has always been pretty carefulabout her reputation; she's hardly ever taken any risks. 

"Well, she was free and she married the Baron, and poor Baldwin got anice young English girl to marry him, and she reformed him, and they'realive and happy to this day, and I guess he paints pretty poor pictures. And it makes Mercedes awful mad to hear about how happy they are; shehas a sort of idea, I imagine, that Baldwin didn't have any right to getmarried again. I've always had a good deal of satisfaction overBaldwin, " said Mrs. Talcott. "It's queer to realize that Mercedes wasonce just plain Mrs. Baldwin Tanner, ain't it? It was a silly match andno mistake. Well, it took two or three years to work it all out, andMercedes was twenty-five when she married the Baron. I didn't see muchof them for a while. They put me around in their houses to look afterthings and be there when Mercedes wanted me. She'd found out shecouldn't get along without me in those two or three years. Mercedes wasthe most beautiful creature alive at that time, I do believe, and allEurope was wild about her. She and the Baron went about and she gaveconcerts, and it was just a triumphal tour. But after a spell I began tosee that things weren't going smooth. Mercedes is the sort of personwho's never satisfied with what she's got. And the Baron was beginningto find her out. My! I used to be sorry for that man. I'll never forgethis white, sick face the first time she flew out at him and made one ofher scenes. '_Emprisonné ma jeunesse_, '" Mrs. Talcott quoted with aheavy accent. "That's what she said he'd done to her. He was twentyyears older than Mercedes, the Baron. Mercedes always liked to have menwho were in love with her hanging about, and that's what the trouble wasover. The more they cared the worse she treated them, and the Baron wasa very dignified man and didn't like having them around. And she wasdreadful jealous of him, too, and used to fly out at him if he so muchas looked at another woman; in her way I guess he was the personMercedes cared for most in all her life; she respected him, too, and sheknew he was as clever as she was and more so, and as for him, in spiteof everything, he always stayed in love with her. They used to havereconciliations, and when he'd look at her sort of scornful and lovingand sad all together, it would make her go all to pieces. She'd throwherself in his arms and cry and cry. No, she ain't all bad, Mercedes. And she thought she could make things all right with him after she'd letherself go; she depended on his caring for her so much and being sorryfor her. But I saw well enough as the years went on that he got more andmore depressed. He was a depressed man by nature, I reckon, and he reada sight of philosophy of the gloomy kind--that writer Schopenhauer was afavourite of his, I recollect, and Mercedes thought a sight of him, too--and after ten years or so of Mercedes I expect the Baron was prettysick of life. 

"Well, you came. You thought it was Mercedes who was so good to you, andit was in a way. But it was poor Ernst who really cared. He took to youthe moment he set eyes on you, and he'd liked your father. And he wantedto have you to live with them and be their adopted daughter and inherittheir money when they died. It had always been a grief to him thatMercedes wouldn't have any children. She just had a horror of havingchildren, and he had to give up any hope of it. Well, the momentMercedes realized how he cared for you she got jealous and they had ascene over you right off, in that hotel at Fontainebleau. She took onlike her heart would break and put it that she couldn't bear to have anyone with them for good, she loved him so. It was true in a way. I didn'tcount of course. He looked at her, sick and scornful and loving, and hegave way. That was why you were put to school. She tried to make up bybeing awful nice to you when you came for your holidays now and then;but she never liked having you round much and Ernst saw it and nevershowed how much he cared for you. But he did care. You had a real friendin him, Karen. Well, after that came the worst thing Mercedes ever did. "Mrs. Talcott paused, gazing before her in the dimly lighted room. "Poorthings! Poor Mercedes! It nearly killed her. She's never been the samesince. And it was all her fault and she knows it and that's why she'safraid. That's why, " she added in a lower voice, "you're sorry for herand put up with everything, because you know she's a miserable woman andit wouldn't do for her to be alone. 

"A young man turned up. His name don't matter now, poor fellow. He wasjust a clever all-over-the-place young man like so many of them, thinking they know more about everything than God Almighty;--like thisyoung man in a way, only not a bad young man like him;--and downrightsick with love of Mercedes. He followed her about all over Europe andwent to every concert she gave and laid himself out to please her in allthe ways he could. And he had a great charm of manner--he was a Russianand very high-bred--and he sort of fascinated her, and she liked it all, I can tell you. Her youth was beginning to go, and the Baron was mightygloomy, and she just basked in this young man's love, and pretty soonshe began to think she was in love with him--perhaps she was--and hadnever loved before, and she certainly worked herself up to sufferconsiderably. Well, the Baron saw it. He saw she didn't treat him theway she'd treated the others; she was kind of humble and tender anddistracted all the time. The Baron saw it all, but she never noticedthat he was getting gloomier and gloomier. I sometimes wonder if thingsmight have been different if he'd been willing to confide in me some. Itdoes folks a sight of good if there's someone they can tell things to. But the Baron was very reserved and never said a word. And at last sheburst out with a dreadful scene. You were with them; yes, it was thatsummer at Felsenschloss; but you didn't know anything about it ofcourse. I was pretty much in the thick of it all, as far as Mercedeswent, and I tried to make her see reason and told her she was a sinfulwoman to treat her husband so; but I couldn't hold her back. She brokeout at him one day and told him he was like a jailor to her, and that hesuffocated her talent and that he hung on her like a vampire and suckedher youth, and that she loved the other man. I can see her now, rushingup and down that long saloon on that afternoon, with the white blindsdrawn down and the sun filtering through them, snatching with her handsat her dress and waving her arms up and down in the air. And the Baronsat on a sofa leaning on his elbow with his hand up over his eyes andwatched her under it. And he didn't say one word. When she fell down onanother sofa and cried and cried, he got up and looked at her for amoment; but it wasn't the scornful, loving look; it was a queer, dark, dead way. And he just went out. And we never saw him alive again. 

"You know the rest, Karen. You found him. But no one knows why he didit, no one but you and me. He put an end to himself, because he couldn'tstand it any longer, and to set her free. They called it suicidal maniaand the doctors said he must have had melancholia for years. But Ishan't ever forget his face when he went out, and no more will Mercedes. After he was gone she thought she'd never cared for anything in theworld but him. She never saw that young man again. She wrote him aletter and laid the blame on him, and said he'd tried to take her fromher adored husband and that she'd never forgive him and loathed thethought of him, and that he had made her the most wretched of women, andhe went and blew his brains out and that was the end of him. I hadconsiderable difficulty in getting hold of that letter. It was on himwhen he killed himself. But I managed to talk over the police and hushit up. Mercedes gave me plenty of money to manage with. I don't knowwhat she thinks about that poor fellow; she's never named his name sincethat day. And she went on like a mad thing for two years or more. Youremember about that, Karen. She said she'd never play the piano again orsee anybody and wanted to go and be a nun. But she had a friend who wasa prioress of a convent, and she advised her not to. I guess poorMercedes wouldn't have stayed long in a convent. And the reason she wasnice to you was because the Baron had been fond of you and she wanted tomake up all she could for that dreadful thing in her life. She had youto come and live with her. You didn't interfere with anything any longerand it sort of soothed her to think it was what he'd have liked. She'sfond of you, too. She wouldn't have put up with you for so long if shehadn't been. She'd have found some excuse for being quit of you. But asfor loving you, Karen child, like you thought she did, or like you loveher, why it's pitiful. I used to wonder how long it would be before youfound her out. "

Karen's face was hidden; she had rested it upon her hands, leaningforward, her elbows on her knees, and she had not moved while Mrs. Talcott told her story. Now, as Mrs. Talcott sat silent, she stirredslightly. 

"Tante! Tante!" she muttered. "My beautiful!"

Mrs. Talcott did not reply to this for some moments; then she laid herhand on Karen's shoulder. "That's it, " she said. "She's beautiful and itmost kills us to find out how cruel and bad she can be. But I guess wecan't judge people like Mercedes, Karen. When you go through life like amowing-machine and see everyone flatten out before you, you must getkind of exalted ideas about yourself. If anything happens that makes ahitch, or if anybody don't flatten out, why it must seem to you as ifthey were wrong in some way, doing you an injury. That's the way it iswith Mercedes. She don't mean to be cruel, she don't mean to be bad; butshe's a mowing-machine and if you get in her way she'll cut you up fineand leave you behind. And the thing for you to do, Karen, is to get outof her way as quick as you can. "

"Yes, I am going, " said Karen. 

Again Mrs. Talcott sat silent. "I'd like to talk to you about that, Karen, " she then said. "I want to ask you to give up going to FrauLippheim. There ain't any sense in that. It's a poor plan. What youought to do, Karen, is to go right back to your nice young husband. "

Karen, who sat on as if crushed beyond the point where anything couldcrush her further, shook her head. "Do not ask me that, Mrs. Talcott, "she said. "I can never go back to him. "

"But, Karen, I guess you've got to own now that he was right and youwere wrong in that quarrel of yours. I guess you'll have to own that itmust have made him pretty sick to see her putting him in the wrong withyou all the time and spoiling everything; and there's no one on earthcan do that better than Mercedes. "

"I see it all, " said Karen. "But that does not change what happenedbetween Gregory and me. He does not love me. I saw it plainly. If he hadme back it would only be because he cares for conventions. He said cruelthings to me. "

"I guess you said cruel things to him, Karen. "

Karen shook her head slightly, with weariness rather than impatience. 

"No, for he saw that it was my loyalty to her--my love of her--that hewas wounding. And he never understood. He never helped me. I can nevergo back to him, for he does not love me. "

"Now, see here, Karen, " said Mrs. Talcott, after a pause, "you just letme work it out. You'll have a good sleep and to-morrow morning I'll seeyou off, before Mercedes is up, to a nice little farm near here that Iknow about--just a little way by train--and there you'll stay, nice andquiet, and I'll not let Mercedes know where you are. And I'll write toMr. Jardine and tell him just what's happened and what you meant to do, and that you want to go to Frau Lippheim; and you mark my words, Karen, that nice young husband of yours'll be here quicker than you can sayJack Robinson. "

Karen had dropped her hands and was looking at her old friend intently. "Mrs. Talcott, you do not understand, " she said. "You cannot write tohim. Have I not told you that he does not love me?"

"Shucks!" said Mrs. Talcott. "He'll love you fast enough now thatMercedes is out of the way. "

"But, Mrs. Talcott, " said Karen, rising and looking down at the oldwoman, whose face, in the dim light, had assumed to her reeling mind anaspect of dangerous infatuation--"I do not think you know what you aresaying. What do I want of a man who only loves me when I cease to lovemy guardian?"

"Well, say you give up love, then, " Mrs. Talcott persisted, and a panicseized Karen as she heard the unmoved tones. "Say you don't love him andhe don't love you. You can have conventions, then--he wants that yousay, and so can you--and a good home and a nice husband who won't treatyou bad in any way. That's better than batting about the world all byyourself, Karen; you take my word for it. And you can take my word forit, too, that if you behave sensible and do as I say, you'll find outthat all this is just a miserable mistake and that he loves you just asmuch as ever. Now, see here, " Mrs. Talcott, also, had risen, and stoodin her habitual attitude, resting heavily on one hip, "you're not fit totalk and I'm not going to worry you any more. You go to sleep and we'llsee about what to do to-morrow. You go right to sleep, Karen, " shepatted the girl's shoulder. 

The panic was deepening in Karen. She saw guile on Mrs. Talcott'sstorm-beaten and immutable face; and she heard specious reassurance inher voice. Mrs. Talcott was dangerous. She had set her heart on thislast desire of her passionless, impersonal life and had determined thatshe and Gregory should come together again. It was this desire that hadunsealed her lips: she would never relinquish, it. She might write toGregory; she might appeal to him and put before him the desperate plightin which his wife was placed. And he might come. What were a wife'spowers if she was homeless and penniless, and a husband claimed her?Karen did not know; but panic breathed upon her, and she felt that shemust fly. She, too, could use guile. "Yes, " she said. "I will go tosleep. And to-morrow we will talk. But what you hope cannot be. Good-night, Mrs. Talcott. "

"Good-night, child, " said Mrs. Talcott. 

They had joined hands and the strangeness of this farewell, theknowledge that she might never see Mrs. Talcott again, and that she wasleaving her to a life empty of all that she had believed it to contain, rose up in Karen so strongly that it blotted out for a moment her ownterror. 

"You have been so good to me, " she said, in a trembling voice. "Nevershall I forget what you have done for me, Mrs. Talcott. May I kiss yougood-night?"

They had never kissed. 

Mrs. Talcott's eyes blinked rapidly, and a curious contortion puckeredher mouth and chin. Karen thought that she was going to cry and her owneyes filled with tears. 

But Mrs. Talcott in another moment had mastered her emotion, or, moreprobably, it could find no outlet. The silent, stoic years had sealedthe fount of weeping. Only that dry contortion of her face spoke of herdeep feeling. Karen put her arms around her and they kissed each other. 

"Good-night, child, " Mrs. Talcott then said in a muffled voice, anddisengaging herself she went out quickly. 

Karen stood listening to the sound of her footsteps passing down thecorridor. They went down the little flight of stairs that led to anotherside of the house and faded away. All was still. 

She did not pause or hesitate. She did not seem to think. Swiftly andaccurately she found her walking-shoes and put them on, her hat andcloak; her purse with its half-crown, its sixpence and its few coppers. Swiftly she laid together a change of underwear and took from herdressing-table its few toilet appurtenances. She paused then, looking atthe ornaments of her girlhood. She must have money. She must sellsomething; yet all these her guardian had given her. 

No; not all. Her little gold watch ticked peacefully, lying on the tablebeside her bed as it had lain beside her for so many years; herbeautiful little watch, treasured by her since the distant birthday whenOnkel Ernst had given it. 

She clutched it tightly in her hand and it seemed to her, as she hadonce said to Gregory, that the iron drove deep into her heart and turnedup not only dark forgotten things but dark and dreadful things neverseen before. 

She leaned against the table, putting the hand that held Onkel Ernst'swatch to her eyes, and his agony became part of her own. How he hadsuffered. And the other man, the young, forgotten Russian. Mrs. Talcott's story became real to her as it had not yet been. It enteredher; it filled her past; it linked itself with everything that she hadbeen and done and believed. And the iron drove down deeper, until of herheart there seemed only to be left a deep black hole. 

CHAPTER XXXVII

Mrs. Talcott had a broken night and it was like a continuation of somedifficult and troubled dream when she heard the voice of Mercedes sayingto her: "Tallie, Tallie, wake up. Tallie, will you wake! _Bon Dieu!_ howshe sleeps!"

The voice of Mercedes when she had heard it last had been the voice ofpassion and desperation, but its tone was changed this morning; it wasfretful, feverishly irritable, rather than frantic. 

Mrs. Talcott opened her eyes and sat up in bed. She wore a Jaegernightgown and her head, with its white hair coiled at the top, wascuriously unaltered by its informal setting. 

"What do you mean by coming waking me up like this after the nightyou've given me, " she demanded, fully awakened now. "Go right straightaway or I'll put you out. "

"Don't be a fool, Tallie, " said Madame von Marwitz, who, in a silkendressing-gown and with her hair unbound, had an appearance at oncechildish and damaged. "Where is Karen? I've been to her room and she isnot there. The door downstairs is unbolted. Is she gone out to walk soearly?"

Mrs. Talcott sat still and upright in her bed. "What time is it?" sheasked. 

"It is seven. I have been awake since dawn. Do you imagine that I havehad a pleasant night?"

Mrs. Talcott did not answer this query. She sprang out of bed. 

"Perhaps she's gone to meet the bus at the cross-roads. But I told her Iwas going to take her. Tell Burton to come round with the car as quickas he can. I'll go after her and see that she's all right. Why, thechild hasn't got any money, " Mrs. Talcott muttered, deftly drawing onher clothes beneath her nightgown which she held by the edge of the neckbetween her teeth. 

Madame von Marwitz listened to her impeded utterance frowning. 

"The bus? What do you mean? Why is she meeting the bus?"

"To take her to London where she's going to the Lippheims, " said Mrs. Talcott, casting aside the nightgown and revealing herself in chemiseand petticoat. "You go and order that car, Mercedes, " she added, as shebuckled together her sturdy, widely-waisted stays. "This ain't no timefor talk. "

Madame von Marwitz looked at her for another moment and then rang thebell. She put her head outside the door to await the housemaid and, asthis person made some delay, shouted in a loud voice: "Handcock! Jane!Louise! Where are you? _Fainéantes!_" she stamped her foot, and, as thehousemaid appeared, running; "Burton, " she commanded. "The car. At once. And tell Louise to bring me my tea-gown, my shoes and stockings, my furcloak, at once; but at once; make haste!"

"What are you up to, Mercedes?" Mrs. Talcott inquired, as Madame vonMarwitz thrust her aside from the dressing-table and began to wind upher hair before the mirror. 

"I am getting ready to go with you, _parbleu_!" Madame von Marwitzreplied. "Is that you, Louise? Come in. You have the things? Put on myshoes and stockings; quickly; _mais dépêchez-vous donc_! Thetea-gown--yes, over this--over it I say! So. Now bring me a motor-veiland gloves. I shall do thus. "

Mrs. Talcott, while Louise with an air of profoundest gloom arrayed hermistress, kept silence, but when Louise had gone in search of themotor-veil she remarked in a low but imperative voice: "You'll get outat the roadside and wait for me, that's what you'll do. I won't have youalong when I meet Karen. She couldn't bear the sight of you. "

"Peace!" Madame von Marwitz commanded, adjusting the sash of hertea-gown. "I shall see Karen. The deplorable misunderstanding of lastnight shall be set right. Her behaviour has been undignified andunderhanded; but I misunderstood her, and, pierced to the heart by thetreachery of a man I trusted, I spoke wildly, without thought. Karenwill understand. I know my Karen. "

It was not the moment for dispute. Louise had re-entered with the veiland Madame von Marwitz bound it about her head, standing before themirror, and gazing at herself, fixedly and unseeingly, with dark eyesset in purpled orbits. She turned then and swept from the room, and Mrs. Talcott, pinning on her hat as she went, followed her. 

Not until they were speeding through the fresh, chill air, did Mrs. Talcott speak. Madame von Marwitz, leaning to one side of the open car, scanned the stretch of road before them, melancholy and monotonous underthe pale morning sky, and Mrs. Talcott, moving round determinedly in hercorner, faced her. 

"I want to tell you, right now, Mercedes, " said Mrs. Talcott, "thatKaren's done with you. There's no use in your coming, for you'll neverget her back. I've told her all about you, Mercedes;--yes, I ain'tafraid of you and you know it;--I told her. I made up my mind to it lastnight after I'd seen you and heard all your shameful story and how you'dtreated her. I made up my mind that you shouldn't get hold of her again, not if I could help it. The time had come to tell that child that herhusband was right all along and that you ain't a woman to be trusted. She'd seen for herself what you could do, and I made a sure thing of it. I've held my tongue for all my life, but I spoke out last night. I wanther to be quit of you for good. I want her to go back to her husband. Yes, Mercedes; I've burst up the whole concern. "

Madame von Marwitz, her hand holding tightly the side of the car and hereyes like large, dark stones in her white face, was sitting upright andwas staring at her. She could not speak and Mrs. Talcott went on. 

"She knows all about you now; about you and Baldwin Tanner and you andErnst, and about that pitiful young Russian. She knows how you treatedthem. She knows how it wasn't you but Ernst who was her real friend, andhow you didn't want her to live with you. She knows that you're a mightyunfortunate creature and a mighty dangerous one; and what I advise youto do, Mercedes, is to get out here and go right home. Karen won't evercome back to you again, I'm as sure of it as I'm sure my name's HannahTalcott. "

They sped, with softly singing speed, through the chill morning air. Thehard, tight, dark eyeballs still fixed themselves on the old womanalmost lifelessly, and still she sat grasping the side of the car. Shehad the look of a creature shot through the heart and maintaining thepoise and pride of its startled and arrested life. Mechanical forcesrather than volition seemed to sustain her. 

