I

THE moor was like an amethyst under a radiant August sky, and the air, with its harmony of wind and sunlight, was like music.

Eppie walked beside him and Peter trotted before. The forms were changed, but it might almost have been little Eppie, the boy Gavan, and Robbie himself who went together through the heather. The form was changed, but the sense of saneness so strong that it would have seemed perfectly natural to pass an arm about a child Eppie’s neck and to talk of the morning’s reading in the Odyssey.

Never had the feeling of reality been so vague or the dream sense been so beautiful. His instinctive choice of this peace, instead of the other, had been altogether justified. It was all like a delightful game they had agreed to play, and the only rule of the game was to take each other’s illusions for granted and, in so doing, to put them altogether aside.

It was as if they went in a dream that tallied while, outside their dream, the sad life of waking slept. It was all limpid, all effortless, all clear sunlight and clear wind: limpid, like a happy dream, yet deliciously muddled too, as a happy dream is often muddled, with its mazed consciousness that, since it is a dream, ordinary impossibilities may become quite possible, that one only has to direct a little the turnings of the fairy-tale to have them lead one where one will, and yet that to all strange happenings there hovers a background of contradiction that makes them the more of an enchanted perplexity.

In the old white house the general and Miss Barbara would soon be expecting them back to tea, both older, both vaguer, both, to Gavan’s appreciation, more and more the tapestried figures, the background to the young life that still moved, felt, thought in the foreground until it, too, should sink and fade into a tapestry for other dramas, other fairy-tales.

The general retold his favorite anecdotes with shorter intervals between the tellings; cared more openly, with an innocent greediness, about the exactitudes of his diet; was content to sit idly with an unremembering, indifferent benignancy of gaze. All the sturdier significances of life were fast slipping from him, all the old martial activities; it was like seeing the undressing of a child, the laying aside of the toy trumpet and the soldier’s kilt preparatory to bed. Miss Barbara was sweeter than ever—a sweetness even less touched with variations than last year. And she was sillier, poor old darling; her laugh had in it at moments the tinkling, feeble foolishness of age.

Gavan saw it all imperturbably—how, in boyhood, the apprehension of it would have cut into him!—and it all seemed really very good—as the furniture to a fairy-tale; the sweet, dim, silly tapestry was part of the peace. How Eppie saw it he didn’t know; he didn’t care; and she seemed willing not to care, either, about what he saw or thought. Eppie had for him in their fairy-tale all the unexacting loveliness of summer nature, healing, sunny, smiling. He had been really ill, he knew that now, and that the peace was in part the languor of convalescence, and, for the sake of his recovery, she seemed to have become a part of nature, to ask no questions and demand no dues.

To have her so near, so tender, so untroubling, was like holding in his hands a soft, contented wild bird. He could, he thought, have held it against his heart, and the heart would not have throbbed the faster.

There was nothing in her now of the young Valkyrie of mists and frosts, shaking spears and facing tragedy with stern eyes. She threatened nothing. She saw no tragedy. It was all again as if, in a bigger, more beautiful way, she gave him milk to drink from a silver cup. Together they drank, no potion, no enchanted, perilous potion, but, from the cup of innocent summer days, the long, sweet dream of an Eternal Now.

To-day, for the first time, the hint of a cloud had crept into the sky.

“And to-morrow, Eppie, ends our tÊte-À-tÊte,” he said. “Or will Grainger make as little of a third as the general and Miss Barbara?”

“He sha’n’t spoil things, if that’s what you mean,” said Eppie.

She wore a white dress and a white hat wreathed with green; the emerald drops trembled in the shadow of her hair. She made him think of some wandering princess in an Irish legend, with the white and green and the tranquil shining of her eyes.

“Not our things, perhaps; but can’t he interfere with them? He will want to talk with you about all the things we go on so happily without talking of.”

“I’ll talk to him and go on happily with you.”

It was almost on his lips to ask her if she could marry Grainger and still go on happily, like this, with him, Gavan. That it should have seemed possible to ask it showed how far into fairy-land they had wandered; but it was one of the turnings that one didn’t choose to take; one was warned in one’s sleep of lurking dangers on that road. It might lead one straight out of fairy-land, straight into uncomfortable waking.

“How happily we do go on, Eppie,” was what he did choose to say. “More happily than ever before. What a contrast this—to East London.”

She glanced at him. “And to Surrey.”

“And to Surrey,” he accepted.

“Surrey was worse than East London,” she said.

“I didn’t know how much of a strain it had been until I got away from it.”

“One saw it all in your face.”

“‘One’ meaning a clever Eppie, I suppose. But, yes, I had a bad moment there.”

The memory of that heave of sod had no place in fairy-land, even less place than the forecast of an Eppie married to Jim Grainger, and he didn’t let his thought dwell on it even when he owned to the bad moment, and he was thinking, really with amusement over her unconsciousness, of the two means of escape from it that he had found to his hand,—the pistol and her letter,—when she took up his words with a quiet, “Yes, I knew you had.”

“Knew that I had had a strain, you mean?”

“No, had a bad moment,” she answered.

“You saw it in my face?”

“No. I knew. Before I saw you.”

He smiled at her. “You have a clairvoyant streak in your Scotch blood?”

She smiled back. “Probably. I knew, you see.”

Her assurance, with its calm over what it knew, really puzzled him.

“Well, what did you know?”

She had kept on quietly smiling while she looked at him, and, though she now became grave, it was not as if for pain but for thankfulness. “It was in the evening, the day after I wrote to you, the day your father was buried. I went to my room to dress for dinner, my room next yours, you know. And I was looking out,—at the pine-tree, the summer-house where we played, and, in especial, I remember, at the white roses that I could smell in the evening so distinctly,—when I knew, or saw, I don’t know which, that you were in great suffering. It was most of all as if I were in you, feeling it myself, rather than seeing or knowing. Then,” her voice went on in its unshaken quiet, “I did seem to see—a grave; not your father’s grave. You were seeing it, too,—a green grave. And then I came back into myself and knew. You were in some way,—going. I stood there and looked at the roses and seemed only to wait intensely, to watch intensely. And after that came a great calm, and I knew that you were not going.”

She quietly looked at him again,—her eyes had not been on him while she spoke,—and, though he had paled a little, he looked as quietly back.

He found himself accepting, almost as a matter of course, this deep, subconscious bond between them.

But in another moment, another realization came. He took her hand and raised it to his lips.

“I always make you suffer.”

“No,” she answered, though she, now, was a little pale, “I didn’t suffer. I was beyond, above all that. Whatever happened, we were really safe. That was another thing I knew.”

He relinquished the kissed hand. “Dear Eppie, dear, dear Eppie, I am glad that this happened.”

It had been, perhaps, to keep the dream safely around them that she had shown him only the calm; for now she asked, and he felt the echo of that suffering—that shared suffering—in it, “You had, then, chosen to go?”

Somehow he knew that they were safe in the littler sense, that she would keep the dream unawakened, even if they spoke of the outside life. “Yes,” he said, “you saw what was happening to me, Eppie. I had chosen to go. But your letter came, and, instead, I chose to come to you.”

She asked no further question, walking beside him with all her tranquillity.

But, to her, it was not in a second childhood, not in a fairy-tale, that they went. She was tranquil, for him; a child, for him; healing, unexacting nature, for him. But she knew she had not needed his admission to know it, that it was life and death that went together.

Sometimes, as they walked, the whole glory of the day melted into a phantasmagoria, unreal, specious, beside the intense reality of their unspoken thoughts, his thoughts and hers; those thoughts that left them only this little strip of fairy-land where they could meet in peace. Thoughts only, not dislikes, not indifferences, sundered them. Their natures, through all nature’s gamut, chimed; they looked upon each other—when in fairy-land—with eyes of love. But above this accord was a region where her human breath froze in an icy airlessness, where her human flesh shattered itself against ghastly precipices. To see those thoughts of Gavan’s was like having the lunar landscape suddenly glare at one through a telescope. His thoughts and hers were as real as life and death; they alone were real; only—and this was why, under its burden, Eppie’s heart throbbed more deeply, more strongly,—only, life conquered death. No, more still,—for so the strange evening vision had borne its speechless, sightless witness,—life had already conquered death. She had not needed him to tell her that, either.

And these days were life; not the dream he thought them, not the fairy-tale, but balmy dawn stealing in, fresh, revivifying, upon his long, arctic night; the flush of spring over the lunar landscape. So she saw it with her eyes of faith.

The mother was strong in her. She could bide her time. She could see death near him and, so that he should not see her fear, smile at him. She could play games with him, and wait.

II

JIM GRAINGER arrived that evening, and Gavan was able to observe, at the closest sort of quarters, his quondam rival.

His condition was so obvious that its very indifference to observation took everybody into its confidence. Nobody counted with Mr. Grainger except his cousin, and since he held open before her eyes—with angry constancy, gloomy patience—the page of his devotion, the rest of the company were almost forced to read with her. One couldn’t see Mr. Grainger without seeing that page.

He held it open, but the period of construing had evidently passed. All that there was to understand she understood long since, so that he was, for the most part, silent.

In Eppie’s presence he would wander aimlessly about, look with an oddly irate, unseeing eye at books or pictures, and fling himself into deep chairs, where he sat, his arms folded in a sort of clutch, his head bent forward, gazing at her with an air of dogged, somber resolve.

He was not by nature so taciturn. It was amusing to see the vehemence of reaction that would overtake him in the smoking-room, where his volubility became almost as overbearing and oppressive as his silences.

He was a man at once impatient and self-controlled. His face was all made up of short, resolute lines. His nose, chopped off at the tip; his lips, curled yet compressed; the energetic modeling of his brows with their muscular protuberances; the clefted chin; the crest of chestnut hair,—all expressed a wilful abruptness, an arrested force, the more vehement for its repression.

And at present his appearance accurately expressed him as a determined but exasperated lover.

“Of course,” Miss Barbara said, in whispered confidence to Gavan, mingled pity and reprobation in her voice, “as her cousin he comes when he wishes to do so. But she has refused him twice already—he told me so himself; and, simply, he will not accept it. He only spoke of it once, and it was quite distressing. It really grieved me to hear him. He said that he would hang on till one or the other of them was dead.” Grainger’s words in Miss Barbara’s voice were the more pathetic for their incongruity.

“And you don’t think she will have him,—if he does hang on?” Gavan asked.

Miss Barbara glanced at him with a soft, scared look, as though his easy, colloquial question had turned a tawdry light on some tender, twilight dreaming of her own.

He had wondered, anew of late, what Miss Barbara did think about him and Eppie, and what she had thought he now saw in her eyes, that showed their little shock, as at some rather graceless piece of pretence. He was quite willing that she should think him pretending, and quite willing that she should place him in Grainger’s hopeless category, if future events would be most easily so interpreted for her; so that he remained silent, as if over his relief, when she assured him, “Oh, I am sure not. Eppie does not change her mind.”

Grainger’s presence, for all its ineffectuality, thus witnessed to by Miss Barbara, was as menacing to peace and sunshine as a huge thunder-cloud that suddenly heaves itself up from the horizon and hangs over a darkened landscape. But Eppie ignored the thunder-cloud; and, hanging over fairy-land, it became as merely decorative as an enchanted giant tethered at a safe distance and almost amusing in his huge helplessness.

Eppie continued to give most of her time to Gavan, coloring her manner with something of a hospital nurse’s air of devotion to an obvious duty, and leaving Grainger largely to the general’s care while she and Gavan sat reading for hours in the shade of the birch-woods.

Grainger often came upon them so; Eppie in her white dress, her hat cast aside, a book open upon her knees, and Gavan, in his white flannels, lying beside her, frail and emaciated, not looking at her,—Grainger seldom saw him look at her,—but down at the heather that he softly pulled and wrenched at. They were as beautiful, seen thus together, as any fairy-tale couple; flakes of gold wavering over their whiteness, the golden day all about their illumined shade, and rivulets from the sea of purple that surrounded them running in among the birches, making purple pools and eddies.

Very beautiful, very strange, very pathetic, with all their serenity; even the unimaginative Grainger so felt them when, emerging from the gold and purple, he would pause before them, swinging his stick and eying them oddly, like people in a fairy-tale upon whom some strange enchantment rested. One might imagine—but Grainger’s imagination never took him so far—that they would always sit there among the birches, spellbound in their peace, their smiling, magic peace.

“Come and listen to Faust, Jim. We are polishing up our German,” Eppie would cheerfully suggest; but Grainger, remarking that he had none to polish, would pass on, carrying the memory of Gavan’s impassive, upward glance at him and the meaning in Eppie’s eyes—eyes in which, yes, he was sure of it, and it was there he felt the pathos, some consciousness seemed at once to hide from and to challenge him.

“Is he ill, your young Palairet?” he asked her one day, when they were alone together in the library. His rare references to his own emotions made the old, cousinly intimacy a frequent meeting-ground.

He noticed that a faint color drifted into Eppie’s cheek when he named Gavan.

“He is as old as you are, Jim,” she remarked.

“He looks like a person to be taken care of, all the same.”

“He has been ill. He took care of some one else, as it happens. He nursed his father for months.”

“Um,” Grainger gave an inarticulate grunt, “just about what he’s fit for, isn’t it? to help dying people out of the world.”

Eppie received this in silence, and he went on: “He looks rather like a priest, or a poet—something decorative and useless.”

“Would you call Buddha decorative and useless?”

“After all, Palairet isn’t a Hindoo. One expects something more normal from a white man.”

His odd penetration was hurting her, but she laughed at his complacent Anglo-Saxondom. “If you want a white man, what do you make of the one who wrote the Imitation?”

“Make of him? Nothing. Nor any one else, I fancy. What does your young Palairet do?” Grainger brought the subject firmly back from her digression.

Eppie was sitting in the window-seat, and, leaning her head back, framed in an arabesque of creepers, she now owned, after a little pause, and as if with a weariness of evasion she was willing to let him see as she did: “Nothing, really.”

“Does he care about anything?” Grainger placed himself opposite her, folding his arms with an air of determined inquiry.

And again Eppie owned, “He believes in nothing, so how can he care?”

“Believes in nothing? What do you mean by that?”

“Well,” with a real sense of amusement over the inner icy weight, she was ready to put it in its crudest, most inclusive terms, “he doesn’t believe in immortality.”

Grainger stared, taken aback by the ingenuous avowal.

“Immortality? No more do I,” he retorted.

“Oh, yes, you do,” said Eppie, looking not at him but out at the summer sky. “You believe in life and so you do believe in immortality, even though you don’t know that you do. You are, like most energetic people, too much preoccupied with living to know what your life means, that’s all.”

“My dear child,”—Grainger was fond of this form of appellation, an outlet for the pent-up forces of his baffled tenderness,—“any one who is alive finds life worth while without a Paradise to complete it, and any one who isn’t a coward doesn’t turn from it because it’s also unhappy.”

“If you think that Gavan does that you mistake the very essence of his skepticism, or, if you like to call it so, of his faith. It’s not because he finds it unhappy that he turns from it, but because he finds it meaningless.”

“Meaningless?—a place where one can work, achieve, love, suffer?”

Grainger jerked out the words from an underlying growl of protest.

Eppie now looked from the sky to him, her unconscious ally. “Dear old Jim, I like to hear you. You’ve got it, all. Every word you say implies immortality. It’s all a question of being conscious of one’s real needs and then of trusting them.”

