It was Mr. Quincunx who had to find the money for their bold adventure. Neither Vennie nor Lacrima could discover a single penny on their persons. Mr. Quincunx produced it from the bottom of an old jam-pot placed in the interior recesses of one of his deepest cupboards. He displayed to his three friends, with not a little pride, the sum he was possessed of,—no less in fact than five golden sovereigns.

Their walk to Yeoborough was full of thrilling little excitements. Three times they concealed themselves on the further side of the hedge, to let certain suspicious pedestrians, who might be Nevilton people, pass by unastonished.

Once well upon their way, they all four felt a strange sense of liberation and expansion. The little Neapolitan walked between Mr. Quincunx and Lacrima, a hand given to each, and her childish high spirits kept them all from any apprehensive brooding.

Once and once only, they looked back, and Mr. Quincunx shook his fist at the two distant hills.

“You are right,” he remarked to Vennie, “it’s the sea we’re in want of. These curst inland fields have the devil in their heavy mould.”

They found themselves, when they reached the town, with an hour to spare before their train started, and entering a little dairy-shop near the station, they refreshed themselves with milk and bread-and-butter. Here Mr. Quincunx and the child waited in excited expectation, while the two girls went out to make some necessary purchases—returning finally, in triumph, with a light wicker-work suit-case, containing all that they required for several days and nights.

They were in the train at last, with a compartment to themselves, and, as far as they could tell, quite undiscovered by anyone who knew them.

Vennie had hardly ever in her life enjoyed anything more than she enjoyed that journey. She felt that the stars were fighting on her side or, to put it in terms of her religion, that God Himself was smoothing the road in front of her.

She experienced a momentary pang when the train, at last, passing along the edge of the back-water, ran in to Weymouth Station. It was so sweet, so strangely sweet, to know that three living souls depended upon her for their happiness, for their escape from the power of the devil! Would she feel like this, would she ever feel quite like this, when the convent-doors shut her away from this exciting world?

They emerged from the crowded station,—Mr. Quincunx carrying the wicker-work suit-case—and made their way towards the Esplanade.

The early afternoon sun lay hot upon the pavements, but from the sea a strong fresh wind was blowing. Both the girls shivered a little in their thin frocks, and as the red shawl of the young Italian had already excited some curiosity among the passers-by, they decided to enter one of the numerous drapery shops, and spend some more of Mr. Quincunx’s money.

They were so long in the shop that the nervous excitement of the recluse was on the point of changing into nervous irritation, when at last they reappeared. But he was reconciled to the delay when he perceived the admirable use they had made of it.

All three were wearing long tweed rain-cloaks of precisely the same tint of sober grey. They looked like three sisters, newly arrived from some neighbouring inland town,—Dorchester, perhaps, or Sherborne,—with a view to spending a pleasant afternoon at the sea-side. Not only were they all wrapped in the same species of cloak. They had purchased three little woollen caps of a similar shade, such things as it would have been difficult to secure in any shop but a little unfashionable one, where summer and winter vogues casually overlapped.

Mr. Quincunx, whose exaltation of mood had not made him forget to bring his own overcoat with him, now put this on, and warmly and comfortably clad, the four fugitives from Nevilton strolled along the Esplanade in the direction of St. John’s church.

To leave his three companions free to run down to the sea’s edge, Mr. Quincunx possessed himself of the clumsy paper parcels containing the hats they had relinquished and also of the little girl’s red shawl, and resting on a seat with these objects piled up by his side he proceeded to light a cigarette and gaze placidly about him. The worst of his plunge into activity being over,—for, whatever happened, the initial effort was bound to be the worst,—the wanderer from Dead Man’s Lane chuckled to himself with bursts of cynical humour as he contemplated the situation they were in.

But what a relief it was to see the clear-shining foam-sprinkled expanse of water lying spread out before him! Like the younger Andersen, Mr. Quincunx had a passionate love of Weymouth, and never had he loved it more than he did at that moment! He greeted the splendid curve of receding cliffs—the White Nore and St. Alban’s Head—with a sigh of profound satisfaction, and he looked across to the massive bulk of Portland, as though in its noble uncrumbling stone—stone that was so much nearer to marble than to clay—there lurked some occult talisman ready to save him from everything connected with Leo’s Hill.

Yes, the sea was what he wanted just then! How well the salt taste of it, the smell of its sun-bleached stranded weeds, its wide horizons, its long-drawn murmur, blent with the strange new mood into which that morning’s events had thrown him!