"Say, Mercedes, will you get out?" Mrs. Talcott repeated. And the rigidfigure then moved its head slightly in negation. 

They reached the cross-roads where a few carts and an ancient fly stoodwaiting for the arrival of the omnibus that plied between the Lizard andHelston. Karen was nowhere to be seen. 

"Perhaps she went across the fields and got into the bus at the Lizard, "said Mrs. Talcott. "We'll wait and see, and if she isn't in the buswe'll go on to Helston. Perhaps she's walking. "

Madame von Marwitz continued to say nothing, and in a moment they heardbehind them the clashing and creaking of the omnibus. It drew up at thehalt and Karen was not in it. 

"To Helston, " said Mrs. Talcott, standing up to speak to the chauffeur. 

They sped on before the omnibus had resumed its journey. 

Tints of azure and purple crept over the moors; the whitening sky showedrifts of blue; it was a beautiful morning. Mrs. Talcott, keeping a keeneye on the surrounding country, became aware presently that Mercedes hadturned her gaze upon her and was examining her. 

She looked round. 

There was no anger, no resentment, even, on the pallid face. It seemedengaged, rather, in a deep perplexity--that of a child struck down bythe hand that, till then, had cherished it. It brooded in sick wonder onMrs. Talcott, and Mrs. Talcott looked back with her ancient, weary eyes. Madame von Marwitz broke the silence. She spoke in a toneless voice. "Tallie--how could you?" she said. "Oh, Tallie--how could you have toldher?"

"Mercedes, " said Mrs. Talcott, gently but implacably, "I had to. It wasright to make sure you shouldn't get hold of her again. She had to go, and she had to go for good. If you want me to go, too, I will, but it'sonly fair to tell you that I never felt much sorrier for you than I doat this minute. "

"There have been tragedies in my life, " Madame von Marwitz went on inthe low, dulled voice. "I have been a passion-tossed woman. Yes, I havenot been guiltless. But how could you cut out my heart with all itsscars and show it to my child?"

"It was right to do it, Mercedes, so as you shouldn't ruin her life. She's not your child, and you've shown her she's not. A mother don'tbehave so to her child, however off her head she goes. "

"I was mad last night. " The tears ran slowly down Madame von Marwitz'scheeks. "I can tell that to Karen. I can explain. I can throw myself onher mercy. I loved him and my heart was broken. One is not responsible. It is the animal, wounded to death, that shrieks and tears at the spearit feels entering its flesh. "

"I'm awful sorry for you, Mercedes, " said Mrs. Talcott. 

And now, hiding her face in her hands and leaning back in her cushions, Madame von Marwitz began to weep with the soft reiterated sobbing of amiserable child. "I have no one left. I am alone, " she sobbed. "Even youhave turned against me. "

"No, I haven't turned against you, " said Mrs. Talcott. "I'm here. " Andpresently, while Mercedes wept, Mrs. Talcott took her hand and held it. 

They reached Helston and climbed the steep, stony road to the station. There was no sign of Karen. Mrs. Talcott got out and made inquiries. Shemight have gone to London by the train that left at dawn; but no one hadnoticed such a young lady. Mrs. Talcott came back to the car with herfruitless story. 

Mercedes, by this time, had dried her eyes and was regaining, apparently, her more normal energies. "Not here? Not seen? Not heardof?" she repeated. "But where is she then?"

Mrs. Talcott stood at the door of the car and looked at her charge. "Well, I'm afraid she made off in the night, straight away, after I'dtalked to her. "

"Made off in the night?" A dark colour suddenly suffused Madame vonMarwitz's face. 

"Yes, that's it, I reckon. I must have said something to scare her abouther going back to her husband. Perhaps she thought I'd bring him downwithout her knowing, and perhaps she wasn't far wrong. I'm afraid I'veplayed the fool. She thought I'd round on her in some way and so shejust lit out. "

Madame von Marwitz stared at her. The expression of her face hadentirely altered; there was no trace of the dazed and wretched child. Dark forces lit her eyes and the relaxed lines of her lips tightened. 

"Get in, " she commanded. "Tell him to drive back, and get in. " And whenMrs. Talcott had taken her place beside her she went on in a low, concentrated voice: "Is it not possible that she has joined that vileseducer?"

Mrs. Talcott eyed her with the fixity of a lion-tamer. Their moment ofinstinctive closeness had passed. "Now see here, Mercedes, " she said; "Iadvise you to be careful what you say. "

"Careful! I am half mad! Between you all you will drive me mad!" saidMadame von Marwitz with intensity of fury. "You fill Karen's mind withlies about my past--oh, there are two sides to every story! she shallhear my side!--you drive her forth with your threats to hand her over tothe man she loathes, and she takes refuge--where else?--with thatmiscreant. Why not? Where else had she to go? You say that she had nomoney. We call now at the hotel. If he is gone, and if within the day wedo not hear that she is with Lise, we will send at once for detectives. "

"You'd better control yourself, Mercedes, " said Mrs. Talcott. "If Karenain't found it'll be a mighty ugly story for you to face up to, and ifshe's found it won't be all plain sailing for you either; you've got topay the price for what you've done. But if it gets round that you droveher out and then spread scandal about her, you'll do for yourself--justkeep your mind on that if you can. "

"Scandal! What scandal shall I spread? If he disappears and she withhim, will the facts not shriek aloud? If she is found she will be foundby me. I will wire at once to Lise. "

"We'll wire to Lise and we'll wire to Mr. Jardine, that's what we'll do. Karen may have changed her mind. She may have felt shy of telling me shehad. She may have come to see that he's the thing she's got to hang onto. What I hope for is that if she ain't in London already with him, she's hiding somewhere about here and has sent for him herself. "

"Ah, I understand your hope; it is of a piece with all your treachery, "said Madame von Marwitz in a voice suffocated by conflicting angers. "Ifshe is with her husband he, too, will hear the story--the false, garbledstory of my crimes. He is my enemy, you know it; my malignant enemy; youknow that he will spread this affair broadcast. And you can rejoice inthis! You are glad for my disgrace and ruin!" Tears again streamed fromher eyes. 

"Don't take on so, Mercedes, " said Mrs. Talcott. "If Karen's with herhusband all they're likely to be thinking about is that he was right andhas got her back again. Karen's bound to tell him something about whathappened, and you can depend upon Karen for saying as little as she can. But if you imagine that you're going to be let off from being found outby that young man, you're letting yourself in for a big disappointment, and you can take my word for it. It's because he's right about you thatKaren'll go back to him. "

Madame von Marwitz turned her head away and fixed her eyes on thelandscape. 

They reached the little village near Les Solitudes, and at the littlehotel, with its drowsy, out-of-season air, Mrs. Talcott descended, leaving Mercedes proudly seated in the car, indifferent to the possiblegaze from above of her faithless devotee. Mrs. Talcott returned with theinformation that Mr. Drew was upstairs and not yet awake. "Go up. Go upto him, " said the tormented woman, after a moment of realized relief ordisappointment--who can say? "He may have seen her. He may have givenher money for her journey. They may have arranged to meet later. "

Mrs. Talcott again disappeared and she only returned after some tenminutes. "Home, " she then said to Burton, climbing heavily into the car. "Yes, there he was, sleeping as peaceful as a dormouse in his silkpyjamas, " she remarked. "I startled him some, I reckon, when I waked himup. No, he don't know anything about her. Wanted to jump up and look forher when I told him she was missing. Keep still, Mercedes--what do youmean by bouncing about like that--folks can see you. I talked to himpretty short and sharp, that young man, and I told him the best thing hecould do now was to pack his grip-sack and clear out. He's going rightaway and he promised to send me a telegram from London to-night. He cancatch the second train. "

Madame von Marwitz leaned back. She closed her eyes. The car had climbedto the entrance of Les Solitudes and the fuchsia hedge was passing oneach side. Mrs. Talcott, looking at her companion, saw that she hadeither actually fainted or was simulating a very realistic fainting-fit. Mercedes often had fainting-fits at moments of crisis; but she was arobust woman, and Mrs. Talcott had no reason to believe that any of themhad been genuine. She did not believe that this one was genuine, yet shehad to own, looking at the leaden eyelids and ashen face, that Mercedeshad been through enough in the last twelve hours to break down astronger person. And it was appropriate that she should return to herdesolate home in a prostrate condition. 

Mrs. Talcott, as often before, played her part. The maids were summoned;they supported Madame von Marwitz's body; Burton took her shoulders andMrs. Talcott her feet. So the afflicted woman was carried into the houseand upstairs and laid upon her bed. 

Mrs. Talcott then went and sent telegrams to Frau Lippheim and toGregory Jardine. She asked them to let her know if Karen arrived inLondon during the day. She had her answers that evening. That fromGregory ran--"Not seen or heard of Karen. What has happened? Write byreturn. Or shall I come to you?" The other was from the Lippheims'landlady and said that the Lippheims had returned to Germany four daysbefore and that no one had arrived to see them. 

The evening post had gone. Mrs. Talcott went out and answered Gregory bywire: "Writing to-morrow morning. We think Karen is in London. Staywhere you are. "

CHAPTER XXXVIII

Mrs. Talcott went early to Madame von Marwitz's room next morning, assoon, in fact, as she had seen her breakfast-tray carried away. She hadshown Mercedes her telegrams the evening before, and Mercedes, lying onher bed where she had passed the day in heavy slumbers, had muttered, "Let me sleep. The post is gone. We can do nothing more till to-morrow. "Like a wounded creature she was regaining strength and wholeness inoblivion. When Mrs. Talcott had gone softly into her room at bedtime, she had found her soundly sleeping. 

But the fumes and torpors of grief and pain were this morning dispersed. Mercedes sat at the desk in her bedroom attired in a _robe-de-chambre_, and rapidly and feverishly wrote. 

"I'm glad to see you're feeling better, Mercedes, " said Mrs. Talcott, closing the door and coming to her side. "We've got a lot to talk overthis morning. I guess we'll have to send for those detectives. What areyou writing there?"

Madame von Marwitz, whose face had the sodden, slumbrous look thatfollows long repose, drew the paper quickly to one side and replied:"You may mind your affairs and leave me to mind my own. I write to myfriend. I write to Mrs. Forrester. "

"You hand me that letter, Mercedes, " said Mrs. Talcott, in a mild butsingularly determined tone, and after a moment Madame von Marwitz didhand it to her. 

Mrs. Talcott perused the first page. Then she lifted her eyes to hercompanion, who, averting hers with a sullen look, fixed them on the seaoutside. It was raining and the sea was leaden. 

"Now just you listen to me, Mercedes Okraska, " said Mrs. Talcott, heavily emphasizing her words and leaning the hand that held the letteron the writing-table, "I'll go straight up to London and tell the wholestory to Mr. Jardine and Mrs. Forrester--the same as I told it to Karenwith all that's happened here besides--I will as sure as my name'sHannah Talcott--if you write one word of that shameful idea to yourfriends. Lay down that pen. "

Madame von Marwitz did not lay it down, but she turned in her chair andconfronted her accuser, though with averted eyes. "You say 'shameful. ' Isay, yes; shameful, and true. She has not gone to her husband. She hasnot gone to the Lippheims. I believe that he has joined her. I believethat it was arranged. I believe that she is with him now. "

"You can't look me in the eye and say you believe it, Mercedes, " saidMrs. Talcott. 

Madame von Marwitz looked her in the eye, sombrely, and she then variedher former statement. "He has pursued her. He has found her. He will tryto keep her. He is a depraved and dangerous man. "

"We'll let him alone. We're done with him for good and all, I guess. Mypoint is this: don't you write any lies to your friends thinking thatyou're going to whiten yourself by blackening Karen. I'm speaking thesober truth when I say I'll go straight off to London and tell Mr. Jardine and Mrs. Forrester the whole story, unless you write a letter, right now, as you sit here, that I can pass. "

Again averting her eyes, Madame von Marwitz clutched her pen in rigidfingers and sat silent. 

"It is blackmail! Tyranny!" she ejaculated presently. 

"All right. Call it any name you like. But my advice to you, Mercedes, is to pull yourself together and see this thing straight for your ownsake. I know what's the matter with you, you pitiful, silly thing; it'sthis young man; it makes you behave like a distracted creature. Butdon't you see as plain as can be that what Karen's probably done is togo to London and that Mr. Jardine'll find her in a day or two. Now whenthose two young people come together again, what kind of a story willKaren tell her husband about you--what'll he think of you--what'll yourfriends think of you--if they all find out that in addition to behavinglike a wild-cat to that poor child because you were fairly daft withjealousy, and driving her away--oh, yes you did, Mercedes, it don't doany good to deny it now--if in addition to all that they find out thatyou've been trying to save your face by blackening her character? Why, they'll think you're the meanest skunk that ever walked on two legs; andthey'll be about right. Whereas, Mercedes, " Mrs. Talcott had beenstanding square and erect for some time in front of her companion, andnow, as her tone became more argumentative and persuasive, she allowedher tired old body to sag and rest heavily on one hip--"whereas if youwrite a nice, kind, loving, self-reproachful letter, all full of yourdreadful anxiety and affection--why, if Karen ever sees it it'll softenher towards you perhaps; and it'll make all your friends sorry for you, too, and inclined to hush things up if Mr. Drew spreads the storyaround--won't it, Mercedes?"--Madame von Marwitz had turned in her chairand was staring before her with a deeply thoughtful eye. --"Why, it's asplain as can be, Mercedes, that that's your line. "

"True, " Madame von Marwitz now said. "True. " Her voice was deep andalmost solemn. "You are right. Yes; you are right, Tallie. "

She leaned her forehead on her hand, shading her eyes as she pondered. "A letter of noble admission; of sorrow; of love. Ah! you recall me tomy better self. It will touch her, Tallie; it is bound to touch her, isit not? She cannot feel the bitterness she now feels if she reads such aletter; is not that so, Tallie?"

"That's so. You've got it, " said Mrs. Talcott. 

Madame von Marwitz, however, continued to lean on her desk and to shadeher eyes, and some moments of silence passed thus. Then, as she leaned, the abjectness of her own position seemed suddenly borne in upon her. She pushed back her chair and clutching the edge of the desk with bothhands, gave a low cry. 

Mrs. Talcott looked at her, inquiring, but unmoved. 

"Oh--it is easy for you--standing there--watching my humiliation--makingyour terms!" Madame von Marwitz exclaimed in bitter, trembling tones. "You see me in the dust, --and it is you who strike me there. I am todrag myself--with precautions--apologies--to that child's feet--thatwaif!--that bastard!--that thing I picked up and made! I am to be gladbecause I may hope to move her to mercy! Ah!--it is too much! too much!I curse the day that I saw her! I had a presentiment--I remember itnow--as I saw her standing there in the forest with her foolish face. Ifelt in my inmost soul that she was to bring me sorrow. She takes himfrom me! She puts me to shame before the world! And I am to implore herto take pity on me!"

She had extended her clenched hand in speaking and now struck itviolently on the desk. The silver blotter, the candlesticks, thepen-tray and ink-stand leaped in their places and the ink, splashing up, spattered her white silk robe. 

"There now, " said Mrs. Talcott, eyeing her impassively, "you've gone andspoiled your nice dress. "

"Damn the dress!" said Madame von Marwitz. Leaning her elbows on thedesk and her face on her hands, she wept; the tears trickled between herfingers. 

But in a very little while the storm passed. She straightened herself, found her lace-edged handkerchief and dried her eyes and cheeks; then, taking a long breath, she drew forward a pad of paper. 

"I am a fool, am I not, Tallie, " she remarked. "And you are wise; atraitor, yet wise. I will do as you say. Wait there and you shall see. "

Mrs. Talcott now subsided heavily into a chair and for some fifteenminutes there was no sound but the scratching of Madame von Marwitz'spen and the deep sighs that from time to time she heaved. 

Then: "So: will that do?" she asked, leaning back with the deepest ofthe sighs and handing the pages to Mrs. Talcott. 

Her dark, cold eyes, all clouded with weeping, had a singularlychild-like expression as she thus passed on her letter for inspection. And--as when she had stretched out her legs for Mrs. Talcott to put onher stockings--one saw beyond the instinctively confiding gesture a longseries of scenes reaching back to childhood, scenes where, in crises, her own craft and violence and unscrupulous resource having undone her, she had fallen back in fundamental dependence on the one stable andinalienable figure in her life. 

Mrs. Talcott read:

 "My Friend--Dearest and best Beloved, --I am in the straits of a terrible grief. --I am blind with weeping, dazed from a sleepless night and a day of anguish. --My child, my Karen, is gone and, oh my friend, I am in part to blame. --I am hot of blood, quick of tongue, as you know, and you know that Karen is haughty, resentful, unwilling to brook reproof even from me. But I do not attempt to exonerate myself. I will open my heart to you and my friend will read aright and interpret the broken words. You know that I cared for Claude Drew; you guessed perhaps how strong was the hold upon me of the frail, ambiguous, yet so intelligent modern spirit. It was to feel the Spring blossom once more on my frosty branches when this young life fell at my knees and seemed to find in me its source and goal. Mine was a sacred love and pain mingled with my maternal tenderness when he revealed himself to me as seeking from me the lesser things of love, the things I could not give, that elemental soil of sense and passion without which a man's devotion so strangely withers, --I could give him water from the wells and light from the air; I could not give him earth. My friend, he was here when Karen came, and, already I had seen it, his love was passing from me. Her youth, her guilelessness, her courage and the loyalty of her return to me, aroused his curiosity, his indolent and--you will remember--his unsatisfied, passion. I saw at once, and I saw danger. I knew him to be a man believing in neither good nor evil, seeking only beauty and the satisfaction of desire. Not once--but twice, thrice, did I warn Karen, and she resented my warnings. She is a creature profoundly pure and profoundly simple and her stubborn spirit rests in security upon its own assurances. She resented my warnings and she repulsed my attempts to lead and guard her. Another difference had also come between us. I hoped to effect a reconciliation between her and her husband; I suggested to Karen that I should write to you and offer myself as an intermediary; I could not bear to see her young life ruined for my sake. Karen was not kind to me; the thought of her husband is intolerable to her and she turned upon me with bitterness. I was hurt and I told her so. She brought me to tears. My friend, it was late on the night of that day--the night before last--that I found her with Claude Drew in the garden; and found her in his arms. Do not misunderstand; she had not returned his love; she repulsed him as I came upon them; but I, in my consternation, my anger, my dismay, snatched her from him and spoke to them both with passionate reproof. I sent Karen to the house and remained behind to deal with the creature who had so betrayed my trust. He is now my avowed enemy. So be it. I do not see him again. 

 "At dawn, after a sleepless night, I went to Karen's room to take her in my arms and to ask her pardon for my harsh words. She was gone. Gone, my friend. Tallie tells me that she believed me to have said that unless she could obey me I must forbid her to remain under my roof. These were not my words; but she had misunderstood and had fiercely resented my displeasure. She told Tallie that she would go to the Lippheims, --for them, as I have told you, she has a deep affection. Tallie urged upon her that she should communicate with her husband, let him know what had happened, return to him--even if it were to blacken me in his eyes--and would to God that it had been so!--But she repulsed the suggestion with bitterness. It must also have filled her with terror lest we should ourselves make some further attempt to bring about a reconciliation; for it was in the night, and immediately after her talk with Tallie, that she went, although she and Tallie had arranged that she was to go to the Lippheims next day. 