“Life, here, now, could satisfy my needs,” he said.

She kept her eyes on his, at this, for a grave moment, letting it have its full stress as she took it up with, “Could it? With death at the end of it?” and without waiting for his answer she passed from the personal moment. “You said that life was worth while, and you meant, I suppose, that it was worth while because we were capable of making it good rather than evil.”

“Well, of course,” said Grainger.

“And a real choice between good and evil is only possible to a real identity, you’ll own?”

“If you are going to talk metaphysics I’ll cut and run, I warn you. Socratic methods of tripping one up always infuriate me.”

“I’m only trying to talk common-sense.”

“Well, go on. I agree to what you say of a real identity. We’ve that, of course.”

“Well, then, can an identity destroyed at death by the destruction of the body be called real? It can’t, Jim. It’s either only a result of the body, a merely materialistic phenomenon, or else it is a transient, unreal aspect of some supremely real World-Self and its good and its evil just as fated by that Self’s way of thinking it as the color of its hair and eyes is fated by nature. And if that were so the sense of freedom, of identity, that gives us our only sanction for goodness, truth, and worth, would be a mere illusion.”

Her earnestness, as she worked it out for him, held his eyes more than her words his thoughts. He was observing her with such a softening of expression as rarely showed itself on his virile countenance.

“You’ve thought it all out, haven’t you?” he said.

“I’ve tried to. Knowing Gavan has made me. It has converted me,” she smiled.

“So that’s your conversion.”

“Oh, more than that. I know that I’m in life; for it, and that’s more than all such reasoning.”

“And you believe that you’ll go on forever as you are now,” he said. His eyes dwelt on her: “Young and beautiful.”

“Forever; what queer words we must use to try to express it. We are in Forever now. It’s just that one casts in one’s lot, open-eyed, with life.”

“And has Palairet cast in his with death?”

Again the change of color was in her cheek, but it was to pallor now.

“He thinks so.”

“And he doesn’t frighten you?”

She armed herself to smile over Gavan’s old question. “Why should he?”

Grainger left her for some moments of aimless, silent wandering. He came back and paused again before her. He did not answer her.

“I throw in my lot with life, too, Eppie,” he said, “and I ask no more of it than the here and the now of our human affair. But that I do ask with all my might, and if might can give it to me, I’ll get it.”

She looked up at him gravely, without challenge, with a sympathy too deep for pity.

“At all events,” he added slowly, “at all events, in so far, our lots are cast together.”

“Yes,” she assented.

His eyes studied hers; his keen mind questioned itself: Could a woman look so steadily, with such a clear, untroubled sympathy, upon such a love as his, were there no great emotion within her, controlling her, absorbing her, making her indifferent to all lesser appeals? Had this negative, this aimless, this ambiguous man, captured, without any fight for it, her strong, her reckless heart? So he questioned, while Eppie still answered his gaze with eyes that showed him nothing but their grave, deep friendship.

“So it’s a contest between life and death?” he said at last.

“Between me and Gavan you mean?”

The shield of their personal question had dropped from her again, and the quick flush was in her cheek.

“Oh, I come into it, too,” he ventured.

“You don’t, in any way, depend on it, Jim.”

“So you say.” His eyes still mercilessly perused her. “That remains to be seen. If you lose, perhaps I shall come into it.”

Eppie found no answer.

III

IT was night, and Eppie, Gavan, and Jim Grainger were on the lawn before the house waiting for a display of fireworks.

Grainger was feeling sore for his own shutting-out from the happy child-world of games and confidences that the other two inhabited, for it had been to Gavan that she had spoken of her love for fireworks and he who had at once sent for them.

Grainger was sore and his heart heavy, and not only it seemed to him, on his own account. Since the encounter in the library there had been a veil between him and Eppie, and through it he seemed to see her face as waiting the oncoming of some unknown fate. Grainger could not feel that fate, whatever the form it took, as a happy one.

She stood between them now, in her white dress, wrapped around with a long, white Chinese shawl, and the light from the open window behind them fell upon her hair, her neck, her shoulders, and the shawl’s soft, thick embroideries that were like frozen milk.

Gavan and Grainger leaned against the deep creepers of the old walls, Gavan’s cigarette a steady little point of light, the glow of Grainger’s pipe, as he puffed, coming and going in sharp pulses of color.

Aunt Barbara sat within at the open window, and beyond the gates, at the edge of the moor, the general and the gardener, dark figures fitfully revealed by the light of lanterns, superintended the preparations.

The moment was like that in which one watches a poised orchestra, in which one waits, tense and expectant, for the fall of the conductor’s bÂton and for the first, sweeping note.

It seemed to break upon the stillness, sound made visible, when the herald rocket soared up from the dark earth, up to the sky of stars.

Bizarre, exquisite, glorious, it caught one’s breath with the swiftness, the strength, the shining, of its long, exultant flight; its languor of attainment; its curve and droop; the soft shock of its blossoming into an unearthly metamorphosis of splendor far and high on the zenith.

The note was struck and after it the symphony followed.

Like a ravished Ganymede, the sense of sight soared amazed among dazzling ecstasies of light and movement.

Thin ribbons of fire streaked the sky; radiant sheaves showered drops of multitudinous gold; fierce constellations of color whirled themselves to stillness on the night’s solemn permanence; a rain of stars drifted wonderfully, with the softness of falling snow, down gulfs of space. And then again the rockets, strong, suave, swift, and their blossoming lassitude.

Eppie gazed, silent and motionless, her uplifted profile like a child’s in its astonished joy. Once or twice she looked round at Gavan and at Grainger,—always first at Gavan,—smiling, and speechless with delight. Her folded arms had dropped to her sides and the shawl fell straightly from her shoulders. She made one think of some young knight, transfixed before a heavenly vision, a benediction of revealed beauty. The trivial occasion lent itself to splendid analogies. The strange light from above bathed her from head to foot in soft, intermittent, heavenly color.

Suddenly, in darkness, Grainger seized her hand. She had hardly felt the pressure, short, sharp with all the exasperation of his worship, before it was gone.

She did not turn to look at him. More than the unjustifiableness of the action, its unexpectedness, she felt a pain, a perplexity, as for something mocking, incongruous. And as if in instinctive seeking she turned her eyes on Gavan and found that he was looking at her.

Was it, then, her eyes, seeking and perplexed, that compelled him; was it his own enfranchised impulse; was it only a continuation of fairy-land fitness, the child instinct of sharing in a unison of touch a mutual wonder? In the fringes of her shawl his hand sought and found her hand. Another rose of joy had expanded on the sky; and they stood so, hand in hand, looking up.

Eppie looked up steadily; but now the outer vision was but a dim symbol, a reflection, vaguely seen, of the inner vision that, in a miracle of accomplished growth, broke upon her. She did not think or know. Her heart seemed to dilate, to breathe itself away in long throbs, that worshiped, that trembled, that prayed. Her strength was turned to weakness and her weakness rose to strength, and, as she looked up at the sky, the stars, the dream-like constellations that bloomed and drifted away, universes made and unmade on the void, her mind, her heart, her spirit were all one prayer and its strength and its humility were one.

She had known that she loved him, but not till now that she loved him with a depth that passed beyond knowledge; she had known that he loved her, but not till now had she felt that all that lived in him was hers forever. His voice, his eyes, might hide, might deny, but the seeking, instinctive hand confessed, dumbly, to all.

She had drawn him to her by her will; she had held him back from death by her love. His beloved hand clasped hers; she would never let him go.

Looking up at the night, the stars, holding his hand, she gave herself to the new life, to all that it might mean of woe and tragedy. Let it lead her where it would, she was beside him forever.

Yet, though her spirit held the sky, the stars, her heart, suffocated and appalled with love, seemed to lie at his feet, and the inarticulate prayer, running through all, said only, over and over, “O God, God.”

Meanwhile Grainger leaned against the wall, puffing doggedly at his pipe, unrepentant and unsatisfied.

“There, that is the end,” Miss Barbara sighed. “How very, very pretty. But they have made me quite sleepy.”

A few fumes still smoldered at the edge of the moor, and the night, like an obscure ocean, was engulfing the lights, the movements; after the radiance the darkness was thick, oppressive.

Eppie knew, as Gavan released her hand, that his eyes again sought hers, but she would not look at him. What could they say, here and now?

He went on into the house, and Grainger, lingering outside, detained her on the steps. “You forgive me?” he said.

She had almost forgotten for what, but fixing her eyes and thoughts upon him, she said, “Yes, Jim, of course.”

“I couldn’t stand it,—you were so lovely,” said Grainger; “I didn’t know that I was such a sentimental brute. But I had no business not to stand it. It’s my business in life to stand it.”

“I am so sorry, Jim,” Eppie murmured. “You know, I can do nothing—except forgive you.”

“I am not ungrateful. I know how good it is of you to put up with me. Do I bother you too much, Eppie?”

“No, Jim dear; you don’t.”

He stood aside for her to enter the house. He saw that, with all her effort to be kind, her thought passed from him. Pausing to knock the ashes of his pipe against the wall, he softly murmured, “Damn,” before following her into the house.

Eppie, in her own room, put out her candle and went to the window.

Leaning out, she could see the soft maze of tree-tops emerge from the dim abyss beneath. The boughs of the pine-tree made the starlit sky pale with their blackness.

This was the window where she and Gavan had stood on the morning of Robbie’s death. Here Gavan had shuddered, sobbing, in her arms. He had suffered, he had been able to love and suffer then.

The long past went before her, this purpose in it all, her purpose; in all the young, unconscious beginnings, in the reunion, in her growing consciousness of something to oppose, to conquer, to save. And to-night had consecrated her to that sacred trust. What lived in him was hers. But could she keep him in life? The memory, a dark shadow, of the deep indifference that she had seen in his contemplative eyes went with a chill over her.

Leaning out, she conquered her own deep fear, looking up at the stars and still praying, “O God, God.”

IV

SHE could not read his face next day. It showed a change, but the significance of the change was hidden from her. He knew that she knew; was that it? or did he think that they could still pretend at the unchanged fairy-tale where one clasped hands simply, like children? Or did he trust her to spare them both, now that she knew?

When they were alone, this, more than all, the pale, jaded face seemed to tell her, it would be able to hide nothing; but its strength was in evasion; he would not be alone with her.

All the morning he spent with the general and in the afternoon he went away, a book under his arm, down to the burn.

From the library window Eppie watched him go. She could see for a long time the flicker of his white figure among the distant birches.

She sat in a low chair in the deep embrasure of the window-seat, silent and motionless. She felt, after the night’s revelation, an apathy, mental and physical; a willing pause; a lull of the spirit, that rested in its accepted fate, should it be joyful or tragic. The very fact of such acceptance partook of both tragedy and joy.

Grainger was with her, walking, as usual, up and down the room, glancing at her as he passed and repassed.

He felt, all about him, within and without, the pressure of some crisis; and his ignorance, his intuitions, struggling within him, made a consciousness, oddly mingled, of sharp pain, deep dread, and, superficially, a suffocating irritation, continually rising and continually repressed.

Eppie’s aspect intensified the mingled consciousness. Her figure, in its thin dress of black and white, showed lassitude. With her head thrown back against the chair, her hands, long, white, inert, lying along the chair-arms, she looked out from the cool shadow of the room at the day, fierce in its blue and gold, its sunlight and its wind.

He had seen Gavan pass, so strangely alone; he had watched her watching of him. She was languid; but she was patient, she was strong. That was part of the suffocation, that such strength, such patience, should be devoted to ends so undeserving. More than by mere jealousy, though that seethed in him, he was oppressed by the bitter sense of waste, of the futile spending of noble capacity; for, more than all, she was piteous; there came the part of pain and dread, the presage of doom that weighed on his heart.

In her still figure, her steady look out at the empty, splendid vault of blue, the monotonous purple stretches of the moor, his unesthetic, accurate mind felt, with the sharp intuition that carried him so much further than any conscious appreciation, a symbol of the human soul contemplating the ominous enigma of its destiny. She made him dimly think of some old picture he had seen, a saint, courageous, calm, enraptured, in the luminous pause before a dark, accepted martyrdom. He did violence to the simile, shaking it off vehemently, with a clutch at the sane impatience of silly fancies.

Stopping abruptly before her, though hardly knowing for what end, he found himself saying, and the decisive words, as he heard, rather than thought them, had indeed the effect of shattering foolish visions, “I shall go to-day, Eppie.”

In seeing her startled, pained, expostulatory, he saw her again, very sanely, as an unfortunate woman bent on doing for herself and unable to hide her situation from his keen-sightedness. For really he didn’t know whether a hopeless love-affair or a hopeless marriage would the more completely “do” for her.

“My dear Jim, why to-day?” Eppie asked in a tone of kindest protest.

He was glad to have drawn her down to the solid ground of his own grievances. She hurt him less there.

“Why not to-day?” he retorted.

She replied that, if for no better reason, the weather was too lovely not to be enjoyed by them all together.

“Thanks, but I don’t care about the weather. Nor do I care,” Grainger went on, taking the sorry comfort that his own mere ill-temper afforded him, “to watch other people’s enjoyment—of more than weather. I’m not made of such selfless stuff as that.”

She understood, of course; perhaps she had all along understood what he was feeling more clearly than clumsy he had, and she met all that was beneath the mannerless words with her air of sad kindliness.

“You can share it, Jim.”

“No, I can’t share it. I share nothing—except the weather.”

She murmured, as she had the night before, that she was sorry, adding that she must have failed; but he interrupted her with: “It’s not that. You are all right. You give me all you can. It’s merely that you can’t give me anything I want. I came to see if there was any chance for me, and all I do see is that I may as well be off. I do myself no good by staying on,—harm, rather; you may begin to resent my sulkiness and my boorish relapses from even rudimentary good manners.”

“I have resented nothing, Jim. I can’t imagine ever resenting anything—from you.”

“Ah, that’s just the worst of it,” Grainger muttered.

“For your own sake,” Eppie went on, “you are perhaps wise to go. I own that I can’t see what happiness you can find in being with me, while you feel as you do.”

“While I feel as I do,” he repeated, not ironically, but as if weighing the words in a sort of wonder. “That ‘while’ is funny, Eppie. You are right. I don’t find happiness, and I came to seek it.” The “while” had cut deep. He paused, then added, eying her, “So I’ll go, and leave Palairet to find the happiness.”

Eppie was silent. Paler than before, her eyes dropped, she seemed to accept with a helpless magnanimity whatever he might choose to say. “You find me impertinent,”—Grainger, standing before her, clutched his arms across his chest and put his own thought of himself into the words,—“brutal.”

Without looking up at him she answered: “I am so fond of you, so near you, that I suppose I give you the right.”

The patient words, so unlike Eppie in their patience, the downcast eyes, were a torch to his exasperation.

“I can take it, then—the right?” he said. “I am near enough to say the truth and to ask it, Eppie?”

She rose and walked away from him.

With the sense of hot pursuit that sprang up in him he felt himself as ruthless as a boy, pushing through the thickets of reticence, through the very supplications of generosity, to the nest of her secret. It was not joy he sought, but his own pain, and to see it clearly, finally. He must see it. And when Eppie, her back to him, leaning her arm on the mantel and looking down into the empty cavern of the great chimney-place, answered, accepting all his implications, “Gavan hasn’t found any happiness,” he said, “He finds all that he asks for.”

