and yet, straker reminded himself, furnival wasn't an ass. he had brain for other things, for other women; for poor nora viveash quite a remarkable [pg 112] sufficiency of brain, but not for philippa tarrant. you could see how he was being driven by her. he was in that state when he would have done anything to get her. there was no folly and no extravagance that he would not commit. and yet, driven as he was, it was clear that he resented being driven, that he was not going all the way. his kicking, his frantic dashes and plunges, showed that the one extravagance, the one folly he would not commit was matrimony.
straker saw that very plainly. he wondered whether miss tarrant would see it, too, and if she did whether it would make any difference in her method.
it was very clear to straker that miss tarrant was considering furnival, as she had considered him, as she had considered young reggy lawson, as she had considered mr. higginson, who was not so young. as for reggy and his successor, she had done with them. all that could be known of their fatuity she knew. perhaps they had never greatly interested her. but she was interested in laurence furnival. she told straker that he was the most amusing man of her acquaintance. she was, straker noticed, perpetually aware of him. all monday morning, in the motor, miss tarrant in front with brocklebank, furnival with mrs. viveash, and straker behind, it was an incessant duel between furnival's eyes and the eyes that miss tarrant had in the back of her head. all monday afternoon she had him at her heels, at her elbow. with every gesture she seemed to point to him and say: "look at this little animal i've caught. did you ever see such an amusing little animal?"
she was quite aware that it was an animal, the creature she had captured and compelled to follow her; it might hide itself now and then, but it never failed to leap madly forward at her call. the animal [pg 113] in furnival, so simple, so undisguised, and so spontaneous, was what amused her.
its behavior that monday after tea on the terrace was one of the most disconcerting things that had occurred at amberley. you could see that mrs. viveash couldn't bear it, that she kept looking away, that brocklebank didn't know where to look, and that even fanny was perturbed.
as for mr. higginson, it was altogether too much for him and his honesty. he was visibly alienated, and from that moment he devoted himself and his honesty to mary probyn.
young reggy was alienated, too, so profoundly that he spoke about it aside to straker.
"between you and me," said young reggy, "it's a bit too strong. i can't stick it, the way she goes on. what does she mean by it, straker?"
people were always appealing to straker to tell them what women meant by it. as if he knew.
he was glad to see that young reggy had turned, that he could turn. he liked reggy, and he felt that he owed him a good deal. if it had not been for reggy he might, two years ago, have been numbered as one of the fallen. he had been pretty far gone two years ago, so far that he had frequently wondered how it was that he had not fallen. now it was clear to him. it had been her method with reggy that had checked his own perilous approaches. it had offended his fine sense of the fitting (a fastidiousness which, in one of her moods of ungovernable frankness, she had qualified as "finicking"). for reggy was a nice boy, and her method had somehow resulted in making him appear not so nice. it nourished and brought to the surface that secret, indecorous, primordial quality that he shared, though in less splendor and abundance, with [pg 114] laurence furnival. he had kept his head, or had seemed inimitably to have kept it. at any rate, he had preserved his sense of decency. he was incapable of presenting on the terrace at amberley the flaming pageant of his passion. straker was not sure how far this restraint, this level-headedness of young reggy, had been his undoing. it might be that miss tarrant had required of him a pageant. anyhow, reggy's case had been very enlightening to straker.
and it was through reggy, or rather through his own intent and breathless observation of the two, that straker had received his final illumination. it had come suddenly in one inspiring and delivering flash; he could recall even now his subsequent sensations, the thrilling lucidity of soul, the prodigious swiftness of body, after his long groping in obscurities and mysteries. for it had been a mystery to him how she had resisted reggy in his young physical perfection and with the charm he had, a charm that spiritualized him, a charm that should have appealed to everything that was supersensuous in philippa tarrant (and philippa would have had you believe that there was very little in her that was not). it was incomprehensible therefore to straker how any woman who had a perfect body, with a perfect heart in it, could have resisted reggy at his best—and for mr. higginson.
to be sure, compared with mr. higginson he was impecunious; but that, to straker's mind, was just what gave him, with the other things, his indomitable distinction. reggy's distinction stood straight and clean, naked of all accessories. an impecuniousness so unexpressed, so delicate, so patrician could never have weighed with philippa against reggy's charm. that she should deliberately have reckoned up his income, compared it with mr. higginson's, and deducted reggy [pg 115] with the result was inconceivable. whatever straker had thought of her he had never thought of her as mercenary. it wasn't that. he had found out what it was. watching her at play with reggy's fire (for to the inconspicuous observer the young man had flamed sufficiently), it had struck straker that she herself was flameless.