 "We have wired to the Lippheims and find that they have left England. And we have wired to Mr. Jardine, and she is not with him. She may be on her way to Germany; she may be concealed in the country near here; she may be in London. Unless we have news of her to-morrow I send for a detective. Oh, to hold her in my arms! I am crushed to the earth with sorrow and remorse. Show this letter to her husband. I have no thought of pride. 

 "Your devoted and unhappy Mercedes. "

Mrs. Talcott read and remained for some moments reflecting after she hadread. "Well, I suppose that's got to do, " she commented, "though I don'tcall it a satisfactory letter. You've fixed it up real smart, but it's along way off the truth. "

Madame von Marwitz, while Mrs. Talcott read, had been putting back thedisordered strands of her hair, adjusting her laces, and dabbing vaguelywith her handkerchief at the splashes of ink that disfigured the frontof her dress--thereby ruining the handkerchief; she looked up sharplynow. 

"I deny that it is a long way off the truth. "

"A long way off, " Mrs. Talcott repeated colourlessly; "but I guess it'llhave to do. I'm willing you should make the best story out for yourselfyou can to your friends, so long as Karen knows the truth and so long asyou don't spread scandal about her. Now I'll write to Mr. Jardine. "

Madame von Marwitz's eyes were still fixed sharply on her and a suddensuspicion leapt to them. "Here then!" she exclaimed. "You write in mypresence as I have done in yours. And we go to the village together thatI may see you post the self-same letter. I have had enough ofbetrayals!"

Mrs. Talcott allowed a grim smile to touch her lips. "My, but you'resilly, Mercedes, " she said. "Get up, then, and let me sit there. I'djust as leave I'm sure. You know I'm determined that Karen shall go backto her husband and that I'm going to do all I can so as she shall. Sothere's nothing I want to hide. "

She took up the pen and Madame von Marwitz leaned over her shoulder andread as she wrote:

 "Dear Mr. Jardine, --Mercedes and Karen have had a disagreement and Karen took it very hard and has made off, we don't know where. Go round to Mrs. Forrester and see what Mercedes has got to say about it. Karen will tell you her side when you see her. She feels very bad about you yet; and thinks things are over between you; but you hang on, Mr. Jardine, and it'll all come right. You'd better find out whether Karen's called at the Lippheims' and get a detective and try and trace her out. If she's with them in Germany I advise you to go right over and see her. --Yours sincerely, "Hannah Talcott. "

Mrs. Talcott, as she finished, heard that the breathing of Mercedes, close upon her, had become heavier. She did not look at her. She knewwhat Mercedes was feeling, and dreading; and that Mercedes was helpless. 

"There's no reason under the sun why Handcock shouldn't take theseletters as usual, " she remarked; "but if you're set on it that you'rebeing betrayed, put on your shoes and dress and we'll walk down and mailthem together. "

CHAPTER XXXIX

It was on the second morning after this that the letters were brought into Madame von Marwitz while she and Mrs. Talcott sat in the music-roomtogether. 

The two days had told upon them both. The face of Mercedes was like abeautiful fruit, rain-sodden and gnawed at the heart by a worm. Mrs. Talcott's was more bleached, more desolate, more austere. 

The one letter that Handcock brought to Mrs. Talcott was from GregoryJardine:

 "Dear Mrs. Talcott, " it said, "Thank you for your kind note. I am very unhappy and only a little less unhappy than when Karen left me. One cause of our estrangement is, perhaps, removed; but the fact borne in upon me at the time of that parting was that, while she was everything in life to me, she hardly knew the meaning of the words love and marriage. I need not tell you that I will do all in my power to induce her to return to me, and all in my power to win her heart. It was useless to make any attempt at reconciliation while her guardian stood between us. I cannot pretend that I feel more kindly towards Madame von Marwitz now; rather the reverse. It is plain to me that she has treated Karen shamefully. You must forgive me for my frankness. --Sincerely yours, "Gregory Jardine. "

Mrs. Talcott when she looked up from this letter saw that Mercedes wasabsorbed in hers. Her expression had stiffened as she read, and when shehad finished the hand holding it dropped to her side. She sat lookingdown in a dark contemplation. 

Mrs. Talcott asked no question. United in the practical exigencies oftheir search for Karen, united in their indestructible relation ofrespective dependence and stability, which the last catastrophe hadhardly touched--for Mercedes had accepted her betrayal with a singularpassivity, as if it had been a force of nature that had overtakenher--there was yet a whole new region of distrust between them. She andMercedes, as Mrs. Talcott cheerlessly imaged it, were like a constableand his captive adrift, by a curious turn of fortune, on the waters of asudden inundation. Together they baled out water and worked at the oar, but both were aware that when the present peril was past a sentence hadstill to be carried out on one of them. Mercedes could not evade herpunishment. If Karen were found Gregory Jardine must come to know thather guardian had, literally, driven her from her home. In that case itrested with Gregory's sense of mercy whether Mercedes should be exposedto the world or not. And after reading Gregory's letter Mrs. Talcottreflected that there was not much to hope of mercy from him. So sheshowed a tactful consideration of her companion's state of nerves bypressing her no further than was necessary. 

On this occasion, however, there was no need for pressure; Mercedes, inher dismal plight, turned to her with the latest development of it. 

"Ah, " she said, while she still continued to gaze down fixedly, "this itis to have true friends. This is human loyalty. It is well. "

"What's the matter, Mercedes?" Mrs. Talcott asked, as she was evidentlyinvited to do. 

"Read if you will, " said Madame von Marwitz. She held out the letterwhich Mrs. Talcott rose to take. 

It was from Mrs. Forrester and was full of sympathy for her afflictedfriend, and full of sympathy for foolish, headstrong little Karen. Themingled sympathies rang strangely. She avowed self-reproach. She wasafraid that she had precipitated the rupture between Karen and herhusband, not quite, perhaps, understanding the facts. She had seenGregory, she was very sorry for him. She was, apparently, sorry foreveryone; except of course, Mr. Drew, the villain of the piece; but ofMr. Drew and of Mercedes's sacred love for him, she made no mention. Mrs. Forrester was fond, but she was wary. She had received, evidently, her dim thrust of disillusion. Mercedes had blamed herself and Mrs. Forrester did not deny that Mercedes must be to blame. 

"Yes; she's feeling pretty sick, " Mrs. Talcott commented when she hadread. "The trouble is that anybody who knows how much Karen loved youknows that she wouldn't have made off like that without you'd treatedher ugly. That'll be the trouble with most of your friends, I reckon. Who's your other letter from?"

Madame von Marwitz roused herself from her state of contemplation. Sheopened the second letter saying, tersely: "Scrotton. "

"She ain't likely to take sides with Karen, " Mrs. Talcott observed, inserting her hand once more in the stocking she was darning, thesehomely occupations having for the last few days been brought into themusic-room, since Mercedes would not be left alone. "She was always justas jealous of Karen as could be. "

She proceeded to darn and Madame von Marwitz to read, and as she read adark flush mounted to her face. Clenching her hand on Miss Scrotton'sletter, she brought it down heavily on the back of the chair she sat in. Then, without speaking, she got up, tossed the letter to Mrs. Talcott, and began to pace the room, setting the furniture that she encounteredout of her way with vindictive violence. 

 "My Darling, Darling Mercedes, " Miss Scrotton wrote, "This is too terrible. Shall I come to you at once? I thought this morning after I had seen Mrs. Forrester and read your heartbreaking letter that I would start to-day; but let me hear from you, you may be coming up to town. If you stay in Cornwall, Mercedes, you must not be alone; you must not; and I am, as you know, devoted heart and soul. If all the world turned against you, Mercedes, I should keep my faith in you. I need hardly tell you what is being said. Claude Drew is in London and though, naturally, he does not dare face your friends with his story, rumours are abroad. Betty Jardine does not know him, but already she has heard; I met her only a few hours ago and the miserable little creature was full of malicious satisfaction. The story that she has heard--and believes--and that London will believe--is the crude, gross one that facts, so disastrously, have lent colour to; you, in a fit of furious jealousy, driving Karen away. My poor, great, suffering friend, I need not tell you that I understand. Your letter rings true to me in every line, and is but too magnanimous. --Oh Mercedes!--had you but listened to my warnings about that wretched man. Do you remember that I told you that you were scattering your pearls before swine? And your exculpation of Karen did not convince me as it seemed to do Mrs. Forrester. A really guileless woman is not found--late at night--in a man's arms. I cannot forget Karen's origins. There must be in her the element of reckless passion. Mr. Drew is spreading a highly idealised account of her and says that to see you together was to see Antigone in the clutches of Clytemnestra. There is some satisfaction in knowing that the miserable man is quite distracted and is haunted by the idea that Karen may have committed suicide. Betty Jardine says that in that case you and he would have to appear at the inquest. --Oh, my poor Mercedes!--But I feel sure that this is impossible. Temper, not tragedy, drove Karen from you and it was on her part a dastardly action. I am seeing everybody that I can; they shall have my version. The Duchess is in the country; I have wired to her that I will go to her at once if you do not send for me; it is important that she should have the facts as I see them before these abominable rumours reach her. Dear Mrs. Forrester means, I am sure, to do loyally; you may count upon her to listen to no scandal; but its breath alarms and chills her: she does not interpret your letter as I do. 

 "Good-bye, my dear one. Wire to me please, at once. Ever and always _ton Eleanor devouée_. "

"Well, " Mrs. Talcott commented warily, folding the letter and glancingat Madame von Marwitz; "she don't let any grass grow under her feet, does she? Do you want her down?"

"Want her! Why should I want her! The insufferable fool!" cried Madamevon Marwitz still striding to and fro with tigerish regularity. "Doesshe think me, too, a fool, to be taken in by her grimaces of loyaltywhen it is as apparent as the day that delight is her chief emotion. Here is her opportunity--_parbleu!_--At last! I am in the dust--and ifalso in the dock so much the better. She will stand by me when othersfall away. She will defend the prostrate Titaness from the vultures thatprey upon her and gain at last the significance she has, for so long, soeagerly and so fruitlessly pursued. Ah!--_par exemple!_ Let her come tome expecting gratitude. I will spurn her from me like a dog!" Madame vonMarwitz, varying her course, struck a chair aside as she spoke. 

"Well, I shouldn't fly out at her if I was you, " said Mrs. Talcott. "She's as silly as they make 'em, I allow, but it's all to the good ifher silliness keeps her sticking to you through thick and thin. It'sjust as well to have someone around to drive off the vultures, even ifit's only a scarecrow--and Miss Scrotton is better than that. She's apretty brainy woman, for all her silliness, and she's pretty fond ofyou, too, only you haven't treated her as well as she thinks you oughtto have, and it makes her feel kind of spry and cheerful to see that hertime's come to show you what a fine fellow she is. Most folks are likethat, I guess, " Mrs. Talcott mused, returning to her stocking, "theydon't suffer so powerful over their friends' misfortunes if it givesthem a chance of showing what fine fellows they are. "

"Friends!" Madame von Marwitz repeated with scorching emphasis. "Friends! Truly I have proved them, these friends of mine. Cowards andtraitors all, or crouching hounds. I am to be left, I perceive, with theScrotton as my sole companion. " But now she paused in her course, struckby a belated memory. "You had a letter. You have heard from thehusband. "

"Yes, I have, " said Mrs. Talcott, "and you may as well see it. " She drewforth Gregory's letter from under the heap of darning appliances on herlap. 

Madame von Marwitz snatched it from her and read it, once rapidly, onceslowly; and then, absorbed again in dark meditations, she stood holdingit, her eyes fixed on the ground. 

"He ain't as violent as might be expected, is he?" Mrs. Talcottsuggested. Distrust was abroad in the air between her and Mercedes; sheoffered the fact of Gregory's temperateness as one that might mitigatesome anticipations. 

"He is as insolent as might be expected, " said Madame von Marwitz. Sheflung the letter back to Mrs. Talcott, resuming her pacing, with abitter laugh. "And to think, " she said presently, "that I hoped--buttruly hoped--with all my heart--to reconcile them! To think that Ioffered myself to Karen as an intermediary. It was true--yes, literallytrue--what I told Mrs. Forrester--that I spoke to Karen of it--with alllove and gentleness and that she turned upon me like a tigress. "

"And you'll recollect, " said Mrs. Talcott, "that I told you to keep yourhands off them and that you'd made enough mischief as it was. Why Iguess you did hope she'd go back. You wanted to get rid of Karen and tohave that young man to yourself; that's the truth, but you didn't tellthat to Mrs. Forrester. "

"I deny it, " said Madame von Marwitz; but mechanically; her thoughtswere elsewhere. She still paced. 

"Well, " said Mrs. Talcott, "you'd better send that telegram to MissScrotton, telling her not to come, or you'll have her down here as soonas she's seen the Duchess. "

"Send it; send it at once, " said Madame von Marwitz. "Tell her that I donot need her. Tell her that I will write. " The force of her fury hadpassed; counsels of discretion were making themselves felt. "Go at onceand send it. "

She paused again as Mrs. Talcott rose. "If Karen is not found withinthree days, Tallie, I go to London. I believe that she is in London. "

Mrs. Talcott faced her. "If she's in London she'll be found as soon byMr. Jardine as by you. "

"Yes; that may be, " said Mercedes, and discretion, now, had evidentlythe mastery; "but Karen will not refuse to see me. I must see her. Imust implore her forgiveness. You would not oppose that, would you, Tallie?"

"No, I'd not oppose your asking her to forgive you, " Mrs. Talcottconceded, "when she's got back to her husband. Only I advise you to staywhere you are till you hear she's found. "

"I will do as you say, Tallie, " said Madame von Marwitz meekly. She wentto the piano, and seating herself began to play the _WohltemperirtesClavier_. 

CHAPTER XL

Six days had passed since Karen's disappearance. The country had beensearched; London, still, was being examined, and the papers werebeginning to break into portraits of the missing girl. Karen becameremote, non-existent, more than dead, it seemed, when her face, likethat of some heroine of a newspaper novelette, gazed at one from thebreakfast-table. The first time that this happened, Madame von Marwitz, flinging the sheet from her, had burst into a violent storm of weeping. 

She sat, on the afternoon of the sixth day, in a sunny corner of thelower terrace and turned the leaves of a book with a listless hand. Shewas to be alone till dinner-time; Tallie had gone in to Helston by bus, and she had the air of one who feels solitude at once an oppression anda relief. She read little, raising her eyes to gaze unseeingly over theblue expanses stretched beneath her or to look down as vaguely into theeyes of Victor, who lay at her feet. The restless spirit of the househad reached Victor. He lay with his head on his extended paws in anattitude of quiescence; but his ears were pricked to watchfulness, hiseyes, as he turned them now and again up to his mistress, were troubled. Aware of his glance, on one occasion, Madame von Marwitz stooped andcaressed his head, murmuring: "_Nous sommes des infortunés, hein, monchien. _" Her voice was profoundly sad. Victor understood her. Slightlythudding his tail he gave a soft responsive groan; and it was then, while she still leaned to him and still caressed his head, that shrill, emphatic voices struck on Madame von Marwitz's ear. 

The gravelled nook where she sat, her garden chair, with its adjustedcushions, set against a wall, was linked by ascending paths and terracesto the cliff-path, and this again, though only through a way overgrownwith gorse and bramble, to the public coast-guards' path along thecliff-top. The white stones that marked the way for the coast-guardsmade a wide _détour_ behind Madame von Marwitz's property and thisnearer egress to the cliff was guarded by a large placard warning offtrespassers. Yet, looking in the direction of the voices, Madame vonMarwitz, to her astonishment, saw that three ladies, braving theinterdict, were actually marching down in single file upon her. 

One was elderly and two were young; they wore travelling dress, and, asshe gazed at them in chill displeasure, the features of the first becamedimly familiar to her. Where, she could not have said, yet she had seenthat neat, grey head before, that box-like hat with its depending veil, that firmly corseted, matronly form, with its silver-set pouch, suggesting, typical of the travelling American lady as it was, amarsupial species. She did not know where she had seen this lady; butshe was a travelling American; she accosted one in determined tones, and, at some time in the past, she had waylaid and inconvenienced her. Madame von Marwitz, as the three trooped down upon her, did not rise. She pointed to the lower terrace. "This is private property, " she said, and her aspect might well have turned the unwary visitors, Acteon-like, into stags, "I must ask you to leave it at once. You see the small doorin the garden wall below; it is unlocked and it leads to the village. Good-day to you. "

But, with a singularly bright and puckered look, the look of asurf-bather, who measures with swift eye the height of the rollingbreaker and plunges therein, the elderly lady addressed her withextraordinary volubility. 

"Baroness, you don't remember us--but we've met before, we have a mutualfriend:--Mrs. General Tollman of St. Paul's, Minnesota. --Allow me tointroduce myself again:--Mrs. Slifer--Mrs. Hamilton K. Slifer:--mygirls, Maude and Beatrice. We had the privilege of making youracquaintance over a year ago, Baroness, at the station in London, justbefore you sailed, and we had some talks on the steamer to thatperfectly charming woman, Miss Scrotton. I hope she's well. We're overagain this year, you see; we pine for dear old England and come just asoften as we can. We feel we belong here more than over there sometimes, I'm afraid, "--Mrs. Slifer laughed swiftly and deprecatingly. --"My girlsare so often taken for English girls, the Burne-Jones type you know. We've got friends staying at Mullion, so we thought we'd just drop downon Cornwall for a little tour after we landed at Southampton, and wedrove over this afternoon and came down by the cliff--we are just crazyabout your scenery, Baroness--it's just the right setting for you--we'vebeen saying so all day--to have a peek at the house we've heard so muchabout; and we don't want to disturb you, but it's the greatest possiblepleasure, Baroness, to have this beautiful glimpse of you--with yoursplendid dog--how d' ye do, Victor--why I do believe he remembers me; wepetted him so much at the station when your niece was holding him. Wesaw Mrs. Jardine the other day, Baroness--such a pleasant surprise thatwas, too--only we're sorry to see she's so delicate. The New Forest willbe just the place for her. We stayed there three days after landing, because my Beatrice here was very sea-sick and I wanted her to have alittle rest. We were simply crazy over it. I do hope Mrs. Jardine'sgetting better. "

All this had been delivered with such speed, such an air of decision andpurpose, that Madame von Marwitz, who had risen in her bewilderedindignation and stood, her book beneath her arm, her white cloak caughtabout her, had found no opportunity to check the torrent of speech, andas these last words came as swiftly and as casually as the rest shecould hardly, for a moment, collect her faculties. 

"My niece? Mrs. Jardine?" she repeated, with a wild, wan utterance. "What do you say of her?"

It was at this moment that Miss Beatrice began, in the background, toadjust her camera. She told her mother and sister afterwards that sheseemed to feel it in her bones that something was doing. 

Mrs. Slifer, emerging from her breaker in triumph, struck out, blinkingand smiling affably. "We heard all about the wedding in America, " shesaid, "and we thought we might call upon her in London and see thatsplendid temple you'd given her--we heard all about that, too. I neversaw a picture of him, but I knew her in a minute, naturally, though shedid look so pulled down. Why, Baroness--what's the matter!"

Madame von Marwitz had suddenly clutched Mrs. Slifer's arm with analmost appalling violence of mien and gesture. 

"What is the matter?" Madame von Marwitz repeated, shaking Mrs. Slifer'sarm. "Do you know what you are saying? My niece has been lost for aweek! The whole country is searching for her! Where have you seen her?When was it? Answer me at once!"

"Why Baroness, by all means, but you needn't shake my head off, " saidMrs. Slifer, not without dignity, raising her free hand to straightenher hat. "We've never heard a word about it. Why this is perfectlyprovidential. --Baroness--I must ask you not to go on shaking me likethat. I've got a very delicate stomach and the least thing upsets mydigestion. "

"_Justes cieux!_" Madame von Marwitz cried, dropping Mrs. Slifer's armand raising her hands to her head, while, in the background, MissBeatrice's kodak gave a click--"Will the woman drive me mad! Karen! Mychild! Where is she!"

