she could have jumped into them. “you!” she cried. “then it wasn’t a dream at all. i saw you last night—near the opera.”
he teased her with his wry smile. “and i saw you last night at the opera.”
“you were there! oh——”
“i was in the gallery. i left because, much as i love wagner, i love air more. i suffocated.”
“oh, but you might have come to see me,” she said, with a pout not at all provocative—a pout of sincere regret. “it was quite cool down there. in fact”—she laughed at a memory—“it was very cool indeed. too cool.”
“i don’t follow you,” said senhouse.
“you needn’t. perhaps i’ll tell you”—she looked doubtfully at him, pondering. “i should like to tell you lots of things. oh, heaps! everything—from the beginning. i’m married, you know.” he nodded gravely.
“i can see that you are. all well?”
this made her think. “rather well. but we must talk—it’s obvious. will you—?” she looked at the carriage and the footman at the door of it.
“if that’s your carriage—no, i won’t, thanks. have you walked five yards to-day? no? then we’ll walk somewhere and have it out. you might send that sepulchre away. i’ll see you home.” her eyes shone.
“i should love it. it shall go.” she told the footman her intentions, and sailed happily away in convoy with that tall, loosely clad young man who, to the footman’s concern, carried his hat in his hand. “blooming italian feller—airing his ’ead of ’air,” he told the preoccupied musters, who said, “tlk! tlk!” to his horses.
she, too, remarked it. “why, you have got a hat!” he held it up.
“yes, indeed—and i’ll wear it if you insist upon it.”
“but i don’t,” she told him. “i shouldn’t know you if you did.”
he led her at a brisk pace—to meet his long strides she had to break into a run now and again. but she was prouder of his company than of any she had had yet, and caught herself humming airs by the way. there was indeed heaps to say. she plunged into her stored reminiscences as a boy into a pool—went in deep and rose shaking her head, breasting the flood.
“i must tell you—i believe i saw you on my wedding day! from the train—just a glimpse. i saw the ghost plodding along—bingo running in the grass—you were sitting on the tilt, smoking, of course. you were in white. were you there? it must have been you. we had passed swindon, i know—it was before we got to bath. you were going west, and so was i—so were we, i mean. i wondered if we should meet out there—exeter? were you there? oh—and i mustn’t forget. it is the most important of all. he—my husband—took me to the land’s end.”
he looked down quickly at her. “when were you there?”
“in october. it was about the middle of october. do you mean to say——?”
“i was there in november,” said senhouse, “and stayed till february—there or thereabouts. i am always there for the winter. i have business there.”
she had put her hand to her side. her eyes spelled ecstatic conviction. “i knew it—i felt it. how wonderful!”
“what’s your wonder, my friend?”
“why, that i should have seen you there!”
“but you didn’t.”
“ah, but i did. that’s just it. i was certain you were there—i expected to find you in every hollow of the rocks. the place told me of you—it seemed to bear your mark. if i were an animal i should say that i could smell you there.”
he was amused. “you’re not far wrong. i was thereabouts. you might have smelt some of my deeds—flowers—i grow ’em on those cliffs. you might have seen ’em.”
her eyes were roundly open now—wonderfully—but she shook her head.
“no, no. i saw nothing of the sort. do you mean—gardens?”
“sort of gardens. i work those rocks. i plant things—they are natural rock gardens, those boulders. i started it some six or seven years ago—naturalizing alpines. i’ve got some good saxifrages to do there—androsaces of sorts—drabas, campanulas, columbines. then i began on hybridizing—that last infirmity. there’s a scarlet thrift i’m trying—fine colour. it don’t always come true yet, but it’s a pretty thing—armeria senhusiana, if you please.”
now she was inclined to be serious, with a confession to make. hertha de speyne had told her something of all this, and given her an interest in it. mischief prevailed; she sparkled as she probed him.
“i don’t quite understand. you have a rock garden—you! i have remembered your scorn of property—of owning anything—and—! really, i am rather shocked. a garden of yours!”
he looked blandly interested. “mine? bless you, no. i haven’t got a garden for these things. i grow ’em out there on the rocks. they’re anybody’s—yours, tom’s, harry’s. i’m only the gardener. and you prove to me that i know my business, because you must have been through my nursery half a dozen times—and saw nothing of it.”