How happy the little Dolores looked, between Lacrima and Vennie, her dark curls waving in the wind from beneath her grey cap!

All at once his mind reverted to James Andersen, lying now alone and motionless, under six feet of yellow clay. Mr. Quincunx shivered. After all it was something to be alive still, something to be still able to stroke one’s beard and stretch one’s legs, and fumble in one’s pocket for a “Three Castles” cigarette!

He wondered vaguely how and when this young St. Catharine of theirs intended to marry him to Lacrima. And then what? Would he have to work frightfully, preposterously hard?

He chuckled to himself to think how blank Mr. Romer would look, when he found that both his victims had been spirited away in one breath. What a girl this Vennie Seldom was!

He tried to imagine what it would be like, this business of being married. After all, he was very fond of Lacrima. He hoped that dusky wavy hair of hers were as long as it suggested that it was! He liked girls to have long hair.

Would she bring him his tea in the morning, sometimes, with bare arms and bare feet? Would she sit cross-legged at the foot of his bed, while he drank it, and chatter to him of what they would do when he came back from his work?

His work! That was an aspect of the affair which certainly might well be omitted.

And then, as he stared at the three girlish figures on the beach, there came over him the strange illusion that both Vennie and Lacrima were only dream-people—unreal and fantastic—and that the true living persons of his drama were himself and his little Neapolitan waif.

Suppose the three girls were to take a boat—one of those boats whose painted keels he saw glittering now so pleasantly on the beach—and row out into the water. And suppose the boat were upset and both Vennie and Lacrima drowned? Would he be so sad to have to live the rest of his life alone with the little Dolores?

Perhaps it would be better if this event occurred after Vennie had helped him to secure some work to do—some not too hard work! Well—Vennie, at any rate, was going to be drowned in a certain sense, at least she was meditating entering a convent, and that was little different from being drowned, or being buried in yellow clay, like James Andersen!

But Lacrima was not meditating entering a convent. Lacrima was meditating being married to him, and being a mother to their adopted child. He hoped she would be a gentle mother. If she were not, if she ever spoke crossly to Dolores, he would lose his temper. He would lose his temper so much that he would tremble from head to foot! He called up an imaginary scene between them, a scene so vivid that he found himself trembling now, as his hand rested upon the paper parcel.

But perhaps, if by chance they left England and went on a journey,—Witch-Bessie had found a journey, “a terrible journey,” in the lines of his hand,—Lacrima would catch a fever in some foreign city, and he and Dolores would be left alone, quite as alone as if she were drowned today!

But perhaps it would be he, Maurice Quincunx, who would catch the fever. No! He did not like these “terrible journeys.” He preferred to sit on a seat on Weymouth Esplanade and watch Dolores laughing and running into the sea and picking up shells.

The chief thing was to be alive, and not too tired, or too cold, or too hungry, or too harassed by insolent aggressive people! How delicious a thing life could be if it were only properly arranged! If cruelty, and brutality, and vulgarity, and office-work, were removed!

He could never be cruel to anyone. From that worst sin,—if one could talk of such a thing as sin in this mad world,—his temperament entirely saved him. He hoped when they were married that Lacrima would not want him to be too sentimental about her. And he rather hoped that he would still have his evenings to himself, to turn over the pages of Rabelais, when he had kissed Dolores good night.

His meditations were interrupted at this point by the return of his companions, who came scrambling across the shingle, threading their way among the boats, laughing and talking merrily, and trailing long pieces of sea-weed in their hands.

Vennie announced that since it was nearly four o’clock it would be advisable for them to secure their lodging for the night, and when that was done she would leave them to their own devices for an hour or two, while she proceeded to the Gloucester Hotel to have her interview with Ralph Dangelis.

Their various sea-spoils being all handed over to the excited little foundling, they walked slowly along the Esplanade, still bearing to the east, while they surveyed the appearance of the various “crescents,” “terraces,” and “rows” on the opposite side of the street. It was not till they arrived at the very end of these, that Vennie, who had assumed complete responsibility for their movements, piloted them across the road.

The houses they now approached were entitled “Brunswick Terrace,” and they entirely fulfilled their title by suggesting, in the pleasant liberality of their bay-windows and the mellow dignity of their well-proportioned fronts, the sort of solid comfort which the syllables “Brunswick” seem naturally to convey. They began their enquiries for rooms, about five doors from the end of the terrace, but it was not till they reached the last house,—the last except two reddish-coloured ones of later date,—that they found what they wanted.