"Why, we saw her at the station at Brockenhurst--in the NewForest--didn't we Maude, " said Mrs. Slifer, "and it must have been--nowlet me see--" poor Mrs. Slifer collected her wits, a bent forefinger ather lips. "To-day's Thursday and we got to Mullion yesterday--and westopped at Winchester for a day and night on our way to the New Forest, it was on Saturday last of course. We'd been having a drive about thatpart of the forest and we were taking the train and they had just comeand we saw them on the opposite platform. He was just helping her out ofthe train and we didn't have any time to go round and speak to them--"

"They!" Madame von Marwitz nearly shouted. "She was with a man! LastSaturday! Who was it? Describe him to me! Was he slender--with fairhair--dark eyes--the air of a poet?" She panted. And her aspect was sosingular that Miss Beatrice, startled out of her professional readiness, failed to snap it. 

"Why no, " said Mrs. Slifer, keeping her clue. "I shouldn't say apoetical looking man, should you, Maude? A fleshy man--very big andfleshy, and he was taking such good care of her and looked so kind oftender and worried that I concluded he was her husband. She looked likea very sick woman, Baroness. "

"Fleshy?" Madame von Marwitz repeated, and the word, in her moan, wasalmost graceful. "Fleshy, you say? An old man? A stout old man?" sheheld her hands distractedly pressed to her head. "What stout old mandoes Karen know? Is it a stranger she has met?"

"No, he wasn't old. This was a young man, Baroness. He had--now let mesee--his hair was sort of red--I remember noticing his hair; and he woreknee-pants and a soft hat with a feather in it and was very highcoloured. "

"_Bon Dieu!_" Madame von Marwitz gasped. She had again, while Mrs. Slifer spoke, seized her by the arm as though afraid that she mightescape her and she now gazed with a fixed gaze above Mrs. Slifer's headand through the absorbed Maude and Beatrice. "Red hair?--A large youngman?--Was he clean shaven? Did he wear eyeglasses? Had he the face of amusician? Did he look like an Englishman--an English gentleman?"

Mrs. Slifer, nodding earnest assent to the first questions, shook herhead at the latter. "No, he didn't. What I said to Maude and Beatricewas that Mr. Jardine looked more German than English. He looked justlike a German student, Baroness. "

"Franz Lippheim!" cried Madame von Marwitz. She sank back upon the seatfrom which she had risen, putting a hand before her eyes. 

Victor, at her knees, laid a paw upon her lap and whined aninterrogative sympathy. The three American ladies gathered near andgazed in silence upon the great woman, and Beatrice, carefully adjustingher camera, again took a snap. The picture of Madame von Marwitz, withher hand before her eyes, her anxious dog at her knees, found its wayinto the American press and illustrated touchingly the story of the lostadopted child. Madame von Marwitz was not sorry when, among a batch ofpress-cuttings, she came across the photograph and saw that her mostgenuine emotion had been thus made public. 

She looked up at last, and the dizziness of untried and perilous freedomwas in her eyes; but curious, now, of other objects, they took in, weighed and measured the little group before her; power grew in them, anupwelling of force and strategy. 

She smiled upon the Slifers and she rose. 

"You have done me an immeasurable service, " she said, and as she spokeshe took Mrs. Slifer's hand with a noble dignity. "You have lifted mefrom despair. It is blessed news that you bring. My child is safe with agood, a talented man; one for whom I have the deepest affection. And inthe New Forest--at Brockenhurst--on Saturday. Ah, I shall soon have herin my arms. "

Still holding Mrs. Slifer's hand she led them up the terraces andtowards the house. "The poor child is ill, distraught. She had partedfrom her husband--fled from him. Ah, it has been a miserable affair, that marriage. But now, all will be well. _Bon Dieu!_ what joy! Whatpeace of heart you have brought me! I shall be with her to-morrow. Istart at once. And you, my good friends, let me hear your plans. Let mebe of service to you. Come with me for the last stage of your journey. Iwill not part with you willingly. "

"It's all simply too wonderful, Baroness, " Mrs. Slifer gasped, as sheskipped along on her short legs beside the goddess-like stride of thegreat woman, who held her--who held her very tightly. "We were justgoing to drift along up to Tintagel and then work up to London, takingin all the cathedrals we could on our way. "

"And you will change your route in order to give me the pleasure of yourcompany. You will forfeit Tintagel: is it not so?" Madame von Marwitzsmiled divinely. "You will come with me in my car to Truro where we takethe train and I will drop you to-night at the feet of a cathedral. So. Your luggage is at Mullion? That is simple. We wire to your friends topack and send it on at once. Leave it to me. You are in my hands. It isa kindness that you will do me. I need you, Mrs. Slifer, " she pressedthe lady's arm. "My old friend, who lives with me, has left me for theday, and, moreover, she is too old to travel. I must not be alone. Ineed you. It is a kindness that you will do me. Now you will wait for mehere and tea will be brought to you. I shall keep you waiting but for afew moments. "

It was to be lifted on the back of a genie. She had wafted them up, along the garden paths, across the verandah, into the serenity andspaciousness and dim whites and greens and silvers of the greatmusic-room, with a backward gaze that had, in all its sweetness, something of hypnotic force and fixity. 

She left them with the Sargent portrait looking down at them and theroom in its strangeness and beauty seemed part of the spell she laidupon them. The Slifers, herded together in the middle of it, gazed aboutthem half awe-struck and spoke almost in whispers. 

"Why, girls, " said Mrs. Slifer, who was the first to find words, "thisis the most thrilling thing I ever came across. "

"You've pulled it off this time, mother, and no mistake, " said Maude, glancing somewhat furtively up at the Sargent. "Do look at thatperfectly lovely dress she has on in that picture. Did you ever see suchpearls; and the eyes seem to follow you, don't they?"

"The poor, distracted thing just clings to us, " said Mrs. Slifer. "Ishouldn't wonder if she was as lonely as could be. "

"All the same, " Beatrice, the doubting Thomas of the group, nowcommented, "I don't think however excited she was she ought to haveshaken you like that, mother. " Beatrice had examined the appurtenancesof the great room with a touch of nonchalance. It was she whom Gregoryhad seen at the station, seated on the pile of luggage. 

"That's petty of you, Bee, " said Mrs. Slifer gravely. "Real small andpetty. It's a great soul at white heat we've been looking at. "

Handcock at this point brought in tea, and after she had placed the trayand disposed the plates of cake and bread-and-butter and left theSlifers alone again, Mrs. Slifer went on under her breath, seatingherself to pour out the tea. "And do look at this tea-pot, girls; isn'tit too cute for words. My! What will the Jones say when they hear aboutthis! They'd give their eye-teeth to be with us now. "

The Slifers, indeed, were never to forget their adventure. It was to beimpressed upon their minds not only by its supreme enviableness but byits supreme discomfort. It was almost five when, like three Ganymedesuplifted by the talons of a fierce, bright bird, they soared with Madamevon Marwitz towards Truro, and at Truro, in spite of a reckless speedwhich desperately dishevelled their hair and hats, they arrived too lateto catch the 6. 40 train for Exeter. 

Madame von Marwitz strode majestically along the platform, her whitecloak trailing in the dust, called for station-masters, demanded specialtrains, fixed haughty, uncomprehending eyes upon the officials whoinformed her that she could not possibly get a train until ten, resignedherself, with sundry exclamations of indignation and stamps of the foot, to the tedious wait, sailed into the refreshment room only to sail outagain, mounted the car not yet dismissed, bore the Slifers to a hotelwhere they had a dinner over which she murmured at intervals "_Bon Dieu, est-ce-donc possible!_" and then, in the chill, dark evening, touredabout in the adjacent country until ten, when Burton was sent back toLes Solitudes and when they all got into the train for Exeter. 

She had never in all her life travelled alone before. She hardly knewhow to procure her ticket, and her helplessness in regard to box anddressing-case was so apparent that Mrs. Slifer saw to the one and Maudecarried the other, together with the fur-lined coat when this was thrownaside. 

The hours that they passed with her in the train were the strangest thatthe Slifers had ever passed. They were chilled, they were sleepy, theywere utterly exhausted; but they kept their eyes fixed on theperplexing, resplendent object that upbore them. 

Beatrice, it is true, showed by degrees, a slight sulkiness. She had notliked it when, at Truro, Madame von Marwitz had supervised their wiresto the Jones, and she liked it less when Madame von Marwitz explained tothem in the train that she relied upon them not to let the Jones--oranybody for the present--know anything about Mrs. Jardine. Something inMadame von Marwitz's low-toned and richly murmured confidences as shetold Maude and Mrs. Slifer that it was important for Mrs. Jardine'speace of mind, and for her very sanity, that her dreaded husband shouldnot hear of her whereabouts, made Beatrice, as she expressed it toherself, "tired. "

She looked out of the window while her mother and sister murmured, "Whycertainly, Baroness; why yes; we perfectly understand, " leaning forwardin the illuminated carriage like docile conspirators. 

After this Madame von Marwitz said that she would try to sleep; but, propped in her corner, she complained so piteously of discomfort thatMrs. Slifer and Maude finally divested themselves of their jackets andcontrived a pillow for her out of them. They assured her that they werenot cold and Madame von Marwitz, reclining now at full length, murmured"_Mille remerciements_. " Soon she fell asleep and Mrs. Slifer and Maude, very cold and very unresentful, sat and watched her slumbers. From timeto time she softly snored. She was very comfortable in her fur-linedcloak. 

It was one o'clock when they reached Exeter and drove, dazed and numbed, to a hotel. Here Madame von Marwitz further availed herself of theservices of Maude and Mrs. Slifer, for she was incapable of unpackingher box and dressing-case. Mrs. Slifer maided her while Maude, withdifficulty at the late hour, procured her hot water, bouillon and toast. Beatrice meanwhile, callously avowing her unworthiness, said that shewas "dead tired" and went to bed. 

Madame von Marwitz bade Mrs. Slifer and Maude the kindest good-night, smiling dimly at them over her bedroom candlestick as she ushered themto the door. "So, " she said; "I leave you to your cathedral. "

When the Slifers arose next day, late, for they were very weary, theyfound that Madame von Marwitz had departed by an early train. 

 * * * * *

Meanwhile, at Les Solitudes, old Mrs. Talcott turned from side to sideall night, sleepless. Her heart was heavy with anxiety. 

Karen was found and to-morrow Mercedes would be with her; she had sentfor Mercedes, so the note pinned to Mrs. Talcott's dressing-table hadinformed her, and Mercedes would write. 

What had happened? Who were the unknown ladies who had appeared from noone knew where during her absence at Helston and departed with Mercedesfor Truro?

"Something's wrong. Something's wrong, " Mrs. Talcott muttered to herselfduring the long hours. "I don't believe she's sent for Mercedes--notunless she's gone crazy. "

At dawn she fell at last into an uneasy sleep. She dreamed that she andMercedes were walking in the streets of Cracow, and Mercedes was alittle child. She jumped beside Mrs. Talcott, holding her by the hand. The scene was innocent, yet the presage of disaster filled it with astrange horror. Mrs. Talcott woke bathed in sweat. 

"I'll get an answer to my telegram this morning, " she said to herself. She had telegraphed to Gregory last night, at once: "Karen is found. Mercedes has gone to her. That's all I know yet. "

She clung to the thought of Gregory's answer. Perhaps he, too, had news. But she had no answer to her telegram. The post, instead, brought her aletter from Gregory that had been written the morning before. 

 "Dear Mrs. Talcott, " it ran. "Karen is found. The detectives discovered that Mr. Franz Lippheim had not gone to Germany with his family. They traced him to an inn in the New Forest. Karen is with him and has taken his name. May I ask you, if possible, to keep this fact from her guardian for the present. --Yours sincerely, "Gregory Jardine. "

When Mrs. Talcott had read this she felt herself overcome by a suddensickness and trembling. She had not yet well recovered from her illnessof the Spring. She crept upstairs to her room and went to bed. 

CHAPTER XLI

It seemed to Karen, after hours had passed, that she had ceased to betired and that her body, wafted by an involuntary rhythm, was as lightas thistle-down on the wind. 

She had crossed the Goonhilly Downs where the moonlight, spreading farand wide with vast unearthly brightness, filled all the vision withimmensities of space and brought memories of strains from Schubert'ssymphonies, silver monotonies of never-ending sound. 

She had plunged down winding roads, blackly shadowed by their hedgerowtrees, passing sometimes a cottage that slept between its clumps offuchsia and veronica. She had climbed bare hill-sides where abandonedmines or quarries had left desolate mementoes that looked in themoonlight like ancient tombs and catacombs. 

Horror lay behind her at Les Solitudes, a long, low cloud on the horizonto which she had turned her back. The misery that had overpowered andmade her one with its dread realities lay beneath her feet. She waslifted above it in a strange, disembodied enfranchisement all the night, and the steady blowing of the wind, the leagues of silver, the mightysky with its far, high priestess, were part of an ecstasy of sadness, impersonal, serene, hallucinated, like that of the music thataccompanied the rhythm of her feet. 

The night was almost over and dawn was coming, when, on a long uphillroad, she felt her heart flag and her footsteps stagger. 

The moon still rode sharp and high, but its light seemed concentrated inits own glittering disk and the world was visible in an uncanny darknessthat was not dark. The magic of the night had vanished and the beat ofvast, winding melodies melted from Karen's mind leaving her dry andbrittle and empty, like a shell from which the tides have drawn away. 

She knew what she had still to do. At the top of the road she was toturn and cut across fields to a headland above Falmouth--from which apath she knew led to the town. She had not gone to Helston, but hadtaken this cross-country way to Falmouth because she knew that at anyhour of the night she might be missed and followed and captured. Theywould not think of Falmouth; they would not dream that she could walk sofar. In the town she would pawn Onkel Ernst's watch and take the earlytrain to London and by evening she would be with Frau Lippheim. So shehad seen it all, in flashes, last night. 

But now, toiling up the interminable road, clots of darkness floatingbefore her eyes, cold sweats standing on her forehead, the sense of herexhaustion crushed down upon her. She tried to fix her thoughts on thetrivial memories and forecasts that danced in her mind. The odd blinkingof Mrs. Talcott's eyelid as she had told her story; the pattern of thebreakfast set that she and Gregory had used--ah, no!--not that! she mustnot fix that memory!--the roofs and chimneys of some little German townwhere she was to find a refuge; for though it was to join the Lippheimsthat she fled, she did not see her life as led with theirs. Leaning uponthese pictures as if upon a staff she held, she reached the hill-top. Her head now seemed to dance like a balloon, buffeted by the greatthrobs of her blood. She trailed with leaden feet across the fields. Inthe last high meadow she paused and looked down at the bend of the greatbay under the pallid sky and at the town lying like a scattering ofshells along its edge. How distant it was. How like a mirage. 

A little tree was beside her and its leaves in the uncanny light lookedlike crisp black metal. The sea was grey. The sunrise was still far off. Karen sank beneath the tree and leaned her head against it. What shouldshe do if she were unable to walk on? There was still time--hours andhours of time--till the train left Falmouth; but how was she to reachFalmouth? Fears rolled in upon her like dark breakers, heapingthemselves one upon the other, stealthy, swift, not to be escaped. Shesaw the horrible kindness in Mrs. Talcott's eyes, relegated, notrelinquished. She saw herself pursued, entrapped, confronted by Gregory, equally entrapped, forced by her need, her helplessness, to come to herand coldly determined--as she had seen him on that dreadful evening oftheir parting--to do his duty by her, to make her and to keep her safe, and his own dignity secure. To see him again, to strive against himagain, weaponless, now, without refuge, and revealed to herself and tohim as a creature whose whole life had been founded on illusion, tostrive not only against his ironic authority but, worst of all, againsta longing, unavowed, unlooked at, a longing that crippled and unstrungher, and that ran under everything like a hidden river under granitehills--she would die, she felt, rather than endure it. 

She had closed her eyes as she leaned her head against the tree and whenshe opened them she saw that the leaves of the tree had turned fromblack to green and that the grass was green and the sea and sky faintlyblue. Above her head the long, carved ripples of the morning cirriflushed with a heavenly pink and there came from a thicket of a littlewood the first soft whistle of a wakened bird. Another came and thenanother, and suddenly the air was full of an almost jangling sweetness. Karen felt herself trembling. Shudders ran over her. She was ravished tolife, yet without the answering power of life. Her longing, herloneliness, her fear, were part of the intolerable loveliness and theypierced her through and through. 

She struggled to her feet, holding the tree in her clasp, and, after thegalvanised effort, she closed her eyes again, and again leaned her headupon the bark. 

Then it was that she heard footsteps, sudden footsteps, near. For amoment a paralysis of fear held down her eyelids. "_Ach Gott!_" sheheard. And opening her eyes, she saw Franz Lippheim before her. 

Franz Lippheim was dressed, very strangely dressed, in tweeds andknicker-bockers and wore a soft round hat with a quill in it--the oddestof hats--and had a knapsack on his back. The colours of the coming daywere caricatured in his ruddy face and red-gold hair, his bright greenstockings and bright red tie. He was Germanic, flagrant, incredible, anda Perseus, an undreamed of, God-sent Perseus. 

"_Ach Gott!_ Can it be so!" he was saying, as he approached her, walkingsoftly as though in fear of dispersing a vision. 

And as, not speaking, still clasping her tree, she held out her hand tohim, he saw the extremity of her exhaustion and put his arm around her. 

She did not faint; she kept her consciousness of the blue sky and thecirri--golden now--and even of Franz's tie and eyeglasses, glisteninggolden in the rising sunlight; but he had lowered her gently to theground, kneeling beside her, and was supporting her shoulders andputting brandy to her lips. After a little while he made her drink somemilk and then she could speak to him. 

She must speak and she must tell him that she had left her guardian. Shemust speak of Tante. But what to say of her? The shame and pity that hadgone with her for days laid their fingers on her lips as she thought ofTante and of why she had left her. Her mind groped for some availingsubstitute. 

"Franz, " she said, "you must help me. I have left Tante. You will notquestion me. There is a breach between us; she has been unkind to me. Ican never see her again. " And now with clearer thought she found asufficient truth. "She has not understood about me and my husband. Shehas tried to make me go back to him; and I have fled from her because Iwas afraid that she would send for him. She is not as fond of me as Ithought she was, Franz, and I was a burden to her when I came. Franz, will you take me to London, to your mother? I am going with you all toGermany. I am going to earn my living there. "

"_Du lieber Gott!_" Herr Lippheim ejaculated. He stared at Karen inconsternation. "Our great lady--our great Tante--has been unkind to you?Is it then possible, Karen?"

"Yes, Franz; you must believe me. You must not question me. "

"Trust me, my Karen, " said Herr Lippheim now; "do not fear. It shall beas you say. But I cannot take you to the Mütterchen in London, for sheis not there. They have gone back to Germany, Karen, and it is toGermany that we must go. "

"Can you take me there, Franz, at once? I have no money; but I am goingto pawn this watch that Onkel Ernst gave me. "

"That is all simple, my Karen. I have money. I took with me the moneyfor my tour; I was on a walking-tour, do you see, and reached Falmouthlast night and had but started now to pay my respects at Les Solitudes. I wished to see you, Karen, and to see if you were well. But it is veryfar to your village. How have you come so far, at night?"

"I walked. I have walked all night. I am so tired, Franz. So tired. I donot know how I shall go any further. " She closed her eyes; her headrested against his shoulder. 