It was as if he had wrenched away the last bough from the nest, and the words gave him, with their breathless determination, an ugly feeling of cruel, breaking malignity.

Eppie’s face was still turned from him so that he could not see how she bore the rifling, but in the same dulled and gentle voice she answered, “He doesn’t ask what you do.”

At that Grainger’s deepest resentment broke out.

“Doesn’t ask your love? No, I suppose not. The man’s a mollusk,—a wretched, diseased creature.”

He had struck at last a flash from her persistent gentleness. She faced him, and he saw that she tried to smile over deep anger.

“You say that because Gavan is not in love with me? It is a sick fancy that sees every man not in love with me as sick too.”

She had taken up a weapon at last, she really challenged him; and he felt, full on that quivering nerve of dread, that she defended at once herself and the man she loved from her own and from his unveiling.

It made a sort of rage rise in him.

“A man who cares for you,—a man who depends on you,—as he does,—a man whom you care for,—so much,—is a bloodless vampire if he doesn’t—respond.”

When he had driven the knife in like that, straight up to the hilt, he hardly knew whether his anger or his adoration were the greater; for, as if over a disabling wound, she bent her head in utter surrender, quite still for a moment, and then saying only, while she looked at him as if more sorry for him than for herself, “You hurt me, Jim.”

Tears of fury stood in his eyes. “You hurt, too. My love for you—a disease. My love, Eppie!”

“Forgive me.”

“Forgive you! I worship everything you say or do!”

“It was that it hurt too much to see—what you did, with your eyes.”

“Then—then—you don’t deny it,—if I have eyes to see, he too must see—how much you care?”

“I don’t deny it.”

“And if I have courage enough to ask it, you have courage enough to answer me? You love him, Eppie?”

He had come to her, his eyes threatening her, beseeching her, adoring her, all at once. She saw it all—all that he felt, and the furious pity that was deeper than his own deep pain. She could resent nothing, deny nothing. As she had said, he was so near.

She put her hand on his shoulder, keeping him from her, yet accepting him as near, and then all that she found to say—but it was in a voice that brought a rapt pallor to his face—was, “Dear Jim.”

He understood her—all that she accepted, all that she avowed. Her hand was that of a comrade in misfortune. She forgave brutality from a heart as stricken as his. She forgave even his cruelly clear seeing of her own desperate case—a seeing that had revealed to her that it was indeed very desperate. But if she too was stricken, she too was resolute, and she could do no more for him than look with him at the truth. Their eyes recognized so many likenesses in each other.

He took the hand at last in both his own, looking down at it, pressing it hard.

“Poor darling,” he said.

“No, Jim.”

“Yes; even if he loves you.”

“Even if he doesn’t love me—and he does love me in a strange, unwilling way; but even if he doesn’t love me,—as you and I mean love,—I am not piteous.”

“Even if he loves you, you are piteous.” All his savagery had fallen from him. His quiet was like the slow dropping of tears.

“No, Jim. There is the joy of loving. You know that.”

“You are more piteous than I, Eppie. You, you, to sue to such a man. He is the negation of everything you mean. To live with him would be like fighting for breath. If you marry him,—if you bring him to it,—he’ll suffocate you.”

“No, Jim,” she repeated,—and now, looking up, he saw in those beloved eyes the deep wells of solemn joy,—“I am the stronger.”

“In fighting, yes, perhaps. Not in every-day, passive life. He’ll kill you.”

“Even if he kills me he’ll not conquer me.”

He shook away the transcendentalism with a gentle impatience, “Much good that would do to me, who would only know that you were gone. Oh, Eppie!—“

He pressed and let fall her hand.

The words of the crisis were over. Anything else would be only, as it were, the filling in of the grave.

He had walked away from her to the window, and said presently, while he looked out: “And I thought that you were ambitious. I loved you for it, too. I didn’t want a wife who would acquiesce in the common lot or make a virtue of incapacity. I wanted a woman who would rather fail, open-eyed, in a big venture than rest in security. You would have buckled the sword on a man and told him that he must conquer high places for you. You would have told him that he must crown you and make you shine in the world’s eyes, as well as in his own. And I could do it. You are so worthy of all the biggest opportunities and so unfit for little places. It’s so stupid, you know,” he finished, “that you aren’t in love with me.”

“It is stupid, I own it,” Eppie acquiesced.

He found a certain relief in following these bitterly comic aspects of their case and presently took it up again with: “I am so utterly the man for you and he is so utterly not the man. I don’t mean that I’m big enough or enough worth your while, but at least I could give you something, and I could fight for you. He won’t fight, for you, or for anything.”

“I shall have to do all the fighting if I get him.”

“You want him so that you don’t mind anything else. I see that.”

“Exactly. For a long time I didn’t know how I loved him just because I had always taken all that you are saying for granted, in the funniest, most naÏvely conceited way; I took it for granted that I was a very big person and that the man I married must stand for big opportunities. Now, you see,” she finished, “he is my big opportunity.”

He was accepting it all now with no protest. “Next to no money, I suppose?” he questioned simply.

“Next to none, Jim.”

“It means obscurity, unless a man has ambition.”

“It means all the things I’ve always hated.” She smiled a little over these strange old hatreds.

Again a silence fell, and it was again Grainger who broke it.

“You may as well let me have the last drop of gall,” he said. “Own that if it hadn’t been for him you might have come to care for me.”

Still he did not look at her, and it was easier, so, to let him have the last gulp.

“I probably should.”

He meditated the mixed flavor for some moments; pure gall would have been easier to swallow. And he took refuge at last in school-boy phraseology. “I should like to break all the furniture in the room.”

“I should like to break some, too,” she rejoined, but she laughed out suddenly at this anticlimax, and, even before the unbroken heaviness of the gaze now turned on her, that comic aspect of their talk, the dearly, sanely comic, carried her laugh into a peal as boyish as his words.

Grainger still gazed at her. “I love that in you,” he said—“your laugh. You could laugh at death.”

“Ah, Jim,” she said, smiling on, though with the laughter tears had come to her eyes, “it’s a good deal more difficult to laugh at life, sometimes. And we both have to do a lot of living before we can laugh at death.”

“A lot of living,” he repeated. His stern, firm face had a queer grimace of pain at the prospect of it, and again she put out her hand to him.

“Let me count for as much as I can, always,” she said. “You will always count for so much with me.”

He had taken the hand, and he looked at her in a long silence that promised, accepted, everything.

But an appeal, a demand, wistful yet insistent, came into his silence as he looked—looked at the odd, pale, dear face, the tawny, russet hair, the dear, deep eyes.

“I’m going now,” he said, holding to his breast the hand she had given him. “And I will ask one thing of you—a thing I’ve never had and never shall, I suppose, again.”

“What is it, Jim?” But before his look she almost guessed and the guessing made her blanch.

“Let me take you in my arms and kiss you,” said Grainger.

“Ah, Jim!” Seeing herself as cruel, ungenerous, she yet, in a recoil of her whole nature, seemed to snatch from him a treasure, unclaimed, but no longer hers to give.

Grainger eyed her. “You could. You would—if it weren’t for him.”

“You understand that, too, Jim. I could and would.”

“He robs me of even that, then—your gift of courageous pity.”

His comprehension had arrested the recoil. And now the magnanimity she felt in him, the tragic force of the love he had seen barred from her forever, set free in her something greater than compassion and deeper than little loyalties, deeper than the lesser aspects of her own deep love. It was that love itself that seemed, with an expansion of power, to encircle all life, all need, all sorrow, and to find joy in sacrificing what was less to what was greater.

He saw the change that, in its illumined tenderness, shut away his craving heart yet drew him near for the benison that it could grant, and as she said to him, “No, Jim, he shall not rob you,” his arms went round her.

She shut her eyes to the pain there must be in enduring his passion of gratitude; but, though he held her close, kissing her cheeks, her brow, her hair, it was with a surprising, an exquisite tenderness.

The pain that came for her was when,—pausing to gaze long into her face, printing forever upon his mind the wonderful memory of what she could look like, for him—he kissed her lips; it came in a pang of personal longing; in a yearning, that rose and stifled her, for other arms, other kisses; and, opening her eyes, she saw, an ironic answer to the inner cry, Gavan’s face outside, turned upon her in an instant of swift passing.

Grainger had not seen. He did not speak another word to her. The kiss upon her lips had been in farewell. He had had his supreme moment. He let her go and left her.

V

GAVAN came up from the burn, restless and dissatisfied.

He had wanted solitude, escape; but when he was alone, and walking beside the sun-dappled water, the loneliness weighed on him and he had seemed to himself walking with his own ghost, looking into eyes familiar yet alien, with curiosity and with fear. Was it he or that phantom of the solitude who smiled the long, still smile of mockery?

How he wanted something and how he wanted not to want; to be freed from the intolerable stirring and striving within him, as of a maimed thing, with half-atrophied wings, that could never rise and fly to its goal. It was last night that had wakened this turmoil, and as he walked his thought turned and turned about those moments under the dazzling sky when he had found her hand in the fringes of her shawl.

He knew that there had been a difference in the yielding of her hand, as he had known, in his own helpless stretching out for it in the darkness, another impulse than that of childlike tenderness. It had been as if some deep, primeval will beneath his own had stretched his hand out, searching in the dark; and with the strange blissfulness of so standing with her beneath the stars, there came a strange, new fear, as though he no longer knew himself and were become an automaton held by some incalculable force.

Wandering through the woods in the hope of reËntering nature’s beneficent impersonality, he felt no anodynes—only that striving and stirring within him of maimed limbs and helpless wings.

There was no refuge in nature, and there was none in himself. The thought of Eppie as refuge did not form itself, but it was again in seeking, as if through darkness for he knew not what, that he turned to the house. And then, on all his tangled mood, fell the vibrating shock of that vision at the window.

With his quick looking away he did not know whether Eppie had seen him see. He went on, knowing nothing definite, until, suddenly, as if some fierce beast had seized him, he found himself struggling, choking, torn by a hideous, elemental jealousy.

He stood still in the afternoon sunlight as he became aware of this phenomenon in himself, his hands involuntarily clenched, staring as if at a palpable enemy.

The savage, rudimentary man had sprung up in him. He hated Grainger. He longed to beat him into the earth, to crush the breath out of him; and for a moment, most horrible of all,—a moment that seemed to set fangs in his throat,—he could not tell whether he more hated Eppie or more desired to tear her from the rival, to seize her and bear her away, with a passion untouched by any glamour.

And Gavan was conscious, through it all, that only inhuman heights made possible such crumbling, crashing falls into savagedom; conscious that Grainger could not have known such thoughts. They were as ugly as those of a Saint Anthony. Wholesome manhood would recoil from their debasement. He, too, recoiled, but the debasement was within him, he could not flee from it. The moment of realization, helpless realization, was long. Ultra-civilization stood and watched barbarian hordes swarm over its devastated ruins. Then, with a feeling of horrible shame, a shame that was almost a nausea, he went on into the house.

In his own room he sat down near the window, took his head in his hands, the gesture adding poignancy to his humiliation, and gazed at the truth. He had stripped himself of all illusion only to make himself the more helpless before its lowest forms. More than the realized love was the realized jealousy; more than the anguish at the thought of having lost her was the rage of the dispossessed, unsatisfied brute. Such love insulted the loved woman. He could not escape from it, but he could not feel the added grace and piety that, alone, could make it tolerable. From the fixed contemplation of his own sensations his mind dropped presently to the relief of more endurable thoughts. To feel the mere agony of loss was a dignifying and cleansing process. For, apparently, he had lost her. It was strange, almost unthinkable, that it should be so, and stranger the more he thought. He, who had never claimed, had no right to feel a loss. But he had not known till now how deep was his consciousness of their union.

She had long ago guessed the secret of the voiceless, ambiguous love that could flutter only as far as pain, that could never rise to rapture. She had guessed that behind its half-tortured, momentary smile was the impersonal Buddha-gaze; and because she so understood its inevitable doom she had guarded herself from its avowal—guarded herself and him. He had trusted her not to forget the doom, and not to let him forget it, for a moment. But all the time he had known that in her eyes he was captive to some uncanny fate, and that could she release him from his chains her love would answer his. He had been sure of it. Hence his present perplexity.

Perplexity began to resolve itself into a theory of commonplace expediency, and, feeling the irony of such resentment, he resented this tame sequel to their mute relationship.

Unconsciously, he had assumed that had he been able to ask her to be his wife she would have been able to consent. Her courage, in a sense, would have been the reward of his weakness, for what he would see in himself as weakness she would see as strength. Courage on her part it certainly would have needed, for what a dubious offering would his have been: glamour, at its best,—a helpless, drugged glamour,—and, at its worst, the mere brute instinct that, blessedly, this winding path of thought led him away from.

But she had probably come to despair of releasing him from chains, had come to see clearly that at the end of every avenue she walked with him the Buddha statue would be waiting in a serenity appalling and permanent; and, finding last night the child friendship dangerously threatened, discovering that the impossible love was dangerously real and menaced both their lives, she had swiftly drawn back, she had retreated to the obvious safeguards of an advantageous marriage. He couldn’t but own that she was wise and right; more wise, more right,—there was the odd part of it, the unadjusted bit where perplexity stung him,—than he could have expected her to be. Ambition and the common-sense that is the very staff of life counted for much, of course; but he hadn’t expected them to count so soon, so punctually, as it were.

Perhaps,—and his mind, disentangled from the personal clutch where such an interpretation might have hurt or horrified, safe once more on its Stylites pillar, dwelt quite calmly on this final aspect,—perhaps, with her, too, sudden glamour and instinct had counted, answering the appeal of Grainger’s passion. He suspected the whole fabric of the love between men and women to be woven of these blind, helpless impulses,—impulses that created their own objects. Her mind, with its recognition of danger, had chosen Grainger as a fitting mate, and, in his arms, she had felt that justification by the senses that people so funnily took for the final sanctification of choice.

This monkish understanding of the snares of life was quite untouched by monkish reprobation; even the sense of resentment had faded. And it spoke much for the long training of his thought in the dissecting and destroying of transitory desires that he was presently able to contemplate his loss—as he still must absurdly term it—with an icy tranquillity.

A breathlessness, as from some drastic surgical operation, was beneath it, but that was of the nature of a mere physical symptom, destined to readjust itself to lopped conditions; and with the full turning of his mind from himself came the fuller realization of how well it was with Eppie and a cold, acquiescent peace that, in his nature, was the equivalent for an upwelling of religious gratitude, for her salvation.

But the stress of the whole strange seizure, wrench and renouncement had told on him mentally and physically. Every atom of his being, as if from some violent concussion, seemed altered, shifted.

The change was in his face when, in the closing dusk of the day, he went down to the library. It was not steeled to the hearing of the news that must await him: such tension of endurance had passed swiftly into his habitual ease; but a look of death had crossed and marked it. It looked like a still, drowned face, sinking under deep waters, and Eppie, in her low chair near the window, where she had sat for many hours, saw in his eyes the awful, passionless detachment from life.

After his pause at the unexpected sight of her, sitting there alone, a pause in which she did not speak, although he saw that her eyes were on him, he went on softly down the room, glancing out at each window as he passed it; and he looked, as he went, like an evening moth, drifting, aimless, uncanny.