“nothing at all, i promise you.” her share in his little triumph was manifest, she was intensely pleased. “that’s lovely,” she said—and then, “you know, if i had caught you out—i should have been awfully disappointed.”
“i hope i shall never disappoint you, ma’am,” he told her. “no. if i owned all that i don’t think i should care for it. i esteem those things down there for taking their chance. tourists hardly ever hurt them. it’s the wet that does most harm; the winter wet—sluicing mists, rotting rains—” she touched his arm—nearly stopped the walk.
“i can’t keep it up,” she said. “i have tried, but it’s not to be done. i knew, afterwards, that you did these things. hertha de speyne told me. are you angry?”
he looked closely at her—not at all angrily.
“you talked me over with her, did you?” she blushed.
“among other people. i know that you were with the cantacutes the summer before last.” then, with a sudden memory, she stopped again, almost took his arm.
“did you see—do you know a white cottage—right up on the cliff? a green roof?”
his eyes twinkled. “rats’ castle! rather. it has sheltered me more nights than one.”
her lips pressed together as she nodded her head. “i might have known that. i beg your pardon.” thinking of what she was to speak, presently she told him in a grave voice that she intended to live in that cottage—“before i die.”
he took that calmly. “you might do worse.”
he had come to london, he said, to supply his needs—to sell some pictures in cranbourne-street, and to see some books. his library was in bloomsbury; she gathered, the british museum. he wanted “aristophanes,” the “arabian nights.” he had nearly everything else. narrow inquiry revealed his tastes. he owned two books. “don quixote” was one, “mangnall’s questions” the other. no—bible? no. “don quixote” was better than the bible, because it was our own. we were not orientals—at least not now. everything that a man could need for his moral and spiritual supplies was in “don quixote”—religion, poetry, gorgeous laughter, good store of courage, wisdom, fortitude. mangnall was enough for the rest. old-fashioned, perhaps: but then he, senhouse, was old-fashioned. “i always read “don quixote” before i say my prayers.”
they were by now in hyde park, beyond the carriage road, nearly alone with the trees and grass and certain sooty sheep which cropped there. he found her a chair, but himself sat on the ground and clasped his knees. she must hear his views upon the bible; but she had to press for them. no, no, he told her at first—it wasn’t his business to preach. presently, however, he broke out. “you’re just a counter in a game at this hour—put up between the dressmaker and the policeman. you are property—and that’s the bible’s doing. why—why—look at the ten commandments—‘his wife, servant, maid, ox, ass—everything that is his!’ you come after his house, if you remember; you come with the flocks and herds—there you are, even now—and there you must be until the system breaks down. your jealous god, your jealous husband—don’t you see that they’re one and the same? the policeman and the dressmaker; the due?a and the eunuch of the door. oh, good lord! that’s oriental, you know, turk’s delight. you won’t find that in ‘don quixote’—a sane, latin book; but it’s in half of the new testament. saint paul! women must cover their heads in church. why? i’ll tell you: the yashmak! the harem is not to be seen—shameful. . . .
“the catholics are right. they keep the bible for the learned. they know it won’t do. if the italians, for instance, the most practical, clear-headed people in europe, were to get familiar with the bible, the pope might have his throat cut. there’d be a revolution. . . .
“that’s only one point out of a thousand, but it’s a good one. it concerns the welfare of more than half mankind, and its relation with the other fraction. if men are to buy and hoard women, it’s quite clear that women mayn’t have souls of their own. . . . the whole social system depends upon their having none. you are property my friend—marketed by the dressmaker, safeguarded by the policeman. it is really too degrading. it degrades the man more than the woman; makes him a kind of stock-keeper, the most atrocious form of capitalist there can be. the bible, of course, did not establish that—the system’s as old as hell; no, but it sanctioned it once and for all. ever since that levantine sophist saw ‘big business’ in christianity, and ran it in europe, the only hope of religion has been in what lurked of paganism—lurked in the uplands of tuscany, in the german forests and irish swamps. . . .
“religion is a habit of mind—not a taught thing. we are all religious in a thunderstorm. but we don’t get it out of the decalogue. we are all religious when we are in love; laws of property are forgotten—men and women are themselves. the accursed part of the system is this, that they can’t be themselves from the beginning. you must learn the rules before you can break them. now if there were no rules at all there would be no rebels. i hope that’s clear.”
she listened with head gently inclined and pondering eyes, partly amused, partly disturbed by his vehemence, but not scandalized, because it was so like him, and because he was he. womanlike, however, she must reduce his theories to practice, apply his rules, bring them home, or near home. women, he had said, were property—well, was she her husband’s property? bought? marketed by the dressmaker? what did that mean, exactly? when, with a grunt, he stopped his harangue, she tried to formulate her speculations.