Franz Lippheim looked down at her with an infinite compassion andgentleness. "It will all be well, my Karen; do not fear, " he said. "Thetrain does not go from Falmouth for three hours still. We will take itthen and go to Southampton and sail for Germany to-night. And for now, you will drink this milk--so, yes; that is well;--and eat thischocolate;--you cannot; it will be for later then. And you will liestill with my cloak around you, so; and you will sleep. And I will sitbeside you and you will have no troubled thoughts. You are with yourfriends, my Karen. " While he spoke he had wrapped her round and laid herhead softly on a folded garment that he drew from his knapsack; and in afew moments he saw that she slept, the profound sleep of completeexhaustion. 

Franz Lippheim sat above her, not daring to light his pipe for fear ofwaking her. He, watched the glory of the sunrise. It was perhaps themost wonderful hour in Franz's life. 

Phrases of splendid music passed through his mind, mingling with thesound of the sea. No personal pain and no personal hope was in hisheart. He was uplifted, translated, with the beauty of the hour and itssignificance. 

Karen needed him. Karen was to come to them. He was to see herhenceforward in his life. He was to guard and help her. He was herfriend. The splendour and the peace of the golden sky and golden seawere the angels of a great initiation. Nothing could henceforth be as ithad been. His brain stirred with exquisite intuitions, finding form forthem in the loved music that, henceforth, he would play as he had neverbefore played it. And when he looked from the sea and sky down at thesleeping face beside him, wasted and drawn and piteous in its repose, large tears rose in his eyes and flowed down his cheeks, and the sadnesswas more beautiful than any joy that he had known. 

What she had suffered!--the dear one. What they must help her to forget!To her, also, the hour would send it angels: she would wake to a newlife. 

He turned his eyes again to the rising sun, and his heart silentlychanted its love and pride and sadness in the phrases of Beethoven, ofSchubert and of Brahms, and from time to time, softly, he muttered tohimself, this stout young German Jew with the red neck-tie and thestrange round hat: "_Süsses Kind! Unglückliches Kind! Oh--der schöneTag!_"

CHAPTER XLII

Madame Von Marwitz looked out from her fly at the ugly little waysideinn with its narrow lawn and its bands of early flowers. Trees roseround it, the moors of the forest stretched before. It was remote andvery silent. 

Here it was, she had learned at the station, some miles away, that theGerman lady and gentleman were staying, and the lady was said to be veryill. Madame von Marwitz's glance, as it rested upon the goal of herjourney, had in it the look of vast, constructive power, as when, forthe first time, it rested on a new piece of music, realized it, masteredit, possessed it, actual, in her mind, before her fingers gave it to theworld. So, now, she realized and mastered and possessed the scene thatwas to be enacted. 

She got out of the fly and told the man to carry in her box anddressing-case and then to wait. She opened the little gate, and as shedid so, glancing up, she saw Franz Lippheim standing looking out at herfrom a ground-floor window. His gaze was stark in its astonishment. Shereturned it with a solemn smile. In another moment she had put thelandlady aside with benign authority and was in the little sitting-room. "My Franz!" she exclaimed in German. "Thank God!" She threw her armsaround his neck and burst into sobs. 

Franz, holding a pipe extended in his hand, stood for a moment insilence his eyes still staring their innocent dismay over her shoulder. Then he said: "How have you come here, _gnädige Frau_?"

"Come, Franz!" Madame von Marwitz echoed, weeping: "Have I not beenseeking my child for the last six days! Love such as mine is a torchthat lights one's path! Come! Yes; I am come. I have found her! She issafe, and with my Franz!"

"But Karen is ill, very ill indeed, " said Franz, speaking with somedifficulty, locked as he was in the great woman's arms. "The doctorfeared for her life three days ago. She has been delirious. And it isyou, _gnädige Frau_, whom she fears;--you and her husband. "

Madame von Marwitz leaned back her head to draw her hand across hereyes, clearing them of tears. 

"But do I not know it, Franz?" she said, smiling a trembling smile athim. "Do I not know it? I have been in fault; yes; and I will makeconfession to you. But--oh!--my child has punished me too cruelly. Toleave me without a word! At night! It was the terror of her husband thatdrove her to it, Franz. Yes; it has been a delirium of terror. She wasill when she went from me. "

She had released him now, though keeping his hands in hers, and shestill held them as they sat down at the centre table in the little room, he on one side, she on the other, she leaning to him across it; and sheread in his face his deep discomfort. 

"But you see, _gnädige Frau_, " Franz again took up his theme; "shebelieves that you wish to send her back to him; she has said it; shecould not trust you. And so she fled from you. And I have promised totake care of her. I am to take her to my mother in Germany as soon asshe can travel. We were on our way to Southampton and would have been, days since, with the Mütterchen, if in the train Karen had not become soill--so very ill. It was a fever that grew on her, and delirium. I didnot know what was best to do. And I remembered this little inn where theMütterchen and we four stayed some years ago, when we came first toEngland. The landlady was very good; and so I thought of her and broughtKaren here. But when she is better I must take her to Germany, _gnädigeFrau_. I have promised it. "

While Franz thus spoke a new steadiness had come to Madame von Marwitz'seyes. They dilated singularly, and with them her nostrils, as though shedrew a deep new breath of realisation. It was as if Franz had let down abarrier; pointed out a way. There was no confession to be made to Franz. Karen had spared her. 

She looked at him, looked and looked, and she shook her head withinfinite gentleness. "But Franz, " she said, "I do not wish her to goback to her husband. I was in fault, yes, grave fault, to urge it uponher; but Karen's terror was her mistake, her delirium. It was for mysake that she had left him, Franz, because to me he had shown insolenceand insult;--for your sake, too, Franz, for he tried to part her fromall her friends and of you he spoke with an unworthy jealousy. Butthough my heart bled that Karen should be tied to such a man, I knew himto be not a bad man; hard, narrow, but in his narrowness upright, andfond, I truly believed it, of his wife. And I could not let her breakher marriage--do you not see, Franz, --if it were for my sake. I couldnot see her young life ruined in its dawn. I wished to write to my goodfriend Mrs. Forrester--who is also Karen's friend, and his, and Ioffered myself as intermediary, as intercessor from him to Karen, ifneed be. Was it so black, my fault? For it was this that Karen resentedso cruelly, Franz. Our Karen can be harsh and quick, you know that, Franz. But no! Can she--can you, believe for one moment that I would nowhave her return to him, if, indeed, it were any longer possible? No, Franz; no; no; no; Karen shall never see that man again. Only over mydead body should he pass to her. I swear it, not only to you, but tomyself. And Franz, dear Franz, what I think of now is you, and your loveand loyalty to my Karen. You have saved her; you have saved me; it islife you bring--a new life, Franz, " and smiling upon him, her cheeksstill wet with tears, she softly sang Tristan's phrase to Kurvenal:"_Holder! Treuer!--wie soll dir Tristan danken!_"

Her joy, her ecstasy of gratitude, shone upon him. She was the tutelarygoddess of his family. Trust, for himself and for his loved Karen, wentout to her and took refuge beneath the great wings she spread. And asshe held his hands and smiled upon him he told her in his earnest, honest German, all that had happened to him and Karen; of hiswalking-tour; and of the meeting on the Falmouth headland at dawn; andof their journey here. "And one thing, _gnädige Frau_, " he said, "thattroubled me, but that will now be well, since you are come to us, isthat I have told them here that Karen is my wife. See you, _gnädigeFrau_, the good landlady knows us all and knows that Lotta, Minna andElizabeth are the only daughters that the Mütterchen has--besides thelittle ones. I remembered that the Mütterchen had told her this; shetalked much with her; it was but three years ago, _gnädige Frau_; it wasnot time enough for a very little one to grow up; so I could not saythat Karen was my sister; and I have to be much with her; I sit besideher all through the night--for she is afraid to be alone, the _armesKind_; and the good landlady and the maid must sleep. So it seemed to methat it was right to tell them that Karen was my wife. You think so, too, _nicht wahr, gnädige Frau_?"

Madame von Marwitz had listened, her deeply smiling eyes following, understanding all; and as the last phase of the story came they deepenedto only a greater sweetness. They showed no surprise. A content almostblissful shone on Franz Lippheim. 

"It is well, Franz, " she said. "Yes, you have done rightly. All is well;more well than you yet perhaps see. Karen is safe, and Karen shall befree. What has happened is God-sent. The situation is in our hands. "

For a further moment, silent and weighty, she gazed at him and then sheadded: "There need be no fear for you and Karen. I will face all painand difficulty for you both. You are to marry Karen, Franz. "

The shuttle that held the great gold thread of her plan was thrown. Shesaw the pattern stretch firm and fair before her. Silently and sweetly, with the intentness of a sibyl who pours and holds forth a deep potion, she smiled at him across the table. 

Franz, who all this time had been leaning on his arms, his hands inhers, his eyes, through their enlarging pince-nez, fixed on her, did notmove for some moments after the astounding statement reached him. Hisstillness and his look of arrested stupor suggested, indeed, a largeblue-bottle slung securely in the subtle threads of a spider's web andreduced to torpid acquiescence by the spider's stealthy ministrations. He gazed with mildness, almost with blandness, upon the enchantress, asif some prodigy of nature overtopping all human power of comment hadtaken place before him. Then in a small, feeble voice he said: "_Wassmeinen Sie, gnädige Frau?_"

"Dear, dear Franz, " Madame von Marwitz murmured, pressing his hands withmaternal solicitude, and thus giving him more time to adjust himself tohis situation. "It is not as strange as your humility finds it. And itis now inevitable. You do not I think realize the position in which youand Karen are placed. I am not the only witness; the landlady, thedoctor, the maid, and who knows who else, --all will testify that youhave been here with Karen as your wife, that you have been with her dayand night. Do not imagine that Mr. Jardine has sought to take Karen backor would try to. He has made no movement to get her back. He has mostcompletely acquiesced in their estrangement. And when he hears that shehas fled with you, that she has passed here, for a week almost, as yourwife, he will be delighted--but delighted, with all his anger againstyou--to seize the opportunity for divorcing her and setting himselffree. "

But while she spoke Franz's large and ruddy face had paled. He had drawnhis hands from hers though she tried to retain them. He rose from hischair. "But, _gnädige Frau_, " he said, "that is not right. No; that iswrong. He may not divorce Karen. "

"How will you prevent him from divorcing her, Franz?" Madame von Marwitzreturned, holding him with her eye, while, in great agitation, he passedhis hand repeatedly over his forehead and hair. "You have been seen. Ihave been told by those who had seen you that you and Karen were here. Already Karen's husband must know it. And if you could prevent it, wouldyou wish to, Franz? Would you wish, if you could, to bind her to thisman for life? Try to think clearly, my friend. It is Karen's happinessthat hangs in the balance. It is upon that that we must fix our eyes. Myfaith forbids divorce; but I am not _dévote_, and Karen is not of myfaith, nor is her husband, nor are you. I take my stand beside Karen. Isay that one so young, so blameless, so unfortunate, shall not have herlife wrecked by one mistake. With me as your champion you and Karen canafford to snap your fingers at the world's gross verdict. Karen will bewith me. I will take her abroad. I will cherish her as never child wascherished. We make no defence. In less than a year the case is over. Then you will come for Karen and you will be married from my house. Iwill give Karen a large dot; she shall want for nothing in her life. Andyou and she will live in Germany, with your friends and your greatmusic, and your babies, Franz. What I had hoped for two years ago shallcome to pass and this bad dream shall be forgotten. "

Franz, looking dazedly about him while she spoke, now dropped heavily onhis chair and joining his hands before his eyes leaned his head uponthem. He muttered broken ejaculations. "_Ach Gott! Unbegreiflich!_ Suchhappiness is not to think on! You are kind, kind, _gnädige Frau_. Youbelieve that all is for the best. But Karen--_gnädige Frau_, our littleKaren! She does not love me. How could she be happy with me? Never forone moment have I hoped. It was against my wish that the Mütterchenwrote to you that time two years ago. No; always I saw it; she hadkindness only for me and friendliness; but no love; never any love. Andit will be to smirch our Karen's name, _gnädige Frau_. It will be toaccept disgrace for her. We must defend her from this accusation, for itis not true. Ah, _gnädige Frau_, you are powerful in the world. Can younot make it known that it is untrue, that Karen did not come to me?"

He leaned his forehead on his clasped hands, protesting, appealing, expostulating, and Madame von Marwitz, leaning slightly back in herchair, resting her cheek against her finger, scrutinized his bent headwith a change of expression. Intently, almost fiercely, with half-closedlids, she examined Franz's crisp upstanding hair, the thick rims of hisruddy ears, the thick fingers with their square and rather dirty nailsand the large turquoise that adorned one of them. Cogitation, self-control and fierce determination were in her gaze; then it veileditself again in gentleness and, with a steady and insistent patience, she said: "You are astray, my friend, much astray, and very ignorant. Look with me at fact, and then say, if you can, that we can make itknown that it is untrue. You are known to be in love with Karen; you areknown to have asked me for her hand. Karen makes a marriage that isunhappy; it is known that she is not happy with her husband. Did you notyourself see that all was not well with them? It has been known forlong. You arrive in London; Karen sees you again; next day she fliesfrom Mr. Jardine and takes refuge with you at your lodgings. Yes, youwill say, but your mother, your sisters, too, were there. Yes, the worldwill answer, and she came to me to wait till they were gone and you freeto join her. In a fortnight's time she seizes a pretext for leavingme--I speak of what the world will say Franz--and meets you. Will theworld, will Karen's husband, believe that it was by chance? She is foundhidden with you here, those who see you come to me; it is so I find you, and she is here bearing your name. Come, my friend, it is no question ofsaving Karen from smirches; the world will say that it is your duty asan honourable man to marry Karen. Better that she should be known asyour wife than as your abandoned mistress. So speaks the world, Franz. And though we know that it speaks falsely we have no power to undeceiveit. But now, mark me, my friend; I have no wish to undeceive it. I donot see the story, told even in these terms, as disgraceful; I do notsee my Karen smirched. I am not one who weighs the human heart and itsneeds in the measures of convention. Bravely and in truth, Karen freesherself. So be it. You say that she does not love you. I say, Franz, howdo you know that? I say that if she does not love you yet, she will loveyou; and I add, Franz, for the full ease of your conscience, that ifKaren, when she is free, does not wish to marry you, then--it is verysimple--she remains with me and does not marry. But what I ask of younow is bravery and discretion, for our Karen's sake. She must be freed;in your heart you know that it is well that Karen should be freed. Inyour heart you know that Karen must not be bound till death to this manshe loathes and dreads and will never see again. If not you, Franz, isit not possible that Karen may love another man one day? But it is youthat she will love; nay, it is you she loves. I know my Karen's heart. Tell me, Franz, am I not right in what I say?"

For some time now Franz had been looking at her and her voice grew moretender and more soft as she saw that he found no word of protest. He satupright, still, at intervals, running his fingers through his hair, breathing deeply, near tears, yet arrested and appeased. And hope, beautiful, strange hope, linking itself to the intuitions of the dawnwhen he had sat above Karen's sleep, stole into his heart. Why could itnot be true? Why should not Karen come to love him? She would be withhim, free, knowing how deep and tender was his love for her, and that itmade no claim. Would not her heart answer his one day? And as ifguessing at his thoughts Madame von Marwitz added, the dimness of tearsin her own eyes: "See, my Franz, let it be in this wise. I bring Karento your mother in a few days; she will be strong enough for travel in afew days, is it not so? She will then be with you and yours in Germany, and I watching over you. So you will see her from day to day? So youwill gently mend the torn young heart and come to read it. And you maytrust a wise old woman, Franz, when I prophesy to you that Karen's heartwill turn and grow to yours. You may trust one wise in hearts when shetells you that Karen is to be your loving wife. "

She rose, and the sincerity of her voice was unfeigned. She was moved, deeply moved, by the beauty of the pattern she wove. She was deeplyconvinced by her own creation. 

Franz, too, got up, stumbling. 

"And now, Franz, " she said, "we say _au revoir_. I have come and it isnot seemly that you remain here longer. You go to Germany to make readyfor us and I write to your mother to-day. Ah!--the dear Lise! Her heartwill rejoice! Where is your room, Franz, and where is Karen's?"

There were three doors in the little sitting-room. She had entered fromthe passage by one. She looked now towards the others. 

Franz opened one, it showed a flight of stairs. "Karen's room is upthose stairs, " he said, closing it very softly. "And mine is here, nextthis one where we are. We are very quiet, you see, and shut in toourselves. There is no other way to Karen's room but this, and her roomis at the back, so that no disturbance reaches her. I think that shestill sleeps, _gnädige Frau_; we must not wake her if she sleeps. I willtake you to her as soon as she is awake. "

Madame von Marwitz, with her unchanging smile, was pressing him towardsthe door of his own room. 

"I will wait. I will wait until she wakes, Franz. Your luggage? It ishere? I will help you to pack, my Franz. "

She had drawn him into his room, her arm passed into his, and, evenwhile she spoke, she pointed out the few effects scattered here andthere. And, with his torpid look of a creature hypnotized, Franz obeyedher, taking from her hands the worn brush, the shaving appliances, thesocks and book and nightshirt. 

When all were laid together in his knapsack and he had drawn the straps, he turned to her, still with the dazzled gaze. "But this may wait, " hesaid, "until I have said good-bye to Karen. "

Madame von Marwitz looked at him with an almost musing sweetness. Shehad the aspect of a conjuror who, with a last light puff of breath ortouch of a magic finger, puts forth the final resource of a stupefyingdexterity. So delicately, so softly, with a calm that knew no doubt orhesitation, she shook her head. "No; no farewells, now, my Franz. Thatwould not be well. That would agitate her. She could not listen to allour story. She could not understand. Later, when she is in my arms, atpeace, I will tell her all and that you are gone to wait for us, andgive her your adieu. "

He gazed at the conjuror. "But, _gnädige Frau_, may I not say good-byeto Karen? Together we could tell her. It will be strange to her to wakeand find that I am gone. "

Her arm was passed in his again. She was leading him through thesitting-room. And she repeated with no change of voice: "No, my Franz. Iknow these illnesses. A little agitation is very bad. You will write toher daily. She shall have your letters, every day. You promise me--but Ineed not ask it of our Franz--to write. In three days, or in four, wewill be with you. "

She had got him out of his room, out of the sitting-room, into thepassage. The cab still waited, the cabman dozed on his box in the springsunlight. Before the landlady Madame von Marwitz embraced Franz andkissed and blessed him. She kept an arm round him till she had him atthe cab-door. She almost lifted him in. 

"You will tell Karen--that you did not find it right--that I should saygood-bye to her, " he stammered. 

And with a last long pressure of the hand she said: "I will tell her, Franz. We will talk much of you, Karen and I. Trust me, I am with youboth. In my hands you are safe. "

The cab rolled away and Franz's face, from under the round hat and thequill, looked back at the triumphant conjuror, dulled and dazed ratherthan elated, by the spectacle of her inconceivable skill. 

CHAPTER XLIII

Karen lay sleeping in the little room above. She had slept so much sincethey had carried her, Franz, and the two women with kind faces, intothis little room; deep draughts of sleep, as though her exhausted naturecould never rest enough. Fever still drowsed in her blood and a haze ofhalf delirious visions often accompanied her waking. They seemed togather round her now, as, in confused and painful dreams, she rose fromthe depths towards consciousness again. Dimly she heard the sound ofvoices and her dream wove them into images of fear and sorrow. 

She was running along the cliff-top. She had run for miles and it wasnight and beside her yawned the black gulfs of the cliff-edge. And fromfar below, in the darkness, she heard a voice wailing as if from somecreature lost upon the rocky beach. It was Gregory in some great peril. Pity and fear beat upon her like black wings as she ran, and whether itwas to escape him or to succour him she did not know. 