it was in the nature of reggy's perfection that it called, it clamored for response. and philippa had not responded. she hadn't got it in her to respond.
all this came back vividly to straker as he watched her now on the terrace, at play with the fiercer conflagration that was laurence furnival.
she was cold; she had never kindled, never would, never could kindle. her eyes did, if you like; they couldn't help it—god made them lights and flames—but her mouth couldn't. to straker in his illumination all the meaning of philippa tarrant was in her mouth. the small, exquisite thing lacked fulness and the vivid rose that should have been the flowering of her face. a certain tightness at the corners gave it an indescribable expression of secrecy and mystery and restraint. he saw in it the almost monstrous denial and mockery of desire. he could not see it, as he had seen nora viveash's mouth, curved forward, eager, shedding flame at the brim, giving itself to lips that longed for it. philippa's mouth was a flower that opened only at the touch, the thrill of her own gorgeous egoism. he read in it the triumph of philippa over the flesh and blood of her race. she had nothing in her of the dead. that was the wonder of her. the passion of the dead had built up her body to the semblance and the promise of their own delight; their desire, long forgotten, rose again, lightening and darkening in her amazing eyes; the imperishable instinct that [pg 116] impelled them to clothe her in their flesh and blood survived in her, transfigured in strange impulses and intuitions, but she herself left unfulfilled their promise and their desire.
yes—that was what her mouth meant; it was treacherous; it betrayed the promise of her body and her eyes. and furnival was feeding his infatuation on the meanings of her eyes and of her body—meanings that were unmistakable to straker.
as if she had known what the older man was thinking of her, philippa rose abruptly and turned her back on furnival and began to make violent love to old lady paignton. her eyes challenged straker's across the terrace. they said: "look at me. i will be as beautiful for this old lady as for any male thing on earth. more beautiful. have i ever set my cap so becomingly at any of you as i am setting it now at her? have you ever seen finer eyes than these that i make at her, that i lavish on her out of the sheer exuberance of my nature? very well, then; doesn't that prove that you're wrong in all things you've been thinking about me. i know what you've been thinking!"
as if she knew what he was thinking she made herself beautiful for him. she allowed him presently to take her for a walk, for quite a long walk. the woods of amberley lured them, westward, across the shining fields. they went, therefore, through the woods and back by the village in the cool of the evening.
he had seldom, he might say he had never, seen philippa in so agreeable a mood. she had sunk her sex. she was tired of her terrible game, the game that straker saw through; she was playing another one, a secret, innocent, delightful game. she laid herself out to amuse straker, instead of laying him out (as he put it), on the table, to amuse herself. [pg 117]
"philippa," he said, "you've been adorable for the last half hour."
"for the last half hour i've been myself."
she smiled as if to herself, a secret, meditative smile. the mystery of it was not lost on straker.
"i can always be myself," she said, "when i'm with you."
"for half an hour," he murmured.
she went on. "you're not tiresome, like the others. i don't know what there is about you, but you don't bore me."
"perhaps not—for half an hour."
"not for millions of half hours."
"consecutive?"
"oh, yes."
she tilted her head back and gazed at him with eyes narrowed and slanting under their deep lids.
"not in an immortality," she said.
she laughed aloud her joyous appreciation of him.
straker was neither uplifted nor alarmed. he knew exactly where he stood with her. she was not considering him; she was not trying to get at him; she was aware of his illumination and his disenchantment; she was also aware of his continuous interest in her, and it was his continuous interest, the study that he made of her, that interested philippa. she was anxious that he should get her right, that he should accept her rendering of herself. she knew at each moment what he was thinking of her, and the thing that went on between them was not a game—it was a duel, an amicable duel, between her lucidity and his. philippa respected his lucidity.
"all the same," said straker, "i am not the most amusing man you know. you don't find me exciting."
"no." she turned it over. "no; i don't find you [pg 118] at all exciting or very amusing. how is it, then, that you don't bore me?"
"how can i say?"
"i think it is because you're so serious, because you take me seriously."
"but i don't. not for a moment. as for an immortality of seriousness——"
"at least," she said, "you would admit that possibly i might have a soul. at any rate, you behave as if you did."
he dodged it dexterously.
"that's where the immortality comes in, is it?"
"of course," said philippa.