It was arranged that the two Italians should share a room together. Vennie elected to sleep in a small apartment adjoining theirs, while Mr. Quincunx was given a front-room, looking out on the sea, on the third floor.

Vennie smiled to herself as she thought how amazed her mother would have been could she have seen her at that moment, as she helped Lacrima to unpack their solitary piece of luggage, while Mr. Quincunx smoked cigarettes in the balcony of the window!

She left them finally in the lodging-house parlour, seated on a horse-hair sofa, watching the prim landlady preparing tea. Vennie refused to wait for this meal, being anxious—she said—to get her interview with the American well over, for until that moment had been reached, she could neither discuss their future plans calmly, nor enjoy the flavour of the adventure.

When Vennie had left them, and the three were all comfortably seated round the table, Mr. Quincunx found Lacrima in so radiant a mood that he began to feel a little ashamed of his ambiguous meditations on the Esplanade. She was, after all, quite beautiful in her way,—though, of course, not as beautiful as the young Neapolitan, whose eyes had a look in them, even when she was happy, which haunted one and filled one with vague indescribable emotions.

Mr. Quincunx himself was in the best of spirits. His beard wagged, his nostrils quivered, his wit flowed. Lacrima fixed her eyes upon him with delighted appreciation,—and led him on and on, through a thousand caprices of fancy. The poor Pariah’s heart was full of exquisite happiness. She felt like one actually liberated from the tomb. For the first time since she had known anything of England she was able to breathe freely and spontaneously and be her natural self.

For some queer reason or other, her thoughts kept reverting to James Andersen, but reverting to him with neither sadness nor pity. She felt no remorse for not having been present when he was buried that morning. She did not feel as though he were buried. She did not feel as though he were dead. She felt, in some strange way, that he had merely escaped from the evil spells of Nevilton, and that in the power of his new strength he was the cause of her own emancipation.

And what an emancipation it was! It was like suddenly becoming a child again—a child with power to enjoy the very things that children so often miss.

Everything in this little parlour pleased her. The blue vases on the mantelpiece containing dusty “everlasting flowers,” the plush-framed portraits of the landlady’s deceased parents, enlarged to a magnitude of shadowy dignity by some old-fashioned photographic process, the quaint row of minute china elephants that stood on a little bracket in the corner, the glaring antimacassar thrown across the back of the arm-chair, the sea-scents and sea-murmurs floating in through the window, the melodious crying of a fish-pedler in the street; all these things thrilled her with a sense of freedom and escape, which over-brimmed her heart with happiness.

What matter, after all, she thought, that her little compatriot with the wonderful eyes had been the means of arousing her friend from his inertia! Her long acquaintance with Mr. Quincunx had mellowed her affection for him into a tenderness that was almost maternal. She could even find it in her to be glad that she was to be saved from the burden of struggling alone with his fits of melancholia. With Dolores to keep him amused, and herself to look after his material wants, it seemed probable that, whatever happened, the dear man would be happier than he had ever dreamed of being!

The uncertainty of their future weighed upon her very little. She had the true Pariah tendency to lie back with arms outstretched upon the great tide, and let it carry her whither it pleased. She had done this so long, while the tide was dark and evil, that to do it where the waters gleamed and shone was a voluptuous delight.

While her protÉgÉes were thus enjoying themselves Vennie sought out and entered, with a resolute bearing, the ancient Gloucester Hotel. The place had recently been refitted according to modern notions of comfort, but in its general lines, and in a certain air it had of liberal welcoming, it preserved the Georgian touch.

She was already within the hall-way when, led by an indefinable impulse to look back, she caught sight of Dangelis himself walking rapidly along the Esplanade towards the very quarter from which she had just come. Without a moment’s hesitation she ran down the steps, crossed the road and followed him.

The American seemed to be inspired by some mania for fast walking that afternoon. Vennie was quite breathless before she succeeded in approaching him, and she did not manage to do this until they were both very nearly opposite Brunswick Terrace.

Just here she was unwilling to make herself known, as her friends might at any moment emerge from their lodging. She preferred to follow the long strides of the artist still further, till, in fact he had led her, hot and exhausted in her new cloak, quite beyond the limits of the houses.