Then from the waking world came distinctly the sound of rolling wheels, and opening her eyes she looked out upon her room, its low unevenceiling, its coloured print of Queen Victoria over the mantelpiece, itstext above the washhand-stand and chest of drawers. On the little tablebeside her bed Onkel Ernst's watch ticked softly. The window was openand a tree rustled outside. And through these small, familiar sounds shestill heard the rolling of retreating wheels. The terror of her dreamfastened upon this sound until another seemed to strike, like a soft, stealthy blow, upon her consciousness. 

Footsteps were mounting the stairs to her room. Not Franz's footsteps, nor the doctor's, nor the landlady's, nor Annie the housemaid's. Sheknew all these. 

Who was it then who mounted, softly rustling, towards her? The terror ofthe dream vanished in a tense, frozen panic of actuality. 

She wished to scream, and could not; she wished to leap up and fly, butthere was no way of escape. It was Tante who came, slowly, softly, rustling in silken fabrics; the very scent of her garments seemed waftedbefore her, and Karen's heart stopped in its heavy beating as the doorhandle gently turned and Tante stood within the room. 

Karen looked at her and Madame von Marwitz looked back, and Madame vonMarwitz's face was almost as white as the death-like face on the pillow. She said no word, nor did Karen, and in the long stillness deliriumagain flickered through Karen's brain, and Tante, standing there, becamea nightmare presence, dead, gazing, immutable. Then she moved again, andthe slow, soft moving was more dreadful than the stillness, and comingforward Tante fell on her knees beside the bed and hid her face in thebed-clothes. 

Karen gave a strange hoarse cry. She heard herself crying, and the soundof her own voice seemed to waken her again to reality: "Franz! Franz!Franz!"

Madame von Marwitz was weeping; her large white shoulders shook withsobs. "Karen, " she said, "forgive me! Karen, it is I. Forgive me!"

"Franz!" Karen repeated, turning her head away on the pillow. 

"Karen, you know me?" said Madame von Marwitz. She had lifted her headand she gazed through her tears at the strange, changed, yet sointimately known, profile. It was as if Karen were the more herself, reduced to the bare elements of personality; rocky, wasted, alienated. "Do not kill me, my child, " she sobbed, "Listen to me, Karen! I havecome to explain all, and to implore for your forgiveness. " She possessedherself of one of the hot, emaciated hands. Karen drew it away, but sheturned her head towards her. 

Tante's tears, her words and attitude of abjection, dispersed thenightmare horror. She understood that Tante had come not as a ghastlywraith; not as a pursuing fury; but as a suppliant. Her eyes rested onher guardian and their gaze, now, was like cold, calm daylight. "Why areyou here?" she asked. 

Madame von Marwitz's sobs, at this, broke forth more violently. "Youremember our parting, my child! You remember my mad and shameful words!How could I not come!" she articulated brokenly. "Oh, I have sought youin terror, in unspeakable longing! My child--it was a madness. Did younot see it? I went to you at dawn that day to kneel before you, as Ikneel now, and to implore your pardon. And you were gone! Oh, Karen--youwill listen to me now!"

"You need not tell me, " said Karen. "I understand. "

"Ah, no: ah, no:" said Madame von Marwitz, laying her supplicating handon the sleeve of Karen's nightdress. "You do not understand. How couldyou--young and cold and flawless--understand my heart, my wild, stainedheart, Karen, my fierce and desolate and broken heart. You are air andwater; I am earth and fire; how could you understand my darkness and myrage?" She spoke, sobbing, with a sincerity dreadful and irrefragable, as if she stripped herself and showed a body scarred and burning. Withall the forces of her nature she threw herself on Karen's pity, tearingfrom herself, with a humility far above pride and shame, the glamourthat had held Karen's heart to hers. Deep instinct guided herspontaneity. Her glamour, now, must consist in having none; her nobilitymust consist in abasement, her greatness in being piteous. 

"Listen to me, Karen, " she sobbed, "The world knows but one side ofme--you have known but one side;--even Tallie, who knows so much, whounderstands so much--does not know the other--the dark and torturedsoul. I am not a good woman, Karen, the blood that flows in my veins istainted, ambiguous. I have sinned. I have been savage and dastardly; butit has always been in a madness when I could not seize my better self:flames seem to sweep me on. Listen, Karen, you are so strong, so calm, how could you dream of what a woman's last wild passion can be, a womanwhose whole soul is passion? Love! it is all that I have craved. Love!love! all my inner life has been enmeshed in it--in craving, in seeking, in destroying. It is like a curse upon me, Karen. You will notunderstand; yet that love of love, is it not so with all us wretchedwomen; do we not long, always, all of us, for the great flame to whichwe may surrender, the flame that will appease and exalt us, annihilateus, yet give us life in its supremacy? So I have always longed; and notgrossly; mine has never been the sensual passion; it has been beauty andthe heights of life that I have sought. And my curse has been that forme has come no appeasement, no exaltation, but only, always, a darksmouldering of joylessness. With my own hand I broke the great andsacred devotion that blessed my life, because I was thus cursed. Jealousy, the craving for a more complete possession, for the ecstasy Ihad not found, blind forces in my blood, drove me on to the destructionof that precious thing. I wrecked myself, I killed him. Oh, Karen, youknow of whom I speak. " Convulsively, the blackness of her memoriesassailing her in their old forms of horror, Madame von Marwitz sobbed, burying her face in the bed-clothes, her hand forgetting to clutch atKaren's sleeve. She lifted her face and the tears streamed from underher closed lids. "Let me not think of it or I shall go mad. How could I, having known that devotion, sink to the place where you have seen me? Bepitiful. He needed me so much--I believed. My youth was fading; I wasgrowing old. Soon the time was to come when no man's heart would turn tome. Be pitiful. You do not know what it is to look without and see lifeslowly growing dark and look within and see only sinister memories. Itcame to me like late sunlight--like cool, sweet water--his love. Ibelieved in it. I loved him. Oh--" she sobbed, "how I loved him, Karen!How my heart was torn with sick jealousy when I saw that his had turnedfrom me to you. I loved you, Karen, yet I hated you. Open your generousheart to me, my child; do not spurn me from you. Understand how it maybe that one can strike at the thing one loves. I knew myself in thegrasp of an evil passion, but I could not tear it from me. I evenfeared, with a savage fear that seemed to eat into my brain, that youresponded to his love. Oh, Karen, it was not I who spoke those shamefulwords, when I found you with him, but a creature maddened with pain andjealousy, who for days had fought against her madness and knew when shespoke that she was mad. When I had sent him from me, when he was gonefrom my life, and I knew that all was over, the evil fury passed from mybrain like a mist. I knew myself again. I saw again the sweet and sacredplaces of my life. I saw you, Karen. Oh, my child, " again the pleadinghand trembled on Karen's sleeve, "it has not all been misplaced, yourlove for me; not all illusion. I am still the woman who has loved youthrough so many years. You will not let one hour of frenzy efface ourhappy years together?"

The words, the sobbing questions that waited for no answer, the wailingsupplications, had been poured forth in one great upwelling. Through thetears that streamed she had seen Karen's face in blurred glimpses, lyingin profile to her on its pillow. Now, when all had been said and hermind was empty, waiting, she passed her hand over her eyes, clearingthem of tears, and fixed them on Karen. 

And silence followed. So long a silence that wonder came. Had sheunderstood? Was she half unconscious? Had all the long appeal beenwasted?

But Karen at last spoke and the words, in their calm, seemed to thelistening woman to pass like a cold wind over buds and tendrils ofreviving life, blighting them. 

"I am sorry for you, " said Karen. "And I understand. "

Madame von Marwitz stared at her for another silent moment. "Yes, " shethen said, "you are sorry for me. You understand. It is my child's greatheart. And you forgive me, Karen?"

Again came silence; then, restlessly turning her head as if the effortto think pained her, Karen said, "What do you mean by forgiveness?"

"I mean pity, Karen, " said Madame von Marwitz. "And compassion, andtenderness. To be forgiven is to be taken back. "

"Taken back?" Karen repeated. "But I do not feel that I love you anylonger. " She spoke in a dull, calm voice. 

Madame von Marwitz remained kneeling for some moments longer. Then adark flush mounted to her face. She became aware that her knees werestiff with kneeling and her cheeks salt with tears. Her head ached and afeeling of nausea made her giddy. She rose and looked about her with dimeyes. 

A small wooden chair stood against the wall at a little distance fromthe bed. She went to it and sank down upon it, and leaning her head uponher hand she wept softly to herself. Her desolation was extreme. 

Karen listened to her for a long time, and without any emotion. Now thatthe horror had passed, her only feeling was one of sorrow andoppression. She was very sorry for the weeping woman; but she wishedthat she would go away. And her mind at last wandered from the thoughtof Tante. "Where is Franz?" she asked. 

The fount of Madame von Marwitz's tears was exhausted. She dried hereyes and cheeks. She blew her nose. She gathered together her thoughts. "Karen, " she said, "I will not speak of myself. You say that you do notlove me. I can only pray that my love for you may in time win you to meagain. Never again, I know it, can I stand before you, untarnished, as Istood before; but I will trust my child's deep heart as strength oncemore comes to her. Pity will grow to love. I will love you; that will beenough. But I have come to you not only as a mother to her child. I havecome to you as a friend to whom your welfare is of the first importance. I have much to say to you, Karen. "

Madame von Marwitz rose. She went to the washhand-stand and bathed herface. The triumph that she had held in her hand seemed melting throughher fingers; but, thinking rapidly and deeply, she drew the scatteredthreads of the plan together once more, faced her peril and computed herresources. 

The still face on the pillow was unchanged, its eyes still calmlyclosed. She could not attempt to take the hand of this alien Karen, noreven to touch her sleeve. She went back to her chair. 

"Karen, " she said, "if you cannot love me, you can still think of me asyour friend and counsellor. I am glad to hear you speak of our Franz. That lights my way. I have had much talk with our good and faithfulFranz. Together we have faced all that there is of difficult and sad toface. My child shall be spared all that could trouble her. Franz and Iare beside you through it all. Your husband, Karen, is to divorce youbecause of Franz. You are to be set free, my child. "

A strange thing happened then. If Madame von Marwitz had plunged adagger into Karen's heart, the change that transformed her deathly facecould hardly have been more violent. It was as if all the amazed anddesperate life fled to her eyes and lips and cheeks. Colour flooded her. Her eyes opened and shone. Her lips parted, trembled, uttered a loudcry. She turned her head and looked at her guardian. Her dream was withher. What was that loud cry for help, hers or his?

Madame von Marwitz looked back and her face, too, was changed. Realizations, till then evaded, flashed over it as though from Karen'sit caught the bright up-flaming of the truth. Fear followed, darkeningit. Karen's truth threatened the whole fabric of the plan, threatenedher life in all that it held of value. Resentment for a moment convulsedit. Then, with a steady mastery, yet the glance, sunken, sickened, ofone who holds off disabling pity while he presses out a fluttering lifebeneath his hand, she said: "Yes, my child. Your wild adventure isknown. You have been here for days and nights with this young man wholoves you and he has given you his name. Your husband seizes theopportunity to free himself. Can you not rejoice, Karen, that it is toset you free also? It is of that only that I have thought. I haverejoiced for you. And I have told Franz that I will stand by you and byhim so that no breath of shame or difficulty shall touch you. In me youhave the staunchest friend. "

Madame von Marwitz, while she addressed these remarks to the strange, vivid face that stared at her with wide and shining eyes, was aware of asense of nausea and giddiness so acute that she feared she might succumbto sickness. She put her hand before her eyes, reflecting that she musthave some food if she were to think clearly. She sat thus for somemoments, struggling against the invading weakness. When she looked upagain, the flame whose up-leaping had so arrested her, which had, to bejust, so horrified her, was fallen to ashes. 

Karen's eyes were closed. A bitter composure, like that sometimes seenon the face of the dead, folded her lips. 

Madame von Marwitz, suddenly afraid, rose and went to her and stoopedover her. And, for a dreadful moment, she did not know whether it waswith fear or hope that she scanned the deathly face. Abysses of horrorseemed to fall within her as she thus bent over Karen and wonderedwhether she had died. 

It had been a foolish fear. The child had not even fainted. Madame vonMarwitz's breath came back to her, almost in a sob, as, not opening hereyes, Karen repeated her former question: "Where is Franz?"

"He will be back soon; Franz will soon be here, " said Madame von Marwitzgently and soothingly. 

"I must see him, " said Karen. 

"You shall. You shall see him, my Karen, " said Madame von Marwitz. "Youare with those who love you. Have no fear. Franz is of my mind in thismatter, Karen. You will not wish to defend yourself against yourhusband's suit, is it not so? Defence, I fear, my Karen, would beuseless. The chain of evidence against you is complete. But even if itwere not, if there were defence to make, you would not wish to sue toyour husband to take you back?"

Karen still with closed eyes, turned her head away on the pillow. "Lethim be free, " she said. "He knows that I wished him to be free. When Ileft him I told him that I hoped to set him free. Let him believe that Ihave done so. "

Madame von Marwitz still leaned above her and, as when Franz hadimparted the unlooked-for tidings of Karen's reticence, so now her eyesdilated with a deepened hope. 

"You told him so, Karen?" she repeated gently, after a moment. 

"Yes, " said Karen, "I told him so. I shall make no defence. Will you gonow? I am tired. And will you send Franz to me when he comes back?"

"Yes, my child; yes, " said Madame von Marwitz. "It is well. I will bebelow. I will watch over you. " She raised herself at last. "There isnothing that I can do for you, my Karen?"

"Nothing, " said Karen. Her voice, too, seemed sinking into ashes. 

Madame von Marwitz opened the door to the dark little staircase andclosed it. In the cloaking darkness she paused and leaned against thewall. "_Bon Dieu!_" she murmured to herself "_Bon Dieu!_"

She felt sick. She wished to sleep. But she could not sleep yet. Shemust eat and restore her strength. And she had letters to write; aletter to Mrs. Forrester, a letter to Frau Lippheim, and a note toTallie. It was as if she had thrown her shuttle across a vast loom that, drawing her after the thread she held, enmeshed her now with all theothers in its moving web. She no longer wove; she was being woven intothe pattern. Even if she would she could not extricate herself. 

The thought of this overmastering destiny sustained and fortified her. She went on down the stairs and into the little sitting-room. 

CHAPTER XLIV

The days that passed after her arrival at the inn were to live in Madamevon Marwitz's memory as a glare of intolerable anxiety, obliterating alldetails in its heat and urgency. She might, during the hours when sheknelt supplicating beside Karen's bed, have been imaged as a furnace andKaren as a corpse lying in it, strangely unconsumed, passive andunresponsive. There was no cruelty in Karen's coldness, no unkindnesseven. Pity and comprehension were there; but they were rocks againstwhich Madame von Marwitz dashed herself in vain. 

When she would slip from her kneeling position and lie grovelling andgroaning on the ground, Karen sometimes would say: "Please get up. Please don't cry, " in a tone of distress. But when the question, repeated in every key, came: "Karen, will you not love me again?"Karen's answer was a helpless silence. 

Schooling the fury of her eagerness, and in another mood, Madame vonMarwitz, after long cogitations in the little sitting-room, would mountto point out to Karen that to persist in her refusal to marry Franz, when she was freed, would be to disgrace herself and him, and to thisKaren monotonously and immovably would reply that she would not marryFranz. 

Madame von Marwitz had not been able to keep from her beyond the eveningof the first day that Franz had gone. "To Germany, my Karen, where hewill wait for you. " Karen's eyes had dwelt widely, but dully, on herwhen she made this announcement and she had spoken no word; nor had shemade any comment on Madame von Marwitz's further explanations. 

"He felt it right to go at once, now that I had come, and bring nofurther scandal on your head. He would not have you waked to saygood-bye. "

Karen lay silent, but the impassive bitterness deepened on her lips. When Franz's first letter to Karen arrived Madame von Marwitz opened, read and destroyed it. It revealed too plainly, in its ingenuoussolicitude and sorrow, the coercion under which Franz had departed. Yes;the plan was there and they were all enmeshed in it; but what was tohappen if Karen would not marry Franz? How could that be made to matchthe story she had now written to Mrs. Forrester? And what was to happenif Karen refused to come with her? It would not do, Madame von Marwitzsaw that clearly, for an alienated Karen to be taken to the Lippheims'. Comparisons and disclosures would ensue that would send the loom, with amighty whirr, weaving rapidly in an opposite direction to that of theplan. Franz, in Germany, must be pacified, and Karen be carried off tosome lovely, lonely spot until the husband's suit was safely won. It wasnot fatal to the plan that Karen should be supposed, finally, to refuseto marry Franz; that might be mitigated, explained away when the timecame; but a loveless Karen at large in the world was a figure only lessterrifying than a Karen reunited to her husband. She felt as if she haddrawn herself up from the bottom of the well where Karen's flight hadprecipitated her and as if, breathing the air, seeing the light of thehappy world, she swung in a circle, clutching her wet rope, horribledepths below her and no helping hand put out to draw her to the brink. 

Gregory's letter in answer to the letter she had sent to Mrs. Forrester, with the request that he should be informed of its contents, came on thesecond morning. It fortified her. There was no questioning; no doubt. Heformally assured her that he would at once take steps to set Karen free. 

"Ah, he does not love her, that is evident, " said Madame von Marwitz toherself, and with a sense of quieted pulses. The letter was shown toKaren. 

Mrs. Forrester's note was not quite reassuring. It, also, accepted herstory; but its dismay constituted a lack of sympathy, even, Madame vonMarwitz felt, a reproach. 

She wrote of Gregory's broken heart. She lamented the breach that hadcome between him and Karen and made this disaster possible. 

Miss Scrotton's pæan was what it inevitably would be. From Tallie cameno word, and this implied that Tallie, too, was convinced, thoughTallie, no doubt, was furious, and would, as usual, lay the blame onher. 

Danger, however, lurked in Tallie's direction, and until she was safelyout of England with Karen she should not feel herself secure. Pertinaciously and blandly she insisted to the doctor that Frau Lippheimwas now quite well enough to make a short sea voyage. She would securethe best of yachts and the best of trained nurses, and a little voyagewould be the very thing for her. The doctor was recalcitrant, and Madamevon Marwitz was in terror lest, during the moments they spent by herbedside, Karen should burst forth in a sudden appeal to him. 

A change for the worse, very much for the worse, had, he said, come overhis patient. He was troubled and perplexed. "Has anything happened todisturb her?" he asked in the little sitting-room, and something in hischill manner reminded her unpleasantly of Gregory Jardine;--"herhusband's sudden departure?"

Madame von Marwitz felt it advisable, then, to take the doctor into herconfidence. He grew graver as she spoke. He looked at her with eyes morescrutinizing, more troubled and more perplexed. But, reluctantly, he sawher point. The unfortunate young woman upstairs, a fugitive from herhusband, must be spared the shock of a possible brutal encounter. Perhaps, in a day or two, it might be possible to move her. She could betaken in her bed to Southampton and carried on board the yacht. 

Madame von Marwitz wired at once and secured the yacht. 

It was after this interview with the doctor, after the sending of thewire, that she mounted the staircase to Karen's room with the mostdifficult part of her task still before her. She had as yet not openlybroached to Karen the question of what the immediate future should be. She approached it now by a circuitous way, seating herself near Karen'sbed and unfolding and handing to her a letter she had that morningreceived from Franz. It was a letter she could show. Franz was inGermany. 

"The dear Franz. The good Franz, " Madame von Marwitz mused, when Karenhad finished and her weak hand dropped with the letter to the sheet. "Nowoman had ever a truer friend than Franz. You see how he writes, Karen. He will never trouble you with his hopes. "

"No; Franz will never trouble me, " said Karen. 