Outside, the moor stretched like a heavily sighing ocean, desolate and dark, to the horizon where, from behind the huge rim of the world, the sun’s dim glow, a gloomy, ominous red, mounted far into the sky.

Within the room, a soft, magical color pervaded the dusk, touching Eppie’s hair, her hands, the vague folds and fallings of her dress.

He waited for her to speak, though it seemed perfectly fitting that neither should. In the silence, the sadness of this radiant gloom, they needed no words to make more clear the accepted separation, and the silence, the sadness, were like a bleeding to quiet, desired death.

The day was dying, and the instable, impossible love was dying, too.

She had let go, and he quietly sank.

But when she spoke her words were like sharp air cutting into drowned lungs.

“I saw you pass this afternoon, Gavan.”

From the farthest window, where he had paused, he turned to her.

“Did you, Eppie?”

“Didn’t you see that I did?”

“I wasn’t sure.” He heard the flavor of helplessness in his own voice and felt in her a hard hostility, pleased to play with his helplessness.

“Why did you not speak of what you saw?” Her anger against him was almost like a palpable presence between them in the dark, glowing room. He began to feel that through some ugly blunder he was very much at her mercy, and that, for the first time, he should find little mercy in her; and, for the first time, too, a quick hostility rose in him to answer hers. It was as if he had tasted too deeply of release; all his strength was with him to fight off the threat of the returning grasp.

“Why should I?” he asked, letting her see in his gaze at her that just such a hard placidity would meet any interpretation she chose to give.

“Didn’t you care to understand?”

“I thought that I did understand.”

“What did you think, then?” Eppie asked.

He had to give her the helpless answer. “That you had accepted him.”

He knew, now, that she hadn’t, and that for him to have thought so was to have cruelly wronged her; and she took it in a long silence, as though she must give herself time to see it clearly, to adjust herself to it and to all that it meant—in him, for her.

What it meant, in her and for him, was filling his thoughts with a dizzy enough whirl of readjustment, and there mingled with it a strange after-flavor of the jealousy, and of the resentment against her; for, after all, though he had probably now an added reason for considering himself a warped wretch, there had been some reason for his mistake: if she hadn’t accepted him, why had he seen her so?

“Jim is gone,” she said at last.

“Because—It was unwillingly, then?”

The full flame of her scorn blazed out at that, but he felt, like an echo of tears in himself, that she would have burst into tears of wretchedness if she had not been able so to scorn him.

“Unwillingly! Why should you think him insolent and me helpless? Can you conceive of nothing noble?” she said.

“I am sorry, Eppie. I have been stupid.”

“You have—more than stupid. He was going and he asked me for that. And I gave it—proudly.”

“I am sorry,” Gavan repeated. “I see, of course. Of course it was noble.”

“You should be more than sorry. You knew that I did not love him.”

“I am more than sorry. I am ashamed,” he answered gravely.

He had the dignity of full contrition; but under it, unshaken after all, was the repudiation of the nearness that her explanation revealed. His heart throbbed heavily, for he saw, as never before, how near it was; yet he had never feared her less. He had learned too much that afternoon to fear her. He was sure of his power to save her from what he had so fully learned.

He looked away from her and for long out at the ebbing red, and it was the unshaken resolve that spoke at last. “But all the same I am sorry that it was only that. He would have made you happy.”

“You knew that I did not love him,” Eppie repeated.

“With time, as his wife, you might love him.” Facing her, now, folding his arms, he leaned back against the mantel at his far end of the room. “I know that I’ve seemed odiously to belittle and misunderstand you, and I am ashamed, Eppie—more ashamed than you can guess; but, in another way, it wasn’t so belittling, either. I thought you very wise and courageous. I thought that you had determined to take the real thing that life offered you and to turn your back, for once and for all, on—on unreal things.” He stopped at that, as though to let it have its full drop, and Eppie, her eyes still fixed on him from her distant chair, made no answer and no sign of dissent.

As he spoke a queer, effervescent blitheness had come to him, a light indifference to his own cruelty; and the hateful callousness of his state gave him a pause of wonder and interest. However, he couldn’t help it; it was the reaction, no doubt, from the deep disgust of his abasement, and it helped him, as nothing else would have done, thoroughly to accomplish his task.

“He can give you all the things you need,” he went on, echoing poor Grainger’s naÏf summing up of his own advantages. “He has any amount of money, and a very big future before him; and then, really above all, you do care for him so much. You see the same things in life. You believe in the same things; want the same things. If you would take him he would never fail you in anything.”

Still her heavy silence was unbroken. He waited in vain for a sign from her, and in the silence the vibration of her dumb agony seemed to reach him, so that, with all the callousness, he had to conquer an impulse to go to her and see if she wept. But when he said, “I wish you would take him, Eppie,” and she at last answered him, there were no tears in her voice.

“I will never take him.”

“Don’t say that,” he replied. “One changes.”

“Is that a taunt?”

“Not a taunt—a reminder.”

She rose and came to him, walking down the long room, past the somber illuminations of the windows, straight to him. They stood face to face, bathed in the unearthly light. All their deep antagonism was there between them, almost a hatred, and the love that swords clashed over.

“You do not believe that of me,” she said.

He was ready and unfaltering, and was able to smile at her, a bright, odd smile. “I believe it of any one.”

It was love that eyed him—love more stern, more relentless in its silence than if she had spoken it, and never had she been so near as when, sending her clarion of open warfare across the abyss, she said, “I will never change—to you.”

The words, the look,—a look of solemn defiance,—shattered forever the palace of pretence that they had dwelt in for so long. Till now, it might have stood for them. In its rainbow chambers they might still have smiled and sorrowed and eluded each other, only glanced through the glittering casements at the dark realities outside; but when the word of truth was spoken, casements, chambers, turrets, fell together and reality rushed in. She had spoken the word. After that it was impossible to pretend anything.

Gavan, among the wreck, had grown pale; but he kept his smile fixed, even while he, too, spoke the new language of reality.

“I am afraid of you, then.”

“Of course you are afraid of me.”

Still he smiled. “I am afraid for you.”

“Of course you are. You have your moments of humanity.”

“I have. And so I shall go to-morrow,” said Gavan.

She looked at him in silence, her face taking on its haggard, unbeautiful aspect of strange, rocky endurance. And never had his mind been more alert, more mocking, more aloof from any entanglement of feeling than while he saw her love and his; saw her sorrow and his sorrow—his strange, strange sorrow that, like a sick, helpless child, longed, in its darkness, its loneliness, to hide its head on her breast and to feel her arms go round it. Love and sorrow were far, far away—so far that it was as if they had no part at all in himself, as if it were not he that felt them.

“Are you so afraid as that?” Eppie asked.

“After last night?” he answered. “After what I felt when I saw you here, with him? After this? Of course I am as afraid as that. I must flee—for your life, Eppie. I am its shadow—its fatal shadow.”

“No, I am yours. Life is the shadow to you.”

“Well, on both sides, then, we must be afraid,” he assented.

She made no gesture, no appeal. Her face was like a rock. It was only that deep endurance and, under it, that deep threat. Never, never would she allure; never draw him to her; never build in her cathedral a Venusberg for him. He must come to her. He must kneel, with her, before her altar. He must worship, with her, her God of suffering and triumph. And, the dying light making her face waver before his eyes with a visionary strangeness, stern and angelic, he seemed to see, deep in her eyes, the burning of high, sacramental candles.

That was the last he saw. In silence she turned and went. And what she left with him was the sad, awed sense of beauty that he knew when watching kneeling multitudes bowed before the great myth of the Church,—in silence, beneath dim, soaring heights. He was near humanity in such moments of self-losing, when the cruder myth of the great world, built up by desire, slipped from it. And Eppie, in this symbolic seeing of her, was nearer than when he desired or feared her. Beauty, supreme and disenfranchising, he saw. He did not know what he felt.

Far away, on the horizon, in the gloomy waste of embers, the sun’s deep core still burned, and in his heart was a deep fatigue, like the sky’s slow smoldering to gray.

VI

GRAINGER had gone, and Gavan announced his departure for the next morning. The situation was simplified, he felt, by Eppie’s somber preoccupation. He was very willing that she should be seen as a gloomy taker of scalps and that his own should be supposed to be hanging at her girdle. The resultant muteness and melancholy in the general and Miss Barbara were really a comfort. The dear old figures in the tapestry seemed fading to-night into mere plaintive shadows, fixing eyes of sad but unquestioning contemplation upon the latent tragedies of the foreground figures.

It was a comfort to have the tapestry so reticent and so submissive, but, all the same, it made the foreground tragedy, for his eyes, painfully distinct. He could look at nothing else. Eppie seemed to stand, with her broken and bleeding heart, in the very center of the design. For the first time he saw what the design was—saw all of it, from the dim reaches of the past, as working to this end.

The weaving of fate was accomplished. There she stood, suffering, speechless, and he, looking at her, fatal shuttle of her doom that he was, felt under all the ashes a dull throbbing.

After dinner he smoked a cigar with the general, who, tactfully, as to one obviously maimed, spoke only of distant and impersonal matters. Gavan left him over some papers in the quiet light of the smoking-room and went to the library. Eppie, with her broken heart, was not there. The night was very hot. By an open window Miss Barbara sat dozing, her hands upturned with an appealing laxity on her knees, sad even in her sleep.

Eppie was not there and she had not spoken one word to him since those last words of the afternoon. Perhaps she intended to speak no more, to see him no more. Pausing on the threshold, he was now conscious of a slow, rising misery.

If he was to be spared the final wrench, he was also to be robbed of something. He hadn’t known, till then, of how much. He hadn’t known, while she stood there before him, this fully revealed Eppie, this Eppie who loved far beyond his imagining, far beyond prudence, ambition, even happiness, what it would be not to see her again, to part from her speechlessly, and with a sort of enmity unresolved between them.

The cathedral simile was still with him, not in her interpretation of it, as the consecration of human love, but in his own, as a place of peace, where together they might still kneel in farewell.

But she barred him out from that; she wouldn’t accept such peace. He could only submit and own that she was perhaps altogether right in risking no more battles and in proudly denying to him the opportunity of any reconciling. She was right to have it end there; but the core among the embers ached.

He wandered out into the dark, vague night, sorrowfully restless.

It was not a radiant night. The trees and the long undulations of the moorland melted into the sky, making all about a sea of enveloping obscurity. The moor might have been the sky but for its starlessness; and there were few stars to-night, and these, large and soft, seemed to float like helpless expanded flowers on a still ocean.

A night for wandering griefs to hide in, to feel at one with, and, with an instinct that knew that it sorrowed but hardly knew that it sought, Gavan went on around the house, through the low door in the garden wall, and into the garden.

Here all the warmth and perfume of the summer day seemed still to exhale itself in a long sigh like that of a peaceful sleeper. Earth, trees, fruit, and flowers gave out their drowsy balms. Veiled beauty, dreaming life, were beneath, above, about him, and the high walls inclosed a place of magic, a shadow paradise.

He walked on, past white phlox, white pansies, and white foxglove, through the little trellis where white jasmine starred its festoons of frail, melancholy foliage, and under the low boughs of the small, gnarled fruit-trees. Near the summer-house he paused, looking in at the darkness and seeing there the figures of the past—two children at play. His heart ached on dully, the smoldering sorrow rising neither to passionate regret nor to passionate longing, acquiescing in its own sorrow that was part of the vision. Moved by that retrospect, he stepped inside.

The sweet old odor, so well remembered, half musty, half fresh, of cobwebbed wood, lichened along the lintels and doorway beams, assailed him while he groped lightly around the walls, automatically reaching out his hand to the doll’s locker, the little row of shelves, the low, rustic bench and the table that, he remembered as it rocked slightly under his touch, had always been unsteady. All were in their old, accustomed places, and among them he saw himself a ghost, some sightless, soundless creature hovering in the darkness.

The darkness and the familiar forms he evoked from it grew oppressive, and he stepped out again into the night, where, by contrast with the uncanny blindness, he found a new distinctness of form, almost of color, and where a memory, old and deep, seemed to seize him with gentle, compelling hands, in the fragrance of the white roses growing near the summer-house. Wine-like and intoxicating, it filled the air with magic; and he had gone but a few steps farther when, like a picture called up by the enchantment, he saw the present, the future too, it seemed, and, with a shock that for all its quiet violence was not unexpected, stood still to gaze, to feel in the one moment of memory and forecast all his life gathered into his contemplation.

Eppie sat on a low garden bench in the garden’s most hidden corner. With the fresh keenness of sight he could see the clustering white roses on the wall behind her, see against them the darkness of her hair, the whiter whiteness of her dress, as she sat there with head a little bent, looking down, the long white shawl folded about her.

It was no longer the Eppie of the past, not even the Eppie of the present: the present was only that long pause. It was the future that waited there, silent, motionless, almost as if asleep; waited for the word and touch that would reveal it.

She had not heard his light step, and it seemed to be in the very stillness of his pause that the sense of his presence came to her. Raising her head she looked round at him.

He could only see the narrow oval of her face, but he felt her look; it seized him, compelling as the fragrance had been—compelling but not gentle. He felt it like firm hands upon him while he walked on slowly toward her, and not until he was near her, not until he had sat down beside her, did he see as well as feel her fixed and hostile gaze.

All swathed and infolded as she was, impalpable and unsubstantial in the darkness, her warm and breathing loveliness was like the aroma of a midnight flower. She was so beautiful sitting there, a blossoming of the darkness, that her beauty seemed aware of itself and of its appeal; and it was as if her soul, gazing at him, dominated the appeal; menaced him should he yield to it; yet loved, ah, loved him with a love the greater for the courage, the will, that could discipline it into this set, stern stillness.

Yes, here was the future, and what was he to do with it? or, rather, what was it to do with him? He was at her mercy.

He had leaned near her, his hand on the bench, to look into her eyes, and in a shaken, supplicating voice he said, “Eppie, Eppie, what do you want?”

Without change, looking deeply at him, she answered, “You.”

That crashed through him. He was lost, drowned, in the mere sense of beauty—the beauty of the courage that could so speak and so hold him at the point of a sword heroically drawn. And with the word the future seized him. He hid his face upon her shoulder and his arms went round her. Her breast heaved. For a moment she sat as if stricken with astonishment. Then, but with sternness, as of a just and angry mother, she clasped him, holding him closely but untenderly.

“I did not mean this,” she said.

“No; but you are it,” Gavan murmured.

She held him in the stern, untender clasp, her head drawn back from him, while, slowly, seeking her words over the tumult she subdued, she said: “It’s you I want—not your unwilling longing, not your unwilling love. I want you so that I can be really myself; I want you so that you can be really yourself.”

He strained her to him, hiding his face on her breast.

“Can’t you live? Can’t you be—if I help you?” she asked him.

For a long time he was silent, only pressing closely to her as though to hide himself from her questions—from his own thoughts.

He said at last: “I can’t think, Eppie. Your words go like birds over my head. Your suffering, my longing, hurt me; but it’s like the memory of a hurt. I am apart from it, even while I feel it. Even while I love you—oh, Eppie! Eppie!—I don’t care. But when we are like this—at last like this—I am caught back into it all, all that I thought I’d got over forever, this afternoon,—all the dreadful dream—the beautiful dream. It’s for this I’ve longed—you have known it: to hold you, to feel your breath on me, to dream with you. How beautiful you are, how sweet! Kiss me, Eppie,—darling, darling Eppie!”