“i believe that i see what you mean about rules—keeping and breaking. it’s all very puzzling. women are put wrong with men from the very beginning—i see that now. what did you mean about ‘being themselves?’ have i ever been myself?”
he laughed, staring at the ground. “never.”
“well, but—how am i to begin?”
“go your own way. defy the dressmaker.”
she leaned forward, her elbows on her knees. “do tell me what you mean about the dressmaker.”
he stared at the ground again. “i don’t know that i can get much nearer. she teaches you to—to set snares—to lead the eyes—i don’t think we can talk about it.”
“what am i to do?” she asked him that in a tone so serious that he knew she must be answered.
“ah,” he said, “i can’t help you, you know. you must fudge it out as best you can. i’m dreadfully sorry—but that’s the truth. you might come to a pass where i could be of use—i hope you won’t—there’s no reason to suppose it. meantime——”
“he’s kindness itself,” she said, looking beyond him. “he was kind from the very beginning—but—i know that i ought not to have married him.”
“perhaps,” said senhouse, “he ought not to have asked you.”
her eyes fell. “no,” she said, “perhaps not.”
after a pause of some intensity on her part, she broke out. “what you tell me of yourself fills me—makes me excited. it’s glorious. you stand on your feet—you are free as the air—owe nothing—while i—what am i? not even myself. the dressmaker made me—the policeman guards me. my husband—but if i had no husband, what could i do? belong to somebody else? if i broke a rule——”
he stopped her with a gesture—a quick jerk of the head. she met his eyes.
“the pity will be if you break a rule without getting full value for the escapade. don’t do that.”
“i wasn’t thinking—i didn’t mean you to think—” he had frightened her; she was quite breathless.
“you must understand,” he said, “that, in my view, you are no wiser to put your body in a cage than your mind. both must be free. don’t make the mistake of thinking that a woman who breaks our law of property in one way is worse than the shop thief who breaks it in another. to wound the feelings of a good and generous man is a serious thing—but not to take bread when you are starving. at least, that is how i look at it. but—you must be very sure you are starving. sincerity is the supreme virtue, and insincerity the only deadly sin.”
she nursed her cheek, while dreams showed themselves in her grave eyes. whether she was pondering what he said or no, there’s no doubt she was giving it personal application again. tristram was in her mind—her morose, exclusive lover. was her friend giving a benediction to tristram’s plain desires? what was she to do then? was she to be possessed by tristram—at last? sincerity, he said, was all. was she sincere? could she ask—dared she? she knew that what he told her she should believe—yes; and she juggled. she did not want to know what he would say—because she knew it already. blame her as you will—that’s the fact.
very woman that she was, she went about and about the thing she dared not—peering for the assurance of her fears. she looked softly at him as he sat there, plucking the grass by handfuls or making mounts of torn plantains—she looked wistfully. “you are my friend then—whatever happens to me?”
he met her melting eyes candidly. “depend upon me.”
“ah,” she said, “but i do! well, then, i must do what seems to me best—i must be brave.” he smiled.
“have your adventures, of course. don’t be afraid of them. be true to yourself, though—at every cost.”
“yes, yes, i promise you that. . . . when shall i see you again?”
he gazed blankly at the sky. “i don’t know, really. i’m a wanderer, you know. but the land’s end finds me from november to february mostly. i begin to work west about october. i am due in the north now—in the lakes. wastwater will find me—somewhere thereabouts. i shall be there till september. i leave london to-night—no, to-morrow—” their eyes met again, without embarrassment. he was the only man she could have commerce with in this way. “i shall see you at land’s end some day or other,” she told him. “when i’m wounded——”
“caught in a wire by the foot,” he laughed. “all right—i’ll set you free.”
“but suppose you were in berkshire when i was there—how should i know that you were there? would you call at southover?”
he laughed. “no, indeed i shouldn’t. i’m a hedgerow chap. i move by night mostly.”
“well, but—you might be within a mile of me, and i should never know it.”
“yes, you would, of course,” he said, simply. “you’d know by the trail.”