Where the town ceases, on this eastern side, a long white dusty road leads across a mile or two of level ground before the noble curve of cliffs ending in St. Alban’s Head has its beginning. This road is bounded on one hand by a high bank of shingle and on the other by a wide expanse of salt-marshes known in that district under the name of Lodmoor. It was not until the American had emerged upon this solitary road that his pursuer saw fit to bring him to a halt.

“Mr. Dangelis!” she called out, “Mr. Dangelis!”

He swung round in astonishment at hearing his name. For the first moment he did not recognize Vennie. Her newly purchased attire,—not to speak of her unnaturally flushed cheeks,—had materially altered her appearance. When she held out her hand, however, and stopped to take breath, he realized who she was.

“Oh Mr. Dangelis,” she gasped, “I’ve been following you all the way from the Hotel. I so want to talk to you. You must listen to me. It’s very, very important!”

He held his hat in his hand, and regarded her with smiling amazement.

“Well, Miss Seldom, you are an astonishing person. Is your mother here? Are you staying at Weymouth? How did you catch sight of me? Certainly—by all means—tell me your news! I long to hear this thing that’s so important.”

He made as if he would return with her to the town, but she laid her hand on his arm.

“No—no! let’s walk on quietly here. I can talk to you better here.”

The roadway, however, proved so disconcerting, owing to great gusts of wind which kept driving the sand and dust along its surface, that before Vennie had summoned up courage to begin her story, they found it necessary to debouch to their left and enter the marshy flats of Lodmoor. They took their way along the edge of a broad ditch, whose black peat-bottomed waters were overhung by clumps of “Michaelmas daisies” and sprinkled with weird glaucous-leafed plants. It was a place of a singular character, owing to the close encounter in it of land and sea, and it seemed to draw the appeal of its strange desolation almost equally from both these sources.

Vennie, on the verge of speaking, found her senses in a state of morbid alertness. Everything she felt and saw at that moment lodged itself with poignant sharpness in her brain and returned to her mind long afterwards. So extreme was her nervous tension that she found it difficult to disentangle her thoughts from all these outward impressions.

The splash of a water-rat became an episode in her suspended revelation. The bubbles rising from the movements of an eel in the mud got mixed with the image of Mrs. Wotnot picking laurel-leaves. The flight of a sea-gull above their heads was a projection of Dangelis’ escape from the spells of his false mistress. The wind shaking the reeds was the breath of her fatal news ruffling the man’s smiling attention. The wail of the startled plovers was the cry of her own heart, calling upon all the spirits of truth and justice, to make him believe her words.

She told him at last,—told him everything, walking slowly by his side with her eyes cast down and her hands clasped tight behind her.

When she had finished, there was an immense intolerable silence, and slowly, very slowly, she permitted her glance to rise to her companion’s face, to grasp the effect of her narration upon him.

How rare it is that these world-shaking revelations produce the impression one has anticipated! To Vennie’s complete amazement,—and even, it must be allowed, a little to her dismay,—Dangelis regarded her with a frank untroubled smile.

“You,—I—” she stammered, and stopped abruptly. Then, before he could answer her, “I didn’t know you knew all this. Did you really know it,—and not mind? Don’t people mind these things in—in other countries?”

Dangelis spoke at last. “Oh, yes of course, we mind as much as any of you; that is to say, if we do mind,—but you must remember, Miss Seldom, there are circumstances, situations,—there are, in fact feelings,—which make these things sometimes rather a relief than otherwise!”

He threw up his stick in the air, as he spoke, and caught it as it descended.

“Pardon me, one moment, I want—I want to see if I can jump this ditch.”

He threw both stick and hat on the ground, and to Vennie’s complete amazement, stepped back a pace or two, and running desperately to the brink of the stream cleared it with a bound. He repeated this manoeuvre from the further bank, and returned, breathing hard and fast, to the girl’s side.

Picking up his hat and stick, he uttered a wild series of barbaric howls, such howls as Vennie had never, in her life, heard issuing from the mouth of man or beast. Had Gladys’ treachery turned his brain?

But no madman could possibly have smiled the friendly boyish smile with which he greeted her when this performance was over.

“So sorry if I scared you,” he said. “Do you know what that is? It’s our college ‘yell.’ It’s what we do at base-ball matches.”

Vennie thought he was going to do it again, and in her apprehension she laid a hand on his sleeve.

“But don’t you really mind Miss Romer’s being like this? Did you know she was like this?” she enquired.