“I will not kiss you. It would be real to me.”

He had raised his head and was seeing now the suffering of her shadowy eyes, the shadowy lips she refused him tragically compressed lest they should tremble. Behind her pale head and its heavy cloud of hair were the white roses giving out—how his mind reeled with the memory of it—the old, sweet, wine-like fragrance.

He closed his eyes to the vision, bending his lips to her hand, saying: “Yes, that’s why I wanted to spare you—wanted to run away.”

In the little distance now of his drawing from her, even while he still held her, his cheek on her hand, she could speak more easily.

“It is that that enrages me,—your mystic sickness. I am awake, but you aren’t even dreaming. You are drugged—drugged with thought not strong enough to find its real end. You have paralyzed yourself. No argument could cure you. No thought could cure you. Only life could cure you. You must get life, and to get it you must want it.”

“I don’t want it. I can’t want it. I only want you,” said Gavan, with such a different echo.

She understood, more fully than he, perhaps, the helpless words.

Above his bowed head, her face set, she looked out into the night. Her mind measured, coldly it seemed to her, the strength of her own faith and of his negation.

Her love, including but so far transcending all natural cravings, had its proud recoil from the abasement—oh, she saw it all!—that his limitation would bring to it. Yet, like the mother again, adapting truth to the child’s dim apprehension, leading it on by symbols, she brooded over her deep thoughts of redemption and looked clearly at all dangers and all hopes. Faith must face even his unspiritual seeing. Faith must endure his worse than pagan love. Bound to her by every natural tie, her strength must lift him, through them, to their spiritual aspect, to their reality. Life was her ally. She must put her trust in life. She consecrated herself to it anew. Let it lead her where it would.

The long moment of steady forecast had, after its agony of shame and fear, its triumph over both.

He felt the deep sigh that lifted her breast—it was almost a sob; but now her arms took him closely, gently, to her and her voice had the steadfastness, no longer of rejection, but of acceptance.

“Gavan, dream with me, then; that’s better than being drugged. Perhaps you will wake some day. There, I kiss you.”

She said it, and with the words his lips were on hers.

In the long moment of their embrace he had a strange intuition. Something was accomplished; some destiny that had led them to this hour was satisfied and would have no more to do with them. He seemed almost to hear this thought of finality, like the far, distant throbbing of a funeral bell, though the tolling only shut them the more closely into the silence of the wonderful moment.

Drugged? No, he was not drugged. But was she really dragging him down again, poor child, into her own place of dreams?

After the ecstasy, in the darkness of her breast and arms, he knew again the horrible surge of suffering that life had always meant to him. He saw, as though through deep waters, the love, the strife, the clinging to all that went; he saw the withering of dreams, and death, and the implacable, devouring thought that underlay all life and found its joy in the rending sorrow of the tragedy it triumphed over.

It was like a wave catching him, sucking him down into a gulf of blackness. The dizziness of the whirlpool reeled its descending spiral through his brain. Eppie was the sweet, the magical, the sinister mermaid; she held him, triumphing, and he clung to her, helpless; while, like the music of rushing waters, the horror and enchantment of life rang in his ears. But the horror grew and grew. The music rang on to a multitudinous world-cry of despair,—the cry of all the torments of the world turning on their rack of consciousness,—and, in a crash of unendurable anguish, came the thought of what it all would mean; what it all might mean now—now—unless he could save her; for he guessed that her faith, put to the test, might accept any risk, might pay any price, to keep him. And the anguish was for her.

He started from her, putting away her arms, yet pinioning her, holding her from him with a fierceness of final challenge and looking in the darkness into her darker eyes.

“Suppose I do,” he said. “Suppose I marry you,”—for he must show her that some tests she should not be put to. “Suppose I take you and reËnter the dream. Look at it, Eppie. Look at your life with me. It won’t stay like this, you know. Look far, far ahead.”

“I do,” she said.

“No, no. You don’t. You can’t. It would, for a year, perhaps, perhaps only for a day, be dream and ecstasy,—ah, Eppie, don’t imagine that I don’t know what it would be,—the beauty, the joy, the forgetfulness, a radiant mist hanging over an abyss. Your will could keep me in it—for a year, perhaps. But then, the inevitable fading. See what comes. Eppie, don’t you know, don’t you feel, that I’m dead—dead?”

“No; not while you suffer. You are suffering now—for me.”

“The shadow of a shadow. It will pass. No, don’t speak; wait; as you said, we can’t argue, we can’t, now, go into the reasons of it. As you said, thought can’t cure me; it’s probably something far deeper than our little thought: it’s probably the aspect we are fated to be by that one reality that makes and unmakes our dreams. And I’m not of the robust Western stuff that can work in its dream,—create more dream, and find it worth while. I’ve not enough life in me to create the illusion of realities to strive for. Action, to me, brings no proof of life’s reality; it’s merely a symptom of life, its result, not its cause or its sanction. And the power of action is dead in me because the desire of life is dead,—unless you are there to infect me with it.”

“I am here, Gavan.”

“Yes, you are,—can I forget it? And I’m yours—while you want me. But, Eppie, look at it; look at it straight. See the death that I will bring into the very heart of your life. See the children we may have; see what they would mean to you, and what they would mean to me: Transient appearances; creatures lovely and pathetic, perhaps, but empty of all the significance that you would find in them. I would have no love for our children, Eppie, as you understand love. We will grow old, and all the glamour will go—all the passion that holds us together now. I will be kind—and sorry; but you will know that, beside you, I watch you fading into listlessness, indifference, death, and know that even if I am to weep over you, dead, I will feel only that you have escaped forever, from me, from consciousness, from life. Eppie, don’t delude yourself with one ray of hope. To me your faith is a mirage. And it all comes to that. Have you faith enough to foresee all the horror of emptiness that you’ll find in me for the sake of one year of ecstasy?”

She had not moved while he spoke—spoke with a passion, a vehemence, that was like a sudden rushing into flame of a forest fire. There was something lurid and terrible in such passion, such vehemence, from him. It shook him as the forest is shaken and was like the ruinous force of the flames. She sat, while he held her, looking at it, as he had told her, “straight.” She knew that she looked at everything. Her eyes went back to his eyes as she gave him her answer.

“Not for the sake of the year of ecstasy; in spite of it.”

“For what, then?” he asked, stammering suddenly.

Her eyes, with their look of dedication, held him fast.

“For the sake of life—the long life—together; the life without the glamour, when my faith may altogether infect you.”

“You believe, Eppie, that you are so much stronger than I?”

“It’s not that I’m strong; but life is stronger than anything; life is the only reality. I am on the winning side.”

“So you will hope?”

“Hope! Of course I hope. You could never make me stop hoping—not even if you broke my heart. You may call it a mirage if you like—that’s only a word. I’ll fill your trance with my mirage, I’ll flood your whiteness with my color, and, God grant, you will feel life and know that you are at last awake. You are right—life is endless contest, endless pain; it’s only at that price that we can have it; but you will know that it’s worth the price. I see it all, Gavan, and I accept. I accept not only the certainty of my own suffering, but the certainty of yours.”

Through the night they gazed at each other, his infinite sadness, her infinite valor. Their faces were like strange, beautiful dreams—dreams holding in their dimness such deep, such vivid significance. They more saw the significance—that sadness, that valor—than its embodiment in eyes and lips.

It was finally with a sense of realization so keen that it trembled on the border of oblivion, of the fainting from over-consciousness, that Gavan once more laid his head upon her breast. He, too, accepting, held her close,—held her and all that she signified, while, leaning above him, her cheek against his hair, she said in a voice that over its depth upon depth of steadiness trembled at last a little: “I see it all. Imagine what a faith it is that is willing to make the thing it loves most in the whole world suffer—suffer horribly—so that it may live.”

He gave a long sigh. At its height emotion dissolved into a rapt contemplation. “How beautiful,” he said.

“Beautiful?” she repeated, with almost a gentle mockery for the word. “Well, begin with beauty if you will. You will find that—and more besides—as an end of it all.”

SHE left him in the garden. They had talked quietly, of the past, of their childhood, and, as quietly, of the future—their immediate marriage and departure for long, wonderful voyages together. His head lay on her breast, and often, while they spoke of that life together, of the homecoming to Cheylesford Lodge and when he heard her voice tremble a little, he kissed the dear hand he held.

When she rose at last and stood before him, he said, still holding her hands, that he would sit on there in the darkness and think of her.

She felt the languor of his voice and told him that he was very tired and would do much better to go to bed and forget about her till morning; but, looking up at her, he shook his head, smiling: “I couldn’t sleep.”

So she left him; but, before she went, after the last gazing pause in which there seemed now no discord, no strife, nothing to hide or to threaten, she had suddenly put her arms around his neck, bending to him and murmuring, “Oh, I love you.”

“I seem to have loved you forever, Eppie,” he said.

But, once more, in all the strange oblivion of his acceptance, there had been for him in their kiss and their embrace the undertone of anguish, the distant tolling—as if for something accomplished, over forever—of a funeral bell.

He watched her figure—white was not the word for it in this midnight world—pass away into the darkness. And, as she disappeared, the bell seemed still to toll, “Gone. Gone. Gone.”

So he was alone.

He was alone. The hours went by and he still sat there. The white roses near him, they, too, only a strange blossoming of darkness, symbolized, in their almost aching sweetness, the departed presence. He breathed in their fragrance; and, as he listened to his own quiet breaths, they seemed those of the night made conscious in him. The roses remembered for him; the night breathed through him; it was an interchange, a mingling. Above were the deep vaults of heaven, the profundities of distance, the appalling vastness, strewn with its dust of stars. And it, too, was with him, in him, as the roses were, as his own breath came and went.

The veils had now lifted from the night and it was radiant, all its stars visible; and veil after veil seemed drifting from before his soul.

A cool, light breeze stirred his hair.

Closing his eyes, at last, his thought plunged, as his sight had plunged, into gulf under gulf of vacancy.

After the unutterable fatigue, like the sinking under anÆsthesia, of his final yielding, he could not know what was happening to him, nor care. It had often happened before, only never quite like this. It was, once more, the great peace, lapping wave after wave, slow, sliding, immeasurable waves, through and through him; dissolving thought and feeling; dissolving all discord, all pain, all joy and beauty.

The hours went by, and, as they went, Eppie’s face, like a drift of stars, sank, sank into the gulf. What had he said to her? what promised? Only the fragrance of the roses seemed to remember, nothing in himself. For what had he wanted? He wanted nothing now. Her will, her life, had seized him; but no, no, no,—the hours quietly, in their passing seemed to say it,—they had not kept him. He had at last, after a lifelong resistance, abandoned himself to her, and the abandonment had been the final step toward complete enfranchisement. For, with no effort now of his own at escape, no will at all to be free, he had left her far behind him, as if through the waters of the whirlpool his soul, like a light bubble, had softly, surely, risen to the air. It had lost itself, and her.

He thought of her, but now with no fear, no anguish. A vast indifference filled him. It was no longer a question of tearing himself from her, no longer a question of saving himself and her. There was no question, nor any one to save. He was gone away, from her, from everything.

When the dawn slowly stole into the garden, so that the ghosts of day began to take shape and color, Gavan rose among them. The earth was damp with dew; his hair and clothes were damp. Overhead the sky was white, and the hills upon it showed a flat, shadowless green. Between the night’s enchantments of stillness, starriness, veiled, dreaming beauty and the sunlit, voluble enchantments of the day,—songs and flights of birds, ripple and shine of water, the fugitive, changing color of land and sky,—this hour was poor, bare, monotonous. There wasn’t a ray of enchantment in it. It was like bleak canvas scenery waiting for the footlights and a decorated stage.

Gavan looked before him, down the garden path, shivering a little. He was cold, and the sensation brought him back to the old fact of life, that, after all, was there as long as one saw it. The coming of the light seemed to retwist once more his own palely tinted prism of personality, and with the cold, with the conscious looking back at the night and forward to the day, came a long, dull ache of sadness. It was more physical than mental; hunger and chill played their part in it, he knew, while, as the prism twined its colors, the fatiguing faculty of analysis once more built up the world of change and diversity. He looked up at the pale walls of the old house, laced with their pattern of creepers. The pine-tree lay like an inky shadow across it, and, among the branches, were the windows of Eppie’s room, the window where he and she had stood together on the morning of Robbie’s death—a white, dew-drenched morning like this. There she slept, dear, beautiful, the shadow of life. And here he stood, still living, after all, in their mutual mirage; still to hurt her. He didn’t think of her face, her voice, her aspect. The only image that came was of a shadow—something darkly beautiful that entranced and suffocated, something that, enveloping one, shut out peace and vacancy.

His cold hands thrust into his pockets, he stood thinking for a moment, of how he would have to hurt her, and of how much less it was to be than if what they had seen in the night’s glamour had been possible.

He wondered why the mere fact of the night’s revelation—all those passing-bell hours—had made it so impossible for him to go on, by sheer force of will, with the play. Why couldn’t he, for her sake, act the lifelong part? In her arms he would know again the moments of glamour. But, at the mere question, a sickness shuddered through him. He saw now, clearly, what stood in the way: suffering, hideous suffering, for both of them—permanent, all-pervading suffering. The night had proved too irrevocably that any union between them was only momentary, only a seeming, and with her, feeling her faith, her hope, her love, he could know nothing but the undurable discord of their united and warring notes.

Could life and death be made one flesh?

The horror of the thought spurred him from his rigor of contemplation. That, at least, had been spared her. Destiny, then, had not meant for them that final, tragic consummation.

He threaded his way rapidly among the paths, the flower-beds, under the low boughs of the old fruit-trees. She had left the little door near the morning-room open for him, and through it he entered the still house.

It wasn’t escape, now, from her, but from that pressing horror, as of something, that, unless he hastened, might still overtake them both. Yet outside her door he paused, bent his head, listened with a strange curiosity, helpless before the nearness of that loved, that dreaded being, the warring note that he sought yet fled from.

She slept. Not a sound stirred in the room.

He closed his eyes, seeing, with a vividness that was almost a hallucination, her face, her wonderful face, asleep, with the dark rivers of her hair flowing about it.

And, fixed as he was in his frozen certainty of truth, he felt, once more like the striking of a hand across a harp, a longing, wild and passionate, to enter, to take her, sleeping, in his arms, to see her eyes open on him; to hide himself in life, as in the darkness of her breast and arms, and to forget forever the piercing of inexorable thought.

He found that his hand was on the lock and that he was violently trembling.

It was inexorable thought, the knowledge of the horror that would await them, that conquered the leap of blind instinct.

Half an hour later a thin, intense light rimmed all the eastern hills, and a cold, clear cheerfulness spread over the earth. The moors were purple and the sky overhead palely, immaculately blue. About the tall lime-trees the rooks circled, cawing, and a skylark sang far and high, a floating atom of ecstasy.

And in the clearness Gavan’s figure showed, walking rapidly away from the white house, down the road that led through the heather and past the birch-woods, walking away from it forever.

VIII

GRAINGER stood in Eppie’s little sitting-room, confronting, as Gavan had confronted the spring before, Miss Allen’s placidly sewing figure.