"Poor Franz, " Madame von Marwitz repeated. "He will be seen by the worldas a man who refuses to marry his mistress when she is freed. "

"I am not his mistress, " said Karen, who, for all her apathy, could showat moments a disconcerting vehemence. 

"You will be thought so, my child. "

"Not by him, " said Karen. 

"No; not by him, " Madame von Marwitz assented with melancholy. 

"Not by his mother and sisters, " said Karen. "And not by Mrs. Talcott. "

"Nor by me, my Karen, " said Madame von Marwitz with a more profoundgloom. 

"No; not by you. No one who knows me will think so, " said Karen. 

Madame von Marwitz paused after this for a few moments. Experience hadtaught her that to abandon herself to her grief was not the way to moveKaren. When she spoke again it was in a firm, calm voice. 

"Listen, my Karen, " she said. "I see that you are fixed in this resolveand I will plead with you no further. I will weary you no more. Rememberonly, in fairness, that it is for your sake that I have pleaded. Youwill be divorced; so be it. And you will not marry Franz. But after thisKaren? and until this?"

Karen lay silent for a moment and then turned her head restlessly away. 

"Why do you ask me? How can I tell?" she said. "I wish to go to FrauLippheim. When I am well again I wish to work and make my living. "

"But, my Karen, " said Madame von Marwitz with great gentleness, "do younot see that for you to go to Franz's mother now, in her joy and beliefin you, is a cruelty? Later on, yes; you could then perhaps go to her, though it will be at any time, with this scandal behind you, to placeour poor Lise, our poor Franz, in an ambiguous position indeed. But now, Karen? While the case is going on? Your husband says, you remember, thathe starts proceedings at once. "

Karen lay still. And suddenly the tears ran down her cheeks. "Why cannotI see Franz?" she said. "Why do you ask me questions that I cannotanswer? How do I know what I shall do?" She sobbed, quick, dry, alarmingsobs. 

"Karen--my Karen, " Madame von Marwitz murmured, "do not weep, my dearone. You exhaust yourself. Do not speak so harshly to me, Karen. Willyou let me think for you? See, my child, I accept all. I ask fornothing. You do not forgive me--oh, not truely--you do not love me. Ourold life is dead. I have killed it with my own hand. I see it all, Karen. And I accept my doom. But even so, can you not be merciful to meand let me help you now? Do not break my heart, my child. Do not crushme down into the dust. Come with me. I will take you to quiet andbeautiful shores. I will trouble you in nothing. There will be no morepleading; no more urgency. You shall do as it pleases you in all things, and I will ask only to watch over you. Let me do this until you are freeand can choose your own life. Do not tell me that you hate me so muchthat you will not do this for me. "

Her voice was weighted with its longing, its humility, its tenderness. The sound of it seemed to beat its way to Karen through mists that layabout her as Tante's cries and tears had not done. A sharper thrust ofpity pierced her. "I do not hate you, " she said. "You must not thinkthat. I understand and I am very sorry. But I do not love you. I shallnot love you again. And how could I come with you? You said--what didyou say that night?" She put her hand before her eyes in the effort ofmemory. "That I was ungrateful;--that you fed and clothed me;--that Itook all and gave nothing. And other, worse things; you said them to me. How can that be again? How could I come with a person who said thosethings to me?"

"Oh--but--my child--" Madame von Marwitz's voice trembled in its hope andfear, though she restrained herself from rising and bending to the girl:"did I not make you believe me when I told you that I was mad? Do younot know that the vile words were the weapons I took up against you inmy madness? That you gave nothing, Karen? When you are my only stay inlife, the only thing near me in the world--you and Tallie--the thingthat I have thought of as mine--as if you were my child. And if you cameto me now you would give still more. If it is known that you will notreturn--that you will not forgive me and come with me--I am disgraced, my child. All the world will believe that I have been cruel to you. Allthe world will believe that you hate me and that hatred is all that Ihave deserved from you. "

Karen again had put her hand to her head. "What do you mean?" shequestioned faintly. "Will it help you if I come with you?"

Madame von Marwitz steadied her voice that now shook with rising sobs. "If you will not come I am ruined. "

"You ask to have me to come--though I do not love you?"

"I ask you to come--on any terms, my Karen. And because I love you;because you will always be the thing dearest in the world to me. "

"I could go to Frau Lippheim, if you would help to send me to her, " saidKaren, still holding her hand to her head; "I could, I am sure, explainto her and to Franz so that they would not blame me. But people must notthink that I hate you. "

"No; no?" Madame von Marwitz hardly breathed. 

"They must not think that; for it is not true. I do not love you, but Ihave no hatred for you, " said Karen. 

"You will come then, Karen?"

Still with her eyes hidden the girl hesitated as if bewildered by thepressure of new realisations. "You would leave me much alone? You wouldnot talk to me? I should be quiet?"

"Oh, my Karen--quiet--quiet--" Madame von Marwitz was now sobbing. "Youwill send for me if you feel that you can see me; unless you send I donot obtrude myself on you. You will have an attendant of your own. Allshall be as you wish. "

"And when I am free I may choose my own life?"

"Free! free! the world before you! all that I have at your feet, tospurn or stoop to!" Tante moaned incoherently. 

"When will it be--that we must go?" Karen then, more faintly, asked. Madame von Marwitz had risen to her feet. In her ecstasy of gladness shecould have clapped her hands above her head and danced. And the strongcontrol she put upon herself gave to her face almost the grimace of achild that masters its weeping. She was drawn from her well. She stoodupon firm ground. "In two days, my child, if you are strong enough. Intwo days we will set sail. "

"In two days, " Karen repeated. And, dully, she repeated again; "I comewith you in two days. "

Madame von Marwitz now noticed that tears ran from under the hand. Thesetears of Karen's alarmed her. She had not wept at all before to-day. 

"My child is worn and tired. She would rest. Is it not so? Shall I leaveher?" she leaned above the girl to ask. 

"Yes; I am tired, " said Karen. 

And leaning there, above the hidden face, above the heart wrung with itssecret agony, in all her ecstasy and profound relief, Madame von Marwitzknew one of the bitterest moments of her life. She had gained safety. But what was her loss, her irreparable loss? In the dark littlestaircase she leaned, as on the day of her coming, against the wall, andmurmured, as she had murmured then: "_Bon Dieu! Bon Dieu!_" But thewords were broken by the sobs that, now uncontrollably, shook her as shestumbled on in the darkness. 

CHAPTER XLV

Some years had passed since Mrs. Talcott had been in London, and itseemed to her, coming up from her solitudes, noisier, more crowded, moreoppressive than when she had seen it last. She had a jaded yet an acuteeye for its various aspects, as she drove from Paddington towards St. James's, and a distaste, born of her many years of life in cities, tookmore definite shape in her, even while the excitement of the movementand uproar accompanied not inappropriately the strong impulses thatmoved her valorous soul. 

Mrs. Talcott wore a small, round, black straw hat trimmed with a blackbow. It was the shape that she had worn for years; it was unaffected bythe weather and indifferent to the shifting of fashion. Her neck-gearwas the one invariable with her in the daytime; a collar of lawn turneddown over a black silk stock. About her shoulders was a black clothcape. Sitting there in her hansom, she looked very old, and she lookedalso very national and typical; the adventurous, indomitable old girl ofAmerica, bent on seeing all that there was to see, emerged for the firsttime in her life from her provinces, and carrying, it might have been, aBaedeker under her arm. 

It was many years since Mrs. Talcott had passed beyond the need ofBaedekers, and her provinces were a distant memory; yet she, too, wasengaged, like the old American girl, in the final adventure of her life. She did not know, as she drove along in her hansom with her shabbylittle box on the roof, whether she were ever to see Les Solitudesagain. 

"Carry it right up, " she said to the porter at the mansions in St. James's when she arrived there. "I've come for the night, I expect. "

The porter had told her that Mr. Jardine had come in. And he looked atMrs. Talcott curiously. 

At the door of Gregory's flat Mrs. Talcott encountered a check. Barker, mournful and low-toned as an undertaker, informed her firmly that Mr. Jardine was seeing nobody. He fixed an astonished eye upon Mrs. Talcott's box which was being taken from the lift. 

"That's all right, " said Mrs. Talcott. "Mr. Jardine'll see me. You tellhim that Mrs. Talcott is here. "

She had walked past Barker into the hall and her box was placed besideher. 

Barker was very much disconcerted, yet he felt Mrs. Talcott to be aperson of weight. He ushered her into the drawing-room. 

In the late sunlight it was as gay and as crisp as ever, but for thelack of flowers, and the Bouddha still sat presiding in his goldenniche. 

"Mr. Jardine is in the smoking-room, Madam, " said Barker, and, gaugingstill further the peculiar significance of this guest whose name he nowrecovered as one familiar to him on letters, he added in a low voice:"He has not used this room since Mrs. Jardine left us. "

"Is that so?" said Mrs. Talcott gravely. "Well, you go and bring himhere right away. "

Mrs. Talcott stood in the centre of the room when Barker had gone andgazed at the Bouddha. And again her figure strongly suggested that ofthe sight-seer, unperturbed and adequate amidst strange and aliensurroundings. Gregory found her before the Bouddha when he came in. IfMrs. Talcott had been in any doubt as to one of the deep intuitions thathad, from the first, sustained her, Gregory's face would have reassuredher. It had a look of suffocated grief; it was ravaged; it asked nothingand gave nothing; it was fixed on its one devouring preoccupation. 

"How do you do, Mrs. Talcott, " he said. They shook hands. His voice wascuriously soft. 

"I've come up, you see, " said Mrs. Talcott. "I've come up to see you, Mr. Jardine. "

"Yes?" said Gregory gently. He had placed a chair for her but, when shesat down, he remained standing. He did not, it was evident, imagine hererrand to be one that would require a prolonged attention from him. 

"Mr. Jardine, " said Mrs. Talcott, "what was your idea when you firstfound out about Karen from the detective and asked me not to tell?"

Gregory collected his thoughts, with difficulty. "I don't know that Ihad any idea, " he answered. "I was stunned. I wanted time to think. "

"And you hoped it wasn't true, perhaps?"

"No; I hadn't any hope. I knew it was true. Karen had said things to methat made it nothing of a surprise. But perhaps my idea was that shewould be sorry for what she had done and write to me, or to you. I thinkI wanted to give Karen time. "

"Well, and then?" Mrs. Talcott asked. "If she had written?"

"Well, then, I'd have gone to her. "

"You'd have taken her back?"

"If she would have come, of course, " said Gregory, in his voice ofwraith-like gentleness. 

"You wanted her back if she'd gone off with another man like that anddidn't love you any more?"

Gregory was silent for a moment and she saw that her persistencetroubled and perplexed him. 

"As to love, " he said, "Karen was a child in some things. I believe thatshe would have grown to love me if her guardian hadn't come between us. And it might have been to escape from her guardian as well as with theidea of freeing herself from me that she took refuge with this man. I amconvinced that her guardian behaved badly to her. It's rather difficultfor me to talk to you, Mrs. Talcott, " said Gregory, "though I amgrateful for your kindness, because I so inexpressibly detest a personwhom you care for. "

"Mr. Jardine, " said Mrs. Talcott, fixing her eyes upon him, "I want tosay something right here, so as there shan't be any mistake about it. You were right about Mercedes, all along; do you take that in? I don'twant to say any more about Mercedes than I've got to; I've cut loosefrom my moorings, but I guess I do care more about Mercedes thananyone's ever done who's known her as well as I do. But you were rightabout her. And I'm your friend and I'm Karen's friend, and it prettynear killed me when all this happened. "

Gregory now had taken a chair before her and his eyes, with a new look, gazed deeply into hers as she went on: "I wouldn't have accepted whatyour letter said, not for a minute, if I hadn't got Mercedes's nextthing and if I hadn't seen that Mercedes, for a wonder, wasn't tellinglies. I was a mighty sick woman, Mr. Jardine, for a few days; I justseemed to give up. But then I got to thinking. I got to thinking, andthe more I thought the more I couldn't lie there and take it. I thoughtabout Mercedes, and what she's capable of; and I thought about you andhow I felt dead sure you loved Karen; and I thought about that poorchild and all she'd gone through; and the long and short of it was thatI felt it in my bones that Mercedes was up to mischief. Karen sent forher, she said; but I don't believe Karen sent for her;--I believe shegot wind somehow of where Karen was and lit out before I could stop her;yes, I was away that day, Mr. Jardine, and when I came back I found thatthree ladies had come for Mercedes and she'd made off with them. It maybe true about Karen; she may have done this wicked thing; but if she'sdone it I don't believe it's the way Mercedes says she has. And I'veworked it out to this: you must see Karen, Mr. Jardine; you must have itfrom her own mouth that she loves Franz and wants to go off with him andmarry him before you give her up. "

Gregory's face, as these last words were spoken, showed a delicatestiffening. "She won't see me, " he said. 

"Who says so?" asked Mrs. Talcott. 

"Don't imagine that I'd have accepted her guardian's word for it, " saidGregory, "but everything Madame von Marwitz has written has been merelycorroborative. She told us that Karen was there with this man and I knewit already. She said that Karen had begun to look to him as a rescuerfrom me on the day she saw him here in London, and what I remembered ofthat day bore it out. She said that I should remember that on the nightwe parted Karen told me that she would try to set herself free. Karenhas confided in her; it was true. And it's true, isn't it, that Karenwas in terror of falling into my hands. You can't deny this, can you?Why should I torture Karen and myself by seeing her?" said Gregory. Hehad averted his eyes as he spoke. 

"But do you want her back, Mr. Jardine?" Mrs. Talcott had faced hiscatalogue of evidence immovably. 

"Not if she loves this man, " said Gregory. "And that's the final fact. Iknow Karen; she couldn't have done this unless she loved him. Theprovocation wasn't extreme enough otherwise. She wouldn't, from sheergenerosity, disgrace herself to free me, especially since she knew thatI considered that that would be to disgrace me, too. No; her guardian'sstory has all the marks of truth on it. She loves the man and she hadplanned to meet him. And all I've got to do now is to see that she isfree to marry him as soon as possible. " He got up as he spoke and walkedup and down the room. 

Mrs. Talcott's eye followed him and his despair seemed a fuel to herfaith. "Mr. Jardine, " she said, after a moment of silence, "I'll stakemy life on it you're wrong. I know Karen better than you do; I guesswomen understand each other better than a man ever understands them. Thebed-rock fact about a woman is that she'll hide the thing she feels mostand she'll say what she hopes ain't true so as to give the man a chancefor convincing her it ain't true. And the blamed foolishness of the manis that he never does. He just goes off, sick and mournful, and leavesher to fight it out the best she can. Karen don't love Franz Lippheim, Mr. Jardine; nothing'll make me believe she loves him. And nothing'llmake me believe but what you could have got her to stay that time sheleft you if you'd understood women better. She loves you, Mr. Jardine, though she mayn't know it, and it's on the cards she knows it so wellthat she's dead scared of showing it. Because Karen's a wife through andthrough; can't you see it in her face? You're youngish yet, and a man, so I don't feel as angry with you as you deserve, perhaps, for notunderstanding better and for letting Karen get it into her head youdidn't love her any more; for that's what she believes, Mr. Jardine. Andwhat I'm as sure of as that my name's Hannah Talcott is that she'llnever get over you. She's that kind of woman; a rare kind; rocky; shedon't change. And if she's gone and done this thing, like it appears shehas, it isn't in the way Mercedes says; it's only to set you free and toget away from the fear of being handed over to a man who don't love her. For she didn't understand, either, Mr. Jardine. Women are blamed foolishin their way, too. "

Gregory had stopped in his walk and was standing before Mrs. Talcottlooking down at her; and while Mrs. Talcott fixed the intense blue ofher eyes upon him he became aware of an impression almost physical inits vividness. It was as if Mrs. Talcott were the most wise, mostskilful, most benevolent of doctors who, by some miraculous moderninvention, were pumping blood into his veins from her ownsuperabundance. It seemed to find its way along hardened arteries, tocreep, to run, to tingle; to spread with a radiant glow through all hischilled and weary body. Hope and fear mounted in him suddenly. 

He could not have said, after that, exactly what happened, but he couldafterwards recall, brokenly, that he must have shed tears; for his firstdistinct recollection was that he was leaning against the end of thepiano and that Mrs. Talcott, who had risen, was holding him by the handand saying: "There now, yes, I guess you've had a pretty bad time. Youhang on, Mr. Jardine, and we'll get her back yet. "

He wanted to put his head on Mrs. Talcott's shoulder and be held by herto her broad breast for a long time; but, since such action would havebeen startlingly uncharacteristic of them both, he only, when he couldspeak, thanked her. 

"What shall I do, now?" he asked. He was in Mrs. Talcott's hands. "It'sno good writing to Karen. Madame von Marwitz will intercept my letter ifwhat you believe is true. Shall we go down to the New Forest directly?Shall I force my way in on Karen?"

"That's just what you'll have to do; I don't doubt it, " said Mrs. Talcott. "And I'll go with you, to manage Mercedes while you get hold ofKaren. And I'm not fit for it till I've had a night's rest, so we'll godown first thing to-morrow, Mr. Jardine. I'm spending the night here soas we can talk it all out to-night. But first I'm going round to Mrs. Forrester's. If I'm right, Mr. Jardine, and there ain't any 'if' aboutit in my own mind, it's important that people should know what the truthis now, before we go. We don't want to have to seem to work up a storyto shield Karen if she comes back to you. I'm going to Mrs. Forrester'sand I'm going to that mighty silly woman, Miss Scrotton, and I'll haveto tell them a thing or two that'll make them sit up. "

"But wait first, you must be so tired. Do have some tea first, " Gregoryurged, as the indomitable old woman made her way towards the door. "Andwhat can you say to them, after all? We are sure of nothing. "

Mrs. Talcott paused with her hand on the door knob; "I'm sure of onething, and they've got to hear it; and that is that Mercedes treatedKaren so bad she had to go. Mercedes isn't going to get let off that. Itold her so. I told her I'd come right up and tell her friends about herif she stole a march on me, and that's what she's done. Yes, " said Mrs. Talcott, opening the door, "I've cut loose from my moorings andMercedes's friends have got to hear the truth of that story and I'mgoing to see that they do right away. Good-bye, Mr. Jardine. I don'twant any tea; I'll be back in time for dinner, I guess. "

CHAPTER XLVI

Peace had descended upon the little room where Karen lay, cold, stillpeace. There were no longer any tears or clamour, no appeals andagonies. Tante was often with her; but she seldom spoke now and Karenhad ceased to feel more than a dull discomfort when she came into theroom. 

Tante smiled at her with the soft, unmurmuring patience of her exile, she tended her carefully, she told her that in a day or two, atfurthest, they would be out at sea in the most beautiful of yachts. "Allhas been chosen for my child, " she said. "The nurse meets us atSouthampton and we wing our way straight to Sicily. "

Karen was willing that anything should be done with her except the onething. It had surprised her to find how much it meant to Tante that sheshould consent to go back to her. It had not been difficult to consent, when she understood that that was all that Tante wanted and why shewanted it so much. It was the easier since in her heart she believedthat she was dying. 

All these days it had been like holding her way through a whirlpool. Thefoam and uproar of the water had beat upon her fragile bark of life, hadtwisted it and turned it again and again to the one goal where she wouldnot be. Tante had been the torrent, at once stealthy and impetuous, andthe goal where she had wished to drive her had been marriage to Franz. Karen had known no fear of yielding, it would have been impossible toher to yield; yet she had thought sometimes that the bark would crackunder the onslaught of the torrent and she be dragged down finally tounconsciousness. 