“what trail?”
“don’t you know that? i’ll show you. old borrow calls it the patteran, and swears he got it from a gipsy girl called ursula. you needn’t believe him; i don’t. but the trail is certain. a woman who lived in a cave at granada showed it to me. look here.” he plucked up a handful of grass. “here’s a four-went way”—he marked it with his finger in the dust. “now watch”—he scattered the grass, which took, roughly, the form of a curved pointer. “you see that on a road—it means the way i am gone. but i do mine with leaves, when leaves there are—with leaves from the sunny side of a hedgerow. you can always tell them.” her brows inquired—she was intensely interested. “dunce, they are bigger of course, and darker. i use them because the gipsies, who are everywhere, use leaves, too, but never take the trouble to select them. now you’ll always know my trail by that. do you see?”
she clasped her hands together—her eyes danced. “how splendid! how glorious! then we have a language. i can find you whenever i want you. for if i wanted you very badly, i could set a patteran for you, couldn’t i?” he nodded. she said in a low voice, “you don’t know how strong you have made me—you can never know. thank you a thousand times.”
“not a bit,” he said, lightly. “if we’re friends, you are entitled to know my little games.”
“and may i speak to you like that—when i go anywhere?”
“do. we share.”
she sighed. “how can i ever thank you!”
the sun was low when she got up, saying that she must go home. it was discovered to be seven o’clock. “why,” she cried, “they had forgotten to have any tea!”
“poor girl! will you have some now?”
“no, no. i don’t want it. but i must go. will you come with me? or are you engaged?”
“you know i’m never engaged. i shall come with you, of course. will you drive?”
she shook her head. “no, that’s too quick. let’s walk over the grass. it’s no distance.”
she talked to him of her friends—of all her friends but duplessis. this he observed. did he know mr. horace wing? by repute only, it seemed. he could be seen in photograph shops—a very “pretty fellow”; too pretty, palmer lovell? unlicked, he judged. then he tried her. “i know young bramleigh,” he said with one of his straight looks into the deep of you. “i met him yesterday.”
she received the shock unfaltering. “lord bramleigh? i hardly know him.” he had failed. lord kesteven—for she went on blandly with her list—he had never heard of. he asked “what he did?” and made her open her eyes. “do!” she said, with a comical air of being shocked. “he’s a marquis.” this made senhouse perfectly happy, but he apologized for laughing. “i’ve nothing against him, you know. i believe it’s an honest calling. does he do nothing else but be a kind marquis to you?”
she affected scorn. “he’s an ambassador—in paris. i hope that’s honest enough for you.”
“i hope so, too,” said senhouse, “but i’d rather be a marquis. is he your friend?”
“he says so. i think he means to be.” all of a sudden she leaned towards him; he felt her urgency. “you are my friend. i have no others. you have promised me your friendship.”
“you have it, my dear,” said senhouse. they walked the rest of the way in silence; but he stopped once, and interested her again. it was in mount-street—of all places. he stopped short, as if he was listening; his head high, eyes closed. he was sensing the air, listening to it, smelling it. narrow mount-street took the semblance of a forest path, brambled, dusty, hemmed with bracken fronds and silvered roots. “there’s rain—there’s rain,” he said—“i can hear it coming. may be a day off, but it’s on the way.” she watched him incredulous. “are you a magician? what are you?” he laughed. “i’ve got feelers, that’s all.”
at the door in hill-street he left her. she was inclined to be tremulous, tender—but he was completely cheerful. he would have gone with a wave of the hand had she not held out her own. as it was, she had prepared a little formal speech—“i cannot tell you how glad i am that we met—i——”
“don’t try to tell me,” he said. “i know it. one takes that for granted—among friends, you know. that’s the privilege of the estate.”
“yes, yes—of course. well, i won’t thank you for doing what pleases you. i am sure that it has pleased you.” she fished for an answer.
“take it for granted,” he repeated.
that braced her. “i will. i do. good-bye.” this time he did wave his hand.
“mr. duplessis have called, madame,” said greatorex at the door. “he have left a parcel. lord kesteven have called—and mr. wing.”
the parcel—discreetly phrased—proved to be most palpably a truss of roses. she unfastened it herself, and found a slip of paper pinned to the stalk of one. “forgive,” was written on it. smiling wisely, she went upstairs to dress, her bouquet in her hand.