The flowers against which her uneventful head now bent were autumnal. Thickly growing Michaelmas daisies, white and purple, screened the lower section of the square outside. Above were the shabby tree-tops, that seemed heavily painted upon an equally solid sky. The square was dusty, the trees were dusty, the very blue of the sky looked grimed with dust.

The hot air; the still flowers, not stirred by a breath of breeze; Miss Allen’s figure, motionless but for its monotonously moving hand, were harmonious in their quiet, and in contrast to them Grainger’s pervasive, restless, irritable presence was like a loud, incessant jangling.

He walked back and forth; he picked up the photographs on the mantel-shelf, the books on the table, flinging them down in a succession of impatient claps. He threw himself heavily into chairs,—so heavily that Miss Allen glanced round, alarmed for the security of the furniture,—and he asked her half a dozen times if Miss Gifford would be in at five.

“She is seldom late,” or, “I expect her then,” Miss Allen would answer in the tone of mild severity that one might employ toward an unseemly child over whom one had no authority.

But though there was severity in Miss Allen’s voice, the acute glances that she stole at the clamorous guest were not unsympathetic. She placed him. She pitied and she rather admired him. Even while emphasizing the dismay of her involuntary starts when the table rattled and the chairs groaned, she felt a satisfaction in these symptoms of passion; for that she was in the presence of a passion, a hopeless and rather magnificent passion, she made no doubt. She associated such passions with Eppie,—it was trailing such clouds of glory that she descended upon the arid life of the little square,—and none had so demonstrated itself, none had so performed its part for her benefit. She was sorry that it was hopeless; but she was glad that it was there, in all its Promethean wrathfulness, for her to observe. Miss Allen felt pretty sure that this was the nearest experience of passion she would ever know.

“In at five, as a rule, you say?” Grainger repeated for the fourth time, springing from the chair where, with folded arms, he had sat for a few moments scowling unseeingly at the pansies.

He stationed himself now beside her and, over her head, stared out at the square. It was at once alarming and delightful,—as if the Titan with his attendant vulture had risen from his rock to join her.

“You’ve no idea from which direction she is coming?”

“None,” said Miss Allen, decisively but not unkindly. “It’s really no good for you to think of going out to meet her. She is doing a lot of different things this afternoon and might come from any direction. You would almost certainly miss her.” And she went on, unemphatically, but, for all the colorless quality of her voice, so significantly that Grainger, realizing for the first time the presence of an understanding sympathy, darted a quick look at her. “She gets in at five, just as I go out. She knows that I depend on her to be here by then.”

So she would not be in the way, this little individual. She made him think, now that he looked at her more attentively, as she sat there with her trimly, accurately moving hand, of a beaver he had once seen swiftly and automatically feeding itself; her sleek head, her large, smooth front teeth, were like a beaver’s. It was really very decent of her to see that he wanted her out of the way; so decent that, conscious of the link it had made between them, he said presently, abruptly and rather roughly, “How is she?”

“Well, of course she has not recovered,” said Miss Allen.

“Recovered? But she wasn’t actually ill.” Grainger had a retorting air.

“No; I suppose not. It was nervous prostration, I suppose—if that’s not an illness.”

“This isn’t the place for her to recover from nervous prostration in.” He seemed to fasten an accusation, but Miss Allen understood perfectly.

“Of course not. I’ve tried to make her see that. But,”—she was making now quite a chain of links,—“she feels she must work, must lose herself in something. Of course she overdoes it. She overdoes everything.”

“Overwork, do you think? The cause, I mean?”

Grainger jerked this out, keeping his eyes on the square.

Miss Allen, not in any discreet hesitation, but in sincere uncertainty, paused over her answer.

“It couldn’t be, quite. She was well enough when she went away in the summer, though she really isn’t at all strong,—not nearly so strong as she looks. She broke down, you know, at her uncle’s, in Scotland”; and Miss Allen added, in a low-pitched and obviously confidential voice, “I think it was some shock that nobody knows anything about.”

Grainger stood still for some moments, and then plunging back into the little room, he crossed and re-crossed it with rapid strides. Her guessing and his knowledge came too near.

Only after a long pause did Miss Allen say, “She’s really frightfully changed.” The clock was on the stroke. Rising, gathering up her work, dropping, with neat little clicks, her scissors, her thimble, into her work-box, she added, and she fixed her eyes on him for a moment as she spoke, “Do, if you can, make her—“

“Well, what? Go away?” he demanded. “I’ve no authority—none. Her people ought to kidnap her. That’s what I’d do. Lift her out of this hole.”

Miss Allen’s eyes dwelt on his while she nerved herself to a height of adventurous courage that, in looking back at it, amazed her. “Here she is,” she said, and almost whispering, “Well, kidnap her, then. That’s what she needs—some one stronger than herself to kidnap her.”

She slid her hand through his, a panic of shyness overtaking her, and darted out, followed by the flutter of a long, white strip of muslin.

Grainger stood looking at the open door, through which in a moment Eppie entered.

His first feeling was one of relief. He did not, in that first moment, see that she was “frightfully changed.” Even her voice seemed the same, as she said with all the frank kindness of her welcome and surprise, “Why, Jim, this is good of you,” and all her tact was there, too, giving him an impression of the resource and flexibility of happy vitality, in her ignoring by glance or tone of their parting.

She wore, on the hot autumn day, a white linen frock, the loose bodice belted with green, a knot of green at her throat, and, under the white and green of her little hat, her face showed color and its dear smile.

Relief was so great, indeed, that Grainger found himself almost clinging to her hand in his sudden thankfulness.

“You’re not so ill, then,” he brought out. “I heard it—that you had broken down—and I came back. I was in the Dolomites. I hadn’t had news of you since I left.”

“So ill! Nonsense,” said Eppie, giving his hand a reassuring shake and releasing her own to pull off her soft, loose gloves. “It was a breakdown I had, but nothing serious. I believe it to have been an attack of biliousness, myself. People don’t like to own to liver when they can claim graceful maladies like nervous prostration,—so it was called. But liver, only, I fear it was. And I’m all right now, thank goodness, for I loathe being ill and am a horrid patient.”

She had taken off her hat, pushing back her hair from her forehead and sinking into a chair that was against the light. The Michaelmas daisies made a background for the bronze and white of her head, for, as she rested, the color that her surprise and her swift walking had given her died. She was glad to rest, her smile said that, and he saw, indeed, that she was utterly tired.

Suddenly, as he looked at her, seeing the great fatigue, seeing the pallor, seeing the smile only stay as if with determination, the truth of Miss Allen’s description was revealed to him. She was frightfully changed. Her smile, her courage, made him think of a danse macabre. The rhythm, the gaiety of life were there, but life itself was gone.

The revelation came to him, but he felt himself clutch it silently, and he let her go on talking.

She went on, indeed, very volubly, talking of her breakdown, of how good the general and her aunt had been to her, and of how getting back to her work had picked her up directly.

“I think I’ll finally pitch my tent here,” she went on. “The interest grows all the time,—and the ties, the responsibility. One can’t do things by half measures; you know that, thorough person that you are. I mustn’t waste my mite of income by gadding about. I’m going to chuck all the rest and give myself altogether to this.”

“You used to think that the rest helped you in this,” said Grainger.

“To a certain extent it did, and will, for I’ve had so much that it will last me for a long time.”

“You intend to live permanently down here?”

“I shall have my holidays, and I shall run up to civilization for a dinner or two now and then. It’s not that I’ve any illusions about my usefulness or importance. It’s that all this is so useful to me. It’s something I can do with all my might and main, and I’ve such masses of energy you know, Jim, that need employment. And then, though of course one works at the wrong side of the tapestry and has to trust that the pattern is coming right, I do believe that, to a certain extent, it does need me.”

He leaned back in his chair opposite her, listening to the voice that rattled on so cheerfully. With his head bent, he kept that old gaze upon her and clutched the clearer and clearer revelation: Eppie—Eppie in torment; Eppie shattered;—Eppie—why, it was as if she sat there before him smiling and rattling over a huge hole in her chest. And, finally, the consciousness of the falsity in her own tone made her falter a little. She couldn’t continue so glibly while his eyes were saying to her: “Yes; I see, I see. You are wounded to death.” But if she faltered it was only, in the pause, to look about for another shield.

“And you?” she said. “Have you done a great deal of climbing? Tell me about yourself, dear Jim.”

It was a dangerous note to strike and the “dear Jim” gave away her sense of insecurity. It was almost an appeal to him not to see, or, at all events, not to tell her that he saw.

“Don’t talk about me,” he said very rudely. She knew the significance of his rudeness.

“Let us talk of whatever you will.”

“Of you, then. Don’t try to shut me out, Eppie.”

“Am I shutting you out?”

“You are trying to. You have succeeded with the rest, I suppose; but, as of course you know, you can’t succeed with me. I know too much. I care too much.”

His rough, tense voice beat down her barriers. She sat silent, oddly smiling.

He rose and came to her and stood above her, pressing the tips of his fingers heavily down upon her shoulder.

“You must tell me. I must know. I won’t stand not knowing.”

Motionless, without looking up at him, she still smiled before her.

“That—that coward has broken your heart,” he said. There were tears in his voice, and, looking up now, the smile stiffened to a resolute grimace, she saw them running down his cheeks. But her own face did not soften. With a glib dryness she answered:

“Yes, Jim; that’s it.”

“Oh—“ It was a long growl over her head.

She had looked away again, and continued in the same crisp voice: “I’d lie if I could, you may be sure. But you put it so, you look so, that I can’t. I’m at your mercy. You know what I feel, so I can’t hide it from you. I hate any one, even you, to know what I feel. Help me to hide it.”

“What has he done?” Grainger asked on the muffled, growling note.

“Gavan? Done? He’s done nothing.”

“But something happened. You aren’t where you were when I left you. You weren’t breaking down then.”

“Hope deferred, Jim—“

“It’s not that. Don’t fence, to shield him. It’s not hope deferred. It’s hope dead. Something happened. What was it?”

“All that happened was that he went, when I thought that he was going to stay, forever.”

“He went, knowing—“

“That I loved him? Yes; I told him.”

“And he told you that he didn’t love you?”

“No, there you were wrong. He told me that he did. But he saw what you saw. So what would you have asked of him?”

“Saw what I saw? What do you mean?”

“That he would suffocate me. That he was the negation of everything I believed in.”

“You mean to tell me,” said Grainger, his fingers still pressing down upon her shoulder, “that it all came out,—that you had it there between you,—and then that he ran away?”

“From the fear of hurting my life. Yes.”

“From the fear of life itself, you mean.”

“If that was it, wasn’t it enough?”

“The coward. The mean, bloodless coward,” said Jim Grainger.

“I let you say it because I understand; it’s your relief. But he is not a coward. He is only—a saint. A saint without a saint’s perquisites. A Spinoza without a God. An imitator of Christ without a Christ. I have been thinking, thinking it all out, seeing it all, ever since.”

“Spinoza! What has he to do with it! Don’t talk rot, dear child, to comfort yourself.”

“Be patient, Jim. Perhaps I can help you. It calms one when one understands. I have been reading up all the symptoms. Listen to this, if you think that Spinoza has nothing to do with it. On the contrary, he knew all about it and would have seen very much as Gavan does.”

She took up one of the books that had been so frequently flung down by Grainger in his waiting and turned its pages while he watched her with the enduring look of a mother who humors a sick child’s foolish fancies.

“Listen to Spinoza, Jim,” she said, and he obediently bent his lowering gaze to the task. “‘When a thing is not loved, no strife arises about it; there is no pang if it perishes, no envy if another bears it away, no fear, no hate; yes, in a word, no tumult of soul. These things all come from loving that which perishes.’ And now the Imitation: ‘What canst thou see anywhere which can continue long under the sun? Thou believest, perchance, that thou shalt be satisfied, but thou wilt never be able to attain unto this. If thou shouldst see all things before thee at once, what would it be but a vain vision?’ And this: ‘Trust not thy feeling, for that which is now will be quickly changed into somewhat else.’”

Her voice, as she read on to him,—and from page to page she went, plucking for him, it seemed, their cold, white blossoms, fit flowers to lay on the grave of love,—had lost the light dryness as of withered leaves rustling. It seemed now gravely to understand, to acquiesce. A chill went over the man, as though, under his hand, he felt her, too, sliding from warm life into that place of shadows where she must be to be near the one she loved.

“Shut the books, for God’s sake, Eppie,” he said. “Don’t tell me that you’ve come to see as he has.”

She looked up at him, and now, in the dear, deep eyes, he saw all the old Eppie, the Eppie of life and battle.

“Can you think it, Jim? It’s because I see so clearly what he sees that I hate it and repudiate it and fight it with every atom of my being. It’s that hatred, that repudiation, that fight, that is life. I believe in it, I’m for it, as I never believed before, as I never was before.”

He was answering her look, seeing her as life’s wounded champion, standing, shot through, on the ramparts of her beleaguered city. She would shake her banner high in the air as she fell. The pity, the fury, the love of his eyes dwelt on her.

And suddenly, under that look, her eyes closed. She shrank together in her chair; she bowed down her head upon her knees, covering her face.

“Oh, Jim,” she said, “my heart is broken.”

He knew that he had brought her to this, that never before an onlooker had she so fallen into her own misery. He had forced her to show the final truth that, though she held the banner, she was shot through and through. And he could do nothing but stand on above her, his face set to a flintier, sharper endurance, as he heard the great sobs shake her.

He left her presently and walked up and down the room while she wept, crouched over upon her knees. It was not for long. The tempest passed, and, when she sat in quiet, her head in her hands, her face still hidden, he said, “You must set about mending now, Eppie.”

“I can’t mend. I’ll live; but I can’t mend.”

“Don’t say it, Eppie. This may pass as—well—other things in your life have passed.”

“Do you, too, talk Spinoza to me, Jim?”

“Damn Spinoza! I’m talking life to you—the life we both believe in. I’m not telling you to turn your back on it because it has crippled you. You won’t, I know it. I know that you are brave. Eppie, Eppie,”—before her, now, he bent to her, then knelt beside her chair,—“let me be the crutch. Let me have the fragments. Let’s try, together, to mend them. I ask nothing of you but that trying, with my help, to mend. He isn’t for you. He’s never for you. I’ll say no more brutalities of him. I’ll use your own words and say that he can’t,—that his saintship can’t. So won’t you, simply, let me take you? Even if you’re broken for life, let me have the broken Eppie.”

She had never, except in the moment of the kiss, seen this deepest thing in him, this gentleness, this reverent tenderness that, under the bullying, threatening, angry aspects of his love, now supplicated with a beauty that revealed all the angel in humanity. Strange—she could think it in all her sorrow—that the thing that held him to her was the thing that held her to Gavan, the deep, the mysterious, the unchangeable affinity. For him, as for her, there could be but one, and for that one alone could these depths and heights of the heart open themselves.

“Jim, dear, dear Jim, never, never,” she said. “I am his, only his, fragments, all of me, for as long as I am I.”

Grainger hid his face on the arm of her chair.

“And he is mine,” said Eppie. “He knows it, and that is why he fears me. He is mine forever.”

“I am glad for your sake that you can believe that,” Grainger muttered, “and glad, for my own, that I don’t.”

“Why, Jim?”