All that torment was over. She seemed to be sliding rapidly and smoothlydown a misty river. She could see no banks, no sky; all was white, soft, silent. There was no strength left in her with which to struggle againstthe thought of death, no strength with which to fear it. 

But, as she lay in the little room, her hands folded on her breast, corpse-like already in her placidity, something wailed within her andlamented. And sometimes tears rose slowly and swelled her eyelids andshe felt herself a creature coffined and underground, put away andforgotten, though not yet a creature dead. Her heart in the darknessstill lived and throbbed. Thoughts of Gregory were with her always, memories of him and of their life together which, now that she had losthim forever, she might cherish. She felt, though she lay so still, thatshe put out her hands always, in supplication, to Gregory. He wouldforget her, or remember her only as his disgrace. It seemed to her thatif she could feel Gregory lean to her and kiss her forehead intenderness and reconciliation her breath could sweetly cease. 

The day before the departure was come and it was a warm, quietafternoon. Tante had been with her in the morning, engaged inpreparations for the journey. She had brought to show to Karen theexquisite nightgowns and wrappers, of softest wool and silk, that shewas to wear on the yacht. The long cloak, too, of silk all lined withswansdown, such a garment as the tenderest, most cherished of mortalsshould wear. This was for Karen when she lay on deck in the sun. Andthere was a heavier fur-lined cloak for chilly days and the loveliest ofshoes and stockings and scarves. All these things Tante had sent for forKaren, and Karen thanked her, as she displayed them before her, gentlyand coldly. She felt that Tante was piteous at these moments, butnothing in her was moved towards her. Already she was dead to Tante. 

She was alone now, again, and she would not see Tante till tea-time. Tante had asked her if she could sleep and she had said yes. She laywith eyes closed, vaguely aware of the sounds that rose to her from theroom beneath, where Tante was engaged with the landlady in arranging thenew possessions in boxes, and of the fainter sounds from the road infront of the house. Wheels rolled up and stopped. They often came, during these last days; Tante's purchases were arriving by every post. And the voices below seemed presently to alter in pitch and rhythm, mounting to her in a sonorous murmur, dully rising and falling. Karenlistened in indifference. 

But suddenly there came another sound and this was sharp and near. 

There was only one window in the little room; it was open, and it lookedout at the back of the house over a straggling garden set round withtrees and shrubberies. The sound was outside the window, below it andapproaching it, the strangest sound, scratching, cautious, deliberate. 

Karen opened her eyes and fixed them on the window. The tree outsidehardly stirred against the blue spring sky. Someone was climbing up toher window. 

She felt no fear and little surprise. She wondered, placidly, fixing hereyes upon the patterned square of blue and green. And upon thisbackground, like that of some old Italian picture, there rose the headand shoulders of Mrs. Talcott. 

Karen raised herself on her elbow and stared. The river stopped in itsgliding; the mists rolled away; the world rocked and swayed and settledfirmly into a solid, visible reality; Mrs. Talcott's face and her roundblack straw hat and her black caped shoulders, hoisting themselves up tothe window-sill. Never in her life was she to forget the silhouette onthe sky and the branching tree, nor Mrs. Talcott's resolute, large, old, face, nor the gaze that Mrs. Talcott's eyes fixed on her as she came. 

Mrs. Talcott put her knee on the window-sill and then struggled for amoment, her foot engaged in the last rung of the ladder; then she turnedand stepped down backwards into the room. 

Karen, raised on her elbow, was trembling. 

"Lay down, honey, " said Mrs. Talcott, gently and gravely, as they lookedat each other; and, as she came towards the bed, Karen obeyed her andjoined her hands together. "Oh, will you come with us?" she breathed. "Will you stay with me? I can live if you stay with me, Mrs. Talcott--dear Mrs. Talcott. "

She stretched out her hands to her, and Mrs. Talcott, sitting down onthe bed beside her, took her in her arms. 

"You're all right, now, honey. I'm not going to leave you, " she said, stroking back Karen's hair. 

Karen leaned her head against her breast, and closed her eyes. 

"Listen, honey, " said Mrs. Talcott, who spoke in low, careful tones: "Iwant to ask you something. Do you love Franz Lippheim? Just answer mequiet and easy now. I'm right here, and you're as safe as safe can be. "

Karen, on Mrs. Talcott's breast, shook her head. "Oh, no, Mrs. Talcott;you could not believe that. Why should I love dear Franz?"

"Then it's only so as to set your husband free that you're marryingFranz?" Mrs. Talcott went on in the same even voice. 

"But no, Mrs. Talcott, " said Karen, "I am not going to marry Franz. " Andnow she lifted her head and looked at Mrs. Talcott. "Why do you ask methat? Who has told you that I am to marry Franz?"

Mrs. Talcott, keeping an arm around her, laid her back on the pillow. 

"But, Karen, if you run off like that with Franz and come here and stayas his wife, " she said, "and get your husband to divorce you by actingso, it's natural that people should think that you're going to marry theyoung man, ain't it?"

A burning red had mounted to Karen's wasted cheeks. Her sunken eyesdwelt on Mrs. Talcott with a sort of horror. "It is true, " she said. "Hemay think that; he must think that; because unless he does he cannotdivorce me and set himself free, and he must be free, Mrs. Talcott; hehas said that he wishes to be free. But I did not run away with Franz. Imet him, on the headland, that morning, and he was to take me to hismother, and I was so ill that he brought me here. That was all. "

Mrs. Talcott smoothed back her hair. "Take it easy, honey, " she said. "There's nothing to worry over one mite. And now I've asked my questionsand had my answers, and I've got something to tell. Karen, child, it'sall been a pack of lies that Mercedes has told so as to get hold of you, and so as he shouldn't--so as your husband shouldn't, Karen. Listen, honey: your husband loves you just for all he's worth. I've seen him. Iwent up to him. And he told me how you were all the world to him, andhow, if only you didn't love this young man and didn't want to be free, he'd do anything to get you back, and how if you'd done the wicked thinghe'd been told and then gotten sorry, he'd want you back just the samebecause you were his dear wife, and the one woman he loved. But hecouldn't force himself on you if you loved someone else and hated him. So I just told him that I didn't believe you loved Franz; and I got himto hope it, too, and we came down together, Karen, and Mercedes is likea lion at bay downstairs, and she's in front of that door that leads uphere and swears it'll kill you to see us; and I'd seen the ladderleaning on the wall and I just nipped out while she was talking, andbrought it round to what I calculated would be your window and climbedup, and that's what I've come to tell you, Karen, that he loves you, andthat he's downstairs, and that he's waiting to know whether you'll seehim. "

Mrs. Talcott rose and stood by the bed looking down into Karen's eyes. "Honey, I can bring him up, can't I?" she asked. 

Karen's eyes looked up at her with an intensity that had passed beyondjoy or appeal. Her life was concentrated in her gaze. 

"You would not lie to me?" she said. "It is not pity? He loves me?"

"No, I wouldn't lie to you, dearie, " said Mrs. Talcott, with infinitetenderness; "lies ain't my line. It's not pity. He loves you, Karen. "

"Bring him, " Karen whispered. "I have always loved him. Don't let me diebefore he comes. "

CHAPTER XLVII

Mrs. Talcott, as she descended the staircase, heard in the littlesitting-room a voice, the voice of Mercedes, speaking on and on, in adeep-toned, continuous roll of vehement demonstration, passionateprotest, subtle threat and pleading. Gregory's voice she did not hear. No doubt he stood where she had left him, at the other side of thetable, confronting his antagonist. 

Mrs. Talcott turned the knob of the door and slightly pushed it. A heavyweight at once was flung against it. 

"You shall not come in! You shall not! I forbid it! I will not bedisturbed!" cried the voice of Mercedes, who must, in the moment, haveguessed that she had been foiled. 

"Quit that foolishness, " said Mrs. Talcott sternly. She leaned againstthe door and forced it open, and Mercedes, dishevelled, with eyes thatseemed to pant on her like eyes from some dangerous jungle, flungherself once more upon the door and stood with her back against it. 

"Mr. Jardine, " said Mrs. Talcott, not looking at her recovered captive, "Karen is upstairs and wants to see you. She doesn't love Franz Lippheimand she isn't going to marry him. She didn't run away with him; she methim when she'd run away from her guardian and he was going to take herto his mother, only she got sick and he had to bring her here. She wastold that you wanted to divorce her and wanted to be free. She lovesyou, Mr. Jardine, and she's waiting up there; only be mighty gentle withher, because she's been brought to death's door by all that she's beenthrough. "

"I forbid it! I forbid it!" shrieked Madame von Marwitz from her placebefore the door, spreading her arms across it. "She is mad! She isdelirious! The doctor has said so! I have promised Franz that you shallnot come to her unless across my dead body. I have sworn it! I keep mypromise to Franz!"

Gregory advanced to the door, eyeing her. "Let me pass, " he said. "Letme go to my wife. "

"No! no! and no!" screamed the desperate woman. "You shall not! It willkill her! You shall be arrested! You wish to kill a woman who has fledfrom you! Help! Help!" He had her by the wrists and her teeth seized hishands. She fought him with incredible fury. 

"Hold on tight, Mr. Jardine, " Mrs. Talcott's voice came to him frombelow. "There; I've got hold of her ankles. Put her down. "

With a loud, clashing wail through clenched and grinding teeth, Madamevon Marwitz, like a pine-tree uprooted, was laid upon the floor. Mrs. Talcott knelt at her feet, pinioning them. She looked along the largewhite form to Gregory at the other end, who was holding down Madame vonMarwitz's shoulders. "Go on, Mr. Jardine, " she said. "Right up thosestairs. She'll calm down now. I've had her like this before. "

Gregory rose, yet paused, torn by his longing, yet fearful of leavingthe old woman with the demoniac creature. But Madame von Marwitz lay asif in a trance. Her lids were closed. Her breast rose and fell withheavy, regular breaths. 

"Go on, Mr. Jardine, " said Mrs. Talcott. So he left them there. 

He went up the little stairs, dark and warm, and smelling--he was neverto forget the smell--of apples and dust, and entered a small, light roomwhere a window made a square of blue and green. Beyond it in a narrowbed lay Karen. She did not move or speak; her eyes were fixed on his;she did not smile. And as he looked at her Mrs. Talcott's words flashedin his mind: "Karen's that kind: rocky: she don't change. "

But she had changed. She was his as she had never been, never could havebeen, if the sinister presence lying there downstairs had not finallyrevealed itself. He knelt beside her and she was in his arms and hishead was laid in the old sacred way beside his darling's head. They didnot seem to speak to each other for a long time nor did they look intoeach other's eyes. He held her hand and looked at that, and sometimeskissed it gently. But after words had come and their eyes had dared tomeet in joy, Karen said to him: "And I must tell you of Franz, Gregory, dear Franz. He is suffering, I know. He, too, was lied to, and he wassent away without seeing me again. We will write to Franz at once. Andyou will care for my Franz, Gregory?"

"Yes; I will care for your Franz; bless your Franz, " said Gregory, withtears, his lips on her hand. 

"He came to me like an angel that morning, " Karen said in her breath ofvoice; "and he has been like a beautiful mother to me; he has taken careof me like a mother. It was on the headland over Falmouth--that he came. Oh, Gregory, " she turned her face to her husband's breast, "the birdswere beginning to sing and I thought that I should never see you again. "

CHAPTER XLVIII

When the door had shut behind Gregory, Madame von Marwitz spoke, hereyes still closed:

"Am I now permitted to rise?"

Mrs. Talcott released her ankles and stood up. 

"You've made a pretty spectacle of yourself, Mercedes, " she remarked asMadame von Marwitz raised herself with extraordinary stateliness. "I'veseen you behave like you were a devil before, but I never saw you behavelike you were quite such a fool. What made you fight him and bite himlike that? What did you expect to gain by it I'd like to know? As if youcould keep that strong young man from his wife. "

Madame von Marwitz had walked to the small mirror over the mantelpieceand was adjusting her hair. Her face, reflected between a blue and goldshepherd and shepherdess holding cornucopias of dried honesty, was stillashen, but she possessed all her faculties. "This is to kill Karen, " shenow said. "And yours will be the responsibility. "

"Taken, " Mrs. Talcott replied, but with no facetiousness. 

Several of the large tortoiseshell pins that held Madame von Marwitz'sabundant locks were scattered on the floor. She turned and looked forthem, stooped and picked them up. Then returning to the mirror shecontinued, awkwardly, to twist up and fasten her hair. She wasunaccustomed to doing her own hair and even the few days without a maidhad given her no facility. 

Mrs. Talcott watched her for a moment and then remarked: "You're gettingit all screwed round to one side, Mercedes. You'd better let me do itfor you. "

Madame von Marwitz for a moment made no reply. Her eyes fixed upon herown mirrored eyes, she continued to insert the pins with an air ofstubborn impassivity; but when a large loop fell to her neck she allowedher arms to drop. She sank upon a chair and, still with unflawedstateliness, presented the back of her head to Mrs. Talcott's skilfulmanipulations. Mrs. Talcott, in silence, wreathed and coiled and pinnedand the beautiful head resumed its usual outlines. 

When this was accomplished Madame von Marwitz rose. "Thank you, " sheuttered. She moved towards the door of her room. 

"What are you going to do now, Mercedes?" Mrs. Talcott inquired. Hereyes, which deepened and darkened, as if all her years of silentwatchfulness opened long vistas in them, were fixed upon Mercedes. 

"I am going to pack and return to my home, " Madame von Marwitz replied. 

"Well, " said Mrs. Talcott, "you'll want me to pack for you, I expect. "

Madame von Marwitz had opened her door and her hand was on thedoor-knob. She paused so and again, for a long moment, she made noreply. "Thank you, " she then repeated. But she turned and looked at Mrs. Talcott. "You have been a traitor to me, " she said after she hadcontemplated her for some moments, "you, in whom I completely trusted. You have ruined me in the eyes of those I love. "

"Yes, I've gone back on you, Mercedes, that's a fact, " said Mrs. Talcott. 

"You have handed Karen over to bondage, " Madame von Marwitz went on. "She and this man are utterly unsuited. I would have freed her and givenher to a more worthy mate. " Her voice had the dignity of a disinterestedand deep regret. 

Mrs. Talcott made no reply. The long vistas of her eyes dwelt onMercedes. After another moment of this mutual contemplation Madame vonMarwitz closed the door, though she still kept her hand on thedoor-knob. 

"May I ask what you have been saying of me to Mrs. Forrester, to Mr. Jardine?"

"Well, as to Mr. Jardine, Mercedes, " said Mrs. Talcott, "there was noneed of saying anything, was there, if I turned out right in what I toldhim I suspected. He sees I'm right. He'd been fed up, along with therest of them, on lies, and Karen can help him out with the details if hewants to ask for them. As for the old lady, I gave her the truth of thestory about Karen running away. I made her see, and see straight, thatyour one idea was to keep Karen's husband from getting her back becauseyou knew that if he did the truth about you would come out. I let youdown as easy as I could and put it that you weren't responsible exactlyfor the things you said when you went off your head in a rage and thatyou were awful sorry when you found Karen had taken you at your word andmade off. But that old lady feels mighty sick, Mercedes, and I allowshe'll feel sicker when she's seen Mr. Jardine. As for Miss Scrotton, Isaw her, too, and she's come out strong; you've got a friend there, Mercedes, sure; she won't believe anything against her belovedMercedes, " a dry smile touched Mrs. Talcott's grave face as she echoedMiss Scrotton's phraseology, "until she hears from her own lips what shehas to say in explanation of the story. You'll be able to fix her up allright, Mercedes, and most of the others, too, I expect. I'd advise youto lie low for a while and let it blow over. People are mighty glad tobe given the chance for forgetting things against anyone like you. It'llsimmer down and work out, I expect, to a bad quarrel you had with Karenthat's parted you. And as for the outside world, why it won't mind amite what you do. Why you can murder your grandmother and eat her, Iexpect, and the world'll manage to overlook it, if you're a genius. "

"I thank you, " said Madame von Marwitz, her hand clasping and unclaspingthe door-knob. "I thank you indeed for your reassurance. I have murderedand eaten my grandmother, but I am to escape hanging because I am agenius. That is a most gratifying piece of information. You, personally, I infer, consider that the penalty should be paid, however gifted thecriminal. "

"I don't know, Mercedes, I don't know, " said Mrs. Talcott in a voice ofprofound sadness. "I don't know who deserves penalties and who don't, ifyou begin to argue it out to yourself. " Mrs. Talcott, who had seatedherself at the other side of the table, laid an arm upon it, lookingbefore her and not at Mercedes, as she spoke. "You're a bad woman; thatain't to be denied. You're a bad, dangerous woman, and perhaps whatyou've been trying to do now is the worst thing you've ever done. But Iguess I'm way past feeling angry at anything you do. I guess I'm waypast wanting you to get come up with. I can't make out how to thinkabout a person like you. Maybe you figured it all out to yourselfdifferent from the way it looks. Maybe you persuaded yourself to believethat Karen would be better off apart from her husband. I guess that'sthe way with most criminals, don't you? They figure things out differentfrom the way other people do. I expect you can't help it. I expect youwere born so. And I guess you can't change. Some bad folks seem tomanage to get religion and that brings 'em round; but I expect you ain'tthat kind. "

Madame von Marwitz, while Mrs. Talcott thus shared her psychologicalmusings with her, was not looking at the old woman: her eyes were fixedon the floor and she seemed to consider. 

"No, " she said presently. "I am not that kind. "

She raised her eyes and they met Mrs. Talcott's. "What are you going todo now?" she asked. 

"Well, " said Mrs. Talcott, drawing a long sigh of fatigue, "I've beenthinking that over and I guess I'll stay over here. There ain't anyplace for me in America now; all my folks are dead. You know that moneymy Uncle Adam left me a long time ago that I bought the annuity with. Well, I've saved most of that annuity; I'd always intended that Karenshould have what I'd saved when I died. But Karen don't need it now. It'll buy me a nice little cottage somewhere and I can settle down andhave a garden and chickens and live on what I've got. "

"How much was it, the annuity?" Madame von Marwitz asked after a moment. 

"A hundred and ten pounds a year, " said Mrs. Talcott. 

"But you cannot live on that, " Madame von Marwitz, after another moment, said. 

"Why, gracious sakes, of course I can, Mercedes, " Mrs. Talcott replied, smiling dimly. 

Again there was silence and then Madame von Marwitz said, in a voice alittle forced: "You have not got much out of life, have you, Tallie?"

"Well, no; I don't expect you would say as I had, " Mrs. Talcottacquiesced, showing a slight surprise. 

"You haven't even got me--now--have you, " Madame von Marwitz went on, looking down at her door-knob and running her hand slowly round it whileshe spoke. "Not even the criminal. But that is a gain, you feel, nodoubt, rather than a loss. "

"No, Mercedes, " said Mrs. Talcott mildly; "I don't feel that way. I feelit's a loss, I guess. You see you're all the family I've got left. "

"And you, " said Madame von Marwitz, still looking down at her knob, "areall the family I have left. "

Mrs. Talcott now looked at her. Mercedes did not raise her eyes. Herface was sad and very pale and it had not lost its stateliness. Mrs. Talcott looked at her for what seemed to be a long time and the vistasof her eyes deepened with a new acceptance. 

It was without any elation and yet without any regret that she said inher mild voice: "Do you want me to come back with you, Mercedes?"

"Will you?" Madame von Marwitz asked in a low voice. 

"Why, yes, of course I'll come if you want me, Mercedes, " said Mrs. Talcott. 

Madame von Marwitz now opened her door. "Thank you, Tallie, " she said. 

"You look pretty tired, " Mrs. Talcott, following her into the bedroom, remarked. "You'd better lie down and take a rest while I do the packing. Let's clear out as soon as we can. "