“Don’t let’s think about her any more,” cried the artist. “I don’t care what she’s like, now I can get rid of her. To tell you the honest truth, Miss Seldom, I’d come down here for no other reason than to think over this curst hole I’ve got myself into, and to devise some way out.

“What you tell me,—and I believe every word of it, I want to believe every word of it!—just gives me the excuse I need. Good-bye, Miss Gladys! Good-bye, Ariadne! ‘Ban-ban, Ca-Caliban, Have a new master, get a new man!’ No more engagements for me, dear Miss Seldom! I’m a free lance now, a free lance,—henceforward and forever!”

The exultant artist was on the point of indulging once more in his college yell, but the scared and bewildered expression on Vennie’s face saved her from a second experience of that phenomenon.

“Shall I tell you what I was thinking of doing, as I strolled along the Front this afternoon?”

Vennie nodded, unable to repress a smile as she remembered the difficulty she had in arresting this stroll.

“I was thinking of taking the boat for the Channel Islands tomorrow! I even went so far as to make enquiries about the time it started. What do you think of that?”

Vennie thought it was extremely singular, and she also thought that she had never heard the word “enquiries” pronounced in just that way.

“It leaves quite early, at nine in the morning. And it’s some boat,—I can tell you that!”

“Well,” continued Vennie, recovering by degrees that sense of concentrated power which had accompanied her all day, “what now? Are you still going to sail by it?”

“That’s—a—large—proposition,” answered her interlocutor slowly. “I—I rather think I am!”

One effect of his escape from his Nevilton enchantress seemed to be an irrepressible tendency to relapse into the American vernacular.

They continued advancing along the edge of the ditch, side by side.

Vennie plunged into the matter of Lacrima and Mr. Quincunx.

She narrated all she knew of this squalid and sinister story. She enlarged upon the two friends’ long devotion to one another. She pictured the wickedness and shame of the projected marriage with John Goring. Finally she explained how it had come about that both Mr. Romer’s slaves, and with them the little circus-waif, were at that moment in Weymouth.

“And so you’ve carried them off?” cried the Artist in high glee. “Bless my soul, but I admire you for it! And what are you going to do with them now?”

Vennie looked straight into his eyes. “That is where I want your help, Mr. Dangelis!”

It was late in the evening before the citizen of Toledo, Ohio, and the would-be Postulant of the Sacred Heart parted from one another opposite the Jubilee Clock.

A reassuring telegram had been sent to Mrs. Seldom announcing Vennie’s return in the course of the following day.

As for the rest, all had been satisfactorily arranged. The American had displayed overpowering generosity. He seemed anxious to do penance for his obsession by the daughter, by lavishing benefactions upon the victims of the father. Perhaps it seemed to him that this was the best manner of paying back the debt, which his Æsthetic imagination owed to the suggestive charms of the Nevilton landscape.

He made himself, in a word, completely responsible for the three wanderers. He would carry them off with him to the Channel Isles, and either settle them down there, or make it possible for them to cross thence to France, and from France, if so they pleased, on to Lacrima’s home in Italy. He would come to an arrangement with his bankers to have handed over definitely to Mr. Quincunx a sum that would once and for all put him into a position of financial security.

“I’d have paid a hundred times as much as that,” he laughingly assured Vennie, “to have got clear of my mix-up with that girl.”

Thus it came about that at nine o’clock on the day which followed the burial of James Andersen, Vennie, standing on the edge of the narrow wharf, between railway-trucks and hawsers, watched the ship with the red funnels carry off the persons who—under Heaven—were the chief cause of the stone-carver’s death.

As the four figures, waving to her over the ship’s side grew less and less distinct, Vennie felt an extraordinary and unaccountable desire to burst into a fit of passionate weeping. She could not have told why she wept, nor could she have told whether her tears were tears of relief or of desolation, but something in the passing of that brightly-painted ship round the corner of the little break-water, gave her a different emotion from any she had ever known in her life.

When at last she turned her back to the harbour, she asked the way to the nearest Catholic Church, but in place of following the directions given her, she found herself seated on the shingles below Brunswick Terrace, watching the in-drawing and out-flowing waves.

How strange this human existence was! Long after the last block of Leonian stone had been removed from its place—long after the stately pinnacles of Nevilton House had crumbled into shapeless ruins,—long after the memory of all these people’s troubles had been erased and forgotten,—this same tide would fling itself upon this same beach, and its voice then would be as its voice now, restless, unsatisfied, unappeased.