“I could hardly live if I thought that you were going to love him in eternity and that I was, forever, to be shut away. Thank goodness that it’s only for a lifetime that my tragedy lasts.”

She closed her eyes to these perplexities, laying her hand on his.

“I don’t know. We can only think and act for this life. It’s this we have to shape. Perhaps in eternity, really in eternity, whatever that may mean, I won’t need to shut you out. Dear, dear Jim, it’s hard that it must seem that to you now. You know what I feel about you. And who could feel it as I do? We are in the same boat.”

“No, for he, at least, loves no one else. You haven’t that to bear. As far as he goes,—and it isn’t far,—he is yours. We are not at all in the same boat. But that’s enough of me. I suppose I am done for, as you say, forever.”

He had got upon his feet, and, as if at their mutual wreckage, looked down with a face that had found again its old shield of grimness.

“As for you,” he went on, “I sha’n’t, at all events, see you suffocating. You must mend alone, then, as best you can. Really, you’re not as tragic as you might have been.”

Then, after this salutary harshness, and before he turned from her to go, he added, as once before, “Poor darling.”

IX

GRAINGER hardly knew why he had come and, as he walked up the deep Surrey lane from the drowsy village station, his common-sense warred with the instinct, almost the obsession, that was taking him to Cheylesford Lodge. Eppie had been persistently in his thoughts since their meeting of the week before, and from his own hopelessness had sprung the haunting of a hope for her. Turn from it as he would, accuse himself angrily of madness, morbidity, or a mere tendency to outrageous meddling,—symptomatic of shattered nerves,—he couldn’t escape it. By day and night it was with him, until he saw himself, in a lurid vision, as responsible for Eppie’s very life if he didn’t test its validity. For where she had failed might not a man armed with the strength of his selfless love succeed?

He had said, in his old anger, that as Gavan’s wife Gavan would kill her; but he hadn’t really meant that literally; now, literally, the new fear had come that she might die of Gavan’s loss. Her will hadn’t snapped, but her vitality was like the flare of the candle in its socket. To love, the eremite of Cheylesford Lodge wouldn’t yield—perhaps for very pity’s sake; but if he were made to see the other side of it?—Grainger found a grim amusement in the paradox—the lover, in spite of love, might yield to pity. Couldn’t his own manliness strike some spark of manliness from Gavan? Couldn’t he and Eppie between them, with their so different appeals,—she to what was soft, he to what was tough,—hoist his tragically absurd head above water, as it were, into the air of real life, that might, who knew? fill and sustain his aquatic lungs? It gave him a vindictive pleasure to see the drowning simile in the most ludicrous aspects—Gavan, draped in the dramatic robes of his twopenny-halfpenny philosophies, holding his head in a basin of water, there resolved to die. Grainger felt that as far as his own inclinations were concerned it would have given him some pleasure to help to hold him under, to see that, while he was about it, he did it thoroughly; but the question wasn’t one of his own inclinations: it was for Eppie’s sake that he must try to drag out the enraptured suicide. It was Eppie, bereft and dying,—so it seemed to him in moments of deep fear,—whose very life depended on the submerged life. And to see if he could fish it up for her he had come on this undignified, this ridiculous errand.

Very undignified and very ridiculous he felt the errand to be, as he strode on through the lane, its high hedge-rows all dusty with the autumn drought; but he was indifferent enough to that side of it. He felt no confusion. He was completely prepared to speak his mind.

Coming to a turning of the lane, where he stood for a moment, uncertain, at branching paths, he was joined by an alert little parson who asked him courteously if he could direct him on his way. They were both, it then appeared, going to Cheylesford Lodge; and the Reverend John Best, after introducing himself as the rector of Dittleworth parish, and receiving Grainger’s name, which had its reverberations, with affable interest, surmised that it was to another friend of Mr. Palairet’s that he spoke.

“Yes. No. That is to say, I’ve known him after a fashion for years, but seen little of him. Has he been here all summer?” Grainger asked, as they walked on.

It seemed that Gavan had only returned from the Continent the week before, but Mr. Best went on to say, with an evidently temperamental loquacity, that he was there for most of the time as a rule and was found a very charming neighbor and a very excellent parishioner.

This last was a rÔle in which Gavan seemed extremely incongruous, and Grainger looked his perplexity, murmuring, “Parishioner?”

“Not, I fear, that we can claim him as an altogether orthodox one,” Mr. Best said, smiling tolerantly upon his companion’s probable narrowness. “We ask for the spirit, rather than the letter, nowadays, Mr. Grainger; and Mr. Palairet is, at heart, as good a Christian as any of us, of that I am assured: better than many of us, as far as living the Christian life goes. Christianity, in its essence, is a life. Ah, if only you statesmen, you active men of the world, would realize that; would look past the symbols to the reality. We, who see life as a spiritual organization, are able to break down the limitations of the dry, self-centered individualism that, for so many years, has obscured the glorious features of our faith. And it is the spirit of the Church that Mr. Palairet has grasped. Time only is needed, I am convinced, to make him a partaker of her gifts.”

Grainger walked on in a sardonic silence, and Mr. Best, all unsuspecting, continued to embroider his congenial theme with illustrations: the village poor, to whom Mr. Palairet was so devoted; the village hospital, of which he was to talk over the plans to-day; the neighborly thoughtfulness and unfailing kindness and charity he showed toward high and low.

“Palairet always seemed to me very ineffectual,” said Grainger when, in a genial pause, he felt that something in the way of response was expected of him.

“Ah, I fear you judge by the worldly standard of outward attainment, Mr. Grainger.”

“What other is there for us human beings to judge by?”

“The standard of our unhappy modern plutocratic society is not that by which to measure the contemplative type of character.”

Grainger felt a slight stress of severity in the good little parson’s affability.

“Oh, I think its standards aren’t at all unwholesome,” he made reply. He could have justified anything, any standard, against Gavan and his standards.

“Unwholesome, my dear Mr. Grainger? That is just what they are. See the beauty of a life like our friend’s here. It judges your barbarous Christless civilization. He lives laborious, simple days. He does his work, he has his friends. His influence upon them counts for more than an outside observer could compute. Great men are among them. I met Lord Taunton at his house last Sunday. A most impressive personality. Even though Mr. Palairet has abandoned the political career, one can’t call him ineffectual when such a man is among his intimates.”

“The monkish type doesn’t appeal to me, I own.”

“Ah, there you touch the point that has troubled me. It is not good for a man to live alone. My chief wish for him is that he may marry. I often urge it on him.”

“Well done.”

“One did hear,” Mr. Best went on, his small, ruddy face taking on a look of retrospective reprobation, “that there was an attachment to a certain young woman—the tale was public property—only as such do I allude to it—a very fashionable, very worldly young woman. I was relieved indeed when the rumor came to nothing. He escaped finally, I can’t help fancying it, this summer. I was much relieved.”

“Why so, pray?”

“I am rural, old-fashioned, my dear young man, and that type of young woman is one toward which, I own it, I find it difficult to feel charitably. She represents the pagan, the Christless element that I spoke of in our modern world. Her charm could not have been a noble one. Had our friend here succumbed to it, she could only have meant disaster in his life. She would have urged him into ambition, pleasure-seeking, dissipation. Of course I only cite what I have heard in my quiet corner, though I have had glimpses of her, passing with a friend, a very frivolous person, in a motor-car. She looked completely what I had imagined.”

“If you mean Miss Gifford,” said Grainger, trying for temperateness, “I happen to know her. She is anything but a pleasure-seeker, anything but frivolous, anything, above all, but a pagan. If Palairet had been lucky enough to marry her it would have been the best thing that ever happened to him in his life, and a very dubious thing for her. She is a thousand times too good for him.”

“My dear Mr. Grainger, pardon me; I had no idea that you knew the lady. But,” Mr. Best had flushed a little under this onslaught, “I cannot but think you a partisan.”

“Do you call a woman frivolous who spends half of her time working in the slums?”

“That is a phase, I hear, of the ultra-smart young woman. But no doubt rumor has been unjust. I must beg you to pardon me.”

“Oh, don’t mind that. You heard, no doubt, the surface things. But no one who knows Miss Gifford can think of them, that’s all.”

“And if I have been betrayed into injustice, I hope that you will reconsider a little more charitably your impression of Mr. Palairet,” said Mr. Best, in whom, evidently, Grainger’s roughness rankled.

Grainger laughed grimly. “I can’t consider him anything but a thousand times too bad for Miss Gifford.”

They had reached the entrance to Cheylesford Lodge on this final and discordant phrase. Mr. Best kept a grieved silence and Grainger’s thoughts passed from him.

He had had in his life no training in appreciation and was indifferent to things of the eye, but even to his insensible nature the whole aspect of the house that they approached between high yew hedges, its dreaming quiet, the tones of its dim old bricks, the shadowed white of paneled walls within, spoke of pensive beauty, of a secure content in things of the mind. He felt it suddenly as oppressive and ominous in its assured quietness. It had some secret against the probes of feeling. Its magic softly shut away suffering and encircled safely a treasure of tranquillity.

That was the secret, that the magic; it flashed vaguely for Grainger—though by its light he saw more vividly his own errand as ridiculous—that a life of thought, pure thought, if one could only achieve it, was the only safe life. Where, in this adjusted system of beauty and contemplation, would his appeals find foothold?

He dashed back the crowding doubts, summoning his own crude forces.

The man who admitted them said that Mr. Palairet was in the garden, and stepping from opened windows at the back of the house, they found themselves on the sunny spaces of the lawn with its encompassing trees and its wandering border of flowers.

Gavan was sitting with a book in the shade of the great yew-tree. In summer flannels, a panama hat tilted over his eyes, he was very white, very tenuous, very exquisite. And he was the center of it all, the secret securely his, the magic all at his disposal.

Seeing them he rose, dropping his book into his chair, strolling over the miraculous green to meet them, showing no haste, no hesitation, no surprise.

“I’ve come on particular business,” Grainger said, “and I’ll stroll about until you and Mr. Best are done with the hospital.”

Mr. Best, still with sadness in his manner, promised not to keep Mr. Palairet long and they went inside.

Grainger was left standing under the yew-tree. He took up Gavan’s book, while the sense of frustration, and of rebellion against it, rose in him. The book was French and dealt with an obscure phase of Byzantine history. Gavan’s neat notes marked passages concerning some contemporary religious phenomena.

Grainger flung down the book, careless of crumpled leaves, and wandered off abruptly, among the hedges and into the garden. It was a very different garden from the old Scotch one where a sweet pensiveness seemed always to hover and where romance whispered and beckoned. This garden, steeped in sunlight, and where plums and pears on the hot rosy walls shone like jewels among their crisp green leaves, was unshadowed, unhaunted, smiling and decorous—the garden of placid wisdom and Epicurean calm. Grainger, as he walked, felt at his heart a tug of strange homesickness and yearning for that Northern garden, its dim gray walls and its disheveled nooks and corners. Were they all done with it forever?

By the time he had returned to the lawn Gavan was just emerging from the house. They met in the shadow of the yew.

“I’m glad to see you, Grainger,” Gavan said, with a smile that struck Grainger as faded in quality. “This place is a sort of harbor for tired workers, you know. You should have looked me up before, or are you never tired enough for that?”

“I don’t feel the need of harbors, yet. One never sees you in London.”

“No, the lounging life down here suits me.”

“Your little parson doesn’t see it in that light. He has been telling me how you live up to your duties as neighbor and parishioner.”

“It doesn’t require much effort. Nice little fellow, isn’t he, Best? He tells me that you walked up together.”

“We did,” said Grainger, with his own inner sense of grim humor at the memory. “I should think you would find him rather limited.”

“But I’m limited, too,” said Gavan, mildly. “I like being with people so neatly adapted to their functions. There are no loose ends about Best; nothing unfulfilled or uncomfortable. He’s all there—all that there is of him to be there.”

“Not a very lively companion.”

“I’m not a lively companion, either,” Gavan once more, with his mild gaiety, retorted.

Grainger at this gave a harsh laugh. “No, you certainly aren’t,” he agreed.

They had twice paced the length of the yew-tree shadow and Gavan had asked no question; and Grainger felt, as the pause grew, that Gavan never would ask questions. Any onus for a disturbance of the atmosphere must rest entirely on himself, and to disturb it he would have to be brutal.

He jerked aside the veils of the placid dialogue with sudden violence. “I’ve seen Eppie,” he said.

He had intended to use her formal name only, but the nearer word rushed out and seemed to shatter the magic that held him off.

Gavan’s face grew a shade paler. “Have you?” he said.

“You knew that she had been ill?”

“I heard of it, recently, from General Carmichael. It was nothing serious, I think.”

“It will be serious.” Grainger stood still and gazed into his eyes. “Do you want to kill her?”

It struck him, when he had said it, and while Gavan received the words and seemed to reflect on them, that however artificial his atmosphere might be he would never evade any reality brought forcibly into it. He contemplated this one and did not pretend not to understand.

“I want Eppie to be happy,” he said presently.

“Happy, yes. So do I,” broke from Grainger with a groan.

They stood now near the great trunk of the yew-tree, and turning away, striking the steel-gray bark monotonously with his fist, he went on: “I love her, as you know. And she loves you. She told me—I made her tell me. But any one with eyes could see it; even your gossiping little fool of a parson here had heard of it—was relieved for your escape. But who cares for the cackling? And you have crippled her, broken her. You have tossed aside that woman whose little finger is worth more to the world than your whole being. I wish to God she’d never seen you.”

“So do I,” Gavan said.

“I’d kill you with the greatest pleasure—if it could do her any good.”

There was relief for Grainger in getting out these fundamental things.

“Yes,—I quite understand that. So would I,” Gavan acquiesced,—“kill myself, I mean,—if it would do her any good.”

“Don’t try that. It wouldn’t. She’s beyond all help but one. So I am here to put it to you.”

The still, hot day encompassed their shadow and with its quiet made more intense Grainger’s sense of his own passion—passion and its negation, the stress between the two. Their words, though they spoke so quietly, seemed to fill the world.

“I am sorry,” Gavan said; “I can do nothing.”

Grainger beat at the tree.

“You love her.”

“Not as she must be loved. I only want her, when I am selfish. When I think for her I have no want at all.”

“Give her your selfishness.”

“Ah, even that fades. That’s what I found out. I can’t count on my selfishness. I’ve tried to do it. It didn’t work.”

Grainger turned his bloodshot eyes upon him; these moments under the yew-tree, that white figure with its pale smile, its comprehending gravity confronting him, would count in his life, he knew, among its most racking memories.

“I consider you a madman,” he now said.

“Perhaps I am one. You don’t think it for Eppie’s happiness to marry a madman?”

“My God, I don’t know what to think! I want to save her.”

“But so do I,” Gavan’s voice had its first note of eagerness. “I want to save her. And I want her to marry you. That’s her chance, and yours—and mine, though mine really doesn’t count. That’s what I hope for.”

“There’s no hope there.”

“Have patience. Wait. She will, perhaps, get over me.”

Grainger’s eyes, with their hot, jaded look of baffled purpose, so selfless that it transcended jealousy and hatred, were still on him, and he thought now that he detected on the other’s face the strain of some inner tension. He wasn’t so dead, then. He was suffering. No, more yet, and the final insight came in another vague flash that darkly showed the trouble at the heart of all the magic, the beauty, he, too, more really than Eppie, perhaps, was dying for love. Madman, devoted madman that he was, he was dying for love of the woman from whom he must always flee. It was strange to feel one’s sane, straightforward mind forced along this labyrinth of dazed comprehension, turning in the cruelly knotted paradox of this impossible love-story. Yet, against his very will, he was so forced to follow and almost to understand.

There wasn’t much more to say. And he had his own paradoxical satisfaction in the sight of the canker at the core of thought. So, at all events, one wasn’t safe even so.

“She won’t get over you,” he said. “It isn’t a mere love-affair. It’s her life. She may not die of it; that’s a figure of speech that I had no right, I suppose, to use. At all events, she’ll try her best not to die. But she won’t get over you.”

“Not even if I get out of the way forever?”

Gavan put the final proposition before him, but Grainger, staring at the sunlight, shook his head.

“The very fact that you’re alive makes her hold the tighter. No, you can’t save her in that way. I wish you could.”

X

GRAINGER had had his insight, but, outwardly, in the year that followed, Gavan’s life was one of peace, of achieved escape.

The world soon ceased to pull at him, to plead or protest. With a kindly shrug of the shoulders the larger life passed him by as one more proved ineffectual. The little circle that clung about him, as the flotsam and jetsam of a river drift from the hurrying current around the stability and stillness of a green islet, was, in the main, composed of the defeated or the indifferent. One or two cynical fighters moored their boats, for a week-end, at his tranquil shores, and the powerful old statesman who believed nothing, hoped nothing, felt very little, and who, behind his show-life of patriotic and hard-working nobleman, smiled patiently at the whole foolish comedy, was his most intimate companion. To the world at large, Lord Taunton was the witty Tory, the devoted churchman, the wise upholder of all the hard-won props of civilization; to Gavan, he was the skeptical and pessimistic metaphysician; together they watched the wheels go round.

Mayburn came down once or twice to see his poor, queer, dear old Palairet, and in London boasted much of the experience. “He’s too, too wonderful,” he said. “He has achieved a most delicate, recondite harmony. One never heard anything just like it before, and can’t, for the life of one, tell just what the notes are. Effort, constant effort, amidst constant quiet and austerity. Work is his passion, and yet never was any creature so passionless. He’s like a rower, rowing easily, indefatigably, down a long river, among lilies, while he looks up at the sky.”

But Mayburn felt the quiet and austerity a little disturbing. He didn’t, after all, come to look at quiet and austerity unless some one were there to hear him talk about them; and his host, all affability, never seemed quite there.

So a year, more than a year, went by.

It was on an early spring morning that Gavan found on his breakfast-table a letter written in a faltering hand,—a hand that faltered with the weeping that shook it,—Miss Barbara’s old, faint hand.

He read, at first, hardly comprehending.

It was of Eppie she wrote: of her overwork—they thought it must be that—in the winter, of the resultant fragility that had made her succumb suddenly to an illness contracted in some hotbed of epidemic in the slums. They had all thought that she would come through it. People had been very kind. Eppie had so many, many friends. Every one loved her. She had been moved to Lady Alicia’s house in Grosvenor Street. She, Aunt Barbara, had come up to town at once, and the general was with her.

It was with a fierce impatience that he went on through the phrases that were like the slow trickling of tear after tear, as if he knew, yet refused to know, the tragedy that the trivial tears flowed for, knew what was coming, resented its insufferable delay, yet spurned its bare possibility. At the end, and only then, it came. Her strength had suddenly failed. There was no hope. Eppie was dying and had asked to see him—at once.

A bird, above the window open to the dew and sunlight, sang and whistled while he read, a phrase, not joyous, not happy, yet strangely full of triumph, of the innocent praise of life. Gavan, standing still, with the letter in his hand, listened, while again and again, monotonously, freshly, the bird repeated its song.

He seemed at first to listen quietly, with pleasure, appreciative of this heraldry of spring; then memory, blind, numbed from some dark shock, stirred, stole out to meet it—the memory of Eppie’s morning voice on the hillside, the voice monotonous yet triumphant with its sense of life; and at each reiteration, the phrase seemed a dagger plunged into his heart.

Oh, memory! Oh, cruel thought! Cruel life!

After he had ordered the trap, and while waiting for it, he walked out into the freshness and back and forth, over and over across the lawn, with the patient, steady swiftness of an animal caged and knowing that the bars are about it. So this was to be the end. But, though already he acquiesced, it seemed in some way a strange, inapt ending. He couldn’t think of Eppie and death. He couldn’t see her dead. He could only see her looking at death.

THE early train he caught got him to London by eleven, and in twenty minutes he was in Grosvenor Street. He had wired from the country, and Miss Barbara met him in the drawing-room of the house, hushed in its springtime gaiety. She was the frail ghost of her shadowy old self, her voice tremulous, her face blurred with tears and sleepless nights. Yet he saw, under the woe, the essential listlessness of age, the placidity beneath the half-mechanical tears. “Oh, Gavan,” she said, taking his hand and holding it in both her own—“Oh, Gavan, we couldn’t have thought of this, could we, that she would go first.” And that his own face showed some sharp fixity of woe he felt from its reflection on hers—like a sword-flash reflected in a shallow pool.

She told him that it was now an affair of hours only. “I would have sent for you long ago, Gavan; I knew—I knew that you would want it. But she wouldn’t—not while there was hope. I think she was afraid of hurting you. You know she had never been the same since—since—“

“Since what?” he asked, knowing.

“Since you went away. She was so ill then. Poor child! She never found herself, you see, Gavan. She did not know what she wanted. She has worn herself out in looking for it.”

Miss Barbara was very ignorant. He himself could not know, probably Eppie herself didn’t know, what had killed her, though she had so well known what she wanted; but he suspected that Grainger had been right, and that it was on him that Eppie’s life had shattered itself.

Her will, evidently, still ruled those about her, for when Miss Barbara had led him up-stairs she said, pausing in the passage, that Eppie would see him alone; the nurse would leave them. She had insisted on that, and there was now no reason why she should not have her way. The nurse came out to them, telling him that Miss Gifford waited; and, just before she let him go, Miss Barbara drew his head down to hers and kissed him, murmuring to him to be brave. He really didn’t know whether he were more the felon, or more the victim that she thought him. Then the door closed behind him and he was alone with Eppie.

Eppie was propped high on pillows, her hair twisted up from her brows and neck and folded in heavy masses on her head.

In the wide, white room, among her pillows, so white herself, and strange with a curious thinness, he had never received a more prodigious impression of life than in meeting her eyes, where all the forces of her soul looked out. So motionless, she was like music, like all that moves, that strives and is restless; so white, she was like skies at dawn, like deep seas under sunlight. In the stillness, the whiteness, the emptiness of the room she was illusion itself, life and beauty, a wonderful rainbow thing staining “the white radiance of eternity.” And as if, before its final shattering, every color flamed, her whole being was concentrated in the mere fact of its existence—its existence that defied death. A deep, quiet excitement, almost a gaiety, breathed from her. In the tangled rivers of her hair, the intertwined currents of dark and gold winding in a lovely disorder,—in the white folds of lawn that lay so delicately about her; in the emerald slipping far down her finger, the emeralds in her ears, shaking faintly with her ebbing heart-beats, there was even a sort of wilful and heroic coquetry. She was, in her dying, triumphantly beautiful, yet, as always, through her beauty went the strength of her reliance on deeper significances.

She lay motionless as Gavan approached her, and he guessed that she saved all her strength. Only as he took the chair beside her, horror at his heart, the old familiar horror, she put out her hand to him.

He took it silently, looking up, after a little while, from its marvelous lightness and whiteness to her eyes, her smile. Then, at last, she spoke to him.

“So you think that you have got the better of me at last, don’t you, Gavan dear?” she said. Her voice was strange, as though familiar notes were played on some far-away flute, sweet and melancholy among the hills. The voice was strange and sad, but the words were not. In them was a caress, as though she pitied his pity for her; but the old antagonism, too, was there—a defiance, a willingness to be cruel to him. “I did play fair, you see,” she went on. “I wouldn’t have you come till there was no danger, for you, any more. And now this is the end of it all, you think. You will soon be able to say of me, Gavan,

His hand shut involuntarily, painfully, on hers, and as though his breath cut him, he said, “Don’t—don’t, Eppie.”

But with her gaiety she insisted: “Oh, but let us have the truth. You must think it. What else could you think?” and, again with the note of pity that would atone for the cruel lightness, “Poor Gavan! My poor, darling Gavan! And I must leave you with your thoughts—your empty thoughts, alone.”

He had taken a long breath over the physical pang her words had inflicted, and now he looked down at her hand, gently, one after the other, as though unseeingly, smoothing her fingers.

“While I go on,” she said.

“Yes, dear,” he assented.

“You humor me with that. You are so glad, for me, that I go with all my illusions about me. Aren’t you afraid that, because of them, I’ll be caught in the mill again and ground round and round in incarnations until, only after such a long time, I come out all clean and white and selfless, not a scrap of dangerous life about me—Alone with the Alone.”

He felt now the fever in her clearness, the hovering on the border of hallucination. The colors flamed indeed, and her thoughts seemed to shoot up in strange flickerings, a medley of inconsequent memories and fancies strung on their chain of unnatural lucidity.

He answered with patient gentleness, “I’m not afraid for you, Eppie. I don’t think all that.”

“Nor I for myself,” she retorted. “I love the mill and its grindings. But what you think,—I know perfectly what you think. You can’t keep it from me, Gavan. You can’t keep anything from me. And I found something that said it all. I can remember it. Shall I say it to you?”

He bowed his head, smoothing her hand, not looking up at her while, in that voice of defiance, of fever, yet of such melancholy and echoing sweetness, she repeated:

She paused after it, smiling intently upon him, and he met the smile to say:

“That’s only one side of it, dear.”

“Ah, it’s a side I know about, too! Didn’t I see it, feel it? Haven’t I been all through it—with you, for you, because of you? Ah, when you left me—when you left me, Gavan—“

Still she smiled, with brilliant eyes, repeating,

He was silent, sitting with his pallid, drooping head; and suddenly she put her other hand on his, on the hand that gently, mechanically, smoothed her fingers.

“You caress me, you try to comfort me,—while I am tormenting you. It’s strange that I should want to torment you. Is it that I’m so afraid you sha’n’t feel? I want you to feel. I want you to suffer. It is so horrible to leave you. It is so horrible to be afraid—sometimes afraid—that I shall never, never see you again. When you feel, when you suffer, I am not so lonely. But you feel nothing, do you?”

He did not answer her.

“Will you ever miss me, Gavan?”

He did not answer.

“Won’t you even remember me?” she asked.

And still he did not answer, sitting with downcast eyes. And she saw that he could not, and in his silence, of a dumb torture, was his reply. He looked the stricken saint, pierced through with arrows. And which of them was the victim, which the executioner?

With her question a clearness, quieter, deeper, came to her, as though in the recoil of its engulfing anguish she pushed her way from among vibrating discords to a sudden harmony that, in holy peace, resolved them all in unison. Her eyelids fluttered down while, for an instant, she listened. Yes, under it all, above it all, holding them all about, there it was. She seemed to see the pain mounting, circling, flowing from its knotted root into strength and splendor. But though he was with her in it he was also far away,—he was blind, and deaf,—held fast by cruel bonds.

“Look at me,” she commanded him gently.

And now, reluctantly, he looked up into her eyes.

They held him, they drew him, they flooded him. With the keenness of life they cut into his heart, and like the surging up of blood his love answered hers. As helpless as he had ever been before her, he laid his head on her breast, his arms encircling her, while, with closed eyes, he said: “Don’t think that I don’t feel. Don’t think that I don’t suffer. It’s only that;—I have only to see you;—something grasps me, and tortures me—“

“Something,” she said, her voice like the far flute echo of the voice that had spoken on that night in the old Scotch garden, “that brings you to life—to God.”

“Oh, Eppie, what can I say to you?” he murmured.

“You can say nothing. But you will have to wake. It will have to come,—the sorrow, the joy of reality,—God—and me.”

It was his face, with closed eyes, with its stricken, ashen agony, that seemed the dying face. Hers, turned gently toward him, had all the beneficence, the radiance of life. But when she spoke again there was in her voice a tranced stillness as though already it spoke from another world.

“You love me, Gavan.”

“I love you. You have that. That is yours, forever. I long for you, always, always,—even when I think that I am at peace. You are in everything: I hear a bird, and I think of your voice; I see a flower, or the sky, and it’s of your face I think. I am yours, Eppie—yours forever.”

“You make me happy,” she said.

“Eppie, my darling Eppie, die now, die in my arms, dearest—in your happiness.”

“No, not yet; I can’t go yet—though I wish it, too,” she said. “There are still horrid bits—dreadful dark places—like the dreadful poem—the poem of you, Gavan—where I lose myself; burning places, edges of pain, where I fight to find myself again; long, dim places where I dream—dream—. I won’t have you see me like that; you might think that you watched the scattering of the real me. I won’t have you remember me all dim and broken.”

Her voice was sinking from her into an abyss of languor, and she felt the swirl of phantom thoughts blurring her mind even while she spoke.

As on that far-away night when he held her hand and they stood together under the stars, she said, speaking now her prayer, “O God! God!”; and seeming in the effort of her will to lift a weight that softly, inexorably, like the lid of a tomb, pressed down upon her, “I am here,” she said. “You are mine. I will not be afraid. Remember me. So good-by, Gavan.”

“I will remember,” he said.

His arms still held her. And through his mind an army seemed to rush, galloping, with banners, with cries of lamentations, agony, regret, passionate rebellion. It crashed in conflict, blood beneath it, and above it tempests and torn banners. And the banners were desperate hopes riddled with bullets; and the blood was love poured out and the tempest was his heart. It was, he thought, even while he saw, listened, felt, the last onslaught upon his soul. She was going—the shadow of life was sliding from her—and from him, for she was life and its terror and beauty. Above the turmoil was the fated peace. He had won it, unwillingly. He could not be kept from it even by the memory that would stay.

But though he knew, and, in knowing, saw his contemplative soul far from this scene of suffocating misery, Eppie, his dear, his beautiful, was in his arms, her eyes, her lips, her heart. He would never see her again.

He raised his head to look his last, and, like a faint yet piercing perfume, her soul’s smile still dwelt on him as she lay there speechless. For the moment—and was not the moment eternity?—the triumph was all hers. The moment, when long, long past, would still be part of him and her triumph in it eternal. To spare her the sight of his anguish would be to rob her. Anguish had been and was the only offering he could make her. He felt—felt unendurably, she would see that; he suffered, he loved her, unspeakably; she had that, too, while, in their last long silence, he held her hands against his heart. And her eyes, still smiling on him with their transcendent faith, showed that her triumph was shadowless.

HE heard next day that she had died during the night.

Peace did not come to him for long; the wounds of the warring interlude of life had been too deep. He forgot himself at last in the treadmill quiet of days all serene laboriousness, knowing that it could not be for many years that he should watch the drama. She had shattered herself on him; but he, too, had felt that in himself something had broken. And he forgot the wounds, except when some sight or sound, the song of a bird in Spring, a spray of heather, a sky of stars, startled them to deep throbbing. And then a hand, stretched out from the past, would seize him, a shudder, a pang, would shake him, and he would know that he was alone and that he remembered.

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